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Chapter Text

Easter Holidays

Candlelight flickers over her table in the library, casting shadows across open books and curling parchment. She suspects she’s alone; it’s been hours since she’s last seen another person, and if she holds her breath, the scratch of her quill and the occasional spit of nearby flames are all she hears.

Dropping her quill with a sigh, she slumps back in her chair, rubbing her neck where it’s gone stiff from her curled posture. She could go back to the common room; she doesn’t need to be here. It’s only Sunday, the first of break, so there are still two weeks ahead in which to study. Hell, hardly anyone else has even started. Though the library turns into a sort of sanctuary over Easter holidays, filling up with nearly every fifth, sixth, and seventh year in the castle, they’re not here yet—they’re all wringing out the last dwindling hours of weekend before the reality of a break filled with studying starts bright and early the next morning. 

It’s not like she’s trying to get ahead or something; she’s not that much of a swot. (And even if she was, the sad state of her notes after being in here all day would show she hasn’t been successful at it.) She’s simply trying to not have to face a certain boy in Gryffindor Tower. Who is the same boy she’s successfully evaded the presence of for the better part of two days now; the same boy she’s afraid to look in the eye; and the same boy she hooked up with in a hidden alcove on a seventh-floor corridor. 

She can’t stop thinking about it, even though it’s all mostly a blur. Because in between the wardrobe snogging, the corridor snogging, the alcove snogging, and then the more-than-snogging, she can’t get over how thoroughly she embarrassed herself. Accidentally getting off on his leg? Running away? Tearing up in the corridor? Being completely nonsensical? And then flinging herself at him, repeatedly, with all sorts of wanton noises? 

It’s mortifying. It’s James. How is she ever supposed to live this down? 

Distant footsteps make her freeze where she sits. Maybe someone else is in here; she strains her ears, holds her breath, as she listens. The footsteps grow closer, like they’re coming down the aisle, pausing at each row and then resuming. Perhaps someone’s looking for a book? As silently as she can, she reaches for her wand, discarded on the table, and closes her fingers around the chilled willow.

A moment later, James Potter appears from around the corner of the bookshelf. Of bloody course. 

“Potter,” she sighs dramatically. 

His eyes flit between her wand and her face with a small smirk. 

“You gave me a fright,” she justifies. Still, she sets her wand back down before crossing her arms with a huff. 

He’s still looking adorably amused (since when does she think about James being adorable?), but instead of responding to her, he sets the bottle of Butterbeer he’s holding on the table between them, then holds out a folded piece of parchment between his fingers. 

“Marlene told me to bring you these,” he says. 

Lily takes the note, glancing over him suspiciously. Like her, he’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, but instead of making him appear rumpled, they somehow make his unfairly athletic frame look even more unfairly put together. Even his tousled hair looks perfectly in place. With her oversized sweats and cyclone of a top knot, she no doubt seems like a total mess in comparison. Lovely. 

She forces her eyes away from him to unfold the square of parchment, where she finds only two words from her friend written in all capital letters: 

YOU’RE WELCOME!!!

Heat floods her cheeks. She can practically hear Marlene’s teasing excitement, and from the awkward look on James’s face just then, she’s also fairly positive that they both know the message isn’t in reference to providing Lily a beverage. 

She drops her gaze back to the table and sighs, “She wants us to talk.” 

“I know.” The amusement in his tone jolts her attention back up; he stands with his hands casually in his pockets, a faint blush ruddying his cheeks. “She said as much.” 

Oh god. 

A Short While Earlier

Sirius’s chess pieces erupt in indignation, but James, who’s supposed to be spectating, has no clue what they’re on about; he’s been too busy covertly watching the sixth-year girls huddled on a sofa nearby. 

See, there’s a notable absence from their number, and by the way they keep whispering amongst themselves and glancing over at him, he’s fairly certain they’re discussing the very girl he can’t stop thinking about. 

Unfortunately, she’s also the girl who’s been avoiding him ever since they hooked up Friday night. 

He wasn’t sure she was at first. The excuse he heard floating from one of her friends (“Lily? Oh, she slept in. Isn’t feeling too great today, you know?”), especially when accompanied with a wink, made sense. He’d also slept in and had a sore head the next day; drinking, smoking, and staying up until the wee hours of the morning will do that to a person. 

