when I ruled the world

james potter - he/him - 27

[prcng-s]

cxradoc‌:

She watches him move. Her eyes are sharp and keen. Well honed. They always have been. Eyes like an eagle, little one. Her father said. James moving like he isn’t even thinking about it, and then stopping in his tracks, suddenly thinking a great deal about something. 

Like a man with something to hide. Like a man keeping secrets. 

What are you keeping from me? What am I too weak or untrustworthy to know? This is the difference then, between James and Xenophilous. One hoards their secrets while the other shares. And Caradoc misses it, the open honesty, the warmth of the fire, Xeno’s voice telling her the story. She wants to pull James Potter apart and see if his secrets are written somewhere deep within, wants to know them as well as she knows her own, wants to come face to face with the hunger there and learn its name.

At least they’re on a level playing field. At least she doesn’t have to feel guilty for selfishly hoarding her own knowledge. “It’s a symbol people wear. Like a marker. To show they believe in the story, believe that it’s more than just a fairytale.” She says it, an easy lie. “To set themselves apart as true questers. That’s what my friend said, anyway.” That’s what she was, now. A quester. Like a knight from the stories of old. This could be her holy grail. The fondness that creeps into her voice at the thought of it is hard to hold back.

She can’t help but keep wondering aloud, however. Mind on a different path here than it was the night before with Xeno. To become Master of Death was one thing, but here it was impossible to ignore their second quest. This ring was given to them by someone with access to Riddle and his house, it all seemed to revolve around him. They’d always assumed the ring must be connected to him. “Those people, the ones who believe it. They want what those brothers had…greater magic, an escape from Death itself.” A beat, thoughtful. “And isn’t that what people say, about Riddle? That no one could defeat him but Dumbledore. Maybe he wanted to make sure. Maybe he believed he could defy death itself.” 

She licks her lips, looks at him with sharp and thoughtful eyes. Could Riddle have wanted to get the Hallows for himself? To become Master of Death? Three artefacts and he could have done it. The thought of it makes her shudder, but it doesn’t quite add up. “Three Deathly Hallows.” And reaching, like a second nature, to unearth one of James’ cryptic notes. “Seven black birds.” Caradoc gives a shake of her head, hand moving to tangle in the chain she keeps around her neck, even in the absence of the ring. “Arithmetic isn’t my strongest area, but it doesn’t really add up.”

Somehow, it makes perfect sense, and also no sense at all. Master of Death. It sounded like the kind of thing that would have appealed to Riddle, who had gone around doing his best to make himself master of everything, who was so caught up in his own power and glory, who Dumbledore had delayed them again and again from just trying to kill. It isn’t the right time, we cannot kill him, Dumbledore had always said, when James brought it up in the quiet moments after Order meetings, when he had still been young and headstrong and eager to prove himself as a soldier. He had taken Dumbledore’s warnings, at the time, as a moral sort of we cannot become the thing we are fighting against it or we will never truly defeat it, an old man bestowing virtues upon those who followed him. But that had never seemed right, coming from a man with so many spies. 

What if, instead, the warning had been that they literally couldn’t kill him, rather than that they morally couldn’t? 

But... the Deathly Hallows, they’re a children’s story. A myth, a legend. It’s coming back to him now, in pieces: a stone that resurrects, a cloak that makes the wearer invisible even to Death himself, an all-powerful wand... They’re like the Holy Grail, stories you tell to children. And beyond that, she’s right: the notes he’d gotten had said nothing about three of anything, nothing about a wand or a cloak or a ring. Seven black birds gone out to roost. It was cryptic, but even that connection seemed too cryptic to be possible. Was the symbol just a coincidence, a red herring, leading them both down the wrong path?

Or are she and this mysterious friend of hers leading you down the wrong path on purpose? 

He tries to shake the thought away, but it sticks there. Maybe it’s the best clue they have, but it doesn’t feel right, not quite.

     ‘It doesn’t seem connected. The notes make it sound like this should be.... part of a set of seven, maybe. Not one of three.’

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cxradoc‌:

Her eyes are keen, locked on him and every movement he makes. Regret in her stomach that she keeps having to work past. It scares her that this gets harder and harder every day, that sometimes on her walk to James’ house she wants to turn around and go back home. But she values this too. The work, the slow and odd friendship they’re growing. She’d rather have something to do here, with him, than sit and stare absently from her windows. 

And oh, yes. She’s found something. A fragment of an idea that’s been plaguing her since the words left Xeno’s mouth. A stone, a wand, a cloak. James asks her the question and she wonders how much she should tell. It feels like a betrayal to Xeno to take their words and give them to someone else, to bring their small reverent moments into the light of day. She averts her eyes, finally, plays with a strand of hair. 

“The symbol on the stone.” She starts, because at her core she’s an honest person. “You said you recognised it? Like you’d seen it somewhere before?” Voice slow, cautious. She’s an honest person, for the most part, and the truth can be told in half measures. “Well, I asked around. It’s a reference to a children’s story from The Tales of Beedle the Bard. The one about death and the three brothers?”  A pause, a breathe, and she’s relaxing in her chair as moments go by. “You must have read it when you were young, or something.” 

The realization is like a splash of cold water to his system, shocking and sudden, waking up every bit of him all at once. Any hesitation, any exhaustion that had plagued him a moment before is gone with the words: The Tales of Beedle the Bard. He can picture the symbol on the page, suddenly, so clearly, the faded old page his father used to read to him nearly every night when he was small, when he was just Harry’s age. He can picture the old copy carefully tucked away on Harry’s bedroom bookshelf just in the next room.

