DISCLAIMER: All rights to the Harry Potter series belong to J.K. Rowling.
DOE EYES
Some painters transform the sun into a yellow spot, others transform a yellow spot into the sun.
- Pablo Picasso
The sun on a hot summers day seems bigger, brighter, more powerful than it actually is. In reality, it is at it's farthest from our humble planet when it bathes us in its most tropical celestial light. I've always wondered why that is.
"Don't tell me you've actually refused him again, Lils," Eveline paused to rifle through her messenger bag, continuing to speak in a garbled rush.
"I mean, don't get me wrong, I think it's positively genius of you to keep him interested with all of this playing hard to get, but don't you think this is taking this a bit too far? It's seventh year now! We'll be positively old soon!"
I try not to roll my eyes, but it's a struggle. I keep my response tightly controlled and civil, but I've always worn my frustration very obviously, and Eveline, however feather-headed she pretends to be, can always tell.
"Evie, just give it a rest. Please?" I stop as we reach the dormitory, throwing my bag on my bed. I can feel a headache coming on.
Surprisingly, Eveline leaves me in peace, which is remarkably unlike her now that I think about it. I've got a Slug Club party to attend later this evening, and while I would never miss one for fear of appearing ungrateful to Professor Slughorn, the thought of moving at the moment is not welcome. In the interim I know I should be doing homework or transfiguring something for practice, but instead I find myself lying prone on my bed, and rather uselessly trying to remember all of the myriad reasons I should not give in to James Potter.
It started insidiously. I was in the library, late of course, as always, when I saw them. Potter and Black. Normally the sight would not be shocking, had the Black in question been an aristocratically handsome boy as opposed to a petite, full-figured girl with long, quicksilver hair.
Seeing them together was somehow wrong, like chalk and cheese. Their conversation was quiet but palpable, but it took me a moment to overcome both the shock of seeing them together and my own dubious sense of morality in order to listen in.
"You can't tell Sirius. He won't understand," her small, lovely mouth quivered around the words, and the sight of it was so wretched that even I felt bad for her.
Potter's response was whip-like and hard. "There is nothing to understand. Sirius would be rightfully angry to hear how you've been treated,"
I could see the tears welling in her bruised violet eyes from my distant vantage point, and the stringent lines around Potter's face seemed to melt at the sight.
"He cares for you, you know. He wouldn't want to see you hurt," he murmured down at her. The Black girl nodded mutely, managing to look pretty as tears swamped her features.
She looked up at him suddenly. "Thanks, James," she whispered.
He put a hand on her back, and they walked out of earshot. I left the library that night with something building in my bones. My thoughts were a jumble, and it was difficult to isolate what I was feeling. Psychoanalysis has always been one of my strengths, both a blessing and a curse, but I could not make sense of what I had just seen. All I really took away were the images in my head: hand on her back, lowered eyes, her quivering, fragile body. What stuck in my brain the most was her vulnerability, laid out for him, her enemy for all intents, to see. He did not stomp on her heart, as one might expect from a callous prankster, but he cradled her fears and sadness, and protected her.
He offered his strength and protection, two things that I have only ever imagined he would use against people, barring of course his precious Marauders. I left the library that night with two dangerous thoughts circling in my mind.
James Potter was protecting someone simply because it was the right thing to do, and maybe there was more to him than I had previously assumed.
The Slug Club party began normally, with the marked exception of James Potter's presence at the table. He had been invited by Professor Slughorn in the past for some dubious reason likely to do with his dazzling reputation and quidditch skills, but had never bothered to attend.
This was, and still is, a mark against him.
From my first day at Hogwarts I realized that in order to be accepted by my peers, I would have to wade upstream against my blood status. I've expected myself to be beyond reproach for years, only to gain the respect that purebloods like Potter receive as a matter of course.
My mother has always told me that being bitter and striving is not what a woman should be, and as much as I resent her for it, it is the truth. I have always been an adversary, a peer, some would even say a paragon, but never truly a woman. I know I have soft femininity somewhere, lurking behind my tall, slim, uncurvaceous form, but I have never revealed it to someone the way Narcissa Black revealed hers to James Potter that night in the library that has stuck in my head like glue.
