november.
The room was too much: things moving, ticking, mutters and colours and not a single thing in rest, apart from him.
Him, and the phoenix.
He watched it; watched, because that was all he had the energy to do—to find one thing, to stare at it, and to let the rest fade out around him.
From that fading, a memory. From the ashes, these noble creatures are reborn, and so the cycle begins again. That Scamander text that Pete had been obsessed with in third year. He'd recited passages to them in the dorm, as if none of them had read it themselves, or come across the creatures in their COMC lessons.
He remembered exchanging glances, small but fond smiles, with Remus.
Remus. He hoped he was okay. That the moon had been kind to him.
Remus. Sirius. Peter. His brothers. He felt like he could remember missing them, the barest hint of a memory of a feeling that kept slipping through his fingers. He could remember feelings, in amongst the darkened blur of everything else. The feeling, the ache of worrying for the people he loved more than he worried for himself—and surely that meant that the time he had lost had been more than a few grains through the hourglass.
But he had no idea how many cycles had passed, how many times Fawkes had emerged from the ashes of the life he'd just left behind; he had no idea of anything much at all, except that it hurt to move much, and the room was overwhelming, and Lily would be worried sick.
Lily. On the sofa, sleepy smiles and her fingertips skating his jaw as he kissed her goodbye.
That would be movement he could cope with. Colour—insistent green, bolder than any of the rich reds or blues of this office—that would cut through the noise and soothe rather than cut.
Lily. He just had to hold on. Lily was on her way.
november.
He sat up, a bolt, in the darkness, his breath a gasp caught in his throat, and tried not to cry out.
This happened every night. Sometimes, when the day had been particularly difficult, when lying down to sleep felt like settling himself down in a coffin, it happened more than once a night. Each time the same and yet different: waking like he'd been pushed into consciousness, scrambling for the light to prove that the hands weren't there holding him down, every time; here, a scream that wracked through his body, her scream that he knew distantly couldn't be her; there, flashes of green, and a smile wiped from the faces of people he loved. The minutiae of the nightmares changed, shifted like sand in a storm, but he always woke, and he always waited, desperately, for his heartbeat to steady, and he always waited for the tears that stung his eyes to fade, fade to the background like the spectres of his imagination.
The first week, Sirius and Remus had woken each time with him, because he hadn't yet remembered how to stifle his shouting—for help, for them, for salvation. He would look around, blanket clutched in bone-white fingers, and realise they were there, his friends, looking at him like they would give the world to wipe this feeling from his heart. He would give the world, too; would give anything and everything if it meant he could just sleep, shut off his brain and find some semblance of peace.
At least now he'd learned how to silence himself.
Harder, though, was getting back to sleep: perhaps his body knew what was waiting on the other side, and was unwilling to sacrifice him to it all over again. Whatever reason it was, he did what was now his routine—grabbed his glasses, and stumbled out of the bedroom, making his way quietly down the hallway to the kitchen. He'd not been much of a tea drinker, before, but he found the ritual of it calming now. Remus had taken to making him a cup of tea each morning, another each evening on his return from work; the warmth of the cup in his hands anchored him, settled him where previously he'd felt on edge, his body in fight or flight and too haywire to know the best option.
It wasn't until he was in the kitchen, staring across the room at his friend, that he even noticed the light was already on. Sirius sat at the table, the dark rings under his eyes cast into even starker relief by the dim flicker of the candles nearby. In one hand, he held a glass—cut crystal, probably worth more than half the house itself—of indeterminate amber liquid; the other rested over his wand. At James' arrival, he looked up sharply, and that hand tightened briefly on his wand before loosening again, and he nodded a greeting. "Dreams again…?"
Dreams was too gentle a word for it, and they both knew it, but James nodded anyway, moving over to the kettle. "Can't sleep?"
It hadn't occurred to him that his friends might have been struggling to sleep, too, but it shouldn't have been a surprise. They'd slowly been sharing everything that had happened over the years that he was gone: the denial, and then the mourning that felt like it had no end; grief, and then the unravelling betrayal, after Peter's death; trying, desperately, to be strong enough to help support those who could barely support themselves. Lily.
They hadn't covered everything, a fact which James felt all too aware of, an axe that continually hung over his neck just waiting to fall. But there was no sense in rushing it, in overwhelming him and themselves along the way. So they kept some things back.
No wonder they couldn't sleep.
Sirius shrugged. "Can't seem to switch off tonight." James knew he was being watched—he usually was, these days—as he went about making a cup of tea. Sirius couldn't help it; sometimes, he stared and stared at James, as if he couldn't quite believe he was really there. "Thought some whiskey might help."
James turned to sit down, taking the space across from his friend; he watched as Sirius' gaze drifted down to his hands, and looked down too, surprised to see that he was trembling. He shouldn't have been surprised—ever since his return, his hands seemed to shake more often than not. He was barely aware of it, but then, he was barely aware of anything around him most of the time: there was either numbness, all-encompassing, or there was nothing but agony, and that drove everything else to the sidelines anyway.
"Maybe it will," he agreed quietly, and tried for a smile—too weak, too faint to count. "Should I slosh some in my tea?"
Sirius looked like he wanted to smile, too, but couldn't quite manage it himself. "I won't be the one to get you in trouble with the healers," he replied, before adding, "yet."
"Sirius Black," James tsked softly; the heat of his tea made his fingers burn, far out of proportion to how it should really have felt. Another thing, messed up—even his perception of heat was fucked. "A changed man."
Silence fell for a few moments, apart from the ticking of the clock on the wall; a ticking that seemed to drill its way into James' psyche, each beat its own cacophony. You might find yourself more sensitive to sounds and sights, the healers had said. You might find your mind slowly degrading in your skull, he had wanted to add.
"What was it this time?"
James looked up, breath caught again and no good reason why. "What?"
"That woke you," Sirius explained, his voice quiet, concerned, an expression to match. His oldest, wildest friend, reduced to this because of him. "You said before that…usually you remember…?"
He took a gulp of tea; let the liquid scald its way down his throat. Maybe it would make the words come more easily. "I was…there," he said—wherever there was. A piece of information he had yet to discover; a piece of information he wasn't sure he wanted to discover. He just knew it as the darkness. "And…they had…"
Silence, again; ticking, drilling gently through his skull, joined now by the patter of raindrops against the window.
Sirius' face was a map of worry, of sadness. James wanted to dig his fingernails into his palms, draw something away from that pain. Anything. "They had…?"
He forced a shaking hand through his hair. Spat the word out, as if it couldn't hurt him out in the open the way it could if he kept it inside. "Lily."
He didn't watch Sirius' reaction—didn't need to, to know what it would be like. It would be like it had been every other time she'd been brought up over the past few weeks, like hopelessness painted on an easel. Something broken that couldn't be fixed.
