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"Do you think it would be faster to just do that with your hands?" James asks, and you think that you'd prickle if anyone else had said it. But there's never really any judgment with James - he's not saying it because he thinks he knows better than you. It's just that he can't stand seeing someone he loves have any sort of trouble with anything.
So you straighten up, your back popping with a wince from him so that you can look at him across the blanketed floor.
"Yes," you say honestly as you meticulously clean another pumpkin seed with your wand. "But it would also be gross. And then what would the point of you doing that for me?"
James just beams from where he's sitting across from you on the floor, elbow deep in pumpkin guts as he scoops them out for you, the newspapers that cover the floor crinkling under him.
"The point would be that I love you and I'm happy to help you," he says easily, and you feel a bit like you've been electrocuted. You always do, you find, in the wake of his affections - he gives them so freely, like he never learned anything else.
You suppose, as you shift on your blanket, that he never really did. The blankets had been piled there by James, of course - because you'd insisted that the worn stone floor of the Hufflepuff common room would be fine and he's insisted that you don't have to settle for fine.
He'd insisted on taking care of you, on folding them nicely and smoothing them out for you to sit on, the same way he's been insisting on pilfering from the stack of cookies that Peter's been decorating, periodically sliding you one when he thinks you need it.
He'd insisted on loving you quite loudly all night.
"Yea," you say flatly, flicking another clean seed into your bowl. "So I wouldn't want to make your help obsolete. If I got my hands all dirty, there'd be no use."
"I don't think love has to be useful," James says easily - like it's so straightforward, like it's the only way to be. "I think it just has to make you happy. Are you happy tonight, lovebug?"
"That's a loaded question," you counter as a bit of pumpkin guts lands too close to your hands. He's quick to apologize, as he always is, bending over to press a quick kiss to the back of your hand as he scrapes the guts back onto the newspaper. "Your hands are going to be stained orange for days."
"I don't mind having stained hands for you," he shrugs, and you wonder if he really knows what he's saying - you wonder if he really knows what it's like to look down at your palms and not recognize the life they hold.
"I should've done it," you say lowly, something akin to guilt wiggling around in your ribcage. The candles around you flicker and dance as the dusty old book that some of the upper year Hufflepuffs had enchanted creaks and groans, telling ghost stories in an eerie, wavering voice. "I can get my own hands a little messy."
"You could," James agrees easily. "But I'm not sure why you'd need to, angel. This is what I'm here for, isn't it?"
"I don't think so," you murmur, suddenly intent on the pumpkin seeds in front of you as Peter shouts something across the common room about James stealing cookies. He laughs in response - so at home in himself, so settled in his friendships. There's a bit of sugar left on your tongue from the bites that you'd snuck, and you feel the crystals grate against the roof of your mouth.
"You've got nice hands," you continue, and the smile that James sends you is a little lopsided, a little knowing. You squint at him in suspicion before he nudges your thigh lovingly with his foot.
"I know you think so," he says politely, and you hope he can't see the heat that rises to your face in the low light of the candles and crackling fireplace.
He can - you know he can. But you also know that he loves you enough to pretend that he can't.
"You know that's not what I meant," you pick up a pumpkin seed to throw at him, and he laughs again, leaning back where he's sitting with his legs spread out.
"You'll get your hands all gross," he points out.
"I don't care," you retort - but maybe you do. "It's my jack-o-lantern. I should deal with the mess of it."
"I don't mind getting my hands dirty for you," he says again, throwing aside the spoon in favour of scraping away the extra stringy bits on the inside of the pumpkin with his fingers. You let your expression sour at the orange that stains his nails - and he smiles at you again like he's happy about it all.
"I don't think you should have to," you try again.
"I don't have to," he says simply. "I choose to - because I love you. That's what makes it fun."
The enchanted book that's been floating around snaps shut with a bang that has everyone jumping, the pumpkin rolling away from James and towards you. One of the Hufflepuffs apologizes, switching over to a book of fairytales, instead - something easier, kinder, softer. You wrinkle your nose and James makes some comment to the room about how he's always loved a happily ever after.
"This is already clean enough, baby," you say as you move the bowls of seeds to the side so that you can situate the pumpkin on the floor between your legs, but when you look up for the carving tools, James is reaching for it with hands outstretched like a toddler.
