Seasons' Greetings 2011 ♥ A Gift for julvett
Title: Our Last Days as Children
Author: herbeautifullie
Recipient: julvett
Rating: Teen
Wordcount: 1,800-ish.
Warnings: None.
Summary: It's never easy to let go of impossible childhood dreams. Letting go of childhood dreams that are quickly becoming a reality is even harder.
Author's Note: julvett, the one thing you requested escaped me with this and I felt awful when I finally finished but I just couldn't find a way to fit in swear words any further then they already were. I also had so much more I wanted to explore that I ran out of time with so maybe I'll make this a little bit more elaborate in the future and thought that maybe I could incorporate them a little more there. It's not cheating if I borrow your prompt again later, is it? ;) Also, a big thank you to literaryspell for beta reading this for me. Any remaining mistakes from my post-beta additions.
James doesn't remember big pieces of his childhood. Like any true fan, James' first memory is of Quidditch. When he closes his eyes and focuses, he canstill feel the warm wind against his cheeks, his father's arms tight around his middle as he lifts him up to see over the head of the balding man cheering before them and the rush in his veins when the snitch pauses a hairsbreadth from his face, each flap of tiny wings visible to his eyes alone.It's as exhilarating to think about now - fourteen years later - as it was that day, when Puddlemere's star Chaser stopped him after the game, mussed his hair and said, "You'll play for Puddlemere one day too, yeah? The snitch loves you already, mate!"
It makes sense in October when he pushes away the letter from the Ballycastle Bats, leaving the black and scarlet envelope unopened in the Great Hall. Sirius claims he's the biggest prat he's ever met to ignore a letter from Ballycastle but James says, "it's not about the number of League wins, it's about the team."
He tells Sirius if he's so interested in the Bats, maybe he should learn how to play Quidditch and sign with them himself. It shuts him up for a moment or two and then they're back to arguing about nonsensical things, both of them with smiles.
No one even raises a brow when James scoffs at the request from the Chudley Cannons in December, feeding the pesky owl who delivers it extra bits of toast just to get it to go away. He shakes his head at the bright orange parchment, shoves it toward Peter and says, "Throw that in the rubbish for me, Wormtail? Pass the pumpkin juice when you're done."
Peter takes the letter with pride to the bin and as James watches, he thinks that maybe he is taking it all for granted.
"It's Puddlemere or nothing, mates," James explains in February when he attempts to ignore another owl. It sits in the centre of the table, refusing to leave without delivering the black and yellow letter attached to its leg and hoots indignantly when James tries to send it on its way without some sort of treat. "The Wasps are awful, their owl says as much," he mutters. Remus frowns, shaking his head when Sirius says, "He's an absolute arse about all of this, isn't he?"
It's not until April that he begins to worry. Owls from every team in Europe have dropped in for visits at the Gryffindor table during breakfast this year - with the exception of Puddlemere's. Lily assures him his letter will come, that Puddlemere would be fools not to want his talent, and it always settles him for the day. Sirius exclaims that Puddlemere has heard about all the unanswered owls from other teams and realised they don't want such a pompous arse on their team. He laughs when James chokes on his pumpkin juice, assuring him that he was only joking but it's all fun and games until the name-calling starts. He doesn't apologize when Sirius yelps in Potions, knocking his cauldron over and on to Snape's greying robes. Instead, he smirks to Peter and says, "Now look what that twat went and did. Lost us at least ten points with that prank, didn't he?"
There's one day in May when James wakes with Lily's head pillowed on his shoulder. It's not unusual, they've been breaking the rules for months and agreed weeks ago that any docked House points were completely worth it. When the light flickers through the windows over her bare shoulders, highlighting every freckle on her skin and he traces them with the tip of his finger until she wakes, he thinks that that day will be different - he feels it. He swears to her that the freckles he traced form a flower - something amazing and unique - and she laughs at him, pushing away his hands and telling him he's not been getting enough rest, the lack of sleep is affecting his brain.
Her hair is a mess, fiery red locks scattered in all directions, and the ribbon meant to hold her pony in place is lost amongst the sheets, as usual. James marvels at every dip in her spine as she bends over the side of the bed, reaching for her bra and snapping the fastenings at the back with deft, experienced fingers. He wonders how long it will take before he'll be able to get them undone just as easily as she puts them together.
Lily's fingers are thin, pale and freckled as he watches them smooth down the wrinkles in her skirt. He considers the ring in his trunk - the one that once belonged to his mother - and thinks that only her fingers would ever do the diamond justice. They look to be the perfect size for one another. It's a sign, if there ever was one.
