Sticklers for canon plot points will have noticed that I sped up the time at which the Golden Trio leaves Snape at the Shrieking Shack. That was necessary for what I think would be obvious reasons (or, at least, one very obvious reason), cutting off an important monologue. I'll be correcting that bit of timeline fudging in this chapter.
This chapter was EXHAUSTING. It contains a LOT of canon reference, which, even with my memory, meant going back and constantly rereading the scenes that are implemented here. Again, the narration is different, even if the dialogue/monologue in canon-based sequences is the same.
Chapter Four
The Second War's End
James was already in the tunnel when he realized he needed to slow down. Dammit all, he'd dropped that ruddy wand back in the Shack. He'd go back for it, but he didn't exactly have time for another chat with Severus. Apparating back to the castle would certainly have been preferable if he wanted to stay out of Harry's sight until this was all over, but just now, he could hear that the three of them were still in the tunnel, up someways ahead of him—possibly already at its end.
That was when the cold and cruel voice of Voldemort tore through the cramped, dark space. James had turned, trying to aim behind him as best he could in the tight confines of the earthen passageway, certain the closeness of the words meant the serpentine wizard had returned to the Shack and now stood behind him at the tunnel's entrance. He ignored a momentary flash of concern for what that would've meant for the oh-so-recently revived Severus.
"You have fought valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery. Yet, you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen."
My arse, James thought with a mirthless smirk as Voldemort prattled on, that high, icy voice projecting so that he spoke to the entirety of those in the areas surrounding Hogwarts—the Forest, the streets of Hogsmeade, even here in a literal hole in the ground where one could assume they'd be blessedly free of such things.
His terrible, rasping tone was inescapable. "Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste. Lord Voldemort is merciful."
Blimey, could he simply not with speaking of himself in third person? James'd much like to punch him right in his flat, snaky face.
"I command my forces to retreat immediately. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured."
It was sickening, this paltry show of mercy . . . trying to make himself seem not so awful to those who might still be swayed, to those who might be faltering in their beliefs after all they'd suffered so far. But James Potter knew better. When Voldemort showed mercy, it was only because it would grant him what he needed all the faster. And even that was never a lasting concession. His mercy would vanish the moment the Dark Lord got what he wanted from the situation.
"I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour."
That sounded a little more like Voldemort, claim to offer them mercy in one breath, and then turn around and threaten the lives of children with the next. He was glad this nightmare was nearly over, and for more reasons than being reunited with Harry.
James could hear a hushed burst of frantic conversation from the far end of the tunnel, though he couldn't quite make out the words. He waited until there was silence, until he heard the shuffling and rustling that accompanied their movements cease.
The last thing he wanted was to be close enough that they might look back and assume they were being followed. Worse, that they were being followed by a mysterious, cloaked figure in the dead of night—because that sort of imagery always went over so well with people who were armed and already nerve-wracked.
Emerging from beneath the Whomping Willow, James immediately had to duck and roll out of the way of a sweeping branch. Of course they'd reactivated the bloody thing, they were smart and were well aware there was every chance someone had lagged behind at the Shack and might be trailing them. Case in point? He was.
As he got himself steadied, out of reach of the Willow's massive branches, he saw the trio already climbing the stone steps of the castle. He didn't like it—there was too much risk of being spotted—but he had to see, he had to walk in there and look upon the faces of the dead.
The Hogwarts grounds had never been so chilling and desolate as they were now, whilst he walked toward those very same steps. There was no one out here, even the Forbidden Forest was silent; not a single rustle of leaves or growl of one of its denizens, not even the chirp of some brave, lone cricket.
He thought he'd never heard anything so terrifying in his life as the ringing emptiness of the battlefield.
Just as he reached the steps, he had an idea. While he'd been following the trio, he'd noticed the witch and the ginger-haired wizard were covered in a layer of soot—as if they'd been subjected to Floo travel gone awry. Though he'd known it was them because he had recognized Harry with them, and could not forget her voice or those huge brown eyes of hers if he tried, the dark, gritty mask had obscured their features.
