Unwitting

s0tt0v0ce

Rating: PG
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Lily & James
Book: Lily & James, Books 1 - 6
Published: 17/01/2007
Last Updated: 17/01/2007
Status: in_progress

[Slightly AU. LilyJames] “Looking back upon the events of the past, it is those random, apparently insignificant instances in time that quietly shape our future, our actions… whilst we move through them, unwitting.” Please R&R, feedback well loved!

Chapters

1. Unwelcome Realisations

2. Unconscious Familiarity

3. Deja Vu

4. She Contemplates

5. A Few Steps At A Time

1. Unwelcome Realisations

Unwitting

Disclaimer: I am not J. K. Rowling, so it follows that none of the characters, themes or ideas from Harry Potter belong to me.

“Looking back upon the events of the past, it is those random, apparently insignificant instances in time that quietly shape our future, our actions… whilst we move through them, unwitting.” AU. Pairing not explicitly mentioned (at least initially), though I wrote it with a specific pairing in mind :)

A/N: This chapter probably won't make a lot of sense of its own; it'll be continued though :) This is my first ever fic, so if you could drop a review, I'd really, really appreciate it! Constructive criticism is well loved :)

O O O O O

Looking back upon the events of the past, it is those random, apparently insignificant instances in time that quietly shape our future, our actions… as we move through them, unwittingly. There comes a point in your life when you can reflect on those haphazard moments that wove together a complex web, even if you cannot fully comprehend it, even now…

O O O O O

Four horribly solid walls stand, flawlessly symmetrical in their non-descript grey, forming a small, enclosed space. The haphazard crevices within the stonework reluctantly allow frosted gasps of wind and trickles of rain to meander in… momentarily relieving the unnaturally still, stifling atmosphere. The Room itself appears to coldly disapprove of life… or liveliness.

A young girl is jolted from her trance, shuddering despite the rays of autumn sunshine that fall onto her slight frame. She slowly focuses on the colour of her surroundings, the strangely vibrant hues of the dying season's leaves. As she watches, the blowing wind causes them to dance around her and a ghost of a smile forms on her face as she grasps a bright red-orange star-shaped one. She sticks it carefully into the pocket of her faded blue shirt, which hangs loosely off her, as though several sizes too large.

The traces of an epileptic image fade away, but it is a lingering memory that never leaves her completely. There is an unconscious wetness on her cheeks as she lifts herself up off the old, worn stone steps, hauling her bag onto her shoulders with a childish alacrity that promptly sends her long red plaits flying around her. Swotting them away impatiently, and tucking her treasure more snugly into the aforementioned pocket, she begins to plod deftly along, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the invitingly homelike buildings she passes, a solitary figure in the deserted evening suburban streets.

O O O O O

She turns her head abruptly, in an unexplained, spontaneously unthought of movement, and looks, as she subconsciously expected to, upon a certain figure. Invariably, their line of sight meets for a moment. Reflexively, her senses churn almost painfully and her breath hitches so that the words she previously spoke in a cheery stream to her companion awkwardly taper away.

Even while she is decidedly myopic, she is quite confident that she would recognise those deep-set brown eyes, framed in those glasses, that face and profile almost anywhere. This girl, who sports a precisely colour-coded timetable, spare bobby pins and hair bands and neatly folded tissues in her bag (should the need for them ever arise), begins to reason with herself, in an attempt to calm the annoyance that pulses through her mind as she contemplates feelings that she apparently cannot control.

It's because it's sudden, she says to herself. Unexpected. I wasn't… prepared.

Her companion's look prompts her to continue her line of conversation, before her eyes too follow the girl's distracted line of sight. And then, the conversation stops, like a subtle microshift. The girl's voice becomes fainter, her face warms up and her eyes sting a little. She is loosely rooted to the stone floor, as her companion moves forward before turning around to wait expectantly. The figure approaches, and the girl shudders, unable to ascertain whether it is in anticipation… or despair. It is at this inopportune moment that realisation hits her, like a shadow that she had never managed to outrun.

Her eyes nervously wander outside in a stern bid to regain normalcy, and she suddenly notes the autumn leaves outside, a myriad of colour suspended in the air by the blowing wind. Her eyes sparkle with eagerness and her mind clears as she laughingly drops her bag at her friend's feet and begins to run. Outside, she breathes the fresh, cool air deeply, spreading her arms to spin in her habitual, childish way. It's almost a ritual of hers, and onlookers pause to smile indulgently or stare alternatively in mild awe or disapproval at the picture of wilful abandon she makes.