But when she didn’t show up to dinner on Saturday, and then was already “off to the library” when he was only stumbling down to breakfast that morning, he knew. 

It eats at him. Granted, some of that night is a rather blurry mess in his head, but he recalls the gist: she wanked him off, they kept making out, they both got off again from all their continued grinding while doing so, and then when they started to crash, they ventured back to the empty, messy common room and set off up separate staircases. 

He also recalls certain moments in surprisingly acute detail: her hand on him, soft and sure with her touch; the tickle of her hair grazing his cheeks as she straddled him; the smooth heat of the skin he roamed under her jumper; the sensual grind of her hips over his lap that made it all to easy to think about her riding him; the eager way she was kissing him, hands clutching at his shoulders, his neck, his hair; and, above all, the raw little sounds she made as she nudged herself over the edge for the second time that night.

When he’d told her between kisses, “This—you—gonna make me come,” she’d only grinned, teeth flashing in the dark, and slowed her hips to something even more purposeful. With hands on her arse, assisting her in the act they were simulating, he came in his pants, and after, she’d snogged him so thoroughly he hadn’t been able to breathe, then kissed all over his neck when he’d pulled away for oxygen.

It all makes her avoiding him rather confusing, though, given her history of mixed signals, he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. 

“Psst! James!”

He glances up from the chess board, where he’d been absently staring, to find Marlene beckoning him over. 

Remus, plainly following this exchange, arches a brow at him across the board. “You know you want to.” 

Sirius, oblivious to Marlene’s beckoning, dryly asks, “Want to what?” as he studies the board with a furrowed brow. 

James exchanges another look with Remus, who beats him to answering with a cheeky, “Talk to the girls about Lily.” 

At that, Sirius looks up, eyes darting meaningfully between them before returning to the board and directing his bishop. 

“James!” 

He can’t help it. “I’ll be right back.” 

Remus is grinning; as James gets up from his seat, he hears Remus say quietly, “She likes him,” to which Sirius only humphs. He almost wishes he hadn’t heard, because even though he’s inclined to side with Sirius just then, Remus’s confidence gives him hope—and he’s not sure he should have it.

“What’s up?” he asks as he approaches the girls. 

Marlene yanks on his arm, getting him to sit on the ottoman, and then tells him in an excitedly hushed tone, “We think you should go talk to Lily.” 

He blinks at her, then checks the reactions of the other two as he asks, smile creeping onto his face, “Why’s that?”

Mary and Dorcas both roll their eyes, but it’s Mary who sasses him with, “Like we didn’t see what she had on her neck the other morning.”

Heat floods his face. “Uh—”

“Or notice you two left together the other night,” Dorcas adds with a sly grin. 

He stuffs a hand in his hair, at a total loss for how to respond. “Well—”

“She’s probably terribly thirsty,” Marlene interjects, a coy twinkle in her eye as she shoves one of the Butterbeers from their nearby six-pack into his chest. “Shut up in the library all day…”

James can only blink at her, mouth moving soundlessly as he thinks, she’s choosing to be there? 

“No one to talk to…” 

He finds his voice enough to protest, “I—I actually don’t think she…wants to talk to me…”

Marlene fixes him with a stern look, pushing the bottle harder against his chest as she says with finality, “She does.” 

“But—”

“This too.” Marlene holds out a folded piece of parchment with her other hand. “Tell her they’re from me.” 

“I—”

“James.” It’s not Marlene speaking this time, but Mary. “Trust us, yeah?”

As she’s Gryffindor’s Seeker, he’s grown to trust Mary’s instincts quite a lot, at least on the pitch. Maybe they’re just as good off the pitch, too. 

It’s enough to convince him to take the Butterbeer and note from Marlene, anyway, and he’s met with a round of pleased smiles and excited squeals as he agrees, “Yeah, alright.” 

Thankfully, he still has the map in his pocket from when he and the lads had made a Hogsmeade run after dinner, and once he’s outside the portrait hole, having given a parting wave to a winking Remus, he opens it. She’s easy to find, a lone dot in the expanse of the empty library, at a table in the Charms section. 

With a deep breath, he stuffs the refolded map back in his pocket and sets off into the darkened castle. Here goes nothing.

