James always believed that if you survived the first strike, you could survive the last. How many times had his mother told him the hardest part of journey was the start, and how many stories had his father told of standing up through one hardship only to secure victory? James had been in a fair amount of fights, and he knew that the first punch always hurt the worst. At least, that was his theory.

After the first half hour, James knew he was wrong.

Everything throbbed, it all ached. The fingers in his right hand had been shattered one by one, by what he didn't know. There were cuts all over him, some long and shallow, others short but deep. His muscles protested every time he flinched, the beginnings of bruising. He thought it couldn't get much worse. But then it was one, two, three sharp kicks to the crotch, and he couldn't think much after that.

His mouth was full of blood; his teeth were red. At first, James had thought it was from one of the many punches he'd received, but then he noticed the warm, thick feeling traveling up his throat just before he tasted metal. He spit out tablespoons of blood, barely able to breathe because there was so much of it flowing out of his nose as well.

They broke his femur with a simple swish of the wand. The crack resounded in James' ears more than his own screams. The only thing louder was their jeering and the echo of Angela's footsteps. He knew the bone had pierced the skin because of the white blur in the center of the red. James didn't think it could get worse until one of them pulled it upward with their wand; his cry gargled with blood.

He was thrown against the wall, the stone wall more forgiving than the humiliation that soaked through him as he heard zippers dropping and urine dripped from his hair. The degradation was enough to make him close his eyes, to stop frantically trying to discern what was going on. The darkness behind his eyes gave him little solace- his shoulder was pulled sharply in the wrong direction, the tendons protesting for only a moment before they ripped. The pain dissolved all thoughts of ignoring reality- it was there, sharp and clear, and it wasn't going to be over soon.

And then he was being dragged, to where he couldn't tell. His vision was too blurry and his mind too unfocused. James wanted to black out, but every time black crept into his vision, an intense burn crossed his neck. He writhed involuntarily, but this only caused them to pull sharply on is collar, gagging him, forcing him to swallow the blood he'd just vomited.

He was outside, James could tell- the wind brushed his cheek with an uncalled for care, and the snow quickly soaked through his clothes. He could hear the people at the Quidditch stadium, and thought for sure that somebody would notice, that somebody would be running to the loo and see, or somebody in the top row would chance a glance over their shoulder. Surely Lizzy had explained what was going on by then, surely everyone knew there wasn't about to be a match? He listened intently for a shout, or one of the Slytherins to whisper in alarm. All he heard was confident orders.

"Knock him out, just to make sure."

"Why bother? He's as blind a bad without his specs, aren't ya, Potter?"

"I don't want to take any chances."

He didn't hear anybody mutter any sort of spell, or perhaps he just couldn't remember doing so. All he could process was the sudden absence of pain. Black finally overcame his vision, the sensation of all his limbs faded as his muscles relaxed and his mind went numb.

His last thoughts ought to have been something heroic; they should've been about Madeline and Angela being safe, that Madeline might have a chance to live now. At the very least, it should've been about the pain. Instead, as he completely relaxed in the arms of his captors, James thought about how disappointing it was that the Quidditch game had been postponed.

"Crucio!"

It was the first word James heard when he woke. The effect was instantaneous- the agony flared throughout his entire body, as if knives were piercing every inch of his skin; something was burning white-hot from his insides out; his body was being impossibly compressed and stretched at the same time. Something was ripping at his skin, tearing at his bones. Pain radiated up his spine as every muscle was being sawed slowly through. This amount of pain was impossible, but it wasn't just his chest or his leg, it was everywhere. He instinctively tried to focus on something else, anything else, but there was only this agony, only this immediate desire for this to end.

And then the world came back. His eyes snapped open, a shrill sound still echoing in his ears. He could hear laughter around him, but felt far too weak to look for the source. His body ached, the aftershock still coursing through him. He moaned involuntarily, his throat aching from screaming.

"Fun, eh, Potter?"

He didn't care who said that, didn't care to respond. Just leave me alone. Just let me be.

"Not likely, Potter. You'll be here for some time yet."

Had he said that out loud? Before he could even summon enough energy to think about that for more than a second, he forced himself to roll over, vomiting whatever his stomach had left. He could see that it wasn't yellow or white, but red. Scarlet.