     ‘Merlin,’ he replies, more whisper than anything else. The Tale of the Three Brothers, he remembers it clear as day now. Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus Peverell, each in turn asking Death for a different object of power: a stone, a wand, a cloak. And that symbol, that bloody triangle with the circle and line inscribed inside, perched just above where the title was printed on the page. 

What did it mean? 

Instinct takes him: he’s up and halfway to Harry’s door before he realizes that, in all likelihood, sneaking in to find the book will wake his sleeping son and leave him occupied for at least twenty or thirty minutes trying to convince him to go back to sleep. Harry will be too excited that there is a strange new guest in their house he’s never met before. And something gripping inside him thinks: I don’t want her to see my son. Don’t want her to know anything more about me than she needs to. I still don’t know her motives. 

So he stops, instead.

     ‘I know it, yeah. I’ve got a copy somewhere. But what does it mean? That this ring is somehow tied to the author, or to the story?’ And what did any of it have to do with Tom Riddle, and with stopping him? 

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pcterpcttigrew‌:

There was something else on his mind, that was easy for Peter to see by the way he completely ignored the treacle tart sat in front of him by a sweet house elf who remembered them from their own Hogwarts days. He had assumed that it was the vigil, and the news about Sirius, just two new items on the ever-growing laundry list of things to worry about. So it was a surprise when he finally answered, genuinely sounding as if he hadn’t even considered the vigil.

Peter frowned, a little more than confused, and now even more at a loss. “Really? Oh…” he trailed off, skeptically, eyeing James despite himself, searching for the unspoken answer on his face. Once upon a time, he had been so adept at reading James, that it was probably a little embarrassing. But so much had changed; he had changed just as much as Peter, in their time apart. It made his heart ache a little, knowing it wasn’t so simple anymore. It made him wish he’d been strong enough to keep on his course, or maybe cowardly enough not to go in the first place. Selfish, always so selfish.

He had to try, wanted to, because if there was even a small way he might be able to help, he would do it.

“You alright, mate? Not that I should…I mean, I know no one’s really alright at the moment, but you know what I mean… you just, I don’t know, you seem a little distracted?” he finished awkwardly, the end coming out as more of a question than he meant it to. It felt wrong to even mention it; he didn’t have a right to anything deeper than the surface, at least that’s what he felt like. But that didn’t mean he didn’t long for that right.

     ‘Distracted?’

Something in his chest flared up at the word, defensively, as if he hadn’t literally just been thinking it a second before, as if, if Peter realized he was distracted, he’d know suddenly about the ring, would try to take it from him, like Caradoc kept doing, like anyone would do if he let anyone else find out what he was working on... Who knew who else Caradoc had told, who else she’d shown it to, how many other people might try to take it from him—or from her, while she had it, unsafe in her hands when she didn’t even have a wand to protect it like he did...

He needed to throw Peter off the scent of it, and fast, make something else up, some other reason for Peter to think he was distracted, some other thing to be distracted about, so his friend wouldn’t question why his hand kept drifting to his pocket when he was here, like he was double checking to make sure it was still there.

     ‘Er, right, I suppose I am. Just.... worried about Sirius, is all.’

It came out a little hollow, a little less than sincere, but he hoped Peter wouldn’t notice the difference—he was worried about Sirius, after all, but somehow distantly, not all-consuming in the way it might have once been. Once, James Potter would have stormed the border himself to get his brother back the moment he heard something had gone wrong. But... that was when he had been seventeen and thought he was the only important thing in the world, before Dumbledore’s plan, before he’d accepted that it was so much bigger than them all. And... if you can only understand this ring, a voice at the back of his head kept saying, you’ll save Sirius anyway, no matter what happens. You’ll save them all. You’ll be a hero. 

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cxradoc‌:

Caradoc lets herself in with confidence, turning the handle of the door almost before James has the chance to call out his welcome. The burst of warmth when she walks through the door, the smell of the house, finding James in the kitchen already drowning in work –– these things have become familiar and comforting to her. She shuts the door quickly behind herself, loathe to let any of the precious warmth escape into the cold night air. Shrugging off her coat and scarf, she launches them casually over the back of one of the dining chairs. 

It isn’t surprising for James to head straight for her, but she feels a flare of something possessive and selfish in the pit of her stomach at the question. It’s a feeling she has to reign back in, trample down until it crystallises somewhere deep inside her. Her hands casually raise up, a show of a placating teasing gesture. 

“Yeah, yeah. I brought it.” She says, breezy and quick and she skirts around him gracefully, lowering her bag down to the floor and herself into an empty chair. Her hands move up again to the clasp of the chain around her neck, fumbling to undo the latch and slip the ring free. Instinct fights her as she goes, the selfish voice rising in her. It’s mine. I should get to keep it. Why does he keep taking this away from me? The voice is ignored, pushed aside, and her fingers fulfil their purpose. 

“Really, Potter. When have I ever let you down?” She murmurs, holding the ring out in the palm of her hand. Stomach in knots at the idea of letting it go. “Show a girl a little faith.” 

He notices, the way she moves around him, the way she stalls: he notices how long it takes for her to turn it over to him, the reluctant look on her face as he plucks it from her open palm and closes his own fingers around it. One of these days, a voice inside him says, she’s not going to turn off. She’s going to up and run away with the thing and leave you missing the last piece of your puzzle and you’ll be at loose ends again, worthless to everyone—to Lily, to your friends, to the cause...

