Author's Note: This story is set in a sixth-form college, which isn't quite university but isn't quite high school, either. I've taken a few small liberties with reality, for example, sixth-form students wouldn't study Romeo and Juliet and most sixth-forms probably wouldn't provide the range of subjects that are available to the students in this story, but needs must.

FYI, I wrote this chapter before the Harvey Weinstein scandal broke, so the references to Hollywood creepers is totally coincidental. What a trip.

CHAPTER ONE: WHY, ROMEO, ART THOU MAD?

Act 1, Scene 1

September 2017

Hogwarts, a private school

"Drop your bag, Potter, and sit back down at once."

"But the lesson is over," said James.

McGonagall frowned dangerously at him over the top of her square spectacles, but James was standing several feet clear of the fir pointer she used for lessons, and felt safe enough to engulf the last minutes of class with some time-consuming cheek.

Of course, she had never struck a student with the pointer before, but she had once told him that he was bound to send at least one of the staff round the twist before his school career came to an end, and for all he knew, she may have been hinting at something. It was prudent to avoid presenting himself as a target.

"Has the bell rung?" said McGonagall aridly. "I wasn't aware that I'd lost my hearing."

"No, but you'd finished the lesson and I wanted to get to the library as fast as I could."

He was met with silence, which felt like an invitation to regale the class with further impertinence, so he grinned and scratched idly behind his ear, a movement that smoothly transitioned into a hair-ruffle.

"It's important to study hard," he explained. "Otherwise I might have to sell my body on the streets, and wind up richer than I already am."

Though an amused murmur shuddered through the room, McGonagall's only sign of recognition was the lift of an eyebrow, of which James was immediately envious. He couldn't raise one brow at a time; despite his best efforts, one would insist upon joining the other. It was his greatest failure as a student and as a man, and McGonagall was a sly cat to remind him. As James recalled, he had once revealed this shortcoming to her during a careers advice meeting, though she'd feigned disinterest in what she'd labelled as 'made-up weaknesses' and forced him to write an essay on self-awareness.

"Is that so?" she replied.

"You're such an inspiring teacher."

"How kind of you, Potter."

"You're welcome, Miss."

"And as you're so fond of my company, you may join me after school this evening for the first of a week's detentions," she continued, and drove the tip of her pointer into the ground like a screwdriver. "Unless you'd rather sit back down and avoid them."

James normally enjoyed an opportunity to go toe-to-toe with McGonagall, but he had a pressing engagement after school that he couldn't afford to miss. He dropped his school bag to the floor, where it landed with a thump, and sat down next to Sirius, who was picking at the dirt beneath his nails with the lid of a biro. An assortment of pens spilled from the open front pouch and rolled in all directions across the polished laminate floor in a bid for freedom.

His classmates, many of whom had been watching him expectantly, sank back into their earlier stupors.

McGonagall rapped the floor with her pointer. "I have something to discuss with you all, now that Potter's made his customary plea for attention. How is everyone enjoying Romeo and Juliet?"

Another murmur rose from the assembled students, so apathetic that it didn't quite reach the corners of the room.

"Thank you all for your unique perspectives," said McGonagall. "Since you're all so eager to discuss the play that accounts for 15% of your entire A-level, I take great pleasure in informing you that in lieu of the Christmas pantomime this year, the headmaster has instead elected to put on a performance of said play—again, that's Romeo and Juliet, for those of you who've slept through your first week of classes," she added, with a nasty look for Sirius. "Do you have any insight to offer on the play, Mr. Black?"

Sirius shrugged. "Not enough car chases."

"On behalf of Mr. Shakespeare, I apologise for the lack of car chases in 16th century Verona."

"Thanks," said Sirius. "He's forgiven."

McGonagall looked as if she would quite like to box his ears, but her nostril-flare subsided, and she carried on speaking to the rest of the class. "The headmaster is looking for students from Year 13 to audition, and as you're currently studying this text, I'd particularly like to see quite a few of you getting involved."

Louder murmurs filled the classroom. James glanced over his shoulder at his other mates. Remus was staring blankly ahead of him with no appearance of interest, but Peter had thrust his hand in the air and was watching McGonagall expectantly.

