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Chapter Text

LILY

“Go back to your compartments, there’s another hour till the train stops!” Remus Lupin calls out to the gaggle of first years standing in the middle of the aisleway clutching their Muggle clothing in their arms.

Next to Remus, Lily Evans suppresses a smile as she watches one of the girls’ shoulders sag, her hopeful expression drooping as she turns to trudge away.

She remembers, quite vividly, the train ride at the end of her first year; the anticipation of going home and seeing her parents and sister after nearly half a year; the wild, outlandish, slightly exaggerated stories she couldn’t wait to share with them.

As the firsties clear out of the aisle, she turns to her patrol-mate, Remus, another sixth-year Gryffindor and a good friend of Lily’s.

They’ve been patrolling the train for the past half hour now, dealing with overeager kids who think it wise to sprint full speed between compartments and newly of-age students using magic to complete the simplest tasks (hint: using wingardium leviosa to levitate a squirming Chocolate Frog into your friend’s mouth only ends in a messy, sticky disaster). Oh, the woes of being a prefect.

“Ready to go back?” she prompts, leaning one elbow on the wall, glancing sideways at Remus.

He nods, smiling slightly. “Am I ever.”

They maneuver their way through the train, dodging the Trolley Lady a surprising number of times — it’s almost like she’s following them around? — and finally reach the compartment where their friends sit, Lily pulling open the door and gesturing for Remus to enter before following.

“Welcome back, dear Prefects,” Sirius says grandiosely, spreading his hands and inclining his head in a show of mock respect. “Stopped by to say hullo to your ordinary friends, did you?”

Remus rolls his eyes and pointedly takes a seat next to Dorcas and Peter, opposite Sirius. Lily just ignores him, instead dropping into the spot by Mary.

“Hey, you,” Mary says, nudging Lily with her foot.

“Hey, yourself,” Lily echoes, nudging her back. “Bought you a pumpkin pasty.”

She hands Mary the sweet and pockets the sickles she receives in return.

“What are your plans for the summer, boys?” Dor asks, leaning back in her seat and bracing her elbows on the headrest. “My uncle’s taking Mother and I to Uganda to visit Auntie’s hometown.”

They all ooh and aah appropriately, Lily privately wishing that her uncle would take her abroad; but she’s never even left the UK and she hasn’t seen any of her uncles in years, so it’s about as likely to happen as Petunia falling in love with Dumbledore. No chance in hell, basically.

“Granny wants me to stay with her until August,” Peter says, grimacing. “She’s got a place up in Holyhead, I think. Haven’t been there since I was eight or so.”

“Isn’t your gran a Muggle, Pete?” Sirius asks. “What’s a Muggle doing in Holyhead?”

Lily bursts out laughing, sharing an amused glance with Remus.

“Holyhead isn’t a wizarding settlement, Black,” she says wryly, “it’s a town in Wales, actually. Muggles go there all the time.”

Not her family, of course. Never her family. But Mum had mentioned, offhand, that she had some cousins who lived Holyhead and spent a few weeks up in Wales when she was younger. She hadn’t been in decades; the Evans family never had enough to spare even for a train fare and few days of hotel booking.

“Mam’s family is from Wales, near Holyhead,” Remus adds. “Thought you knew that already, Padfoot.”

Sirius has the decency to look abashed. “Right, of course. Muggles in Holyhead. Right.”

“Purebloods,” Mary mutters under her breath, and Lily hides her smirk by ducking her head.

“Anyway,” Remus says, still sounding amused, “I don’t have any plans. Probably just hanging around these two.” He jerks his thumb to point at James and Sirius, the former who grins lazily and flicks his finger at Sirius’ shoulder, his hazel eyes glinting from under his glasses as he smiles charmingly.

“What about you, Sirius? Your summers must be awful! Aren’t your parents horrid?” Dorcas asks, rather tactlessly in Lily’s opinion.

Sirius’ gaze clouds over for a moment before it’s gone — so quickly that Lily wonders if she imagined it.

“I’m not living at the old family house anymore, so I was thinking about fixing up a Muggle motorbike,” he says casually.

Lily perks up immediately, forgetting about her momentary confusion at his living situation. “A motorbike? We still have Da’s 60s’ Bonnie,” there’s a familiar twinge of grief in her heart that she studiously ignores, “so I know how to ride one if you’re looking for tips.”

Sirius’ eyes light up. “Really? Blimey, Jacks, you’re not the stuck-up goody-two-shoes I thought you were!”

Lily scoffs, “You’re only saying that because of the bike.”

“Obviously,” comments Sirius, grinning.

“Why am I not surprised that you want to ride a motorcycle?” Mary sighs. “Really, it’s a shame I didn’t predict it — of course you’d be the type to do that.”

Sirius winks roguishly. “Goes with my rebellious persona, doesn’t it?”

“The only persona it goes with is of you being an absolute dumbass,” James comments mildly, his shoulders slumped, relaxing the white fabric of his school shirt. “Can’t wait for Mum to chew you out for exploding the garage when you inevitably try to bewitch the bike and try to make it go underwater or some other dumb shit.”

Lily’s forehead puckers. So, Sirius is living with the Potters? Now that she thinks about it, it does make sense for him to stay with James if he ran away from home like the rumours said, so why is she surprised...

James’ comment doesn’t go unnoted by Mary and Dorcas, who exchange pointed glances.

“And you, Potter? Any summer plans?” Mary interjects, glancing quickly at Lily before turning back to James.

Lily frowns slightly. Her friends have been doing that more often lately — say something to James and then look at her pointedly — and she has no idea why.

She suspects that they’re trying to tell her something that she should already know, but she’s unsure about what they are implying. If it were last year, she would assume that it was just Mary and Dor being hellbent on proving that James fancied her (unfortunately, she got confirmation of their suspicions in the worst possible way after their Defense OWL), but it’s been over a year since the incident, and he’s shown no signs of fancying her anymore.

“Just the usual,” James says, “but I’m planning on practicing apparition. It’s awful, not having my license.”

Lily snaps her fingers, eager to have an easy way out of the confusion going on inside her mind. “That’s right! You were the only Gryffindor not to pass your apparition test!”

“No need to rub it in,” he says glumly, hand jumping up to muss his already wild ink-black hair. “I’m pants at apparition, we all know.”

She smirks. “The great James Potter, admitting that he isn’t all-talented. Is this my lucky day?”

“Well, at least we both agree I’m talented at everything else,” he shoots back cheekily. When she opens her mouth to disagree, he holds up a hand. “Your words, not mine!”

Lily glares at him, a flush appearing across her cheeks. “You’re insufferable.”

He grins before his smile drops and he sighs. “As talented as I may be, I’m still useless at apparition. I’m definitely going to fail the test at the end of summer.”

He looks so downtrodden and — dare she say it — endearing that, before she can think it through, her mouth opens and she blurts out, “I can teach you over the summer, if you want.”

When everyone stares at her like she grew two heads out of nowhere, she adds defensively, “What? I’m a kind person!”

“Debatable,” Mary stage-whispers, so Lily elbows her in the side.

James is still staring at her like she’s out of her mind.

“If you don’t want me to, that’s fine,” she says quickly, embarrassment roiling in her gut as her cheeks flame.

“No, of course I do!” James says hastily, tripping over his words, “Um, that would be great. Thank you.”

She relaxes, her shoulders slumping downward. “Oh, good.” Dor is gaping and Mary is smirking, so she quickly backtracks. “I mean — I don’t mind helping, you know, so you don’t fail your test, not because — not that I — erm, anyway. Owl me what time works for you.”

Merlin, have they always been this awkward around each other?

She studiously avoids everyone’s inquisitive stares, instead choosing to bore a hole into her lap with her flushed gaze.

“Okay,” James says quickly, “I’ll owl you. Okay.”

There’s a long silence, the quiet hanging in the air like a thick, smothering blanket.

Just as it’s beginning to get unbearable, Sirius breaks it with a cheerful, “So, who’s up for a game of Irish Jacks? Maybe this time one of us will beat Lily bloody Evans!”

And just as abruptly as it ended, the chatting and joking is back full force, everyone scrambling to grab the cards Peter is dealing before someone else can — or worse; before they start screaming their contents to everyone.

Irish Jacks is an absurdly involved game, taught to all of them back in second year by sixth years Fabian and Gideon Prewett, and popularized by the Marauders at post-Quidditch match parties over the years.

Lily may not be a Quidditch junkie, but let it be known that she is just as competitive as any Quidditch player — competitive to the point where she’s been dubbed Queen of Jacks because of her countless wins, more than any other Gryffindor ever.

Mary’s cards whisper something that Lily strains to hear — was that a seven that it said, or a one? — but it’s drowned out by Dorcas’, whose cards scream “NINEFOURTHREESIX!” when she fails to pick them up in time.

Dor places her cards face up on top of the table Sirius conjured, groaning as she picks up another set of cards. Lily claps her on the back, smiling good-naturedly, though she’s secretly plotting how to utilize her newfound knowledge against her friend. Would it be wiser to reveal her hand earlier, or bluff and risk being caught...?

Remus plays first, placing a set of nines on the table to match the top card of Dor’s pile, and Lily bites her lip, narrowing her eyes as James plays a nine-eight-seven, Sirius another seven, and then when Peter takes a moment too long, the top cards turn into ashes.

By the time it’s her turn, she has the perfect play idea; it’ll take a few rounds to complete, but she’s sure she can win. After all, they don’t call her Jacks for nothing.

“Blimey, Jacks!” Peter says, amazed, when three rounds later she’s the only one with a perfect record of no missed cards and several sets. “How d’you manage it?”

She allows herself a smug smirk as she shuffles the cards in her hand. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“We would, actually,” James pipes up, chuckling as he meets her gaze (was his laugh always so... nice?). “I’d pay good money to learn your trade secrets.”

She hums, faux-thoughtfully, before him a offering sardonic smile. “It’s not something that can be learned, Potter, really,” she says haughtily. “You have to be born with the gift.”

“Born with the gift of... what, being talented at Irish Jacks?” he asks, amused.

She nods self-importantly. “Precisely.”

James shakes his head, bemused. “Whatever you say, Evans.”

His gaze is too warm for her to meet headlong, so instead, she looks down at her cards, smiling. If she plays her cards cleverly, the next round could solidify her win — or, alternatively, it could bring her down to square one, behind all her friends, breaking her long streak of wins dating back to fourth year.

She plucks a four from the pile and strokes the glossy edges of the card.

Good thing she likes taking risks, then.

JAMES

James,

My summer’s been good so far, thanks for asking! How about you?
For the apparition lessons, I’ll Floo over from Dor’s next Thursday at 3 if that’s alright. I have to be home by 5:30 for my sister’s wedding prep, but until then I’m all yours.

See you soon,
L.

James knows he’s being pathetic. Sirius knows he’s being pathetic. Hell, even Mum and Dad probably know that he’s being pathetic, what with him staring at the letter nonstop for the past week, tracing the flourishing inked letters with his eyes over and over and over again. By now he’s probably memorized the way Lily dots her is and embellishes her fs.

I’m all yours.

Damn Evans for screwing with his mind all the time. How the hell is he supposed to interpret that line without going mental? Is there a chance that she may...?

Nope, he’s not even going to think it. There’s no use in getting his hopes up unless he wants to set himself up for disappointment.

Besides, he’s supposed to be over her by now. That’s what he’s told everyone, although he’s certain that none of his mates believe him.

With an aggravated sigh, James flings himself onto the couch in the sitting room, forcing his eyes closed in order not to stare at the fireplace for too long.

It’s five minutes till three, and she’s not here yet.

“Are you still moping around down there?” Sirius yells from upstairs, poking his face from above the mahogany wooden banister. “For the last time, Jacks isn’t going to stand you up on your date.”

“It’s not a date,” James grumbles, eyes still closed.

He wishes it were a date, but maybe it’s for the best that it’s not. After all, he’s losing his mind just with spending time one-on-one with Evans — something they’ve never really done before save for some walks between Arithmancy and Charms — how much worse would it be if it were an actual date?

The fireplace roars, large bright green flames springing up out of it, and Lily stumbles out of it, patting her clothes down and flicking her long, gorgeous red hair behind her shoulder.

He’s up on his feet before she can even blink, striding toward her to — to do what?

James hovers awkwardly a few metres away from her. Does he offer to take her cardigan, or her purse? Are they close enough that he can hug her or put an arm around her shoulders?

He’s saved from deciding by Sirius (who tends to have exceptional timing) barging down the stairs and greeting her with a quite cheerful ‘HEY, JACKS!’.

“Hey, Potter,” she says absently, taking in her surroundings with wide eyes, before turning to Sirius. “Black? What are you—?” she stops abruptly, and James has a feeling that she’s recalling the comment he made on the Hogwarts Express two weeks ago about Sirius living with his family. “Nice to see you, Sirius,” she backtracks, smiling and waving at him. “How are you doing?”

James ignores the twinge of jealousy in his chest at her warm hello to Sirius compared to the bored, almost disinterested way she greeted him.

“Can I take your cardigan?” he says instead. She nods, and he wills his cheeks not to flush when his fingers brush her shoulders while he helps her out of it.

She and Sirius are now chatting — why does she always seem so much more comfortable around Sirius than him? — about motorbikes and Lily’s dad’s Triumph Bonneville, also affectionately known as a ‘Bonnie’.

James has the sudden urge to announce that he, too, loves motorbikes, but wisely suppresses it before his mouth starts talking without his brain’s permission. It wouldn’t do to make a fool of himself in front of Evans before the lesson has even started.

There’s a lull in the conversation, in which he grasps for something to say, but before he can decide on something that makes him sound intelligent yet also gracious and polite and charming and fanciable and suave —

“You come here often?” Lily says to him, looking rather awkward.

He blinks, suddenly both amused — really? You come here often? While she stands in the sitting room of his house? — and relieved, because at least he’s not the only one who doesn’t know what to say around her.

“Evans, this is literally my house,” he says wryly, unable to stop himself from smirking.

She flushes immediately, a nervous hand running through her long hair. “Right, that was stupid. Sorry, I—” she makes an odd gesture with her hands, “—I keep saying stupid things around you and I don’t know why.”

He laughs, relieved. “That makes two of us.”

She smiles at him for the first time since she stepped out of his fireplace, and he beams down at her. Maybe this won’t be as awkward as he thought it would.

Sometime during their exchange, Sirius has slipped away, likely sensing that they’re not going to just stand there awkwardly for the next hour if he’s not around to help the conversation along. James makes a mental note to thank his best mate for being a great sport and put up with his not-pining-for-Evans mood all day, every day.

“Do you want something to eat?” James asks suddenly, remembering the manners his mother drilled into him. “Feel free to take your pick of our selections.” He waves his hand in the general direction of the kitchen, offering her what he hopes is a charming smile.

“Oh!” Lily says, looking surprised at his offer. “Thanks, but it’s alright. Maybe later?”

He nods, though he knows maybe later means no, and hopes that she refused his offer because she genuinely wasn’t hungry, not because she thinks he’ll poison her food.

“So where are we going to practice?” she asks, looking around while he leads her through the halls. “Surely not in here. It’d be awful to damage the furniture, it’s all so gorgeous.”

He chuckles. “Definitely not in here. Mum would kill me if I broke her precious warli vases.”

Lily pauses, glancing at him with interest. “What’s a warli?”

James can’t help but straighten up under the attentive gaze of her curious (and beautiful, of course) eyes. “You see those terracotta pots on the glass table? The ones with the white paint on them?” When she nods, he goes on, “Mum is from Maharashtra, India, and warli is a Muggle style of art from there that she adores. Those pots are painted in that style.”

“They’re gorgeous,” she gushes, eyeing the pots with interest. “What do you put in them?”

“These ones are just for decoration,” he assures her, “Well, other than the one that holds our Floo powder back in the sitting room, but the rest aren’t actually for storage purposes. They just sit there and look pretty.”

“Sounds familiar,” Lily teases, sneaking a glance at him.

“Evans, did you call me pretty?” James asks, grinning delightedly.

“No!” she amends quickly, blushing. “I just meant — you know, you just sit there, head empty, just a pretty face — not that you have a pretty face, it’s just an expression—”

Though he’s internally cheering that she called him pretty, whether it was intentional or not, he decides to put her misery to an end by interrupting her.

“Should have known it was too good to be true,” he says, sighing dramatically, before letting his palm rest on her elbow to pull her along with him. “Anyway, I’m glad you like our collection of obscure décors. My parents have a thing for hoarding pretty objects from around the world, Muggle and wizarding alike, so our home doesn’t look like your typical posh pureblood manor with all their goblin-made jewels and pretty ornaments.”

