Tracing You

Chapter 1 - Outline

"Guess we have to partner up."

His hazel eyes lift to look at me, the dimple on his cheek already pronounced, as if I've amused him by saying something unexpectedly hilarious. The curve of his mouth becomes more lopsided, insufferable, annoyingly hot when he catches the deep scrunch between my brows.

"Why, Evans! Never thought I'd see the day."

"Shut up," I growl, slamming down my satchel onto the stool next to him, emptied only moments earlier by Sirius Black as he'd sauntered away like some bored-looking vampire towards the front of the classroom. The canvas propped up on the easel before me stands blank. "You know as well as I do that this is not by choice. Not by a long shot."

"Oh, come on," he taunts, torso turning halfway to face me properly. A rapid glance at his canvas reveals the wispy outline of an idea that hasn't taken shape yet. "Is it really that bad, being my partner?"

I level a flat stare at him. By the grace of all things unfair and nonsensical, James Potter and his hurricane-kissed hair do a whole lot for his already substantial charm. Thankfully, the prat is arrogant enough that I can easily stomp out any pleasant stirrings in my stomach that begin at the sight of his grin.

"You don't want me to answer that." I turn away.

Around us, students continue to mill about, searching for their respective partners or using the chance to stretch their limbs. The smell of paint and oil stings my nose, but there's something light and airy about the room that makes it pleasant enough to occupy; large dome-shaped windows sit thrown open to the view of Hogwarts' grounds, warm light filtering in, spilling on the tiled floors. The two long tables pushed against the walls at the far end of the room remain cluttered with all sorts of brushes, colours, paper strips, cups, and things I probably can't even identify. And yet, it only adds to the charm and atmosphere of the class.

"You can always ask for a change of partner, you know?"

Despite myself, I find my eyes jumping to look at the boy next to me again, curious, unable to detect from his tone if he's serious or not. Technically, he's right, of course. Asking for a change of partner had been my instinctual thought when Slughorn had announced that everyone from the creative writing course would pair up with someone from the art course to complete their year-end projects in a joint presentation format, and then proceeded to cruelly snuff out my dash of excitement by reading out the pre-determined pairings in front of the class.

"The pairings have been compiled on the basis of your creative compatibility and observed class performance so far. You are each to write a short, creative piece—either a story, or a poem, or a play, I leave that to you—and your art course counterpart will produce a piece to accompany your work. Wonderful, isn't it?" he'd giggled, blissfully unaware of the acid attack taking place inside my body. "Naturally, we expect only the best presentations at the end of the three-week deadline given to you. After your evaluations, Professor McGonagall and I will select the top submissions from the class and they will be displayed at the Hogwarts University Annual Art Exhibition this year."

At the end of his explanation, when the class had buzzed with the excited chitter of potentially getting to write something for the exhibition, it would have been the easiest thing in the world for me to walk up to him and request for a change of partner.

"Who'd you get?" Amelia Bones had twisted in her chair to ask me. "I don't think I caught it during the announcement."

I wanted to cry. "James Potter."

"Oooh, you don't get along with him, do you?" She'd chuckled. "I got Macdonald! I know she's a good friend of yours, but I don't think I've ever seen her draw. How's her art?"

"Bloody good," I'd sighed, wishing I'd been lucky enough to get Mary. It would've been as simple as breathing. Fun. But even though I could have gotten someone simpler instead—not Mary necessarily, but someone else; anyone else—even though Slughorn was still right there, beaming happily and asking us to line up to go join the art studio due to its larger space…

I didn't. I couldn't.

"I'm not going to do that," I say presently, clucking my tongue and hoping James hasn't noticed the heat crawling up the back of my neck. He looks on, face still holding that perpetually amused smile. It makes me want to smack him. "I can't just—it'll make me look like I'm being difficult."

"Ah." He cocks a brow, a pencil dancing effortlessly between his charcoal-coated fingers as he rolls it over his knuckles. Fucking show-off. "And you're… not being difficult?"

