I was going to write something happy, I SWEAR.
Lily never slept properly, not on nights like these. It was always the early hours when she found herself awake, not knowing how long she’d been drifting in that place where you were neither asleep nor fully conscious, barricaded in your own mind; and as she came back to herself, she would automatically reach out to her husband, curving her body to fit along the lines of his, as it did so well, to soothe herself back to sleep.
Feeling the empty space, devoid of warmth, was what always jolted her wide awake.
Tonight moonlight stole in through the curtains, rippling over the side of the bed where he should have lain. If he was there, she thought, it would be tracing silvery smudges along the lines of his body, softening the angularity of his nose and narrow jaw, and he would probably look younger, without his glasses and sleeping peacefully. She had to imagine it, couldn’t draw up memories of him bathed in moonlight, because she always slept soundly when he was there.
While she cursed herself for being still so pathetic after five years, part of her that dreaded the night when she became used to his absence.
Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked, and she stiffened, chiding herself for the instant flicker of relief that came with the sound. At first, her son had sought her out every night, but as he grew older that had happened less and less, and it tore at her insides to know he would one day see it as normal that his daddy wasn’t there. It would take longer for Lily, because she remembered his presence all too well, but there would come a time when Harry had spent longer without his father than with, and he’d forget what it was like to always have him around.
And as much as Lily hated to admit it, even to herself, she was glad when he came to her in the middle of the night, because she felt better for having him to hold close; it lessened, somewhat, the ache of loneliness.
Another floorboard creaked, a door opened, and footsteps padded along the landing. She sat up as her own door inched open and a small, tousle-haired figure shuffled into the room.
“Can’t sleep?” she asked softly, and Harry shook his head, already clambering onto the bed. Lily pulled back the sheets to let him crawl in. He nestled into his mother, remaining stubbornly on her side: never on Daddy’s.
“Mummy?”
“Mhm?”
“Where is Daddy right now?”
She was prepared for the question: it always came.
“He’s in Spain, sweetheart.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s next to France.”
Harry nodded into her shoulder. “And when will he be back?”
“Ohh … next week, at some point.”
“Will he be there to see the school play?”
Lily missed a beat. “Um … he’ll definitely try, sweetheart.”
It wasn’t the answer she wanted to give, and it wasn’t the one Harry wanted to hear.
James was an excellent father. She’d known he would be; he was funny and gentle and strong, but more than that, he had an exceptional capacity to love, devotedly and unconditionally. He doted on their son, and for the first few years of Harry’s life, James’ family had been the centre of his world.
But then he’d been signed for the Arrows – his lifelong dream – and suddenly that meant days of training where he left early and got back late, and then the travelling – a few days at a time for away matches, weeks or more for the European League. When he came back he exclaimed over the pictures Harry had brought home from school, lavished him with gifts, listened keenly to all his stories, but Lily couldn’t stop the niggling voice in her head that said you should have been there.
She missed him desperately when he wasn’t there, but when he was there, as much as she loved him, she was angry. She was resentful and bitter that he was living his dream while she worked a job she didn’t care for in order to fit around Harry. She was irritated by all the presents he brought home, because she knew Harry would rather have his dad than anything that could be bought. James’ attitude had always been – whenever he caught her frowning at price labels – that there was no point denying yourself what you wanted, and of course it was, he’d never had to scrimp and save, and that was the problem really: he got what he wanted. He wanted a family, so he had one, and he wanted a successful Quidditch career, so he had one, and she had to wonder if he was content with the way it worked out. She knew him, and he was too proud to ever admit defeat, but perhaps he didn’t want to. Perhaps he really was happy, having a part-time family. A part-time wife.
Sometimes the voice in her mind whispered to her in the nights when he wasn’t there, and it said, if he missed you like you miss him, why would he stay away?
They’d been great together, the two of them. Lily-and-James. They’d had fun and loved each other fiercely and been over the moon when Harry had come along. But now, with hindsight, Lily saw that perhaps they’d rushed into things, too much too young, and while they still loved each other – and she knew, she knew they did – it didn’t work, what they were doing. When they were together, too often they rowed about Harry being spoiled and whether he should go to Muggle school and well, it was always about Harry, they never talked about them and Lily-and-James didn’t really exist anymore. She was Mrs Potter, tired and lonely mother, and he was James Potter, Quidditch star, and the fact that they were married was a mere technicality at this point. Bit by bit, the threads that held them together were fraying, and neither of them were doing enough to fix it. She didn’t even think James saw them unravelling, so caught up was he in his world.
And night after night, she was faced with the question: was it better to continue as they were, pretending things were fine, limping along – or to cut the cord?
It was a relatively easy one on paper. Harry would be devastated by the break-up of his parents; his life would be shaken up and thrown into turmoil, and Lily could never do that to him. She, too, would likely never get over the loss of her best friend and partner, the love of her life; seeing him fleetingly, she reasoned was better than never seeing him at all. Her heart still leapt, after all, when he came through the door, her skin still tingled where he touched it.
But she wept for what they’d had, and lost so carelessly. They’d had no idea, then, had they? They’d been brash and naïve and they’d thought they could have it all. Pride came before a fall, as the saying went …
It could be worse, Lily knew. She had known happiness. And she still had their son, their beautiful, wonderful son, for whom she would do anything, and it was because of him that she would carry on. After all, James would have to retire someday, and perhaps then they could go back to the way they were …
Perhaps.
In the darkened bedroom, the moon now obscured by clouds, Lily stroked Harry’s hair and watched him doze off in her arms, envious of how quickly sleep took him.
For her, it was a waiting game.
