Summer, 1980

Daylight was golden and streaming through the open curtains in a haze, spreading over fabric and furniture alike with unparalleled softness. It caressed and warmed, spilling carelessly into the far reaches of the cluttered room, shades of yellow and gold blending into one another.

Early morning summer breeze made the curtains flutter, casting flickering shadows across the white walls and the room would have been the picture-perfect portrayal calm and tranquility, were it not for the frantic red-and-black soldiers chasing each other around the edges of the toy chest in an unending loop. They'd been charmed into action by her husband's friends, the drawings had, under the impression that it'd make the chest all that more enticing for its future owner. Lily disagreed, both in private and in public, but had not been able to find a charm to counter the original spell, and thus was forced to routinely resort to stupefying it into stillness.

She pursed her lips and vowed yet again to find an effective counter-charm, even if it was the last thing she did, because every time she caught sight of the marching soldiers she felt itty remnants of her school-days rivalry with Sirius flare up, and remembered how they would constantly dethrone each other from the top of the class, and how the effortless manner in which he performed even N.E.W.T. level charms had frustrated her every time she'd witnessed it.

Lily remembered a Saturday afternoon a couple of months ago, her, her husband and his three best friends all together in Godric's Hollow and how, as her hands rested atop her belly and they talked about the future she'd off-handedly said that Harry still did not have a toy chest. Sirius had been outraged, insisted on buying it that same afternoon and vanished into the green flames of their fireplace taking James with him, promising to return soon.

She knew the whole story behind the chest, how it had ended up where it was, pushed against the wall underneath the windows, even if she hadn't been present for most of it. She hadn't been there when Sirius had shown James into the truly magical side of Hamleys, away from all the battery-operated toys that lined the store's front shelves and into rooms where you could pay with galleons and sickles instead of pounds and pence, and said "The finest toys in England, Prongs. Nothing in Diagon Alley could ever match them, so you better start clearing space in that house of yours, as I plan on buying my god-son as many as he wants."

James had told her, when it was just the two of them in bed, Lily resting on her side and James curled up behind her playing with her hair and whispering silly things, lying on top of the bed sheets because that summer the heat was unbearable, of how they'd brought the chest home between the two of them. They'd hailed a cab outside Regent's St. and confused the driver by arguing constantly over what was the fastest way back to Sirius and Remus' flat, and Flooed back to Godric's Hollow from there, proceedings made infinitely more difficult by Sirius' adamant refusal to shrink the chest to a more manageable size, claiming as he did that it would ruin the magic, that one did not resize a magical toy chest and expect there not to be consequences.

It was a completely ridiculous objection, James told her later, but he'd let it slip, because one could not argue with Sirius. When they'd finally stumbled out of the fireplace, covered in last winter's soot, and hauled the trunk into the center of the room, Sirius'd told them all one of his fondest childhood memories - one of his only fond childhood memories, he clarified - opening Christmas presents under his family's heavily ornamented tree, boxes exquisitely wrapped in shimmering paper from the famed store while snow fell outside the windows, regardless of the real weather. Then he'd told Lily to unwrap it, and she'd done so, gasping and staring and rendered speechless afterwards, because it truly was a gorgeous chest, sides sparingly decorated with the store's trademark toy soldiers (who'd been motionless at the time), the inside clearly magically enlarged to hold as many toys as any child could ever wish for. She'd thanked him, and Sirius had beamed and hesitantly made as if to touch her belly, reaching for the god-son that had not been born yet but whom he was fully determined to love, as much as his parents had not loved him.

Taking her wand out, Lily glared at the soldiers, who'd shrugged off the brunt of her previous spell and were sluggishly returning to their endless circling; she stunned them again and watched them for any signs of further rebellion, but they were frozen mid-stride with their tiny blunt bayonettes half cocked and pointed at invisible enemies.

The chest stilled, she allowed her gaze to flutter around the room, the discrete wallpaper James and her had finally agreed upon, the shelves they'd put up under her father's steady gaze and that already held what she suspected was to be the beginning of a book collection whose growth would be hampered only by the intermittent nature of Remus' earnings. Already there were a handful of titles, held upright by two bookends which Remus had also given them, him and Sirius giving separate gifts despite living together.

