James Potter was a wild, carefree child, always so full of questions and a thirst for answers. His parents had spoiled him rotten, with love and everything it entailed. He was adventurous, warm skin basking in the rays of the sun from his frequent outdoor rendezvous. Despite spending most of his time with merely the presence of his daring thoughts, he remained happily stomping through the grass at Potter Manor, crinkling dirt in his chubby fingers.
A consequence of his inquisitive nature was that he’d held no fear for death, and frequently tested his sealed limits. His parents taught him not to be afraid of the one thing many witches and wizards feared.
“Why?” a tiny James asked, hair sticking out in all angles, and glasses askew. His warm brown eyes, so reminiscent of his mother, were squinted, “No scary?”
He vaguely remembered his mother glancing at his father, serene smiles on their faces, “No scary,” Euphemia confirmed, picking up her son and sitting him on her hip, rubbing his cheek fondly.
Fleamont smiled at the sight, how he’d long for a moment like this for years, “He’s a friend.”
But that did not stop them from yelling a new one into him in the years that followed.
James was zooming on his newly purchased broomstick in the vast outdoors that was held within the Potter wards. It was the best broom money could buy, and he was currently testing its limits with a maniacal grin on his face.
He knew what he was doing was against all precaution his dad had given him, but what was life without a little risk?
He threw all caution to the wind, and flew in between a pair of trees with intertwined branches, below them a magical garden of thorned roses lay.
James’ robes caught on a particularly long stick, pushing him off his broom, sending him plummeting into the bed of roses. He’d closed his eyes, anticipating the worst, but never death.
His mother’s shrieked ‘Arresto Momentum’ distantly reached his ears, and he felt himself being pulled away from cluttered nature, into the waiting arms of his somewhat frantic mother. She had barely caught him, and despite his blurred vision thanks to losing his glasses along the way, he could see his head was inches away from the thorns.
“You’re grounded,” she groused at the end of her tirade, his ear was beginning to ring with all the scolding, and his dad merely stood at the side with his lips pursed.
“Why?” James protested, “I didn't even mean for that to happen!” He was flapping his arms in annoyance, “I’m safe right now aren't I? It was an accident!”
“Yes,” Fleamont had spoken, he stepped forward, wrapping his hand around his son’s and pressing against it gently, “But sometimes accidents can lead to unintended consequences, and one day you’ll find yourself the only one dealing with them.”
“Fine,” he grumbled to his father, but not sprouting anymore complaints.
He soon forgot all about that debacle, when his parents gave him treacle tart to cheer him up, and it just happened that his Hogwarts letter arrived that day. He was ecstatic, the accident set aside.
Days later, James had gone on the Hogwarts express with a massive grin on his face. He and Sirius had met Peter while trying to find a cabin after lovely-Lily and her friend Snivellous had unceremoniously thrown them out.
He poked his head in a seemingly empty cart, spotting a young man hunched in the corner with a book in hand. Sirius was snarking behind him about finding seats already and James knew he'd hit the jackpot. They’d sat with the mysterious kid, wearing trousers past his ankles and a sweater threatening to swallow even his hands.
“I’m Remus,” he quietly introduced himself, squirming under James' stare. He saw the scars on his face and recognized it as the same one his father’s friend had. Uncle Belby was a werewolf and this Remus fellow might have been as well.
“Well, Remus,” said Sirius, patting him on the back, “Hope you don’t mind us crashing man.”
Peter laughed, “Yeah, everywhere else was full.”
“No, it’s alright,” Remus replied, a somewhat hesitant grin on his face, “If you didn't find me I might have been alone all the way.”
James had glanced around the cabin, feeling a small swell in his chest. This was his first set of friends and he could care less about the dangers it may bring. So what if one was a werewolf? Or the other had come from a family who had a knack for dark magic? Peter was at least normal and that perfectly balanced their little group anyways.
He’d had many skids with death over his years at Hogwarts, none of which were particularly terrifying to him. Sure he might have landed himself in the hospital wing because of some wayward potion ingredients, scratches that transferred over from his animagus, and his fair share of quidditch accidents, but the first time he had feared death was in their sixth year, at the expense of his enemy of all things.
“Do you have any idea how badly that could've turned out,” James all but roared at Sirius, he was furious, angry at his friend for hurting Remus that way, and not necessarily about Snape, “How do you think Moony would feel when he wakes up and finds bloody murder on his hands!”
“I’m sorry alright!” hissed Sirius, “I didn't know he’d actually go and take the bait! He’s an idiot!”
“Why?” James demanded, his glare as sharp as a dagger, “What made you think that was a good idea?”
“I wasn’t thinking straight alright!” replied Sirius, he sagged defeatedly in the chair behind him. A remorseful expression on his face.
James finally realized what his mother meant all those years ago. That he’d have to deal with consequences, even if it wasn't his own fault. That the prospect of other people’s death was enough to drive you sick with worry. He’d never forget that sick churning in his stomach again, and having to walk eggshells around his friends for months.
He was vividly reminded of the feeling when he woke up one night, the magically enchanted mirror that was connected to Sirius was vibrating tremendously, enough to rouse him from his deep slumber.
“Prongs!” cried Sirius frantically, and when James picked his mirror up, he could see the orange flashes of the ‘Crucio’ curse in the background. “I need to get out of here! Help, please James,” he had pleaded and James felt that familiar feeling of his stomach failing him and his blood running cold.
Later, his parents would tell him that they just got him in time, any longer Sirius could have died from magical exhaustion or have went insane due to torture. James watched his mother kiss Sirius on the head while he held his best friend, his father arguing incessantly with a man in the floo. His hands were clammy from the thought that he could have lost his friend to death that day, and not even his mother’s warm hand on his back helped drown his fears.
