But Lily did get out of bed that morning. She grasped the scarlet sheet
and pulled it strait. She tucked it neatly over and ran a hand slowly
along the top of it to smooth out the creases in the soft fabric. She
folded the velvet comforter trimly at the end of the bed. She pulled the
curtains shut and straitened the arrangement of books on the lid of her
school trunk.
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 6), Miranda Goshawk. An Advanced Guide to Transfiguration, Emeric Switch. Thoughts of the Stars, Margotrine Astri. She folded the damp piece of parchment laying on top of the three volumes and pressed it between the pages of her Standard Book of Spells. Willing it to be James who discovored its smeared message.
She brushed back a strand of blood hued hair and rubbed a soft hand over her eyes. No more tears. Nothing to cry for.
Slowly and deliberately she dressed in an old pair of stained and faded blue jeans; buttoned them at her waist, brushed off a piece of green lint. Over her head she pulled one of James old quidditch shirts. Puddlemere United. James' team. She took off the small band of silver around her left ring finger and lay it beside the books upon the trunk. And over her thin hands she pulled a pair of scarlet wool mittens. She drew the black school robe around her shoulders and walked down the stairs out of the dormitories and into the commons.
Her bare feet made no noise along the cold stone corridor to the back stairs of the tower.
And the faint torchlight cast menacing shadows about the gray walls. Her gaze remained forward as she passed the many still slumbering portraits and climbed the ladder which would take her to the roof of Gryffindor tower. She had to work to open the trap door, the heavy layer of snow heavier under her weak arms, she heaved it open with a final shove.
She stepped out into the white blanket and waded silently to the stone wall. The morning had a slow dreamy feeling about it. Each movement deliberately as vague, as pensive as the last. As if she was only viewing each of her own slow movements through a veil of watery mist and someone else's green eyes.
A mittened hand brushed away the snow from a small section of the stone railing. Two bare feet stood up onto it and ten toes, scarlet from the cold, curled around the edge of the icy granite. Lily looked down.
Below her reached the grounds, frosted and gleaming as the sun began to creep over the dark forest. She watched it rise, balanced without a movement on the edge of her limit. Her arms came away from her sides; stretched stright in the wind. Unmoving. The black cotton robes blew behind her and one mitten soared off her cold hand and spiraled in the wind. She watched it out of the corner of her eye as it caught in the current of air and swirled upward. Then as it was caught by another draft blew downwards and plummeted toward the ground, shooting sideways and out of her view. She closed her gray-green eyes.
But in his dream she was holding a knife.
It was a thin blade of shinning silver with a hilt made of ivory and painted with the picture of what looked like a silver antelope.
He found himself wanting to take it from her, though she was only just holding it upon her flat palm away from her, he felt frightened by it. Her hair swirled around her face and he ran at her, grabbing her arm even as she plunged the knife into her heart. He screamed but no sound came from his slumbering lips. He pulled the knife away from her and she slumped against him. A splash of her bright red blood hit his hot cheek. It was so cold. So cold.
He opened his eyes. Shivered.
He pulled the icy scarlet mitten away from his face and jerked back the velvet drapes, throwing the mitten onto the stone floor. He shivered as he thought of the dream, and wiped his wet face with the green bedsheet. A cold breeze was drifting in from the open window and he rose to his knees, leaning over the backboard of the bed to pull it shut.
It was only when he had laid back onto his pillow, his mind falling again into a swirl of dreamy images that he realized he did not own a pair of scarlet mittens.
His feet hit each stair with a quiet clap, his black robe blowing behind him as he streaked through the still dark and empty corredors.
He whispered and the portrait squeeked open. His frozen bare feet found the strength to keep going up the twentieth set of stairs. Up the ladder.
Lily's red hair blew like a scarlet banner from the top of Gryffindor tower. The sun looked up at her through a veil of icy clouds. It sparkled over the frozen lake, over the snow.
He climbed through the open door and watched the last thread of black cotton disapear in the wind.
