It was the popping of the fire that had woken her -- rather odd, she mused, considering that it had previously been making such noises throughout her slumber without disturbing her at all. Lily sat up, despite her exhaustion (the symptoms were clear and painstaking; heavy eyelids, an aching body, and a lulling mind). She wiped the sleep from her eyes as best as she could, and stared at the wall for a moment.
Dreams, Lily had concluded, long ago, were exceedingly odd. Never, however, had she had such an unusually random one. The random ones were usually the most vivid, and the more vivid, the more significant. Still, it was a dream. It did not mean anything.
"Lily?"
She started, mid eye-rub, and winced at the brief pain made when she poked it. James Potter, she made out, was stood on the very edge of the staircases which led to the dormitory, worrying his hands together (and biting his lip, which he did a lot, she'd noticed -- and didn't mind at all, oddly).
"James," she replied, feeling slightly ill.
James came a little closer. "Fell asleep?"
"Clearly," she retorted, dryer than she meant to be. "Why are you awake, then?"
He shrugged. "Just the opposite, I suppose. Mind if I sit?"
She shrugged in turn, and so he sat beside her. They watched the flames for a while, before, on an impulse of sorts, Lily reached out in search of a blanket. She wrapped it around the two of them. James made no question. "What kept you up?"
"Snoring," James said, "and insomnia; thoughts..."
"You can think?"
James rolled his eyes. "You're hilarious, Evans."
At that, Lily grinned, but sobered quickly. "Do you want to talk?"
"I'd rather just sit, if you don't mind," was James's reply. And so she nodded, and they both grew sleepy (and, Lily realised, it was exceedingly easy to relax beside someone so warm, who smelt of firewood and broomstick polish). Soon enough, her head was on his shoulder, and James was utterly out of it.
She removed his glasses, carefully so as not to poke him with them, and set them on the table behind them. Dreams were odd, she thought, curling into his side almost unconsciously, and rather dazed. They meant so many things...
But dreams in which James kissed her (on the lips; passionately and fervently and warmly) could not mean anything. But for the first time, Lily wondered if that was because it was easier just to lie to herself, rather than accept the truth, which, unfortunately, was that loving James Potter was both unbearable and wonderful at the same time. Oh, and odd. One must not forget the oddity of it all.