❝ I…I’m Sorry. I Have To Go ❞

nighttimestorrm​:

who: @jamiespxtter​ when: 1st january 1959 where: potters home

Despite how quickly Sirius had rushed to Godrics Hollow he couldn’t bring himself to go up the door. Instead he paced up and down the street, trying to control his shaking hands and his beating heart. Still none of this felt real. It must be a dream or some sort of hallucination. But there Godrics Hollow was, just how he remembered it before he came here on Halloween to find destroyed. He could still remember that night. The images would forever be in his memory, never to go away and instead would haunt his dreams. He could still hear the sound of Harry crying. He could remember begging Hagrid to give him to him. He was his Godfather. It was up to him to take care of him. But, no. That had been taken away from him. Just like everything else.

Shaking his head he forced himself to come to a stop and stared at the front door. What if they weren’t there? If it were only him that had been brought back to this time then it would feel as though he had lost them all over again. And he wasn’t strong enough to suffer that. If he walked in there and the place was empty. Or worse…the same as he last time he had saw it. That would break him beyond repair. So he just stood there. It was still early enough that the street was still quiet. Yet he knew he couldn’t stand there forever. So, not being brave enough to go up to the front door he tried to quietly make his way around the back. He would look in the window and see if there was any sign of life. And if not…then he didn’t know what he was going to do.

But as soon as he stepped into the back garden he froze. He just stared as there stood James, looking back at him. And he didn’t know what to do. There was a chance that James knew nothing of what was going on. That it was only Sirius that was effect by…whatever this is. So he knew he should at least try to act somewhat normal. But he couldn’t. A lump formed in his throat while he blinked away tears from his blurring eyes, scared that if he couldn’t see James he would disappear. Part of him still believed this was just a dream. But he didn’t care right in this moment. Because there was James just as he remembered him. A little bit younger but…still there. Alive.

He couldn’t move. If he did he knew he would just fall to his knees. All these years of missing his friend, his brother, came crashing over him like a wave threatening to drown him. There were so many things he wanted to say but he didn’t even know where to begin. He just wanted to forget about everything else for just a moment. Right now he just wanted his friend back. Yet he were afraid to reach out in case he were nothing but a ghost. And still, he would take that over nothing.

“J-James.” He finally managed to choke out and before he crumbled and let the sob he had been holding in take over him, a tear escaping down his cheek. “Are you…you’re real…right?” 

--

It’s been a long morning.

It aches in his bones, and over his shoulders. In his eyes, where he’s cried until he simply can’t cry any more, and deep, deep in his chest, an ache of a loss he can’t quite face yet. It’s not a question of where is Harry, because he’s simply not there any more, taken from existence like he meant nothing to the world. To them.

He knows Lily feels it, too. He can see it in the way she avoids going upstairs, the way she lingers around where his high chair used to be by their little kitchen table. So much of their life, their own existence, had been so entirely centered around him. Everything James had known about himself had shifted, geared into something newer, something better; a father, and a husband, a man who made promises, and kept them. And while he had wanted to believe he had done everything right, had put up the best fight he possibly could have to keep his family safe, the odds had been stacked against them. He barely stood a chance. Voldemort had the upper hand, had all the insider information to come to their home, to take what was theirs, to target their son.

He can’t face Peter. He refuses to.

He’d barely lasted two seconds in his own fight against Voldemort. It eats him up inside.

Breathing is hard. Living with that fact, is hard. It clings to his skin like ice, keeping him tense and cold, and for the second time that night, James finds himself out on the back step, the action familiar and foreign all the same. His hand is shaking as he lifts the cigarette to his lips, and he uses the tip of his wand to light it, frowning when he just can’t seem to steady his hand. It’s easier, in front of Lily, when he has to keep a brave face.

Alone? James is close to cracking.

There’s a sound by the side gate, and everything in him freezes up.

It’s too soon. It’s too much. Before he can help it, his heart is pounding in his chest, hard enough to hurt, and he raises his shaking hand, wand trembling in his grasp. They’ve faced too much to deal with this, again. He can’t handle this, again.

- only it’s Sirius, who comes around the side of the house, stopping dead when he spots him.

Time is suspended, for a moment. It hangs in the air, a weight between them he hasn’t experienced in the ten years they’ve been friends, brothers. James can see him, the way he had been, older and tattooed and so tired as they stood beside Harry in the forest, - and when he blinks, Sirius is nineteen again, crying as he looks at James.

“Pads, -” he manages, voice strangled, and James takes a step, and another, wand dropping until they’re barely a distance apart, “- Sirius?”

