7 March 1976
He can never think clearly when she's around. It's as if she's a pure naked flame, and he can't get close to her without feeling like all semblance of rational thought has burned away, leaving nothing but ash and smoke in its wake. That smoke wisps through the air and creates the illusion of confidence, but it can never make up for his lack of real composure. Instead of the charm that he's been taught to use on command, all that comes out is inept bluster. And, given that a large part of what attracts him to Lily is her perceptiveness and refusal to take crap from anyone, empty words without meaning never cuts it with her. She invariably shuts him down with an unimpressed glower or cutting barbs that leave him floundering to maintain his poise.
The other Marauders say he is obsessed and should move on. He's lost count of the number of times they've ganged up on him in an attempt to talk him out of his crush. It's gotten to the point where he can anticipate their arguments before they even begin; Sirius will exasperatedly state that he doesn't understand James' fixation with her, Remus will empathise with the feeling but insist that it will never be reciprocated, and Peter will query why he's so willing to publicly embarrass himself on a fool's mission. The basis of their opinions differ, but their counsel is the same; stay away from her and move on.
But he knows he never will. While he understands their reasons and has to admit, at least deep down, that it would probably be better for him to heed their advice, moving on is simply not possible for him. To him, Lily Evans is like a dream, idyllic and intoxicating and calling to him whenever he closes his eyes. He knows she isn't perfect – far from it; she is headstrong and self-righteous and far too willing to give second chances to people she deems even remotely morally redeemable. But she's also beautiful and considerate and sassy and intelligent, and he's so far gone that he can't see himself ever waking up from this blissful sleep.
25 June 1977
She curls up in the armchair, holding a transfigured bunny plushie against her chest as if it could fight away the darkness licking at the base of her mind. The hush of the empty common room creates a bubble of peace around her, but it does little to help her sour mood. Her only relief is the knowledge that her housemates are all outside and are unlikely to return anytime soon. Wanting to celebrate the end of the school year and soak up as much of the sun as they could, they decided to have a massive inter-house water fight on the grounds. It was a tempting offer, but she, knowing she would be unable to muster up even a façade of cheerfulness for long, begged them off.
It's not like a mudblood like her is ever going to get anything above a low-level desk job, she thinks, repeating the words she heard someone mutter to their friend on their way out of their final exam.
Usually, the whispered barbs and thinly veiled insults don't get to her anymore; she's heard the words so many times that they now seem to blur together and, in doing so, to lose all independent meaning. Her brain still registers that the comments are intended to slight her, and takes note of who's saying it and who's letting them, but they no longer achieve their desired effect. There are, after all, only so many times you can walk over rocks before your feet grow accustomed to their sting.
They might not bother her, but the knowledge of the sheer amount of hate out there does. She's well aware that there is a small but vocal portion of society who would love for her to just disappear and that, while there is a similarly sized and equally militant subset who would defend her, most of society doesn't much care either way. It's alright while she's in school; she has Dumbledore and Slughorn and her friends and even the Marauders to act as a buffer between them and her. So, however demoralising their antipathy might be, she knows that the Muggle-borns there are safe. But she also knows that they won't be within the safety of the school's grounds forever, and that they will be exposed to a whole palette of the shades and nuances of subtle bloodism when they leave. A horde of assailants will eventually come crashing through that carefully manned bulwark, and she's terrified of the devastation and casualties that that is sure to cause.
Simple animosity is one thing to endure; it's trying and hurtful, but it leaves the person open to return fire. Subtle discrimination and indirect sabotage is harder to counter, and she has no idea how she and her peers will contend with it. And it's that uncertainty that's playing on her mind when she should really be carelessly appreciating the warm June day rather than lying, curled up, in a cold common room.
She's tired of shouldering the weight of constant animosity, and she's sick of having to be constantly alert, and she's scared of what the future might hold.
The sound of footsteps burst her bubble, and she turns until her tear-streaked face is hidden against the cushions of the chair and she might pass for being asleep. Stupid, she berates herself. You should have just stayed in your dormitory.
"Evans?"
She almost groans at the sound of Potter's soft murmur; the knowledge that reacting will make things worse for her is the only thing that holds her back. Out of all of the people who could have found her, he has to be one of the worst. Technically, she supposes, he's better than Black or Pettigrew, both of whom would have pranked rather than just annoyed her, but that's not saying much.
Fighting to keep herself still, she tracks the sound of his progress across the room. Surprised relief – and something that feels uncomfortably like disappointment – flashes through her at the idea that he might be leaving it at that. As much as she wants him gone, part of her is desperate for company and empathy, no matter whom it might come from.
He whispers something that she can't quite make out, and then she hears what sounds like rustling fabric. Curiosity, as relentlessly compelling as catnip, calls for her to open her eyes and see what he's doing, but she resists it. Her answer comes anyway, however, when a warm covering is laid over her. Panic rushes through her at first – one can never be careful enough around a Marauder – but she quickly calms down when she realises that it's just a blanket.
