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James leans his head against the window, tired eyes watching muggle London fly by.
When he’d first boarded, the noise was deafening—laughter and too-loud phone calls, car horns and sirens, bustle of the busy city.
It’s later, now; late enough that it’s nearly silent, but for the sound of the train barreling along its tracks.
(He’s not sure which is worse, the cacophony or silence.)
It hurts, being in muggle London—he’s only ever come with Lily, so he sees her in—everything.
But somehow that’s what he needs, right now,
He reaches into his pocket, instinctively tugging out the photo to stare at, thumbing along its edges.
(It’s what he’s done when upset for years.)
Never mind that staring down at her smiling face is excruciating, now—it’s right in front of his eyes, but all he can see is her chalk-white horror earlier in the evening, tears making the green he’s loved since childhood shine.
(All he could think was how beautiful she was, even as she shattered his heart.)
The velvet box in his pocket burns, the hopes and dreams it had symbolized now painful against his skin. A physical reminder of love slipping beyond his reaches.
(no crowd of friends applauding.)
He’d planned it for months—has never been more sure of anything than he is that he wants to spend the rest of his life with Lily Evans.
His mother’s been gone three years, now, but his father shakily presses her ring into James’s hand and it’s almost like she’s there—god, would she have loved his witch.
(Would’ve threatened James within an inch of his life if he ever did wrong by her, begged her to join the family, teamed against the boys and gleefully eviscerated them.)
It feels right, giving her ring to Lily.
(going from one phenomenal woman to another—two far too good for the Potter men, but who for some reason settle nonetheless.)
They’re only a year out of Hogwarts, but James has no doubts—has known Lily was the one since before he knew who he was.
(This, this is—the easiest decision in the world.)
It’s the Potters’ annual end of fall party, which Remus always drily reminds James is more of a gala than anything.
Lily seems a little unlike herself, but fancy parties like this aren’t ever her style, really, so he doesn’t think much of it; makes the obligatory rounds saying hello to the family friends and school acquaintances, sipping on white wine to build up liquid courage.
It’s been weighing on her, already, and she knows—knows he deserves better.
(Knows she should run, before she can do any damage to this man she loves.)
The music covers the noise of the crowd, but the anxiety in her chest builds nonetheless.
They’re dancing, and it just—crashes over her, a drowning wave she can’t escape.
She drops his hand, pulling away, too overwhelmed by the darkness in her head.
James is confused, and a little sad, the beginnings of a frown tugging at his mouth, but he’s resilient; tries to push past it, bringing her one of the cupcakes he knows she loves to try and fix the odd tension she’s projecting all around her.
Later, he pulls her to the landing, and she spots a bottle of champagne on ice on the stand nearby—brilliant as she is, she doesn’t put it together, then.
(Not even with the dom perignon he’d brought, the soft music and shining lights, James’s face glowing with a nervous thrill.)
It’s not until he begins to sink down that it hits, that she realizes how she’s about answer.
She hadn’t known—hadn’t realized it would come to this,
(that she would have to say no, for him—for his happiness)
Hadn’t had any idea until he was there, on his knees asking her with the stars in his eyes and his heart in her hands
“I’m so sorry,” she breathes, voice breaking as she holds back tears.
(It wouldn’t be fair to be the one crying as she breaks his heart.)
“Why?” he pleads in almost a whimper, eyes beseeching. “I don’t understand, I thought…”
Lily opens and closes her mouth, unable to form words—can’t give a reason, no explanation that would be enough, not one he would accept.
(The tears break free, then, hot and hurting as they roll through her makeup, creating damp spots at the bust of her dress.)
It kills her—god, does it hurt, spinning on her heel and hurrying away.
(Lifting the skirt of the fitted dress as she makes her way to the door, tries to get out the image of him standing there, crestfallen on the landing as she leaves that will be forever burned into her mind.)
