Chapter Text
PART 1
October 30, 1981
The kettle whistled shrilly in the cramped Godric’s Hollow kitchen, but James barely heard it over the edge in Lily’s voice. It was sharp and weary, worn thin by too many days in hiding. He loved her. Merlin, he loved her with every bone in his body. And yet lately it felt like every word between them was a spark in dry tinder, waiting to catch. He told himself it was the war, the confinement, the endless fear of footsteps on the path outside. But when he looked across the table at her to see her eyes tired, her hair in a loose, impatient knot, he thought that maybe it was something worse: the slow unraveling of two people who still loved fiercely, but were beginning to fray at the seams.
“You forgot the wards again,” Lily said, not looking at him as she poured water into two chipped mugs. Her voice was quiet, but it cut clean as a blade.
James bristled. “I didn’t forget. I just didn’t do them the moment the sun came up.
Her hand stilled on the spoon. “You didn’t do them until I reminded you. Again.”
The kettle clicked off with a little pop, and the silence that followed was louder than shouting. James leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. He hated the defensive posture, hated how small it felt compared to the man he used to be, the boy who had once lit up entire corridors with laughter. “We’re locked in here like bloody rats in a trap, Lily. Wards or no wards, if someone really wants to get in—”
“That’s not the point!” she snapped, turning to face him at last. The green in her eyes burned hot in the low kitchen light. “You’re Harry’s father. Our lives depend on those wards. You don’t get to shrug it off just because you’re restless.”
The guilt landed low in his gut, heavy, dragging. But pride rose up to smother it. “Don’t you dare tell me I don’t care about keeping you safe,” James shot back. “Everything I do, every second of this cursed hiding, is because of you two. Don’t make it sound like I’d risk—”
“You’re risking it by being careless,” Lily cut across him. “You think restlessness is an excuse? You think fear is? We don’t have the luxury of mistakes, James!”
Something in him snapped. He pushed back from the table, the chair legs scraping hard against the stone floor. “And what exactly do you think I am, Lily? What do you think this is doing to me? Sitting here, day after day, waiting for the knock at the door that ends it all? Do you think it doesn’t tear me to pieces, watching you fade, watching Harry grow up in a cage?”
Lily’s lips trembled, not with tears, but with the effort of holding herself steady. Her knuckles whitened on the handle of her mug. “You’re not the only one living in this cage. You’re not the only one afraid.” Her voice dipped low, dangerously calm now. “But you can’t lash out at the walls and call it protection. You can’t forget the one thing standing between us and him and pretend it’s nothing.”
Him. Neither of them said his name. Neither had to. The shadow of Voldemort pressed in on every word they spoke, every silence they shared.
James dragged a hand through his hair, pacing now, unable to sit still under the weight of it. The kitchen felt too small, the air too thick. He wanted to tear out into the open, into the night sky, broom under him, wind in his lungs, but that life was gone, and all that remained was this: a house too quiet, too still, and the woman he loved turning into a stranger across the table.
He stopped, chest heaving. “I’m trying, Lily. I’m bloody well trying. But I’m not built for this. Sitting and waiting, it’s eating me alive.”
She looked at him then and for a heartbeat the fire dimmed in her gaze. He thought he saw the Lily he’d fallen for, the one who had once laughed at his terrible jokes and kissed him under the bleachers after Quidditch matches. But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by the iron resolve of a woman who had given everything up for her child.
“You don’t have to be built for it,” she said, softer now, though no less fierce. “You just have to do it. For him.”
The silence that followed stretched taut, painful, neither willing to break it. Somewhere above them, a floorboard creaked, a phantom sound, or perhaps Harry turning in his sleep. It was enough to draw both their eyes to the ceiling, enough to remind them what was at stake.
James let out a long, unsteady breath. “I’d die for him, Lily. You know I would.”
Her shoulders slumped, some of the fight bleeding out of her. “I don’t want you to die for him,” she whispered. “I want you to live for him.”
And just like that, the argument was over, not resolved, not healed, but smothered beneath the weight of something larger than both of them.
The silence after the argument was brittle, stretched taut enough to snap with a breath. James stood in the center of the kitchen, fists still clenched, while Lily leaned against the counter, her mug untouched and cooling in her hand. The air was thick with all the things they hadn’t said, all the things they didn’t dare.
And then, from upstairs, a thin wail pierced through the stillness.
Harry.
Both their heads turned at once. For a heartbeat, neither moved, and then Lily set her mug down with a soft clink. Her eyes met James’s across the room, tired and sad, but softened by something deeper. He swallowed hard, feeling the last of his anger drain away, replaced by the bone-deep guilt of having raised his voice when their son slept just a floor above.
“I’ll go,” James murmured, already moving for the stairs.
