Games2011 ♥ FIC: Here Comes The Sun [PG-13+]
Title: Here Comes the Sun
Author: firstbreaths
Team: DOE
Rating: PG13+
Wordcount: ~5800
Warnings: Minor coarse language
Prompt: Quidditch
Summary: You’ve always imagined your relationship with Lily Evans to be rather like Quidditch
Author's Note: A big thanks to the mods for running such a fantastic fest - I can’t wait to see all the fabulous fic and artwork we’re lucky to get as result. Title of this fic comes from the Beatles song of the same name.
You’ve always imagined your relationship with Lily Evans to be rather like Quidditch.
There’s that unmistakable swooping feeling like taking off, every time you see her, that feeling which raises from the deepest parts of you, catching in your stomach, your chest, constricting in your throat. It’s that feeling of freedom that flying inspires in you, alluring but also terrifying, every time she says your name, every time your arm brushes against hers as you reach for the bacon over breakfast and in the crowded hallways between Potions and Transfiguration. And then there’s Sirius, beside you, mouth splayed open in an inappropriate catcall -- this is your imagination, yes, but something tells you that if (read: when) something happens between you, like clockwork, Sirius will just happen to be there. Sirius always just happens to be there.
The game starts, heavy and clumsy at first as you adjust to this new feeling of weightlessness, all fumbling hands and fumbling mouths, not just kissing but talking, all the things you’ve hidden under layers of arrogance and assumed animosity. You imagine Lily, small and supple beneath your fingers, your body folding neatly against hers as you take possession of her. The thought makes you stumble, every time -- like winning, at the beginning, it’s just a little too far out of your grasp. Maybe that’s why you have wanted Lily so badly, for so long - like a fast-paced game of Quidditch, she’s always made you work for her love. And maybe, you can’t deny it -- you like the challenge. Maybe it’s the fear of losing (losing her, mostly) that makes you choke down versions of himself that are too insecure, slipping into that suave demeanour a little too easily. Or maybe she’s right, and you’re just an arrogant arse.
Either way, this stalemate you’ve reached with Lily -- it’s only the beginning.
*
It’s autumn at Hogwarts, and everyone is gearing up for the first Quidditch game of the season. Privately, James thinks that Ravenclaw will be an easy team to beat now that Gwenog Jones has graduated, but he tries to keep the team training hard, because he doesn’t just want to win, he’d like to slaughter them. It’s an animalistic mentality, for sure -- but it’s his last year as Quidditch captain, and he doesn’t fancy losing the cup to Slytherin again.
The sky is clear and crisp as he heads down to the pitch, mentally mapping out strategies. It’s warm still, for autumn, and the browning leaves crunch under his feet as he crosses behind the greenhouses, a hand in his unruly hair as he tosses up which of his Beaters will fare better should they have to fly into the sun. James reminds himself that he really needs to ask Remus about those spells for sun protection, because it’s the middle of October and he’s still finding that his skin flares red after practice.
Sirius once joked about what Lily would think if she could see him, covered in aloe vera lotion, a stream of curse words pouring from his mouth every time he rolls onto his back. He likes to think that she’d appreciate him breaking down the masculine stereotypes enough to actually be receptive to pain, but he doesn’t voice that. There’s a lot of things about Lily Evans he doesn’t dare voice to the Marauders -- but no, he’s got a Quidditch match to focus on, he won’t go there.
He’s lost in thought again, calculating wind speed and optimal height at which to carry the Quaffle, all things he hadn’t realised you actually had to consider until he became the Gryffindor captain, and he almost doesn’t notice he’s charged straight into Lily Evans until it’s too late.
“I-uh-Lily,” he says, because he was thinking about Quidditch, mostly, but he was also kind of thinking about how her hair matched the shade of autumn leaves as they drooped slightly at the end of their branches. “I didn’t realise you were coming to the game. I mean, I guess I thought that maybe you would but then again I thought that maybe Quidditch isn’t your thing, because you haven’t come to many games before.”
“You’re fifty feet up, Potter, and you’ve been keeping track of what Quidditch games I’ve attended in the past six years?” Her lips curl into a frown, and it’s always amazed him, this ability he has to say so little and yet to cause so much frustration to burn up inside her. It’s because of this that he doesn’t have the heart -- or the balls -- to tell her she’s spent all of the seven games she has indeed attended in the stands with Remus, mumbling about house patriotism gone berserk, and that the Marauders tell each other everything.
“No. I mean, I like to know that you’re there, but -- shit, no, that’s not what I meant either, Lily. I just mean - it would be shame if our own Head Girl couldn’t muster up enough school spirit to attend a harmless game of Quidditch.” James tucks his broomstick under his arm, wringing his hands together like he can actually purge himself of the acute sense of embarrassment he’s feeling right now.
Lily watches him as he leans against the wall of the greenhouse, one eyebrow quirked. Her eyes are narrowed, but there’s not the streak of viciousness he expects when she says, “Just because I’m Head Girl doesn’t mean that I’m required to be in attendance at every match, Potter. After all, one of us has got to be the patron saint of the Gobstones team instead, and I certainly don’t see you putting your hand up to volunteer there.”
“It’s Gobstones, Lily,” he says, like that explains everything she needs to know. It probably does. “They’re all second year Hufflepuff codgers who get a little bit too excited when their marbles shoot slimy green stuff at them. It’s basically the biggest game of sexual innuendo ever, and something tells me I’m not entirely suited to that.”
He can feel the flush of his cheeks and, glancing at Lily from between his hands, he notices that her face has gone red too. It’s gorgeous, James thinks, in a way that makes him twitch -- he’s a sixteen year old boy who’s just brought up the topic of sexual innuendo in front of the girl he loves, and he’s torn between snogging her senseless and just allowing his fingertips to brush lightly over her jawline to see the spread of scarlet under his fingers, telling her all the while that she’s beautiful. He can feel his fingers flexing, just itching to lean out and -- he’s Quidditch captain and Head Boy, he knows about discipline and that, sometimes you just have to wait for things that are a little too far out of reach.
He calls that dedication of the highest degree, proof that Lily Evans is not just a conquest to him. Sirius would probably just call it corny, or worse, ridiculous.
It probably is ridiculous, how in love he is. Most days, James just can’t bring himself to care.
“I don’t know, Potter,” Lily replies. “Something tells me that you and your friend Black are very suited to that.”
He’s about to ask what?, because seriously, when: “You’re as bad as each other, James. You’re reduced to finding out what Quidditch games I attend -- and don’t lie, I know Remus tells you -- so that you can put on a show for me. You and Sirius sing all those flirty songs to girls and go around pulling coins out from behind their ears and using corny pickup lines because you don’t have any other way of showing girls you like them. You can’t tell me that a rather large part of the reason you like Quidditch isn’t because it gives you an excuse to show off.”