She reached for one of the books at random and flipped through the few thick cardboard pages, looking at the simple, brightly colored drawings that sought to teach about things as simple as squares and circles, or purple and orange, and fleetingly smiling to herself, imagining Remus standing in front of the children's books sections in a bookstore a few days ago, not quite sure what to buy. He had picked up one of the many available books at random, of this she was sure, and it was neither suspiciously thin nor thick. He had flipped through it, searching it for some hidden quality, a hint that it truly was good enough for his best friend's son, and that it would teach him to love books truly from the start, but he had been disappointed, because how could the word "green" printed in heavy black type underneath a drawing of a stylized pear instill a love for literature?

Unsatisfied, he had put the book back down and picked up another one, this time about socks and shirts and trousers, thinking to himself all the while that really, there just weren't enough sentences to it, that it was all too silly and simplistic and daft and that surely James' son would be smarter than that when he finally learned to read, not quite aware that books like the ones he was purchasing were not meant to be read, but to be disrespectfully defaced with thick crayons.

Lily remembered how Remus acted in bookstores, having walked into him a few times at Flourish and Blotts during their school days, and she knew that as he browsed, he had unconsciously taken a few steps to the right as he flipped through the thick, cardboard books, coming to a stop in front of the section set aside for three- and four-year-olds. Out of curiosity, he had picked one of those up instead, whichever one had the cover that grabbed his attention best, and leafed through it, only to be met with large type and sentences no longer than five words.

Disappointed, he had sighed and walked further down the aisle, stopped in front of books whose authors he remembered from his childhood, and caressed the spine of titles that rang familiar, pulling a couple of them from the shelf and absently searching for his favorite passages of old.

She read aloud to herself, "orange," "purple," and "red" matched to relevant garden fruits and vegetables, as she thought about how Remus, in the end, had retraced his steps back to the beginning and picked up both the book she was holding and the one about clothing, along with another two about random but decidedly monochromatic things. And then, as he stood in line to pay, he had smirked and gone back to the shelf for older children, browsed quickly muttering the names of authors under his breath until he found what he was looking for, and, with a triumphant smile, had returned to the queue.

Returning the book to the shelf, she withdrew instead the much thicker volume that had been the target of Remus' impulsive purchase, smiling again as she found the note he had scribbled with a ball-point on the title page and which she'd found only a few days ago, while browsing through Harry's things, wonder filling her that all of this belonged to her son, the son that hadn't even been born, and yet was so loved already.

Dear Harry, he'd written, This is the first real book I bought you, before you were born, although it certainly won't be the last. I must apologize that it's not brand new and never-before read by the time it gets to you, but your god-father, who's never read Dahl (by the time your mum's done reading the book to you, you'll agree that this is truly a tragedy, I'm sure) insisted upon seeing it that I let him read it first, and surely by now you know how he gets.

I used to read Dahl's books when growing up, and rather enjoyed them, and although I've never read this one I'm sure you'll like it nonetheless - I'm told it's very good.

Love,
Moony
(June 11th, 1980)

"And if all else fails," he'd told her while handing the book to her, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips, "you can always threaten to act like the one in the cover."

Lily hadn't been quite sure what he'd meant until she'd unwrapped the book and been met by a pretty woman wearing elbow-length black gloves and whose smile had a definitely evil tint to it, the words The Witches printed at the top. Her eyes had widened in shock, he'd smiled at her unapologetically and put up no defense the first two times she tried to hit him over the head with the book, all in good nature, but then he'd started dodging her, and she, with her heavy, bulging stomach, had been unable to keep up.

With another fierce look at the still immobile soldiers she replaced the book, noticing as she did so the chip on the dresser, which she kept on meaning to fix but, upon entering the room, always forgot about. Determined not to let that happen again, she reached for her wand, swished, flicked, muttered Reparo and watched with satisfaction as the wood smoothed itself over, until everything looked flawless again.

James' parents had bought that dresser, one of many gifts they'd made their future grandson. Its drawers were now filled with clothing, things so small that Lily couldn't possibly imagine anyone fitting in them, given to them by everyone -- old and new friends alike, grandparents to be, cousins; even Petunia had grudgingly acquiesced and sent a couple of bibs, a bit on the dull side, but certainly serviceable nonetheless.

In the center of the room was the crib, which James had attempted to put together without magic, 'Muggle style,' and which Lily's father had insisted on taking apart and reconstructing from scratch, claiming that he adamantly refused to let his grandson sleep in something so ill-assembled. They'd let him do it, of course, but he'd had to stop halfway through the first time around, because no even a revealing spell managed to find all the screws James had somehow managed to lose while piecing it together himself.

