"These," says James stubbornly, "are not fairy lights." He prods at a coloured bulb, squinting suspiciously, then turns back to face Lily. "I don't know what to tell you, Evans – you were ripped off."

"Sit down, you ninny," Lily orders. "You'll electrocute yourself if you're not careful."

James shoots the string of lights a mistrusting glance as he scurries over to the bed, where Lily is sitting cross-legged. He folds his long legs under him and manages to sit still for approximately a minute before he's up again, shooting off the bed and peering around the room with interest.

Lily watches, amused: James Potter in her pink, fairy-strewn bedroom is a sight to behold. He's so tall his head brushes against her lampshade, but he couldn't look less intimidating, in his mismatching socks and too-short jeans. That, coupled with the way he darts from corner to corner, picking up things that catch his eye and peeking curiously into drawers and cupboards ("I'm not trying to find your underwear drawer, I promise! … Where is it?") floods her with affection for him.

"You know, my parents won't be back til four," she tells him as he inspects the photographs on her windowsill. "We've spent the last three months wishing we had somewhere we could be alone …"

James pulls a face. "You bring to me a room that is filled souvenirs from your childhood and expect me to join you in unspeakable deeds? Why, Evans, I thought you knew me."

Lily reaches for a book.

She's dragged from its pages some minutes later by an exclamation, and looks up to see that James has somehow disappeared. Frowning, she sits up and peers at the floor. James' legs are sticking out from under the bed; seconds later, he resurfaces, waving a battered old notebook and looking wildly triumphant.

"Oh no," Lily says, dread pooling in her stomach, because that expression is never good. "What have you found?" She takes a closer look at the book in his hand, and wonders if it's possible to go red and white at the same time. Why didn't she hide that? Why didn't she burn it, or bury it – why did she leave it under her bed?

James' eyes are gleaming. "I didn't know I was going out with an author!" he cries delightedly, flipping through the pages. "Evans, you secretive rogue! You might have told me – I would have asked for your autograph …"

"Put the book down, Potter," Lily warns, "and step away."

"I've got it memorised," says James at once.

"You haven't!"

James snaps the book shut, closes his eyes and recites, "Poppy waved her wand. Flowers appeared all around her. 'The magic fairy was telling the truth!' said Poppy. 'I can do magic too!'"

Lily flops backwards on to the bed with a groan, covering her face with her hands: she can feel herself turning scarlet, and she knows James is smirking. The bed dips as he sits down next to her: his hands pull her arms away, tugging her upwards.

"Go on," Lily says reluctantly. "Mock me. I suppose it's too much to ask you not to tell Sirius –"

"I actually think it's very enlightened," says James pretentiously, quirking an eyebrow. Lily elbows him. "No, really! Prophetic, some might say. I mean, look – Poppy could do magic, couldn't she?"

He puts an arm around her and Lily unresistingly sinks into his side. "You're just saying that because you're my boyfriend and you have to be nice to me," she tells him.

"What nonsense," says James. "I'm hardly ever nice to you. Just ten minutes ago I was ridiculing your school photo."

"That was much less embarrassing."

James rolls his eyes; he takes her hand in his, twisting their fingers together, entwining them. "Remind me to show you the stories I used to write, when you come round to mine. They are – well, actually, they're quite marvellous, really spectacular for one so young, but they are illustrated. A lot of dragons and lions and almost every story features fearless James Potter conquering insurmountable odds to become the hero once again …."

Lily snorts. "You didn't even come up with a different name for yourself?"

"Why should I?" James shrugs. "I knew it to be true."

Impulsively, Lily kisses him. "I can't wait to read them," she tells him happily when she pulls away. He kisses her forehead, looking pleased.

"You will have to wear gloves," he says after a moment of comfortable silence. "When handling the stories, I mean. They're going to be worth millions one day."