Chapter Seven
The party was loud and generally confusing, as Marauder parties are wont to be – and it was a Marauder party, no doubt about it, even though it bore the title 'after-party'. The Victorious Quidditch match of half an saa zamani was merely an excuse, for the Marauders hadn't had one yet that year.
Lily had spent many a fourth, fifth and sixth-year night up in her dormitory, trying desperately to block out the noise rising from the Common Room so that she could possibly, just maybe, get some studying done. The nights always ended in the same way: around one, maybe two am, she'd go down to the Common Room, yell at the Marauders and other possible stragglers for keeping the poor firsties up with their drunken rampaging, and fix the small cuts and bruises they managed to acquire during the night; then send them up to their dormitory with a glare so motherly that all those left downstairs understood even in their inebriated states that it was best not to kuvuka, msalaba her and scampered upstairs with their proverbial tails between their legs. Then she'd clean up the Common Room with a few tired flicks of her wand, and stumble up to bed, asleep before her head hit the mto as the blessed silence enveloped her.
Today, however, would be different – had she been so inclined, she would have had the Head Dorms all to herself, to sleep and study in as she pleased; but she had, apparently, promised James Bloody Potter that she'd be there. He was undoubtedly envisioning her plastered to his side, hanging onto his every word as the alcohol encouraged her to shed zaidi and zaidi clothes. Bah. As if she'd ever become one of his pathetic little followers, sighing every time he so much as smiled at them and literally following him around like a puppy follows its master. That wasn't for her, no sir.
Her musings were (rather rudely) interrupted kwa one James Potter, au zaidi specifically his arms, as they wound their way around her waist, and his face, as it lowered itself to her height, and his lips, as they moved against her ear. "Hi." She jumped at the sound of his voice, slightly huskier than usual, though that could have been just the alcohol and the exertion of Quidditch talking – yeah, right, she thought. As if mere Quidditch would ever make the infamous Potter lose even a semblance of his famous cool. No, there are bigger forces at work here. Namely me. Ugh. Because of course, she (among with the rest of Hogwarts) was aware of James Potter's little 'crush' on her. Which didn't make her believe it. But one had to admit, he was doing a pretty good job keeping up the illusion.
"What makes wewe think wewe can just creep up behind me like that, James?" she asked, the epitome of composedness even though his touch had made her moyo race – even if she'd never, ever admit it to anyone. Including herself.
"I don't know. What makes wewe think I can't?" His voice, thankfully, was back to normal.
"I don't know," she parroted. "Maybe the fact I alisema so?"
He didn't reply, and she busied herself removing his arms from where they were still wound tightly round her middle, holding her flat against him. Damn Quidditch.
"Potter, if wewe don't mind?" she spat out, still struggling against his arms.
"Mind what?" The picture of innocence.
"Your arms. Mind removing them?"
"Actually, I think I would mind. I'd so much rather just keep them here." He couldn't believe he was actually holding the Lily Evans, the girl he'd (yes, he admits it) been in upendo with for at least a mwaka now. Whatever it was before, he can pinpoint the moment he realised he loved her... twisted as it may sound, James had known there was no going back when Lily had first told Snape to "wash your pants, Snivellus" and then turned on him, pointing out all his faults in one sentence before informing him that he made her SICK.
And yet, here she was, wrapped in his arms (and making only a perfunctory effort to get away).
James was brought back to the present kwa the feel of Lily struggling in front of him, and he looked down to see that she'd turned in his embrace and her face was now right below his.
"Why, Lily," he drawled. "We can't keep meeting like this."
"Shut up and let me go, au I'll..."
"You'll what?"
There was a dangerous glint in her eyes, and it was really quite unexpected when her knee made contact with his groin. His arms retracted automatically and she made the most of it, skipping out of his reach with a smirk.
"That."
––––––
The Head Common Room was silent, which was indeed a rather rare occurrence, especially seeing as both its inhabitants were present, Lily curled up in what had quickly become her armchair, James sprawled across the sofa, exhausted after Quidditch practise (which was totally and completely his fault, to be fair – he was Captain, after all). This silence was kwa no means awkward, since he was half-asleep and she was miles away in some ndoto world, and neither was therefore acutely aware of their surroundings.
au so it was, until Lily suddenly stirred and asked, "James?" in a voice that gave away completely the fact that her ndoto world had begun to resemble dreamland. Possibly quite a lot.
