A/N: For Morgan (again, I know—she's just amazing like that), who titled, inspired the idea of and motivated me to do this. Happy one year, Nes. You're the best. Love you.

Not even the loud admonishments of one presently furious Madame Pince could snap Lily Evans out of her drowsiness, and the dim lighting of the library's floating candles wasn't helping. She absently tapped her wand against the polished wooden surface of her table as she perused the same page for the last ten minutes now; the dull 'tap-tap-tap' fading into the monotonous harmony of turning pages and low murmurs.

A Transfiguration book lay open beside a half-filled parchment on the desk before her, but her quill had long been idle and the paper no longer glistened with fresh ink. Her eyes were still open, but barely. Her head kept nodding off, and her hair was a curtain of scarlet hiding her sleepy disposition from the curious Ravenclaw third year who worked at a nearby table.

From a shelf situated not very far, James Potter ran his fingers along a stack of Charms text books, his glasses flashing here and there as he padded the library in ominous silence. He could see the vivid red of Lily's head from where he stood, and he couldn't help the small smile playing on his lips at the sight of her. He did not seem very hasty to locate any tome; in fact, he walked the place like it were some other ordinary corridor, his confident gait and his knowing hazel eyes anything but suited to the subdued and serious setting.

He was vaguely aware of the green leather-bound notebook that he carried with his other hand, but just before he reached the more lit part of the area he seemed to remember it. Looking down on it and expertly twirling it in his Quidditch-trained fingers, a grin painted itself on his face.

She would be able to see him now, she needed only look up a fraction, but—as James would find after tearing his gaze off the notebook—Lily had already entirely slumped off on her table, giving in to slumber.

He eyed her for a moment, a sliver of hesitation rooting him on the spot. He felt sorry for having to rouse her from her nap for something so childishly shallow; she looked really tired. Sixth year, after all, was proving a tad more demanding than they'd all expected it to be. Even Dorcas Meadowes, who vowed to draw back from all the serious studying after all the OWLs hurdle last year, seemed to have had no choice but to go back on her word. Not to mention Lily's duties as prefect…

He almost just turned around and walked away. He almost left her be like Remus would have commended (and Sirius rebuked) him for. But he was James Potter, and he was an insufferable, attention-seeking, up-to-no-good git…well, at least in the eyes of the one person whose opinion mattered most to him. So he strutted towards her table and ignored the inevitable surge of self-hate forming a lump in his throat. He dragged a chair, turned it around, and perched himself from across her so that his arms rested on the back of the chair and his legs were on either side of it.

The third year shifted uncomfortably a table away. With a short apprehensive look at James and Lily—no doubt picturing what usually happened when the pair were in the same room and the Quidditch captain had that expression on his face—he gathered his things and hurried off to join his fellow Ravenclaws a safe distance away.

James barely saw him scuttle out, his eyes fixed on Lily. The redhead, who now was completely oblivious to the world, turned in her sleep. A strand of ginger hair fell over her face.

If only to distract James from the sudden urge to tuck it behind her ear, he figured he might as well get to business and all the sooner get out of there. He cleared his throat.

She didn't budge.

He tried again, louder.

She moved this time, but only to bury her head in her arms to instinctively block him out.

Sighing, James reached out an arm to gently shake her. "Evans."

She jumped and squealed. Also, in an unexpectedly high level of surprise, she knocked the pile of books down and spilled her bottle of ink. Even James was startled; he jumped back to save himself from the black dripping liquid and remembered just in time to grab the green notebook away. His chair toppled down and hit the edge of the table, and they both knew Madame Pince was bound to come after them in just a matter of seconds—but at least James wasn't splattered anywhere with thick black goop.

Lily, still groggy and disoriented, wasn't as lucky.

And so it was that about ten minutes later found them both outside, thrown out of the library by the outraged, infamously short-tempered librarian.

Lily was fuming. She stood there staring ahead and breathing deeply, and James was trying very hard not to laugh.

"Look, I'm sorry..."

"Couldn't you just leave me alone for once?" She started walking away.

"I'm sorry," he insisted, but he was half-chuckling by the end of it.

"You bloody nearly gave me a heart attack, you idiot."

"I was just trying to wake you up," James explained. "Who knew you were so jumpy? And shame on you, Evans—choosing the library to doze and openly dream about me. I mean—"

"Sod off," Lily interrupted, greatly annoyed. "What were you even doing there? Don't you melt in libraries or something?"

James's eyebrows shot up, amused. "Very funny. Would you like joking workshops with Peter? I can schedule them for you."

She stopped and whirled on him, placing her hands on her hips and assuming her all-too-familiar "James Potter I swear am this close to castrating you" look. James, halting as well, merely responded with that infuriating smirk of his.

