Disclaimer : I do not own any aspect of J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter franchise, nor do I own any aspect of Neil Gaiman's Stardust. Basically none of this is of my creation, but many fantasy elements I have twisted and altered only for use in the story. I apologize beforehand.
AN : I'm incredibly nervous posting anything remotely related to Harry Potter, since this is my first time, and I haven't written anything in ages. I guess my excuse is: (1) I tried, and (2) this is just a dump for any random idea that pops into my head.
Also, as I do realize that there are other Stardust!AU works out there (you should check them out, they're very nice), I shall say now that I have no intention of copying any elements of anyone else's work, so please be aware that there are definitely similarities! But I'll try to add more original content as well.
Warnings/Other : Rated M for bad language and darker themes later on. Also, the characters are kind of OOC - my apologies. This Stardust AU will have book references, but'll probably follow the movie plot more. Also, this is my attempt to stick to a slow burn. I have no idea how it will work out, but I hope you'll bear with me! Much love.
Summary : When Harry makes a rash promise to retrieve a fallen star in order to win the heart of his love, Cho, he finds himself in the company of a temperamental blonde boy, venturing across foreign realms with witches, royalty, and hunters alike on their tail. He did not sign up for this. Stardust AU. Draco/Harry
Your Heart in Exchange for Mine
by nightofowls
Are we human because we gaze at the stars,
or do we gaze at them because we are human?
― Neil Gaiman, Stardust
part 1: gathering roots in the undergrowth
The village of Little Whinging, Surrey was a quaint little village. For centuries it stood in solitude, a dash of grey amidst dappling undergrowth and woodland. What lay north of Little Whinging was unknown to most, for it was sequestered to the mainland by a single stone wall―an unimpressive structure, weathered by centuries of rain and shine, built from huge hunks of stone and running for miles and miles―so many so that not one had ever traversed its entire length and discovered where its ends lay.
Little Whinging was a very normal village, and many of its inhabitants were proud to say that, thank you very much.
Said inhabitants were as grey as the wall that lined its upper borders and just as drably dressed. Some were snobby, uppity, and self-righteous in their own manner; others were kind and mild-mannered and soft in the eyes. All in all, the folk of Little Whinging were very normal, very normal indeed. Very rarely did outsiders intrude on the calm provincial sanctity of the place, and when they did their appearances often disturbed the town for days on end, for that was simply how much peculiarity the town lacked. There was only one road out of the village, a long, winding path so rarely taken that it had been beaten down and sun-baked and dusty for years, and was only wide enough for one traveler's load. If one took the road down south, one would eventually end up near London, after a day or two's journey.
To the north was only the wall. On the outskirts of the village was the meadow, and all the villagers knew that lay beyond the wall was another meadow, which on a rare occasion bloomed with daisies on a hotter summer's night, and a copse of dense forest. That was it. That was all they had ever been told, and hence was all they had ever accepted.
Needless to say, ignorance is bliss. And the nice, normal people of Little Whinging, with their plain ways and extra-ordinary lives, were blissfully unaware of whatever lay beyond the wall. So it had been for years.
The sparse few on this side of the wall who were privy to the truth knew that what lay on the other side of the wall, beyond the greenery, was in fact another realm altogether. If you had ventured through the hole in the wall, past the vast undergrowth and the trees, you would venture into the realm of Grimmauld, which is an entirely separate world unto itself.
Grimmauld was, essentially, a world of magic. It is a world of love and war and hope, a realm of the fae and other creature folk, and fantasies of kinds unimaginable. In Grimmauld, shadows came to life and people rode dragons rather than fought with them. Hypothetically, if you were to cross the wall, through the meadow on the other side, and pass through the dense thickery of the forest, you would find yourself atop a hillock overlooking Diagon Alley, a vibrant marketplace brimming with wonders unknown to our world and filled with anything you could ever dream of. That was the closest hub of Grimmauld to the human world that there is―and even so, for centuries, barely a soul knew about the existence of Grimmauld.
After all, if you told anybody about a magical world just beyond your grasp, just past the plain meadow and the even plainer trees on the other side of the wall, who would believe you?
The only way to access Grimmauld from the human world―or, rather, the plain and ugly world of the mundane―was the bridge in the gap in the wall, which was guarded on a daily basis by a taciturn old man named Argus Filch with more wrinkles and limp, stringy brown hair that anything else, who had been posted by the gap in the wall for as long as most anyone could remember. He was a grouchy old soul whose unwavering persistence to stand guard by the wall, lest some naughty youngsters made to trespass, kept him sitting on his rickety old stool with his disgustingly mangy cat Ms. Norris and his small triangular sandwiches through rain and shine, sleet and hail, and more. His determination to keep to his duty was one that was unparalleled elsewhere: keep any and all people away from the gap in the wall, at all costs. No exceptions.
So it was. So it had been for centuries.
Until, one day, everything changed.
Life was good for James Potter.
That's right: at the ripe age of eighteen, on the burgeoning of adulthood, James Potter, son of Lord Fleamont and and Lady Euphemia Potter, was living in the prime of his time, so to speak. His father was to pass on the family business to him, and so far he'd led a reputable lifetime of experience idling and wreaking havoc around town―in fact, his recent accomplishments in Quidditch had gained him widespread recognition among his peers and had secured him a relatively lucrative position as a Chaser for a renowned team. He was surrounded by his friends and family and all that was familiar, and was a cheery, likable young man with a keen eye. His pleasant brown eyes and easy smile turned several heads as he entered adulthood, and, while he had yet to settle for one particular lover, he was as happy as could be, marauding about the place with his ever-faithful pals.
Needless to say, life was good. In fact, all was swell for James Potter.
Except that it wasn't―not completely. For let it be said that James Potter was a frightfully curious soul with an eye for adventure and trouble.
Lately, he had begun feeling an ache in his bones. His parents, for all their love and pride, had begun hounding him with matchmaking and meddling with his romantic―or lack thereof―affairs. More and more often did he find himself trudging home well into the eve, mud tracking on the marble steps, to twin frowns over how he had skived off another meeting with some lord or count's single, available daughter. Nowadays, as he stepped ever closer to adulthood, even his usual routines with his closest friends occasionally found his mind wandering off.
