Jily one shots

On the Quidditch pitch

Disclaimer: this wasn't written by me but one of my absolute favourite authors on FanFiction.Net @CokeBottleK

It was the middle of the night and the Quidditch pitch was dark. The sky was cloudy with hues ranging from indigo to rich purple to black; there was no moon and no stars but snow was swirling down, skipping across the midnight breeze that chilled the grounds. It was quiet and it was soft and it was cold - mostly cold - but Lily Evans didn't mind. (Of course, she knew she must be abusing her Head Girl privileges at least a little bit, and she was sure that Professor McGonagall would say more like a lot if she was caught, but Lily didn't mind that, either.)

She was wrapped up in boots she hadn't tied all the way up, knitted stockings that matched one of the in-between colors of the sky, her father's old ski jacket, fingerless gloves that she could hardly see the point of but she liked them, anyway, her hair thrown up haphazardly and shining crimson against the snow she was lying in. Her ears were numb and her face was pink and snowflakes were catching in her eyelashes and on her tongue and she didn't care about any of the things she should be caring about. It was midnight on the Quidditch pitch and it was snowing and she was basking in the wonderful solitude of big, open silence.

It was a welcome change from the party raging in the Gryffindor common room. They'd won the last match before the holidays hours and hours ago, but nobody was ready to quit. There was butterbeer and there was firewhiskey, loud music and raucous dancing, Sirius had broken and Reparo'd the same lamp a dozen times and Marlene had won a bet against Peter so she was rather drunkenly applying makeup to his resigned-to-failure-but-good-natured face, Remus had started taking shots to distract himself from the fact that they were all bound to get in more trouble than they'd gotten into in the past six-plus years combined, Alice and Frank were snogging in the corner, and James was... Well, he was being James, Lily thought with a little half-smile because he had been making her laugh for hours and hours and she fancied him, all right, and she was going to tell him but first she just needed some air and a little bit of personal space and -

"Cold, Evans?"

Damn it. Lily's heart skipped like she was about to throw it up and she closed her eyes because she knew that James Potter and personal space didn't exactly mesh. She heard the crunch of snow and she felt the heat radiating off another body as it settled down beside her. Unruly black hair tickled her jaw line as James Potter nestled his head against her shoulder. His breath tickled her throat and his arm wound its way over her stomach until his hand clutched at her waist, fingers rubbing against the jacket that rubbed against her shirt that rubbed against her skin. She released a contented breath and she didn't see it but James smiled at the sound.

"You left," he murmured, making sure to brush his lips against her neck as he spoke. He wanted to kiss her, he didn't care where, he just wanted to feel Lily Evans under his lips. "Was I getting insufferable?"

"No." Lily smiled and dropped her arm around his shoulders, her numbing fingertips tracing patterns over the forest-green coat she knew he was wearing even though her eyes were still closed because he always wore that coat, and something about it brought out the gold in his hazel eyes and she could probably stare at them all day and it was a little annoying, how much she liked to stare at him. Not that James minded, but Lily had always thought she'd be a bit more subtle than gawking across a classroom. But there you go. Oh, well.

"Why'd you leave, then?"

"Too much firewhiskey, too many people, I needed a moment to breathe."

"Ah." James wondered if he was snatching her moment away by being there and he wanted to care but somehow he couldn't, not enough to leave her lying there in the snow on the Quidditch pitch in the middle of the night all bundled up and pretty and perfect and alone and he really just wanted her to be his. He was already hers and he thought those things should be mutual so maybe he'd stay there with her for just a little bit longer.

Lily opened her eyes in the quiet that settled between them. It wasn't a bad quiet or a good quiet or any kind of quiet, really - it was just them, just Lily and James, and her fingertips were numb against his jacket and his breath was warm on her skin and he loved the curve of her waist and she loved the way his hair tickled her jaw and really they just loved that they were there the way they were. It was some kind of beautiful, in the middle of the night in the middle of the Quidditch pitch.

"Evans." James's voice was hushed and echoed a little bit as it danced over the after-midnight breeze.

"Potter." Lily felt her lips curl into a smile. She stuck her tongue out and caught a snowflake and let it melt in the heat of her mouth.

James lifted his head from her shoulder and balanced himself on his elbow so he could look at her. She was all red and white and green and she just looked like Christmas, and firewhiskey had replaced his blood to stream and bubble through his veins and he loved her like crazy, like mad, and he was going up the wall with it in circles and squares and spheres and cones and all sorts of other shapes.

Snow swirled and circled and settled.

Lily looked back up at him and her pale lips stayed together, smiling softly, and James thought his heart might burst and Lily thought hers might, too. But James forced it down down down because he couldn't talk with it stuck in his throat like that and he had something to say and it was going to be the most important thing he ever said:

"Close your eyes."

His whisper fluttered against her upturned lips and for once Lily just did what he asked. There was about half a breath between them and the snow stopped and the wind froze because then he kissed her and she kissed him back. It was all chapped lips and the tang of firewhiskey and a very faint hint of hours-ago toothpaste. And there was that taste of crazy-mad-up-the-wall-and-all-those-shapes love and if tastes could be heard, that would be the loudest one of all. Lily's numb fingertips touched the back of James's numb neck and the skin sizzled and sparked on contact. James twined his fingers in the loosened strands of Lily's hair and he kissed her harder. It wasn't too much and it wasn't too little and in the end really it was just some kind of beautiful.

They pulled away and stayed an inch apart, all pink-faced from snow and that first kiss rush because they knew it was their last first kiss and that's about the time their hearts burst a little bit at the seams of something they just couldn't contain. Firewhiskey be damned, because this was real and it was beautiful, right then right there at almost one o'clock in the morning on the Quidditch pitch.

"That was a good idea," James said, his laugh-tinged voice quiet and dancing away on the wind. Lily laughed for real and the sound chased the echo of his voice across the grounds to skid across the frozen surface of the lake.

"One of your better ones, yeah," she had to admit. She pushed his specs up the bridge of his nose and the lenses were foggy so the most she could see of those hazel eyes were two multicolored splotches, all green and gold and deep dark caramel.

"Reckon that's the sort of good idea I should take charge of a bit more often."

"Reckon so."

James pulled Lily to her feet and they crunch-crunch-crunched through the snow across the Quidditch pitch and back up the grounds to the castle that was waiting for them. They stopped somewhere near Gryffindor tower, the golden lights from the party spilling and glittering onto the snow at their feet. James looked at her and Lily looked at him and their faces cracked into near-identical crazy-mad grins and she yanked on the hand that was interlaced with hers and she kissed him - she kissed him - and it was pretty and perfect and his and hers just like every single other kiss.

But there would always be something about indigo-and-purple clouds and falling snow and boots that weren't tied all the way up, there would always be something about an old ski jacket and a forest-green coat and fingerless gloves. There would always be something about broken lamps and shots of firewhiskey.

There would always be something about almost one o'clock in the morning in the middle of the Quidditch pitch.