Yesterday is Tomorrow (Everything is Connected)
EIGHTEEN
"The past doesn't want to be changed. There are times when you feel it push back."
- Al Templeton, 11/22/63, S1 Ep1: The Rabbit Hole
Note: This chapter is Hermione-POV free! All POVs are from James, Regulus, and Barty for a change. There were supposed to be 2 Regulus scenes, but I had to cut one out for brevity's sake. James's auror test was also supposed to be included but we're at 22 pages, so I cut it. Maybe one day it'll be a deleted scene cameo on my Tumblr or a special side AO3 story!
The discussion at the end regarding Voldemort's reign leading into full-scale guerilla terrorism includes real names/people and events that I have used for the purpose of this story that were not killed by witches and wizards. Obviously. The 1970s was a particularly troubling time, due to the IRA, but there were also some unsolved murders and disappearances that I've used in addition to whatever First Wizarding War Pottermore shit Rowling's retconned.
August 1978
If the attack on Diagon Alley two years ago had never have happened, James was sure that he would've been bouncing on his toes in excitement, just like Sirius was. But the attack happened, he was there, his parents almost died, and he watched her girlfriend – before she was his girlfriend – utterly sweep the floor with her unique spellcasting.
It was humbling, what he saw in the Room of Requirement. He still hadn't told anyone else about that evening, and his suspicions – that Hermione Evans had far more going on than what everyone knew, including him.
No one learns magic like that without being touched by… by destiny or studying and practicing hard because they have reasons.
James just didn't know what Hermione's reasons were, and while he was put out at not knowing, he could be patient. People looked at him and saw pranks, and brilliance in transfiguration and his friends saw his loyalty and determination and devotion – but they sometimes missed the tenacity, the ambition, and the patience that a wizard needed to become an animagus, to earn those grades and perfect his spells, to creatively come up with their pranks and execute them.
As it was, in early July, he wrote his Auror entrance exam with Sirius and forty other hopefuls. Only a handful, no more than fifteen, had passed the written exam. Those that passed were now lining up, ready to begin their practical exam. They had to last three minutes against Moody to qualify for the program, and James was shaking, his palms slick with sweat.
He was standing in his best, trim tailored "work" robes that his mother gifted him the morning after his graduation from Hogwarts – Sirius wore a matching pair – and heavy-duty dragonhide boots, in a line, in front of Master Auror Alastor Moody. Moody wore an open red Auror robe with three-quarter length bell sleeves, on top of a shiny, golden waistcoat. Underneath the waistcoat was a thin, long-sleeved black turtleneck. Every piece, usually designed to be eye-catching and shiny, was either dull, or frayed, and in some places, scorched. Moody was an Auror who had seen danger and beat it.
There were at least two other Aurors with Moody, silent and scarred alike, off to the side watching the newest recruits with hard eyes. The two Aurors wore the typical uniform: dark trousers tucked into dark dragonhide boots, but their tops varied. The female of the group, with her bleach-blonde perm, wore a closed, red asymmetrical jacket with the DMLE insignia as the clasp to keep the jacket shut. The jacket was tailored and cut to her shape, but also had a Mandarin collar and finished in a short tail at the back, giving her a bit of swoosh.
Her male companion wore his uniform informally, with the same trousers, but had a tucked-in white Oxford with rolled sleeves to his elbows, showing off impressive coiling scars and patchy hairy arms. His leather wand holster buckled around his chest, mimicking a non-magical's shoulder gun holster. His hair was a flyaway tawny sheen of gold, thick and flowing like Sirius's, making James wonder if he had a Black relative.
James wanted to be just as cool, attempting to wrench his eyes from the shiny buckles to focus on Moody, who stood before them with his hands clasped behind his back, his pale blue eyes calmly but shrewdly sizing them up.
His lips curled when he reached Sirius and then passed on to James who met his stare, head-on, until Moody's lips twitched, causing the scars on his face to ripple.
"Alright, you maggots," he boomed, making the recruit next to James jump in surprise. "Let's see what you're made of. You may have passed your theory, but practical is an entirely different breed of dragon."
The casually dressed Auror smirked, crossing his arms.
James felt a trickle of sweat inch its way down his spine.
"See this behind me? It's known as the Pit," began Moody, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
The recruits leaned forward or around him, some on their toes. The room they were in, overlooked a deep, sandy gladiatorial pit, with spectators stands on either long side of the pit and one viewing platform at one head. The platform butted against the department's offices, and underneath the stands were locker rooms, showers, and training rooms like the professional Quidditch stands in how they used their space.
The furthest head of the pit was a tall, roaring waterfall that crashed into a lake, with different types of trees sprouting up around the edges and sides of the pit. The terrain changes depending on each quadrant of the pit, with sand closest to the viewing platform, rocks to the right, and snow to the left, which turned into grass and forest by the waterfall. Each terrain was meant to mimic where an Auror could be sent, except for an urban area.
Sirius's eyes were glued to the pit, taking in the large space as he cataloged the different areas.
Moody's grin was terrifying. "In five groups, three of you will enter the Pit and do your best to last as long as you can against myself, or Auror Scrimgeour or Auror Blythe."
Sirius made an audible gulp.
"Now, let's see – where to begin…" Moody began walking the line, barking out names in threes: "Henderson, Angel, McPhail; Boot, McKinnon, and Spencer-Moon." He paused in front of Sirius and James.
"Oh, yes… you two." His tone was entirely derisive, almost sneering. "I've heard much about the Gryffindor dream-team. Best split you up."
"What?!" gasped Sirius, nearly stepping out of line. "What, no – James and I do our best work together—"
"And one of the first things you learn as an Auror is to work with others!" barked Moody, glaring at Sirius, making him step back. "Black, you're with Gamp and Shacklebolt. Potter? I'm putting you with Covington and Hough."
Moody finished with the last set of three, and each group gravitated toward their new partners, with Sirius sulking, hands shoved into his robe pockets and hunched shoulders. James nodded politely to Covington and Hough, not like he knew which was which: just that one looked vaguely sick, with a green tinge to their face, and the other was practically vibrating in excitement.
To avoid spectators and the future combatants from seeing the testing process, a shimmering barrier burst upward from the edge of the Pit platform, racing toward the ceiling to create an entirely enclosed battleground.
"You'll be called in your groups to the Pit," continued Moody gruffly. "You'll enter through the ramp—" he pointed at the gaping, dark holes on either side of the entrance they came through via the department office "—and following it down to the Pit. Once there, we'll tell you which area you're stationed in."
"But not who is testing us?" asked either Henderson, Angel, or McPhail from the first group. Whoever they were, they were nervous.
Moody's grizzled face turned further down into a frown. "No. When you're an Auror, you won't know who that dark wizard is that you're facing. You're going in blind. Just like this test."
And like that, Scrimgeour, and Blythe moved down into the gaping tunnel. Moody pointed his wand at the barrier, where the names of the groups appeared, in order of testing. James was ahead of Sirius, but they were near the end.
With Moody gone and being unable to watch the test, James felt his nerves skyrocket. Covington – or Hough, who knew – was beside him, muttering spells under his breath, trying to remember which would work best in what environment.
All too soon, the names began to swirl and disappear from the board: Henderson, Angel, Boot, Spencer-Moon, McPhail, and McKinnon (Marlene, who both Sirius and James knew from Gryffindor and as Lily's friend), all completed their tests with those remaining having no knowledge if they succeeded or not.
James, Covington, and Hough were next; Sirius, Gamp, and Shacklebolt would be the last team in to go.
