Archive of Our Own

When I was born, one of those twisted
angels who live in the shadows said:
“Carlos, get ready to be a misfit in life!”

Euphemia once confided in James that she didn’t think life had much time left in store for her. “Perhaps I bargained too much when I asked for you,” she said, a confession meant to remain hidden in the shadows of quiet moments, never to be spoken in daylight. “And now I’m overjoyed that you’re here, but sorry that I won’t have long.” James didn’t understand her fears—she was healthy and not too old, not for a witch. They had time together, plenty of it. Euphemia seemed to disagree. “I’m sorry, kid,” she said softly. “I think I’ve been too greedy.”

James was changing after a Quidditch match when Sirius appeared in the locker room. He had a towel wrapped around his hips and was in the process of putting on a clean shirt when his best friend’s touch interrupted him.

“What’s this?” Sirius placed a hand on the chain James usually kept hidden.

James glanced at his friend’s pale hand, a stark contrast against the brown of his own. The gentle touch, though not something often associated with Sirius, seemed to burn his skin. James had to lower his head to speak to him. Their final year at Hogwarts had only emphasised the height difference between them. It was amusing, really, that someone with such a commanding presence as Sirius wasn’t the tallest in their group.

“It’s just a chain,” James said, though Sirius’s touch lingered against his flesh.

“It’s a cross,” Sirius said, running his fingers over the pendant as if trying to decipher some hidden meaning.

“It was a gift from my mother.”

Euphemia and Fleamont were pure-bloods, but before immigrating to the United Kingdom, they had more contact with the Muggle world. His mother had converted to Catholicism shortly before his birth, claiming that only a miracle had brought James into their lives. They had tried for years to have a child.

James had grown up celebrating holidays that most of his friends didn’t. While he wasn’t as devout as Euphemia, he couldn’t entirely dismiss it all, not when the three of them were so close. Sunday morning Masses had been a compromise to avoid being enrolled in catechesis. James enjoyed the contact with Muggles; the Potters didn’t share the same prejudices as many other pure-blood families. Still, catechesis felt like a chore, and James had never enjoyed being forced into studying.

He loved all holidays, always relishing an excuse to celebrate. Christmas Eve, which was far more significant than Christmas Day where his family came from, was one of his favourite times of the year. He loved waiting until midnight to exchange gifts and feast with his extended family. He also grew up with the habit of making promises—no matter how trivial—when he needed something. There was a saint for almost everything, and James was never one to refuse a little extra help.

Of all the holidays, James preferred Easter. It never coincided with his birthday, but in some years, it was close enough. When he turned ten, his birthday fell on Good Friday. That year, Euphemia, more sentimental than usual, gave him the chain with the crucifix. A scapular, she told him, would have felt too much like an imposition.

James accepted the gift, partly because he never refused his mother anything and partly because he found a quiet comfort in the pendant resting against his skin. He wore it throughout that year, only taking it off after his first month at Hogwarts when he began to care about how others perceived him. Acceptance, he realised, was no longer freely given as it was at home—he would have to earn it.

Now, in their final year, with a war raging beyond the castle walls, James had rediscovered the chain at the bottom of his trunk. Without much thought, he put it on at the start of term and hadn’t taken it off since. Nor had he given it much thought—until Sirius noticed it.

People often told James that using humour to avoid difficult situations wouldn’t save him from having to face them eventually. He thought it a foolish notion—to believe he was avoiding the inevitable by holding onto happiness—when, in reality, it only demonstrated how deeply serious James was about everything.

At night, he pondered to himself, not as a prayer, but close enough to be a secret:

“Can’t they see it? If I took myself too seriously, it would only make a mockery of everything.”

None of the Marauders could fathom Dumbledore’s reasoning for choosing James as Head Boy instead of Remus. Up until that year, nothing in Potter’s record suggested he was suited for the role. Good grades, a charismatic personality, and a fantastic Quidditch player, yes. But someone who cared about following and enforcing rules? Bloody unlikely. 

Still, their headmaster’s mind worked in mysterious ways. Lily Evans made sense—she was responsible and, frankly, quite intimidating, with no hesitation in deducting house points, even from fellow Gryffindors. Whatever the reasoning behind the decision, James saw it as a sign that it was time to grow up. He had never been one to settle for second place or rely on others for help.

Lily and James were heading back to Gryffindor Tower after meeting with Professor McGonagall when they noticed two fifth-years sneaking out of an empty classroom. It was past curfew, and their guilty expressions told James everything he needed to know. Before Lily could ask their names or dock house points, James nudged her ahead, nodding at the boys as they bolted.

“Why did you do that?” Lily asked, clearly irritated. The common room was nearly empty, save for two sixth-years studying. Upon hearing Lily’s voice, the girls quickly packed up and retreated to their dormitory. “We should’ve at least asked what they were doing out so late.”

Perhaps she had a point, but James didn’t think he was wrong either.

“Come on, Lily, you know exactly what they were doing,” he said, an amused grin tugging at his lips as he ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not Head Boy to rat on kids.”

Lily scoffed, disbelief etched across her face.

“Aren’t you the one who’s planning to become an Auror?”

