Lily Evans. Circa summer of 1975.
It’s a testament to how bloody tired she is that she doesn’t even flinch when she hears the crashes and the loud exclamation of “bloody buggering hell, fuck me.”
All she does is reach to the hat that someone had left at some point in the past and place is over her face. The sun had been in her eyes. Why hadn’t she shut the shades? Maybe she should call out to James, get him to shut them — but that would require speech and she doesn’t think she’s capable of that.
She hears the footsteps and prays that they will pass the door, but they don’t. She considers groaning, but decides against for the same reason she hadn’t called out to him: she was just too tired.
“I can’t believe they let you off first.”
She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even move. It doesn’t even worry him.
“Where the hell did you get a zebra shirt? Isn’t that Alice’s? And that hat is definitely Dorcas’.” She says nothing, but she can hear the soft sound of fabric whispering against skin. Apparently he wasn’t as dead on his feet as she had been. “I hate sentry duty. Why did we think it was fun? It’s bloody torturous. I told Sirius that if he comes around before tomorrow I’ll actually kill him.” Why isn’t he just sleeping?
“James Potter, if you don’t shut the bloody fuck up and let me sleep I swear I’ll kill you when I wake up.” There’s silence, and she’s amazed she could say anything at all. “I would argue that if you fall asleep I had to stop talking so that statement negates itself but I’m too tired. I think Moody let me off duty because I fell asleep. On my feet. Literally, on my sleep. Who does that?” With that, he’s collapsed on the bed next to her, groaning.
She hasn’t moved.
“I would take that hat off and kiss you goodnight but I can’t move anymore.”
Within minutes, they’re both snoring.
