Look, when you're married to James Potter—blessed by Hades, part-time divine disaster, full-time walking catastrophe—you learn to expect certain things. Like finding your living room rearranged by protective wards that have opinions about feng shui. Or discovering that your husband has somehow convinced the local goblins to craft baby furniture that could survive a dragon attack and still look stylish enough for *Witch Weekly*.
But even by Potter standards, today had been... a lot.
An hour after the whole "Oh hey, I'm part god and also Death likes me" revelation, Sirius Black's cottage had undergone what could only be described as a makeover by someone with unlimited magical resources and questionable taste in interior design. The bachelor pad with its collection of framed Quidditch photos (including one particularly regrettable shirtless poster of Sirius himself that James had somehow missed during the cleaning frenzy) had been transformed into something resembling actual adult living quarters.
"Seriously, Padfoot," James said, emerging from what was now a proper nursery instead of Sirius's former storage closet for broken racing brooms, "a poster of yourself? In your own living room? That's narcissism even by Black family standards."
"It was a gift!" Sirius protested, vanishing the offending artwork with a flick of his wand. "From a very enthusiastic fan. I was being polite by displaying it."
"You were being insufferable," Lily called from the nursery, where she was examining the crib that looked like it had been carved by master craftsmen and blessed by every protective deity in the known magical world. "James, did you seriously convince goblins to build this thing? It's practically a fortress."
"Hey, Harry's going to be a target," James said, poking his head around the doorframe with that grin that meant he was either about to say something brilliant or spectacularly stupid. "Might as well give him a crib that can survive whatever the magical world throws at him. Plus, look at those engravings—Sirius helped design them."
Sirius puffed up with pride. "Those protective runes are my own personal blend of family magic and creative profanity. Any dark wizard who tries to get near that crib is going to have a very unpleasant surprise involving temporary transfiguration into something embarrassing."
Lily raised an eyebrow, settling Harry into the fortress-crib with practiced ease. "Embarrassing how?"
"Let's just say there's a reason the Black family motto involves stars and leave it at that," Sirius said mysteriously.
The nursery itself was a masterpiece of paranoid preparation disguised as thoughtful parenting. The windows didn't actually show the outside world (because apparently nosy neighbors were now a security risk), but instead projected peaceful garden scenes complete with butterflies that never died because, well, magic solved everything eventually. The ceiling was enchanted to show slowly rotating constellations—part night light, part astronomy lesson, and probably part "let's see if we can make the baby dizzy" experiment knowing these two.
"It's beautiful," Lily admitted, watching Harry giggle as he reached for the moving stars above his head. "Completely over-the-top and probably overkill, but beautiful."
"Overkill?" James looked genuinely offended, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. "Lily, my love, there is no such thing as overkill when it comes to protecting our son. There's just 'kill' and 'not enough kill.' This is firmly in the 'just enough kill' category."
"That's not how categories work, James."
"It is in the Potter family," James said cheerfully. "We've been redefining categories since the fourteenth century. Usually by accident, sometimes on purpose, always with style."
Sirius appeared behind him carrying two steaming mugs that smelled like coffee had been struck by lightning and decided it liked the experience. "Speaking of Potter family traditions, remember when you convinced McGonagall that setting the Whomping Willow on fire was a legitimate defense against Dark creatures?"
James accepted a mug without hesitation, which probably said something about his trust in Sirius's beverage-making skills or his complete lack of survival instincts. "That was brilliant strategic thinking. The acromantulas never bothered the first-years again."
"James," Lily said in that patient voice she used when explaining to students why exploding cauldrons were generally frowned upon, "the acromantulas just moved to a different part of the Forbidden Forest. And Hagrid spent three weeks nursing the Whomping Willow back to health with magical burn salve."
"Minor details," James waved dismissively, taking a sip of what was apparently caffeinated liquid courage. "The important part is that I successfully relocated a colony of giant spiders without anyone getting eaten. That's problem-solving at its finest."
"You relocated them by burning down their home," Lily pointed out.
"Aggressive relocation," James corrected. "Very efficient. And before you give me that look, remember that it worked. Sometimes the best solutions are the ones that make everyone else say 'that's completely insane' right up until they say 'wait, it actually worked.'"
Lily gave him the Look anyway—the one that had stopped Marauder schemes mid-execution and made Slughorn reconsider his party invitation lists. "Do you want me to list all the other times your 'aggressive solutions' required Madam Pomfrey to develop entirely new healing spells?"
