"You know what luck is? Luck is believing you're lucky, that's all." – A Streetcar Named Desire

This is a story that has been told a thousand times, that will be told a thousand more. Sometimes it is traditional, sometimes – like this – not; but one thing that remains the same throughout is that this is a story of two people who fall in love and stay in love until the end, no matter when or why that end comes. Things change, and people change, but love is love, and in the end, that's all that matters.

Thud.

Of course his chair leg is wonky. Why wouldn't it be?

Thud.

This whole place is shit.

Thud.

He'd give anything to leave, stroll up to Dingle and quit, but he made a promise, and

Thud.

if there's one thing James Potter does, it's keep his promises.

The wrinkly old biddy at the corner desk shoots him a look so full of loathing that he's surprised he doesn't drop dead on the spot. With a sigh, he grabs a book from his desk and shoves it under the wonky chair leg.

Working for the Department of Magical Games and Sports sounds interesting. Working for the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters sounds even more so. James knows better.

His job description is junior budget analyst, in charge of documenting expenditure and handling financial concerns relating to expenditure with regard to national Quidditch events and advertising.

In short, he writes down how much money is being spent on Quidditch matches, works out how much can be spent and ignores the complaints from other departments that they're spending too much money on a sport.

When he took this job as a promise to his father to stay under the radar, he didn't think he was giving up that much – he thought he'd rise to the top in no time. He didn't realise that he'd be under suspicion from the second he stepped into the office; the Potters, despite being an old pureblood family, are known for having no alliance with the Dark side. James often wonders if everybody in the office is actually dark – or if some are like him, just trying to maintain a front. This is staying on the right side of Voldemort without actively declaring loyalty to him, which, according to James' parents, is essential. In return for staying at the Ministry, James maintains a cushy lifestyle: an enormous flat in the wizarding corner of Chelsea, big enough to comfortably hold himself and two others, and a substantial amount of gold every month. He doesn't really need this job, and he'd much rather be doing something fun, but he supposes in the long run that it's better to be safe than sorry – a philosophy he's rather had to be convinced of in the last few years.

As far as he's concerned, his best friend Sirius has got it far better than him. Sirius is much in the same boat, with the small exception of not having parents who care about his welfare. Taken in by the Potters some years earlier, Sirius was just as much forced into taking a Ministry job as James was – except he landed in International Magical Cooperation. To James' knowledge, this job mainly involves liaising with pretty foreign witches – and, if the regular noises from the bedroom next to James' are anything to go by, Sirius is extremely good at it.

The only good thing about it is that they get to meet for lunch, and then when the hour is up Sirius returns to professional sleazing and James returns to the joyous company of an office full of old, dried up crones, manned by the ever-pleasant Pincus Dingle, by far the biggest twat that James has ever had the misfortune to meet – with the possible exception of Severus Snape, a former classmate and utter dickhead.
Bigots, the lot of them. And he really, really hates bigots.

-
August is a shit time to be doing what James does. With the Quidditch season starting, he has to sort out the budgets for every single match and deal with all the requests from the managers of crap teams for a bigger budget this year – they never get it, but that just seems to make them more persistent. All in all, it's enough to make him want to scream and tip over his desk by the time five o'clock arrives.

On the day the season actually kicks off, he files four refusals to participate if 'monetary needs are not met' neatly in the wastepaper bin, drinks from the wrong – and cold – cup of coffee three times and cocks up two sums that really shouldn't be cocked up.

It's a long day.

As always, he's ready to leave by four fifty-eight, cloak on and bag at the ready – but just as the big hand crawls over to the twelve, the clock disappears from sight, blocked by the sudden appearance of Pincus Dingle half a millimetre from James' desk.

"Ah, Potter," says Dingle, his pathetic attempt at a moustache fluttering gently, "keen to get home, are you?"

"Well, you know how it is – those six kids won't feel 'emselves," James shrugs. "More's the pity."

Dingle gives him a look. It is his I think that's a joke, but I don't find it funny and I'm not impressed look. He uses it often on James, which is odd, considering how funny James knows himself to be.

"Yes," says Dingle slowly, "yes … anyway, Potter, had to catch you before you left. We've a new administrative assistant joining us tomorrow – that Fawcett girl didn't last long at all, don't know what her problem was –"

"Stress, I heard," James yawns. "Can't think why."

"- so we've got a new one, and since I'm ever so busy, I'm delegating the task of telling her what's what to you." The smugness on Dingle's face is almost unbearable; James feels genuinely nauseated, but then he often does when Dingle is around. The fact that his aftershave seems to be made from old kippers doesn't help at all.

"I – look forward to it," he manages, which is good enough for Dingle, who disappears as suddenly as he appeared. James immediately gathers his things and races out of the office. Another day done.

-

"I'd be looking forward to that," Sirius says, a familiar gleam in his eyes quite at odds with the manner in which he's shovelling potatoes into his mouth. "Fresh meat, isn't it?"

James concedes that this is true. In fact, he hadn't thought about tomorrow's task at all until a few moments ago, when he relayed his day's events to his flatmates – but now he realises that it might actually be quite enjoyable. If the girl is fit.

