Something Chronological

The first time he kissed her, he was thirteen.

Looking back, it had probably been a bad idea. They had won the House Cup. She had been sitting beside him, and they had all jumped up, yelling and cheering. It hadn't been a good idea, but it had hardly been an idea at all. He had been yelling with the rest, and the next thing he knew he had grabbed her and kissed her. Once. Hard. And he was pulling away, sweaty hands holding her forearms tightly, unsure whether it had been alright (too fast to have thought about technique), and she was looking up at him confusedly. She looked about to cry.

The first time he kissed her, he was ashamed of himself for three days.

*

Once, at the beginning of fourth year, it was the height of cool to have a date. James had a date, and Sirius had a date, and Peter had a date. And so Remus, not to be outdone, asked his friend Lily if she wanted to get a Butterbeer that weekend and save him from embarrassment, and she said okay.

Peter said it was a treason date, for Lily's best friend was a Slytherin. Remus rolled his eyes and picked out a dinner roll.

Sirius said she could beat him up, and no self-respecting boy would ever date a girl who could beat him up. Remus punched Sirius on the shoulder to shut him up, and reached across him for the butter.

James said she was pretty enough, he supposed, and shoved mashed potato into his mouth so fast he began to choke. Remus said he supposed so too, and calmly buttered his roll.

*

It wasn't as though she had expected something wonderful. She had no delusions of waking up to be surrounded by flowers, or romantic picnics planned without her notice. But she had had delusions of a whispered question: her hand being caught after class, perhaps, being pulled down a deserted hall, a quick smile and a laugh.

She hadn't expected humiliation.

And it had been humiliation. She was humiliated. After all that this year had been - arguing with Sev about their cordial greetings; knowing that her entire year rolled their eyes as she moved across the dungeon, but he just bit his lip and looked away; after banter turned friendly and a moment of complete understanding, that evening at the pitch. She had thought that when it happened - when he finally asked her out and Sev saw what had been developing all year out of his sight, she would be able to smooth it all over and would have them both. Her best friend, and the boy she thought she liked.

Instead, she'd lost them both, and there seemed to be nothing she could have done to prevent it. Neither were the boys she had thought.

Humiliation was not something she was used to. The shame of knowing her best friend had lied to her: blood did matter in his eyes. The humiliation of being asked out in a trade, as if she wasn't worth real affection. The hindsight of knowing she'd behaved like a child: screaming at one and proclaiming all the faults that had never bothered her that much before, snapping at the other and making it clear that their friendship was done.

She hadn't expected something wonderful, but she hadn't expected something terrible, either.

*

It was November of her sixth year. It was breakfast. And for the first time all year, he'd spoken to her directly, asking for the bacon, and in so doing had given her the chance to splurt out what she'd been thinking since June.

"I'd prefer you over the Giant Squid," she said suddenly, and would have clapped her hands over her mouth had she not been halfway through passing him said plate of bacon. As it was, she reddened to an enviable shade, and closed her mouth so fast and hard that her teeth clacked.

He looked at her blankly and steadied the bacon.

"The - the incident. At the lake. And I said I'd rather the Giant Squid. And you were such an arse, and I was such a child, and I made mentions of bestiality that just aren't true, and are probably illegal and at the very least are incredibly immoral and gross."

And then she wanted to die. Who talked about bestiality in public? Twice?

He smiled, mouth open, and shoved a piece of bacon in his mouth. "I know," he said, and swallowed. "I'm better looking than the Giant Squid, and probably a better conversationalist."

"Yes," she replied. "And also a human."

"That too." He waved it off, as though not the crucial point. "But anyway. Thanks. I'd take you over the Giant Squid, too."

"Well." She willed herself to be a normal colour. "That's settled then."

"Should we be the last people on earth, we'll repopulate with each other rather than animals."

"Yes."

"So you won't come to Hogsmeade with me on Saturday, then? Because there're still too many other, also human options?"

She smiled. "Pretty much."

He smiled back and put both elbows on the table, leaning forward. "As I suspected. Pass the jam, will you, Evans?"

