Chapter Text
The clock on the wall chimed softly, marking the hour, but none of the Potters paid it any mind, least of all James. They were far too engaged in the conversation, the remains of dinner spread out on the table before them: half-empty glasses of white wine and the last few bites of pie. The dining room was warm, the fire in the hearth crackling softly. It’d gone about half ten, but the little party of three was still gathered around the table. Their endless laughter and chatter made it clear that they were in no rush to close out the evening.
James leaned back in his chair, grinning as his father recounted the match: “I’m telling you, James, the Magpies had it in the bag – they were out-flying Puddlemere in every way that counted!”
James scoffed, more obligatorily than anything – it wasn’t that big of a sore spot, for Puddlemere was still in the League; only that the Magpies currently held a winning streak that bored James terribly. “Out-flying? Maybe in your dreams, dad,” he said, nevertheless. “Puddlemere were all over them – did you see how easily their Chasers weaved through that sorry defence? It was like they weren’t even there!”
Dad chuckled and shook his head. “You’re only saying that because you’re still holding onto that grudge from last season when the Magpies knocked the Wasps out of semi-finals.”
James threw his hands up, feigning exasperation. “They were playing dirty that match! You can’t tell me that Bludger wasn’t tampered with. Anyway, how’d you like it if I said you were only for the Magpies because you feel sorry about them losing their captain?”
Ma, who’d been watching the debate with an idle smile, interjected calmly, “Now, now. It’s just a game. You know, I quite liked seeing the two of you cheering together for once, even if you’re for whatever reason at odds about the outcome now.”
James grinned at his mother, then returned to his father: “Alright, I’ll be honest, the Magpies did have some good plays… but you’ve got to admit, Puddlemere’s Keeper was on fire tonight – he blocked that last shot like it was nothing.”
Dad inclined his head. “I’ll grant you that. The boy’s got talent – but the Magpies’ teamwork is what sets them apart. That sort of coordination doesn’t come easily you know, and it shows. They deserved the win indisputably.”
James shrugged, sucking the last remnants of flavour off his fork. “I still think that Puddlemere was mugged off. They were the better team.”
Dad smirked behind his glass. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve been eyeing their roster. Got your sights set on playing for them someday, have you?”
James felt his grin falter a little bit. The fork paused halfway to his mouth. His dad’s expression was playful, but the remark rubbed against a sore spot he hadn’t anticipated.
He shrugged, more to brush off the sudden unease than anything. “Maybe,” he said, although he couldn’t quite convey the same enthusiasm as before.
Dad took another sip of his wine, still grinning, but James felt a knot tightening in his stomach. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to play for Puddlemere – he did, more than anything. But the idea of his dad pulling a few strings, making a few calls…
James recoiled at the mere thought. He wanted to earn his place fair and square, to prove that his skills were good enough. Not because he happened to be from a well-connected family.
He cleared his throat. “But who doesn’t want to play for Puddlemere? I dunno, I’m not stuck on one option.”
“Alright, you two,” Ma interjected, with a gentle laugh, “As riveting as this Quidditch chatter is, I’m afraid you’ve lost me. You know I can barely keep track of which team’s which, let alone who caught what and blocked whom. Why don’t we talk about something else before I’m completely left out of the conversation?”
James seized on the opportunity, both grateful and relieved. “Of course,” he said graciously, “What should we talk about, then?”
“Well, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she began, leaning over her drink, “Whatever happened to that lovely girl you invited over the Easter holidays? Lily Evans? She said she’d write to me with some questions about the garden, and never did.”
“Oh, yes,” Dad hummed. “Bright little thing, wasn’t she?”
James stiffened, caught off guard. He hadn’t thought about Lily much since the Leaving Feast, but now the memory rushed back with startling clarity.
It had been a triumphant night, the Great Hall buzzing with excitement as Dumbledore announced that Gryffindor had won the House Cup. Through the surge of pride that James felt as scarlet-and-gold banners unfurled above them, past the cheers echoing off the enchanted ceiling, amidst all that jubilation— he’d glanced across the table. Reflexively, instinctively obedient to what felt natural.
His eyes had sought out Lily’s… and found them.
For a brief, surprising moment, they’d smiled at each other – truly smiled. The unspoken joke hanging in the air between them:
It’s a matter of house pride…
Is it, now…?
We’re on the same team… it’s our duty to save Gryffindor together…
And I suppose you’ve already done your share…
It’d been a small and probably spontaneous exchange, but for that fleeting moment, it’d felt as if all the tension between them had melted, and they’d gone back to the start.
Then Lily’s smile had wavered, of course, and she’d coloured, and wrenched her eyes away.
James idly tapped at his glass now, thumb and forefinger forming a circle, nail flicking at it with no real intention. Tink, tink, tink. “Yeah, she’s… she’s alright,” he said. “Probably. I dunno, we’re not really friends like that.”
“Is that so?” Dad arched his eyebrows. “By the way she spoke to Remus, I’d thought you’d found yourselves a female— oh, what is it that you’ve named your little group— Marauder?”
“As I understand it, membership applications are permanently closed,” said Ma, sardonically teasing. “You boys ought to formally declare it a secret society, and have done with it.”
James had been busy chuckling at that when it happened – a sudden buzzing in his trouser pocket, a vague tingling sensation against his thigh. The laughter died on his lips, replaced by a frown as he reached in, fingers brushing against the smooth, cool surface of his two-way mirror. It was practically an extension of himself these days; if it wasn’t on his person, it was always within arm’s reach. He’d turned almost paranoid after the events of last summer, still haunted by the memory of its consequences.
And the mirror didn’t usually hum like that, not unless Sirius’s voice was either loud enough or close enough to it to make the glass vibrate. James yanked it out with a growing sense of unease.
His heart skipped a beat when he saw Sirius’s face, sure enough, appear in the reflection. There was no mistaking the pale, anxious look in his best friend’s eyes, a look that was entirely out of character for someone who usually met danger with a smirk. Sirius’s eyes darted frantically, his face half-shadowed in the dim light of the room he was in. James felt a jolt of alarm. The sight wiped all mirth off his face in an instant, replacing it with a cold, hard knot of dread that settled in his gut.
He sat up straighter, heart pounding. “Pad—”
“You’ve got to help me,” Sirius cut in in a frantic whisper that sent a shiver down James’s spine. The terror in his eyes was uncharacteristic, nothing that should belong to the brash and reckless boy that James knew better than anyone else. “You’ve got to get me out of here, Prongs!”
“What, what’s happened?” James half-stood, muscles tensing as if he could simply Apparate to Grimmauld Place in that very instant. His parents had fallen silent, too, expressions sharpened as they listened along.
“He was here,” Sirius managed to get out, the words a quiver. His eyes kept flicking nervously over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to burst through the door at any given moment. Even his breath came in ragged bursts, each one sounding more panicked than the last. “He’s gone— but h-he was downstairs.”
James’s heart lurched. “Who?” he demanded, already stepping around his chair, his legs poised to run – to help.
Sirius leaned closer to the mirror, face utterly terrified.
In a voice barely above a whisper, he hissed, “You-Know-Who.”