"Interesting."

"Interesting good, or interesting my girlfriend is going to be a crank all morning?"

Her dramatic, idiot boyfriend sighs gravely, kissing her temple, and breaks the news, "Love, you're already a crank this morning."

Although he deserves a sharp elbow for that cheek, resorting to physical violence, Lily knows, would only prove his point. Besides, even she can admit that she's nobody's idea of a morning person.

They'd come down half an hour before, breakfasting rather earlier than usual. She'd normally protest this, loudly and obnoxiously, but as it had been her idea, however, it would be bad form. She'd spent the first ten or so minutes staring, trance like, into her cup of warm tea, willing the steam to wake her up.

When the owls came, she'd been counting coins when her mostly wonderful, sometimes prat boyfriend snatched The Prophet, handing over his own coins. Finder's keepers, he'd grinned, triumphant. He'd spent the last twenty minutes taking his sweet bloody time meandering through the paper. He'd even paused to read aloud a riveting, captivating article advising on the management of garden gnomes before reaching the Sport section.

You know, for good measure.

Prat.

So, while her instinct is to knock his ribs, she lowers her arm—which she'd raised, poised to strike—and settles for a pout instead. She prompts, "Well?"

"Well, what?"

He's playing with her, she knows. Wouldn't she do the same if their roles were reversed? Their mutual ability to wind each other up—well, it's one of the reasons they're so damn crazy about each other, isn't it?

Yes, absolutely, on both counts, yes.

Lucky for him he's damned adorable in the mornings.

Lily cranes her neck over his right shoulder in an attempt to peek at the article. Vain attempt, turns out, because he's quite a bit taller than her and the angle is all wrong.

She changes tactics.

Gulping down her toast, she kisses his jaw and asks in her sweetest honey-laced-with-poison voice, "James, darling, what are the match results, please?"

Apparently, he catches the edge in her voice, and responds without further prompting: "Montrose over Falmouth."

She's awake now, fully, punching the air in victory, "About bloody time! Margin?"

"Forty." James watches her, a bemused smirk on his face.

She scowls, letting out a short, dissatisfied huff. "That's all? They're still in third, then. Damn."

The amusement in tormenting her evidently gone, James folds the paper and sets it aside.

He unfolds his long leg from underneath the table, banging it on the underside in the process, and straddles the bench, turning to face her. Placing two fingers under her chin, tilting her head towards him, he tells her, "Chin up, love. They still have a chance."

She smiles halfheartedly. "It's cute that you make me want to feel better."

"I try," he lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "It's your fault for supporting the Magpies."

"Better than the Falcons!" she snorts. "Stop talking Quidditch, Potter! You know that does things to me."

"Lily, who was it that dragged us down here at this 'godforsaken' hour for breakfast? Who, darling, has a bet with Peter of all people—who never loses a bet, incidentally—that Montrose, of all teams, will win the cup?" He taps her nose. "I don't think it was me." His hand, which had been resting on her back, begins tracing the line of her spine as he whispers in her ear, "By the way, I am incredibly aware that talking Quidditch does things to you. Why do you think we're here?"

"In my defence, I wasn't aware when I made the bet that Wormy never loses. Do you mean here as in here at breakfast, or here as in here, together, at breakfast?"

"Scary, how I know what you mean by that. Here together at breakfast. You're a sight when you're all riled up, especially when we talk Quidditch. Can you blame me?"

She cocks her head, throwing his smirk back at him, "As I am, indeed, adorable when I'm all riled up, I cannot fault you. I'm wounded though. Here I was, thinking you loved me for my charm…"

He laughs at that, and she joins him. She tries again, "My sense of humour?"

He shakes his head, solemn as can be, "Closer, but 'fraid not, love. The truth is I wanted a girlfriend who loves the game as much as I do, and you fit the bill."

"Glad to know you'll keep me around, then."

"'Course I do. Like I said, you're a sight when you're all riled up." He glances at his watch, and she catches the hungry look in his eyes—and it isn't for breakfast. Sure enough: "Now you've heard the scores, and now we've eaten, we have time to go upstairs and 'talk Quidditch' if you want…"

"Such the romantic, you are—"

"I have my moments," he defends.

She snorts again, "Clearly, that moment is not now. Is 'talk Quidditch' going to be your new euphemism? Please say no. I prefer mind-blowing shag."

"As do I, but I can't say things like that at the breakfast table; it'd be indecent. You know, manners, and all that rubbish…"

"Right."

"That's a no, then?"

"Not this morning, love. I'll remind you, we already 'talked Quidditch' once already today…"

"That was the middle of the night—"

"But it was still this morning by two hours. That's why I'm so tired this morning, actually…worth it though."

