Parchment

A/N: Ever feel like you've got this story in your head, and it's just BEGGING to be written, but you just can't do it? You've gotta be in the right emotional state to get the dialogue and the description perfect. You've gotta have the right song playing – heck – maybe the weather needs to cooperate, too. This story demanded that. I'm not sure why. Normally I write these things in a day, two, tops. But this one, it was like pulling teeth from a cat. This, just in case you're wondering, is not an activity in which I partake. But I imagine it'd be pretty fracking difficult. Anyways, enjoy, review, and rest assured no cats were harmed in the writing of this story.

Side note: There's a tiny (TINY!) bit of swearing in this…so, you've been warned if that sort of stuff offends you.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Zip. Nada. No. NOPE.

Summary: A scrap of paper escapes her and flutters to the floor. As she leans beneath the table to reach for it, she spots something else – another bit of parchment, folded and worn. L/J – oneshot.

"No one is useless in this world who lightens the burden of it for anyone else." – Charles Dickens, Our Mutual Friend

She's sitting in the common room, her hair swept up and away from her face with a clip, her knees pulled up to her chest as she pours over a heavy leather tome. She's clad in a soft green sweater and stretchy pair of slacks, with only slippers on her feet. A grey mug of something hot sits on the table next to her, steam curling up in soft swirls. She twirls her quill absently, biting her bottom lip as her green eyes skim across the pages of her book. She's unaware he's even entered the common room, so when he sits across the table from her, she's genuinely startled.

"James," she says, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "You're back late."

Her eyes are still wide as she blinks at him. He smiles, stretches out slowly, lazily, and picks up a spare bit of parchment from the pile of scraps she has laid out on the table.

"Going to reprimand me, Head Girl?" he asks, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes behind his glasses. His long fingers bend the corners of the parchment as he continues, "Make me serve out detention for being past curfew?"

One of his dark eyebrows is arched, and there's a quirk in his lips as he watches her. She rolls her eyes at him, tosses her quill down and leans back in her chair.

"Yes, because that method of correcting your behaviour is clearly working," she says before shaking her head, "No, I think I'd rather let you just run amok, to be honest. I'm sure the novelty will wear off at some point."

"Doubtful, Evans, considering my history."

She smirks. "Would you rather a detention?"

"Not particularly, no," he says, leaning forward, setting down the parchment he'd snatched before. He smiles at her, fully this time, a little too wide to be perfectly charming. "Unless you'll be there?"

Her laugh is light, soft, as she says, "Because you don't see me enough as it is, James? What with Head meetings, and Prefect meetings, and rounds – not to mention classes – do you really need to spend a detention with me as well?"

"It'll be a bonding experience, Evans. It'll foster a better working relationship," he says, running a hand through his hair. It sticks up at odd angles, and she smiles.

"Is that so? And what have I done to deserve a detention with you?" she asks. Her hair has slipped from its clip, and several tendrils have fallen to frame her face. James, without much forethought, brushes them from her eyes before speaking. His voice is soft when he says, "Oh I think you know."

Those who don't know her as well as he does would miss the slight falter in her expression the very moment it happens, but he sees the shuttered look take over, her defenses rising.

"I'm not sure I do," she says, forcing a smile for a moment before it fades. She pulls away from him, her lip caught between her teeth again. Her fingers lock together, nails digging into skin as she looks at him through her lashes. Uncertainty is scrawled across every surface of her. His skin tingles from where he touched her, and he flexes his fingers before standing, shoving his hands in his pockets a moment later.

"Well," he says, "It's late."

Lily nods, her eyes downcast. She's picked up her quill, running the feather against her palm. "Yes, it is late."

"I'll – er – just be off, then." He's run his hands through his hair again, but she doesn't see it, her eyes still intent on the patterns she traces with the quill. She's nodding slightly, and hmms her response. She hears him sigh as he moves toward and up the staircase. She follows his silhouette as it disappears into black.

She echoes his sigh, runs a hand over her hair as she unfolds her legs from the chair. She throws the quill down on top of her notes, and props her head up on her hands.

"Lily, Lily, Lily," she mutters. She sits for a moment, staring out the dark windows across the grounds. The sky is grey, and close to the ground as rain pours down. Slowly, she packs up her things; shuffling her papers into some semblance of order, and vanishing her mug back to the kitchens. A scrap of paper escapes her and flutters to the floor. As she leans beneath the table to reach for it, she spots something else – another bit of parchment, folded and worn.