"She appreciated the challenge," James said, grinning with the confidence of someone who had absolutely learned nothing from experience. "I kept her job interesting. Plus, I always brought her chocolate afterward."
"You brought her my chocolate," Sirius interjected. "That I had been saving."
"And I gifted it with genuine gratitude and boyish charm," James replied smoothly. "The chocolate was just a delivery method for the real gift—my winning personality."
"Your winning personality once convinced her that temporary purple hair was a totally normal side effect of a Quidditch injury," Lily said, but she was smiling now, that fond exasperated smile that meant she'd long since given up trying to apply logic to James Potter.
"In my defense, I had been hit by a Bludger that had been previously cursed by Slytherin Beaters. The purple hair was barely the weirdest thing that happened that match."
Harry chose that moment to let out a delighted gurgle, as if he was already endorsing his father's approach to problem-solving.
"See?" James said triumphantly. "Harry agrees. Sometimes you just have to embrace the chaos and hope for the best."
"Harry is three months old," Lily said dryly. "He also thinks his own feet are fascinating entertainment. I'm not sure we should be using him as a moral compass just yet."
"Nonsense," James said, reaching over to tickle Harry's chin. "Prongslet here has excellent judgment. Don't you, buddy? Tell Mummy that Daddy's plans are brilliant."
Harry responded by blowing a spit bubble, which James took as enthusiastic agreement.
"That's my boy," he said proudly.
Before Lily could point out that baby spit bubbles were not actually a form of communication (at least not in any language recognized by the Ministry), a massive silver bear materialized in the middle of the nursery.
But this wasn't Frank Longbottom's usual Patronus—the steady, reliable, "everything's under control" bear that occasionally showed up to coordinate Order business. This bear looked like it had been hitting the magical equivalent of energy drinks for a week straight. It was bigger, brighter, and pacing with the kind of frantic energy that made everyone in the room freeze.
"Well," Sirius said conversationally, "that doesn't look good."
The bear opened its mouth, and Frank's voice poured out—except Frank didn't sound like calm, collected Frank. He sounded like a man who'd been juggling curses while running a marathon uphill in a thunderstorm.
"James, Sirius—if you're getting this, we need help now. Death Eaters have surrounded the manor. Alice and I are holding them off, but there are too many, and they keep coming. They're shouting about finishing the Dark Lord's mission—I don't think they know he's dead. And Neville..." The bear flickered like Frank's concentration was hanging by the world's thinnest thread. "They keep saying something about 'the other boy.' We can't hold out much longer."
The Patronus collapsed into silver mist, leaving behind the kind of silence that usually preceded spectacularly poor decisions.
"Right," James said after a moment, his voice shifting into that commanding tone he used when things got serious—which, admittedly, wasn't often, but when it happened, people listened. The silver light in his eyes flickered like someone had just plugged him into a divine power source. "Lily, you stay here with Harry. These wards are tighter than Gringotts security, and if this is somehow a trap, someone needs to be ready to trigger the emergency protocols."
Lily looked at him with the expression of someone watching a loved one volunteer to juggle fire while blindfolded. "Let me guess—you and Sirius are going to charge headfirst into an unknown number of Death Eaters without backup, reconnaissance, or anything resembling a coherent plan."
"We have a plan," James protested, already moving toward Sirius's wardrobe where emergency battle gear was apparently stored between the leather jackets and questionable band t-shirts.
"Oh, this should be entertaining," Lily muttered.
"The plan," James announced, pulling out dragonhide gloves like he was preparing for a fashion shoot rather than a fight, "is beautifully simple. Step one: get to Frank and Alice before these Death Eaters accomplish whatever they think they're accomplishing. Step two: defeat them using superior firepower and possibly some light divine intervention. Step three: rescue our friends, grab Neville, and be back in time for Harry's evening feeding."
Sirius was already shrugging into his jacket with the resigned air of someone who'd accepted that his best friend's plans usually involved a concerning amount of improvisation. "That's not a plan, James. That's three bullet points held together with wishful thinking and Potter family arrogance."
"It's a Potter family tradition," James corrected, strapping on what appeared to be armor that had been disguised as a casual leather vest. "We've been surviving impossible odds through a combination of luck, stubbornness, and timely divine intervention for centuries. Very reliable method."
