'Hello James.'

And here you come, the first of the night, I must be looking awful, or perhaps angry, sitting on my own in this corner, black trousers, white shirt, a bottle of Ogden's and a Snitch flying round my head, Sirius has probably had three girls by now. I hate it, and he knows it, this counting, this adding up of kisses and of more, it's stupid and it's misogynistic and it's horrible but I don't want to lose, hell I can't lose, not to Sirius. And he knows all of that too.

But I have Firewhiskey tonight, and I'll have jokes to fend him off tomorrow. So the question, really, is - are you worth it, should I bother trying to catch up?

'Hi.' I say, deciding to try, though that's probably the Firewhiskey talking. I turn to look at you and, yeah, you could be worth it. (But you're still not her, are you?)

Allie? Natalie? Annie? Probably ends in an 'ie' anyway. Don't really need to know your name, I know you, whether I've spoken to you everyday or once in the last six years. You'll be funny (but she'll be funnier), quirky maybe (she's unique) or perhaps you'll be sarky (she's cutting), but though you're funny it'll be in a way that is, oh, so predictable (she's never predictable). You'll laugh beautifully (she trumpets), your whole face will light up (hers crinkles), your eyes will sparkle and your teeth will be perfect.

Too perfect.

(Hers have a tinge of yellow)

'How are you?'

'Oh, you know. I'm alright.'

'You just won a Quidditch match, James.'

'Yeah. I guess.'

'I know you have.'

So you're quirky then. Still predictable. I could have mouthed the 'I know' along with you.

'I was watching.'

I bet you were. Cheering probably, but attractively, not investing everything into the game, not pouring your heart into it, not screaming so loud that you can't talk tomorrow (she does), you'd be wearing house colours (she paints her face too) but they'd be figure hugging and they wouldn't be warm, not practical (not like hers.)

'See anything you like?' Might as well try and catch up with Sirius. You are pretty fit.

'Oh, one or two things.' Again with the predictable quirkiness, the pretending to be hard to get when we both know I could have you on the floor in two seconds (but I couldn't have her.)

'Sirius was looking pretty smoking today, I have to agree.'

'Oh yeah. Sirius looked good. But I wasn't watching him.'

'Who then?'

'Oh, no one you know.'

'Someone in Slytherin then?'

'I didn't say that.'

You are beautiful. Really and honestly, whatever your name is, you're gorgeous. Like a model in a magazine or an actress in a Hollywood film. But that's the problem, isn't it? You're not real. (Not like her.) You're too perfect (she's not), too bronzed (she burns), too polished, you smell of perfume (she smells of books and vanilla and incense), every one of your features are perfectly proportioned (her eyes are a little too big for the rest of her face), your smile is straight (her front teeth are a little crooked) and your figure is astonishing (actually, so is hers.)

'So it's someone in Gryffindor then?'

'Yeah, he's here actually.'

'Oh really?'

I could, you know. I could kiss you and kiss you and kiss you and I could go further, I could kiss you out of the room and onto the floor or a bed and I could have my wicked way with you. Because you're beautiful. Because you're easy. (Because you're not her.)

'He's quite close. Can you see him?'o

'Trying to make him jealous are you?'

'Trying to show him what he could have, actually.'

You start moving closer and your hair is a waterfall, covering half of your face, shining, glinting, dancing in the light (hers is a flame, do flames beat waterfalls? I won't ever know, because I'll never have her.) You lean in close, closing your eyes and breathing gently, until our lips are almost touching and finally they do.

I'm never going to have her. I could have you right now.

But I don't want to.

(Because you're not her.)

I don't reciprocate. I can't. I want to (Or I want to want to) but I just can't. There's something wrong, there's always something wrong and I never know what it is (you're not her, not her, not her) and you pull away, your warmth leaving my cold, unresponsive lips. Something's gone in your eyes, some small spark has vanished. Your perfect mouth is closed and so is your expression,

'Not tonight then?' You say, trying to keep up the impression that you're fine, that you don't care but you do, don't it? (Because you're not her.)

