Hello! Thank you for the warm reception! Before we get into this chapter, I need to address some concerns raised in a guest review. To everyone else, I apologize for this A/N, you can skip right to the story unless you're insanely curious.
1) No, I don't believe it was suspicious, at all, that Dumbledore seemed indifferent toward Lily and James' 'deaths'. Dumbledore was a man who looked at things from all angles so that he could have contingency plan on top of contingency plan. He would've already been braced for the possibility that they would meet just such an end as soon as that prophecy came about. That aside, he also was not someone to wear his heart on his sleeve, so him acting calm in a chaotic or heart-wrenching situation [that had any sort of indication leading up to it] would really just be Dumbles being Dumbles.
2) James did think about Peter's betrayal. It was right there in his inner dialogue: That Voldemort had found them could only mean they'd been betrayed. Peter had turned on them. James' chest was already hurting, icy fingers tightening around his heart, at not knowing what had become of his family, but to think one of his dearest friends was to blame only sharpened that agony.
3) Sirius in Azkaban and James being held in an isolated cell in the bowels of the Yaxley Estate are two different scenarios. A situation presented itself that allowed Sirius to escape in his Animagus form. Whether or not James would need a wand to transfigure himself is a moot point, because it would serve no purpose. Yes, it might be able to try to ram the door, but he'd more likely injure himself, and even if he managed to, say, gore Yaxley on his antlers, he'd just be stuck with a dead Death Eater on the other side of the door, because I do believe Yaxley has shown himself too intelligent to be so thoughtless as to carry the key, or even his own wand, on him when he's within arm's reach of his prisoner.
Guest who corrected me on James' eye color? Thank you! So small yet embarrassing a slip. I wanted to crawl under a rock.
Hermione will show up in the next chapter, I promise!
Chapter One
The Dungeon & the Passage of Time
Ten years had come and gone. James had been counting the days—amazing he could keep track of it all, but it was simply one of the many things he did to keep his sanity in the near-unending monotony of his captivity. Oh, sure, Corban would be so charitable as to occasionally wander down into the dungeon and fill James in on the goings on in the Wizarding world, but other than that? His life was no more than waiting for the elves to bring him water or meals, pacing or even jogging in circles in his little cage just for some circulation, his practicing with that spark of magic he'd found himself able to summon on his first night as Yaxley's prisoner, and trying to avoid listening to a blessed word the Death Eater said unless the name of someone he actually cared about was mentioned. He had even found new methods for keeping track of time, merely for the sake of staving off the boredom that might just break his mind if he let it.
It took two years, three months, one week, and six days for him to stop kicking himself over his guilt. Sirius had been blamed for Lily's death, for his own 'death', and apparently for blowing up Peter and a load of other people whilst trying to escape? Accounts from his gracious host were fuzzy at best on that one, yet he knew it was rubbish, as Sirius hadn't needed to escape. It had likely been some ruse on Peter's part—after what that man had done, there was nothing he'd put past Peter Pettigrew. James'd always known everyone would assume Sirius had been his Secret Keeper, that was precisely why they'd chosen Peter, instead. And that meant the only person who could be held accountable for Peter's betrayal in the absence of any witnesses was Sirius.
Two years, nine months, and three days for his heart to let Lily not be the first thing on his mind the moment he awoke each morning. He still thought of her, of course, but now he could manage to remember her without feeling as though his chest was being hacked open with a pair of Muggle gardening shears.
Four years, two weeks, and twelve days to not wake up in a cold sweat worrying himself sick over what had become of Harry. According to Yaxley—unfortunately, his one and only source for information—all trace of Harry had vanished from the Wizarding world after that fateful Halloween night that had shattered James' world. He had to assume that was for the best, that it was for Harry's protection. After all, if Dumbledore was involved, he had no choice but to trust that his son's safety was first and foremost in the elder wizard's mind.
The elves never so much as glanced up at him. He thought perhaps their master had ordered them never to look up the prisoner—a wise move. No one would ever be able to pry any information from them that way. Even if he told them who he was, they wouldn't care, they were proper pure-blood servants and he a well-known blood-traitor, after all.
The first spell James had mastered wandlessly, after much experimentation and many fits of exhaustion, had been a simple cleaning spell. Oh, certainly, the elves brought him supplies for basic grooming and hygiene upkeep—nothing he could harm or poison himself with, so only the most simple items had been made available to him—but after the first few weeks and noticing he was beginning to offend himself, he realized he could not last an entire decade living that way. And so, cleaning spell it was. Corban was too self-involved—and never quite got close enough to James' cell door—to notice that he did not smell even half as ripe as a human body kept under such conditions should.
Stunners and other offensive spells bounced off the walls, dispersing after a time and leaving him to duck and hop in the attempt to stay out of the way—once or twice, said attempts had, in fact, set him right in the ricocheting energy's path. There was a particularly rough Confundus that had made him forget his own name for an entire day.
One thing it seemed he could not pull off without a wand, however, was Apparition. Try as he might, he could not leave his accursed cell.
