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For the second time that week, Lily found herself outside the disused classroom on the sixth floor after dinner, shivering in the autumn draughts. For the second time that week, Lily found herself staring down James Potter, whose behaviour belied the shiny badge on his chest. No, a Head Boy wasn’t the same as a prefect – he came along to the meetings, sure, but he was more the Queen than the Prime Minister. His point-taking ability relied on the prefects writing it up for him, and he hung banners rather than patrolling the corridors. James Potter was nothing but a show pony, Lily reminded herself. Yes, admittedly, one that had learned how to say ‘please’, and one that had hexed Avery within an inch of his life for calling a first-year a mudblood, but a show pony all the same.
“They gave you that for your brains,” she said, pointing at the badge, “but you don’t seem very bright to me. You’re missing Quidditch practice. Your team’s going to riot and make Gumboil captain.”
Potter leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, smile lazy. “Nah,” he said. “Gumboil’s an idiot.”
“You’re going to look like an idiot if we lose the Cup because you’re too stubborn to write, ‘I must not use illegal jinxes’ and ‘I must set a good example’.”
“Since when do you care about Quidditch?” Lily inhaled sharply and unlocked the door.
“I don’t.”
“You know when we practice.”
“Only because you’re so obnoxious about it.” She slipped inside, and he after her. She didn’t care about Quidditch – it was a load of nonsensical rubbish compared to football, and there was no appeal in watching Potter zoom around, windswept and sweaty, breathing hard, knuckles white around the handle of his broom, chest heaving, thighs tight…
Lily once more claimed the teacher’s desk, and James flopped into a chair, stretching out. His biceps rippled as he held his arms above his head, joints cracking. He shut his eyes and let out a contented groan. Lily’s bag slipped and slammed onto the desk.
“Shit.” Blue ink pooled. “Tergeo.” Lily glared at him.
“Need a hand?”
“I’ve got two.” Another charm repaired the squat, shattered bottles. Lily took the opportunity for a few steadying breaths. Potter could do what he liked to rile her up; she was prepared this time. She sat behind the desk and smoothed down her skirt.
“You know what needs to be done,” she said, purposefully sounding almost bored. “If you waste another night talking, I’ll –”
“What?” Potter leaned forward, resting his chin on his knuckles. His glasses framed a playful look. I am a frozen lake. I am a gliding owl. “You’ll what, Evans?”
“I’m not playing this game with you,” she said shortly. “I’m not falling for it. I must set a good example. Get to it.”
“The thing is,” Potter started, and Lily prayed he would stay seated, prayed he would keep well within his own bubble of personal space. Was it unprofessional if she put a Bubble-Head Charm over herself? Surely it would count as simple revision. “Evans, you’re telling me to mind the sort of example I ought to set, but what example are you setting? Unclear instructions with uncertain consequences. I want to know what happens if I, for instance, don’t shut up.”
“Potter, the school’s motto could be ‘unclear instructions with uncertain consequences’. It’s Hogwarts. Stone, not red brick. We’re not the Russell Group.”
“Russell Group?” His nose crinkled. Lily tried not to think about his nose, or the way little lines around his eyes creased, or that twist in his lips –
“You want clear instructions with clear consequences? Fine. Complete silence. If you can’t manage that, I’ll make you bloody manage it.” She did her best to sound gruff and intimidating, and for added measure, cast a non-verbal Summoning Charm. Rubbish flew from his pockets to her desk – coins, sweets, cards, a mirror. She picked it up. “Are you seriously that obsessed with yourself?”
Potter stood and whipped his chair around, sinking onto it with one leg either side, body draping over its back. He rolled his sleeves up. Lily’s throat tightened at the sight of the rise of veins across his forearms, the beating maps of his body.
“Wouldn’t you be, if you were me?” Potter ruffled his hair. “Evans, only one part of that is clear. How, precisely, would you make me?”
I am the cool Antarctic. She feigned interest in the Seven Theorems of Syllidinic Syllabary. “I’ve heard Filch is very fond of hanging people by their legs.”
“You want to tie me up?”
Lily bit back the retort of their first detention. She’d walked this rocky path before, and she knew how to skirt the potholes.
“Detention is no deterrent, clearly,” she said. “So I’ll – well, I’ll -”
Potter drummed his thumbs on the back of the chair. “Yeah?”
What the hell could she do to him? Detention didn’t work, taking points would turn it into a squabble between prefects, and anything more severe would be laughed out of a second signature. In their month of working together, Potter had learned precisely how to get under her skin, but she didn’t know where to start with him. He’d come back from the summer standing a little taller, talking a little deeper, and with a newfound restraint in the misuse of spells. She’d only given him the detentions on principle; the Slytherins would go to the Governors if she stood there while he gave Avery a slug for a tongue.