"Damn straight it was. But Lil, you don't have to make excuses. I know the truth: you just want your toast."

As her mouth is, in fact, full of the toast in question, she can only respond, "Mmmhmm."

"Attractive."

"I try."

"Nice. I think you might love your toast more than me."

"'Course I do."

"You're going to give me a complex."

"You've already got several, James. What's one more? Besides, it's so warm."

"I'm warm."

"It's so delicious."

"I'm delicious."

"Merlin, you're ridiculous…jealous of toast. Besides, you're not covered in marmalade."

"I could be, if you wanted me to…"

She surveys him, a devilish grin on her face. "There's a thought."

"Merlin, Evans, I was joking…maybe. Right now you're covered in enough marmalade for the both of us. You're such a slob when you eat."

He can't wipe it off like a normal person, no. He has to make a big production of it, sucking it clean off the corner of her mouth, making her laugh, working his way across her cheek. She's going to object, has every intention to do so, really. The words are on the tip of her tongue, really, when his tongue flicks her ear in that particular way, and she releases a sigh instead.

The slice of toast drops to her plate, forgotten.

She curls into him as his arms wrap around her, tugging her closer, practically onto his lap. He continues his way down her neck and she fists her hands in his robes, his hair. Her eyes are about to flutter closed for good when she notices three figures entering through the double doors.

She sighs. It's really for the best, she reminds herself.

We're in the Great Hall, for Merlin's sake.

Better to be busted by the boys than a teacher.

Still, she could cry from frustration.

She can't keep the roughness from her voice as she informs him, "Here come the boys."

"Damn!" He straightens, albeit reluctantly, disentangling himself from her, turning to face the table and tuck his legs in properly. When he leaves a hand on her thigh, she doesn't complain.

As the boys in question sit down, Sirius is the first to greet them, "Morning, Prongs. Evans."

She and James respond in unison, in their sickening, adorable way, "Morning, Padfoot." Sirius cringes.

Remus greets them both, "Good morning. I hoped if we showed up late, you'd finished your morning snog by now."

She rolls her eyes. "You know better, Moony. That wasn't even a proper snog." James's hand clenches on her leg momentarily before he brings it to the table.

"Gross." Whether Sirius is cringing at the remembrance of their many proper snogging displays, or from contemplating where her boyfriend's hand had just been, she doesn't know. She's spared from asking when James rolls his eyes at him, "Just eat your breakfast, mate."

To her, he smirks, "You ought to eat your toast, Evans, before it gets cold."

She does just that, thoroughly enjoying the remainder of her breakfast. She and the Peter engage in a rather animated discussion about the latest Quidditch standings, Sirius and Remus occasionally adding in their thoughts. James, however, remains uncharacteristically silent throughout. When the boys are distracted by their own respective breakfasts, she lifts her hand to sweep his fringe across his forehead, out of his eyes. "All right?"

"I'm fine. Just…you know…riled."

Peter interrupts them, asking, "Lily, can I have the marmalade please?"

The boys know better than to inquire why, exactly, she and James burst into peals of uncontrollable laughter.

She idly twirls a curl around her index finger, unwinds it, and starts over again. Her mum's warning—a stop that, darling girl, else you'll ruin your beautiful hair—reverberates in Lily's mum had been right, after all, in that her tips were constantly frayed. No matter; it's a habit she'll never give up. James messes with her hair too much to fuss over a few split ends anyway.

She sighs again.

James.

She peeks over at his parchment. He's copying out the lecture notes from the blackboard, interspersing them with his own thoughts on the subject matter as he goes along. His margins are, she notes with a frown, clear of the tawdry comments he normally scrawls out to keep her entertained.

Another sigh.

She doesn't know what's going on with her boyfriend, but something is definitely off.

During double potions, he'd all but ignored her as she walked by his table to get more ingredients, and he'd all but ignored Sirius's attempts to cause general mayhem. She'd been too distracted catching Moony up to pay any attention. After class, they'd busted up a fight in the corridor. He'd stayed behind to hand out punishments while she'd escorted a bleeding fifth year to the hospital wing. It was an unpleasant task, and by the time she'd changed her robes, both her free period and her lunch had passed.

It's only now, in Defence, that she can properly survey him.

His brow isn't creased, his hands aren't clenched, and he hasn't got any veins throbbing in his neck or forehead. Aside from taking notes, he's stock still.

Bingo.

