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Lily Evans has a problem.
Well, she has several, to be perfectly honest--one of which’s been going strong for seven years now (doesn’t help that said problem’s grown into an annoyingly fit bloke either)—including but not limited to three Charms essays due this weekend, N.E.W.T preparations, Transfiguration homework, the last screaming match she’d had with Tuney…
But no, Lily’s most pressing problem right now is a mere day of the week. Tuesdays. Better than Mondays, and not much else. Nothing remarkable about it at all; a day of the week that everyone wishes was some other day. The day Head Boy James Potter insists on ditching aforementioned Head Boy duties in order to hold bi-weekly Quidditch practice, pushing their agreed-upon studying time back an hour, so he can have a wash, only to roam around entirely—
“Merlin,” he sighs, wiping his slender neck with a fluffy towelette, before tossing it onto an unoccupied armchair. “If I’d known what the Prefect bathrooms looked like, I’d have cleaned up my act ages ago.” He meets her eye then, giving her a large grin.
Say something witty, Lily thinks furiously. “Hah,” she says. “Act.” A shiver goes down her spine, one that has nothing to do with how freezing it is outside the castle.
This, is what he does every bloody Tuesday. Wash up, and then parade around the common room shirtless, effectively killing off every rational, functioning brain cell bouncing about in her head.
She exhales a little forcefully.
If James notices anything, he doesn’t let on. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he says.
Lily shrugs. It’s no big deal, really. As much of a git as he can be, James is undoubtedly one of the most clever students in her year. It’s a weekly arrangement now, catching up on schoolwork together, and it’s something she’s beyond grateful for.
And maybe, sometimes, he isn’t that much of a git either. A sort of…friend, she’d like to think.
Or he would be, if she could stop goggling at him for one bloody evening.
James moves then, arms lifting up into a massive stretch. Muscles ripple all over his bare chest, and Lily has to bite down on her tongue lest she do something stupid like moan. He’s always been fit, always had that lithe athletic figure, but he’s really filled out these last couple of months. A single drop of water trickles down between his pecs, over well-defined abs, past sharp, angled bones, jutting out of slim hips…
“...said that’s what I should’ve been doing! Me! A Chaser!”
Lily blinks, having involuntarily zoned out James’ familiar Quidditch rant. “Yeah,” she agrees dutifully, mouth dry. “Sucks.”
“Wanker,” he says grumpily. “Got no choice but to put up with him, since Sirius got himself kicked off the team…”
He’s moving an awful lot, cracking his neck this way and that. Probably sore, after all that practice. Unbidden, her mind wanders to those couples-massage advertisements she’d seen at the shopping centre last summer. He’d like that, maybe. A Muggle massage. They'd get one together. Or maybe she could just do it herself. She’d like that, definitely.
“Oh, fuck off,” she grunts, not entirely meaning to say it aloud.
James stops abruptly, attention snapping onto her.
Her cheeks flush pink at his piercing gaze. “It’s freezing,” she explains lamely, one hand gesturing at his form vaguely. “Aren’t you…cold?”
Understanding dawns on his face. “Ah,” he says, flopping down into one of the squishy chairs near hers, long, long legs dangling over its arm. “Nope. Never. I run hot.”
Of course he fucking did.
"Right. Erm...”
“So…” he prompts, glancing pointedly at the small pile of books she’d stacked up on the three-legged table in anticipation of his arrival.
“So!” Grateful for the excuse to break eye contact, Lily dives into action, unfurling her parchment, shifting books to hold it in place. “Right. First things first. Potions. Slughorn wants twelve inches on the Uses of Ashwinder Eggs and Ethics Involved Concerning Veritaserum—”
“Pfft,” James scoffs, tossing her quill high into the air before executing a perfectly neat catch. “Easy. Let’s move to Charms. ”
“No,” she laughs despite herself, “not easy.” She snatches her quill back. “Look, just because you happen to be the only son of famous potioneer—”
“I may be the only son of famous potioneer Fleamont Potter,” James interrupts with a grin, and Lily’s stomach swoops when it has no business swooping, “but you’re no less, Evans. Slughorn adores you.”
“Because I work hard for it,” she tells him primly, even as she glows at his praise. “Very hard. It doesn’t just…come to me like it does to you or Sev. He…” She pauses, tapering off awkwardly, the slip of tongue dowsing her like a bucket of ice water.
And just like that, whatever she’d been trying to say is gone. She swallows. "Nevermind. We'll move to Charms."
