~ "I thought I was a fool for no one, but ooh, baby, I'm a fool for you." ~

Muse, Supermassive Black Hole

Chapter Two – Taking Extreme Measures

As always, James Potter surprised me.

I shouldn't have been, though. Not really. James always seemed to be the kind of person who would never change – predictably persistent, unavoidably stubborn. I mean, you have to have a certain kind of nature just to do what he's spent the last six years doing and not get depressed at the sheer amount of rejection I handed him on a daily basis. For a start, the boy had skin thicker than a dragon's – I honestly reached points during certain heated exchanges where words literally failed me. When I say they failed me, I don't mean that I couldn't think of any to say – I mean that no matter which combination of them I used or which particular words I selected, they did no more damage than if I'd simply placed a Tickling Charm on him. No matter how much venom I inserted into them, there were very few occasions on which James' 'winning' smile would be wiped from his face; even then I would at best manage to cause it to hitch slightly, sliding a little from his mouth.

For another thing, the boy never, ever gave up. On anything. There was stubbornness and then there was James Potter. The boy was in a league entirely of his own. I'd seen him go without dinner for three days just to prove to Sirius that he could do it; I honestly believe the only reason he gave in was because Sirius, clearly scared by how pale his friend was getting already, admitted defeat and handed over the sixteen Galleons as promised. I had personal experience of how persistent he could be, how determined and how extreme he could get – two hours in a cupboard hadn't been necessary to teach me that lesson but it had certainly made the point of it clearer. This was a boy who would happily go to any lengths to win and get what he wanted.

So I really shouldn't have been surprised by anything that happened next.

The first shock was that he gave me my wand back. I hadn't even realised I didn't have it: I'd been so glad to get out of that cupboard and back into the light, and so full of giddy wonderment at the thought that in the space of just two hours James had managed to get me to do the two things I'd always sworn to myself were impossible (#1 - Kissing him. Willingly. And #2 - Promising him I'd actually, seriously, consider letting him win.) that I just didn't think to retrieve my wand from him. By the time I did realise, when I'd tried to use it after having reached the statue of the enormous, stunned-looking troll on the second floor that hid a shortcut to the girl's dormitories – okay, so maybe James did have one or two useful ideas that came in handy every so often – it was far too late to turn back and demand its return. James would have been long gone from the cupboard by then, and who knew where he could be? The castle was enormous.

So, huffing and sighing irritably, my annoyance with him more or less fully restored by this new turn of events, I turned from the shortcut and headed towards the stairs, resigning myself to the five-storey climb. There were lots of other shortcuts I could have taken, but almost all of them required the use of my wand at some point, even the ones that involved whispering passwords I wasn't supposed to know (and wouldn't have were it not for James and his friends) to certain portraits.

By the time I reached my dormitory, I wasn't in the best of moods, to say the least. I was tired, I was irritated, and I was trying to work out whether I'd actually gone temporarily insane in that cupboard or if James had just somehow managed to slip me some Amortentia whilst we were in there. Maybe he had worked out how to pump it into the air, so that I breathed it in without realising? Like mustard gas, only deadlier. No, that was paranoid. That was silly, and ridiculous and stupid and....admittedly, it was probably something I could see him doing, if he got desperate enough. I shook my head to dispel the evil thought. That was sick – of course he wouldn't do that. Annoyingly, this only left my insanity theory.

The sight of my wand, lying neatly atop my pillow, did very little to disprove that theory.

"What the hell -?"

How had it got there? I definitely hadn't done it – my wand had definitely been sticking out of James' pocket as I left that cupboard. He could probably have beaten me up here, easily – he had a wand, for a start, and he knew even more shortcuts than I did. He'd probably had time to sneak down to the kitchens for a snack first. But none of that mattered – even if he had got here before me, how had he managed to get into the girl's dormitories to put it there? The stairs had been just as solid and concrete as always when I'd walked up them a minute ago: there was no hint of the smooth slide they became whenever a male reached a certain altitude on them. And if he'd handed the wand to one of my friends they'd have given it to me personally, not left it on my pillow – that is, if they weren't all in Hogsmeade right now, and therefore not even in the castle to be given the wand in the first place. (I hadn't gone that morning due to feeling ill and then, when I felt better and was hurrying through the castle to the Entrance Hall to join them, James had intercepted me on the way and led me to that cupboard, insisting we both had to see the new Common Room and that it was too late to go to Hogsmeade now anyway. It was spooky – like he'd somehow known precisely where I would be and when I would be there and had stepped out from behind that statue deliberately.)

I'd almost made up my mind that he really had somehow got one of my friends up here to place it on my pillow, until I saw what rested beneath the wand. A sheet of parchment, neatly folded in half, with my name scribbled carefully on the top. It was his handwriting: I could tell by the neat slope of the surprisingly elegant script.

