~hp: ss

“Go on, have a pasty,” said Harry, who had never had anything to share before or, indeed, anyone to share it with. It was a nice feeling, sitting there with Ron, eating their way through all Harry’s pasties, cakes, and candies (the sandwiches lay forgotten).
—  J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone
7

“The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now, why don’t you put that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?“ - Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.

pick me up and punch me out

@poppypomfrey as always, i love you. your fic today was to good for the world. 


“I think it’s going well.”

James looked up from his chair, cheek throbbing like a fucker and contact half sliding out of his eye. “I’m losing.” He said, in disbelief.

“I know but I’ve got money on it.” Lily said, moving the ice pack from his shoulder to his temple, even though he’d read somewhere that using one icepack for the whole body was unhygienic. If he brought this up however, she would probably stuff the pack in his mouth.

“But then wouldn’t that be bad because you’d be los-“ he started, and then realised what was happening. “Oh my god, you put money on Black?

Lily shrugged. “Odds are on him winning.”

You’re my manager.”

“Hey, numbers don’t lie.”

James couldn’t believe her.

“I fucking knew I should have hired Remus. He never would have bet on my literal opponent-”

 

Lily sighed, blew hair out of her eyes and looked at him like he was an idiot, which was not unusual. She took the icepack off his temple and threw it into the bin as if his whole body wasn’t a walking bruise right now, and squatted down to meet his eyes.

“Potter. Focus. You keep letting him in on your left side and it’s why you’re going down so quick, and when I say ‘hover your hands around your face’ I mean cheek level, not at your goddamn eyes because we’re not at fucking practise, it’s not like he’s gunna break your glasses.”

“You did break my glasses.”

“Once.”

“Four times.” He corrected, because it had been, and he has the receipts to prove it. Lily rolled her eyes.

Focus James. Stop fighting like you’re in school. Stop misdirecting and just fucking hit him. The more times you try the more likely you are to actually knock him out.”

“Wow. What a tip.” James said sarcastically, because it was already the third round, and he was so tired, and her hair looked so pretty like this, why didn’t she wear it like that all the time.

Lily looked at him, scanning his face, and he could feel his lip swelling. It felt enormous, bigger than his whole head. “Are you good?” she said at last.

“Fine. Yeah. All good.” He lied, although it wasn’t really. He could go back out. He’d gone back out with worse. That time with Avery, where his rib broke and punctured a lung but he’d kept going and fainted. Lily had screamed at him the whole ambulance ride, blood on her hands and eyes wide.

“You can win this.” She said in her Lily voice, all sure and steady and solid, like it was an absolute. Like he already had.

“Alright.” He wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to. The room was to bright, and her hand was on his leg, and he would fight a dragon if she would keep looking at him like that.

“Hey,” a guy poked his head round the changing room, “its two minutes.” James could hear the crowd again, yelling names and stomping their feet. His mum was watching tonight, huddled in the corner with eyes peeking through her fingers. The last time she came to watch he’d won in three rounds, and now he was down to Black with blood in his mouth because his mouth guard had been mashed into his gum so many times.

“Let’s go.” Lily said, standing up. James followed, picturing the simple movement of his arm. The swift action of an upper cut colliding with a jaw. The pounding in his fingers, the feel of bone against bone.

“Did you really bet on Black?”

She met his eye, lanyard tangled and in jeans with a hole on the knee that was not stylistic. “’Course not. I pick you every time, so fucking win or I won’t be able to pay my rent.”

He grinned, and the crowd roared, and the doors opened, and he could still feel the imprint of her hand on his knee like a burn. Proof of how royally fucking gone he was, not just in this fight, but with her.