It's yellowed, and it's been opened and refolded so many times that certain spots are nearly worn through. Lily unfolds it slowly, revealing the still dark handwriting written in a script she easily recognizes as her own. She can't help the sudden thrumming of her heart as her eyes skim over the page. She runs her fingers over the title, memories swirling up from the dusty corners of her mind.

"Evans! Oi, Evans! Go out with me?"

"For Merlin's sake, NO, Potter!" she shouts at him. Her face is red, her hair pulled back in a messy braid and held back with a headband. She's young, about sixteen, and absolutely furious.

"Aw, come on, Evans – why not?" James asks. He's still wearing his quidditch robes, and he's got the quaffle tucked under one arm as he leans on the handle of his broom. He's fixed her with a grin so wide it looks as if it might actually split his face. The rest of the Marauders stand a few meters away, watching the scene with varying degrees of interest.

It's James' smirk, and Sirius' look of disgust that makes her do it. She's had enough – enough of the comments and the catcalls and on occasion the insults they think she doesn't hear. The anger has bubbled up inside her like acid, and as she reaches into her book bag her narrowed eyes never leave him. She lifts out a lengthy piece of parchment, one side nearly black with her tiny, cramped scrawl, and she holds it out to him. His smirk slips for a second, but slides back into place as he chuckles, and steps forward to take the parchment from her.

"What's this? Have you written me a love letter, Evans?" he asks with a laugh before he looks at the paper. He's watching her. She's changed the way these scenes usually play out, and his slight hesitation is apparent to the students on the lawn watching.

"Not exactly, Potter," says Lily, crossing her arms over her chest. Her foot is tapping, impatient, nervous. She feels unsettled, erratic, with him holding the parchment she's carried around for weeks. James is scanning the letter, his expression shifting.

"Ninety-nine reasons why James Potter is an abominable human being," he reads out loud. His voice catches for a moment. Then he smirks and leans in toward her, "What, only ninety-nine? Couldn't think of a hundred, Evans?"

Her face is blank as she replies, "Read number one."

"One," he reads out, "he'll wonder why there are only ninety-nine instead of one-hundred." He laughs, and looks up at her, "Well that's a normal thing to ask, Evans."

"It was to show that I know you, Potter. I know who you are – every disgusting iota of you. So when you read the rest of that list, you know that I'm right, that you really are an absolutely abominable human being," she spits out, her voice low, angry. "Remember that."

Lily's hands shake when she shuts her eyes, trying to blink away the vivid image of that scene from fifth year. It had been only a week later after that incident that James had strung Severus up by his ankles and everything in her world had finally, painfully, and irreversibly imploded. Her fingers crush against the paper, wishing it would just disappear from her grip as she feels the unwelcome prickle of tears behind her eyes. She takes a breath, steadies herself, and scans the page, wondering if it is really is as cruel as she fears. The first few seem tame enough, almost jesting as she makes cracks about his hair, and his penchant for fondling snitches.

12. He's really not that good a quidditch player. Don't deny it.

26. He can't seem to understand the word 'No' – as in 'NO, I DO NOT WANT TO GO OUT WITH YOU'.

But as the list goes on, it becomes more serious.

37. He pranks innocent people.

51. He says awful things about people he hardly knows.

74. He is a bully.

86. He is cruel to others.

93. He has no remorse.

99. He is James Harold Potter.

Her words had been fueled by anger and a furious belief in the truth of her observations. She had truly hated him as she listed all the reasons she wanted nothing more than to shove him in the Great Lake and never see him again. She'd thought – through the haze of alcohol – that despite her vehemence toward him, her words lacked the cutting edge she desperately craved. She couldn't explain with precise clarity what it was that made him so abhorrent, and everything seemed lacking. But she had written with conviction, and she wrote with honesty. Or what she had thought was honesty at the time. Alcohol and a circle of similarly drunk chums tended to skew her analytical mind. Now – Now she feels nothing but acidic shame at her words, at the things she had scrawled so easily across the page. She had proclaimed to know him, to understand him, and to hate what she had found – but she had merely known a singular facet of his character. She had not been entirely wrong, she knew that. He had done everything she accused him of, be she had lacked the proper context at the time. And context, she knows now, is everything.