“It does to me,” Lily remarks, smirking. “Only a posh pureblood family would have a real crystal chandelier from — what does this tag say, the handwriting is so hard to read — right, bloody Belgium. The closest I’ve gotten to Belgium are the Belgian waffles the diner a block away from my house makes.”

James laughs loudly. Somehow, all the awkwardness from earlier has dissipated, leaving only the friendly banter that is his favourite part of being around Lily.

“Fair enough,” he allows, stopping in front of the door leading to the estate’s backyard. “Are orchards a pureblood thing, too? Because we’re practicing in the orchard today.”

Lily shakes her head fondly (he hopes it’s fond, although it’s equally likely that she’s exasperated with him). “I think it’s more of a rich people thing. Mary’s muggleborn, but the Macdonalds have a huge garden. It’s practically an orchard.”

He gestures for Lily to go through the door first — because chivalry — and pauses to watch her face light up with awe as she drinks in the orchard.

The Sheffield Manor Orchard has always been his family’s pride and joy, along with their cluttered collection of objects from around the globe. Mum — and their house-elf Dipsie, though only before she grew too old to work in the sun; now she takes strolls in the shade because James’ parents refuse to let her toil in the heat — spent hours and hours lovingly tending to the plants, from the orange and pink poppy-geranium crossbreeds to the tall, willowy fletus populus. In fact, the Potters’ gardens are the reason why James is the only of his friends to have an O in Herbology. After all, one doesn’t spend years learning plants inside-out with no payoff.

“So this is why you’re so good at Herbology,” Lily breathes, still staring at the orchard.

James blinks. For a moment, he’s surprised that she even noticed; but then he realizes that of course she noticed. After all, she’s Lily Evans, the same girl who figured out Remus was a werewolf in fifth year, she same girl who picked up that Sirius doesn’t like being referred to by his last name, the same girl who notices everything about everyone.

She’s dragging her gaze over the different sections of the gardens, taking a step forward, and then another, before she’s jogging over to kneel beside a patch of particularly gorgeous lilac-coloured Agapanthuses.

And yet, though the flowers are pretty, James can’t bring himself to look away from her; the way she’s laughing delightedly, throwing her head back, auburn hair tumbling over her shoulder; the green in her eyes brought out by the green of the grass under her knees and the trees looming over them; the way she lifts a hand like she’s reflexively reaching out to touch the flowers of the Agapanthus before bringing it back down, cheeks pinkening slightly as she remembers that it’s a foreign plant in a foreign place.

If Remus were here, he would ask whatever happened to being over her? James wouldn’t respond, and Remus wouldn’t expect a response, because they both knew he had never believed the lie in the first place.

Lily looks up at him, beaming, and he can’t help but beam back at her.

“I planted these,” he says, hoping that it doesn’t sound like he’s trying to show off for her (even if it’s true, because of course he’s trying to show off for her).

Did you know they’re lilies? Fourth year me definitely did, he wants to add, but bites his tongue.

“Wow,” she says, eyes widening, “That’s amazing, James!”

He flushes under her bright smile, though his insides are currently doing a crazed, gleeful jig. “Most of it’s Mum’s work, really — she treasures the orchard with her whole heart. Sometimes I think she loves it more than me.”

Lily’s gaze softens. “You talk about your mum a lot. You must really love her.”

He laughs nervously. “I’m a mummy’s boy through and through.”

For some reason, this makes her blush; why, he’s not sure, but he quickly offers her his hand to help pull her up. He doesn’t like making her uncomfortable.

“Where are your parents now?” Lily asks curiously, looking around as if she expects them to spring from behind the trees and cry Surprise!

“Mum is at the Ministry arguing against a bill they proposed last week. Did you see it in the Prophet?”

Her expression darkens as she nods, recalling the front-page news from last Saturday; Abraxas Malfoy was hellbent on forcing through another anti-muggleborn law.

He quickly changes the subject, not wanting to put a damper on the mood. “Dad’s working, even though he’s retired. There’s a few things that need to be resolved, or something like that.”

Dad was actually negotiating the terms of the long-term contract he had written up when he sold Sleakeazy all those years ago, but James wasn’t going to tell her that. If she didn’t know who the inventor of Sleakeazy was yet, he didn’t want to be the one to tell her and have her inevitably tease him about his hair.

“Maybe I’ll see them next time. I’ll be sure to ask them all about your embarrassing childhood stories,” Lily says playfully, walking backwards through the grass until she brought them to a reasonably-sized clearing large enough for them to practice apparition. The sun was glinting off her cheeks, turning her hair gold and her eyes turquoise, capturing the breath from his tongue.

He tries to say something, but his voice is lodged firmly in his throat, refusing to come out. And he can’t even blame it; how could he, when he would gladly give up his plans to stand there and stare at Lily for the rest of the day, drinking in the way the sun speckles different patches of her skin?

“No thanks,” he manages eventually, his words probably sounding more like a frog croaking than a teenage boy speaking. “You and Mum teaming up against me? Sounds like my worst nightmare come true.”

“Glad to know that I appear in your dreams,” Lily jokes, taking a few strides back, still facing him.

He almost says you don’t know the half of it but, as seems to be the theme today, stops himself just in time.

Friends. They’re friends, he can say for certain — after all this time spent together, they’ve got to be considered friends, right? — and he doesn’t want to ruin that.

Instead, he laughs obligingly and follows her lead in taking several steps backward.

Above them, a Camena magpie sings a long string of soothing notes — James recognizes it as the Maharashtrian lullaby Mum was humming last night as she tended to the nocturnal flitterbloom bushes, the one he was raised on and put to sleep to — and Lily sways on the spot, closing her eyes and smiling with a childlike enjoyment of the tune that makes James’ heart thump quite wildly in his chest. It doesn’t help that she’s wearing a formfitting tee and red-brown suede shorts that highlight her (perfect) figure while she dances adorably. It seems like today she’s determined to lead him to the brink of insanity.

“So, apparition,” James says finally, feeling oddly like he’s interrupting a private moment as he watches her stand there, tilting her head upward, basking in the sun as she swings back and forth to the rhythm of the lullaby.

Lily opens her eyes, surprised, like she hadn’t expected him to be there.

“Right! Yeah, of course,” she says quickly, smiling embarrassedly. As if she has anything to feel embarrassed about; he was the one standing there watching her dance like a creep.

Lily reminds him of all the main points of apparition, demonstrating the turn-of-the-heel (he can’t help but wish she were spinning into his arms) and using her wand to Transfigure a leaf into a green hoop for him to attempt to apparate into.

“Do you remember the three Ds?”

James stares at her blankly, and she laughs.

“Right, I thought so. The three Ds are destination, determination, and deliberation. You need to be determined and deliberate in your intentions to apparate into your destination, which is the hoop. Here, watch me.”

She grips her wand firmly with a hand and turns on the spot, her shorts flaring around her pale legs as she twists. Within the blink of an eye, she’s standing in the green hoop, smiling lopsidedly at him.

“You alright?” he asks, alarmed, as Lily doubles over, clutching her stomach.

“Yeah, just — queasy,” she wheezes, grimacing slightly. “Why don’t you give it a go while I sit down?”

James closes his eyes and grips his wand like Lily did — her long, lithe fingers closed around the willow wood, arm outstretched, the picture of focus — and turns on the spot, hoping to land in the green hoop...

Alas, when he cracks opens his eyes, his feet remain firmly on the ground, the harsh brightness of the sun blinding him.

Lily clicks her tongue, looking significantly healthier than before. “It’s alright, I didn’t expect you to get it on the first try.” When she sees his dejected expression, she chides, “What? You thought that after months of failed attempts you would suddenly be an expert?”

“Well... yes?” James says, scratching the back of his neck. “This time you’re teaching me, so I figured I’d get it much quicker...”

She blushes again, turning her face quickly before he can see much — but he grins to himself, pleased that he can make her blush by complimenting her.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I’m afraid I’m not a miracle worker,” Lily says dryly. “Try again, remember to focus this time.”

So he tries; again and again and again, failing over and over and over until he eventually flings himself onto the soft grass, burying his face in his hands.

“I’m shit at apparition,” he grouses, muffling the words into his palms. “I’ll probably never get it, and then I’ll be the only wizard in all of Britain to not be licensed to apparate. God, I’ll be the laughingstock of — of everyone, really!”

He can hear Lily snicker from several metres away. “Don’t be so negative, Potter. I know you can’t help being so melodramatic all the time but spare me my sanity by not going mental during the two hours I’m with you.”

“I’m not ‘melodramatic,’” James mumbles, peeking through the cracks in between his fingers to look at her.

“Sure, you aren’t,” Lily says, smirking down at him. She offers him a hand to help him up (he tries not to shiver at the contact, but she always makes him feel like a blushing schoolgirl with a crush every time she comes near him) and he pulls himself to an upright position, dropping her hand immediately.

“Thanks for trying to help, even if I’m a lost cause,” James says sadly.

“Oh, don’t be like that, I’m not giving up on you,” Lily chides, looking rather surprised at the words leaving her mouth. “I’ll come over on Monday and we can try again, how about that?”

“Really?” he asks incredulously. And he has every right to be doubtful, really; Lily Evans willingly spending one-on-one time with him not just once but twice? Sure, they’re friendly, but not like this.

“Why does everyone think I’m a heartless monster who would refuse to help a friend?” Lily asks, exasperated.

“No one thinks you’re a heartless monster, but you have to admit you don’t generally volunteer to spend time around me,” James says slowly, choosing his words carefully.

She pauses, bashful. “We-ell. I suppose that may sort of — not entirely, mind you, just a little bit — be partially truthful.”  

“You can just say it’s true, Lily,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’m not offended.”

“No, no,” Lily says quickly, “it’s not really true, though.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Yes!” she insists, “Well, no, because it’s not true. I don’t avoid you on purpose or anything like that, I sometimes just... don’t know what to say to you.”

He pauses, considering her words carefully. Now that she mentions it, he realizes that, well, many of the times he doesn’t know what to say around her either. They’ve spent the last year in an odd sort of limbo; like they’re two puppets on a string doing what they’re scripted to but wishing they could escape the endless cycle of he said, she said.

Fifth year may have been worse in other ways, but what it lacked in friendship it had in chemistry. Because, goddamn, James and Lily might not have had the best relationship (and that’s an understatement, really, because who is he kidding? She did not like him back then), but when they did get along, no one in the room could deny that they just clicked. Clicked, as in they would accidentally finish each other’s sentences and echo the other person’s ideas, and their banter would fly back and forth at a speed no one else could understand, let alone partake in.

Sixth year, though, was all stilted conversations and awkward shuffling so they didn’t accidentally brush elbows in the hallways; it was James spending less time with the girls so as not to end up alone with Lily and Lily not coming to Quidditch practices anymore so she didn’t have to see James.

The latter half of sixth year was much better, though, due to Professor McGonagall pairing them up for a Transfiguration assignment that forced them to work in close quarters, but they never addressed the awkwardness; instead, they went back to teasing remarks and friendly banter, pretending as if the end of fifth year never happened.

“Right,” James says lamely, realising that Lily is looking at him apprehensively, expecting him to give an answer. “I don’t blame you, it’s the same for me.”

She visibly relaxes at his answer, and he lets himself feel momentarily relieved that he said the right thing to not ruin the moment.

They walk inside, keeping up a polite conversation — she asks about a Korean landscape mural, he asks about the health of her mates — and even though there’s a slightly unsettled feeling coiling in his gut, James pushes it to the back of his mind as Lily grabs her purse and prepares to step into his fireplace.

“I’ll see you on Monday, then? Same place?” he asks hopefully.

She pauses after stepping into the fireplace to flash him a bright smile. “Why don’t we switch up the location? Maybe that’ll help you with apparition. I’ll owl you the name of a place I think you’d like.”

“Sounds great,” he responds brightly, already internally cheering at the prospect of spending more time with Lily Evans.

After she leaves, he sits on the couch for a long time, staring at the soot coating the bricks of the fireplace.

For a moment, he entertains the notion that spending all that time alone with her was what rekindled the flickering embers of his feelings for her. But, as he sits alone gazing at the ash-coated hearth, he’s forced to admit the truth to himself — that he was never over her in the first place.

Chapter Text

JAMES

“When are the lads coming?”

James doesn’t even spare Sirius a glance. It’s the fifth time he’s heard the same question today, and his answer hasn’t changed since the first.

“Prongs.”

He huffs, exasperated, and closes his Quidditch Weekly magazine, glaring up at Sirius.

“What.”

“I said, when are th—”

“I already told you, they’re coming tomorrow!”

“Why not today?”

James (rather regretfully) sets his magazine on his bedside stand and uncrosses his legs, moving to stand, but Sirius sticks out a hand, blocking his path.

“Padfoot.”

“Prongs,” Sirius echoes, “Why not today? Your parents aren’t here, and both of us are free—”

“I’m not free,” James says automatically before he can think better of it, and cringes.

Sirius raises his eyebrows, cocking his head to study James’ guilty expression.

“What do you mean — oh. You’ve got another one of those dates with Jacks, don’t you?”

“Not a date,” James says sharply, and sinks back onto his blue bedsheets.

He wishes it were, though.

It’s been two weeks since their first meeting, and each of the following lessons only surpassed the first. James had been a fool to think he could get over Lily Evans — especially now, after he’s become well-acquainted with spending time alone with her.

“Is that so,” Sirius says, amused. He makes himself comfortable on James’ comforter, leaning forward with a glint in his eye. “Well, why the hell not?”

James blinks, taken aback. “Erm. What?”

“You like her,” Sirius says, rather unnecessarily.

James rolls his eyes. “An astounding observation. Someone’s got eyes.”

“And,” Sirius continues, ignoring James, “she seems to like you, too.”

“As friends,” James corrects. “Only friends.”

He doesn’t let himself hope for anything beyond just friends; just friends is enough. Hell, friends is more than enough. What if he asks her out and she refuses, and they’re back to the early sixth-year impasse, where it’s all he can do to stop himself from gazing at her from the other side of the room, knowing she won’t return his longing looks?

No, he won’t risk it.

“Are you so sure about that?” challenges Sirius. “Look, Evans and I haven’t always gotten along” — at this, James scoffs; if she disliked him in fifth year, she hated Sirius, and the feelings were rather mutual — “but even I can tell that you make each other happy.”

James remains dubious, though a tiny candle of hope flickers inside of him.

“That’s not — do you really think so?”

“She blushes around you quite a bit, too,” Sirius adds.

“Because I keep making her uncomfortable!” James exclaims, but memories were flashing into his mind; the many instances when her cheeks pinkened when he said something vaguely flirty, when she tried to cover it with a scowl or a smile...

“I don’t think so, mate. She might honestly fancy you back,” Sirius says solemnly.

The hope is back, flaming up higher and higher in his chest, his apprehension pushed aside (... momentarily) in favour of indulging his more-probable-than-previously-thought fancies.

“Oh,” James breathes, eyes widening, a large grin on his face. “Imagine if she says yes, Sirius! We’ll go on dates, and I’ll get my apparition license cause she’s a bloody brilliant teacher, and then we can spend all summer together and next year will be the best Hogwarts year ever—”

Sirius groans. “Merlin, this is not what I wanted to achieve by getting your hopes up, Prongs, calm down.”

But his mind is already racing at top speed, imagining a future where he can hold Lily’s hand and whisper into her hair and witness her smile up close — close enough to press a kiss to.

It’s decided, then; he’ll ask her out today when he sees her at their next lesson. Today’s lesson is at some cabin in a Dorset woodland, the hope being that the fresh air and nature will magically cure his inability to apparate. Maybe he should reply to her owl, saying that he can’t wait to see her; or is that too forward? No, he should probably just wait —

“Right, this needs to stop,” Sirius says, scowling, as he stands up and offers James a hand. Sheepishly, but still grinning widely, James takes it. “You’re worse than you were in fifth year.”

James opens his mouth to argue — sure, he’s a little insufferable now, but that’s nothing compared to fifth-year pining — but Sirius cuts him off with another glower.

“How is the motorbike fixing going?” James says instead, taking pity on Sirius. (This time.)

Sirius takes the olive branch graciously, accepting the change of topic.

“Mostly good, but I think the rear fender is missing, and I don’t know where to get the screws I need to fix the throttle.”

“Right,” James says slowly, “have you tried a Muggle store? Maybe in London? You lived there for quite a while, maybe you know a place?”

