A/N: Happy Jilytober! This is for Jilytober Fest Prompt #1: "Smile!"

I'm really nervous about this story, so I hope it's okay!

Warnings for language, smoking, referenced/discussed prejudice against muggle-borns. Also light dom/sub undertones (very light nothing explicit).


"Smile!"

Lily turned away as the camera flashed, making for the kitchenette in the corner. While it wasn't strictly necessary for a photography studio, Adrian found that it helped, and Lily agreed completely. She pointed her wand at the kettle and it started to boil; she reached up and grabbed a chipped mug from the blue cabinet above the sink. 'Buckinghamshire Gobstones Championships 1981', it read. Privately, Lily was surprised that there were enough Gobstones players in Buckinghamshire to warrant a championship, but there you are. Though, glancing back at the photographer, she wouldn't have put it past him to create his own championships, play against one random ten-year-old, and declare himself the winner. In her experience, wizarding photographers were never quite normal. Then again, were muggle ones?

"We'll have some individual shots now," Adrian ordered, waving the players off the white backdrop. Six players of the Wimbourne Wasps dispersed, clad in their distinctive black-and-yellow robes, and Lily sighed. She set her mug to one side, now containing an Earl Grey teabag and a bellyful of hot water, and got the kettle boiling again. She directed eight more mugs (almost Adrian's entire collection) out of the cabinet, and with a few waves of her wand put a teabag in each.

"Do you take milk in your tea?" she called to the players. "Sugar?"

Today she was playing photographer's assistant on top of everything else, thanks to the bout of Mumblemumps that was going around. Half the office was out sick, including Branton Bellchant, the sports reporter that had diverted her from Mould-on-the-Wold Garden Show. She'd protested to the editor that she knew nothing about quidditch, barely even the rules, and that she was the worst person to cover the story in Branton's stead, but in the end she'd been told that a feature on the leading team of the season and their youngest-ever captain would make the front-half of the newspaper; Mould-on-the-Wold was lodged between Arts & Warts and Tricks & Trucks. She'd gritted her teeth, memorised Branton's notes, and begrudgingly listened to her roommate Marlene talk about quidditch until she'd fallen asleep at the kitchen table.

The kettle boiled. She made everyone tea and delivered it personally, both wanting to establish the beginnings of a good rapport with them, and because she never entirely trusted magic to deliver hot drinks without spilling them. Once the players started chatting idly amongst themselves, she summoned a chair to the spot to the left of the camera and grabbed one mug of tea, directing the other two (the least important) with her wand.

"I really think I should smile," said the player currently in front of the camera, face obscured by Adrian from the angle Lily was on. "It's my best feature."

"The readers want a smoulder," Adrian instructed. Lily guided the pair of mugs (her and Adrian's teas) onto the ground beside her chair, and stood just off the backdrop holding the player's.

"And I want to win Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award," James Potter, the youngest-ever captain for the Wimborne Wasps, star chaser, and heir to the Sleekeazy's fortune, said. He posed with his broom, one hand ruffling his messy dark hair, a thick gold ring glittering on the middle finger curled around the polished handle of his Comet 260, one of the newest and most expensive on the market, according to Marlene. He had a thin face and luminous dark eyes that sparkled mischievously behind his rectangular glasses. The veins on his arms were prominent against his brown skin, like stone walls marking the high crests of his forearm muscles. Lily took a breath so deep she felt the oxygen curl in the pit of her stomach.

"A smoulder and a smile, then, Mr Potter, you can't say fairer than that," Adrian said. Potter raised his eyebrows as if he disagreed, but nevertheless complied with Adrian's wishes. Lily hovered awkwardly, using magic to keep Potter's cup warm. Quidditch captains weren't known for their compassion for overworked and underpaid journalists. One of many reasons she hated the sports beat with a passion.

The camera flashed a few times and Adrian paused behind the tripod, expression thoughtful. His eyes met Lily's.

"If you'll excuse me for a moment, Mr Potter," he said. Potter shrugged and pulled out his wand, spinning it idly between his fingers. Adrian beckoned Lily, who gave him his cup of tea. He took a long sip.

"Well?" he said quietly, when he was finished, eyes nervously flicking to Potter.

"Well?" she said. Adrian hesitated, and drank more tea.

"Erm – do you need any photos of him? Before I'm finished? Anything specific for your article?" He had an oddly hopeful note in his voice, and Lily smirked.

