This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful Ana who has literally just popped into my life and I'm already in love with her! She's so talented and sweet and I'm convinced we are clones!
-marvabell- ♥️♥️♥️

(12th July 1977)

It was too dark to tell if it was a dream but he had to assume it was.
He was standing on a rigid surface that he guessed was marble. It was cold, tenebrous, and he couldn't see two feet in front of him.

He reached out with his hand to feel a smooth, yet cool sensation beneath his fingertips. Whatever he was standing on was also in front of him, restricting him from moving more than a step forwards or back. It felt strangely like a morgue slab, the type that he'd seen far too often traipsing along with his father to visit Auror detectives surrounding Snatcher cases.
A tantalising shiver crept up his spine like a peddler and suddenly it felt much to arduous to breathe.

Was he dead? Was that the dream? Or was it something worse? Something more sinister?

In a swivet, he took the marble slab on front of him and pushed with all his might, breath becoming a luxury as all that occupied his mind was the animalistic need to get out. He felt like a rat in an experiment maze; one that gets stuck there and studied to see how they cope in a simulation.

He knew he'd made a mistake when the marble began to loom back and fourth, wobbling ominously to and fro above his head.
A light emerged, he presumed it was a candle when it flickered dangerously behind the slab. Only it wasn't a slab...

It was a domino.

And it began to fall.

The first collision seemed almost satisfying but when they began to hit the floor he could taste the noise in the back of his throat. He tried to scream. It was swallowed by deafening crashes.

One after another they tumbled and landed untidily in a spiral, getting closer and closer back to the middle, where he stood. Suddenly he realised what was to happen next...

The final domino stood tall behind him and seemed to glint maliciously when he turned to face it, in recognition.

James was going to have to fall.

Horror coerced through his veins faster than blood. His heart was in his throat and the noise still cut him like a knife. That resonant clink of marble thud that he was sure would kill him.
It was getting closer and he couldn't run, he couldn't push back, he had to accept it. It had been he that pushed the first domino over, so now he would fall like the rest.

The candle's fragile comfort dissipated as he felt the blow, plunging him back into a blanket of midnight, surrounding him like mist.
He felt the blow in his shoulders first, then his back and finally his legs. Before he could stop himself he went tumbling to the floor, just like the others. None were left standing.

As he lay in the darkness he seemed to understand that he deserved it. He'd made the first move and so he had to be the last. Like a sick game of chess rather than a helix of marble dominos.

The analogy spoke to him in a language he was not quite fluent. He understood but could not put it into words what it was he recognised.
As he lay on the marble, feeling awfully like he were on a morgue slab, he realised that the noise had ceased and what was left seemed to be utter tranquil. For a second he was glad before it became all too clear that silence was much louder and much more alarming. He'd never quite comprehended why people feared silence. He definitely got it now...

♣ ♣ ♣

(12th July 1977 continued)

He woke with a start; a pacific feeling assuring him that whatever he saw wasn't real. It felt real, but he was safe now. Now he was awake.

It wasn't long before he felt it: a sinister sort of minacious ambiance that enveloped the air like a twisted serpent, or a baleful mist, much like the one in the room of dominos.
The sun was beaming perfectly, there wasn't a cloud in the sky and yet the air smelt saccharine and fluffy, like candyfloss had replaced oxygen and it thickly coated his thinking and perhaps his better judgement.

James allowed himself to look over at Sirius' side of the room to find his bed empty. He frowned, in all his life James was unsure he'd ever seen Sirius' bed empty before his... hastily, he reached for his watch; it read eleven-thirty. Almost immediately he jumped from his four poster and darted to the shower. Never in his life had he slept that long and it did not feel the least bit refreshing, it only added to the seductive syrup in the back of his mind. There was something off about the past few days and he knew it.

(12th July 1977 continued...)

Guilt is an odd thing. The more one refuses to feel it, the more it eats them away. The more the clouds grow teeth and the sun glares with fervid odium.

She hadn't spoken to James Potter in almost a week. She hadn't heard from Marlene either and Dorcas hadn't told her much. They had both been out of order that night in the cafe; they had both said some horrific things that they couldn't take back. Words were irreversible like that and guilt could easily eat a person alive.

Over the days not seeing James or Marlene, Lily had become painfully acquainted with the idea that one does not fully recognise a mistake until they make it. And Lily had made it. Now it was too late...

She'd often watched to see if James would emerge from the large house across the street from her cul de sac but he never did, which she found odd considering he could often be observed going to jog in the mornings and nights (not that she was intending on stalking him. Or being passively nebby whatsoever).
It became more difficult to brush off when nobody entered or left the house. Not even the man Lily assumed was James' grandfather, or perhaps an older father, as he seemed never to tire of popping in and out that house in a hurry, an odd travelling coat billowing behind him as he went; but nothing. It was complete saccharine tranquil and Lily was beginning to wonder why she was worrying. Why wasn't she just enjoying the peace?

That particular day the weather had taken a little dip, there were a family of ominous clouds hanging low in the sky, watching over Cokeworth with a dangerous smirk, holding the rain close until it decided when to descend upon the county with its summer storms.
And it was said particular day that Lily'd had enough of the feeling in the pit of her stomach eating her alive, guilt was a devilish monster, it ate one's insides until the point of desperation. Lily wondered if James was feeling just as lamentable at that precise moment too?

She'd made up her mind about going to see him before her rational side could catch up with the erratic and impetuous chambers of her matter. She was pulling on a summer jacket just as Dorcas came bursting in without much of a welcome needed.