"She sent a note this morning."
Not what James had expected; he forced his gaze up, tried to understand the look on his friend's face. "She did?"
Sirius sighed, drained his glass and placed it back down too gently. "She wanted to know if she could meet up with you," he explained. "Talk to you."
For a moment, James wanted to laugh—something loud and raucous and hysterical, a belly laugh that would hurt all over. He wasn't even sure that it was funny; he just had the urge, and knew he had to squash it back down, right back under everything else that constantly threatened to bubble up and over. "To talk—"
Sirius was frowning. "It might help."
Maybe it would. But at that moment, fresh from being torn from unconsciousness, from seeing them—whoever they were—making her bleed, wrenching scream after scream from her lips while he was stuck, immobilised, nearby…he only felt like it would hurt.
"I can't." He swallowed again, his throat suddenly dry, raw. He wanted to sleep, and hated that he knew how fruitless that want was. "Not yet. Okay?"
Whatever Sirius wanted to say, he pushed back down; his friend had never been very good at not letting it show on his face, like the words he had to keep to himself left a sour taste on his tongue. "Okay," he agreed, soft, steady. "Whenever you're ready."
James stood up, his mug abandoned on the table. Going back to his bedroom now—not his bedroom, Sirius's spare room, he didn't have a bedroom anymore—felt like marching back into battle, but he no longer felt like he could stay there. He itched to move. To get away from the sensation that he was going to crumble to pieces at any minute. "Thanks," he said, and didn't meet his friend's gaze as he turned, making his way to the door. "Night, Pads…"
The word 'night' echoed quietly behind him as he made his way back down the hallway, back to his bed, and one thought rang in his head, clear as a bell, edged with a blade.
'Whenever you're ready.'
What if he never was?
march.
His birthday. Or, nearly his birthday—they always had a party, between Remus' birthday and his own, because if they didn't take some of the focus off their friend, he wouldn't let them do anything at all, and so a compromise had to be found. James had never minded sharing his birthday glory, especially if it meant forcing Moony into letting people adore him out in the open. He'd asked, once, what they had done in the intervening years; Remus and Sirius had shared a look, something almost unreadable, before Sirius had asked what exactly James thought they'd had to celebrate in that time.
A sobering thought, and one he hadn't wanted to linger on.
And so, Sirius' house was commandeered, furniture shoved to the side and surfaces cleared, bottles of liquor in a variety of colours and strengths procured, an attempt made at food ("in case anyone wants to try to stave off alcohol poisoning for a bit," Remus had said, arranging a sad platter of sandwiches that would sit, ignored, for most of the night). Emmeline had baked a cake, or rather, two cakes, although Remus had quietly warned him that baking was not her forte, and to just blow out the candles and then hide when it came time to actually eat any.
A few beers, a few shots of something an unforgiving shade of green, and he'd felt looser—happy, even, a mood that he was determined to hold onto even once Lily arrived, joining them in the kitchen with the expression of someone being led to the slaughter, rictus and pale hand in hand with Edgar Bones.
Edgar Bones. He'd always seemed a decent sort; James had seen him around a bit at school, remembered him being the sort of slightly dull, friendly fellow who didn't get into trouble or play quidditch, and so didn't inspire much in someone like James, someone who looked for a bit of fire in a role model, even as he grew and matured. They'd met again as part of the Order, and Ed had seemed less of a square by that point—not exactly raucous and fun, the way Sirius was, but still, dependable in a fight, and with a good sense of humour. They hadn't interacted much beyond missions and meetings. James had spent what little spare time he had with his friends, and, of course, with Lily.
Seeing him now, his arm around her, that familiarity in every movement, in the way they existed with each other: it was a lot to take in. Something that held far more power than it should have, the power to knock him down, to make him small and broken and aching, all over again.
He remembered—wished he could forget—his friends telling him about the love of his life, the woman who still lingered in the corners of every dream, of every thought, splintered by grief. How they had tried with all they had, for actual years, to hold her together, to get her from one day to the next, too afraid of what might happen if they let go.
"There was a point," Sirius had said, his voice achingly quiet; he couldn't seem to look him in the eye, "when I would check in on her every day, because I half expected her to have just…given up."
That she had found a way to be happy again, after all that pain…he could hardly resent her for that. Maybe it would've been easier, to see her tucked under another man's arm, if he could find the fire inside him to hate her for it. But he couldn't. He'd never be able to. It hurt, stung like a raw wound to see Ed's hand resting so familiarly on her hip, to watch him duck his head to kiss that spot on her neck that James knew was tender, a little ticklish. It made him want to wrench them apart—to sink to the ground and stay there.
But that wasn't him. Never had been. So he'd just stood there, and swallowed against the sting, and waited to see if the pain might abate.
Later, outside, watching his breath curl and twist away from him, he sensed a figure behind him before it moved out of the shadows and into the dim light cast through the kitchen windows. That's progress, he thought, because it hadn't been so long ago that the sensation of a person there would have sent ice through his veins, would've woken a fear that had been difficult to wrangle, to shut away where it couldn't be seen.
"Bloody freezing out here." James glanced over; Remus sank into the folding garden chair next to his, rubbing his hands together indicatively. Remus had never been good with the cold: he felt it in his bones, almost arthritic as soon as the temperature dipped. In the winter of sixth year, James had transfigured a ratty old blanket in the shack into a thick, woollen thing, patterned and cosy. Seeing it, it had stirred a memory of a homemade quilt his grandmother would drape over him when he was small, all soft smiles and murmurs of saving his excitement, his indomitable energy, for the next morning. It was a memory tinged with sadness—his grandma had passed, peacefully, in her sleep, when he was nine, never getting to see him go to Hogwarts, never getting to see him harness that energy into something productive, something powerful—but now, seeing one of his best friends taking comfort in something he had forgotten for so long, he'd felt warmed, too.
("A natural-born nurturer," his mum had said, fondly, more than once. That brought an ache, too, because if she were here now—)
"Well," he replied; his voice was scratchy, gave more away than he would've liked. Not that it was much use hiding his emotions from his friends, and Remus in particular—perceptive to a fault. He knew all too well what Remus could read from the slope of his shoulders, from the barely-there tremor to his hands that hadn't shifted, but the healers assured him would, eventually. "It is March, Moony."
Remus nodded, as if that fact had ever been up for debate. A pause: James listened to the muted sound of the music drifting from the house behind them. Counted the beats, the breaths he could take before— "I think they've gone home."
He wondered, for a moment, if that helped. To know that when he went back inside (something he would have to do, eventually; frostbite didn't seem like a good idea, given he'd only just started to get his body back together), he wouldn't turn a corner and bump into them; he wouldn't look across the living room and see them dancing, smiling, touching.
