Chapter Text
On the morning of Harry’s first birthday, James woke to the sound of Sirius singing through the walls.
“...Happy birthday, dear Harry,” Sirius sang, low and sweet, then paused. “Deer Harry, get it?” he asked, and James could hear the grin in his voice. The sound of it made James smile. Sirius’s easy grin was becoming a rare commodity these days, but his son could always draw it out of him.
Make your grumpy old godfather smile, darling, James had found himself saying of late, before dropping Harry into Sirius’s arms. His son’s nonsensical babbling and excited squeals never failed to drag a reluctant smile from Sirius. Even in his darkest of moods, made more common now by war and prophecy, Sirius could never deny Harry the best of himself.
The day that trick stopped working, James often thought, was the day they were all doomed. Sirius Black wasn’t meant to be so…well, so serious.
“Happy birthday to you,” Sirius finished in his warm baritone, drawing out the final word with an indulgent flair of vibrato.
There was a moment of silence, then some faint murmuring that James couldn’t make out. He imagined Sirius pacing a lazy circle around the nursery, his head curled down next to Harry’s ear as his hair shielded them both from the world, speaking softly against Harry’s cheek. Sirius’s hair was longer now than James had ever seen it, falling in thick waves down his back. He kept it pulled back in a bun more often than not, but early in the morning and late at night he let it fall loose past his shoulders.
“Ai lai lai lai…” Sirius started up again to the same tune, and James groaned. Nobody could get a song stuck in his head as quickly as Sirius could, or with quite as much smugness. James knew they'd be humming the song back and forth to each other all day, to Harry's delight and Lily's wry amusement.
Then again, James supposed there were worse things than having the Happy Birthday song stuck in your head on the anniversary of your son’s birth. Especially when you hadn’t been sure he would make it to his first birthday.
Starting early with the cheery thoughts, aren’t we, James thought, then yawned hugely.
He turned his head to find Lily watching him, eyes tired, her dark red hair splayed out on the pillow like a halo. She tilted her chin towards their bedroom wall, and James watched as the movement made strands of hair dance and flicker with light.
“Nice to hear him in good spirits,” Lily said with a soft smile.
“Yeah,” James said, then for the first time in over a year, murmured, “Modeh ani lefanecha.”
Lily reached out a hand. James threaded their fingers together and drew her hand to his lips, whispering the rest of the morning blessing against her knuckles.
“It’s been a while since I’ve heard that one,” Lily said when he'd finished. There was a gentle question in her voice.
James pressed a kiss to their intertwined fingers before drawing back. “I guess so,” he said, unsure how to answer. Lily freed her thumb from his grasp and stroked it patiently over his knuckles, back and forth and back again. It wasn’t often that Lily had to wait for James to find his words, but she did so now without comment.
“I guess I haven’t felt very thankful lately,” James finally admitted, but that wasn’t really it. Not precisely. He was grateful every day that his family was still alive, and equally terrified every day that this would cease to be the case. Lately, though, the terror had been winning out.
Lily hummed in acknowledgement. “And today?”
James let out a breath, long and deep. Nothing had changed since yesterday, nothing at all, except that his son now counted his age in years instead of months. Which made all the difference in the world, of course.
“We’re still here,” James said. “Despite everything, we’re still…” He stopped, suddenly unable to speak past the lump in his throat.
“We’re alive,” Lily finished for him, squeezing his hand.
They tried to kill us, and we survived. How many times had James’s parents said that to him throughout his childhood, in one way or another? It was ingrained in their history, their stories, their songs.
But James hadn’t made it through this war yet.
“I'd like to do Shabbos tonight,” James said. They’d fallen out of the habit these last months, for no reason in particular except what was the point, really, during a war. What was the point when your family was being personally targeted for destruction, and you woke every day almost surprised that the people you loved were still safe and breathing under your roof.
Except, James realised, there was no other time to light Shabbos candles. When else did they most need the light, if not on the eve of destruction?
“Then we will,” Lily said, and James loved her more than he had words to say.
As the sun set through the kitchen windows and bathed the room in a warm orange glow, they sang the candle blessing as one: Lily in her flowing sundress, keeping a tight hold on Harry so his tiny hands couldn’t reach the flames; Sirius with his hair in a low bun, wisps of dark hair escaping to frame his face; and James pressed comfortably between them, lighting the twin candles with a whispered Incendio.