"No," he says pointedly when you look at him bizarrely. "You told me you don't like the stringy bits on the inside that get in the way when you're carving. Give it back, lovie."
"Well, I can finish that," you insist, but James is quick to frown at your words, scrubbing his palms against the newspaper on the floor to wipe off a bit of the mess before he wraps his hands around your ankles and tugs you closer.
You shriek just a bit, grabbing onto the pumpkin as he hauls you closer so that your legs are slung over his and he's close enough that he can put his hand over top of yours on the pumpkin.
"Come on, sweetheart," he pleads - like it's you doing him a favour and not the other way around. "Let me finish the job. I don't want to half ass it."
"You don't half ass anything, James," you retort, and he squeezes your thigh affectionately.
"Exactly. Let me maintain my reputation a bit, yea? Come on, sweet thing, hand it over," he insists, and you find that it never gets easier to resist that sunlight smile of his.
"Are you having a good time, at least?" you ask as you shove the pumpkin back in his direction. He keeps you close this time as he works, your legs still slung over his as the pumpkin sits between his spread legs.
"Course I am," he responds easily, his voice a bit jumbled now as he regains his concentration. "It's a good party."
"It's a quiet party," you counter, and he shoots you a grin.
"Don't let Peter hear you say that. He loves these sorts of nights," he reminds you, and you reach forward to smooth a curl out of his face.
"I know he does - it's why I'm here," you say, and James looks at you with a bit of a pout.
"Not for me?" he laughs, an indignant sort of thing.
"I went to the Gryffindor party for you, if you remember that," you say dryly, and he clicks his tongue in thought.
"Are you still having fun, though?" he asks, and as he shifts his work, you can't help but think that cleaning off the outside of the pumpkin so that you don't have to deal with any leftover mess is a bit overkill.
"Do I not seem like I am?" you counter, and the look he shoots you is fond.
"You always act like you're having a good time, even when you're not," he says, and you think that maybe James really did never learn how to hold his tongue. You think he never really came to realize how heavy-handed his love is.
"Oh," you say flatly, and the look he shoots you is a bit alarmed.
"I don't mean it like that, lovely, I'm sorry," he rushes to say. "You just - you would never want to make Peter upset, or me even, and - I think you'd pretend to enjoy something you're not to -"
The Halloween cookie that Peter throws at James's head is, you think mildly, not really necessary - and neither is his shouted comment about how James will be kicked out if he bothers his friends anymore.
But it makes you laugh - a loud, startled sort of thing, and you're not sure who, among the three of you, is more relieved.
"I always know what you mean, Jamie," you offer softly, and you think that if he softens anymore, you'll have to hold him up.
"Are you having a good time?" he asks gently, and the smile you answer with is a bit more honest than you're used to. The pumpkin, smooth and clean and largely forgotten, sits between the two of you.
"I don't usually have a bad time when I'm with you," you respond with, and it's enough to have him reaching for both of your thighs, squeezing them gently as he pulls you a bit closer, the newspaper crinkling beneath you both.
"You're very good at that," you point out as you tap the pumpkin. "You've had practice?"
"My dad used to do it with me when I was a kid," James tells you, and you hum in understanding as you push his glasses up his nose a bit for him.
"Cute," you murmur - and then feel a fizzling little bit of joy at the reminder that you can still make him blush.
"I'm glad you came tonight," he says softly, and the candles near the two of you flicker in and out. As you finish adjusting his glasses for him, you catch your own reflection in the surface of them, shining and haloed in the low light. It makes you wrinkle your nose, and he cocks his head to the side like a puppy.
"I can see my reflection in your glasses," you explain as you tap his nose. "It's weird."
"Do you look good, at least?" James responds easily, and then brings a hand up to smack his own forehead gently. "What am I saying?" he laughs. "Of course you do. You always do."
"Only in your eyes," you laugh, but as your own reflection shines back at you, hazy and bright as his eyes blur the image, you think that maybe you do look good.
Because James always looks at you like he loves you, always looks at you like you're something holy.
And as your reflection stares back at you through the eyes of someone who loves you, you begin to think that it looks a lot like you.