Radioactive (the road to hell & good intentions remix) [Harry Potter; James/Lily, PG]
Title: Radioactive (the road to hell & good intentions remix)
Author: xylodemon
Pairing: James/Lily
Rating: PG
Summary: In which James means well, but his grand plan loses something in the execution.
Fandom: Harry Potter
A remix of Radioactive, by ineffabili_tea.
Radioactive
(the road to hell & good intentions remix)
The thing was, James Potter did not have trouble with girls. Not in general, anyway.
Consider Jessamine Hopkirk, a bird who'd followed him all over the bloody school for most of his fifth year, and whose cow-eyes were a terrifying thing to behold. Or Miriam Wendell, whom he'd coaxed into a quick and furtive snog with little more than a well-placed valentine, or Shannon McClellan and Miranda Bones, who'd both nearly fallen over dead when he asked them to Hogsmeade (separately, and several weekends apart). There was also the strange case of Marlene McKinnon -- he'd once managed to invite her to the Owlery without really saying a word.
He did, however, have trouble with one particular girl. Lily Evans shouted at him when she wasn't avoiding him. She hexed him at every available opportunity, and she made a point to tell him he was an arrogant, insufferable toerag at least once a day. Given the insurmountable evidence -- specifically, that most of the girls at Hogwarts wanted underneath James' robes -- James could only assume that the problem was on her end.
Unless Sirius was right, and the problem stemmed from his delivery.
"Hey, Evans," James said, a bit too loudly. "Evans, um -- Evans, hey."
"Practising my name again, Potter?" she asked, sparing him half a glance. She was sitting on a secluded bench in the courtyard, an open book balanced on one knee and a roll of parchment spilling over the other. "I'm sure I've told you I find that tedious."
"Oh!" James ducked his head, wiping his sweaty hands on the tails of his shirt. "Sorry!"
"And, you're shouting again," she continued. Licking her finger, she turned a page in her book with a quick flick of her wrist. "I'm sure we've talked about that, as well."
Heat crept across James' face, burning strongly in his cheeks. He watched her for a moment, chewing at his lip as he shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. His mouth refused to work properly, and he couldn't think of anything else to say. His hand flew up without his consent, scrubbing over his scalp with a violence his hair didn't need or deserve. The shadows falling over her shifted as he moved, draining the colour from one side of her face and darkening half her hair to a deep, Gryffindor red.
"You're beautiful," he blurted.
"So you've told me," Evans replied tartly, her quill twitching between her fingers. "Repeatedly, and as recently as breakfast." She paused in her note-taking to lean to one side, then the other. She looked up sharply, frowning as she caught his eye. "Is there anything else? I'm sure you haven't noticed, but you're in my light."
"Yeah, um -- I was just," James mumbled, biting the inside of his cheek. In for a Knut, in for a Galleon. "I was wondering if... I mean, will you--"
"--No," she cut in, closing her book with a snap. "Absolutely not."
James folded his arms and curled his fingers in his sleeves. "You don't even know what I was going to say!"
"You asked me a question," she said impatiently. "Or, you would've, had you managed to finish it. Whatever it is, the answer is no." Standing, she dusted off her skirt with a sigh. "The answer is always no."
"C'mon, Evans. It's the Yule Ball. Everyone is going."
"I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding someone else to bring as your date. As I understand things, Marlene McKinnon and Miranda Bones are both single at the moment." She tilted her head, her mouth twisting with a nasty smile. "If that fails, you can always do what you did last year -- spend the entire evening holed up in a dark corner with Black, snickering and pretending it wasn't you who spiked the punch."
"Evans."
"I said no, Potter," she snapped, shouldering her rucksack. "Frankly, I'd sooner go with Rosier."
--
Sirius blinked at Peter and did his level best not to swallow his own tongue.
This was quite possibly the best and worst news Sirius had heard all day. All week. On one hand, it might finally convince Prongs to leave that barmy bird alone, something he should've done ages ago, as far as Sirius was concerned, since she clearly hoped James would get maimed in a Potions accident or die messily by falling off his broom. On the other hand, it meant Sirius would be expected to sit through a two-hour waffle on how James' life was cold and tragic because love was fickle and unfair, while he nodded in all the right places and made the occasional sympathetic noise.
Assuming it was true, of course.
"You can't -- no, I don't believe it," Sirius said, his eyes widening as a familiar, devilish grin split Peter's pudding face. "Admit it, Wormtail. You're bloody well having me on."
"I'm not," Peter insisted, spreading his hands. "I'm quite... serious." He winked, giggling softly, and Sirius' mouth twitched. That joke had grown tiresome sometime in Sirius' second year, but Sirius decided to let it slide, as Peter clearly wasn't finished gossiping. "I heard it from Elspeth Downs, who had it from Theresa Whitt, who had it from Shannon McClellan, who had it from Horatio Boot -- they're dating now, you know -- and Boot got it from Michela Robbins, who read it in a note Stacey Witherspoon nicked from Davy Gudgeon."
"And?" Sirius asked, somewhat dubiously. In Sirius' opinion, Gudgeon would be the weak link in any chain. This situation was particularly suspect, as Gudgeon appeared to be the bloody anchor. "What about Gudgeon?"
Peter held up one finger, which rather made him look like Flitwick in the middle of a swish and flick demonstration. "Gudgeon overheard Evans telling Margery Applewaite during Transfiguration this afternoon."
"Well, that's your problem, there."
"What?" Peter asked, chewing on the side of his thumb. "What's my problem?"
