I.

Lily and James

Real

18 July 1980

Lily winced as James leaped up from the sofa and began pacing back and forth in front of where she was sitting, cross-legged, in the parlor of their little Godric's Hollow cottage. She closed her eyes, resting a hand on her enormous stomach. "James—"

"It's a lie, Lily," he said harshly, curling his hands into fists and walking even faster. "It's got to be a lie. This—this can't—it's not true. It's a mistake."

Lily's heart seemed to twist into a painful knot and lodge itself in her throat. She swallowed, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms. "Dumbledore said that the information was passed to him from Voldemort's innermost circle—"

"And yet, he refused to tell us who it was!" James barked, swiveling around and flinging a hand in the air. "What the hell does he mean by innermost circle anyway?"

"I don't know," Lily said quietly, staring down at her lap. "But it's not a mistake, James. If Dumbledore says it's true—"

"Do you want it to be true?" James demanded.

Lily's eyes filled with tears, and she jerked backwards. At once, all of the anger and indignation drained from James's face and he fell to his knees in front of the sofa, his expression aghast.

"Damn it, Lily—damn it—I didn't mean that—I swear, I didn't," he said frantically, pressing his face into her lap. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—" he broke off, letting out a horrible, keening noise that sounded as though it had been wrenched from his chest, dry and broken.

And suddenly, Lily couldn't be angry. All of the terror and the anxiety she had felt in the past four hours crashed over her once again, and for a second, she was back in Dumbledore's office, listening to the old headmaster say words that she had never imagined she would hear in her worst nightmares. Pressing her lips together, Lily wrapped her arms around James's neck and buried her face in his shoulder before he could see her tears. It was crushing and suffocating, but Lily didn't care. She needed to hear the steady rhythm of James's pulse, needed to know that he was alive, that he was real—because nothing—nothing—in the world could ever be real again…not if their baby was in danger…

It was several, long minutes before Lily pulled away, and not because she felt any happier—but because she had run out of tears to shed. Closing her eyes and letting out a shuddering breath, she wiped her cheeks with the sleeves of her cloak. Then, she opened her eyes and looked at James. His eyes were bloodshot and his cheeks were tearstained as well. Carefully, Lily reached out and wiped them, too.

"We should probably set up the protective wards over the house, like Dumbledore said," James muttered, scratching his stubbly face and staring down at Lily's knees.

Lily nodded, gently running her fingers through James's unruly hair. James met her eyes, his expression so earnest, so fierce—and so reminiscent of the stubborn sixteen-year-old boy that he had once been—that Lily's heart melted a little.

"I'm going to keep us safe, Lily," he said firmly, his eyes blazing. "I promise."

"I know you are," Lily said softly, resting her hand on James's cheek. "I'm going to keep us safe, too."

Slowly, James reached out and laid a hand on her stomach. Lily placed her hand on top of his and guided it to a spot that was a few inches below her heart. An unmistakable flutter moved beneath their intertwined fingers—and for the very first time that evening, they smiled.

II.

Fleur and Bill

Fight

12 April 1996

Fleur Delacour had always known she was beautiful. Aunts and uncles, classmates and strangers had all made it very apparent to her. As a young girl, Fleur had reveled in examining her reflection in the mirror, in memorizing every last inch of her face, the deep, clear blue of her eyes, the soft flutter of her silvery tresses. She had admired the way she moved, perfecting an ethereal glide that turned heads everywhere she went.

And for most of her life, Fleur had thought that that was enough. She could swish into job interviews, sashay into social circles. She wasn't stupid, certainly. But it didn't hurt to be able to charm her way towards whatever she was after…

A soft knock on the front door of her little Diagon Alley flat startled Fleur out of her thoughts, and she jumped. Glancing at her reflection in the vanity one last time, Fleur turned and hurried out of her bedroom, towards the front door. She was already smiling as she pulled it open.

"Hi, pretty girl," Bill greeted her tiredly, leaning down to kiss her cheek as he entered the flat.

