The Flashing of a Lifetime

Part One

James

Chapter One

Looking Back

James was afraid to open his eyes. He was unsure of where he was, and didn't really want to know.

At least not yet.

But then, as though he were in a deep cavern, an echoing voice sounded all around him.

"Look at him, Leo."

The voice brought so much emotion into James' throat that he forced himself to open his eyes. When he did, he found himself standing before a large, white door that stuck out from the black surround. He carefully approached it, and looked through. It led to a very large, open room. The walls were paneled with dark, shiny wood and the floor was sleek and bright. French doors stood open, leading into what appeared to be a hallway, though it was what was inside the room that interested James the most.

He stepped through and onto the sleek wooden floor, and with great curiosity, looked around.

The room was positively littered with toys; whirring instruments, colorful trinkets and tiny, intricate 'whatnots' all making tinkling tunes from their shelves.

Shelves lined the walls, leading all the way around the room, and stopping at a very wide window. Underneath the window sat a crib, which was obviously fashioned in the finest mahogany, which obviously held a very fortunate baby.

James took an uncertain step towards the crib, but then stopped when his brain processed who was standing in front of the crib.

"I know. He's got the Potter hair; wasn't any escaping that, though. I saw it coming."

James' mouth went dry. How could this be happening?

"Mum? Dad?" James stepped toward them, and stopped again when glanced into the crib.

Sitting among a sea of stuffed toys and blankets was a baby, who looked not unlike Harry, actually, quite like Harry but for the substitution of hazel for green eyes.

"Where am I?" James asked his mother. It was a stupid question. He knew very well that he was in the Potter manor. It was where he'd grown up. What he'd meant to say was "why am I here? What the hell's going on?" Though he'd thought it inappropriate to use foul language in front of... His younger self.

What was even less surprising, Marian Potter didn't answer James, nor did she make any acknowledgement of his presence.

"He has your mother's eyes, though. It's too bad he doesn't have yours, Leo."

"I know," James' younger father stretched, putting an arm around his wife. "Blue eyes and black hair make the boys irresistible. I should know."

"Ha, ha," Marian said dryly. "You're so conceited I forgot to laugh."

James squirmed unpleasantly. He was very pleased to see his parents, but there was also something not right about this. First of all, why was he in his old nursery? Why was he standing next to a baby that was obviously him, listening to his much younger parents tease each other like... Like he and Lily had not even an hour ago...

Just as James was about to pry, to ask his mother again and attempt to be noticed and perhaps figure out what exactly was going on, his vision began to blur. It was as if he were about to lose consciousness... Like he was dying again...

Once again, James was engulfed by darkness. By a cold so shuddering that James longed for any kind of relief. Anything to revive him. And yet there was nothing.

And then, almost at once, there was light. James could feel it through his eyelids. He opened them hastily and stepped through the doorway and welcomed the warmth of a fire burning closely behind him, a dimly lit yet cozy room served as his surroundings, and he once again recognized the place as a part of his childhood home.

In front of him, not five feet away, sat a little boy of two or three, watching Clinker Toys zoom around him lazily, fitting together perfectly to form strange and admirable designs. Then the little boy would happily pull them apart, throw them as toddlers are want to do, and they would resume their previous affair of rebuilding themselves.

James crouched down to get a better look at the toddler. He was small; he would definitely be a skinny boy when he was older, and already had a head of jet-black hair. No doubt, James was looking at his two year old self, for the boy couldn't be Harry; his eyes were hazel, not green.

James stood up again and paced to the other side of the room. He looked around at his surroundings again and tried desperately to come up with a couple theories as to why he was here and what he was supposed to do about it.

As a wizard, he had been raised under Expectancy.

Expect strange things to happen to you, as this is a magical world, and anything's possible.

Expect there to be a reason for it. Nothing is by accident.

Expect to be expected to do something about it.

Then, do it.