If the limitless energy James Potter holds in reserve isn't being expelled from his body in some unending, manic release—drumming his fingers on the table, doodling in the margins, adjusting his glasses or her personal favorite, running his hands through that damn hair—odds are it's expending itself in his brain, working overdrive to solve some ridiculous, imagined problem.

This is their only shared class this afternoon, so it's now or never if she's going to sort any of this out. She leans over—as much as she can without falling out of her chair—and whispers, "James."

He's doesn't look up from his parchment. "Hmm?"

"What's going on?"

"Defence?" he deadpans, a shit eating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She hits his shoulder lightly, "You know what I mean."

He's got a full smile now. "'Fraid not."

She scoots her chair closer, wincing as the feet scrape the floor. Kendrick is deaf as a doornail and they're occupying the last table, so there's no chance they'll get caught whispering. Still, best not press her luck. "What's wrong with you?"

He shrugs. "Nothing's wrong. I'm fine."

"You don't seem fine."

"It's nothing."

She takes a stab in the dark. "Is it because I partnered with Moony, rather than you, in potions?"

He laughs quietly, but finally turns to face her. "Why would that bother me? 1. You're free to sit by whomever you want. 2. He needed your help. You'r e the best of us at potions." He flashes a genuine smile at that, and she flushes warmth because he's included her in 'us'—the marauders.

"What is it then? Are you still bothered from earlier?"

"No." He turns in his chair. "Really, I'm fine."

"You're not though. Even Padfoot couldn't figure it out."

He is silent, then, but his smile disappears. He doesn't like that they'd been talking about him.

"James," she demands, "You're being obtuse. What's bothering you?"

"It's nothing." He grits this through clenched teeth, but she's annoyed, too, at his refusal to just come out with it.

Just as quickly as his temper flares, it deflates, "I don't want to fight." His hand nudges his glasses up near his forehead as he rubs his eyes, and when he's done, they fall lopsided on the bridge of his nose.

He's adorable, really, and he doesn't even know it. She straightens them for him.

He places his hand over hers, giving it a squeeze, reassuring her, "I'll get over it, Lily. Don't worry about me."

"Hey, love, no…" She softens, moves her free hand to rub his back. "If there's an 'it' to 'get over', then, you know, I want to know about it."

"It's just…it's stupid."

"Just tell me. I don't like to see you worked up."

"I'm not worked up."

"Right."

"I'm not."

"Not to anyone else, maybe, but I see through that—"

"Fine. But you can't laugh."

She shakes her head. "That never works."

"Promise."

"I promise I'll try not to laugh."

"As good as I'm going to get, is it?"

"Out with it, James."

"That, right there, that's what's bothering me."

"Huh?"

"My name…you'll only say my name."

She cocks her head, confused, "You'd rather I call you Potter?"

"No. It's just—you use the marauder nicknames…"

A ball drops in Lily's stomach. "You'd rather that I don't use them? I just sort of picked it up…"

He's quick to clarify, "No. That's…it's fantastic, actually. You have no idea… It's just…you don't use all the marauder nicknames."

"Except yours, you mean? I was rather hoping you wouldn't notice…"

"Of course I have…"

She flushes scarlet, doesn't answer straight away. He doesn't let her off the hook. "So? Why don't you call me Prongs?" He's not angry, not demanding, but he's so damn earnest about the whole thing that Lily covers her mouth, trying to stifle a giggle.

"You can't laugh!" he whispers, indignantly, "I was more than happy to get over it—"

She teases, "—to brood, more like."

"Yeah, well. I had every intention of getting over it, but you know I've got to brood first—do the thing properly and all that rubbish. I was trying to keep it to myself. But you—," he pokes her in the side, trying to glare at her, "-iinsisted."

"Fair enough…"

"So you can't laugh. Keep it in."

She gets herself under control...barely. "I really want to though."

"Prat. So, why don't you?"

"Laugh? You told me not to."

"No. Call me Prongs."

"I will explain tonight, ok? Just not here, not now."

"You really will though?"

"Of course I will, my darling Jamie."

"No. You're not my mum."

"Thank Merlin for that. I'm just illustrating that there are worse things I could call you than James."

"Point taken, but that's absolutely not the point."

The bell rings, dismissing them. They rise together and beat the crowd out the door. As they walk down the corridor, she gives him a placating kiss to the cheek and promises, "I will explain tonight."

"Good, but I have Quidditch. It'll be a late one."

"And I have patrols. You lot need a late practice. You've got a match to win in thirteen days. Davies is looking awful."

"Unless I'm skipping my afternoon class, Evans, you've got to stop talking Quidditch. It does things to me."

She flashes a grin at him, "Precisely."

"Sodding tease."

"Mmhmm. Calling me Evans does things to me."

