Echoing Souls

by diam0w0nd

Summary:

“A harmless prank.”

Just one night — one scare — but it ended in blood. Too late to save his enemy from the claws of a starved beast, James Potter watched Severus Snape die beneath the full moon, torn apart by a secret that was never meant to kill him.

The Marauders, once golden in myth and memory, fracture by the very flaws they buried beneath laughter. And from somewhere within that wreckage, James finds himself talking to a ghost: the one soul that might offer the fragile hope of a second chance.

Perhaps, a romance lingers in the echoes.

Notes:

See the cover art for the story here!

Chapter 1: The Boy Who Failed

Summary:

[Prologue] The night that changed everything.

Notes:

Content Warning: This chapter contains major character death and graphic depictions of injury.

It was just another one of their nightly frolics. 

Silvery light had already begun to spill over the Forbidden Forest as the full moon clawed its way up from the clouds, cold and unblinking. 

A boy could be seen walking under the inky sky, shoulders hunched with a weary, almost animalistic sort of wariness under a mop of soft chestnut hair that stirred to reveal pale scars tracing down the nape of his neck — a glimpse of marks left by painful years of scratching, biting and thrashing against walls. His feet hit the soggy ground with hesitant scrapes, bristling each time a squelch tore from the grass. 

Behind him, his three Animagus friends stumbled down the hill and struggled to cram themselves under the Invisibility Cloak: the tallest, all black waves and swaggering limbs; the shortest, round-faced with quick, darting blue eyes; and the one clutching the cloak, with messy hair, round spectacles and a toothy grin that held them all together. The material felt whisper-light and slippery between James’ fingers, catching on broom-hardened calluses and hangnails like silk snagging on thorns. They were half-laughing, half-hissing at each other to shut it, you’re stepping on my foot. 

They used to all fit under the cloak easily, back when they were puny little first-years slipping stink pellets into the Slytherins’ bags and daring each other to nick pastries from the kitchens; back when it was all games and giggles, and they didn’t intend anyone to actually get hurt. 

Now it was all elbows and knees and someone’s arse hanging out the back. 

“Oi, Pete, move your fat head,” growled Sirius, jabbing him with an elbow. “Should’ve stayed in rat form like I said — would’ve had way more room under here. But no, can’t stand being called a rat, can you?”

Peter scoffed, but before he could snap back, James chuckled softly. “It’s not Wormtail’s fault you’re a giant, stinking hound instead of a lapdog. You’re the one hogging half the cloak, Pads.” 

A grin spread over Peter’s freckled face, though the tautness in his shoulders lingered. “Right? And don’t forget who slipped the Dungbomb into Snivellus’ cauldron. Bit of fun’s all me,” he huffed, puffing out his chest with practiced ease. His chin tipped up just so, in the exact way James did when he knew he’d done something brilliant. 

Sirius smirked, grey eyes storming up that smug, careless mischief and disdain. “Yeah, congratulations. But the fun’s a bit cramped when you’re wedged into my ribs, mate.” 

“Better cramped than missing, right?” James quipped back. 

They fell into their typical madness and laughter — hoarse, winded wheezing — as they launched into a spirited replay of their morning triumph: Snivellus shrieking and scowling and vowing, I’ll murder him! I’ll murder Potter! to a vaguely apologetic Slughorn despite his severe lack of evidence of the Gryffindor’s involvement. The Potions Master had leaned away from Snape’s ranting with a grimace, no doubt more concerned about the stench of troll piss on his shabby robes and dung dripping down his greasy black hair. 

James only half-listened as Sirius mimicked Snape’s strangled yelp; his mind was busy replaying the image — the way Snape had whipped around, spit flying from his mouth, his eyes wild and murderous under those inky strands staining his face. A humiliated flush bloomed on his sharp cheeks, wand already clenched in his white-knuckled hand, yet with nothing to hex. Absolutely fuming. Absolutely ridiculous. 

Really, the bastard had it coming, because how dare he?

How dare he hover around Lily, always slinking behind her with that pathetic, puppy-eyed look, like she owed him for existing? Like being soft-spoken and clever and delicate with his absurdly thin fingers somehow made him worthy of attention? 

How dare he skulk around with those sallow cheeks stretched so tightly over his brittle bones, swathed in his oversized black cape like a bat forever shunning the sun? Hiding in the damp shade while the rest of them chased wind and warmth and everything worth having. 

How dare he sneer and act like he was above them all with those cutting insults, when really, he had nothing but a filthy mouth? He was a nobody, a scraggy, fragile little thing with threadbare clothes hanging off his frame like rags, all wrists and knees poking through —

“Honestly, I thought Snivy was about to lose his mind,” Sirius snorted, shouldering James as he flicked his wand to illuminate the path ahead. “You should’ve seen his face when I tactfully dropped the hint that he’d find some life-changing secret tonight.”

His best friend’s deep voice jolted him out of his thoughts, and he was almost grateful for the distraction. “What’d you tell him?” asked James in a murmur, as though he hadn’t just been mentally retracing every detail of the boy in question.

Snivellus was a pain in the arse. That was all he was. Whatever prank Sirius was planning, he would sure as hell deserve it. He needed to be put in his place, reminded that just because he slinked around like some greasy little spy didn’t mean he actually knew anything. 

So why did something feel… off?

They had already passed the greenhouses on the path to the Whomping Willow. The grass pinched their socks with night-damp fingers, the scent of the earth so rich yet so wrong. The forest loomed, as it always had — holding its breath at the edge of the grounds — but now it felt closer, as if Hogwarts had shrunk in shame. 

Something was different. Not the gnarled, wind-battered, moss-patched trees — they were the same as always. Not the path, still trodden and mud-caked, scattered with hoof-marks and the bones of creatures too small to fight back. 

No, it was the quiet. 

There was no birdsong. No flap of wings, or even the hoot of a distant owl. The world had cinched inwards, and far ahead, the silver eye in the sky judged them closely. 

“Just a little nudge…” drawled Sirius, barking out a laugh. “Acted like I’d been forced to reveal it when he’d had the upper hand — as if he’d ever, bless the pathetic little shit — and told him, if he’s so desperate to know our secret, he should check out that creaky tunnel under the Whomping Willow. Thought it’d be a harmless prank, what’s the worst that could happen?” 

Peter let out a squeaky laugh. “You didn’t.”

“I bloody did!” 

But James didn’t laugh. His steps faltered, smile dropping as a cold coil began to tighten in his gut, low and slow, winding itself deeper with every word. 

Surely not.

Sirius could be a downright idiot at times — reckless, theatrical and entirely too fond of escalating a joke until someone lost a limb — and he had told Snivellus about the Whomping Willow but he hadn’t gone so far as to tell him how to actually get in. He wouldn’t risk Remus.  

A harmless prank.

They were almost at the tree now, and James pulled off the invisibility cloak, folding the silky fabric into his pocket. He caught a flash of Remus ahead, head bowed, pace steady, bracing himself. 

Tonight would be as routine as ever: accompanying Remus through the night as friendly animal companions, making sure he didn’t hurt anyone, and more importantly, making sure he didn’t hurt himself during his monthly transformation. 

A harmless prank.

It was fine. It had to be. Sirius was just exaggerating, just winding Snivellus up to scare him out of his wits for snooping on them all the damn time. What they really needed was for Remus to deal with his monthly illness in peace, and once Snape realised the whole thing was just a trick, he would finally give up sticking his overly large nose into their business.

Remus stopped. 

So did they.

James squinted through the dark, his voice echoing into the still night. “Moony? What’s wrong?” 

The brunet craned his neck back at them, the small scars on his face brightened by the moon’s light. “It’s strange. The tree doesn’t seem to be moving,” he muttered, his tone low and tense. “But there’s no time to think. The transformation... it’s already starting.”

He gave them one last, tight glance, then descended into the roots without another word. 

The others stared at the willow, towering and still, its gnarled limbs perfectly motionless like a fossil. Not thrashing or guarding, but patiently waiting in its uncanniness.

A harmless prank.

James slowly turned to face Sirius, the knot in his gut now ready to snap. 

“You didn’t tell him how to get in… did you?” he pressed, attempting to maintain his casualness, but his voice came out thinner than he meant it to.

Sirius’ grin wavered at his best friend’s pointed look, but he quickly recovered, shrugging dismissively. “Course I did. What’s the point of a setup if he can’t take the bait?”

“You told him to press the knot? Do you know what you’ve done…!” yelled out James, his breath misting in the air as a sickening dread overcame him. 

“Serves the git for being a right menace! Wouldn’t stop going on about Lily this, hex you that —” Sirius started defensively, though his voice faltered, “and Snivellus can’t actually be so stupid as to face a full-grown werewolf by himself!”

Oh god. 

It wasn’t a harmless prank.

James broke into a run, all colour drained from his face. 

Because Snivellus could be that stupid. He was stubborn, obsessed, proud enough to chase them right to the end of the world just to prove them wrong. And Sirius — wild, brilliant, just as stupid Sirius — would find that funny. 

Oh god oh god oh god. What have you done, Sirius?

Blood was rushing to his head, his arms, his legs; everything around him was blurring with the scene that unfolded in front of his mind’s eyes: Snape ducking under the branches, scorn etched into his pointed features, only to walk straight into a nightmare. 

He was in the tunnel. He charged forward — bones cracking and reforming, skin crawling and stretching — with his hooves pounding on wood, panic and instinct propelling him into a sprint. 

A howl ripped through. 

It was louder than it should have been. More ferocious, more aware. No longer a sound of pain or resistance, but of hunger from a predator that had smelled prey. Blood-curdling screams followed, echoing through the rotting walls that pressed in closer and closer until it felt like he was crawling through a throat that meant to swallow him whole. 

James skidded through the door, heart crashing against his ribs. The air was hot and foul, thick with fur and sweat and copper. His eyes immediately locked onto a smear of black on the floor — Snape’s body, already a mess of blood and torn clothing. The werewolf was on top of him, claws raking across his chest, fangs piercing into his shoulder —

Without thinking, James lunged forward, ramming his antlers into the werewolf’s dark flank with a force that rattled his entire body. Remus snarled ferociously and tumbled into the far wall, then flung himself back at James, saliva dripping from his bared fangs. The beast’s claws swiped at him. A guttural shriek pushed out of the stag’s throat as James kicked and shoved with all his strength, his heart thundering with each failed blow. 

Finally, with a violent heave, James slammed Remus into the corner of the shack with a sickening crack of stone and spine. He rolled, dazed and snapping, furiously scrambling to regain his strength to fight and to devour. 

James wheeled around, panting, hooves slipping in blood. He shifted back before his legs could give out completely, kneeling beside the motionless body on the floor. Snape’s face was bleached white, eyes wide in horror, chest heaving in shallow, ragged breaths. 

“Oh god, Snape — oh god…” James reached for the boy sprawled beneath him, blood slicking his hands. 

“What the fuck are you doing there? RESTRAIN HIM! And you, CALL A TEACHER!” he roared back at Sirius and Peter, not looking up as his voice cracked apart. 

He knew they had followed him there. They always did.

Sirius was frozen in the doorway, wand hanging limp in his hand. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. 

Peter let out a strangled noise and scuttled past him in a flash of grey fur, vanishing down the tunnel as a rat. The soft patter of his claws against wood was swallowed almost immediately by the rising, low growl from across the room. 

James looked up just in time to see Remus — not Remus anymore — lurching back to his feet. Amber eyes glowed with feral hunger as the werewolf turned towards James and the boy he crouched over. 

“No — no — no,” whispered James, shifting slightly in front of Snape. “Don’t — don’t you see me? Remus, it’s me, James! Prongs, Moony, Prongs! Please…”

The werewolf growled louder, crouching low. His hind legs tensed. 

Then, a black blur crashed into him. A large black dog slammed into the beast’s side with a snarl, knocking him off-course just as he descended. They crashed across the floor in a flurry of limbs and fur and fury. Snapping teeth. Yelps of pain.

James used the distraction to feel around for a pulse on Snape’s neck. A faint beat, but it was there. Barely.

He’s alive.

He pulled out his mahogany wand and tried chanting all the healing spells he knew with the little knowledge he had as a mere fifth-year — he swore he tried every single Charm in the book — but to his dismay, he only found confirmation of what they’d learnt in Defense Against the Dark Arts about werewolf wounds: they were too cursed for him to handle. 

His hands shook violently as he pressed them to Snape’s chest, trying to stop the bleeding. The deep gashes — marks across his chest, another near his throat — continued to bleed freely, and there was nothing James could do to slow it. The blood was everywhere, soaking into the floorboards, spreading in crimson pools.

“Snape…” he whispered, barely audible against the thuds trembling the shack. “Come on. Look at me. Don’t you dare die on me, Snivellus!”

His doe eyes — black, furious, glassy with pain — weren’t focusing. His lips were parted, smeared red, quivering like he might try to spit something out, or curse James, or scream. James would’ve gladly taken any insult. Even the dirtiest of curses. But no sound came.

He swallowed hard, trying to blink back the haze rising in his vision. 

Peter’s gone to get help. They’ll come. They have to come.

But time had slowed to a crawl — viscous and thick as the blood flowing through his fingers — dragging through the air. It wouldn’t stop. His hands were too small, too useless. 

It was just a joke. Just a fucking joke. Sirius didn’t mean for this. He didn’t — 

Snape’s eyes had fluttered half-shut, jaw slack, face grey. James knew it was futile, but all he could do was press harder on his chest, so hard that he could feel the boy’s ribs beneath his palms. They jutted up from the paper-thin skin, and he was so light and fragile and breakable that James thought he might snap him in two if he pushed any further. He was shaking. Shaking like a trapping dying bird.

He was never supposed to be here.

He bit down hard on the thought. Remus was the one he cared about. He did this for Remus. To keep Remus safe. But now Snape might die, and everything would unravel.

If Snape dies, Remus goes to Azkaban. They’ll figure out what happened from his wounds. He’ll be tried as a murderer.

The shack shuddered again with a brutal slam as Padfoot was thrown against a wall. James didn’t dare turn to look. Not with Snape like this. Not with the growing fire in his chest, hot and rising, screaming do something.

The floorboards creaked. James tensed. 

But this time, it wasn’t claws. It was boots. 

The door flew open behind him, a gust of cold wind slicing through the metallic air. A blur of urgent motion filled the doorway. 

“Step back, Potter!” Professor McGonagall’s shrill voice rang out, wandlight and a swish of green moving past him. 

Madam Pomfrey rushed forward in her wake, levitating Snape’s body onto a stretcher and rushing him through the tunnel, away from the savage violence of brother against brother, fur against fur. The Head of Gryffindor ushered James out behind them, and he tried to ignore the sickening way the boy’s head lolled to the side as moonlight streamed onto their faces.

Glasses jingled as the Mediwitch hurriedly opened her satchel of potions, her breath sharp and fast. “Minerva, I need steady pressure on the sternum — keep the blood flow restricted. Keep him breathing. Don’t let him go under!”

James stumbled back, blood drying tacky on his hands, heart thudding so loudly it drowned the chaos still unfolding behind them. His knees gave out against the wall and he slid down, watching in mute horror as the thick stench of copper and rotten wood overwhelmed his senses.

McGonagall’s face was just as horror-struck but she remained steady as she knelt at Snape’s side, her wand flicking with expert precision. A bluish-white light glowed from her spell as she pressed it flat against Snape’s chest. The bleeding slowed — not stopped — enough for Pomfrey to dive in. She uncorked a vial and forced it between Snape’s lips with one hand while muttering diagnostics under her breath with the other.

“He’s lost too much,” hissed Pomfrey. “Circulatory stasis charms, now — and clear the lungs, he’s aspirated — damn it —”

Snape convulsed. A thin line of blood slipped from the corner of his mouth.

“Slughorn!” Pomfrey snapped over her shoulder. “Get me blood-replenishing draughts and one dose of Heartroot Elixir — no more, or his veins will burst!”

James glanced up to see that the Potions Master had arrived at the scene, dishevelled and breathless, his hands full of rattling potion vials. “Here, Poppy — here, here. Merlin, what happened? This boy needs St. Mungo’s!”

“Not now!” she barked, snatching the vials. Her hands were practiced, merciless as she uncorked them and tipped the draught into Snape’s mouth, wand ready to ensure he swallowed reflexively. “We move him now, he dies!”

No.

He had to stay alive. He had to. James had always thought of Snape as weak. A snivelling, shrivelling boy who was much too pale and skinny and greasy to fit in with a crowd. But not breakable.

Not like this.

Snape had taken every hex, every taunt, every curse they ever threw at him and never flinched or cracked. Never once cried or begged or let them see him falter. He just glared back with those cold onyx eyes, full of rage but daring them to try harder. And that had made him strong. Infuriating, stubborn, but too strong to break. Too strong to bleed out on the floor. Too bloody strong to die. 

There were supposed to be years left — years of insults traded to find which one would peel back that hilarious stony facade; of catching him alone and making him squirm in all sorts of places once the map was complete; of watching his face burn with humiliation, seeing if he’d ever cry, really cry, like a proper loser, with snot running from his nose and everything. 

The grey glow of the moon lit every awful detail: the jagged flesh along his collarbone where the muscle had begun to peel back, the red-tinged shine of saliva at the corner of his mouth, the rapid rise and fall of Madam Pomfrey’s wand as she muttered incantations and dripped potions faster than he could follow. It all faded into a dull hum with the fire in his chest, and now he was underwater, he was drowning, the world had pulled away in disgust and — 

James gagged. He turned his face away, but the image branded itself behind his eyes; the grotesque childishness in the way his hair stuck to his forehead, matted with sweat and gore. Iron and stomach acid and rot settled into the back of his tongue. 

“Please,” he begged. “Please survive. Please.”

He didn’t know who he was begging — Pomfrey, the moon, Snape himself — but he begged anyway. If there was a god out there, he would pray to them. Pray for a do-over, a rewind, a miracle, anything.

But praying wasn’t enough.

The light in Snape’s eyes dimmed as the minutes stretched on. The shallow rise and fall of his chest hitched once. 

“Snape,” James pleaded again, this time directly to the unconscious boy, “Severus… just hold on.”

But Severus didn’t.

With one final shudder, the last breath escaped his body. And the night air fell into an eerie stillness where every heartbeat pounded too loudly, drumming into his skull, choking his throat where a tidal wave threatened to retch out of him. 

Madam Pomfrey’s hands paused. Her lips pressed thin, and without a word, she reached for the spare linen in her satchel. A white sheet, trembling in her grasp, pulled slowly and reverently over the boy who had once been their worst enemy.

James’ fingers twitched — foolishly, instinctively — to stop her, as though he could grab Snape back by the collar and drag him from the brink. But his fingers closed on nothing.

All those times they’d hexed his shoelaces together, jinxed him behind his back, jeered when he flared up in rage or shame or both — James had always believed Snape could take it. That he was too proud to break. That he was strong, in the ugliest way. Strong enough to hate. Strong enough to survive anything. 

Yet he hadn’t survived this. 

And there he was, no longer Snivellus; just a boy, made of broken flesh, blood drying in rusted streaks, sprawled and ruined. 

Severus Snape, a boy who was gone. 

And James Potter, too, was no longer the brave, honourable Gryffindor or the clever Marauder, but a mere boy: the boy who had failed to save him.

Notes:

And with that, our baby is dead :((

Thank you to anyone who’s joining me on this wonderful and painful journey.
If you enjoyed reading, I’d really appreciate it if you left a comment or kudos!

Chapter 2: What Remains

Summary:

When everything you’ve ever known is on the verge of collapsing, you fear to ask the question, what remains?

Notes:

Content Warning: This chapter contains depictions of a panic attack and references to a violent death.

“Merlin, what the hell happened to him?”

“The bloke looks like he’s come straight out of a horror film.”

James left the Hospital Wing in silence. The three of them had been patched up, but Sirius and Remus had crashed out on sterile white beds for most of the night. All the brawling and bruising had left them drained and barely able to utter a word. Not that either of them wanted to in the first place. 

He had insisted on staying — on talking Remus back to his senses, reassuring him that everything would be fine — but Madam Pomfrey had practically shoved him out with an order to clean himself. 

Students passed him in watery clusters, prodding at him with their curious, fearful voices distorting like reflections on the surface of a lake. He let them flow around him in warped bubbles, bursting before they made any sense; currents of whispers and wary stares and colours he couldn’t name anymore. Every step was suspended, as if he was wading through something thick and red — his shirt, still stained with patches of darkened blood — Snape’s blood, mixed in horribly with the scarlet trim on his robes. 

Red.

That was all he could see — the colour he always wore proudly, stitched into his Quidditch robes, weaved into banners he kissed after a win — and it was seeping into him: drying over his fingernails, soaked into the inside of his sleeves, bleeding into his consciousness. He tugged down the sleeves of his black robes, yet no amount of fabric could conceal the nightmare that pooled everywhere. 

It was still there, glaringly bright. 

McGonagall’s eyes were red too; crimson with that sore, weepy flush of someone who had been crying. 

“Tell me, Potter, why were you and your friends at the Shrieking Shack in the first place?”

He’d wanted to lie. To pull together some half-plausible story or claim coincidence or anything that might spare them. James was good at that, after all: not just the words, but the charm, the grin, the way he always twisted things just enough to cover his tracks whenever he was caught hexing kids in the corridors or stealing Snape’s books. McGonagall would scold him with a weary sigh — give him a detention here, a warning there — but still call him bright and brave and Gryffindor’s Quidditch star. 

She would never look at him like that.

Yet because she did last night — she did look at him with disappointed eyes, calling his name so sharply, the stern yet motherly tone splintering into wooden pieces — the words had choked up in his throat. What excuse could cover blood? It would simply cling and soak and drip until it burned into his soul the way Snape’s eyes had, glazed over but still piercing, accusing him —

Again, in his peripheral vision now, some first-year’s Gryffindor scarf. He stared at it until it blurred. 

“Your presence there, especially with Lupin’s condition, was a serious breach of school rules! The Whomping Willow was put under tight supervision for a reason.”

The words had hit harder than yelling ever could. And he hadn’t lied. 

We just wanted to help him, he’d said, or something like that. His voice had been brittle, and he could still feel the lump in his throat even now — how desperate he had been to contain the whole story; desperate to convince her not to boot them all straight to Azkaban. But, of course, the truth had been wrung out of him eventually. 

“You are unregistered Animagi? All of you?”

She didn’t want to believe it. He could tell from the downturned corners of her thinning mouth, breathless and full of betrayal. 

“You could’ve been expelled, or worse!”

He knew that. They all did — who’d be foolish enough to indulge in magic without gathering the legal consequences of it? — but they hadn’t cared, not then. Not when they were laughing in the dormitory a year ago, dreaming up code names for their animal counterparts; reassuring their furry friend that once the transformations were complete, he’d never have to face the full moon alone again. 

They did it for Remus. Because they loved him. 

We knew the risks, he’d told her. And it had been true. 

