November 1st, 1981. Pinch, punch, first day of the month. The Potters are dead.
When Sirius hears the day after All Hallow's Eve that everyone is naming him as the traitor, the bastard who sold Lily and James out, he is amazed. They must not have known him at all, he thinks, not in the slightest, to have been able to say that, because Sirius doesn't believe there's a single cell in him that could have ever brought itself to betray the boy who had in every way saved him, nor the girl who had loved him.
James. James. James, James, James, James.
James in first year, proffering Chocolate Frogs after that first, monumentally catastrophic day.
James in third year, the preadolescent rebel, eyes lit up under the secrecy of the Cloak with the gleam of adventure and the satisfaction of a prank well pulled.
James in fifth year, stupidly in love and brilliantly Pronged.
James in seventh year, Head Boy and terrified at the prospect, whispering quietly in the train if Sirius thinks he's ready for this.
James, in all his years and forms. Always James.
But where are you now Prongs?
It wasn't Remus. It had never been Remus, and the grief that seizes his heart and chokes him cripples him to the ground.
Pinch. Punch. First day of the month. The Potters are dead.
He doesn't fight when the Hit Wizards take him away.