No. 3, Andante in G-Flat Major
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
-Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–61)
It became a thing very quickly.
It being Regulus and James. James isn't sure how he ever went through life before him. Before seeing each other constantly. Their friendship was a slow blossom of roses. Slowly unfolding before their own eyes. It went from seeing each other every now and then to seeing each other every day. It went from sitting a metre apart to sitting right next to each other. So their elbows touched and their shoulders brushed. It all happened so quickly but so slowly you wouldn't have noticed the small changes in both of them. James didn't even notice the small changes, until he did. He had noticed the way Regulus’ had let his guard down. He had noticed how they spent so much time together. And how it never felt like there was enough time. But he didn't notice what was happening to his heart. He didn't need to. Not now at least.
—
Like the women his mother told him stories about, their family lived on the edge of town. Right near the woods, in between bushes of roses and trees of oak. And like in the stories, their family was seen as crazy. Euphemia often got words hurled at her as she passed by the church on a Sunday morning as she walked to her shop. “Crazy” “Devil worshipper” “going to hell” The words rolled off like water on a duck's back. She kept walking. She kept living, just like how she always has. James was very much like her in that way.
Euphemia was a wildflower. Most mothers stayed at home, did laundry and cleaned the house. Euphemia explored. The land on which they owned had a wide range of plants, herbs and vegetation. All natural. Effie woke every morning, took a basket from the front door and walked on the secret pathways that winded through the woods. She picked berries. She picked flowers. She watered herbs. She planted trees. Every morning without fail she would do this. Then when it was supper time she would take the things she collected and mix it in between the food. They rarely ever had to go into town to get supplies. They all preferred it that way. James had always wondered if there were any toxic plants on their property that could accidentally end up in their food and kill them. But they hadn’t died yet so they must be alright. James was very much like his mother in that respect. While he wouldn't be up as soon as the sun broke from the horizon, he liked to wander. His mother had, when he was small, dragged him outside every morning to teach him of the land. He knew everything about the woods. Every nook and cranny.
Sometimes James would wander from his usual spot under the tree. He would wander around the land. He’d pick flowers. He knew each one by name. He’d pick herbs. He knew peppermint, for tea, would help with his father's ill stomach. Sometimes when he would wander, Pandora would join him. She knew some things James didn't know, about plants in other parts of the country that had yet to grow in this little forest. They’d wander for hours. Usually stopping when it got dark.
“Oh, James come look. Dandelions! Take one and blow a wish into the wind.”
So he did. He picked one and blew. The little white fairies flew away into the wind. James had done this before with his mother. Every time he did it he was always afraid to blow it, scared it would get into his eyes due to a change in the wind or just because he blew it wrong. When he told his mother she took his hand and placed a dandelion in it.
“The earth would never hurt us. Not intentionally. Not if we treat it with respect. Don't be afraid. The earth is a friend.”
It was getting dark. The sun was starting to dip below the horizon. James isn't sure what possessed him but he bid farewell to Pandora and bolted for the oak tree. James knew Regulus wasn't going to be there. He had hoped and hoped and hoped. He prayed to every god he could think of; Eros, Aphrodite, Anyone. But it seems that they didn't hear his pleas. He stood before the bark. Watching as the setting sun cast shadows on the tree. He turned his back to the tree and slid down the side of it. Sometimes, when he was lucky the sun would be positioned just perfectly so that the hill would show time passing. As the sun set the shadows climbed up from the base of the hill. Slowly, slowly the shadows engulfed the hill until it was no more. There was a tree atop the hill though, that stood on its own. Probably some sort of fruit tree by the looks of it. With yellow fruits that contrasted the green leaves. When the sun set you could see the hill in darkness but the tree in the light of the sun. It was almost as if the sun had put a spotlight on the tree. Like it was highlighting its beauty. Once the fruit tree was in complete darkness, James made his way home. The land was silent apart from the soft sounds of creatures in the night. James made his way through the house. Up the stairs. Down the hall. Before noticing it.
—
It was no secret that Fleamont was an artist. He had a whole room to himself in the manor dedicated to painting. The walls were lined with bookshelves. On the shelves were pallets and some paints. Some brushes. On the walls were some of his art. Sometimes his art would lay against the wall from the floor. Waiting to be put up. The hallway outside James’ room was lined with his father's art. It had not changed in ten years. The piece of art right outside James’ room, James had almost memorised. If you asked him to sketch it he could. It was a picture of his mother's hand holding his. His tiny baby hand had been so small compared to his mother's. James could not emphasise enough that this painting had never been moved. This painting has never been replaced. Never moved. Never changed.
Until now.
James was stuck. Standing there. Looking at it. “Father!” he yelled down the hall. “Son, come downstairs and speak to me,” His father always scolded him all the time over his inappropriate yelling in the household. He didn't move though. He stood right outside his door, back toward it. Staring at the painting in front of him. It wasn't the one it used to be. It was a different size. Around 3 centimetres shorter on each side. It had hues of different colours. More greens and yellows. It had a gold frame. Not the same one as before but a gold frame with little gold flowers carved into it. The painting itself was completely different. There were no hands. But there were two boys. There was a tree. A field. A book in one of the boy’s hands. You couldn't see their faces clearly, but you could see the light outline of glasses. James’ glasses. James knew from the second he saw it who those boys were. Regulus was the one holding the book. His attention is solely on the pages in front of him. James was the one who just sat there watching him. The painting was beautiful. You could see every flower, pink and yellow. The trees were so vibrantly green. The book in Regulus’ hands was so blue it contrasted everything. And the sky… the sky was vast and wide. So blue you could swim in it. James’ hand reached for the painting. Right where he and Regulus sat still. The painting felt so real under his gaze that the urge to touch it, to reach out and feel it under his fingers was too great.
