A small piece because Ed Sheeran is all I listen to these days. This was supposed to be a lighter, happier fic all the way through, but it turned into… this… thing. It's happy at the end, though, I promise. Enjoy xx

He has no idea how to put it into words.

No idea how to describe the swooping feeling in his gut, the electricity zinging across his nerves, the cloudiness in his brain that pulls into sharp focus when he looks at her.

Sirius used to slag him off endlessly, ever since he told him, at thirteen, that he thought he was in love with her. You don't know what love is, mate. Relax and go snog someone else - you'll realise how fucking dumb this is.

He had snogged other girls, but he never thought this was dumb. Or wrong. It never went away. It only got worse, more all-consuming. More pathetic.

Around fifth year, he realised he had no idea how to handle himself. He'd packed on muscle, grown 15cm over the summer, his body didn't show any signs of slowing down, and his brain was awash with hormones and he didn't even know which end was up most days, let alone how to conduct himself in public, especially around the girl he'd been thinking about since he was old enough to realise that he liked them in the first place.

He tried to act cool, he was cool, but anyone that had bothered to watch him closely enough would have realised how utterly pitiful he was, because underneath it all he was fifteen and desperately in love and he had no idea what to do about it. He was annoying and rude and, thinking back on it now, he knows that he earned each and every one of those trips to the hospital wing, every hex and curse and jinx she ever sent his way, every scowl or insult she shouted at him.

He was a fucking prat. Deep down, he knew it - it made him love her even more that she pointed it out.

He grew up. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

He grew another 10cm, quidditch finished filling him out, he settled down, just a bit, looked at his mates differently. Part of it was the event early sixth year, Sirius' fucking stupidity and selfishness and impulsiveness that had almost broken Remus, broken all of them, but the rest was the realisation that they wouldn't be able to hide forever. They couldn't stay there forever, couldn't be kids forever, he had to step up or the war was going to kill them. It might kill them anyway. But he wanted a shot, he needed to have a shot, and he wasn't going to sit around waiting for it to land at his feet. So he took it.

He was the glue that held them together when Remus couldn't stand to even be in the same room as Sirius, kept Sirius tethered to the ground when Remus' rage and sadness and profound disappointment were threatening to run him through. He knew how volatile Remus was when he was angry, how thoughtless Sirius was when he was terrified, and he moderated. He ran messages between them for weeks, protected them from one another, from themselves, brought them back together. It took nearly everything he had, cost him tears and many sleepless nights, but it was always going to be worth it because they were nothing, nothing, without each other and he needed them to know that.

He started reading the paper every morning, his glasses halfway down the bridge of his nose while he shoved porridge in his mouth. She'd first noticed this a few weeks into the term and had shot him a look, "Since when do you read the paper?"

Her tone wasn't unkind, something that still surprised him, because it should have been. After everything, after how often he'd annoyed her, after how much she'd hated him, it should have been. He just shrugged, "We're going to be out there eventually. Might as well be prepared."

Truth was, reading the paper terrified him. There were people he knew in those stories, families, children…

He blocked it out, never let it get into his head, didn't let it make him want to hide. He blocked it out, but he never forgot them.

He remembered them when he walked through the corridor and saw a second year in tears, scared out of his wits because the town where his parents live was attacked, when he dragged Sirius, fists bloody and cracked, out of the dungeons, tears streaming down both their faces as he grabbed Sirius in a hug, trying to keep him from running back down there, "Sirius, I know. I fucking know, Sirius, but you can't kill them. You can't, SIRIUS STOP!"

Sirius had thrashed against him, "We're going to kill them in two years, James, WHAT'S THE FUCKING DIFFERENCE?" He was screaming and his eyes were red with tears and rage, and James couldn't look at him like that and tell him he was wrong, that he shouldn't want this because he wanted this, but he knew they couldn't, they had to be better than this. If they weren't better than them, then what the fuck were they even doing?

"THEY - THEY TRIED TO KILL HER, JAMES. MARY IS NEVER GOING TO COME BACK HERE BECAUSE OF WHAT THEY DID TO HER."

Sirius was right - Mary didn't come back.

The injustice, the fucking inhumanity of the whole thing, boiled his blood, tried to cement hatred in his gut, but he knew, he knew that if it did, that they would win, or at least gain ground, and he wasn't willing to give them that. He wasn't going to give them a single bloody thing.

He started taking notes, stellar notes, in Transfiguration, added his own little thoughts and ideas and extrapolations and gave them McGonagall, "I know she isn't coming back, but I don't want her to fall behind in case she does."

It wasn't much, it wasn't anything, but it was all he could think to do.

He still messed about - still snuck out to Hogsmeade, still pulled stupid pranks with his fellow Marauders, still dedicated 110% of himself to quidditch and frivolity. But it was a lifeline, something that kept his head above water, something that kept him from being angry and sad and terrified all the fucking time because when he sat down and let himself think about it, it would have been so easy to do just that.