James hadn't grown up singing the blessing. Some of his earliest memories were of his mum bathed in candlelight, her hands cupped over her eyes as she spoke the words quietly to herself; to which James and his father answered a hearty amen. James had picked up the habit of singing back when he and Sirius still lived together in their London flat.
James liked it better, with the singing. It put him in mind of those early months after their wedding, when Lily would turn on the Muggle radio after dinner and James would coax her into dancing in the kitchen, Sirius singing along from the table whenever he recognized the song.
“Well you can tell by the way I use my walk—” Sirius sang, his voice cracking on a high note, and Lily laughed and finished the verse for him. “Merlin, Prongs, pick a song that doesn’t go up into the bloody rafters, will you?”
James grinned and allowed Lily to twirl under his arm as she sang clear and bright, “been kicked around since I was born.” Her hair just brushed the top of her shoulders.
“You know I don’t pick the songs on this thing,” James said.
Sirius took a sip of tea and gestured lazily at the wireless. “You heard that bloke last night, he said they take requests. Call the Muggles up and tell them to play something in my range.”
“Just take it down an octave and stop kicking up a fuss, you tosser,” James said, and Sirius grinned and leaned his chair back on two legs.
“If you say so,” Sirius drawled, to which James answered easily, “Of course I say so,” and all three of them joined together for the chorus.
There was another habit they’d fallen out of; the singing together. In the gentle warmth of candlelight, James silently vowed to bring back all the little joys they'd lost to the war, one by one.
After the wine, Sirius finally asked.
“Why tonight?” Sirius was watching James steadily over the flames. “Why—” he cut himself off, then smiled crookedly. It didn’t quite reach his eyes—but then, Sirius’s smiles didn't always penetrate these days. Still, James loved him for trying.
“Tell me, Prongs,” Sirius said with forced lightness. “Why is this night different from all other nights?”
For a moment the sense of nostalgia-longing-grief rendered James incapable of speaking. The sudden memory of Pesach seders long-gone, of a home that was warm with the smell of brisket and loud with laughter and singing and table-banging, made him miss his parents anew.
The lightness dropped from Sirius’s face, and James mourned its absence. But in its place came a gentle understanding intertwined with sadness, and James knew he wasn’t the only one who remembered.
“Because we’re here,” James finally answered, meeting Sirius’s eyes and willing him to understand this, too. “Because they’ve tried to kill us and we’re still here.”
“For now,” said Sirius, never one to shy away from the ugly truth. “You know it’s only getting worse. What if—”
“No.” This from Lily, her voice hard. She stepped around James until she was facing Sirius, then took one of his hands in her own. Her left arm still held Harry tight to her hip. “We’ll make it through. We will.”
“You don’t know that,” Sirius whispered, barely audible, and James closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the naked terror in Sirius’s eyes. Not two hours ago, those eyes had been warm with pride as Harry crashed his toy broomstick into their ugliest vase and then sped away, grinning madly.
James grabbed blindly for Sirius’s free hand and caught his forearm instead, holding on tight. Sirius was trembling.
So was James, he realised.
“I do know that,” Lily said, and the quiet conviction in her voice made James’s eyes fly open. He watched as her eyes glinted in the low light. “Ask me how I know.”
“How?” James asked, overloud.
Lily’s eyes flicked to him. Her gaze softened, then returned to Sirius. “We’ll live because we have to,” she said simply. “Because we have so much to fight for and too much to lose.” She paused to press a kiss to Harry’s dark curls, and James felt another tremor run through Sirius.
“We will survive because we must,” Lily said.
“Ken yehi ratzon,” James murmured, and Sirius let out a shaky breath.
So may it be, James thought, and did his best to believe.
“I should go into hiding,” Sirius said, barely a week later.
James blinked and looked up from his book. They’d been sitting comfortably in the sitting room while Lily put Harry to bed; Sirius stretched languidly across the sofa with the Prophet crossword, and James sitting sideways in the chair opposite, his legs draped over the armrest.
James pushed his glasses up from where they’d slipped down his nose, then squinted at him. Sirius arched an elegant brow.
“What?” James asked, bemused.
“I should—”
“No, I heard you,” James said, waving a hand impatiently. He sat upright and laid his book face-down on the armrest. “You want to go into hiding. I just…what do you think we're doing here?” James gestured vaguely at the room around them. The room in which he currently spent most of his time, on account of being in hiding. “We’re already in hiding.”
