I know Lily didn't fall in love with James for ages, but I've always wondered when he fell in love with her. This fanfiction is based on that and my overly excited caffeine-fueled tendency to gallop down stairs.

Absolute utter fluff.

xxLJ

Things I Own: The aforementioned tendency to gallop down stairs, the plot of this story, a peanut butter sandwhich with a dent in it, a new job and a stunning new white Fender strat with amp that I have named Lily in honour of my OTP

Things I Don't Own: Lily, James, a drawing tablet, a puppy and Christmas Shopping that I totally should have done ages ago.

James still remembered the day he fell in love with Lily.

He didn't have a particularly good memory for those sorts of things usually – dates, days, details. He could easily memorise an entire book after reading it only once, but for some reason when it came to specific facts, he couldn't remember Hippogriff dung. He wasn't exactly an observant person – at least, not during everyday life.

But he remembered that day.

It was early Autumn. The leaves of the Whomping Willow were the colour of burnt butter; it wasn't quite late enough in the season for them to be orange or red, but not nearly early enough for them to be their usual forest green. He remembered thinking about the unusual colouring, coming back down from the Owlery. His Dad had jokingly told him about the many Secret Passageways of Hogwarts, and he and his new best mate Sirius had made a pact to find as many as they could, whenever the opportunity arose. He'd decided that it was the perfect opportunity to go looking for one, and had gone up to the Astronomy Tower to start from the top.

That's when he saw her.

She was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. Flaming wisps of red hair escaped two otherwise perfect braids she'd woven strategically on either side of her bent head. They swung back and forth every time she jumped a step, hanging past halfway down her back. The bow on the top of her head faced the direction she was skipping in; her small frame was hunched over and she was staring intently at her feet. Her robes marked her as a typical First Year; they were baggy almost to the point of ridicule and dragged along the floor when she walked.

How is she not tripping?

Hiding behind a pillar, he watched her skip down the stairs, humming gaily. He could just see the faint dusting of slight brown freckles that dotted her nose and cheeks, though they were sparse and small enough that it just made her look cuter. Her long, orange eyelashes dusted her cheeks as she walked; he couldn't see the colour of her eyes for her posture. He tilted his head fondly, smiling.

Peering around the corner, he strained his neck to here what she was humming. After a moment, he found that she wasn't quite humming at all; she was murmuring something under her breath... numbers?

She was counting?

"Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four…" she murmured, staring intently at the ground as she stepped.

"What are you doing?" he asked suddenly.

The girl jumped, looking around for the owner of the voice. Smiling apologetically, he came out from behind the corner. He raised a hand through his hair in a nervous fashion, messing the black locks up further.

She looked up at him (he always had been tall for his age), recognition in her big green eyes. He remembered her vaguely from the train, remembered thinking how pretty she was. But the greasy-haired boy on the train had made it clear that the two parties would not become friends.

James had been content with that until then.

"Counting the steps," the girl explained. Her forehead was creased in concentration and she looked back down again, resuming her bouncy skip.

"Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine…" she added, holding onto her satchel strap tightly. Her fingers curled around the brown calico protectively, the nails bitten to the quick.

He followed her, walking quickly to keep up with her steady hop. "Why?" he asked curiously.

She stopped, pondering the question. The clear green of her eyes met his hazel ones and he found an intensity in them so strong he almost started. It was a simple question, but her gaze made it look as though she regarded it the way one might regard a philosophical debate. Her forehead creased and she bit her bottom lip.

Blinking, she stepped down to the next step. "Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty…. My Dad always told me," she started. "That the journey of a thousand miles," [fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three]. "Begins with a single step."

His black eyebrows disappeared into the disarray of black hair and he blinked in confusion. "So…?" he trailed off, not understanding.

She looked up at him again, a flash of irritation in her eyes. "So," she emphasized. "I'm seeing how many steps there are at Hogwarts."

James nodded slowly. If her tone hadn't been so solemn, he'd have questioned the seriousness of her statement. "That makes sense…" he reasoned. "I guess…"

The girl nodded to herself. "Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine," she added as an afterthought.

He watched her for a moment, studying the little half-hop way she went down the stairs. It was more of a gallop, really. Step, hop-step, hop-step, hop-step.

"Why do you walk like that?" he questioned.

"Why do you keep asking questions?" she shot back. She stopped walking suddenly, turning back to look at him with an apologetic expression "I'm sorry," she said. "That was rude."