Her red hair streams around her and her eyes close in contentment as the rain begins to fall upon her upturned face.

O O O O O

If you would be so kind, I'd love to hear what you think :)

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2. Unconscious Familiarity

Unwitting

Disclaimer: I am not J. K. Rowling, so it follows that none of the characters, themes or ideas from Harry Potter belong to me.

“Looking back upon the events of the past, it is those random, apparently insignificant instances in time that quietly shape our future, our actions… whilst we move through them, unwitting.” AU. Pairing not explicitly mentioned (at least initially), though I wrote it with a specific pairing in mind :)

A/N: The second instalment (the tone isn't very directional yet, you'll note :P) This is my first ever fic, so if you could drop a review, I'd really, really appreciate it! Constructive criticism is well loved :)

O O O O O

Outside, she breathes the fresh, cool air deeply, spreading her arms to spin in her habitual, childish way. It's almost a ritual of hers, and onlookers pause to smile indulgently or stare alternatively in mild awe or disapproval at the picture of wilful abandon she makes.

Her red hair streams around her and her eyes close in contentment as the rain begins to fall upon her upturned face.

O O O O O

The spinning girl stops abruptly, frowning as she feels an odd sense of dryness about her, incongruous with the storming rain. She glances around confusedly, taking in the students that scurry past, a veritable sea of bouncing monochrome umbrellas and muttered water-repellent charms… a favoured spell of her friend's. She fixes a reproachful glare upon the offender, an eyebrow cocked, arms folded in a pose of overstated annoyance. Her friend shrugs playfully back at her, waving the abandoned schoolbag, and pointing ostentatiously at the face of her wristwatch. The girl sighs in mock-defeat, sneakily directing a jet of water at her friend's turned back, and closing her eyes in silent laughter as she hears the indignant scream that confirms her target. Satisfied, she marches towards the castle's shelter, taking care to jump in every pool of water she passes.

“You're crazy, you are!” calls her friend, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she wrings out her own damp hair and thrusts the satchel into the approaching girl's arms.

The girl in question unconcernedly flicks water into her friend's face, who is about to respond in kind when the boy, who has been watching their extended exchange with silent amusement, chooses to speak. Acknowledging the girl with a cursory greeting, he turns to her friend.

“Long time, no see…”

“You too, stranger!” she replies, smiling, and they engage in lively conversation.

A mild wave of irritation sweeps over the girl as she contemplates the prospect of playing gooseberry during their long walk ahead to the Gryffindor Common Room. Invariably, she begins to plot her route of escape. They continue to move along the cobble-stoned passages of the castle, and she shivers from the drafts of cool wind that rush inside where the heating charms are wearing away. She slows her pace, hoping to lose them, and just as she judges her attempt a success, the boy turns to look at her. She looks heavenward in defeat, while he turns back to his companion.

“So what was I talking about?”

His voice echoes off the walls, magnified after the momentary silence, and the girl is left to contemplate the merits of that merciful state as she feels a head-cold coming on. Her irritation builds, and the conversation is redirected by the boy to the new, immensely popular Hogsmeade enterprise, MuggleMania Movies. He begins to enthuse over a recent picture release.

“The one with those silver metal rod things…”, he starts, gesturing exuberantly.

Her friend giggles appreciatively, and the girl groans slightly from behind. Here we go.

“That was an awesome one!” he continues.

Later, she would blame it on her dampened state and the irksome calibre of his voice, but at this point, the girl is driven to speak.

“It was stupid.” she says, with an air of finality.

Her pitch is a note higher, and her cheeks tinge pink at her outburst. But that could easily have been the cold, of course. He turns to stare at her, mildly surprised.

“It was. Stupid, that is…” she continues, her voice trailing off as she turns away to glance at a large portrait plaqued Barnabus the Barmy.

She gazes interestedly at Barnabus, who is apparently engaged in an evening nap, neon-orange spotted nightcap perched precariously on his head… greyed fringe rising and falling with each baritone snore, a drivel of saliva escaping the corner of his mouth. Well.

“Whoa…” says the boy loosely, leaning back slightly and running a hand through his hair. “She doesn't know what she's talking about.”

The girl, who is currently occupied in smiling a greeting to Penelope the Peaceful (who placidly nods back), however, has apparently satiated her urge to speak, and doesn't take the bait. They've reached the Fat Lady, and he's tapped on the shoulder by a saccharinely sweet female acquaintance of his, whom the girl is particularly averse to.