He didn't think as he ran. Didn't think as he leaped to the battlement and dove from the stone ledge, pushing away from the stone in a flurry of disrupted snowflakes.
And when they fell, his arms around her, through the cool, frosty air, he thought. no.
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 6), Miranda Goshawk. An Advanced Guide to Transfiguration, Emeric Switch. Thoughts of the Stars, Margotrine Astri. She folded the damp piece of parchment laying on top of the three volumes and pressed it between the pages of her Standard Book of Spells. Willing it to be James who discovored its smeared message.
She brushed back a strand of blood hued hair and rubbed a soft hand over her eyes. No more tears. Nothing to cry for.
Slowly and deliberately she dressed in an old pair of stained and faded blue jeans; buttoned them at her waist, brushed off a piece of green lint. Over her head she pulled one of James old quidditch shirts. Puddlemere United. James' team. She took off the small band of silver around her left ring finger and lay it beside the books upon the trunk. And over her thin hands she pulled a pair of scarlet wool mittens. She drew the black school robe around her shoulders and walked down the stairs out of the dormitories and into the commons.
Her bare feet made no noise along the cold stone corridor to the back stairs of the tower.
And the faint torchlight cast menacing shadows about the gray walls. Her gaze remained forward as she passed the many still slumbering portraits and climbed the ladder which would take her to the roof of Gryffindor tower. She had to work to open the trap door, the heavy layer of snow heavier under her weak arms, she heaved it open with a final shove.
She stepped out into the white blanket and waded silently to the stone wall. The morning had a slow dreamy feeling about it. Each movement deliberately as vague, as pensive as the last. As if she was only viewing each of her own slow movements through a veil of watery mist and someone else's green eyes.
A mittened hand brushed away the snow from a small section of the stone railing. Two bare feet stood up onto it and ten toes, scarlet from the cold, curled around the edge of the icy granite. Lily looked down.
Below her reached the grounds, frosted and gleaming as the sun began to creep over the dark forest. She watched it rise, balanced without a movement on the edge of her limit. Her arms came away from her sides; stretched stright in the wind. Unmoving. The black cotton robes blew behind her and one mitten soared off her cold hand and spiraled in the wind. She watched it out of the corner of her eye as it caught in the current of air and swirled upward. Then as it was caught by another draft blew downwards and plummeted toward the ground, shooting sideways and out of her view. She closed her gray-green eyes.
But in his dream she was holding a knife.
It was a thin blade of shinning silver with a hilt made of ivory and painted with the picture of what looked like a silver antelope.
He found himself wanting to take it from her, though she was only just holding it upon her flat palm away from her, he felt frightened by it. Her hair swirled around her face and he ran at her, grabbing her arm even as she plunged the knife into her heart. He screamed but no sound came from his slumbering lips. He pulled the knife away from her and she slumped against him. A splash of her bright red blood hit his hot cheek. It was so cold. So cold.
He opened his eyes. Shivered.
He pulled the icy scarlet mitten away from his face and jerked back the velvet drapes, throwing the mitten onto the stone floor. He shivered as he thought of the dream, and wiped his wet face with the green bedsheet. A cold breeze was drifting in from the open window and he rose to his knees, leaning over the backboard of the bed to pull it shut.
It was only when he had laid back onto his pillow, his mind falling again into a swirl of dreamy images that he realized he did not own a pair of scarlet mittens.
His feet hit each stair with a quiet clap, his black robe blowing behind him as he streaked through the still dark and empty corredors.
He whispered and the portrait squeeked open. His frozen bare feet found the strength to keep going up the twentieth set of stairs. Up the ladder.
Lily's red hair blew like a scarlet banner from the top of Gryffindor tower. The sun looked up at her through a veil of icy clouds. It sparkled over the frozen lake, over the snow.
He climbed through the open door and watched the last thread of black cotton disapear in the wind.
He didn't think as he ran. Didn't think as he leaped to the battlement and dove from the stone ledge, pushing away from the stone in a flurry of disrupted snowflakes.
And when they fell, his arms around her, through the cool, frosty air, he thought. no.