When Lily Evans sat down in her usual seat in McGonagall's Transfiguration class, she thought it was going to be a completely ordinary Tuesday. Her well annotated copy of A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration was out of her book bag, open on the desk to the first page of the lesson's readings. She arranged her notebook and quills like she always did. Her favourite quill in her hand and a backup resting between the pages of the book.

McGonagall waited as the last of the students took their usual seats. The seating plan wasn't fixed but everyone gravitated toward the spot they chose on the first day of term. Or if you were like Lily, the first day of first year. All the classrooms were laid out essentially the same and the left most seat in the third row was always Lily's. She supposed trying to get away from Potter and his cronies would have been the smarter move but at least if they were plotting something she would have some amount of forewarning. Friends close and enemies closer or however the saying goes. She also imagined that if she did choose to change seats Potter would likely have followed her anyway. Her in the first row and him right behind her in the second. They'd be in the same proximity and her neck would cramp from looking at the board at such a sharp angle.

When McGonagall's frown fixed on a point behind her she couldn't say with much confidence why the professor's expression had soured but she knew for certain that Potter and Co were the cause. Lily turned around, without much concern for subtlety, and noticed the problem as the professor began to speak. A matching frown evolved on Lily's brow.

"Are Mr. Potter and Mr. Lupin not gracing us with their presence this morning?" Minerva asked in the general direction of Sirius and Peter. She spoke in her usual manner of formality and high airs.

"Both gentlemen send their apologies. They are indisposed at present," Sirius replied, deftly matching her tone.

He twirled a dry quill between his fingers, but no textbook, parchment or inkwell sat upon his desk. He quite clearly had no intention to actually write with it.

"Have they attended the hospital wing?" McGonagall probed.

"Remus is there now," Sirius said, his usual blasé tone returning.

"And Mr. Potter? Where is he?"

"Hugging the loo, I imagine."

"Ah," Was the professor's final reply to Black.

I won't go. Don't look at me. Make Black go back and clean up Potter's mess.

"Miss Evans?"

"Professor?" Lily answered innocently, as if she hadn't already guessed what was coming next.

"Would you be a dear and check on Mr. Potter? It seems he might need a more capable escort."

"Too right you are," Sirius grinned at her, and she scowled back.

When Lily turned back to face McGonagall, she had a forced smile plastered on her face that she hoped didn't look more like a grimace.

"Of course, professor!" Lily replied with a saccharinity in her voice that sounded fake even to her own ears.

As she packed her quills, notes and textbook back in her bag she heard a chuckle from behind her.

"Good luck, Evans," Black said, "I'll lend you my notes at lunch."

His desk was still empty and his quill still dry. Peter looked up at her apologetically but said nothing.

"You can copy mine, Lil," Mary whispered with a smile. Her desk, comparably, was well stocked with supplies and Lily knew Mary took good notes. It was a weight off her chest, but it didn't mean she was excited about leaving class to help her arch nemesis.

Maybe arch nemesis wasn't the right descriptor. Perhaps just nemesis would suffice. Or whatever.

"Thanks. You're a lifesaver," Lily said to Mary before swinging her bookbag over her shoulder and heading out of the classroom.

Lily certainly didn't rush from the Transfiguration classroom to Gryffindor Tower. If James Potter was truly sick, she was sure he was at fault for whatever ailed him. Her steps where measured and steady, counting in her head all the times Potter had been nasty to her or her friends. When she got to the scene, she'd help in any way she could just like she would with any other student. But on the way there she added an extra second to the journey for every atrocity he'd laid against her, however big or small. It was a miniscule but satisfying type of revenge.

At the door to the seventh-year boy's dorm she stopped and knocked. She couldn't hear anything from inside, but she knocked again two more times before she finally gave up and waltzed in.

"Potter?" She called out to the silent dorm room. "Potter, if you've just decided to sleep in I will not be impressed."

But all four four-poster beds were empty. Well, not empty. Not a single bed was made. One had a book open, face down on the pillow. The other three were scattered with clothes and other debris. A copy of Which Broomstick?, a few chocolate frog wrappers, some abandoned sweaters but no James Potters.

"Potter?" Lily called out again.

Then came the unmistakeable sound of someone's breakfast making a comeback.

Lily dropped her bookbag on the floor at the foot of one of the beds and rushed into the bathroom. Potter was on his knees in front of the toilet, forearms on the seat and head handing limply over the bowl. He spat into the bowl and flushed.

The acrid smell of vomit accosted Lily's senses but she'd never been particularly bothered by vomit. Potter didn't even try to turn around. He rolled his head to rest his left cheek on his left arm and squinted in Lily's direction. His glasses weren't on his face and Lily wasn't even sure if he could recognise her without them.

"Evans," Potter said, letting his eyes drift closed. It wasn't really a question, but she felt like she needed to offer an explanation considering she'd just barged into his bathroom.

Lily accio'd her water bottle from her book bag. She held it out to him, but he shook his head.

"McGonagall sent me to check on you when you didn't show up for class," she said in an almost whisper as she gently placed the water bottle on the ground where he could reach.

"Sick," he said in reply. His voice was weak and croaky from exhaustion, and he answered as simply as he could. There wasn't an ounce of curtness or snap in his voice; he just couldn't manage more than a few words at a time.

To punctuate his point, he hunched over the toilet again. His back arched as he heaved into the bowl but this time nothing came of it. After three rather violent looking retches, he sat back on his heels. Forearms still lent on the seat and head hung low he panted out his next few breaths.

Something familiar gripped Lily's heart and squeezed. It was the same thing that strangled her insides when a bludger had contacted his shoulder last year. The familiar chokehold that took her breath away when a group of Slytherins had jumped him for being a "blood traitor". In this particular moment James Potter looked downtrodden and- dare she say it- pathetic. No trace of his inflated ego, his signature smirk, or his trademark bravado.

