#jilyweek

“Ifthey did, it wouldn’t be as impressive as this one.”

“You’retalking to a guy who self-taught his way to animagi status aged fifteen. Alittle construction is hardly going to be a challenge, now, is it?”

“Iguess. Am I allowed in?”

“Duh.”She made her way across the room, but was stopped from entering by his holdinga pillow across the curtained entrance. “No shoes allowed in this fort. Readthe sign.”

“Whatsign?” she asked, but no sooner was the question out of her mouth than one hadappeared, pinned to the left hand curtain, next to an ornate bell. James and Lily’s fort. No shoes allowed! Insmaller letters, underneath that, it said Orknickers either. Then, in even smaller letters: please ring for attention. You won’t get it.

Sheobediently kicked off the white satin heels she’d been wearing all day—thankMerlin for cushioning charms—throwing them next to James’s shoes, tie, jacketand trousers, all of which littered the small amount of floor space that wasn’ttaken up by the fort. Her hands reached for the hem of her dress, beginning tolift that, too, but it had barely reached her ankles when James reached out ahand to stop her.

“I’lldo that,” he said, as she looked down at him questioningly. “Later.” Shesmirked, bent down and crawled inside his construction, letting out a gasp assoon as her head was through the opening in the curtains. It seemed much largerinside—whether because he had magically enhanced the space, or because of theway the hangings from the four-poster bed had been artfully arranged around themattress to ensure maximum draping—but it wasn’t just that that had taken herbreath away. He’d charmed the inside to be lit by the glow of a thousandmagically created fireflies, and the canopy had been spelled to look like theenchanted ceiling at Hogwarts, showing a view of the night sky that was perhapsonly lacking in accuracy because of the sheer number of shooting stars thatseemed to be crisscrossing it.

“Notbad, Potter,” she said, and it was his turn to smirk.

Ittook her a little while to get comfortable: not only did she have to negotiateall the cushions and throws he’d brought in, but her wedding dress (or rather,her grandmother’s wedding dress, which, with a few magically supplied tweaks,had seen three generations of women get married in it) was, although beautifuland very comfortable, not really the sort of clothing made for crawling. Thatdid give her eyes time to adjust to the dim light, however. Once she hadsettled, she was able to properly look around and take in the sight of Jameswearing nothing but his boxers, a shirt unbuttoned to the top of his chest,sleeves rolled up, and—

“JamesPotter. Take your fucking socks off.” Chagrined, he did so. “That’s better,”she sniffed primly. “No socks. Youknow the rule.”

“Ido love it when you use your Head Girl voice. Do it again, please.”

“That’sMrs Head Girl to you,” she said,obliging.

“Iknow,” he grinned. “Want to toast to it?” He rummaged around in the blanket fora moment before drawing out a magically chilled bottle of champagne. “No goodhaving a fort if it’s not well stocked,” he added, twisting the wire holdingits cork in place. “That’s why people used to lose all those sieges, back inhistorical times. Not well enough provided for.”

“Isthat what History of Magic was all about? I knew I should’ve paid attention.”

“Notyour fault you were distracted by the hot guy sitting two desks in front ofyou,” he shrugged, popping the cork out of the bottle. The sudden noise madeher shriek, then shriek again, in a different way when it appeared most of theliquid was pouring down the side of the bottle.

“Quick,get a glass!” she cried, but he ignored her, taking a swig directly from thebottle itself. He passed it over to her, and she did the same. It was somehowsharper and lighter than any champagne she’d drunk before—not that she’d hadmuch experience with the stuff, growing up in Cokeworth—and it made her gasp,then giggle. The liquid that had poured over the top when James uncorked thebottle ran down over her fingers, and, quick as a flash, he lifted his lips toher hands, kissing it off.

Thatmade her gasp, too, but in a different way.

Hedrew back slightly, holding her left hand in both of his, and staring at theshiny new gold band on her third finger. “Mrs Potter,” he said, lazily liftinghis gaze until his eyes met hers. She shivered.

“Ilike that,” she said—and that wasunexpected. Mrs Potter was how she’dalways referred to his mother, although she had been nothing but lovely to Lilyfrom their first meeting, and always insisted that she call her Euphemia. Lilyhad never been able to do this, until they’d announced their engagement, andMrs Potter said she should call her Mum now. Then she’d become Euphemia. ‘MrsPotter’ was a name with history. Mrs Potter was—is—James’s mother. Mrs Pottersounds like the name of an old married woman who attends WI meetings and makesjam and thinks every crisis can be solved with a cup of tea. That sort of lifesounds quite nice, though, and Lily likes to think that when she’s old and greyand no longer has to be an underground freedom fighter with a resistanceorganisation aimed at defeating people who think that she should be killedbecause of her blood status.

