A/N: I've returned to write more Jily fanfiction because I love them with all my heart and also, why the hell not? Reviews are appreciated!

Chapter 1: Who are you?

"Just so we're clear: you do know that there's a coffee shop right across the street from our home, correct? And several others in the near vicinity?"

James Potter lets out an exhausted sigh. "I ought to. You mention it enough."

"Then why," Sirius starts for what must be the hundredth time, "are we trudging across the city for one?"

"I am making the short and pleasant trip to a coffee shop in a nearby neighbourhood because I like it. Why you are here bothering me, I don't know."

Every Thursday, James is forced to endure this very same conversation with his worthless roommate. He tries to avoid Sirius on his way out, moving as silently through their flat as he can manage. But somehow, the fiend always hears him. Like clockwork, as if in a rehearsed scene from a nightmarish play, Sirius sticks his head out into the hall to ask where James is going, just as he picks his keys up off the entryway table. James silently prays to the Lord above or whoever else is listening for strength and patience, and answers wearily: he's getting coffee. And as always, he asks, "Do you want anything?" – knowing full well what the answer will be, but naively hoping for a different outcome anyways.

"Nah, I'll just come with." And so, it begins.

The trek downstairs is fine at first. They chat about their week and plans for the weekend. It's often the first time in a couple of days that they can really talk – James usually leaves before Sirius wakes up and falls asleep before he comes home, tired out from training – and he thinks oh, this is nice, I've missed my friend. A foolish thought, he learns mere moments later, when he's reminded of the harsh, unfortunate reality of Thursday coffee with Sirius. As soon as he turns towards the bike rack at the side of the building instead of the crosswalk leading to the Starbucks across the street (James nearly shudders at the thought – Starbucks! On a Thursday morning? Laughable.), Sirius narrows his eyes.

"Where are you going?" he asks, as if it's not the very same place week after week.

"The Rabbit Hole," James answers anyways. And it's all downhill from there. It happens so often, Sirius doesn't even need to look up to name every coffee shop they pass along the way anymore. (James knows that London's trendy neighbourhoods weren't filled with more coffee shops than anyone could ever possibly need just to ruin his life, but sometimes, it feels that way).

So here he is on yet another Thursday morning, listening to the same assault on his love of good coffee once again. And honestly? James doesn't deserve this. He really doesn't. Thursday is his only day off. He's had a very hard week of outrageously early mornings and painfully long training days – tragically devoid of his beloved, overpriced coffee to top it off. James has to start the chore of a drive from his London flat to his football club's training ground in Cobham long before The Rabbit Hole opens for the day (despite his persistent attempts to get Genie, the owner, to open earlier – to reward his loyalty, see?). And while Chelsea F.C. can certainly afford to provide delicious breakfasts personally curated for him by professional nutritionists, he feels asking for cappuccinos with his name drawn in the foam would be a bit much, even for him. Though he may be the star of Chelsea's youth academy, Cristiano Ronaldo he is not – so he needs his Thursday morning coffee at The Rabbit Hole.

He says as much to Sirius and scowls when – would you believe it? Instead of apologising profusely for his insensitivity, the wanker just laughs! Loud, obnoxious laughter, as though James is the one being ridiculous. The nerve.

"Shit, mate. I forgot how hard your life is, being well on your way to getting paid millions to do the only thing you like to do anyways, at the very club you've rooted for since you were a snot nosed little toddler, no less. How terribly difficult it must be for you, having to sacrifice your fancy coffee that tastes exactly like every other coffee in the whole of Europe." When James only glares at the road ahead, Sirius continues. "You may have a real problem, you know. You're an addict. Maybe you should bring that up with your personal nutritionist."

"It is not the same as every other coffee," James grumbles. He really should have known better than to respond to that particular attack, of all the things Sirius said. Of course it only makes the jerk laugh even harder. Worthless.

The Rabbit Hole is a quaint (if mildly unattractive) little coffee shop that James has loved since the moment he first walked in. He had discovered it on his way home after going to see a Chelsea match with his parents, years ago. Since then, coming to the Rabbit Hole has become something of a tradition. They would stop by after every Chelsea match, and to celebrate James' junior football team wins. James continued to come even when his father stopped bringing him to matches, and long after he stopped showing up to watch his.

He was nine then, and is months away from nineteen now, and he loves it just as much still. It's full of worn-out, cozy chairs and strange wall art, but what he loves the most is the left wall, which is lined floor to ceiling with shelves filled to the brim with books. And though the place looks constantly in need of a renovation, and half the chairs are stained, and it's a little out of the way, especially in the January cold – James has come here almost every week since he was old enough to leave the house on his own. More often if he can manage it around his football – especially now that he can enjoy the fact that it doubles as a bar.