"Reliable," Lily repeated, like the word had personally insulted her entire family. "James, the last time you said something was 'reliable,' you hexed yourself to the ceiling of the Three Broomsticks and couldn't come down for two hours."
"That was experimental spell-work," James said with injured dignity. "Completely different category of activity. And I wasn't stuck—I was temporarily gravity-challenged while working out some technical difficulties."
"You screamed for Sirius to fetch Madam Rosmerta to help get you down."
"I was being polite," James said reasonably. "It was her ceiling. Seemed courteous to ask permission before potentially damaging it with removal spells."
Sirius, who was now checking the various pockets in his jacket (and appeared to have an alarming number of them), didn't even look up. "I say we Apparate in, cause enough chaos to give Frank and Alice some breathing room, and hope they haven't already turned half the Death Eaters into garden gnomes or something equally creative. Worst case scenario, James does something dramatically stupid and I drag him out before Lily kills us both."
"See?" James said brightly. "Foolproof."
Lily pinched the bridge of her nose like she was calculating exactly how many years of her life she'd lost by marrying a Potter. "Harry," she said softly, glancing down at the baby, "please, for the love of Merlin and all that is holy, inherit some of my common sense. Just once, I'd like a Potter male who doesn't consider 'charging toward mortal peril' a valid hobby."
James crossed the room in two quick strides, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her with enough intensity to make the protective wards hum in harmony. When he pulled back, his voice was softer but no less determined.
"I love you, Lily Potter. And I will come back to you and Harry. That's a promise."
"You'd better," she whispered fiercely, her arms tightening around him. "Because if you get yourself killed being heroic, I will find a way to drag you back from whatever afterlife you end up in just so I can yell at you properly. And then I'll kill you myself."
James's grin was soft and absolutely smitten. "Terrifying and wonderful. Have I mentioned lately that I love everything about you?"
"Flattery will not get you out of trouble if you come home missing any important body parts," Lily warned.
"What about temporarily glowing body parts? Because there's a decent chance I might come home a bit more luminous than usual."
"As long as all the parts come home with you, I'll adapt."
Before James could respond with what was undoubtedly going to be another inappropriately timed joke, the shadows in the corner of the nursery began to move in ways that shadows really shouldn't. The temperature dropped like someone had opened a door to the Arctic, and darkness pooled and rose until it formed the unmistakable figure of Hades himself.
The Lord of the Dead had the kind of presence that made a room go quiet—not just the people in it, but the actual room itself. The furniture seemed to lean away respectfully, and even Harry stopped trying to grab at the mobile above his crib to stare with wide, curious eyes.
"Before you two do something characteristically reckless," Hades said, his voice carrying that low, smooth quality that suggested he'd been having conversations like this for several millennia and had learned to project calm authority even when dealing with the magically equivalent of overexcited puppies, "I thought you might appreciate some tactical advice."
James perked up immediately, like a student who'd just been told the test was going to be open book. "Tactical advice from the actual Lord of the Dead? This is either going to be brilliant or absolutely terrifying."
"Both," Hades said simply, and somehow made it sound like a promise.
Sirius, because he was Sirius and had apparently decided that today was a good day to treat ancient deities like drinking buddies, grinned. "Please tell me this involves dramatic cape flourishes or intimidating one-liners. I've been working on my battle banter, and I could use some professional tips."
Hades regarded him with what might have been amusement, if beings who ruled over death were capable of being amused by mortal absurdity. "The Death Eaters you're about to encounter have grown overconfident. They've spent months operating without significant opposition, and they believe they're untouchable. They're expecting Aurors—officials with regulations, proper procedures, and a reluctance to use lethal force."
"And instead they're getting us," James said, twirling his wand like he was warming up for a performance instead of a battle.
"Precisely. Which is considerably worse for them than they realize."
"Worse in a good way or worse in a 'they're-going-to-need-therapy' way?" Sirius asked cheerfully.
"Yes," Hades replied, and left it at that.
Lily, who had been listening to this exchange with the expression of someone watching her husband and his best friend plan to wrestle a dragon because they thought it might be fun, finally spoke up.
"James Potter," she said in the voice that had once made Professor McGonagall pause mid-lecture to pay attention, "you will be careful. You will not take unnecessary risks. And you will remember that Harry needs a father who comes home in one piece—preferably without additional divine modifications that require weeks of adjustment and an instruction manual."
