"Haz," James said gently, pulling him just that littlest bit closer; Harry went easily, rocking into his space. "We've been working up to this for more than a decade. Sure, we've always wanted it to be different. We've always wanted it to end differently. We never wanted to be here again, on the doorstep of war. Absolutely never wanted you to be part of any of this," Harry nearly broke when his hand climbed to rest gently in his hair, comb through it the way Regulus would've. "But we've always known haven't we? We've never lied to you about this, and we need you to trust us now. Because there's no going back now. He's taken and taken and taken," his breath shook a little, hands tightening their hold on Harry and he just wanted to curl up, crawl into his dad's lap and hide. It'd been pretences all night, hadn't it? Everyone had been there, too many; so much. He had to be strong, didn't he? He was Harry Potter. He was the Boy-Who-Lived. He'd sacrificed to be here. Lost his mother, lost a world that could've been. He will always be grateful for what is, but how could he not mourn also that which could have been?