Thirty-five minutes. That was how long they'd been there, working diligently. Certainly, diligence wasn't uncommon when it came to Lily Evans; as far as James was concerned, it might as well be her middle name. And Potions was her strongest subject among a field of strong subjects, so of course she was focused. That much wasn't unusual.

It was more her face that bothered him. Well, not bothered him—that was antithetical to the very core of his being, surely—but…worried him. Yes, he was worried, because every time he glanced down the workbench at her, or passed her an ingredient, or read the next instruction out from the textbook, she had an expression on her face that made his stomach sink.

He thought that a lot of people wouldn't have noticed, but then, he wasn't a lot of people. It was subtle, a slight downturn of her lips, a distance in her eyes which were rarely meeting his, and when they did, for only a fraction of a second before she looked away again. In some ways, it was like they had accidentally gone back in time two years, like they didn't really know each other, like all the ways they'd grown since fifth year had been wiped away with the flick of a switch.

(James had glanced around, surreptitiously, a while ago, on the off chance he might see Snape playing with a time-turner or something. He hadn't been, but it had been worth checking, even if it had earned him the angriest, filthiest scowl in response.)

James knew he could just ask what was wrong. They were close now; co-heads, friends, sometimes tipping into something more flirtatious which both delighted and terrified him. If he asked, she would probably tell him.

But what if it was about something he'd rather not hear?

Coward, he told himself, not that it changed his mind at all. He was resilient in his cowardliness, at least.

Another ten minutes passed before he found the courage to actually say something—he could get to the bottom of this, and if not, he could offer a very good line of distractions. Remus said it was one of his most prodigious skills, and James chose to take that as a compliment rather than the insult it was probably intended to be.

He tried to frame it all with a light smile, a breezy tone, as if he wasn't that interested in her reply. "What's bothering my illustrious co-head, then?"

She glanced up from her staring match with the surface of their brew. "Hmm?"

"Something's the matter," he replied with an indicative wave of his hand. "I was wondering if you wanted to share it with me, or if I should launch into my monologue instead. I've got one all lined up if it's needed."

He noted the hint of a frown pass across her face, almost as if she'd only just realised there were other people around her who might notice what she was doing, how she was feeling. "Nothing's the matter," she said, and he marvelled, for a moment, that this was the approach she'd decided to take, as if she didn't know it was a red rag to a bull. "Monologue away."

James shook his head. "Well, I think you'll like this one, Evans," he said. "I've decided that we—and by we, I mean society as a whole, not just you and I here in this room—that we should ban the field of study that is Potions."

A pause, as she took in his words. She seemed to already be regretting her choice. He was pleased to see that he had her attention now, at least. "Ban the field of Potions," she repeated, an eyebrow raised. "You, with Potions basically in your blood—"

"Slight exaggeration," he pointed out.

"—and you want to do something that is arguably impossible?" She glanced around, as if looking for the punchline; if she expected Sirius to be part of the joke, she was probably sorely disappointed to find him instead focused on systematically flicking lumps of dandelion root into Terrence Mulciber's cauldron on the next bench over. "You can't just ban an area of magic with—with far-reaching implications, which saves lives!"

"That's not the can-do attitude that I'm looking for, Evans," he told her. "What happened to 'you can do anything you set your mind to'?"

She just frowned at him. "That was when you weren't sure if you could finish all your homework in one night," she reminded him. "Not the same thing at all. What brought this on?"

James sighed, a dramatic sigh so fulsome that it managed to make the flame under the cauldron flicker. "I mean, is this all there is?" he asked, gesturing to the scattering of jars and chopping boards across their workbench. "Various scrapings of plants and—and dismembered creatures keeping us company in our underground lair?"

She had to stop stirring for a moment, more disgusted than he'd expected. "Dismembered—?"

James levelled a look at her. "A newt gave its sight so that we could, what, be part of our way to making a cheering elixir?" He shook his head mournfully, drumming his fingers on the workbench. "All I'm saying, Lil, is we have blood on our hands."

"You don't," she pointed out, and something like a smile finally dawned on her face: he was a bit embarrassed to realise how relieved he felt to see it. "Given that you've done fuck all since we arrived in the dungeons."

"Ah! So is that what's wrong? This is about the division of labour?" He clutched a hand to his chest. "You wound me. I lit the fire under the cauldron—"

"Yes," Lily agreed, reaching past him for the dried tentacular leaves. He could tell that she was trying her hardest not to let the smile bloom any further. "Famously the hardest part of any Potions assignment."

"That, and I know how much you enjoy using the mortar and pestle," he added. "Shall I go back to my monologue? I was just getting warmed up."

"That's what I was afraid of," she murmured, and finally, met his gaze: they shared a smile. She held up the aforementioned newt eyes, glistening in their jar. "Dice these, will you?"

"For you? Anything." He hopped off his stool, moving closer to reach for his knife and chopping board; that it meant his arm brushing hers, being close enough to smell the floral scent of her shampoo, was just a happy byproduct of the situation. "Even if it means snatching away Nathaniel the Newt's last chance at vision."

