Chapter Text
November 3rd, 1981 — ???
James Potter was having a terrible day. In fact, he couldn’t remember a recent point in time where he wasn’t having a rough time of it. But before, even just a few days before, the constant undercurrent of tension and terror has been normal. Expected. Wanted, even, in a twisted sense.
He’d known since his 6th year that he wanted to fight in this war, something now being called the Wixen Civil War by historians desperately scuttling out of their hiding places to try and be the first to publish a book on it were coining it as. He hadn’t known, at just 15, what being a combatant would actually mean though. He hadn’t factored in the cost, the blood, the pain, the ever-bubbling frustration at having no idea what was truly happening, the sensation of going stir-crazy in a safe house while knowing your loved ones were fighting tooth and nail outside the boundaries of your Fidelius charm.
He certainly hadn’t factored in the bodies. And he’d factored in the reality that he was a killer even less.
But now, he was here, sitting on a grassy hill overlooking an uncomfortably familiar lake and even more uncomfortably familiar castle, trying to wrap his head around the fact that he was dead. Trying to comprehend that he and Lily were killed by the terrorist they swore to fight against before they truly knew what that meant, and truly knew what it would cost. Trying to comprehend that his son, his little baby boy, had was alive and there was little he could do besides pray he'd stay safe. Trying to come to grips that the war had ended, that he and Lily were the last martyrs of it…and that strangely, he wasn’t happy about it.
So James tried to focus on something that was—somehow—less mind-breaking. The afterlife. After You-Know-Who…oh, who was he kidding, Voldemort slammed him in the chest with the Killing Curse, he’d drifted into darkness, like falling asleep, only to wake up to an eerily familiar sight. The Hogwarts Hospital Wing, with its same cathedral windows, white-clad cots, and blue fabric curtains separating the patients from view. At first, James wondered if it had all been a dream. A long, miserable, dreadful nightmare that earned him permenant eyebags, facial lines, and hints of grey in his hair at 21. Maybe he’d been knocked about by a bludger, taken a real slammer of a hit from one of the Slytherin beaters—because of course it would be Slytherin, obviously—but any hope of that faded when the curtain was unceremoniously pulled aside.
There was an unfamiliar man there. Dark skin, spotless, and long braids threaded with simple white beads, ivory maybe. He was incredibly tall, and his grey eyes shone like mercury. But those aspects of his appearance weren’t what James had focused on—his eyes had been too drawn to the hand holding the curtain back. His entire hand was bone, no skin, no muscle, no tendon or tissue, not even nerves. Just bones, articulated and refined, somehow held together and moving as the man wished, even without the proper innervation and musculature to flex and move.
“Ah, you’re awake and aware, that makes this easier. I suppose that Peverell blood comes in handy, even for dolts like you who don’t deserve those gifts,” the man said, voice smooth as silk and rich, elegant even through his obvious annoyance. “Lord Apparent James Fleamont Potter, as of 11:23pm, October 31st, 1981, you are dead. You were killed by Lord Apparent Tom Marvolo Riddle Gaunt, via the Killing Curse. This is the afterlife for those who called Wixen Britain home—the magykal castle of Avalon. You are free to explore and do as you please, though please try to keep spars and duels to a minimum, my healers have enough work on their plates patching all of you idiotic twits up after you die to spare attention on petty spats. I suggest you reconvene with your loved ones, as they will help you adjust to this new way of existing. Do you have any pertinent questions?”
Questions, by Godric did James have a lot of those. So many that he couldn’t manage to string as many as two syllables together, especially under the gaze of the mysterious man and the oppressive weight of his silver eyes…eyes that clearly told James this man was not particularly impressed with him. Eyes that made James feel like he was being stared down by his mother after doing something particularly daft.
“Wh—Who are you?” he managed to croak. The man rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue in annoyance, and James wanted to disappear into the mattress beneath him.
“I am Lord Death, you foolish child. One of the Five Cardinals. One of those same Five Cardinals you’ve turned your back on.”
And oh, James didn’t really like that. He didn’t like that he was staring a god in the face. A god who clearly didn’t like him. A god he’d ridiculed and derided to spite all of the Dark purebloods and archaic wixen nobles, alongside all of his friends. Alongside the Light. Alongside good.
But there was one more topic James really needed answers to before he could go off and try and comprehend any of this.
“Lily and Harry, are they—“
“Young Harrison is alive,” Lord Death stated, his stony visage softening just a touch. “All thanks to Miss Lily. She is awake as well, I’ll be seeing her after I’m finished with you.”
