September 24th, 1977

It was midnight in the Gryffindor Common Room, and James Potter hovered over a potions essay due some weeks from now. His quill scratched gently across the paper, and he consulted his textbook for a moment before continuing with his paper. He scrunched up his nose when he concentrated, his lower lip was bitten and entirely too visible for her taste.

He'd grown some over the summer, his gangly limbs no longer looked detached from his frame. And those arms, good God, she could spend hours watching him from afar. As it turns out, all those hours he had spent on a broomstick caused him to fill out in a way that caused many a third and fourth-year to stare and giggle at any given moment. He was muscular, Merlin forbid. Muscular and just a little bit gorgeous.

"You're up late, Potter."

He looked up, his eyes blurry and unfocused in the dim light. He looked around, unaware of the fact that the Common Room has been empty for hours. Their eyes met, and he smiled a crooked smile that sent flutters to her belly. Lily slipped off the stairway to the girls' dormitory; her socked feet silent on the mismatched carpets.

James tried his best to relax his shoulders, unclench his teeth, to calm the pounding of his heart like it was every day that Lily Evans comes for him in an empty room in the middle of the night. Like it was every day that any bird worth a dime sat beside him to do more than to cop a feel.

This means nothing, James.

She doesn't fancy you.

"Jus' wanna get it over with," James said, tossing his quill onto the coffee table in a way he hoped looked effortless. He didn't notice right away the circles beneath her eyes, nor her jerky and shuddering movements.

She sat beside him anyway, tucking her knees up to her chest. James looked at her out of the corner of his eyes as she rested her chin on her knees. Lily's stocking was falling down her calf, and she looked soft, comfortable. More exposed and vulnerable than he had ever seen her. The fire popped, and the loose ashes swirled in the air. Her hair was the colour of rubies in the firelight.

"What are you doing up so late?" he said quietly, swallowing visibly.

Lily thought for a moment before responding, and James' eyebrows scrunch together in response to her indecision. "No reason," she answered at last. "Couldn't stand my own company."

This means nothing, James.

"I'm sorry to hear that," James responded, pausing as if to drag out her response. He tried to steady his breathing as if he could delay the rapid thumping of his heart, the way his breath caught whenever she came too close.

She had spoken, her eyes downcast and sad. Her sister didn't want her to come home.

"Evans, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," Lily said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. The jumper her mother knit her when she was thirteen, the Christmas present she never took off.

"I should have—should've seen it coming."

"She's your sister,"

Lily turned, "Lots of people have sisters."

"I don't,"

"No," Lily said, summoning a glass of something amber and sparking and after a deep breath took a sip. James had been around social drinking all his life, but this was something different, something almost desperate. He had never seen her like this, never seen anybody like this. "No, I don't suppose you do."

James wiped his hands on his trousers, straightened his glasses and summoned a drink of his own, the alcohol misty and cold.

"Never knew you to be a drinker," Lily said over the rim of her glass.

"No?" James said. "It's like you don't know me at all, Evans."

Lily considered him, took another drink and set the glass on the coffee table. "Truth or dare, Potter."

James shifted uncomfortably, his eyes downcast.

"What's this?" She asked. "Never played?"

"Not with you," he said. Not with girls. Not with anyone besides the Marauders, and he didn't remember most of what was said anyway.

"Well, the rules are simple," she said, moving to rest on the very edge of the table, knees between his own. She shifted his essay to the side, and James swallowed, forced himself to stay still. "Truth or dare, Potter?"

James set the glass down, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Truth."

"Who was your first kiss?"

James considered for a moment, but only for an effect; like he genuinely had to think about it. His first kiss was Lorena Jorgenson, a quick snog behind the suit of armour on the fourth-floor landing. He was thirteen, and she was in fourth year, her mouth was wet, and her hands were everywhere, and James had dreamt about her for four months. Sirius had teased him beyond belief when he told them, and it was only then that he realized she was dating that Hufflepuff fifth year with arms like a gorilla. They hadn't spoken a word to each other since.