“We always were a thing, weren’t we?”

"I think so." There's no arrogance behind his words, no self-righteousness that would have come if she had asked him three years ago. Their relationship is a relatively new thing, in terms of official labels, their first kiss, everything that had happened on Halloween night, but everything they are goes beyond so much more than that. To the eye, sure, they've only been together for two months, and they're still going strong. But Lily's right, as she usually is. They were always a thing. She's always been on his mind. She's had his heart for at least a year, now, if not more. He's learned to adapt, to accept the way Lily had wanted them to be, simply friends and nothing more. Getting any ounce of a positive relationship with her, even a platonic one, was more than James had ever imagined possible, and he wasn't about to take it for granted. Every moment spent with her was a gift. Is a gift. But there's freedom, in honesty. He can tell her these things, can admit to watching her in class, feeling his heart soar when she cheers from the stands during a quidditch match, the way her foot would knock against his ankle under the table at breakfast. Little details that add up, things that culminate and become love, and hearing her admit to that makes him feel warm all over. He's unafraid, then, when he leans over, pressing a small kiss to her forehead. "You've always been it, for me."

Shadowhunters - S01E07 “ Major Arcana ”

‘Hold up’

The hand on his back is light, a gentle touch, and for a brief second James is convinced he's imagining it. "..what is it?" he asks softly, voice barely breaking the quiet of their bedroom. Her fist is tangled in the soft fabric of his t-shirt, worn throughout the years, - stolen by her, too, on a number of occasions, - though it's enough motivation to make him sit back down on the edge of the bed, turning to Lily. She had tangled her hair up into a bun before sleeping, though most of it is unraveled now, a flame licking across her pillow. She still looks half asleep, like she hadn't actually meant to reach out to stop him from leaving, but how is he ever supposed to walk away? Dumbledore's owl had come the night before, asking James to meet him urgently just after midnight the next, and he's not one to leave Albus hanging. Not now. Not when every single piece of information is so crucial, so key to turning the war in their favor. They need all the help they can get, and if his former headmaster demands his presence at 2 in the morning, he can't turn away. Still. He's not an idiot. He had planned on getting up a few minutes early before floo-ing, to at least get a cup of coffee and settle his nerves before hopping in the fireplace. And with Lily's hand dropping, moving from his back to tangle her fingers with his own again, James can think of a much better alternative to sitting alone in the kitchen. ".. five more minutes, then," he decides, slumping back to sit against the pillows, using his grasp to tug his wife in a little closer.

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.

-

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.

« Padfoot follows Moony absolutely everywhere »

James

mcrningecans​:

   HIS FINGERS ON HER SKIN WERE THE ONLY THING REMINDING HER SHE WAS HERE. Here and not there; back in that place, where everything felt sunken. The loss of him was alive here, but at least it was alive, breathing life into the places of Lily she thought had been lost. Every part of her ached for Harry, and yet every part of her ached for James, her James, who sat in front of her now. It was a confusing battle; one that she didn’t know how to win. Because there was no winning.

     Either she was alive, and Harry was gone. Or Harry was alive and she could never hold him.

     The thought was almost too much to handle, so Lily watched James’s fingertips, watched their circles; the swoops and the dives. His voice brought her back from her trance, reminded her that there was more to the world than her own grief. There was James. And right now he needed her. She put her cup down and gently, with shaking palms, cupped his cheeks. Lily was afraid if she pressed too hard, got too greedy with connecting, that she’d shatter this illusion. And bloody hell, what would she do if everything crumbled apart around her? What would she do if she learned this was all some kind of sad, twisted trick? Still, James was still there, even with his cheeks in her hands. Even as her thumb gently brushed away any remaining tears on his face. 

     “James,” Lily said, softly. “You saved Harry. You were trying to save us.” If this were another time, she might’ve made a joke about him being an idiot. But it felt wrong now no her lips, and she let it die. And then the thought of Harry; the part he didn’t know. The part that, somehow, she knew, even though there was really no way for her to have known. How could she know that her son survived? She had died, and now she was alive again, and he wasn’t even here. But in that world, in that scenario, Harry had lived. He’d grown. “I… I didn’t make it either. I had enough time to get in front of Harry; to shield him–” Lily shook her head. “But he lived. I’m certain of it.”

     The boy who lived. Their boy who had lived, despite it all. Despite all the trials he certainly had to face; despite the fact that, somehow, he’d had to face Voldemort again. That was the part that kept returning to her, circling in and out like a dream. Why had she seen her son face down that monster? Why didn’t Harry get peace after all he’d had to endure? It killed her to know that they might have died in vain; that all their sacrifice, and Harry still was forced to be the hero. 

