Road of Life
-7-
lone astronomer
Disclaimer: Property of J. K. Rowling and associates. No infringement is intended and no profit is being made. Oh yes, and The Green Mile is Stephen King's.
Note: A lot of this is in first person format (James). Of course, he is different from his own point of view than from an omniscient one. And, he thinks he's funny. My apologies for that.
Rating: I don't think it's that intense, so a very strong PG-13. Lots of innuendo, though.
The Song That Inspired RoL6: Billy Joel's Pianoman, especially: '…"Son, can you play me a melody?/I'm not really sure how it goes/But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete/When I wore a younger man's clothes."…And the waitress is practicing politics/As the businessman slowly gets stoned/Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness/But it's better than drinking alone…the manager gives me a smile/'Cause he knows that it's me they've been coming to see/to forget about life for a while./And the piano sounds like a carnival/And the microphone smells like a beer/And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar, and say,/"Man, what are you doing here?" '
*7 A - Past Specters *
Meetings, I thought to myself dully, are incredibly boring.
I was actually supposed to be a mediator in a dispute that had broken out between rival companies- the both of them claimed to have invented some far-fetched magical item or another first, and thus the right to the patent. The trouble was, the patents had been filed the exact same day, so nobody knew who was telling the truth.
Of course, to anyone with a little sense, two things were painfully obvious. The first was a spy in one of the companies, and the other was that everyone knew shoes that danced for you were incredibly dangerous to your health. Not to mention to the health of your dancing partner's feet.
I stifled a yawn and pretended to listen to the next arguments of the heated debates. There were many places I would have rather been, home in bed being rather high on the list. I hadn't had a good night's rest in nearly a week, the aftermath of some horrible subconscious revelation that I wasn't ready to fully admit yet. At that time, anywhere sleeping was a good option. I looked longingly at my watch. Ten minutes, I told myself. Ten more minutes and you can go home…
*
When I find myself in times of trouble,
Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom:
Let it be
*
"Harry," I said, once the soot from the Floo network was mostly gone from his face, "I've got a late meeting tomorrow. How would you like it if Clara came to watch you?" I hoped he wouldn't mind. I mean, I really hoped he wouldn't mind. The poor kid had it bad enough with my being gone all the time; he didn't need someone he thought of as a wench watching him day and night. Although, I probably would've had to ground him if he'd so much as insinuated that Clara was a wench.
Harry's painfully green eyes lit right up with an inner smile. "Yeah! Clara's the coolest. She taught me how to play poker."
I felt my eyes widen. "She what?"
"Oops."
I had to turn away from him so that he wouldn't see the wry grin- very Prongs, a character I missed but couldn't let show- that had plastered itself on my face. Some women. Aloud I said, "Well, everyone's got to have their fun, I suppose." Although this, as a rule, excepted me, because I never got to have any fun. It was always the nine-year-olds who got to stay home with the baby-sitter and play poker until she put them to bed.
Damn, I thought to myself, somewhere between amused and disgusted. I sound bitter.
*
And in my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom:
Let it be
*
The door to the Weasley residence swung open on its hinges, admitting five boys at different stages of adolescence. The two youngest were obviously twins- identical down to the last freckle and proud of it. I knew, because I'd met them before. Slightly taller was a thin boy with his nose stuck dangerously high in the air. He had the feel of someone who was so far above his younger brothers that he couldn't be bothered with them. I must say, I know the type. Taller still- just slightly- was a somewhat stockier boy with brilliant blue eyes. There was a large red C embroidered on his shirt. The last through the door- and so tall that he almost had to duck, although he couldn't have been more than seventeen- was a boy (more man than boy, really) with the characteristic Weasley hair, probably a bit too long for his mother's liking, if I knew Molly.
"Hullo," blue-eyes greeted. "Is there something I can help you with?"
I stood and proffered a hand to the first of them. "James Potter." If they thought I'd ever start adding 'Minister of Magic; Order of Merlin, Third Class' to my name or signature, they were out of their bloody minds.
