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Harry Potter
The seventh floor corridor was empty, save for the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls ballet. Harry stood before the blank stretch of stone wall opposite the tapestry. The castle was quiet, the mid-afternoon lull when students were either in class or hiding in the library, but Harry felt the weight of eyes on him regardless.
He closed his own eyes and began to pace.
I need the place where everything is hidden, he thought, his boots making no sound on the stone.
He turned at the window. One pass.
I need the place where everything is hidden.
He turned again near the vase of dried moonflowers. Two passes.
I need the place where everything is hidden.
Three passes.
When he opened his eyes, the stone had vanished. In its place stood a highly polished door of dark wood, stripped of any handle or keyhole. It simply waited.
Harry reached out and pushed. The door swung inward on silent hinges.
He stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind him.
The Room of Requirement had outdone itself. It wasn't just a room. It was a cathedral of refuse. Mountains of furniture towered towards a ceiling lost in shadow. Cliffs of books, some screaming silently, others weeping ink, formed narrow, twisting canyons. There were winged catapults, chipped bottles of congealed potions, hats, cloaks, and what looked like the skeletal remains of a dragon suspended from the rafters.
Harry moved forward, stepping over a crushed birdcage. He knew this place. He had burned it to ash in another life. The memory of Fiendfyre, of the heat that blistered skin from across the room, was so vivid he almost checked his hands for burns.
But the room was cold now. Cold and still.
"Right," Harry whispered to the silence. "Where are you?"
He didn't have the connection anymore. The Horcrux inside his own scar was gone, destroyed by Voldemort's own hand in the Forbidden Forest years from now. He couldn't just close his eyes and let the pain guide him.
But he still knew Tom Riddle. He knew his arrogance. He knew his need for grandeur.
Tom wouldn't hide his precious soul piece under a pile of dirty robes. He would want it elevated. He would want it marked, even in a room of anonymity.
Harry moved deeper into the labyrinth. He passed a vanishing cabinet, its black lacquer chipped and peeling. He paused for a second, his hand hovering over the wood. Draco Malfoy would spend a year weeping over this cabinet, terrified for his family, desperate to kill a man who offered him nothing but pity.
"Not this time," Harry muttered, pushing past it. "He won't get the chance to break you."
He walked for ten minutes, his senses strained. He was looking for a specific aura. Dark objects had a gravity to them.
He turned down an aisle formed by stacks of Daily Prophets from the 1800s and saw it.
It sat atop a blistered cupboard, resting on the head of a stone bust of an ugly warlock. The warlock was wearing a dusty, moth-eaten grey wig, and perched on top of the wig, gleaming with a dark, tarnished majesty, was the diadem.
Rowena Ravenclaw's Diadem.
Harry stopped. His heart hammered against his ribs. It was smaller than he remembered. More delicate. The sapphire set in the center seemed to watch him, a blue eye that promised wisdom but delivered madness.
He approached it slowly.
Harry reached into his pocket. His fingers brushed the rough, pebbled texture of basilisk skin before closing around the hilt of the fang he had harvested the night before.
He pulled it out. The fang was long, curved like a scimitar, and deadly pale. A single drop of venom, pearlescent and heavy, beaded at the tip.
"Hello, Tom," Harry said softly.
The Diadem seemed to shimmer. A faint whispering noise rose from it, sounding like wind through dry leaves. It was trying to talk to him. It was trying to seduce him.
Harry raised the fang.
He could end it right now. One strike. The scream of the dying soul would echo through the room, the black tar would bleed out, and one fifth of Voldemort's immortality would be gone.
His muscles tensed. He picked his spot, right in the center of the delicate silver filigree.
He took a breath to strike.
And froze.
His arm remained raised, the fang trembling slightly in the air.
He remembered something Dumbledore had told him.
Voldemort's soul is so unstable, Harry, Dumbledore had said, his blackened hand resting on the desk. He has ripped it apart so many times that he no longer feels the separation. When the diary was destroyed, he did not know. When the ring was destroyed, he did not know.
Harry lowered the fang an inch.
