Pairing(s)/character(s): James Potter | Mentions of Lily Evans/James Potter
Rating: General - All Audiences
Word count: 610 Words
Summary: James Potter had never been much of a brawler. He would never back down from a fight – it wouldn’t be a very Gryffindorish thing to run away, after all – but he much preferred to talk his way out of situations before they got out of hand. He had charm and wit, not a wicked right hook. Part of the Years Apart series.
Warnings: Canon character death mentioned.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything from the Harry Potter fandom other than the books I’ve bought. That said, I do own all original writing and interpretations. Please don’t steal.
A/N: This is the second part of a series, but each part stands alone, and the only real order is when I finish writing them. Please enjoy, and comment if you read. Thanks.
“Where this is only a choice between cowardice and violence, I would advise violence.” Mohandas Ghandi
James Potter had never been much of a brawler. He would never back down from a fight – it wouldn’t be a very Gryffindorish thing to run away, after all – but he much preferred to talk his way out of situations before they got out of hand. He had charm and wit, not a wicked right hook. That was Sirius; fighting was his thing. (And he did it so well.)
The first time he’d gotten into a fight, he’d had his arse handed to him by a girl. Andie had been all of six, and he’d made the mistake of trying to get her attention by pushing her into the mud. James had ruined her brand-new blue robes and gotten a broken nose and his very own set of ruined robes for his trouble.
(He hadn’t learned anything from it, either. His original methods of wooing Miss Lily Evans had involved calling her an uptight ginger swot.)
Pretty little Andie had eventually decided that James was more amusing when he wasn’t bleeding on the ground, so it’d been another five years before he’d needed to defend himself again. Lucius Malfoy was as big an arse as he was rich and little 11-year-old James had punched the sixth year in his perfect prefect nose on his first day of school, forever gaining Sirius’s love. After that he’d left the fighting to Sirius unless necessary; his hand had ached for an entire week, and he’d earned his first detention.
Everyone thought it was Remus who negotiated the Marauders out of trouble. He could – James didn’t know a better on-the-spot liar – but it was really more James’s forte. He’d never admit it (too Slytherin), but he loved politicking and talking others into knots. Sometimes he was even able to make them think it had all been their idea in the first place.
Besides, he’d usually been the one to convince the cautious Remus to join in on their (sometimes illegal) adventures. He couldn’t leave the bloke with the sparking wand without some help. That was what James did: he talked his way out of problems, or he talked his way into getting the upper hand.
He couldn’t do that here. Spells flew over his head, ricocheting off of his parlor wall. James was starting to wish that he’d fought just a little more often, although he doubted it would have helped that much. He was already one of the best duelers in the Department, but he still couldn’t beat Voldemort, especially with his wand on his kitchen counter.
As ridiculous as it sounded, this was James’s last stand. He had known it would probably end like this; he was far from stupid. But… he’d hoped to live a bit longer, to do more, to save his family. He was proud that he was a big enough threat that he’d warranted Voldemort’s personal touch, but he regretted what he’d lost in the fight.
James wanted more nights and mornings and days beside Lily. He wanted to watch Harry grow, go to Hogwarts and have children of his own. He wanted his friends to be happy and safe (poor Peter was probably dead, Sirius wouldn’t survive without him, Remus would be alone). He wanted peace. He wanted to live.
But he wouldn’t.
Shoulders squared, James rose to his feet and stared evil in the face. He greeted death like a friend, and fell like a Gryffindor. In the end, James knew there were no words, no silver-tongued way out of this. He was going to die, but first he fought.