“It’s --“ James splutters, because it’s not. “None of that stuff has anything to do with me not being able to -- It’s just how I like to express myself. And, I’ll have you know, it’s a lot of work, Lily, organising training and team schedules and -- I’m willing to bet that if you put half the effort into Gobstones that I did into Quidditch, you might actually get someone other than me and a midget Hufflepuff to like -- never mind, Lily, that’s not what I -- shit - It sucks, that’s all. It sucks that you’ll never believe me.“ James laughs nervously, in a half-hearted attempt to take the edge off things. “Sirius might like Quidditch because of that, but --“
He’s not sure how to tell her this, but he’s honestly offended. Offended that, of all the things she’d choose to ridicule about him, Lily would pick the one thing that shows how little she knows him. Because, he’ll admit -- sometimes he does try a little too hard when it comes to picking outfits for Hogsmeade weekends and sometimes he does get a little too carried away serenading Sirius’ crushes, in the hope that Lily will see that his eyes are always trained right past them. But, he’s also offended that he’s so in love with a girl like Lily that he’s prepared to mock his friend for loving a game that, James knows, gives Sirius the same sense of innate accomplishment and pride that it does him.
Maybe that’s why Sirius has always been vocal about the fact that his love of Lily Evans is indeed so very, very ridiculous.
And, speaking of Sirius -
“James,” Sirius yells, pulling his broom up suddenly beside them. Lily’s glare shifts slightly sideways to him, and James is suddenly glad for the distraction. His hand jerks upwards on the handle just in time to avoid bowling Lily over, and it’s hard to say who’s more obviously mad at him, James or Lily. “Evans is not going to snog you, no matter how many times you try to convince her that she’s the team’s lucky charm.”
“We don’t need a lucky charm, Sirius, because we’re going to bring our A game,” James says, turning on his heel. If his friend -- or Lily -- glances confusedly at him as he marches past the greenhouse, he ignores it. “Let’s go,” he says. “We’ve got a game to win.”
And they do. The Ravenclaw team are sloppy at best, but there’s a certain kind of satisfaction that comes with the way the Quaffle is slick in James’ hands, his team’s passes well-executed, flawless, like the best kind of performance. The sun is in his eyes as he streams up the pitching, hollering directions as his Beaters fly circles around the opposition. The breeze whistles at his back and he remembers, for a split second, that this is the first Quidditch game of the year, but it’s also his last first Quidditch game of the year ever. And then the Quaffle comes spiralling towards him and he pushes the thought away, because they’ve all got a seemingly long time to think about that.
After the game, he spots Lily in the stands, cheering loudly alongside everyone else. Something inside him hopes that, even after everything, it’s because of him.
The leaves still crunch under his feet as he makes his way to the dressing room and he wonders how a girl he loves as much as Lily Evans can stomp on his heart in much the same way. But, James realises, still imagining the feel of his skin underneath his fingers, it’s only autumn -- he’s got all year to win her over.
*
If the first days of your relationship are all awkwardness and newness and trying to gain your footing, then the next set of days are that moment where you’re caught up in the game, passing the Quaffle from hand to hand with a gentle ease. You imagine sharing secrets with Lily, honest-to-God secrets that you’ve kept tucked close to your heart for so long, and trusting her to catch them, before passing them back. You think that maybe, she’ll sit beside you in front of the fire, a hand curled in to the crook of your waist, and that it will be as easy as practice drills and riling up the Slytherins.
This relationship, it’s all flying hard and fast, and there’s still that fumbling, sometimes, when the game catches you off guard, but you’ve learnt to keep it mostly under control. It’s gotten easier, but it’s also gotten harder.
Maybe it’s because the goals change slightly now, it’s not just about getting your head in the game anymore. It’s okay to aim for the centre hoop instead of the left now because she’s still the keeper (of her heart), but Lily’s learnt to concede a little, at least. You’ve learnt to concede a little, knowing that winning isn’t everything if you can still snatch a draw, but you want it, so badly, so you dig deeper, finding that little bit extra you didn’t even know you had inside you.
Mostly, though, there’s this overwhelming feeling that you’ve hit your stride, finally, and you just need to settle the team into a routine. Because this is the moment, with the breeze in your favour, and the goals up ahead, that impatience or arrogance or just bad form could just make it, or break it.
With Lily, you know there’s too much at stake to lose.
*
Winter settles uneasily upon the castle, which seems to buckle and wilt under the pressure of the snow. It becomes harder to motivate his team to wake up early; even James has found himself slipping deeper under the blankets, the tips of his fingers just gently grazing the snooze button on his alarm clock. Stumbling into his Quidditch robes, he reminds himself that it will all be worth it when they beat Hufflepuff in the game, followed by a relaxing two week break from practice over Christmas.
Game day arrives in a blur of bad weather; the minute his feet touch the ground as he hurries out to the pitch, the wind comes whistling through, burying his footprints under a thick layer of snow. He’s felt a lot like that himself, lately -- this tentative friendship he’s struck up with Lily Evans has seen him submerging the feelings that want to push up into the world, spilling out of his mouth, time after time. He covers any tracks he could possibly make towards something more, with a cautious arrogance; he’s been so good at sticking with this friendship theme they’ve got going that there’s no way he’s done anything to fuck it all up, but he makes sure to keep his eyes cast downwards and away from her, just to make sure.
It’s awkward, to say the very least -- they’ve taken to revealing parts of themselves to each other, in this ridiculous kind of let’s-see-who-can-top-the-other-Potter, like this is a card game and their emotions are all just sleights of hand. He’s found himself telling her about his family, about how he’d like to be a Healer but he’s not entirely sure he’s going to do well enough in Potions, about his first bursts of accidental magic and how he’d felt, on his first day of Hogwarts. (He doesn’t say anything about how it had been kind of average until he’d met the Marauders and then her, because blurring of the lines aside, he remembers the enchanted look on her face that day, the first time she’d experienced any more than the most basic of magic. It’s a memory he really doesn’t want to tarnish with one of her now infamous death stares).
The game is sharp, but awkward when it gets started, all at the same time; James finds himself flying faster, faster to escape the wind, the Quaffle slipping slowly from between his numb fingers. Remus has charmed his glasses to repel the most of the snow, but it falls in clumps upon his shoulders, in his hair, and he finds himself making strange dive rolls to shake it off his back. His team’s new-found resilience when it comes to flying in less than ideal temperatures has paid off, and James is pleased to see that while they’re shivering, none of them have as yet been rendered totally catatonic. There’s a sort of fluidity to their motions that he finds reassuring, the way the Quaffle slides from one pair of hands to the next, the Beaters connecting bat to ball at exactly the right time. In this frightful weather, they have to work harder for it, but their persistence pays off.
James finds himself taking the final shot, the Quaffle just barely grazing the inside edge of the right hoop as it slides through, right as Martin Newitt rises triumphantly from a dive, the Snitch’s fragile golden wings fluttering erratically against his fist.