But that word expelled landed differently now.

“Expelled. Sirius Black will be expelled. His actions were reckless and unforgivable.”

It echoed and bled with the dress robes of some noble wizard on the wall, raising a ruby goblet in salute from inside his gold-embellished frame. James stared at the maroon hue, the way it scraped like dried blood under candlelight, and suddenly he saw Albus Dumbledore: not the real man, but the impression of him, towering and unknowable in that plum cloak he wore. A shade too close to burgundy. A shade too close to red. 

“But sir, he can’t be expelled! His family will kill him. His mother…”

James had begged and pleaded until his throat was raw. 

The headmaster had been pacing before then, for what felt like hours, azure eyes shadowed under the harsh infirmary light. He had been so consumed with trying to salvage what little was left of their futures. And yet, James had never seen the powerful wizard shake his head in such resolute sorrow. 

That awful restlessness in Dumbledore’s face tilted with the corridors around him.

Was this how Snivellus had felt when he had stalked through the halls and leaked foulness everywhere? Portraits stared at him; students stepped aside as he passed, whispering and pointing as if he was some sort of contagion. James looked down at himself. Blood crusted into the creases of his knuckles. Mud streaked his robes. His hair — which had been his pride, always a mess but a rather charming mess — was matted with sweat and grime, sticking to his forehead.

He must’ve looked like hell. Like something Snape-shaped.

And Merlin help him, he almost laughed. He wondered whether Sirius would laugh too, if James told him he thought he might carry on the legacy and become the next greasy bat of the dungeons. 

Sirius, who was sleeping soundly, his smooth cheek pressed into the pillow like a child’s while Dumbledore talked. His arms were tucked in as if afraid to unfold, and for the millionth time, James was struck by just how young he looked. How innocent.

He remembered the nights he’d brush Sirius’ hair from his face and pull the blankets around him when he shivered from nightmares. James often thought of him as the little brother he’d never had, even if Sirius was three months older. I’ll protect you, he used to whisper. You’re always welcome over at mine. 

And Sirius would beam like sunlight. His smile would be so rosy and childish — reminding James of summer sunsets at the shore, when the world smelled like salt and safety — that it clashed with the striking grey of his eyes. 

“We will let go of the Animagus situation, if you swear, with every ounce of sincerity left in you, that you will never mention it to another living soul. Not even to each other.”

James could only nod dumbly, swallowing the metal taste in his mouth. It felt less like a mercy and more like another sentence — not to Azkaban, but silence. The secret would rot inside them, a buried proof of how everything had gone to ruin. 

A voice that didn’t belong to the memory pierced through, distant and unsure. It brushed against the edge of James’ eardrum. 

“Potter… is it true? Snape’s dead.”

It took him a moment to register it. The memory of Dumbledore’s voice still throbbed, a pressure behind the eyes. But that name cut through everything, cleaving the air like glass. 

“Explain, then, why Severus Snape was at the Shrieking Shack.”

Her question sounded reluctant, as if she already feared his answer. And this time, James had to lie. No matter how ridiculous the excuse, he had to protect Sirius from her wrath because if McGonagall found out that Sirius had sent Snape down into the Shrieking Shack with full knowledge of what waited there, there would be no pleading, no appeal, no understanding. She’d hate him. And Sirius couldn’t bear that. 

“It was all my fault, Professor,” he began, intending to take the blame. He would say he dared Snape. Or that it was a stupid joke they made together. 

But before he could string together a half-hearted lie, Sirius shot up from the bed — bloodshot and ashy with a deep croaking voice — and said, “No, Professor, I did it.”

James had known, even before Sirius spoke, that he would confess. He always did. Always stepped in when things got too messy, never letting James take the blame alone. And yet, this time, James wished he hadn’t.

Because Sirius didn’t deserve to be looked at as some murderer. 

He didn’t deserve to cower beneath McGonagall’s fury — for she, too, could only see red, not of Gryffindor courage but of something far hotter and more unforgiving — as she had spluttered that there would be dire consequences to his actions and I would snap your wand in half myself, if I could!

Because Sirius hadn’t meant it. For god’s sake, it was so clear that Sirius didn’t mean for Snape to die! Why would he do that, knowing Remus might be shunned forever, knowing he’d be sent back to that horrible house? 

James still remembered how Sirius would hold Remus’ trembling hands after a full moon, slipping chocolate into his blanket without saying a word. That same boy, now lying waxen and curled up on the hospital bed, couldn’t have meant for this. It was only meant to be a scare. A scare he thought James might find funny even though he didn’t — there was no way he could, not when he kept seeing that blood bubbling at the edge of Snape’s lips and hearing the frantic, gurgled screams — 

And Sirius definitely didn’t deserve how quickly Dumbledore had moved on from James’ devastated outcry to talk about their Animagus abilities. 

“This is not simply about protecting yourselves from Ministry punishment. What you’ve done, while foolish and dangerous, required extraordinary magical ability; an ability that, should it be known, may place you in even graver danger.”

James blinked at that. Grave danger? From who?

Dumbledore didn’t elaborate, just folded his hands and went on calmly. “There are forces in this world who pay close attention to talent, who intend to use it to exploit for their own ends.”

He hadn’t known what Dumbledore meant but he hadn’t wanted to either. What did it matter, when he could still smell that acrid stench of singed cloth and potions and remember the way Snape had splayed on the floor like a little black bird with shattered wings, all while two of his friends had been on the verge of killing each other. 

“As for Remus… his status complicates things. I cannot promise he will not suffer consequences, but ideally, I will not have him punished for what was done in his name.”

The ground was being torn from beneath him. How could that be fair, when none of it had been in Remus’ control?

But the headmaster had bowed his head, gravely explaining that the Ministry’s demands dealt not in fairness, but liability. In keeping up appearances. Remus’ place at Hogwarts had depended entirely on their ability to ensure the safety of other students. If the public found out what happened… if they knew a student had died under Remus’ paw —

Oh god.

Remus was red too, when he woke up with fresh bruises and cuts all over his body, brown eyes flickering with dying embers. He looked as though he had burned away what was left of his soul, and all that remained was a shell, haunted and hollow, with blood forced into his claws.

Somehow, James had made it all the way back to Gryffindor Tower. He didn’t remember climbing the stairs or swinging the door open or shut behind him, but he was inside their empty dormitory now. 

Peter’s bed was untouched. James stared at it for a second, noting that the covers were still folded neatly at the corners, slippers tucked just beneath the edge. He was ashamed to admit that he’d nearly forgotten about the short, mousy-haired boy. It wasn’t intentional, of course; it never was with Peter. It was only because Peter had vanished after alerting the teachers, never returning to the scene, never staying to face what came after.

Then again, why didn’t he? Why didn’t he check up on them at the Hospital Wing? Why wasn’t he here?

He hadn’t been involved in the attack, but his absence felt like a betrayal in itself. 

No. 

He shouldn’t let the rage and confusion speak. 

James told himself that Peter had his own way of dealing with trauma and fear. Perhaps he just didn’t feel like talking to them when the wound was still fresh, especially when it hadn’t been his fault in the first place. Peter was always so eager for mischief, always the first to laugh when things were fun — and the first to panic when they weren’t.

Yes, he thought pitifully to himself, I just hope he’s not off sniffling in a corner again. 

Peter used to do that, curling up somewhere alone when he was afraid, waiting for one of them to come fetch him. James had always gone to him then. And maybe he would again. Just… not right now. 

He turned away, avoiding the sight of the velvet curtains drawn around the other beds with that horrid colour. Even his own bed, dishevelled and half-sunken, looked like it might swallow him whole if he touched it. So instead, he grabbed a clean towel and clothes from his trunk — without thinking or caring whether they matched as he usually did, spending half an hour in front of the mirror fussing over every crease until Sirius would chuck a pillow at his face — and made his way to the shower. 

His shirt clung to him. Stiff and sticky, the dried blood welded it to his skin. By the time he reached the bathroom, he was practically ripping the thing off. He left the mess where it fell and stepped into the shower, twisting the knobs too hard. Hot water burst from the faucet with a screech, scalding his skin.

Good. 

He scrubbed at his hands first, under the nails, up the wrists. The blood was mostly gone, but he scrubbed harder anyway. If he could just —

If he could just go back. 

“James had nothing to do with it. He only tried to save him.”

Save him, Sirius had said. And James had tried; he had rushed into the shack, panic-filled and hopelessly convincing himself that Sirius hadn’t gone too far. That Snape could still be saved. That he wouldn’t be too late. 

He still wished he could turn back time. Run faster. Think harder. Scream louder. Anything.

Or if he could go even further. 

To that silver-dusted night in the library during third-year, when they’d been alone for once — Sirius off serving detention, Peter already dozing somewhere upstairs — and he’d first asked Remus the question he had been so hesitant to say aloud. The lamps had cast golden puddles across the wooden tables, and the windows had been full of soft stars. Remus had curled into the corner seat with a worn jumper stretched over his knees, his eyes shadowed and restless over a book. 

Everything in him had known the answer, but he’d still waited gently, letting the quiet stretch long and safe between them. Is it true? The hospital wing… it’s not really for your mum, is it?

Remus hadn’t spoken at first. Just stared harder at the words in front of him, clutching the book so tightly he might have actually willed himself into the pages. When he’d finally let out a fearful yes, James had broken out in that relieved, playfully lopsided grin and went, So you’re a bit furry. Who cares?

And he remembered how Remus had looked at him then. As if he’d been handed the world and wasn’t sure if it was a trick. As if he had finally been allowed to belong.

Now look what you’ve done. 

The thought rose, jutting and uninvited. James blinked hard against it, but it rooted deep, curling hot and cruel beneath his ribs.

Because it was his fault. Not Sirius’ alone.

He was the one who’d begged them to follow under his cloak, who’d nudged Remus out of his shell, who’d poured over the Animagus books with a thrilling certainty that they were brilliant enough to go through the transformation. He was the one who had dared to dream it all could stay golden and untouched. That they could be Marauders forever, running wild beneath the moon with a friendship that warmed like firelight in winter, never considering that the flames would roar and burn it all to ash.

He should’ve seen it coming. He should’ve stopped Sirius, or seen the look in his eye before it happened, or gotten there faster, or — or…

Yet he hadn’t.

He hadn’t saved Snape. He had only gotten there in time to watch him die like a fucking animal, torn and bleeding in the moonlit cold. A death without dignity. A death no one should see, and no one should have.

How could he seriously say he tried?  

All he had done was stumble in like some half-baked hero in a story that had already ended, thinking he could fix it with sheer willpower and foolish hope. Thinking that if he got there fast enough, he could pull Snape back, that Sirius couldn’t possibly have — that Remus wouldn’t — couldn’t — 

In the end, it was all him.

He had turned Remus — kind, gentle Remus — into a murderer in the eyes of the world. He was sending Sirius back to that god awful house, back to the mother who would carve the last softness out of him. He had probably driven Peter away, too. Always treating him as afterthought, as if Peter hadn’t laughed with them, followed them, hung onto James’ every word. As if he hadn’t been there, grinning and wide-eyed the first time they saw Remus transform, face full of awe and horror all at once. 

He was the reason Severus Snape had died that dreadful death. 

James pressed his palms to his face. God. God, he couldn’t breathe.

His chest was burning. His vision fuzzed at the edges. The walls of the bathroom were too close, too slick, the steam rising in thick, suffocating curls. He was submerged underwater, drowning — drowning and plunging, ears ringing, lungs screaming, pressure mounting in his ribs as though something heavy was pressing down his back and shoving him deeper and deeper — 

He gasped, but it wasn’t air that filled him. Just more of it: the fear, the blame, the realisation that he’d let it all fall apart.

They were falling apart.

James was the one who was meant to hold them together, and he was falling apart.

 

---

 

That night, the Great Hall was shrouded in black. The sombre drapery lined every wall, cloaking the space in shadows. The usual house colours had drained away — James was almost glad not to see that dreaded scarlet, if not for the cruel echo of jokes they’d made about every tattered inch of Snape looking ready for a funeral. Even the enchanted ceiling above had dulled into a bruised, suffocating twilight sky. 

The long tables stretched endlessly, seas of silence where white steam rose faintly from untouched food, curling and disappearing. The quiet pressed into him so deeply he thought he might have been trapped in a dream-like substance that muffled every distant clink of cutlery, shutting him out from the world. 

Only the steady drip of candle wax remained: a slow, mourning heartbeat.

He prodded at the dinner on his plate. Roast beef. Mashed potatoes. Some sort of green. His stomach churned with hunger, but he didn’t dare accept it. He could feel it in his throat: the bile. The nausea. The coppery taste. He gripped the edge of the bench until his knuckles blanched. 

His fingers drifted towards the empty space to his right, half-expecting warmth.

Last autumn, that same spot had been Sirius’, thigh pressed against his, laughing so hard at something James had said that pumpkin juice had spurted out of his nose. You absolute — he had barked out so loudly Peter had fallen off the bench in shock. Remus had shoved a napkin at him with an amused glint in his eyes, while James… James had just grinned so wide it hurt, basking in the warmth of it all. They had been so stupid with joy. 

Now Sirius sat two seats down, stiff-backed, jamming his hands between his knees. His face was drawn so tight that it appeared as if every muscle had been pulled into place and pinned there. The wildness around him had deepened, like something feral that had crept up from inside and taken root in the angles of his face, especially in his once handsome hair, tangled and unbrushed. 

James leaned forward, and a lanky boy between them jerked in surprise, nearly knocking over his goblet. He muttered a quick apology, pushing his glasses up his nose, but James barely noticed. His eyes were locked on Sirius. 

“Sirius.” 

No response. James braced himself for the storm — a flash of teeth, a shout or a push. 

“Sirius, are you —”

“Not now, James.”

His tone landed soft, almost inaudible. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t angry. And that was worse, because James had yearned for it. A violent shove, a growling accusation — why didn’t you stop me, you fucking hero? You could’ve stopped me! — a wrath that would crack open his ribs, sink its teeth through his chest and drain the blood from his veins, sucking the undeserved life out of him just like what the shack had done to —

But Sirius didn’t even look at him. Just kept staring straight ahead as if meeting James’ eyes might unravel him entirely. So James bit down the words on the tip of his tongue and turned away. 

Across the table, Remus sat hunched like a wounded thing, head bowed so low that the tips of his hair touched the round pile of mash on his plate — pale and soft, the kind Remus always insisted on even when Sirius insulted the texture. His fork was in his hand, but he wasn’t moving. Just clutching it too tightly. 

James shifted towards him tentatively.

“Moony…” he whispered, watching the tremble in his wrist. “You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

Remus flinched. He refused to meet his eyes, only turned slightly away. The space between them flooded with something reminiscent of cold water. James reached out a hand, desperate to anchor him with warmth, but before he could say any more, a chair scraped at the front of the hall. 

Dumbledore had risen from his seat at the staff table, almost like an old tree resisting the wind: slow, deliberate, the lines on his typically serene face deepened with fatigue, his bones seeming to remember sorrow too great to bear. Even his white beard, James thought absurdly, looked limp. Every eye in the room was fixed on the tall figure at the podium, yet the usual air of magic that surrounded his presence had cooled, and the light in his voice had dimmed into a harrowing grief that echoed through stone.

“Students,” he addressed them, with the kind of gravity that curdled the blood beneath one’s skin. “Today, Hogwarts mourns the loss of one of its own. Severus Snape was a fifth-year student, a scholar, a young man with a mind as sharp as any I have ever known.”

A murmur rippled faintly through the hall. 

James dropped his gaze to the Slytherin table. The seat where Snape had always sat was glaring, violently empty. But James could still see him there: shoulders arched forward, hooked nose scrunching in perpetual disgust; dark eyes boring into him from across the hall, watching his every move in an incessant plot to get back at him. 

Just how long had he spent wishing — or telling himself that he wished — the bloody git would disappear? 

And now he had. 

But James would have given anything to see that familiar scowl one more time. To see him hunched over some cursed book with frayed pages and ink-stained fingers, that horrible curtain of hair swinging over his pale face as he muttered about dark spells he’d never quite get right. To hear that grating, nasally voice spit out Potter, Potter, Potter! 

Pathetic.

It was pathetic that he found even a semblance of comfort in the memory of Snivellus sneering at him; that he could miss the look of pure loathing aimed in his direction as if it meant something. As if he mattered at all. 

“Last night, a tragedy took place on the grounds of this school. Severus was the victim of a horrific accident, and though I cannot speak fully to the circumstances, I will say this: grave mistakes were made, and those involved will be held accountable.”

James’ stomach twisted at the word accident. A soft, harmless word. A word for slipping on wet stone or knocking over a cauldron — not for a boy dragged into a monster’s jaws because someone might have thought that it was funny. Not for the careless arrogance and cruelty in a prank that was not, in fact, a prank at all. No matter how carefully Dumbledore chose his words, he knew what they’d done.

And others knew too.

Students were shifting in their seats, leering at him, at Sirius, at the Gryffindor hourglass that was short nearly two hundred rubies. No one dared to whisper, but their judging eyes were enough for James to imagine what they were saying in their heads. It was them. It had to be.

“Severus Snape’s death is a painful reminder of how fragile life can be,” the solemn voice echoed through. “It is a reminder that our choices, our actions, and even our words carry weight. We may not realise their true effect, until it is too late.”

James didn’t dare look at his fellow housemates — Mary Macdonald who’d always shout his name from the stands, or sixth-year captain Marlene McKinnon, who ruled the team with a brutal edge but believed in him more than anyone. He didn’t look at McGonagall, either, sitting stiff as iron at the staff table. He couldn’t handle the disappointment shadowing faces that once admired him. 

So instead, the spectacled eyes dragged across the hall — across the long expanse of floating candles and stunned silence — back to the table that was missing a dark, brooding Slytherin. 

At least there, the hatred wasn’t new. 

Rosier’s eyes burned into him, furious and accusatory, while Avery sat rigid, fists clenched around his silverware. But the rest of the fifth-years were almost a row of statues, their faces blank and unmoving. At some point during the old man’s speech — though James had tuned his voice out somewhat — Mulciber sniggered quietly to one of his friends. The group opposite him looked so bored, so detached that James wondered if they even cared.

Shouldn’t someone be crying? Shouldn’t someone have screamed or wailed?

But someone was crying.

A raw, choking sob had burst through the hushed bubble. 

James’ head snapped sideways to see Lily Evans wiping at her eyes. Her face flushed with heat, tears carving tracks down her fuzzy cheeks as Mary hurriedly pressed a handkerchief into her quivering hands. The fragile image finally stabbed through his numbness, twisting sharply in his chest — the very pain he had been dying to feel for hours and hours — and he forced himself to look past the fiery chaos of her frazzled hair to focus on the shimmering water gathering in her emerald eyes.

For years, he’d rolled his eyes at their friendship, dismissing it as strange and unbalanced. He’d seen Snape trailing behind her with that silent, starving look, thin and pale and grimy, onyx eyes too wide for his face, hands too delicate to look right on a boy. James would watch him from across the corridor and sneer, convinced it was just some sad, one-sided obsession. The creep’s so obviously in love with her, he’d told Sirius once, and his best friend had snorted, assuring him that Evans would never choose that snake over you. 

James used to do the same, whenever the gnawing question of whether Snape and Evans were more than friends crept in late at night. He’d bury the thought behind his own sense of pride, assuring himself over and over that she’d never. That Snape didn’t deserve her sitting next to him in Potions, giggling at his awful jokes, defending him even when their housemates warned her to stay away. That it was nothing but pity keeping her there.

But watching her cry — really cry — he couldn’t convince himself it had been nothing. 

They’d fought, he knew that much. He’d heard bits and pieces about arguments in the corridors, rumours they would soon have enough of each other. He’d even let himself feel a sick sort of satisfaction when it happened and thought, Good, maybe she’s finally seeing what he is.

As the girl wept, James wondered if she regretted it. If she’d said something she could never take back now. And if she had — if their last words had been cruel, rageful or bitter — it was his fault that she’d never get the chance to mend what had broken. 

Dumbledore’s voice had dipped into a softer, but no less potent steadiness. “It is easy, in the face of tragedy, to turn to anger. To seek someone to blame. But I urge you all not to let fear or hatred guide our hearts. We may not always get along, but it is our duty to treat one another with care, compassion, and above all, respect.”

James stared down at the wooden grain of the table, chest still burning, heat prickling behind his eyes. 

Respect.

Was that what it was called, letting a boy walk into the claws of a beast that would tear apart his flesh? Was that what it was called, when fear and anger morphed into reckless hands that hurt others because they couldn’t bear to be weak themselves?

He barely heard the next words. Dumbledore was still speaking, still believing in the power of better choice, of reflection and dignity and light in the darkness. 

“May we honour his memory not by dwelling on the tragedy, but by reflecting on how we can be better. How we can listen more, understand more, and treat each other with the dignity we all deserve,” he said softly, as though to impart a secret. “Remember, the choices we make, especially when we believe no one is watching, are the ones that reveal who we truly are. Choose wisely.”

He didn’t feel dignified. He didn’t feel like light. He was rot — a thing that had decayed overnight, leaving behind the stench of all the masks he wore: the crooked grin, the carefully tousled hair, the flash and swagger meant to blind the crowd to the cracks beneath. 

Oh how he wanted to crawl away. To shield his gaze from the crimson glow of Lily’s tear-filled eyes. To disappear beneath floorboards where no one could see the rot oozing from his bones. 

But James only blinked hard, refusing to let his own tears fall. 

What did that say about who he was?

Dumbledore finally stepped back from the podium. “We will hold a memorial tomorrow morning for any who wish to pay their respects. For now, I ask that you return to your dormitories, reflect on what has been said, and remember: even in the darkest of times, we must strive to bring light.”

With that, the headmaster sat down, his face etched with weary resignation, as though he had aged another hundred years in the last few minutes. The speech had been a political veil, carefully woven with light and hope but so sheer that darker truths could be seen through its threads. 

Words to keep the peace.

At the very least, they had managed to keep Remus’ secret at bay. James looked up at the brunet once more, hope fluttering weakly. 

“Remus,” he said, voice trembling with that same fragile thread of reassurance. “Dumbledore’s… he’ll find a way. You won’t be thrown out. Not Azkaban, definitely not. It’ll be all right.”

Remus’ head flinched up sharply, eyes flashing with fierce hatred. Self-hatred.

“I’ve betrayed him enough already,” he spat out. “Maybe it’s time I faced what comes.”

Before James could reply, the boy pushed away from the table and walked briskly into the crowd that had begun to stir with the end of Dumbledore’s speech. James stayed frozen in his seat, limbs heavy with something close to illness.

Was this how Snivellus had felt?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lily rise from her seat, wiping at her eyes with the sleeves of her robe. She didn’t glance at him as she passed, but god, he wanted to say something. He wanted to reach across the space between them and form words that could mean anything at all. But what could he say? 

I’m sorry your best friend is dead. 

I’m sorry I couldn’t save him. 