But now, the whole venture was a matter of principle, and maybe of pride, too – she didn’t want to admit that it was all a farce to keep the peace between the houses, and she didn’t think it would do him any harm to write twelve inches of nothing before strolling back to his mates. She’d given him one of the easiest detentions intentionally, and yet it seemed he’d rather piss about in here with her than fly. And he loved flying. If he hadn’t been so irritatingly himself, she’d have wondered if he’d had one too many bludgers to the skull.
“I’ll Silence you,” Lily said finally, brandishing her wand. He laughed.
“No, you won’t,” he said. “Misuse of magic. I’ll be giving you detention.” As if that was what they needed – more time locked together in a classroom. Lily pressed her fingers to the knot between her brows.
“I don’t know, Potter,” she admitted, sighing. “I don’t know how your brain works. What would make you shut up for once? Are you capable? Are you going to trap us in this Sisyphean hell for the rest of term because you’re so in love with the sound of your own voice?”
“Kiss me.”
Lily’s cheeks did not warm, her heart did not beat faster, and she certainly didn’t break the quill she held in some mockery of diligence. She kept her head down.
“Ha, ha, ha-ha-ha ha,” she said. “Bit derivative. Three out of ten.”
Potter frowned. “You think I’m lying?” Lily didn’t dignify him with a response. “Evans, when have I ever lied to you?” Lily got a new quill from her bag. “I’ll just keep talking then. Hey, did you catch the Wasps against the -?”
“For fuck’s sakes.” Lily leapt from her seat and threw the quill down. Her feet carried her across the room. Rain lashed the lancet window, a thunderstorm brewing over the Forbidden Forest, the flags atop the Quidditch stands no more than smears against the bloodied blue sunset. In the raindrop-splattered reflection, Potter stood, framed by the torchlight. Lily folded her arms across her chest, stomach clenching with her resolve. How could he say things like that and not think? Didn’t he ever consider that she might -?
She swirled around and Potter was there, inches from her, smiling.
“God,” she said. “You’re like a really athletic ghost.” Fuck.
“I’m not that pale.”
“Ghosts aren’t pale, they’re transparent.”
“Am I transparent?” I wish. She looked up at him, which was the stupidest thing she could have done. He was so close to her she could pick out a tiny white scar on his chin, the individual pricks of stubble.
“What if I did kiss you?” Lily murmured. “How do I know you’d shut up?”
Potter’s lips twitched. “Haven’t you ever snogged someone, Evans? Have you ever managed to talk as well?”
Lily grew hotter. Her heart had taken up residence somewhere behind her navel. “Afterwards.” He shrugged.
“Marauder’s honour. You could trust me,” he said. The suggestion hung in the air, dangerous. “Or you could just keep kissing me.”
Lily raised her chin. “I don’t see how you’d manage that and finish your lines.”
“No,” he agreed. “You’ll have to trust me, then.”
“I don’t believe you’ve ever spent a minute of your life in silence.”
“I can prove it,” Potter said, and raised one palm flat against the air. “I’m an excellent mime.”
It was only that Lily couldn’t stand the sound of his voice any longer. It was only that it was cold, and he was hot – because, fuck, he was, was that a crime to acknowledge?
It was only that Lily really, really hated mimes.
Her lips fell into his, and her hands cupped his shoulders, anchoring her as she stood on her toes. James gave a muffled grunt of surprise. His hands fell to her hips. Despite herself she arched at his touch. Fuck it. She was already kissing him, already letting him touch her – she snaked her hands up his neck until they curled in his hair. It was as soft as she’d imagined, thick and fluffy. Her bottom lip slipped lower. The tip of his tongue touched hers. She jolted and stumbled back, but pulled him with her. Her thighs hit the stone wall, but the chasm of icy air between her shoulder blades and the window tingled. It woke her from the daze.
“James.” She pulled back. His eyes were dark, but his brows raised at the use of his first name. Lily, he mouthed. One hand left her hip to flash a thumbs-up. She stared at him incredulously, lips still burning with memory’s tattoo, and then she laughed. Oh my god, she thought. I’ve snogged James Potter on detention. He gave her a goofy grin to match. She swatted his thumb away, and he pouted. His other hand left her body, and once more he started that stupid trapped-in-a-box-act. “If you keep miming,” she warned, “I’ll never give you detention again.”
“Ah,” he whispered. “So I am a ghost.”
It wasn’t as if she could let that transgression pass.