Sirius watched him silently for a moment, and James recognized that look. It meant James was going to hate whatever was about to come out of his mouth, and Sirius knew it.
“No,” Sirius finally said. “I mean I should go into hiding myself. Alone.”
James waited for more; for some indication that Sirius was making an ill-advised joke at James’s expense. When Sirius did nothing except fidget awkwardly with the hair tie around his wrist, James narrowed his eyes.
“You want to leave?” James asked. “Now?”
Sirius looked annoyed. “No, of course not now. I thought perhaps I’d wait until you’d all been murdered.”
James felt his jaw tighten. “Sirius.”
“Obviously I mean now,” Sirius snapped, eyes flashing. He sat upright on the sofa, his back ramrod straight. “When the hell else do you think? I should’ve done it months ago.”
James felt like he was two steps behind in this conversation. It was an unfamiliar feeling when speaking with Sirius. “What, you’re just going to move back to our old flat? By yourself?” James asked.
From the look on Sirius’s face, that was exactly what he had planned. James took a steadying breath. “And how exactly is that going to help?”
Sirius huffed a frustrated breath. “How is me being here helping? I'm leading Voldemort straight to your doorstep.”
“Fine,” James said. “Move out, then. You can leave tomorrow.”
Sirius blinked. He clearly hadn’t expected James to give in so easily. “Okay,” he said cautiously.
“And the day after, I’ll leave, too,” James said. “Always thought Wales was nice this time of year. I’ll find a nice little cottage for myself. Lily and Harry will stay here, of course, since they’re clearly safer without—”
“That’s not the same thing, and you know it.” Sirius said, his voice icy.
James raised his eyebrows. “Do I?
“Voldemort is after your family, James.”
“Oh really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m putting you at risk, staying here.”
James snorted. “The prophecy is putting us at risk. Voldemort is putting us at risk. Not you.”
Sirius leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. His knuckles were white with tension.
“Don’t play stupid, Prongs. They're smart enough to figure out I know where you live. We’re lucky none of them have followed me straight through the front door yet.”
“Fine,” James said. “We’ll be more careful. You can stop taking so many Order missions; go into proper hiding like me and Lily. But I still don’t see how you leaving for London keeps us any safer.”
“Because he’s after your family, not—”
James bared his teeth and leaned forward, tilting his chin down. Sirius froze, recognizing the motion for what it was: Prongs displaying his antlers in a clear threat.
James’s nostrils flared.
“I dare you to finish that goddamn sentence,” James said, voice dangerously low.
For the first time in their friendship, Sirius didn’t take the dare. It didn’t matter; they both knew what he’d almost said.
Your family, not me.
“My family,” James said, cocking his head and watching Sirius’s face carefully. “You know who my family is.”
It wasn’t a question. Sirius nodded anyways, just a slight dip of the chin. His bottom lip trembled before he pressed his mouth together in a hard line.
“My family stays here.” James’s voice cracked on the last word. “Together. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” Sirius said. “James—”
“This is not up for debate,” James interrupted. Something primal and not unlike the desperate snarling of the wolf, alone and terrified under the full moon, was making it difficult for him to speak. “The day I let you leave us is the day I am lying dead on this fucking floor. Do you understand me.”
Their eyes met, and James found himself trapped in a sea of stormy grey.
“That’s not going to happen,” Sirius finally croaked.
James forced himself to sit back. “No,” he said. “It’s not.”
By September, Sirius had started sleeping on the sofa.
James almost didn't notice. He wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't needed the loo at four in the morning and afterwards crept down the stairs to the sitting room, drawn in by Prongs’s paranoid survival instinct which was whispering urgently in his ear, something is moving in the darkness.
As James crept closer, he heard the telltale signs: laboured breaths and thrashing of sheets, interspersed with the occasional whimper. Sirius wasn’t exactly loud, but sleeping in the same room as him for seven years had left James well-attuned to the signs of his nightmares.
By the time James knelt to the floor next to the sofa, Sirius was already awake and curled on his side under a blanket. His face was barely visible in the dim light, but James could just make out the shine of his eyes. The cat was curled on the armrest above his head, keeping watch like a sentry.
James reached out a hand in the darkness. His fingers landed at the juncture of Sirius’s neck and jaw, and he felt the quick thrum of his heartbeat.