Lily Evans

I snatched it up and unfolded it hurriedly. It wasn't a particularly long note: either way, I read it hungrily, three times, trying to work out the double meaning, if there was any, trying to word my response for when I saw him, and trying at the same time to work out how the hell he'd got this here in the first place.

Lily, he wrote, I thought you might be looking for this- you ran off before I got a chance to return it to you.

I'm very intrigued by those tasks you mentioned -– why don't you come and find me when you've decided what they'll be, and we can arrange our deal properly? Try to be reasonable, though. Nothing painful or unnecessarily humiliating, right?

Looking forward to it,

James

X

I was not impressed. Clearly, he'd taken my desperate attempts to convince him to let me leave that cupboard seriously. But not seriously enough that he was worried in any way. I frowned. That couldn't be right. Did he honestly think that, if I thought of the challenges I'd promised him, I would let him off that easily? Did he really think I'd let him sit back and relax?

I sat down slowly on the edge of my bed, his letter still sitting loosely in my hand. My eyes flickered over the softly scratched markings his quill had made without taking any of them in this time: my mind was racing as I tried to think of the perfect tasks for him. They had to be just right. They had to prove I wasn't some prize to be won after he'd worn me down enough; I had to be earned if he wanted me as much as he said he did. But they had to be difficult enough that I could legitimately give him a chance. And, of course, they had to be a challenge, or he simply wouldn't accept them. James loved a challenge – it was evident within five seconds of meeting him. If he sensed you didn't like him he wouldn't give in until you did; if you liked him, you had to love him before he was satisfied. If you were bored, you had to be entertained, and the harder you fought him, the harder he tried to win. It's why he enjoyed baiting Filch so much – finding new ways to torment our caretaker brought him unimaginable pleasure.

I decided there would be three challenges. Three sounded like a nice, even number – it felt right. Not too many, not too few. Perfect. But what to make him do? What would affect him enough that it would prove to me how serious he was? Where might he draw the line? Would he?

By the time twilight had set in and the sky was streaked with deep pinks and inky blues, I had the first of the challenges outlined in my head. My friends returned as I was laying back on my bed, staring up at the ceiling and humming softly to myself as I pictured his expression tomorrow when I told him my conditions. I rolled onto my side, pretending to be asleep so that their chatter wouldn't distract me as I plotted; with my eyes squeezed tightly shut the images strengthened as I pictured every possible outcome.

James Potter wouldn't know what hit him.

~ * ~

What was wrong with me?

It was Tuesday evening, three days after the Cupboard Incident, as I now termed it privately. The day afterwards, Sunday, I had found James in the Common Room after breakfast and invited him for a walk. The excitement in his eyes was as poorly disguised as ever, though he kept his distance as we strolled through the castle, avoiding the excitable first-years as they ran through the corridors. The corners of his mouth were hitched up into a little smile as we went and every so often he chuckled softly at some happy mental image: I didn't ask what he was thinking. I was worried I could guess with considerable accuracy.

We walked in silence for long moments, finding ourselves climbing higher and higher until we reached the flat stone expanse that was the top of Gryffindor Tower. Pausing, James leant so that his elbows rested atop the parapet, looking out across the grounds, his face naturally turning in the direction of the Quidditch Pitch. The sun rested lightly on his face, the smooth skin a creamy honey colour from his many hours spent training for Quidditch matches: though it was late September the days were still generally long enough and warm enough for the heat of the sun to have made a difference. I followed suit, unsure of how to begin the conversation now that we were here. Luckily for me, James took the initiative.

"I assume you've thought of my tasks, then, Evans." He spoke casually, amiably, with no inflection. It was a statement, not a question, but I nodded nonetheless.

"Yes," I answered, suddenly nervous and furious with myself because of it, because it was ridiculous. I hugged my arms around myself so I wouldn't give myself away by biting my nails in front of him.

James smiled softly and turned his lean body so that he was facing me, his back balanced carefully against the stone. "Let's hear them, then."

I paused, trying to recall the wording of the first of my carefully-prepared requests. There was soft sunlight nestled in his dark hair, and it was distracting me. I frowned at it and, misunderstanding, he ran a hand smoothly through it, scattering the bright rays and making it shine more brilliant shades of gold and brown than I could name. I shook my head and began to speak, my original idea destroyed by this sudden new inspiration.

"Your hair," I said quickly, then bit my lip to stop the flow of the words that had erupted in my mind. That hadn't been what I was about to say at all, but I couldn't help it. James leaned forward, confused: I watched the long strands of his hair swing forward as he did so, rippling in the light.

"My hair?" He ran a hand back through it and then stared absently at his fingers, as though expecting to find the answer threaded between them, fished from his hair. His hazel eyes snapped back to mine. "What about it?" The hand returned to his head: it remained buried in his hair, flashes of pale skin showing through the flashes of light in his dark hair.