James felt ice rush through his veins, his throat clogging and the back of his tongue tasting a rise of bile. Lily…he knew he didn’t put up enough of a fight to give her and Harry time to flee. He didn’t even have his wand, for fuck’s sake, or his cloak. At least he could’ve given Voldemort a decent run-around if he was invisible. But he’d been, in essence, useless. Killed on his bloody doormat, no more of an obstacle than a branch on a hiking path. Reckless, brave, courageous, Gryffindor…and useless.
But then…he’d mentioned Harry. Harry was still alive. Breathing. Existing in the mortal world. He still had a chance, even though Voldemort had been there, with nothing standing in his way. He could still go to Hogwarts, still get sorted into Gryffindor, still be raised by his Aunts and Uncles, still demolish on a quidditch pitch, and still be a boy. A living, breathing boy. His boy. His and Lily’s boy.
Lily…
“Could I…”
“See her? Obviously. You just need to stand up and move a few feet left.”
James threw off the covers, his knees buckling slightly as he tried to get to Lily as fast as possible, but found walking to be a sudden challenge. It was little more than sheer dumb luck that he didn’t clatter straight into the curtain wall and send the whole hospital setup crashing about like those bumper cars at muggle amusement parks, or so Lily and Mary said at least. Lord Death snorted, before James tried not to shudder at the feeling of skeletal hands gripping him and hauling him back to his feet. “You’re like an overeager puppy—don’t worry, the adjustment can take time. You’ve had your whole body rebuilt, your new nerves are still figuring out what to do with themselves.” It was the kindest the deity had been to him, so James just bowed his head and let himself gradually walk, wobbly step by wobbly step, over to his wife. His dead wife. His Lily Flower.
Lord Death kept hold of him with one arm that felt strong to an incorrect degree, though judging him on a mortal human level would be woefully stupid. With his other hand, he drew the curtain back once more, and James let out a whine, just at the sound of her. She was mad, James could tell, her Geordie accent comes out more when she’s mad. But James was equally caught out by the soft chuckle, almost grandfatherly, that came from the Lord. “I come with gifts, Lady Apparent Lily Josephine Evans Potter,” and then he drew the curtain back even further.
Lily’s eyes bore into him, those beautiful bright green eyes, akin to rich emeralds, and the scowl she was wearing quickly melted away into an expression of quiet confusion, and deep understanding. James moved over to her, perching gingerly on the side of her cot, and wrapping her in his arms, burying his nose in her flaming red hair. She still smelled like her favorite shampoo, a muggle one, scented with sugar, cinnamon, and clove. Fire and spice mixed with sweetness and warmth. She buried her face in his chest, nose pressed to his collarbone, arms gripping his shoulders like if she let go he’d disappear. But James was coming to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t disappear. He wouldn’t be going anywhere. Hogwarts—Avalon—would be their home whether they liked it or not. No Griffin House, No Potter Manor, No Cottage-On-The-Walk. Avalon.
He sure hoped this would make sense one day…
“Lady Apparent Lily Josephine Evans Potter,” Lord Death started, his rich voice far warmer and kinder than it had sounded talking to him, “as of 11:37pm, October 31st, 1981, you are dead. You were killed by Lord Apparent Tom Marvolo Riddle Gaunt, via the Killing Curse.”
“Where is my son?”
James flinched like he’d been the target of her sharp tone. Flame on steel, her words were a flaming sword, cutting through the deity’s speech. But he just chuckled again, and James wondered what on earth Lily had done to make one of the Five Cardinals like her so much. “Young Harrison is alive, Lily,” the man said, his mercurial eyes molten. “You did it. That ritual saved his life. Saved him from the killing curse, even. You’ve done something few have ever managed in the past, and none in the present.”
The shrieking gasp of relief that Lily let out made James wince, his ear aching, but he ignored that in favor of clutching Lily tighter to him, feeling her body shaking as torrents of tears burst from her. Eventually she started babbling incoherently into him, almost an unconscious groan of, “thank you, thank you thank you thank you, my little boy, it worked oh it worked…” before repeating all over again.
Lord Death reached out, gently brushing his skeletal hand over her shoulder, and suddenly Lily stopped crying. “You may grieve all you need, my daughter, but right now I need you here and coherent.” Lily sniffed and nodded, unwinding herself from James, though holding one of his hands in a vice-like grip. She looked upon the man like she knew exactly who he was, and exactly what he was here to do. “This is the afterlife for those who called Wixen Britain home—the magykal castle of Avalon. You are free to explore and do as you please. I suggest you reconvene with your loved ones, as they will help you adjust to this new way of existing. Do you have any questions?”
“Are my…are my parents here, too? Can I see them?” Lily asked, her voice shockingly small.
“They are not here. Avalon is only open to wix, and only residents of Wixen Britain are permitted to live here, but yes, they are here, in a sense. One of my dear friends can take you to visit them whenever you please, in the non-magical afterlife.”