"Yes, Pettigrew?" said McGonagall.

"Will you need people to help out backstage?" said Peter, his voice high and reedy.

"We'll be requiring volunteers to work on lighting, costuming and so on. I'll post a sign-up sheet on the bulletin board. Booth?"

"When are the auditions?" said Beatrice Booth, who sat a couple of rows behind Peter and Remus, next to Lily Evans, who had caught one of James's pens beneath her foot and was rolling it back and forth. James watched her for a moment to see if she'd look up at him, but she didn't, so he turned back to face the front of the room.

"Auditions will take place on Monday after school, 4:30 p.m. sharp," McGonagall was saying. "There's no need to sign up, just pop along to the music room if you want to try out for a part. You'll be asked to read for a role of your choosing, so I'd advise anyone who's interested to read through the text and spend the weekend practising. Rehearsals will also take place at 4:30 p.m., starting the following Monday, and will repeat every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday until mid-December."

Sirius put up his hand but didn't wait for McGonagall to call on him. "Will there be car chases?"

"No."

"Will there be chariot chases?"

"No."

"Will there be any kind of chases?"

"Would you ever consider not being a tremendous pain in the backside, Mr. Black?"

"No."

"You've answered your own question," she said, and was spared from any further conversation with Sirius by the sound of the bell. "Lupin, stay in your seat. I've got something to discuss with you."

James stood up and darted past a confused-looking Remus and Peter, leaving his bag on the floor behind him. The rest of the class were shoving their things into their school bags and rising to their feet, but he managed to reach Lily Evans's desk before she stood up. On a whim, he got down on one knee before her.

Booth noticed him immediately and snorted, but Evans, who was packing her bag with meticulous precision, pretended not to see him.

"Oi, Evans," he said, in a loud voice.

The four or five people who hadn't already fled the room—not including Sirius and Peter, who were waiting for him, or Remus, who was waiting for McGonagall, or Booth, who was waiting for Evans—paused by the door to see what he was up to. This suited James just fine because he loved an audience, though the look in Lily's bright green eyes told him that he would live to regret his decision.

"What?" she said, through gritted teeth, but James had already invested too much in the endeavour to stop now.

"You have made me the happiest man in the upper sixth," he declared. "Will you do me the honour of giving me back my pen?"

A year ago, when Evans was the new girl at school, a stunt like this would have earned him an animated scolding, but she must have taken up yoga over the summer because she fixed him with a look of sublime, zen-like indifference and kicked the pen away. It rolled beneath Winifred Barnes's chair, where it came to a quivering halt, much like his heart, which persisted in pining for Evans despite her complete lack of interest in everything he had to offer.

His heart also pined for bacon, which was also beyond his control, but at least he could readily procure bacon for the low, low price of £2.50 at the local Tesco Express.

"That's a no, is it?" he said, and pouted. "I'm deeply wounded."

"Get out of my classroom, Potter!" cried McGonagall, as if she had only just noticed his presence. She couldn't fool him. James privately believed that the teachers were very interested in their students' romantic entanglements, and gossiped about them in the staff room. "My desk, Mr. Lupin. You can collect Potter's bag and pens for him when we're done."

In the meantime, Lily Evans had stood up, shouldered her own bag and swept regally out of the room, followed closely by Booth, who was laughing openly. James climbed to his feet and was met by Peter and Sirius, the latter clapping him hard on the back.

"Hard luck, mate," he said. "Buy her a ring next time."

Peter snorted with laughter, and it sounded like a great, wheezing expulsion of phlegm. "A cock ring, maybe."

"Detention, Pettigrew!" cried McGonagall.

And with that egregious lack of foresight, sense or comedic prowess on Peter's part, James Potter felt slightly better about the world.

Act 1, Scene 2

a corridor

Remus stayed in his impromptu meeting with McGonagall for ten minutes and emerged from the classroom looking sheepish.

"She's not happy with you, mate," he told Peter, and shut the door behind him with a resolute click. "She says you're to be at her office at 4 p.m. for detention."

"No," Peter whined. "It's Friday, I'm not hanging around here for another three hours just to sit through a bloody detention."

"Go in there and tell her that yourself, then," Remus suggested.

