Disclaimer: I don't own these characters so please don't sue me Ms. Rowling.
Author's Notes: I was lying in bed being grumpy the other night, when I picked up a notebook and pencil, and ended up writing what turned into this. (I try too hard.) Review, please, darling readers.
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James Potter, at sixteen, was rather less than tall, and rather thin, and rather gangly, and rather awkward, and rather forceful, and rather brilliant. He was even rather in love with Lily Evans -- but then, he was also rather in love with Quidditch, and with causing trouble, and with shortbread biscuits and strawberry jam. Altogether he was a thoroughly average person (he had yet to discover greatness of character as well as greatness of spirit), with less of the extremes usually found in boys his age -- which itself made him rather unusual and led others to gift him with the descriptive and misleading special. His roughness was endearing, his incompleteness intriguing, half of his appeal the wonderful speculation over what he would become when he finished growing.
His best friend at sixteen, however, was already fully formed, physically mature even if he was not trained to responsibility. In appearance Sirius Black was breathtakingly attractive, exquisitely beautiful and incapable of looking less, yet completely unaware of it at all. His mind was a maelstrom of dark and dazzling places, filled with clever wickedness and bleak, effortless intelligence. He was comfortable in any situation, or appeared so, for he never showed embarrassment and was all over with charming, deprecating selfishness. He either loved or hated everything, often switching between the two at a moment's notice, showing both with fire and flashing pale eyes. Where his friend was utterly average in all but his mediocrity, he was superior or inferior and never otherwise; an extreme among extremes, permanently more or less in everything else than everybody.
The first counted and named the stars to her, one gleaming pinpoint after another brilliant dot, whispering them softly to her, his breath warm against her ear in the intimate dark of a spring night. The other was one of the stars, shining brighter than a human should, always looking down upon her in that cool, unintentionally aloof way that made her skin tingle with awareness at the sheer vastness of the world.
The first was straightforward and open, always honest and admitting that all he'd wanted for the past three years was just her; there was no question with him, for she'd always been able to read what he wanted and what he thought and what he was about to say -- the problem was she knew too well. The other led her a merry dance when she attempted to figure him out, for he was never still, always constantly evolving into the next great enigma; he was mystery incarnate, deeper than the ocean and even harder to find the bottom of, for it shifted faster than sand.
The first left love notes on her pillows though he should not have been able to get into her dorm, defended her from the rest of the world despite that she was capable enough of that on her own, and dropped chocolates in her bag when he thought she wasn't looking. The other had no interest in her pillows or her dorm, stood by watching idly but avidly as she fought against the other bullies without ever drawing a wand, and whenever she looked at him sent her secret, haughty little smirks that melted like butter on the back of her tongue.
The first was so grounded in everything and down to earth that he was practically soil himself -- especially when he smiled at her like that with a little streak of dirt just next to his nose and his hair all wild and leafy because he'd collided with the ground during Quidditch practice again -- but with dreams that seemed to soar all the way up into heaven until he lost sight of them and left them there to mingled with the clouds. The other blazed like a raging inferno, stormed like billowing smoke and rushed along like a gale, sweeping others into his wake and blinding them senseless with his genius -- especially when he held himself so still and tall and solemn and dark and looked her directly in the eye as he challenged her to do better, to be better than he was -- but he also slid through the trials of existence like water between your fingers, held you like a rock against life when otherwise you'd crumble under the strain, and brushed like a forbidden, loving kiss against your neck as he passed you in a crowded corridor.
The first was born to lead, for he was strong and brave and unafraid to give of himself in order to do the right thing, the necessary thing, eager to make those who were weaker into his responsibility. The other could never be a leader, for with dominion comes obligation, and he still loved his independence too much to ever sacrifice it upon the altar of the greater good.
The first was a young man quietly living alongside the lesser mortals, with all the potential to become a giant, a legend among ordinary people, just like the heroes of old. The other was a young man possessed of all the charisma, beauty and elegance of the devil himself, with the courage and daring of a demigod, the lust for life of a man who knows he will not ever die.
James Potter was solid, warm and real, still mostly a boy but poised to grow into the most amazing of men, a perfectly attainable prize. Sirius Black, conversely, was untouchable. It would have seemed that there should have been no contest in picking between them, no question as to the appropriate course of action for a girl set on making the intelligent choice.
But Lily Evans at sixteen -- passionate, liberal, empowered, quick-witted and clever, beautiful as an angel with a tarnished halo; delicate and dewy as a carpet of wildflowers in a mountain valley but underneath it as strong as the towering rocks that shielded her hideaway -- could not yet love the better man of the two, for her jealousy of the self-contradicting paragon he was never without.