“Care to celebrate with a little Firewhiskey after the game, Prongs?” Sirius asks as they traipse off to the dressing rooms, 320 -140 and the loud thunderclap of Eoin’s congratulatory backslap ringing in his ears. Alcohol falls somewhere on the list of Things He’s Pretty Much Accepted are a Bad Idea, these days -- a list formulated in no part due to Lily Evans and his obstinacy when it comes to keeping his friendship with her -- but there’s snow dripping from his ears and he can’t face her while he’s shivering like he’s nervous, at least. The Firewhiskey will, if nothing else, warm him up.
He finds Lily in a corner of the Gryffindor common room after the crowd of people dying to congratulate him dies down, a clasp of Butterbeer clasped firmly in her hands. The knot of her scarf is loose against the base of her neck and she’s undone the top two buttons of her shirt; he’s still in his Quidditch robes, but the way her eyes graze over him as she greets him with a casual smile, he feels like he’s stark naked in front of her.
The giant posters of him that Peter has hung from the ceiling, his matted eyebrows and small scattering of acne across his chin magnified for the whole common room to see are honestly not that much help. He’d try pulling them down, but it seems that his friend has is almost too good at sticking charms.
“James,” she says, and he settles awkwardly on the edge of the couch, because the way she says his name, it’s always been like an invitation, to him. He’d thought it was hot, all those times she’d growled his name in protest, in anger, but he’s finding that it’s more attractive now, knowing that his name means something to her. Knowing that he means something to her -- even if he’s not entirely sure what that something is.
“Lily,” he replies with a vague gesture towards the centre of the room, where a couple of third years are snogging under a piece of quite obviously enchanted mistletoe and Sirius and Peter are hawking out sweets from Honeydukes to the highest bidders. “As Head Boy, I can’t tolerate your attendance at a party so full of obvious debauchery.”
“As Head Girl,” she says, a laugh spilling in scraps from her mouth. “I can’t tolerate a party so full of obvious debauchery being dedicated to you.”
“It’s not entirely about me,” he says, even though it actually kind of is. “Being Quidditch captain may make me the figurehead, but I’m pretty sure Sirius planned this party more as a tribute to his own insurmountable ego. It’s always the charming ones, you’ve got to watch, but honestly -- I had very little to do with any of this.”
Lily places her glass on the table, shifting to look at him. Her eyes, usually so vibrant, are suddenly wistful, and James can’t help but think that it’s kind of a beauty that’s so much more real because he’s never written sonnets about it. “You don’t know how much I wish I could believe that,” she says.
There’s this feeling that twists up in his stomach, hot and cold at the same time, because he hopes, dares to hope -- does it mean what he thinks it does? And at what point does daring to hope become not enough? James is reminded, for a moment, of how winter strips everything bare, making it vulnerable, but also imbuing it with the potential for regrowth, a future kind of strength.
“So believe it,” James replies, like it’s that easy. Because, for him, it is.
Here’s the thing: he’s changing, not for Lily Evans, but because of Lily Evans. He’s changing because that smile she shoots him when he’s helpful, charming, considerate makes him feel as though all his synapses are on fire. He’s changing because the relaxed banter they’ve slipped into during shared classes and patrols makes him feel like he’s found an equal, someone who appreciates him not because he makes them laugh by being brasher, more spontaneous than they dare but because his own jokes fit neatly alongside theirs, each one balancing out the other.
They’ve progressed, from enemies to mutual acquaintances to friends, skipping gently past some of the other more obvious relationship markers in between. Lily and James have settled into a rhythm now; taking turns to write agendas for their bi-weekly prefect meetings and help Dumbledore with arrangements for their end of year ball (short of softening James’ desires, this newfound ease between them has only made James more certain that Lily would be the perfect date), their relationship has matured into a steady rhythm so far from their original staccato beat.
“I --“ she says, and then, in a rush: “This party, it’s insane.” Her fingers brush against his as she picks up her glass again, and she’s right, it is -- there’s this tingling in his hands and his heart that he can’t quite attribute entirely to the alcohol and it’s crazy-insane the way that Lily Evans can flip him upside down, but also right side up.
He nods in vague agreement. “It’s a well-known but underexplored phenomenon that Quidditch matches bring out the crazy in people.”
“If by ‘people’, you’re referring solely to Sirius, then yes.” James follows Lily’s gaze to the far side of the common room, where his best friend is currently trying to woo several fifth years with some rather poorly executed Muggle card tricks, and James can’t decide whether Sirius’ hangover and inevitable ability to forget this ever happened in the morning is a good or a bad thing. It’s got to be easier to scream at him in the morning for ruining what could have been a perfect moment with Lily if he actually remembers why he’s at fault.
“James,” she says, as he stands up, preparing to bundle Sirius up the stairs and into bed. “Good game.”
“Thanks,” he says, with a somewhat wistful smile, and hopes that she doesn’t notice that his gaze lingers a little too long, his fingers rising to his jaw as he imagines her lips there, soft but brightly red, chaffed from the wind as she’d watched the game.
Once upon a time, he would have made a joke about how, with his natural skill and talent, victory was inevitable. But he doesn’t, now. Because, this time, he’s determined not to fuck it up. Because as sure as the winter weather chills his bones, Lily Evans warms even the deepest cockles of his heart.
*
You still imagine your relationship to be like Quidditch, but it’s different now, when you’re on the precipice of having everything, and nothing at all. There’s still that heat that builds low in your stomach, blazing through your body as you take off, your mind and your body sharp, but also floundering with unbridled enthusiasm.
But, you know now, that there will be obstacles in your path -- too many, and not nearly as simple as arrogance and bad judgement to overcome. Like Quaffles and Bludgers and the occasional recalcitrant Beater, things will come flying at you, and you won’t always be able to duck in time. That heightened sense of urgency that fills you during a Quidditch match, like every catch, every throw is the difference between life or death has filtered into the rest of your life too; in the dying seconds of your final year of Hogwarts, how well you can dodge what fate decides to throw at you will in fact determine your fate, not just for the season, but for the rest of your lives. The Snitch is caught, the clock stops and, in this single moment of timelessness, your eyes open agonisingly slowly, before darting to the scoreboard, looking for confirmation of what you’ve lost -- or maybe, just maybe, what you’ve won. It’s singlehandedly the best, and the worst moment of your life.
And yet -- you know that this is what makes it worthwhile, knowing that you’ve managed to win something that could have so easily slipped through your fingers. As such, you’ve realised -- a relationship with Lily Evans is like a goal, the game changer. Lily Evans herself is the snitch, elusive, quick-witted, the ultimate endgame. And you want to win, dammit -- you really want to win.
*
The first of spring’s fragile flowers are pushing their way upwards as James stands in the centre of the Quidditch pitch, preparing to mount his broom. They’re both a comfort and a mockery -- a sign that the world is not always as grey as it seems, these days, but also a reminder of everything they stand to lose.
James isn’t stupid. He knows, as sure as the grass pokes through the tundra, spindly and green, that darkness devours the castle, inch by inch.