I’m sorry it’s my fault.

The words dried up in his throat. She had already walked away. 

James supposed it was for the best, anyway. He didn’t think he could bear the sight of her just then — the way her red hair cascaded down her shoulders, too much like the memory of warm liquid slipping through his fingers. 

He glanced along the long table, keeping his eyes peeled for Sirius, but the bench was already empty. Of course he was gone. He always left before silence had time to settle. 

As expected, Peter was nowhere to be seen, either.

When he finally willed himself to stand, the last murmurs were already fading down distant corridors. Only a few teachers remained at the head table, speaking in low voices, and a handful of ghost-pale students trailing towards the doors.

Silence followed him all the way up to Gryffindor Tower. It crept in behind him, coiled beneath his bedsheets, settled cold between his skin and flesh.

That night, James Potter lay awake with his hazel eyes wide open, staring into the heavy darkness above his four-poster. He didn’t cry. Didn’t move. Just listened to the wind scrape against the windows and wondered if Severus Snape had known — in those final moments — how much they all hated him.

Or worse, how much they’d needed Snivellus to hate.

 

---

 

Not many had come. 

James knew that before he had even stepped into the courtyard, from the hush that met him at the threshold. The morning sky was grey, and everything around him wore that dull, overcast stillness: the stone walls, the fading winter grass, the students and staff littered sparsely around a small table that served as the memorial. 

Upon the thin wood was a single photograph of Severus Snape, framed in obsidian and surrounded by a modest ring of flowers: white lilies, forget-me-nots, a sprig of dried rue. Among them, someone had left a cluster of dusky purple belladonna, poisonous and lovely, edges curling black from the cold.

He didn’t know what half of them meant, but that felt fitting somehow. Snape had always been easier to fight than understand. 

The boy with jet-black hair took his place near the back, stuffing his hands deep in his pockets as he shifted awkwardly on his feet. He wasn’t sure why he had come — rather, whether he deserved to — only that something compelled him to be here. To bear witness. To remember. 

Lily stood near the front with arms wrapped tightly around herself as if it might help her hold in the grief. Mary flanked her, silent but supportive, sporting a grim expression under her dark curls. She had not known Snape well — or even liked him remotely, James thought — but she, too, had gently placed down a white flower as they passed by. 

Remus arrived alone a moment later, slipping into the side of the gathering without drawing attention. His head was bowed, and James stared at his dark eyebags with a pang of regret, knowing that the distance between them was still there, unresolved.

Sirius and Peter weren’t there. James tried not to think about that.

Across the courtyard, the Slytherins stood in a tight, murmuring cluster. Mulciber and his lot leaned against the walls, their voices coming out as hisses to those standing afar. James caught the sharp flicker of Avery’s glare, and next to him, Rosier, with his arms crossed, staring so hard he could’ve burned a hole through James’ skull. He couldn’t tell if they looked like that because they were thirsting for revenge, or truly mourning without knowing how to show it. Either way, it didn’t feel like they were really here for Snape.

Then again, who was? 

A few girls from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff had stepped forward to leave their flowers. James recognised them as quiet ones, the sort who kept to the back of the class. He didn’t think Snape had ever spoken to them, yet here they were, laying down petals as though they could possibly mean anything now. 

When the courtyard had gone still, Dumbledore stepped forward, cloak trailing behind him. He paused next to the table, his wrinkly hands folded in front of him as his eyes scanned over the small assembly. Blue, pale as smoke in the overcast light, and filled with old grief that did not belong entirely to this day. 

“Thank you for being here today. I will not speak for long,” he said at last, with the voice that always silenced wind and breath. “We are here to remember a student. A friend. A son.”

James barely heard what he said after. 

His gaze had locked onto the photograph — the only one atop the table, slightly crooked in its stand. It was a candid shot — likely taken by someone quietly, without asking — of Snape sitting in the library, quill in hand, head tilted to one side in thought. His robes were half-buttoned, collar askew, as if he’d been tugging at it without noticing. His hair, ever stubborn, fell in front of his dark eyes in long, uneven strands. The candlelight caught on his parted lips, and there was a warm, almost golden shine on them. He looked… at ease. Not happy. Not even content, really. 

And the strangest thing was that the features James had always mocked — had heard the others mock, too — didn’t look as ugly as he remembered. The large hooked nose, the hollow cheeks, the sallow complexion of a ghost. The thinness that had looked, back then, like weakness. All of it should’ve repelled him. 

Yet here in this slant of library candlelight, it just looked, oddly enough, like himself. 

Not like the indignant boy who prided himself on neat cuffs and buttoned collars — even when the little knobs were popping out of the threads — and dramatically scoffed when others were dishevelled. And not purposefully disordered either; not like James, full of artfully messy hair and rolled-up sleeves and all the right buttons undone, just to show off the whole devil-may-care charm. 

This was absentminded. A boy so immersed in his thoughts he had forgotten to care what the world saw. 

And James couldn’t look away. 

“Severus Snape was not a boy who sought popularity or praise. He walked his own path and carried burdens that few knew of, and even fewer understood. He was, like so many of us, complicated,” Dumbledore’s voice scraped through the cold air, “but he also had a brilliant mind, an ambitious drive to prove himself, and a deep loyalty to those he cared for.”

Prove himself.

The words hooked into James, and so did the memory — was it early or late fourth year? — of the low-lit corridor outside the Charms classroom, one of the few rare moments where Snape had managed to catch him alone.

It had escalated quickly — as it always did with them — from insults hissed through clenched teeth to hexes flung without thought. Wands drawn, eyes wild, sparks crackling against the sour smell of wet stone and torch smoke. James remembered Snape’s curse missing him by a hair’s breadth and scorching a deep groove into the floor beside his foot. He had returned fire with taunting pleasure: a blast of hot magic that had knocked Snape back into the wall. 

They’d foolishly torn at each other’s throats, seeing nothing but each other, and it had earned them weeks of vile detentions scrubbing floors with stiff-bristled brushes. James recalled himself complaining bitterly to Sirius about his aching knees through the two-way mirror, but none of that was what stuck now. 

It was the look on Snape’s face. 

His face was blotched with red, all that waxy pallor gone. Lips curled back, snarling at him like a scrappy dog cornered too many times; nostrils flared, hair clinging to sweat-dampened temples. 

And the tremor. 

Beneath the spit-shined sneers and brute precision of every jinx, there was Snape: thin and rigid and convulsing from the sheer force of his anger, as though he wasn’t just duelling one Gryffindor arse, but fighting the entire world. 

But that had never been enough to stop James, had it?

Even with blood dripping from the corner of his mouth; even when he hit the floor, dazed and staggering, Snape wielded his wand with that same stubborn fire in his eyes.

Yes, he had always fought with something to prove. 

I deserve to be here. I’m not nothing. 

What a desperate little fool, James had sniggered at him then. He had stood over him, panting and victorious, a little drunk on the high of it. And yet, it hadn’t felt clean. It never did with Snape. 

“We may never fully know the depths of someone’s heart. We may never know the battles they are fighting,” the sound of the old wizard crept back in, each word enunciated with a tinge of powerful understanding. “But every life is precious, and every loss is deeply felt. Even those we misunderstand. Even those we might, at times, clash with or fail to see clearly.” 

James swallowed hard, his chest caving and aching with a bruise he hadn’t realised was there. 

Somewhere near the front, a younger girl sniffled. A soft wind stirred through the grass, carrying the bite of lingering winter. In one of the bare trees at the edge of the courtyard, a lone crow cawed, its cry echoing into the sombre morning.

A few heads turned upward, expecting something more. But the sky offered only its cloudy silence.

“Severus had a life ahead of him,” Dumbledore continued, his gaze cast out over the crowd, “one he will never be able to live. And though we cannot change that, we can honour his memory by reflecting on ourselves. By seeking to understand one another, not just for who we appear to be, but for who we truly are, beneath the surface.”

The headmaster’s eyes settled briefly on James, then on Lily, before moving on. 

“It may seem, at times, that a life can be forgotten. But as long as we carry someone in our hearts, they are never truly gone.”

He then took a step back, bowing his head in silent respect. The quiet shuffling of feet grated against James’ ears as students slowly rose, unsure of what to do or say. A few murmured to one another; some drifted towards the doors in uncomfortable silence. But James stayed rooted where he was, watching as Lily approached the table and gently touched the edge of the photograph.

“I’m sorry.” 

Her whisper was so faint that James almost didn’t hear it. When she slipped back into the crowd, he exhaled, abruptly conscious of the breath he had been holding. 

After a moment, James stepped forward too, peering closer at the picture of the boy. His hazel eyes lingered, trying to memorise every detail — not that he needed to, years of glaring had already seared them into his mind — and noticed his fingers, long and pale, curled elegantly around the corner of a book. 

Once, those same hands had helped him. 

Back in first year, they’d been smaller — fingers shorter, not yet smudged with chalky potion dust or perpetually stained with ink — but no less skinny. James had to admit that the tiny Slytherin boy hadn’t seemed so bad then. Obnoxious, sure, coming in with his vast knowledge of magical spells that had appeared from who-knows-where. Aloof, too. But no less awkward than anyone else still trying to find their footing. 

They called him Snivellus anyway. Right from the very beginning. 

It had been one of their first Potions lessons. James had added too much powdered asphodel, and his cauldron had frothed over with a thick green sludge bubbling across the desk. Snickers had erupted around him. He’d burned with embarrassment, frantically trying to vanish the mess while it just kept spreading. No one had bothered to help.

No one except Snape. “Stir counterclockwise.”

Nimble fingertips had flicked something — dried mint? — into the brew. His voice had been the breath of a mutter, barely even acknowledging James as he whipped past in a blur of black. James had done it anyway. And it had worked. 

For a second, he’d been grateful. And for just a second, he might’ve considered him something other than the enemy.

But that second hadn’t lasted, and James had sworn to never let those hands near him again. 

Because James Potter wasn’t weak. James Potter didn’t need help from a scrawny thing that sulked in corners and drowned in textbooks. James Potter didn’t spend lunch alone or get picked last for partners or wear shirts so loose they looked like low-grade dresses. Very soon, he would earn his place. He would ace exams without blinking, pull spells out of thin air, earn the kind of praise that made professors smile. He would become the rarest Quidditch talent Hogwarts had seen in years, earn roaring crowds that shouted his name even when he didn’t know theirs. He would earn friends — clever, fierce, loyal — to strut around the castle with him, as though they owned the world. 

People would swoon when he passed. Laugh when he laughed. Follow his lead when he jeered. 

Today, standing in the quiet of the courtyard, he was alone. 

Everyone else had dispersed back into the corridors — into warmth, chatter and life — while he just kept watching that pale face, so relaxed for a boy who had always been on the lookout; whose fingers would flex for his wand in ceaseless readiness for battle. James reached out, almost touching the glass before thinking better of it. 

He wondered how long it would take for Severus Snape to fade from the memories of others. A week? A month? A year before his name would stop catching in people’s throats, even as a hollow tribute to someone they never thought twice about until he stopped breathing. 

At the very least, James would never forget. For Severus was carved too deep into every corner and crevice — places he used to sit, singe marks where they had fought, red everywhere — in scarlet ties, in crimson shame, in the sickening carmine blood on his hands. 

He turned, shoulders dropping as he stepped away from the memorial, ready to disappear before anyone could stop him. But before he could make it out of the courtyard, he saw her. 

Lily stood beneath the stone archway, bathed in the thin grey light, watching him passively. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then, slowly, she stepped forward. James’ heart thudded painfully, afraid of what she thought of him now that he had…

No. It didn’t — shouldn’t — matter. What mattered more was that he owed her an explanation for why her friend — her friend, the boy she used to wait for after class, even when he pretended not to notice — had died, ripped open by claws so fast and final that James was scared to fall asleep in fear that he’d hear it again: the thump of the body, the howls and screams…

“What happened, Potter?” 

Lily had stopped a few feet away from him, her question too quiet for someone who would normally criticise him so openly. He looked up and saw the judgment barely contained within the emerald; the assumptions she had forcefully swallowed down just to muster up a civil tone. Was it you? Did you kill my best friend? Tell me, did you kill him, you son of a —

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. It would be better if she asked it outright. Maybe he would say yes and she would hit him. Scream at him. Even better, get vengeance on him with some dark curse Snape himself had invented, cutting her wand into his skin whilst calling him murderer, coward, arrogant, cruel. 

How else could he put into words this bloody mess?

“I heard that you walked out of the hospital wing covered in blood,” she brought up, her voice clipped in an effort not to let it shake. “Was it his?”

James found himself nodding robotically, fixing his gaze on a patch of thawing frost by her foot — unable to face the fire. “Yeah,” he rasped out, sounding distant even to himself. “It… it was his.”

She inhaled sharply. Her hands balled into fists at her sides. For a moment, she looked like she might keep it together, but — just as he expected — the anger broke through, searing him with its heat. 

“So it was you,” she said, her voice rising. “You and your friends — what did you do, Potter? What the hell did you do?”

He winced. “Evans, I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” he said, too fast, too breathless. “I didn’t even know — Sirius didn’t tell me —”

“Oh, so it’s Black’s fault, is it?” she snapped, her eyes flaring up. “Of course it is. You always have to be the good guy, don’t you?”

James shook his head frantically. “No, please. I never wanted him to end up like that — I tried to stop him! I tried to save him,” his voice cracked, “I couldn’t save him, and now... now he’s dead.”

Dead.

Ripped from the world like a page from a book, spine cracked, thrown into the dirt.

God, he felt like a fucking wimp.

Where was the James that had wanted to own it all — standing tall, telling her yes, it was all my fault, so come at him with everything she had? Why was he pleading with her like a stupid little mutt? That was what he had imagined Snivellus would do, crumple at her feet to beg for her forgiveness once she’d abandoned him like a broken puppy. And she would turn up her nose, disgusted by all the ugly, whimpering need of him. 

And yet, it seemed to work when he did it. 

Because Lily’s fury had faltered at the sound of his voice, those simmering flames dying down as though she hadn’t expected James Potter to sound so wrecked. And once she had, once she saw the pain woven into his pretty face — not the cold, lifeless one they’d buried in the dark, but the living one breaking right in front of her — her shoulders slumped. Her tone still came out bitter and low, but he could tell: the fight was bleeding out of her. 

“I warned you. I told you to leave him alone. But you couldn’t, could you? You just couldn’t help yourselves!” 

James didn’t argue. Again, what could he tell her? That he remembered how Snape had looked when he found him? That the blood had soaked through James’ robes, flaked dry under his fingernails, and no matter how many times he scrubbed, he could still feel it there? That every time he blinked, he saw fabric torn to shreds and felt the sick give of ribs under his trembling hands?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. But he knew it wasn’t enough. Sorry didn’t put the body back together. Sorry didn’t stop the bleeding. 

It never would.

Lily stared at him for a long moment, then shook her head, slow and aching. Fresh tears glistened in her eyes as she said thickly, “I can’t do this right now. I just… I need time.”

With that, she turned and walked away. James didn’t call after her; for the first time, he simply let her go. 

As the rhythmic taps of her footsteps shrunk down the corridor, her wavy hair caught the light, a blinding flash of auburn against the grey stone. And he remembered he used to think he liked her because of that; because she burned with that Gryffindor fire — the kind that meant bravery, passion, everything he had thought was noble. But now, the red he saw was not of courage or love. Just an echo of the past… a stain that wouldn’t come out. 

And as the whispers swelled around him once more, all he could do was keep moving through the halls, one step at a time. 

Not much else remained.

Notes:

Don't worry, the ghost you're waiting for will appear soon! At the moment, James is a bit too preoccupied with the consequences his friends will face...

If you enjoyed reading, I’d really appreciate it if you left a comment or kudos!
Or feel free to send an ask over here on Tumblr!

Chapter 3: Shattered

Summary:

You try to salvage what little pieces are left, but it’s no use, for the ruthless storm seeks vengeance and total destruction.

James wandered aimlessly through the halls. No destination, just motion — something to occupy his limbs, to force his lungs to expand and contract even as they ached against his ribs. His feet found the rhythm first, a steady thud-thud against ancient cobblestone, while sunlight fractured across the corridor in pale slices, glinting off the flagstones like glass shattered across a floor. Maybe if he moved fast enough, he’d outrun it — 

The splatter of blood. The guttural screaming. Cracked lips parting, shuddering. The silence that followed, chillingly similar to the one that gripped James no matter where he chose to loiter. 

After hours of shutting himself away, turning his face from Sirius — from all of them — Remus’ red-rimmed eyes met James’, ringed with the lifeless grey of a prisoner who had long since surrendered to the sentence he was serving. 

“I’m leaving the school, James. Not expelled, they’re just… booting me out for now. Might have to undergo trial. Don’t know if Dumbledore can afford to vouch for me any longer.”

James remembered nodding numbly, though he couldn’t be sure if he had said anything back. The memory fuzzed at the edges, like water spilling through ink until it was no longer readable. 

Though the cusp of spring was starting to awaken the castle, it still offered no warmth. Even now, light seeped through the tall windows, golden and deceiving, but the air remained cool and stale, a whiff of stone that had witnessed too much rot. James shivered, clutching his robes tighter around his athletic frame. They still smelled faintly of antiseptic and ash. 

That sharp, sterile sting wafted all the way into the Hospital Wing, where McGonagall was still unleashing her blistering fury at Sirius. Finally, she turned to James again, rigid as ever, though her posture had folded slightly. 

“Potter,” she said, her voice fraying at the corners. “You and Pettigrew will serve detention for repeatedly breaking curfew, and for your involvement in… in dangerous activities. Weekly, until the term ends. And a hundred points off Gryffindor, from each of you.” 

She didn’t linger. Her emerald robes swept behind her like a closing curtain, and James was left with the hush of punishment settling exactly where it belonged. Still, he itched for something harsher. 

At some point, his hand drifted into the pocket of his robes, and his fingers brushed against the cold, smooth surface of the two-way mirror. He didn’t pull it out. Instead, he dug out the other thing: the map. The crumpled, half-finished parchment rustled as he unfolded it, the inky lines wavering — no, his hands were — and sprawling across the page, marking out corridors, staircases and secret passageways. The beginnings of a world; of something so extraordinary and alive they had been trying to build. 

The four of them were huddled around the common room fire, skin still raw from their first Animagus transformation, when Sirius — with that rosy, star-bright grin — threw in the wicked idea, sparking up a new flame. “Let’s make a map.” 

A legacy. That was the word he’d used, even though they all knew, deep down, it would just be another toy for sneaking and spying and chasing glory — whatever that had meant to them at the time. A bloody legacy, Prongs. 

It was perfect for the ones who had called themselves the Marauders; for a bunch of reckless teenagers who thought they were legends, and never looked down to see whose bodies got trampled beneath the myth. As if mischief had made them brave. What a fucking laugh. 

James traced the grainy hallway where his name floated along, the ink bobbing faintly in confusion of its own direction. Around it, there was a light shimmer: Remus’ earliest attempt to enchant the map to display names. And right on top, a sticky smudge that might’ve been Peter’s sugary fingerprint. He had a habit of eating treacle tart straight from his pocket during their midnight research sessions in the Restricted Section, smearing everything in syrup and crumbs. Sirius had jinxed him for it more than once. 

All of them were still there, preserved in those stupid, beautiful markings. All while that legacy Sirius had spoken of would be left half-drawn, half-dreamed — the real boys unravelling into thinned out versions of themselves. Because the joke was over, and someone else had paid the price.

Half of us are leaving, thought James bitterly, and the other half…

He didn’t dare finish the thought, swallowing down the wetness that had sprung to his eyes. 

Somewhere far off in the castle, a clock chimed the hour. It was a deep, resonant ring that bounced along the walls and up through the floor, forcefully pulling James back into his body. 

Time to go. 

Two of his friends were leaving that afternoon, and he — he had to stay afloat. Had to be the strong one. The steady one. The one who wouldn’t slip under. Because if he stood still for too long, he’d start to sink into that haunting quiet. It would scorch into his eyes, fill his mouth, slosh in his chest until he could no longer claw his way to the surface. And if that happened — if he plunged too deep into those murky waters — he would never be able to pull the others back up, either. 

He shoved the map back into his pocket before it could shrivel in his fists, then turned and started on the steps. 

 

---

 

The Fat Lady was dozing, slumped sideways in her gilt frame when he approached Gryffindor Tower. She didn’t even ask for the password, just blinked blearily and waved him in, as though the entire castle was too exhausted to expect any resistance. 

Odd, but no more peculiar than the empty common room. 

There was no chatter. No games of Exploding Snap abandoned mid-move. The armchairs hunched like old men around the fireplace, where only a bed of ashy embers remained, smoldering faintly beneath the iron grate. A smoky scent clung to the curtains, pervading every breath as James drifted towards the window — not by conscious choice, but because his muscles longed to retrace a path they had followed a thousand times. 

Outside, roiling masses of charcoal limbs festered in the clouds, writhing over the castle in a suffocating shroud of dread. And in the glass, something flickered.

A faint, spectral glint. 

James froze. For one terrible second, he thought —

But it was just his reflection. And no wonder it had spooked him, because it didn’t look like him at all. The boy in the glass stood completely wrong: slumped at the shoulder, robes hanging so uneven they had lost the boyish appeal. His hair had turned barbaric, not in the way he would ruffle it to look cool, but in the way storm-blown branches raked at the sky. 

And the eyes.  

Behind his fogged glasses, he had expected to see golden specks warming the hazel — ones that would catch the light when he laughed too hard, when Sirius called him the Felix Felicis of their little gang, when Lily used to insult him for marching around like he was the centre of the universe. Instead, tarnished copper blinked back at him, a hollowed copy of someone who had burned too brightly. 

He stared, almost waiting for the glass to crack. 

When it didn’t, he turned and climbed the stairs, one hand trailing the banister the way a ghost might, latching onto the last sliver of a waning memory. At the top, the wooden door to the dormitory hung ajar, caught in that strange limbo between staying and letting go. 

Inside, the air was full of ominous silence that was much too brittle, stretched taut by the faint rustle of robes and scrape of pages. Two heavy wooden trunks sat half-packed near the beds, their lids propped open spilling clothes, books and scattered fragments of a life being packed and undone. Neither Remus nor Sirius appeared to be putting much thought into what they took or left behind. 

In the corner, Peter’s figure shrank smaller than usual, his fingers nervously fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. He perched on the edge of his bed, beady eyes darting between Sirius and Remus, waiting for something unsaid to break free. When James entered, Peter’s head jerked up. His mouth parted to form words, but they quickly seemed to die in his throat. 

“You all right there, Wormtail?” James broke the tension, his voice coming out rougher than intended. Peter almost jumped out of his skin. 

God. Hadn’t he told himself to be more considerate of the poor little bloke? But it was too easy to slip into that — especially with Peter. Too easy to speak without softening first. 

