Disclaimer: Not mine, yo!
Sins of Angels: Hey, so, I'm sure those poor saps who have me on Author alert are very very confused at the sudden influx of stories. I've been fighting with writer's block and have been needing simple things to write in between all the other things I'm doing, and fanfiction just about fits the bill! This is once again a Marauder's Era fic, but only barely. I've had some very very old stories (and embarrassing to admit I had written them, ahaha) which have mentioned that in my mind, and contrary to all evidence given by the everawesome JKR, James was not an only child. But his brother was killed when he was young. And I've been reading really really heartbreaking fanfics lately, so I thought I'd try my hand at one. I realize James comes off sounding much younger than he actually is here, but...I think, in the situation, the child-like innocence fits. I'd love to hear what you guys think of this, especially since I'm not quite sure my words got across what I wanted them to, which was what I feel like whenever I've thought about this scene in particular. As you can tell, it wasn't rainbows and unicorns I was really feeling, ahah.
He could hear the drops hit every leaf of the surrounding trees. It was raining. James kept looking up at the gray clouds. It was like the sky was crying.
But why would the sky be crying? It gets to keep him now, forever. We put him in the ground and then he goes to the sky, that's what his mother had said. Because good people went to the sky. And Charles was a good person.
James hated when Charles ruffled his hair. But he didn't mind it that day, not so much. It was so pretty outside and Charles had agreed to go for a walk with him to the park. You could hear the birds. Summer was almost over.
He kept playing with the box. It was wooden, so the rain wouldn't hurt it, but James hated the thought of the sky's tears on the box. The sky didn't know him that well. This box was for those who did. It had enough tears on it already.
"Tell you what, Jamsie." James hated that nickname, and Charles knew it. He grinned as the younger boy frowned and tried to escape the heavy hand resting on his head. "You're going to be chasing girls the moment you hit Hogwarts. I can tell. And as the kind and generous older brother that I am, I shall give you a few pointers!" James looked up to scowl at Charles, but the older boy was smiling. Soon both boys were laughing, carefree, while the birds chirped in the trees around them.
He heard his mother cry, too, and her hand felt so weak in his. The ground was so damp and wet; they could just let the mud slide back inside instead of bothering with the shovels. But his father had told him about the shovels, and about what they meant. And mud or not, James was going to have one and help Charles get to where he's going. He squeezed his mother's hand gently, but that only made her cry even more.
"Listen, mate," Charles said, sitting on the grass as well to face James. "I know what dad says, right? Gotta take care of the Potter clan. Well, don't you worry about that bit, alright? I've got that covered. You just worry about being your own man, and not getting caught." James nodded. "Don't let anyone try to get you to be theirs, ok? You know what's right and what's best better than anyone else, I know you do. 'Cause I taught you," Charles added with a playful smirk. James giggled and nodded again.
He asked her, after they set the date for the service. "Why's it have to be in the ground, Mum? Why can't we keep him with us?" She looked up at him, and she looked tired, so tired. Her eyes were puffy and stained from when she was crying, which was all the time now. James couldn't blame her. He cried a lot too.
"Because he can't be ours anymore, angel," his mother said softly, not looking at James. The small boy got up and gently forced his way into her half-offered embrace. Even that felt odd, foreign. Like she was trying to hug someone bigger than him. "We can't keep him anymore, so we have to put him in the ground, so that the sky can take him."
James thought about this for a while, hands clutching to his mother's shirt and his face resting on her shoulder. "Why does the sky want him?"
"And you have to be smart about girls, Jamesie. You should chase girls who don't want you to shine brightly like you do now. Sometimes girls just want you to change, and sometimes they're more worried about what boys think than having fun. And I know you. You need to have fun all the time." He smiled and reached over and ruffled James's hair again, laughing as the small boy tried to bat his hand away.
