James Potter, Memory, October 31st 1981
Name: James Potter
Date: October 31st, 1981
Format: Memory
Relevance: James Potter's worst memory. Unlike most memories, which are retrieved through the use of a pensieve, this particular memory was reconstructed post-mortem by an Unspeakable, and using memory-material drawn from Harry Potter. As taken from a fresh victim of the Killing Curse, the memory was intact. However, due to it being harvested after death and post-mortem memory work relying on many magical disciplines, there is some intrusion of thought as well memory. The strains of thought seem to have taken some time to develop and would not have been accessible for some years.
James is crouching by an open cardboard box, frowning slightly. He has his old school tie in his hand, but the rest of the box seems to be full of crockery. He sighs and shakes his head, then rises and examines the other boxes.
"Should never be left to pack my own things," he grumbles to himself.
He finds the right box and flips the lid open. Inside are photos albums, old textbooks, keepsakes and things that made the same kind of sense as insider jokes, guess you had to be there. He grins and pulls a Quidditch glove free. He slips it on and flexes the fingers, the leather creaking in the hush.
The Quaffle sails cleanly through the hoop and James spins his broom about in order to grin at the cheering crowd. A Gryffindor flier goes past and claps him on the back and James takes one hand off his broom in order to give a little bow.
Is that four years ago now? God, it doesn't feel like that. Time's just flown past; he must have been having fun.
It was his last game at Hogwarts. Last game he's played.
His grin fades and he throws the glove back down.
He wants Lily. He wants to collect her from her study where she's doing her own unpacking, and gather her close and kiss her red hair. Then maybe go up to the nursery and be a little family all in one room. Perhaps pick up Harry if he's not asleep. Be a little knot of Potters.
He lets out a breath and stretches his arms above his head. The muscles in his neck pop and he screws his eyes shut.
Let this be over soon.
A breeze floats through the room and stirs his hair. There's a click beyond the door across the room from him.
Can't be right. That can't be right. He's going to go to the door and find that the front door (the locked front door) has swung open. That the catch is broken. There's no one at the door. They're still hidden away in the secret. Peter's the only one who can find them and he's too clever to come visiting.
Heart's beating too fast. Get a grip. It's nothing.
James opens his eyes and takes a step towards the door. There's another noise, a rustle, and James comes to a dead stop. He shakes his head.
No. No. Not fair. Not on. Not on at all. They're hidden. Hidden somewhere no one can ever find them. It's Sirius playing a prank. Going to wring his neck because this isn't funny. Be laughing about this over firewhiskey shortly. It's Sirius. It's Peter. It's Dumbledore. It's not him. Can't be.
James draws his wand and takes another step towards the door. He's a little out of breath, gone pale beneath his tan. It's the other side of the door now. He can hear it.
Wetting his lips, James inches to the door and eases it open a crack, peering into the darkness.
Game over.
He slams the door shut and staggers back into the room, dragging in breath and full of panic.
He's in the house. He's in the house with Lily and that little boy. Their little boy. There's only James standing between Voldemort and his family. What a weak thing his body suddenly feels. So young and never trained for this, never prepared. But it's all there is. All he has for his wife and son. Where's Sirius? He should be here. Should be right next to him. But there's just James, and Voldemort out in the hall, and Lily and Harry behind James.
"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off-"
Stupid bastard. Stupid cocky bastard.
Die for me, he'd said. He'd not said the words, but it was what he'd meant. He'd said it to Sirius and Peter, and thought he'd got it all figured out.
His turn now. Time to put his money where his mouth is.
His wand is trembling and he grips his forearm with his other hand, keeping his aim steady and pointed at the door. Small desperate noises keep slipping past the line of his lips and he chokes them back. He straightens his shoulders and tightens his jaw.
Make it count, James. She's depending on him. His little boy's depending on him. Gryffindors don't get scared. Bullies are cowards. The good die young. The snitch is almost caught. Whatever it takes to keep him standing on that spot, waiting to give death one last good fight.
He knew, deep down, he'd never make old bones. He's James Potter, he'd do anything for Lily, for Harry. Even die for them.
He's just got to buy some time. Hold him up as long as possible. Make it count, James. Make it count.
