Just a warning, the next chapter will be in James POV... And before you ask, Yes, Mabel Boot does play a role in this story.

ChocolateIsKryptonite, you're just so sweet.

Disclaimer: Don't own at all.

Chapter 10

I debate for a moment, then tear Severus' envelope open. My eyes scan the page, and my mouth twists bitterly. I place my wand-tip hard on the paper, and whisper a spell – my 'favourite' incinerating paper spell. Clearing the ash into a heap and sliding it back into the envelope, sealing it freshly. I clip it to the russet-brown owl's knobbly little leg, stroke it and say, "Give it to Severus Snape, please." I watch with a blossoming triumph through the opened frost-coated windowpanes as the school owl swooped a few floors below and drop the letter onto a certain untrustworthy, greasy idiot's head. This greasy idiot flinches, and gingerly picks up the envelope, which has fallen on the floor. He's alone, currently. He looks up, and I put on my 'Angry Molly Weasley' expression: tight lips, drawn eyebrows, and hopefully blazing, unforgiving and cold eyes.

His jaw drops slightly, and soon after his eyes do too, to the envelope in his hands. He slides the envelope open, and the smooth stream of ebony powder pours into his cupped hand. He looks up at me again, with a hurt and incredulous expression spilling over his sallow features. But I have no time for this anymore. One can forgive only so many times, and I've forgiven... more than I can manage anymore.

When I look straight into his coal-black, depthless eyes, pity strokes me, but I turn my back on that option. It would be weak to turn back now. Maybe you think it is unkind, but Severus could break my heart a million times, and I'd have to gather the little pieces together and forgive him. I have to stop, now, because if I don't, I'm scared I'll fall into the dreamless depths of forgiving and forgetting, and be locked there for an eternity. I'm tired of it. He's wrung me dry.

So with a snap, the window shuts, and Severus Snape is left standing there, with a handful of cinders, and envelope and a disbelieving expression.

...

I am panicking big-time. It's Saturday, and in two hours, I'm going for my first – and only – date with James freaking Potter. I can't seem to breathe straight and my thoughts are all jumbled and I've got the uncomfortable twisting in my stomach, and yet some strange feeling is engulfing my chest, and its expanding. The feeling is so beautiful, but it hurts too – the feeling is so big, it's like an overstretched bubble and it's tearing me up – but in a beautiful way. I don't understand why I'm feeling like this, and I can't comprehend anything fully and... oh, say something right, Lily Evans! I'm hyperventilating and my face is such a fiery tone I hardly look human... more like a tomato...

Calm down, Lily Evans, calm down... All I can think of is him, him, him... I feel like a boy-crazy obsessed girl, Merlin, what's wrong with me? I'm so distant I don't even notice Sirius' younger brother, Regulas Black, yell at some Slytherin for losing a Quidditch match with Hufflepuff, or that there's a silver moth fluttering around my head. I look down. My sheet of parchment is more cancellations than actual words, and if I attempt – a futile one, no doubt – to finish this essay, I will fail, period. My eyes fall on my textbook. I had realized I'd read the same sentence about ten times and still my mind was blank. Bowtruckles generally live in wand trees and feed on woodlice. I scan it again... and then... nothing. I can't hold a single thought in my mind except for him! Bowtruckles... Bowtruckles...

I give a silent scream of rage and throw down my quill. Leaning my head against the cool smooth surface of the glass windowpane, I sigh, inhaling the soft smell of books and paper and the familiar scent of the library. It's raining outside, and the relentless skittering sound puts my heart at rest as I try to forgot everything and drown in one peaceful, empty moment. No such luck. I sigh. Stupid jerk. I am now officially obsessed with him... and from being the little girl who hated him, I become the lovesick puppy that can't get her thoughts off him.