Her slender fingers skim across the page, and she frowns, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. She has trouble reconciling the James she's fleshed out with words, and the one she knows now. They seem to be two entirely different people within her mind. One wears a smug grin, and shoves first years into the vanishing step. The other smiles at her with his whole face, and picks up a student's books when she drops them. She folds the letter, and gathers her things before heading up the staircase to her dormitory. She falls into bed, still clothed and the letter tucked into her palm.

The next night they sit across from one another, sharing a table in the common room, parchment and quills and text books spread out all over. The common room is empty this late at night, and they've a habit of being the last to go to bed. Lily has a box of peppermint toads next to her, her slim fingers plucking the little chocolates from the pale blue box every few minutes. When James steals one, she doesn't stop him, and it's that lack of action that makes him really consider her for a moment. Her hair is braided, tendrils of red escaping, falling around her face. Her head is down, bent toward her paper as she scribbles in her cramped writing. She's biting her lip again, as she tends to do when she's thinking. Her brow is furrowed, and he sees the tension in her body, and although he knows she's stressed about classes, something in his gut tells him there's more to the story.

"Lily?" he asks. He prods her gently in the arm with the feather end of his quill when she doesn't respond right away.

"Hmm," is her reply, soft and distracted, her eyes still locked on her homework.

"Lily, c'mon, break time," he coaxes. She can hear the smile in his voice, and looks up.

"You had a break barely five minutes ago," she says, but she's tossed her quill down. She hasn't gotten much done in the last hour or so. She's already crossed out half of what she's written.

"Brains function better with breaks – we aren't meant to focus for that long of a time," James tells her, pushing up his glasses.

"You can adjust your glasses all you want, you still sound like you're trying to skive off work whenever you say that."

He smiles wide, "Cottoned on to that move, have you?"

"It's fairly transparent, I'm sorry to tell you."

"It works on Binns," points out James. Lily laughs, shaking her head at him, "He's your defense? Really? He's hardly observant, James."

James scratches his head, "Yeah, might not have thought that argument entirely through," he admits. He smiles all the same, and snatches another peppermint toad before she can stop him. Again, she lets it slide, and instead rolls her eyes.

It's these moments, so quiet, and gentle, that she's uncomfortably aware how wrong she was about him when she was younger. James as the exception, she tends to give people the benefit of the doubt – Merlin knows she allowed Severus much more leeway than she'd ever given James – and Severus had turned out to be the least deserving of her loyalty. The memory of their fallout still stings, and brings with it more shadowed memories from her past.

In March of her sixth year, her parents had been killed while on a trip through Spain for their anniversary. It had been a freak accident, two planes crashing into each other at the airport – but Petunia, having resentfully been informed of Voldemort and the uprising of the Death Eaters in the wizarding world – had, in her grief, blamed Lily for their death. The memory was seared into her brain – the screaming, and the finger pointing when she'd shown up at home after Professor Dumbledore had allowed her to portkey back to Spinner's End. There had been years of fighting and name-calling and angry ranting about unchangeable things, or things they simply didn't want to change about themselves – but the resounding silence after their final fight had been far worse than anything they had ever said to each other.

But James had shown up at the funeral, along with a few other friends of hers. He'd found her in the park after the service, sitting on a swing and sobbing, and had said nothing, but simply sat beside her. He'd waited for her tears to stop before he took her hand in his, and squeezed. She'd remembered then, that his father had died only a few months previous, and without putting too much thought into it, she'd hugged him. They stayed that way long after the sun set and the crickets sang.

They had talked over the summer, exchanging letters here and there, even meeting up in Diagon Alley on occasion for drinks and conversation. Their friendship had grown out of the darkest of occasions, and he had been there on the nights when she had nothing but tears or screams, and even on the nights where she could do nothing at all, but simply lay on the grass and stare up at the stars above. He had lain beside her, so that no matter how it may have felt, she was not alone in the darkness.

He had been there the night she snuck off to Hogsmeade, and had stumbled back so deliriously, heart-breakingly drunk that it was a wonder she could even stand. He teased her about it now, so many months later, but he had been there, sitting beside her on the floor of the boy's dormitory bathroom as she violently brought up everything she had been trying so hard to keep down.

It wasn't that her other friends weren't there, or weren't willing to be there for her – she sought him out, finding something in his company she didn't with others. There was an easiness in his manner that drew her. And so what had begun as a promise to not kill him during sixth year for being a useless prat, had shifted into something more. She had been forced to look more closely at who he was, who he had become over the years – rather than clinging to her assumptions and prejudices. James Potter had changed, as had she, but it had happened so slowly that it had taken her a while to notice.