He paused, reaching down to scoop up a handful of dirt and smeared it across his face. Satisfied that between his beard and the flaky little clumps of earth his looks were muddled enough that no one could possibly recognize him at a glance, he proceeded up the steps and into the castle. He would be just another wizard on the side of the Light, weary from battle, no more, no less.
The entire building felt as though the life had been drained from it as he stepped through those doors. This was not the Hogwarts he remembered. It was like entering a long-abandoned house—that chill in the pit of the stomach that warned curious parties away. There was a hushed murmur coming from beyond the entryway of the Great Hall.
James halted, ducking into the shadows reflexively as someone hurried out of those doors. Harry. James curled his hands into fists, quite deliberately digging his nails into his palms to keep himself focused and stationary—to keep himself from running after his son as the young man took off up the staircase, clasping the container with Severus' memories to his chest.
He was seeking a penseive. That would likely take him to the Headmaster's office.
James only watched Harry, a sad smile curving his lips as his son disappeared into the upper levels of the castle. For a moment, he thought he could hear the remembered sounds of his friends' laughter filling the corridor around him. Arguments with Lily, lewd jokes from Sirius, trading barbed, sniping comments with Severus, Remus forever fussing that there simply was not enough time for studying thanks to their Hogsmeade weekend shenanigans! Peter—he sharply cut short that particular recollection. So many memories here, which only made the place seem more deathly empty just now by contrast.
He forced himself to return his attention to the Great Hall. James almost didn't want to go in there, but he forced himself to approach. Forced himself to cross the threshold.
No one even batted an eye at another weary soul dragging himself into the massive chamber. They were huddled in groups, tending wounds, and sparing this hour to grieve.
The dead were laid along one wall and he saw Remus. The werewolf sat, hunched—hunched, but very much alive—and staring down at 'Dora's still form, not even seeming to blink. The Weasley clan, a blonde witch, and his Gringotts witch were gathered, sobbing, around the body of a lanky, ginger-haired wizard. He didn't need to hear them to know, he could tell by their body language. Molly and Arthur Weasley had just lost a child.
Clearing his throat, James averted his attention from the scene—he had to—and wiped at his eyes.
That was the moment when he felt the weight of a stare on him. Frowning, he couldn't help but look up, searching for the source.
He found himself watched by one distinctly familiar palomino centaur. There was a bleeding gash in his flank—leaving him unable to stand—and Madam Pomfrey fussed, in that way James remembered, himself, as she tended him.
Firenze's wide, pale-blue eyes were fixed on James, his head tilting side to side as he tried to discern the mystery wizard's identity. After only a moment, his white-gold eyebrows rose in a mix of recognition and bewilderment. Bloody centaurs having that annoying, ethereal sixth sense of theirs.
James flicked a quick glance about, assuring himself no one else had noticed him, and then returned his attention to Firenze. Making a pained, pleading expression, he held a finger to his lips.
Firenze did not appear happy about the plea for secrecy—centaurs weren't exactly known for being subtle or taciturn creatures, despite their tendency to speak in cryptic, riddle-like patterns—but nodded.
A dark-skinned young woman, seeming to notice Firenze's distress, but not the source of it, came hurrying over to him. Catching his hand in hers, she settled in front of him, claiming his attention as she spoke to him in a low, cooing tone. Clearly, she'd thought blood loss was making him unsteady and was trying to give him something to focus on. Her mannerisms though . . . .
James hid a snicker as he shook his head. Ah, yes, even when he'd been a student, the witches had, for lack of a better term, fawned over Firenze. It was as though his pretty face and lean musculature from the hips-upward made them forget entirely that from the hips-downward, he was a horse.
He winced then, once more shaking his head as he hoped Firenze being half horse didn't have something to do with the appeal.