The memories hit him like a rouge Bludger. James was suddenly very conscious of his right leg's limited mobility, the dull ache of his mouth, and the long, criss-crossing burns across his neck. The air was freezing, and even James' limited vision could tell his skin was bright red from the wind ripping at his bare skin. They'd stripped him of everything except his boxers, which hung sodden around his waist.

There were several hulking structures to his left, ones that James could recognize without his glasses. He was at the Hogsmeade Platform, black cloaks surrounding him. James looked for a break in their formation, but there was none- he doubted he could've moved anyways. He fell into the pile of his own sick, his eyelids fluttering.

"Potter? You brought him?"

His eyes flashed open. James knew that voice. It was feminine, yet cold and harsh. It was the voice of authority, of somebody who knew exactly where her place was in the world. He turned over, trying to stand, but only fell hard in the snow as his leg collapsed beneath him. He looked up, but he was too close to the mass of black cloaks that surrounded him to see any difference except hair color.

"You idiots! The Dark Lord has deemed him a priority, and you bring him here? What're we to do with him?" A slap resounded through the wind, and all heads turned to one of the cloaks to James' right. "It was the Dark Lord's orders, yet you all blatantly disobeyed!"

"How're we to know? You never told us-"

"Because you are not one of us! None of you have been deemed worthy yet. You should not act so impulsively. The Dark Lord will know of this, mark my words."

The black cloak moved closer to James, but her hood remained up, covering any large features. She knelt, her hood now eye-level with James, as she gripped his hair so tightly he winced in pain. Fingers closed around his chin, forcing him to look straight at her.

"I want you to understand, Potter, that while you are here in part because of who you are, you are also leaving here with no further damage wholly because of who you are. Understand, Potter, that it was not your skill, bravery, or sacrifice that is saving you now. It is your blood. I know your family history, Potter, and I know that soon you'll be thinking about embracing foolish notions of nobility and resistance. When you do, I want you to think about this moment, where you were at your most vulnerable. And I want you to think about what saved you."

She suddenly let go; his arms were too weak to support him, and his head hit the ground hard. The impact made the world spin, and James wondered dimly how much blood he'd lost.

"Your choice is coming faster than you think. You can't win this."

Her last words brought back fights, drinks, curses and fluid wand movements. They brought back whispered words and the instinct to follow directions and improved skills and Hogsmeade and... it was her.

James was being dragged again, farther away from the woman. His brain was foggy from blood loss, but he struggled to maintain focus. Her image was becoming clearer the farther he moved away. She pulled her hood down, and James squinted automatically, trying to discern any characteristic that could give her away.

"Knock him out again."

"I've got a better idea. Snape said he perfected it after Brookings. Let's give it a shot, yeah?"

She Disapparated. But James had seen, had recognized her instantly. He gasped, the sudden rush of oxygen making his head spin with only one thought.

It was Bellatrix Black.

He didn't have enough time to fully register that fact- he was dropped harshly on the ground. He could barely feel the impact of the ground, his body was so numb. The words spoken around him were faint and muddled. All could catch was "bitch" and "we look bad". And then one of them yelled.

"SECTUMSEMPRA!"

He blacked out instantly.

Valerie lies beside him. He can tell she is sleeping, and he gently brushes back her hair to kiss her neck. She is warm, and James wonders how long they can stay like this before they get caught.

"I thought this wasn't supposed to get emotional?" She stirs underneath him, stretching so suddenly that she almost hits his nose. He chuckles, but backs away all the same.

"It won't. I promise," he says as he rolls out of the bed. "Otherwise, I'd be predictable. We'd be falling right into our parents' hands. And we can't have that, can we?"

"Indeed. Alright, as long as you promise, then I suppose it doesn't matter what we do. After all, we're still friends, right?"

"Indeed," he mirrors, shoving his shoes on.

She sits up, grinning as he ties the laces. "You get dressed quickly."

"Practice," he explains, his grin growing to match hers. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah? We still have to-"

"Right, the Gringotts thing,right. I'll be over at-"

"Just past noon?"

"JAMES! JAMES! MERLIN, FUCK, HE'S OVER HERE!"

He swallows. "I've got to go. Dad's still out of it."

"That's a lot of blood..."

"Is he going to make it?"

"Oh my God! Potter!"

"I want you to understand... it's your blood... your blood... It is your blood..."