“Flobberworm”, the girl intones loudly, savouring the uncomfortable yelp that issues unwittingly from the boy, who secretly fears the species.

The girl and her friend silently enter the Common Room's cheery warmth, the former glancing back just as the portrait swings shut, feeling a mixture of annoyance and normalcy as she meets a pair of hazel eyes, just as she had subconsciously expected to.

O O O O O

If you would be so kind, I'd love to hear what you think :)

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3. Deja Vu

Unwitting

Disclaimer: I am not J. K. Rowling, so it follows that none of the characters, themes or ideas from Harry Potter belong to me.

“Looking back upon the events of the past, it is those random, apparently insignificant instances in time that quietly shape our future, our actions… whilst we move through them, unwitting.” AU. Pairing not explicitly mentioned (at least initially), though I wrote it with a specific pairing in mind :)

A/N: Instalment number three! It's aimed at elucidating the character relationships a little more, and introducing a few others. As I've said, this is my first ever fic, so if you could drop a review, I'd really, really appreciate it! Constructive criticism is well loved :)

O O O O O

She reluctantly opened her eyes, her hand brushing aside the heavy maroon bed hangings as she glanced at her alarm clock, the same brightly coloured one resembling a watermelon (with a face, of course) that she'd had since age five. She'd since enchanted it (or Mr. Melon, as he was charmingly dubbed) to be more specific to her purposes, and she now gazed blearily at him as he pointed to `You might consider waking up now'. Mr. Melon's expression, however, was decidedly placid, and upon seeing him nod and smile slightly, she let her heavy hand fall back into the warm comfort of her feather quilt, and allowed the soporific lull of the falling rain to drift her back to sleep.

She was awoken almost immediately afterwards (she felt) by Hestia's pleading yells. Jolting upwards, she spotted the source of commotion in her alarm clock, which was jumping up and down rather vigorously, clanging its bell, and hopping away from her friend's seeking hands. Upon seeing that he had gained his mistress' attention however, he stopped with a dramatic sigh of relief, affixed a stern glare upon his visage and pointed insistently to, `You. Are. Late. Young. Lady.'

“Poor Mr. Melon…” cooed the girl in question, quickly calming her alarm clock back to placidity. He smiled benignly up at her, and she laughed with Hestia, but her tardy state was not lost upon her. Propelled by the chilly air, she hurriedly renewed the room's heating charms before snatching up her school robes and making for the bathroom as her friend bid her goodbye. Emerging a few minutes later, her red hair dripping slightly about her face, she attempted to fasten the buttons on her cloak, and smiled at Mr. Melon, who was occupied in waving cheerily at her.

O O O O O

By the time she reached the Great Hall, clutching a stitch at her side however, she was just in time to see the remnants of food vanish from the tables. Her stomach grumbled distinctly as she collapsed exhaustedly against the stone wall. Again.

“Breakfast, you!” called a voice behind her, and she smiled gratefully as Hestia handed her a stack of toast smothered in her favourite apricot conserve, laughing as she surveyed her friend attacking the food with relish.

“Inhaling it, are we?” mocked a familiar voice, and both girls look up at the vindictive eyes of a dark-haired girl, Bellatrix, and Sophia, the saccharinely sweet girl of yesterday, who stood companion to the figure. “That's terribly attractive, dear” laughed Bellatrix, tapping her heel, and turning away with Sophia in tow. The girl's mouth was too full to speak, but she shoved herself off the wall, and made to move away with her friend.

“Diffindo” muttered Bellatrix from behind, smiling maliciously as the girl's bag split open, causing her to drop her stack of jam toast in surprise. Sophia glanced shiftily about her, a carefully neutral expression affixed to her face.

“Maybe you shouldn't, Bell…” she muttered, her voice fading away.

The girl turned around suddenly, tripping over a crack in the floor and falling forwards towards the duo. Her wand began to emit angry red sparks, which fell upon Sophia's bare arm, propelling her to squeal in apparent pain. The girl's wand was unmoving, her face an expression of aversion. The waves of students trickling out of the Great Hall suddenly framed the scene, and she noticed that boy at the forefront of the crowd. He surveyed the commotion, and looked from Sophia, as she whimpered more loudly, to the sparking wand in the girl's hand.

“Finite Incantatem” he called, dousing away the sparks. He stared at the girl, eyes hardening with disdain before smiling sympathetically at the whimpering Sophia and announcing loudly, “Let's take you to Pomfrey, she'll have you right in no time…”

He pushed through the crowd without looking back, and the students slowly meandered away on Hestia's forceful yells. The girl's vivid green eyes were glassy and her expression simultaneously defeated and indignant as she unseeingly mended her scattered belongings, aided by her friend.