But a small part of him heard the word home and wanted to rip it from his mind, because of the images it created, spiralling up and out like ink blooming across water—she shared a home with someone else now, she shared her life with someone else, seven years ahead of him while he tried to scrape together the broken pieces he'd found on his return.
His sigh spilled out, another cloud dissipating in the darkness around them. "Didn't stay long."
"No." He glanced over at Remus, who raised an eyebrow, something like a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. "I don't think it's any easier for them than it is for you…if that helps."
He tilted his head back, searching for stars in the overcast night sky. As pointless, as futile, as these feelings that sat like lead in his gut. "Nothing's going to help," he said at last, knowing just how true it was. "Except…time."
At least, now, that was something he had plenty of.
may.
His fingers curled around the pint glass; he was warming it with his hands, he knew, but it wasn't like he was drinking much anyway. So far this drink had lasted him an hour and a half, Sirius watching on with growing displeasure but somehow—miraculously—stopping himself from saying anything. Another benefit of 'missing presumed dead', James supposed: people were generally much slower to jump on him these days. Seven years ago, he'd never had got away with nursing a single pint for such a long time.
Some drank to relax; to forget; to brush off the day. Relaxing, lately, was near impossible, too often feeling like if he let his guard down for a moment, he'd be back there again, body aching, perpetual darkness. Forgetting was similarly unappealing: he'd forgotten too much as it was. How could he spend his days, encouraging headache after headache as the healers probed his mind, his memory, with exacting precision, only to stumble to the pub and drink away any progress?
There were things he wanted to brush off. But those weren't things that were so light as to be wiped away with a sip of firewhiskey; they were dense, heavy; shadowed counterweights that clustered around his heart and that he knew, more than he knew just about anything in this life, would never really go away.
So what was the point in getting drunk?
"C'mon, mate," Sirius said a while later, slumping into the seat to his right; his friend had a shine to his eyes, a mixture of exhaustion and booze. "You don't have to be stoic—"
"Not being stoic," James pointed out. He watched as Sirius angled his head meaningfully towards one of the women who had found their way into their group that evening. His eyebrow raise was unsubtle at best. "Seriously, Pads, I'm fine. I don't need a drink or a snog or—"
"Emmeline said that Daphne would shag you," Sirius interrupted, as if he hadn't heard James' words. "You probably wouldn't even need to take her home, I reckon she wouldn't mind the bogs."
James followed his gaze over to the woman in question, further down the table and apparently deep in conversation with Remus and Emmeline. She was pretty—that was just an objective fact. She had the sort of blonde hair that he remembered the witches often had in the storybooks his mum would read him as a boy, eyes a deep, dark blue. She'd been working her way through glass after glass of wine that evening, and had hardly said two words to James since they had all greeted each other a few hours ago. This was wanting to shag someone?
Not that it made a difference. She could've been draped at his side with her tongue in his ear and he would've had the same level of interest. "I'm alright, thanks," he said, looking back to his friend. "Have at it, though, if you're into her."
Sirius heaved a sigh. "Look, Prongs—I don't know how to put this delicately—"
Not a good sign. "Then don't."
"Evans will still be engaged to another bloke whether you shag someone or not." Sirius did, at least, have the grace to look aware of the sting of his words. "So who are you saving yourself for?"
He never needed to be reminded of that fact. Sometimes, when he was trying to get to sleep, he would replay the moment in Dumbledore's office, the words a blur around him as he noticed the diamond sparkling on Lily's finger. The way his stomach had dropped. The way the ringing in his ears only seemed to intensify.
She was—
He wasn't saving himself for anyone. He was just trying to save himself, full stop. And some days, when the glint of light off someone else's promise seemed constantly in the corner of his eye, it was harder to do that than others.
But having meaningless sex wouldn't change it. Wouldn't alleviate the dull halo of pain that settled around him.
Again. What was the point?
august.
Even though Sirius would've let him live in his guest bedroom for the rest of eternity, and even though it was nice to have company, to have noise around him when he'd spent the best part of seven years in a strange, dark silence, James knew it was probably time for him to find his own space.
The process itself hadn't been difficult; he had plenty of money in Gringotts, inheritance from his parents and various other childless relatives who'd been fond of him. There was no limit on where, or how expensive, a place could be. In a sense, although he knew he was lucky to have that kind of problem, the amount of choice was a bit overwhelming.
But Remus was born for this sort of administrative task, putting together a list of no more than ten suitable flats, all within a short walk from his flat and Sirius' house. His friend accompanied him on each viewing, made scrupulous notes, and put together a pros and cons list that spread across a vast piece of parchment not unlike the Marauders Map. Then, over curry and ale, the three of them talked over the possibilities until James had made a decision at last.
The flat was, in many ways, perfect: backing on to Hampstead Heath, the views could almost make him believe he was in the countryside back in Devon with his parents; there was enough space for people to stay over, if they wanted to; it was peaceful. And, crucially, nothing about it reminded him of Lily.
Their cottage had been cosy, warm, thick carpets and heavy curtains and walls of books. He approached decorating and filling the flat like a task in contrarianism—stripped back the floors until they were bare boards, flung quidditch memorabilia and pictures from Hogwarts over the walls, the only other thing displayed his collection of records, something Sirius had taken after his 'death' and kept tucked away safely in the cellar. The ceilings were high, light spilling in from the huge picture windows on which he always kept the blinds open, not wanting his new space to feel anything like the darkness he'd been kept in for so long.
Sirius had wanted to throw a house-warming party—any excuse, really, to crank up the music and get the liquor flowing—but James had eventually talked him down to an evening with just the three of them, a takeaway, some beers; a chance to enjoy that peace and quiet.
"I think you'll be happy here, Prongs," Remus said, raising his bottle in a silent toast.
"And not just because of how close you are to the bathing ponds," Sirius added. "All those babes in bikinis—"
"I shouldn't think those bikinis will be there all year round," Remus pointed out, receiving a disgruntled eye roll in return. He looked back over towards James. "Does it feel like yours, yet?"
James considered the question, wondering if it would ever be quite possible for anything to feel like it was his. He still had the sense, even now, that life was something that could slip so easily from his grasp—like one wrong turn, a glance in the wrong direction, could easily send everything spiralling back down into that darkness. For something to be his, surely he would have to be in more control than this, and surely that just wasn't doable.
But still—his own space. Somewhere he could shut the doors, shut the world out, safe, at least, for now. And that wasn't nothing.
"Not yet," he replied, with a small smile. Small, but genuine. "But I'll get there."
september.