And though Sirius complains about the trek (which truthfully is not that long at all – nothing in South West London is too long a trek from anything else), James knows he loves it too. A fact that is immediately obvious when Sirius saunters right up to the counter, his usual order already on his tongue before he notices something amiss.

"Who are you?" Sirius asks bluntly, expectantly. The girl behind the counter stares back, looking startled and confused. (Startled and confused: the only natural reaction to meeting Sirius Black for the first time.) James knows all three of the shop's regular employees very well – this one is new. New, and very pretty. She has big green eyes and long auburn hair tied up in a ponytail, her lips pink and full and now set in an unimpressed frown.

"I'm sorry." James steps up to the counter beside his friend and smiles at the girl – trying to balance out Sirius is his fulltime job. "He hasn't been let out of his cell in weeks, he's forgotten how to speak to people. We'll have two regular cappuccinos, please."

"Who are you, though?" Sirius asks again, completely ignoring James' attempt to intervene. Honestly, why does he even try to help him?

"The new barista," the girl responds apprehensively, glancing between the two boys. Her gaze lingers on James (and his heart does not skip a beat, and her eyes are not the prettiest emerald green he's ever seen, thank you very much), before focusing her attention back on Sirius. "I'm replacing Margaret."

Sirius grins. "Oh good, I hate that bitch."

New Barista's unimpressed face falls, now looking rather hurt. "Margaret was my aunt," she says quietly, her voice cracking.

This makes Sirius' stupid grin falter. "Was…?"

New Barista swallows and turns away, busying herself with rearranging the boxes of teas lining the shelves behind her. "She uh… there was an accident."

"Oh. Shit." Sirius looks properly ashamed for once, and turns to James for help, but James is too stunned (and embarrassed) to speak. "Listen, I'm so sorry. I had no idea–" Sirius begins, but he is swiftly cut off by a familiar, sharp voice.

"Oh, it's you again." A very alive Margaret steps out of the back room, and fixes Sirius with a disdainful frown.

Sirius stares at Margaret, then snaps his narrowed grey eyes back to New Barista. She stares right back, clearly satisfied.

"So, that was two regular cappuccinos?" She asks James, throwing him a brilliant smile over her shoulder as she turns away.

All James can do is nod, and all he knows is that he is in trouble.

As it turns out, Margaret is neither dead, nor New Barista's aunt. She is just moving back home to be closer to her grandkids, and New Barista is just her replacement. It shouldn't have come as a surprise to James - three weeks ago, Margaret's son had sent her a video of her youngest grandson giggling and petting a kitten. James had sat at the bar and nodded along sympathetically while she showed him the video thirteen times and sniffled through a long ramble about how small and cute he was and how many things she was missing. In fact, he may even have been the one to suggest she move to be closer to them. ("I know you love it here, but surely spending time with your family is more important than the adventure of London, Marg? You're sixty-three.").

It hadn't occurred to him that she might actually do it, and he would have to go the rest of his days without her delicious cappuccinos and the way she wrote his name and made delightful little designs in the foam, just for him. (The fact that Sirius had said "Get a grip, Margaret. He's not even the cutest kid I've ever seen. Not even like, top three," when she got teary eyed was part of the reason she didn't do the same for him.)

New Barista is not quite as good at making hot caffeinated beverages at all, much less making art in them. But James immediately likes her, in spite of her poor beverage making skills interrupting his Thursday routine. He tends to like anyone that can put Sirius in his place – and Sirius is properly shaken by her swift punishment for his rudeness. Not that it makes him any politer.

"I cannot believe you almost made me care about Margaret," Sirius says to her a short while later, the two of them seated on stools at the bar. They've both finished with their first drink and are back for a second. This time, Sirius cuts New Barista some slack and gets a simple tea and a croissant. James is already sipping on his smoothie, and trying not to stare at her too much, keeping his eyes on the TV behind her. There's a match on, and normally he and Sirius would watch on the comically out of place flat screen in the back corner with the volume up. But today, there's something more interesting to focus on.

"She's sixty-three, what could she possibly have done to you?" New Barista asks. A valid question, of course, though there is no way to explain how or why Sirius chooses certain people to terrorize.

"She's also already gone, you can stop pretending you won't miss her now," James adds. "It's only fake hate because he broke up with her niece. Her actual niece," he explains to New Barista. "But Margaret doesn't like her niece that much anyways."

"I'm not sure I understand the dynamic here. Are you all friends? Family? A cult?"

James laughs. "Why would you immediately jump to a cult?"