“Er — yeah,” muttered Peter, scratching at the back of his neck, words tangled and lost. “I… I just… I mean…” 

His voice trailed off, swallowed by the heavy, sullen atmosphere. 

Sirius kept his back to them, shoving a stack of robes into his trunks with impatient urgency. Remus stayed bent over a battered old book, carefully tucking it away without a word. Peter’s gaze swivelled between all of them one last time. Then, unable to bear the atmosphere any longer, he abruptly rose.  

“Well… I’ll, er… I’ll see you later, then,” he mumbled meekly. He shuffled towards the door, glancing over his shoulder as though expecting someone to stop him.

No one did. 

And with one last awkward, uncertain look, Peter slipped out of the dormitory.

James didn’t move, but found himself gazing at the far wall — at the patchwork of time stitched across old scraps of parchments and Quidditch posters curling at the corners. Detailed doodles that had formed early parts of the map. Horrible sketches of Snivellus with tentacles under old prank plans. A calendar no one had touched since November. Bits and pieces of things they’d once cared about, all faded now. 

His gaze hooked on the mirror standing beside the wardrobe — the one Peter used to stand in front of for ages, puffing out his chest like some preening rooster, asking James if he looked dashing while Sirius howled with laughter; the one Remus had used to adjust his Prefect badge the first night back, cheeks pink and proud — and noticed that the reflection only displayed three beds. And even that felt generous. 

Because they weren’t four anymore. Or maybe, they never really had been. 

James slowly sank into his own bed. The mattress sagged beneath him, and the springs protested with a creak, as if they, too, had grown tired of holding his shape. He let out a long breath, hoping he could come up with something — at least one meaningful thing — to say to his long-time friends before they left for good. But his mouth stayed uselessly shut. All he could do was watch Sirius at the window, snapping his suitcase shut and intensely staring out at the school grounds. His profile, haloed dimly by the late light, looked older than it should’ve: cheekbones sharpening with agitation, jaw locked, eyes sunken. 

There were too many memories piercing the back of his skull. Sirius flopped across his bed after a Quidditch match, pretending to sulk over losing a game of Wizard’s Chess to Remus. Peter spilling hot cocoa across the sheets and blaming the bed for tripping him. Years of friendship down the drain. 

This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening… not after everything they’d been through. 

“You’re… really leaving then?” 

His voice was strained with devastation. The sentence had been ripped from somewhere deep and sore, so far from the warm, encouraging tone James had been trying to muster up. 

Sirius’ fingers twitched against the windowsill, tightening into a fist. For a second, James thought he might speak. But he only stood there, perfectly still, the line of his back radiating between fury and restraint. Meanwhile, a venomous chuckle reverberated from Remus’ throat, one that James had never imagined hearing from his sweet, chocolate-loving friend. 

“What difference does it make? Everyone will think I’m a murderer no matter where I go.”

James winced at the harshness in his tone. It wasn’t the words, but the fact that they had come from Remus. From the passive boy who never raised his voice and mediated every fight with quiet wisdom. He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, Sirius turned from the window, seething with panicked frustration. 

“You’re not a murderer, Moony,” Sirius growled, his voice scorched from the inside. “It was me. I told Snape how to get past the Whomping Willow. I’m the one who —”

“Exactly,” snapped Remus. He lifted his head at last, and the blaze in his eyes caused James’ stomach to drop. “You did this. You made me do it, and now you’re standing there all miserable, as if this is something that happened to you.” 

Sirius recoiled as though he’d been slapped. His hands flexed uselessly at his sides, then dropped. He, too, let out a hollow laugh, choked out from somewhere far beneath his skin. “Yeah, well… I didn’t think it through, did I?” he muttered. “I thought he’d take one look and run off. I didn’t think he’d actually —”

“One look? One look? ” 

The brunet reached for the nearest thing — an old beanie James had gifted him for Christmas — and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a dull, traitorous sound and crumpled to the floor. Deflated and worthless, just like everything else. 

Remus’ chest was heaving now, his face flushed with anger. “Do you even understand what you’ve done?” he demanded. “If he’d survived to tell the tale, do you know what would’ve happened? He could’ve exposed me to the entire school! Do you have any idea what that would’ve meant for me?” 

The taller boy made a move to respond, but whatever excuse he was thinking of collapsed under the sheer anguish on his friend’s face. 

“I trusted you. But you didn’t care, did you? You didn’t care who got hurt, who died. You just wanted to win, to get back at him —” 

“Moony, I swear, I didn’t —” 

Sirius took a step forward, but Remus was having none of it.

“Didn’t what? Didn’t mean for him to die? Didn’t mean for me to rip him apart?” He took a shaky breath as he fought to hold himself together. “Well, congratulations, Sirius. You got your wish. Severus is dead. And I’m a murderer now.”

“That’s not true!” Sirius shot back, his voice trembling even harder. “You didn’t kill him! He knew what he was doing, that bloody Snivellus. He went in on his own —”

“SIRIUS BLACK!” 

The roar exploded from his lungs, followed by a deafening crack as Remus spun towards the wardrobe and drove his fist straight into the mirror. Glittering shards rained onto the floor, catching the light in slivers of lightning. James jumped to his feet, heart lurching into his throat. 

Remus stood there panting, blood beginning to bloom across his white knuckles. The mirror’s remnants caught his reflection in a thousand disjointed pieces, none of them whole. Distorted brown eyes. Fractured, angry scars. A monster’s snarl, uninterrupted. 

“Don’t you dare use that nickname ever again! He’s dead, Sirius. Dead! And you’re still standing here acting like he was the dirt under your shoe!”

Sirius’ eyebrows furrowed in concern, hand half-lifted towards the ruptured skin. “Moony, your hand —” 

“Don’t — don’t call me that. Don’t touch me. I’ve had it with you.” The werewolf gestured wildly at the mirror, the shards still quivering on the floor. “Don’t you see? This is what’s left of us!”

“And you want to know the worst part?” he said, quieter now, but no less cutting. His gaze slipped sideways, finally looking at James. “I should’ve seen it coming.” 

He breathed out, chest stuttering. “I should’ve seen it from the way you treated him. The bullying — I admit it now, no matter how much I disliked him, it was bullying. But none of you would ever take the hint, so I just kept my head down and tried to convince myself it was harmless. I thought… I thought you were my friends. I thought we were better.” 

His voice wavered, then tightened again. “I thought you were better.”

That was when Sirius snapped. 

“Oh, spare me the self-pity,” he huffed out scathingly. “Don’t pretend you were some noble witness watching from the sidelines. You gave him as good as we did at the start! You laughed behind his back — don’t forget that.”

He jabbed an accusing finger at the floor, towards the broken mirror. “But now that it’s gotten out of hand — now that it’s harder for you to justify — you act like you were never a part of it!” he barked. “You only shamed us when we went too far for your comfort. And even after that, all you did was pretend not to notice! I’m not going to take any shit from a fucking —” 

He cut himself off mid-sentence. A shadow fell over his face, not of regret, but of the dizzying, awful realisation right before crashing into cruelty he wouldn’t be able to take back.

“— a self-righteous hypocrite!” 

Across the room, James watched Remus crumble. His fists trembled at his sides, blood still streaming from the split skin on his knuckles. For a moment, he couldn’t seem to answer. 

Then, quietly, and still thick with the storm in his chest, he said, “You’re right.” 

His voice cracked, surrendering to an old rot. “I was wrong. So wrong. I should’ve stood up to you properly when I had the chance. Should’ve ended things without letting you so close… should’ve known better than to trust anyone with a monster like me.” 

The word was a punch to the gut. Monster.

James had been holding back, letting the argument crash and snap around him in waves, searching for anything to latch onto. But the shame — the truth behind Remus’ words, even Sirius’ — had clamped his jaw shut until now, leaving him stranded in a riptide that filled his lungs with saltwater. For what right did he have to interfere? Or to breathe at all?

Now, he finally found his own voice. 

“Come on Remus, you’re not a monster,” he said softly, almost pleading. His eyes flicked between the glass shards, the dripping blood, and the faces of two people who had once been his whole world. “It’s true, we… we did wrong. We did you wrong. We did Snape wrong. We all did. But you’re our friend. You always have been.” 

But a fresh wave of tears brimmed in Remus’ tired eyes, his mouth twitching into a scornful smile. “Not anymore,” he murmured. “Not after this.”

Behind him, the mirror continued to weep silver onto the floor, a slow, relentless drip of jagged sorrow. James wanted to argue, to change his mind, but the words — again — snagged in his throat. 

What was there left to say?

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

Remus turned, wiping his bloodied hand on his robes, the smear dark as ink. Without a word, he stepped carefully around the glass and shut his trunk with a cavernous snap. Around him, the scattered fragments gleamed with splintered reflections: the tremble in Remus’ mouth, Sirius’ white-knuckled grip on the windowsill, James’ own wide, useless eyes. Pieces of what they used to be; promises they’d already broken. 

“Moony…” Sirius rasped out, the guilt spilling over at last. “I’m sorry. So bloody sorry.”

Remus didn’t respond. He didn’t even flinch this time; just picked up his trunk and slung it over his shoulder, his movements stiff and mechanical, like his limbs didn’t belong to him anymore. James took a desperate step forward, reaching out his arm as though it could close the chasm between them. 

“Remus… please. Don’t go yet,” he said, voice splitting mid-sentence. “We can — we can fix this. We’ll figure it out. Just… please, don’t walk away.”

For a long, agonising moment, Remus simply stood with his shoulders drawn tight under the weight of the trunk. Then, slowly, he regarded James. His eyes weren’t angry anymore, just exhausted and muted with grief — and something that looked heartbreakingly close to resignation. 

“You know I can’t stay here, James.” The words came low and worn. “It’s done. We can’t change what happened, and we’ll never be the same again.”

He paused, and for a heartbeat James thought — hoped — he might say something more. Something softer. 

“Take care of yourself, all right?” he added, and this time, it came out gently, tinged with sadness for what had been.

James felt the floor give away beneath him. He wanted to shout, to slam his fist against the wall, to pull Remus back into the room and shake him until he saw reason… but he didn’t. Because deep down, he knew that Remus was already ready to burn this bridge. 

“You too, Remus,” he whispered back tightly. 

A ghost of a smile skimmed across Remus’ face, but it was gone in an instant. He gave a small nod and went to open the door. But just before he crossed the threshold, he stopped. His steely gaze locked onto Sirius. 

“I hope you can live with it,” he said faintly. “Because I’ll have to.”

The door swung shut with a final click, and he was gone. 

Something cracked.

James wasn’t sure if it was the bedpost under his grip, or the last thread holding the three of them — any of them — together, snapping one final time. The air in the dormitory had shifted, as if Remus had taken the last of the warmth when he walked out, leaving only a wreckage behind: glass shards, red droplets and the memory of what had been Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs.

He couldn’t muster up the energy to clean it up, not even with a quick spell. And by the looks of it, neither did Sirius.

The tall, dark-haired boy dropped onto the edge of his bed and buried his head in his hands. “I fucked up everything, didn’t I?” he muttered, his deep voice coming out muffled and broken. 

James didn’t reply. He just sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and stared at the mess on the ground — too gutted to speak, too afraid his voice would collapse under the truth. 

His mother always knew what to say when things fell apart.

She would sit beside him on the hearth, humming a soft tune under her breath until the worst of the world seemed to fade away. Her hands were always warm and steady, her touch unhurried; her lap a refuge to bury your face if you needed to. When she held him close, the scent of lavender and treacle tart — or honeysuckle in the summer — wrapped around him, a sweet promise of love and safety. 

She’d tuck a hand under his chin and soothe him with that tender voice, It’s all right, Jamie. You’ve got such a good heart. It’ll all pass.

And it always did. 

But if it didn’t, there was his father: big-handed, broad-shouldered and always laughing with his whole chest. He had this way of appearing right when James felt the panic creeping in; swooping in tall and certain, ruffling his hair or clapping a reassuring hand on his shoulder. You did the right thing telling us, he’d say. We’ll sort it out.

They always sorted it out for him. They always made it right. But this time… this time, it couldn’t be made right again. 

He wondered what they’d say if they knew. If he looked them in the eye and said —

Mum, Dad, I’m sorry. I’m not as good as you think I am. I bullied a boy for years because he was poor and lonely and soft — and now he’s dead. I let someone die. 

But even then… he knew they’d love him anyway.

He could picture it already — achingly, almost resentfully. His mother still making him cocoa with too many marshmallows, still pressing a Galleon into his palm for no reason, still brushing back his hair and telling him he’d tried his best. That accidents happen, that boys are messy, that everyone makes mistakes. And his father would nod along, the same way he did whenever James broke a new broom or got a detention. We all do things we regret. What matters is what you do next.

They would mean it. They would inevitably forgive him without even asking what, exactly, needed forgiving, because he was their James. Their perfect son.

And that was the worst part. 

Tick. Tick. Tick.

That same deplorable clock was counting down the last minutes until Sirius’ official expulsion. Each second dragged against James’ ribs until even his bones felt numb. With only a quarter of an hour left, he turned to Sirius, who still hadn’t moved and said — finally, “Let’s go. I’m coming with you.”

Sirius let out a noise that resembled both a laugh and a scoff. “For what? It’s just a damn formality. They’ll snap my wand, and then I’ll be out. No big deal.”

“No big deal?” James repeated incredulously. “Sirius, you — you’re my best mate. I’m not going to sit here polishing my broomstick while they throw you out of Hogwarts.”

Sirius flinched, and James noticed the way his fingers were digging into his palm, carving half-moons into his pale skin — a dead giveaway of fear, the same one James had seen after every nasty letter from his mother, when his friend would grin at everyone else but look ready to peel out of his own skin. 

James sighed and lowered his voice. “Look… I won’t lie. What you did was reckless. Beyond reckless. I was furious when I first heard, and Remus had every right to walk out. But now…” He faltered, rubbing his fingers over his temple. “Well. I’m in no place to judge. This whole thing with Snape… it didn’t just start that night. It started years ago. With us; with me. I let it happen.”

He looked up, and met Sirius’ stormy eyes, pained yet steady now. “So, yeah. I don’t know if there will ever be forgiveness — not from Remus, not from anyone at all — but that doesn’t matter right now,” he concluded, gathering a tone of unwavering certainty just for Sirius — despite the unbearable, crushing knowledge that he hadn’t saved Snape, or Remus, or any of them at all — just so he wouldn’t have to lose him too. “I’m still not letting you go through this alone.” 

“Why? I don’t deserve your loyalty, James. Not after what I did to Remus…” Sirius breathed, dropping his gaze to the floor. 

James shook his head, fighting back the knot in his throat. “Because you’re Sirius,” he said, almost helplessly. “You were the first person who really saw me here. My first real friend. And yeah, you screw up — Merlin, do you screw up — but I’ve been by your side every time, haven’t I?” 

A flood of disbelief and gratitude pooled into Sirius’ pale face, and he looked like a little kid trying not to cry. He swallowed hard, his voice shaking slightly as he spoke. “I don’t know what to say… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.” 

James offered him a wry smile, though it didn’t quite touch his hazel eyes. “Then we start with what we have to do. We go down there and face it. Together.”

There was a pause. Sirius inhaled slowly, nodding once — though he still couldn’t bring himself to meet James’ gaze. 

“Fine,” he responded, his voice sustained but far away. “Let’s go.”

 

---

 

As they made their slow descent towards the castle gates, the path stretched long and empty before them. The wheels of Sirius’ trunk clattered behind the two boys, each rotation too loud and final. A vast expanse of grey had gathered over the school grounds: thick, damp and threatening rain. 

Halfway down, James faltered. Just for a moment. 

He thought he saw something dark flicker at the edge of the Forbidden Forest: a thin silhouette standing utterly still beneath one of the trees. He blinked, heart leaping, but when he looked again, it was gone. 

Just the branches, swaying faintly in the wind. James exhaled shakily and kept walking, but the chill along his spine didn’t fade. 

In front of the gates, a pair of Ministry officials stood waiting in stark black robes, stiff outlines against the haze. Their cold expressions left no room for doubt: they were here to complete the expulsion of Sirius Black. One of them, a tall man with a chiseled jaw and calculating eyes, stepped forward. He didn’t bother to offer a greeting, just flicked his wand once, and the trunk that had been rolling behind them abruptly levitated, weightless and obedient. 

Sirius stood frozen on the stone path, his mouth set, his ashen eyes blank. The pressure in the air sunk into their skin, and James almost thought that the sky itself was about to rip apart.

“The wand,” the official said, brisk and business-like.

Sirius looked at James — or just past him — with the barest hint of a tremor in his jaw. He slowly moved his hand to his pocket. James couldn’t breathe. 

The wand looked heavier in his grasp, as if it too knew this was goodbye. Sirius held it for a moment longer than he should have, running his fingers over the wood one last time before reluctantly letting it go. The second official, an older man with a pinched mouth, unrolled a piece of parchment and cleared his throat. 

“Sirius Black,” he announced without an ounce of sympathy, “you are hereby expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Effective immediately.”

Without another word, the first official raised the wand in a swift, professional motion and snapped it clean in two. The sound cracked across the open sky, and the last tether to the life Sirius had known was gone in an instant. 

James felt his heart clench as the pieces fell to the ground, the once-proud wand now nothing more than a broken symbol of failure. Sirius remained motionless. He didn’t bend down to pick up the splinters. He only stared forward, as still as the statues that lined the gates. 

The other official handed Sirius back his trunk, then gave a curt nod. “Don’t return to this school,” he added roughly. And just like that, they turned and vanished with a thunderclap of Apparition magic, silence settling back over the grounds. 

Just beyond the boundary, Albus Dumbledore stood watching, half-shrouded by the shadow of his hood, hands clasped loosely behind his back. He made no move to approach — just waited patiently for the ex-student he would be escorting home. This part, James realised bitterly, had been something they were meant to do alone.

But he wasn’t ready to let it be over. 

“Sirius…” James started, but Sirius only shook his head.

“I know, James,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve done too much… too much to deserve you.”

“No,” said James sharply, the protest tearing out of him. “You’re not a bloody murderer, Sirius! You’re not! I’ll never —”

“You don’t get it,” interrupted Sirius, “Remus was right. I’ll have to live with it. What I caused… it’s over.”

James grabbed his arm, desperation squeezing the air out of his lungs. “It can’t be over,” he insisted fiercely, “because it’s not just you! It’s me too! We’ll find a way, we have to —”

“James,” Sirius cut him off again, softer this time, but firmer. “There’s no we anymore. You and Remus… you’ll be better off without me.” 

The name pricked him. Remus. The last thing he’d seen in his eyes had been distance. Hurt, too deep to touch. And now, they didn’t even know where he would go, or if he would ever come back. Would he disappear entirely? Be locked away? Live as a Muggle, never to be seen by their world again? 

And Sirius… Sirius was already letting go. 

He let out a long sigh and turned to peer at the horizon, where the heavy clouds seemed to swell on forever. “I don’t know if I can ever make this right with you, or with him. But…” He looked back at James at last, his gaze full of unspoken affection and regret. “But you’re my brother, James. And I’m sorry.”

The words stung, because it shouldn’t end like this. It couldn’t end like this. And yet, the distance gaped between them too, vast as an ocean and impossible to bridge across in one single moment.

“I know,” James finally mumbled back. “Me too. But if… if you ever need anything — if your mother, or cousin… you know. Or if you just want to talk. I’ll still have the mirror, I’ll be one call away, and…” 

He stopped mid-ramble, a wave of despair washing over him at the crestfallen look on Sirius’ face. He couldn’t find the perfect words to say what he needed to say, and his friend was already avoiding eye contact completely. 

All he could do was settle for a quiet, heartfelt, “Just… take care of yourself, Sirius. Please.”

Sirius smiled, not bright or reassuring, but real in its own sad way. And without another word, he turned and began walking down the long, winding path that would lead him away from Hogwarts forever. 

The sky darkened further, the frigid wind bit at James’ skin, and the threat of rain finally broke as droplets speckled his glasses. Still, he didn’t move. He just stood there in the soaking water, watching — and drowning — as his best friend, his brother, walked away, the space between them widening into a tide he couldn’t swim against. 

“Sirius...” James whispered under his breath, even though he knew it was too late.

Sirius disappeared into the fog of the stormy dusk, and with each step, a part of James shattered, piece by piece.

Notes:

Funny story, that last moment felt like a full-on breakup. I almost wrote myself into shipping James and Sirius!

If you enjoyed reading, I’d really appreciate it if you left a comment or kudos!
Or feel free to send an ask over here on Tumblr. Also find more notes under my masterpost.

Chapter 4: Hollow Glimpses

Summary:

And when the storm leaves only ruins in its wake, what can you do but reminisce in what was once built?

Notes:

Content Warning: This chapter contains depictions of graphic injury in a nightmare sequence.

The castle had gone quiet again. Not the usual, sleepy hush that came with curfew, but the smothering, hollow sort of stillness that settled in ruins. James noticed it most at night, when the wind chilled through the cracks in the windows like a whisper, low and deliberate. Blaming him. Taunting him. He would lie awake, half-daring the air to say his name again.

Sometimes, it did. 

He’d sit up with a jolt, heart stuttering in his chest, but there was never anyone there — and Peter didn’t count. His snores from the other side of the room were stable, unbothered and much too mundane to explain the sudden pulse of dread. Only pale sparks of torchlight swaying across the walls, and the bed-curtains skimming ever so slightly inwards. 

Like breath. Like presence.

A few days passed like this. He wasn’t sure how many. Time was unravelling strangely, almost reluctantly, as though it still mourned with James even as the rest of the school marched on. He had taken to drifting from hallway to hallway after classes, almost a ghost of his own — restless, sleepless, but too afraid to stay still. His feet took him in circles around the Astronomy Tower, down into the cellars, up past classrooms that had been abandoned for years. Anywhere there weren’t people. 

Because, as it turned out, they didn’t blame him. 

Rather than accusing fingers, the common room was full of pitiful eyes. They were wide, hesitant things, constantly watching him in fear he might be one stare away from cracking. No one ever dared mention it outright, but Sirius and Remus’ absence told them everything they needed to know. They thought, if he’s still here, he can’t have been the one who did it. 

And somehow, that was enough for them to forget where the show had all begun. 

It didn’t help that rumours started passing around, in twisted little stories whispering about some sort of bravery. That he’d turned on his friends in an honourable attempt to save his enemy. That he’d admirably jumped into danger to drag him out, cradled him despite years of animosity, and shouted for someone to help. 

He didn’t know who first said it, or why the hell anyone believed it. Maybe someone had overheard a scrap of that awful conversation he’d had with Lily in the courtyard — his horrible, pathetic pleading, “I tried to stop him! I tried to save him!”

Was that all it took? Was that really enough for the Gryffindors to crown him their tragic, fallen hero? 

The thought made his skin crawl. If only they knew how spineless running in at the last second had felt, how small and desperate and wrong. He would’ve taken it if they shunned him. Instead, they pitied him. 

They pitied him.

