For Monse.
()()()
October.
"Potter, for the last time, no, I will not go on a date with you!"
My words bounce off the stone walls of the castle and reverberate around the small courtyard with a force they're not likely to see ever again. James Potter, completely unfazed, lounges at my feet and smirks up at me. "Y'know, Evans," he drawls, not even batting an eye, "it's a bloody shame you wore trousers today."
"Potter!" I hiss, instantly aware of everything within throwing distance. We're seventh years, Head Boy and Girl respectively, we shouldn't be doing this where students can see us. It's too late now, of course, there's already a crowd of eager first years ringing us. Someone starts a chant for a fight. Emmeline, Merlin bless her soul, makes great flapping motions and the student – a Slytherin second year, it just has to be a Slytherin – resentfully quiets down. "Nothing to see here," I snap, "go on, shoo! Class has already started!"
Two Ravenclaws and a handful of Gryffindors rush off almost immediately. There are no Hufflepuffs in the crowd, they've probably already gone off to fetch a professor to break up poor mental Evans and perfect sodding Potter. "Shoo!" I repeat violently, and most of the remaining Gryffindors reluctantly peel off, complaining loudly, and head towards the castle or the greenhouses. A few Slytherins slouch off behind them. The only people remaining are Emmeline, Alice, and Frank, as well as a few sixth year snakes and the bloody Marauders.
I don't want to deal with this today. "Go!" I all but shriek at the little circle of my friends and his; my head is pounding, and I'm sure my cheeks are red, as I can feel the burning skin. Alice casts me a worried glance but seems to realize that I'm not at my best and takes Frank's hand. They hurry away, throwing looks over their shoulders. Remus, wonderful Remus, sees sense and grabs Pettigrew's shoulder and tows him away. "C'mon, Pete," I hear him say, "we've got Transfiguration next and you can't afford to fail that if you want to be an Auror."
Oh. Transfiguration. I've completely forgotten I have the same schedule as the Marauders. I can't miss one of McGonagall's classes, I'm already horrible as it is. Somehow, the four of them – well, Remus, Black, and Potter are, Pettigrew's ruddy awful – are brilliant at it, even though I've never seen any of them, save for Remus, practicing their spells or actually putting effort, Merlin forbid, into their assignments. All the same, Potter needs to be put in his place, once and for all.
Emmeline, Black, Potter, and I are the only ones left. The Slytherins have glided away, much to my eternal relief. "Potter," I begin. I'm working hard to maintain a calm façade, and it seems to be working, but it's fragile. "I am not a house elf, ready at your every beck and call. I do not appreciate your treating me as such."
"Aw, Evans," he says easily, pulling himself into a semi-sitting position, "now when have I ever done that? I mean, do you know anyone who's asked their house elf to Hogsmeade lately?" Black snickers and shifts his weight. I make it a point to aim my wand at him for just a second longer than needed. He quiets down, but not without a few crude gestures. "10 points from Gryffindor for the use of rude signs towards the Head Girl," I say primly. I relish the dumbfounded look on his face, and cut him off before he can begin to protest. "That's right, Black, I'm not afraid to take points from my own house."
"And 10 points to Gryffindor," Potter jumps in, "for the excellent use of the middle finger, as performed by Sirius Black."
Black grins like he's won a hippogriff and waggles his eyebrows at me. "Now, Evans, we don't want Gryffindor to lose the House Cup again this year, do we?"
He has a point. Gryffindor dominates the Quidditch pitch, but with points constantly being deducted for the Marauders' various foolish pranks and such, we haven't won for three years consecutively. I want so badly to come away with the House Cup this year, so I don't argue or reprimand Potter for abuse of position, merely scowl. "Whatever, Black."
"Now, there's a good girl," Potter says brightly, pulling himself off the ground. He takes a step towards me and I instinctively take a step back and brandish my wand. "Stay away from me, Potter," I warn.
"Oi, Pads, she's feisty today," he smirks. "My favourite."
He says this every time I become angry at him. It's getting old, and it's a surefire way to a well-placed jinx or hex. He still hasn't picked up on this; it's a wonder he's survived this long. "Potter," I say sharply, "if you value all your appendages intact and attached, then I suggest you step out of my way and get to class."
"Evans," he enunciates, clearly paying attention to something other than my words, "you're bloody lovely when you're angry, you know that?"
