It's the truth before the lies
The four young men stumbled through the doors of the museum, the cold interior providing a welcome relief from the relentless sun that had been beating down upon them outside. But they paid no attention to the sudden change in temperature. Each of the miscreants clutched his stomach, completely absorbed in laughter. The man with elegant, wavy black hair regained his composure first and addressed his comrades. "Dinner reservation is in a little more than an hour. How about we find some em style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"attractive/em dates? It's our last free night before the new mission, and we promised to make this day count."
The shortest boy nodded feverishly, before dashing off to the nearest exhibit in hopes of finding a Parisian female before he ran out of time. His composed friend watched him disappear with a faint smile, before bidding the remaining two farewell and heading towards the Rodin hall - undoubtably in search of someone who appreciated Bronze Age sculpture as much as he did. The wavy haired man turned toward the last remaining member of their 4-person group, "Time is precious, going to have the last fun of my decidedly short life. See you later, mate?". But his acquaintance doesn't respond. He's too busy staring at a redhead in the far corner of the exhibit, who's perched on a stool near one of the classic Water Lily oil paintings. The wavy haired man feels the corners of his mouth curve upwards into a coy smirk. With a tinge of sadness in his voice, he whispers, "Always knew you were destined for a redhead, James". He winks halfheartedly, as if in deep thought. His grey eyes light up again when group of tall blondes walk by. With a simpering adieu, the wavy haired man with latches himself onto a blonde haired girl with a sharp pivot and whisks her away. It's reasonable to assume he'll probably charm all traces of logic out of her and then maybe take her on a romantic walk by the Seine. After all, Sirius Black is no amateur.
James suddenly finds himself quite alone in the middle of the Musee d'Orsay. The sunlight filters through the huge stained glass murals from above. He hears the grandfather clock chime. One hour until dinner. One hour to complete Sirius' lighthearted get-a-dinner-date challenge. Without thinking, he makes his way over to the Monet corner, observing at the girl from a distance. She's still balanced perfectly on her stool, palette in one hand, inquisitively observing her easel. She draws inspiration from the flowers, he notes, as she looks back and forth between the various Monet paintings. Suddenly, she looks at the thin gold watch on her wrist. He realizes that she must be late for something, as she hastily puts away her supplies and swings her bag over her shoulder. Before he knows it, she's halfway to the door. It might be fun to follow the redhead, he thinks.
He rushes to the exit. The bright sunlight of the late afternoon still manages to blind him for a second. When he realigns his glasses, she's turning the corner and leaves his line of sight. He runs to catch up. She walks quickly through the cobblestone-covered, 7th arrondissement roads, surprisingly adept at maneuvering even in her heels. Her sundress is made of white chiffon, with a solitary emerald-colored ribbon tied around her. His first thought: how odd of a redhead to wear green. His second thought never fully materializes in his head, for the girl suddenly stops, and so must he, to retain his distance. She pauses to scrutinize the address of the bakery in front of her, and then looks down at a small card in her hand. He sees her purse her lips in indignation, as if the bakery was not the place she was looking for.
He wants to ask her where she is looking for, but remembers that she's still unaware of his presence.
She huffs, he smirks. She turns, he freezes. Her heel gets wedged in between two rocks in the cobblestone road as she pivots. She loses her balance, she starts to fall. His chivalrous instincts cause him to forget about his anonymity as he rushes forward to catch her. Her eyes are scrunched tightly together in surprise, but he feels her body let out a breath as he stables her. She squeezes his hand. A breathless Merci escapes her lips. He raises a finger to lift her chin. "You're welcome".
It is then he realizes that her dark sunglasses had fallen off her face during the impact. He stares directly into her eyes for the first time. They are sparkling with a fierce emerald green, but they widen into stormy olive orbs when she refutes his stare with her one of own, penetrating into his hazel ones.
"Lily?"
Let's get drunk on our tears and
She stands up and looks at him. He opens his mouth, but she beats him to it. "Désolé, mais je ne vous connais pas". Sorry, I don't know you. He understands from his many vacations to France.