James was insatiable in his ambitions. He wanted so much out of life, and the idea of choosing a single career path at eighteen felt stifling. There was so much to explore in the magical world beyond the Ministry’s walls. But he couldn’t ignore the war raging outside Hogwarts. Taking on a normal job while Death Eaters roamed freely didn’t make sense.

That didn’t mean he wanted to be an Auror. The idea was ridiculous, so he replied, “You’ve got it wrong, Lils. I’ve no desire to work for a system like that. Honestly, most days I can’t even fathom what possessed Dumbledore to think I’d make a decent Head Boy.”

Lily frowned, her expression settling into a downward-turned smile.

“Well, we can agree on one thing then,” she retorted, her tone dripping with sarcasm. James nearly laughed at her pettiness. Most of the time, he believed Lily would sooner eat slugs than admit he wasn’t a complete idiot.

“By all means, go plead your case to him if you’re dissatisfied. I really don’t mind,” he said with a shrug before heading off to his dormitory, too tired to continue the conversation.

James had done plenty of things wrong in the past. He had been arrogant, self-centred, egotistical, and, admittedly, a bit annoying. He’d acted superior, hexed students he thought deserved it, and, of course, there was the awful way they had treated Snape over the years. He’d had time to reflect on all of it, but repentance wasn’t something he was familiar with. For James, trying to be a better person meant changing his behaviour, not apologising for the boy he had been.

He still loved that foolish boy. Did that make him a terrible person? James wasn’t sure. Most days, it just made him feel guilty.

So, if Lily expected more apologies, it was best to set the record straight. He liked her—a lot. But James wasn’t interested in being liked for pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He had many flaws, but he wasn’t a pushover.

“Potter.” She used the same tone she reserved for reprimanding first-years. Firm, but kind. “You still like me, don’t you?”

James nodded. Why lie? He wasn’t ashamed. Being able to love, to see beauty in such a bleak world, was probably his one redeeming quality.

“Why?”

There were countless reasons, and the list only grew longer with time. Lily was clever, funny, and capable of excelling at anything she set her mind to. She was compassionate, even towards those who didn’t deserve it. She was fierce. Beautiful, of course, but that was minor compared to everything else. She could be petty, arrogant, and a bit of a know-it-all. But she was lovely.

“We’re alike, Evans,” he said, his words leaving her wide-eyed. She opened her mouth to protest, but James pressed on. “You think you hide it well, that fire inside you? The restlessness that keeps you up at night, that drives you to make a difference? I feel it too. I can’t just go through life the way others do—I want more. And I think you do, too. The difference is, I’m not afraid to admit it.”

Remus and James were sharing a joint in their dormitory, both too tired of the party in the common room to muster the energy for anything else. Sirius had already danced with every student in sight, and Peter was fast asleep on the sofa. They’d go back to collect him. Eventually.

“So, Sirius told me something interesting the other day,” Remus said with a sly smile, his gaze fixed on James’ neck.

“Sod off,” James replied, though there was no malice in his tone. He couldn’t fully suppress a laugh as he passed the joint back. “It means nothing, Moony.”

Remus took a long drag before responding. James had spent much of the past two years contemplating his other best friend. The bond he shared with Sirius was unlike any other—greater, even, than his relationship with his parents. Yet somehow, it felt like that closeness was only possible because of Remus. And Peter, of course.

There was always an unspoken hierarchy, one they’d never admit to, but James’ love for Remus wasn’t borne of obligation or circumstance. It wasn’t guilt, nor was it trivial. That much he knew. While his friendship with Sirius transcended life itself, Remus was the reason they always returned to Earth. To welcome them back, even when James felt they didn’t deserve it.

Remus was too good for them.

“I think it’s cute that you have faith,” Remus said, his smile growing. James cursed himself and Sirius for creating such a monster. He was too comfortable to flip Remus the bird, so he settled for an exaggerated eye roll instead.

“I mean it, Prongs.”

“Oh, do you now? Could’ve fooled me, mate.” They were well into their second joint by this point—perhaps excessive with NEWTs so close, but what was life if not for small indulgences? Remus didn’t bother replying, choosing to ignore James’ petulance, as he often did.

James didn’t fancy discussing his beliefs, not when he wasn’t certain he had any. He aimed to be a good person, but he had to admit, it had taken time to get there. In his early years, it was easy to stray from the values Euphemia and Fleamont instilled in him. They weren’t around to see or admonish him. Yet, contrary to popular belief, James Potter hadn’t been spoiled or indulged into arrogance. His parents had been kind, yes, but firm in their principles. They viewed neglect as a form of abuse and never let him run wild unchecked.

At home, their guidance was a moral compass. But at Hogwarts, he’d felt untethered, free to make his own choices—even when those choices contradicted everything he’d been taught. And while the Marauders weren’t exactly moral guides, they were his North Star. People often said Sirius, Remus, and Peter followed him, but James knew that wasn’t entirely true. He only led because the others were willing to follow.

