Written originally for the Reviews Lounge Birthday Ficathon. The compilation can be found in my favorites list. Go read it and support the community!

The challenge was a Marauders-era stories focusing on Lily and Shakespeare's Sonnet 94. The story is based on my interpretation of that sonnet. I own nothing; it's the property of JK Rowling and the sonnet is good ole Will's.

Thanks to TheSteppyOne for the beta!

Enjoy!

Lilies that Fester

You know he's coming before he ever appears. You've developed a kind of sixth sense about James Potter, and it really bothers you. With the amount of time he spends deliberately invading your life, it is infuriating to you that he has come to invade your senses as well.

And the last thing you need right now is a confrontation with him, not on top of the day you've had. And so the moment you sense him coming, you clear off your library table and pack your bag, praying for an escape.

If you were a little less meticulous, you might have made it. But because you take the time to roll your parchment, to cap your ink and blot your quill on the stained spot of skin between your first finger and thumb, to pack your bag carefully and push in your chair, you haven't quite made it behind the nearest bookcase when he saunters around the corner.

"Leaving so soon, my fair Lily-flower?"

Your back is to him, so you don't have to hide your irritated grimace. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from snapping that one, you aren't his anything, and two, even if you were, you certainly wouldn't be his "fair Lily-flower." It would be so easy to snap at him, so easy to take the anger and frustration of the day out on him because even though he may not have done anything in particular to you today, he's done enough in the past. It would be so easy – but no. Not today. Not now. Now you say nothing, just hitch your bag a little higher on your shoulder and continue on your way out.

If he had only let you go. But instead, he moves so that he's blocking your path, a solid mass standing directly between you and the exit. So you press your lips together tighter, still silent, and try to shoulder your way past him. But he is bigger than you, and broader, and your attempts to get by are in no way effective.

And so you're stuck. Stuck because of James Potter, in a way you have been for the five and a half years you've known him.

It would be so much easier if you could just hate him. You wish the situation was that straightforward. You wish you could just hate him. There is so much about him to hate. He is the worst kind of bully. He is arrogant, disrespectful, offensive, and chauvinistic. He has humiliated and demeaned you on pretty much a weekly basis in one way or another for the past five and a half years, and you are far from being the only one. He gets pleasure out of making others suffer. He thinks he can get away with anything, thinks life is some kind of game, and seems incapable of taking anything seriously. There is so much about him to hate.

But you can't hate him. Not entirely. Because of the other moments. You can't hate him entirely because you've seen him when he thinks no one's watching. You've seen him take a poor, shabby bookworm, a socially awkward and inept bumpkin, and a pureblood outcast under his wing and make them his closest friends while simultaneously ridiculing those who don't fit in as he decrees they should. You've seen him lay conjured blankets around the same exhausted first years he'll humiliate publically two days after their exam is finished. You've seen him lead girls on in one moment, and hex a guy into the Hospital Wing for talking badly about them the next. And worst of all, though you didn't see it, you know that, only a few months ago, he saved the life of one of the people he hates most in the world.

It makes no sense, and you hate it, but you can't hate him because every once in a while, this decent person shines through. And in a lot of ways, that just makes it all worse. Because while he's off making a complete arse of himself and enjoying every miserable second of it, you stand there and see what he could be doing. And today is shaping up to be no different.

"Excuse me, Potter," you all but growl, refusing to make eye contact, but instead of complying, he just takes a wider and firmer stance and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Well, just a minute now, there, Lily," he says in a tone that ranks right up there in your books with teeth on fork tines and nails on a chalkboard, and it's all you can do not to cringe away. You look desperately to the front desk for any kind of assistance, but of course there is none. Madam Pince has been called away to some other duty for the moment and the library desk sits empty, deserted, and of no help to you whatsoever. "It pains me to see you spend so much time hunched over desks, absorbed in meaningless, dreary tasks set by out-of-touch professors who haven't seen a good time since the turn of the century."

"Then my attempt to leave the library should be taken as an encouraging sign," you snap. He gives you a wide smirk, and you wish you had just held your tongue.

