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Self Para || The Dawn of an Old Day

TAGGING → James Potter TIMELINE→ January 1st, 1979 SETTING → Godric's Hollow, West Country, England SUMMARY → James wakes up at home, alone. The last thing he remembers is telling Lily to run with Harry, and turning to face Voldemort alone, on Halloween night of 1981 NOTES → Warning for injury mention, description of death/dying.

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For a moment, he feels like he's floating.

Weightless.

A flash of green, the pressure easing from his shoulders. Numbness creeping up his legs, into his chest. He can imagine falling, meeting the bottom of the little staircase in their home, what was once a safe haven now desecrated by the worst betrayal.

There's nothing in his mind, however. No thoughts, no fears, no hesitations. No anger, no remorse. He's done all he can, lived his life as wholly as he could, and now, this is what's left. Snippets of memories, fond and fleeting, drifting by wherever he is.

Harry's laughter. Lily's smile. The smell of Sirius' tobacco. His dad's old pipe.

Remus' blood. Peter's yell. Marlene's tears.

Raindrops on her face. On his hand. The sky, clouds gaping wide, the heavens pouring down on him.

Weightless. Weightless.

Death is a quiet thing. There's no screech of car breaks, or healers rushing around him. There's no screaming, no sound other than his own breath, in and out, in and out, in and..

Quiet.

Maybe his parents had felt the same way. His mother had been found in her bed, his father in the chair beside her, their hands joined between them. Part of him wants to believe that they had died within moments of each other, simply because the thought of living without the other was impossible to bear. He knows that's true love, being unable to go on without the one you chose, the one you cared for, by your side.

He had told Lily to run. To take Harry, and go. The culmination of their love, wrapped up entirely in a soft, woven blanket, a gift from Sirius' cousin. In their last few moments, despite all of his belief about love dying side-by-side, standing together, he had made her go.

Perhaps it would give them a fighting chance. Lily was strong. If she had to face a world without him, with their son, she could do it. Brave, and bold, and every bit the woman he knew. The woman he loved.

Loves.

It's a difficult thing to let go of, but he doesn't want to let it go. Not yet, anyway. Despite the numb that comes with passing on, there's still a warmth nestled in his chest, a calm that's settled there, made a home. He doesn't know how the rest of this story will play out - none of them do, but that wouldn't stop him from believing in it. Nothing would. His life has come and gone, passed through the hourglass and left sitting in a pile of sand at the bottom, but his love holds on tight, like the final few grains that cling to the glass.

Is he ready to go? No.

He doesn't think he ever was. He doesn't think he ever will be. There's an invincibility that comes with fighting a war at the age of eighteen, a thrill of life that comes with winning a fight, again and again and again.

But fatherhood has settled him. Being a husband has settled him. They've spent the past few months in isolation, with nothing but owls, and their thoughts, and their little Harry to keep them going. He doesn't need much else.

They had run out of time. Trust. Like the sand in his hourglass, it had fallen through his fingertips, and he had watched it go, staring down the end of Voldemort's wand with a final sense of realisation.

This was a mistake. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. There was no blaze of glory, no final, epic defeat. He had stared death in the eye, in the quiet of his own home, bastardized by his presence in the threshold, and their peace has been violated. There's no chance of him coming out of it alive, and he knows it.

He barely has time to lift his wand before there's green.

Green.

And nothing.

.

.

.

And something.

It pulls him out from the numb. The quiet is still there, clinging to his skin, curling around his neck with no whispers, no words. There's no explanation for where he is or what he's doing, how much time has passed between then and now, between something and nothing.

It's still in him. That warmth. Love, nestled deep in his chest. It burns the way it always has, lights up inside him like a flower, blooming under the sun. He was never numb, not at all - he had been wrapped up in that warmth, in that love, like a blanket, woven by Sirius' cousin, keeping him safe.

Close.

He's always been close.

They've never left.

And then he's there. With him. With her. With them.

There's a forest, cold and blue-green around them, damp under his feet. He can't feel it, but he knows it's there, wrapping him up in dawn - dusk? He isn't sure. Time has passed. Time is passing. Nothing feels real, solid, but somehow he knows he is there, and there's a man in front of him.

Not a man.

A boy.

Barely eighteen, the image of his father, glasses low on his nose and sweat on his brow, dirt and grime over his face and his clothes, his hands. Hours of fighting a long fight evident on his skin, and in his eyes.

Green eyes.

James knows those eyes.

He settles, standing so close but just out of reach, watching. They've been brought here for a reason, he can feel it, a purpose that sits right at home with the love in his chest. It grows, multiplies, becomes an all-encompassing weight that envelopes him so warmly, and even in the cold of the forest, he feels a belonging. He's right where he needs to be. The boy before them needs him, and he's here, more than ready to stay by his side. He's always been there.

"You've been so brave, sweetheart."

Her voice sounds as calm as he feels, and James lets it wash over him. There's a similar expression on her face, like she knows it, too, though she doesn't look at him to reassure what he's thinking. She doesn't need to.

They're entirely in sync, watching the boy before them. Sirius, and Remus stand on the opposite side, an equal distance apart as James and Lily are, and it feels like a full circle. They're surrounding the boy, wrapping him up, keeping him from harm.

They always have been. They always will.

"Until the end."

James finds himself speaking, the words coming more naturally than breathing. The boy meets his gaze, watching, like he's spent a lifetime waiting for this moment. Nothing about it feels strange, or foreign, - it's easier than walking. Laughing. Existing.

He was always meant to be a father.

"You'll stay with me?"

