I used to be the most obnoxiously prolific writer, and then college sunk its claws into me. I was left with a stunted imagination and a number of varied inferiority complexes. A year after graduating and fruitlessly job-hunting, I find myself desperately trying to wring something-anything-out of a dry sponge. I feel like this is a paltry few drops of muddy dishwater, but I loved the concept of this story, so here I am, desperately trying to make it work again.

She sat through many nights in that rocking chair, nursing her infant son; then, after that Halloween, the hole in her heart. James watched her from the door if the nursery, arms crossed as he gazed at her, taking in the limp curls and sunken cheeks of his formerly vivacious young wife. This woman before him no longer seemed like the beautiful woman he had married, slave as she was to the grief of losing Harry.

"Lily, come to bed," he pleaded softly, knowing deep in his heart that her answer would be the same as it was every other night that month.

"In a minute," she said. She always said, as she curled in on herself. A breeze filtered through the open window. Noticing her shivers, James stepped into the nursery to close it, but no sooner had he stepped across the threshold than his beloved was on her feet, screeching at him to get out.

"LEAVE ME BE!" she shrieked, a surge of angry magic crackling around her. James was picked up almost off his feet and shunted from the room by the force of her rage, and he stumbled back into the hall and collapsed against the far wall as the door slammed shut and he heard an unnatural silence fall after the click of the lock. Sprawled on the floor, James let his head fall back against the gaudy striped wallpaper as he closed his eyes. He resigned himself to spending another night guarding the nursery door, and his distraught wife within.

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Ten Years Later

James surveyed the incoming First Years with a bittersweet smile. His son should have been among them this year. He looked at each of his new students, a part of him searching for the face of the son he never got to see grow up. His eyes fell on a shock of red hair-the Weasley's youngest boy, if he wasn't mistaken. They only had one left after this. Near the back, Lucius Malfoy's boy, looking as arrogant as he expected. A pair of twins huddled together, whispering to each other as they eyed the Sorting Hat. A nervous-looking boy half-hiding behind an eagerly bouncing brunette.

Minerva cleared her throat and announced the sorting. James lost his focus then, placing his son's name in order in his head. Harry would have become a Gryffindor, right after the Perkins girl. He did note the new crop of Gryffindors-a rather motley looking group. The Weasley boy, of course. A tall black boy, a wild-looking boy with sandy-brown hair. One of the twins girls, plus a girl with the wildest brown hair he had ever seen. About ten new additions to his house, and not a single one of them was his son. He let a sigh escape, and glanced up at the headmaster as he rose to give his start-of-term speech. He saw Albus glane in his direction, his usual twinkle muted as he gave James a knowing, sad smile. James squared his shoulders and focused ahead. He did not need to be distracted; he was a professor and the term was beginning.

"Welcome, one and all, to another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I'm sure you're quite hungry, so I will introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor quickly. Please welcome Professor Quirrell," Dumbledore announced, and James looked with the rest of the hall at the odd young man on the end of the table, who hastily stood and gave a quick, short bow as he re-adjusted the purple turban that sat atop his head. James wasn't sure about the man; he was the sort of nervous personality that unsettled the normally open Gryffindor, but he was more than qualified for the position, having recently returned from a dark creature research mission in Albania.

A frisson of anger shot through him as his gaze slid over the dour Potions Master on his way back to look at the Headmaster. They had been working together for almost a decade now, but Snape's blank glare never failed to twist his gut into knots. The man was uncharacteristically focused on the Gryffindor table. James felt his heart turn to lead as Snape's eyes flicked towards him. James recognized a flash of regret in them before they turned to evaluate the newcomers to the Slytherin table.

By the time he was able to remember where he was, James realized that he had missed Dumbledore's opening remarks, and when he looked down at his plate, found it full of the usual banquet fare.

He picked at his meal, allowing himself to become caught up in a seasonal Quidditch debate with Rolanda Hooch. By the time the feast ended, he was quite exhausted.

And it wasn't truly over, not by a long shot.

The prefects led the students to their dormitories, and James watched them leave as though he were in a fog. Some of the professors lingered a time, intent on a nightcap before their last night of true rest before the year began. James stood and bid his colleagues goodnight, and made his way through the staff entrance to the dungeons.

A few twists and turns later, he arrived at a portrait.

"Fizzing whizzbangs," he said, and the giggling couple in the painting opened the portrait with a wide gesture. He stepped into the gloom of his quarters. A fire sprang up in the hearth, but it did nothing to warm the spartan livingroom. In the corner, a rocking chair sat vacant. James frowned.

He approached the bedroom and opened the door slowly. A long, thin lump under the blankets made him smile. So, she had gone to bed at a reasonable hour after all. He took care to complete his evening ablutions as quietly as possible and slipped into bed. He didn't dare curl an arm around his wife, lest she wake, but he ran his fingers through her once-vibrant curls and listened to her steady breathing as he drifted off to sleep.