“Fancy finding you here,” James said. With his free hand, he reached behind himself for his wand and cast a wordless Lumos, bathing the room in warm light. Sirius had never liked the darkness much, after a nightmare.
“Come here often?” James continued lightly, as if they’d run into each other unexpectedly at the pub. “Bit of a downgrade from the bed, this, but the company isn’t bad.” He nodded his chin in the direction of Tikvah. She yawned at him, her canines gleaming.
“Go away, Prongs.”
James let out a startled laugh. Tikvah’s ears went back at the sudden noise, but the corner of Sirius’s mouth twitched, so James figured it was alright. He set his wand down on the floor behind him.
“Go away?” James repeated. “That's weak, Padfoot, even for you.”
They both knew that telling James Potter to go away was practically an invitation for him to settle in for the long haul, in the same way that calling something forbidden was like throwing the doors wide open and yelling, please come in and have a look.
Because it was Sirius, James knew it was an invitation.
“Shut up,” Sirius muttered.
“Going away and shutting up,” James mused. “Not exactly my strongest qualities.”
Sirius huffed a breath and closed his eyes. He looked completely knackered, like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks. James wished he could soothe him as easily as he did Harry, simply by wrapping him up tight and humming low and warm in his ear. He compromised by scooting closer to the sofa and threading his fingers through Sirius’s hair, and James let out a relieved breath as some of the tension around Sirius’s eyes softened.
“At least you're self-aware.” Sirius said. Then, softly, “Didn't mean to wake you.”
James blew lightly on Sirius's face. He wrinkled his nose and glared up at James.
“You shut up,” James said petulantly, and Sirius smiled. It was a small smile, just a tiny quirk of the lips, but James was pleased to see it reached his eyes. James grinned back, for no reason except that he’d missed Sirius’s smiles; the real ones.
“You know I always want you to wake me up,” James told him.
“I know,” Sirius said. His voice was tight like he was about to say I'm fine or something equally stupid, so James scratched his fingernails lightly over his scalp. Sirius sighed and sank deeper into the sofa cushions.
“Do you want to talk about it?” James asked. The answer was usually no, but James always asked.
“No,” Sirius said, then paused. “...Don’t know.”
Coming from Sirius, this was as good as a yes. James waited, watching as Sirius fiddled absently with the edge of the blanket.
Finally he asked, “How the hell are you keeping it together, Prongs?”
James laughed, then winced at the slightly manic sound of it. Sirius raised an eyebrow in question.
“Who says I’m keeping it together?” James asked. He’d meant it as a joke, but he could tell from the look on Sirius’s face that his tone had fallen flat. James pulled his hand from Sirius’s hair and ran it through his own, barely restraining from pulling hard at the root.
Sirius sat upright and watched James, his gaze sharp. Tikvah jumped from the armrest into Sirius’s lap, and he scratched her chin idly. “I reckon if anyone is still keeping it together, we should be worried,” Sirius said dryly.
“I hate being stuck in this house,” James admitted. “I hate that people are dying every damn week and I can’t lift a finger to help. You know I had to beg Dumbledore just to go to the McKinnons’ funeral.”
“Yeah,” murmured Sirius, because he did know. When begging hadn’t been enough, Sirius had shouted.
“Just…what's the bloody point of everything,” James waved a hand uselessly through the air, “if I can't fight to protect the people I love. And when they die, I can't even…” James trailed off, struggling to shove down the hot web of frustration and grief.
If it had been anyone else, James would've stopped there. His frustration didn’t do anyone any good, so he kept it locked tightly away these days. James couldn’t do much to help the Order, but he could preserve shalom bayit until his final breath. He could make his son smile; could keep his wife from adding “my husband is falling apart at the seams” to her long list of worries.
But this was Sirius. James had never been able to lie to him, not even through omission.
“More than anything, I hate that it’s my family,” James said, voice low like he was confessing a sin. The lump in his throat ached with the effort of not sobbing. “I wouldn't wish that prophecy on anyone else, you know I wouldn't. But… Merlin, Pads, why does it have to be our kid?”
“Yeah,” Sirius said again. He reached down and threaded his fingers through the mess of James’s hair, tugging just the wrong side of painful. It wasn't comforting, exactly, but it grounded James enough that he could finally draw a deep breath.