When asked about his beliefs as a child, he’d have said “God.” At eleven, it would’ve been “Mum and Dad.” Now, the answer was unequivocally “my friends.” He believed in Sirius’ fiery defiance, in Remus’ quiet care, and in Peter’s unassuming support. As for good and evil? That was harder to pin down. Knowing there was good in him hadn’t always stopped him from being cruel so many times.

“That’s why Sirius is afraid to ask about it,” Remus remarked after a pause. “You act all cagey, like we’re mocking you.”

“You sorta did, just now,” James said, eyes shut, hand resting on the chain around his neck.

Remus laughed. “Yeah, but the sentiment was sincere.”

James shrugged. They were sitting on Sirius’ bed that night, the air thick with the mingling scents of weed, alcohol, and Remus’ menthol cigarettes. Not the most pleasant combination, but it was so distinctly them that it brought James a strange comfort.

He still remembered last year’s Potions lesson, when Slughorn introduced them to Amortentia. The class had been tense, students fearing the potion would reveal their deepest secrets. James had let the more anxious ones go first. Peter, first among the Marauders, turned beet-red and avoided everyone’s gaze. Sirius followed, inhaled deeply, and returned with a wink in James’ direction.

Remus’ reaction, however, was unforgettable. He looked almost haunted, as though the scent confirmed something he’d desperately wanted to avoid. When it was James’ turn, the smells were so familiar that at first, it felt as though there was nothing to detect at all. Sirius had grinned and teased, “What does Lily smell like?” 

“It’s just a reminder,” James eventually muttered, opening his eyes halfway. “Trying to be less of a git, that’s all.”

Remus saw right through him, as always. “Oh, James,” he said in that low, late-night tone. “Don’t let Catholic guilt cloud your judgement. You don’t need to be good to be loved.”

Remus was usually right, but James doubted him this time. He knew he was loved—fiercely so. But why, then, was it so hard to prove to Lily that he was worth her time? Or to show his parents he’d grown into the person they’d hoped for? He wanted to be better. He was better. Wasn’t he?

“Well, I don’t care what you think,” Remus said, tossing the remainder of the joint onto the floor. “We love you, prickishness and all. Without it, you wouldn’t be you .”

And really, what could James say to that? Besides, there’s a reason my Amortentia smelled of you—all of you.

It was Mary McDonald who once told him, at the age of fifteen, what was perhaps the only truly useful piece of advice James had ever been too arrogant to heed.

“If you have to convince them to love you, doesn’t that rather defeat the purpose?”

Wearing glasses had its quirks, though James had yet to find one he’d consider a true perk. Still, he remained hopeful. Occasionally, a friend would snatch them off his face, try them on, and gasp at how poor his eyesight really was. Some even had the audacity to ask, “How can you see with these?”

Sirius was the worst of the lot. Whenever boredom struck, he’d invade James’ personal space, poking his arms, face, or hair until James had no choice but to stop whatever he was doing and give Sirius his full attention. Inevitably, Sirius would swipe his glasses, perch them on his own nose, and exclaim, “Prongs, you’re blind as a bat. How do you even shower?”

James never bothered to answer, though, truthfully, it was a pain. He could barely see his own feet in the shower.

The real struggle, however, was finding the glasses in the morning. They often ended up under his pillow or next to the bed, but James’ restless sleeping habits meant their location was always a gamble. Sometimes, they fell off entirely, as they had that morning, just before breakfast.

James was rummaging through his trunk when the glasses slipped from their precarious position. Dropping to his knees, he began the tiresome search. They weren’t in the trunk, so he expanded his efforts to the surrounding area. That was when Sirius strolled into the dormitory.

“Mate, are you praying?” Sirius asked, amusement lacing his voice.

James startled, nearly banging his head on the bedframe as he attempted to rise. He squinted at the blurry silhouette before him, clearly Sirius but devoid of detail.

“I’ve lost my glasses,” James replied flatly. “Fancy lending a hand?”

With a flick of his wand, retrieved from its usual spot in his hair, Sirius cast an Accio charm, and the glasses zoomed into his hand.

The indignities never end, James thought wryly as Sirius handed them back without even a customary jibe about his poor eyesight. That alone was a blow to James’ ego. If Sirius wasn’t taking the piss, the situation must have been truly pitiful.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sirius asked as they made their way to breakfast. James launched into a rant about Quidditch and the House Cup, though he wasn’t really listening to himself.

“My inability to master basic magical skills?” James quipped, attempting humour but veering into self-deprecation. He hated self-pity—it reminded him too much of Snape.

“I reckon your glasses are tied to your intelligence,” Sirius mused. “Like that bloke in the Bible with the hair.”

James stopped dead in his tracks. Sirius halted as well, a puzzled look on his face.

“Please don’t tell me you’ve been reading the Bible,” James said, incredulous.

Sirius shrugged unbothered.

“ Why ?” 

“Moony said we should try to understand your moral crisis or whatever it is you’ve got going on this year,” Sirius admitted, unapologetically honest. “I was bored. The Bible’s not hard to follow. I don’t get how Muggles believe all that but can’t wrap their heads around magic, though. I mean, the bloke turned water into wine, didn’t he?”

James felt a moment of surreal detachment, as though he were an outsider observer to this bizarre conversation.

