I'd taken my free period in the library with Mary and Marlene to make sure they worked on their Charms essays while I read ahead for N.E.W.T.-level Defense Against the Dark Arts.

At least, that was the plan, but all I could think about was Bellatrix Black and her continued threats. It wasn't the first time I'd ever crossed her, but it was the first time she had ever been so openly menacing. I didn't understand it.

I should report it, but I didn't really know what to say. It was such an abstract problem, and the usual solution for such a thing involved peer mediation.

I didn't fancy pulling another student into the whole mess when they would inevitably end up on Bellatrix's hit list.

Because I was sure she had one of those—she was just mental enough.

"Lilyyyyyy," whined a very agitated Mary from across the large wooden table we occupied in a sunlit corner of the library. "I just don't care about this right now. Can't I finish it later?"

I threw her a stern look. "No."

"But Lilyyyyyy." Mary took great pleasure in elongating the last syllable of my name, but was too exasperated for her own good.

Madame Pince came tottering over just to hiss a dramatic "Shhh!" at us. She then perched herself over a cart of books to return to a nearby shelf.

I rolled my eyes at Mary. "Nice going," I mouthed at her.

She frowned and glumly set back to work.

I was just about to re-read the same paragraph for the third time when Marlene pushed her second draft under my nose, shaking the parchment for emphasis. I glanced up at her toothy grin, and having caught my attention, she relaxed into the wooden chair she occupied.

I couldn't find anything wrong with her essay other than a few misplaced possessive apostrophes, so, after correcting those, I slid it back in her direction. Only, because I am still Lily Evans, Klutz Extraordinaire and Harbinger of Doom, it slid off the edge of the table and across the flagstone floors, skidding to a halt at a pair of well-worn shoes that jutted out from behind a bookshelf.

Marlene sent a scowl my way and she made to get up and retrieve her essay, but I'd already gone after it in a state of embarrassed panic.

"Agrippa's sake," I grumbled under my breath as I mentally chastised myself.

You can wrangle yourself out of falling to your death from midair, but you can't even aim a single sheet of parchment to land a foot away from you. You are absolutely the picture of elegance.

Just as I came upon Marlene's essay, long, manicured fingers reached down and seized the parchment from the ground.

"Pardon, but I think you'll find that—" I cut myself off in shock, and my eyes went wide.

Bellatrix Black stood smirking in front of me, holding Marlene's essay high over her head.

Buggeration.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Madame Mudblood," she sneered. She retreated between the bookshelves and I had no choice but to follow her, glancing anxiously up at Marlene's essay, which she held aloft at least a foot and a half above my head.

I crossed my arms over my chest defensively. "That's Head Girl to you," I corrected haughtily.

"Oh yes, of course. Forgive me!" she laughed derisively. "I'd forgotten I was in the presence of greatness." Her voice dripped with sarcasm and contempt.

I narrowed my eyes at her. "Just give me the parchment, Black, or I'll—"

Her cackle interrupted whatever threat was going to spill from my lips. "Or you'll what, Mudblood? Take House points? Assign me detention, then take it back?" Her eyes glittered between hatred and mirth.

"You're welcome for that, by the way," I shot back, angrily.

"Oh, please!" Her voice was sharp. "Don't pretend you did me any favors, Mudblood. We both know you were just saving yourself."

"Five points from Slytherin," I muttered, jutting out my jaw in challenge.

Bellatrix smiled slowly, her eyes wild and piercing beneath stray, black curls of fringe. She leaned towards me until she was only a few inches away from my face. I tried not to flinch. "That's all the power you'll ever hold over me, Mudblood," she said, her voice a steely knife, cold and cutting.

She held my gaze for an intense, yet uncomfortable length of time, smiling viciously, her teeth pointy enough to cause some serious damage if she ever decided to bite me. I clenched my jaw, determined not to let her faze me. Then, quite abruptly, she pulled back and let out a high-pitched cackle that cut through the air and sent a chill to my bones.

"Shhh!" called an unmistakable Madame Pince from beyond the bookshelf.

Bellatrix smirked at me and lowered her voice. "Watch yourself, Head Girl. You won't always have the filthy, backwards, Mudblood-loving walls of Hogwarts to protect you." She punctuated each adjective with a terrible, curling snarl. "I'll see you on the Quidditch pitch."