"Well," he said, revelling in her attention, resting his glass on her thigh. "I think the first girl I kissed was Alberta Gregson."

"That Slytherin girl? The blonde one? She's four years older than us!"

"I have a way with birds,"

"I don't believe you,"

"You should," James said, taking another sip if only to stop his hands from shaking. "Okay, Evans, your turn. Truth or dare?"

Lily considered for a moment. "Dare,"

"I dare you to break up with Cauterwal,"

She scoffed into her drink, but her eyes were still red, and Lily had never been particularly good at hiding her reaction. She looked distressed and exhilarated simultaneously, and his heart leapt.

"Since when do you care who I date?" Lily said, not quite meeting his eyes.

"I don't," James said, looking away from her eyes and her tears and focused on the fire, on the rain lashing the tower windows, anywhere but at her, at Lily, about the one person who meant absolutely everything to him. He tried to focus on not spilling his drink, but he could feel her, muscles moving and stretching, the intoxicating sight of so many inches of thigh he had never been so close to before.

Lily shrugged, took another sip, seemingly unaware of his plight. "I'm too good for him anyway," she said. James' heart skipped a beat, and his smile widened. Her boyfriend was handsy, and more than once, James had caught him with a hand far too close to places he had only dreamed of. When it last happened, Sirius had gripped his arm, and Remus shook his head, mouth tight. Lily was old enough to make her own decisions. It wasn't up to him to decide what she did (or indeed, who she did it with). God, was she sleeping with him?

James raised his arm, lowered it suddenly and then wordlessly refilled her glass.

"God, I forgot how much this shite burns," Lily said, shaking her head, then turned to face him. "I thought you couldn't do wordless magic?"

"Comes with practice, I suppose," James said. (It had taken four months, sixteen days and anything harder than a summoning charm had taken three years of practice). "Sirius and I have been practicing."

James shifted suddenly, suddenly very aware of how close he was to her, how he could see her breasts move as she breathed, the way the hollow in her neck shifted as she turned her head. He cleared his throat and moved to the far side of the couch, patting the cushion beside him.

"Room for two, Evans," he said, his voice shaky and low.

To his astonishment, Lily rose with a great deal of dignity and flopped down on the couch beside him. Her glass sloshed, and some of it spilled on her jumper, the grey wool darkening as the spill spread. She sat sideways, her feet touching his thigh as she turned to clean up her mess.

"Damn," she said, "'m a sloppy drunk,"

"You can't get drunk off of firewhiskey," James said, turning to face her. "Just buzzed, y' know?"

"When's the first time you got drunk?" she asked, balancing her glass on her knee.

"Well, there's a good question, Evans," he said, shifting in a way he hoped was effortless, pulling her feet onto his lap and revelling in the feeling of shocks up his spine. "Well, I suppose the first time I got well and truly smashed was at my parent's house. It was the Christmas hols in our fifth year, and Sirius had just, well—,"

"What happened to Sirius?"

James held a finger to his lips, and Lily smiled. "Marauder's secrets, Evans."

"Well, can't interfere with that, can I?"

"It went something like this," James said, turning his body towards her, fingers playing with a loose string in her stocking. "Remus found the stash of firewhiskey and Muggle spirits my parents had hidden behind the bar, we were celebrating, you see. Remus undid the spell and filled four glasses. I will say, however, that the hangover we had the next day was next to nothing."

"Didn't your parents have the hangover potion?"

"My parents are seventy-five years old, Evans. The last time they got good and thoroughly hammered was before I was born," James said. "It was nearly six months until we got drunk again, but that's a story for another time." James looked over at her, trying not to seem too obvious. But she was close, and her eyes still red, the little tears that gathered at the corners were drying. That was good, he thought. He could keep her talking. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"Fair is fair, Evans. When was the first time you got drunk?"

"I've never been drunk before."