He realises something big is going to happen when his feet touch the floor and he doesn't step on something sharp that he'd discarded roughly the night before, when his hair potion doesn't drip in to his eyes in the shower, and he doesn't lose his glasses twice before breakfast.
Expecting it in the deepest recess of his mind doesn't make the owl that arrives at the table carrying a brown envelope any less awe-striking. Puddlemere's signature golden bulrushes are etched in the corner just below 'Mr James Potter', written in the most beautiful script he's ever seen. He attempts to be nonchalant when he shoves it in to the pocket of his robe and thinks he's succeeded when no one responds, clearly too used to the arrival of strange owls and his constant neglect of the mail they carry. Lily hardly gives the bird a second glance before turning back to Remus, asking him about his Transfiguration essay and assuring him that hers will earn her an 'O'. Sirius is discussing his latest female triumph and Peter's eyes are stuck to his face, holding on to every word that passes through his lips. None of them seem to notice the shake in James' hand as he attempts to lift his cup to his lips, failing miserably before giving up and settling himself with hands in his pockets, fingers tracing the lettering of his name. Mr James Potter.
To them, the morning is just as usual as it has been. The rest of their lives isn't resting in their pockets, burning against their sides and demanding attention they're not willing to give just yet. The letter, as amazing as its sight was, is unsettling and strangely disappointing.
He rises with them, leaves his plate for the house-elves and says, "Yeah, I'm fine," when Lily asks if he's feeling okay. His toast and pumpkin juice, both untouched, attract her curious gaze but she doesn't argue with him. Instead, she threads her fingers through his, her palm warm as they walk together. She laughs with the others, the vibrations moving up his arm and pulling his attention away from the letter only for a moment before he is lost in thought again, feet moving on their own and body following Lily's absent-mindedly.
The day is long and slow, every minute feeling like an hour even after James settles in to bed, sliding under cool sheets and hoping for sleep. Lily's head is pillowed against his shoulder again, the cotton of her shirt soft against his side as she tilts her head up towards his. Her eyes are bright and clear in the darkness as she watches him, their gazes locked in silence before she smiles just slightly.
"Are you excited?"
He shakes his head, confused, and asks, "What am I meant to be excited about?"
Her laughter is carefree and sweet. "About Puddlemere," she explains, exasperation melding with the glee in her voice. "I expected you'd shout from the Astronomy Tower about it. I owe Sirius a Sickle now, I'll have you know."
Lily turns to her side, propping her head in her hand as her other hand turns his face and forces his eyes to look up in to hers. Lily is strong, never too scared to be the one to approach the harder topics of conversation or turn you down for a long talk in the middle of the night to help you settle yourself for sleep. It's part of why he loves her - one reason of many - and the key to why he shakes his head but doesn't reply.
This is life - not the kind of life he dreamed of - and there is a war waiting for him, waiting to change him and his friends for the better and the worse. He is a Quidditch player, a skilled one with a chance to be a hero in the hearts of thousands of little boys and girls. But above all, he is a Marauder and where one goes, the others follow. There is no life for him in Dorset - no friends waiting to joke with him, call him names, make memories with or grow old beside. There is no Moony, Wormtail or Padfoot in Quidditch, and he can't leave them to fight the war alone.
There's no easy way to turn down your dream. He opens his mouth to speak but can't find the words, can't force himself to say, "I don't want it," because he knows that somewhere deep inside him, he'll always want Puddlemere. Childhood dreams very rarely become a reality and as he watches the delight in her eyes shift to confusion, he remembers why. Children don't understand the kind of difference a person can make in their life; the way a first love or best mates - the people in the world who matter - can change them and teach them who they truly are, what they really want.
James has never made a goal that makes him feel as good as her compliments do, as proud as he is when he walks with her, fingers linked and smiles wide. She never fails to make his blood rush and his heart beat against his chest so strongly he thinks it might break free from his ribs and run. The heat of excitement that thrummed through his fingertips as he grasped that envelope was nothing to the fire that she fuelled within him with her words and her silence, her smiles and her frowns, her delight and her disappointment. Everything Lily did was special, priceless and all his own - something Quidditch would never be, not even close.
"Have you written back?" she asks.
"No," James replies simply, certain she'll request elaboration but not quite prepared to offer it without question.
She sighs quietly as she lies back against his shoulder and eases herself against his side. Lily burrows her face against his skin tiredly and whispers, "Tomorrow, then?"
James shakes his head, unable to say goodbye aloud to his dream just yet but feeling no regret as he closes his eyes and dreams of a future without it.