She gave one last, foreboding smile before dropping Marlene's essay and disappearing through the back aisle of the library. I hurriedly picked it up and made out of the bookshelves as quickly as I could, lest I run into Nott or Mulciber between the spines.

Though, I didn't think I'd ever seen either Slytherin in the library before, so I quickly put the thought of my head as I practically ran towards Marlene.

I hardly had time to process my encounter with Bellatrix, however, as Marlene was doing her Donna Summer disco arms and Mary had her whole fist stuffed into her mouth to keep from laughing and alerting Madame Pince to them once more.

I came up behind Marlene, doffed her on the back of the head with her essay, and then dropped it back onto the table in front of her as I walked to my seat. She hadn't stopped her disco arms, only waved them in my direction with a waggle of her eyebrows, a shit-eating grin gracing her features.

At that, Mary let out a squeal of laughter, which she quickly disguised as a sneeze. Madame Pince's head peered out from behind a bookshelf and she glared at her, but said nothing.

It was enough to sober Mary, however, and Marlene began skimming her essay for corrections. Smiling, she stuffed the Essay of Eternal Disaster in her satchel, and abandoned all her studies to sit next to me.

She grabbed a spare bit of parchment from my notes and scribbled the following:

Mary and I are going to play Hippogriff on the pitch tomorrow. We need a third player. You in?

I stared at the note in shock.

Absolute shock.

Firstly, what in good Godric's name was Hippogriff?

And secondly, if this were a game one played on a broomstick, I would inevitably die. There was no doubt in my mind about it.

I wasn't even playing a game when I had almost died the day before!

But how was I supposed to admit that to her?

I snatched the quill from her hands and wrote back:

Sounds fun! But you'll have to teach me how to play.

She grasped my wrist as though to apologize for having assumed that I would have known the game.

We can go out to the pitch tonight and practice!

I frowned.

How?

She grinned.

After Quidditch practice, the pitch will be empty for a few hours before curfew.

I raised an eyebrow.

I would have thought Potter would work you for as long as he has you.

She shook her head.

Potter runs really efficient practices. Intense and grueling, but efficient.

Then, catching onto our note passing, Mary pulled the parchment from between us, perused its contents, with a frown, and determinedly wrote something on it before handing it back to us to read.

If you're going to teach Lily Hippogriff tonight, I highly advise a Warming Charm. It'll be brass monkeys out. Also, I think I've finished my essay, but it's also possible I care the least amount about it.

I rolled my eyes and went back to tutoring her. She finally understood the limits of the Summoning Charm, and I had to pat myself on the back for having drawn out the diagram that led to her conclusions.

Head Girl duties were piling on this year, but I was determined to see them through. No matter what Bellatrix and all her lot thought, I had earned this, and I would succeed. Nothing could stop me.

Except maybe Hippogriff.

After dinner, a few hours before curfew, I'd made my way down to the Quidditch pitch in the lightest robes I could find and cast a Warming Charm over them so that I wouldn't freeze to death in the autumn evening air. Potter was still running his practice, so I went over to the broom shed and picked out a brand new Cleansweep broom, which had been donated to the school by someone seeking favor with the Headmaster, probably.

I climbed the wooden steps up to the stands and sat uncomfortably on the cold, rigid seats, watching as various blurs of scarlet and gold flew past me, maneuvering their brooms in ways I could only dream of doing myself.

It wasn't fair. Flying was the only thing that didn't come naturally to me, and I couldn't even blame the fact that I was a Muggleborn on it. It was like Mary and essay-writing, no amount of magic would ever improve the skill—it was all to do with practice.

However, as I am truly awful at flying, I was always too embarrassed to practice. Every year, we had a flying proficiency exam, and we only had to pass it to move on to our next year of courses.

It consisted of flying through magical hoops midair, and each year got a bit more complex. Needless to say, I would nearly always have to run the course at least three times before I got a passing mark.

And now, I was being forced to pretend I had suddenly, miraculously improved just because I hadn't been honest and tried to take credit for being a comedic genius and in-house Winged Wronksi Warrior.

Stupid, stupid Lily.

