Now, if you've ever wondered what happens when a motorcycle engine decides to have a screaming contest with the forces of nature at four in the morning, the answer is: absolutely nothing good for anyone trying to sleep. The sound that came roaring through the pre-dawn silence of Godric's Hollow was the kind of noise that could wake the dead—which, considering the events of the evening, was probably not the best metaphor to use.
The thing is, under normal circumstances, half the village would have been stumbling out of their houses demanding to know which lunatic was operating heavy machinery at this ungodly hour. But these weren't normal circumstances. Between Voldemort's dramatic entrance (complete with exploding wards and what could only be described as "aggressive interior redecorating"), James's impromptu divine makeover, and enough magical chaos to make reality itself consider filing a formal complaint with the Department of Mysteries, most of the village's monitoring systems had basically thrown up their hands and gone home.
Which was probably for the best, because Sirius Black's entrance made a battering ram look like a polite knock.
The front door of Potter Cottage didn't so much open as surrender unconditionally to the combined forces of one very panicked godfather and several poorly aimed Unlocking Charms that had been cast with all the precision of a drunk centaur playing darts. The door exploded inward with the kind of dramatic flair that would have made theater directors weep with envy, taking most of the doorframe with it and leaving behind a pile of splinters that had clearly given up on life.
Through this wreckage burst Sirius Black, looking like he'd just wrestled with a hurricane and lost spectacularly. His dark hair was doing things that defied both gravity and common sense, sticking out in directions that suggested he'd either been electrocuted or had spent quality time with a very vindictive hair-styling charm. His leather jacket was scorched in patterns that told the story of a motorcycle pushed far beyond every safety recommendation known to wizardkind, and his gray eyes held the particular brand of manic energy that came from riding an emotional roller coaster from "everyone I love is dead" to "wait, maybe they're not dead" to "I'm going to find out right now or die trying."
"JAMES!" he bellowed, his voice carrying enough raw desperation to make hardened Aurors dive for cover behind the nearest solid object. His wand was out and glowing with the kind of magical energy that suggested he was prepared to duel his way through whatever had hurt his friends. "LILY! If you're alive in there, you better answer me right bloody now or I swear by Merlin's saggy left—"
He stopped mid-curse, his brain finally catching up to what his eyes were seeing.
There, sitting on the living room floor like they were having the world's most casual post-battle family meeting, were James and Lily Potter. Very much alive. Very much not the corpses he'd been expecting to find. James looked like he'd been put through a blender operated by someone with serious anger management issues, but he was breathing and grinning, which was considerably more than Sirius had dared to hope for in his wildest optimistic fantasies.
Lily was holding Harry, who seemed remarkably unimpressed by the fact that he'd just survived what should have been a fatal encounter with the wizarding world's most wanted psychopath. The baby was making the sort of contented gurgling sounds that suggested either he was too young to understand the gravity of the situation, or he'd inherited his parents' talent for staying unnaturally calm in the face of cosmic insanity.
The relief that hit Sirius was like being smacked in the chest with a love-sick Bludger.
"Oh, thank every god in every pantheon that's ever been invented," he gasped, his knees deciding they'd had quite enough of this whole "supporting body weight during emotional crises" business. He slumped against what remained of the doorframe, his wand hand shaking like he'd just tried to pet a blast-ended skrewt while blindfolded. "I thought—when I felt the wards collapse, when all that Dark magic hit the air like a bloody tsunami—I was absolutely, completely, one-hundred-percent certain you were—"
"Dead?" James supplied helpfully, flashing that trademark grin that had been getting him into trouble since his first day at Hogwarts. Though there was something different about it now—something that suggested he'd recently learned some very interesting and slightly terrifying secrets about the fundamental nature of existence. "Sorry to disappoint you, Padfoot, but we're still among the breathing. All three of us, actually. Well, technically four if you count our uninvited guest over there, but he's doing the opposite of breathing, which is really the important outcome here."
He gestured casually toward the corner, where the very dead body of Lord Voldemort was sprawled like a discarded Halloween decoration that someone had forgotten to put away.