He knows it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as the words have left his mouth, but, as much as he wishes he could swallow them back up, Sirius has already heard, his expression drooping, his eyes darkening with gloom. He’s probably thinking of the last time he was in London, what happened then...

“Or — any other Muggle city,” he adds hastily.

“Ask Evans for me?” Sirius says gruffly, turning away. “Reckon if I just showed up in London” his voice stutters there, but he pushes on valiantly, “I wouldn’t know where to go or who to ask.”

James lets the conversation drop, though he’s barely holding back from forcing Sirius to talk about it. Bottling up his emotions isn’t healthy, and James worries that someday it’ll manifest in the worst possible manner. He still remembers, vividly, the Snape and Whomping Willow incident, just after Sirius had been blasted off the Black family tree...

“Sure, I’ll ask her, but — before or after I ask her on a date?”

Sirius fixes him with a bone-chilling glare. “I’m half-tempted to throw you out the window right now.”

James smiles back, as innocently as he can while simultaneously tempering a satisfied smile. He’s certain Sirius has already forgotten all about his previous worries. “Like that could get rid of me. I’d just bounce right back up in time for my not-date with Evans!”

“Leave,” orders Sirius, flinging an arm out to point dramatically to the door.

“I’m never going to leave you,” James says sweetly. “I promise.”

“Must you always be so insufferable?” grumbles Sirius, walking out of James’ bedroom without a backward glance.

James folds his hands on his lap and sits back down, picking up the abandoned Quidditch Weekly magazine from earlier.

“Mission accomplished,” he says smugly.

* * * * *

LILY

She shouldn’t be putting this much effort into her hair.

Who cares, really? It’s summer, it’s bloody hot outside, and she has every right to throw her curls up into a messy bun, even if it makes her pimples hyper-visible and her chin too flat. There’s no reason she should be meticulously braiding her hair into a pretty crown, especially because it’s just inefficient.

And yet, she continues braiding.

With a huff, Lily swipes at the green bush next to her feet that seems to be taunting her in a voice eerily like Mary’s — oho, Lily’s dressing up for a bo-oyyyy! — and scowls when the branch scrapes painfully against her palm.

She finishes her crown-braid and examines it in the reflection of the lake, fluffing up the strands of hair that lie against her shoulders. It’s pretty. Good.

She’s not dressing up for a boy (she refuses to think his name, but accidentally does in the process of valiantly not thinking about him... oh, bother, she already has a headache). She’s dressing up for herself, and maybe she just wants to look pretty today, completely unrelated to her tutee who should be here any moment now —

The door to the cabin was left open, and she can see the bright, roaring green from the fireplace even from her spot several metres away next to Gladstone Lake.

“James,” she says, flushed, when James Potter ducks out of the door and waves at her, returning her smile.

“Lily!” he greets cheerfully.

In fact, he seems to be in a suspiciously good mood, with his hands tucked into his pockets, a whistled tune on his lips, and a lazy uptick to his gait.

“Someone’s chipper,” Lily says vaguely, wondering why he’s so upbeat — not that it matters. But it could affect his apparition performance. That’s why she’s curious, of course.

If it’s possible, James’ smile only widens. “Had a nice morning, is all.”

Lily raises an eyebrow. “Alright. Have you had any improvement when you practiced at home?”

His smile doesn’t quite fall, but it does dim a little. “Not at all.”

She tsks sympathetically, though she’s unsurprised. “Back to the basics then?”

James frowns at her, anticipating what she’s about to say before she can even open her mouth. “I know the three Ds by now, I have them memorized and I could recite them in my sleep! You don’t need to go over them again.”

Lily ignores him. “The three Ds are destination, determination, and deliberation.” He groans. “Talk me through your process so I can help you figure out which of these you’re having trouble with.”

James sighs loudly; much louder than needed, loud enough to make her slightly annoyed; she’s the one spending time teaching his sorry arse how to apparate, the least he can do is be patient with her.

But before she can call him out on it, he’s answering her in a dreary, sulky voice.

“When I apparate,” he starts flatly, “I look at where I want to go. I think about that place. Then I turn. And it doesn’t work.”

Well.

She’s trying to be a good instructor here, and that means not being too harsh with him...

But really, the problem is in all three Ds. How does she say that without sounding like a jerk? He already knows he’s pants at apparition. That’s why she’s here, after all. But somehow, she doesn’t think he’ll be so happy about hearing that she thinks he’s really, really awful, and she doesn’t know how to help him.

Lily once wanted to teach, back when she was seven and Petunia had flounced home from school announcing that her teacher asked her to teach the entire class how to do maths because she was the only student who had understood it perfectly. Lily remembers feeling slightly jealous — because her teachers had never asked her to teach the class before — but mostly in awe of her big sister, wishing that she, Lily, could be as confident and smart as Petunia.

She’d forgotten that passing fancy quite soon, because two weeks later the friendliest girl in class announced that her auntie was an actress, and that became Lily’s new dream.

But the urge resurfaced in fourth year, when they had their best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher of yet; Iabedha de Alwis.

Professor de Alwis was a young woman in her mid- to late-twenties, with dark brown skin and black curls that were always plaited into a thick, tight braid down her back. She had a softness about her, in the way she moved gracefully, like she was gliding above the floor; how she would change the inflections of her voice to be stern or gentle depending on who she was speaking to; when she would write notes in the margins of Lily’s essays, ranging from compliments about Lily's writing to suggestions on texts that expanded on controversial subjects. But she also had a gritty, I’ve-seen-some-shit attitude, something missing in all of Lily’s previous Defense teachers, that the students later found out was because Professor de Alwis had spent four years abroad, learning magic styles from countries all around the world, and had even joined the Sri Lankan equivalent of Auror training.

Iabedha de Alwis had been Lily’s hero. And it certainly helped that she was young and lively and quite pretty and that all the boys in their year, including the dreamy Robert Wayling, who Lily rather fancied, had a crush on her. Lily had even overheard Sirius brooding Black telling James that the Defense Professor was impressively fit.

But she’s seventeen now, Professor de Alwis is long gone — nothing more than a brief memory of sunlit days when her worst worries were getting a P on an essay and whether Robert Wayling was going to ask her to Hogsmeade — and teaching isn’t her dream anymore. She lives in a world where dreams can’t be afforded for muggle-borns like her; where the furthest ahead she can plan for her future is the day of graduation.

And now, as she’s frozen in front of James Potter, uncertain what to say, she realizes that she would probably be awful at teaching if she can’t even get the words out of her mouth to tell him that he’s bad at all three apparition points.

Lily swallows and stares back at him, wide-eyed, as she debates how best to put the thoughts swirling at the back of her mind.

He reads her expression and his faux-indifference crumbles, stumbling back until he sits, unceremoniously, on a large rock. James runs an aggravated hand through his hair, his jaw clenching.

(Ah. She averts her gaze. It’s a bit like looking at the sun at midday; squinting and glaring, and not pleasant... but also rather hard to tear your gaze away from.)

“I just — I don’t bloody get it,” James says, frustrated. “What am I doing wrong?”

She takes a seat on another flat wrong next to him, kicking off her shoes — they’re going to be here for a while, she suspects, might as well get comfortable — and dips her toes into the cool, stagnant waters of Gladstone Lake.

“Alright, let’s start with destination,” Lily says. “I think that’s the one you’ve got the most grasp over, so far. It’s—” she almost says fairly straight-forward but, in the nick of time, swallows her words. “It’s the one that relies on imagery the most, less on focus.”

James is listening intently, leg bouncing restlessly, his gaze — the one that makes her feel like he can see right through her, right to what she’s not saying and what she doesn’t know enough to say — fixed on her face.

(She looks away, again, and doesn’t know why.)

“I’m not in your head, obviously, so I can’t help you sketch that picture in your mind. But — I’ve seen you do artsy magic before, James.”

He looks nearly as surprised as she is at the words coming out of her mouth. That seems to be a theme lately, around him, but she doesn’t have time to wonder about that.

But it’s true. She saw him in class last year, even when they weren’t speaking, transfiguring a twiggy branch to a thick, lovely green moss-covered log. She saw him on the eve of Halloween, using wandless magic to effortlessly drape painstakingly, intricately designed streamers and Jack-O-Lanterns around the Great Hall.

(Lily pretended she didn’t see him, that night. She walked away and told her patrol partner that nothing was amiss. Why? Mostly because she didn’t want to talk to him. And, well, maybe part of it had been because she wanted to see the result the next day morning.

It didn’t disappoint. She had been in such a good mood that she even smiled his way when Dor was praising him for his charms skills.)

“I know you can do it,” she adds quickly before he can ask the hard questions; when and how and, most worryingly, why.

He smiles tentatively at her, hand flexing around his wand. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Evans.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she shoots back, as more of a reflex than anything. Too much honesty is, well, dangerous. She doesn’t let herself think why.

“I could never,” James assures her with a familiar, cocky smirk.

“Right,” she says firmly, moving on. “The second D is—”

“Determination,” James finishes for her. “I suppose this is the one I’m struggling on?”

Lily nods, secretly relieved that he didn’t make her say it.  

“I think you’re getting, well, a little bit... distracted,” she says delicately, thinking back to the many times she caught him gazing absently at the grass, or the sky, or the trees, or God forbid even her, moments before attempting apparition.

James snorts. “That’s one way to put it,” he says dryly. “Just a little?”

“I’m trying to be nice here!” Lily protests, lips twitching.

“Right, go on, then,” he says, leaning back on his forearms and looking highly amused.

Lily blinks, distracted for the fraction of a second when his shirt stretches across his torso, before the odd feeling is gone and he’s just careless James Potter again.

“So, you need to, erm.” She starts again, voice scratchy, “You need to tune out all distractions and shut your eyes for a longer time before you try apparating.”

James tilts his head and seems to consider her words before nodding slowly.

“And the third one, deliberation?” he prompts when she takes a tad bit longer to continue.

“That’s the hard one,” she admits with a sigh. “I don’t really know how to explain it, really — it’s rather like adding on to determination, but doing it with intention.”

His brow furrows. “What do you mean, intention?”

She doesn’t know how to explain, and it’s beyond frustrating.

“Intention is...”

When you bring a sweet to a friend because their parents are splitting up, not just because they’re fond of Honeydukes. When you write your essay on blood purity and double standards within the magical community with a pen to make a point, not just because your inkwell ran out.

She sucks in a breath, trying to remember an example that James would relate to.

“Intention is when I stopped calling Sirius by his last name because I noticed that he hates it, not just because we’re on a first-name basis now.”

“I see,” James breathes, staring at her unblinkingly. “Intention is when you do things on purpose, not just because the circumstances happen to align?”

Lily lets her ankles sway in the smooth waters of the lake to avoid answering.

Because — he gets it. He listened, he understood, and he echoed her explanation back to her. Hell, he even voiced the thoughts she couldn’t put into words.

How many people bother to do that for her?

“Yeah,” Lily says finally. “Do you want to give it a try now?”

James laughs nervously. “Is it stupid that I’m afraid to try now? I don’t want to not get it, after all of this.”

“Go for it with low expectations, and you can’t be disappointed,” Lily says wisely.

James nods, determined, and stands up. He closes his eyes, standing stock still, for so long that Lily’s just about to open her mouth and ask him if everything’s alright, when —

“Are you alright?” she asks, alarmed, jumping up from her spot immediately.

James had turned on the spot, twisting perfectly, but tripped before the actual apparating could happen.

“Fine,” he grumbles, pushing himself up to his elbows.

“Are you hurt?” Lily worries her bottom lip between her teeth, not even sure why she’s worried. It was just a little fall, for Merlin’s sake. Surely, he’s had worse.

“No, I’m alright,” he says, standing up. “Just disappointed that it didn’t work. But I swear I felt something in my stomach this time.”

“Let’s take a break, then,” she suggests. “Maybe when you try again it’ll work.”

He offers her a grateful smile — for what, she’s not sure — and lowers himself to the rock beside her. (He’s so close that his knees are brushing hers, but she doesn’t notice that. Because there’s nothing to notice. Obviously.)

“What’s this place, anyway?” James asks with a curious glance around the clearing, his gaze lingering at the clear waters of Gladstone Lake.

Lily’s lips quirk up into a nostalgic smile. “It was my grandfather’s lakeside cabin, so I’ve been here several times with my family.”

“There’s no chance of any Muggles seeing us?”

“Oh, no,” Lily assures him. “This is the only cabin for several kilometres. And the only people who’ve been here are my family. My grandfather passed away when I was younger, and then my Da a couple years back, so we haven’t been here in a while.”

James winces. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

She plasters a smile on her face. “Don’t be. Things happen.”

Things happen, she says. Things like cancer, things that purebloods would never understand. She isn’t blaming James, of course, but... he’ll never have to worry about losing a parent to an incurable sickness like she did.

“It’s awful anyways,” James says firmly. “I know it’s not the same, but... my parents are old. They’ve gotten sick before, when they were younger, but I don’t know if they’ll be so lucky if it happens again,” he admits quietly.

Immediately, Lily feels guilty for assuming anything about his family. Of course, there are wizarding sicknesses too, and if his parents are old... She reaches out to place a hand on his knee.

For a moment they sit in silence, the only sounds being the rustling of tree branches and the gentle lapping of the lake waters, until Lily realizes, with a jolt, that her hand is still on his knee, and quickly pulls it away.

The atmosphere isn’t tense, necessarily, but it’s slightly uncomfortable, with both avoiding each other’s gazes until James breaks the silence.

“You have a sister, don’t you?” he says abruptly, fingers picking at the fabric around his knees.

Lily grimaces to herself. “Yes, I do. Petunia. She’s two years older than me.”

“Are you two close?” he asks curiously.

For a moment, a sudden, frustrating moment, she’s tempted to snap at him; to tell him to mind his business. Then the urge is gone, as fast as the breeze tickling her bare feet, and she’s left with a sense of lingering shame.

To quell her unease, she (reluctantly) answers him. “We used to be, but... not since I got my Hogwarts letter, no. And she didn’t exactly — approve of the friends I had.”

The words unsaid are suspended in the air between them, the message between the lines of the page pulled tautly and on edge. Severus, the silence seems to scream. Sev, Sev, Sev.

He looks vaguely uncomfortable, like he isn’t sure what to say in response. He opens his mouth, on the verge of saying something — a joke, perhaps? — but then closes it, averting his gaze.

Lily takes pity on him — honestly, she wouldn’t know what to say in response to that either — taking it upon herself to continue the conversation.

“And what about you?” she says brightly, sliding on a mask of faux cheerfulness. “Just your parents?”

“And Sirius,” he adds easily, like it’s no big deal. It’s a fact to him, that Sirius is part of his family. It’s the sort of sweet sentence that makes her smile softly and her heart swell full of —

Full of admiration, obviously. Not affection, or anything, just admiration.

“That’s lovely,” she says, and if her voice is fainter than usual, neither of them acknowledges it.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “Mum and Dad consider him family by now, too. They’re great like that.” A fond smile plays on his mouth. “Mum, especially — she makes all of his favourite meals. Sometimes I wonder if she loves him more than me.”

A tightness in her chest; Mum and Dad, the words that fall so easily from his lips, have become unfamiliar to Lily.

James misreads her melancholy expression and laughs. “Yes, I know, I’m such a mummy’s boy. I would do anything for my ma, yes, but I’m not ashamed of it.”

She opens her mouth and then closes it with the certainty that she’s blushing. He mentioned it earlier, too, at the first lesson — and then, too, she froze up just like this.

I would do anything for my ma, he says casually, with a blinding smile, and she furiously tries to forget the sound of his voice when his lips formed the word ma.

Unbidden, a long-ago memory jumps to mind.

Boys who love their mums are so attractive, a younger Lily had said dreamily to a younger Dorcas. Everyone knows that.

A slightly more recent memory floats through her head, despite Lily’s resistance.

During spring break of fourth year, when Lily had hours crying over Robert Wayling, the fifth year who had taken her to Hogsmeade and proceeded to kiss Mellie Mckinnon a week later, her mother had rubbed soothing circles on her back, whispering words of comfort. Lily had told her, tearfully, about how she should have known not to trust him, at least after she saw him turn up his nose at Dor and Mary as if he was somehow better than them.

Never trust a boy who treats other women badly, her mother had said, especially not his Mum. How a man treats his mother tells you everything you need to know.

At the time, she had sob-laughed, saying, Mum, he’s fifteen, not a man. And we went on one date. I don’t know his mother!

Her mother had just smiled faintly and dropped the subject.