"Well it would be," he says, and oily is the best way to describe his voice, "if I didn't know that you were just going to disappear into your dorm and work away into the night. It's a shame, really. I'd like to help you do something about it." And he reaches out and brushes your elbow, and that's the last straw. You snap your arm violently out of his reach, and he's tensed and waiting for your comeback, you can see it in his face, but you're past a comeback. It's too much, all of it, and you have to get out.

"I can't do this right now," you say, and shoulder your way past him, and because he's so shocked at your response, you're actually able to, and you manage to make it out of the library and a few steps up the corridor before he catches up to you and blocks your path once more.

"What was that supposed to mean?" he asks, and his tone is different now, not oily, but arrogant and disdainful, as if he's mildly insulted that you failed to live up to his expectations. And it's underlined, all of it, by the tiniest note of concern, which is almost more infuriating than everything else. And so, instead of continuing to walk away, you answer him.

"This!" you say, spreading your arms wide. "This, Potter. Where you come in and are your usual offensive and disgusting self, and we go back and forth and back forth until I am so worked up I can barely see straight! I can't deal with that today, I can't deal with you today, not on top of everything else, so for once in your life, I am begging you, listen to what I'm saying and leave me the hell alone!"

You hadn't meant to say all that, but everything that's been building all day just came out of your mouth as soon as you opened it, and you couldn't stop the words or the emotions they brought with them, and so by the time you're finished speaking, you are infuriatingly on the verge of tears. And now you continue your way up the corridor, or you try to, but James Potter has switched into his chivalrous mode, and he's not about to make escaping easy for you.

"What happened?" he asks, and his voice is different yet again, and now it's that voice you hate the most, worse than the oily one, worse than the arrogant one. It's the voice that something inside you wants to trust. It's the voice of the decent James Potter, and for one wild moment, you want to tell him everything. You want to tell him about being cornered in the dungeons by a group of blood-obsessed Slytherin thugs, about being slammed into a wall and threatened with a wand against your throat while your former best friend stood by and let it happen. You want to tell him that you were too petrified and immobilized to reach for your wand or think of a spell. You want to tell him that if Slughorn hadn't come around the corner, you don't know what might have happened.

But then you remember that this is James Potter, and he doesn't have the right to know any of that. He doesn't have the right to be concerned about you, and most of all, he doesn't have the right to make you feel those things.

"Nothing happened," you snap, trying yet again to escape, but he lunges forward and captures you around the wrist. You spin to glare at him as mild panic rises inside you.

"What happened?" he asks again.

"Let go of me!" you growl, trying to pull away.

But it's too late. The long sleeve of your robe rides up, and he sees them. The dark, fierce bruises you've been feeling forming all day. You can see his fury even though his eyes never leave the skin of your arm.

"Who did that to you?" he asks, his voice quiet and dangerous, and this is a James you've never met before, and you're not sure it's one you want to know. You snatch your arm away and pull the sleeve down again.

"No one did anything to me," you say, but you know it's not convincing, and you know that James Potter is smarter than that.

"Who did that?" he asks again.

"I told you. No one," you insist. "It was an accident."

"An accident?" Now that quiet and dangerous voice is directed at you, slightly louder, slightly more angry. "It was an accident that someone grabbed your arm so hard you bruised?" he demands. You glare at him.

"Yes."

"Tell me who it was." It is a command, imperial and demanding, and it leaves you incredulous.

"So you can do what?" you ask him. "Run off and defend my honor? I can take care of myself, Potter."

"Clearly," is his sarcastic response.

"If all I got from them was a couple of bruises on my arm, I'd say I did fine!" you say defensively, but the moment the words are out of your mouth, you know you've made a mistake.

"Them?" he repeats, ignoring the rest of what you said in light of that information. "There was more than one?"

You press your lips together and take a deep breath, determined not to give him anything else. "This is none of your business," you tell him, and you try to walk away, but you should have known it wouldn't work.