“My dreams are all the same now,” Sirius said, voice soft. His hand fell away. “We lose.”
James heard what he wasn't saying; what he couldn't say out loud. We all die. Harry dies.
“Is that why you're on the sofa?”
Sirius met his eyes. “I need to hear. If he…” His jaw tightened. “I need to hear.”
“Sirius…”
If we knew to cast a silencing charm when setting off Dungbombs in the Slytherin common room, James thought, I'm sure Voldemort won't make a sound as he blasts open our front door to murder us.
But Sirius knew that, of course.
“Okay,” James said.
Neither of them slept much the rest of the night.
September fell slowly into October, with none of the usual fanfare.
James had always loved the changing of the seasons, the way that the world seemed to turn itself over and show him something new. Autumn was always a joy. James loved its crisp nights; the feeling of a cool breeze tugging at his hair as he flew over the tops of trees on a broomstick, on a motorbike.
Autumn felt like freedom; like running fast and unrestrained under the twinkling stars, kicking up a pile of leaves with his hooves and prancing like a fool under the resulting flurry of red and orange.
Autumn felt like wide grins and too-tight hugs and a flash of red hair under a hat. It was the warm smell of his mum’s honey cake and the ringing of laughter as his dad shoved freshly-cut apple slices into James’s mouth, wishing him shanah tovah and grinning as James spluttered and said pointedly, u’metuka, you forgot the honey.
James was used to feeling alive in October. Instead, this year he felt like a mouse in a cage; a glass cage which allowed him to see the world outside but forbade him from tasting its sweetness.
Recently he’d taken to carrying Harry in slow circles around the sitting room, looping around once and twice and twelve times like a merry-go-round, telling stories of long-ago autumns until Harry tired of being held. He would squirm out of James’s arms then, making a beeline for his toy broomstick so he could fly a zig-zagging path between the furniture, grinning widely and squealing go-go-go as the cat made a mad dash for the kitchen worktop.
It made James smile, of course; but only softly, because he knew how good it felt to fly in the fresh bright cold October air under a clear blue sky.
The days passed, because they always did.
James was drifting in the soft, barely-there space between sleep and waking as Lily's hand carded gently through his hair. Somewhere far away there was a soft click of a door, then the near-silent sound of footsteps approaching.
“Did he go down alright?” Lily asked, voice low.
A soft huff of breath and the creak of the armchair. Then, Sirius's voice: “Of course he did. He loves bedtime with Padfoot.”
There was a smile in Lily's voice. “He loves everything with his Padfoot.”
“As he should; I'm a bloody delight. I always knew he was a bright kid.” The easy confidence in Sirius’s voice turned to teasing. “Old man Potter went down alright too, I take it?”
Lily's hand tightened in his hair, then went back to stroking gently. James sank a little deeper towards sleep. “He's earned it,” she said, and Sirius hummed in response.
“Sirius, do you—” Lily cut herself off, then sighed. “I worry about him. He tries not to show it, but he’s frustrated shut up here.”
“He wouldn’t want you to worry, Lily.”
“But we do anyway, don’t we?” Lily said. Her voice sounded sad. “Sometimes it feels like it’s all Dumbledore will let us do. Worry and hide away.”
“He does know we’re Gryffindors, doesn’t he?” Sirius said in a tone of mock concern. “We're not meant for staying put. If we go on like this, we’ll all be driven mad by the end. Like that Muggle book, whatsit, the one with the kids stuck on the island together.”
“There's a comforting vision,” Lily said, but there was a smile in her voice again.
“I do what I can,” Sirius said agreeably.
“Are you okay, Padfoot?”
There was an uneasy silence.
“‘Course I am,” Sirius said, a little too cheerily.
“It’s okay if you’re not,” Lily said gently.
“He doesn’t smile like he used to,” Sirius said after a moment, and if it were anyone else, James would mistake it for a change of subject. “Have you noticed that? He tries, but it’s not…” Sirius trailed off.
“You know,” Lily murmured, “he says the same thing about you.”
“Of course he does, the bloody idiot,” Sirius said, unbearably fond, and James felt a second hand settle in his hair.
Sleep pulled him the rest of the way under, heavy and warm.
The jingle of keys had become a sound so foreign that its sudden return straightened James’s spine. He felt something pop in his neck as his head swivelled in search of the source, and he didn’t have to look far to find Sirius leaning casually against a doorframe, head cocked in amusement.
