Masquerade Challenge
Jilytober 2021
Sharper Than Hope
My dress is too tight around the chest.
The champagne, running hotly down the lines of my throat, adds further to the pressure, to the redness blooming around my neck and cheeks, instead of easing it. But I need the alcohol in my system tonight; need it for the act I'm supposed to put on, for tolerating more than one unwelcome gaze that I can feel on my person already. And so I down the rest of my drink, glass clutched firmly between fingers, and focus on breathing right despite the compression of my lungs.
At least it's a pretty dress, I guess, accompanied by matching navy-coloured robes that shimmer just right under good lighting.
It had taken almost half my savings from summer to be able to afford it.
Surprise pulls my gaze from the brightness of the room, and my thoughts from their sullen, despondent state, when a flutter of fingers runs down the length of my lower back. The familiar touch sends both my spine curving and my lips quirking, a pleasant tingle strumming through my body as I turn around with an arched brow.
"May I help you?"
"You may," James says, already grinning that dumb, lovely grin of his. It's actually the strangest thing—he's rarely ever without all that jubilance and energy, and yet, every time he glances at me, it hits me anew like a million volts. Even now, as he stands before me in those smart black dress robes, looking as sinful as he does with that hair and those glasses, it's the glowing energy that pulls my attention first—though appreciation for the rest is sure to follow. "You see, I was ditched by my date as soon as we entered the party, even though, funnily enough, she's the one who dragged me here."
Oh, yeah.
That.
So, I asked him to be my date to Slughorn's party. Big deal
I didn't do it because I want him to go out with me or anything—which, okay, alright, I kind of do—but because he's my best-mate, and I'm in a bit of a shite state, socially speaking, and he's the only one who would've readily agreed to help me out, no questions asked. I suppose ditching him at the entrance right after we got accosted by a ministry official who'd lost his marbles upon finding The James Potter at the party was not the nicest way to thank him for the generosity.
"Sorry," I wince, trying to look apologetic, but still too warm and numb around the face to know if I'm pulling it off. Even without the alcohol, it's a pretty common reaction for me to have around James. "I just… ugh, I saw Snape and then Jenkins in quick succession as soon as we arrived, and I immediately needed a drink."
For context: Jenkins is the ex-boyfriend; Snape the ex-friend.
Both of them arseholes of varying degrees.
James's hand slides comfortingly down my arm, pulling away the tension from muscles like some advanced spell only he can master. It's not something I'm unused to experiencing, this trick of his, I mean, but like his energy, it never stops being effective. I let him pull the glass from my fingers and place it on the table behind me, and then look up at him with a rueful smile.
"Are you alright?" he asks.
I nod, the tightening in my chest unspooling steadily. Merlin, I wish he'd snog me. "Better."
"We didn't have to come, you know."
He's right, of course. There are very few things he's wrong about these days, which ends up being a point of severe frustration for me, because up until two years ago, I'd been determined to never agree with anything the prat thought or said, come hell or high water. Back then, he annoyed me by being occasionally right and putting a damper on my streak of hating him. Now, he annoys me by constantly being right and melting my insides as well as turning me on.
"I know, but—" His hand has travelled up to my shoulder now, rubbing away at a tense spot. It's terribly distracting. "—Professor Slughorn insisted."
"When does he not, Evans?"
I roll my eyes, unable to keep the smile from my face when he refuses to stop blazing me with his. "Might I remind you that not all of us can get away with ignoring him all the time? Some of us actually need these contacts and connections to survive in the outside world."
Something in his expression softens at that, his gaze shifting to watch as his finger plays with a curl of hair at the side of my neck. I hold back the shiver that wants to erupt at the attention, and do a little bit of my own watching, mesmerized by the way the bobbing glasses of firelight illuminating the room play out over the angles of his jaw. It's during moments like this that I wonder why he won't make a move; whether he really sees me as nothing more than a mate. And if he does, then why does he torture me so? And torture it is, because there's no way I could be more obvious about my emotions, I know that much.
The amount of knowing looks I receive from Mary as well as the other boys on the daily is proof enough that I'm awful at holding up any pretension.
"You're brilliant," James says eventually, hazel eyes finding my own again. His grin has turned softer, too. "And they're bloody wankers if they don't see that simply because you were born without the knowledge of the magic flowing inside you." Here, a brush of his thumb over the underside of my chin. "Honestly, Evans, you're so good you put the rest of us to shame."
My God.
He's cruel.
"Why all this flattery?" I say, trying to lighten the mood, but probably failing rather spectacularly when the question comes out all breathy and lovesick. And though I cringe inwardly at my own unsubtlety, James barely bats an eye.
