Friday night is Family Night at the Evans house, and the second Friday in July is the worst family night in the history of family nights.

It features Petunia absolutely ignoring me and her awful sod of a boyfriend, Vernon, studiously doing the same (no doubt on Petunia's stern cue), and mum and dad feeling incredibly uncomfortable that I'm being ignored and attempting − with no luck − to include me in the activities.

Petunia's attitude towards me has worsened this summer. She's probably months away from an 'advantageous' engagement to Vernon, and is likely embarrassed that I will probably have to be involved in the process somehow. I wish, more than anything, that Petunia and I were better sisters, like we were than we were younger. Well, that she was a better sister. I could use a mentor, someone older, to help me through my current situation. But her aversion to my magical condition seems like it will never abate.

When we were younger, we were such good sisters. I looked up to her. But the day I got my Hogwarts letter, she turned poisonous. I mourn those days.

This family night is the worst.

But − it really doesn't matter, because my head is elsewhere.

It's: his hands on me, his eyes on me, his lips on me.

It's: me wanting this gone.

It's: me wondering why I can't get him out.
It's: me knowing that there's only one way to get him out.

Fuck James Potter.

The second Vernon says goodnight to the family (waving very vaguely in my direction rather than addressing me directly), I excuse myself and shuttle upstairs, taking the least amount of time possible to change into something casual and put on a dash of lip color.

I'm just about to run out the door when I catch my appearance in the mirror. I surprise myself by stopping to touch the asymmetrical coil I've pulled my curls into, the red of exertion staining my cheeks. Without permission, I think I hope he'll think I look good.

Fucking hell, Lily. What's gotten into you?

I slap some mental sense into myself and speed out my room and back down the stairs. Mum and dad are clearing dishes from the evening's dinner as I grab my satchel from the coat rack near the front door. Dad is yelling after me, "Where you off to, Lily-pad?"

I scour my head for an answer that isn't involving the boy down the road. "Um, Mary's invited me over for a sleepover, is that alright?"

"Have fun!" Mum emerges from the kitchen with a towel in her hands. "Just don't forget Dorothy Ann's bridal shower tomorrow, love."

"Of course mum," I say, half-way out the door. "Good night!"

I emerge into suffocating July night heat, heaving in a breath and wondering at my own self-confidence. Not only am I about to barge in on James because I can't get his hands out of my head, but I'm staying the night, apparently.

It's cute, Lily. How dumb you are sometimes.

But for reasons I don't seem to understand yet, I don't stop myself. My feet carry me all the way down the street until I'm in front of the Potter home. The impressively long walk to the front door gives me a million opportunities to turn back, and a million instances that I keep going. In fact, the only hesitation I experience occurs after I've already knocked on the door and am forced just to stand there, panicked in all of a second.

What am I doing here?

A thing I didn't consider, of course, is what happens next.
Obviously, Mrs. Potter opens the door.

(In my head, during this moment: Lily you stupid fucking arsehole. Of course his parents are home. Of course Mrs. Potter would open the door. Why don't you ever think things through why do you just jump right in, never thinking of the fucking consequences? You sodding idiot, Lily Evans.)

Mrs. Potter is exactly what I expected her to be: the absolute picture of class, sporting heels that could murder a man, elegant black gown, a glass of wine in hand.

I immediately feel really bloody underdressed. And really bloody embarrassed.

And absolutely furious with myself.

Mrs. Potter's smile is less could-murder-a-man. "Oh, hello, there! You must be Lily!"

I am a taken aback. Having never previously met the woman, her knowing my identity is jolting. And besides that, in this moment, I find myself wildly ill-equipped to interact with James' mum. "Um, hi, Mrs. Potter, I'm so sorry to intrude on your night, I was just−"

"Lily?"

Oh fucking hell.

There's no chance in hell the Potter's weren't about to leave for the opera the exact moment I arrived. James is wearing an actual tuxedo.

And he looks so fucking good.

"Um, hi, James."

His smile says 'what in the hell are you doing here but also I'm charming as always and I'm just going to offer you this dashing smile so your heart will beat right out of your chest'.

Standing next to his mum, it's clear that a good portion of his handsome features have come from her − they share the same cheekbones, and both have thick dark hair.

And here I stand, looking like a hobo asking for a handout.

For Merlin's sake.

"Lily, dear, don't stand out there in the heat, come on in!" Mrs. Potter says, stepping aside and gesturing into the house.

I am floundering. "Oh, it's okay, you are obviously going somewhere, I'm so sorry to have intruded−"

Mrs. Potter is shaking her head before I can finish. "Oh, no, no, dear, we've just gotten back!" She waves her hand like this is a typical Friday night at the Potter home, the waltzing around in formal attire. "Fundraiser for a new product of the Mr.'s, it's all a bit too swanky for my taste, I don't normally go running around in chiffon and stilettos, I can assure you!"