Much to the consternation of his closest friends, Sirius and Remus, James Potter felt unfulfilled.
He was restless. He craved something intangible, a concept that he could never fully grasp. He couldn't settle down just yet; the mere thought of doing so in the near future and living through the same routine every day for the rest of his life unerringly unsettled him. He needed more. He yearned for adventure, a challenge, a change. For once, he itched to do something so completely unthinkable and wild his life would be forever changed, if only for a night.
When nighttime fell and all was quiet, James would clamber out his bedroom window onto the roof and lie on his back and gaze at the endless sea of stars unfurled out before him, and he would dream of possibility. And oftentimes, he would find his eyes drawn to the remote silhouette of the wall he could make out on clearer eves, and swore he could see the faintest outline of something beyond the rolling hills. But what could possibly lie beyond Grimmauld?
The question plagued his mind. What, possibly, indeed?
Fresh ideas came bursting into his mind whenever he thought of what might lie beyond the wall. Another world, like his own? A civilization, isolated entirely? A lost people, perhaps? The possibilities were endless, and the further he was bogged down by meddlesome daily affairs, the more the thought beckoned to him, so much so that eventually he spent most of his days with a glazed look, feverish and wild, in his eyes.
Finally, one day, the gods above gave in to his dogged pursuit of the unknown, and granted his wish.
By chance, as dusk fell and supper was cleared off the table one fine midsummer's evening, James informed his mother that he was going out into town with his fellows and would not be back until late. Without waiting for a reply, he winked cheekily at her, pressed a kiss to her softly perfumed cheek, and swept out of the dining hall, leaving poor Euphemia Potter, blinking in his direction with wide eyes, alone with a table full of half-emptied porcelain dishes and an unfinished description of her and Fleamont's next choice for a prospective daughter-in-law.
"What on Earth has gotten into that boy lately?" she murmured, more to herself than anything else. As worried as she was at times about her darling son, she knew she and James' father could only watch him do as he pleased. He was a fine lad, their pride and joy, and a wild spirit at heart. They could do little else.
With the tell-tale path through the woods lit by fireflies flitting idly in the grove, James paced his way towards the gap in the wall. The further he went, the harder it became to conceal the exhilarated grin and the excited rush of his blood. His shoes squelched in the mud, which had been dampened by an earlier bout of spring rain, and he quickened his pace, running and racing and whooping until the Potter estate was far out of sight through the trees and the only sounds accompanying him were those of life in the forest.
James did not know for how long he had trudged, but by the time he burst through the trees and saw the wall in plain sight, night had fallen. As he neared, he could make out the seemingly innocuous fields on the other side of the crumbling ashen stone, and the silhouette of the ever-grumpy Argus Filch blearily keeping vigil, perched on his rickety yellow stool.
The moonlight cast an ominous shadow over Filch's wrinkled features. James could make out the keeper's eyes glinting beadily at him.
"Oh," Filch groused, squinting and turning around with a grunt. From the corner behind him, his mangy cat Ms. Norris hissed at the presence of a potential intruder. "You again, boy. Haven't seen you around in a while, have I? And where did those ruffian friends of yours go, hmm?"
James cleared his throat and blinked as innocently as he could manage. In truth, this was not the first time he had tried to venture to the other side of the wall―a number of times, during his childhood, he and Sirius and Remus had laughingly tried to climb over, much to the chagrin of the ever-watchful Filch, who never failed to be befuddled by why anybody could possibly want to climb to Little Whinging's side of the wall. Yet, while each of James' efforts to cross in the past was spectacularly thwarted, this time, the young man felt, would be different. He could feel it in his bones, after all. It would be different.
"Filchy―" he began, wincing when Filch narrowed his eyes further. He darted a glance at the grass on the other side. Then, as endearingly as he could wheedle out: "Filchy! Won't you be a good sport and let me cross once?"
"Oh no, no, no," Filch grumbled, his voice scratchy and sly. "Definitely not, mister. Besides, what business would you have crossing over to Little Whinging? The only troubles I usually have are with pesky young things like you trying to cross over to your side."
James could almost smell his ratty old-man smell from where he was standing, in straight sight of the gap. The meadow was so close he could almost touch it, if only he reached out a few more steps.
"But Filchy! Come on, old boy. There isn't even anything over there! You know I'm a good kid."
Filch pursed his lips. "Mark my words, laddie: you aren't crossing, and that's final! If there's nothing over here, then how come you're so desperate to cross, hmm?"
James made a face very typical of a youngster denied a wish.
More wheedling: "My folks are trying to marry me off again! Merlin, Filch, it's just a meadow―can't you just let me through? Not even for a minute? Please? Just this once? If I turn back now, I won't ever have the chance to do this again, I know it!"
"That won't do you no good, Potter!" Filch bared his extra tooth, derogatorily stabbing his index finger in James' direction. "Learn to listen to your elders! I said no, and that's final! You won't be no exception, boy."
But James Potter would not be denied this. Curiosity was calling to him.
He paused for a moment, biting his lip, looking the picture of utter defeat, and linked his hands together behind his back. "So," he pouted innocently, and faked a jaunty whistle, "that's... your final call?"
Filch nodded resolutely. "That's the final word, laddie. Now you go hurry off home. Your parents'll be worried sick."
He grunted as he got up off his stool and shuffled over to James, shooing him away. "Hurry off! Go, boy!"
For dramatic effect, James clutched his chest. "Well," he admitted defeat, closing his eyes with a dramatized sigh, "that does sound decisive. I suppose you're right, Filchy."
"Of course I am," the old man grumbled in irritation, huffing and settling back down on his trusty chair. He leaned back against the stone, his pipe emitting puffs of acrid smoke that cascaded heavenward. "Now go away, Potter. Or go find another rabbit hole."
"So be it!" James announced, crossing his arms and sauntering away slowly. "So long, Filch."
The old man only huffed and let his lids fall shut, hoping to filter out any more annoyances. James sauntered a few more cautious steps away, before whipping around and making a sudden dash for the entrance. Filch's eyes popped open, his pipe smoke shooting out urgently and clouding around his face as he leapt up.
