It was three days since the disastrous Order meeting, and James' nightmares were getting steadily worse. Several times a night, he woke in a cold sweat, shaking and gasping, not screaming only because of his training. They were on some kind of vicious rotation. His worst memories seemed to have been combined with all of the what-ifs, and they propelled him awake with his wand in his hand.
The worst by far though, was when he dreamed of Peter. But not Peter-the-traitor, Peter-the-Marauder. Peter, the boy who had tripped into their compartment on the train; the teenager who had finally, after years of hard work and practice, managed to transform into the rat animagus; the young man with whom they had laughed at Order meetings; their Secret-Keeper, entrusted with his and his family's welfare.
Peter-The-Marauder was usually killed in these dreams, ripped apart from the inside, or burned, or blown up. James thought that it was probably symbolic of something, but he couldn't bring himself to care what.
The only mercy was that Harry seemed to be doing okay, mostly. He usually slept through the night, wet nappies aside, and seemed to take great delight in having a constant stream of visitors who wanted to see him and James.
He always toddled back to James, though, or shrieked until whoever was holding him shoved him back into his dad's arms.
"It's just you and me now, mate," James told Harry most nights before tucking him into bed. "Just the two of us blokes. We're the Potter men, and we're going to have a hell of a time of it." He paused, remembering how Lily couldn't stand swearing, especially in front of the baby. "Anyway, we've going to need to be strong. But don't worry, I'll be right there doing it all with you."
And Harry released a torrent of baby-talk, put his hands on James' face, and giggled.
The funeral service was a blur. They buried her in the churchyard in Godric's Hollow - a Muggle/Magical town, the best of both Lily's world and James'.
He didn't hear a word the minister said. Instead, he tried to watch those around him, as surreptitiously as he could. It was difficult. As the bereaved, he was front and center with Harry. He used a squirmy fifteen-month-old's antics as cover to watch those around him. The entire Order appeared for Lily's funeral, and several other people that James remembered - mostly from his school days. The entire Weasley clan arrived, scrubbed neat and tidy. Aberforth Dumbledore, looking rumpled but clean. Even Petunia arrived, in a black dress and decidedly uncomfortable around all the freaks. She didn't bring her walrus of a husband, though she had an enormously fat baby with her, around Harry's age.
Snape didn't arrive, for which James was decidedly grateful. His appearance, he was sure, would have thrown him into what his mother would have called a state.
Enough dawdling. He took a deep breath and stared at the casket. Lily was there. Lily was there, and she was smiling, but not. Her face was frozen into a bland, pleasant expression that was nothing like the real Lily. His Lily was fire and laughter and love, warm and bright and cheerful and most of all, alive. This generic mask belonged to no one that he knew. Least of all, his Lily.
And suddenly, it struck him. This was really it for them. He wouldn't see his Lily again. He wouldn't be able to kiss her, or eat her delicious cooking. The siblings for Harry that they'd always talked about would never "come along when we're ready," as she put it. The life they'd had was gone, for good.
She would never see that snaky bastard be put down.
She would never reconcile with Petunia, or even Sniv - Severus. She was really and truly gone.
He wept his grief and pain out, but this was controlled, cleansing. He wouldn't ever not miss Lily, but he knew - he hoped, anyway - that one day he might be able to smile at the thought of her.
They held the funeral luncheon at Bathilda Bagshot's home. A certain mourner turned away at the churchyard gates, ready to Disapparate, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.
"Remus."
He stiffened. "Professor McGonagall."
"Aren't you coming to the luncheon?" Her voice was choked with tears, but Merlin, her eyes were just as sharp as they had been when he was sixteen and thought he was invincible.
"I don't think it would be a good idea."
"And why not?" Ah, now that was the Minerva McGonagall he knew and had grown to love.
"I just don't think it would be prudent."
"Remus Lupin, I lived through your seven years at Hogwarts, and somehow, this is the most ridiculous thing that I have ever heard you say," she snapped. He winced, and tried very hard to not straighten like an errant schoolboy. "That young man - who is one of your closest friends - that young man has lost everything, and you will not walk away from him in his time of need. For Merlin's sake, you need each other."
He glared - finally using that Gryffindor courage, Lupin? - and said through his teeth, "What I do and with whom I associate is no longer your concern, Professor." And he Disapparated, feeling nothing, only longing to get away.
He landed in front of the dingy little flat that he and Sirius had once shared. He trudged through his door and up the stairs, and Summoned a bottle of whatever liquor was nearest. It tasted terrible.
He took another swig.
Padfoot the dog whined in Sirius Black's cell in Azkaban. He didn't feel the despair as acutely as the rest of the prisoners, but his animal instincts urged him to leave. Predator. Not safe. Find the pack. The image accompanying this was a motley assortment of stag, rat, and wolf, but Padfoot shook his head vigorously. The human part of his mind knew that one was a traitor, another would never trust him again, and the third was dead. It was his fault, but he swore that one day he would get out - and the rat would pay.
Sorry bout the delay, folks! My husband and I celebrated our wedding anniversary yesterday. Reviews make great anniversary gifts ;)