He bites his tongue, for the moment, sitting back down, and opens his hand, taking the ring between the thumb and forefinger of each hand to examine it, pushing his glasses aside with his wrist to get a better look: still there, still whole, still inscrutable as always. The gold metal, the large black stone, the strange symbol carved into its face. He’d recognized the symbol the first time he saw it, had been wracking his brain ever since to figure out where he’d seen it in the first place, but weeks of research and he’d still turned nothing up. 

      ‘Right, sorry,’ he mutters, once he’s satisfied it’s the same ring, that she hasn’t switched it out or something. It’s not that he doesn’t trust her, he thinks to himself. It’s just that whatever this is, it’s an important clue, meant to find its way to him: he’s just taking precautions, to make sure all the information gets lined up right for him to solve this. ‘Have you found anything, since the other day?’ It’s only been two days, since they switched off the ring and their scant information, but there’s always a chance she’s managed to make a breakthrough he couldn’t. 

[pcterpcttigrew]

afternoon, before the vigil, the kitchens, hogwarts, december 20      @prcng-s​

It still didn’t feel quite real, like any given morning he was going to wake up with a wand to his chest, vindictive smiles surrounding him, and it’ll all be over again. He had dreams about that, dreams, not nightmares. Sometimes, in them, it was Lily standing over him, and all he would see is a flash of green light; other times, it was Remus, and harsh words he deserved, being sent back across the border to whatever could be waiting for him there. Every now and then, it was James. Those nights are the times he wakes up in a sweat, crying; those are the nightmares.

Because wasn’t how it was, somehow. James was glad he was back. The initial shock of his reaction had worn off, and he had let himself be cautiously hopeful with every visit from him, every moment he let him have of his life, when he didn’t deserve anything at all. It was hard to believe, but that was enough. Knowing that he had him, despite everything, made him even more determined to do anything he could to fix all the harm he’d caused. It made him want to keep living on the chance that he’d be allowed to have this even a little bit longer.

Something wasn’t right, though. At first, he had thought it was him; of course, it would be him, he was a traitor, and a coward, and a liar, nothing could be normal around him. But more time spent with James, that familiar intuition coming back like it had never left, and he was certain it was something else. Peter wasn’t sure he had any right to even ask, though, not anymore. 

James was quiet today, quiet in a way he never really had been before Peter had left, even as they sat on the too small stools, the house elves piling up snacks and treats for them to have. Peter had never been very good at this sort of thing, but trying felt a lot like making amends in a small way.

“Are going to the…you know, tonight?”

[prcng-s]

He was distracted, on his way up to the castle—he’d been going up twice a week or so, since Peter had turned up, knowing that until they’d solved the Dark Mark problem Pete couldn’t actually leave the castle without risking his life and everyone else’s. He got grumpy, up there, trapped like a rat, all on his own, and at first James had been up there almost every day. But with Lily so busy, someone needed to be around to take care of Harry, and James had all but become a house husband, and between that and working with Caradoc, the visits had spaced out a little more than he’d hoped.

Still, it was better than nothing at all. It was something. And sometimes it felt like Pete was all he had. With Sirius missing, Lily working round the clock, Remus on the rampage... his conversations with Pete a few times a week were the thing that kept him feeling a little bit normal. 

He shouldn’t, probably, have been distracted today: he had the ring safe in his pocket, a comforting presence that he kept finding his fingers wandering toward, hand slipping into the pocket so he could run the pad of his thumb across the smooth metal and the stone, a reassurance that it was where it was supposed to be. Usually, having it was enough to let him focus on something else. But he was still thinking about it, now, already dreading the next morning when he and Caradoc would be switching back—and why should he give it to her, anyway? Why should he let her have it when he was the one who’d been getting the notes, when her note had told her to give it to him?

     ‘Huh?’ he said, at the sound of Pete’s voice—he hadn’t even realized he’d made it all the way up to the castle, lost in his thoughts, let alone all the way to Peter. ‘Oh, the— right, er, suppose so. Hadn’t thought much about it yet.’

[prcng-s]

     time: late evening, 19 December      place: the Potter kitchen, Hogsmeade           ( @cxradoc​ ) 

Harry fed, Harry bathed, Harry read a story and tucked close into bed, sleeping soundly beneath the gently moving quidditch posters that adorned his walls, stuffed black dog tucked up against his chest. Lily was staying late at the Ministry again, tonight, and so James has done it all, waved his wand and set the dishes to washing in the sink and taken out the stack of books, the box of letters, spread out all his work across the kitchen table and started pouring over it again while waiting for Caradoc to arrive. 

He’s matching the handwriting on her note to the handwriting on his notes, again, not much he can do without the mysterious ring in hand, but as always the notes are yielding no information to him, no puzzle pieces clicking into place. When her familiar knock comes at the door, he feels an almost palpable relief to hear it, calling come in! just loud enough for her to hear without being loud enough to wake his sleeping son. 

The door creaks open, cold air flooding the room with it, but she shuts it behind her quick enough, and he turns around in his chair, a book still open in his hand, eyes eager as he gets up and begins to move towards her, other hand outstretched.

      ‘You brought it, right?’ he asks, holding his hand out for the ring she keeps close around her neck. They’ve been alternating, a few days at a time, giving them each time to work on unraveling what it might be, why it’s important, but he’s started to feel, when he doesn’t have it, like something’s wrong, a kind of stomach-churning restlessness that disappears as soon as it’s in his possession again. 

[prcng-s]

mmollyweasley‌:

Her smile is faint, because she said those words, almost exact, to Andromeda not two weeks ago, about Nymphadora too. Optimism tended to be her preferred tack but she couldn’t help but struggle with it the longer this change went on. Percy’s problems she could understand, and he at least still talked to her, dropped by her office between classes now and again, came by regularly for dinners on the weekends–Nym was withdrawn, could barely even get her to speak when Molly cheerily greeted her in class.