James placed his hand over his heart with mock solemnity. "My darling wife, I will be the very picture of caution. Responsible decision-making incarnate." His grin, however, suggested that 'responsible' was about to take an extended vacation.
Lily's gaze shifted to Sirius. "And you, Sirius Black, will make sure James doesn't do anything so catastrophically stupid that it requires literal divine intervention to fix. You are the sensible one here, whether you like it or not."
Sirius actually choked on air. "Sensible? Me? Lily, please, I have a reputation to maintain. If word gets out that I was the voice of reason in any situation involving James Potter, I'll never live it down."
"Your reputation can survive one afternoon of adult supervision," Lily shot back. "Harry's father's continued existence requires it."
"Fine," Sirius sighed with exaggerated martyrdom. "But only because Harry gives me those disappointed baby looks when people don't come back from dangerous missions. I can't handle that kind of emotional manipulation from someone who can't even hold his own head up properly."
James nodded sagely. "He inherited that look from his mother. Potter babies have been perfecting the art of emotional manipulation since the Middle Ages. It's practically genetic at this point."
"Are you seriously admitting that your three-month-old son already has you wrapped around his tiny finger?" Lily asked.
"Admitting?" James said with perfect innocence. "No. Bragging about it? Absolutely."
Hades, who had been watching this domestic comedy play out with the patience of someone who'd seen civilizations rise and fall while waiting for mortals to get to the point, cleared his throat.
"If I may," he said, and somehow managed to make it sound like a polite suggestion rather than a divine command, "some additional guidance before you rush off to rescue the Longbottoms."
James immediately gave him his full attention, which was probably the first time in his adult life he'd stopped talking long enough to listen to tactical advice.
"The Death Eaters believe they're untouchable because they've been operating in a world where the rules still apply. Show them something impossible. Make them question their understanding of reality. When mortals encounter something they can't categorize or explain, they tend to... break."
James's eyes lit up with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for new Quidditch strategies or particularly challenging pranks. "Something impossible. I like where this is going. Specific impossible, or creative interpretation impossible?"
"Use your judgment," Hades said, which was either a vote of confidence or a sign that he'd accepted the inevitable chaos. "But remember—your goal is not to solve every problem or right every wrong. Save the Longbottoms. Protect Neville. Then come home to your family. That's enough."
"Right," James said, nodding with the kind of serious expression that meant he was definitely going to ignore at least half of that advice. "Save friends, protect baby, come home. Got it."
"And James?" Hades's voice carried a note of something that might have been paternal concern, if the Lord of the Dead did paternal concern. "Don't overdo it. You're still learning to control your... enhanced capabilities. Dramatic is fine. Catastrophic is counterproductive."
"Define catastrophic," James said with the air of someone conducting important research.
"If you accidentally create a new magical phenomenon that requires Ministry oversight and paperwork, that's catastrophic."
"What about temporarily creating a new magical phenomenon that resolves itself within, say, twenty-four hours?"
Hades paused, and for a moment looked like a parent trying to decide if their child's question was clever or deeply concerning. "We'll discuss it afterward."
James turned to kiss Lily one more time, holding her like he was memorizing the moment. "I love you. Both of you. I'll be back before you know it."
"You'd better be," Lily whispered against his lips. "Because I meant what I said about dragging you back from the afterlife to yell at you."
"Terrifying and attractive," James murmured. "It's a devastatingly effective combination."
Harry, as if sensing the gravity of the moment, let out a tiny gurgle that sounded suspiciously like agreement.
"Even Harry knows I'm right," Lily said.
"Harry's a Potter," James replied, reaching over to brush a finger across his son's cheek. "Of course he knows you're right. We all know you're right. We just also know that sometimes being right and being safe aren't the same thing."
"And sometimes," Hades added quietly, "being safe means doing something that looks incredibly dangerous to everyone else."
With that reassuring thought, James grabbed Sirius's arm, and together they Disapparated with a crack that rattled the windows and made Harry giggle with delight.
The cottage fell into the particular kind of silence that follows after your husband vanishes to fight dark wizards with nothing but confidence, questionable planning skills, and the backing of an ancient deity who may or may not have a sense of humor.
"Well," Lily sighed, settling into the rocking chair with Harry, "this is either going to be the most anticlimactic rescue mission in wizarding history, or the kind of story that gets turned into a cautionary tale they tell at Auror training."