Author: herbeautifullie
Recipient: julvett
Rating: Teen
Wordcount: 1,800-ish.
Warnings: None.
Summary: It's never easy to let go of impossible childhood dreams. Letting go of childhood dreams that are quickly becoming a reality is even harder.
Author's Note: julvett, the one thing you requested escaped me with this and I felt awful when I finally finished but I just couldn't find a way to fit in swear words any further then they already were. I also had so much more I wanted to explore that I ran out of time with so maybe I'll make this a little bit more elaborate in the future and thought that maybe I could incorporate them a little more there. It's not cheating if I borrow your prompt again later, is it? ;) Also, a big thank you to literaryspell for beta reading this for me. Any remaining mistakes from my post-beta additions.
James doesn't remember big pieces of his childhood. Like any true fan, James' first memory is of Quidditch. When he closes his eyes and focuses, he canstill feel the warm wind against his cheeks, his father's arms tight around his middle as he lifts him up to see over the head of the balding man cheering before them and the rush in his veins when the snitch pauses a hairsbreadth from his face, each flap of tiny wings visible to his eyes alone.It's as exhilarating to think about now - fourteen years later - as it was that day, when Puddlemere's star Chaser stopped him after the game, mussed his hair and said, "You'll play for Puddlemere one day too, yeah? The snitch loves you already, mate!"
It makes sense in October when he pushes away the letter from the Ballycastle Bats, leaving the black and scarlet envelope unopened in the Great Hall. Sirius claims he's the biggest prat he's ever met to ignore a letter from Ballycastle but James says, "it's not about the number of League wins, it's about the team."
He tells Sirius if he's so interested in the Bats, maybe he should learn how to play Quidditch and sign with them himself. It shuts him up for a moment or two and then they're back to arguing about nonsensical things, both of them with smiles.
No one even raises a brow when James scoffs at the request from the Chudley Cannons in December, feeding the pesky owl who delivers it extra bits of toast just to get it to go away. He shakes his head at the bright orange parchment, shoves it toward Peter and says, "Throw that in the rubbish for me, Wormtail? Pass the pumpkin juice when you're done."
Peter takes the letter with pride to the bin and as James watches, he thinks that maybe he is taking it all for granted.
"It's Puddlemere or nothing, mates," James explains in February when he attempts to ignore another owl. It sits in the centre of the table, refusing to leave without delivering the black and yellow letter attached to its leg and hoots indignantly when James tries to send it on its way without some sort of treat. "The Wasps are awful, their owl says as much," he mutters. Remus frowns, shaking his head when Sirius says, "He's an absolute arse about all of this, isn't he?"
It's not until April that he begins to worry. Owls from every team in Europe have dropped in for visits at the Gryffindor table during breakfast this year - with the exception of Puddlemere's. Lily assures him his letter will come, that Puddlemere would be fools not to want his talent, and it always settles him for the day. Sirius exclaims that Puddlemere has heard about all the unanswered owls from other teams and realised they don't want such a pompous arse on their team. He laughs when James chokes on his pumpkin juice, assuring him that he was only joking but it's all fun and games until the name-calling starts. He doesn't apologize when Sirius yelps in Potions, knocking his cauldron over and on to Snape's greying robes. Instead, he smirks to Peter and says, "Now look what that twat went and did. Lost us at least ten points with that prank, didn't he?"
There's one day in May when James wakes with Lily's head pillowed on his shoulder. It's not unusual, they've been breaking the rules for months and agreed weeks ago that any docked House points were completely worth it. When the light flickers through the windows over her bare shoulders, highlighting every freckle on her skin and he traces them with the tip of his finger until she wakes, he thinks that that day will be different - he feels it. He swears to her that the freckles he traced form a flower - something amazing and unique - and she laughs at him, pushing away his hands and telling him he's not been getting enough rest, the lack of sleep is affecting his brain.
Her hair is a mess, fiery red locks scattered in all directions, and the ribbon meant to hold her pony in place is lost amongst the sheets, as usual. James marvels at every dip in her spine as she bends over the side of the bed, reaching for her bra and snapping the fastenings at the back with deft, experienced fingers. He wonders how long it will take before he'll be able to get them undone just as easily as she puts them together.
Lily's fingers are thin, pale and freckled as he watches them smooth down the wrinkles in her skirt. He considers the ring in his trunk - the one that once belonged to his mother - and thinks that only her fingers would ever do the diamond justice. They look to be the perfect size for one another. It's a sign, if there ever was one.
