Disclaimer: Everything but the plot belongs to JK Rowling. Damn.

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"Oi, Evans! EVANS!"

Lily sighed, and reluctantly turned to face the direction of the yells.

"What, Potter?" she said, her voice laced with impatience.

That did nothing to stop James. He sauntered towards her, grinning his favourite cocky, lopsided grin, and Lily knew what was coming. She braced herself as James stopped just in front of her, and asked the question he had been asking since third year, the one he had designed to drive her demented.

"Come on, Evans, don't break my heart. Go out with me?"

"Potter, every single day you ask me that exact same question, and every single day my answer is exactly the same. No. So why even bother? Are you really that dense?"

James pulled a face of exaggerated anguish, and clutched his hand to his heart.

"Ouch, Evans, that one really hurt…who's writing your material these days? And I'm not dense; I just thought my ritual asking would please you. It shows I'm consistent – one of my many good points." He winked.

"Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative," Lily retorted. "Quote: Oscar Wilde – I guess he's writing my material, Potter. Besides, even if I wanted to, which I don't, I don't have the time to go out with you. I am actually working hard, what with NEWTs in a few months…maybe instead of pestering me, you should give studying a try. For once." Lily smirked, pleased with herself.

"Hard work is simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do."

Lily's eyes widened, shocked. How on earth…?

"Quote: Oscar Wilde." James continued, a smirk of his own falling into place. "I have been known to read the occasional muggle piece of literature, Evans. Especially stuff by someone so like myself – outstandingly gifted, universally popular…you get my drift." He grinned, his hazel eyes glinting wickedly.

Lily blinked a few times, lost for words, before quickly composing herself.

"Oscar Wilde decorated his bedroom with flowers, James, and he ended up in jail for gross indecency. With men. So yes, if that's what you were referring to, I can completely see the similarities." And with that, she turned on her heel and walked quickly away.

The boy she left behind smiled quietly to himself.

James. James.

Three years of dedicated asking, and she had finally called him by his first name. Progress. And his name had never sounded sweeter.

He knew now that he could break her, that she would eventually say yes to him, and that it would be because she wanted to.

After all, he had the key.

Consistency.

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Author's Note: Ok, so I wrote this for The Oscar Wilde Challenge on a whim, but now I actually want to extend it (I have a few ideas rolling about in my head)=] What do you guys think?