That's it. That's the final straw. I'm tired today, I have a Transfiguration essay due, I'm cranky and hungry and missing my mum. It makes me want to scream. I'm not the prettiest girl at Hogwarts, nowhere near the title, and I know it, and he knows it too. He's dated the prettiest witch here at least three times. I turn red when I'm mad, my hands ball up and shake uncontrollably, and I look and sound like a little girl. I'm not impressive, dear Merlin no, I'm simply Lily Evans. I prefer the background to the spotlight. Simply Lily.
He's mocking me, I'm sure of it; he always takes some cheap shot at my appearance at least once daily. Normally, it's when I'm stressed about a homework assignment or scolding the Marauders, or some other troublemaker. His timing is impeccable today. "James Potter, you bleeding, arrogant bastard," I snap, "I wish you would just go die in Hel – "
He jaunts forward before I can finish my train of thought. Suddenly, he's kissing me and I'm kissing him. I can't think, I don't know what to do. I should push him away like all the other times I've pushed him away, but for some reason today I can't. In this uncertain moment of rage and scared little-girl thoughts, he's addictive. This certainly isn't the first time he's stolen a kiss, and unless I end up killing him, I doubt it'll be the last. All the same, this time I can't get enough.
Ironically, it's Black's support that brings me back to my senses. He whoops ands applauds in the background, and right as my mind returns and I shove Potter off of me, I see Emmeline stomp viciously on Black's foot. "Two hundred points from Gryffindor," I shriek insanely, infinitely embarrassed by all that has transpired. "And DETENTION! Both of you! Two months!" For good measure, I slap Potter, hard, once, twice.
"Two months?" Black's complaining immediately, not even caring that I've hit his mate. "Aw, c'mon, Evans, it was just a harmless little snog, you can't seriously be thinking of – "
"THREE months!" I scream. The wind's picked up suitably and I'm sure I look quite mental; I can feel my face lighting up like a firework, and my hair is blowing all around my head, tangled with bright October leaves. "Now GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"
Potter looks dazed. "You're so pretty," he mumbles to me, holding his cheek tenderly. Black rolls his eyes. "C'mon, Prongsie old boy, can't have you acting like a bigger sap than you already are," he snorts, frogmarching Potter out of the courtyard and away without a backwards glance.
I scream.
No matter what Remus says, sodding Potter hasn't changed a bit.
()()()
November.
I wake up feeling inexplicably happy. I don't entirely know what it is, maybe it's because there's a Hogsmeade trip tomorrow, but I have an inkling that that's not it. There's a Hogsmeade trip tomorrow and Potter hasn't asked me out to The Three Broomsticks or Madame Puddifoot's.
Not once.
This simple fact makes me want to dance and laugh and sing, even though I never sing or dance because I'm absolutely rubbish at both. I can laugh, however, so I do. I waltz through my morning routine – so maybe I can dance – and nearly skip down to breakfast. Emmeline's tall, much taller than me, and she has to run to keep up. She's panting when we make our appearance at the long table on the far left. I find this far funnier than it really is. I tell Alice this and she smiles warily at me, like she's afraid I might blow at any moment, but I'm far too high on the drug of life to care.
It's the morning of the third Quidditch match of the year, Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw. It's also the first game that Gryffindor's played, as the previous two matches were Slytherin-Hufflepuff and Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw. Nearly all the occupants of the table are dressed in gold and red, prepared for the game. Emmeline is too, I notice, but of course she is, it's required. She's a Chaser for the team, and since Potter was named Seeker in fifth year, she's now the star Chaser and reserve captain. To my surprise, I'm entirely in blue and black and silver. Team-traitor Evans, I am.
To make my morning better, there's no sight of Potter or Black anywhere in the Great Hall. Remus and Pettigrew are at the end of the table, but the other two aren't to be seen. For the first time since August, I eat my morning meal in peace – no exploding doves filled with love letters, no fleet of broomsticks bursting into the hall with handsome blokes who sing, no nothing except blissful chatter about the upcoming match.
When I finish my toast, I'm in such a good mood that I declare to the entire table that I've decided to go down to the pitch with the others and watch the whole game. For a split second, there's silence. Every student who hears my vocalized verdict simply sits and stares. Food falls out of one small second year's mouth. Then a huge cheer goes up, because every self-respecting Gryffindor knows that Lily Evans never watches an entire match, ever. Frank and Benjy jump up and lift me onto their shoulders and suddenly a crowd's swirling around us, chanting my name and laughing uproariously. McGonagall comes up to the group and demands we take our wild party outside the Great Hall, albeit with a slight smile on her face. Slowly, as not to lose anyone, the mob maneuvers around itself and makes its way to the door, loud as ever. I'm still in the air when Potter and Black burst through the doors and stop dead in their tracks, staring bemusedly at us. Belatedly, I realize what it must look like – they must think that I've consumed great quantities of firewhisky to allow this to happen. I consider telling Frank and Benjy to put me down, before I grasp the fact that I simply don't care. Think what they like, I'm untouchable today.