"You will never believe what Donna said today at training!" She cried, looking about as miffed as Lily felt. Ultimately, it was pity that made Lily shrug off her jacket and follow her best friend back upstairs.
It had always been evident that Dorcas was not a character for the feint hearted and it was just as easy to fall into a bitterness with Dorcas Rae Meadowes than it was to fall into a fondness. At that particular moment Lily was beginning to understand those revelling in spite over her best friend; in fact, she could almost sympathise.

"Dorcas? Someone better have died at training or I swear to God..."

Lily closed the door behind her and found herself back at square one. Back where she was five minutes ago with all her courage vanished and her bitter resentment towards James Potter firmly back in place.

"Close to death... I almost killed her."

It took rather a lot of self control not to send Dorcas out while she grieved her loss of confidence but she didn't even yet have the strength to entreat her not to throw her vinyls on the floor with abandon in search of some white noise while she complained.

Lily persevered long enough to watch Dorcas put on a BeeGees album and talk incessantly for the duration of the whole thing.
Almost the millisecond Dorcas had ceased talking, Lily found she could breathe; as much as 'Donna' seemed like a pain in the arse for her best friend and her track team, Lily would rather be on her own to brood in her failure, most likely reading a Jane Austen novel or watching The Sound Of Music (or ultimately any decent picture), she might even have preferred to see if the flowers outside would do what she told them.

It must have been that mindset, joint with the flood of defeat and dolour surrounding James Potter that she felt a tingle rush through her central nervous system, followed by a shock of panic. Magic.

"Dorks, it sounds awful and you can bet your arse I'll kill her with my bare hands but you're not the only one with a shitty day!" Lily cried, trying her best to get rid of Dorcas– or at lease the magic.

"Oh?" Black curls whipped round to reveal an ardent yet compassionate expression on her dark skin that seemed softer than clouds (although not the clouds that hung low like a shadow outside that day).

"Yes. It's very difficult to explain. Please don't talk to Marlene?"
(Dorcas scrunched up her nose) "You already have, haven't you?"

"She said it was bad. And that she hasn't spoken to James either."

This did little to reassure her. James and Marlene appeared to be very old friends and James had even referred to himself as her brother that day. If Marlene wasn't talking to him on account of herself then she needed to have a word more urgently that she imagined.
"Shit. I'm sorry, Dorks."

"It's not me you should apologise to."

"I know!" Lily threw her hands in the air as she shuffled around her desk to reach the turntable and replace the album with another, this time of the Rolling Stones', "I know. That's what I was on my way to do before you burst up the joint!"

"Really?!" Eyes as brown as the forest floor went wide with bewilderment, "I'm so sorry, Lily! And you were actually going on your own initiative?! You never apologise!"

"I know that's why I can't go anymore. I've ruined it for myself by backing out like a coward."

This last comment seemed to send Dorcas into hysterics. Her hair bounced back down her shoulders and the sunshine that was lacking in the sky had found its way into her eyes.
"Lily Evans, you'd sooner be on a morgue slab than a coward! If you die it'll be from doing something absolutely gallant!"

"Shut up! Everyone has moments and this is mine. Overthinking is a wasteful pastime and yet here I am, shitting myself over James Potter and our clashing tempers!"

"Yes they all do have moments. Have you ever considered that James might have been having a moment that day in the cafe? Maybe he's not always a dick?"

The realisation struck her like a bullet and yet she did her best to ignore the twist she felt in we gut like a poisoned dagger.
"No. This is why I need to apologise, alright?!"

"I'm not stopping you." Dorcas reasoned, "in fact, I'll happily support you. I'll wait by the gate and you can go now?"

It took less than a minute's consideration before Lily shook her head.
"I can't. Not anymore it'd sound forced, especially with your watchful eye on me."

"You're an idiot, Lily. For the most remarkably clever student in our year, you are absolutely thick at the best of times! One does not need to be in a mood for apologising. They just do it."

"Coming from Miss Apology?" Lily scoffed, sarcasm dripping off her quirked eyebrow.

"I never said I wasn't a hypocrite. But I am right and that's the real issue."

A particular cloud hid the sun from view and cast a shadow across the hillside almost as if creating a foreboding ambiance.
"Shut up."

"Rubbish comeback."

"Shut up."

"It's getting old now."

"Don't make me say it again."

Apologies should be sincere and proper, Lily thought. They should be practiced and polished and sincere and they should not be done in a hurry. She would apologise; sooner rather than later but sooner would not necessarily mean right now.

(13th July 1977)

James had gotten a letter from his father earlier in the day, telling them that business in Newcastle surrounding the mass of missing muggleborns was still a priority for him, and he might not be back for a day or two. Supposedly an update on the story was going to hit the media that afternoon and they wanted to be ready for a pushback from the public of Newcastle.
It was understandable, James surmised, and was not bitter about his father's absence; it wasn't as though he wasn't used to it. He had lived amusing himself since he was very small and so being seventeen may not have made a difference to his tedium levels, but certainly gave him more things to do.

Despite this, he still elected to do nothing. His mother had been declining in health since the night she admitted to James her anxiety of her demise and he'd formulated an obsession with making sure she was alright at various points throughout the day and night so that she might not die and he miss it. He hadn't even left the house to jog around Cokeworth in the mornings like he had done previously.

Since Marlene's absence it was only James and Sirius in the house and one could get bored of pulling the same pranks on the house-elves and playing similar games of chess so many times. Repetition was something James simply could not abide. Mundanity had never sat well with his character in general and despite the morbid situation it did not change his distain for such a thing as monotony.

