James comes trotting barefoot down the hallway in loose light brown robes and nothing else, thin vines and baby leaves in his hair, eyes wide without his glasses. He comes to a stop with a smile, probably still smelling of rosemary and salts that he bathed in.
The vines don't really do anything, it's just ritualistic like the robes. James could hop in with his normal clothes and it wouldn't make a difference.
Harry is pacing anxiously around Euphemia and Fleamont as they stand around the heart under the house. Only a few steps away, the floorboards have retracted and deep red clay has unfurled like a gaping maw, curved and jagged teeth in terracotta, lying in wait as it sway slightly like it's breathing.
Harry pauses and winces because seeing James in ritual robes has made this too real and daunting. "Only a few days, right?"
"…Yes," Fleamont says.
"Right!?" Harry cries.
"Very unlikely that it keeps him for too long," Euphemia insists. "And, bright side, if it does he'll come out like great, great…great grandmother who was the strongest necromancer in recorded history."
"I don't think you're helping," James points out to her and gathers Harry into his arms for a hug. "It's okay, nothing will – hey, you're so short now! When did that happen?"
Harry glares up at him from the few centimetres of extra height James now has.
"Sorry, got distracted," James laughs. "Nothing bad is going to happen because I'm the last heir -since apparently it finds you offensive or whatever- so it can't kill me unless it doesn't want anymore magic. It's power-hungry, not an idiot."
The teeth rattle, scraping together.
"What I meant to say was that I love our adorable house," James corrects immediately. "And I can't wait to get down there and get a nice big hug."
Fleamont puts a hand on Harry's shoulder and eases him off to the side. "I've been down there eight times now over quite a long lifetime and I've never had to stay for longer than four days. It's scary and tiring but it's not fatal."
James ruffles Harry's hair and walks over to the heart, where he jumps over some curved clay and lands in the middle of the open mouth. The clay is sun-baked warm and a bit rough against his bare feet. Kind of satisfying.
"Remember to keep your eyes shut," Fleamont reminds James and leans over to pull the vines lower until the leaves shade his eyes.
"I know," James huffs with an eyeroll and shoves the vines back up so he can see. He sits down, rearranges the robes over his legs so it's comfortable and lies back. The clay is solid and not the best mattress but the vines in his hair help pillow his head.
Everyone startles when the curved fingers of clay jerk closed suddenly.
"Fuck!" James cries in shock, hands coming up but after the initial start it slows to a slow furling inwards.
Harry somehow pulled out a wand in that split second and Euphemia grabs him quickly. "It's fine, Harry dear! It's fine, everything is fine."
James laughs nervously as the clay keeps pulling in like it's wrapping him up. "Eager, huh buddy?"
Fleamont steps forward, looking down through the closing gaps, worried but trying to smile through it. "Eyes closed, alright? We'll see you when you wake up."
"Gotcha," James says with more confidence than he feels. "Take care of Harry, you know how he gets. Bye, Harry! Call Remi or Siri if you need anything!"
James pulls the vines down so they obscure his sight and tries to put his hands across his stomach and settle in like this is totally okay but his fingers twitch and his whole body is tense as it finally seals shut, plunging him into perfect darkness.
It doesn't stop moving.
"Fuck me dead," James hisses quietly because he doesn't want to freak out Harry, hands going out blindly in the dark as he grips the walls. The clay melds into itself and the curved teeth smooth out into a rounded coffin and it finally stops.
James' own breathing echoes around him, louder as his senses sharpen in without eyesight. He closes his eyes, eyelashes brushing across soft leaves. It's comfortingly warm and his fingers map the very small space, running over fine bumps.
It's rather disturbing but this is built into Potter children, this love for small spaces, the comfort and safety small rooms or under beds gives them. All for this, to groom them for one day being in here.
That's what you get when you pool all this magic into something. Too much gravity makes a black hole, too much power makes a god.
James taps his fingers against each other, presses his toes down against the end of the cocoon. "So…when does this start?"
He knows he goes to sleep, he's just not sure when it kicks in and lying here now that nothing is happening is kind of boring. James opens one eye, can't see shit.
He's wondering if the no looking part is genuinely a thing he needs to do or again, this is like the robes. James asked and his dad admitted he never tried to look before, neither did any of the family portraits James asked.
And, listen, James wouldn't be James if he didn't do stupid shit once in a while. He shoves the vines up and his elbows bumps into the ceiling accidentally. Nothing, just darkness.
"Hi, I'm James," James says. "I like quidditch. Do you know what quidditch is?" James pauses. "Never mind, let's talk about you, mate. What do houses do when people aren't in them? You got a house girlfriend? Is that how tents are made?"
Something flickers off in the distance and James turns to look at it. He raises a hand but again, just the clay wall, his breathing echoed back at him. One time James got dared to stare into the sun and had bright spots in his vision for like an hour after. Remus called him a dumb deer. Remus then called Sirius worse names because Sirius was the one who dared James. The flicker is a lot like the bright spots.
Another flicker and James tilts his head awkwardly to look past his feet. "Is that me or is that you?"
James sees the flicker again and it looks like something even darker passes by, far out beyond James' little tomb. Not the absence of light but the complete lack of anything. Of substance, of matter.
James lets out a slow breath. He pulls down the vines again and closes his eyes because okay, that answered his question.
But it's not that easy, is it? Because he knows it's out there and James is brave, not fearless.
"When does this start?" James asks again. He tilts his head and presses his ear to the warm clay, hears only his own heartbeat.
His fingers twitch and he pushes up the vines, but keeps his eyes closed, hands pillowed in his stomach. He peeks and it's nothing, just darkness. He squints a bit, opens his eyes wide, tries looking through one eye for a different perspective.
It takes a moment but he makes out the fuzzy outline of something. Watching him. This isn't darkness, this is emptiness.
James is frozen, staring back as his body slowly tenses. He blinks and it's gone. James twists quickly, frantically trying to find it again. His elbows and knees bump into the walls, fingernails scrape at the clay, he tries to roll over but his shoulders won't fit sideways here and he's gasping in panic but he doesn't know why he's so scared.
It's under him, faint, off in the distance as a speck but getting closer, rocketing towards him so fast it takes a heartbeat and James is rearing back, slamming the back of his head against the wall because it's so big it takes up James' entire field of view and there are teeth at the edges and it's nothing, nothing, nothing.
Because you walk with death in the heart under the floorboards.