Fleur closed the door behind him and watched him sink into her snug, little sofa, rubbing his eyes with an exhausted grimace.

"You are vairy tired," she said softly, perching herself on the arm of the sofa and combing a hand through his long hair.

Bill looked up at her and smiled. "Don't worry about it," he told her gently. "I've just had a long night."

Fleur bit her lip. "Eez it because of ze Order?"

Bill closed his eyes and sighed. "Things have been…more difficult, ever since my dad got hurt in December," he said heavily. "Now, Mum's worrying herself sick about Ron and Ginny being at Hogwarts without Dumbledore—and from what Professor McGonagall has said, it looks like Fred and George are one incident away from expulsion—" he broke off abruptly and met Fleur's gaze, his expression suddenly stiff. "But you didn't hear any of this, all right?"

Fleur nodded, averting her eyes. "Bien sûr," she said quietly.

Smiling, Bill wrapped an arm around her waist and gently tugged her into his lap. Fleur fell back against his shoulder, her curtain of silvery-blond hair spreading out behind her like a halo. Absentmindedly, Bill reached out and tangled his fingers in her tresses, trailing kisses down her neck. Goosebumps erupted on Fleur's arms and she closed her eyes, leaning into Bill's embrace.

"You're beautiful," Bill whispered in her ear—and suddenly, something snapped awake in Fleur's mind. Pulling abruptly away from Bill, Fleur slid out of his lap and onto the sofa, crossing her arms.

Bill frowned at her. "Something wrong?"

Fleur gazed at him, squaring her shoulders. "Zere are many theengs zat are wrong, Bill," she told him seriously. "Which eez why I 'ave sometheeng to tell you."

Bill's expression became wary. "What is it?"

Fleur lifted her chin, trying to summon as much certainty and resolve as she could muster. "I want to join ze Order."

Bill's jaw dropped. "You—what?"

Fleur scooted closer to him, keeping her tone and her gaze even. "I want to join ze Order. I want to fight with you."

"You want to…" Bill trailed off, looking utterly astounded. "You—don't get me wrong, Fleur, I'd hate to be caught in a duel with you—but…this doesn't have to be your fight. You don't need to put yourself in danger. You—you can go home and be with your family—be safe—" he stopped short under the look Fleur threw him, eyes widening slightly.

"Cedric Diggory was my friend," Fleur told him fiercely, shaking her hair back and eyeing Bill sharply. "'E was a good man, and 'e was always kind to me—and—" Fleur swallowed heavily, "—and I will never forget ze look on 'Arry's face when 'e came back from zat maze. Zis eez my fight, Bill. It 'as been my fight ever since zat moment."

She sat up straighter, holding Bill's gaze with so much intensity that he was forced to look away. And as he did, Fleur saw a rather stunned smile lifting the corners of his lips.

Fleur Delacour had always known she was beautiful. Aunts and uncles, classmates and strangers had all made it very apparent to her. But Bill Weasley was the first person to remind her that beauty was only half of it—that character, and conviction, and confidence were the other—and now, Fleur would fight, to show Bill that she understood. That she was fierce, and brave, and real, and not just an idle girl, content with sitting on the sidelines of his life, satisfied with his half-told stories and his feeble explanations.

Fleur Delacour had always known she was beautiful. And now, she knew that she wanted to be more.

III.

Hannah and Neville

Warm

24 December 2002

"They won't be able to say anything," Neville told her in a low voice, for the sixth time that evening. "And they might be a—a little nervous around you—since they've never seen you before—"

"Neville," Hannah interrupted gently, holding him by the shoulders and stopping him outside the double doors of the Janus Thickey Ward. "I understand."

Neville swallowed heavily. "I just—I don't want you to be…" he trailed off, averting his eyes.

Hannah sighed softly and took Neville's hand, interlacing their fingers. Then, she leaned up and kissed his cheek. "I want to meet them," she whispered in his ear. "And I'm ready, I promise."

