The ring of the bell that cried out into darkness sounded forlorn, almost plaintive to James' ears. The only sound that answered it was that of their shuffling, uncertain footsteps. No mugs were raised in greeting, no chairs scraped on wood nor cutlery clattered on plates. The Leaky Cauldron was silent. Deathly so. Tom the barkeep manned his post, unmoving and unmoved by their presence. Only his eyes followed the path they tracked through the dingy, abandoned space.
James paused at a booth in which he had once shared a Butterbeer with his father. He like to think of it as 'theirs' and he always chose that spot when they came here. A finger traced along the table came free covered in a thick coating of greasy dust. But looking around the room, there was no-one present to complain.
'Wizardkind spooks easily, these days,' Harry Potter mused to the room at large.
The room didn't speak back, but its empty countenance spoke of a firm acquiescence.
James felt an inexplicable rush of relief when he stepped out into daylight once more with his siblings and father. The Cauldron had felt oppressive, the air close and fetid, almost sickly.
In the small space before the entrance to Diagon Alley, a stack of discarded Prophet's ruffled in the breeze. Their headlines bore such black news as: Quarantine Level Raised – Public Houses Off-Limits; or St Mungo's at Capacity, First Time since War.
The edges of the papers were singed, and it looked as if someone had taken to the stack with a knife. Tattered remnants stirred about the children's feet.
As the bricks unfolded before them, James awaited the wash of cool Diagon Alley air upon his face to cleanse away the dankness of the Leaky Cauldron. Lily had been abuzz with excitement that morning. She now stood a little uncertainly at Harry's side, clutching his hand tightly. Al took it all in with an even keel.
James drew a deep breath, but had to catch himself from gagging. Far from fresh, the air held the very same sickly odour. He covered his mouth with his collar. Diagon Alley seemed today a shadow of its former self. Dirt and grime coated the cobblestones, so thick in places as to provide a greasy film. Al slipped twice as they made their way up the street. Scattered piles of rubbish had built up against empty shopfronts. It was from these that the sweet smell of rot and decay was strongest. James screwed up his face.
Several of the stores had thick boards barring the doors, and in the right light James could see the glimmer of layered Enchantments sealing them shut. Florean Fortescue was no longer serving ice-cream, and Scribbulus' Writing Instruments had a smoke-stained wooden sign hung on the door that read: Due to the increasing virility and spread of this currently unidentified and moste maleficent malady, we shall be taking orders by owl-post only.
The sign caught on the breeze and banged hard against the door, causing James to start. Owl order. Everything was owl order these days. Even his friends, it seemed. No-one was willing – or allowed – to meet up. No-one wanted to spend any more time in public places than was absolutely necessary. More risk of running into one of the Infected. He'd hardly even seen Freddy all summer. James couldn't remember the last time he'd gone more than a week without seeing Freddy.
The family continued their march up the street, and eventually passed the entrance to Knockturn Alley. A heavy, wrought-iron gate was swung shut across the path. Someone had blasted one of the hinges, and it hung awry. There was just enough space to squeeze through the gap it left to the wall, as evinced by a tattered strand of dirty carmine robe that had caught upon the metalwork.
A rush of air whistled hollowly out from the dingy alleyway, and blasted James in the face. He coughed and buried his mouth and nose once more. That was the true source of the smell of illness now permeating the entire Diagon Alley. Somewhere in there. And somebody had opened the gate.
It wasn't until they were level with Quality Quidditch Supplies that the Potters encountered another soul. Two, in fact. A witch and wizard hurried past them in the other direction, with hoods and collars up. Their wands were drawn. As they neared, James heard a low mumbling emanating from their shadowy cowls, and realised that they were repeatedly casting shield and barrier charms.
Harry Potter's mouth twisted into a distasteful grimace. 'I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'll be glad to be sending you all off to Hogwarts this year. I don't like the way the wizarding community gets when faced with a threat. It's straight to cornered wild dog, no middle ground. They'll turn on each other soon, mark my words. And all in response to a mere wave of sickness…'
'But dad,' Al interjected, 'They say there's outbreaks outside of London now. Wizarding communities up and down the country, and still not a single person has been cured. And they still haven't found Dorian Alder and they say the Desecrator has been active all throughout Europe and even down to Africa, and-'
'And you need to stop reading so much of the Prophet.' Harry ruffled Al's hair with a small smile.
'But what if the sickness jumps to Muggles, Dad? It could risk exposing us!'
'Not a single Muggle has fallen ill yet, Al. And I have a feeling it will remain that way. You let me and your mother worry about the cloud of impending doom that the Prophet seems to like keeping Wizardkind under, and you just worry about that run of Outstanding grades, and working on that Wronskei Feint.'