"Oi," Black calls as we move nearer, "what the ruddy hell is going on here?"
"Lily's coming down to watch the game!" Frank whoops. "Actually watch the game."
Black's expression goes slack for a moment before he too begins shouting in excitement.
"Anyone special?" Potter teases over the ruckus we're creating, his hand jumping to his hair. We're close enough to see the sparkle in his eyes, and for the first time in forever, I can see how witches think of him as handsome. I also notice that something seems a little different. He's not wearing his usual Potter-the-great smirk; instead, a playful little grin has stolen its place. It's not the first time I've seen this, he's been wearing it more and more since we agreed on a truce and tentative friendship last month.
"No," I shout back, "not unless you're counting Thomas Goldstein!"
It's somewhat of a running joke here in Gryffindor house, Thomas Goldstein and Lily Evans forever. Thomas is three years older than I, and for four years, he didn't even know I existed. On the first day of my fourth year, the Hogwarts Express had barely pulled out of King's Cross Station when Potter and Black had begun taunting and provoking Snape when I was elsewhere. By the time I had made it back into the right car, an all-out brawl had started, lions against snakes. A flying elbow had caught me in the temple as I opened the car door, and I had fallen back, into the arms of Head Boy Thomas Goldstein, eldest brother of fourth year Ravenclaw Christopher Goldstein.
Emmeline and Hestia had arrived in time to witness his concerned questions regarding my welfare. Having no idea what I was doing in his arms, half supported by him, they jumped to the most logical conclusion that a fourteen year old girl's mind will supply – romance. Of course, after that day, I fancied the bloke something rotten for about six months, until I found out that he and Head Girl Marie Branwell, a very nice Gryffindor, were dating. To this day, I am mercilessly teased, but I find I don't mind.
I come back to roaring laughter. We've made it out of the Great Hall and are advancing towards the path to the Quidditch pitch. Black and Potter have joined the group, and I'm still in the air. It's really not so awful, I suppose, but I still infinitely prefer trains and other ground-bound forms of transportation.
In a whirlwind of red and gold and loud cheering, we arrive at the rapidly filling stadium. I'm carried up, up, up, right to the top Gryffindor box. With the sheer number of followers I have somehow amassed, we easily take it over. Somewhere along the line, we've lost Emmeline, Hestia, Black, and Potter, presumably to the change rooms. Frank and Benjy settled me on the bench like I'm royalty, then Frank waves at us before running down to change for the match. Benjy throws himself down beside me and casually flings an arm around my shoulder. Remus is on my other side, Alice on the bench in front of me.
"Keepers," Benjy says in mock disgust, shaking his head at Frank's retreating back. "Such honorable blokes. I don't think my reputation can handle it much longer." We all laugh because Benjy himself is probably the most trusting, truthful person any of us will ever meet.
In due time, the captains shake hands, the match starts, and I am glued to the action. I don't understand over half of the plays, but I am intrigued by the agile grace of the players. Benjy and Remus spend nearly the entire match explaining the game, but it all goes right over my head. I watch the players of the Gryffindor team alternately, mostly focusing on Em and Frank and Hest. However, by the fifth or sixth goal, I find myself completely captivated by Potter. For a fleeting moment, I'm glad we're now friends, because Alice will inevitably turn around and catch me staring, but at least this time I'll have an excuse.
The game, it seems, is over before I can blink. Potter catches the snitch after a tight race with the Ravenclaw Seeker, and the team descends in ecstasy. All around me, the stands erupt with loud chants and cheers. I'm on my feet with the rest of them, shouting my support and dancing like a madwoman with Benjy, when Potter remounts his broom and the commentator shoots off some snarky comment that I completely miss because Potter's remounted his broom and is flying this way.
Person by person, the stands silence as they watch him. I see a few quizzical faces turn up to me, but most of the attention centers upon the Seeker. I don't know what he's got in mind exactly, but I don't know if I'll even care all that much. We've won, the game is over; what can go wrong? I'm at the top of the world and invincible.
I'm only partly surprised when he hovers in the air in front of me. Alice's eyes are wide and she's got that look that she gets when she's stumbled across something romantic. "What do you want, Potter?" I say, but today, there's no real malice. I sound happy, friendly, everything I haven't been towards him for six years. He floats in front of me silently for a moment more. I get the feeling that I'm being evaluated, though for what, I'm not sure. It's not the type of body-sweep that most men use; no, it's more of a psychological assessment than anything.