Yet no one had pitied Snivellus. They’d all recoiled and chuckled at his misery, letting him wither under their noses — mocked the way he walked, the way he spoke, the way he tried — until he all but died. Then suddenly, they bowed their heads to him, half-grieving the life he’d never be able to live, even as they indulged in that laughable, theatrical fantasy of James Potter as his would-be saviour. 

James couldn’t take it anymore. Let them clap; he was tired of playing his part.

Every place was familiar, yet entirely wrong. The staircases still groaned in the same places, but missed the sound of Sirius’ boots thudding two steps at a time. Wooden benches laid bare, stripped of Remus’ figure and the leaning towers of books he used to lug around. Even the dungeons were too quiet, too clean without Snape’s gloomy shadow threading through them — though at times, he swore he saw a familiar swish of black just around the corner.

The echoes of what was missing were almost too much for him to bear. So when McGonagall summoned him and Peter for their first detention, ordering them to clean out a storage room full of hexed junk, James actually felt grateful. It was something to do, at least. 

The cupboard groaned as James pulled it open, hinges screeching alive. Inside, confiscated objects gleamed dully beneath layers of dust: a dented Sneakoscope, half a pair of Fanged Frisbees, a cursed quill sealed in a jar like a pickled organ. This was where things went to die. Or to wait. 

He grabbed a cloth and tossed it over his shoulder, eyes dreary in the low light. The whole room smelled of rust and spell-burn, of old magic left too long in a box. Peter was already at the far bench, head down, polishing a small wooden crate crusted with peeling paint and a dark, long-dried stain along the rim. 

“Looks like blood,” muttered James. 

Peter glanced over. “Probably not. Just gunk from one of those exploding toffee bombs.”

They worked in silence, movements — swishes of fabric and the occasional clatter of metal rolling off a shelf, or a faint fizz from some dormant curse waking up in protest — filling the air in place of speech. It was much too strained and sour to be a companionable silence.

James scraped a crusted label off a cracked orb, throwing out an off-handed comment. “Bet one of these things still has teeth.”

Peter responded with a strained huff, “Remember when we snuck one of them into exams and used it to scare the first-years?”

The memory fell limp between them, a match dropping into wet ash.

James didn’t bother to answer. His hands were busy wiping down the inside of a cabinet, but his mind was back at the Astronomy Tower, last spring, when Sirius had dragged him by the elbow under the Invisibility Cloak, daring him to race the shooting stars. They’d cackled madly when Flitwick came running at the sound of phantom footsteps. Back when the world had still been theirs to set alight. 

He looked up. From the dirty little window above the shelf, he could just make out the edge of the tower, lit bone-white in the moonlight.

Everything in the room had traces of them: a chipped cauldron Remus had knocked over mid-prank, a dented corner Sirius had kicked in rage, a broken quill feather — Peter’s — crushed and shrivelled into the dust. Their fingerprints were still here. Still everywhere. And James had the terrible feeling that cleaning this place meant erasing them; tidying the mess they left behind as if it had never happened. 

Perhaps that was what people wanted. They expected them to strike the set, sweep the stage and forget the play had run at all. 

Eventually, Peter seemed to break under the quietness. “We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t gone back for him,” he muttered. 

James stopped mid-motion, his rag clenched tightly in one hand. “What?”

“Snape. If you hadn’t gone back for him.” 

There it was. That ugly, quiet blame dressed in concern but sagging with resentment. James, too, had felt it festering for days, but towards Peter — where he disappeared all the time, vanishing from the dorms for hours every day, only to come back dry-eyed and untouched. He had been wrong. The rat obviously hadn’t cried or sniffled at all. 

“He was going to die,” he hissed back, struggling to contain the venom in his throat. 

“He still did.” 

“So what, I should’ve left him there?!” 

Peter scoffed bitterly. “You think he’d have done the same for you?”

“Does it matter?” countered James, still refusing to look at him. A rigid weight settled between his shoulder blades, his whole frame going still apart from the tremor running beneath his skin.

Of course, the answer was no. Snape would’ve walked away without looking back; might’ve even watched him suffer, lips curled in satisfaction, until he was nothing but a bloody pile of bones. But really, why should they expect any better? 

Even now, knowing how little his actions had truly mattered, James couldn’t bring himself to regret them. Back then, it had been about Remus — about fear, about consequence, about the fragile containment of their secrets — but all of that had collapsed anyway, and he’d still make the same choice again. Still, he would’ve tried, if only for the boy he’d once scorned. For the cruelness he couldn’t take back. For the words he’d never be able to say to him. 

“It wouldn’t have made a difference if you just stayed with us!” Peter’s voice rose in frustration. “We could’ve just run the other way and…”

That did it. James slammed the cloth down, spinning to face him. “I’m not a coward like you, always searching for the next way to save yourself! That’s all you are Peter, a coward! What’ve you been doing this whole time? Hiding under the table, hoping it’ll all blow over?”

Peter flinched. Immediately, James’ stomach twisted as his own words slapped back at him. Even the cursed objects seemed to recoil in their jars.

“Look, I didn’t — I didn’t mean that, I just…” 

He trailed off, sensing it was too late to take it back. He hated the way his voice sounded then — weak, regretful and raw — for an eager, bright-eyed boy who had always been the first to agree with him. He had never challenged James before, never once blamed him for anything. And the moment he finally did, James had torn him down for it. 

Peter’s face had gone pale, his breath hitching as his eyes darted anywhere but at his friend.

Were they even friends anymore? 

James stood too fast, and the room spun white before him. He braced himself against the counter, willing the nausea down. The cloth slipped from his fingers, landing near the box Peter was polishing. The stains still clung to the wood, no matter how hard Peter scrubbed. His pudgy hands were trembling. 

Abruptly, the brown-haired boy got up too, hovering near the edge of the bench for a moment.

“I think I’m —” Peter’s voice cracked. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

He turned and shoved past a broken Sneakoscope that let out a shrill whine as it tumbled to the floor. The door banged shut behind him.

The dim light flickered amidst the solitary silence, and the shadows in the storage room appeared longer now, hunched like watchers. They drowned every surface, leaving only a streak of light where the bloodstain on the crate glinted, mocking him beneath the dust. 

“Still playing the hero, Potter?” 

The voice curled out of the darkness — low, close, unmistakable — like a stage direction delivered too late, when the curtains were long closed. 

James froze. His breath caught as his eyes swept across the room. But again, no one. The only sign of movement was the Sneakoscope still spinning lazily on the floor. 

He pressed a hand to his temple.

God. Was he really hearing voices now?

Maybe it was guilt, or grief, or sheer exhaustion gnawing at the edges of his mind. Maybe this was what happened to people when they ran out of excuses. 

He tightened his jaw and glanced back at the stain.

Some things would never come out. 

 

---

 

The Potions classroom reeked of burnt leaves, rusted iron and bitter memory. James sat at the far end of the bench, sleeves rolled down despite the rising steam. This used to be the class where he and Sirius would muck around, tossing in random ingredients until they somehow stumbled into the right concoction, while Remus hovered nearby, trying to correct them before it all exploded. 

This time, his hands were idle. The potion in front of him had long since lost its proper color, curdling into a sickly mauve that hissed faintly of failure and decay. 

Slughorn didn’t even bother to reprimand him. Maybe he saw the same presence James did every time he looked up from the pages, at the vacant seat two rows ahead.

Snape used to sit there. 

James remembered loathing him for it — for those long, pale fingers that moved with uncanny precision, slicing through leeches and gouging out newt eyes like it was nothing. He never needed a reference, never spilled a drop. Even when Slughorn doted on the ever-bright Lily next to him, it was Snape who exuded that sharp, merciless brilliance. And James — stupid, young, unbearably proud — could never stand that. 

Could never stop watching, either. 

A fiery laugh caught him off-guard. Lily, at the front with her new seatmate — a Ravenclaw girl — her green eyes bright and crinkled at the corners, as though she had come back to life. James remembered her tear-streaked face at the memorial and couldn’t help wondering if she avoided her old spot because it hurt too much to be near it… or because it didn’t hurt at all anymore. 

Worse was Peter. He was hunched near the Slytherin benches, sharing a cauldron with Avery of all people, chopping up roots for him like a house-elf taking orders. Weeks had passed by since that first detention — weeks James could only measure by the number of punishments served, because he could barely remember what he’d done yesterday, let alone how many classes had crawled by since everything fell apart — and James hadn’t talked to him since. The boy had requested separate detentions, apparently. 

He had changed. Or maybe James had, and Peter had only done what was natural to him: scurrying away from a sinking ship.

James still remembered Peter’s first squeaky transformation, Sirius ruffling his hair with a teasing smile as they dubbed him Wormy. It had been nothing more than a fond joke then, just a silly name for someone small and sneaky. 

He’ll be perfect for scouting tunnels, James had said without a doubt. 

But lately, it felt like a prophecy. Because Peter was a rat, not just in shape, but in instinct. Quick to scamper, quick to hide, quick to sniff out the strongest legs in the room and curl up at their feet. Nowadays, he was always trailing after the same people Snape used to keep company with. He wasn’t quite part of the pack yet, but circling; close enough to be protected, far enough not to be noticed by those who weren’t paying attention. 

It was miraculous, really, that they let him around. James couldn’t fathom what Peter had promised them to earn it. 

And he couldn’t decide if that sick feeling in his stomach was betrayal or envy. 

“Mr Potter,” Slughorn called lightly from his desk, not unkindly, “perhaps you might at least pretend to stir?” 

James frowned, realising his hands were still in his lap. He hadn’t even picked up his stirring rod. 

The cupboard at the back of the room was slightly ajar. James rose, mumbling something about needing more fluxweed, though the recipe never called for it to begin with. Slughorn didn’t stop him. 

As he moved through the rows of workstations, his gaze flicked sideways and lingered, for a moment, on the battered edge of Snape’s desk. Half-hidden beneath the worn grain of wood was a tiny engraving: L + S. The lines were deep, gouged out in frustration and partially crossed out, as though Snape had regretted it the moment it was carved. James didn’t touch the mark. 

Behind him, a whisper cut through the low hum of cauldrons.

“— why the hell would you let him in?” Rosier’s sharp, angry voice. “After what he did to Snape —”

“Who cares about that filthy half-blood?” came Mulciber’s bored drawl. “We need a spy. Pettigrew’s got ears.”

James’ pulse tightened in his throat, thudding loud in his ears. He wanted to draw out his wand and slam Mulciber back against the desk for throwing around the words filthy half-blood so casually. He wanted Sirius at his side, hexing first and asking later, while Remus steadily backed them up — 

But he didn’t turn. He only kept walking — like Snivellus would, he thought scathingly — as if he hadn’t heard a thing. And he hated how easy it was now, slipping into silence. 

Inside the cupboard, shelves were crammed with haphazard glass bottles stacked onto crooked boxes, half of them unlabelled or smudged beyond reading. He reached up, absent-mindedly sifting past rows of powdered moonstone and bezoars, until he saw it wedged between two empty tins: a black-bound textbook. The spine was cracked and soft from use, the pages worn at the corners.

Advanced Potion-Making.

His fingers hovered. He knew this copy, with the hasty scrawls in the margins, the tiny ink arrows pointing out the author’s oversights, the ingenious shortcuts no one else would dare to try. It was a book meant for the sixth-year course, but Snape had been poring over it for years. James had even nicked it once, thinking it would be funny. He’d hexed the contents and scribbled some childish insult across the title without looking. When Snape finally managed to snatch it back, he had reversed the spell before even opening the cover. 

James slipped it into his bag without thinking. 

 

---

 

It was times like these, winding through the passages of the massive school, that James felt the most haunted. He didn’t like the reminders that hit him in every little spot — glimpses of their old adventures, places they used to hex people — but there was nothing he could do except survive within the remnants. He’d already tried a dozen ways to pretend he wasn’t broken. 

He’d tried to borrow habits: burying his nose into essays like Remus, hoping to find a bit of peace; flinging himself into the air like Sirius, hoping the recklessness could free him from those awful memories. But none of it fit. The words blurred on the pages, and the wind only reminded him he was alone in the sky. 

Once, he’d even thought about disappearing altogether. Curling under his blankets, drawing the bed-curtains shut and pretending the world never expected him to be anything. But that felt like a luxury of a past James Potter, the spoiled little boy who could always run home and hide behind his parents. The type of escape that wasn’t his anymore. 

The more concern his housemates showed, the deeper the emptiness grew, leaving a gaping void where his old, charming self once lived. 

“Are you okay, James?” Mary asked one evening, beneath the commotion of the Gryffindor common room. It had risen back to its pre-memorial noise, buzzing with heated discussions about Quidditch, classes and games. She had always been kind to him. Too kind, perhaps. 

James blinked at her, forcing a hollow smile. “Yeah, just… tired.”

There was no way to explain to her the ache in his chest. That nothing felt real anymore. That he walked around as a version of himself they still believed in — all of them, except him.

Better not to be asked. Better to stay moving, away from corridors with too many eyes and well-meaning questions he couldn’t stand to hear. 

James turned a corner and paused by the broom cupboard where all four of them had once squeezed inside, breathless as Filch stalked past the door. He realised, just now, that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed.

It was then that his feet seemed to take him somewhere on their own volition, pulling him into the chilly air outside. He passed the cold stone towers, the crumbling walls heavy with moss, until he found himself standing under a twisted, gnarly tree. 

Snape’s tree. 

Though the season had turned, its branches still wore the brittle thinness of a long winter, like bleached bones straining upwards in reluctance to shed the frost. The rough bark, scarred and crackled, appeared to be waiting for light… or some kind of attention. 

He hadn’t meant to come here. But now that he had, the trunk — dark as charcoal — pulled him in as if it knew and remembered. It was hard to stand beneath it now and not see him there: that sullen figure in black, raven hair curtaining his face, thin lips moving in some half-formed incantation. 

This had always been his place, not in the way James loudly claimed the Quidditch pitch as his, but in the quiet desperation of someone who needed a space to retreat, or something solid to lean against. James had barely thought twice about what it meant to chase him off, to march in with his wand drawn and crude words forming on his tongue. 

With a sigh, he slumped down under the tree, letting the bark dig into his back. The wind had picked up — cold, biting and crawling into the seams of his robes — but he didn’t mind. It felt empty, restless, lost without direction. Just right for him. 

Slowly, he reached into his satchel, drawing out the tattered textbook and tentatively turning it over in his hands. On the inside cover, in cramped, stubborn handwriting, were the words: This Book is the Property of the Half-Blood Prince.

The corners of his mouth twitched. Prince, was it? Of course Snape would give himself a title; a crown. He wasn’t so different from them after all. 

Fascinated, he flipped over the first page. His thumb brushed over the edge of the parchment, frayed from overuse. It was strange — surreal, even — to be holding something that still hummed with Snape’s presence. Every margin was a storm of ink, bristling with obsessive annotations and scathing corrections, each line written in feverish haste.

Idiotic.

Wrong. Use crushed root, not shaved.

What kind of dunce doesn’t know to stir clockwise after mooncalf extract?

James huffed a breath that might’ve been amusement if it hadn’t caught in his throat. He could almost hear that sarcastic tilt of Snape’s voice, impatient and utterly self-assured. 

Amid the scrawls were glimpses of anger. One line was slashed through with such aggression the quill had torn the page. Another corner bore a tiny, elegant doodle of a raven feather, curled around a complicated rune James didn’t recognise. It was brilliant. It was an imprint of him, etched in black. 

He turned pages faster now, skimming the text, half-reading, half-searching — for what, he didn’t know. There were brews he’d never heard of, theories well beyond N.E.W.T. level, formulae tagged with things like test on toad or impossible, needs basilisk venom. Merlin, Snape had always been leagues ahead of them, hadn’t he? Even when James had refused to acknowledge it. 

Somewhere between a section on Amortentia and an essay on volatile binding agents, a small slip of parchment fluttered loose. Folded three times, edge stained with a dark blotch — essence of belladonna? — it landed softly into his lap. 

He thought he heard a rustle behind him, a branch flinching. When he glanced over his shoulder, there was no one in sight. But a freezing sensation rushed through his veins, heightening his senses with a dread he’d never felt before. Almost warning him not to pry.

Still, his fingers moved to unfold it. 

The handwriting was Snape’s again, but smaller and neater. Less sure of itself.

A lily bloomed where frost had laid,
Too bright for shade, too pure for flame.
She saw the thorns I dared not shed,
And stayed, though never to claim.

She stays for now, a gentle grace
But time will fade that borrowed dream;
Even the sun tires of a face
That guards a garden of wretched sorrow. 

James stared at the parchment for a long moment. The lines were short. The rhyme was uneven. Yet every word held some tender shard of Snape’s heart — cracking something open inside his — and he couldn’t help but read it over and over.

Because this wasn’t just a crush, or fleeting love, he realised. This was longing so intense and private that reading it felt like trespassing. Deep, twisting loneliness taking root and weaving into mourning for something that never truly was, and never could be. 

His first instinct was to fold it back up and slip it back where it belonged. Somewhere private. Somewhere safe from him. But some selfish part in him resisted; some instinct that he might lose it forever if he let it go. Because for the first time, James thought maybe… maybe, he was just beginning to know this boy. 

So he slid it into his chest pocket. Then he shut the textbook gently, tucked it into his bag and sat for a while, staring out at the lake without really seeing it.

He wondered about the cruelty of ruining the peace for a boy who had been so unbearably lonely, wearing his solitude as armour and guarding it with anger. How they’d never once paused to question why he always looked so tired, why he never let anyone close. How horrible it must’ve been, to be treated as nothing more than a punching bag when he was barely holding himself together.

Now he knew. 

Now he sat in the exact same place, hunched under the same tree, reading the same damn book, drenched in the blood of his nightmares. There was no Remus to hear it out. No Sirius to laugh it away. No Peter to tag along behind. There was only James, desperate to bleed the guilt out of his chest, latching onto a trail of ink that might be the closest he would ever come to understanding the mystery of Severus Snape. 

What would Snape have said if he had lived? Would he have ever forgiven James? Would they have found some way to piece back what was broken, or had the damage been too deep? 

That, he would never know. 

The tears came without warning. They broke down his face before he even realised what was happening, hot and unrelenting, as if they had been waiting all this time to spill out. His chest split open, ribs folding like wet parchment, and for the first time since the expulsion, he let himself fall apart. He ripped off his glasses, clutching them in one hand as the sobs racked through his body in inescapable grief. 

He missed Sirius. He missed Remus. He missed the way things used to be. But more than anything, he missed the chance to make things right with Severus.  

James didn’t know how long he stayed there, burying his face in his hands until the sobs dulled into ragged breaths. And when at last he stood, brushing the dirt from his robes, a shadow moved through the tree above him. 

The lake remained still. The sky, flat and white. James reached for his bag —

— and was promptly drenched by a violent splash of freezing lakewater.

He staggered back with a strangled yell. “What the…?!”

Spluttering and coughing, he glanced wildly across the lake. No sign of disturbance. The branches overhead creaked innocently. 

“Brilliant,” groaned James. “Absolutely brilliant. Either the Giant Squid’s got a sense of humour or I’m officially losing it.” 

He shook out his hair with a growl, water flinging from the ends like a soaked mutt. 

Like Snivellus.

“That’s what I get,” he muttered sullenly, “for sitting under a cursed tree. Or…” His gaze flickered to the satchel, then back towards the lake, a wry grimace creeping across his mouth. “For reading your secrets. For invading your bloody privacy.”

“That’s right,” a dry voice breathed right against his ear, so close it raised goosebumps across his neck. 

James’ eyes shot wide, breath snagging in his throat as he spun around, whipping out his wand. But the shore was empty. The tree was just a tree. 

“…Right,” he whispered, chest heaving. “I’m going mad. Fully cracked.”

The water soaked through every layer, worming its way into his skin. His clothes sagged from the weight, sodden and shapeless. Strands of hair stuck flat to his forehead, and lakeweed — or something worse — slithered around the hem of his robes. His wand hand trembled. He was sure he looked like a scarecrow tossed into the lake and dragged back out. 

Because he’d seen it all before.

Droplets slid from his sleeves, trailing into the hollow of his elbows and down his spine. His teeth had started to chatter. He should’ve been furious. Mortified, maybe. But mostly, James just felt… pathetic. 

Fourth year, exiting the Great Hall, when Peter waved his wand and a whole tray of Pumpkin Juice arced through the air, splattering into Snape’s face. His robes stained a lurid orange and oily hair clumped to his cheeks, fully dripping with rage. 

He remembered the sound of roaring laughter, bright and merciless. He remembered clutching his own stomach and gasping for air, thinking Snape had never looked more ridiculous. Thinking he’d never be that low, that humiliated. The salty taste of irony seeped into his mouth. Everything he’d ever feared — and disguised beneath the spotlight — had caught up to him. Not just losing his friends, or being left behind, but becoming him. 

The outcast. The freak. The boy no one would want to be. 

James reached numbly for his bag, joints frigid with ice. Another tear slipped down his cheek, indistinguishable from the lakewater. 

He turned to the tree one last time — to that sacred little patch of soil — and for a moment, he could almost see him there again. Severus, not scowling or shouting or stalking off furiously, but curled peacefully beneath the branches with a book in his lap, soft hair falling into his onyx eyes as he read in silence. 

James’ hand rose, slowly, to reach for the image of that boy. His fingertips hovered just above the bark, as though some part of him thought he might be able to touch it. Touch him. Say it to his face, even if he wasn’t here anymore. 

“I’m sorry, Snape.” 

He spoke hoarsely, the words seared clean by whatever was burning in his chest. The wind stirred, lifting his voice and carrying it away.

“You were never Snivellus. It was me, all along.” 

 

---

 

His socks squelched, wet wool sliding against raw skin with every shuffle of his feet. Each squish was a clammy kiss that chafed his heels and made his stomach turn. The chill had sunk deep into his trousers, clinging damp and miserable to his thighs. Students turned to stare as he passed, their conversations halting, then picking up again in whispers. 

Let them look, thought James. Let them see what’s left. 

He turned the corner toward the staircase and stopped. Three sets of polished shoes blocked the path ahead, planted like sentries.

“Look what crawled out of the lake,” Rosier drawled, sharp with delight. “Gryffindor’s prince. Lost your crown, Potter?”

James didn’t have the energy to look up. He tried to veer away and keep moving, shivering and dripping, but boots scuffed against stone as the group shifted to surround him.

“Oi, we’re talking to you,” said Mulciber, stepping into view with a cold grin. He looked James up and down, eyes lingering mockingly on the soaked robes. “Didn’t realise filth could swim.” 

Avery laughed, the sound brittle and mean. “You lot are always pretending to be better than the rest of us. But look at you now! Just another blood-traitor who thinks protecting Mudbloods makes him special.”

James raised his head at that, glare locking onto him. “You’re not half as clever as you think, Avery. Try harder.” 

Mulciber snorted. “This one’s still got attitude, eh?” 