The reactions on the boys' faces were priceless. I knew their names from Molly's photographs, and from numerous stories, and it was a lot easier to assign personalities once I'd actually met them. Fred and George, who had probably heard legends of Prongs Potter left floating around Hogwarts, exchanged identical looks of awe. I mean, that's the way they are, too; always looking for a new way to cause mischief. Honorary Marauders, Padfoot and I call them. Percy was another story- he just wanted to meet the Minister of Magic personality the stiffs thought I was. Charlie (who, Molly told me, was Captain of the Quidditch team) looked like he was about to grill me on the match against Slytherin in '82, but Bill looked a bit unsure. I liked that- no expectations. He shook my hand. "Bill Weasley. These are my brothers- I think you've met Fred and George; and Percy," he nodded in his brother's direction, "and that's Charlie," to the one with the blue eyes. "Nice to meet you, sir."
I was shocked. A seventeen-year-old had called me 'sir.' I tried to pick my jaw up off the floor. I felt a lot older, all of a sudden. "Likewise. Your mother wouldn't happen to be home, would she?"
Charlie nodded. "She's in the yard, tending the Everblooming Lilacs."
"Thanks," I said, and took the path out to the garden. It wasn't really funny, but my friend Molly was turning into something like a Dear Anne column for me.
*
And when the broken-hearted people, living in a world of greed
There will be an answer:
Let it be
(Beatles; Let it Be)
*
The Watch Clock chimed at the appointed time, I yelled, "Patefacio!" and, very dramatically, thunder crashed and the door swung open, nearly falling off his hinges.
Clara regarded me curiously. She was curious a lot, when I thought about it. Which was often.
"Sorry," I said, feeling a little sheepish. "Harry must've been fiddling with the ward settings again." Harry just gets into those things; there's no stopping him. Even if you could, the excess magic in his system would probably blow something up.
Her expression changed from quizzical to amused. "You let Harry play with the ward settings?"
I wrinkled my nose, recalling the past few incidents that involved Harry and 'accidental' magic experiments. "'Let' is not the word I would choose."
Clara laughed. "Where is the little fiend? He's usually right here to- oof." Harry, no doubt having heard the sound effects the Patefacio wards had let off, had hurled himself out of his bedroom and into Clara's midsection. "Hello, Harry," she said affectionately, ruffling his hair. I very much envied Harry's position right then, but I wasn't going to say anything. I mean I didn't want to scare the kid.
Harry tried, unsuccessfully, to duck under Clara's arm, but she held him fast- that's my girl. "Aw, Clara. You're messing up my hair. Which it doesn't need, by the way."
Poor kid. He's got no mum, his dad's in love with his babysitter, and on top of it all, he's inherited my hair. Actually, when I put it that way, it was almost funny. Except the no-mum, in-love-with-the-babysitter part, of course. "That would be my fault. Sorry, Harry."
Clara turned around and shot me a look. "Don't you dare apologize for that!" She ran her fingers through Harry's hair again. Was I jealous! "It's cute."
Well, that I could deal with. After all, Harry and I have pretty much the same hair, good days and bad. I grinned, knowing I was probably being insufferable. "Thanks."
Clara smacked me playfully on the shoulder, but I thought I saw a slight flush on her face. Of course, I could have imagined it. I did quite a bit of imagining about Clara, in fact, which was probably inappropriate, seeing as she worked for me and everything. Not that I cared. "You obnoxious git," she kidded - at least I hoped she was joking. "Go to your meeting! Off with you!"
I pouted. I wasn't in the most mature mood at the moment. Usually I have to get that out of my system before meetings, or else someone gets frustrated with me and throws a fit. "Ooh. Cruel and unusual punishment."
Harry was giving me a funny look. I figured I should cut out the innuendo before I did something really dumb, like ask Clara if she was going to spank me. "I'd better go. Eight-thirty's bedtime," I told her, as if she didn't know. Mostly it was so that Harry wouldn't cajole her into letting him stay up later. Don't get me wrong; he's a good kid. He's just a bit of a night owl.
"So you've mentioned," Clara said dryly.
