Prongs

On the other side, I could see a pinprick of light, but also a warmth sapping darkness. I forced my way out, trying with all my might to escape from the depths of my only child’s wand. Thrusting myself heavily forward, I erupted from the tip of the wood, and was finally free to roam.

My son - Harry Potter - looked scared, yet determined. A voice in my head (it sounded like me, but not quite the same), was telling me what to do, willing me on. I listened to its commands, and followed the direction that the wand was pointing in.

I stretched my legs for the first time in over a decade, and cantered faster than I knew I could. Torrents of air rushed past me, blowing in my face - desperately trying to push me back. That didn’t affect me in the least, though, and I forced myself onwards. I was getting closer to the crowd of black, cloaked forms that I knew were engulfing my son, his friends and my best friend.

‘Sirius! Harry!’ I yelled with all my might. No sound issued from me, so I tried again - still, nothing.

Bowing my head, I circled around the eerie, black creatures; no fear flowed through my veins. My hoofs were making no imprint on the forest floor, and that made me feel free, invisible - almost as if I were under my old cloak again.

Sirius looked drained - as if somebody had took the light from him. His cheeks were hollow - barely a trace of his good looks remained - and his black hair was long, messy, and unkempt. Anger surged through me as I galloped around my friend. What had happened to the Sirius Black I once knew?

The Dementors were rapidly dispersing - leaving. Harry, Sirius, and some others were slumped on the ground; they all looked ghostly pale. They were safe though. The voice in my head - that wasn’t quite mine - was rejoicing, and telling me to come away. My legs were doing as told and taking me back towards my son, who was standing not far away.

Harry Potter. I wished I knew him. Standing before the boy, I steadily observed him, slowly lowering my head so that I could soak him in properly. I didn’t take my eyes from him. Not once.

Harry looked like me - almost exactly. His hair was scruffy and black, stood up in all directions. I distinctly wondered whether he ever ruffled it up, just to make it even more rumpled. I knew I did when I was in school. He was fairly short and very skinny - not even I was that thin. The clothes on his back hung off him, and looked as if they were double his size. I wished I were there to watch him grow, mature, blossom. A scar in the shape of a lightening bolt glared down at me from his forehead. The only other thing (apart from the scar) that wasn’t mine, were Harry’s eyes. I knew them so well - for years I had looked into Lily’s eyes everyday. He had her emeralds, and I wished she were here now to see them.

‘Prongs,’ he breathed. He spoke in the voice that I had heard willing me on. The tone that was like mine, yet not quite the same. He called me by my nickname; the name my friends had christened me with after I started transforming into a stag. I smiled inwardly at the memory. What had happened to my friends? What had happened to the other Marauders, Remus, Peter and Sirius?

Harry reached towards me, and something inside me ticked - told me that it was time to go. When his hand was millimetres from my head, from making contact, I disappeared …

A lump rose in my throat when I realised that I couldn’t see Harry anymore. A soft hand stroked my hair, and I turned to look at its owner, Lily Evans. I sought out her emerald eyes - the eyes Harry had inherited - and they twinkled at me, tears shining in them, though they were smiling.

‘Tell me about it James - tell me about him,’ she whispered, her breath tickling my ear.

I put my arm around Lily’s shoulders, squeezing her comfortingly. I searched my mind for where to begin - when I escaped the wand, or when I was in the wand …

‘Tell me everything,’ Lily whispered again.

This time, instead of sitting and wondering, I plunged right in. I knew exactly what I was going to say to my wife. Everything. I would tell her the story from the beginning, as if she had been there - I would put her in my shoes because that’s the viewpoint she would want to see it from.