Disclaimer: None of the characters or places referenced in this story belong to me.
Knowledge
James Potter doesn't know. The last thing he knew is a flash of green light and the thought that his son wouldn't have a father.
But if he did have longer to think things through after he saw Voldemort encroaching on the house, he would have felt betrayal and hurt and regret. He would have cried at the thought that Peter had betrayed them. He would have cursed Sirius for playing right into Voldemort's trap, no matter how sound the reasoning was. He would have apologised to Remus, even if only in his mind, for not explaining things to him, for leaving him in the dark, and most of all, for assuming along with most of the Order, that the lycanthrope was the traitor, just because of what he was. If he'd had longer to think, he might have remembered to pick up his wand before running to his death.
But he didn't. And as his gaze unfocuses and his eyes glass over, he will never know what happens next.
He will never know how long Remus sits with the Prophet in his hands, the ink illegible from the tears that fall unrelentingly upon it. He'll never know how long Sirius spends sat in a dingy cell in Azkaban, unable to forgive himself for convincing James to swap to Peter. He'll never know that one of his three best friends became a mass murderer and got his best friend locked away for it.
He'll never know that it will take twelve years for his friends to even talk to each other again.
And he'll never know that his son will have to live with his wife's sister. He'll never know about the cupboard under the stairs, or the bullying from his cousin, or just how many times Harry James Potter will cry himself to sleep wishing he could bring his parents back.
James Potter doesn't know. And if he did, it might just kill him.
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