The shadows around Longbottom Manor weren't just doing their usual "hey look, we're dark and mysterious" routine. No, these shadows had apparently gotten together, formed a union, and decided that tonight was the night they'd finally do something productive with their existence. They stretched and twisted and basically filed a supernatural restraining order against all the Dark magic trying to crash their party.
At the center of this cosmic light show stood James Potter, looking like he'd raided the wardrobe department of Mount Olympus and asked for the "intimidating but stylish" package. His eyes blazed with silver fire that would've made a phoenix jealous, and power coiled around him like liquid starlight that had decided vigilante justice sounded like a fun hobby.
James had always been good-looking in that effortless way that made other guys hate him on principle—the kind of bone structure that suggested his ancestors had made some very strategic marriages and possibly a few deals with minor deities. But right now, glowing with divine energy and looking like he could personally renegotiate reality's terms of service, he'd crossed the line from "annoyingly handsome" to "probably shouldn't exist in the same dimension as mortal women."
"Right," he said, voice carrying the kind of casual authority that made mountains consider early retirement. The hedges stopped rustling. The air stopped moving. Somewhere in the distance, a Death Eater probably reconsidered his pension plan. "Let's see how they handle some real impossibility."
The Aurors would later describe what happened next as "a localized violation of several fundamental laws of magical theory and possibly causality itself." Which was Ministry-speak for "James Potter made reality sit down, shut up, and behave."
He raised one hand—just one, because apparently showing off required minimal effort when you had divine backup—and shadows erupted from the ground like they'd received personal invitations to the most exclusive party of the year: "An Evening of Terrorizing Death Eaters."
These weren't your garden-variety shadows either. They had personality, purpose, and the kind of wicked sense of humor you'd expect from forces that had spent quality time with the Lord of the Underworld.
Bellatrix Lestrange, who'd been halfway through shrieking some unforgivable curse at the manor's eastern wall, suddenly found herself engulfed in darkness that had opinions about her life choices.
Now, Bellatrix was beautiful in the way that poisonous flowers were beautiful—all sharp edges and deadly curves wrapped in the kind of wild elegance that made you think "gorgeous" right before you thought "probably going to murder me in my sleep." Her dark hair whipped around her face like it was auditioning for its own dramatic wind machine, and her eyes held the particular brand of madness that came from spending too much time studying creative ways to cause suffering.
"YOUR FORM IS ATROCIOUS," boomed one of the shadows in a voice like tombstones being dragged across marble by very judgmental ghosts. "YOUR UNDERSTANDING OF DARK MAGIC IS EMBARRASSINGLY SUPERFICIAL. ALSO, YOUR HAIR LOOKS TERRIBLE."
Bellatrix froze mid-curse, wand still pointed at absolutely nothing, like a statue commemorating "The Exact Moment Someone's Brain Broke." "What—WHAT IS THIS?" she screeched, spinning in circles with all the dignity of a cat in a bathtub. "WHERE ARE YOU? SHOW YOURSELF, COWARD!"
"Oh, I'm not a wizard," James's voice replied, echoing from everywhere and nowhere like the world's most polite haunting. He sounded maddeningly calm, like a man explaining why tea should always be steeped for precisely three and a half minutes. "I'm something considerably more interesting."
"YOU THINK SHADOWS CAN FRIGHTEN ME?" Bellatrix shrieked, apparently having decided that volume was a valid substitute for intimidation. "I AM BELLATRIX LESTRANGE! I HAVE DANCED WITH MADNESS! I HAVE KISSED THE ABYSS! I HAVE—"
"You," James interrupted with the kind of polite patience usually reserved for correcting small children, "are very, very loud."
The shadows actually chuckled—imagine a pack of dementors giggling at a dad joke, if dementors had a sense of humor and occasionally did community theater.
"LOUD AND QUITE INSECURE," they added helpfully.
"I AM NOT INSECURE!" Bellatrix screamed, which by the universal laws of argument was basically the worst possible response she could have given.
James stepped out of the darkness with the fluid grace of someone who'd been personally tutored by powers that predated the invention of clumsiness. He moved like water, like shadow, like he was performing choreography that had been scored by the gods themselves. His smile was polite, charming, and about as reassuring as finding a dragon in your sock drawer.