"Precisely."

"Here's where we part ways, love. I've got to get going—study and dinner date with Mary and Aggie. You, unfortunately, have a class to attend."

She pops up on her toes to give him a quick peck, and pulls away just as quickly, before he can pull her in for more. Not that she'd mind, exactly, but she doesn't want to be late. Heading towards the library, she calls over her shoulder, "I'm on patrol tonight. Come and find me after practice…Potter."

She's wandering aimlessly through the sixth corridor, counting down the minutes—fifteen and a half—until her shift is over. It's been a dull evening; she hasn't come across any snogging couples. She's had too many late night wanderings with her own boyfriend to be overly harsh to them, and she'll only dock points for being particularly indiscreet, but the busts do break up the monotony of rounds.

She's just settled into a proper, long overdue yawn when he comes around the corner. She's still yawning, arms stretched over her head, when he pulls them around his neck and brings his own hands to frame her face. His mouth is on hers, but there's no real urgency. She'll never get tired of kissing James—his taste and his touch and his warmth. She wonders, vaguely, when thoughts like that—never, forever—stopped scaring her, but he nips her it vanishes away. Weak in the knees as she may be, she's still got to breathe, so she pulls away and muffles into his practice shirt, "Hullo."

His warm breath tickles her scalp as he responds in kind He drops his hands from her face only to wrap her in a hug. "How were patrols?"

"Riveting."

"Snoggers?"

"Not a single one."

"Bad luck."

"I knew you'd understand." Glancing at her watch, she informs him, "I'm still on patrol for ten more minutes, so come on." She tugs his hand and they head down the way she'd already come. "How was practice?"

He lets out a deep breath, "Rubbish. We're going to have doubles all weekend, I think"

"Whatever it takes to win."

He laughs, and after a beat, asks, "Are you going to explain about the nickname thing?"

"Cutting right to the chase then?"

"Don't I always?"

"Only when you want something, I think. You did your fair share of evading this morning."

"Was I? I can't recall."

"Ha."

"Well?"

"It's stupid…"

"What. My nickname?"

"Merlin, no! Although the weight you lot put on those nicknames, that's a conversation for another time…"

"You are evading."

"Fine. I can't say your nickname normally."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"I know!" She lets go of his hand, bringing both hands to her face. She takes a few deep steadying breaths. She's a Gryffindor, isn't she? She can do this. She doesn't take her hands out of her face, though, and the confession comes out in a jumbled mess, "It sounds sexy, alright? I can't say your nickname in a normal voice. I tried it, ok? I practiced it and everything—I swear to god James—it just came out…all…wrong. It's deep and husky and I don't know why and I can't change it and it's ridiculous."

She spreads her fingers the tiniest bit, peeking through, trying to gauge his reaction. She immediately drops her hands and puts them on her hips.

Because his lips are glued shut, but the ends are upturned, and it's his eyes that give him away—brimming, shining with absolute delight. And the prat is trembling; he's actually trembling with effort, trying to stifle his laughter.

He thinks it's bloody hilarious.

"James Potter," she threatens, poking his chest, "don't you dare laugh at me."

It's her fatal mistake; she can see that straight away.

James had never been good at direct orders. There's no better way to get him to disobey, actually, than to give him a direct order. So of course, that's what sends him over the edge. He doubles over, arms clutching his stomach, and he's laughing his arse off as if it's the funniest thing he's ever heard in his life. Once he's going, she knows, there's no stopping him.

She folds her arms over her chest, throws him a glare, and waits. "Are you quite finished?" she asks, two solid minutes later. But of course he's not.

At least her patrols are over.

Another minute passes, and her patience is wearing thin. "Dammit, James, I didn't laugh at you this morning."

He straightens at that, wagging a finger at her, and between wheezes, reminds her, "You absolutely laughed at me this morning."

"I had the decency to try not to."

He's wiping his eyes, his chest still heaving, but he's finally getting himself under control. "You didn't ask me not to, Evans. I didn't have time to brace myself."

"Prat."

"I know. But you've got to admit—"

"I already did! I know it sounds ridiculous."

He nods in agreement. "As ridiculous as me being upset about it in the first place, I know." He wraps his arms around her, kisses her temple. "We're both loons."

She's still got her arms crossed, on principle, but rests her head on his shoulder—it's there, she might as well. "Suppose we are."

"Sorry I laughed at you."

"Are not."

"You're right. But you'd laugh at me, too, if the roles were reversed. I'm just clarifying, Lily, not poking fun. You can't call me Prongs because you can only say Prongs in your dead sexy voice?"