"Stop, boy!" he screeched, waving his fists, but all that could be heard was James' triumphant cry as he sprinted out of Filch's reach and through the crumbling gap in the stone wall, treading on bits of debris.
"See you, Filchy!" he whooped, leaping up ebulliently as he ran.
"Come back here, you impertinent fool!" Filch raged, arms flailing as he crowded towards the exit, but to no avail: James had already taken the opportunity to race through the meadow and into the copse of trees on the other side of the wall, and had long since disappeared from sight. It was a futile effort. Filch's bottom lip jutted out as he blew out a breath through his mouth and shook his head despairingly, retiring to his post with a peeved look of grudging acceptance. For the heck of it, he growled at the meadow and at the trees. Just because he could. After all, if they hadn't looked so innocuous and unassuming, the foolish boy wouldn't be philandering about now, would he? Reason with that, trees!
That was all he could do. What was done had been done. Filch folded into himself and resumed his incessant grumbling. He wiped his pipe and continued smoking in his chair, scratching Ms. Norris behind the ears right where she liked it.
"Young 'uns these days... Brats, the lot of them."
What James Potter did not realize about crossing the wall was that he had just changed the course of Grimmauldian history. Well, in a manner of speaking, at least.
Had he known he was tampering with the fates of Little Whinging and Grimmauld both, chances are he never would have dared step foot across the wall. Yet, again, let it be repeated that James Potter was a frightfully curious soul and a born rule-breaker. Nothing deterred him as he set out to seek what lay beyond the unknown. Even with the wind screaming through the trees and the daylight fading fast on his heels, his ambitions did not stir. The chilly evening breeze nipped at his skin through his threadbare overcoat and the forest mist wrapped low around his ankles, but still he kept walking, stumbling to and fro but doggedly making his way straight ahead. The trees were alive, even in the dark, amidst the murky light through the grove, with sounds of chirping and cricket noises.
By the time late evening had fallen, he was tired, hungry, and weary. When he had finally had enough and made to turn around, however, James caught a glimpse of a warm, dancing light out in his periphery, and instead of turning back he defiantly trekked forward, through the trees, batting through the sharp branches―
―until he burst into a clearing, out of the woods.
He found himself standing atop a light slope dotted with foliage, and below hillock sprawled house beyond house, each grey and homely in its own right, humming cozily with warm lights and the scent of warm broth. Beyond the village lay a single winding road, twisting and turning through the trees in the distance like an idle serpent. As he skidded through the damp grass, James felt the rich yellows of candlelight from each house buoying his spirits, and suddenly he was filled with a strange, unfamiliar sense of wonderment. While he was cold and wet and shivering slightly, this bucolic, quiet sight was everything he had ever wanted.
He had done it. He had finally reached―well, wherever this was. Little Whinging, was it? What a fascinatingly odd name that was. The live thrumming in his being did not cease.
Cautiously, he made his way through the grey cobbled streets, running his fingertips across the stone walls and stopping at street lamps to stare at the beating of tiny moth wings, lit golden in the shadow. There were few people milling about on the roads, each hastily walking his or her own way―and how intriguing that was! In Grimmauld, oftentimes people stopped to chat you up, stranger or not, and bid you a good day. These muggles, however, did no such thing.
The rowdy sounds of festivity caught his attention, and he turned a few corners towards the sound until he reached what he believed to be the village center: a rounded plaza with a mosaic of stones, a few of which were crumbling from wear and old age, and a sturdy-looking fountain in the center. Tonight must have been a special night, he mused―there were twinkling lights hung up around the fountainhead, which bore a worn stone lady holding a jug, and a few colorfully-striped tents and stalls selling pots and pans of delicacies, and people bustling to and fro, laughing and talking and dancing with one another. Quaint, jovial music hovered in the air, played by a few people with wooden stringed instruments. Awestruck by the sheer simplicity and crackling air emanating from the square, James found himself jostled to and fro, nudged by passersby.
Everything was so simple―it was nothing like the bizarre and disconcerting ways of Grimmauld. These people lived without magic and fantasy, and yet here they were, indulging in some of the simplest pleasures and deriving the purest of joys from it.
In all his confusion, James found himself wandering near the edge of the fountain, and peered indelicately at the water. At the bottom, he could make out a number of rusted copper pennies, and the washed-out blue tiles, shimmering beneath the surface. As he pondered the nature of the sunken currency, he made out above the din a voice behind him.
"Lost?"
James glanced up, casting his gaze to and fro with a jerk of his head, and, while garnering a few startled looks from the odd passerby or two, found the face that would come to haunt his dreams for the rest of his days.
A girl around his age―although, really, she looked ageless, ethereal―gazed down at him from where she was stood balanced, on her toes, on the fountain ledge. James slowly stepped closer as she leaned alluringly closer, her expression bemused and watchful.
A wave of deep red locks cascaded over the smooth skin of her shoulders. Her heart-shaped face was bathed in the moonlight, and James could make out the spattering of dainty freckles across the elegant curve of her nose as she leaned forward, drawing him into her in an endless spiral from which he could not escape. With the sway of her hair and her amaranthine green eyes, James suddenly felt as if he were shrouded in a flowery mist, clouding his senses so the world slowed around him and all he could see was her.
A slow, mirthful smirk spread onto said girl's face as she noticed James' dazed expression. She tilted her head to the side, and James had to blink twice in order to stop fixating from the smooth slope of her neck.
The girl coyly placed her hands on her hips. "See anything you like?"
James had to stifle a cough, and cleared his throat. He raised a brow before breaking into the charismatic grin he had previously used on more than one occasion to charm free drinks from the local bar owners, and bowed low, much to the girl's amusement. "Milady."
Gallantly, he offered his hand, and she took it, stepping down daintily, before glancing at their linked fingers. She glanced up at him, her gaze clear and unwavering.
"You're new around here, aren't you?"
James' brows rose into his hairline. "Was it that obvious?"
