Chapter Text
'Tis Apollo; all is Apollo,
‘Tis he long time hath planned
These things upon me evilly, evilly
Dark things and full of blood
– Sophocles, Oedipus the King
James settled into his usual spot, as if he had never left. The hard muscles carefully cultivated from playing Quidditch had turned soft from drink, and his bulk settled on either side of the stool. He slumped across the counter, his back hunched, while the barman slid a glass of Firewhiskey to him. James was twenty-four years old, but to look at him one would think he was comfortably middle-aged. Grown old before his time. War will do that to a man, he thought, sitting up just enough to throw back his glass. For every person he buried, he aged another ten years.
He waved for another one, and as it was poured he asked himself the same question he asked that morning years ago when he opened the paper and read about the Longbottoms: What do I do now?
The rain was coming down in sheets. It pounded against the pavement, and James absently watched the Muggles scurry past the glass doors, never once noticing the small, enchanted pub as they ran for shelter. A black shape suddenly appeared through the haze. It wove between the bodies in their smart business suits and raincoats. It slipped up to the door, a pale hand reaching out, the bell ringing, and there stood Severus Snape, pulling back his black hood.
James was struck by a sense of deja vu. This exact scene, from not even a year ago: Severus walking through that door, standing frozen at the threshold. He looked different then. Long, silky hair around his shoulders, a thin, knit sweater showing the dip of his collarbone, pale skin healthy and glowing, a slight smile tugging at his lips. There was no hint of that smile now. He had grown thin and gaunt during his stay at St. Mungo's; the result of too many potions and not enough solid food. Skin turned sallow, hair hanging lank and greasy. The light in his dark eyes had gone out. Severus had seen death now.
Those eyes fell upon him and he sneered, as if he expected no better from the likes of James Potter.
Severus slid into the stool next to James – Sirius's spot, that was Sirius's spot – his black cloak folding around him like the wings of a bat, and ordered a cheap beer. Severus actually liked American beer, James remembered. "How was the funeral?" Severus asked.
"It was nice," James said, not knowing any other adjective to describe it. Nice seemed wrong. Nice made him sound frivolous, or uncaring. But he was uncaring, wasn't he? He didn't care. He didn't care about anything. He was numb. "Lily had already planned everything out during the war. Just in case. I just had to follow her instructions. She's buried in the family cemetery, next to my parents. You can visit if you want. No one will stop you."
Severus nodded slowly. He was dressed in full mourning, like James. Black covered every inch of his skin, but if he looked closely James could see white scars creeping up from the edge of his high collar, half-hidden by his hair. Wizarding tradition stated that, as her husband, James only had to mourn her for three months. Wives were required to mourn their husbands for a full three years. "That's incredibly misogynistic," Lily had once complained. "Muggles stopped all this nonsense after the reign of Queen Victoria." James had tried to explain it to her. Allowances must be made, men needed to remarry quickly, for the sake of the children. They needed a woman to look after them, and she had punched him in the arm when he said that.
But Severus wasn't required to go into mourning at all; they were only "friends," after all. James knew Severus would mourn Lily for the rest of his life. She was the reason he came back. He should have stayed away, James thought.
"I saw you closed your shop. Are you going back to America?"
Severus shook his head. "Dumbledore offered me a job teaching potions. I've decided to take it."
"You? A teacher? You don't even like kids."
Severus shrugged.
"And you hate Hogwarts."
Another delicate shrug, one thin shoulder lifting smoothly up.
"You're going to be miserable," James insisted.
"Maybe that's what I want," Severus replied, and then he fixed James with that black stare. "Why aren't you at home with Harry right now? That boy just lost his mother. He needs you."
James glanced away. "Remus is watching him."
"Probably for the best," Severus hummed. "Better a werewolf for a father than a murderer."
James whipped his head around and pointed drunkenly in Severus's face. "It was your boyfriend who killed her!"
"And he was your best friend. I was there at Sirius's trial. I heard what he said. You knew–"
"I didn't know anything. I can't be responsible for Sirius's choices," James muttered into his glass, chasing the last few drops.
"No, you never wanted to take responsibility for anything, as I remember." The sneer was back and James hated it, hated the way Snivellus would twist his face at the sight of him, as if James wasn't fit for him to wipe his shoes on.
"You're a fucking cunt," James informed him. "You’re not innocent in this. He wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t cheated. You want to blame me and Sirius and everybody else in this world, but what about you? What about your actions? You fucking– slut. You’re a slut and a whore. Did you even like me, or was it all a ploy to get close to my wife?"
Severus dropped a few sickles onto the counter. "Oh, Potter," he drawled out as he stood up. "You wouldn't have been able to do anything even if you had managed to get me." And he turned and headed for the toilets.
James saw red.
