Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. Sadly, this means I am not J.K. Rowling. Thank you for all your reviews and opinions, it really means a lot that you take the time to write them and you definitely inspire me. So, enjoy!

For the second time that day, Lily froze.

She had fantasised about this moment for years, accepting, of course, that it could never happen. She was the frizzy-haired ginger for Merlin's sake! Charming boys like Matthew Stork shouldn't even acknowledge her.

But he had.

And so had James.

"I'm really sorry," she stuttered finally, leaning backwards and away from Matthew. "But I just can't, the funeral's tomorrow and…" she stumbled over her words, desperately trying to find an excuse. She had daydreamt about this moment since third year, over-analysing every pitying smile Matthew had thrown her way, but when it finally happened… It wasn't what she wanted.

It wasn't who she wanted.

When this shocking realisation hit her, she groaned. Her ridiculous behaviour of the morning suddenly made sense. The little voice had been right.

Damn it.

Understandably, Matthew Stork looked slightly aggrieved, but a toothy grin soon replaced his look of surprise. Lily suspected he wasn't used to being rejected.

"That's alright," he said easily, helping her to her feet. "I can wait." Brushing her cheek with a kiss, he strolled down the corridor, confident in his ability to capture Lily's heart. Unconsciously, Lily scrubbed her face with a corner of her sleeve and then chided herself for it. Matthew Stork, the Matthew Stork, had asked her out. And she'd said no. Because of James Potter. She had been right, Lily decided. It was always his fault.

Suddenly, Lily realised the full extent of the trouble she faced. She liked James Potter. After six years of constant teasing and flirting, the irascible boy had found a way past her defences. In barely two months.

Damn it, damn it and damn it, again.

Lily was not prone to swearing, but was sorely tempted to exhaust her limited repertoire. She told herself, rather belatedly, that there was no reason to panic. It was only a crush, she'd get over it. Trying to calm her breathing, which had somehow reached the level of hyperventilation, she paced the corridor. What should she do? She couldn't fall for James, she couldn't. The helmets belonging to the suits of armour that lined the corridor swivelled as she walked, following her progress.

Finally, Lily stopped. She was never going to act on her feelings for James, that much was obvious. She wouldn't let herself. For that matter, she wasn't sure Sawyer would be too enamoured with the idea either. At the thought of Sawyer, Lily scowled and resumed pacing again.

It was patently obvious, however, that she needed to apologise to James. He wasn't entirely faultless, and his comments about her friendship with Severus were entirely unnecessary, but she had been unwarrantedly vicious. As she replayed the memory in her head, Lily felt ashamed of her words. Her jealousy had torn the thoughts from her head, twisting and distorting them with a savage glee.

She would have to apologise. There was nothing else to say. Even if her new found feelings hadn't compelled her to do so, her conscience would certainly have forced her to. Lily Evans, when all was said and done, had a very keen sense of right and wrong. She tempered it with pity and understanding, but it was present nonetheless. Unfortunately, she judged herself far more harshly than she judged others.

But James was in Hogsmede, arms still wrapped around the beautiful Sawyer, and she had no idea how to find him. She started towards the common room, determined to sit there, waiting – pathetically – for him to return.

Catching sight of her reflection in a particularly shiny suit of armour, a particularly pertinent piece of Shakespeare crossed her mind. She stared at her mirror image, expression wry and quoted softly, "O, beware… of jealousy; it is the green-ey'd monster." After today, the green eyed monster seemed to be a fitting title for Lily, whose emerald eyes still flamed brightly.

With an exasperated snort, Lily continued down the corridor. If she remembered rightly, Othello ended in a spectacularly tragic fashion and she had no wish to emulate it. Ramblings pushed firmly aside, she continued up to the seventh floor. The password had not changed since David's death and a muttered "pumpkin pasty" was enough for the portrait to swing open. Clambering through, and ignoring the Fat Lady's concerned comments, she stumped towards the nearest squashy arm chair. Lily threw herself down into it, arms and legs folded tightly. Looking at the clock, Lily's heart sank. It was, despite the eventful nature of the day, barely twelve.