Someone was sobbing, the wet tears fell heavily on his hand. He wanted to open his eyes and see what was wrong, but his eyelids were too heavy to move, the sleep was too comforting to resist...

Maddie Brookings stands in front of him, her body still soaked in blood. It drips from her hair, and James is transfixed by the patterns it creates. Her eyes are open this time, and she blinks at him several times before opening her mouth. Blood spews out, but her words remain clear.

"Too late."

Everything ached. His eyelids fluttered, but it was too much work to keep them open. It was night or early morning, he couldn't tell from the blurred glimpses he'd just seen. James breathed deeply, the cold air spreading feeling throughout his body. Everything didn't just ache- it hurt, and James couldn't help but moan loudly.

"You're becoming quite the hero, aren't you?"

James opened his eyes reluctantly. Normally, he'd reach over to the night stand for his glasses, but he didn't think he had enough strength to move his arm. And he didn't need glasses to recognize the owner of that voice. The muscles in his face protested as he grinned despite himself.

"What makes you say that?"

"This, for one," Drake said as she crossed the room, her strides casual. A chair suddenly moved across the room, halting at James' bedside. He assumed she had waved her wand. "The Whomping Willow incident, for another."

He swallowed as she sat down. "What incident?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

Drake chuckled. "You're a good liar. Excellent, in fact," she admitted. "But I know too much. Dumbledore informed me. He thought it might help, and rightly so. Now I know all about your little hero complex."

James closed his eyes again. He didn't want to have this conversation.

"As far as I'm concerned, your whole family had a bit of a hero complex. I read up on your family history, and this Potter heroism goes back quite a ways. All the way back to the eleventh century, actually, where your family led the way for a genocide of all Middle-Eastern wizards."

He bit his tongue, but couldn't resist responding. "Every family has a few Dark members. We straightened out."

"Indeed... Well, let's talk about more relevant matters. Like-"

"How did I get here?" James asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"I found you. I'd ask what on Earth you were doing at the Hogsmeade train station, but, judging from your injuries, I doubt it was a matter of choice," Drake said, the smile evident in her voice. "You've been unconscious for over two days. It's Monday evening- you're actually late for your appointment."

"Is that why you're here?"

"No, a staff member has to be watching you while Madam Pomfrey rests. She's been awake since Saturday morning, keeping both you and Miss Brookings alive."

James turned his head wildly. On his other side was a mass of brown hair and an obvious bulge beneath white sheets. She was okay, she was alive, but James didn't feel relieved for some reason. He felt anxious, as if the slightest movement on his part would stop Maddie Brooking's heart.

"How did you know?" he asked quietly. "How did you know I did it to save her?"

"I didn't," Drake said. James ground his teeth, upset that she had manipulated him so well. "But I know you don't make a habit of skipping Quidditch matches."

"Will it be rescheduled?" James asked, almost sitting up in alarm but his side flared in a pain, causing him to groan.

Drake chuckled. "Yes, it will be. I believe Professor McGonagall termed it 'exceptional circumstances'. But on to more important matters- Lily Evans."

James furrowed his eyebrows. He'd just woken up after being viciously beaten by DEWBs, and Drake wanted to talk about Lily Evans? He would've thought she'd be asking him questions left and right about how he got there, what they did to him, or at the very least who did it. But Drake seemed content pretending the entire incident hadn't ever occurred after she ranted about his "hero complex".

"Aren't you going to ask me who did this?"

"Do you want me to?" she asked.

"No," James answered quickly. "Fine. Let's talk about Evans."

"No," Drake responded just as quickly. "Let's not. I get thirteen next time, James. I hope you have a good night." With that, James saw her blurry form rise and greet a man with short white hair at the door. Despite the dark hospital wing, James also didn't need his glasses to recognize this visitor.

"Dad- what're you doing here?!"

His father's laugh was deep but scratchy, as if he'd laughed a few too many times in his lifetime. "Right. What am I doing here, not what are you doing nearly dead in the hospital wing?" James could not see his face, but the blur of movement meant his father had turned to Drake. "Would you mind leaving me alone with my son?"

"Of course not. He's making excellent progress, incidentally."

James heard the door close behind her. He didn't even have time to contemplate her words before his dad had taken the seat in front of him. "I'm proud of you, James," he said, reaching for something on the nightstand. "You did just what you should've. Any Potter would've done the same."

