(Note from the author: These are not my characters, my world, and my
situations. They all belong to J. K. Rowling, and are protected by
copyrights.)
(Note to readers under thirteen: This is another PG-13 rated chapter. Thanks!)
(Note to all readers: THIS FIC IS NOT OVER!)
James had sat in the King's Cross entranceway for a good hour waiting for his father to pick him up and drive him home. His father had never come.
"Fine," he said, throwing his shake in the trash bin on his way out. He would walk home. His dad wanted to give him the cold shoulder, fine.
He walked out onto the sidewalk, dragging his trunk behind him. Dag hooted from his cage that was set dangerously ontop of it.
"Shut up," he snapped, "Stupid bird. I swear . . ."
It seemed quiet. Quieter than it should be.
He crossed the street. It was four more blocks to his house. The clouds were coming in, and it looked like it was going to rain soon. He quickened his step, not wanting to get caught in the rain.
He still remembered Frank's words to him. He still felt the quill in his hand. It had been a day ago, and yet . . .
It still made him nauscious. At least Lily was happy.
At least she would have a good life without him. He was a goner. A dead man.
His white house came into view, and he heaved his trunk across the street and onto their walkway. Past the bushes, and up to the front door.
He kicked the door in with one foot as he lagged his belongings into the main hall, through the living room, and up the stairs. Past Sirius's unoccupied room that was still filled with Chudley Cannon posters (including the one that they had picked out in Diagon Alley together), and into his own room. The walls were now plastered with posters of rock bands, and his dresser was covered with Quidditch cards and letters from his three friends that were left over from last summer. No one had been in here since summer.
He didn't even know why he came back home. He should have gone to Sirius's. He could have slept on the couch. They did house Sirius for all that time. The least that he could do would be to offer James the spare mattress.
And it seemed like no one was home. They didn't even care enough to be here when he returned.
The last time that he had seen them was at the Graduation Ceremony. He hadn't spoken to them, and had ignored them the entire time.
He set his things in his closet, and let Dag out for a breather. Then he headed for the bathroom down the hall. He mussed his hair as he passed his parents' room. The door was shut. That wasn't like them.
He didn't think much of it, and continued onto the bathroom. Shutting the door behind him, he looked in the mirror to check out his hair.
And a flash of an image flew through his head.
He stared at the mirror, and then, in a rush, flew open the door and ran back down the hall to the bedroom.
There, on the wood, next to the knob, was a message carved with a knife.
Blood traitor.
He could see his bedroom window from here. The sky above could be seen. The clouds had shifted. Now revealed, was a sight that he had missed on the way inside his home. There stood his worst fear.
A skull. With a snake protruding from his mouth.
James fell to his knees, and stared at it. It was all a bad dream. It hadn't happened. No, it hadn't happened. There was no possible way that . . .
And then he opened the door.
"It's going to be all right," Frank assured him as they sat in the living room. James wasn't responding to him. He had been screaming for the past hour. His voice was sore, but he didn't care. He had cried. He never cried in front of anyone before if he cold help it. He couldn't think anymore.
Sprite. Mum. Dad.
They were gone.
The Minsitry officials were swarming his house. The one place on Earth that was supposed to be safe was now flanked by guards and bobbies and Order members. Well, only one Order member.
Frank Longbottom handed him a cup of tea, but he didn't drink it. He just held it in his hands dumbly, not feeling the warmth of the liquid through the china. The china had been his mother's. Sprite had broken one of the sugar holders . . . they never used it after that . . . Mum always liked things perfectly complete . . .
He felt the tears swarm down his face again, and Frank patted him on the back.
"Your friend Black's on the way," he said calmly.
"I don't want him to come," James cried, breaking away from Frank, "I don't want him to be anywhere near here."
"Now surely you don't mean that," Frank said, taking the tea away from him.
And James broke down into another train of tears. God, why was he crying? Don't cry. Don't let them see you like this.
Cameras flashed everywhere around them. More people were upstairs, taking pictures of the door. And even more were outside, trying to capture the Dark Mark floating above their house on film for the Daily Prophet. Let them look. It wouldn't help his parents any.
"Longbottom," a crochety old man from the kitchen shouted.
Frank looked up, and the man ushered him to join him.
"I'll be back in a minute," he said, and hoisted himself up onto his feet. James watched, eyes glazed over as he watched the two of them talk. Frank's face grew pale, and then he looked over to James, sympathetically. He sighed, scratched his head, and walked back over to the couch where he was sitting.
