You know the drill. I don't own Harry Potter, yada yada yada. I will most definitely continue this if I get reviews. ;]

James Potter panted in the darkness, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his side and the unbearable agony throbbing in his heart.

He had a vague idea of where he was and an even vaguer idea of why he was there. He had this fleeting memory of a flash of green light, but it felt distant, like it happened in a dream or a past life. A very long time ago...and yet the pain in that memory was fresh in his mind. He didn't know what the flash of green light meant but he knew it wasn't good. It kept playing over and over again behind his eyelids like a horror movie he couldn't shut off.

James' face was pressed against the cold stone wall of a dungeon; horrifying thoughts filling his head.

He groaned; more out of the emotional stress than physical pain. What was going on? Where was everyone? Why was it so dark? What was the flash of green light he kept remembering? Where were Lily and Harry? What...?

"Take Harry and run! I'll hold him off..." A high, cold laugh and a loud bang...the sound of something vast flying through the air, rushing toward him...blackness...

"No," He whispered. "I can't have died."

He couldn't have died, it couldn't be true. Because if he died, and he hadn't successfully held off Voldemort, that meant Lily and, he couldn't think about it. It wasn't true.

But if he wasn't dead, where was he?

"I can't have died." James repeated, louder this time, his throat clenching in pain. His voice was hoarse and raspy like he hadn't used it in years.

"Au contraire, mon frère." Said an unfamiliar voice.

James' eyes snapped open. Through the dim, gloomy light, he could make out three stone walls and a barred gate in front of him. Beyond the bars stood a man with coal black eyes and a cruel smile on his face. His brown hair was hair was hidden beneath a black hood and judging by the few lines on his face, he was only in his mid-thirties. James couldn't remember seeing this man before.

"Who are you?" James croaked.

"Larson Wormwood, pleasure to meet you, James." The man said. "I've been waiting for you to wake up for a few days now."

"Where am I?"

"Malfoy Manor." Wormwood answered. "But don't bother trying to get out of here. You won't be leaving."

"How'd I get here?" James asked, trying to sit up. His back felt sore, like he'd been lying on the ground for a very long time. "What - what happened to me..."

"You died." Wormwood replied with a smile. "But you didn't really die, or you wouldn't be here right now. You only went into a coma."

"I was in a coma?" James' mind felt foggy.

"Yes. For six years, in fact."

"No...that can't be..."

"Oui, James. You were in a coma for six years, and now you're awake, just in time." Wormwood clapped his hands together with a smile. "This is excellent, all according to plan. I hope you don't mind staying down here in the dungeons. I can't bring you upstairs to the manor because, frankly, you're an enemy. And we can't have an enemy living among us!" Wormwood laughed. "C'est ridicule!"

"You're a Death Eater." James accused.

"Oui, I am a Death Eater." Wormwood said proudly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be getting back upstairs. The Dark Lord needs me."

"Voldemort...he killed..." James trailed off, not wanting to say it out loud.

"The Dark Lord didn't kill you." Wormwood shook his head. "Not really, he only put you in a coma, as I've already explained. But the rest of the world believes you to be dead."

"I know he didn't kill me. But he killed..." James swallowed, tears stinging his eyes.

"Your family?" Wormwood suggested helpfully, grinning cruelly. "Yes, he did."

He felt a vicious stab of pain in his heart.

"He murdered your mudblood wife, and then murdered your only son." Wormwood laughed. "I'll just leave you here to reflect on that."

As Wormwood turned away from the cell and made his way down the dark hallway outside, James barely noticed. The words Wormwood just said echoed around in his mind, looping over and over again until they finally sunk in...

"You were in a coma for six years, and now you're awake...the rest of the world believes you to be dead...he murdered your mudblood wife and then murdered your only son..."

"murdered your mudblood wife, and then murdered your only son..."

"your mudblood wife and your only son..."

"your mudblood wife..."

"your only son..."


There was an explosion of unbearable, indescribable pain inside of him. It felt like someone performed the Cruciatus Curse on his heart; his insides were writhing and his heart was pounding against his ribcage like it was trying to get out. He raised his hands to his face and dug his nails into his cheeks, like he was trying to claw the pain out of himself. He fell back against the cold stone floor and screamed; screamed in an attempt to get rid of the pain that was suffocating him.


He sobbed and tore at his face, wanting to rip it off. He wanted to reach inside his chest and tear out his heart; he didn't need it anymore. Lily and Harry were gone...

Thoughts of Lily wrapped around his mind and wouldn't let go. He saw Lily in his head, laughing; her gleaming emerald eyes squinted a little as she laughed. After a few moments the memory twisted; Lily's eyes widened as she screamed in terror...

And then memories of Harry...his small hand wrapped around James' finger, minutes after he was born...Harry's catlike eyes that matched Lily's exactly...his squeals of laughter as James tickled him mercilessly on the couch...his spikes of black hair that he'd inherited from James. The time Sirius tried to shape Harry's hair into a Mohawk, to James' amusement and Lily's disapproval.

That last memory hit him with the force of a wrecking ball.

Sirius. Padfoot. Where are you now?

And then the pain suddenly intensified. Sirius. Remus...they must be dead by now, if Voldemort was still alive. Voldemort would have made sure to kill them. And Peter was doubtlessly dead. Peter had been the Secret-Keeper. If Voldemort found them, that meant he'd tortured the information out of Peter...

Everyone he loved was dead.

He screamed again, unable to bear it any longer. He smashed his fists against the dungeon floor, screaming for his family, for his friends, for all that he'd lost, for everyone that had ever suffered because of Voldemort.

But most of all he screamed for his child; his innocent, wide-eyed son who hadn't even begun to experience life. His son with the spiky hair and emerald green eyes who he'd loved deeper and more intensely than he'd ever loved anyone in his entire life, who he'd vowed to protect to the death. He'd loved Harry more than he loved life itself, and now that Harry was gone, what was the point of being alive?

I failed you, Harry. You too, Lily. I'm so sorry.