His parents had tried to suppress the news of the upcoming war from him but he saw it clearly in the restlessness of the Slytherins, the older ones rubbing an invisible scratch on their left arms. James had come to accept death as part of life after that. It could be delayed but it was inevitable, he’d just have to make the most out of it. Death had become a warm blanket, a peace he realized that would await him when it was time.
He felt death graze his shoulders in his seventh year, when he dueled with death eater hopefuls in Slytherin for speaking foul words against Muggleborns. His Peverell lineage shone through every spell that shot out of his wand, his ancestors guiding his wand movements, almost as if telling him it wasn't his time yet.
James too discovered that death was capable of much more than instilling fear in his peers. He discovered the despair it brought to the people who were struck, comforting his sobbing girlfriend while Dumbledore gravely informed her of her parents demise at the hands of Lucius Malfoy. He thought of the parents’ he’ll never get to meet, the father he’ll never get to ask for permission to marry his daughter or the mother he’ll get to share stories with. James felt ill.
He and Lily had joined the Order right out of school. It was only natural that Remus, Sirius, and Peter followed, and for every mission, every heist, and every steak out, James had feared for his friends lives more than his own. His fiancé often was tasked to stalk the high profile followers of You-Know-Who like Bellatrix Lestrange, Remus was forced to be a spy within the werewolves, Sirius was irrational, and Peter wasn’t exactly the most skilled with a wand.
Yet, every night without fail they’d return to their shared flat with a few scratches and wounds which could easily be healed, but James knew there was no erasing the things they witnessed or that haunted look in their eyes.
He’d thought that death was being particularly kind to him especially, not until he’d received an owl from his father, informing him that he and his mother were diagnosed with dragon pox, and given their age, they had a few months left. James and Lily married within those months, wanting to have at least a set of parents present to share the moment with.
Even at his own wedding, he felt like death was about to gatecrash the party. Despite the good spirits, every guest was on edge, and he could not blame them he supposed. James had twirled Lily that night, and when he dipped her, slow and steady, auburn hair falling like a halo around her, he whispered promises of togetherness once more, in sickness and in health, in life and in death.
Days later his parents laid in their deathbeds, waiting in silence for their final breaths. James and Lily had been there, as had Sirius and Remus, Peter had been assigned to a mission and had said he couldn't make it.
He was holding his mother’s hand in one and his father's in the other. James felt them rub his knuckles the same way they did when he was a child, and he became undone right in front of them.
“Why?” cried James, moisture was beginning to form at the corners of his eyes, glasses fogging, “Why are you leaving us so soon.”
He remembered Sirius crying beside his— no their, mother, body hunched like a small child while Euphemia stoked his hair. Lily sat beside Fleamont, holding his other hand, while Remus lingered behind James, a somber expression on his scarred face.
“Don’t cry my child,” his mother had whispered, he was relieved to hear the scolding tone in his mother's voice, and he held onto it like a lifeline, it was proof that she was still alive, “Our time had merely come.”
James sighed heavily, his chest heaving with emotion, he grew up hearing about an individual’s ultimate end and the peace it will bring, but it didn't make this all the less painful.
“We love you James,” chided his father, “We’ll always be with you, for the ones who really love us never really leave us.”
He felt death enter the room that day, engulfing his parents in an embrace as he reunited them with their ancestors, no doubt greeting the deity like an old friend. But the summer heat was not enough to override the coldness of his parents' palms.
James slowly felt himself spiral with the losses being reported left and right. The Order was exhausting their capabilities and yet it wasn’t enough to suppress the reign of terror You-Know-Who was attempting to spread over wizarding Britain.
The only beacon of hope came when Lily had tearfully embraced him one night when he arrived into their home from a mission, his robes soaked and a gash on his forehead. She was pregnant, due to give birth in July, and none of the grime that stuck to his clothes made him care enough to let go of his wife. He felt a fire spur within him, like a nudge from death that he’ll live long enough to have a family, a nudge he’ll be sure to treat like a promise.
On July 31st, Harry James Potter was born, carefully cradled by his Godfather, who stood in front of Remus, with the latter cooing at the child who looked so much like James, except he had Lily’s eyes. James was a little sad that Peter was once again positioned at a steak out, but nothing could completely damper the giddiness he felt at that moment, with his wife snuggled at his side, and when Sirius carefully shifted Harry back in James and Lily’s arms, nothing had felt more right in that moment. A picture he’ll save for many more years to come.
It was a picture he held on to, while stuck in a house under the fidelius charm, until further notice. Dumbledore had informed them a few days after Harry’s birth, of a prophecy that stated that he was to be marked by You-Know-Who. His son was to be marked by death.
“Why?” James tearfully asked, to no one in particular, seeing as his tired wife was asleep next to their son, but he hoped that the old deity was listening to him, “Why did it have to be Harry?”
And for the first time in years, no one had answered his question.
He wanted answers. Answers as to why there was a rustling of bushes and a rasp at the door, when the two people who knew of their location never knocked. Why Dumbledore had taken the cloak his family had held for centuries when they could be using it right now. Why would his secret keeper willingly rat them out like this when all they’ve been to him was family.
Why did it have to be this soon?
Now, he watched his body fall backwards, and a white, bony hand stretched out in front of him. He reached out to grasp it, noting that his own skin, usually so full of life and tanned from all the days in the sun, ghostly pale.
“Why?” James whispered sadly, “I thought I was supposed to have more time.”
The deity hummed, fingers drumming against his mighty scythe, almost sympathetic, “‘Twas all the time destiny allowed you to have.”
James Potter had his answer.