"Well, you do look rather good tonight," he murmurs cheekily, like my heart isn't currently undergoing conniptions. "Gives me a pretty strong incentive to be nice to you. Did I tell you that before, by the way?"
"What?" I've lost the ability to string thoughts together.
"That you look beautiful tonight."
He has, incidentally.
Multiple times.
"No, actually, I don't think you have." I smirk, loving how laughter glitters so fittingly on him. "You should probably say it a few more times, just to make sure it sticks."
"Feeling a little too arrogant, are we?" He moves his hand as if to grip my waist—but I know better; I can read the stupid git too well. And so I slip my fingers around his wrist, bring a halt to the pinch he was undoubtedly planning to plant on my hip. I see the amusement grow on his face, like he's somehow pleased with how I've accurately read his intentions. "Shit, are you drunk already?"
I squeeze his hand. "I may have downed three glasses of champagne with poor restraint."
"Evans…"
"What?!" I scoff, trying not to squirm under that knowing look. He's been staring down at me for long enough that his glasses have slid down his nose slightly. I'm tempted to reach out and fix it, and—a second later, I realize that there's no reason I can't. So I let my thumb gently push it up, and apart from the way James's pulse picks up pace under my fingertips, still wrapped around his wrist, he gives no other indication that he's even noticed me move. "It's not like you've never seen me drunk before."
"No, I know. It's just… are you sure you're alright?"
"Of course." I smile, hoping it conveys what my cowardice won't allow me to add: that everything feels alright when I'm with him. But it's just as I spot a crease between his brows and open my mouth to reassure him—more firmly this time—that I feel the sudden burn of a gaze in my periphery again. I barely have to flit my eyes for a moment to catch Severus' cold glare upon James's back, the reproachful curl of his mouth, that familiar expression of unadulterated loathing twisting over his features. In all but an instant, the comfortable warmth that had settled over my chest dissipates, replaced by disquiet once more. "Never mind."
"What? What's wrong—?"
"No—" I remove my palm from his to clamp it around his arm, and stop him from turning around. "No, don't look. There's—it's just Snape." I wince, voice lowered to a whisper. "I don't want any drama."
The frown on his face immediately deepens, but instead of looking at me, his eyes seem to latch onto something past my shoulder. "Well, in that case, whatever you do, don't turn around."
Well, now all I want to do is turn around.
What an idiot.
But I corral the self-control, find the voice to push out the question. "What is it?"
"Jenkins." James's eyes return to mine, and suddenly, the piercing light in them feels a bit too intense, enough that it makes it difficult for me to keep looking at him—which is nonsense, because I probably stare at the bloke an indecent amount every day. But the reality remains, and I notice, with a pounding heart, that the grin on his face has melted away, that there's a noticeable tick to his jaw from anger that is evidently not directed at me.
"Hey, are you alright?"
"Fine, It's just—" He licks his lips, quite successfully pulling my attention to how they glisten afterwards. He's surprisingly closer than he was only a moment ago—or had I just not noticed? "I just really, really, don't like either of them."
I don't know if it's what he intended, but I laugh; a bit of a spiralling string of sound that I'm leaning forward to muffle against his chest. When I look up after the strange hilarity has passed somewhat, it's to find James with a whisper of a smile on his lips, watching me with fondness that I'm not entirely unfamiliar with, but one that feels too meaningful here, now, for some reason I can't fathom. Still, his jaw hasn't fully unclenched, the tension in his gaze hasn't relented, and I don't like it.
Rather abruptly, insanity grips my throat.
"James," I utter his name, chest already heaving with the breath I try to pull. His dark brows arch questioningly, something flickering in his gaze when I take another step forward, bring myself all but flush against him. I take that as a good sign and—and wrench out all the damn Gryffindor courage the Sorting Hat had seen inside me. "Will you kiss me?"
His fingers on my waist—when the hell did they get there?—drum unevenly at the question, a sharp inhale filling up his lungs audibly. I'm fairly frozen to the spot, heart beating heavy on my tongue as he looks on, silent; infuriatingly inscrutable about what brews inside that smart, silly head. When his eyes travel behind me fleetingly once more, before returning to my face with a bit of that earlier light dimmed, I prepare for the sinking feeling already yawning open inside my stomach.
But I've barely managed to drag my fingers away from him, still struggling to think of some painful joke that I could sell to break the awkwardness, when his grip around me tightens—
Tightens to the point where he's pulled me even closer, both my arms sandwiched between our bodies, oxygen in my lungs extinguished more from the proximity to him than the pressure of his palm at my back, keeping me against him. My mouth has parted, I realize belatedly, when his gaze drops to it, unabashed and dark. He looks… entirely inappropriate to be in the middle of a party.