Sirius followed the gesture, blinked once, blinked twice, then stared at the corpse of the most feared Dark wizard in recent memory with the expression of someone whose brain was trying to process information that didn't quite fit into any category of "things that happen in real life."
"Is that..." he began, then stopped, apparently deciding he wasn't ready to voice the question until he was absolutely certain he wasn't hallucinating from stress and sleep deprivation.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle, also known as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, also known as Lord Voldemort, also known as 'that psychotic bastard who's been ruining everyone's lives for the past decade,'" James confirmed with the casual tone of someone discussing the weather. "Extremely dead. Permanently this time. I've made absolutely sure of that."
"Gone as in 'tactically retreated to his evil lair to plot revenge while monologuing to his snake,'" Sirius asked carefully, because after years of fighting a war where the enemy had an disturbing tendency to return from apparent death like a very malevolent boomerang, "or gone as in 'actually, properly, completely dead this time'?"
"Gone as in 'his soul has been forcibly evicted from this plane of existence and will not be coming back no matter how many backup plans he thought he was so clever for making,'" Lily replied with the kind of satisfied finality that people usually reserved for finishing particularly challenging crossword puzzles. Her red hair caught the candlelight as she adjusted her hold on Harry, and despite everything she'd been through, she managed to look both utterly exhausted and completely triumphant. "He's dead, Sirius. Really, truly, permanently dead. No more Horcruxes, no more returns from the grave, no more terrorizing innocent families. Just very dead and staying that way."
"How?" Sirius managed, finally finding the strength to push himself away from the doorframe and venture further into what looked like the aftermath of a localized war. The living room bore the kind of battle damage that suggested spells had been flying with the enthusiasm of caffeinated Quidditch players. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm absolutely thrilled beyond words that you've managed to permanently eliminate the most feared Dark wizard in living memory, but the last time anyone successfully killed Voldemort for good, it required three full Auror squads, a Hungarian Horntail with abandonment issues, and what the official reports diplomatically called 'unprecedented cooperation between multiple magical disciplines and one very angry dragon.'"
James's grin widened, taking on the particular quality of someone who'd just pulled off the impossible and was trying very hard not to look too pleased with himself about it. It was the same expression he'd worn in seventh year when he'd somehow managed to ask Lily out successfully after years of spectacular romantic failures.
"Let's just say I got some help from a consultant," he said, running his hand through his perpetually messy hair in a gesture that made it stick up in even more impossible directions. "Someone with very specialized knowledge in dealing with megalomaniacs who think they've conquered death but have actually just been really, really annoying about avoiding it."
"A consultant?" Sirius repeated, his detective instincts kicking in despite the emotional whiplash of the evening. He'd been an Auror long enough to know that when James Potter started being deliberately vague about something, it usually meant the truth was either completely insane or absolutely brilliant. Often both. "What kind of consultant? Curse-breaker? Hit wizard? Extremely motivated house-elf with a personal vendetta and access to really impressive Dark Arts books?"
"More like a family friend with experience in matters involving death, souls, and people who really should have learned when to quit while they were ahead," James said diplomatically, which was about as diplomatic as James Potter ever got, which meant the real story was probably completely mental.
Before Sirius could demand more details—because he absolutely was going to demand more details, preferably with visual aids and possibly truth serum—another motorcycle engine announced its arrival to the neighborhood with all the subtlety of a small earthquake having a tantrum.
This particular engine was considerably larger than Sirius's racing model and made the kind of mechanical noises that suggested it was regularly used to transport cargo that wouldn't fit in normal vehicles. Like, say, half-giant gamekeepers with a tendency to collect dangerous magical creatures and bring them home like stray kittens.
"That's Hagrid," Lily observed, recognizing the distinctive sound of controlled mechanical chaos that was Hagrid's motorbike. Her green eyes sharpened with the kind of alertness that had made her Head Girl and convinced professors to take her seriously even when she was telling them their lesson plans needed work. "What's he doing here at this hour? It's not exactly visiting time."