James was still contemplating his presence in a very vague childhood memory when he began to feel dizzy yet again, and thought he may be sick as darkness and cold pulled him from the warmth of his childhood playroom and wrapped him in a cloak of black.

The toddler soon faded from sight as James fought to retain consciousness. It was difficult; it felt as if he were merely very tired, and could no longer keep his eyes open.

Finally everything went black and he shivered, holding his hand up to his face, which he couldn't see.

James tentatively took a step forward and listened to his feet echoing throughout the infinite black. He once again climbed through the bright, white doorway and into what he recognized as the infamous Potter garden.

His mother, Marian, had loved flowers of all different exotic origins and was often found in one of her five greenhouses, talking cheerfully to her venomous tentacula, or nursing a screaming mandrake with dandelion milk.

As well, a good part of the grounds directly behind the manor was lavishly decorated with large, elaborately colored flowers and ferns. A path of white stone led to the greenhouses and around toward Marian's perfectly trimmed hedge maze (a past favorite of James and Sirius), and was also adorned with various fountains and benches along the way.

James inhaled the pungent aroma of the sundry blossoms and his heart was filled with a recollection for his mother. She always smelled like Flitterblooms and Mallowsweet.

James had no sooner remembered this when he heard laughter bubbling from behind a nearby Flutterby bush.

He stepped slowly, some bizarre part of him wanting to savour the moment where he was back in the garden, and crept up behind the bush.

Peering through the quivering leaves, James' heart leapt when he saw a small boy of four or five, sitting on a stone bench alongside his mother. The small boy was he, of course, with untidy black hair and hazel eyes not yet hidden behind round glasses.

They were both laughing at a bouncing bulb, which was making its way down the path, and it appeared to be carefully avoiding the cracks between the cobblestone.

James watched himself as he leaned against his mother and laughed with her, wallowing in the life of a four year old; a world where there is nothing to fear, and everything seems wonderful.

The boy seemed totally careless, imminently happy and safe.

Marian put a hand on her son's shoulder and the two disappeared into the hedge maze, leaving James alone in the garden.

He began to stroll, through the numerous singing rose bushes and flitterblooms, and came to a stop a while later, where he noticed a narrow path leading off from the main garden.

He followed it, enjoying the large pink Puffapod blooms surrounding and almost taking over the path, but stopped suddenly when he came to a stone bench, which sat next to a fountain bubbling with startlingly blue water.

This place was sort of segregated from the rest of the garden, almost like an alcove, and was nothing less than magical in its discreteness.

A young willow stood behind the bench, dangling its leaves almost over top of the bench.

When he looked around the tiny space, which was absolutely surrounded by flowers of all assortments, James felt a funny feeling stir in his stomach.

He knew it had to be another memory' a connection with his past, but he couldn't place what.

Then his eyes fell upon the stone bench.

Without quite realizing what he was doing, reached down to touch the bench, as if to touch the cool smoothness of the stone would connect him with what he wanted to remember, and instantly, like lightening, he felt a sick sort of sensation surge through him.

James staggered forward, flattening his entire palm onto the bench, and bowed his head.

Suddenly, it all came back to him.

Slowly, James lifted his eyes to look ahead, and rested them on the base of the tree, in the middle of its trunk, where he realized would later be marked with an engravement charm displaying

James Potter loves Lily Evans.

Of course, at the moment, the tree's trunk was unmarked, but James now remembered why he recognized this place with such amour; he and Lily had once shared this bench. But that had been before...

Again, a sick feeling surged through James as he thought of this, but it was not of the bittersweet kind that caused his stomach to contract whenever James thought of he and Lily together.

This was a feeling of the deepest and purest misery.

Slowly the injured man backed away from the bench and, knowing he would see it again, turned to leave. He almost ran into the doorway leading into the black room.

Now, instead of being shining white, it was pitch black in colour, because the room it led to was of the utmost darkness.

James glanced once more over his shoulder, toward the bench, the fountain, the tree, and then, without another pause, stepped determinedly through the door.

