Author's Note: Sorry it's been so long - I'm a terribly sporadic updater, I'll admit. Please review, though!

Chapter Two

Lily wasn't exactly sure what she had been expecting, but it definitely wasn't this.

Her first shock of the day was upon arriving (via Floo Powder) at James' house. Her jaw hanging open, she looked around in silent awe, vaguely grateful that James wasn't there with her to witness this.

The house was simply amazing. More like a mansion, really, she was sure - and she had only seen... well, she supposed it was called a foyer. The floors were made of white marble, and there was a grand, sweeping marble staircase to her right, complete with gold railings. She wondered if they were made of actual gold. Paintings in embellished wooden frames lined the walls and, though she didn't recognize any (they were Wizarding, after all), she was pretty sure that they each cost more than her entire house. There was a polished, dark wooden table next to the staircase that she suspected came from at least a couple of centuries ago, complete with an ornate glass flower vase, filled with the most beautiful tulips she had ever seen. Everything was so clean, she marveled. Completely spotless, not a hint of dust.

House Elves, she thought.

As if on cue, one of them appeared, bowing so low that its floppy, ungainly ears touched the floor.

"May Marcy help you, miss?" the little elf asked, perfectly politely, and Lily realized that the Potters must be used to people popping over randomly.

"Er, I'm here to pick up some things for James?" she said hesitantly, and it came out as a question.

"Master James?" the elf - Marcy? - squeaked, her eyes bulging and her ears perking up; Lily was oddly reminded of a dog. "Miss knows where Master James is?"

Lily abruptly realized that no one had thought about telling the House Elves what had happened to James; they had obviously been expecting him. She wondered what he had been planning to do over the holidays, since neither of his parents were here and none of his friends had questioned his whereabouts.

"He was... in an accident," she reluctantly explained carefully, tentatively. How had it fallen to her to have to explain this? The elf squeaked again, and brought her hands up to cover her face; her large knobby fingers covered wide, horrified eyes. "He's okay, though," Lily quickly reassured. "He just... I came to pick up some stuff for him."

"Where is he?" Marcy asked mournfully, and Lily couldn't help taking pity on her.

"He's at Hogwarts. But he's going to be staying at his... cottage for a while, until the holidays are over. Do you... do you think you could show me where his room is?"

Marcy looked at her with wide eyes, assessing her, and Lily felt relieved, for some reason, to know that not just anyone was welcome into the house. She wondered how that worked - could anyone Floo there, or was there some kind of magical ward to keep certain people out? Did the House Elves decide who could enter? How did Wizards keep bad people - like burglars - out of their houses?

"This way, Miss," said the elf eventually, its voice high. "Follow Marcy."

Lily followed her up the marble staircase, marveling at its grandeur, through a long corridor (how many rooms did this place have?), and, finally, came to a stop outside a white door. The carpet under her feet was plush, and there were decorations on the white walls, but she was oddly reminded of being in a hotel; there was nothing personal about the house. No photographs, nothing lying scattered around... no sense that somebody lived here.

"In here, Miss."

Marcy pushed open a polished wooden door, and held it ajar so that Lily could enter the room. She felt a sense of unease as she crossed the threshold, as if she was entering James' personal, private space; she felt as if she shouldn't be here, like she was unwelcome. Stop being ridiculous, she told herself. James had allowed her to come here; he was expecting her to enter his room. How else was she supposed to get his belongings?

"Thanks," she said to Marcy, and the elf practically beamed at her.

Immediately upon entering, she felt much better. The room was very welcoming compared to the corridor just outside, and it looked like a teenage boy's room should look: it had lopsided Quidditch posters half-falling off the wall; a wooden desk piled high with random, unidentifiable objects; a stained carpet (she didn't want to now what it was, if even magic couldn't take it out); and dark blue bedcovers. The room even smelt like James, if that was possible.