Even the professors are watching with a ravenous hunger as time slows and Potter leans forward presses a kiss to my cheek. "My lucky charm," he mutters into my ear, before taking off back into the pitch.
The crowds holler and hoot as the team regroups in midair. I don't know what to make of this, so I just smile as wide as I can because I'm still happy.
He didn't ask me out to Hogsmeade.
()()()
December.
I think the biggest reason I hate Christmas is because it's the anniversary of my parents' deaths.
Exactly one year ago today, I boarded the Hogwarts Express to go home for the winter holidays, Emmeline along with me. The ride itself is only a blurry flash in my mind, but I remember that the kind trolley lady offered us hot cocoa and peppermint, something Emmeline hated and I loved. Potter, Black, and Remus had all been on the train with us, and we had ended up sharing a compartment.
That was the first time that I truly appreciated James Potter's company. That December day, with just the five of us comfortably crammed beside each other on the long red plush benches that served as seats. Black had brought along a pack of Exploding Snap cards, declaring himself master of the game and challenging us to beat him. Em, despite her hatred of Black for the first prank the Marauders had ever pulled, and Potter took up the bet immediately, laughing and taunting. Remus pulled out a book, rolling his eyes good-naturedly at me over the pages.
Eventually, he and I drifted over to the game. To everyone's surprise but Black's, our team lost spectacularly. The afternoon was passed in pleasant company, the silences between laugher filled with idle chatter and piles of pastries and sweets. Black was hilariously, ridiculously flirtatious; Emmeline was civil to him and a laugh riot for us; Remus was a gentleman, as always; Potter, wonder of wonders, was polite and considerate, if not a bit cruel in his imitations of the members of Slytherin house. By that point, I had stopped caring about snakes. But that's not the most important bit of the day. What happens after that is the part that matters the most.
Almost the moment we entered the Muggle-filled section of King's Cross Station, I was assaulted by someone very familiar. My aunt Summer was in distress, that much was clear; she was crying too hard to speak. Potter instantly morphed into the kind of boy who's never done a deed wrong in his life, and led us all to a secluded little ticket office. He calmed my aunt, and over the course of the ten longest minutes of my life, coaxed the story from her.
January and Daniel Evans were dead.
My parents. Mum and Dad. Gone, never coming back.
It had been an accident; before coming to meet me at the train, they had gone to the market. On the way back to the house to drop off the groceries, an elderly man had suffered a heart attack behind the wheel. His car had sailed through the intersection and hit ours dead on. Death had been instantaneous. The steering column had gone through Dad's chest and Mum's throat was sliced open by a flying shard of windshield glass.
I cried into everyone's shoulders that day – Emmeline's, Remus's, even Black's. But the one that stands out the most is Potter's – Potter, who was kind and collected and nothing more than an acquaintance. Potter, who had never met Dan and Janey, but who grieved for them all the same.
James Potter, the boy who had mercilessly teased and taunted me for six years, grew into a man that day. He took the deaths of my parents very seriously, as though all the responsibilities of my world had fallen into his hands. While I cried and pitied myself and missed my parents, he arranged the funeral, went through their will with Petunia and I; he even went so far as to secure living spaces for both of us.
Looking back on this, I suppose I really shouldn't be all that alarmed when I hear footsteps climbing the stairs to my tower. I know it's him before he enters; I'm the only one who uses the Tower of Ghosts, and he's the only one who's ever found me. It's such an un-Lily Evans place to hide that no one's ever guessed, and I like it that way. Who would think that Lily, with her fear of heights, would tuck herself away in the second-tallest turret in all of Hogwarts?
"Hello, Potter," I say, my voice cracked and raw. One of the best things about this tower is its isolation. No one can hear my tears, so I cry as hard as I please, for as long as I need to. By this point, I've been here most of the day, sniffing and sobbing alternately, with no one's company but that of a good book and the shadows of everyone who's been torn away from me by death. My throat is raw from wailing and I'm lightheaded from lack of nourishment; I'm surprised I can manage even that meager greeting.
"Hullo, Evans," he says, uncharacteristically sombre. He knows what I'm blatting about, but he doesn't mention it. He knows I prefer memories over words sometimes. It's surprising, that he knows these things of mine while I still don't know what his favourite color is. The scariest part is that he doesn't ask Emmeline or Hestia or Alice about things he wants to know, he observes them himself.