His hand was raised lazily in front of him, palm up, his index finger outstretched to hold his motorbike keyring.
“And you call me the dog,” Sirius drawled. “That was right Pavlovian, mate.” Lily snorted from the sofa cushion beside James.
James’s eyes darted between them. “What?”
“Pavlov,” Sirius said, but James was only half-listening, because he’d noticed that Sirius had his hair pulled back in a tight bun and was dressed in Muggle clothes for the first time in…Merlin, had it really been months? James’s gaze flickered over carefully-polished boots, dark trousers, and—most tellingly—his leather jacket, worn soft from years of use.
“You’re going out?” James asked, then winced at the childish whine in his voice; a mixture of jealousy and panic that he immediately wished he could shove back down his throat.
Sirius stopped talking mid-sentence. He pushed off from the doorframe and walked over to the sofa, peering down at James. There was something calculating and almost predatory in his gaze, not unlike the sudden moment of stillness when Padfoot spotted a sparrow that had made the mistake of hopping directly in his line of sight. It made James’s ears itch in response.
“We could both go out.” Sirius paused, just a second too long for his words to feel casual, then added, “If you like.”
James blinked, then twisted around to look quizzically at Lily as if to ask, are you hearing this? None of them had done anything so frivolous as going out for longer than James cared to think about.
Lily was watching him carefully, and James couldn’t quite read her expression. “You know Dumbledore has been talking more seriously about the Fidelius Charm,” she said.
“I do,” James answered slowly. “But what does that have to do with…” He gestured vaguely at Sirius, thinking, with Padfoot and his bloody joyride.
He glanced back up at Sirius, who now seemed to be having a silent conversation with Lily through facial expressions alone. “Oi!” James said, and two pairs of eyes snapped back to him. “What’s with the—” James waved a hand wildly, “—the looks?”
“Sirius and I were talking last night,” Lily said.
“While you were pretending to sleep,” Sirius said pointedly.
“I wasn’t pretending—”
Sirius shot him an unimpressed look which said, we grew up sleeping next to each other, you can’t lie to me.
“Whatever,” James muttered. There was another pause, during which Lily smirked at Sirius and waved her hand absently in his direction as if to say, take it away. Sirius tilted his chin in response as if to answer, if you insist.
When did that happen, James wondered, watching the display with only the vague awareness that his mouth was hanging open. Lily and Sirius had always liked each other, but somehow James had missed the part where they’d become so in-sync as to have entire conversations straight over James’s head.
James would’ve found it amusing, if it wasn’t so bloody mystifying.
“We’re going to be locked away soon,” Sirius said, his gaze returning to James. His face had dropped all hints of lightness, and James leaned forward, his mouth snapping shut. “Not that we aren’t already, but…I was researching the Fidelius, James. That shit’s ironclad; we can’t take any risks once it’s cast.”
James had been trying not to think about that. Still… “Never thought I’d see the day that Sirius Black told me not to take risks.”
Sirius tilted his head, his eyes gleaming silver in the lamplight. “Did I say that?”
Sirius was many things, and precise in his speech had always been chief among them. James paused and ran Sirius’s words back again, can’t take any risks once it’s cast, then let out an amused huff of breath. From the way Sirius’s eyes darkened with pleasure, he knew James understood.
They weren’t best mates for nothing, after all.
“Careful, Pads,” James said, his voice low in warning. He stood from the sofa and stepped easily into Sirius’s space. Sirius didn’t move, just tracked his movements with sharp attentiveness. “You know we can’t make it a habit.”
“I’m not an idiot, Prongs,” Sirius said, to which James murmured, “No, but I am.”
Neither of them moved for a long, stretched-out moment. James wondered if Sirius could see the fear on his face: the slow, icy-cold trickle of terror that something inside him would be consumed by this taste of freedom, would be swept away until all he could think about was flying high above the ground, closer and closer to the twinkling heavens and further away from war and prophecy and the hopeless sense of apathy he couldn’t seem to shake.
Further away from his family.
Sirius’s gaze softened. He could see every tiny, jagged piece of James; always had done.
“It’s my bike,” Sirius said, as though that solved everything.
Funny thing was, it sort of did. Because Sirius’s eyes were clear and steady, and without words, they promised: I won’t let you float away.
Another thing about Sirius Black was that he’d never broken a promise to James, not even an unspoken one.