"Bellatrix," he said warmly, like they were old friends catching up over coffee instead of, you know, a supernatural confrontation involving potential death, "you do realize that screaming your resume doesn't make it more impressive, right? It just makes you sound rather... desperate."
"HOW DARE YOU—"
"Oh, quite easily," James said, his grin widening with the kind of confidence that came from having literal divine backing. "In fact, I've found that daring you is surprisingly entertaining. You should try daring me sometime. No, wait—don't. You'd lose. Terribly. It would be awkward for everyone involved."
One of the shadows reached up and mockingly adjusted Bellatrix's hair like a stylist with zero patience and a serious attitude problem. Bellatrix let out a shriek that probably violated several noise ordinances.
Meanwhile, on the south side of Longbottom Manor, Rodolphus Lestrange was having what could charitably be described as the worst evening of his professional career.
Rodolphus was the kind of handsome that came with a price tag—all sharp cheekbones and calculating eyes, like someone had ordered "dangerous and brooding" from a catalog and gotten the deluxe package. He prided himself on being the practical Lestrange, the one with strategy and discipline while his wife specialized in artistic sadism and creative screaming.
Unfortunately, the ground beneath his perfectly polished boots had just decided to enroll in dance classes.
The soil rolled and twisted like some invisible choreographer had demanded an interpretive piece about "The Futility of Evil," and suddenly Rodolphus's carefully practiced battle stance looked more like "wizard falling down a flight of invisible stairs."
"This is impossible," he snarled, flinging hex after hex at the encroaching darkness, only to watch each spell get absorbed, redirected, and hurled back at him with the precision of a very petty physics teacher. "SHADOWS DON'T BEHAVE LIKE THIS! MAGIC DOESN'T WORK LIKE THIS!"
"Funny thing about impossibility," James Potter's voice drifted from everywhere at once, carrying that same infuriating warmth. "It's really just a failure of imagination."
Rodolphus spun, wand raised with the kind of desperate competence that came from years of professional violence. "Show yourself!"
"Oh, I'm right here," James said, materializing a few feet away with his hands casually clasped behind his back, like he was taking a pleasant evening stroll through a garden that happened to contain murderous Dark wizards. The silver fire in his eyes cast everything in sharp relief, making him look less like a mortal man and more like something that belonged on ancient Greek pottery.
"You're awfully tense, Rodolphus," James observed with the kind of clinical interest usually reserved for studying interesting bugs. "Have you considered yoga? Very relaxing. Much better for your long-term health than, say, attacking Auror families."
Rodolphus bared his teeth in what was probably supposed to be intimidating but mostly looked like someone who'd bitten into a particularly sour lemon. "You mock me while hiding behind parlor tricks?"
"Tricks?" James raised an eyebrow that should probably have been registered as a lethal weapon. "My dear fellow, if I wanted tricks, I'd hire a clown. What I'm doing..." He gestured lightly, and the shadows caught Rodolphus's latest curse mid-flight, spun it like a yo-yo, and smacked it back into the ground at his feet. "...is art."
The resulting explosion singed Rodolphus's expensive robes and probably his pride. He beat at the flames with the kind of grim dignity usually reserved for Shakespearean heroes facing their inevitable doom.
"You see?" James said with a sympathetic smile that wasn't, in any way, actually sympathetic. "Failure of imagination."
Over on the western approach, Rabastan Lestrange was learning that when divine power decided to get creative, the results could be both spectacular and deeply, deeply embarrassing.
Rabastan had the kind of nervous energy that made people wonder if he'd been drinking too much coffee or not enough. He was leaner than his brother, with the twitchy alertness of someone who'd spent most of his life being the least impressive person in any given room and had developed some serious compensation issues as a result.
The shadows weren't just restraining him—that would have been too simple, too merciful. Instead, they were staging what could only be described as an interpretive dance about the futility of evil, complete with dramatic flourishes that involved Rabastan himself as an unwilling participant.
"THIS IS COMPLETELY ABSURD!" Rabastan shouted, his voice cracking halfway through like a teenager whose voice hadn't finished changing. "YOU CAN'T DEFEAT DEATH EATERS WITH CHOREOGRAPHY!"
