Abruptly, every reality was different than the one they cultivated. She was a witch and he was a wizard but more than that they were human and that had so much more magic. Lily wanted to keep it quiet and James obliged because it was all up to her, she could do it however she wanted, he was a marionette in her trustworthy hands. And so it began slowly, kissing behind closed doors, holding hands beneath the table, the secret, powerful knowledge that nothing could ever be the same between them again. And James didn't know where they stood, not in the least, but he didn't care, she'd given him something so important: she'd given him hope.

Every aspect of their connection intensified. Their conversations, deeper − "no, tell me your fears, James. Nearly-Headless-Nick and your mother's wrath don't count" −their arguments, louder − "Lily, do you really, truly believe that I care two quid about what that Ravenclaw over there thinks of my Transfiguration grade?" − their banter, sexier − "you're being a prick, Potter, cut that out", "oh come on, Evans, let's not talk like you haven't been thinking about my prick this entire conversation".

Their gazes became fixed on one another, as often as possible, in whatever way possible. And they touched − relentlessly. Hands against necks, hands in hair, hands being sturdy and polite against lower backs. When she wasn't looking at him like I want to kill you it was I want to kiss you and there was coming to be a very thin line between the two. And because they were seventeen (teetering on eighteen) and they were curious, and impatient, and lusty, there was friction − by Merlin was there friction. They were playing with fire every time they kissed in a poorly lit area, or in an empty classroom, or behind the Quidditch pitch, or any time they kissed, at all, period, because as they learned each other well mentally, the physical learning became priority.

Lily was inexperienced, self-admittedly, just like him, but what she lacked in know-how she made up for in enthusiasm, an explorer breaching the shores of a far-away place − she found the thrummy soft center of his neck that when kissed inspired a low, guttural noise from his throat, and she learned the lines of his forearms, the blue-white map of veins leading upwards and outwards, and she found the weakness behind his knees each time she ghosted her fingers across his middle, his lower half, that half, the most sensitive part, the part that was singing with pain each time she huffed his name, impatiently, "James, for shit's sake, kiss me harder, I haven't got all day, I've got Herbology", the part that was aching every time she spent extra time tangling her fingers in his hair, gripping him so tightly, like everything depended on it.

It was rude, frankly, her affect on him. The way she made his body hum.

They spent weeks toeing the line that lay between acute sexual desire and an even acuter desire to take it slow, to do it right. James was always close to "Fuck it". Lily often seemed close to "Just ravish me in that broom closet". The friction was unreal. It was a rubber band, fiery and taut, stretched so far back that every look and every touch and every pause threatened to snap it. But when it broke, it broke cleanly, evenly, calmly, even; it was her eyes, holding his steady, flames licking behind wild green, and it was his fingertips at her waist, searing, boiling, and it was their bodies, glued, fixed together, no space between, no reasons left to stop. And with curious little argument or prelude they didn't stop, they kept going.

There was nothing comparable to heat between them. The world was suddenly condensed to the square footage occupied by their two bodies, and there was nothing but breath, and touch, and hands stirring everything, everywhere, and then there was less clothing and more skin, inexplicably hot friction expanding with every second, and they lost track of whose lips were whose, whose legs were whose, where they were in space and time − and it was clumsy, all new, and they stumbled like toddlers through foreplay, everything that enticed was explored, every touch that stimulated a gasp repeated. The floor shifted beneath them and what clothing didn't make it off had to stay on, it was vital, it was imminent, it was happening, her panting assaulting his ear, hot and desperate − "James, fucking Christ, touch me" − and her effect on him was catastrophic, his eyes unable to stay open, sweat accumulating over every surface of skin, lips brushing frantically, then lethargically, then demandingly, then carelessly, every breath a yes, a faster, a holy hell and then they found themselves right at the brink, staring over the edge and he looked into her eyes, glowing bowls of flame.

"Fuck, Lils, are you sure?" and she was licking her lips, "if you stop now I'll never forgive you", and he could only oblige her.

In was the precise seconds that they ceased to be two and turned, quickly, into one, that the friction exploded, and God was real, and the skies were falling down, fastly, and Lily gasped, there was pain, and there was pain undeniably mixed with pleasure, fleeting fear, growing good, yes, that's good, and James was somewhere in between the stars and the planets, and when he reached her he discovered she was the sun, burning, aching, growing, too bright to breach− "fuck, Lily, fuck − and it was over before they knew it had begun, them being so pent up with desire, and so desperate for one another, and so inexperienced but by Merlin's bones it had been unexplainable and right and they were sated in one another, breaths wrenched from chests, hearts beating out of tempo − "So that's what all the fuss is about," Lily was smiling from head to toe, every inch humming, her hands knotting in his hair, and his eyes were burning like he'd never really looked at her before then.