"And don't eat too many sweets." Boy, I wasn't doing much for my rogue image then, I can tell you.
"Yes, mum."
I scowled at Clara, knowing it looked insincere. I never could be too irritated when she was around. Sometimes that irritated me, in fact.
I still don't know what possessed me to do it, but I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll be back around two." I left before I could embarrass myself further.
*
…'Cause a bottle of vodka still lies in my hand
Some blond gave me nightmares; I think that she's still in my bed
As I dream about movies they won't make of me when I'm dead
*
Harry could do nothing but watch with a funny sort of smile on his face as Clara rubbed her cheek unconsciously. It was their eighth poker hand and she was losing badly, obviously not concentrating at all. It was sort of pathetic.
"I fold," Clara said, tossing her cards on the table.
She took out her wand and magicked herself a cup of tea. Harry glanced over at the cards she'd been holding- three aces. He almost laughed to himself. She must have been pretty distracted.
Clara sipped her tea and continued looking oblivious to the world. Had Harry been a less perceptive nine-year-old, he might've been a bit worried. As it was, however, he found the situation struck him as somewhat humorous. Adults are so clueless. She doesn't even realize that I know she's not paying any attention to anything. "Clara?" he said. There was no response. Clara was staring at her tea like it held the answers to the universe's most difficult problems. "Clara? I'm going to bed."
"Hmm," came the response.
Not like I expected anything else. "Have fun trying to sleep," Harry said cheerfully, and wandered off to his room to have a nice long chat with Morgana.
Generally, people didn't talk to pictures. This rule excepted, of course, mental cases and those missing someone dearly, but other than that it just didn't happen often. Then again, if most people saw a moving picture inside a frame, no cords attached anywhere, and the picture appeared to be sentient, they probably would have run screaming from the building. Harry was not to be categorized like most people, however; for him it was quite natural to carry on a conversation with a portrait.
"Dad kissed her?" Morgana said.
Harry nodded. "Only on the cheek; but it's better than nothing."
Morgana's two-dimensional body was doubled over, her knees pulled up to her chest. "Our dad's a loser," she said morosely. "He should get himself together."
"Morgana!" Harry chided. "I mean I didn't even know about Mum 'til last year- give the man a break; he needs time to get over things."
"Didn't Clara's husband just die a while back?" she asked him, attempting to contemplate the potential relationship from both sides. It always came back to the same thing. "I thought James'd give her some time to get over that…"
Harry gave a shrug. "It's been almost a year." He watched Morgana think a moment longer, then snuffed out the candle. "Something's going to happen," he said. "That's all I can tell you right now."
*
…I wake up and French-kiss the morning
And some marching band keeps its own beat in my head
While we're talking
About all of the things that I long to believe about love
The truth, what you mean to me
And the truth is
Baby, you're all that I need
*
The door to Harry's room clicked shut for the final time, and Clara found herself slumped over the table in relief. It wasn't so much that she wanted to be left alone with her thoughts as it was that she didn't want him to worry about her slightly erratic behavior. Harry was a good poker player, but he wasn't that good.
She took another sip of her tea and Summoned the Muggle novel she'd brought with her- The Green Mile. It was involving, if not a tad disturbing. Clara moved over to the sofa and curled up to read the last few chapters.
She soon had to put the book down. Her current state of mind was ruining the book- she couldn't concentrate on the page, let alone on the words upon it. Clara's mind wandered once again back to James, and unsurprisingly she continued to ask herself the same questions she'd been asking it for nearly three hours. She was also answering herself, which was not the smartest thing to do, she realized, because who could predict James Potter, after all? It didn't mean anything, she told herself again. He was just being friendly. Clara wondered why that hurt so much.
I don't want to be more than friends, she told herself firmly. I've hurt quite enough … Tom is gone. He's not coming back. I couldn't lose James, too. Clara had to content herself with that answer because, she even admitted to herself, she had no other.
It was barely ten o'clock when Clara pulled herself into bed that night, yet she was exhausted mentally. Her brain didn't want to function properly at all, and the same 'why' questions kept swirling around in her head. There was also the underlying current of betrayal that her conscience was ever so helpfully administering upon her. Clara sighed. It took her a very long time to get to sleep.
