Jily Oneshots (pt2)

Percentages

by B.C Daily

The flies are taunting him.

"Tutela praesidium—tutela—tut—oh, for fuck's sake—" James tosses his wand in frustration, frowning darkly as the weathered mahogany clatters noisily against the broken courtyard cobblestone, and nothing—bloody well nothing—happens to the sodding flies. An irritating powerlessness brews in his stomach, too familiar a burning sensation. A meter off, the swarm of giddy, food-drunk fruit flies dip and dive around the remnants of James's lunch, mocking him with their carefree feast in the brisk February air.

In further insult, the wispy cage of glowing blue spellwork around the plate flickers rapidly.

The flies zoom right through it. Oblivious. Unaffected. It may as well be cloud.

Shit.

"Why don't you bloody hold?" James leans agitatedly over the crinkly, aged spellbook spread out on the ground before him. He flips back a page, squinting down at the miniscule text. At this point, he's read through the instructions so many times, the words seem burned on his poor, belaboured irises. He adjusts his specs, as if that might help.

Tutela praesidium. Round, lift, flick, left sweep, through.

He has done, stupid fucking book.

Sighing, he grabs his wand again.

"Tut—"

"Hey."

Burnished cerulean dies on the tip of his wand. James's mouth snaps closed as his heart goes thump in his chest…perfectly in time with Lily Evans, dropping elegantly down on the cobblestones beside him.

He keeps his eyes trained on the flies. "Hey."

"What are you doing out here?" She fidgets about on the ground, pretty pink lips pulling into a frown. Her red hair is sleek about her shoulders, tangled up in the thick scarf she has twined tightly around her neck. She rubs her arms briskly through her cloak. "It's bloody freezing."

James waves his wand. Instantly, the Warming Charm he'd cast earlier extends to cover her.

She gives a casual glance around.

"Convenient." She squirms until she's comfortably settled facing him, the denim of her jeans poking out from her draped cloak as she props her legs up, then lays her folded arms atop her knees. The toes of her left trainer prod his thigh. "I need you to do something."

"Oh?" James's ears feel overwarm. He'd like to blame the Warming Charm, but he's not that deliberately obtuse. Not in his own ruddy head, anyway. "You probably ought to know upfront that I'm terribly expensive and charge by the hour."

"Most men overcompensating for something are," she returns immediately, coy and clever. The prod at his thigh becomes a proper kick, and when James flickers his gaze over, she's rolling her eyes. His heart gives a kick of its own. Until she sticks him with a firm look. "You need to let Kiki Khan leave practice early tomorrow."

James blinks. "What?"

"Kiki Khan." She repeats the name slowly. "Your Seeker? You need to let her leave the pitch at six."

"I know who she is."

"Wonderful. So, yes?"

"No." James stares, nonplussed. "You want me to let my Seeker skive off practice a week before our match?"

"No." Another kick. "I want you to let your Seeker depart your—mind—second abruptly dropped-in practice of the week, a single hour early, because our Prefect meetings are Wednesdays at half-past, and poor Kiki is up in the common room working herself into a collapsible frenzy because she can't manage the idea of either asking you, her despot captain, to let her leave training early, or Vivna Moore, our despot Head Girl, to let her arrive to the meeting late."