A Symphony in Four Movements
By: prosthetic.ballerina
Rating: PG-13, for one little mention.
Summary: Four different Januarys. Two eras of love.
Pairings: Several, including slash and mention of het.
James watched Lily out of the corner of his eye, worrying. He had been gnawing at his lips, and now they were swollen and red as if he had been kissing for hours. His feet were tapping and his hands were clenched – he made the perfect picture of a frightened new husband who couldn't understand the strange and somehow familiar behaviour of his wife, his love. His one and only. Jesus, Sirius was right. He is pathetic.
Lily's strange behaviour had begun only days after Christmas. Naturally, he presumed it was the usual post-season melancholy, and maybe some slight bitterness over the fact that she hadn't been able to see her family – her parents were at Petunia's new home to celebrate the occasion with her new husband, and Lily's invitation had been suspiciously lost in courier – and that James had only barely made it in at midnight of the morn of Christmas Day because of an assignment for the Order. But Lily's odd mood continued, and now, nearing the end of January found James nearing the end of his rope. He'd gone through everything on his list of possible grievances and had been left with only the worst of scenarios, which follow in the manner in which they were presented to one Sirius Black in a long and somewhat annoying letter:
Number one being that Lily had fallen in love and married James under the cloak of a love spell (possibly the one he'd attempted to cast back in 3rd year, which had backfired and gave James a continuous nosebleed for three days straight) and was only now coming out of it, realizing she was married to a bumbling buffoon, and was secretly plotting his messy and bloody demise.
Number two, that Lily had found someone better looking, more charming, more intelligent, and with better forearms than James, and was having an illustrious affair. (James didn't put much in this one, since try as he might, he couldn't come up with anyone who was better looking, more charming, or more intelligent than himself. Only Sirius had better forearms, but he was a werewolf-loving poof, and therefore not competition).
Or Number three, which concerned a long, drawn out story about how Lily really hated his morning breath and how his hair always stuck up in the back and was really Number One, but described for Sirius in more lurid detail with small diagrams.
Finally, after long hours of contemplative silence and a shot of fire whisky, James decided to settle the matter once and for all. He was going to be tough, no-nonsense, and not take any flimsy excuse for an answer. So, naturally, he fell to his knees and begged Lily to stay.
And when James looked at her with his big, wondering eyes that pleaded with her for honesty and relief, she sighed and patted his cheek lovingly.
"James. Oh, James. I'm pregnant, you fool."
--
Harry snubbed out his fag on the pavement under his feet. He pressed his cupped hands to his mouth, trying to make a vacuum of heat to warm his cold face.
He glanced up, and there he was—the man he had been waiting for, in the distance. A grin spread out across his face and he stepped out of the alcove and into the sun, squinting at the head of blond hair that approached. He rubbed his freezing hands together because he didn't know what else to do with them. His face felt too hot now, and he pressed his palms to his cheeks as if to quell the blush that burst over them with the chill of his fingers. He ran his hand through his hair, hoping it was sitting somewhat flat. At least it wasn't frizzing, like Hermione's often did in the dry winter weather. It was drier here in France than it was in England, without the constant rain. But it was also unexpectedly cold.
"Well, if it isn't the most gorgeous hero the wizarding world has ever seen." Harry swore he had never missed an insult from anyone else's lips before he had missed one from Draco's. The smirk was still there, but it was crooked and soft, no longer sharp and wicked. Not when it was thrown in Harry's direction, anyway. Harry wanted to run his stiff fingers through Draco's hair then, feel the silky softness that he imagined was warm to the touch, somehow. Even layered in a fine covering of snow that drifting around them.
"I've missed you."
He hadn't meant to say that. He was sure he had been about to say something snarky, something about Draco's delicate skin in this harsh climate, and he was mortified at what had come out instead. Draco had always told him no goodbyes, and no regrets. But not missing him had proved impossible, not after knowing Draco's skin and tongue; not after knowing the shape his mouth took when he came.