I feel James' eyes on me in my periphery. This makes my cheeks heat incessantly.

From the back of the house, I hear a voice that could only belong to Mr. Potter yelling, "Who's there, Euphemia?"

"It's a friend of James', dear! Lily Evans!"

"Oh my!"

Oh good. I'm just going to meet both of the parents. Excellent choice, Lily, coming here, tonight. Excellent choice.

I hear rushed footsteps approaching the hallway before Mr. Potter emerges, and immediately the other half of James' genetics makes perfect sense. The nose, the poor vision, the height, the dimpled smile − all from his father.

"Ah," when Mr. Potter's eyes fall on me, alighting. I find his colored the same iridescent hazel as James'. "Lily Evans. At last we meet!"

In my periphery, I notice James made distraught by this greeting.

Mr. Potter approaches to shake my hand firmly but warmly, and I can't help but find a smile to match his own. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter."

I'm intensely angry that his parents are the nicest people I've ever met.

How dare they.

There is an uncomfortable moment of silence where I suddenly remember the reason I'm here and Mr. and Mrs. Potter seem to be wondering at that exact reason, and I'm guessing James likely hasn't mentioned our new friendship (or the additions to the friendship) to them, because they are looking at as if they expect to introduce me as his betrothed, or something.

FinallyMrs. Potter saves us. "Well, we'll let you two kids go off, the Mr. and I have got a bottle of Chateau Mouton to finish off, come now, darling!" She links her arm through her husband's and sweeps him off in the direction from which he came, killer heels clicking all the way down the hall, leaving James and I alone in the foyer.

I turn to him slowly, and sheepishly. "Um, hi."

His mouth curls into his father's smile. "Hi."

I seemingly can't think of anything else besides the way he looks in a tuxedo. "Er− I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"For coming here, all unexpectedly."

"Well," he tucks his hands into his pockets. "It's not like I've never done that to you, before. We can call it even."

"Okay," I look down at my feet, feeling substantially unprepared.

"I'm glad you're here."

I look up to find him a mere step away. I'm close enough to notice the top button of his dress shirt undone where he must have pulled the bowtie loose. I think about every expanse of bare skin beneath the suit. I suddenly remember every sensation.

My breath has quickened without warning. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," He reaches to cradle my jaw against his palm. I glance furtively in the direction in which his parents have retreated. He follows my eyes, then takes my hand. "Would you like to go upstairs?"

I nod. Upstairs, I ask, "Do you guys go to a lot of black-tie fundraisers?"

James laughs as he approaches his closet, opening it and removing his coat jacket to hang it up. "Not too many, no, but dad's been working on this potion that's been driving everyone wild."

"What kind of potion?" I slip my own shoes off, letting my satchel fall onto the ground next to the door, which I close behind me. I notice James struggling magnificently with his bowtie, so I approach him and say, "Here, let me."

He obliges me, letting his hands fall to his sides as I take a hold of the bowtie. "I'm not entirely sure, actually. Something to do with facial hair growth, maybe?"

The bowtie slides loose beneath my fingers and I arch onto my toes to reach behind James and place it on the dresser. When I lower my toes our faces are −

So close.

I forget immediately what we were talking about.

Something about an arm hair growth charm?

If James remembers, he doesn't let on.

"Is it okay if I tell you that I was thinking about you the entire time?" His voice is something like a wisp of smoke that curls and twists. He brushes his lips against mine so softly I hardly notice.

This fucks me up.

"Yes," I breathe, and kiss him, harder.

This creates quite a commotion. James seems to want to take it slow, his fingers softly bordering my neck and my hip. But I want to do the exact opposite. I bruise our lips together in an attempt to open his mouth, but he resists, it's so slow, like he's got ages to do this, but we don't. We don't have ages. I grunt from somewhere in my throat, and this opens his mouth into a smile, and then he's laughing, "Someone's impatient."

I huff a breath, my face falling to the side of his. "You think it was easy for me to think about you during family night?" I shove my hands against his chest, smoothing them onto his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt. "I didn't fancy thinking of you and your− your lips while playing scrabble with Petunia and Vernon."

James' laugh has dispersed. "You were−" He clears his throat to find his voice. "Thinking about my lips?"

I raise my eyes to his, and nod. My hands stroke up towards the exposed skin of his neck, the triangle of skin where his collar parts. I approach with my lips and trail a path from the triangle to the next fastened button, which I unsnap, then reach another, unsnap. I continue this pattern of undoing until I've fallen to my knees in front of him. I slide my hands from his open shirt to his dress pants, the sleek black that was no doubt fitted explicitly to make women swoon.

James is reaching behind him to grip his hand onto whatever surface will steady him as I unclasp his pants and make for a hasty removal. My hand roams the swell beneath his underwear, feeling the entire length, before I do away with the article entirely.

