James Potter never liked waiting. It was an itch under the skin, the kind that no amount of fidgeting or pacing could scratch. And yet here he was, sitting in the back of a dimly lit room deep within the labyrinth of Order of the Phoenix headquarters, forced to wait. His leg bounced in a staccato rhythm as he tried to focus on anything other than the itch. His fingers tapped lightly against his thigh in sync, a beat to some restless, internal music only he could hear. The room around him was eerily still, the quiet before the storm.
It wasn't like him to be this on edge. Normally, James thrived in the chaos—he lived for it, really. Quidditch matches, duels, even the skirmishes against Death Eaters that had become his new reality. It was the adrenaline rush, the heat of the moment where his instincts took over, that brought out the best in him. But waiting? Waiting was bloody murder.
The room itself didn't help matters. Dark, drafty, with flickering candlelight casting long shadows on the stone walls, it felt more like a crypt than a briefing room. Thick, velvet drapes hung across narrow windows, blocking out the dying sunlight. The air was thick with the smell of old parchment and stale, bitter coffee—Dumbledore's favorite, if he remembered correctly. A long, heavy wooden table stretched through the center of the room, littered with scrolls, maps, and empty ink bottles, all signs of hurried preparation for the missions ahead.
He shifted in his chair, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair, making it stick up in even more directions than before. Not that he minded. Lily loved the way it looked—wild, untamed, just like him. Even though she wasn't here, her absence hung over him like a warm, comforting presence. They weren't married yet, not officially, but anyone who saw them together knew it was just a matter of time. James already thought of her as his, even though he'd never say it aloud. Too possessive, too needy. He could hear her laughing at the idea now, her voice in his head teasing him with that perfect mix of affection and sharpness.
It wasn't just Lily, though. It was the war. He was deep in it now, deeper than he'd ever imagined. And though he tried to keep his usual bravado on full display—laughing in the face of danger, pushing boundaries like always—there were cracks forming underneath the surface. Cracks he didn't want anyone to see.
The door to the room creaked open, the sound slicing through the thick, stale air. James snapped his head up, his fingers halting their restless tapping. The light from the hallway briefly illuminated the doorway, and for a moment, all James saw was the silhouette of the man standing there—a tall, lean figure, arms crossed over his chest, one shoulder cocked against the doorframe like he owned the place.
Fabian Prewett.
If there was anyone who could out-reckless James Potter, it was Fabian. The man practically radiated trouble. His fiery red hair looked like it hadn't seen a brush in days, spilling in tousled waves that made him look both dangerous and inviting, like the ember of a fire that was just waiting for the right breeze to ignite. His devilish grin—the kind that could either charm the pants off someone or get them into the worst kind of trouble—was already plastered on his face as he sauntered into the room, each step casual but deliberate, like he knew exactly how to take up space without even trying.
"Late again, Prewett?" James quipped, leaning back in his chair, trying to shake off the tension Fabian's presence brought with it.
Fabian's smile widened. "You know me, Potter. Always make an entrance."
"Is that what you call it? Thought it was just bad manners," James shot back, though his grin belied the playful jab. Fabian had that effect on him. The banter was easy between them—sharp, quick, but never mean-spirited. They'd known each other long enough to understand that it was just their way.
Fabian let out a low chuckle, the kind that rumbled in his chest, and crossed the room to sit across from James. He plopped down into the chair with all the grace of a man who didn't care much about appearances, kicking his boots up onto the table, nearly knocking over a pile of scrolls in the process.
"You seem tense," Fabian observed, eyeing James with a raised eyebrow.
"Yeah, well, that's what happens when someone makes me wait," James replied, rolling his eyes. "It's not like I've got anything better to do than sit around in a dungeon waiting for your grand entrance."
Fabian waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, come off it. You love the dramatics as much as I do. Besides, you've got Lily waiting for you when we're done here, don't you?"