Through their newly ventilated windows—courtesy of various spells that had missed their intended targets and decided to redecorate instead—they watched what could generously be called an aircraft and more accurately described as "a motorcycle with delusions of grandeur" descend toward their front yard. The thing was massive, painted in colors that suggested its owner had strong opinions about visibility and possibly suffered from color-blindness.
Hagrid dismounted with all the grace of a controlled landslide, which was actually pretty good coordination for someone his size. He approached their thoroughly ruined front door with the kind of careful, quiet movements that people used when they were trying very hard not to wake sleeping babies or disturb grieving relatives.
Which, as they were about to discover, was exactly what he thought he was doing.
"James? Lily?" Hagrid's voice drifted through the wreckage, pitched low with the particular tone people used when they weren't entirely sure anyone was alive to hear them but were hoping very much that someone was. "I know it's early, an' I know this is a terrible time, but Professor Dumbledore sent me ter... ter see about things. Ter help with the... with the arrangements."
His voice trailed off with the uncertainty of someone who'd been given a very difficult job and wasn't entirely sure how to go about it.
"Come on in, Hagrid," James called back, shooting meaningful looks at Lily and Sirius that clearly communicated 'this is about to get interesting and probably not in a good way.' "We're all fine. Well, relatively speaking. The furniture's had better days, but we're breathing."
"An' the door's already open," Sirius added helpfully. "Very open. Extremely open. You might say it's achieved a new level of openness that transcends traditional architectural concepts."
The remains of their front door creaked as Hagrid pushed through, and they got their first good look at him in full crisis mode. His wild hair was even more disheveled than usual, sticking out in directions that suggested he'd dressed in a hurry and possibly in the dark. His massive coat was buttoned completely wrong, creating a look that was part "absent-minded professor" and part "scarecrow having an identity crisis." His beetle-black eyes were bright with unshed tears, giving him the appearance of someone who'd just received the worst possible news about people he loved and was trying very hard to hold himself together for the sake of duty.
When he saw all three adults alive and well, with Harry making happy baby noises in his mother's arms, Hagrid's expression went through more changes than a shape-shifting boggart in a room full of people with commitment issues.
First came relief—pure, overwhelming, knock-you-off-your-feet relief that made his whole massive frame sag like a building that had just discovered it didn't need to worry about earthquakes anymore. Then joy, the kind of bone-deep happiness that came from discovering the people you thought you'd lost forever were actually fine and probably wondering why you looked like you'd been crying.
Then confusion, because the situation he'd been mentally and emotionally prepared for was completely different from what he was actually seeing. More relief followed, because really, you couldn't have too much relief in a situation like this. Then bewilderment, the deep, existential kind that came from realizing that someone had apparently given you completely wrong information about a very serious situation.
And finally, the particular brand of worry that came from understanding that if everyone was alive and well, then why exactly had he been sent here with instructions for dealing with orphaned babies and grieving relatives?
"But—but you're alive," Hagrid stammered, looking between them like he was trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle where someone had mixed up pieces from three different boxes and possibly thrown in some pieces from a fourth box just to be confusing. "All of yeh. Harry too. But Professor Dumbledore said—he told me quite specifically ter come here and ter... and that You-Know-Who had..."
He trailed off, apparently unable to voice whatever terrible thing he'd been told to expect.
"Had what, Hagrid?" Lily asked gently, though something in her tone suggested she was bracing herself for an answer that would make her want to hex someone. Her red hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and despite the chaos of the evening, she still managed to project the kind of calm competence that had made her the person everyone turned to during crisis situations at school.
Hagrid's weathered face crumpled with the kind of grief that came from believing you'd lost people you cared about, mixed with the confusion that came from discovering that reality didn't match the information you'd been given.
"He said You-Know-Who had killed yeh," Hagrid whispered, his voice breaking on the words like they were physically painful to say. "Both of yeh. Said little Harry was all alone in the world now, an' that I was ter take him ter his aunt an' uncle in Surrey. Ter keep him safe with his mum's family, where the blood magic would protect him."