Unseasonably warm weather had graced the country all week, and tonight was no exception. "It's almost as if the universe doesn't care that we have to wear full dress robes," Sirius had grumbled as they joined the orderly queue of people filing into the manor house that towered before them.
"Yes," James had agreed. "Very selfish of the universe."
Even if their parents hadn't left a legacy in their will to St Mungo's, James thought they'd probably have been invited to the benefit anyway. The family hosting, the Shafiqs, were old friends of the Potters—hard to be anything but, in the pureblood circles they all ran in—and the matriarch, Aisha, was especially fond of James and Sirius, seeing them as extensions of her own large brood. James had grown up playing in the garden with Nasira and Jamila and Arif, the Shafiq siblings closest to his age; Aisha and Euphemia had looked for any opportunity to get together, leaving the kids to run wild while they caught up. In fact, now that he thought about it, if James had tried to beg off attending the benefit tonight, he had a feeling he'd have received a visit from Aisha, who wouldn't have left until he'd changed his mind.
But it was go to the benefit, dressed up to the nines, or stay at home—in his new flat, with all its shiny mod cons and views across the Heath and no heart, no personality at all that might make him think of something or someone else. And there were only so many evenings he could spend there alone.
It hadn't occurred to him that Lily would be there, and with Edgar, of course, and when he spotted them across the room, deep in conversation with a donor whose deep pockets could probably fund a decade of their work, he knew he shouldn't have felt as surprised as he did.
There were stretches of time, getting longer by the day, when he didn't think of her at all. Often it was because he was too busy: busy trying to piece some semblance of life back together, busy on the memory ward, clawing back whatever memories he could from the darkness that had settled in his head. And maybe he put some effort into not thinking about her, but that was self-preservation, surely. It was the sensible thing to do.
They all had to move on, after all.
(She already had, said the quiet, sad voice inside him, the one he did his best to ignore.)
But there she was now, a vision in navy silk, her red hair arranged artfully in a way that drew attention to the slender column of her neck, that spot where, when he kissed it, she would sigh in something close to ecstasy.
No, that was the kind of train of thought that was unhelpful. She was beautiful, of course she was, something he couldn't ever see changing; but if he let the memories slip in, the way it had felt to have his arm around her, the way she would tilt her chin up to catch his eye, the way her warm skin felt against his…
It was too much. Too painful.
He made himself look away, get drawn back into a chat with one of the healers from the memory ward. They were all remarkably upbeat, a friendly bunch who found him fascinating, a puzzle to unpick rather than the disaster he felt inside. And he was capable, he knew, of enjoying himself without thinking about Lily, about the life they might've led together; he was James Potter, after all. His life wasn't built around another person; his happiness wasn't dependent on anyone but himself.
He reminded himself of this fact when, a few hours later, he approached the bar and almost walked straight into Ed Bones. There was a moment, a flash of something that crossed the man's face on seeing him, and James worked hard to school his own expression into a smile, something relaxed, easy. Friendly. "Long time no see," he said, proud of how steady his voice sounded. "You've been roped into this too, eh?"
"Hazard of the job," Ed agreed with a smile of his own. James felt somewhat reassured to note that the other man seemed just a little uncomfortable, too. "Still, it's for a good cause."
"Of course," James nodded.
"How've you been?" Ed asked next; the healer in him clearly won out over the discomfort-at-talking-to-his-fiance's-dead-ex. "You look…back to normal."
James offered him a wry smile, and tried not to think about the fact that Ed was comparing him against a James that had all the things that Ed now had. "Slow and steady, or so the healers tell me," he nodded. "I've got a lot of the memories back, now. Which is a blessing as well as a curse…"
Ed frowned, nodding in understanding. "Right, of course…"
James stood there, hands in his pockets, and wished he knew what to say next. Ed, for his part, didn't seem too sure either, glancing nervously to the side. Talking about his experiences in the memory ward wasn't exactly light, benefit-friendly fare. And the longer the silence went on, the more awkward he felt. Finally, words came tumbling out—although they were words he immediately wished he could retract. "How are the wedding plans going?"
Ed blinked, evidently as surprised to hear the question as James was to have asked it. Why had he said that? He didn't want to know, and yet he had asked the question anyway, as if he needed any information he could get if it was connected to Lily, even if that information would sting, would cut him to the quick.
Sirius had asked him, a while back, whether he was intent on self-sabotage; on stewing over his lost love, of how different his life could have been, as a way to punish himself, to stop himself moving forward. At the time, James had informed him—haughtily, and a tinged with a little hurt—that the very idea was absurd.
Now…he wasn't so sure.
"Oh, you know," Ed replied, looking over towards the bar. A drink was sounding more and more like the best move. "We're getting there. These things take time."
James didn't know if that was true or not, and he didn't care much, either. Suddenly all he could think about was invitations being sent out, her name combined with someone else's, the way it would be for the rest of their lives. "Sure," he agreed, and pretended to catch sight of someone across the room. "Ah, there's Nasira Shafiq," he said, and gave Ed a quick grin. "I promised her a dance. Good to see you, Ed…"
He barely gave Ed time to say, somewhat surprised, "oh, right—yes, you too," before James ducked away, moving through the crowd, head down. He hadn't promised Nasira a dance, but she was happy to help him hide away, never one to ask too many questions, even if she did look a bit too knowing as he downed a large glass of firewhiskey.
"You know…you could talk about it," Nasira suggested, one elegant eyebrow raised. She had the lapel of his robes in her hand, idling over the fabric with long, red nails. "If you want."
He didn't. Couldn't.
"Let's just enjoy the party," he suggested instead, and pretended he didn't see the understanding in her eyes.
november.
On November 4th, James woke up to his best friend's face, grinning at him from the end of the bed. Unsettling at best; down right alarming at worst. "Oh, Merlin," he muttered, reaching for his specs on the bedside table and jamming them onto his face. "Why are you here? No, more to the point…how are you here?"
"You gave me a key," Sirius reminded him. James forced himself into a sitting position, just now taking in that his friend was wearing a party hat and had clearly spent some time blowing up balloons: there didn't seem to be a square inch of carpet left that wasn't covered in one. "That's how I'm here. Nice of you to remember."
"Your birthday was yesterday," he pointed out next, fighting back a yawn. "Your party was yesterday."
"This isn't about me," Sirius dismissed, holding out a plate loaded with pastries. "Breakfast?"
James took the plate, glancing down at a heavily-sugared almond croissant before he looked back up at Sirius. "Is this some kind of fever dream…?"
"Nope," Sirius grinned. "It's your rebirth-day!"
A pause; James still wasn't entirely sure if he was conscious or not. He pinched the skin on his forearm, just lightly, and nodded at the sting there. Okay, he was awake. "My…?"