Back in the Library

Lily chews her lip, nerves swirling, and then gestures vaguely in invitation before folding herself cross-legged into her chair, hands awkwardly twisting the note in her lap. James, for his part, cards his hair as he ambles toward the table, but instead of sitting across from her, he circles around, fingers skimming absently over the wood surface, and then pulls out the chair beside her. 

Brazen, she thinks, watching him with a wry smile twitching at her lips.  

He sits angled toward her with the same slouching posture from class,  elbow propped on the table. Though they don’t touch, his knees are close enough to bracket one of hers; she could put a hand on his thigh, if she really wanted.

“So,” he says lightly. 

“So.” 

He quirks a brow and asks, “Should we start with why you’ve been avoiding me all weekend?” 

So fucking brazen. 

Heat pricks at her cheeks, but maybe (hopefully) the candlelight’s too low for him to notice.

“I’m sorry.” She’s staring in her lap again. “I just…” 

Her throat tightens. She’s never been good at talking about her feelings, especially when they involve a boy—and most especially when it comes to talking about them to said boy. 

“Lily…” James cuts into the void of awkward silence, voice gentler—less sassy—than it had been before. “You can tell me if you want to stop…what we’ve been doing.” 

She blinks at him in surprise. 

The corner of his mouth turns up in a weak sort of smile. “It’s not a big deal,” he says, shoulders lifting in a shrug. “Really. I’ll be fine.” 

He’ll be—

Her mind whirls. 

He thinks she—

“No,” she blurts out, then hurries to explain, “that’s not—not what I was…” Another thought intrudes, and she immediately starts to backpedal, horrified. “Unless…you want to. Stop, I mean.” 

He looks thoroughly (adorably) confused as he asks, “What…gave you that idea?”

Lily only shrugs, mouth moving soundlessly before she forces herself to say out loud, “Just…because I was…embarrassing?”

James smiles, scoffing lightly through a chuckle, and asks an incredulous, “What?”

She doesn’t know if his reaction makes all her fears worse or better. 

Regardless, he’s watching her, expectant, and saying the thing she was afraid to say has unlocked a sort of floodgate inside her, making it all too easy to keep spilling, “I was all over the place, James, I was—drunk crying, for Merlin’s sake, and I probably made no sense, and—god, I was…throwing myself at you, like a—a—groupie, or something, and I just—” 

Mortifyingly, tears begin to prick hotly at the back of her eyes, so she closes them, gives her head a little shake, before choking out the crux of it all: “I was too much.”

“Hey.” He leans forward, hand closing warmly where her shoulder curves into her neck, and concern pinches his brow. “That’s not true.” 

A dry sort of half-chuckle escapes on an exhale. “Feels like it is.” 

He gives her neck a comforting squeeze, prompting her to meet his gaze again. “We were partying,” he says, nonchalant as ever, “and we were a little sloppy, so what?” His eyes flick over her face, silence stretching just long enough that she wonders if he’s expecting an answer, but then he adds, “It’s just me.” 

Her pulse speeds up, gathering heat under her skin, and what she can’t tell him—can’t even fathom trying to explain, even to herself—is that that’s exactly the point: it’s him. She’s been an emotional drunk before; she’s had sloppy, drunken make-outs; she’s said and done things in the haze of a party that she’s happy to forget in the stark light of day. None of that’s new, and none of that’s ever embarrassed her like this has. But then, no one’s been such a confusingly, maddeningly part of her life like him, either. 

It coalesces as she looks at him, patient in the aftermath of it’s just me: for as afraid as she is to let her walls down around him, she’s been even more afraid that her drunken overcompensation turned him off and pushed him away. 

How in the hell is she supposed to explain that? 

“Besides,” he goes on, saving her from her own thoughts as he withdraws his hand with one last squeeze and settles back into his chair, messing with his hair with a sheepish sort of motion. “I was plenty embarrassing too, in case you forgot.” 

What?  She shakes her head, frowning at him. “No you weren’t.”

If anything, he’d been the ultimate picture of suave; it was his signature style, really, managing to be bold, funny, and yet charming all at the same time. At parties, on the Quidditch pitch, in class—even when he made a fool of himself, he somehow always seemed in control about it, and it never dinged his popularity. The opposite, in fact. 

