the boy who kicked tom's head in

It is October 31st, 1981 and a boy with James Potter’s face is laying dead in the doorway of the Potter residence in Godric’s Hollow. There’s blood pooling under his head, drying sticky in his hair and making quick work of staining the faded rug he’d fallen back on. The source of blood is the gash across his windpipe, the spell cutting deep enough to expose the bone at the back of his neck, the magic creeping out of the wound in dark, lightning shaped tendrils.

Lily is knelt on the floor with him, her knees in the drying blood and her hands pounding on the boy’s chest in an aggressive and futile attempt at Muggle resuscitation. Her actions won’t save him; that’s not something this brand of magic allows. It had happened so fast that Lily wasn’t even sure anything had happened at all. But then there was a body in her doorway and blood on the rug and a high pitched whine like a kettle gone off. There wasn’t much time to do anything but react once he’d gone down. Lily counts herself lucky and continues beating on the man’s chest, firing off wordless and wandless spells to no avail. It’s another ten minutes before she sits back on her heels and lets her hands still on the man’s chest.

“James,” she calls. James hadn’t followed her back to the house once the dust settled. He’d sat himself on the porch steps, her wand still in his hand and his head slung low on his shoulders. “I—He’s—James, he’s gone.”

Gone she says, like maybe the man left, like maybe he’d wandered off, like maybe he wasn’t dead under her fingertips. She thinks it can’t have been more than twenty minutes since he’d arrived at their home, tumbling from the fireplace with a vial of Sirius’ blood hanging from his neck. She thinks back, tries to will the past twenty minutes out of existence, tries to hope Regulus back to life. She feels pathetic, feels like a child, feels like maybe she should be laying bloody in the doorway, too. 

“I’m sorry,” were the first words from his mouth, a manic edge to the apology. He’d continued, “It’s me; I’m sorry.”

Between her and James it was a mess of, “Regulus?!” and, “What are you doing here?” and, “How’d you find us?” and, “Another step and I’ll kill you where you stand, I don’t care who your brother is!”

Regulus had stopped moving, though it looked as though it caused him great pain. He’d wrung his hands, the manic energy needing an outlet. Now that she could see him fully, Lily’s heart broke. Regulus looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, a month even. And his clothes didn’t fit him perfectly like they had every other time she’d seen him—they were baggy and old and noticeably Muggle. He’d been standing in their sitting room, flames from the floo still smoldering behind him, and he’d looked every bit of the sixteen year old she’d seen four year ago when he’d snuck into the Gryffindor tower to tell Sirius he was being pulled from classes.

He’d already been marked then, she remembers. It’d been a huge fight the year before, the fresh ink living on Regulus’ arm and weaving its way into his blood. He and Sirius had had countless screaming matches about the brand, all of which ended with James stepping up to pull the brothers into a hug on either side. She hadn’t understood then how Sirius and Regulus could both hate and love each other at the same time, how they could scream and yell and punch and kick, yet still end the night with a quick hug and an assurance that things would be okay. She understands now. Understands in the way her and Petunia don’t speak, or write, or see each other anymore, but Lily’d stop time if it meant easing a burden for her sister.

(She hopes Petunia feels the remaining embers of their sisterly bond the same way, but that’s neither here nor there.)

In recent time, Regulus was twenty and uncharacteristically disheveled, and he had stilled when asked, composed himself, and said, “He’s on his way to kill you, all of you, the baby especially. Peter’s told him and they’re to make their move tonight.”

He’d begun to move again once he’s finished speaking. Pulling bits and bobbles from his pockets, setting up shop on the table in the middle of the room. Lily had watched in silence, unsure of how to act around Regulus in his current state. James, however, seemed to tap into his uncanny Console the Troubled Youth of the House of Black ability. He came forward, rounded the table, and grabbed Regulus by the shoulders, forced him to be still and look James in the eye.

“Take a breath.”

Regulus did as requested.

“Now, explain it to us.”

“There’s no time to explain.”

“Make time, Regulus. You said something about Peter; what about him?”

