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Turns out James Potter is absolutely lovely— and it drives her insane.
She hates that she ever thought otherwise, the world becoming brighter and light and free with his presence. The days of denying happiness behind them, he grabs her hand in the halls, twirling her towards a wall and giving her the most loving kiss she could ever ask for. He bypasses cheering crowds after matches, slap happy and sweaty and all but launching himself into her arms. He holds her close against him while he finishes a transfiguration essay, stroking her hair while the crackle of the common room fire and his steady breath lull her asleep.
It should embarrass her—it certainly would with any other bloke—but he makes it so genuine, so fucking cute that she has no choice but to lean into it.
And why shouldn’t she? Outside these stolen moments of happiness is a raging war, coming closer everyday. Lines being drawn within the student body much less the wizarding world; her ‘kind’ being targeted, tortured, killed while life goes on, becoming increasingly desensitized as she lies awake wondering when her turn will come…
So fuck it— let them be in love.
But they can’t keep it all at bay: there is a consistent stream of whispers that follow them as they walk hand in hand through the halls. A muggleborn and pureblood together—a radical, dangerous concept. For some it’s decidedly a political act, for others a full blown perversion—the latter apparent when clumps of Slytherins leer her way, speaking in heightened whispers that are easily heard across classrooms.
“It’s one thing to want a sloppy shag,” she overhears Avery say to Bellatrix Black during ancient runes, “but to actually date a mudblood? Does Potter not know where she’s been?”
Her blood curdles in her veins, hand grasping at her quill so tight it might snap.
“Hey Snape! You’ve fucked her right?”
A cold shiver runs down her back. She doesn’t need to turn around to know that Sev’s face is unmoving.
“No—I-I haven’t.”
Bellatrix's screeching laugh rings through the room, slicing her chest in two.
“Well, don’t look so glum about it— fuck knows what diseases that mudblood’s got in her.”
She knows James must hear the talk too, he’s on the quidditch team afterall. Boys in locker rooms have always had the loose mouths of old biddies, sharing and twisting the newest gossip like weaving a shawl. She would bet galleons there wasn’t a day that Muggleborn girls and their bodies weren’t a prime topic of conversation.
“ They think muggleborn girls are easy,” someone had explained to her early on in third year after all the boys on the platform ogled her bum in a muggle polyester miniskirt. “You should be careful, they’ll try to take advantage—they always do.”
If it bothers James, he doesn’t show it, but she wishes he would—she is starting to feel completely fucking mental.
“James?”
“Hm?”
His face is turned up to the sun, glasses catching a glint of light pouring through the trees that surround them in the brush. It’s one of her favorite places they go together—certainly the best place for a snog next to the ever disruptive choice of the dorms. Just penetrating the forest, the trees envelop them in a certain privacy that one could hardly find in a castle teeming with nosey students and unassuming ghosts. It also helps that James seems his calmest here—always resembling something of a contented animal sunning himself in the freedom of open air.
“Can I take your glasses off?”
He winks one eye open, giving her a skeptical glance. His lips, red and swollen from an earlier bout of snogging, twitch up into a lopsided grin.
“Why? Should I be nervous?”
Lily huffs, trying and failing to keep the blaze in her cheeks in check while debating the absolute absurdity of her next works.
“I want to say something to you,” she says, finding the broach in conversation a horrible idea with each passing syllable, “but I don’t want you looking at me when I say it.”
“But I’ll still be looking at you…just all fuzzy like.”
He tilts his head towards her but she averts her eyes, hands aimlessly pulling at the grass.
“Humor me—please.”
He makes an inviting gesture and she leans forward to pluck his glasses and fold them into the grass beside him. Upon returning her gaze a wave of adoration hits— seeing his face fresh from obstruction makes him look unfiltered, like seeing a dream version of him that only exists in the id of his psyche. Catching her interest, he wraps an arm around her waist and sits up enough to give her one small peck on the lips.
“So now that you’ve successfully handicapped me, what would you like to talk about?”
She takes a breath and closes her eyes. The need for a cigarette or at least something to do with her hands claws at her like an unreachable itch. The grass slips between her fingers, making tearing noises as she unroots it.
“How far have you…gone with girls, y’know before me?”
It’s a silly question, but one she needs to ask for her own sake. She knows James hasn’t been completely chaste in his time at Hogwarts but just like there is a stereotype for muggleborns, there is an equal one for his upbringing.
“They are bloody hypocrites,” Elodie McLauren lamented once during a girls night in the dorms. “ They’ll judge you for even looking at another bloke before them, but the second you don’t get on your knees, they get all mardy.”
James blinks, squinting and failing to fix his vision. The arm wrapped around her waist constricts, threatening to push her down onto him with its tension.
