A.N: Hello! Well. I decided that I hadn't written anything light and humerous in a while, and seeing as I'm viewing my life more optimistically at the moment, I decided to set about doing so.

This was the result, and it's the longest thing I've ever written.

Before I start, this fic was inspired by two other fan-fics that I'm reading (and very much enjoying) at the moment; Commentarius and The Not-So-Secret and Completely Manly Diary of James Potter. A big, huge, amazing thank you to the authors of these stories. :)

And also, I think of this as a prequel to It Takes A Lot Out Of You, Proposing Does, but you don't have to read it first. Actually, maybe you should read this first and then read the other one?

Anyway, without further ado...

Disclaimer: Owning nothing at all here. Sorry.

17th March 1976.

On My Bed, Hangings Drawn; Hiding From Deranged Best Mates.

Honestly.

Of all the things I could've gotten for my birthday, this takes the biscuit. A diary? And do you know what Marlene said when she handed this to me?

"Well, at least this gives you a place to write down all your sordid fantasies about James Potter."

Fantasies; about James sodding Potter! She talks about it as though I fancy him!

Which I don't.

...Much.

Argh! I've spent two minutes writing in this thing and that mad, completely insane best mate of mine has already got me admitting, no, writing it. She must have placed some sort of charm on my quill and/or this book to force me to put things I don't mean.

Yes, that's it.

Because I don't fancy him. Oh no, no, no, no.

Even if he's changed his attitude remarkably since a year back. I mean, honestly, Snape's underwear? Who really wants to see that? No matter how hilarious it might be!

What? I was a Prefect for Merlin's sake; I have to pretend that these kinds of things aren't funny and set a good example. It goes with the job description.

Anyway, back to where I was before I was side-tracked by Ja - Potter...I don't fancy him. And that's that.

I will now proceed to shove this account in Marlene's face and stop her from laughing like a mad hyena on helium.

-----

Still March 17th.

Marlene's Bed, Girls Dormitory.

Hah. That showed her.

I've locked her in the bathroom (after snatching her wand off her) until she relents with this 'Lily fancies Potter' malarkey. And now I'm proceeding to eat the chocolates my parents got me without her. Over exaggerating while I do so, of course.

"Lils, come on. Let me out of here already! Bloody hell, it was a joke!"

Dum-di-dum...

"Lily? Are you even listening to me? Lily? Lily you haven't just eaten a strawberry cream, have you!?"

Oh, how I love being evil.

-----

5 Minutes Later.

I suppose one can't be too harsh on ones friends, one never knows when they'll come in handy.

Especially as she's gotten her hands on a rather incredulous doodle that I supposedly drew last History of Magic lesson, depicting a rather elaborate love-heart with the letters L and J in the middle.

Pft. You think I drew that?

You're sorely mistaken. Clearly it was not my brown, eagle-owl feathered quill that I usually write with.

Although it may have been my spare one...

Ahem. Moving swiftly on, she says she will use it as black-mail against me in future situations. And that it will be embarrassing. Deeply so.

I was actually quite worried so I let her out. I mean, I didn't want Potter to get an even bigger head by the thought of a parchment that supposedly was written in my hand, confessing (in pictures) my thoughts on him.

Because, well, he'd be wanting his head checked, wouldn't he? Because I don't fancy him. Not in the slightest.

And anyone else who's inclined to believe that stupid piece of parchment needs their heads checked as well. Which would defiantly include Marlene. Silly goose.

Ugh. I need new friends.

-----

Still 17th March.

Common Room.

I. Hate. My. Life.

Full stop.

I also hate the fact that my birthday falls on St. Patricks Day. I mean, it was bad enough when I was 7 years old and we had to go to Belfast to visit the whole family, and my Auntie Tessie decided it would be lovely to dress me up in green and parade me around in the town. The ensemble included a leprechaun's hat with the words "Birthday Girl" on it. Need I say more?

But the Marauders. Ugh.

They're just...incorrigible. Yes, that's what they are. Bloody incorrigible. All four of them.

Does a girl really want to walk downstairs on her seventeenth birthday and find a huge banner proclaiming, "Happy Birthday Lily Evans!" draped across the width of the room?

Well, yes. Except, this particular banner also said underneath "Kiss her, she's Irish!" which flashed (yes, flashed) twelve different colours. I counted them while my mouth was open in utter shock.

The four aforementioned lads were there, all grinning and shouting their birthday greetings to me. I think they were expecting me to be happy about it.