“Does Sirius have Harry? Or Alice?”
James winced inwardly. Lily was adapting so quickly, asking good questions like always.
“…Harrison is currently in the care of Albus Dumbledore.”
James looked at Lord Death, and saw something he didn’t expect to, when mentioning the Headmaster. Dislike. The only people who outwardly disliked the Headmaster were the Death Eaters and other Dark Faction wix, and maybe some of the Grey, though they were pretty decimated right now. Dark and Light was nearly all there was, beyond a few stubborn sods who refused to shift one way or another. What did it mean for a deity as powerful as Lord Death to dislike him just as much? And more importantly, why?
Lily just nodded and moved forward. “Is there any way for us to keep up with Harry? Observe his life, even if we aren’t there for him? Watch over our friends and family?”
This made Lord Death smile once more. “Grandmother Fate may not have blessed you with the Sight, Lily Potter, but she may end up wishing she had. When you are able, visit the Divination classroom, and gaze into a crystal ball, thinking of who you’d like to watch over. If you wish to go with others, hold their hands as you do so. And do not fear, there are never too few seats.”
James nearly snorted at the flash of disgruntlement on Lily’s face at the thought of Divination, but it was wiped away as soon as he noticed it, before a quiet expression of shame replaced it. James didn’t like that very much either. Lily had no reason to feel ashamed for anything ever, at least in his mind.
“How’s the war?”
“The war is over. The Light has won, for now,” Lord Death uttered, voice neutral. James couldn’t resist a cheer of glee from bubbling up in his throat, relieved that the fighting was done. And more importantly, that the Order, that good, had been victorious. Dumbledore hadn’t led them astray, no matter how frustrating James found his style of command. Even if he and Lily had died, Harry had made it, and somehow the war was won that same night. The details could be discovered later.
But that was James Potter thinking, and Lily honorary-Ravenclaw Potter was not nearly as content to let things go unanswered as he was. “How did we win? V-Voldemort was at the height of his powers. The Order was barely making a dent and Minchum was being purposefully obtuse. There’s no way everything just stopped last night.”
Lord Death’s expression was grave, as he met Lily’s eyes like a mentor rather than a god. A force of nature. A magical Cardinal. “Tom Riddle did not die, but he is currently dispersed and without a body. A wraith. He intentionally broke his soul into multiple pieces to become immortal. He perverted my husband’s gift and my promise. He is still alive, you are right, but incredibly weak. The Light has already declared victory, and the Death Eaters aren’t rallying together, with how many were cursed, forced, or threatened into joining the cause. Albus Dumbledore, once he’s done examining your son, will likely lead the political charge of the Light, and the Dark Faction will lick their wounds. The war is, indeed, over.”
James felt like a gong was cracked over his head, and looking over at Lily he saw her eyes were glazed, unfocused, clearly trying to piece together that information. However, she shook her head, and her eyes cleared up, glittering, shining, and intense. “You don’t seem happy about that outcome.”
A long sigh heaved out of Lord Death’s mouth, exhaustion rather than frustration. “I would not be happy with either political scheme. The Dark Faction respects the old ways, worship the Sabbats, possess a deeper understanding of both magic and magyk. But they execute those that don’t fit in with their agenda—first generation wix, nonmagicals, creatures, weres, vampires, individuals with creature blood. And Tom Riddle kills more than that, because he kills whoever he wishes to. They have forgotten one of my sister’s Ancient Rules—that magical life is sacred, and that bloodlines can surge and resurge from anywhere and any time. The Light Faction, however, has gone too far the other way. In a desperate effort to excuse his past, Albus Dumbledore has thrown away the crucial traditions of the wix to favor the traditions and beliefs of the nonmagical in Britain. He uses individuals with creature blood as he wishes to form inroads, but has no intention of truly creating improvement. He assumes information based on his own knowledge, which is full of holes, and his guidance has already resulted in detrimental consequences. Entire branches of magic are being banned, cut, or mislabeled for political reasons. And he is just as willing to sacrifice and groom his charges to think a specific way, his way, in order to achieve his goals. Just as Tom Riddle does with the Dark Faction.”
“But the Death Eaters are terrorists!” James exclaimed, not feeling brave enough to shout at Death Himself, but unable to keep himself quiet. “They kill and use evil, dark magic! They’re hateful! The Order are the only people keeping Wixen Britain afloat, with Professor Dumbledore leading the charge! Why would you ever say he and Vol—is his name seriously Tom?—Tom Riddle are anything alike? He is good, and Riddle’s evil!”