The Quidditch pitch is a blur of scarlet and green as James swerves his way around yet another rogue Bludger in a last-ditch effort to secure the game for Gryffindor. The Quaffle is little more than dead weight in his hands, and he looks blindly around for someone to pass it off to, sure that he can’t make it. After the third hour of bone-shattering abuse from the Slytherin team, many of his teammates are beginning to regret the way in which they have baited their opposition during the week leading up to what even Dumbledore has described as the match of the season. Privately, James agrees with them -- not that he’ll ever admit it to his team, or to Sirius.
A shout comes from James’ left, and he passes the Quaffle off to Eleanor Winters, just as Sirius’ bat connects loudly with a Bludger, sending it spinning in the Slytherin Keeper’s direction. Below, the crowd (three-quarters of whom are dressed in Gryffindor colours) screams loudly as Eleanor’s shot makes it through the left hoop, just barely scraping the side. Despite quickly tiring of the Slytherins’ heavy physical tactics, the Gryffindor team is now well in front, and they manage a lethargic team hug before the game resumes. It should be easier than this, with the sun on their backs and the breeze helping to push the Quaffle forward, but it isn’t.
Perhaps the Slytherins have released what a dire situation their team is in (the winner of this game will qualify to play in the Quidditch Cup final, a prize more heavily sought after than the House Cup by many teams), or perhaps they just relish any opportunity to ridicule Gryffindor’s prodigal son (a name given to him by Sirius during a drunken end of exams celebration - he isn’t that arrogant, no matter what Lily once believed - maybe still does believe). Either way, they begin to focus their attention on James; pulling his Beaters aside, the Slytherin captain’s instructions that they’re to target the Gryffindor captain are nothing short of explicit.
Not the sort to rely on the rules to protect him -- he’s had enough practice breaking them to scurry that possibility away -- James grits his teeth and prepares for himself for the onslaught. It’s all petty at first, jabs about his hair and James not having the courage of a lion if he doesn’t turn around and gun them down.
And then it’s personal in a way only the Slytherins can make it, but also in a way James can only say he’s brought on himself, after seven years of constantly singing Lily’s praises. “I hear Evans doesn’t love you, Potter,” one of them cries, the last of his words lost as he dips suddenly, speeding towards the Snitch. James manages a quick mental calculation; the Snitch is Slytherin’s, but one last goal could still win them the game and -- he’s got the Quaffle, firm in his hands.
“I hear that she’d rather snog the Giant Squid than you, seriously. Or maybe even Snape,” they cry, and in that moment, he hates them -- not for the blatant mockery of his feelings, but for daring to bring the one thing he thinks Lily might be most ashamed of into this.
There’s this searing flash of hatred somewhere behind his eyelids, and then the Quaffle is spinning off the tips of his fingers; the Slytherin seeker pulls out of his dive just as it slips through the right hoop, merely centimetres from the Keeper’s outstretched hands. He’d known he wasn’t going to miss, not really -- because the one thing about his love for Lily Evans that everyone underestimates is that it’s real because it’s stronger than their shit, and it’s stronger than their shit because it’s real.
Landing on the ground, he takes a moment or two to process what’s happened, his body jolted from left to right as he moves between slaps on the back and awkward, but reaffirming hugs. And then Sirius is sending him sprawling in the direction of Lily Evans; he trips over his feet and curses, but this isn’t about first impressions, not really -- he’s made enough of those. The first tender roots of their relationship grew so long ago, and now, it’s like a garden -- overgrown and full of possibilities, just waiting for someone to prune it into exactly the right shape.
His fellow Gryffindors are still whistling behind James as he turns to her; her hands are wedged deep in her coat pockets and her lips move just the slightest fraction as she says, “I just wanted to say -- I’m proud of you, James.”
“Proud of me?” James says, because he’s heard a lot of things from Lily recently -- you’re improving James and I’m actually glad we got to work together this year among them, but -- proud? He feels as though his heart might burst through his chest. Because he’s changed, but he’s still the same too, still thrives on affirmation and this feeling of absolute weightlessness that she inspires in him; he almost feels like he’s hovering somewhere outside of his body, looking down, because this can’t be real.
She’s explaining now, sort of. “Remus has this thing, he borrowed it off Peter --“ Lily’s voice is broken, he can hear it and that confirms it; she’s never been anything thing less than picture-perfect in front of him. “And well, we could hear what was happening and what they said and -- I’m just impressed that you didn’t punch their lights out, I guess. I mean -- I’m proud of you for winning too, but -- I’m making this all about me, and --“
“Lily,” he says, reaching out to gently squeeze her shoulder. It’s a bold move, almost too bold even for the Quidditch Captain whose team has won every match this season, and it’s James’ turn to wince, now, because --
Ability to outplay even the Slytherins aside, he’s always been kind of an idiot.
But, if the way she stretches, rolling herself up into his embrace is any indication, Lily doesn’t mind. It’s a small gesture, perhaps, but he’s more than willing to take it.
“You don’t have to say it,” James says finally, trying to be chivalrous. “It’s not all about you.” It is, actually, because the only reason it’s taken her so long to admit that she’s proud of him is because she’s had to become proud of herself, proud of the person that James has never, ever doubted that she could be. Of all the bullets in this relationship, it’s not Sirius or the Slytherins who’ve stopped them in their tracks, it’s themselves. He’s been so busy trying to be suave and self-assured, and then not so self-assured, like a butterfly, emerging from a cocoon, he’s shed parts of himself and become reborn, year after year after year. And, in a metamorphosis he’s tracked mainly through proselytising about her physical transformation -- Sirius will never let him live down the almost pornographic poetry he wrote during third year -- Lily Evans herself has hatched into something new, a person he could actually see himself being with. A person she could actually see herself being with.
“They were just trying to bait me,” he adds, shoving his own hands deep into his pockets to prevent wringing them together with worry. “Without going into the details of what it means in terms of how I feel about you, I didn’t need to believe it.”
“Because it isn’t true.” Lily’s voice cracks on the final, breathy syllable, and James feels his own heart jerk simultaneously inside his chest, that’s how attuned to this girl he is -- all his heartstrings are strung tightly, just waiting for her to pluck. “You were right,” she says. “You were right all along -- I don’t have to say it, I just have to believe it, believe in you.”
There’s a split second, like a time delay, just enough for James’ brain to catch up to his heart, and then Lily Evans lips meet his.
Spring brings with it new life, but also -- it brings new hope.
*
And here’s the thing: you’ve has always imagined that your relationship with Lily Evans is rather like Quidditch. You’ve just never imagined that kissing her -- from that swooping feeling in your gut right through to the rush of elation that shoots through your ribcage like an arrow (you’ve won) would feel a lot like Quidditch too. Her mouth is warm like the summer sun and she’s softer than you could have imagined, under that tough exterior. You angle your kisses lower, moaning into her mouth; her jaw clenches as she swallows you-- your contentment, your fears -- with this gentleness that makes you think that maybe, it’s okay. Because Quidditch has taught you about teamwork, but you’ve never imagined how invigorating it could be to give yourself up, handing yourself over to someone else in order to let them make you complete.
It’s a feeling you definitely want to get used to before you leave Hogwarts for the summer, though.