She wails into his shoulder, "Yes! And I can't do a damn thing about it. I sat in front of a mirror and tried. Thought I was going mad. I have no idea why, but I can't say it in a normal tone of voice."

She pokes a finger at his chest, "And I know that my sexy voice does things to you, James Potter, more than Quidditch talk and my lacy knickers combined. That's why I haven't been just throwing it around casually."

"Too right. Never takes much for you to do things to me, Evans, but you could talk about garden gnomes in that voice, doesn't matter; I'm sunk every time."

She frames his face in her hands, nodding her head. "I'm dead sexy, dear; you can't be faulted for succumbing to my wiles."

"You're such a dork."

She flicks his ear. "That's not very nice!"

He boops her nose, "A very sexy dork."

"Better."

"I'm not sure I believe you…"

"Why would I make up something this embarrassing? Especially, love, when I know how sacred your maraudery things are. If I could call you—that—I would. I know it's important to you."

"Maraudery isn't a word."

"Really, what is it then?"

"Marauderish."

"I know that's not a word."

"Yes it is."

"Is not."

"Is."

"You're so wrong!"

"OK. So it isn't. We fought about it for two years, actually, debating maraudery versus marauderish. Flipped for it in fourth year; mauraderish won."

"You're all idiots. Wouldn't it actually just be marauder things?"

"Maybe. Probably. We are idiots, Lily, in only the most brilliant possible ways. Also, you're dating a marauder."

"Don't think I don't second guess that decision."

"No you don't."

"You're right. Marauder you may be, James, but I cannot call you by your marauder nickname." She gives him a good, thorough kiss-to soften the blow. "I'll be happy to come up with a substitute."

"I'll pass on that. You can make it up to me though."

"How's that?" She can think of any number of things she could and would like to do just then, to make it up to him, but she's not expecting him to say, "I want to hear it."

She flushes, "No."

"Lily…" He's whining now, but he's also started on her neck. Prat. She never stands a chance when he does that.

Still, she tries to stand her ground. "No, James. It's embarrassing."

"Evans, please?" His breath is hot on her neck. Fuck

"Dammit, Potter…"

"C'mon."

"Fuck. Fine."

"Really?"

"Prongs."

He tears himself away long enough to look her in the eye, "You're doing that on purpose."

"Completely involuntarily, I promise. Prongs. Prongs. Prongs. See?"

"Fuck."

No matter the cause—their unfinished business at breakfast, their continual teasing, or that his name on her lips in her heady voice really is as sexy as she thinks it was—the effect is instantaneous.

She's prepared for his shudder, the hitch in his breathing, those darkened eyes filled with lust she knows is only for her.

She's not in any way prepared for the way his fingers curl over her hand, tugging before he's got a proper grip, or that she's flying to keep up because he's going at a breakneck pace down the hall. In one fluid movement he alohamoras a disused classroom door open with his free hand, pulls her through, and kicks the door shut behind them as he presses her against the wall.

It's the sexiest thing he's ever done.

Fuck.

She's got no more room for thought, really…it's all taste and touch and James.

His mouth is pulling oxygen from her lungs—not that she could breathe, anyway, because his hands are on her thighs…

…he's ripped her knickers clean off, she's fumbling at his snaps…

…she's around his waist, pulling his pants down with her toes…

…they both groan, because isn't this, that first moment, before they start to move together, isn't that the best feeling in the world…

…until he starts moving, and that is, in fact, the best feeling in the world…

… she'll have bruises on her thighs and shoulder from the force of his hands, of his kisses…

…he's going to have scratches on his shoulders, down his back, even through his shirt…

…he pants at her, begging her to say it again…

…she has to stifle a giggle, shaking her head, because it's mad…

…she tugs his hair, eliciting a growl…

…he bites her neck, and her giggle morphs into a moan…

…finally, she concedes, moaning Prongs…over and over again…whatever he wants…anything for this perfect, idiot boy who does these things to her…

…he's holding her hands above her head, and they're forehead to forehead, meeting each other at every push and pull…

…her heels are digging into his arse; she won't be the only one with bruises…

…and, there, he's got that spot again, and again, and again…it proves to be her undoing…

…she's unraveling, now, and so is he…

…and this, it's more than fireworks, or butterflies, it's everything, and it's nothing at all…

…they come back to awareness by degrees, slowly, trying to regain their breaths.

She nips at his ear, a lazy, satiated smile on her face, one she sees mirrored in him. "So you liked that?"

He kisses her once, twice, three times, "Just a bit."

"Good to know I can call you by your nickname sometimes, huh, Prongs?"

"Sure thing, Evans, sure thing."