/
It’s twenty minutes later that Sirius finds him on the balcony, an already open bottle of champagne in hand. “Prongs! There you are—will you convince Pete shifting into his animagus at midnight to impress Mary is a horrid idea? Also, Moony’s eaten approximately an entire cheesecake, so when his stomach acts up in the morning it’s your turn to—”
He pauses, catching sight of James’s expression and instantly going tense with concern. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
James can’t speak—silently holds out the still-open box that feels too cold in his palm.
(He’d had a speech prepared—is left speechless, everything hurting too much to comprehend.)
(The unimaginable shock of the blow he had never seen coming—blindsided.)
Sirius sucks in a deep breath. “Is that Mum’s—you’re going to—”
“I did,” James says, voice brittle as he stares at the ground. “She said no. Ended things and took off.”
There’s a crash, as the bottle of champagne slips from Sirius’s palm, spilling before it shatters against the concrete.
(The bubbling is the only sound but for the muffled sounds of the party through the double doors.)
A few moments later, he runs to fetch Remus, and Peter, and something stronger to drink.
(Now no one’s celebrating.)
/
/
Lily tries to carry on—to pretend like there’s any semblance of normal left in her life.
(like she hasn’t walked away from the only person that’s ever made her feel seen—that’s ever made her feel alive.)
She’s grabbing a coffee before popping by Flourish and Blott’s to pick up a volume for work, mind a million miles away.
Her sweater is oversized—not to be stylish, but as though it could swallow her and hide her from the world, working with her combat boots to serve as armor from it all.
As she turns toward the door, passing Emilia Brown and Amos Diggory, murmurs drift toward her ears—
“she would’ve made such a lovely bride,” Emilia simpers, “what a shame she’s fucked in the head.”
Lily sucks in a breath as the barb strikes—how awful, how laughable that that’s what she’s reduced to in everyone else’s eyes.
(Her scars and attempts and pain and years of drowning on land waved away as champagne problems by skeptics who don’t know her, people who have no idea what it’s like to lose a part of your existence in the war against yourself.)
And then it’s Christmas, which only ever makes her think of Hogwarts, the dorms that were home and the school that was theirs.
(A madhouse, made for her.)
It hurts, spending the holiday without them—the group of friends that’s been her family since McGonagall at her door and a hat on her head and a shouted slur from a former friend.
They’d been evergreen—she’d never imagined it withering away, having to bear the cold of the world alone.
(soon they’ll deck the halls that we once walked through.)
They’d tried reaching out, at first—Sirius, one of her closest friends for years, had pounded on her door till a neighbor threatened to floo the aurors.
(He’d stopped, after weeks of no reply—when the rage set in, when it became clear it wasn’t an accident that his best friend’s heart was broken.)
She can’t blame them—knows if she went crawling back, begging for forgiveness, they’d all give it in a heartbeat.
But she can’t—can’t risk it.
(The moment she sees James, she’ll cave, and he’ll wrestle the truth from her; he has to think she doesn’t love him anywhere.)
(It’s the only way to make sure he finds the happiness he deserves.)
So she spends the holiday on an extra chair at Alice’s, her friend disproving but loving her always without explanation required. Tries to push through it all, somehow.
Pretend it doesn’t all feel so very wrong.
/
/
Sirius and Remus are home, ordering hangover food and binge watching movies.
But James had to get out—had to get away.
Can’t take the reminders of this day, a year before; the morning after the party, Lily in his oversized Quidditch jersey, cleaning up all the empty bottles of butterbeer and firewhiskey while he swept up the glitter all over the floor.
Alice and Marlene had kissed her cheeks and waved to him before ducking through the floo, discarded shoes clutched in hand.
It’s all too much—the missing her, the wrongness and emptiness of it all.
Snape rolling his eyes, disdain evident when he’d overheard Sirius telling a friend James had a rough month; the way Penelope sing-songs “champagne problems” as though he hasn’t a real worry in the world.
The way people ask how he’s doing and there are no words because he’s not—he feels as though he doesn’t exist without her.