He jokes, "how could I not recognize my know-it-all, flawless Head Girl?" he winks, trying to get a rise out of her.
But when she stares back quizzically, face devoid of emotion, his instincts flare. The old Lily would have blushed furiously and addressed him by his surname in a decidedly sassy tone.
"Who are you?"
"You don't know me. ", she says, her voice sharp and unwelcoming.
He pauses for a second, but goes against his better judgement anyway and asks, "Do you know where Lily Evans is?
The thin gold watch emits a low buzz and she lets out a low hiss. The watch must be magical, if it's burning her skin. "Merci monsieur, au revoir. Don't go looking for the missing." she whispers in a delicate voice. She presses two fingers on the inside of her arm. He recognizes a glamour charm, but before he can pull out his wand to reveal the glamour, she's gone.
Like a rainstorm without the clouds
He doesn't want to believe. The girl who had been standing in front of him had certainly looked so similar the one he had pined after for so long. But she was also very different. The French girl was cold, calculating. She was also taller, and her nose was devoid of freckles. And there was something about the way the gold watch burned her wrist and the way she apparated that was unsettling.
It hits him. Suddenly, he's not really in the mood for dinner.
James takes out his mirror. "Sirius, I'm not feeling well. You take Moony and Wormtail out to the restaurant. I'm going to head back to the Chateau to take a nap."
When he gets back, he rushes to the fireplace and throws in powder. "Albus Dumbledore, please". He taps his foot impatiently, impulsively. His old headmaster's face appears in the flames. "Professor, I think I saw her. She speaks fluent French now, and she disapparated with two fingers pressing into her forearm, which had a glamour charm on it. She has a gold watch that burns – some mechanism used to summon her." He speaks all of this very quickly, but Dumbledore doesn't need an explanation to follow.
The old wizard sighs and looks at the agitated Auror sadly.
"James, I always wondered, but I never allowed myself to consider it as an option. But this is irrefutable evidence. I'll tell Moody to add her name to the surveillance list and let…"
"PROFESSOR!" he interrupts angrily, "With all due respect, she's not just a name on a list! She's one of us and she's being held captive and we need to…"
The headmaster holds up a finger. James tells himself to take a deep breath and bites his tongue to keep from retaliating.
Dumbledore speaks slowly, as if the words were knives not meant to be all dropped at the same time.
"Mr. Potter… have you ever considered the possibility that... well, what if she doesn't want to be rescued?"
And he too, vanishes.
James feels very much like punching a wall. Too many people have disappeared on him. He's taken back to 7supth/sup year again, sitting on the ceiling of the north tower, letting the wind whip his tears into angry red streaks on his face. With Dumbledore diverted by a compromised Ministry, Voldemort's army had descended on the Great Hall. It was last night he ever saw her.
When she had vanished, he had nearly drowned in guilt. He blamed himself for not protecting her. For not having taken her hand and run when he could. For not growing up fast enough. After graduation, he studiously attended every Order meeting, yearning, hoping for any news that might bring a glimmer of hope. He scoured the remnants of the Muggle village she had grown up in, even pleading with her wretched sister for information. Days turned into months, flame turned into embers. She was still missing. He threw himself into Auror training, studying more than he ever had in his life. He became scarred and hardened by the war.
The other purebloods taunted him. Asked him why he tainted his worthy legacy to further a useless cause.
The reason could not be more obvious. He fought because Voldemort was everything that he stood against: blood supremacy, power, violence, Dark Arts. But most importantly, James Potter fought because Voldemort was the reason he hadn't seen Lily in three years.
We've loved in shades of wrong, but we learn to live with the pain.
Dumbledore's new realization now crushed him from the inside out. She was tenacious, kindhearted, witty, a charms prodigy. She wasn't meant to be a Death Eater.
Despite his perfect Auror exam grades and widely lauded spellwork, James Potter did not understand Lily Evans. And now he feared that he would never have the chance to.
we begin again
A/N: Dear readers, the next chapter will be entitled she was once mine / the heart is a muscle? Thoughts, opinions or ideas? love always.