Potter blew his whistle and all the blurs halted and turned into people. Marlene held her Beater's bat aloft, ready to strike a nearing Bludger. She did, and it went careening through the air.

"Oi! McKinnon!" Potter shouted, and he threw a spell after the Bludger. It froze in midair. "Safety first!"

Safety first?

Since when?!

Marlene waved him off, apparently unconcerned over the safety of others. Didn't surprise me, honestly. "Why'd you stop the play, anyway, eh?" she asked. "We were just about to nail it!"

Potter scoffed. "Really? Because from what I saw, your formation was about as together as Flitwick's first-year toad choir."

I snorted. Flitwick's first-year toad choir was the worst, but we couldn't actually say so, only clap politely when whatever miserable song set they'd just performed had finally, mercifully ended.

Potter's head snapped in my direction, and an easy smile broke out over his face. "Right, let's run it again," he said to his teammates, who all groaned impatiently.

Marlene pumped her beater's bat through the air as Potter blew his whistle once again. All the players flew into position once more. Sirius Black spelled the Bludgers back into action, and whacked one towards Marlene. Between them, Potter and two other Chasers wove through the air like one large, spiraling machine headed straight for the goal posts. Just as they got there, Potter threw the Quaffle behind him to a fifth year girl, Nadiya Shah, who swooped down, presumably to thwart any opposing Chasers.

She rolled through the air in impressive loops towards the middle of the pitch, her hijab ballooning out behind her. I watched her, transfixed, as she continued to weave through Bludgers and elegantly barrel roll with nary a wobble. Then, I realized she no longer held the Quaffle!

She was only a distraction!

Baffled, I looked back towards the end of the pitch just in time to watch as Okosta Chinua, a very promising third year Chaser, scored a goal literally out of nowhere.

So naturally, I did what I had been conditioned to do for the last seven years of my life. I stood up and cheered my head off.

"Whoo! That was amazing!" I screamed. "GO, GO, GRYFFINDOR! Yeah!"

I didn't even notice I was alone. I was just that blown away by the play.

Potter flew over to me, a hand in his windblown hair, cocky as ever. "Thought that might impress you, Evans."

"It was AMAZING!" I gushed.

I couldn't even bother with banter or embarrassment; I was too impressed to care that he knew I was impressed. Hell, I wanted him to know I was impressed—that play they all just pulled off was bloody impressive!

"First you had the Quaffle, and you were all speeding bullets to the goalposts—and then you weren't!—and Nadiya was this incredible distraction, and then suddenly and inexplicably Okosta scores, like he's had the Quaffle up his sleeve the entire time or something, and I don't even remember my own name!"

He chuckled. "It's Lily. Your name is Lily." His eyes laughed at me from behind his glasses and there it was again. That look. That look that filled me up and made me all warm inside.

Marlene flew over and hovered just behind him. "Oi, Captain, if you're done chatting up your girlfriend"—I stuck my tongue out at her rudely—"I think we'd better have another go at it. I accidentally nicked Sirius—"

"Nicked me?! You chucked the bloody thing straight into my stomach, McKinnon!" yelled an angry Black, coming up one-handed beside her. His other arm was clutching at his stomach, Beater's bat hanging loosely from his hand, his whole face scrunched up in discomfort.

Marlene rolled her eyes. "Captain, straighten him out, will you? He's being a such a diva."

And then, for reasons unknown to me in that instant, Potter lifted his arms and began to do Donna Summer's disco arms. "Tell him yourself, McKinnon. We've got another play to run."

Marlene let out a howl of laughter so loud that it reverberated across the pitch. She joined Potter in on his disco arms as they flew back to the middle of the pitch.

WITH NO HANDS.

THEIR ARMS WERE BUSY DOING DISCO ARMS AND THEY COULD STILL FLY?!

HOW?!

Black stared after them and sulked. "Prats," he muttered. He straightened up and mirrored Marlene from across the pitch as though nothing had ever breached his middle.

Wow. Marlene was right. He was being a diva.

They ran through a few more equally impressive plays, and I couldn't help but cheer when they succeeded. Another half an hour later, Potter finally called the end of practice.

The Gryffindor Quidditch team descended onto the pitch and collectively headed towards the showers. Except for Black and Marlene, who simply disembarked their brooms one by one in the stands I occupied.

