It Had to Be You
Disclaimer: I do not own Lily and James. They are on loan from the metal cages James-Padfoot keeps them in. Don't ask me where she got them.
Some More Disclaiming: This is depressing. I don't own anything. I even got the plot from other places. The song, by the way, belongs to Frank Sinatra.
Many Thanks: To everyone who reviewed Ten, and especially to James-Padfoot, who's one-shot A Parallel Kiss, semi-gave me the idea for this one, though if you read it you probably won't see how. Also, thanks to the directors of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone for including the photo album of Harry's parents, and thus also contributed to the birth of this not-so-original fan fiction.
One Final Disclaimer: I am not so good at writing humor. This is more of a romance piece. So shoot me.
I lied. There's one more: I realize that it isn't at all probable that James knows the song, but at least it is possible, right?
The corridor was dark and cold. The moon had risen, spilling silver light over the frost-bitten grounds, but it could not reach the shadows at the base of the Astronomy Tower. The students, the teachers, and the ghosts were asleep. She was entirely alone.
The rain which poured against the windows and the doors had lowered the temperature so suddenly that she hadn't had time to grab a thicker set of robes before she and the Head Boy had begun their patrol. Perhaps if she hadn't been so dreadful at Divination, she would have been able to predict it. Perhaps if she hadn't been so stubborn, she would be wearing his robes in addition to her own.
As it was, Lily Evans stood nearly frozen to the spot, staring at the darkness where said boy had disappeared. "'Come on, Evans'," she sneered, trying and failing to mimic the cockiness of his deep tone. "'It'll just take a moment. You're always telling me to take my duties seriously. What if some bloke and bird are up there, snogging each other's brains out and we don't stop them? Hm? What then?'"
If there had been anyone up there, surely they were frozen to death by now, a state which wouldn't change over night. More likely, she thought, it was another attempt to corner her in a situation which would have been dreadfully romantic if James Potter would have been anyone other than himself.
She counted the seconds in her head, but no shadow stirred and no sound came from above. Was someone truly up there? No, Potter was never right when she was wrong. He was probably taking his time, doing his best to catch cold so that he could guilt her into something. She hardened her heart. There was nothing wrong. There was nothing . . .
"Evans!"
Lily gave a start and pushed herself away from the stone wall. Air rushed in where her body heat had been preserved and chilled her further. Her teeth chattered softly. She could hear her heart beating in her ears.
"Evans!"
It was not concern for Potter that made her do it. Everyone knew that she would be more than delighted if he got himself into serious trouble and wound up out-of-commission for a while. It was more of a . . . natural maternal instinct that quickened her steps until she was taking the stairs two at a time and panting as she immerged into the rain.
"Potter?"
He stood with his back to her, seeming whole and alone. For a moment she was able to breathe, a moment he snatched from her as he turned around. He was smirking, calm and easy and (she hated to admit it) sexy. Her heart had sunk from her ears to land in her throat and she found herself once again breathless.
"Ah, Evans; I knew you'd come around."
She was shaking, a fact he attributed to the cold and she attributed to rain. She wasn't willing to admit what he didn't dare to dream: he made her tremble.
He began to hum, a tone she knew she knew but couldn't quite place, and then he was holding his hand out to her, staring at her expectantly.
"W-what?" she managed to choke. It sounded feeble, as though she were going to cry.
His smirk turned to a grin. "Haven't you ever danced in the rain?" She nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on him in distrust. If he thought she was giving him an excuse to run his fingers up and down her gentle curves, to feel through her damp robes the soft, cold skin which flushed at the very thought . . . She shook her head to clear it.
He chuckled. "Which is it?"
"Yes . . . " she said feebly, and then, more firmly. "Yes."
"Dance with me, Evans."
She had gained her footing, found her ground. He wasn't the hunter, she wasn't his prey. This was not some sultry dance in the moonlight. It was an argument, a game. It would not be any different than the times before. She was going to win. "No."
His confident grin never faltered. He sang softly, in a voice which was not excellent but was certainly nothing short of good, "Why must I do just as you say? Why must I just give you your way?"
"You don't," she replied flatly. "If you did, you'd leave me alone."
"Why do I sigh? Why don't I try . . . to forget? It must have been something that lover's call 'fate' . . ."
"Or obsession," she interjected.
". . . Kept me saying, 'I have to wait.' I saw them all, just couldn't fall—'til we met."
"Potter . . ."
"Dance with me, Evans . . ."
"No!"
His voice was no longer good, and was quickly approaching the borders of obnoxious and bad, "It had to be yooou! It had. To. Be. Yooou! I wandered around. And finally found. The somebody whooooo could make me be truuuuue, and could make me be bluuuue. And even be glad, just to be sad, thinking of you! . . . They're playing our song, Evans!"
"We don't have a song, Potter!"
He dropped his voice again, and didn't fail to notice the way she trembled and inched nearer as he swayed slightly. "Some other's I've seen might never be mean, might never be cross, or try to be boss, but they wouldn't do. For nobody else gave me the thrill. With all of your faults I love you still. It had to be you. It had to be you. It had to be you." He took a breath. "We'll make it ours . . . Lily."
He pulled her against him so suddenly that she couldn't object. She caught her breath, felt his firm hand wrapped around her small one, the strength of his arm around her waist, and simply draped her free hand over his arm. In the morning, she would deny ever leaving the castle. "You're going to catch cold," she breathed.
He was humming again. "It will be worth it."
"I'm going to catch cold."
"Then make it count. Sing with me, Evans."
He felt the weight of her head against his chest and for a moment he was frozen, aware of every inch of her against every inch of him and every raindrop that invaded that space. He pulled her closer as he began to move, a simple box step, rotating around in a small, tentative circle. "I don't know the words," she whispered.
"I wandered around and finally found the somebody who," he sang slowly, deeply, his breath warm against the tip of her ear, "could make me be true, and make me be blue. And even be glad, just to be sad, thinking of you. Some others I've seen might never be mean—might never be cross, or try to be boss, but they wouldn't do."
The rain slowed, their shivering had stopped, and James' voice was gone. In the silence, a gentle wind nipped at the young couple who stood, still dancing in the rain on top of the Astronomy Tower, far past their curfew. It was probably the rain, or the voice of blind hope, but for a fleeting instant, James was convinced that it was the teenage girl wrapped comfortably in his arms that sang, in barely more than a whisper, "For nobody else gave me the thrill. With all of your faults I love you still. It had to be you," and it is not flawless months, nor phenomenal years, but rather the startling instants that make love what it is.