A/N I don't know.
Warnings: HBP spoilers
Setting: Iunno. Probably at the beginning of seventh year, Harry may have gone back to school. Or at the end of sixth year, just when they were all packing up.
His finger ran over the cold metal, tongue between his teeth. Had his father stood here before, running his finger over the same name, with the Marauders behind him, possibly, patting him on the back and laughing? Harry didn't know. He would never know. He would never know exactly how James had scored that winning goal, or how he had looked when he had been awarded the trophy.
JAMES POTTER
BEST CHASER OF THE YEAR.
CAPTAIN OF THE GRYFFINDOR QUIDDITCH TEAM.
1977
Fingers traced the name on the trophy, and Harry gritted his teeth. A messy 'Prongs' was scratched in between James and Potter. He smiled weakly. It was probably Sirius who had scratched that in, and James had probably run after him for his head. But it was all fun and games, really.
"Dad," Harry muttered, as the words in front of his eyes blurred slightly. "Oh, God. Now I'm crying like an idiot." He squeezed his eyes shut, fingers running over the words once more. It was slightly scratched, though well polished and clean. The words were deeply engraved, and the 'Prongs' was rough as if it was done quickly. "You can't even hear me," Harry muttered, resting the palm of his hand on the face of the trophy. "You're dead, Dad," he said firmly. "You're dead. Talking to a- to a shield won't bring you back."
But he did get something out of talking to the trophy, no matter the fact that it was just made out of metal and engraved with his father's name. It seemed to be the closest he could get to actually talking to him.
"I was Quidditch Captain last year," he said softly, not lifting his hand. For some reason it seemed like lifting a weight off of his chest. "It was a disaster, really. I'm sure you could have flied much better. Sirius told me you were excellent." Sirius's name caught in his throat, like sandpaper. It was as if he hadn't said the name for a long time, and as if saying it now was a great effort to him—which it was. But it also seemed to make him feel better, to talk about Sirius. "I suppose he's with you know. Wherever you are. And Mum."
How could he forget Lily? She had a Charms shield in her somewhere that he had seen before. It was like ghosts of memories lingered behind every name engraved on each trophy, shield or cup.
"Professor Lupin- sorry, Remus. He says you were good as well. He's doing well, though. Misses Sirius and you and Wormtail. He never says anything, but I'm sure that he does. Sometimes I think he just can't believe it."
Here he was talking to a trophy; a mere memory of his father. But it was better than nothing.
"Did you know Lupin was a professor here? I suppose you'd find that amusing. Maybe Sirius has already told you." He lifted his hand, playing with a line on the quaffle that was sculpted on top of the trophy. "I've got some friends. Ron and Hermione. They're just like my own Marauders, I guess, though we probably don't get in as much trouble."
No, he didn't doubt that. When he had been forced to clear out all the detention slips that James and his friends had got he had realised that the trouble they had gotten into was miniscule compared to what they had gotten up to.
The words were completely blurred now. Harry blinked, furious at himself for crying. They're dead, he told himself firmly, they're dead, and you can't talk to them. So stop acting like a baby.
But somehow it didn't feel as if he was acting like a baby. He felt as if it was perfectly natural. He felt suddenly as if he actually was talking to James. And suddenly, somewhere deep in his chest, Harry felt as if James was listening.
"I'll go and visit you soon," Harry said quietly, unsure now of what he was doing. "I promise I will. You and Mum. And I'll see where you lived, and where my home really is. I'll see it all, Dad. And I promise I won't let him get away with it."
By 'him' he could mean anyone. Wormtail, for betraying his parents in the first place. Snape, for telling Voldemort about the prophecy, and for killing Dumbledore. Voldemort, for ruining so many lives, for depriving so many people of families.
So many people like himself.
"I promise," he muttered.
Harry turned, walking to the end of the Trophy Room. He didn't look back. He didn't think he could. He wiped the tears furiously out of his eyes, ashamed but not ashamed, embarrassed yet not.
And he swore he felt a hand wipe the tears from his eyes as well.
A/N I'm actually rather proud of this. I don't actually know why, it's a bit short, but I like it.
Tell me what you think.