People die every day
A one shot on the death (and life) of James Potter
People die every day.
Fact.
You never thought of it when you were younger; death. You were too busy living, laughing, pranking to be concerned with that one word; death. Your life revolved around your friends, problems were how to get out of another detention; death was not a factor.
Once when you were young (younger) and drunk, you sat with three friends at the top of the astronomy tower; kings of the world. It was Sirius who started it and suddenly sitting with your legs tangling over a tower, where you could, with one push, plummet to the ground, you each discussed the death of the next.
It was said that you, with your need for mischief, would die young in some no doubt dangerous stunt, your best friend by your side.
You laughed and grabbed the bottle silently agreeing.
But that was before Evans became Lily and then, somehow Lily Potter.
Then you wanted to live to a hundred and twenty two or some other ridiculously old age, you wanted to die only after seeing your kids' kids and their kids.
But people die every day.
Once upon a time, you lived in the moment. Once upon a time, there were no what ifs. There was no worry or fear or anything but belief. Belief, you could do whatever you wanted because you were young and free and had all the time in the world.
You're living in a war.
Fact.
You never kept a calendar; you didn't do planning.
You leaped; you soared without looking or caring.
Now, you stare at that calendar every day, pen in hand; nineteen days till Sirius' birthday, five days to bonfire night, one day to Halloween… you circle each date, every birthday, anniversary, new moon... Your life becomes a countdown.
You won't admit it, but you know deep down that the one thing you want to mark is the end, the end of the goddamn war.
Eleven years of bloodshed and murder. Eleven years of mothers crying and orphaned children, of fire and torture.
(Eleven years since you first met your wife at a train station)
For seven of those years you wore a blindfold, and behind it you lived a dream; friends, jokes, laughter... That was all that mattered.
One day that blindfold fell off and a word you had hid from for so long came running head long; death.
People die every day.
Fact.
People die from terminal illnesses that finally come to an end, children run across the street eyes not peeled for approaching cars, mothers' too weak die in childbirth, fathers die at war. An experimental charm backfires, a boy falls fifty foot from a broom, a potion gone wrong poisons.
People die every day, some (the lucky few) slip away in their sleep, for others it's a final punch to a stomach, a knife to a throat, a wand to a heart...
You knew you wouldn't die in your sleep, it wasn't you, you wouldn't let life slip away so easily... You'd die, you believed, with a smile, or in the middle of some extravagant game (even if it was at a hundred and twenty two)…
You'd had fame in life, popularity; best chaser, best captain, best at transfiguration, most handsome, most likely to cause damage, most likely to succeed... Tales of your excursions, your cleverly mastered plans, your friends, would follow you throughout your seven years as a student and in the years after you left, teachers would sit and shake their heads and say "do you remember the trouble they caused?" and of course they all did, younger students would stand and whisper and say; "that was a classic".
Soon though they would forget the face of the laughing boy, they would forget your signature smirk, or the way you ruffled your hair...soon your image of Marauder extraordinaire would be replaced abruptly by another image.
People die every day, some (the lucky few) slip away in their sleep, for others it's a final punch to a stomach, a knife to a throat, a wand to a heart...
When you died your life did not flash before your eyes. You did not think about not having a wand. You didn't remember laughing about an early death at the top of an astronomy tower with three friends, you didn't think of being a hundred and twenty two.
You shouted to your wife to run, you tried to protect.
You did not doubt the friend who had betrayed you. You did not run, but stood eyes blazing and waited for the curse that would, inevitably, come.
People die every day.
You died with a curse to the chest, you fell like a marionette, strings cut; your shell fell to the ground with a thud. You did not hear his laughter or you wife's screams, you didn't feel the house shudder and tumble minutes later, you did not know that your friend (brother) was hugging on to your lifeless body tears cascading down his cheeks.
You did not know that your name was not mentioned with a prank for years to come, because now when they spoke, the young students spoke of the father of Harry Potter, they spoke of bravery and power and when the teachers sat with their cups of tea they sighed and talked not of your trouble, your cocky smile, your constant need for laughter, they spoke of talent and bravery and loyalty and somewhere in an old run down flat a sandy haired man would cry and curse drunken premonitions and betraying friends, and miles away a rat would scurry away pushing the name James Potter to the back of his mind and further away from that, in a place deserted and cold one man would scream and cry and laugh in grieve…
A baby on a doorstep would wake up to a shout.
Others around the country would toast glasses and hug and shoot fireworks and celebrate because the war had ended and for the time being at least, peace had come.
People die every day.
Fact.
You died on Halloween 1981.
A/N: So... kind of depressing and sad but it was stuck in my head all through my absolutely boring Biology lesson and so I decided to write it. Please review and let me know what you think :D