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They are six and learning to fly.
He creeps down the staircase, nimbly avoiding the second-to-last step on his way down. That one has a tendency to squeak, and the last thing he needs is to get caught. When he finally steps off onto the ground floor, he unlocks the broom cupboard and reaches for the largest broomstick in the very back. Its bristles rustle as he grips the wooden handle and pulls it toward him. He waits, but his parents do not wake. Grinning, he skips off toward the back garden and whispers a silencing spell as he goes, broomstick in hand.
Technically, he is not allowed to ride a broomstick of this size. He has a small Comet 180 that barely flies faster than the toy broom he rode as a toddler, and his parents warned him not to touch his father’s old Nimbus 1001 until his seventh birthday. But James Potter has never been very good at sticking to what he is allowed.
He swings a leg over the handle and kicks off from the ground, startled by how quickly the broom responds to his commands. It lurches forward haphazardly and nearly throws its rider off, but James hangs on with dogged determination, his eyes narrowed in concentration against the thick darkness of the night. He readjusts his hold on the handle, tucks his legs tightly beneath him, and silently commands the broom with a light nudge of his palm: up.
The broom soars into the air, flying straight into the heart of that star-speckled sky and leaving the roots of mere mortals far behind. The wind batters his face, leaving sharp, stinging cold upon his cheeks. He takes in a deep breath and urges his broom onward.
This — the fluttering in his chest, the weightlessness in his stomach — this must be what it feels like to be alive, he thinks. And he doubts he will ever love anything as much as he loves this.
A hundred miles north, she is racing along the river with her sister, who has always been older and wiser and faster. Her small legs clamber over uneven stone, her arms pumping with effort to keep up. “Petunia,” she wheezes, but her sister does not turn around. “Wait for—”
Her words are cut off by a shriek as one of her feet slips over the water-worn rocks. She falls backward, scrambling for purchase and finding nothing but empty air. The frothy grey waters of the dirty river churn relentlessly beneath her, and she knows in a second her body will be swept away by those unforgiving currents. She holds her breath, braces herself for the icy cold...
And nothing happens.
She hovers there in mid-freefall, arms splayed, eyes squeezed shut. But the waters keep rushing below, undisturbed by her presence as she hangs mere inches above the surface. It takes her a second to pry her eyes open, and one more to realize she’s floating above the water, protected by a pillow of air that separates her from disaster.
Slowly, as if responding to her will, the pillow nudges her upright and sets her gently back down on the bank of the river. She turns to see if branches broke her fall, or perhaps a particularly well-placed trampoline, but there’s nothing. Just the same churning, relentless waves, and an eager tremor in the pit of her stomach.
“Lily?” Now, at last, her sister turns around. “Lily, what was that?” Her voice is an equal mix of fascination and fear.
Lily Evans shakes the damp from her hair as best she can and says, in a reverent voice: “I think I just flew.”
Petunia places her hands on her hips. “That’s impossible,” she says, sounding as if she doesn’t quite believe herself. “Can — can you teach me?”
Lily doesn’t have it in her to say no to her sister, even though she hasn’t the faintest idea how she did it in the first place. So she agrees, and excitement bubbles in her chest as she thinks of the two of them learning how to fly together. What a pair they’d make, the sisters Evans, racing through the sky with not a care in the world. And what a hero she’d be, for passing on this extraordinary skill to Petunia, who would surely be in such gratitude that she’d never turn Lily down for anything again. Oh, to see Petunia fly!
Except... she doesn’t.
Not on her first try, nor on her second, or her third. She tries over and over again, but by the tenth try, all Petunia has to show for it is a soaked dress and chattering teeth. “You taught me wrong,” she snarls, and stomps home in waterlogged shoes without waiting for her sister to follow. Lily can do nothing but watch her back as she retreats into the hazy distance.
This — the breathless wonder, the buzzing at her fingertips — this must be what it feels like to be extraordinary, she thinks. But she would trade extraordinary for love in a heartbeat if it were up to her.