He sat on the roof of his house, facing out towards the meadow and smoking a cigarette. It hasn't been long ago that Remus and Marlene had been here with him and they'd learned of Remus' bisexuality; although judging by his recent censor on the matter, Sirius was still impervious and so James hadn't brought it up since. He'd kept his promise that the roof was their place of complete confidentiality, whatever one said on the roof would not be discussed elsewhere unless specifically requested so. It had been one of three Marauders Rules. The other two being 'no sarcasm before noon' and that 'nothing is more sacred than a Marauders Honour.'

The air was crisp that day and the clouds of yesterday had passed without rain which was odd but not unheard of, especially in the Midlands, rain was well-accustomed to and so it was curious that said rain should not have fallen.
James found he rather enjoyed rain (unless during quiddtch as he often found his glasses steaming up) and so he was almost miffed they didn't get any. The roof was for candour after all.

He took the penultimate drag from his cigarette –penultimate by estimate– and surveyed the view. Not so long ago he might have seen the flaming red rifts of Lily Simpson's hair out to capture the elegance of Cokeworth with Alice Fortescue, although he had seen no such thing as of recent. It was almost as if she had vanished.

If he weren't on his roof, where plainness was sworn, then haply he wouldn't have admitted he pined over Lily's presence and was miffed at the lack of it. He'd considered apologising, naturally, but he'd never been any good at such things and a fear of perturbation had stopped him from parting with his dignity in order to make Lily understand the regret he felt over his conduct in the cafe.

The other excuse –and it was most definitely an excuse– he had for keeping himself away from Lily, was his current inability to leave where his mother resided. She barely rose from her bed anymore and when she did James made certain he was there with her at all times.

The other person he meant to plead his forgiveness from was Marlene. He'd behaved ineptly around a girl that she had specifically wished him to get on with for the sake of her girlfriend, whom James did, in fact, hold in high regard; Dorcas seemed to be an amiable girl and so he was sorry for any upset he caused her too.

All in all, James certainly intended to entreat his forgiveness of more than one party for a plethora of reasons. Apologies, as much as he loathed them, were certainly obligatory and he valued their principal) and so he endeavoured to speak to each of them soon.

He'd ruminated long enough on his mother's words to see truth in them: 'I have too much to do. Afterwards I'll have an entire lifetime in which to die.'
The mortality of his dear mother had made him consider many a thing and it's urgency, a reason why James was most upset with his father for not returning home from Newcastle immediately and leaving Millard to handle whatever might arise surrounding press updates. There was an entire task-force designated to Snatchers and any could be spared to take over as far as James saw it. It was for the same principle that his mother had named Darren McKinnon –Marlene's half-brother and eight years her senior– in charge of the Magical Peace Process. It had been difficult for her to hand her livelihood to another but none was more deserving than Darren McKinnon. James had complete faith that he would continue to uphold the Magical Peace Process in spankingly good light with the wizarding population and, of course, the ministry.

Pondering his mother's livelihood made his thoughts reach his own. The Magical Prejudice Protection was due to resume without Trudy Nott next year and James could already sense that her loss would be deplorable. Trudy was ever the most compassionate, kindhearted Pureblood he had met; her inclination to fix almost every snag met her way was frankly inspiring. He had promised to help her, back when she was facing expulsion, and he planned to keep his promise. After Marlene 'let slip' that Professor Playford was the teacher in charge of Trudy's hearing, he was determined to demise a plan that would get Trudy her place in the MPP rightfully reinstated. The honesty of the rooftop seemed, not only, to make him feel candid but also gallant.

Lastly he thought of his dream. The dream of the dominos that had surrounded him in the dark. They had stood for something, of that he was certain, but exactly what remained an ambiguity. He doubted any crime-writer's protagonist could figure it out until whatever it stood for made itself plain. For now it was merely a foreboding omen that cast a shadow over the back of his mind while he smoked his final drag.

'It does not do well to dwell on dreams and forget to live.' He had heard such sagacity spoken to him by Albus Dumbledore once when he was in his fifth year; James had asked him about for his thoughts on the girl Lily Evans and why he supposed she never turned up at Hogwarts. To which the Headmaster had reminded him that dreaming, albeit healthy and potentially valuable, could be equally as detrimental should one waste away on it. If James recalled correctly, Dumbledore had mentioned saying something similar to the Lily Evans in question; that dreams were made for a dreamer only, and that one can not fully indulge a dream in another. One cannot give another their dream. It is yours to have and to die with. Strangely, James wondered what dreams his mother would take with her when she went...

♣ ♣ ♣

(13th July 1977)

"James!"

Oblivion was a wonderful place to be. Of course it had to be monitored; once shouldn't spend too long in such a place as Oblivion and yet the fleeting moments that were rationed there seemed to be the most esteemed of times.

Oblivion was the sort of destination that distracted one's mind from the veracity of the worst of their anxieties. It did not solve them and that was why such a place was so schmaltzy and must be enjoyed in controlled amounts. Distractions were just as wicked as the thing one was endeavouring to be distracted from if keenly placed. Distractions only seemed to prolong an issue, not make it disappear and so in turn, perhaps they did more damage than good.

But Oblivion seemed to be an addiction to James as of late. He couldn't resist slipping into its warm embrace now and again to imagine the world around him ceased to exist. He was a far cry from hedonistic with his highs but he was developing a fashion of escapism that did no one any good. Haply it was the main reason that Esme-Leigh Bisset, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew found themselves in search of aforementioned Oblivion addict as per request from Sirius.

Peter thought to check the roof first and found him flat on his back, a small pile of cigarette ash by his hand and his legs left to dangle off the end of the roof, looking almost liquified and although he might slide off the building like a raindrop down a windowpane.

"James?" Peter said again, not wishing to climb up to get him as the rain had been spitting for the past hour and his footing would be rather uncertain. Still, James did not stir.