Another breath, this time unprompted. Lily watched his chest rise and fall. Twice, three times. Regulus looked away from James to make eye contact with Lily before putting his focus back on James, his hands still on Regulus’ shoulders to hold him in place. “Peter’s gone and told everyone. He’s a spy. He started hanging around a couple months back, took a bit until he was at every meeting.” A pause. Regulus worked his jaw side to side like he was chewing his words, like he was fighting bile from working its way back up. He lowered his eyes and went back to fidgeting his hands, spoke quickly and quietly, “I thought maybe Sirius got my letters and sent him to help get me out. Or maybe Dumbledore had finally taken up my offer of me being a spy.”

“Regulus,” Lily started, her voice cracking on the last syllable.

“No matter,” Regulus interrupted, a throat clearing cough doing little to cover up him sniffing back emotions. “He’s sold you out. Voldemort knows where you are, knows where the Longbottoms are.”

“Regulus,” Lily started again, stronger now. “What letters?”

“No matter,” he dismissed again, his gaze dropping to his hands once again. “Bigger things.” And then, “You need to leave.”

“Okay,” James had responded. He’d nodded and pulled his hands away to straighten Regulus’ shirt and said, again, “Okay.”

With James’ approval Regulus became frantic again. He snapped his fingers and spun around, searching for something unknown. He seemed to find what he was looking for in Lily’s purse on the kitchen table, tripping over his feet as he hurried to grab it and bring it into the front room. He balled the purse up in his hands, turned it over and muttered under his breath. Satisfied with whatever he’d done to the bag, he held it out to Lily.

“Grab what you need, put it in here. Should all fit.”

She had nodded, taken the bag from Regulus’ hands, and turned to head up to the bedrooms. She could hear the boys talking—more likely arguing, albeit quietly—when she got to the second floor, their voices muddled into a steady buzz she could drown out as she packed up the more important bits of the life they created. Clothes for James, clothes for Harry, clothes for herself. Harry’s favorite book, the one with the pop-out finger puppets. A pacifier. A framed photo from sixth year. James’ wand. She grabbed anything and everything and placed it in the bag, stopping only for a moment to appreciate the expansion charm Regulus had put on it.

Satisfied with her raid, she’d gone into Harry’s room, put his stuffie in her bag and wrapped his sleeping body in his blanket. He hadn’t stirred when she lifted him from his crib; just a small huff and he was settled in her arms. She allowed herself a quick glance around the nursery, willed herself to commit the details to memory. She’d be leaving this room behind in ten minutes time. Leaving her son’s bedroom in a house she’d bought with her husband, leaving her home. A second to grieve the life they’d built, and then back downstairs. 

(There’s still a war on. She hasn’t forgotten.)

Regulus was tinkering with a cauldron when she rejoined him and James in the sitting room. James has been watching him closely, a frown pulling at his lips. He was leaning over the back of their arm chair, a pile of things resting on the chair’s seat. She passed him her purse before grabbing the strap-to-chest carrier from James’ pile.

“Okay, we’re ready,” Lily said, Harry still asleep as she’d maneuvered him into the carrier. She had headed for the floo, stopping only when she realized neither James nor Regulus had made a move to follow. “Let’s go.”

James had hung his head, slung Lily’s purse onto his shoulder. Regulus had turned his attention back to the cauldron. “I’m not going with you.”

“Then you’ll meet us there.”

“No.”

And it had his Lily then, what Regulus had come there to do. He wasn’t there to rescue them, wasn’t there to warn them and whisk them away to safety. No, he was there to take their place, to buy them some time to get themselves to safety. She’d rounded the furniture and forced him into a hug then.

“You’re just a boy, Regulus,” Lily said, hands balled in the back of Regulus’ shirt to keep him as close as the baby strapped to her chest allowed. “You shouldn’t be doing whatever it is you plan on doing alone.”

Regulus allowed the invasion of personal space for exactly twenty-seven seconds before he twisted his arms behind his back to untangle Lily’s hands from his shirt. “I was never a boy, Lily.” A pause. A sigh. “Your son. He’s just a boy. Let me save him?”