The grave expression on Lord Death’s face sharpened to one of displeasure, and Lily had James’ hand squeezed so tight he could nearly feel the bones in his hand creaking under the pressure. “If the Light continues to follow the path they are, then magic in Britain will die.”
Lily gasped. James blinked, shellshocked.
“My family and I do not support either cause. My husband weeps each time one of our children is sent out only to return to me within months. My dear little sister cries as she watches the magicals of Britain executing each other for foundationless reasons, drummed up by politicians and power-hungry schemers who wish to create division in order to capitalize. My sister—Lady Magic—grows weaker and more frail with each passing year, as the Old Ways are abandoned more and more, or as they’re never learned. As the magical families in Britain die out. As the children she’s blessing with new lineages of magic get killed before they’re even aware of their new world, new life, and new position. Grandmother Fate’s eyes bleed gold as she tries to hunt down a path she can guide her charges down to try and ensure Britain is not the first country to lose Magic, to lose a Cardinal, but even her understanding of the future is murky. Father Time is relentless as always in his forward march, but he personally desires to waver. To pause. To permit the wix of Britain to breathe for a moment, and to have enough time to figure out a solution. But he is too strong in character to allow personal fears to dictate how he governs his Necessary Thread. And the population of Avalon has burgeoned unlike anything I have seen since Grindelwald in the magical world, and the toll of the Qilin War was spread across Europe. I do not like patching up the souls of my children who have come to rest from injuries such as Cruciatus Wilt and expelled entrails. I do not like meeting them early, as I have done for so many. For both of you, too.”
“I’m sorry.” Lily’s voice was quiet and small. “I thought we were—“
“Doing the right thing,” Lord Death finished, smiling warmly at her. “And you were. You were out there, saving innocent lives. Fighting for a cause you believed it. But unfortunately, like so many things in life, reality is more complicated than good versus evil. Phoenix versus Basilisk. And my family agreed that this portion of the war was not the time to push forward a third side. We did not have our champions yet, after all. And they are far too young to do much of influence at this point. All they need to do is grow. And Lily, you may have found us late. You may have sought my sister, my husband, and myself out for personal reasons, but you were successful. And you can continue to learn here, and you can practice without shame. You will find plenty of likeminded individuals here—after all, the residents of Avalon are not bound to one particular generation.”
Lily smiled at the deity, her posture relaxing a little bit. James, once again, didn’t enjoy it as much as he wished he could—not right now. Lily had been far too calm, had been handling news of her death far too easily. But he held his tongue. His questions for her could wait until they were alone.
“I have summoned Euphemia Mira Fawley Potter and Fleamot Henry Potter to escort you both. They are waiting for you in the Reception Hall, and shall guide you to your new home. Your bodies are still adjusting, and true rest will help you acclimate better than anything else.” Lord Death beckoned James to stand again, before gently taking both of Lily’s hands in his own to help her stand. Her legs trembled slightly, but within a few moments she was perfectly steady, walking as she always had.
James didn’t mention that he still felt unsure.
“Thank you—” Lily started, staring up at the Cardinal who towered over her—7 feet tall against Lily’s 5-foot nothing. “Thank you for…everything. I—“
Lord Death just smiled, gently removing his hands from her grip to brush flaming ginger flyaways off her face, like a parent would. A father. “You do not have to explain, dear daughter. You do not have to thank me, either. We’re all just relieved you found us in time. But further questions can wait for another time. You have many loved ones waiting for you.”
And with little more than a beat of quiet, Lord Death was gone.
Lily clearly did not want to wait in the Morning Room—how did James know that?—any longer than she had to. She grasped James’ wrist and promptly began running towards the familiar great oak doors, carved with flowers and trees. “Lils—Lils, please, I-I can’t run as well…” James stuttered out, desperately trying not to topple over as his knees and ankles wobbled underneath him. “How did you get a handle on this so quickly…?”
“Because I already accepted the Old Ways, Jamie. Before we died.”
“What?!”
James dug the heels of his slippers into the polished limestone of the castle floor. Lily, thankfully, stopped, but refused to look at him. Refused to even turn away from the door. “But—but that’s—but you’re—“
“Muggleborn?” Lily supplied, voice neutral. Her normal bubbling joy or sharp firecracker spirit had fizzled out, leaving only dullness behind. “Light? An Order member? And the Old Ways and those who practice are against all of those things?”
James nodded cautiously. She still wasn’t looking at him, but he knew his Lily Flower. His Evans Girl. His wife. And she knew him too, given she sighed, and his heart clenched at how the exhale wobbled. “I—I promise, Jamie, I’ll explain. But not…not right now. I need time, I need to think how to phrase it to you. And you need to come to grips with how things are now, and you’re smarter than you’ve always pretended to be but you’re also stubborn as a bull. And you need time to adjust, just like I need time for…my business.”