"Watch me," James replied cheerfully from somewhere in the darkness, sounding like someone who'd just been handed the world's most entertaining challenge.
"This isn't how battles are supposed to work!" Rabastan protested, struggling against shadow-bonds that seemed to tighten every time he moved. "We're supposed to trade curses! Exchange threats! Have dramatic dialogue about our opposing philosophies!"
James appeared at the edge of his vision with that same fluid grace, still glowing with silver fire that made him look like he'd been personally airbrushed by the Fates. "Well, we could do that," he said thoughtfully. "But honestly? This is so much more fun. And educational! You're learning about the consequences of poor life choices through interpretive dance. It's very avant-garde."
"I'M A LESTRANGE!" Rabastan shrieked, apparently under the impression that his family name was some sort of magical password that would make the universe reconsider its recent decisions.
"Yes, you mentioned that," James said patiently. "Several times, actually. It's not really the compelling argument you seem to think it is."
But of all the Death Eaters who had picked this particular evening to make spectacularly poor life choices, Barty Crouch Jr. definitely won the award for "Most Personalized Nightmare Experience."
Barty had the kind of sharp, angular features that belonged on chess pieces or in Renaissance paintings depicting very clever devils. His eyes held the particular brand of manic intelligence that came from being both brilliant and completely unhinged, like someone who'd aced every exam at university and then decided to use their education to become a professional psychopath.
While his fellow Death Eaters were getting physical comedy routines, Barty's shadows had decided to provide a full sensory preview of his future. We're talking high-definition, surround sound, smell-included visions of Azkaban prison in all its damp, dementor-infested glory.
"NO!" Barty screamed, his voice climbing to octaves that probably violated several acoustic principles. "This isn't real! These are just illusions! Cheap parlor tricks!"
The shadows, apparently offended by having their work dismissed, zoomed in on a particularly unpleasant dementor hovering over what was clearly Barty's future cell. The dementor turned toward the audience (him) and seemed to mutter something that sounded suspiciously like a restaurant review: "Two stars. Drafty, food's terrible, wouldn't recommend."
"STOP IT!" Barty slapped his hands over his eyes, which the shadows interpreted as a challenge. They helpfully projected the visions onto the insides of his eyelids instead.
"These are glimpses of very probable futures," James's voice cut through Barty's hysteria with the kind of reasonable tone usually reserved for career counseling sessions. "I thought you might appreciate the advance notice. Planning ahead and all that."
James stepped into view, and even in the middle of cosmic justice being served with a side of interpretive dance, he managed to look like he was modeling for the cover of "Wizards Quarterly: How to Look Devastatingly Attractive While Wielding Divine Power."
"Think of it as professional development," James continued, his tone exactly like a helpful professor who'd just informed a student that their thesis was garbage but there was still time to fix it. "You can use this information to make better choices going forward."
Barty let out a laugh that was equal parts defiance and hysteria, like someone who'd just been told the punchline to a cosmic joke that wasn't particularly funny. "You think a few ghost stories will frighten me? I don't fear the future!"
"Really?" James tilted his head with the kind of skeptical expression usually reserved for people who claimed they totally meant to set their kitchen on fire. "Because you're sweating like a guilty conscience at confession."
The shadows shifted again, this time showing Barty a headline from what was presumably the Daily Prophet: "Crouch Jr. Sentenced to Azkaban for Life," complete with a moving photograph of him being dragged away by Aurors. The photo-Barty had the audacity to wink at him, which was somehow the most insulting part of the entire vision.
"That's not—that's not how my story ends!" Barty snarled, his voice carrying the kind of desperate conviction of someone who'd suddenly realized that maybe, just maybe, he'd backed the wrong horse in this particular race.
James smiled, and it was the kind of expression that probably should have come with a warning label. "Oh, I'm not telling you how your story ends. I'm showing you where it's currently headed—unless, of course, you decide to rewrite it yourself."
While the Death Eaters were receiving their complimentary shadow therapy sessions, Sirius Black stood off to the side watching the entire spectacle with the expression of someone attending the best entertainment event of his life.
