#aothc

all our time has come update

chapter ten: the hanged man

James jerks awake, gasping, his heart thundering in his chest. He has pins and needles prickling in his hands, and the sheets are sweat-damp and cold, twisted around his legs. Beside him, Lily stirs, the round of her belly tenting the blankets.

all our time has come update:

chapter nine: death

He only wishes – a flash of memories: eyes sparkling behind round glasses; a mouth split open in laughter; a warm spray of freckles across rounded shoulders; a clearing, round and green, peaceful in the sun – well. Regulus doesn’t wish for anything, anymore.  He takes a moment, sits back on his heels and stares around him. It seems like unfamiliar scenery to him, the wind-buffeted fields and the sound of the sea below. Only– it does seem familiar. Something about it sends a pang down to his heart. Something about it is familiar, familiar like his hands around a favourite mug, opening a well-worn book, the particular scratch of his most-used quill.  This is– “Kent.” He says, softly, reverently. He has apparated, without knowing, right to the edge of the White Cliffs of Dover. And as he tilts his head up to the sky and closes his eyes, he feels the first heavy droplets of rain beginning to fall. 

all our time has come update:

chapter seven: the tower

Dear Regulus, Have I done something wrong How are you? You’ve not been back for a week now. Is something I’ve tried using my Head Girl privileges to ask around, but nobody’s saying a word. Awfully loyal housemates of yours.  Sirius is James has Gosh. I’m picking up on James’ awful habit of scribbling out all his words. Listen, if you two have had a falling out, you’ve got a friend in me. Merlin knows he’s been a right dickhead to me enough times. You can tell me all about it if you’d like. Hoping to hear back soon, Lily

all our time has come update:

chapter eight: the lovers (reversed)

The thing about the Order is that it feels a bit like being back at Hogwarts again.  James doesn't really say this to anyone, because he thinks it wouldn’t be a popular sentiment, what with Remus looking increasingly run off his feet, and Sirius turning up every other day with some kind of injury. It’s just that James has always loved duelling – his father loved duelling – and if he squints and looks a bit to the left, what they’re doing just feels like, well, duelling with the training wheels off.  It’s a bit unsettling, how easy it is to slip sideways into being at Hogwarts again. Imagining the curses are just a new set of jinxes that he’s flinging at Snivellus, a well-timed hex to the back of Lucius’ head. Just like school. Same people on either side, a nice, clean Gryffindor-Slytherin match, says a voice in his head, suspiciously like Madam Hooch. 

'Study of a Young Man, Seated,' John Singer Sargent, 1895; 'Dead stag,' Carl Haag, 1853; 'The Vision of Saint Hubert,' Franz von Stuck, 1890; 'And the Spirit of God Moved on the Face of the Waters,' Ivan Konstantinovich Aivazovsky, 1838

all our time has come update:

chapter six: the hermit

His convictions of the last two weeks seem so fragile now, now that he’s at Hogwarts and away from home, now that he’s seen James face-to-face once more. He turns the signet ring round and round on his finger. The silver is cold as ice, and no amount of rubbing seemed to change that. It seems to run hot and cold with a mind of its own. He had been so sure that they should break it— whatever it was— off. It had seemed like the right, the only, thing to do, when he was locked up in the mouldering damp of Grimmauld Place. The ring on his finger was just another feather in the cap of ending things, and his mother’s sneering remark as he got on the train about seeking only suitable company was certainly not subtle.  He knows what the ring meant. He knows where he is being led, like a lamb to slaughter, the twine around his neck like some mocking noose.  It would be better for all of them, James included, if he— if they stop. This is the right thing to do– maybe the last right thing that Regulus will ever do. He presses his cold fingers to his mouth. There is a small and traitorous voice inside of him protesting, would it be so bad if we kissed again, just once, or twice, or again and again and—