Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. *Le sigh.*

For the stupid, annoying prat in my history class,

who – alas – foisted himself upon my attention span and

caused me to notice quite a few things about him against my will.

Which is really quite annoying.

………….………………….

She sighed, sinking down to the cold hard floor of the deserted corridor. The window in the wall opposite her let the pale, milky beams of moonlight trickle through stealthily, turning the hallway silver and bathing the grounds with its watery glow. She frowned. She was waxing poetic. She never waxed poetic. It defied her inherent Lily-ness.

She also never rambled. Especially not internally. Because internal monologues…especially the long jumbled rambling kind that didn't make sense, even to the person making them…were crazy and illogical and impractical and sure to land her a room in St. Mungos. And Lily Evans was nothing if not collected, logical, and practical.

So why was she acting this way? Why was she rambling to herself…she wasn't!...and suddenly noticing the way the stars twinkled in the heavens? She frowned again. Those were just two points in a long list of complaints she had with herself. A good deal of this list consisted of things she'd been doing lately that she normally didn't do. The actions themselves weren't necessarily bad; it was more the fact that she was the one doing them. Because they weren't proper things for Lily Evans to do.

Like…like attending Quidditch matches. And not just because Alice forced her to. Like letting her hair out of its bun more often, because he'd once remarked that her hair was beautiful when it was down. Like merely pretending to threaten and scold and reprimand when all the Slytherins mysteriously developed a fondness for singing 16th century opera that refused to be quenched despite the best efforts of the teachers simply because it was her duty as Head Girl, then promptly finding an abandoned classroom as quickly as she could so she could laugh so hard she feared she would wet herself. Like squirming uncomfortably when Sirius grinned at her in that half cheeky, half joyful way of his; as though he knew she was merely pretending to be upset at their antics. Like wondering where he disappeared to with his friends when the four of them couldn't be found anywhere. Like having to force herself to focus when he showed up anywhere, whether it was the Common Room or the library or the Great Hall. Like sticking her elbow in the butter dish when his fingers accidentally brushed hers at dinner and for a moment their eyes locked and he flushed lightly and offered her a soft, apologetic smile. Like not being able to find a single decent retort or excuse for Remus when he confronted her about the butter dish incident that (Merlin be praised) only he had seen, and he'd just smiled knowingly at her muteness. Like staring at him as he worked on his Potions essay. Like blushing embarrassedly when Peter noticed her staring and winked conspiratorially at her. Like wondering what it would be like to be able to talk to him, or brush her fingers through his wildly tousled hair, or just sit with him in companionable silence. Like noticing little things about him, like how his forehead wrinkled when he was confused, or how he had exactly twelve different smiles, or how his eyes grew lighter when he laughed.

She huffed, shaking herself out of her self-induced daydream. This was not acceptable! It was just purely…un-Lilyish. She was not allowed to notice that his left eyebrow quirked slightly when he was nervous, or that he had a scar on the third knuckle of his right hand. She wasn't allowed to want to laugh at his jokes that suddenly seemed ridiculously funny, or to want to smile when he caught her eye and winked. She wasn't allowed to stumble across him as he lay sleeping in the library – dozing over his homework and surrounded by books – and feel her face soften at the sight. She wasn't allowed to realize that he and Sirius were almost closer than brothers, that Remus was the one he talked to long and hard about the serious issues, that Peter was the one he went to when he needed to laugh and forget his problems. She wasn't allowed to feel as though her heart had melted and a herd of rampaging hippogriffs were recklessly traversing her small intestine simply because he'd smiled at her before they parted ways for their rounds not two hours ago.

And she was most definitely not allowed to admit that noticing that she noticed all this despite that she was not allowed to notice any of it was scaring the pants off of her. She was a bloody Gryffindor, dammit! Courage and bravery and whatnot! And here she was, absolutely terrified out her little red head simply because she could no longer desperately cling to her little ledge of security and was being forced to admit that he was not what he used to be. Or perhaps he was, but she no longer saw what she used to see when she saw him. And she was rambling again! And not making sense! It wasn't bloody fair! Bugger! Bugger, bugger, bugger!

She got that he was different, alright?! She understood that he was more mature, more humble, more willing and ready and able to take on responsibility than ever. She had seen it when he had stopped strutting around as though he owned the bloody castle, when he stopped pulling vindictive, malicious pranks and instead pulled off incredibly creative feats that lightened the morose atmosphere of the student population during these dark times. She'd seen it when he respected her demands that he lay off the asking-her-out-every-five-minutes-just-to-see-her-get-angry bit, when he'd stepped up to his duties as Head Boy, when he'd purposely ignored Snape's baiting and resisted hexing him down the hall and back, although she knew he was more than capable of it and desperately wanted to do it. She'd seen it in the way he gazed at his three best friends when they were laughing and hanging out – as though he were the luckiest bloke in the world. She'd seen it when – in one of their rare moments of serious conversation in their shared common room – he'd told her that he wanted to fight, because some things were worth fighting for. She'd seen it when he'd sat down by the little first year crying in the corner and comforted him until the boy gazed up at him gratefully and dried his tears, and slung his arm around the younger student when he thought no one was looking, smiling at him affectionately.

She'd seen it all, okay?! She understood that he had changed, for the better. She'd never denied him a grudging respect for his intelligence – one that far surpassed her own – but she'd accepted all this, as well. That he was a downright, through-and-through, all-around fantastic guy that she was lucky to know. That in itself was hard enough to swallow. Did the fates have to throw this in her face, too?! That she fancied the bloody bloke?! She scowled at that stupid ray of moonlight. Coming through that window so serenely. This was all its fault. It made her wax poetic, which had led to a maddening case of self-introspection. Which, she concluded, was never good when it involved James Potter and feelings.

And suddenly his face was right in front of hers, inches away, and she was jumping in shock (another thing she was not allowed to do) and he was laughing at her reaction and she was frowning. Glaring, really. The prat caused her to act in a distinctly unlike-herself manner, made her lose countless hours of sleep wondering why in the bleeding hell she was acting so un-Lilyish, made her want to follow him with her eyes, made her feel like she was completely transparent to every single bloody person in the entire castle, made her absolutely ruddy paranoid, made her fancy him (the number one thing she was not allowed to do), and he had the nerve to laugh at her?! She'd show him! She'd shut him up! She'd hex him so hard that it would make him wish he'd never even subconsciously contemplated ruffling his hair like that, thus making her completely miss the cup she'd intended to pour her coffee into and end up with a steaming lapful of hot liquid and a metabolism distinctly lacking in caffeine, effectively ruining her entire day. She'd…kiss him, apparently. What on earth was wrong with her?! She was not allowed to kiss him! And she was definitely not allowed to enjoy it!

Keep telling yourself that, prompted the little voices in her head as James' hands settled on waist and he pulled back to grin at her widely, incredulously, before pressing his lips back to hers for another searing kiss. The voices sounded distinctly un-Lilyish and rather like Alice. Little buggers. She'd shut them up later, she told herself. Right after she finished not-enjoying this kiss.

~Fin~