As I watch the man in question across the square table, I feel the inadequacy that is my fundamental state rise boilingly and hatefully to the surface. He is in action, talking and laughing and brightening without even trying, and I think, not for the first time as I study him, that he is so much more than I thought. He is so much more than me.
"Lily, my dear! What is your opinion on this animagus debate?" Professor Slughorn grinned widely, his large stomach jiggling with glee. "I fear it is quite polarizing the table!" he chortled.
I cleared my throat, feeling on the spot. "Animagi, sir?"
"Why yes, dear! We were of course discussing the moral and political concerns of using the mandrake leaf potion to turn oneself into an animagus, as opposed to being born one. What is your take on it?"
The table waited. In my mind I always seem to have fascinating things to say, but nervousness does not make my mouth a very good conduit.
"Well… I think it rather… immoral, to say the least," I began haltingly.
Professor Slughorn latched on immediately. "Immoral, you say, my dear? I quite agree, but please do elucidate,"
"There is a certain falseness to it. Being an animagus is a gift, a genetic quirk if you will, that makes an individual stand out, as would possessing exceptional intelligence or rare beauty," I pause to catch my breath, wondering, as usual, what in the world is coming out of my mouth.
"What I mean to say is that holding a mandrake leaf in one's mouth for a month in order to achieve an altered state is no different from muggle plastic surgery. It perverts nature and cheapens the rarity and value of inborn traits, something our society as a collective puts far too little emphasis on as it is," I finish, my voice trailing off.
Slughorn claps his hands exaggeratedly and beams at me. He truly is a sweet man, and no matter how ridiculous he often appears, I will always appreciate his kindness towards me.
"Exemplary logic, Lily my dear, exemplary! As usual, you have—," he is cut off abruptly by Potter, whose voice has deepened and broadened from the bright tenor of before.
"Forgive me, sir, but I would ask Ms. Evans if she has ever actually met an animagus who has used the mandrake leaf method?" he asks coolly.
I clear my throat, and respond. "Why no, Mr. Potter, I can't say that I have,"
"Well, then how can you presume to say that their reasons for such an allegedly painful and lengthy procedure are solely to, as you say, pervert the course of nature and bestow unnatural gifts upon oneself? As you compare the procedure to muggle plastic surgery, what then would you say to burn victims who receive facial reconstruction, or children with cleft palettes who benefit from surgical alteration?"
He pauses, and I am speechless. I have never heard James Potter speak with such conviction before on anything besides pranks and quidditch, and while I resent his mechanical deconstruction of my opinion and long to rebut, I find myself somewhat in awe of him.
"I simply wish to point out that a person's motivations for undertaking certain actions are rarely what the world expects, and that that knowledge should always be taken into consideration before painting anything at all with a brush of general shallowness and immorality," he concludes lightly, but with a grave profundity that I'm sure everyone in the room can feel.
You could hear a pin drop, when Professor Slughorn breaks the silence with a loud clap and jolly belly laugh.
"Well! A good debate is exactly what these evenings are all about! Lovely! Say, have you tried the peach cobbler the kitchen whipped up? Delicious, if I do say so myself…"
The room gradually filled with chatter and merrymaking, and I excused myself from the gathering after thanking Professor Slughorn for the evening.
As I lay in my bed that night, the curtains drawn all the way round but the windows wide open, I contemplated James Potter and his sharp, eloquent tongue, yet another layer of him that I had not been aware he possessed. I was starting to gather a picture in my head of a knight in disguise, or a brave-hearted gentleman playing the part of the rake. I, Lily Evans was giving in to a fantasy, and it shamed me as much as it thrilled me.
I shook myself roughly at the thought, because as I drifted off the sleep I realized that even though my opinion of Potter was improving rapidly, he was still James Potter, and would be liked wether he was a gentleman or a rake, a scholar or a prankster, or all four. And yet, I was only respected by anyone because I had proved myself to be a strong student and strict self-disciplinarian; I was someone to fight with or against, not somebody to fight for. If anyone became aware of my infinite weaknesses and yearnings, I would no longer be regarded as a paragon.
And then? Well, then, James Potter probably wouldn't want me anymore.