The awareness- of the dream, that was- grew around her, a darkness closing in on a light at the end of a tunnel. She knew, even as she dreamed, that she must be someplace Tween, because what was a dream, after all, if not a place between sleep and blissful unconsciousness?
Vines grew sinuous around her as she watched and held her into place. Some of them had thorns, a few had even sprouted a twisted kind of rosebud. She realized that she was standing in a stream; the water was dark and too cold and too hot and everything that she'd ever thought anything could be. The light dimmed further. Tween seemed very beautiful, in a terrible sort of way.
The man she had been married to appeared, as she had known he would. Tom's eyebrows were slightly singed and he was dressed all in pale blue, carrying a book under one arm- 'Aetus Clara.' He had wings. He was also somewhat larger than life, a good head taller than he had actually been. It took Clara's unconsciousness a moment to realize that he was actually floating before her.
"Watch," Tom commanded, and opened the book.
Clara wanted to say no, that she did not want to see, but could not. A vine tightened around her ankle and its thorns pierced her skin, making her cry out.
Tom flipped to the last page in the book- a sketch, quite realistic, of Clara sobbing beside a tombstone that was clearly marked as his.
Dream-Clara looked up to his eyes. "I don't understand."
He nodded. "If you understood, you would not be here." Tom motioned to the book, stroking his fingers over and through the picture. "The book shows your life. Aetus Clara. Without a book, there is no life; without life there is no story."
"If this is my life, why then does the last page show that?"
Tom shut the book. "You disappoint us. I died, but you were given life. Yet you have not lived."
"I am alive," Dream-Clara heard herself say. "One doesn't dream when one's dead."
"You are alive," Tom repeated. "You are not living."
"I don't understand," Clara said again. "How can I be alive but not living? Please, tell me. I don't understand."
Tom nodded, as if he had expected this. "You aren't meant to understand. As yet you cannot comprehend such things."
"I don't understand," she repeated.
Tom, fading now, had time only for one more whisper. "You will."
"Don't leave!" Clara yelled, straining against the thorns. Madness raced through her veins, the very blood that sustained her life. Her sense of what was Tween and what was reality was slipping. "Don't again! Alone! Not again!" Yet the thorns still tore, the vines held fast, and Tom continued to fade, as did the rest of the light. "No," she sobbed, quite aware that she was no longer dreaming. "Don't leave me all alone."
A dream-voice seemed to whisper, "You will never be alone again."
*
It was very late, two-thirty or so, by the time James Apparated through the wards again. It was a chilly autumn night, or morning, depending on how you looked at it. And James was incredibly tired. He hadn't realized how much work being Minister of Magic was until he'd taken on the job.
A mysterious air hung around the Potter residence that night- it was heavy with magic and thick with tension and taut with apprehension. James could almost hear elfin voices calling to him, guiding him, but he classified it as typical for that time of the year. It was the night before Halloween, and the spirits were restless. He didn't blame them. All Hallows was two days away, and the limbo between the living and the dead was at a low for the year.
James knew a lot about dead people, or perhaps a lot of them.
He passed by Harry's room and peeked in- the boy was fast asleep, his arm curled around his pillow, and facing that odd portrait of the red-haired girl he'd claimed to have gotten from a yardsale. James thought it very fitting how young the Boy Who Lived looked while sleeping. His eyes lent him a lot of years when they were open.
A noise from the next room over startled him out of his reverie. Quietly, James shut the door again and tiptoed quickly down the hallway to the guest bedroom.
Poking his head through the doorway, he heard but a few broken words and then a cache of choked sobs. Then a whisper, "Don't leave me all alone."
That settled it, for James had always been the hero. He closed the door behind him and went forward slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness and the Tween magic that was the atmosphere.
The light from the near-full moon coming in through the window cast a silvery glow on the old four-poster. Everything, in fact, was bathed in the celestial glow or else thrown deep into shadow. And there was Clara, on the bed, weeping.