She turned slowly around on the spot, taking in every inch of the room. One of her arms was hanging down by her side; the hand of her other arm was gripping her elbow tightly, creating a shield across her stomach. She didn't realize she was smiling slightly until one of the Quidditch players on a poster winked at her, and her smile disappeared.

Marcy cleared her throat pointedly, and Lily forced her curious, wandering eyes to focus on the elf.

"Is there something in particular Miss wanted?"

"Er..." She looked around again. "Are his Christmas presents here?"

"Oh! In the cupboard, Miss."

The little elf scurried over to a wooden cupboard and opened it, leaving Lily to marvel at just how messy it was. Rumpled clothes were piled on top of each other, random socks hanging on random shelves, and what even looked like schoolbooks were littering the bottom. On the right, stacked in a little corner, lay a pile of wrapped presents, one on top of the other. Their packaging was shiny and bright, like Christmas presents should be and, even though Lily knew they weren't for her, she felt the urge to tear off the shiny paper and open them.

"Thanks," she said, and Marcy beamed again.

"You's welcome, Miss. Is there anything else Miss is wanting?"

"Er..." Lily turned around slowly, but nothing came to mind. "No, I think that's it."

James had most of his things at Hogwarts already; all that he had needed her to get was the presents he was planning to owl to everybody. In fact, why had his presents been here in the first place? She wondered idly about it, but figured it wasn't really important.

Marcy gestured for Lily to exit the room, which she did reluctantly. She couldn't say why she didn't want to leave - it just felt nice, being in his room, like she was a part of his personal life. His room was comforting, almost like him - but she figured returning to the real thing was better than staying in his room.

"Oh!" she exclaimed as she stepped out. "I forgot - I'm supposed to leave a message for his parents. Professor Dumbledore was unable to reach them by owl?"

She looked quizzically at Marcy, but the elf had lowered her gaze to the floor with her ears bowed. Lily was insanely curious about where James' parents were, but she didn't feel she had the right to pry - not after how she had treated him. It wasn't really any of her business, no matter how much she wanted it to be.

"What is Miss wanting Marcy to tell them?"

The smile on Marcy's face had disappeared, and Lily felt absurdly guilty for making the elf sad. Another burst of curiosity flared up, but she quashed it determinedly. What had happened to his parents?

"Can you tell them that James has been in an accident and is staying at his cottage? They can owl Professor Dumbledore if they have any questions, he said. Do you think you can do that for me?"

Marcy looked almost indignant, but at the same time she had a smile on her face; Lily's eyebrows rose in amusement at the elf's peculiar expression.

"Of course, Miss, I's will make sure they hear it."

"Thank you, Marcy," said Lily, bending down to smile at her; Marcy's smile returned even larger than before. "And thank you for showing me to James' room."

"Is no problem, Miss! Marcy is happy to help."

Marcy was smiling dopily now, and Lily almost wanted to laugh. Instead, she turned around for the Floo Powder, poured a handful into the fireplace, and was swirled away, back to Hogwarts.

Her second surprise of the day came when she arrived with James at his cottage. She had been steeling herself for hours, prepared to see the extravagance of what the Potters called a 'cottage', so when she arrived and found herself faced with an actual cottage, she was floored.

It filled every single cliche of what a cottage was supposed to look like. It was small, made of rich wood, dark in the receding light of day, and very, very cozy. When she looked out the windows she could see nothing but trees and snow and sky; it was like she had entered another world completely. The furniture was threadbare and mismatched, but she immediately fell in love with it anyway. There was a dark orange couch, a green one with a floral print, and in between them was a slanted wooden coffee table. There were three doors - she assumed one was a kitchen, one a bathroom, and one a bedroom. It was just so different to his other mansion that she could barely comprehend it.

Lily stepped out of the fire and watched with fascination as the room was bathed in an orange glow, the change from the eerie green of Floo Powder so startling that she had to blink a few times. When she refocused, she saw James watching her apprehensively, as if he was nervous, and she found she was nervous as well.

Now what?

"So... this is it," said James uncertainly.