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Poll Lily/James Games 2011 - Here Comes The Sun
Author: firstbreaths
Team: DOE
Rating: PG13+
Wordcount: ~5800
Warnings: Minor coarse language
Prompt: Quidditch
Summary: You’ve always imagined your relationship with Lily Evans to be rather like Quidditch
Author's Note: A big thanks to the mods for running such a fantastic fest - I can’t wait to see all the fabulous fic and artwork we’re lucky to get as result. Title of this fic comes from the Beatles song of the same name.
You’ve always imagined your relationship with Lily Evans to be rather like Quidditch.
There’s that unmistakable swooping feeling like taking off, every time you see her, that feeling which raises from the deepest parts of you, catching in your stomach, your chest, constricting in your throat. It’s that feeling of freedom that flying inspires in you, alluring but also terrifying, every time she says your name, every time your arm brushes against hers as you reach for the bacon over breakfast and in the crowded hallways between Potions and Transfiguration. And then there’s Sirius, beside you, mouth splayed open in an inappropriate catcall -- this is your imagination, yes, but something tells you that if (read: when) something happens between you, like clockwork, Sirius will just happen to be there. Sirius always just happens to be there.
The game starts, heavy and clumsy at first as you adjust to this new feeling of weightlessness, all fumbling hands and fumbling mouths, not just kissing but talking, all the things you’ve hidden under layers of arrogance and assumed animosity. You imagine Lily, small and supple beneath your fingers, your body folding neatly against hers as you take possession of her. The thought makes you stumble, every time -- like winning, at the beginning, it’s just a little too far out of your grasp. Maybe that’s why you have wanted Lily so badly, for so long - like a fast-paced game of Quidditch, she’s always made you work for her love. And maybe, you can’t deny it -- you like the challenge. Maybe it’s the fear of losing (losing her, mostly) that makes you choke down versions of himself that are too insecure, slipping into that suave demeanour a little too easily. Or maybe she’s right, and you’re just an arrogant arse.
Either way, this stalemate you’ve reached with Lily -- it’s only the beginning.
*
It’s autumn at Hogwarts, and everyone is gearing up for the first Quidditch game of the season. Privately, James thinks that Ravenclaw will be an easy team to beat now that Gwenog Jones has graduated, but he tries to keep the team training hard, because he doesn’t just want to win, he’d like to slaughter them. It’s an animalistic mentality, for sure -- but it’s his last year as Quidditch captain, and he doesn’t fancy losing the cup to Slytherin again.
The sky is clear and crisp as he heads down to the pitch, mentally mapping out strategies. It’s warm still, for autumn, and the browning leaves crunch under his feet as he crosses behind the greenhouses, a hand in his unruly hair as he tosses up which of his Beaters will fare better should they have to fly into the sun. James reminds himself that he really needs to ask Remus about those spells for sun protection, because it’s the middle of October and he’s still finding that his skin flares red after practice.
Sirius once joked about what Lily would think if she could see him, covered in aloe vera lotion, a stream of curse words pouring from his mouth every time he rolls onto his back. He likes to think that she’d appreciate him breaking down the masculine stereotypes enough to actually be receptive to pain, but he doesn’t voice that. There’s a lot of things about Lily Evans he doesn’t dare voice to the Marauders -- but no, he’s got a Quidditch match to focus on, he won’t go there.
He’s lost in thought again, calculating wind speed and optimal height at which to carry the Quaffle, all things he hadn’t realised you actually had to consider until he became the Gryffindor captain, and he almost doesn’t notice he’s charged straight into Lily Evans until it’s too late.
“I-uh-Lily,” he says, because he was thinking about Quidditch, mostly, but he was also kind of thinking about how her hair matched the shade of autumn leaves as they drooped slightly at the end of their branches. “I didn’t realise you were coming to the game. I mean, I guess I thought that maybe you would but then again I thought that maybe Quidditch isn’t your thing, because you haven’t come to many games before.”
“You’re fifty feet up, Potter, and you’ve been keeping track of what Quidditch games I’ve attended in the past six years?” Her lips curl into a frown, and it’s always amazed him, this ability he has to say so little and yet to cause so much frustration to burn up inside her. It’s because of this that he doesn’t have the heart -- or the balls -- to tell her she’s spent all of the seven games she has indeed attended in the stands with Remus, mumbling about house patriotism gone berserk, and that the Marauders tell each other everything.
“No. I mean, I like to know that you’re there, but -- shit, no, that’s not what I meant either, Lily. I just mean - it would be shame if our own Head Girl couldn’t muster up enough school spirit to attend a harmless game of Quidditch.” James tucks his broomstick under his arm, wringing his hands together like he can actually purge himself of the acute sense of embarrassment he’s feeling right now.
Lily watches him as he leans against the wall of the greenhouse, one eyebrow quirked. Her eyes are narrowed, but there’s not the streak of viciousness he expects when she says, “Just because I’m Head Girl doesn’t mean that I’m required to be in attendance at every match, Potter. After all, one of us has got to be the patron saint of the Gobstones team instead, and I certainly don’t see you putting your hand up to volunteer there.”
“It’s Gobstones, Lily,” he says, like that explains everything she needs to know. It probably does. “They’re all second year Hufflepuff codgers who get a little bit too excited when their marbles shoot slimy green stuff at them. It’s basically the biggest game of sexual innuendo ever, and something tells me I’m not entirely suited to that.”
He can feel the flush of his cheeks and, glancing at Lily from between his hands, he notices that her face has gone red too. It’s gorgeous, James thinks, in a way that makes him twitch -- he’s a sixteen year old boy who’s just brought up the topic of sexual innuendo in front of the girl he loves, and he’s torn between snogging her senseless and just allowing his fingertips to brush lightly over her jawline to see the spread of scarlet under his fingers, telling her all the while that she’s beautiful. He can feel his fingers flexing, just itching to lean out and -- he’s Quidditch captain and Head Boy, he knows about discipline and that, sometimes you just have to wait for things that are a little too far out of reach.
He calls that dedication of the highest degree, proof that Lily Evans is not just a conquest to him. Sirius would probably just call it corny, or worse, ridiculous.
It probably is ridiculous, how in love he is. Most days, James just can’t bring himself to care.
“I don’t know, Potter,” Lily replies. “Something tells me that you and your friend Black are very suited to that.”
He’s about to ask what?, because seriously, when: “You’re as bad as each other, James. You’re reduced to finding out what Quidditch games I attend -- and don’t lie, I know Remus tells you -- so that you can put on a show for me. You and Sirius sing all those flirty songs to girls and go around pulling coins out from behind their ears and using corny pickup lines because you don’t have any other way of showing girls you like them. You can’t tell me that a rather large part of the reason you like Quidditch isn’t because it gives you an excuse to show off.”