James closed his eyes. He didn't know if she'd heard him come in, or if she would want him to intrude. "You will never be alone again," he whispered quietly, not wanting to startle her.
Clara sat bolt upright in bed and turned to face him, wiping tears from her face. "James," she said, flopping back down onto the pillows and burying her face. "You scared me."
"Likewise," he answered gently, sitting on the edge of the bed. "What happened?"
She shook her head imperceptibly, still not looking at him. "Just a nightmare."
James let out a sigh and removed his glasses, massaging the bridge of his nose. He set the glasses on the nightstand. "You don't cry after every normal nightmare, Clara," he said softly, laying his head on the pillow beside hers. From the shadows, he caught glimpses of wetness. Heart aching in silent sympathy, he kissed away the remaining tears. "Please tell me what happened."
Clara echoed his sigh. "I've just been given a rather rude wake-up call," she confessed, "about wasting my life." James waited for a further explanation and, after a slight pause, she gave it. "I am alive, and yet I am not living."
James closed his eyes and nodded. "Sounds familiar."
"You got the same message?"
"Five years ago to the day." James waited a moment. "Tom?" he asked quietly.
Clara nodded, her head now pressed against his chest as the tears threatened to leak anew. "Lily?"
"Yes." Another pause, much longer this time. "Are you very afraid?" he barely whispered as the Tween blew a draft over their heads.
"Less so now than before. James?"
"Hmm?" Sleep tugged at his tired mind.
"Promise me that you'll never leave me."
James' eyes snapped open and stared into hers. "I," he said firmly, "will never leave you."
Blissfully, dreamlessly, they slept.
*
I want to lay you down on a bed of roses
For tonight, I sleep on a bed of nails
I want to be just as close as
The Holy Ghost is
And lay you down
On a bed of roses
(Bed of Roses, Jon Bon Jovi)
*
* 7 B - Something to Talk About *
One alarm clock rang at the Potters' house the following morning, and it was much too far from James and Clara to bother them. This alarm clock was in Harry Potter's bedroom, as it was his, after all. At seven o'clock it rang, or rather began jumping on Harry's stomach and doing cartwheels off of the walls.
Harry opened his eyes right off and reached for his glasses, pulled on some fresh Muggle clothes, and made himself breakfast, all while keeping an eye out for any sign of other life in the house. There was none.
Until, that is, Sirius Black Apparated in.
"Hullo, Harry," Sirius said by way of greeting. "Where's your father? He's late for the conference…"
Harry, blessedly innocent child that he was, only shrugged. "Dunno. Must be having a lay-in." Above all, he hoped Sirius wouldn't check the guest bedroom.
Sirius frowned. James had always been an early riser. "Unlike him," he said, "but I guess he deserves it. I'll get him."
"No!" Harry said, jumping up rather suddenly. "I mean, no. I'll wake him."
"Nonsense," Sirius said, "the less time I have to spend at that meeting, the better. If you get him, I have to go back." He started back towards the bedrooms.
Oh. This is bad. "Scheisse," Harry muttered into his arms, resigned to waiting until he heard Sirius' own cussing.
Sirius rapped sharply on James' bedroom door for about three seconds before opening it all the way. A puzzled look crossed his face as he noted the bed, unslept in, and the lack of James anywhere. Now where's he gone off to? Sirius wondered.
He started wondering if James had never come home from his meeting in Germany at all, but dismissed that. James was too responsible. Harry would know by now if that was the case… wouldn't he?
Which was when Sirius heard breathing coming from the guest bedroom. Confused, he opened the door and peeked in.
What he saw made his jaw drop to somewhere around his knees. There was James, all right, snuggled up close next to Clara. Her face was buried in his robes (which he'd apparently taken to sleeping in, Sirius noted curiously underneath all of the other emotions he felt) and both of them looked a lot more peaceful than he'd seen either in the past year. All of this was very disturbing.
And then there came the anger. What right had James, setting such an example for Harry? Betraying Lily's memory- Sirius wasn't over her death; how could James possibly be? How could he even think-
Fuming, Sirius cursed under his breath, closed the door, and Disapparated without bidding Harry goodbye.