A wizard came striding through the doors, then, the body of yet another fallen student slung over his shoulder in a firemen's carry. Blond, impossibly small seeming as he hung there—as the wizard carrying him moved delicately to lay him beside the other bodies. Remus flicked a glance back toward the new addition, only for his eyes to shut tight and his shoulders to sag further, still.
James prayed the boy wasn't as young as he looked. Willing combatant or not, the thought of someone so young dying in violence was horrific.
When he realized time was dragging on, yet Harry had not reappeared in the Great Hall, he felt a flutter of icy, sickening panic curl through the pit of his stomach. His gaze trailing off—toward Lupin, toward Firenze, toward the witch who stood, now, hugging an unabashedly sobbing wizard who must be the twin of the Weasley's fallen son, because the resemblance was simply uncanny—he turned and walked back out the doors.
He moved fast, taking the steps two at a time as he launched himself up the staircase. He couldn't seem to stop, even as a voice in his head reprimanded him, warning that if Harry was still up there, his urgency might make a meeting unavoidable, he had to check on him. No one could be sure one or more of Voldemort's followers hadn't slipped into the castle's depths during the chaos of battle and encountered Harry when he'd been alone.
Voldemort might've claimed an hour's reprieve, but James would sooner babysit screaming mandrakes than believe a word that came from that snaky bastard's mouth.
Reaching the door to the headmaster's office, he found it open. It was never open. Either something had gone wrong, or his son had left in a hurry.
James rushed up the staircase, barely stopping himself from crashing his shoulder against the doorway as he hurtled into the office. Empty. The penseive was still out in the open, set upon the headmaster's desk, and the portraits . . . every last one was empty.
Looking to the grandfather clock, he saw that barely twenty minutes of that allotted hour remained. Harry could only be on his way to meet Voldemort, he must've bypassed the Great Hall so no one would see him leave.
So no one could try to stop him.
There wasn't a clear thought in his head as James ran back down the stairs and worked his way through the castle as fast as his legs would carry him. If anyone who saw him was curious about the blur of a figure that burst out the doors and out into the night, he never knew.
It seemed forever before he reached the treeline and crossed into the Forbidden Forest. Where Harry and Voldemort were to face off beyond that, he couldn't be sure, so he simply continued forward from the point where he'd entered.
The horrible, unnatural silence assaulting his ears was broken by a familiar voice shouting. "Harry, no!"
Hagrid? James forced himself to run harder, following the shouted words when the half-giant let out a second pleading shout.
"No, no! Harry, what're yeh-?!"
"Quiet!" another voice hollered, no doubt one of the Death Eaters.
Closer, he was closer now, and there were footfalls and half-heard conversation through the trees that covered the sound of James' own footsteps.
Too late he heard the words of the Curse split the air.
No. James flung himself the last few steps to finally see the break in the trees. He could glimpse the clearing where they were gathered.
He could see Harry, face down the forest floor.
James was frozen in place. His lungs refused to work, all sensation drained from his limbs.
There was some discussion, then, among the dark throng before him. Voldemort was not paying them any mind, however.
"You." He was not gentle in getting Narcissa Malfoy's attention, hitting her with a quick hex, and a painful one if the small shriek that erupted from her was any indication. "Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead."
The command—because it was very clearly not a request—gave James pause. Gave him a dreadful flicker of hope. Voldemort wasn't sure his Killing Curse had taken Harry's life, so maybe there was a chance it hadn't!
From his vantage point. James could see Narcissa's features as she knelt beside his son, even as her long hair swept down to shield their faces from the Death Eaters and their Dark Lord. He could make out the quick, hushed words that fell from her lips as she was leaned over him, apparently checking for a heartbeat and listening for breathing. Now, she wouldn't be asking Harry anything if he could not answer, would she?
But she did! She pleaded in an impossibly quiet tumble of sound to know if Draco was alive. James thought back quickly. Yes, he'd seen a young man with that silver-blond Malfoy hair sitting alone and looking like he just might jump out of his skin at the slightest provocation in the Great Hall, among the injured and mourning.