In his time, Voldemort had made seven Horcruxes. Seven pieces. The soul had been shredded into confetti. It was so thin, so stretched, that the destruction of one piece didn't register on the main body. It was like losing a single hair.
But this was 1976.
Tom hadn't made seven yet. He had made five.
The Diary. The Ring. The Cup. The Locket. The Diadem.
His soul was still damaged, yes. Monstrously so. But it was... denser. The connection between the pieces was stronger. It hadn't been diluted by the murder of Harry's parents, or the creation of Nagini, or the inadvertent creation of Harry himself.
Harry stared at the Diadem. The whispering grew louder, promising him knowledge, promising him power, promising him a way to save everyone he loved if he just put it on.
"If I break you," Harry whispered, "will he scream?"
It was the terrifying variable.
If Harry destroyed this Diadem, and Voldemort was sitting in his manor or holding court with his Death Eaters, and he suddenly felt a blinding agony in his chest... he would know.
He would know someone was hunting his anchors.
And Tom Riddle was paranoid. He was brilliant. If he suspected for even a second that his secret was out, he wouldn't just double the guards. He would move them.
He would take the Cup from wherever it was and bury it under the ocean. He would take the Locket and drop it into a volcano. He would bind the Diary to a rock and throw it into the deepest trench of the Atlantic.
He would make them impossible to find.
Harry couldn't risk it. The element of surprise was the only advantage he had against a wizard who was at the absolute peak of his power.
Harry lowered his arm completely. He sheathed the basilisk fang, the click of it sliding into the scabbard sounding incredibly loud.
"You survive," Harry told the Diadem, his voice hard. "For now."
He reached out. He didn't touch the metal with his bare skin. He used the edge of his robe to lift the Diadem from the warlock's head.
As soon as it was off the bust, the whispering stopped, replaced by a sullen, heavy silence. The object felt angry.
Harry wrapped it carefully in a piece of thick velvet cloth he found on a nearby chair. He shoved the bundle into his expanded pocket.
"Room," Harry said, looking up at the towering piles of junk. "I need a change."
The Room of Hidden Things didn't respond verbally, but the air pressure shifted.
"I don't need to hide something in a pile," Harry clarified, closing his eyes and visualizing what he needed. "I need the Room of Nothingmore."
The floor beneath his feet gave a lurch.
The mountains of furniture dissolved into smoke. The cliffs of books crumbled into dust and blew away. The walls rushed inwards, the ceiling dropped, and the darkness bleached itself white.
When Harry opened his eyes, he was no longer in a cathedral of junk.
He was standing in a hallway. It was pristine. The floors were white marble, the walls were pale cream, and the doors lining the hall were made of polished ash wood. There was no dust. There was no smell. It was like standing inside a paused breath.
Harry walked to the first door on his left and opened it.
The room inside was simple. A single four-poster bed with white linens, a small table, and a window that looked out onto nothing but swirling grey mist.
Harry walked to the bed. He unwrapped the velvet bundle and placed the Diadem on the center of the white pillow.
Against the stark purity of the room, the Diadem looked vile. It looked like a tumor.
"Stay," Harry commanded.
He backed out of the room and closed the door. He didn't lock it. There was no need. This version of the Room of Requirement was his own construct. To find this specific room, someone would have to walk past the tapestry and think, I need the place where Harry Potter hid the dark crown.
Since no one knew who Harry Potter was, and no one knew he had the crown, it was the safest vault in the world.
Harry walked back down the white hallway. As he walked, he began to build the map in his head. The map of the war he was fighting in the shadows.
Target One: The Diadem. Secure. Location: Room of Requirement, Hogwarts. Status: Waiting for execution.
Target Two: The Diary. Location: Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire. Abraxas Malfoy was alive, and Lucius was just a young man. Tom would have given it to Abraxas for safekeeping. It would be in the hidden study under the drawing room floor. He would need to break into a fortress that had repelled Auror raids for centuries. That would require finesse. Or a lot of fire.
Target Three: The Ring. Location: The Gaunt Shack, Little Hangleton. It was protected by powerful curses and a rotting floorboard, but it was unguarded by people. He could go there this weekend. But he had to be careful of the withering curse on the stone. He wouldn't be foolish enough to put it on like Dumbledore did. He didn't need the Suicide Stone.
