A/N: Here's to another year gone! Wishing you all a fantastic 2017 x

They're a curious thing, soulmates are. Not everyone has one. Sirius doesn't, for instance. Remus has several. Peter used to have one, similarly to James, but one day he woke up and the familiar handwriting simply wasn't there anymore.

He supposes he is lucky. After all, some people never even get to see their soulmates. He has, and she's beautiful. Creamy skin and vibrant hair, truly a sight to behold. It's also dangerous, but James has never once run away from danger. It fuels him.

"Well, fuck me," says Sirius from his spot, sprawled across the stained couch backstage. "A deer caught in the fucking headlights."

"Don't be crass, Sirius," chastises Remus, despite the smirk on his face.

"He's giving me no choice! Just look at him–" he says, pointing at the TV screen "–pathetic."

"He is a bit moon-eyed."

"Moon-eyed, infatuated, besotted, call it whatever you like, the git's a dictionary entry for a fucking mess."

"Christ," replies Peter, downing the remains of his gin.

Most people wouldn't notice, but they know the signs, and so, for the three of them it's obvious.

It's an awful thing to witness, really. The way Potter goes all slack-jawed after taking a proper look at the crowd in front of him. The definition of a love-struck fool.

The concert ends, and the first thing James does after getting backstage is order a bottle of Chardonnay.

Sirius can't really say he's surprised. Honestly, it was bound to happen at this point.

James knows that if Sirius knew – and knowing him, Sirius probably does – he'd call him a fucking moron and ring his mum to let her know what a wreck of a son she's raised.

The wine leaves a bitter imprint on his tongue – one of the many consequences of cheap alcohol – but he doesn't care. She was there, he felt it. James can't really explain, but staring at the song lyrics carved into his left wrist, he knows.

It's a right mess. He needs to find her, red hair and green eyes, lighting up the arena like a fucking Christmas tree, except he has no clue where to start. After all, he doesn't even know her name.

"Mate," Sirius says.

"What?"

"She's not Cinderella, and you're not bloody Prince Charming."

Remus snorts. "Might as well be."

"Rubbish mates, you are."

The worst thing, James ponders, is that she'll probably never know what she did to him.

It's been over three months, he's gone on a series of different dates – after all, even teen sensation James Potter needs his fix, if you catch my drift – but none of them compare. Wherever he goes, all he can see is her. She's everywhere and nowhere at the same time, and it's driving him fucking insane.

He'd only seen her for a moment, with her arms looped through her friends' and a smile on her face. Eventually, the crowd had hidden her from his view and she was gone.

His friends think he's lost his mind – which James reckons he probably has – but he doesn't give a single fuck. She's somewhere where he can't find her. He's desperate, and he should probably do something about it, but he doesn't know where to look.

She's ruined him for just about everyone else, and she doesn't even know.

He vows not to stop searching. You're not supposed to give up on your soulmate. And, after all, when his mother explained his seemingly innocent birth mark, she warned him that it wouldn't be easy.

James doesn't really believe in fate, but he is willing to try, if it'll bring him closer to her.

He feels someone – probably Sirius, the fucking prick – shove him. "What is up with you?"

"Are you still on about concert-girl?"

"No," he lies, making Sirius give a knowing look. "So maybe I was. What's the big fucking deal?"

"You're giving me a headache."

"There's Advil on the bottom drawer," James snickers.

"Actually, we're all out," replies Sirius, never missing a beat.

"You're a fucking asshole," James laughs as Sirius re-adjusts his position.

"Do you want another beer?"

"Sure," James shrugs.

"Cool, they're in the fridge, get me one."

"I hate you," replies James, but still stands up. "Do you think she lives near?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," whispers Sirius. James smirks.

In the end – and after Remus suggests it, because in what other way would he even remember to do that – he decides to host a signing in Cokeworth. It's such a small town that there's no way she'd go to a concert there if she lived somewhere else.

He runs the idea by his management, and because McGonagall can actually see how desperate he is, she allows it. As a thank-you present, he decides to bake her favourite kind of cinnamon biscuits – they burn, of course, but it's the thought that counts.

The gig's less than three days away, and they're already on the road. James can't tell if the reason he feels so sick is because of the twists and turns of the freeway, or the fact that he might be meeting his bloody soulmate in under seventy-two hours. Of course, there's no way to guarantee that she'll actually be there – which Sirius makes a point to remind him of every five fucking hours – but at least he's doing something.

"At least it'll finally put me out of my misery," sighs Sirius, in that same bored tone of voice he always uses when speaking about "concert-girl".

If James didn't know better, he'd feel offended, but he's aware that in reality, Sirius is probably even more anxious about it than James is.

It's five in the morning when someone nudges him awake.

"Prongs, we're here."