“Don’t touch it.”
James jumped at the sound. His father stood at the end of the hall. Right near the top of the steps. “Sorry father,” James took a step back. “Did you paint this one?”
“Of course I did,” Monty started walking toward James “Who else in this house has a perfect view of the fields from their study window?”
They stood and admired the painting in front of them. The brushstrokes seemed so effortless. James knew the patience it would have had to take to paint this. He had tried once when he was little, to paint something with his father. James has never been one for patience.
“I thought I’d imagined him,” James spoke again, breaking the silence.
“Maybe not,” Fleamont replied, turning to face James. “But it's always best to be careful with matters of the heart and mind.” He held a finger to his head and tapped.
“It's nothing,” James looked away, turning back to the painting.
“One day you’ll know.”
“Know what?”
“One day is not today, son. Go to sleep.”
Fleamont walked down the hall. Down the stairs. Most likely toward his own room. James wishes he already knew the secret. He hated secrets. Tell me. He wanted to beg. But he knew it would be of no use. James might be stubborn but his father was more so. So he let it go. He climbed into bed and waited for sleep to claim him. When it didn't he sat in the window sill. And the nightmare started again.
Death came at midnight. It ran after him. It raced through the fields. Trying to catch up so that it could claim another soul. This time he lived a little longer. When he fell he didn't wake up. The pain in his foot felt so real he wondered if it really was. He turned onto his back just in time to see Death walking toward him. Looming over him. This time he woke up when a fire iron hit him over the head and he blacked out.
—
He didn't wake up screaming. He woke up on the windowsill. The hot beaming sunlight woke him. It streamed through the window, casting light on the bed and the floor. It would be a warm day.
When James made his way out toward the tree he didn’t see Regulus. For some reason, he had a feeling that today he wouldn't be seeing Regulus. Some part of him ached. Like something had been taken away from him forever. He only hoped that it’d only be for today. It was nine o’clock when he sat down at the tree. Ten when he gave up looking for Regulus. Twelve when Lily and Pandora came to sit with him. Three when they left. It was five when a boy walked up to him. He looked vaguely familiar. It felt like he’d seen this boy before. His dark grey eyes and dark black hair made him look scary. But his relaxed stance made him seem so much more easygoing. James was sitting under the tree when the boy came to a stop a few steps before him.
“So you’re that boy my brother talks about?” He sounded nothing and everything like James expected. He didn't expect to hear so much of Regulus though.
“Uh- I- What?” James stammered. Regulus had a brother? Why didn't he know this?
“I’m Sirius, Reggie’s brother.” Sirius sat down next to James, picking up a stick from the floor. Sirius waved around the stick in the air. James just watched him. Until the stick went up and then went crashing down onto James’ hand. Thwack! He didn't hit hard enough to cause any pain, just a yelp from James.
“Ah! What’d you do that for?” James asked, holding his hand to his chest protectively.
“Don’t hurt my brother,” Sirius said, still waving around the stick playfully in the air.
“I won’t.” Thwack!
“Liar.” Sirius had hit him again. On the leg this time.
“I wouldn't lie about that,” James got very defensive. Almost hating the boy in front of him but then understanding that it was coming from a place of love for his brother. James couldn't blame him for that.
“I know you think you wouldn’t,” Sirius had ceased all movement and turned his whole body to face James. “But think James. Would you really be able to keep him from harm in a world like this?”
“Like what?”
“C’mon James, don’t you remember?”
Sirius looked pitiful. Whatever he was pitiful about James didn't want to know. His life has been decently alright so far. Staying ignorant would only help him keep the balance.
“All I ask is that you keep him safe. That's all.”
“I will.”
—
James never saw Sirius again. James hasn't seen Regulus either. James wonders if maybe he had said something wrong. Done something to drive Regulus away. It would be four weeks until he saw him again. This time his collar was done up perfectly, and his hair didn’t fall into his face like usual.
“Regulus,” James breathed out, smiling only the slightest fraction. Regulus’ body softened the second he saw James. His posture was gone and he crumpled into James’ arms. James was afraid to make his suit all wrinkled. It had seemed in such a perfect condition. What Regulus was wearing was the least of his concerns. James could feel Regulus’ shoulders shaking. He was crying. James had never seen Regulus cry like this. Ever. Regulus was stoic, cold, calm. He never cried. James just held him tighter. Letting the boy in his arms cry. Letting him feel. They both fell to the ground. Regulus is still in James’ arms. Resting against the tree, Regulus looked up at James. His eyes were rimmed red. James squeezed his shoulders.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Regulus took an unsteady breath in.
“They killed him,” Regulus sobbed.
“Who?”
“Sirius, my brother. They did it 6 weeks ago, they thought he was practising witchcraft.” James kept holding him. Tighter. Maybe it wasn’t that he was holding Regulus tighter but that it was James tensing up. James had met Sirius. It mustn’t have been only a few days since he’d met Sirius. Now Regulus says he’s been dead for weeks. James decides not to tell Regulus of their meeting. Maybe he had imagined it. It wouldn't be the first time. But it all felt so real. The way he looked so much like Regulus. But how. James just held Regulus tighter, he did not want to think of what could be wrong with him. He did not want to suffer anymore. James holding Regulus was just as much for James as it was for Regulus. James was touching him. James could feel his skin more than he ever had. He would live in this moment. Touch Regulus’ soft skin and just be. He’d rather be in Regulus’ embrace than the cold confines of his mind. They lay on the tree as the sunset. The warmth pulled Regulus into sleep. James just watched him. James watched the small figure of a boy fall asleep in his arms. The sun shone on his face, illuminating his features. How James could stare forever. But as his eyelids closed he knew he’d get more chances to do so.