"Good luck, Prongs," muttered Sirius as James passed him.
James gave him a shaky smile in return and followed the other two down a dark, smooth tunnel that branched off in a 180-degree turn. The air cooled further, and it seemed a bit damp, the smooth stone turning rough.
They emerged into bright, artificial sunlight, and James blinked back against it.
Moody, Scrimgeour, and Blythe were waiting for them at the entrance. Moody looked the same, although there was a slightly crazed look to his blue eyes. Both Scrimgeour and Blythe had a few cuts and Blythe had a nasty bruise along the side of her jaw, meaning someone before them got a few good licks into them.
"Covington, you're with Blythe," instructed Moody. "Off to the meadow. Potter – with Scrimgeour, at the waterfall. Hough? You're with me. Right here."
He finished with a nasty grin, and finally, James figured out who Hough and Covington were when the beefy blond next to him dramatically paled.
Covington and James glanced at one another – a silent good luck – and moved toward their assigned instructors. Once near Scrimgeour, the man reached out and Side-Apparated James toward the waterfall, where he regained his balance upon arrival with a shaky breath.
"What happens next?" James asked, pushing his glasses up and then keeping them on his face with a sticking charm.
"Moody will wait until everyone seems in position and then you will hear a chime, announcing the countdown from three minutes," explained Scrimgeour in a Welsh accent. He was serious now, no trace of humour on his face. "Your goal is to avoid being knocked unconscious by me. You can evade, fight back, or yield as alternative options."
"If I yield?" asked James, although he already knew he wouldn't do that.
Scrimgeour's eyes narrowed. "You fail the test and phase out of being an Auror."
James gulped, just a blare rang through the Pit, accompanied by a voice: "TEN… NINE… EIGHT…"
Taking those last precious seconds to survey the landscape, James planted his feet firmly in the sandy bank of the waterfall, tightening his grip on his wand despite his sweaty palms. He gulped and met Scrimgeour's eyes as the final seconds rang down.
"FOUR… THREE… TWO…"
As the final count fell, James immediately slashed his wand to counter the spell Scrimgeour silently sent toward him. After that, James was lost to instinct and sheer luck, hoping he'd come out of this test in one piece.
James nearly collapsed onto the squishy bench in the underground ready room. There were a few others scattered throughout, some on the benches like he was, and a few on the floor, just gasping for air.
His shoulder still burned from Scrimgeour's congratulatory clap, and James was torn between grinning in exhilaration at what he accomplished during the test or just collapsing into a puddle.
McKinnon, spotting him, sidled up. "Hey. You survived?"
"Barely," groaned James, deciding that slouching was perfectly acceptable. He glanced around the room. Not all the fifteen, minus the three who were currently being tested, were in the room. What should have been twelve was only eight, meaning four had not passed. "Who's missing?"
McKinnon shrugged. "I was with Martin Boot and Flavia Spencer-Moon. Martin's not here, but Flavia is."
"So, he didn't make it," murmured James slowly.
"Probably," agreed McKinnon.
Henderson, Angel, and McPhail all passed in their set; McKinnon and Spencer-Moon in their set; all three from the set Moody assigned after Sirius, who McKinnon introduced as Killjoy, Hornet, and Dawlish. Behind James, Covington limped into the ready room, making them ten.
Nervously, James waited for Sirius's set, hoping to see his friend. Finally, two figures entered the room, arms over each other's shoulders as they helped one another into the room. The one with the curly black hair looked up, and James expelled a loud breath.
"Hey, Prongsie. Were you waiting long?" grinned Sirius, although he was very out of breath.
Behind Sirius and his set mate, Moody, Scrimgeour, and Blythe entered the ready room. Immediately, those in the room tensed and James scrambled to his feet, biting back his moans of soreness and pain.
Moody's eyes surveyed the very dirty, bruised, and tired candidates. His grin was terrifying when he barked, "Congratulations. You are now Auror trainees."
There were half-hearted cheers throughout the room, but most were too tired than to give a weak, "huzzah," which made Scrimgeour grin and exchange an amused look with Blythe.
"The easy part is over," began Moody, sternly, causing everyone to turn back to him. "The hard part begins now. Due to the rising unrest, we've streamlined Auror training from three years to nine months. It's going to be a bitch, wizards and witches. You're going to want to quit. And if you do, you'd best do it soon because I don't have time for whiny snot-nosed brats!"
A few in the room shuffled back and forth nervously.
"For those of you who tough it out: you're signing up for danger. I won't sugarcoat things for you. It's bad out there. And it's going to get worse. You're representing the front line, those who are standing against the darkness and those bastards who want to incite terror," continued Moody. "But as long as you follow this one, simple instruction… you will survive."
James and Sirius exchanged a look, and James turned back to Moody. The man swelled as he took a breath.
"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"
James jumped as the words thundered around the ready room, and he cringed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that someone had fallen off the bench. Someone shrieked.
Moody rolled his eyes. "Right. Blythe'll explain the rest to you now. I'll see you maggots the day after tomorrow, bright and early."
He stomped out of the ready room, leaving Scrimgeour and Blythe, who began floating a parchment with their individual schedules on them for training, including when they would report to work in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and what their training would comprise of before they move onto the next step of being paired with a senior Auror for field training.
The last thing was assigning their lockers and their Auror uniform. James reverently touched his, the two different types: one was the battle wear that Scrimgeour had on, and the other was the dress uniform that Blythe wore. The name Potter was stitched on the inside the collar of the two red robes.
He inhaled sharply, blinking. It was real. It happened. He was officially an Auror (in training, but James wasn't picky). Pride bubbled from deep in his chest and warmly spread throughout his entire body.
Then the real work began, and the week passed quickly, following their rest day. James was still physically sore from the Pit battle with Scrimgeour, and mentally sore from his classes in History in the Dark Arts, Best-Laid Pans, Resilience Training, and Concealment and Disguise. Some he could do easily – like Plans, and Concealment with his experience in pranking and transfiguration skills – but others? Like History and Resilience?
James could barely keep his eyes open, trudging through the corridors toward the lifts. He just wanted to go home, take a shower, and then a long, long nap. Who knew Auror training would be this crazy?
"Ah, young Mr. Potter."
James's hazel eyes slowly dragged up, along the vibrant lime green robes of only one wizard bold enough to wear them. He eventually met Albus Dumbledore's clear blue eyes.
"Long day?" the elderly wizard continued.
James sighed. "More like a long week."
The Headmaster of Hogwarts hummed in agreement and together they walked – slowly – toward the lift. James drew enough inner strength forward and asked, "Am I keeping you from something, Professor?"
"Oh," said Dumbledore, a smile on his lips, barely hidden by his beard and mustache, "Not at all. In fact, it's quite fortuitous that I was able to see you today, Mr. Potter – ah, James, if I may?"
James nodded. "What can I do for you, sir?"
Dumbledore had his hands clasped behind his back and looked like he was going for a stroll around the Black Lake when they both entered the lift. The doors shut before any memos could fly in and join them.
As they rose, Dumbledore asked, "How are the Aurors doing in regard to dealing with Voldemort's followers?"
James jerked, like electricity ran up his spine. "Sir?"
Dumbledore's face was like granite, cool and assessing in a way that James only saw once – the night of the Shrieking Shack incident. "I know that the Aurors are having trouble collecting these so-called Death Eaters of Voldemort's, James. They are swamped with clues and attacks, worn thin and spread far and wide. It's why your training is so intense. You need help."
Confused, James frowned and asked, "Are you planning on joining the Aurors, sir?"
