Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is property of JK Rowling.
Everything he was
'He's not James, Sirius,' – Molly Weasley, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
No, he wasn't.
It was pretty bloody obvious he wasn't. And you didn't exactly have to spend weeks studying him to discover that Harry decidedly wasn't James.
He could understand why people thought he had confused the two. Harry had had ample opportunity to demonstrate his unquestionable loyalty. The very minute he'd had the merest whiff of the truth about Sirius and his father, he'd knocked out Snape. He'd all but jumped at the chance to live with him once he understood just how close he'd been to James. He'd put his life on the line just as James had; for friends, for strangers. For the good in the world.
But Lily made up part of him, too. He was a worrier. And it was he, Sirius, who was called upon to soothe these concerns and provide answers, just as James had once done for his wife. (He couldn't pretend he didn't enjoy that feeling of being necessary, of being responsible for someone.)
He'd inherited Lily's temper, too. He chuckled slightly at the memory of Harry shouting at his friends the other night when he learnt he'd been deliberately kept in the dark. There was no deluding himself that Harry was James when he let loose like that. James had been more subtle in his anger, the signs unnoticeable to all but those who knew him especially well.
He thought the biggest difference was how completely clueless Harry was about the things in life that should matter most to a fifteen year old. It hurt his heart too much when he thought of how much James would have enjoyed watching the redhead pursue the Potter this time round. He couldn't follow that train of thought to its eventual destination – there lay tears for a past still cherished and a future wretchedly taken. And he so wanted to shake that darkness off. He just wasn't detached enough to remember and then remember to let go and move on again.
He'd opened the floodgates now, with his reckless musings. He had forgotten so much. Azkaban had stolen so much. But he could still remember pushing open that door. He could remember the exact angle of James' legs as he lay at the foot of the stairs. He could remember the disgusting emptiness of James' eyes. He could see the terrible crimson flecked on James' body; too bright and too vivid for the stark scene. He could see James' wand on his favourite armchair. He could still feel the dying warmth of James' body as he cradled it in his arms. So why the hell couldn't he replace these godforsaken memories with a living breathing replica?
But he wasn't James, and he would never think that.
He was James' greatest achievement. He was everything that was left of James. And he was to be treasured.