"Gudgeon, Wormtail. Gudgeon," Sirius replied, as patiently as he could manage. "You're basing this whole... fairy tale on something Gudgeon overheard in class. In Transfiguration, no less, and we all know you can't get a word in around McGonagall. Also, it's Gudgeon," Sirius added, which should've explained everything. "How's he supposed to eavesdrop properly when he's only got one eye?"
Peter waved this off as irrelevant. "You don't need eyes to eavesdrop. You need ears, and I've been told Gudgeon's ears are quite sharp."
Sirius privately thought that if Gudgeon had any kind of eyes or ears at all, he would've noticed the Willow taking a swing at him, but Peter didn't particularly look interested in Sirius' opinion. He started to tell Peter anyway, but he was interrupted before he'd even got going by a muffled shout on the stairs, followed quickly by the door, which banged open so hard that it hit the wall with a loud, dull thunk.
"Afternoon, gentlemen," Remus said flatly, his arm slung over James' shoulder. James was curled limply against Remus' side with an ashen face and hair that looked thoroughly mauled. Remus shuffled them further inside the dorm, catching Sirius' eye as he pointed at James with his free hand. "Shall I just put him anywhere, then?"
"Oh, right." Sirius shifted, making room for James on the bed. "Give him here."
Peter took James by the arm. "Where'd you find him?" he asked, prodding James into motion.
"The Charms corridor, picking a fight with a suit of armour," Remus replied. He sounded more tired than irritated, and he sighed as he turned back toward the door. "Right, I'm off -- I was due downstairs ten minutes ago."
"Oh?" Sirius asked, as James slumped onto the edge of the bed. "Who are you prefecting with tonight?"
Remus ducked his head and made a small, frantic gesture with his hands. His eyes darted around the room before settling on something just over Peter's shoulder. "I -- well, um. Goodkin."
"Goodkin," James repeated sharply. "Bloody fucking Goodkin."
Remus retreated, sighing again as he slipped out the door, and Sirius offered Peter two fingers for his I told you so face as he turned his attention to James. His hair was still a riot, but the dejected look on his face was quickly changing into something murderous. Colour was blooming high on his cheeks, and the glint in his eyes was somewhat worrisome.
"So, Goodkin, then?" Sirius said carefully.
In all honesty, Sirius thought Evans was a shrieking, demon-possessed harpy who was both completely hatstand and not worth James' time, but he understood why this (apparently true) business with Goodkin had James' antlers in a joint. Nigel Goodkin was a fit, blond bastard with perfect vision and a perpetual smirk and a good three inches on every other bloke in their class. He had a rich, Muggle father and a pretty, pureblood mother who routinely made the Prophet's society page, and he was what passed for a Quidditch hero on the Ravenclaw side of the castle.
"I asked her first," James said darkly. He leaned back into the bedpost, folding his legs up against his chest, and twisted his hands in the duvet. "Well, I tried to, anyway. She said no before I'd even finished."
"Like she always does, yes," Sirius muttered, making vague plans to do something horrible to Evans, possibly at breakfast. He'd probably have to settle for baby Acromantulas; dead Doxies were nearly impossible to find this time of year on such short notice. "It's her loss, if you ask me. I've told you she's mad. She must be, if she'd rather spend the evening with that puffed-up oik."
"Padfoot."
"Oik," Sirius pressed, disregarding any further arguments with a sharp wave. "The dragon dung in Greenhouse Four has more personality, and I don't care what the birds say about his hair. I think those stupid, floppy curls are terribly naff."
James tilted his head and pursed his lips. "His hair," he said thoughtfully. "What if I hexed it off?"
"No, that's no good," Peter replied, perching on top of Sirius' trunk. "He's got one of those protective charms on it," he added, flapping his hands over his head, "you know, so it never gets mussed. Harold Underhill told Joseph Biddleton that's why he bathes upstairs after matches. He doesn't use the Quidditch showers because he doesn't want anyone to know."
Sirius rubbed at his face and sighed. If Peter's plans for a Ministry job fell through, he could always write the gossip column for Witch Weekly. "Right. Buggering his hair is out, then."
"His face, maybe, or his teeth," James muttered. "What if I tripped him? I wager he won't dance very well with a limp."
"Don't worry," Peter said, patting James' shoulder. "We'll think of something."
--
Remus wondered -- and not for the first time, mind -- if there actually was something wrong with James' brain.
"Moony!"
Personally, Remus blamed Quidditch. Well, he mostly blamed Quidditch, but he also blamed other things, like long hours spent huddled in dark and dusty broom cupboards, and pureblood family trees that rather didn't branch properly. These were all things James shared with Sirius, so it was no surprise that they shared something else -- specifically, a tendency toward fits, mad fancies, and the occasional delusion.
"Hey, Remus!"
That, or there really was something wrong with James' brain.
"Moony, look over here!"
Remus was fairly certain that James had been going for a whisper. He was also fairly certain that James had just been overheard in the Owlery. Sighing, Remus stuffed his hands in his pockets and took a few more shuffling steps down the corridor.
"Remus!" James hissed again, leaning out into the open. He was badly hidden by a moth-eaten tapestry and the shadow cast by a suit of armour, and Remus was not impressed. He had his Invisibility Cloak, but -- for reasons best known to himself -- he was not actually wearing it. It was bunched messily under his arm, with one sleeve trailing on the floor. "Remus, I know you can hear me!"
"No," Remus said, casting a nervous glance up the corridor. He was in the middle of rounds, and his partner was not too far away. The last thing he needed was for Jessamine Hopkirk to see James out of bed after curfew. Points would be taken, and James would be sore at him for a good week, and he'd have to listen to another lecture from Evans on why his friends were completely and utterly useless. "I'm ignoring you."
Frowning, James leaned out even further. Too far, if the way he flailed and grabbed onto the armour's arm was anything to go by. "Why would you do that?"
