Jily one shots

The Fragility of Tears

Disclaimer: written by @Queen Nightingale

He hated girls who cried.

Loathed them, actually - with a passion. When their eyes widened and started to water, when their knees began to tremble, when the moon slowly began to appear behind their gaze - that was when he ran.

(And dumped them.)

James was born into a world of strength and stupidity; where emotions were laughed at and forgotten. Anyone who could possibly break his exterior, he shattered before they could take a stab at him.

His emotional unavailability, in fact, was infamous.

James Potter was the type of boy who could manage to charm his way into a girl's knickers in five seconds flat, and then the next day; wham, bang, pop. Out they went of his life as fast as they came.

It probably had to do a bit with his reputation, and with his friends. Sirius Black, obviously, was not exactly known for being anything but a player; Remus Lupin, although seeming somewhat intelligent, had gotten with so many girls he lost count in fifth year; and Peter idolized them for their golden conquests.

James was proudly, and satisfactorily, emotionally unavailable.

He ate girls like Popsicles; licked them up, sucked up all their flavours, orange, grape, or the ever-cherished cherry, and then threw the stick away. Maybe he broke it on his knees before tossing it haphazardly into the garbage can.

But really, who could blame him?

James was unfortunately graced with excellent genes (being one of the beautiful boys that all the girls not-so-secretly wanted) and, to top it off, he was even somewhat good at balancing himself on a broom and throwing balls into hoops.

At Hogwarts, that propelled him to a near Godlike status.

Lily, on the other hand, craved sensitivity in a boy.

She lusted with her roommates after artists, and writers, and poets, with their long fingers and exotic features. She wanted to feel the way that they did, and so she was captured by actors and musicians, anything to do with escapism.

Of course she had a bit of a crush on Remus, everyone knows that now, but he wasn't even the one for her (what with the ever-present whispers of 'Oh, wouldn't Sirius and Remus and Marlene be the sexiest threesome ever?'). No, Lily Evans was staunchly certain that her future husband would be a stunning lover of explosive proportions, with a tendency to write romantic ballads or take her on moonlight walks or trace constellations on her skin.

And yes, she admitted to herself, staring around at the farting, unclean and generally rude population of boys that Hogwarts deemed 'magical', it would be difficult trying to find such a man, but such a man she would find.

Because when you are a girl of that fiery of a nature, of that red and scarlet and burgundy and CRIMSON of a character, you have a tendency of falling for a man draped in the night sky, with the Milky Way pouring out of his mouth and rose petals covering his hands.

And so she threw herself into her passions of writing and daydreaming about a beautiful man dripping diamonds and playing the Mexican guitar and being tall and dark and mysterious.

Unfortunately (isn't it funny how life works out?) she got Potter instead.

"Okay, Lily, it's your turn!"

Alice's cheerful voice rang out from the Gryffindor girls' dormitory, where a group of five girls were sitting in a circle on the ground, giggling, smirking and grinning, as they painted each other's nails with their wands and preened in front of mirrors, magically changing their appearances.