The girl threw her head back and laughed, and it sounded like bells. Her hair fell back from her face in a fluid wave. "Oh, you foolish thing," she said. "Only a newcomer has eyes like yours in Little Whinging. They glow with something else entirely."
"Well, miss, why don't you show me around?" James raised a brow, and as if he had issued a challenge, the girl raised hers right back, a smile at the corner of her lips. She glanced around, and shrugged.
"Oh, hell, why not? Marlene's left me all alone anyway." She tugged gently at his hand, and James felt a shiver run up his spine. "Come, then."
She pulled him through the crowd towards a stall, purveying the contents. When James idly picked up a container filled with what looked to be yellow slime, she sighed wordlessly and pried it from his hand, and instead replaced it with a triangular slice of brownish pastry wrapped in a gingham cloth.
"Eat," she nudged it towards him, curling his fingers around it. "I made it myself. We're all expected to help a bit with the fair."
Staring fixedly at her all the while, still partially dazed, James frowned and hesitantly bit into the slice. His eyes widened when a crumbly sweetness exploded through his senses and filled him with an unexpectedly cloudy, rich warmth.
"What is this?" he goggled, eyes impossibly wide, once he finished chewing.
"Treacle tart."
"By Jove, this is one of the most marvelous desserts I have ever tasted!" James exclaimed, and the smile the girl graced him almost sent him hurtling off into the sky from pure joy alone. Then a thought struck him. "How much for it?"
The girl's lashes fluttered, glinting cheekily. "A kiss from you," she decided with a smile, and gently tapped her cheek, turning her head so James could see her profile. "Right here."
Eyes half-lidded, James gave her a wry smirk. That he could do. The brunet leaned in, closing his eyes. He basked in the enchanting smell of spring that followed in her wake, when suddenly the girl turned her face, and instead of smooth skin he was greeted with her lips on his own. Startled as he was, James broke into a blissful smile.
The kiss was something James never expected to ever experience in a lifetime. The girl reminded him of wildberries, of moonlight strewn in the fields, lit by firefly glow, of the phantasmagorical color between dreaming and waking. His hand unconsciously reached to tuck a strand of her silky red hair behind her ear. It felt like the two of them had escaped to a boundless world of their own―it simply felt right, holding her.
It was over far too quickly. As they broke apart, James snapped out of his stupor.
"Your name?" he asked breathlessly.
He could feel her laugh like the trickle of a brook brush lightly over his nose. "Lily. My name is Lily."
"James," he replied with a choked whisper, still reeling from the kiss. Lily giggled and pecked him on the nose before pulling away. She ran her hand down his arm, fingertips ghosting daintily across his skin, and entwined their fingers.
"Come with me, James," she murmured so only he could hear. Dazed, he could only follow, grinning and starry-eyed and heart beating so fast he thought it would explode from his chest. "There are too many people here, after all."
As James made to follow her, he suddenly paused once more, hesitating. Lily turned to eye him with an impish grin, reaching her hand out expectantly. "Well, are you coming?"
Qualms forgotten, James returned her look with a mischievous smirk of his own, enveloped her hand in his, and followed her without looking back. They ran from the plaza, her silken dress brushing fluidly around their ankles, laughing like children. As the music from the market filtered through the still air, and the path sloped upwards unevenly, they found themselves alone on the streets. Together they stood in the middle of the slanted road, and without a second thought James took her into his arms and kissed her for all he was worth, uncaring that they were out in the open.
"James," Lily murmured, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, her eyes brighter than the stars above. For all his gazing, James realized, none of the stars in the sky could compare to the glint of her eyes. "James, follow me."
And so it was that under the watchful gaze of the stars above, Lily took him by the hand once more, and the two immersed themselves in the throes of youthful ardor for but a single, blissful night.
Before dawn the next morning, James wearily trudged his way through the forest, hardened in his resolve not to look back upon the wondrous world he had left behind. The rest of the world was still asleep as he sighed and returned through the hole in the wall, back to the now dreadfully plain town of Little Whinging.
As in awe of his escapade as he was, he had long since decided to forget that that had ever happened, to return to the mundane life he had known before trespassing into the wizarding world, as he called it.
Ultimately, he gave in and obliged to his parents' wishes in finding him a suitable match, causing quite a stir among his inner circle, and took to his responsibilities and business ventures, but all with a more subdued vigor than before. And if, in the middle of the night, he lay awake recounting the aroma of heather and hair the color of autumn, or daydreamed before a Quidditch match about freckles like constellations and eyes green like jade, he told no one. He was dead set on returning to normal, and that was that. All was well.
As it was, the stars above did not condone this.
For the next three months James suffered from a loss of both rest and appetite and a dreamy, lackadaisical manner commonly associated with lovesickness. His parents and friends were all at a loss, for the once vibrant and active James Potter had been reduced to but a shadow of his previous self, seemingly overnight. Even the poor lad himself, having stumbled through his days in heady nostalgia of that one fateful night, found he could not think of anything else, and decided he had to see her again, if only one more time.
Once more, on a chilly winter's eve, James stole into his father's office as the two elders were resting by the hearth. Bundled in an ornate chest was a nondescript cloak with golden engravings and inscriptions weaving like vines over its rich, velvety red surface; he snatched it up, slung it on, made off out the window. He couldn't believe he hadn't thought of this before, half-mad with longing as he had been.
This time shrouded by the folds of the cloak―an Invisibility Cloak, mind you: a precious heirloom passed down supposedly from the Potter line's founding forefather―he trekked through the piles of dead leaves and through the gap in the wall without so much a hitch, even though Ms. Norris hissed at his passing halfway, causing Filch to uncannily stare in his direction as he ran. Before long, he found himself scaling that picturesque backyard fence, wading into the bushels of rosemary and lavender―planted for good luck―and collecting a handful of tiny blue pebbles. His heart tripped over itself in its haste as it beat faster, and faster, and faster, and he tossed a first straight at her window.
A rustle of the curtains―and then there she was, and James' heart rose into his throat at the sight of her gasp and her wide eyes. Cockily, he grinned at her; inside, however, he was trembling with excitement.