“I wasn’t talking to you.” 

Avery’s wand was out before James could even twitch. “Say that again,” he snarled. 

James tilted his head, feigning thought. “You’re not really doing this for Snape, are you?”

“You don’t get to say his name!” snapped Rosier, face starting to flush red.

“Why not?” said James, louder now, voice rough against his throat. “Because you were such great friends to him? You never looked twice at him unless he was brewing your bloody poisons!” 

Rosier’s jaw clenched. Mulciber rolled his eyes and muttered, “Oh, give it a rest. Snape was useful, sure — doesn’t mean we cried about it. He knew his place.” 

“Not like your Mudblood pet,” Avery added with a sneer, though James noticed him shooting a brief, almost apologetic look at Rosier. “What’s her name? Macdonald? Or is she your new toy now that your little club’s ditched you?” 

Mulciber’s grin darkened. “Macdonald,” he repeated slowly, like tasting something sour. “Bit of a mouth on her, hasn’t she? Someone ought to give her a real lesson in respect —”

James moved before he could finish. His wand was already up, spell leaping from it — but theirs were faster. Sparks burst in the air as Avery’s shield caught his hex mid-flight.

“That all you’ve got?” Mulciber jeered. “C’mon, Potter. Let’s see how brave you really are without your fanclub.” 

James opened his mouth to shout back — to say he was still braver than all of them put together — but the words snagged because he didn’t quite believe them anymore, and before he knew it, Rosier’s wand was slicing through the air. 

“Levicorpus!”

Suddenly, James was yanked off the ground. His bag hit the floor with a slap, parchment and quills spilling everywhere. The coarse hem of his robes slipped up his thighs, leaving his legs bare as he dangled helplessly in the air. A piece of slimy lakeweed fell into his face, sticking to his cheekbone. 

Before he could so much as tighten his grip, someone barked, “Expelliarmus!” and his wand went spinning across the stones.

Fucking hell.

For one dizzying second, all he could hear was ringing laughter, shrill and victorious through the corridor. The boys grinned and pointed like they’d been waiting years for this, for a chance to finally break him. And all at once James felt more ridiculous than Snape had ever looked. 

Furious heat clawed up his throat, crackling behind his ribs as his hands strained uselessly toward his wand. Gritting his teeth, he searched for some vicious insult to hurl back.

But it didn’t last long. 

“Enough!”

The spell dropped. James crashed to the ground, pain jolting up his spine. His knees stung and his palms scraped against the stone. He didn’t move. 

Professor McGonagall’s voice thundered down the corridor. “Twenty points from Slytherin, every one of you!” she snapped, eyes flashing. “And detention. I will not tolerate targeted harassment — I don’t care what petty vendettas you think you’re acting out.”

The Slytherins shifted uncomfortably, some shrinking under her glare. Even Mulciber kept his mouth shut. 

“Potter,” she said, softer now, “come with me.” 

James rose slowly, fingers shaking as he gathered the spilled belongings into his bag. He didn’t look at the Slytherins, but he could still feel Rosier’s stare — not just angry now, but almost wounded. He probably believed James didn’t deserve to walk away. And maybe he didn’t. 

Maybe he didn’t deserve to be here at all. 

He stumbled after McGonagall with leaden limbs, his mouth set in a grim line as they turned corner after corner in wordless steps. With every stride, his shoulders shrunk further inwards, head bowing lower, as if hoping to fold himself small enough to disappear into the shadows. Until her voice broke the hush. 

“Are you hurt?” she asked. And there it was again, that tone of concern that reminded James painfully of his mother. 

“I’m fine,” he mumbled. “It was only a fight.” 

She stopped and turned, the stern lines deepening across her brow as she took in the sight of him. “Don’t lie to me, Potter. I saw the spell. I saw how many of them there were. You call that a fight?” Her voice wavered. “You’re soaked through. Did they try to drown you too?” 

James blinked. For a moment, he had forgotten about the wetness still sticking to his skin. “No, that was — that was just, um…” he cleared his throat, “the Giant Squid, I think.” 

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed in instant suspicion. “The Giant Squid doesn’t target students,” she muttered. With a flick of her wand, a gentle wash of warmth swept over him, steaming off most of the dampness in his robes. 

As she cast the charm, her words echoed in his head. I saw how many of them there were. 

James kept pace behind her again, a knot pulling tight in his chest. Did it ever matter to her how many there were back then, when Snape was the one surrounded?

“Why do you still…” he faltered. “Why are you still protecting me, Professor?”

McGonagall’s mouth pressed thin, but her answer came without hesitation. “You are my student, Potter. Whether you like it or not, you are still my responsibility.”

He realised it then. 

Responsibility. That was the difference, wasn’t it? Because Snape had never really been anyone’s. No significant voice had shouted through a corridor to defend him. No hand had reached out to steady his fall. He had hit the ground again and again, and no one had come running. 

As they walked on, the rumpled hem of James’ robe dragged behind him like something half-drowned, and a slow, creeping horror unfurled in his chest from what had happened, and what hadn’t. He had been alone, but only for minutes. Even drenched and humiliated, he still had people rushing to his side, helping him to his feet. Still carried a name that softened blows, a face they couldn’t help but look at. 

James Potter would be pitied, not forgotten. Never cast aside or unseen.

He had always imagined the world would collapse if he fell far enough. But now, crumpled and cold and still protected, James understood with horrifying clarity: he’d never even come close to the bottom. 

 

---

 

He was running.

The forest whipped past him, branches tearing at his arms like grasping hands, leaves as nails digging into his skin. His lungs burned. His legs ached. The moon above bulged too full, too close — a great eye watching his every move, unblinking and cruel.

Somewhere ahead were the snarls.

Remus. 

James pushed harder. The trees began to liquify into streaks — black ink running into silver fog — but the sound followed, closer now, heavier. Like bones dragging behind him. But there wouldn’t be bones this time. This time, he had to save him. 

His hands were moist, slipping on his wand. Blood? Sweat? He didn’t stop to check. 

The Shrieking Shack loomed ahead, a corpse at the edge of the world, its windows blank and gloomy. The door hung off the hinges, moaning in the wind. 

Then the scream.

Not quite a human’s. But not fully a creature’s either. A throat stretched too far, ribs cracking mid-howl. 

He flung the door open, wood splintering under his force. Snape was thrown across the floor like a broken marionette. One leg twisted the wrong way, arm bent backwards, hair splayed in a black halo around his skull. His eyes were wide, glassy. His neck —

Oh god, his neck. 

A gash ran down and split open the skin, red bubbling with every failed breath. Only, his chest wasn’t moving. 

“NO!” James dropped to his knees, reaching out, but his hands passed straight through him. He was smoke. He was nothing. 

Remus was standing on two legs, then four, then two again, convulsing and splitting. His brown eyes gleamed, hollow with horror. Mouth stretched wide, lips trembling. 

“Your fault,” he breathed, and his wolf-face twisted into something close to a cry. “You should’ve stopped me.”

Sirius was laughing.

Laughing.

Leaning in the doorway chuckling darkly, twirling his wand in his hand, dark hair wild and tangled as if electrified. “Snivellus deserves to die.” 

James turned to scream, but no sound came out. His throat was sealed shut. His tongue tasted copper.

The world began to rot around him: floorboards rupturing, blood dripping from the ceiling, portraits melting before they could shriek. Then Snape’s body jerked upright, a puppet pulled by strings, joints popping as his doll eyes swivelled to James. His mouth moved slowly, deliberately.

“You let me die.”

The voice wasn’t sound. It was pressure in his lungs, in his teeth, in his bones. 

“You let me die.”

“Potter.”

“You let me die.”

“Potter —”

He let him die.

“Potter!”

James bolted upright. 

His hands still clawed at the sheets, sweat slicking his palms with a terror that refused to fade. For a moment, he couldn’t see where he was at all, only the glint of blood-slick floorboards and Snape’s lifeless eyes staring back at him. Then came the soft rustle of curtains and the creak of the bed-frame under him, pulling him back into the dormitory. Gryffindor Tower. 

As he switched on the bedside lamp and slid on his glasses, the shadows at the edge of the room seemed to pulse with the screams still trapped in his skull. The empty spaces where Sirius and Remus should’ve slept only deepened the ache of blame. 

And yet… someone had called his name from outside the dream. However hazy, he was almost certain it had been real. His gaze darted to the bed at the far end, where Peter snoozed on soundly. It couldn’t be him. So who was it?

Something clicked in his brain.

Of course.

James swore under his breath for his sheer stupidity. Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? When he’d stumbled away from the lake, soaked and shaken, telling himself it had been the Giant Squid — why hadn’t he checked the bloody map? 

He grabbed the scroll from beneath his bed and unrolled it. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” he whispered, pressing his wand to the parchment.

The ink stirred. Lines crept across the surface, slow and spidery, sketching out Hogwarts in veins of black. Staircases formed. Names dotted across dormitories and corridors like drifting stars until —

His heart seized in his chest.

Severus Snape.

The name hovered far from him, right near the edge of the castle grounds. By the lake. By the tree that was always his, even when he wasn’t there. 

Except, impossibly, he was. 

James scrambled to dress, hands trembling as he fumbled with his shirt buttons and yanked his jumper on crooked. A strange light-headedness overtook him when he swung his legs over the bed, but he pushed it aside. He shoved his feet into his shoes, the laces tangling around his fingers. None of it mattered — he just had to go. 

When he glanced back at the map, the name was gone. His stomach plummeted. A trick of the light? Another phantom conjured by grief and too little sleep?

No. Not this time. He wouldn’t let him slip away again, not if there was even the smallest chance. 

He threw his robes on, swung the Invisibility Cloak around his shoulders, and slipped out of the common room. The halls were dark and quiet, save for a few torches sputtering along the walls and the faint spark of painted eyes that might have followed him, if not for the cloak. This time, he wasn’t chasing mischief or bravado, but a name and a place he couldn’t ignore. 

When he stepped outside, the frigid night rushed to meet him, sending a shiver straight through his body. A breeze tugged at his unruly hair as he crossed the lawn. The full moon had settled in the midnight sky, casting an ethereal glow over the Forbidden Forest. 

A month. It had been a month since the incident, a month since they had lost it all.

By now, he would’ve been at the Shrieking Shack already: prancing around with majestic antlers, Sirius nipping at his heels, Remus bounding beside them in a wild, joyful blur. Even Peter, panting to keep up, giggling like they had all the time in the world.

Now there was only James left, walking alone beneath the pale moonlight.

By the time he reached the tree, his breaths came in shallow puffs of fog, more from nerves than exertion. He paused, listening to the rustle of leaves, keeping his eyes alert for movement. Nothing was out of place, yet the sensation returned — a tingle threading up the back of his spine and prickling at his neck, as though someone was watching him closely.

A sharp sting had just begun to throb in his temples when he saw it: a figure standing at the tree line, half-hidden in shadow. Gaunt, pale, with a hooked nose peeking out. James’ heart thudded painfully in his chest. He knew that silhouette all too well. 

“Snape?” he called out. 

But as he stepped forward, the figure dissolved into the darkness. James winced and rubbed at his temples, scowling. “Bloody hell. Be dramatic, why don’t you.”

He yanked the map from his pocket, tapping it open with his wand. There were no names near the tree apart from his own, blinking stubbornly at the edge of the page. James stared at it a moment longer, then shook his head with a self-deprecating huff. At this rate, he’d be carted off to St. Mungo’s before he even got the chance to graduate. Hallucinating ghosts, talking to trees, drowning in the question of what could’ve been.

Yet his gaze kept drifting to a darker shape across the sprawling grounds. The Whomping Willow’s gnarled limbs swayed menacingly in the wind, almost beckoning him. A hollow, restless feeling pulled him onwards. 

He’d fervently avoided the Shrieking Shack, despite all his aimless wandering. It was too cursed even for him; the place of his greatest failure. The thought of it gnawed at him, though. He wondered if all the blood had been washed away, if the walls had been patched up or left to fester in Remus Lupin’s absence. Something about that wreckage drew him in, as if it held an answer, a way to make sense of the gore, the violence, and the awful stillness of Snape’s body in his arms.

The wind picked up as he approached, not harsh but insistent, like it was urging him forward. Every step brought him closer to a nightmare he already knew by heart, and still some stubborn part of him hoped, futilely, that this time it might end differently. 

The Willow was a massive beast looming up close. Its branches twitched, then lashed down with a low whistle of air. James flinched but held his ground, grabbing a long stick from the glass and circling warily until he spotted the knot. One quick jab and the tree went still, petrified mid-strike. 

Without giving himself time to second-guess, James ducked beneath the limbs. 

It was colder down there than he remembered. The air was damp and heavy, the walls slick with mildew as the earth sloped away beneath his feet. The tunnel stretched so low and narrow that he had to stoop as he moved, one hand gliding along the jagged stone for balance. He wasn’t sure why his legs felt so weak and unsteady, only that they seemed to sag with every footfall. 

By the time he finally hauled himself into the Shrieking Shack, his head was spinning slightly and hot bile had begun to lick the back of his throat. Still, he forced himself into the room. 

It felt like stepping back in time.

The blood had been cleaned, but everything else remained untouched: shattered windows, gouged walls, furniture splintered beyond repair. Dust and cobwebs grasped onto old debris, and beneath the stale, musty scent of disuse was a faint metallic tang that never quite faded. 

He glanced towards the far corner, where Remus used to curl up after a transformation, panting and exhausted but no longer alone. He could almost hear Sirius’ laughter from the sagging sofa, or Peter’s nervous squeaks when things got too rough. 

Then just as vividly, he could hear the scream. Snape’s scream. 

James inhaled sharply. He crossed to the center of the room and knelt, palm brushing the uneven floorboards. The dark stain was still there, so deep into the grain that no spell could truly erase it. He remembered standing here, right in this very spot, shouting for help as Snape crumpled to the ground. 

A rush of coldness — the same sensation from earlier — flooded through his veins. He swore a pair of black eyes flashed in his vision. Slowly, he straightened up, every nerve on edge. 

“Is someone there?” he asked tentatively. 

Silence.

He peered into the far shadows. “I know you’re here. Please… just show yourself.”

Still nothing. The walls creaked as if to settle deeper into the earth.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted suddenly, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m sorry, Snape. For that night. For everything before it… for all of it.” 

The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity. James let out a slow, shuddering breath and began to turn away, thinking he’d really have to admit himself to the mental ward now. 

And then, from behind him, came a voice colder than any winter wind.

“Sorry won’t bring me back, Potter.” 

James spun around, his blood turning to ice. Hovering at the edge of the shadows was Severus Snape, paler than the moonlight filtering through the cracked windows, his body faint and flickering like a candle caught in wind. Hollowed cheeks and dark, bruising eyes sunk deep into his face. His robes still hung in tatters and his expression — contorted between anguish and accusation — hadn’t changed since that night. Except now, a faint shimmer of ghostlight clung to him, casting him in a glow too dim to be living. 

The taller boy blinked rapidly to check if that would dispel the illusion. But this time, Severus stayed fixed in place. 

Every instinct in James’ body shrieked at him to run. His breath hitched; his face drained of colour as his legs tensed in readiness to bolt, for the human body wasn’t built to welcome the presence of the dead. 

Instead of giving in, he balled his hands into fists and took one slow step forward, then another, until the terror pounding against his ribs gave way to something else entirely. 

Grief. Guilt. Hope. 

“Snape,” he croaked out. 

The boy tilted his head slightly. “What’s the matter, Potter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

James let out a breathless, startled laugh before he could stop himself. “I think I have.”

That familiar, derisive sneer twisted Severus’ lips, though his face was so transparent that it lacked its old vitality. His silvery form wavered at the edges, as if he might vanish back into the gloom at any moment. 

James swallowed, chest rising and falling unevenly. “How are you… I mean — why are you here?” 

“Does it matter?” scoffed Severus, voice flat and drained of energy, but not of disdain. “Another opportunity to indulge your insufferable curiosity? Or have you come to finish the job properly this time?” 

“No — I didn’t mean for any of it to happen,” James stammered quickly. “I never wanted you to… I wanted to save you.” 

Severus’ eyes sharpened into shards of obsidian. “Oh, yes. I saw that. You, barrelling in, playing a bloody white knight — just in time to be too fucking late,” he spat out bitterly. “Spare me the sanctimony, Potter. I’d rather have died — and I did — than owe you a single fucking thing.” 

He drifted forward a little, no sound in his movement, only frosty wind. “I know exactly how you operate. You’d have dangled that debt over my head and paraded it around like a trophy. James Potter saves his worst enemy. How noble. How poetic. How fucking nauseating.” 

His mouth curled, but there was no real satisfaction in the expression. Just venom for its own sake, embedded in muscle memory. Something about that made the sight all the more devastating, because for all the fury in his voice, Severus’ hands hung listlessly at his sides, translucent fingers twitching slightly, as though grasping at something just out of reach. 

And the part that cut deepest was that he was right. If things had gone differently — if he had saved him — James would’ve been all too smug about it.

God, how vile could he be? 

“Tell me, have you come to perform another scene? Thought you’d show up, weep dramatically and turn my death into your tragedy?”

James flinched at the acid in his tone. “That’s not — that’s not why I came —”

“Fuck you, Potter,” Severus cut him off harshly. “Fuck your guilt, your tears, your goddamn shiny conscience. You always had to be both, didn’t you? The golden boy and the tortured soul. So everyone would trip over themselves to forgive you and tell you it wasn’t your fault.”

“I never wanted forgiveness —” 

“Didn’t you?” he hissed, surging closer, his form tailing behind him like torn silk. “This school worships the ground you piss on, kisses your dirty shoes — and still, you’re not satisfied unless someone’s stroking your ego while you cry about your poor little mistakes.”

He was inches from James now, breathless despite having no lungs. 

“What is it, Potter? Do you get off on being a cunt?” He bared his teeth, too much like a snarl. “That’s what you are. The shittiest, most self-absorbed cunt to ever strut these halls.” 

James felt the heat rise to his face, but it wasn’t anger. It was that hideous, burning shame he had been suffocating in for longer than he could recall. 

“I’m not proud of it anymore,” he said, his voice falling into soft resignation. “God, you’re right — I feel like shit. I’ve regretted it every day since, and I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.” 

The light shifted, and for a fraction of a second, Severus’ glare faltered. There was something almost human and raw and painful in his eyes, as if James’ words had grazed a long-buried wound. James held his breath, foolishly hoping that maybe, just maybe, he might have reached him. 

But just as quickly, the thought shuttered closed. 

“Regret,” Severus repeated scornfully. “Is that what this is about? You think you can show up here, spout some empty apologies and ease your guilty conscience?” 

“I don’t know!” James shot back, the frustration of it all boiling over. “I don’t know why I came. It’s just —” his voice broke under the agony, “I keep dreaming about that night, over and over. You’re always there. And I try — I’ve tried so hard to stop it — but you just keep dying. Every time.” 

The ghost grew utterly still as he listened, hands now eerily motionless at his sides.

“I guess…“ continued James uncertainly, “I guess I thought if I came back — if I faced it — maybe something would change.” 

Severus raised an eyebrow, and James swore he saw the smallest hint of softness unfurl across his features. His voice, however, remained cool. 

“Foolish as ever,” he muttered. “And did it work?”

James’ lips moved soundlessly before he managed a hoarse, “What do you think?”

Severus studied him, eyes gleaming and unfathomable in the gloom.

“That,” he said at last, “is up to you.”

Then Severus began to fade again, his silver outline bleeding into the air until the shadows swallowed him whole.

“Wait!” James lunged forward desperately. “Severus, please. Don’t go! I don’t know what to do without you! I need to talk to you. I need… I need you.” 

But it was no use. The presence was already gone. 

James stared at the empty wall where Severus had been, a clammy dampness sheathing his skin. Cold sweat trickled down his forehead, though the room itself was no longer freezing.

He hadn’t known what he was looking for. Perhaps closure, or a salve for the endless, lonely ache carved into his soul. Mostly, he’d just wanted proof that Severus was real — not merely a fragment of guilt or memory. And now that he’d seen him, heard his voice, felt the sting of every word left unsaid, James knew he couldn’t stop here. 

He wasn’t ready to let Severus go. Not even if all that was left were glimpses.

James stumbled towards the door. The air felt too thin, the edges of his vision blurred and dark. He hardly remembered crossing the threshold of the Whomping Willow, only the cold bristles of grass under his palms as his knees buckled out, the world tilting as though the ground itself wanted to swallow him whole. 

Another dizzy wave crashed over him, and as everything fell into darkness, all he could do was hold onto a single thought: Severus. 

Severus Snape. 

Notes:

The less angsty parts are on their way, I promise! Thank you for your patience with my slow updates. Also, I’ve been thinking about creating a spin-off with select scenes from Severus’ perspective. If that’s something you’d be interested in, feel free to let me know at any point which scenes you’d most like to see written from his point of view!

If you enjoyed reading, I’d really appreciate it if you left a comment or kudos!
Or feel free to send me an ask over here on Tumblr!

Chapter 5: Chasing the Name

Summary:

Whispers echo with the rhythm of an old heartbeat, so you achingly cling to every word, in hopes one will take the shape of the name you search for.

He was floating.

Floating? Or sinking?

The world was thick as lakewater, swallowing every edge and angle, wrapping around his limbs like velvet ropes. His body drifted somewhere just beneath the surface, suspended in the muffle of the deep. No breath, no light, no sense of time. Just the weightless pull of being nowhere. Above him, something rippled — a voice, or maybe a memory — but it was distorted, warped like candlelight behind frosted glass. 

Then came the heat.

It started at his core, curling inwards like steam from blistered skin, then spurted outwards in violent bloom — blood, fire, too fast and too hot to contain. The water around him hissed and boiled. His breath caught in his throat and his body writhed in panic, bursting upwards —

He broke the surface with a gasp. 

Air slammed into his lungs. Reality snapped back in fragments: white sheets slipping around his legs, sweat soaking into the mattress beneath him, a too-bright room swimming in some hazy, watercolour substance. Every fragile inch of him trembled, from the dull ache in his head to the heavy drag of his arms. His eyelids, crusted with sleep, barely parted. Peeling them open felt like wrenching rusted hinges apart. 

Shapes shifted. Footsteps murmured. A rustle of fabric.

He tried to sit up, but his neck cracked, and the effort made his vision reel. A figure leaned over him, blurred and swirling in the pale gold light.

“Severus?” he rasped, the name tearing from him before thought could catch it. 

The figure paused. 

Cool hands emerged from the haze — one steadying his shoulder, the other pressing a damp cloth to his burning forehead. He flinched at the contrast of heat meeting coldness, then slumped back against the pillow as exhaustion reclaimed him.

“Oh dear,” came a woman’s voice, soft but stricken. “Thank goodness, he’s awake.”

Madam Pomfrey. 

James shivered as she tucked the blankets tighter around him, her touch cautious with the care of someone handling glass. 

