Chapter Text
He’s still screaming when he regains consciousness, but he stops, mid-blood-curdling cry because -
He’s regained consciousness.
The last thing James can remember is the terrible rasp of Avada Kedavra upon Voldemort’s lips, the violent burst of green light, pain, pain, pain, and beneath it all, the desperate hope that Lily and Harry will be saved.
And against all odds, here he is.
The pain is gone, even though his muscles are still tensed as though under attack, and he slowly unfurls his limbs. Did… did Voldemort miss him? Did the Order swoop in and rescue them in the nick of time? There has to be an explanation for this - for his living, his apparent lack of injury -
James Potter forces his eyes open, squinting as a ray of golden sunshine strikes him directly in the face.
Golden? Sunshine? That means... What does that mean?
What does any of it mean?
It’s quiet - too quiet. And he’s sprawled on the floor of a familiar hallway, arms outstretched, legs tangled, glasses askew.
He stumbles as he stands, pushes a hand out to the pram, and the solidness of it makes him start even more. He’s not sure what he was expecting - to pass straight through it perhaps, like the ghosts of Hogwarts - but instead his hand claps against it, cool and definitely solid, encroaching on what little hallway space there is.
What is happening?
And more importantly - where is Lily? And Harry?
It’s their house - James and Lily’s - the home where they’ve spent the last two years in hiding.
Only the door is still on its hinges, no fractured glass across the floor, no upturned furniture. Nothing to belie the violence that occurred here.
James swallows hard, takes a breath. He can figure this out; he’s a bloody good wizard and a smart one, too. He didn’t get straight Os in his NEWTs for nothing. Merlin, he and his mates didn’t figure out how to become Animagi aged thirteen without some serious brain power.
(His mates. James’ brain short-circuits for a split second before shuddering back into action because - no time to examine that now).
He strides across the narrow hallway to the living room, which is equally untouched. His wand is lying where he left it, across the coffee table, but the debris from his confetti tricks (a source of endless entertainment for his one-year-old son) is gone.
James pockets the wand, feeling slightly less overwhelmed for the weight of it in his pocket, even if he’s no wiser on any of this.
He needs to find his family.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he doesn’t dare call out in case Voldemort is still here, even though all evidence points otherwise, but the air is just as still on the landing.
Another deep breath, fingers gripped tight around his wand, he pads across to Harry’s room. The door swings open to reveal -
Nothing.
There’s nobody here.
James stares for a second, runs a frantic hand through his hair, then turns on his heel, checking their bedroom, the bathroom, Harry’s room again -
Nothing.
And yet. Everything else is just as it should be: blankets in the crib, Magic Alphabet arranging and rearranging itself, toys scattered across the floor.
Where are they?
Another terrible thought enters his head, and James is out of the room in seconds, flinging himself down the stairs, because fuck, what if he’s taken them? His hand is resting on the doorknob of the front door, ready to go out and tear apart all of Britain if he has to, but then-
“James?”
James freezes, hand slipping from the handle, and turns.
“Lily?” He calls up the stairs, ignoring how his voice trembles, because please. Please let it be Lily. “Lils? Is that you?!”
Bounding up the stairs takes too long to soothe the aching desperation in his chest, and so instead he disappears with a crack! that splits the silent air. He Apparates straight to Harry’s room, heart pounding and -
(He doesn’t think Lily will ever stop taking his breath away. Even now, even with fear clenched around his heart and bewilderment clouding every thought, Lily is his heart. Even with her red hair fluttering like flames around her pale face, even with emerald eyes wide with panic, even as she stands on unsteady legs, she’s the most beautiful woman in the world).
“Lily,” James breathes at the same time as she whispers-
“Thank God.”
“Just James is fine,” James grins, and Lily rolls her eyes.
“Come here, Potter.”
He goes, arms flinging around his wife, revelling in the solidness of her. “I thought you were - I thought he’d-” James’ voice wobbles alarmingly, and Lily’s fingers snag in the unruly hairs at the base of his neck, reassuringly real against his skin. “We - Harry. We need to find Harry.”