The climb felt longer than it was, every creak of the steps reminding him how fragile their little world was, how much of it rested on his shoulders. When he reached the nursery, Harry’s cries had grown louder, small fists flailing against the air as though fighting off unseen shadows.
James crossed the room in two strides, scooping the boy into his arms. “Shhh, Prongslet. Daddy’s here,” he whispered, pressing his cheek to the warm crown of dark hair. Harry’s scent, milk and powder and something sweetly indefinable, hit him with a wave of tenderness so fierce it nearly buckled his knees.
He began to sway instinctively, the way Lily always did, murmuring nonsense words and humming scraps of old Quidditch chants. Slowly, the cries softened into hiccupping whimpers. Harry’s small hand clutched at his father’s robes, anchoring James in a way nothing else could.
Behind him, the door creaked open. Lily slipped in, silent as a ghost, her arms folded around herself. She watched James rock their son, and the fire that had blazed in her eyes downstairs seemed dimmed to embers now.
“He gets louder every week,” James said quietly, without looking up. His voice was hoarse, roughened not just by shouting but by all the words he hadn’t said aloud.
Lily gave a soft huff that wasn’t quite a laugh. “He gets that from you.”
That drew a reluctant smile from him. He glanced over his shoulder at her, their gazes locking in the dim lamplight. For the first time all evening, the line between them didn’t feel like a chasm.
She crossed the room slowly, hesitant, and brushed her fingers across Harry’s downy hair. The baby stirred, then settled again, sighing into James’s shoulder. Lily’s hand lingered, her touch trembling.
“You’re good with him,” she murmured.
James felt the words like a balm, though they ached too. “He’s all that matters,” he said. “You know that, right? Everything I do it’s for him. For you.”
Her lips pressed tight, and she nodded. For a moment, there was only the quiet sound of Harry’s breathing, the creak of the old house settling around them. The fight, the accusations, the bone-deep weariness, they were still there, but muted, eclipsed by the small, steady weight of the child between them.
James shifted Harry gently, lowering him back into the crib. The baby fussed, then curled his tiny body into the blanket, thumb finding its way to his mouth. James tucked the quilt around him, heart tightening at the sight.
Lily leaned against him then, her shoulder brushing his. It was not quite forgiveness, not quite peace, but it was enough. He turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss into her temple.
“We’ll get through this,” he whispered.
She didn’t answer, but her hand found his, fingers tangling together as they stood watch over their son.
The afternoon sunlight slanted through the nursery window, painting the floorboards in stripes of gold. Harry sat in the middle of a colorful quilt, pudgy hands wrapped around a stuffed snitch Sirius had sent for his birthday. The toy’s wings flapped half-heartedly every few seconds, and each time Harry squealed in delight, flinging it away only to crawl after it with determined grunts.
James sprawled on his side beside him, wand tapping idly against the floor to nudge the toy just out of reach. “Look at that form! Already chasing like a pro. You’ll make Gryffindor Seeker in no time.”
Harry crowed, face flushed with exertion, and toppled forward onto his father’s chest. James let out a dramatic “oof!” and fell backward, throwing an arm over his eyes like a felled knight. “Merlin’s beard, he’s got the strength of a troll already. You’d better watch him, Lils. He’ll be hexing Slytherins before he’s out of nappies.”
From the rocking chair, Lily watched them with a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She held her teacup in both hands, as though for warmth, but the tea had long since gone cold. “Or,” she said dryly, “he’ll be more sensible than his father and keep his feet firmly on the ground.”
James peeked at her from beneath his arm, grinning. “Blasphemy. This one’s a flyer. It’s in the blood.” He scooped Harry up and lifted him high overhead, earning a delighted squeal. “See? Perfect posture already.”
The sound of their son’s laughter filled the room, bright and unburdened. For a few precious minutes, it was easy to pretend they were just a young family in a small village, not a target locked in a gilded cage. James blew raspberries against Harry’s belly until the boy hiccupped with giggles, and even Lily’s lips softened into genuine laughter, the sound so rare these days that James’s chest tightened at the sound of it.
But then Harry’s laughter ebbed into a small whimper, his fists tugging at his shirt. Lily rose, setting aside her cup, and reached for him. “It’s almost time for bed,” she said, her voice gentle again as she took him from James’s arms.
James leaned back on his hands, watching her cradle their son. She brushed a lock of dark hair from Harry’s forehead, humming softly, and James felt the warmth of the moment slip into something fragile, like glass about to crack.
“He deserves more than this,” Lily murmured, rocking slowly. Her eyes stayed on Harry, but James heard the weight beneath her words. “A life outside these walls. Friends. Sunlight. Safety.”
The silence that followed was sharp. James’s grin faltered, his gaze dropping to the quilt on the floor. “I know,” he said, barely above a whisper.
