Chapter Text
Snow fell softly over Cokeworth in thin, drifting curtains, turning the soot-stained rows of terraced houses ghostly white beneath the bruised evening sky. The town always looked quieter in winter, as if the cold pressed a heavy hand over everything. Over the chimneys coughing smoke into the air, over empty streets lined with slush and broken streetlights, over the river that cut through the town like a dark scar.
Inside the Evans house, warmth hummed softly throug the radiators.
Lily Evans was stretched across her bed in wool socks and an oversized cream jumper she had stolen from her father a couple of years ago and never returned. Her legs were tucked beneath a thick quilt, one hand lazily turning the page of her book while the other cupped a mug of peppermint tea gone lukewarm nearly twenty minutes earlier.
A small lamp cast warm light over the familiar clutter: stacks of used books threatening to topple from her desk, letters on parchment tied with ribbon from Alice and a chipped ceramic dish filled with hairpins and ties and one lonely gold earring. She had lost the other one months ago but couldn't get herself to throw this one away.
Outside wind rattled against the windowpane.
Inside everything smelled faintly of a vanilla scented candle and peppermint tea.
Peaceful.
For once.
No students screaming down corridors. No endless patrols through Hogwarts as dusk setteled in. No Filch muttering darkly behind every corner. No James Potter smirking at her across the Head table like he knew exactly how to irritate her with one look alone.
Bliss.
Lily turned another page, her thought returning to her book.
Tap.
She blinked.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Her brows furrowed in confusion.
A louder thud hit the glass this time, accompanied by an indignant screech.
"Oh, for fuck's sake-"
She shoved her blanket aside and crossed her room, cold floorboards at her feet. When she pulled back the curtains a large tawny owl stared at her furiously through the snow-speckled window.
"Alright, alright!"
The window swung open with a gust of icy wind. Snowflakes spiraled inside immediately, catching in Lily's hair as the unknown owl swept into her room with an offended hoot. It landed heavily atop her dresser and thrust out one leg.
"Yes, alright," Lily muttered. "You're dramatic, I understand."
The owl blinked at her and Lily could have sworn it looked annoyed.
Cream parchment. Deep red wax. Heavy. Expensive.
Her stomach gave a weird little twist before she even saw the elegant but messy and recently infuriatingly familiar handwriting.
James Potter.
The owl hooted impatiently until she untied the letter. The moment the parchment came free, the creature launched itself back into the night without so much as a thank you hoot.
"Rude," Lily informed the empty air. Then she made an infuriated noise. "How utterly fitting."
She stared at the envelope in her hand.
Miss Lily J. Evans
Lily narrowed her eyes at it as though the envelope itself had personally insulted her. Then she broke the seel.
The parchment inside smelled faintly of cedar smoke, warm vanilla and something sharper she couldn't place. Expensive ink, probably. Rich people probably had scented ink. Rich people were strange.
Her eyes moved quickly across the page.
Evans,
read the letter before you throw it away, will you?
So, here's the thing, I've been instructed to invite you as Head Girl to the annual Potter Christmas Ball. My mum likes to give the seventh year students of the highest potential an in into politics and future job offers and what-not at this thing.
It's on the twenty-seventh. Black tie. Pretentious pureblood nonsense. There will probably be old wizards discussing legislations and laws while drinking things that cost more than Sirius's life savings.
You should come anyways.
You can Floo in if you decide to come. Details enclosed. If not, enjoy the rest of your holidays!
- Potter
Lily stared at the parchment.
Then reread it.
Then stared some more.
She folded it carefully, set it down on her dresser and walked back to her bed, the open window forgotten. She picked up her book, flipping back to her last page. Read absolutely nothing.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Not the owl this time but her fingers drumming against the page.
Her eyes flicked sideways towards the dresser within thirty seconds.
"No," she muttered to herself.
She turned a page aggressively.
Three minutes later she was standing again, crossing the room over the cold floorboards. She picked up the letter. Read it again.
You should come anyways.
Not even please.
Like he expected her to be thankful to be invited. Like he expected her to rejoice and say yes. Like he wanted her there.
Lily folded the letter again too quickly, annoyed by the sudden warmth climbing into her face.
What a prick.
Ridiculous.
