/

lily hits a snag in the article she's writing. she takes a pause, annoyed, fingers hovering over her laptop, which is for once actually propped on her lap. she and remus sit on the concrete steps outside the journ building, a small tower of their combined books and notebooks between them. she glares at the blinking cursor for a few more seconds, gives up (at least for the moment), and then looks around. students fill hogwarts's biggest courtyard, milling around in clusters or else drifting between lectures — engineering kids with their backpacks slung only on one shoulder, art majors with cigarettes held in charcoal-stained hands. someone is practicing a violin solo somewhere close, but lily can't see them.

remus is busy with his camera. she watches as his thumb flicks through the photos he took earlier, at a protest downtown. she leans over to look, tucking her chin into her scarf. the sun is almost setting. it's been a long, cold day.

"i like that one," she says, pointing at the photo he's looking at: a young boy perched on a man's shoulders with his fist in the air, his mouth open in a yell. in front of them, a line of riot shields catch sunlight. "that's really cool."

"this one's better," he says, going two or three photos back. this time, a woman, back to the camera, standing fearlessly in front of a spread-out police line, chin lifted, dress billowing in the wind. she's holding up a sign high above her head (the content of which not visible from their vantage point), while an oncoming crowd surges a few steps behind her.

"wow, yeah," agrees lily. she looks back up at him. "you're really cool. do you wanna go out for coffee sometime?"

remus snorts. "one, sorry, you're not my type. two, i'm not your type. everyone knows who your type is."

lily opens her mouth to protest, but he holds up a finger and says, "and three — are you procrastinating?"

she makes a face. "i took a two-second break, lupin, geez."

he chuckles. gestures at her screen. "need help?"

with a sigh, she trades him her laptop for his camera.

she turns the camera off and carefully puts it down between them, cushioning it with her tote bag, while he starts reviewing what she has so far. when she takes out her phone, he raises a judgmental eyebrow, so she says, "i haven't checked it all day. i deserve some brainrot time."

he just shrugs, then scrolls to the top of lily's article and resumes reading.

lily lets him do his thing. it's a piece on housing displacement (the same thing the earlier protest was about) due tomorrow morning, and she's behind because she spent a good chunk of last night patching up a nasty burn on her thigh and washing dried blood out of her favorite top in the dorm sink. like, she doesn't expect the death eaters to give her a break during midterm season, but is it so much to ask for them not to freakin' attack a different part of the city every day?

her phone buzzes. a notification slides down her screen from an account she follows that posts live updates on happenings in the city. her stomach immediately drops — it's not like the account exclusively posts bad stuff, but there has definitely been a drought on good news recently, so this could only mean —

no. it doesn't have to mean anything. she hopes for the best as she clicks on it.

it's a video. a shaky, frantic blur of smoke and breaking glass and screaming people. damn it. lily recognizes it at once. it's the charity gala on the other side of the city. four seconds in, a chandelier falls off the ceiling on the screen.

the caption reads: attack happening right now downtown what the hell is going on???

she's already gathering her things before the ten-second video is done. she puts the phone down, the video still playing on a loop, and remus glances at it with a frown.

"i have to go," she tells him. remus looks up at her and nods. when their eyes meet —

look, lily doesn't know for sure, but she's always suspected that remus knows. about her. about the whole — superhero thing. it's by the way he looks at her now, but also the way he just lets her go no questions asked every time this happens. and it has been happening a lot lately. honestly, she's stopped coming up with excuses when it's just him now, she just says she has to go and it suffices. just yesterday he snapped at gilda cloverwood when she questioned lily having to leave abruptly. you wouldn't need her if you did your part, cloverwood. we already gave you the easiest section of the paper. sit down, will you?

he quietly closes the laptop now — her laptop — holds it up and smiles. "i'll keep this for now for you." god fucking bless him.

"thank you. i'll see you later, okay?"

bag slung over her shoulder, phone and notebooks retrieved, she's on her feet and already stepping away when remus calls, "hey, lil!"

"yeah?"

"be careful."

yep. he definitely knows. "i will." she'll talk to him later. this time, she will, swear. besides, she's not the only one with a secret. she knows his, too. "you, too."

/

behind her, after three minutes or so, remus neatly packs his books and lily's laptop — along with the notebooks she didn’t get to grab in her haste — into his backpack. then, taking the stairs two steps at a time, he heads for his dorm building at a jog. when he reaches the lockers, he hurriedly opens his and stuffs all of their things inside.

he keeps his camera on him. swaps his backpack for a smaller, lighter, already packed sling bag. then he reaches deep into the cluttered depths of the shelf — past a crumpled hoodie, pretty sure it's james's, and a stack of old film rolls — and pulls out a set of keys.

only now does he pause.

okay. so. so. there’s just no way he’s getting to the gala as fast as lily. not on foot. and there’s no time to uber. besides, he checked his bank balance just this morning and he knows he doesn’t have enough money left this week for that anyway.

sirius’s motorbike, on the other hand...

it will definitely be parked at the gryffin. and it will definitely get him there in time.

he moves again. he’ll just — buy sirius coffee later. or lunch or something.

he adjusts the stuff around his neck, slams the locker close, then he bolts out of there to sirius and james’s building.