Not a moment later did the back door open, and did Lily's silhouette emerge, haloed in the lamplight. She ran to him. James caught her around the waist and pulled her close, breathing in the scent of flowers and odd little things that trailed in her wake, and realized that he never wanted to be parted from her ever again. This he told her, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.
"I'm unbelievably in love with you," he began, but Lily put a hand to his mouth to stop him.
"It's late. I'm to be married soon, to the butcher's boy down the street."
James felt his heart drop. He kissed her palm, nuzzled their noses together, and she did not stop him.
"A butcher's boy? Do you love him?"
Even her sigh was lovely. "My parents thought it best, considering. Can't you tell, James?" She gently wrapped her hands around his and placed them over her abdomen, and there he felt a stirring that so startling he almost jolted away.
"You're―?" he said disbelievingly, voice cracking, barely a whisper.
Lily's cloudy eyes and watery laugh were the only indicator: indeed, she was. She was with child.
"And it's―" A nod. "You're certain?" Another nod.
Finally Lily spoke. "I believe," her voice was tiny. James felt weak. "It's a boy."
James could only gape in wonder at his hands over hers, over the bump so small he hadn't noticed it prior, and his heart swelled at the thought of another life belonging purely to her and himself, stirring and budding within that minuscule space.
"My son," he breathed out, breath coming out in puffs in the cold air and catching in his throat, eyes stinging. He unconsciously broke into an earsplitting grin at the thought and reached a hand up to cup Lily's cheek, and suddenly an idea, wild beyond relief, grasped at him. He gazed at her.
"Run away with me."
"James―"
"Lily." He dropped to his knees and clasped her hands in his fervently. "Please hear me out. I fell in love with you the moment I met you. I've spent the past three months sleepless because I feared I wouldn't see you again." He gently pressed his forehead to the swell. Around them, the crisp autumn breeze grazed the grasses. "And now this? Isn't this a sign that the two of us should be together?"
Lily's eyes welled with unshed tears.
"James," she whispered again, voice so quiet and broken he could barely hear her above the sounds of nightlife. Upon seeing her distraught expression, he hurriedly stood, uncaring of the muck on his knees, and pulled her so close he could feel their heartbeats as one, accelerating together.
"I'll take care of you." Ever so lightly, he kissed the corner of her brow, voice low and wistful. "I will dedicate the rest of my life to making you happy, if only it means we'll never be parted again, I promise you."
Perhaps it was the longing that had settled in her bones since that thrilling night she met the strange young man James Potter, or perhaps it was the inborn restlessness that had so plagued her all night it caused her to seek solace in the unknown ― but something of James' words struck her deep down, and she knew, against all rhyme and reason, that he meant what he said, that he wasn't a listless fluke like so many other boys she had come across during her time in Little Whinging.
That night, Lily Potter made what was perhaps the brashest decision of her life.
Whispering diabolically between themselves, the two sneaked into her bedroom, and as James waited patiently by the open window, fiddling with the gossamer curtains, Lily threw her favorite outfits and books in a raggedy, lopsided case, and delicately penned a note of farewell to her parents, which spoke of how sorry she was to leave them and that she couldn't bear to stay any longer, and that she loved them beyond compare, that she was safe and they needn't worry about her.
Once she was done, and her regrets were all laid out in ink, James linked their hands together, and together they ran, giggling like children under the safety of the Invisibility Cloak, hastily past Filch and the gap in the wall and back to Grimmauld, with only the stars above to bear witness.
The morning after came with few surprises in Little Whinging save for that of the Evans household, where, instead of finding their daughter in her fluttering yellow sundress, burying her fingers in the newly-dampened loam of the front yard's rosemary soil, elderly Mister and Missus Evans awoke to find their beloved daughter's room empty and windows splayed wide open, and a crisp note with her delicate, looping hand inscribed upon it.
And while their hearts cracked inside their chests, they could not help but feel a shred of relief upon reading the note, for they knew instinctively that their beloved daughter Lily was finally pursuing adventure, something they knew she'd been seeking all her life ever since they noticed how she stood out in sharp contrast to the other duller children of Little Whinging. They trusted her, and wistfully wished her the best―for that is all a parent can do when their child leaves the nest―and prayed that wherever she was, she was doing well.
The next day and for many days following, James and Lily were inseparable. The elder Potters were absolutely taken with Lily's vivacious, uncommonly kind nature, and found her to be a charming―albeit unusual―match for James, who often took to fawning over her like a lovesick puppy. They spent the approaching winter months wrapped around one another in front of the fireplace, taking spirited walks around town, lying together in the snow, wreaking Yuletide havoc with Sirius and Remus―both of whom adored the newest addition to their group―and discovering one another.
As the days passed, James found that Lily had a most unusual penchant for the smallest of magics, something he and the others had never before seen beyond Grimmauld. Where she walked, the grass instantly turned vernal, and whenever she passed through in town the lilac bushes perked up like sunflowers in the sunlight. Whenever she kissed James, he fell further in love with her, and whenever she baked, breads and pastries seemed to spring to life under her careful coaxing, like they had imbued within them the rich aroma of first love, and caused an uproar among the townspeople. In turn, Lily, to her utmost delight, found James to always unfailingly make her laugh, to hold her close in a way that she felt she could never be lonely ever again, and to be all at once talented and endearing and completely, insanely lovable.
And, finally, on a fine day with the softest of breezes wafting in the air and the earliest of spring flowers sprouting from cracked cobblestones in the streets, James took Lily by the hand and proposed to her atop the uppermost branches of a nearby tree, where they laughed together, hidden from the prying gazes of passersby. He gently clasped her hand in his and leaned in close, resting his chin on her shoulder, and whispered in her ear the fateful question.
"Lily, my love, will you marry me?"
Her eyes shone even more, and he resisted the urge to kiss her as she smirked at him, one of her hands lovingly resting on her baby bump, the other brushing the hair out of his eyes.
"I thought you'd never ask."
