Absolutely unswoon-worthy

James Potter did not posses a single quality worthy of a swoon.

He didn't have those amazing kind of eyes you could get lost in. The kind that made your insides sear with fire and melt helplessly every time they met your own. (Which she didn't think was that great of a feat anyway. If you drank enough of it, Butterbeer could accomplish something very similar.). Actually, there wasn't anything exceptionally grand about his eyes in the least. Loads of people had hazel eyes... that were actually a deep bronze when you really looked into them. She could name ten people off the top of her head with the very same kind. That is-If she felt like it, which she didn't.

His hair wasn't the soft kind either. It didn't matter how silky it felt when her hand had accidentally brushed it in transfiguration last Thursday because she knew it was really coarse and brittle and utterly untamable. Untamable in a bad way too. Not in that wild way that might have made her want to weave her hands deep within its messy, silky strands and pull his face oh-so-closer to her own... Never in a million eons would that thought cross her mind, thank Merlin. On the contrary, she'd take Severus Snape's greasy locks over his hair any day.

It was really too dark a hair for her taste anyway, so unsettling a shade of black that she often likened it to the color of soot (...and occasionally the night sky). The deep tone had a peculiar way of contrasting his fair skin so strikingly that it could make her stomach turn sometimes... in distaste.

She had never considered his to be jaw sensually masculine, like the many of the bathroom wall's in Hogwarts read... just slightly prominent... Even more so when he clenched it in a moment of frustration. It happened often when they fought. She knew he had a particularly short temper when it came to her, but she would absolutely never take advantage of that to provoke him purposefully... if just to see it tighten for a moment... Now that was just silly. Honestly. The way it arched did not radiate an aura of strength and power, but something far less breathtaking. She couldn't quite put a name on in yet, but when she did, it would be something very feminine.

It was a good thing there was absolutely nothing special about that jaw, or else she might've found herself haunted with the unsettling urge to brush her fingers over it... just to see if it would tense under her touch...the way it did when they fought...

A very good thing, indeed.

She could lawfully say there were never any nights when his lips plagued her dreams. She had never dreamt of kissing him only to start awake with a heart half in her throat and a stomach full of acrobatic butterflies. That would be simply unheard of. His lips weren't even nearly perfect. In the left corner of his top lip there was a small white scar that happened to completely throw off their symmetry, she told herself, not add deliciously to their appeal. She had never asked about it. Not because she didn't have the nerve though, she just didn't care enough.

She loathed his lips the most when they were curved; the secretive smiles, mischievous smirks, and obnoxious grins drove her crazy. She didn't know why. She couldn't explain it. They just did.

He was insufferable and incorrigible. He wasn't so handsome it hurt. Quidditch hadn't done his body good. He didn't make her laugh in a way she didn't even know she could. He was never loyal, or brave, or chivalrous...

He was not a swoon-worthy person period.

And it was the rain making her tremble, she told herself, not his hands at her waist, not his tall lean form pressed up against hers. He didn't affect her like that... and yet, the castle wall at her back was the only thing that stopped her from falling over completely.

Fine, so she hated him so much she was shaking uncontrollably. That was plausible.

Lily closed her eyes shut against his stare. She could hardly breathe like this.