"Prongs?"

Nothing.

Peter then climbed off the windowsill to see Esme-Leigh behind him, her eyes were a tantalising heliotrope today and shimmering with a glare that might have impaled him had he not looked away as if she were Medusa.
"I think he's asleep?"

"He fell asleep in the rain? Merde!" She cursed in an accent that one would never tire of.
"James!" Esme barged past Peter and got into the windowsill herself; a background in quidditch certainly helping her adroitness in movement as she pulled herself onto the roof to confront James. Peter was right, he was asleep.

Sleep did an awful lot of good for James. For one, Esme-Leigh estimated he hadn't slept for at least three days previous, and for another it seemed to grant him a sort of solitude. There was something about watching James sleep that gave her the same feeling; a final ceasefire to the constant worry of where he was, what he was thinking. At least he was distracted in his Oblivion.

"Accio blanket," she murmured and caught the patchwork cover as it soared out the window. Tenderly, she placed it over him and stroked the damp curls from his forehead.
"Sleep well, mon amour," her kiss seemed to burn his frozen forehead, "dors bien."

When she found herself back in the bedroom, Remus and Sirius had joined Peter on the bed, they each sat on a respective corner and waited for her to explain.

"We should let him sleep, the poor darling, he looks knackered."

Remus promptly agreed, "Sirius was just saying that James has been having nightmares. Muttering in his sleep and the works; like he used to do when he first came to the Potters."

"Maybe we should get Marlene? They've always been close?" Peter proposed, surveying the room and its nervous ambiance.

"Are you kidding? She's in a foul mood! I asked her to come round today and she downright refused. Said she wouldn't come round if I paid her until he apologised to Lily."
Remus slumped back onto Sirius' bed and groaned, covering his creased forehead with a scarred pair of hands.

"Shit..."

"I know."

"Maybe we should wake him up," Sirius suggested rather lamely.

"NO!"

"Then what do you suggest we do, Rupert Murdoch?!"

Esme sighed, glancing at a defeated looking Remus and then at the open window.
"Leave him be. We'll leave a note. You invited us to take out James, Padfoot, but the fact of the matter is that he was never going to come anyway," she waved a hand toward the window and it shut itself (much to the alarm of Peter).
"Besides," (smiling now) "its not just James that looks like he needs to have some fun."

Remus let his hands slide a little down his face to peer at Esme with a look of cynicism, a look which had never suited him well; Moony was the type of character that always seemed in control of his emotional displays, the fact he should be so obvious with his expression showed he truly was disbelieving.

Sirius stood first, reaching out a hand to Remus who tried his upmost best to hide the blush on his cheeks before he took it and allowed himself to be pulled up.
"Come on, Moons. Leave James in his little Oblivion and we'll go and find ours."

Esme-Leigh allowed herself a subdued smile, her hair lightened in its shade of cyan by the second. It was no longer half as somber anymore and yet she didn't quite feel as vibrant as it was.
"Come on boys. Wormy, write James a note, will you?"

Peter nodded, pulling a scrap of parchment from the oak desk in the far corner and scribbled a quick message.

"Come on!" Esme took Remus' other arm, noticing he still hadn't let go of Sirius, and guided the marauders to the promise of escapism...

♣ ♣ ♣

(13th July 1977 continued)

Dominos lay in a menacing gyre around him, engulfing him in slabs that leered at him, grinning with their spots and laughing with their lines.

They were cold. The slabs were glacial-cold ceramic, the type that makes you flinch when it comes anywhere near warm skin.

It was dark. A naked lightbulb flickered as though it were trying to cling onto its last piece of life before it cried out and perished with a fizzle.
He knew this place well. He'd been here again and and again.

Now it was time to fall...

♣ ♣ ♣

Ultimately it was the rain that woke him. Just before he was due to go tumbling to the ground and lie among the slabs like a corpse he was awoken by the rain slicing his olive skin.

James didn't remember bringing a blanket on to the roof with him but regardless he was grateful it was there. Even in the summer he might have caught a chill.
His cigarettes were ruined as well. The box had been tarnished by rainwater and the paper had begun to peal. He cursed and threw them away, further out onto the roof as if they might scourge him with their presence.

That was then the thought first crossed his mind.

The thought –that awful thought– that his dream hadn't quite been the same as the others. It just didn't quite sit right with him. Something was wrong. It hit him then and there:

He didn't fall.

The dominos came towards him, they tumbled all around with their searing thuds and yet he had woken up before the final domino could hit him hard in the back and wedge him in the marble. It had wobbled, back and fourth to taunt him but it hadn't fallen. Something was wrong.

James reached his bedroom in a frenzy to see the note left in Peter's chaotic handwriting that he didn't spare the time of reading. Instead he threw himself from his bedroom to his mother's.
He knew as soon as he set eyes on Euphemia Potter that she was about to die...

"Mum?"

She smiled at him. A weak smile, a smile that made her seem almost alien to James because his mother was not weak, and in his eyes she never would be.

"James, dear," she breathed, her breath was laboured but somehow her eyes still seemed to have a certain sparkle in them; a sort of reposeful reassurance that the world was not all cold and rain. It was not all death and damage because as long as he could picture that sparkle then the world would be at peace.

James was at her side before either of them could draw another breath, holding her hand in his. A hand that was already beginning to go cold; he thought of the dominos, the cold slabs he lay beneath...

"How did you know, James? How?"
Euphemia was looking at him with a certain sort of magnitude that conveyed she likely already knew the answer and was pleased with it. Her son. Her miracle.

"I just did. And I wanted to see you, to say goodbye."