Together, under the watchful eyes of only their closest friends and family (and the Potters' faithful, lumpy errand boy, Peter), the two were married in secret. That sunny afternoon in the forest meadow, Lily's bright red hair was woven with apple flowers that bloomed even more in her braids than they did in the soil, and her dress swept only to her ankles in its comforting white lace, and James' suit was a brilliant white, his hair just as untamed and wild as ever. They kissed beneath the setting sun, dancing and drinking wine bubbled from Grimmauld's finest vineyards, and furtively whispered amongst one another, as the sun vanished beyond the trees, of joyous things to come.
By the time the week had ended, the happy newlyweds, having moved to a cottage a small distance away, were gone from the old Potter residence.
For a while the young Potters lived in unending bliss, free to do and love as they pleased, away from the watchful eyes of others. They had picnics in the front garden whenever they felt like it, with Lily's lilacs and lavenders in full bloom around them, and stayed up all night whenever they so chose. On days that were slow they took walks together in town, where passersby would marvel at how the lovely Potter missus, with her hair as fine and red as flame, seemed to glow when she walked―from the pregnancy or some other preternatural matter, they weren't certain. Nighttime found them wandering the rustling bush of the forest paths or dining with Remus and Sirius, laughing and joking until the crack of dawn.
But mostly, when the roads were quiet and folks were at home by the hearth, Lily and James found themselves lying together in bed, intertwined, breathing together as one as they listened to the tiny heartbeat of the babe who would soon grace their household.
And not a moment too soon. On a day like any other, when July came to a close, there was a sudden clamor in the Potter household. James had been out in town with Sirius and Remus, buying ingredients to sate Lily's desire to pick up her baking once more, when suddenly they ran into the lad Peter on the road. The lumpy-looking lad was panting, sweat beading his temple, as he breathlessly informed the trio that the baby was coming, the baby was coming!
Without further notice the three had raced back to the house, where they could hear through the open windows the old nursemaid and midwife's cries amidst the chaos. When James raced into the bedroom, where Lily lay with her hair fanned out on the pillow like a fiery halo and her breaths coming in quick, he knelt by her side and kissed her brow, and grasped her hand tightly within his in both mind-numbing anxiety and excited terror.
That evening, as moths fluttered by the lone lamp outside and cats prowled in the grove, people swore they saw a sheen of blinding light emerge from the topmost window of the young Potters' residence, followed by the keening wail of a newborn embracing the world beyond. From then on it was the talk of the town: the Potters had given birth to an adorable, chubby little rascal with round, rosy cheeks, his mother's large, vibrant green eyes, and tufts of his father's unruly black hair atop his head.
When James first held the tiny little creature in his arms, delicately, the babe had cried out shrilly in delight upon seeing him and reached out a chubby hand to grab at his glasses; the young man's heart had swelled in adoration at the sight, and he had fallen in love for the second time in his life.
The following year or so, the household was a whirlwind. Lily and James steadied one another as they tripped and stumbled through the perils of parenthood, as Harry laughed and cried and made messes wherever he went. Family and friends came and went often, and soon the doors were open so frequently that Lily took to simply leaving it open so guests could welcome themselves in directly, and James found himself buying fresh produce so frequently he could make his way to the market on muscle memory alone.
Everybody especially adored Harry. The child was a little miracle: he had a knack for crawling into nooks and crannies and stirring up trouble, and an eye for the daily magics that occurred beyond the house. Some, when they passed the family by on the street, swore they noticed a strangely insightful gleam in the baby's eyes, only to laugh it off―for what could an infant possibly know? Yet he was special: he was a child raised in the most loving household, beloved by all those who came across him and all those who had yet to meet him. Everything was blissful, and everybody was happy.
But it was not to last.
As Harry approached his first birthday, times began changing. Rumors of attacks and strange activity in the dark forests of the country began circulating. People who had previously been fine began suddenly acting strange, those who had been living fine suddenly disappeared overnight, and homes and pets were abandoned without notice. From all around, news of inexplicable murders and terrors began cropping up; news of a monster had people quivering in their beds and boarding up their doors at night. Soon, as soon as dusk settled every day, Diagon Alley was oddly bereft of life.
Something unknown had begun plaguing people and creatures alike, but nobody knew what, save for the thinnest of whispers in dark corners and alleyways. Grimmauld was feeling threatened, and had unleashed her thorns.
James, too, had begun acting oddly. There was a frantic haze to his every move: when he walked, he did so with haste; when he talked, he did so with caution creeping into his every word. At night, when they huddled together, he would pull her close and hold her like he was to lose her the next morning, and she worried. Finally, a short while after Harry's first birthday―a hushed event with little fanfare, and only Remus and Sirius for company―James finally revealed the source of his worries.
First it had been a rushed visit to his parents' residence, where they had told him troubling news: purebloods―men and women with magic flowing full through their veins, as it was too for the Potter line―Euphemia and Fleamont Potter had once kept in close contact with had abruptly stopped correspondence in the past few weeks, and they had overheard talk of children being snatched in the night by an unknown force. What little they knew, they explained, they had heard straight from the horse's mouth, and perhaps it would be best if, at least for a while, they did not visit their son and daughter-in-law, for fear of drawing attention.
Then it had been the increasing number of missives. James had begun receiving, from a contact of import, letters that were increasingly fraught with warning. As time passed, they grew more urgent, urging the couple to go into hiding for both their and baby Harry's safety, that it was possible the child would be targeted.
Finally, on the final night of August, the final missive came on a nondescript piece of torn parchment, with letters scrawled in dried blood: The Dark Lord is coming. Run.
Unwilling to risk Harry's safety, James and Lily bid Sirius and Remus a tender farewell and fled to the nondescript village of Godric's Hollow, far west and removed from the fearful flurry that was the Diagon district. There they lay, deep in wait in a cottage of two stories and cobblestone. In Godric's Hollow, they waited in tentative happiness, placing a spell that shielded them from the rest of the world save for from the faithful lad Peter, who continued bringing them news from the outside world from time to time. Temporarily, all was well ― as long as they were together, they were fine.
Until one night, everything changed.
When the clock struck eleven on Hallow's Eve, James and Lily Potter were huddled together over Harry's cot as he lay sleeping, murmuring with their heads bent lovingly together as if they weren't hiding from the world. Had they not been preoccupied with the happenings of the tiny nursery, they might have heard the telltale creaking of the front gate as it was pried open, or the barely noticeable sound of heavy footsteps crunching on the flowers above the crisp autumn breeze.