"None of my business?" he asks, reaching out to stop you once more with a hand around your wrist. But you notice that his grasp is gentle. You notice that he's taking extra care not to hurt you. You don't want to notice, but you do.

"It is none of your business," you say again, trying to make your voice firm and hard, but you're failing and you know it, and it may be that frustration that causes you to snap your wrist from his grasp as violently as you do. And you think he looks hurt for the tiniest moment, but then it's gone, and the anger is back, and now it's directed at you.

"Was Snape a part of this?" he asks. "Is that why you won't tell me?" In a strange, bizarre way, you're grateful for the accusation because it brings back the James Potter that you can hate without any trouble at all. It makes it easier to get on footing you're more familiar with.

"No," you say frostily. "But thank you so much for bringing him into this."

"Well, I'm pretty sure he was in it already, but if you don't want to tell me, that's fine," he says, his tone suddenly bitter and sarcastic.

You stare at him in disdainful disbelief. "You know, your jealousy of him is really –"

"I am not jealous of him!" he interrupts violently, sounding disgusted by the mere accusation, but you know the truth.

"Yes, you are," you say, knowing you've gained the upper hand and having more confidence for it. "You're eaten alive by it. Do you have any idea how ridiculous that is?" He presses his lips together tightly and doesn't answer. "You really are a piece of work," you say, letting your contempt shine through. "You, James Potter, are jealous of him. And you want to know why?" He doesn't answer, but you knew he wouldn't. "Because he's managed to get the one thing you can't." You practically spit that last at him, and you're about to throw at him the one thing he'll never manage to earn when he speaks.

"You cannot be about to stand there and defend Severus Snape," he says with contempt. "Not after what he did to you. Or do I have to remind you?" And that really is the last straw for you. That's really all you can take.

"I think I remember what happened between myself and Severus, Potter, having been there for it. In fact, I'm pretty sure I know what happened better than you do, and, you may have noticed, I'm no longer friends with him as a result. But don't you dare stand there and tell me who I am or am not allowed to defend. Don't you dare." Common sense is telling you that you should stop, just leave it and walk away. But you're past the point of listening now. There are too many things that have been waiting too long to be said, and they will not be stopped, not by you, not by him, not by any power on earth.

"I will defend Severus Snape until the day I die because he was my best friend for seven years. Long before I got my acceptance letter to Hogwarts. I was a Muggle, and he was my friend. And when we got here, and we were Sorted, and I was a Gryffindor and therefore his enemy, he was still my friend. For five years, in spite of his friends, in spite of mine, and in spite of everyone telling us it was wrong. Five years he lasted in the face of that, and if he eventually gave in, it was because going against public opinion takes a stronger person than Severus Snape. For Merlin's sake, you're terrified of doing it! He did the best he could, and what happened was inevitable. Do I hate it? Yes. Do I wish things had ended differently? Yes. But despite what you may think, Potter, Severus Snape is not the worst kind of person in the world. That's you."

You have more to say, but you don't want to say it. You want to be done with this conversation. You want to be out of this situation. More than anything, you want to be away from him.

And you try. You try to get away. But he's there. And he's angrier than you've ever seen him, and it's directed at you, and you can't escape.

"You don't get to say that and walk away," he says, his anger turned quiet and hard, and this is the most serious you have ever seen James Potter. "You don't get to make that accusation and then leave. You're going to call me something like that, you damn well better be prepared to explain it. You damn well better be prepared to tell me how I am worse than Severus Snape."

"Because you could be so much better!" It's not the answer he was expecting, and you can tell he's taken aback by it. You close your eyes so you won't have to see his face for reasons you don't want to think about. But after you take a deep breath, you force yourself to look him in the eye because if you're going to do this, you're going to do it to his face. "You could be so much better than what you are," you say, and your chest is tight and your voice is full of emotion, and you didn't realize until this moment just how much what you're about to say has been pushing at you, waiting to get out. As you speak to him, you have never been more in earnest in your life. You have never more needed a person to listen to you.

