audrey reynolds

Me: That character is okay, you know? I’m not emotionally invested in them or anything. I don’t think other people like them, but I’m okay with them.

Other people: THAT CHARACTER IS EVIL!!!!!! THEY ARE THE WORST CHARACTER IN THE WHOLE SERIES!!!!!! WE’RE GOING TO WRITE DOZENS OF FANFICS VILLAINIZING THEM!!!!! THEY ARE EVIL!!!!!

Me: …

Me: *begins to like the character and love them and believe they deserved better, in defiance of the unnecessary, over the top hatred towards their character by the fandom* 

Title: Red

Summary:  James’ head snaps up. This is a different kind of red entirely, and probably the most wonderful kind. The kind of red he’d never get tired off.

Characters and Ships: James Potter, Lily Evans; Jily

People, James thinks, are entirely too obsessed with the color red.

James hadn’t noticed until now, standing right next to Madam Pudifoot’s, that there is entirely too much red in his life. The red of the Gryffindor banner—bloody obsessed everyone is. He’d say it was just a horrible cliché, but yes, Gryffindors actually do wear that much red—and now, those many different variations of red hearts plastered on the wall.

James loves red just as much as the next Gryffindor, but he thinks that this is entirely too much. He thinks that he may be getting a little sick of it.

“James!”

James’ head snaps up. This is a different kind of red entirely, and probably the most wonderful kind. The kind of red he’d never get tired off.

She bounds up to him, cheeks red from the cold, a red scarf wrapped around her neck. Her dark red hair falls in gentle waves around her face and James cannot help but be entranced by the way they shine.

“You made it.” And maybe he lets out a little sigh of relief.

Red lips open up into a bright, little laugh.

“I said I would, didn’t I?” she says. “It’s not everyday I say yes to a date to the Gryffindor Quidditch captain.”

James hands her the roses he brought her, though shoves may be a more apt term. His hands are shaking quite horribly. Her hands automatically come up to take them, eyebrows jumping in surprise.

“Not lilies?” she asks.

“I just thought you’d be sick of them,” James says, cheeks coloring. “Besides, I heard you liked roses.”

“And where did you hear that? I don’t usually go around telling people my flower preferences.”

James’ face is entirely too hot. It feels as if he’s been dropped in the middle of summer instead of standing near the end of winter.

“Well, you know, I have my ways. And word gets around,” he finishes lamely. The truth of the matter is that he heard it from Sirius who heard it from Peter who heard it from Mary when he was scouting the castle for the map. As a rat.

“You’re a very strange person James Potter,” she says, but there’s a smile on her lips so it must not be that bad. “But the flowers are lovely. I love roses, cliché as it might be.”

James internally preens. Outwardly, he clears his throat.

“Shall we go in then?” he asks. He offers an arm, just like his Dad taught him how to do.

She takes his arm, looking more than a little pleased and together, they walk into Madam Pudifoot’s.

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“I believe happy girls are the prettiest girls”

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