There is morbidity in watching those who you know fall one by one, overpowered or killed. It brings an awful speed to one’s own life, it shouts at every moment to do what one thinks best, to grab onto the few strands of joy left, after the heavy boot of fate crushes the flowers that were grown around you.
It drives forgiveness and reconciliation, creates an urgency that breeds friendship and romance, and most of all gives the kind of momentary euphoria that could never be achieved in peace. But in return, it will pull away joy in a way that never could be so deep in peace.
It is a cruel master, this morbidity.
It fills the redheaded girl, whose exterior is neat and calm, but is filled with the twists and turns of a near hurricane. She was once so sure, the flower with the strongest stork. But the photosynthesis of education has changed her. She has lost the innocence that so characterised her, that innocence that filled her with morals and bravery, anger and passion.
But what are morals now? This is a time of war, she reminds herself. She is a living stopwatch, perhaps. She cannot know whether that flamish hair has a year or eighty to keep on growing, whether she will ever be completely new again.
She suspects she won’t, not with the way she feels about him, the anger she feels towards his views. He would destroy her, he believes she is lesser. His hatefulness took away her closest friend, the boy who she shared everything with so young. And as soon as she left the safety of her fortified and temporary home, he would destroy her.
She has to grasp onto the straws of romance and youth whilst she can. She is sure that she can feel a blaze of romance when she is around him, but she worries about the years of spurned advances. Of course, he was different then. He was so arrogant, not so many months ago. But, she supposed he was different now. Perhaps, but it wasn’t his character that she lusted over- of course not. It was his hair, his damned messy hair.
She waits for him, cloak drawn out against cold that withers the leaves on the trees that seemed so merry in the summer. The badge that read in decadent gold script, ‘Head Girl’ cuts into her skin, spreading red blood across her white flesh; it creates, with her cloak, a fairytale effect; cloak as black as ebony, skin as white as snow, and blood as red as can be.
She knows he’ll come. He always does. It’s well past lights out, but it’s not like he has any regard for that. Head boy or not, he is completely irresponsible. She sighs. Does lust such as hers justify total disregard of personality, even in these war torn years? He’s late. The fun moon shines brightly, in all its glory, illuminating the empty expanse. All she sees is a stag, stood bravely close to the womping willow.
waning gibbous moon.
The moon is waning by the next night. Lily does not wait for Potter by the tree- his seemingly reliable rule breaking has changed strangely in its pattern, altered to escape her tight grip. She waits for him, instead, outside Professor Dippet’s office, waiting impatiently for the Head’s meeting.
Her stopwatch has made her impatient. Her belief in her imminent death has lost her any serenity that she may once have had. She is disquiet, unable to stay in one place at once. Except, of course, when Potter was there. It seemed that he somehow calmed the currents inside her, turning them into the regular tides of old.
He arrives in a haze of his usual conceit, Sirius standing by his side, looking the co-conspirator he almost always was. They take a moment to say their goodbyes, before joining Lily by the entrance to Dippets officed.
“Belladonna.” Lily invokes the password irreverently and scowling, the gargoyle twists itself to reveal the winding staircase that has been climbed by so many.
“You look chilly- probably still cold from your little adventure last night,” James mutters, looking intently at Lily. He is waiting for a response. Any sort of twitch in her porcelain exterior. But there came only the slightest shift in her eyes to the castle grounds, before she held her head up high.
“And I’m sure you had a perfectly good reason to be out, checking whether or not I was on a little adventure” Lily answers sourly. She is reminded, in a moment of every reason she has to dislike this boy, and yet she can’t help feeling as though he means well.
A mere instant later the revolving staircase ejects them into Dippet’s office, bringing an abrupt end to their conversation. They must now return to living their masks.
third quarter moon.
Lily’s quill scratches at the new, pale parchment. Her writing is slowed by the heat of the Common Room. The cold may have been birthing icicles outside, but the walls around her seemed to take the inhabitants of the room’s collective body heat and triple it.
She considers moving to the library but, again, she waits for him. She has taken to doing this; watching as his body, his beautiful body, passes momentarily. She wonders if he notices her watching; no, she decides, he would not. Though, in his arrogance, he probably assumes she is anyway. She reminds herself that, of course he has every right to- it’s not as though he isn’t something to behold.
Stifling the bitter laugh that seems to come with her every thought of him, she returns to her unequivocally dull essay, trying to fill her mind with the merits of salamanders, rather than the fine bones and beauty of a human.