Cue one mad Lily Evans, wands a-blazing, hexing the life out of anyone in sight and stomping off, screaming abuse as she goes.

-----

An Hour Later.

The Bottom Of The Girl's Staircase.

Oh.

Turns out I should've looked around the room a bit before shouting my mouth off.

I sort of feel bad about the whole scenario now.

You see, the Marauders and my mates, (Marlene, Alice and Emmeline) had organised a surprise party for my birthday. The Marauders even snuck into Hogsmeade to get supplies for said party which, despite my trying to always set a good example, I was a little touched by. They didn't do that for Benjy Fenwick last month, and he's one of the best Chasers on the Gryffindor Quidditch team! (Along with Potter, which I admit to. Grudgingly.)

But I'm still not coming down. Nope.

I'm not coming down.

-----

17th/18th March?

My Bed.

James Potter came up to me whilst I was sitting on the staircase, feeling very morose about the whole situation. He sat next to me (very tentatively it can be said. Either because of my infamous temper or that the girl's staircase doesn't like boys that much.)

"Hey, Evans," He offered me a small smile, obviously trying to apologise. A small part of me wanted to tell him to bugger off at this point. I resisted the temptation.

"Hey," I moved along slightly, so that I was now leaning against one of the stone walls, "The party sounds good."

It did, actually. Someone had turned the wireless on and I could hear a Celestina Warbeck song streaming through the speakers. The smell of food had drifted up to us as well. McGonagall would throw a fit if she found out. That thought made me smile deviously.

"What's up?"

I'd almost forgotten Potter was there, which was unusual, as he usually made a spectacle of himself anywhere he went. It would take a deaf, dumb and blind person not to notice him.

"Oh, nothing really." I turned to him, thinking nothing of our close proximity until I saw that the candlelight reflecting off his glasses made his eyes darker and a much deeper colour of hazel. Conversations I had with Marlene earlier sprang into my mind and I was beginning to experience a strange tingling feeling in my fingertips.

Oh, don't be silly, Evans!

It's pins and needles.

Yes. That's it.

I'm not attracted to him in any way whatsoever.

I think he was starting to find me slightly strange because I was just staring into space, not participating further into the conversation at all.

So I snapped out of it. Only because it was rude to stare though.

"Erm...Potter?" I bit my lip as he tilted his head to one side questioningly, "Sorry about, you know, the whole thing downstairs earlier. I shouldn't be so presumptuous. It's an awful trait of mine."

He grinned, standing up, "Most defiantly. Apology accepted, seeing as anything planned by us would immediately warrant suspicion in the first place."

My stomach lurched guiltily. He was being sarcastic, I knew it. How many times had I told him off for doing exactly what I thought he'd done earlier?

Were my words being thrown back at me, or was that just me?

I think he noticed my expression, and so bent down so he was my height. (I was still sitting down on the staircase at this point, and the tingles that I thought I had under control came back as soon as his eyes and that stupid, idiotic grin met mine.)

"Come on, Evans, the birthday girl shouldn't be stuck up here during her own party; it would be a travesty!"

He laughed and offered a hand out to me, "Want to dance?"

Doesn't he understand that these tingles would get worse if I actually had physical contact with him?

"Alright. But that doesn't mean you can slip Firewhiskey into my drink."

Clearly my body hadn't a clue either, which was rubbish, to put it bluntly. So I allowed myself (or rather, my uncooperative body allowed myself without my consent) to be led downstairs to the party, where the majority of the 6th and 7th years had made themselves at home.

I think we got a few stares passing through. And I'm sure I saw Marlene spit her drink out of her mouth in shock. I pity Peter Pettigrew. Butterbeer doesn't wash out of your hair easily.

So, anyway, we danced for a little bit, chatted for ages and I found out James is actually quite a decent bloke. Sure, his friends are complete nutcases, and I don't think he's mentally stable himself, but he's alright, you know?

If Marlene reads this entry she'll immediately start spouting that I fancy him again which (and I've stated this many, many times already) I don't.

...Although I am twirling my quill around in my hand and grinning insanely to myself when I think of how his hand was touching mine, or the way his nose was so very, very close to my ear when we were dancing, or how I loved the way he laughed –

ANYWAY!

I'm going to go to bed now. The Butterbeer has obviously gone to my head.

Happy Birthday to me,

Happy Birthday to me...

Hope you liked!