Well, if James was an optimist, too, she couldn’t fault him that. He had a child to worry about, too. “The best we can hope is that they make friends, that first year,” she answers. “Bill and Charlie had little problem, but Percy’s not outgoing enough. I’d hoped he and Nymphadora would grow closer, that she was outgoing enough for the two of them, but–” Molly shrugs, giving her sentence a little ‘what can we do’ gesture. “Not all the students of Hogwarts have an easy time of it their first few years, unfortunately. You were lucky to have made such close friends so quickly.” She says it genuinely, without malice or anything hinting at snide. Two of those friends might be lost to the other side, but James seems the better for his friendships.

He felt, all of a sudden, even more grateful for little Ron, sitting across the table, having an animated conversation with Harry—good, for him, to already have a friend his age, someone he’d be starting Hogwarts with in a handful of years, someone he could, hopefully, lean on through the transition. Six years seemed so far away, eleven so far off, but then again, the past five years had gone so fast that James scarcely remembered how much had changed, all the tiny steps that had come in between Harry being born and Harry being the boy he was now. 

     ‘Yeah, I guess I was, wasn’t I?’ He’s been reminded, lately, so much, of all the luck he’s had in his life. Even if it’s starting to feel like it’s running out, like he wasted all his good fortune on being a well-liked well-adjusted kid and didn’t manage to save enough of it for being a man capable of caring for his friends, scattered to the wind.

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tmtonks‌:

They nodded, looking down at their hands in their lap as James went on. It sounded easier when he said it somehow. He had a way about him that made it easy to believe that it was all true. That it wasn’t small, that maybe there would be something to do, if they just asked for help, asked for someone else to point them in the right direction. It was hard to remember that the world had to keep turning, in the midst of everything else. But that was part of it, in the end. 

Even at the start, when it had felt like the world was crumbling around all of the, that was what they had been more focused on. How to keep their world turning, their family’s world turning. And maybe it was alright to consider that again now. They only wished that there was as clear of a direction for that now, as there had been ten years ago. Now, they weren’t even sure that there was a right direction, which made it all the harder. But James was right. They were all there to work together, to try to help things get better, and maybe it wasn’t selfish to care about how his family was faring in all of it.

That was what they were fighting for, after all, when it came down to it. The people they cared about, and their well being. Maybe Ted was just a little more concerned about the micro at the moment.

“Cheers, James,” they muttered, with a small smile. They reached over and gave his knee a fond squeeze of appreciation. “It means a lot; I appreciate it, I really do. I think we all just need a reminder, that’s all. Hard to remember, sometimes, that that’s what we’ve got; the togetherness, the love. But I suppose we’ll be alright if we keep to that, yeah?”

     ‘Yeah,’ he replied, giving Ted a warm, comforting smile in return. He wanted Ted to feel alright about this, partly because he couldn’t bear to see Ted, of all people, upset, but partly, also, because he measured himself against Ted, in a way. As a father. He had, of course, thought of his own parents as models when it came to parenting, when it came to questions of how best to raise Harry, of what mattered and what he could to do make sure his son did alright. 

But they’d been in such a different situation than he was. No war, no trouble. They’d had the money and prestige to, for the most part, just be left alone. James and Lily couldn’t afford that the same way his parents had been able to. The world was a different place, now, than it was when he’d been small, and his parents weren’t here anymore to tell him what they would have done, had the world been like this. Not to mention the difference he was starkly aware of: Harry would never be considered a pureblood, never be protected from prejudice by his family lineage the way James had been.

But Ted... Ted had navigated the beginnings of fatherhood just as the war was beginning, just as the world was thrown into chaos. A muggleborn themself, they understood the conflict in a way that James could only know by listening, but Harry and Nymphadora were the same, in that regard. And so when Lily had gotten pregnant, James had found himself turning to Ted and to Andromeda for advice, for guidance.

To see Ted feeling like they’d failed... 

But they hadn’t failed. Every kid went through rough periods: that didn’t mean their parents had failed them, just that parents couldn’t protect their children from everything, no matter how much they wanted to.

     ‘We’ll be alright.’

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cxradoc‌:

At a different time in her life she might have considered this all exciting. She still does, but fear weighs heavy on the edges of it. She doesn’t feel fairytale level excited like she might have when she was younger. She doesn’t feel like they’re knights about to embark on an epic quest. She’s no lady of the lake, and she comes bearing no sword.  

She leans in close, brushes her hair behind her ears so it doesn’t drop into her view. The handwriting is familiar, the same as the page she’s poured over since she first saw it. A small breath escapes, the puzzle expanding in scope yet not revealing any part of the greater picture. Her eyes flick up to meet James’ again, searching for something. He looks hesitant with her, some small part of him unwilling to share this but thinking better than to hold it back. He has questions and he wants to know the answers. 

“Well, Nancy, it seems like everywhere you go mysteries just pile up one after the other.” It comes out slow, easy, a whisper. Her mother used to read her those books, a break from lore and legends. Nancy Drew, solving mysteries and getting to the bottom of every problem. When Caradoc came up with some extravagant story, some kind of excuse, a tall tail, she’d repeat the line with a little roll of her eyes. This mystery is James’, it belongs to him, but she feels like she owns a part of it too. For the first time, she feels like she wants to start working for something. She wants to know the answers and the reasons and the name of whoever set her free so she could do this, so that she could find James Potter. 

