I Am The Son

Disclaimer: I will forever not own Harry Potter or anything officially related.

A/N – Hello! So this, my dear readers, is the first chapter of a story I have been pre-writing for the last many months. The plan was always to wait until after Stages was done to start posting, but unfortunately my muse has decided to seek greener pastures on this story, and I feel that the best way to lure her back is to wave validation under her nose. I will be sticking to the original plan and won't be putting the second chapter up until after I've clicked that magical, amazing 'complete' button on Stages, so view this as a sneak peek, yes? An entire chapter sneak peek, lol. ;)

A massively big shout out to my wonderful, amazing, fantastic alpha readers, Soupy George, CuriousElfQueen, and Worthfull1. There's no way in hell I would've gotten this far without the support of these three. Thank you, thank you, thank you, SO much! You all rock! *blows kiss*

Right, enough with the far too long author's note and on with the story! :D

Chapter One

The Quidditch stadium stood large and vastly empty around him. The dark-haired man sat in the middle of the perfectly oval pitch, long legs stretched straight out, leaning back on his elbows and surveying the seemingly endless seating and the six hoops, three at each end, a contented smile pulling at his mouth. Wearing red playing robes and the appropriate protective gear, he fingered the broom lying on the grass next to him, the latest model and the best yet, they said. In his mind the crowd roared and a faint buzzing of spectator satisfaction – or dissatisfaction depending on which side you were on – hovered in the air around him. He tipped his head back and watched the echo of players flying through the air as they tried desperately to score, keep the Quaffle out of enemy hands, and stop the enemy's Seeker from catching that tiny, elusive gold ball.

He'd been there many times before. He'd flown with his team, scored goal after goal, and celebrated with his house and his mates each and every victory; of which there'd been many. He'd been a spectator as well, shouting at the top of his lungs until he'd practically lost his voice and mourning when his team didn't win; of which he liked to pretend hadn't happened often at all. It was one of his best memories, being on his broom in the electrifying atmosphere of a Quidditch game. He missed it more than he liked.

He sighed and the flickering ghosts of the players and the audience vanished into nothingness, leaving only an empty wooden stadium. He missed a lot of things.

"What's wrong?"

James Potter turned his head and smiled at the redheaded witch walking towards him, a look of concern in her bright green eyes. He didn't say anything until she'd reached his side, stepping in between his legs and settling onto the grass, her back against his chest. He pulled his legs up to cradle her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing a soft kiss to her glorious hair.

It was the first thing he'd noticed about her, in first year. Her hair and her eyes, and the resulting tangled, knotty mess of a feeling in his gut had freaked him the hell out. He'd been eleven years old with his first crush and he hadn't handled it well.

He could laugh about it now, and he did just that, chuckling quietly into Lily's hair. His wife's body relaxed a bit at the sound.

"Reminiscing?" she asked, her fingers brushing along his wrist in an old, familiar gesture that never failed to bring him comfort. James shrugged.

"Just thinking of the way I used to make a fool of myself over you."

"Used to?" came the all too amused answer, and James poked her in the side, grinning at the startled yelp it produced. Lily grumbled and rubbed at her side, the mutter quickly turning into a snorting giggle when James buried his face into her neck and snuffled at her like a dog.

"James! Stop it! You're not Padfoot!"

The strange melancholy tugged at him again, and another sigh escaped. It blew gently against sweet smelling skin and Lily turned in his arms, her forehead against his as she stared into his eyes.

"What's wrong?" she repeated, the quiet words loud in the heavy stillness.

James grimaced. "I just wish… you know."

A short pause and then a butterfly brush of her lips against his. "I know," she whispered. James's arms tightened and they sat in silence for a while until Lily turned back around and waved her hand towards one of the three closest hoops, the round circle enlarging and an image appearing within it, reminding James sharply of a Pensieve. The image showed a young man who looked remarkably like James sitting at a desk and writing steadily, his brow scrunched in concentration. Getting to the end of his piece of parchment, he picked it up and set it aside to dry before sitting back and setting the quill down, flexing the fingers of his writing hand to work out the kinks and rubbing his eyes under his glasses with the other.

He looked tired.

"He works too hard," Lily murmured, and for once James had to agree with her. The dark smudges under Harry's eyes were alarming, standing out against his too pale skin. His hair looked like it'd been hit by lightning, likely from the number of times he'd run his hands through it. Stress carved spidery wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and with hunched shoulders that looked like they carried the weight of the world, he looked much older than his twenty-three years.

