A/N: Usually I'm not big on non-dialogue stories, but I thought I'd give it a go. You know, expand my horizons and all that. So here's James rambling on about nothing for a page and a half ;)
Lily Evans can drive a bloke insane.
I know, because she's been doing it to me for the past five and a half years. From the very first moment on the train, when she shot me that characteristically disdainful look I'd soon become very familiar with as she left the compartment with Snape….I dunno, but something about her just….got to me.
And it hasn't stopped getting to me as long as we've known each other. Sure, it's shifted focus a bit—at first she just annoyed me and was fun to tease, whereas now I fancy the hell out of her….though she is still fun to mock. Maybe a little too fun, actually, since I can't seem to stop doing it whenever I'm around her. Actually, I can't seem to stop doing a lot of things any time Lily deigns to be in my presence. And they're not suave, mature, proving-that-I'm-a-decent-and-perhaps-even-likeable-person sort of things, either. They're things that make me want to steal a time turner so I can lock myself in a broom closet until I've overcome the urge to ramble on about Merlin knows what while Lily stares at me like I've grown a second head. They're things that have me wondering who this bloody idiot is who's taken over my body. And sometimes—often—they're things that keep me up all night trying to figure out why Lily doesn't just hex me the moment she sees me to save us all the trouble.
And there it is. That's the one, inexplicable thing that's slowly eating at my sanity. Why doesn't she do everything in her power to ensure she has to spend as little time as possible with me? Why does she allow me to sit next to her in class and pass her stupid notes with things like 'How many times d'you bet Flitwick will fall off his chair today?' written on them. Why does she write back, even if it is only to say 'sod off, Potter, some of us actually like to pay attention in Charms' (I know, that one blew my mind as well).
Why does she let me sit down at her favorite table in the library—the one behind the Charms stacks, underneath that portrait of Headmaster Debbins, in case you're wondering—and try to convince her that she'd be much better off just giving up on homework for once to go for a late-night snack in the kitchens? I nearly had her, by the way, once I mentioned the elves always have a fresh batch of treacle tart since they'd discovered my penchant for it in first year. But then my idiot mouth just had to add that there really wasn't much point of her continuing with her Transfiguration homework, anyway, since I'd probably still get better marks than her on our essay. Needless to say, I visited the kitchens alone that night.
I mean, what the bloody hell is wrong with me? How is it possible that the part of my brain that controls my mouth finds it necessary to insult Lily, however teasingly, every time we're actually starting to make progress? It's no wonder she hates me.
Except, does she? If I had a galleon for every time I had to watch Lily stalk away in a huff because of something stupid I said….well, I'd probably give them all to Remus, because I don't need them, anyway. But if I had a galleon for every time she inexplicably still spoke to me the next day….Remus would be even richer than I am.
Anyway, the point is—well, I dunno, was there a point to all this? I suppose the point is that I fancy a bird who'd rather spend time with a multi-tentacled sea creature than go out with me—that's not me being overdramatic; those words came straight from Lily herself. And quite frankly, it's nearly enough to drive me off the Astronomy Tower every day.
I know. I know it's insane. I admitted that straight off, didn't I? I don't need Remus's quietly raised eyebrows or Sirius's blatant declarations of the fact to know that there's something seriously wrong with me. But the thing is, I don't care. In fact, I am remarkably unconcerned by the fact that I might actually be absolutely and certifiably off my rocker.
Because that's what you do for love, isn't it? And I suppose you could call this love, couldn't you? That's what I'm going to call it, anyway, if only because it makes the rest of it seem just slightly less pathetic.
On a completely unrelated note, I'm quite proud that I've been carrying on this entire inner conversation with myself while at the same time doing a convincing show of working on my Potions essay. Lily's been across the library from me for the past hour, and I don't think she's noticed anything. But why would she, I suppose?
Maybe I could just go over there, right now, and talk to her about…oh, I don't know, but something. Something perfectly normal. It's not entirely inconceivable that there will come a day when we manage to have an actual conversation, is it? And I suppose that's my biggest problem. That infuriatingly blind, impossible, and foolish hope is what keeps me in this masochistic cycle. It's far from pleasant, mind, despite what I said earlier about love. So maybe I won't go talk to her, after all. We've hardly spoken today, which means we've hardly yelled either, and sometimes that's a nice reprieve. Besides, choosing not to talk to her every now and then doesn't mean I've given up. There's always tomorrow, isn't there?
A/N: Thanks for reading!