The door bursts open. It's green light and over in seconds.
Date: October 31st, 1981
Format: Memory
Relevance: James Potter's worst memory. Unlike most memories, which are retrieved through the use of a pensieve, this particular memory was reconstructed post-mortem by an Unspeakable, and using memory-material drawn from Harry Potter. As taken from a fresh victim of the Killing Curse, the memory was intact. However, due to it being harvested after death and post-mortem memory work relying on many magical disciplines, there is some intrusion of thought as well memory. The strains of thought seem to have taken some time to develop and would not have been accessible for some years.
James is crouching by an open cardboard box, frowning slightly. He has his old school tie in his hand, but the rest of the box seems to be full of crockery. He sighs and shakes his head, then rises and examines the other boxes.
"Should never be left to pack my own things," he grumbles to himself.
He finds the right box and flips the lid open. Inside are photos albums, old textbooks, keepsakes and things that made the same kind of sense as insider jokes, guess you had to be there. He grins and pulls a Quidditch glove free. He slips it on and flexes the fingers, the leather creaking in the hush.
The Quaffle sails cleanly through the hoop and James spins his broom about in order to grin at the cheering crowd. A Gryffindor flier goes past and claps him on the back and James takes one hand off his broom in order to give a little bow.
Is that four years ago now? God, it doesn't feel like that. Time's just flown past; he must have been having fun.
It was his last game at Hogwarts. Last game he's played.
His grin fades and he throws the glove back down.
He wants Lily. He wants to collect her from her study where she's doing her own unpacking, and gather her close and kiss her red hair. Then maybe go up to the nursery and be a little family all in one room. Perhaps pick up Harry if he's not asleep. Be a little knot of Potters.
He lets out a breath and stretches his arms above his head. The muscles in his neck pop and he screws his eyes shut.
Let this be over soon.
A breeze floats through the room and stirs his hair. There's a click beyond the door across the room from him.
Can't be right. That can't be right. He's going to go to the door and find that the front door (the locked front door) has swung open. That the catch is broken. There's no one at the door. They're still hidden away in the secret. Peter's the only one who can find them and he's too clever to come visiting.
Heart's beating too fast. Get a grip. It's nothing.
James opens his eyes and takes a step towards the door. There's another noise, a rustle, and James comes to a dead stop. He shakes his head.
No. No. Not fair. Not on. Not on at all. They're hidden. Hidden somewhere no one can ever find them. It's Sirius playing a prank. Going to wring his neck because this isn't funny. Be laughing about this over firewhiskey shortly. It's Sirius. It's Peter. It's Dumbledore. It's not him. Can't be.
James draws his wand and takes another step towards the door. He's a little out of breath, gone pale beneath his tan. It's the other side of the door now. He can hear it.
Wetting his lips, James inches to the door and eases it open a crack, peering into the darkness.
Game over.
He slams the door shut and staggers back into the room, dragging in breath and full of panic.
He's in the house. He's in the house with Lily and that little boy. Their little boy. There's only James standing between Voldemort and his family. What a weak thing his body suddenly feels. So young and never trained for this, never prepared. But it's all there is. All he has for his wife and son. Where's Sirius? He should be here. Should be right next to him. But there's just James, and Voldemort out in the hall, and Lily and Harry behind James.
"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off-"
Stupid bastard. Stupid cocky bastard.
Die for me, he'd said. He'd not said the words, but it was what he'd meant. He'd said it to Sirius and Peter, and thought he'd got it all figured out.
His turn now. Time to put his money where his mouth is.
His wand is trembling and he grips his forearm with his other hand, keeping his aim steady and pointed at the door. Small desperate noises keep slipping past the line of his lips and he chokes them back. He straightens his shoulders and tightens his jaw.
Make it count, James. She's depending on him. His little boy's depending on him. Gryffindors don't get scared. Bullies are cowards. The good die young. The snitch is almost caught. Whatever it takes to keep him standing on that spot, waiting to give death one last good fight.
He knew, deep down, he'd never make old bones. He's James Potter, he'd do anything for Lily, for Harry. Even die for them.
He's just got to buy some time. Hold him up as long as possible. Make it count, James. Make it count.
The door bursts open. It's green light and over in seconds.