"James," he said, sitting back down next to him, "We sent a few of our force over to your Uncle Charles's."
"What?" James asked.
"He's dead," Frank said, "With the same inscription on his front door. Your entire family is dead."
The words hit him like cold ice. He froze, and his vision doubled. Everyone he had ever loved was dead. Everything had been stripped away from him in a matter of minutes.
"Do you have anywhere where you can go?" Frank said.
"He's coming home with me."
James looked up, to the solemn face of Sirius Black, standing in his entranceway. Sirius had his motorcycle coat on, even if it was at least seventy degrees outside (which was hot for London). His face was pale, and his mouth was formed in a firm line.
He didn't say anything else. James knew he was hurting, too.
"We'll keep in touch with you," Frank said, and helped James to his feet. James rubbed his eyes, and tried to not let Sirius see that he had been crying.
He couldn't walk. He didn't want to leave this house. It's all he had left.
"Come on, mate," Sirius said quietly, letting James put an arm around his neck as he helped him out of the door, "It's gonna be okay."
And the door shut behind them. James had a feeling that he would never enter that house again. That chapter in his life was over.
Now came the new life.
Sirius had taken him home to his flat. It had been late as they rode the lift up to his level, and then stepped out in the brown corridor to take a right to a door that had a sign attached to it. It read "Beware of Dog."
It had been a present from James last Christmas, when everything seemed to be a little more perfect than it was now.
His last words to his father pounded in his head to his heartbeat.
"You're right, Dad. There are things worth fighting for. And pride isn't one of them."
Each syllable stung now. He hadn't returned his mother's letters. Oh, God, how he would return them now if she would just write one more. If she would just . . .
"It's all right," Sirius said quietly as James leaned on his shoulder again. The two of them just stood there, in the hallway. James crying into his friend's coat. Sirius embraced him like a brother, and said through his own tears, "It's going to be all right."
"I was supposed to be there," he said, his voice muffled from the cloth of Sirius's sleeve, "I was supposed to die with them! But I waited at the station. I waited for them. And . . . and they never came . . . "
"Come on," Sirius said, leading him to the door. He took out his keys, jiggled the knob, and then kicked the door open. It looked just like it did that night that he and Remus left it, out for a walk in the park.
And the last time that he ever spoke to his father.
Dad didn't deserve to be talked to like that. He had been a good man. He had always been there for him. He had always been a good father. How dare James sit there and yell at him as if he had abandoned them. He hadn't had a family like Sirius's! They had loved him! And he had pushed them away!
God, how stupid could he have been!
Lily had been right. He had been arrogant. He had pushed everyone that he loved away. And in the process, he had taken back any way of saying that he was sorry. He felt himself collapse as Sirius led him to the bedroom. Sirius picked him up, and helped him onto the bed.
"I'll get you some tea," he said, quietly, "Just wait here."
James didn't answer. The shell was back. For the third time in a year, the shell was back.
Sirius felt his heart sink as he walked out of the bedroom to attempt to boil a pot of tea. Maybe he could do it this time without burning the building down.
He still couldn't believe it. Mr. and Mrs. Potter were dead. Sprite was dead. They had been found in the bedroom, with that same vacant expression on their face. They had killed the house-elf.
What sort of person didn't have enough mercy to spare a house-elf?
Sirius's hand shook as he grabbed the tea kettle. God, why did everything happen to James? Why did everything have to be taken from him?
Just don't let him cry again, Sirius thought to himself as he prepared their drinks, Just make him strong enough not to cry.
Someone must have heard Sirius's prayers, because James was silent for the rest of the evening. He sat on the bed, looking out the small window across from him. The rain had started pouring hours ago, and he stared at it as it covered London in one cloud of darkness. The tea cup had been abandoned, and not touched. James just sat there, staring out of the window to the world in front of him.
Sirius had taken his things out of his room, and placed them in a trunk. He was leaving for King's Cross the next day to meet Mr. England, whoever that may be. All of his clothes, personal belongings, and other assorted items were packed tightly in his school trunk. The letters reading "S.B." were faded, so that he could hardly make out what the initials were.
It was midnight when Sirius finally took the extra set of sheets and pillows out of the closet and off of the mattress, and made himself at home on his sofa. He didn't want to bother James. He knew that what he was going through now was a lot harder than anything he could handle. He could hardly handle him crying.
Sirius coughed, and layed down on the couch in the dark. The thunder sounded from outside, and lightning illuminated the rooftoops.
