Autumn Leaves
Something's in life never change like the season's melding into the next; an endless cycle of growth, and sex and death.
There is something about the autumn though, the colour of the leaves and the smell of damp earth.
He can remember loving this time of year as a child.
There had been a great old oak in his parent's garden, with shiny leaves and big boughs he'd climbed up.
He can still remember being under that tree as the golden leaves floated gently down, as he kicked and threw handfuls of crackling brown foliage and dodged the odd acorn being pelted at him.
He studies the faded photograph, on his mantelpiece; it's yellowing on the edges and slightly crinkled. It contains a beaming father and son who wrestle impishly, making the thick woollen jumpers made by his mother and the stout boots become muddy.
Maybe there'd be a picture of he and Harry some day in much the same position.
He can remember another autumn day, one that he will never forget. The one when his grandfather was buried.
The leaves had been swirling as they walked along the path of the cemetery. James' mother was tucked under his father's arm, his free hand clutched tight in James'.
He can recall his father's silence and the silver track of his tears running into his stubble.
James had never seen his father cry before then. He had thought him indestructible. He had survived the Grindewald war, though many others had not. He hadn't cried whilst telling James the atrocities he had seen. His father's death though had broken something in him.
As the cold earth covered the coffin, James finally saw how fragile his father was, a man who could wilt like a leaf on a tree.
James hoped that his son would never need to know that pain, would never have death shroud his life like his grandfather had. Trouble with being in the midst of a war, it wasn't very likely to happen.
Especially as his son, his own sweet child, has a prophecy on his tiny shoulders. James's hopes weren't high that Harry would get through the war without at least one of his family dying. They would give up their lives to have him live. It would be worth it, if Harry were safe.
A voice called from the kitchen, interrupting his thoughts. "James, dinner's ready."
His darling wife, with her quick grin and sharp mind, fiery hair as vivid as those leaves twirling in the garden, he would fight for her and their baby.
He wasn't anything without them, a tree stripped bare of it's foliage by a hard frost, just a skeleton underneath.
"James!" Her voice had a giggle lurking underneath.
"Dadda!"
He smiled, imagining them in the warm, brightly lit kitchen, Harry in his high chair throwing mashed Swede and Lily trying to get him to eat it.
Focus he thought, after winter comes spring and life again with it. It's not such a long time really to be stuck in the house he had grown up in. A house he loved. When Voldemort gave up on finding them, they'd be free, like daisies in the spring sun.
Besides he thought, it's Halloween tomorrow; he'd always enjoyed Halloween.
I am aware it needs properly beta-ing, and if anyone fancies a job, please contact me: sarah1357 at hotmail . co . uk
Please review.
Many thanks.