He stormed through the pub, following Severus into the restroom, watched the man turn his head, look at him with those soulless black eyes. James lunged as soon as the door swung shut behind him. He pushed Severus up against the damp, tiled wall. He attacked him with his mouth, pressed his lips against him, licked his tongue against the seam. Severus didn't fight him; his white, dove hands clutched at his rumpled, black suit, pulling him closer. He opened his legs just enough to let James slide between them, their bodies pressed fully against one another.
James could taste the cheap beer coating his tongue as their teeth clashed together. He felt pain, the sting blooming along his bottom lip as Severus bit down. He pulled at his high-collared, black robes, wanting to see more of him, wanting to touch–
The buttons were pulled apart, the line of his throat exposed and James stopped short. The damage Sirius had wrought lay bare. Thick, ropey scar tissue twisted along his shoulder and neck, reaching as high as his ear and disappearing down into his shirt. Severus was lucky he didn't lose his arm. He's lucky he hadn't been bisected.
Severus was looking up at him with a twisted grin on his face. "What's the matter, Potter? Can't get it up?" A hand reached down and cupped him through his trousers. James was soft. He's been soft this entire time. "No wonder Lily was so eager to hop into my bed."
Severus let go. He stepped away. He adjusted his robes and fastidiously redid each button. "Goodbye, James," he said and slipped out, out of the bathroom and the Leaky Cauldron, back into the crowded, rain-soaked streets. James had never felt so small, or so cold.
There wasn't anything left for him, was there? There was Harry, but honestly, who was he kidding? Severus was right; Harry would be better off with Remus, or even Lily's sister. James wasn’t a man at all, much less a good man. One day soon, Harry will be old enough to ask, “Why did Mum have to die?” and the only answer James would be able to provide is, “It had nothing to do with her. I wasn’t thinking about her at all.” All he could think about at that moment was Snivellus. That’s how it always was, wasn’t it? Even during Hogwarts, after Lily finally agreed to go on a date, he still couldn’t get Severus Snape out of his head. He had continued to torment him, and what was the point of it all? Lily was his; he had won. Why, why did he do the things he did?
A voice, Lily's voice, whispered in the back of his head, You're still only thinking about yourself. You, you, you– who cares about you? I'm dead, you prick. Did you even really love me? You never, never ever saw me. You were too busy staring into your own reflection.
He passed by the windows, his reflection flitting between the droplets running down the glass as he made his way back to his seat. Merlin, was that him? Did he really look like that? Doughy face, a touch of jaundice. His artfully mussed hair now just looked tangled and unwashed. Was this the face of a grieving widower? Was this grief?
He remembered when his parents died, first his father, then his mother only a week later. Dragonpox, and James had told them to stay at home, that it was bad this year and they were old and not in the best of health. He'd been so angry when they passed; why hadn't they listened to him? And then he was terrified. How was he supposed to go on without them? Who was he going to run to when things got hard, who was going to pull him out whatever mess he had managed to make this time? Me, me, me. He was scared that he never really loved them, that he was a soulless monster, that he didn't really grieve their loss, only grieved the things they could no longer do for him. He didn't want to be like this. He didn't want to be a monster.
He loved Lily. He was so sure he had, at one point. He had wanted her, and that was the same thing, wasn't it? Then why couldn't he feel anything?
He caught a glimpse of Dorcas sitting at a table, in the back, her face half-covered in shadow, one side ripped open by a curse, her brains leaking out, lying dead, dead. The dead were waiting for him, waiting for the end of the war.
James felt his breath quicken as he left his entire pouch of coins on the counter and hurried out before the bartender could call him back. James stepped onto the street, the shock of cold and wet momentarily breaking through the rising panic. He lifted his face, let the rain pelt his closed eyelids, nose, and chin, and slowly he calmed. His thundering heart began to beat at a more sedate pace, and James found himself almost missing it. At least, while in the throes of a panic attack, he was feeling something. He could prove to himself that he was human.
Because now the numbness had returned, and all the bad thoughts with it.
He turned his collar up and started for the Thames. It was still early evening, but the black, cloudy sky obscured the orange glow of the streetlights. It was dark, and the few people he passed kept their heads down, shielding their eyes from the rain. James looked out across the embankment as he walked, slowing down to a stop so that he could stare at the river. He spotted a half-drowned, three-legged rat floating on a piece of driftwood. Poor guy, he looked a little like Peter. James hoped he would make it safely to the shore.
He watched ripples form from each drop of rain, watched as the ripples expanded and crashed into each other, reforming as the rain continued to fall. I'm not selfish, James petulantly thought as he lifted one leg over the railing. I'm not running away. I'm doing this for Harry. What kind of father would I be if I stayed? James jumped, and he thought, it's a long way down, isn't it? right before he hit the water. The force of the impact knocked him unconscious, and he slipped beneath the waves.