James Potter was ridiculous.
Arrogant, aggravating, infuriating James Potter.
James Potter, who argued with her in class just to see if he could win. James Potter who somehow always smelled annoyingly good after Quidditch practice instead of like sweat and mud like a normal person.
Her stomach twisted. She dropped back onto the bed after closing her window, with a frustrated sigh. The truth - the deep, humiliating truth - was that things between them had changed this year. Slowly. Accidentally. Irreversibly.
It had started with patrol rounds.
Suddenly the first awkward silence was starting to be filled with timid, careful questions, kind smiles and honest answers.
Then late night homework sessions in the heads common room.
Then shared tea while complaining about first years sneaking out after curfew.
Then laughter.
God.
That was the really dangerous part. Because James Potter laughing was unfair.
He laughed with his entire body, throwing his head back like he couldn't physically contain it, eyes crinkling behind his glasses while Sirius nearly fell out of his chair beside him. And every time Lily accidently made him laugh lately, something strange and bright unfurled low in her stomach.
And somewhere bewteen shared laughs and aggravating fights over Charms theories that now ended in them working on their essays together, James with his stupid glasses and stupid messy hair and stupid grin had become—
Human.
That was the problem. It was awful. Terrible. A real fucking problem. The memory alone made her cheeks glow red with heat.
The head common room glowed amber with firelight.
James sprawled lazily in his chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened carelessly around his throat while parchment covered every inch of his desk. They had been working on a transfiguration paper for the past two hours mostly in comfortable silence.
Then Lily had gotten stuck.
She had barely thought about her next actions. She had gotten up from her place on the couch, walked over to his desk and climbed onto the edge, her legs crossed as she leaned slightly forward to be able to read his writing.
She hadn't even noticed that her skirt had ridden up slightly higher against her thigh then she usually let it. Normally, she would have noticed, too aware of all her actions and movements. But this wasn't a place where she had to be careful anymore. This was James.
And James had gone completely still. Not dramatically, not obviously, just enough for her to notice that it took him a second longer to answer her question, his eyes locked down for one catastrophic second too long then quickly flicking up to the ceiling before setteling on her face again.
His jaw tightening.
Lily had felt heat crawl up her neck immediatly the second she realized what he had seen: The pale skin of her thigh, the hint of thin, delicate lace trim of her stockings.
And then, somehow impossibly worse - James Potter had blushed.
Arrogant, smug, insufferable James Potter.
Bright red all the way to his ears. The memory made her stomach do an awfull little flip. "Oh for heaven's sake," she hissed to herself.
The letter sat innocently atop her dresser.
Waiting.
The Potter Christmas Ball.
She could practically imagine it already.
Ancient pureblood families draped in emerald silk and diamonds.
Cold manor hallways.
Judging eyes.
Whispered comments about the muggleborn girl invited into sacred pureblood society.
Lily knew exactly how people like that thought. She’d seen enough of it at Hogwarts. And yet - she wanted to go. Wanted to see it all for herself. Wanted to be there. To see him.
She stared at the white ceiling of her small bedroom. It stared blankly back at her, unfortunately unable to reveal any answers.
She should write him back. Thank him. Refuse him. Tell him she is too busy. That would be the right thing to do. Make it clear where she stands. Make sure he's reminded of the fact that Lily Evans hates James Potter.
Except now she was imagining him reading her refusal letter. Imagining his face falling for half a second, him actually being upset that she won't be there before covering it with some stupid joke and careless grin.
The thought bothered her greatly. Fuck.
Her eyes wandered back towards the letter once more. Then narrowed.
"Oh, you absolute fucking menace," she muttered - though whether she meant James or herself, even she wasn't entirely sure.
A pureblood Christmas ball.
God.
She could imagine it too vividly.
Grand chandeliers.
String quartets.
Women in velvet gowns.
James in dress robes—
Lily sat bolt upright.
“No.”
Absolutely not.
She was not thinking about James Potter in dress robes. That path led only to ruin and humiliation. Firmly, decisively, she reached for her book again.
-
The Potter Manor at Christmas looked less like a home and more like something painted onto the inside of a snow globe. Lights shimmered in every window, glowing gold against the dark December night. Fresh snow blanketed the sprawling grounds in untouched white, and somewhere beyond the frosted gardens came the distant crackle and bang of enchanted fireworks Sirius had apparently been setting off illegally for the last hour.