He didn't hear Harry's response, but he saw his son's lips move in answer.
The relief through him was so great, his body sagged against the tree beside him.
Narcissa stood and spun to face the Dark Lord, her voice steady, unwavering as she lied to him, "He is dead."
"You see?" Voldemort shouted in triumph, his voice clear over the sudden outburst of thrilled cries from his followers and Hagrid's abrupt sobbing. "Harry Potter is dead by my hand, no man alive can threaten me now! Watch! Crucio!"
James bit back a sound of rage at the display, but he knew Voldemort was nothing if not a bully. That he gained some twisted satisfaction from abusing what he believed to be a corpse. If he rushed in there now, he'd reveal Harry's ruse and get himself killed, possibly get them both killed. The one thing that gave James comfort was the minute rise and fall of Harry's chest after that quick wash of red light faded, only visible to him because was watching for it so painstakingly.
There was a whirl of activity, then, the Dark Lord carrying on a one-sided discussion with himself over how to procced. After he'd reached his decision, Hagrid was released and commanded to carry Voldemort's fallen nemesis back to Hogwarts. The poor half-giant couldn't contain his misery, still crying in huge, gulping sobs as he lifted Harry, his hold gentle, as though he cradled an infant.
"Move," Voldemort commanded, turning toward where James was hidden within the shadow of the trees and started walking, leading his followers back toward the castle.
James scrambled out of the way, the sound of his movements once more hidden under those of the Death Eaters. Darting his gaze about, he waited, holding back until they were past him and then he fell into step just behind them.
It seemed only by the grace of whatever powers that be no one spotted the odd, unfamiliar extra person trailing the group—not the Death Eaters, who likely assumed him another Dark wizard on their side, come to watch the confrontation if they did notice him—nor the full grown giants who crashed along behind them.
Hagrid was yelling at the centaurs who'd stayed behind, hidden in the forest as the battle carried on earlier. Who'd stood idle as the Death Eaters and their leader had tromped into these very woods and threatened the whole of the Wizarding world.
The Death Eaters threw their own slurs and jeers at the creatures as they walked.
"Stop," Voldemort said, once more with that tone of command as they reached the edge of the forest. Magically magnifying his voice as he had after that terrible scene at the Shrieking Shack, he addressed those in the castle. "Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone!"
As earlier at the castle, James had to dig his nails into his palms to keep from reacting—he only barely stopped himself from calling out in anger. Of course Voldemort would lie—as if his son would've run? No, Harry had come to meet him. He'd gone to what he thought might well be his death with his head held high. And, from what he'd witnessed in the last half-day alone, anyone inside that castle who truly knew Harry Potter would know Voldemort was full of shit.
"The battle is won. You have lost half your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family."
Disgusting bastard.
"Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters, will live and be forgiven—"
Oh, wasn't that just so bloody kind of him?
"—and you will join me in the new world we shall build together."
There was no great rush of movement to follow his command, no outcry of voices begging for his mercy. Nothing, whatsoever, to be heard from the castle grounds.
Voldemort commanded his troops forward again, Hagrid still sobbing Harry's name as they approached Hogwarts. The Death Eaters were an absolute flurry of motion and sound, themselves, giddy, it seemed, at their apparent triumph. Only Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy seemed reticent. And Yaxley? Oh, James would admit it was fun to watch Corban Yaxley flinch at every unexpected sound, as though he expected his escaped prisoner to come screaming at him from the shadows at any moment.
His captor would get what was coming to him.
Voldemort again commanded them to halt, the cluster of Dark wizards and witches unfurled to form a line, facing the open doors of the school. James took the opportunity to ease back from them, ducking away from the Death Eaters, but remaining close enough to act when the opportunity presented itself.
Suddenly that empty doorway was filled with motion and noise as the occupants began filing out. Unable to take Voldemort at his word, there were cries and shouts of disbelief as they saw Harry, hanging limp in the half-giant's arms.
"Silence!" With that shouted word, a Silencio charm slammed down over his enemies, quieting them.
