She stops abruptly before she descends the grand staircase that leads down to the entrance hall and tilts her head to the side, squinting slightly and biting her lip thoughtfully as her hand lingers on the banister.
“Have you ever wanted to slide down this stair rail, Bert? I mean, it just looks so tempting, doesn’t it? And there’s no one here…”
I struggle to hide my surprise at her words and am once again faced with a lingering, swooping feeling of disappointment. Till this moment, Lily Evans has not ever wanted to slide down the staircase on such a whim. This is not who Lily is, and yet I find that my thoughts are once again contradicting themselves, admitting that it is everything about what and who she is. This is the impulsive Lily Evans, the true Lily Evans that exists only in his presence. I therefore should be pleased that my girlfriend seems to be at perfect ease with me now, that she has decided to show me this rarely-seen side of her “ the one that she hardly ever finds herself showing because her vivacity has been subdued as of late, mirroring the dark world that awaits us outside those great doors “ but I find myself feeling as I have so often been feeling lately “ second to James Potter once again, in every single way imaginable.
Picking up on my long pause, she notes my skepticism and seizes my arm. “Oh, Bertram, don’t you just want to slide down and down? Like we’re children again! Oh, I haven’t done it in so long; Petunia and I used to slide so often when we were younger!” Her eagerly wistful voice hits my ears sharply and I am frowning despite myself.
“No.”
She pouts and looks at me with momentary disappointment that is quickly replaced as she brightens. “Well, if you won’t slide, will you at least catch me at the bottom?”
I am sure I must seem dumbfounded now for she looks slightly crestfallen and with a small shrug, makes to descend the stairs.
“Of course I will.”
She turns at my words and her face breaks out into a gleeful smile before she flings her arms around me. “Ah, you’re wonderful, Bertram! This is why I love you!”
The nonchalance of the word hits me somewhere between my heart and stomach and I reel, marveling at how easily the meaning of four letters is changed by the sincerity “ or unintentional lack thereof “ in their owner’s tone.
She flits around now, brimming with excitement as I make my way down the stairs and turn to look up at her.
“Ready?” she calls out, and I am struck by her ethereal nature as she stands at the top of the stairs almost regally; I am struck by her solid trust, by the fact that she is assured that I will catch her at the bottom. I barely nod, knowing that whatever I say or do will go unnoticed for she is already sliding down, down, down and only seconds later, she sails into my arms and laughs gaily.
“Once more!” she sings before I can protest, and she bounds up the stairs again, taking them two, three at a time in her haste to travel backwards into her childhood. She asks her “Ready?” again “ the one that we both know is unnecessary “ and slides down the banister where I am waiting for her as she flies gracefully into my open arms.
“Taking my ideas now, Evans?”
The familiar voice wafts across the once-empty hall and Lily shifts in my arms to look at the owner of the voice.
“Of course not, Potter,” she says, but her voice lacks the tone to support her offhand words and she hastily slides from my grip to stand upright. “I was simply wondering what exactly is so spectacular about this sliding that you speak of so often, and I thought I’d try it to come to a conclusion myself.”
Both he and I know she is lying now; the color that is rising to her cheeks and the slight smile that is playing on her face betrays her exhilaration and the momentary elation that has been elicited by this spontaneous return to childhood. He acknowledges it with a small smile of his own and crosses his arms.
“And so? What’s your verdict?”
“It’s overrated,” she says, waving her hand carelessly and raising one shoulder slightly, daintily. “The feeling in your stomach is quite ghastly as you’re sliding. I almost felt as if I was plummeting to my death. Not very pleasant at all.”
Her solemn voice makes him laugh and he shakes his head. “Perhaps you’d have a better experience if someone else caught you,” he says teasingly, winking in my direction with a wordless glance meant to assure me that he means it all in jest.
Lily opens her mouth to retort but decides against it.
There was once a time when she would not have done so. That time has long passed.
--
Quidditch matches always evoke the highest levels of spirit and enthusiasm amongst both students and faculty alike. It still amazes me that most students battle torrential rain or howling winds mingled with biting cold to support their respective houses unconditionally. There are no fair-weather fans in Quidditch; there is too much passion, too much desperation in clinging onto something that allows us to forget about the world, if only for a few hours, for anyone to take the sport for granted. This attitude is epitomized by none other than the players themselves, who fly not only to win but to stay alive, because flying is liberating, because it is in itself victory, because it is life.
