"No-body should feel that small," He half-crooned into her ear.

Her knees were drawn up against her chest, quiet, shivering breaths escaping her lips in the night. Lily Evans was lovely in the cold, with her too-big boots, always untied, and a long Gryffindor scarf wound around her throat and clashing amiably with her bright hair. James loved the late-night smile that crept up upon her face as they sat close together by the white coals of the night's fire, and the way her fingers still lazily clutched her quill as her eyes finally closed, early into the morning, as she drifted for a few hours with a soft mutter of "I'm not tired…"

Seven years is a long time to love someone before they realize you're more than an egotistical jerk.

But it was worth it, for this.

For stolen kisses in the deserted corridors long after everyone else had gone to class. For his twinkling eyes meeting hers across the musty library as she studied and he pretended to. And for knowing that she would be totally his, for as long as he dared to keep her.

James' callused fingers float softly over her shoulders, hidden in the grey sweater she stole from his trunk when he wasn't looking.

There was nothing at all ordinary about this brash, sweet, terrifying love, and somehow, incredulously, he had found it. With a small yawn, James felt his mind slip into a haze of warmth and almost-sleep with his lips crushed into Lily's hair and his hands holding hers inside her pockets.