Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Round 11

Team: Chudley Cannons

Position: Chaser 3

Prompt: What's In A Name?

Optional Prompts: 7. [word] Feature; 9. [object] Board Game; 12. [dialogue] "This isn't a game."

AN: Thanks to Autumn for betaing!

The Gryffindor common room is quieter than usual, partly because it is almost past one in the morning, partly because most of its usual residents have left Hogwarts. There is only the soft crackling of the dying fire and the hum of a radio, which plays the latest song by Celestina Warbeck.

James, oddly enough, relishes the silence. As the second half of his seventh year approaches, he's realized that he's come to love moments like this—when it feels like his time at Hogwarts has been frozen in a snow globe, an eternal magical childhood. That's why he, like most of the other seventh years, chose to stay for the winter holidays—mainly because Sirius is staying, but also because it is his seventh year, and how many days like this does he have left?

He settles against the wall, curling his legs beneath him, and stares at the embers in the fireplace. His face is dappled with faint orange light that bounces off his glasses. Wisps of smoke brush over his skin in waves of heat. The features of the Head Boy dissolve into shadows and firelight.

He blinks out of his reverie when he hears footsteps descending the stairway from the boys' dormitory. Sirius steps out of the dark, the shadows slipping off of his shoulders. In his arms he carries a box-like object that James can't identify until Sirius sits across from him and sets it down.

The chessboard is a simple little thing—plain white and black squares, slightly scratched wood, pieces that have probably seen better days. James assumes that it's non-magical, since the pieces don't shout when they are jostled. He raises a questioning brow at his friend.

"Can't sleep," Sirius whispers, almost as if he doesn't want to disturb the quiet.

James nods. "But chess?"

"Uncle Alphard used to say that there's nothing like a game of chess to put you to sleep."

"Which uncle was that?" James asks, pushing himself off the wall. He crosses his legs. "I thought your family was a bunch of wankers."

"He was the good one." Sirius frowns. "The only good one." He sets up the pieces carefully, taking care to place them on the board as quietly as possible.

James watches, leaning his chin against his palm. "Sirius Black ought to take black," he says.

His friend rolls his eyes. "Like I haven't heard that one before." Regardless, he turns the board so that the black pieces are on his side, then nods at James to start.

James pushes one of his pawns forward; Sirius lifts a knight and sets it on another space. So the game begins, and not too long after, sleep pulls at their eyelids. James lets out a yawn. "I'm about to kill your queen," he drawls.

Sirius swears under his breath, and his grey eyes skim over the board quickly. "Ha! Not anymore!" He moves his queen away.

Half-heartedly, James nudges one of his pawns forward two spaces. "Your Uncle Alphard was right." He stretches his arms out. "Reckon you're tired enough now?"

Before Sirius can answer, the cheerful melody playing on the radio is interrupted by a crackling voice. "Terrible news, we've got terrible news," says the man, his voice laced with panic. "We've just received a report of an attack near Potter Manor."

Both boys freeze and look at each other before James lunges for the radio and turns up the volume.

"It seems the dark forces of You-Know-Who have struck again," continues a feminine voice, decidedly calmer than the first reporter. James, in a brief moment of distraction, thinks that she must have more experience. "The famed gala has over two hundred guests tonight, including the Minister for Magic and his family."

Sirius's face is rapidly turning pale. "You don't think—"

"Shut up," James hisses, his fingers curled into fists.

"At the moment, we have not received any reports on casualties. As we speak, we are reaching out to the Auror Office. Head Auror Alastor Moody is one of several important attendees—"

"I need to go."

"This is You-Know-Who's boldest attack by far—"

Sirius shakes his head. "You can't, mate. I know how you feel—"

"Any casualties would be a devastating loss to the Wizarding World—"

"You don't know, though. You don't have a bloody family," James says, and he instantly regrets his words. Unable to face his friend, he stumbles up from his sitting position. "I have to go, Sirius." Before Sirius can say another word, he heads toward the door.

Sirius rises just as the door swings open, revealing a cloaked figure. When it steps into the light, the two boys recognize the stern face of Professor McGonagall—though she is a far sight from her usual self. The professor's normal black robes have been replaced by an old robe that she clutches to her chest with trembling fingers. Her hair, streaked with grey, has fallen out of her tight bun.

"Potter," she says, her voice breaking. Then she seems to realize who she is and gathers herself. "Potter. Under no circumstances will you be leaving the premises." James opens his mouth to retort, but she stops him with a fierce glare. "I know how you feel, Potter, but you must understand that I cannot allow you to put yourself in grave danger."

James lets out a breath, his entire body seeming to shrink on himself. He looks down at the floor, jaw clenched as he attempts to calm himself. Sirius walks to his side and squeezes his shoulder. "Do you know anything, professor?" he murmurs.

James looks up, his eyes desperate.

"Only as much as you know," says Professor McGonagall, offering them a somber smile. "Now, I would tell you two to sleep, but…" Her gaze drifts to the radio. "But given the circumstances, I doubt you'd listen." She reaches out and pats James's shoulder, her eyes softening. "Keep your chin up, Potter. Nothing has been confirmed."

"It's more what hasn't been confirmed, really," James mutters under his breath, but he nods.

Professor McGonagall turns away and steps through the entrance, though not before the two boys catch her already tremulous smile collapsing. James realizes with sudden clarity that she likely taught many of those at the gala and had even gone to school with a few.

Sirius pulls at James's arm, jolting him out of his thoughts. "Come sit down, Prongs," he says softly. He guides James to the fireplace.

Then James remembers the words he had said to his friend, and the tips of his ears burn red. He can hardly bear to look Sirius in the eye. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

Sirius's brows are knitted. "For what?" After a few seconds, his face clears, slipping into an awkward half-frown. "Oh."