“Jesus?” he asked.

“Oh, is that his name? He’s quite famous, isn’t he?” Sirius replied, sounding rather proud of his newfound knowledge.

James’ mind wandered to the night he and Sirius had first discussed Remus’ lycanthropy, just the two of them. Sirius hadn’t been sure James would handle it well, and James, in turn, had hesitated for the same reason. But once they spoke openly, it was clear they were in agreement: Remus being a werewolf wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Remus had carried that secret by himself, thinking he couldn’t share it with his friends.

That shared resolve had led them to learn all they could about lycanthropy and, eventually, to become Animagi. In those years of preparation, Sirius had often burst into James’ dormitory in the dead of night, eyes alight with excitement over something he’d discovered. Sirius could be obsessive, but his passion was contagious.

Reading the Bible, though? That was a step too far, even for Sirius.

“Padfoot,” James said, snapping back to the present. “Please don’t read the Bible for my sake.”

“Fine,” Sirius agreed easily. They resumed walking, nearly at the Great Hall’s entrance. James wasn’t naive enough to think that would be the end of it, though. Sure enough, Sirius added, “But you can’t stop me if I find it more entertaining than the rubbish Moony recommends.”

Getting Sirius to do—or not do—anything was always a challenge. Still, James tried.

“As long as you treat it as fiction,” he said. He trusted Sirius to read the most famous Muggle book in history and regard it as little more than a fantastical tale of good versus evil.

“How else would I see it?” Sirius replied. They stopped just outside the Great Hall. Sirius’ expression softened, and he added, “I don’t mind if you believe, Prongs. I see the appeal, even if some bits are...”

Well, yes. Wasn’t that the whole dilemma?

He inquired, regardless, “So?”

Sirius licked his lips before replying, and James found himself reflecting once more on the contrasts between them. Physically, they shared little in common beyond their perpetually unruly hair, though even that seemed to suit Sirius far better. Sirius was striking, every feature somehow complementing the others, while James’ hair was a constant nuisance, forever falling into his eyes and obscuring his vision. A downright hassle, really.

Their personalities were alike in many ways, but the roots of their behaviour couldn’t have been more different. People often accused James’ parents of spoiling him, yet it was Sirius who had been raised to believe the world was his for the taking, solely because of his family name.

Sirius yearned to escape—from his family, from the expectations of others, from every attempt to confine him within a box. Every force that tried to cage Sirius came from the outside: those who were too fearful, or perhaps too envious, to truly love him. James sought the same freedom, but his prison was internal, and he was both the prisoner and the keeper of its keys.

“Judgemental,” Sirius said after a pause. “Doesn’t it contradict all that love stuff they go on about? I just reckon it’s hard to reconcile.”

James laughed as Sirius pushed open the door to the Great Hall.

“You’ve no idea,” James said, then, because he knew Sirius understood it all too well.

It happened so suddenly that James had no time to prepare himself.

Lily appeared in front of the Marauders as they made their way to Transfiguration. One moment the corridor was empty, and the next, Evans materialised directly in front of James. Or so it felt. Remus, Sirius, and Peter—the traitors—didn’t so much as glance back as they continued on to class, leaving James to deal with her alone.

“Everything all right?”

If James were honest, Lily seemed unusually vibrant that morning. Her hair caught the light in a way that made it seem brighter, and even her school robes had an inexplicable glow about them. It was as though her mood altered the way James saw the world around her.

“I’m taking you to the Hog’s Head this Saturday.”

For a moment, James thought he’d misheard her. His brain faltered as it tried to process her words. “Let’s meet in the common room beforehand, so we can walk together,” she added.

James blinked. The corridor was unnaturally quiet for a school day. A group of third-years passed by, straining to overhear their conversation but failing. James, however, couldn’t form a single word, and Lily wasn’t about to make it easy for him.

For a brief moment, fleeing the scene seemed like a sensible option. It would have been a logical reaction to something so utterly surreal. No one could blame him, surely.

But Lily pressed on, unfazed. “I don’t want people interrupting our date, but if you’d prefer The Three Broomsticks, I can compromise.”

She even smiled, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

“When did we decide to go on a date?” James finally managed to croak. Surely, this had to be some sort of elaborate prank.

“Oh, we didn’t,” Lily replied breezily, stepping forward to adjust James’s glasses on his face. He froze, afraid that even his breath might disrupt her delicate hands. He raised an eyebrow at her. “I decided.”

Faced with an array of choices, nodding seemed like the safest option. It was the only thing he could manage, really, paralysed as he was by the fear of ruining what felt like his one chance. Lily’s smile widened, her slightly crooked teeth on full display. James had always secretly thought it was one of her most endearing features. He tried to return the smile, but before he could say anything more, Lily’s friends appeared and swept her away to class.

Just as she disappeared down the corridor, she turned back, as radiant as the morning sun, and called out, “Don’t make me regret this, Potter!”

