Sometimes she just knows.
She watches him as he marches into the common room late at night, gripping his Nimbus like he wants to strangle it, his quidditch gear hanging loosely and lopsided on his tall, broad frame. She takes in his rumpled hair, moist with a mixture of rain and sweat, his quidditch robes now a dark maroon color instead of the bright scarlet red they are when they're dry. She then looks up at his face, notices the deep crease between his eyebrows, the way his lips are slightly turned downward, the way his eyes seem more olive green than their usual cheerful gold in all his anger. She watches as he walks fiercely toward her, his large stride covering so much distance in such little time, his limbs making sudden motions as he makes no effort to suppress his absolute fury.
And then he suddenly stops walking. She looks up at him from her spot on the floor by the fireplace, watching as his features seem to soften the tiniest bit as he looks down at her. And then she stands up, takes his callused hand in her soft one, and leads him silently to the couch in front of the fire. He complies, sitting down at first and then watching as she does the same, before he lays his head down in her lap and closes his eyes as she plays with his hair. He sighs, and then he begins ranting about how much he wants to beat stupid Diggory on Saturday, but he doesn't know if he can because Rory Smith still can't get his technique right even after a week of practice, and Katie Johnson almost killed herself today while trying to pull out of a dive in an effort to catch the snitch, and Matt Clark can't prevent a goal to save his life, and the whole team is just falling apart. And she starts rubbing circles on his back as she listens, watching as the anger slowly drains from his face, so that all that is left is a look of hurt and sorrow and maybe even relief.
But there is no look of defeat. Never has there once been a look of defeat on James Potter's beautiful face. And that is one of the things she loves most about him. He is brave and loving and fierce and bloody brilliant, and most of all, he never gives up. He could be on the quidditch pitch or in the middle of a severely life-threatening yet defining war in a dark world, but no matter what, he would always stand by what is right, never wavering, like the eye of a hurricane.
And she looks down at those hazel eyes, the liquid gold she's grown to love so much coming back at the expense of his rage, and she thinks about how bloody insane it is that she's suddenly made this realization about him all because he stormed up to her a few minutes earlier while fuming about quidditch.
And he looks up at her with adoration etched onto his face because he thinks it's just so amazing how she just knows. He thinks about the way she understands what he needs, what he wants, what he believes. He finds it amazing how they've made it this far, how he finally did it. He finally made the Lily Evans fall in love with him. And that's all he needs. Because he needs her, and she needs him.
And that's all they've ever bloody wanted.