Chapter Text
James Potter was supposed to be dead.
The last thing he remembered was standing in the nursery of Godric’s Hollow, wand raised, staring into the cold red eyes of Lord Voldemort. He remembered the flash of green light racing toward him. The crushing certainty that he would never see Lily or Harry again.
His final thought had been simple.
Please let them live.
So waking up inside a coffin was not an experience he had anticipated.
For several long seconds, James simply lay there in stunned silence, staring into darkness while wood pressed against his fingertips. There was dirt somewhere above him. He could smell it.
Then, because he was still James Potter despite everything, his first coherent thought was:
Brilliant. I’ve been buried alive.
His second thought followed quickly after.
No, buried dead. Important distinction.
A crooked grin tugged at his mouth.
“Well,” he muttered hoarsely, “that’s new.”
He lifted his wand with stiff fingers. “Evanesco.”
The coffin lid vanished instantly.
Sunlight flooded over him in a blinding wave. James blinked hard against it as cool autumn air hit his face for the first time in what had to be years. Slowly, he pushed himself upright and climbed out of the grave, boots sinking slightly into damp grass.
The graveyard was quiet. Peaceful, almost offensively so.
Birds chirped somewhere nearby.
James stretched his aching arms above his head and inhaled deeply.
“What a lovely day to be resurrected,” he said dryly.
Then his eyes flicked toward the open grave.
“Rule number two of pranking,” he informed the empty cemetery, “never leave evidence.”
With practiced ease, he conjured an exact replica of the vanished coffin lid and set it neatly back into place. A quick flick of his wand settled the disturbed dirt. Moments later, the grave looked untouched.
James grinned faintly at his handiwork.
Then he looked up.
The smile disappeared.
The headstone stood only a few feet away.
James Potter
Lily Potter
For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
“No,” he whispered.
His eyes dropped lower, tracing the engraved dates with growing horror.
Lily’s name stared back at him like a death sentence.
“Oh, Lils…”
The words broke apart in his throat.
“She didn’t make it.”
The realization hit him harder than Voldemort’s curse ever had. His knees nearly buckled beneath him. Lily—his Lily—was dead. Gone. Buried beside him all this time while he lay useless beneath the earth.
A strangled sound escaped him before he could stop it.
He pressed a shaking hand over his mouth, fighting against the sharp sting building behind his eyes. Lily’s laugh echoed through his memory. The warmth of her hand in his. The way she looked holding Harry for the first time.
Gone.
The world blurred.
A sudden rustle nearby snapped him violently back to himself.
James stiffened.
Someone was coming.
Panic surged instantly through the grief. He couldn’t be seen—not yet. Not until he understood what had happened. Not until he knew whether Voldemort was truly gone.
With one last broken glance at Lily’s grave, James Disapparated.
Lily Potter was supposed to be dead.
She remembered every second of it.
The nursery. Harry crying in his crib. Voldemort stepping over James’s body.
Her body shook at the memory.
She had known what she was doing when she stood between Voldemort and her son.
It had been choice.
She had chosen Harry.
Chosen to die so he could live.
And she had known—with a certainty deeper than magic itself—that Voldemort would never truly touch her son afterward.
What she had not expected was waking up in complete darkness, unable to move properly because wood hemmed her in on every side.
Lily inhaled sharply.
The air smelled stale and suffocating.
Panic clawed at her chest.
Her wand.
She fumbled for it frantically and nearly cried in relief when her fingers closed around familiar wood.
Without hesitation, she pointed upward.
“Depulso!”
The blast exploded from her wand with enough force to rip the coffin lid clean off its hinges.
A deafening crash echoed overhead.
Stone shattered.
Lily squeezed her eyes shut as sunlight poured over her, painfully bright after endless darkness. She dragged herself upright, breathing hard while dirt spilled into her lap and tangled in her hair.
A few feet away, the coffin lid had demolished two nearby headstones.
Lily stared at the destruction.
“…Oops.”
The word came out weakly.
She pushed trembling hair out of her face and climbed unsteadily from the grave. Then she saw the headstone at its foot.
Her own name.
Beside it—
James.
Everything inside her went still.
“No.”
Her voice cracked instantly.