James didn’t say anything more as Lily started walking again, this time in step with him, though her long hair close to her whole face from view—except the tip of her nose, spotted with freckles she got while tending the cottage’s garden. He wanted to kiss it like he always did, in the morning when the little Prongslet was napping, as he and Lily drank coffee and basked in the sunlight together, just…existing. But he didn’t. He just kept walking, unsteady as ever.
The double doors groaned as they opened on their own, revealing a sight that made a whine erupt from James’ throat. His mother, tall and regal, and younger than James had ever seen her, stood beside his father, who was beaming…and his typical mop of Potter hair was as untamed as it had ever been.
“Oh, darlings…” Euphemia said, voice soft and lilting in that typical Irish Fawley way. She didn’t look like a typical Fawley, she never had, since she had been adopted from Pakistan from an orphanage, but that had oddly never mattered for her, even in the whirlwind of judgement that wixen nobility actively perpetuated. She had ruled Hogwarts academically as a Ravenclaw, and ruled the ladies’ social scene even more. The exemplary vision of a lady from a Light house, wedded to a lord of a different Light house. Tall, with rich brown skin, warm and dark brown eyes, and a river of straight black-brown hair that flowed like water, and moved like it too. And yet…
Fleamot Potter was almost nothing like his wife. A touch shorter, with gangly limbs and a blinding smile that came incredibly easy. Hazel eyes that gleamed with humor, and the patented Potter Mop that stuck out in every direction, even with Sleakezy’s. He was handsome in his awkwardness, endearing in his refusal to dim himself to play to the expectations of the British wix aristocracy. He was someone that, until you saw him in a duel, or wearing those awful plum robes, sitting the Wizengamot and arguing for the future of their country, you would never think threatening or competent in anything other than Potions.
Euphemia lived for the social scene, and Fleamont didn’t care much for it at all, far preferring his job as a Potions Master creating all sorts of new wonderful concoctions to help everyday folks, not just the wealthy. Euphemia never had a hair out of place, where nobody who knew Fleamont ever got the impression that he had a hair in place, and yet, they thrived together. Anybody who asked a young Euphemia Fawley why she had selected Fleamont Potter’s preposal over all others, she would answer with three things—his genuine character, his kind heart, and his delight in not taking life too seriously. A man who’d bring her wildflowers and honking daffodils he picked wandering around in the Forbidden Forest because he thought she’d like them, instead of the dozens of suitors that owl-ordered massive bouquets to show off their prestige, wealth, and status not to Euphemia herself, but to the rest of Hogwarts. A man who would dance with her whenever she liked, as much as she liked, even if he never managed to be coordinated enough to look elegant waltzing. A man who, much like James, was Gryffindor through and through, and would turn into a duelling beast when push came to shove, but always preferred to deescalate with diplomacy if he could. A man who was a brilliant Lord Potter all 40 years he’d held his seat and title, and a man James had desperately wanted to be like when he finally claimed his birthright when the war was won by the Light.
James barreled into his mother’s outstretched arms, breathing in her perfume of honeysuckle and vanilla that she’d always worn. He felt his father at his back, murmuring reassurance in his ear, before he presumably went to hug Lily. To make sure she didn’t feel alone. He was always so good at that, making sure nobody felt unloved or alone.
Nobody said anything about the way James was walking through the corridors, even though Lily, his mother, and his father were all moving along with grace and confidence. Thankfully, James could distract himself too, with the visage of the disturbingly empty castle around him. Avalon—well he supposed the castle itself was Camelot—was very like Hogwarts, but as it likely would have been when it was brand new. The rugged beige tiles the floor had previously been were replaced with shining white marble, run through with ribbons of gold. The walls were the same, but seemed to gleam with care, all the cracks and bumps from hands and bags and more than a few pranks smooth to the touch. The air was cool, but not frigid. He could smell freshly cut grass and dew and apples from the courtyard, the scents blowing through the open arches in the castle walls a few hallways over. Instead of the crammed portrait frames and statues of historical figures that had lined the castle to the point it almost felt cluttered, there were paintings of scenery, richly woven tapestries—some familiar, most not—that had not lost a shade of vibrancy, and the statues that took residence on the floor were of creatures rather than people, and looked so lifelike James swore he saw one move. Instead of oil lamps hanging from the ceiling and flaming torches mounted to walls, orbs of multicolored light bounced around the corridor, ricocheting off of walls and each other, like will o’ the wisps. He heard Lily giggle as she walked arm-in-arm with his father, and saw two of the orbs—one periwinkle, one violet—speedily dancing and wiggling around her head, before bopping her on the nose and moving back up to the ceiling. Maybe they were sentient after all.