*

Lily Evans was just there. Just there, at the table in the darkest of the Common Room corners, head in arms. Head in arms, utterly vulnerable and utterly absorbed in the symptoms of her head cold. And James, two feet away and too carefree for his own good at this particular moment in time, was unsure of what to do.

And so James did what any boy of sixteen would do, should he come across the girl he fancied more than any other utterly absorbed in the symptoms of her head cold.

He turned around and ran towards the portrait hole.

Fled, would be a more appropriate word.

He fled to the kitchens, where his tickling of the pear more resembled abuse and his request for chicken noodle soup may or may not have come out as a dying gasp.

His journey back was a balancing act appropriate to one in a circus act of amazing heights. His clamouring through the portrait hole was something akin to a Roman General, returning triumphant to parade through the streets. And his placing of the bowl silently before her was done with a smug sort of satisfaction in one's own work.

She didn't look up.

James stood there a moment, and tried to think of something to say. Something caring and nice. Something a toerag would not say. But he couldn't, and so instead he poked her arm lightly and said, "Evans. Soup."

She looked up at him, red-nosed and puffy-eyed and flushed and crackle-voiced. She looked at the soup, warm and hearty and about half as full as it had been upon leaving the kitchens. She smiled at him. "That just might be the nicest thing you've said all year."

And so James did what any boy of sixteen would do. He grinned, turned, and sauntered back to his place before the fire, challenging all takers to a game of Gobstones as he went.

*

Sixth year exams had been over for exactly sixteen hours, and James had never eaten a more delicious piece of toast. Maybe he would even have another. That would make seven pieces of toast and sweet rhubarb jam, which was not unreasonable for a growing teenaged boy who had finished his sixth year exams sixteen hours ago.

He was finishing off the crust and reaching across for another piece when Moony, best of furry-problemed friends, started to cough loudly and nod his head in James' direction.

"What? What about me?" James picked up his piece of toast and watched his friend become more frantic. "What?"

"Hi."

Oh. James knew that voice. He knew that hi. He knew that his toast crumb and sticky jam covered face was not nearly appropriate or dashing enough for that hi. That hi required the fearless charm of Quidditch Cup winners and the cleanliness of someone who was not inhaling toast and jam.

"James?"

He not very subtly wiped his face with his hands before looking up at the girl beside him. "Hi, Lily."

She smiled and played with the hem of her skirt. "What are your plans for the summer?"

"Um." He looked at Moony for help and saw that his furry-problemed friend was uselessly shovelling eggs into his furry-problemed mouth. "Nothing much. Improve the roll and sloth-grip. Be bored. Lads are scattered all over the country, and whatnot."

She leaned toward the table, and then rightened herself, and then sat down quickly. "So maybe, if you wanted to, you might write letters this summer? To the boys?" She was biting the inside of her cheek and it was unattractive. She was also blinking a lot, and it was disconcerting.

He felt like he should be imitating her fidgeting. James hated fidgeting. Why was she always fidgeting? "Yeah. I usually write letters in the summer, yeah."

"Right!" She poured herself a cup of coffee, and James counted internally (as she clearly didn't) and watched her put five heaping spoonfulls of sugar into her mug. "So," she continued, "your owl is quite busy then."

It wasn't a question, and James wasn't sure what an appropriate answer would be. "Yes?"

"Right. Of course. So."

"So."

"So if your owl might be near Manchester, and it was tired from being so busy, it could always, you know, rest."

James put his fork down, and looked to Moony for some sort of sign to tell him what was going on. Moony proved to still be furry-problemed and useless (although more of the latter and less of the former, at this moment in time), and was chewing his egg and examining the ceiling. "I guess so," he finally said.

She was still stirring her coffee. It was going to get cold. "And I have an owl, so I would have owl treats," she stated.

"That helps. When feeding owls."

"I find it does." She smiled brightly. Her spoon clinked the side of the mug and coffee ran down the outside. "So yeah. If your owl needed a break - near Manchester of course - I would have treats. For my owl."

"So will I," he said, and wondered if she was getting at something in particular. "In Godric's Hollow."

