She cried in a way that only Lily Evans would – shoulders straight, back to the room, tears streaming down her face and hands curled into fists, too defiant to wipe at her reddened eyes.
Standing at the door way he shifted his weight uncomfortably. He had known, going to bed that night that something was wrong. He had noticed the emptiness in her eyes and the fleeting, shallow smiles.
When he has asked her about it, again, she responded only as Lily Evans would: "Of course you think something's wrong Potter, all you see are my weaknesses, right? You're too caught up in your own little world of self importance and perfection. Everything about your life is perfect! Well I'm sorry that I can't be!"
He had left her to mull alone. Her stubbornness preventing her from offering the slightest of apologies. His patience preventing him from feeling hurt.
He cleared his throat; startling her and sending her hands straight to her eyes to hide any trace of tears.
"Hey, um, you should…" he began, taking a tentative step toward her, "it's, uh, cold. You should…" He offered her his sweatshirt.
She was suddenly aware of her bare shoulders and the chill which crept through the room from the window she had opened. Fresh air, she had always believed, could relieve any crisis. Perhaps fresh air, pyjama shorts and a tank top didn't work so well together. She wrapped her arms around herself, still facing away from him.
"I'm fine. I'm fine, James," she said clearly, having drawn a deep breathe to steady her voice. Regardless, she took his jumper. Pulling it over herself and revelling in his warmth.
"Mhm," he had moved closer. The comfort of another person near her.
He was careful not to touch her. He knew her well enough; laying a finger on her at this point would be an invitation to leave. She would have to come to him.
"Lily, I'm – okay. You're fine. I'll, uh, in fact…" he scolded himself for processing his thoughts aloud. After a pause, quietly, "Lils, I've had enough of my room. Mind if I just sit here for a while?"
It wasn't so much a question as a statement. He sat himself on the floor beside her bed.
She turned to him, "I don't want to talk about –"
"I know. You don't want to say anything. I understand. I'm only here for the bed!" he joked.
The ghost of a smile passed over her lips. She pulled his sweatshirt closer around her and sat beside him. Far enough not to touch him – not to feel dependant, but close enough to feel the calmness and warmth he exuded.
After a moment, "I dunno about you, Lils but I think I should get some shut eye." He helped her up before, to her surprise, pulling back her covers and climbing into the far end of her bed.
"James – I'm fine. You don't have to stay with me or whatever," she offered.
"I know. But I'm not leaving," he sighed into his pillow, "Good night, Lily."
When she thought he was asleep, she climbed in beside him, curling up beside his chest. Face rested against his neck, head in the crevice above his shoulder.
She folded up against him. So tiny. So vulnerable. So very fragile.
And she cried again, in a way that only Lily Evans could. Defiant and strong but scared, empty.
And he held her with every fibre of his being, with strong, warm arms. Whispering to her in the dark. Assuring her that the hollowness would disappear and hoping against hope that he could make it happen.
That night, James Potter decided that he would fight.