"I know. I'm glad you did. So glad."

"But...", a tear smouldered his cheek as it collided with the ice of the rainwater, "but now I'm not sure I want to say goodbye."

Goodbye meant the end, the final domino would fall and the world would cease to turn. Goodbye meant forever and that was too long.

"Okay. We dont need to say it. But I'd like to say something, if you'll let me?"
James nodded profusely, the words 'of course' didn't quite reach his lips but he attempted to get them there in vain.

"I've tried my best to make sure you grew up to be the miracle I thought you were the first time I held you in my arms... James I'm so glad that I was right. You... you are my biggest and my best achievement and I love you so much that it's going to kill me!" She chuckled lightly, taking her son's face in both her shaking hands and catching his tears.
"I... I told you that I had too much to do before I die... I was wrong. I've done it all, I've raised you –and Sirius and Marlene to an extent– and I wouldn't change any of you for the chance to live again. I can die now and be content that I couldn't have done anything more to make you the... wonderful, wonderful young man you are today. I can go off to sleep now, and I can dream, I can, because I always told you sleep is for dreamers but I've got a secret: I've always had dreams, they've just all come true."

Her smile still sparkled, despite her failing voice and yet she seemed hell-bent on speaking. Saying everything that she needed to say before she ran out of time. Sand was falling though the hourglass and she'd be damned if she let it run out.
"Jamie, I am so proud of you."

"Mum—"

"I'm so proud."

(Choking) "do you need anything?"

"I've got it all here with me. But I want to ask you something."
James nodded, once again the words 'anything at all' fell short from his quivering lips.

"One lives in hopes of becoming a memory. So please, never let me leave yours?"

"Okay." He placed his hands over his mother's rested on his face.

"I've one last wish..." Euphemia croaked, still sparkling, "I'd like to hold you. It was a day like this you were born– cold rain in the middle of the night– and when I held you it was the happiest I'd ever been. I didn't want to sleep because then I wouldn't be looking at you. I want to go feeling the same way. Holding my baby like the happiest woman in the world. Is that okay?"

Words are an excruciatingly temperamental medium of communication. Often they don't quite do what they are desired to do: they don't say enough. And so it was wordlessly that James slipped into his mother's bed and rested his head on her chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall as she ran her hands through his damp hair. Neither said anything; words didn't seem fitting in that final moment. It was perfect without them. And so together they listened to the rain as James counted the rises of Euphemia's chest, he wanted to hear the last one. He wanted to feel her last breath like she felt his first.

After she took her twelfth breath James knew there would not be a thirteenth. Her domino had fallen with a soft thud onto the floor, surrounded by the patter of rain as it tin-tacked the marble in pools.
Finally, after a life lived to its absolute fullest, Euphemia Potter was allowed to dream...

(14th July 1977)

It was late. The rain was still trickling onto the ground with a somber patter, the sky seemed to be weeping in mourning as midnight passed them by.
The sun still hadn't arose and the black of night combined with cumulonimbus clouds seemed to obscure any hope of seeing the stars and the comfort they possessed.

It might have been eerie if Lily and Dorcas weren't together, giggling under a thin blanket in the Meadowes' high-rise flat. They were imagining up random, little, ludicrous scenarios for eachother that only seemed to get more peculiar as the night wore on.

It was close to the witching hour when the doorbell rang and the ambiance took a noticeable shift. The two girls shared a look of alarm at the foreboding sound; both knew that Dorcas' mother, Habiba Meadowes, was already at home and that no-one else was due in to the flat. No, this had to be something else.

Dorcas' rose first from the comfort of her warm bed, gesturing for Lily to stay where she was; all traces of mirth had vanished faster than the snap of her fingers.
Whomever had rung the doorbell hadn't called again but there was still a distinguishable figure at the little window by the front door.

It took considerable strength to open said door a crack. Dorcas surveyed the doorstep for barely a second before flinging it open to be confronted with Marlene McKinnon.

Her blonde hair was wet and stuck to her forehead and shoulders; mascara ran down her pale but blotchy cheeks, diluted in a mixture of tears and rain; her clothes stuck to her body and it was only then that Dorcas realised her girlfriend was only wearing a pale-rose nightdress that was stuck to her like a second skin from the furious and icy rain.

"M-mamma's gone!" She stammered, on the verge of an animalistic yell, "she's dead!"

The girl was lead –or rather, carried– inside and upon seeing the state she was in, Lily leapt up to fetch more blankets and pillows to keep her warm whilst Dorcas sat on the bed next to her, caressing her cheeks carefully and soothing the hot tears on her porcelain skin.

It wasn't long before Marlene was dressed in a new pair of pyjamas belonging to Dorcas and buried in a pile of winter blankets. Habiba had been informed of her arrival and was busy making three mugs of hot chocolate for the girls, despite it being mid-July, some things just called for hot chocolate and Habiba Meadowes was famous for how well she made it.

Marlene still hadn't uttered another word since she came in but now the shivering seemed to be slowing down. Her eyes were still vacant of expression but occasionally a tear would tumble out her oceanic blue eyes that refused to sparkle.
Dorcas didn't dare move. She stuck with her girlfriend as long as it took for the words to find themselves in Marlene's possession...

"Mamma... my—" (choking) "my mamma... she's dead. She died... about two hours ago a-and I couldn't stay at home, I... I couldn't..."

Lily was overly reluctant to ask if 'Mamma' was her real mother or someone similar but Dorcas didn't seem to have the same issue. She supposed it was something to do with the level of security one felt with the person they loved.

"Who's Mamma, lovely?"