James knew that Peter would have sooner taken a bath with a plugged-in hairdryer than march into McGonagall's lair and announce that he was passing up detention in favour of an afternoon of Fifa 17, or feeling up his girlfriend, Helena, in the back row of the cinema. "Why do I get a detention and James doesn't?"

"Because you told him to buy a cock ring for Evans in front of a teacher, you fucking weirdo," Sirius supplied.

"I didn't mean for Evans! I meant for James to use on himself!"

"Shut up," said James, sulkily.

Remus shrugged James's bag off his left shoulder and handed it to him. "I got your bag, and most of your pens, I think."

"Cheers," he said, and hitched it onto his own shoulder. "What did she want, anyway?"

"Just mentoring stuff," said Remus, looking at the ground. He was a great favourite with the teachers because he did things like study, speak respectfully and care about his future. As a result, he was always being roped into academic mentoring or leading tours of the school on parents' evenings. Remus talked about it sometimes, but the topic of extra responsibility bored James so much that he would feel the spools of his brain unwind, melt and leak through his ears like chocolate fondue, so he rarely listened.

Sirius, who was leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, pushed off with one foot. "Let's get food in town. I've got less than an hour 'til French."

"I'll walk to town with you, but I can't actually stay for lunch," said Remus. "I've got a project to work on at home."

"Great, we can get McDonald's."

Remus pulled a face. "McDonald's is disgusting."

"Then it's a good thing you're not staying," said Sirius.

As one, they turned and moved down the corridor in the direction of the northernmost exit, which would lead them directly into town, and an enticing plethora of fast food eateries.

When James and his friends started sixth form, he had been determined for the four of them to take at least one course together, but by the time he made this grand announcement, the ever-conscientious Remus had already signed up for his subjects. As a result, James, Sirius and Peter speedily put their names down for English Literature, despite Remus's assertion that one shouldn't decide their subjects based on what their friends were doing. His argument fell on deaf ears, and not one of them ever regretted the decision. It was an easy class—at least, James thought so—and as they'd all had McGonagall for GCSE English, they knew they liked her enough to spend four-and-a-half hours per week in her company.

Otherwise, they all took completely different subjects, which was why Remus and Peter got to swan home early on Fridays while Sirius slogged it out in French and James hung around waiting for last-period Psychology. James was sure that the school had made this scheduling decision over the summer as part of some cruel vendetta against him—never mind that Remus would be starting every Monday with double Economics, followed immediately by double Statistics—but the joke was on the administration, because Lily Evans took Psychology and lived six streets away from James, which meant that he'd get to hang behind and pine for her when she walked home on Friday evenings, hence why he was so eager to avoid detention with McGonagall.

Technically, Remus had pointed out, this was stalking, but there wasn't much James could do about it—he had to take the same route home, and he didn't know how to be within walking distance of Lily Evans and not pine. He had thought to spend the summer getting over her, but then she'd shown up at the lido in a bright blue bikini and that was the end of that ambition.

"What do you think of this play?" said Remus, to the group in general. "Anyone going to audition?"

James snorted derisively. "And waste my free time prancing about with a skull, banging on about death and revenge? No thanks."

"That's Hamlet, though," said Peter.

"I'm auditioning," said Sirius.

This was a surprise. Sirius usually never expended effort on extracurricular activities, unless it involved putting bubble bath in the fountain or lobbing projectiles at Snape across the common room. James looked at his best mate with raised eyebrows. "Are you joking?"

Sirius shrugged. "McGonagall will probably let us off homework for a few months. Everyone who did the panto last year got an exemption from non-compulsory coursework."

"You'd have to actually read the play, you know," said Remus.

"I have read it," Sirius retorted. "'Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, 'tis enough,' or whatever. They should have set us Macbeth."

He pushed against the fire exit door—which was supposed to be kept closed, but they'd refused to adhere to this rule since the day they saw Slughorn using it as a shortcut to the staff carpark—with his shoulder and strode out. It opened onto a brightly-lit courtyard, where several students were assembled in various states of lethargy beside the fountain, desperate to soak up the last vestiges of the summer. Sirius loped ahead of their group, his shoulder-length black hair gleaming in the sunlight.