They are eleven and halfway there.
He rises from his seat with an air of casual indifference, telling the other boy he’s running off to buy them sweets from the trolley witch. When he closes the compartment door behind him, however, he starts in the opposite direction, hoping to follow the girl with the emerald eyes. He peers indiscreetly into each compartment until he spots her telltale dark red curls through the window.
Only when he triumphantly slides the compartment door open and every pair of eyes inside turns toward him does he realize he has nothing to say.
“Er,” he says eloquently, trying to ignore those jeweled eyes of hers. Scrambling for cover, he focuses his attention on the greasy-haired boy seated beside her and sneers. “Be careful out there, Snivellus. I hear they use troll hair grease to clean the bedpans at Hogwarts; best for someone like you to lay low in case they run out of trolls...”
“Why would I, when they could just use you?” the other boy shoots back, his face contorting unpleasantly. “Haven’t gotten offed yet by your own stupidity, have you? Don’t worry, there’s still time to make a proper Gryffindor out of you.”
The red-haired girl leans forward, eyes hard as flint. “Why are you here?” she asks coolly.
His stomach bottoms out as he meets her emerald gaze. It’s the same feeling he gets fifty feet in the air, dwarfed by nothing but the sun itself. But he certainly can’t tell her that, nor that he’s here to see her again, so instead he says, “Your hair reminds me of a Kneazle.”
It’s not even true. Kneazle fur is orange, and her hair is a much darker hue of red. But the flush in her cheeks is vaguely reminiscent of a Chinese Fireball’s scales, and so when she orders him to “Get out, or I’ll turn you into one,” he doesn’t hesitate to comply.
Merlin, he is never trying to talk to that girl again.
Back in the compartment, she crosses her arms and tries to figure out what a Kneazle is.
It’s foolish, that this is the thing about their conversation that upsets her most. When she first got her letter from Hogwarts, she was so overcome with joy that not even her sister’s sour expression could ruin her mood. Here was a whole world of extraordinary people, people just like her. Here was a whole world where she would finally be known, and accepted, and perhaps even loved.
And then she set foot in Diagon Alley, where the shopkeepers wouldn’t take her Muggle money, the goblins dismissed her upon hearing her last name, and people in the streets turned to stare at her blue checkered sundress. Unfamiliar syllables flew over her head, words like Deluminator and Patronus and firewhiskey. A particularly nasty patron laughed in her face when she asked if she could bring an ink pen to Hogwarts instead of a quill.
So when the messy-haired boy casually compares her hair to a Kneazle, as if he’s been using such terms his entire life, she comes to the dawning realization that this new world doesn’t love her all that much, either.
“Arrogant, entitled, self-important git,” Sev grumbles next to her. She hums her agreement and stares out the window at the passing countryside.
Maybe she’s just looking in the wrong place. After all, if she does find love in the wizarding world, it certainly won’t come from an insensitive, attention-seeking pureblood who doesn’t even know how to use a hairbrush properly.
If she never has to talk to him again in this lifetime, it will be too soon.
They are sixteen and invincible.
He kicks his broomstick into the air, not toward a star-speckled sky but into a roaring crowd of hundreds. The section of the stands in red and gold hollers as he launches into flight; he can feel the same stinging wind on his face and electrifying swoop in his stomach as he did at six years old, and Merlin, has he missed this.
The whistle blows. His senses sharpen until there is nothing in all the world but the match, the Quaffle, and the three goals at the end of the pitch. He dives instantly for the red ball and tucks it firmly under his arm, weaving through a blur of robes in blue and bronze. The goals loom closer and closer as he dashes across the pitch.
At the last second, he pulls up short. The Ravenclaw Keeper’s eyes narrow, then widen with realization. It comes a second too late; James releases his grip on the Quaffle, his teammate catches it before it hits the ground, and the ball sails cleanly through the far-right hoop. Goal, Gryffindor.
