Chapter Text
"Necromalignosis," was the name of the disease that shook James’ core.
"Of the blood," Victoire added, a hand covering her own mouth as she tried to stifle her sobs of despair.
James sat there in silence, feeling the sterile hospital room press in around him. His mind tried to wrap itself around the word, trying to understand what it really meant, but the numbness that had crept into his bones the moment Victoire spoke made it impossible.
"I'm going to die," James stated, more a statement than a question.
When Victoire nodded, her tears flowing freely now, James only asked, "How long?"
"Six months," she answered, her voice cracking like thin ice beneath too much weight. "Maybe a year with treatment but..."
"But there's a chance I'll die faster because the disease is too far along," James finished for her. He nodded, as if accepting a fact as ordinary as the sky being blue.
Victoire lowered her eyes, unable to hold his gaze any longer. "I actually don't suggest treatment. It's horribly painful, risky and...well...there's no point in trying anymore."
Strangely, James felt eerily calm. Not relieved, not resigned, just calm. Perhaps the calm came from exhaustion more than anything else. The truth had been lurking beneath his skin for months, he realized. His body had been whispering warnings, and he’d ignored every single one.
His magic had started weakening around the same time his legs grew unsteady and random bolts of pain would root him in place, breathless and sweating. Looking back, he should have come to Victoire long before today. He should have acted sooner.
But life had a way of swallowing his focus. The last year had been one disaster after another, and James had shouldered each one until there was nothing left to carry. His own health had slipped so far down the list of priorities that it was only when the walls started closing in that he finally acted.
It started with his father.
Harry had been severely injured during an Auror mission. James had been there, part of the same team, and the image of his father lying in the rubble, unmoving and pale, was one that had never left him. Harry was unconscious for a full month, and then confined to bed rest for another two. With Albus tied up in his Unspeakable work and Lily still at Hogwarts, it had fallen on James to juggle both his own duties as an Auror and the care of his father.
James did not cry.
The bouts of dizziness started then. Subtle at first, easy to dismiss. He blamed them on sleepless nights, skipped meals, and stress. He told himself it would pass. It didn't.
When Harry was finally strong enough to return home, it wasn’t even a week before another blow struck. Lily, his bright and wild little sister, had tried to end her own life at Hogwarts. The call had come late in the night, and the memory of rushing to St. Mungo's and seeing her lying there, wrists bandaged, her face pale and hollow, was something that would never fade.
James did not cry.
The headaches began then. Persistent and sharp. He told himself it was grief, nothing more.
Before Lily was even discharged, another wave crashed over them. Albus had been caught in a trap of ancient magic during a mission for the Department of Mysteries. The curse that clung to him was so dangerous that only specialized curse-breakers were allowed near his isolation ward for three months.
James visited every day. He wasn’t allowed inside, but he stood outside the glass for hours, watching his brother's chest rise and fall, praying it wouldn’t stop. He was the only family member strong enough to stand at the time.
He felt his magic fading. He felt something inside him slipping away. But James brushed it off, convinced it was just worry clouding his senses.
When Albus finally came home, the family, for the first time in months, was whole. There were still cracks, deep and jagged, but for a moment, there was light again.
And then Melody told him she was pregnant.
The news washed over James like a sunrise. His world, so dark for so long, finally had warmth again. The joy spread quickly through the family. Even Lily, still walking a fragile line, began to smile again. Harry, who hadn’t laughed once since Ginny's sudden death, wore a genuine smile for three whole days. Albus bragged to everyone he met that he was going to be an uncle.
That day, James cried. Quietly, alone. But he cried.
And then the pain began.
Not the dull ache of stress or the sharpness of migraines. This was different. Paralyzing, burning pain that came and went like a tide, leaving him weaker each time. His magic flickered, sometimes vanishing entirely for hours. It was then that he finally admitted something was wrong.
He flooed to St. Mungo's. He found Victoire, asked her for help. She listened to his symptoms, her face pale as parchment, and ran tests without saying a word. When the results came back, her expression said everything before her voice could.
"Please don't tell anyone," James whispered, after the diagnosis was spoken aloud. His hand, clutching the parchment, trembled slightly, the only visible crack in his composure. He pulled Victoire into a hug. She didn’t seem willing to let go.
"I'll be fine. I know it," he lied, flashing her the same crooked, easy grin that he had used since childhood. The paper crumpled in his hand, the truth digging into his palm like glass.
When he left St. Mungo's, the first thing he did was burn the diagnosis. The flames flickered high, as if trying to erase reality along with the paper.
He had two options. Tell his family, pursue treatment, endure months of suffering for a sliver of hope that might not exist, or keep his silence and let the disease run its course, sparing them prolonged heartache.
The choice, for him, was obvious.
Six months. That was all the time he had.
Six months to prepare them for a world without him, even if they didn't know it yet.
James could deal with six months.
His only regret was the sorrow he was sure to leave behind.