He inhales, sharply. "Sweet Merlin."

The first time I did this, I suppose it was for education's sake. But I can't deny that this second time is purely for the way his fingers grip the door behind him, the straining in his jaw, the way he says, "Jesus, I haven't stopped thinking about this."

I'm taking a hint from his tortuous exploration of me mere days ago, tasting slowly. Methodically. But it seems the slowness of my tongue, my lips, is too agonizing, because seconds later James is tugging at my shoulders, urging me upwards. When I stand, my hand attaches to where my lips have vacated. James spins me around and props me against the closet door, his mouth accosting mine. My hand slides up and down the erection I've created, his groaning filling my mouth.

"Shit, Lils, will you−" he seems unable to get words out between our lips. "Can we− will you, fuck, will you cut that out? I don't want to explode here."

With a final stroke, I remove my hand and detach from him with a smile. He's pushed his hips against mine, pinning me against the door.

It's fucking hot.

I trail my thumb across his lower lip. I want exactly what I think he wants. "You've got another means of explosion in mind?"
James' eyes are dark − night-dark. He snakes his arms around my back, sliding under my shirt, bringing our bodies even closer. "Can we?"

I feel the question in every inch of skin. I think about him inside me.

I swallow, hard. "Please."

This undoes him.

James shifts his arms to lift me from the bum, my thighs wrapping around his waist. He tumbles backwards, barely making it to the bed before I've crashed on top of him, and his hardness against all of my clothes is absolute torture, and he must think so too because he's frantically jostling my shirt up over my head, yanking the flimsy fabric of my bra down over my breasts and pulling them to his mouth. I've no choice but to lean over him as his lips surround my peaks, and it's sloppy but it's sexy as fuck to watch him suck, moving from one to the other, the less-than-careful kisses exactly what I want, exactly what I need.

I'm frantically reaching behind me to twist the clasp of my bra, and when it falls away I shove it off, leaning further into his mouth, my head falling into the sheets of his bed, my body coming alive, and I choke into his ear, "I sure hope you've got good soundproofing charms up here."

James laughs, buried in my tits. His cock is brushing insistently against my shorts and it's driving me mental. I crave his fingers between my legs. "Will you touch me?" I'm begging more than asking.

In response James snaps open my shorts, sliding a hand under my panties, and he finds out what hot, open-mouthed kisses can do to a girl. My breath exits my lungs in the form of an embarrassingly whiny moan, and he smiles into my neck, kissing up and down my jaw. I unconsciously grind against his fingers, yearning for friction. I am transported.

I want him inside.

I sit up suddenly, falling backwards, pulling him onto to me, finding his mouth with mine, attempting to simultaneously kiss him and remove my remaining clothes. He assists, tugging my shorts and panties down my thighs and tossing them onto his bedroom floor. And then−

We're both naked. On his bed.

I have allegedly abandoned my teaching position.

Fuck.

James' eyes are suddenly panicked. "Wait, shit, is there a charm? Do I need to do a charm?"

"I'm on a contraceptive charm, relax," I laugh. "Effective for two years."

This calms him down for only a moment. I watch his face morph into a familiar portrait, concern at every edge. My hands reach to his back, gripping. He's hovering above me.

I say, "Just go slow. To get the hang of it."

The concern stitches his eyebrows near his nose. "You gotta tell me, right now, that you're okay with this, Lily, I don't want to−"

"James," I kiss him, slowly, luxuriously. He is dazed when we come up for air. "I want this, okay?"

I think about how we close are to the point of no return. I swallow. "I want you."

This seems to do the trick.

James falls to his knees, and my legs slide upwards to allow him entrance. I watch with less anxiety than anticipation as he positions himself at the crest of my thighs, and he pauses and looks up at me, doubt still coloring his eyes, so I bring a hand of assistance, leading his cock to the place I want it most, and he pushes with his hips and there it is − the bliss.

It's been a few months. And Owen's half-hearted attempts at pleasuring me during sex were, well, half-hearted. I forgot the feeling.

But how could I forget a feeling I've never actually − woah. Felt.

James remains completely still. I can tell by the look on his face that he is attempting to sort out every sensation. I can also tell that he's got room to go. I tug him towards me, hand in his hair, tilting my hips upwards. "You can go further," I whisper, and his eyes widen.

"It won't...hurt?"

"Not in the way you might think."

He pushes his hips further. "Oh," He says, leaning into me. His hair brushes against my forehead.

Though his hesitation is often endearing, right now, with him inside of me, I want fast action. Every second of stillness increases my need for motion. "James," I prod, as gently as I am able. "Will you move?"