"What's this about you and McKinnon playing Hippogriff tomorrow?" Black asked, lying down on a bench in front of me. He stretched out his limbs and I heard more than one joint crack.

My own spine began to feel stiff from all the sitting up straight I'd been doing that day so I stood up and began stretching. "She wants to play and I don't know how, so she's going to teach me tonight. That is, if you're still up for it, Marley."

Marlene laid herself out on the bench opposite Black's, stretching her own limbs and sighing deeply. "Honestly, Lily, I'm absolutely knackered. I know I've made you come out here and miss valuable N.E.W.T. studying time and everything, but I think I may have underestimated how hard James was going to make us run those plays tonight."

"Yeah, love the bloke, but it was a bit excessive," Black agreed.

Potter appeared and descended his broom, snorting. "Says the diva."

We all laughed at Sirius as he scowled back at us.

Finally, Potter turned to me, a smirk playing lightly on his lips. "So, to what do we owe the pleasure of your audience this evening?"

Black answered before I could even open my mouth. "McKinnon's'posed to be teaching her Hippogriff, but since you've gone and killed us all during practice, Evans will be attending our funerals instead."

Marlene rolled onto her side to face me and added, "Lily, I'd really like it if you could get Flitwick's toad choir to sing some Donna Summer at mine. And see to it that you feed Freddy Mercury, eh?"

"Any last requests or wishes from you, Padfoot?" asked James wryly. He must be used to these two taking the piss out of him.

"Remember me," Black replied, placing a hand dramatically over his face. "Remember me as I was before tonight, Prongs: a spry young lad with the most wonderfully fucked up home life." He sat up and cracked a smile. "And see to it that you feed Moony, eh?"

I was stunned, but Potter and Marlene just rolled their eyes and laughed. Potter caught my uneasy gaze, however, and changed the subject. "Seems you've been jilted, Evans."

"Oh, come off it already, mate!" cried Marlene. "I already feel terrible enough."

"It's okay, really. I understand. We've all had long days," I said.

"Well, if McKinnon is too tired, I wouldn't mind teaching you how to play Hippogriff." Potter's eyes locked on mine and froze me to the spot.

I didn't know how to respond.

Potter? Teach me how to play Hippogriff?

All on our own in the middle of the Quidditch pitch?

At night?

It was a terrible idea.

"That's an excellent idea, Captain!" said Marlene, perking right up. She got up from her bench and picked up her broom, walking to the end of the row and towards the stairs. "Now I don't feel half as bad for wasting your time, Lils."

"Oh, you didn't waste my time—" I called after her, finally breaking free of Potter's gaze.

"Do you really mean you meant to spend an hour and a half of your evening watching what must have been the most doldrums repeat of the same three plays over and over again, when you could have gotten started on the Defense Against the Dark Arts project that Leon's assigned us?" interrupted Potter.

I brushed him off, attempting to play it cool. "I thought I'd use the time meant for our Potions essay on something a bit more recreational."

He lifted a single brow in amusement. "Oh, really?"

"Yes, really."

"Lucky we got out of that."

"So lucky."

While Potter and I had been discussing the finer details regarding my time management (read: flirting? Maybe?!), Black and Marlene had exited the stands in a flurry of arm waving and hooting. The pair worked beautifully in the air together, with a sharp focus that allowed them to anticipate each other's moves. On the ground, however, their energy was a bit more chaotic and unpredictable. We could hear them arguing and attacking each other all the way back to the castle.

Potter dropped onto a bench, laughing lightly, his perfect posture drooping somewhat as he balanced his chin in his hands and his elbows on his knees.

A silence fell over us like a soft blanket. I walked over to the Cleansweep I'd left leaning against the banister and picked it up. It was meant to be a gesture of, "Well, better get going," but instead, Potter looked up and flashed me a grin.

It almost knocked me out.

It was just so unexpected!

Where does he get off, grinning like that without warning? It's no way to treat unsuspecting, anxiety-prone people!

I needed to get out of here IMMEDIATELY. I coughed in the back of my throat and was about to say I'd see him later, but his eyes were laughing at me behind his glasses again and I was done for.

"So what changed your mind?" he asked.

