eight – hatred

"Who are you waiting for, Evans?" James asks, leaning down to her with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Lily looks away. She's been dodging his requests for days. It's not that he asks her out every week, but the constant flirtations and suggestions do her head in.

(She quite likes the attention, really, even if it is coming from James Potter.)

"David," she tells him, trying to keep her voice level.

James snorts derisively. "Finch?"

"His name is Fincher," she sighs. "David Fincher. No-one calls you Pot, do they?"

He mulls this over and raises his eyebrows. She mirrors the gesture - his lack of argument has surprised her temporarily.

"You know, Evans," he remarks, "if you wanted someone reliable you should have gone to Hogsmeade with me."

"He is reliable," retorts the girl, a little too quickly for her liking.

Disparaging: "Then why are you alone in the Entrance Hall?"

Her heart is thumping and the same question is bouncing around in her mind but Lily hides it with a roll of her eyes and, "Unfortunately, I'm not. You're here."

David hurries over to her, wringing his hands with an apology already on his lips. He gives her a quick kiss – James' face, Lily notices with savage pleasure, turns red and twists into a scowl – and they turn away from the Quidditch captain and walk together out the door.

The boy watches wistfully as the pair walk out of the Entrance Hall, and he's joined by Sirius. Leaning over the banister, he gives his friend a slap upside the head. "Prongs, mate, give her up."

Lily doesn't look back, and James frowns.

"You know what your problem is, Padfoot?" he says as he begins to climb the stairs.

"Inbreeding?" Sirius suggests.

"Yeah, but you lack determination." He stresses the last word.

"I do have my dignity, though," Sirius points out, "which I'd say you lost a long time ago."

"Shut it," James says with a thoughtful look on his face. "You know, we haven't done a prank in a while."

Sirius' face lifts with interest. "What you thinking?"

"That David Fincher needs a kick up his arse –"

"Prongs," Sirius says, interrupting his best friend. He turns to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and stopping him from moving away. "Let it drop."

James shoves Sirius' hand off him and glares at the wall. "You didn't see, Pads. He was late – late! – and then had the – the bloody audacity to just – waltz in and kiss her! Kiss her, right in front of me –!"

Sirius rolls his eyes. "Evans doesn't belong to you, mate."

"– and he was clearly just doing it to rile me before the match next week because they know they don't have a hope in hell of winning if I'm not off my game and she just – she just bloody let him! Right in front of me! I mean clearly some people have no sense of common and public decency because she – that is, some people – let him stick his tongue down her throat without so much as a – what?"

"Prongs, please. Let's not pretend that if it was you Evans was with, you wouldn't give a rat's arse about 'common and public decency'."

James colours but smirks all the same. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Sirius gives him a look and he grins. "Alright, maybe I do. Still hate him though," he mutters, and Sirius shoves him.

"Please," he says. "Can we talk about something else?"

James thinks for a moment. "Motorbikes?"

"That," Sirius says, pushing his friend along and catching up with him, hands in pockets, "sounds like an excellent idea."