MrsPotter might be the sort of name she can grow into, but it certainly isn’t evergoing to be something that’s sexy. Orit shouldn’t be. Trouble was, James was able to make most things seem sexy.Particularly when they shouldn’t.

Hegrinned back at her. “I like it, too.” She handed him back the champagne,expecting him to drink from it again, but instead he just kissed her lipsquickly, placing the bottle somewhere well behind them. “I like you.”

Sheshifted, wriggling closer to him but turning her head away at the same time. Shewanted to kiss him again, but not just yet. First, she wanted to sit in a fort madeof blankets and curtains with her husband on their wedding night, and justrevel in how strange it was that all those words should be in a sentencetogether. How strange that they should describe her life as it was now.

“You’realright, I suppose,” she said, and felt his snort of laughter against her neck.

“Yeah,you’ll do,” he agreed.

“Ina pinch.”

“IfI have to.

“Justto pass the time.”

“Untilsomething better comes along.” She turned to him, mock-outraged, but he justgrinned again. “Like building a fort! Muchmore fun than getting married. No other buggers here, for one thing.”

“Iknow you’re kidding,” she began.

“Youknow nothing,” he interrupted, but she ignored this.

“Iknow you’re kidding, but I do think that, if I was given a Time Turner and theopportunity to redo the whole day, I would choose to do the entire thing in afort. This fort.” She glanced up at the pattern of stars on the curtains andsheets that surrounded them, then over at his face, illuminated by their light,expression serious. “Wedding, marriage, party—it’s all good,” she said. “Butthis is the best bit.”

“Bettereven than the cheese and pineapple sticks at the reception?” he asked, grinning.

Shelaughed. “Better than those. Better than this ring, and my family-heirloomwedding dress. Better than all our friends and family being there today. Even better than Sirius’s speech!”

“Itwas a good one,” he agreed.

“Ihad,” she breathed, pressing herself against his side and marvelling, for thethousandth time, how well they seem to fit together, “the most perfect day. Butthis is the most perfect ending to the most perfect day. Really.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,”she nodded, then spoiled any sentiment behind her words by yawning hugely. Shestarted to apologise, but was cut off midway through by James’s own yawn. Shegiggled.

“Iguess it’s been a big day,” he said gravely. “Tires you out, yeah?”

“S’pose,”she said, yawning again. “Glad it’s ending in a fort, though.”

“Gettingmarried at eighteen’s a big thing, don’t you know. Marriage means you’re an adult,” James replied, and they sharedan eyeroll. This, of course, is something they’d been told hundreds of times,as if they didn’t already know it. As if the reasons for them getting marriedweren’t both much bigger than the two of them, and also about nothing more thanhow much they loved each other. “I thought it was worth checking out if I wasstill capable of doing something childish or not.”

“Shamethose who thought you weren’t aren’t here to see the proof,” she said drowsily.

“Isit really?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow at her.

Lilyreconsidered for a millisecond. “No.”

“No. No, this does not get to end like this,” his blood is boiling in his veins, popping and moving, just waiting to spill over the surface. How dare she try to shove him aside, as if this never meant anything at all. How dare she tell him that love isn’t enough, when it is the only thing that holds him together. The only thing running through his veins, pushing him forward, keeping him going. How dare she tell him that love is not enough to save the world? “You don’t get to push me away because you’re afraid. What are you so scared of?” 

His voice rings with vindictiveness, but also with the pain of someone who has lost sight of everything that ever mattered. He feels like he’s seven again, yelling at his mother because she walked through the door alone, because she would never walk through the door with his father again. Please, Lily, just help me understand.

She finally looks up at this, her green eyes flashing with pain and valiance and everything that he has ever feared he would see in her eyes. Her look could cut glass. 

He almost falls to his knees.

“You want to know what I’m afraid of? Besides the darkness outside my window? Besides the people right outside these grounds, their wands pointed at me? Besides my oblivious parents, sitting at home, not knowing that they’re targets too? You really want to know what terrifies me the most?” Her voice drops to a whisper, stinging through the darkness of the head common room that grows and grows between them. The words wriggle into his skin and his bones, electrifying his every tendon. 