Inside, the manor thrummed with life.
His mother was all in, decorating the halls and ballroom in preperation of upcoming events. Garlands wound themselves lazily around stair banisters. Gold and white ornaments floated onto the nine foot tall tree in the entrance hall. It was a beautiful christmas wonderland of nightmares.
James Potter wanted to throw himself directly into the fireplace of his second floor bedroom.
He sat hunched at the massive oak desk in his bedroom, staring at a piece of blank parchment like it had personally insulted him.
The floor behind him was littered with balled up attempts. The sleeves of his red christmas jumper had been pushed up to his elbows, hair the usual mess and brow creased in concentration.
Because he did not fancy Lily Evans. That was insane. Preposterous even.
James Potter did not fancy Lily Evans at all. That would be absurd. She was argumentative and bossy and smug whenever she beat him at something. And she always gave him that look of slight disappointment, annoyance recently mixed with a slight hint of endearing amusement whenever he said something stupid - which granted, happened more around her lately because somehow his brain ceased functioning whenever she stood too close.
No.
He definitely did not fancy Lily Evans.
He merely thought about her constantly. Which obviously was completely different. He leaned back in his chair with a groan, dragging both hands down his face.
"Fuck," he muttered into his palms.
The problem was that this had gotten significantly worse recently. Catastrophically worse. At first, years ago, it had been simple enough. Evans was pretty. Fine. Everyone knew that. She had bright green eyes and brilliant hair that almost glowed in the afternoon light and a sharp mouth and she yelled at him a lot.
Normal. Entirely manageable.
Then somewhere around this autumn everything had become a complete disaster. Before they just yelled and fought and manipulated each other and when it was over James barely thought about it. Now he noticed things. Tiny things. The way she tucked her hair behind one ear when concentrating. The soft crease between her brows while reading. How her voice dropped lower when she was tired. The fact she smelled faintly like lilies and parchment and vanilla and winter air whenever she leaned over his shoulder during patrol rounds.
And Merlin, her laugh? Because Lily did not laugh politely around him anymore. She laughed like she meant it, like she forgot herself for half a second. Not loudly but warm and open and -
The first time he'd made her laugh like that James had nearly tripped over his own feet. Which was embarrassing. Extremely embarrassing. He shifted in his chair and picked up the parchment again.
Dear Evans,
My mother says-
No. Too formal. Too desperate somehow.
He crumpled it violently and tossed it aside. The fire crackled. Snow hissed softly against the windows. James leaned his head back towards the ceiling and closed his eyes. Stupid Evans, stupid ball. Making him sit here at his stupid desk and try to think. Immediately, disastrously, his brain supplied the memory of Lily hopping onto his desk in their head common room all but two weeks earlier.
Fuck
He could still see it perfectly, as if it was something monumental in his life.
The room was dimly lit by the fireplace. They had been working individually on their Transfiguration homework. Eventually Lily had left him alone at their desks since "I can't take another second sitting in those uncomfortable chairs." And with an exhausted huff she had dropped onto the couch.
James had given a small laugh and then turned back to his homework. Another ten, maybe twenty minutes passed - with her time always seemed to run from him - when she had let out a frustraited sound. James had leaned back in his chair, quill dropping from his hand as he turned his head towards her.
Lily had gotten up from the couch and was now stalking over to him.
"I don't fucking get it," she stated only steps away.
And as if it was the most natural thing of things she sat down on the corner of his desk, pulling his paper towards her, leaning down slightly to read what he had written.
James didn't stop her, not because he didn't care that technically she was cheating off of him but because his mind was busy registering something else entierly. Her skirt had ridden up a tiny bit, the pale skin of her thigh exposed. It was nothing, just the hint of a sliver of skin and lace and yet-
Merlin, he had genuinely stopped breathing. And he knew she had noticed. Of course she had. Lily Evans could read him like a book.
James groaned and covered his face again.
"You are so fucking fucked," he informed himself quietly.
The terrifying thing though? Nobody knew. Not Peter. Not Remus. Not Marlene. Not even Sirius. No one.