I give up on my essay. Sweeping my wand, my things pack themselves. Swinging my bag onto my shoulder, I slip quietly out of the library, smiling at the librarian, who beams at me. I walk back to my dormitory, and I check my watch. 6.17 p.m. I sigh and try to shake my thoughts off.

As I stroll down the corridor, I meet Mabel Boot, with her face looking like it had been raped by crayons, as usual. She pouts and shoots me a dirty look. I ignore her completely. She's hounded after Potter for years, and will never forgive me for 'capturing his heart'. She and her girlfriend Alysha Patil have been shooting me scathing glares since I first stepped foot in here, because Patil worships Boot, and let's just say Boot is a slutty brat.

"Hey, Evans," she calls in her high-pitched squawk. "I heard Potter bedded you last night!"

"Go see Madam Pomfrey, you're hearing things that weren't said," I say smoothly, although I'm irritated. Little bi- Don't cuss, Lily Evans you are a Prefect - almost...

I just ignore whatever rude comment she makes and round the corner. "Holly-hockles," I say to the Fat Lady, who lets me in. I sprint up to the girls' dormitory and stuff my things into my trunk. I have one and three-quarter hours before I meet him, but I decide to get prepared first. I have a lot of trouble picking my clothes, but I end up with a plain dark red – my hair is actually red, not orange-red like the Prewetts and Weasleys, so it doesn't really clash – sweater and a pair of black slacks. I grab my things, make sure I have my wand and dash to the Prefect's bathroom.

Since the bathroom is free-for-all-Prefects, I put on my swimming-costume for precautionary measures. I let the bath fill with steamy water – it is winter, you know – and play with the bubbles. I choose a sweet, striking lemongrass scented foam that resembles fluffy snowy, and massive beautiful translucent ones hinted with luminous sea tones, and I sink into the water with a moan. I suck at swimming, so I just soak in the delicious heat of the water. I can feel my muscles slowly loosening and the bubbles caressing my skin, and my mind floats away... I am in heaven...

I must have stayed in the sweet bliss at least half an hour. I wand-dry my hair and put on my 'date-clothes'. Merlin, I shudder at the word. I creep upstairs, meeting no one – I had left my lazy friends when I went into the library. Obviously, fashion-freak Rosalie is already there to get me ready, criticism ready on her lips. I should have known...

"Lily Evans, what are you wearing?!" she shrieked. "You cannot wear that for a date with James Potter! And your hair! It-"

Whatever she says is unintelligible as she begins intruding my closet. Apparently, nothing there appeases her and she begins rummaging through her own wardrobe. She shoves a bundle of clothes at me and throws me into the bathroom. The next hour is a blur of wands, fabrics, hair products, accessories and lots of criticism from Rosalie.

Rosalie has dressed me in a cream-coloured, high-collared blouse netted over with dark blue floral lace and slightly puffy sleeves to the elbow where it tightens with a button, and very tight dark jeans, and a smart navy-blue leather jacket. She's applied minimal make-up – thank Merlin – which consists of a clear cherry-flavoured lip-gloss, rouge and dark blue eye-shadow and thin mascara. She pulls my red hair into a French twist, secured with a gold and sapphire comb, leaving long languid curls to fall around my back and frame my face, and forces me into ridiculously high dark blue three-inch heels. I fall over several times before she performs a tricky balance-spell I've never heard of. My ankles hurt, but at least I feel taller, which is good, because I would feel really small next to Potter – my 5'1 to his 5'11.

"Good luck, girl!" Rosalie squeals excitedly. "Go, go, go! It's already five to six!"

Suddenly I don't want to go! I can barely breathe and my stomach is writhing uncomfortably. But I have no choice, and Rosalie is shoving me out the door.

Five minutes later, I'm at the entrance of the Great Hall, and couples and trios and larger groups are streaming out, all chattering happily. I glance around nervously, but Potter is late. I should have known. Potter is always late! I lean against the wall and shove my hands into my pockets, swallowing nervously, my eyes darting around till... I see him.