The match is over quickly. Gryffindor’s Seeker finds the Snitch in no time at all, and the match goes down as one of the shortest ever in Hogwarts history. Still, James’s chest swells with pride for his house, his team, his people. Where dwell the brave at heart, indeed.
When he touches down again near the stands, a mob of rowdy Gryffindors swarms their beloved Quidditch captain, but he only has eyes for one: an emerald-eyed girl blazing her way through the crowd. She looks intoxicated with victory as she throws her arms around his neck, momentarily forgetting that they’re supposed to be fighting, that she’s supposed to despise him.
He wraps his arms around her and pulls her in close anyway. As he inhales the fresh strawberry scent of her hair, he thinks of adrenaline, and life, and what it means to love.
A month later, she receives her O.W.L. results.
She’s sitting at a table at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour when the letter drops into her lap, delivered by a tawny owl that demands a nip of her Earl Grey-flavoured ice cream before heading on its way. She pushes the bowl away and slides her finger under the waxy Hogwarts seal, prying the envelope open until a thick piece of parchment falls out. Ordinary Wizarding Level Results, the top reads.
Save for a pesky E in History of Magic, the report contains O’s across the board. She can’t help letting out a small shriek of happiness at the results; all those hours in the library, the late nights spent revising by the light of a candle in her dorm room — all of it well and truly paid off.
Her excitement draws the attention of other customers nearby, but only one has the courage to approach her. “All right, Evans?”
Something in her stomach flutters nervously as she stands up to face him. She tries not to read too much into it.
“Potter,” she says as indifferently as she can manage. “I thought you’d be off in Mangalore for the summer.”
He grins. “I knew you were paying attention. Unfortunately, I’m still here for another week.” Carelessly, he hoists himself onto the table without asking and nearly knocks over her ice cream. “So? What is it that’s got you making a scene this early in the morning? And by the way—” He peers into her unfinished bowl of ice cream. “Who eats ice cream this early in the morning?”
“Oh, like you have any right to tell me it’s too early to do something,” she says, taking a stubborn bite of the half-melted ice cream. “I can always hear you sneaking out at dawn to practise Quidditch, you aren’t as subtle as you think you are.”
He conjures a spoon and steals a bite of her dessert, gazing up thoughtfully. “Practising Quidditch and eating ice cream are two very different early morning habits. And you still haven’t answered my question.”
Reluctantly, she holds up the parchment with her O.W.L. results. “I got my O.W.L.s back today.”
He leans forward and scans the report. “Merlin, Evans, O’s in all classes?”
“I got an E in History of Magic,” she tries to say modestly, but he sees right through her effort.
“That’s rubbish, Binns grades us randomly anyway. What career are you going for again?”
“Healing, hopefully.”
“So with these results, you qualify for all the required N.E.W.T.-level classes, don’t you?”
She ducks her head to hide the pleased flush in her cheeks. “I do, you’ll be seeing me at St. Mungo’s in no time.” She glances up and adds, “With the amount of trouble you get into, I’m sure you’ll be seeing a lot of me.”
He slides off the table as his face breaks into a grin, warm as the summer sun. “I’m counting on it,” he says. Then, before she can react, he picks her up and whirls her around in the air with a whoop of celebration. She laughs even as she playfully shoves him away, and wonders if maybe love isn’t so difficult to find after all.
They are eighteen and in love. She gifts him a hairbrush for his birthday; he Transfigures it into a flower and tucks it behind her ear.
They are nineteen and forever. During the ceremony, he whispers in her ear of where they began: a messy-haired boy barging into a compartment, an emerald-eyed girl threatening to hex him. Here they stand now, hands clasped, rings glinting silver in the moonlight.
They are twenty and a family. When she holds her son in her arms for the first time, she thinks she’s never experienced a greater joy than this. They plan it out together: years and years of birthday parties, of Honeydukes trips and Little League Quidditch matches. She holds his tiny fists in her own, kisses those soft curls of his that are so much like his father’s, and thinks how she can’t wait to see her little boy grow up.
They are twenty-one, and learning what it means to fall.