“Let me help you.” She says –– a demand, really. “I want to know who sent them. Who sent me.” 

The first time one of the owls had come, dropping an unmarked, sealed letter into the inbox of his desk at the auror office, a part of him had thought: finally, something for me to do, something for me. As if, having been given nothing by Dumbledore, having been no one special at all since long before the war started, this was the thing he’d waited for, the chance to do something that only he could do. Years had passed since he’d accepted that this was not his war, that the best thing he could do was support his friends—Sirius, on the other side of the border; Remus, scarred by the war; Lily, fighting for their own life in a way more personal than he could ever imagine. But the letters, the owls following him around, they’d been something just for him. His chance to be a hero.

It had been naive. It had been narcissistic. But it was true. And a part of him, face to face with Caradoc demanding to be a part of it suddenly, is resistant to the idea of letting anyone else be a part of it, letting anyone else take credit--

But it’s stupid. He hasn’t gotten anywhere, and it’s been—what, a year? Maybe more, now? And Caradoc is already a part of this, whether he likes it or not. She became a part of it when whoever gave her that ring, that note, whoever had been writing these notes to James had sent her to him with help. 

He looks at the ring. At the note. Then at her, the lines on her face, tired and strained, physical signs of everything she’s been through for this.

     ‘Alright,’ he says. And then, ‘But not here. Not... we have to meet somewhere else, not in the Ministry.’ 

[prcng-s]

pcterpcttigrew‌:

So distracted by seeing James in front of him again, the overwhelming emotions bubbling over the top and tumbling out, that he barely registered what James was about to do before his arms were around him in a tight hug. He responded in kind, without thought, so natural to be hugging James again. It made the warm tears well up, spill over, as he clung on as if this might be the last time all over again. He smelled good, and his head still fit so easily in the crook of his neck.

Never would he have guessed that this would be his reaction upon their reunion, but he was infinitely grateful for it, overwhelmed with what it felt like. He had expected something like what he had gotten from Remus, but a thousand times worse in James’s voice, to hear the disapointment, the anger, the hatred. Here he was, though, holding onto him like maybe he actually wanted him here, that he might want to give him another chance. And his words, he was glad.

It was all too much to take in, he could hardly comprehend it all. James had missed him. Even when he pulled away, Peter’s hands lingered on his arms, unable to let go now that he was here again. Looking him in the eye, hearing him saying that, it made him happier than he had been in years, and it made him sick thinking of how he didn’t deserve to be missed.

But he’d always been selfish.

“I missed you, too, more than I can…Merlin, I don’t…I don’t even know what to say. Are you…are you okay?” he asked, stumbling over his words, too distracted by the overwhelmingness of the situation, by the urge to reach up and wipe the tears from James’s eyes. “That’s a stupid question. I’m sorry, I just…I wasn’t expecting…”

Are you okay?

It wasn’t the first time someone had asked him that; people asked it all the time. But he didn’t think about the answer, very often. What reason did he have not to be okay? Even if he was tired, or worried, or scared, he could be okay, could be a steady and reliable anchor in the storm for anyone else who needed one to hold onto, for people who had more to fear than he did. Never once had he answered anything other than of course, I’m fine, a reflexive answer that came so easily to his lips that he almost said it just now, without thinking, like always.

But this was Pete. He was back. And the question, in his voice, made James stop, for a moment, and wonder at what the answer really was. 

Caradoc had brought him a mysterious ring and a note and the owls had stopped coming and he was no closer to an answer than he had been when he started. Sirius was... in danger, more and more actively every day, no matter how much he tried to hide that he was falling out of favor with Riddle, putting himself at risk by staying there. Remus was distant, and angry, and exhausted, so much of his focus and energy on the Insurgency that he barely seemed to have time to breathe, and there was a guilty look in his eyes, when he looked at James, like he felt badly about being the reason their whole group was scattered to the wind. Lily was overworked, as always, doing their best to keep the Order together and try to put something good into place. Pete--Pete, who he’d given up on, who he’d thought had been lost forever--was here, but wrong, so wrong, hiding here, trapped, with no one on his side... Was he okay?

     ‘It’s alright,’ he said, nodding a little, as Peter stumbled along past the question. ‘It’s... you know, we’ll figure it out. We always do.’

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siriusbrontide‌:

He holds Harry close, scooped up into his arms and squeezed until he’s wriggling. With a thump, Sirius is down on the floor properly, legs crossed and Harry firmly transferred from one lap to another. He’s babbling a mile a minute, up past his bed time and excited to see Sirius. Its gratifying, the amount of love someone so small can hold inside them. Sirius is desperately afraid sometimes that Harry will have forgotten him, that Harry won’t love him anymore if he spends too long away. Sometimes, he lays awake and imagines a day where Harry will look at him and see all the times he wasn’t there, as opposed to the times he was. He lays awake and imagines a day where Harry will understand all the things he’s had to do in the name of the war effort, and is hopelessly terrified that Harry will hate him for it. 

“It’s good to see you, too.” He breathes out, “Both of you.” With a warm smile in James’ direction, desperate for the same treatment Harry is giving him. His fingers find just the right spot, tickle Harry until he’s almost squealing, laughing much too hard. If he didn’t miss Sirius so much, he’d be running away by now. He did that sometimes, when Sirius had been there for hours instead of minutes, when he got used to the presence again and forgot that Sirius was a fleeting thing, bound to leave at any moment. “Sorry I’m late.” He says, slow. “Thought I might have missed you.” 

