Author's Note: Welcome to Lead Us to the Light! It's good to get back into the world of Harry Potter fanfiction, I've been absent for quite a long while. I've owed this story for about a year now, so I'm excited to finally post it.
About posting, though. This entire story is already written. I have edits to do on most of the chapters [and will likely make additional revisions based on reviews], but nothing so major that it'll change the story's direction. However, several months ago I started a new system where I write one story at a time, and write one chapter for that story before posting a chapter of the story I'm posting. For example, I wouldn't post a chapter of my story AVPF until I'd finished writing a chapter of this story. So if it's been two weeks and I haven't posted a new chapter, assume that I'm having issues with writers' block, and please be patient with me. I will not abandon this story; it will all be posted eventually.
If you're looking for story updates or news about what I'm up to, please check my homepage. I always update there when I've done anything needing your attention.
And now, enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own the world of Harry Potter, despite harassing, cajoling, begging and threatening JKR. If you recognize it, it's not mine. Also, I like to break canon, often in really big ways. That's why this is fanfiction, because I can get away with that. Don't you dare try to sue me.
However, this story is a sequel. Before you read this, make sure you've read [and remembered] the first part, In the Darkness I Remain. Otherwise, you're going to be absolutely confused about what's going on.
01 June, 2019
The Headmaster's quarters were in complete and utter disarray. Empty bottles of Butterbeer and crumpled sheets of parchment mingled with broken quills and dirty socks. From their separate cages, two owls looked imperiously over the chaos as one distracted Headmaster hurriedly packed to leave.
Packing at the end of the school year had always been his least favorite part of Hogwarts. The castle was his home, more so than any place on earth with the possible exception of the Burrow, and he loathed leaving it. Fortunately, as Headmaster, he didn't have to be gone for long. He would return to Grimmauld Place for a few weeks, long enough to get things in order and to host his yearly party for his family and friends. He would spend time in the Ministry, aid Moody in whatever small jobs needed doing, and then he would return home to prepare for a new school year.
And he would not allow the black leather-bound journal on his mantel to change his plans in the slightest.
Eight months ago at the start of term, Harry Potter had received a visit from his eleven-year-old son James Malfoy. He had never met his son; by the time James had been born, Harry had been imprisoned by Voldemort and the boy's mother had been married to Draco Malfoy, thus giving Harry's son the last name of his archrival. He had learned of James from the boy's mother Alana Montblanc, when Fate had thrown them back together, but he had never spent any time with his child.
James had brought Harry a journal written by Alana, a letter of sorts to explain why she, bred to be the Dark Lord's weapon, had betrayed Harry to the enemy. It had been a painful read for Harry; he had had to relive nightmarish memories, and to face down prejudices and assumptions he'd held about his ex-fiancée for years. But now Harry had read Alana's letter. And he had promised her that he would fix things, which he was determined to do.
He just had no idea how to go about it.
He was hoping that after a few weeks in Grimmauld Place, the London townhouse where they had lived together more than once, he would emerge with some semblance of a plan.
He was quite sure, however, that getting on the Hogwarts Express with James was not the way to go about things. That was an instinct he would be wise to ignore.
So why in Merlin's name was he so tempted to do just that?
Frustrated, Harry grabbed the journal and chucked it into his trunk before walking downstairs into his office to gather together some files he meant to look through when he got to Grimmauld.
Ten minutes later, he stood before the trunk, journal in hand.
"I must be out of my mind," he muttered as he shoved the journal into his messenger bag and shut the lid of the trunk.
The twelve-year-old boy walked through the train station in the southernmost part of England, trying to maintain a calm and collected demeanor while internally he was going to pieces. And to think that just this morning, his greatest anxiety had been navigating the trip home. His mother's directions were easy enough to follow, but until he'd gone away to school, he'd never travelled on his own. Well, at least now he wasn't alone…
He threw a glance over his shoulder, reassured when he saw the tall man was still there. Surely nothing terrible could happen on the trip, not when the man- his father, he gleefully reminded himself- was there. At the sight of his father, though, all the boy's anxieties came crashing down upon him- namely, fear of his mother's reaction.
He hadn't written to inform his mother that he was bringing his father back with him. But that wasn't truly his fault; it wasn't until he'd gotten to Hogsmeade that he'd found his father on the train, and Harry Potter had announced that he was going to France with his son.
It wasn't that he feared punishment at his mother's hands. It was just that his parents hadn't seen each other in five years, and they hadn't truly spoken since before he was born. He feared his mother would resent the sudden appearance of his father without any chance to prepare herself.
But his father had said, "Leave your mother to me." So that was what he was going to do.
His father…
James Malfoy considered the man walking behind him. He had never, before this year, even seen the man who sired him, except in pictures. He'd spent the first seven years of his life with his step-grandmother, and they'd all thought his father to be dead. Then, five years ago, his mother had come into his life, and with her had come his first contact with his father. She had told him stories about his father- his real father, not the man whose name he bore- and given him the one picture she had of herself with him. And she had promised that one day he would attend the school where his father was Headmaster.