"In case you haven't noticed, I'm a little busy at the moment," Remus replied. "It's after curfew."
"Yeah, I guess it is, at that, but I need to talk to you." James swayed back toward the wall and was briefly swallowed by the shadows from his head to his knees. "It's important, Moony. Very, very important."
"Lupin?" Hopkirk called, waving at Remus from a few feet away. "We should get going."
"Right," Remus called back, his eyes darting between Hopkirk and James. "Just a moment," he added quickly, "I need to tie my shoe." Sighing, he dropped to one knee and rounded on James. "All right, make it quick. And put your bloody Cloak on!"
James unfurled with a flourish; the hem flew up, grazing Remus' cheek. "Have you done the dungeons, yet?" James asked, as bits and pieces of him disappeared from view. "The Potions corridor?"
"No," Remus said slowly. Talking to someone who was just an elbow and a foot was slightly unnerving, but at the moment, it was better than the alternative. "We're just headed there now."
"Lupin?"
Cursing, Remus jumped to his feet. "Sorry, this -- um, this suit of armour is all out of joint," he said, waving his hands slightly. "Nothing fancy, really. I'll just meet you on the stairs." Hopkirk made an agreeable noise, and Remus crowded James into the wall as she headed around the corner. "Prongs," he warned. "Hurry."
"I need a couple of things, if you can manage it," James whispered. "Here, I've got a list." He mumbled a little and started shifting around; his elbow caught Remus square in the side, and Remus narrowly escaped a knee to the bollocks. "Right," he said triumphantly, his hand hovering in front of Remus' face. It was cut off at the wrist, and a rumpled bit of parchment was clutched in his fingers. "It's all there. Everything. Only if you can manage it, mind."
Remus glanced at list and frowned.
mugwort
lacewing flies
mandrake roots (aged)
unicorn hair (from the tail, unbroken)
"Do I even want to know?" Remus asked wearily. He would think it had something to do with Goodkin, if not for the unicorn hair. Unicorn hair was fairly innocuous, and no use in something meant to make a person ugly, hairy, foetid, or spotty. "Do I?"
"Probably not," James admitted quietly. A short, tight silence followed, broken when James sighed heavily. "Please, Moony?"
Clearly, there was something wrong with Remus' brain. "All right, all right," Remus snapped. "I'll do it, if you promise to go away."
"Right, of course." The tapestry behind James' invisible shoulder rustled ominously. "I'm leaving."
"Lupin?"
"Bugger," Remus muttered, giving James a shove for good measure. "I'm on my way."
--
Peter hated these sort of things. They involved dress robes, which were uncomfortable as a rule, and he could've done without the stiff, hastily-Transfigured chairs that would probably make his arse numb. It'd be nice to get up and stretch his legs, but then he'd be expected to dance. Peter didn't really dance, not that he had anyone to dance with, of course. He'd meant to ask someone, but he'd kept forgetting or putting it off, and by the time James decided all four of them were going whether they liked it or not, all the girls Peter could've asked had already had other dates.
He tugged at his collar -- these robes, in particular, seemed intent on choking him slowly -- grimacing as he swallowed his punch. Sirius had been heavy-handed with the Firewhisky this year; this stuff managed to taste strongly of hearth bricks and burn all the way down. The music was lilting and slow, careful as it wound through the couples circuiting the Great Hall. Sighing, Peter took another sip of punch, coughing and sputtering as the heat lingered in his throat.
"Easy, Wormtail," Sirius said, slapping Peter on the back. "All right, there?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Peter croaked. He took a deep breath, then another, and drained the rest of the glass. "I'll live."
Sirius patted his shoulder, smiling before slipping back into his whispered conversation with James. They were plotting something; it was obvious from their narrowed eyes and careful smiles, but Remus, who was sitting closer to James than Peter was to Sirius, was chiming in occasionally and didn't seem overly concerned.
Peter sighed, turning his glass in his hands as he weighed his options. He could drink more punch, but he'd only get giggly and silly, and then Remus would have to carry him back upstairs. He could fall asleep at the table, but James would notice eventually, and Peter'd rather not get kicked in the shin. His best bet seemed to be heading for the loo and not coming back; he was just about to excuse himself when a murmur ran through the students and the room brightened considerably.
He quickly glanced around for the source, and when he found it -- well, her -- he nearly burst out laughing.
Evans' skin was violently yellow, and she was bloody well shining like the sun.
"Merlin's Balls," James hissed. He was blinking owlishly, and his face was rapidly turning purple. "That's not what I had in mind, Sirius!"
Sirius looked up, hiding his bark-like laugh behind a loud, startled cough. "Oh, bloody fucking hell." He coughed again; behind his hand, his mouth was twitching. "She looks like a ruddy sunflower!"
Evans was frozen in the centre of the Great Hall, her eyes wide and her hands clenched at her sides. Goodkin, for his part, looked positively horrified. He whispered something to her, ducking his head in a way that suggested he was excusing himself.
"What the hell did you do to her?" James demanded.
"She looks like a space alien," Peter managed finally. "Like in Martin Miggs."
"We did just what you asked, Prongs," Sirius insisted. "Not our fault if you'd already bollocked the potion."
Remus sighed and reached for his punch. "What was the potion supposed to do, anyway?" he asked.
"I," Evans began slowly, her bright yellow face twisted with rage, "would very much like to know that, too."
"Evans!" James squeaked, startling he just now realised she was there. Peter wasn't sure how he didn't see her coming. "I just -- um. You were supposed to... well, glow. Like a fairy princess, you know. I thought it would be romantic."