Lily’s fingers still their soothing, smoothing motion and she draws back from his chest. “James, we -”
“Come on, Lily, he needs us -”
“James, we’re not - Voldemort kill-”
James turns, unwilling - or unable - to hear what she is trying to tell him, but she grabs his arm instead. “James, stop. He’s not here.”
“He has to be.” There’s an awful tightening around James’ throat and his eyes are burning, “and I’m going to find him. And you can stay here, but I -” his voice crackles again, and he clamps his mouth shut. He can’t quite meet Lily’s gaze, knowing he’ll meet pity and concern there, but she loosens her grip on his arm.
James Apparates back to the front door, resting his forehead against the cool glass for a split second, before flinging it open and striding out into the bright sunshine.
Houses spill out before him like ink on parchment, only it isn’t Godric’s Hollow. The cottages lining the street are unmistakably wizard; watering cans drip themselves over flower beds, a barn owl flutters through an open bedroom window, a battered broomstick lies forgotten on a front lawn. Gone are the Muggles with minds as small as the hamlet, who scowl suspiciously at James’ darker skin and mutter about their village going to the dogs.
It’s not Godric’s Hollow, but nor is it any wizarding town James has ever visited.
He doesn’t like what he thinks this means, but he continues - not sure where he’s going, no solid plan of how to find his son, only knowing that he has to keep moving, because if he stops for a second, he’s going to have to think about the reality of the situation.
The residential street opens up into a bustling shopping district that somewhat resembles the quaintness of Hogsmeade with the liveliness of Diagon Alley. There’s a cafe serving towering stacks of ice creams, sandwiched between a bookshop creaking beneath the weight of its offerings and a tailor’s displaying cloaks in rich sapphires and vivid emeralds.
James doesn’t know this place, and yet, it’s not unfamiliar to him. He treads streets packed with shops he has never seen before, passes more houses, nods at the occasional individuals who offer a friendly greeting.
The burning need to find his son is slowly being eroded by the cold realisation of what Lily was trying to tell him. If he’s being honest with himself, he knows that Lily was right - has known it since he woke up here - but Lily has always been braver than him.
James is tired of being brave - he’s tired, full-stop.
But he can dredge up enough courage for this one last thing.
Lily is perched on the front steps when he returns, smiling as he approaches and drops down beside her. Wordlessly, she hands him a mug of tea - because, Muggle or Wizard, this is what British people do in any and every situation.
James takes a gulp before speaking and it scalds him but also thaws the cold, anxious knot in his throat.
“Harry’s not dead.”
“No, I don’t think he is.”
“But we are dead.”
“Yes.” It wasn’t a question, but Lily seems to know he needed an answer anyway.
“And. Where is this exactly?”
Lily shakes her head. “My father would claim it’s heaven or something.”
“Nah, I don’t believe in that bull so it can’t be.”
“Some kind of afterlife then. I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine.”
There’s a pause.
“I’m - I’m fucking terrified for him, Lils.” He doesn’t need to clarify who he’s talking about.
Lily stares down at her own mug. “Me too.”
James swallows hard around the knot and reaches for Lily’s hand. She locks their fingers together. “I - what do you think will happen to him?”
She rests her head against his shoulder, presses a kiss to the bare skin of his collarbone and he shivers. “He’s going to save the world, remember?”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Have you met our son? His daddy is the smartest wizard in the world -”
“And his mum’s not half bad herself,” James returns. Lily swats at him with a grin. Then it fades, and her forehead creases.
“To be honest. If I think about him at the moment, I can feel my heart breaking.” She presses a fist to her chest and takes a breath. “I have to believe that he’s okay. I have to believe that Sirius is going to love him and protect him with everything he has. I have to hold on to that.”
James can’t breathe at the mention of Sirius.
Because acknowledging that this is some kind of afterlife and that Sirius is still living means addressing the hippogriff in the room - that they were betrayed.