Peter was the first to visit Godric’s Hollow. Lily was away at her parents’ home, likely sharing news about the baby. It felt surreal to think he was about to become a father at such a young age—especially now, as James was preparing to lose Fleamont. The healers had delivered their verdict: nothing more could be done at this stage. And wasn’t it the most surreal thing of all? To lose a parent just as he was about to become one himself. The timing was so bitterly ironic it felt like something Sirius would turn into a terrible joke.

James, an only child, had never felt his home was lacking. Not in love—Euphemia and Fleamont had never hesitated to show or say how much he meant to them. And certainly not in laughter. The Potter household had never been a bleak place, even on the rough days, because Euphemia refused to let anyone go to bed without mending what was broken. James had no siblings, and his parents had no other children—until that fateful September day when he met Sirius Black. Truth be told, James didn’t love thinking of Sirius as a brother. Yet, that’s what he was: family. 

To lose both parents at once, what a punishment that was.

“How are you holding up, mate?” Peter asked quietly as they settled in the kitchen. He was making tea, while James, too drained to play the proper host, slumped into a chair. “I can’t do much, but I can listen.”

At Hogwarts, that had been Peter’s gift. Shy, awkward, often overlooked, Peter had a knack for being exactly what the Marauders needed, even when it went unnoticed. James had known him before Hogwarts but hadn’t considered him a friend then. As a child, James had needed no one but his parents. But Pettigrew—what he lacked in confidence or social ease, he made up for with loyalty. He was always their greatest supporter, whether embarking on their madcap adventures (even when he was terrified), sitting in quiet understanding when they needed it (as opposed to trying to solve their problems like Remus), or offering to hex anyone who dared stand in their way (Sirius’ preferred method of assistance).

And yet, James couldn’t help but sometimes wonder who Peter was beyond the role he played in their group. It was an unkind thought, and James hated himself for it. But was it untrue? Of course, Peter was his own person—but did James truly know him? Had he ever taken the time to?

James’ memories of school were dominated by Sirius—by their bond, unparalleled and irreplaceable. Then there was Lily, his all-consuming crush, and Remus, with his quiet care and late-night cigarette chats. And everything else: the pranks, Snape, Quidditch, Head Boy duties. In comparison, Peter often felt like an afterthought. And wasn’t that just awful?

The Marauders were supposed to be four inseparable friends. That’s how it had always been—or had it? Was that simply what James had told himself because he fancied being admired? He loved Peter. That wasn’t an afterthought, nor was it born of guilt. It was true.

But now, with his parents slipping away and Lily expecting their first child, James couldn’t prioritise Peter the way he ought to. That would have to wait. Still, he made a quiet vow to himself to never overlook him again. Not because Peter was standing there now, making tea, telling James to take a shower while he tidied up a bit, asking if they needed anything from the shops. That was simply what Peter always did. And James hadn’t loved him before because of it. It only confirmed what James already knew: Peter had the kindest heart of them all.

Of all the Marauders, Peter was the only one who could truly be called a good person.

At night, he wondered—

Is it my fault, then? Is it because I burdened them with my foolishness? Because I chose to fight in a war, knowing how much Mum tried to shield me? Brushing off her worries, pretending nothing could harm me, even though I knew it wasn’t true. Because I’m hurting now, and I was hurting then, and perhaps I’ve only ever been good at concealing the pain. Who am I, if I can no longer be a son, yet I must go on to be a father?

My God, why have you forsaken me
if you knew that I wasn’t God,
if you knew that I was weak.

Remus came to visit. James hadn’t known it then, but it would be their last time together. Lily greeted him warmly but retired early, taking Harry with her. Parenthood was tough, but James knew it didn’t compare to the challenges of motherhood.

They sat in the backyard, the only place in the house where smoking was allowed. Sirius had been there the week before, bringing along some weed, but James hadn’t been able to relax. Lily’s frayed nerves made it impossible. The stash was now hidden alongside his Quidditch gear, both relics of simpler times.

The air was heavy with rumours of spies within the Order. Voldemort’s followers were growing bolder; more Muggles and Muggle-borns were killed each day. Dumbledore offered no clear answers, and the Aurors, even under Moody’s watchful eye, couldn’t be fully trusted. James, having long mistrusted the DMLE, remembered the days when their sport of choice was wrongfully imprisoning magical creatures. Yet, as he shared a cigarette with Remus, their conversation avoided war entirely.

Lily often reminded James that even a momentary escape from talk of the war was a privilege.

It wasn’t easy. James had never harboured the illusion that marriage would solve the issues he and Lily faced—like their differing rhythms (he was a morning person; she came alive only after noon). Nor was he naive enough to think the happiness of their new life could erase the grim reality of war.

“You’ve got this enormous, maddeningly vast—if I’m honest—love inside you,” Remus said, gesturing expressively as he searched for the right words, “and for those unfamiliar with it, I suppose it’s difficult to comprehend.”

“We’ve known each other since we were eleven.”

Remus took a long drag, exhaling the smoke upward. He always preferred it that way, James noted—never one to let smoke drift into anyone else’s space.

“You know of each other, yes.” Remus paused, his candour as unrelenting as ever. “But I’ve known you since we were eleven, and you annoy me plenty.”

“Cheers, Moony,” James replied, his voice harsher than intended. He hated feeling as though he was always falling short. “And here I thought I wasn’t so bad.”