But she notices it now – the way he is unyielding in his beliefs, but that he is much more careful about forming those beliefs in the first place. He is more willing to think before acting, and takes responsibility for those actions. He is still eccentric, and unwilling to focus on things he doesn't enjoy, and he still maintains his knack for getting into trouble – but he is a little more careful about it. At least, she hopes so. Most important, she has forgiven him for his past. That's something that she's changed about herself. She's learned to reign in her temper when she can, and to think about what she says. Or writes.

She blinks, sliding back into the present, with James sitting across from her. He's looking at her – he must have said something, but she doesn't ask him to repeat himself. Instead, she pulls out the letter she had written him so long ago, and places it on the table. His face falls.

"Where did you get that?" he asks. He picks it up, fingers ghosting along the edges, tracing the words across the page.

"It was on the floor, under the table last night," says Lily, her words are quick, "But that doesn't matter – why do you still have it?"

He shrugs, not looking at her as he folds up the parchment and shoves it in his pocket. He begins to gather up his things. "It's late," he says, "I'll see you tomorrow, alright?"

"Wait," she says, standing, "we need to talk about this."

"No," he says, picking up his rucksack, "we really don't."

"But James," she starts, her hand finding his. He freezes at the contact. "James, why do you keep it? Why keep that reminder of how horrid I was to you, back then? Why remember that awful time, when things are so different now?"

It isn't until her last sentence that his eyes finally meet hers. "How different are they, Lily?"

Concern slides into surprise, caught off guard. "What?"

"How different are things?" He's focused sharply on her, and when she shifts away from him, he follows. He won't let her avoid it any longer.

"I don't – I'm not -" she falters, " I mean, we're friends now, I see you differently – to think that you still carry that letter around ...it hurts, and I don't want to hurt you." Her eyes are wide, pleading, and her hand, small and slim within his, trembles. He watches her, his hazel eyes soaking up every shift in her expression, the tension in her shoulders as she steps closer to him. She rises up onto her tip toes, and ever so gently presses her lips to his. It's quick, chaste, but clear as she looks up at him a moment later. His thoughts buzz inside his brain, but there are no singular words amid the commotion. He drops his bag, and sweeps her up, his arms wrapping around her as he bends to kiss her. Her hands tingle as she runs them through his hair, as she tugs on his tie, drawing him closer. His hands are warm, his lips insistent, and they only break apart when it's too hard to kiss because they're smiling so much.

Still holding her close, James brushes a strand of hair from her eyes, smiling.

"Well that was different," he whispers.

"That's a fair description," she says, "although I might have called it 'pleasant', rather than 'different'."

"Only pleasant?" he says, looking mock-affronted. "Well we'll have to sort that out, won't we?"

She laughs as he kisses her cheek before peppering his way over to her lips. It's slower this time, smoother, more languid. A slow burn rather than intense heat. He pulls away slowly, and gives her a quick peck before saying softly, "Merlin, you're perfect, Lily."

She pulls away from him, rolling her eyes and shaking her head, her tone chastising as she says, "I'm not perfect, James. I - "

"But you are, Lily," says James simply with a smile, taking her hands in his, "you're perfect to me – you're perfect for me. I'm a better person because of you."

"That's not what Sirius says," she tries to joke, but the worry in the lines of her face are etched deep, and it comes out more bitter than she intended. James snorts.

"Sirius knows fuck all, Lily. I know who you are, maybe not all of you, but I do know you. The good and the bad, Lily. The light, the dark, the grey, and I love it all. I love all of you."

The sudden gravity of his words slams into her. She inhales a shaky breath as she reaches out to touch his face. Her eyes are soft, watery, and although she wishes it wouldn't, her voice wavers, "I don't deserve you."

He smiles, but it's a shadow of humour and filled with warmth instead. He says, as he sweeps his thumb against her cheek, "Lily, you know that's not true."

She shakes her head, "Isn't it? I was horrible to you, for so many years – how can you even be my friend? How can you care for me at all?"

"I deserved everything you said, Lily, I was a right wanker when I was younger – pig-headed, self-righteous, a bully." Now he shifts away, his gaze no longer seeing the room before him, but rather scenes from years ago. "You weren't wrong about anything – you saw me exactly as I was."