Harry touched his chest. The thought of seeing his parents, seeing Sirius, seeing Remus as they should be... it was a temptation he would have to fight.
Target Four: The Locket. Location: The Cave. Regulus Black was still in school. He hadn't turned yet. He hadn't discovered Voldemort's secret. That meant the locket was still in the basin, surrounded by Inferi, protected by the emerald potion. Harry shuddered. He remembered the look on Dumbledore's face as he drank that potion.
Target Five: Hufflepuff's Cup.
Harry stopped walking. He stared at the white door at the end of the hall that led back to Hogwarts.
This was the problem. The wildcard.
In his time, the Cup was in the Lestrange Vault. But Bellatrix wasn't Bellatrix Lestrange yet. She was Bellatrix Black, a sixth-year student who stared at Harry in class like he was a particularly interesting puzzle she wanted to disassemble. She wasn't married to Rodolphus. She didn't have a vault of her own, not really.
So where was the Cup?
Voldemort might have it with him. That would be a nightmare. Trying to steal a Horcrux from the Dark Lord's pocket was a suicide mission.
Or maybe he gave it to another family? The Carrows? The Rowles? The Rosiers?
Or maybe he still had it hidden at a location significant to Helga Hufflepuff?
Harry rubbed his temples. He needed intel. He needed to know who Voldemort trusted. And the only way to get that intel was to get close to the people Voldemort was recruiting.
People like Bellatrix. People like Snape. People like Regulus.
"One thing at a time," Harry told himself. "Secure the assets. Cut the anchors. Kill the snake."
He reached the exit.
He pushed the door open and stepped out into the seventh floor corridor.
The wall behind him sealed itself instantly, becoming stone once more.
Harry checked his watch. He had a staff meeting in twenty minutes. He had to go sit with Minerva and Albus and pretend he wasn't plotting the grand larceny of dark artifacts.
He started walking toward the stairs, his mind already drifting to the Ring in the shack.
He would get that one next. It was the most dangerous to his heart, so it was best to get it over with before his resolve began to crack.
But first, tea with the staff.
Harry adjusted his robes, ensuring the basilisk fang was hidden, and began to descend the marble staircase. He could hear the sound of laughter. For a moment, he wished he could see the Weasley Twins; he wanted to see Ginny. Hermione and Ron. But they were all gone. Only he was left, yet the laughter he heard filled his heart with warmth.
It sounded like life. It sounded like something worth saving.
Harry walked faster.
❾¾
❾¾
Harry sat in a wingback chair near the fire, a cup of tea balanced on his knee. He felt a strange, disjointed sense of peace. He was surrounded by ghosts who were currently very much alive.
Minerva McGonagall was sitting opposite him, her tartan tin of ginger newts open on the low table between them.
"It is frankly ridiculous," Minerva said, taking a crisp bite of a biscuit. "I have taught Transfiguration for twenty years, and I have rarely seen a student grasp the theory of Vanishing Spells so intuitively as Mr. Potter. Most seventh years are still struggling to vanish a snail. James vanished his entire desk just to prove he could do it faster than Mr. Black."
She sighed, brushing a crumb from her lap with an air of long-suffering patience. "The boy has a natural affinity for change that I haven't seen in decades. If only his head weren't so swollen it barely fits through the classroom door. He is talented, yes, but he is undeniably cocky."
Filius Flitwick, whose feet didn't quite touch the floor from his armchair, squeaked in opposition. "Potter has raw power, Minerva, but for pure artistry? It is Miss Evans. She is marvelous, simply marvelous. Her Charms work is N.E.W.T. level already. I had her manipulating liquid light yesterday. It was like watching poetry."
Harry took a sip of tea to hide his smile. Hearing them talk about his parents—his father's reckless talent and his mother's brilliant artistry—made his chest ache, but it was a good ache.
"She has a good mind," Harry agreed softly. "Focused."
