It was a game we played – a weird, twisted, completely random game – but a game, nonetheless.

It wasn't, "Shut up and leave me alone, Potter," it was, "James, I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I really need to get this done, so if you could be quiet, it'd be great." It wasn't (always, at least), "I wouldn't go out with you if it were a choice between you and the Giant Squid!" it was a sigh and, "No, James, I won't go with you to Hogsmeade. Or date you. Period."

I didn't blame her for wanting to ignore me. Every time I looked back, I would realize how horrible it really was of me to be so vindictive and… ruthless, I suppose, to the younger students. She always over-exaggerated, though – I only hexed people randomly in third year. I didn't blame myself for that, either, nor did Peter or Sirius or Remus. We were learning, and we wanted to "test" our abilities.

Okay, that was a downright lie.

If there was one thing I remembered about third year – and most of fourth – it was that the victim always laughed it off, whether it be thirty seconds later, thirty days, thirty weeks, thirty months. I couldn't care less, as long as I was forgiven.

It never occurred to me just how important forgiveness could be until fifth year. All throughout the past months, Snape had been getting worse and worse with his insults to her and hanging around worse and worse people. Obviously, the Marauders couldn't just sit back and let him get away with that, and we most definitely tried to increase the amount of pranks we pulled on him. It didn't work out too well, though. OWLs were killer, no matter how often Remus let us "borrow" his notes.

I was never entirely sure, but I thought the main reason Sirius and I practically attacked Snape after the Charms exam was because of our stress. Maybe it was over the Slytherin himself. Maybe it was over the truth that had hit us hard in the face.

We had a little over two years left at Hogwarts. We would be protected – physically, but nowhere near emotionally – wrapped in the comfort of our common rooms, Quidditch matches, and NEWTs. After that… what happened? Where would we live? What would we do to earn a living? Second-most importantly, would the Marauders stay together? Finally, most importantly – to me, at least – would she stay safe?

She was a target. She was a Muggle-born, which was reason enough, but I knew from experience that she was also a very skilled dueler. If she joined the Order… If she got hurt…

I tried not to think about it, and was usually successful. But those quiet times with her, just as friends or as something more, would never remain peaceful for long. My brain would cruelly create an image of her form, lying crumpled on the the ground, pale, her brilliant eyes unseeing.

I loved those eyes. I really did. Before anything else, before her hair, even, I noticed her eyes. Perhaps it was mainly because we had tripped over each other trying to find our way to the Great Hall for lunch from the Defense classroom, but whether it was or wasn't didn't matter to me. She became a part of my life.

I didn't think I'd ever been happier about something.

She always tried to look at both sides of the story. She was amazing like that. She gave everyone she met a chance, completely disregarding any outward signs of negative attitude or influence. She had an effect on everyone she met, too. She helped Remus get over himself. She helped Peter see that he was worth something. She really broke Sirius off from his family. She loved to laugh. She would throw her head back, mouth wide open, and it sounded like the clouds had parted and angels descended from the heavens, while her eyes sparkled.

Her eyes were the brightest green, almond-shaped. I had never seen eyes that shape before, but maybe I was just weird that way. They changed color, though, too, or at least intensity. Vividness. When she was depressed, they would turn to a deep, forest green. When she was angry, they would almost glow. When she was happy, they would shine and twinkle and, true to the old saying, show me the deepest depths of her soul.

That seventh year was one of my favorite years at Hogwarts. We were dating, and, although it hadn't been confirmed, we were in love. It was also the worst. The clock was always ticking…

I was nervous when I proposed, and I felt I had a right to be. I loved her, I didn't want her to get hurt, but behind the arrogant shield, I was always doubting myself. My parents were – or rather, had been – brilliant Aurors, and had gone on to become major parts in the war against Voldemort. I had big shoes to fill.

She gasped. She cried. She said yes. She kissed me.

I would have said that it was the best moment of my life, but it was nowhere near the truth.

I never forgot the day Harry was born, ever. Lily wouldn't let me in, and nor would Hestia, and I didn't blame them. In all honestly, I had no desire to be within arm's reach of Lily if she was screaming her head off. I never did.

Even so, I couldn't stop my hands from shaking when my son (My son always sounded so weird, especially to Sirius) was handed to me at last, his head covered with a tuft of my jet-black hair, green eyes staring up at his parents. Several times, when we just could not get our brains to comprehend the fact that we were this lucky, we would dig out my old baby pictures and compare the two. It was uncanny how similar we looked. I always commented, only half faking my pride and completely faking wiping away a tear, that he would grow up to be a heartbreaker just like his old man. My wife and friends and son ("Harry, you traitor!") laughed at me.

Maybe it wasn't so great that we met. But on the other hand, maybe it was.