Jily one shots

Hormones

Disclaimer: written by @XxRandomHeartxX

Hormones ruin everything.

Really, they do.

Think about it. How fun is it when you're ten years old and all you have to worry about is getting 'cooties' from the boy next to you. Or when it was still ok to hold hands with a boy without anyone suspecting anything is going on between the two of you. You don't get sweaty palms. You certainly don't think about what that hand holding may evolve into. It's all just so innocent. Then you hit puberty, and along with it come the hormones. They make everything much, much worse.

Especially when the boys come out for Quidditch training. Shirtless. Because it's warm up, and none of them can be bothered to put on their uniforms. And you're still supposed to sit on the bleachers and pretend that you're eyes are not following all those half-naked boys, and are actually on the game. How can any heterosexual female girl concentrate on a Quidditch game when they're bombarded with that kind of imagery?

How is that even possible? You can't sit there calmly. Putting it simply, you're trapped. To stare or not to stare, that is the question.

I stared.

Yeah, yeah. So I stared. Big deal. The problem is that you can't let them catch you staring. I mean, if they do, then they put on those stupid smirks of theirs. The ones that say yeah-I-know-I-have-a-hot-body-and-I-know-you-know-it-too. Those smirks infuriate me to no end.

Yet, I still stare.

I can't help it. Hormones are destroying my life. Seriously. One day I was perfectly fine. I didn't feel the need to glance up at every good-looking boy that walked past shirtless. Then all of a sudden it becomes some kind of compulsion. You want to see them come out with their chests all sweaty from playing Quidditch. You want to see their perfectly muscled bodies. You want-

Yep, I'm stopping right there. I think I've made my point fairly clear by now.

Any teenage girl will know what I'm talking about, even if they don't want to admit it.

Particularly when the Quidditch captain you used to hate comes out with no shirt on and his hair all messed up and wet.

When you're in that predicament, I'm happy to inform you, your brain shuts down. Completely and utterly shuts down. To the point where no thoughts enter or exit your brain except that perfect image of that Quidditch captain's flawlessly sculptured upper-half.

Well, at least until he turns to see you looking. Then your brain goes into panic mode, and you have to look everywhere but his body, while turning as red as your hair. Not fun, I tell you.

So you scatter off, embarrassed, while your best friend (who also indulges in the art of watching the male specimen) tries to drag you back, and as much as you do want to keep watching, embarrassment wins over and you leave, your best friend tagging alongside you, grumbling.

"James Potter grew up well, didn't he?" Alice asked after the grumbling was over and we were back in the comfort and safety of the Gryffindor common room. No more shirtless boys in the room to interrupt my thoughts.

My head snapped up at his name. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to hate him, or give in to my insane teenage desires and fall madly in lust with him like every other girl in school. I was leaning more towards the latter.

"I remember," Alice droned on, staring into space, "When he was that skinny little eleven-year-old kid who I could beat up no problem. Now, he'd probably be much more of a challenge. Although I certainly wouldn't mind giving it a try. Just so I could touch that absolutely stunning, chiselled-"