Half In Love

Author: Queen Nightingale

Rating: M (Language, Adult Situations)

Pairing: JPLE

I was half in love with her by the time we sat down. That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty, even if they're not much to look at, or even if they're sort of stupid, you fall half in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are. Girls. Jesus Christ. They can drive you crazy. They really can.
- J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

You wonder if he loves you the way that you love him.

You want him to love you – desperately, with that ache in your chest that has haunted you since the Quidditch match. You're exhausted, sick and tired of the nights spent trying to force the tears, the countless hours spent controlling your breathing. You often bury your face in the pillow and scream, scream and scream and scream because life can honestly be so unfair.

You're exhausted by your numbness. You want to feel again, feel the danger and excitement and adrenaline rush of being around a boy – feel love. But your body has numbed it, understanding (with the recognition that only a former broken heart dares to know) that the emotional pain would take everything from you.

He walks past you to class with a gravitational pull strong enough to rip you into his orbit. You are repeatedly flabbergasted by his imperfections – the way his smirk is a bit lopsided, the way his hair sticks straight up, how his pants hang off his body (wait, that one's a perfection). You are horrified by his dark eyes, stunned by the glint of his teeth, and petrified of his laugh. Because whenever you see him you're terrified that you'll give it all away, give up the secret that he always makes you laugh. And you know, deep down, that when a boy walks into a room and suddenly your day is brighter – Merlin, you have a problem.

"Lily, you know that I'm spectacular, right?" he asks you the next day, catching up to you in the hallway as you both walk to your Transfiguration class, a cocky smirk cradling his carefully protected male ego.

You snort at him and arch an eyebrow, suddenly aware of the way that you're walking and the closeness of his swinging arm to yours.

"Don't even try to deny it," he drawls, his back curving down, both of you suddenly stopping in the hallway. He places a finger under your chin and lifts it, and you're trying too hard not to breathe and to not blink too much and to not make any sudden movements that might scare him off and

"I know I make you smile."

And you can't help it, you swear you can't, because then you feel as if he's teasing the corners of your lips up, and you're trying to fight it, and he's grinning widely at you as if the cat is out of the bag.

"You're a cocky arse," you retort, but the insult is diminished by the wide smile currently adorning your face.

"And you like it," he replies, grinning at you.

And then he drops his finger and your head drops back to its normal horizontal position and he waltzes off, a crazy cat in a school full of lunatics. But that night, you can't help but secretly, ashamedly, reach a gentle hand up to your chin and hold it to where his finger tilted you up, made you high. But then you quickly, embarrassedly, drop your hand.

"Don't move," a voice whispers in your ear, and you try to control a shiver that runs down your spine. You're standing outside Flourish & Blotts, waiting for Dorcas to buy a new quill, and then suddenly you're tossed almost two feet in the air, heavy arms circling around you as you fall back down, starting to laugh.

You turn around and he's standing there, grinning almost ruefully at you, almost as if he broke some sort of rule by talking to you during the Hogsmeade trip.

"How are you doing, Miss Evans?" he asks, your laughter bubbling down as you try to recollect yourself, fearful that the Slytherins could have seen.

"Not too bad, Mr. Potter," you reply back noisily, and you can see the shock on his face at your cheerful response. You can't seem to get that damn smile off your face.

He's grinning too, both of you standing miles apart like two Cheshire cats, and then he's approaching you and sitting down on the ledge outside the store window, slightly behind you.

"Let me guess, you're waiting for Sirius?" you ask him quietly, struggling to contain your grin behind a mask of solitude.

"Yeah, he needs some school stuff or whatever," he replies, leaning against the windowsill and starting to close his eyes.

You jolt forward and sit next to him, almost awkwardly perching on the ledge beside his lean, lengthened body. You prop your head against the glass and stifle a sigh, watching students pass in front of you, their eyes curious and judgemental.

After a couple minutes, you spot Sirius emerge from a store across the street, and you dare to gently nudge James. When he doesn't reply, you turn your head exasperatedly towards his, and knock your leg against his.

"I see Sirius coming," you say, trying to act casual.

"Well then, Miss Evans," James says in return, slowly getting up and stretching in front of you. You try to look at the ground but you can't help but glance at the soft trail of hair running at the bottom of his abdomen when he stretches too far.