The silence that followed could have been bottled and sold to libraries as "Absolute Quiet for Study Purposes." It was the silence of three adults simultaneously realizing that something was very, very wrong with the information management in their supposedly allied organization.
"Hold on," James said slowly, his voice taking on harmonics that definitely hadn't been there an hour ago—deeper notes that seemed to resonate with shadows and starlight and things that probably didn't exist in standard magical theory textbooks. "Dumbledore told you we were dead? Specifically dead? Not missing, not in danger, not 'probably in trouble,' but definitively, no-doubt-about-it dead?"
"Aye," Hagrid nodded miserably, looking like someone who'd been prepared for the wrong emergency and was now wondering if he'd somehow misunderstood the entire assignment. "Had it all planned out, he did. Said it was fer the best, that Harry would be safer with his mum's relatives than anywhere in the wizarding world. Said the blood protection from his mum's sacrifice would keep him safe until he came of age an' could defend himself proper."
"His mum's sacrifice?" Lily repeated, her sharp mind immediately latching onto the phrase that didn't quite fit with the rest of the story. "Hagrid, what exactly did Professor Dumbledore tell you about what happened here?"
"Well," Hagrid said uncomfortably, shifting his weight in a way that made the floorboards creak ominously, "he said You-Know-Who came here ter kill little Harry, on account of some prophecy or other. Said yeh both died protectin' him, an' that yer sacrifice, especially yours, Lily, created powerful magic that destroyed You-Know-Who when he tried ter kill the baby."
He paused, looking around the battle-scarred room with growing confusion.
"But that don't make much sense now, does it?" he continued. "I mean, if You-Know-Who was destroyed by sacrifice magic, then why's his body still here? An' why are you still alive ter tell about it?"
Sirius, who had been listening to this exchange with the kind of growing alarm that usually preceded him doing something spectacularly reckless, finally found his voice.
"Hagrid," he said, his tone carrying the careful patience of someone explaining something very important to someone who might not want to hear it, "how did Dumbledore know to send you here in the first place? How did he even know there'd been an attack at all?"
"Well, that's obvious, isn't it?" Hagrid replied, looking confused by what seemed like a straightforward question. "He's got all them monitoring charms on the cottage, doesn't he? Always knows when something's happened ter people he's keepin' an eye on fer their own safety. That's how he knew ter send me ter... ter..."
He paused, his simple but far from stupid mind beginning to work through the implications of what he was saying. The confusion on his face was gradually being replaced by something that looked suspiciously like concern.
"But hang on a minute," he said slowly, his voice taking on the tone of someone who was starting to question things he'd never thought to doubt before. "If Professor Dumbledore's got charms ter monitor what happens ter yeh, an' if he knew there'd been an attack, then why did he think yeh were dead when yeh're clearly not? An' why hasn't he come himself ter check on things?"
The three adults exchanged looks that contained years of friendship, shared experiences in a war zone, and the growing realization that they might have been operating under some very dangerous misunderstandings about whose side everyone was actually on.
"That," said James with the tone of someone who'd just discovered that the foundation of his house might be built on quicksand, "is an excellent question."
"Hagrid," Lily said, her voice taking on the careful, diplomatic tone she'd perfected during her Head Girl days when she needed to extract information without causing a panic, "you mentioned that Professor Dumbledore has monitoring charms on us. What kind of monitoring charms, exactly? What do they track?"
"Oh, just the usual protective sorts," Hagrid replied, though his voice carried the uncertainty of someone who was beginning to realize that "usual" might not mean what he'd always assumed it meant. "Health charms ter know if anyone gets hurt, location charms ter make sure yeh stay where it's safe, magical signature tracking ter detect if there's been any unusual magical activity around the cottage..."
"Unusual magical activity," James repeated thoughtfully, his enhanced senses picking up the lingering traces of divine power that clung to the cottage like expensive cologne that refused to wash off. "The kind that would definitely show up on monitoring charms designed to detect magical anomalies."