The Boy Who Lived sighed over his cereal and got a quill and parchment from near the owl's cage.
Dear Dad, he wrote,
Uncle Sirius came by this morning…
*
James awoke feeling better rested than he had in years, which was unusual in itself as he hadn't even changed before bed. Something smelled of rain and apple blossoms and a new spring day. It was a very appealing scent and he breathed it in deeply. It seemed to refresh his soul.
James also noticed that he was not alone. That was new, but not entirely unpleasant, either. He knew who she was without opening his eyes, for he had long imagined what Clara would feel like in his arms. She was tiny and soft, yet her body had a sort of strength to it that a person could take refuge in, that could protect from harsh reality.
Cautiously, James opened his eyes and disentangled one long arm from around Clara's midsection to retrieve his glasses from behind him. Once the arm was free, however, James discovered that it had no desire or intention to leave Clara's body and that, in fact, he had no desire for it to do that, either. Instead, he stroked her hair absently, pondering the magic that had meddled in his life the night before. Not that he was ungrateful.
Clara awoke much the same way he had. "Good morning," James whispered cheerfully.
"Are you sure?" Clara replied, stretching a bit. (James was disappointed, because this meant that he had to move his arms from around her.)
"No, actually," James answered, and found, upon checking his watch, "It's still morning. Actually, it's nine thirty."
"Oh," Clara said. She then added, in true secretary style, "We're late for work."
"Don't worry," James said cheerfully, "I'm giving you the day off."
"And who gave you the day off?"
"I did." Since the embrace was broken anyway, James reached for his glasses and found them, along with a slightly crumpled piece of parchment. His eyebrows knitted together.
"What is it?" Clara asked, peering over his shoulder.
James rubbed his temple. "A note from Harry."
Dear Dad and Aunt Clara, too (can I call you that?),
Uncle Sirius stopped by this morning to get you, Dad, because you're late for work. I told him I'd get you up but he wanted to stay out of the meeting so he insisted that he should get you. I really did try to stop him! But you know what he's like.
Anyway, he left about three seconds after he found you. He was really mad. He kept on swearing. Did you know that Uncle Sirius can swear in German? Did you teach him that? I didn't.
Don't worry about me. I went to school anyway, took the Floo to the Weasleys' and walked. You owe me for that, by the way. Technically I could have had a lay-in, but you had to buy me that alarm clock. Thanks a lot.
I'll be at the Ron's till around three. Just don't hold me to that. Take a day off, why don't you? J
Love,
Harry.
"It would seem that Sirius is upset with you," Clara observed.
"Sirius is always mad about something," James said, shaking his head. "There's no pleasing him, honestly. He'll get over it. He doesn't even know what happened. Or didn't happen," he added after a moment.
Clara sighed. "Even Harry knows we work too much."
"Harry knows if anyone does," James agreed. "Which leaves the question- what are we going to do with our day off?"
Clara gave him a mischievous grin. "Oh, I've got a few ideas."
"Really?" James asked lightly. "Because Sirius has already seen us together, so we might as well give him something to rave about…"
She smiled a little and lifted her chin to accept his kiss, cutting it short to say, "Right. That has my vote, too." He kissed her again, and this time there was no escape with simple words but with the need for oxygen. "Someone's in a good mood this morning," Clara commented, tousling James' hair with one hand and noticing then that the top three buttons of her sleeping shirt were undone. She felt something pressing into her lower stomach and raised an eyebrow. "A very good mood," she corrected herself good-naturedly
James grinned and kissed her again; Sirius and Harry were forgotten.
*
People are talking, talking 'bout people
I hear them whisper, you wouldn't believe it
They think we're lovers, kept under covers
I just ignore it, but they just keep saying
We laugh a little too loud, we stand a little too close
We stare just a little too long, maybe they're seeing something we don't
Let's give them something to talk about
(Bonnie Raitt)
*
Sirius Apparated back to the Ministry with a dark look and fifty curses under his breath. He sat through the entire conference without saying a word, which, aside from being extremely out-of-character for him, put off half the other employees, who were used to his rants.
