Chapter Text
James’s son was too thin. That was the first thing James noticed in the Great Hall. He’d put his hands on his shoulders, and his heart seized at how bony they were through his Muggle t-shirt. Sharp bone beneath wiry, tensed muscle.
That had been the second thing James noticed, the way Harry had tensed. He’d gone still at James’s touch. Holding himself like he was bracing for impact, like he was trying not to flinch away. James fought the urgent, consuming impulse to grab him, to keep him close. Lily felt the same, James could tell. She’d placed her hands in her lap, clenching them so tightly they were trembling, all to keep herself from reaching out. Those hands had rubbed potions onto Harry’s skinned knees and smoothed down his wild hair. Those hands had closed Harry’s eyes for the last time, before they’d put him in the ground. All without hesitation, without thought.
But she must have known, as James knew, that such a display would be unwelcome. Either Harry would deny them, or they’d find themselves on the other end of his wand. Or his friends’ wands.
Harry hadn’t had very many close friends, but he’d always been friendly. He’d socialize with just about anyone, and had been a good sport whenever they’d shuffle him around to meetings or their friends’ houses or parties. He’d gotten along well enough with other children, though his true opinions came out once they were home. He’d either smile and claim he had a new best friend, or he'd give James a wrinkled nose and a serious, “I didn’t like them at all.”
He’d had friends, of course. Cousins and playmates and brief playground acquaintances. But not friends like these two. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. It was clear enough that Harry had met them in the throes of some sort of false reality, as Fawcett had called it. A rewriting of the war. How dangerous was that reality that Harry and his friends were practically in each other’s laps, watching the rest of the Great Hall like one might watch a slowly approaching beast? How comprehensive was such a reality? One that allowed these three to behave as though they’d known each other all their lives? That allowed them to orient themselves around each other like planets around a star.
James doubted any spell could be so strong. No spell could have erased his son’s presence from the House magic so thoroughly, nor could have kept James from his son while he experienced so-called implanted memories. Only death could do that. Regardless of what Fawcett and the DMLE claimed, Potters knew necromancy. His House was well-acquainted with death in a way that belied their reputation. James knew the truth. His son had died. It had been the single worst day of his life.
Now, he was back. He was standing right across the room, too thin and wary and grown-up now. A bit off, but still here. Family magic always knew, even if the senses could be deceived. This was his son.
Alive.
James had never before felt such a strong urge to thank every god he could name, every known entity, both Muggle and magical. The sheer relief in his chest had overcome any unease he should be feeling. Necromancy, after all, required a certain level of depravity that made the most evil of wizards shudder. But James couldn’t quite care. If he ever met whatever damaged soul revived his son – revived all of these children – he’d shake their hand and aid them in hiding from the DMLE.
“Do you remember this, Harry?” Lily asked now, after showing the children and Arthur and Molly Weasley, of all people, the kitchen. Harry had always enjoyed the kitchen. He’d grown up watching James and Lily cook and had joined in when he’d grown old enough to do so. He’d had a real knack for it (inherited from James, if he did say so himself).
Harry shook his head. He didn’t say a word in reply.
Lily turned away.
James kept his hands clasped behind his back. It was the best way to keep from reaching out for him.
Another change. That quiet watchfulness was another change. Harry was never talkative, exactly. He was not like his godfather, who was besotted by the sound of his own voice – an affliction that James was self-aware enough to admit he also suffered from – but he had never been so quiet. Nor had he been a very observant child. But this Harry was anything but unobservant. In the Great Hall, he had stayed watchful and alert, eyes scanning the room and never once resting.
Even now, even with Sirius’s arm around him, he was tense. His eyes moved to the windows, to the doors leading into the kitchen, to the back door, to every person in the room (apart from James and Lily), then they would pause on Sirius for a moment. Then, they would restart that process again. But at least Sirius was able to hold onto him.
James had never been jealous of Sirius and Harry’s relationship before. Not when Harry had been an infant, fussy and screaming unless his godfather held him and hummed the fucking Buzzcocks of all things. Not when Harry was eight, unable to fully enjoy his birthday party until Sirius had finally arrived with a new broom in tow (two hours late and without the butterbeer, a sin Lily had never forgiven him for).
Remus had once said that Harry had three parents. It hadn’t been a joke, merely a statement of fact. James couldn’t disagree. There were very many times when Harry needed no one but Lily, times he needed no one but James. But there was an equal number of times when only Sirius could be what Harry needed.
Seeing Harry lean on Sirius was no different. Or so James told himself. Right now, Harry needed Sirius. Not his parents, whose very presence seemed to cause the boy to grow angry, or form a frightening, detached blankness in his eyes.
Even if it hurt, the ache was nothing compared to losing him.
Harry also needed those friends of his. They refused to leave his side and vice versa, which James found to be frustrating, though he was endeared despite himself. Loyalty and protectiveness in friendships were valuable things. But Lily had that small tightness around her eyes that revealed her irritation, though she was doing an admirable job of hiding it. For his part, James was trying his very best to remain positive.
