Disclaimer: Besides Jeanne and Terrence, I don't own any of the characters you'd recognize. I don't own Taylor Swift's "The Way I Loved You" either, which sort of inspired this whole thing in the first place.

His name was Terrence Hunter, muggle-born and charming, and he had a wide smile and really nice cheekbones.

They were most prominent when he smiled down at her, most noticeable when the corners of his eyes crinkled, most appreciable when his hands, soft and gentle but rather cold, rested on either side of her face, his thumb drawing slow circles on her slowly flushing cheeks... and those three blasted words tumbling carelessly out of his mouth. It swept her off her feet, but not quite in the way she fancied.

She couldn't help but compare the way Terrence said "Lily"—reverent and barely audible—to the way he said "Evans"—frustrated and loud and confident and familiar...

Dorcas Meadowes said no one could possibly be as genuinely great as Terrence Hunter. Sirius Black concluded that he was a git, a right old berk just like the rest of them, and that he was just awfully good at hiding it. Peter Pettigrew readily and without further question agreed with Sirius. Mary Macdonald wasn't delighted about the whole thing either, but she was decent enough to admit that Terrence was excellent as a person, just not as a boyfriend—particularly Lily's. Remus Lupin said he didn't like him, or the idea of them together, but—

"I guess he's necessary."

"Necessary?"

"Yeah."

"For what?"

"You'll see."

And she had indeed yet to see. Or has she already?

As it happens, though, Lily had no idea what James Potter thought of him.

His name was Terrence Hunter, muggle-born and all kinds of perfect, but Lily couldn't help but note the lack of callouses on his fingers, the way his brown curls crowned his kind face a little too immaculately, the way his eyes were of the wrong hue... how there wasn't a pair of spectacles for her to remove before he leaned in to kiss her.

His lips were chapped.

James's had been, too, but Lily had been too busy focusing on willing herself not to combust to notice then.

And when Terrence finally pulled away for air, his expectant look making her feel guilty, a tide of realization washed over her and rendered her speechless. His lips left hers and the waves subsided, but she knew then that only one name remained etched on the shores of her consciousness.

In fact, she thought with a sudden surge of clarity, there had never been anyone else—it was just that one name all this time.

James Potter, although it seems like it, is not having a pleasant night.

He looks like he's having such an engaging conversation with fifth year Jeanne Marchbanks in one corner of the room, yes. But if looked closely—and Remus Lupin certainly did—one will notice how James keeps shifting his weight from one foot to another too many a time in a minute. One would note, as Remus has, how he keeps shoving and unshoving his hands in his pockets and chewing on the inside of his lower lip, how his eyes keep wandering to the common room entrance. He, like everyone else, has noticed the absence of a certain redhead, and is unwillingly waiting for her to arrive. He's agitated and not in a particularly good mood, that much is certain. Oddly enough (or not really), Jeanne Marchbanks is either apathetic or oblivious to this fact.

Across the room, Remus downs the remaining contents of his cup and ignores this, knowing all too well that it would be pointless to talk to him about it. He instead rushes over to help Peter and Mary restrain Sirius—who, in all his shaggy-haired glory, has long crossed the line to firewhiskey-induced insanity—from doing a cartwheel atop the drinks table.

James is getting annoyed. He's supposed to be having fun. He's supposed to be getting pissed drunk like Sirius. He's supposed to be enjoying his present—and, in all fairness and under other circumstances perhaps: excellent—company. But he can't, because damn him for being worried and bothered and distracted and annoyed, damn Lily fucking Evans and her glaring absence, the irresistible, nagging thought of her in the back of his mind. He can't stop the glances he throws at the portrait hole, subtly watching over Jeanne's shoulder and willing Lily to come in through the door. He feels disappointed when someone else arrives, inwardly cringing every time his head snaps up when he thinks he's heard her voice.

"...do you think she'll make it?"

James abruptly turns to Jeanne, her question shooting down his train of thought. "Sorry?"

"I said do you think she'll make it?"

He frowns. "Who cares? I don't really give a damn if she shows up or not... hang on, who?"

The fifth year sighs and manages a weak smile of abashed understanding. "Donnalyn Summerwest. Puddlemere United's Chaser? She got—"

"—she got hit pretty bad with a bludger on their last match against the Tornadoes, yeah, sorry," James finishes for her.

He looks down at Jeanne curiously, his hazel eyes piercing her blue ones through his glasses. The girl blushes, his hard stare making her look down and fiddle with her tie. James, in his defense, is not intentionally making her uncomfortable. Truthfully, he can't even see Jeanne at the moment. He's just reminded of why he picked Jeanne to begin with, out of the throng of witches who would've given anything to talk to him tonight...

Jeanne Marchbanks is the perfect girl for James. Seriously. They're compatible. She's not only pretty and smart, but she's also into Quidditch just as much as he is. She's fun to talk to, she's fit, she's not strongly opposed to things like blowing up Filch's closet for fun, and James is fairly certain that she'd be a fantastic snogger should he decide to put that theory to test here and now.

She's perfect... except no, she isn't. It should have been right—should have all felt right—but James feels like anything but being here with her. They're compatible. Could have been, should have been, except they're... it's just James doesn't really... Jeanne just isn't... her.

Jeanne just isn't her.