"Nnnngh?" the answering... sound, whatever it was, was no zaidi awake than she felt, and therefore she tried again.
"James."
"Nnyees?" He seemed to be conscious, and she pressed on.
"James, it's the 14th of November."
"And?"
"Y'know, no pressure au anything, but I distinctly remember McGonagall telling us to hand in the plans for the ball on the 15th at the latest. Which is, wewe know, tomorrow."
"Crap." He's fully awake now.
"Exactly."
"Do we have any ideas?"
"You mean, do I have anything?"
"Well, yeah..."
"Apart from the orodha of things to be decided and organised? Nope."
"Oh. Erm."
"Yeah..."
It turned out, however, that both Lily and James were wicked party planners once they put their minds to it, and two hours later they were debating over the last item on Lily's list: dress code.
"Come on, James. Masquerade is so cliché – not to mention so 18th-century."
"Exactly! That's why we'd do it."
"No! No masquerade. Just fancy dress."
"Pwease?" Oh, Merlin. He's doing the puppy-dog eyes thing again.
"No, James! You've already had your Maraudering way with the drinks. I am not going to let wewe win this one!"
"Pwetty pwetty pwease with a cherry on top?"
"NO!" she finally exploded. "Merlin's sake, James, I alisema no!"
"Whoa, whoa! Calm down there, Lils," he said, backing away slightly with his hands raised in surrender. "Fine! If it's such a big deal to you, we won't do masquerade. Fine."
"I'm sorry, James. I – it's just that..." her entire demeanour had changed now, she was hunched over in her chair, the picture of defeat though she'd just won their debate, swallowing repeatedly in a fruitless effort to regain some composure before finally allowing a few odd tears to escape her eyes. James was inayofuata to her in a heartbeat, trying to comfort her as well as he could without actually knowing what was the matter. "Shh... it's all right, I think..."
"No, James, it isn't all right," she forced out between sobs, turning her face so she could look at him. "My parents... when they died, they were at a masquerade. That's why they still don't know who – who did it."
The party was loud and generally confusing, as Marauder parties are wont to be – and it was a Marauder party, no doubt about it, even though it bore the title 'after-party'. The Victorious Quidditch match of half an saa zamani was merely an excuse, for the Marauders hadn't had one yet that year.
Lily had spent many a fourth, fifth and sixth-year night up in her dormitory, trying desperately to block out the noise rising from the Common Room so that she could possibly, just maybe, get some studying done. The nights always ended in the same way: around one, maybe two am, she'd go down to the Common Room, yell at the Marauders and other possible stragglers for keeping the poor firsties up with their drunken rampaging, and fix the small cuts and bruises they managed to acquire during the night; then send them up to their dormitory with a glare so motherly that all those left downstairs understood even in their inebriated states that it was best not to kuvuka, msalaba her and scampered upstairs with their proverbial tails between their legs. Then she'd clean up the Common Room with a few tired flicks of her wand, and stumble up to bed, asleep before her head hit the mto as the blessed silence enveloped her.
Today, however, would be different – had she been so inclined, she would have had the Head Dorms all to herself, to sleep and study in as she pleased; but she had, apparently, promised James Bloody Potter that she'd be there. He was undoubtedly envisioning her plastered to his side, hanging onto his every word as the alcohol encouraged her to shed zaidi and zaidi clothes. Bah. As if she'd ever become one of his pathetic little followers, sighing every time he so much as smiled at them and literally following him around like a puppy follows its master. That wasn't for her, no sir.
Her musings were (rather rudely) interrupted kwa one James Potter, au zaidi specifically his arms, as they wound their way around her waist, and his face, as it lowered itself to her height, and his lips, as they moved against her ear. "Hi." She jumped at the sound of his voice, slightly huskier than usual, though that could have been just the alcohol and the exertion of Quidditch talking – yeah, right, she thought. As if mere Quidditch would ever make the infamous Potter lose even a semblance of his famous cool. No, there are bigger forces at work here. Namely me. Ugh. Because of course, she (among with the rest of Hogwarts) was aware of James Potter's little 'crush' on her. Which didn't make her believe it. But one had to admit, he was doing a pretty good job keeping up the illusion.