“I am afraid for you! I am terrified that you will get hurt or worse because of me. You almost died today, for me. I will not let that happen,” she’s walking towards him now, her fingers curling into fists at her sides, her hands shaking despite her efforts to stop it. James just stands there, hoping and wishing that he could freeze time. Go back to a month ago, before it became apparent to him that he would die for her. Go back to seven years ago when they were innocent and death had never grazed their little hands. “This is not your fight. This is not your war. I am the one they want gone. And so I will be the one to fight. And if I need to let you go to keep you safe, I will. Just please James, let me let you go.”

He almost laughs. A cold calm sweeps over him. It sends shivers through his bones, but he does not feel it. There is a ringing in his ears. All there is is him and her and his disgustingly valiant will to fight.

 “You think I’m only doing this for you? Because I’m not. I’m doing this for every first year that has nightmares because one of their parents has been murdered. I’m doing this for Sirius, who can’t go home without being attacked because he had the nerve to fucking care about people. I’m doing this for my parents, who with their dying breaths told me to fight. I love you, Lily. I do. But if you think for a second that this is only about you, then you need to check yourself. Because I will be fighting. No matter if we’re together or not.”

They’re close enough to touch now, his speech somehow brining him closer to her. Her mouth is set in a firm line, but he can see her lip shaking, as if trying to contain words or sobs or screams or something else that they have become all too familiar with in the past few weeks. For a second it looks like she might kiss him, forget this fight ever happened. 

She takes a step back. He tries to ignore the stab of pain he feels in his heart. Because despite this not being all about her, he doesn’t know if he can go on without her. He thinks that if she leaves this room right now, he may crumble to the floor, a thousand pieces that used to be a person. 

“I know this isn’t all about me,” her voice is softer now, and there are silent tears that grace her cheeks. She looks so beautiful, like one of the goddesses his mother used to tell him stores about, powerful and beautiful and bringing destruction through love. “But that doesn’t change anything. Because being with me only makes you more of a target. And if I can do anything to keep you even a little bit safer than you are now, I’ll do it. And so I’m ending this.”

His hands are shaking. He looks down. So are hers. He can feel tears slipping down his cheeks, but he makes no move to stop them. He doesn’t care if he cries. Doesn’t care if he cracks and crumbles right here in front of her. Maybe then she’ll understand. Maybe then she’ll know that he can’t do this without her. That even now it feels like the sky is breaking around him, turning his skin to dust. 

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he croaks out. Damn his voice for not being stronger. Damn his heart for not being wiser. “We’re so much stronger together. And hell, I don’t care about safety. I care about you. I would rather spend one day with you than years with anyone else. You know that right? Lily, you have to know that.”

“I’m sorry,” her voice cracks, and the sky falls. “I just can’t do it. I could never live with myself if I was even a tiny part of the reason something happened to you.”

He opens his mouth, but she cuts him off. “Stop James. Just stop. There’s nothing you can say.”

“I love you,” the words are a prayer that isn’t answered.

Then she’s running towards him, throwing her arms around his neck. Her lips meet his in one final kiss. Their hot tears mix together, until they are both covered in the other’s sadness. The kiss is a frenzy, passionate and longing, and oh it is not enough. 

“I love you too,” the words muffle against his lips, broken and shattered, but they are all she has to give. 

And then she’s gone. 

This time he really does fall to his knees. 

It takes a month. A month of silent looks and silent tears. A month of hoping and screaming and believing and praying to a God she no longer thinks exists. 

It takes a month. Until she’s back in his arms. Until she’s telling him he was right. That she can’t do this without him, that if she’s going to die she wants to do it with him by her side. 

She apologizes again and again. He tells her it’s okay. Tells her he loves her. Tells her she is the only thing he believes in. 

And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, she believes for a sliver of a second that this love will be enough to pull them through. 

James finds it quite relaxing, actually. He can practically picture the lyrics in his head, picking them and pulling them, moving them around trying to find the perfect combination. Because he never writes any of them down, - unless they’re good enough to stick in his head on the walk to his flat - it doesn’t feel permanent. And as weird as it may sound, sometimes messing up feels good. Coming up with the wrong lyrics only means the right ones are out there, just waiting to be found. 

Today, however, he is not having any luck. It’s one of those days when nothing is working, everything he comes up with is shit, and the letters of every word seem to have rearranged themselves into new orders. He can picture what he wants to write, if that makes any sense, but he can’t actually find the words to write it. He sighs. shaking his head, as if that will make all the words in his head rearrange into the perfect order. It doesn’t.