Only it wasn’t Remus. Remus, who James has spent the last few months growing gradually colder towards, who he carefully watched play with Harry, seeking any sign that one of his best friends has turned traitor. Remus, whose last conversation with James had been layered with hurt and doubt, who hadn’t deserved James’ mistrust. Merlin, it hurts that he’d ever believed Remus capable of such a thing.
Nor was it Sirius. Because switching Secret Keeper at the last minute was Sirius’ last desperate attempt to keep the Potters safe. And they’d been so sure that they had outsmarted the villains, that all would be well. It was going to destroy Sirius to realise how wrong they had been.
James’ world caves in on itself as the full realisation of Peter’s betrayal comes crashing down. Peter. The unlikeliest - and therefore most perfect - spy. How had it happened? Did Peter just wake up one morning and decide the Marauders were no longer his ride-or-die? That James and Lily and their tiny baby deserved to be slaughtered? That a dangerous fascist was spouting ideals that really clicked with him?
Or had it been this way all along? Had Peter always secretly loathed them? But in none of his recollections of long nights in the Shrieking Shack, frantically trying to save their best friend from himself, or harebrained schemes that landed them in detention more often than not, can he remember ever doubting Peter’s loyalty.
He doesn’t realise the sobs wrenching the air are his own until Lily’s hands are guiding him inside, thumbing fat tears from his cheeks, enveloping him in a warm, safe embrace.
But James can’t believe it will ever stop hurting.
Grief is a messy complicated thing, like shattering a glass, sweeping up the shards, only discovering missed slivers of it when they bury themselves in unsuspecting heels weeks later.
Part of the problem, James feels, is that they’re having to do this all backwards. Instead of being the ones to grieve the loss of a loved one, they are grieving the lives they lost, the friends they’ve left behind, the son they’ve barely had the chance to know.
James wakes in the mornings after restless sleep, blearily walks to Harry’s room to check on his boy. There’s be the momentary panic at his absence, and then he remembers. Or Lily gets halfway through mashing up some banana and cinnamon for Harry when she slides down the counter, utterly defeated. Or James attempts to Floo to Sirius’ place, only to break down when he realises why it’s not working.
At first, there’s only numbness.
James moves through this strange afterlife like a ghost, taking in the cherry blossom petals in the park, the coolness of ice cream on his tongue, the names of the families either side of their house, without actually taking it in. The petals in the park fall like confetti and dig a dagger between his ribs at the thought of Harry’s toothless beam. The ice cream tastes just like Fortescue’s, creamy and thick in his mouth, but he’ll never again get to see Remus’ eyes flutter shut in pleasure at the taste of his chocolate sundae. Their neighbours are kind, smiling faces, but James can only stare at the way the father’s hand clasps his son’s shoulder and think you’re dead but at least you all died together.
It’s a terrible thought to think.
He spends a lot of his days falling apart, bracing himself for the agony of heaving sobs and rubbed-raw eyes as he feels his heart unpicking itself from his body, leaving him untethered and empty.
It’s worse when it’s Lily’s turn though, because all James can do is cradle her and tack their broken hearts together, for no magic in the world can fix this.
Anger comes next, and it’s better than the numbness, because at least then he’s feeling something. There’s just so much of it, it’s like rivers of adrenaline coursing through his veins, and he has to start running again to dispel some of the frustrated energy.
One night - late, beneath a velveteen sky pin-pricked with silver - James breaks into a sprint, running flat-out past the boundaries of the town, further than he’s explored yet. He runs, and runs, and runs, barely aware of cantering on four legs instead of two, only stopping when he’s panting his lungs out of his chest.
James sinks into grass flushed silvery grey beneath the moon and gazes up. It’s beautiful, but the beauty only serves to make him angrier, because-
“It’s not bloody fair,” he yells at a sky full of stars. “It’s not fucking fair!”