Merlin, I'm screwed.
"Okay," James says, and I'm too surprised by how soft his voice falls—given the intensity of his expression—that I can't even prepare myself for the moment he leans down and his lips slant over mine.
But God—when they do, when I let my fingers traverse the path from his stomach to his shoulders, to the thickness of that glorious, mad hair, where they sink with a relieved sigh, when I feel the coolness of his specs against the flaming of my face—that's when the air seems to enter my body again, quite as if he'd been the one to steal it from me in the first place, and has now decided to return it gracefully.
His mouth is gentle against mine, but the strokes deliberate and measured, the feel of them burning. An alarming rush of emotion crawls up my chest and tries to empty into him. I don't know what else to do, so I press harder. I kiss him back. And in the process, everything inside me ruptures; the pieces warm and glowing and oh, why the bloody hell haven't we done this before?
But the thought to tug him closer, pry his mouth open, and taste him better only just crosses my mind before James is pulling back, quick and sharp, without giving me so much as a warning.
"Fuck," I pant.
As far as snogs go, I know it's one of the chastest ones I've ever had. But just those few seconds of contact leave me breathless unlike I've ever been before; chest heaving hard, lips tingling like crazy even as I blink my eyes open slowly. The sounds of the party and the chatter of conversations return gradually to remind me why it wouldn't have been the wisest decision to tear off his robes right then and there like I so clearly wanted to.
The realization prompts a bubble of disbelieving laughter to rise in my chest, swirling with pleasant embarrassment, but when I look up at James, it's to see that he watches me with some strain in his eyes still persisting. For a moment, I worry that he didn't enjoy kissing me—a fear I haven't had to entertain in all my fantasies of being gloriously pressed up against him—but then he starts speaking, and those worries effectively fall away…
...to be replaced by another.
"Alright, Evans?" he asks, voice hoarse, somewhat out of breath himself. His gaze flies up for a beat. "He's left. You're good. What about Snape?"
Confusion threads up my throat and tongue and face, pulling my brows together in the middle as I try to make sense of why he wants to discuss Snape the first thing after what's just happened. I mean, talk about a mood-killer! But despite the time I give him to take back the strange question, he simply continues to stare at me weirdly, cheeks still flushed a healthy red to let me know that he can't possibly be as unaffected as he's pretending to—
Pretending.
Understanding greets me like a smack in the face; dread pooling, disappointment spreading, I take a measured step back, feel his arms slide away from me, and ask in the calmest voice I can manage, "Why are you worried about Snape?"
His chin tips a little low. "What—what do you mean? You said—"
"I know what I said." The words come out clipped, and he blinks, surprise cracking through his mask of cool. Good. "Why do you think I asked you to kiss me, James?"
The question settles on his shoulders, but he straightens under its weight, lips pressing into a thin line, face hardening. And for once, I hate that I read him so well.
"You think I wanted to put on a show for them, don't you?"
The crack expands, splintering the nonchalance to let hesitation and doubt peek through. Hazel eyes flit between mine, as if searching for an answer I won't give him. And I won't, not when I've already taken the leap, not when he's decided to misread my emotions and intentions so spectacularly. "Is that… is that not what you wanted?"
"Definitely not the main want, no." My skin feels hot, alight with embarrassment. "But I suppose that clears things up, thanks."
He just keeps looking at me.
I swear, I could kick him, the bloody idiot—
"James, m'boy!"
The annoyance that flies over his face at the interruption plays out so vividly that I might be tempted to laugh had I not been feeling a similar irritation myself. And yet, despite how he momentarily scrunches his eyes closed with a silent curse, James eventually turns around to greet Professor Slughorn, a tight smile plastered on his lips.
Merlin, I hope I'm a better actor than that.
"Evening, Professor."
"A wonderful evening to you, too, James. I was just wondering if you would meet—" And then Slughorn spots me, having neared enough that I'm no longer hidden from sight by James's abnormally tall form. He's wearing one of his velvety purple robes tonight, the material draped and swishing over his rather rotund belly with every step. "Oh ho! Lily, m'dear, you're here as well! But, of course, you are. Who else could get James to finally attend one of my dinners, if not you?"
"I think you're giving me too much credit, sir," I say breezily, not sparing a glance to the person beside me.
"No, I actually agree," James says, and I clench my hands into fists, suddenly desperate for another glass of champagne to down. "It's terribly difficult to say no to her."
