Harry Potter Bumps Along The Way

_Disclaimer: Anything you recognize isn't mine._

_Author's Note: Lots of studying went undone to write this. I expect reviews! Haha... just kidding. Honestly though, please review. And I would like to thank those lovely, loyal few who always review. You know who you are :)_

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"Oi! You coming to watch us kick some Slytherin ass, Lily?"

I had a carefully cultivated hatred. It was difficult at first— hard to set aside the fact that he was relatively handsome, even at the age of eleven, and that he was clever and full of wit. It was hard, but not impossible. As time went on, it became easier. His arrogance and narcissism overshadowed any decent aspect of his personality. And, of course, there was his tendency of cruelty to the weak. If nothing else, that was enough to hate him.

It's different now, though. We're seventeen, into our seventh and last year of schooling and he's… he's _changed_. His arrogance and narcissism have melted away, reduced to an easy confidence. His cruelty matured to good natured teasing, saved only for his ridiculous friends. We were forced to spend an inordinate amount of time together this year, as he is the Head Boy to my Head Girl. We share a private dormitory, run prefect meetings and patrol together. Oddly enough, we're friends now, good friends. It's no longer Potter versus Evans, but James and Lily.

"Of course," I reply, grinning.

His eyes are bright and animated, practically dazzling in anticipation and excitement. He looks like a child on Christmas morning.

I enjoy Quidditch, though not nearly as much as James. However, whenever I watched a game, I was always far more distracted than I should be about the safety and welfare of the players (though I was decidedly _less_ worried about the Slytherins). They zip along at impossible speeds, bludgers and other players flying about, obstacles for them to dodge. The muggle in me is always convinced that at least one of them is going to be knocked off his or her broom and fall to a gruesome, untimely death.

This is why, I imagine, when James attempts to walk past me, bag of gear in one hand, grin still on his lips, I stand. He's a couple of steps ahead of me, so I reach out and my fingers wrap around his forearm. My fingers are cool against the white-hot of his skin and the high contrast of my ivory skin in comparison to the bronzed tan of his is almost comical. I hear his breath hitch before he turns to face me, hazel eyes boring into mine, grin fading fast.

"James," I say, my voice soft and serious, hand still on his arm. "Please be careful."

He knows what I'm referring to, having been subject to one of my diatribes after Amy Meadows, a good friend of mine, was injured in a game. His grin is back within an instant.

"Of course, Lily," he assures. So swiftly I'm not wholly sure if I imagined it, he leans toward me and presses a kiss to my forehead before exiting the dormitory.

My skin is hot where his lips touched me and I know without looking that I am blushing. My heart is beating just a bit faster than normal and I have to literally tell myself to calm the fuck down. Quite honestly, I'm not even sure it's worth the emotional rollercoaster to allow myself to be surprised by him any longer. It happens daily. Oftentimes it's the little things, things that I would never have believed I allowed to transpire had you asked me a year ago. It's little _friend_ things, like a reassurance and a chaste kiss on the forehead or scurrying down to the kitchens to smuggle a small pot of tea for me when I'm pulling an all-nighter, textbooks and loose pieces of parchment scattered about the floor around me. It's nice to know that someone gives a shit every once and a while. It's nice to have someone take care of you, if only for a moment.

I go to my room. Standing before the mirror, I study myself. Long, deep auburn waves cascade over my shoulders and I notice that I am in desperate need of a trim. My fringe is all grown out, now flowing into the rest of my hair almost delicately. It softens the slope of my nose and the sharp jut of my chin. My eyes, a deep, bright emerald, stare back at me through thick mascara coated lashes. I purse my lips at the light dusting of freckles, barely visible, over the bridge of my nose. I'm pretty, I suppose, but I've never found my appearance to be anything extraordinary. I always wondered what it was that James saw in me. I reach for my scarf—Gryffindor pride—and wrap it around my neck before donning my hat and gloves. Shrugging on my heaviest cloak, I begin making my way out of the Heads' Tower and towards the Quidditch pitch. As I meander through the corridors, along with almost every other student, I can feel the building anticipation. The atmosphere is light and practically intoxicating. I find myself grinning broadly along with the rest of the crowd filing through the castle.

