He would’ve preferred if it was dark and stormy.
It felt unfair that one of England’s few bright days, full of heat and warmth, was the day that his world came crashing down. It was out of place, the sunlight shining through the windows, the warm breeze that marked a perfect summer day. Because how could the weather be ideal when James felt like only a shell of a man.
When he wanted to fall into murky waters and never resurface.
The Daily Prophet sat crumpled on their kitchen table, the photo of the dark-haired wizard still shifting in the folds of the paper. It was damp, not from tears, but from the clamminess of his palms. James had read the headline on the front cover, written by one Rita Skeeter, and dropped it immediately, retreating to the toilet, where he proceeded to empty his stomach of the dinner he had eaten the previous night.
Black Family Heir Dead at 18
He wasn’t sure yet if he had processed it, or if he simply believed it was another lie the Daily Prophet was printing during this never ending war.
Did he even have a right to be upset, he wondered. James felt a dizzy spell coming up, sitting down in front of the fireplace, bent over, head in between his legs. He curled in on himself, blocking out the out of place sun, the absolutely pure weather, on a day that should be dark and stormy.
Immensely grateful that Lily was not here to witness his impending breakdown, he was sure that it was on the horizon. Eyes closed, he rocked back and forth, glasses long since fallen off his face.
James truly hadn’t spoken with him since the summer before seventh year, effectively the end of their relationship, if you could even call it that.
Did he have the right to grieve? To wail in despair at the thought of his first everything being gone from the world forever?
So many in the Order would celebrate, another death eater gone, effectively destroying the Black family legacy. Sirius, who had not spoken more than a few words to his brother since fifth year when he was disowned, might be among them, James thought.
But he’d always loved his brother, even during their fits of anger and tragic disagreements.
Maybe that’s what they were. A Greek tragedy. Destined to fail before they could even get started. He’d joined a wizard death cult, was responsible for the death of Godric knows how many innocent witches, wizards, and muggles.
Did he deserve James’s grief?
His mind wandered back to the last time they had ever spoken. August 23, 1977. A week before they were to return to Hogwarts, a chance encounter in Diagon Alley. A day much like today, too sunny, too hot for the first heartbreak James would ever truly experience. A day where James pushed him against a wall and saw the symbol on his arm, just by accident. The black snake curled on his forearm, hidden from the world.
But he could never manage to hide anything from James.
A mask falling over his face. Indifference. Hatred, perhaps, but not shame. Almost like it was a source of pride for him.
James had crumpled, begged him to say that it was a joke, a prank, something that happened under the threat of death or torture, but no such luck. The words stung, the cruel smile that had not been turned on him in years and James was left shaking on the ground of Diagon Alley.
“With a smile on my face.”
And James had cried later that night, a silencing charm around his room, the loud sobs unable to escape the enclosure he had created for himself. The tears freely flowing down his face leaving him red and unable to speak the next morning at the thought of his beloved falling into something so hateful.
He was not crying the day of his first love’s death.
James rocked back and forth, arms wrapped around his knees. He paced the length of the overly bright home he and Lily had created for themselves, cursing that he hadn’t created a single dark room for times of anguish. He burned the morning paper with a simple charm, destroying the ashes before anyone could see.
But he did not shed a single dark tear.
It was hours later, far into the afternoon, when Remus Lupin showed up at his door. It was not surprising, the werewolf was one of the few people who knew about their personal relationship, nothing got past those wolf senses. He was dressed for summer, a simple Bowie tee and loose fitting trousers on, the auburn curls styled wickedly and a permanent frown on his face.
James let him in without a word, stepping aside as Remus entered the apartment he had been wallowing in for hours. Nothing was said between them for minutes, as the werewolf only took in his form, the blankness of his own expression, the sleep clothes he had not changed from all day. James was infinitely blessed that he had not yet started work, deciding to wait until the war was officially over before he began searching for a career.
“You need to talk to Sirius,” Remus said, bluntly, not missing a beat.
James took the time to stare at him, through the fogginess of his glasses. He shrugged once. “Why?”
“Don’t play games with me. He pretends that he’s fine, but he isn’t. And you aren’t either,” Remus said, taking a seat on one of the bar stools in the kitchen, though James remained standing. His breaths were even and measured, when he continued, “He’s pretending to be fine and I won’t be able to help him. The only one who might understand is you.”
James shrugged again. “It doesn’t matter. He was gone before he died. Now it’s permanent.”
“Bullshit, and I don’t believe you.”
James said nothing, staring out the window, viewing the neighborhood. His neighbors were out, enjoying the sunshine, and he prayed to see a star one last time.
It was wrong, he knew it, James could use a dozen different words to enumerate how immoral it was to wish he was still alive, how he was still beside him. It wasn’t a fair wish to make, not to Lily, not to the Order, to the war efforts, to everyone he had ever hurt.
But Merlin be damned, James desired it desperately. If only to see those grey eyes once more, a smile that could be so cruel, yet beautiful at the same time, to hear a voice full of insults in the posh tone he always spoke with.
He didn’t hear Remus leave, only felt the emptiness of his home once more. How alone he felt, like a widow waiting for a husband who would never return from the warfront.
James went through the rest of the day like a zombie, a creature that was lost to all. He moved at a sluggish pace, mind unable to focus on anything but their last conversation.
Once upon a time, he believed in the power of love, of their love. A fairytale come true, two princes of opposing families, opposite sides of a war, coming together for sheer happiness and devotion.
How the other prince had corrupted his beliefs with a single sentence, a single mark, that would be ingrained in him forever.
James would have run away with him, if he had only asked. They could have left war-torn England and disappeared, perhaps to France or America. But he didn’t. He stayed and followed his parents whims until it led to an early death.
Could he even grieve, when it was Regulus’s fault he was dead in the first place?
August 23, 1979. The day his hope died.
The star and the sun, never to cross paths again.
The world would always be shrouded in a darkness without him in it.
And James, even if he tried to move on, if he tried to be strong, he would never look at the world the same.
He didn’t realize he was crying until two familiar arms wrapped around him from behind, a familiar scent filling the room, red hair falling over his shoulders, a warm heat encapsulating him, somehow comforting.
Everything stopped, time froze, the tragedy paused. Save for a single dark tear.