Disclaimer: I'm not JKR and I don't own Harry Potter. I would, however, not mind if teenage James Potter happened to appear in my bedroom...
AN: I wrote this because I want it. Enjoy.
He was in love with her.
He loved the way she couldn't lift one eyebrow; couldn't whistle, snap, or swim, but her lips could lift into a perfect, heart-skipping smile. He loved the way her hair never seemed to go the way she wanted it to, but fell perfectly anyway. He loved the way she was stubborn even when she didn't know what she was being stubborn about, and how even when she was wrong, she was right. He loved the way she couldn't back down from a fight, how her pride ran too high, and her ego, no matter how much she denied it, was almost as large as his. He loved the way she tripped over her own feet and often slipped when there was nothing to slip on, but she was graceful with her words, no matter how scathing they may be. He loved the way she couldn't sing even if she tried, her voice high and cracking and off-pitch when she tried. He loved how she was intelligent–so intelligent, it seemed, that her knowledge sometimes surpassed the professors, but if you asked what day it was, she'd have to count them on her fingers. He loved the way that after each break, her eyes scanned the crowd before they landed on him and she hastily pretended to be looking for someone else.
His heart ached for her, jumped for her, sang for her. His lungs inhaled, exhaled, caught for her. His hands were meant for hers to be holding, his lips for her to be kissing. With every passing day–passing second–the feeling intensified and grew and took hold of him, gripping his insides and twisting his stomach each time he saw her bright green eyes meet his. His stomach no longer was a home for butterflies–instead being replaced by elephants stampeding around inside of him.
It was right after winter break–right after her eyes had searched for him in the huge mass that was the Hogwarts students–and he sat in a pile of snow, his hands freezing as they touched the snow on the ground, his eyes growing dry as he swept them over the lake, not wanting to blink for the sight was just too beautiful. His cloak was not permitting him much warmth, but that was winter, and he relished in it, letting his nose turn read and his hair feel cold to the touch as he ran his fingers haphazardly through it.
There was movement to his right, but he found it hard to tear his eyes away from the frozen lake. Someone was sitting beside him now, and he caught a flash of red hair–it was either Arthur Weasley or the apple of his eye–and when he let his eyes drift from the lake to the person beside him, his heart leapt when he saw who it was.
"James," she greeted quietly, though her eyes were now trained on the lake as his had been just moments before.
"Lily," he answered, his voice bearing surprise, but pleasantly so.
"Why aren't you inside?" she asked him.
"Why aren't you?" he countered, but his voice was soft and light.
She chose not to answer his question. "It's cold," she said instead, and he looked to her hands–they were wrapped up in child-like mittens.
"It's winter," he pointed out.
"How was your Christmas?" she asked suddenly, and–finally–her eyes lifted to his, and he drank the green pools in.
"Good," he said, stretching his legs out in front of him. "I got a new broom. How was yours?"
"Mm, I spent it with Mary," she murmured, her eyes straying from his. He remembered that her family had been murdered by Voldemort just the summer before, and he realized that the topic would probably be a sensitive one.
They sat in companionable silence for moments–long, stretching moments–before snow started to fall. It was surprisingly fast and heavy, coating them in just seconds, and Lily began to stand.
"We should get in," she said, her back to him as she started to walk away.
He grabbed her wrist before she could get far, and she turned, both eyebrows raised in a silent question. He tugged on her wrist gently, and she walked a few steps towards him.
"Stay with me," he told her quietly, still pulling her closer to him.
They were barely two inches apart when Lily finally spoke. "It's snowing," she whispered, her breath mingling with his and blowing onto his face.
He saw the snowflakes catching in her thick, dark red lashes, and he was so, so tempted–
His hand reached up, cupping her cheek, and his thumb danced across her pale skin. Her eyes fluttered closed at this, and she breathed in deeply.
"It is," he breathed his lips almost brushing hers as he said it, before he let into his temptation and he let his lips fall onto hers.
The kiss was slow, warming, and gentle, his arms around her waist, lifting her up off the ground so that her toes were just barely brushing the snow beneath them, her mitten-clad hands cupping his face. It seemed to stretch on forever, the snow still steadily falling around them, but neither were cold. They had both gotten exactly what they had wanted for Christmas.
AN: Review?