Everyone always enjoys Gryffindor matches. We have the best team, after all, and never fail to make the game interesting. There's a little anxiety this time around, however. Apparently Slytherin has a new prodigal seeker. James hasn't seemed terribly worried about this though. He's confident in his team and his own abilities If I'm being honest, he has every right to be. He is the best chaser Hogwarts has seen in over a century.

Before the game begins, I see James shake hands with the Slytherin captain. With a loud _bang!_ the match starts and the players kick off the ground simultaneously. It's a blur of red and gold and emerald and silver as the young wizards whiz by on their brooms. The quaffle, steadily in Gryffindor's possession, is tossed about more times than I can count. Before I even know what's happened—I never can hear the announcer clearly—Gryffindor has scored eight times while Slytherin has only managed to get the quaffle past our keeper once. It is clear that this is going to be a short match. The cheers from the Gryffindor stands have escalated to an unceasing roar and I'm cheering right along with them. I know that I am inevitably going to be hoarse tomorrow.

James is wholly dominating this game—it's no wonder that he's team captain. Without warning, a bludger sails his way. He swerves swiftly to the left and he's flying right above us, this beautiful serene smile curving his lips as the bludger narrowly misses him. I exhale shakily, unaware that I have even been holding my breath. He manages to score yet another goal, bringing the game to an utterly humiliating (for Slytherin anyway) one hundred and eighty to sixty.

Suddenly, the Gryffindor seeker dives down, obviously in pursuit of the snitch. After a heart stopping thirty seconds, his fingers close around the elusive golden ball. My eyes dart to James, currently headed towards the goal posts, unaware that his team has just won the match. In the next instant, a bludger collides with the side of James' skull. I see his eyes flutter closed and his grip on the quaffle released. The ball drops to the ground, nothing more than a streak of red through the air and James quickly follows. My gasp is loud and shocked and terrified. For a split second, it's like the whole world has stopped.

Madame Pomfrey is by his side the second he thumps to the ground. The team crowds around him, no longer thrilled by their victory, but concerned for their captain. Madame Pomfrey enlists several teammates to carry him to the hospital wing. I stand quickly and race down the narrow wooden steps. I follow them closely once I reach them.

"Such a dangerous sport," Pomfrey tuts. "Absolutely ridiculous. Unnecessary."

I'm pretty close to whole-heartedly agreeing with her.

She's still muttering as we enter the hospital and they place James gently on one of the beds.

"Out, now," she commands, stern as always. "All of you! He'll be fine in no time. You can visit him _after_ dinner."

She shoos us out and closes the daunting wooden doors behind us.

"He took a right fall there, yeah?" Burrows, our keeper, comments.

"Sure did," Moore replies.

They both seem horrendously nonchalant about all of this. I don't know how this is possible. I want to shriek, "He took a bloody bludger to the _head_! Why isn't anyone more _concerned_?" But I don't. I stop myself and I just stand there as they begin heading back to the common room, no doubt to begin the pre-celebration of Gryffindor's victory. I wait there, right outside the hospital, four several hours. I sit. I pace. I gaze, unseeing, out the nearby window. There are a thousand and one horrible thoughts swirling through my mind as I contemplate the recent events, as I wait to make sure that James is, in fact, going to be alright. Merlin, what a _stupid_, dangerous fucking game. I realize that this whole James being in the hospital thing is completely unnecessary and that if he had the least bit of _intelligence_ he wouldn't be _here_.

Madam Pomfrey opens the door right in the middle of my internal tirade.

"Oh, Miss Evans," she starts. "Are you here to see Potter?"

For half a beat I realize how utterly insane this is, visiting _James_ of all people in the hospital wing. But then I remember that we're friends. This is ok.

"Er… yes. I am," I stutter.

"Good. Perhaps _you_ can help me."

We enter the hospital and my eyes land on James immediately. He's pale, with these horrid, obvious dark purple circles beneath his, now dull, hazel eyes. His hair is lying down flat in the back, something I have _never_ seen before, and it's plastered to his forehead, damp with sweat. I know that if I were to touch him, he'd be cool and clammy. I suppress a shudder. He looks so sickly, so _fragile_. If any one aspect of this whole horror, this is what haunts me the most. He's always been so strong and stable. Seeing him like this, just the opposite, is disconcerting. It's like my world has shifted.