She had nothing to say to that so she had just grabbed Regulus’ hands in her own and gave them a tight squeeze before dropping them entirely. She stepped back and gave a sharp nod, put on a brave face and reached behind herself for James. She didn’t put up a fight as Regulus took hold of her and James, dragged them further into the house to stand near the kitchen doorway. She didn’t ask questions when Regulus stood in front of James and stared, face void of emotion. Ten seconds of silence before James pushed a sharp breath from his nose, nodded his head towards the coat closet across the room. Regulus walked there and back between one blink and the next, a silver cloak—the invisibility cloak—in his hands when he returned.

“James,” Regulus had said, cloak extended as a parting gift. “You know what to do.”

“I don’t like this,” James responded after taking the offered garment and draping it over his and Lily’s shoulders.

“It’s war. No one likes it.”

Regulus reached out to tug the fabric up and over their heads, the family of three disappearing. They’ve got the cloak on them now, a portkey in hand and a list of seven apparition points—written on James’ palm and given to him when Lily was upstairs packing—to follow in quick succession. They’d been set to go, set to leave Regulus here in their living room with his potion and various oddities pulled from the pockets of his robes. Harry, strapped to Lily’s chest, stirred, made the slightest of sounds like he might begin wailing, but was cut off by a knock at the door. They’d been set to leave, but they don’t.

James’ hand found Lily’s as he turned towards the door, putting his body in front of Lily and his son despite being invisible. They watched in silence as Regulus picked up the cauldron and drank its contents straight, watched as he grabbed a stray pacifier and wordlessly transfigured it into a pair of wiry glasses, watched as his silhouette changed from gangly and proper to stocky and firm.

The knock sounded again. Regulus spared a glance around the room as he stepped to the door and Lily had to lift a hand to stifle her scream. Regulus was wearing James’ face, the same James that is pressed shoulder to hip with her under the invisibility cloak. Regulus had stolen James’ face and body and—Polyjuice potion.

Regulus—the man with James’ face—opened the door just as a third knock sounded.

“Sorry, I’ve just put my son to be—Oh, hey Pete.”

It’s uncanny. It’s terrifying. It’s James.

And it’s Peter. It’s Peter standing there with one hand raised in an abandoned knock and the other clutching what looks to be a white porcelain mask to his chest. It’s Peter with an apology on his lips and an ashy hand resting like a brand on his shoulder. It’s Peter and Lord Voldemort.

“James, mate, I’m sorry.”

The following moments were like someone had cast arresto momentum on everything but Lily’s heart for the way the world had slowed to a stop and her pulse had skyrocketed. An ever increasing ba-bum ba-bum ba-bum knocking against her ribcage like Peter had knocked on her front door just moments before. She remembered a green-yellow flash and then Regulus was crumpling onto the floor, landing with a hollow thud as his skull cracked against the ground. She couldn’t see his face with his head turned at that angle and with her family huddled under the cloak in the shadows, and she’d not been entirely sure if it was a relief to not see the face of the man who’d sacrificed himself for her family. Because there’s no way Regulus didn’t know this was going to happen. No way perfect marks, Pureblood Prince, Heir Black stumbled out of the floo with hope and naivete shoved into his pockets with the Polyjuice and portkey.

(And she’d seen dead bodies before. She’d created dead bodies before. Knows the glazed over eyes, the limp stature that hardens over time. Knows the smell a body gets when its gone bad. But it wasn’t like this. This had been different. Because Regulus was not dead, could not be dead. Regulus, the boy with James’ face, Sirius’ little brother, was just down—not dead, no; not dead until Lily gets her hands on him and feels for herself.)

It felt like a lifetime between Lily watching Regulus hit the ground, and her realizing that she well and truly saw Regulus hit the ground. In reality, it had only been three seconds. Enough time for Peter to be shoved aside by the ashen hand, by Voldemort, as the man tried to step over Regulus and make his way into the house. To find Lily. And Harry. Because Peter thinks he’s done the worst thing imaginable, thinks he’s killed one of his best friends while his child sleeps and his wife idles about unaware.

