Lily told me once about Muggle psychology and something called fight or flight syndrome. It means that in a dangerous situation, the subconscious mind overpowers the body and decides whether to run or to protect itself by any means necessary. Although Lily disagreed with me, I always thought that the fight or flight syndrome was a bit floored. It doesn't explain what happens when the love of your life is fighting alongside you and how it changes everything. Your focus of what's going on in front of you slackens to what misses your fiancée by a mere inch or seeing her duck a jet of green flame that would stop her heart forever. It fails to mention the heady, overpowering terror of witnessing the people you love being hurt and struck down. It just doesn't give light on the fact that you are not the most important person in your life and that in mortal danger, I, James Potter, become the very least significant thing imaginable.

.x.

.x.

I stoop to bring the scrubbing brush I hold in my hand to meet the kitchen floor where I liberally begin to swirl it round in circles. The rubber gloves squeal against the wooden handle and the brushes scrape and ground the tiles into frothing white clouds of soap. The bones of my knees do not sit well with the hard floor but this does not perturb me.

'…I don't think the Government are doing enough about unemployment. There are over one and a half million out of work, the highest it's been for two years, Margret Thatcher…'

I scrub and scrub and scrub. I inch my way across the kitchen making sure no spot is left alone. I dip the brush into the shiny water of the bucket next to me and keep going. The birth of summer is starting to permeate through the air and drift in through the living room window that I've left open, all the better to smell the new roses that I had planted last Sunday.

'…Weather is set to be fine around the London area and rest of the south, with rain in Cornwall going to be blowing over to the West Country by this evening…'

I sit back on my heels and arch my stiff back. I hear a slight crackle of the baby monitor on the kitchen counter; I hoped that Dudley didn't wake up,

I hadn't finished yet.

I get to my feet awkwardly and try and brush the redness from my knees whilst picking up the bucket to pour down the sink.

'…Call me (call me) on the line. Call me, call me any, anytime…'

I look under the kitchen sink and find the bleach and an old blue toothbrush; I take off the cap and twirl it around the sink and breathe in the strong, fiery smell. I dip the toothbrush amongst the bleach and begin to work it around the taps.

'…Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, he speaks the languages of love. Oh, oh- We apologise for the interruption but we've just had some breaking news come in from London.'

I freeze as a man's voice comes through on the radio.

My fingers itch to continue, I dig the end of the toothbrush hard into my palm in my urgency to ignore it, bury it beneath me and forget but the tightness takes over and I drop it in the sink. Suddenly the white floor becomes over bright and hurts my eyes; the smell of the bleach stinks and burns the back of my throat making me feel sick.

I cling to the edge of my perfect world hoping against hope that she doesn't ruin it.

'…a few minutes ago sources say that a hostage situation has developed in London…'

Of course it's her. It's always her, right in the thick of the action, flaunting it in my face again how wonderful she is-

'...the Iranian Embassy it seems has been sieged by a group of armed men...'

It isn't her after all.

I turn and remind myself not to forget to hoover the stairs and as I pick up the toothbrush again.

I remind myself that she was never good at cleaning.