His voice is so familiar. The boy looks to Lily like he's waiting for the reassurance, the invitation to come home, and she's as warm and welcoming as she's ever been. Maybe this is how she had felt, just before he had come to them, still cradled carefully inside her from the war-torn world around them. Maybe she feels it, too, a pull from deep within that keeps them bound to the boy, no matter what tries to tear them apart. He might look like his father, but he has his mother's eyes, bright green and honest, pooled with emotion and hope.

Green.

She doesn't have to think twice when she answers. It's more natural to her than breathing.

Harry opens his palm, and the stone falls.

.

.

.

James opens his eyes.

It’s dawn. Early morning. Sunlight is just starting to creep through the window in the front room, and he can see it from his position on the stairs, slumped on his side like he had fallen there. There’s a ringing in his ears, a nausea that creeps up the back of his throat and threatens to make him throw up then and there, but he manages to hold it back, focusing on taking a few, deep breaths.

In, and out. In, and out.

He’s exhausted. It’s in his bones, in his head, in his heart. His whole body is aching, physically and emotionally, and he has to sit with it for a moment, trying to remember why he’s doubled over at the bottom of the stairs in the first place. There’s green eyes in his mind, a green flash, a sense of loss, -

And it all comes back.

Thundering, instantaneous, like a nightmare he has to relive in his memories, over and over again. The thud of the door, the panic in Lily’s eyes as she reached for their son. Harry’s cries, the way his heart sank in his chest as James knew their time was up. He can see it all so, so clearly, - Voldemort’s red eyes, his sunken skin, the way his contorted, filthy had had raised his own wand, and James had tried, tried so fucking hard to fight back. He’d barely lifted his arm before it was all over. The fight they had been fighting since they were fifteen had come to an end, and he was dead.

He was supposed to be dead.

His son was only a year old.

James is moving before he can even process it, scrambling to his feet despite the way his stomach lurches. The panic he feels is sudden, urgent, sickening right down to his very core, and all he can think about is Lily, Harry, Lily, Harry, his family, everything he had fought so hard to protect. Nothing about it feels real, - there’s no possible way he had stood there and stared, had watched Voldemort raise his wand and curse his death upon him, and simply came out alive on the other side. Everything in him refuses to believe it, and before he can stop himself, he’s moving.

The living room is empty. There’s no sign of her, of Harry, and James nearly trips over a cardboard box as he searches, frantic in his actions. There’s no logic behind it, - she’s not behind the couch, she’s not curled up in the armchair, she’s not in a heap by the fireplace. Harry’s blanket is nowhere to be found, and James is certain he had left it at the end of the couch, where their son had just been figuring out how to sit upright properly, all by himself. James had been so proud.

She’s not in the kitchen, either. There’s more boxes, and he ignores them, barely stopping to glance at the scribbled handwriting on the sides of the cardboard.

Kitchen 1.

Cupboard 3.

Over the oven.

Do not open before welcome home party, James!!

He had told her to run, but where? There’s nowhere to go, and while he wants to believe she had made it out the back door and apparated away before Voldemort could have reached them, the door is still firmly locked. He gets it open with a spell and a hasty shove, but their back garden is empty, no sign of life, no evidence she had been out there at all. The poppies she had planted in April are missing, too. A bright burst of red that had once made a home just past the step at their back door, there’s no sign of them now, and James frowns in confusion, fixing the glasses on his face to make sure he’s not simply imagining things.

He makes it back into the house, dread seeping in. It’s a difficult sensation to ignore, so all-encompassing that for a moment, he can’t breathe, looking around the kitchen in confusion. It fights with the tiny snippet of hope he feels, nestled carefully in his heart. He wants to believe that Lily is safe, somewhere, with their son, that Dumbledore has kept his promise and kept them safe, has guaranteed their son a fighting chance at life.

Until the end.

The words ache in his chest, deep and sorrowful, like memories of his father. Going back to the empty estate had felt similar, and James has to fight to breathe, lifting a hand to his chest to feel the frantic thud of his heartbeat there.

Fear. He feels fear.

There’s a noise upstairs. Movement.

It catches his attention suddenly, given how quiet Godric’s Hollow is around him, and James reaches for his wand, gripped tight in his aching hand. He’s been on enough missions to know it’s not a good sign, and that the logical thing to do would be to abandon the house, to run himself, and try to find Dumbledore and his family. But James doesn’t run from things, never has, and he steels himself as he approaches the kitchen door, and the little hallway that ends at the bottom of the stairs.

There’s footsteps, light enough to almost be undetectable. His breathing catches in his chest as he edges closer to the door, and James leans to look around it, catching sight of someone coming down the stairs.

Red hair. A shaking hand. She stops at the bottom of the stairs, reaching for a picture in a frame, the glass shining and new. She almost looks hesitant to touch it, like she can’t quite believe it’s there.

He can’t quite believe she’s there.

Nothing stops him from moving out into the hallway behind her, his own steps quiet. For a moment, all he can do is look, because it can’t possibly be real. That she’s here, she’s alive, with him. There’s every possibility she’s a ghost, but she’s touching the picture frame, fingertips pressed against the glass so lightly, and she’s really with him. James can see a picture of their wedding day, their friends, a monumental, happy moment in their lives.

They had broken that frame when they had moved Harry’s crib upstairs. He still had to get it fixed.

“.. Lils?”

The fond petname comes out broken, almost like a plea. It’s the first word he’s spoken in.. he doesn’t quite know how long. He doesn’t want to think about it. She turns, then, meeting his gaze with tear-filled eyes, and everything James fears comes crashing down around him, all at once.

Something is terribly, terribly wrong.

He reaches for her, hands shaking, wand dropping to the floor. He knows his wife, knows who she is, knows without a single ounce of doubt that it’s really Lily standing before him, alive. She stares at him like she doesn’t know what to do, like she’s as broken as he feels, - and all at once, she falls forward, collapsing in his arms with a sob.

It breaks him.

Harry isn’t with her.

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