She could have been a perfect English rose, if not for her lack of delicacy. Hermia had never learned the upper class accent Art had perfected, nor did she intend to. She was herself, and that would be enough, running through the fields in early Russian spring, when the miserable snow was finally gone and she could leave the house without five layers of coats.
Laughing and racing through the fields, feeling the crisp wind against her cheeks, flaming red hair loose behind her – until she stopped at the edge of the road, just short of running into a very important-looking gentleman. She took a step back, smile gone, and stood upright, rather than curtsying as she perhaps should have. (Hermia had never learned the art.) “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. I, uh…” She paused, unable to remember the words in Russian. “I…not watching where my feet go.” Her ears burned. God above, she sounded like the village idiot.
Only England could have produced her. She was the perfect English rose. When the door opened and she was there, she was so terribly good-looking. She had such an exquisite unreality about her. - Diana Vreeland
I have no idea at all what this is. I have been wanting to write this forever, and this was the perfect opportunity. I didn’t finish it early enough to have anyone beta, so forgive how unpolished it is.
An English Rose
James Potter is a lot of things, but stupid usually isn’t one of them.
Confident, definitely. Reckless, perhaps. But definitely not stupid.
He knows this is the stupidest thing he’s ever done. He knows it. But it’s really hard to care at all when her hands are raking down his chest and toward his trousers, her fingers fumbling at the button.
His mind goes blank as her hands make contact with his skin. Her fiery hair is falling out of its neat plait, and he pulls at the ribbon so it falls to the floor. Her hair tumbles in waves around her shoulders and he can’t resist running his hands through it.
His mind registers one last thought before descending into the bliss that is the taste of Lily Evans’ lips:
I could do this forever. I could be here, with her, forever.
Except - he is a lowly stable hand, destined to be spreading hay for the rest of his life, dirt caked under his fingernails.
And Lily Evans is the Princess of Gryffindor, destined to be Queen.