“It’s --“ James splutters, because it’s not. “None of that stuff has anything to do with me not being able to -- It’s just how I like to express myself. And, I’ll have you know, it’s a lot of work, Lily, organising training and team schedules and -- I’m willing to bet that if you put half the effort into Gobstones that I did into Quidditch, you might actually get someone other than me and a midget Hufflepuff to like -- never mind, Lily, that’s not what I -- shit - It sucks, that’s all. It sucks that you’ll never believe me.“ James laughs nervously, in a half-hearted attempt to take the edge off things. “Sirius might like Quidditch because of that, but --“
He’s not sure how to tell her this, but he’s honestly offended. Offended that, of all the things she’d choose to ridicule about him, Lily would pick the one thing that shows how little she knows him. Because, he’ll admit -- sometimes he does try a little too hard when it comes to picking outfits for Hogsmeade weekends and sometimes he does get a little too carried away serenading Sirius’ crushes, in the hope that Lily will see that his eyes are always trained right past them. But, he’s also offended that he’s so in love with a girl like Lily that he’s prepared to mock his friend for loving a game that, James knows, gives Sirius the same sense of innate accomplishment and pride that it does him.
Maybe that’s why Sirius has always been vocal about the fact that his love of Lily Evans is indeed so very, very ridiculous.
And, speaking of Sirius -
“James,” Sirius yells, pulling his broom up suddenly beside them. Lily’s glare shifts slightly sideways to him, and James is suddenly glad for the distraction. His hand jerks upwards on the handle just in time to avoid bowling Lily over, and it’s hard to say who’s more obviously mad at him, James or Lily. “Evans is not going to snog you, no matter how many times you try to convince her that she’s the team’s lucky charm.”
“We don’t need a lucky charm, Sirius, because we’re going to bring our A game,” James says, turning on his heel. If his friend -- or Lily -- glances confusedly at him as he marches past the greenhouse, he ignores it. “Let’s go,” he says. “We’ve got a game to win.”
And they do. The Ravenclaw team are sloppy at best, but there’s a certain kind of satisfaction that comes with the way the Quaffle is slick in James’ hands, his team’s passes well-executed, flawless, like the best kind of performance. The sun is in his eyes as he streams up the pitching, hollering directions as his Beaters fly circles around the opposition. The breeze whistles at his back and he remembers, for a split second, that this is the first Quidditch game of the year, but it’s also his last first Quidditch game of the year ever. And then the Quaffle comes spiralling towards him and he pushes the thought away, because they’ve all got a seemingly long time to think about that.
After the game, he spots Lily in the stands, cheering loudly alongside everyone else. Something inside him hopes that, even after everything, it’s because of him.
The leaves still crunch under his feet as he makes his way to the dressing room and he wonders how a girl he loves as much as Lily Evans can stomp on his heart in much the same way. But, James realises, still imagining the feel of his skin underneath his fingers, it’s only autumn -- he’s got all year to win her over.
*
If the first days of your relationship are all awkwardness and newness and trying to gain your footing, then the next set of days are that moment where you’re caught up in the game, passing the Quaffle from hand to hand with a gentle ease. You imagine sharing secrets with Lily, honest-to-God secrets that you’ve kept tucked close to your heart for so long, and trusting her to catch them, before passing them back. You think that maybe, she’ll sit beside you in front of the fire, a hand curled in to the crook of your waist, and that it will be as easy as practice drills and riling up the Slytherins.
This relationship, it’s all flying hard and fast, and there’s still that fumbling, sometimes, when the game catches you off guard, but you’ve learnt to keep it mostly under control. It’s gotten easier, but it’s also gotten harder.
Maybe it’s because the goals change slightly now, it’s not just about getting your head in the game anymore. It’s okay to aim for the centre hoop instead of the left now because she’s still the keeper (of her heart), but Lily’s learnt to concede a little, at least. You’ve learnt to concede a little, knowing that winning isn’t everything if you can still snatch a draw, but you want it, so badly, so you dig deeper, finding that little bit extra you didn’t even know you had inside you.
Mostly, though, there’s this overwhelming feeling that you’ve hit your stride, finally, and you just need to settle the team into a routine. Because this is the moment, with the breeze in your favour, and the goals up ahead, that impatience or arrogance or just bad form could just make it, or break it.
With Lily, you know there’s too much at stake to lose.
*
Winter settles uneasily upon the castle, which seems to buckle and wilt under the pressure of the snow. It becomes harder to motivate his team to wake up early; even James has found himself slipping deeper under the blankets, the tips of his fingers just gently grazing the snooze button on his alarm clock. Stumbling into his Quidditch robes, he reminds himself that it will all be worth it when they beat Hufflepuff in the game, followed by a relaxing two week break from practice over Christmas.
Game day arrives in a blur of bad weather; the minute his feet touch the ground as he hurries out to the pitch, the wind comes whistling through, burying his footprints under a thick layer of snow. He’s felt a lot like that himself, lately -- this tentative friendship he’s struck up with Lily Evans has seen him submerging the feelings that want to push up into the world, spilling out of his mouth, time after time. He covers any tracks he could possibly make towards something more, with a cautious arrogance; he’s been so good at sticking with this friendship theme they’ve got going that there’s no way he’s done anything to fuck it all up, but he makes sure to keep his eyes cast downwards and away from her, just to make sure.
It’s awkward, to say the very least -- they’ve taken to revealing parts of themselves to each other, in this ridiculous kind of let’s-see-who-can-top-the-other-Potter, like this is a card game and their emotions are all just sleights of hand. He’s found himself telling her about his family, about how he’d like to be a Healer but he’s not entirely sure he’s going to do well enough in Potions, about his first bursts of accidental magic and how he’d felt, on his first day of Hogwarts. (He doesn’t say anything about how it had been kind of average until he’d met the Marauders and then her, because blurring of the lines aside, he remembers the enchanted look on her face that day, the first time she’d experienced any more than the most basic of magic. It’s a memory he really doesn’t want to tarnish with one of her now infamous death stares).
The game is sharp, but awkward when it gets started, all at the same time; James finds himself flying faster, faster to escape the wind, the Quaffle slipping slowly from between his numb fingers. Remus has charmed his glasses to repel the most of the snow, but it falls in clumps upon his shoulders, in his hair, and he finds himself making strange dive rolls to shake it off his back. His team’s new-found resilience when it comes to flying in less than ideal temperatures has paid off, and James is pleased to see that while they’re shivering, none of them have as yet been rendered totally catatonic. There’s a sort of fluidity to their motions that he finds reassuring, the way the Quaffle slides from one pair of hands to the next, the Beaters connecting bat to ball at exactly the right time. In this frightful weather, they have to work harder for it, but their persistence pays off.
James finds himself taking the final shot, the Quaffle just barely grazing the inside edge of the right hoop as it slides through, right as Martin Newitt rises triumphantly from a dive, the Snitch’s fragile golden wings fluttering erratically against his fist.