Harry was looking pointedly ahead, and James had the distinct feeling that he was avoiding saying something, but he left well alone as the family pushed open the door to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.
A genuine smile stole across James' face upon their entry. Here, at last, was a bastion of garish defiance in the face of the creeping grey lethargy and distrust that assaulted it on all sides. Within three steps of the door, two things had already exploded. Bright pink dust like tiny coloured diamonds showered down upon them. Laughter rang out from everywhere. People smiled. A young girl screamed as she ran madly around the room with something resembling a gigantic green slug affixed to her arm. Every few seconds the creature would emit a loud belch and envelop a little more of the limb. James wondered briefly if they'd get to watch the thing eat her whole.
'James!' an exuberant Freddy leapt down from a perch way up in the rafters to join them. Impressively, he floated down like a feather on a non-existent breeze.
Harry signalled over the children's heads to George Weasley, and the pair promptly ducked out to the back room. Al and Lily drifted off as Freddy wrapped an arm around James' shoulder and guided him to the largest of the display stands.
'I'd almost forgotten what you looked like,' Fred joked. 'Some summer, hey? Everyone from around here has been going mad the past few weeks. Shutting up shop and what-not. Old Florean's taken off overseas. Said he's too old for all of this.
'See they found that missing wizard's wand down south somewhere, shattered. Doesn't look good. Reckon it's the Desecrator?'
'I reckon my Dad knows something about it, whatever it is.'
'He's Harry Potter, of course he does. He'd know everything about everyone. Here, check this out.'
They had arrived at a nightmarish stand covered top-to-bottom in grotesque likenesses of ghouls and zombies and worse. It bore a vibrant rainbow of tiny coloured paper bags, each with a matching straw sticking out the top. James gave Fred an uncertain look.
'C'mon mate, don't be like that. We call 'em Plague Parcels. Suck on that, it's like sherbet. They'll turn you all pale and yuck like the Infected, and give you those crazy eyes. Make you smell real ripe, too. You know that stale, earthy smell the Infected have all got? Like an empty cave, or a graveyard. I damn near gave one old bird a heart attack last week when I tried it out. Turns out her son got sick. Didn't go over too well, all things considered.'
James abruptly returned the Parcel he had uplifted back to the shelf. Typical George and Fred Weasley.
James let himself relax and enjoy a tour through the rest of the Weasley's latest and greatest. He momentarily perked up when Fred mentioned that Uncle Ron had gifted him a mysterious wrapped package that wasn't to be opened until they were at Hogwarts. Though his spirits fell somewhat when he laid eyes upon it. It looked suspiciously book-like.
'Just you wait,' Fred assured him. Uncle Ron says he learned everything he knows from this little beauty.
'Everything about what?'
'Everything.'
Well, that cleared it up.
After a half hour Harry emerged from the back room and gathered the kids. The corners of his eyes were pinched a little tighter, and his lips were drawn in a thin line. Whatever he'd been talking to George about, it hadn't been pleasant.
Outside once more, the oppressive dereliction of the rest of Diagon Alley began to envelop the group. Clouds had gathered, and the wind now bore a kiss of promised rain.
'You two are to head straight to Flourish and Blott's, and stay there until Lily and I have got her robes fitted and her wand chosen, understand?'
James nodded along with Al. Not that there was anything to actually do. The place was practically a ghost-town. He'd only come along for the opportunity to see Freddy, and the hope that one of his other friends may have been here. Even though they had all told him at least twice that they'd already ordered their school supplies via owl this year.
The bookshop in question was little more than a variation on the current grim theme. The boys entered into a cramped entranceway and immediately screwed up their noses at the dank, musty scent.
'Smells like no one's been here in weeks,' Al grumbled.
'Or someone has been here, and then died.' James added.
It was a far cry from the beloved new parchment smell that Cassie swore was half the reason she frequented so many bookstores. It smelled more like the parchment had gone mouldy. Sounds from within the store spoke of the presence of others, clearly undeterred by the dingy atmosphere and unpleasant scents. James followed Al deeper in among the shelves. Titles stood stacked haphazardly on chairs, and stools, even on the floor. A shattered window pane allowed a small breeze to rustle a bundle of loose scrolls, carelessly scattered down the entirety of the staircase. James was beginning to get an uneasy feeling creeping up the nape of his neck.
Al, being what James referred to as a closet-Ravenclaw, was too happy about being in the presence of so many books to notice.
'So have you decided on your electives for this year?' he asked, thumbing through a thick, leather-bound copy of Timid Winkler's Things in the Dark. It bore a thin film of dust, as did everything in the store.