They stayed that way for a while; Lily looking like she might actually draw her wand and curse him to the next millennium, and James not giving a single damn, but then her eyes (finally) traveled down to his hand and her attention wavered. Although the look of disapproval waned only very slightly, he saw her swallow once before speaking.

"Where'd you get that?"

"This?" He smiled in triumph. "Oh, you know. Around."

"Potter."

"Evans," he returned. "I do love it when you say my name like that. All…bossy."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

She ignored his jibes. "Were you going to give it back?"

He pretended to think about it to agitate her more—his brows met in the middle in exaggerated theatrics as he held the notebook up like a waiter would a tray, his other hand coming up to rotate it with his nimble fingers. "Maybe."

She dared a step forward, and the torch on the wall where she was now adjacent to made her hair and eyes look like they were ablaze. It took his breath away, and while he was determined to keep his composure intact, the notebook had to be stilled.

She opened her mouth to speak, but James held the journal high up above his head when he saw her hand twitch towards it. "Going to snag it away from me?"

He could almost hear her mental wheels whirring, could see the internal debate in her pursed lips. Sometimes he liked to think he could read her. And Merlin, he wondered if it was as extraordinary to her as it was to him looking into those eyes.

"No," said Lily firmly.

He had heard it a million times in the past, of course, but not once did it fail to disappoint him.

"Fine then," said James, stepping back.

Lily grabbed him by the wrist. "Where did you get it?" she asked. "Because if you and your band of miscreants—"

"Marauders."

"—have somehow managed to find a way into the girl's dorms, I think I ought to know and do something about it."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, been there, done that, Evans. And I assure you, it wasn't to sneak a peek on you lot's diaries."

Lily's cheeks colored. "You're a prick, Potter. And that is not a diary."

James gently tugged his hand away. "I know it's not," he replied. "You left it in Charms. Some Hufflepuff gave it to me."

"Gave it to you?"

"Mhmm."

"You didn't hex anyone?"

He looked scandalized. "Of course not," he scoffed. "I politely asked him for it, I'll have you know—and then very calmly told him I'd transfigure him into a twig and clip him on my Nimbus if he didn't."

She let out a sigh, shaking her head. "You're impossible."

He laughed. "I know. But I didn't nick it from your bedside table, at least."

"Good."

"Yeah."

"Great."

"Right."

"Brilliant."

"Precisely."

"Quit it."

He grinned. "You sure you don't want it back?"

She bit her lip as she looked up at him—bloody hell, was that really necessary?—and he would be lying if he were to say he expected her to walk away then, which was exactly what she did.

So bloody proud...

Before he could help it, he was calling out her name—her first name. And he knew that had it been "Evans" or "Red" or "Ginger" or any of the other pet names he'd ever called her, she wouldn't even have considered turning around to face him again.

"What?" It was the same hostile air, the same sardonic tone, but he could discern the curiosity beneath it.

He had never, until now, called her Lily. Making a mental note to punch himself later for it, he tossed the journal in her direction, his Quidditch-perfected pass making it possible for her to catch it without trouble even by surprise.

"There you go," said James. "I'm not always a git, you know."

"Could have fooled me," muttered Lily, clutching the notebook against her chest. "But thank you."

He nodded. "See you around."

He turned away and started towards the opposite direction, the image of her fiery hair and intense gaze lingering and burning bright in his vision. He could not shake it off, and he figured he could use a bottle of butterbeer from the kitchens.

He was already a good number of steps away when he thought he heard her speak, but that couldn't have been because—

"James!" she was repeating, having received no response the first time.

He tried (and failed) to keep the stupid grin off his face.

James.

"Yes?"

She must have already kept the notebook in her book bag, because she wasn't holding it anymore. "Where are you going?"

"Are you coming?"

"No."

James shrugged. "Just around then."

"So did you read it?" She uttered the words a little too quickly to pass as a casual query, and it made James smile.

"A bit, yeah."

Besides a deploring frown, she didn't seem that much surprised about it. Instead: "Well, what did you think of it then?"

"Honestly?"

"You think I'd take opinions from you any other way?"

He crossed his arms and quirked a brow. "Be nice, Evans, or I'm holding off my critique services."

"Just tell me."

"Okay," conceded James. And then solemnly, "I think you're a brilliant writer."

An instinctive smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and James watched her as she tried to fight it off. See, however James Potter loved seeing Lily Evans' cheeks flush and eyes burn in rage like they all knew he could easily make her, he would also never stop hoping to see the end of her every single half-formed smile—especially this one, especially now that he was the reason behind it.

But then Lily seemed to have realized something, that one thing that always impeded James's shot of maybe changing her inexorable (and unfortunately not very good) impression of him. He recognized it instantly: she didn't believe a word he said.