The moment he sees Madam Pomfrey he shakily sits up. The bedcovers slip from his shoulders and puddle around his waist. I see that he is bare-chested and I hear myself gasp quietly. There are too many dark contusions peppering his skin. I _hate_ Quidditch.

"Look, Madam Pomfrey, I understand that you want me to spend the night, but I'm _fine_. This really isn't—" he explains, voice exasperated and decidedly softer than usual. He stops short when he notices me trailing along behind Madam Pomfrey. He's gaping at me with surprise, but his shock quickly changes to concern. "Lily… are you alright? Are you ill?" His eyes roam my face, searching for any obvious signs of illness or injury.

I manage a short, humorless bark of laughter before replying, "No, James. I came to make sure you were alright. I've er... been waiting outside since the match."

"Since the match? But… that was _hours_ ago."

He's still staring at me, his brows knit together in confusion.

"I know," I say, voice soft. "But I was worried."

And it's true. I was worried. I _am_ worried. More worried than any sane witch should be.

James looks as though he is about to speak, but Madam Pomfrey cuts him off, asking me quietly, "Miss Evans, could you _please_ convince this boy to stay the night? He absolutely refuses to listen to me."

Over her shoulder, I see James roll his eyes.

"Er, sure," I answer. "Could you give us a few minutes alone, please?"

"Of course," she replies before disappearing into one of the back rooms.

I move to James' bedside. He looks even worse up close. My heart clenches painfully. He offers a slight smile.

"James," I begin. "If she thinks you out to stay the night, perhaps you should. What if something were to go wrong?"

"I'm _fine_," he persists. "We both know that that is highly unlikely. That old bat has never healed a soul incorrectly the first time—and I was barely hurt! Just a bump on the head and a few cuts and bruises and broken bones."

"_Just_? _Just_? You have got to be joking!" I scoff. "You look like hell! Merlin, James! You were bloody knocked _unconscious_! You _fell_ from your _broom_!"

He smiles a little bigger before continuing. "I _just_ need some rest, Lily. I'll be good as new tomorrow. Problem is I can't _sleep_ here. Have you ever spent the night here? It's horrible. The beds are hard and lumpy and there's this constant draft. Terrible. I can't sleep here."

I sigh.

"You are _so_ fucking stubborn."

He can tell that his victory, with me anyway, is near. He grins.

"I know."

I sigh again, louder this time.

"Fine. I'll see what I can do."

But we both know I'll be able to convince Madam Pomfrey to allow him to leave. I am Head Girl after all.

I explain the situation to her in the privacy of one of the supply rooms.

"He needs to be monitored," she argues.

An image of James, pale and sickly, comes to mind.

"I can watch him," I counter.

I do want him to feel better. If this is the only way, as he insists, then I'll do whatever I can.

She regards me critically before finally conceding.

"Fine, but you need to bring him back here should anything go wrong."

I nod enthusiastically, anxious to just leave already, to go back to the Heads' Tower where everything is normal and happy and _healthy_.

"Now, there may be some vomiting—a side effect of one of the potions he took—and he'll have a migraine…"

She prattles on as I think, _Oh Merlin, what the fuck did I get myself into?_

When she's finally finished, the pockets of my robes are stuffed with various potions and brews and bandages for a few of the more serious gashes about his person. I go to James and unceremoniously say, "Come on now. It's late."

He's grinning as he unsteadily stands. I put my arm around his waist and he drapes his over my shoulder.

His grin is far more sheepish now and he murmurs a soft, "Thanks."

It takes a while, but we finally make it to the Heads' Tower. We did not speak much on the way. James was too busy trying to stay upright and awake to carry on a conversation. When I noticed that he was doing his best to lean on me as little as possible, I tightened my grip around him, thankful that though he was broken and bruised, he was still here to hold.