He arches a disbelieving brow. “I lasted like…ten seconds.” 

It’s so unexpectedly blunt that it sends giggles bubbling out of her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she rushes to say, hand covering your mouth. “I’m not—not laughing at you—I just didn’t—” 

He’s grimacing through a smile, hand rubbing his jaw, and Lily takes a deep breath, calming down enough to explain, “That was honestly the last thing I expected you to say.” She doesn’t know what prompts her to comfort him like this, but she chews her lip a moment, then tells him, “And I didn’t…think poorly of you, or anything. By the way.” 

James studies her, suddenly looking a little bashful. “I kind of thought, looking back…” His eyes flick away; he clears his throat. “That, uh…that maybe it was just…”

She waits, nerves fluttering like mad in her chest. 

Abruptly, his eyes lock on hers, confronting. “Just a mercy handy,” he says quietly. “On Friday.” 

Her mouth falls with genuine surprise. “I-it wasn’t,” she stammers, beyond confused over how he could have interpreted her excessively crawling all over him as anything but enthusiasm on her part. 

He only nods, watching her with that thoughtful expression. 

The sudden urge to touch him’s too strong to resist; glancing down, she cups her hand lightly around the top of his knee. 

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, though it feels like it carries a clearer message this time around, when she can finally, fully articulate some of the feelings she now feels comfortable enough to say. “I wasn’t avoiding you because of anything you did, I—I liked Friday, I…wanted to do everything we did, I just…” She bites back a self-deprecating smile. “I just thought, once I’d sobered up, that I’d…made an utter fool of myself.”

James adjusts his posture, leaning forward to slide his hand back around the side of her neck, prompting her to look at him again. 

“You didn’t,” he says, voice low. His eyes duck bashfully, and then he adds, “You were…” 

“Entertaining?” she jokes, feeling more back to herself with the weight of her overthinking off her chest. 

He smiles, eyes lingering around her face, then murmurs, “Sexy.”

Oh. A giddy feeling, something she’s not at all used to, lights her up inside, and she can’t help the slow smile that breaks over her face. Biting her lip, she takes in how they’re sitting, one hand on each other; how he’s already leaned in halfway. She anchors her free hand to his shoulder, then closes her half of the gap and kisses him; he kisses her back like he was ready for it. 

They part, the soft sounds of their lips breaking betraying the dead emptiness of the library for how they fill the surrounding silence.

“Lily.” The vibration of her name spoken like that sends goosebumps prickling up her skin, and she stares, frozen, as he pulls away just far enough to hold eye contact. “You know I like doing this, with you.” 

Her stomach sinks; she swallows hard, voice raw when she asks, “But?” 

James swipes a thumb over her cheek, thoughtful, before he answers, “But you have to stop avoiding me every time we…”

He cuts off, eyes glancing down to her lips, but she knows what he means. Every time we end up randomly snogging. Every time we sneak into the nearest nook. Every time we lose ourselves in each other for awhile. 

She nods, knowing she’s been unfair. “I’ve been…confused,” she admits. “About…this.”

“I know,” he whispers. “Me too.”  

She lifts her eyebrows in surprise. He’s confused? He’s the one who asked her out in front of the whole school last year! And who flirted with her relentlessly after they snogged in the wardrobe at his birthday party! How can wanting to do this with her be confusing for him? 

Her bafflement must show on her face, because James smiles, a little shy, and chews his lip a moment, like he’s gathering his courage. “We don’t have to…define anything,” he says. “We can just…” 

He trails off with a little shrug, like the rest is obvious. And maybe it is, but Lily finds she wants to hear him say it. 

“Just what?” she whispers, face drifting closer to his. 

He swallows. “Just…see what happens.” His nose nudges along hers, voice somehow dropping even lower. “Keep doing this.” 

Her eyes flutter closed as his lips cover hers a second time, purposeful in how they steer this kiss immediately into something more heady than the last. Perhaps she should reflect more on what he said, and maybe later she will, but as of this moment, she’s in full agreement. Confusion? Banished. Embarrassment? Ancient history. It’s soothing, blissful, comfortable, here in the undefined—especially when he feels this blood-sizzlingly good. 