Harry cooed and tried to grab her hair, apparently unconcerned about his father's tendency toward spectacular heroics.
Outside, the cottage's protective wards shimmered and strengthened, responding to the promise that had been made within these walls: whatever chaos was about to unfold, this family would be protected. Because some kids were worth any risk, some friendships demanded impossible courage, and some love stories were strong enough to survive even Potter family adventure planning.
And yes, Hades was absolutely right about one thing—the paperwork afterward was going to be a complete nightmare.
—
The Apparition point outside Longbottom Manor felt like stepping into the middle of a magical thunderstorm that had decided to take up residence and redecorate the landscape according to its own twisted aesthetic preferences. The November air crackled with enough residual curse energy to make James's teeth ache and his newly enhanced senses scream warnings in seventeen different frequencies of divine alarm.
What had once been the peaceful grounds of an old wizarding estate now looked like a battlefield designed by someone with a flair for dramatic lighting and a serious grudge against topiary. Ancient oak trees that had probably stood for centuries were now twisted into unnatural shapes, their branches reaching toward the sky like arthritic fingers frozen in permanent accusation. The manor's protective gardens had been reduced to smoking craters where something explosive and probably illegal had made contact with century-old ward stones.
And everywhere—absolutely everywhere—was the lingering stench of Dark magic so concentrated it seemed to have achieved physical form and was now making editorial comments about the local architecture.
"Bloody hell," Sirius muttered, his grey eyes scanning the devastation with the practiced assessment of someone who'd seen entirely too many Death Eater crime scenes. "They're not just trying to break in. They're trying to break everything. This is personal."
James nodded grimly, his enhanced perception picking up magical signatures like a particularly morbid symphony. Four distinct sources of Dark magic, each one carrying the kind of malevolent resonance that spoke of years spent studying creative ways to cause suffering. They were positioned around the manor in a classic siege formation—not the work of desperate fanatics, but trained fighters who knew exactly what they were doing.
The manor itself was holding, but only just. Ancient stones pulsed with protective magic that was burning itself out trying to keep up with the sustained assault. Every few seconds, another ward would flicker and fail, leaving gaps in the defenses that the attackers were systematically exploiting with the patience of professionals who'd done this kind of work before.
Through his connection to divine power, James could feel Frank and Alice inside—alive but exhausted, their magical signatures growing weaker with each passing minute. And there, much smaller but burning with the same stubborn intensity as his parents, was Neville Longbottom. Fifteen months old and already proving that Longbottom courage wasn't something you learned—it was something you were born with.
"Four of them," James said quietly, silver light beginning to flicker behind his eyes as he drew more deeply on his enhanced abilities. "Spread out in attack formation. Professional work—this isn't random violence, Padfoot. This is targeted elimination."
"Any idea who we're dealing with?" Sirius asked, though his tone suggested he already suspected the answer wasn't going to be good news.
James extended his supernatural senses, reading the magical signatures like particularly unpleasant character references. What he found made his divine heritage stir with the kind of cold anger that made shadows lean in closer to listen.
"Bellatrix Lestrange," he said, his voice carrying harmonics that seemed to make the air itself recoil. "Her signature's all over the eastern approach. Sadistic, completely unhinged, and having entirely too much fun with whatever curse work she's been throwing around."
"Of course it's Bellatrix," Sirius said with the bitter resignation of someone who'd grown up in the same house as a future psychopath. "She always was the most creatively vicious member of the family. What about the others?"
"Rodolphus Lestrange on the south side—methodical, brutal, but controlled. He's the one coordinating the assault pattern." James paused, his enhanced perception picking up something that made him frown. "Rabastan Lestrange to the west, and..."
He trailed off, his divine senses recoiling from the fourth signature like they'd just encountered something that violated several fundamental laws of magical theory and possibly a few cosmic regulations besides.
"And what?" Sirius pressed.
"And Barty Crouch Jr.," James said slowly, disbelief coloring his voice. "Which should be impossible, because last I checked, Junior was still playing the part of the devoted son who'd never dream of associating with dark wizards. His father would absolutely lose his mind if he knew."
Sirius went very still—the kind of stillness that usually preceded either brilliant tactical insights or spectacularly bad decisions. "Barty Junior? The same Barty Junior who gives speeches at Ministry functions about the importance of proper magical law enforcement? That Barty Crouch Jr.?"