And thus we, the members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, look on in shock as James Potter, his face ashen and his eyes devoid of their usual light, pulls himself up from the table in the Great Hall and makes his way towards the doors leading out onto the pitch.
“Right, so I’ll meet you lot in the locker room in five minutes. Come out as soon as you’re done eating.”
Sirius chokes on his piece of toast and gets up immediately, moving quickly to block James’s path. “James… you’re not seriously thinking of playing, are you?”
“Of course I’m playing; why wouldn’t I play?”
Sirius’s countenance changes from one of worry to one of incredulity. “Prongs, you’ve got a horrible bout of the flu and you won’t even go to the Hospital Wing!”
“Because Madam Pomfrey won’t let me play if I go to her and ask for a potion to make me feel better!”
“You can’t play, Prongs! It’s pouring outside and it’s near freezing and you can barely breathe from your cold “”
“I have to play, Padfoot! I’m the bloody captain! If I don’t play, we’ll have to forfeit the match!” James’s expression betrays agitation now and his eyes momentarily regain their spark.
“So we’ll forfeit! You can’t play! It’s just a Quidditch match!”
“You of all people know it’s not ‘just a Quidditch match,’ Sirius!” His voice suddenly loses its fierceness as he pleads with his best friend. “I need to play. And I’m going to.” He walks around Sirius and out the door and into the entrance hall.
The rest of the team looks resignedly at his retreating back and I redirect my gaze to the bewitched sky above us. It exactly mirrors the stormy, foreboding gray hue of the field outside.
--
By the time we begin play, the rain has begun, but as always, no one has been deterred. What is a bit of rain in comparison to a Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match?
Matters soon become more complicated, though, as the steady drizzle progresses into a blinding sheet of rain, obstructing not only the view of the students and professors attempting to watch the match, but also making it quite impossible to see the other members of our own team, no less the Snitch itself.
The rain is not doing any good for James either, who looks increasingly fainter and is coughing almost ceaselessly. He flies past me towards the other side of the pitch in search of the Quaffle “ or any other Chaser, for that matter “ and I notice how his grip on his broom has slacked considerably, how his slumped form is hunched over tiredly, how he flies with less agility and control than he usually does. Only sheer perseverance and an uncanny talent for flying keeps him from keeling over from his
“James!” I call over the sound of pounding rain. “You’ve got to get out of this rain!”
“Just find the Snitch, Aubrey, and get all of us of here!” he replies tersely and I know better than to let his clipped words stand for themselves. He is dangerously ill and risking his health obstinately now and I take the responsibility now to end the game as quickly as I can.
I rise higher into the air to scan the skies and the grounds for any sight of flashing gold. After five minutes of thorough searching, I am frustrated to find nothing at all and turn to head the other way when something captures my attention immediately.
The tiny Snitch has momentarily paused in its flight some twenty feet ahead and just as relief floods me and I begin to urge my broom forward, I hear the sound of a Bludger meeting its human target somewhere to my left and I swivel in time to see the black ball hitting preoccupied James squarely in the stomach. He doubles over in immediate pain and loses his grip on his broom entirely, and before I can act, he begins to fall.
For a moment, I think that I am the only one who has just seen James begin his dangerous freefall descent, but then I see, miraculously clearly through the rain, Lily’s face transform. I am sure that I am the only one who notices the color drain from her once rosy-cheeked face. The camera she holds loosely falls from her hands and though I am high up in the air, I can still hear the thud it elicits as it hits the hard wood beneath her feet.
Panic and indecision seize me. Should I go after James and catch him before he hits the ground? But chance is not on my side today and my ability to do so is undeniably hampered by the violent weather; I would probably not reach him in time, and even if I did, I would prolong the match by losing the Snitch once again, and James would still be in danger. I turn and notice that the Snitch still bobs enticingly nearby, and in a spur-of-the-moment decision, I push my broom forward to capture the Snitch and turn sharply downwards to meet James, silently praying that I have made it in time to catch him and successfully ended the game.
My wish is unfulfilled and it is with a sinking feeling that I see his immobile figure lying still on the wet grounds. The whistle sounds as Madam Hooch realizes that I hold the struggling Snitch in my hand, but I do not notice anything but the stationary James in front of me. The rest of the Gryffindor players touch down next to me and emit loud gasps of shock at the sight of their captain lying motionless on the ground before them, and for a moment that seems never to end, we are all at a loss for words.
