(James Potter POV)
The file lay open on my desk, the photos making my stomach churn. Another bombing. This time, it was a building in Paris. Rubble, smoke, panicked faces staring up at the sky. A chillingly familiar scene.
Three years I had been on this task force, A group with both Aurors representing the Wizarding Side and the Interpol representing the non-magical side. It was Usually calm, But not now. It was that explosion in London a few weeks ago. Now, this. The world was spinning, shifting, the people were afraid, people would start pointing fingers at each other soon.
They called themselves "Fenrir." They were active on the internet claiming the attacks and their only message was "We will break the Illusion".
I rubbed my tired eyes, the lines on my reflection a stark reminder of the sleepless nights, the endless meetings, the gnawing fear that never quite went away.
My dad, Harry Potter, vanished years ago. Along with Sirius Black. No trace, no explanation. Just…gone.
Mom tried to be strong, for me, for Lily, but the light had gone out of her eyes. She'd left the Ministry, retreated into teaching at Hogwarts. Said she needed to be there for the kids, to protect them. I understood.
But some nights, when the nightmares came, when the guilt gnawed at me, I wondered if she was also running away from the truth. From the fact that my father, the Boy Who Lived, was most likely dead.
And that Vincent Van Doren, the man who'd reshaped the world, the man my dad had hated with a passion that burned hotter than any curse… he was probably the one responsible.
A sharp knock on the door startled me out of my thoughts. "Come in."
The door swung open, and Isabella Rossi, my partner, leaned against the frame, a weary smile on her face. "Ready for another round of 'doom and gloom' with the chief?"
I sighed, shoving the file into a drawer. "As I'll ever be."
The conference room buzzed with nervous energy. A dozen faces, drawn and tired, stared at the table, each one holding a reflection of my own anxieties.
Adrian Pucey sat at the head of the table, his dark eyes scanning the room, his expression as sharp and unreadable as ever. He'd somehow managed to hold onto his position as Head Auror. I didn't like the guy – a bit too ambitious, too close to Van Doren – but I had to respect his competence.
"Alright, team," Pucey said, his voice a clipped, no-nonsense tone that cut through the whispers. "Give me a status report. Anything new on the Fenrir attacks?"
Isabella cleared her throat. "We've got footage of the Paris bombing. Three individuals planted the device – two wizards, one unknown. Facial recognition is useless – they were wearing those glasses with the LED displays."
"They vanished seconds before the detonation," she continued, pulling up images on the screen. "Two apparated. The other… walked away. Just… blended into the crowd."
The room went quiet. Everyone knew what that meant. They weren't just dealing with rogue wizards. These Fenrir bastards had non-magic members.
Pucey sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "How the hell am I supposed to explain this to the Chancellor? 'Oh, by the way, sir, we've got a group of magic-wielding terrorists, but we have no idea who they are, where they come from, or what they want. But don't worry, we've got it all under control'."
He looked up, his gaze sharp. "We need more. Anything. Leads, patterns, motives… something." His voice tightened. "They're escalating. If they keep this up, we'll have mass hysteria on our hands. The non-magic population is already on edge, whispering about a 'magical war'."
"We could start by focusing on those LED glasses," I suggested. "Trace their origins, see who's supplying them. And those who walked away… maybe there's a pattern to their movements, their targets. Something they're drawn to."
Pucey nodded curtly. "Work those angles. Keep me updated. Meeting adjourned."
He rose abruptly, leaving the room in a swirl of dark robes and unspoken anxieties. We all stared at the table, the weight of the unanswered questions pressing down on us.
Hours melted away, the clock ticking a mocking rhythm to my frustration. Dead ends. Every lead I followed turned to ash. The LED glasses? Mass produced, untraceable. The movements of those non-magic attackers? Random, chaotic, defying any pattern.
Frustration gnawed at me. We were fighting blind, chasing ghosts.
"Screw it," I muttered, grabbing my jacket. Maybe a stiff drink and some mindless telly would clear my head.
I apparated home, the familiar twist of nausea depositing me in my quiet flat. I shrugged off my jacket, tossing it onto the couch.
And then, I felt it. A prickling sensation, a tightening in my chest, a wave of magic washing over me. "Incarcerous!"
Ropes materialized, binding my arms, yanking them behind my back. I struggled, but the spell held fast. Fury surged through me. "Who the fuck are you?" I roared, twisting my head, trying to see my attacker.
A figure emerged from the shadows, a dark silhouette against the dim light of the hallway. They wore a black balaclava, their face obscured. But their eyes… those eyes were a deep, unsettling blue, burning into me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.
"For your own safety, James," the figure said, their voice muffled by the mask, but with a familiar cadence that made my blood run cold.
"Release me. Now!" I growled, struggling against the ropes. How the hell had they gotten in? I'd warded this place, reinforced the protections after… after Dad and Sirius… Only family could bypass them. Family…
The figure, ignoring my demands, levitated me with a flick of their wand. They deposited me onto a chair, the wood hard against my back. They moved closer, their presence radiating a quiet power that was as familiar as it was terrifying.
"We need to talk, James Potter," they said, their voice a low, dangerous whisper.
I strained against the ropes, frustration simmering. "What the hell could you possibly want to talk about that's so damn important you had to sneak up on me and tie me up?" I growled, my voice tight. "And how the hell did you even get in here? This place is blood warded."
The figure pulled a chair from across the room and settled in front of me. They leaned back, the chair creaking slightly under their weight. "Those are some good questions," they said, a hint of amusement in their voice.