Marlene glanced up at Dorcas and they locked eyes in a manner that Lily perceived almost desperate.
"She was my second mum. James already called her mum so I got mamma. It had stuck since I was nine..."

Lily felt her heart stop. Completely stop, before resuming in her throat with an electrifying murmur.
"So she's... James Potter's mother?"

Marlene nodded and Lily almost let out a cry of heartbreak.
"So when I... when I said all that... all those things?..."

The crying girl averted her gaze from Dorcas to nod at Lily, all past bitterness seeped away but her nod was still slightly stern over what she had said to James.

Lily felt sick.

She had no idea... no idea! All those things she had said, all those things about his futile issues, and his money and his pretentiousness. All of that was going on while his mother was dying?! This was why Marlene got so angry when Lily had first made the joke. It was why he got so defensive; he was hurting, dying and yet she was bitter, and frosty, and ruthless in response.

Suddenly she was hit with a wave of a feeling so strong it felt inexorable, and she didn't like it. It felt dangerous. There was magic somewhere in that feeling...

Suddenly the room spelled danger, she had to get out before whatever was inside of her got out. She had never hurt anyone with her magic and yet guilt seemed to feel different as it channelled the magic within her. It wasn't the same as rage, or jealously, or betrayal. It was painful, oh yes, but it wasn't the same. She had never hurt anyone with magic but that didn't mean it wouldn't start now...

"I... I need to..." and she fled the room as fast as her legs would carry her and onto the refuge of the bathroom.
She shut the door and submerged herself in pitch black, not bothering to turn the light on before tears of guilt seeped down her face, like acid on her skin and burning off her freckles.

She had never felt regret like it; all those things she had said, all those evil things she had said to him, meanwhile his mother was dying. It was impossible to imagine what she'd done, she refused to allow it to be true. It can't be.

Soon the darkness was unbearable and she switched the light on, facing the mirror and fought the urge to scream.

Black webs coated her face.

They seemed to be coming from her eyes. She was crying webs.
She kept her hand firmly over her mouth to muffle her cries of fright and scorn upon seeing her face in the mirror. She looked like a monster. She felt like a monster.

The webs might have been beautiful if they weren't pouring from her eye, seeping from them like a poison of guilt. They were a silky black, almost grey and they shimmered in the light, perhaps it was the real tears that did that.

Lily merely stared at herself for a while, wondering if they might disappear if she willed it. When they didn't she was forced to think. Think about when this happened before; when she was eleven, the day she cried blood in frustration. Although that had been somewhat painful while the webs didn't seem to do her any harm, physical–anyway.

They streaked across her cheeks and crept along her neck like they wanted to consume her, and she might have let them swallow her in a single bite if Dorcas hadn't knocked the door.

"Lily? You've been a while, are you okay?"

With a lingering stare into the mirror, Lily replied, "I'm fine. Won't be a minute."
The webs scattered like spiders when she spoke, making her doubt they were there at all...

(18th July 1977)

It's almost impossible to imagine quite what it's like to have to plan a funeral for your mother until faced with the very real decisions and very real leaflets from different aspects of said funeral. How does one even begin to choose a coffin? How do they pick flowers? A Headstone?

This was the issue faced by the group of four, James Potter, Fleamont Potter and Sirius Black and Felicity McKinnon as they sat in the Potter's library, some staring at the various funeral plans and others into the abyss, or out the window.

"This is bullshit." Sirius exclaimed after far too long a silence. Fleamont didn't quite have the heart to apprehend him, largely because the boy was spot on: it was bullshit.

James nodded, still in some sort of face off with the blue sky outside.
"How so?"

"Well... mum was important. She was really important as a witch but she was equally as important to muggles and muggleborns in the work she did. I think it's unfair that we should be giving her an extensive wizard funeral when muggles and Muggleborn relatives can't celebrate her life..." he paused for a moment, appearing as if he were going to say more, "that's it." He concluded instead.

This prompted Fleamont to smile for, perhaps, the first time since he returned home from Newcastle to the news of his wife's passing.
"You're absolutely right, Sirius. The Magical Peace Process was just about her entire life and it meant a lot to muggles and muggleborns..." he paused to ponder this next lexical choice for a short moment before reaching across the table and taking a leaflet from a pile near Felicity.
"How about a muggle funeral? She'd like that. And we can make sure that all the supremacist purebloods won't be attending as they wouldn't be caught dead fraternising with muggles! It's a capital idea, son! Truly inspired!"

Sirius strived to hide his cheeks flush, "the idea was not entirely mine, though dad. I surely cant take full credit."

"Either way I think the idea is a great one," Felicity agreed with conviction.

A muggle funeral was an open defiance of general pureblood society and therefore a perfectly Euphemia thing to do. She had always said; "rules are recommendations, not orders," and now she was able to put her ideology into practice in one final hurrah.

However at the thought of Muggles, James was painfully reminded of his conduct with Lily Simpson, Felicity was only a reminder of all he had left unsaid for too long.

I have too much to do. Afterwards I shall have an entire lifetimes in which to die.
His mother's words rang through his ears and he came to the realisation that mortality was as not as tangible as he once imagined; it could slip away so instantly and all would be permanently left unsaid. He had to speak to them –Marlene and Lily– and he better do it soon because the longer he left it, the more impossible the burden of his mother's death bore down on his shoulders and made it almost impossible to breathe. He needed Marlene more than he imagined he ever would. He'd talk to her first...

♣ ♣ ♣

(21st July 1977)

James secured a black tie around his neck, folding down the collar and looking up at this reflection. Mirrors were awful liars he had come to realise. They showed everything in reverse, a distorted sort of reality that lead one to believe that everything was in fact inside out.