"Romantic!" Evans screeched, waving her hands wildly. Heat rushed to her cheeks, which only served to make her face the exact colour of a satsuma. "I look radioactive! You could use me to guide ships through the Channel! How is that romantic?"
James' shoulders slumped and he buried his face in his hands. "It wasn't supposed to be so strong," he mumbled.
"You!" she spat, her finger shaking as she pointed it at James. "I tried to get McGonagall to ban you proactively, all of you --"
"Told you it was her," Remus murmured.
"-- Yule Ball is ruined, and it's all your fault! It's even more dreadful than I imagined!"
"Incidentally," Sirius said casually, "did you know you can see through your robes?"
"What?" Evans shrieked.
Her robes were white; the bright, sunny light blanched them into something nearly transparent. Peter had been trying not to look, but now that Sirius had mentioned it, he couldn't not. Her folded arms were mostly covering her bra, but it seemed she preferred lacy knickers with bows on.
She stared, dumbfounded, first at James, then down at herself. Her mouth worked, her lips twisting cruelly, but she only really managed a short, strangled sound. James folded in on himself, his hands twitching in front of his face. Remus stood and shrugged out of his heavy, outer robe. She jerked back when he approached, but he darted in quickly, managing to get most of it around her shoulders.
"James Potter," she said slowly, "I hate you."
James didn't watch her leave. Peter suspected this was because he was already banging his head on the table.
--
James found her in the Charms corridor. She was curled up in a windowseat, her head tilted against the pane, staring down at the courtyard where James had asked her to this stupid dance. She had Remus' cloak wrapped around her like a blanket, draped over her knees and pulled up to her chin. One side of her face peeked out at him from behind her hair. Her skin was still glowing, but it was dimmer now, softer, almost fragile.
More like what he'd intended.
"Go away," she said quietly. She turned toward him slightly, and he gritted his teeth until pain shot through his jaw. She wasn't crying, but it looked like she had been; her eyes were red and wet, and that's not what James had wanted, at all. She shifted again, hiding her face. "Leave me alone."
James ducked his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I am -- I mean, I will. I just, um -- I just wanted to say I'm sorry."
"Fine. You've said it. Now, go." She sighed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I still hate you."
James' stomach knotted, cold and tight.
"I'm telling McGonagall," she continued, just as James was turning to leave. "I'm telling her, first thing in the morning."
"I deserve it," James said honestly.
Evans laughed, soft and bitter. "I hope she expels you. My robes -- I might as well have been naked. I should have you arrested," she added, twisting her hands in Remus' cloak. "If we were Muggles, I probably could."
"I, um." James took a deep breath, then another. "Good night, Evans. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."
"It's worth nothing," she countered sharply. "Absolutely nothing, but I would like to know -- what exactly are you sorry for?"
"For making you yellow, and that," James mumbled. "For taking Miranda Bones to Hogsmeade last weekend, and--"
"--Why would you be sorry for that?" Evans asked, her voice dropping slightly. "I'm not -- I don't much care who you date."
James continued; he wanted to tell her, and this was probably the last time he could speak to her without getting slapped in the face. "I only asked her because you said no. We went to Puddifoots, and I bought her a tea, and everything, but I ditched her after we'd been there an hour."
"Oh?" she asked, twisting around until she was almost facing him. She rubbed quickly at her nose, and let her head drop back against the wall. "And then what?"
"I went to Honeydukes with Sirius. After that, I had Remus take me to Scrivenshafts," James said. "I was -- I thought you might be there."
She laughed again; it was louder, but still bitter. "All that trouble, for someone who hates you."
"Yeah, um -- sorry."
"What about tonight, then?" she asked. "Why did you decide to turn me into a bloody lantern?"
"You're beautiful," James said simply. "I -- I've told you that before, but. I don't -- I mean, sometimes I don't think you see it, because you get so angry when I say it."
She sat up quickly, frowning at him with narrowed eyes. "Did it ever occur to you that I get angry because it's you who's telling me?"
"No, I -- no."
It was silent then, so silent that James could hear everything -- his heart beating, Evans' slow, steady breathing, the wind rustling outside the window. Evans' eyes were closed, and her hands were curled underneath her chin, and the glow had all but faded from her skin.
"Right," James said softly. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry, and I've done that, so. I -- I'll just be going."
"Where?" she asked, sliding out of the windowseat. She shook Remus' cloak open and put it on properly. "Back downstairs, so you can dance with Miranda Bones?"
Biting his lip, James shook his head. "No. I thought I'd go to bed. Before, you know. I cause any more trouble."
She approached him, taking small, careful steps. James just watched her; he was fairly certain she was going to slap him, but it's not like he didn't deserve it. Her hand came up, but she only nudged his shoulder, prodding him until he turned around.
"Come on, then," she said, lifting her chin. "Walk me back to Gryffindor."
James blinked. "What?"
"I said, walk me back to Gryffindor." She nudged him again, a bit harder. "Please tell me you're not arrogant, insufferable, and deaf."
"No. I, um -- I thought I heard you wrong, is all."
"You heard me just fine," she said tartly. "It's your fault I had to leave the ball early. The least you can do is escort me home." She took a step forward, quirking an eyebrow when he didn't follow. "These halls are dangerous, Potter. What if Peeves decides to bother me? Or that suit of armour by the stairs?"
"On the third floor?" James asked slowly. "The grabby one with the dirty mouth?"
"That's him," Evans replied. "I'm just sure you taught it those words."
"No, that was Peter. I mean, it was my idea, but Peter actually did it."
Evans sighed. "Let's go, Potter. I'm tired, and these shoes are murder on my feet."
"Right, okay. Yeah. Back to Gryffindor. I can do that."