"You're weirdly close to an elderly employee, and then there's all of these paintings – why are there so many aliens and eyes everywhere?"

"Genie paints them, but they creep her out too much to put in her house, so she sticks them all here."

New Barista stares at him. "Are you friends with Genevieve Wallace too?"

"She calls him 'sweetie' and never makes him pay for anything," Sirius says in response.

Genevieve Wallace (darling please, call me Genie!) is the owner of The Rabbit Hole. She is an aging and rather fabulous woman who had once published a series of successful books that had gone on to become a laughably bad but very lucrative film series. With a hefty fortune to her long-forgotten name, and no children left to care for, she had opened The Rabbit Hole to entertain herself. Part coffee shop, part bar, and that incredible wall of books: it was a solid business model as far as James could tell, even if the place was dusty and old and out of the way. It didn't seem to bother Genie that the location – tucked away in a hard to find corner, away from the shop lined main streets that visitors to the neighbourhood would likely visit – made it so that business was never better than just enough to keep the place running, and then some. She had time, and she had money. The Rabbit Hole was just a fancy.

"That's insane. I love her books, I couldn't believe it when I showed up at the interview and found out she owns this place!"

James grins. He didn't know of many people their age who had read Genie's books. "I love them too, but I love the movies more. Sirius and I watch them annually. They get better with age."

"Sirius is…?"

Sirius raises his hand, busy eating his croissant and pretending not to notice James' fast developing crush. God bless him, sometimes he isn't completely worthless.

"Ah, the asshole. Then you must be James," she says. "I was warned about you two in my training."

James knows he looks far too pleased at this information, but he can't help the foolish grin. "We're part of the training!"

Sirius snorts, not at all phased by New Barista's name-calling. "Her training was probably just Genie saying, here is the coffee shop. Don't serve minors alcohol unless they can plausibly pass as adults. Also, my only customer's name is James. Ta-ta darling, don't run me out of business."

"That's actually pretty accurate," New Barista says, an amused curve to her lips.

"We should know. We've been coming here since we were nine," James tells her. "Anyways. I didn't catch your name?"

"I'm Lily," she says with a lovely smile. Lily. What a lovely name to match her lovely face and her lovely smile. Why couldn't she be named Gertrude? Or Dolores? Or Chauncey? James could never have a crush on anyone named Chauncey, discriminatory as that may be. But Lily is such a lovely name.

Fortunately, he keeps his lunatic monologue to himself and out loud, he only says, "Nice to meet you, Lily. I'm sure we'll be great friends soon enough." His shifts his focus back to the TV. "Can you turn that up, please?"

Lily reaches for the remote under the bar and turns up the volume, but raises an eyebrow. "It's halftime."

"I like hearing what the commentators have to say."

"…dominated the first half, but Levinson came in with that beautiful equalizer in stoppage time, and I think that might change the course of the match in the second half. It's been quite a season for Levinson – his first in the Premier League after a transfer from Dortmund last summer. City fans questioned whether he was worth the £50 million price tag, I don't think they'll have many questions after this performance…"

"Ugh. £50 million?" Lily mutes the TV again. "I hate these football players and how grossly overpaid they are."

For a brief moment, James doesn't know what to say. He considers melting into the floor instead, but Lily glances at him before he has the chance, and the words tumble out before he can stop himself. "I know, right? It's absurd."

Sirius coughs and puts down his mug. James can tell he's fighting the urge to laugh. "Is it now?"

"I mean I get it," Lily says. "They're good at what they do. Whatever. All they do is kick a ball around."

"Also true," James agrees, wishing he would shut up instead. Honestly. Lily doesn't know anything about him, she's only just learned his name. He doesn't have to say anything at all. And yet… "It's disgusting."

Sirius looks positively gleeful now, glancing between James and Lily with barely contained mirth in his sharp eyes. "Levinson isn't getting paid the £50 million he was sold for, Dortmund is," he explains. James knows this is a good bit of explanation to get behind, that Sirius is doing him a favour. The fact that he's trying to help instead of happily helping James dig himself a deeper hole is a momentous occasion he ought to mark on his calendar. He ought to nod along and take the opening and convince Lily of how wrong she is.

Instead, he says, "So? That's still an obscene amount of money to spend on him." Technically, he is being honest. James is sure Levinson is a one season wonder – his entire career has been wracked with inconsistent performances, and nothing points to that changing – but he's fairly certain that's not what Lily's thinking when she nods in agreement.

"And I bet he's getting paid an obscene amount too," she adds.

"Oh, he is," Sirius agrees. "I suppose you're right. We, the hardworking masses, have no reason to support lazy and overpaid athletes."