“No, no, no…”
The truth crashed over her in one unbearable wave.
James had died that night.
He had really died.
Tears blurred her vision almost immediately as grief tore through her chest. She folded in on herself with a broken sob, clutching her arms tightly as though she could somehow hold herself together through sheer force alone.
James was gone.
Gone forever.
And she had never even gotten to say goodbye.
Then another thought cut through the grief like lightning.
Harry.
Lily’s head jerked upward.
Harry could still be alive.
Her son. Her baby.
Hope burst painfully through the devastation, fierce enough to force her back to her feet. She swiped furiously at her tears and looked around at the mess she had caused.
With a shaky breath, she raised her wand.
“Reparo.”
Broken stone mended itself. Dirt settled back into place. The shattered headstones reformed piece by piece until the graveyard looked almost untouched again—though not nearly as neat as James’s work would have been.
A ghost of a smile flickered across her face at the thought before grief swallowed it again.
Then Lily tightened her grip on her wand and Disapparated.
If Sirius Black was alive, he would have Harry.
And if Harry was alive—
Nothing in the world would keep her from reaching her son.
James Potter apparated onto the familiar lane—and froze. The Potter cottage looked nothing like the home he remembered. The hedge had grown wild and thorny, grass rose nearly to his waist, and chunks of stone littered the path like scattered bones. Worst of all, the upper right corner of the house—Harry’s room—had been blown apart, open to the sky.
He reached for the gate, but the earth shuddered. A sign rose from the ground, unfolding like a grim announcement.
On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981,
Lily and James Potter lost their lives.
Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard
ever to have survived the Killing Curse.
This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left
in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters
and as a reminder of the violence
that tore apart their family.
James stared at the sign in utter disbelief, all thoughts of raging in his little makeshift dueling room gone. Harry, his little prongslet, survived the Killing Curse? As a baby? That definitely explains why Harry's name was not on the memorial. James had a queasy feeling in his stomach. James was no Herbologist, but judging by the height of the grass, he had most likely been reborn at least ten years into the future. Which means Harry was an orphan for at least ten years.
And Voldemort… was he gone? James could only hope Lily’s obsession with Old Magic had saved their son and ended the monster who’d hunted them.
He needed answers. A newspaper would do. But stepping into public as a supposedly dead man? Probably not wise. That was a prank to save for later—preferably with Harry at his side.
He conjured a mirror and blinked. He looked older. Much older. With a few quick charms, he bleached his hair to a pale blond, lengthened his nose, and sharpened his cheekbones. Good enough.
With a soft pop, he apparated straight into the Leaky Cauldron.
The moment he stepped inside, heads turned. Conversations faltered. James ignored the stares, walking past Tom and the regulars as though nothing were amiss. He tapped the bricks to open the archway to Diagon Alley and slipped through, heading for the little library Lily used to haunt—the one that kept decades of newspapers stacked in its dusty back room.
He entered the old musty place, with rows and rows of books and the smell of ink and parchment in the air. He nears the area where the back issues of the Daily Prophet are kept. He glances at the clerk on the counter, wondering if she could help. He approaches the counter, the young woman looking up with mild disinterest. "Excuse me," James began, keeping his voice casual. "Do you have newspapers of Harry Potter? Or possibly Sirius Black?" he asked.
The librarian looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "That's a lot of reading," she said. "Need anything specific?"
"Just... just the highlights, please," James said, confused.
The woman sighed, then waved her wand, and with a muttered spell a small stack of newspapers were transported in front of James. "Here you are. There are nearly a hundred newspapers with Harry Potter and Sirius Black, but I'm not giving you a hundred newspapers. Take these,"
James blinked. "Ok... well, thank you. When do you need them returned?"
The librarian replied, "Two weeks, please. Thank you,"
"Oh, also, what's the date?" James asked.
"August 1st," she responded.
"And.. and the year?" he said tentatively.
The librarian looks up at him suspiciously, before replying "1995,"
James froze. His breath caught. No. No, it wasn’t possible. It was supposed to be 1981.
“This has to be a mistake,” he muttered. “It can’t be 1995.”