"I said be honest," said Lily, clearly sceptical.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked her straight in the eye. "I am being honest."

"Right," she dragged out. She eyed him meticulously.

Once, Remus had mentioned how Lily concluded—with ample proof and personal experience—that it was impossible for anyone to get inside the almighty James Potter's head. James hadn't been sure of what to make of that then, or of whether or not it was right. Looking at Lily now, he found that his verdict on the matter remained unchanged.

"Right," she repeated, louder and clearer. "Okay...give me one event in the past where you've been honest with me."

In the next wordless minute that followed, he just knew how she was certain that he wouldn't be able to come up with anything. What she didn't know, though, was that he did have something—that one time he was honest with her, the one time he had never been more honest in his life—but he wasn't sure if now was the right time to tell her. (Or if there ever would be a right time.)

Last week, in a state of utter inebriation (on her part) and moronic recklessness (on his), however hard he denied it and whatever feeble excuse he had fabricated for himself the morning after, he'd told her he loved her.

He'd realized it last week, in the quiet, moonless night with her head on his shoulder—she was babbling about homework and dresses and Potions—and then he'd just outright said it.

I love you.

Raw. Untimely. Honest.

The reality of it almost killed him.

But she couldn't remember it, of course not, and he didn't know if her having no memory of it at all was something James ought to be thankful for or not...

"Well?" said Lily now, looking up at him expectantly, unaware of his erratic heartbeats, his sweaty palms, and his unwanted reminiscing of her calm, beautiful face in deep drunken slumber.

He shrugged and tried his best to pull on a convincing glare. "Look, if you don't believe me—"

"I don't," interjected Lily, and she said it so regally, but James knew her well enough that he couldn't possibly miss the distinct glimmer of disappointment in her eyes. She didn't say anything after that, and he thought he should break the silence, but he couldn't trust himself to say anything that wouldn't upset her further.

She sighed, the sound getting to him like a douse of cold water, and he wanted nothing more than to steal it off her lips with a kiss. "I'll see you around," she muttered. "Good night."

He nodded rigidly, suddenly still and speechless. (He thought it would be harder not to ask her to stay if he opened his stupid mouth.)

Then she was leaving him for what felt like the hundredth time tonight.

And besides those three stupid words so carelessly thrown out last week, two more plagued his mind as he made his way to the kitchens.

Maybe someday.

Lily thought it strange—the feeling of the ground getting repeatedly pulled out from under her feet, mind wandering off and getting lost every time she tried to look into him through his glass-framed eyes. She was for sure only imagining the added weight of the returned journal in her bag as she walked away from him, but somehow she couldn't help picturing how James's fingers must have threaded through pages and pages of her random anecdotes...

He thought she was good.

Did he, really?

Cautiously and out of compelling instinct, she craned her neck to look behind her and maybe catch one last glimpse of him.

He was already well away, the darkness of the curving corridor ahead gradually swallowing his retreating figure. She turned around fully to watch him go, and it was just before he disappeared when something hit her. His voice and his face and the night and...

She didn't know what it was, but she knew she was missing something, something about James, something big and glaring and important. She racked her brains and tried to put her finger on it, but even James's footsteps were vanishing now, and she felt like she needed him to be around her to be able to remember it.

She gave up then, shrugging it off and going her own way.

A little later that night, as tired as she had earlier been in the library, her mind raced no matter how tight she closed her eyes. She couldn't stop thinking about him and picturing him walking away again and again, and the nagging thought of that something bounced around her consciousness like a quick and stubborn snitch that she could not for the life of her pin down and capture. She tossed and turned and was extremely frustrated.

Potter.

Suddenly the name meant something more than the bane of her existence, and she wished she knew how and what and why, because it was driving her mad.

James bloody Potter...

Their staring matches had gotten interesting recently, thought Lily—it was becoming more and more a matter of powerlessness to look away than a matter of being the only one around able to stare him down.

James.

His name had come out so easy and familiar and perfect, like all this time she had been breaking a law of nature by calling him "Potter".

(Somewhere in the castle James was muttering "Lily" quietly, feeling ridiculous afterwards, but he just couldn't stop testing it in his voice and wondering what she must have thought.)

Just moments before sleep finally came to her she realized that for the first time in her life, she was sincerely sorry to have let him walk away. The thought would carry on in the morning, and the morning after that, and the morning after that, and soon enough she would someday wake up to a ring gracing her left hand and a grinning James next to her and a mutual promise to stay together for a million mornings more.

Lily rolled to her side and fell asleep with a smile on her face.

(James crashed on his bed and fell asleep with her name on his lips.)