People noticed - McGonagall, Dumbledore, the Marauders, his fellow Gryffindors, Lily.

They made him Head Boy, they respected him a bit more (and slagged him off for it), they looked up to him (he didn't know what to do about that), she started talking to him. Regularly.

He couldn't believe it, even looking back now, he didn't know how to describe it, how to connect the dots, but every time she sought him out, every time she smiled, laughed, bumped her hip against his, cocked her eyebrow, the long buried feelings, long abandoned hope came flying back and tied his stomach up in knots. He didn't know how they'd gotten from her hating the very sight of him to long nights spent on the couch in the Head's dorms, her head on his shoulder while they worked on the seemingly never-ending prefects schedules, but he was never going to question it, never think twice. He was too busy trying to sort out how to breathe, let alone think.

When she kissed him, finally kissed him, in November, he genuinely thought he'd died, his heart exploded in his chest, his gut overrun by a bunch of rampant, out-of-control butterflies, but also like he'd been plunged in icy water, like breathing, finally breathing, after the air has been flattened out of your lungs and your vision is starting to go black. She killed him and brought him back to life all in one fluid motion, the instant her lips met his, and as soon as he wrapped his arms around her waist he knew that this, this, was what he'd been waiting for.

She told him that she didn't hate him, she hadn't for a long time. He told her all the things he'd ever wanted to tell her over all the years he'd known her.

He helped her study for N.E.W.T.S. and he thought back to the little girl she'd been, the small, vivacious eleven year old with brilliant hair and an attitude that had knocked him flat, remembered how much she'd wanted to prove herself, how desperate she was to live up to the expectations she'd set, and he smiled, kissed her neck, told her that she was the brightest woman he'd ever known.

He watched her straighten her hair in the morning, when it was so chaotic it nearly rivalled his, thought back to when she'd walked around with her hair like that for weeks before O.W.L.S., and told her she looked stunningly, unbelievably perfect whether she believed him or not.

They lounged by the lake, his head in her lap, her hands in his hair and a laugh on her lips, and he told her that he would do anything for her, that she was frustrating and infuriating and brilliant and hilarious and stunning and he was intent on pestering her for as long as she'd let him.

She woke up in his arms, the sun streaming through the windows of his room, her hair curling down her back, cheeks flush with sleep, eyes half closed, and he told her he loved her, more than he could say, that he's pretty sure he's always loved her, that he'll never stop loving her, because she's all he thinks about, she's the only one that can make him feel a million things all at once, like he's flying and falling and stable and safe and standing on the edge of a fucking cliff and he loves it, loves her, never wants it to end.

Nothing prepared him for what it would feel like when she said she loved him back. It was all those things, it was everything - they didn't leave bed that day, he breathed his love and desire and need into her skin, and he felt her tracing hers into him, into his skin, his blood, his bones.

He wasn't sure he deserved her - how could he deserve to be this happy, this warm, this loved, especially in the midst of all the fucking madness going on around them - but he did his best to deserve it, to give it back to her tenfold, to let her know that he meant it when he said he'd do anything for her, that he loved her, that it was more, more than he knew how to say.

They were barely out of school a few months when he asked her to marry him. It was stupid and impulsive, and they were just kids, but he knows it's what he wants, that he'll never, ever, love anyone like he loves her, and they're in the middle of a war and maybe now isn't the time to worry about propriety. He's still surprised she said yes, but she always is surprising him, it's one of the many, many things he loves about her.

Looking at her now, knowing all he knows about her, how deeply she runs through him, how much he loves her, needs her, he can't believe he hasn't gotten used to the rush in his gut, the silly smile that fills his whole face, the rapid thrumming of his heart as it tries desperately to beat out of his chest. He's never gotten used to her, he'll never get used to her, because she always keeps him on his toes, keeps him guessing, makes him feel thirteen and out of control in the best way, and it doesn't matter that they're still just kids, that they're barely 19, because nothing, nothing will ever surpass this moment, nothing will ever be better than her.

He can feel Sirius smirking at him, feels Sirius' elbow in his ribs, but he isn't listening, doesn't know where they are in the ceremony, he just blurts out, "I do," and hopes it's the right answer. The smile on her face tells him it's the correct choice and she's all he can see as she gives her vows and he can barely wait to get the ring on her finger before his mouth is on hers and she's laughing against his lips.

She's nervous about the dancing, she was nervous about the dancing in the months leading up to the whole bloody thing, but he smiles, reminds her of all those times they practiced in the garden, barefoot, the grass tickling their toes as he moved her through the steps he'd perfected ages ago, and takes her in his arms. She cringes when she trods on him, but he just beams, presses her closer, slows their movements, sings the words of the song they chose under his breath.

Her smile stops his heart and sets it off again at breakneck speed.