He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, then immediately clutched his chest and doubled over, gasping in pain. Lily shot to his side instantly, her heart racing, and grabbed hold of his shoulder, forcing him to sit down on the sofa.

"Bollocks - here, sit down," she cursed, unable to stop fretting.

"I'm alright," James insisted weakly, still pressing forcefully against his heart. He looked startled by her language. "Sorry."

Lily felt like her heart was bleeding. "Don't apologize," she said quietly, pushing James by the shoulder so that he leaned back against the couch.

He nodded once but didn't reply, looking up at the ceiling as if he was ashamed to meet her gaze. Lily bit her lip, then swallowed hard. Was this what she had reduced him to? He couldn't even look at her. He must hate me, she thought despondently. What am I doing here? He doesn't want me here. No. He needs me here. What would he prefer - being stuck in the Hospital Wing, or being stuck here with me?

Shut up, Lily. Just focus on making him better.

"How are you feeling?" She made sure her voice was gentle. "Are you light-headed? Dizzy? Nauseated?"

"I'm fine," he replied, looking at a spot just over her shoulder.

Lily pursed her lips. "James... you have to tell me the truth. Really."

He paused, and Lily was sure she saw him sigh. His hand finally came down from his heart to rest at his side, and Lily chewed on the inside of her lip. She placed her hands on the armrests of the sofa, and leaned forwards towards him, forcing him to finally meet her gaze. Her heart started thumping, but she ignored it.

"James," she pressed.

"I'm a little light-headed," he admitted quietly, staring at her.

She held his gaze for a second longer, trying and failing to read his emotions, then stood up and started rifling through her bag.

"It's fine," James called out to her. "You don't need to -"

"Shh," she interrupted him without looking back. "I'm here as your Mediwitch, it's what I'm supposed to do. Don't worry about it."

When she looked back his face had darkened, and she wondered if she had said anything to upset him. Perhaps his chest was just hurting more? She frowned and came forwards again, this time with a vial of purple liquid in her hands.

"Take this," she said gently, passing it to him. She waited until his fingers were firmly closed around the vial before she let go of it.

"I'm fine," he said quietly.

"You have to take it," she insisted. "You're going to need to take this potion twice a day for the next two weeks, at least. I'm going to have to apply a healing cream to your wound every two days, and you're not supposed to be doing any activity for about a week."

James opened his mouth to argue, but Lily had seen this coming and she cut him off.

"I'm serious. You can be in bed or on the couch, but that's about all you can do for a while, okay?"

Lily bustled around the room as she talked, taking his trunk to the bedroom and putting hers in the corner by the fireplace. She grabbed a blanket from a cupboard, draped it over the larger orange couch, then went back for a pillow. Through it all, James watched her with unfathomable dark eyes that made her incredibly nervous, and a very somber expression.

She saw his glower when she got to the end of her speech, and sighed before coming to stand by him again.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. James looked up at her silently; she wanted to take his hand but didn't dare to. "I know this isn't what you want to hear, but it really is the only way you're going to heal. Just put up with me for a little while, okay?"

A fleeting expression passed through his eyes, but it was gone too fast for her to even try to comprehend it.

"Alright," he agreed softly.

Lily was surprised. She had read all about how patients didn't cope well with inabilities, and she had been expecting him to get angry - at himself, at her, at the world... But he had been very calm so far, very accepting. She wasn't sure if that was good or not. James was naturally a very expressive person, or so she had thought - why was he suddenly so quiet?

"Alright," she repeated, as if to reassure herself.

A thick, uncomfortable silence descended upon them.

... Now what was she supposed to do?

"I - I suppose now is as good a time as any to put the cream on, isn't it?" she stuttered nervously, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ears.

James was watching her silently again, which made her even more nervous. He was just... watching. It made her feel that, at any second, she would screw up royally, and humiliate herself. Was he trying to intimidate her? Did it just come naturally? Did he even notice how nervous he made her?