He wants a hug from James, wants to close the distance between them and cling to James the same way Harry is clinging to him. After all, Sirius is a fleeting thing, bound to leave at any moment. He wants to feel James’ warmth, the familiar smell of home on him, a comfort that’s impossible to ask for. He’ll get it later, for now he rests his chin on top of Harry’s head and holds him there, not knowing what else to do or what else to say. There are too many things wrong in his life, too many worries to voice them all. 

He doesn’t think he needs to say it: that he would have waited for Sirius here, all night, even if if meant conjuring up some blankets to build Harry a makeshift bed on the floor. Would have waited hours, would have waited til the sun came up, rather than miss his chance to see Sirius. With the promise of Padfoot, Harry would have waited, patiently or not, all night, until sleep finally took him. James would have done the same.

But it doesn’t matter. He’s here, he’s safe. Harry has settled in on his lap, content at least for now, sleepy as he is, to rest there. James knows he’ll pester Sirius later, want to tell him a hundred things, want to ask him a dozen questions, want to know if Sirius has a present for him. He’s quiet, now, and maybe that’s James’ cue to talk about all the things he’s been telling himself all day he needs to talk to Sirius about, but it’s warm, just like this, and soft; it’s how things should be, and it feels wrong to taint that with talk of the way, to fill whatever brief time they have with that. No matter how much he wants to say, let it be over, now, please, Sirius, just come home.

     ‘Just glad you’re here,’ he says, after a moment. His voice sounds more tired than he’d thought it would. ‘Things have been... a mess, honestly.’

He doesn’t exactly want to talk about why. Doesn’t want to mention the strange ring Carado had brought back, and however it was connected to the secret notes he still hadn’t told Sirius about. Doesn’t want to tell Sirius about the extra patrols he’s started doing along the border, after Marlene and Fletcher spotted two Death Eaters there. Still, they only have so much time. And if Sirius says he didn’t know about the Death Eaters, it’ll be a sign that James should make him stay. 

     ‘Did you... know? About the Death Eaters?’

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ben-fenwick‌:

He shrugged his shoulders in response, unsure if the idea was even doable. The Order’s numbers weren’t anything like they were when he left, so he was still uncertain just how many they could even afford giving up to such a watch. The Insurgency may have wanted to end the war, but picking apart the Order to do so left the original group far more inept to handle the problems it once had. 

“Could be searchin’ for me and Dearborn,” he replied, the thought making his stomach churn. The timing made sense though, and he was certain Riddle wouldn’t simply let the two of them go without sending any kind of search party out looking for them. Letting out a sigh, he finally looked up to where the magical barrier stood only a few meters away from them. 

“Whoever it was, they had to be under Riddle’s direction. If they really were Death Eaters their marks would have alerted him the moment they crossed over.” Looking over to the barrier he knew what they had to do, it was the next logical step in their search if they wanted to find anything of note. Knowing though did nothing to calm the fear that was currently coursing through him. 

“We should cross over,” he added, fists clenching as he did so, “See if there’s any clues they left on the other side.” 

That made sense at least -- that they’d come over as a direct response to something, that that something might’ve been Ben and Caradoc’s escape. As much as he hated the idea of them over here looking for prisoners who’d gone missing, at least that was something concrete, something fathomable, something less sinister than they ideas he’d been having, that they were scouting for some larger attack, trying to find where the Order’s defenses were weakest...

Still, he hated the idea that Riddle had ordered his Death Eaters to do anything and Sirius hadn’t been able to warn them about it, whether that was because he didn’t know or because there wasn’t time. It seemed like a massive departure from how things had been-- seemed like Sirius had always been able to warn them when the patrols increased or when Riddle had anything else that might effect them planned. 

     ‘You... you sure you want to do that?’ he replied, surprised at Ben’s suggestion. If it were him, crossing the border and risking being captured again would be the absolute last thing he’d want to do... which meant it probably was the last thing Ben wanted to do, and also probably the only logical next step for them. ‘I can do it, if you want to hang back. Just be a minute.’

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narciss-a‌:

She’s getting better at existing comfortably in open spaces. She’s getting better at letting Draco stray from her, taking him places he can run and explore, not panicking when he’s briefly out of sight. It’s been months since she moved here, months since the last sign of Lucius’ trackers, months of assurance from Fletcher and Sirius that nobody was looking. She had complicated feelings about that, but one of them was relief and the sneaking belief that maybe she was safe, that Draco was safe.

Ted was better to her than they had any right to be, and they had taken Narcissa and Draco here many times, kept an eye on Draco and his mother both, spoken in a calm voice about things that soothed her frazzled nerves. She had come here now, a few times, packed a picnic and brought Draco to play and swallowed her heart a dozen times whenever a strange noise startled her. Other parents brought their children here, and Draco played with them, sometimes, but more often than not he was alone–more comfortable solitary, not adept yet at socializing. Much like her. Too much like her.

But this kind of outing was becoming routine, and she was finding a kind of ease in it. It kept Draco from going stir-crazy indoors, and as long as he did not complain about the weather, she was not going to bring it to his attention. Today is a calm day for her nerves and she’s making fond, appreciative noises as Draco finds things on the path and brings them to her to inspect. It’s mostly rocks with shiny flecks and sticks that look a bit like wands, but he finds an intact feather on one of his searches and she tucks it behind her ear, which makes him grin and run off to find another one.

An unfamiliar voice yells a familiar word and Narcissa looks up while Draco looks down, at the stuffed dog still clutched under one arm. She’s nervously glancing around at the approaching child, searching for any sort of parental figure it might belong to, when Draco notices him and takes a hesitant step back. The boy is about his age, she hazards a guess, but larger, out of breath from running. He stops in front of Draco, who’s halfway between holding his Padfoot out for the boy to see and keeping it securely in his arms so the boy can’t take it from him.