Unfortunately for the Potters, it was not until they heard the baying of wolves in the distance that they finally realized something was amiss, for wolves on the open rural plain meant only ill fortune. An ominous scratching on the front door, as the room fell into silence, sent shivers up their spines, and the single panicked look they exchanged held miles of emotions they knew they had no time to express.
"They're here," Lily whispered hopelessly, voice tremulous. Tenderly she reached down into the cot and carded her fingers through baby Harry's wispy hair. "How did they find us?"
James, leaning against the railing beside her, their sides pressed together, could only gaze at his wife longingly. How he wished they had all the time in the world, when in reality there was a chance he would not last the night.
In that moment, as he took in the sight of his wife and his son in suspended serenity for what he feared was the last time, he felt a fierce, protective determination burgeon within him. He had vowed once upon a time, when they were but two youngsters uncolored and untroubled by the plagues of the world around them, he would take care of Lily and Harry, till his last dying breath.
Outside, the scratching and howling grew nearer. He could hear the monsters descending, circling. For a moment, his heart stopped, for he could feel the charms around the house dissipate; the next, there came a deafening explosion that shook the walls and rocked the floors, so much so that loose cobble in the wall began raining down and debris began collecting around their ankles. The lights in the nursery flickered, and went out. Instantly, footfalls and the clicking of claws began pounding through the house, scrabbling up the stairs and through the landing in a thumping, howling frenzy, and it seemed as if the entire building was trembling.
Lily grabbed Harry, who began whimpering in terror, as outside the rain, which previously nobody had noticed, began pelting down through the cracks, soaking everything in its wake. Quickly, James clambered up from where he had fallen and slammed the nursery door shut, and shoved the cot, now slick from the rain, in front of the frame in a meager attempt to stall the intruders. Smoke began billowing in thick plumes through the doorway and the windows. Thunder roared through the clouds above them, and everything was dark save for the occasional flashes of lightning now striking overhead.
Suddenly, there came a crash, and something large barreled against the nursery door. Lily screamed, and cradled Harry closer. As lightning once again briefly lit up the room, James stumbled over to where she was crouched in the corner, and grief billowed within him at the thought of what he was to do next.
He took her face in his rain-slicked hands, and gazed into her brilliant emerald eyes, engraving her image in the back of his heart, refusing to look away even as rainwater trickled over his forehead and the malodorous fumes from the explosion downstairs stung at his nose and eyes.
"Lily, take Harry and run!" he yelled over the pouring rain. "I'll hold him off―"
She looked at him like he was mad, and told him so.
"I'm not leaving without you!" she cried, and above the din they could both make out the insistent crashing of something outside, cracking the frame and gradually carving out gouges on the door. They were running out of time.
"You must! It's him! Go! Please!"
Frantically he kissed her, before pushing himself up and readjusting his glasses. Lily grabbed at his sleeve as he stood, distraught.
"James, please―"
The door rattled once more, the frame cracking, and he knew there was no more time to spare.
James fell into a crouch beside her, and hugged her, hard and fast. His voice, a hoarse rasp from the smoke, was the only thing she could hear above the din as he pulled a nondescript cloak from where it lay innocuously on the edge of the crib and wrapped it around her shoulders. "Lily, my love, please do this. If not for me, then for Harry."
He could not tell if the tracks down her cheeks were from the storm or tears as she kissed him urgently, with all the desperation that comes with tragedy. "Don't make me do this," she sobbed. Nestled between them, baby Harry obliviously reached out and pawed at his glasses, and James felt tears well in his eyes at the fact that he would never see them both again.
"I'll find you, I promise. I promised, didn't I? I will always find you."
"James―"
He pulled her up with all the gentleness of a lover, before opening the window, and urged Lily out through the opening.
"Now run!"
"James!"
He slammed the window shut with a wry, resigned smile as the door flew off its hinges, sending a shower of splinters throughout the room, and the cot hurtled against the wall with a tremendous bang. Lily screamed at the sound, banging against the glass with rain pouring all over her, as she watched flames suddenly engulf the doorframe and lick their way up the walls, and a gust of black robes and grey fur sweep into the room, and James stumble back against the wall, bleeding―and then the curtain rod tore from its spot above the window and fell, obscuring her view of the room.
Only the maelstrom above bore witness to Lily Potter's ruin as she threw her head back, poured her heart out, and screamed a scream that tore the heavens asunder. There she was, barely dangling from the ledge of a soiled window with a baby in her arms, lying in the ruin of her life as pillars of flame and columns of rain began to tear her house apart.
However, the grief, so intense it made her dizzy and unable to breathe, did not last long. For inside, she heard a cruel voice, grating like claws on a chalkboard in a way that had her heart shrivel, decree, "The girl has not gotten far. Find her, find the child, and bring it to me. Alive."
And so Lily ran.
She leaped off the roof, landing awkwardly so as to protect Harry, and jumped through the gaping wounds in the backyard fence, where the fires had already consumed her dahlias and had her lilacs drooping, and ran towards the forest. Behind her, she could hear the creatures bursting through the back door and following heatedly on her tail. With each step, she could hear the bone-chilling howls of wolves and lupes bounding closer and closer.
She could feel her breaths coming in ragged gasps, like the air around her was compressed, stabbing like tiny blades into her throat and lungs. Her legs trembled with every other step. Mud caked her bare feet, and branches scratched at her arms and cheeks as she protectively hunched over the whimpering babe in her arms. Night had fallen; there was not a light in the forest, and the trails were so swollen with mud and rainwater that there was no clear path she could take. Instead, she simply ran―she could almost feel their rancid, wet hot breaths snapping at her heels, and their deadly talons grazing against her calf, but she would not stop. She could not stop.
Winded, with blistering feet and bleeding limbs and the last thing her husband had given her dangling haphazardly around her shoulders, Lily collapsed the trees. She did not know for how long she had run, only that each step was slowly killing her, and that she would not make it. The wolves were closing in on her, she could feel. With a cry, she lay sprawled in the mud, bleeding sluggishly, with Harry still securely wrapped in her grip.