"Right. Of course. So. If my owl is in Devon, I'll expect you to feed her one."

James nodded, still confused. "Why would she be in Devon? I didn't think any of the girls were in the West Country."

"They're not!" She smiled again and dropped her spoon. She looked panicked. "But you know. In case. I have to go - I have to - to find socks. Bye!" She walked briskly off, and James stared at her coffee cup.

"Maybe," Moony said as he passed James the coffee Lily had made and abandoned, "you should send Lily Evans a letter this summer."

James sipped the coffee and tried his best not to spit out the too-sweet, now-cold drink. "She fidgets too much."

Moony gave him something that could be construed as a furry-problemed look.

"She's pretty, though," James added, and shoved toast and sweetened rhubarb jam number seven into his mouth.

*

"It must be strange," he stated as he sat down too close to her and dropped a large book in her lap. "It must be strange not to matter."

"Not to matter," she said as she shrugged his arm off and tried (failed) to push away the book. "I'd like to think I matter a great deal being Head Girl and whatnot."

He grinned and replaced his arm, took her wrist and pointed her hand to a paragraph on the open page. "There. It says Muggles choose their government. You put a piece of paper in a box and choose the people who run things. We don't do that. We work at it, and the people who work the hardest, who are the most impressive, they get to run things."

Lily read the article, cringed at the misinterpretation of Magna Carta, and shoved it back at him.

"How do you know who's the best?"

She paused. "Really, you tend to just know who's the worst."

"Oh." The pause is endlessly awkward. Well," he said with a grin, determined to charge through the awkwardness, "I think Muggles are an odd bunch. Only knowing the worst. But it might be nice, to have a show of hands. To matter."

It slipped out before she could stop it. A grin, a laugh, and seven syllables: "Of course you matter, Head Boy."

*

Sometimes, Lily wonders if she is unusual for regarding coffee as the most attractive of all beverages.

Coffee is a love it or hate it beverage. It is actually quite good for you on its own, but becomes a mess of calories once its requisite sugar and cream are added (with a dollop of foam on top. For frivolity. Yum). Coffee is simple and direct without these fattening additions, but sweet and comforting with them. Coffee wakes you up in the morning with a hug and a warm mug, and peps you up during the day with a happy reminder that dancing on the way to Potions isn't inappropriate if no one is watching.

A coffee date is a very good date.

Lily drags the convex curve of her spoon slowly around the rim of her mug and watches the liquid change the mug's colour ever-so-slightly. Her eyes creep from dark (yet unsweetened) coffee to the dark hair down the table, being thrown back as its owner laughs at his friend.

A very good date indeed.

*

It wasn't romantic, when it began. It wasn't desperate, or sweet, or even as a holiday favour.

It was a time saver. A combining of efforts so that evenings could be spent on Charms and Potions rather than prefects and first years: for nothing took up more time than NEWTs, and no seventh years were more time constrained than the Head Boy and Girl.

"I have no time for anything," she'd said, and plopped beside him at breakfast and reached for toast. "No time to eat, let alone plan first-year Christmas entertainment. I can only assume you're the same."

He'd nodded with his mouth full, and pointed at his bulging cheeks to tell her he wasn't about to respond.

"Scarfing it down," she said and smiled as she slathered butter onto her toast, "good call. I thought we could multitask. We both need to Christmas shop this Saturday, and obviously we aren't buying anything for each other, so we might as well shop together, and discuss first years while a Quick Quotes Quill follows us around, yeah?" She stopped, shoved her toast into her mouth, and began to chew with purpose.

"Makes sense," he replied as he gathered the Quidditch plays he's been working on back into his bag. "You can help me pick out something for my mum, and we can have the plans in to Dumbledore by Sunday. Very resourceful, Head Girl."

"Thanks, Head Boy," she said pointedly, and stood to walk out with him. "Library?"

"Library."

"Great! Headed there myself. We need to discuss what to do about the Ravenclaw second year boys before the Prefect meeting tomorrow, and I know you have practice tonight."