Draco reached out, his hand resting on the fine line of Harry's jaw. The touch was searing hot, and Harry found himself hoping it would be burnt there forever. He wanted to be warm, finally. Draco leaned forward, mouth hovering inches above Harry's face, breath ghosting his skin and teasing him with the scent of candycane peppermint. He wanted Draco to say he would stay.
--
Remus grinned wanly at the forest of couples swaying together on the dance floor. It was their last celebration, their last hurrah, before they went out into the world to fight, to kill, to die for their people. And for someone else's freedom. He was considering just how much of the weak eggnog provided by the school he would have to drink before his mind stopped wandering off in the direction of scary and upsetting, when he felt the drink being carefully removed from his grip. Sirius was standing in front of him, an odd expression on his face, and Remus immediately looked up to see if he had been caught under the mistletoe, as Sirius was want to do. He was slightly disappointed to find the ceiling gray, moldy, and vegetation-free. He tilted his head down to find a pair of smoldering (although that could have been the eggnog talking) grey eyes watching him intently. Sirius flung back the rest of his drink and grabbed one of Remus' hands, pulling him away even as he was depositing the empty glass on the coffee table. A hand slid around Remus' waist, securing its place in the small of his back, the other entwined itself in his friend's. Remus leaned in, mirroring the position, and they swayed to the crooning voice of some Muggle singer or other, one whom Lily had chosen for the occasion. Remus thought it might have been Barry Manilow, but he could not be sure. All he knew was that here, surrounded by his very best friends, he could not recall ever being this happy. Wrapped up in Sirius' arms, he felt safe and warm, and knew it had nothing to do with the considerable amount of alcohol coursing through his veins. Sirius leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together and whispering something quietly, under his breath. Remus thought it might have been the lyrics to the song, but watching his mate's lips move over and over, forming the same words each time, he knew it was something much more. Remus leaned in, intent on catching the phrase as it tumbled from Sirius' lips, but it seemed the closer he got, the more blurred everything became. He found himself muttering with Sirius, what what what, trying to coerce the words louder and louder. Leaning in until his companion's lips rested lightly on top of his, he followed Sirius' mouth as they formed the words, tasting wonderfully sweet on his own tongue and filling him with warmth.
I love you I love you love you love love love you…
With a burning in his chest and a coil of something indescribable deep in his belly, Remus tugged his friend's lips down to meet his, quelling for the moment their mindless, silent movements.
--
Hermione holds the hand of a tiny, red-haired girl, with pigtails that swing from side-to-side as she leaps from stone to stone, with her voice leaping from tale to tale, barely pausing to take a breath and never stopping her relentless movements. Hermione clutches her hand like she is afraid that if she stops touching the child for a moment she will be lost to the shadows and the rise and fall of the tide. Hermione has seen people disappear in flashes of light and behind black curtains, and she is wary of things that most people pass by without a second glance. Hermione never thought that she would envy Muggles. Now she envies ignorance, too. She wishes she had never stepped into this world of magic and puzzles and possibility. Mostly, she worries whether or not she should have brought a child into it.
The young mother pets her daughter's hair while she reads her Muggle adventure stories from her own youth. She watches the light flicker off the orange strands, and thinks about a man long gone; a man who had disappeared in a flash of green so bright she still sees echoes of light spots behind her eyes sometimes. She remembers tears and blurry images of black, but she does not remember the months that followed, nothing but the slow rising of her flat belly and the birth of child who wouldn't have a father. A child that she hadn't wanted until she'd held her beautiful, tiny body in her arms, delicate as a flower pushing its way out of the cold winter soil to meet the spring. And she'd fallen in love all over again.
Spring is in the air; she can smell it. She lets her mind drift to springs of years long gone, of sunsets and peace. She inhales the air and feels something joyous overtake her. She thinks of a man in Paris who writes every month, his words full and brimming with something like content. Of an elderly gentlemen with sandy hair and scars, whose laughs makes her tiny girl squeal with delight and whose gentle words remind her that while love is always fleeting, it will not abandon. It leaves its warm imprint on your soul, to be nurtured on the coldest days of January to melt the layers of death and decay, and to quilt a pattern of happiness over your heart.