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I pedal my feet relentlessly down the crowded second-floor corridor, swerving around meandering first years and shooting daggers at the imbeciles foolish enough to stand in my path. I mean, where is the urgency? Does every pupil in this school lack haste? For Merlin’s sake… IT’S 8:52!
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
I bite back the urge to scream. Normally, a Lily-Evans-Rage-Fest is excellent fun. Unfortunately, (or fortunately, rather, depending on who’s speaking), imposing my wrath on the Hogwarts population simply wouldn’t be worth the energy on this particular occasion. The typical zest of such aforementioned fest is not beneficial when one is actively hurdling down the corridor, audience be damned.
Another few footsteps and finally the first-year crowd has slightly diminished. However, my alarm remains on the incline. After all, blaming naive first-years is all good and well, but being in this situation might be a tad bit more my fault than I let on. I mean, seriously, you would think, “Well, Lily, surely you exaggerate—“, and to that I cut you off and inform you that while I DO have a knack for embellishment, one might say, today I am completely reasonable in my hysteria.
Well, I can’t (and WON’T) take all of the blame… It’s just that when you finally get ahold of the NEWEST copy of Lacy Lancaster’s A Witches Guide to Murder, then of course, it’s only natural to stay up until the wee hours of the morning pouring over the edition. And then, well, naturally, one must re-read Lancaster’s words with a fine-tooth comb to catch every twist… and I suppose, by 6:00 AM, it wouldn’t hurt to indulge in the briefest of naps before breakfast at 7:45… right?
WRONG. It most DEFINITELY hurts, Lily.
And now, here I am, having woken up at 8:40 on the dot, missing breakfast, teeth unbrushed, red hair tangled in what must be a catastrophic braid, (From what I can sense, I won’t be getting scouted for any Pantene adverts to say the least. Though, I haven’t peeked in the mirror, so who really knows?) and clutching my Transfiguration book like a lifeline.
Oh yes, you read that correctly, Dear Readers. Go ahead, rub your eyes, push up your glasses, even turn up your screen brightness! And with that, you may note that it will STILL say that out of all of my classes, I am late for Transfiguration. Because, why of course, it just had to be transfiguration with our darling McGonagall.
I’m beginning, not for the first time today, to question my severe Lucy Lancaster shaped lapse in judgement.
I mean, it is only my first time being late for Transfiguration, being the stellar student I am. Yet… I can already picture Professor McGonagall’s raised brow and clipped, “Evans!” when I stumble into class, sweat-coated, knapsack half-open, and textbook clinging for dear life. Something tells me that my beloved professor, for some bizarre reason, wouldn’t appreciate the blatant disrespect to her class.
Another slimy first-year darts past. Brilliant, I curse under my breath. Only a few meters to the stairwell. Come on, Lily, you can make it! The numbers flash 8:57 in pulses of motivation, and one last corner stands between me and temporary salvation—
“Jesus! Watch where you’re bloody— Wait, Evans?”
I told you I was completely reasonable in my hysteria. Because, of course, I couldn’t have gotten off easy this morning. I knew my vow to ban all future late-night Lancaster-related endeavours was futile. Once the karmic powers sense fear in a poor girl's soul, they can’t get enough even if they tried. So naturally, turning the corner did not lead me to a clear path to the stairwell. No, it did not lead me anywhere, actually, in fact, it directed me, pushed me, and crash-landed me right into the (rather firm!) chest of the one and only, James Potter.
James, to his credit, did not topple under the weight of a panicked seventeen-year-old rocket blasting into his chest. It would be embarrassing to admit that I would have stumbled to my knees if he hadn’t caught me, so I am choosing not to admit that. Rather, he sprang into action, with a hand around my arm, his other arm secured around my back, his expression declaring me utterly mad— and if he was correct in that assumption, I did NOT plan to stick around long enough to prove his hypothesis. I never claimed to be the most truthful, did I?
I wrangle myself out of his iron-clad grip, leaping forward to snatch my textbook from the floor. Ignoring the amused look on his face, I clutch it to my chest and give him a very casual (read: panicked) wave.
“Brilliant, you just had to be here when I’m already late.”
I have no intention of thanking him. I turn away, already mapping my escape down the now-empty hallway. Irony, am I right?
A firm grip on my forearm stops me. James yanks me toward him again, close enough that I can feel his warmth. This time, I take a cautious step back, giving me a better look at his face. Unruly dark hair falls over his forehead, his brow raised, smirk in place.
“You think you can get away without a ‘thank you,’ Evans?”
Oh, this pretentious asshole. Couldn’t he have picked any other time? I glare up at him.
“Thank you for what? Acting like a traffic cone in my way?” I yank my arm free. “Honestly, Potter, you’re no better than the first years!”
“I didn’t claim to be better than anyone,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Awfully comfortable dishing out insults this morning. What’s got you in such a twist?”
He glances at my arms, back at my face, then aptly bursts into a fit of giggles. Oh no. Not the giggles. I’m so done.
“Oh! I get it now! Evans, you’re late! McGonagall’s going to have your head!”
“You don’t think I know that?!” I snap. “Let go! If I’d known you’d be so arrogant, I’d have preferred a total collapse on the floor!”
Better yet, death by floor. I could still run to the Hospital Wing. Surely Pomfrey would excuse me… I KNOW i’m not a terrible student but, well, it’s seventh year… I promised myself I would be as diligent a student as ever, what with OWLS fast approaching. My chest tightened, it felt like my heart would burst out of my body with every frantic beat. Oh, maybe the Pomfrey idea wouldn’t be so bad—
“Evans,”
James’ voice cuts through the storm like a wand slicing through smoke. My whole body jolts forward, and he doesn’t step back to create the distance once more, instead he leans forward.
“Evans, relax. It’s just McGonagall.” He loosens his grip my arm. Keeping me stuck, standing there by his voice alone. Curse these dastardly feet, I couldn’t move if I wanted to, my hysteria had hit a peak and all I could do was listen to what him speak.
He continues, a teasing lilt to his tone, “She won’t say anything, especially to you. Class pet, remember?”
I huff at that, rolling my eyes. Leave it to JAMES to throw in a jab even while my guard is down. The nerve…
The hand still wrapped around my arm, loosens, lingering long enough for me to wonder if he’ll let go entirely. Then, slowly, deliberately, it travels upwards. My eyes widen. Mind whirring a mile a minute, caught between pushing him away, or—Merlin!—drawing him in closer? I haven’t reached my conclusion when he reaches his target.
Finger tips brush against my forehead, languidly sweeping stray stands from my eyes. The touch is maddeningly gentle. Too gentle. Even in my shock, I remind myself that none other than JAMES POTTER is standing here, twirling my hair, as if this is the most reasonable thing to be doing on a weekday morning. James, clearly not realizing the insanity of the situation, continues his precise work on my hair for what must be an eternity, (is there actually a secret Pantene advert I didn’t know about?) and my chest betrays me with an involuntarily hitch. His touch is electric against my hot skin. With a final stroke, he drops his hand, adjusts his glasses, and smirks down at his handy work. I feel heat crawl up my neck in mortifying betrayal. My brain short-circuits again under his stare. Seconds from blurting a ridiculously grovel-y thank you, he leans impossibly closer, hot breath brushing my ear:
“Well, are you just going to keep staring at me all day? You know the way, don’t you?”
And just like that, he turns the corner. Not even a bloody wave! He’s vanished. I’m left gaping, braid askew, cheeks on fire, and textbook clutched like a shield. 9:01 AM.
Brilliant.