Now, she desperately shoves the memory aside and offers James a quick smile when she realizes he’s looking at her with concern.

“Would you like to go into the lake?” she blurts out.

There’s a pause that lasts a few seconds, in which the quiet settles like snowfall on Christmas Eve, the anticipation before tearing open ribbon-tied gifts.

“I’d love to,” he says finally, and her shoulders relax.

The ribbon-tied gift is worth the wait, she soon learns. She learns it when she wades into Gladstone Lake and the water kisses her bare calves under her skirt; she learns it when James enthusiastically chucks his shoes to the side and painstakingly peels his socks off; she learns it when he bounds into the water behind her, and she shrieks as the water splashes on her; but she’s more than eager to continue learning.

It turns out James Potter is quite decent company for splashing around in a lake. Who knew?

By the time they drag themselves out of the water, the sun is hued purple and orange, and Lily’s skirt is soaked through.

For a brief, unthinking second, she wonders if her shirt is see-through, and if so if James is looking; a moment later, she is appalled with herself for her thoughts. (She checks anyway, just to make sure; it’s not, and neither is he. Good, because she wouldn’t want him to look anyway.)

Lily feels slightly drunk on the symphony of dizzying colours framing the setting sun, and perhaps a bit tipsy balancing on a tightrope of words unsaid with her bare feet.

They pull back on their socks and shoes in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable like before. Instead, this one pours over them in shades of blue and grey, rustling leaves, and humming swarms of mosquitoes.

“Lily,” James whispers, and his voice is achingly gentle, even compared to the already-hushed atmosphere.

A bolt of panic runs up her spine; he’s never spoken to her like that, ever. She can’t decide if she likes it or not.

“Would you,” he clears his throat here, fidgeting, “want to grab a bite to eat now? With me?”

The word date flashes through her mind, just as she opens her mouth to say alright, and she immediately closes it.

A... date. With James Potter.

She’s suddenly, awfully, faced with the consequences of spending too much time around a boy who had — has? — feelings for her. Strong ones, if Dorcas and Mary’s tales were to be believed.

“As friends,” James adds hastily, watching her attentively. “Not — not anything else.”

Her instinctive reaction is relief, undoubtedly, but it’s shadowed with the echo of... He couldn’t even say the word date in front of you, a smug voice — that sounds like Dorcas when she knows she’s right — whispers in her mind. You know what that means.

Lily reminds herself that James doesn’t have feelings for her, not anymore. Not after a year of giving her no indication at all that he might, not after she’d had a boyfriend and he’d had a girlfriend.

“I would, but—” she starts, but his face falls and he shakes his head.

“No, don’t worry about it—”

“James, no, I really would like to,” she says firmly, finding that she means it, too, “but my sister’s wedding is coming up, and she’s getting measured for wedding dresses today. I’m supposed to be there, or so my mum says.”

Lately, Lily’s mum had been getting more and more sick of Lily and Petunia’s bickering, snapping at the two of them every time they were at each other’s throats. Hence, there was no question that Lily would be at Petunia’s wedding fitting, whether either of them wanted it or not.

“Are you a bridesmaid?” James asks.

“I — no, I’m not,” Lily says, and it shouldn’t still sting this much, it shouldn’t make her throat tighten and her eyes burn, not after two months of knowing that Petunia didn’t want her only sister to be a bridesmaid at her wedding.

He grimaces. “I’m sorry. Your sister sounds like a real piece of work.”

A part of her wants to defend Petunia as she would have four years ago, but it’s won out by the side of her that wholeheartedly agrees.

“She can be,” Lily agrees tiredly, and they both fall silent.

Would he have been so nervous to ask you if it wasn’t a date? Dor’s smug voice rings out again, and Lily shivers unintentionally.

“You’re cold,” James says, grabbing the sweater he’d left on a nearby rock and handing it to her.

(Why does he always notice? she wonders, bitterly. Why can’t it be that easy for her to pick up on signs?)

“Wear this,” he insists, thrusting the sweater toward her.

Oh, heavens. Absolutely not. She will not be wearing his sweater, not after he had almost asked her out, not after she’d spent the afternoon realising James was a nice friend to have, but nothing more than that —

“Evans,” he chides, and his tone is reminiscent of the gentle affection from earlier, but this, she can safely say, this is purely platonic. It’s the relief that his teasingly uttered Evans brings her — familiarity, banter, just friendship — that prompts her to take the sweater from him and put it on.

It’s quite nice, she can admit. Rather fuzzy for a men’s jacket, but that only makes it more comfortable.                                                                      

“Thanks,” she says, very aware that it’s past sunset and she’s standing awfully close to him, wrapped up in his downy jacket that she’s tempted to steal for herself. (It smells nice, too. She can’t really describe it, but it smells very nice.)

“No problem.” His voice sounds gruffer, but she attributes that to the cold and today’s overactive imagination.

“I should — be going, then,” she tries, her throat swallowing up her words until all that is left is a faint croak.

“You — yeah, you should,” he murmurs in response, the bundle of his throat bobbing up and down (she follows its movement with lazy interest), but neither of them moves.

She notes, faintly, glancing at the purple-blue sky, that it’s getting late. That she should leave. That she should go home now, lest Petunia and Mum be upset.

She doesn’t leave. Instead, she counts the flecks of dirt on her shoes. She’s up to twenty-six when a bird chirps and she’s startled into stumbling backward.

“Right,” James says weakly, taking a few steps back from her. “See you.”

“See you,” she echoes, and before she can overthink anything, she turns on the spot and apparates away.

The rest of her evening is a blur — garments pulled tighter around her in response to Cokeworth’s biting summer winds, head down and voice meek as Petunia whinges on about her being late, nondescript response when Mum asks her where she’s been, clothes tossed somewhere under her bed after a soothing, scalding shower, bedsheets twisted around her as she stares at the ceiling — in which she barely gives a thought to the afternoon’s events. Or, more specifically, James. It’s a blessed relief because her thoughts will be dominated by nothing but James for many weeks to come, although she doesn’t know it yet.

It isn’t until the next day morning when Lily realizes she still has his sweater.

Chapter Text

LILY

“I heard that Mallory Edgecombe cheated on her boyfriend.”

Mary takes a long drag from her bottle of champagne — never mind that it’s 5 p.m. in the evening — and smiles smugly when Dor and Lily gasp appropriately.

“Really?” Dorcas shakes her head adamantly. “I thought she and Bernard would end up together, honestly.”

“Well, they have been on-and-off for quite some time now,” Lily weighs, ever the voice of reason. “Their personalities just don’t seem compatible.”

“Who was the other boy?” Dorcas asks curiously, propping herself up on one elbow from where she’s draped over the couch, one hand lazily gripping a glass with alcohol sloshing inside of it.

Mary pauses for dramaticism before leaning and saying, in a stage whisper, “Vince Macmillan.”

This time Lily nearly topples off the armchair she’s curled up in, gaping at Mary.

“No way,” she says in a hushed gasp, one hand flying up to her mouth. “His own brother?”

“That’s right,” Mary says, nodding sagely. “Poor Bernie walked in on his girlfriend with her tongue in his brother’s mouth. I heard he isn’t talking to either of them now.”

“Serves them both right,” Lily declares, lifting her champagne glass to the air in an imaginary toast before taking a sip, warmth bubbling in her stomach.

Being with her friends and making fun of the latest class gossip feels like an exhale, a sigh — like kicking off her shoes and sinking into bed after a long day. It feels easier than anything this summer — even apparition lessons with James Potter, and especially dealing with Petunia back at home.

In fact, that’s why she’s at Dorcas’ house, escaping the crazed, unhinged wedding preparations going on at home. Petunia’s sure to have invited over her bridesmaids — everyone but Lily, as she loves to rub in her sister’s face — to gush over the wedding dress that she picked (without Lily) and preen over her soon-to-be-husband. Mum will want Lily to play nice, to remain docile and amiable with Petunia’s sharp-tongued, sneering friends who look down on her, but she’s a hairsbreadth away from snapping point, the point where she can’t do it anymore.

Mary and Dorcas, while unaware of the exact details of the ice between her and Petunia, know her well enough to understand that she needs to escape the stifling house without her having to say a word on it.

Enter: a girl’s day, spent lounging about in Dorcas’ empty house, drinking champagne in the afternoon because with her parents off on a trip there’s no one to tell them off.

“Wait, how did you even find out? You’ve never been close to any of the Ravenclaws who would know the drama.”

Here, Mary pauses, a slight blush creeping up her neck. “Sirius stopped by a few days ago, and he ran into Bernard at Diagon the other week.”

Lily stares, tight-lipped, the name sending her heart racing with its promise of what usually comes after it. She takes another drink and swallows it in one go.

“You’ve been seeing Black, and you didn’t tell us?” Dor shrieks, tossing her empty glass onto the couch — Lily winces in anticipation and relaxes when it rolls to a stop, remaining on the cushions — and jumping to her feet.

“Not seeing,” Mary says hurriedly. “He just stopped by once or twice to smoke with me. We’re not — we’re not together, or anything. Not like what Lily and James are. Oh, did you know — they’ve been meeting up quite often; apparently, they even have one of those ‘classes’ scheduled for today.”

Lily, startled, tears her gaze away from the carelessly tossed champagne glass to her friends, who are now looking at her expectantly.

“I — what?” she pauses, Mary’s words finally registering. “Wait, what do you mean?”

Dorcas and Mary, now both squeezed into the same two-seater couch, look at her with identical, teasing expressions.

“You and James,” Mary repeats, carefully emphasizing each word.

“What about us?” Lily asks, knowing full well what her friends are implying but refusing to acknowledge it.

Would you want to grab a bite to eat with me? James’ voice echoes in her mind, and she’s brought back, in a flurry of swirling colour, to last week by the lake with the purples and pinks painted across the sprawling sky and his downy jacket hugging her shoulders.

She still has it folded across her nightstand. She’s had every opportunity to let him know, to owl it back with one of her frequent letters to him, but —

Next time I see him, she thinks desperately, I’ll return it to him by hand.

“Well, your little lessons are an awful lot like dates, aren’t they?” Mary says, waggling her eyebrows.

“What?” Lily yelps. “No, we’re not — they’re not dates, Christ — why would you even think that!”

The girls look slightly taken aback at Lily’s adamant response, but their apprehension slowly morphs into smugness.

“Sure, Lil,” Dor says, “but you’ve been quite tight-lipped about what goes on between you and James during those lessons. For all we know, you two could be swapping spit during class time, getting nothing done. No wonder Potter’s so ruddy bad at apparition!”

Lily sputters, bolting right out of her chair. “We’re not — swapping spit — or doing anything untoward at all, Dor, Merlin’s sake! We’re just friends, and all we’ve been doing is apparition. It’s strictly professional.”

Even as the words fall from her mouth, she can remember the feeling of Gladstone Lake waters caressing her calves, James’ arms brushing against hers as he clambered into the lake following her. She remembers the house tour he’d given her, joking about meeting his parents — what on earth was going through her mind then, so unabashedly flirtatious? — and, worst of all, his jacket slung ’round her shoulders, its warmth enveloping her, its scent encased in the fabric.

“Strictly professional, my arse,” scoffs Mary. “Then which boy’s jumper was on your bed yesterday when I stopped by?”

Dorcas freezes, turning her head slowly between Mary, who remains stretched out like a cat on the sofa, and Lily, who’s now pacing Dorcas’ sprawling sitting room, stalking the space between her fireplace and the armchair. “She’s got his jumper. Lily Evans has James Potter’s jumper on her bed. Good Godric, what has the world come down to?”

She says it jokingly, a teasing crinkle in her dark brown eyes, but Lily’s heart fists, stuttering embarrassingly at her friend’s words. Her first instinct is to defend James, to argue that he’s changed, and she’s changed, and he’s really not that bad anymore —

She snaps her mouth shut, cheeks flaming. Oh, Christ.

“Look, there’s nothing between us,” she says finally, because she can’t stand Mary and Dor’s haughty expressions, yet she’s unable to shake the feeling that her words are a lie. “We’re just friends, and that’s all we’ll ever be.”

“Are you seriously telling us — us, your best friends — that you don’t fancy James? Not even a little bit?” Mary asks incredulously. “I’m calling bullshit. Stop lying to yourself, Lily.”

“I’m not!” she protests, voice cracking pathetically.

“You can be honest with us,” Dorcas adds, and in a softer voice, “You know we won’t judge you.”

The worst part is — she does know. She knows that if she did tell them that she fancied James, they would be nothing but supportive (albeit with some needling and taking the mickey).

But right now, her thoughts are closing in, echoing Stop lying to yourself, what has the world come down to, no wonder Potter’s so ruddy bad at apparition —

And, alright, she knows she isn’t the best teacher. She sure as hell won’t be going into teaching after Hogwarts, even without the political landscape as it is, but her friends don’t need to rub it in, do they? It’s not her fault that James Potter is perpetually unable to focus, that he’s not exactly the most attentive student, that he spends most of the time she lectures watching her instead of listening, and not in a creepy way but still in a manner that sets her aflame inside-out, wanting him to be watching — and isn’t the worst part that she’s a guilty, lying hypocrite?

“Look, I’m saying this for the last time,” she starts angrily, pausing her pacing to face the girls with a determined expression. Somewhere to her right, a loud noise disturbs her train of her thought, but she quickly shakes off the distraction and refocuses her attention on the irritation bubbling in her stomach, digging up the drudges of her past vehement dislike for Potter the arrogant bully, any lingering animosity toward her ex-best friend’s sworn enemy. She shoves away the fond memories of the day in Sheffield Manor, by the lake, at a park near her house — far away, deep into the depths of her mind.

“James Potter and I aren’t dating, and nor are we ever going to,” she says through gritted teeth. “I don’t fancy him, and whatever stories you’ve cooked up to explain why I’m helping him — they’re wrong. I’m doing it because he seemed pathetic enough to inspire my pity, because no matter if I like the bloke much or not, I’m a decent person who helps a friend — acquaintance — in need.”

Mary clears her throat and Dor frowns, but Lily barrels on, uninterrupted, hyped up on champagne, “So, for the last damn time, I don’t fancy James Potter, nor will I ever fancy him, given that he hasn’t grown up nearly as much as you all seem to think!” she takes a deep breath and continues, “He’s still the same arrogant boy that strung up Severus by his ankle, who asked me in front of the whole school — he may be a bit more mature, I’ll give him that, but how could I ever forget his past and stoop to new levels of low to fancy him?”

Mary coughs again, this time louder, and Lily pauses in her tirade, out of breath, to glance at her, murderous glare at the ready.

But what she sees gives her pause because Mary and Dorcas... aren’t looking at her, actually.

Their brows are puckered, lips parted in identical masks of shock, gazes trained at the corner of the sitting room, at the roaring green fireplace, and the boy standing in front of it, wide-eyed.

“Did you hear all of that?” Lily asks in a whisper, terrified at the answer he might give her.

James stands stiffly in front of the fireplace, still coated in a fine layer of thin grey soot, hands tense in front of his body.

“I — yeah, I did,” he says, haltingly. “It’s fine, really, Lily, I just — should probably go.”

Her heart is rapidly sinking, dread overtaking previous adrenaline and the champagne buzzing through her veins, James’ crestfallen expression etched into her brain like a freshly scarring tattoo.

Worse still is seeing him fight valiantly to keep a neutral expression, to not reveal the hurt in his eyes. But he has always been an open book, every emotion flitting across his face plain as day.

“No, you don’t have to —” she starts, “I didn’t mean — it like that! James, wait,” she protests, as he takes a few steps back into the fireplace, “James, I’m sorry, I —”

“Let’s take a raincheck, yeah?” he says, attempting a grin. “We can reschedule.”

She’s already protesting, apologizing again, but before she can get out more than a “please don’t go,” he is already throwing a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace and calling, “Sheffield Manor!” and then he’s gone, though her feet have carried her to the fireplace, instinctively making to follow him, but —

“You should let him go,” Mary says, hand on Lily’s arm pulling her away from the fireplace.

“I can’t let him go like this!” Lily briefly struggles against Mary’s iron hold before slumping into her friend’s arms, defeated. “I... can’t let him go.”

Mary shoots Dor a glance, far less subtle than they assume it is. It asks: so, she does fancy him, then? Dor’s responding brow-raise replies, isn’t it obvious?

Bile crawls up her throat. She rests her cheek on Mary’s chin, letting herself get dragged over to the couch. If there’s an award for Worst So-Called Friend ever — acquaintances, she had called them, she thinks bitterly — it would surely go to her.