O O O O O

She stumbled reluctantly into Potions on the same afternoon, exhausted after a one hour struggle with her intensely uncooperative mandrake, unknowingly sporting a smudge of dirt upon her mildly freckled nose. Looking about hopefully for any sign of Hestia, she paused to smile wistfully at the storm raging outside before collapsing at her bench with a distinct sigh. Lazily unpacking her supplies and unshrinking her cauldron, she laid her head in her arms, her eyes fluttering shut.

“How do you know what's been on that table, then?”

Jolting awake, she looked about her, cursing silently as she took in the assembled class, placing that obnoxious voice to the person seated on her right.

“You!” her mind screamed, unreasonably perhaps, but she was too vexed to care. “You smarmy, presumptuous, self-righteous twat…”

Her eyes narrowed and muttering angrily under her breath, she ostentatiously edged to the end of the bench. She silently levitated his heavy book, her wand positioned under the table… smirking contentedly as it crashed onto his hand, which was engaged in tapping the table in an annoyingly erratic rhythm. The beat was silenced and replaced by a startled yelp. Beaming in satisfaction, she shifted her attention to the professor who had just turned around, plopping a piece of crystallised pineapple into his mouth, issuing a sigh of exaggerated contentment and silencing the class with a booming laugh that caused his belly to wobble in time.

“Ah, lad … a fine choice of seating, if I might say so…”, he said, winking at the boy.

He nodded imperceptibly, acknowledging the comment and not caring to position himself on the matter.

“Actually, Professor, I -”, began the girl, disgruntled.

“Now, now, my dear”, he continued, “Today, we've a fiddly little potion to brew…”

“Damn”, she thought, her shoulders slumping as she face fell comically forwards into her hands. She glared accusingly at the table, digging into its stained wood and imagining it to be the person-in-question's hand.

O O O O O

Please let me know what you think, I'm always looking to improve :)

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4. She Contemplates

Unwitting

Disclaimer: I am not J. K. Rowling, so it follows that none of the characters, themes or ideas from Harry Potter belong to me.

“Looking back upon the events of the past, it is those random, apparently insignificant instances in time that quietly shape our future, our actions… whilst we move through them, unwitting.” AU. Pairing not explicitly mentioned (at least initially), though I wrote it with a specific pairing in mind :)

A/N: Instalment number four… the perspective is first person, from the POV of the main female protagonist. As I've said, this is my first ever fic, so if you could drop a review, I'd really, really appreciate it! Constructive criticism is well loved :)

It's funny how the mind works. It can create a feeling of denial so strong that it creates the illusion of a shifted reality. How does that saying go? “Thou doth protesteth too much.” Entirely too much.

I stare out of my window, sitting curled up on my window sill like I do whenever I'm feeling contemplatively grey. You know, I was never one to let anything go. I've been a perseverant girl all my life, I fought to stay in my NEWT transfiguration class despite my abysmal lack of aptitude for the subject, I worked for the Head Girl badge that is currently pinned onto my maroon knit sweater, I worked to keep the peace between my sister and my parents when they argued about her hatred for my `abnormality'… I've worked to try to make myself a better person.

It's so hard for me to `give up' - those words are foreign and abhorrent to my vocabulary. And yet, now, it's the only thing left for me to do. The only option. The autumn wind is blowing in my face and I'm quite certain that the tip of my nose is red with numbness, and my face pale. I watch the richly vibrant autumn leaves, their lively colour belying the season they represent… and I connect it with my denial. They are but a shadow of life, despite their wayward dance.

I watch those leaves, hypnotised, and unwittingly, as though entering a pensieve, I travel back to another similar such day, so many years ago.

O O O O O

A young girl dances haphazardly amongst the flying autumn leaves, laughing delightedly as the wind plays with her streaming, wavy red hair. Her green eyes sparkle, and if one were pressed to use a word to describe her, it would speak of life. It's a habit of hers, a habit that she developed after her parents passed away during her first years at Hogwarts … dancing in the old park before heading back to the Orphanage every evening… a large drop of rain splatters onto her spinning head and she stops, taking in a comically deep breath and rubbing at her head bemusedly. She watches the lake ripple with raindrops, and sights a young boy skimming stones. His black hair is messy, his glasses glinting in the dying sunlight. They end up in the shelter of the same tree at the edge of the Forest, for the castle is too far away.