"Why didn't I know about this?" said James, and jogged a couple of steps to catch up with him.

"Why didn't you know that I'd read the play we're supposed to read this year?" said Sirius. "God, I couldn't say."

"I meant, why didn't I know that you were auditioning?"

"Because McGonagall announced it twenty seconds ago, and you didn't ask."

"I assumed you wouldn't want to do it."

"I'll only do it if I get Mercutio. Or Tybalt, maybe. McGonagall can shove it if she thinks I'm playing Romeo. I'd have to act like you," he added, inclining his head towards James.

Remus snorted, though Peter looked nonplussed, but that was enough for James to surmise that he was being insulted. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Remus began. "Romeo is kind of—"

"A soppy twat," Sirius finished, grinning. "He spends the whole play mooning over a woman, kind of like you do with Evans, but less annoying because Romeo dies at the end and gives everyone a break."

"I don't—" James couldn't argue that he didn't moon over Evans when he'd fake-proposed to her in class not fifteen minutes prior, and mourned her distaste for him for ten minutes afterwards. "—care for this topic of conversation."

"James can stick to one woman, at least," Remus pointed out.

"Do you think McGonagall will let me be sound manager?" said Peter.

"You did it last year and the year before," Sirius reminded him, as they neared a group of Year 11 girls at the school gate, most of whom glanced appreciatively at his tall, elegant frame. They broke into excitable whispers as soon as they passed, and Sirius rolled his eyes.

Sirius was much sought-after by his peers, male and female alike, being both exceedingly handsome and exceptionally uninterested in dating, which, apparently, was an irresistible combination. His complete disinterest in romantic attachments had once set rumours flying around the school that he and James were engaging in a closeted love affair, which neither of them minded, but Evans had put an end to that when she turned up on the first day of Year 12 and it became glaringly obvious that James's type ran to redheaded women with incredible…brains.

"Someone else might want the job this year, though," said Peter worriedly, gnawing on the edge of his thumbnail. "I should text Helena, she'll probably want to audition."

"I think you'd be a pretty good Mercutio, actually," said Remus to Sirius. "What part do you think you'll read on Monday?"

"There's a decent scene in Act 2 with Benvolio, or maybe his death scene. I dunno. I'll make up my mind over the weekend."

"Not the whole weekend," James reminded him. "We've got work to do on the website. Peter's coming over tomorrow."

"Did you finish your sketches for the About page last night?"

"You know I didn't."

"And do you want to tell Pete and Remus why you didn't finish them?"

"I was—" Sirius smiled evilly at him, and James scowled. "I had to walk Algernon."

"Past Evans's house," said Sirius. "Three times."

"That's where he likes to go!"

"He looks bloody stupid with that leash on, and you look even stupider holding it."

"You do look stupid," Peter agreed. "Cats don't need leashes."

They reached the end of the short road which ran between the school and town, and turned onto the high street, where James discreetly checked his reflection in the window of Gregg's—still gorgeous—and pushed his glasses up his nose.

"He was getting fat, and he needed the exercise," he stoutly insisted. "Anyway, I'll do the sketches tonight. I've only got two to finish."

"Can't. We've got football tonight," Sirius reminded him.

"Did I mention that I hate living with you?"

"Love you too, mate," said Sirius, and slung an arm around his shoulders.

Act 1, Scene 3

a classroom

James didn't see Lily Evans again until right before last period, when he found her outside Binns's classroom, sitting on the floor next to Mary Macdonald. Mary had her phone out and was showing her a video—of one of her cats, no doubt. Macdonald loved her cats, though not one of them could match Algernon for intelligence, handsomeness or vengefulness.

James had never met any of Mary's cats, but he felt safe in assuming as much. No common moggy could hold a paw to Algernon, thoroughbred monarch of the feline world.

Lily and Mary had become fast friends on Evans's first day at Hogwarts, a little over a year ago, which James could recall as easily as if it were yesterday. There he had been, sat in Psychology next to Evan McNamee, deep in the throes of despair because he was bereft of his best friends for three out of four classes, when Evans breezed into the room like Venus emerging from her seashell in a black blazer and a pair of knee-high socks. Binns made her stand in front of the class, most of whom had sat their GCSEs at Hogwarts, and introduce herself; she'd offered a fiver to whomever could make a joke about gingers that she hadn't heard before, and James's susceptible little heart had been hers forever.

