Disclaimer: It's all JK Rowling's. I'm jealous, but I'm not a thief...well, maybe just a little bit.

A/N: I just wrote this in a burst of inspiration and then decided to put it online because I was bored. I hope whoever (if anyone) reads it enjoys it. And I'm sorry it's so depressing.

The first time was an accident, back when she didn't even like him. But "like" seems a trite word when you're standing your ground before the most powerful Dark Wizard in modern times and he tilts his head at you and says, "What have we here?"

His curiosity is purely for the pretty red-headed girl standing next to the young man with a lopsided mouth and eternally messy hair. Voldemort already knows who the pure bloods and the blood traitors are.

All it takes is for their former classmate, Bellatrix Lestrange, to lower her hood and snarl "Mudblood" and he's already wishing he could just turn his head and look at the girl beside him, memorize her every feature, so he doesn't forget. Because forever is a long time, and what if he wasn't good enough to go where she'll go? He wishes there were time for regret that and time to just look at her, but there isn't and hesitation and distraction could remove even the sliver of hope that they get out of this alive.

He can't believe he's going to die outside the Hog's Head and the girl he loves will go to his grave hating him. It was karma for getting Head Boy, he knows it. That's why it never made sense.

But don't punish her, please.

Voldemort spreads an arm out towards Evans, inviting Bellatrix to do as she wishes, setting his rabid dog off her leash. But Potter is ready and Evans can feel him tense, coil, and strike out. And what can she do but fight too?

Sometimes it's better when he doesn't ask for permission.

"Don't call her that," Potter says simply, coldly as the spells dissipate once they collide with each other. And Evans' aim is true. And thankfully, Voldemort is still unconcerned enough to be amused and sit back and watch the show. And they fight two-to-one because the Death Eaters are indignant. And they bleed for it.

And Voldemort's lipless smile is fading and Evans notices this, because she lets out a hurried cry and a silver something (that makes James' heart catch in his throat) explodes from her wand and canters away, down the alley.

And impossibly, they're alive when the cavalry arrives.

And when it's over, they realize that they're the first Hogwarts students to actually see the war and be a part of it. And oh, they're alive too!

It's the first time she really ever thanks him for anything.

It's the first time he watches her walk away thinking how little he deserves anyone's praise.

And he won't let her die for her beautiful blood.

-HP-HP-HP-

The second time, they've chosen to be targets. Willingly. Happily.

Because they're both just honorable that way.

At least, that's what Sirius likes to say when things get a little tense and they have a moment when they realize the magnitude of what they've entered.

People are falling everywhere. Indiscriminate and all around them. And there's barely time to dry your eyes before the next senseless, horrible thing happens. He hates the way it's begun to harden them both, but mostly her. Because she doesn't laugh nearly as much as she did two years ago and he misses the days when she would laugh easily and often. He didn't have enough time with that laugh. Life just isn't fair.

Dumbledore hadn't expected him to be there that night, and Dumbledore rarely miscalculates. And he's with his minions again. But as they raise their wands, Voldemort lifts a hand, quelling the action before it begins.

This time, he swivels his head to James, red eyes gleaming with something indescribable, intense, and powerful. And in a perverse way, it reminds her of James' eyes. The same force and yet a world of difference behind it. She shivers, but pushes forward when James and Frank shift slightly to shield her, the only Muggleborn accompanying this party.

"Your wife? Laughable. It's a crime against the nature of your blood. I can give you another chance, I can give you all," his eyes sweep over Frank and Alice, "another chance."

Lily suppresses a cringe at hearing Voldemort refer to her that way. It's dirty, suddenly, to be James' wife. And hot fury rises in her, because he shouldn't have the power to make her feel dirty for it. To shame her for her love.

But James, ever the hothead, doesn't even have the patience to answer the formidable wizard's disgusting words and a melee erupts and she gets hit with something that makes her burn viciously and loudly. And while the fight is around them, James sees her and transforms.

It's almost natural by now and he nudges her up on his back and takes off. She tries her best to ignore a moment of their escape where he goes rigid and stops slightly. They're leaving it behind, leaving their friends to fight because James never thinks anything through when Lily's in pain.

And when he thinks he can't take another step, they have to be far enough away and she tumbles sideways off of him, gasping in pain. He doesn't even have the energy to calculate how hard she falls, or how broken she is, because he's fading again to a man and suddenly red is everywhere.

"James…"

He wants to shuffle nearer to her, but he can't find her among all the red. He misses the days when red was just her hair, only her sweet, soft hair.

"Potter," she whimpers. And she's suddenly there, her warm, calming breath on his cheek. "Look…at me."

He can find her now because she's asked him to. And he can do anything as long as she's still in his world. He looks at her and he knows that they're thinking the same thing.