But Hogwarts—Camelot—wasn’t supposed to be this quiet. It was supposed to be filled with gossiping ghosts, the shrieks of students being terrorized by Peeves, the chatter of friends in the hallways discussing homework, quidditch, gobstones, mischief, crushes, and any other mundane thing a student would find pressing. It was supposed to have the droning of teachers, the soft scritch of quills against parchment, and the clanging of the suits of armor playing around, mock-sparring to the delight of onlookers. Yes, there was music here—it floated through the hall seemingly without a source, medieval and lilting and beautiful yes, but James thought it had nothing on Bowie and the Beatles. And James had still not seen another person—wasn’t this the supposed final resting place of all British wix?
“Where is everyone?” Lily asked quietly, almost to herself, as she was surely just as curious as James was. She just had the presence of mind to voice it, something James was ashamed to admit he was struggling with. But he was dead, and he’d met a deity he didn’t believe existed since the worship of death was too dark to be good, so tried to give himself some grace.
“It is Lord Death’s policy.” Euphemia started, looking over at her daughter-in-law as she managed James’ uncoordinated movement with ease and a very firm arm around his back. “It is very overwhelming, coming here, with all the people you can meet. Every generation of Potter is here since the time of Emrys—Year 1 for the British wixen, so to speak—as well as every generation of your distant magical relations as well, Lily.” James’ eyebrows shot up, but his mother continued. “Friends, enemies, teachers, scholars, lovers, strangers…they’re all here, and no they’re not all here to meet you obviously, but they are still here. And just seeing that many people can be difficult to adjust to. Lord Death gradually grants access to new people the more you adjust. Direct family is first—parents and siblings—and then comes close friends and more distant family—grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles. After that people you once new but weren’t incredibly close to just start appearing gradually, until everyone currently residing in Camelot is around you—though that typically takes 2 years, I’ve learned.”
Lily nodded in understanding, but James jumped on the opportunity to ask the questions that had been burning in larynx. “Lily, you’re muggleborn, what family relations could you have here?” he started with. He felt like it would be easy to manage, just a slip of his mother’s tongue, an uncharacteristic moment of forgetfulness. But when Lily ducked her head, her beautiful hair covering her face again, James suddenly felt a prickle of cold go up his spine.
“Tuney’s a squib,” Lily started off quietly. “My parents probably were as well. I just got lucky enough for my genes to carry family magic from a squib line…though it is very distant, and I’m still a—a muggleborn,” she said the word like it hurt her. James didn’t like that. She’d taken so much pride in her ancestry, her parents, at school.
“Which family?” James pressed, not willing to let this go. “The Maxes? Fawcetts? Oh, don’t tell me you’re a Fawley too—“
“—Gaunt, James. I’m a Gaunt.”
James’ knees buckled underneath him, and his mother hauled him upright with a iron-handed jolt. “Save your dramatics for later, James Fleamont,” she hissed, but James could barely hear the reprimand in her tone. Lily’s a Gaunt, he thought, head ringing. Lily’s descended from a Dark house—one of the darkest—she’s a Dark Witch. His Lily Flower, daughter of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Gaunt, which had never been officially declared deceased, despite years of inactivity…
But she’s still your Lily Evans, Prongs.
A voice from his conscience, that sounded remarkably like Moony when he thought about it, reminded him in a quiet chide. She’s still Lily, Firecracker of Gryffindor Tower, Head Girl, Potioneer and Charms Mistress Extraordinaire, and a beloved friend. She’s still your wife, and she’s still Harry’s mother.
Does it really matter, if her magical name would have really been Lily Josephine Evans Gaunt Potter, if she’d have known and claimed that family tie? Clearly she hadn’t claimed it, Lord Death didn’t even use it when greeting her.
But still…Lily’s a Gaunt?
His roiling mental musings lasted all the way until they reached a tower, one James had never seen before, as it certainly was neither Gryffindor nor Ravenclaw tower, and he knew it wasn’t the Divination Tower or the Astronomy Tower.
Fleamont took the lead in introducing this new area, clearly hoping to diffuse the very heavy tension that had built up around the quartet. “This, kiddos, is the entrance to Potter Tower! Every magical lineage has one, noble or not, and you can only find the ones you’re keyed into or invited to by another party. You’ve just got to give the wards some blood and you’ll always be able to find this place.” At that, Fleamont plucked a small dagger, the handle curved like the claw of a griffin, from one of his many expanded pockets he added to the inner linings of his robe. If he was in a happier place, it would’ve reminded James of Hagrid’s moleskin coat. But he wasn’t in a happier place.