The librarian softened, though her eyes remained curious. “It’s 1995, all right. Are you sure you’re okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
James whinnied a laugh, trying to keep his composure. He turned and walked out of the store, tabloids in hand. He walked back towards the Leaky Cauldron. He had some newspapers to read.
Lily Potter arrived at Whitehall in London by Sirius’ apartment. She sped off, and entered the old, musty apartment building. She raced past the doors, coming to a stop at room 7B and hesitated for a fraction of a second. The paint on the door was peeling and the brass door numbers were dull. It looked different then she remembered - less cared for, more abandoned - but she didn’t have time to think about it.
Lily rapped sharply on the wall. “Sirius! Open up!”
Silence. She knocked again, much harder this time, then tries the handle. Locked. “Sirius Orion Black! Open your ruddy door!” she shouted, her voice rising from urgency and frustration. Nobody, not even Sirius, is coming in the way of her finding her child.
“I’m breaking in,” she warned. The angry redhead looked around, making sure there was no Muggle in sight, before sending a Blasting curse right at the door. “ Confringo!” she yelled. The door gets blasted backwards and is sent into pieces and Lily stepped inside.
The air inside was cold, and heavy with the smell of dust. The room, once so full of Sirius’s chaotic energy and cluttered charm, had a floor that was filled to the brim with dust. he familiar worn-out couch was even more worn-out, the chipped table in the corner looked shoddy, and even the walls looked old.
Lily stepped inside cautiously, her boots leaving small footprints in the thin layer of dust on the wooden floor. Her stomach twisted with unease. "Sirius?" she called again, her voice breaking slightly. She rounded the corner to the tiny kitchen—empty. The knot of dread in her chest tightened. "Harry?"
Terrifying thoughts ran through Lily's mind. She didn't know whether Harry was now - was he kidnapped? Killed? She quickly apparated into Remus' apartment, not caring about etiquette, and looked around the small, shabby place, and not finding anybody, nor finding a baby's room, where Harry would be living. She growled, her worry quickly descending into anger, at herself for not finding Harry, and towards whoever decided Harry shouldn't be with the family that was basically blood to them, which was as close as Harry would get in terms of family. It's not like Harry had blood relatives.
Well, he did, but there's no way he was put with the 'Tuna' as James called her, right? Unless...
She knew her sacrifice would have given Harry blood protection. She hadn't counted on it lasting, but Dumbledore might have thought that Harry would have been safe at Petunia's home. So if Dumbledore ever came across Harry, well, he'd probably put Harry with the Dursleys, completely forgetting the wards need to be powered by love.
Lily sighed. It was possible, and she had already checked most places, so why not. She remembered visiting Petunia before going under the Fidelius, and while it hadn't gone well, she knew where the Dursley's lived. Her mind set on exactly where she was going, and she disapparated with a pop.
She stood in the middle of an overly-manicured living room. The walls were lined with family photos, all featuring a blond boy with a smug grin. But it wasn’t the decor that caught her attention—it was the shouting.
“UNGRATEFUL LITTLE FREAK!” bellowed a man with a purple face, towering over a thin, seemingly meek boy who stood rigid, his head bowed. Harry. Her Harry.
Lily’s breath hitched. He was much, much older, no longer her baby boy, with glasses sitting on his nose and a scar peeking out from beneath his messy black hair. But his similarity to James was obvious. This was her son.
The man, whom Lily quickly deduced was Vernon Dursley, jabbed a finger in Harry’s chest. “You won't talk back to me, or you'll regret it!”
Lily didn’t think. She didn’t hesitate. A powerful spurt of accidental magic, magic she hasn't used since she was a little girl, coursed through her wand and Vernon was thrown backward into the couch, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. The room fell silent.
Harry’s head snapped up, his green eyes—her eyes—widening as they met hers. “Mum?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Lily’s heart shattered. She crossed the room in two strides, pulling Harry into her arms. “Oh, my sweet boy,” she murmured, holding him tightly. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
Behind her, a shrill scream painfully pierced the air. A woman—Petunia, Lily realized—stood frozen in the doorway, holding a frying pan. “You—you’re supposed to be dead!” she shrieked.
Lily turned, her wand steady in her hand. “And you’re supposed to be taking care of my son,” she said coldly. “Clearly, we’ve both been misinformed.” She turned to look at her son, her son who was now a teenager.