I pull in a deep breath, remind myself I'm going to be a writer; I can't be convicted of murder right now. "Look. Can we just complete this project peacefully? When we're not working, I'll try to stay out of your way and you can stay out of mine. How does that sound?"

"Hmm…" He continues to play with the pencil.

I watch him hopefully.

And in this moment, only because I'm staring at him so unblinkingly, and because I've never had the chance to observe from up close before, I notice how interestingly the light flickers in his eyes. They're really quite pretty, his eyes. The colour is difficult to specify; hazel, but unique; more green than brown sometimes. Or dipped in a dash of sunset, like just now. He'd probably do a better job of describing the shades, being an artist and all. And normally, you'd think a person's glasses would prevent you from really noticing such things. But the frames unreasonably make them look even better. I think it's the part of him that's the most difficult for me to dislike—his goddamn eyes.

James cocks his head, and I almost jump out of my skin.

Fuck, fuck. Shit, shit.

I will my face into a neutral expression, try not to burst into flames. What's wrong with me?! Staring at him and dissecting the colours of his eyes like some fucking creep.

"Well?" I clear my throat, not wanting to give him the opportunity to call me out on my ogling.

He purses his lips for a beat, seems to be thinking about my question like I've asked him for something too complicated, and then eventually opens his mouth—

"If we have all finally found our partners, can we please settle down?" Calls Professor McGonagall from the front of the classroom, drawing my attention away. She's dressed immaculately as usual, with her hair pulled back into a tight bun and sharp eyes framed by clear glasses. Despite possessing next to no artistic talent myself, I've always admired the woman for her tenacity and discipline. Predictably enough, the room falls quiet in a matter of seconds. "Good. We only have a few more minutes of the lecture left, so I'll be quick. For the next three weeks, the two courses will be held jointly in this classroom as per your schedules. Professor Slughorn and I will take turns monitoring you. As this will require you to be your most creative selves, each pair will be allowed to sign up for sessions outside, on the Hogwarts grounds, for a maximum of two days a week. During these sessions, you are expected to draw inspiration from nature and your surroundings and make use of the open environment. Leaving the University premises during this time is not permitted, of course—"

A murmur of disappointment fills the room, but none quite as visible as the slump of the body next to me. What a child.

"To make sure you are not completely wasting your time outside, you will be required to submit and explain the progress you have made to us at the end of each week. If the results are less than satisfactory, the privilege of outside sessions will be cancelled for your team." She pins us all with a severe glare. "I hope I have made myself clear."

A chorus of yeses rings out around the room, and then Slughorn claps his hands with a jolly laugh. "There you go! As easy as pie! Now, moving on to more exciting things: in about two days from now, each of you—or each pair—must submit to us the overarching theme of your project. It can be something specific, or something entirely abstract. But, remember, both the written piece and the artwork must clearly demonstrate and embody this theme."

A smile blooms on my face, ideas and possibilities running amuck inside my head. There are so many themes I can work with, though I'm certain something that stems from my personal life will be the best option—nothing too obvious, but perhaps intimate enough that I can narrate it with honesty while also keeping it intriguing and mysterious—

"Jesus, Evans, you look like you'll fall off your seat from excitement."

"Huh?" My eyes snap to James, finding him watching me with quiet hilarity. In that treacherous half a second, catching him with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie loose, shirt messy, hair messier, and face lit up by a genuine smile, attraction pummels my stomach like the strongest of blows.

Thankfully, before I can do anything more than gape, the bell signalling the end of the lecture rings and I hop off the stool fast enough to almost send the easel in front crashing to the floor.

"Shit—"

"Whoa, there, Evans." Sirius Black suddenly materializes before me, a hand on my elbow. "Where's the fire? Surely, Prongs did not scare you away within ten minutes? I'd thought it'd take him at least fifteen."

"Thanks for the faith, mate."

