James was making his way through the days one hour at a time. Sometimes, when he was busy enough and tired enough, he could almost forget. Other times, Harry's death was a crushing load on his shoulders.
Once, with his own death, he'd failed his son. One moment in time that had left Harry to a magic-less, loveless childhood and an adolescence hunted by Voldemort. Ever since his return, when he'd learned what he'd missed, he'd felt that failure keenly. He'd tried to make it up, but how could he?
And now Harry, his son, was dead. And he, James, was alive. Though he knew it made no logical sense to blame himself, it felt like the worst failure of all. And this time there would be no chance to make things right.
In the middle of the night, sometimes, the weight of it made it hard to breathe.
The only thing that helped was Lily, and he felt a surge of gratitude as she wordlessly pulled him into her arms. He sank down beside her, enfolding her in his arms and resting his head on her shoulder as if he were her child.
"Lily," he whispered, and in that single word said everything he needed to say.