A/N: Seem to be going through a phase of morbidness right now. Oh well… Please make my day a little brighter and drop me a review.
Disclaimer: Last time I checked I was not J.K Rowling and the next check doesn't look too good either. Therefore, I do not own Harry Potter.
The Darkest Hour
Blood. Thick. Hot. The colour of crimson, of the sky a moment before sunset. It did not trickle as water does. It moved in a slow surge, creeping over the cobbles, pooling in the cracks and in the indents made by centuries of shoes. It contained both a horror and a fascination. Impossible to draw the eye away from. Sickening beauty. Morbid delight. It mesmerised.
It clung in droplets to plants along the garden path; bright red clashing violently with bright blue. It congealed in the shape of a hand print on the front-door, it slid down the pane of glass now cracked like a spider's web.
Inside, tendrils of light crept through the broken windows. A shaft of it falling across a child's nursery. A cot turned over, blankets ripped apart. A child's toys scattered, arms and legs of dolls lying broken, eyes wide in a never-ending scream.
The mobile had been ripped down, discarded on the floor. A row of teddy-bears lay waiting for a tea-party that would never come; their fur was darker in patches, moist. It was only upon a closer look that the realisation came that it was blood. Blood that splattered the pale yellow wallpaper and stained the carpet, that hung heavily in the room with the smell of fear…
James could not look at it anymore. Even when he squeezed his eyes shut he could see it: coating a nursery rocking chair, clinging to the fur of a child's favourite teddy, blurring the words of a book of nursery rhymes... The more he tried to block it out the harder it became to ignore. It was everywhere. It was filling his nostrils, filling his throat. And when he looked down at his palms they were scarlet, sticky, dripping with it…
He awoke with a start. Panting. The air was cold and for that he was grateful. He could still feel the taste of it in his mouth, the smell of it, metallic, in his nostrils. His palms were sticky with sweat. The blankets felt heavy, weighing down on his chest. His lungs felt tight, his throat sore. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. The image of the blood spattered nursery burnt in his mind's eye.
Without a hesitation, James sat up, fumbling with the blankets around him until he felt the cool night air against his limbs, easing the tension that clawed at him, numbing the frustration.
"James?" Lily's voice was groggy with sleep. She shifted beside him, hand reaching out instinctively to find him, hold him, comfort him. Her finger tips were warm, soft on his skin. "What's wrong?"
The clock on their bedside table winked in the faint light from the window. Five o'clock. Dawn would be approaching soon, a new day and with it new challenges, new decisions, new worries. In a few hours the Daily Prophet would be arriving and he and Lily would undergo their usual morning ritual; making cups of tea and washing dishes, finding plates, buttering toast, avoiding the moment for as long as possible when they would have to rip it open and scan the pages with pounding hearts.
"James?" She was more awake now, blinking away the last tendrils of sleep.
"Go back to sleep, Lily. It's alright."
He might have known she wouldn't listen. Awkwardly and with much effort, she managed to manoeuvre herself into a sitting position. He could see the roundness of her belly outlined underneath the blankets. It gave him another painful jolt to see it, another terrible reminder.
Lily's hair was tousled, her skin pale and freckled. "You not sleeping well?" she urged. Her arms were warm around his waist. Without sparing a thought he wrapped his own arms around her drawing her near. Her hair tickled his neck, the smell of bedclothes on a winter's morning, a trace of her usual floral perfume still present though faint. His hands caressed the small of her back through her cotton pyjamas.
"I just had a bad dream," he replied. Just stating it made the memory rise hot and fast in his mind. It made his skin prickle, his head hurt. Nausea threatened to choke him.
"Do you want to tell me about it?"
No. He did not. How could he? The firm curve of her belly pressed against his own, a faintly beating heart hidden somewhere inside, tiny fingers waiting to grip his own, eyes closed in anticipation of when they would one day be born into the light. He could not describe the horrors of what he had seen to Lily. Not then. Never. "I can't remember it," he lied.
Silence filled the room. The same silence that the dream had held. The silence that hovered over waiting rooms and limbos. The silence that suggested nothing yet implied everything. The silence before a storm.
"James, are you alright?" There was concern in her voice, worry. James heard the mother she would one day be in it, enhanced maternal instinct desperate to latch on to something. "You're shaking…"
He hadn't noticed it until Lily had pointed it out. His limbs were trembling, his grip on her tight, almost desperate. He forced himself to loosen his arms around her. "I'm fine, Lily. Absolutely fine." He knew his smile was shaky but it seemed to reassure her nonetheless.
The memory of the scarlet blood dripping into the upturned cot kept coming back, rising like bile in the back of his throat. It sent a shiver down his spine every time. Worse than the sight itself was the recognition that followed it. Hadn't he and Lily chosen that very cot a week ago? Wasn't it lying in the next, a mobile hung neatly above it, teddy bears lined up in a row, pale yellow wallpaper freshly laid? All of it waiting to welcome their first baby into the world.
It wrenched at James's heart to think of it. Quickly so Lily would not see, he pulled her back, wrapping his arms around her, keeping her rounded belly safely tucked between the two of them. "I love you, Lily," he whispered, into her hair. Was he imagining it or did his cheeks seem suddenly moist.?
"I love you too…"
What were they doing, bringing a child into the world at a time like this? They were just kids themselves really and there was a war on. It hurt James to acknowledge it. In the light of day with Sirius at his side, always a joke close to hand, it was easier. He could ignore the danger. But, every conversation has its pauses and in them all the fears, all the nerves, all the uncertainty came flooding back. What in Merlin's name had they been thinking?