"S'alright," he waved it off, smiling crookedly at her. Her cheeks tinged pink and she redirected her gaze back to the floor.

"My Mum hops downstairs like this," she shrugged. "I guess it just kind of rubbed off on me. We used to gallop-race down stairs all the time. Oh sugar!" she said, stopping again. Her expression was precipitously despondent and she heaved a gusty sigh.

"What's wrong?" James asked her.

"I lost my number," she said dolefully.

James raised an eyebrow. "You weren't that far along," he pointed out. "Sixty-something."

"Noo," she wailed. "I was two-thousand, four hundred and sixty-something. I can't start all over again."

She pouted, scrunching her face up in concentration.

"Why do you hang out with that boy? The one with the greasy hair?" James asked boldly. "He's a git."

The girl scowled. "Sev isn't a git," she snapped. "He's my friend. We've been friends for ages. Five years or something like…. Five… I was up to sixty-five!" she grinned at him, a triumphant expression overtaking her fine features.

"So do you make a habit of going around counting stairs?" he asked her.

The girl frowned. "Sort of, I guess…" she said, thinking about it. "I don't really do it consciously, it's kind of automatic."

James nodded. "Seventy-two," he added as she scrunched up her face again.

"Thanks," she said, smiling gratefully. He supressed the strange sommersault that his stomach undertook at the gesture. "Seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five…"

He hopped down the stairs with her, mimicking her rhythm. She was fully focused on the stairs; it was as though the task was a life or death situation. Apart from her curly red hair, her uniform was practically perfect. It was ironed crisply, her skirt was at least four inches below the knee, her tie was tidy, her shoes were polished. She looked thoroughly straight laced. Looking down at his stained blouse, untied tie and scruffy shoes, he flushed delicately.

"Don't tell me you've gone all quiet on me," she teased with an impish grin (cue second sommersault). "No more criticism? No more demands for information? No more probing questions?"

He laughed, thinking once again about how pretty she was when she smiled. "Just one," he promised.

She arched an eyebrow, still smiling. The green was darker now, playful but curious. "And?" she asked.

"Your name?" he asked.

Flushing he looked at the floor, watching the patterns of their feet. He concentrated on the sound they made. The steps ricochetted off of the stone walls and the constant thrum had a soothing edge. Step, hop-step, hop-step, hop-step...

"Lily," said the red-haired girl, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Lily Evans."

She smiled at him; the kind of smile that broke hearts and melted bitterness. Her mouth, previously in a heart-shaped pout, curled up at the edges until it reached her whole face, transforming it completely. The previous smirks dulled in comparison - the full curvuture of her lips was sunshine and sugar. James blinked; it all happened within a millisecond, and Lily was back to counting and skipping again. He raced to catch up with her.

"You know, I think it's hardly fair for you to be asking all the questions," she teased.

He allowed a smirk. "What would you like to know, Miss Evans?" he asked.

"Another question," she noted with a brief smile. He chuckled at that. "Well, I suppose I could go for the simplest," she said thoughtfully.

"Yes?" he prompted.

"A name for a name?" she offered curiously. "I've already told you mine, and it's hardly fair for you to know who I am, and for me to be left guessing."

He smiled. "Potter," he allowed happily. "James Potter."

In the days and weeks that followed, Lily and James grew to detest each other. They couldn't stand the other's companions, and their interests lay in opposing areas. By the following year, they had pretty much sworn mutual loathing.

Or, Lily, at the very least, had.

James couldn't deny the pull he felt to the enchanting girl; he found that words of praise tumbled from his mouth whenever he wasn't in his presence. In time, he came to terms with the fact that he loved her. He began to seek her, relentless in his quest for her heart. Confused, skeptical and humiliated, Lily resumed her hatred for him.

The six years of their schooling that followed their encounter on the stairs were tangled webs of confusion and misunderstanding. The two of them were quite unsure, at times, of whether they utterly loathed the other, or simply couldn't live without them. James swore on the Sword of Godric Gryffindor that it was both.

But, on a rainy day, when Lily was fighting with Severus over his dorm-mates and their cruel nature, or when James was hobbling to the hospital wing with a six-inch gash on his shoulder from Moony, they would think of that afternoon. And the fighting and the tears, and the blood and the pain, it disappeared. They'd smile and close their eyes, and listen to the sound of their feet echoing off of the stone walls.

Step, hop-step, hop-step, hop-step.

Good or bad, they remembered that day for the rest of their lives.

It was the day they fell in love.

And all the hate in the world couldn't compare.