#anniebrad4d

  He had been the one to suggest they have their date there. He’d planned it all out—she was tutoring that morning, and he had practice, so they’d meet there instead of walking together. He’d get there first and be sitting across from the door, two foaming butterbeers in front of him, a lopsided smile on his face, when she came in. He’d have brought the Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder’s Map and kept them in his bag until they finished their butterbeers, and then he would have showed her the secrets about Hogsmeade she’d never known, ending with taking the Honeydukes passage back to the castle. And she’d be charmed and she’d be awed and she’d be ecstatic for the next date.

  Unfortunately, Sirius had known of said plan and had decided to hide the map just to mess with him, and James had torn apart their dormitory before facing the sad truth that he’d simply have to pummel Padfoot another time. He had looked at the clock, realized he was three minutes away from being late—though not late yet!—and had sprinted off down the stairs.

  When he finally arrived, his cheeks flushed from sprinting through the biting cold, Lily had taken what should have been his place opposite the door with two butterbeers in front of her; what was more, she was wearing the smug smile that he was supposed to have worn.

  “You’re late, Potter.”

  And damn, she was right. But to admit it was to admit defeat.

  “Don’t mock me, Evans, I am not late. You were simply overeager. Clearly.” He sat down opposite her, trying to swallow the heaving gasps for air. He couldn’t possibly be charming when he didn’t have any breath.

  “See, when I think of the term overeager, especially when used to describe one of us or the other, I can only think of a twelve-year-old you writing ‘Go out with me Evans’ in your pudding and then sliding it over to me.”

  “You can’t deny that that was smooth at the time. You’ve simply been exposed to my more impressive attempts to woo you lately. Of course the smooth maneuvers of a twelve-year-old are now somewhat outdated.” The room smelled like a fire, like a sweet warm. It hinted at melted caramel.

  “Sirius seemed to think my response then was pretty smooth too.”

  “Your levitating the bowl of pudding to flip on my hair was not at all smooth. It was predictable and immature, Miss Evans,” he chastised her. She laughed and took a sip of her butterbeer; it left a foamy mustache on her upper lip. He decided not to tell her.

  “Don’t tell me that wasn’t smooth for a twelve-year-old Lily! I was breaking the rules! I was using magic outside of class! All for the sake of making you look like the prat you were!”

  He ruffled his hair and shrugged. “Who won at the end of it, Evans? Did you go out with me or didn’t you?”

  Scarlet flooded her cheeks and he could tell she was trying hard not to smile. He grinned and took a drink from his butterbeer, clearly having triumphed even after arriving so late.

  “You’ve got me there. But who’s to say your parents aren’t paying me to date you?”

  “More likely to be a friend, to be honest. Probably Remus. Sirius wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Fine. Who’s to say Remus isn’t paying me right now? Maybe I get a bonus if I kiss you once this date is over.” She was leaning forward, her chin resting on interlaced fingers. He found himself leaning forward, too.

  “Who’s to say he’s not paying you, you ask? That’s you, obviously. You didn’t know Remus would be the one most likely to pay you.”

  She raised her eyebrows and laughed a little before leaning back and taking another drink of butterbeer. Clearly, he’d won that one, too.

  She was wearing a deep blue jumper. Somehow he’d been expecting her to wear emerald—she usually liked to when she wasn’t wearing robes, and it always brought out her eyes—but the blue seemed fresh. It was like she knew he’d thought of her as emerald for years, glittering and unattainable, but now, she was cerulean, calm and collected, but still willing to tip pudding on his head if need be. He realized, now, that she wasn’t one color or the other or even both; she was every hue, from the fiery sparks of independence to the richest tones of poise.

  They argued some more over the remaining butterbeer, both of them with shining eyes, until the light outside began to fade. He decided to save the secrets for the next date—he wanted it to be all as planned, so that he wouldn’t have to show her the Cloak without the map. Fluffy snowflakes fell from a decidedly grey sky as they laced their fingers together and left the warmth of the Three Broomsticks and headed back to the castle, leaving tracks in the already-ankle-deep snow.

  Her scarf was wrapped over the lower half of her face, so he almost couldn’t hear her when, just outside of Hogsmeade, she said, “I’ve got a problem.”

  He turned and looked down at her. Her eyes were brighter than usual, or maybe they were a different kind of bright. He couldn’t tell.

  “Have you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  “That I’d really like to kiss you right now.”

  His breath caught in his throat.

  “That is possibly the least problematic circumstance I could ever imagine.”