"What makes wewe think wewe can just creep up behind me like that, James?" she asked, the epitome of composedness even though his touch had made her moyo race – even if she'd never, ever admit it to anyone. Including herself.
"I don't know. What makes wewe think I can't?" His voice, thankfully, was back to normal.
"I don't know," she parroted. "Maybe the fact I alisema so?"
He didn't reply, and she busied herself removing his arms from where they were still wound tightly round her middle, holding her flat against him. Damn Quidditch.
"Potter, if wewe don't mind?" she spat out, still struggling against his arms.
"Mind what?" The picture of innocence.
"Your arms. Mind removing them?"
"Actually, I think I would mind. I'd so much rather just keep them here." He couldn't believe he was actually holding the Lily Evans, the girl he'd (yes, he admits it) been in upendo with for at least a mwaka now. Whatever it was before, he can pinpoint the moment he realised he loved her... twisted as it may sound, James had known there was no going back when Lily had first told Snape to "wash your pants, Snivellus" and then turned on him, pointing out all his faults in one sentence before informing him that he made her SICK.
And yet, here she was, wrapped in his arms (and making only a perfunctory effort to get away).
James was brought back to the present kwa the feel of Lily struggling in front of him, and he looked down to see that she'd turned in his embrace and her face was now right below his.
"Why, Lily," he drawled. "We can't keep meeting like this."
"Shut up and let me go, au I'll..."
"You'll what?"
There was a dangerous glint in her eyes, and it was really quite unexpected when her knee made contact with his groin. His arms retracted automatically and she made the most of it, skipping out of his reach with a smirk.
"That."
––––––
The Head Common Room was silent, which was indeed a rather rare occurrence, especially seeing as both its inhabitants were present, Lily curled up in what had quickly become her armchair, James sprawled across the sofa, exhausted after Quidditch practise (which was totally and completely his fault, to be fair – he was Captain, after all). This silence was kwa no means awkward, since he was half-asleep and she was miles away in some ndoto world, and neither was therefore acutely aware of their surroundings.
au so it was, until Lily suddenly stirred and asked, "James?" in a voice that gave away completely the fact that her ndoto world had begun to resemble dreamland. Possibly quite a lot.
"Nnnngh?" the answering... sound, whatever it was, was no zaidi awake than she felt, and therefore she tried again.
"James."
"Nnyees?" He seemed to be conscious, and she pressed on.
"James, it's the 14th of November."
"And?"
"Y'know, no pressure au anything, but I distinctly remember McGonagall telling us to hand in the plans for the ball on the 15th at the latest. Which is, wewe know, tomorrow."
"Crap." He's fully awake now.
"Exactly."
"Do we have any ideas?"
"You mean, do I have anything?"
"Well, yeah..."
"Apart from the orodha of things to be decided and organised? Nope."
"Oh. Erm."
"Yeah..."
It turned out, however, that both Lily and James were wicked party planners once they put their minds to it, and two hours later they were debating over the last item on Lily's list: dress code.
"Come on, James. Masquerade is so cliché – not to mention so 18th-century."
"Exactly! That's why we'd do it."
"No! No masquerade. Just fancy dress."
"Pwease?" Oh, Merlin. He's doing the puppy-dog eyes thing again.
"No, James! You've already had your Maraudering way with the drinks. I am not going to let wewe win this one!"
"Pwetty pwetty pwease with a cherry on top?"
"NO!" she finally exploded. "Merlin's sake, James, I alisema no!"
"Whoa, whoa! Calm down there, Lils," he said, backing away slightly with his hands raised in surrender. "Fine! If it's such a big deal to you, we won't do masquerade. Fine."
"I'm sorry, James. I – it's just that..." her entire demeanour had changed now, she was hunched over in her chair, the picture of defeat though she'd just won their debate, swallowing repeatedly in a fruitless effort to regain some composure before finally allowing a few odd tears to escape her eyes. James was inayofuata to her in a heartbeat, trying to comfort her as well as he could without actually knowing what was the matter. "Shh... it's all right, I think..."
"No, James, it isn't all right," she forced out between sobs, turning her face so she could look at him. "My parents... when they died, they were at a masquerade. That's why they still don't know who – who did it."