He’s howling at the moon now, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I doubted you, Moony, I’m sorry.” He misses Remus. Misses that wicked smile that signalled a cunning plan, misses those kind eyes that know just what he needs to hear, misses his hoarse chuckle, his brilliant mind, his encouraging words, his self-deprecating jokes. Would give anything to run alongside him across the Forbidden Forest once more, or watch his eyes light up as Sirius kissed his cheek, or even just throw his arms around him and breathe him in.
He has to blink hard to clear the blurriness of his vision, smudging his glasses as his eyelashes smear tears onto them. In spite of it, his eyes track to Sirius, the brightest star in the sky and he’s livid once more. “It wasn’t your fault,” his throat rips the words out of him. “It wasn’t your fault,” he repeats in a whisper. Because he knows Sirius - knows that the cost of their misplaced trust will be destroying him.
It’s impossibly cruel that one man’s selfish choice has ruined so many lives.
He closes his eyes and opens himself up to the stampede of memories. He misses Sirius’ barking laughter, his effortless talent, his rash courage, his unwavering loyalty, his sharp wit. He aches for the days of knowing, no matter how stupid an idea it was, Sirius would be by his side to the bitter end - and misses the comfort of being so fiercely loved. Despite how he used to roll his eyes at their antics, he finds himself longing for the infatuated way Sirius would drape himself all over Remus and demand attention.
James opens his eyes again and stares up into the void. Maybe, someday, his son will stare up at the same sky and think of his parents.
It’s not fair that James won’t get to take him to see a Quidditch match, or cry when they take him to Platform 9 and ¾, or hear him gush about Hogwarts and the best years of his life. It’s beyond heart-breaking that he won’t see him lose his baby teeth or teach him to ride a broom.
It’s not fair, but on that night, James feels the threads of his heart begin to knit themselves back together. With acceptance, comes healing. And he has all the time in the world to get there.
In some ways, it’s something like a dream.
Lily begins to sculpt the garden she’s always wanted, hacking down the thick, ugly hedge with overly enthusiastic Reducio charms, and replacing them with bursts of wildflowers. She plants the seeds for a vegetable patch too and dedicates hours to weeding and pruning them. (The beam on Lily’s sweaty, mud-streaked face, coupled with the exquisite taste of home-grown carrots they get the following year, makes her toil entirely worth the effort).
For his part, James tasks himself with renovating their actual house - adding wide windows that let in oceans of sunlight, a “television” at Lily’s insistence (what a strange device), and an atmospheric charm to bring the starlight into the living room. Those first few months see him seeking out Sirius and the moon more frequently than he cares to admit.
Harry’s room does not get touched.
They get the honeymoon they never got when the Wizarding War made it too dangerous to be carefree like that.
They spend a thoroughly Muggle week at the seaside. They spend lazy days on the sand, wrapped around each other or reading, drinking in the golden sun. Or they splash into the sea, casting quiet Aqua Eructo spells to distract the other ready for dunking. In the evenings, they stroll down the pier, eating fish and chips wrapped in newspaper and licking the grease off their fingers, or hurling their bumper cars into one another on the Dodgems. The second week, they stay in a cosy hut in the lap of a valley, and James drags Lily up and down mountains, relishing the burn of such cool, clean air and endless horizons. At night, they watch the stars together and cry, laugh, reminisce.
It’s blissful - too blissful.
“Are we allowed to think like that?” Lily asks him one night, “are we allowed to feel this happy after everything?”
James doesn’t have an answer for her.
They have sex - a lot - in ways they haven’t had the energy for in years and without the knowledge that any minute, their son could wake up and demand to be fed.
That’s bittersweet in itself, but it’s all about the sweetness of it when James’ head is between Lily’s thighs, turning lovemaking into a form of worship through the tenderness of his mouth.
They’re living in domestic bliss. They want for nothing (except their loved ones) and they’re safe from harm (even if they had to die to get it). And a lot of the time, they are happy, or at least content with this strange afterlife.
However, in more ways, it’s a struggle.
Especially when the others begin to appear.
Exhibit A:
A red-headed man with a straggled moustache reaches for the same plum as James at the market, and they both draw back apologetically, insisting the other takes it.