'It's not you.' I say, and I mean it, please believe me, I really do-

'Don't insult me James. Of course it's me.'

'It's not.' (It's her)

'It's her?' (Yes, yes, yes)

'No.' (Yes.) 'It's me.' (It's her.)

'I'm not an idiot, James. I know it's her.' (It's always her.)

'Who?'

'Stop it. Honestly James, I've got eyes, I've got ears. Everyone knows you've been completely in love with Lily since second year.' You're not as stupid as they usually are then (but she's more clever, always more brilliant.)

'Sorry.' I say, and I mean it, I honestly don't want to hurt you (I never mean to hurt her either, and look how well that worked out.)

'Yeah.' You say, and you smile again and my breath is stolen, 'So am I.'

(She's never sorry.)

You find another guy.

(So does she.)

I find the Firewhiskey.

(She finds the rum.)

000000

'Hey Potter!' She shouts, the next morning, knowing full well I'm hungover and delighting in it.

'What Evans?'

'D'you get off with that fifth year?'

'What?'

'Last night? D'you get off with Cecily?' So your name did end in a 'ie'. Kind of.

'The fit brunette?' I ask, knowing it will annoy her.

'The brilliant herbologist? Yeah. That one.'

'Nah.'

'Why not?' She asks, sounding genuinely curious. She sits on the arm of the chair that I collapsed into this morning, after struggling down to the Common Room.

'Don't know.'

'Did she pull out last minute? Sensible girl.'

'No. I did.'

'What?' She says, or rather splutters. 'I'm sorry- James Potter, this is James friggin' Potter, turned down Cecily Hitchcock?'

'Erm yes.' I say, pretending to be offended, 'What's so funny about that, may I ask?'

'Oh nothing,' She says, still giggling, 'Apart from the fact that she would have let you have your wicked way, and you never turn that down.'

'She's underage Evans.' (Not that I would have cared about that, without her.)

'So were you, last year.'

'It's different.'

'How?'

'I don't know. It just is.'

'Alright then, Mr Potter.'

'Simply spiffing, I'd say, Miss Evans-'

'No, no, you can't do the pretending to be posh thing when you actually are posh.'

'Dreadfully sorry madame.'

'Stop it!' She says, hitting me with a pillow that appears, seemingly, out of nowhere, though that's probably just my befuddled, hungover brain talking.

'Ow! Evans! Some of us are hungover!'

'Light weight.' She says, though she stops hitting me.

'Oh yeah? How much did you drink then?'

'Meh. Whatever was left of the rum. I wasn't exactly counting units, Potter.'

'Tut tut, Miss Evans, that much alcohol isn't good for the young brain.'

'Nope. Nor is however much you drank.'

'Touché.' I say, my head ache is terrible, like someone has decided to pound a porcupine with a vendetta against my brain several times a second.

'Budge up a bit Potter.' She says, from her rather uncomfortable perch on my chair's arm.

'Alright Evans.' I try to squish into the corner of the chair but fail. 'Just sit on my lap Evans, this is bloody impossible.'

'Oh what with you being so fat?' She says, mockingly but, to my great surprise, she sits on my lap anyway. Her legs are swung over the other arm and her head resting against my shoulders.

'Are you still drunk Evans?'

'Maybe a bit. I had what was left for breakfast.'

'Of the rum?'

'No, of the Brioche.' She says, scornfully, 'Yes, of the rum you twat.'

'Hey, that's harsh.'

'I know.' She says, smiling. 'Fancy some proper breakfast, Potter?' She jumps off my lap (shame) and offers her hand to pull me from my chair.

'Brioche?' I ask, taking the hand and starting to walk towards to Portrait Hole.

'Why not?' She says, and we walk out the door, and down the kitchens for some early morning French Patisserie.

(And I know.)

(I'll wait forever for her.)

(But she's, oh, so worth it)