"Focused?" Horace Slughorn chuckled. He was sprawling on a velvet sofa, a glass of crystalized pineapple in one hand and a tumbler of mead in the other. "Filius is right. The girl is a prodigy! Muggle-born, can you believe it? I told her just yesterday, I said, 'Lily, you remind me of a young Hector Dagworth-Granger.' She didn't know who that was, of course, but she was flattered nonetheless."
Slughorn shifted his bulk, turning his walrus-like mustache toward Harry. His eyes, usually glazed with the satisfaction of a good meal, sharpened with the hunter's look Harry knew well. It was the look Slughorn got when he was collecting.
"Speaking of talent," Slughorn said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. "You've been teaching them for a few weeks now, Harry. Had a chance to assess the stock, so to speak. Who stands out?"
The room went quiet. Even Dumbledore, who was reading a copy of Transfiguration Today in the corner, lowered his magazine slightly.
Harry knew what Slughorn wanted. He wanted names. He wanted to know which stocks to buy early. He wanted Harry to confirm that Sirius Black was a genius, or that Lucius Malfoy's little cousin was worth cultivating, or that Bellatrix was the star of the show.
Harry set his tea down on the saucer with a soft clink.
"They are all capable," Harry said diplomatically. "In different ways."
Slughorn waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, pish-posh. You can't tell me young Black isn't a cut above the rest. Or Potter? He's arrogant, yes, but the talent is undeniable. Or what about Snivellus... sorry, Snape? I hear he's a whiz at your practical defense."
"They have aptitude," Harry admitted. "But aptitude isn't the same as worth, Horace."
"Worth?" Slughorn blinked. "Well, of course not. But we are educators. It is our job to identify the ones who will go far. The ones who will shape the world. Surely you have a favorite? Someone who has that... spark."
Harry looked into the fire. The flames danced, orange and yellow, and for a second, he didn't see the staff room. He saw a bridge blowing up. He saw a boy pulling a sword out of a hat. He saw a grandmother's letter.
"I knew a boy once," Harry said. "He was a mess."
Minerva raised an eyebrow. "A mess?"
"A disaster," Harry corrected. "He was clumsy. He was forgetful. He lost his toad three times a week. His grandmother terrified him, his teachers despaired of him, and the other students... well, they were cruel. They laughed at him. They hexed him in the corridors because he was an easy target. He had almost no magical aptitude to speak of. In his first flying lesson, he broke his wrist before the broom was five feet off the ground. He didn't do accidental magic until he was nine years old, something that usually happens at five, most late at six."
Flitwick looked sympathetic. "Poor lad. Some children simply bloom later."
"He didn't bloom," Harry said. "He struggled. For years. He was the butt of every joke. Even his friends, the people who loved him, they pitied him. They thought he was a liability. They thought he was weak."
Harry looked up, catching Slughorn's eye.
"If you had looked at him at fifteen, Horace, you wouldn't have invited him to your parties. You wouldn't have given him a second glance. You would have written him off as background noise."
Slughorn looked slightly uncomfortable, shifting his glass. "Well. One can't collect everyone, Harry. Standards must be maintained."
"Then the war came," Harry said. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. "The real war. The one where the sky turned black and people started disappearing."
Dumbledore folded his magazine completely, his blue eyes fixed on Harry.
"The heroes fell," Harry continued, his voice hard. "The ones with the 'spark.' The geniuses. The duelists. The ones who were supposed to change the world. They died, or they ran, or they broke. The school was taken over by darkness. And that boy? The clumsy, forgetful boy who couldn't cast a disarming charm to save his life?"
Harry leaned forward.
"He stood up. When the famous ones were gone, he organized the resistance. He lived in the woods. He took punishment that would have broken a grown wizard, and he came back for more. And at the very end... when the Dark Wizard himself walked onto the grounds, surrounded by an army, demanding surrender..."
Harry paused. He could see Neville Longbottom limping forward, the Sorting Hat burning in his hand.
"That boy walked out to meet him," Harry whispered. "He looked the devil in the eye and told him that it wasn't over."
Harry sat back, the image fading.
"He was one the bravest man I ever knew," Harry said. "And at sixteen, nobody would have given a single Knut for his future."
The silence that followed sucked the air out of the room.
