THE RED WHITE & BLUE MEDLEY
"The Redemption of James Potter & the Ignorance of Lily Evans"
by Oh Prudence
I do not own Harry Potter, however, the entirety of this plot and
unfamiliar characters are mine. Quotes belong to the brilliant
Neil Gaiman. Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling.
Rated 'M' for brief adult situations
and mild drug use. JP/LE.
(Part One: The Ignorance of Lily Evans)
He can't help it when her red hair presses against that Ravenclaw's shoulder and his knuckles grow a putrid white.
"Have you ever been in love?
Horrible isn't it?
It makes you so vulnerable.
It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it
means that someone can get inside you and mess you up."
-Neil Gaiman
His name's Joe Rodriguez.
And my, what a sick bloke was he.
The name tastes of morose bile on James Potter's tongue whilst a puff of white smoke trails from his lips; it's eleven o'clock on a Friday night but he wastes his youth away underneath the oak across the pitch.
And with long legs spread and a slouched body slumped against the trunk, the missing Quidditch captain keeps his wrath towards Rodriguez in his eyes. And the meager recipient of this wrath is a poor lone log just feet from him. He's keeping his anger to himself, this time. He's all alone and maybe, maybe being alone was his problem all along.
He hasn't always been alone, thank you very much.
He had this habit—five times a week (except on Mondays and Fridays) he'd find himself within the comfort of Camille Atkins.
Lips greedily shape into an 'O' as another departs from his wasted lungs as he thinks about her.
He shouldn't be smoking, or doing Camille Atkins for that matter; but in all fairness, he never did the two things at the same time.
When Atkins failed to entertain him with her presence on those two evenings, he had another friend—one paler in comparison, skinnier in length, and held more toxic than any other female counterpart on Hogwart's grounds.
On Mondays and Fridays, Cigarettes were his friend. And my god, were they his best.
I^I^I
He's a citizen of the forty-eighth state of America, otherwise known as Arizona.
He's an exchange student. He's the son of a factory worker.
He's a Ravenclaw.
He hates smoke and toxic liquids. He's in the Slug Club.
He's captain of the chess team.
He has perfect broad shoulders (and happy trail too).
And he's the exact opposite of James Potter.
So it's no surprise Monday morning when all head to breakfast, Joe Rodriguez strides hand-in-hand with a slim girl of fair skin and fiery hair and green eyes. It's too much for James to handle.
Alice Caprenter is the first to notice this couple's first entrance, and the first to approve.
"Oh my god, how did this happen?" The round faced girl points to white and tan interlocked hands.
It happened yesterday afternoon, she claims with a dreamy voice that was so not like Lily Evans.
There she is, all alone in the library, when a spot of blue catches her eye. 'Are you following me?' she teasingly had asked. As it turned out, Joe had been following her. He had stood before her with sweaty palms and a nervous demeanor and a daisy stolen from Sprout's orchard—and then, and then, as they say, the rest is history.
James'd been watching this whole time; in fact he's sitting only six seats away with Sirius when gossip first breaks round the table that Evans is finally snogging Rodriguez.
He swallows, hard.
He really doesn't need to hear it again; he'd seen it happen crystal clear with his own eyes the day before, and by god, was that enough.
I^I^I
Every Sunday afternoon, the library is graced by the presence of a studious bird called Camille Atkins.
She's a reserved beauty, she really is.
But James likes to say that she's anything but reserved.
Her physical appearance gives hints that underneath this 'quiet aura' she goes by, there's an unorthodox vixen waiting to be knows how to wear purple color on her eyes. She knows how to work those paisley headscarves when it's not even sunny.
And she likes to take her shoes off and soak her toes between the grass, and strum this thing she knows how to play called a guitar. She knows how to do things that Lily Evans doesn't know how to do. And because of that, Camille Atkins was James' cherry on top. Was.
Because she is still a bit of a gossip.
So when 3:30 rolled around that Sunday afternoon, and a very eager James Potter walked through the library doors, with the ever so indecisive smile, Camille immediately grabs his arm and motions for him to hush.
"What the hell are you doing?" he asks. Her magically induced nails have left a mark on his once clear skin.
"Someone's hooking up..." she sings in voice that makes James almost want to cringe. She shushes him again before pointing to a very intertwined couple visible behind a bookshelf.
Before he could ask 'who' and 'where', he sees with his own two, spectacled eyes 'who'. And he almost vomits. When he sees red hair being stroked tenderly by a man with a Ravenclaw badge, his knuckles take their own action and grip the table hard until they're sickeningly white.
"C'mon, Cammy, we're leaving," his voice is low, and he pulls the poor girl called Atkins a wee bit too rough.
"Where we going?" she laughs with excitement because she likes it when James' is rough (and its sickeningly annoying).
The decibels of her voice floats across the room until green, emerald eyes snap up at once.
And James takes this liberty to suddenly pause, fully aware of his public display. A mischievous smile graces his lips and he turns around and he places his perfect lips on Cammie's neck.
"I think you know the answer to that, Atkins."
And they're gone within a flash, thanks to the speed of teenage hormones.
I^I^I
There's a room in the boys' dormitory full of the most vile stench of a week's old Firewhiskey; where Muggle pictures of girls clad in bikinis and motorbike posters decored the wall; where a book called "Ten Most Dangerous Werewolves" lay gracefully on the desk; and, where a letter from someone's mother was shoved underneath the bed.
But most importantly, in that room lies a pile of His and Her clothings-trousers of the darkest navy and a brassiere of the frilliest lace.
On the bed there lies Camille Atkins; and on the floor, warily exhausted I might add, is one James Potter and a cig between his fingers.
"So," Camille begins propping herself up on her elbow.
She's up for small talk, and James has never been the one for small talk, at least not with her anyway.
"What's that ginger's name?"
"What ginger?" he smokes; his brows curved; she has his attention.
"You know... the one that we saw in the library. The one that got your knickers in a twist," she laughs.
He decides Camille Atkins really does have a beautiful laugh; that is when she's not throwing her head back and forth in an obnoxious way that makes even the most decent of blokes cringe.
He huffs in disgust, picks up his muscular off the frame, and joins the girl underneath his sweaty because he wants to cuddle, god no; but he's cold, and poor little Camille Atkins is a naive fool.
"Lily Evans," he mutters after a short pause.
"Evans, you say?"
" ...yes, Evans. I just said that. Cammy, you are quite daft."
A pause here. Atkins is removing her limbs from his. She bolts upright. "She's the one, isn't she."
And her question isn't a question, but more of a statement.
"What do you mean?"
"She's the one that you do this for..." her voice slightly cracks (he rolls his eyes at her dramatic necessities) "Why you smoke, why you drink, why you go off into the Quidditch pitch at night and just leave me here all by myself... you're doing this to get her attention. You'd never do this for me."
She hit a nerve, a really low nerve. James violently pulls the sheets off them, and for a moment Atkins is scared at what the hell he'll do to her.
"Get out."
And his statement isn't really a statement, but more of a demand.
Atkins, the poor slag, she instantly becomes flustered and her pretty brown eyes are narrowing, "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Get. out. now." He has no patience, at least not for her anyway.
"Wasted scumbag" slips from her lips and James turns away as her naked body finds its frivolous clothing.
"You know what, Potter?" Her thin frame leans against the door, taking in the sight of the pitiful but handsome man. "I hope you realize what you've just done. And when you finally come to your senses tomorrow morning, I'll be waiting for you at our usual spot."
There's a hint thrown, but not taken. And those are the last words Camille Atkins ever says to James Potter and his cigarette.