"Good," she said, a smile tugging at her mouth. "And if you don't try to hold my hand at least once, I'll hex you black and blue."
fin
Author: xylodemon
Pairing: James/Lily
Rating: PG
Summary: In which James means well, but his grand plan loses something in the execution.
Fandom: Harry Potter
A remix of Radioactive, by ineffabili_tea.
Radioactive
(the road to hell & good intentions remix)
The thing was, James Potter did not have trouble with girls. Not in general, anyway.
Consider Jessamine Hopkirk, a bird who'd followed him all over the bloody school for most of his fifth year, and whose cow-eyes were a terrifying thing to behold. Or Miriam Wendell, whom he'd coaxed into a quick and furtive snog with little more than a well-placed valentine, or Shannon McClellan and Miranda Bones, who'd both nearly fallen over dead when he asked them to Hogsmeade (separately, and several weekends apart). There was also the strange case of Marlene McKinnon -- he'd once managed to invite her to the Owlery without really saying a word.
He did, however, have trouble with one particular girl. Lily Evans shouted at him when she wasn't avoiding him. She hexed him at every available opportunity, and she made a point to tell him he was an arrogant, insufferable toerag at least once a day. Given the insurmountable evidence -- specifically, that most of the girls at Hogwarts wanted underneath James' robes -- James could only assume that the problem was on her end.
Unless Sirius was right, and the problem stemmed from his delivery.
"Hey, Evans," James said, a bit too loudly. "Evans, um -- Evans, hey."
"Practising my name again, Potter?" she asked, sparing him half a glance. She was sitting on a secluded bench in the courtyard, an open book balanced on one knee and a roll of parchment spilling over the other. "I'm sure I've told you I find that tedious."
"Oh!" James ducked his head, wiping his sweaty hands on the tails of his shirt. "Sorry!"
"And, you're shouting again," she continued. Licking her finger, she turned a page in her book with a quick flick of her wrist. "I'm sure we've talked about that, as well."
Heat crept across James' face, burning strongly in his cheeks. He watched her for a moment, chewing at his lip as he shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. His mouth refused to work properly, and he couldn't think of anything else to say. His hand flew up without his consent, scrubbing over his scalp with a violence his hair didn't need or deserve. The shadows falling over her shifted as he moved, draining the colour from one side of her face and darkening half her hair to a deep, Gryffindor red.
"You're beautiful," he blurted.
"So you've told me," Evans replied tartly, her quill twitching between her fingers. "Repeatedly, and as recently as breakfast." She paused in her note-taking to lean to one side, then the other. She looked up sharply, frowning as she caught his eye. "Is there anything else? I'm sure you haven't noticed, but you're in my light."
"Yeah, um -- I was just," James mumbled, biting the inside of his cheek. In for a Knut, in for a Galleon. "I was wondering if... I mean, will you--"
"--No," she cut in, closing her book with a snap. "Absolutely not."
James folded his arms and curled his fingers in his sleeves. "You don't even know what I was going to say!"
"You asked me a question," she said impatiently. "Or, you would've, had you managed to finish it. Whatever it is, the answer is no." Standing, she dusted off her skirt with a sigh. "The answer is always no."
"C'mon, Evans. It's the Yule Ball. Everyone is going."
"I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding someone else to bring as your date. As I understand things, Marlene McKinnon and Miranda Bones are both single at the moment." She tilted her head, her mouth twisting with a nasty smile. "If that fails, you can always do what you did last year -- spend the entire evening holed up in a dark corner with Black, snickering and pretending it wasn't you who spiked the punch."
"Evans."
"I said no, Potter," she snapped, shouldering her rucksack. "Frankly, I'd sooner go with Rosier."
--
Sirius blinked at Peter and did his level best not to swallow his own tongue.
This was quite possibly the best and worst news Sirius had heard all day. All week. On one hand, it might finally convince Prongs to leave that barmy bird alone, something he should've done ages ago, as far as Sirius was concerned, since she clearly hoped James would get maimed in a Potions accident or die messily by falling off his broom. On the other hand, it meant Sirius would be expected to sit through a two-hour waffle on how James' life was cold and tragic because love was fickle and unfair, while he nodded in all the right places and made the occasional sympathetic noise.
Assuming it was true, of course.
"You can't -- no, I don't believe it," Sirius said, his eyes widening as a familiar, devilish grin split Peter's pudding face. "Admit it, Wormtail. You're bloody well having me on."
"I'm not," Peter insisted, spreading his hands. "I'm quite... serious." He winked, giggling softly, and Sirius' mouth twitched. That joke had grown tiresome sometime in Sirius' second year, but Sirius decided to let it slide, as Peter clearly wasn't finished gossiping. "I heard it from Elspeth Downs, who had it from Theresa Whitt, who had it from Shannon McClellan, who had it from Horatio Boot -- they're dating now, you know -- and Boot got it from Michela Robbins, who read it in a note Stacey Witherspoon nicked from Davy Gudgeon."
"And?" Sirius asked, somewhat dubiously. In Sirius' opinion, Gudgeon would be the weak link in any chain. This situation was particularly suspect, as Gudgeon appeared to be the bloody anchor. "What about Gudgeon?"
Peter held up one finger, which rather made him look like Flitwick in the middle of a swish and flick demonstration. "Gudgeon overheard Evans telling Margery Applewaite during Transfiguration this afternoon."
"Well, that's your problem, there."
"What?" Peter asked, chewing on the side of his thumb. "What's my problem?"
"Gudgeon, Wormtail. Gudgeon," Sirius replied, as patiently as he could manage. "You're basing this whole... fairy tale on something Gudgeon overheard in class. In Transfiguration, no less, and we all know you can't get a word in around McGonagall. Also, it's Gudgeon," Sirius added, which should've explained everything. "How's he supposed to eavesdrop properly when he's only got one eye?"
