Jily Oneshots (pt2)

Hair

Mere inches away, so temptingly close that he swears he can smell the familiar, sweet scent of her perfume despite the mix of other bodies around them, she stands close enough that he could easily reach out and touch her hair. As their friendship has blossomed, he's touched her more often and with more familiarity than he once could have ever dreamed—an arm around her shoulders to tease, a hand around her wrist in their hours spent studying, a few scattered hugs that have always knocked the air from his lungs—but he's never dared to so much as tug at her hair. The wild curls that tumble midway down her back have always seemed sacred. He's stared for years as the strands have caught in the firelight in the common room, the same strands that burn brilliantly bright and recognizable from the stands even atop his broom during Quidditch matches. He's admired her hair—the swinging motion when she laughs, the way it tumbles loose during fits of anger, the contrast of flecks of snow during winter months or dew collected in the spring—for longer than he's even fancied her.

Her eyes slide past his shoulder when he doesn't immediately respond, and an eyebrow twitches when they alight on someone. "I promised Rhonda I'd find her," she says. "Can I catch up with you later?"

They hadn't attended the party together, of course—why would they, as mere best friends?—but disappointment still twists his chest, still sags his shoulders, still presumably casts shadows across his face. "Er—sure."

If she notices, she doesn't show so much as a single hint. Truly, she doesn't even glance at him. Her hand reaches for his forearm, where she presses a gentle squeeze, before she slips in between him and Sirius. The heat of her body, even briefly brushed against his side, burns so hot that it stings.

"Good to see you too, Evans!" Sirius calls after her, voice just raised above the din of dozens of others around them. The smile she shoots him in return, one quick and teasing over her shoulder, smacks of a relationship so easy that unavoidable jealousy creeps into James' bloodstream.

Somehow, he knows without question that it's only the first hit of jealousy of the night. He just knows.

"You alright, Prongs?" Sirius asks, and it takes effort to meet his eyes. Surely, if he does, Sirius will see everything he just barely succeeds in balling into a tight bundle in the pit of his stomach.

Still, he tries. "Fine," he says, and his voice sounds more like a stranger's than his own. The urge to ruffle his hair rears its ugly head. "I need a drink."

To his total lack of surprise, Sirius doesn't disagree. If anything, he looks like he understands a little too well.

xxx

He tries to lose her in the crowd, but he can't, of course. Has he ever managed to lose track of her in a sea of people?

No. The answer is no, and he can't begin to spin the reason as anything even remotely friendly. With no other option—no other option he'll dare contemplate, at least—he settles uncomfortably into the once-common spectator sport of Watching Evans, a pastime he's tried to avoid for months. Predictably, he falls back into it with the ease of riding a broom.

He watches her swing her head around, laughing, while she chats with Rhonda Sharpe and the cluster of Ravenclaws she'd abandoned him to seek out.

He watches Slughorn kidnap her and all but tote her around the room, passing from one important connection to the next so he can sing her praises until color blossoms high in her cheeks.

He watches her ignore whatever dig Snape's grimy mates, Rosier and Wilkes and Mucliber and Avery, throw her way when she finally escapes Slughorn's clutches. Her chin tips up, lofty for just the tiniest moment as she lobs something at them, something that looks biting and harsh and truly explosive, before she plucks a drink from the table at their side. She leaves the quartet—and Snape—looking a little stunned.