Silently, he sets a tray full of his offerings beside me – a box of the best Honeydukes chocolates, a plate stacked with waffles covered with fresh strawberries and dusted with white sugar, a half-eaten box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, and an enormous mug of hot cocoa with a stick of peppermint candy, just the way I like it. "The other three sent these up for you," he explains quietly. "Remus has been hoarding that chocolate since last month, but he figured you need it more than he does. And Sirius said waffles cure everything. And Pete – well, Pete tried." He scratches the back of his head sheepishly. "Hope I'm not intruding."
"You're definitely intruding," I say, "but you can stay if you like. I'm planning on going to go down soon anyways." This isn't the truth, but the Tower of Ghosts is as cold as its namesake occupants, and I'll soon be forced into a warmer setting, should I want it or not. The waffles are still hot, I can see the steam against the chilly air. I haven't eaten since breakfast and I'm famished but knowing Black, he's stuck a Color-Changing draught into the batter in a rather misguided attempt to lift my spirits. Potter catches my glances and chuckles. "They haven't been messed with," he assures me. "Remus personally supervised the elves. There's no chance anything got past him."
I'm not going to argue. There are two forks on the plate. I pass him one wordlessly and we eat in relative silence. I like to think we get along best when there's no sound, as there's nothing for him to make a joke of and therefore nothing for me to yell at. It's a foolproof system, really, I don't know how we didn't discover this method of co-existing survival before September.
Eventually, we finish off the stack of waffles and my insides feel warm and muzzy, that kind of feeling that you get when you know you're loved. I'm tired all of a sudden, and I yawn. Potter noticed this and scrambles to his feet. "C'mon, Evans," he says, "let's get to bed. Er – I mean, your bed! You! In your own bed!"
It's a rare occasion that I catch James Potter – or any of the Marauders, really – putting their foot in their mouth. His face is flushed in the torchlight, his glasses are crooked on his nose, and his hair is messier than it was when he came up. I want to laugh but I don't. He coughs awkwardly and a snicker escapes. "Whatever you say, Potter," I giggle. I've gone barmy, I'm sure of it, but I just can't bring myself to care at the moment. We gather up the chocolate and dishes and make our way down the stairs. I'm still giggling like a drunken idiot, and he's throwing out the occasional comment.
By the time we reach the portrait of the Fat Lady and stammer out the password, the common room's deserted. There's a slight fire still flickering in the grate, casting eerie, twisted versions of ourselves onto the walls. I feel like we're too loud when we breathe, but that just goes to show how tired I really am. After thanking Potter for his provisions and bidding him a good night, I stumble towards the stairs. Suddenly, his hand's on my arm. "Sleep well, Lily," he intones, and leans forward to brush his mouth over my forehead before bounding up his own staircase and out of sight.
That night, I dream of a boy named Harry.
()()()
February.
It's the second Hogsmeade trip of the new year, and much to my delight, it's a nice day. The air is crisp and clean, the snow still white and only a little melted – it's the time for snowballs and snow forts, epic battles of aim and impact. I point this out to my friends as we meander down the cobblestone path that so many times before has brought us to the friendly little village below. Emmeline laughs heartily when I suggest it and leans over to scoop up a handful of snow. I shriek in anticipation and hide behind Alice, who's the tallest of the four of us. Little Hestia, beside us, is barely five feet tall.
"Shh." Em holds a finger to her lips as we round a bend and the group ahead of comes into view. It's the Marauders, laughing rowdily and shoving each other and no doubt planning pranks to play on Valentine's Day next week. They remind me of puppies, tumbling over each other with their eager eyes and floppy hair. Even Remus, who's usually so studious and quiet, is partaking in the gaiety today. As we watch, Sirius and James each pull something from their pocket and lob them away from the path. There's a boom and an impressive puff of smoke when they land. When the smog lifts, a glittering red tree stands in its place.
I'm impressed, I can't deny it. It's a valentine tree; the leaves are made of hearts and the branches seem to be inscribed with verse. A little pink sign pops out of the ground by its roots, as glittery as the tree itself. I want to read it, but Emmeline rushes ahead before I can, snowball held aloft. Alice grabs my hand and I take Hestia's and together we run down the path after our friend. Just as we reach Em, she launches her small cold projectile. We all stand together and watch with mounting expectation as it sails through the air, higher, higher, higher, until it descends and hits Sirius square in the back of the head.
