Warnings: off-screen character death, mentions of war
Author's Note: Written for a drabble (500 words or less) challenge at Livejournal. The prompt was a menu from Madam Puddifoot's.
James comes home to the smell of something burning.
His heart clenches in his chest so tightly it might burst altogether under the pressure. It's a miracle, then, that he manages a full sprint into the kitchen, fearing the worst—always fearing the worst these days. What he finds is not ruin—no charred walls or dead Lily. No, his home is not broken—not to that degree, not yet.
The oven smokes, and in it he finds what looks to be the charred remains of some sort of cakes. On the counter pools spilled tea from a cup overturned. Another cup sits full, contents contained but likely cold. James takes in the sight of the kitchen briefly—candles, gaudy pink streamers, dreadful lacey tablecloth—and then seeks out his wife.
It doesn't take long to find her—her hiccupped cries give her away. Slowly, he sinks to the floor of the bathroom with her, acrid smell of vomit hanging heavy in the air. Lily finds the courage to look at him—face puffy and eyes red—before letting out a miserable sob.
"D-Dorcus…she…an owl came…I…"
James wraps his arms around her tightly, and Lily cries into his shoulder. He knows what's happened and hates that he didn't get here in time for the owl. Dorcas is dead. Tortured and murdered and gone. The only thing that keeps James from shedding his own tears is Lily and his desire to be her strength like she has been his all these years.
"I know, Lily," he says softly, kissing her head.
"I want…I want…oh, God."
"Shh, we don't have to talk about it now. Getting worked up isn't good for you or the baby."
Instinctively, Lily wraps her arms around the small slope of her middle, and James hates himself for bringing this up. They've not had a lot of time to adjust, not had a lot of time to be happy about the baby. Not since they found out in a tiny room in St. Mungo's post-battle, not since the morning sickness, not since the death. For a moment, James wishes this wasn't happening; he doesn't know if he can take care of another life when he's doing a shoddy job with the two he has to protect now.
"I want it back, James," Lily finally manages. "I want it back."
"What, love?"
"First dates, Hogsmeade weekends, Pomegranate cakes." She hiccups. "I want my life back."
Suddenly the streamers and candles and tablecloth make sense—a recreation of the past, a momentary sanctuary from the war. Suddenly James wants to be there too, in that shop where he spent so many hours of misery with other girls and what felt like brief moments with this girl. What he wouldn't give to be back at Puddifoot's again.
"We'll get it back, Lily. We'll take it back, I swear it."
And for a moment, surrounded by the scent of bile and burnt memories, James almost believes it.