Minerva was staring at Harry, her lips parted slightly. She looked like she was mentally cataloging every student she had ever dismissed, every boy she had told to work harder, wondering if she had missed a hero.
Flitwick took a long pull of his drink, looking somber.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "It is a potent reminder, Harry," the Headmaster said gently. "That we see only the surface of the lake. We rarely know what lies in the deep."
"Indeed," Harry said. He looked at Slughorn. "So to answer your question, Horace... no. I don't have favorites. Because I don't know who they are yet. The boy sitting at the back of the class, failing his essays, might be the one who saves us all. And the brilliant prodigy in the front row might be the one who burns the castle down."
Slughorn cleared his throat loudly. He looked thoroughly chastised, which was a rare look for him. The jovial mask slipped for a moment, revealing a man who suddenly felt very small.
"Yes. Well," Slughorn stammered. He took a large gulp of mead to steady himself. "Quite right. Quite right. A moving story, Harry. Truly."
He set his glass down, the clink loud in the quiet room. Slughorn was resilient, though. He shook himself like a wet dog, forcing the smile back onto his face. It was a bit tighter than before, but it was there.
"But we must not dwell on the gloom!" Slughorn declared, clapping his hands together. "War and dark lords... terrible business. We are in the business of celebration! Which reminds me."
He reached into his velvet smoking jacket and pulled out a heavy envelope made of cream parchment.
"Christmas is coming, Harry! And with it, the Slughorn Christmas Soiree."
Minerva rolled her eyes, reaching for another ginger newt. "Here we go."
"Oh, hush, Minerva, you love the mince pies," Slughorn waved her off. He extended the envelope to Harry. "It will be the event of the season, my boy. Good food, better drink, and the most interesting conversation in Scotland. I have invited the Editor of the Prophet, two members of the Wizengamot, and the lead singer of the Hobgoblins."
Harry took the envelope.
"And," Slughorn added, winking, "it is a plus-one event. You are a young man in your prime, Harry. Surely there is a witch who has caught your eye? Or perhaps you could bring that delightful Madam Rosmerta? I saw you speaking with her in the village. A fine woman. Excellent businesswoman."
Harry felt a sudden spike of panic. Bringing Rosmerta to a staff party where Dumbledore was present felt like walking into a trap. But refusing outright would be rude, and Slughorn was a useful ally to have. The man knew secrets. He knew about Horcruxes, even if he had buried the memory deep.
"I..." Harry started, turning the envelope over in his hands.
"Do come," Slughorn pressed. "It won't be the same without the Slayer of Greyback. The students are dying to see you in a dress robe."
Harry forced a smile. "I'll think about it, Horace. Thank you for the invitation."
"Think about it," Slughorn beamed, taking that as a yes. "Excellent! I'll put you down for the crystallized pineapple. And do bring a guest. Life is too short to drink alone."
Harry stood up. "I have some grading to do before dinner," he lied smoothly. "Minerva, Filius. Headmaster."
He nodded to them and headed for the door.
As he reached for the handle, Dumbledore's voice stopped him.
"Harry?"
Harry turned. Dumbledore hadn't moved from his corner, but the magazine was lowered completely now. Those blue eyes were piercing, intelligent, and frighteningly perceptive.
"That story," Dumbledore said. "About the brave boy."
"Yes?" Harry asked.
"It was a good story," Dumbledore said simply. "I hope, one day, we might meet him."
Harry held the gaze. He knew Dumbledore suspected something. He suspected Harry wasn't just a talented traveler.
"Maybe," Harry said. "But let's hope we never need him."
James Potter
At a secluded table in the back, buried behind a fortress of genealogy tomes, James Potter slammed a heavy leather-bound book shut. Dust puffed out like a dragon's sneeze.
"Nothing," James groaned, letting his head thunk onto the table. "Absolutely nothing. It is like the man sprouted out of the ground fully formed."
Sirius Black, who was balancing his chair on two legs with ease, tossed a grape into the air and caught it in his mouth. He looked significantly less stressed than his best friend.
"Maybe he did," Sirius mumbled around the fruit. "Maybe he is a plant. A very angry, very handsome cabbage that Dumbledore transfigured into a professor."