/

the galas are always such energy-draining activities before they even start, but you'll never hear james say that.

the room glows, almost uncomfortably so, too much reflective crystal and glass. a string quartet plays somewhere to his left, and waiters balancing trays of champagne move expertly through the crowd. it's a gathering (yet again) of the city's wealthiest. the city's supposed benevolent. james doubts that part, but whatever. it's not his favorite thing, honestly, but it's — familiar. he's gone to these things since he was a kid. and the proceeds matter. always. this one in particular will go to long-term housing initiatives and shelter solution programs across the city. he just wonders if there's a better, cheaper, less boring way to do it. like, he's standing under a chandelier that could probably fund a small village, what are they doing here, you know? doesn't anyone else think that's ridiculous? maybe he should tell his mum to include the chandelier in tonight's auction, too...

he schools his musings and adjusts his posture — shoulders back, chin up, expression idle but constantly warm. his parents are here, too. and sirius, who, as far as james has seen, has downed at least two full glasses of champagne before the event has even officially started. he scans the hall. his mum is speaking to a donor. his dad is handling the press. which leaves james and sirius free. or, at least, as free as they ever are at things like this.

speak of the devil — sirius approaches him, immaculate in black. "skeeter's here," he mutters, once at james's side and close enough for no one else to hear.

"you don't say," james says under his breath, nodding and smiling at some old woman who walks by them. "should we put a beetle in her hair?"

"we've already done that."

"it was a lizard last time."

"still. thing in the hair — done."

"should we put a beetle in her drink?"

sirius tilts his head. "hmm. what about we switch her name card every five minutes?"

james grins. "marry me?"

sirius rolls his eyes. "one, don't joke about that, i'd say yes. two, everyone knows who you really want to procreate with."

james laughs, opens his mouth to respond —

i was gonna say which one because i just posted two but i have five active wip's rn and it would not be wise to add any more :P

He sets the paperbag down on her desk, and she startles, nearly knocking over a tall stack of folders by her keyboard.

Most of the office lights are off now. A faint glow from the pantry at the end of the hall spills weakly over the south hood of the department, but other than that it's just her desk lamp and her monitor casting diluted light over her work. The floor is quiet. Eerie, almost. Like the sound of her click-clacking on the keys echoes through the entire building.

She didn't expect anyone else to still be here. But here James is, tie undone, top button open, hair a mess — though that last one's true at any hour of the day. Glasses slightly askew, expensiveass watch catching light as he pulls another chair over and drops into it, already flipping his laptop open.

"What are you doing here?" asks Lily.

meanwhile Lily in the Hunger Games fic..........

Right from the start — that first time, on her second week here, when Marlene told her about the other smoking area, the one only a few know about — Lily has been — hm. Mesmerized, you could say. By the way James smokes.

She can't pinpoint it exactly, what it is about him. It's not like he holds his cigarette differently from all the other smokers she knows, not like he lights it different. Maybe it's his hands. Maybe it's his mouth. Maybe it's the way the setting sun glints off his specs, or the way he laughs when she says something particularly scathing about that day's reports. The way he tips his head back and looks up at the sky as he exhales, the smoke curling from his lips and disappearing into the ether, her thoughts likewise disappearing with it, as she stares, rather unabashedly, at the column of his throat, the line of his jaw. The slight dip at his waist when natural light hits him just so, turning the fabric of his shirt faintly translucent. Maybe it's his perpetually loosened tie.

"Do you ever put that on right?" she asks him now, gesturing at the thing, if only to distract herself from the now all too familiar warmth that gathers in her chest and starts spreading all over when they're this close. From the ridiculous urge to run her hand through his hair or do something just as incredibly stupid.

Instead of answering, he just gives her this look, that infuriatingly smug one that comes naturally to people who grew up in giant houses with grand staircases and rooms for housekeepers. Then he steps into her space, cocks his head to the side, and says, "Would you be so kind and fix it for me?"

She'd be so kind and do all sorts of things to him, if he'd let her, is what she thinks. Still, she rolls her eyes and indulges him. (Or maybe she's indulging herself.) He takes her cigarette from her hand to free her fingers for the task, and she realises, not for the first time, how often they do this — move around each other like a unit, seamless and wordless. She tightens the knot a little too much, for show. He just chuckles and says, hey now, don't be mean, his voice low and amused as he looks down at her just as openly as she's been looking at him.

Sometimes, in moments like this, she really thinks she ought to kiss him. Ought to pull him down by his goddamn tie and crash her mouth against his. More importantly, it's in moments like this that she's certain he feels the same way.

There have been many moments like this since that first time. It's been two months, ish. Oddly enough, no one's acted on it yet.

She steps back and reaches for her cigarette again; he hands it to her without comment. He watches as she brings it back to her lips, drawing in slowly, the tip flaringg bright before she exhales. His gaze keeps resting dangerously on her mouth. She wonders how long they can keep this whole bit up before ending up in the copy room with their clothes on the floor and their hands all over each other.

Not anytime soon, apparently. James just eventually looks away with a thoughtful expression, so she does too, and they fall into a comfortable silence after. Which is just as nice, surprisingly. God, what is it about him?

She registers then that it's Friday, and feels disappointed at the realization that she won't see him for two days. (They haven't exchanged numbers. Somehow, she hasn't felt any inclination at all to contact him via his work e-mail, and it's been a relief to find, at least so far, that he's not the type to resort to that either.)

"Do you want to get matcha with me this weekend?" he asks, just as they're getting ready to head back inside.

She laughs, more because she was caught off guard — by the question, and also matcha, what — than anything. "Matcha?"

"I don't drink coffee," he says with a shrug. "And my friend owns a place. It's good, I promise. I mean, they have coffee too, if you want, but." He just lets it end there.

She studies him for a second, amused. "You're kind of a nerd, did you know that?"

He smiles, unbothered. "Takes one to know one. So — yes?"

She nods. "Sure, yeah." (Thinks — maybe it won't be the copy room then.)