'Yea, I guess so. I'm doing Care of Magical creatures, because I think Dad might put me up for adoption if I don't. Not sure about what else though. Divination sounds easy, but I think Aunt Hermione might actually turn me into a Niffler if I choose it.'
'I still remember Aunt Hermione's face when Rose was eight and she told that Shaman in Greece that he was full of Puffskein farts and reading tea leaves was a lie. I don't think I've ever seen her so proud.'
James slowly lowered a transcript of Dreadful Demises and their Prolific Portents by someone called Sybill Trelawney back to the shelf.
Al branched off to search out a new title on Scandinavian Orchestral Orchids and James continued deeper into the store in search of something Quiddtich-related. He wended his way between precariously-packed shelves that loomed farther and farther overhead. Unloved books and scraps of spare parchment sat dangerously close to falling, and the further he went, the more the shelves leaned in towards each other towards a sort of drunken embrace.
James turned a corner and was startled by a fat rat scurrying underfoot. Its steps left a trail in the dust, which was gathering even thicker here. He couldn't remember ever being this deep in the bookstore. He could have sworn the Quidditch section was back next to the Fantastic Beasts. Perhaps he'd made a wrong turn at Magical Illnesses…
He spun to head back the way he'd come, but found himself staring directly at a solid wall of tomes on the various effects of Entrapment Hexes. Vexed, he spun off in the other direction. A quick tap of his pocket told him his wand was in place. But it was just a bookstore. He was overreacting, surely.
He stopped against a carved ebony shelf to regain his bearings. A faint rustling sound was the only warning he had before a gigantic book crashed spine-first into the spot he had just vacated. It had fallen open on a page titled The Dangers of Gravity-Defying Spells. It was like the damned place was laughing at him.
Several more narrow twists and turns, and he was having to strain to see in the dim light. He made his roundabout way to a faint glow off to his right, and sagged with relief when he turned a corner and saw another figure standing in the pool of daylight.
'Oh thank Merlin. I was beginning to think I'd got lost in there. Do you know which way to- Odette?!'
'The way to Odette? Why James Potter, I do believe you've just followed your heart. Or perhaps another organ… right to her.'
Odette Mansfield stood before him, bathed from behind in a golden glow. She had turned to face him, and the sunlight was illuminating several loose strands of her ash-blonde hair in a molten glow. Her face was cast half in shadow, emphasised by heavy dark eye makeup and her rich, painted lips.
Had she grown taller since last they'd met? Changed her hair in some way? James couldn't work out why, but there was something about her appearance that he couldn't drag his eyes away from. Meanwhile, the silence between them had begun to stretch.
'H-hi Odette.'
He'd hoped for something with a little more wow-factor. For some reason he couldn't think of a word to say beyond that.
'Hello James. What were you doing back there? You know that's the store room, right? It's usually off-limits. There are a lot of dangerous books in there.'
James knew nothing of the sort, but he felt like admitting would make him look stupid, and all of a sudden he really didn't want that to happen. He hurriedly tried to think of a suitable explanation.
'Yea, well, I go where I please. I'm James Potter, after all.'
A touch of nonchalant rebellion and disregard for the rules. That was much more impressive and Odette-like.
An expressive roll of those shadowed eyes indicated otherwise.
'Ugh. James, I'm not really in the mood for you to come and gloat, or whatever it is you're trying to do. I'll see you at school, ok?'
'Wait!'
Odette looked down at the hand James had laid on her forearm to stop her from leaving. She raised a perfectly-sculpted eyebrow.
'Sorry. I just wanted to- how was your summer?'
'It was fine. I travelled to France with Mother, spent a few weeks on the Riviera. Made some new… friends.'
'Cool. We haven't been out of the house much. The whole sickness thing, and all of that.'
'Fascinating.'
The conversation suffered a rather abrupt death. James wiggled his toes in his shoes a little uncomfortably. He didn't remember it being this awkward. The sound of the shop door opening and closing brought a gust of wind bearing the sweet scent of Odette's perfume. A thought suddenly struck him. Perhaps she was still mad over their last meeting last year.
'Odette I just wanted to say I-'
'Ah, mon cygnet, there you are. Come, we must hurry. The Minister doesn't like to be kept waiting.'
James gawked as an exquisitely dressed young man glided into their aisle. He was at least a head taller than James, and the way his elegant blazer stretched across his broad chest spoke of a muscular build. He spoke with a thick French accent and reeked of casual self-confidence and assured superiority. James got the feeling that he wasn't going to like this newcomer.
Odette went right a head and looped her arm through his.
The Frenchman turned to James and favoured him with a patronising wink. 'Farewell little man.'
