Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be.

Pairing: Lily/James

Note: Hi! Just a one-shot for one of my favourite couples ever. Enjoy.

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Words

As the common room clock struck half past eleven, James Potter stepped lightly down the dorm stairs, smiling to himself as he flicked through his freshly retrieved notes. He had scored today, and big-time; Professor Wyatt has assigned partners for an overnight assignment, and he had had the good fortune to find himself paired with none other than Lily Evans (read: the girl of his dreams).

They had been working on it for over 2 hours now and were making steady progress, hindered only by distractions in the form of arguments. But James didn't mind. They had been approaching something that resembled a friendship for a while now, if a slightly volatile one. Besides, any excuse to spend time with Lily was fine by him.

He reached the end of the stairs.

"Right, I've got the stuff, and I also nabbed Remus's notes. Couldn't find his actual final product. He sure has a lot of information here that I missed. I thought we were nearly done, but if we need to add in all of his stuff, Evans, I think there is a possibility that we will have to stay here all-"

He stopped.

Lily Evans was laid out neatly on the sofa, her eyes closed and a look of tranquility etched across her features.

He put the papers down on a table, then advanced towards her.

"Evans?"

She didn't stir, and as he reached her side James could see that she was fast asleep.

He gently brushed back some hair from her face. A frown flickered across her face and she moved slightly, still in a deep slumber.

"So much for the all-nighter. Not that I was being serious. Never mind. You aren't going to wake up for a while, I bet. But why am I talking? You can't hear me, can you."

This admission was met by silence, which was in itself the answer he had been looking for. He found a comfortable chair and sunk into it; it had been a long day.

"I like your sleeping face. Peaceful. I have no idea what you would be dreaming of, but I hope to hell it's not the same things I see."

He shifted in his seat, leaning back with his arms behind his head, and listened to the silence that filled the room for a few minutes. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear snoring.

"Lately every time I dream, I see people dying. Often they're people I love, but sometimes they're just faceless. I suppose it's because of all the murders in the headlines recently. I wake up a lot during the night; sleeping is not exactly my forte. I don't like having all my defenses down. I feel so helpless, and it isn't just being unconscious of everything around me. It's being unable to hide from my subconscious, you know?"

He glanced over at her inert form, then put his feet up onto the arm of the chair.

"At this point you would tell me that I don't have a subconscious, wouldn't you."

He smiled to himself.

"Well, I do. And I need my walls. I have walls up all the time, really. Secrets too. It's hard being popular," he said, not altogether seriously, but twisting up his face. His tone changed. "You have to keep secrets, even from your best friends. Real secrets. Personality based secrets."

James paused, frowning at the thought, and was momentarily distracted by the flickering of the dying fire. With great effort, he hoisted himself out of his chair, grabbed a poker and some newspaper and prodded the fire back to life.

"I haven't danced for a long time; I used to love waltzing around the kitchen with my mother. I've probably forgotten everything I originally knew. Also, this whole talking thing? Never would have happened if you were awake. But right now I can say anything I want. I can tell you that I miss dancing, and that I am an excellent cook, and that I'm quite partial to Charles Dickens, and even… even that I am madly in love with you."

He side-stepped in a kind of shadow-waltz.

"I can say it all, and you will never know."

And he begun to dance, slowly but steadily, holding his ghost partner and humming a few bars of song, slowly making his way around the room.

"What on earth are you doing, Potter?"

James froze mid-step, his foot suspended in the air, surprise fixed to his face as he slowly turned to face the source of the voice. Lily Evans was staring at him, a look of bleary amusement in her eyes.

"I...um….oh. I can't think of a proper explanation. Anyway, you wouldn't believe anything I told you, would you?"

The red head smiled.

"No."

She moved into an upright position.

"How long have I been asleep?"

James glanced at the clock.

"I'd say about twenty, maybe thirty minutes now."

"Is that minutes or minuets?"

He slumped into his chair.

"Oh, very clever Evans. Anyway, I didn't want to wake you. You looked too comfy. Peaceful ."

The smile vanished from her eyes.

"I wish you had woken me. I had an awful dream."

Lily drew her legs up against her chest. "Someone was being killed by… by Him."

James sighed, concern spread across his features. "I get those all the time. They're horrible."

Lily nodded; for once, they were in agreement. There was a moment of silence as they looked at each other. James hastily stood up, picking up the parchment and books.

"Well, we're nearly done with the assignment. Do you want to just finish it at lunch tomorrow?"

Lily nodded and got up, stretching. "Well, I guess I'll see you in the morning then."

James smiled. "Yeah." He turned and headed towards the stairs.

"P…James?"

"Yeah?"

There was a slight pause, and he turned to face her.

"It was you."

James ran a hair through his hair, and once more a look of worry found its way across his face.

"What?"

"The dream. The person being killed. It was you. And now I'm kind of afraid to go back to sleep."

He thought for a moment, then walked back in the direction from which he had come. This time, instead of flopping into his recently vacated chair, he walked right up to Lily Evans and wrapped his arms around her. And instead of pulling away, she sank into it. When James at last let go, he sat down on one of the sofas and allowed the ghost of a smile to appear as she joined him.

"Perhaps, Lily, I should tell you about my great love for the works of Charles Dickens. Or maybe about my cooking experiences; I'm quite the master chef, you know. Or perhaps I should relate to you the ballroom lessons I took at the age of nine."

Or maybe how I feel for you, he thought secretly. Maybe not. Definitely not.

There was only so much truth he, or she, could handle.

She turned to face him.

"Ballroom lessons, Potter? That explains a lot."

He leant back and closed his eyes.

"It was the summer of my ninth year of being, and I had recently been kicked off the junior basketball team for pushing another boy into mud."

"No!"

"Well, he had it coming. He said my mother was a Satan worshipper. Anyway…"

They talked until the early hours of the morning, and eventually fell asleep beside each other.

For once, not dreaming of death, but of words.