Five minutes.

Lily sucks her lower lip in between her teeth and worries it anxiously, the skin already raw from the cab ride over. She knows, if she continues like this, that it will only be a moment before the skin breaks; a slight puncture made by the slip of an incisor, a metallic blossom of crimson sharp on her tongue. But she can't seem to help herself. She hadn't even been able to stomach breakfast this morning, despite her mother's insistence that she would starve on the train.

Five minutes. That's all the time it will take for her to unload her trunk, find a trolley, and wheel her belongings to the barrier. In five minutes, she can be on the platform. In five minutes, she'll finally know.

The fact that she has any doubts at all is, she knows, completely irrational. Then again, when it comes to James Potter she has never been completely rational.

And so she sits in the backseat of the black cab, her breath fogging up the window, worrying her lip between her teeth, and fingering the folded slip of parchment in her jacket pocket. The note that has been unfolded and refolded so many times, read and reread, that it now bears a textural resemblance more to cotton than paper.

She knows the words by heart.

Lil,

I never thought I'd say this, but summer hols really is too long. And this distance nonsense, what a load of shite, eh? Thursday can't come fast enough. Look for me on the platform, will you? I'll be the dashing lad in specs.

Cheers,

James

The note is dated all of two days ago. She isn't sure why she's so bloody nervous. It's not as if she believes James will give her a once over and apologetically declaim, "Sorry, Evans. Don't know what I was thinking. You're not really my type of bird after all. Was fun, though." Not really. (But what if he does?)

It's not lost on her that four months is hardly enough time to develop a substantial relationship (though it seems a lifetime in terms of teenage romance). It doesn't help that their respective holiday plans were solidified long before their relationship came into play. Lily's sure she would've enjoyed a summer with James; day trips throughout London, lazy afternoons with the Marauders, cool nights kept warm tucked beneath James' arm. But his family had gone to France in late June, and hers to Cornwall in early August. And the summer of James and Lily had rapidly diminished into a few scattered trips to Diagon Alley. Suddenly, it is September 1st, and Lily sits in the back of a black cab, fingering a folded slip of parchment and worrying her lower lip between her teeth.

"All right, love?" The cabbie's voice is coarse—a smoker's voice, she realizes—but sincere. It startles her from her thoughts, and she inadvertently crumples the paper between shaking fingers.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Her voice cracks weakly down the middle, and she has to clear her throat in an attempt to gain composure.

His chuckles sound more like a cough than laughter, but he's smiling as he turns in his seat. "There's no need for 'sirs,' love. 'M hardly one of them hoity-toity professor types up at that school of yours. You are off to school?"

She nods numbly, barely suppressing the "Yes, sir" on the tip of her tongue.

"Need a hand with your luggage? Trunk looks rather heavy for a sprite like you."

Lily can't help it, she grins—it's the first genuine smile she's shown all day—and the tightening in her chest loosens momentarily. "That would be lovely, thank you."

It takes all of two minutes for the man to heft himself out of the front seat, to lift her trunk from the boot and set it on a trolley, for pounds to exchange hands. He doesn't even flinch when Artemis hoots softly at him, but merely chuckles again and shakes his head as if scops are as common as terriers (Lily tips him generously for that), and wishes her well in her studies. She tries to think of something to say, something to keep him there, but with a tip of his hat and a murmur of thanks from her pale, bowed lips, he's gone. And she's left alone on the pavement, one hand on the trolley, the other desperately trying to smooth the now frayed parchment in her pocket.

Kings Cross is as full of people as ever, but Lily notices no one as her eyes scan the crowd for that familiar mess of black hair, that tall and lanky build, those crooked specs. Her heart feels as though it's swollen into her throat, beating hard and fast and choking her with anxiety and anticipation and just that small fraction of excitement and hope that courses through her like a fire. She smiles blandly at the students that call her name, waves idly at friends, but doesn't stop moving towards the barrier. In her pocket her fingers caress the faded parchment. And then she sees him.

He stands there, alongside the train, hands shoved into his trouser pockets, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as if he can't keep still (he never can keep still).

She can't breathe.

Sirius pops his head out a compartment window, dark hair falling across his face, and speaks animatedly. (Lily wants desperately to know what he's saying.) But James just shakes his head. The bouncing increases, until it looks as though at any moment he may begin to run. Take flight. She can almost see the frown crease across that perpetually smirking mouth and Sirius stretches even farther out the window, until it's not just his head exposed, but his neck and half his torso too. Until he looks as though he may fall out (but he won't. He's a marauder, after all). But James just shakes his head again, maybe mutters something in return, and Sirius shrugs, retreating into the train with ease, the window coming shut with a resounding snap.

And still James bounces. And Lily waits, struggling to breathe. And as she stands there, knuckles white around the trolley, his head turns and those almond eyes hit hers.

It's all she can do not to run to him. To throw her arms around his neck as his encircle her waist. To plant laughing kisses across those high cheekbones, the thin bridge of his nose, his forehead. To whisper how much she has missed him.

Instead she smiles shyly, and slowly begins to push her trolley towards him. His body has stilled and he stands there, dark against the scarlet of the train, and watches her approach with wide eyes. The few seconds that it takes to cross the platform seem an eternity, but soon she is standing there before him, nervously tucking a wayward curl behind a pale, freckled ear.

"Hi," she breathes.

And that's all it takes for that brilliant smile of his to unfold. All bared teeth and laugh lines, and something a little darker within his eyes—a slow burn that she knows is just for her. And then his arms are around her and her fingers are threaded in his hair and suddenly she's laughing, truly laughing, as she tugs his head down to hers.

It takes the whistle of the train of the train for Lily to pry her lips off James'. To blushingly take a step back and straighten his tie, smooth out her shirt.

He smirks. "Hello to you too. Miss me much?"

She shrugs, unable to keep the smile off her face. "Nah, not really."

He laughs, a deep booming sound that seems to echo across the platform, drowning out the sounds of happy reunions, the shrill whistle insisting they board now, the catcalls of the other seventh years. She turns, moving to grab her trunk, but an arm snakes around her waist and her back collides with something sturdy and warm and his breath tickles her neck as he murmurs words for only her to hear. "You always were a shite liar, Evans."