"Was there anything you had in mind?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest. "You're the photography expert, not me."

"Well, I'm happy to get more photos if you want…some of him on the broom, action shots, if you like…"

"Maybe," Lily said, screwing up her face in a contemplative expression. "Maybe something with his kit off?"

Adrian choked. "What?"

"I have eyes," Lily grinned, hitting him lightly. "Unlike you, yours have popped out of your skull. You've no subtlety, Stebbins." Adrian whacked her shoulder.

"If you have eyes, you can see why mine have gone mad," he said, jerking his chin upwards. "He's the most beautiful man I've ever seen."

"Better than that bloke with the shovel at the stone-scrying competition?"

"Much."

Lily felt his forehead. "I thought you were in love with him."

"Are you not in love with him?" His hand gently indicated Potter. Lily pulled a face.

"I'm not into quidditch players. They're more committed to the game than to girls."

"Mm, and what's their commitment to guys like?"

"I don't need any more photos; I'm not enabling you."

At Hogwarts, she and Adrian had barely known each other, only briefly coming into contact at Slug Club meetings or when they were randomly paired off in class. She'd never thought much of him until they were the only non-purebloods interning at the Daily Prophet, and resultantly kept getting assigned the worst stories on the list. Squatting amongst bins in a damp alleyway for two days to try to figure out if it was true that a tiny shop in north Wales was charming pigeon-feather quills to look like peacock-feather ones and selling them for extraordinary prices had a way of bringing people together. They united in their hatred for the pureblood sod who got to at least interview customers about it. Slimy git.

"You're all done, Mr Potter," Adrian said. Potter grinned, ruffled his hair (again), and passed the broomstick to the next player who would pose with it. He sauntered off the backdrop towards Lily, who quickly warmed his tea with a spell and held it out to him.

"Cheers very much," Potter said, smiling at turn at Adrian and then at her. His brown eyes crinkled, sparkling with something she couldn't quite name. "Do you want me?" he asked, and Lily coughed.

"What?" she said. Behind Potter, Adrian laughed silently. Potter cocked his head to one side, gaze beating down on her like a Spanish sun.

"You're the reporter, aren't you?" he said, grinning easily. "I thought you'd want to interview me. Most people do. If not, though -" he turned his palm up, as if to say it didn't matter very much to him either way. Of course. Lily bit her lip, cursing her stupidity.

"That'd be great, thank you," she said smoothly. She leaned around him and called out, "Adr!"

"Hunky-dory!" he called back. Potter furrowed his brows. Lily nodded and gave Potter a pleasant look.

"Alright, this way, please."

She led him to a featureless white door near the kitchenette, mentally reviewing her notes. Youngest-ever captain, second-highest scorer in a single match ever in the British league…

"Hunky-dory," she told the door. It swung open and revealed a small room, which Lily beckoned Potter into. Upon seeing the state of it, she winced, but it was too late.

"Busy man, is he?" Potter said nonchalantly, ducking in behind her. Yes, ducking, even though he was hardly tall enough to warrant that. He was tall, alright, he had a head on her, but not bump-your-head-on-the-doorframe tall.

"Very," she said. "Everyone's been sick." She had the feeling Adrian's office looked like this regardless of how many people were at work. Photographs plastered every spare bit of wall, his desk was littered with mugs and dirty bowls and quills and chocolate frog wrappers and torn envelopes and rolls of film. Half a dozen mismatched cloaks hung from a rack, alongside misshapen, psychedelic hats. Two cauldrons bubbled on the far side beneath the open window, full of what Lily recognised as the potion that developed photographs, and the owl perch was empty. Lily gestured for Potter to take Adrian's chair, a very comfortable leather seat that was undoubtedly the most expensive thing in the room, while Lily grabbed a bright orange stool that sat next to an end table, where a blue ashtray patterned with white flowers obscured the face of the Minister for Magic on that morning's paper.

"No, you sit," Potter said. He took her by the shoulders and gently guided her out of the way, stepping around to make for the little stool. His grasp was firm, and her heart beat a little quicker. She swallowed hard.

"You're my guest," she protested, but he'd already squatted down. It looked ridiculous, but he seemed entirely at ease, leaning his back against the wall. She hesitated.

"Go on, I don't mind. My mum would come back and haunt me if she thought I'd given you the shitty seat," Potter said.

"You're very chivalrous," Lily said, still looking at the seat, torn.

