The Marauders - Order of the Phoenix Part Three

I Will Lay Me Down

He was small.

Smaller than Sirius had ever known him.

That old kitchen in Godric's Hollow at the house James grew up in, so full of sunshine and love and the smell of bacon. The sound of Dora's radio playing in the background. He was hugging a cat, trying to get it to stay with him, but the cat was all flailing limbs and flashing yellow eyes. He was all giggles and whimpers of "noo stay, kitty, stay!" 

"Jamesy, my boy!" and he was up in the air, Charlus's hands under his arm pits and he was up - up - up - and it didn't matter the cat had run away because he was flying high in the sky, his father's grasp keeping him steady and supported, his laughter falling out like waves, and his legs and arms outstretched into the thin air around him.

His life was full of magic long before he ever was old enough to know or care that he was a wizard.

"I love you so much, James," Dora was kissing his forehead. She was rubbing his back after a nightmare, a steaming cup of tea clutched in his hand, sitting in front of the fire in the living room, her voice soothing and soft. What did James Potter have nightmares of back then? Before? When everything was perfect? Sirius wondered. "Nothing can ever hurt you when mummy is here to love you so, so much..."

A flash of Voldemort's face - jarring, painfully juxtaposed over Dora's own kind one in the memory.

"No..." James whimpered. "No, please..."

"Love will make you weak, Potter," Voldemort hissed.

And there was Dora again, but an uneasy feeling settled into the scene now, instead of in color it was black and white and James's tears splashed into the tea cup until it overflowed, overflowed... and he was swimming in it, swimming in tea, kicking his feet and popping up over the surface, the summer sun glistening on the water, his giggles echoing through the trees...

"An excellent cannon ball, James!"

They were at a lake somewhere, a family holiday, and Charlus was teaching James to swim. The memory was slightly blurry flashes of color and sound.

But again, his father's hands were there, supporting him, keeping him afloat.

"Does he love you enough to know you're missing?"

"He'll notice," James whispered.

"He hasn't yet, has he?"

James curled into himself.

He was on a broomstick, probably six or so, and playing Quidditch with Charlus, a quaffle under his arm and a big grin on his face, all perfectly even teeth and  shining eyes, free of glasses, his hair falling in loose boyish curls around his ears. He threw the quaffle with about as much strength as a light breeze and it flew maybe three feet before dropping and Charlus swept below him quickly, catching the ball with practiced ease from years and years of playing. "Good throw, son," he said encouragingly. "You're getting stronger!"

"Someday I'll play pro, dad!" James yelled excitedly.

"Yes you will!" Charlus grinned, and he tossed the quaffle gently back to his boy, who missed it and went flying off to go and get the ball from where it had landed, bouncing across the grass. James scrambled across the grass, his little squat legs carrying him as he ran after the ball, broomstick laying behind him. He got the quaffle and hugged it to his chest, rushing back to where he'd dropped the broom. "Give it a good heave this way!" Charlus called.