James sits, his gaze still aimed at the floor. "I shouldn't have said it."

Sirius plops down across from him. "It's alright." He lifts his shoulder into a half-hearted shrug. "You weren't wrong."

At this, James's head jerks up, and he scoots closer to Sirius. Clasping his friend's hand in his own, he says, "No. I was wrong. Extremely wrong. I know you love Mum and Dad like they were your own parents. You do have a family."

"Not one I was born into," Sirius mutters.

James shakes his head. "It doesn't matter that you were born a Black. You may have the features of a Black, but you're a Potter at heart." The fire, which had started to flicker out when it detected the boys' presence, has now roared back to life, the light muddling Sirius's features, almost as if to prove a point.

A small smile tugs at the corners of Sirius's lips. "So what I'm hearing is that I'm a better-looking version of you."

"Oi! Lily happens to love this version of me more."

"Such a tragic loss. She should start considering if she picked the right Potter."

James laughs, and for a moment he forgets what has happened. For a moment, they aren't Potters or Blacks—they are just two boys with obscured features, sitting by the fireplace.

But only for a moment.

"We've just received news that Head Auror Moody survived the attack, mostly unscathed. The Head Auror, a veteran of many famed attacks, described tonight's tragedy as 'utter hell.'" The woman on the radio pauses, and crackling fills her absence for a few unbearable seconds. "The Minister for Magic has also survived."

"Dad's a good dueler," James whispers to himself, although his trembling lips belie his confidence. "He was almost Head Auror before Moody came along. And Mum can hold her own." He looks to Sirius. "Right?"

Sirius tries to muster a smile but fails. "Right. They'll be fine." He reminds himself that Euphemia Potter is a strong witch, and Fleamont Potter is a strong wizard.

"More than two hundred witches and wizards may be dead, although the Head Auror has yet to give an official statement to confirm or deny our suspicions."

"Alright," Sirius says. He nods at the chessboard, which had been forgotten. "How about we continue our game, yeah?"

James stares blankly at the chessboard then nods, an almost imperceptible motion. He lifts his knight and sets it down on a different, random spot. And so the game continues.

James rubs at his eyes, fighting to keep them open; the only thing keeping the exhaustion at bay is the crackle of the radio that fills the otherwise ominous silence. It settles into his ears, and his head begins to throb.

A few minutes after the handle of the clock has moved past three, Sirius pushes his queen to knock the white king off the chessboard. The chess piece falls with a soft thump to the ground. James blinks at the chess board. "Good job," he mumbles.

"We finally have George Shacklebolt, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, here to give an official statement."

James grabs the radio and places it before him, turning up the volume even more. A baritone voice, markedly different from the previous one, begins to speak on the radio. "It deeply saddens me to announce that the magical community has suffered the loss of ninety-eight of our brethren in an attack executed by the dark forces of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. This massacre of innocent witches and wizards will not go unforgotten. The Ministry has sworn to attain justice for those who have fallen tonight, to put an end to the terror…" Shacklebolt continues his speech, delivering more words of passionate grief and calls for unity and strength in dark times. The words start to blur into one noise in James's ears, useless to abate the headache pounding at the back of his head. He forces himself to focus, hanging on to each word.

"Ninety-eight," he says to himself after the speech ends nearly fifteen minutes later.

"Ninety-eight," Sirius repeats. "They'll have made it out." He nods, although he isn't sure who he's trying to convince. "They'll have made it out for sure."

A new voice, gravelly and devoid of much emotion, cuts through the crackle of the radio. He quickly introduces himself as the Head Auror, and James realizes why the voice sounds familiar. "The Auror Office is identifying casualties as I speak. We will attempt to contact immediate relations of the deceased as soon as possible. As Head Auror, I swear to avenge this attack to the best of my abilities. Everyone who threatens the peace of the wizarding world will be hunted down and will be properly punished." His last word is delivered with rough fury before he is replaced by the original, feminine voice.

"As reports come in, we will start naming casualties. Our heartfelt condolences go out to those who are grieving a loved one."

James waits, barely breathing. His fingers curl into fists, nails leaving red crescents in his palms. As minutes pass by with nothing but crackling, he feels like screaming at the radio. Then—

"Smith, Aurora. Livestay, Martin. Scort—"

"How about another game?" Sirius interrupts the radio. He jerks his chin at the chessboard.

James gapes at him. "You can't be serious—"

"Ferg, David. Abbott, Sarah…." James wonders what Grace Abbott, a sixth-year in Hufflepuff, is thinking now, wonders whether she knows or if she is still cocooned in the safe arms of sleep.

For once, Sirius avoids making a joke about his name. "This isn't a game," he says.

"Pitts, John. Dawley, Reginald..."

Then James realizes what Sirius is trying to do, and he wonders what he ever did to have a friend—no, brother—like him. He takes in a shuddering breath. "Alright."

Sirius squeezes his hand then sets up the chessboard again. They begin to play, squinting at the pieces in the firelight. It's almost as if their hands move of their own accord, their attention caged by the voice on the radio. The names continue, and whenever a familiar last name appears, the boys wince slightly. But with each new name that does not begin with Potter, a twisted sense of relief creeps through their hearts. James feels immeasurably guilty for feeling this way, but he cannot stop it. He keeps a tally in his head. Only fifteen more names, he thinks when the eighty-third name is announced. Only fifteen more.

"McKinnon, Audrey. Selwyn, Agatha. Stuart, Rolf…"

Sirius pushes a pawn forward, James moves his rook, and the door swings open, revealing a robed figure that James recognizes as Professor McGonagall—she must be here for Marlene McKinnon, she must be—and then he starts to wonder, he starts to shake his head—

"Potter, Euphemia."