Peter waved this off as irrelevant. "You don't need eyes to eavesdrop. You need ears, and I've been told Gudgeon's ears are quite sharp."
Sirius privately thought that if Gudgeon had any kind of eyes or ears at all, he would've noticed the Willow taking a swing at him, but Peter didn't particularly look interested in Sirius' opinion. He started to tell Peter anyway, but he was interrupted before he'd even got going by a muffled shout on the stairs, followed quickly by the door, which banged open so hard that it hit the wall with a loud, dull thunk.
"Afternoon, gentlemen," Remus said flatly, his arm slung over James' shoulder. James was curled limply against Remus' side with an ashen face and hair that looked thoroughly mauled. Remus shuffled them further inside the dorm, catching Sirius' eye as he pointed at James with his free hand. "Shall I just put him anywhere, then?"
"Oh, right." Sirius shifted, making room for James on the bed. "Give him here."
Peter took James by the arm. "Where'd you find him?" he asked, prodding James into motion.
"The Charms corridor, picking a fight with a suit of armour," Remus replied. He sounded more tired than irritated, and he sighed as he turned back toward the door. "Right, I'm off -- I was due downstairs ten minutes ago."
"Oh?" Sirius asked, as James slumped onto the edge of the bed. "Who are you prefecting with tonight?"
Remus ducked his head and made a small, frantic gesture with his hands. His eyes darted around the room before settling on something just over Peter's shoulder. "I -- well, um. Goodkin."
"Goodkin," James repeated sharply. "Bloody fucking Goodkin."
Remus retreated, sighing again as he slipped out the door, and Sirius offered Peter two fingers for his I told you so face as he turned his attention to James. His hair was still a riot, but the dejected look on his face was quickly changing into something murderous. Colour was blooming high on his cheeks, and the glint in his eyes was somewhat worrisome.
"So, Goodkin, then?" Sirius said carefully.
In all honesty, Sirius thought Evans was a shrieking, demon-possessed harpy who was both completely hatstand and not worth James' time, but he understood why this (apparently true) business with Goodkin had James' antlers in a joint. Nigel Goodkin was a fit, blond bastard with perfect vision and a perpetual smirk and a good three inches on every other bloke in their class. He had a rich, Muggle father and a pretty, pureblood mother who routinely made the Prophet's society page, and he was what passed for a Quidditch hero on the Ravenclaw side of the castle.
"I asked her first," James said darkly. He leaned back into the bedpost, folding his legs up against his chest, and twisted his hands in the duvet. "Well, I tried to, anyway. She said no before I'd even finished."
"Like she always does, yes," Sirius muttered, making vague plans to do something horrible to Evans, possibly at breakfast. He'd probably have to settle for baby Acromantulas; dead Doxies were nearly impossible to find this time of year on such short notice. "It's her loss, if you ask me. I've told you she's mad. She must be, if she'd rather spend the evening with that puffed-up oik."
"Padfoot."
"Oik," Sirius pressed, disregarding any further arguments with a sharp wave. "The dragon dung in Greenhouse Four has more personality, and I don't care what the birds say about his hair. I think those stupid, floppy curls are terribly naff."
James tilted his head and pursed his lips. "His hair," he said thoughtfully. "What if I hexed it off?"
"No, that's no good," Peter replied, perching on top of Sirius' trunk. "He's got one of those protective charms on it," he added, flapping his hands over his head, "you know, so it never gets mussed. Harold Underhill told Joseph Biddleton that's why he bathes upstairs after matches. He doesn't use the Quidditch showers because he doesn't want anyone to know."
Sirius rubbed at his face and sighed. If Peter's plans for a Ministry job fell through, he could always write the gossip column for Witch Weekly. "Right. Buggering his hair is out, then."
"His face, maybe, or his teeth," James muttered. "What if I tripped him? I wager he won't dance very well with a limp."
"Don't worry," Peter said, patting James' shoulder. "We'll think of something."
--
Remus wondered -- and not for the first time, mind -- if there actually was something wrong with James' brain.
"Moony!"
Personally, Remus blamed Quidditch. Well, he mostly blamed Quidditch, but he also blamed other things, like long hours spent huddled in dark and dusty broom cupboards, and pureblood family trees that rather didn't branch properly. These were all things James shared with Sirius, so it was no surprise that they shared something else -- specifically, a tendency toward fits, mad fancies, and the occasional delusion.
"Hey, Remus!"
That, or there really was something wrong with James' brain.
"Moony, look over here!"
Remus was fairly certain that James had been going for a whisper. He was also fairly certain that James had just been overheard in the Owlery. Sighing, Remus stuffed his hands in his pockets and took a few more shuffling steps down the corridor.
"Remus!" James hissed again, leaning out into the open. He was badly hidden by a moth-eaten tapestry and the shadow cast by a suit of armour, and Remus was not impressed. He had his Invisibility Cloak, but -- for reasons best known to himself -- he was not actually wearing it. It was bunched messily under his arm, with one sleeve trailing on the floor. "Remus, I know you can hear me!"
"No," Remus said, casting a nervous glance up the corridor. He was in the middle of rounds, and his partner was not too far away. The last thing he needed was for Jessamine Hopkirk to see James out of bed after curfew. Points would be taken, and James would be sore at him for a good week, and he'd have to listen to another lecture from Evans on why his friends were completely and utterly useless. "I'm ignoring you."
Frowning, James leaned out even further. Too far, if the way he flailed and grabbed onto the armour's arm was anything to go by. "Why would you do that?"
