Disclaimer: I don't own the characters you recognize.

A/N: It's been a while...below is a one-shot. It's supposed to be a sort of journal entry...review please. thanks!

A Simple Misstep

by AzaleaFaye

People often ask me how James Potter and I became a couple.

After all, it's a known fact here at Hogwarts that the current head students are not the best of friends, and haven't really been the best of friends since their first year. From the moment James "accidentally" bumped into me in the Hogwarts Express at age eleven (and sending me a cheeky grin rather than a sincere apology for making me spill my box of Bertie Botts), a brick wall dropped between the two of us—a wall that grew thicker and higher each year.

Contrary to popular belief, James and I never really hated nor disliked each other. It might even be safe to say that James never really projected any sort of negativity towards me. At one point, the idiot even convinced himself of liking me. And much to my annoyance, he pursued me relentlessly. Repeatedly he tried to jump over the metaphorical boundary between us, sending grins and nods my way and intentionally mussing his hair in an attempt to look charming. At times I succeeded in rolling my eyes and turning the other cheek; but when he got persistent and directed his irritating idiosyncrasies on full blast towards me, which he often did, I usually lashed out and often added another layer onto the wall. So in short—and bear in mind it was a bitter pill to swallow when I realized this—most, if not all, of the antagonism witnessed by many were very much one-sided.

Mind you though: I don't hate James. Hate is too strong a word. I merely tolerated (or rather, tried to tolerate) his behavior as much as possible. My attempts simply faltered multiple times.

But I digress.

It was October 29, a Sunday afternoon, when it all began. Someone—actually, Sirius Black, given his fondness for brilliant, stunning ideas—suggested to Professor McGonagall that we give the house elves a break. Rather than have the elves clean the Gryffindor common room, seventh year students should do the job without magic.

Oddly, and most unfortunately enough, Professor McGonagall agreed. Of course everyone, the rest of the Marauders included, were furious. I myself was positively murderous and was ready to perform the killing curse on Black after hearing his explanation for the idea: "I needed a distraction from schoolwork."

So we worked the entire afternoon, dusting and scrubbing and rearranging furniture. A few of the portraits hanging on the common room walls were gracious enough to point out missed spots and after noticing that we were close to getting done, one of the portraits—a porky and rosy-cheeked vicar—suggested we clean their frames as well. Thankfully, Remus volunteered to do the job along with the other Marauders.

Everything was going well until the boys reached the last frame housing a mother and a toddler boy. When Peter touched the Cherry wood border, the child caused a commotion: "I want the pretty girl to do it!" All four boys turned to us girls, who were congregated around a coffee table. As if sensing the confusion, the mother added, "He wants the redhead to clean our frame."

And so up I went on the ladder, cleaning implements in hand, and did as I was requested. Right when I was about to say, "All done", I felt the ladder give way beneath me. The rest, as they say, is history.

The first two things on my mind upon hitting solid ground were: 1) The floor isn't as hard as it looks; and 2) The floor smells really good. It wasn't until I heard my name and the words "are you ok?" did I snap back to reality. Slowly propping myself up using both arms, I realized immediately that something was amiss. I was straddling someone (or hopefully, something) and there was a light pressure on both sides of my waist. I opened my eyes for the inevitable…and was left speechless.

I was on top of James Potter. My legs were straddling his abdomen. His hands were lightly but securely resting on my waist.

In that moment, my vision and my thoughts and my senses became myopic. All I could see, all I could think of, all I could smell was James. His hair, messier than I've ever seen it, was very much endearing. His hazel eyes, partially hidden behind skewed glasses, were a mixture of surprise and concern. Seemingly hypnotized, all I did was stare at James unblinkingly. And much to my surprise, his eyes were locked onto mine.

Predictably, it was Sirius Black who broke the trance: "Just get a room later, Prongs! We need to finish up with the cleaning."

Everything changed the second I got up from my position atop James.

I avoided him at all costs the next day—or at least, I tried to. But classes, head student duties, and the simple fact that we both belong in the same house, ruined all of my attempts. Within a week after the incident, I saw a marked difference in my attitude towards James. I became more patient of his rowdy behavior among his friends and grew more tolerant of his pranks. At one point, much to my surprise, I even giggled at a cheeky joke he made during transfiguration. And when he sent his gaze towards me, I didn't respond with the usual glare and roll of the eyes; instead, I merely shook my head and looked away, amused.