Dumbledore chuckled. "No, James. I think my old bones couldn't keep up with you young folk! No."
He trailed off and flicked his hand. The lift stopped between floors and James inhaled sharply, swallowing as he palmed his wand in the folds of his Auror robes. "Sir?"
Dumbledore turned to James. "While the Ministry is doing what it can to halt Voldemort's progress, they cannot do it alone. Not with his people already infiltrating. I am leading a group of people – powerful witches and wizards, smart and cunning witches and wizards – who will stand against the Darkness and the terror that Voldemort will bring."
James stared wide-eyed.
"I've had my eye on you for some time now, James," the professor continued, "And I think you would make an excellent addition to the Order of the Phoenix."
"The Order of the Phoenix, sir?" echoed James.
Dumbledore nodded. "The organization is not without its danger: we operate outside of the Ministry and could be considered vigilantes, ourselves. We operate in the darkness, giving light where we can for the other witches and wizards of Britain. You might die in the line of duty as an Auror, James, but should you join the Order, that risk greatly increases."
James frowned and narrowed his eyes. Hadn't he been feeling stymied as an Auror? Limited by the rules and regulations that were imposed on them by the Wizengamot? Even Moody was frustrated on the best days, and their Head Auror Bartemius Crouch, Senior, spent most of his time scowling at anyone who looked his way.
Dumbledore twitched his lips in a minute smile. "Think about it, James. Speak to your parents."
James's head shot up. "My parents?!"
"They are aware of the Order," confirmed Dumbledore. "While not members themselves, they help in other ways."
"I – I will then, sir," muttered James.
Dumbledore twitched his fingers again and the lift began to move. Both were silent until they reached the atrium. There was a gaggle of unhappy witches and wizards who were waiting for the lift, pushing their way in as both Dumbledore and James exited.
"Have a good evening, Mr. Potter," said Dumbledore as he moved to the Apparation point, tipping an imaginary hat as he spun on his heel and disappeared.
"Goodbye," muttered James, moving toward the point after him, thoughts full. His hand clenched on his wand and he put shoved his other into the free pocket, only to brush up against something that felt like parchment.
He froze.
"Oi, hurry up!" an irate voice shouted at him.
"Sorry, sorry," muttered James, spinning as he Apparate out of the Ministry and toward home, appearing outside the gates with a loud pop. He refused to enter, bringing in something he had no knowledge of until he reviewed what was in his pocket.
Fishing it out, he blinked in surprise at the slip of stiff parchment, with gold edging and red ink. His name was not on the page; instead, all it said was: Should you wish to join the Order of the Phoenix, tap your wand to the symbol below. A portkey will be supplied to those who are brave of heart, clear of conviction, and devoted to ending tyranny.
James furrowed his brow, staring at the glittery phoenix below the text, its wings spread wide in midflight. The invite sat on his desk for a few days, and at night, James often spent a few sleepless hours staring at it, shadows haunting his face.
Eventually, on his first free weekend, James stood in casual robes and, with a hesitant glance to his shut door, tapped his wand on the phoenix symbol. Immediately, the invite curled as flames licked at the parchment.
James yelped and backed up a few steps, mouth agape as the flames burnt the paper but nothing else until ash remained. Then, the ash faded like dust to reveal a tiny medallion with a phoenix etched onto its face.
Griping his wand with one hand, he reached out and touched the medallion with the other. Immediately, he was whisked away, swearing loudly as the world whirled by him until he landed hard on his arse on damp, dewy grass outside of a small, stone cottage.
Slowly, James sat up, eyes sweeping the ground just as his Auror training had him do, when there was a loud shriek and then a heavy thump as a moaning, wriggling body in nice dress robes landed near him.
James peered and nearly laughed but settled for a smirk. "Nice landing, Pads."
"Fuck off James," the face-planting form of Sirius Black groaned.
"Are you two wankers going to make like mushrooms, or are you going to come inside where it's nice and warm?"
Both James and Sirius glanced up to see Remus, standing backlit at the entrance of the cottage. He had his arms crossed and a grin on his tired face.
"Moony!" James cried, getting to his feet, and hugging his friend. "Where are we? How've you been?"
"I'm good," answered Remus, stepping back from his friend. "And you're at the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix."
James's mouth dropped open, eyes growing wide as he peered back to look at the unimpressive cottage. Remus snorted and yanked James into the building, which was expanded inside to a comfortable size with multiple armchairs and couches and ottomans scattered around the room with people of varying ages and robe colours dotted in those seats.
Dumbledore stood before them all, near the fireplace. "Welcome, Mr. Potter, Mr. Black. I'm glad you could join us."
Gulping James slowly eased into the room and toward a couch that Remus pushed him at, with Sirius nearly on his heels as they sat. Remus sat next to them on a chair he had clearly conjured, as it was a design he favoured, and beside him, Peter waved.
There were other familiar faces: Lily's shining auburn hair, glinting off the flames from the fireplace, with Marlene McKinnon at her side; James recognized his boss, Alastor Moody, as well as his friend, Edgar Bones, a judicial representative for the DMLE. Professor McGonagall was sitting stiffly in her transfigured chair, speaking to Hagrid.
Frank Longbottom and his wife caught his eye and Frank nodded at him, as a fellow Auror, and two other well-known Aurors from the department, the Prewitt twins Gideon and Fabian, coolly nodded at him.
Who else is involved, and who else has he tried to recruit? thought James, hiding his deepening frown as his eyes roved the room, finishing on Sirius who looked as uncomfortable as he did, especially when Moody signalled them out.
"Well, if it isn't our dynamic duo," the Master Auror drawled. "Finally ready to join the big boys in the fight?"
"Alastor," chided Dumbledore, his blue eyes falling on his friend, who scowled. "We are here to welcome two new members: Sirius Black and James Potter. If anyone has any reason as to why they should not be inducted, please speak now."
Immediately, someone James didn't know piped up. "Can we trust a Black?"
James vowed to remember that person's face, burning it to his memory when Sirius flinched beside him.
"Mr. Black has my support," said Dumbledore plainly. "I trust him. He is not like his family."
"Are we planning on inviting Regulus Black next year, then?" asked a woman with wiry hair and thin-framed glasses. She had a pinched expression on her face.
Dumbledore smiled pleasantly at her. "I certainly do plan on extending invites to young Mr. Regulus Black once he graduates, as well as his two friends, Emmeline. Perhaps you know them, Mr. Crouch, junior, and Hermione Evans?"
Hermione was being considered? thought James, with a dopey grin appearing on his face as he daydreamed the two of them fighting side-by-side against Death Eaters, her using her incredible, strange magic and him, transfiguring the objects around them to attack and defend.
Sirius nudged his side, and James was pulled from his daydream.
"—inviting Orion and Walburga next?" continued Emmeline, a haughty drawl to her voice as she pulled on her lace shawl, drawing it tighter across her shoulders. "Perhaps Cygnus and then we should open the Order to Andromeda and Narcissa since they're not Death Eaters!"
There were a few heavy scowls in the room at the suggestion, and Sirius still looked rattled at his family being singled out, but Dumbledore was firm.
"Regulus Black is a candidate, and furthermore, is not the topic of debate for tonight," broke in Edgar, in the serious voice he used at the Wizengamot. "Albus as approved Sirius and James by vouching for them and that's good enough for me. We have other issues to concern ourselves with."
Dumbledore sighed. "Very true, Edgar."
All eyes turned to the Headmaster.