That thought is squashed as the three seconds it takes Regulus to collapse was also enough time for James to duck down enough to steal Lily’s wand from her boot and free himself from the cloak, pushing Lily to her knees to keep her concealed. She watched as James rushed across the room, grabbed Voldemort by his robes, and shoved him backwards over the threshold. James ignored Peter on his way out, wand drawn and fully intent on dueling with Voldemort, spells flying off course as they’re dodged and countered, streetlights and bricks exploding in collateral. James is screaming at the other wizard, unintelligible threats in the mix of half-sparked spells.

And Peter, one of James’ best mates, he did nothing. He stood on the porch, tears on his cheeks and a hand gripping his face to stifle a sob, and he stared at the body on the floor. He’d connected the dots, is the thing. He’d realized that if there’s a James Potter spouting hate to the Dark Lord out here, then there’s a chance the James Potter he’d killed wasn’t his James Potter. He’d been relieved that he’d gotten a chance of killing a faceless nobody. It made Lily’s blood boil.

She adjusted her footing and slipped the cloak off her body, laid it on the floor and made quick work of getting Harry out of his carrier and swaddled in the invisible fabric. She crawled them to the fireplace, grabbed a handful of floo powder, and sent Harry away with a roughly whispered, “The Burrow.” She sent a patronus along after her son, a request for the Weasleys to stay put and to keep her son safe, to love him as their own.

And then she’d pulled James’ wand from the bottomless bag, stood up, and turned to the doorway, turned to the traitor who dared to look relieved with a body at his feet. She’d shot off stinging hexes and stun spells as she approached Peter, as she backed him off the porch and down the drive. As angry as she was, there was a part of her that didn’t want to hurt Peter, a part of her that remembered Peter is sensitive and needs to be treated with kid’s gloves. But another part of her, a newer part, remembered the boy with James’ face and she reached inside of herself to smother the light of the torch she’d been carrying for ickle Peter Pettigrew.

“But he’s not dead!” Peter pleaded. “It’s not James, he’s not dead!”

“That boy is dead, Peter,” Lily hissed through the bile rising in her throat. “That boy in there is dead because you’ve killed him.”

“But it’s not James, Lily! I haven’t killed James.”

“No,” Lily thought to herself. “You’ve killed Regulus.”

She didn’t say anything else, just watched a sickly green spell spark out from the tip of her wand, watched as Peter’s eyes went wide and his entire body went slack. She watched a friend die, and she said nothing.

She said nothing still as she turned to where James was beating Voldemort back with a barrage of spells. Said nothing as she took note of the spells James was using—hexes and stupefy and expelliarmus and unpredictable wandless magic jumping from his skin. All spells meant to disarm, to maim, to hold off. She could tell he’d just been fighting on instinct, letting the Defense Against the Dark Arts training take control so he could start a plan on the back burner. But there was no plan, was never going to be a plan, was never a plan in the first place aside from Regulus getting the Potters to safety.

She didn’t have a plan either.

“HE WAS JUST A BOY!” she screeched, magic flying from her with no clear path. She’d felt like she was on fire, like maybe she’d made a mistake and set her body ablaze, but there were no flames. Just a green-yellow glow about her, like make she was the killing curse. And she must have been, because between one second and the next, one breath and the next, one step and the next, Voldemort is crumpling to the ground much like Regulus had all but seven minutes ago.

(This body she knows is dead from the moment it hits the pavement. Voldemort, the Dark Lord, He Who Shall Not Be Named, is dead in her driveway.)

Lily opens her eyes. She’s back in the doorway, hands still clutched in Regulus’ shirt, blood still under his head, her knees. James is still sat on the porch steps, her wand now being used to hex Peter’s lifeless body so boils appear on his skin. His hair catches fire. Slugs pour from his mouth.

It is October 31st, 1981 and Regulus is dead under her palms.