The next flash was slightly less complicated, and James enjoyed it all the more.

It was of the day where he got his glasses.

He had stepped through the white door and into a neat little building just inside Virtec Alley, which was a very professional place, where witches and wizards went whenever they sought private healer attention.

He looked around, the feeling of defeat and misery still upon him, but lightened when he saw himself at age seven sitting on a chair beside his father, swinging his legs and looking to be in a foul mood.

Leopold didn't appear to care to acknowledge his son's bad temper; he was reading the daily prophet and glancing at his watch every so often.

It was when James began kicking the front legs of his chair, rhythmically over and over that Leopold decided to say something.

Leaning sideways, ignoring the disapproving looks of the other wizards in the seating area, Leo took hold of young James' foot and stared him in the eye.

"Stop," he said simply, not taking his eyes away from James.

The seven year old squirmed uncomfortably.

"I still don't see why I need stupid old glasses," James heard himself whine, "I can see just fine without them!"

Leo sat back and gave James a surprised look.

"Oh, really? Then why, when we were playing Quidditch outside just the other day, did you miss the Snitch entirely and Kathleen didn't? Why, if you could see it coming straight towards you, aiming for your open palm, if you will, did you allow your uncle and cousin to beat us at our own game?"

James began to indignantly kick his chair again, clenching his fists at the memory.

"I..." He was at total loss for words, unfortunately.

Leopold returned to his paper, adjusting his round framed glasses.

"That is also not the only example of why you need glasses, James. You can barely read without pressing your nose against the pages. Besides, there is nothing wrong with wearing glasses."

James' younger self scowled deeply, his feet stopping in mid-air.

"There's everything wrong with wearing glasses. Kathleen said-"

"I thought you didn't like Kathleen?" James' father said, with a slightly raised eyebrow.

"I don't," James scowled even deeper, "but she's still right about some things. She said that glasses are for nerds, and... And that you can't play Quidditch in the rain because you can't see with them, and you can't see without them."

Leopold smiled and turned to James again.

"First of all, there has never been and never will be a Potter who carries the label Nerd. It simply isn't in the blood. Impossible, really. Even if you turn out to prefer books to Quidditch I'll be quite surprised. Always remember, James. You are a Potter. You are different than most kinds of wizards, because you have the Potter pride. This pride protects you from everything from the teasing of others to the temptations of love."

At the word love, young James made a face.

"It's true," Leo insisted, "Potter pride makes you invincible. Nothing can hurt you on the inside, and nothing you do can tarnish it. It's unbreakable."

James raised his head slightly to look at his father.

"Than how come Kathleen makes me feel bad some of the time?"

Leo looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Well, I suppose that it's because although she's a Durant, her mother's a Potter, and Potter pride is useless when it comes to another Potter's tormenting, and also, you haven't realized the pride yet. I've only just told you about it. It's buried deep within you, waiting for you to dig it out and use it."

"When will that be?"

Again, his father looked thoughtful.

"Probably as soon as you get to Hogwarts. You haven't been around many kids who aren't part of the family, so I wouldn't be surprised at all if you don't know how to use it."

He again went back to his paper, pausing only to say: "Secondly, there are a number of interesting charms that can be used to repel rain and snow from your lenses which I will be happy to teach you."

James grinned as he watched himself follow an eye healer into his office, examine his eyes and fit him instantly with a pair of round framed glasses.

The entire time, James' pessimistic outlook on what having glasses was like seemed to have evaporated, and the moment he touched his own specs, he smiled, as if anticipating the Potter Pride.

James watched as his next few years went by. The celebration of his cousin Kathleen's eighth birthday, who was as mean as she was clever, had been fun to relive, where he'd stealthily sprinkled a surprisingly large amount of belching powder on top of her piece of birthday cake.

Kathleen had spent the rest of the evening in a terrible temper, screaming horrible names to James between horrifyingly disgusting burps that should otherwise had been coming from a very overweight, very lonely man in his forties.