Which the boy tries to do immediately, and Narcissa is at once grateful she’s too far away to intervene and frustrated for the same. She’s been cautioned not to be overbearing, and it’s the most difficult thing she’s ever done, including escaping across the border.

There’s a man on a bench nearby, the one who called the boy Harry, and another child inching closer, looking less comfortable with this confrontation than Harry is. “’s my Padfoot,” Draco says, turning his little body to shield the beloved toy. “’s special.”

He pushes himself up off the bench, resigned and exhausted, with a sigh, following after Harry in a light jog before he steals this kid’s toy-- and then the other kid, the blonde one, calls it Padfoot too, and James can see, now that he’s closer, that this toy is identical to the one he’s currently holding, the one Sirius brought for Harry when he was first born, insistent that Harry call it Padfoot and nothing else...

And then the pieces start to fall together. The blonde woman behind the kid, she looks... like Andromeda, if Andromeda were blonde and tired and a little more of a bitch, which means there’s only one person she can be, only one person this kid can be, flinching away from Harry, only one way this kid could have gotten an identical toy to Harry’s Padfoot, and there’s going to be hell to pay about unoriginal gifts the next time he talks to Sirius.

     ‘Hey, hey, Harry, no, it’s okay, I’ve got your Padfoot,’ he says, crouching down, a hand on Harry’s shoulder, handing him the toy before he can reach out to steal the other one, which he’s clearly about to do. Cutting the chaos off at the head so there won’t be any major meltdowns here.

Harry only barely glances back at it, and then looks back at him, confused, and then back at the kid. ‘Why’s he got one?’

     ‘I don’t know, bud, lots of people have the same toys,’ he says, quietly. ‘D’you want to introduce yourself? Maybe he’ll want to be friends, if you’re nice.’

He say the last part out of a stubborn loyalty, a promise he made when Sirius first told him that Narcissa was crossing the border: keep an eye out for her, if you see her, alright? A promise reluctantly made, despite a selfish jealousy that she’d been the family member who got to spend time with him, all this time, and still was running away, when James would have done anything to run to Sirius, given the chance. 

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pcterpcttigrew‌:

He was getting better at the whole sneaking around without becoming a rat first, sort of thing, but it was still hard. Hard, only because he was paranoid that around every corner someone could be waiting to accost him, to punch him, stun him, beat him down and remind him of everything he already couldn’t forget himself. So he was jumpy, to say the least, even if there was no reason, just now, coming from the kitchens full and satisfied, thanks to all the house elves who still remembered him fondly from years and years ago. But he thought he was safe, hell, he was safe, until suddenly a figure appeared out of nowhere, his name said in such a familiar voice, it felt as if his heart had stopped dead.

He couldn’t breathe, he could scarcely even look at him, now, so close, after watching him from afar at the funeral, after thinking about him every night for years, thinking of how much he had hurt him, wishing he could do anything to change it, to take back the pain he had caused him. And now he was here. A cruel joke the universe was playing on him, refusing to give him a chance, over and over, to prepare for these meeting, especially this one. But maybe it was only fair.

It didn’t feel fair, though, looking back at James, seeing how much he had changed, and how much he hadn’t. Something between pain and need in his blurry eyes. It made Peter’s breathe catch in his throat, made it hard to swallow, hard to breathe. Made warm tears well up in his eyes, that he tried his damndest to will back.

“James,” he whispered, voice barely even loud enough for anyone to hear, something reverent to it, as he said his name, like he somehow hadn’t been expecting to ever get the chance to say it again. That’s what it felt like, after all. He wanted to step forward, wanted to run to him, wrap his arms around him and never let go, but he didn’t, instead stuffing his hands into his pockets, to try to hide the need. 

“Yeah…I came back to try to fix things…I know that’s not possible. I fucked up so bad, I hurt all of you, especially you, and…I’m sorry. I’m more sorry than I could ever say, or show. But…I’m back.”

He was closing the distance between them before he even realized he was doing it, three or for long strides through the echoing hallway and then he was pulling Peter into his arms, wrapping them around him, a tight hug that suddenly transported back to the last time they’d done this, the day he’d said goodbye to Peter before he left for England on Dumbledore’s orders, the way he’d rested his chin on top of Peter’s head so that Pete couldn’t see that he was crying as his final best friend went off to war without him, too. 

     It’s okay, he wanted to say, but he knew he couldn’t. It wasn’t okay. Remus was furious, Lily was furious, Peter had that damned Mark on his arm and there was nothing they could do about it, no way to erase the years that had elapsed or everything that had happened during them. But James had always been easy to trust, had grown up learning that that was a strength and not a flaw. No one else might have believed him, but if Peter said he was here to try to make up for what he’d done, than James believed him. 

     ‘I’m glad,’ he said, instead, his voice low and a little raw from the ragged feeling of tears at the back of his throat. ‘I’m glad you’re back, I’m--’ 

He let out a shaky breath before making himself pull away. In another situation, he might have tried to wipe the tears from his eyes before anyone could see them, but not now, not here. 

     ‘I missed you, Pete. I missed you.’ 

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     time. mid-afternoon, 24 October      place. a park near Hogsmeade            ( @narciss-a ) 

He is, admittedly, zoning out a bit, his mind wandering over a hundred other things while Harry and Ron occupy one another’s attention three or four metres ahead of him. There’s too much to think about: Caradoc and the letter, the ring, not to mention the Death Eaters and he and Ben’s fruitless attempts to figure out what they’d been doing, and the fact that Sirius hadn’’t known anything about it all, the fact that Sirius might be in danger of falling out of favor...