She was in for a long wait.

Wondering if she could convince Mary to bring her food, Lily grabbed a piece of parchment from her bag. She dipped her quill into a jar of colour changing ink and scribbled a hurried note. Marlene's mother worked at the Ministry and had, one summer, taught the three girls the charm needed to create paper aeroplanes. They had used it to communicate ever since. Lily wasn't going to lie, it was highly useful. And it was so much easier than leaving her cosy chair.

If Lily didn't know better, she would have suggested that Mary had been waiting for her. Certainly, Mary appeared very promptly. "I wondered when you'd summon me," Mary said, perching on a corner of the sofa. "So," she continued, apparently comfortable, "what did you and James argue about, this time." Her voice betrayed a hint of irritation. "I thought you admitted his prank was funny, Lils."

"It wasn't that," Lily assured her. She proceeded to tell Mary what had happened, carefully omitting any reference to her personal epiphany. She stressed Snape and Mulciber's role in the argument, but admitted she might have overreacted to James' actions. Mary laughed at that.

"Might?" she queried. "Merlin, Lily, will you and James ever have a normal relationship?" Ruefully, Lily shook her head and that was a little too much understanding in the look Mary threw her. The redhead had the awful feeling that Mary knew exactly what Lily had neglected to mention.

Not that it was any of her business.

On the other hand, Lily had no problems with Mary's subsequent criticism of the Sawyer-James pairing. "I don't know what he sees in her," she concluded some twenty minutes later, "she's so, so… shallow."

"Mary!" Lily protested, despite sharing the same opinion. She felt obliged to defend people's flaws, it was just the way she was.

"Well she is," replied Mary, "and the sooner James realises this, the better."

"Maybe he's shallow, too?" asked Lily, worried. Mary gave her an unnervingly direct look.

"I think we both know that's not true." She paused for a second, as though collecting her thoughts, "particularly, when certain…" She broke off. "It's McGonagall," Mary hissed. Turning round, reluctant to move from her chair, Lily stared. The bespectacled witch straightened up and looked about the room. To Lily's utmost horror, James was behind her, still clutching a simpering Sawyer. Her heart sank. Was McGonagall going to reprimand her for earlier?

"Girls," said the professor briskly, her eyes finding them, "I have just received word from the Pritchard's that, due to logistics, would like you to come today, rather than tomorrow. I realise," she continued, unaware of Lily's worries, "that this will mean missing the Feast, but I suspect you would rather be with your friend." Her voice choked slightly on the last word and Lily could have sworn she saw her teacher's eyes glisten. People tended to forget, she thought suddenly, that teachers mourned too. She exchanged a look with Mary.

"Yes, Professor," they replied, already getting to their feet. Dashing up the stairs, they threw clothes and other essentials into a bag, using magic to summon the last few items. Lily was certain Mary had never packed so little, so quickly. In her life.

Hurriedly waving her wand, Lily banished the bags downstairs and hurled herself down the stairs, Mary in hot pursuit. To her surprise, James and Sawyer were still standing with McGonagall. The latter, however, paid the couple little attention.

"I have arranged a portkey from the Headmaster's office, but we will need to hurry," the witch said, motioning towards the portrait hole. Picking up their bags, the girls made to follow. Mary sped up, clearly intent on catching up with McGonagall. Lily, on the other hand, stopped in front of James.

"Look, about earlier," she began, rather awkwardly.

"Miss Evans, you will be late," the stern professor called, peering back at her, "I'm sure your conversation with Mr Potter can wait."

"That's ok," said James, his voice painfully polite, "I didn't need to speak with her anyway." His words pierced Lily like a blade, crippling her. He sounded so cold, quite unlike himself. McGonagall looked from her Head Girl to her Head Boy, a hint of confusion – or perhaps, disapproval – barely discernable on her features.

"Come on, Lily," Mary called.

And with one heart wrenching gaze, Lily turned away, unable to bear James' stare.

Or her feelings.