It wasn't romantic, when it began. It was a shopping trip. It was eighteen scrambles to class. It was three lists on napkins, five walks around the lake. It was resourceful. (It stopped being convenient. It started being fun.)

*

Her hand is small in his. It is warm and soft, and closes gently around his thumb as he holds it up for inspection. The backs of her knuckles are gashed, and she hasn't bothered to heal them (sometimes, he wonders if she forgets about being a witch). Her nails are short and unpainted, and she forgot to take her Muggle mood ring off before going to bed. It is pink. There are a lot of freckles on her wrist and forearm: more than there had been a few short weeks ago. He would point them out to her, but he knows how much she hates her freckles in the summer. So he kisses six of them, instead.

"Hm," she breathes sleepily, and rolls from her back to her side, to face away from him.

She takes his hand with her, and James falls in love.

*

"Dropped your quill."

She looks up and takes it gingerly. Nods, and gives a small smile, lips together. Puts the tip of the quill back to the parchment. "Thanks."

"Anytime." He grins, laughs absently, and flicks the feathered end. Continues his walk across the library, glances back at her.

She looks back at her essay, and blinks. Picks up the book closest to her and opens it at random.

She is pink. He is delighted.

*

Three days ago, James had asked Lily to marry him. Now, Lily stood at the window, trying to get a sapphire earring into her ear without a mirror.

In the garden below she could see the few people they had told, all of them in person. There had been no invitations, no preparations, and the cake was to be whatever James had found in the Muggle bakery down the street.

For if it were to be known that members of the Order were in one place... Lily couldn't think about it.

The garden was lovely in its own dishevelled state, even on grey March days like this, and there hadn't been time to decorate. Sirius had brought roses, and he was now wreaking havoc on them, and Peter scattered the petals to form a sort of aisle through the untrimmed grass.

It was a quick and patch-work wedding, as it had to be. As Frank and Alice's had been. As Gideon and Rose's had been (and how glad Gideon was, now that she was gone, that it had happened at all). As so many had necessarily been.

Lily put the backing on her earring and turned away from the window and toward the mirror. Her dress was old - it had been Alice's, and Alice's mother's before her, but it fit decently.

She pulled on her new shoes as Sirius came in to get her, and he told her that Remus couldn't make it. He was being followed in Manchester, and a sudden departure would be obvious.

(Marlene couldn't make it, either. She had died the morning James proposed.)

She nodded and smiled for him, lips together, and followed him down the stairs. Took the bouquet Alice had picked from the garden and had both cheeks kissed by Peter.

She was unescorted as she all but skipped down the aisle of petals, towards where James stood, grinning as though he'd just done something particularly fun and against the rules.

They were married on that grey March day, and the drizzle held off until the kiss. They were married amongst a semi-circle of friends, and everyone laughed as they ran back into the cottage, to avoid being soaked.

Lily and James were married to each other, and as she pushed away thoughts of what the morrow would bring, she knew that her happiness was not borrowed. It belonged to her.

*

Lily busies herself with making tea, and the cup rattles uncontrollably against the saucer as she moves to put it on the table.

James sits at said table, twisting the corner of his sleeve between his fingers and stares at a burn mark he made the other day.

"Lily?" he says, voice unsteady. "I'm really sorry I almost burnt down the kitchen. I never apologised."

She pushes the cup and saucer towards him with the tips of her fingers: she can't lean very far across the table anymore. "Don't be stupid, James. I was there. If you hadn't tried the Charm, I would have. Milk?" She moves toward the counter once more, and picks up the jug so quickly that some sloshes over the edge. She ignores it.

"And," he continues in a rush, "I'm sorry I was a prick at school. And - and I'm sorry I went to Hungary with Sirius without telling you, and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry that I'm so awful at being a husband. I - I think maybe - I think this is my fault. I think this is all my fault, and you don't deserve it, but I deserve it, and it's all my fault."

She stares.

He tries to stare back, but looks back at the burn mark instead.

She eases into the chair beside him and takes his hand. "It's not your fault. It's not your fault at all. And - and James, I just don't know what to do."

