Hello my lovelies! Happy New Year!
Thank you all so much for waiting so patiently for this chapter, RL is a bit hectic ATM so I'm trying my best to post a chapter weekly or bi-weekly this year when I can, it may be sooner or later than that depending on how things go. I'm really hoping to get a chapter out every week. I really am.
Please leave a review and let me know what you think ;)
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.
Wednesday, May 30th, 1979
"He's lucky to be alive, Dorea," the tall, imposing man states, shutting the bedroom door behind him with a soft click.
Alfred Pennyweather is a strange wizard, of great stature, spindly with arms that are slightly too long for his body, a perpetual frown on his face that was solemnly accompanied by a harsh line across his forehead. He has thin, skeletal fingers, there is grey hair sprouting from his temples only to disappear in a sea of chestnut brown tresses. An unsettling quietness lingers around him, and he is a generous but severe man—he has no time for frivolity or nonsense.
"Yes. I know that Alfred, that doesn't tell me anything about his current condition," Dorea replies testily, her hands on her hips and her shoe impatiently tapping against the Potter Matriarch hasn't been sleeping properly, she looks as if she'd aged ten years in the wake of her son's accident—puffy eyebags, bloodshot eyes, hair constantly in disarray,
Charlus sighs heavily through his nostrils, worry carving deep chasms across his features, he steps forward and wraps an arm around his wife.
There is a stickiness that clings to the night air: it is muggy and stale, and there is barely a lick of breeze to be found. As a result they are all left to swelter and melt, completely at the whims of Mother Nature—the cooling charms they'd been applying did next to nothing, only serving to deplete energy and magically exhaust them.
"He's going to need copious amounts of rest for the next few weeks—" Alfred states sternly, his dark, beady eyes locked on Dorea's as he continues, "—whenever the boy wakes you need to ensure that he doesn't try to do too much too quickly. He needs rest. He almost died."
"You think I don't know that?" Dorea growls, attempting to take menacing steps towards her old acquaintance, but Charlus's grip on her tightens and prevents her from doing so.
"He'll be fine, Dorea," Alfred says a bit kinder. He grips the handle of his bruised, brown leather doctor's bag. "I left the assortment of potions that he'll need and a piece of parchment with strict instructions on how he'll need to ingest each one."
"Thank you, Alfred," Dorea says reticently, offering the man a smile in lieu of an apology, letting her full weight sag against her husband.
Alfred inclines his head respectfully towards the parents of his patient, "inform me of any changes, and do not be afraid to call on me, regardless of what time it may be—even if it some ungodly hour—and I will be here immediately."
"Thank you, Alfred," Charlus says, repeating his wife's earlier sentiment of gratitude.
The wiry man lingers for a moment longer before his ropy legs carry him down the corridor and the grand staircase to the foyer.
Dorea works her jaw for a few moments, trying to find words, trying to express the emotions that are crashing around inside her, but she comes up empty.
Charlus pulls his wife closer, dropping a kiss to her hair, "he's going to be okay, Dee."
Dorea smiles faintly at the old nickname, one Charlus only used these days when he knows she's sad or upset.
"I know," Dorea murmurs, twisting around so she can grip her husband properly, letting his warm embrace comfort her.
The two parents stood outside their ailing child's room, simply holding fast to the other—desperately clinging to every ounce of hope that they had—and praying for their son's swift recovery.
Thursday, June 7th, 1979
Lily's bright green eyes rove across the slumbering form of her husband: she scoots her chair closer to their bed, and she simply stares at him, as if when she looks away he'll stop breathing.
She reaches towards his forehead with the intent of brushing an unruly curl off of it, but her hand halts in midair, hovering for a moment before she instead moves her hand to cup his cheek—his warmth immediately seeping into the palm of her hand.
A swirl of breeze enters the room through the large window on the far wall, the half-open curtains fluttering to its will before they settle back into place.
Lily strokes his cheek tenderly as her other hand finds his closest one and she laces their fingers together.
"Evans," James mumbles, eyelids slowly dragging themselves open, and he narrows his eyes—everything is most likely a blur of colour since he doesn't have his glasses on—and they flick in numerous directions before eventually landing on her.
"Don't you mean, Potter?" Lily asks wryly, gently patting his cheek.
A goofy smile stretches across his features and he tries to reach for her, but Lily moves out of his grasp, she knows exactly what he's trying to do; the ruddy idiot is trying to pull her in bed with him—he'd tried the same thing for the last two days and she is not falling for it again.
"No, you're still recovering," Lily says softly.
A weak chuckle leaves his lips, but it all too quickly turns into a pout and he reaches for her once again.
Lily rolls her eyes at his antics, but relents enough to stand up, lean over and chastely press her lips to his—her hair falls like a curtain around them, practically enveloping them in their own world.
James's hand slides up and cradles the back of her head, and he slyly attempts to deepen the kiss, but Lily pulls back.
"We can't," Lily whispers, bumping her nose against his, "no matter how much I want to. You need to get better, Mister."
James snorts at that, his hand moving instead to rest on her cheek, and he pauses for a long moment, as if trying to imprint her visage in his memory forever, "I love you."
"I love you too," Lily says, pressing her forehead against his.
Not for the first time since Harry, Hermione and Ron had come to their dimension, Lily found her thoughts wondering to the reality of their past, of their dimension.
Thoughts of James dying.
She presses her lips together, and she holds James an infinitesimal bit tighter, banishing the dreadful thoughts somewhere far away, for if she let them fester any longer she fears they may take over her.
"I love you," Lily repeats. More than you may ever know, she adds silently. More than you may ever know.