When he was young, he didn't believe in love. All he saw was his parents, happier apart yet still together. He never really understood why they stayed. Now, standing over the grave of his first love, he realized. It wasn't that they loved each other. They knew they were better apart. It seemed to him, that they were completely aware of the pain they were causing themselves, but chose to ignore it. They really did know, but they also knew that the pain from being together was less than the pain from being apart. He thought they were crazy. He thought back to his first day of school, eleven year old and utterly terrified of a hat, yet confident in one belief. He'd expected it to be easy. It was no wonder he made so many mistakes, believing that. Sitting at a table for the first time in his life, he saw her. Maybe James didn't believe in love, but he knew one thing. He was eleven and she was red, which meant absolutely nothing. In their fifth year, all the incidents piled up into one, and he listened to his somewhat unintelligent heart. He asked her out, and she said no with a burning hatred. Their sixth year was no better, for she hated him and he was listening to his heart. He tried not to love her, but he couldn't help the surges of emotion he felt whenever she would wander into a dark corridor and cry to herself. The private sobs were meant to be just that. She would never know that he'd offered her quills for a reason, or that he'd stopped ruffling his hair so ridiculously often, or even that he tried strawberry milk just because she liked it. The gestures were lost on her, and she didn't realize that his visit to St. Mungo's was due to a sever allergic reaction to strawberries. He sent her letters over the summer, filled with compliments and apologies. He'd tell her she was beautiful and apologize for thinking it. She would never admit it, but she had a shrine in her closet. Letter from him and a picture of a beautiful boy grinning wickedly. Maybe she was listening to her heart. The real, physical change had happened in a train compartment. She'd sat with him for the first time ever, and he'd kissed her nose. No slap had followed. Seventh year was lovely from both perspectives. They were happy, and James was ignoring his head. With their education over, he'd proposed and she'd accepted. Next came marriage, happiness, and baby Harry. It seemed to James that his true love had changed from the woman he called his wife to the baby he called his son, and he didn't really mind. A terrible feeling and a sending away, and then he was dead. He hoped like hell that she'd gotten away, but when she appeared behind the veil with him, he just hoped that his boy was alive. They'd waited anxiously and when no little boy had appeared, Lily had found the McKinnons and pretended she was alright. They watched as he made Seeker, conquered the dark lord repeatedly, and found his true love. Lily had been rooting for the brunette with a fondness for books, but the redheaded Quidditch player had won out. James watched without a regret, and he understood. His parents had been listening to their brains and their hearts, and it hadn't worked out right. Fortunately for fate, James Potter never listened to his brain. They both knew that someday their son would join them, and then his children, and their children, and so on. It brought a smile to their faces. Of course, James didn't know any of this. He was eleven and she was red, which didn't mean anything at the time, but would someday. He was James and she was Lily, which meant more than anyone could ever know.