Author's Notes: Huzzah, finally discovered why I couldn't post new stories on ffnet anymore! So now I will be playing catch-up. I started writing this for the Jily Trope Fest on tumblr in June, going for a nice Professional Quidditch Player/Reporter trope. Then it got really long and involved, so I've just sort of run with it. It will eventually have some nice smut to it, but we'll get there when we get there. =D

This is dedicated to Ayesha, whose GENIUS line ("It was then James discovered that there's no subtle way to remove your hand from someone else's pants.") really started all of this.

DAY ONE

It all happens alarmingly quickly. One moment, he's sprawled upon his chair, absentmindedly twirling his lanyard credentials about his finger, trying to muster up the enthusiasm to mingle at this deadly dull opening to-do for the week-long Quidditch recruitment exhibition…and in the next, someone strolls by, his bleeding lanyard gets caught, Quidditch reflexes have him grappling and lunging before thinking, and he somehow finds himself latched on to a stranger's bum, no ifs-ands-buts-please-or-thank-yous about it.

It is then that James discovers there is simply no subtle way to remove one's hand from someone else's pants.

(Oh, bloody—trousers, not pants. Thirteen months playing in the American League, and suddenly he's joined the ranks? If he survives this, he's giving himself a proper welcome home baptismal in the Thames, that's for certain. Diseases be damned, it's the only way.)

(Fortunately, judging by the murderous look the trousered redhead is giving him now, there seems a strong possibility he won't survive long enough to brave the dunk.)

Bugger.

"Shit—so terribly—that—I wasn't—see—"

"Get your hand," the redhead grits, "off my arse."

James's hands immediately fly upward, splayed and locked above his head. "Right. Yes. So really, really—terribly sorry. Honestly. Utterly accidental."

"You accidentally grabbed my arse?"

It's a fair point. "Well," he begins slowly, considering, "more precisely, I suppose I was purposely swinging my credentials, you unassumingly passed on by, it accidentally caught on your pocket, I very thoughtlessly lunged for it, with the accidental conclusion that I found myself gripping your arse and not my trusty lanyard still swinging along back there. See?"

She twists to look. Flickers her gaze back to him shrewdly, then glances down again as if to confirm that, yes indeed, his official credentials are still dangling back there along her bum, the lanyard clasp cleverly caught along the top of her rear pocket. She yanks the lanyard loose, but doesn't hand it back.

"Accidental?" Her lips purse. "You could've planned that."

"All that? I'm simply not that coordinated."

Or at the very least, it would have taken significant effort on his part.

However….well, now that she's looking more dubious and less murderous, he can take a moment to admit that if he had been looking to pull such a barmy caper, the witch before him very likely could've been his desired target. She was young and pretty, with the red hair he'd noticed immediately and eyes a bright green he'd never quite seen before. The aforementioned trousers were paired with a flowing white top, and though he would have put his hands against a boiling cauldron before putting them on her again unasked, he found himself very intrigued by the prospect of being asked.

Very, very intrigued.

Even as she snorts.

"Not that coordinated?" Her arms cross over her chest. "You're a professional Quidditch player."

"Well, now how do you know that?" James matches her pose. "Not just players at this exhibition, is it? I could be a wily broom salesman. A pitch groundskeeper. A lovable but ultimately uninvited fan, snuck into the festivities to catch glimpses of my favorite seekers."

In silent answer, the redhead lifts his errant credentials.

JAMES POTTER
Chaser, Fitchburg Finches

Right then.

"Touché," he says, and is gifted with his very first reluctant smile for the effort. He leans closer. "Very astute…LILY EVANS, Daily Prophet."

Her credentials are hanging neatly and correctly about her neck, over her crossed arms. He does not stare at her chest area any longer than is necessary.

(Which is admittedly a few lingering seconds longer than it takes to read her name.)

(Her smirk says she notices this.)

"Astute enough," she replies. She twirls his lanyard around her finger. "A bit disappointed too, though."

"Disappointed?"

"Mm-hm." She catches the lanyard in her hand. "I suppose I imagined the bloke who broke the American League's single game scoring record last year and is now here as Puddlemere's alleged favorite recruit would have a bit more finesse, no?"

James stops, blinks.

"Oh." His arms drop to his sides. "You…know me."

She shrugs. "It's my job." Then she smiles—a wide, genuine, humor-filled smile that makes her eyes light up and his stomach flip. "A job you've just made exceptionally easier, actually. Fancy this headline? 'JAMES POTTER: CHASER, LIAR, PERVERT'?"

"Oy. That's 'CHASER, DISEMBLER, ACCIDENTAL PERVERT', thanks." He smiles at her, too. "Libel's still a thing, yeah?"

She laughs—a lovely laugh. "Yeah, I reckon it is." She dangles his lanyard out to him. He extends a hand, and she drops the credentials into his waiting palm. "Save your hands for the Quaffle, mate, and off unsuspecting witches."

"No promises," James says.

"And watch that Porskoff Ploy drop tomorrow morning." She turns. "A bit sloppy during that last match against Haileybury, wasn't it? Puddlemere won't be impressed."

James frowns. "My Porskoff Ploy is perfection."

All right, so maybe he'd botched one Ploy during that last match with Haileybury.

Two at most.

Really.

Lily waves. "Good luck."

As she walks away, James calls out, "Will you be there tomorrow morning? At the match?"

She glances over her shoulder. "It's my job. Remember?"

Then she disappears into the crowd.