     “None of this makes any bloody sense,” she said, dropping her hands to her lap, watching James trace his circles again, waiting for them to give her an answer. 

--

 If there was anyone in the universe who understood him, it was Lily.

Lily, who had seen the best, and the worst in him, even when they were kids. Lily, who understood that all they needed was a little time, and a little faith, and everything they wanted became everything they had. Lily, who had been forced to face the worst parts of the wizarding world, and had lost the dearest friendship she had at the age of fifteen, and still believed that she could do some good for the people who had wronged her, and the world who was so willing to turn it’s back on her. It was a true miracle, he believed, that she had ever given him the time of day at the start of sixth year; and while neither of them were perfect, - bloody hell, was he far from it, - it meant they could have this.

Total trust. Total honesty. Total belief that the life they had built together, both through their home, and through Harry, was still with them. 

She had gone through so much. Too much, for someone just touching twenty-one; though she looked younger, now. There was no scar on her hand from where she’d broken a glass on their honeymoon, and still, she lifted her hands to cup his face the way she always did, gentle, and some part of James eased. There was a storm, still. Brewing. But the waves had calmed, and for a brief second in time, James found some peace. 

If this was purgatory, he could have sat there with her for eternity. ‘Til death did them part.

What did that even mean any more?

He closed his eyes, listening as she spoke. Even now, there was hope in her voice, laced with confusion, and hurt. It pained him to listen to her own side, to the fight she had lost, - won? If Harry was still safe, somewhere, wasn’t that a victory? Better yet, if this was their opportunity to change things, so that Voldemort never found them in the first place, and they could still have Harry with them, wasn’t that the goal?

He had a headache. He frowned, slightly, setting his cup down to hold Lily’s hand to his face, keeping it there, as he turned to press a soft kiss to her palm, his own hand still gentle against her thigh.

They had each other. They needed each other.

He needed her. 

James let her hands go, blinking his eyes open again. It caught in his chest, the loss that ached like nothing he had ever felt before. Losing Marlene, his parents, their other friends, all of it hurt. Losing Harry?

It burned.

“.. I had a dream about him,” he whispered, taking up Lily’s hands in his own, lacing their fingers together lightly. If there was one person he could say this to, it was her. “Harry. Maybe it wasn’t a dream. I don’t know. It was like.. his life, all muddled up together. And then we met him, in this forest. And we got to talk to him.” There were tears in his eyes, then, and James sniffled lightly, giving a small shrug. “I probably sound crazy. I feel crazy.”

Send a word and I will write a drabble or headcanon based on it

Sunlight

Alone

Darkness

Streets

Cupboard

Snacks

Doubt

Joy

Peace

Moment

Rain

Hum

Kitchen

Bedroom

Family

Friend

Garden

Relax

Stress

Job

Fury

Betrayed

Absence

Vices

Pets

Absolve

Stars

Scorn 

Praise

Laundry

Papers

Smoke

Wine

Couch

Kiss

Doors

Tree

Dirt

Flowers

Collect

Remove

?+ add your own.

Wine

It's their first night living alone.

The flat is tiny, with a balcony, and a double bed, pushed up under the window. The kitchen is just barely big enough for the two of them, but they've been graduates now for three whole months, and summer is ending. As enjoyable as it had been to spend the warmer days wrapped up in the comfort of his own bedroom in the estate, something in James longs for more. He's nineteen, now, the excitement of being an independent adult buzzing at his fingertips. He starts Auror training in a few weeks, and then..

There's no Hogwarts to go back to, in September. No more sharing a dorm with his best friends, or sharing a common room with a whole quarter of the school population. He's gone from being surrounded by hundreds of students on a regular basis, to this.

If James is being honest, he prefers this.

This, is a life with Lily. This, is a home, their own, built together. He hadn't hesitated to ask, and she hadn't hesitated to say yes, just as eager as he had been to catch up on the time they had lost. It's abundant, now. There's still boxes to unpack. A life to start, together. They're just shy of a year into officially being a couple, and still, every day, he wakes up happier than before.

And it's all thanks to Lily.

There's a bright grin on his lips when he opens the cheap bottle of wine, pouring it out into two wine glasses. Clear crystal, the most expensive thing in the flat, and a moving out gift from his parents. The wine is blood red, sharp and sweet, and James carries the two glasses over to where she's perched on the couch, curled up, content, like there's nowhere else she'd rather be.

She smiles at him, just as happy as he is.

There's nowhere else he'd rather be.