Secured to the crib was the mobile Peter'd bought Harry, which he'd bought in a store that catered to wizards, and therefore played more than a single tune, something Lily was eternally grateful for. Resting next to the soft, tiny pillow was a soft plush tiger, also purchased by Peter. There were other plush animals scattered around the room, of course, including the unsurprising black dog that Sirius had bought and that was perched atop the chest, and the requisite bear, and while the tiger looked like nothing out of the ordinary, Lily had picked him up one afternoon while absently rearranging things and been surprised at the softness of its fur, thinking for a second that she wished her own stuffed toys had been as soft when she'd been growing up.

She'd placed the tiger on the crib, demoted the bear that had occupied that place until then to a spot on the shelves, near Remus' books, and the next time he'd come over, demanded that Peter name it, as it was his gift. But Peter had smiled politely and declined, saying that it was for Harry and that therefore he should be the one to name it, when he was old enough to make somewhat coherent noises. "Because," he'd explained, "it wouldn't be a real gift otherwise, it'd be more like a hand-me-down. Nothing worse than a stuffed animal with the wrong name, besides; some of the ones I had when I was growing up had been my sister's and she'd given them all silly girl names like Muffy. She'd pull on my hair every time she caught me calling them something else, too."

The tiger had slipped down from where she'd left it the last time she'd toyed with it, and was now lying in a slumped pile of plush limbs at the head of the bed, she returned it to its rightful place at the top of the pillow absentmindedly, carelessly patting its head as she rearranged its floppy limbs and ran her fingers through its fur, wondering whether Harry's hair would be softer than this, once he was born. She let her hands drift down to her stomach one more time, so large and heavy but by now no longer foreign, and wondered what Harry would name this tiger, and when he would do it, and whether he would love it enough to do Peter's affection justice.

Lily looked around, at the things surrounding her, all the gifts - Sirius' chest, Remus' books and Peter's toys, all new and bought with more love and thoughtfulness than she'd ever thought possible, coming from three perennial bachelors as they were. If ever had she felt mild bitterness at being robbed the chance of buying her son his first soft toy, or his first book, or even his first pack of nappies, she did not anymore. Instead, she was starting to get used to the idea of her son having four fathers, and not just one.

It was amazing, really, how hard it'd proven to separate James and his friends, to pry them loose from one another and learn about each of them as a separate person, and not as the single entity they'd been popularly thought of. It'd been shocking, finding softness in Sirius Black and cutting sarcasm in Remus Lupin and cunning in Peter Pettigrew, but above all it'd been shocking to find depth in James Potter, whom she'd never seen as anything other than irreverence and mischief grouped into a single, messy-haired form. She'd been very surprised upon discovery of the fact that there was more to the four boys than their ridiculous nicknames and antics, and their constant loss of house points; upon discovery of the fact that James was not a self-centered git, but actually capable of profoundly caring for someone other than himself.

With a loving smile she turned to look at the bed, which they'd already bought because it made more sense than buying a changer and getting rid of it a few months later. And there he was, half dressed and sprawled atop the naked mattress where she'd kicked him off to last night, complaining with a sleepy voice that it was too hot to share a bed and that he was sticky and she was uncomfortable; James Potter, asleep, with rays of early morning sunlight drawing dappled patterns upon his body and an unflattering trail of dried drool descending from the corner of his lips down his chin, and the reason she was standing in her son's bedroom so early in the morning, holding his glasses in her hand.

"James," Lily whispered urgently, shaking him awake with one hand, the other still drawing lazy circles on her stomach. "James!"

Her husband opened his eyes, blinking owlishly to clear the sleep from his eyelids, and she peered down at him, smiling as his hand instinctively searched for the night table and his glasses upon it. "It's time," she breathed, knowing full well that he couldn't see her face as she lied to him, green eyes glimmering with mirth.

James was squinting, his eyes attempting to focus, and he was turning paler by the second, blind without his glasses, expression utterly panicked. "Time? Really? Are you sure?"

"No, silly," she laughed, passing him his glasses, and then felt something shifting, giving and breaking inside of her felt, everything loosening, and felt herself pale as well. "Yes."

"It's time," she repeated, voice now an awed whisper. "It's time, James," and she took a deep breath.