Sirius whips around to face us as James slaps his shoulder in a cheery manner and positively roars with laughter. Sirius shakes a mockingly threatening fist at us before diving at his best mate, knocking him off his feet and into a snow bank. There's an enormous pouf of snow when they land, rocketing into the sky and then fluttering delicately to the ground. Remus deliberately rolls his eyes and wanders over to inspect the valentine tree. Peter is hopping from foot to foot, calling out encouragement to both boys in the snow. They're locked in a friendly tussle, shooting harmless insults at each other and grinning so wide I fear they might hurt themselves. We laugh as we pass them. Emmeline throws another snowball at them, but it goes wide and completely misses them. We hightail it into the village, giggling and shouting.
We've scoured Zonko's and are raiding Honeydukes when they finally catch up to us. "Vance!" Sirius shouts, bursting into the shop, hands held behind his back. The other three follow with varying expressions; Remus looks amused, James seems to be holding back laughter, and Peter is giving off the impression that he's looking forward to making use of the water closet as soon as Sirius is done with his revenge. Emmeline turns from her inspection of the sugar quills with a distracted, "Hmm?"
The snowball hits her just under the collar bone. "BLACK!" she shrieks immediately, so loud that Alice and Hestia shoot furtive glances at the owner, who appears not to have noticed and is instead employed at the counter measuring out cockroach clusters for a group of Slytherins. Emmeline turns to me, slaps three Galleons into my palm, orders me to buy her as many sugar quills as I can, and chases Sirius out of the shop. Alice and Hestia snicker and turn back to their perusal of sugar, but I watch Em and Sirius for a moment longer though Honeydukes' front window. Sometimes I doubt that Em really hates Sirius as much as she says she does.
I turn back to my browsing when they run around the corner, no doubt screaming insults at each other that the rest of us won't understand. Remus walks past and hands me a little mesh basket with the Honeydukes logo embroidered on the side. We're both faithful worshippers of the sugar shoppe's cult, and he knows I'll need it. "Thanks," I say, and put a bar of chocolate into his basket. "New flavour," I explain. "I think you'll like it."
He checks the label and grins at me. "Why, Miss Evans, I do believe I will," he says, and we part ways amicably. I make my rounds, stock up for another month – white chocolate-raspberry bars, almond fudge, chocolate frogs, and three pounds of of sugar quills for Emmeline, who, after over half an hour, is still gone. And, of course, cauldron cakes, which are decadent and hot and chocolatey and my only consolation during the late night study sessions with only my shadow for company. I pick up assorted candies and two cases of Fizzing Whizpop and four new flavours of chocolate as I head to the counter. I meet Remus in line and we compare our purchases as the shopkeeper rings them through. We round up the other four in the store, and tell them we'll meet in The Three Broomsticks.
The day's gotten cold and overcast while we were inside Honeydukes. Each clutching a bulging paper sack ready to burst, we hurry to The Three Broomsticks, laughing and speculating where Emmeline and Sirius have disappeared to in turn. Remus shares my doubt of Emmeline's claims of hating Sirius. We have a grand time discussing their possible escape venues.
"Hogwarts," I say, spotting the restaurant's sign. "The Astronomy tower."
"Nah," he sniggers, "Sirius's more likely to go right for the first broom closet he sees."
"Madame Puddifoot's, then," I guess, kicking happily at snow with my boots.
"Plausible, but unlikely," he agrees, holding the door open for me. The room's packed wall to wall with students.
"True." I spot an empty table in the back and tow him after me. "Alright, so maybe Em wouldn't like that much…"
"Far too much pink," Remus laughs. "You'll have a coronary when you see what she's done to the place since last year."
The waitress comes and goes and we talk about everything, schoolwork, Peter's malfunctioning broom, Alice and Frank, even Hestia's plans to move back to her native France once we graduate; everything that's at once meaningful and meaningless. When twenty minutes pass and there's still no sign of our friends, the conversation takes a markedly dangerous turn.
"Lily," Remus starts, "don't take this the wrong way, but what's happening between you and James?"
"What?" I feel my eyebrows shoot up my forehead.
"Let me rephrase," Remus says hastily. "What I meant is, what's going on with you and him? Every day you treat him a little bit differently."
"Do I?" I honestly haven't noticed. I always assume I'm the same. "I'm not quite sure what you mean."
He blows a puff of air through his lips. "Well, today for example. You're not ignoring him, exactly, but you're not talking to him either. But yesterday you were practically climbing over the desks to talk to him after Transfiguration. I just want to make sure you're okay."
"I'm fine, Dad," I grumble. "Thanks anyways."
He rolls his eyes. "You know how much he cares about you, don't you, Lily?" he asks quietly. The question catches me off-guard. "We're friends," I hedge. "I should hope he cares about me."