The winter sun is close in proximity, shining in a brilliant, concentrated stream. So why, then does it chill us so? It's radiance is beautiful but ineffectual, serving only to shine and glint, but not to nourish or grow, as the sun should. I think it sad, to be honest, how something so seemingly remarkable can come to appear so frigid, unwelcoming, and when one comes down to it, so absolutely useless.
I've been told that when I have been hurt, it's alright to cry, to sob, to let it all out. It seems now, though, as I am curled up on the soft chesterfield in the Heads' lounge room, that I do not deserve to cry when my pain is so deserved. Weakness in other girls is permissible, but not in me. Petty, pathetic pain overwhelms, and as tears bubble over unwittingly and sluice down my cheeks, I hate myself, for I do not deserve to cry over something that was my own fault to begin with.
So, I went out with Malachi Conren. He is a decently attractive but notoriously rakish housemate who Eveline has repeatedly warned me against. He's crude, she'd said. I'd thought I was attuned to such designs, until he came out with some lovely but terribly cliché words that every girl is taught not to fall for.
But I did fall for them. And for a moment, he had made me feel captivating and wanted, feminine and lovely, until he had kissed me too hard and too long. It stopped feeling special, and started feeling predatory, so I pushed him away, and he pushed me even harder.
I'd never been pushed or otherwise manhandled by a grown man before, and I was surprised at how simply inadequate it made me feel. I was filled with guilt, and ashamed that I had driven him to such lengths. He left, and I ran straight to the Heads' lounge. It's the only place I can go to be truly alone, seeing as Potter hasn't used it once since we were named Heads.
I don't know why I even thought frigid Lily Evans would be worth the effort. You weren't worth it, by the way.
Conren's words ring in my head as tears dribble down my face. It is a painful, cold sort of crying jag, because I force my facial muscles into a still, stiff mask. I do not deserve to cry with abandon, because I am not a victim. It is impossible to be a victim when one has seen and imagined every single possible outcome, good and bad, and still allows herself to be weak.
My tension and fear slip away as I cry, but with each tear, my own distaste for myself, body and soul, grows.
It is at this moment of rare and inexcusable weakness that something unforeseen and hellish occurs. The portrait door swings open and four large, laughing boys emerge, carrying armfuls of what looks like cans of paint.
"We'll just stockpile them all in here, boys! I knew this blasted, pretentious lounge would come in handy one of these—," Potter's voice, as loud and obnoxious and recognizable as anything, jolts through me, and he trails off after noticing my obviously unwelcome presence.
I sit up, attempting to look dignified, even though I can feel the black trails of wet mascara that streak my puffy, red face like tiger stripes.
Sirius Black, with his long legs and wavy black hair is the one to break the sudden awkward tension in the room.
"Right, well Prongs I think we'll be heading off now! Er… lovely to run into you, Evans!" he sputters, prodding Pettigrew out the door ahead of him.
He was obviously disturbed and discomfited by seeing me in such obvious disarray, and was making a quick escape. Relieved that they hadn't started laughing hysterically upon seeing my no doubt alarming looking face, I expected Potter and Lupin to make themselves scarce in short order.
Lupin turned to leave, but grabbed Potter's arm and stared him down with a fierceness that was rather incongruous with his gentle features, murmuring emphatically, "Don't you dare, James. Don't. You. Dare,"
Potter didn't acknowledge him, and Lupin left, shutting the door behind him. I felt my shoulders slump at the idea that even Remus Lupin, Potter's most gentle and generous friend, fully expected him to be cruel to me. Of course I expected it, but having Lupin forsee it as well and leave me with Potter with nothing but a mumbled warning made me feel curiously abandoned. Lupin owed me nothing. In fact, none of them did. But from a purely emotionally illogical standpoint, it still hurt.
A silent Potter was like a flying fish, so as he strolled over and sat beside me on the couch, his body tense and seemingly brittle, I felt a tide of nameless fear unfurl in my chest.
Suddenly his hand reached for my face, and I couldn't stop myself from flinching violently, filling with shame immediately after. My vulnerability was bleeding out of me, and I could just see Potter soaking it all in. It was the worst feeling, this complete and utter powerlessness.
I turned slightly to look at him, almost in defiance of my cowardly flinch, and saw something like hurt flash across his bright hazel eyes.