It's a curious age they're at… an age when everyone is `friend-able', when everyone is interesting, and the appraising judgement and prejudices that develop as we grow older are non-existent. They sit crouched together in companionable silence, sharing small talk as they watch the rain fall, sharing a squashed bar of Honeydukes' Finest Chocolate that the boy has chivalrously produced from his pocket. Later, as they trudge through the soggy grounds on their way back to the inviting warmth of the castle, the boy quietly slips a bright red-orange star-shaped leaf into her pocket, a small smile on his face as he watches her blowing red hair.

O O O O O

They become friends of sorts. They meet incidentally, and develop a natural camaraderie. Sometimes, she laughs so hard at his antics, that she can't breathe and her eyes stream with her mirth, whilst he sits beside her, dramatically thumping his fist on the table and guffawing loudly. On occasion, they steal off to the Kitchens, and make up interesting backstories about their Professors whilst eating hot chips with tangy tomato sauce and chocolate biscuits and donuts. When it rains, they can sometimes be seen sitting under their Tree, watching the raindrops hit the grounds and disrupt the lake's surface together.

One day, as she returns to the warmth of her dormitory, she admits to Mr. Melon, as she bids him goodnight, that she likes this boy. Mr. Melon nods sleepily, smiling an indulgent half smile as his eyes droop, his snowy white nightcap rising and falling with each sleepy breath.

O O O O O

Later that year, a public altercation with a saccharinely sweet girl, Sophia, changes the way things have come to be. After he hears Sophia's hysterical report, the young girl with the fiery, self-righteous temper becomes the predictable villain in his eyes… and he comforts the poor sweet other, who cried copious amounts of tears, and wiped them prettily with her embroidered white handkerchief. The next time the young girl heads to their Tree, settling down with a bundle of their favourite chocolate biscuits, freshly made from the Kitchens… and intending to explain her point-of view, she sadly notes that he doesn't appear.

She waits hopefully until the rain has stopped, until the sun goes down and it is almost too dark to see. Unceremoniously wiping tears of frustration from her eyes with the sleeves of her black school cloak, she tosses the uneaten biscuits as viciously as she can into the lake, and observes wryly as a great tentacle erupts from the surface and sinks them beneath the water. She never visits the Tree again, but gazes wistfully at it in passing as she trudges back and forth from her Care of Magical Creatures lessons.

Now, as she spins in the autumn wind, she habitually collects bright red-orange star-shaped leaves, tucking them into her shirt front pocket with care, and adds them to the growing collection in her desk drawer. It's a habit that she never quite grows out of. For years afterwards, she and the boy do not exchange a single word.

O O O O O

Until this year. We are Heads together, and I remember him chasing after me on the first day back.

“Hey!” he calls, and I know instinctively that it's directed as me. I bristle, and begin to run, my footsteps echoing dramatically against the cobble-stoned floors as I disappear down a corridor.

Later that day, I stand on the steps of the castle with the afternoon sun slanting across my face, laughing with Hestia about something or the other. I see him walking past us with his friends. By habit, we make eye contact, and I watch him impassively as he makes his way towards us. He greets me, and engages in small talk. My surprise renders my replies short, and they hold a suspicious air borne of my long-standing hatred of his impact on me. I watch his face whilst he talks, running a hand through his hair, and notice the louder, abrupt tone he uses… as though he's forcing the words out. If I didn't know better, I'd call it nervousness.

O O O O O

By chance, we're at the Portrait Hole at the same time one morning. He pokes me in the shoulder and greets me whilst I look up, surprised at the contact. I respond and want desperately to turn away, but an innate sense of politeness holds me back. I fall in step beside him as we make our way down to breakfast, my mind curiously hyperaware of the sounds of our echoing footsteps, and of his uncommon proximity. He cracks a joke of some sort, speaking at a speed which is incomprehensible to me first thing in the morning, but observing that old twinkle in his eyes, I smile vaguely back. On the stairs, I almost lose my balance and grab, in an unconscious act of self preservation, onto his forearm. I squeak in apology, my face reddening as he places his hand in a pocket, and utters not a word save a muttered goodbye as we go our separate ways.

O O O O O

We have Head duties to run together one evening, and the paperwork is due in to McGonagall by eight tomorrow morning. I rush into the Common Room, and scan it before my eyes rest upon a solitary figure, splayed out on a particularly favourite squashy couch of mine. The firelight flickers on his face, glinting off his glasses.

I whisper his name, unsure if he's awake, and announce my name to identify the speaker.