"That's not what I'm talking about." He rubs his forehead. I can tell he's discussed this many times with someone, most likely Peter, who, out of the remaining three, seems like the only candidate likely to listen. "James fancies you, Lily. He still does, even though he claims he's grown out of it. He's very protective of you, but he doesn't even realize he's defending you, because he's gotten so used to it."
"That's…interesting." And more than I bargained for. "I – I don't really know what to say, actually."
"My apologies." Remus sits back. "I'm not trying to pressure you into fancying him, honestly I'm not, but I just thought you would be better off if you knew a bit of what he's feeling."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
For once, we're both silent. I sip my butterbeer and allow the warmth of the drink, the room, the surrounding chatter to envelope me. We remain this way for perhaps ten minutes when I look around and by chance spot the rest of our group winding their way towards our table. "Oh, bugger," I yelp, "I forgot I have a…broken fingernail! I'll be in the ladies' room!"
I flee the table as James, Em, Sirius, and the rest – they've apparently managed to track down the fugitives – arrive at my recently vacated seat. I push open the door of the restroom with a sigh of relief and then stop cold.
On the white tiled floor is a woman. She's dead, I can already tell, just by the unnatural twist of her limbs. Her eyes are blue, wide and unseeing; her hair looks like it used to be blonde, but now that it's been saturated with blood, it's hard to tell. In life, she would have been pretty; now, she's my warning. I back up, one hand behind me, searching for the doorknob. In the other I draw my wand and clutch it tightly. "Who are you and what do you want?" I demand. My fingers are curled around the handle when a gruff voice speaks.
"Tha's none o' yer business, girlie," a man grunts. I look up and scream. He's perched on the railing on top of the stall closest to me. His lips are drawn back in a feral grin and for a second I think I know him. Then I realize that I've seen him in the Daily Prophet; I'm trapped in the ladies' room with Fenir Greyback, werewolf, murderer, Death Eater. "Now, now," he continues, his voice almost a coo, "no need ta get all werked up 'bout nothin', girlie."
I scream in response. I've just noticed the girl's throat. It's mangled and oozing blood. I can see stains around Greyback's mouth and suddenly I'm filled with a cold sense of dread that failed to kick in the moment I first saw the girl.
"Shut yer gob," snarls a second voice. A gaunt wizard steps out from around the corner of a stall, wand aimed at my heart. "Or I'll shut it fer ye."
"I – how did you get in here?" I demand instead, brandishing my own wand. Above me, Greyback makes a show of licking his lips and baring his teeth. "Never ye worry 'bout tha'," he growls. "Yer dead, ye hear? Go ahead, girlie, scream, it ain't gonna do ye no good."
I take a breath and begin screaming for England. I'm screaming so loudly that I don't hear what the thin wizard says, only see a jet of blue light erupt from his wand and feel it hit me. At first, there's nothing. Then there's everything. I don't know what he used, but it's carved a line from my ribcage to my hip. Suddenly, there's a lot more blood on the floor and I'm gasping for breath. I hear cackling above as I fall to my knees, hands firmly pressed to my side. The door explodes violently inward as I tuck myself into a ball, and suddenly James is there, wand in hand and murder in his eyes. "STUPEFY!" he roars, and the thin wizard, caught off guard, topples over. I hear him hit the floor a foot away from where I am.
Greyback snarls his rage and suddenly there's a chorus of curses and spells. I close my eyes but I can still see the seven jets of light as they soar over my body. I'm vaguely aware of someone shouting, "Let me through, I work at Saint Mungo's, let me see the girl!" A moment later, I feel soft, womanly hands poking and prodding me. I let her. There's a harsh, whispered exchange, and the woman leaves. In her place is a man, with large calloused hands that are surprisingly gentle as the lift me.
I struggle to open my eyes. I'm being carried by James, I can tell that much before my eyelids close against my orders. "James," I mumble, "I'm scared."
"So am I," I hear him confide. There's a soft pressure on my temple before I fully slip under.
The next day, when I wake up in Saint Mungo's, I ask Emmeline if he kissed me.
She laughs at me. I insist on the answer.
She says yes.
()()()
April.
It's been two months since the attack and finally people aren't always treating me as though I'm a porcelain doll. I'm very grateful; now, Remus allows me to carry my own books to class, Sirius has stopped insisting that I let him carry me up and down stairs, McGonagall has reluctantly begun assigning me homework once again. It's a relief, to be able to do what I please, without consulting my traveling show of amateur doctors if it's allowable to sit in the sun or the shade.