“Self-pity doesn’t suit you, Prongs,” Remus said lightly. James laughed. Hadn’t he once thought the same thing? “You know what I mean.”

Did he? James had grown up with a host of certainties, but as time passed, those certainties dwindled. These days, all he felt sure of was what was within himself. Even Sirius’ love wasn’t external; they were inseparable, parts of the same whole.

“I’m not sure I do, Moony, not really,” James said, finishing his cigarette and lighting another with Remus’ help. “When you say I annoy you, what I hear is that I’m not worth the time.”

His father’s final advice had been about vulnerability: don’t hide behind walls forever, Fleamont had told him. People grow tired of trying to climb them.

Remus licked his lips before lighting his own cigarette—a habit that had once driven James mad. They’d rarely smoked with anyone else at Hogwarts, and James could never bring himself to look away.

“If annoyance was where I draw the line, do you think I’d love Sirius?” Remus asked. Fair point, James thought privately. Sirius wore the crown for being insufferable, hands down. “So forgive me if I haven’t said it outright—it should’ve been obvious.”

James’ expression must have given him away because Remus added, “Right, we’ve established it’s not.”

“I’m not that dense, Moony,” James said, feeling a pang of guilt for his friend. It wasn’t a lack of understanding that made him insecure. Not always. “It’s just—without my parents, no one tells me they love me anymore. I didn’t realise how much I relied on hearing it to feel like I mattered.”

It was only after saying it aloud that James truly understood the depth of his loss. His mum had been selfish, he thought, in the way she loved him so fiercely, so constantly, only to leave him. The world assumed James Potter was self-assured, egotistical, invulnerable. But that had only ever been true when Euphemia and Fleamont were there.

Being a husband, a father, a fighter—at twenty-one, James Potter’s life had barely begun. Yet none of them could sit it out: not Remus or Lily for their blood status, not Sirius in his quest to prove he wasn’t like the Blacks, not Peter, who could have avoided it but stayed for his friends. And James? Even at his worst—when he couldn’t distinguish rivalry from bullying—he had known the type of person he didn’t want to become.

He’d told Lily as much once. They shared a fire, a quiet anger that simmered within. Fighting back felt like the only choice for people like them.

They were on their third cigarette when Remus spoke again. “I try not to feel grateful to you. For the rent you pay, the help during the moons, the times you saved me from proto-Death Eaters at Hogwarts. I try so fucking hard because I know you’d hate it if I ever felt indebted to you.” Remus exhaled deeply, closing his eyes before meeting James’ gaze. “But do you want to know a secret, Prongs?”

James nodded.

“That’s not why I love you.”

Oh. James hadn’t realised how much he needed to hear it. It worked better than any potion.

“It’s part of it, sure. But I love you for way more than any of the stuff you could provide me with. I’d love you even if you were poor, rubbish at Transfiguration, and couldn’t cast a hex to save your life.”

“So... first-year Peter?”

They both laughed before Remus continued, his words as passionate as ever. “You’re lovable because you’re not perfect. I’ve no interest in worshipping gods. But I can’t explain my love for you because everything inside me is just so,” Remus didn’t vanish the cigarette butt he was holding, instead threw it on the floor.

Remus stepped closer, cupped James’ face, and kissed him. It was sudden, over before James could react. His hands were halfway to Remus’ hips when the kiss ended. Remus didn’t look ashamed, just exhausted, as though it had taken all his strength to do so.

James brushed his lips with his fingers. He hadn’t kissed many people before Lily and didn’t even think that was in the same category.

“And that’s only a part of it,” Remus said softly. “Because, ultimately, Prongs, I just want us all to grow old together.”

James wanted that too, more than anything. To see them all safe, still by his side. But it felt like an impossible dream.

“I just…” James began, focusing on the heart of it. “Sirius?”

Remus shrugged. “Yes, Sirius. Not in this life, not in the way I’m built, but yes. And you, too.”

“I thought I just… felt too much. That it wasn’t allowed,” James admitted.

To love his friends more than anything. To be a little in love with them, even. It felt like greed. But wasn’t that just what it meant to be human? 

“If you ask me, the apostles were doing very questionable things, but acknowledging that love was too revolutionary for their time.”

“Most people are just scared,” James said, because he was.

Remus met his eyes and smiled. “Yes, they are.”

There were many traits James shared with Sirius—that was what brought them together as eleven-year-olds. Over time, however, James had learned to adapt, to listen to others' perspectives, and to approach decisions with more reason. He wasn’t devoid of emotional impulses; he acted with his heart in everything he did. But James made an effort to temper his first instincts.

The war, however, had made Sirius impossibly stubborn.

“I’m telling you, Prongs, we need to make Wormtail the Secret Keeper,” Sirius said, for what felt like the third time that afternoon.

If James was honest, the logical choice was Dumbledore. The headmaster had offered, and everyone knew Voldemort wouldn’t reach him easily. James had even argued with Lily over it. But the truth was, Dumbledore was an outsider. As much as James had grown past the days when only his closest circle mattered—the Marauders, his parents, Lily, Marlene, and his Quidditch team—a part of him could never fully trust someone who hadn’t been there for everything.