"You might notice one of our number is missing," the wizard began gravely. "Caradoc was sent on a scouting mission a few days ago and failed to report in after it to Alastor. Alastor of course alerted me and we checked all our safe houses in the meantime."
"They haven't been touched," added Moody gruffly. "Dearborn's not checked in."
"Then he's been taken," said Alice gravely, clutching Frank's hand. "Is he… do you think… he's still alive?"
"I went to his last known position," said Moody. "There was sign of a struggle or fight. Heavy scorch marks and a few burned down buildings, as well as the remnants of three different blasting curses—"
"Are you talking about the Mayfair explosion?" blurted Sirius, making everyone turn to him. "It's – it was on the Muggle news—"
"Yes," sighed Dumbledore, looking very tired and weary as he closed his eyes. "Voldemort has been attacking Muggles and causing massive, wide-scale problems from the Ministry. As you know, being an Auror, Mr. Black—"
"In training," hissed Moody from behind Dumbledore.
"—with Voldemort's followers doing untold damage to both worlds," finished Dumbledore, ignoring Moody's interruption. "Aurors are run ragged, there's not enough to police the streets or apprehend these witches and wizards while protecting the Statute of Secrecy. I fear Voldemort will drag our world into the light, in one bloody massacre after another."
Horror filled the room, and Dumbledore turned to Sirius and James.
"This is where you come in," he began, his voice quiet and firm. "We need witches and wizards, good wizards like yourselves, to help. To ease the burden of the Aurors and Ministry workers who are doing their best and falling short. To help stop Voldemort's tyranny."
Sirius and James shared a glance, and James caught Remus's hopeful eyes just past Sirius, as well as Peter's earnest look. They had already signed up, and James understood why. He hated Dark magic, he hated what Voldemort stood for, and even the thought of those followers of his – his Death Eaters – and the idea that they could attack Diagon Alley as they had… that they could terrorize innocent people in both worlds, and that there wasn't a Hermione there to stop them…
Well. James was a Gryffindor. And when things got rough, Gryffindors stepped up.
He would step up.
Resolved, James took a deep breath and looked Dumbledore straight in the eye. "What do you need from me, sir?"
October 1978
Wilkes was staring at him.
Barty could feel it as he buttoned up his shirt, keeping his eyes on his hands and not on the shallow-faced blond on the bed next to his, trying to look inconspicuous as he laced his boots up with a spell.
Take a picture, it will last longer, thought Barty with the tiniest sneer, eyes barely flickering at his fellow Ravenclaw.
He knew he was good-looking – not just because his mother told him so, but he'd seen the reactions that the other Ravenclaw and Slytherin girls made when his eyes would sweep over the tables. None ever approached him, though, most unwilling to get past Hermione to speak to him.
Not like you'd let them, a tiny voice piped up, reminding him that he was aloof enough to not care for his classmates, anyway. He had no time for anyone who wasn't Hermione or Regulus, and he quite liked it that way. He was barely accepting of Potter's place in Hermione's life, and he'd been aware that the Gryffindor was interested in her since that hair ruffle way back when.
With an inaudible sigh, Barty turned to leave the dorm room.
"Hey, Crouch!" shouted Wilkes, behind him. "Wait up!"
Barty's hands twitched and – if he actually had hackles – they would've raised and been accompanied by a threatening growl. As it was, Barty did not wait and continued his walk from the dorm and down the stairs of the Ravenclaw tower toward the common room. By the time he reached it, Wilkes was huffing behind him, with a ruddy complexion.
"Oi, I said wait," the other Ravenclaw whined.
"Why?" asked Barty, simply. He barely spared a glance, determined to stride through the common room to the exit. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Anthony Travers, Wilkes's friend, rise from his seat and make his way toward them.
There was a loud grumble behind him.
"Crouch, c'mon," whined one of them, even as Barty continued through the exit and down the hallway corridors to the Great Hall for breakfast. "We just want to talk to you!"
"I don't see why," Barty tossed over his shoulder. "We've never spoken before."
"Yeah, that's because you're always around Black or your pet mudblood—ack."
Barty whipped around, ignoring his wand entirely. Instead, he braced his forearm against Wilkes' neck, pressing into his windpipe and slowly choking him. Barring his teeth in the mimicry of a pleasant grin, Barty asked, "Sorry – what did you say? I must have misheard you."
Wilkes's green eyes were wide as he wheezed, "Friend! Your – friend – Evans!"
Barty held Wilkes there for a long moment, glancing to the side at Travers who was staring, open-mouthed. But there was a glint in his eyes, one that screamed amusement and awe, relishing in how Barty was acting. Noticing it, Barty immediately let go of Wilkes, who coughed and gasped as he slid down the wall, staring up at the other Ravenclaw. Barty took a few steps back, avoiding temptation. He shoved his hands into his pockets.
"What Wilkes was trying to say," began Travers, eyes trailing up and down Barty's body in a way he didn't like, "Was that you have a small friend circle. We'd like to be friends."
Barty considered it for all of one second. "No."
"What about study partners, then? You have extremely high grades, and all your spells are nonverbal," cajoled Travers, his tone still vaguely pleasant as he smiled at Barty. There was something off to him, though, that Barty didn't like at all.
"Hermione taught me."
It didn't deter Travers. "Well, would she be interested in tutoring us? I'd love to learn. It sounds like we have much in common."
Barty's brows furrowed. "What are you getting at, Travers? You and Wilkes are pals, and Wilkes here uses language like that… and you expect me to think that you'd be able to take instruction from Hermione easily?"
Wilkes went to speak, but Travers held a hand to stop him, causing the other teen to stare at him in surprise. "Well, I don't know Evans well, but I'm sure it would be instructional. I'm always looking for people who are remarkably talented."
That, thought Barty, zeroing in on that last bit. "Talented?"
"Yes, you know – nonverbal magic, sometimes wandless spells," explained Travers, as though mentioning the sky was blue. "Evans is quite talented, isn't she? I've seen her do wandless magic, sometimes. And she must have taught you and Black because you both use the same flourishes that she does."
Barty frowned, mentally swearing. He thought they had been careful, that Hermione of all people would've been more careful! If they saw this, figured that out about her, what else would they learn? Regulus was already sniffing out more and more inconsistencies regarding Hermione, despite Barty always jumping in to change the subject. He knew he couldn't keep that up forever and Regulus would soon catch on to him.
This is a disaster, he mentally groaned, his face twitching. He absently, nervously, licked at his lips. "So?"
"Well, that kind of magical ability is impressive," continued Travers, a bland smile on his face. "I'm not the only one to think so."
Barty narrowed his eyes. "She's Muggleborn."
"And you're a Pureblood, as is Black," pointed out Travers evenly. He shrugged. "So what? Her older sister in Gryffindor was a magical powerhouse, too. Clearly, there is something in the Evans blood. Their mother or father is probably a squib."
"That matters?" asked Barty with a tiny scowl.
"To some, it might," replied Travers. "To some, it might make all the difference."
He wanted to roll his eyes at the blatant implication Travers was making. Obviously, if Barty wasn't already deeply involved in fighting against the Dark Lord, he probably wouldn't have caught on Travers and Wilkes's veiled hints of where their allegiance lay. Barty wanted to scoff – they thought the Dark Lord had power? Was going to bring about change to the magical world?
Instead, he shook his head. "Fuck off. I'm not interested."
Wilkes scowled, ready to speak again, but Travers, once more, cut him off. It was easy to see who led whom. "Just think about it, Crouch. We won't need an answer yet, anyway."