“Yeah, I know”, he responds, matter-of-factly, his eyes half-opening as he peers up at me. For a person who I've barely spoken to or seen this year, and not spoken to for several years before that, I'm taken aback that he knows the sound of my voice whilst he's almost asleep. I falter, and I can feel my face colouring up over my own ridiculousness at paying heed to something so tiny… something that shouldn't be important.

His girlfriend calls him from across the room.

“- It doesn't matter”, I finish, barely audible and laughing nervously, before rushing up the stairs to the Seventh Year Girls Dormitories without looking back.

O O O O O

That was yesterday. And today afternoon, I've decided that it's enough. It's gone too far… I cannot stand another being having so much influence upon me - and their not caring a whit… their being indifferent in return. It's humiliating, and it has to stop now. I've said this to myself so many times before. Sternly dictated to Mr. Melon (egged on by the dear's vigorous affirmative nods and punctuating foot-stamps) what a judgemental, presumptuous, arrogant, self-important twat he is. And to my recurrent horror, it doesn't seem to work. At all.

It begins to rain, and I resist the strong urge to run out as I usually do into the Hogwarts grounds, and let in drench me, chill me to the bone, so that I can only concentrate on the impact of the falling drops with my skin.

I have to accept that I care about someone who doesn't return the feeling… to see through the wall of denial that I've built up with my self-pride. I have to admit to myself that I want … to get to know James-bloody-Potter again, despite everything … no matter how pathetic and needy that is. And accept that the feeling's not returned, and that nothing is ever going to come of it. But even as I think that, my fingers reflexively touch the wood of my bed-side table.

It's the hormones, I think piteously, as I try to swallow against the threatening onslaught of salty tears. Sodding… hormones. Furious at myself, I rip open my drawer, and remove the carefully stored collection of autumn leaves that I've aggregated over the years… that I've charmed to stay their original colour. Ignoring Mr. Melon's “clang” of dismay, I impulsively throw them out my window, watching them plummet to the ground, disfigured, and smile in grim satisfaction. And then I finally let myself cry… over how pathetic and impulsive I am, and how frustrated and utterly helpless I feel.

I don't see Hestia as she creeps into our dormitory later that evening, carefully plucking off the edge of my scarf the original autumn leaf that was placed in my pocket so many years ago by a new acquaintance. It's the brightest one. I didn't see her sharing a wink with a relieved Mr. Melon as she places it carefully back into the drawer. She's called me crazy so many times, as she'd watch me hoard my treasures. I never told her why, but she accepted their curious significance to myself. I silently thanked her when I opened that drawer again a week later, regretting my impulsiveness and blowing out a breath of relief to see it still there. Serendipitously.

O O O O O

There was always a lingering sense of irrepressible, subconscious certainty that there was something there. Something in the recurring, unconscious eye contact, the fact that those eyes seem to only ever narrow in that way and hold that expression when glaring at me, that different nervous tone that I've never heard him use before… I smile humourlessly at the depth of my denial… my furious attempt to salvage my pride… and what mystifies me is that that certainty refuses to let go.

Graduation is fast coming upon us, and I sternly tell myself that it's time for me to move on. As I sit, eating my apricot jam toast in the secure confines of the Great Hall, watching my one real friend Hestia concentrate heavily as she quarters a blueberry muffin and dips each part in vanilla yoghurt before chewing it methodically - in that endearingly ridiculous way of hers… sharing a greeting with a cheerily waving Hagrid… passing a blushing little first year my pot of condiment … I genuinely smile for the first time this week. Time will go on, and life has to move on with it.

Some day, I hope, when I'm an old, old maid surrounded by multiple generations of kneazles, knitting Hestia's kids winter scarves from spirals of coloured smoke, I'll be able to reopen these memoirs and revisit them as fond memories. (And also, perhaps, laugh at the Drama Queen antics of my younger self.)

I carve out a reminder on the trunk of our Tree later that day, during a free period. And I charm it to stay there, because I want to remember. Always.

“Lily and James were here.”

O O O O O

Please let me know what you think, I'm always looking to improve :)

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5. A Few Steps At A Time

Unwitting

Disclaimer: I am not J. K. Rowling, so it follows that none of the characters, themes or ideas from Harry Potter belong to me.

