"Trudging On"
Title: Trudging On
Author: museme87
Pairing: Lily/James
Rating: G
Wordcount: 748
Warnings: mentions of (canon) character death, AU
Summary: Sometimes it's the survivors who lose the most.
Author's Note: Written in response to the drabble prompt post on my personal journal. The lovely randomneses provided me with the prompt of "Lily/James, James' Quidditch jumper". Unbetaed, but proofread.
She carries it down from the attic one day, just after Christmas, when the winter nights have bloomed into their full frigidity and the house feels strangely empty. It hadn't been easy, opening the large steamer trunk; years have passed since she'd originally laid the remnants of her life inside-clothes and journals and photos that had become too much to bear witness to day after day.
It feels strange to hold in her hands after all this time-the thick, knitted fabric, the still brilliant scarlet and gold. As she steps lightly down the stairs, she brings the jumper to her freckled nose, breathing in the musky scent that she will be able to place until the day she dies.
James.
James who had only truly existed as a flicker in her lifetime, who had made the ultimate sacrifice despite the protection his blood purity afforded him. James who lives on in their son.
Harry.
Her lips pull into a mother's proud smile as she sees him snuggled up on the sofa in his pajamas, petting the family cat and watching the telly. It amazes her how, in the blink of an eye, he's grown out of nappies and bottles, out of baby talk and toddling about the house. Somehow in the course of these past few years, Harry has become six years old and more like James by the day in both behavior-much to her frustration-and looks.
"Love," she calls, and Harry looks up at her from the sofa.
Lily winds her way around the couch, settling down on the plush seat next to him where he lays under his favorite blanket. Pausing, her green eyes fall to the jumper in her hands, fingers working over the knitting as if it will somehow provide her with the courage to continue on. However, no strength comes, only the thought of giving Harry a piece of the father he will never know. It brings tears to her eyes, and Lily fights to sniffle them into submission.
"You asked about Daddy the other day. In the picture, remember?"
"The Kidditch one?"
She laughs at her son's mispronunciation-a testament to the joy he brings her in even the most difficult of times-and wonders what James would think of his precious baby's inability to properly say his favorite sport. Surely if James and Sirius had been in his life longer than they were, it would have been Harry's perfectly pronounced fifth or sixth word.
"Yeah, that one."
Harry nods to her, telling her that he does recall that conversation. With a small, tragic smile, Lily presents him with his father's Quidditch jumper-the one he wore as Captain when he claimed the House Cup their final year, the one she wore on those unbearable nights that had James out for the Order.
Taking it into his small hands, Harry looks up at her with his own bright green eyes that so clearly read uncertainty. What should he do with it? He understands that it means something to her, surely-her tears tell him that much-but he doesn't know it's importance at such a young age.
"I thought you might want to see it. This is the jumper he wore in that picture."
For a long while Harry stares at it thoughtfully. Lily wonders if he's thinking about James, about what little he does know about the man who helped give him life. She and Remus fight to keep the memory of James and Sirius alive for Harry when they, themselves, can't be here for him-James because he was cruelly ripped from them and Sirius because he avenged James' death that rainy night.
And it's hard. God, the number of times she and Remus have broken down because of it, broken down like she's breaking down right now. Brushing away her tears, she tries to think about how James would be proud of her and Harry, be pleased with how she and Remus have raised his son. Sometimes that is her sole consolation as she lies, alone, in their marriage bed, night after night.
"I miss him," Harry says finally.
Instinctively, Lily wraps their son in a tight hug, kissing his mop of black hair as her tears wet the unruly locks. Whether Harry truly remembers James or simply misses him because he knows he should, she isn't sure. But Lily rocks the both of them comfortingly, regardless, with a whispered, "Me too, baby. Me too."
Author: museme87
Pairing: Lily/James
Rating: G
Wordcount: 748
Warnings: mentions of (canon) character death, AU
Summary: Sometimes it's the survivors who lose the most.
Author's Note: Written in response to the drabble prompt post on my personal journal. The lovely randomneses provided me with the prompt of "Lily/James, James' Quidditch jumper". Unbetaed, but proofread.
She carries it down from the attic one day, just after Christmas, when the winter nights have bloomed into their full frigidity and the house feels strangely empty. It hadn't been easy, opening the large steamer trunk; years have passed since she'd originally laid the remnants of her life inside-clothes and journals and photos that had become too much to bear witness to day after day.
It feels strange to hold in her hands after all this time-the thick, knitted fabric, the still brilliant scarlet and gold. As she steps lightly down the stairs, she brings the jumper to her freckled nose, breathing in the musky scent that she will be able to place until the day she dies.
James.
James who had only truly existed as a flicker in her lifetime, who had made the ultimate sacrifice despite the protection his blood purity afforded him. James who lives on in their son.
Harry.
Her lips pull into a mother's proud smile as she sees him snuggled up on the sofa in his pajamas, petting the family cat and watching the telly. It amazes her how, in the blink of an eye, he's grown out of nappies and bottles, out of baby talk and toddling about the house. Somehow in the course of these past few years, Harry has become six years old and more like James by the day in both behavior-much to her frustration-and looks.
"Love," she calls, and Harry looks up at her from the sofa.
Lily winds her way around the couch, settling down on the plush seat next to him where he lays under his favorite blanket. Pausing, her green eyes fall to the jumper in her hands, fingers working over the knitting as if it will somehow provide her with the courage to continue on. However, no strength comes, only the thought of giving Harry a piece of the father he will never know. It brings tears to her eyes, and Lily fights to sniffle them into submission.
"You asked about Daddy the other day. In the picture, remember?"
"The Kidditch one?"
She laughs at her son's mispronunciation-a testament to the joy he brings her in even the most difficult of times-and wonders what James would think of his precious baby's inability to properly say his favorite sport. Surely if James and Sirius had been in his life longer than they were, it would have been Harry's perfectly pronounced fifth or sixth word.
"Yeah, that one."
Harry nods to her, telling her that he does recall that conversation. With a small, tragic smile, Lily presents him with his father's Quidditch jumper-the one he wore as Captain when he claimed the House Cup their final year, the one she wore on those unbearable nights that had James out for the Order.
Taking it into his small hands, Harry looks up at her with his own bright green eyes that so clearly read uncertainty. What should he do with it? He understands that it means something to her, surely-her tears tell him that much-but he doesn't know it's importance at such a young age.
"I thought you might want to see it. This is the jumper he wore in that picture."
For a long while Harry stares at it thoughtfully. Lily wonders if he's thinking about James, about what little he does know about the man who helped give him life. She and Remus fight to keep the memory of James and Sirius alive for Harry when they, themselves, can't be here for him-James because he was cruelly ripped from them and Sirius because he avenged James' death that rainy night.
And it's hard. God, the number of times she and Remus have broken down because of it, broken down like she's breaking down right now. Brushing away her tears, she tries to think about how James would be proud of her and Harry, be pleased with how she and Remus have raised his son. Sometimes that is her sole consolation as she lies, alone, in their marriage bed, night after night.
"I miss him," Harry says finally.
Instinctively, Lily wraps their son in a tight hug, kissing his mop of black hair as her tears wet the unruly locks. Whether Harry truly remembers James or simply misses him because he knows he should, she isn't sure. But Lily rocks the both of them comfortingly, regardless, with a whispered, "Me too, baby. Me too."