"Lily…Lily." It's hard to talk, and he can't figure out why, but he must get this out. "We have to go to the same place."

She laughs, but it's asthmatic and not the happy laugh he misses. It's the one that reminds him of once upon a time when she screamed at him and told him that he made her sick. The laugh of denial.

"No! I'm serious," he manages to croak out before falling back, panting. The blood won't stop and her burning is preventing her usually-impressive healing abilities from being all that effective.

But her hand is petal-soft against his cheek and for a moment, she stops moaning in the agony of her affliction and it makes him stop hurting too.

"James," she murmurs in something like amazement. "You are…"

The words never come and he blinks weakly as her head tilts drunkenly towards his chest, the weight of continuing to live nearly crushing her. And he hears tears in her words. "You are…"

He lifts a bloodied hand and pats her always-silken hair and shushes her. She can rest, he tells himself. That's all she needs to say.

And when he sleeps, and her head is cradled perfectly on his chest, he's just happy.

He pays no heed to that distant voice, the one that yells, "Here! They're over here!"

-HP-HP-HP-

Her best friend is dead and sometimes he thinks that she's just looking for a way out.

That thought is the most painful one he's ever had because he's selfish and he can't, he just can't.

Nothing he does can abate her and they fight a lot and he apologizes and she kisses him and they end up in bed, shagging like their lives depend on it, and afterward he stays awake and watches her sleep and holds her so tightly that he has to remind himself that she'll wake up if she can't breathe.

"Don't you ever leave me," he whispers fiercely into her hair, watching like a man possessed as her chest rises and falls. She is Heaven. That's how he knows they'll end up in the same place.

She is the place.

And he knows now that she won't leave him behind.

The third time, they are with the entire Order. But in the midst of it all, Voldemort set his eyes upon them once again, fighting in sync like an effortless dance, and he smiles with a malicious secret that makes James' heart run double-time.

"I see you've rotted your branch, Potter. We must stop the growth now before it infects all the others."

He wastes no time trying to decipher what that means, instead he jerks to the right and blasts a large tree a few feet away, causing it to tremble and drop like a felled dragon. Moments later, the tree is an inferno and James flies sideways, tackling Lily away from the heat. They wait for death to come, but it doesn't until they stop feeling so suspicious.

And bizarrely, she looks up at him from where she's sprawled underneath his body, the ghost of relief in her face as she traces the line of his jaw. And for a moment they ignore the flames, and the Death Eaters, and the war. "Relax, James. Breathe."

I love you.

They find out later at St. Mungo's that Dumbledore hurried over to intercept Voldemort before he could continue with his strange purpose.

This is, of course, right before the Healer enters the room and congratulates Lily on her pregnancy, in front of most of the Order.

The only thing that breaks into the couple's intial, acute terror is Sirius' forceful and adamantly cheerful voice. "Lily, you darling, fit, smashing girl! I'm going to be a godfather!"

And then James realizes that he has an excuse. And that Lily loves far too much to be so reckless (he's always thought she'd make a brilliant mother). And he's beaming and lifting his shocked wife into the air, kissing her temple and rocking her in his arms despite her protests.

They might make it out of this war. This child might save them both.

-HP-HP-HP-

He watches Harry reach for the smoke and a grin nearly splits his face at his son's highly-contagious baby giggle. If he could ever forget the danger, it would be in the moments that Harry laughs. His wand spouts a few more clever shapes and then turns to were Harry's attention has been drawn.

"Mama." He points to her, as if she didn't already know who she was and they both laugh as Harry delightedly claps. "Mama nigh'."

If James were still the obnoxious fifth-year who played with a Snitch, he would be absolutely jealous of the unmitigated adoration on Lily's face as she watches their son.

"What a clever boy," she coos as she lifts him into her arms and he reflexively clutches a fistful of her hair. "Somebody is going nite-nite, that's for sure. Kiss Daddy."

Less because of Lily's command and more because James leans in expectantly, Harry obligingly reaches over to give his father a sloppy kiss. He grins at their praise, as they give it as excessively as any first-time parents.

"Tell me you didn't give him any of the treacle tart that I expressly forbid you—"

"Never," James cuts across her, looking a little offended. "I want to sleep tonight just as much as you do."

And in a gesture that would play back in his head, Lily smiles and ruffles his hair before sauntering past him, their child in her arms.

A breath later, he's a deer on a scent and something is wrong.

Two breaths later, he's screaming desperately for her to take their son and run. Betrayed. But there is so much else racing through him that he can barely bring himself to realize it.

No wand. No second chance. No fourth defiance. Nothing but wild hope that they'll live.

Please don't punish her.

But he knows that it's over, because this time, he's not looking into eyes. It's different this time.

Three breaths later, she's smiling and ruffling his hair and Harry is waving over her shoulder and—Avada Kedavra.