In A Blink (Marauders Era)

Chapter Eight

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December Tenth, 1976

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There were too many mirrors at Hogwarts. They scattered the spaces between portraits and decorated entrances to classrooms, practically thriving in the common rooms.

"I look like him!" Lark complained to Dumbledore at one of their meetings. "I look like a murderer."

He gave her a soft, sad look. "There are times when we must reflect on the darkness within us, and then times when we must acknowledge the light. I highly suggest the latter, Ms. Gaunt."

She looked away, feeling sick.

It was getting easier to eat; Madame Pomfrey had withdrawn the potions and let her heal on her own, much to the relief of all of Lark's friends. Together, they had levitated mattresses into the kitchens on a Friday night and lounged in the glory of an extravagant feast the evening that they had found out. Sirius had hugged her, all arms and muscles and Lark's face buried in his shoulder.

Sometimes she could still feel his embrace around her shoulders, late at night, when she couldn't think of anything else.

He's trying to reach out, she could remember Remus saying.

"Where are you planning on spending Christmas break?" the old man smiled.

"Here," she scoffed. "Where else?"

"Lark," he sighed. "You need to-"

"- develop steady relationships with my peers," she finished for him. "Yes, I know, Professor, but wouldn't I find out more about my father if I stayed here?"

"Lark, make plans or they'll be made for you."

She frowned.

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December Twenty-Third

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James Potter's house smelled like candles. There was no distinct scent that Lark could assume the Potters had spread all over their house, but a variety of different scented candles set on the kitchen island, the desk in the corner of the living room, next to the sink, on the rim of the bathtub, and on James's bedside table.

"Mrs. Potter, your house smells nice," Lark complimented her upon arriving. "Like a warm pastry."

"Thank you, darling," she smiled as she gave the small girl a warm hug. "Please, call me Phemia."

Euphemia and Fleamont Potter were a very eccentric couple. Mr. Potter, the taller and gawkier of the two, insisted on wearing bowties with his sweaters and eating a peppermint after every meal (as Lark soon learned). Mrs. Potter wore no makeup, which wasn't too much of a surprise, for she seemed ageless in her dresses with hoop skirts, and the skin around her eyes was as tight and soft as Lark's. She only ever played Ella Fitzgerald on the record player that sat in their living room and owned several different kinds of bubble bath (all of which Lark used over time).

Two weeks was a long time to be sleeping on a relatively small couch, with all of her belongings stuffed under it, but she didn't mind. The Potters were kind, and it was fun waking up every morning to James and Sirius.

One daybreak, as the melon sky faded into soft hues of blue, Lark floated to the surface of consciousness while somebody strummed "The Clause and the Grindylow" on guitar. She moaned and pressed a pillow to her ears, rolling away from the sound. A laugh bounced around the room like a pixie in a windstorm, and the pillow was tugged away from her.

"And Father Christmas said-" James hollered, rhythmically thumping the wood of his guitar in between strums. "- Mr. Grindylow, Wrap your wishes in ribbons and I'll make them all come true, Give me one last dance and I will give them all to you-"

"James!" she yelped, clambering into a half-recumbent position. "Stop!"

"It's Christmas Eve!" Sirius said joyfully and yanked her to her feet. "Dance!"

"I'm in my jim jams!" Lark shrieked, tugging James's shirt down so that it covered more skin than it was most likely meant to and wincing as the cold hardwood floor met her feet, which had previously been toasty under the covers.

In response, he hooked one arm around her waist and the other under her legs, cradling her like a child.

"Sirius!" she objected, pounding on his chest. James laughed while Sirius joined in the jovial tune.

"It's Christmastime, and we're going on the town, Oh, Mr. Grindylow, don't feel down! We'll cap your crown in holly and gold, I'll bring some brandy and you'll be sold-"

He was swinging her in her arms now, and Lark squirmed to pat down her hair and adjust her shirt. "Sirius!"

"Oh, Grindylow! Oh, Grindylow! Be a Christmas Saint! Let's all drink so much brandy that we all faint- Lark, join in! - Oh, Grindylow! Oh, Grindylow!"

She sighed and halfheartedly joined them, already knowing the tune from countless Christmases at Hogwarts with Peeves. "Oh, darling, have some Christmas cheer, Be mine today and never fear, We'll make it through the day alive, Just listen to my heartbeat jive!"

James halted his relentless strumming and began making clashing, pulsing noises with his mouth as he plucked a small tune out on the strings. It came out off-key and very wrong, but nobody seemed to mind. Sirius set her down on the floor (Lark sighed in relief) only to grab her small hands in his larger ones and whirl her around like a porcelain ballerina in a music box. She laughed boisterously, then proceeded to crash into his chest, barely even trying to match the beat of James's fruitless beatboxing and coordinate herself.

"Oh, Grindylow! Oh, Grindylow! Be my Christmas dear, We'll have some fun and then be done, But, oh, Mr. Grindylow, I'll see you in a year!"

Sometimes, it was easy to forget that there was always a large, writhing snake burned into her forearm, and sometimes, it wasn't. However, there were always moments when Lark didn't have to worry if she was having a Forgetting Day or a Remembering Day. There were times when she forgot what sort of a day she was having at all, and somehow those were always the best days.

For a moment, Lark Riddle wasn't a girl with a life. Instead, she was a girl with the sky, the stars, and so much more.

"Oh, Mr. Grindylow, I'll miss you 'till the end, But even folk song can't make me love you long, We'll see what next Christmas sends!"

She could feel Sirius Black's rough, warm hands encasing hers in an inescapable waltz. Ice crystals on the window from the previous night's blizzard, and soft, mellow sunlight dazzled the room and air, giving the atmosphere a dream-like quality. For a moment, he wasn't the man with a simple life and several thousand reasons to be arrogant; he was a boy with a universe poised between him and happiness, and a diamond-hard hope that kept him fighting.

If I could choose one person, she thought as the two of them jumped onto the couch, laughing and dancing and screaming at the top of their lungs all at the same time. One person to tell my story once I'm gone, it would be you.

His eyes were gleaming with delight as they both stomped their feet on the cushions hysterically, dancing in the feathers of torn pillows and dying hopes.

You're my swan song.