A/N: Welcome back! I'm really excited to bring you the third installment in my James S Potter series: The Maleficent Malady! We'll pick right up from where we left off, at the start of James' third year. Our heroes have just endured another harrowing year inside the castle walls fraught with danger, a year they conquered only through the fierce loyalty and power of their friendship. But what happens when cracks begin to form in that perfect, mirrored facade? What will happen when the wedge is driven deep? Could James still survive the peril they face if he had to face it alone? Could any of them?
Forge onwards with me, dear readers, to find the answers to questions such as these, as well as discover things such as: which house Lily Potter will be in; the latest tragedy-slash-mystery that has befallen the beseiged Rain, the mystery behind the crippling plague sweeping Magical Britain, and just what secret the Teachers of Hogwarts are hiding...
They were following him, again. He'd become suspicious three alleys and one Apparition ago, when the same face appeared at every stop on his deliberately circular route. An upturned collar, scarf and long, thick robe despite the sweltering August heat could mean only one thing: a Steelheart.
The irony tugged at the corner of Harry Potter's lips, but he did not allow himself the luxury of a smile, not when they were this close – and they knew it.
The narrow, shadowed alleyway he now stalked offered blissful reprieve from the beating sun. As a second pair of footsteps arrived in the confined space, a sudden cool draft gusted up towards him, sticking Harry's t-shirt to his body; cold and clammy with sweat.
Two homeless Muggle children took one look at the figures entering their hideaway and bolted, leaving behind their pile of meagre possessions scattered in the rot and muck of this abandoned walkway. The scent of mould hung heavy and sweet.
Rickety balconies formed a patchy ceiling, hanging dilapidated beneath first floor windows. They leaned out drunkenly towards each other. Harry used the shadow cast by one such to sneak his hand to wand; the barest of shifts in posture.
A scuffed footfall alerted him to sudden movement from behind, and he spun in the space of a heartbeat, wand levelled, Hexes forming on his lips-
To face an empty walkway. Trash stirred feebly on another cold, mocking breeze. The scent of decay and death and rotting things was lessened, now.
With a snarl, Harry spun in place, Apparating away to his destination.
His thoughts were still in the alleyway as he pushed aside the warped wooden door, stooping to pass beneath the lintel. The third such encounter – or rather, non-encounter – in the past fortnight. Always a Tail, almost as soon as he left home, always a Steelheart, but never a confrontation. Enough to unsettle even Harry Potter.
'Hello Harry.'
The face that greeted him was a foreign one – as was their agreement – though the eyes burned with a familial similarity. Sunken cheeks were cut in deep shadow, as were gaunt eye sockets beneath a shelf of a brow. Sandy hair was thinning, much as the individual was all over. Emaciated limbs peeked out from tattered, limp clothes. Joints were discoloured and swollen. The voice was stretched taut over barely-withheld pain.
He was dying.
'Another follower?' a shadow of curiosity dared to seep through the pain-riddled monotone.
'Aye, another Steelheart.'
'Don't let them find me.'
The figure sat up on a thin, rickety cot, his back up against a grimy wall. His hair, face and clothes were filthy. He'd barely moved since Harry entered. The only emotion he showed was through his eyes, and it was as if they were concentrating everything else, bottling up all of his non-existent body language, his gestures and voice inflection. The raw, pleading look he gave Harry now tore at something deep within his chest.
'Never.'
Relief sagged the other man's shoulders. 'You had a visitor. A note.' He gestured to the single table abutting the opposite wall. Along with its lone chair, they made for the only other furniture inside this cramped, filthy space.
A single sheet of parchment sat atop the rotting surface, stark and almost mocking in its perfection against the poverty of their surroundings. Harry picked it up tentatively, fumbling at the wax seal; a cursive, silver "L". He knew the sender already.
Failure is not a bedmate with whom I care to share more than a fleeting encounter, Mr Potter. Thus, imagine my displeasure when I found her clammy embrace awaiting me this evening past.
Thrice now, our exhaustive efforts have come to naught. Yet each time, closer. I estimate that the extent of this most recent failure can be measured in hours, rather than days. When I arrived the ichor still bubbled, and the shattered remnants of the ruinswere still hot to the touch.
