A/N: Just a little something that I rediscovered - a moment in time, if you will, inspired by OoTP :)
He's so close now. So close.
He watches her profile covertly as she scribbles, somehow managing to pay attention to Professor Vector long after the rest of the class have clearly switched off on this cold winter morning. It's just one of her many attractions, that she can give her all to whatever she focuses on.
But he's reached this stage, hasn't he? He can sit a desk away from her without earning himself a glare, he can watch her from the corner of his eye, he could even, if he wanted to, reach across and jab her with his quill, to see her try and fail to look reprovingly at him before smiling.
He could do all of that, if he wanted to. They're friends. It seemed like such an impossibility, for so long, that he could call her that. Lily Evans. A friend. Not until he realised that the only way to reach her was to take her off the pedestal and get to know her as a person, for who she was, for what truly made her tick.
The trouble is, she never really came down off the pedestal in a way. She's still just as unattainable as ever.
And time is running out. They only have a few more months left inside these solid, comforting walls, until June, and then…what? There's a war going on out there, people are losing each other left, right and centre, there's not much hope.
Something hits him on the side of him head, jolting him out of his reverie, and he looks down, opening the scrap of paper to read Padfoot's familiar scrawl.
Oi! Stop drooling over her, mate! How am I supposed to pass MY exams if YOU don't take notes??
Grinning, he writes Tosser and chucks it discreetly back, returning to his thoughts. What to do now? He can read it in her eyes, the potential for more is there, it's within his grasp…if only he knew how to reach for it. This isn't like school, where there is nearly always a definite answer, this isn't even like Quidditch, where plenty of practice at least halfway guarantees a win; this is an entirely new lesson he's had to learn, and he's having to wing it.
But wait. James focuses more closely on her. Her eyes, usually so sharp and penetrating, are not concentrating at all, but rather distant, and while she's certainly scribbling, it's not…
He cranes his neck, and realises that she is paying no more attention than he is - her notes have stopped literally mid-word. Instead, she is shading in the delicately-traced wings of a small Snitch, doodled absently on the side of her parchment. And inside the circle, there is a single word. Dropping his quill as an excuse to lean over, James sneaks a look and his eyes widen incredulously.
In her slanting cursive, James P.
Straightening up, quill abandoned on the floor, he stares at her again, something re-inflating in his chest.
The snitch has snitched. Maybe there is hope, after all.
A/N: In my head, this would be a wonderful scene. I only hope I did it justice on paper. Reviews, s'il vous plait?