#merlinsbbeard microfic

@jilymicrofics Prompt: pain, words: 1404, content warning: head injury.

James groaned, eyes blinking wildly as the Hospital Wing ceiling came into focus. The sound around him was muffled, overcome by an unrelenting monotonous ringing in his ears. Pain split and re-split his skull. His nostrils stung with an overwhelming scent of chemicals. His very fibres ached, and he briefly wondered if this was how Remus felt after the full moon.

James was not unfamiliar with the Hospital Wing. He had had many injuries and ailments over the last six years at Hogwarts, but none so alarming as this. 

That morning—James hoped it was that morning—was the onset of the last match of the year. Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw. Stakes were high, as Gryffindor was beating Ravenclaw for the Cup, and Slytherin was beating them all. The game was Gryffindor’s to lose, and if they did they would be plunged into third place. 

It was because of this, that inter-house rivalry was significantly more potent in the antecedent weeks than they had been all year. Somehow, the air in the Great Hall was tenser than when Severus Snape had deflected Sirius’s Entomorphis Hex outside Defence Against the Dark Arts that February—James agreed that “the slimy git deserved it”—and hit a passing-by Hufflepuff, whose head sprouted feelers and back sported a pair of wings. The corridor had turned into an all-out riot, with students of all houses getting involved.

Despite the relatively early hour of the morning, the Great Hall was packed. Students were roving about the four banquet tables; many were placing bets and breaking into rehearsed chants, and more than once Professor McGonagall reprimanded groups for waving banners inside. 

James sat closest to the doors; with him were Sirius, Remus and Peter, as well as his teammates. He had been pushing his eggs around his plate for the past ten minutes; the mere smell of them made him want to yack, but a worm in his ear named Sirius had been telling him to “eat up” and that he would “need the energy for the game.”

“Good luck, Potter.” Tommy O’Connell, a seventh-year Gryffindor, clapped James on the back as he passed by. 

James winked over his shoulder at him, and turned back to his plate. Deciding that Sirius was right, he quickly ate as much of his plate as he could keep down—his stomach was roiling with nerves. “Ready?” he asked his team. 

“Ready.” Owen Atkinson, a burly fifth-year Beater nodded once, confidently, but secretly his hands shook beneath the table. 

Libby Marsh and Mya Gardner agreed, smiling uneasily up at their Captain and fellow Chaser. And Monty Burns, the other Beater, looked positively green. Their Seeker, Marlene McKinnon, only nibbled at the corner of her toast, eyes fixed on the oak tabletop, where Cohen Hughes, the Keeper, had planted his face as soon as he sat down with the group. 

“Go get ‘em, Prongs.” Remus smiled reassuringly at him. 

“We’ll be rooting for you.” Peter’s face was red and gold with paint, and he held two measly thumbs up.

James nodded stiffly at them and rose from his seat, followed by the rest of his team. He had just crossed the threshold into the Entrance Hall when he collided with someone that hadn’t been there a moment ago. 

“Watch it, Potter,” a scathing voice spat. It was Tadhg Wilkes. 

James was all too familiar with Wilkes. He was one of the youngest in the Slytherin gang, along with Snape, who was standing a little away from the commotion. Wilkes was renowned amongst their year group for hexing first and second-years, and getting away with it. He was otherwise a star student, Prefect, and part of the Slug Club. 

“Wilkes.” James levelled his gaze with the shorter boy. “Don’t go tripping over now, you might hurt yourself.”

Wilkes’s hand shot to his waistband where his wand was stowed, apprehensively. “Worry about yourself, Potter. Quidditch is a dangerous game…”

James had shaken off the odd exchange and put it down to theatrics. In fact, it was the last thing on his mind when his Nimbus 1700 had suddenly lurched from beneath him. 

“GRYFFINDOR IN THE LEAD BY NINETY POINTS,” the commentator, a seventh-year Hufflepuff named Michael Kelly, yelled into the microphone. 

James felt it lurch again. He muttered to it, “Come on, don’t do this to me now.” 

Mya flew past him, Quaffle tucked securely under her arm, followed by Libby who yelled at him to get back in the game. 

James took off once more, regaining control of his broom. He felt the sheer power of the thing rush through his fingertips and into his veins. It felt like he possessed pure energy. 

“AND TURNER HAS STOLEN POSSESSION FROM GARDNER. RAVENCLAW IS BACK ON THEIR GAME.” 

Simon Turner and his teammate Oli Dawson flew parallel up the pitch, looping to pass to one another. 

James was quick to follow. He darted towards the hoops, wind stinging his face. Under the Seekers, left of the Beaters, right of the Bludgers, through the scrambling Chasers.

He was gaining on them. 

James thought that if he reached out as far as he could, then his fingertips would surely have brushed the Quaffle. This was, of course,  if he hadn’t been hit square in the abdomen with a well-aimed Bludger. 

His lungs instantly lost capacity. 

“POTTER HAS BEEN HIT. I REPEAT, POTTER IS DOWN.” The words rumbled in his head. 