"Rebirth-day," Sirius said again, with the tone of someone quickly—and unreasonably—losing patience. "A year ago today you came back to us! Tumbled out of the floo into Dumbledore's loving embrace, looking like a bag of bones dragged through a hedge backwards—"
"Thanks, mate," James frowned.
"—but you were back." Sirius was still beaming, but now that James looked a bit more closely, he could see the sheen of unshed tears in his friend's eyes. "After we thought you were—" He cleared his throat, and shook his head. "So it's your rebirth-day, and I won't hear any complaints from you about it, alright?"
James could be argumentative, it was true, but he knew when to swallow it down, and he knew this was one of those times. "Alright," he agreed, and looked around the room again at the mess of balloons. "Um…what does a rebirth-day involve?"
Later, James would consider that question to have been foolhardy, since Sirius seemed to take it as implicit permission to do whatever wild and outlandish thing he felt like doing. After forcing him to eat three croissants in bed—the crumbs would be a nightmare later, had been James' thought, and then he'd felt incredibly old—Sirius left him to get washed and dressed before revealing the itinerary for the day. A few hours flying, tickets to a quidditch match (Puddlemere, unfortunately, thrashed by Chudley Cannons), and then back to Sirius' for "a small party, a gathering at most, promise, Prongs".
Given that the downstairs of Sirius' house was crowded with people, James sensed that his definition of a 'gathering' was different from his friend's, but was determined to enjoy himself anyway. It had helped, although he was ashamed to admit it, when Sirius had said that he'd invited Lily along but that she couldn't attend, saying she was working. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn't, but James felt a little more able to relax knowing he wasn't going to have to put on any kind of strong front with her around.
Remus had given him a sympathetic smile when, over shots, Sirius had declared, "I'm getting you laid tonight, Prongs," adding thoughtfully, "or at the very least, a blowie."
"He means well," Remus told James as Sirius disappeared into the crowd, presumably to hunt for someone willing to help him on his mission.
"I know," James agreed, throwing back another shot of firewhiskey. "I'd like it if his well-meaning ways didn't focus quite so much on my sex life, but…"
"Beggars can't be choosers," Remus grinned.
"Exactly."
Maybe he would've ended up with his hands buried in Nasira's silky black curls, his lips painting a frantic path along her jaw, her neck, no matter what Sirius' plans had been; maybe he was finally ready to think about someone else, to feel this way again and not have it hurt like prodding a bruise, not compare every breath and moan to someone who wasn't there and never would be again. That Sirius had invited her along, and had suggested they dance, and kept them plied with drinks maybe hadn't hurt, but James was his own person. He didn't need his best mate to help in this department: he could help himself.
And sex didn't always have to be something earth-shattering, something that was just about love and devotion; it could be two people who knew each other, who liked each other, who found the other attractive and wanted to get off, to find a release. Sex didn't have to be candles and intimacy and feeling like he could burst with how much he adored— No, it could be two frantic bodies, her legs around his waist, holding her up against the cold tile of the bathroom wall, burying himself inside her over and over until they both saw stars, and then laughing together, stumbling back to the party and finding another drink. Joking, and snogging, and stopping to eat cake which Sirius had covered with birthday candles and somehow hadn't set the entire house on fire in the process.
He ended his rebirth-day feeling that, maybe, there was life after death. Maybe there was more, after losing Lily. Maybe it wasn't the end of him, like he'd felt it was.
He had to cling on to that hope.
december.
Another night in the pub; if he thought about it too hard, he might consider that the sheer amount of time spent at one watering hole or another was starting to border on concerning. It wasn't as if he were turning into an alcoholic, but he thought it was becoming clear that he'd rather not sit at home on his own if he could avoid it—too unwilling to be left with his own thoughts, to face up to whatever lingered there.
Sirius had suggested The Troll's Burden, somewhere they were less likely to bump into people who hadn't heard that James wasn't 'dead' any more and ask a thousand awkward follow-up questions. It was quieter, true, but they still bumped into the Prewett twins within minutes of arriving, and that was how their "just one quick drink" turned into something of an all-nighter.
The steady flow of ale and firewhiskey had loosened all their tongues, probably not helped by the fact that, for once, they weren't joined by any women (Nasira had said she was busy when he'd told her their plans, although she'd suggested he stop by her place after if he was 'in the mood'; and Emmeline had shown her face for the first round, before whispering something in Remus' ear and heading off with a wave to the rest of them). Each story had grown in tawdriness as the night went on, and although James didn't particularly want to contribute much to the raucous discussion, he still found it an entertaining distraction.
Or, he did.
Sirius and Gideon were deep in a competition over who had been through the worst date possible, a contest which had meant that they'd all had to listen to Sirius sharing his 'both of us far too drunk, and only one bathroom in her flat' story, a story which James would've been happy not to hear ever again. This only pushed Gideon into a tale of his own, which was suddenly derailed by—
"Wait, you think any of this is bad?" He fixed his twin brother with what could only be described as an evil grin. "Fab has the best story of all!"
"Oh ho!" Sirius crowed, turning his focus to the other Prewett, who looked startled and uncomfortable now under the spotlight. "I thought you were being a bit quiet, Fabian—spill it."
Fabian shot his brother a confused glance, possibly a bit too drunk to understand what he was supposed to spill. "Eh?"
"So bad he's repressed it?" Remus wondered.
"Probably," Gideon smirked, turning back to the table to address the group at large. "Wouldn't you repress it, if a girl started crying mid-shag?"
Several things happened at once: Fabian's face drained of colour, his eyes widened just a little, and he stared at his brother as if desperately trying to convey something he couldn't speak out loud; Sirius hooted with unabashed laughter, almost knocking over James' pint as he tipped back; and Remus glanced quickly at James, and then at the beer mat on the table in front of him as if it held the secret to the meaning of life.
"Mid-shag?" Sirius repeated in delight. "Seriously? How bad in bed are you, Fab?"
"I'm not—" Fabian started, clearly frustrated, and for some reason his eyes darted over to James for a moment. "It's—let's not—"
"I'm sure he's a perfectly decent shag," Gideon said loyally, although he was still grinning mercilessly. "How was it you described it, Fab? You were balls deep in her and embarrassed it took you so long to notice she was crying her eyes out?"
"Fucking hell, Gid," Fabian muttered, his cheeks pinkening.
"Probably not a second date after that, eh?" Sirius smirked.
"No, but in fairness, I'm not sure he expected one, she was going through—" And then, almost as if his brain had caught up to his mouth, Gideon stopped. He stared back at his twin, silent for a moment, before his gaze, too, drifted briefly and bewilderingly over to James. James, for his part, was starting to wonder which part of the joke he was missing as Gideon abruptly stood up. "Anyway, enough of that—I'll get the next round in, shall I? Lend me a hand with the drinks, will you Fab?"