He caught a glimpse of that smile, again, like she was trying to swallow it down. "I think that ship has already sailed, James," she pointed out, then paused. "You haven't named every pair of eyes, have you?"

"Yes," he replied promptly. "Nathaniel you've met, then there's Nolan, Nikolai—"

She sighed. "Good lord…"

"Noel, Nicodemus, Newton—although I'll admit that one's a bit on the nose—"

"James, you don't have to—"

"Sirius says names don't have to be alliterative, but he's a philistine when it comes to things like this," James carried on. "And I hope you don't find it sexist that all the newt eyes are male, but something tells me that female newts have more common sense than to have their eyes plucked out by some passing Potioneer."

She tipped the contents of the mortar into their cauldron; the liquid inside bubbled wildly for a moment before settling into a dark, inky blue. She didn't look away from it as she spoke. "There's really nothing wrong." He wished he could believe her, wished he could ramble inanely until that edge of ache was gone from her voice. "Nothing new, anyway."

Ah. At last. He kept his focus firmly on the newt eyes, sensing that if he abandoned everything to stare her down now, she'd quickly withdraw what little ground she had given him. "An old grievance, then?" he asked.

A flick of her wand, and the cauldron started stirring itself, gentle clockwise motions that seemed to darken the potion even further. "My sister is getting married."

He had to look over at that, more surprised than he'd expected to be and not too sure why. "Oh—congratulations?"

Lily allowed him a grim smile, nothing like the spark she usually displayed. "She wrote to me this morning," she explained, and her voice got quieter. "They don't want me at the wedding."

As a sentence, as a concept, this made no sense to James—not in any way, shape or form. He tried to imagine not wanting Lily at such an important day; Lily Evans, with all her warmth and wit and kindness and ability to see the best in everyone. Lily, who cared so deeply for her family and her friends. Lily, who he knew wrote to her sister every week without fail. He'd known—heard, through Remus and Sirius, never giving the full details—that her relationship with her sister was fraught sometimes, but…this?

He could tell she was trying to keep her expression clear, trying to seem aloof, nonchalant. And, knowing her now as he did, he knew that it was probably killing her on the inside. "Lily…" he said, the word soft, sad for her where she was trying so hard not to be. "I'm sorry."

She shrugged, as if that move could shift the weight from her shoulders, dislodge the dark thoughts that he had to assume were pulsing through her mind. For someone so positive, so generous with her encouragement and love, she was the least kind with herself. There was no way she hadn't found a way already to make this an indictment of her entire existence. "It's okay."

"No," he said, setting down his knife; he turned to face her, surprised when she mirrored his actions. She looked up at him and he felt a sudden spike of panic, that maybe her whole happiness suddenly rested in his inept hands. But this was what he wanted, wasn't it? The chance to prove to her that he cared about her, about her as a person and not just as a pretty face. As his friend, even if deep down, he wanted more. "No, it's not okay. It's shit, really fucking shit, Lil. You don't deserve it."

She studied him a moment, her green eyes unreadable, then ducked her gaze, hands knotting in the loose tails of her school blouse. She was usually so good at stillness—it was him who itched to move, constantly fidgeting like he might expire if he stopped—and it was strange seeing her like this, off-kilter, unsure of herself and the space around her. It made him want to hug her. 'Want' wasn't even the right word: it itched in him, a need that he had to swallow against, because this wasn't about him, it was about her.

Finally, she swallowed, and nodded. "Yeah," she agreed, voice a little hoarse. "I suppose it is."

"You're allowed to feel that way, you know," he told her; she looked up at him again, and this time he couldn't stop himself from reaching out, his hand reaching for hers, tangling his fingers with hers if only for a moment to give them a squeeze, as if he could convey everything he felt with just a brush of his skin against hers. "And talk about it all, if you want to."

She actually squeezed back, a move which sent sparks shooting through him like the pathetic, lovesick fool that he was. That he would always be, when it came to her, no matter how well he hid it behind the facade of friendship. "Thanks, James," she murmured. "I appreciate it."

He nodded, offering her a tentative smile. They couldn't just stand there holding hands in the middle of Potions, as much as he might like to (and he really, really would). "So," he said, and reluctantly gestured to their cauldron. "I'll chuck in Nathaniel's eyes, shall I, and you can either talk all about it, or if you'd rather, I could go back to my monologue."

She matched his smile with one of her own. "It's still a bit raw," she admitted. "Maybe we could talk about it…later."

James gave her hand one last squeeze before he let go, reaching for his chopping board. "Whenever you're ready," he agreed.

She turned back to the bench, busying herself with the textbook. For a few moments, quiet descended—he could almost tune out the general hubbub and chaos around them; she had that kind of effect on him. Then, she spoke up again. "So, how are you going to get around the healing benefits of Potions?" she asked. "When you try to enact your ban, I mean."

He grinned. "I'm glad you asked…"