He was not fooled. The mirror could lie to him all he wanted but now, with his mother gone, he found everything around him to be woefully clear. Nothing seemed to spark any sort of excitement or hilarity which might have done previously. But with this maturity, it wasn't just gaiety that became transparent but also the regrets he had. The things he needed to say, and so that was why he was to head to Marlene's before the funeral; and to Lily's because she deserved an apology from him just as much as he deserved one from her. Poor diplomacy was ultimately the only thing that had held him back but, fortunately, death seemed to humanise him just a little bit. He thought it strange that a death seemed to give him a better understanding of life.

Travel robes firmly clipped round his shoulders he apparated to the McKinnon's holiday flat in London. Upon arrival it was clear the place was hectic with similar preparation as Potter Manor and Felicity McKinnon almost didn't see him pass through the front door.

"James, dear!" She called, a fond smile on her lips as she held out her arms to catch him in an embrace. Felicity McKinnon was a generous woman with greying blonde hair and large blue eyes; she looked scarily similar to her daughter only with a much less vitriolic tongue and sharp glare. She was chronically maternal and so her embrace felt like a reassurance more than a hug. James had always loved Felicity McKinnon.

"Mam!" (Similar to Marlene and her reference to Euphemia Potter as 'mamma', James had often called Felicity, 'mam').

"Marlene's in her room, love. She'll want to see you, no matter what she says. I know my daughter."

James smiled as he was held at arms length, "thank you. I'll find her, then. Hopefully she'll give me as warm a welcome as you."
Her nod was sincere as she left to attend to her husband's struggle with a tie.

James progressed through the flat; recalling just how big the place was for a London residence; before reaching Marlene's room. The door was shut and a small, grey, wooden sign bearing the name Marlene in calligraphic lettering stuck to the door.
He knocked gently before venturing in with acute trepidation.

"Marls?" He said, almost in a whisper when he found her facing her full length mirror. She kept her back to him long enough to survey the room. It was exactly as he recalled, the bed in the corner, mirror at the other side and stacks of notebooks on the desk.
Marlene herself was wearing a black skirt that reached above her knees with a blouse the same colour tucked in; her hair was done up in such a way that made James wonder how it could possibly stay up like that and she wore a black rose spilled behind her ear. The final thing James recognised was a small necklace around her neck; it was rose-gold in colour and bore a small charm of a quill. He had bought it for her birthday last year.

It was only a couple of seconds before Marlene turned around, seeming to be in little rush to confront him. Her eyes scanned him up and down, noticing the dejected expression before making her way towards him, still in little rush, and just before she was directly in front of him she stopped. They locked eyes and it was as if everything they wanted to say to each other became irrelevant, she wrapped her arms around his middle and that was that. Her head was nestled on his chest and it was as if all was right in the world, just for one brief moment the dominos ceased to fall...

♣ ♣ ♣

(21st July 1977 continued)

Lily's house wasn't a minute away from his own and so he found himself at the front gate an hour before the funeral was due to begin.

The garden was handsome in the sense that it was neat. The lawn was well trimmed and there were flowers –mostly lobelia and pansies– trailing along the front of the house. James opened the gate and winced as it groaned.

He was a foot away from the door when he had the flooring thought that he hadn't the faintest idea what he might say to Lily in order to entreat her forgiveness. She appeared to be stubborn but compassionate which would connote to James that in order for her to grant him such a thing as a pardon, he would first have to earn it; the methods he was to use in order to achieve that remained somewhat enigmatic.

A simple 'sorry' didn't seem to cut it and yet he was falling short of inspired speeches as of late: perhaps he was nervous? Was Lily Simpson the cause of such anxiety? Or merely the catalyst to the feelings he was bound to have surrounding his mother's funeral?

Promptly he shook himself, smooth raven curls billowing in the light breeze of the syrupy-sweet day. Death seemed to be in the air and yet the sky seemed serenely oblivious that day.
Lily Simpson was not the reason for his nerves.

The door seemed awfully intimidating in the light of day. No matter how many times he had dreamt of marching down to her house and apologising with a flurry of poetise, now it seemed almost unthinkable to even touch the wooden knocker lest he be burned or something of the like.

"This is fucking stupid." He hissed at himself, pushing his glasses into his nose and promptly thumping himself in the forehead with his fist. It was rather, in layman terms, fucking stupid to be so foiled about a door and yet he couldn't shake the thought that she wouldn't be ready to forgive him.
The thought of attending his mother's funeral with such a thing weighing on his mind seemed deplorable and so with a final sheepish look, he cursed his lack of Gryffindor spirit and fled the scene; hoping to merlin or whatever god might be up there that she hadn't seen him.

(21st July 1977 continued)

Lily was in her bedroom when she noticed the front garden was being disturbed by a boy with raven curls and rather broad shoulders. He was wearing a white shirt and a black tie which looked as though it had been redone several times out of nerves. Her heart left her body for a fleeting moment as she came to reality regarding what today must be. Today must be the day of his mother's funeral.

The boy stood skittishly at the front gate, looking almost humorously out of place in the pedestrian-ness of her cul de sac; he took a moment to gather the courage to even open the gate (which made him cringe as it creaked) and proceed onto the footpath that led to the doorstep. He walked to the front door and Lily had to crane her neck to see him stand there for a moment, collecting himself and clearly overthinking at about a million miles an hour. His usual facade of debonair seemed to fade when he fancied nobody was watching him; out on the step, alone, he came across much more vulnerable and from what she could make out he seemed much more sad although she guessed that might not change for the foreseeable future. He seemed more approachable in this state, much more human, normal– although she usually detested normal, Lily supposed there were some cases in which it was acceptable, this being one.