“I’ve certainly snogged if that's what you’re asking,” he murmurs.
“That’s it?”
He turns to her, eyes squinting while an eyebrow arches higher. The hand on her back stalls, thumb hooked into the top of her skirt.
“Guess I’ve been privy to some intentional wiggling as well…”
She can’t help but snort. “Intentional…wiggling?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know,” he flashes her a cheeky grin, the thumb against her waist wagging in suggestion, “You're too talented at it yourself to not be aware.”
He gives her side a little squeeze making her squeak, but his movements are in conflict with his expression—jaw clicking as though focusing on something well beyond the forest. She picks up his glasses and twirls them lightly in her hand, happy to put her anxiety into the movement.
“So you haven’t… you know—”
“Shagged anyone?” He finishes her sentence, eyebrows lifting higher.
“Nah—aspire to one day though.”
Her stomach swoops and a wave of regret runs through her, pouring like ice down her neck. Great, so you really are some muggleborn slag here to steal his modesty.
He turns his head and blinks at her. Without his glasses the pockets of sun catch the gold in his eyes, making him seem more like a painting of himself than the living and breathing thing.
“What’s going on in there Evans?” He hums, reaching a hand up and tapping a finger on her chin. “I can’t tell if the big red blob in front of me is from your blush or your hair—I’d really like to know.”
He gives one of those lopsided smiles that makes her completely melt and he slides his palm against the curve of her jaw, beckoning her to lean forward.
“Nothing—really. It’s silly.” She bites her lip, again wishing to have the sweet inhale of nicotine to heighten her courage.
“It’s just, the other day when we were snogging in your bed…”
James’ eyes immediately go glassy, no doubt recalling the same details that flash through her mind: the scratch of his teeth on her breasts, her soft gasp as she palms his arousal through strained pants, fingers curling around the lace of her knickers…
“I remember it fondly,” James cuts in dreamily. The hand on her waist gives a long caress downwards, sending jolt through her synapses.
“Right—well, you just seemed like you knew what you were doing…like you wanted to maybe…”
He bursts into a laugh and it startles her, making her reel back. Before she can protest, he all but tackles her middle and it sends her falling back into the grass, fingers dancing under the fluttery hem of her shirt until she is shrieking for freedom.
“Oi! Piss off with the tickling— and especially that stupid chuffed look on your face, ” She gasps, finally having rolled herself out of arms length from him. He does not, instead looking even more triumphant as he lounges back on his forearms.
“Can’t be helped, that,” he grins, “You just told me I am a natural at preshag activities. My ego is never going to recover.”
Lily scoffs, sitting up and busying herself with brushing bits of grass from her skirt so he can’t see her blush.
“Nevermind, I'll take it back then— find a new muggleborn to teach you how to shag.”
She doesn’t mean it to sound as harsh as she does, but it lands like a stone between them. All joy drains from James’ body, his face going deathly pale.
“Hey– shit— is that what this is about? That you think I’m playing you on? Hey, Lily—look at me.”
He reaches for her and she tries to push away, not wanting him to see if tears start to fall.
“Just—people talk. And I know, I know, you aren’t like all those git Slytherins who use people like property…but you don’t believe what they say about muggleborns right? That we are an easy lay…”
She tries to keep her voice steady, but it betrays her, punctuating the ends of each sentence with a quiver.
“I just know you know that I’ve already been with someone before and I…”
She trails off, not very keen on uncovering the less desirable moments in her life. What would she even say that wouldn’t make it all seem less incriminating? Hey, you think it’s groovy that I had a meaningless shag years ago just to get it over with, right? That I might have done it with the express intention of trying to erase my complicated feelings about you at the time? The face of the muggle boy flashes past, still wearing a leather jacket with a Slits pin and grunting over top of her while the ceiling fan spins away the heat of a summer years ago. With a shake of her head, he disappears.
“Lily, you’re entitled to your own choices. It doesn’t change the way I think about you—though I’m not too thrilled you think I’d care about something like this.”
His voice pulls her back out of her haze and she snaps her head to look at him, fruitlessly scanning his face for any sarcasm.
“That’s awfully progressive for someone who hexed Bertram Aubrey back in sixth for just going on a date with me,” she says, her voice dripping with skepticism. James gives a self-deprecating snort, scooting towards her to sandwich a hand between both of his.
“Correction: I hexed Aubrey because he was saying some rather unsavory things about what he wanted to do on said date—very loudly and detailed I might add.”
He reaches up and gives her cheek a swipe of his thumb, resting his palm against the line of her jaw. His hand is warm and a little damp from the grass which still holds the last vestiges of morning dew despite the sun being far overhead. It should feel awkward, shouldn’t it? Talking about things like sex and other partners to someone you have just technically started dating? But as always, James is surprising, not being pushy or jealous or skeptical, rather taking all the information as it comes as though working on some quidditch play or difficult spell.