The physical went from zero to ten inexplicably fast. Lily's I want to kill you/I want to kiss you look transformed indefinitely into I want to fuck you, which meant a little bit of both, if done right. And they were eager to practice, eager to make the other sing with pleasure, and they were cheeky and adventurous and creative, because they had to be, there weren't ample opportunities to be alone and naked without others asking questions.

"Where are you going, Lily?" "Oh, I've got loads of essays to get started, I'll probably be in the library till late..."

"And where are you off to, Prongs?" "Heads meeting, very last minute, extremely important, see you lot later".

They would run off and collide, grins smashing together and disappearing into long kisses that quickly shortened and accelerated, clothes falling off, sensations craved and executed. And finally when there was an opportune moment ( Lily's roommates gone to Hogsmeade, James could finally use the convenient, sparkling Heads privilege of entering dormitories of the opposite sex) they had more than twenty minutes to be together, alone, and they had time to look at each other, which was abruptly a bit frightening, to be so vulnerable in front of each other, to be so un-clothed, without shadows to hide in, but Lily thought she felt very safe, and James couldn't help but think of all the gloriously beautiful women that existed, with their hair and their smiles and their ways, and how none compared − could try to compare − to Lily. There was poetry in every line of her, in the soft rounds of her abdomen, in the perk, pink flush of her breasts, the roll and angle of her back, dimpled and freckled, in the pale lines pointing down, down, to the shadowy shaded apex between her thighs, in every expanse that somehow glowed without light; she was the sculpture Michelangelo would have kept for himself, for his viewing pleasure, the map from which he could educate his eye continually on the female form, with all its intricacies and valleys and dips and kissable parts.

The most glorious part of the new arrangement was Lily's insatiability, her absolute hunger, and her infallible ability to surprise James, time after time, each shock more exquisite the then last, like the afternoon in the abandoned greenhouse when she dropped onto her knees quite suddenly and took him in her mouth, the whole length of him, and he such no time to react, he could only let it happen, grinding out between clenched teeth "sweet Jesus, Lils," the sight of her sucking at him − her hair an incorrigible disarray, the tops of her breasts heaving against the movement of her mouth up and down his cock − was all it took, he finished embarrassingly, unreasonably quick.

Or the time they were patrolling late at night and she had a mysterious spring in her step, a mischievous curl in her lip, and he accused her of it, "what's on, Evans?", and she didn't respond but pulled at his loosened tie and little short of dragged him into the nearest broom closet and shoved him onto a chair in the corner and was wearing nothing but panties in all of five seconds, and he was salivating as she climbed onto him and caught his head between her hands and his lips between her lips, and was already feeling explosive when she touched her hips down against his and began to move, back and forth, gently, slowly, agonizingly, nearly undoing him right then and there, and the heat between the fabrics was burning, and he thanked his lucky stars she'd muttered muffliato upon entering because there was little could do to control the moans snaking out of him, her ministrations designed specifically to torture him, sweetly, perfectly.

She smirked as he fell apart. Her power over him was unconditional.


Keeping it a secret was growing difficult. Lily's resolve to remain unofficial weakened each time he made her laugh, kissed her forehead, looked at her lingeringly. James was content, happy in a way he never thought he could be happy, and − as he always had − wanted the general population to be aware that it was her making him so happy, but he didn't want to push her, to pressure her. The war outside of Hogwarts was gaining traction and people were going missing every day, dying every day, fighting ever day, and more and more he thought of her not just as his present but his whole future.

One night while he lay in bed, stuck between sleep and dreaming of her face, and heard muffled footsteps enter the dormitory. Her silhouette was skimming the near-darkness of early morning, and she was there, just as dreamlike as in his head, removing a sheer robe to reveal an even thinner nightgown, murmuring "scoot over, sleepy" and crawling beneath his covers, stretching along the length of him, her cold toes prickling his bare feet, her hands twisting at his clavicles.

"Lils, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing," and she inched closer till their noses touched, and their breathing twined, and he wanted to kiss her so badly, so he tilted his head to do so but she brought her thumb against his bottom lip.

"James?"

"Mmm."

"I think...I love you."

James froze. And then, beneath her thumb, his lip curled upwards, slowly, and his eyes lit, slowly, and his heart rate climbed, slowly, and she slid closer to him, somehow, slowly, till the only thing between them was atmosphere.

She titled her forehead against his. "Well, what do you say, Potter? Do you want to go out with me?"

His quiet laugh was one of incredulity at how full-circle the moment felt, how indescribably light his body felt, how thankful he was − once again − for gravity,"nothing would make me happier, Evans," and he kissed her like he was willing to tear down an empire for her, like he was willing to fight for her.