James knew who his father was, as well as anybody. Harry Potter, the great Chosen One, the hero and savior of the wizarding world. But he hadn't the faintest idea what the man was like. How did he like his eggs? What was his favorite color? What happened when he got angry? And James had no answers for the two most important questions- had Harry loved James' mother? Had he wanted James?
The fact that his father was a complete stranger bothered James, but he supposed that was hardly surprising. At any rate, he was more fortunate than his younger half-brother, because he could learn about Harry. His father, unlike Julian's, was still alive.
James didn't remember his stepfather; he'd only been a year old when Draco was killed. Growing up, his step-grandmother had told him stories about Draco, but the man had never seemed quite real to James. Of course he knew that Draco Malfoy had been real, that people had known him; his stepfather had once been one of the most infamous wizards in the world, and famously the archrival of James' own father. But his stepfather was just as much of a stranger as his biological father; Draco just seemed more unreal because he was firmly fixed in the past, dead and finite. There was no way to recall him, so James was content to leave him in the past.
His real father, though… Harry was a different matter. The subject of his father had always been a really touchy one for his mother; she didn't like to be reminded of him. James wasn't sure why, but he had an uneasy feeling that it had something to do with the fact that he was the result of Harry and Alana's liaison. James would like to believe that Alana had once loved Harry, that she might still… but life had taught him that it rarely worked that way. Alana had blocked Harry out, and so his father was a ghost, never to be spoken of.
It shouldn't have been anything unusual for James. The Malfoy boys had never had a father figure growing up. James' step-grandmother Narcissa had once stated that their mother had bad luck with men. First, James' parents had parted on terrible terms, what with Harry being betrayed to the Dark Lord and all. Then his mother had married Julian's father Draco, but he had been killed, and his mother had been taken away. James and Julian had been raised by Draco's mother Narcissa, but her husband had already been dead by that point.
Now, though, James did have a father, at least in name. And he found he had no idea how to behave around this man. What should James call him? What should he say, or not say? Should he assume Harry meant to join the family, or pretend as though his father was just a guest?
James closed his eyes. He had to stop this, he told himself firmly. If he didn't stop worrying, he would put himself in a panic attack, and that wouldn't help anything. Harry stopped next to his son, and James realized he'd stopped walking. Quickly, he opened his eyes and schooled his face into composure with a quickness that did his mother proud.
"Where's the platform?" Harry asked.
"Between Twelve and Thirteen, like in King's Cross Station," James replied. "But the other side of this platform will be in France. Mother said the Number Seven is an express to Marseille. We'll pull in just in time for the festival."
"Festival?" Harry queried.
James nodded. "There's a party every year to celebrate the students returning home from Beaubatons, Durmstrang, and Hogwarts. It's Mother's favorite."
His father nodded thoughtfully but didn't comment. They passed through the barrier to Platform 12 7/8 without incident, and settled into their compartment for the six-hour trip to Marseilles… and Alana.
Harry watched his young son thoughtfully as the train flew through the French countryside. He was unexpectedly enjoying seeing James outside a school setting; his son seemed younger and less guarded as they drew closer to his home.
His son… Harry mused over the words, saying them pensively to himself. What did that phrase even mean? He had never formally laid claim to the boy, had no legal right to him. They were positive strangers to each other; he hadn't even known James was still alive until the boy was seven. Yet, James was absolutely Harry's. Physically, he was as much a clone of Harry as Harry was of his father. James carried Harry's genes, his blood, his magic. He even displayed some of Harry's personality traits, if one took the time to look past the calm and composed veneer he'd inherited from his mother. All of that was enough to make James Harry's offspring. But what was enough to earn the familial titles? Father, son, family… how did one forge those bonds? Did he even want to? He'd been out of Alana's life, and she from his, for years. Their romance- or whatever they'd had beneath her charade, if anything- was long dead. It was over and done now, and couldn't be changed.
But wasn't that exactly what he was doing by coming to France? Dwelling on the past, trying to rectify mistakes that probably couldn't be corrected?
Harry groaned silently at his circuitous thoughts and refocused on the challenge he would face in about four hours. Funny how killing Voldemort and throwing down the Death Eaters seemed simple compared to her. The woman had always been a mystery to him, a million conflicting questions without answers. It had driven him crazy, and once it had put him under her spell.
He pulled her journal from his bag and flipped through it absently, not paying much attention to the words on the page other than a phrase here, a sentence there that caught his fancy. He didn't need to read the journal; his heart had long since memorized every word.
The journal was the real reason he was going to Marseilles instead of London, why he was on this train that was rapidly speeding towards her. Thanks to this journal, he knew now what Alana Sinclair Montblanc was not… but he was left with the burning question of who she was. And he meant to find out.