He wishes the others could have come as well, but Peter had a big final and Remus a hospital appointment. At least, he ponders, he's got Sirius.

They've been at the venue for about twenty minutes when the doors open. Sirius makes a point to tell him about the long-as-fuck line outside, but he tries to ignore it; it's not like James needs yet another reason to make his palms sweat.

Fan after fan comes in; some ask him to sign a photograph or his latest album, some hand him letters that he promises he'll read later – which he always does. He's been in the business for over two years now, but he always makes the effort to personally read as much fan mail as possible. One girl even gives him a blueberry muffin, his all-time favourite food, and he's so touched he could cry.

"I still can't believe you dragged me here, Mare," he hears, and chuckles to himself as he signs yet another life-sized poster with his face on it.

"Come on, Lily, you know you liked it-"

"I most certainly did not-"

"You so did! You can act aloof all you like, but even you can't deny how cute he is."

He's still staring at the table in front of him when someone slides a CD in front of him. He lifts his eyes from it and when he does, his heart skips a few beats – or altogether stops, James really can't tell.

In front of him is the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, with tan skin and long dark hair, and yet the person he can't tear his eyes away from is the redhead who's holding her hand, staring at him like he's grown two heads.

James can't even help the soft "what the fuck" that escapes his lips, at the same time concert-girl crosses her arms and blushing, says, "Look, I didn't even want to be here."

"This is beautiful and all that, but could you please sign my disk so I can move on?" the other girl asks, and the only reason James isn't bothered is because for one, she said it with the largest shit-eating grin he's ever seen, and two, because she's brought him her.

"Sure, I'm sorry," he replies, quickly scribbling his signature on the cover, "to whom?

"Mary, please." This time, she's more smiling and less smirking, and it takes the edge off, even if only a little.

"And you?" James asks, turning to concert-girl, the blush on his cheeks so red it rivals his soulmate's – bloody hell, his soulmate's – hair.

"The name's Evans," she mumbles.

"Nice to meet you, Evans." James is aware he looks like a fucking fool, smiling at her like she's the sun or some other romantic shit, but honestly, he doesn't care.

"Likewise." He can tell she's trying to come off uninterested, but the subtle pink colouring her cheeks informs him otherwise. He quickly turns his head to the back of the room, where Sirius is taking some pictures with fans, and flicks his ear twice; a cry for help.

"Be a little nicer, would you, Lily-" argues Mary, just as James' bodyguard, Hagrid, calls for the next fan.

Now that it's Sirius' problem, he can breathe a little easier; he knows Padfoot won't let him down.

The rest of the signing passes in a blur, and a couple of blueberry muffins later, he's free to go. Or, he would be, had Sirius and Mary not been cackling over an unimpressed-looking Lily.

"Look, Potter," she starts, and the sound of his surname with her voice makes him so fucking thrilled- "I don't know what you slipped into his morning cereal this morning, but Black over here is acting like an overconfident prick."

"I take offense to that," Sirius quips, and because it makes Evans laugh, James smiles.

All those months, and here he is, standing right next to his soulmate, concert-girl, whatever you want to call it. All those months and now he's here and most importantly, she's here and he couldn't be happier.

All right, so maybe she's a little closed off, sort of stumbling over her words but trying to cover it up, though James reckons that were he in her situation, he'd probably be too.

"Can I see your wrist?" he blurts out, and it's so out of the blue that she doesn't even question him and does as he asked.

There they are, the same exact lyrics he's had carved on his body ever since he was born. The grin on his face is so large, that James fears it will take over his entire self. But first, he has to be sure.

"You mentioned you didn't want to come," he says, turning to Lily. "Why's that?"

"I'm not exactly a fan," she stammers, messing up her hair – something else they have in common, James is pleased to note.

"I saw you at my concert," he argues. "Stellar outfit, by the way."

"Mary dragged me there. She's in love with you," Lily says in what she hopes is revenge, but James can see how unbothered her friend is by it all.

"You have my lyrics tattooed on your wrist."

"Don't flatter yourself, Potter," she scoffs, struggling not to crack a smile. "I was born with them."

"She looks a little flustered, wouldn't you say, James?" Mary asks.

"I'm not!"

"Yeah, Prongs, why don't you save damsel in distress over here?"

"HEY!" She turns to Sirius with a murderous glare. "I'm a damsel, I may be in distress, but I can handle this."

"Nice Hercules reference," James praises.

"Thank you, I try."

"You could give me your number. Hell, I might even be your soulmate," he teases, because he can tell she doesn't believe in any of that soulmate crap – or at least, she pretends not to – but he sure as fuck does and he's met his.

He's met his match, Lily Evans. It almost feels like New Year's Eve, a brand new opportunity. At least now he knows her name.