Forgetting
It's so much easier, here in the dark, to close his eyes and touch her lips and forget. His conscience has gone out with the broken lantern, and it doesn't matter anymore that he hardly even knows her—all he knows are the weakness in his knees and her hot mouth pressed up against his and the cold bookshelf digging into his back, and his only sensible thought is that sneaking into the Restricted Section at midnight for Animagus research was the best idea he's ever had. His mind is cleared of the decade age gap, he a sixth year and she his Defense professor, with the drop of a kiss to the neck; of his promise of celibacy to Remus with a touch to the hem of her skirt; of the constant look of disappointment on a redhead's face with one tug at his necktie…
James Potter doesn't fancy Lily Evans. He doesn't.
"Prongs, mate, what's gotten into you? Taking off after curfew with the Map, skipping out on pranks, leaving Evans and Snape alone… it's not like you."
Oh, Peter. If only you knew.
McKinnon doesn't come back to teach for his seventh year, and he suspects it might have something to do with the sliver of truth in those Witch Weekly articles Mary Macdonald always leaves lying around. A month into the school year, though, even her replacement knows enough to be surprised when Lily is the one to ask out James—and he says no.
He pretends like he doesn't see through her façade of taking it in stride, like he doesn't see the way she watches him in Herbology and stops finding reasons to prolong their Head patrols. Later, once they've finally made it onto the same page, she guesses at his reasons sometimes, a teasing game they sometimes play that isn't always teasing: did you want a witch who likes Transfiguration? Did you finally notice that I'm a redhead?
Was there someone else?
James swallows thickly and closes his eyes. "No," he swears, "I was always holding out for you," and he takes her face in his hands and kisses her so she won't see the lie in his eyes.
They thrice defy together, but one extra time between their second and third, she is alone. Sirius comes to his flat to break the news, no doubt deemed the only passable messenger, and his first and only words are she'll be all right.
For one terrible moment, James assumes he's speaking of Marlene.
She finally joins the Order toward the end of Lily's second trimester, when she's so far along that Dumbledore keeps her housebound and she can't come to missions anymore. That first meeting has its fair share of stolen glances and covert smiles, but he doesn't care what any of them think, not this time.
Marlene knows about Lily and the baby—the whole bloody Wizarding World knows about Lily and the baby—but it makes no difference. Two weeks, and she's taking him back to her flat every evening and it's just like before, just like before, and it doesn't matter anymore that she's ten years his senior or that he hardly ever knew her, just kiss me, hold me, love me—
He realizes his mistake too late. "You never cared for me," she tells him crossly, even flush up against him with her robes half undone. "You didn't. Lily is your wife, Lily is the one you've always loved—"
Only people don't marry their first love, he knows this much, even if he'll always be a naïve little schoolboy to her; and sometimes, in the terrible moments he loathes himself for after, James fathoms that he's never loved Lily at all.
He hasn't.
A/N: Written as part of the First Love Challenge and the Never Before Seen Pairing Challenge over at HPFC. This came out a bit racier than I had intended, but I hope it's tolerably so—and it's rated appropriately, anyway. Reviews appreciated!