i love you, i’m sorry.
The knock on the Potter’s door came at nine o’clock, a little late for trick or treaters, James thought, but ignored his doubt and went to open it.
He left his wand on the sofa.
He swung the door open, a toothy grin on his face expecting small children dressed in seasonal halloween costumes, but was met with all too familiar salt blue eyes.
James’ eyebrows raised in surprise, his smile expanding at the sight of his friend.
“Pete!” He clapped him on the shoulder, feeling Peter flinch underneath him and distance himself slightly, a harrowing look shadowing his face like a cruel mask.
Peter looked at him, swallowing hard, almost shuddering at the interaction. He looked terrified.
James focused his attention down into Peters hand- his wand was clenched between his freckles left hand, knuckles white from his grip.
James’ smile faltered, but didn’t doubt his friend for a second. He never once believed any of his friends would betray him, not like that.
James retreated back into the living room, hands up in air, realisation of the situation setting in.
“Pete— please, whatever you’re doing— whoever’s put you up to this—“ James stuttered his words out, his usual breezy complexion frozen out of him in pure fear.
Peter stepped towards him, wand slowly raising to point at James.
“Pete— Peter,” James’ pleas rushed out of him, trying to reach the friend inside that he’d known and grown up with.
That friend was long gone and in his place was a ghost of the little, timid boy he once knew.
Peter shook his head, a single tear falling down his face melting a small part of the iced, evil demeanour.
“James, I have to— you don’t understand. You’ve never understood.” His words shot like arrows, but James didn’t miss the shake in his small voice as he spoke.
“Peter— you don’t have to do anything, please— i’m begging you. I love you—“ James grappled for his wand, turning his back for a fraction of time.
“—I’m sorry.”
A green ribbon of light shot out Peters wand like an intoxicating disease, hitting James in between his shoulder blades.
His body hunched forward and collapsed onto the carpet in the living room. The sound of his glasses cracking and Peters laboured breaths were the only noise to be heard.
Then, the cry of a baby from upstairs. Small, silent sobs of a widowed woman.
Peter shut his eyes to regain his composure, wiped his face of sweat and murder, and made his way up the stairs.