I own nothing from the Harry Potter Universe
Lily's inner musings
James' lustful thoughts
My laughter does not sound like bells. I've been told that my chuckle sounds like a braying donkey on acid.
My hair does not shine with radiance or beauty. I've enough split ends to double my strand count.
My eyes don't twinkle with mystery nor sparkle with vivacity. I've been told that I should wear sunglasses year-round so people don't think I'm an escaped freak from the circus (thanks for that one, Petunia).
I am neither lithe of limb nor full of grace. I've been told if my clumsy mishaps break any more of the greenhouse windows, Sprout will personally throw me through one.
I am not brilliant. Good marks do not just fall into my lap, wrapped up nicely with a professionally tied bow. I've been told that even if I do every extra credit assignment, my Transfiguration mark will never be up to snuff, let alone anywhere near his.
My family is not rich. I don't have an overflowing closet full of the latest trends. I've been told that my family is dirty, no better than the mud beneath the boots of the Malfoys and the Lestranges.
I am not a tall, willowy beauty. My waste is not slim; my legs are not long and slender. I've been told my small stature makes me appear younger than the prefects I'm supposed to guide as Head Girl.
I am Lily Evans, and I am most certainly not, I repeat NOT, in love with James Potter.
Now, if only I believed that.
She was sprawled over the plush couch in front of the fireplace in their shared dorm.
Every night this week, I've come in from hanging out with my friends or playing quidditch to find her agonizing over her Transfiguration terms, fervent to memorize every page of her textbook to secure an acceptable mark in the class.
Since living with her this year, I've come to know a different side of Lily Evans. I no longer think of her as the perfect prefect, the rule-worshipping bookworm her peers have branded her. I've come to know her insecurities and her quirks (not that she told me, of course, she would die before admitting to any weakness in front of me).
I know that she doesn't see herself as beautiful. Secretly, she thinks her abundant curves do not measure up to the stick-thin bodies that other girls her age strive for. She thinks her eyes are too large, her hair too bright, and her legs too short. I wish she knew how I saw her, how I would give anything to be tangled in her long, red hair after a passionate night together, how I argue with her over idiotic things to see her eyes glow, and how her smooth legs drive me insane when she sits ahead of me in class.
I wish she knew that every girl I've been with in my admittingly debauched career has never been able to erase her from my mind and it was her face, her body, that I was thinking of when I was with them.
Dammit, why does he have to look so damn gorgeous when he comes in from practice? His hair is still wet, and it falls in front of his beautiful eyes with careless grace. I straighten up and wish my own hair wasn't in such a tangle and that I wasn't in my old pajamas. They have teddy bears on them, for god's sake! He must think me such a little girl!
She abruptly straightens her posture when she hears the portrait close behind me. Her eyes take in my hair, still wet from the shower I took after practice. I wish she would look at me the same way the other girls do, like they wanted to devour me. But not Lily, never Lily. Although she no longer speaks to me with venom in her voice and loathing in her eyes, it's almost worse now, this polite aloofness. Since I've striven to grow up, to mature, she treats me like some sort of museum exhibit. Remus says I should give it time, let her see the real me. I try, I really do, but it's hell. Living with her, seeing her all the time, it's like dangling meat in front of a tiger, a very hungry tiger. How the hell am I supposed to be polite and courteous with her when I feel like ripping of her clothes and making love to her until she can't even remember her name, let alone the fact that she loathes me?
I run a hand through my wet hair and mumble a quick hello, trying not to stare at her. Fuck, she's wearing her favorite pajamas, the ones with the teddy bears dancing across her chest. Every time I see her in those I want to rip it off, throw her down on the nearest surface and do my own jig over her perfect, round breasts.
Stupid, fucking, lucky, inanimate teddy bears.
I go into my room and shut the door behind me, wondering what she would do if she knew it would be her name I would whisper tonight, alone in my bed, picturing her doing all sorts of delicious things to me instead of my own hand.
My name is James Potter, and I am most certainly in love with Lily Evans.