For a week and a half we played a silent ping-pong of small smiles and curious gazes. Mind you, I tried my best not to get caught whenever I stared at him. And I actually succeeded for a good seven or eight days. And then, during Professor Binns' usual droning in History of magic, he caught me staring. He was writing on a piece of parchment at the time—no doubt a note to one of his friends, probably Sirius—when I found myself watching; his head was cocked at an angle, his lips was desperately trying to suppress a smirk, and his eyes were intense yet tinted with amusement.

The sight was magnetic, and I couldn't look away.

Now, I don't know if any of you have experienced getting caught staring. But allow me to say: it's not very fun. The instant our eyes connected, and the second his eyes mildly rounded in surprise, all of the blood drained out of my face. Pure, utter terror is the word to describe such an experience. And stupidly, I maintained our connection for two more seconds before I realized what I was doing. At that point, whether by shrugging and flashing a smile or by pretending to not being invasive, you have to break the gaze. I was stupid enough to do the latter: slowly turning your head to look at the professor in feigned interest, drumming your fingers on the desk in an attempt to act casual as you try to desperately erase the memory of his eyes looking back at you, curiously yet blankly.

Knowing that he was still looking at me, practically boring a hole in my head, was extremely nerve-wracking. I spent the rest of the lesson counting dust bunnies on the floor (8), tallying up the number of books on the shelves (112), ticking down the number of times Professor Binns said "erm…" (75), and when I got really desperate, even paid attention—and I mean really listened—to a small section of the lesson. By the time class was over, I've looked at everywhere in the room except James.

I made it a point since then to keep the gawking at a minimum. But by the time I've made this decision to do so, it was too late—I had already become more aware of James Potter's presence.

Often, when I got to class earlier than usual, I would find myself glancing back and forth between James' seat and the door, mild anticipation coursing through my veins. During mealtimes in the Great Hall, I would unconsciously try to check whether the Marauders were at their usual spot on the Gryffindor table. And whenever I returned from hours of studying at the library or from patrol duty, I would automatically direct my eyes towards the corner of the Gryffindor common room, where the Marauders often plotted their pranks.

Amazingly, I've also unwillingly familiarized myself (no doubt due to my excessive ogling) with James' mannerisms, quirks, and habits. For instance, did you know that James would often drum his fingers on his desk before raising his hand to make one of his usual cheeky comments? Or that he always followed the same ritual—arrange silverware in ascending order (longest utensil, the knife, closest to plate), rotate plate, then pour pumpkin juice into goblet—before tucking in? Even his habit of messing up his hair, which I honestly found annoying my first six years at Hogwarts, has managed to make itself endearing.

It seemed the more I observed James and the more I learned about him, the more frequent (not to mention the larger) the impact on our boundary.

November 29th marked the culmination of all the events since the "cleaning incident", as I now refer to it. I hadn't seen James at all that day. And oddly, I found myself awash with an indescribable feeling—I couldn't concentrate in class, I couldn't hold a conversation with friends, I couldn't…do anything. It was as if a large void suddenly opened up inside me, sucking out all of my energy and rendering me lifeless. By the time all of my classes had ended in the afternoon, I was in a trance-like, vegetative state. So much so that I didn't even realize I had walked all the way from the Gryffindor common room (where I had hoped to run into James, but to no success) to the library.

I knew I needed to be alone at that moment, and thankfully, the library was relatively empty. As I walked between rows and rows of various tomes, looking left and right for any signs of life, I came to a stop near the Herbology section after hearing a whispered, "I didn't understand that until now, Mr. Potter!"

I found James surrounded by three younger students—likely first years, given the innocent admiration adorning their faces.

Something suddenly stirred inside me as I watched him interact with the other boys. I fought the impulse to grab him by the arms and ask (as I shake him senseless) where he had been the whole day. Instead, I remember leaning against a bookshelf, a whimsical smile adorning both my lips and my eyes (I'm pretty sure the first for the day). My smile faltered, however, when one of the first years turned his attention towards me. Of course, James followed suit.