Fabian, despite looking ready to murder his brother, wasted no time in leaping to his feet, and moments later they had both melted into the crowd in the direction of the bar.
James paused, looking around the table; Sirius looked as confused as he felt. Remus, though, was still staring adamantly at the beer mat. "That was…"
"Weird," Sirius agreed, looking at Remus now, too. "And Moony knows why."
Remus' gaze shifted awkwardly from his precious beer mat, to Sirius, to James. "Oh, no, I don't—"
"Moony," James said, quieter than he'd planned. The words felt like a lump in his throat, like his body knew what was coming but his mind couldn't stop himself from asking anyway. "They both—you did, too—looked at me. When they were…talking about the…"
Sirius frowned, glancing between them. "Shit…"
Remus sighed, looking away, perhaps for an escape route. "James, mate…maybe we should just leave it…"
Confirmation, in all but the actual words. He waited for the feeling, like a punch in the gut, but it didn't come; he just felt numb, and sad, sadder than he could express. "It was Lily."
Remus ran a weary hand over his face, quiet for a few moments too long—yet more confirmation, if it were needed, that James was right. Just when he thought that Remus wasn't going to even acknowledge it, he spoke again, his voice soft, almost inaudible amongst the chaos of the pub around them. "It was four years after your…after you'd gone," he said. He stared down at his glass, lost in the memory, one that, judging by the expression on his face, he'd rather not relive. "She told me after that it had felt like she was cheating on you. That you were all she could think about, and how she wasn't sure that would ever change. She…she couldn't stop sobbing."
That numbness seemed to have sunk over his whole body, his heart. Because the actual emotions this brought up were far too complicated, tangled and torn, to try to face up to: anger and pain and sadness and guilt—guilt, that she'd been so mired by grief, so broken by missing him that even four years later she hadn't been able to do something without it washing over her again.
When he forced himself to look up again, both his friends were watching him, expressions heavy with pity and sympathy. "Prongs—" Remus started, worry lacing his voice.
"It's okay," James said, even though they all knew it wasn't. Maybe it never would be. "It's—it is what it is."
What else could he say? That the thought of her with someone else was already like a jagged shard of glass taking residence in his heart, that this was just another complex mess of feelings that would lead him to another night of staring at the ceiling through the darkness, picking over everything he had done that day years ago after leaving the love of his life behind on the sofa, the endless 'what if's that circulated relentlessly and pointlessly and led him absolutely nowhere.
"It's okay," he said again, because he felt he had to. Felt it had to be okay. "Really."
"We could…go," Sirius offered, his face open in its aching need to make things okay for his friend. Sirius would do anything to make it right if he could, tear himself to pieces if that was what it took; he'd do anything, a true friend and brother through and through, even if they both knew that nothing was going to make this right. "I'm sure they—" He cut himself off awkwardly, and just added, "Shall we go home?"
James shook his head before he'd even realised he'd made a decision, reaching for his drink to drain what was left. "No, it's fine," he said, and he could almost believe it himself. "I think we all need another drink, don't you?"
The worried glance that Remus and Sirius shared did not go unnoticed; but at this stage, James was really past the point of caring.
A harder night on the booze wouldn't set him back completely. And maybe it would help him sleep.
"If you're sure…" Remus agreed hesitantly.
James wasn't sure of much at all lately, but he nodded anyway. What else was there to do?
"Absolutely."
february.
Friends with benefits, Sirius called it. A slightly worrying disregard for his own emotions, was Remus' way of putting it. And for a while, now, meeting up late at night at Nasira's house or at his flat, he hadn't minded much about which it was.
Until tonight.
He wasn't sure what had changed, exactly. He'd had a good day: some work, ad-hoc, with McGonagall that morning, the chance to manipulate and play with Transfiguration spells for some long-term research project she was working on; a lunch with Remus, laughing over his latest endeavours with Emmeline; an afternoon at the memory ward, more progress made—painful, at times, but progress nonetheless.
To get her owl had felt like kismet, the perfect way to let off steam after a busy day. But he'd discovered that for once, he wanted to talk; he wanted to tell her about how it had felt, watching his friend blush a charming pink as he'd described the way he felt for someone; how it had felt, recovering a memory of a Christmas in the dark, damp cellar, remembering Lily and Sirius and Remus and Peter and having no energy to cry for them, no strength to do anything but take the cruciatus that was hurled his way. How it had felt, being back at his old school, so much water under the bridge that he could almost have drowned in it, but somehow still smiling, laughing with his old head of house as they puzzled out a particularly tricky bit of spellwork.
They hadn't talked about any of that. He'd poured some wine, she'd pressed herself to him, breathless and beautiful, and that had been that.
It was late, now. Outside, the sky had cleared of clouds, and a soft blur of moonlight spilled in through the bedroom window, spilled across the bare expanse of Nasira's satiny ochre skin; she stretched, a yawn escaping, and he watched as the sheet that had covered them both slipped further down her chest.
"My eyes," she murmured, but with a smile, "are up here."
James smiled, too; pushed himself up to rest against the pillows and reach for a drink. They'd abandoned their wine glasses earlier in the evening, too keen to shed clothes and lose themselves in each other to worry too much about social niceties, but now, well—now he felt he needed a drink. "Sorry, what did you say?" he joked idly. "I was distracted by your tits."
She rolled on to her side, brushing a lock of hair from her eyes, and watched him. "I should get going soon," she said, and he swallowed down against the feeling of disappointment that always rose up inside him at these words. She never stayed, not that he ever asked her to; they had fallen, somehow, into this strange, limbo world where they were friends first and foremost, and sex sometimes just happened to get in the way. "Tell me you've sorted your Floo connection."
He winced. "It's on my list—"
"James," she sighed, still smiling, and sat up, too. "You're hopeless. You know Arif is in Transportation now, he could get you sorted in a jiffy."
"I know, I know," he agreed. He wasn't about to get into just why he still felt uneasy using the Floo network—nothing killed the mood more than opening up your latent traumas in bed. "I'll get it sorted."
Nasira climbed out of bed, wandering over to where her clothes were piled haphazardly across the room. "I don't mind apparating, of course, it's just harder after a few glasses of wine."
"Nas," he said, and she paused, knickers halfway up her legs, to look over at him. "I'll sort it."
A smile from her, those pretty, painted lips, deep pink that he knew he had been the one to smudge, was usually enough to lift his mood. He wasn't sure why, then, as she gifted him one of those smiles before returning to her task, that he still felt unsettled.
"My mother wants to know if you and Sirius are coming to that fundraising thing next weekend," she said, reaching now for her dress. "She seemed to think we might attend together, but don't worry, I set her straight."
