The gigantic Christmas tree is a blurry green triangle across the sparkling dance floor, covered in glints of various colors. I blink several times to clear my vision and ignore the feeling of heat drip down my cheeks. I've been crying far too much this month. Just the thought of a Christmas holiday without…
It just won't be the same.
The entire Yule party was a huge success. I should be feeling elated: my first big event at the Ministry of Magic had every friendly partygoer and family stopping by my table to congratulate me on a job well done. My best mates stayed at my side all the evening, bringing the life of the party to me. I was able to smile and laugh and dance like it was any other Christmas Eve. I kissed a fellow Auror under the mistletoe, and shrugged off his drunken advances with a giggle reminiscent of my old school self.
My body is on autopilot, sweeping magical confetti and decorations toward the pile in the center of the huge rented ballroom without direction from my mind. My brain is occupied with other, more important thoughts. Any thought to keep the memories at bay for a few more hours before I fall apart. But the small phonograph I had set up to entertain me while I cleaned betrays me.
A familiar piano introduction opens an old American song that I haven't heard since last Christmas. And I lose the fragile grip I have on my tears. This is our song.
I'll be seeing you
In all the old familiar places
That this heart of mine embraces
All day through
This song brings the smell of cinnamon and apples to me, the warmth of the fire that took an hour to put together because he never wanted me to use magic. He loved to spend hours chopping firewood in the backyard: our neighbors would always trek over through the snow to talk and laugh with Niall Evans while he swung his old axe around. Even after my mother passed in my third year from a heart attack, he still managed to hold onto his jovial attitude all year long.
In that small café
The park across the way
The children's carousel
The chestnut trees
The wishin' well
Happy Christmas, Lily. Enjoy your holidays at your lonely apartment while your family sleeps in the icy ground.
I can't even pretend I am cleaning anymore. I barely notice that I am standing still on the edge of the dance floor, openly sobbing. I feel my shoulders shake.
I can mend a cloak in less than a moment with a wave of my wand. I can change a goblet into a gerbil. I can apparate halfway across the world in seconds. So how did I miss the cancer eating away at my father's brain? How many times did I brew him the pain-relief potion for a headache, never thinking for a moment about the dimming light in his loving blue eyes?
I'll be seeing you
In every lovely summer's day
In everything that's light and gay
I'll always think of you that way
Petunia never forgave me for letting our mother die. She never spoke the words to me, but our relationship was not the same after the funeral. Her blue eyes were angry and hateful that spring day, glossed over with tears. From that day forward, those eyes always passed over me rather than catching mine as they used to. We used to have whole conversations with our eyes: but no longer.
Papa's death did not hit her as hard as mother's. She cried the obligatory tears at his funeral two weeks ago. But me. I was the "daddy's girl." He would whisper it in my ear while tucking me in at night:
"Oh my little flower," he would say. "May your dreams be as precious as you are to me. You will always be my best girl."
I'll find you
In the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you
Every Christmas, since before I could walk on my own, he would play this song. "Our song," he called it. With my mother in the kitchen putting away the remains of her famous apple pie and my sister asleep on the couch, he would place my tiny feet on his and we would dance around the living room. He was the most graceful, wonderful man I ever knew.
I can feel myself swaying like I used to. My feet don't move: they miss their partners as much as I do.
The chiming of the clock almost drowns out the next verse, but I know the words by heart.
I'll be seeing you
In every lovely summer's day
In everything that's light and gay
I'll always think of you that way
Hands. Warm hands on my waist and my arm.
My eyes are open, and he is there. Not my father. His eyes are hazel and softer than anyone else's that I've ever seen. I know my tears still fall, but I can barely feel them as he gently lifts my arms around him. I am following his lead easily with my feet still on the floor. It feels like I'm gliding on the silver dance floor and I have to look down to make sure we aren't hovering, but I can't break his gaze.
The dance is so familiar. I have not danced with him in two years: the Yule Ball of our final year at Hogwarts. But, we move so easily together just like I remember.
His voice is quiet and cracks slightly. He is not a very good singer, but he knows the words.
I'll find you
In the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you
I can't stop crying, but it is perfectly okay. He doesn't wipe away the tears, or tell me it will be alright. His parents were killed last year: he knows he cannot say anything to make this pain go away. And when he turns the phonograph off and leads me towards the door, I follow him. Because when I am with James Potter I don't need to forget. We can remember, together.
So this is what happens when I watch the Notebook...I absolutely love Billie Holliday, and I would definitely recommend listening to this song if you've never heard it before.
Sorry I haven't updated Cured in awhile. Hopefully I'll get around to it soon, once finals are over. Please review! Tell me how much you hate it! Or how I can fix it. --Flo