A/N: My first HP fic (that I've posted on here) so please read it and let me now what you think. It was inspired by 8 Ways To Say I Love You by R. Mckinley on thoughtcatalog, which you should definitely check out. Don't forget to leave me a review once you've finished!
obligatory disclaimer: I'm obviously not JKR, because if I were, James and Lily would be alive.
Three Little Words
i.
The first time he tells her that he loves her, he's piss drunk.
He's just turned seventeen, and the only real way to celebrate a birthday, he thinks, is to sneak down to the Hog's Head with his mates and take as many shots of firewhiskey as he possibly can before throwing up.
Firewhiskey, he decides as his mates walk him up to the common room, is a lot like Felix Felicis. Liquid courage. Tomorrow morning, as he throws up in the boy's bath, he'll decide that it's the devil's drink, but for now, he feels invincible.
He certainly feels like it's his lucky day when his friends haul him into the common room, and she's sitting on the couch studying her Transfiguration textbook. He's really, really drunk, but even in his inebriated state, he admires her. Perhaps even more so.
She stands when she hears them clamor into the common room, and even though it's rather (a lot) blurry to him, he doesn't have to see her clearly to realize that she's rolling her eyes at them. She does that a lot.
The fire is roaring behind her, and his head lolls onto Moony's shoulder as he stares at her. The flames behind her have created an almost ethereal effect; it looks very much like she has a corona of light surrounding her red head. Or maybe things are just blurring together. At this point, he's not really sure.
He's only really certain of one thing: she is beautiful.
And he maybe, probably loves her.
So when she crosses her arms over her chest (he may have stared a second too long at this part of her body, but thankfully he can use his drunkenness as an excuse), and he thinks again that she's really, really beautiful, he does something really, really stupid.
"I think…I…think I maybe love you, Evansh," he slurs out. The words are slow, and his voice is harsh as he tries to properly get out the words, and he's not even sure if he's even coherent at this point.
He sort of hears Sirius beside him, drunk but not quite as drunk, telling him that it's time for him to go bed. She stares at him, but he can't quite make out her expression, as his mates pull him up the staircase.
When he wakes up the next morning with a pounding heading and a Charms class at nine in the morning, he doesn't remember what he said.
But she does.
ii.
They're friends now. Sort of.
She's the Head Girl to his Head Boy, and they work together more closely than they've ever done anything before. He thinks she likes him, because sometimes she smiles at his jokes, and now she calls him by his first name. So he thinks (hopes) that she likes him, even only as a friend.
Because he knows he loves her.
It's one thing to love someone from afar, because that's really more of a physical attraction, he decides. But now he knows her, and he loves her, and every day it's getting harder for him not to tell her. There are times when they're working together, when she'll run her hands through her hair and he just gets this overwhelming urge to spit out those three little words, but thankfully, he always finds in it himself to hold back. Certainly, she'd hex his tongue from his mouth if he ever confessed the inner workings of his mind.
She's standing before him now, describing an encounter she'd had with a passionate third year couple that she'd caught snogging in one of the broom closets. He wonders what it would be like to snog her in a broom closet and thinks about how beautiful she is when she gets excited about something and a flush spreads across her cheeks.
He'd love to cause that flush himself.
"They were so shocked, James," she says, and she laughs, and it's beautiful. It's the kind of sound that causes angels to get their wings in Heaven. He wishes that he could make her laugh like that. "Oh, I almost felt bad for them, but rules are rules…"
"I love you."
He realizes what he's done a second too late, and his look of admiration for her quickly turns into a look of horror for himself.
She freezes.
He freezes.
Time freezes.
"In—in that shirt," he stutters out. "I love you in that shirt. It's…you look rather fetching, Evans."
"…thanks?"
He looks at her shirt, and she does look good in it, but it's a simple Hogwarts button-up that every student wears. He swallows and looks away and tries to ignore the way she's staring at him.
iii.
It's rather exhausting loving someone and pretending that you don't.
He's not good with words—at least not those that deal with feelings. He can talk for hours about nothing, but when it comes to actually discussing something consequential, he can't do it.