Harry James Potter had always been a hero. Even after the war had ended, he still felt compelled to fix everything. Save everyone. He felt he owed the people, and he didn't have anyone apart from his two best friends to correct him of that utterly wrong assumption.

James knew Harry didn't take any notice of Ron and Hermione when it came to his own well being. He never had. It frustrated him to no end.

"He's going to work himself to death, James."

"No he won't. He's smarter than that."

"Is he?" Lily murmured again, sounding distressed. James tucked her further back against him and pressed his lips to the back of her neck, the need to be there for his son; to tell him that he needed to take a break for his own good; to tell him to get his head out of his arse and listen to his father who knew best when he inevitably argued surging desperately through him, making his chest ache.

But that was impossible, wasn't it? James scowled and hid his face in Lily's hair. Fucking death. He hated it.

"Hermione's been pecking at him a bit more than usual lately. Maybe he'll listen? I'll say this for the girl, she doesn't know how to give up- James?"

There was a niggling under his breastbone. James sat, leaning his head against his wife, frowning at the weird, out-of-the blue wiggle. He pressed his hand to his chest, puzzled frown growing as the wiggle grew as well, beginning to spread and envelope, then slash and dig and carve in, and his head shot up on a choked gasp when it suddenly began to tug.

"James? James, what's the matter?"

"Lily," he groaned, body slumping and hand scrambling at his chest. It hurt. It was hurting him. It was tugging, so hard, and it was making his vision waver, and he didn't know what was going on. Lily jumped to her feet and grabbed his shoulder, panic growing wild in her eyes.

"James!"

"Get… away," he forced out as the tugging became a Tsunami of pulling; pulling him down; pulling him through; pulling him apart.

Pulling him apart. Pulling him apart. Oh god, it hurt, it HURT.

"James!" Lily cried, her voice hysterical and yet somehow distance in his ears. "James! I don't know what to do! Wait, what are you… no! No, no, no!"

"L-Lily, g-go!"

"No! Stop! Leave him alone!"

"Lils," he muttered, teeth clenched because it hurt more than anything he'd ever felt before, "you h-have to… you have to… get away… f-fuck! Lily!"

"JAMES!"

It was pulling him apart, it was pulling him through, it was sucking him into a bottomless tunnel and tearing him to pieces as it did so. James bellowed and hands clamped down on his arms, and Lily screamed, the sound a jagged wound in his already destroyed mind. Wind that wasn't wind pummelled him, a feeling that was a hundred times worse than apparition spiked brutally into his centre, and he came apart and came apart and came apart-

-and then he opened his eyes and blinked blearily up at a decidedly unfamiliar ceiling.

"Mother of Merlin."

Not recognizing the shocked exclamation breathed from somewhere across the room, James groaned and tried to turn his head, and then his body when his head wouldn't cooperate. The effort was futile however, because his body was vibrating with some sort of tension; his muscles shaking as if he hadn't used them in years. It took everything he had to move a single finger.

That single finger scraped against another palm and James eyes shot wide.

Lily!

"L-Lily," he croaked, voice breaking. Clearing his throat, he tried again, all the while begging his body to move. Just move. "L-Lily?"

"She's still unconscious."

James's eyes darted to the side. His vision swam. "Who's there?!" he barked, or tried to. His voice felt rusty and it was hard to form words. Sensing hesitation from the could-be adversary, he hissed a frustrated breath through his teeth and focused back on trying to get his body to move.

He had to get Lily to safety.

"Stop, you can't… o-oh-h," the voice said, tone turning low and whispery. A shadow caught James's attention and finally finding the gumption to move his neck half an inch, he turned his head just in time to see a young man no older than Harry swaying on the spot. His face was a sickly grey; a hue that matched his eyes, James noted when said eyes fluttered open and looked back down at him, gaze unfocused.

He looked disturbingly familiar. James's scowled.

"Who're you and what the bloody hell is going on?" he demanded, voice cracking. The boy blinked slowly, tried to take a step forward and then groaned a second time and passed out, right at the other man's feet.

"Ah, fuck," James breathed, craning his neck to stare at the crumpled body, the splash of dishevelled blond hair bright against the faded, threadbare carpet. Well that was just great. Now what the hell was he going to do?