"I am serious, Padfoot," James muttered, lifting his head to glare at a stack of books titled The Pureblood Directory: 1700-1950 and Forgotten Lines of Britain. "I have checked the Peverells. I have checked my own house. I have even checked the distant branches of the Blacks, just in case he was one of your disowned cousins."
"If he were a Black, he would be crazier," Sirius said dismissively. "And he would probably be trying to marry his own sister. Professor Harry is too... functional to be one of us."
"He has to be someone," James insisted, running a hand through his already messy hair. "You saw him. You saw that spell. You saw how he moves. That is not just talent. That is breeding. That is training. You don't get that kind of power by accident."
Peter Pettigrew, who was sitting on the floor surrounded by discarded scrolls, looked up with a hopeful expression.
"Can we go to dinner now?" Peter asked. "I think they are serving roast chicken tonight. I can smell the gravy from here."
"You can smell gravy from three miles away, Wormtail," Sirius said, letting his chair drop back onto four legs with a loud clatter. Madam Pince glared at them from the front desk, looking like a vulture waiting for something to die. "But honestly, Prongs, maybe Moony is right. Maybe you are obsessing."
Remus Lupin sat quietly on the other side of the table. He wasn't looking through genealogy books. He was finishing an essay for Transfiguration. He paused now, looking up at James with tired, amber eyes.
"I didn't say he was obsessing," Remus corrected gently. "I said he was looking in the wrong place."
James turned to him. "What do you mean?"
Remus hesitated. He chewed on the end of his quill, a nervous habit he had never quite broken. "I mean... books aren't going to tell you who he is. But I know what you mean, James. About him."
James sat up straighter. "You see it too? The mystery?"
"Not the mystery," Remus said slowly, struggling to articulate a feeling that had been itching at the back of his brain for weeks. "The... familiarity."
"Familiarity?" Sirius raised an eyebrow. "You think you know him?"
"No," Remus shook his head. "I don't know him. But sometimes... when he walks into a room, or when he runs his hand through his hair when he is frustrated... he reminds me of someone."
He looked directly at James.
James blinked. "Who?"
"You," Remus said softly.
Sirius barked out a laugh. "Prongs? Please. Professor Harry is cool. Prongs is a disaster who spends twenty minutes trying to make his hair look like he just fell off a broom."
"I do not!" James protested, though he instinctively reached up to mess up his hair again.
"It is the jaw," Remus continued, ignoring Sirius. "And the build. He has the same shoulders. The same way of standing. If I didn't know better, I would say he looks like an older brother. Or a cousin."
James frowned. He thought about the man's face. He tried to superimpose his own features onto Professor Harry.
"But the eyes," Remus added, his voice dropping. "The eyes are all wrong."
"Yeah," James breathed, the frustration returning. "Green. Bright green. Like..."
"Like Evans," Sirius finished with a smirk. "Which is why you are obsessed. You have finally found a man who combines your two favorite things. Yourself, and Lily Evans. It is a narcissist's dream come true."
James threw a quill at him. Sirius dodged it effortlessly.
"Shut up," James grumbled, standing up and shoving his books into his bag. "This is useless. The library is useless. I need air. I feel like I'm suffocating in here."
"To the grounds?" Peter asked, scrambling up from the floor. "Maybe we can stop by the kitchens on the way back?"
"To the grounds," James agreed. "I need to hex something."
The air outside was crisp, biting at their cheeks as they walked down the sloping lawns toward the Black Lake. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange.
James walked with a stormy energy, kicking at stones and clumps of grass. The mystery of "Harry" was eating at him. It wasn't just curiosity. It was instinct. James prided himself on knowing everyone and everything at Hogwarts. He knew the secret passages. He knew the teachers' habits. He knew who was sleeping with whom.
But Harry was a blank spot on the map. A ghost in the machine. And James Potter hated things he couldn't understand.
They reached the edge of the lake. The water was black and still, reflecting the darkening sky.
"Look," Sirius said, his voice taking on a cruel, amused edge. "Target practice."
James followed Sirius's gaze.