“Blood magic?! But that’s—“
“Dark?” Lily said dully, her voice disconcertingly cold. “Evil? Gross? Something the Malfoys or the Lestranges or the Gaunts would be into?” Lily sighed deeply, before shaking her head despondantly. “I’ll go first, Fleamont,” she insisted, taking the little knife and casually slicing her palm with the razor-sharp silver blade.
“Press your hand here, Lily dear,” Euphemia instructed, gesturing to a raised circular bump on the mahogany wood door, right beneath the massive griffin head, cast in gold, that was mounted on its front. Lily did, not flinching as her blood was pressed into the lacquered wood, waiting for something.
That something ended up being the golden griffin shrieking a caw, coming alive as it recognized her, and she slowly pulled her hand away. James peered over to look at her palm, his eyebrows raised to his hairline after spotting that the cut had healed completely, not even leaving a scar behind.
“What’s this bracelet?” Lily asked quietly, pulling up the sleeve of her cuddly light brown cardigan she’d been wearing around the cottage on Halloween to show off a very simple golden chain bracelet, with a richly red sphere dangling on it.
“That bracelet is your keystone to the Family Towers, Lil,” Fleamont murmured, pulling up his own sleeves to show off his, which had many more beads on it. “The Potter family bead is a garnet, see. It serves as the key to let you into the Tower and into your family suite within it. That bracelet will never come off of you, even if you try to take it off you can’t. I think Lord Death put that policy in place after so many people kept losing theirs.” Lily and Fleamont snorted a laugh.
“Your turn, Prongs,” Lily murmured, handing the ritual knife over to James. He almost dropped it in his wobbly fingers, they felt like jelly. And Lily never called him Prongs. He was always James, Jamie, Golden Boy, Sunshine…or Toerag when he was in the doghouse. She only called Remus and Sirius by their Marauder names, and that was only on occasion. It felt…strange, hearing her say it.
“Why are you all so okay with this? Doing blood magic to get access to your home. That’s Dark Wix stuff, not…not—”
“The Potters?” his mother guessed, eyeing James with an unimpressed look in her eye. “Potter Manor was held behind blood wards for centuries, James. Your ancestors sustained the wardstone with their blood and magic on every Sabbath. Blood magic can be dark, grey, or light, just like every other branch of magic. I thought I taught you better than this.”
The reprimand was harsh, but the bone-deep shame that suddenly burned through him was harder. He just wanted to sleep. Just wanted to forget about all of this. As much as he loved seeing his parents again, this first conversation hadn’t been what James was hoping for. He was hoping for a lot more hugs and kisses and ‘I’m proud of you’s’ than blood magic and finding-out-your-wife-is-secretly-a-Gaunt—s. And most of all, he wanted to go back home, to the cottage with his son. He never realized just how brilliant that little home had been, with how stir-crazy he was, until he was no longer there.
But he was dead, and there was nothing he could do to change that.
James grit his teeth and cut his palm with that dagger, trying not to wince since Lily had done it so unflinchingly. He pressed his palm to the same part of the door that his mother had told Lils to, and waited until the griffin head roared for him too. It took longer. James didn’t want to think about why. The bracelet materialized on his wrist, looking exactly like Lily’s did. He pulled his hand away, and the skin was still knitting back together. Slower, again, than his wife. His Gaunt wife.
He tuned back into the conversation to hear his father chattering with Lily about the Gaunts. “Their stone is serpentine, I think. Acid green. Very fitting for such a Slytherin family, I think. I’ve met some of them, and while a number are tossers, many of them are very lovely. A young man named Ominis is my favorite, very refined chap. A scholar as well, except in Potions. I think you’d like him quite a bit, Lils, you could most likely bond over Charms together.”
“Do you think they’d even consider letting me in?”
“It might take awhile, but yes, I think they will. Especially since you’re interested in learning more about the real roots of your family heritage, not the politicized garbage that’s been spewed about so much the late generations of the family believed it as well. Also, you can easily win some of them over, especially the first few generations, with interest in learning more about your alignment and what magic you can do…and what magic’s been lost.”
Euphemia coughed delicately, bringing the attention of her husband and daughter-in-law back to the door. “Lily, James, welcome to Potter Tower,” she said, before pushing the door open.
James gasped as he looked upon what was shockingly similar to the common room of Gryffindor tower. A fire happily burning in the hearth, beautiful rugs in reds, browns, golds, and the occasional pop of blue thrown haphazardly over a dark-stained wooden floor. Soft leather couches, apolstered armchairs, coffee tables strewn with abandoned books, cards, and wizard’s chess sets. A tapestry of a beautiful gold griffin, curled up for a nap, was suspended over the hearth. Gauzy beige curtains gently diffused the warm golden-hour light through the stained-glass windows, patterned with pink roses and ferns. It was beautiful, and so Gryffindor, so quintessentially Potter, that for the first time since coming here, James started to feel safe. He walked inside on his own strength, looking around the room made specifically for his family. His people. People who would be like him and think like him.