"Yeah, sure." Barty rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, leaving both in the hallway, deciding against breakfast. Instead, he moved through the entrance hall and past the clocktower. Sometimes, to avoid the crush of people from the entrance hall, Hermione, Regulus, and Barty would wait for each other behind the clocktower, by a half-wall in view of the greenhouses.
Hermione was waiting, sitting on said half-wall with a book open and the flat of her shoes pressed against the stone when Barty arrived, grumbling. He flung himself next to her, and even though she didn't look up from the book, she asked, "What's bothering you, long face?"
"Wilkes and Travers," he muttered.
Hermione snapped her book shut and looked at him. "I beg your pardon?"
Frowning, Barty sat up. "They stopped me when I was leaving the dorm. Wanted to chat."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Did they want to invite you to their super-secret evil club?"
"Is that what we're calling the Death Eaters now?" asked Barty idly, hiding a grin by staring down at his nails. He knew Hermione would realize what happened!
Hermione snorted.
Barty sighed. "But yes, that was essentially it."
"And what did you say?"
Barty rolled his eyes this time and sent Hermione a scathing look. "What do you think I said? I told them to fuck off."
Hermione hummed.
"What?" frowned Barty.
"I doubt they'll back off," mused Hermione out loud.
Barty shrugged. "Don't care. I'm not interested."
Hermione peered up at him, and eventually said, "Alright," leaving it at that. She opened her book and began reading again, while Barty fished in his robe pockets for a snack, eventually pulling out a single chocolate frog box. He pulled it open and snatched the frog out before its first jump and was savouring a chocolate high when Regulus appeared, shoulders thrown back in confidence and looking perfectly coiffed with his thick hair slicked back with gel.
Barty scowled; his hair never looked that nice when he used Sleakeazy…
"Are we ready to go?" asked Regulus, stopping in front of them. "I want to get some shopping done before the afternoon crowd."
"Sure," agreed Hermione, closing her book and shoving it down her jacket pocket, where Barty watched as the entire thing was swallowed by the fabric. He poked at it, and she swiped absently at his hands.
"Hermione," he began, staring at her, "Did you cast an extension charm on your pockets?"
Hermione's brown eyes shifted back and forth, and she brought a hand up to rub at her collarbone. Barty frowned at the gesture, knowing it was her tell and she was about to lie. "Nooo…"
Gasping, he pointed at her and cried, "Liar! Liar, you always do that! You so did cast an extension charm on your pockets!"
She narrowed her eyes at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"How far does it go?" he asked instead, crowding up to her and yanking at the bottom of her jacket. "Did you cast it nonverbally? Is it on both pockets?"
He gently pulled on her jacket and stuck his hand in the pocket, wriggling his fingers around and staring in awe as nothing changed on the outside. Delighted, Barty grinned and stuck his arm to his elbow in her pocket while Hermione stood still and sighed, sending a dead-eyed look at Regulus, who merely pursed his lips to hide his amusement as he turned his head away.
"Oh, bugger," he muttered, eyes widening at something he saw in the distance.
"What?" Hermione asked, and Barty pulled his arm out, focusing on Regulus.
"It's Lestrange," groaned Regulus.
Barty frowned. "I thought he graduated ages ago. You should know. He's married to your cousin."
"No, not Rodolphus," sneered Regulus with a heavy sigh, "The smaller one. The younger Lestrange. Rabastan."
Barty and Hermione peered in the distance at what Regulus was looking at, spotting the fifth year as he caught sight of them and began a purposeful stride directly toward them from the clock tower.
"What's so bad about the kid?" asked Hermione, confused, as she looked between Lestrange and Regulus.
"He keeps following me," whined Regulus, and Barty and Hermione immediately burst into laughter at the tone their other friend made. "It's not funny! You know he's doing this to spy on me for the Dark Lord! I don't want him around! He's so aggravating!"
"So, tell the little gremlin to piss off," suggested Barty with a shrug.
"You think I haven't?" groaned Regulus.
The three fell silent just as Rabastan appeared, smiling nicely at Regulus as he came to stop near them.
"Hello, Black," the younger Slytherin greeted. His smile was frostier when he glanced at Barty and Hermione, and immediately, Barty felt his back stiffen.
"Lestrange," muttered Regulus.
"Are you off to Hogsmeade?" continued the fifteen-year-old, oozing smarm. "I can accompany you if you'd like. Then you don't have to spend time with this…" he glanced over Barty and Hermione and sneered, "Riffraff."
"Careful, gremlin," muttered Barty, eyes fixated on the teen. "We're seventh years and I bite."
Hermione bit off a snort of laughter. Rabastan's pale eyes landed on her and his sneer grew more pronounced. It looked ridiculous on the teen's face, who had clearly not shed all his baby fat, leaving his cheeks a bit rounder than his much older brother's lean face.
"No one asked for the opinions of a blood traitor or a mudblood," he spat.
Regulus lost all sense of pureblood composure and buried his face in his hands.
"What did you say?" growled Barty, sliding off the wall to stand, looming over the much shorter teenager.
Rabastan rallied well, gulping but then squared his body as he jutted his chin out. He put on his loftiest Pureblood voice when he said, "You heard me, Crouch. You're a blood traitor that associates with mudbloods."
"Thought that was what he said," said a cheerful Hermione as she slid off the wall to stand next to Barty. She was looking at Rabastan with a strange look on her face, one that Barty couldn't read. "Wanna say that again?"
Rabastan couldn't read Hermione any better than Barty could, and Regulus was still pretending this wasn't happening, by imitating an ostrich. Barty let his eyes rove between Hermione's cheerful face and smile, but there was something glinting in her eyes.
"Mudblood," spat Rabastan, one last time.
"Thanks," said Hermione, who went to turn away from Rabastan and toward Barty. But Barty saw her hand twitch and his mouth split into a wide grin as he realized what was about to happen. Hermione spun on her heel and swung her closed fist into Rabastan's nose.
The Slytherin shrieked, hands immediately coming up and cupping his nose as blood trickled through the gaps.
"You hib be!" he cried, voice muffled from his hands and nose. "By ngose! You broke by ngose!"
"Huh." Hermione leaned forward, peering intently at Rabastan, who froze with her mere inches away. "Look at that. It's red."
"Whad?" Rabastan muttered, eyes watering and glaring at her.
"Your blood. It's red. Just the same as mine." Coolly, Hermione straightened, peering down at the younger teen who was also a few inches shorter than her. Whatever she saw, it wasn't what she wanted, so she sighed and began walking away, down the path to the carriages.
Regulus paused, looking at Rabastan. The younger Slytherin peered up at him, a few tears swimming in his eyes. But then he shook his head, dismissing the younger teen with a sigh and a worn, "Don't worry, it'll heal."
Barty turned on his heel to walk backward, he snickered at Rabastan, "Unlike your dignity."
Rabastan stood there, two splotches of colour on his cheeks, and his eyes fixated firmly on their retreating forms. Barty shook his head and turned his back on him, jogging a few steps to catch up with Hermione and Regulus.
He tossed an arm over Hermione's shoulder and tugged her to his side. "After Reggie's shopping, we're stopping at the Broomstick, right?"
"Yes," agreed Hermione.
"Is your boyfriend meeting you there?" asked Regulus, his eyes teasing.
"Regulus, my love," began Hermione with a glint in her brown eyes even as her curly hair crackled, "I've already punched one Slytherin in the face today. I can make it two if you'd like."
"Spoilsport," muttered Regulus sourly.
Barty laughed, tossing his head back. Wilkes and Travers could offer him the whole world, but he had everything he wanted right there, and that would never change.