"I'm sorry if I scared you," he offered, his voice soft, but full of an inner tension that made my bones seem to vibrate.
"You didn't—," I began, but my nose was filled with viscous liquid, making it hard to speak. "You didn't scare me," I finally finished, keeping my eyes on my knees.
Potter was silent, and my frustration with myself suddenly reached a breaking point.
"You know, Potter, if you're going to be cruel to me you may as well get it out of your system. The waiting is killing me," I had hoped for my voice to be hard and loud, but what came out was a whisper that made my ears turn red with embarrassment.
"I'm not going to be cruel to you, Evans," he said. His voice was soft but very sure, like velveteen stretched over bedrock.
"I thought you knew that I would never do anything to hurt you. I thought it was obvious that I… that I care about you, and that the last thing I would ever want to do is cause you pain," he finished in a rush, the words swirling out in a heavy breath.
I didn't even look up at him, because why would I? He thought he wanted me, and all this time, I had hoped he would realize what I truly was without me having to spell it out for him. I've always hated disappointing people, but I was still surprised at the wave of agony that hit me as I opened my mouth to disappoint James Potter.
"Why, Potter? Why do you care about me?" I ask, my voice tear-laden and crackly. "You don't even know me. You think you like me, but the version of me that you like is one that I have spent years trying to perfect just so that I can fit into this amazing but brutal school,"
Looking up, seeing the new uncertainty in his wide eyes, positively shatters me. But I go on. "Trust me, if you knew me, the real me, you wouldn't give me the time of day,"
He doesn't move a muscle, and for some reason, that gives me hope.
"Maybe that's true. Maybe I don't know the real Lily Evans. But the one I do know? She seems pretty real to me. She sucks on the end of her quill when she's thinking, which is actually a little gross if you ask me. She helps all of her friends with schoolwork without asking for anything in return. She always ties her hair back because she doesn't like the colour, though I can't see why, because I think it's the most lovely red there is.
"She tries to be perfect in every class, and even though she is, she thinks she's not because even perfect isn't good enough for Lily Evans. She holds herself to impossibly high standards, but allows and even admires the weakness and vulnerability in others. She's afraid to fly, and thinks her fear is pathetic and silly, though I personally think it's rather adorable the way she squeaks in flying class. She thinks baby manticores are adorable, and stopped taking Care of Magical Creatures in fourth year because she couldn't handle seeing them dissected. And let's not forget that time she hexed Peter for purposely stepping on a glow worm!
"She hates being wrong, but the pursuit of truth is more important to her than her pride, so she will always concede if properly convinced. I've never seen her cry. I do know, however, that she must, because everyone has to be sad sometimes, and everyone has to cry. It's not weakness, it's just humanity.
"Anyway, I'm glad the real Lily Evans isn't here, though, because I've just waxed on like a chump, and no doubt she would take pleasure in crushing my ego under one of her high-heeled boots like so many grains of sand..." he trailed off, his voice deep and warm and entirely unexpected.
Without an ounce of conscious thought, I made a horrible little bleating sort of laugh before opening the floodgates, and sobbing like the child that, sometimes, I'm still convinced I am.
Something changed that night, and though I didn't actually tell Potter the source of my tears, it didn't matter. He held me in his strong arms, at first tentatively, and then more confidently, and he didn't even seem to care that I was soaking his robes with my expensive, salty tears.
He comforted me, and I let him, wilting into his chest like the fragile little flower I had never thought I would actually get to be. I realized, as James Potter lent me his strength, that sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is let yourself fall apart and, for once, let somebody else pick up the pieces.
I won't lie. The next few weeks were difficult. The only person I told about my fiasco with Conren was Eveline, who despite her general verbosity was surprisingly good at keeping secrets. My time spent in the Head's lounge with James Potter, however, was something I kept close to my heart. We were at that awkward impasse where I wasn't sure what the protocol was. Was I supposed to pretend like nothing had happened? I felt, as usual, powerless and unsure about the social protocol in such situations, so I continued to act as usual, cold and aloof and Lily Evans.
November dawned bright and frigid, and I hadn't really spoken to Potter in weeks. I was disappointed, yes, but not surprised. It seemed natural to me that seeing my most authentic self would drive him away, but the genuine dearth of hope that melted away with the passing days made me painfully aware that I had indeed been harbouring it, however unconsciously.