Then the man’s eyes widen, “Potter?” and James’ mouth falls open.
“Gideon? Gideon Prewett?”
“What are you-”
“When did you-”
It transpires that Gideon has been here a while, long enough that he and Fabian have settled into their lives here. They take James and Lily out to a pub and narrate their deaths with well-practiced cockiness that hides the grimness of the tale.
“Five Death Eaters? That’s insane, Gids,” Lily says, shaking her head.
Fabian laughs, but there’s nothing funny about Death Eaters. “It’s the truth, Lils,” they say, running a hand over their shaved head.
The afterlife suits them both despite their grisly ends; gone is the weight of anxiety that used to cling to their shoulders and demand constant vigilance. Gideon talks brightly about the man he’s dating and the sports teams he’s a part of (football and Quidditch - “you should come try out for the Quidditch team, Potter”). Fabian tells them that they’re figuring out their identity in a way that was never allowed in their oppressive childhood home, nor under the pressure of war.
It’s nice to have friends - Gideon and Fabian are nothing like the Marauders, of course, but it helps James to feel a little less like he and Lily have been stranded in a strange place.
Exhibit B:
Lily is waiting in line at the Potions store with a pot of Dittany, when she’s tapped on the shoulder. Turning, she sees a woman in a hijab with a familiar smile. “Lily Evans, as I live and breathe. Or perhaps. As I don’t.”
“Marlene,” Lily says, her voice crackly, disbelieving, warm, and she flings her arms around her old friend.
“It’s so good to see you, Lils.”
There’s so much to say - too much for standing in a shopping line, and the two go back to Marlene’s cottage. It's beautiful, nestling at the edge of the forest and encircled by a river.
Even more beautiful though, is the sight that greets them as they walk up the path: Dorcas Meadowes steps through the doorway, her hair woven into gorgeous purple braids, and she greets Marlene with a full kiss on the lips.
“Missed you,” she says, pressing another kiss at the side of Marlene’s mouth, and Marlene beams, and then Dorcas turns. “And you.” She hugs Lily tightly, and somewhere in Lily’s chest, a withered flower raises its head to the sunlight once more.
Exhibit C:
It’s hardest of all when a soft knock at the door swings it open to reveal Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, watching his ma’s eyes fill with tears, and his dad press a shaking hand to his mouth.
James can feel his face crumpling as he sees them, and they gather him in their arms and cry. They never got to meet their grandson - and they still won’t - but at least they get more time with their son.
For all the blessings that seeing their loved ones bring, with it comes the forced acceptance that not all is well in the Wizarding World. Whilst most of their friends’ deaths were known to them before their own, they gather scraps of information from Marlene, who was killed only a few days after the Potters.
The unbelievable and incredible gist of it seems to be that Voldemort has been defeated by their baby boy. It’s unclear exactly how this came about, and even foggier as to the state of the world now that he’s gone, because, as Marlene too-cheerfully points out “I was brutally murdered pretty quickly after that, so….”
Harry never appears, and they cling to this. The image of their son being raised by his godfather and Remus is a candle of comfort on even the darkest nights. The knowledge that he lives and breathes and is - that’s enough, for now.
It has to be.
The grief dampens over time - it never fades. Just as a broken bone heals weaker than its original, James’ heart has become a fragile thing, worn down by corrosive trauma and cracks of longing. No matter how much he loves Gideon, Fabian, Marlene, Dorcas, and his parents, no matter how many magical days and nights he spends with Lily, no matter how well settled he feels in this afterlife, he misses them. It's a paradox of desperately wanting them here with him and never wanting to see them, because to see them would mean they have died, and it's selfish to wish for such a thing.
He misses Sirius most keenly on his early morning runs, over bottles of Firewhisky, as records play, at the roar of a motorbike outside. For Remus, it’s the turn of a page, the heady scent of hot chocolate, a crisp evening with a low-hung moon, the scratch of wool against his skin.
He never stops missing Harry.
But as an afterlife goes, he’s pretty lucky with his.
And so, he settles in, and waits.