I settled the Cleansweep against the banister again. "Sorry?"

He gestured to the broom. "About flying."

Oh, thank Merlin. I almost thought he'd caught on to the whole I-got-knocked-out-by-your-pearly-whites thing.

"What do you mean?" I said, trying to be coy.

"I mean, two weeks ago in Dumbledore's office, you practically went catatonic when he said we'd be doing flying periods twice a week. Then, yesterday, you're hitting the Wronski Defensive Feint harder than anyone I've ever seen." His eyes were twinkling behind his glasses like he just knew. He knew everything but he didn't want to outright accuse me of anything.

He ruffled his hair a bit and waited for me to answer.

I tried to come up with anything to save myself, but my imagination had picked that exact moment to go on vacation. Instead, I blurted, "I'm living a lie and I can't do it anymore!"

His brows furrowed, but the corners of his lips quirked, as though he were trying very hard not to smile. "What are you on about?"

"I'm absolute rubbish at flying."

Oh my GODRIC. I couldn't stop spilling the magic beans! It was as though I'd been given Veritaserum or something!

"Every time I get on a broom, I am fully praying I won't fall to my death. But that's exactly what happened yesterday, and the only reason I'm still alive is because I figured out how to steer my broom a whole second before I became two-dimensional."

Potter laughed.

"It's not funny!" I whined.

He just laughed harder.

I glared at him. "Oh yes, it's hilarious. I almost die, and instead of being humiliated, I get praised for doing a perfect impression of Nott, whose entire Slytherin army is now out to get me! And I can't even fly!"

"You really can't see the humor in that at all?" he said through a laugh.

I buried my face in my hands. "Ugh. Why am I even telling you this? You clearly have no sense of empathy."

Suddenly, there was a hand on my shoulder. Potter chuckled beside me. "Evans, relax."

I would relax, but his hand was on my shoulder and it was very hard to be aware of literally anything else. Including my breathing.

"So you pretended you were an excellent flyer when your flying skills are actually below the mark—it's not the end of the world, is it?" Potter asked. I knew he meant to comfort me, but I just felt worse.

"Bellatrix Black is going to kill me on this very pitch in just a few short hours," I moaned.

He patted me on the back. "Any pets you'll need me to feed?"

He asked me this so seriously that I began to laugh. I peered up at him through slatted fingers and caught his easy grin.

"That's better," Potter said. He removed his hand from my person and walked over to pick up my Cleansweep. "I reckon we should get you on a broom as soon as possible."

"Potter, have you suffered from short-term memory loss or did you go temporarily deaf? I can't fly!"

He gave me a look that stopped short of rolling his eyes. "You can. And with some practice, you'll get better."

I chewed the inside of my cheek and stared at him warily. "That's just a theory."

He grinned. "Come on, Evans," he said, holding up the broom to me. "Or would you prefer I Transfigure you into a pancake now, so as to avoid you turning into one in front of Black tomorrow?"

I blew the fringe away from my forehead and narrowed my eyes at him. "Oh, aren't you clever?" I muttered reproachfully, taking the Cleansweep from him. I mounted the broom and immediately regretted all decisions I'd ever made in my entire microscopic speck of existence ever.

The neck dipped slightly to the wooden floor of the stands, and in a panic, I pulled upwards and flipped the whole broom into a vertical position.

"HOLY HUFFLEPUFF!" I shouted. I wrapped my legs around the broom to try and stay on, but it was no use.

I slipped down the broom and fell onto my bottom in a humiliated heap, and the broom tumbled and clattered onto the floor after me. I buried my head in my arms, too humiliated to speak to or look Potter in the face.

Instead of the laughter I'd thought would greet me, however, I heard clapping. "Bravo, Evans. You got on the broom."

I poked my head up from the floor and it was enough movement to send a wave of pain shooting to my offended backside. "Oh, sodding hell," I grumbled, picking myself back up into a much more dignified posture.

I glanced over at Potter, noticing the way his lips twitched as he struggled to remain professional and not laugh me all the way back to the dormitories.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "It's almost worse when you don't laugh at me," I bit out bitterly.

He bowed his head just slightly in shame. "Sorry, Evans. I just didn't want to discourage you."

"How sweet."

He shrugged, a sheepish grin on his lopsided lips.

