All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

The War : Spring & Summer 1980

The future is but a question mark

Hangs above my head there in the dark

Can’t see for the brightness is staring me blind

God bid yesterday goodbye

Bring on the night

I couldn’t stand another hour of daylight

Bring on the night

I couldn’t stand another hour of daylight

 

Fleamont and Euphemia Potter did not live to see 1980. They passed away just a few days shy of the new year, within hours of each other.

James was out on a mission with Frank when it happened. He didn’t get to say goodbye.

Sirius cried for hours when he first heard the news, unable to do anything but repeat, desperately, over and over,

“It’s not fair! It’s not fair!”

A world without the Potters just didn’t make sense. They had always been there, even when no one else was—offering their home and their time and their endless supply of love to any who needed it. Sirius sobbed until his throat was raw, his eyes stinging and red. Remus held him, stroking his hair.

He pulled himself together, after that. He had to for James, who floated through his own home like a ghost, staring blankly at walls, crying quiet tears. They had all known this was coming—but that didn’t make it any easier. James Potter was not built for helpless grief; Sirius had never seen him shoulder a weight he couldn’t carry. But now, as the house filled with mourners and old friends and Order members seeking to share their condolences, Sirius was forced to watch his best friend shrink. It was like watching the sun die.

“The very best of wizard kind,” Dumbledore said, in the speech that he gave at the funeral, “A beacon of understanding, tolerance, good humour and community – all those values we hold most dear.”

James spoke, too, shuffling the muggle notecards that Lily had given him anxiously, staring down at his hands.

“When I was five,” he said, in a shaky voice, “I decided that I was going to be a quidditch player.” He glanced up, smiling weakly. “It’s…every kid’s pipe dream, I know. I mean, who doesn’t want to be a quidditch player when they’re five?” There was some scattered chuckling from the gathered crowd, and he went on,

“Looking back on it, any practical person might have written it off. Maybe bought their kid a toy broomstick and waited a few years—I mean, most kids don’t always want to do what they say they want to do when they’re five, y’know?” He sniffed, rubbing at his eyes. “But not my parents. My mum started bringing home quidditch magazines, and listened to me natter on about it for…well, for my whole life, really. And my dad—”

He broke off, for a moment, to suck in a breath. Lily was standing beside him, and she reached out to take his hand.

“…my dad’s the one who taught me how to fly.” James rubbed at his eyes again, knocking his glasses askew so that they sat tilted on his nose. “He would come home every day from work, and take me out to the backyard, and show me how to balance, and how to turn, and how to grip a broom correctly. Everything…”