After he had spent some time in his room, James had explained calmly to his father that it had only been an act of revenge towards her after she had offered him a bag of jelly beans just last week.

"I fail to see the problem in jelly beans," Leopold had said, as James surveyed this scene from the corner. "You are almost ten years old; you know better."

"Da-ad," his younger self had moaned, "they were all the gross kinds, like poo, and bogey and-"

"All right, all right, James, that's enough. I understand, but it's still her birthday. You do know that you'll have to apologize, right?"

"Yes," came the resentful reply.

"Good." Then, "where'd you get the powder, by the way?"

A mischievous grin spread across James' face as he replied, "her own backpack. I think she was planning to use it on me. It was an act of self defense, really."

Leo stood and left, stopping only to tell James he was expected to apologize, and that if she had in fact used the belching powder on him, it would have been all right; he was a Potter.

"So's Kathleen," James growled malevolently; he hated apologizing.

"No," Leopold replied mildly, "she's a Durant. You know they don't accept such behavior in their children. Potters, on the other hand, well, we expect it."

Younger James laughed, amused at the thought of his perfect little cousin being even more mortified than he'd anticipated, and launched himself off his bed.

"All right," he caved, with only a hint of reluctance. "I'll do it. And you know what Dad? I'll even pretend to mean it."

"That's my boy," Leo put a hand on James' shoulder and led him from the room.

James laughed, though his younger self and his father didn't say anything; they didn't notice him.

The next flashes had consisted mainly of his relationship with Kathleen; the time she had beat him to a bloody pulp for squirting his mother's bottled stinksap at her, and the time where they'd been playing Quidditch and he had kicked her off her broom, resulting in hilarious consequences, on James' part, as she had had her leg fixed in no time by her mother, who was a registered healer.

This had also resulted in a week without his broom, as well as spending two weeks with stone feet, "so they won't be kicking anything for a very long time," said Marian angrily as she transfigured them.

James figured, after watching this, that that had been when his leg muscles had developed to their prime.

The next memory he had seen was where his mother had taken him to Diagon Alley for the very first time; he had usually gone to places like Youje Alley or Gumabbleton for any kind of shopping, as Youje Alley had a very good joke shop called Finks', and Gumabbleton was the habitat of not one but three fine Quidditch supply stores.

They had finished their breakfasts early, as Marian claimed to want to beat the crowds that tended to accumulate in the busy streets.

"Besides," Marian had said, downing the last of her orange juice from a delicate crystal glass, "it's almost school time, and the streets will be packed with students shopping for their year at Hogwarts."

At the mention of Hogwarts, James' ten year old self bolted upright in his high-backed chair between his mother and father on the long table, where each of them sat on either end.

"Hogwarts?" He asked excitedly, squirming now, "am I going this year?"

His parents exchanged knowing smiles.

"Heavens, no," Marian said, smiling. "Not for another year, though you will be going," she added, seeing the crestfallen look on her son's face.

"But, you've never been to Diagon Alley before, and they have the most wonderful Apothecary."

The clock chimed, and James, standing in his usual corner, happy to observe as he had now accepted his fate to relive the distant memories of his life, jumped.

"Oh, my, is that the time?" cried Marian, standing quickly and pulling James from his seat. "We have to be off now or we'll never get out before sunset. You don't even know how bad the back-to-school crowds can get!"

"What about you Dad?" James asked eagerly, as his mother fastened his cloak on, and accepting her moneybag from an eager house elf.

Leopold shook his head. "I have to pass today, James, sorry. I have work, you know."

James' younger self looked ready to ask another question but Marian, who was skillfully applying lipstick with her wand while at the same time pulling on her own scarlet coloured Fall cloak pulled him toward the fire and pushed him into the green flames.

"I'll meet you there," she told him, "stay close to the grid when you arrive!"

James suddenly blanked out. "I can't remember the alley name!"

And was gone.