Sitting under the shelter of a large beech tree, isolated from the rest of the student body, was Snivellus. He was huddled in his cloak, nose buried in a thick, dark-covered book. He looked like a giant bat that had fallen out of a tree.
James felt a surge of familiar adrenaline. It wasn't right, maybe. But he was frustrated. He was bored. And Snivellus was there.
It was a habit. A reflex.
"He looks lonely," James said, his voice pitching up so it would carry across the grass. "Don't you think he looks lonely, Padfoot?"
"Tragic," Sirius agreed, stepping up beside James, his wand already sliding into his hand. "A face only a mother could love. And even she probably had to be drunk."
Snape's head snapped up. He saw them instantly. He didn't look surprised. He just looked hateful. He scrambled to his feet, dropping his book, his hand diving into his robes for his wand.
"Potter," Snape spat. "Black."
"All right, Snivellus?" James called out, striding forward. He felt the tension in his chest loosen. This was familiar. This was a game he knew how to play. "Reading up on how to wash your hair? Or is that too advanced for you?"
"Leave me alone," Snape snarled, raising his wand. "I'm warning you."
"Warning us?" Sirius laughed, a barking sound that echoed over the water. "Did you hear that, Prongs? He's warning us. I'm shaking. Are you shaking?"
"Terrified," James grinned. He raised his own wand. "Expelliarmus!"
Snape blocked it with a slashed shield charm, but the force of it made him stumble back.
"Petrificus Totalus!" Sirius cast from the flank.
Snape deflected that too, but he was clumsy, panicked. He was outnumbered and he knew it.
"Is that the best you've got?" James taunted, stepping closer. "Come on, Snivellus. Show us some of that dark magic you love so much. Give me a reason."
"Incarcerous!" Snape yelled.
Ropes shot out of his wand. James sidestepped them easily. They were slow. Sloppy.
"Weak," James sneered. "Scourgify!"
Pink bubbles erupted from Snape's mouth, choking him. He gagged, clawing at his throat, his eyes watering.
"Look at him," Sirius jeered. "Cleaning out his mouth. Finally."
Peter was laughing, a high, squeaky sound. Remus stood back, looking uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot, but he didn't say anything. He never said anything.
James raised his wand again. He was going to hang him upside down. It was a classic. It always got a laugh.
"Levicor—"
"Put it down."
James froze. The spell died on his lips.
He turned slowly.
Professor Harry was standing ten feet away. He wasn't wearing his cloak. He was just in his shirt and trousers, standing on the grass with his hands at his sides. He hadn't drawn his wand. He didn't need to.
There was a silence that was louder than the wind.
James felt his stomach drop. He hadn't heard him approach.
"I said," Harry repeated, his voice dangerously low, "put it down."
James lowered his wand. Slowly. Reluctantly. Beside him, Sirius did the same, though his expression was defiant.
Snape was still coughing up pink bubbles, bent double, gasping for air. He looked up, saw the Professor, and managed to wheeze. "I... I didn't need help."
Harry didn't even look at him. He didn't acknowledge Snape's existence. His eyes were locked on James.
"Silence," Harry said to the air, and the bubbles stopped streaming from Snape's mouth.
Snape straightened up, wiping foam from his chin, trying to regain some shred of dignity. He sneered at James, waiting for the teacher to start taking points, to start yelling at the Gryffindors.
But Harry just stood there. He looked at James. Then he looked at Sirius. Then Peter. Then Remus.
The look on his face wasn't anger. It was disappointment.
"I thought," Harry said, his voice quiet and cold, "that Gryffindor was the House of The Brave?"
He took a step forward.
"This does not look like bravery to me. This looks like a pack of dogs cornering a rat. This looks like the House of Cowards."
James felt the sting of the word like a physical slap. "Cowards?" he burst out, his face flushing hot. "We aren't cowards! He's a greasy little snake! He knows the Dark Arts! He deserves it!"
"He deserves it," Harry repeated flatly. "And you are the judge, jury, and executioner, are you, Mr. Potter?"
"He's going to be a Death Eater!" Sirius interjected, stepping up beside James. "Everyone knows it. We're just showing him his place."
