Disclaimer: JK owns all. I only own the ideas used here.
Author's note: This is sort of post-OotP, but with a few twists regarding James Potter and Albus Dumbledore that were not in the books…
I'm Sorry
"Albus, do you really think this wise? The boy has suffered so much already…"
I tried to smile, albeit sadly, but instead felt my lips painfully twist into some sort of grimace.
"Minerva," I repeated gently—though the firm underlying command was evident, "Go get Harry from class, please."
"This is far too dangerous for a student," Professor Minerva McGonagall said sternly, showing the trademark fiery temper of the House she headed.
"If it were another student, indeed it is, but Harry's own fate is not in our hands, Minerva," I said quietly, knowing the words would ring in her ears like they did in my own.
Minerva hesitated visibly, her cat-like hazel eyes looked daggers into mine, searching for a recantation of my words. I had none for her, so I only met her gaze, holding it, trying to impact on her the decision that was no longer ours to make.
"Let us hope he still holds the luck that has brought him this far," Minerva said in a monotone that told both of us she didn't believe her own words
"Maybe," I acknowledged, more to appease myself then her, "He is, after all, James' son."
Like I expected, Minerva's eyes flickered with emotion before dropping to the floor at the mention of one of her favourite students.
"Yes, yes he is."
"Go get Harry from class, Minerva. Tell him it's time." Minerva's hand raised to adjust her square frames compulsively, a tick she had when upset, before turning towards the door, the magically soundless click of it behind her not expressing her anger enough that I heard her tear down the steps.
"James' son, indeed," I said to myself. Despite the hell raising he admittedly did in school and the bouts of arrogance he'd express to impress people, James Potter had held a soft spot with both Minerva and myself.
Minerva's penchant for James came simply: he did exceptionally well in her class, treated her with almost grandmotherly respect, and won her the trophy that filled the space on her Quidditch mantel for the four years he spent as captain of the team. He also had something else that drew most people to him…this absolute love and passion for life in and itself. He was whimsical, almost, the way he had sort of floated through life, living to fullest extent. 'No regrets,' he'd always say.
My fondness of James, I believe, came both more simply and more complexly.
I'd been a part of James' life since the day he'd been born; the day was still as clear in my mind as ever. I can still almost picture his beautiful mother, Calista, my best friend in schooldays, smiling down at the bundle in her arms, around her shoulder the sleeved arm of her husband Bryon—James' father. I still remember the hopeful look on Calista's face when she asked me to be godfather of her tiny son. I, of course, couldn't refuse anything of Calista, the woman who become something of the sister I never had throughout the years.
James, I reflected, was a troublemaker from the start. At eight months old, when Calista insisted that James become 'bonded' with his godfather early in life, a screaming baby was thrust into my arms and life while she left for the trip to America she'd always wanted. Bryon had surprised her with it and the two looked so precious and in love that I couldn't refuse.
I had been through many things in my life by that point, but baby rearing had not been one of them, and James (who I swore to his mother later knew of this lack of experience in my case) did not make things easier. He was a rambunctious and quite loud child, I learned quickly.
There was another thing I learned quickly, as well. My little godson already had quite the peculiar power; something his parents had described to me in warning, but I had never seen before then. James was a light elemental—sometimes called a light mage by some less educated on the whole matter. While I watched James, he repeatedly lit all the candles in the house, taking delight in lighting them all again while I ran around to snuff them out. I learned quickly, for that was the only way to learn that kept you up with James, that the little child would become quite a powerful light elemental—controlling light fully. He didn't let me down—he'd learned to hone his power before the time he was in Hogwarts.
Now, I think I should have known what sort of person he'd turn out to be.
I stayed, for the most part, a part of James' life as he grew up. Calista was always so happy when she saw the two of us together, happy to know her son had a godfather that was more then a name attached to gifts every once and awhile.
Bryon Potter was a good man, don't get me wrong. Calista loved him to death, and he was a strong provider and a wonderful father. He'd inherited a great sum of money from his own father, born to a family of privilege and high class. He was an important person in the wizarding world. Calista was as well, rising quickly in Ministry ranks because of her logic, knowledge, and power.
James, therefore, lived a life of privilege. He had most all things he wanted growing up—don't get me wrong, my godson wasn't spoiled, but things weren't hard for him in the least. Bryon, also, was a bit overconfident, something James picked up at an early age; especially when he realized that other people did not have the power of light as he did. I didn't quite agree when Calista didn't reprimand some of his comments, but I didn't step in against his parents.