But he has to do something, because it's killing him inside.
Okay, so loving her isn't exactly a flesh eating disease that's slowly killing him, but that's what he imagines such a thing to feel like.
His friends don't understand and probably won't ever understand, so he can't talk to them. He can't talk to her, either, because the shock of it just might kill her. He's made that mistake before.
So he writes it down.
Dear Lily…
And the words come spilling out. Everything he's ever been too afraid or unwilling to say glides easily across the parchment, the ink sinking into the paper permanently. He tells her that he loves her laugh and he loves her hair and he loves her mind and that he loves her. He tells her that she's beautiful when she's angry and she's beautiful when she's sad and she's absolutely stunning when she's happy. He tells her that when she smiles at him and calls him by his first name he feels as though he could face a Hungarian Horntail wandless. He tells her everything he'd never dream of telling her in person.
When he's finished, he folds it up and glances across the common room. She's helping her friend Mary Macdonald with some Potions work, and her textbook is spread open between them. Mary sighs and says something to her, and she agrees, and soon they're leaving to go up to their dorms.
She leaves her textbook wide open, waiting for him.
He walks over quickly, before he can tell himself that this is a very bad idea, slips the folded parchment into the crease of the binding, and returns to his spot.
It's only as she comes back down the stairs with Mary that he realizes what a mistake he made.
He stumbles over to her book, and they're both staring at him with curious eyes, and pulls the letter from where he'd placed it. Thankfully, she doesn't see that. When she returns to her previous spot, she asks him what he was doing. He tells her he just wanted to see what she was studying.
She doesn't believe him, but she lets it go.
iv.
She's kissing him. She does that a lot lately.
He's not exactly sure why or how things have changed between them, but he's not complaining. She tastes sweet, like Mice Pops, and kissing her is like nothing else he's ever experienced.
Everything falls away when she places her lips on his. He forgets about his classes, he forgets that every full moon he runs around with a werewolf, he forgets that his dad is sick and getting worse every day. He forgets that there's a war brewing against people like her. He forgets it all, and there's nothing left in its place except pure bliss.
And desire.
He loves the way she kisses him: soft at first, before growing frisky and nipping at his bottom lip. He could kiss her forever, and he hopes she lets him, because he loves her.
She bites his lip lightly and then giggles, pulling away from him. His eyes remain closed so he can drink in the feeling of sitting there with her body on top of his. He sighs.
His lips don't move as he says, "I love you."
His voice is so quiet, and it's quickly carried off by his breath. It hangs there in the air, and he doesn't know if she heard it, but part of him thinks that she did. When he opens his eyes, she's staring at him with (what he thinks to be) an awed look on her face.
She's never looked at him like that before.
v.
He loves it when his mates leave and he has the dorm all to himself.
Rather, all to himself and to her.
The bed's not really big enough for the two of them, but they make it work. He doesn't mind the small space that they're confined to, because he can press his body against hers and he can feel her hair against his skin, her breath on his neck.
Lately, she's started falling asleep in his bed. The pretense between them is gone, especially now that he knows every inch, every pocket, every curve of her body, and she's memorized his ticklish spots and the lines of his scars.
He doesn't fall asleep, even when she does. Sometimes (most of the time) he can't believe that this is actually his life, that's she's sleeping in his bed with him. He counts her breaths and watches her chest rise and fall beside his.
He loves her. It grows more every day. He's not quite sure how she manages it, but he's never stopped falling for her.
Now, her breaths are even and long, and he's sure she's asleep. She's so close that he can smell her hair; it's such an overwhelming sensation.
"I love you," he whispers.
She begins to move, and he closes his eyes. Maybe, when she looks over at him, she'll think he was just talking in his sleep again.
vi.
It happens when he's mucking around on the seventh floor with Sirius. When he should have been with her.
Dark Magic has been roaming the halls, its appearance growing more and more noticeable every week. It's not just Hogwarts where this increase has been felt—it's everywhere, from Wizarding cities to Muggle villages. It's part of a war that he doesn't really understand yet, a war primarily targeting his girlfriend, and he simply cannot wrap his head around it.