I lead him to his bed, lifting the covers so he can slide between the sheets. He looks absolutely exhausted. I empty out my pockets, separating the medicines into two categories: those to be taken before he goes to sleep and those to be taken in case of emergency. I give him his pain medication and the last of the healing potions. He takes each dutifully, though he grimaces with each swallow. By the time he's laying down again, his eyes are half closed.

"Thank you, Lily," he slurs. The pain potions obviously have some inebriating side effects.

"It's no problem. Honest."

I brush his hair off his forehead and he sighs contentedly.

"Stay for a minute, please?" he asks.

"'Course."

"I have something to…" he begins, but the remainder of his sentence is inaudible. He continues for a minute before finally drifting to sleep. I realize that I have been stroking his hair this entire time.

I move one of the plush armchairs from our common room to his bedside and I sit there for the night. I don't sleep. Instead, I just watch him. I watch to make sure he's ok. I watch to memorize the details of his face, aware that after this year, after graduation, I may never see him again. It's almost dawn as I contemplate this. I ponder what life at Hogwarts would have been life without James. I wonder what I would be doing at this very instant had something fatal happened today.

When I think this, when I think about what would happen if James… I just break down. My tears are slow at first, but soon they stream down my cheeks in quick succession. Soon, great wracking sobs shake me. I can barely breathe. I can't see. All I can think about is how awful, how empty I would feel if James wasn't here. He wouldn't be here to give reassurance and a quick kiss on the forehead. He wouldn't be here to steal me a pot of tea. He wouldn't be here to ruffle my hair when he passes. He just _wouldn't be here._ And this is the most terrifying part of all.

I can't seem to quell my tears and I know I'm being horrendously loud. I thank Merlin for those pain potions, because otherwise I'm sure I would have woken James by now.

I nearly jump a mile when a warm hand touches my shoulder.

"Lily?"

It's James. When the fuck did he get out of bed?

He takes my face in his hands. "Merlin… Lily. What's wrong?"

"I… can't… stop," I wail, wholly out of control.

His thumbs brush across my cheeks, attempting to wipe away the tears.

"Come sit," he suggests, pulling me towards his bed.

He wraps his arm around my shoulder, rubbing soothing circles into my arm. I notice that he looks completely healed, his skin returned to a golden bronze, his eyes dancing with light once more. This makes me cry harder. I rest my head against his strong shoulder, trying to calm my breathing.

"You… you… can't die, ok?" I sob.

"Die? Lily, I'm not dying. I'm fine." He's looking at me again, his eyes brimming with concern.

"Promise me. Please." I sit back from him, staring hard.

"What?" He takes my hand in his. "Lily…"

"James. Please." I know I sound desperate, so desperate, but I also know that I cannot lose him from my life. Not now.

"I—I promise." He's so confused. I don't blame him—I would be as well, should the roles have been reversed.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, will myself to calm down.

"Lily, what is going on?"

When I open my eyes, I decide that maybe, instead of all this thinking, I should just speak.

"I… when I saw you fall, it was like everything stopped. My breath, my brain, my heart. All I saw was you crumpled on the pitch, almost lifeless. I waited outside of the hospital for hours, because I couldn't bear the thought of being anywhere else while you were in there, possibly dead."

"Lily…" he whispers and his voice is so soft, so kind.

"Wait. Let me finish. I was just thinking, as I watched over you, what would have happened if that fall _had_ been fatal. I just… I don't know what I would do, James. I thought about how _empty_ I would feel and I'm thinking now how important you've become to me. You're a part of my life, a good part, as crazy as that sounds. With you gone I wouldn't be me… I wouldn't be whole." As I speak, trying to work through the jumbled mess of my thoughts, one thing becomes startlingly clear. "James… I love you."

The moment the words are out of my mouth, I realize how utterly true they are. Saying them, my heart soars and when I see the look on James' face, I almost start crying again.

"Liy…" he murmurs.

And then his lips caress me. He touches my forehead. He lays a gossamer kiss upon each closed eyelid. His lips move across my jaw, until finally, he places a deep, but chaste, kiss on my lips. When he pulls away, he presses his face to my hair, whispering, "I love you too. Merlin, I love you too."

I had a carefully cultivated hatred with James Potter… but it didn't really last.


End file.

Harry Potter, Romance