"In case you haven't noticed, I'm a little busy at the moment," Remus replied. "It's after curfew."
"Yeah, I guess it is, at that, but I need to talk to you." James swayed back toward the wall and was briefly swallowed by the shadows from his head to his knees. "It's important, Moony. Very, very important."
"Lupin?" Hopkirk called, waving at Remus from a few feet away. "We should get going."
"Right," Remus called back, his eyes darting between Hopkirk and James. "Just a moment," he added quickly, "I need to tie my shoe." Sighing, he dropped to one knee and rounded on James. "All right, make it quick. And put your bloody Cloak on!"
James unfurled with a flourish; the hem flew up, grazing Remus' cheek. "Have you done the dungeons, yet?" James asked, as bits and pieces of him disappeared from view. "The Potions corridor?"
"No," Remus said slowly. Talking to someone who was just an elbow and a foot was slightly unnerving, but at the moment, it was better than the alternative. "We're just headed there now."
"Lupin?"
Cursing, Remus jumped to his feet. "Sorry, this -- um, this suit of armour is all out of joint," he said, waving his hands slightly. "Nothing fancy, really. I'll just meet you on the stairs." Hopkirk made an agreeable noise, and Remus crowded James into the wall as she headed around the corner. "Prongs," he warned. "Hurry."
"I need a couple of things, if you can manage it," James whispered. "Here, I've got a list." He mumbled a little and started shifting around; his elbow caught Remus square in the side, and Remus narrowly escaped a knee to the bollocks. "Right," he said triumphantly, his hand hovering in front of Remus' face. It was cut off at the wrist, and a rumpled bit of parchment was clutched in his fingers. "It's all there. Everything. Only if you can manage it, mind."
Remus glanced at list and frowned.
mugwort
lacewing flies
mandrake roots (aged)
unicorn hair (from the tail, unbroken)
"Do I even want to know?" Remus asked wearily. He would think it had something to do with Goodkin, if not for the unicorn hair. Unicorn hair was fairly innocuous, and no use in something meant to make a person ugly, hairy, foetid, or spotty. "Do I?"
"Probably not," James admitted quietly. A short, tight silence followed, broken when James sighed heavily. "Please, Moony?"
Clearly, there was something wrong with Remus' brain. "All right, all right," Remus snapped. "I'll do it, if you promise to go away."
"Right, of course." The tapestry behind James' invisible shoulder rustled ominously. "I'm leaving."
"Lupin?"
"Bugger," Remus muttered, giving James a shove for good measure. "I'm on my way."
--
Peter hated these sort of things. They involved dress robes, which were uncomfortable as a rule, and he could've done without the stiff, hastily-Transfigured chairs that would probably make his arse numb. It'd be nice to get up and stretch his legs, but then he'd be expected to dance. Peter didn't really dance, not that he had anyone to dance with, of course. He'd meant to ask someone, but he'd kept forgetting or putting it off, and by the time James decided all four of them were going whether they liked it or not, all the girls Peter could've asked had already had other dates.
He tugged at his collar -- these robes, in particular, seemed intent on choking him slowly -- grimacing as he swallowed his punch. Sirius had been heavy-handed with the Firewhisky this year; this stuff managed to taste strongly of hearth bricks and burn all the way down. The music was lilting and slow, careful as it wound through the couples circuiting the Great Hall. Sighing, Peter took another sip of punch, coughing and sputtering as the heat lingered in his throat.
"Easy, Wormtail," Sirius said, slapping Peter on the back. "All right, there?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Peter croaked. He took a deep breath, then another, and drained the rest of the glass. "I'll live."
Sirius patted his shoulder, smiling before slipping back into his whispered conversation with James. They were plotting something; it was obvious from their narrowed eyes and careful smiles, but Remus, who was sitting closer to James than Peter was to Sirius, was chiming in occasionally and didn't seem overly concerned.
Peter sighed, turning his glass in his hands as he weighed his options. He could drink more punch, but he'd only get giggly and silly, and then Remus would have to carry him back upstairs. He could fall asleep at the table, but James would notice eventually, and Peter'd rather not get kicked in the shin. His best bet seemed to be heading for the loo and not coming back; he was just about to excuse himself when a murmur ran through the students and the room brightened considerably.
He quickly glanced around for the source, and when he found it -- well, her -- he nearly burst out laughing.
Evans' skin was violently yellow, and she was bloody well shining like the sun.
"Merlin's Balls," James hissed. He was blinking owlishly, and his face was rapidly turning purple. "That's not what I had in mind, Sirius!"
Sirius looked up, hiding his bark-like laugh behind a loud, startled cough. "Oh, bloody fucking hell." He coughed again; behind his hand, his mouth was twitching. "She looks like a ruddy sunflower!"
Evans was frozen in the centre of the Great Hall, her eyes wide and her hands clenched at her sides. Goodkin, for his part, looked positively horrified. He whispered something to her, ducking his head in a way that suggested he was excusing himself.
"What the hell did you do to her?" James demanded.
"She looks like a space alien," Peter managed finally. "Like in Martin Miggs."
"We did just what you asked, Prongs," Sirius insisted. "Not our fault if you'd already bollocked the potion."
Remus sighed and reached for his punch. "What was the potion supposed to do, anyway?" he asked.
"I," Evans began slowly, her bright yellow face twisted with rage, "would very much like to know that, too."
"Evans!" James squeaked, startling he just now realised she was there. Peter wasn't sure how he didn't see her coming. "I just -- um. You were supposed to... well, glow. Like a fairy princess, you know. I thought it would be romantic."
"Romantic!" Evans screeched, waving her hands wildly. Heat rushed to her cheeks, which only served to make her face the exact colour of a satsuma. "I look radioactive! You could use me to guide ships through the Channel! How is that romantic?"