He too was looking out the window opposite the couch, where the window seat lay. London was as beautiful as ever. Untouched by whatever harmed it. For eternity, its stone base standing strong against war, storms, hate . . . everything.
It was forever alive.
"Sirius," came a worn voice from inside the bedroom.
Sirius jumped to attention, and stared through the doorway at the silhouette of James still sitting on the bed. It was illuminated by the streelights outside. His back was turned to him, but he knew that he wasn't crying anymore.
"Yeah, Prongs?" Sirius said.
"Could you come here for a second?"
"Sure, mate," Sirius said, standing up, and shuffling sleepily to his bedroom. He rubbed his eyes, and took a seat in his desk chair, staring at the beaten boy on his bed.
"You feeling better?" he asked doubtfully.
It took a moment for James to find his voice, and then when he did speak, it wasn't in the tone that Sirius expected. It wasn't one of a beaten, worn out and chewed up man. It was one of a determined soldier.
"My entire life all I wanted to do was protect my family," James said, "I know it's supposed to be the other way around, you know. The parents wanting to protect the children. But not me. I swore to myself that I would do whatever it took to keep them as safe as I could. But I failed at that. I wasn't there to stop him when he came to kill them. I wasn't there, Sirius. I wasn't there to stand up to him."
"James . . . "
"And you know why I wasn't there?" James plowed on, not really asking Sirius, but asking himself, "Because I was a coward. Because I was scared."
"Look . . ."
"But I'll never be a coward again," James continued, "No, never again."
There was a quietness as the two boys that had known each other for so long sat, watching the rain fall outside.
"I love her," James said, "I love Lily. And I will never let her die because of my fear. I will die before I let anyone harm her."
"James, you're not a coward," Sirius started, but James shook his head.
"I want revenge, Sirius," he said, finally looking at him for the first time. His eyes were blazing with fire, "I want revenge on the man who killed them. I want to be there to stop him when he comes after us. I'm not hiding anymore, Sirius. He wants me, I'll find him. He wants my friends, I'll stop him. And he wants to hurt the people that I love, I'll hurt him."
"What are you going to do, James?" Sirius asked quietly, knowing perfectly well what his friend was going to do.
James looked back out to the London streets, and took a breath.
"What time are you leaving in the morning?"
(Note to readers under thirteen: This is another PG-13 rated chapter. Thanks!)
(Note to all readers: THIS FIC IS NOT OVER!)
James had sat in the King's Cross entranceway for a good hour waiting for his father to pick him up and drive him home. His father had never come.
"Fine," he said, throwing his shake in the trash bin on his way out. He would walk home. His dad wanted to give him the cold shoulder, fine.
He walked out onto the sidewalk, dragging his trunk behind him. Dag hooted from his cage that was set dangerously ontop of it.
"Shut up," he snapped, "Stupid bird. I swear . . ."
It seemed quiet. Quieter than it should be.
He crossed the street. It was four more blocks to his house. The clouds were coming in, and it looked like it was going to rain soon. He quickened his step, not wanting to get caught in the rain.
He still remembered Frank's words to him. He still felt the quill in his hand. It had been a day ago, and yet . . .
It still made him nauscious. At least Lily was happy.
At least she would have a good life without him. He was a goner. A dead man.
His white house came into view, and he heaved his trunk across the street and onto their walkway. Past the bushes, and up to the front door.
He kicked the door in with one foot as he lagged his belongings into the main hall, through the living room, and up the stairs. Past Sirius's unoccupied room that was still filled with Chudley Cannon posters (including the one that they had picked out in Diagon Alley together), and into his own room. The walls were now plastered with posters of rock bands, and his dresser was covered with Quidditch cards and letters from his three friends that were left over from last summer. No one had been in here since summer.
He didn't even know why he came back home. He should have gone to Sirius's. He could have slept on the couch. They did house Sirius for all that time. The least that he could do would be to offer James the spare mattress.
And it seemed like no one was home. They didn't even care enough to be here when he returned.
The last time that he had seen them was at the Graduation Ceremony. He hadn't spoken to them, and had ignored them the entire time.
He set his things in his closet, and let Dag out for a breather. Then he headed for the bathroom down the hall. He mussed his hair as he passed his parents' room. The door was shut. That wasn't like them.
He didn't think much of it, and continued onto the bathroom. Shutting the door behind him, he looked in the mirror to check out his hair.
And a flash of an image flew through his head.
