He has never seen her this drunk before, and he's not sure if he's more amused or worried about it. Music blares from all sides of the common room, confetti and bottle caps are strewn across the floor, and she smells like firewhiskey and toasted marshmallows and foil streamers. He doesn't know what she's doing here, or how she managed to locate him in this wild web of snogging and dancing and drinking. Where the hell did she even just suddenly come from? But she's here—right there in front of him, see?—staring up intently, hand against the wall, wrist brushing against his shoulder.

"Hi," he greets her, curious.

She just blinks at him.

"Evans?"

"Shush."

He cocks an eyebrow at her. "Right."

He takes a swig from his own drink and inspects her right back over the bottle. Somehow, however, he finds himself averting his gaze to watch Sirius instead, because the bloody git's mounted a mop on the other side of the room, and he's trying to make it fly, blabbering something about the moon and telling it off and making it hide for the rest of its pointless existence. James keeps watching Sirius, determined to ignore Lily's committed staring in his periphery, or the rising heat in his cheeks. And psh, he's not backing down this stupid staring match she's obviously starting. Of course not. It's not that. It's just, well, there's nothing interesting about her anyway—same old red hair, same old eyes, nothing he hasn't thoroughly studied before... except... her eyes are sort of looking at his lips, sort of, or his jaw or something, and her own lips are slightly parted, and they're warm and soft and inviting; and he can't help it, he wonders if she tastes like marshmallows too, or if he can tuck that stray strand of hair without waking her up from this reverie, and—gods above, what is she even doing here?

"You need anything?"

She smirks. Bloody minx. "Why are you upset, James Potter?"

"Because you're drunk and you're looking at me funny."

"That doesn't make sense."

"It makes a lot of sense."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"What are you—"

"Shut up."

He does. And, okay, so maybe he's drunk too, more drunk than he thought, because he hasn't any idea what's going on.

"What are we doing?" he asks her.

She huffs at him impatiently. "I'm staring at you."

"Why?"

"Does there have to be a reason?"

"Yes…?"

"You look at me plenty yourself. It's annoying sometimes, did you know?"

"That's not a reason."

Her eyebrows knit. "Can you just shut up for a second?"

"Never."

She scowls then. She pushes herself off the wall to straighten up and, possibly, to walk away and leave him alone, but she loses her balance from the knee-jerk movement and almost topples backwards. But hey, James isn't top Chaser for nothing.

"Steady," he mutters, his free arm smoothly looping around her waist.

For whatever reason, Lily starts giggling.

She's absurd. But he's laughing with her before he can voice that out, before he can make any sense of it.

"How many have you had?"

"Eleven shots," she declares, a hint of pride in her slurred voice. "T'was my last count at least. Then a glass of something. And then a bottle of… something else."

He opens his mouth to tell her what an absolute lunatic she becomes when inebriated, but she speaks first. "You're so… warm."

He swallows. Clears his throat. "So are you."

"Mhmm."

And then he's grimacing, because he really, really wants to kiss her, but he knows he shouldn't, and he wouldn't, and all of that just sucks. Making sure she's upright, he extricates his arm from her and eyes her warily. "What are you doing here, Evans?"

She tilts her head to one side and searches his eyes like the answer is there. Maybe it is. "It's just this song..." she begins to say, but the train of thought evidently gets lost on the way to her lips.

The song? The song's some upbeat number from this wizarding band Remus mentioned the other day. James doesn't remember what the band is. He doesn't know what the song is called.

"What about it?"

Lily chews on her lower lip and just stays like that, and then—he's not quite sure how exactly it started or precisely when—she's leaning in. She's getting close. Too close. One moment she's in a safe distance looking bemused, the next he can see that little scar on the edge of her eyebrow, can count how many shades of green bedeck her eyes. She's standing on her tiptoes, and her breath fogs up his spectacles. Her hands have found their way to his chest. She's still got that puzzled expression, still frowning a little. He is, too. A lot. It's happening too fast and forever long, and he doesn't know what the right thing to do is. He thinks he should just fuck it all and give in, because she's right here—right here, James, right fucking here—and why shouldn't he, and Merlin's scraggly bits he may or may not be freaking out—

"It makes me want to kiss somebody," she whispers, and damn it all to hell, James Potter is a madman with a dead brain and a raving heart.

But then she slumps down, leans her whole weight against him, and her head drops to his chest.

What...?

James takes a deep breath and licks his lips and stares ahead. He's not quite sure what to do with his hands. "Erm, Evans?"

She chuckles softly. "Your heart," she murmurs. He knows she can feel it hammering. He doesn't say anything. "I really like you, James Potter," she says finally, slurred, muffled, and he might easily have just imagined it. He's not sure. It really, honest to Merlin, really sounded something like that, though.

"Oh?"

But she's fallen asleep.

What the hell.

His laugh is nervous, shuddering, even a bit hysterical. Shaking himself out of it, he carries her to the couch.

He reckons she's bonkers. Properly, outrageously bonkers. He reckons he's in love.

He smiles like an idiot all night and the entire day after.