For the first time since this began, James found himself not fading away, but instead whirling around, as if he too was in the fire with his past self.

When he stopped, he was standing beside young James in a very dark little shop that was both dusty and grimy, and he knew instantly that they had not ended up in Diagon Alley.

James, dusting the soot from his cloak, stepped forward, looking around.

The shop's windows were smeared with dirt, so much that they appeared to be opaque, and the display, which was collecting more dust than James' Warlock Etiquette books his Grandmother had given him four Christmases ago, consisted of many strange and dangerous looking things.

As he surveyed this, James realized where he had ended up. They were in Knockturn Alley, as he had been there before, not just now, but would be back later in the life. Though he wasn't sure whether he'd be reliving it or not; whoever or whatever was controlling this bizarre slide show only selected things it seemed to feel was totally relevant to James' plan in life.

At least, that was James' theory.

He followed himself out of the shop, past the snatching hands and hissing viles, into the cobblestone street, which was only slightly darker than the shop they'd just been in.

The street was surprisingly replete with people, though they were not the kind of people James thought would be seen at any of the Potter parties.

He followed his former self as the boy weaved between people bustling to and fro on the street, aware of their unfocused stares and malicious smiles.

James passed easily through the crowd; he simply walked through the people.

He followed himself down an alley, as younger James searched for a way out of the throng.

When he saw another alley that was nearly deserted, which was a branch off of Knockturn Alley, James turned off into that and began to look for a way out.

As James walked cautiously down the street, two things happened: a cat screeched from behind him, causing him to turn around fast, and the faint tinkling of a bell as a shop door was opened.

James watched as the cat streaked down the street away from him (he hated cats) before turning back to where he had been facing before.

Unfortunately, someone was already standing there.

"Sorry!" He blurted as he knocked a boy backwards, sending his money bag flying.

The boy snapped his head up and glared at him furiously.

"Watch it!" He said, blowing strands of black hair from his eyes.

James held down his hand. "I said I was sorry. There was a cat..."

The boy took James' hand and allowed himself to be pulled up while James reached for his fallen moneybag.

"Yeah, this alley is crawling with them," the boy growled, his eyes darting back and forth as if he were looking for a cat at that moment.

James held out his hand again.

"I'm James Potter."

The boy took his hand but at the same time studied James closely.

"Sirius Black." Then, "you're a Potter?"

James nodded, then handed Sirius the money bag.

The boy looked very haughty for a moment, and looked James up and down.

"My father says that Leopold Potter is a muggle-loving fool," Sirius told him.

James took his hand away and stepped back.

"My father is not a fool," he replied quietly, though James could see his younger self getting angry.

This was more fun to relive it rather than be experiencing it for the first time, as he knew now how it ended.

Sirius shrugged, and made a performance of examining his fingernails until he replied, "I'm just saying what my father said. I'll bet your old dad has had a nasty thing or two to say about mine."

James now lifted his head a little higher than it had been. "Nope. He never has anything bad to say about anyone. That's what makes him such a good wizard."

Sirius shook his head. "Whatever. Look, you obviously don't belong here with the likes of me. I'll show you the way back."

He had just taken James by the elbow when a loud, shrewd voice made James' skin crawl with the memory.

"SIRIUS BLACK!"

Younger James looked sideways at Sirius. Sirius himself closed his eyes in a frustrated manner before dropping James' elbow and muttering to him "turn right at the corner and follow the road to the staircase. You can't miss it. Go now, before he tells you himself what he thinks of your dad."

James didn't move. He'd wanted to, though he would never have admitted it, but he was frozen with the appearance of this foreboding man, so he gathered his courage and maintained an equally threatening stance beside Sirius, not wanting either of them to see the uncertainty on his face.

Warfius Black stopped just in front of Sirius and towered over the boys. He spoke to Sirius, though his eyes never left James'.

"What did your mother and I tell you about strangers?"

Sirius lifted his eyebrows mildly.