Sirius was built like someone who'd been designed by a committee that couldn't decide between "dangerous rebel" and "aristocratic heartbreaker" and had decided to just go with both. At six-foot-three with the kind of lean muscle that came from years of transforming into a large dog and running around the Scottish countryside, he had presence. The kind of presence that made people notice when he walked into a room and made smart people start looking for the exits.
Right now, his grin was wide enough to power a small village and about as subtle as a brick through a window.
"James!" he called out, his voice carrying easily over the chorus of Death Eater panic and occasional shadow commentary. "This is either the most brilliant thing you've ever done, or the most absolutely terrifying. Possibly both!"
From the heart of the supernatural storm came James's voice, bright with the kind of delight that suggested he'd just discovered his new favorite hobby. "Thank you! I'm rather proud of it myself!"
Sirius threw back his head and laughed, the sound rolling through the night like distant thunder. "Of course you are. Next time, though, maybe give a guy some warning before you decide to rewrite fundamental magical theory and turn four Death Eaters into shadow puppets. I nearly spilled my drink."
Inside Longbottom Manor, Frank and Alice had abandoned their defensive positions and were now pressed against the shattered windows, staring out at what could only be described as the most surreal battlefield in wizarding history.
Frank Longbottom had the kind of steady, reliable good looks that made people think "trustworthy Auror" rather than "action hero," but there was steel underneath the mild exterior. He'd been fighting this war long enough to develop the kind of calm competence that came from facing impossible odds on a regular basis and somehow managing to survive them.
Right now, his calm competence was being severely tested by the sight of shadows giving Death Eaters what appeared to be negative performance reviews.
Alice, meanwhile, had the kind of sharp intelligence that showed in every line of her face. She was beautiful in a no-nonsense way that suggested she had better things to do than worry about her appearance, like keeping dangerous criminals from murdering her family. Her eyes held the particular alertness of someone who'd learned to spot trouble from three counties away and prepare accordingly.
Currently, those eyes were wide with the kind of amazement usually reserved for witnessing miracles or particularly impressive natural disasters.
"Frank," she said carefully, like someone testing whether the English language still applied to current circumstances, "are those shadows... talking to the Death Eaters?"
Frank squinted through the magical chaos, his Auror training warring with evidence that suggested several textbooks would need to be completely rewritten. "I think they might be giving them performance reviews."
"Performance reviews?"
"Very negative performance reviews."
As if summoned by their conversation, one of the shadows bellowed at Rabastan, "YOUR TECHNIQUE IS SLOPPY AND YOUR EVIL LACKS CONVICTION! HAVE YOU CONSIDERED A CAREER CHANGE?"
Alice stared for a long moment, then pinched the bridge of her nose like someone who'd just realized that her quiet evening at home had somehow transformed into a cosmic comedy show. "Our front lawn is now a stage for shadow theater."
"Could be worse," Frank offered with the kind of determined optimism that had gotten him through Auror training. "At least they're not critiquing us."
From outside came Sirius's distinctive laugh, loud and delighted. "James! What would my performance review say?"
James's voice floated back, smug as anything. "Oh, don't worry, Sirius. Yours would mention your complete inability to take anything seriously and your habit of making inappropriate jokes during life-threatening situations."
"Sounds accurate!" Sirius called back cheerfully.
Alice exchanged a look with Frank that contained approximately seventeen layers of marital communication, all of which basically translated to "our lives have become very, very strange."
"Should we be writing a report about this?" Frank asked. "Because I'm not sure the Ministry has forms for 'rescued by shadows with opinions.'"
"Let's survive the night first," Alice replied practically. "We'll worry about the paperwork later."
Outside, the shadow storm had reached what could only be described as its dramatic climax. James stood in the center of it all like the conductor of the world's most surreal orchestra, power flowing around him in patterns that suggested he was either channeling legitimate divine authority or having the most impressive magical breakdown in recorded history.
"RIGHT THEN!" his voice boomed across the battlefield with enough authority to make the local wildlife reconsider their life choices. "I THINK WE'VE HAD ENOUGH EDUCATIONAL PROGRAMMING FOR ONE EVENING!"
