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He’d been here before: nothing else smelled quite like this. The wintergreen of birch, the citrus of pines, underneath all of it the steady scent of earth. His body—did he have that?—responded the way it always had, something quick and alert and more alive than usual.
Another adventure, perhaps. It felt like time.
Something rustled beside him as he opened his eyes, and everything crashed over him in less than a breath.
Sirius. Remus. Lily.
His son.
This moment, right now, and the moment still to come.
Harry’s eyes were still closed, a stone in his hand, a scar on his wrist. Tall, so tall, all grown up, but shaking. It came to him again all at once, and Sirius was looking at him as they had done long ago, when they’d taken other forms and spoken through silence. Moving then to protect Remus. Moving now for different reasons. The words, the understanding, from a glance into his brain.
He needs this, Prongs. He needs this. In the past, James might have nodded, quick, to show, message received.
Lily’s hand squeezed his before she pushed back her hair. She spoke to Harry first: it had always been that way. When James stood frozen, Lily always went ahead.
Brave. He’d been so brave. James’ heart shattered as he watched his son lean in, wide-eyed, taking in his mother’s words, drinking in her love. James had lived and died for the promise of a world that didn’t need children to have this kind of courage; Harry feasted now upon a cruel and tiny crumb.
“You are nearly there,” he heard himself saying. “Very close. We are—” his voice hitched—”so proud of you.”
James’ gaze darted out, towards the castle and then past it. Nothing left on this earth seemed worth his son’s sacrifice. Dumbledore, dead. James’ loved ones all beside him. McGonagall— Minerva—would be appalled by the idea.
Harry’s voice cut through: James saw him facing Remus. “Right after you’d had your son….”
There it was, then. He must have known it all along. The thrill and the terror of it, Remus’ own feelings passing through him, through a veil. In the other place, Lily’s hand had squeezed his own again, as both of them watched the squalling infant in the cottage. Another precious, frail miracle born under a war.
A beautiful boy. The last Marauder's child.
James’ son was poised to die now so Remus’ could live.
“You’ll stay with me?” asked Harry, looking now at James.
If things had been different, they would have done this earlier. Soothing words, a little night light, as he put Harry to bed. The baby he had died for hadn’t been afraid yet. A book he’d read with Lily had called two years the turning point–when the mind becomes able to imagine what can happen, when a child can’t yet tell which dangers are real. Teddy, one day, would need comfort in the dark.
Andromeda, breathed Sirius. For now, answer Harry.
“Until the very end,” said James, firmly, while his mind traveled beyond it. To a place beyond the forest, with his son back in his arms.