“Get changed,” Sirius said, his eyes flicking over James’s robes distastefully. “You know how I feel about shit getting caught in the machinery.”
“Give me a bloody minute, Merlin,” James said. “Who says I’m coming, anyways?”
Sirius shot him a look so dry that it startled a laugh from James. Sirius jingled his keyring again, eyes warm with amusement. “Hurry up or I’ll leave without you.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” James said, waving a hand dismissively as he took the stairs two at a time, grinning at Sirius’s muffled, “Watch me.”
Five minutes later found James back in the sitting room, spreading his arms wide for Sirius and Lily’s inspection.
“I suppose you’ll do,” Lily said, the corner of her mouth twitching as she took in his faded jean jacket, t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a Muggle rock band, and denim trousers cuffed at the ankle.
Sirius glanced up, pausing in the act of pulling on his gloves. “Jean on jean, Prongs, really?” Sirius asked, which was a bit rich coming from a man who’d turned up to their first Order meeting dressed in head-to-toe leather.
“Shut it,” James said cheerfully. “We leaving or not?”
“Lily already cast a Disillusionment Charm on the bike. We’re just waiting on your lazy arse.”
“Hope you didn’t forget where you parked,” James said, watching with interest as Lily tapped Sirius with the tip of her wand, muttering the incantation under her breath.
“Forget where I parked what?” Sirius asked blankly, and then his shit-eating grin was the last thing James saw before the charm made Sirius take on the appearance of the wall behind him.
“You sure you don’t mind?” James asked Lily, catching her wrist before she could cast the spell on him, too. “You don’t want…” He trailed off, not sure exactly what he was trying to ask.
Lily tugged his fingers gently from around her wrist, pressing a kiss to his knuckles before letting him go.
“I’m sure,” Lily said firmly. She was studying him, her green eyes sharp. “Do you remember what you told me, about how nothing is more important than saving a life?”
“Pikuach nefesh,” James said automatically, then: “Somehow I don’t think sneaking out for a joyride on a flying motorbike is quite what the rabbis had in mind, love.”
That won him a grin. “Maybe not,” Lily conceded, then her face went serious. “But preserving a life is more than just the physical, isn’t it? If we forget what it means to live, even in the interest of surviving…” She trailed off, but James heard the rest of her sentence as easily as if she’d shouted it: What are we living for?
And hadn’t James promised himself on Harry’s birthday that he would bring back the little joys? The singing together; the lighting of candles; the laughing until their cheeks ached. And then I promptly did not do that, not even a little bit, James thought bitterly.
Well. No time like the present, his mum had always said.
“So, what I’m hearing you say,” James said in tones of mock-seriousness, “is that the halakhah demands I ride a flying motorbike tonight.”
“And quickly,” Lily agreed, the corner of her mouth twitching.
“I’m sure we can manage that,” James said, and he came easily when Lily pulled him down into a kiss, one hand buried in his hair and the other resting warm and heavy on his collarbone.
“Oi,” said the Sirius-shaped bit of wall indignantly. “Snog on your own time, you two.”
Lily smiled against James’s lips and kissed him one final time before drawing back. She cast the Disillusionment Charm on him, and James grimaced at the sensation of something cold and slimy trickling down his body.
Never felt any less disgusting, that.
Out in the front garden and staring at the patch of grass that was, supposedly, Sirius’s motorbike, James suddenly frowned.
“Should we cast a—”
“Suppose so,” Sirius said reluctantly. He reached out a hand to pat an oddly-solid bit of air that was the correct height to be a motorbike handle, then whispered, “Sorry, babe, we’re undercover tonight. Silencio.”
James didn’t fancy misjudging the location of the motorbike seat and landing himself on the ground, so he waited for Sirius to sit before settling in behind him.
As Sirius fiddled with the switches and dials that he’d long since memorised the location of, James reached blindly for Sirius’s jacket pockets and shoved his hands inside. The higher they rose, the colder it got, and James didn’t believe in wearing gloves when Sirius’s pockets did a perfectly fine job keeping his fingers warm.
But tonight, he frowned when he felt a folded piece of paper in the left pocket.
“What’s this?” James asked, pulling it out and struggling to unfold it with one hand. Sirius hummed in question, and a slight ripple in the air suggested he’d turned his head.