She could not do it.
Lily looked up, a sob tearing through her. She had tried, and she had failed. She did not even know where she was going, or what she was doing, and everything she had ever known had been destroyed in the matter of hours. She would never see James again―nor Harry, nor Sirius and Remus, nor the dear lovely Potter elders, and not even her family, for that matter―and life was failing her.
As she curled her fingers in the mud, listening to the sounds of paws smacking against the dirt behind her, around her, in exhilarated, unyielding pursuit, on the verge of surrendering to the elements, she noticed a faint light wavering in the distance.
Later, she would not know what compelled her to struggle up once more. Perhaps she thought it was the slimmest possibility of a better ending, or the tiniest embers of hope settling within her―nobody knew. But suddenly a boldness she had never before known surged within her, and she found herself tugging at a nearby tree trunk to pull herself up and out of the mud. Even as the freezing wet leaves plastered themselves to her skirt and brambles snagged on her toes, she forged forward agonizingly slowly against the icy wind, towards the source of the glow.
After what seemed like an eternity, Lily, half numbed from the biting breeze, burst from the trees into a field, whereupon lay a sight she instantly found familiar: it was here that once upon a time she had lain in a field of heather underneath a blanket of stars with James, that very night the infant in her arms was conceived. She had reached the wall. If only she could cross over, perhaps not all was lost―
With a tremendous rush, the pack of wolves erupted from the foliage with snarls and snapping teeth, and she felt her heart hammer in her throat as they surrounded her, tearing at her dress. They circled around her, each larger and more grotesque than the next, some barely wolf and more human. There was no escape. Snuffling against her chest, Harry whimpered, and in horrified disgust Lily saw a number of ears prick up and tongues slobber at the sound.
"Hand over the child, red," one howled, and the others chorused in agreement.
"No harm for you if you give up the child, red!" chimed in another ghoulishly.
The baby whimpered, and Lily pulled him closer. Anger and fear simmered in her veins. She was so close; this could not possibly be it, she was but a fingertip away, this could not possibly be how things ended―
From the other side of the gap Filch poked his head through, having heard the commotion. In his hands he carried a pitchfork, which he wielded with surprising steadiness, and his eyes glinted knowingly.
"What's going on?" he barked. Little did Lily know, all he saw was a crowd of mangy canines screeching and making a racket in the dead of the night, while everybody was supposed to be asleep. All movement stopped, and the wolves parted somewhat in alarm, but he did not care. "Get out of here, all of you! Scram!"
A single creature broke from the pack. He was larger than life, about the size of a rickety wagon, and as he stepped closer he rose up on his heels so he walked, chillingly, like a human. With each step, his features began to morph, becoming more man-like: his snout shortened to an ugly, lumpy nose, and his fangs shortened, save for his incisors, to misshapen yellow blades, and his jaw squared. He was bleeding profusely from a gash torn over one eye. One moment, he was all werewolf; the next, he was almost man, barely human, and extremely threatening.
"Run along now, little man," he growled, voice but a hair-raising rumble. "This ain't none of your business."
As he strode over towards Filch, Lily, with trepidation lining her shallow breathing, reached up and unraveled the cloak from around her shoulders with a single move. It cascaded softly towards the ground, wrapping around her form, and suddenly, it was as if she had never been there at all. In their distraction, not a soul noticed.
"You've better business to do than hang around here." Filch sneered, undeterred and rather repulsed by the man's hideous physique and breath. "You can come for me all you want. You know you'll all turn into sniveling puppies the moment you cross this." He indicated the stones of the wall. "I have a weapon I can use, an empty belly, and a taste for mongrel meat. What do you say?"
For a moment the wolf-man leered in bitter silence, the expression on his face growing more hateful by the second.
"This ain't over, old coot," he snarled at Filch, and backed away warily from the stones, as if they were cursed.
The old man shrugged, and planted the hilt of the pitchfork on the ground proudly.
"You're welcome back anytime. I've faced much worse than you, after all. Now begone."
The wolf-man turned back to his business, only to find the others huddled around nothing. Each looked as clueless as the next. Fury clouded his face, and for a second his head seemed to shift back to that of a wolf's. His eye bulged; from the socket, blood began seeping through anew.
"Where are they? Where are they?"
What none of them noticed was the slight figure of Lily Potter, hidden discreetly under her husband's Invisibility Cloak, sneaking her way across the field and through the gap in the wall. Sides splitting, she half ran, half tumbled down the hill slopes towards the one place she could now call home after everything that had happened this night, and something in her broke as she saw the warm, yellow glow of serene streetlamps bathing the calm streets of Little Whinging in light.
And she realized, with tears streaming down her face: she had done it.
But at what cost?
That night, as the local flower vendor Marlene McKinnon―an old friend who had taken to occasionally visiting the old Evans family up in the cottage across the street for old times' sake―opened the door on her way to head home after delivering a pie, she was greeted with a crisp autumn breeze and the sight of a ragged figure sprawled out on the front step.
Eyes wide, she crouched down and lifted the person's chin up slightly, only to come face to face with the bruised and battered countenance of Lily Potter, wrapped in only a dull cloak and holding a bundle tightly to her chest, with a look of ages of grief and regrets buried in her reddened eyes.
For a second, they were both frozen, before Lily broke down into a fresh bout of tears and fell against Marlene's shoulder. The brunette felt a sob also well up in her throat, soured by how long they hadn't seen one another, and clung to her just as hard.
"God, darling, you're freezing," she muttered, but did not remark any more on how Lily was wearing no shoes, how she had multiple cuts and bruises on her arms and legs, how she was holding what definitely seemed to be a now wailing child. For, somehow, she felt that no matter how hard anyone tried to pry, these secrets Lily would keep for herself until she was ready.
Instead, she wrapped an arm around her friend's shoulder, ushered her into the house, and closed the door.
High above in the sky, the stars winked, for they knew this was the beginning of a tale unprecedented―one that would change the fate of both Little Whinging and Grimmauld.
final note : remember to R&R!