"That was a lovely chat." And he smiles, and you're beaming again, off bouncing in the stars at one thousand miles per hour.

He walks away, and with every step you take you want to drag him back, pull him back to the spot where the two of you were sitting.

And then you're horrified with yourself again, because James Potter should not be the boy that you want to spend time doing nothing with.

It's weird now though, because you still have to act like you hate him. You refuse to let anyone on to your act, you refuse to enable the understanding that could either set you free or bind to you forever. Because your timing is off, it's always your timing, and you're scared that this time it's your fault that it won't work out.

"Lily, honestly ..."

"What is your Merlin-damned problem, you twat?" you ask him harshly under your breath, chasing him with your eyes. He darts away.

"You, clearly."

And the words uttered sting you a bit more than normal, and you swallow them up, absorbing them.

"Prick."

"Maybe if you weren't so judgemental all the time," he replies, his eyes hard on the chess game in front of him, Sirius watching both of you with wide eyes, "I wouldn't need to be one."

"Judgemental of what? You just made a racist joke!"

"And who honestly gives a fuck?"

"You're a bastard."

And he's rolling his eyes and ignoring you, and it's stinging more than ever, and you hate him, hate this boy that has honestly put you through hell during school. You're standing in front of his chess match with Sirius like an idiot, and Sirius' mouth is hanging open at you, and James is pretending (you tell yourself) to not care (which you hate hate hate hate) and yes you're giving him a lecture but Merlin be damned he's pissing you off.

There's silence as James continues to ignore you and Sirius loyally puts his head down and pretends to concentrate on the match.

You suddenly smash your arm against their chess match, the pieces scattering, both of the boys jumping and looking at you with wide eyes.

"What the fuck Lily?" James says loudly, a couple people turning around to stare at you two, "What is your bloody problem? Fuck off!" And you can tell by his voice that he's angry with you, but you're just so hurt and angry back that you wheel around and march away from them.

But his voice haunts you.

"See, Sirius? I told you she's a crazy bitch."

And then you turn back around (because even when you know you'll lose, you never back down from a fight) and you see him rising out of his chair and you storm over to him and raise your hand, preparing to slap him. But he grabs your arm first and you're in pain, he's bruising it, and you're mouthing the word "Ow" but he's just staring at you with fury.

"Let go of me!" you say loudly, trying furiously to yank your arm back, but he's too strong, his eyes boring into yours before he finally releases you, stalking off.

He's just too strong.

"I'm going to join Dumbledore's army," he says to you quietly two days later. You're still fuming at him, but you know that he knows that you can't stay angry.

You roll your eyes at him and turn back to your Runes, studying the patterns on the scroll laid out before you. The two of you are sitting by the edge of the library, a bit secluded from the rest of the class. You were surprised when he slid into the seat in front of you, but not shocked. James liked to apologize.

"Good for you."

"I'm being serious, Lily," he says, leaning back in his chair. You can feel his eyes on you, and a smile is starting to creep up your face, and you know he can see it.

You start to laugh, and your eyes meet his.

"What is so funny about that?" he asks you, wryly grinning.

"I don't know," you say, smiling and sighing a bit, "You're just fucking insane, you know that? I hate you."

"Yeah, whatever, I hate you too," he says, and you know that's the sum of the apology that you're going to get, "But I'm going to join it."

"Woooh, hero complex much?" you retort, tilting your head back down to start scrawling on the parchment in front of you. You feel that he's still staring at you, and you self-consciously put down your quill and bring your eyes up.

His eyes are burning.

You try and hold eye contact for as long as possible, but then you dart your eyes away, trying to regulate your breathing.

"I'm pretty sure you're the only girl who hasn't expressed concern about joining it," he says, his voice deeper.

You meet his eyes again, staring at him. You want to ask him what other girls he's told this to before you, but you know it'll spark an argument, so you seal your lips.

He closes his eyes in front of you, and starts to speak.

"I'm petrified, you know."

You watch him, his thick jaw carefully crafting out the words, his fragility so clearly embedded in the bone marrow of his skull.

"But I have to do it, don't I."

And he opens his eyes and stares at you, and you just stare back at him, knowing the answer already.

