Her

            I did know she liked me.

            Her olive-colored eyes took on an extra sparkle when I was around, and her cheeks flushed prettily when I talked to her, and her smile grew wider, happier.

            There were a number of girls who liked me—I heard them say "sexy" and "smouldering" behind my back, but I paid no attention. I wasn't sure if "smouldering" was a good or bad word, and I didn't care to find out.

            But she was different. I couldn't put my finger on it, but she was. Perhaps it was that she was intelligent; perhaps it was because she had spunk. I could go on forever with all the "perhaps" clauses I can think of, and this is not a story about how many things I can think of that might have made her different. What mattered was that she was different, and although I may not have noticed it until later, I did notice it in the end.

            And her first words made me smile:

            "I don't really know you that well, but… I did hear you were good at Arithmancy, and I… I'm not good at all," she informed me, face rosy as she angled her eyes down in discomfiture. I grinned at that: it was such a welcome break from the "how's Saturday" and the "anyone ever told you you've got the most smouldering smile?" and the "yeah, honey, your throat looks real good for sticking my tongue down, how's the Charms classroom" that I usually got. I agreed, forgetting that I had planned to work with Sirius on a prank that night.

            That was in fifth year.

            I am positive I didn't like her then, and there's no denial in the statement. I was desperately wishing for a friend—popularity isn't the same as having friends—and the opportunity manifested itself, in the form of an intellectual, interesting individual who apparently wanted to befriend me as much as I wanted to befriend her. She came to mean as much to me as the Marauders, and the friendship lasted until seventh year. I ignored Sirius when he tried to tell me that I was head over heels for her. I was too caught up in this wonderful bliss of friendship to think about anything else.

            Then, one Thursday evening, she pushed down the Arithmancy book I was tutoring her from and sat across the polished mahogany table from me.

            "We need to talk," she said softly, propping her elbows on the table.

            "About what?"

            "I know," she informed me, quite clearly, "that you know that I like you."

            I turned an unprecedented shade of red that wasn't half as beautiful as her shy flushes and garbled something along the lines of "Welsh, yush knoash, Ish donsh realsh…"  That made her furrow her brow in thought, and suddenly, all I could think of was: "She is so beautiful when she does that… she is so beautiful when she does that… she is so beautiful when she does that…" And it hit me:

            I, relationship-hating James Potter, had just fallen in love with my best friend.  

            It's rather inconvenient to fall in love with your best friend when she's sitting right across from you, rather perturbed at your lack of control.

            Of course, I was dying to kiss her right then and there, but the problem was that I had more control than she thought I did, and I knew that I couldn't just kiss her out of thin air. I couldn't kiss her at all, fuck it! She was my best friend, and you can't just kiss your best friend.

            Oh, I hate it when my mind shows traces of logic.

            This whole time, I think she was talking, about how I had to forgive her for liking me, but it wasn't her fault, really, it had started out as sort of a puppy love thing, and then she had just honestly started to like me, and she swore it wouldn't ruin our friendship, she just had to make sure everything was all settled and—

            "James?" she inquired, breaking off and furrowing that godawful attractive brow once more. "Are you even listening to me?"

            "Um. Yes. No. Yes, I mean."

            She squinted at me and sighed.

            "All right, James. I just… really, I just wanted to know… you don't like me back, do you?"

            In that split second, her eyes were so wistful, so hopeful, so incredibly needing…

            "Uh, no. I'm sorry. I just don't feel that way about you…" I trailed off, thinking, Gods curse it, what did I just do?

            There was another split second I saw the emotions in those olive-colored eyes, and this time it was pain, pain so deep my stomach heaved. I wanted to wrap her in my arms and kiss her all over and say that I was head over heels for her, but I was numb, so numb I couldn't speak or move or even twitch.

            She nodded, smiled, and walked away, calmly, with her textbooks.

            I cursed her for being so damn good at hiding her feelings.

            Then I ran to the bathrooms and vomited until my stomach was empty, hating myself for ever loving my best friend.

*

            I'm not normally an insomniac. Out like a light, that's me. But it was one thirteen in the morning and I couldn't close my eyes. That image—the one of her eyes, green and hurt and disappointed—burned into my mind like a hot brand. I tried to close my eyes and I saw her brow, creasing in confusion; I tried to count sheep and felt the sweetness of touching her.

            I'm not quite sure what possessed me to go into her room, but I did: stole my way quietly from the boys' dorms to the girls', knowing nothing except that if I didn't right this soon, our friendship'd be down the drain anyway.

            Her bed was the only one without piles of clothes around it, and that brought a half-smile to my lips at the thought of her quiet neatness, her tranquil demeanor… I stuck my head inside the bed curtains, a tapestry of emotions and numbness all rolled into one.

            "Hello?" I whispered. She rolled.

            "Jampff," she muttered, slowly opening one eye. She let out a gasp as she saw me. "James!" she exclaimed, sitting up and pulling the covers to her chest.

            "Shh, shh." I rolled onto the foot of the bed, cast a quick Silencing Charm and prayed that for once in my life, I had done a charm properly.

            "What are you doing here?" came the hiss.

            "I—well, I—" Why was I here? All I knew was that I had to do something, she couldn't go on thinking I hated her forever. A sticky drop of water traveled down my cheek, and I realized with a start that I was crying. I hadn't even cried at my mother's funeral, and now I was crying over her, when she was still living and breathing in front of me?

            With a shock it occurred to me that a) she was unattainable and b) I loved her more than I had ever loved anyone in my life.

            "Oh, you're crying," she told me, dragging her cool fingers lightly across my skin, streaking the tears. "What's wrong? Did you have a nightmare?"