“What’s—oh,” Sirius said, clearly catching sight of the paper. James finally managed to open it with disillusioned fingers.
It was a photograph, worn soft not by years but by frequent handling. James recognised it as having been taken in the St. Mungo’s room where Harry was born, and the photo showed James and Sirius crowded together in the single armchair in the delivery room.
This had been the first time Sirius had held Harry, James remembered. Sirius had come straight from an Order mission; his face had been pale, and a hastily-healed cut stood out prominently on his cheek. His robes still smelled of ash and dried blood, and he’d looked as though a particularly strong gust of wind would cause him to collapse to the floor.
So James had dragged Sirius down into a chair, shoved in next to him, and dropped a two-hour-old Harry into his arms.
The Sirius in the photo alternated between gazing awestruck at the sleeping bundle in his arms and glancing up at James—as though he couldn’t quite believe he wasn’t dreaming this moment into existence, and needed external validation that it was real. The James in the photo leaned in close and murmured something into his ear, then grinned at whatever Sirius said in response and looked up at the photographer. That had been Lily; barely clinging to consciousness after hours of labour, but determined not to fall asleep until their son’s godfather arrived.
“Haven’t worn this jacket in months,” real-Sirius said, his voice barely audible. It made sense. Sirius only ever wore his leather jacket when he was riding the motorbike; the rest of the time he favoured thick, rich cloaks in burgundy or navy. As far as James knew, Sirius hadn’t driven the motorbike since that evening in early August when he’d decided to go into hiding with the Potters.
Which meant that Sirius had previously been carrying the photo with him whenever he left on Order business. James couldn’t stop the grin, warm and fond, from spreading across his face.
“Shut it,” Sirius mumbled, shifting slightly in the motorbike seat.
“Didn’t say anything,” James murmured, folding the photo again and tucking it carefully back into Sirius’s pocket. “Are we flying or not?”
Instead of answering, Sirius kicked off and sped down the main street of Godric’s Hollow.
Usually he would drive around a bit first; give at least the barest pretence of being an ordinary Muggle biker. But tonight, invisible as they were, Sirius lifted them into the air before they’d even passed the third house.
James leaned forward, savouring the rush of wind on his face and the familiar swoop in his stomach as the ground fell away beneath them. He felt the tension melt from Sirius’s back, and James sighed in response, watching over Sirius’s shoulder as the houses and trees grew ever more distant.
Merlin, he’d missed this.
“You know,” Sirius said, once they’d risen high enough for James’s ears to pop and were drifting lazily just below the clouds. “The disillusionment isn’t even the weird part.”
“It’s too quiet,” James agreed, and Sirius hummed in reply.
“Any requests?” Sirius asked after they’d drifted in companionable silence for a bit. “London might be a bit risky, even with the charm, but…”
“What’s a little risk,” James said into the space Sirius left for him.
“Could head north, if we’re feeling nostalgic,” Sirius said after a moment, having clearly picked up that James wasn’t in the mood for city lights. “Or south, if my summer boy’s getting too cold.”
“You can choose,” James said, hooking his chin over Sirius’s shoulder and soaking in the warmth of him. He fiddled absently with the photo in Sirius’s pocket, tracing a thumb over its soft edges.
“James?” Sirius asked, because this was not at all their usual order of events. Usually, Sirius complained at least five times an hour about James being the worst bloody backseat driver this side of France, let me drive my own bike, Merlin.
A strand of hair brushed James’s cheek. Sirius had evidently turned to look at him before remembering their faces were invisible.
“I’m fine,” James said, answering Sirius’s unspoken question. Sirius grumbled doubtfully at this pronouncement.
“Just…thanks,” James finally said, meaning, I’m going to miss this.
“‘Course,” Sirius replied softly. Me too.
Suddenly, Sirius slammed the accelerator; it startled a delighted laugh from James, who had to cling tightly to Sirius to avoid flying backwards off the bike.
“Give a bloke a warning, you wanker,” James complained in Sirius’s ear.
“Not a chance, you coward,” Sirius said, which was all the warning James had before he tilted the motorbike straight down at the ground in an imitation of the Wronski Feint. James grinned around the rush of adrenaline and tightened his grip as Sirius pushed them faster; then faster still. They missed the ground by inches, then rose again so quickly that James nearly lost track of which way was up.
By the end of the night, James’s ears and nose were aching with cold, and his cheeks were sore from smiling.