Voldemort bid Hagrid lay Harry at the serpentine wizard's feet. The action was followed by a commotion, and he unleashed the same sort of hex he'd used on Narcissa Malfoy on the young man who'd rushed forward, disarming him and dropping him to the ground.
James didn't need to hear the discussion that followed to know who this was. Frank and Alice Longbottom's son, Neville. His heart still hurt for the fate that had befallen them.
As if to confirm his recognition, Bellatrix laughed that high, mad laugh of hers as she answered her master's inquiry about the brave lad. "It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The one who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?"
Neville, for his part, got back on his feet, seeming uncaring that he had no means to fight back against whatever Voldemort might do. He appeared utterly lacking for fear as he stood alone between the opposing factions.
"Ah, yes, I remember. But you are a pureblood, aren't you, my brave boy?"
Neville went right on seeming unimpressed with the creature before him. "What if I am?"
"You show spirit and bravery, and come from noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom."
James dared say a cruel smirk curved Neville's lips—well, he certainly liked this young man. He hoped Neville and Harry were friends. "I'll join you when Hell freezes over. Dumbledore's Army!" he finished in a shout.
Voldemort's powers were not so fierce as he thought, that or those opposing him were stronger than he gave them credit for, because the Silencio broke under the weight of the responding shouts from the crowd. James didn't even have time to question what the hell Dumbledore's Army was—was it a branch of the Order? He thought perhaps it was, as when his gaze found the figure of his brown-eyed witch in the swath of people facing them, she had been one of those crying out in response to Neville's words.
Voldemort did not like that. He harped and grumbled, summoning the Sorting Hat from within the depths of the castle. The battered thing came hurtling through a window to land in his hand. On he moaned about doing away with the Houses, and set the Hat upon Neville's head.
With dull, building horror, James realized Neville was locked in place—at some point during all this, Voldemort had cast a Body-Bind charm—as the Dark Lord set the hat ablaze.
Unable to hold himself idle any longer, James stepped toward the horrible scene. But in that same moment, all hell broke loose.
A sound erupted from the forest, like some massive force stampeding toward the castle. Giants began fighting, crashing into each other, and Neville broke free of the charm. James wasn't sure how it happened, but after throwing off the Hat, Neville wrenched Godric Gryffindor's sword from inside it—the boy was a Gryffindor heir?!—and moved in blink, slicing the head clean off Voldemort's murderous pet.
Hagrid screaming for Harry drew his attention. His son was nowhere to be seen, and James had to remind himself that Harry had the Invisibility Cloak. Whatever he was up to, he knew what he was doing.
The entire battleground was chaos. Hippogriffs descending from the sky—seemingly out of bloody nowhere, as far as James could tell—and the centaurs proved they had heard Hagrid; proved that his words had affected them as they came charging into the scene, engaging the Dark forces in combat as readily as the Light, now loosed from whatever hold the sight of Harry's 'dead' form'd had over them.
This was his chance. James run into the tumult, searching for Yaxley. He stopped short as a load of house elves poured from the castle, wielding dangerous kitchen tools like weapons as they ran into the fray. James actually watched the spectacle for a moment—could that really be Kreacher leading the charge?—before giving himself a shake and returning to his search.
The fighting seemed to travel all the way into the Great Hall, and James followed it. Ducking and sidestepping on his way, he finally saw him. The face of Corban Yaxley. Two younger wizards had him pinned to a wall, one of them the deceased Weasley's twin.
James couldn't help himself, this was too perfect. A prisoner for so long, and now he should come upon his captor when he was immobilized so.
A truly bright, possibly vicious grin curved his mouth as he waved, deliberately catching Yaxley's eye. Oh, yes, even with mask of mud on his face, he knew Corban recognized him. With a flourish that let the Death Eater see how he conjured the spell with his bare hand, he unleashed a Petrificus . . . with just a little bit of a Crucio edging the magic.
