James loves his parents. And not in the stuck up, rich boy way, expecting them to buy him everything. He truly loves them. They gave him their all since the second he was born. He was spoiled but not rotten. Protected but not overprotected.

They were the best parents you could ask for. That he could ask for. Until it all came crashing down.

They got sick about a year ago, dragon pox. It was a terrible disease. They died slowly and painfully, their son having to watch them suffer until their last moments.

It was horrible for him, he barely held himself together when saying the speech at their funeral. Everyone cried. Even you.

He loved you dearly, with all his heart. But he couldn't handle living without his parents. He could never wake up to his mother's famous crapes. Or her hands running through his hair, gently waking him when he was sick. Or her presents on Christmas. Or spending time with his dad after a good or bad quidditch game. Or late at night when he'd sneak down and Fleamont would give him a sip of the Scotch he was drinking. Or hugging his dad on a bad day.

He'd never be the same again.

Actively, he stood in his parents room, not even able to clean it out, just staring at it all, tears falling from his eyes, sobs leaving his lips, hugging himself.