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"He is."

"He isn't."

"How can you possibly miss it? It's in his very eyes."

"Honestly, James, you are a hopeless romantic with a knack for conjuring up ridiculous and illogical theories. No offense, though."

James Potter sighed dramatically as he pressed against his wife in order to obtain a clearer view out of their kitchen window. His eyes were trained on the bickering figures of thirteen-year-old Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger in the snow-carpeted front yard; right then he couldn't care less that a few strands of Lily's hair were making their way into his mouth, or that Harry Potter was squashing himself between his parents.

"What are you and Dad doing here, Mum? There's nothing so special out th-" Harry shifted his focus from the bare yew tree to Hermione (with a melting snowball on her head and her arms akimbo) and Ron (with his arms flailing about wildly as he spoke) then sighed, exasperated.

"Dad, there really isn't anything between them. They're just mates, honest. I mean, look at Ron, his ears are positively flaming-"

"A sure sign-"

Lily silenced her husband with a look, and turned back to her son. "Go on, dear."

Harry continued obediently. "-and Hermione looks about ready to chop him up like a French bean." Lily's face was triumphant as she poked James' (thankfully still firm) stomach. "See, even your son, their best mate, doesn't see your imaginary 'romance'."



"Well!" James huffed indignantly. "Who was the one who insisted Han and Leia wouldn't get together, hmm?"

"Oh, come on, that's fictional!"

"And who insisted that Arthur and Molly wouldn't get together, hmm?"


"And who was rather adamant that James Potter and Lily Evans would never get together, hmm?"


Then, "I still disagree, but fine." Lily pecked his cheek fondly. "I'll go see to the laundry."

James turned back to the window as she left, his arms crossed, still muttering to himself. "Oh ye of little faith. When they get married, we'll see who laughs longest."

Harry just kept his mouth shut as Hermione had warned him to under pain of death.

Four years later...

"Er, Uncle Jem?"

"Yeah, Ron?"

"How-how exactly did you go about, well, asking Aunt Lil out?"

"Don't listen to that old married codger, my dear Siriuslet, his attempts were mostly absolute tosh-"

"Shut up, Padfoot. You see, Ron..."

"And he may kiss the bride."

"Don't say 'I told you so'".

"But, Lily-"


"Yeah, okay.'s your hanky."

"Thanks, James."

"You're welcome, but I just...well...Ha!"