James Potter and the Mysterious Noises

[A/N at the end]

The hairs on the back of James Potter's neck stood up as a loud crash echoed through from outside. The bucket of water that he had been carrying had fallen to the floor and soaked the deep blue carpet — something he was sure that his mother would kill him for when she got home. But then again, she couldn't kill him if he was already dead.

Because whatever was making those noises and causing a bit of a kerfuffle outside was clearly not going away anytime soon. In fact, it had been three hours since he'd heard the first strange sound, and despite his warning to his babysitter, an old bat called Mrs Henley, he had been promptly brushed off and told to get some rest. But the noises hadn't stopped, and every few minutes or so, a screech, a crash, or a bang could be heard from outside.

Usually, James wouldn't have worried about scary sounds and things that were a little out of the ordinary — he was a Potter, and Potters weren't sissies. But this was different. It was different because his parents weren't home, and his only protector was a senile Squib whose only self-defense skill was hitting someone over the head with a tea towel. Even though she was very good at inflicting pain using something so harmless, it was going to be completely useless if they had to go up against a dark wizard or witch — not completely impossible either, because every now and then, someone would break into their house.

James counted to ten quietly and listened keenly for any other strange sounds, but when Mrs Henley's loud snore echoed throughout the house, some of his anxiety eased. With a sigh of relief, he picked up the empty bucket and made his way back to the laundry room with hurried footsteps. As the bucket filled up with scalding hot water, James eagerly put his face above the wafts of steam emitting from the bucket. The effects of the steam were immediate and James could finally breathe through his heavily blocked nose.

Sometimes, you didn't appreciate the things you had until they were taken away from you — for example, being able to breathe through your nose. He hadn't been able to breathe through his nose for a while, and he relished the feeling. As the bucket filled to the brim, James turned the taps off and glanced outside the window above the sink. A black flash darted across the snow-covered lawn and James pressed his face against the glass, hoping to see another glimpse of the figure.

Apprehension bubbled inside his chest and James heaved the bucket towards the front door in a hurry. Whatever was outside was getting much too close to the house. And he rather liked his life; he didn't particularly fancy being killed by a stranger.

Another loud snore tore through the silence of the house, and James almost let the rope slip through his fingers as he hoisted the bucket of water up until it was above the door. He had spent the past hour devising a complex defense system, should the intruder wander into the house. The other traps were already set, and the only thing left for him to do was finish this one. The premise of this particular trap was simple: if someone were to open the door, the bucket would tip its contents all over the intruder. It wasn't complicated, but it would have the desired effect. Whoever was on the receiving end would be nursing rather nasty burns.

With a final knot, James rubbed his hands on the front of his corduroy bell-bottoms and wiped the trickle of sweat that was making its way down the side of his face. Technically speaking, he wasn't supposed to be doing anything except lying in bed and being force-fed soup. He felt his forehead with the back of his hand and groaned at how hot his skin felt; his fever, which had been non-existent for most of the day, had come back with a vengeance. If his mum didn't kill him for the various booby traps he'd set — and the mess that he had created while setting said booby traps — she'd definitely kill him for ignoring his Healer's orders.

"Bugger," he groaned as he ambled weakly towards the lounge, and towards the source of the snoring. It was hilarious to him how such a small person as Mrs Henley could emit such deafening sounds. As he rounded the corner, his hands became clammy as another loud crash echoed outside and something moved across their gravelly driveway.

His footsteps became hurried as he abandoned his intention of waking Mrs Henley up and instead rushed to the nearest window. The Christmas lights and decorations his parents put up were usually his favourite thing to stare at, but tonight it was proving to be an obstacle as he strained his eyes and glanced around the front yard, hoping to see something. But even after waiting a few minutes, nothing happened, and James could no longer ignore how uncomfortably hot he felt.

"Mrs Henley," he said as he clasped a hand around her frail shoulder and squeezed. The old woman simply groaned and turned on her side with a huff.

"Mrs H, I really don't feel so good," he repeated, this time shaking her shoulder a little too hard. This time, her eyes fluttered weakly behind her huge bug-eye glasses, but she clearly decided against opening them and let out an almighty snore.

The old bat, James thought bitterly. What was the point of having a babysitter at all if she wasn't even going to do her job properly? He could die from his fever and she would be totally oblivious to it. He wouldn't even mind if she was overbearing and bossy because at least she would actually be worried about his well-being.

James muttered to himself, disgruntled, as he shuffled his way to the kitchen. At this point, his bones felt heavy and sore, and his joints were worse. He would never say it to their faces, but his parents were right. He really should have just stayed in bed, drinking soup, and reading through the comics that Remus had sent over a few days ago. He had been so looking forward to reading the one about a bloke dressed as a cat, and had half a mind to go upstairs and retrieve the stack of comics on his bedside table until a faint pop cracked outside, followed by two pairs of footsteps.

He downed the small vial of foul-tasting olive green potion and felt the effects immediately as the ache in his bones eased up. He would need as much strength as possible as he shuffled around the drawer of cutlery and picked up a fork. If he was going to die, he would prefer the odds to be somewhat even, and he had found out the hard way — thanks to Peter — that forks were a weapon that could cause serious harm. In fact, it had been a few weeks since he'd been stabbed by Peter, and his hand still hadn't gone back to normal.

James ducked behind a large pot plant in the foyer and watched anxiously as the doorknob was rattled. The bucket of hot water that he had propped up sloshed around gently as the doorknob was turned this way and that, and finally someone hissed impatiently outside before a bright flash of light shone through the tiny keyhole.

Everything that happened after the door was opened happened so quickly. The two intruders — one of whom was holding onto an orange Persian cat — had walked through the door, been doused with scalding hot water and, in their panic, tripped on a thin piece of string that James had strung parallel to the floor. As planned, the intruders fell face first into two buckets of thick, sludgy oil as the string that they'd tripped on wrapped them both tightly in a full-body bind.

Meanwhile, the cat had somehow snuck away upstairs in the midst of all the madness, and James surmised that he had probably accidentally locked Meowbert out in his haste to lock all the doors and windows. It was probably Meowbert who had created all the eerie noises, and Meowbert who he had set the traps for. Could he have been any more of an idiot?

He should have felt proud, perhaps even elated that his traps had worked. But instead, the only thing he felt was the ice-cold dread that settled into his bones and doused the searing heat of his fever. James walked towards the pair of well-dressed people and groaned as a muffled shriek came from one of the bucket-headed people.

James figured that he had one of two options as he stepped out from his hiding place behind the pot plant. He could face up to what he'd done, apologise, and face the wrath of his parents, who were no doubt wondering why they were covered in oil and unable to move. Or he could lock himself in his room and pray to Merlin that his parents wouldn't give in to anger.

As Mrs Henley's footsteps rounded the corner, he made his decision.

He had never run as fast as he did that night, and as James shut the door to his room, a pair of furious voices echoed loudly through the house, saying his name with a vengeance that only parents could have. And yet, even as the realisation of what he was going to face dawned on him, he couldn't help but feel that he had an excellent card still up his sleeve. Because if there was anything that his parents were suckers for, it was their only child. He seriously doubted that they'd stay angry with him for long; after all, pretending that his common cold had manifested itself into Spattergroit couldn't be that hard, could it?

Author's Note

Word Count: 1,669

Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition

Game/Round: 3

Team/Position: Seeker

Task/Prompt: Home Alone - Write something inspired by Home Alone