When the young men holding Yaxley turned to look toward the source of their assistance, James shrugged. "Bind him. He deserves to be locked away. With any luck, they won't let him get out this time."
He moved on, only to halt as he saw Molly Weasley, pushing her daughter, the brown-eyed witch, and blonde girl out of her way as she engaged Bellatrix in ferocious combat. An angry Molly Weasley was something no one wanted to face.
"What will happen to your children when I've killed you?" God, Bellatrix sounded more insane than even Voldemort. "When Mummy's gone the same way as Freddie?"
Molly screamed, unleashing a curse without speaking its name. "You will never touch our children again!"
Voldemort shrieked in anger as Bellatrix fell, his wrathful voice a sharp contrast against the cheers that went up around them. Molly Weasley deserved that victory more than he did, James decided. Yes, Bellatrix had killed one of his best friends, but if her familiar mention could be taken seriously, she was the one who'd murdered Molly's son. If Molly Weasley didn't deserve to take revenge, then no one did.
Voldemort ignored those he was dueling and turned his wand on Molly.
"Protego!" Harry's voice split the air. As the shielding charm poured through the center of the grand room and Voldemort glared about looking for the source, Harry threw off the Cloak.
There went Voldemort, amid the gasps and relieved shouts confirming Harry's survival, bellowing again, but James could no longer hear his inane, useless words. He was too focused on his son. For the first time since this began, he could see Harry clearly. He could hear his voice without compromise.
Fearless, determined . . . . Aware the weight of the world was upon him and striving to move forward, still. James' heart actually ached as he watched the scene. He had no idea he could feel this much pride.
Harry and Voldemort argued, spitting words at each other as they circled one another, the entire rest of the world seeming to fade for them.
But then some of what Harry was saying slipped through. Could it really be possible? Had his son really become the rightful owner of the Elder Wand—the Elder Wand Voldemort was foolishly insisting on trying to use against him?
The Dark Lord's hubris truly knew no bounds.
His heart leaped into his throat as Voldemort cried out, pulling James from his stupor, "Avada Kedavra!"
"Expelliarmus!"
The spells collided, a terrible sound tearing through the Great Hall. Flames erupted from the impact point, as though the magics were too powerful to only manifest properly, giving way to the explosion. The force of it jarred the Elder Wand from Voldemort's grasp, and the weapon came careening toward its owner.
Harry caught it smoothly in his free hand, only seeming to belatedly look back—belatedly watch as Voldemort fell, his bony form collapsing in a heap.
It seemed a held breath was released from the entirety of the building as everyone gathered stared down upon the dead wizard.
Shouts rang out and people rushed Harry, throwing their arms around him in triumph.
This was it, James thought, finally. This was when he could at last let on that he was here. But he couldn't do it alone. He didn't know how. He needed backup. And proof.
He turned around, scanning the Hall for Remus as he made his way back to the bound Corban Yaxley.
"You're here!"
James turned toward the voice, seeing the witch from Gringotts. She was looking past the mud-streaked face, recognizing him by his eyes, and perhaps his beard and stature, he thought.
He chuckled, unable to help the sound as he nodded. "Told you I would be."
Hermione didn't know what overcame her as she moved toward him, slipping her arms around him in a hug. All right, so she supposed she was relieved that he'd survived. And clearly, he shared that relief at her survival, because he returned her embrace.
She leaned back from him. "God, you're a mess," she said with a laugh.
James snickered, nodding again. "So are you." He wasn't really thinking through the familiarity of the gesture as he stroked a finger along her cheek and held it up for her to see the collected soot. "You look like you got sneezed on by a dragon."
"Well, if you consider Fiendfyre an actual dragon, sure."
He laughed again. He seemed to do that a lot when she was near. "I think I'd have liked to have seen that. Go celebrate with Harry, I've something I have to do."
He slipped out of her grasp and turned, clearly trying to find someone in the crowd. Hermione frowned as she watched him.
"Are you never going to tell me your name?" she asked in a disappointed whisper.