In lieu of a response, he withdraws. Then, he finds my eyes and pushes back inside. The choke that captures my throat is an indication that I liked that. He sees my eyes, and sees this, and so he does it again, and then again, and again and again. I can't help but arch upwards to capture his lips, allowing my hips to participate in the movement I so crave. The kissing becomes less and less neat. James has found a tempo that can only be described as correct.

I sure as hell didn't teach him this.

Godamn it, Potter.

I forgot just how uncontrollably warm two naked bodies can become. With Owen, I was always a bit self-conscious about sweating during sex, about how out of breath it made me, my weird pleasure sounds. And I always wanted something—more. Something he never seemed to be able to give me.

This isn't the case with James.

I'm sweating but I don't care at all, I feel his own perspiration beneath my hands roaming his back, his muscles convulsing under my fingers, and I taste it at forehead, see it coloring his hair black. Every breath I lose he gives back to me, our lips acting like anchors to one another, and every sound I make that I can't seem to control is echoed by him, and this drives me forward, intensifying the feeling that we've become less like two and more like one.

James is comfortable with the rhythm of his hips now, and he's somehow managing to also pay attention to my body beneath his, hands on my breasts, lips fastening to my neck, fingers clutching at my thigh. The pressure between my legs is beginning to electrify in a way that lets me know I'm approaching a peak. Everything is dizzying. And though I love the feeling of his strength above me, overpowering me, a yearning to be in charge suddenly overcomes me.

So I grab James' head and exhale, "Over."

Whether or not he understands this cryptic instruction, he doesn't resist when I push on his torso and roll him over onto his back. Now beneath me, James is grinning like an idiot, like he forgot there was more than one way to do this. His hands rise to grip my hips.

In this process of switching places, our bodies lose a most important physical connection, so I reach between us for his cock. I find it slick. His eyes widen. With painstaking lethargy, I slide backwards until I feel him as deeply as I need to.

James groans, his eyes falling shut. His head hits a pillow behind him.

I smirk, then begin to move.

His chest serves as an anchor for my hands as I tilt my hips as deliberately as possible, savoring every angle. It's indescribable from this position, using upwards leverage to my every advantage. James finally opens his eyes, tilting at the neck to watch me. I can tell he's close, because his instincts dominate his movements. His fingers splaying my bum, gripping, allowing for higher lift and deeper tilt, and I feel my breath matching his, every push and pull contributing to absolute escalation.

"Lily," he chokes, suddenly. "I'm not going to last much longer, Jesus."

I almost laugh, but catch myself. I fold over him, tits against chest, undulations quickening with my own closeness. I reintroduce our lips. It's quick. It's so quick now. He's hitting me right where I− oh fuck. "Shit," I am breathing harshly, trying to keep his gaze but failing miserably, falling into his neck and cheeks, his chest, his lips. I'm manic. "Shit."

I remember how it was with Owen.

It was nothing like this.

James' wild moaning drives my body onwards and onwards and onwards, and higher, and further, and longer, and harder, until I reach a point where I discover complete voicelessness, oxygen fleeing my lungs, and our bodies are immobile for half of a millisecond before the lightning strikes, splintering, a crackling detonation that spirals from toe to forehead, radiating outwards, like waves crash.

"For fuck's sake," is my main comment before unburying myself from James' chest and finding his mouth. I kiss him with every inch of electricity flooding my nerves. I want to devour him. I want to experience that explosion every minute. I kiss him until I've exhausted myself with the exertion, and have to slide off onto my side.

James is staring at me this entire time, arms tight around my back. My thigh props on top of his as he eases himself out of me. Every surface of my skin is tingling with the aftermath. Aftershocks of pleasure ripple through my bloodstream. My disbelief doesn't allow me words.

James is ultimately concerned by my speechlessness. "Are you− are you okay?"

The concern in his voice and in his eyes make it clear that he has no idea what's just happened. I look at him hard and long, observing how his hair is completely askew, his cheeks a deep pink, his lips plump and imprinted with my own. He looks thoroughly fucked.

How could he not know how he just made me feel?

I laugh, which is a bad move, because it makes him lower his eyes, his fingers slackening at my back. I immediately move into him, racing my hands into his hair. "Oh my God, James," I stroke his jaw until he looks back up. "You − you made me...fuck..."

His eyebrows concave. He is thick.

"You colossal dolt," I struggle to find words to describe what he needs to hear. "Owen never made me−he never made me feel like that, okay?"

This is the first time I've reminded him of Owen. It makes his jaw twitch. "Truly?"

I bite my lip to contain the aftereffects of an indescribable orgasm at the hands of James Potter. "Would I lie to you?"

He softens. There's also a bit of new light in his eyes. A smile overtakes him, and I am propelled forward to kiss him, soundly, and deeply.

In this moment, I am so angry at myself, because in reality it's me that is thick, because I won't just admit it− admit that I'm falling.

Fuck.

I'm falling in love with him.

Fuck.