2] Skyfall [Harry Potter Fanfiction/James Potter Returns]

Chapter 2: Soldier Keep on Marching On

Soldier keep on marchin' on
Head down til the work is done
Waiting on that morning sun.
Head in the dust, feet in the fire
Labour on that midnight wire.
You got nowhere to run.

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There can be no possible word in the English language that can explain what was going on through his head when he opened his eyes to have nothing change; it was dark in his head, it was darker still with his vision.

For many moments, one could only presume how long, James Potter laid there in complete silence and stillness; waiting, assessing, wondering. His breath escaped him in faint whistles as his pair of lungs got used to breathing once more and resumed working. The only sound he could hear was one that accompanied his faint breathing; the beating of his heart.

Soon, his mind joined the race and his senses sharpened as blood pumped through his veins and woke up the sleepy cells of his body. He felt stiff, as if he'd been laying down on hardwood for hours upon hours.

The questions then began; what, where, how and who? Questions that need answering, and answers that were far away for now.

He moved. An arm broke from the death-like grip of his other hand and it soon dawned on him that his movement was restricted by small space. He'd never been claustrophobic but there was only so little comfort one could find from tight spaces that threatened to squeeze your oxygen out.

His mind threatened to shut down and his shaking hand stilled as he squeezed his eyes shut, and drew in sharp breaths through his clenched teeth. He couldn't afford to panic now. Why? He didn't know. He just couldn't.

His name was James Henry Potter, he was born on 27th of March, his wand was an eleven-inch mahogany, he was pure-blooded.

His name was James Henry Potter. He was a Gryffindor.

His name was James Henry Potter.

Quickly he groped about, to find his wand clutched in his sleeping left hand. He calculated that he'd have a few minutes before he would suffocate from lack of air. As he fumbled he cast his thoughts back, back before the quiet darkness of a short sleep turned into a long one, and back before his dreams, and back before his musings. Back to when he was awake.

He had a wife and son. Lily and Harry. James was alarmed and panicked. There'd been a big blast that sent their door off its hinges. Voldemort. How? Who knew, it wasn't important. He had to get out of here.

If the suspicion growing in his mind would turn out to be true, he was buried deep under the ground. How deep were graves? Could he blast everything off him? What had the pastor from the church told him about the graves in Godric's Hollow? They put bells so that whoever was buried alive could let people know they've made a mistake, didn't they? Right?

He would have to be quick, he reasoned with himself. Blast it all off and levitate anything that might fall on him. Quickly, he blasted the lid of his coffin off him and for few precious seconds the sky appeared before his eyes; starry, dark and eerily quiet. The scenery disappeared with dirt falling back on him that he was quick to levitate and send over the top.

Cold air burned down his throat as he gasped for air, and the chilliness of the weather struck through his clothes. He sat up, glanced at what he was wearing and his dry mouth highlighted its state.

His black funeral robes.

He'd worn those to his Dad's funeral, then Dorcas's, and then Remus's Mum's, and then- well the list went ever on.