"Unless there's another Barty Crouch Jr. running around with enough Dark Arts knowledge to participate in coordinated attacks on Auror families, then yes," James confirmed, his tone carrying the flat certainty of someone whose enhanced senses didn't lie about magical signatures. "He's positioned on the north side, and his curse work is..." James paused, trying to find words for what his divine perception was showing him. "Enthusiastic. Like he's been waiting years for an opportunity to cut loose."
"Well," Sirius said with the kind of dark humor that had gotten him through seven years at Hogwarts and two years of war, "I suppose this explains how they knew to hit the Longbottoms tonight. Inside information from someone with access to Ministry intelligence files and a pathological need to prove himself to the remaining Death Eaters."
"The question is," James said, silver fire beginning to dance around his fingertips as he prepared for what was about to be either a rescue mission or an educational demonstration about why you didn't threaten his friends, "do we go in subtle and hope we can extract Frank, Alice, and Neville without alerting the Death Eaters to our presence? Or do we make an entrance that ensures they're too busy dealing with us to focus on torturing our friends?"
Sirius considered this for approximately half a second before grinning with the kind of reckless enthusiasm that had made him legendary throughout Gryffindor House for accepting any dare, no matter how dangerous or monumentally stupid.
"James Potter," he said with fond exasperation, "in the twelve years I've known you, have you ever—even once—chosen the subtle approach when the dramatic approach was available?"
"Point taken," James replied, his grin matching Sirius's for pure predatory satisfaction. "Besides, Hades did say to show them something impossible. And I'd hate to disappoint my stepfather by being boring."
"Your stepfather," Sirius repeated, shaking his head in amazement. "I'm still getting used to that particular family development. Most people have to deal with in-laws who ask awkward questions about their career prospects. You have to deal with in-laws who rule entire dimensions of existence."
"Look on the bright side," James said cheerfully, power beginning to coil around him like liquid starlight as he drew more deeply on his divine heritage. "When Harry starts dating, we're going to have the most effective parental intimidation factor in wizarding history. What seventeen-year-old is going to try anything inappropriate when they know Harry's grandfather is literally the Lord of the Dead?"
"That's..." Sirius paused, considering the implications. "That's actually brilliant. Harry's going to have the safest teenage years in the history of teenage years."
"Assuming he survives his childhood," James said, his expression growing more serious as he studied the magical battle unfolding around the manor. "Which requires us to make sure he grows up in a world where Death Eaters don't get to torture Auror families for entertainment."
Through the shattered windows of the manor, they could see flashes of spell-light—desperate defensive magic meeting sustained Dark Arts assault. Frank and Alice were still fighting, but their spells were coming less frequently now, the telltale sign of magical exhaustion setting in.
"Right then," James said, his voice taking on the kind of quiet authority that had made him Quidditch Captain despite being younger than half his team. "Time to remind these Death Eaters why attacking our friends was the worst idea they've ever had."
"What's the plan?" Sirius asked, though his tone suggested he was prepared to follow James into whatever insanity he was about to propose.
"Something impossible," James replied, silver light beginning to pour from his eyes as he called upon power that transcended normal magical theory. "Something that makes them question everything they thought they knew about the fundamental nature of reality."
Around them, shadows began to move in ways that shadows really shouldn't—pooling and flowing like liquid darkness, responding to will rather than light sources. The temperature dropped noticeably, and even the residual curse energy in the air seemed to recoil from whatever James was channeling.
"Padfoot," James said conversationally, as reality began to bend around them in ways that would have made physics professors weep, "you might want to step back a bit. I'm not entirely sure what the safe distance is for what I'm about to do."
"Are you kidding?" Sirius replied, drawing his wand with a flourish that was pure Black family arrogance mixed with Gryffindor bravado. "I've waited my entire life to see James Potter cut loose with legitimate divine backing. I'm not missing this because of safety concerns."
"Your funeral," James said with a grin that carried enough divine authority to make the local wildlife reconsider their life choices.
"With any luck," Sirius replied cheerfully, "it'll be theirs instead."
The shadows around Longbottom Manor began to deepen, and somewhere in the distance, four Death Eaters were about to discover that torturing the friends of a partially divine wizard was the kind of mistake that attracted very personal attention from powers they'd never imagined.
After all, some lessons were best taught through direct experience.
And some friendships were worth any amount of cosmic intervention—even if the paperwork afterward was going to be absolutely legendary.
---
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