Over the course of their seventh year, Lily had learned a great deal more about James Potter than she'd ever been intent on knowing. The most important thing one needed to know about James was his confidence was all a front. She'd learned to see behind it, to peer through the cracks and see what James Potter was underneath. The day she realised she could see through him was when she downgraded him from arch nemesis to just nemesis.

But then that bludger collided with his shoulder. The image of James lying on his back on the rain-soaked pitch, clutching his shoulder and breathing through clenched teeth still ghosts in the back of her mind. The worry and pity that seized her that day didn't seem like something one would feel for a nemesis, and she'd tried to ignore it. When Lily found herself making an unnecessary stop at the hospital wing to check on Potter, she tried to convince herself she just wanted to see if he'd finally done her the immense favour of dying. But the relief that flooded down to her toes when she found him revelling in the common room was undeniable.

Now he was a whatever. Not a nemesis. Not a friend either really. Just a whatever. Head-boy and occasional help with prefect meetings but nothing more.

"Go back to class," Potter croaked when his fit of retching subsided, "This is gross."

"You're always gross, Potter," Lily started. Despite the words there was a hint of fondness in her tone, "If that were enough of an excuse to get me out of spending time with you, I'd never come to the Prefect meetings."

James closed his eyes and smiled weakly.

"If you're still making fun of me, I can't be on my deathbed quite yet," James muttered.

"You won't be on your deathbed until I put you there, Potter," Lily replied.

James sighed.

"Come on," Lily said, placing a gentle hand on his forearm, "Let's get you down to Poppy."

James shook his head.

"Potter-" Lily started but James cut her off.

"I'm fine. I just need some sleep," James said.

"Potter, don't be stubborn. Pomfrey will fix you up in a jiffy," Lily contested.

"Lily, please," James pleaded, his voice dripping with exhaustion, "I don't want to go."

Lily watched him for a moment, chest still tight. She couldn't see his face with it still floating over the toilet bowl, but his voice tugged at her heartstrings. She didn't know that was something his voice could do, and she didn't like it one bit.

"Alright," She conceded.

James sighed again. She felt his relief in the muscles that relaxed under her palm. She ran her thumb over his arm without thinking and snatched her hand away when she realised what she'd done.

"You need to get some rest. Do you need help?" Lily hooked her hand under his bicep and James arranged his feet under himself. When he stood, he wobbled a little, like a baby deer learning to walk.

Lily wrapped an arm around his ribcage, clinging to his sweat soaked shirt. It was cold and clammy, but she didn't recoil. He stabilised and they made their way to his four-poster together, one hesitant step at a time. James lowered himself gingerly to sit on the side of the bed. Lily rummaged through his trunk and pulled out the cleanest looking t-shirt she could find. It had a muggle band logo on it that Lily didn't recognise. Probably something Remus or Sirius had bought for him.

She tossed it on the bed next to him and he looked at it like he didn't remember what one did with a t-shirt.

"Work with me, Potter. Shirt off," Lily demanded.

He swapped the shirts without comment. Alarm bells rang in Lily's head. When James resurfaced from within the fabric, Lily placed the back of her hand to his sweaty forehead. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep.

"You might have a fever. You really should be in the hospital wing," Lily gently chided.

James shook his head again, brow furrowed.

"I just need some sleep," he said again, but upon noticing the incredulous look on her face he added: "If I don't feel better later, I'll go."

Lily's expression didn't change.

"I promise," He swore.

Yet again she gave in.

"Ugh. Alright. But you'll be listening to everything else I say. If I say 'drink water', you say 'how much?'. If I say 'sleep', you say absolutely nothing because you're already out. Got it?" Lily said in her most authoritative voice as she accio'd the water to her hand once more.

James smiled and held out his hand for the bottle.

"How much?" His tired voice cracked when he asked.

"The whole bottle," Lily ordered, "but sip it! Or you'll be sick again."

James took a swig and put the bottle on the side table. Lily drew aside the covers on James' bed and pushed gently on his shoulder. He slid onto the bed, facing the side table, his long legs curling up toward his chest. Lily draped the quilt over him, covering him up to his waist. He looked up at her with an unreadable expression on his face. His eyes were red and hugged by dark circles.

"Get some sleep," Lily said, "you look exhausted."

"Don't know if I can. Feels like my stomach is waging war with the rest of my body," Talking was still an effort but James always did have a flair for the dramatic.

"You should sleep on your left side. It's better for you," Lily advised.

While James struggled to roll himself over Lily walked around to the other side of the bed and climbed up, sitting cross-legged on top of the quilt, facing James.

"Close your eyes," Taking care of people took a lot of ordering them around, Lily realised.

"What are you doing, Evans?" James asked but he closed his eyes anyway.

"Just trust me."

Slow, purposeful stroke after slow, purposeful stroke, Lily brushed her thumb across James' forehead. From the ridge of his brow up to his hairline and back over and over. When the crinkle of James' frown flattened out, Lily started distractedly humming the first calming tune that came to her head. Her mother used to do the same when Lily or Petunia had trouble sleeping. The tune she would hum was much older, possibly classical or an old Irish folk song, but Lily never learned the words.

James let out a deep sigh. Lily could feel the tension escaping James's body as she worked. His breathing slowed, his shoulders relaxed and within 60 seconds James was asleep. Lily observed the rhythmic expansion of his ribs as he inhaled, the way his fingers twitched like he was already dreaming. When the caregiving urge to place a soothing kiss on James' forehead struck her, Lily knew it was time to leave.