This feels like an awful lot like a break-up, what with the clenching in her stomach, the tears building in her throat, the dawning awareness that she’s shattered their young, fragile friendship like glass, maybe even irredeemably. She’d be lucky if he deigned to speak to her again, really, after everything she just said.

Dor strokes her hair pityingly, attempting to comfort her with whispered nothings.

Curled up in her friends’ arms, Lily remembers — she still has his jacket. Will she have to return it?

Does she want to return it?

(No, she doesn’t, but she pushes that realisation away. There’s enough on her mental palette as it is.)

JAMES

“I’m here,” announces Remus as he steps into the Potters’ shed, casting a quick glance around the hutch before shutting the door behind him.

Sirius responds with a snarked “about time, Christ,” from where he’s hovering over a semi-rusted black motorcycle, one hand clutching a Muggle tool. “Do you or do you not know what an emergency means?”

“Where is he?” says Remus, completely ignoring Sirius.

Peter, who is lounging by a collection of old, dusty items the Potters had deemed unworthy of having a place in the manor, waves to Remus. “He’s behind Bornin the Bejewelled.”

Remus peers across the shed to where, in a patch of shadowed floor, a tall stone statue of a man draped in elaborately carved jewellery stands.

 “I know you’re there, James.”

James doesn’t reply.

With an exasperated roll of his eyes, Remus waves his wand, levitating Bornin’s statue away from the corner, ignoring the stone figure’s affronted gape and soundlessly moving lips.

“Right.” Remus sighs when he sees James curled up into the wall, arms hugging knees. “Let me guess: the emergency has something to do with Lily.”

James bites his tongue to refrain from agreeing, but — doesn’t it always?

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Remus says dryly, sitting down beside James.

“He’s been moping for the past several hours,” Peter informs. “It’s getting irritating.”

“Bloody Evans,” Sirius says, words muffled by the ambiguous metal instrument held between his teeth. “When it comes to Prongs, it’s always her, isn’t it?”

James and Remus frown at the same time, and James briefly considers breaking his day-long silence to defend her and maybe himself too, but —

“Do you even know what happened?” Remus asks, getting there first. James tries not to be bitter about it. “Don’t be so quick to blame her without knowing the full story.”

“Moony, ever the Devil’s advocate,” Sirius says darkly.

Remus frowns harder, the lines in his forehead etched deeper. “That’s not —”

“Will you two quit it?” Peter interrupts, exasperated. “I doubt any of this is helping Prongs.”

As if on cue, all three of them swivel their heads to look at James like he’s a zoo exhibit.

“That’s probably true,” Remus allows, and Sirius even sets down the oblong Muggle thing he’s holding to grunt in agreement — the closest to an apology one can usually get out of him.

James scowls to himself. Bloody meddlesome mates, having the audacity to care about him. He’s, well — grudgingly touched. Irritating though they may be, he’s never felt more acutely grateful for these three.

“Maybe we can try coaxing him out with food,” Sirius suggests. “Gullible as a monkey, this one is. Ply him with treats and he’ll come running.”

“Fried foods are his fatal weakness,” Peter adds, and Remus nods along solemnly.

Right, no — he takes all of it back. His mates are awful.

“Do you know what happened with James and Lily?” Remus asks Sirius quietly, rightfully assuming that if any of the three did know, it would be the one who lives in the same house as James.

Sirius pauses and admits, grudgingly, “He hasn’t said a thing to me,” like it physically pains him to admit that he isn’t somehow all-knowing.

“Me neither, not that you asked,” says Peter, affronted.

The three of them pause, and for a moment blessed silence descends upon the shed. James takes the opportunity to peek open an eye, scanning the small enclosure for an escape route. In between the heaps of discarded curios and plethora of dust descended upon the walls, only one doorway to the garden stands, and any possible pathways are blocked by the Marauders, all three of them still eyeing him critically.

“Right, this is bollocks,” Sirius promptly declares, leaning forward to grab James’ arm and haul him upward. “A Marauder, moping about a girl? Disgusting.”

James tries to protest, attempting to sit back down with a snapped, “Gerroff!” but Sirius is having none of it, grip merely tightening on his forearm.

“Lamenting won’t fix anything,” Remus says, his tone gentler than Sirius’ but still stern.

“What Lupin said.” Sirius jerks his thumb toward Remus.

Peter brightens suddenly. “We should play something! It’ll distract Prongs, and we haven’t spent much time in ages, just the four of us. Headless horseshoes, or Jacks, or —” he cuts off abruptly.

“Not Jacks,” Remus says firmly. “We’re trying to forget Lily, not get constant reminders of her.” When the boys look at him in surprise, he says defensively, “What? I may be friends with her, but I was mates with Prongs first.”

The hint of a smile creeps up on James’ face, widening until he’s nearly grinning.

“Don’t get sappy on me, Lupin,” he teases, taking great delight from Remus’ expression morphing from indignation to bashfulness, pale cheeks colouring.

“He talks!” Peter cries triumphantly, thrusting a hand forward, pointing at James.

“Blimey, his vocal cords work, what a marvel,” Sirius says dryly.

“Yeah, yeah.” James dismisses their dramatics with a wave of the hand. “Wonderful mates you are, taking the mickey of your heartbroken friend.”

He pretends not to notice their eyebrows climb at his admission — heartbroken, he called himself. And really, it’s only a slight exaggeration.

“It’s in the job description,” Sirius says solemnly.

“Then you can consider it a job well done, because I have been thoroughly humbled,” James says with an extravagant curtsey.

“Now, that’s unlikely,” says Remus, earning a grin and glint of teeth from Sirius.

“Humble? Maybe you’re thinking of the wrong James,” Peter says with a perfect poker face.

James scoffs derisively, but his lips twitch of their own volition. “Piss off.”

“I have an idea,” Sirius says suddenly, a wicked glint in his eye.

“Good grief,” mutters Remus.

“As I was saying,” Sirius side-eyes Remus with distaste, “I have an idea.” He strides over to where the mostly assembled motorbike lays propped up against the wall, one handlebar and the seat cushion missing. He pats the bike fondly. “We can take this baby out for a drive.”

“Get out,” Peter says disbelievingly. “The — Muggle bike thing — can’t be safe to ride, can it?”

James, surprising absolutely no one, marches over to the bike, slapping its side, grinning broadly, Lily Evans momentarily forgotten. It smarts his palm, and he hisses out a string of curses, clutching his hand to his chest and blowing furiously.

“Smooth.”

“Get stuffed,” he grits out, and when the little pain subsides a little, says, “Let’s ride this Muggle bike thing, as Wormtail so eloquently put it.”

Peter squawks in outrage, Remus sighs dramatically, and Sirius bares his teeth in a grin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Prongs we know and love,” Sirius says theatrically, spreading his arms widely.

“Less flattery, more action,” James tells him, eyeing the bike judiciously. “Let’s give it a go.”

* * * * *

It seemed like a good idea, at the time.

But twenty minutes later, when he’s seated on the bike — still without a cushion, and with two people squeezed onto the minuscule seat — arms wrapped in a death grip around Sirius’ waist, voice hoarse from screaming against the wind, it doesn’t quite seem like the best decision he’s made.

Hindsight is a horror, isn’t it?

“This is bloody amazing!” shouts Sirius, voice swiftly carried away by the wind, hands gripping the handlebars, long hair come loose with the speed, ends whipping James’ face.

James shouts his incoherent reply, a garbled mixture of exclamations and curses, face half-numb and half-on fire. They shoot through the manor’s grounds at breakneck speed — not quite as fast as a broomstick, but the unfamiliarity more than makes up for that.

“Shit,” Sirius says suddenly, fingers curling around the handlebar, but where his left hand should be clasping metal instead it’s closing around nothing, cutting through only air —

“Padfoot. Padfoot.” James’ voice rises steadily in volume as well as hysteria, and he’s pretty sure his fingers will leave marks on Sirius’ waist later, but right now his thoughts are flitting from I’m going to die young, to Lily Evans thinks I’m an arrogant toe-rag, and then —

The bike comes to a screeching halt, tilting off-balance at the same time that Sirius slams the brakes, sending both boys lurching sidewards and James flying off the seat and thudding into the grassy garden grounds, shoulder twisting painfully.

He groans loudly, grimacing at the thought of the scratches he’s sure to have.

“I’m going to,” he starts, gnashing his teeth as he makes to sit up with a deep scowl, “throttle you.”

Sirius looks up from where he was unceremoniously tossed into a prickly bush, leaves and twigs decorating him like ornaments on a bloody Christmas tree.

“Then who’ll give you Evans advice?” he asks, plucking off a large insect from his arm with a slight grimace.

“Literally anyone else could do it,” James says scornfully, “and better.”

Sirius is saved from responding by the arrivals of Remus and Peter, who stand over the two of them with identical, disapproving frowns.

“I told you —” starts Remus but cuts himself off with another firm shake of the head. He looks so comically disappointed that James stifles a grin.

“This is why you don’t trust Muggle things!” Peter exclaims, agitated. “Or Padfoot,” he amends after a beat.

“It isn’t the Muggles’ fault,” Sirius says with a frown, standing up.

“It was your fault,” James agrees, still scowling. “I’m — I’m astonishingly pissed off with you right now! Really bleeding pissed!”

“Just say ‘fucking,’” Remus says, exasperated. “Enough with all of this bleeding business.”

The boys exchange rolls of the eyes — James huffs. Really, do they think he can’t see them do it, plain as day?

“You,” James says suddenly, jabbing a finger at Sirius’ chest, refusing to be bullied into changing the subject, “I have a bone to pick with you.”

Sirius is smirking, ever casual. “Oh, do you?”

James glares at him. “Yes, I do! That motorcycle of yours should be illegal. Keep it up and I’ll find someone else to lament over Lily to.”

“No, you won’t,” Sirius says confidently.

“Yes, I absolutely will!”

“When your choices are these two?” Sirius nods at Remus and Peter, standing opposite to them. “Yeah, I call bullshit.”

The two boys in question sputter in protest. James hates to admit it, but Sirius is right. Peter would give useless advice, and Remus would be preaching to deaf ears. Unfortunately, that leaves him with no one else.

“I am leaving,” James says with emphasis, turning on his heel.

“Where are you going?” Peter asks.

“To practice apparition. I’ve got to learn somehow, don’t I? Evans or no Evans?”

Sirius groans. “Not this Evans business again, I thought you were done going on about her. What was the bike ride for, then?”

Truly, he isn’t quite sure. Instead of replying, he walks away.

The garden is, as it usually is, exquisitely beautiful. Golden sunlight filters through tall fletus populus, tickling the petals of hyacinth-lavender flowers. The grass is nonpareil, its colour so unique that it may be attainable only by mixing liquid gold and rich emeralds in a cauldron of silver. The wind lazily brushes past the plants, green and blue and pink and orange blurring together in the breeze to create a vivid tapestry painted in watercolours and soft smiles.

James kicks off his shoes, sinking his bare feet into the grass, watching the blades soften and bend under his toes.

It feels — therapeutic. Cathartic, maybe even. No matter what hasn’t or has happened, he’s here, isn’t he? In his mother’s beloved garden, looking out at the bed of flowers, paint smeared across blank canvas, clearing a space for life to grow, to flourish. A space for time to stop momentarily, just long enough for him to catch his breath and close his eyes, tasting the sweet breeze on his tongue, any dusty remnants from the shed long gone.

Most importantly, Lily isn’t here.

He had thought — well, what he thought doesn’t matter now, that’s for certain.

But he can’t help but recall her smile, bright and lovely and shining, tilted under sunlight — for him. He made her laugh.

Or — maybe it was simply acting. Lily, as most knew, guarded her emotions close to her heart. She was reluctant to share, for whatever reasons, and put on a believable front to both teachers and classmates alike. Is it really implausible to think that she may have done the same for him, the boy she merely tolerates, who she helps only out of the goodness of her heart and some twisted illusion of obligation? Her smiles, false; her laughs, faked; her delight, forged?

James stands up abruptly, moving beside a patch of colourful cornelias.

Lily’s scornful opinion of him notwithstanding, she had been an incredible teacher, and he would be a fool not to take heed of her advice, especially now that it’s likely they won’t have any further lessons.

Destination and determination, he seems to understand. He’s been able to successfully zero in on both tenets of apparition.

Deliberation, however — this is where he’s failed in the past.

Deliberating has never been his strong suit. James has always been an act now, think later person — the type who relishes the adrenaline rush of rule-breaking,

But he channels the hyper-focused facet of himself — the first year that diligently pored through library books to find an answer to Remus’ mysterious absences, the third year who spent hours researching a solution to his friend’s wolfish problem, the fifth year who ushered into his house a shivering Sirius who had run away from the Blacks.

He closes his eyes, fingers flexing, and pictures the spot under the willow tree, spacious and cushioned with green grass.

Swirling around him, the wind seems to still in anticipation.

James turns on his heel, confident that this will be the time, that this attempt will prove successful — but as he turns, his gaze snags on a figure making her way to him, long red hair blown out behind her shoulders, eyes wide, something soft slung over her shoulder.

One moment he’s turning at the spot beside the flowers, the next his gaze is blinded by red hair and green vines, then searing, brutal pain tears through his limbs, and then —

Nothing.

Chapter Text

LILY

She knew it was a risk from the get-go; a foolish, reckless gamble that could end with a broken heart or a broken bone; she isn’t sure what she’d prefer.

It’s a good thing she likes taking risks, then.

She was seven, the first time she got hooked onto the adrenaline that would thrum through her veins when her feet dangled above the ground, the swing under her sending her soaring higher and higher until she leaped off, landing perfectly on her feet. She would even stretch out her arms, bowing dramatically to her sister. Those lazy, sundrenched days had been the epitome of childhood innocence; days when her sister had still been her closest friend, days when she needn’t have spared a thought on Hogwarts or learning magic from scratch or what it meant to be a muggleborn.

And yet, though she still had years till she traveled the Hogwarts Express for the first time and sat in the Great Hall, till she placed the Sorting Hat on her head and scurried over to the crimson and gold-decked table mere moments later, the Gryffindor spirit had always coursed through her.

Lily Jane Evans was a risk-taker. It was simply a fact.

Her family knew it — unlike Lily, Petunia had never been bold enough to even attempt jumping off the swings, even back before magic had been an idea planted in either of their minds.

Severus had known it. He’d always lamented over her Sorting, siding with Slughorn in insisting that she would have made a better Slytherin. That had been their first major disagreement in Hogwarts. Lily had always loved Gryffindor, if not some of her housemates.

Most importantly, she knew it, too. She prided herself on being bold and brave and unapologetically herself. That may have been the dawn of the rift between Lily and her sister — Petunia had never taken kindly to Lily’s brash mannerisms.

Lily at seven could have been a Gryffindor poster child.

Lily at seventeen has never felt less Gryffindor in her life.

She’s spent the last several hours at Doe’s, crying into her mates’ arms till their shirts were soaked through and her tear ducts were parched and depleted.

The image of James — hurt and taken aback but trying not to show it — has been etched into the backs of her eyelids with a tattoo gun, there to haunt her every time she closes her eyes.

Dorcas and Mary had been lovely, hugging her and whispering soothing words of comfort sincerely, though with a sprinkle of justified disappointment.

She’s well aware that she deserves their ire, and much more.

Lily Evans, heartbreaker, they should call her. The girl who flits around, toying with people’s emotions like they’re her playthings.

The more she sinks deeper into the pit she’s dug herself, the more the misery eats away at her insides, clawing at her lungs, reducing her breaths to desperate gulps of air and dry, heaving sobs.

By the time she manages to arrange her features into something less pitiful and blotchy red, she already knows what she must do.

An hour later, she stands in front of the fireplace, a dark, downy jacket clutched to her body. There is a distantly familiar swirl of scents imbibed in the warm fabric — the outdoor scent stems from their excursion at Gladstone cabin, she can immediately tell. Its woody smell takes her back to days far less complicated, fishing with her grandfather, and running barefoot through the dirt.

And then there’s something only vaguely familiar — perhaps she’s smelt it in a potion? — but immediately captivating; something that reminds her of the Gryffindor common room, perhaps, with a hint of assorted spices in the air and a dash of teenage boy to boot.

Something that she can immediately name as belonging to James.

Dwelling on that thought for a moment too long sends her into a spiral of doubting herself. As the green powder is tossed into the fireplace, she remembers James stumbling out of the green-glowing Gladstone cabin all those days ago, a boy who is a patchwork of easy smiles and loping strides and hands tucked into pockets.