Corban Yaxley had paid a visit the day he was working with the Imperious Curse. A spider who'd taken up residence in a corner of the cell, and whom he'd named Willowsby, as creatures who kept one company deserved a name, had provided him with a proper test subject. He felt a bit terrible for it, and so he had only coaxed the spindly-legged thing into spinning a new web. But it had worked, that was what was important.
On rare occasion, he even carried on one-sided conversations with Willowsby, but he never let himself be overheard. Not because he feared his captor would think his mind broken, no, no, but rather because he thought Yaxley might kill the little thing simply to deprive James of his only companion.
"So, what news do you bring me today?" James kept the elation out of his voice. It was time. Harry was in Hogwarts by now, he had to be. But he could not get ahead of himself. He could not get excited about the possibility of that door opening, of seeing his son at last, circumstances be damned.
"It seems . . . you shall be my guest a bit longer." Corban turned away to start back up the staircase.
"What?!" This time, James could not hide the emotion in voice—the mix of shock and anger—as he gripped his hands around the bars in his cell door. "At least explain yourself! You've kept me rotting here when death would be kinder! An explanation is the least you can offer me!"
Corban sighed, backpedaling down the step he'd taken. "It would seem . . . the Dark Lord is not as departed as we've thought. He somehow managed to return, possibly only temporarily, as some sort of parasite on a man named Quirrel. Apparently, he made an attempt on your son's life and was killed. I don't know yet what will come of this, so your stay here will have to last a bit longer, until I know how best to use your survival to my advantage."
"If a minion of You Know Who tried to kill my son, you what that means? That means my Harry can't be what you thought he would!"
Corban Yaxley actually laughed at that. "Oh, no. You see, what I suggested is still entirely possible. Harry might've been targeted because the Dark Lord doesn't want competition. How simply your mind must work, Potter."
And then he was gone.
James slumped against the wall of his cell, feeling a bit of light go out of him. If this was how things were, Yaxley second-guessing his own plans every time there was a hiccup, he might never get out of here. Yes, perhaps it was best that he not get his hopes up.
Perhaps it was best that he bide his time, get stronger, still. The opportune moment would present itself for him to escape. Especially since he had a weapon Corban Yaxley would never guess at—pure-bloods thought wandless magic, beyond the most basic spells—was a myth.
Oh, that Death Eater was going to be very unpleasantly surprised.
Eleven years, and James was unpleasantly surprised, himself, with the news of a Basilisk being unleashed from the Chamber of Secrets to wreak havoc on Hogwarts. Apparently Harry had a Muggle-born friend who'd gotten herself petrified. Poor thing. Some nonsense about Lord Voldemort's diary possessing the youngest Weasley child? That seemed like madness on the face of it, even for a story from a world of wizards and witches that had a giant serpent rampaging through a castle.
Harry spoke parseltongue. That did not bode well for him not being the next Dark Lord.
Twelve years, and there came the story of Remus taking up a teaching post in Hogwarts, and Sirius breaking out of Azkaban. Oh, James didn't fret about that second bit of information. He knew Sirius would do everything in his power to protect his godson. Even if the rest of the world thought him a villain.
Still, the time was not right to reveal that the father of Harry Potter was alive. Honestly, James was starting to wonder if Yaxley had ever had a plan in the first place.
James thought if he could imagine a face on Willowsby's great-great grandchild—Willowsby, IV—who was now occupying that corner, it would mirror his own expression of eye-rolling disbelief.
The thirteenth year brought with it the World Cup, the Triwizard Tournament—which had somehow been tampered with to include Harry, despite that there were three champions, already, and that Harry was not nearly old enough—and another attempt on Harry's life. James was beginning to think Voldemort simply didn't want his son to enjoy the summer. Oh, surely, that was a ridiculous notion, but at this point, he thought it was rather silly that the man's followers, or his machinations, or whatever he'd left behind that was causing trouble now, always seemed to whittle away the year until the end of spring and suddenly the danger would present itself. He thought Harry must've caught on to the pattern by now.
Yet, as Yaxley retold of this particular year, James grew concerned all over again. He listened as Corban gleefully related the scene in Little Hangleton. That Harry's blood, and a sacrifice of Peter Pettigrew—the slippery little bastard—had been used in a ritual to resurrect You Know Who. That Harry had dueled the Dark Lord after watching his friend be murdered.
Somehow, Harry had survived, but no one believed him about Voldemort being back.
And still, James languished in his cell. He now realized it was not merely that Corban, as clever as he was, didn't quite have a plan anymore, it was that Corban had not let on about his guest to the Dark Lord. He didn't know if he should expect punishment or reward for his secret.
Oh, if only he could Apparate. He'd be out of this cell in a heartbeat and telling everyone how the wizard had willfully deceived his master and his brethren so skillfully for so many years.
The fourteenth year . . . . Sirius was gone. Whatever else Yaxley might've said before that fled James' mind immediately upon hearing this. Not dead, not truly, but gone forever, just the same. Knocked through the Veil by his own mentally twisted cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange, and no one ever came back from beyond the Veil, so he might as well be dead.
That woman was a monster.
James' lip curled even as he took heart that the Ministry finally believed Harry's claims. If no one had killed Bella by the time he was free, he'd hunt her down and end her miserable existence, himself.