The shadows rippled in what might have been agreement, then flowed together like liquid darkness to form four distinctly cocoon-shaped prisons around the now-subdued Death Eaters. They looked like really aggressive sleeping bags, if sleeping bags came with existential dread as a standard feature.
"NOW," James continued, his tone shifting to something that carried the weight of divine authority and possibly several cosmic enforcement agencies, "you're going to stay exactly where you are until the proper authorities arrive to collect you. You're going to cooperate fully with their investigation. And you're going to spend the rest of your very long, very tedious lives remembering what happens when you threaten people under my protection. Are we clear?"
The cocoons pulsed once in what could have been acknowledgment or might have been whimpering.
"EXCELLENT!" James said with the satisfaction of someone who'd just successfully completed a very challenging home improvement project. "I do so enjoy it when we can reach a mutual understanding."
The shadows began to recede, flowing back into their normal positions with the casual air of darkness that had just finished a particularly satisfying shift of community service. The temperature returned to something approaching normal, the ground stopped its impromptu dance routine, and the only sound was the distant whimpering emanating from four shadow cocoons that contained what had previously been some of the most feared Death Eaters in Britain.
James Potter promptly collapsed to his knees in the sudden quiet, silver light fading from his eyes as the divine power he'd been channeling finally released its hold on his decidedly mortal form. He looked like someone who'd just attempted to personally rearrange the fundamental structure of reality—which, technically, he had.
"Well," he said conversationally, though his voice was slightly breathless, "that was... illuminating."
Sirius appeared at his side with the kind of practiced efficiency that came from years of friendship with someone whose brilliant ideas often left him temporarily incapacitated by their own success.
"Illuminating," Sirius repeated with the dry tone of someone who'd just watched his best friend casually violate several laws of physics while making it look effortless. "James, you just defeated four professional killers by having shadows give them therapy sessions and career counseling. That's not illuminating—that's the sort of thing they're going to name a new branch of magical theory after you for."
"Oh no," James said, his eyes widening with the kind of dawning horror usually reserved for people who'd just realized they'd forgotten to turn off the stove before leaving for vacation. "Lily's going to kill me. She specifically said 'no new magical phenomena that require Ministry oversight and extensive paperwork,' and I've gone and created... whatever this was."
"Congratulations," Sirius said with mock solemnity, helping James to his feet. "You've invented therapeutic shadow work. I give it three weeks before the Department of Mysteries tries to classify it as either a new branch of magic or a public health initiative."
Before James could respond with what was undoubtedly going to be another perfectly timed piece of self-deprecating humor, the front door of Longbottom Manor burst open with enough force to suggest it had been personally offended by the evening's events.
Frank emerged looking like he'd just survived a particularly intensive course in Advanced Defensive Magic taught by someone with serious anger management issues. His usually neat appearance was thoroughly disheveled, his robes were torn in several artistic places, and his hair was sticking up at angles that would have made James proud of his influence on his friend's styling choices.
He was carrying baby Neville in one arm while supporting an exhausted but determined Alice with the other, and his expression held that particular blend of relief, bewilderment, and gratitude that came from being rescued by forces that didn't appear in any official Auror training manual.
"James?" Frank called out, his voice hoarse from what had presumably been an extended evening of casting defensive spells against people who took their hobbies very seriously. "Sirius? Was that... did you just...?"
"Rescue you from Death Eaters using methods that may or may not have violated several international magical treaties and possibly a few laws of physics?" James supplied helpfully, swaying slightly as the last of the divine energy finished vacating his system. "That sounds about right."
Alice, despite looking like she'd just gone twelve rounds with a particularly vindictive textbook on Advanced Dark Arts, managed to summon up her usual sharp wit. "I have to say, your technique has become considerably more... dramatic... since our Hogwarts days. Whatever happened to simple Stunning Spells and tactical retreats?"
"I upgraded my consulting services," James replied with a grin that was only slightly shaky around the edges. "Turns out there are significant benefits to accepting professional development opportunities from very highly qualified experts in their field."
Neville, secure in his father's arms and apparently unimpressed by the evening's supernatural theatrics, was more interested in trying to grab the lingering sparkles of divine magic that were still dancing lazily through the air around James like very slow, very magical confetti.