I sighed, rubbing at my bottom gingerly. It bloody hurt! "If we're going to do this, I'd prefer it if you were honest. I mean, I've just gone and fallen arse over tit, Potter. I'm sure it made a very funny picture."

He grimaced, his eyes hooded in guilt, a smile slowly spreading across his face. He opened his mouth to say something, but then was completely overtaken by a shuddering snort and a wave of deep, rolling laughter. His whole body shook with it; he was doubling over and shaking his head. "You—you're terrible!" he finally managed to choke out in between guffaws.

"Figured out that much on your own, have you?" I replied dryly.

"Whenever I'm having a bad day, I'm going to think of this moment," he said through airy laughter. "Evans, you've given me a gift."

"Happy to be of service."

Potter wiped the corners of his eyes and tracked his hands down the fronts of his trousers. "Ah. Now, then."

When he'd calmed down enough, and my bottom stopped hurting so much, Potter went into full Captain Mode and got me back on the broom.

"The key here is balance, Evans." He stood next to me, one hand keeping the broom steady while the other pushed back against my abdomen just slightly. "You need to engage your core, keep a firm grip, and tuck your feet back just so."

"Oh, is that all? Shall I perform a ballet while I'm at it? Which do you prefer—Tchaikovsky or Stravinksy? Personally, I'm more of a—argh!" I'd wobbled just slightly, but Potter caught me by the elbow and helped me stay upright.

"Less cheek, and more focus, eh, Evans?" he said.

I nodded, scared suddenly witless by the prospect of falling off the broom again. Instead, I bit my tongue and concentrated very hard on all of his instructions, until he let go of my waist, my arm, then the broom, and it was just me, hovering while perfectly balanced midair.

"Remember, Evans. You're the one in control." He turned around and walked to the back of the stands.

"Where—where are you going?" I asked, panicked.

"Don't worry! Stay right where you are!" he called back to me.

I bit my lip and squared my shoulders, getting used to the feeling of the proper grip on the broom, the correct alignment of my spine, the anchoring of my abdomen, the energy pulling up through my toes. Flying was a full-body experience. I'd only ever used my anxiety before.

Suddenly, Potter was next to me, only he was on his own broom. "Follow me," he said, and he turned his broom away and towards the Quidditch pitch.

I watched as he used his whole body to guide his broom through the air, the flex of his arms, the tension between his shoulder blades, the line of his back, the shape of his bum—oh. Oh no. I was fully checking him out.

And I wasn't that mad about what I saw, either.

I snapped out of my thoughts as quickly as I could, a blush sweeping across my cheeks in embarrassment.

Oh, Merlin. What was wrong with me?

He threw me a grin over his shoulder. "Come on, then, Evans. It's all right."

My heart did a weird sort of super-thump in my chest and I was all nerves as I nudged my broom handle over the banister of the stands and over the green of the pitch. "Potter, if I die, it's your fault."

"Cheers," he answered, sarcasm barely hiding a laugh.

He flew down to the green, and as he shouted instructions at me—"Use your whole body, Evans! Flatten your back, point your toes, keep your core anchored—that's it!"—I touched down after him.

"Well done, old girl," he said, grinning. He was holding his broom in one hand, feet firmly planted on the green grass.

"Stuff it," I mumbled, placing one shaky leg on the ground before dismounting my broom altogether.

"You know, if you just get out of your own head, Evans, you could really fly."

I fixed him with an incredulous glare.

He laughed. "Honestly!" he insisted. "You're pretty decent once you trust yourself."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "What are you getting at, Potter?"

He shrugged and let out a breath. "I mean, Evans, that you're acting a right coward, and the only way you're going to get comfortable enough to keep up this charade of yours is to practice."

"Oh, that's helpful, seeing as I've only got exactly one night to practice, Potter, so if you have any way to speed up the process, now would be the time to share with the class."

Potter ran a hand through his windswept hair, messing it up even further. I had half a mind to go over and brush it back down with my own fingers, but I didn't want him getting the wrong idea. Just because he had nice arms, etc, didn't mean I wanted to have anything to do with them. You know, like be wrapped up in them, for example (just for example—I wasn't thinking about it, or anything!).