"That!" I cried, forgetting any attempt at regaining my composure. "That – you have to stop doing that!"

James' frown deepened: a bemused grin began to curl his lips up. "I don't understand -"

"Stop messing your hair up on purpose," I said firmly. He slowly removed his hand and dropped it to his side."It doesn't look sexy; it looks like there's something living in it and you can't think how else to get it out!"

"I can't help it," James said honestly: I could see his fingers twitched even as he spoke, dying to run back through the dark strands. They fell messily over his head now, the longer section of his fringe resting lightly above his eyes and I knew he wanted to brush it aside. "Does it really annoy you that much?"

I bit my lip and nodded: it would sound bitchy, however I said it. But he'd asked for a challenge and he was getting it. To my intense surprise, he nodded, his face thoughtful.

"Fair enough." His voice sounded very resigned, as if he'd just received some appalling news and was making the best of putting a brave face on it. "Your wish is my command, Evans."

He lifted himself gracefully from the parapet so that he stood perfectly upright and still in one swift, fluid movement and hitched a smile at me in farewell, turning to leave the Tower.

"Wait!" I called after him. "Don't you want to hear the rest of the tasks?"

He shook his head and smiled softly once more. "Not yet."

"Why not?"

He shrugged casually and rested his eyes on mine: I felt a cool shiver run down the length of my spine as his gaze locked onto mine and I tried to recall the threads of my conversation, determined he wouldn't affect me in the strange way he had been lately. Not this time.

"It'll give me more to work for," he offered by way of explanation, in his irritating way of answering the question and explaining nothing whatsoever. "This way, if I fail this first task, I don't get to find out what else you've got planned for me, do I?"

"But – why are you rushing off?" It was irrational and it was irritating, but I didn't want him to go. I wanted to speak to him. The feeling was alien enough to startle me: I screwed my face up a little in confusion and felt some of the familiar annoyance return when his own face creased into a smirk at the sight of mine. He reached out and gave my arm a gentle squeeze that tipped more butterflies into my stomach, ones I still couldn't explain. I waited for him to unlace his fingers from my flesh.

He didn't move.

I felt my face tip up towards his unexpectedly, as though I had no control over it, and as his own head lowered a little I fought furiously with myself not to remember how it had felt to kiss him, how soft his mouth had been. His eyes were half-closed: I was all too aware of how small the shrinking space between our bodies was in that moment. I was sure that I had a convincing argument for why he could stay but at that moment I wasn't entirely capable of using it. His gaze rested lightly on my parted lips and then his own mouth twisted in his trademark lopsided grin and his eyes flickered suddenly to mine, making me jump slightly.

"No time like the present, eh, Evans?"

It took me a few seconds to remember what his words were in response to whilst I tried not to notice the way his eyes were blazing with an emotion I couldn't name though I was sure I recognised it. It looked like smugness, but I knew that if I had pressed my mouth to his in that moment I would have tasted triumph instead on his lips. His hot fingers trailed lightly across my face, cupping my cheek momentarily and making my skin tingle where the ghost of his touch remained afterwards, and then continued walking smoothly away, as assured as ever.

It took me a few moments to compose myself once again. My stomach was spinning: I tried to shake away the odd sensation, but when I stood still once more the confusion was as present as ever. This wasn't the plan. He wasn't supposed to be able to affect me that way. He was supposed to run away at the mere mention of my requirements, or he was supposed to fail them. Not accept them gladly and rush off to complete them. I frowned, annoyed. I'd thought he couldn't get more irritating. I realised then that I had been completely mistaken. Where James Potter was concerned, very little was impossible.

~ * ~

Oh, for the love of....

I could hear a low thrumming sound as I approached the Common Room ten minutes later, a few minutes behind James. It sounded odd and I couldn't make it out at first: as I drew closer to the sound it became clearer, turning into a low, constant hum. I knew this hum. It was the same hum that filled the Common Room to the brim after Quidditch matches and whenever James and his friends were about to announce whatever new scheme they'd conjured to torment Filch or some first-year. Eventually, as I reached the portrait hole, the hum spun itself out into threads, so that I could distinguish the excitement quivering along each one, so that I could hear individual voices amidst the mass of chattering. The chattering seemed quieter than usual, as though the crowd it emanated from were more awed than impressed.

There could only be one reason for that.

"Caterwauling Crups." I muttered the password quickly and the portrait hole swung obligingly open: barely waiting for the way to be clear I shoved my head and shoulders carelessly through the hole, scrambling through in my desperation to find out exactly what James had done this time.

The sight that greeted me should have been something I prepared for. It should have been something he warned me about. At the very least it should have been something that didn't surprise me at all.

