A/N: Hullo there. This was meant to be a fluffy happy little thing and somehow the words just wouldn't write themselves like that. So voila, a angst-y sixth year/seventh year one-shot. Anyway, I'm jogging on, my lovelies, and you can read away to your heart's desire.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything apart from a green highlighter and a teddy bear. And a couple of pairs of socks.
you had a temper like my jealousy: too hot, too greedy
how could you leave me when i needed to possess you?
i hated you; i loved you too
- kate bush, wuthering heights
You hate her. You can't help it.
With every offer, every declaration of love, every elaborate plan, comes a stunning rejection, her lilting voice juxtaposed with the harshness of her words.
"I wouldn't go out with you in a million years, Potter, and maybe not even then."
No, she won't touch you, won't even go near you, her pride won't let her, but she'll be with them. Those other boys, the ones who take her out when you want to and hold her hand just because they can and maybe they even kiss her when you ache with all your being to feel her lips pressed against yours.
You see them – her and those other boys – and they're inseparable. The jealousy you feel rages inside you, eating you out, worming its way through your soul, only somewhat tamed by the twitching of your hand towards your wand. Until one day, they're not together anymore, and the next one takes your place by her side. Only she doesn't realise that it's your place they're taking, because she hates you too.
.
She can't help it.
With every teasing smile, every smirking suggestion, every smouldering glance, comes a blinding sense of derision, his rich, vibrant voice juxtaposed with the arrogance of his words.
"C'mon, Evans, go out with me. You know you want to."
No, you won't touch, him, even go near him, but you'll be with them. Those other boys, the ones you let take you out because you can't bear the loneliness any longer, the ones who hold your hand because they want to possess you and maybe they kiss you and you desperately respond but at the end of it all they still walk away.
You feel him watching you - you and those other boys - and it breaks you to know that you're breaking his heart. You know how he feels. So when it ends with Joe (or was it Tom?) you don't even feel a particular sadness; you just acknowledge that in the barren hollow of your chest there should be something, and yet the only thing that keeps you breathing is the beating pulse of your brain, ticking over, mulling thoughts of Potions and Transfiguration, not your fractured heart, dwelling on memories of long-lost friends.
.
The dregs of a cold and telling winter melt into a dewy, fresh-eyed spring. Potter and Evans are paired together for a Charms project, much to their disdain. She trudges to his desk, drops her books down and says curtly, "I won't hex you into next year if you don't give me good reason to, Potter. Got it?"
They split the work equally. He actually does his fair share, much to her surprise. He can't seem to shake that naïve side of him that nurses what seems like a life-time of unrequited love and stops at nothing to make her laugh. Even a smile would be heavenly reward.
A few lessons in and he gets a twitch of the lips. The time after that, he gets a flash of her crooked grin, before she remembers her company and the sullen frown is back in place. When he gets a full blown giggle, he feels like he's flying without a broomstick.
He's disgusted with himself, by what she does to him.
Conversations are exchanged. One time, they even meet up at the library to do extra work on the project. Somewhere along the line, she finds herself telling him about her father, how he died just before New Year, how she didn't know it was possible to feel so empty for so long without falling. She curses herself, berating her stupid mouth for opening and spilling out her secrets.
Even with this one-step-forward- two-step- back routine that they can't seem to stop dancing, they manage to create a respectable looking piece that gains them the top marks in the class and a, "Maybe you two should be put together more often," from Flitwick.
He nods, unreadable; she smiles politely; each wondering if the other is thinking the same thing.
.
You return after the summer to the scarlet engine, the magical platform, the world that's so alien and yet so completely yours. It's where you feel at home; it's where you belong; it's what cut you off from your sister.
You see him (how could you miss him?) even through the throngs of people milling about. He's smiling.
You're glad.
.
You return after the summer to the scarlet engine, the magical platform, the world that you've been brought up in and you can't imagine it any other way. It's where you're at home; it's where you're at ease; it's where you should be.
You see her (how could you not notice her?) even through the crowds of parents and students jostling about. She's smiling.
You're glad.
.
Attraction is a funny thing. In simple terms, it is a feature or characteristic that draws something to another. In scientific terms, it is the force exerted by oppositely charged particles that holds them together. In the literary classics it is the spark, the chemistry that you feel on meeting the elusive One.
When Lily Evans first met James Potter on the Hogwarts express, she did not feel this 'attraction'. She thought he was rude and childish.
He felt something, he's sure, but it was more a temporary and embarrassed infatuation. Despite what he tells his friends, though, there's something about her that he can't seem to forget. Something he can't let go of.
She can't seem to get him out of her mind, either. For years he's haunted her, the rich, spoiled boy who bullied her best friend without so much of a second thought. But now, there's something different, something else, something that she's not quite sure of.
To the general astonishment of their peers and professors, their first term as co-heads seems to go without trouble. Of course, there are still those petty arguments, the accusations flying and the insults traded. Back to the old favourite:
"I hate you."
But maybe, just maybe, as they turn away, each as furious as the other, something is acknowledged.
I love you, too.
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