I am aware that this chapter is a little jarring compared to the seriousness of the last one! I decided to leave it in because truthfully, it's one of the only chapters in the original story that has a base strong enough to (largely) maintain. That being said, it did take a lot of editing. For some reason I developed an obsession with semi-colons during this period and I'm not even joking when I say that one of these chapters had FORTY semi-colons in two thousand words. FORTY. Who needs forty semi-colons?!

Also, I relate to James in this chapter. I spent six years at university, did everything at the last minute and distracted all my friends in the process. Sometimes, you just need a healthy dose of panic to get things done.

Defence Against the Dark Arts

If you didn't know any better, you would have said the universe was conspiring against you in June. It was the perfect application of Murphy's Law, really. Reports of daily disappearances were pouring into the castle, Rosier and Wilkes were trying to extract revenge on James at any possible opportunity, your mum had written to say your dad was in hospital with a kidney infection and you were wondering whether you should just convince them both to go on an extended holiday to Antarctica for the foreseeable future. The one thing that was completely unaffected by the insidious gloom that was slowly descending around you were the NEWT examinations. NEWTs waited for no self-proclaimed Dark Lord, apparently.

For two weeks, the stress turns you into an irritable insomniac. Your hair is barely ever in a reasonable state and you occasionally forget to brush your teeth before collapsing into bed. Every night, while you lie awake reciting the twelve uses of Dragon Blood and the incantation for the Protean Charm, you question your decision to take six NEWTs rather than five. You only really need five, but when did Lily Evans ever back away from a challenge?

On the contrary to your sleep deprivation and generally sour demeanour, James becomes uncharacteristically energetic and spritely. Not that he hasn't always been energetic and spritely. He's just taken it to an unfathomable new level. Seventh-year James Potter outstrips previous-year James Potters in a maturity stakes by a very wide margin, but June brings back all the pestering and pranking and general puerility with a new vigour.

James (and Sirius for that matter) develop a mantra before the NEWT season. The mantra, in essence, is that if one does no study, then one will pass the NEWTs with flying colours. This mantra doesn't appear to have general application to the student body, but that doesn't stop them from trying their hardest to be as disruptive and distracting as possible at any given moment.

It's not so bad when you can evade them by escaping to the library. However there comes a time each night when James is cooped up with you, and with no one else to focus his boundless attention on, he becomes increasingly irritating.

The night before your first exam, you're spread out on the floor, Defence Against the Dark Arts texts and essays littered around you, practicing non-verbal shield charms. James has decided that now is a good time to rifle through your trunk. The architects of the castle made a grievous error, in your opinion, in assuming that Head Boys could be trusted to be mature enough not to require a sliding staircase.

"When were you ever going to wear these?" he asks, holding out a pair of brown, mid-calf boots. You wore them to Hogsmeade all of one time and they have the smallest block heel known to mankind, but James apparently believes them to be stimulating. You wonder what he would think if he saw the red PVC platform clogs that Marlene bought last summer. They look like a recipe for breaking an ankle, to you.

Choosing to ignore him, so as not to encourage his bad behaviour, you turn back to your incantations.

"Lily," he calls impatiently, apparently requiring a response.

All he really wants is a spot of your attention, but you're steadfastly not going to give it to him. Instead, you flick a curtain of burnt, red hair over your shoulder and put all your effort into strengthening your shield charm. It's awfully difficult with someone pestering you, but if you can do it with an insolent James Potter in the room, you can do it in any NEWT examination.

"Lily," he tries again, emphasising the 'y' in the whiniest voice he can muster.

You turn a page in the textbook so demonstratively and aggressively that you tear it slightly from the spine.

You only have a second to frown, before you feel something hit your head and rebound with a dull thud. Your skin prickles and your right hand reflexively tightens its grip on your wand as you whirl around.

James Potter lobs another shoe at you.

You lunge.

~.~

Alchemy

The next day, James emerges through the portrait hole, hopping. He's fresh back from the prefect's bathroom, fully dressed but missing a sock on his left foot.

"Lily!" he exclaims, scrambling through the portrait hole and grasping the back of the couch for support.

For the first time in your life, hearing your name is wearing very, very thin. At one stage, you thought it was an improvement from 'Evans', which you had been subjected to for six years of your school life. At present, you would rather be living with a mute. You fix him with a withering look.

"I need your help," he says with what appears to be sincerity, shifting his weight on his right leg as he looks at you pleadingly.

"What?" you ask, exasperated.

He points to a spot just over your right shoulder, where a lone sock lies not ten metres away from him.

"You're a wizard, James," you deadpan, as you turn back to him.

"So?" he asks.

"Summon it?" you say, grimacing in a manner that you hope conveys a wish to be left alone.

"I can't," he says, "I left my wand in my trunk."

"Well you hopped all the way here," you point out, turning back to your Alchemy text, "best of luck with the journey ahead."

"Lily," he whines, "please help."

You look up from the textbook with an incredulous expression. "Just put your foot down James, what in Merlin's name are you doing?"

"It's cold!" he protests.

"It's June, James. Put your blasted foot down, walk like a normal person and go put the sock on!"

"I can't!"

"Why?"

"Because then I would lose."

"Are you five years old?!" you exclaim, throwing your hands up to indicate the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.

"It's cold and the floor is lava Lily. It cannot be touched without adequate foot protection," he says, in a way that seems sincere but simply cannot be.