The dizzying disarray of swirling in the green fire is achingly reminiscent of the first lesson, at Sheffield Manor — the place she’s headed to this very moment — when she spun around and around in the tall grass, sunshine streaming over the two of them, birds chirping in the background. She’d been at peace, which is more than she can claim to be right now.

And as she stumbles into the Potters’ sitting room, sooty shoes smacking the cool floor, she can almost picture James beside her, offering to take her cardigan with a hesitant, almost bashful expression. Or, at the very least, the most bashfulness one could get from James Potter.

“Jacks?” says a surprised, yet familiar, voice.

She turns around to see Sirius Black staring at her with an arm braced against the stairwell, as artfully stylish as usual in a ratty Sugarquills band tee and black jeans, hair carefully coiffed.

“Sirius,” she says, a bitter taste blooming on her tongue when his expression immediately goes sour, likely remembering why she is here.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, taking a few steps forward so he’s off the stairs and level with her.

“I’m here to see James,” she says timidly, hands squeezing the jacket in her arms for comfort, or reassurance, or maybe something deeper than that.

His eyes flit down to the jacket before meeting hers, something an awful lot like disgust visible in them.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says coldly, and she flinches at the blunt reminder that the cruelty in Sirius Black had never ceased for those he didn’t consider friends.

“I know,” she says quickly, attempting to appease him before he can begin shouting, which would alert James to her presence before she had a chance to compose herself. “I know I shouldn’t, and I know I made a mistake —”

“A mistake, you say?” Sirius interrupts, face stonier than she’s ever seen it. “You could say that again.”

She never expected him to be this protective over James — though, perhaps that was a blunder on her part, because haven’t they always been thick as thieves? Haven’t their priorities always been each other?

“You’re right.” She takes a tentative step forward. “And that’s why I’m here, so I can apologise, if he’ll hear me out —”

“It’s never been a question of whether he’ll hear you out,” Sirius says cryptically, hands still folded across his chest. “You know he always will.”

Her reply dies on her tongue when the momentousness of his words sinks in. They’re the confirmation she didn’t know she needed; that James does, indeed, fancy her — in real life, not limited to the wild imagination she tends to drown herself in — and she did, indeed, break his heart.

Somehow, counter-intuitively, that makes what she says next a bit easier to cough up.

“I know, and I —” she sucks it up and inhales sharply, “— I feel the same way. About James, I mean.”

When Sirius doesn’t reply, her words shocking him into momentary silence, she presses on, “I know I’ve been slow on the uptake, but I want him to know that I... I didn’t mean what I said. I care about him, he has to know that, but if he doesn’t, I’ll make sure that he does now. And if he doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore...” she trails off, the possibility sending her stomach clenching uncomfortably, “I’ll respect his decision. It’s the least I can do.”

The words that pour out of her mouth taste unfamiliar on her lips, not in the least because of what she’s just implied to Sirius.

His eyes are narrowed at her. “You like him.” He says it authoritatively, not as a question.

She resists the urge to shrink back. “I...”

But the desire is fleeting, for the image of James, knees pressed against hers as they sat on rocks, materializes in her mind. His small, soft smile; the lilting tone of his voice when he asked her out; the way the sun ricocheted off the planes of his neck.

“I care about him,” she agrees.

“And you fancy him,” he presses, a wolf cornering his prey, grey eyes calculating.

She swallows and forces herself to contemplate her answer. Her knee-jerk reaction would be to deny it, but the truth is that the answer is more complicated than clear shades of black and white, yes and no. It can be found deep in the depths of grey, perhaps tinted with more yes than no.

“That’s the question,” she says, finally, small sigh escaping her lips. “I do, but I’d hate to get his hopes up and let him down all over again. All I know is that I want him in my life, somehow. Preferably as my,” she gulps, “boyfriend, but—”

“You should tell him that.”

“What?” she asks, startled.

“Tell James,” he repeats, “that you’re figuring it out. That you want to give it a try. He’ll take it slow if you ask him to.” He gestures for her to follow him before disappearing around the wall.

Lily frowns, chewing on her lip, as she walks alongside Sirius through the decorated walls.

“Mr and Mrs Potter are out,” he says, by way of explanation, when they pass the empty rooms. “Remus and Peter just left, and James is out back.”

She registers the implication of his words, the suggestion laced through every syllable. She’s to speak to James — it was inevitable, but the mere thought of it sends her pulse skyrocketing and her palms sweating — alone.

“Thank you,” she tells Sirius when they reach the door opening to the Potters’ backyard garden, vivid green and pink and blue visible even through the mesh screen. “For not kicking me out at first sight.”

“I ought to have,” he says dryly, but a reluctant smile tugs his lips up. He motions to the doorway. “Don’t fuck it up again, Evans.”

Lily supposes that’s the closest thing to a good luck she’ll get from him.

A few moments later, he’s disappeared back into the house, and she’s left alone, standing on the back porch, staring at the explosion of colour around her. Her only company is James’ sweater, slung over a dangling arm.

Standing in the orchard, she swears she can feel phantom arms wrap around her, pulling her into a warm hug. She could stand there for ages, drinking in the gorgeous landscape; the various hues of green found in the leaves of the trees; golden sunlight cascading through the blue skies, lapped up by tall plants stretching upward; the lavender Agapanthus lilies, its purple flower buds blooming —

It hits her like a bludger to the head.

They’re lilies. Agapanthus lilies. God, how could she have been so daft not to notice when he first mentioned that he planted these himself?

She moves past the lily patch determinedly. The time for regrets has passed.

Finally, after what feels like ages of walking the winding path through the orchard, she arrives at the clearing that she’d visited the first (and only) time she’d been at Sheffield Manor.

James is there, standing in the thick of the grass.

Her past self would be in utter disbelief at the relief it brings her to see him, standing there; the fluttering below her navel, indicating a predicament she’d once sworn never to find herself in.

Her current self couldn’t care less. Being here, finding him — it is a risk she is more than willing to take if it means having his crinkle-eyed smile focused on her once more.

Lily slings his jumper over her shoulder, her strides lengthening as she nears him, eyes locked onto his figure as he stands, still as a statue, before he suddenly turns.

Their eyes lock for a moment — she can see the surprise in hazel even from several metres away — before he’s whirling around, and she finally realises that, oh, he’s attempting to apparate —

The next minute is a blur in her memory.

Hours later, chair pushed near bedside, she’ll only remember fragments of what happened. The shout that escaped his lips, ringing through her skull; the flash of dark red, his knees buckling; the sheer terror sending her heartbeat catapulting; breath in-and-out of her lungs, shaky, as she raced forward. And, worst of all, James’ normally warm brown skin gone pallid and ashy white with blood loss.

He’d splinched himself, and she’d been powerless to stop it.

JAMES

He awakes slowly, sleepily.

There’s no jolt of awareness, no sitting up suddenly. There’s no flash of memory sending him scrambling out of bed in panic.

There’s only the heaviness against his eyes, the warmth of what must be sunlight filtering through the windows and slanting over his face.

That’s the first thing he feels. The second is the pillow pushed uncomfortably against his cheek, sure to leave creases in his skin. He shifts, slightly, to ease the pressure; in the process, his eyes flutter, slowly, a yawn forming deep in his chest, rumbling.

Finally — the third thing he feels — is the pain coursing through his bare left leg, throbbing and dull and yet all-consuming. That’s when his eyes flicker open. That’s when he finally sits up, pushing the sheets off his waist, kicking them past his feet.

He’s met with the most bizarre of sights to wake up to.

Lily Evans, head lolled back, mouth gaping open, slumped in a chair shoved hastily adjacent to the bed he’s lying on. Red hair, long and frizzy, tumbles over her shoulders, tied sloppily, tickling the beginnings of her nightshirt, bright yellow and oddly familiar. She seems as if she hasn’t slept in days, from the circles under her eyes, the permanent wrinkle in her forehead, and the uncomfortable position her neck is in. It would have taken someone quite desperate to fall asleep sitting like that.

The jolt of awareness hits him a few moments too late, while he stares for a likely inappropriate amount of time at someone who had just proclaimed to merely tolerate his presence a day prior.

(He shoves that thought far into the depths of his mind, lest he loses himself to self-pity. It truly isn’t the time. Besides, a few feet in front of him sits Lily Evans, in his house, his bedroom. There are more pressing matters to occupy his mind.)

Her shirt — or, more accurately, the shirt she’s wearing — isn’t hers. It’s his. It’s from his early teen years, likely why he hadn’t recognized it at first glance, given that he hasn’t worn it in years — but it is, undoubtedly, his.

Which brings him to his next question: why on earth is Lily wearing his shirt?

He squints at her, frowning. Had she or had she not claimed to detest him — or, at the very least, not like him — mere hours ago? What could have possibly prompted her to put on his shirt to sleep? Perhaps she didn’t realize, he reasons. It’s not like it has his name scrawled across it.

He doesn’t get a chance to think on it any further, however, for the very next moment Lily blinks, groggily, and her eyes open.

James’ heart clenches painfully. In front of him sits Lily Evans in her early-morning sleepy state, framed in watered-down yellow sunlight, bleary-eyed and yawning quietly with a hand pressed to her mouth to quell the sound. Polite and endearing and soft. Wearing his shirt, in his bedroom.

It’s a sight he’s dearly hoped to witness, but — not like this.

“Oh!” Her voice is scratchy and quiet, but the surprised intake of breath that follows her words is just as noticeable as always.

“Hi,” he replies, voice just as husky as hers, rough with disuse.

Lily stares at him for a long moment. If he didn’t know better, he would say that she was drinking in the sight of him.

And then her gaze flickers down, for a fraction of a second, landing on where his long shirt gives way to bare thighs — and she immediately goes red.

“Oh!” she squeaks again, hands flying up to press against her cheeks, blinking rapidly. “You aren’t — you aren’t wearing trousers.”

He looks down, too, and looks back up. “Er, yeah,” he says, trying not to be amused at her floundering. “Would you like me to?”

Lily laughs unsteadily, uncovering her rosy cheeks from behind her hands. “No, no, I wouldn’t — I mean, you don’t have to for my sake.”

(James knows shouldn’t let his feelings for her redevelop, but Merlin if it isn’t so much harder when she looks at him like this.)

“Good to know,” he says instead. And perhaps he takes some pleasure from making her all flustered. If he does, it’s neither here nor there.

She’s still silent, still flushed, so he waits, patiently, for her to say something.

She doesn’t, and he tries not to get aggravated. What did he expect, really?

“Great,” he starts tightly, “If there isn’t anything I can help you with, would you mind calling my mum or dad here?” He gestures to his leg, looking away when he sees mottled red and dried brown and a bandage covering a significant chunk of missing flesh. “As you can see, I’m currently handicapped.”

Lily startles, halfway out of her chair before he finished the sentence.

“No, no, I,” a crease forms, between her brows, “I’m not leaving you.”

I’m not leaving you.

Not I’m not leaving. I’m not leaving you.

Pulling his thoughts up from that dangerous rabbit hole, James forces himself to remember that blazing green fireplace, hearing her spit out words so sharp that he could almost feel his heartstrings be cut apart. Whoever had said sticks and stones had been a bloody fool.

“This really isn’t clearing anything up for me,” he grinds out. “Look, Evans, I’m thrilled to have you here,” at the sight of many a nighttime fantasy starring you, he wisely doesn’t add, “but I’m not exactly having the time of my life. You know, having splinched myself, and all.”

“Godric, I’m so sorry,” she apologises, scrambling out of the chair and onto the bed he’s on, hands clutched around a small, tinted bottle. He reacts immediately, jerking away from the soft touch of fingers against leg. “Oh, shit, I should have asked first! James, can I—”

“Go ahead,” he says gruffly, hands clenching around the bedsheets as Lily perches on the bed beside his torso, her knees pressed to his bare thigh as she hovers above his calf, unscrewing the bottle she holds.

“Essence of Dittany,” she murmurs without prompt as she focuses intently on unwrapping the bandage around the part of his leg cut up, as if someone had grabbed an ice cream scoop and just dug in, helping themselves to a significant chunk —

“Holy Helga,” he chokes, convulsing momentarily as pain wracks his leg, zipping upward as fast as a bolt of lightning, as a few drops of dittany make contact. “Oh,” he says again, this time as a relieved sigh, when the agony subsides barely a moment later, replaced by cool, sweet relief.

“Better?” she asks, visibly anxious, lip pulled between her teeth.

It’s so damn hard to be upset at this girl, especially when she insists on doing kind, decent things like nursing him back to health and sleeping at his bedside. Especially when she’s wearing his shirt and sitting on his bed with her skin against his skin.

He shifts away before he can do something dangerous like, Merlin forbid, kiss her.

“Better,” he says resignedly, mustering a small smile for her sake.

Her expression slackens with relief. A moment later, finally realising their precarious position, Lily hurries off the bed, sparing a final glance at his leg, the wound now appearing days old. He doesn’t call her out when her gaze travels up, lingering on the hem of his shirt, resting high around his thighs.

Again: neither here nor there.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Lily says softly, meeting his eyes with surprising vulnerability, as she settles herself back in the chair.

This is the very same girl who treats people with unfailing kindness, who has endless second chances to offer, for better or for worse. And yet, his heart stutters, and James wonders which God had been cruel enough to let his heart be broken by someone he simply can’t hate.

“You are?” comes out of his mouth, unbidden.

Her gaze pinches and becomes pained. James idly wonders if this is what the face of a liar is.

But he immediately takes it back when she whispers, in a tortured voice, “Of course I am, James, do you really think I’d leave you like that? That I’d want you to die?” Her voice cracks on the last syllable, and he’s shocked by the emotion of his words.

Truthfully, no, he doesn’t. Of course not. She’s Lily bloody Evans. She’d save her worst enemy if he were bleeding out in front of her.

James takes a moment too long to reply, it seems, for the very next moment her face crumples, and something suspiciously shiny mars her green eyes.

“Lily, oh—” he starts, alarmed, but she cuts him off before he can continue.

“I’m so sorry,” she says miserably, voice choked up, and oh, those are definitely tears running down her face.

“I’m so goddamn sorry,” she repeats, a sniffle following her words, furiously rubbing at the dampness of her cheeks. “that I’ve made you believe that I don’t care about you. Because, God, James, I do. I really, really do. I care about you — hell, I like you — so much. I didn’t mean anything I said that day, at Dor’s.” Her voice hitches and she leans forward, expression imploring. “Absolutely none of it.”

It’s absurd, to him — Lily Evans? His Evans, confident and stubborn and unrepentant? Apologising? To James Potter, the bane of her existence?

So absurd that he laughs incredulously, the sound bubbling up his throat before he can think better of it.

“Why are you laughing?” she asks, hurt.

“I didn’t mean to,” he promises, wiping the confused grin off his face, “I just... never expected to hear you apologise to me. It’s usually the opposite, isn’t it?”

“It is,” she admits, reluctant smile at her lips. “But this time I owe you an apology. Or two, or three, or—”

James cuts her off with, “You don’t need to.”

“I do!” Lily insists, eyes blazing with green fire, strands of crimson hair falling loose from where they’re tied up. “I do, because I know I messed up, and I know what I said hurt you—”

“—yeah, but I’m over it, I know you didn’t mean to hurt me—” He finds that it’s only a partial lie. He truly believes that she didn’t mean to hurt him. His reaction, on the other hand, is a different story.

“James, just let me apologise.” Lily scoots her chair closer to his bedside, leaning forward to prop up on her elbows where they rest on the bedsheets.

“If you insist,” he finally gives in with a sigh.

“I do.”

Idly, James wonders where his parents are and whether they know that Lily’s here. He asks as much, and she tells him that she stayed the night — holy hell, is his first thought, Lily Evans slept in my room — with their permission.

What surprises him the most is that Sirius, Sirius bleeding Black, his brother in all but blood, had forgiven Lily. Or, at the very least, he’d permitted her to stay over in James’ room. Which, for Sirius, is glowing praise.

For that reason alone, he resolves to keep an open mind.

“I want to start by saying that this is no excuse for what I said,” Lily begins, her words surprisingly — no, unsurprisingly — sincere, “but you deserve an explanation for why I said what I did. No, I don’t agree with any of the nonsense I said, but it came from somewhere, and you ought to know where.”

He nods mutely, unsure what else to say.

“I was angry, first and foremost. Angry at Mary and Dorcas for needling me to the point of irritation, angry at my sister for being awful about her bloody wedding—”

James grimaces. With everything she’s got on her plate, he really should’ve known better than to ask Lily out, only managing to add more weight to her back.