“Looking back upon the events of the past, it is those random, apparently insignificant instances in time that quietly shape our future, our actions… whilst we move through them, unwitting.” AU. Pairing not explicitly mentioned (at least initially), though I wrote it with a specific pairing in mind :)

A/N: Instalment number five… the perspective is first person, from the POV of the main female protagonist. As I've said, this is my first ever fic, so if you could drop a review, I'd really, really appreciate it! Constructive criticism is well loved :)

One week later…

Honeydukes Double Caramel Milk Chocolate Whirl Deluxe Bars: 8 and a bit

Pumpkin Pasties nicked from the Kitchens: 25 or so, I'm not entirely certain

Hot cocoa nicked from the Kitchens: 16 (but 4 didn't have the extra chocolate dusting and marshmallows, okay?)

Weight gained (The spell I perform yields metric results for some reason. I fear I'm losing it): 2kg

Mood: Grey and unmotivated

N.E.W.T. Study: … No. Just… no.

O O O O O

Mr. Melon is not amused. My self-declarations of progression and energetic smiles have fizzled away into an unhealthy fixation with unhealthy food and unhealthy sleeping patterns. Miss Lily does not awaken upon her poor alarm clock's morning routines, and so Mr. Melon has been removed from her bedside table by her friend Hestia, who fears that he is having an emotional breakdown of some sort. Mr. Melon is currently snoozing peacefully under the influence of a sleeping charm. This is evidence enough of my newfound patheticness.

O O O O O

My grades are suffering. Professor McGonagall, Hestia tells me, was fixated in shock for a full minute upon observing my normally alert self slumbering in her Advanced Transfiguration class yesterday morning. When Hestia poked me with her wand, she says - patting my back soothingly as I stare at her, glassy eyed - that my arms flailed wildly as I muttered,

“Go `way, you pesky little niffler. It's mychocolate.”

Oh, my goodness.

The dulcet tones of my professor (“Miss Evans!”) and the snickering of my less sympathetic classmates eventually woke me up, and I do believe that the shade of magenta that I subsequently turned is unrivalled in its hue. Failing to answer the question fired at me (“Describe the wand movement and spell model pertaining to the transfiguration of an iguana into a chocolate cake, if you please”), I was dismissed with a docked 10 points and a dark look of dismay.

I'm currently taking refuge in my dormitory, somewhere in the depths of my beloved four poster bed.

O O O O O

I walked into the Prefects' Meeting yesterday afternoon (the one that I had called, last week), late, bleary eyed and sporting hair that was a mussy mess. I recall that my fellow Head fixed me with a vague Look of surprise, his brow furrowed and eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline (it's strictly an expression, I've never seen anyone's eyebrows do that; it would be frankly unnerving). I opened my mouth intelligently, and my formerly composed persona seemed to have abruptly left me on holiday,

“Well, I… uh - um. Yes, well. I'll take a seat, shall I, then?” I mumbled intelligently.

Oh, I can just see it...

Hufflepuff Prefect #1 to Hufflepuff Prefect #2, in a conspiratorial whisper:

“Pssst. The Head Girl's gone dotty hasn't she?”

Hufflepuff Prefect #2 to Hufflepuff Prefect #1, nodding sagely:

“I'll put 10 sickles on that.”

In my defence, I hadn't slept well the previous night or eaten a bite during the day. As evidence of this, I tripped impressively over a crack in the wooden floor, the sound echoing against the walls. He caught me by the shoulders, and refusing to look at him and see pity or derision or something equally unwanted, I bustled promptly away to take my seat. I didn't contribute a word. As I left rapidly after the meeting's closure, a question reached my ears,

“Hey, wait up, are you alright…”

I ignored The Voice and rushed into the nearest Girls Bathroom, bolting the door. He couldn't follow me there.

O O O O O

My Potions homework now sits in front of me; it was assigned a week ago, and is due later today. I stare hopelessly at the empty sheaf of parchment, which looks forlornly up at me, sans even a title. It's 2:37am in the morning. A tear slips unbidden down my cheek. I, who averaged `Outstanding' in all of her subjects, who finished her assignments within two days of their being assigned, the Wonderfully Organised One, have become a blithering wreck. And I will not even contemplate the reason why.

Petunia's letter, which came in last week, certainly didn't help.

Lily,

As we are now both above 17 years of age, the Surrey Charity Orphanage can no longer accept us under its care. I'm moving in with Vernon, my fiancée - we're to be married next month (please don't think about turning up to the Wedding). It saddens me that I lost a sister to her weird freakish whims almost 6 years ago now: I never understood why you couldn't give it up after Mum and Dad died, after all we had left in the world was each other. You made the decision that drove us apart: it's not something that can ever be fixed now… or ever, I think. Kindly do not attempt to contact me after this, don't respond to this letter - I can't have your horrible bird disrupting the Dursley home, what ever would I say to Vernon?

