He stood lazily against the wall, waiting. For what, you might ask. Well, that is a question that shall, until a later time, remain unknown. But he was waiting. Standing, as it seemed, with a self-assured confidence that would put others to shame. But his nervousness was betrayed by a slight, subconscious mannerism; he ran his fingers quickly through his messy, black hair.
And continued waiting.
He watched the other students walk past, some hurriedly as they tried to reach dinner as quick as possible, others with an apathetic ease as they chatted amicably with friends. His friends were watching idly, with amusement and a sort of sympathetic concern.
No one else paid much attention to him. You see, this behaviour was a daily occurrence.
Suddenly, he straightened quickly, as if electrocuted by the wall. The tension that he exuded came off in waves. You could have cut the air with a knife. If, of course, it was a knife that was really a wand, and you'd done a spell to be able to cut the air. But back to the story.
You see, she was walking past. Of course, you might ask who "she" is. Well... I would if I didn't already know the story. "She" was the love of his life, or so he said. And "she" hated him, or so she said.
"She" was...
"Hey Evans!" He shouted across the hall. He started striding towards her.
"Shove it Potter" She turned quickly, and remarkably gracefully, down a corridor in the opposite direction, and stormed out of sight before he'd even crossed the hall.
He stopped in his tracks, letting out a heavy sigh.
"Maybe tomorrow, Prongs." The voice of one of his friends cut through his weary depression.
"No, Padfoot. Not tomorrow. Not ever."
--
She was walking to dinner, once again. The habit of, what seemed like, a lifetime. Of course, in reality it was only 6 years, but she hated to think of the life before. She always headed this way. Always. Her friends often asked her why she did it. She'd always shrug, that typical, nonchalant shrug, and say "I can't break the habit"
They'd always laugh, giggling amongst themselves, making comments about how she just wanted to see "him."
You might ask who "he" is. "He" was the bullying toerag that had ruined her life, or so she said. "He" was the one who was undeniably in love with her, or so he said. "He" was the one that she was secretly in love with.
He was...
"Hey Evans!"
The one who just interrupted my narration. Prat.
She doesn't agree. A small, infinitesimal smile crossed her face the second she heard his voice. But instead of leaping into his arms and snogging him senseless like any normal girl, she had over think things (again) and do the opposite.
"Shove it Potter" her voice was icy. She turned gracefully and hurried quickly away. Her friends trailed hesitantly after her.
She was silently berating herself for being stupid when a familiar, and tentative, female voice cut through her thoughts
"Lily... Why can't we just go a different way tomorrow?" It was one of her friends, speaking up although she probably knew better.
"No, Arabella. Not tomorrow. Not ever."
--
At dinner they always sat on different ends of the house table. As far away as possible. It was tradition. And they cared about tradition. As far away as possible. But always within sight of each other.
Their friends would converse eagerly, and they would pretend to join in. But they were always sneaking secretive, insightful looks at each other. It was their game. Their eternal battle. They must never be caught. By their friends. By each other.
Over six years they'd refined it to an art. They could go months without anyone catching them. They had forgotten why they did it. Why it had started. But that didn't matter. As long as it always continued.
It started in 1st year. When they'd both initially noticed each other. They'd both discovered that they never felt alone if they knew the other was around. They hated each other. For separate, acknowledged reasons, but the same undisclosed reason. They hated the way their blood would race when the other was near, that their eyes would lock with each others, that nothing else mattered except them. So they hated each other.
But they couldn't escape. No, of course not, because otherwise this story wouldn't exist. And it wouldn't be a question.
They couldn't escape. They had too much pride to run away.
So they found themselves watching each other. Blatantly at first, but as they grew so did their subtlety. And so did the competition.
They thought it would last forever.
They'd whisper to themselves when no one was listening.
"It will never end. Not tomorrow. Not ever."
--
He was watching them at dinner. He'd been watching their process throughout their years here. How close they were without even realising.