Her voice fails her and he knows she's trying not to cry, but can't collapse on the table like she normally would have. (He and Sirius, a week ago, mocked this endlessly and had a right laugh about her inability to bend over. It is not funny anymore).

She sniffs and looks at him. "We'll be ok?"

She is shaking again, like she was on the way home from the meeting, and he squeezes her hand and kisses her forehead and tries to be the brave one.

"We'll all be ok."

James leans over and kisses her belly. The Potters hold each others' hands, and James sips his tea.

They will all be ok.

*

There is tinsel everywhere.

There is tinsel on the tree. On the floor. On the ceiling (Sirius feels that this is an accomplishment: he said so when he popped in to deliver his tinsel). There is tinsel on the baby. Probably in the baby.

James has been putting tinsel up all day, as a surprise. He has bedecked the tree, the mantle, the stair, and added its sparkle to the mistletoe that he has liberally peppered the house with. He has watched the baby, fed the baby, entertained the baby with things sparkly, and taken their evergreen Christmas decorating to something a little shinier.

And Lily is going to love it. James knows this, of course, because two nights previous they had visited a friend of his late parents, whose tree had been covered in tinsel. Lily's eyes had widened when she saw it. She had bit her bottom lip as though she was going to laugh. She had turned to him and said to the baby in his arms, "Look how it sparkles." Then she had caught James' eye and scrunched her nose in that cute way she had, when she wanted him to laugh.

Yes, she is going to love it.

Harry loves it too. He is holding a small fistful of strands and trying to pull them apart. His four-and-a-half month old soul is very confused by the day's proceedings.

James throws a few more strands of the loose tinsel onto the tree, stands back, and smiles at his success. The tree is effectively covered.

Behind him there is a stifled noise, and he whips around to see his wife in the doorway. She is leaning against the wall, eyes wide.

"Look!" he says, picking up a tinsel covered baby and raising him to his mum. "Sparkle."

"Indeed," Lily replies, after swallowing. She pauses a long time - lost for words in her ecstatic state - and James puffs up with pride. "There is tinsel everywhere. There is tinsel on the baby."

James nods emphatically.

"Our tree looks like a disco ball."

James nods emphatically and grins, for effect.

"Well." She pauses again and appears to be in pain, because she is so very happy. "Okay. But you're cleaning it up." She takes the baby, touches her nose to his small one, and kisses James just below his ear. "I had no idea you loved tinsel so much," she says. "I've always found it tacky, myself."

*

He collapses on top of her, exhausted, and not taking his hand from her hair, rolls to where he can lay his head on her shoulder, and presses against her side. (He does not care that this new position - his left arm reaching across her chest so that it can play with the curls behind her right ear - is ever so slightly awkward for his newly injured shoulder.)

Her eyes follow him. She moves one hand under him, until it finds the small of his back, and she brings the other up, to dance light fingertips along his shoulder and arm. (She is unbearably hot, but the side of her body that he left is unbearably empty, and so she won't say anything.)

They breathe heavily in silence. He plays with her hair, and her fingers trace pictures between the few, dark freckles across his shoulders. He presses a kiss to her collarbone, and she breathes, mmm, in response.

The air is heavy, and outside the window, the moon is so bright that it drowns the darkness.

*

Exile, he called it.

He compared himself to Socrates: friends begging him to flee and hide, knowing that in order to truly promote truth, and to live up to this belief, it was better to die by the law than to run from it.

The law is just, even if this judgment isn't. Injustice cannot be fought with more injustice.

But this is no law, she tells herself in her head. This is the exact opposite of a just law. There is no law. No justice. This is not his personal crusade for rational truth, but their shared struggle to save that loved, little, irrational mistake, who tightly clung to her hair, and fearlessly rode on his shoulders.

It would be better for him and for them all she sometimes thought, when she felt very small and alone, if she could be as reasonable as Crito. If she could just let him take the hemlock.

*

Her first thought when she hears him fall is not for their baby, and she does not have time to feel ashamed.

Her first thought is that for the rest of her life - however short it may be - she is going to be incredibly, unrelentingly, undeniably lonely.