"I was a Gryffindor," Potter said. She pressed her lips together. "Go on. Seriously." He laughed at something Lily didn't understand. Sighing, she sat.

"Your mother sounds like a very nice woman," she said, digging in her handbag for her things. A quill, an inkpot, a fresh roll of parchment.

"Isn't this bit of the conversation supposed to wait until we're on the record?" Potter asked. Lily frowned.

"I'm not interviewing you about your personal life," she said, picking out a crimson ink. She cleared a space on the desk and dipped her quill. Lily started testing the ink. '12 July 1983. J. Potter…'

"You should be," he told her. "It's quite interesting." She finished off a title, satisfied with her quill, and looked up at him.

"We're not Witch Weekly," she said. He swore.

"Can this still be part of my campaign for the Most-Charming-Smile Award?" he asked, looking so serious that she didn't know what to say. Then he barked out a merry laugh – really, merry, like church bells, or that feeling when you first lay eyes on the tree on Christmas morning. "D'you have something against it?" he asked. She had the swooping feeling that she was being laughed at, and she felt herself colour.

"No," she said, and cleared her throat. They needed to move on. She closed her eyes, preparing mentally, and took on the Lily-Evans-who-loves-talking-about-magical-cabbage-with-old-ladies persona. Pleasant, poised, polite, and unfailingly professional.

She really didn't like that she had to remind herself to be professional.

"I'm sorry, Mr Potter, I haven't introduced myself, not properly," she said, offering her hand. "Lily Evans, Junior Reporter for the Daily Prophet." He clasped her hand. A jolt ran through her, and then her attempt at a firm handshake seemed to melt into the warmth of his grip. His palm was calloused along the ridge, but soft in the valley. Oh God, she thought. Adrian would love this. She resolved to make notes – observational, objective notes – to report back on.

"Call me James," Potter said easily, holding her hand for a second too long. When he finally let go she pulled away as if burned. He set his cup of tea on the folded newspaper and she swore internally. Her cup of tea had been abandoned in the studio. Good start.

"James," she said, his name soft against her tongue, and the corners of his lips twitched upwards. She cleared her throat again. "Thank you very much for your time today. Do you mind if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill?" Sometimes she preferred to take notes by hand, if the person was especially quiet, or if she wanted to give them time to think (or give herself time to think), but she was also quite fond of her Quick-Quotes Quill. They were incredibly expensive, but she'd finally got herself one as a birthday present, and after six and a half months, it was attuned to her. It understood the way she wrote and the way she framed quotes. Of course, not everyone liked them – the overly image-conscious and the elderly deplored the things. And politicians, but they fell into both of the previous two categories.

"Go for it," he said, rummaging in his pocket. He withdrew a gold case, engraved with the initials 'JHP'. He clicked it open and pulled out a cigarette. "Do you mind?" he asked. Lily shook her head. He held the cigarette between his lips and lit it with the tip of his wand. He inhaled, shoulders rising, eyes closing, and then pulled the cigarette away and breathed a plume of smoke, his lips puckered. "Do you want one?" he asked, raising one dark eyebrow.

"No, I don't smoke." Well, she quit. Her first boyfriend thought it very unbecoming for her to be sixteen with a habit like a soldier, and the packet had gone out the window in the throes of Madam Puddifoot's and bunches of flowers and being wanted for the first time. She never dated guys who smoked. She didn't think she had a type, but they all ended up being health nuts with office jobs and old-fashioned sensibilities and a stupid, stupid affinity for ring shops and bended knees. They were all older, and anxious to keep up with their wealthier friends. If they'd been muggle, they would've been exactly Petunia's type.

She recoiled at the thought. How badly had their parents fucked them up that they fell in half for a guy who could budget and keep a job for more than a month?

"When's your birthday?" she asked, the words coming unbidden.

"My birthday?" he asked, tilting his head down. His glasses slid down his nose. "March. Nineteen-sixty. Yours?"

"You're younger than me," she said wonderingly. "January, of the same year."

"I'm younger than a lot of people," he said, bringing the cigarette towards his lips once more. "That's part of what makes me so extraordinary. If I were five years older, nobody would care." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her quill working away. Her smile twitched.

"You think you're extraordinary?" He dragged on the cigarette.

"Am I not?" he gestured broadly. "I read your paper. I have ears. Hell, I have a mirror. Do you want me to sit here and pretend to be humble and illiterate? Who'd buy that?"