He hadn't moved, so Lily screwed up her courage, pushed her apprehension aside, and reached for him.

"You're going to need to take off your shirt," she muttered, fighting an all-encompassing blush and coming out the loser. She was sure her face was tomato-red, and the color was fading all the way down her neck...

James appeared startled. "Oh!" he exclaimed, and she watched with confusion as he looked away, seeming almost embarrassed.

Was he ashamed about his scar? She knew most patients didn't deal well with ugly reminders; they took it as a direct blow to their vanity. Most of them were repulsed by their scars, and never wanted anyone else to see them.

"James," she said softly, "you don't have to be embarrassed about it. Your scar isn't a reflection of you - it doesn't change anything about you. I've been helping Poppy; I'm sure I've seen things much worse than that."

He swallowed, but still wouldn't look at her. "Oh, it's not - I mean... I'm fine." He sighed almost resignedly, and again she reached for his shirt, but he stopped her. "You don't have to - I can do it myself -"

"James, you can barely even lift your arms. Don't even think about it."

"..."

Her fingers fumbled against the hem of his shirt; she grasped the cotton and gently but firmly pulled it upwards. She looked up and found he was watching her now, his eyes very, very dark and intense behind his glasses, and she nearly forgot to breathe. She actually froze, her hands hovering above his breastbone, and she saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. A spell seemed to settle over the two of them like a layer of pixie dust, until James tore his gaze away. She let out a shaky breath, pretending nothing had happened, and proceeded to pull his shirt up even higher.

"You're going to have to raise your arms," she whispered, appalled at the way her voice cracked.

He did so, slowly, wincing terribly, and Lily tried not to let her concern take over her practical mind. His ribs would hurt for a while still, and there was nothing she could do about it; nature had to take its own course. As soon as his arms were raised above his head, she slowly pulled his t-shirt up even further, past his shoulders, over his head, and finally all the way off. She paced it on the arm of the couch and automatically reached forward to straighten his glasses, not even thinking about it until she saw the strange look in his eyes. She froze, then pulled her fingers back as if they burnt.

"I'm - I'm going to get the cream," she stuttered, backing away until she got to her trunk.

She turned around, facing away from him, and dropped to her knees. She pretended to rifle through her belongings, but really she was trying to get a check on her emotions. She couldn't fall apart around him like this. It was ridiculous - nothing was even going on. Everything had a purely medical purpose. Why was she so flustered?

She found the tube of healing cream she had ben looking for, sighed deeply, then steeled her resolve and walked over to him again. She was going to be purely professional and clinical; there was no need to be embarrassed. Everything was fine.

"Just try to relax, okay?"

He nodded, and she tried not stare as the muscles in his chest moved as he breathed deeply. He wasn't very bulky at all - he had a tall, lithe, almost lanky build, but underneath his shirt he was deceptively strong, with very lean muscles. Medical, medical, Lily chanted to herself as she tried not to ogle.

She took the cap off of the tube, squeezed a bit of paste onto her fingers, and leant forwards to place them on the skin above his heart. It was an awkward, uncomfortable position; the height of the chair he was in meant she couldn't stand up straight, but couldn't kneel, so she was awkwardly standing in between his legs, leaning forwards towards him, and trying not to stare.

He jumped when her fingers made contact with his skin, and she watched with fascination as his muscles clenched automatically.

"Sorry, it's a little cold," she said quietly, almost afraid to speak louder and break the spell.

"Mm," was all he replied with, noncommittally.

She used two fingers to rub the cream onto his scar, applying gentle pressure to spread it around and even it out. The scar itself was about the size of her fist, an angry purple that screamed evil, and very veiny, like a ball of fire with tendrils of flames flicking out. It was ugly, for sure, but Lily didn't feel repulsed by it - she just felt an overwhelming urge to reassure James that the scar wasn't him, that it didn't change how she saw him. The scar was ugly; he was beautiful.