He didn't win the fiver—didn't even try, in fact, too stunned by the sudden appearance of a goddess in Binns's classroom to do anything other than stare at her in mute astonishment. Mary won by suggesting that you could save a ginger from drowning by taking your foot off their head, and Evans immediately handed over the cash, as promised.

"Are you gonna hand out money in all your other classes?" Eddie Bones had asked her, to which she'd laughed, a clear, sweet sound that James soon came to adore with a singular, wholehearted passion.

"That was all my lunch money," she'd replied, indicating the fiver, which Mary was waving triumphantly in the air. "So not bloody likely."

She'd won the entire class in less than five minutes.

"Hello," said James, approaching the two girls in the present day. He slung his bag on the ground with what he hoped was a sexy, Sirius-like nonchalance. Evans didn't look up from the phone, but Mary did, and greeted him with a curt nod.

"Alright, Potter?" she said. "Binns has locked us out."

He leaned, casual as you like, against the wall opposite. "Why?"

"Why do you think? He's still arranging his seating chart, nearly a week later," said Mary, and tucked a stray tendril of dark hair behind her ear. "A delicate operation that requires time, he says. Lily and I asked to be kept together."

Lily closed her eyes, dropped her head on Mary's shoulder and made a noise in the back of her throat that James would certainly imagine her purring in his ear when he had a moment to himself later, but not now. Now was the time to think of cold showers, his late grandmother's moustache and that slug he'd trodden on with his bare foot that one time, because the last thing he needed was to break out an erection when he was standing right in front of her and her eyes were about level with his nether regions.

And relax.

"She's a bit tired, is our Lily," Mary explained. "She's had a stressful day, you know. Some bloke proposed to her earlier. She had to turn him down."

"Ah," said James, his face burning. "Did she, now?"

Mary snorted. "What were you thinking, Potter?"

"The same thing I'm usually thinking—nothing," he explained. "I'm really sorry about that, incidentally."

Lily's eyes flicked open, prettily, which was how she did everything, and she observed him with an unreadable expression.

"Really, very sorry," he repeated blankly.

She blinked, evidently unimpressed by his contrition. "You've got sauce on your shirt."

He looked down. Sure enough, there was a large, undeniably bright ketchup stain on his pristine white shirt. As if he hadn't embarrassed himself in front of Evans enough today, life just had to throw the hallmark of a sloppy eater into the fray.

"Fucking chicken nugget share-box," he spat, and started scrubbing at it with his tie, which made Mary laugh, though Evans remained impassive.

That was how you knew you had no hope with the girl you loved, he sadly reflected, when she won't laugh with you or at you, because she simply doesn't care enough.

The way in which Evans affected James was severe and, until the day they'd met, utterly unprecedented. Raised by two devoted, doting parents who had lost all hope of having a child until he came along, he had grown up knowing that he was special, and had the titles to prove it—miracle baby, advanced toddler, gifted child, exceptional student, superb athlete, talented artist, and an apex predator on the popularity food chain, with the best mates a bloke could ask for to boot. It wasn't until Evans came along that he discovered a new and vexing facet to his personality: total fucking idiot.

Life had been a repeating loop of disasters since she walked into Psychology, first, because his worst enemy turned out to be her best friend from childhood, and second, because he immediately fell victim to a compulsion to seek out her attention, and did so in stupid, humiliating ways, which led to unwelcome feelings, such as self-doubt and incompetence. Everyone who knew about his feelings for Lily, including his own mother, thought it was utterly hilarious. He got no sympathy at all, which was appalling. Remus had even suggested that Evans had brought about a marked improvement in his attitude.

"Your neuroses have made you more bearable, to be honest," he'd told him once, after he and his mates had shared a bottle of premium Russian vodka, courtesy of Sirius. "I mean, I love you to death, but sometimes I want to put a paper bag on your head and leave you in a dark room."

The door to the classroom opened, and Binns popped his head out, peering at the assembled students behind his huge, milk-bottle spectacles. The summer hadn't been kind to Binns; his skin was papery-white, and he looked more like a Dickensian ghost than ever.

