Who Would Imagine A King?
* * *
Merry Christmas everyone, and I hope you all have a wondrous New Year.
-Aimée
* * *
The hush of night had befallen the room in which he slept, shadows of the past dancing across the walls with an immeasurable amount of grace. The moonlight filtered in through the wide window opposite his crib, cocooning him in a web of light and security only the ethereal being could provide.
A woman of average height and astounding beauty stood beside the crib in which he lay, her emerald eyes twinkling amorously and her pale fingers stroking his even whiter skin. On that holy night, she was as radiant as even the most devote of seraphs, so much so that even the archangels of heaven smiled benevolently down upon the pair as the snow outside fell silently to the frozen ground.
"Harry," she whispered, the nearly insubstantial sound of her voice echoing throughout the lavish nursery. "Love, there are so many things—so many things you should know, but if I could only tell you one, it would be that I love you."
The muted sound of laughter came floating in from a nearby room, and Lily glanced accusingly toward the door, unhappy with even the smallest of disturbances. Her time alone with her son was precious, as was the time all mothers spent with their children, and those around them could never understand.
"The day you were born, I was so scared," she continued, her voice hushed and hands trembling as she continued to stroke her son's cheek. "They were terrible times, Harry—so terrible that I wished you hadn't been born, if only for your sake, for a child should never have been brought into the war. I would have rather you had never existed than see you harmed or dead."
The door of the nursery opened ever-so-softly and closed, the hinges squeaking only enough to alert Lily of another soul. She lifted her eyes and focused on the face of her husband, his vibrant eyes and tousled hair only adding to his charmingly boyish features.
"Love," he greeted her solemnly, stepping to occupy the space next to her along the crib's wall, his long fingers curling around the railing. It was the only word he spoke, allowing her to continue, knowing each syllable spilling from her lips was one with which he agreed. It was a strange and resounding comfort to know he was there, a pillar of strength to contrast her weakness of emotion and unfathomable wishes, the most secret unbeknownst to even herself.
She reached out to take her husband's hand, interlacing her fingers with his own as her gazed traveled downwards once more to focus on her sleeping son.
"He could have been so much," she murmured to James, phantom tears welling in her eyes. "The possibilities were endless—I didn't dare imagine what the future would hold for him, not once, because I was too afraid of imaging the best and being disappointed.
"But never," she continued, her voice carrying some of James' strength, "did I imagine this. He hasn't received a single N.E.W.T. or a single O.W.L.—or even stepped inside the ancient walls of Hogwarts," she breathed. "But he is the greatest wizard to have ever been born, James—the ruler of us all, the light at the end of one of the darkest tunnels in history."
A solitary tear fell from her eye and onto her cheek, leaving a small trail as it slid downward into the corner of her mouth. Her tongue flicked out to meet it, and the salty wetness held a ring of familiarity to it, so much that it was a comfort to know it was there.
"He is a king, James," she whispered, squeezing his hand. "Our son—our blood runs through his veins, and he is a king. There is not a single wizard or witch who would not bow to him, if not for royalty then for nobility and the honor of being in his presence. He is the greatest, James."
She sniffed and traced the angry lightning-bolt scar that divided her son's forehead in two, another tear falling but this time splashing upon his cheek instead of her own.
"He could have been anything, James," she whispered once more. "But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine our son would be a king."
She touched her child one last time before raising her hand from his skin. She stood up straight and proud, her eyes still focused upon Harry's sleeping form. He began to stir, however, the wetness of her tear having touched his senses ever-so-slightly in sleep, drawing him back from the dream world and into the haze of a dark reality.
"I love you, Harry," Lily murmured once more before both she and James stepped back and allowed the image to fall. Instead of a crib he lay in a pile of ragged blankets, and instead of the wide window there was a grate in which a small amount of light shone through. The white walls, bright even in the dark, were replaced with dank and colorless shades of gray, and Lily could take it no longer. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, and as silent as they had appeared, Lily and James Potter were gone.
Alone in a tiny cupboard lay a king awaiting his destiny, a future he would never know disappearing as fast as his foggy dream. He opened his startlingly green eyes and blinked, bemused by his sudden awakening at a time when he was supposed to sleep.
"Mommy," he mumbled drowsily, clutching his ratty blanket in his tiny fist. "Daddy."
With that, he closed his eyes once more and drifted off into an undisturbed sleep, the memory of his parents settling on the edge of his unconsciousness, always there but no longer obtainable.
It was Christmas 1981, only three months after the death of Lily and James Potter and the defeat of Voldemort. Harry Potter was the most powerful wizard alive, but on that Christmas Eve, he was still a baby, too heavy with sleep and warmth to worry about the times to come.