“Where’s — where’s Severus?” he asked again, his voice half-swallowed between coughs. 

Her hands lingered on his shoulders, reassuring him — or herself, perhaps — that he was real, solid, still here. The cloth on his forehead soaked warm. She brushed a thumb gently across his brow, a touch meant to soothe, but all it did was trace the shape of the emptiness inside him.

“Don’t fret,” she murmured. “It was only a fever dream. You’re burning up. Rest now.”

He wanted to ask again, wanted to insist — because yes, he was burning, scorched inside out by a blaze only he could tame now — but his throat seized up, dry and bitter. So he let her tenderness fold snug over him.

Another set of footsteps — crisper, more measured — stopped just beside him. James squinted at the silhouette, fumbling blindly across the nightstand for his glasses. His fingers knocked into a pitcher of water, a stack of bandages, the slick edge of a jar — until cool metal touched his palm. Someone had placed his glasses gently into his hand. 

He slid them on with a shaky grip, just as Pomfrey murmured, “Go easy on him, Minerva.” She tilted her head toward him, gesturing meaningfully towards his flushed, disoriented state. “He’s still feverish.”

“I can see that.” 

Even through the fog, James could feel the tension radiating off her like a storm held barely at bay. She stood tall and severe, her emerald robes pristine, her lips pressed into a line so thin it might vanish altogether. But behind the lenses, her eyes creased tight with worry and something far more human than fury. 

“You gave poor Professor Flitwick the fright of his life last night,” she began, voice taut with disappointment and concern all at once. “Out of bounds after curfew again, unconscious at the Willow of all places. Do you have a death wish? Hell, Potter!” 

James winced, her words striking harder than the throbbing in his skull.

“I’d have thought, given everything, that you’d know better by now. What will it take for you to follow simple school rules? Do I need to have you scrubbing cauldrons every night for the rest of the year?” 

He swallowed hard. His fingers, pale and quivering, twisted into the corner of the blanket. “I’m sorry, Professor,” he managed hoarsely. 

McGonagall straightened, arms folding tightly across her chest. “I wrote to your parents after the last incident,” she said curtly. “And if you put one more toe out of line, Potter, I will have no choice but to take further action.” 

His heart thudded violently in his chest. “Please… don’t tell them about this. I swear I won’t do it again.” 

Silence unfolded between them, long enough for James to hear the slow tick of the Hospital Wing clock, the creak of old wood beneath Pomfrey’s footsteps and the faint rustle of sheets like waves pulling back from a shore. 

“Professor…” he said hesitantly. “Last night, I saw Sev — Snape. Is he…?”

McGonagall stiffened. “You are unwell, Potter,” she said briskly, “and I will not have you jeopardising your recovery — or your future — over a silly dream.” 

James frowned, thinking of the ghostly silhouette in the moonlight, of the voice that still echoed like steam rising off water. That couldn’t have been just a dream, could it? But her tone made it clear she wasn’t going to entertain the question any further, so he kept his mouth shut for once. 

Before she left him alone, her sternness faltered for a breath, just enough for James to glimpse the sorrow bleeding from the seams. 

“You’d best keep your word,” she murmured, then inhaled deeply through her nose, as if attempting to rein something in. “I don’t want to see another student’s life destroyed.”

 

---

 

Time passed slowly, marked only by the hush of shifting bedsheets and the clink of vials being sorted across the ward. James lay still beneath the covers, sweat now dried to a chill on his skin, McGonagall’s words still lodged into the hollow space beneath his ribs. 

Eventually, he grew restless. The quiet had grown too suffocating, and he was fed up with lying there doing nothing. When the room had emptied enough to breathe, he reached towards his crumpled robes on the bedside chair and slipped a hand into the pocket. He brought out the scrap of parchment he had stolen from the Half-Blood Prince’s textbook, hoping to give the poem another read. 

But the moment he touched it, his heart gave a slow, sinking lurch.

The texture was all wrong — stiff now, clumped with dried moisture where it had once been soft and beloved. The edges had sealed together from where the folds had soaked through. His throat tightened. Still, he coaxed the creases apart, slow and delicate, holding his breath as the corners peeled away like old scabs. It came undone with a papery tear. 

To his dismay, the ink had completely run off, leaving only faint blue smudges and the warped skeleton of lines staring back at him. Not even a letter remained. 

The door to the infirmary creaked open. James hastily folded the parchment and shoved it under the pillow, fingers moving on instinct. A warm, familiar voice followed, tinged with dry amusement.

“Knock knock.” 

Mary Macdonald stepped inside with a cautious sort of smile, with her bag slung over her shoulder. “You look like a boiled ghost,” she added cheerfully, crossing the room.

James snorted faintly, wincing at the effort it took. “Flattering as always, Mary.” 

She tugged the chair closer to his bed and sank down, flicking a rebellious curl of black hair from her face. The rest of her hair was pinned back in a hurried, imperfect way, as if she’d dashed here without quite finishing the job. A thin crease of worry stitched across her brow, though she fought to keep the mood light. 

“I brought your homework,” she said, rifling through her bag and producing a few battered scrolls, which she dropped onto the bedside table with a soft thud. “Don’t make that face. I know you’re dying or whatever, but McGonagall still expects you to pass Transfiguration.”

James sighed, letting his head thump against the pillow. “Brutal.”

Her gaze drifted over his pallid face and sweat-matted hair, but she didn’t mention it. Just sat there with him, solid and steady, a friendly presence that wouldn’t break under pressure. 

“You’re lucky to have her on your side,” she said after a moment. “I heard about what went down with the Slytherins — she gave them an absolute mouthful. Don’t think they’ll be bothering you again anytime soon.” 

“Really?” 

“Oh yeah,” snorted Mary, settling back in her chair. “And speaking of Slytherins, did you hear the latest about Rosier and Mulciber?” 

James lifted his head in slight interest. “What now?”

Mary lowered her voice a notch, as if sharing secrets too juicy to shout. “Apparently, they had a bit of a row. Some say it’s because Rosier’s been acting... distracted. Rumor is…” she hesitated just long enough to heighten the tension, “he had a thing for Snape.” 

“Rosier?” he echoed dumbly. He’d expected gossip about house feuds or hexing or really anything else. Not that.

Mary shrugged with a sly smile. “No one knows what’s true. But, you know, with all the whispers flying around… well, people aren’t exactly kind about it.”

An uncomfortable feeling turned in his stomach. 

But shockingly, it wasn’t the idea of Rosier being a poof — if Sniv’s not after Evans, he must be a bloody poof! Sirius used to cackle into his pillow, inventing all sorts of filthy scenarios until James choked on his own spit and almost punched him just to get him to shut up — that unsettled him most. It was the way Severus’ name was used to taint everything it touched. As if feeling anything for him — sympathy, regret, god forbid tenderness — was revolting. Like Rosier couldn’t possibly grieve a dead friend unless he secretly wanted him in bed. 

Was it really so unimaginable that someone might have cared about Severus without a shameful motive? 

And James… James recognised that tone. That grotesque instinct to twist and belittle and stamp out what made someone vulnerable. He’d heard it in his own voice once. 

He shook his head, a grimace tugging at his mouth with bitterness he couldn’t quite spit out. “Hogwarts really knows how to turn everything into a story, doesn’t it?” he muttered.

The girl shrugged again, folding her legs beneath her like she was settling in at the end of a long shift. 

“Marlene’s been freaking out, by the way. Says you’re her best Chaser and she’s threatening to strangle Pomfrey if you’re not cleared to fly by next week.” 

“A bit dramatic, don’t you think?” huffed James, though the laugh that followed was too thin to be a real sound. 

“Well, she’s only that dramatic about people she loves.”

He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach far. The warmth fizzled out before it could touch his hazel eyes. He wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. For someone to notice? Or for no one to look too closely? 

When Mary spoke again, her voice carried a familiar teasing tilt — a little too bright, like she could sense the cracks and wanted to paper over them. 

“What’s wrong? Bummed out I’m not Lily?” 

He glanced over at her, startled. He’d almost forgotten that the whole school still assumed he was pining after the redhead. That he’d thoroughly built that persona for himself: the performance, the chase, the swaggering devotion. 

“Don’t worry,” she went on with a grin. “I still think she’ll come around eventually. Maybe not while you’re half-dead in the Hospital Wing — not her ideal flirting zone — but, you know. Eventually.” 

James shifted, wincing as the pillows dug awkwardly into his sore back. He looked at Mary properly then; her easy expression, and the kindness just beneath it. 

“Mary…” he said, voice escaping roughly from his throat, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” 

She glanced up from where she’d been absently fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. “Go ahead.”

“Don’t… don’t say anything to Evans about me.” 

Her brow furrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, don’t try to set us up anymore. Or talk to her on my behalf.” He swallowed, murmuring quietly, “She doesn’t owe me anything.” 

The teasing drained from her face. Mary sobered, and really looked at him for a moment, as if searching for some old version of him she still hoped to find.

“No, she doesn’t,” she agreed gently. “But I just thought… it might be nice for both of you to have each other after all this time.” 

James let out a slow breath, like he was deflating from the inside. His shoulders ached, his chest ached, his pride ached. “I was awful to her, wasn’t I?” he said, barely above a whisper. “Even before all this. I think I just —”

He broke off. The words curdled on his tongue. Too late, too self-serving. “Doesn’t matter.” 

“I don’t think you were all that bad — just a little annoying,” offered Mary. “Love makes people do weird things, doesn’t it?”

But James couldn’t answer. Because what if it hadn’t been love? What if it had always been about image, about winning, about proving something that wasn’t true?

Eventually, Mary cleared her throat and tried again in a chirpier tone. Merlin, James almost felt sorry for her. It was like she was always trying to fix him — offering plasters when what he needed was stitches, cheering the loudest when he was falling apart the fastest. He knew she meant well, though. She always had. 

“So… how else can I help you, Mr Potter?” 

He exhaled slowly and let her pull the moment forward, grateful for the change in topic. “Just bring me my bag, will you? You shouldn’t have too much trouble getting into the boys’ dorm,” he said, mustering up a lopsided grin. 

Mary smirked, the tension easing as she tapped the side of her nose. “Lucky I’m not the one getting thrown down the stairs, isn’t it?” 

James narrowed his eyes at her, playing along. “Oi, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never tried sneaking up to ours just to get a glimpse of Lily.”

He gasped, clutching at his chest in mock offense. “I’d never. You should know that I’m a gentleman, Miss Macdonald. A model of restraint.”

She raised her eyebrows in perfect disbelief.

“…Fine,” he admitted with a groan. “That was one time. And I’ve already learnt my lesson from very nearly breaking my nose.”

Mary rose from the chair with a laugh, brushing her robes. “Well that’s that, then. I’ll get going now. Next time I visit, I’ll deliver your precious bag.” 

She turned towards the door, then paused, glancing back at him with a small, fond smile. “You’ll be fine, James.”

He responded with a nod, almost wanting to believe her.

The door clicked shut and the false cheer faded with it. James stared up at the ceiling, trying not to think about the ruined poem under his pillow… or the fact that the ghost hadn’t come back to taunt him since that night. 

 

---

 

Dumbledore, whom he hadn’t quite looked in the eyes since the expulsion, was the next to visit. 

He arrived in his usual quiet way, as though he had been there all along and had only just decided to step into the light. His robes shimmered faintly in the candlelit ward, all dusky plum and velvet, too solemn to be comforting. James sat up a little, spine stiffening as he blinked through the residue of sleep and sickness. 

“Professor Dumbledore,” he greeted.

The old man nodded softly, eyes catching the twinkle of the ward’s flickering torches. “Ah, James.” 

It was strange, hearing his name like that — not barked, not chanted, just spoken. Even stranger was the gentleness with which Dumbledore lowered himself into the chair beside the bed, folding his long hands together like he was preparing for a quiet evening rather than whatever this would be. 

“I heard you gave Madam Pomfrey quite the fright,” he said lightly.

James looked away. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“Very few people ever do,” Dumbledore agreed, his tone steeped in sympathy. “You’ve been through a great deal. I imagine your mind hasn’t had a moment’s rest.”

A short, brittle laugh escaped him. You have no idea, thought James. Lately, it felt like his mind had splintered into too many selves, none of which knew where the others began. Rest was a stranger. Peace was a rumour. 

“Do not fear,” the headmaster went on, still calm and measured. “I have come to deliver some news I suspect you’d be interested to know. Remus Lupin is safe.”

James sat up straighter, fingers curling into the sheets. “Safe? Where?”

Dumbledore’s gaze met his, indiscernible behind the gleam of his half-moon spectacles. “His father and I have made arrangements to relocate their family somewhere more… suitable for his condition. However, for confidentiality reasons, I cannot disclose the exact location.”

That vague smile and too-careful wording tightened James’ chest. “He’s not coming back, is he?” 

“No,” said Dumbledore gently. “It would not be wise for him, or for the students here. Wherever he is, I assure you, he will be looked after.”

James’ shoulders sagged. The words should have comforted him. Safe was better than imprisoned. Better than dead. It should have been a relief, but instead, it just stung through him like more loss. Remus was alive, but gone. 

“He left because of me,” he whispered. 

“He left,” Dumbledore corrected softly, “because the world is not yet kind to those like him.”

There was nothing to say to that. The world didn’t seem kind to anyone lately.

Trying to push past the soreness, James cleared his throat. “And Sirius?” he asked, sounding much too hopeful even to his own ears. 

There was a flicker in the headmaster’s expression then — hesitation, or restraint. “Sirius is at home now.”

James’ mouth opened, the words tumbling out harsher than he meant them to. “But she’s hurting him. You know she’s hurting him.” 

“I do not know for certain,” replied Dumbledore, the words precise and slow. “When I brought him home, I spoke to his parents. Mrs Black was polite, and assured me that Sirius would be given every comfort. There was no evidence I could point to that proved otherwise.” 

The headmaster’s fingers interlaced atop his knee, the joints pale with pressure. “There are limits,” he said, “even to my reach.”

The silence that followed almost felt cracked. James gritted his teeth. He wanted to shout, to accuse, to demand him to investigate again, to say that Sirius is a child, he’s your student, your responsibility — but he couldn’t stomach the sound of his own voice, so he simply stared down at his lap instead, fists clenching harder in the sheets.

Dumbledore rose with slow, deliberate movements, smoothing the fabric of his long sleeves as though preparing to face something far more difficult than a boy’s broken heart.

The same question from that morning still tingled at the edge of James’ tongue. It was no surprise, really, considering he had always thought of Dumbledore as just shy of immortal. Not just powerful, but knowing in that rare, uncanny way — whether it was magic, or people, or the hidden things that lived behind words. He was certain the headmaster understood better than anyone. And he wanted to believe that Dumbledore would understand him — would at least listen — and not brush him off the same way McGonagall and Pomfrey had with their gentle pity and stubborn disbelief.

What was he hoping to find, exactly? Confirmation? Sanity? Permission?

Fuck it. He just wanted to know. 

Before he could lose his nerve, James blurted out, “Professor, what should I do if I see a ghost… a ghost no one else seems to?”

Dumbledore stilled. 

The candlelight wavered against the deep folds of his robes, casting long shadows. Then, slowly, without turning back, he said, “Some doors, James, are better left closed.”

And just like that, he walked away, his footsteps soft as a sigh. 

James stared after him, pulse pounding strangely hard in his throat. Dumbledore hadn’t denied it. He hadn’t laughed or offered reassurances or told him it was all in his head. If anything… he had sounded like he knew. Like he believed him, and he was telling James not to go looking for it. 

But perhaps the one thing Dumbledore didn’t quite understand was that James Potter had never been very good at staying away from closed doors. Especially not ones everyone warned him against. 

 

---

 

The next afternoon, the door slammed open, and in marched Mary with a dramatic sigh and a steaming stack of toast. “Don’t even try to pretend you’re not starving,” she declared, kicking the door shut behind her. “I risked a tragic death by elf for you, so eat up.”

James blinked from his cocoon of blankets, dry-mouthed and halfway between sleep and sulking. “You broke into the kitchens?” 

“I’m a woman of many talents,” she said, plopping the toast onto his nightstand and producing a jar of strawberry jam like a magician mid-act. “Also, Darcy distracted the elves. You owe him your life.” 

He glanced towards the doorway, where a brown-haired boy with glasses lingered behind. He had the look of someone who had never quite grown into his limbs: tall, a little gawky, with freckles that splattered like constellations across his nose and cheeks. 

Noticing James’ eyes on him, Darcy sent over an awkward wave. 

“You’re the one I almost flattened at the Great Hall,” said James, the memory slotting into place with a groan. “That night, during Dumbledore’s speech. Sorry about that.”

The boy shrugged, a faint flush rising to his face — reminding James, with a startling jolt, of Peter when he used to get embarrassed. “No worries. You were having a moment.” 

James scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. “Still. Thanks. For, you know… elf-distracting.” 

“Any time. Hope you get well soon,” the boy said with a wry smile, then added to Mary, “I’ll meet you in the library, yeah?”

“Ten minutes,” she promised, already unscrewing the jam. He nodded and disappeared.

James shot her a sideways look. “Friend of yours?”

Mary rolled her eyes, reaching for a slice of toast. “Grow up, Potter.”

“Hey, I didn’t say anything,” he chuckled. 

“Besides,” she said, spreading the jam with a little too much pressure, “Darcy’s in the year below. Bit of a nerd, really. Likes reading about Magical Creatures and sneaking back bread for Puffskeins in the common room.”

Ah. So he was somewhat like Remus too, then: gentle, odd, and kind in quiet ways. A small pang of longing nicked at James’ chest. 

He accepted the toast she handed him, still warm from whatever under-table detour it had taken. “He seems all right.” 

“He is all right,” replied Mary affectionately, then smirked. “Try not to knock him over again. He bruises easily.” 

She stood and gathered her belongings, crossing the foot of his bed to set down his bag with a soft thud. 

“There’s your bag. I’ll leave you to rest now,” she said softly, already turning towards the door. 

James hesitated, then called out, voice low but earnest. “Mary — thank you for coming. For… for being so nice, even when I’ve been a right mess.”

She glanced back with a wide, genuine smile. “You’re welcome, James. That’s what friends are for,” she said simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Then she slipped out of the infirmary, leaving behind the scent of strawberry jam and the faint echo of kindness.

He leaned back against the pillows, toast in hand, chewing slowly as the ward settled back into its soft hum. He ate it all, piece by piece, until only crumbs remained. Having someone else like Mary in the room — someone who didn’t look at him like he was cursed or broken beyond repair — had made it a little easier to breathe. Yet comfort had its limits, and the ache remained. 

Even as the final crumbs melted on his tongue, his thoughts still drifted to a single name — Severus Snape — shimmering like a thread of light beneath dark water: faint, unreachable, but undeniably real. And though he knew the waves would keep crashing down again and again, distorting the light and dragging him back into the depths, James would still reach for it with the desperate, unrelenting sparks of fire growing within his chest. 

Because it wasn’t the yelling, the hatred, or even the bitter truth that haunted him most. It was the leaving. Severus had left again, and James hadn’t known how to make him stay. 

So, without hesitation, James dragged the satchel into his lap and pulled out the Advanced Potion-Making textbook. If they were going to trap him here, he might as well make good use of his time. 

 

---

 

Every waking hour in the Hospital Wing, James ogled at the Marauder’s Map until the lines bled into each other, tracing every hallway with a finger, whispering Severus’ name under his breath as if it would summon him back. He’d wait for the ink to appear near the base of the tree by the lake or in the dungeons, or — Merlin forbid — the Shrieking Shack. It never did. 

Still, he checked again. 

Again. 

The habit had become a ritual stitched into his nerves, a kind of frantic devotion born of hope teetering on the edge of insanity. 

And when the map failed him, he turned to the book. Severus’ ruthless, strangely beautiful handwriting still glittered back at him. He reread the margins again and again; circling familiar abbreviations, underlining the places where the ink scratched deeper. He was hunting for clues. For him. 

He was a thief, plain and simple, stealing pieces of someone who wasn’t even there to stop him. But — foolish as it sounded — maybe that was the hope. Maybe he hoped that Severus would show up just to tell him off, to snap and glare and call him a nosy bastard. Maybe it wasn’t guilt or grief that would bring him back, but good, old-fashioned anger. 

If Severus wanted to haunt him for it, then James would gladly welcome him. And if all he had left were these pages, then he would wring every last thread of thought from them. 

I saw him laughing once, and thought if I could split the sound open, I’d find bone and rot and everything he hides behind that smile. 

That line. That line was undoubtedly about him.

He didn’t even know which moment it referred to — there had been so many. Perhaps it was one of the louder ones, in the courtyard with the others, when cruelty was a game they all played too easily. Or perhaps it was something smaller — a snort of amusement in Potions, or some brief, unguarded joy that Severus had seen by accident, and resented anyway.

James dug his fingers into his hair. God. What had they done to each other?

He couldn’t help but think those words were right. Bone and rot felt like all he was now, and the only thing keeping him alive was that stupid sliver of hope. Hope had become his oxygen: thin, poisoned, seeping dangerously into his system. But he breathed it in anyway, as though it could save him somehow. 

Severus was here, somewhere. And James was going to find him, even if it meant tearing Hogwarts apart brick by brick until the castle gave him up. He would chase him through every shadow and page, never stopping until he unearthed the truth behind that name. 

 

---

 

The day he was finally discharged from the infirmary, a chilling confirmation awaited James. Halfway to the Great Hall, hands shoved deep in his pockets, he passed two girls — second or third years, judging by their size — whispering at the base of the stairwell.

“Have you heard?” one murmured, her voice soft as falling ash.

“The ghost?” said the other, her eyes wide with a particular brand of fascination only fear could make beautiful. “They say there’s a new one at Hogwarts.”

James halted mid-step. 

He didn’t mean to; his foot just hovered in the air, suspended above the next stair as though held there by a jolt of static. A cold ripple threaded down the back of his neck, tightening every muscle in his shoulders. 

“They say he haunts the dungeons,” the first girl continued, her tone laced with delighted dread. “Creeped the Slytherins out so bad they can’t sleep.”

The second giggled, light and careless. “Serves them right, if you ask me.”

James had to fight the instinct to spin around and demand details on the spot. Instead, he edged back, feigning disinterest as he drifted closer to the wall, close enough to catch more without being obvious. Their voices dropped. He leaned in inadvertently, shoulder accidentally bumping a suit of armour. The sharp rattle of metal clanged louder than expected, and he snatched it quickly — bless his Quidditch reflexes — before it could topple. 

“The ghost is supposed to be a former student,” the girl whispered, glancing around like the shadows themselves might overhear. “Some think it’s someone who just… passed.” 

James held his breath. The world tilted before him, and this time, it wasn’t from sickness.

Her friend leaned even closer, her mouth curling in scandalous delight. “You don’t mean… Severus Snape?”

That was it. Without thinking, he stepped forward.

“Sorry, did you say Severus Snape?” 