"No, of course you don't," you lie to him, putting down your quill from where you were frozen with it in your hand, "You know that, James."

And your voice is like a breath of soft air to him, and you're scared that the glass in his eyes will shatter.

You suddenly get up from your seat, James still absorbed in his thoughts, and walk around to where he's sitting, still staring blankly at the wall where your eyes used to be. And then he stands up, and he's staring down at you, and you reach up and wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your body to his in a way that you haven't, haven't ever dared to before.

You feel his hands gently press against your waist and you press your chest against his. You almost stop breathing when you feel his head sink against your shoulder, and unconsciously you bring your hand up to cradle his hair.

You're horrified, horrified, horrified, that he might weep.

"I'm not scared of death, Lily," he says quietly into your ear, and you feel tears start to well up in your eyes. You gulp back huge breaths of air as he continues to speak, "I'm terrified, terrified shitless of your death. Of everyone else's."

You're silent, trying to control yourself.

"And I am so - " his voice cracks, "- so, scared to kill."

Even though violence is spreading through the school, you ignore it. When the half-blood Ravenclaw girl is found raped in the dungeons and the Slytherin Fletcher is expelled, you put it off as pent-up adolescent hormones. When Sirius' brother is caught scrawling 'The Dark Lord rises' with his wand on the side of the school, you put it off as a stupid prank that his friends put him up to. When not only the Slytherins, but also the Ravenclaws start sneering whenever you come near, you insist to yourself that it's just house alliances, just as with Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. You try and hide from the truth, but James won't let you.

"I'm just going to go drop this off in the dungeons," you say to Emmeline, gesturing with a hand at the Deflating Draught you're holding. She nods and you walk towards the entrance to the Gryffindor Commons, colliding with James' chest as he enters the room.

"Where are you going in such a hurry?" he asks nonchalantly, gently pushing you away with his hands, clearly bored and ready to meet with his friends.

"Dropping this off with Slughorn," you reply, shaking the Deflating Draught at him and then trying to step around him.

"Wait," James says suddenly, turning around, you sighing and glaring at him from your spot in the hallway, "That's in the dungeon."

"No shit, Sherlock." You arch an eyebrow at him.

"Stop with the stupid muggle references. Lily, you shouldn't go down there by yourself."

You scoff at him, somewhat offended. "I can take care of myself, thanks."

You quickly turn and walk away from him, worked up by the fact that he thinks you can't defend yourself. For Pete's sake, you're taking higher Charms courses then he ever did.

You hear footsteps behind you, and you turn and watch James rolling his eyes and looping towards you, quickly catching up to walk beside you.

"You're an idiot," he mumbles under his breath, and you can't help but smile at his concern. You walk together in silence for a bit, your legs tingling with happiness, and then you let out a laugh and start running, James stopping and staring at your disappearing body.

"Catch me!" you toss over your shoulder, grinning. You laugh at your daring, but you allow yourself the words because he will.

And you turn for a second, allowing yourself to breathe, and he's staring at you with a decidedly devious smile, his hair tousled and glasses askew, saggy Hogwarts-issued pants perfectly lean on his body. And you absorb the image seconds before it disappears and he turns into all chase, lean muscle and pounding heart as he starts running towards you.

Now he's the predator, and you're the prey.

You shriek and sprint forward, running faster than you ever remember doing. But he's taller than you, with muscles from Quidditch, and you can hear him catching up, so you start dashing down corridors and corners, evading him by mere seconds, your breath exhaling in wordless exclamations of joy.

You manage to pound your feet against the floor enough to get to Slughorn's door, dropping the Draught into his box seconds before James comes pounding behind you, twisting away from him by just millimetres, and in a flash you've taken off down the dark hallway, James laughing and pouring after you.

Then you hit a body, and you stumble backwards, James quickly catching up to you as your eyes lock on eyes.

"Look at the mudblood, boys," Macnair says darkly, you taking some quick steps back as your eyes adjust to the sight of Dolohov and Avery behind him, their two large bodies made menacing in the dark.

You feel James tense beside you, and you unconsciously grab his hand, his larger palm carefully holding yours underneath. You feel him pull you behind him.