It wasn’t that James doubted Dumbledore’s ability to protect them; it was something deeper, something less rational. He couldn’t entrust his most precious possession—his family—to someone who didn’t know them intimately. Dumbledore hadn’t seen Harry on his toy broomstick, flying with a determination that exasperated Lily. He didn’t know Harry’s laughter, the kind that lit up the neighbourhood, or how his hair was as untameable as James’s own. He couldn’t understand Lily’s sacrifices: the nightmares, the sleepless nights, the way she overcooked breakfast every morning as if compensating for everything else they couldn’t control. Dumbledore didn’t know how Euphemia had taught Lily old family recipes, nor how she had tried to recreate James’s childhood Christmases. Lily’s love wasn’t spoken—it was shown. Dumbledore knew none of this. How could he be their guardian when, for him, it was a duty, not his life?

Sirius, on the other hand, knew it all. This was his life, too.

That was until he thought better of it.

“Walk me through your reasoning,” James said, frowning. “Why the change?”

“I think Voldemort’s on to me,” Sirius said, his voice steady, as if he was so sure of it. “And if I die, someone could force the secret out.”

James hesitated. “No one knows where we live, except Dumbledore.”

Sirius swallowed hard. They were in Harry’s room; the boy was fast asleep in his crib, clutching a blanket patterned with tiny snitches—a gift from Marlene, back when she was still with them. Lily was in the kitchen, giving them space as she often did.

“Remus has been here before, hasn’t he?” Sirius said finally.

James stiffened. He nodded slowly, memories of Remus’s last visit surfacing. “What are you implying, Pads?”

Sirius hesitated, the silence growing heavy. James knew where this was heading, and it wasn’t somewhere he wanted to go.

“You know what I’m thinking.”

“Oh, I really don’t. And if you know me at all, you won’t say it out loud.”

They stared at each other. Harry shifted in his sleep, clutching his blanket tightly. It was patterned with little snitches—a gift from Marlene, back when she was still with them. Of all the people James had ever known, Sirius was the one he loved most—more than he had thought possible. It wasn’t until Harry was born that James truly understood the depths of that love. He wasn’t surprised by how much love he could feel for his son, because first, he had loved Sirius. 

People often said that love wasn’t a choice, but James thought otherwise. In his 21 years, he had never loved anyone he hadn’t chosen first. Looking at that thin, pale, mischievous boy on the Hogwarts Express all those years ago, James had decided he wanted Sirius for himself. And he had succeeded. No one had ever known Sirius the way James did, and that would remain true until the end of time.

They could love others, in different ways and with different depths, but it didn’t matter. The two of them were made of the same cosmic dust. They had fallen to this earth together, and from it, they had grown.

“Don’t make me, then.”

Petulant. That was his best friend. His soulmate. The person he’d chosen to keep by his side for all eternity. A bastard, honestly.

“Why would he?” James asked, despite wanting to avoid the topic entirely. “It makes no sense. They go against everything he believes, everything we fight for.”

Sirius looked at him with the same expression his mother used to wear when he was being naïve. It should have felt condescending, but from Padfoot, it hit like a punch to the stomach.

“You and I both know people will abandon most things if it guarantees their safety,” Sirius said. Wasn’t that what he’d done years ago, leaving Grimmauld Place? Not just the house, not just his parents, but Regulus? Sirius would never admit it in life, perhaps not even in death, but James knew his friend’s heart better than his own.

“It’s not the same, Pads. You were going to die.”

Harry stirred in his crib. Sirius didn’t break his gaze but waited until James’s eyes met his again.

“And you think he won’t? With all the secret missions Dumbledore sends him on, with how little regard he has for his own safety? Most of the time, I think he doesn’t even believe he deserves to be alive.” Sirius blinked, once, twice. A tear or two threatened to fall, but he wasn’t one to cry.

“That only proves he’s not what you’re implying!” James snapped, his voice rising despite himself. He didn’t mean to yell, didn’t want to wake Harry. But his son was a heavy sleeper, only restless in his movements.

They were sitting on the floor, but Sirius suddenly stood and moved to the window. Rain streaked down the glass, and James wasn’t particularly upset about being stuck indoors on such a dreary day.

“The thing is, Prongs, I’m not sure,” Sirius said after a long sigh. Those sighs were all too frequent these days. “I’m not sure if he’s the spy or if I just think he is because sometimes I don’t recognise him, or myself, or us—what we’ve become since Hogwarts. I’m so angry, and I’m so afraid of what could happen to you, to Harry, and I hate feeling this way. And then Moony’s never here, and I hate him for that. Did you know that? I thought that we…” He trailed off. James didn’t move, didn’t speak. This was how it always went, circling around the subject, never naming it outright. “I thought things would be different. And maybe I resent him for it because I can’t bring myself to resent you.”

After the war began, James had stopped dwelling on his unresolved feelings about faith. But it lingered, subtly, in the way he avoided scrutinising certain aspects of his life—his friendships, his rash decisions, his guilt. And yet, at times, when he looked at Sirius, he thought maybe God was real. How else could one explain the existence of Sirius Black?