"Anytime."

"I have to go," I snatch my bag and hoist it on my shoulder, face still cooling down from its blazing state. "I'll be late for my next class."

Sirius snorts. "We have enough time until the next—"

"Can you meet me after school?" This, I direct to James, unable to entertain Sirius's volley of reasonable arguments. Plus, there's something a bit too knowing in those grey eyes of his that makes me bristle in defence. As if the sod knows something I don't. "I want to discuss the project and plan out our session schedule so that we can sign up for the days we want."

He lets out a light chortle. "Relax, Evans, we have a lot of—"

"Potter, please."

Something in his expression changes at that, brows arching high, and I realize—mortifyingly—how desperate I've sounded only a second too late. But he runs a hand through that dark hair of his, teasing smile gone, and looks almost bashful. "Yeah, alright. I'll meet you near the entrance hall."

"Thank you," I breathe out, sounding slightly winded as I high-tail it out of the room.

Light laughter fades behind me. "What on earth did you say to her?"

As I trudge through my last two lectures of the day—Writing for Media and Fiction Writing—the awkward and unnecessarily dramatic escape I'd made from the art studio keeps replaying in my mind like a reel for torture. There's no denying that I'd acted like a lunatic, trying to get away from James and that split second of insanity that had gripped me when I'd found him inexplicably hot; like I wouldn't have minded climbing on his lap and snogging his face off.

But that's no big deal, right? So, the boy is attractive. It's not as if I didn't know that. It's also natural to find him shaggable, especially in such close quarters, when he's smiling and not being an arse (for half a second). There's no need to make such a hullabaloo out of nothing.

There.

I smile, bolstered. I will meet him after school, discuss the project, complete it over the next three weeks, and never have to think about James Potter and that stupid, stupid moment ever again.

Perfect.

"Are you okay, Lily?" Marlene McKinnon sniggers from the seat next to me. "Why are you grinning to yourself?"

Fuck.

"Uh… nothing."

"Thinking about someone special, are you?" She whispers, waggling her eyebrows entirely too suggestively.

But absurdly enough, my face decides to turn hot as a furnace. "It's nothing like that."

"Wow, you sure do blush easy," Marlene teases, humming as she returns back to her notes. "Well, alright, keep your secrets. Reckon I'll get to know soon enough. Feelings like that don't stay bottled up for long."

Bloody hell.

He's already waiting for me by the time I make my way down to the entrance hall. Leaning against the wall, one leg bent at the knee, left hand toying with the strap of his bag, right one stuffed into the pocket of his trousers—the picture-perfect trouble-maker. Objectively cool. The problem: the idiotic, arrogant smirk on his face.

A group of girls—likely underclassmen—walk by, giggling and tripping over their feet when he nods at them.

I sniff, all earlier traces of attraction gone—thank fucking God—and move closer. "Sorry I'm late. Lecture ran over."

"Evans, hey!" He straightens, runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, no problem. Wasn't waiting that long."

I glance around absently. "What, Black's not with you? How did that happen? Did he surgically detach himself from you finally?"

"Aren't you hilarious." He deadpans, but I find myself grinning wide, knowing from the twitch of his mouth that he does find me funny. "He decided to head on home. We aren't always together, you know."

"No, only ninety-nine per cent of the time."

"Evans." He folds his arms across his chest. "Ninety-eight at most!"

"Oh. My sincerest apologies for besmirching your notorious name."

"I'll accept it on one condition."

"What's that?" I snort, "Need my help in pulling off a prank, do you?"

"No, but that's a good one. I'll keep that in mind for next time." His lips curve into a lazy smile, but I pick out something strangely tentative in his eyes, even as he leans back against the wall again, seemingly oozing calm and confidence. "I want to draw you."

I blink. Once. Twice.

A frown threads its way between my brows. "I…uh—what? I didn't get that. Did you say—"

"I want to draw you," he repeats, and there's no way I've heard it wrong the second time, too.