"Well… they're not lazy," James mumbles half-heartedly. But it's too late now. The hole has been dug, and Sirius has picked up his shovel.

"I absolutely get your point now, Lily," he continues as if James hadn't spoken. "I mean schoolboys play football for fun! Why should these guys get paid for it?"

Lily looks a little confused at Sirius' sudden turn of opinion. "I suppose. Though I'm sure it takes a little more dedication to play professionally than it does to play for fun at school."

James lets out a heavy sigh. Doesn't he know it. "It really does. The hours are insane."

Lily looks at him curiously. "Are you two big football fans, then?"

"Yeah, I guess we are."

"Some of us are more invested than others." Sirius gives James a significant look, which he determinedly ignores.

"My roommate got us tickets to a match next Saturday," Lily says. "She's a huge fan. It's supposed to be a good one, Arsenal vs. Chelsea? There's apparently a rivalry that she takes very personally." Sirius takes a calm sip of his tea, watching James over the top of the mug. (Has his friend always looked distinctly evil, or is this a new development?)

James puts down his smoothie. "You're coming to that?"

"Oh, are you going too?" Lily smiles, and James momentarily forgets his dread to feel thrilled instead.

"Yeah, I'll be there." She looks pleased, and that makes his brain a bigger mess of worthless mush than it already is. "Maybe we'll catch you after the match," he adds casually. What he probably means is maybe we'll catch you after the match and you'll see me for the lying fool I am and banish me from my favourite spot in London, condemning me to a lifetime of shame and misery.

Sirius puts down his empty mug too. "We definitely will. James will be easy to find, I'm sure."

Lily raises an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

"Oh, you'll see. He's a huge Arsenal fan. He'll be hard to miss."

James rubs his eyes and runs a hand through his already messy, black hair. He gets up. "Right. Well, we'd better go."

Sirius jumps off his stool too and starts zipping up his coat. "See you on Saturday, Lily."

Lily, looking no less confused by the two now than she had an hour earlier when they walked in, waves goodbye as they head out.

"Shut up. I don't want to hear a word," James snaps before Sirius has even had a chance to say anything. He has only just stopped laughing, and James is not mentally prepared for the abuse that is sure to come next.

"I just want to make sure you remember correctly – you're on the lineup for that match?" Sirius asks with mock concern. James just keeps cycling. "A Champion's League match against your biggest rivals? It was a big deal when you got called up, remember? We had a party. Your mum took us out to dinner to celebrate and everything? You had your steak medium rare."

"I get it. Shut up."

Sirius cackles – really cackles. He is enjoying this far too much. "Oh, you poor sod. That girl just melted your brain. I've never seen such a sorry sight."

"Haven't you? Look in a mirror on a Sunday morning, then."

"So are you going to tell her you're a professional football player before or after she sees you play next weekend?"

"I mean, technically, I'm not. I'm not on the first team yet."

Sirius chuckles happily. "I'm not sure the distinction matters at this point."

James tries not to think about that. He tries not to get too excited too soon. It's true that he has done exceptionally well with Chelsea's youth team – well enough that between playing on the youth team, he often plays for the under-23s and has been called up to the first team more and more often. The extra match days and extra training that comes with it leaves him perpetually exhausted, but he doesn't mind. The conversation around his future gets louder with every match he plays, the interest from other football clubs less and less subtle.

But James has his heart set on Chelsea, and though he hears it all the time – when his youth contract expires at the end of this season, it will be renewed with a permanent promotion to the first team, it's a sure thing – James refuses to believe it. Not when he still has half a season left to prove he deserves it – or screw up and prove he doesn't. Not when so many other talented players out there could take his spot at any moment. Not when so many people who matter don't want him there at all. Certainly not until he's actually signed something.

"Of course it matters!"

"To you, not to Lily, who will be quite surprised to find that you're one of the footballers you think so lowly of."

"Nobody's paid £50 million for me yet."

"Yet? Think that highly of yourself, do you? What will Lily think of that?"

James rolls his eyes. "It doesn't matter. I don't have time to date anyways."

"That hardly stopped you from making a fool of yourself."

"Oh, fuck off. All I see all day is sweaty men. She's pretty. That's all."

Sirius starts to laugh again, but mercifully backs off. James doesn't bother mentioning that how much time he has hardly matters. Next weekend, Lily will realize he's a pathological liar and a fool and will never speak to him again anyways. Which is just as well, because James doesn't have time for a silly crush. Next weekend is the biggest shot he's every been given, a pretty girl should be the very last thing on his mind.

But that doesn't stop him from thinking about her the entire way home, and James knows he is in trouble. He is in so much trouble.