Of course, "should" doesn't necessarily always mean "does". Especially, as I was very rapidly discovering, where James Potter was concerned.

His back was to me. He stood on the squashy armchair he always sat in by the fire, though he had dragged it to the centre of the room: I recognised it by the fact none of the other chairs in the room had a large burn mark on the back of it the way this one did. There was a small crowd gathered around him, all of them contributing to the buzzing of chatter. I could see Sirius and Remus standing towards the back, Remus looking doubtful and dubious, Sirius's dark eyes bright with impish glee and locked on his best friend.

I knew what James was about to do before he did it, though I couldn't clearly hear any of the words he was saying. I knew he was speaking, because people in the crowd were nodding, and I could hear that a certain thread of the hum resonated the way only his voice did. I watched him raise his wand and I did nothing, because I knew he was going to fix his hair once and for all. I waited for him to perform the charm on himself that would prevent him from ruffling his hair, the charm that would render his hair un-messable.

What I saw, however, was James resolutely slashing his wand towards his head so that the flash of brilliant purple light fell like a guillotine across his hair as he cried out the words to a spell I had never heard of.

The silence in the heartbeat after he did this was the heaviest I'd ever encountered. James lifted a slightly hesitant hand to his head, starting to push it through the thick strands. I waited for his hand to be repelled by his head. Instead, his hair moved with him, pushing back with his fingers so that when he pulled his hand away I could see the long thick black hairs tangled between them, brighter even than the pale expanse of bare scalp he was now displaying. He lifted his hand and held it aloft, straight out, wiggling his fingers so that the hairs fell languidly to the floor.

My mouth fell open with shock, matching the expression of everyone in the room apart from Sirius, who clearly had been expecting this and had probably provided him with the spell. I tell you to stop playing with your hair all the time , I thought, and your solution is to become a skinhead? You complete and utter idiot.

The silence snapped.

The laughter that replaced it bordered on the hysterical. Not that James seemed particularly bothered by it: he continued pushing his fingers through his hair, pulling it easily and neatly from his head so that I could see that the skin on the top of his head was just as clear and as smooth as the skin that pulled along the seam of his jaw when he smiled, the way he smiled now. Soon the little pile of clippings at his feet was fat and with a sweep of his wand Remus removed this.

James' eyes snapped up unexpectedly to meet mine, his grin widening just as quickly, though his head hadn't moved. He had an unnerving habit of doing this – he would not be looking at you, and then he would blink and in that split second his eyes would shift to be staring at you. I wasn't used to it enough not to start a little every time he did it.

He stepped lithely from the sofa, pushing through the little crowd and ignoring Sirius' gleeful cries of: "Oi, Ghandi!" and his attempts to rub his now bald head. He made his way slowly but resolutely over to me and stopped in front of me, folding his arms in triumph. When I said nothing for long moments his triumphant grin hitched a little, uncertainty seeping in. I realised I was still gaping at him.

"So..." he began, clearly fishing. "You, er, you like it?"

I made an effort to close my mouth and stop staring at him. "It's, er..." I failed utterly: I couldn't help my eyes swivelling upwards to rest on his head. He looked so....alien without his hair. It was unsettling to say the least. "It's different." I finished lamely.

James frowned: I bit down the laugh that bubbled in my throat at how funny he looked when he frowned like that, with his hair so stupidly short. "Good different?" he asked, looking hopeful. "Or bad different."

"Just...." I spread my hands helplessly and shrugged a little. "Different. It's not exactly what I had in mind."

"Hey," James said quickly, the grin creeping back again. "You said I had to stop playing with my hair, didn't you?"

"Yes," I agreed, nodding. "But I didn't once say you had to get rid of it!"

James shrugged apologetically: his eyes were blazing once again with the same intensity as they had on the roof just minutes ago. "I said I'd stop playing with my hair. I can't play with it if I don't have any." He stepped lightly towards me: I waited for my feet to move automatically back but they didn't seem to be listening to my reasoning but to the fire that raced across my skin at his new proximity. When they didn't budge I settled for drawing my arms across my body, folding them like a protection from whatever he might do. I knew it would not be any worse than a kiss. I also knew that it likely wouldn't be anything better either, and I fought with all my might against this unwanted feeling.

James had stopped moving. "One thing you need to remember about me, Evans," he said, choosing his words carefully, his eyes roaming over my face slowly. Finally they rested on mine and I felt my throat close with longing. "I'm a man of my word."

Note to self. I thought. Word all future requests to James very carefully.

I wanted the above quote because it fit perfectly and also because, quite simply, Muse rock. And surprisingly a lot of their lyrics fit the mood of this chapter, but I absolutely love Supermassive Black Hole so it had to win.

I hope people liked this, and if you did please make my day by reviewing. If you didn't then let me know what I can do to improve it.