And perhaps it’s not healthy, but he can’t help that he loves her and his forever has been stripped away.
(He doesn’t feel as though he knows much, anymore, but the one thing he knows is that it’s not supposed to be like this.)
/
Her knees are tucked into her chest where she sits in the grass.
They say this is supposed to get easier, but each day of missing him cuts just as deep as the rest.
Every day has hurt, since she walked away, but—this one is especially painful.
(But she can take it—would take it over and over again.)
(it’s what’s best for James—and she could take every speck of pain in the world ten times over if it was what he needed.)
She’s at what was always their spot—in a park, right near the fountain, sound of the flowing water soothing the ache of it all.
Her mind’s not on the trees, today—she’s thinking of still-frame muggle polaroids scattered on hardwood as they cleaned up James’s flat, snorting at solidified lumps of candlewax stuck to the floor where Frank had bumped into a candle and apologized every five minutes the entire rest of the night.
The memories won’t stop—his flannel in November, the last good day they hadn’t known was their last good day, then.
In a taxi, on the way to Petunia’s, nervous and angry and hurt but all of it okay because James is squeezing her hand three times in the other seat.
A small laugh shakes her from her reverie, brief and lost in the sounds of the day, but the center of her consciousness—the most familiar sound in the world.
And then he comes into view, and her heart stops.
(Only a month and a half, but it’s excruciating—the way he’s already starting to become a stranger.)
(Just a stranger she has no connection to, no right to know how he’s doing.)
(A stranger whose laugh she could recognize anywhere.)
It takes him a moment to spot her, gaze still on his phone; the source of his laughter, if the upward quirk of his lip is anything to go by.
But then his eyes catch on her, and they glimmer of joy drains from his body.
A heavy swallow. “Evans.”
“Hi, James,” she whispers.
“Don’t—don’t do that,” he rasps, voice breaking. “Don’t go back to calling me James like—like it’s nothing. Like none of it ever—" His hands tug at his hair. “I—why are you here, Evans? This is our spot, and you—I just don’t understand.”
“Sorry. I—I’ll go.” She clears her throat, trying to force down the lump that’s lodged itself there as she shakily gets to her feet.
“No, don’t—why are you always running? Why can’t you just tell me what I did, why you leave me and then come to our spot on our favorite day like you care?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Her tone is icy as she pushes back the wave of emotion threatening to overtake her. “We’re done, Potter.”
“I won’t accept that!” He’s stubborn—god, has his stubbornness always been endearing and enraging in equal measure. He crosses his arms, always a sign he won’t be letting up, and stares her down. “You still feel—something, for me. I know it wasn’t all a lie, and I want to know why you ran—why you’re here now.”
“Why won’t you just let me go?”
He stares incredulously at her. “Are you mad? You’re the love of my life, and you expect that I’ll—”
“No I’m not, James. I’m just—the first girl you ever loved.” It’s the fact that she truly believes it that makes it hurt the most. “One you were drawn to in school, and loved because you have a big heart to give, but I’m not the one. We were never meant to be forever. You’ll find the right one, and I’ll be—a blip on the radar, and you’ll laugh at the fact that you ever thought this was it.”
“Bullshit!”
He’s so sure, so desolate and enraged and she can see his fingers twitch like he wants to pull her lips to his the way he always has when they’re arguing—and it’s this that breaks her.
(She’ll never feel James Potter’s lips on hers again—not his arms around her, not his touch on her hair, none of it.)
(The wall cracks.)
“Just go, Jamie,” she begs, wiping at her eyes. “Find someone else, who doesn’t—break your heart and make your smile disappear. You’ll find the real thing, and—you won’t even remember me, and all my problems.”
(she’ll patch up your tapestry that I shred.)