James barely had time to gasp for air before his broom bucked and he was flung into open air. 

There was a collective gasp from the spectators as he plummeted towards the stands. 

Limbs flailed in a frantic attempt to save themselves, grasping for what wasn’t there. His body was spinning erratically, faster than his mind could comprehend. The grassy pitch got larger by the second, but before he was even halfway down—

Crunch.

Hushed voices drifted in through the Hospital Wing doors, which had been left open a whisker, snapping James out of his dazed recollection. His ears had stopped ringing by then. 

“I cannot allow him any visitors at the moment.” 

“Please Madam Pomfrey, I won’t get in the way.” James recognised the disembodied voice. 

There was a pause, then the door creaked, and two sets of footsteps scuttled in. 

The sanitary-blue curtains around his too-small cot were harshly drawn open. Bright light flooded his vision, which he attempted to block with his hand. His arm, he now noticed, was bandaged with an itchy gauze. 

“James.” 

Lily Evans stood at the foot of the cot. Her eyes were frazzled and red from crying, her long titian hair uncharacteristically messy, her lips raw and nails gnawed to stumps. 

“Be honest, am I still handsome?” His voice was wheezy. Weak from not being used. 

Lily let out a half-laugh, half-sob. She rounded the cot, taking a seat at his side, and took his hand gingerly in hers. “Are you alright?” Her voice was brittle. 

“Of course,” he squeezed her hand, casting her a reassuring smile. 

Lily smiled in return. Watery and unconvincing. Her eyes kept flicking to his head, then back to his eyes. 

James frowned. “Is there something wrong with my…“ 

He reached his free hand towards his scalp, where most of his pain stemmed from. His tentative fingers were met with a patch of supple new skin, where thick hair usually grew. 

Lily swallowed loudly. “You hit your head.” 

“Go on.” 

“You hit your head on the stands on the way down and—and there was a lot of blood.” Her voice cracked. “Oh, James.”

She threw herself onto his chest—luckily Madam Pomfrey had already healed all the bruising—burying her face in the warm crook of his neck, breaking into tears for the third time that day. Her shoulders shook, tears and saliva dampening his ghastly hospital gown. 

“It’s alright.” He stroked her hair soothingly, shushing her. “I’m alright.”

It was a small while before the sobs were replaced by slow breaths and the occasional hiccup. 

Eventually Lily whispered, “I thought you were going to die,” though it was difficult to make out. 

“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” he chuckled. 

A deep breath. “The boys are outside. They probably want to see you.” Lily started to sit up but James swiftly pulled her back into him, further onto his lap. He nuzzled his face into her soft hair. 

“Stay with me,” he whispered. 

“Of course. Always.”

Lily preferred fruit to a large cooked breakfast; small and fresh and just enough to power her through to lunch.

James was a beans on toast person, and an apple for the road—a green one. Green and sour and crisp; perfect for a keen spring morning such as this.

Two oceans, one of red and one of green, swarmed strict sides of the Great Hall. A commingling of ill-bred chants, whispers of good luck, and illegal banner waving.

A singular green apple sat idle on a platter. Two hands reached for it at once. Fingers brushed. Green eyes locked with hazel ones shrouded by horn-rimmed glasses.

“Whoops. You have it,” said Lily.

James smiled at her. “All yours.”

“Please.” She gestured to the fruit. “Can’t have you falling off your broomstick. McGonagall would throttle me.”

James appeared to consider this for a moment before swiping it up, and snapping it in two.

Lily’s eyes widened as he passed one piece—the larger one—to her.

“Catcha,” he said, then waltzed out of the the great wooden doors.

“Good luck,” Lily called after his billowing maroon flying robes.

@jilymicrofics Prompt: mouse, words: 360, content warning: implied/referenced torture.

James’s ears pricked as a nearby fern rustled. The air was still, the forest unnaturally silent, as he and Lily crouched amongst the moist earth and decaying leaves. A twig snapped, and the pair gripped their wands apprehensively. 

“Do you think it’s a—”

“Shhh.” James pressed a finger to his lips. 

She nodded slowly. If it were, the worst thing to do would be to give away their presence. 

The mission had them scouting for Death Eater movement—gatherings or trails or attacks—in a forest north-east of Durham. They had run through the escape plan a million times before leaving; Moody had made it clear that one returning member would be better than none. With any luck they could narrowly avoid being hanged, drawn, and quartered in front of the rest of the wizarding community, a fate Benjy Fenwick had been unfortunate enough to meet. 

James could hear the creature moving, still, along the forest floor towards the brush they camouflaged against. Leaves crunched, wild garlic quivered. His shoulders tensed, his grip on his wand growing tight and sweaty. Any second now, and—

The curse died on James’s lips, and he breathed a sigh of relief. It was a mouse.

The critter halted, its minute ribs heaving too-big breaths. Its paws, tiny and delicate, grabbed at its long whiskers and big, round ears, bulging eyes closing as it groomed itself. 