"I thought you were doing well just then?" he said, his brows furrowing in question.

I scoffed, digging the toe of my right foot into the ground. "Only 'cos I had Captain Potter talking me through it. I can't exactly have you shouting basic flying instructions at me from across the pitch tomorrow, now can I?"

"Probably not," he agreed. "Well, you just need to get used to the way your body should move in the air. After that, it's just simple muscle memory."

"Right," I said.

"Right," he repeated. He clapped his hands together. "Well, back on your broom, Evans, we don't have all night!"

I got on my broom as commanded, and Potter walked towards me, muttering this and that about my form, turning my wrists in the right position, righting my waist, pointing my toes at just the right angles where my legs draped from either side of the broom, and just when I thought he was going to pull back to admire his work, the cheeky git got right on the broom behind me!

He reached his arms around me and gripped the neck of the broom just below mine, leaning his body on me, his chin just resting on my shoulder, his breath on my neck, lips next to my cheek.

"Potter, what are you doing?" I asked, my nerves shot to hell at all the physical contact.

He laughed in my ear. "Speeding up the process. Trust me, Evans, just a few rounds along the perimeter, and you won't be able to fly in any other position."

I knew he meant that I wouldn't be able to fly with bad form, but his choice of words was cheeky, flirty. I was blushing so deeply, I was afraid I was going to catch fire.

Before I could protest, he pushed gently off the ground and we floated up a few feet. I could feel him breathing. In the cold of the evening autumnal air, his body was warm and comforting against mine. He wrapped his hands around my forearms, and steered us around the pitch. I was too aware of him, his body, his breath, his heartbeat. His hair tickled my cheek, his glasses pressed against my temple. He smelled of sandalwood and petrichor.

It was very distracting, and I had to be able to remember everything he taught me tonight so that I wouldn't be an easy, clumsy target for Bellatrix Black tomorrow afternoon, but I couldn't calm down enough to do so; I was too tense against him. I had to relax!

I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second to try and clear my mind of him, and just feel what it felt like to fly—specifically, what it felt like to fly without fear.

"Evans, are you closing your eyes?" he whispered.

My eyes popped open. "Sorry! I was just trying to get used to the feeling without, you know, worrying about dying."

He laughed softly. "Fair enough. I'll steer, and you get used to the feeling. And next round, we'll have you open your eyes, yeah?"

"Yeah," I said, my eyes already drifting closed.

The wind whipped at my hair, but I was draped in James Potter, so the cold wasn't bothersome at all. Eventually, I relaxed enough to understand what his body was trying to get mine to do.

His cheek brushed mine. "Open your eyes, Evans," he instructed.

I did, and was surprised to find we were quite far above the stands, circling the pitch at an unnecessarily drastic height. I'd never been up that high before!

I immediately tensed against him again. "Bloody hell, Potter!"

He laughed again, and rubbed a hand down my arm. "Relax, Evans. You were performing just beautifully before. Remember what it felt like."

I bit my lip, quite out of my element, but attempted to recreate the feeling. I relaxed my shoulders, evened out my breath, loosened my grip just a bit, and leaned in time with his body as we made a turn about the pitch.

"That's it," he encouraged. "That's exactly right."

A few rounds later, we were flying around as one, perfectly in sync with each other, our bodies moving in tandem and cutting through the air with hardly any resistance.

"Right, now let's get back on the ground."

I executed a perfect landing, and he detached himself from my back. "Back in the air!" he ordered.

I surprised myself, because I managed it, and I wasn't so bleedin' terrified anymore.

"Turn out your wrists just a bit!" he shouted from the ground.

And I was flying—I was actually flying. To be fair, I'd sort of figured out the whole "lean this way and you'll get where you want to go" bit just yesterday, but now that I knew how my body was supposed to control the broom, it was much, much easier.

It didn't feel like a game of chance in the air. I wasn't thinking, "I wonder if my broom will be agreeable," but rather, "Turn out the wrists, tuck in the elbows, the head, point the toes, keep the core anchored, stay balanced. I have this."

I, Lily Evans, was perched atop a broom. And it wasn't so horrifying anymore.

I flew in one large, looping circle around the pitch, and this time, when Potter clapped his arms and yelled, "Bravo, Evans!" I actually believed him.