Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Harry Potter universe. If I did, I'd be in Tahiti being chased by hot cabana boys in grass skirts. I'm just borrowing a couple characters for my own imagination. Please don't sue me; you'd get nothing besides a P.O.S. Ford with a lousy transmission and a couple of specs for a lighting grid. I know, tempting, right? ;)
A/N: Before I go, I should explain that I have a definite Marauder's fixation. From said fixation came my pondering on if Sirius and Lily ever happened. I actually wrote a fan fiction on it, *cough ` The Sacrifice' cough* but this is not it. This is what comes out of my head at 2 in the morning during another of my insomniac attacks. It's a one shot, Sirius' thoughts on the relationship (I believe) he had with Lily and her relationship with James. Not in `The Sacrifice' universe. All comments are welcome. I'm a feedback whore. A feedback whore who is shutting up and getting on with the fan fiction. ;)
Once
Once, he'd been sixteen. So had she. He'd been carefree, rambunctious, intelligent, always ready with a quick joke and a charming grin. You had to love him, and he knew it. It was the same with his best friend: you had to love them. They reveled in it, gloried in it. James and Sirius, Prongs and Padfoot.
She wasn't extraordinarily beautiful, like his cousin Narcissa. The lily flower was peaceful; she was anything but… But. It came from the inside: her spirit, her passion… it burned thru her, making her eyes sparkle and her hair flame its dull red. She had more passion in a single moment than he'd ever known for anything.
Once, she'd been his. Before James, before the war, before school was even out, she'd been his. He hadn't told James; he liked his head where it was: firmly attached to his shoulders and not severed away by his best friend's anger. They had kept it quiet, stealing kisses in dark corners and going on midnight walks together. He'd given her a silver bracelet for Christmas, and she wore it all the time. A gift from her sister, she'd said, even though everyone knew Petunia didn't like her sister.
It was in those moments she laughed at his pranks and made him feel like more than a wasted soul. They talked for hours, about things he never told his friends. He found solace in her; she found laughter in him. Neither one said how they felt, though. It was always between them, always unspoken, a silent secret dying to be confessed yet neither of them quite that daring.
Once, he'd taken her for a walk by the lake. There was a weeping willow they liked, and they sat and watched the moon grow fat. It would be time for another adventure for him soon, but for now the wolf in his friend was quiet. He kissed her under the willow, as if he was trying to find life in her lips. They'd kissed, touched, caressed, brought each other up and over the brink. In her passion, she'd said it. She cried his name and she said it. She loved him. He didn't say it back. He said many other things that night, but never that.
They went on like always, indifferent in the halls and adoring when they were alone. She was a prefect; they didn't get much alone time, so it was precious when they did. He told her many things, but never that, and she noticed. He knew it was hurting her, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. She started talking to him less and less about the deeper things, and more and more about the superficial. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts he never noticed how her eyes started moving away from him. He didn't notice until summer separated them that she hadn't said it since that night,
Once, he dreamed about her. It was summer, and the heat was sticking to him, even in the night. He'd dreamed she'd been there with him, loving him like before, and he said it. He finally said it and the light that came into her eyes made him wonder why he'd never said it before. He knew when he woke that he had to tell her. He wanted to see her eyes like they were in the dream. He'd tell the entire world, just to see her eyes like that. It was going to kill James, but she was worth it.
They didn't speak on the train. She was busy with Head Girl duties. James was Head Boy, and he wondered if that was going to make his revelation harder. He sent her a note, telling her to meet him at their tree that night. She came, and he knew he was doing the right thing, telling her. He took her hands and kissed her softly. She looked tired, and he asked her about her day.
Once, she would have told him everything, and he would have loved it. The smallest things could ignite her inner fire, and he loved seeing her eyes like twin pools of green fire. Not that night. That fire was dulled, quiet, sparkling with something he suddenly didn't want to know. He tried to cut her off so he could say it before it was too late, but his voice turned traitor no him and he found he could not speak.
She left. She was gone. And he had never said it.
Once, she'd been his, until she fell in love with James, as he knew she would. James said it all the time; he was never shy about the fact. It filled her, so when he would see her, she shown with a happiness he hadn't been able to give her. They married, and to show what a good mate he was he served as best man. In the two seconds before she said, "I do," her eyes met his over James' shoulder and he knew part of her wished it was him. A thousand things had passed between them in those two seconds, things dear James would never know.
Tonight she was at St. Mungos, resting. Her pregnancy had been hard, but she had finally done it. It was a boy; Remus had called. Harry James Potter. He was to be godfather, and he would. But that was tomorrow. Tonight was for remembering, and wishing. Knowing that if he had once found his courage, that child could have been his. She could have been his, and he could have been the one with the happy life.
If he could have just told her, once, that he loved her.
~fin
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