"If you were humble," Lily said, "you wouldn't have to play at it." She could feel a lead par on the tip of her fingers; she could see the headline in black-and-white. Charismatic, compelling, arrogant; not a salesman, but a man that sold papers.

"Yes, but it's annoying," he said, a new tightness drawing in his face, a little passion in his features. "It's like reading about Orpheus Fawley – the Minister for Magical Co-operation? He calls himself a self-made man, goes on about grit, and hard work, and determination, and that's fine, but he's deliberately trying to make himself look like something he's not. For fu – for Merlin's sake, the Fawleys are a Sacred Twenty-Eight family. For him to get up there and pretend that he's had to go through anything like what muggle-borns have to go through, or even just normal, not-connected, not-rich people, he's taking the piss." James paused. "Er, having a laugh. But you don't really want me to sit here and go on and on about how it's nothing, really, and I don't know how it happened. Do you?"

Lily stared at him. The ash of his cigarette was growing very long. He tapped it against Adrian's blue tray.

"You have an interest in politics," she said, somewhat stupidly. He chuckled and inhaled more smoke.

"I got nine O. , five N.E. , four 'O's," James replied, exhaling smoke as he talked. "I'm not just incredibly good-looking and outstandingly athletic, I'm also very intelligent. I represented England in the International Transfiguration Tournament when I was at school, you know. I'm more than a pretty face." She pursed her lips playfully.

"But you're not humble, are you?" she said. He chuckled, giving a tiny shake of his head.

"You're determined to see my faults," he said. "But I promise you, I only have the one, and it's the humility issue."

"I can see that."

He met her eyes. Her breath hitched. They smiled at her, nothing but pleasant, casual, warm, but beyond that there was an intensity that struck her. His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. There was a cockiness in his gaze, as if he thought he'd unwound her. As if he believed he could see right through her. Determined not to lose – whatever this was, whatever he was playing at – she held his stare, setting her jaw. She would not be dominated by him. She was the interviewer, and she held the power. This was her job. He ought to be on shaky ground, feeling like he was tumbling through the rush of a plunging wave. He was meant to break through the surface, disoriented, sunscreen in his eyes and gums salted, heart racing.

He looked away first, and Lily claimed the victory, though she could not say her heart was hesitant to soar. James' mouth fell open, and he pressed his tongue against the back of his bottom teeth, smiling at his knees. Always smiling. Like it was terminal.

"Surely you have other questions for me, Miss Evans," he said. She blinked rapidly. Fuck.

"Lily," she said.

"Lily," he corrected himself in a murmur. It could have been an incantation. She reached for a cup of tea that wasn't there to calm her nerves. Again: fuck.

"I do have other questions." Flustered, she rummaged through her bag and found her list. "So, James; it's been an exciting season for the Wasps, though we're only halfway through. Do you think you can maintain the high standard you've set for yourself this year?"

She lost him, in talking about quidditch; she was a child in the deep-end, and he a professional swimmer tired of laps. He liked quidditch, and it was very obvious, but she liked writing articles too; that didn't make it any less of a job. He spoke at length about the strengths of each player on the team, and of their opponents; but all the time, he was very sure that they would win. She asked him about a muggle-born player from the Appleby Arrows, and he held a finger up, stopping to finish the last of his cigarette and ash it out before answering.

"Hang on there," he said, and the smile dropped. In one motion he turned from a garden to a temple. "People have been terribly unfair on him. If you ask me, he shouldn't have been sent back to the reserves at all. They didn't do it because of his talent; he's an incredible keeper, he gave me the toughest time of any of them last year. It was because he went to the Muggle Alliance protests." Something reignited in his eyes. Lily studied him.

"That's a serious accusation," she said, eventually.

"But I'm right," he said. "I know I am. Sunday, the paper – your paper, the Daily Prophet – publishes a photo of him there, and on Wednesday he's announcing that he wants to go back to the reserves so he can spend more time with his sick mother. After being tipped to make the English team this year. It doesn't make sense. Anyone with a brain can see it, but I think half the time, the fans are wilfully ignorant because they don't want to admit that the league has a problem. Even the Wasps do; I can't pretend that we don't. I don't have any power to change it other than to walk, or to throw some massive bribe at them, or – well, to talk to you. But it's there. It's – it's in every club."

