He’s seen blood. ‘Course he has.
One time in third year Georgia Thomas took a bludger straight to the face, and James saw the blood flying behind her as she hurtled down. He saw even more of it when they reached the ground in the imminent stoppage of the game. It dripped from her nose, and she howled, grabbed at James’s Quidditch robes for help. He didn’t know what to do in those three short seconds it took the Quidditch ref to come over where they were. He just watched the blood gush, dazed; down her face, down her front. It gloved her hands in glistening scarlet, and James, reaching over to grip one of them in his desperation to help, to do anything, felt the slick warmth crawl over from palm to palm and coat his skin as well. He didn’t always know, but that was when he found out for sure that blood couldn’t possibly faze him, however much the amount he’d have to deal with.
Then came the full moons. It was just thick liquid, s’all. Red. You’re made of it. Everyone is. No big deal.
But when they lost the child that night… it was different.
i have this very specific idea of the way that james potter dresses when in muggle clothing like it’s nothing fancy just jeans and a fitted solid colored t-shirt and that may not seem like much but when he leans over to write or doodle it’s all broad shoulders and bam lily’s pregnant
James marching over to Lily in the common room because he’s found their cats bloody fornicating on his bed and this cannot be happening because his cat is betrothed to a siberian in Ravenclaw and dammit Lily stop laughing this is serious business