Hardly daring to believe her own audacity, she breaks away only to unfold from her seat and climb onto his lap in one smooth motion, straddling him with her arms looped lightly around his neck. Wordlessly, grinning, James leans forward to recapture her lips with his. 

It’s slow, sensual, reminding her of how he kissed her the last time they found themselves alone in the library. His hands curve around her arse to pull her closer, with the result that she nestles further into his lap, hips squarely over his. He’s already hard, and she presses eagerly against the shape of him; they gasp into their kiss at the same time.

Granted, she did this on Friday night, too—straddled his lap, snogged him senseless, rubbed against him until they both came undone. But being drunk is very different than being sober, and the friction between two pairs of jeans is very different than the friction between two pairs of sweatpants, so though elements of what she’s doing are familiar, they’re also entirely different. They’re…more. Her senses are full of him: the soft thickness of his hair slipping through her fingers; the pressure of his hands urging her closer; the glide of his tongue in her mouth; the twitch of his erection against where she’s aching. 

She can feel him in a way she couldn’t on Friday night. In jeans, it was just a hard bulge, altogether not that different from grinding against the solid resistance of a thigh. But in sweatpants…she feels all of him; he prods at her as if to push inside, and she finds herself rubbing against his tip like she wants to let him.

James pulls back slightly, breath uneven, and whispers, “Let’s go somewhere.” 

Doused in lust as she is, she’s tempted to protest moving, tempted to overlook the taboo of grinding on his lap in the library, if it means getting more of him right this second. But then: 

“I don’t want to stop.” His forehead rests on hers. “But I don’t want to be interrupted, either.” 

Like the last time they were in here. Are they both thinking about what might’ve happened if Mrs. Norris hadn’t shown up that night? 

She swallows, nods. “Where?”

“There’s a room I know,” he says. “S’not far.” 

“Okay.”

Only when she peels away from him does she notice how debauched he already looks: hair askew, glasses smudged, cheeks ruddy, eyes dark. He’s eyeing her like she looks much the same, and she supposes she probably does.

She haphazardly closes books and shoves her things in her bag, for once not bothering to mark pages where she left off, or organize her parchment by subject, or check what progress she made on her to-do list; she’ll have to retrace her steps anyway, distracted as she was all day. When everything down to the untouched Butterbeer is stuffed inside, James surprises her by smoothly stealing the strap from her hands and slinging it over his shoulder. 

“And here I thought chivalry was dead,” she quips, trying not to give away that she’s impressed. 

James smirks, like he’s pleased with himself, and offers her his hand. She doesn’t hesitate in taking it. 

They keep quiet as they go, glancing around to ensure no one’s about to catch them unawares. He leads her up a side staircase, then down a corridor on third floor, to a door that opens to an internal room. It’s pitch black inside, and after he ensures they’re alone with a quick Homenum Revelio, he lights his wand to reveal a space smaller than a typical classroom and holding a hodgepodge of random furniture. 

“Is this just a…storage room?” Lily asks, looking around with the light of her own wand. 

“Think so,” he answers. 

She runs a testing fingertip along the top of a random table, leaving a stripe in the dust. “Blegh,” she grimaces, then wipes her finger on her sweatpants. 

A few paces over from the table, she comes up against the side of a sofa. “I assume this is why you picked this place?” she calls over her shoulder. 

James chuckles, coming up behind her. “Maybe.” 

Setting her bag on the ground near her feet, he trails his fingers over her back as he sidles around her and then sits in the center of the worn cushions. 

She bites her lip as she follows him, new butterflies zinging around in her chest now that they’re settling in, fully alone. 

“Let me guess,” she teases, “you put a Sticking Charm on the door?” 

He grins at her. “Actually, this time I just Disillusioned the door altogether.” 

An incredulous laugh bursts out of her mouth. “But—how will we—”

“I know where it is,” he says, plucking her wand from her hand. “Don’t worry.” 

The glow of their wand tips go out, plunging them into near pitch dark—only the faintest bit of light sneaks in through the small crack of the space at the bottom of the now-camouflaged door.

God, he’s annoying. 

“Not about to risk fucking prefects trying to get in again,” he grumbles.

She can’t help her giggles. Their wands land with a soft clatter where he sets them, and then her adjusting eyes track his movement as he scoots closer, clothes rustling against the sofa’s old fabric. 