Then, he hears something that makes him stop. It’s Red, she’s humming and it sounds like... no it can’t be. But then she clicks on her phone to check the time and he sees it. That drawing of a wolf, a dog, a stag and a rat that Sirius did - because apparently he can’t write songs for shit but the git can draw for God’s sake - that eventually became the cover of their album, Up to No Good. 

She is listening to his album. His bloody album. His bloody fucking album. Holy shit. He was completely in awe. He didn’t know what to do with himself. This was the first time something like this had happened, and James didn’t want to say something and then sound like a pompous ass for it. Rationally, he realized that he probably just shouldn’t say anything. But for some reason - maybe it was just him being selfish, or maybe it it was his inner eight year old who was so bloody excited because he had always wanted to be a rock star and somehow all those birthday cake wishes had come true - he just felt like he had to say something. 

So he closed his eyes for a second, and gathered up his courage, before speaking. 

“Hey, is that band any good?” He tried to sounds as casual as possible, but his voice was shaking from nerves or excitement or something, and all he could think was our album, she’s listening to our bloody album. 

She pulled out an earbud. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” Her voice was soft, but assured, and she had a small smile on her lips. He got a fluttery feeling in his stomach. It was the same feeling he got when listening to a fucking fantastic song that just seems to pulse music into him and fill up his veins with liquid gold sound until his entire being was encompassed by the sound; his heart beating along with the baseline. 

“I was just wondering if that band was any good,” he said, gesturing to her phone. “My mate told me about them, but I haven’t had the time to listen to it yet.”

Her smile widened. It was like staring into the sun. “It’s magical. The music itself is captivating - the perfect mix of hardcore guitar solos and softer moments that feel almost silent - but what really makes it is the lyrics. They’re just so real or something. It’s none of that bullshit pop crap that you hear on the radio. You can tell that there was thought put into these lyrics. That they really mean something, you know?” 

He doesn’t know what to say. That is everything he has ever wanted to hear, that his lyrics touched somebody. James knows he should probably say something, but he’s at a loss for words. Like every word he knows is made of scrabble pieces that have been thrown on the floor, and now he’s desperately trying to make sense of them. 

Red looks down, obviously taking his silence as a bad thing. Her cheeks flush. “I’m sorry. That was weird, wasn’t it? I just have this thing for good music. And The Marauders are just so good. I’m sorry if I freaked you out.” She looks up slightly and he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. 

“Don’t worry, you didn’t freak me out,” he laughs lightly through the words, and runs his hand through his hair. It’s a nervous habit, the guys are always teasing him about it. “It’s just, my mate didn’t recommend that band to me,” she looks confused. He decides to just say it. “That band, The Marauders, thats my band. I’m the singer and guitarist. Well, sometimes I play the bass. That’s where I come from everyday; we’re always at the studio.”

Okay he’s rambling now. And her jaw has gone slack, and she’s looking at him like he has three heads. He feels his cheeks heating up. God, why did he just do that? 

“A-are you serious?” She finally stutters out, her voice sounding slightly incredulous, but mostly just shocked. “You’re actually the singer of The Marauders?”

“Yeah,” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his knuckle. Another nervous habit. “I mean I don’t know exactly how I could prove it to you, I guess I’ve got some old drafts-”

“No, it’s okay,”she says cutting him off, “it’s just, why didn’t you lead with that?” 

“I don’t know, I guess I just didn’t want to sound like some pretentious prick fishing for a compliment. I wanted to know what you thought, this is the first time something like this has happened to me.”

“Well I wasn’t kidding about what I said. Your songs are amazing. Do you write them?” she asks, leaning slightly towards him. 

“Yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “most of them. Remus writes a few - he’s the pianist - but other than that, it’s all me.”

“That’s incredible. its just - God, how do you do it?” 

“I don’t know, really,” his voice sounds slightly far away, like he’s trying to come up with an adequate answer but can’t find one. “It just sort of, happens.”

“I know what you mean. I’m an artist, myself, and sometimes- oh!” she jumps up noticing that the bus had just pulled to a stop. “It’s our stop! I didn’t even see it coming.”

They both rush out of their seats, him slinging his guitar over his shoulder as he jumps down the stairs and out the door before the bus starts moving again. 

“That was close,” he says, unsure of what to do know that they’re on solid ground and not a moving vehicle. “So, what was this about you being an artist?”