He realises something big is going to happen when his feet touch the floor and he doesn't step on something sharp that he'd discarded roughly the night before, when his hair potion doesn't drip in to his eyes in the shower, and he doesn't lose his glasses twice before breakfast.
Expecting it in the deepest recess of his mind doesn't make the owl that arrives at the table carrying a brown envelope any less awe-striking. Puddlemere's signature golden bulrushes are etched in the corner just below 'Mr James Potter', written in the most beautiful script he's ever seen. He attempts to be nonchalant when he shoves it in to the pocket of his robe and thinks he's succeeded when no one responds, clearly too used to the arrival of strange owls and his constant neglect of the mail they carry. Lily hardly gives the bird a second glance before turning back to Remus, asking him about his Transfiguration essay and assuring him that hers will earn her an 'O'. Sirius is discussing his latest female triumph and Peter's eyes are stuck to his face, holding on to every word that passes through his lips. None of them seem to notice the shake in James' hand as he attempts to lift his cup to his lips, failing miserably before giving up and settling himself with hands in his pockets, fingers tracing the lettering of his name. Mr James Potter.
To them, the morning is just as usual as it has been. The rest of their lives isn't resting in their pockets, burning against their sides and demanding attention they're not willing to give just yet. The letter, as amazing as its sight was, is unsettling and strangely disappointing.
He rises with them, leaves his plate for the house-elves and says, "Yeah, I'm fine," when Lily asks if he's feeling okay. His toast and pumpkin juice, both untouched, attract her curious gaze but she doesn't argue with him. Instead, she threads her fingers through his, her palm warm as they walk together. She laughs with the others, the vibrations moving up his arm and pulling his attention away from the letter only for a moment before he is lost in thought again, feet moving on their own and body following Lily's absent-mindedly.
The day is long and slow, every minute feeling like an hour even after James settles in to bed, sliding under cool sheets and hoping for sleep. Lily's head is pillowed against his shoulder again, the cotton of her shirt soft against his side as she tilts her head up towards his. Her eyes are bright and clear in the darkness as she watches him, their gazes locked in silence before she smiles just slightly.
"Are you excited?"
He shakes his head, confused, and asks, "What am I meant to be excited about?"
Her laughter is carefree and sweet. "About Puddlemere," she explains, exasperation melding with the glee in her voice. "I expected you'd shout from the Astronomy Tower about it. I owe Sirius a Sickle now, I'll have you know."
Lily turns to her side, propping her head in her hand as her other hand turns his face and forces his eyes to look up in to hers. Lily is strong, never too scared to be the one to approach the harder topics of conversation or turn you down for a long talk in the middle of the night to help you settle yourself for sleep. It's part of why he loves her - one reason of many - and the key to why he shakes his head but doesn't reply.
This is life - not the kind of life he dreamed of - and there is a war waiting for him, waiting to change him and his friends for the better and the worse. He is a Quidditch player, a skilled one with a chance to be a hero in the hearts of thousands of little boys and girls. But above all, he is a Marauder and where one goes, the others follow. There is no life for him in Dorset - no friends waiting to joke with him, call him names, make memories with or grow old beside. There is no Moony, Wormtail or Padfoot in Quidditch, and he can't leave them to fight the war alone.
There's no easy way to turn down your dream. He opens his mouth to speak but can't find the words, can't force himself to say, "I don't want it," because he knows that somewhere deep inside him, he'll always want Puddlemere. Childhood dreams very rarely become a reality and as he watches the delight in her eyes shift to confusion, he remembers why. Children don't understand the kind of difference a person can make in their life; the way a first love or best mates - the people in the world who matter - can change them and teach them who they truly are, what they really want.
James has never made a goal that makes him feel as good as her compliments do, as proud as he is when he walks with her, fingers linked and smiles wide. She never fails to make his blood rush and his heart beat against his chest so strongly he thinks it might break free from his ribs and run. The heat of excitement that thrummed through his fingertips as he grasped that envelope was nothing to the fire that she fuelled within him with her words and her silence, her smiles and her frowns, her delight and her disappointment. Everything Lily did was special, priceless and all his own - something Quidditch would never be, not even close.
"Have you written back?" she asks.
"No," James replies simply, certain she'll request elaboration but not quite prepared to offer it without question.
She sighs quietly as she lies back against his shoulder and eases herself against his side. Lily burrows her face against his skin tiredly and whispers, "Tomorrow, then?"
James shakes his head, unable to say goodbye aloud to his dream just yet but feeling no regret as he closes his eyes and dreams of a future without it.