Harry turned his gaze to Sirius. It was heavy. Oppressive.
"You attacked him," Harry said, "because you were bored."
Sirius opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat.
"Don't lie to me," Harry said. "I watched you. You didn't attack him because he was casting dark curses. You didn't attack him because he was threatening a student. You attacked him because you were frustrated, and he was sitting there, and you knew you could get away with it. If he was truly practising dark arts, if you saw him do it, then you should tell a Professor about it."
Harry looked back at James. "Vigilantism requires a crime, Potter. This? This is just cruelty. Pure, simple cruelty. And I will not have it."
James looked down at his shoes. The righteous anger was draining out of him, leaving him feeling hollow and stupid.
Harry turned then. He looked past James and Sirius. He looked at Remus Lupin.
Remus was standing near the tree, hugging his arms to his chest. He looked like he wanted to dissolve into the bark.
"And you," Harry said softly.
Remus flinched.
"Mr. Lupin," Harry said. "You are a Prefect."
Remus stared at the ground. "I... I know."
"You stood there," Harry said. "You watched. You watched your friends humiliate a student. You watched them attack him three-on-one. And you said nothing."
"I didn't cast anything," Remus whispered, his voice trembling.
"That makes it worse," Harry said brutally. "Because you knew it was wrong. They are arrogant. They are impulsive. But you? You have a conscience. And you ignored it because you were afraid of your friends."
Remus went pale. He looked devastated.
"Standing by and watching cruelty happens," Harry said, "makes you just as guilty as the one holding the wand. Maybe more so. Because you had the authority to stop it, and you chose not to."
Remus looked like he might cry. He looked utterly crushed.
James felt a surge of protectiveness. "Hey," he said, stepping forward. "Don't talk to him like that. It was my idea. Blame me."
"Oh, I blame you," Harry assured him, turning back. "I blame all of you."
Harry looked at the four of them. He took a breath, and when he spoke, his voice was final.
"Detention."
"For a little hexing?" Sirius scoffed. "Fine. What is it, lines? Polishing trophies?"
"Three months," Harry said.
The silence on the lake shore was absolute.
"Three months?" James gasped. "That's... that's until February!"
"Every Monday night," Harry continued. "From dinner until curfew. You will be sorting rotting flobberworms in the dungeons without magic. And if you miss a single night, I will double it."
"You can't do that!" Sirius shouted, his temper flaring. "That's ridiculous! For a bit of fun? You can't—"
"And one hundred points," Harry added.
"What?" James yelled. "One hundred? That loses us the Cup! You can't take a hundred points!"
"From Gryffindor," Harry finished. "Twenty-five for each of you."
"That is unfair!" Sirius stepped forward, his hand twitching toward his wand again, his grey eyes blazing. "You are abusing your power! I'll write to Dumbledore! I'll—"
Harry looked at him.
He didn't cast a spell. He didn't raise his voice. He just looked.
The expression on Harry's face changed. The "Professor" mask vanished. The handsome, mysterious teacher vanished.
For a split second, James saw something else.
It felt like looking at Dumbledore, but while Dumbledore was always calm, friendly, this one was not friendly. It felt like looking at a nightmare.
The green eyes were cold. Dead cold. Like the Killing Curse.
Sirius stopped mid-sentence. He flinched back as if he'd been slapped. His mouth snapped shut.
Peter whimpered and hid behind Remus.
James felt a chill run down his spine. He felt true fear. He looked into those eyes and realized, for the first time, that he was looking at a predator. A predator that had been playing gentle with them.
"Don't test me," Harry whispered.
It wasn't a threat. It was a fact.
Harry held the gaze for three more seconds, letting the weight of it crush them into the dirt.
Then, he turned on his heel. He didn't look back. He walked up the slope toward the castle, his silhouette cutting a lonely, terrifying figure against the dying light.
Snape must have walked away while Harry was busy with the Marauders.
Behind him, on the shore of the lake, the four Marauders stood in silence, shivering in the cold.
James looked at Sirius. Sirius looked pale.
"I think," James whispered, his voice shaking just a little, "we made a mistake."
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