“—and, most of all, I was angry at you,” she admits.

James startles: he should’ve expected these words. Why else would she have lashed out, after all? And yet his heart sinks with anticipation.

“The worst part is that I had no right to be angry at you,” Lily says with a self-deprecating scoff, one hand swiping away the sleep-rumpled hair that falls over her forehead. “You had been nothing but a perfect gentleman during all our lessons. And, hell, maybe that was why I was angry! Because I had nothing to be angry about!”

“I think I lost you. At the part where you were angry because... you weren’t angry? Because you couldn’t be angry?” James asks, puzzled.

“Yeah, that made no sense,” Lily sighs. “Basically, I’m so used to being angry at you that I was searching for something to fight about — don’t give me that look, I know it’s awful — because at this point, I hate to say it, but it’s almost second-nature for me to pick a fight with you.”

He’s already wishing that he were back asleep, honestly, and there’s a grimace permanently pursed into his lips. This conversation isn’t going the way he’d like it to, at all.

“When I couldn’t let out my frustrations with you rightfully, it just bottled up. Fifth year Lily could yell all she wanted and feel good about knocking you down a few pegs.”

Ouch?

“Sixth year Lily... well, we certainly didn’t fight as much, but I still felt justified in not wanting to be friends with you. I thought we could be polite, we could be friendly, but we didn’t have to be friends.

“And then this summer threw a bloody wrench into my plans.” Lily continues, but she doesn’t sound as bothered about the so-called wrench as she ought to be. “Because I could no longer excuse my coldness toward you when you were so... warm, even despite my perpetual frigidity. You weren’t an arrogant toerag anymore, not by any means. You made my summer so much more bearable, James, but I never expected the unthinkable to happen. I liked you, and I didn’t know what to do with myself because of that.”

“Didn’t know it was the end of the world to be friends with me,” James quips, attempting a smile.

“It isn’t, at all,” Lily says with a sudden fierceness. “I’m sorry I took so long to realise it, but—” she inhales almost apologetically, “you and I have a long history, don’t we?”

“To say the least,” he agrees with a wry smile. “Thanks to my arrogant toerag past... and present?” his voice climbs on the last word, making it out to be a question rather than a statement.

“Not present,” she confirms with a shake of her head. “Just past. Fifth year James was a bloody terror.”

There’s that unsettled feeling again; James resolves to clear the air for good. Tiptoeing around difficult conversations hasn’t gotten him anywhere.

“Fifth year James is the same person as I am now,” he says quietly, hoping his words don’t betray the anxious fluttering behind his navel. “You were right when you said I haven’t grown as much as everyone thinks I have.”

What he doesn’t say says the most.

Because he’s still the same James who trips over his words and his feet when Lily Evans is around. He’s still the same James who sneaks out monthly under a silver-spun cloak to prance around the forest in the dead of the night with his mates. He’s still the same James with an affinity for puns and a penchant for questionable pranks.

Lily meets his statement with surprise in her eyes. “That’s not true, you’ve changed so much—”

“Have I? Have I really?” he repeats, meeting her gaze with an intense one of his own. “I’ve changed about as much as you have, Evans. Sure, I know I’ve quit picking on younger kids when I really don’t need to, I know I’m fitter than last year, and I’d like to think that I’ve deflated my head a tad—”

“—you have—”

“—but I’m the same person as I was last year. I’m not — I’m not a bloody butterfly or something. I didn’t undergo metamorphosis. I just grew up a bit, just like you did. Are those meager changes enough to make you accept me now, like this? Are they enough for you? Am I enough for you?”

His voice doesn’t crack on the last sentence, not at all.

James closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to watch her expression inevitably waver with doubt.

Lily’s silent for so long that dread pools in his throat, turning it dry.

“Yes,” she whispers finally, and he opens his eyes in surprise. “Yes, James, you are. I’m not going to pretend that I can say I liked you in fifth year, not when it’s a lie, but I know that was just as much James as you are now. And maybe I didn’t agree with you most of the time, but I know it isn’t black and white. It isn’t simple, or clear-cut, or a good versus evil dichotomy.”

Lily laughs, suddenly, and it’s a sharp contrast after the hushed emotion of her previous words. “Nothing between the two of us has ever been simple, has it? It’s just got to be eternally complicated.”

“We’re two complicated people with a complicated past. A complicated friendship is to be expected,” James jokes. The relief he feels at her confirmation is palpable, probably even audible through his words.

“Yeah.” She pauses, and a sudden shyness overtakes her features. “A complicated friendship that leads to a complicated relationship?”

He freezes up. For a moment, he’s sure he’s misheard her; surely, she’d said something else, or she’d meant it as a platonic relationship —

“Because I’d like that,” she continues, oblivious to his frozen heartbeat. “A lot. If you’d still have me.”

He swallows slowly, all too aware of the lump building in his throat.

“Are you messing with me, Evans? Because if you are, please don’t. I don’t think I could take any more heartbreak.”

The first genuine smile of their conversation spreads across Lily’s face like gold-swirled daybreak.

“I assure you that I’m not,” she beams. “I still have a lot to catch up on the liking-James-Potter front, but I wanted you to know that I do. Like you, that is.”

“Is that so?” James says dumbly, trying to play it cool but failing miserably.

“It is,” she confirms, smiling softly at him. Basking in the warm glow of sunshine, even with bedhead and an aged nightshirt and joggers, she’s beautiful. “I’m done denying that I fancy you — well, alright, maybe there’s still some denying left — even if I regret telling you later. Which I certainly will, in a few hours. But right now, I’m being the Gryffindor-est Gryffindor you’ve ever met.”

James laughs, sure that it’s loud and bright and giddy, as the truth sinks in, vanishing any incredulity still lingering. If his leg wasn’t still healing, he would jump off the bed to spin her around. Even the grey of the headboard seems infinitely brighter than it did a few minutes ago.

“Then I should ask you before you change your mind,” he teases. “Lily Evans, apple of my eye, jewel in the crown, light of my life—”

“—I’m going to say no if you continue like this, Potter—”

“—will you go out with me?”

He barely has a moment to blink before she’s clambering fully onto the bed, nestling above the covers but still beside him.

“Hmm, let me think about it,” she says playfully.

“Oh, really—”

“I suppose I’ll say yes,” Lily allows with a cheery grin, “but—”

“No buts! You said yes!” James protests, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to pull her close.

“—but only if you pass your apparition exam.”

Lily looks up at him with innocent, doe-like eyes.

“Come on,” he grumbles. “With all due respect, Evans, you’re the worst.”

He doesn’t mean it, not one bit, and she knows that full well.

“Sure,” she agrees pleasantly. “But you love it anyway.”

He does. He really does.

Chapter Text

JAMES

James pulls the bandage taut, carefully rewrapping the gauze around his injured leg. 

The wound, while still striking, appears to have aged significantly over the past few days, thanks to the copious amounts of dittany poured over it. Bright red and fleshy pink have given way to rusted crimson and white scarring against smooth brown skin, reminiscent of a shallow basin carved into orange rock with swirls of white and burnt orange; the colours of the earth. 

Though it has only been four days since his injury, James feels almost good as new. The pain, once biting and clenching, has lessened to the point where it doesn’t bother him for hours on end. 

An added bonus to the days spent on bed rest, limited to one floor of the manor, is that Lily has remained a frequent visitor. 

If someone had told James a month ago that Evans — his Evans — would sit by his bedside when he was injured, he would have laughed in their face. 

Even now, having days to come to terms with it, some part of him still disbelieves. It’s as if he’s living in a far-fetched dreamland concocted by his fifth-year self, one where he’s gravely injured and nursed back to health by the fit redheaded Gryffindor. The only thing missing is a heroic rescue (on his part, of course). 

James finishes wrapping the bandage around the wound, tying it as tightly as he can until he’s satisfied. 

It’s still early in the morning, barely nine a.m., but the comforting cadence of voices conversing wafts through the door, signalling a visitor — and he would wager a good amount on who that visitor is. 

He’s proven correct when he opens the door and steps out into the hallway — with minimum hobbling, he’s happy to note — and is met with the sight of Lily and his mother sitting on a burgundy sofa, chatting like old friends. 

They don’t notice him immediately, so James indulges himself a bit, drinking in the sight. 

His mother’s grey-black hair lays in soft curls around her shoulders, frizzy and thin. A rare sight, given that she usually pins it up into a severe bun, much like Professor McGonagall. That Euphemia Potter, normally the most put-together person within kilometres of wherever she is, has trusted Lily with herself at her most vulnerable, her most unadorned, speaks volumes.  

And then there’s Lily. 

James has known Lily Evans for almost six years now. Before this summer, he had believed that he’d seen Lily in every which way possible. At her angriest, of course (he was very familiar with that version of her); kind and understanding, with her friends and Remus and if he was very lucky, himself; cranky, in the mornings when she was running on too little sleep; sated, after a full meal when she let her guard down enough to have a friendly chat with him. 

The summer has been full of surprises, but perhaps the biggest one is learning how much of Lily Evans he has yet to know. 

He’d never seen her dozing, for one; he’d never known the peaceful expression on her face when she slept, nor the way her head slumped sideways, nor her confused, endearing blinking just after waking up. 

He’d never seen her in his own shirt — other than his imaginations, of course, but those hardly count. Waking up all those days ago to Lily Evans wearing his shirt was something out of a late-night fantasy for him, a thought that he quickly pushed away lest he embarrass himself. 

Over the past few weeks, and especially the days following his injury, James has discovered so many facets of Lily Evans that he couldn’t dream up, and some that she had once taken great care to hide from him. He would never stop being grateful that she’d let him through her walls, that she trusted him enough to be her most true self around him. 

Right now, she sits on the sofa next to his mum, hands folded in her lap, an earnest, genuine curiosity etched onto her features. He can see her sincerity in every crease of her forehead, every quirk of her lips, every thoughtful nod. 

She’s wearing a cardigan — not his, unfortunately, but lovely all the same — with her auburn hair tied low. James can tell immediately that this is her natural hair, with all of the frizz and curls and baby hairs. He loves it so much that his heart just might beat its way out of his chest. 

(He just might love her somewhere in the back of his heart. And if he’s not quite ready to admit it yet, that’s alright. Because she’ll still be there two months from now, and if he’s lucky, two years, too.) 

James clears his throat, almost bashfully. 

They both look around for the source of the sound, smiles lighting up faces when they spot him hovering in the hall. 

“Jamie!” Ma says, sounding delighted. “You’re awake!” 

“Sure am,” he agrees, grinning as he takes a seat on the sofa beside Lily. “Should I be worried about what you two are talking about?” 

If he wasn’t already intrigued, his interest is piqued when they exchange sly glances. 

“Euphemia was just telling me about your fondness for Muggle fire engines when you were younger,” Lily says casually, but the glint in her eye gives away her true intentions. James supposes that the whole Mrs Potter / Euphemia debate has already been hashed out, and the winner is evident. “Apparently you refused to wear any boxers without a lorry on them until you were six?” 

“Merlin’s pants, Mum—” he starts, cheeks flushing hotly. 

“Actually, your pants,” Lily corrects, grinning. “If I’m correct.” 

He levels her a glare that seems to say I’ll deal with you later and turns to his mum, who looks simply delighted at the amusing turn of events. 

“Aside from the fact that you’re telling random people about my underwear habits now,” he starts firmly, “I would greatly appreciate it if you didn’t ruin any respect Evans might’ve had for me before we even —” 

Here, he falters, glancing at Lily. He’s unsure whether her offer for a date — which she made four days ago and hasn’t mentioned since — still stands, or whether she would be upset if his mother knew of it. 

“Go on your date?” Euphemia finishes for him, smiling. “Yes, I am well aware of your plans, Jamie.” 

Whatever he’d been expecting, this hadn’t been it. He gapes like a fish out of water, mouth closing and opening of its own accord. 

“You — you know ?” he asks, rather ineloquently. 

“Lily here filled me in,” she replies smugly.  

His ma likes to claim that James inherited his cocky arrogance from his father, but the truth is that it is all from her. Euphemia Potter is a wonderful woman, but it cannot be denied that she has her moments of, ah, pride. 

“You picked well, Jamie,” she beams, and James sees Lily flush out of the corner of his eye. “Lily, dear, my boy can be rather dimwitted at times, and I’m well aware of his healthy ego—” 

“— Godric, Ma, what did I say about chasing her away—”  

“—but I did raise him well, of that I am certain,” continues Euphemia. “He is a good boy, really.” 

James considers protesting — he would say, ‘ I’m not a dog, Ma ’ and she would raise an eyebrow disbelievingly, quelling his stubbornness just like that — but ultimately decides against it. Defending his honour with a caveat of potential humiliation... he’ll pass, thanks very much. 

Lily, the traitor she is, snorts, taking a disconcerting amount of glee from his embarrassment for someone who claims to — he can barely think it — fancy him. James resigns himself to the possibility that this is simply who she is and what they are to each other. Fancy him or not, Lily Evans will always delight in taking the mick of him. Fancy her or not, James will always make a fool of himself around her. That, for better or worse, is just them.  

“We’re leaving,” James says, standing up abruptly. He takes Lily’s hand in his own — he immediately has the urge to never let go — and they do an odd sort of drag-shuffle away from where his ma still sits on the couch, hands folded primly in her lap contrasting with her devious smile. “Thanks for entertaining Evans while I was preoccupied, but your help is no longer needed—” 

“Really, Potter, that’s no way to talk to your mother,” chides Lily. “She has been nothing but perfectly lovely to me. The polite genes must have skipped a generation.” 

James glares. “If I had known you and Ma would have joined forces to bully me, I never would have introduced you.” 

This is, of course, a lie. As humiliating as it might be for him to know that Lily Evans — the object of his affections for years — knows of his boxer preferences as a child, it’s undeniable that seeing his mum and Lily get along swimmingly has eased some unknown worry in his chest. Bringing the girl home to the parents feels a lot less daunting once she’s met them both already. 

“If I recall properly, you didn’t introduce us so much as lie passed out in your bed for a day,” she says wryly. “The introducing happened while you were out cold.” 

“Semantics,” he dismisses and continues to shuffle-drag Lily with him away from the sitting room. “Goodbye, Ma! Thanks for nothing!” 

Euphemia laughs and replies, “Have fun!” 

Honestly, James thinks, mums. As if he could be around Lily and have anything but fun. 

He pulls her along with him to the orchards in the back, remembering her delight the first time she showed up at his house. The second, of course, hadn’t gone quite as planned — but the first had been a resounding success. James remembers wondering if perhaps something was wrong, or if she had been testing some potion with odd side effects. Lily Evans, spending time with him willingly? Was he in a dream? 

Oh, how the tables have turned.  

Perhaps she’s been harbouring a hidden flame for him all this while. Maybe that was why Lily didn’t give him detention on Halloween night when he’d been out after curfew. 

It’s an enticing thought, that. 

He voices as much to her; she looks at him, faintly amused.  

Once more, he is struck dumb by her casual grace. It’s always been easier to notice and easier to appreciate her beauty in the sunlight. Something about the halo of warmth bracketing auburn curls manages to bring out the green in her irises, the pink in her cheeks, the red in her lips. As the sun glows, so does Lily. 

(Merlin, he wants to kiss her.) 

“You’re pushing your luck,” Lily is saying, shaking her head. “I can assure you that I wasn’t secretly in love with you all of last year.” 

Those words — in love — do something to his heartbeat that’s far too confusing to confront right now. 

“You were attracted to me, though,” James presses, sure of this, at the very least. 

Lily rolls her eyes again. “Please. Check your ego, Potter.” But her red cheeks are as telling as can be. James laughs, half surprised, half smug at the confirmation. 

“Denial isn’t a good look on you, Evans.” 

“ Nothing is a good look on you, Potter.” 

“Tell that to the girl who asked me out,” he replies, grinning. “I think she’d beg to differ.” 

“ I think she’d tell you it was a momentary lapse in judgement,” retorts Lily, red-cheeked. 

The rational part of his brain knows that she’s joking. This is what they do, after all; they kid and they joke with each other.  

But maybe this joke hits a bit too close to home. His heartbeat stumbles pathetically, and the less sensible part of his brain is already second-guessing every flirty comment he’s made. Maybe his mum really did scare her away. 

“Do you — do you mean that?” he asks, fingers crossed behind his back, attempting to hide the anxiousness in his voice.  

She looks up, surprised, a blur of red and freckles with a dash of emerald sprinkled in. And then her gaze softens.  