"Check their arm for a mark before talking to them? Otherwise they aren't worth talking to?"

Warfius' face turned dark red and he tore his eyes from James, who shifted from relief, and grabbed Sirius' arm.

"Don't know what you're talking about," he growled dangerously.

Sirius looked from his father to where he was holding his arm, to James, and back to his father, the fact that this was not a comfortable situation evident on his face.

"Who's your friend?" Warfius asked, glaring back at James again.

"I was about to ask you the same question," Sirius retorted, nodding behind his father, where a man half-concealed in shadow stood watching.

Warfius turned to look over his shoulder, then back. "None of your business," he said, now staring at James nervously.

James himself observed this by the side of a building, his insides churning.

The fun was over. It was getting scary. Stuff that made him angry to think of.

Sirius' dad was one of the top ten. His mother, Margrive, was number six.

Suddenly, out of the fright and gloom, the voice of the ultimate savior sounded from behind younger James.

"JAMES OLIVER POTTER!"

James whirled around to face his mother, who was marching with amazing composure despite her wild hair and frightened eyes.

"Mum!" James piped, his voice unusually high, most likely from the strain of the situation.

"What are you doing down here? Knockturn Alley of all places! Wait until your father hears about this, I mark you-"

She stopped short, her eyes falling on Warfius, then trailing down his arm to where his hand clutched Sirius' wrist, then up to Sirius' face, who seemed to be picking his teeth with his tongue, his own eyes locked onto Marian's.

"Mr. Black," she nodded curtly to Warfius; apparently she hadn't seen him there at all.

Warfius simply sneered, his face contort with disgust, and with a single lingering look at James (who, once again, another thing he would never admit to later, shifted uneasily behind his mother), turned abruptly, pulling Sirius along with him.

When they had left, James looked up at his mother.

"Who was that?"

Marian looked down at her son, James remembered this conversation well.

"No one you want to associate with, James Oliver."

She led him away, tugging gently at his hand, which in comparison was much preferred to than what James had just seen Sirius Black dealing with.

"Sirius Black said that his dad called my dad-"

"Warfius says a lot of things, James," Marian said, "and that doesn't mean they're untrue." She was thoughtful for a time, as they hurried up the stairs into Diagon Alley, amidst the much friendlier and colorful atmosphere. It was in fact so incredible to the ten year old that the various shops and displays managed to lure James temporarily from his thoughts to awe at the Alley for the first time. This also amused James for the time-being, as he enjoyed surveying his former self's different reactions to things he himself had grown quite accustomed to.

After a while, as James was beginning to wonder whether his mother would finish what she was so obviously thinking about in her head, Marian spoke.

"Though I suppose, at the same time, it doesn't mean they're bad things either. Not by the Blacks' perspective."

"Huh?" James was lost; it had been that long.

"Pardon, James, say pardon. And weren't you paying attention? The things the Black family has to say about us and our friends may not sound flattering, though depending on what it is they're saying, it might very well be. The Blacks tend to have very different views on things. In fact, not all people agree with them- you might even say they're on the wrong side."

All this made younger James' head spin.

So what Sirius had said wasn't true.

No, it was true, but it wasn't bad.

But he had made it sound like being a Muggle Loving Fool was so disgraceful.

But then again, Sirius was a Black, and his mother said that Blacks had different views on things in the wizarding world, so it wasn't bad.

But...

"Mum, is it bad to be a traitor?"

Marian frowned absent-mindedly while she browsed Apothecary ingredients displayed outside in the bright sunshine.

"Traitor? Mmm, yes James. Traitors are bad. You don't want to be a traitor. Why do you ask?"

James watched himself shrug and deny any specific reason, though he himself knew exactly what was going through his younger self's head.

Perhaps it had been what Sirius had told James earlier, and maybe because James had been frightened during the incident he could have been imagining things.

Still, he was sure that as Warfius Black dragged his son away into shadow James had heard him mutter the words "blood traitors" under his breath.