Something cold and familiar was pressed against his face, and the world was suddenly clear. His father had the same messy hair as his son, but his was white with patches of gray. Even in age, his father's build had not become frail and small, remaining large and thick. While the muscle from his Auror days had faded into fat, James still thought his father as an imposing figure. The lines on his dad's face were more pronounced than he remembered them, but the prideful grin was enough to wipe the worry from his mind.

"Thanks, Dad. I know I did the right thing, but I can't-"

"-tell me who did it? I know, son, I know. You speak quite clearly in your sleep, and that was a repeated phrase."

"What else did I say?"

His father was silent for a moment, awkwardly running a hand through his hair. "Nothing important. Mostly nonsense."

James raised an eyebrow at him. His dad had never been good at lying; his mother had been the manipulator in the relationship. Harold Potter was more about confronting things directly, while Charlotte had preferred to confront thing smartly. Somebody should've been there with him, to help him where he obviously failed, to better deceive his son, but his other half was gone. James glanced down at his father's hands, the gold wedding ring still sharply visible. He supposed there wasn't a reason to take it off.

"Did I talk about Mum?" James asked clearly, though he could not meet his father's gaze while he spoke.

"A bit," Harold conceded. James had no desire to ask specifics, and he could tell that his father had no desire to give them.

"I'm just glad you're alright. I couldn't have lost you too."

The elder Potter's voice was sure and steady until the end, where it suddenly broke as he hunched over and started to sob.

Before his mother's death, James would've had no idea what to do. Before his mother's death, James had never seen his father cry, let alone sob without abandon as he was doing now. Before his mother's death, his father would've never broken in front of his son- Potter men had too much pride. But that world before his mother's death, when everything had been storybook, had been burned and dissolved in acidic reality, where a sixteen year old boy was practiced in consoling his father. A skill better left untouched.

"Dad, you're not going to lose me," James said. "I'm fine, aren't I? I know how to take care of myself- I learned from the best, right?"

His father shook his head, chuckling lightly. "That's what I'm afraid of. I barely lived past my thirties, James, and with this war... You'll do the right thing. You'll fight. And what if you die, what if you die?" His father's voice rose sharply, though the tears suddenly ceased. "I won't lose my son."

"You will never have to lose me, Dad," James responded. Silence enveloped both of them at his words, and, while James could not speak for his father, the cold feeling of dread settled in his gut. His father would never have to lose him, that James was sure of, but what of the opposite? James would lose his father, and, judging by the heavy lines of Harold's face and the slow, unsure walk that accompanied him, it would be sooner rather than later.

His dad looked up at him, blinked once, and then stated shakily a fact James couldn't argue with.

"I lost my better half, and it was the most painful process of my life. I lived with and loved your mother for nearly seventy-seven years. But I understand her passing- death takes each of us, and she lived a good life. I'll never get over her death, but to lose a son... You take my word for it, James, the thought of losing a child is the most unimaginable prospect. You expect to bury a wife, never a child. Never a child."

James couldn't argue with this, not because he truly believed his father, but because he lacked all the experience his father so clearly had. James had not been in love, had not married and loved someone for years, had not felt the overwhelming desire to be with someone forever. James had not held a child in his arms, had not watched one grow and smile and cry and babble, had not seen himself in another human being. But he would, and these words were to be thought over repeatedly in the future. It was the type of advice that a father should never have to give a son, but that is often the type that is the truest.

Never a child.

Harold and James Potter talked for a little longer, but Madam Pomfrey poked her head in after an hour, looking rather frazzled despite her sleep, and insisted that James needed to sleep. Harold stood up, told his son good-bye, and began to walk out the door when he turned.

"James- where's the watch I gave you?"

"In my dorm," James answered, puzzled. "Why?"

"Just... I'm sorry, where's the watch?"

"In my dorm," James repeated. "Why do you want to know?"

His father opened his mouth to answer, but closed it quickly with an equally puzzled look on his face. "I'll tell you later. Just keep a hold of it, alright?"

James nodded, watching his father leave, complete with lined face and slow gate. Pomfrey shoved some potion down his throat, making his eyelids flutter only briefly before blackness overcame him. He was glad it did, because it left little time for him to contemplate whether or not his father would even remember this conversation a week from now. Age showed in more than just the body, after all. The head of the King was just as faded as the rest of the card.