"But your dad was sick," says Lily, her words tumbling over one another in an effort to erase the shadowed look on his face. "And everything that was going on with Remus, and Sirius' family-"

"And that excuses my behaviour?" James asks, not harshly, but with a certain firmness. "Lily, you know it doesn't. Sure, it adds some context, even lets you see my point of view, but the things I did, the things I said – that was inexcusable. Your letter, the list, I kept it because it reminded me that that was not how I wanted to be seen. I never want to be that person again." He shakes his head, as if to clear the cobwebs from the corners of his memory. "It took me a while to realize it. Merlin knows I read that letter a million times after the lake incident. I spent the summer pouring over it."

Looking down, Lily gives a heavy sigh, "I was so unfair to you. I never imagined you'd take it seriously."

"If it had come from anyone else, I might not have," he says, his fingers twisting a curl of her hair around his finger. "You were always so kind to everyone, always so honest, and when I finally got it through my thick head that you weren't playing some sort of game, that you were being brutally honest with me, it made me finally stop and think. You were someone – even then – that I respected," he tells her, letting her hair fall back to her shoulder. He smiles slightly, "It's why I've always liked you. You think for yourself, and you're loyal to your friends – and I respect that. So when you handed me that letter, how could I not take it seriously?"

She presses her forehead to his, her eyes shut tight. When she finally speaks, it's a whisper. "I am amazed by you. You have a strength of character that I just – I am in awe of the man you've become, James. You are kind, and loyal, and brave, and... I love you. I have for a while, to be honest."

He smiles, and leans in, his lips just brushing hers before she pulls away, but only slightly.

"I'm not finished," she says with a smile. His lips curve, "It's okay," he says, leaning back in, "you can tell me later."

She laughs, and presses three fingers against his mouth to hold him off. "I suggest you let me finish. I'm not in the habit of handing out compliments, so you should take advantage of my good humour."

James sighs, but he's still smiling. "Oh alright then, go on. Tell me how wonderful I am."

"This is why I don't compliment you. It goes right to your head."

"Yeah," he grins, "but you love me anyway."

She rolls her eyes. "Are you going shut up now?"

"No, but I can think of more than one way for you to shut me up." He wiggles his eyebrows, and she rubs a hand over her face in exasperation.

"Merlin, you're insufferable sometimes, you know that?"

"Oi," he says, indignant, "I thought we stopped the snogging business so you could compliment me? That's rather more like an insult, Evans."

"Look," she says flatly, her arms crossing in front of her, "you're making this ten times more difficult than it needed to be -"

He frowns at the shift in her demeanor, but his voice is still teasing, amused. "Me? What did I do?"

She throws her hands up in front of her, her palms open to the air above. "All I wanted to say was that I respect you, alright? I respect you! I respect who you are, and who you've become," she says in a rush, her voice sharp, aggravated. "Of course," she adds moodily, "that's only when you're not being a prat."

His face is blank, his eyes clear and steady on her face. "You respect me?" he echoes. She takes a deep breath and nods.

"Yes. I respect you."

He doesn't kiss her, but instead hugs her, crushing her against him, his face buried in the stands of her hair. Her arms wrap around him a moment later, once she is less startled. He's breathing deeply, breathing her in, and his eyes are shut and he murmurs against her skin how much he loves her.

"James," she says, "James, are you alright?" Her fingers smooth circles on his back.

He pulls back, his glasses slightly askew. "Yes, I just..." he trails off, his hands cradling her face, pulling her close. "I don't think I released how much I needed to hear you say that, until you'd said it," he whispers, his lips only a breath away from hers. "So thank you."

She kisses him quickly. "You're most welcome," she smiles. She waits a moments before she steps away from him.

"Well, now that that's settled," she tells him, matter-of-fact, "I'm off to bed."

James blinks, "What?"

"It is rather late, James," she says, her lips twitching with an unshared smile, "and we have to be up early for class tomorrow."

She's swiftly gathered her things and is already heading for the staircase.

"Lily," says James, watching her leave, not quite believing her, "Lily, what about the snogging?"

"Goodnight, James," she says, smiling at him over her shoulder as she heads up the stairs.

"Lily?" he calls out, his voice only slightly hushed despite the late hour, "Lily, you're not funny."

The fireplace hisses as the last embers fade.

"Lily?"

The only reply is her soft, lilting laugh.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed it. If you have the time, leave a review - I'd love to hear from you!