--
The Gryffindor common room is quieter that night than it has been in a while. A somber, uneasy silence fills the room, permeates every corner and person so that we all feel as if we are teetering precariously on the edge of a cliff. The butterbeers stand unnoticed, untouched on the tables. It matters not that this victory has catapulted us to first place in the standings for the Quidditch Cup; our Captain is injured, is sick, and no one will rest easy until we are all sure of his full recovery.
One particular person looks more anxious than the rest. Her hands twist in her lap uneasily, and she can’t keep still, shifting slightly every few moments in her unsuccessful attempt to keep her mind off James’s condition.
“Bertram,” she begins, her expression somber as she bites her lip in hesitation. “I’ve got a favor to ask of you.”
“Of course, Lily; anything.”
“Could you…. Will you go to the Hospital Wing and give James these notes, please? He needs to check these Hogsmeade dates before I give them to Dumbledore.”
I warily eye the parchment she holds out; though he and I have always been on relatively good terms, my relationship with Lily has forced a new boundary between us. We are classmates, we are Quidditch teammates, we share a dormitory, but our speaking has lately been restricted to absolute necessities: “Aubrey, can you hand me that Transfiguration book there?” and “When’s the next Quidditch practice, Potter?” are phrases which characterize our conversations.
“Can’t you give it to Remus or Black or Pettigrew? They’ll be visiting him often, won’t they?”
“I’m afraid that they’ll misplace the notes or forget to give them to James,” she says, not daring to meet my eyes. Both she and I know that she is fibbing but I find myself apprehensive of bridging the gap and asking what her true intentions are, because I know if I ask, I am admitting it all to myself, that I am accepting it “ and I’m not ready to do that.
And so I take the parchment she holds out wordlessly and nod my assent.
--
It’s nearing curfew when I finally make my way slowly, hesitantly to the Hospital Wing and I slip into the corridor unnoticed in Madam Pomfrey’s momentary absence. The lights are considerably dimmer than outside in the hallway and yet I find James’s reclining figure almost immediately.
As I approach the bed, I notice that Madam Pomfrey seems to have mended his bones, but just as I start to think that he is also entirely cured of his flu, James begins to cough violently and I quickly hand him the glass of water on the table beside him as he pushes himself into a sitting position.
“Here,” I say, forcing the glass into his hands. “Drink.”
“Aubrey?” he croaks, his voice sounding parched, as if he hasn’t had anything to drink in years. “What are you doing here?”
“Lily wanted me to give you these,” I begin, already noting his baffled expression as I hand him the pieces of parchment. “Something about Hogsmeade dates that you need to look at before Lily gives them to Professor Dumbledore to approve.”
“Lily?” The simultaneous confusion and hope, the intimacy of the name in his voice is so apparent that I blink in surprise. “If she wanted to give me these, why didn’t she come down herself?”
The hesitant shrug I give him leaves in its wake a heavy silence punctuated only by the pitter-patter of the rain outside the window. We are left in a tense stalemate for a moment before the hush is broken by a bitter laugh from James.
“Right. Because she hates me. Stupid question.”
James’s painful agitation is so palpable that I find myself wanting to tell him that he cannot be more incorrect in his belief, that this idea is so unfounded and so contradictory to everything Lily feels right now that he should be jumping for joy, letting out a celebratory whoop, taking a victory lap around the Quidditch field despite his broken state “ because he has finally got what he has wanted for the past three years.
And so I fight a wordless battle with myself: telling him all of this means that I’ll be letting go of everything I have “ letting go of Lily and finally accepting that she is not meant to be mine. It is one thing to tolerate a fact, to acknowledge its existence and entirely another to accept it, to embrace it and not wish to change it.
Torn between what is right and what is easy, what is honorable and what is valuable, I finally make my decision.
“She doesn’t hate you.”
He looks up at me and I see the hope that had ebbed away return slowly.
--
As I enter the common room a half hour later, I am unsurprised to find that it is empty save for one person. She looks up from the book she is reading and despite the limited light offered by the dying embers in the fireplace, I notice the anxiousness etched into her features immediately. She rises to meet me halfway across the common room.
“Did you give him the parchment?”
“Yes.”
“Did he look over the dates and make any changes?”
“He made a couple; here, I think this is what he changed.”
She nods and spends the next few moments distractedly scanning the parchment.
The silence seems unending and I find that I cannot handle it. “Right, I’m going to go up to bed. Good night, Lily.” I quickly kiss her forehead and turn to leave.
“Wait.” I hear her quick intake of breath before she continues. “Is he alright?”
I only hesitate for a moment before I respond.
“He will be.”
She will never be mine and I have finally resigned myself to this knowledge.