Jily one shots

If we only die once (part 2)

New day.

The crisp rustle of sheets break the silence of the dormitory as Lily rolls to her side, sighs, tucks her hands beneath her cheek, folded as if in prayer. Her eyes traverse the edge of the drawn scarlet curtain, past the swirling dance of dust motes, aimless and free in the morning light. It's silly, but she finds herself imploring the sun to sink back down the silver horizon. Please. Just until she's ready for what's to come.

Breakfast awaits downstairs. The earliest of exchanges manage to slither through the thin slit between the door and the floor; thick and faint from the distance, but the excitement is unmistakeable. Mary is already up and about. Lily should get up too, but that makes all this end faster, and she can't... she's just not ready yet.

Summer is crashing upon her. The empty house in Cokeworth, one last trip on the Hogwarts Express, a war breaking.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. A certain part of her brain is persistent to take over majority of her thoughts. A certain memory. Very recent. She might have even dreamed of it. She tries to block it out, resumes her futile plea on the universe, plays the sunrise backwards in her thoughts-

But his face splatters itself on the back of her lids anyway, torch-lit and flushed, and everything else-his hands, his voice, everything-explodes in glaring colours with the sun, spills warm and gentle onto her palms.

She opens her eyes to a new day. There's no stopping it.

New day, last day.

And last night, quite possibly, was the last time she'd ever speak with him.

James is awake and refuses to be so.

The sun creeps into the room, reluctant and silent as a thief having second thoughts, blood red in the darkness of hazel eyes tightly shut. His hand darts out from the tangled sheets and grabs the nearest pillow with a groan, covering his face and blocking the spring thief out until his lungs burst and his fingers curl into a fist over his blankets. He pushes the thing up at the last minute, mouth open in a silent gasp, stars against his stubborn lids. The canopy of his four-poster is a brighter red when he finally opens his eyes. It makes his head ache.

New day.

He swings his legs off the bed, soles scolding the cold floor. Glasses on now, arched spine and hunched shoulders tense beneath his flimsy white T-shirt, he runs both hands through his hair and regards the sunrise with half-hearted contempt.

Last day.

If he doesn't talk to her now, he'll probably never get a chance again.

"Did they...?"

"No, I don't think so."

"No, I mean, talk. About... them. Stuff."

Remus rolls his eyes. "Yes, that's what I meant. I don't think they did."

"Where? And why were you there?"

"I was on my way to Dumbledore's."

Across them, Peter's hand hovers in midair over a jar of jam. "Dumbledore's? What for?"

Remus clears his throat. "Oh, erm. Employment." He doesn't look at either of them.

"Right."

More people are coming in to the Great Hall now, and the surrounding chatter is getting denser.

"You know that big arched window on fourth floor?" asks Remus, and they all carry on their mundane tasks as if a pause never occurred. Sirius opens the jam jar for Peter after much struggle on the latter's part.