"No, we're not," he replied, and as easy as that, something had changed. Clicked into place. "Nas, I—I think we should stop."
Stop she did, turning again, dress half-on and an inquisitive look on her face. She was hard to read, always had been, someone who kept her cards close to her chest. James hadn't even realised she was attracted to him until she'd already had her tongue down his throat.
And it wasn't as if there was anything wrong with being closed-off; he envied that ability, in a way. His own life would surely be so much easier if he could just keep his own emotions under control. But he was so used to being with someone he could read every flicker of her eyes, every lift of an eyebrow or glance away, every knot of her hands in her lap. It wasn't fair, wasn't fair at all, to compare what he had with Nasira to what he had once had with Lily…but he couldn't seem to stop himself. And although they'd had fun—more than fun, at times—he was starting to wonder if this was all there was.
He wanted there to be more. He needed there to be more.
"Stop?" she repeated, then nodded, moving her focus to carefully pulling up the zip on the side of her dress. "Okay. If that's what you want."
This felt too strange, too strained a conversation to have with her almost fully dressed and him still just draped in a sheet: he reached for his boxers, his glasses. "We're friends…right?"
She paused, and something crossed her face, something he couldn't parse—once more, she was a book he just didn't know how to read. But something softened in her, too, and when she met his gaze, the warmth in her deep brown eyes felt something like trust, like love. Maybe not the kind of love he needed, the kind of love she needed, too; but love, nonetheless.
"Of course we are." She crossed the room, pausing at the side of the bed, and her hand lingered briefly, sweetly, at his jaw. "Always will be, Potter."
He managed a smile, looking up at her and wondering why it felt like another door closing, even if he had been the one to push it shut. "I'll hold you to that, Shafiq."
After she'd gone, he tidied up the flat, washed up the wine glasses and tipped away the left-overs that he had abandoned as soon as she'd knocked on the door earlier. He sat on the sofa, looking around him, taking in the photos, the records, the blank spaces of the wall where life should have been.
It was time, wasn't it? Time for a change.
april.
Somehow, James managed to wait; wait, as he arrived at Remus' flat, wait as they talked about their days, wait as his friend cooked them spaghetti bolognese, wait as they ate, wait as they worked together to wash up the pans and plates. That wasn't even including the two weeks he had waited prior to this evening: two weeks since he'd bumped into Lily upstairs at the hospital.
Maybe it was evidence of a well of patience that few knew existed. Maybe it was—if he were honest—more about fear, because there was no denying that by asking the question he desperately wanted to ask, he could end up hearing something he desperately didn't want to hear. All that, along with a hefty dose of guilt, knowing that by asking anything at all he was putting Remus in the middle, and that wasn't fair.
So he'd been trying—trying to let it go, to work it out for himself, if he could. But something about that moment, when they sat on the sofa, the wireless filling any silence with a match report from the latest quidditch game, seemed to take away any resolve he'd possessed.
"I saw Lily," he said, the words more strained than he would've liked; he was well aware of Remus glancing his way, eyebrows raised. Understandable, really, given that only a few moments ago they'd been talking about Puddlemere's chances in the league this year. "At the hospital."
Remus paused. "I suppose that's to be expected, given that she works there."
"Yeah," James agreed. He took a swig of his beer, as if it might calm the nerves inside him; he felt as if his whole body was a wire pulled taut, stretched almost to breaking. "We had a good catch up. But I—" Another pause, and he looked over at his friend who watched on, his face giving nothing away. "I noticed she wasn't wearing her ring…"
It could almost have sounded casual to anyone else, but Remus knew him well enough to detect the fraying at the edges of his voice, the way he couldn't quite keep his leg still, a constant state of movement that always seemed to manifest when he felt antsy. "Yeah?" was all Remus said, a cautious reply if ever there was one.
"Yeah," he echoed. He shifted in his seat, turning his body towards his friend. Remus seemed to be finding the label on his beer bottle very interesting. "Look, I know this isn't fair on you, and—maybe she was having it cleaned, or resized, or, I don't know, maybe she doesn't wear it to work in case it falls into body cavities, but—" He cut himself off; drew in a steadying breath. "It's driving me mad, Moony."
Another pause. Remus looked as implacable as ever, and for a moment, James thought he wasn't going to say anything, wasn't going to indulge this array of questions with anything more than a 'mind your own beeswax'. Something that he wouldn't really blame him for, to be honest.
But then: "They broke up," Remus said, finally looking up. "About two months ago."
Maybe he should have felt relief, or some weird sense of victory, but his first thought was only of Lily, of how subdued she'd seemed when they'd sat together on that bench. Life had dealt her yet another shitty hand. Another chance at happiness, gone.
James swallowed, hard. "That's…I thought they were pretty solid."
Remus pulled a face, something hard to decipher, but one that looked a bit like his 'I'm trying to decide how much I can say' face. He took a long pull of his drink, and that seemed to help him make his decision. "As solid as they could be, given…everything."
James nodded. Everything was such a simple word, one that hardly seemed big enough to encompass everything that had happened to them over the past eight years. He hesitated before he spoke again. "Is she…okay?"
Remus sighed. "I…I think she knew it was coming," he replied carefully. "But she's piling a lot of guilt on herself, about Ed, and—well, about…"
"Me," James guessed quietly; Remus allowed him a nod. "She doesn't need to feel guilty."
"I tried telling her that," Remus replied with a sad smile. "She'll get there herself, eventually."
He hoped that was true. More than anything, he wanted her to be okay, to be happy. He'd made himself face up to the fact that it wouldn't be with him; now, that fact seemed much less stable, much less certain. "I'm glad she's got you," he said at last, and meant every word. "You're a good friend, Moony."
Remus waved a dismissive hand—he'd never been comfortable with too much sincerity—and reached for a fresh beer bottle. "That's all I'm telling you, anyway," he said. "You can ask her if you want more details." He shot James a small but noticeable smirk. "Maybe you'll bump into her at the hospital again."
That thought sparked something, a glow, the hint of a fire that he knew could blaze to an inferno at the slightest provocation. And he didn't mind that. It felt something like hope. "Maybe I will," he agreed.
july.
Lily didn't seem able to lift her gaze from the parchment in front of her; James watched, took in the tension in her shoulders, the forced calm on her face, and wondered if it meant what he thought it meant. What he hoped it meant.
"I didn't realise you could 'graduate' from the memory ward," she said at last, and lifted her chin to catch his eye. She gave him a smile, something almost sad. "Or that they would give you a certificate."
"They don't usually," James agreed. "But I insisted on it."
That sad smile shifted into something more genuine; it felt like relief, soft and cool at his chest. "Of course you did."