“Is that supposed to be a good thing?” he demands, eyes wide and distraught behind his glasses. “I—merlin, Lily, I can’t imagine anything worse than not remembering you. And you just—decided what was best, decided what I need—”
“Because you shouldn’t want me!” Lily bursts out, tears gliding down her face. “Jamie, I am—a mess, I am darkness and despair and I can’t breathe some days because life feels so heavy and I can’t take it, I am chaotic wreckage and a burden you do not need. You deserve—so much more than I will ever be able to offer, and I want that for you. I want—god, Jamie, I want everything for you.”
“I don’t want everything! I just want you!” his voice is hoarse as he says it, desperation etched in every line of his face. “I want you at your best and your worst, I want the mornings we wake up together and you curl closer because you’re cold and the nights when you’re sobbing in my arms and nothing makes it better. I want every smile and every bit of anger, I want your midnights, I want you in my arms during the party and you at my side cleaning up the mess the next morning. I want you no matter how lost you feel and how scared you are, no matter how much you want to turn away, I—merlin, the only fucking thing in this world I want is you.”
And she shouldn’t let him—she knows she’s not what he deserves, knows she is a broken piece of pottery held together by scotch tape and it’s only a matter of time till the cracks win out again, till he realizes all that’s in his hands is something that seemed beautiful but is really just broken bits of clay that’ll never hold together the way they should.
But he’s staring into her soul, and she loves him—god, does she fucking love James Potter.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” she promises, voice thick as the sobs begin to overtake her. “I just love you too much to be the one holding you back. To be the reason you have anything less than what you could.”
“You’re not—Lily, you’re the reason it’s worth getting up in the morning.” He moves closer, reaching for her slowly, like sudden movements might spook her into running again. He bites his lip, like he’s just now processing her words. “You still love me?”
A laugh slips through her trembling lips, and he’s struck, like always, by how unbelievably beautiful she is—even now, eyes swollen from crying, tears pouring down her face, and her laughter still manages to light up the whole world.
“How could I ever stop?”
She reaches for his hand, then; still unsure it’s the right thing to do, but too tired to keep fighting both him and her heart, too tired of not letting herself have the one good thing when he is everything good in this life.
“I love you, Jamie,” she repeats. “God, do I love you. I love you more than myself, more than anything.”
His arms slip around her, and within a matter of moments she’s on his lap, head buried in his chest as she sobs—and she feels so guilty, making him comfort her when she’s the one who burned it all down, but it’s the first time she’s been able to breathe since.
“My Lily,” he says softly, pressing a kiss against her hair as he holds her tight against him, glass heart slowly putting itself back together as the reality of her in his arms sinks in.
“I don’t want to let you down,” she whispers against the sweater on his chest.
A hand stokes down her back, ever gentle. “You could never.”
(And I will hold on to you)
/
/
The next New Year’s they spend at Sirius and Remus’s new cottage, Lily tucked under James’s arm.
(Peter whines about being the fifth wheel, but smiles in earnest every time he sees how happy and loved all of his favorite people are—it’s all he could ever want for them.)
The fingers of the hand bearing his mother’s ring and her wedding band are interlaced with his own, only sitting now because he’d spun her around, hand holding his while dancing for hours.
She still doesn’t think she deserves him—still has bad days where it feels like the darkness might win.
(But he’s there through it all, holding her when she comes out of it, loving her despite and because of it all.)
He and Sirius get overly champagne drunk and cry about how much they love each other and how they’re the best friend each has ever had, and Lily and Remus both roll their eyes at the way their husbands are practically each other’s second spouse.
“L-Lily flower,” Sirius hiccups, at some point after midnight. “I’m so glad you’re part of our family. Wouldn’t be th’same without you.”
And it’s genuine—the love she receives from all of her friends, the joy in their eyes every time they see her.
(She never knew it was possible, to be so loved—to think herself worthy of it all.)
(Had always thought it had to be someone else that gave that happiness to James—never considered that she might be capable of being that woman, too.)
“Love you, Jamie,” she murmurs into his arm when they fall asleep, sprawled on the couch, the way she makes sure to every night.
He murmurs it back, tightening his grip on her, like his arms are enough to protect her from every bad thing that’s ever been.
(champagne problems.)