James didn't rise to the bait, though he could feel the heat creep up his neck. He hated how easily Fabian could get under his skin. They were alike in so many ways—too many, probably—but where James had always channeled his recklessness into something more structured, Fabian was pure chaos. Rogue. Wild. He played by his own rules, and Merlin help anyone who tried to rein him in.
But it was more than that. Fabian was good. Bloody brilliant, actually. It was part of what made him so damn frustrating to work with. He'd saved James's arse more times than he cared to admit, but it was never with the calm, measured precision of a practiced Auror. No, Fabian saved people with the same kind of reckless abandon that got him into trouble in the first place. There was always this sense that Fabian didn't care if he lived or died, as long as the job got done.
And yet, it worked. Fabian Prewett, for all his faults and infuriating quirks, was someone James trusted with his life. He just hated how much he liked the guy.
"So," Fabian said, leaning back in his chair, "what's this big secret mission Dumbledore's been so hush-hush about? Must be serious if he's got the great James Potter waiting in the dark."
James snorted. "As if you don't know. You're the one with all the inside information, aren't you?"
"Maybe," Fabian said, his grin turning sharp. "But where's the fun in giving it away all at once?"
James was about to respond when the door creaked open again, this time revealing the imposing figure of Albus Dumbledore. He stepped into the room, his long robes sweeping across the floor, his expression unreadable behind half-moon spectacles.
"I trust you're both ready for what lies ahead," Dumbledore said, his voice soft yet commanding, the kind that made the hairs on the back of James's neck stand on end.
He didn't wait for an answer before stepping forward and laying a large map across the center of the table. His long fingers splayed across the parchment, tracing the contours of a region James didn't immediately recognize. Fabian, however, sat up a little straighter, his boots dropping from the table with a loud thunk.
Dumbledore's blue eyes flicked from one of them to the other, that subtle knowing glimmer always present in his gaze. "What I am about to ask of you is dangerous, but crucial. The Order has received information about a small Death Eater stronghold here," he pointed to a nondescript spot in the middle of the map, "in the forest bordering Wiltshire. We believe this location is a key communication hub between some of Voldemort's most trusted lieutenants."
James's eyes narrowed as he leaned in to study the map, already feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline starting to kick in. A mission. A real one. No more waiting.
"What makes this place so important?" Fabian asked, his voice losing some of its usual devil-may-care tone.
Dumbledore straightened, the soft flicker of candlelight dancing in the reflection of his glasses. "There are whispers that they're organizing something far bigger than what we've seen before. This stronghold may hold the key to finding out what it is."
James felt a prickle of unease, but he pushed it aside. If Dumbledore needed them on this, then it was something big. His fingers itched to get moving, to spring into action. Fabian, however, had his arms crossed, one hand tapping a rhythm on his bicep, eyes locked on the map like he was trying to see through it.
"And what exactly are we supposed to do when we get there?" Fabian asked, his voice cool, controlled, but with an undercurrent of something sharper. "Kick down the door and hex our way in?"
Dumbledore's lips twitched into something resembling a smile. "I would prefer you avoided such… direct methods, but yes. You are to infiltrate the stronghold, gather any intelligence you can, and report back."
"Simple enough," James muttered, already planning the route in his head. "In and out, quick job."
"Except it won't be," Fabian added, his tone darkening as he glanced sideways at James. "Nothing is ever simple with these bastards."
Dumbledore nodded, folding his hands behind his back. "Precisely. Which is why you two have been chosen. Your unique… skill sets will complement each other on this mission."
James shot Fabian a look. "See? Even Dumbledore thinks we make a good team."
Fabian didn't bother to hide his smirk. "Must be your boyish charm."
"Or your bad influence," James shot back, unable to stop himself from grinning.
Dumbledore cleared his throat, and they both snapped back to attention. "There's one more thing. The stronghold is warded. Heavily. I've arranged for a Portkey to take you as close as possible without setting off alarms, but once you're inside… you're on your own."