He stared at the mirror, and then, in a rush, flew open the door and ran back down the hall to the bedroom.
There, on the wood, next to the knob, was a message carved with a knife.
Blood traitor.
He could see his bedroom window from here. The sky above could be seen. The clouds had shifted. Now revealed, was a sight that he had missed on the way inside his home. There stood his worst fear.
A skull. With a snake protruding from his mouth.
James fell to his knees, and stared at it. It was all a bad dream. It hadn't happened. No, it hadn't happened. There was no possible way that . . .
And then he opened the door.
"It's going to be all right," Frank assured him as they sat in the living room. James wasn't responding to him. He had been screaming for the past hour. His voice was sore, but he didn't care. He had cried. He never cried in front of anyone before if he cold help it. He couldn't think anymore.
Sprite. Mum. Dad.
They were gone.
The Minsitry officials were swarming his house. The one place on Earth that was supposed to be safe was now flanked by guards and bobbies and Order members. Well, only one Order member.
Frank Longbottom handed him a cup of tea, but he didn't drink it. He just held it in his hands dumbly, not feeling the warmth of the liquid through the china. The china had been his mother's. Sprite had broken one of the sugar holders . . . they never used it after that . . . Mum always liked things perfectly complete . . .
He felt the tears swarm down his face again, and Frank patted him on the back.
"Your friend Black's on the way," he said calmly.
"I don't want him to come," James cried, breaking away from Frank, "I don't want him to be anywhere near here."
"Now surely you don't mean that," Frank said, taking the tea away from him.
And James broke down into another train of tears. God, why was he crying? Don't cry. Don't let them see you like this.
Cameras flashed everywhere around them. More people were upstairs, taking pictures of the door. And even more were outside, trying to capture the Dark Mark floating above their house on film for the Daily Prophet. Let them look. It wouldn't help his parents any.
"Longbottom," a crochety old man from the kitchen shouted.
Frank looked up, and the man ushered him to join him.
"I'll be back in a minute," he said, and hoisted himself up onto his feet. James watched, eyes glazed over as he watched the two of them talk. Frank's face grew pale, and then he looked over to James, sympathetically. He sighed, scratched his head, and walked back over to the couch where he was sitting.
"James," he said, sitting back down next to him, "We sent a few of our force over to your Uncle Charles's."
"What?" James asked.
"He's dead," Frank said, "With the same inscription on his front door. Your entire family is dead."
The words hit him like cold ice. He froze, and his vision doubled. Everyone he had ever loved was dead. Everything had been stripped away from him in a matter of minutes.
"Do you have anywhere where you can go?" Frank said.
"He's coming home with me."
James looked up, to the solemn face of Sirius Black, standing in his entranceway. Sirius had his motorcycle coat on, even if it was at least seventy degrees outside (which was hot for London). His face was pale, and his mouth was formed in a firm line.
He didn't say anything else. James knew he was hurting, too.
"We'll keep in touch with you," Frank said, and helped James to his feet. James rubbed his eyes, and tried to not let Sirius see that he had been crying.
He couldn't walk. He didn't want to leave this house. It's all he had left.
"Come on, mate," Sirius said quietly, letting James put an arm around his neck as he helped him out of the door, "It's gonna be okay."
And the door shut behind them. James had a feeling that he would never enter that house again. That chapter in his life was over.
Now came the new life.
Sirius had taken him home to his flat. It had been late as they rode the lift up to his level, and then stepped out in the brown corridor to take a right to a door that had a sign attached to it. It read "Beware of Dog."
It had been a present from James last Christmas, when everything seemed to be a little more perfect than it was now.
His last words to his father pounded in his head to his heartbeat.
"You're right, Dad. There are things worth fighting for. And pride isn't one of them."
Each syllable stung now. He hadn't returned his mother's letters. Oh, God, how he would return them now if she would just write one more. If she would just . . .
"It's all right," Sirius said quietly as James leaned on his shoulder again. The two of them just stood there, in the hallway. James crying into his friend's coat. Sirius embraced him like a brother, and said through his own tears, "It's going to be all right."
"I was supposed to be there," he said, his voice muffled from the cloth of Sirius's sleeve, "I was supposed to die with them! But I waited at the station. I waited for them. And . . . and they never came . . . "
"Come on," Sirius said, leading him to the door. He took out his keys, jiggled the knob, and then kicked the door open. It looked just like it did that night that he and Remus left it, out for a walk in the park.
And the last time that he ever spoke to his father.