Harry’s eyes fluttered shut, his tiny breaths evening out against Lily’s shoulder. She pressed a kiss into his hair, and for a heartbeat, everything stilled again, the war, the fear, the fights. Just a family, holding on.
But James saw the strain in Lily’s eyes when she looked at him over Harry’s sleeping form, and he knew it couldn’t last.
The cottage was hushed after Harry’s soft breathing finally settled into deep sleep. James carried the baby monitor charm back downstairs out of habit, though the cottage’s wards were tighter than Gringotts. He found Lily curled in the armchair nearest the fire, her knees tucked up beneath her, hair slipping free of its knot in tired waves. The flames painted her face in shades of gold and shadow, highlighting the lines of exhaustion that hadn’t been there two years ago.
James sank into the sofa opposite her, stretching his legs toward the hearth. For a while they sat in silence, the quiet punctuated only by the pop of burning wood.
It was Lily who spoke first, her voice soft but edged with something sharp beneath. “Sometimes I wonder if he’ll ever know what grass feels like under his feet. Or if his childhood will be nothing but walls and whispered arguments.” She hugged her knees tighter. “What if this is all he remembers of us?”
James swallowed hard. He hated when she said things like this, because he thought them too. “He’ll remember laughter,” he said finally, forcing brightness into his voice. “You singing him to sleep. Me teaching him to fly—”
“—if we live that long,” Lily interrupted, her words quiet but unflinching.
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. James leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand across his mouth. He wanted to tell her she was wrong. He wanted to believe it himself.
Instead, she looked at him with those green eyes, Harry’s eyes, and whispered, “If anything happens to me—”
“Don’t,” James said sharply, sitting bolt upright. His voice cracked against the stone walls. “Don’t you dare say that. Nothing’s going to happen.”
Lily blinked at him, startled. The fire popped again, sending sparks spiraling up the chimney.
James ran a hand through his hair, softer now, pleading. “We’ve survived this long. We’ll make it through. I’ll keep you both safe.”
She studied him for a long moment, as though weighing whether to argue, then only sighed and leaned her head against the chair back, eyes distant. “That’s what terrifies me,” she murmured.
James didn’t ask what she meant. He couldn’t. Instead, he stared into the fire until his vision blurred, telling himself over and over that she was wrong. That he was right. That nothing would happen.
But the hollow echo in his chest betrayed him.
James stayed rooted in his chair long after Lily’s words cut the air between them. The fire snapped and spat in the grate, shadows leaping across the walls, and still he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He hated himself for the sharpness in his voice earlier, hated even more that it had put that hollow resignation in her eyes. She deserved better than a husband who barked at ghosts and shadows.
With a soft exhale, he rose and crossed the kitchen. His hand drifted toward the kettle before he even thought about it, the old habit carrying him along. The cupboard creaked softly as he reached for her favorite chipped mug, the one with the faded daisy pattern she never let him replace. A spoon clinked against porcelain as he added just enough honey to swirl through the dark liquid. No sugar. Lily never liked sugar.
When he set the mug gently beside her, she blinked, caught off guard, and then her mouth softened. James, for his part, couldn’t quite manage the roguish grin she used to tease out of him so easily. He settled for a quiet murmur, his thumb tracing the rim of the mug. “You know I’d burn the whole world down before I let anyone touch you. Either of you.”
Her fingers lingered on the mug, tracing the worn daisy petals, before she finally looked up at him. Her gaze held his, unwavering, until she reached out and caught his hand. Her palm was warm, steady, grounding in a way that almost undid him. “I don’t want fire, James,” she whispered, her voice softer now, stripped of its earlier edge. “I just want you here. Whole. With us.”
Something twisted inside him, relief, guilt, and a love so fierce it hurt. He squeezed her hand hard, as though by sheer force he could anchor himself to her. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, memorizing every curve, every familiar line. For a moment the war and the walls and the fear pressing in on them all seemed to fall away. There was only the two of them, the warmth of the fire, and the steady rhythm of her breathing.
James leaned back slightly, tugging her hand with him until she let herself fold against his shoulder. He pressed his cheek against her hair, breathing in the faint, comforting scent of rosemary from the potion she’d been brewing earlier. “We’ll make it through this, Lil,” he murmured into her hair, though the words tasted like ash. He wanted to believe them. He wanted her to believe them, too.
The kettle, long forgotten on the stove, gave a soft hiss as the last of its steam faded into silence.
That night, when the lamps were dim and Harry’s soft breathing carried from the nursery upstairs, James lay awake with Lily’s back warm against his chest. He pressed his face into her hair and whispered an apology she didn’t stir to hear. He told himself there would be time tomorrow, time to laugh again, to stop fighting, to remember the easy love they’d once worn like second skin. But as the clock in the hall ticked toward midnight, James Potter felt the old chill settle in his bones, the one that told him tomorrow might never come.