It was a cold day in July 1980. The coldest James Potter could remember for a summer day. And for James Potter it was a sad day.
It was sad for James Potter because he was burying the last connection to his family history, his heritage.
Fleamont Potter.
The man who taught him to shave, the man who taught him how to play quidditch. The man who taught him all the pranks he knew.
The man who was his father.
Trying to hold back the tears, James knew that, at that moment, he was the only Potter by birth left in Magical England.
First it was his grandparents, Henry and Sarah Potter. Killed by Death Eaters whilst he was in his Sixth Year whilst the elder Potters were visiting their grandson at Hogsmeade.
Then it was his uncle, Charlus Potter, who passed, a bystander in a fight at Diagon Alley between the Order of the Phoenix and Death Eaters.
A few months passed before his aunt, Dorea, and her son, James's cousin, Andrew were brutally murdered at Potter Manor when giants in the employ of Lord Voldemort smashed the grand house.
Then in January 1980, Euphemia Potter, or to her husband and her friends, Mia, passed away, succumbing to her battle with Dragon Pox.
And now Fleamont, his father, the man who he had looked up to, the man who had taken in James's best friend, was dead.
Watching as the coffin that held his father's body went into the grave, James knew that he would have to put the cottage that his parents had lived in into a Quarantine status, to allow the remaining effects of the Dragon Pox to die out naturally.
Holding his wife's hand, he felt her grip tighter, and it was with that one look into Lily Potter's eyes he knew that it was time that he would have to step up to the plate, to be the best he could be.
Just like Fleamont Potter was to him.