When James was just approaching the age of ten, I was made Headmaster of Hogwarts. When he turned eleven, Calista, Bryon, and I decided to set one ground rule for him to go to Hogwarts under. It might be considered 'favouritism' if the Headmaster was one of his students' godfather as well. We forbid James from spreading the fact around.
I remember him being sorted, and I don't think I've ever been so proud when the Hat shouted Gryffindor to the Hall. I nearly lost all composure when, before he went to his new table, turned to me and grinned widely. He told me later he'd been hoping for Gryffindor because I'd told I'd been in it, despite his parents' Ravenclaw backgrounds. My heart still swells at the thought.
His first few days at school were eventful, and every night he'd come to my office under his Invisibility Cloak full of colourful stories of the first year trials that I had long forgotten. I remembered things from my own years, things that meant so much then, meant so much to James now, but things I now realize wouldn't be given second thought. It was enlightening, to live through a student's eyes again by way James, who always was a good storyteller—all enthusiastic and animated, never leaving out the slightest detail—from the swish of a cloak to the glare of an eye.
As the year went by the visits slowed, expectedly. James was quickly making friends, and it wasn't long before I rarely saw my godson out of the company of Sirius Black. He also became close with Remus Lupin, the young werewolf boy I had admitted to school. From James' fishing about the child's background, I knew it wouldn't be long before he figured out the entire thing.
Meetings came to the point where James promised to come visit me every Thursday night. I admit to clearing my schedule completely for the event. James' life seemed so eventful—I learned quickly (and rather amusedly) that the young boy and his friends were the ones whose pranks were sweeping the school.
I noticed him playing with his light powers in my office a lot, and although I disapproved him of making it a habit for others to notice, I became fascinated by the globes of light he became a master of producing. His moods, I realized, were reflected in those glowing orbs, and that realization helped me to read my lighthearted godson's innermost feelings until the day he died. From huge, rough, and choppy spheres of yellow-white light, that swirled angrily, casting shadows on everything it passed to delicate, smooth orbs of pure white light that glowed and swirled beautifully, catching anything, casting a multitude of colour and spectrums on the walls; finding every shadow, every dark corner, and representing it with crystal-like clarity. James created them all, spurned them from whatever rage, happiness, misery, or excitement he felt at the moment.
My godson, maker of light, is what I'd say to him sometimes. It took him many years to realize I was speaking more then of his powers.
My mind has gotten far away from me, I realize suddenly, and I'm back in my office, and James' glow is no where to be seen. Instead I wait for his son, Harry, to come meet me here, to come prepared to meet quite possible death.
It had been almost two years since I told Harry of the Prophesy. I found out recently he still hadn't told his friends of it. I didn't push him on the matter, and he didn't elaborate. He rarely did anymore. He has been, expectedly, distrustful of me, and most other people, since then.
I wish the fate had never have come to him. It couldn't be helped, I knew, but I wish all the same. Though my wish is purely for Harry's sake, I admit to most likely not have felt it as strongly if my godson had not said a few choice words of his own to me. When James and an eight months along Lily found out about the prophecy, James shortly afterwards sent his beautiful wife home, and I knew it was because he did not want her to hear the possibly harsh words about to come from him.
I remember that day too well, I thought, it will never leave me.
I sat behind my desk; James stood looming in front of it. Staring up at the tall, nineteen year old that had once been the screaming baby a pretty mother had placed into my arms, it was the first time I think I realized James was an adult. He didn't look it, and his whimsy and passion for life prevented him from giving off the aura of anybody who was over the age of twelve. But there he was, standing tall, taller then my own considerable height, with a look of anger and discontent, underlying with the emanating feeling of absolute grief.
"Am I to understand, Albus," he said quietly, "that my son, who is just about to be born, has already had life and fate decided for him?"
"It may not be him…"
"And it may well might be!" James snapped. He then seemed to deflate, and slumped into the chair in front of my desk, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes roughly. Unsure of his next reactions—for James could jump from fury to serenity and from happiness to misery, it was hard to judge his movements—I simply waited.
Familiar light started to grow in front of him, and I let him put his emotions into the growing sphere as he often did when upset. He told me once what it was for him—'release' he'd said, 'I can put all the emotions…all the feelings that I cannot articulate or deal with simply…into the light and release it so I can think clearly'.
The sphere had shadows to it today, small silver streaks through it that swirled in the light like marble. It was taking shadow from the corners in the room, but recasting them as it spun. I distinctly saw the candles' flames flicker toward the orb, as if wanting to join its bright brethren but confined to the wicks that lit them.