“People are knobs,” James says, his hazel eyes lulling her in, “And I don’t think you’re easy. Fuck– you’re probably the most difficult and confusing part of my life and I still think you’re perfect. If you regretted shagging someone in the past it would make me sad, but you are the person you are now because of it, so I can’t hate it.”
The sincerity in his gaze only reaffirms what years of watching him grow up has told her, that his open mindedness has not only expanded in the many years she has known him, but perhaps has always been there in the first place, capable of seeing past his own little world and accepting to meet people where they were despite it all.
It’s what has called her back to him again and again—he makes her feel lighter, like the weight of her blood status, issues at home, the impending war don’t matter at all. All that matters is the spring sun and the chirping crickets and this stupid, wonderful boy's hand in hers.
“Thank you,” she says, leaning in to give him a soft peck on the lips. He meets her halfway, turning her chaste kiss into multiple ones until they are falling back again onto the grass, full of endless soft sighs and hungry lips.
“So you would want to then?” she says when they finally come back up for air. Propping her chin up on his chest, she fiddles with the hem of his shirt, hoping he can’t feel her heart jump when her fingertips touch the exposed skin of his stomach.
“What?”
“Be…y’know, with me.”
It gets his attention, his head craning upwards and eyes blinking into round, darkening discs.
“I—this is a trap isn’t it?”
“It’s not a trap.”
His eyes go wider, trying to fixate on her and getting frustrated by the lack of vision. He opens his mouth and clamps it shut again, a frown forming.
“No, this is definitely a trap–that or you are delusional.”
He sits up abruptly and she follows suit. His expression has gone brooding, scanning her face for something until he lets out a small sardonic chuckle under his breath.
“You really, really think that—me, a teenage boy who has clearly fancied you since fourth year—has not dreamed of shagging you for years. Years, Evans.”
She doesn’t know what to say so she says nothing, staring back at him while his face goes from confusion to amusement in a series of seconds.
“See, this is a trap. That’s why you took my glasses, isn't it? You wanted an advantage, you sneak.”
She leans over and reaches for his glasses. When she pulls back, his eyes linger on the curve of her bum. At the very least it’s evidence to support his case.
“Here—no trap, no advantage,” she says, restoring the glasses on his face. She gives a heaving sigh, closing her eyes and rolling the hem of her skirt in her hand.
“I just ask because people talk—”
“And say what?” He grins, looking maddeningly cute when his eyesight finally comes back into focus and she can practically see his joy in seeing her properly again.
“That I’m madly in love with you and look like I want to please you in mind, body, and spirit everyday–all day– for the rest of my life? That I don’t give a single solitary fuck about your blood status or what you’ve chosen to do or not do with your body? That most days, I’m just in awe that you even look my way, much less seem interested in letting me touch you because you are so out of my league I feel like I need to slap myself awake every single moment we’re together? Because yes, they would be correct on all counts.”
It is all so stupid, so unbearably teenager of them, and it feels like such a relief. A laugh bubbles up, one that makes her grab her belly and brace for the cramps in her sides. James watches on, looking like he could bask in the sound of her laughter for as long as he can, a smile cracking his face in two.
“I’m an idiot,” she finally gasps out, letting her laughter give its last death rattle. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let them get to me like that.”
Rather than responding, he scoots himself over to her and pulls her back down into the grass, cradling her head against his chest. He feels warm, like he’s absorbed all the sunlight on earth and transformed into his own autonomous source of energy.
“It’s alright,” he murmurs, fingers twisting through the hairs at the back of her neck. “I just wish you had come and asked me first before getting all freaked out about it. I’m not taking the piss either—about what I said. You’re my bloody dream, Evans.”
Laughter turns into sighs as she pulls up and slots her mouth against his, lips moving soft and becoming more hungry by the second. Deepening the kiss, she readjusts until she is straddled over him, his hands moving downwards while hers move up, curling deep into the roots of his hair. Her hips wave forward and he lets out a shuttered groan, hands finding their way under her skirt and squeezing her in place so she can grind more friction into the spot between them.
“And what about you?” He gasps against her neck, finding her pulse point and gently nibbling at the skin.
“You didn’t tell me if you’d want to—” he trails off, gasping a soft christ as her hips move forward once more, sending a shock of electricity through them like a closed circuit.
She reaches for the hands that grasp at the flesh of her thighs and leads them to where the lace of her knickers hangs low on her hips. When she helps his fingers start to pull downwards, James' body bucks on its own accord.
“I’m done talking for today, thanks,” she says, pressing a hot kiss into his neck.
“I think I’d much rather show you if that’s alright.”