You like looking at him, you decide. You like catching the light in his hazel eyes without him being aware of it. You don't do it because he's handsome or because you're hopelessly attracted to him (you tell yourself) but because it's fun to tempt fate. You play this game of risk; you watch him laugh with his friends and take a particularly long glance when he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt to expose his forearms. You think you are invincible, and with each furtive look you find yourself becoming more and more daring, until your eyes are boring into his skin, drinking him in like cool water that dissipates on your tongue.

And sure, you can tell yourself that the burning feeling that blossoms in your core is merely a strange side effect of being overworked and getting less sleep than you should, but deep down you know that no amount of tireless NEWT preparation could cause your breath to come in short, quick bursts whenever his body brushed against yours while you walk together during patrols.

When you catch him staring at you in Charms— undressing you with his eyes while a smirk plays on his lips— it is with a pang of startling clarity that you realize that you (Lily Evans Head Girl) are insatiably attracted to James Potter.

You tell yourself that he means nothing and that he is nothing to you, but when he speaks your name you can't help but feel as though hundreds of fireworks are exploding in your chest. And you laugh at his stupid jokes because it feels good to laugh with him, to forget about the angry words once exchanged between the two of you like dying embers of a fire. And although you know for a fact that he is much too close now, although you lie awake at night just so you can imagine the way he smiled at you a few hours ago, you still find yourself simultaneously insisting that he is just a friend and (hopelessly, shamelessly) flirting with him.

The realization that you have passed the point of no return comes one evening when the two of you are patrolling together. You catch him staring at you (again) and you find yourself growing angry, because when he looks at you like that you feel absolutely helpless against the power he has over you. You ask him what he's looking at and he grins and shakes his head. When you catch him again mere minutes later your patience is at its end.

"I'll ask you again," you say, visibly angry at the handsome boy who stands before you, eyebrows raised as if he is unaware that he is the cause of your anger.

"Why the hell are you staring at me like that?" Your voice falters at the end because suddenly his eyes are boring in to your skin, causing a blush to creep across your skin like the beginning of a wildfire. His eyes burn with desire and his tongue licks his bottom lip. Your eyes widen as he steps toward you, confident and sure that you won't hex him.

And of course you won't. You realize this as he steps closer and (bloody fucking hell) suddenly has you pressed against the wall. The stone against your back is cold but your skin burns hot against it.

You consider opening your mouth to say something, but he moves closer and you are engulfed by the passion that exudes from him. He presses his lips to yours, and you melt in to him, enraptured by the strong press of his lips on yours. Your lips just start to part as he pulls away.

There is a devilish glint in his eyes as he looks at you, and you stare back at him with confusion etched across your face.

"I think you know why," he whispers, the ghost of his words left lingering on your lips.

Your anger returns as quickly as it left (who the hell does he think he is, kissing you?) and you leave him with a scathing, "You are an arsehole, James Potter," just before you walk away.

Although you would of course deny it, a small flicker of a smile graces your lips as you hold your head high and walk with confidence in your step.