“Is it everything you were hoping for?” Fleamont asked with a cheeky grin, smiling happily as his son finally seemed comfortable in this realm. Lily and Euphemia had moved inside too, the both of them having gravitated towards the towerig shelves of books that James briefly heard his mother saying contained ‘every book the Potter family library has ever owned,’ which James was sure would make Lily very happy. He had never cared much for reading or studying, magic at school just came naturally to him most of the time, so he never understood why Lils tried as hard as she did, especially since she was still top of the class in Charms every year, and not farther than third down the list in any other subject…other than History. But then again, nobody was great in History. James cared far more about another object tucked in the corner—a large record player, with a whole rack of records ready to play, many of them the same albums Sirius and Remus had played in the dorm their whole time at Hogwarts. James, once again, felt magic and safety sink into him. “I’m pretty sure that’s brand new, Jamie,” his father murmured from behind him, looking just as curious. “Lady Magic likely sensed you were having a tough time and gave you something familiar.”
“Do you really believe in all that stuff, dad? We never did the Sabbaths at home. You never really cared to worship the Five Cardinals. That was so…”
“Not Potter? Yes, I thought so too, son. I never cared when your mother said she wanted to do them, but I never particularly wanted to either. It just wasn’t my thing,” Fleamont crouched to pull out a record, one James adored—The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. “But when I came here, I learned. I learned what magic truly was. How our culture and heritage had been twisted by politicians who only wanted power, or thought themselves so infalliable their opinions must be correct automatically. I learned, quite frankly, that neither side of the war had it right. Lord Death was honest with you, son. I know it’s hard. You spent most of your life dedicated to a cause you believed in, dedicated to fighting against those that you disagreed with or despised.” Fleamont plucked the record from its sheath easily, and set about starting the player, choosing to start from the very beginning. The first lyrics of Five Years started playing softly over his father’s voice.
Pushing through the market square
So many mothers sighing (sighing)
News had just come over
We had five years left to cry in (cry in)
“And of the two sides you could have chose, I am so proud you fought with the Order. I never would have considered you would have done anything else, but I am proud regardless. You stood beside your ethics, your belief that all people with magic should be able to practice and be part of the community. That nonmagical people should be left alone and in peace. Those values, James, are right. But not everything Albus Dumbledore taught you, that Hogwarts taught you, was right.”
News guys wept and told us
Earth was really dying (dying)
Cried so much his face was wet
Then I knew he was not lying (lying)
“Dark magic isn’t synonymous with ‘evil magic’ in any way other than a political one. It’s a way to cut off whole branches of magic that certain people dislike, and to de-power whole families from being able to practice as they like, and as they should be allowed to. Dark magic is, simply, magic that is fueled by emotions. A Patronus charm, for example, is actually a dark spell, Jamsie. Would you have guessed that, with your understanding of magic? Would you have guessed that the Imperius Curse is actually a Light spell, since it works purely off of intent and precision, not emotions?”
I heard telephones, opera house, favorite melodies
I saw boys, toys, electronic irons and TVs
My brain hurt like a warehouse, it had no room to spare
I had to cram so many things to store everything in there
“You have a lot to learn James. You’re a smart boy, I know you. You’ve just got to want to learn. And I hope you do, because if you don’t,” Fleamont looked over at Lily and his mother, holding what looked to be an ancient grimoire bound in black leather, that Lily was clutching to her with a treasuring expression on her face, even as lines of apprehension creased her forehead. “You might end up losing someone very precious to you. To us. Because nobody should be forced to hide themselves from their loved ones.”
And all the fat, skinny people
And all the tall, short people
And all the nobody people
And all the somebody people
Fleamont gently moved away to grab Euphemia and Lily by their hands, moving towards a staircase. He tapped his bracelet on the bannister of the staircase, and the wall above the short spiral of steps swirled, until a different door appeared at the top, and creaked open. Lily did the same, her grimoire still in hand, and a different door appeared—his and Lily’s apartment, he suspected. She started to climb the stairs, two at a time—a grand feat for someone of her stature—and at the landing she looked down at James. She gave him a tentative smile, more unsure than James had ever seen her, before she ducked inside, the door clicking shut behind her.
“Just tap your bracelet here when you’re ready to come up, Jamie,” his father murmured gently, before his mother tapped her bracelet and the first door appeared again. His parents exited the Potter family room, leaving James alone with David Bowie and his thoughts.
I never thought I’d need so many people