She tried not to think about how much she wanted to wrap her arms around him and have him hold her close. She tried not to think about how comfortable his chest looked, as if she was supposed to fit right into it perfectly. She tried not to think about the last time she had seen him like this; half-naked and staring at her with a fierce intensity that made her throat dry.

She breathed in shakily as she pulled away, and watched as he blinked and cleared his throat nervously.

"You okay?" she whispered.

"'M fine," he murmured.

She saw his fingers twitch, as if he was itching to clench his hands, and she wiped her own discreetly against her jeans, getting rid of the excess cream. She put the tube back in her trunk, then stood awkwardly by him again. He continued to watch her silently, as if waiting for her to make the next move. The problem was: she didn't know what the next move should be.

"I'm going to - make dinner," she fumbled, and headed without a backwards glance towards where she assumed the kitchen was.

The kitchen was tiny, about the size of her bedroom at home, but very cozy. A very warm light bathed the room; the chairs were made of soft wood and the round table had a well-worn table cloth placed above it, upon which rested a beautiful but chipped vase with blooming tulips. Ever-Fresh Flowers, she realized; they would never die. When she looked, she found the cabinets were filled with an assortment of random kitchen utensils, including mismatched cutlery and a tea-mug that had a rounded Quidditch broom as its handle, which made her smile to herself. She made a simple meal of pasta with tomato sauce and bread, but when she took it back to the living room she stopped in her tracks.

James was asleep, passed out on the sofa, with his head lolling back and his glasses askew. His mouth was just slightly open, and he looked like such a little boy that Lily almost wanted to laugh. She couldn't stop staring at him, frozen in her spot by the door. With those dark eyes, long lashes, hair curling rakishly over his ears, it was no wonder there were dozens of girls fawning over him. He was simply adorable.

Her fingers itched to to smooth his hair down and trace his temple, but she held in her desire. He didn't want her to be overly affectionate with him. How could, after how she had treated him last year? She wasn't his girlfriend and he didn't want her to be; she had to remember that.

She sat on the couch opposite him with a plate of food in her lap. She debated waking him to eat, but figured she could just heat up the food once he woke up; he needed rest more than a meal. She crossed her legs beneath her and ate slowly, absent-mindedly, staring at the fire with her thoughts a million miles away. She glanced at James periodically - just to make sure he's alright, she told herself - and the image of him, bare-chested and bathed in a warm glow from the fire, stirred memories. They rose up, swirling wildly around her, until she felt she might drown in them.

Even over a year later, she remembered that fateful night so well - that night which changed everything. She remembered how it felt, after climbing through the portrait hole, to walk across the crowded Common Room, right up to James Potter, who had smiled and said her name aloud. And the way the butterbeer he'd given her had tasted as she took her first sip, light and fizzy on her tongue. Then later, after he had guided her up to his dorm room, how it had felt to kiss him, his lips warm against hers, searing life back into her as she sank down into the encompassing covers on his bed. Or hearing Marlene laughing in the distance, her voice carrying distantly, faintly, up the stairs, as if Lily and James were removed from the rest of the world.

All of these things registered, but there was one image, one moment, that rose above them all, etched vividly into her mind. That was before, earlier that fateful day, when she had glanced at the stiff, slanted script on the formal scroll, taking in its meaning, and had had a sudden vision of what she must look like at that moment: a small, pale girl with red hair, bloodless fingers clenched tightly around an official seal, who could hear everyone's voices but not see them through her tears.

She had thought that maybe, just maybe, that long twenty-four hours - starting with her opening the dreaded letter and ending with her waking up, naked, in James Potter's bed - would have just ended up being a nightmare, that she'd start the next day normally, without a proper care in the world. Instead, she woke up disoriented and confused. One look at the naked boy sleeping next to her had opened the floodgates; a tidal wave of memories crashed through her, and she felt sick. Sick about what had happened - and sick about what she had done. She should have just walked away the night before, she knew. From the Firewhisky, from James, from all of it. But she hadn't walked away, and that had shamed her for months to come.