“A bit early to joke about that, isn’t it?” she says with a guilty smile. “Sorry.” Clearing her throat, she adds, almost bashfully, “I don’t regret asking you out. I like you, James, and I don’t foresee that changing any time soon.” 

He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, her words — I like you, James — ringing in his skull. “Doesn’t hurt to double-check, does it?” he jokes. “I wouldn’t blame you if you changed your mind after that show my mum put on.” 

Lily only laughs, sweet as honey. “As if. Euphemia’s the main reason I’m here, really.” 

This time, he picks up on the joke fast enough. Lily likes him, truly likes him, and he’s determined not to waste any more time overthinking every word that comes out of her mouth. 

“And here I thought it was my charm and good looks.” 

“Good looks? If I’m feeling generous. Charm? Not a chance.” 

James clutches a hand to his chest in mock offense. The wide grin on his lips doesn’t exactly corroborate his supposed affront, but he’s consoled by Lily’s own smile, which is equally as joyful. “You wound me, Evans. I’ve been told that I could charm the socks off a hippogriff.” 

“If you set the bar low, you can achieve anything,” she says with a snort. “And if you set the bar to impossible, no one can refute your absurdity. Tell that to me that again once you actually see a hippogriff with socks, and then we’ll talk.” 

For the first time, James gets why their friends always comment on his and Lily’s supposed flirting. Even when he had a raging thing for her, he had always insisted that it was only friendly banter; he had fervently denied any accusations of flirtation, and he’s sure she had done the same to her mates.  

But now, as they play out the same scene they’ve rehearsed to the point of memorization now, it’s undeniable that the teasing undertones are clearly there. They can pull this gig off in their sleep now; James with his effortlessly cocky flirtations and Lily with her immediate quips to retort with. They’ve been sowing the seeds for this — them — for much longer than either of them has known. The bedrock has always been there, waiting for the bricks to be laid upon them. 

“I’ll show you,” he vows, “when I sweet-talk the Ministry apparition exam proctor into passing my sorry arse.” 

At this, Lily narrows her eyes. “There will be no sweet-talk involved.” For a moment, James fancies her jealous — Godric, he’s falling back into his fifth year wishes, isn’t he — before his dreams are dashed as she continues, “I’ll make sure that you pass that exam fair and square even if it’s the last thing I do.” 

This side of Lily Evans just might be better, though. The side that genuinely wants him to do well.  

And if that doesn’t show his growth in the past year and a half, passing up on somewhat of a fantasy for his younger self for growth and maturity and all that, what does? 

“Bossy. I like it.” 

She gives him a warning glare, but he can see her fighting off a smile. 

“Did you forget that the date isn’t happening unless you pass the exam?” 

He stands up a little bit taller as she says that, shocked into paying attention. Lily smirks. 

“I’m an expert at apparition, I’ll have you know.” 

“Put some muscle behind your words, then,” she challenges. “Can you keep up with me?” She punctuates her words with a toss of her head, a sheet of red hair flying with the movement. He’s sure she doesn’t miss the way it draws his eye, nor the way his eyes slip down to her lips. 

He opens his mouth to reply that yes, of course he can, but before he can so much as form the letter y on his lips, she’s disappeared. 

She reappears several metres away, Cheshire-sized grin on her face. 

“Too slow,” says Lily haughtily, when James snaps his head in her direction, only for her to turn on the spot and end up on his other side. 

This time, James concentrates — he isn’t willing to risk another splinching accident — before apparating where Lily had been only seconds before. 

When he opens his eyes, the twisting in his gut receding, she’s standing beside a tall magnolia cross-bred tree, not even a little bit breathless. In fact, she looks as if she was taken right out of a Witch Weekly cover, posing elegantly with a model-worthy smirk. He desperately wants to kiss those lips. 

“Good Godric,” he mutters, and tries again. Predictably, by the time he looks around, she’s gone. 

He nearly gives up, halfway to saying screw this and lunging toward her, but his pride stands in the way. 

He tries again; he fails again. By now, he’s out of breath and distantly remembering that he probably shouldn’t be apparating this much while still recovering from an injury. 

“Is that all you’ve got?” 

He glares at Lily; at her smug put-togetherness, at her perfect hair while his is a bird’s nest, at her mouth that looks so damn kissable. 

The twinkle in her green eyes spells out danger, and she fulfils that prophecy by apparating again and again, this time closer and closer to him. James tries valiantly; fails spectacularly. 

“Honestly, James, this is just pathetic,” Lily comments, barely a metre away from him now. She’s getting too cocky, James thinks. She’s smiling, too, and one hand plays with the ends of crimson curls. “Do you expect to pass the exam like—” 

While she had been talking, James had been thinking. And now, as she’s just within reach and any smidgen of self-control has escaped him in his weary, state, he doesn’t think before reaching out and pulling her into a kiss. 

A more romantic moment would have been preferable. James has dreamt of their first kiss many times, each more fantastical than the last, but not even in the most outlandish of his fantasies has he imagined any kiss such as this.  

James grew up with parents whose fairytale romance had been told to him like a bedtime story. True love started in Hogwarts — as it did in all exceptional romances — and hadn’t ended even at seventy years old with a nearly-grown son and accomplished careers. 

He’d been battling with his urge to kiss Lily all day, but to succumb under the most un romantic of scenarios...? It’s a good thing the kiss was more than excellent enough to make up for it. 

His hand grips her waist, fingers splayed across the cotton cardigan she’s wearing; his other hand already tilts her chin up to face him. Lily’s lips are chapped, and so are his; her hands are cold, but he’s all too happy to warm them up. 

He gives himself hardly one moment to sink into the kiss before the realisation hits him and he pulls away immediately, horror sinking into his stomach. What has he done?  

“Lily, I—” 

But he barely forces out the second word before her hand is tangling in his hair and pulling him back down to kiss him with renewed fervour. James is shocked into complying, kissing her back immediately. He may be confused, but he’s certainly not complaining, that’s for sure. 

Perhaps this is the most unromantic first kiss one could have, but, at the same time, it seems apt, somehow. That it was in the middle of the argument; that Lily had been attempting to teach him, that somehow, she’d lost track of the sentiment and turned it into a game; that James had been damningly frustrated to the point that he’d kissed her without so much as a hallelujah. 

The kiss ends with a soft pop as Lily moves her face away. A spark of anxiety sputters, wondering if this is the moment the blissful bubble is popped, but it’s swiftly quashed by her red-lipped beam. 

“It’s about time,” she says, grinning. “I’ve been waiting all day.” 

James laughs breathlessly, swooping down to kiss her again. This kiss — fluttering, scorching, mindnumbing — is absolutely worth splinching himself for. 

LILY

There are days when Lily feels like she can touch the stars if only she reaches — like any wish she makes will come true. Today is one of those days. A day that is certain to pass smoothly; a day that will be just as joyful as the past week has been. 

Her cheery attitude is due in large part to the boy ambling beside her, his warm brown palms heating up her cool fingertips where they are entwined.  

His chatter, once loathed and avoided at all costs, is now welcomed with open arms. Lily thinks she could listen to him speak for hours without tiring — on Quidditch, on school, on politics. Hell, she would even listen to a speech on wizarding shoe fashion if he was the one giving it. 

Some people, when in the spotlight, make those around them seem duller in comparison. James Potter is the exact opposite. Strolling down near-empty streets, pressed close to her date — they’re on a date , for goodness’ sake — Lily has never felt sunnier. His light, effervescent and unignorable, somehow has a way of making the world around him brighten a few shades to keep up, Lily included. 

James Potter, she thinks, is a risk worth taking. 

“Did I ever say thank you?” James’ voice pulls her back to the present. It’s warm and laced with affection. Her heart squeezes a little, just at his voice; she’s pathetically smitten, but she can’t bring herself to care when she has all the confirmation that she needs that he feels the same. 

“For what?” she asks, bewildered. 

“Helping me pass the apparition exam yesterday,” James says. “I couldn’t have done it without you, really. I owe you one, Evans.” 

That’s sweet and all, and it certainly makes her face hurt from smiling, but somehow Lily doubts that’s true. Sure, she definitely helped him get started, but James had put in the effort and mastered apparition. Though it probably helped that he had this date as an incentive. 

“It was all you, James,” Lily says modestly. “I only gave you a boost when you needed it.” 

“Oh, please,” he laughs, shooting her a fond smile from where he stands taller than her, the shadow of his figure cast over her. “Now isn’t the time for modesty. Just accept my thanks, Evans. Or should I say Head Girl Evans?” 

She laughs, blush coating her cheeks. The letter that had arrived by owl right before their date, stamped with the Hogwarts seal, had been met with immediate incredulity and bursting delight. When she showed it to James and he pulled out an identical letter with a sheepish smile, she couldn’t resist throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him right then and there in the middle of the ice cream parlour. It had garnered quite a few dirty glares from passerby, but Lily hadn’t minded one bit. 

“You’re welcome, Head Boy.” 

The narrow streets, though empty, don’t feel eerie at all thanks to the warmth radiating off the boy beside her. Grey-brown stones line the pathway — they form a narrow, winding path in between the squat red-brick buildings. 

Cokeworth. Home. 

Lily tests the word out on her tongue, mouthing it soundlessly. Home. The name feels almost unfamiliar to her. This place hasn’t been home for quite a while.  

Home is the tall spiral staircases of Gryffindor tower. Home is the red and gold curtains hanging off her four-poster. Home is the laughter wafting from breakfast in the Great Hall. 

And yet, Lily knows that she can never truly leave Cokeworth behind. It’s the place of her first breath, her first smile, first step, first magic, first friend, first love. All the firsts. 

Severus may have shed his Muggle roots like they were a second skin — Lily doubts that any of his Slytherin mates know his true lineage — but Lily wears it proudly. Cokeworth may not be home anymore, but it is just as much a part of her as Hogwarts is. 

That being said, she’s still nervous to share this with James. She’s seen his house many a time — hell, she spent the night in his bedroom while he was right there — but he’s never been to hers, or even her hometown. 

So here they are. In Cokeworth. On a date. An odd choice of location for a first date, Lily realises, even if they’d spent the first few hours at Diagon Alley. 

“It’s a charming town.” James looks around curiously, his slender fingers wrapped around a foggy glass of butterbeer he’d bought at the Leaky Cauldron. She’s definitely not staring. “But there’s no one around.” 

Lily chews her bottom lip. “This is, ah, an abandoned building complex. It was used before Cokeworth hit our period of depression — maybe almost twenty years ago — and most of our major businesses were around here before they shut down. Today, we’re just a mining town that barely makes ends meet.” She swallows, hand clammy, as she takes in the barren streets and the whisper of cold brought by the evening breeze. “I know there’s not much to see.” 

James’ brows are furrowed. “Er, depression?” 

Lily fights back a smile. “I forgot that wizards don’t have terms for any of this. It’s... well, it’s when a place is financially out of luck. And stays like that — for a long time. Most of the town is still in recovery, my family included.” 

“Ah.” He nods, blinking. Lily gets the sense that he doesn’t know quite what to say. “I’m —sorry.” 

She takes his hand and squeezes. “Don’t be. Let me show you something nicer, yeah?” 

He nods enthusiastically, tufts of black curls bouncing against his forehead. 

The muggy gloom lifts immediately as she leads them out of the abandoned building complex. The squat houses lining the roads aren’t the easiest on the eyes, but the wide fields of green grass in the distance make up for it. 

“You see that tree?” Lily points out a lone tree half-hidden behind a particularly thick patch of bushes. “Petunia and I used to climb it when we were young.” She pauses, then amends, “Well, I would climb the tree. Tuney would run to Mum and Dad to tell on me. We made it work.” 

James laughs. “Your sister sounds like a real piece of work.” 

Lily thinks back to last week — when Petunia found out that she’d stayed the night at a boy’s house. And not just any boy — a freak, like her. 

Suffice to say, that argument hadn’t ended well. Lily hasn’t spoken to her sister since — but it’s difficult to muster up any regret when the boy in question’s beam lights her up, toes to cheeks. 

She shivers despite the midday heat. James’ hands squeeze hers immediately, as if he can sense her grief just like that. 

“She can be, yes,” Lily says brusquely. “Anyway, this is what I wanted to show you. The park.” 

The grass stretches lazily under their feet. A rickety swing set sits on a patch of pavement, the blue and yellow of the chains faded and aged. Carved into one of the tall metal posts Lily sees faint scratch marks — the signature of a younger version of herself. 

Lily + Tuney + Mum + Dad, it reads. Reminiscent of a similar summer day — but a decade ago — when the Evans family had a sundrenched picnic lunch in the park. It was one of the few perfect days of her life. Even Tuney managed to keep her complaints about Lily’s recklessness to herself for those few hours.  

Despite herself, Lily smiles. She hasn’t been here — to this park — since her father passed away. Partly because she’d convinced herself that it would be too painful... but mostly because she was simply afraid. 

Now, though, none of that fear lingers in her mind as she pushes James to the swing beside hers. 

“Swing with me?” 

His dimpled grin peeks through. “Like you don’t know my answer already, Evans. Of course I will.” 

And that, Lily thinks, is why she likes him so much.  

She grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls him to meet her lips in a quick, messy kiss of clashing teeth and fluttering eyes and incredulous laughter (from James, who hasn’t seemed to get it in his thick skull that, yes, she wants him, and she wants to kiss him ). 

It’s not the first kiss they’ve shared since that day in the Potters’ orchard. But there’s something about this one that feels like the first all over again — the butterflies erupting in her stomach, the smile she can’t quash, the desperate need snatching the breath from her lungs. 

Just as suddenly as she kissed him, she pulls away, chest heaving. 

(His hooded eyes slide down; she smirks.) 

“What,” James begins roughly, “was that for, Evans?” 

Lily kicks the ground for momentum, heart swooping as her feet lift off the ground and her hair is tossed over her shoulders. 

“C’mon, Potter. Let’s swing.” 

He follows her, after some grumbling, and Lily rolls her eyes, hiding a smile when she sees his enthusiastic kicking as he swings higher and higher. 

From this high, with the wind leaving her red hair windswept and the breeze biting at the corners of her eyes, she feels on top of the world for the first time in years. 

Cokeworth is sprawled out beneath her feet, all green and grey and jagged landscape. From this distance she can’t quite spot the tree she’d shown James earlier — but the abandoned buildings stand tall and proud, haloed in a cloud of smog from the coal mines. Her neighborhood complex is visible too, even if from this height they’re just little boxes of beige. 

Adrenaline pumps through her veins, swelling up like a swollen balloon. For a brief, crazed moment, Lily imagines flying off the swing with her arms spread, chin tipped up, and never touching the ground again. 

When she leaps off, her dreams are dashed as she lands gracefully, feet firmly pressed to the ground. James’s whoop soothes the sting of disappointment, and any thoughts of soaring through the sky disappear when he crushes her into a bear hug. 

“Muggles are brilliant,” he says breathlessly. “Just brilliant .” 

Lily laughs and twines her arms around his neck, the biting chill of the swing smothered by his steady heat. He’s like a bloody furnace. 

“I told you that you would like it,” she says. “You’re the most Quidditch-obsessed wizard I’ve ever met, and this is the closest most Muggles can get to flying.” 

It’s funny, really, that Lily’s never gotten the hang of flying, given her lifelong obsession with taking off into the skies. Perhaps she’ll have James teach her once they’re back at Hogwarts. 

“Most?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Some of the really lucky ones get to skydive,” she says, a tad bit resentfully. 

James’s eyes go comically wide. “ Skydiving,” he says, amazed. “You’ve got to show me, Lil.” 

With the pleading smile he gives her and the dark, mussed hair her gaze is always drawn to, there’s no way Lily can resist promising him everything he asks of her. 

It should be scary, she thinks. Liking someone this much. Liking James this much. 

But nothing about this — his arms around her, her hands braced on his chest, a smile wide enough to hurt her cheeks, her heartbeat in sync with his — feels frightening. Not a single bit. 

James looks down at her like he can tell what she’s thinking. Hazel eyes soften before he brushes a kiss to her temple. 

“I like you so much, Evans.” 

No response feels adequate — in this state there’s no way Lily can think up the words to explain how he makes her feel — so she settles for tangling her hands in his hair and pulling him into a kiss that sears her numb lips.  

Kissing James Potter is like jumping off the swing; wind in hair, arms spread wide, mind full of possibilities. And being with James Potter...  

Well. It’s like flying — spreading her wings and taking off into the night sky with no intention of coming back down.