The girls jumped like they’d been hexed. One clutched her bag to her chest; the other flushed scarlet to the roots of her hair. 

“Oh Godric,” one gasped. “You’re —”

“James Potter,” the first finished in a breathless swoon, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. 

He raked a hand through his hair, already regretting the interruption but far too desperate to back out. “Yeah. Look, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but… what were you saying? About the ghost?” 

They exchanged a look — half-flustered, half-panicked — before the braver one spoke up. “We weren’t trying to spread rumours or anything. It’s just what we heard.” 

“I get it. But you know why he’s here?” he asked, more gently now. 

She shrugged. “They say he came back angry. Angry that no one cared.”

Oh god.

Angry. Angry that no one cared.

Was it true? Was that how Severus felt? Had his short life been so terrible that it had trapped him here, angry and restless? 

“Thanks,” he said quietly, and left before either of them could ask for an autograph — or worse, tell him more than he was ready to hear. He would find his own answers.

The dungeons. That’s what they’d said. The Slytherin dormitories. But he didn’t have the password. And what if Severus was already gone?

Still, it was the weekend. There were no classes; nowhere else he had to be.

So James turned and descended into the lower levels with purpose — reckless, aching purpose — trying not to look like a complete lunatic. A cluster of Slytherins passed him in the dungeon corridors — some younger, some older — casting wary glances his way, but he didn’t flinch. He scanned every corridor, every alcove, every darkened crevice.

As they swept past, he caught a glimpse of Rosier among them, walking far too close to Mulciber; closer than James had ever seen before. Their voices dropped as they passed, a thin smirk curling on Mulciber’s lips. No one stopped him. No one questioned what he was doing there. McGonagall’s warning had apparently stuck. 

Still, it was jarring to see Rosier glued so tightly to their side after recent tensions — as if trying to stitch himself back into their circle. Maybe he was simply that desperate to prove that names like poofter or nancy boy never belonged to him.

When he reached the blank stretch of wall that hid the Slytherin common room, James hovered for a while, waiting for something to happen — for a wall to shift, or a name to be whispered, or a trace of silver to shimmer into view. But the wall remained motionless. Not even another student passed through. 

After about twenty minutes, he gave up. 

His next stop was the lake. He trekked the slow, familiar path across the grounds and down the slope, stopping only when he reached the roots of Severus’ tree — as it had solidified itself in his mind. The cold bark dug into his fingertips, worn from wind and shade. James sat beneath it like he had before, textbook heavy in his bag, his eyes flitting from the lake to the castle and back again, waiting for the shape of a boy to emerge from the mist. 

But the water only rippled with wind. And the roots offered no secrets.

James slid down the trunk until he was curled in the grass, knees drawn to his chest. The grass was damp from last night’s dew, a slow, creeping discomfort he welcomed. Out here, the world felt quieter without the whispering girls, bustling halls and remnants of laughter echoing like funeral hymns.

He reached into his satchel and pulled out the worn Potions textbook, running his fingers over the cover like it was sacred. Slowly, he flipped through it until another folded scrap slipped loose. Another poem. 

No title. No name. Just a spelling of sorrow. 

For a moment, James half-expected the familiar chill — that dreaded brush of cold air, that warning presence — to return. Some small sign that he’d crossed a line. That Severus didn’t want him reading this. But the feeling never came. 

He unfolded the parchment cautiously, as if afraid it might crumble in his hands.

The shadows know me better than light
They speak in silence, in ink and frostbite.
I was not made for bright, blistering days,
But for cupboards where echoes decay.

If no one sees you, do you still exist?
If no one speaks your name, are you missed?
Perhaps the mirror knows my face,
But even it recoils, leaving no trace.

Each line seared into him, quiet and desperate. As though Severus had left pieces of himself behind in case someone — anyone — cared enough to listen. 

If no one speaks your name…

James gripped the parchment so tightly that his knuckles whitened. 

“I see you now, Severus,” he whispered breathlessly. “Even if I didn’t before. I see you.”

But the tree gave no answer. Only high above the lake’s glass ripples, the clouds began to break, and the faint cry of a distant bird trilled against the pale morning sky.

He stayed for a long while; long enough for the clouds to roll in again, for the breeze to turn sharp against his skin. Still, the air remained devoid of soul. 

Eventually, he stood, his legs stiff from sitting too long, his robes heavy with dew and something lonelier. The ink on the parchment was now creased and smudged from where his thumb had rubbed over the ink. Gently, he closed the textbook, brushing his fingers over the worn leather before tucking it back into his satchel and fastening it shut with care. 

If the dungeons had given him nothing, and the tree had given him nothing… perhaps the library would. Perhaps he wasn’t supposed to hunt, but to learn.

For once, it was time to suck it up and wade through actual reading — even if patience wasn’t his strong suit, even if he usually skipped the research and relied on instinct to scrape through. Books, this time: about how ghosts linger, why they stay, what they need. He wasn’t going to just chase down Severus, he was going to understand him.

Because you don’t chase shadows out of guilt. You chase them when you’re hoping they’ll turn around and see you, too. 

 

---

 

The library had always been a place of quiet — too quiet for a young boy who revelled in chaos and attention. Silence used to feel like a punishment, like being forced to sit still in a room too small for all the energy bottled inside. He had never been able to step into the library without fidgeting, without dragging Sirius along to whisper jokes between the shelves, or daring Peter to help him find the most useless-sounding book in the building.

Stepping through the threshold now felt like crossing into another realm entirely; one where silence wasn’t a punishment, but a balm that settled over him in a relieved exhale. The scent of parchment and old dust wrapped around him, warmer than the drafts outside, and unexpectedly soothing. 

The shelves towered like cathedral walls, crammed with old volumes whose spines had long lost their names. With each step, the outside world receded — gossip, footsteps, even memory — until only his own breath and the distant tick of a bewitched clock remained. Strangely, he didn’t miss the noise. The library held its own rhythm, solemn and sacred, like the last heartbeat of ancient ruins held in dust and ink. 

James moved slowly down the aisles, fingers trailing along spines cracked with age or resisted with the stiffness of new bindings. He scanned the shelves until he reached the right section: Spirits, Hauntings & Post-Mortal Manifestations.

Madam Pince barely glanced up at him as he passed; she was used to students lingering and searching. Not James, though.

He pulled down books with titles like Spirits of the Realms: A History of Ghosts, Post-Mortem Manifestations in Magical History and The Unrest of Departed Souls. A small pile gathered under his arm until he had to shift his grip to keep it from toppling. The weight of them pressed into his ribs, but he welcomed it. Let it anchor him. Let it remind him that he was doing something — anything besides sitting under a tree whispering futile apologies into the wind. 

He found a corner table near a stained-glass window, half-eclipsed in shadow. The books landed on wood with soft thumps as he set them down. James pulled out the first — a thick, moth-eaten volume titled The Soul Beyond the Veil: A Study of Ghosthood — and flipped past the yellowing title pages. At first, the words came slowly — he was still by the tree, still reading the poem in his head — but gradually, the text began to take shape.

“Ghosts are the echoes of unresolved souls that once lived,” one passage read. “In most cases, they imprint on the physical world due to an excessive fear of death or an extraordinarily strong connection to the locations they haunt.”

James leaned closer, hungrily absorbing every word. Fear of death didn’t seem right for Severus. He didn’t strike James as someone particularly afraid to die. After all, he had knowingly walked into imminent danger at the Shrieking Shack…

Strong connection to a place? Hogwarts meant a lot to people — it certainly meant everything to Sirius, more of a home than his own house. But enough to stay forever? 

The next line offered a different possibility: “Some ghosts may be bound by hateful vengeance, regret or even unanswered longing.”

James leaned back in the chair, the old wood creaking under his weight. The stained-glass window spilled fractured light across the table, reds and greens pooling like melted jewels over his hands on the parchment. He rubbed his eyes, then stared blankly at the chapter heading. 

Vengeance and regret. Yes, that he understood. If there was anyone who had unfinished business — things unsaid, injustices unavenged — it was Severus.

But… longing. That word struck something deep inside his chest. 

He turned the page, fingertips smudged faintly with dust. “Ghosts do not forget. They do not age, nor do they heal. They remain locked in the moment of their pain, caught between memory and reality. To interact with a ghost is to interact with a memory that believes itself real.”

A frown tugged at his brow. The hollowness crept in again.

Was that all Severus was now? Just a memory, caught in an endless loop of misery? A boy standing forever in the shadow of a mistake not his own?

The thought dried James’ throat. He reached for another book, Post-Mortem Manifestations in Magical History, and flipped towards the index. His finger skimmed quickly: poltergeists, death omens, sentient hauntings… 

With a sigh, he turned to the section titled Physical Properties.

“Ghosts, while incorporeal, are not entirely without influence over the physical world. They pass through solid objects, are undetectable by touch and may turn invisible at will. However, their effect on the environment is more profound than mere passage. Water, for instance, can ripple or stir in their wake. A slight disturbance in the air can lead to objects fluttering momentarily. Fire, while not usually a realm for spectral interaction, may flicker or dim when a ghost draws near, even turn blue, signifying a sudden change in energy.”

James nodded absently. He’d known this; Nearly Headless Nick had explained as much, and Peeves had proven that poltergeists were a very different beast altogether in their ability to manipulate physical objects.

“A notable feature of ghosts is the slight drop in temperature around them, often enough to be felt only by those in proximity.” 

He flicked past it. Then a sentence caught his eye, buried between dense footnotes.

“However, there have been rare cases in which ghosts have exhibited anomalies: sudden tangibility, fleeting warmth, or momentary reflection in mirrors. These are often associated with spirits whose emotional tether to the living remains unusually intense.”

He stilled. Turned the page. Another line waited for him there, etched in smaller text beneath a chart detailing spectral frequencies: “There are accounts of hauntings wherein a spirit, once thought aimless, began to interact regularly and consciously with a living individual — responding, even changing, as if aware of itself. This can lead to a rare phenomenon known as Residual Evolution.”

He whispered it aloud. “Residual Evolution.” 

“Residual Evolution is not well understood, but it appears that ghosts tethered by powerful emotion, and exposed to changing emotional energy from the living, may begin to shift over time. They may develop heightened sentience, becoming not merely echoes of their former selves, but something closer to the soul itself responding, reshaping, remembering. In rare cases, this phenomenon has led to speculation that what begins as an imprint may gradually become something more: a fragment of the original soul reclaiming agency, and with it, the potential to move on. Some experts warn, however, that such manifestations may be misinterpreted residual magic or poltergeist activity rather than true sentient evolution.”

James’ heart gave a small, inexplicable lurch. The idea that a ghost could grow — not just linger, but evolve — sparked an ember awake inside him, fragile enough to be snuffed out at a moment’s notice… yet persistent enough to flicker. To hope. To believe.

Responding. Changing. A ghost who could listen.

Could Severus…?

He leaned forward again, elbows on the table, taking out a fresh piece of parchment from his bag. Ink pooled at the tip of his quill as he hesitated — mind buzzing with questions, with unease, with a strange, terrible excitement — then began to write.

Ghost Behaviour (Specific to S.S.)

Observations

• Appeared at tree and shack. Apparently dungeons, too.
• Haunts Slytherin dormitories, why?
• Presence felt cold, but not unbearably so. Like a draft from nowhere.
• Air shifted when I thought he was near, leaves fluttered by the lake.
• No reflection seen yet. Check mirrors more intentionally.
• Chooses when to show up. Similar to The Grey Lady?

Possible Reasons

• Fear of death — unlikely.
• Strong connection to Hogwarts? Possibly. Was he even happy here?
• Regret — likely.
• Vengeance — uncertain. If so, why not show up more?
• Longing… for what he couldn’t have in life? Peace? Friendship? Lily?
• Can longing tie someone here more than hatred?

Residual Evolution

• Can ghosts actually grow, not just repeat the same pain?
• If they’re shaped by living emotions, could my seeing him change him, too?
• Is he waiting for something? Closure? Forgiveness? Me?
• Could he eventually move on?
• Would he?
• Would I let him?

His thoughts tumbled over themselves, faster than his hand could keep up. That last line, he scribbled out vehemently. Why did it matter to him? And who was he to decide anyway?

And yet... 

No.

What truly mattered was why Severus was here. What kept him. Whether James could help, because no one else would. 

He reached for the next book on the stack, one bound in peeling red leather. 

 

---

 

He didn’t remember letting his head fall, only that at some point, the book had slipped from his fingers and rested against his chest. Maybe he had underestimated just how drained he’d been lately. His cheek pressed against the parchment he’d written, the ink now drying to a dull sheen. 

Then, warmth.

It was only for a moment — a barely felt pressure of something soft being draped over him. Not quite touch, not quite weight. Strangely, it resembled the memory of a blanket rather than a real one. 

James stirred, lips parting slightly. His fingers twitched, lashes fluttering between sleep and wakefulness. But by the time he opened his eyes, the sensation had slipped away.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the library ceiling in a haze of disorientation. Then his eyes caught the candle flickering on the table beside his books. The flame waned… then shifted to a pale, ethereal blue — the same ghostly hue as the lake under moonlight.

He sat up sharply, his glasses slipping and clattering onto the table. 

A soft noise stirred to his left; the faintest shuffle of robes. James looked up, but the aisle beside his table was empty. A shiver traced down his spine, not from fear, but the unmistakable presence lingering just beyond his senses.

“Severus?” he breathed. 

But it was too late. Whoever had been there was already gone. Still, he grabbed his quill with a trembling hand and scribbled in the margin of his earlier notes:

• Blue flame.
• Pressure like a blanket.
• A shuffle — robes? Not wind. Not a dream.
• Present. Watching. Close.

He stared at the sloppy words until the ink bled a little from how tightly he was gripping the quill. 

The library was nearly deserted now. Even Madam Pince had vanished behind her locked office door, leaving the shelves to their enchantments. James slid his glasses back on and packed up in silence, carefully tucking the parchment and a few borrowed books into his bag. He spared one last glance at the spot where the flame had flickered blue — now calm and gold again. 

As he stepped out into the corridor, the chill of the night hit him, raising goosebumps across his arms. The castle’s usual noises had dulled. Portraits murmured in their sleep and the floor creaked with old breath, but the halls felt still, expectant.

Then, a sharp cackle shattered the hush.

“Ooooooh! Out after curfew, Pottie-boo!”

James flinched as Peeves shot down from the ceiling like a firework, spinning upside down with wild eyes and a toothy grin. 

“Snivelly’s got bones to pick!” shrieked Peeves, zipping in circles around James’ head. “Ooooh, watch your back, Potter-prick!” 

James stopped dead in the hallway, heart hammering. “What did you say?”

Peeves giggled madly, somersaulting through the air. “Eeeheehee, ink and ash and shadow’s slip!”

“What —?”

But the poltergeist was already gone, sailing up through the ceiling with a raspberry and a flash of his mismatched socks. His cackling echoed down the corridor long after he was gone. 

The boy stood alone in the corridor for a long moment. Peeves’ words etched themselves into his mind, unsettlingly lucid for a mad little creature born of chaos. Ink and ash and shadow’s slip. The kind of riddle that only made sense if you were half-mad or half-asleep. 

By the time he reached Gryffindor Tower, the Fat Lady was already asleep, snoring faintly beneath her pink turban. 

“Moonhowler,” he muttered sullenly. She gave a grumpy snort and swung open without opening her eyes. 

The common room lay steeped in quiet gloom, the hearth’s faint embers still struggling against the creeping cold. James climbed the stairs two at a time, shoved open the dormitory door, and let it fall shut behind him with a dull thud.

Inside, the silence pressed harder. Peter’s bed was empty — probably still serving that separate detention with McGonagall — and the others, of course, hadn’t been occupied in ages. 

He needed someone to talk to, someone to help him make sense of his recent discoveries without telling him he’d lost his mind. 

James crossed to his trunk, knelt, and pulled out the mirror. Turning it over in his hands, he whispered as he had countless times before, “Sirius Black.”

Nothing.

Only his reflection stared back at him, pale and haunted in the dim candlelight. The mirror caught the angles of his face too harshly these days. His eyes looked too dull, his mouth drawn too tight. He waited a while anyway, watching the glass as if something might shift in it — as if Sirius might appear at last, laughing or scowling or just there.

But the glass stayed blank.

James let out a long, shaky breath and reached for the parchment on his nightstand. Ink still stained his fingers, smudging the edges of the page as he began to write. It was the only choice left. 

21st March, 1976

Hey Padfoot,
I don’t know why I’m still trying. You’re not answering. You’re probably not even going to open this. But something’s been happening this past week.

A few days ago, I went back to the Shrieking Shack. You’d probably call me mad for doing something so stupid, but when I got there, I swear I saw Snape. He looked exactly like he used to. Even called me a cunt and everything. For a second I thought it was a fever dream — and I did end up with a bit of a fever after, not that it matters — but there’ve been rumors around school about a new Slytherin ghost, and…

Today, I fell asleep in the library. Woke up to a blanket that wasn’t there and a candle flickering blue. Then I heard him — well I didn’t hear him exactly, but I felt him. Like when we used to sneak into the passages and just knew someone was behind us, even before they made a sound.

It was him, Pads. It was. I know it.

And then Peeves said something. About Snape. About bones and shadows and…

I don’t know. Maybe I’m really losing it. Or maybe I’m finally starting to see things for what they are. I remember him now. I remember him, not as the made-up Snivellus or even the Slytherin greaseball. The real him. The one with the sharp wit and clever hands and the way he’d stand in front of Lily like he was her bloody shield. 

I think I owe him… 

I wish you were here. You’d probably make fun of me and call me a lovesick lunatic or start howling like a werewolf, but you’d at least listen. Then I could say it out loud to someone: that I think I’m trying to talk to a ghost. That I don’t want him to leave, and I’m starting to think he’s the only person who could understand how lost I feel.

I miss you. I miss all of you. I’d take any version of us back, even the bloody awful ones.

If you get this… please let me know you’re okay. Even if it’s just a “shut up.”

Your friend,
Prongs

The candle beside his bed had nearly burned out, wax pooling in a crescent along the rim of the holder. When the ink dried, he folded the parchment and glanced at the empty mirror one last time before tying the letter to the leg of his owl.

Cold air swept in, brushing past his face like a closing thought. 

“Take it to him,” he murmured.

The owl hooted softly — a sound too alive in the heavy stillness — before launching into the night with a rustle of feathers. Its wings sliced through the air in one swift, graceful motion. A brown silhouette framed against the stars, the owl slipped into the distance until the darkness swallowed it whole. James leaned on the windowsill for a breath longer, eyes tracing the moonlit horizon. He stayed there until the cold bit deeper into his skin, then pulled the window shut, closing the world away. 

The moon sat high, silent, and silver as he crawled into bed. And James, watching it through half-lidded eyes, made a quiet promise into the dark. 

“I’ll find you, even if it takes a hundred nights. Even if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

 

---

 

Severus.

The name still formed on his lips every time he passed an empty hallway, like a prayer whispered to stone. 

Severus.

He still loitered near the dungeons between classes, pretending to search for a missing quill or tie his shoe — not that it stopped the Slytherins from casting scornful looks his way — while listening for whispers, studying every passing shadow as he muttered the name. As if Severus might just drift through a wall one day, stop in front of him and say something in that snarky voice, You’re embarrassing yourself, Potter.

Severus.

He still tapped the Marauder’s Map open before bed and scanned the parchment, eyes sweeping the corners in quiet desperation for the name. Maybe tonight, he thought. Maybe tonight, it’ll appear. 

Severus.

He still spent hours beneath the tree — returning in the early mornings and late afternoons to read the textbook propped on his knees — and stayed long past sundown, until the shadows between the trunks stretched out in ghoul-like shapes. It was stupid, but he had started hoping the dark would draw Severus out. Perhaps ghosts were shy in the light. Or perhaps — more likely than the ridiculous excuses James conjured up to comfort himself that this wasn’t the case — Severus was simply too stubborn to see him. 

No matter. James would simply be more stubborn. 

He took a penknife and carved it into the tree’s roots, answering Severus’ poem: If no one sees you, do you still exist?

I see you, James etched carefully. I see you, Severus.

And when the wind or earth or time tried to erase it, he retraced the words again and again, until the bark remembered them. 

I see you. 

By the dawn of next Thursday — still seeing no sign of him — James had resorted to treating the tree as his own. He’d already combed through the annotated Advanced Potion-Making twice over, underlining Severus’ writing so obsessively the pages had begun to tear. He’d transcribed the notes into his own book, tried brewing some of the modified versions in abandoned classrooms, and — most damning of all — caught himself murmuring spells under his breath that weren’t found in any Ministry-approved curriculum. 

He knew they were dangerous. Knew they were his. That only made him feel closer. 

The sky had barely bruised pink. Dew clung to the grass in silvery pearls, and mist curled low around the lake. James sat with his back to the tree, Transfiguration textbook open, parchment spread across his lap. It didn’t matter that the bark was cold, or that his cashmere jumper was always damp at the elbows, or that his custom-made shoes — the sort meant for Hogsmeade strolls, not trudging through mud — were gradually wearing down. What mattered was the consistency of searching, and waiting, and searching again. The rhythm of it grounded him more than aimless wandering had.

James wasn’t a morning person, nor one to finish homework early. He was more of a last-minute, scribble-it-during-lunch kind of person. But sleep had escaped him, and brooding in bed felt too much like doing nothing. Better to be here. Better to do something.

He tried to focus on the essay McGonagall had assigned: Analyse the principles of human-to-animal Transfiguration and discuss the risks of incomplete transformations.

His quill scratched along the parchment as he scrawled out the introduction. The topic, at least, was a little interesting to James, seeing as he had plenty of personal experience with human-to-animal Transfiguration himself. He was just starting to jot down a sentence about the critical dangers of tail remnants when an irritable, snooty voice beside him spoke. 

“That’s wrong.” 

James jerked so violently his quill shot off course, leaving a thick, ugly blot across the parchment. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest as he turned his head. 

Severus was sitting beside him. Just like that. One leg crossed neatly over the other, an arm draped across his knee as if this was perfectly normal. As if he hadn’t been dead for weeks, and wasn’t currently translucent and slightly shimmering in the morning light. His brows were drawn, his gaze fixed on James’ messy handwriting with an air of disapproval, as though it had personally offended him. 

James could barely breathe. He blinked. Stared. Then let out a soft, incredulous laugh.

“You’re — you’re actually here.”

Severus didn’t reply at first. He simply arched one eyebrow, unimpressed as ever.

But James smiled anyway, wide and stunned and utterly helpless. He couldn’t even be sure if it was relief or triumph or joy, only that it filled him, warm and blooming, like spring light coaxing through frostbitten glass after a long, cruel winter. 

Finally, he had found him. Or… Severus had finally let himself be found.

Notes:

Sorry for the slight cliffhanger! They’ve reunited so we’ll finally get more of Severus and some other relevant characters... thank you to those of you who've been sticking around :]

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