Dad didn't deserve to be talked to like that. He had been a good man. He had always been there for him. He had always been a good father. How dare James sit there and yell at him as if he had abandoned them. He hadn't had a family like Sirius's! They had loved him! And he had pushed them away!
God, how stupid could he have been!
Lily had been right. He had been arrogant. He had pushed everyone that he loved away. And in the process, he had taken back any way of saying that he was sorry. He felt himself collapse as Sirius led him to the bedroom. Sirius picked him up, and helped him onto the bed.
"I'll get you some tea," he said, quietly, "Just wait here."
James didn't answer. The shell was back. For the third time in a year, the shell was back.
Sirius felt his heart sink as he walked out of the bedroom to attempt to boil a pot of tea. Maybe he could do it this time without burning the building down.
He still couldn't believe it. Mr. and Mrs. Potter were dead. Sprite was dead. They had been found in the bedroom, with that same vacant expression on their face. They had killed the house-elf.
What sort of person didn't have enough mercy to spare a house-elf?
Sirius's hand shook as he grabbed the tea kettle. God, why did everything happen to James? Why did everything have to be taken from him?
Just don't let him cry again, Sirius thought to himself as he prepared their drinks, Just make him strong enough not to cry.
Someone must have heard Sirius's prayers, because James was silent for the rest of the evening. He sat on the bed, looking out the small window across from him. The rain had started pouring hours ago, and he stared at it as it covered London in one cloud of darkness. The tea cup had been abandoned, and not touched. James just sat there, staring out of the window to the world in front of him.
Sirius had taken his things out of his room, and placed them in a trunk. He was leaving for King's Cross the next day to meet Mr. England, whoever that may be. All of his clothes, personal belongings, and other assorted items were packed tightly in his school trunk. The letters reading "S.B." were faded, so that he could hardly make out what the initials were.
It was midnight when Sirius finally took the extra set of sheets and pillows out of the closet and off of the mattress, and made himself at home on his sofa. He didn't want to bother James. He knew that what he was going through now was a lot harder than anything he could handle. He could hardly handle him crying.
Sirius coughed, and layed down on the couch in the dark. The thunder sounded from outside, and lightning illuminated the rooftoops.
He too was looking out the window opposite the couch, where the window seat lay. London was as beautiful as ever. Untouched by whatever harmed it. For eternity, its stone base standing strong against war, storms, hate . . . everything.
It was forever alive.
"Sirius," came a worn voice from inside the bedroom.
Sirius jumped to attention, and stared through the doorway at the silhouette of James still sitting on the bed. It was illuminated by the streelights outside. His back was turned to him, but he knew that he wasn't crying anymore.
"Yeah, Prongs?" Sirius said.
"Could you come here for a second?"
"Sure, mate," Sirius said, standing up, and shuffling sleepily to his bedroom. He rubbed his eyes, and took a seat in his desk chair, staring at the beaten boy on his bed.
"You feeling better?" he asked doubtfully.
It took a moment for James to find his voice, and then when he did speak, it wasn't in the tone that Sirius expected. It wasn't one of a beaten, worn out and chewed up man. It was one of a determined soldier.
"My entire life all I wanted to do was protect my family," James said, "I know it's supposed to be the other way around, you know. The parents wanting to protect the children. But not me. I swore to myself that I would do whatever it took to keep them as safe as I could. But I failed at that. I wasn't there to stop him when he came to kill them. I wasn't there, Sirius. I wasn't there to stand up to him."
"James . . . "
"And you know why I wasn't there?" James plowed on, not really asking Sirius, but asking himself, "Because I was a coward. Because I was scared."
"Look . . ."
"But I'll never be a coward again," James continued, "No, never again."
There was a quietness as the two boys that had known each other for so long sat, watching the rain fall outside.
"I love her," James said, "I love Lily. And I will never let her die because of my fear. I will die before I let anyone harm her."
"James, you're not a coward," Sirius started, but James shook his head.
"I want revenge, Sirius," he said, finally looking at him for the first time. His eyes were blazing with fire, "I want revenge on the man who killed them. I want to be there to stop him when he comes after us. I'm not hiding anymore, Sirius. He wants me, I'll find him. He wants my friends, I'll stop him. And he wants to hurt the people that I love, I'll hurt him."
"What are you going to do, James?" Sirius asked quietly, knowing perfectly well what his friend was going to do.
James looked back out to the London streets, and took a breath.
"What time are you leaving in the morning?"