"Fuck off, Macnair," James spits, his body defensively in front of you as the three Slytherins eye you two up.

"Not our fault that you're in our territory in the middle of the night," Avery says, his voice soft and deadly. You notice that the Slytherins are holding their wands by their sides, and you tense, ready to draw yours at any moment.

"What, are we gangs now?" James sneers back at them, the other boys visibly tensing at the sight of such pure male aggression.

There's silence until Macnair's voice rings out.

"Don't know if you've noticed, pal, but there's a war going on."

"Blood traitor," Avery spits out, and with a sudden flash James punches him in the cheek (he never was good at using magical violence), and Avery is yelling and Macnair is screaming a spell. You quickly lift your wand and yell "Protego Duo!" and a white flash erupts around you and James, a blue light bouncing off of it from where Macnair attempted to curse both of you.

Then you grab James and pull him away from where he's standing, almost stunned, looking at his hand, running forward up the stairs to the main level of the school.

You stop once you get to the entrance to the Fat Lady, sprinting up steps and dragging James along, who seems almost frozen. You stand there, panting, and stare at him, waiting for his words of wisdom.

"You know, I've never actually punched anyone before," James says a bit quietly, looking in what you now recognize to be awe at his right hand, "But Merlin, I think I've got a wicked right hook!"

After the incident in the dungeons, James' attitude towards you changes. You hate it. You're almost nauseated by the way that his eyes always watch over you whenever you enter a room – you feel like you're about to vomit every time that you spot his jaw clench when a boy approaches you. You can't figure out why you fear it, but you do.

"Lily!" A voice rings out from behind you, and you think about pretending for a second that you didn't hear it. But then you notice that you're the only person in the hallway, and you breathe hard, then swivel around.

He's approaching you with a frown on his face, his saggy Hogwarts-issued pants pulled up in a one-handed unconscious motion. His dark hair is tousled back, in his usual style, but as he approaches you, you try to not notice the dark circles under his eyes.

"Lily?" he asks you again, coming closer to your rigid body and stiff back, "Want to tell me what's going on?"

"Nothing," you mutter, glaring at the tile he's standing on, before quickly swivelling away from him and starting to walk. You hear him utter a dramatic sigh, and then his hand is on your shoulder and he's pushed you to face him.

"Why are you acting so fucked?"

You consider denying it for a second, but you quickly glance at his eyes and realize that over the years, this boy has learned to know your reactions too well.

"I don't know," you hear yourself say without much conviction, "I'm just stressed from OWLs. Or something."

"Or something?" you hear the scepticism in his voice and look at his face, which is twisted at you in a peculiar fashion, "Or something?"

"Or something, okay?" you retort, taking a step back, distancing yourself, "I don't know. I feel weird after that night in the dungeons."

Concern flashes in his eyes, and you attempt to backtrack.

"No, no, not like that – I mean, I don't want you thinking that I can't take ... I don't know. Care of myself. Because I can."

You look up during the break in your sentence, and James is staring at you intensely. You swallow hard at his attention, and attempt to continue.

"I mean, ... I really appreciate what you did and all, but I don't want you to think that I'm relying on you to protect me in those situations again."

There's an awkward pause as you avoid his eye contact, and then you lift his eyes and catch his blazing stare.

"Stop looking at me like that!" you burst out, and James shifts in his spot, dropping his eyes automatically, and you feel a pain of regret, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I don't know. I just feel weird."

You expect a fervent insult, or a ferocious retort, but you're surprised to hear instead his voice, soft and deep.

"Has anyone ever done that for you before?"

You freeze, and the silence is overwhelming in the empty corridor. You can tell that he's staring at your bent head, and you consider lying, but you're thinking too much and you know he could tell the truth.

You bite your lip. Ashamed. "No."

"You know, Lily," he continues, with the wisdom of a boy who understands the girl that he's in love with, "you're just scared of being vulnerable."

"I'm not vulnerable," you spit out, a hair-line automatic reaction. He stands there and arches an eyebrow at you, and you can feel yourself waffling in your shoes.

He shifts on his feet, and for a second you are petrified that he is going to turn around and leave you.

"You know, I'm leaving to go train at the end of this year," he says quietly, and you turn your head from him and stare fiercely at the stone wall.