Slughorn takes great amusement at this, green eyes glowing with delight. "Oh, I absolutely understand, m'boy!" He pats James on the shoulder, like he's said something truly praiseworthy and not a wayward comment that makes me want to roll my eyes to the back of my head. "Now, while I'd love to stay and chat with you, I actually came over to say that Hamish MacFarlan from the Department of Magical Games and Sports was particularly interested in speaking to you—"
This is all the cue I need.
"I think I'll step out for a bit, Professor. Just need some fresh air." I say politely, relieved at the easy nod of his head and the smile he offers as I make to move past them.
James, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be quite as acquiescing in allowing me to pass. Thanks to Slughorn's presence, however, he only makes it a point to brush his fingertips against mine as I try to leave, and the touch is—stupidly—enough to get me to turn my head slightly, look at him. Even with his face turned away, our eyes meet for the briefest of seconds, and I see it there, clear as day: don't leave.
But I remember the tension of his body against mine, the closed off expression he'd sported, all while I'd been bursting inside with silly giddiness. And then I walk away with a shake of my head.
"What are you doing with Potter, Lily?"
I groan, head tossed back against the solid wall behind me, legs bent at the knees, robes spilling in a fall on the stairwell steps I've sequestered myself into. And yet, turns out it's not isolated enough, for the ice-cold voice that hisses menacingly is the last I want to hear; not to mention that the person it belongs to is quite possibly the one to be blamed for all of this mess in the first place.
"Leave me alone, Severus," I bite out, twirling my wand between fingers, openly enough that he spots the movement and reads it for what it is—a warning. "I have no interest in talking to you."
"But you'll talk to Potter? You'll—you will kiss that—"
"Yes."
"Excuse me?"
"I said, yes, I'll kiss him. What's it to you?"
"I won't let you," he sputters, taking a step forward, another, until he's stood only a few feet below.
What a fucking twat.
My gaze travels to him, slow, insides bristling with fury even as I fight to keep a calm face. It's difficult to reconcile this angry, sallow-faced, perennially sour person with the boy I once knew and called my best friend. Now, he's just death and bitterness. "Oh, but you already did," I whisper, smiling sweetly. "Just back there at the party. I kissed him. And I rather liked it, too. Didn't you see?"
Something snaps inside him; I see it twist uglily over his expression, watch with dark satisfaction as a vein throbs under the pale skin of his neck. The snarl he releases, then, is expected, as is the twitch of his fingers as they make to reach for his wand.
Gone are the days when I was secure in my knowledge that he wouldn't hurt me. Now, I know he will—and so I'll hurt him back. I'll hurt him better.
I flick my wrist, soundless; send his wand clattering to the stone floors behind him.
Snape's face slackens, disbelief written all over as his eyes flit between me, still seated on the step, and his wand, now far out of arm's reach.
"What?" I challenge. "Didn't expect a Mudblood to best you so quickly?"
"You know I don't—"
"Leave."
"Lily—"
"I said, leave."
"But if you just listen—"
"Really, mate, try to save whatever scraps of dignity you can in your oily grasp, would you?" My heart swiftly takes flight at the sound of that voice, and despite the fact that I can't even see him yet, a strange sense of soothing relief settles over my insides. "Scurry back to your little hole. She asked you to leave."
"You—" Snape spits, disregarding me entirely now that he has something else to focus his hatred on. Black eyes glittering with malice, he steps away from the stairwell, stalking forward with long, graceless strides, fists trembling by his sides. Then, suddenly, he freezes to a stop. The reason behind this becomes quite evident when James strolls into view, jaw clenched tight with tension as he points his wand at Snape. "You will never deserve her. She's so much better—"
"I know." James shrugs, not even looking at me as the phrase leaves his mouth, as it swiftly knocks the breath out of my lungs. "I've always known it, Snivellus, I don't know why you're trying to tell me this like it's supposed to be news. But there's also something else I know…" He presses closer, pulls to his full height as he stares down at Snape with mock pity. "I deserve her a fair bit more than you do."
"You arrogant little—"
"Severus, this is the last time I'm going to say this." I rise from my perch on the stairs, voice unwavering as I reach the bottom-most step. "Leave now, or you'll regret it."
He's a lot of things, but I know he's not foolish; Snape's eyes glance between the wand James still points at him, to the defiant tilt of my chin and the strong posture I force my shoulders to hold, before taking in his own defenceless state. The assessment seems to bring realization of just how thoroughly this situation sits against his favour, and sure enough, a beat later, he expends a disgusted scoff. I watch with a blank expression as he whirls on his feet and stalks down the corridor, picking up his discarded wand on his way past.
James doesn't drop the wary gaze from his form until Snape has fully disappeared around the corner, and then—
Then he looks at me.