They hadn't talked since then. She had stolen away quietly before he awoke, creeping like the dim shadows that lined the staircase up to her dorm in the pale, dawning light. She never sought him out again; he seemed to avoid her as if she was worse than the plague. She hated it, but at the same time she couldn't bring herself to change it - she didn't think she would be able to, or she was too scared to try.

Sometimes, when she had seen him, all she had wanted to do was go up to him and tell him everything, explain her grief and shame and heartache. The thought would crash over her like a wave, sudden and unexpected, leaving her cold because in the next moment she would already be convincing herself that he probably didn't want to hear it anymore; it was too late for excuses. Watching him walk though the corridors, laughing with his friends, it had been like he was receding back to the person he had always been: a boy she barely knew, just another face in the crowd. She hadn't had the guts to take the first step in attempting to rebuild a relationship; she didn't think it would have worked.

Looking back, now, she thought that maybe if she had just approached James, they could have worked things out. But she hadn't, back then. It was like the passing time, and her guilt and her grief and her shame, had opened up a chasm, growing wider and wider. Once, she might have been able to jump it, but eventually it was too distant to even look across, much less find a way to other side.

Until now.

But no, she didn't want to think about that - didn't want to think about what had made her change her mind. Instead, she simply watched him as he slept, her eyes roving over every inch of him, until she felt she had him completely memorized. Her gaze lingered on his lips and, unbidden, another image flittered into her mind, overpowering all of her other memories. She remembered how they had felt, remembered how he had kissed, remembered just how he had made her feel, but most of all she remembered...

... while the rest of the world went on unaware downstairs, she leant forward and kissed James, making a choice that would change everything. Somewhere there was a ripple, some small shift in the universe that would change the course of their destiny - but she didn't feel it then. She only felt James, kissing her back, and her overwhelming need to forget - to forget what she had just read in the letter. She felt the world go on around her, just as it always had, and she let herself get swept away.

She was brought back the present when James groaned lightly, shifting and opened his eyes. Startled, she sat up a little straighter. It was pitch black outside, and the room itself seemed a little darker too; she realized the fire was dying. She wondered how long she had been sitting there, lost in memories.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, for lack of anything better to say.

He didn't answer for a moment, still half-asleep. She watched as his gaze travelled from her, to the fire, back to her, and down to her empty plate.

"Hungry," he admitted sheepishly, attempting, with difficulty, to sit up straight.

"Here, let me heat this up for you."

"No, you don't have to -"

Lily firmly ignored him, standing up despite the protest from her stiff, sleeping legs, and heated up his meal. She passed him the plate and a fork, but decided he would be entirely too offended if she attempted to spoon-feed him.

He ate while she escaped to the kitchen to silently clean her own empty plate. She felt inexplicably nervous again, now that he was awake. She was unsure of the role she was meant to be playing - she knew he needed a nurse, and he had agreed to spend the holidays here with her instead of at the Hospital Wing with Madam Pomfrey, but she was unsure if he really wanted her company. She didn't want to impose on him if he hated her. Should she be staying away as much as possible and giving him his privacy? She didn't want to, but she couldn't stand the thought that he was only putting up with her through necessity...

Enough, she told herself firmly. Stop rambling in circles and do what you are supposed to do - take care of him.

"You should go to sleep," she told him upon reentering the room, wiping her damp hands against her jeans.

He blinked, turning his head from the fire to look in her direction. His half-empty plate lay discarded on his lap.

"I've just been sleeping," he mumbled drowsily.

He yawned, then, belying his earlier words, and Lily smiled, feeling some of the tension between them lift.

"No, you're not tired at all," she teased gently, walking forwards and taking the plate from his lap.

He smiled ruefully, but admitted he was a little tired. Lily deposited the plate on the coffee table, then turned back to find him watching her again, his eyes half-closed.

"Here," she said, "let's get you to bed."