He saw how aware they were of each other. Even when no one else could. In his class he would always assign them to work together. He knew they thought he was trying to punish them, for what he doubted even they knew, but he was just trying to find the catalyst which would bring them together.
He remembered the time he'd assigned them to transfigure a teacup into a frog, and they'd ended up transfiguring each other. They'd been so close up until that point. He always knew that was why they'd taken such extreme measures. And deep down, in that heart of hearts where he was their teacher, he was pleased, so pleased that they'd achieved such high level magic, and only in their second year.
He saw them pushing each other away the second they got too close. 1 step forward, 3 steps back. He saw the endless, brutal screaming matches that they used to hide the intensity of their feelings. He saw them crumbling in despair the moment no one could see.
He saw it all.
And it invigorated him. The thought that such a lucid love was being created right in front of him burned his heart in such a wholesome way. He just wished, hoped that they would eventually see what was right in front of them, and accept it.
There would be tears. Yelling. Maybe some destruction. But eventually there would be a relationship whose passion would scorch the pages of history and outlive time itself.
No. It would never end. Not tomorrow. Not ever.
--
She sat in her favourite couch beside the fire after dinner. It was tradition. And tradition was important. She always sat in front of the fire, soaking up the latent heat like the fiery being that she was.
And he would always sit in the corner, his chair pointing towards her. He would always watch her until she decided to leave. Or until his friends would remind him of their 'plans'.
It was tradition.
Which is why she was shocked, absolutely mind blowingly amazed when he got out of that chair without any external influence, and walked towards her.
She was even more shocked, speechless in fact, when he sat down on the couch right beside her and spoke. "Hello Lily."
It was breaking their tradition.
She opened her mouth. "I... you... hi... um... " she paused for a moment, struggling with herself. "Hi Potter."
"That wasn't too hard now was it?" he asked, smiling.
In my opinion that was a stupid question. Anyone with eyes could have seen that her whole world had been turned upside down and she was stumped. But he was always blind when he came to her.
She stared at him, her mouth trembling as she tried to frame words. But she remained silent, until "Potter" A pause, as, I assume, she tried to organise the words into a coherent sentence. Or she just liked saying his name. I was never sure. "What are you doing?"
By this time the entire room, their friends, classmates, were all watching this spectacle with increasing interest. This was not an everyday occurrence.
"I'm talking. To you." he replied, as if talking to a frightened child. Which, actually, she really did remind me of at that point, staring at him with eyes as big as saucers. Well... maybe not THAT big, because that would be non-human.
She looked away from him for a moment, then raised her eyes back to his, piercingly. "But why?"
"I wanted to talk to you."
She waved her hand dismissively, adapting to the situation. "Well, talk."
He laughed. "It doesn't work like that, Lily."
A slight smile spread across her face at his laugh, but it faded quickly. "Stop saying that."
"Saying what Lily?"
"THAT! Stop saying THAT."
"You mean... Lily?"
"Stop it!"
"Why?"
She raised her hands to her face and took a deep breath. As she lowered her hands again, she spoke.
"Because we don't work like that. You're Potter. And I'm Evans. We don't... This isn't right."
He smiled. "This is right. What isn't right is the games we've been playing. Look me in my eyes, Lily, and tell me what you feel."
She was shocked. Once again. And then a thought occurred to her. One she rather liked. "This is like another game... ok James."
She looked him in the eye directly in the eye. "I feel...oh Merlin. I feel butterflies in my stomach, breath caught in my throat. I feel my blood racing through my veins. I feel..." she paused, almost as if she were tasting the words before speaking them.
"I feel safe. And alive. As if I were the only one here with you." She lowered her eyes from his. "And I hate it. And I hate you."
He grinned. "I hate you too, Lily."
"James..." she said it slowly, softly, savouring the word.
"Yes?"
She leaned in slowly, her eyes closed. He didn't need much encouragement. Their lips met, briefly.
She leaned back, and smiled. "I definitely hate you."
And he laughed, pulling her towards him.
"And I always will. This hate will never go away. Not tomorrow. Not ever."