It's a blanket, she thinks with an unforeseen rush of amity. She was fine without it – she'd cast a minor warming charm on herself as soon as it started to get chilly – but she appreciates the gesture nonetheless.
As his hands adjust the blanket so that it covers her more fully, she almost expects him to take advantage of the situation by using it as an excuse to fondle her hair or body. Displaying a surprising amount of tenderness, however, he merely encases her in its warmth before gently whispering, "Sweet dreams, Lily," and leaving the common room.
15 December 1977
He makes her smile. Not just little smiles, either, though he does that sometimes too, but full-on beaming rays of light that almost blind him with their exuberant joy. It amazes him that she can be so genuinely jubilant despite all that she's going through; then again, he rather suspects that she would say it was just his pigheaded refusal to take things seriously rubbing off on her.
If that's true, he's awfully proud of it, especially now that he can hear begrudging fondness in her voice whenever she says anything remotely insulting to him. After all, the insults aren't quite true anymore. He is still aggressively cheerful and mischievous and obsessed with Quidditch, and he knows she is aware that he still hexes the Slytherins occasionally, even if she doesn't say anything about it. But he undoubtedly grew up – or, as Sirius would say, grew dull – over the summer. Regularly transforming into their Animagus forms gives all of them heightened senses, even in their human form, so he heard Lily's irregular breathing and noticed how she tensed up when he put the blanket on her just a few months ago. The knowledge that her hatred of him was so fierce that she would prefer to suffer in silence than to talk to him and that, worse, she thought he might hurt her when she was supposedly sleeping, gave him a lot to think about. It was the first time he realised that their discord wasn't just squabbling over senses of humour and honour; it was the first time he realised that he and his friends might, in her mind, be as dangerous as the bad guys. So he pretended like he thought she was indeed asleep and left and then, over the holidays, he focused on changing himself.
Watching her beam as a result of something he's said, he can't help but think that enduring Sirius' mockery and Remus' knowing looks was worth it. Six years in the same house as Lily Evans, one of which he was actively pursuing her, and he never actually managed to have a decent conversation with her. Now, after a revelation and a summer spent putting that into effect, they're at the stage where they're actually friends. And, while he still fancies her, he's grown up enough to be able to value that for what it is rather than for what it might eventually be.
"You know," she says, still beaming at him in a way that makes his stomach twist, "I thought Dumbledore had gone mad when I first heard you were Head Boy. It made sense in an odd sort of way – you're a pureblood and a Marauder, so you have the respect of most of our classmates – but it still seemed like a disaster waiting to happen, especially with me as the Head Girl. But now…"
"You can't resist me," he jokes with a cocky grin.
He expects her to laugh again. They know one another well enough now that she can tell when he's jesting, so he genuinely assumes that she'll just roll her eyes, laugh, and give him another compliment-disguised-as-an-insult.
To his surprise, she merely watches him, looking slightly perturbed, before saying succinctly, "No, I guess I can't."
31 December 1977
Music and chatter resonate throughout the common room as she, still laughing at the sight of Sirius energetically lip-syncing on top of a stage he transfigured from a book, makes her way over to the snack table. Despite her initial concerns at the practicality of throwing an all-ages Gryffindor New Year's Eve party, it appears to be going smoothly. Apart from a quick rush to find an Anti-Nausea Potion for a first year who ate way too many sweets, there have been no real incidents, leaving her free to enjoy herself. Although she can't see herself ever telling them – they'd probably take it as an invitation to make it a regular occurrence – she has to admit that the Marauders would, if they ever found themselves in need of work, make excellent party planners.
"How's your night going, girls?" she asks as she notices two second years hanging out near the bowl of chips.
"Good," Sarah replies, her face flushed from all of the excitement. "We were playing Truth or Dare, but we decided to have a snack break."
Smirking knowingly, she asks, "Is that why I saw Aaron attempt to do a somersault earlier?" The resulting giggle is all the answer she needs. Snagging a caramel cupcake from the table, she adds, "Just don't push yourselves too far, yeah? And come see me or James if there are any problems." She winks at them mischievously. "Although, personally, I'd love to see someone best Sirius at lip-syncing."
They grin and cheerfully chorus their assent.
"Well," she replies, "I'm going to take my own advice and go talk to James. Enjoy the party."
Ignoring their tittering at the idea, she takes a bite of the rich treat and heads over to where her fellow Head is leaning against a wall. The sight of him, his striking black hair messed up as always and his brown eyes alight with mirth as they follow Sirius across the makeshift stage, draws her in. His attractiveness has always been undeniable, but she used to be able to overlook it; it used to be the kind of frustrating truth that she knew but that was so irrelevant to her life that she could easily put it aside. Ever since their friendship first started blossoming, however, it's become much harder for her to pass it over.
"Hey," she murmurs, leaning against the patch of stone next to him. After dancing wildly alongside Mary and Frank for so long, the feeling of the cold stone pressed against her back is as refreshing as an icepack.
"Enjoying yourself?"
