Her laugh had startled him, the first time he heard it.
Well, obviously he had heard it before. You can't live in the same building – even if it is a castle – for six-and-a-bit years without hearing each other laugh, but this time, this was the first time it had been with him, not at him, or across the room from him, or even just inside his head.
She had caught herself afterwards – bitten her lip, almost ashamed of herself – but that didn't matter to him, he'd made her laugh and it echoed around his mind for the rest of the day, bubbling and almost glowing inside of him for hours.
Next, he'd seen her at a quidditch match, in late September, with her friends and his.
He'd almost fallen off his broom – not that he'd ever admit that, not even to her – when he saw her. Not letting himself get distracted from his game – not even for her, would he yet sacrifice that – he didn't dare to glance over. Except once, after his fifth successful shot of the game. Her eyes were straight on him, and he almost blushed, before reminding himself that he was James Potter, for goodness sake, he was a Marauder, and Marauders did not blush when pretty girls watched them play quidditch, even if they weren't just pretty, but funny and clever and sarcastic and bitchy and passionate and…did Remus just wink at him?
He didn't look over again. Too risky.
A couple of weeks later, she'd helped him with his Potions homework.
Potions was a stupid subject anyway. When, as an auror, would he ever need to brew some Draught of Living death anyway? It wasn't that it was hard, it was just…pointless.
Except this week. He couldn't get his head around it – like some other things, he smiled ruefully to himself – but she was in the heads common room, and she offered, and he accepted (of course).
It took hours. But, he reasoned to himself, maybe it was worth it. She loved Potions – as everyone knew – and there was nothing he loved more than her, talking and smiling and explaining it, in that heart-and-soul way that no one else could pull of quite as well.
Potions is still pointless though.
They were on patrols next, the next time she relented a little more.
It was nearly midnight at the time, and she was tired and he was tired – it was their third late patrol that week – and he'd noticed she'd had a letter from home, and he'd just asked her about it.
She didn't answer for a long time – he'd almost given up on getting one, when she did – and they'd carried on walking, but when he heard her sob, he stopped and turned. Not knowing what to do, he'd opened his arms, and she'd gone straight into them, whispering to him – so quickly, that later on he'd wondered how he'd understood her – that it was her fault, and they were gone, and why did she have to be a mudblood anyway?
He'd corrected her as soon as she used…that word, and he'd stroked her hair and 'shh'd' her and rocked her gently in his arms, and walked her back to the common room.
The next day, she didn't say anything about it to him, but he did notice her slightly-brighter-than-usual smile – which she'd given him despite her slightly-shiner-than-usual eyes – and a spark of hope (just a spark, mind you) shot through his heart for a millionth of a second.
It was Halloween two weeks later, and Halloween meant Hogsmeade.
He didn't ask her to go with him, of course; a spark of hope was just a spark, and he wasn't stupid. But somehow, him and his friends and her and her friends had ended up in The Three Broomsticks together, and they'd split off and gone, until it was just him and her and Padfoot, who – with a wry smile and knowing eyes – had left, saying some rubbish about Marlene Mckinnon and legs.
They'd looked at each other – green to hazel, hazel to green – and laughed about their abandonment, and then just talked and talked, for hours, until the sky started to turn crimson and gold and magenta and violet, and they'd walked back to the castle together.
The penultimate sign was when she fell asleep on him.
Sounds romantic, but actually it was just awfully uncomfortable. They'd been sat in their common room together again – it happened a lot, at the moment – and he'd been half-working, half-listening-to-her-breath, and her breath had slowed right down.
He'd looked down at her, and her eyes were shut, and her quill had leaked all over her fingers, and she'd rubbed ink into her hair and her skin was pale from working too hard and there was a little bit of drool in the corner of her mouth and her hair was everywhere, and she was beautiful.
Laughing at himself a little – silently, of course – he'd gently lifted her off his shoulder, picked her up and carried her to her room. He'd put her in her bed, and tucked her in, and kissed her forehead, and tiptoed away.
It took a lot of willpower not to change then; the stag in him was leaping.
Despite everything, she still surprised him.
He'd been doing some broomless quidditch practise alone – his dad was getting worse, and nothing else really got him off his mind – and he was dripping with sweat as he walked back to the castle. Pausing at the lake, he decided to walk round it instead of going straight back – despite his mood, the sun sparkling on the water was almost relaxing in its beauty – and he'd stopped halfway around to think. He hadn't noticed her arrive.
Change was in the air, and her hair was as bright as the leaves that fell from the trees. He'd cocked his head – what was this? – and she'd laughed at him, awkwardly. He'd laughed back and asked her what was wrong – was that the sun, or was she blushing? – and she'd looked down at her feet and muttered something. He'd bent down to her level and looked her in the eye and opened his mouth to ask her what she…and then she'd kissed him.
She'd kissed him, finally, and the whole world shifted – not in little shades, but all at once, like a light turned on or a bomb gone off, and the leaves swirled around them and they'd stopped and smiled and walked back together.
Lily Evans, he'd realised, would never change overnight.