James’s hands were on her hips the second her mouth hit his lips. His grip was tighter, this time, so she tugged at his hair. His tongue swept over hers and she bit his lip. He tasted of apples and nicotine. His thumbs traced circles across the grey wool of her skirt. The rain pattered harder. She kissed him furiously, fire scorching through her arteries. Lily pressed her body against his, and he stepped back; once, twice, three times, and then he lifted her. She gasped at the sudden weightlessness, and he stole the breath from her. Her legs hooked around his.
He carried her to the teacher’s desk, one hand dropping to her arse to hold her weight while the other cleared her things. James took his time; he barely even strained as he pushed the books to the chair, rolled her parchment one-handed and shoved it in her bag. It frustrated her further. Finally, he put her down, and she grabbed his hand and pulled it to her waist. His other hand roamed to her thigh, and she tightened the wrap of her legs around him, pushing him towards her. His fingers wondered at the stretch of nylon over her knee and then skimmed her skirt’s hem, where it fell three-quarters of the way down her thigh. Even without talking, there was a question.
Lily kissed him harder. The answer, the truth – she’d wanted him since she’d seen him in the swirl of fog on the platform, laughing at something beyond earshot. And with every smile, every glance, every half-arsed quip, another fuse lit. She was burning at both ends. She needed.
“Yes,” she said. She could speak and snog simultaneously, actually. James groaned and his hand snaked under her skirt, tugging at her tights. She trailed her fingers over the edge of his face, memorising the bumps and divots, and ghosted her knuckles across the ridges of his neck. His pulse jumped through his skin. Electric. She hooked her fingertips on the neckline of his robes, holding on as James brushed her core. He pulled from the kiss, brows creased in question. “Yes.” His hand skittered over her again and her hips jerked. He exhaled a laugh. Lily’s chest tightened.
“Shut up,” she said. One eyebrow arched. She seized the front of his robes and their faces clashed, a meeting of bones and desperation. Her free hand shoved his between her legs, and then went to work on her skirt. She rolled up the hem and then pulled at her stockings. James got the idea. She shifted her weight and he peeled the tights from her skin in one swift movement. Lily ached. All she could feel was him and him and him, his weight between her legs, his breaths against her lips, and then working their way down the length of her neck. He trailed kisses across her exposed skin. Her hands roamed, fretting up the curve of his spine. Robes encumbered them.
And then his fingers nudged the join of her thigh, a hair’s breadth from her knickers. Lily looked into his face. His gaze was thick with lust, his breaths shaky and shallow. His lips were chapped. Lily looked into his face and saw James Potter for the first time, his nerves raw and exposed. There was no mask of humour, no pretension of casualness. She slowed, withdrawing her lips and pressing her forehead against his. His expression flickered, desire giving way to genuine affection.
“You should’ve gutted Avery,” she murmured. “He’s a twat.”
“D’you have to bring up Avery right now?” He tapped a rhythm over the swell of her sex, through thin cotton. Lily bit the inside of her cheek, begging herself to keep her composure for just a moment more.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Here?” The weight between her thighs increased, and she felt a press of firmness that elicited a piteous moan. She cupped his face with her hands, heart hammering.
“In detention,” Lily clarified. “You should have hexed his balls off. You did the right thing.”
A little of that self-assured look returned. “I know.” He kissed her hungrily, but as soon as she returned it, he drew back, smiling. She curled one foot around the hem of his robes and lifted, dragging the length of fabric up the back of his leg. He kissed her again, a peck. “I know why you had to do it,” he said, and again their lips touched. “You’ve been keeping the balance all year.” Another. “It’s like a match. You’re always calculating the score. Figuring out when to catch the snitch.”
Lily laid back on the desk, holding her weight on her elbows. James stood between her thighs, the lump in his throat bobbing treacherously. His fingers probed her bare skin. She nodded. They curled around the gusset, and tugged. Down, and down, and down. The roll of skirt alone covered her lower half, and that only to the top of her legs. He could see her. His lips parted.
“Are you sure?”
Lily reached for him. “I trust you.” For that, she got a kiss to the thigh. “I do. I do trust you. I’ve trusted you while every logical thought within me has screamed not to.”
A laugh fluttered against her skin. “You thought you shouldn’t?” Lily’s nails danced over the smooth wooden top.
“No,” she said. “I thought that I thought I shouldn’t.”
“You know what I think?” James looked up at her over the peaks and valleys of her body, cutting her in two. His breath misted. The sensation made her arch, willing him to bridge the gap.
“What?” she managed. His lips curved upwards devilishly.
“Nah,” he said. “Sorry, I forgot. Silence.”
And he made the world fall away.