"You are smart and clever and dedicated and capable," you tell him. "You have the talent and the power to do something real. To make a substantive difference. To help hold together a world that is falling apart at the seams. You could lift people up and give them hope, and instead you cut them down and make them think they are nothing. You could fight back some of the darkness in this world, and instead you add to it. You could help people, and instead you only hurt them. And you don't even care! It doesn't even matter to you! But it matters to me."

Your voice changes then. It had been pleading and desperate, but now it hardens. This is the most important thing you will ever say, and somehow, you know it. You lift your chin and look him straight in the eye. You are going to force him to listen to you if it kills you.

"It matters to me," you repeat. "I look at you and see what you could be. And then I see what you are and it kills me! You could be so much better! You could be so much more than what you are! I've seen it! You could be a person I respected. A person I cared about. A person I cared for. But you won't. And that's it, James." He had looked away some time ago, a muscle in his jaw twitching with the effort of keeping his teeth clenched together, but now, at the sound of his name, his head turns back to you, his eyes meeting yours once more. You deliver the final blow.

"You could be so much better," you tell him, your disgust with him coming through. "You just won't. And that makes you ten times worse than he ever could be." You have to pause before you take the final word, to swallow the lump of emotion that has risen in your throat. You turn away for just a moment to compose yourself before meeting his eyes for the last time and choking out, "It kills me."

You can't hold back the tears anymore, so you leave him standing there and hurry away up the corridor, expecting at any moment to feel a hand around your wrist, him holding you back once more.

But it doesn't come. And you don't look back. You can barely see the halls through the film of tears in your eyes, but you make it all the way to Gryffindor Tower, all the way up the girls' stairs and into your dorm before they fall. And he doesn't stop you. He doesn't come after you. And you don't understand it because you don't understand him, but at the moment, it doesn't matter.

Your room is deserted, for which you are eternally grateful, as it means you can just collapse on your bed and hug your pillow to your face and let go. You cry until your eyes are swollen and your throat aches, until you have no more tears to squeeze out. You're crying for him, and for all the people he's hurt, and you're crying for you, but most of all, really, you're crying because you're half in love with him and there. You've admitted it to yourself, something you've known for quite a long time now. And it really bothers you, that you have fallen halfway in love with someone so horrible, but you can't change it. You've tried. And you hate it, and you want to hate him, but you can't.

But you do know, without a doubt, that until he changes, no one else will know. You won't let them. And so, you believe that it will be kept hidden forever, because he will never change. Never.

You're able to believe this because you didn't see his face. You're able to believe it because you didn't turn back to look at him when he didn't follow you. If you had, you would have seen something extraordinary. If you had, you would have seen the look on his face, and you would have known that somehow, this time, he heard you.

In the weeks and months to come, every time he starts to speak, every time he starts to act, he will hear your words and he will stop, seeing himself and his words and his actions through your eyes. Your words will change him. It will take time, but before a year has passed, he will be almost completely unrecognizable. Before a year has passed, he will be a completely different person. He will come to live his life so that he might make the world better for the people around him. He will spend every waking moment trying to atone for the damages he and his friends have done. He'll think at first that he's doing it for you, but as more and more time goes by, he'll realize that he's doing it for himself. And what's more important, he's doing it for them, because it's the right thing to do.

In less than a year, he'll be named Head Boy, just as you'll be named Head Girl. He'll start the year by apologizing to you, in his way. You'll tiptoe around each other at first, but eventually you'll become friends, and then close friends. And by the time the year is halfway out, you'll be all the way in love with him because there will be nothing left to hold you back. In little more than a year from now, you'll be dating him, and you'll be the happiest you've ever been, despite the threat of darkness that will loom over your lives, and the fight that's becoming very, very real. But you'll know that with him by your side, you can get through anything.

But right now, you have no way of knowing any of this. Right now, you believe he will never change, that he's incapable of it. You have no way of knowing what the next year will bring. And so, right now, as the room grows darker and darker as the sun sets, you curl up on your bed, holding your pillow close to you as a few more tears leak from your eyes, and you mourn the loss of what never had a chance to be.

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

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