there is no disdain, no anger, rather … an insurmountable dismay in himself , and who he's supposed to be. he could've done more, he should've done more. he should've passed into another lifetime before anything could've hurt his brother, jumped in front of any curse, and let himself fall victim to the darkness he would never let his siblings know. there is no true victory, without sacrifice ... and he will eternally curse himself that he wasn't the one who took it that day. the tale of icarus is retold in the life of james sirius potter : one bred of valiance, and blazing wings of unwavering fervour — eager, brave, and thoroughly reckless. gold-hearted, oath-driven, and loyal to an unforgiving fault, yet born of mortal flesh …. how soon will it be until he burns at the sun's flames, and falls an unfulfilled hero ? he's not a god, rather, just man — first son, and eldest brother : born to live a prophecy of a name a two generations above his own. james never regretted any of his choices, even this one. no matter how much of his father's anger he has to face, nor the disappointment in his eyes, his head still held high, sorrow hidden beneath a purse of his lips as he entered the office. he's not coming to see his father, he's been summoned by the leader of the order. he disobeyed a direct order, and, because of it, endangered the life of one : the life of someone much more precious than him. “ you called, dad ? uh, sir, ” he quickly corrected himself, eyes searching for harry's own, pale green gifted from the grandmother he never got to meet. “ … i'll accept whatever punishment you give me. no missions or, if you were to derank me, or … anything. it was my fault, and i accept that. i should've done more. i should … be more than this, ” he started, breath taken into his lungs before he continued. “ — i held back, i didn't … want to hurt anyone there. not really. i couldn't kill, and … maybe for that i'm not the soldier you want or need me to be, ”
When James had come in, when Harry had turned his gaze from the photograph of him, safe and alive in perpetuity, to the horribly fragile flesh and blood boy in reality, his heart had turned over. "Yes, I'd like to know what you thought were you doing, running into a mission you had no business being in," Harry said flatly. He was trying to approach this calmly, but that was not so easy. Not for him. Not when it was James. All he could think was that it was a miracle he was still alive, that Harry hadn't lost him. By all rights, it should have ended very differently, as it always had before. The pressure in Harry's chest, that had been building for days, tightened, and then erupted. ""As if you, only you, could save the day! That isn't how this works, that isn't how any of this works!" And didn't Harry know that too well. He closed his eyes, and behind them, Sirius fell through the veil. As Harry had led him there. The bodies laid out in the Great Hall of Hogwarts. As Harry had led them there. His eyes flew back open, green sparks flashing. "We had a plan, a strategy in place! One that didn't, it may surprise you to hear, need you in it! You were reckless, foolish - it plays right into their hands if we act like this, one person rushing off! Your hero act, all it does it put people in danger! All is does is get people killed! Do you understand that? They are counting on you, everyone is counting on you, they believe that you can save them, but all you do is fail, every time, all you do is get people killed!" Harry stopped short. It ocurred to him, a little too late, that it was not James that he was yelling at. It was not James that he blamed for leading the Order to the deaths, time and time again. Harry suddenly felt so very tired. The anger - it was gone. Inside, he was stricken. "James. You aren't a soldier to me," he said, a sort of despair in the words,desperately searching his son's face, imploring. "That isn't - I've never wanted that from you -" Surely, it couldn't be that broken between them. But clearly, James thought he was, that that was how Harry saw him, that that was how Harry used him. He felt it back again, the desire to sink his head into his hands. He certainly could not bear to look at James. The little boy who, every night, when Harry had placed him into bed and tried to get him to sleep, had reached out his hands to Harry. He hadn't wanted Harry to let him go, and that had suited Harry just fine, to cradle James in his arms instead, until he slept. To have a moment of peace, after all the bloodshed, in which he could kiss James' forehead, and murmur, that's my brave boy, do you know how much Dada loves you, and believe, one day, one day, it would end, that Harry would give him something more than this. That boy now, here, apologizing to him for not being a killer. Harry felt sickened to the very bone. "Is that really what you think I want?"




