Caught with the odd smile on my face, I turned and ran. I don't know how I managed to do it, but I ended up in an empty classroom, braced gently against a window, lightly panting. I suppose due to my frenzy, I failed to close the door behind me. I was confused; my mind was reeling; I didn't know why I was terrified to see him looking at me, yet the mere sight of him tutoring first years brought both relief and chills through my spine. I was so engrossed with my thoughts that I didn't realize the person invading my mind had suddenly entered the room. He stood three feet behind me before I realized he was there.

My senses failed me once again as soon as I turned around to face him. The chairs, shelves, even the walls of the classroom, blurred into nothing; yet James' face remained clear. His lips were moving, as I recall, but I couldn't hear a single word coming out of his mouth. All I knew at that moment was this: I had an inexplicable urge to touch him.

And right as I was about to take a step forward, his voice rang clear, knocking me out of my stupor.

"I can't do this anymore."

Before I had the chance to react, he closed the distance separating the two of us, tilted my chin up, and kissed me. It was more a peck, really—a peck that lingered for two or three seconds before he pulled away. With one last look, his eyes a mixture of longing and frustration and uncertainty, he repeated the same five words ("I can't do this anymore") before turning to leave the room.

More than anything, I wanted to run after him and stop him. But I didn't. And to be honest, I wouldn't have known what to do had I done so. Instead, I stayed in that room, back against the window for hours, it seemed. By the time I went to bed (I'm not even sure what time I had gone to bed that evening and how I'd managed to do so undetected), I had slapped myself raw and somehow convinced myself to resolve the issue that had sprung up between the two of us.

Confronting him the next day was unavoidable: we had an end-of-the-month head student meeting scheduled at 9:30 AM. He was already in the room, tallying up deducted house points, by the time I arrived that morning. When he didn't so much as look up once I entered the room, the determined mask I put on immediately crumbled. I sat down diagonally across from him, clearing my throat demurely in an attempt to make him look at me. But he didn't.

I don't remember how long I simply sat there waiting for James to acknowledge my presence. Eventually though, I gave up and worked—albeit half-heartedly—on my own tallies. But after three minutes of constant cross-outs and no signs of progress on my parchment, I again fixed my eyes on the boy in front of me. Back almost ramrod straight, eyes hooded by a few strands of messy black hair…he looked roguish and mysterious and alluring all at the same time. My gaze flitted over to his left arm resting lightly on the table, his fingers tapping silently on the table.

I don't know what came over me, but before I knew what I was doing, my left hand slowly went across the table and covered his hand, ceasing the quiet drumming. I was looking down at the parchment when the scratch of his quill suddenly stopped. Though I wasn't sure if he actually looked up at me when my hand touched his, I knew I finally had his attention. All I needed to do was take advantage of the situation. With a heavy sigh, and still staring at anywhere but James, I spewed the first thing that popped in my mind:

"I don't think I can do this anymore either."

I knew I was blushing the moment the words left my mouth. When I looked up, anticipating his reaction, I blushed even harder; unblinking hazel eyes were boring into me in great bewilderment and mild delight. For what seemed like hours, silence enveloped the atmosphere as we held each other's unwavering gazes…until finally, he cracked a smile. It was a silent understanding—no more quiet observations, no more hidden looks, no more pretending that over the past four weeks, the wall that I had vehemently built since my first year at Hogwarts (and which he tried desperately and ardently to climb) was shaken and disturbed by a single slip…

So, How did Lily Evans and James Potter become a couple?

My answer: Because of one simple misstep on a ladder.

A/N: I thought it would be nice to write something that doesn't involve too much dialogue. As much as i love writing the interactions between our two favorite characters, it's a nice break to dive into the mind of either Lily or James. Hopefuly i did a decent job. Now, I haven't written any L/J fanfiction in years so I am aware that the quality of this particular one-shot isn't up to par (compared to the really good ones, at least). Although this little piece is a one-shot, it is also a preamble. If the story is well-received, I'm planning on writing a longer version--and there will be dialogue! I know there are a few holes that need filling, don't you think?

So please review...constructive criticism is much appreciated.

Thanks for reading and have a nice day!

Azaleafaye