"Aye, that's right," Hagrid nodded enthusiastically, apparently relieved to be discussing something straightforward. "Professor Dumbledore said it was all part of keepin' yeh safe while You-Know-Who was still out there huntin' fer little Harry. Making sure nothing happened ter any of yeh without him knowin' about it right away."
"But here's the thing that doesn't make sense," Sirius said, his Auror training kicking in as he began to piece together a picture that none of them were going to enjoy looking at. "If the monitoring charms detected unusual magical activity, and if they detected that something significant had happened to James and Lily, then why didn't they also detect that James and Lily were still alive and well afterward?"
The question hung in the air like an accusation waiting to be proven.
Lily, whose brilliant mind had always been her greatest asset and her most dangerous weapon when pointed at problems that needed solving, was the first to voice what they were all beginning to suspect.
"Unless," she said carefully, her voice taking on the crisp, analytical tone she'd perfected during her school years when breaking down complex Potions theories or explaining to professors why their assignments were based on flawed assumptions, "the monitoring charms weren't designed just to monitor our safety. What if they were specifically designed to detect our deaths?"
"What d'yeh mean?" Hagrid asked, though his expression suggested he was beginning to worry that he really didn't want to know the answer to his own question.
"I mean," Lily continued, her green eyes sharp with the kind of intelligence that had made her the best student in their year and occasionally terrified their professors, "that if someone wanted to know the exact moment when we died—not when we were hurt, not when we were in danger, but the precise instant when our magical signatures stopped existing—they would design their monitoring charms to detect the absence of our life force, not just changes in our magical activity."
"And if those charms were triggered by me channeling enough divine essence to temporarily burn out my normal magical signature," James added, understanding dawning in his voice like a particularly unpleasant sunrise, "they might register that temporary absence as permanent death, even though it was actually just... well, let's call it 'aggressive personal growth.'"
"Which means," Sirius concluded with the grim satisfaction of someone solving a puzzle he desperately wished had remained unsolved forever, "that Dumbledore didn't send Hagrid here to check on your wellbeing or to help with the aftermath of an attack. He sent Hagrid here to collect Harry's body from the wreckage and transport him to a pre-selected location."
The implications of this realization hit them all at once, like being smacked in the face with a fish made entirely of uncomfortable truths.
"Oh, bloody hell," James said quietly, his voice carrying undertones that definitely hadn't been there before his evening of divine consultation. "Padfoot, who's officially listed as our Secret Keeper in the Ministry records?"
Sirius went pale faster than a vampire at a tanning salon convention. "I am," he said, his voice hollow with the kind of realization that made you want to go back to bed and pretend the day had never started. "According to every official record that matters, according to every document that anyone's going to check, I'm the one who knew the secret of your location and was responsible for keeping you safe."
His hands clenched into fists as the full scope of their situation became crystal clear.
"Which means," he continued, his voice getting tighter with each word, "that when the news gets out that Voldemort attacked you here—in your secret location that only the Secret Keeper should have known—everyone's going to assume that I'm the treacherous bastard who sold you out to him."
"And if we were actually dead," Lily added, her mind working through the political ramifications with the efficiency of a chess grandmaster seeing checkmate in twelve moves, "there would be no one left alive to testify that Peter was the real Secret Keeper. No one to contradict whatever story gets told about what happened here."
"I'd be blamed for your murders," Sirius said, the words coming out like he was tasting something particularly unpleasant. "Sent to Azkaban without a trial, most likely. After all, who's going to waste time on due process for the obvious traitor who got his best friends killed? And Harry would be shipped off to live with Lily's sister, far away from anyone in the wizarding world who might ask inconvenient questions about the official story."
"While the actual traitor," James finished, silver fire beginning to burn in his eyes as his newly acquired divine heritage responded to the combination of protective instincts and righteous fury that was rapidly building in his chest, "gets to walk away free and clear. Probably with a touching story about how he tried desperately to stop his old friend Sirius but arrived just too late to save anyone."
"Peter would be the tragic hero," Lily said bitterly. "The loyal friend who survived when everyone else didn't. The witness who could confirm that Sirius was the Secret Keeper, that Sirius must have betrayed us. No one would question his story, because why would they? He'd be the grieving survivor, not a suspect."
