Disclaimer: Please don't sue me. Rated T.

Nights Are

Some nights are cold as ice and as slow as growth. They take their time, but eventually reach every corner, every nook and cranny, every syllable of every word shaking with its power. These truly cold nights can hold you and keep you in their grasp long after they're gone, with broken memories and shattered-glass thoughts. They remind you that tears will only leave burn marks on your skin and that the comforts of home can't keep out the vicious snow.

Some nights are as hot as hell and as quick as a breath. They're fast, looking for an exit from this unbearable heat, jumping from room to room only to find themselves still trapped. These truly warm days can motivate you to change your life from the inside, because it's simply too hot to not be restless. They remind you that the world will end in fire and that ice is temporary and that flames are a part of the human condition.

Some nights are tired, are giddy, are drunk, are drenched, are colored purple or orange, are sad, are angry, are all of these things at once.

Some nights are grief. Some night are celebratory. Some nights are empty.

The 31st of October, 1981, was a night of grief, though by all accounts, it should not have been. The Potter family was broken apart not by a murderer, but by a trusted friend. Yes, had there not been a true monster walking among the costumes, the Potter family would have lived happily ever after; but the skin-walker, the man who had truly been wearing a costume, the rat, was at fault for the orphaning of Harry Potter.

The grief of this night was in the bodies of a young couple, in the tears of an old friend, in the cries of a young rebel, in the arms of a half-giant. The grief of this night was in the embers of the charcoaled walls of what once was a home. The grief of this night was in the wind biting Hagrid's face as he flew away on what had once been Sirius Black's motorcycle. The grief of this night was in Sirius' future unlawful imprisonment and Harry's coming lonely childhood. The grief of this night was all encompassing, and the entire world grieved.

The 1st of November, 1981, was a night of celebration, though perhaps, a bit tastelessly. Voldemort had been defeated, and by the young child of the Potters! True, it was a terrible shame that two promising, brilliant, beautiful parents had to give their lives, it was awful what Sirius Black had done earlier that day to poor Peter Pettigrew, it was regretful that Harry Potter did not have a home anymore, but the worst evil that the Wizarding World had ever seen was defeated, and to bring out some Firewhiskey was hardly a bad thing, right? The dead can wait for their time; they'll never have to wait again.

The celebration in this night was in the Muggle news and babies left on doorsteps. It was in Dumbledore chuckling and McGonagall standing frozen on a wall. It was not a true celebration, for those who cared, did not celebrate, and those who celebrated, did not care.

And so we are left with the 2nd of November, 1981, a night of emptiness.

The Boy Who Lived was tucked safely in the Dursley's home, even if he was being ignored. A letter had been read, and this was enough to keep the boy, though he was not wanted. The screams of a spoiled child pierced the air but they were not truly loud enough to fill any of the voids left by the deaths of James Potter and Lily Potter nee Evans. The cries of Harry, with his tufts of black hair and his green eyes, were not met with the loving arms of his adoring young parents, but instead with cold disdain.

This was a night of emptiness not because there was nothing, but because there wasn't what should have been there. James and Lily were gone, Sirius was being sent to prison, Peter was thought to be dead, Snape had secured a position at Hogwarts for nothing much and Remus had been left alone in the world. And Harry was crying with no one to hold him.

But this is how that sentence should have read:

Snape had been imprisoned as a Death Eater. James and Lily were happy and free, and Sirius and Remus and even Peter were crashing, hungover, at their place. (Perhaps even Marlene or Mary or Dorcas or Benjy had been there, too.)

Harry had woken up early and been obnoxious all morning. He had passed from hand to hand, from hungover face to bright red hair. And everyone would have been happy.

And that night, that day, that year, that lifetime – it was empty, because none of these things had come to pass.

On November 2nd, 1979, James Potter and Lily Evans were like a fever, burning from each other and being near each other and loving every moment of it. They were holding each other too tight, but each of them refused to ever let the other go. They had been through so much, and right now, all they did was seek release.

On November 2nd, 1980, James and Lily Potter huddled for warmth on the roof of their home. They had gotten Harry to sleep, finally, but knew it would not last long. They didn't get many evenings together, as they were so often off on missions from the Order, but when they did, on nights like tonight, they would stay up and look at the stars and they would kiss and they would talk and talk and talk. Or sometimes they would sit in silence, because just being near each other on a cold night such as this was better, infinitely better, than being alone. It was enough.

On November 2nd, 1981, James and Lily Potter had been buried. To the funeral came very few grievers and quite a lot of celebrators.

Harry Potter was crying.

A/N: It's been a while since I've written a straight forward one-shot. This is, debatably, one of them. I'm sorry for any emotional trauma caused by this fic.

(This was intended to be my Jilytober 2015 submission but then they both ended up dead. Oops.)

JustGail