You don't ask him for what – it's a given. There's silence. Then you hear him approach as your eyes start to burn from holding back the salty tears.

"Lily ..." His voice is quiet and low, and you avoid his eyes, "Lily, I need to know something."

"Don't ask me something that you can't take back, James."

You can tell that the use of his first name stuns him, and your breathing becomes stilted.

"Lily," he says again, quietly, and you struggle to control yourself, "Lily, will you miss me?"

Suddenly, your head is in your hands, and tears are running down your face, let loose from the long, cold November nights that once held them captive. His arms wrap around you, and you don't understand yourself – don't understand the weeping, don't understand who you are, don't understand what is going on in your tiny closed world – and you're losing control, trying to build castles out of straw.

You grit your teeth and swipe your eyes with your hands, his arms still locked around you.

"I'm fine."

"Lily," his voice says, and you glance up at his eyes, and then look away, tears starting to pour down your cheeks again, "Lily, for fuck's sake, answer the question."

And his arms move away from you, and the blast of air feels like a noose, and you look at him, eyes wide, and stand up straight.

"Yes," you spit at him, almost with hatred, James' eyes watching yours with wisdom that you can't decipher, "Yes, you stupid ignorant bastard, you fucked up ponce, you bloody motherfucking asshole, yes. I will miss you, you idiot, and the Merlin-damned worst part is that you know it."

Then he steps back towards you, and you're quivering, fucking quivering (and you want to stop, but your nerves feel on fire because you just admitted it, ruined it all) and he's ripping away the insults, ripping away the lies and the adjectives that colour your world, exposing your bones and bruises to the world, your blood-shot eyes and sleepless nights.

"Say it again."

You jut your chin out.

"Say it, Lily." And your name is like a whisper, provocative and beautiful.

You struggle to breathe, your heart trying to learn to fly. He's asking too much of you, just like he always has, since third year when he proclaimed in the middle of Transfiguration that he was in love with you, since fourth year when he convinced you to slow dance with him during Sirius' party on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, since last month's Quidditch match when he draped his scarf over your head and you stupidly wore it, and he stupidly lost, and you found him, disconsolate and bleeding over a cigarette in the Observatory Tower, and you kissed him – not out of pity, but because of something else.

"I'll," you say, stumbling over the words, "I'll ..."

"Look at me," his voice rings out, and you tilt your head up slightly, and his hand is on the side of your face, his finger brushing along your cheekbone, and your eyes tip-toe over his face, up the broad plains of his cheek to his dark eyes, brooding and intense, "Say it."

"I'll miss you." The words rush out of your mouth like an exhalation of air, and your heart pounds fast and furious as you watch his blank face, his thumb still tracing patterns on your skin. "I'll miss you."

You're frozen, captivated by the swagger of this boy who could crush you with a shake of his head, shatter you with a brief swish of his hand.

You're scared, and his eyes aren't meeting yours, it's just his thumb tracing those same circles on your cheek – and now it's his other hand, and he's grasping your face in his palms, and you fear that he'll smash it, smash the globes of your skull together with a quick action, like snapping the neck of a baby bird.

Why aren't his eyes meeting yours? Why is he staring at your lips, why is time slowing, why are his eyes so much darker and liquid up close?

"Lily." You watch his lips as the words rise to be breathed out into the air around you. You want to capture them, put them on a string and wear them around your wrist like a child holding a balloon.

His eyes flash up to yours, and you can hear a dull pulse in your head, throbbing.

"Then don't leave me."

And he bends down and presses his lips to yours, and it's surprising how much sweeter it is knowing that he kissed you first, the way that boys are supposed to in fairy tales. And it's soft – much softer than when you kissed him, rough and savage and brutally – and ironically, it would be James who is the hopeless romantic, it would be James who snogs you the way that girls dream of, his lips gentle and caressing.

You open your eyes near the end of the kiss, and you watch his eyelids flutter open, his lashes thick and long, his eyes dark and hypnotic.

You wrap your arms around his neck, shyly, and he puts his large hands on your hips, and you can feel them through the fabric of your clothing.

"Told you so." His voice sing-songs.

"Told me what?" you ask, unconsciously beaming past your tears.

"I told you that I could make you smile."