Remus pulled him aside afterwards. "Where's James?" he asked.
Sirius scowled. "He's at home."
Remus also felt a tinge of anger, though nothing that merited Sirius' foul mood. "What's he doing there? We really needed him on this one. He has final say on this, after all."
"What is he doing there!" Sirius repeated, his voice growing louder. Remus was glad that his office was soundproof. "What is he doing there, indeed! He is in bed with his secretary, Remus!"
Remus was even gladder that his office was soundproof than he'd been a moment ago. "Oh," he said finally. "I suppose I ought to tell Allya."
Sirius glowered. "She knew about this?" he growled.
Remus gave Sirius a skeptical look. "Don't tell me you never noticed. It's about bloody time, that's what it is."
Sirius' mouth dropped open. "Surely you're not- you're happy about this!"
"What's not to be glad about? It's about time James got on with his life. He deserves to be happy. And it is not my place to interfere, nor yours."
Sirius left the office unusually early that day, wondering if he would have to eat his words.
*
Allya's grin at Vera's latest antics grew wider when she saw Remus' expression. He had just Apparated home, and she had known him long enough to know that something very interesting had gone on at the Ministry that day.
They embraced, ignoring the noises the twins were making ("Gross! She let him put his tongue in her mouth!"- typical Archer), and when they broke apart, Ally grinned. "Is Sirius pissed?"
Remus laughed. "You should have seen the look on his face- honestly, he ought to grow up."
"Sirius?" Allya looked incredulous. "Never."
"Can't live with him, can't live without him."
"And abracadabra to that."
*
One sneezed.
The other launched into a bout of somewhat muffled laughter.
James sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. "Hey," he said, surveying the room. "What gives?"
Clara, too, was astounded. "What is it?" A half-centimeter thick layer of something sparkly covered, well, everything.
James picked some up and let it sift through his fingers. The dust made a ringing sound as it slipped back to the bedcover. "I have no idea." He picked up another pinch and blew on it gently.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a hundred of the most brightly colored butterflies appeared, fleeing James' direction. They lingered for a moment on Clara- in her hair, on her outstretched hand and on her bare shoulders- before disappearing completely. "Fairy dust," she whispered, amazed.
James tossed another handful at her. This time, Clara ended up sprinkled with a thin layer of snow. James smirked. "Get frostbite much?"
Clara's scoop of dust hit him in the midsection and turned to honey. James didn't look to terribly amused by this. He flung some more of the stuff at her, but she dodged and rubbed some into his hair- it was feathers, this time, and once James got them out of his hair they stuck to the honey-spot on his stomach. Clara tried very hard not to laugh, but it didn't work. She flopped back down onto the pillows and threw a handful of fairy dust- green Jell-O- over the side of the bed. "We should bottle this stuff," she said, grinning despite herself.
"It's probably illegal," James said morosely.
"I won't tell if you won't."
He grinned. "That's the spirit!"
They lay there catching their breath for a few moments.
Finally, James spoke again. "Listen, about last night-"
Clara sat up and gave him a look. "If you apologize now, I will kill you." She sighed and bit her lip distractedly. "James, what I asked you- I mean, I wasn't exactly lucid…"
"Now who's apologizing?" James shook his head. "I promised I'd never leave you, and I meant it. Unless you really don't want me around, you're stuck with me."
"I guess I'm stuck, then."
Another blank pause, then, "Are you hungry?"
"Like you wouldn't even believe. What time is it?"
James checked his watch. "Twelve thirty."
"That would explain it. It's breakfast time. But you might want to take a shower before we eat. You look like you've been tarred and feathered," Clara teased.
"I've been dusted, that's what."
*
"Hey Dad," Harry called cheerfully from the fireplace, wiping the soot from his glasses a few months later. "Did I miss Uncle Sirius and Ron?" After an incident involving a very angry Molly and a nearly-as-angry Harry, Sirius had come around quickly. He wasn't one-hundred-percent behind his friend's decisions, but he understood and respected them as well as Clara.