Lily stopped, her mouth going dry. The room was silent save for the scratching of her Quick-Quotes Quill. The gravity of the situation hit her. This was not the answer one gave for a light-hearted, public relations interview. This was the answer given for an article that made the front page. For an article that blew something open. It was journalistic gold. The laughter in James' eyes had been replaced by an intensity, a ferocity that gnawed at her bones. A thousand questions came to mind; ways to press him, ways to squeeze every last drop out of him, to make sure she had everything she needed for this.

Instead, she said, "James," very gently. "I can stop the quill." A tiny tilt of her head towards the Quick-Quotes Quill. He swiped his lower lip with his thumb.

"No," he said. His eyes fixed on hers. "Lily." A shiver ran down her spine.

"If you're sure," she whispered. Now he pinched his lip between his forefinger and his thumb, tugging it. It made her stomach hurt.

"I'm sure."

She swallowed, parched, and wished that she had a drink. She looked again, futilely, to the desk.

"Your voice must be sore," James said. She looked back at him. He held his mug of tea out in one hand, wand in the other. Without a word from him, steam began to rise from the drink. "Have mine."

"It's yours," she said. "I shouldn't."

"You made it," he said, shrugging with one shoulder. She took a deep breath, trying to clear her head, and rolled forward on Adrian's chair to take it. Her fingers curled around the handle, brushing his, and she pulled it gently, to show that she had a grasp of it. He did not relinquish it. Instead, he leaned forwards, moving the mug higher until it brushed her lips. Something in the pit of her stomach began to feel very out-of-control. His deep brown eyes fell on hers and did not leave. She could not look away. Her core trembled. She opened her mouth ever so slightly. He smiled – wickedly – and tilted the mug. Tea filled her mouth, and she swallowed. He pulled the cup away and set it on Adrian's end table as if nothing had happened.

"So," he said, leaning back against the wall, one hand behind his head. The warmth of the tea spread through her body, consuming her.

"So," she said shakily. He arched an eyebrow. She forced herself to concentrate. "You – you say the Wasps have a…problem?"

She could hardly think. She could hardly breathe. Every question that followed seemed to fumble in her mouth, and each time she fumbled she thought of the glint in his eyes as he held the mug to her mouth, as he poured. And now he was so unbothered, as if he did it ten times a day. He crossed his ankle over his knee, and his smile turned diabolical. His answers were consummate, thoughtful, provocative – in every way. Her mouth dried again but she could not mention it, she could only pray that he didn't notice.

"Well," she said, finally, her heartrate not quite normal. "Thank you. You were…illuminating. I'm not sure if this will be what your manager had in mind." James snorted.

"Fuck my manager." He got to his feet, running his fingers through his hair. Lily stood too. She supposed she had to be the one to end it. After all, she held the power in the situation, and she was the one who could dismiss him. Not the other way round.

"It's been a pleasure," she said, holding out her hand. "I'm sure this will get you plenty of publicity, if it manages to get published." James laughed.

"It has been a pleasure," he said, and took her smaller hand in both of his. They squeezed her. She did everything she could to maintain a professional smile. "Lily."

Her knees didn't buckle. They didn't.

"Yes," she said, looking up at him. He wouldn't let go. The longer he held her, the more it burned, like a brand; she was sure that when she pulled a way, there would be an imprint of his fingers around her wrists.

Finally, he moved one of his hands away. It snaked into his pocket and pulled out a business card.

"If you have any further questions," he said, and pushed it between her fingers. Then he released her entirely.

"I have the card for the club," she said. "I can contact them."

"I thought a direct line might be easier," he said. He pushed his glasses up his nose and made for the door, but he stopped with his hand on the knob, looking back at her. Pleasant, poised, polite, and unfailingly professional.

"Lily?" he said. Pleasant, poised, polite, professional.

"Yes?"

He looked her up and down and smiled, before giving a nod towards the card in her fingers. "See you later."

He left.

Forcing herself to be slow, to be calm, to be patient, she examined the card. James H. Potter. Cpt & Chsr of the Wimbourne Wasps. 3 Rosehallow Walk, Godric's Hollow.

She turned it over. The other side had a simple illustration, enchanted to move. A sketch of a lily. Blooming. Opening its petals. And then they fell, as the lily came undone.

She twisted the doorknob. The last of the players stood on the backdrop, getting their photo taken. Adrian waved a hand to grab the woman's attention.

"Smile!"