            "I couldn't sleep," I whispered back, the tears falling faster. "I—well, I know what I said, I know it upset you—I didn't want you to get the wrong impression—I—"

            "I will always be your friend, whether you lo—like me back or not. I told you that tonight, and I don't think you were listening, but I do want you to know that. It's an unconditional friendship, all right?"

            "What were you about to say?" I must admit, I didn't hear very much very well past the first sentence.

            "Say?"

            "You started to say—"

            "Oh." She blushed, just barely distinguishable in the shafts of moonlight that fell across her face. "It's—it's not important."

            "But it is!" I insisted, moving forward. She tucked her knees up to her chest to give me more room as I knelt in front of her, my tears sparkling on my cheeks in the dim light. "It's so important," I whispered. Her green eyes, large in her face, shimmered with unshed tears.

            "It's not."

            "It is! You don't understand, you really—really don't. I don't know why I—said what I said down there, and—I don't understand why I haven't realized anything the past years, and I can't honestly say I liked you from the moment I saw you, but I can say that I love you now." I gently touched her thin hands, grasped them with my larger ones, and she didn't pull away. "I'm not very—very logical, most of the time, and I said that so that it wouldn't ruin our friendship, but you have to understand—I can't live like this, can't look you in the eye, knowing what you might feel for me and knowing what I feel for you, so you—you just can't expect that this won't change our relationship already…"

            I had no idea what to say anymore, and as I stared into her face, afraid and puzzled, I realized that things might have been better off if I hadn't said anything. She pulled her hands away. I hurt. What if… what if I had told her, down in the common room? What if I had told her earlier? What if…?

            But her small hands cupped my cheek, the coolness caressing my skin. She caught my gaze, turned my head, made me stare into those olive-green depths. I am scared, to this day, of what love I saw in her eyes… the love I know was reflected in mine.

            "May I… may I kiss you?" she inquired softly.

            "I would love you even more for it," I answered.

            And her lips met mine, and I tasted bliss. I felt her complete me, felt her erode me, felt her sweetness and felt my realization of my faith in her and in this moment. I don't think that, as seventeen-year-olds, we should have quite been experiencing such pure emotions with a first kiss, but as love comes, you take it, and love came to me.

            "I do love you," she whispered against my lips.

            "I know."

            And the kiss grew deeper, more explanatory. I do not know of anything that could possibly feel more perfect than contact with her, and this was exquisite in itself.

            It was a while before we pulled away.

            "I should go," I began, trailing off. The words hung there, motionless in the silence of our labored breathing.

            "I'll walk you to the door."

            We slid out of her bed and padded, barefoot and quiet, to the door. There was a slight hesitation, before—

            "Oh!" I don't know who said it, but it made me take a second glance at what she was wearing: a pale pink, thin nightdress, that slipped off one shoulder. She blushed furiously as she caught sight of my midnight attire (perhaps it wasn't so wise to forget my dressing gown, I thought, standing awkwardly in my boxers), and I think my blush rivaled hers. For the first time, I realized that when she blushed, it traveled past her face, down her neck, to her shoulders, and down to her—

            I gulped, turned redder, and, with some tribulation, managed to slide the shoulder of her nightdress right back onto the soft shoulder where it probably belonged, although I preferred it where it was—

            "Sorry," she muttered. We must have made a lovely canvas of color, with our magenta complexions.

            "No…" I cleared my throat, wanting to hide in a corner and spare us both the embarrassment. "Good night."

            "You, too," she answered. An auburn curl fell into those pools of green, and I brushed it back. There was a slight hesitation, but then I came to my senses and kissed her, once, twice, thrice. They were no less perfect than the first one, and no less blissful.

"Love you…"

            "Yes," she replied, a smile spreading over her lovely face, "you, also."

            I crept out of the room, breathing hard and fighting to control my blush. Falling for your best friend wasn't always so bad, I supposed…

            Yes, I might have been too young. Yes, I might have been too naïve to notice. Yes, I might have been too caught up in the novelty of it. But yes, it did last forever.

Because love did come to me, and it came in the form of Lily Evans.

*

*chokes on fluff*

*apologizes for title*

Actually, there's a surprising lack of stories from James' point of view in this section, so here's one to add to the list. If I ever properly finish "Exactly That," there'll be one more, but we'll see. It's so fun, writing stories from James' view! You should all try it. Here, I issue a challenge, with somewhat bendable and twistable rules:

RULES:

1) Must feature L/J in a leading role, but it's not necessary for it to be in a romantic position. Friendship is accepted, but oh, do try and make it fluffy friendship!

2) Must be told from James' perspective. No backing out on this one, because it's the whole point of the challenge. Diary form is accepted, but not required.

3) Must include Sirius trying to memorize the dictionary. Do I specify what language dictionary? Nope. He must be trying to learn the thirty-second word in the dictionary. If it's too high to count, then approximate—reasonably!

4) Must have at least a dose of seriousness. Please no humor fic and then a little fluff bunny at the end. Not for this challenge.

5) No using the term 'kissed passionately' or anything of the sort! The word passionately was fine the first thirty-seven times used. Now we're up to the five millionth, and it's getting tiring. I am sick of people kissing passionately! Gak! If you're dying to use the word 'passionately,' then someone can argue passionately. That I don't mind. (This is a general rule for everyone who wants their fics to be different, unique, and therefore, good. In my opinion. Not that this is that original…)

There. Only five rules. C'mon, won't anyone take me up on that? It's a very easy contest, but I'm really interested in seeing more stories from James' point of view. Anyone who decides to enter the contest, if you get the chance, e-mail me at [email protected]. Chances are, I want someone to talk to anyway… *grins*

All right, that's all I've got to say. Toodleoos, and why don't you review? :-)

--Ivy