James looked up from a mountainous stack of parchment. "Yeah," he answered. "Ron left you some Mad Muggle comics- I can't seem to find them right now under the mess of other things I have to…"
"Over there, Harry," Clara said, pointing at the living room table without so much as a sideways glance. She was fully absorbed with the quill she held. "Did you get the documents I asked you for?"
Harry, who, along with Ron, Ginny and Sirius and a few others, had been reduced to playing gopher for James and Clara, stacked another pile of parchment beside the first. "Yes. Can I please go to the Weasleys' now? Ron said that when he got back with Sirius, Mrs. Weasley would bake cookies." He hadn't exactly been thrilled when he'd been told he had to be fit for new dress robes. He'd been less thrilled when, directly after the fitting, he'd had to go on even more errands while everyone else got to go home.
"Go ahead," James answered, signing something with a flourish. "It'll give you something to do…"
Harry was already gone.
"Who would've thought getting married a second time would be this much hassle," Clara commented, reviewing the guest list yet again. "Have we got any more owls?"
James snorted. "Remus and Allya sent an owl- they'll take care of Harry for the first few days, then he can go to Molly's; and Arthur wants to know if we need the flying car for a fast getaway afterwards, since you can't Apparate from a wedding. Bad luck, and all of that."
Clara laughed. "Does Molly know about that?"
"Luckily for Arthur, she does not."
Meanwhile, at the Burrow…
"That's it, Harry, now turn around," Molly encouraged, waving her cookie in a circle to demonstrate.
Harry tried his hardest not to scowl. It wouldn't help anyone's mood any.
Arthur Weasley snapped yet another photograph. Harry didn't know it, but once it was developed, it would show him and Ginny trying desperately to escape.
For the first time, Harry was beginning to regret the fact that his father was getting married again. Though he didn't originally mind being in the wedding, things were getting out of hand. New robes for everyone, and running errands, and would the Boy Who Lived please smile for the camera? Ginny, whom Clara had asked to be flower girl, hadn't expected the attention either. She gave him a pleading glance. I agree; this is madness. Let's get out of here.
"Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, trying one last time, "Wouldn't it be wise to save some film for tomorrow?"
"Nonsense, Harry!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. "We have more than enough. Now, Ginny, a little to the left…"
Ginny sighed unhappily, but did as she was told. Harry found himself counting down the seconds until five-thirty, when he had to run yet another errand.
*
The wedding went off without a hitch, except perhaps more than the expected amount of tears from Mrs. Weasley or the fact that Ginny had nearly tripped while walking down the aisle. Harry had seen it and caught her by the arm before she embarrassed herself further, and almost nobody had noticed anyway- it was then that Clara had first appeared through the walkway into the garden.
The reception, although very short, was equally beautiful, and had ended with six children- Harry, Vera, Sierra, Archer, Ginny and Ron- asleep in one corner of the hall. (Luckily, Mr. Weasley had a few pictures left in the camera.) Here, too, came a disappointing announcement; Sirius and Mioré were taking their daughter and leaving for Scotland to be with her father in the years before he died. James, whose parents were long dead, understood this, and they had his blessing.
What astounded James and Clara most, however, was the beautiful card signed by all the children. It was written in Charlie's flawless penmanship in silver ink on watery blue paper, and gave them both pause. The words would remain in their hearts, echoing in the difficult years to come.
Happily Ever After?
The Beginning…
The Rain
Puddles on a dirty street
Water, salt, and my cheeks meet
Bright umbrella and a crowded awning
When comes the rain
Raindrops fall on frosted glass
Each one merging with the last
I can't reconcile with my own past
When comes the rain
Teardrops are a faded sign
Perfect, forgotten love of mine
To long for a touch that is divine
When comes the rain
Water cannot tell the tale
To love again is not to fail
Not unfaithful, only frail
When comes the rain
Love for another: to decide
When old friends by the first one side
But to be alone I can't abide
When comes the rain
Puddles on the road of life
Raindrops wash away my strife
Love heals cuts from deepest knife
And nevermore to rain
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