Jily | I Can't Love Him

Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs

The three non-quidditch-playing girls were appropriately dressed to spend an October evening watching Gryffindor's Quidditch Team train from the safety of the stands. Extra-thick jumpers, high denier tights under their skirts, winter cloaks, house scarves and, in Mary's case, bright magenta mittens.

They were halfway to the Quidditch pitch, carefully treading the little path cut into the lawn by frequent use, watching smoke steadily rising from Hagrid's hut over by the edge of the forest when a voice called out, bouncing off the sloping lawns surrounding them.

They glanced around.

There it was again, clearer this time, though intersected with quick footsteps and heaving breath.

"Evans!" Stomp, stomp, stomp. "Please, would you just—wait up!"

They spotted him, jogging down the beaten track.

Mary narrowed her eyes, asking, "Want me to hit him?"

"Mary!" Alice gasped, holding her wrist as if there was a real risk the girl would launch herself at him and start a full-fledged fistfight.

Lily shook her head. "No. I'm gonna—you guys go, I'll—I'm gonna talk to him."

"What? Lily, don't." Mary went to follow but Alice, still with a grip—a surprisingly strong one for her small stature—on her wrist pulled her down in the direction they were originally headed while Lily set off up the path towards the Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain.

"Careful," she said as she neared him. "Get too close and they'll think you're spying."

"Maybe I am," said Davey, coming to a stop before her.

She looked up at him, green eyes boring into dark.

The sky was light and happy, painted with soft orange clouds, a delightful break after a week of grey rain, though deceptively cold. She was glowing, bathed in sunset, flowing red hair and black-cloaked figure outlined with golden ink.

Anthony didn't have a scarf on. The skin of his neck was raised. He looked at his shoes, kicked lightly at a patch of dirt. "I really screwed things up." He said after a pause.

She nodded.

"I think—" His forehead creased. "I'm really sorry. For everything."

Another nod. "Is that all?"

He let out a breathy laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

"Okay. Well, I forgive you."

His eyes met hers. "What?"

"You're forgiven."

"Great. Okay."

A beat.

"There's no way you'll say yes if I ask you to Hogsmeade again, is there?"

"No chance."

"Got it—ship has sailed, et cetera—okay, Evans. Have a good evening."

"You too." She smiled. A small thing. An olive branch.

He nodded then, eyes finding the ground again, and turned his back to her, trudging back towards the open front doors of the looming castle.

---

"Hurry up, Wormtail," James called down the tunnel at his short friend who was jogging to catch up.

"Coming," Peter panted.

"Ouch! Watch that root," Sirius yelped from the front of the line.

"Be quiet," Remus shushed them all. He was the most nervous of the four and looked extremely weak and ill.