James's pulse quickened. It wasn't the first time they'd been cut off from the rest of the Order, but it never got easier. The stakes were always too high to ignore, especially now with the war ramping up. One misstep, one wrong move, and the whole thing could go belly-up before they even had a chance to gather intel. He could already feel the weight of it settling onto his shoulders.
"Understood," James said, his voice steady, masking the flicker of apprehension crawling up his spine.
Fabian leaned back in his chair again, arms crossing over his chest, that signature grin creeping back onto his face. "So, when do we leave?"
"Tonight," Dumbledore said, his gaze moving from Fabian to James. "I suggest you make your preparations quickly."
With that, the headmaster gave a final nod, then turned and left the room, his robes sweeping behind him like a shadow. The heavy wooden door creaked shut, leaving James and Fabian alone again.
There was a moment of silence before James spoke. "Tonight, huh?"
Fabian stretched his arms over his head, cracking his neck as if he'd just woken up from a nap. "Guess that means we're in for a long night."
James exhaled, the reality of what they were about to do settling in. It wasn't the first time they'd been sent into the belly of the beast, but this felt different. The stakes were higher, the pressure more suffocating. And there was Fabian—always Fabian—an enigma wrapped in charm and chaos.
"We should get our gear," James said, standing up and grabbing his wand from the table.
Fabian didn't move right away. Instead, he watched James with a look that was hard to pin down—somewhere between amusement and something darker. It was the kind of look Fabian wore when he was deciding whether or not to push a boundary, to take the next step in their perpetual game of one-upmanship.
"You know," Fabian finally said, standing up and brushing imaginary dust off his jacket, "you could stand to loosen up a bit, Potter. This war… it's gonna eat you alive if you don't."
James shot him a sidelong glance, his brows furrowing. "You think I'm too tense?"
"I think you've got your head so far up your own arse sometimes you forget there's more to life than being Mr. Order of the Phoenix."
"I'm not Mr. Order of the Phoenix," James retorted, his tone sharp, though there was no real venom behind it. "And I don't need advice from the bloke who kicks down doors without a second thought."
Fabian's grin widened, that devilish spark dancing in his eyes. "Exactly. Sometimes, you've just got to kick down the door."
James shook his head, already heading for the exit. "We'll see how that works out when we're both hexed into oblivion."
Fabian followed, falling into step beside him. "Hey, it's worked for me so far, hasn't it?"
James didn't respond, but he couldn't help the small smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Fabian had that effect on him—always managed to get under his skin, make him laugh even when he didn't want to. It was infuriating, but it was also why he trusted Fabian. The man was reckless, but he was also the kind of person you wanted beside you when things went south.
As they walked through the narrow corridors of headquarters, the air seemed to hum with anticipation. The weight of what they were about to do loomed large, but for now, James could push it aside. He could focus on the task ahead, the mission, and the fact that Fabian Prewett would be there, like always, with his rogue grin and his maddening devil-may-care attitude.
They stepped out into the cool night air, the sky a blanket of dark clouds overhead. James adjusted the collar of his jacket, glancing over at Fabian, who was already lighting a cigarette with a flick of his wand.
"Ready, Potter?" Fabian asked, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled lazily into the air.
James didn't answer right away, instead watching the smoke dissipate into the night. Finally, he nodded, his wand gripped tightly in his hand.
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The footsteps grew louder, closer. James's heart raced, his mind scrambling for a plan. Without his wand, he was defenseless. If they caught up to them now—
"There!" Fabian exclaimed, his voice triumphant. The iron door creaked open with a groan, the wards falling away with a final pulse of magic. Fabian turned to James, his grin wide. "Told you I could—"
The words died on his lips as a spell shot through the air, hitting Fabian square in the chest. He staggered, his flying from his hand far down the hall as he collapsed to the ground, his body limp.
James's blood ran cold.
"Fabian!"