I hope you regret your decisions as much as I once did.

Petunia Dursley

I've been disowned by my sister, and I have no where to go after I graduate from Hogwarts this year. And I haven't any source of income. I hated going back to the Orphanage every summer - that cold, underkept institution that seemed to disapprove of childlike liveliness. But now, I would almost welcome an opportunity to go back.

O O O O O

Time slips by... 2:46am, and classes start at nine. I despondently grasp my wand and Vanish the plates dusted with crumbly remnants of cinnamon toast and empty tubs of vanilla yoghurt from my bed, an expression of disgust on my face, and head to the bathroom. Dousing my face with cold water despite my eyes' protest, and rubbing vigorously with a towel, I stare into a face which is unfamiliar: my eyes are surrounded by black panda bear shadows, they're squinting… my skin is sallow and blemished, and I swear my face has assumed a rotundly appearance. Dismayed, I wonder how I've allowed myself to reach this stage… how I ignored Hestia's motivational speeches and her imploring me to at least talk.

I was going to, actually, until I saw Potter chasing her around the Common Room yesterday night, the two of them gasping from laughter and then engaging in some form of serious conversation. I turned abruptly from my unseen perch, and headed back up the staircase.

What a ridiculous, blubbering, shameful mess I have become. I can't let this go on. I march out of the bathroom, earning a sleepy “Whozzat?” from Hestia. Slughorn has enchanted all our parchments with Anti-Cheating Jinxes so that it is impossible to read or reciprocate what a fellow student has written. It was never a point of dismay with me, and I frown that for the first time ever, it is.

Resolved, I gather up my parchment, my favourite brown barn owl quill, and the tottering pile of reference books that Hestia lent me and navigate my way down the staircase, into the Common Room, settling down at my favourite table by the dying embers of the fire to begin my work… 3:57am.

It's one Potions essay, true, and I haven't won the battle against myself just yet… but Mum used to tell me that it always starts with a few steps at a time.

O O O O O

7:45am…

An unimportant time to the World, perhaps.

The World is quiet but unbeknownst to it…

I, one Lily Marie Anne Katherine Rosemary Evans…

(Evidently my parents had a lot of relatives they liked … but L.M.A.K.R.E?! I sigh when I contemplate my initials)

Reign victorious over The Potions Essay.

Waving the parchment sheafs in the air to allow the ink to dry, I stumble away from my chair, rolling up the sheafs as I dance in an uncoordinated rendition of the Waltz around the deserted Common Room, a goofy smile fixed onto my face.

Thank goodness no-one is conscious to witness this -

“What in Merlin's name…” cries a scratchy, hoarse malevoice somewhere above my head, as I contemplate the solid chest that I've just careened into. Briefly hoping that this is some outlandish nightmare of mine, I poke it with my index finger. An unimpressed yelp confirms my sad suspicions.

Apparently, I spoke too soon.

My essay floats pathetically to the floor. I blink at it before reaching a quick decision born of a night - or many nights - of sleeplessness. I make a dash for my essay; recklessly shove The Chest away from me and turn abruptly to run away fast, praying that my dishevelled hair shields my face and keeps me incognito.

It takes me a few seconds to realise that I am being physically detained by a pair of rather strong hands.

Ow. My arms...

Let go you snarky, manhandling Hippogriff

“Let go, you snarky, manhandling Hipogriff.”

Apparently, the Tact Centre in my brain that modulates my thoughts and how they translate into speech goes on strike with my Coordination when I lack sleep. Maybe they go a-Waltzing together, I think dazedly, as my face colours up.

“And just who do you fancy you are, ickle carrot-headed snippet?” booms out the voice of my assailant.

I might have noticed the slight note of derision had I listened closely.

But as it is, I cringe. Admittedly I'm slightly intimidated.

Hang on.

Hang on.

The Manhandling Hippogriff called me a what?

Carrot-headed snippet? Ickle?

I choose to focus on the first insult.

No-one calls me carrot (and lives to tell the tale)! It's auburn, you colour-blind twat.

I begin to puff up with self-righteous indignation, shaking and spluttering with agitation. In retrospect, sleeplessness evidently also does nothing for my temper.

“Carrot?! Why, you - ” I war-cry, in what I believe is a poisonous tone.

Whipping around magnificently, I find myself nose-to-nose with… Potter.

Oh, brilliant.

O O O O O

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