"So you don't know this bird's name?" Sirius asks. "Or age? You'll probably know her. Maybe it'll be Daphne Miller, remember her?"

"Oh yeah," says James, grinning, "I remember Daphne Miller, all right."

"You'll be a lucky sod if it is her. I might have to –" a huge yawn punctuates Sirius' words – "drop by more often."

"Long night?" asks Remus drily. "I didn't hear you come in."

Remus is the third and final flatmate, and the third of James' best friends. The fourth, Peter, still lives with his mother, or Needy Peggy, as the rest of them know her as. Remus is the perfect flatmate, being tidy and organised as well as a great cook, not to mention his overwhelming gratitude for having a place to live. A werewolf, his choices in life boil down to joining the Dark side or having no rights whatsoever. Remus settles for the latter, drifting from poorly-paid job to poorly-paid job, having to leave as soon as his monthly absences are noticed. James and Sirius, refusing to let him pay rent, instead accept payment in the form of meals, which are a lot more useful (and delicious) than money.

"I didn't know you cared, Moony," says Sirius, smirking, "but since you ask, it was a long night, yeah. Didn't sleep at all, as a matter of fact." He drops his fork to slap his palm against James', then picks it up again and gestures first at Remus, then James. "You two ought to think about getting a bit of action yourselves, I'm having to do it for both of you."

"How kind of you," Remus says flatly, stabbing violently at a piece of chicken. "But I'm fine as I am, thanks. Growing fur every month is an ordeal enough without having to explain it to a girl."

"Fair enough." Now the fork is pointing solely in James' direction. "What about you, Prongs? You don't fancy a bit of lady love in your life?"

James very much fancies some lady love, but it's hard to come by when he's supposed to be keeping his head down.

"The problem these days," he explains, "is that you don't know who's on which side. I could be trying to get off with a girl in a pub one day and find out the next that she's actually pure evil, like – like Bellatrix."

Sirius puts his fork down again and pushes his plate away, looking sick. "Please don't mention Bellatrix while I'm eating."

-

There are roughly ten minutes between James' yelp of 'oh, cock' on waking and his arrival at the Ministry. As he sprints through the Atrium, he notes that this is a new record.

He skids across the threshold of the department at two minutes past nine, and is delighted to see that there are no new faces yet, giving him time to compose himself over a cup of coffee. He's just wondering if there are any Ginger Newts left when the door of the office opens and a girl walks in.

James looks at her carefully – and gives a mental cheer. Jackpot. This girl is amazing: pretty face, long, swishy hair – and, although he can't see a lot of her body (he hates robes) he can tell she's got a decent pair of -

"Potter!" Dingle hisses, sticking his head out of his office and looking pointedly at the new arrival.

Right. Showtime. James quickly smooths down his robes, runs his hands through his hair and strides purposefully towards the girl, who is hovering at the entrance, looking wary.

"Hi," he says, holding out his hand. "I'm James. I'm guessing that you're the new administrative assistant?"

She shakes his hand with a firm grip. "Yes – my name's Lily Evans."

"You're late, you know," he tells her, and then wonders what on Earth possessed him to say that – why would he say that?

"Am I?" she says, raising one eyebrow. "How odd. My old job began at –" she squints at the clock – "seven past nine."

Relief whooshes through him. "Really? What job was that?"

Her mouth twitches. "It was at a clock repair shop."

Now James has to stop himself from dancing on the spot; not only extremely attractive, but funny, too! And evidently not a stickler for rules … and she doesn't look like she'd be Dark, does she?

"Well, that probably wasn't half as exciting as working here, you'll be pleased to know," he informs her. "You get the most fun job, in fact. Let me show you to your desk …"

Lily's desk is just a few feet from his. He's beginning to wonder if he's somehow taken some of that luck potion they learned about in school, because his days never start off this well.

"Administrative assistant is just a fancy term for general dogsbody," he explains, as Lily examines the desk and surrounding work area. "On the surface your jobs will be keeping track of the system, noting any changes to the teams and making sure the files stay organised, but everyone'll also expect you to get them drinks and stuff and basically run any errands and follow any orders that they shout in your direction."

"Oh boy," Lily says, gazing around at the office – taking in, no doubt, the amount of grumpy old wizards, some of whom are eyeing up their new colleague with definite interest. "I know this must seem obvious, but doing all that is actually all I've ever dreamed of." She turns to James, looking expectant. "What do you do, then? Are you in your dream job?"

"I'm a junior budget analyst," James says monotonously. "I handle expenditure and any other monetary issues."

Lily looks impressed. "Well, that answers my question. How did we get so lucky?"

I have no idea, James thinks, as she flicks back her long red hair and smiles at him. I really have no idea.

-
And from that moment on, everything changes.

I shouldn't be posting a new fic. I really shouldn't be posting a new multi-chapter fic. But I know exactly where this one is going, and to be honest ... I get my A Level results tomorrow, the big ones, the ones that determine my future, and it would be really lovely to come home to some nice reviews ...