He has to, though, when a frantic Peter tells him that she's in the Hospital Wing.
Until that moment, he never really knew fear. He feared getting sorted into anything other than Gryffindor…he feared losing the Quidditch cup…he feared what his father would say when he received a bad mark.
But nothing can compare to knowing that she's been hurt, and knowing that he wasn't there to do anything about it.
That's when the reality sets in. This war is real, and it's reached Hogwarts, and she's the one who pays the price for it. She's never done anything wrong, ever, and yet she's the one that such a war affects the most.
And he could lose her because of it.
He's angry at first. He wants to find the prick that cursed her with Dark Magic and kill him. He's never been so angry before in his life—he's murderous, and at this point he might no even be able to see clearly.
His mates are there to calm him down, to talk sense into him. How would it help her if he landed himself in Azkaban?
It wouldn't.
But the sight of her, swollen from multiple Stinging Jinxes, turns his stomach. She's so strong, so beautiful, but now she looks utterly defeated.
It's only then that he realizes he isn't angry (well, maybe a little). He's fucking terrified.
He doesn't want to live in a world without her.
He rushes to her side, and for the first time, he doesn't hold back.
"I love you," he tells her, just as a tear slips down her swollen cheek. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
vii.
It's Valentine's Day, and they've been together for nearly three months. He wants to do something special for her—he wants to show her that she's special.
He sneaks out to Hogsmeade and buys a bouquet of roses. Cheesy and clichéd, yes, but he enchants them so that they don't wilt and die; instead, they'll stay bright and red for as long as she does.
He momentarily thinks about buying her lilies, too, but then remembers that she'd probably hate them.
He goes to Honeydukes and buys all of her favorite sweets, filling a box with Chocolate Cauldrons, Fizzing Whizzbees, Nougat Chunks, and Sugared Butterfly Wings. Just as he's about to pay, he notices some Mice Pops hung by the register.
He buys them without a second thought.
When he presents his gifts to her she's a little bit (a lot) shocked. But she's happy. She's been smiling less and less lately, after the incident, and it seems that he's the only one who can coax a smile from her lips.
She loves him for it.
"Sweets for my sweet," he says, bowing with flourish, and it's the most ridiculous gesture that it warms her heart. He's cheesy and silly and completely mad, but he makes her laugh, and she loves him for it.
He smiles, happy to make her happy, and she understands everything he doesn't say.
This is his way of telling her that he loves her, that he'll always be there for her, without actually saying the words aloud.
viii.
She rolls her eyes at him.
He looks absurd. His glasses are crooked and his hair is a mess (like always) and he's got flour on his nose and his right cheek and his chin. She's trying to bake him a birthday cake, but failing miserably because he keeps distracting her, making her laugh and losing concentration, and the git just won't keep his bloody hands out of the flour.
It's the first time she's ever really cooked for him. Spoiled brat that he is, he's absolutely clueless when it comes to the kitchen. She's determined to teach him how to be self sufficient, though.
After she bakes him a birthday cake.
She teases him: how can he be nineteen and not have a clue what to do in the kitchen? He makes a crack about house-elves and she glares at him, but she's smiling.
They've been living together for almost two weeks, and it's perfect.
There's a ring on her finger, too, one that she refuses to take off even when she's baking, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
In the end, the cake is flat and she's clearly forgotten an ingredient (or two), and he audibly questions what it was exactly that she was trying to teach him. She swats his chest with her gloved hand and scrunches up her nose. He manages to rub some flour onto her forehead, and before she can back away, he steals a kiss.
He's good at doing that.
"I love you," he tells her, even though he's said it a million times before. He'll never stop saying it, not until he dies, because he loves the way it sounds rolling off his lips and he loves the way it makes her blush and he loves the way she looks at him when he says it.
"I love you, too, you nut," she replies, and he laughs, kissing her again.
Outside of their tiny flat, there's a war going on, and their friends are dying and no one is safe. But none of it worries him as he wraps his flour-covered arms around her small frame, because he is James, and she is Lily, and she loves him back.