Halloween
James quickly realized that this fight was nothing like Diagon Alley. He also quickly realized that, at fifteen, Hermione had been able to hold her own against Death Eaters – two of who were likely here, fighting against him – with ease, compared to the majority of the Order members who rushed to aid Edgar Bones.
There was something a bit strange about that fact – but James had to push it from his mind to focus entirely on the swarth of Death Eaters in inky black robes that blended into the shadows from the nearby grove of trees, the rapid spellfire sent his way, and the burning house behind him. He did his best to ignore what smelled like bacon, knowing that the Bones' did not keep farm animals on their land and knowing exactly what was cooking.
Fighting to gag, James dodged a sickly yellow spell, ending in a crouch with a lunge toward the patchy fence that surrounded the house.
A part blew inward, bits of wood scratching at his cheek and his arm. Deep gouges spread out from the fence in the earth and James tripped onto his rear as he loudly swore. The Death Eaters weren't playing around.
Leaning back, James popped his head up over the fence – just tipping his nose up at the right angle to glance over it. There were three Death Eaters facing him, in a line, just by the treeline of the nearby grove. He ducked when a spell was sent his way by one of them.
"Shite shite shite," he muttered, turning to kneel and then crawl his way along the fence, keeping as low as he could. When he was finally a few meters from his original spot, he took a deep breath and then launched up, hauling himself over the fence, slinging a wide-ranging reducto at the trio.
"Bollocks!" one shouted, throwing themselves to the side to avoid the spell.
The two others were directly hit, one yowling in pain as the spell clipped their leg, pulverizing it. The other managed a protego, the spell bouncing harmlessly off the shield.
"It's James Potter!" the one who moved away shouted over the cries of the downed Death Eater. They made a sharp motion with their wand, and something bright green hurled its way toward James.
Eyes wide, he spotted a clay flowerpot nearby. "Accio pot! Depulso!"
The flowerpot met the killing curse and shattered. But James wasn't idle, rushing forward at the same time, following the pot and trusting his aim and magic. He sent a second banishing charm at the shards immediately following the breakage, sending them at the wizard who initial cast the spell.
"The fuck!" he shouted, barely managing to redirect the shards away. They slammed into the grass, jagged bits of brown sticking up like an uneven mountain range. "You utter wanker, Potter!"
Clearly this is someone who I pranked at Hogwarts, thought James with a mental eye roll, given the rather juvenile insults and swears, as well as awareness of him. If that's the case…
James summoned the shards again, and while they flew toward him midair, he transfigured them into clay grasshoppers. An engorgio grew them into a horrifying size, and oppugno sent them as a vicious swarm around that Death Eater.
He began shrieking, casting blasting curses at them.
James waited until there was an opening and then cast stupefy; the red spell sailed through the air, between two grasshoppers, and hit the Death Eater, sending them crumpling to the ground like a marionette whose strings were cut.
He then turned to the other Death Eater, the one who cast the shield, and who had been watching him carefully. "I won't be as easily distracted."
"We'll see," muttered James.
The two stood for a long moment, ignoring the shouts and splashes of colour around them as other members of the Order of the Phoenix and Voldemort's Death Eaters fought. Somewhere amidst all the chaos, James could hear cruel, high-pitched laughter.
In a flurry, James shot a spell at the same time as the Death Eater. Then he ducked while casting protego maxima, watching as his enemy's spell soared over him.
The Death Eater dodged James's spell by sidestepping it, and taunting, "Missed me!"
James fought back a grin. "Did I?"
Unable to tell the Death Eater's facial expressions behind the mask, he could only beam in appreciation as his spell splashed into the tree behind the Death Eater. The tree's bark rippled and warped as the transfiguration took hold, its roots pulling up through the ground as they displaced dirt and clumps of grass. The limbs began to weave and rock, leaves cascading down around the Death Eater, cluing him in to something going on behind him.
He turned slowly, freezing as the tree pulled itself free, and crawled toward him while its long, thick branches swept forward. The Death Eater nimbly leaped over the first few branches that scored the ground, dragging bits of grass with them.
Then, the branches split into long Vs and further split, lancing forward with deadly, sharp points. There were cries of alarm from the Death Eater, who did his best to avoid the winding, twisting vine-like branches even as they anticipated his moves, bending and twisting in angles that were unnatural.
James's transfiguration was top-notch and this, he thought, was one of his best.
Without warning, the limbs pierced the Death Eater's thigh, pushing through fabric, flesh, and muscle, and dug into the ground to hold the man in place. Two other limbs knocked the man to the ground: one through his shoulder, and another through his wand hand. He was immobilized.
James bit back a grin, sending his wand toward the ground with a sharp move that broke the branches from the tree, leaving the Death Eater speared in place; the tree lumbered back to its original spot and settled back into the hole it made. Then, James ended the spell with a loud exhale.
"Impressive, Mr. Potter."
James's blood turned to ice at the cool, high-pitched voice behind him. Slowly, he turned, first with his head and then the rest of his body following as he saw, in person for the first time, the Dark Lord Voldemort.
He stood tall, taller than most men James knew, in black robes. Unlike his followers, he didn't wear a skull-like mask to hide his identity, and for the most part, he looked like a regular man with slicked-back black hair. He was paler than normal, his skin not seeing sunlight, and had a shallow face, but his eyes – James shuddered. They were blood red.
But still – it didn't do to show your enemy fear, James knew. So, he stood straight, swallowed down the lump in his throat, and threw his shoulders back even as his grip on his wand clenched.
"Is 'Voldemort' your first or last name? I'd like to know how to address you," taunted James. "After all, it's only polite."
Voldemort's thin lips curled into a parody of a smile. "You may address me as the Dark Lord, Mr. Potter; but I would prefer my lord, from you. I have been wanting to meet you for some time now."
James gagged at the thought of calling anyone "my lord." Instead, he narrowed his eyes and didn't speak. Voldemort continued to survey him, ignoring the carnage behind. Several Order members were fighting Death Eaters, and the odds were fairly even in who was winning – Moody and the Prewitt twins were viciously taking out whomever they could but the Death Eaters they were fighting were just as intent to kill.
Behind all of that, and Voldemort, the Bones house was a raging bonfire, flames licking at the stars and smoke obscuring the rest as it thickened and billowed above them. The backlight it provided for the Dark Lord made James gulp – it was a powerful image.
Voldemort tilted his head. "I see you are following Dumbledore's little resistance group." He tsked. "He was always the fool, unable to recognize power and utilize it properly. Are you merely one of his foot soldiers? You could be more with me: a general, a leader. I would give you the opportunity to stretch your imagination. I saw what you did with that tree. Imagine what else you could do."
"I can do that perfectly well working with the Order of the Phoenix," replied James through bloodless lips.
Although he had no eyebrows, Voldemort's expression was one of surprise. "Order of the Phoenix? Is that what the fool calls his group? How… quaint. And… rather disheartening."
Furious, James spat, "How so."
The look Voldemort sent him was that of disappointment. "A phoenix bursts into flames and then is reborn from its ashes, only to grow and begin the cycle again, Mr. Potter. While it is a symbol of rebirth and fire, it is hardly something you'd want to name your vigilante group after. Unless, of course, Dumbledore believes that even if I manage to kill or turn his members, there will always be some form of resistance."
"You can't kill an idea!" shouted James. "People will always fight against the Dark!"
Voldemort sighed. "How pedestrian." From his robes, he withdrew his wand, a long white stick that looked like bone. "Well, shall we?"