"James?" I asked hesitantly.
He looked up to me briefly, then dropped his head again, "What," he breathed slowly, "would happen to him? If he was this…'one with the power'?"
"I do not know," I said honestly. Of all the people I've lied to, whether professionally or assuredly, James was the one person who could catch me at it to the point where I didn't bother anymore.
"If Voldemort'd find out…would he come after Harry?"
I looked at him for a moment, interest making me forget the matter for a moment, "Harry? Is that the name you've picked for him?"
"Yes…Harry James…Lily wanted the middle name…" James said sheepishly, but at the same time a proud expression passed over his face, the expression of any new father.
"Harry James Potter." I said, testing the name aloud. Deciding I liked it, I nodded in fatherly approval, "Wonderful."
"Thank you…" he said softly, and then snapped back to attention, the light hovering in front of him making an abrupt movement, "What would happen?"
"He would indeed most likely come after him."
"And what would happen…in Harry's future? Will he have to fight him? Would he truly be the only one to defeat him?"
"Harry's future is unclear, James. But it is clear that he will fight Voldemort—and in the end, one of the two, will be killed." James let out an unsteady breath, eyes now never leaving the light in front of him, one hand hovering over it, fingers slightly curled but never touching it.
"This…prophecy…is leaving a child to be the hope and light for all of our world," he stated, "my child."
"James…"
"It's not fair," he said softly, his voice lilted.
"I know it's not the life you wanted for him…"
"No, I meant…it's not fair to Harry," he said again, never meeting my eyes, focusing on some point in his creation of light. He felt my inquisitive look though, because he continued, and his voice, I realized quickly, was that of a child's—hushed tones and innocence lacing his tongue.
"You are putting the fate of the world in this child's hands. If he were to be raised knowing of this…what childhood or hope of innocence will he have, Albus? He's always going to be preparing, knowing that he's going to fight him someday…and that someday he has to win or not only does he die but the entire fate of the Wizarding World may be decided?"
"If this is indeed the choice and life he will have, Albus, providing Voldemort cannot find him and he survives childhood, and this is all he has left…it makes me doubt whether it fair to bring him into the world at all."
"James…you cannot think this way. Think of what he could do…do for the world. And he will survive childhood, that's why I suggested the Fidelius Charm…"
James looked up at me, and such anger burned in his eyes I had to sit back and look away. I looked at the growing orb of light, which was becoming darker with every word, "What he can do for the world? You treat him already like some sacrifice to the cause! This is my son we're talking about. This is a real, human being we're talking about, Albus! Not some nameless and faceless being that has no life or feelings to give up. If it were your son? If it were me? You would not be so quick to let him fight fools battles by the time he reaches his teen years! If this is how his life will be lead, then I almost hope for Voldemort to find us and let Harry's inevitable pain end before he reaches age enough to feel it. Though I'd be hard-pressed to determine when that age would be."
I thought he was done, but then his next words came, quietly but intensely, and even when I think of them now I can still feel my heart jump into my throat from it's message.
"It's sinful, really, to put the fate of the world in hands too small to hold it," James said, and his orb of light spun a few more times before extinguishing. He got up, then, and without looking at me, left.
A sudden knock at my door alerted me to both the present and a visitor.
"Come in," I tried to call, but found my throat stuck with emotion. I cleared it forcefully, and called again, "Come in."
Due to my loss into the bitter end of memory's lane, I thought for a moment the person walking into my office was James again, ready to collapse into my chair and start creating little light orbs and talking colourfully of life's more wonderful and terrible things.
I realized in a moment, though, that the distrustful and long-suffering look belonged to Harry Potter, my godson's son. The young man who was barely a child, hardly an adult, but had his fate decided for him.
He looked upon me, green eyes telling me that he understood Minerva's message—it was indeed time. Time to go to his fate, time to see who would win—the ruler of this present darkness, or a child. We stood staring at each other for I'm not sure how long, and all at once the severity, the finality of this came crashing down on me. I found, startled, that I had truly discovered what James had spoken of with such passion all those years ago. I was putting the world in Harry's hand, the burden of life on his shoulder alone. Suddenly, it's as though I cannot hear or see clearly, realization dawning upon me was that strong. James had been right, and I had not listened to my godson—I had lived in ignorance and darkness from his advice without even realizing it. All these years, and this one look of Harry, my godson's son, weary looking and tired comes and opened my eyes, opened my world.
"I'm ready."
I'm so sorry, James.