Year fifteen? Draco Malfoy was branded a Death Eater. Oh, James did not envy that poor boy. No doubt Voldemort had only made that decision to keep Lucius in line. The Death Eaters captured after the Battle in the Department of Mysteries—there was a certain swell of pride to thinking on that, Sirius' passing aside, in that Harry and his friends had proven themselves formidable enough to hold the Death Eaters at bay until the Order had arrived—had managed to escape Azkaban with the help of their odious leader.
Dumbledore was killed . . . by Severus? That made precious little sense to James. Did he . . . ? Was it possible Severus blamed Dumbledore for not being able to protect Lily?
But now, oh, now he had to get out. Without Dumbledore out there, was Harry even still safe?
And then it happened. Not right away, no. Harry and his friends managed to get themselves on the Undesirables list. James snickered at that—he imagined Sirius would've been quite proud. Of course, this also meant that Voldemort's followers had overtaken the Ministry. And they'd slipped through the Death Eaters' grasps for months.
James knew if he came forward now, he might only cause a complication for Harry—he was the biggest distraction from this new War that could possibly exist. No, he'd known what it was like to be in the place his son currently was. Harry was a young man, now, and he—like both his mother and his father before him—had somehow become a soldier. He needed to focus on the battle ahead.
Especially if all held true and he was the one who was to end Voldemort.
"Your son and his slippery friends have managed to get away from Bellatrix and Greyback. Can you even imagine?"
"You don't want to know the things I can imagine," James said darkly, his gaze fixed on Corban's face.
"There was some fuss about Godric Gryffindor's sword, your son's pet Mudblood was tortured—Bellatrix is certainly a woman who loves her work."
James only scowled harder. All the more reason to hate that witch—tormenting some poor young woman.
Corban shook his head, pressing his fingers to his temples. "They're all so bloody thick. She insists that the real one is in her vault at Gringotts, but it's not occurred to any of them to alert the bank, or go retrieve the bloody thing. I mean, if those three after the sword, and they're truly as crafty as they've shown themselves . . . ." He let his voice trail off, uncertain if it was shameful or expected that he found himself feeling a grudging respect for their collective cunning and cleverness.
"Gringotts?" James nodded, echoing the word.
It just so happened, Sirius had once learned of a way into the bank . . . . From the bowels of Diagon Alley. Oh, he'd never have stolen anything, but he did enjoy toying with the notion of 'what if?' James couldn't imagine another way to break in. If Corban was correct, and they were headed there whilst the Death Eaters were being too thick, or maybe too prideful, to consider the possibility . . . .
"But congratulations," Yaxley said, his voice unexpectedly chipper. "This is the day you'll breath free air."
"What?"
Corban drew his wand, aiming it at James as he moved closer to the door. "Oh, yes. You see, I might be rewarded, but if I'm punished, the Dark Lord will certainly be more lenient if I am the one to bring Harry Potter to him, and what better bait to lure your boy out than you?"
Yes, James realized. Now was the time. If he was truly free, he could aid Harry's efforts without revealing himself and distracting him. And Corban Yaxley could not turn to anyone to help track him down.
Holding Corban's gaze steadily, James marshaled his focus.
"I am going to unlock your door. No sudden—"
"Imperio."
James stared at the other wizard through the bars, waiting to be sure the curse had taken hold. It was an Unforgiveable, certainly, but who cared? The whole world thought he'd been dead for nearly seventeen years, he truly doubted anyone who mattered was going to give him grief over cursing a ruddy Death Eater.
"Unlock the door."
Corban smiled, reminding James that the effects of the Imperious Curse were said to be quite pleasant, actually. Sweet, calming, and whatever the caster willed seemed like the most wonderful idea.
"Of course," he said, unlocking the door.
"Now, you're going to switch places with me."
Yaxley pulled the door wide and stepped in. As James took his first steps outside of the cell in nearly seventeen years, he spun on his heel to face the new prisoner.
"Now, you're going to hand me the key and your wand."
Corban hesitated.
James cursed under his breath—he wasn't certain he had time for this. He slammed the door shut between them and changed tactics at the last moment.
For this one, he focused hard. "Obliviate." He'd had no one to practice memory charms on, and could only hope his time honing his other spells had an across-the-board effect.
When Corban's jaw fell slack, James nodded. Reaching through the bars, he snatched the key and the weapon while he had the chance.
Though he quickly locked the door and tossed the key aside, he took a moment to look over the wand. He had no need of it. But then . . . .
"This is the least of what you deserve," he said in an icy tone, holding Yaxley's gaze, he snapped it in two and let it drop to the floor.
After sparing a moment to bid a cheery farewell to Willowsby, X—what a good little arachnid family they'd been, keeping him company all this time—James turned on his heel and started for the staircase.
By the time Corban Yaxley came to his senses, he'd only know his wand was broken and somehow, his prisoner was gone. It almost made James laugh. Would Yaxley believe someone had come to help him, after all?
Oh, the very thought of what sort of paranoia that might grip the Death Eater as he wondered if anyone could've discovered his ruse was endless amusing.
And just when James thought nothing would feel better than simple freedom.
