Chapter 1 : Prologue: Fourth Year
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His glasses are still on, and his breathing is deep and even. He isn’t sleeping, she can tell, but he isn’t playing with her the way he usually does, lying on his side, holding her hands and occasionally nipping at her nose, her forehead, her lips, with his. Instead, he is lying flat on his back staring simply off into the canopy of her bed. He’s distracted. She’s not sure why.
She stretches out, pressing her body to his side, trying to gain his attention. She fails. Instead, she rolls onto her back stretching more as she yawns. Still not earning a reaction, she decides on a more direct approach. She rolls over so that her chest is on his, her chin balances on her stacked hands. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” he mumbles, still not looking at her.
“You’re lying,” she scolds lightly, one of her fingers now tracing his face. “No secrets, remember?”
“James,” she pleads, “what is it?”
He grunts and violently sits up, knocking her off of him. He throws open the curtains surrounding her and climbs out of the bed. Ignoring his nudity, he begins searching frantically for his clothes. She looks shocked and hurt. He finds his boxers and puts them on.
“James!” she begs, trying to hide the tears that are threatening to fall.
He whips around and looks at her as he zips and buttons his trousers. He isn’t angry. His expression is one of confusion, and sadness, and frustration. He sighs and brings his hands to his face, slowly pulling them up and through his hair.
His eyes look back, searching for the words to say. He closes them and takes a deep breath. “I can’t do this anymore.” He states. The mixed expression she had worn turns to one only of hurt.
“W-what do you mean?” she stammers.
“This, this,” he can’t find the words, “thing!” he spits, “Whatever it is. I can’t do it, Lily. Not anymore.”
All she can do his stare at him. He turns on his heel and walks away.
Slowly, she brings her head into her hands, and weeps.
It started in fourth year. At the end of it. After she had begun developing the curves of womanhood, and he had grown at least half a foot. And an ego. Oh, what an ego.
They had been fighting, that fateful day in April, as per usual for them. He had remarked meanly on the size of her chest, and then claimed she must’ve had PMS for reacting so badly to it. The fact that she did have PMS, and she had openly mocked her small, yet growing chest, escaped her.
“JAMES POTTER YOU SLIMY GIT!!”
“What, Evans? Can’t take a joke?” he smirked.
“Oh, I can take a joke.” She spat viciously. “What I can’t take is moronic imbeciles who say things that aren’t funny!”
“You didn’t find it funny?” he asked, mockingly curious, “Well, that’s odd, because everybody else was laughing.” Someone snorted from behind him.
“When are you ever going to grow up?!” she screamed.
“I could ask you the same question, Evans.” He smirked again, gesturing to his chest for emphasis. His nonchalance infuriated her all the more.
The screaming and yelling and name-calling continued. At first they had attracted a crowd, but after ten minutes of a show they had all seen a hundred times before, they had all dispersed.
During a particularly vicious scream of Lily’s, James suddenly smirked. “You know Evans,” he started after she had finished telling him he was a pig-head. “You’re kinda hot when you’re mad…”
She looked disgusted. He took a step toward her. “Oh Evans,” He took another step closer, trying, and succeeding in making her uncomfortable. “Don’t pretend like that wasn’t the best compliment you’ve ever gotten,” It wasn’t. She stood her ground. “Like the hottest bloke in school telling you you’re hot doesn’t send shivers down your spine,” It hadn’t. He took another step. She stayed strong. He was close to her ear now, whispering. “Don’t pretend you don’t want me, Evans.” She didn’t.
She looked him straight in the eye as he smirked again. Before she could react, he had grabbed her face and pressed his lips against hers.
He had expected her to push him away. Slap him in the face. Knee him in the groin. Spit in his eye. She had expected to do all of these things.
Neither of them expected what happened.
She kissed him back.
It was sloppy. And wet. And exciting. The way all first kisses are. Two pairs of untrained lips moved furiously against each other, taking all the anger they felt towards each other and putting into the kiss. They worked together, in an unexpected, and unexplained harmony. Music and lyrics that just shouldn’t fit, but do.
All too soon, Lily realized what was happening. She pulled away from him. He began to smirk until she saw the absolute fury in her eyes. Her voice was low and terrifying, “Tell a single soul, Potter,” She took her wand out and pointed it at him, “and I will assure you the slowest, most painful and humiliating death you can imagine. Got it?”
He nodded slowly. “Good,” she replied before turning on her heel and leaving him in the corridor.
It happened again. The next time they fought, a week later. Lily was mid insult when James’ lips came crashing down on hers. Once again he expected a push, shove, kick, or slap. Once again it did not come. Instead, she kissed him fiercely and he responded with as much enthusiasm.
And again, the next time. James was just saying something about removing a stick, when Lily did something James had expected her to do the whole time. She pushed him. Into the wall, and began devouring his lips with her own. “Nice,” he smirked through their kiss.
“Impressed?” her mouth was full with his.
“Very.” He mumbled.
Her sudden dominance gave him an idea. With a burst of strength and a great deal of resolve, he spun them around so her back was against the wall. Her sound of surprise made him smile.
“Impressed?” he asked roughly.
Again, and again, and again, it happened. Every time they fought. The combination of their newly-fifteen-year-old hormones and the passion that pulsed through their veins when they fought with each other kept them coming back for more.
Their fights escalated, and so did their trysts.
Their tongues danced together.
His mouth wandered to her neck.
“Cruel son of a bitch.”
Their hands wandered freely over each other’s bodies.
It became a tradition. Fight, yell, snog. Fight, yell, snog. Like clockwork. Fight, yell, snog. Both of them began to become enraged at the slightest provocation by the other. Fight, yell, snog. By the end of the year, more often than not, they had forgotten what they were fighting about by the time they separated. Fight, yell, snog.
They spoke of it to no one. Not friends. Not siblings. Not parents. Not even their pets. They didn’t write to each other over the summer. They didn’t mention each other when the spoke of school. It remained their secret.
Fight, yell, snog.
AN: Please review, I'd love to hear your thoughts!