You feel like your eyes are popping out of your head. "Lava is hot!" you exclaim, still unsure how exactly this is considered an important conversation.

He shakes his head. "I can't touch it."

"For the love of Merlin's bloody beard," you snap, reluctantly pushing yourself up to standing and dragging your feet over to the sock. You bend down, snatch up the offending piece of cotton and turn around to catch James' eyes quickly flitting back up to your face.

He grins sheepishly at you. "Lily, you have a very nice -," he begins, but stops when you fix him with a glare that could rival a basilisk.

"I was going to say back!" he protests.

"You're never getting this sock," you snarl, pinching it between your forefinger and thumb like a dirty rag.

He just grins triumphantly and puts his foot down onto the lava-cold ground. "How did you think I got the first one on without touching the floor?"

~.~

Potions

"Lily, what's a telephone?"

"A muggle device used to contact someone in another location."

"What, like owl post?"

"No."

"Well, what does a telephone look like?"

"A plastic stick with holes. You hold your ear to one end and talk though the other."

"Like a straw?"

"No, James."

"Then where does the sound come from?"

"Wires in the little box the phone is connected to."

"Where do the wires go?"

"I don't know."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not an electrician."

"What's an electrician?"

"The person that does the wiring."

"But how do you know if someone is trying to use their telephone to get to your telephone?"

"It rings."

"Rings? What does it sound like?"

"Please be quiet."

"But how?"

"For the love of-"

"Like a bell?"

"Please be quiet for one second in your life."

"Like a caterwauling charm?"

"I'm not talking to you anymore because I need to do important things like pass my Potions NEWT."

"But how do the wires know you've stopped talking?"

"James Potter go and do your Muggle Studies revision somewhere that is not here!"

"Lily?"

"..."

"I don't do Muggle Studies."

~.~

Transfiguration

If, by some unlikely chance, James had not been a complete pest for the past week and your extreme frustration was entirely a figment of your overactive imagination, today is different. Today James is absolutely feral.

He's tried to distract you over fifteen times in as many minutes, flitting around the dormitory in a ball of anxious energy, picking things up and putting them down mindlessly, pacing from one end to another like a caged bird with nowhere to land.

You try to banish him from the dormitory that morning but reluctantly have to allow him back in. McGonagall corners you after breakfast and explains that she absolutely can't stand his nonchalant attitude mere hours before the Transfiguration NEWT and has banned him from any area of the castle which does not contain his books. She explains, with a hint of regret, that being Head Girl comes with the responsibility of keeping certain students out of her hair.

Thus, James Potter flaps around the dormitory, knocking things over, singing random tunes under his breath (badly), eating all the cake he stole from the kitchens the preceding night and trying his best to talk to you.

You have one hour to go.

The thought of transfiguring something complex under exam conditions is making you highly strung as it is. Given the current circumstances, you almost want to tie a sackful of rocks to yourself, get a firm grip of James Potter's ankle and throw the two of you off the Astronomy tower.

That is before he starts going through your trunk again.

Two seconds later he's standing outside your dormitory door, with your bra in his hand. Your bra.

You can't help your reaction. It's the stress.

You burst into tears.

~.~

Charms

James is being relatively tolerable today, probably because he still feels bad about the bra incident (which shall never be mentioned again).

As usual, he is bored. To alleviate this boredom, and in an attempt to be as non-irritating as possible, he seems to be challenging himself to eat an unsightly quantity of food that has been pilfered from the kitchens.

McGonagall has once again strictly instructed that he must not, under any circumstances, leave your sight. Unfortunately, after yesterday's clothing incident, he found his way to the Quidditch pitch twenty minutes before the commencement of the Transfiguration exam.

Inexplicably, on his menu today are three, one litre cartons of plain milk. It's an odd choice of beverage for someone that doesn't usually drink milk, you think. This is because James is 'vulnerable' to milk, as he calls it, or 'lactose intolerant' as you call it. James argues that he prefers not to exclude himself from any food groups.

Milk is not a food group, but you're not here to argue with him on the merits of dairy. In any case, there's really nothing you can do to stop him from drinking all three cartons.

The milk is seen again not fifteen minutes later. If the way to a boy's heart is through his stomach, milk isn't getting a lot of love at the moment.

~.~

Herbology

Given that it's the day of your last exam, you decide that you deserve a sleep in. Delicate, morning light streams through the window, fanning over your eyelids. In your semi-roused state, you wonder why you left the curtains open last night.

You roll over slightly to mute the sunshine and another thought flickers through you with alarm. Your arm has brushed against something warm in the bed next to you. It's warm, and it's breathing.

Oh Merlin, it's alive.

The bed shifts ominously as the thing rolls over. You can hear its breath, methodical and calm next to you.

Keeping your eyes firmly closed, you momentarily try to convince yourself that if you can't see it, it doesn't exist.

The heavy, warm thing moves unexpectedly, and a second later, plants a wet kiss right on your cheek. It feels suspiciously like a lick.

You groan. "I hate you, James."

A foreign voice responds, uncomfortably close to you. "Prongs, she's so charming in the morning," it drawls.

You feel as if you jump twenty feet in the air as your eyes burst open, wildly scanning the room.

James doubles over with laughter against the far wall of your dormitory, unfortunately well beyond your reach. Sirius props himself up, leans into his shoulder and smirks across the bed at you.

"Your morning breath is atrocious by the way," he says.