"Nah, sure you have. Quidditch final in sixth year, everyone was drinking, yours truly scored eleven goals for Gryffindor. Now that's not something you're likely to forget."

"I remember, I'm just not one for drinking."

"Hm," James said, stretching his arms over his head, resting them over the top of the couch. "That's not what I expected you to say."

Lily shifted in her seat, sinking further into the cushions. The tips of her toes brushed the armrest of James' side of the couch, and she relished in the supposed intimacy of the moment. It was nice, comfortable. "What did you think I was going to say?"

James looked over at her, flushed and smiling and instead of saying what he would have a year ago (I would've thought you had to be hammered to find yourself wrapped up in Arthur Cauterwal's arms), he took a deep breath and summoned a bit of courage. "I never knew you one to shy away from a crowd, is all."

"Just because I don't drink until I can't stand doesn't mean I'm not enjoying the company," she said, bemused.

"How about my company?" He asked.

Lily looked over at him, about this boy who had turned into a man before her eyes. He wasn't the person she had thought he was, perhaps he never was. He had matured tenfold since last spring, and Lily didn't quite know what to make of this new and improved James Potter, smiling like that at her.

"I do," Lily said, and James grinned. "Yeah, I think I do."

"Well," he said, putting his glass down on the table. Before he could overthink it, he pulled Lily's feet into his lap and began massaging her left foot with vigour, evoking a surprised squawk. "Company with me does have its perks."

"What are you doing?" Lily said, sitting up slightly, both hands braced behind her.

"Giving you a foot massage," and simultaneously fulfilling every single one of his thirteen-year-old daydreams. "What's it look like?"

"It looks like you're trying to seduce me,"

"Is it working?"

"Well," Lily said, her tone breathy and soft. "That's yet to be seen."

There was a pause. Not an uncomfortable one, but as time continued to pass, it was a pause that was spring-loaded, bursting with possibilities. James ran his hands over the arch of her foot, massaging the tension out of her ankles, the soles of her feet. If she allowed him to touch her at all, he wasn't about to turn down the opportunity, no matter how long it lasted. Lily looked pensive, lost in thought. A small part of him hoped that she was thinking of him, of what they were doing together. But it couldn't be; she was tense, not quite meeting his eye. There was something else, something more pressing.

"What would you do?" Lily said, taking another drink and settling it on her lap. "If you were me?"

"What do you mean?"

"With my sister. You know most of that story. What would you do if you were in my shoes?"

"I've always wanted a sibling," James said, looking into the fire, hands fiddling with the hem of her left stocking. "I think when it came down to it, I would do anything to keep them in my life. Even if it wasn't in my best interest."

"She doesn't want me anymore."

"Do you believe her?"

Lily sniffed, "I'm not sure she's still the person I thought she was."

"Do you love her?"

Lily looked over as if considering her next move. "Yeah, I suppose I do. You never really stop loving sisters, even after the person you knew is gone. We were best friends growing up, she meant—well, she meant everything to me. It was magic that ruined everything. I was different, and she was ordinary, and she's resented me for it ever since."

"Well, I guess that's what we do for the people we love," James said, fighting to keep his gaze on her. "We love them even when we shouldn't."

Lily set her glass down on the table, and James' eyes burned with an intensity she struggled to face. She had dated before; she had even fallen in love once or twice. But this was something deep, something almost inevitable. James Potter was a flame she had been chasing for years, an infectious smile, brave and gentle; he was her ideal in the flesh. But he was also James Potter, the fool who had ruined her relationship with Severus, the James Potter who dated her best friend in fourth year, the James Potter who hexed whoever irritated him. Were they the same person? Could Lily ever fancy someone who had done the things he had?

He leaned forward, wishing and hoping she wouldn't turn away and Lily closed her eyes in bated breath. Her knees folded underneath of her, and his hands tangled in her hair. Lily sagged against him, gentle lips on her own, fingernails scratching gently at her scalp, behind her ears.