Remus never admitted it, but James could see the weight of everything in his friend’s eyes. Still, for James, loving Padfoot was the easiest thing in the world.

“Resentment can’t be the reason we distrust our closest friend,” James said quietly, instead of getting up and hugging Sirius the way he wanted to.

“He’s the best at hiding things, isn’t he?” Sirius replied. And James had no answer for that.

They fell into silence again. Sirius looked at James, who was focused on Harry’s crib. In the distance, the faint sounds of Lily cooking could be heard, though neither of them paid it any mind.

“Sometimes I reckon,” James began hesitantly, “and promise me you won’t walk away when I say this.” He met Sirius’s eyes, and Sirius nodded. “I reckon you want reasons to hate Moony. And if you can’t find one, you hope for one. But at the end of the day, I think hating him is just another way you’ve found to punish yourself.”

For what it was worth, Sirius didn’t storm out, though he did bang his head lightly against the window frame.

“You know the worst part, Prongs?”

Oh, James did. He felt it, too. It was awful, truly. If anyone else heard it, they’d think they were mad.

“I can’t hate him either. Even if you’re right.” And wasn’t that a tragedy? “I suppose we could make Peter the Secret Keeper if it makes you feel better.”

Sirius almost smiled. At least he wasn’t abusing his head any longer.

“Once he’s back from this last mission, we should body-bind him.”

James, on the contrary, laughed.

“Yes, let’s invite Moony over under false pretences, then lock him in the attic until we can convince him to stop spying,” he said. And he would do it if it meant saving Remus’s life, even though he didn’t believe for a second that Moony was the spy. He stood and checked on Harry. Such a perfect baby—so much like Lily. “The Order can’t know, Pads. They’d kill him.”

Sirius came closer to the crib. He always looked at Harry with such tenderness.

“I won’t let them. Since Harry, I barely think about the war. I only care about keeping you safe—all of you.”

James believed him, with every fibre of his being. They weren’t good men. Just selfish boys—if one could be called that at twenty-one—desperate to survive long enough to understand themselves.

The last month, they fought—because they were terrified, grieving, lonely, too young to be raising a child on their own, too young to be fighting a war, and too angry to find the right words. What they wanted to say was, “I understand your pain because I feel it too,” but what came out was, “You’re being unreasonable. I’m just saying I want to help my friend.”

He wanted to say, “I think you miss Severus, and even though I hate him, I can understand loving someone difficult.” Instead, it came out as, “I think you resent me for being a good friend.”

It should have been, “I would never put this family in danger. You’re everything to me, and I couldn’t not love you.” But instead, it was, “I’ll do whatever it takes. Why do you only think about yourself?”

As for Lily, James couldn’t be certain, for her heart had changed so much in the end. Yet he knew it wasn’t, “You’re too self-absorbed to love anyone,” or, “I’m not like you; I know how to quit,” or even, “Maybe you should concern yourself with being a good husband and father.”

He never meant to say, “You don’t allow me to love you, and it’s killing me,” but he felt it when he said, “I think you only loved me to fill the void he left in your heart.”

Lily apologised for saying, “Your love is too much; you suffocate me with it,” by saying instead, “You don’t get to question my love—not when all I do is look at you.”

James apologised when he replied, “I could tear down any walls you have, for my entire life, and I’d never tire of it.”

In silence, they sat together for long stretches, and sometimes they cried together too. They wanted to travel the world as a couple, and they also wanted a divorce. They dreamed of spending their lives in a cottage by the sea. They wanted so much, and yet they were allowed so little.

The betrayal wasn’t the worst sin. Loyalty was what James valued above all else, and so it would have pained him—yes—had he been given the time. But leaving Harry behind, orphaned and abandoned, just as James himself had felt after Euphemia and Fleamont’s deaths, was a crime in itself. The thought of his son going through life unaware of how deeply he was loved was utterly heartbreaking. Never seeing Sirius or Remus again. Never knowing what Lily would grow into. Never being able to become a Curse-Breaker, a Dragon Tamer, or even just a circus magician for a weekend. James had lost everything. No potential futures lay before him, for he was dying. Quick, almost painless. Yet, the most unjust thing was that James would be trapped at that moment in time, for all eternity, unable to learn from the betrayal, as he would forever remain the boy who lived and died loving one Peter Pettigrew.

World so wide, world so large,
my heart’s even larger
(Seven-sided poem, trans. Richard Zenith, 2015)

“I know we rush over things; I don’t regret it. But it doesn’t always have to be like this.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“Win this war.”

“Easy. And after that?”

“Then we can grow. As much as we want, as big as we can.”

“Do you reckon we’ll grow apart?”

“Never. I’ll want to know all versions of you, as I’m sure you’ll want to know all versions of myself.”

“Your arrogance astounds me.”

“I’m just saying, one day we’ll have so much time it will actually be boring.”

“Time for what?”

“Oh, you know, to do it all. To watch Harry. To live.”

“To live, yeah?”

“Yeah. To live.”

We thought we had all the answers
We got the stomach to learn
But haven't got the time