There were no flourishes or tells when Voldemort began: he just pointed his wand, held loosely between his thumb and middle finger, and the killing curse shot from its tip.
James swore as he brandished his own wand, conjuring a bronze shield, more like an enlarged knut, to block the spell. But that was only Voldemort's opening salvo: flashes of colour, mostly killing curse green, mustard yellow, bright purple and sizzling red, flowed from his wand, cast all nonverbally so James had no idea what they were unless he knew the spell.
And some, he did – thanks to his mother's Black heritage.
The purple spell? Organ crusher.
The sizzling red? Blood-boiler.
But then there were dazzling orange swirls in fiery rings, and something black and oily they crept along the ground toward him, and James soon found himself sweating through his robes, his hair damp and flat against his forehead and neck and desperately losing ground as he was forced back into the trees.
He attempted to animate a nearby tree, but Voldemort sent a bombarda at it, and the tree exploded with a loud, resounding crack, sending large, sharp bits of wood in all directions. James barely had time to throw up a protego for the wood to harmlessly bounce off of before he was forced to drop it and swing around a nearby tree trunk for protection.
"Fuck!"
"I was expecting more, Mr. Potter," chided Voldemort as he calmly stalked forward into the grove. "Is this all? Perhaps my spies were mistaken about you…"
James knew it was stupid to be drawn into the Dark Lord's taunts, but he felt his annoyance flare. He was panting, his hand slick with sweat and he was tired. His side was battered and bruises, and there was a sticky, dried patch of blood on his side from where some wood shards got him before his spell went up.
Voldemort was barely winded, and no one had come to help him. So, the dark wizard wanted a show? James would give it to him.
He conjured the memory of Hermione from Diagon Alley in his mind, and then the training exercise he had spied on in the Room of Requirement with Crouch. He spent a moment thinking of the way she moved, how she manipulated her magic, and felt his breathing even and his body calm. He knew what he was going to do.
"Come now, Mr. Potter!" called Voldemort, not moving forward any further. "Face me!"
"Gladly, you piece of shit," muttered James.
He spun on his heel and slashed his wand at the earth in front of him. He dashed out from behind the tree, following the rolling wave the earth made as it built up into a wave, rushing headlong toward Voldemort, who looked pleased and amused.
The wave obscured James every so often, and Voldemort blasted it apart, splitting the wave in two to provide a clear shot – but James was no longer there. Voldemort paused.
James instead cast on the earth, using the wave as a distraction: pillars of solid rock jutted up, providing stepping-stones for him to launch himself forward, high above the Dark Lord.
Voldemort's head tilted as he caught sight of the young wizard, lazily sending reducto at each pillar, but James was already nimbly jumping for the next, the spell anticipating his moves and bursting from the ground at speeds that were too fast for the Dark Lord to anticipate – until he swept his wand in a wide arc and a bright, fuzzy white spell washed across the grounds, obliterating anything in its way, including the pillars.
James swore as the pillar crumbled underneath him, but he was still several meters above Voldemort and used that to angle his body at the wizard. He pulled his knees to his chest and quickly cast a spell on his glasses, and then pointed his wand at Voldemort.
Voldemort brought his own wand up to cast a shield, but James surprised him, shouting: "Solis maxima!"
Blinding light burst from James's wand, illuminating the area around the two wizards and calling attention to him. The light was so bright even with a shade spell on his glasses, James had to close his eyes and he still teared up behind his eyelids.
He hit the ground, his ankle crunching under him. He cried out and rolled over his shoulder, coming up in a crouch on his good foot, wand extended in front of him and blinking past sunspots that his spectacle turned sunglasses didn't stop. The spell faded from his glasses, leaving them normal.
Voldemort stood before him, startled enough that he too, froze momentarily, and James took the opportunity to shout, "Expelliarmus!"
The spell barely grazed the Dark Lord as he twitched enough to the side, deftly avoiding the magic that crackled by him.
"Mr. Potter," began Voldemort, sounding amused, "Well played. We'll cross wands again, I'm sure."
"What?!"
Voldemort threw his wand up and cried, "Morsemorde!" A long, green smoky haze burst from the wand tip and hung lazily and low in the sky, the smoke turning bright green and forming the shape of a skull with a snake coming from its mouth.
James's mouth dropped open at the sight of it and snapped his eyes back at the wizard, but Voldemort smiled coolly at him and Apparated away.
"NO!"
James lurched forward, hobbling on his leg as he moved to where Voldemort previously stood, only to trip and fall to the ground. He slammed his fists in anger.
No! He got away! James gritted his teeth and tried to push himself up but slipped on the upturned earth from his previous spells. A hand caught his arm and he turned his head, snarling—
"Easy, boy," muttered Moody, who was bleeding from a deep gash that cut through one eye, swollen closed. "It's over Potter. Stand down."
Breathing heavily, James let Moody haul him up, and he put his weight on his good ankle. "What happened… sir?"
Moody sent him a look. "Saw the end of your fight with the bastard. You did good, Potter."
"Thank you, sir, but – what happened? Are Edgar and his family safe?" asked James, glancing at the burning house.
Moody's face, when he turned back to look at him, was weary. "The bastards sealed the house and warded it before we got here. There was no way out for them."
Horror stole James's breath. "No – no one got out?"
"They were dead before we got here, no matter what we'd have done to help," muttered Moody savagely.
James felt his knees buckle.
"Easy now, Potter… Keep your head on…"
"It was all for nothing?" he asked, voice small, as he looked at his Auror instructor.
Moody sighed. "Sometimes, you can do everything right and it still won't save people, Potter… James."
James stared at Moody for a moment, hanging off his arm. Then, he turned and vomited into the grass at their side. He felt, more than heard, Moody sigh.
"It's alright, Potter," he heard the man speak, although it was distant and from behind the thud of his blood in his ears. "It's just the adrenaline from the fight. Your first kill. You fought the Dark Lord and survived, Potter! That's more than most can say. You did good."
James barely heard the compliments, eyes trained on the still burning building before them, with the knowledge that Voldemort and his Death Eaters had succeeded in their goal: murdering Edgar Bones and his family.
Moody hauled him forward, toward where the other Order survivors either stood or were guarding Death Eaters they took prisoner, already barking out orders to Fabian and Gideon – both bloodied but wearing matching feral, pleased grins – to Frank Longbottom and his stern face.
Sirius was sitting on the ground, head in his hands, robes cut up and torn in places; Peter was hissing as someone applied basic first aid to a large burn on his shin.
James's hazel eyes surveyed the landscape, finally resting on the Bones house. I'm sorry, he thought, sending it toward Edgar, his wife, and children, who were no doubt terrified in their last moments. Maybe it was quick – James hoped it was.
But if Voldemort thought this would demoralize us – would stop us, thought James furiously, he thought wrong.
"Each loss is a lesson learned," whispered James to himself, blinking back tears, face warm from the heat of the flames. "And with each loss, we will rise from the ashes."
November 1978
The attack on the Bones family was all people could talk about. They kept their words careful, quiet, but talk – they did.
The Bones were the prominent family: Edgar Bones had worked for and directly with Alastor Moody in the judicial branch of the MLE, a long-time friend, and partner of his. Moody was rumoured to be on a warpath, according to the Prophet, tearing through Knockturn Alley as he looked for the people who were responsible for his friend's murder, Death Eaters who had escaped that night.
Worse, Edgar Bones' wife and young children – four of them, all under ten – were murdered alongside him in the safety of his ward-constructed home. While there were no images of the family in the special post-Halloween issue, other than the Dark Mark floating above the house and a few canids of Edgar and his wife at a Ministry function, the description of the bodies was graphic.