"We've been down this path so many times, James," Lily breathed, leaning her forehead against his. "How is this time going to be any different?"

"This is different,"

"How?" Lily asked, pushing herself back into a sitting position. "James we need to—,"

"I love you,"

Lily sat open-mouthed, heart fluttering in a way she hadn't expected it to, perhaps had always known it would. "What?"

"I love you,"

"You couldn't possibly—,"

"No," James said, taking her hands in his own. Hers were so small, green polish and narrow fingers, and they looked so correct in his that he gripped them all the more. "No, you're wrong. I love you, Lily Evans. I have always loved you, maybe in ways that you couldn't understand, but don't you feel it? Don't you know deep inside how much I love you?"

"I—,"

James clutched at her desperately, his forehead resting against hers, heart lain bare at her feet. "My heart has always belonged to you,"

"James—,"

"If you don't, Lily, if you don't feel the same, at least I said it. I've loved you for seven years and will love you for the rest of my life. I've changed, truly I have. The war forces perspective, don't you see? I intend to fight, but I want you by my side. I've always wanted you by my side."

His fingers slip past her ears, thumbs resting on her temples, closer and closer than they had ever been before. A tear slipped past her eyelids, and James caught it on his thumb, kissed the trail it left behind.

"My sister doesn't love me," she whispered, "She and I will never again be as close as we, as we once were. She's lost to me, James."

"I know, love," he said. "I know, God, I know."

Another tear slipped past, and two chased it like raindrops, and before long, Lily Evans was encircled by him, arms wrapped like a safety net around her. She sobbed for what felt like hours. She cried for Petunia, the sister she had once been closer to than anybody, she cried for the family she had once had with her, the hopes and dreams she had once held for their relationship. She cried for the loss of someone still alive, for someone who had refused contact and communication. That bungalow in Cokeworth would never again be home without her sister there too, and her future was so uncertain. All sense of home was gone, now.

She was alone.

James rubbed circles on her back, whispered quiet, soothing nothings into her ear and held her as she cried. His heart broke for her, and he wished more than anything that he could take her pain away.

"Oh, Lily,"

"Please, don't pity me, please don't. I couldn't stand it."

James summoned a handkerchief from his dorm and held it out for her, hands bracing her to sit upright. His mother had embroidered J.F.P on the corner in red thread, and it looked so perfect in her hands. She buried her face in the fabric, and James pulled her onto his lap, tucking her little body into his own.

"How can I help?" James whispered into her hair. "Tell me; there must be something I can do."

"Kiss me,"

"Evans—,"

"Kiss me, Potter,"

She didn't have to ask twice before his lips settled onto hers once again, hands tangled in his hair. He moved with vigour, and Lily kissed him again, twice, a third time. Kissing was a distraction from reality. Kissing meant she didn't have to think, didn't have to process. She was taking advantage of him, and she knew it, but somehow couldn't condone herself for her actions. Even with the wrong intentions, it felt right; she felt complete like she hadn't in years. Something had changed between them, and the air sparked with electricity.

"God, Lily, if you'd known how many times I dreamed about you like this," James whispered, peppering kisses on her cheekbones, forehead, the hollow of her throat. "I've dreamt about kissing you for years,"

Lily chased him, arms reaching behind his neck, scratching at the strong muscles of his back, his neck. She needed him like she needed life itself, and here he was like a miracle in front of her. He was offering himself up to her, saying that he loved her, that he had always loved her, that he would never leave. It was a balm on her heart, a release from the emotional strain of an absentee sister and parents suspended in the dark. It was too much, too much all at once.

James held her forearms and brought them away from his hair, eyes trained away from hers. Her body was stiff, uncompromising, her kisses desperate and uncoordinated. She reached for him, but he leant away, even though it broke his heart. What they were doing wasn't right; it was the wrong time for the wrong reasons. He had behaved like a fool; she didn't love him; she'd used him.

"Goodnight, Evans," he said and walked towards the boy's dorms, not expecting a response and not receiving one in return.