* * *
Merry Christmas everyone, and I hope you all have a wondrous New Year.
-Aimée
* * *
The hush of night had befallen the room in which he slept, shadows of the past dancing across the walls with an immeasurable amount of grace. The moonlight filtered in through the wide window opposite his crib, cocooning him in a web of light and security only the ethereal being could provide.
A woman of average height and astounding beauty stood beside the crib in which he lay, her emerald eyes twinkling amorously and her pale fingers stroking his even whiter skin. On that holy night, she was as radiant as even the most devote of seraphs, so much so that even the archangels of heaven smiled benevolently down upon the pair as the snow outside fell silently to the frozen ground.
"Harry," she whispered, the nearly insubstantial sound of her voice echoing throughout the lavish nursery. "Love, there are so many things—so many things you should know, but if I could only tell you one, it would be that I love you."
The muted sound of laughter came floating in from a nearby room, and Lily glanced accusingly toward the door, unhappy with even the smallest of disturbances. Her time alone with her son was precious, as was the time all mothers spent with their children, and those around them could never understand.
"The day you were born, I was so scared," she continued, her voice hushed and hands trembling as she continued to stroke her son's cheek. "They were terrible times, Harry—so terrible that I wished you hadn't been born, if only for your sake, for a child should never have been brought into the war. I would have rather you had never existed than see you harmed or dead."
The door of the nursery opened ever-so-softly and closed, the hinges squeaking only enough to alert Lily of another soul. She lifted her eyes and focused on the face of her husband, his vibrant eyes and tousled hair only adding to his charmingly boyish features.
"Love," he greeted her solemnly, stepping to occupy the space next to her along the crib's wall, his long fingers curling around the railing. It was the only word he spoke, allowing her to continue, knowing each syllable spilling from her lips was one with which he agreed. It was a strange and resounding comfort to know he was there, a pillar of strength to contrast her weakness of emotion and unfathomable wishes, the most secret unbeknownst to even herself.
She reached out to take her husband's hand, interlacing her fingers with his own as her gazed traveled downwards once more to focus on her sleeping son.
"He could have been so much," she murmured to James, phantom tears welling in her eyes. "The possibilities were endless—I didn't dare imagine what the future would hold for him, not once, because I was too afraid of imaging the best and being disappointed.
"But never," she continued, her voice carrying some of James' strength, "did I imagine this. He hasn't received a single N.E.W.T. or a single O.W.L.—or even stepped inside the ancient walls of Hogwarts," she breathed. "But he is the greatest wizard to have ever been born, James—the ruler of us all, the light at the end of one of the darkest tunnels in history."
A solitary tear fell from her eye and onto her cheek, leaving a small trail as it slid downward into the corner of her mouth. Her tongue flicked out to meet it, and the salty wetness held a ring of familiarity to it, so much that it was a comfort to know it was there.
"He is a king, James," she whispered, squeezing his hand. "Our son—our blood runs through his veins, and he is a king. There is not a single wizard or witch who would not bow to him, if not for royalty then for nobility and the honor of being in his presence. He is the greatest, James."
She sniffed and traced the angry lightning-bolt scar that divided her son's forehead in two, another tear falling but this time splashing upon his cheek instead of her own.
"He could have been anything, James," she whispered once more. "But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine our son would be a king."
She touched her child one last time before raising her hand from his skin. She stood up straight and proud, her eyes still focused upon Harry's sleeping form. He began to stir, however, the wetness of her tear having touched his senses ever-so-slightly in sleep, drawing him back from the dream world and into the haze of a dark reality.
"I love you, Harry," Lily murmured once more before both she and James stepped back and allowed the image to fall. Instead of a crib he lay in a pile of ragged blankets, and instead of the wide window there was a grate in which a small amount of light shone through. The white walls, bright even in the dark, were replaced with dank and colorless shades of gray, and Lily could take it no longer. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, and as silent as they had appeared, Lily and James Potter were gone.
Alone in a tiny cupboard lay a king awaiting his destiny, a future he would never know disappearing as fast as his foggy dream. He opened his startlingly green eyes and blinked, bemused by his sudden awakening at a time when he was supposed to sleep.
"Mommy," he mumbled drowsily, clutching his ratty blanket in his tiny fist. "Daddy."
With that, he closed his eyes once more and drifted off into an undisturbed sleep, the memory of his parents settling on the edge of his unconsciousness, always there but no longer obtainable.
It was Christmas 1981, only three months after the death of Lily and James Potter and the defeat of Voldemort. Harry Potter was the most powerful wizard alive, but on that Christmas Eve, he was still a baby, too heavy with sleep and warmth to worry about the times to come.