A/N: This drabble was inspired by one of my favorite fanarts, James' hair by the fabulous burdge. If ffnet would let me post links, I would. But I cannot figure out how.

James Potter's hair should be illegal. Honestly, the existence of it needs to be punishable as a criminal offense. It shouldn't be permitted to stick up so fetchingly in the back, or fall so adorably over his forehead, no matter how many times he pushed it back. He shouldn't be allowed to run his hands through it time after time, in a way that was as attractive as it was annoying. Annoying, not because he did it knowing it made the girls swoon, since I'd grudgingly realized lately that it was more a nervous habit than anything. No, it bothered me so greatly because it left me with the urge to do the same, to reach out and brush my hand over his hair, run my fingers though the dark, messy strands and relish in the deliciously pleasant sensation. At least, I imagined it would be deliciously pleasant. "That's not all that's deliciously pleasant about him, I'd wager," is what Marlene would say if I confessed my mad desire to her. But I hadn't told anyone; I'd just kept it bottled inside and repressed as well as I could, which is probably what led to the events of Friday evening.

Deciding to study in the common room was my first mistake. Why I ever entertained the thought that I could actually get work done on a Friday night in the midst of my talking, laughing housemates is beyond me. But I was making a valiant attempt nonetheless, an attempt that was constantly thwarted by one Gryffindor in particular: James Potter. Now, it wasn't that he was bothering me directly, which in itself was something of a small miracle. He hadn't teased me for working on the first night of the weekend, or thrown bits of parchment my way at regular intervals, or sent me owls from across the room with stupid little notes on them—all things that had happened in the past. In fact, he'd barely glanced my way when I'd appeared at the bottom of the girls' stairs, and hadn't looked over to my seat under the windows since. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for me. I'd pathetically glanced up at him and his mates every time I'd heard Potter's infectious laugh ring across the room. Usually, when he knew I was in the room, he'd try to meet my eye when he made a joke, as if hoping I'd heard it and found it as uproariously hilarious as everyone else. But he hadn't done so once this evening, and for some reason I found it infuriating. I wasn't sure what was wrong with me, except that I found the idea—the impossible, unbelievable idea—that Potter no longer cared what I thought of him at once terrifying and disappointing.

And it was at that point when I was forced to accept the completely unfathomable fact that I fancied James Potter.

That was why he and his bloody hair had been driving me so mental lately. That was why I could hardly concentrate now, when he was so blatantly ignoring me. Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself marching over to him, an angry, "Potter!" leaving my lips as I did so. It surprised me, because I wasn't—for once—actually cross with him. But he practically leapt to his feet at the sound of my voice, eyes flicking instantly to the wand I'd shoved impatiently behind my ear. His, I noted was stuffed in the back pocket of his trousers, despite the countless times I'd pointed out in irritation that it would do him no good there if he ever had need to draw it quickly.

"Evans," James started nervously. And then he did it. His hand, as it so often did when I confronted him like this, jumped to his hair, fingers raking a hurried path through it.

Everything I'd planned to say, though I wasn't entirely sure I'd planned anything at all, fell away in that moment. Having apparently lost all control of my limbs, my hands rose towards him of their own accord. James flinched, as though he expected me to hit him, but as my fingers wound their way into his messy locks, his eyes widened in surprise. I let out an involuntary sigh of relief, the feeling of his hair under my fingertips as wonderful as I'd imagined.

James, finally finding his voice, managed to croak, "Er….Lily? What are you doing?"

"Hush," I commanded, not removing my hands, "I've wanted to do this for years." I wasn't sure why I said 'years', when in fact it had only been a few weeks, but perhaps it was my subconscious speaking; perhaps I had longed to run my hands through his hair for ages. Or maybe I just wasn't thinking properly, and the word had popped out by mistake. Actually, I most definitely wasn't thinking properly, a fact my woefully lagging sense of reason eventually alerted me to. The room had gone absolutely silent, aside from a few nervous giggles, and a loud snort of laughter from Sirius Black. Dropping my hands quickly to my sides, I blushed straight to the roots of my hair, muttered, "Sorry," without looking at James, and began to turn away. But he caught my arm, pulling me around to face him again, and of course the prat was grinning. An achingly cute crooked grin, one that drove away any resolve I had of returning to my seat by the window. Or perhaps my dormitory, from which I would never emerge again.

"You know, Evans, there's something I've been wanting to do for years," James started casually, tugging gently on my arm until I took an involuntary step closer. "And I think it's only fair I get a chance now, wouldn't you say?"

"I—w-what?" I stammered, heart thudding in my chest as James moved forward, bringing us so close I could feel his breath on my still-flaming cheeks.

Instead of answering, James cupped his other hand against my face, thumb running briefly along my cheekbone. My eyes fluttered shut at his touch, and then ….. he kissed me. In the middle of the common room, in front of loads of people, James Potter kissed me. And normally I might have been mortified, or disgusted, or furious….but instead, my fingers buried themselves once more in that gorgeous head of hair, and I kissed him back.