What the actual fuck.

"No," my voice chokes out, cheeks flushing, awareness pricking at my skin. I feel raw and exposed all of a sudden, like he's already pulled out his sketchbook and started memorizing how I look. I hate it. What I hate even more: the inexplicable thrill of anticipation shooting up my spine. "No, absolutely not. Why the hell would you want to do that?"

"To hang up your picture in my bedroom, of course," he says, and then immediately laughs, no doubt catching my horrified expression. "Fucking hell, Evans, relax, would you? I need to capture a portrait for my portfolio this year. Since we'll be spending so much time together over the next three weeks, I figured you'd be my best option."

My fingers clench and unclench, stomach in knots at the thought of James sitting down and staring at my face for hours on end. Dear God, no.

"You should ask Sirius. Or Remus and Peter, I know you're all practically joined at the hip. Really, Potter—" I shake my head. "Anyone would be a better option than me."

"No, they wouldn't." He rolls his eyes. "Sirius would refuse just to be an arse, Remus isn't keeping too well these days, and Peter's incredibly jittery—he'd never sit still. 'Sides," he smirks, pushing off from the wall, "what are you afraid of? You know you look good, Evans. And you're fit."

The heat from my face spreads down to my chest, and I hold tight to the irritation that bubbles within me at that smug tone of his. The alternative is to allow myself to notice how nice he smells, now that he's moved to stand closer to me, and I can't let that weirdness take over, not again.

"Sorry," I bite out, lifting my chin to glare at him better. He's still smirking, the bastard. "I'll have to pass."

"Shame. I was really hoping to do my best for the collaboration project."

Oh, no.

Oh, no he wouldn't.

But his eyes glint gleefully behind his glasses, and I know he would. What was all that rubbish about his eyes earlier? I must've been delusional because he's pure evil.

"You can't—" I sputter, nostrils flaring with indignation, and poke his chest accusingly. "You can't blackmail me, Potter."

"That's harsh, Evans. Who said anything about blackmail?"

"Oh, come off it—"

"I'm simply being logical." He spreads his arms. "I mean, since you refused to be my subject, I'll have to now spend a lot of time and effort trying to find someone else. Which means, I won't be able to dedicate all my focus to our project, and if I'm not giving it my hundred per cent, for the sake of integrity, I simply cannot vouch for the quality of the end result."

I'll punch him.

I'll punch his stupid smirking face and that ridiculously toned stomach and I'll probably break my hand while doing so, but it won't even matter because I would have at least gotten my frustration out. Because—

"You're insane!" I throw up my hands. "You can find a number of willing students who would love to be your subject—"

"But I'm not willing to have them as my subject."

"And you're willing to have me?"

"Yes."

I reel back, mouth opening and closing like a loon. "I don't get it. Why?! I mean, you don't even like me. We barely tolerate each other. And yet, here you are, being deliberately annoying so that I'll agree to let you draw me?"

"That's exactly it." He nods, flashing me a grin bright enough to blind. "I just feel so entertained around you, Evans."

"Great, so what, now I exist just to entertain you?"

"Mm, that's not quite what I said."

My eyes narrow into slits, teeth gnashing together. "You're unbelievable."

"Give it a think, yeah?" He says cheerfully, walking past me with a fucking pat on my shoulder. "Let me know your answer by tomorrow, because if it's a no, I must begin my arduous journey to find a worthy replacement."

And then he's gone, leaving me staring at the empty space before me like a prize idiot.

We didn't even discuss the damn schedule.

The next day, with my blood boiling, ears ringing, and hands itching, I roughly drop onto the stool next to him.

"Fine," I spit, don't spare him the satisfaction of even a glance. "You can fucking draw me. But I will hate every fucking second of it."

He grins; I know he does.

"Knew I could count on you, Evans."

A/N - Back from the dead, eh? Leave me some reviews and come chat with me on Tumblr at maraudersftw