“Oh yeah. I’m an artist. The traditional, painter type. That’s where I come from every day, my studio is only two stops north of yours,” she smiles, and it lights up her face. James can tell that this is what she loves to do, just by the way she talks about it. “But anyway, I was just saying how I know what you mean about it ‘just happening’. There are days when I stare at a blank canvas for hours and I just can’t seem to paint anything. But then there are days when is just flows out of me, and suddenly I’ve done four pieces in one day.”

“That’s amazing. I’d love to see your work sometime.”

“You should come by the studio. I’m there everyday,” she says, digging through her bag for her card. She finds one and looks up at him, handing it to him. He takes it from her outstretched hand, smiling down at her. She’s almost a foot shorter than he is. He is hit by the sudden realization that he doesn’t ever want this moment to end. His fingers twitch for a pen a pencil, anything. Because this, this, is the type of feeling that people write songs about. And as if she can feel it too, she makes another suggestion. “Or you can come with me to my place? I have some of my stuff there. And then maybe we can grab some coffee afterwords?”

He doesn’t know how to reply. Not when this beautiful girl, who he’s been dreaming about just talking to for weeks, whose name he doesn’t even know, is asking him out. 

She takes his silence not as the awe it is but as refusal. “Nevermind,”she says, ducking her head, trying to hide the blush on her face. “I’m sorry,” she’s backing away now. “I guess I’ll-”

“No, wait! That’s not- I mean,” he sighs, running his hand through his hair. He doesn’t know what it looks like, but if he had to guess, he bets its all over the place like it’s been hit by a hurricane. “I would love to get coffee with you. I just don’t even know your name.”

She smiles that soul-awkening-brighter-than-the-sun smile and holds out her hand. “I’m Lily Evans.”

“Nice to meet you, Lily Evans. I’m James Potter,” He shakes her outstretched hand, and - if it’s possible - her smile grows even bigger. He can feel his features slipping into the same expression. “Now where to? I can’t wait to see your work.”

They spend the rest of the day together. He sees her artwork. Its amazing. He can practically feel the emotions and the stories wafting from the paint. he tries to buy one of a forest, but she refuses to let him pay, telling him that its practically the job of a rockstar to get free stuff. 

They star at this little café by her flat until the waitress tells them that they’re closing, the sun dipping below the horizon outside. They talk about the band, and he tells her about each of the guys. Tells her how they’re his family. He tells her about his parents, and how they encouraged him with their last breaths to follow his dreams. 

She tells him about her family- both the blood related and the ones that are not. She tells him about how her parents always encouraged her, but they were never completely supportive of her career choice. She still seems them every once in a while. She shrugs when she mentions this, as if to say ‘I wish it were better, but its not, and there’s nothing I can do’. 

She talks about her sister, and her voice grows quieter. Tells him how her sister never approved of her choice, and cut off all connection with her the day she opened her studio. He can see the tears welling in her eyes, and he vows that he will never let anything or anyone hurt her again. 

They talk as they walk, just wandering around the city, losing track of time. They end up walking to their bus stop, and this is where they stop. Sometime during their walk he had grabbed her hand, ad she squeezes his fingers now. 

He promises to stop by her studio the next day. She promises to have his painting. He tries again to pay. She refuses. 

As her bends down to kiss her cheek - he can feel her cheeks stretch into that grin he already loves underneath his lips - all the words, every phrase that he’s been pulling at and trying to push into a song, fall into place. 

One Week Later

“Sorry I’m late!” James says rushing into the studio, a piece of paper in his hand. “I was with Lily and-”

“Yeah, we know mate,” Sirius says from across the room, where he is sitting on the ground, tuning his guitar. “That’s where you always are. Hey does she play anything? Maybe we should just ask her to join the band?”

“Oh shut it Sirius,” Remus cuts in, throwing a guitar pick at him. He turns to James. “He’s just jealous. Seriously mate, we’re all really happy for you.”

“Thanks. But you didn’t let me finish. I was with Lily and I wrote this,” he says handing the piece of paper in his hand to Peter. “I finally finished one.”

“Wow. This is,” Peter starts.

“Bloody fantastic,” Sirius finishes, looking over Peter’s shoulder. 

“Really, James. This is amazing,” Remus says. 

“Thanks guys,” James says, slinging his guitar over shoulder and picking out a cord. “Shall we try it?”

Oh darling I’m pretty sure the stars get their light from you

When you smile the sky, it shines anew

Oh I didn’t know

I didn’t know

How to write a love song

How to write a love song