     ‘Padfoot!’ Harry shouts with delight, startling James out of his thoughts, seeing something behind James’ shoulder, and James’ heart nearly stops in his chest--not that it’s uncommon for Harry to shout his godfather’s name at any passing dog, but the possibility that Sirius might really be here...

But he turns, and Harry isn’t running towards Sirius’ tall, slender figure, or even towards a random dog in the park, but instead towards another boy, around his age. White-blonde hair, bundled up against the chill late-October weather, a small stuffed black dog in one hand which must have been what caught Harry’s eye; it looks exactly like Harry’s own toy, which is currently sitting on the bench next to James’ thigh, temporarily forgotten in favor of Ron, who has now been temporarily forgotten in favor of this new intrusion.

      ‘Harry, hey--’ he calls after him, a little helplessly, fruitlessly, there’s no stopping Harry once he’s gotten his mind settled on something. So he adds, a little quieter, ‘Just be nice, alright?’

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mmollyweasley‌:

Molly is friends with too many Order members to not know half of the goings-on that she should not be aware of. But Albus was always dropping hints here and there, never tempering his conversation with Minerva with Molly in the room, and secrets held within Hogwarts’ walls weren’t secrets from those who lived within the castle, too. Molly should think of Sirius Black as a Riddle loyalist, given the news years back that he’d returned to his family, but she was friends with Andromeda, and Harry was too young still to know better than to mention his visits to his godfather–she barely batted an eye at James bringing up Sirius with that fond tone in his voice. It might bring up complicated feelings in the pit of her stomach, but Molly is used to moving past those feelings in mixed company, and she keeps her eyes on her children rather than meet James’ while they pass.

Thoughts of Percy bring different feelings to replace them–some guilt, concern, all the regular parental emotions made complicated by the changes at the school. “It’s difficult to grow up with so many siblings and then live without them,” she says, though in truth that’s just a guess she masks with a sure voice. “Percy’s whole life has been sandwiched between Charlie and the twins, and now he’s finding himself a bit adrift.”

It makes sense, he supposes, that a kid who grew up surrounded by so many siblings might define themself a little bit by those siblings, and have trouble putting together a fully comprehensive identity when those siblings were no longer constantly surrounding them. But what did he know? He’d had the opposite, learning to define himself by his best friends, the friends he made as soon as he started school.

     ‘Well, I’m sure he’ll be alright, it’s only been what, a month and a half? They’ll all work it out, surely.’

He glances over at the kids around the table, Harry chatting to Ron through a mouthful of eggs, Fred and George half-whispering to one another while looking conspiratorially in Ginny’s general direction. He knows that look, the look of soon-to-be-mischief, and when one of them--Fred?--makes brief eye contact with him, he winks: your secret’s safe with me, mate. 

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tmtonks‌:

They gave him a weak, but still clearly upset smile, knocked his shoulder with their own in thanks for his sympathy. It was hard to admit just how difficult it had been lately. Already hard enough having to let her go, and start to grow up, but then the change in her on top of it all. If she had been thriving, if she had been having the sort of time they had when they had first made it to Hogwarts, then it would be a little easier to stomach the crippling loss that they felt suddenly having an empty house, feeling like their purpose was up, until she came back for summer. But she wasn’t, and so it broke their heart even worse, knowing how hard it was for her, too, being at the castle, especially as the world got more and more dangerous by the day.

“Not yet, no…” they trailed off, considering the suggestion. It was the truth, of course, Minerva of all people cared about each and every student in that castle as if they were her own. But with so much else on her shoulders, the running of the school, as everything became so precarious, they could scarcely imagine she would’ve had time to notice anything so small. 

And part of them hated to think of putting anyone in more trouble than they were already in, when they already had done so little to help out.

“I don’t want to trouble anyone, you know,” they admitted, after a pause. “It’s such a small thing, in the grand scheme of things. Dumbledore’s gone, everyone’s at a loss, dividing in half amongst ourselves…I know how much you all care about her, too, but I’m not naive enough to think…I know there’s too much else to be worrying about. But I suppose I’ve always been a little selfish. Always cared more about what’s going on in my own life than the grand plans, and all that…that’s the only reason Dumbledore was able to convince me to join, you know. And now what, if my Dora’s going to be in so much pain no matter how it all splits up?”

     ‘It’s not small,’ he answered. ‘And it’s not trouble. She’s your kid. And that’s what Minerva’s there for, to make sure they’re all okay. I’m not saying she’ll fix it, but she might at least be able to point you in the right direction.’

He couldn’t argue against the fact that they were all stretched thin -- they were, more than they should have been, and he’d always been a big believer in the whole united we stand, divided we fall thing, but it wasn’t his place right now to criticize the people who Dumbledore had failed. Not when the worst thing that had happened to him was not being sent to England to be useful, not when his family was mostly safe. But the hardest part about being stretched thin was knowing that things were gonna fall through the gaps and go unaddressed, and he couldn’t bear the thought that little Nymphadora Tonks might be one of those things.

He glanced at Harry again, in the distance, who was now crouched down digging at the ground with a stick, probably looking for worms or something equally investigative. Imagining, even for a second, all of the joy suddenly gone from Harry’s face, and him at a loss to understand why...

     ‘It’s not selfish to care about her well-being. We’ve got to work together, you know? It’s what we’ve got going for us that the other side doesn’t. Love.’