He pulled on his mother's hand gently, until she knelt down to be eye level with him. She tried to shield him from the rain with her umbrella. "I don't want the sky to take him, Mum," James told her in a whisper. "Can't we keep him for a little bit longer?" She looked at her little boy's face, only eleven but shaking and broken already. She gave him a weak little smile and put a hand on the back of his head, pulling him into a tight embrace. "No, angel," she whispered softly into his ear. "We mustn't be selfish." Even through the damp clothes, James could feel her warm tears hit his robes. "Remember what I told you? We have to be strong and brave. Like he was." James nodded reluctantly, taking his mother's hand again as she stood up once more. This time her grip was tight.
"Do you think I'll be strong like you?" James had asked on the way home. Charles regarded him with a warm smile. "Strong like me? No, Jamesie. You'll grow up to be stronger." He grabbed the boy, despite his age. Eleven years old, but he was still short and skinny. Charles gently lowered him on top of his shoulders, where James desperately grabbed his brother's hair to stay in place. "Much stronger, and probably with more hair," he added, and heard his little brother laugh.
The shovel was heavy. He tried to pick it up, and then put dirt on it to drop on top of the coffin, but he couldn't. His father stepped out of the crowd and grabbed the handle with James, helping him lift it. "I don't get it," James said quietly to his father. "Why's the sky crying if it gets to keep him?"
Mr. Potter paused, staring at his boy. "Because it's sad that we don't," he finally said.
James considered this for a moment, sticking the shovel back into the earth. "Me too," he finally said, and allowed his father to lead him back.
"Did you hear something?" James asked. Charles carefully lowered him to the ground and look around. "It sounded like footsteps or something." Charles reached for his wand, moving in front of James. "Who's there?" he called out. "Show yourself!" There it was again, the footsteps and the rustle of robes. And a laugh…
Charles knelt down and turned James towards him. "James, run home. Run home and get dad to come out here, ok? I think someone might've been hurt. So you just run and don't look back, alright, and run as fast as you can, or even faster." James nodded hurriedly as Charles turned him around and gave him a tiny little push to get him started. And then he ran, ran as fast as he could, straight out of the park and towards his house, and didn't look back.
It was full now, of soggy dirt and mud. The people had begun to leave, and the wooden box had been put in along with the coffin. His mother gently tugged on his hand, but James didn't move. "I want to stay," he said firmly, looking at the new grave. "I want to stay until it stops raining." He heard his mother whisper something to his father, and then she didn't tug on his hand anymore, but stood next to him instead, holding the umbrella. "Ok, angel," she said softly. "Me and you will stay."
"He won't wake up," James said, a hand on Charles's shoulder. It was cold. But it was so warm earlier, when they were together. He could see his mother crying. "Is he…he said someone might've been hurt or something." Carefully, one of his father's friends who had come took his hand. "Someone was," the man said kindly, and tried to lead James away. But the boy just took Charles by the shoulders and shook him roughly.
"How come his eyes were open?" he asked after, back at the house. No one was there to hear it. Everyone was busy or upset or crying. He didn't mean to ask it. He meant to ask why he wasn't smiling. Or why his hands were so cold and stiff, they couldn't even ruffle his hair anymore. Why didn't he laugh and get up and say it was all a joke, a big joke. How come he looked so empty now.
"How come his eyes were open?" he asked again, louder. No one had an answer.
"There," his mother said. "See? No more rain."
James looked up. Even the gray clouds were now going away and out of sight, behind the trees. "He must be up there, now," the boy said simply, looking at the blue sky. "It's not crying anymore." He turned his questioning eyes on his mother. "Can-can we still be sad? That we don't get to keep him?" His mother sighed softly and hugged her son tightly.
"Of course we can, angel. We'll always remember him. And we'll always be sad. But the sky, think of how happy it will be, now. That he's up there."
"Because he's a good person."
"Yes," his mother affirmed gently.
"And I'm a good person too?" The question was so hopeful. His mother smiled weakly at him.
"Yes, darling. You're a good person too."
"It's because he taught me how to be," James said simply. And now he's gone. And in this place, the sun shines a little duller than it used to, and the birds don't seem to sing as much anymore.
It was better when it rained.