Blows out a heavy breath.
"Lily," he starts, eyes already softer, brows pulling in the middle as he walks closer. The apology is written over every single line of his face. "I'm—"
"Don't." I shake my head, chest aching afresh as I breathe deeply. "Don't say sorry, and don't feel bad for me. I'm fine."
"Hey." Warmth wraps around my forearm as his fingers gently tug me forward. I'd like to say that after everything, I put up a pretence of restraint, but I don't—I go to him willingly, boneless and exhausted and entirely too pathetic to resist his nearness. When my gaze remains caught on his robes, James uses his thumb to tip my chin up; forces me to look at him. The slight elevation the stair adds to my height still doesn't do much for the craning of my neck. "I'm not feeling bad for you. You handed Snape's arse to him without breaking a sweat, Evans. You sat there and gave him nothing as he popped a vein. If anything, I…"
"You what?"
The thumb travels farther along the line of my jaw, but what sends the nerves fluttering in my stomach is the way pink splotches over the tops of his cheeks. "I fancy you even more now."
The words pull an embarrassing sort of exhale from me—some mixture between relief and wonder—and I stare at him with a pounding heart, notice as trepidation flies over his eyes, as he swallows thickly. "You're…" A lick of lips; something sharper than hope on my tongue; another attempt. "You fancy me?"
James shakes his head, eyebrows arched, humourless laughter filtering out. "Of course, I do, you daft, brilliant woman. Practically the whole school knows it. It can't possibly come as a shock to you!"
"Well, it is!" I cry, ears growing hot. "It is a bloody shock to me, because—because I've been waiting… for ages, James! This whole year, and maybe even in sixth, I—why did you never say anything?!"
"Because I didn't want to lose you." His palm shifts to curve around my nape and pull me closer. Again, I go; this time, even more easily. There's hope shining in the hazels of his eyes too, adding to what bubbles inside me. "I didn't want to lose our friendship."
"You wouldn't have," my voice whispers, and I reach up a hand to trace his cheekbone. Dark lashes flutter at my touch. "I've been—I am mad about you, Potter, and back there… when I asked you—well, I wanted you to kiss me for me. Not because of fucking Jenkins or Snape! I couldn't care less about them, if I'm being honest. There's a reason I asked you to come to the party with me. You just—you make things better."
"Lily…" His forehead drops onto mine, eyes closing, arm encircling my waist.
I let my own fingers sift through his hair again; other hand coming up to rest over his chest. "And when you said that thing about putting on a show for them, I thought you didn't want… me."
Here, his grip at the back of my neck gets firmer, tugging until our noses brush, until his lips are too close; not close enough. I want to whine at the torment. "Merlin, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
And then his mouth is sliding over mine, languid and torturous enough to send my toes curling, send me stretching up on them to fit against him better; his hands are clutching me tighter, angling my face; his tongue is gliding over the seam of lips, prying them open to meet mine, and I'm—oh.
Oh, this is everything.
A moan rises from the back of my throat, and I kiss him with a desperation I haven't known before. Suddenly, what we'd shared back at the party, with tension strung across James's shoulders and uncertainty over my mind, feels laughable compared to what bursts inside my chest now. I claw at his robes, wrap arms around his neck, pull closer and closer, until the space between us might as well be non-existent. Fortunately enough, James gives as good as he gets; he walks us backwards, further into the stairwell, his grip around my waist easily lifting me off the ground, placing me back against the stone wall as his body envelops mine. He groans a little when I brush brazenly against his front, and strokes his tongue more deliberately over mine.
Heat simmers in my belly, and it's like real, acute pain to not have him right then and there.
This, I realize, is probably what kissing your best friend feels like.
Or, probably just what kissing James Potter feels like.
Who knows? I'm not too bothered about the details as long as the kissing is happening.
"Wait, wait—" he pulls away abruptly, face flushed, glasses lopsided, eyes bright. I want to smack him for the interruption, and also snog him all over again. "Wait. Anyone could walk in here anytime."
"Okay," I breathe, rising on my toes to bring him back to me.
"Lily," he growls after I've grinded myself against him a few more times. Heh. "Will you—fuck, I can't bloody think. Do you want to get out of here?"
That gives me pause, and I settle back onto my feet for a second, thumb ghosting over his lower lip. "Where?"
"Literally anywhere, I'm not picky. Classroom, dorms, broom closet—"
"Classy—"
A flash of grin. "Well?"
My eyes flitter between his.
Ah, fuck it!
"Okay," I say, kiss him quick, giggle madly. Think my heart might burst. "Okay, Potter. Surprise me."
He tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear and winks. "Oh, I'm really good at that."