Lily hears him coming before she sees him. He is filling the room with laughter, gently poking Remus in the arm. He is bellowing a joke that she cannot fathom, with Black and Pettigrew laughing raucously by his side. Sometimes Lily wishes she would catch him alone, for more than the moment which their Head’s meeting allowed. She watches him, but that does not bring her satisfaction. She longs for satisfaction.
She dreams of feeling his skin against hers; white on white, twists of passion surrounding them like fire on a winter’s night. It is a constant attraction, pulling her insides apart.
waning crescent moon.
Long ago, he said he loved her. In those days, she rarely felt any
stirring for him, but for a moment she had been tempted to reciprocate his affections. But she had, of course, stemmed the inclination. She had not wished to upset Severus; the same Severus who had broken her heart.
It was strange how two words could shatter a person, even more if they were so simple. Mud Blood; alone, they seemed so innocent but together they created a void of despair for so many. It was a dangerous tag, a tag of loss, it created a ghost which clutched at any who bore it, taking away that which could have made them happy.
When he’d spoken those words, Lily had begun to splinter. It was as though all that had shackled her was disappearing. But those ties accompanied were accompanied by happiness, and her emancipation meant the loss of a friend. She had loved him, though not in the way she loved James. She did not long for his pale figure, but he was her childhood companion. He had been there for her at a time when it had seemed that no others were.
She is free, now, to love James with all her heart, but it has been years since he has paid her any attention; years since last he looked at her with any affection. Now she pays him attention, looks at him with affection, and he doesn’t have a second glance for her.
She wishes he did, for she has begun to look on him with something deeper than lust. This worries her; she doesn’t want to be tied to his ego, another pretty girl in his harem. It is, of course, true that sometimes to be happy worries must be disregarded, but there is a danger in recklessness.
The Common Room is silent, except for the occasional flick of a page from Lily. The flickering light given out by the fire is hardly enough to see; the night is moonless and dark, though the stars seem to shine brighter than ever. After a moment, she gives up and walks to the window.
She has taken to trying to count the stars; trying to see if the myth that if a hero dies, he becomes a star is true. Surely, she thinks to herself, in times like these the sky should overflow with newborn lights, but somehow the sky never seems to change. Every night Lily gives up counting, returns to bed, and tries to be happy. Somehow she is never satisfied with her defeat. The following evening, when everybody else has gone to bed, she will stubbornly try to continue her count, try and find a new hero in the sky.
Her hero, however, is not in the sky that night. He is standing on the staircase, watching her. He was going to get some biscuits from the kitchen for his friends, but seeing her standing in the starlight like an
ethereal goddess stopped him in his tracks.
Carefully preventing himself from disturbing her, he stood next to her. Willing himself to try one more time to gain her admiration, to bring He hardly liked to break her concentration, which seemed so strangely intense. She noticed him before he could slip away, however.
“James, it’s late, what are you doing?” Her voice is quiet and tense, as though she cannot quite tear herself away from her thoughts.
“Lily-” he begins, unsure of what to say. He gazes into her eyes, trying to understand her actions through the tiny window into what was, perhaps the truth.
He could see stars in her eyes, each a bright call to him, on this dark and moonless night.
“You know, they say when a hero dies, he become a star,” James says, his voice wired with a strange euphoria and anticipation. “But I don’t think that’s true- I think a star is born when a hero is born, and when a hero dies, his star dies with him.” Lily smiles, she feels there is something satisfying about that thought; that the strange lights in the sky are not deaths, but births.
“And the moon, Lily, the moon is the greatest hero of them all. See how he sleeps tonight, ready to breathe life into a new hero in the morning.” Carefully, he steps a pace closer; close enough to feel her warm breath on his skin.
“I hope the moon breathes life into me,” Lily breathes, her eyes meeting James’ with a depth that she has never before known.
“It already has.” There, in the moonlight, the pair embrace, though they have barely left childhood behind. They do not know that the moon has given them both his gift, they do not know that they will go down in wizarding history.
This is very different from my usual style -sigh- I think I did okay, though. This is the closest I could get to Jily. It's awful, but I've realised i'm terrible at writing romance mainly because i've never really done romance. Relationships, yes, but I suppose there's a difference. I hope it wasn't too awkward, please let me know what you thought in the review box! Thank you so much for reading ♥ ♥ Oh, and before I forget, the moon things were a reference to the date, as well as me trying to be clever(and most undoubtedly failing hahaha) ♥♥♥
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