"Come in, one at a time," he instructed. "Look for the chair with your name on it. You'll be sitting there for the rest of the year."

Of course, the entire class surged towards the door as one, excepting Lily and Mary, who had stood up and were brushing themselves off. James headed straight for the top of the classroom, assuming Binns would place him there because most of his teachers insisted upon it. A quick scan of the desks yielded no results, however, so he worked backwards and found nothing until he reached the back row and located his name—in fine, bold print on a yellow post-it—placed primly on the chair that sat next to a very stoic, very unhappy-looking Lily Evans.

Thus, James died and went to heaven—though thankfully, not in a literal sense. That would have been traumatic for everyone in the classroom, even Lily, who couldn't stand him. Five hours a week spent sitting next to Evans was a delightful prospect, and James felt that he could have hugged Binns, if he wasn't certain that one hug would break him into a million pieces like a delicate china vase.

"Hi," he said, and tried to look as if he wasn't in raptures over the whole affair.

Lily didn't need to expend any effort to appear distressed. "Hi."

He sat down on the post-it, which he hoped she didn't notice, and plonked his bag on top of the desk.

"How was your summer?" he asked, while he dug around for supplies. His mum had packed his bag fresh on Monday, but already it was a chaotic jumble of books, pens, sweet wrappers, and balled-up pieces of paper. The only well-maintained item in his bag was his portfolio, which he kept carefully concealed inside a large, plastic wallet.

She shrugged.

"I saw—" he began, then hesitated. 'I saw you at the lido' translated almost directly to 'I saw you in a bikini and have been revisiting the memory on a nightly basis,' which wasn't how he wanted to endear himself to her. "—the new Adam Sandler film, a couple of weeks ago."

At the head of the class, Binns was conducting his usual pre-class routine: searching for his misplaced notes. Lily turned her head and threw James a look of deep confusion.

She had gotten her ears pierced over the summer, he noted—little garnets that glinted merrily in her lobes—and was so pretty that it was almost easier not to look at her lest he be overcome by a fit of embarrassment, no doubt caused by the butterflies that had set up camp in his stomach.

"It was shit," he said emphatically. He didn't know where he was going with this line of conversation, not least because he avoided Adam Sandler films like the plague, and wasn't sure if one had even come out over the summer. He slid his textbook onto the desk and stashed his bag beneath his feet. "If you were thinking of going—"

"I wasn't."

"Just thought I'd warn you, you know, in case you tripped and fell into a screening on your way to a thoughtful foreign language film. I wouldn't want you seeing it by accident."

Lily's brows knit together in consternation. "He's an actor, not the Ebola virus."

"Which is worse, though?"

"The Ebola virus," she immediately responded.

"Well, yeah," James admitted. "But if you consider them in terms of their respective fields..."

"What? The field of disease, versus the field of acting-slash-comedy?"

"Is Ebola really the worst disease?"

"It's right up there with smallpox and the Black Death, actually," Lily pointed out. "Whereas The Wedding Singer was a really good movie. So, no, I wouldn't say that Adam Sandler is the Ebola virus of Hollywood."

"Who is, then?"

Lily sighed, heavily, the way James's mother used to do when he was six-years-old and thought an appropriate response to everything she said was, "Why?" followed by an impassioned appeal for Cadbury's chocolate fingers. "I don't know, Potter. Roman Polanski?"

"Well, then," said James. "I will Google Roman Polanski and get back to you on that."

"Right," began Binns, pointing with purpose at his notes, which he was holding so close to his nose that they mostly obscured his face. He took a deep, rattling breath. "To continue our previous study on infant-caregiver interactions during the formative months of—"

Lily leaned forward and started taking notes, her long, ginger hair trailing against the surface of the desk, and James knew her well enough from observation to know that he'd lost her—that anyone would have lost her, even Mary. Lily didn't talk during class, unless it was in direct response to a teacher.

Still, he'd gotten her to engage, and gleaned enough information to start a conversation with her before Monday's class. He just needed to look up that Polanski bloke, and possibly watch The Wedding Singer, if he had time.

Not bad for his first week back, he decided. Not bad at all.