Hagrid, who had been following this conversation with growing distress and the expression of someone whose entire worldview was being systematically dismantled, finally spoke up.
"But—but that can't be right," he said, his voice carrying the desperate tone of someone clinging to beliefs that were rapidly being proven wrong. "Professor Dumbledore wouldn't—he's one of the good ones. He's been fightin' You-Know-Who longer than anyone. He defeated Grindelwald. He's the greatest wizard alive, everyone says so."
"Does everyone say so, though?" Lily asked gently, her voice carrying the kind of patient probing that she'd used during her Head Girl days when she needed to help someone work through a problem they weren't ready to face directly. "Hagrid, I want you to really think about this. What do we actually know about Professor Dumbledore's long-term plans? What has he told us—specifically told us, not hinted at or implied—about why Harry needed to be placed with my sister? About why the blood protection was so critically important that it outweighed keeping Harry in the wizarding world where his magical guardians could protect him?"
Hagrid opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. He tried again, then stopped, his honest mind working through memories and conversations and finding far more gaps than he was comfortable with.
"He said..." Hagrid began uncertainly, then paused, looking troubled. "He said it was fer the greater good. That sometimes good people have ter make hard choices fer the right reasons, even when other people don't understand. That not everyone would see the bigger picture, but that's what made the hard choices necessary in the first place."
The phrase "greater good" landed in the middle of their conversation like a stone thrown into still water, sending ripples of implication spreading in all directions.
"The greater good," James repeated, his voice taking on a quality that would have made his divine stepfather proud—quiet, dangerous, and carrying the weight of someone who'd recently learned that power came with both privileges and responsibilities. "Right. And who, exactly, gets to decide what constitutes 'the greater good'? Who's qualified to make those hard choices for other people? Who appointed Professor Dumbledore as the person who gets to sacrifice other people's lives and happiness for his vision of how things should be?"
"Now hold on," Hagrid said defensively, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. "Professor Dumbledore's done more good than anyone. He's saved more lives, stopped more Dark wizards—"
"Has he?" Sirius interrupted, his gray eyes sharp with the kind of anger that came from realizing you'd been played by someone you trusted. "Or has he just been very good at taking credit for other people's victories while positioning himself as the indispensable leader that everyone has to trust?"
"That's not fair," Hagrid protested, but there was uncertainty in his voice now. "He's fought against Dark magic his whole life."
"Hagrid," Lily said gently, "when was the last time you saw Professor Dumbledore personally fight against Dark magic? When was the last time he was on the front lines of this war, actually risking his own life instead of sending other people to do the dangerous work while he stayed safe in his office making plans?"
Hagrid was quiet for a long moment, his beetle-black eyes troubled as he worked through memories and realized that he couldn't actually answer that question the way he'd expected to.
"But he's the leader of the Order," he said finally, though his voice was smaller now. "He coordinates everything, makes sure everyone knows what ter do."
"And how's that working out?" James asked pointedly. "We've been fighting this war for years, Hagrid. How many good people have died following Dumbledore's plans? How many families have been destroyed while he's been playing his chess games with people's lives?"
"That's not his fault," Hagrid said, but the protest sounded automatic, like something he'd been telling himself rather than something he truly believed. "War's hard. People die in wars."
"People die in wars, yes," Lily agreed, her voice gentle but implacable. "But they don't usually die because their own allies set them up to fail. They don't usually die because someone who's supposed to be protecting them has actually arranged for them to be in maximum danger at exactly the wrong moment."
"Right then," James said, his voice taking on the kind of quiet authority that made people pay attention whether they wanted to or not. "Sirius, you're staying put. Don't even think about going after Peter."
"Like hell I am!" Sirius exploded, every instinct screaming at him to hunt down the traitorous rat who'd nearly gotten his chosen family killed. "That backstabbing little worm is out there right now, probably heading for whatever bolt-hole he's prepared for exactly this situation. Every second we waste here talking is another second for him to disappear completely!"