Turning to her parchment, Lily begins to unscrew the cap to her ink, furiously blinking back tears as she can't help but recall the last incident involving the boy sitting beside her and her oldest friend. She hates that it still affects her, that he still affects her. He’d made his choice, and so had she, and there was nothing more to it. She had to move on. Lord knows he had.
“Sorry,” James says, and she looks up to see him fighting to keep an unaffected face. He doesn’t quite succeed, instead looking like he’s bitten into something especially sour. “About…you know. Him. It must’ve been…hard for you.”
Lily manages a shaky nod, wondering dimly what the world’s coming to when James Potter’s trying to engage her in conversation about Severus Snape. She dips her quill in ink multiple times, making a show of adjusting her wrist before positioning it to write; James’ eyes burn into the back of her head.
“Why…” she tries, after several minutes of staring at decidedly blank parchment. “Why do they hate us?” Her voice is small and scratchy, like a petulant child, but sudden exhaustion snubs out the little flame of embarrassment within her.
To his credit, James doesn’t ask her to clarify who on earth she’s referring to. He simply leans over to grasp her wrist, pulling the quill out of her grip carefully before clasping her palm between two of his. His skin is calloused, probably from hours spent gripping the handle of a broomstick, but there’s something comforting about it; his flesh is warm, warm like there’s a fire blazing within him.
“All sorts of stupid reasons,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “None of which are your fault. People hate what they fear; fear what they don’t understand. Pureblood pillocks who think Magic belongs to them, and that it’s being stolen.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “And then there’s the quiet ones. Even worse, sometimes. Too afraid to say something, to take a stand for what’s right. Cowards.”
There’s scorn in his voice, and when Lily glances at his firmly set face, illuminated by the gently crackling fire, she knows with frightening certainty that this bespectacled boy of seventeen is someone who would take a stand.
“You’re a Pureblood.”
“I am.”
She hesitates. “You’d never have to…you could stay out of all this. Out of…what’s to come.”
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself,” James says grimly. “I wouldn’t be able to stand aside and watch it happen.” He withdraws one hand, running it through his stuck-up hair agitatedly. “To stand up for…look—your blood? It doesn’t matter. It doesn't...just look at you, you’re—you’re brilliant. A far sight better than any of those Slytherin pricks. And you…Merlin, you are worth fighting for. And if they can’t see that…if Snape can’t see that…” He sighs, frustrated. “You deserve better.”
Lily ignores the sudden swell of emotion in her chest. You’re worth fighting for, he’d said. You deserve better. “Like you?” she tries jokingly, even as her voice wobbles.
“I won’t say I haven’t been trying,” James tells her seriously. “Don’t think I’ll ever meet the mark though.” His cheeks pinken then, and there’s something endearing about it. His hand still hasn’t left hers, Lily notes. She runs her thumb along his palm almost mindlessly, spine tingling when she feels a sigh shudder through him.
They sit quietly for a long while, in comfortable silence broken by the occasional crackling log, and she can sense the shift between them. An understanding of sorts; a promise for the future that feels like a warm blanket. Her hand squeezes his, and he squeezes back.
“Lily,” he says eventually.
“Hmm?”
“I’ve got a set of Muggle weights in the boys’ dormitory, you know. Even smuggled in one of those statutory bikes.”
“Stationary,” she corrects automatically. “And what?”
“I use them after I shower,” he clarifies. “They’re supposed to make your muscles pop. Read about that in a Muggle magazine, and I thought you might like it.”
Lily’s mouth opens and closes several times, cheeks reddening rapidly. “That’s— what?”
He shrugs, grinning wolfishly. “Didn’t think I wouldn’t notice, did you? It’s me, Evans.”
“You—you arse! God—I’ve been—” she whacks his arm. “You’re awful.”
“It’s only step 4 on How To Become A Better Man For Lily Evans,” he says. “I take it very seriously.”
“I’m sure you do,” Lily says exasperatedly, before a laugh bubbles out of her. “Ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
She smiles at him wryly, before shifting in her chair, giving his form an unabashed once over. He notices, if the sudden electrically-charged tension in the room is telling. “You know…it’s really quite chilly tonight. I’m freezing.”
“Oh. Erm. We could move closer to—”
“No,” she tells him pointedly. “I don’t think that’d be enough.” Her lips quirk up ever so slightly. “If only there was someone nearby who happened to run hot.”
“Ahh,” James grins. “Uncommon. Luckily for you, I happen to know just the bloke.”