Shadows filled up the caverns the Potter family had created inside of his heart. There were moments when he almost dared to be angry at them, but Harry’s face would pop into his mind, along with the expression he had worn when he had entered the maze, and it all faded away.

Determined, forcibly brave, the nerves carefully lining the youthful shadows of his face. The fourth champion of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, heading off to his unforeseeable doom.

“He’d have been a great wizard,” Sirius said.

"It had been hard at first, being around the truly living. But now, even though Sirius wanted to deny it, some sort of transformation was taking place. The pain wasn't gone, or lessened, but there was something creaking to life inside of him. Sirius wondered if this is what moving on felt like. He wondered if Harry would hate him for it."

“Sometimes, I still feel like this,” Hermione said, still looking at him.

“What?” he replied, his hand dropping limply to his side. She shifted a bit and motioned to the display.

“Like I'm still on display. Something people stare at, whisper at, point at.”

The blood in his veins turned bitterly cold, like ice water.

Smudged with ashes and smelling of charred metal, the snatchers were unexpected.

Dumbledore, naturally, had made it into the room, and had taken care of the dementors with a power that made him envious. Sirius had gotten one foot past the threshold, one glimpse of Harry on the ground, and then the three snatchers had made their appearance.

They held none of the finesse of the Death Eaters, but a hasty ruthlessness made them just as deadly.

 James felt the air humming with a strange electricity that made him feel more alive and simultaneously crippled than he thought possible. 

He was standing on the precipice of everything he’d ever feared and wanted. The questions bubbling boiled over and seeped into every crevice of his consciousness. Did James dare to believe?
 
“Are you my family?” James asked, tongue dry in his mouth.