There is a rumour among the world’s oldest healers that when one dies, they relive their whole life just after death. It is essentially a film reel of your best and worst memories, happiest and saddest moments, years and years worth of life experiences, all compiled into just the few seconds after you die.
For James, it happens in reverse.
He should’ve known, is the first thought that comes to mind when his eyes lock with Voldemort’s. There were so many warning signs, from Peter’s increasingly erratic behavior to his complete lack of communication. James has been crediting it to the stress of the war– Merlin knows they’ve all changed drastically over the years–unable to even fathom the thought of Wormtail being the spy.
The second thought, a self-deprecating laugh– I should’ve fucking known.
There has always been more to Peter than the others gave him credit for. He’s perceptive and wicked smart when he needs to be. James always admired the way Peter knew what everyone would say before they even said it, just from imperceptible changes in their body language or expression. Unfortunately, James has never been very good at that.
Clearly.
Sometimes he knows what Sirius will do before he does it, but that’s because it’s Sirius. They are two souls so thoroughly entwined that not even Death himself could untangle them. But they’re not soulmates– for Sirius, that term is reserved for Remus. The two of them are like two colliding galaxies; explosive, volatile, but unequivocally, irrevocably in love. They are trapped in each other’s orbit, unable to escape whether they like it or not.
James doesn’t think he and Lily are soulmates. They weren’t written in the stars or destined from the beginning of time like their friends. They’re just people in love. They had to claw their way into each other’s story, a forced paragraph squeezed into an already full page. He’s okay with that.
Voldemort takes a step forward. James takes two steps back.
There are a myriad of James Potters, depending on who you ask. His admirers will gush about his unwavering bravery. His friends will say he’s kind, too kind for his own good. His enemies will call him arrogant. His teachers, a troublemaker of the highest degree. There are so many different versions of himself he often finds it hard to compensate for them all.
Because to James Potter, James Potter is just a fragment of each perception of him, an assortment of contradictions haphazardly glued together, ready to fall apart at any moment.
His admirers don’t know how his hands shake so severely on every mission that he can hardly hold his wand.
They’re shaking right now.
His friends don’t know he often has to bite his tongue in an argument lest he say something he’ll regret, but he means wholeheartedly. His enemies don’t know how he questions every good thing that happens to him, never fully convinced of his worth. His teachers don’t know how much he hates conflict, how he plays middleman not because he hopes to be in their good graces after a prank but because he can’t stand the feeling of tension in the air.
But these perceptions of him, they’ve wormed their way into his mind, distorting his thoughts.
Who am I? he asks the void.
There is a wand aimed at his chest now.
Everyone in his life has a role.
Remus, the wolf. A spitfire with words that could cut through glass, but never without reason. He manages to love with his mind over his heart and would give up anything for someone in need, regardless of whether they know each other or not.
Sirius, a dog– loyal, almost to a fault. His wonderful, lovely Padfoot, who has stuck by James’ side through every trial and every tribulation. A dog is a man’s best friend, and like his animagus form, once Sirius allows you into his life, you’re stuck there whether you like it or not. He holds you hostage in his heart, and without meaning to, you suddenly have a protector for life.
Hari, his darling fawn. His baby, his reason for being. So naturally curious about the world and the new possibilities brought upon by each day. He is the light in the darkness that has been inflicted on their lives by the war.
Lily, they’d come to find out, was not so much a doe in spirit as she was at heart. And spirit, she would argue, is of a much higher caliber of importance. A red tabby cat, much to James’ amusement. She’s fiery and temperamental and beautiful in any form, but, most importantly, if you ask James, it’s her brilliance that shines through. Lily Evans is the most intelligent person on the planet and perhaps every other planet out there. It’s what James fell in love with first, the cleverness that bleeds through her every move. She is the brains behind any and every operation he’s undertaken since age sixteen, whether it be a mission for the Order or a trip to a muggle supermarket.
Peter. James could almost laugh at the irony of it all. Once upon a time, he’d tell his friend not to worry: Did you know that the rat is considered one of the friendliest, most sociable animals!? Sirius would laugh, but Peter would smile, gratefully. Now– he doesn’t think about now. Peter no longer has any role of importance in his life.
And what is James? The stag.
A stag is tall, powerful, and regal. They are proud creatures, fiercely protective of their own and royalty among their kind. But despite this all, at the end of the day, a stag is prey. James thinks that’s quite fitting.
Avada–
Lily and Hari are still upstairs, and through the blood rushing in his ears, he can vaguely hear the wails of his baby. He doesn’t want them to die. For a split, selfish second– I don’t want to die. But he is going to die. He’s going to die in his grandparent’s home, in the hallway where he supposedly took his first steps, where his son took his first steps.
He’s going to die before Hari rides his first broom. He’s going to die before Sirius’ twenty-second birthday. He’s going to die before his twenty-second birthday. He and Remus had plans for a mean game of Floo scrabble next weekend. Tomorrow he was going to show Hari how to eat a chocolate frog. He was supposed to be teaching Lily how to make payasam. The milk has undoubtedly boiled over by now.
He’s still in his Halloween costume. One of the antlers is lopsided now, he’s sure.
Kedavra!
There’s a flash of green. And James is going to die. He’s going to die because he’s a stag, and a stag is prey, and fate is a predator– this is his destiny.
It’s coming towards him and time slows to a standstill, and when it hits him and he’s finished taking this last breath, the rest of the world will move on. The earth won’t stop spinning and the clocks won’t stop turning, but James Potter will be dead, and his admirers will still gush about his unwavering bravery despite his shaking hands, sweat-soaked and wandless. His friends will still say he’s kind, too kind for his own good, they will lament, despite how badly he wishes he could call sweet Arthur Weasley a carrot-headed bore. His enemies will still call him arrogant, despite the crippling self-doubt that plagues his every move. His teachers will tearfully recall him as a troublemaker of the highest degree despite the countless pranks he skipped out on in fear of dissension.
Despite it all, he’s going to–