He's the first to call her pretty.

Oh, she's been called many things before- "exceedingly smart", "wise beyond her years", "sweet", "ginger", "unfailingly kind". She knows how to accept all of them (except for the last one- it doesn't seem to apply to her, not with the way she treats Potter- although, she adds, most of those were justified). But pretty? How does one accept "pretty"?

It wouldn't be so bad if it were one or two times, either, but it's not. He won't stop. Every time she thinks she's alone, he'll materialize from behind some dark corner, an assassin of all that is peaceful in her life. "Alright, pretty Lily?" "How's my pretty Lily-flower doing today?" "Where you going, pretty Lily? How about going out with me?"

She knows she's not pretty; she's far from it. She looks at the other girls in her year sometimes, comparing them to her. She fails in nearly every area- hair too wild and big and blindingly vibrant (sometimes she thinks carrying a neon sign stating, "This is Lily Evans" would be less noticeable than her hair), no curves to speak of, freckles all over her complexion (it was white at one point, she knows, but she's beginning to think it's been stained red from blushing out of anger or embarrassment whenever Potter's around), face totally asymmetrical, knobby knees, bony wrists… No, she concludes, there's no way anyone, even one as mentally challenged as Potter, could see her as pretty.

o.O.o

It hurts her, to think that the first boy to call her pretty is making a joke of it. Really, Lily isn't the type to be bothered by these things; at least, that's what she tells herself. She's hurrying through the hallways, late for her next class, when the inevitable, "Hey, pretty Lily!" attacks her from her left. She grits her teeth and walks faster.

"Not now, Potter," she snaps.

"What's wrong with now, pretty Lily? I kinda like now." He lounges against the door to her classroom, seemingly without a care in the world, and smirks down at her.

She rolls her eyes. One thing you have to give him, some part in the back of her mind admits grudgingly, is his persistence. However, the majority of her mind is in favor of focusing on more important matters at hand- namely, the closed door Potter happens to be lounging on. "Out of my way, Potter." She glares at him.

"Not until you agree to go out with me, pretty Lily."

She raises her wand, and he mimics her action. "Just how good of a shot are you again, my pretty Flower? Last time, you missed by quite a bit- hit a poor little first year." He chuckles.

"Lucky for you," she hisses (really, she swears, this type of attitude is not normal for her. Potter just happens to be that particular blend of stupid and evil that gets under her skin like nothing else.), "I've been practicing."

"I can help you, you know. Quidditch team and all that- I'm pretty good with aiming, or so I've been told, pretty Lily." His eyes gleam as he says it, that hated word. She wishes, not for the first time, that she knew the words that would strike him as hard as his have struck her. Something must have flickered through her eyes; he changes, shifts positions, halts his attack. "Something wrong, pretty Lily?"

"Nothing," she mutters, eyes on the floor. She feels him coming closer, hears the steps, steady, firm, one after another on the cold stone floor. The sound halts; she sees, barely an inch from her Mary-Jane patent leathers, the tips of his humongous black loafers (she's called them boats before, with good reason).

"Pretty Lily," she feels his finger under her chin, an unspoken request to lift her head. She struggles against the slight pressure, refusing to look up; he sighs. "What's wrong, pretty Flower?" He tries a playful tone. She feels his eyes on her like hot stagelights, sweeping across her face, searching for clues. He's much too close, she decides suddenly, and pushes him away.

"Does it really work on all the other girls, Potter?" She tries to squeeze past him.

"Does what really work?" He echoes, grabbing her hand out of reflex and tilting his head in confusion; his glasses are dangerously close to falling off his face (not that she notices).

"Calling them "pretty". I mean, one compliment and, bam! They're eating out of the palm of your hand. I'm not surprised; even you could do better than the ones you choose, Potter. You've got to set yourself some sort of standard." She knows she's babbling, but at this point, it's about distraction. She knows the quickest way to ensure Potter doesn't think about anything she doesn't want him to think about (in this case, the word "pretty") is to distract or insult him, and babbling is normally the best-

"You don't like when I call you pretty?"

Well, it was worth a shot, she concludes and squares her shoulders to face him. "No, Potter, I don't. Most people don't like being mocked."

"Mocked?" He's got the makings of a fine parrot, she thinks amusedly as he gapes at her. "You think I'm mocking you?" Ok, so the parrot thing is maybe a no-go; a cockatoo? A peacock! She'd bet her month's allowance that Potter's patronus is a peacock. A little belatedly, she realizes that Potter had been talking for some time (she has no idea on what, but she's not guessing peacocks), and is now staring at her, waiting for some sort of answer.

"…yes?" She guesses. He groans.

"Lily! How could you… Where on earth… What in Merlin's name…" He starts these, and many other questions, but Lily is late for class and has had enough. While he's talking (again- does he ever stop?), she slips past him and through the door.

"See you later, Potter!" She smiles cheerily and waggles her fingers at him before shutting the door in his face.

o.O.o

When she returns to her dorm that night, there's a small box on her bed. She unties the note clipped to the top of it first- I'm sorry, it proclaims in Potter's messy scrawl. She turns it over. It's been crossed out several times, the letters bunched together, but she can make out the words, I meant it every time. She places the parchment on the bed and opens the box. A silver pendant of a stag floats out of the box and settles itself around her neck. She raises her eyebrows, impressed at the preciseness of the charmwork involved. She reaches back to unclasp the necklace (of course she can't keep it, it's far too expensive), but the clasp is gone. She narrows her eyes at her reflection in the mirror.

"POTTER!" She shouts. The walls in that section of the castle tremble; the Gryffindors in the tower flee towards the portrait-hole; James Potter grins and prepares for the ensuing battle.

o.O.o

A/N: Hey, guys! So sorry to have been gone for so long- it's been quite an insane month. But no matter- I'll be back more frequently now! As usual, nothing belongs to me, at least in Potter-verse. Hope y'all enjoyed!