Neville's fingers tightened around hers, and he met her gaze, his expression momentarily inscrutable. Then, at last, with a slightly stiff nod, he turned and pushed open the glass doors, leading Hannah inside.

The inside of the ward was homey and beautifully decorated for the holidays. The walls were lined with garlands of holly and shimmering streamers, and large red and gold baubles hung from the ceiling. The very moment they walked in, Hannah and Neville were greeted by a warm, plump, middle-aged Healer who was wearing a Father Christmas hat.

"Neville!" she greeted Neville merrily, engulfing him in a tight hug and kissing his cheek. "I was wondering when I was going to see you. Your grandmother came by earlier."

Neville gave her a small smile. "Violet, this is my girlfriend, Hannah."

Violet beamed at Hannah. "But of course you are!" she cried happily, embracing Hannah, as well. "Well, come on in, then…come in…right this way…"

Hannah followed Neville and Violet further into the ward, toward a pair of beds in the far right corner. Heart racing slightly, Hannah watched as Violet drew back the curtains and peered into the enclosure, talking softly to the inhabitants. Then, Violet stepped back and smiled expectantly at Hannah and Neville. Exchanging a half-glance with Neville, Hannah ducked inside. Immediately, her breath caught in her throat.

They were thin and worn, wispy and white-haired. Their eyes were overlarge and sunken, and their expressions were heartbreakingly blank. And yet, Hannah saw Neville so clearly in the softness of Frank's features and in the sweetness of Alice's face. Ignoring the enormous lump in her throat, Hannah took a step towards the bed.

"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom," she said, very softly.

Frank stared vacantly at her from his cot, raising his fingers in something of a greeting, but Alice seemed to shrink back against her pillows, her eyes widening. At once, Neville stepped forward and placed his hand on Hannah's shoulder.

"It's all right, Mum," he said quietly. "This is Hannah, my girlfriend."

Alice's glassy eyes found Neville, and almost immediately, she relaxed. Reflexively, or so it seemed, she reached for a small pile of empty Drooble's gum wrappers on her nightstand and held them out to Neville. Carefully avoiding Hannah's eyes, Neville bent down and accepted the wrappers from his mother. "Happy Christmas, Mum," he murmured, staring down at the wrappers as though they were all he could ever wish for in the world—and the lump in Hannah's throat seemed to double in size.

Pressing her lips together, Hannah moved forward and slowly took a seat on the tiny stool at the foot of Alice's bed. "I…I really wanted to…come see you both on Christmas Eve," she said softly, her voice shaking a little. Reaching into her cloak, Hannah produced two soft, woolen caps. "Neville's gran's been teaching me how to crochet, and—well, I remembered the hospital getting a little chilly during the wintertime, from when I used to work here—and—" Hannah paused, trying furiously to suppress the tears that were threatening the corners of her eyes, "—and I really wanted to make sure that you were both warm for the holidays."

Hands trembling, Hannah held up the hats. There were several beats of silence as Frank and Alice both looked at them. Then, very gingerly, Alice reached out and touched the downy periwinkle blue fabric with her frail fingers.

Hannah's eyes filled with tears. She turned to look at Neville, and her heart stuttered to a stop. His expression was blazing—warmth, and love, and gratitude etched into every premature line of his face—as he gazed at her. Hannah's tears spilled over.

"I love them, Neville," she whispered.

Neville didn't respond—or perhaps, he was unable to. He simply nodded, taking a seat on the stool next to Hannah's, and watched his mother stroke the finely knit lines of her little snowcap.

Author's Note:

So, I found these little vignettes stashed on my laptop, and I realized that they all have a common theme...so I lumped them together, put a bow on top, and gifted it to all of you lovely readers. :D Hope you enjoyed it! Drop me a line!

Disclaimer: Bill's nickname for Fleur in this story ("pretty girl") is something I read in a story by My Dear Professor McGonagall, and now, I just can't seem to imagine him calling her anything else.

Ari