On the same night, Edgar's parents were murdered in their family home, and only Amelia – an Auror who lived away from her parents' home – and her younger brother Julian – who had been out with friends – survived.
Regulus was the last to arrive in the classroom Hermione had appropriated so long ago, having had to shake Rabastan Lestrange from his heels, citing "personal time" with his girlfriend – the wonderful Calypso Fawcett who happily worked as Regulus's decoy, a long-standing arrangement they had worked out back in their fifth year after that terrible party of Diggory's.
Both Hermione and Barty were already there, joined at the hip as always. Regulus had learned long ago to push away the jealousy he felt at their closeness, knowing that his sorting into Slytherin certainly hadn't helped him much. The political climate made things more difficult with Hermione's muggleborn status and Regulus had to fight tooth-and-nail and creatively come up with reasons to continue to associate with her.
Hermione was pacing, arms tightly crossed against her chest, while Barty lounged on some of the desks they had pushed against the wall. He had a tiny cloth bag in one hand and was snaking on some Halloween candy leftover from the previous night.
As Regulus stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him, Hermione's head snapped up along with her wand – not to curse, but to ward.
Regulus added his own privacy spells to the ward sequence she was creating, based on familiarity.
Once done, Barty said, "Well. That happened."
Regulus frowned at the cavalier tone. "It was a senseless murder."
"It was calculated murder," countered Hermione, her mouth a thin line. Her arms were still tightly folded against her when she turned to them. "Bones and Moody were a great team. How many people had they brought in the last two years, suspected of working for the Dark Lord?"
"At least twenty," answered Barty, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked on something particularly sour. His eyes teared and then he cleared his throat, shaking his head. "Father's been keeping track. He loved those two."
"Going after someone in their own home, that's… bold," added Regulus. "Wards aren't easy to dismantle. Not good ones, anyway."
The three were silent. Finally, Barty muttered, "I guess 'mysteriously disappearing witches and wizards' won't be headlines anymore."
Regulus swallowed. "There were more people the last time…" He cleared his throat. "His recruiting is going well."
"Aurors aren't," said Barty with a sniff. "Father was complaining that most are failing the written portion and barely any make an effort or have the wand skills for duelling in the practical."
"That's because we've had a different defense professor every year," sighed Hermione, finally moving to sink into a battered chair. "Clever."
"Clever?" echoed Regulus, moving a bit further into the room.
Her hair was a fluffy, curly curtain that blocked her face for a moment before she pushed the hair back. Hermione then nodded; her eyes downcast. "Isn't it convenient? A Dark Lord – less and less capable Aurors – a slowly reduced budget – people who disagree with his politics disappearing. They're all connected."
Regulus stared. It wasn't the first time Hermione had made leaps and bounds with her logic that he couldn't follow, but a quick glance at Barty had the Ravenclaw wizard look away quickly, adopting a bored expression. His eyes narrowed.
"Are you saying that… he… planned this?" Regulus trailed off, waving a hand around the room to indicate Hogwarts.
Hermione nodded, again.
"Over a decade ago?" continued Regulus, incredulously.
Hermione sighed, tilting her head back. She then pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes and muttered, through gritted teeth, "Yes, Reg. He planned this. He's clearly meticulous and has long-term goals. Think about who has disappeared since this all began."
Obediently, Barty began listing a few names. "The Bones', recently. Nobby Leach. He went on a 'long, overdue vacation' after his tenure as Minister."
"I thought the party line was he was sick? Not dragon pox, but something else." Regulus looked between the two, then closed his eyes. "He wasn't sick, was he."
"No."
Regulus couldn't bear the look of pity in Hermione's brown eyes. Instead, he looked away. "This was '68. A decade ago."
"And since then, there have been numerous gas leaks in London and other muggle towns," continued Hermione quietly. "The Irish politician, John Barnhill."
"Father said that was the IRA…?" trailed off Barty.
Hermione shot him a glance. "With an explosion that destroyed his house?"
Regulus swallowed thickly, and Hermione continued speaking.
"There was that headless female body, found in Norfolk in '74. Tavish MacRae – the Quidditch player for Portee? He went missing, and so did his wife and son, just two years ago. And –"
"That's enough, Hermione!" The words ripped from Regulus's mouth just as his stomach churned. "I – I get it. He's been planning this for ages."
"Longer than we certainly have been thinking of getting rid of him," agreed Hermione quietly. She got out of her chair and stood near Regulus, hesitantly reaching out and brushing his shoulder with her fingers.
He sent her a weak smile. All was forgiven – when could he stay mad at her? The knowledge of the Dark Lord – Voldemort, as he was calling himself – had been planning this since he was at least their age was troubling. Regulus knew his parents were involved – to varying degrees – but just how far had Voldemort sunk his claws in elsewhere? In the Wizengamot, the Aurors, or the other departments?
At Hogwarts?
"So, what chance do we have?" asked Barty, eyes fixated on Hermione.
She shrugged. "Finding his Horcruxes is the best lead we have."
"And two down isn't a bad start, either," agreed Regulus, perking up a bit, despite the sick feeling in his stomach.
Hermione grinned, although it wasn't as wide as it could be. "True! So… we just need to figure out if there are more."
"You said it was likely," pointed out Barty, also physically pointing at her with a licorice wand.
"Uncle Alphard mentioned Bellatrix has something," added Regulus. "So that's another."
"And there's Voldemort himself," said Hermione with a nod. She glanced at Regulus. "Did you notice anything out of the ordinary when you saw him last?"
"You mean other than being utterly terrified for my life?" asked Regulus dryly.
Barty snorted.
The Slytherin shook his head. "He doesn't wear any jewelry. He doesn't have any… ornaments. He just wears his black robes and lets his presence do the rest in terrifying you."
Hermione hummed thoughtfully. "Anyone close to him?"
"If she could get away with it, I'm sure Bella would be rubbing up against him like a kneazle in heat," muttered Regulus.
Barty choked on his sweet.
"Ew." Hermione wrinkled her pert nose up in disgust. "Thanks for that image, Reg."
Barty began gagging, coughing up bits of his sweets as he bent at the waist. Both Hermione and Regulus ignored him, Hermione returning to her chair as Regulus moved opposite her at another set of desks to lean against.
Hermione thoughtfully drummed her fingers along the arm of her chair. Finally, she declared, "We need more information."
Barty, red-faced, choked out, "And where are we going to find that?"
Hermione looked at him, then Regulus, and said, "We're going to need help."
Regulus frowned. "Surely you're not thinking of telling someone else all this! Who could we trust? Who would help us?"
"Do you trust me?" asked Hermione.
"Of course," answered Barty, even as Regulus nodded, slowly. He was mentally running names, dismissing them as quickly as they appeared:
Potter – too Gryffindor. His close ties to his parents and Dumbledore were obvious and Hermione clearly did not want Dumbledore's help.
Sirius – too outspoken and wouldn't be able to keep quiet.
Lupin – his lycanthropy was a liability as his Alpha could order him to speak the truth.
Pettigrew – laughable to even think.
Evans – not close enough with Hermione to be worth consideration, and too emotional to trust.
"Who?" asked Barty, frowning.
There was a glint of something that was half grim determination, and half wild madness that Regulus had, over the years, come to recognize as a hare-brained scheme of Hermione's in the making. He sighed. "Who are you thinking of, Hermione?"
She grinned. "Leave that to me. I have the perfect person in mind."
TBC…