A day of Lily Evans.
She's wicked, so wicked in the morning, drinking tea over her newspaper, (two sugars, no milk) a little crease of concentration between her lovely eyebrows, absently biting her thumbnail, yawning and putting her elbow in the butter as she reaches for the jam.
'Fuck!' Lily says prettily, and allows Kingsley Shacklebolt to blot it off with a napkin, laughing at something he rumbles in her ear.
When Kingsley gets a little jam on his chin, she wipes it away with a finger, and, giggling, puts the finger in her mouth. But when James gets a little jam on his chin, she gives him a long, disgusted look, and when he pauses, toast in his mouth, wondering why Evans is giving him evils, she points it out, acidly,
'You've got jam on your chin, Potter.' There goes the curling lip.
I want you I want you I want you, James thinks.
'Mmph,' James says, and swallows his toast, 'thanks, Evans.' He wipes the jam off with his finger and puts it in his mouth. Lily looks utterly grossed out and turns back to Kingsley, shaking her head.
Leaving James, once again, lost.
She's awesome, really awesome in the afternoon, walking from one classroom to the next, surrounded by her friends, her teeth caught on her lip, or shining in her gorgeous grin, hips moving inside her skirt, hair always in motion, bouncing or swinging or falling or spreading, softly, over her face as she reads, a curtain between her and the world, so that James can forget, with her sharp gaze for once veiled, that she detests him, and imagine instead how she'd look after dinner in their house, when their small ginger children are tucked up in bed.
She's cool, super cool in the evening, when James manages to catch sight of her, studying by the fire or in the library, often James's excuse to sit near or beside her…
'Potter, do you mind?' Her beautiful eyes are weary, and carry shadows under them that, to James, do nothing but make the emerald shine brighter, 'I really have to study right now. I don't have time to hit you, if that's what you want.'
James feels a mature response die on his tongue, taken aback at her lack of discretion and wit.
'Hit me? Why would I want you to hit me?' He says, like the teenage boy he is. And Lily sighs and rolls her eyes up to the ceiling briefly, before standing up. Her book falls to the floor.
'Here. Let me,' James says hurriedly, and dives.
'Leave it, Potter.' Lily snaps, and bends at the same time. Their heads crack together. 'Argh!' Lily straightens, pinching the bridge of her nose and screwing her eyes up.
'Shit, sorry Evans-'
'I said LEAVE IT, Potter!' She snatches her book from his helpless hands, slings her bag over her shoulder and disappears around a corner. James stands, hands still slightly outstretched, staring at the spot where her flaming hair disappeared.
I love you, Lily Evans.
Because she's amazing, infinitely amazing at night, her motionless marker on the Map, a single wall divides James from her, object of his dreams. Sometimes, James strains his ears, past Frank Longbottom's snoring, and thinks he can hear her gentle breaths, the intake and outtake of air through her delicate nostrils. James pictures her, stirring softly, her mind a mystery to that of an adolescent boy.
He knows that she wears an oversized mens t-shirt to bed, because he saw it once in the common room, when she'd forgotten a book, and it was blue, and had the Beatles on it. He knows the reality, and loves it, because everything about her is perfect. The shapeless t-shirt, however, does not feature in James's waking dreams. There, Evans laughs forever, possibly in some lacy underwear, more often in nothing at all.
He wonders, at night, when Sirius is asleep and won't laugh at his expressions, he wonders how far the freckles extend down her body, and whether anyone apart from Evans knows. Apart from her dorm-mates of course, and that sets James off on another train of thought…
Because he's just a teenage boy.