"And every second you're not here with us," Lily interrupted with the kind of practical logic that had made her the most formidable debater in Gryffindor House history, "is another second for the official story to solidify in everyone's minds. Think about it strategically, Sirius. If you disappear right now—immediately after Voldemort's attack on us, immediately after everyone's going to assume you betrayed us—what conclusion is everyone going to draw?"
"That I'm running because I'm guilty," Sirius admitted reluctantly, his hands clenching and unclenching as he fought against every instinct telling him to hunt down the traitor.
"Exactly," Lily said firmly. "But if you're here when the Aurors arrive, if you're obviously concerned about our welfare and clearly had nothing to do with the attack, if you're cooperating fully with their investigation, then you'll have the opportunity to tell them the truth about Peter being the real Secret Keeper."
"But will they believe us?" Sirius demanded, running his hand through his hair in a gesture he'd picked up from years of watching James do the same thing. "I mean, we don't have any concrete proof that Peter was working for Voldemort. We don't have any evidence that he was the one who betrayed your location. It's basically our word against whatever story he's prepared to tell, and he's had months to get that story perfect."
James smiled, and it was the kind of expression that would have made his divine stepfather proud—confident, slightly predatory, and carrying the quiet certainty of someone who was holding significantly more cards than their opponents realized they had in play.
"Actually, Padfoot," he said, his eyes beginning to glow with silver light as he tapped into his divine heritage, "we might have considerably more proof than you think we do."
"What kind of proof?" Sirius asked, though something in James's tone was making him think the answer was going to be either completely brilliant or absolutely insane. Possibly both.
"The kind that comes with my new and dramatically improved sensory package," James explained, his voice taking on harmonics that resonated with shadows and starlight. "Turns out that when you accept a divine upgrade, you pick up some very interesting investigative capabilities. I can perceive things that normal wizards miss completely—magical signatures that linger long after the spells are cast, residual energy patterns that tell the story of what really happened, the kind of evidence that usually fades too quickly for standard Auror investigative techniques to detect."
He gestured toward the ruins of their front door, where traces of magic invisible to normal sight clung to the splintered wood like luminous fingerprints.
"Peter was here, Sirius," James continued, his voice carrying the absolute certainty of someone reading evidence as clear as words written on parchment. "Recently. His magical signature is all over our front entrance, and it's absolutely saturated with Dark magic resonance. I'm talking about months of close, regular contact with Voldemort's inner circle. The kind of magical corruption that doesn't wash off easily and definitely doesn't happen by accident."
James's eyes grew brighter, the silver light seeming to dance with inner fire as he drew more deeply on his enhanced abilities.
"But that's not even the best part," he continued, his grin widening with the satisfaction of someone who'd just solved a puzzle that everyone else thought was impossible. "I can trace the Apparition path he used to get here. The magical residue is still fresh enough for me to follow, and it leads directly back to a location that practically screams 'Death Eater headquarters' in letters made of Dark magic and bad life choices."
"That's..." Sirius stared at his best friend, really looking at him for the first time since he'd burst through their door, and noticing all the subtle changes that spoke of power operating on an entirely different level than anything they'd encountered before. There was something in James's bearing now, something in the way he moved and spoke, that suggested he was no longer entirely human. "James, what exactly happened to you tonight? And don't you dare give me another 'long story' brush-off, because I think we're well past the point where you can get away with being mysterious about this."
James ran his hand through his perpetually messy hair, making it stick up in even more impossible directions, and for a moment he looked exactly like the James Potter that Sirius had known since they were eleven years old—uncertain, slightly embarrassed, and trying to figure out how to explain something that sounded completely mental even to him.
"It really is a long story, Padfoot," he said, though his tone suggested it was the kind of story that would require several very stiff drinks and possibly professional counseling. "The short version is that fifteen months ago, when Lily and I found out about the family curse that was preventing us from having children, we made a deal with a very powerful... consultant... to help us solve the problem."
"What kind of consultant?" Sirius pressed, because he'd been James Potter's best friend long enough to recognize when he was being deliberately evasive about something important.