I've no doubt that our target can feel the kiss of our breath upon their neck, even now. My only question is; will they spook? A cornered wolf may be trapped, but it will fight all the more viciously for it.
And so I stand firm in my quest for knowledge, and my conviction that we must direct our efforts into discovering the whybehind these attacks; unravel that mystery, and the rest shall come apart around us like a house of cards.
This does, of course, necessitate a return trip to study the Shard, as I am sure you are aware. Within it, I am certain, lies the key to all of this. I understand you may have some, admittedly valid, reservations about making the trip once more, given the previous outing, but let me preclude your objections with the following:
It is already required of me that I make one more perilous journey in the near future – a journey that will force me to miss an important gathering I would very much rather attend. My movements will be watched this year, now more than ever, and I can ill-afford to raise suspicions with further trips abroad. Thus, the job must fall to you.
Finally, I must plead restraint in acting out against the Ministry. While their inaction is no doubt frustrating, their refusal to involve themselves opens the door for us to act alone, free from such binding ties as bureaucracy or public morality.
It is safe to say, that after whatever brief hiatus they may have taken last year, the Desecrator has well and truly returned. It may be that our vigilance and decisive action alone are all that stands between them and their goal. You've succeeded in such a world-beating task before, Mr Potter, I've no doubt that with my help, you can do so again.
Your continued support of the L.A.W.W is, as always, appreciated.
Cordially yours,
The letter was unsigned, as usual.
Harry raised his gaze, and with a shaky hand pressed his glasses firmly up the bridge of his nose. He studied the figure on the bed before him, returned the expectant stare with his own stoic once.
'I have to go back,' was all he said.
Enervation and lethargy be damned, the figure sprung forth, barrelling into Harry with alarming weight. Feeble arms clutched at Harry's shirt with remarkable strength, and those eyes, so expressive, so familiar, burned with a desperate heat.
'No. You can't. Don't do it Harry, please, I beg you. What if it gets loose? What if it kills you, or worse… What if you end up like me?'
Harry did his best to fend off the desperate, clutching hands, but long, yellowed nails scratched at his forearms. 'It won't, trust me. And L.A.W.W is right – whoever they are. The Shard was the beginning of all of this-' Harry paused to gesture around the room. 'So I'm going to make sure it's the end of it, too. I'll go as soon as I can, but first I need to take care of these Tails. I will not lead them to it.'
His companion sagged in defeat, all of a sudden rendered almost lifeless once more. He collapsed in a boneless heap back on to the bed, and hugged himself tightly.
'I've got a bad feeling about it Harry, that's all. The same feeling I had when we went last time. What if the Desecrator really is Voldemort? How would we defeat him without you? You barely managed last time around.'
'I'm confident it's not Voldemort,' Harry countered, more sternly than he would have liked. 'But regardless, I have to do this, and I will not be dissuaded, not even by you.'
Green eyes met sunken brown, and a silent accord passed between them.
'Here,' Harry sighed, placing down a wrapped package atop the table. 'Ginny cooked it herself, so you're a braver man than I if you do eat it. Until tomorrow.'
The pair clasped hands briefly, and Harry was gone with the sound of a whip-crack. Dust settled slowly in the room after him, and the figure left behind began to sob.
Back at the Potter household, Harry strode in through the front door and set the letter down on the kitchen table. He wrapped an arm around the waist of his wife and kissed her passionately. He ruffled the hair of his eldest son and agreed to watch as, together with his youngest son, the pair demonstrated their latest broomstick manoeuvres.
He "oohed" and "aahed" acceptably, while the air behind him shimmered ever-so-slightly, and for the briefest of moments, the letter disappeared from sight.
All around him, he could feel the pressure of the world building, as if his battles had gifted him with an innate sensitivity for it. It was as if he was looking into Foe glass, and shapes were slowly beginning to coalesce around him. Enemies were beginning to step into the light, while some still wore the masks of friends and kept themselves in "cordial" regard. Ginny, Ron and Hermione were working around the clock, as he was, and everywhere they turned people would whisper how things felt like 'last time' again.
As Harry looked out and saw James and Albus' match break down into a friendly, brotherly tussle, he felt his fists clench unbidden. The playful sounds of their laughter rolled up the lawn, and his wife laid her head upon his shoulder gently. No, Harry knew. This was nothing like last time, and the longer it took his enemies to realise that, the better.