Focus.
Don't look down.
Don't look at her.

James gritted his teeth, tightened his grip on the Quaffle and dodged Patel to hurl it neatly into the left-hand hoop.
A smattering of applause, accompanied by cheerful whooping, echoed from down below in the stands. As the captain flew out from the goals to berate one of the other Chasers on his slow reaction time, James chanced a look down at where the sixth-year Gryffindor girls were huddled, barely distinguishable from one another in the thick layers that were protecting them from the biting November chill. Even from this distance, though, James could make out Lily Evans, recognisable by the dark red hair – particularly striking in the greyish light – that streamed from beneath her hat.

There was little that could draw his focus from Quidditch, but he was admittedly relieved when Reid blew the whistle and he was able to touch back down on the ground. It had been hard to keep his mind on the Quaffle when he was wondering just why all the Gryffindor girls had turned out to watch the practice on a bitterly cold November afternoon. Most of them took an interest in the Quidditch Cup, but they had never before come to a practice, and with good reason: besides the weather, practices were not particularly interesting except perhaps to an avid fan.

The girls' presence had not gone unnoticed by the rest of the team: James saw Conroy and Patel grinning as they swung their brooms over their shoulders and sauntered across the pitch to where the girls sat. Feeling irrationally bitter, it took a minute for James to realise he was still holding the Quaffle. He sloped over to the crate and made a show of fiddling with the straps: he could hear giggling behind him, which only made him more annoyed. He would have gone over to the girls if Conroy and Patel hadn't got there first: why couldn't the berks stick with the girls in their own year? They probably assumed that the girls were there to see them, when it was just as possible that they'd come to see James … they usually preferred Sirius, of course, but it wasn't unlikely, was it?

He straightened up, his fingers numb inside his gloves, and saw a heavily clad figure detaching itself from the laughing group and heading towards James. The light was fading now, but the crimson hair still stood out. Lily drew nearer, and James' palms began to sweat, his heartbeat racing: he fought to control the urge to sort out his hair. He mustn't look cool at all, packing away the equipment on his own …

He swallowed as she approached, ready to speak – though no words came to mind – but she was ahead of him.

"Hi," she said brightly, coming to a standstill. "Need a hand?"

James blinked at her.

"No, you're all right," he managed after a pause – was it awkward? Did she notice? "Thanks, though."

Lily shrugged, hands in her pockets. Her hat and scarf covered so much of her face that all James could see were her green eyes, yet somehow they were expressive enough that it hardly mattered. Something like mischief was gleaming in them now, as she said, "it isn't as altruistic an offer as it seems. I was freezing, sitting over there – I needed to stretch my legs."

"Well, I'm mightily grateful anyway," James said heartily. He winced as soon as the words were out of his mouth: mightily? Hastily, he went on: "So what brings you lot here this evening? Not that it isn't nice to have spectators, but you know – even my mates don't come to practices."

Lily made an impatient noise, so small that if James wasn't listening to and watching her so attentively, he might have missed it. "It's silly really. I won't say who, but someone fancies Thaddeus Conroy and apparently its an affection that stretches to shivering in the stands during his practices."
"A sign of true love, enduring practices," said James. "He should feel honoured."

Lily looked over at the group by the edge of the pitch: Conroy was holding court, golden hair gleaming in the stadium lights, his booming voice carrying around the stands.

"I can tell he's very humbled," she said, turning back to face James with her mouth twitching. He grinned.

"It looked like a good practice, in any case," she went on. "Very professional. Slytherin have got a new captain, haven't they? Does that much affect how you train?"

Inwardly glowing at her compliment, as indirect as it had been, James was still surprised by her interest. She came to every match, he knew that, and often participated in making the banners and flags that the Gryffindor spectators held up (last year, she'd even made badges for the whole House, Charmed to flash red and gold) – but he didn't know her enthusiasm for Quidditch stretched beyond house pride.

"Er – yeah, absolutely," he said. "Every captain's got their own strategies and angles. If you want to win, you have to prepare a personalised attack."

"The thing you were doing – when you flew upwards then dropped the Quaffle –"

"Porskoff Ploy?" James supplied, grinning again at Lily's blank face. She flashed a smile in return.

"I've no idea, but that looked clever – it distracts the opposing Chaser, yeah?"

"That's right."

"I noticed your signature move, too," she continued, and her eyes twinkled. "The James Potter reverse pass …"

James laughed. "I might as well come clean … I didn't actually invent that. I'm just incredible at it."

"Fathead," said Lily, but her tone remained amused, and there wasn't a trace of annoyance in her voice. "What's – oh, it's something to do with a hawk –"

"Hawkshead Attacking Formation?" James frowned.

"That's the one – what does that look like? Were you using it today?"

Impressed, James launched into an explanation of the move, unable to stop himself from gesturing wildly to demonstrate. That led – thanks to Lily's questions – to an account of the last match he'd seen, his Arrows versus the Harpies, which turned into his solid reasoning for why the Arrows were simply the best team in the league.

He was aware of nothing but the words spilling from his mouth and, moreover, the way Lily seemed to take in every one with intrigue and genuine interest in her eyes: the fact that he was apparently captivating her could have kept him talking for hours. He was just finishing a funny story about the referee at last year's championship final when Lily shivered. He stopped abruptly: he hadn't noticed the cold, nor the fact that – Merlin's balls, it was dark: he'd been so engrossed.

"When did the others go?" he asked, suddenly noticing the empty pitch.

"Ages ago," said Lily amusedly. "They said bye, did you not hear?"

James scratched his chin, utterly disoriented. "Er – no," he admitted. "I get sort of caught up in Quidditch … you should have stopped me, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to keep you –"

"If I'd wanted to stop you I would have," said Lily matter-of-factly. "It was really interesting, I think I've learned more just now than I do in a week of lessons."

"You can borrow some of my books, if you like," James offered, and she smiled at him, a truly devastating smile that made his stomach flutter uncontrollably.

"That'd be great, thanks!"

Silence fell, but it wasn't uncomfortable. James was slightly reeling from the discovery that she was just as easy to talk to as Sirius: time had simply flown by, as it always did with his best friend. In truth, he'd never had a full conversation with her, not alone. What had he been missing?

"Well, I'd better head back," Lily said eventually. "I've got Charms club at eight. Are you …?"

James nodded at the crate by his feet. "I've got to put this away."

He was desperate to walk back with her, side by side, and he hoped it didn't show on his face. Lily nodded, rubbing her gloved hands together. There was an air of finality lingering around them, or so James felt; it was strange, but he had no desire for the moment to end.

"See you later, then," said Lily; with a little wave, she turned and walked away. James watched her go with a grin spreading across his face, and the second she was out of earshot, he punched the air with a resounding whoop.

Good practice indeed.