Prongs
It had been a joyful day at the Potter house despite the constant threat of war hanging over them. Harry was in a deer onesie, James had antlers on. He was with the love of his life. They had been laughing and taking photos to send to Moony and Padfoot.
He would forget on occasion that they were in a war. They were too young and it was too much, but sometimes he was able to pretend that they were all happy and Marlene and all the others were still alive and tomorrow they would all see each other again.
He glanced over at Lily as he held Harry, always in awe and disbelief that she had come around after all those years and fallen for him. She smiled at him and it lit his world as the baby in his arms cooed and James knew that as long as the three of them were together, they would be ok.
And then the blaring of broken wards had shattered their fragile joy and the world came crashing down.
Fear.
That was all James Potter could feel. Fear for his wife and son who were his whole world. Fear for Peter, who must be dead-or worse- if he was here. An all too familiar feeling pierced the fragile bubble they had tried to hide in, and James Fleamont Potter felt hopelessness once again as he realized what was about to happen.
“James…” Lily whispered.
He looked at his wife, her hair the same vibrant red he had always loved, her beautiful face distraught and terrified, filled with a hopelessness and desperation he knew was mirrored on his own face.
I love you, he thought fiercely.
“Lily! Take Harry and go. It’s him! I’ll hold him off!”
“James,” she started, voice cracking, as if to beg him not to go. “I love you,” she finished softly.
He allowed himself one last look, wishing they at least had time for a proper goodbye, before taking off down the stairs as Lily ran for Harry. He would buy them time. Harry would live. He would make sure of it.
The sound of the front door blasting off its hinges rang through the whole house and James reached for his wand, preparing to fight.
His wand.
It lay forgotten upstairs in Harry’s nursery where they had been taking the photos.
He was unarmed.
And all of a sudden, he was there, face cruel and laughter ringing out as he realized his opponent could not even fight back. “Fool,” Voldemort hissed. James stood his ground, blocking the stairs, mind scrambling desperately for any solution.
Before he could even open his mouth to speak, Voldemort raised his wand, a maniacal grin on his face. “Wormtail says hello,” he crooned. And as the first flash of green to fill the house that day flooded his sight, the last thing James Potter thought was of his friend and the betrayal that had led to his downfall.
His body fell to the floor with a thud, eyes wide open, glasses knocked askew, not a single scratch to be seen. The last thing he heard was the muffled cry of his wife.
James Potter was dead.