Disclaimer: Really sorry to break this news to you, but I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I own The Solitary Reaper. I don't even own Tom Russell. I just borrowed the name from Jeffrey Archer's "Sons of Fortune".
Melancholy Strain
James Potter, seventeen years old, was out for a leisurely stroll in the vast Hogwarts grounds. As he walked along the banks of the lake, he mused upon what had happened just before he'd come out.
"Sirius, what d'you think you're doing?"
"Spying. And keep your voice down."
"Spying? Since when did Padfoot become quiet enough to spy?"
"Shut up, Prongs. I want to hear what Arianna's saying…"
James smiled to himself. It was obvious that his best friend was very much smitten with Arianna Waters. He hoped Sirius would gather the courage to ask her out soon.
Which brought James to himself. He frowned. He had been trying to forget Lily Evans as the love of his life and just think of her as a friend, but his heart didn't seem to be helping matters at all. After all, what was the use of loving her? She was going out with someone else, a Ravenclaw called Tom Russell. James made a face at himself as he moved away from the lake and into one of his favourite spots.
James walked into a small shaded clearing which softly sloped to form a valley. As he stood watching the beauty around him, he smiled again. Not many people came here, or even knew about this place, which was why James liked it so much. It was a quiet area where he could escape from the hustle and bustle of Hogwarts and just enjoy the silence. Now, though, the place was not so silent. James could hear the melodious sound of song wafting up from the valley. As he leant forward to see who was producing such beautiful music, his heart shot into his throat- it was Lily Evans. In the circumstances, James couldn't but remember a poem he had read long ago, and think how ironic it was that he should now be in the poet's place.
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
James watched as the redhead bent over clumps of growth and collected flowers to take back to the castle, fresh from the mountains. He hadn't known she could sing. Whenever she made as if to climb up the hill, he would immediately hide himself. He had the feeling she would stop singing if she knew that someone was listening to her, and he wanted to bathe in the melody for as long as possible.
Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain:
O listen! For the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
James leant back into a small boulder behind him and closed his eyes. When he was not observing Lily with his eyes, he could concentrate on the sweetness of the song and delight in it even more. He listened until his ears heard only the music, nothing more.
No nightingale did ever chant
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travelers in some shady haunt
Among Arabian Sands;
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In springtime from the cuckoo bird.
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
He had never heard such a soft, yet oddly refreshing sound before. In the silence, where they were the only ones present, Lily's voice seemed enchanting, wonderful, gentle and melodious. At the same time, it also held a certain quantity of sadness in it. James was suddenly concerned. Why? Why would she have reason to be sad? He had been friendly with her for the past year, and knew she would have told him if there was any problem. Unless… unless it was to do with Tom Russell. My God, if he had done anything to her… he strained his ears to understand what she was singing, but no.
Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of today?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
'Don't jump to conclusions, Potter. She might even be remembering some old song her mother sang to her. And anyway, if she doesn't want to tell me, why should I intrude?' thought James. He stood still, drinking in the magical music for some more time, and when she climbed back towards the clearing, swiftly walked away.
Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;
I listen'd, motionless and still
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The Music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
A/N: Please review! This is the first time I've written anything even remotely romantic, so I'd like to know how I did.