Not James

A/N: I got the idea for this oneshot while re-reading Order of the Phoenix. The conservation that inspired this is copied below. This oneshot is canon except for Sirius's lifespan – I've written it so he survives Order of the Phoenix. This takes place the summer after Harry's seventh year at Hogwarts.

'He's not James, Sirius!'

'I'm perfectly clear who he is, thanks, Molly,' said Sirius coldly.

'I'm not sure you are!' said Mrs. Weasley. 'Sometimes, the way you talk about him, it's as though you think you've got your best friend back!'

- Order of the Phoenix, page 89

As much as I try to shake off Molly's words, I can't. Whenever I see Harry, I briefly double take, heart racing. He looks more like James than he knows. Pictures don't do the likeness justice. They walk the same way, with purpose and stride; they both have eternally untidy dark hair; they even share the same narrow figure and pale skin. Harry could pass for James – except for the eyes, of course. Lily's eyes.

Harry truly has the best of both of them. He has Lily's stunning green eyes – James says he noticed her eyes before anything else, although I'll tell you, Lily's body was hotter than she was ever given credit for – Lily's compassion, her courage. Hell, Harry is braver than anyone else I've ever known. He understood You-Know-Who. He knew his fears and dark desires, and, most importantly, had the extraordinary ability and courage to defeat him. Harry put his life on the line for others time and time again, without a second thought. Most wizards twice his age wouldn't dare fight You-Know-Who; Harry did it six times – willingly, even – and he's barely of age. From James, Harry has inherited his looks; his unerring talent on the Quidditch pitch; his cocky, over-confident manner; his fierce loyalty to – and from – those who matter most.

Years ago, I mattered to James. He counted on me to be loyal. He gave me the highest honor – Secret-Keeper. I had a lapse of judgement, a temporary scare, and asked James to bestow the position of Secret-Keeper on someone else. He chose Wormtail. Does that make it my fault that James and Lily are dead? I've thought about it for twelve long years in Azkaban, and I'll tell you – it does. I'm just as responsible as You-Know-Who, who fired the Killing Curse not once, not twice, but three times, killing my best friend in the world and his wife. Almost killing their son.

Is it so wrong of me to cling to their son, my last connection to James? Is it so wrong that my breath catches and my heart jumps every time I see Harry, mistaking him for James, then feeling a flash of grief when I realize it's only Harry? Is it so wrong that every once in awhile, I allow myself to be deluded – even for just a few fleeting moments – just so I can pretend that James is alive and I'm a guiltless man and we're lounging in the grass at Hogwarts, our whole lives ahead of us? It can't be wrong, not when I can practically feel the warm breeze and hear Wormtail stuttering and sputtering and see Lupin hunched over a textbook and, best of all, hear James and I laughing while Snivellus hangs upside down by his ankles, suspended in mid-air. It can't be wrong to pretend Harry is James and feel sixteen and carefree again. It can't be.

Sometimes, when I catch Harry with his hand entwined with Ginny's, I imagine he's James and she's Lily. Harry could pass for James – he could be James, he's so close; Ginny's curtain of red hair and good heart are enough to pass for Lily's. They give me hope. Harry, he's the future.

It's been sixteen dark, horrific years since James and Lily were murdered. All the wishing in the world won't bring them back. They're gone, dead, sunk into the earth with the darkest magic possible. I hope that Harry will be able to succeed, survive where James and Lily could not. James chose me as Harry's godfather. This time, I won't let him down.