"I think Healer Robbins was glad to have a chance to practice his calligraphy," James added lightly. "Lovely penmanship, don't you think?"
"Lovely," she echoed, and paused. "So…you never have to darken the doorstep of this hospital again."
He nodded. "Barring any other medical emergency, yes." It was a strange thought, really; he'd spent so much time there, almost two years worth of daily visits that had turned to bi-weekly visits that had turned to weekly ones. He felt he could navigate the hospital halls blindfolded, if he had to.
And no, maybe he wouldn't miss having his brain magically prodded and poked, his mind rooted through like a badly organised sock drawer. He wouldn't miss the worry that had come with his early visits, wondering if there was ever going to be a way out of the labyrinth of dark and muddied thoughts that seemed to cloud his memory.
But he would miss this, the quiet habit that he and Lily had fallen into over the past four months: meeting up on the top floor of the hospital, on that now-familiar bench; sharing coffee or cauldron cakes or just stories of their days so far. It felt like them again, even if things were different. Even if he didn't reach for her hand like he itched to do; even if she didn't rake her fingers idly through his hair, like she used to do as instinctively as breathing. Even if all they ever did was sit at opposite ends of that bench, and smiled and talked before going their separate ways again.
It was that thought, actually, that made him speak up again; that thought, combined with the distance in her eyes, as if she were already calculating the time they wouldn't spend together from now on and felt the hours stack up, relentless and empty.
(Maybe it was wishful thinking on his part. But he was learning to be hopeful, again.)
"We meet up at the Leaky on Fridays," he said, and she quirked an eyebrow, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "Remus and Sirius and me. Did you know they do two-for-one fish and chips on Fridays?"
She laughed, a gentle, melodic sort of sound that he wanted to hear over and over again. "I didn't know that."
"You should join us," he said, heart in his throat. "And not just because then there'll be four of us, and the two-for-one deal works better that way."
That hint of a smile, strengthening, lighting up her eyes. "No? For other reasons, too?"
"Camaraderie," he replied; he knew he was grinning, like some lovesick teenager. Couldn't have stopped it, even if he'd tried. "Stimulating conversation. The bonds of friendship, etcetera etcetera."
"Well, when you put it like that," she smiled, and handed him his certificate back; their hands brushed, briefly—sparks, flying. "How can I say no?"
february.
The clouds reached out towards the horizon, thick and heavy with the promise of rain. Barely any light was let through, so little that it might as well still have been night. The air had a bite to it, and he considered that maybe he should've pulled on a jumper before venturing out into the garden.
Not that any of that mattered.
He tipped his head back, blinking sleepily up at the canopy of clouds as he heard the back door open, then close, quietly behind him. Soft footsteps, each one a promise, and then arms encircling his waist, the familiar warmth pressed at his back. He couldn't see her, didn't need to be able to see her, to know her face was buried in his t-shirt; her breath tickled through the fabric, a whisper.
"Morning," he murmured, and found he couldn't stem his smile.
She sighed, something soft, content. His hands found hers at his stomach, fingers tangled together, a knot he never wanted to undo. "Morning," she echoed, words muffled against his torso. She tightened her hold on him for a moment, a gentle squeeze, as if checking he was really there. "You'll freeze out here."
"I doubt it," he replied, stroking his thumb gently from her wrist to her finger, over that soft skin, that familiar space. "I seem to have acquired myself a little human space heater."
He could feel her smile against his back. "Glad to have my uses."
"Lil…" He carefully twisted in her embrace, his hands finding their rightful resting place at her jaw; she gazed up at him, green eyes sparkling. This woman, he thought. This woman is it. "You have many uses. Many, many uses."
Even beyond the way the cold had made her cheeks pink, she blushed, a pretty flush of colour he wanted to taste, to commit to memory.
(Committing things to memory had become very important to him—things he catalogued away, determined to keep a hold of, like the sound of Remus and Sirius laughing helplessly as they tried to best each other in a game of wizard chess; or the look on Lily's face as she stood in his arms, fireworks erupting over their heads, and told him she'd never forgotten him. If he could bottle these images, these feelings, he would.)
They hadn't rushed a physical relationship, after everything that had happened. Kissing as the new year began had led to a night not of rediscovering each other's bodies but of sleep, curled up together, a sense of safety that James had missed for so long. They'd moved forward tentatively, all too aware of the ability each held to wreck and ruin the other, of how vital this all felt, now, and so much more fragile than it had ever felt before.
And so they spent night after night together, and day after day, and each time she came home to him, he felt something knotted in him slowly loosen; and he knew, as well as he knew left and right and up and down, that she still tensed in anxious anticipation whenever he said goodbye, waiting for him to simply not return.
Those were things that would take time to move past, he knew; maybe they would never fade completely. Maybe she would always watch him leave, and worry that she was back where she started all those years ago; maybe he would always wait for her to return, and worry that she wasn't his, again.
But they helped each other. Soothed each other. And anything was easier to face, to cope with, when she was there tucked in at his side, or sat across the table from him, or singing tunelessly in the kitchen, or pressing herself up against him, slight and small and delicate in her ferocity, her need and love for him, only matched by his need and love for her.
"You won't last with this chastity nonsense," Sirius had told them, back in mid-January; they never told him he was right, that slow and steady had felt right but not as right as sinking into her, his lips at the curve of her neck; not as right as her knees bracketing his hips as she clung to his shoulders and fell into that same old delicious rhythm. They were both different, now; they had to be. But it was a different that didn't change the way they loved, the way they lived and breathed and lit up at the other's touch, or even just their gaze.
Some things were the same. Some things were different. But it was her; it was him. That was all that mattered.
"Come inside," she murmured, reaching for a kiss; the movement was instinctive, like she wasn't even aware of it as her lips sought out his. He ducked his head to meet her half way, to steal that kiss while he could, and let it linger, long and soft and sweet, like the sun breaking through the clouds. "We can warm you up again…"
He gathered her closer, if that were even possible, and marvelled again at how she fit against him, how her heartbeat matched his. Another quick kiss, unable to resist that purity, that truth he always found there in her. Merlin, but he was gone. Gone, and without a care. "I love you."
A smile, one he could taste, another thing to file away. "James," she sighed, a breath away from his lips. "I love you, too."
His hand idled at her hair, her jaw, fingers skating idly across that soft skin. "Thank fuck," he murmured, and her smile only strengthened. "Otherwise it'd make living together a bit more awkward."
She drew back, and he saw the smile at full wattage. He could tell her how beautiful she was every minute of every day, and it would never be enough to convey the truth of it. "Come on, then," she said, and tangled her fingers in his once more. "Ready to go inside and start our lives?"
With her? He was ready for anything.