James' shoulders slumped and he buried his face in his hands. "It wasn't supposed to be so strong," he mumbled.
"You!" she spat, her finger shaking as she pointed it at James. "I tried to get McGonagall to ban you proactively, all of you --"
"Told you it was her," Remus murmured.
"-- Yule Ball is ruined, and it's all your fault! It's even more dreadful than I imagined!"
"Incidentally," Sirius said casually, "did you know you can see through your robes?"
"What?" Evans shrieked.
Her robes were white; the bright, sunny light blanched them into something nearly transparent. Peter had been trying not to look, but now that Sirius had mentioned it, he couldn't not. Her folded arms were mostly covering her bra, but it seemed she preferred lacy knickers with bows on.
She stared, dumbfounded, first at James, then down at herself. Her mouth worked, her lips twisting cruelly, but she only really managed a short, strangled sound. James folded in on himself, his hands twitching in front of his face. Remus stood and shrugged out of his heavy, outer robe. She jerked back when he approached, but he darted in quickly, managing to get most of it around her shoulders.
"James Potter," she said slowly, "I hate you."
James didn't watch her leave. Peter suspected this was because he was already banging his head on the table.
--
James found her in the Charms corridor. She was curled up in a windowseat, her head tilted against the pane, staring down at the courtyard where James had asked her to this stupid dance. She had Remus' cloak wrapped around her like a blanket, draped over her knees and pulled up to her chin. One side of her face peeked out at him from behind her hair. Her skin was still glowing, but it was dimmer now, softer, almost fragile.
More like what he'd intended.
"Go away," she said quietly. She turned toward him slightly, and he gritted his teeth until pain shot through his jaw. She wasn't crying, but it looked like she had been; her eyes were red and wet, and that's not what James had wanted, at all. She shifted again, hiding her face. "Leave me alone."
James ducked his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I am -- I mean, I will. I just, um -- I just wanted to say I'm sorry."
"Fine. You've said it. Now, go." She sighed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I still hate you."
James' stomach knotted, cold and tight.
"I'm telling McGonagall," she continued, just as James was turning to leave. "I'm telling her, first thing in the morning."
"I deserve it," James said honestly.
Evans laughed, soft and bitter. "I hope she expels you. My robes -- I might as well have been naked. I should have you arrested," she added, twisting her hands in Remus' cloak. "If we were Muggles, I probably could."
"I, um." James took a deep breath, then another. "Good night, Evans. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."
"It's worth nothing," she countered sharply. "Absolutely nothing, but I would like to know -- what exactly are you sorry for?"
"For making you yellow, and that," James mumbled. "For taking Miranda Bones to Hogsmeade last weekend, and--"
"--Why would you be sorry for that?" Evans asked, her voice dropping slightly. "I'm not -- I don't much care who you date."
James continued; he wanted to tell her, and this was probably the last time he could speak to her without getting slapped in the face. "I only asked her because you said no. We went to Puddifoots, and I bought her a tea, and everything, but I ditched her after we'd been there an hour."
"Oh?" she asked, twisting around until she was almost facing him. She rubbed quickly at her nose, and let her head drop back against the wall. "And then what?"
"I went to Honeydukes with Sirius. After that, I had Remus take me to Scrivenshafts," James said. "I was -- I thought you might be there."
She laughed again; it was louder, but still bitter. "All that trouble, for someone who hates you."
"Yeah, um -- sorry."
"What about tonight, then?" she asked. "Why did you decide to turn me into a bloody lantern?"
"You're beautiful," James said simply. "I -- I've told you that before, but. I don't -- I mean, sometimes I don't think you see it, because you get so angry when I say it."
She sat up quickly, frowning at him with narrowed eyes. "Did it ever occur to you that I get angry because it's you who's telling me?"
"No, I -- no."
It was silent then, so silent that James could hear everything -- his heart beating, Evans' slow, steady breathing, the wind rustling outside the window. Evans' eyes were closed, and her hands were curled underneath her chin, and the glow had all but faded from her skin.
"Right," James said softly. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry, and I've done that, so. I -- I'll just be going."
"Where?" she asked, sliding out of the windowseat. She shook Remus' cloak open and put it on properly. "Back downstairs, so you can dance with Miranda Bones?"
Biting his lip, James shook his head. "No. I thought I'd go to bed. Before, you know. I cause any more trouble."
She approached him, taking small, careful steps. James just watched her; he was fairly certain she was going to slap him, but it's not like he didn't deserve it. Her hand came up, but she only nudged his shoulder, prodding him until he turned around.
"Come on, then," she said, lifting her chin. "Walk me back to Gryffindor."
James blinked. "What?"
"I said, walk me back to Gryffindor." She nudged him again, a bit harder. "Please tell me you're not arrogant, insufferable, and deaf."
"No. I, um -- I thought I heard you wrong, is all."
"You heard me just fine," she said tartly. "It's your fault I had to leave the ball early. The least you can do is escort me home." She took a step forward, quirking an eyebrow when he didn't follow. "These halls are dangerous, Potter. What if Peeves decides to bother me? Or that suit of armour by the stairs?"
"On the third floor?" James asked slowly. "The grabby one with the dirty mouth?"
"That's him," Evans replied. "I'm just sure you taught it those words."
"No, that was Peter. I mean, it was my idea, but Peter actually did it."
Evans sighed. "Let's go, Potter. I'm tired, and these shoes are murder on my feet."
"Right, okay. Yeah. Back to Gryffindor. I can do that."
"Good," she said, a smile tugging at her mouth. "And if you don't try to hold my hand at least once, I'll hex you black and blue."
fin