Last Summer
It's times like this when he has the most regrets. All the air needs is a touch of last summer, and he's the same again, but still he can't go back. He knows, of course, he's matured and he's grown, and they say he's better for it; but he's withdrawn into himself, too, into the bigger picture, and what they say doesn't carry its weight.
Of course it works out for the greater good. He's traded pranks for the edge in battle; after all, there's a war going on. He's swapped Snivellus for the darkness at large (no time for joking when life's on the line, no time for teasing when there's something to prove): he knows better than to make mistakes, and yet.
It's not like childhood isn't appealing: immaturity has its perks. So maybe he could have still changed the world, but when the world wasn't yet in his vision… it was clear-cut, opportune, easy to be. Yesterday he joined the Order and the picture went fuzzy, the sky's edge abstract and cloudy from fear; today he used Avada in the coward's way out and he can't be this person anymore—
James Potter breathes the smell of last summer, sighs the smile of a guilty man, and assures his wife: "I'm fine."
(Lily has always put him in his place.)