She leant forwards to take his wrist, intending to help pull him up slowly from the armchair. He protested a little bit, at first, but eventually gave in, admitted defeat. She slid her hand from his wrist up to his elbow once he was standing, and helped to gently propel him towards the bedroom. He followed dazedly, yawning periodically until he reached the bed, where she sat him down on the edge. He seemed to wake, then, looking around at the dark, shrouded bedroom, then at the bed itself.

"Wait," he started, "where are you going to sleep?"

He was frowning in deep thought, and Lily simply blinked at him.

"On the couch."

He response was simple and matter-of-fact, but she watched as he struggled to understand it through his sleep-induced fog.

"No, don't - take the bed," he insisted, already trying to stand up without injuring himself further. "I can sleep on the -"

Lily actually scoffed at him, pressing down on his shoulder until he sat still, looking up at her in the dark. "Don't be ridiculous, James. You're injured, I'm perfectly fine - you're sleeping on the bed."

"But -"

"No, seriously," she interrupted with raised eyebrows, daring him to contradict her. "Don't even think about it. It makes sense - you're injured, you need the bed. Alright? I don't want to hear another word about it."

He glowered up at her. It took her a moment to realize her hand was still on his shoulder, before she abruptly pulled it back. They faced each other off in the darkness, both refusing to back down and let the other take the couch. Lily was surprised that James was so intent about this; she understood his reluctance to have him help her with mundane actions such as dressing, which implied he was crippled, but she hadn't expected him to be so chivalrous in making her sleep on the bed. Clearly, she had misjudged James Potter. She wasn't sure who she had thought he was, but it definitely wasn't this boy - man? - sitting in front of her, glaring at her as she refused to let him do her a favor.

"Lily..." he started lowly. She made a move to interrupt him again, but he didn't let her. "No, listen. You already gave up your holidays to look after me - at least let me do this."

"James, you need it." She was practically begging now.

"You deserve it," he retorted. "You're practically a saint - you have been for the last couple of years. Just be selfish for once in your perfect life and take the bed, please."

A saint? Perfect? What botched view did he have of her? She wanted to tell him, right then, that it wasn't true - any of it. She wasn't a saint; she was far from a perfect girl with a perfect life. No one's life was really perfect, on glorious moment after another, even hers - especially hers. A real set of snapshots of her sixth year would have been something else entirely: Petunia's thin, lipstick-coated mouth forming an ugly word; the discomfort warring against pity on anonymous student's faces; her, alone, at midnight, in the toilets, retching acid after a bout of silent hysterics.

She lowered her voice a little, watching as James' lips pursed in defeat. "You don't know what you're talking about. And you're sleeping on the bed - end of story. Okay?"

He looked like he wanted to argue, but then he simply nodded his head and scooted backwards, slowly sliding his legs under the covers.

"Thank you," sighed Lily, and she felt warmth enter her chest as she saw James' reluctant smile.

He lay back against the pillows, and saw him wincing slightly; though she wanted to go to him, she refrained from doing so. She didn't want to seem overly anxious or overbearing.

She took a step backwards, past the door, and leaned against the doorframe, watching him for a moment. He stared back at her, his eyes glinting in the dark behind his glasses. Lily found she couldn't move, yet at the same time felt that she might fall; she clutched onto the doorframe in an attempt to stabilize herself. The window showed the outside world as pitch black, with the occasional flutter of a swirling white snowflake. All was silent, and time seemed suspended, as if the entire universe had simply frozen. Watching him look back at her, his gaze slowly slipping out of consciousness and yet so intense, she felt as if they were the only ones awake or even alive in the entire world at this moment.

"I'll see you in the morning," she whispered, breaking the spell.

She could almost hear the whoosh as time flew by again; outside, the wind howled and blew against the glass, and the light behind her seemed to come alive, brightening.

"G'night," murmured James, already partly asleep.

Lily stared at him for another long second, just until his eyes closed and the tension in his shoulders disappeared, then she backed out, closing the door behind her, and returned to the real world.