"Hullo there, Evans,"
I nearly dropped my books as I made my way to the front of the castle, en route to Herbology, when the sure, smooth drawl that could only belong to one man slid across my ear drums.
I swallowed convulsively, and returned his greeting without embellishment, "Potter,"
There was an awkward silence where we both stood in the middle of the corridor facing each other, and I was about to walk on when he grasped my arm in a gentle, scorching grip. I'm embarrassed to admit that I felt it all the way to my toes.
"Hogsmeade trip this weekend. You keen?" he paused uncertainly, but continued on gamely after a moment of hesitation.
"What I mean to say is, would you like to go to Madame Puddifoot's with me?"
I could hear the smile in his voice, but I felt frozen as I tried to process that James Potter had indeed asked me out again, despite everything. A warm gust of glee charged through my veins and I felt my cheeks heat. I felt him studying my face, and realized something was wrong as his features hardened and he dropped his hands, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking down.
I still hadn't spoken when he mumbled, "I see. I'm sorry to have bothered you then,"
He walked away, and as my eyes traced his broad shoulders, everything rushed back, and I wanted to slap myself. For someone with a decently high IQ, I really could be the most incredible dunce.
"Potter, wait!" I yelled at his retreating back, louder than I had intended. I felt eyes from all around me stop and stare.
He turned around, and there was something so pained and guarded in his expression, like a puppy waiting to be kicked, that it nearly broke my heart.
"I—I would love to go to Hogsmeade with you," I spoke in an uncertain rush, looking down at my hands in a sudden fit of nervousness. "In fact, I am quite—quite flattered that you asked me. And I gratefully accept your invitation. To Madame Puddifoot's, that is,"
I was too nervous at his reaction to look up, and when he didn't respond, my nervousness increased ten-fold.
"You know, I do love pink and—and I've always wanted to go to Madame Puddifoot's because, well, pink and bubbles and murderous little Cupids with those blasted arrows, I mean, what's not to like—," I rambled, halting only when I felt a large body standing right in front of me, a long finger tilting my chin up to meet a pair of glintingly tawny eyes.
He stared at me for a moment, his glasses reflecting my bewildered face, until he let out a loud whoop and lifted me suddenly into the air, his head thrown back, laughing and yelling, "Finally! Finally! She said yes!"
His happiness, his zest and lust for life were contagious, and I found myself dissolving into peals of laughter right along with him. Now, when I think back to the moment I fell in love with James Potter, I recall this one. His head is thrown back as the brilliant yellow sun vaults through the windows, illuminating his tanned skin and making him appear for all the world like some brave, laughing sculpture of an angel, with me in his arms. That is what I remember the most I think, that I was in his arms.
As we pass into the Great Hall, it takes me a second to process the sight of Malachi Conren hanging upside down from the ceiling by his ankles, with Peeves taking great delight in dive bombing him with paint-filled balloons. My shock is evident, and as I look across the room, Eveline's shining brown eyes sparkle at me with glee. It isn't until I see her high-fiving Sirius Black that I think to glance up at the boy beside me, something remarkably soft in his bewitching hazel eyes.
"You didn't," I whisper, still uncertain that someone, anyone, would go to such lengths for me.
He just shrugged, an easy, masculine roll of the shoulders, tucked my hand into the crook of his arm, picked up my heavy bag with one hand, and winked in that roguish way that I'd always thought I hated.
"Let me walk you to class," he offers.
He didn't give anything away, but it was obvious. As I walked arm in arm with a tall, handsome boy, past the spectacle of a howling Malachi Conren dripping with pink paint, I realized that James Potter had turned out to be more than I had ever thought he possibly could be.
And, as it turns out, so had I.
FIN
Author's Note: Thank you very much for your readership. As always, I genuinely appreciate anybody taking time out of their day to tell me what they think of my little stories.
This was written for SiriusMarauderFan's August Monthly One-Shot Exchange.
For: alwaysmarauders
Prompts: yellow, library, "Don't you dare,"
Characters: James/Lily, Sirius
Genres: Romance, Drama, Friendship