"Immensely. You know, it's practically midnight already. Shouldn't you be searching for someone to kiss?"
He shrugs carelessly, but his tone is tense when he says simply, "I'm not in the mood."
She looks up at him in surprise. "Really? But you're the most superstitious person I – " Her voice cuts off as she notices the look in his eyes, and, even though she knows it's anatomically impossible, she feels as if her whole body has somehow stopped working. His face is almost forcibly blank, but his gaze is heated and intense. It as if it is afire, and its flickering tongues are sucking her into its depths, and she's at risk of being consumed.
For once in her life, the idea of being burned is actually appealing.
"Kissing someone when the year ticks over is supposed to bring you good fortune in relationships over the next year," James replies, keeping his quiet voice steady even as the music reaches its crescendo, "but I wouldn't think starting off the year by kissing a girl you don't fancy would give you luck with a girl you do fancy."
"What if you kissed the – "
"Ten!" Sirius yells, breaking off mid-song to start the countdown.
" – girl you do fancy?"
Someone has cut the music off, and the other students have joined in with Sirius, so the shout of, "Nine!" echoes throughout the room.
He shrugs. "Depends if she – "
"Eight!"
" – fancies me back."
"Seven!"
"I think she might."
"Six!"
There isn't a single trace of his usual humour on his face. "Oh, you do?"
"Five!"
Staring into that fiery gaze, she asserts, "I do."
"Four!"
"At least," she swiftly adds, "I do."
"Three!"
A pleased grin spreads across his face like an invasion, and his eyes crinkle down at her.
"Two!"
"I'm glad to hear that," he says.
"One!"
"One," he whispers a split second later.
Cheers erupt around them, and his arms slowly slip around her waist as she steps closer to him. They're both hesitant and uncertain – it feels as if he isn't quite sure how to hold her, and she knows she sure doesn't know how to hold him – but she feels strangely comfortable in their gracelessness as they both lean in and their lips meet. Only a few moments elapse before they, not wanting to put on a show for their housemates, pull apart, but those few seconds are electric.
After all they've been through, it feels like coming home.
30 May 1978
They watch their friends muck around as they recline, his back propped up against the tree while hers rests on his chest, and enjoy the fading sunlight. Their hands rest in her lap as their fingers play together in a slow dance of moving digits.
He's struck by how different this post-exam period feels in comparison to previous ones; it's the first time they've spent it together, and that makes all the difference in the world. It's infinitely better than spending the end of fifth year at home after being suspended for the incident with Snape, and, as much as he loves the thrill of pranking, he would much rather relax with Lily at the end of a week-long prank extravaganza than drag the jokes out to their bitter end.
"I want to fight," she murmurs, breaking his quiet reverie with the efficiency of a well-timed Shattering Charm.
He knows what she means, of course. The tension that has been brewing for years is too far cooked for anyone to mistake its heady odours for something else. Still, he can't resist saying innocuously, "What, with me? I thought we were past that."
She scoffs and, after tilting her head back until she can see him, makes a show of rolling her eyes. "You know what I mean."
"Yeah," he admits, even though he wishes he could feign ignorance and postpone the conversation until the war's over and there's no longer any need for it, "I do."
"I thought about your offer." Her tone is bland and unfathomable, the way it always gets when she's bracing herself to tell someone unpleasant news.
In an instant, he knows what she's going to say – but, then again, he always did, even when he first implored her to take the time to consider it before giving him her answer. "Lily – "
Cutting him off abruptly as she shifts away from him until they're facing one another, still attached by their hands but otherwise separated, she continues, "I know it's dangerous, and I get why you're afraid for me. But you know me, James. I'd never be happy sitting off in the countryside somewhere while my friends are hunted down. You wouldn't be, either."
"I hadn't ruled out sneaking back in to fight, no."
"So you understand why I have to stay?"
"Of course. I knew it before I even made the offer. I just felt like I had to give you the chance to stay out of this."
With an uncharacteristic undertone of bitterness, she replies, "They took that choice away from me the moment they decided that the fact that my parents are Muggles somehow makes me less than them."
"I'm terrified," he admits. "We go home in a week, and then…"
Her fingers stroke his soothingly, and she pulls his hands up to hers to kiss them tenderly. "I'm not. Not of anything. Not right now, anyway. You lot are usually so bold, so unrepentant, and it rubs off on me. When I'm with you, I just can't – "
"You've always been pretty fearless."
"About little things," she agrees, "but not about anything as big as this. But, being with you, the concerns all fade away, because I know we can do this – together."
"Together," he echoes, but his meaning is far from hollow as he tugs her back into his arms and, after placing a gentle kiss on her temple, rests his head against her shoulder. It is, he thinks, like with the rest of the boys. Apart, we're fragile little strings of thread. Together, we're strong lengths of rope.
A/N: Written for the Lyric Inspired Drabble Competition II for the song Thunder by Katy McAllister. She's one of my favourite artists so, if you haven't heard any of her music before, I'd highly recommend checking out her YouTube channel.