Now he was sure of it.
Odette didn't so much as turn to wave him farewell, and James stood glaring at the spot where they had disappeared for a long time after the tinkling bell announced they had left the building.
He didn't know why it upset him so much. He'd spent the best part of two years hating almost everything about Odette; her bullying ways, her haughtiness and self-importance, even her stupid fake posh accent she lathered on any time she spoke to James. Well, except for today…
He shrugged it off and went to find Al. Perhaps talking about Swedish flowers would be boring enough to distract him from the small little ball of disappointment in his stomach.
Al did little to help the situation.
'Did you see who was just in here? It was Loyal Clavet. The Loyal Clavet. The youngest Beauxbatons School Seeker in over a century. He only holds, like, every school record they have and he's only fourth year. I think he was with that crazy Slytherin Seeker you always talk about in your sleep.'
'I- what? No- Shut up!' James resisted the urge to hit him. Barely.
This day was going from bad to worse. James had lost his excitement at getting out of the house, and just wanted to get back home before something even worse happened-
Both boys yelled in alarm as a loud claxon sounded all up and down the alley. It was silent for a second, before returning even louder, forcing them to clamp their hands over ears.
'What is that?' Al yelled.
James had a sinking feeling he had an idea.
They bolted for the door, hoping to get back to their father. First Al, and then James crashed painfully into the wooden frame. It didn't budge so much as an inch. All around the edges of the door James could see the tell-tale glowing of magic sealing the portal shut. Outside, loud crashes sounded as bars sprung up from the very pavement, sealing off the windows from those outside.
'No going anywhere now, boys,' an elderly patron sneered down at them from the top of the stairway. His beady eyes were fixed on the street outside.
James pressed his face up against the glass, trying to get a glimpse of what was happening. A horrifying thud sent him reeling, and a frantic witch from outside began scrabbling at the door handle, pressing herself up against the splintered wood.
'Let me in!' she cried desperately. 'There's Infected out here, please!'
The elderly wizard just shook his head solemnly.
James couldn't pull away from the witch's wide-eyed stare. She was hammering against the glass now with bloodied fists. He could see where her desperation had torn the nails away from the skin. She was leaving bloody smears across the window panes. It trickled slowly down and began to pool in the sill.
The rest of those caught in the street weren't much better off. A surprising number of witches and wizards were dashing back and forth, screaming madly. Some few who remained more composed were able to Apparate away to safety. Others who were unable to simply fled aimlessly up and down. James had yet to actually see an Infected.
Suddenly, a wizard pointed back down the street. 'From Knockturn!' he cried. 'I told them they ought to have burned that festering hellhole to the ground!'
A vision of the damaged gate flickered into James' mind. The witch outside the window gave a final, desperate wail and Disapparated. A spray of blood fountained across the window and the boys jumped back, disgusted. She'd Splinched herself, and half of her left hand remained twitching in the doorway. James felt Al double over and heard retching. He deemed it time to step away from the glass, himself.
'No need to worry, boys,' the Elderly wizard assured them. 'There's a dozen Charms and Hexes keeping this place safe. As long as we stay put we'll be-'
Crash!
All three of them yelled, as a new figure hammered itself bodily into the main shop window outside. This time, however, there was no desperate pleading. There was no begging, and the look in its eyes was less frantic terror and more frenzied bloodlust.
The Infected. Wearing a filth-stained robe of brilliant crimson.
James stared in morbid fascination. He could hardly think of the man hammering repeatedly on the glass as an "it" like the Prophet referred to them. He just seemed to be a middle aged man, a little on the skinny side. His face was emaciated, the whites of his eyes yellowed and his teeth looked to have been filed to points, but he was still human enough that when a squad of the newly-minted Steelhearts-cum-Aurors arrived and started firing deadly Hexes at him James felt a pang of horror.
The spells that did make contact though, seemed ineffective, fizzing out on pale, greyed flesh. When one sailed over the Infected's shoulder and shattered a portion of the shop window James got a whiff of the strong, mouldy earth smell that was a sure sign of the sickness.
A dozen bodies were soon piled on top of the struggling figure, and a portly little Healer dressed in the green of St Mungo's garb was jumping up and down on her toes to try and see in among the dogpile.
'Ooh, don't hurt him please. No, stop that! Oh dear, that was his arm, come now.'
James looked on through the shattered remains of the shop window as the Infected was hoisted to his feet and dragged away. As they reached the boundaries of earshot, the greyed figure raised a bruised and blooded arm to point a yellow-nailed finger at James.
His filed teeth set in a snarl, his voice was barely more than a hiss.
'Potter…'