Their hands find each other in the dark, their mouths find their way to each other quickly after, and the energy they had in the library resumes like it never paused at all. They all but pounce each other, mouths sliding, hands wandering, but instead of pulling her onto his lap, James maneuvers her onto her back, laying partially on top of her with his forearm nestled under her neck. 

Being horizontal with a bloke is a luxury that’s actually somewhat hard to come by in Hogwarts. Though the castle has a proliferation of classrooms and closets, all of those rendezvous points are far more conducive to vertical trysts; really, unless one’s partner is in the same house, access to a bed is nearly impossible to come by, and most of the sofas in the castle are placed in very public, very highly trafficked places. It makes this, with him, all the more exciting for its rarity. 

She relishes his weight, his heaviness, his warmth, as he kisses her into oblivion, his free hand already greedily seeking her breasts under her sweatshirt. When his glasses start to slip forward, she slides them off, depositing them gently onto her slouching bag, and then buries her hands back in his hair. At some point, they start moving together, bodies rocking in an unmistakable mimicry of something far more intimate, and she feels fevered, intoxicated, high, with how much she wants him. 

“Fuck,” he exhales, hand retreating from her sweatshirt only to skim down the side of her leg. 

Lily smiles, abandoning his hair to reach for the hem of his sweatshirt, and shimmies it up enough to get her hands on hot skin as she mumbles, “You feel so good.” 

He likes this; she can tell by the grin he’s pressing into her cheek, even before he murmurs, “Yeah?”

She hums, scratching her nails gently along his bare back; he shudders, letting out a soft groan, and gingerly slides his hand up the inside of her leg, stopping at the top of her thigh. 

His lips graze the corner of her mouth as he asks, “Can I touch you?” 

Lily’s breath hitches, desire surging, and she nods an eager, “Yeah.” 

He teases, at first—thumb brushing, then fingers skimming over the places where fabric hides her aching center—so she retaliates, palm reaching for the erection tenting his sweatpants.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Lily.” 

She only kisses him, playfully nipping at his lip, as she traces his outline with her fingers.

“You’re so hard,” she murmurs. 

He thrusts into her hand, mouth dropping into her neck with one of those soft ohs she remembers from Friday night, and abandons his teasing to nudge his hand under her waistband, fingers tentatively smoothing over her knickers until they reach the damp fabric he’s caused. Lily sucks in a small gasp; James exhales a low groan, then teases her some more through her knickers, concentrating all the lust she’s been feeling into a swirl of friction with the pads of his fingers.

“Fuck,” she complains under her breath, hips squirming for him. 

James smiles where he’s hovering near her ear. “You want more?” 

She hears the playful taunt in his voice but—infuriatingly—finds herself powerless to spar back, instead mumbling a far too desperate, “Please,” in a pitch of voice she doesn’t recognize. 

Surprisingly (mercifully?) he doesn’t tease her about that; he simply acquiesces, slipping his hand down the front of her knickers and brushing gentle fingers over where she’s aching for him. 

One would think that touching her through progressively thinning layers of fabric would prepare her for feeling him without them, but it doesn’t; his touch there, skin on skin, sends a zip of lightning up her spine. 

She bites back a whimper.

“You don’t have to be quiet.” James grazes his lips over the shell of her ear, tickling her with the heat of his mouth. “We’re alone.” 

Though she hears him, she can’t think; his fingers are finding her seams, sinking with no resistance, gliding over the spot that makes her squirm—

A moan falls from her mouth before she can help it. James groans back in a satisfied sort of way, cock twitching in his sweatpants, and the last threads of her self-restraint melt away entirely. Fuck it. She’s too weak; she doesn’t care. Lust has her in its hold, and she gives herself over to it. 

She pulls at his waistbands, wasting no more time teasing as she slides her hand down his pelvis and straight to that smooth length below. James moans, fingers stilling as she touches him, and Lily moans with him. With him laying like this, with no denim to constrict her reach, she can feel all of him—and so she does, cupping his balls, skimming from base to tip, spreading his beading moisture around the head. 

Amidst his unfettered groans, he slides two fingers fully inside her. Her hips buck for him, surprise mingling with all the pleasure he’s stirring. Those other boys had touched her there, yes, but that doesn’t mean they accomplished anything. James, she can already tell, just might. 