"The kind who specializes in problems involving death, souls, and megalomaniacs with severe personality disorders and delusions of immortality," James said carefully.
Before anyone could ask more questions about James's mysterious statement, the unmistakable sound of multiple Apparitions cracked through the pre-dawn air like magical gunshots. Through their thoroughly ventilated windows, they could see what appeared to be half the Auror department materializing in their front yard, along with several Ministry officials and at least one person whose magical signature suggested they were either extremely important or extremely dangerous.
Possibly both.
"Showtime," Sirius muttered, automatically checking his wand and running his hand through his hair in a nervous gesture that was pure Potter family influence.
"Remember the plan," Lily said, her voice taking on the authoritative tone she'd perfected during her Head Girl days when coordinating responses to crisis situations. "We stick to the truth. Voldemort attacked us, James defeated him, Peter Pettigrew was our actual Secret Keeper and the one who betrayed our location to the enemy. We have evidence to support everything we're saying."
"And when they ask about the mysterious 'consultant' who helped James single-handedly defeat the most feared Dark wizard of the century?" Sirius asked.
James and Lily exchanged one of those married-couple looks that contained about seventeen different layers of silent communication, all of which basically translated to 'this conversation is going to be really, really complicated.'
"We cross that bridge when we come to it," James said diplomatically. "One impossible explanation at a time."
Their front door, which had already endured more abuse in one night than most doors experienced in their entire architectural careers, finally admitted defeat as the lead Auror cast a standard entry charm. It toppled inward with the resigned sigh of wood that had officially given up on life.
"Auror Shacklebolt, Ministry Emergency Response Team," announced the tall, dark-skinned wizard who stepped through the wreckage first. His wand was drawn but held in a non-threatening position, and his voice carried the kind of calm, professional authority that came from years of dealing with magical disasters. "We received reports of significant Dark magical activity at this location. Can someone give me a status report on casualties?"
"No casualties on our side," James replied, standing slowly with his hands visible and his wand safely holstered. "Though I have to say, it's been quite an eventful evening."
Kingsley Shacklebolt's experienced gaze swept the room, taking in the scene with the trained perception of someone who'd investigated more magical crime scenes than he cared to count. His attention lingered on Voldemort's very dead body, the extensive battle damage decorating the walls and furniture, and the three adults who should have been corpses but were instead standing around looking remarkably healthy for people who'd just survived an encounter with the Dark Lord.
"Is that..." Kingsley started, then apparently decided he wasn't ready to voice the question until he was absolutely certain of the answer.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort," James confirmed with the casual tone of someone discussing the weather. "Extremely dead. Permanently this time, I guarantee it."
"How?" The question came from behind Kingsley, delivered in a voice that carried the kind of crisp authority that made people answer immediately and completely, whether they wanted to or not.
They turned to see a woman who commanded attention the moment she entered a room. She had expertly styled auburn hair, sharp green eyes that missed nothing, and the kind of presence that suggested she'd earned her position through sheer competence rather than political maneuvering. Her robes bore the official insignia of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but her bearing suggested she was considerably more formidable than the average ministry bureaucrat.
"Amelia Bones," she introduced herself, stepping into the room with the confidence of someone who'd investigated more impossible situations than most people had nightmares about. "Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. And I'm extremely interested to hear how James Potter managed to defeat the most dangerous Dark wizard in living memory."
"It's quite a story," James said, flashing his most charming smile—the one that had somehow convinced Lily Evans to marry him despite years of evidence that he made questionable life decisions. "But before we get into the exciting details of Dark Lord elimination, there's something rather important you need to know about our Secret Keeper situation."
"Your Secret Keeper situation?" Amelia repeated, her sharp gaze moving between James, Lily, and Sirius with the analytical precision of someone who'd built her career on spotting inconsistencies in witness statements.
"Yes," Lily said, stepping forward with the kind of quiet confidence that had made her Head Girl and convinced hardened professors to take her seriously. "You see, there's been a rather significant misunderstanding about who actually held the secret of our location. And that misunderstanding is about to cause some very innocent people a great deal of trouble."
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