Even sitting down, they were big, I noted, broad shoulders filling out that black tactical jacket.
"So?" I said, my patience thinning. "What do you want?"
"I want to help you," the figure said, their voice low, intense. "Help you get revenge against the man who wronged you. Who wronged your family."
"Who?"
"Vincent Van Doren."
My blood ran cold.
"What are you talking about?" I asked, my voice a strained whisper.
"He killed your father and Sirius Black."
It was like a voice in my head, one I'd tried to ignore for years, suddenly screaming, I fucking knew it!
"Proof," I said, the word a challenge, a desperate plea. "You have any proof?"
The figure shook their head. "Vincent doesn't leave proof. He's too careful. Too thorough. But ask yourself, James… Who else had the motive? Who else benefited from their deaths?"
Their words echoed my own suspicions, the whispers I'd tried to silence. But…
The figure scoffed. "I saw it, James. Harry and Black… they abducted Arthur Van Doren. Took him from Diagon Alley. Right before they vanished."
"That's ridiculous," I scoffed back. "My father would never…"
The figure's scoff was sharp, mocking. "Don't believe me? Ask your mom." They spat the word "mom" like it was poison, their voice laced with a venom that sent a shiver down my spine.
I narrowed my eyes, a warning in my gaze. "Careful," I said, my voice low, dangerous.
"Why would I believe you?" The words came out a harsh whisper, a defense mechanism against the doubts that were already gnawing at me.
The figure leaned back, those blue eyes piercing through the shadows of the balaclava. "That's up to you, James." They stood, a looming presence even in the confines of my small flat. "I'll leave you now, since you're still so… doubtful. But I must insist, you ask your mother. She knows." The venom in their voice when they said "mother" was back, a venomous hiss that sent a chill down my spine.
"The spell will wear off soon," they added, their voice a quiet promise. "We will talk again, James."
And then, they were gone. Vanished. As if they'd never been.
The ropes that had bound me dissolved, a tingling sensation as the magic faded. I slumped back in the chair, a wave of exhaustion washing over me. Who the hell was that? And how the hell had they known about the wards?
But the questions, the doubts… they lingered.
Ask your mother.
Their words echoed in the silence of my flat, a seed of suspicion taking root in the fertile soil of my grief.
Three days. Three days since that masked figure had broken into my flat, bound me, and planted those seeds of doubt. Three days, and I hadn't told anyone. Not Isabella. Not the taskforce.
I'd checked the wards, scanned every inch of my flat for signs of a breach. Nothing. The wards were intact. Which meant…
The blood ward. Someone with my blood had bypassed the protections. But who?
I paced my living room, the questions circling in my head like vultures. Who was that masked figure? Why were they helping me? And why the hell did they want me to talk to Mom?
Ask your mother. She knows.
Their words echoed in the silence. I couldn't shake them. I had to know.
I sent Mom a message, requesting a meeting. She replied quickly, asking me to come to Hogwarts.
Hogwarts. It had been years since I'd been here.
The castle felt different now. Not just the usual sense of ancient magic, but something… newer. The grounds near Hogwarts were bustling with tourists, their cameras flashing, their awestruck whispers blending with the sounds of spells being practiced. Hogsmeade had grown, sprawling beyond its original cobblestone streets, a mix of quaint wizarding shops and modern cafes.
Mom's office was a small, bright space, the sunlight streaming through the windows. No more dusty stacks of parchment, just a sleek laptop open on her desk and a muggle pen in her hand. She looked up as I entered, a warm smile spreading across her face. Time had touched her, but lightly. There were streaks of gray in her hair, but her eyes still held that familiar sparkle of intelligence and warmth.
We hugged, and for a moment, the weight of the world lifted. We chatted about work, about Lily – she was off on some research project in the Amazon – the usual things.
But the questions, the doubts… they festered beneath the surface of our conversation, like a hidden current threatening to pull us under.
"Mom," I said, finally breaking the facade. "Do you know… who killed Dad?"
The smile vanished from her face, replaced by a look of shock and something… deeper… a sadness that mirrored my own. "What… what makes you ask that, James?"
I shook my head, the words catching in my throat. "I just… I need to know."
She looked at me for a long moment, her gaze searching mine, then she sighed, her shoulders slumping as if a weight had settled upon them. "That night… when we got the news about Dumbledore… Harry and Sirius… They were… enraged."
Her voice trembled, the memories clearly painful. "They blamed Vincent. They were convinced he was the one who… who killed Dumbledore. They said they'd find proof, that they'd get justice."
"They left, James," she continued, her voice breaking. "They stormed out, their anger… it was terrifying. I… I should have stopped them. I should have…"
She trailed off, her gaze fixed on the window, the unshed tears glistening in her eyes.
"I think… I know they went after Vincent," she whispered.
My heart pounded in my chest, the pieces clicking into place. The masked figure's words echoed in my mind. They abducted Arthur Van Doren.
"What about Arthur?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Vincent's son?"
Mom's eyes widened, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. "Arthur? Why… why would you ask about him?"
She clearly didn't know. That made things… more complicated.
"Just… wondering," I mumbled, my mind racing.
She studied me for a long moment, then asked, "Are you alright, James?"
"I'm fine, Mom," I said, forcing a smile.
But I wasn't fine. The world was tilting, shifting, the truth a dark abyss opening beneath my feet.
Everything was connecting now, that person was right.