He couldn't have been there for more than a minute and a half but it still seemed a peculiar amount of time to be standing on a door step without knocking. Lily was almost tempted just to open the door. That was when he finally turned and left, this time hopping over the fence instead of taking his chances with the creaking gate.

As she watched him go, Lily was filled with excruciating sympathy. She had always been an empathetic creature and so just seeing him on such a day filled her with helplessness. She had been cruel to James and now she needed to find a way to show it...

(21st July 1977 continued)

Sirius' idea of a Muggle funeral turned out to be an inspired one, such a death even made the prophet back page, with a column dedicated to Euphemia's life written by none other than her favourite columnist, Ophelia Taggartsworth.
The column was a fitting tribute to Euphemia and her achievements for wizards and muggles alike; a picture of her in her early thirties accompanied the piece, she was smiling widely in the sort of naivety that someone young and successful like that enjoys. James didn't remember the last time he had seen her looking so jovial, he held on to the picture, slipping it into his pocket.

The turnout at the funeral was considered spectacular. People filled the building and the outside in the cemetery she was to be buried and more. People there to pay their respects crowded like flocks of sheep in aid of Euphemia Potter and her progressive dreams for muggle and wizard civilisation.

But among it all James Potter stood alone, admiring a sunset that had begun to sweep over the horizon of the countryside like an angel's kiss.
He'd survived the service with reasonable detachment from reality, if he imagined that his life was a mirage then perhaps he might just live as if the world weren't real. That was his thinking. And now he was alone outside the service building; an old church that didn't quite serve as such anymore, it was more used for private functions such as this one; regardless James was obliged to such a picturesque setting to lay his mother to her dreams. The scene was gorgeously melancholy and he wasn't overly sure he ever wanted to leave the headstone he stood by, despite the aching pain in the back of his throat, perhaps it was the realisation that once he left the mournful setting real life would begin again. Real life without his mother. That didn't seem real at all...

James was too engrossed, dreaming away in a world of doleful fantasy that he was yet to notice the figure behind him. She had been there a while, perfectly still and serene, watching him with somber curiosity. He still took no heed to the figure until she was standing right next to him.
The figure wordlessly slipped her hand into his and held tightly onto his arm, forcing herself into his side where she fit like a jigsaw.

Lily Simpson was looking up at him, her skin aglow like a thousand sunsets and her eyes glittering with the sort of look that melted away anything he had previously thought of saying. She looked like a miracle standing there; so much so James almost didn't trust his judgement that she was even there.

Her soft smile seeped into his veins and brought him back to life. He felt as though he didn't need anything else but her smile and he could be content for a lifetime. Lily was haply the best possible thing he could have seen in that particular moment.

They stood like that for a while, words seeming incompetent in that moment, sort of anticlimactic. He returned her smile and apologies were long since made, wished away by a gorgeous grin that he wanted nothing more than to keep engraved in his memory.

"Come on." She let go of his arm but kept a grip on his hand and pulled him gently back towards the church, as one might coax a child.
Obediently he followed, allowing her to guide him inside and coming to the realisation that he might follow her anywhere she asked, be it to the very pits of hell.

Once inside she didn't stop, instead they progressed up a set of stairs cornered off in a place James had not noticed when he was first inside. Without dropping his hand she guided him up a gyre of stairs, losing him in the spiral until they emerged into a glow of incandescent saffron light of the evening. It reminded him slightly of the astronomy tower, only this space was rectangular rather than surrounding a turret of Hogwarts; it wasn't quite as high either but the English countryside in that light was something one couldn't forget in a hurry.

Lily turned and smiled her divine smile once again, this time the light was hitting the top of her head in such a way that reinforced the idea that she was miraculous. Unlike Esme-Leigh in the sense Lily was not angelic like she was, although celestial, Lily was not an angel, she was a miracle. Hope, life, love, magic.

"I like coming up here when there's nice sunsets. It's a public building so you can come at anytime, although I set out to take pictures I usually just watch the sun instead. Some things are too beautiful to keep a paper copy of. They should be kept in your head where it'll never leave."
Lily squeezed his hand and ventured farther out onto the rooftop, pulling him with her until she sat with her legs hanging off the side. James perched next to her and they relapsed into silence as the sun bid a glorious farewell behind the hills.

Eventually, almost meekly, Lily's head came to rest on James' shoulder. She didn't move for a while, almost as though she was getting a feel for how she fitted there, then, without much of an indication she turned her head to place a kiss on his shoulder. A jet of lightning shot though his arm and it seemed to be on fire.

That was the moment he realised. At long last he understood his dream...
The dominos connected everyone, everything he had ever known, every choice he had ever made.
If his mother hadn't been sick then Marlene wouldn't have come to stay with the Potters over the summer; in turn he wouldn't have been invited to spend time with her and Lily at the coffee shop and they would never have exchanged such harsh words. If his mother hadn't died then Lily wouldn't have showed up to comfort him and offer an olive branch, and he wouldn't be sitting here, exactly where he was now, with Lily fit on his shoulder, slotted like she had never fitted anywhere else quite like this.
It was then he realised just how closely everything was connected, one to another, the next to that. Everything we do has some sort of effect, almost like dominos, one falls– the next follows. In his dream this continued on, and on until with a final thud they had all fallen; but this was not his dream. He was not a domino. He refused to fall...

This was quite a highly anticipated chapter so I'm really glad it's out! I realise this book has a heavy theme of dominos, playing cards, dreams, memories and shit but I am addicted to repetition and theme so you're gonna have to deal with it!

Anyway, let me know your thoughts and if you have any theories then I'd love to hear them!

So much love,

Abbi ♥️