He’s never been particularly restful, always fidgeting and stretching, even during sleep. His eagerness to move even follows him into his dreams. It hasn’t changed since the war. When it isn’t unbounded energy keeping him on the verge of waking up, it’s unease.
Today, it is the latter.
It has been three days since Voldemort disappeared, and James hasn’t slept since.
In the immediate aftermath, when the relief of finding their family alive had given way to wondering what exactly happened, Lily thought, briefly, that it had been a miracle. That the prophecy lingering over their heads had finally come to fruition, and their son had won. But James knew better. For the first time in his life, he was unwilling to trust in the goodness of the world. It didn’t take long to figure out why.
James cannot find rest in a world where Sirius Black isn’t alive.
They had been asleep, of all things. Finally under the protection of the Fidelius, finally able to ease some of the heavy weight of the worry and fatigue from trying not to be found, they turned in early that night. They did not hear Sirius when he came to check on Harry, or his quiet refusals to move away from Harry’s cot.
“Love magic,” is Dumbledore’s explanation when they ask. His tone sounds almost reverent, and for some reason, that makes James want to hit him.
There is one fact they do know, from the information flooding from the other side. At some point, Regulus Black asked Voldemort to spare his brother’s life. Albus doesn’t have an answer for how an eighteen-year-old boy had risen high enough in the ranks to be able to make such a request of Lord Voldemort. Regulus is dead now, so it’s not as if they can ask him.
All the same, Sirius was given a choice. Step aside and let his godson be taken, or suffer the consequences of standing in the way.
He had not hesitated.
Only the Order mourns. All along the wizarding world, celebrations are breaking out because of the Dark Lord’s fall. No one seems to care that it was at the cost of someone’s life. While fireworks light up the London sky in the daytime, James Potter lowers his best friend into the ground.
Minerva McGonagall is crying. James’s mother is gone, and Walburga Black could care less, but Minerva McGonagall is crying and James cannot look at her without feeling as if he’s forced her son into the grave.
He’s supposed to speak, of course. James is supposed to speak because he’s Sirius’s family, and everyone is looking at him for answers. And he tries.
“Sirius Black,” he says, hoarsely. His throat is too tight to continue, so he begins again. “Was—” is all James manages before he can’t find words.
Lily takes over then, in spite of the tears on her own face. She holds James’s hand in her own and their baby on her hip, and she’s so much stronger than him, because she can bring herself to use past tense.
Exhaustion doesn’t make James any less aware, so it’s not hard to navigate people after the service, speaking when he’s supposed to and nodding when he’s not.
If he were to choose to speak to anyone, it would be Remus, but neither of them can look each other in the eye. Lily, beautiful and unbending to their brokenness, hands Harry over to James and takes Remus into her arms. James looks away when his shoulders begin to shake.
Harry fists his hand in James’s shirt, and James looks down at him. He is smiling, because he does not know any better. There is a scar on his forehead from three days ago, still fresh. It had been Harry’s crying that woke them up moments before the explosion.
His son’s life is a gift from Sirius which he will never be able to repay.
Lily’s hand on his shoulder guides him away from the crowds eventually, and he’s grateful. They walk to Bathilda’s house, their temporary home. It isn’t far, because Sirius has been buried in Godric’s Hollow next to the parents who loved him.
“He was supposed to come over today,” says James pointlessly. Lily knows this. She has been just as excited for it as he has. Still, he feels the need to fill the silence. The world is too quiet now.
Lily nods, eyes downcast. “I was going to make him a cake.”
Sirius Black will never be twenty-two, but they throw him a birthday party anyway.
There were three stories left in my drafts on this blog that for whatever reason, I didn’t want to part with. So, you’re getting them now, incomplete, but posted. Last vestiges of old writing. It is what it is! Hope you’re all well.
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(Unfinished - Mar 27, 2016)
When James Potter is seventeen years old, Lily Evans decides he doesn’t know anything about Muggles.
“My family’s lived alongside Muggles for centuries,” he says, frowning.
Lily eyes him dubiously. “James, who is the Prime Minister?”
“Churchill?” he tries. He’s certain he’s seen the name in one of his textbooks.
By the way that Lily looks heavenward for patience, his answer is a bit out of date. She turns to his wardrobe and starts pulling articles of clothing out. “You’re due for a lesson, mate. We’re going to London.”
James protests that he’s been taking Muggle Studies since third year, so he must know something, but Lily promptly informs him that Muggle Studies is a rubbish class founded upon the same identity politics used to justify British colonialism. James blinks, and lets her hand him a t-shirt and jeans so he can change.
On their way down the stairs, James shouts to his mother that he will be going out and if his body is found she should send the Aurors after Lily Evans. His mum tells them to have a nice time.
When they arrive in London, James almost loses her in the crowd. At first he assumes this is normal, considering how many people live here compared to the countryside on which he was raised, but then he notes the shouting.
“Why is everyone yelling?” he asks Lily. She grabs onto his hand so that she can pull him through the sea of people.
She says something about “wage restraints” and “labour” but her explanation is lost in the din.
James thinks about how dangerous it is to have this many Muggles gathered out in public at once, when attacks have becoming bolder and no longer restrained to the night. Then he wonders how he could be a crowd full of people in a city he visits at least once a holiday and have no bloody clue what they’re protesting. Lily Evans is right; he knows nothing about Muggles.
