Much love to TrueHomiePip, I hope you like it as much in redux!

October 3rd, 1977, 9:37 AM

A Sixth Floor Corridor, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland

And I booked it. My speech done, I turned on my heel, knocked the Fat Lady aside with my shoulder and collapsed into the hallway.

Almost before I was on my feet outside the common room, though, I heard footsteps coming after me. And I didn't have to turn my head to know it was James.

He sprinted down the hallway behind me, and, of course, Athlete McQuidditch-Boy caught up quickly, swinging in front of me and blocking off my path.

While standing very, very, uncomfortably close to me.

I skidded to a halt (getting even closer, guh) and looked up at him. When my eyes collided with his, it almost felt more violent than when I'd smashed into him moments before. He was staring down at me, eyes burning with something I didn't quite understand, but it seemed to tear away my power of speech.

I blushed. Panted. Tried to come up with something clever or sweet or flirty or just in English to say. Failed.

But of course, because he's James Potter and he's never been tongue-tied in his life, he smiled at me, waving at the three and a half corridors we'd sprinted down before he caught me. "Bloody hell, Evans, for a conscientious objector to sport of any kind, you sure can run."

"I...I quite like table tennis." Well, one could call it English.

"What?"

"I'm not a conscientious objector to sport of any kind. I quite like table tennis!"

"...Table tennis?"

"Yes! It's a Muggle-"

"Evans." He looked sincerely alarmed. "I don't care if it's the single greatest concept ever invented by a Muggle, and you'd give up all claim to your spot at Hogwarts and let You-Know-Who take over the World and chop off all your hair just for a chance to play one more round - well," he amended, "I might care a bit about the hair - it's not sport if it's on a table."

"Right, yeah," I retorted hotly, "'Cause it doesn't count unless every time the whistle blows there's a good chance you'll break your neck in the next minute?"

"Is that concern for my safety I hear? Why, Evans, you softie, I knew you had feelings for me deep down!"

"If you're about to ask me out, Potter, just because I probably won't dance on your grave-"

"Merlin, Evans, I'm done with that, alright? Bash a bloke over the head enough times with your blatant disgust, and even I can take the hint. I followed you for a reason." His hands went to his hair. "Was just going to say that - I just -" he grabbed a tuft of it and yanked - "I'm sorry. About how I acted around that git of a friend of yours, Sniv - I mean, Sev - Severus. I'm sorry I was a prat to Severus, and I'm sorry if it's part my fault he said - that - and I'm sorry I haven't said before that I'm sorry. Because I am. Even if he's a - I mean - I'm sorry."

I wasn't sure if I wanted to cry or laugh or hug him. But with every second that he stood in front of me, lips a little parted, hair perfectly mussed, eyes earnest and imploring, the last option grew more and more alluring. And this was James Potter, so that was frankly unacceptable. Luckily for me, my mouth can always be counted on to ruin a moment. "You know, Potter, you might not be such an absolutely rotten git as I thought." Unluckily for me, I think my eyes said, 'actually, it seems you're turning into sort of a fantastic bloke'.

And he got the memo, because his smile lit up his whole face, so bright I wanted to turn my head away. "Progress!"

I felt strangled, frozen, totally immobilized by the power of this grin which it didn't seem possible I had ever seen before. "Yeah," I got out, "incremental, anyway."

"Well, incremental progress defeated the Crumple-Horned Snorkack, didn't it?"

That smile should be illegal. HE should be illegal. Locked up. He should be locked up and forced into eternal darkness by one of those creepy Hand things, and I'm still not sure the smile wouldn't light up the whole world anyway. "Er, did it?"

And then he started talking, saying something perfect and funny and silly and James about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, but I couldn't focus on his words because he was still smiling The Smile That Enflames Lily Evans' Loins and so I didn't spit back a quick response at any of the appropriate moments in the story and just sort of sat there staring and so eventually he finished and trailed off and the Smile To End All Smiles sort of drifted away from his face.

"Right, well..." He nodded, shrugged awkwardly, about to leave, which sounded about right since my capacity for witty banter seemed to have shriveled up and died somewhere in between his apology and the appearance of The Smile That Epics Will Most Likely Be Written About.

But I couldn't let him turn away and leave, I just couldn't. Not because I have feelings for him or any of that rot, not because he looked so utterly spectacular smiling a minute before and I just wanted to bring it back, but because - well - because we're friends now, sort of, since 7th year started, and getting along makes Heads' duties so much easier, and I didn't want to ruin our getting along by letting him walk away from me while I simply stood there like an absolute imbecile.

So I jerked my head up and tapped him on the shoulder as he turned away and exclaimed, "By the by, if you're still wondering? Dumbledore's magic number?"

"What? Wha...What?!" Widened in shock, his eyes really are very, very hazel. Not that I noticed. And his surprised face is almost, almost cuter than his absolutely spectacular gleeful face.

I grinned, thoroughly enjoying his astonishment. "Do you want to know how many birds Dumbledore's bagged with his, ah, stone, or not?"

The poor bloke simply couldn't get his head around it. "You - what - how could ...How many?!"

"Four." Impossibly emboldened, something strangely like fire coursing through my veins, I lifted my hand to his arm to steady myself as I got up on tiptoe, pressing my lips to his ear and whispering: "Blokes."

It seemed, as I was doing it, like a profoundly clever and amusing thing to do. But that was before I had really considered the phonetics of the word "blokes". Go ahead, try it. I defy you to whisper the letter "o" without contorting your lips into a decidedly, well, snoglike formation.

And so the fact was that, however innocent (and it was extremely innocent!) the intention, here I was, in the middle of a deserted corridor, holding James Potter's arm (very muscular, not that I noticed, but I mean really, to be perfectly frank, it's not quite fair of you to expect a girl not to notice, it's just the Quidditch, of course, but it has been so very, very good to him), on tiptoe (because he's that sort of perfect height, right, where he's too tall for me, but only just, because I can reach if I do go on tiptoe, not that any of that's at all relevant) with my lips pressed into his ear (and my nose right around the same area, so I simply can't help but smell him and he smells like boy, but more, better somehow) in a decidedly snoglike formation.

And James Potter, who could always, always be counted on for quick repartee, did not seem in the mood right now to speak at all, let alone to ask sensible questions like "Why Evans, how did you find that out?"

Unfortunate indeed, because then I would've been obliged to respond with the name of my informant, and I promise you that would have effectively Avada-Kedavra'ed the moment and allowed me to settle back on my own two feet and let go of his (warm, muscular, shapely) (shapely? Who is he, Elizabeth Bennet? Pull yourself together, Evans!) arm.

But you see, the idea of the sweet release afforded by announcing said informant's name, now that it had invaded my brain, had settled in like a ghoul in the attic. And in the midst of the panicked fog of James multiplying exponentially inside my head, the fact that the name was intended as a response to a question that HAD NOT BEEN ASKED seemed to recede until, with no conscious effort, and very little actual awareness of my actions, I blurted out -

"HORACE SLUGHORN!"

What's the next step for a panicked sixteen-year-old witch who just bellowed the name of her pretentious, obese potions master into the ear of a very attractive wizard, you ask?

Well, for the second time that day, I ran like hell.

Review, per favore, my lovelies! Some of Lily's upcoming flights are not very fleshed in my mind, so feel free to weigh in :)