Feelings I have never known, have never experienced, are devouring me until just a few seconds later, I wish I am dead. And I wonder what death would feel like. Surrounded by the ruins of my own actions, I stumble forwards, only managing a few steps before I fall to the rubble-strewn floor. The pain I am enduring is unbearable. I see a pair of shattered glasses lying by my palm.
A wand is pressing against my throat.
I don't cry. And I feel ashamed. But tears won't come. The wand starts shaking violently against my neck; I slump to the floor, overcome with grief. How could I kill myself? I deserve this – this hell. It was my fault, after all.
I see you then. And you look almost peaceful that a dagger rips through my heart. If I told you, you would laugh. You would thump me on the back, and tell me to face it; to carry on with life.
I wonder if you could feel what I feel, see what I see, I wonder if you might change your mind.
Your skin is as white as chalk, and your eyes are open, staring eerily into the darkness above. There's something in them, something that I can't explain. But it scares me. And the want to shake you to life is inappropriately strong. I want to scream, to tell you to look out. To tell you He's coming. To tell you the truth. And then I think: do you know the truth? When you looked into His eyes, when you knew your life was going to end, did you think it was me? Think that I was the one betrayed your trust? Your love?
And then I cry. And do you know what I want to do? I want to laugh. Because I can imagine you, the look on your face when you're confronted with tears, your vain attempt to comfort. I touch your eyelids and gently close your eyes. You could be sleeping, now. How I wish you were only sleeping. I close my own eyes briefly, breathing heavily against waves of nausea. Your wand is rested against your palm. You died fighting, James. You died protecting her –
I'm on my feet, tearing away before I even believe possible. The thought, the possibility of magic has evaded my mind. The room is blown to pieces, weak sunlight and dust motes dancing about the place. She's with you James; you didn't die alone.
The thought comforts me, but her body splayed across the floor only brings pain flooding back – pain doubled, if possible. She really is beautiful, James. I close her eyes, like I did yours. I know she hated me; she always did. You always told me to be nice to her.
How I wish I was never but nice.
It hits me then. I howl with agony, my fists pounding against the floor. I killed you. I killed Lily. I killed –
A whimper.
My head snaps up. Harry.
I'm looking down at him, and like the first time I saw him, like the first time you named me Godfather, my heart swells with utter love.
Because he's breathing.
James, your son is alive.