A man hands James a pamphlet, and he figures out what they’re protesting comes down to money. It’s hard not to feel a bit stupid at that. Gold has never been an issue for his family, and though he’s always known that’s better-off than a number of his peers, the sheer number of protesters over something like this has taken him off-guard.
He looks at Lily and thinks about how money tends to follow old blood in wizarding Britain. The Blacks, the Malfoys, the Potters. Even as magically talented as they are, Remus and Lily will never have half so many doors open. Money is certainly not the cause of the divide, but perhaps it’s a symptom.
“Is the rest of this day designed to me feel like a prat as well?” James asks, raising his voice as he leans towards her.
Lily grins. “Yes.”
And in spite of his discomfort, James cannot help but return her smile. “Looking forward to it.”
When the Muggle law enforcement starts to disband the protest, Lily decides it is time for them to make their exit. She blends into the group with an ease James can only hope to mimic, and once she’s pulled him into a shop, she explains, “You don’t have any identification. Couldn’t risk your smarmy arse getting taken in by a policemen and having them deport you when they realize you don’t technically exist.”
“The only identification I need is in these jeans.” James smirks, tapping the wand in his pocket. He expects the sock to his arm that Lily delivers. “Besides, I exist. I reckon it’s all sort of the same government.”
Lily laughs. “Yeah, I see that going over well. ‘You see, Sergeant, we should all be one government, really.’ Combine that with being out at a union strike, you might as well be waving a red flag at their headquarters.”
Like before, James isn’t sure that he’s caught her whole meaning, but he laughs anyways, because he likes it when Lily does, and they’re standing in a record shop ducking the police. He turns his gaze to the albums, but his attention is still on Lily as he asks, “Is this how it feels all the time?”
She runs her hands over the cover art of a band he doesn’t recognize. “How what feels?”
“Like people are speaking in half-sentences,” he admits, giving her a side-long glance.
Catching on, Lily raises her eyebrows. “Sometimes. But it’s not really the same, is it?”
James flips a record over in his hands for want of something to keep him busy. “What d’you mean?”
“I’ve got to do both,” Lily says with a shrug. “I go to school and learn what it means to be a witch, but I come home and return to living like a Muggle. I can’t just ignore it like you can.”
Somehow, this feels like an insult. “I don’t try to ignore it.”
She shrugs again. “You don’t need to try.” Perhaps sensing that his hackles are raised, she adds, “I know you’re willing to learn. I wouldn’t have asked you to come out otherwise.”
He nudges her with his shoulder. “And here I thought you asked me here for the pleasure of my company.”
Lily finally meets his gaze directly. They pause, a quiet moment in a noisy shop. “There’s that too,” she agrees, and the moment passes.
James clears his throat and suggests they browse the shop in earnest. This, at least, is a subject in which he does not feel so lost. He’s listened to music like this with Remus, even has his own records, and music is not something so dissimilar across worlds. The words may be different, but the frustration is the same.
Lily buys a record for James that she declares “post-punk.” As she is pulling out the correct change, he comments, “I didn’t realize punk was dead. Sirius will be heart-broken.”
Very seriously, Lily tells him, “Punk will never die.”
The clerk chuckles as she hands over the record. “Tell that to PC Plod outside,” the girl says, and Lily laughs. The girl leans closer and lowers her voice. “You ought to come to our gig tonight. Me and my mates are playing down the road at half ten. You can bring your boyfriend,” she adds, with a side-long glance at James. He blushes.
Instead of correcting the girl, Lily tugs on James’s wrist and says over her shoulder, “I just might.”
1) A new excerpt will be posted at midnight from @tkwrtrilogy3.
2) The article “Becoming Oropher” will be posted on WordPress in order to prepare everyone for the upcoming story told by Oropher in Part II of “Book I: The Epic of Eryn Galen”.
I won’t go into all the annoying fights I went through with 2 internet companies to get here. I was knocked offline for over a month because one company was too expensive and lousy and the other one was affordable but the equipment is extraordinarily cheap and flimsy. On the upside of the latter, I now have 5G. Aside from now working on two trilogies (the other being @thesecretofthehouseofbourbonbook), we are finally back on track with TKWRT after a death in the family and an ongoing family dispute.
So, until Midnight: Have a Wonderful Day.
Good to be back after several months of “you really don’t want to know”.
It smells different here now. The air doesn’t smell sweet like pancakes and cinnamon instead everything smells like a fire that won’t stop. The other day I tried to make something for breakfast, and I was proud of myself because I’ve been skipping breakfast for so many weeks now. But the toast turned into ashes, and honey, they say oil and water shouldn’t be mixed together so why the hell were we together? I think we were two molecules that tried to be together until we noticed that one of us was broken. I don’t mean to sound irrational but I just want to ask you, do you think someone out there will salvage the air we once inhaled together?
“Because I love you (you see, I do love you, you dimwit, my love engulfs you the way the sea loves a tiny pebble on its bed—and may I be the pebble with you, heaven permitting) I love the whole world and that includes your left shoulder—no, the right one was first and so I’ll kiss it whenever I want to (and whenever you’re kind enough to pull down your blouse a little)”
Even when you know that you’re talking to someone who uses different word definitions, it’s easy to fall into an unspoken power struggle over which definition you’re both reallyusing.
When two people disagree, it’s usually at least partly because the chain of reasoning in one person’s head parts ways with the chain of reasoning in the other person’s head.
If you don’t tell people which parts of their argument you agree with, it’s hard to pinpoint that spot where your opinions diverge. You leave them to guess which part of their reasoning you disagreewith.