Lily muttered a short incantation under her breath, and a bright blue light grasped the mouse; the reversal spell had no effect, and it scurried off undeterred. The two wizards gazed after the mouse until long after it had disappeared amongst the toadstools and debris. 

“Will you marry me?” It was James who spoke first. 

James hadn’t understood the nature of the war until that moment, or the effect it had on him. A year earlier, he had thought he knew what love was, the extent of it, and the joys and sorrows it brought. Now, a simple field mouse was enough to teach him that if he had died without marrying that girl, he’d be kicking himself through the afterlife.

And war spares no mercy for young lovers.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

It was all wrong. They weren’t in the common room, snuggled up on a loveseat by the roaring fireplace; nor were they in the grounds, lazing in the cool under a canopy of leaves. They were in the seventh-year boy’s dormitory, in his four-poster bed. 

Naked. 

His red quilt was clinging to the mattress by one corner, the rest crumpled up on the floor beside his trunk, which had been kicked aside in their moment of passion. 

Heat radiating from his sticky body made the air hot and thick in her lungs. Salt lingered in her nose and in her mouth, and faint chatter from the common room mingled in her ears. 

It was not at all what Lily had imagined when she daydreamed about James Potter finally making it official. 

“No,” she uttered.

“Oh.” Her response had taken him by surprise.  

“Not that I don’t want to.” She stumbled over her words. “It’s just—” She fished an elusive hair out of her mouth. “Gross. It’s just that I sort of—I don’t know—pictured it differently.” 

James propped himself against the wooden headboard—his pillows had fled the scene along with his quilt—and his eyes took sudden interest in his curtains that hadn’t changed since first-year. 

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes finally met hers, then flicked to her hair, which glowed auburn in the afternoon sun that drifted lazily through the window. Another stubborn strand of hair had made its home on her sweaty face. His touch was soft as he smoothed it back, tucking the rest of her hair behind her ear. “Don’t be,” he whispered.

Lily was used to the familiar roaring common room fire. The crackles and sparks prickled her ears lightly, and shadows from the flickering flames danced sporadically across her freckled face and the tapestry-hung walls. Sporadic, but constant. Dependable.

Lily also enjoyed the inflexibility of deadlines. She took great pride in handing in her assignments on time—often wrote two or three more inches than was required—which enabled her to structure her days. Only twice had she handed an assignment in late. Productivity. This she found immense comfort in.

Even the Wizarding world provided a sense of security in Lily that she hadn’t quite found in Muggle society by the age of eleven.

But James was a different kind of comfort. An unfamiliar kind. One that kept her on her toes. Unpredictable. Perhaps that quality could be attributed to her own perception of him; for many years, Lily saw James as an immature, pedigree prick, who never took anything as seriously as he should. Only recently had she allowed herself to recognise his genuineness, especially in regards to his friends, whom he considered family. This made James all the more respectable in her eyes.

With James, Lily allowed her overwhelming desire for predictability to cease, and her anticipation for the unknown to take its place.

Words: 81

Lily rolled over as she woke, reaching for the familiar warmth of James’s body. His eye pried open as her hands found his chest. “Mornin’.” 

She smiled lazily at him, green eyes soft in the early morning haze. “Good morning,” she whispered back. His skin was velvet under her touch. 

Their bodies drew closer, slotting together like pieces of a puzzle. Lily nuzzled her face in the crook of his neck. He smelled of wet pine-needles and broom polish and s*x.

A quick embrace was all it took to plaster James Potter to the forefront of Lily’s mind. He had a habit of being annoyingly persistent like that.

The next she saw him was in the corridor on the way to Potions. He had rushed past her; the scent of his cologne lingered in the air around her for a moment. Lily found herself wishing it had stayed for a moment longer.

At lunch the same day he passed behind her, following Sirius, Remus and Peter, choosing to sit farther up the Gryffindor table. Lily would have been—woefully—miffed, if he had not trailed his fingers gently across her back as he passed.

Later, she sat fiddling with the feathers on her quill—though she was sure to ruin it—while Professor Binns droned on and on about broom history. Lily usually tried to give her utmost attention to her Professors, even when the lessons were particularly boring. This time she couldn’t help but reminisce the way the warmth of his body had submersed her.

The mere thought of his face buried into her neck, his warm breath on her cold skin that prickled with goosebumps, his arms wrapped comfortingly around her frame, his hands on her waist, body pressed up against hers…

Well, it was enough to make any girl blush, Lily had to admit.

Lily was soaked to the bone. Her hair, dark, slashed her face in the ruthless wind. Her eyelashes clung together as if they were people trying to stay warm.

James hunched over her, a futile, selfless attempt to protect her from the rain that felt like bullets on their heads. He was just as, if not more, wet. Yet he couldn’t help but laugh as he gazed into her face.

“Don’t laugh at me.” Lily scowled but broke into a grin herself. She had thought she might regret not bringing that umbrella.