James Potter did not pine. Ever. Especially not after fucking Evans.
James Potter certainly did not spend half his evening lying awake imagining Lily Evans pressed against him in dark corridors.
He absolutely did not think about kissing her.
Except-
Fuck.
His mind betrayed him immediately. He could practically feel it sometimes: her fingers curling in his hair, into his shirt, her lips against his, the sharp inhale she might make if he backed her against one of those hidden castle alcoves she always checked during patrols.
And lately his imagination had become actively treacherous.
Because now when he thought about kissing Lily, his thoughts kept... continuing.
Which was a problem. A massive problem.
James stared at the ceiling with mounting horror as his brain supplied an image of Lily kneeling between his legs, those green eyes looking up at him through lowered lashes, her mouth-
"Nope," he said aloud instantly.
Absolutely not.
He sat upright violently, as though physically escaping his own thoughts.
"This is exactly why people become monks."
The fire popped loudly beside him. What the hell had happened to him? He used to be normal. Fine, mostly normal. Now Lily Evans reluctantly smiled at him across breakfast and he forgot how sentences worked. Now she leaned over him to explain potions homework and he caught himself staring at the perfect curve of her mouth instead of listening. Now every accidental touch felt like a lightning strike.
Now all he had to do was make her laugh and the butterflies in his stomach made him so nauseous he's constantly scared that he'll eventually puke on her.
And now- now he was sitting in his bedroom on Christmas break trying to write her an invitation to a stupid ball while secretly hoping she'd show up looking beautiful enough to ruin his life permanently.
His stomach twisted.
Because the worst part? He could imagine it too clearly. Lily descending the grand staircase at the manor, hair softly curled over her shoulders, some elegant dress clinging to her waist. Green maybe? Red? No - navy. Definitely navy.
Something that would make every idiot pureblood boy at the ball stare at her all night. The thought filled James with such immediate violent jealousy that he nearly snapped the quill in half.
"No," he muttered, shaking his head, banning the thought from his mind.
Absolutely not.
Evans was annoying.
Infuriating. Brilliant. Funny. Beautiful. Simple. Honest. Real. Dangerous.
And suddenly every strange feeling of the past few months rearranged itself into something undeniable. The late-night conversations that left him grinning afterward for no reason. The way he searched for her automatically in every room. The flutter in his chest whenever she praised him. How badly he wanted her attention. How much he craved it.
"Oh, fuck me," James whispered.
Because there it was. The horrible truth.
James Potter was falling in love with Lily Evans.
Not a crush. Not fascination. Not only competition anymore.
Love.
Stupid, undeniable, stomach-twisting, hopeless fucking love.
And the realization hit him with all the grace of a Bludger directly to the skull. He stared blankly into the fire for a long moment. Then immediately thought about kissing her again.
Which honestly felt unfair at this point.
His imagination betrayed him instantly: Lily in some quiet corner of the manor during the ball, cheeks flushed from dancing, eyes bright in candlelight while he bent toward her slowly—
James shut his eyes hard.
And made the catastrophic mistake of imagining her without the dress entirely.
Bare skin.
Soft thighs.
Red hair spilling across his pillows, eyes closed in pleasure, lips slightly parted as the most beautiful moan slipped from them.
"FUCK."
James stood abruptly and began pacing.
This was untenable.
Actually untenable.
How was he supposed to survive the rest of the school year like this?
How was he supposed to sit beside her during Head meetings while knowing he wanted to kiss her senseless? How was he supposed to watch other people flirt with her without committing homicide? And why in Merlin’s name did she have to smell so good all the bloody time?
James stopped pacing.
Looked back toward the desk.
Toward the half-written invitation.
Slowly, reluctantly, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Because despite all of this—
Despite the panic.
Despite the humiliation.
Despite the fact he was apparently one step away from writing Lily Evans terrible poetry by candlelight—
He still wanted her there.
Desperately.
He wanted to see her at the ball. Wanted to dance with her. Wanted to hear her laugh in these enormous echoing halls. Wanted her woven somehow into his Christmas memories. Which was terrifyingly soft-hearted of him.
“Pathetic,” James informed himself.
Then he sat back down at the desk anyway. Picked up a fresh sheet of parchment.
And began writing her invitation for real.