“Care to celebrate with a little Firewhiskey after the game, Prongs?” Sirius asks as they traipse off to the dressing rooms, 320 -140 and the loud thunderclap of Eoin’s congratulatory backslap ringing in his ears. Alcohol falls somewhere on the list of Things He’s Pretty Much Accepted are a Bad Idea, these days -- a list formulated in no part due to Lily Evans and his obstinacy when it comes to keeping his friendship with her -- but there’s snow dripping from his ears and he can’t face her while he’s shivering like he’s nervous, at least. The Firewhiskey will, if nothing else, warm him up.
He finds Lily in a corner of the Gryffindor common room after the crowd of people dying to congratulate him dies down, a clasp of Butterbeer clasped firmly in her hands. The knot of her scarf is loose against the base of her neck and she’s undone the top two buttons of her shirt; he’s still in his Quidditch robes, but the way her eyes graze over him as she greets him with a casual smile, he feels like he’s stark naked in front of her.
The giant posters of him that Peter has hung from the ceiling, his matted eyebrows and small scattering of acne across his chin magnified for the whole common room to see are honestly not that much help. He’d try pulling them down, but it seems that his friend has is almost too good at sticking charms.
“James,” she says, and he settles awkwardly on the edge of the couch, because the way she says his name, it’s always been like an invitation, to him. He’d thought it was hot, all those times she’d growled his name in protest, in anger, but he’s finding that it’s more attractive now, knowing that his name means something to her. Knowing that he means something to her -- even if he’s not entirely sure what that something is.
“Lily,” he replies with a vague gesture towards the centre of the room, where a couple of third years are snogging under a piece of quite obviously enchanted mistletoe and Sirius and Peter are hawking out sweets from Honeydukes to the highest bidders. “As Head Boy, I can’t tolerate your attendance at a party so full of obvious debauchery.”
“As Head Girl,” she says, a laugh spilling in scraps from her mouth. “I can’t tolerate a party so full of obvious debauchery being dedicated to you.”
“It’s not entirely about me,” he says, even though it actually kind of is. “Being Quidditch captain may make me the figurehead, but I’m pretty sure Sirius planned this party more as a tribute to his own insurmountable ego. It’s always the charming ones, you’ve got to watch, but honestly -- I had very little to do with any of this.”
Lily places her glass on the table, shifting to look at him. Her eyes, usually so vibrant, are suddenly wistful, and James can’t help but think that it’s kind of a beauty that’s so much more real because he’s never written sonnets about it. “You don’t know how much I wish I could believe that,” she says.
There’s this feeling that twists up in his stomach, hot and cold at the same time, because he hopes, dares to hope -- does it mean what he thinks it does? And at what point does daring to hope become not enough? James is reminded, for a moment, of how winter strips everything bare, making it vulnerable, but also imbuing it with the potential for regrowth, a future kind of strength.
“So believe it,” James replies, like it’s that easy. Because, for him, it is.
Here’s the thing: he’s changing, not for Lily Evans, but because of Lily Evans. He’s changing because that smile she shoots him when he’s helpful, charming, considerate makes him feel as though all his synapses are on fire. He’s changing because the relaxed banter they’ve slipped into during shared classes and patrols makes him feel like he’s found an equal, someone who appreciates him not because he makes them laugh by being brasher, more spontaneous than they dare but because his own jokes fit neatly alongside theirs, each one balancing out the other.
They’ve progressed, from enemies to mutual acquaintances to friends, skipping gently past some of the other more obvious relationship markers in between. Lily and James have settled into a rhythm now; taking turns to write agendas for their bi-weekly prefect meetings and help Dumbledore with arrangements for their end of year ball (short of softening James’ desires, this newfound ease between them has only made James more certain that Lily would be the perfect date), their relationship has matured into a steady rhythm so far from their original staccato beat.
“I --“ she says, and then, in a rush: “This party, it’s insane.” Her fingers brush against his as she picks up her glass again, and she’s right, it is -- there’s this tingling in his hands and his heart that he can’t quite attribute entirely to the alcohol and it’s crazy-insane the way that Lily Evans can flip him upside down, but also right side up.
He nods in vague agreement. “It’s a well-known but underexplored phenomenon that Quidditch matches bring out the crazy in people.”
“If by ‘people’, you’re referring solely to Sirius, then yes.” James follows Lily’s gaze to the far side of the common room, where his best friend is currently trying to woo several fifth years with some rather poorly executed Muggle card tricks, and James can’t decide whether Sirius’ hangover and inevitable ability to forget this ever happened in the morning is a good or a bad thing. It’s got to be easier to scream at him in the morning for ruining what could have been a perfect moment with Lily if he actually remembers why he’s at fault.
“James,” she says, as he stands up, preparing to bundle Sirius up the stairs and into bed. “Good game.”
“Thanks,” he says, with a somewhat wistful smile, and hopes that she doesn’t notice that his gaze lingers a little too long, his fingers rising to his jaw as he imagines her lips there, soft but brightly red, chaffed from the wind as she’d watched the game.
Once upon a time, he would have made a joke about how, with his natural skill and talent, victory was inevitable. But he doesn’t, now. Because, this time, he’s determined not to fuck it up. Because as sure as the winter weather chills his bones, Lily Evans warms even the deepest cockles of his heart.
*
You still imagine your relationship to be like Quidditch, but it’s different now, when you’re on the precipice of having everything, and nothing at all. There’s still that heat that builds low in your stomach, blazing through your body as you take off, your mind and your body sharp, but also floundering with unbridled enthusiasm.
But, you know now, that there will be obstacles in your path -- too many, and not nearly as simple as arrogance and bad judgement to overcome. Like Quaffles and Bludgers and the occasional recalcitrant Beater, things will come flying at you, and you won’t always be able to duck in time. That heightened sense of urgency that fills you during a Quidditch match, like every catch, every throw is the difference between life or death has filtered into the rest of your life too; in the dying seconds of your final year of Hogwarts, how well you can dodge what fate decides to throw at you will in fact determine your fate, not just for the season, but for the rest of your lives. The Snitch is caught, the clock stops and, in this single moment of timelessness, your eyes open agonisingly slowly, before darting to the scoreboard, looking for confirmation of what you’ve lost -- or maybe, just maybe, what you’ve won. It’s singlehandedly the best, and the worst moment of your life.
And yet -- you know that this is what makes it worthwhile, knowing that you’ve managed to win something that could have so easily slipped through your fingers. As such, you’ve realised -- a relationship with Lily Evans is like a goal, the game changer. Lily Evans herself is the snitch, elusive, quick-witted, the ultimate endgame. And you want to win, dammit -- you really want to win.
*
The first of spring’s fragile flowers are pushing their way upwards as James stands in the centre of the Quidditch pitch, preparing to mount his broom. They’re both a comfort and a mockery -- a sign that the world is not always as grey as it seems, these days, but also a reminder of everything they stand to lose.
James isn’t stupid. He knows, as sure as the grass pokes through the tundra, spindly and green, that darkness devours the castle, inch by inch.