They kiss, deep, James’s tongue mimicking the curl of his fingers. For whatever reason, she’s consumed with an urgent desire to impress him. Tips and tidbits of knowledge, collected from romance novels and spicy magazines, rise to the forefront of her mind, and she applies them all, fully aware that she’s showing off for him and not caring one bit. But then, she thinks he’s showing off too, dragging his fingers as he is, confidently using his palm. (What are the odds he’s read Cosmopolitan?) 

Wet sounds and wanton moans echo in the otherwise silent room; she’s probably going to need more of that bruise paste for her neck again, but she doesn’t care in the slightest; if anything, she only craves his mouth more. 

“Oh, fuck,” James groans sharply, unlatching from her throat as his hips press desperately into her hand. “Fuck, that’s—just like that—”

She hastily pushes up her sweatshirt, angling him down as she strips him in quick, even strokes. His next moan—more raw than Friday night, like he’s not bothering to hold himself back—gives her a split-second’s notice before he comes on her stomach.

When he’s done, his head drops beside hers, breath ragged as he murmurs, “Fuck, Lily.” 

She lets go of him, cupping the back of his neck instead, then lets out an unexpected moan of her own as he resumes a tantalizing slow curl where he fingers never left.

“Is this good?” he asks, voice still husky. 

“Yeah,” she whispers with a nod. And it is, but for once she finds herself saying, “Will you—more on my—”

He shifts his fingers, circles wetly around her clit, and her back arches like a strung bow.

“So sexy,” he mumbles.

His lips dot the corner of her mouth, then press kisses along her jaw; her whole body hums, legs starting to tremble as he nudges her closer. 

“James,” she whimpers. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs back, fingers steadily rubbing the gliding circles that are quickly undoing her. 

“James, I’m—”

But she doesn’t get the rest of her sentence out, and from the way he slides his fingers back inside her, thumb taking over right where she needs, she can tell he didn’t need her to anyway.  

Pressure snaps; pleasure floods, throbs, until crashing waves fade to small, lapping tides. Distantly, she’s aware of his hair sliding through her fingers, his lips on her forehead. 

“Oh my god,” she breathes. 

James chuckles, something pleased; she realizes he’s hard again as he twitches against her bare skin, smearing the release that’s already become a trickling mess from how she’s been writhing underneath him.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks, fingers curling with more of that teasing slowness. 

“No,” she’s quick to answer. “Do you?” 

He chuckles again, low and sultry. “Not a chance.” 

☙

James looks sideways at her where they slump, spent, against the worn sofa. “You still got that Butterbeer?” 

She snorts, but nonetheless twists her body to reach for her bag on the floor, where she digs out the warm bottle. “Here.” 

He pops off the cap with his thumb (the talented thing), and takes a long gulp, head falling back against the top of the cushion. In the low wand light, Lily watches the column of his throat as he swallows. Though he catches her looking, he simply smirks and offers her the bottle back. She takes it, closing her eyes at the refreshing smoothness.

“Marlene thought you’d be thirsty,” he teases. 

Lily gives him the best glare she can muster, which is actually kind of difficult when he looks this deliciously ravished. Hair swept; eyes lidded, dazed behind his glasses; lips swollen. Her heart flips. She did that. 

“Don’t give her the satisfaction,” Lily manages to drawl back. “She’s meddled enough as it is.” 

He laughs, grinning, as he stretches his arms over his head. 

“Wait.” Lily narrows her eyes at him. “How did you find me?”

“Marlene said you were in the library,” he says with a shrug. 

“Well, I could’ve left,” she counters. “Could’ve gone up to the prefects’ lounge, or an empty classroom, or something.” 

“You could’ve,” he concedes playfully. “But you didn’t.” 

She chews her cheek, still not entirely believing him, and sets the near-empty bottle on the ground next to the small pile of discarded towels.

“So what, you wandered the whole library until you found me?” 

James only smirks, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “I have my ways.” 

Distantly, the clock tower begins chanting the lateness of the hour. She makes a show of rolling her eyes as she mumbles, “You’re so annoying.”

He gives her knee an affectionate squeeze as he pushes to his feet, sounding far too much like she just paid him the highest compliment as he banters back, “I know.”

She still takes his hand when he offers it. Smug sod.