Some people haven't let it go. Emmeline still shadows my every step, and Alice makes it a point to give me a hug every time we pass in the corridors. James continues to stare. Several times I have asked what his gazes are for, but he always waves it away and asks if I'm warm enough.
It's a Quidditch day today, the last match of the season, Gryffindor against Slytherin. I'm unspeakably excited; the Marauders were adamant that I stay in the common room and listen from there, but Emmeline argued and pleaded and screamed and begged on my behalf until they grudgingly agreed that I may watch. I take my time dressing, making sure I have all my Gryffindor paraphernalia on hand. Hestia declares that we need a banner; we pull a sheet from Alice's bed and set to work. By breakfast, we have a presentably charmed flag depicting the mighty lions that we are.
Breakfast itself is a rowdy affair. The entire house has been infected by team spirit, and all along the table, there are random outbursts of song and dance. The sixth year girls have made chants about all the players, and they make sure to repeat their awful couplets all throughout the meal, weaving in and out of sync. We're all too anxious and excited to care.
When the doors open and the team strides in, we all jump onto the benches and scream, clap, whistle. James and Emmeline and Sirius sit down to a flurry of well-wishers and handshakes. I squeeze my way in between Em and James, and proceed to butter toast for the entire team. Since my first game, it's become almost a ritual; the players won't think to eat unless someone physically hands them food and rattles off a list of reasons of why it's beneficial to eat before a match. I have been appointed this position. I have a team shirt that has Team Nutritionist emblazoned on the back, and my number, 83, a Christmas gift from the players. I wear it proudly.
The required half-hour of mealtime passes almost excruciatingly slowly. The players are fidgety, eager to be on the pitch and beating Slytherin. On my left, Emmeline gazes into space and impatiently drums her fingers on the tabletop, her elbow firmly planted in an empty cereal bowl. On my right, James is holding a halting conversation with Sirius, who is possibly the only semi-calm member of the team. James's leg bumps against mine as it jitters nervously.
The solemn march to the pitch seems agonizingly long this time. I follow the team into the change room, to sit in on their pep talk. James is nervous, anyone can see that, as he trips over his words and repeats his sentences endlessly. Sirius and I end up detailing the plays for him. Remus and Benjy have succeeded in turning me into an avid Quidditch follower; I now understand every word that comes out of Sirius's mouth, with the exception of 'Lost Chimera Maneuver'. I conclude that I missed a practice somewhere along the line.
When it's time for the team to enter the pitch, I give each and every one of them a hug. I elect to watch from the team box, a decision that the reserve team doesn't seem to mind. They greet me with hearty backslaps and cheerfully slide themselves into new seats to allow me to sit.
I deem the game, at first, to be too stressful for me to watch. Instead, I turn my sights to the clouds far above the players, and concentrate instead on the peaceful playfulness that they present. I listen to the commentator with rapt attention, however, and only redirect my attention to the plays when something particularly interesting happens. Even after the score is upped to 80-10 Gryffindor within twenty minutes and I relax, I'm still far too caught up in my own mind to pay attention to most of the game.
Somehow, I miss the moment when James catches the last snitch of the year. I'm thrown into this fact when over half the stadium rises and cheers, calling for a victory lap. James is lifted onto the shoulders of his team and mobbed by ecstatic watchers. I locate Alice among the throngs, kissing Frank. Emmeline is bashfully shaking hands with Sirius. James is hollering in exhilaration. I sneak away.
The victory party is a ball of colors and cheer. Someone's brought down their radio, and we're all dancing to a popular wrock song when I turn around to talk to Em and find James instead. He's not wearing his uniform anymore, like Sirius is, but instead has elected for his team shirt. I can't do it.
"James!" I blurt.
I can.
"Yes, Lily?" He's politely confused.
There's no way.
"Er, well, I've been thinking…"
I can make it.
"No surprise there," he laughs, relaxing. "What's your latest profound thought, Professor Evans?"
"You," I whisper.
"Sorry, didn't catch that." He looks completely honest. I can't tell if he's pretending or not.
Oh, Merlin, I can't go through with this.
I close my eyes.
"Well, er, you see, there's something that's been bothering me…" I rush. "You keep kissing me without my permission and I don't like that."
"Lily, I'm sorry about that, I really am – " he starts. I clap a hand over his mouth and talk over him. "But I give you my permission now. I don't love you, but I – I think I could fancy you. So…James, will you kiss me?"
And he did. And for the years to follow, he never stopped.
()()()
This was written for Hogwarts Online II's The Five Things challenge in September of 2011. Thanks to all at HO, you are AMAZING :)