"Everyone all right?" Sirius asked, his expression shifting to the kind of serious concern that he usually kept hidden under layers of casual arrogance and inappropriate humor. "Any permanent damage from whatever educational program those lunatics were trying to implement?"
"We're fine," Frank said, though his voice carried the bone-deep exhaustion that came from spending an evening keeping professional murderers at bay with nothing but magic, determination, and what was presumably a very strong cup of coffee beforehand. "But James... they were specifically asking about Neville. They kept saying something about 'the other boy' and 'finishing the Dark Lord's mission.'"
James went very, very still, his enhanced perception immediately beginning to work through implications that made his newly acquired protective instincts start screaming warnings in several different cosmic frequencies.
"The other boy?" he repeated carefully.
"That's what they kept saying," Alice confirmed, her sharp mind clearly working through the same uncomfortable possibilities that were currently reorganizing themselves in James's head. "They seemed to know about the prophecy—the one about a child born at the end of July with the power to defeat Voldemort."
The silence that followed was the kind usually reserved for moments when everyone realizes simultaneously that the situation is significantly more complicated than they'd previously understood, and probably more dangerous too.
"Harry was born at the end of July," James said slowly, like he was laying out puzzle pieces that he really didn't want to fit together.
"So was Neville," Frank replied, understanding dawning in his voice with all the subtlety of a brick through a window.
"Two boys," Sirius said, his detective instincts kicking in with the kind of uncomfortable clarity that made him very good at his job and very bad at sleeping peacefully. "Both born at the end of July to parents who'd defied Voldemort three times. Either one of them could have been the subject of that prophecy."
"But Voldemort chose Harry," James continued, his voice carrying the careful precision of someone working through a logical problem that had deeply personal stakes. "He marked Harry as his equal, which should have settled the whole prophecy question once and for all."
"Should have," Alice said grimly, her arms tightening around Neville with the kind of protective instinct that suggested she was already mentally preparing for whatever came next. "But these Death Eaters seemed convinced there was still work to be done regarding Neville. Something that would complete whatever Voldemort had started."
Frank nodded with the kind of methodical analysis that had made him one of the most respected Aurors in the department. "Which suggests either the prophecy wasn't as specific as we thought, or there are aspects to it that we haven't understood yet."
James ran his hand through his hair, making it stick up in even more impossible directions as his mind worked through scenarios he really didn't like. "Right. New priority list. First: we get you three somewhere completely secure while the Aurors collect these shadow-wrapped presents and figure out what intelligence they might provide. Second: we track down the exact wording of that prophecy and analyze every syllable until we understand exactly what we're dealing with. Third: we make absolutely certain that neither Harry nor Neville ever has to face this kind of threat again."
"And your plan for accomplishing that?" Frank asked with the kind of dry practicality that suggested he was prepared to support whatever impossible scheme James was about to propose.
James smiled, and it was the kind of expression that would have made ancient gods nod in approval—confident, protective, and carrying the quiet promise of very bad things happening to anyone stupid enough to threaten his family.
"By making sure that anyone who even considers targeting our children understands exactly what kind of families they're dealing with," he said simply. "Both the mortal side and the considerably more impressive divine backup."
In the distance, the sound of multiple Apparitions cracked through the night air like magical fireworks, announcing the arrival of what sounded like half the Auror department plus enough Ministry officials to form their own small but very bureaucratic army. The shadow cocoons gave a synchronized pulse, as if reminding everyone that they still contained some very subdued criminals who were probably going to need extensive therapy along with their inevitable prison sentences.
"Well," Sirius said cheerfully, surveying the scene with the kind of satisfied approval usually reserved for viewing particularly well-executed pranks, "this is either going to result in the most interesting witness statements in Auror history, or the most creative work of fiction ever submitted to the Ministry archives."
"Knowing our luck," James replied with the kind of confidence that had gotten him through seven years at Hogwarts and apparently translated quite well to cosmic-level problem solving, "it'll be both."
Because some stories were too important to keep simple, some families were worth any amount of chaos and paperwork, and some friends deserved protection from powers that operated on levels most people couldn't even imagine.
Even if explaining it all was going to require several very creative interpretations of what constituted "standard magical law enforcement procedures" and possibly a whole new category of incident report forms.
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