Harry pulled back slightly, his voice trembling. “H-how are you here? How are you alive?”
Lily cupped his face, her eyes searching his. “I don’t know, love. But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”
The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs drew their attention. A large, blond boy appeared, his eyes darting between Lily, Harry, and the still-stunned Vernon. “What’s going on?” he demanded, his voice cracking.
Lily raised an eyebrow. “You must be Dudley,” she said, her tone icy. “I suggest you stay out of this.”
Dudley gulped and retreated up the stairs without another word.
Lily turned back to Harry, her expression softening. “Oh, Harry."
Harry was having an absolute horrid summer.
Ron and Hermione hadn't said anything useful the entire damn summer. They'd even admitted there was a lot going on!
We've been told not to say anything... There's a fair amount going on... and it was all a bunch of bullshit. Hermione had written that they'd see him soon in the worst birthday card he'd ever gotten, but how soon was soon? They'd said they were busy, well he was also busy, busy being bored to death! He'd just had one of his worst birthdays ever, and that was saying something! Harry slammed his trunk in frustration. He was never told anything, even Sirius wasn't telling him shit, though at least they contained words of caution. Harry was trying not to scream in frustration when he heard a faint noise coming from downstairs. He perked up. The news was on. Harry walked downstairs, tiptoeing in as he tried to pick up what the news had reported. Unfortunately, Uncle Vernon's head whipped around and looked straight at Harry.
"What are you doing here? You know you are not welcome," Uncle Vernon said angrily.
"I'm listening to the news," Harry replied tonelessly.
"Listening to the news? Again?"
"Well, it changes everyday, you see," Harry shot back sarcastically, already regretting it.
Uncle Vernon's face purpled. "Are you talking back to me?" he said, low and dangerous, his huge face looking down at Harry.
Harry decided then and there that if he didn't really care about his life at Hogwarts, why should he care in Privet Drive? "That's how a conversation works," he said flatly.
Uncle Vernon's face twisted with anger. His face turns an even darker shade of purple as he roars in anger. "YOU DARE! AFTER EVERYTHING WE HAVE DONE, YOU ARE STILL RUDE AND SARCASTIC! YOU ARE NOTHING BUT AN UNGRATEFUL LITTLE FREAK!"
Uncle Vernon jabs a finger at Harry, and said, "You won't talk back to me, or you'll regret it!"
Then Uncle Vernon was suddenly thrown backward, landing on the couch, his mouth opening and closing. Harry looks up and sees an auburn-haired, green-eyed, pretty woman in her mid-thirties, whose anger was rolling off in waves. A woman who looked exactly like someone he'd seen in the few pictures Hagrid had given him, a woman he'd seen in the Mirror of Erised. Someone who was supposed to be dead.
"Mum?" he whispered, his voice quiet in shock.
His not-dead-mum walked right over to Harry and pulled Harry into the warmest, most loving hug he'd ever felt. "Oh, my sweet boy," she said. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
Petunia, who had surprisingly been washing the vessels, screeched in shock. “You—you’re supposed to be dead!” she shrieked. Mum spun around, wand in hand.
"And you're supposed to be taking care of my son. Clearly, we've both been misinformed," Mum said, contempt bleeding through her voice. Harry choked back a laugh at the face Petunia made. He then pulled back from his Mum, as she turned back around to face him.
Harry gazed at his mum, taking in the appearance of the mother he never had. His voice shook as he asked "How are you here? How are you alive?"
Mum cupped his face, the soft touch comforting him. "I don’t know, love. But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere."
A sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the house. Dudley pokes his head into the view of the living room, his eyes bouncing from person to person. "What's going on?" he asked, voice cracking.
Mum raised an eyebrow. “You must be Dudley,” she said, her voice cold. “I suggest you stay out of this.”
Dudley fled back to his room, and Harry tried to suppress his grin. Mum looked back at Harry, his eyes meeting her exact same ones. "Oh, Harry," her voice full of warmth and love, love that he hadn't really had for 14 long, long years. But it was OK now, because he had his Mum. His Mum, who had just saved him from a beating, who had single-handedly terrified his childhood bullies.
For the first time that summer, Harry had hope.