The Quidditch pitch is a blur of scarlet and green as James swerves his way around yet another rogue Bludger in a last-ditch effort to secure the game for Gryffindor. The Quaffle is little more than dead weight in his hands, and he looks blindly around for someone to pass it off to, sure that he can’t make it. After the third hour of bone-shattering abuse from the Slytherin team, many of his teammates are beginning to regret the way in which they have baited their opposition during the week leading up to what even Dumbledore has described as the match of the season. Privately, James agrees with them -- not that he’ll ever admit it to his team, or to Sirius.
A shout comes from James’ left, and he passes the Quaffle off to Eleanor Winters, just as Sirius’ bat connects loudly with a Bludger, sending it spinning in the Slytherin Keeper’s direction. Below, the crowd (three-quarters of whom are dressed in Gryffindor colours) screams loudly as Eleanor’s shot makes it through the left hoop, just barely scraping the side. Despite quickly tiring of the Slytherins’ heavy physical tactics, the Gryffindor team is now well in front, and they manage a lethargic team hug before the game resumes. It should be easier than this, with the sun on their backs and the breeze helping to push the Quaffle forward, but it isn’t.
Perhaps the Slytherins have released what a dire situation their team is in (the winner of this game will qualify to play in the Quidditch Cup final, a prize more heavily sought after than the House Cup by many teams), or perhaps they just relish any opportunity to ridicule Gryffindor’s prodigal son (a name given to him by Sirius during a drunken end of exams celebration - he isn’t that arrogant, no matter what Lily once believed - maybe still does believe). Either way, they begin to focus their attention on James; pulling his Beaters aside, the Slytherin captain’s instructions that they’re to target the Gryffindor captain are nothing short of explicit.
Not the sort to rely on the rules to protect him -- he’s had enough practice breaking them to scurry that possibility away -- James grits his teeth and prepares for himself for the onslaught. It’s all petty at first, jabs about his hair and James not having the courage of a lion if he doesn’t turn around and gun them down.
And then it’s personal in a way only the Slytherins can make it, but also in a way James can only say he’s brought on himself, after seven years of constantly singing Lily’s praises. “I hear Evans doesn’t love you, Potter,” one of them cries, the last of his words lost as he dips suddenly, speeding towards the Snitch. James manages a quick mental calculation; the Snitch is Slytherin’s, but one last goal could still win them the game and -- he’s got the Quaffle, firm in his hands.
“I hear that she’d rather snog the Giant Squid than you, seriously. Or maybe even Snape,” they cry, and in that moment, he hates them -- not for the blatant mockery of his feelings, but for daring to bring the one thing he thinks Lily might be most ashamed of into this.
There’s this searing flash of hatred somewhere behind his eyelids, and then the Quaffle is spinning off the tips of his fingers; the Slytherin seeker pulls out of his dive just as it slips through the right hoop, merely centimetres from the Keeper’s outstretched hands. He’d known he wasn’t going to miss, not really -- because the one thing about his love for Lily Evans that everyone underestimates is that it’s real because it’s stronger than their shit, and it’s stronger than their shit because it’s real.
Landing on the ground, he takes a moment or two to process what’s happened, his body jolted from left to right as he moves between slaps on the back and awkward, but reaffirming hugs. And then Sirius is sending him sprawling in the direction of Lily Evans; he trips over his feet and curses, but this isn’t about first impressions, not really -- he’s made enough of those. The first tender roots of their relationship grew so long ago, and now, it’s like a garden -- overgrown and full of possibilities, just waiting for someone to prune it into exactly the right shape.
His fellow Gryffindors are still whistling behind James as he turns to her; her hands are wedged deep in her coat pockets and her lips move just the slightest fraction as she says, “I just wanted to say -- I’m proud of you, James.”
“Proud of me?” James says, because he’s heard a lot of things from Lily recently -- you’re improving James and I’m actually glad we got to work together this year among them, but -- proud? He feels as though his heart might burst through his chest. Because he’s changed, but he’s still the same too, still thrives on affirmation and this feeling of absolute weightlessness that she inspires in him; he almost feels like he’s hovering somewhere outside of his body, looking down, because this can’t be real.
She’s explaining now, sort of. “Remus has this thing, he borrowed it off Peter --“ Lily’s voice is broken, he can hear it and that confirms it; she’s never been anything thing less than picture-perfect in front of him. “And well, we could hear what was happening and what they said and -- I’m just impressed that you didn’t punch their lights out, I guess. I mean -- I’m proud of you for winning too, but -- I’m making this all about me, and --“
“Lily,” he says, reaching out to gently squeeze her shoulder. It’s a bold move, almost too bold even for the Quidditch Captain whose team has won every match this season, and it’s James’ turn to wince, now, because --
Ability to outplay even the Slytherins aside, he’s always been kind of an idiot.
But, if the way she stretches, rolling herself up into his embrace is any indication, Lily doesn’t mind. It’s a small gesture, perhaps, but he’s more than willing to take it.
“You don’t have to say it,” James says finally, trying to be chivalrous. “It’s not all about you.” It is, actually, because the only reason it’s taken her so long to admit that she’s proud of him is because she’s had to become proud of herself, proud of the person that James has never, ever doubted that she could be. Of all the bullets in this relationship, it’s not Sirius or the Slytherins who’ve stopped them in their tracks, it’s themselves. He’s been so busy trying to be suave and self-assured, and then not so self-assured, like a butterfly, emerging from a cocoon, he’s shed parts of himself and become reborn, year after year after year. And, in a metamorphosis he’s tracked mainly through proselytising about her physical transformation -- Sirius will never let him live down the almost pornographic poetry he wrote during third year -- Lily Evans herself has hatched into something new, a person he could actually see himself being with. A person she could actually see herself being with.
“They were just trying to bait me,” he adds, shoving his own hands deep into his pockets to prevent wringing them together with worry. “Without going into the details of what it means in terms of how I feel about you, I didn’t need to believe it.”
“Because it isn’t true.” Lily’s voice cracks on the final, breathy syllable, and James feels his own heart jerk simultaneously inside his chest, that’s how attuned to this girl he is -- all his heartstrings are strung tightly, just waiting for her to pluck. “You were right,” she says. “You were right all along -- I don’t have to say it, I just have to believe it, believe in you.”
There’s a split second, like a time delay, just enough for James’ brain to catch up to his heart, and then Lily Evans lips meet his.
Spring brings with it new life, but also -- it brings new hope.
*
And here’s the thing: you’ve has always imagined that your relationship with Lily Evans is rather like Quidditch. You’ve just never imagined that kissing her -- from that swooping feeling in your gut right through to the rush of elation that shoots through your ribcage like an arrow (you’ve won) would feel a lot like Quidditch too. Her mouth is warm like the summer sun and she’s softer than you could have imagined, under that tough exterior. You angle your kisses lower, moaning into her mouth; her jaw clenches as she swallows you-- your contentment, your fears -- with this gentleness that makes you think that maybe, it’s okay. Because Quidditch has taught you about teamwork, but you’ve never imagined how invigorating it could be to give yourself up, handing yourself over to someone else in order to let them make you complete.
It’s a feeling you definitely want to get used to before you leave Hogwarts for the summer, though.
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