He could do without Arthur Weasley in his kitchen, though.
As the tour moved from the kitchen and toward the staircase, Mr. Weasley hung back. Most days, James did well in pretending the older man didn’t exist. It was one thing to have the occasional run-in at the Ministry or see him at the annual memorial. It was another to see him and his wife in his family’s home. It brought up far too many memories of when he was young. Of that time, just after he’d become truly cognizant of the world, when he realized that there were no good men in war.
James had never mastered Occlumency, despite various people attempting to teach him throughout his life (his father, an uncle on his mother’s side, Sirius, and Lily). At such moments, he often wished he were able to master the art. He was sure that old resentments had to be spilling from his eyes, if not his expressions.
“Will Lupin be remaining here?” Mr. Weasley asked, voice low.
“Yes,” James said, tone deceptively light. “He’s a close family friend, as you well know.”
Mr. Weasley’s eyes narrowed when he said, “And Black?”
James took a moment to keep his breathing steady. Once he knew he would speak without anger, he said, “Yes. He and his family will want to stay here for the night.”
Mr. Weasley cleared his throat, eyes like knives, even as his expression kept that infuriating geniality. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable-”
“I don’t care,” James said plainly. Mr. Weasley’s jaw ticked. James felt a smugness in his chest, though he made sure he didn’t let it show. “I allowed you to enter my home out of courtesy-”
“If this is going to work,” Mr. Weasley interrupted, “we must cooperate with each other.” James fought the urge to snap at him. Very few people made James feel more like a teenager than Arthur Weasley did. Petty. Angry. Half-feral beneath a charming exterior. “Until this… situation resolves itself, we have to be civil- ”
“I am more than capable of civility,” James said coolly. “For example, I will not dictate who can or cannot visit your home while my son is staying there.” And wasn’t that just the bitch of it all? James had somehow wound up in a shared custody agreement with the Weasleys, and it would be hilarious if it were happening to anyone else. “See? Civility.” Mr. Weasley’s mouth was a thin line. “I ask you to do the same.”
“I won’t have my son exposed to dark magic,” Mr. Weasley said, giving James a stern look that sent him straight back to sixth year. “And we both know that Black is as dark as they come.”
James had to swallow back his instinctual reply of ‘Too late for that.’ Because if James’s private theory was correct, all of the resurrected souls had been so entwined with dark magic, he’d be shocked if there was any light left in their magical cores.
Instead, he pressed his lips together. Mr. Weasley was right when he said that they must maintain some modicum of civility.
“Dark magic is not practiced in my home,” James lied, civilly.
Mr. Weasley’s expression did not change, and James fought the urge to grit his teeth. Civility. “Especially not while your son and, erm, future daughter-in-law are guests,” he finally said, stumbling over that last bit because he was worried he’d laugh. His son had not been subtle in the slightest. But if a fake engagement set the children’s minds at ease… Well, he’d play along. They all would, it seemed, given that even Mrs. Weasley had bitten her tongue.
The corner of Mr. Weasley’s mouth twitched, but he nodded in acknowledgment.
The two of them turned to follow the rest of the group upstairs. When they approached the base of the staircase, there was a painfully awkward moment where they silently debated who should walk first.
“For God’s sake,” Lily snapped. James startled. She was now standing at the top of the stairs, arms crossed over her chest. She was at the end of her rope, he realized. Otherwise, she would have maintained her impassivity in front of strangers, or as much as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could be called strangers. “There’s enough room for the both of you, isn’t there? No need for a pissing contest. Honestly.”
She waited until they were at the landing before she tightly said, “Sirius has everyone on the back balcony.” Her eyes slid to Mr. Weasley, “I’m sorry to inform you that you will not be receiving a tour of the bedrooms. Our family is entitled to some privacy, you know.”
James felt quite smug when the tips of Mr. Weasley’s ears went red. He coughed. “Right.”
Lily quietly scoffed. James took that as his cue to look at Mr. Weasley as he said, “The door to the back balcony is at the very end of the hall, to the right. We’ll join you in a moment.”
Mr. Weasley gave a small nod before turning on his heel and walking away. James kept watching him until he turned the corner. Then, his attention moved to Lily. Her mouth was tight at the corners and her eyes looked so very stressed that James automatically raised his hands, his fingers rubbing circles into her temples. She sighed. Her eyes closed but she didn’t relax. Not until when, a moment later, he moved behind her, his hands now massaging her shoulders, thumbs firmly pressing into the new tension there.
She sniffed. “I hate this,” she whispered. “Having them in our house.”
James murmured, “I know. So do I.”
“He’s so different,” she continued.
“He is.”
She sniffed again. “I… Are you sure he’s…”
“I am.” He knew it was different for Lily. She didn’t have family magic. She didn’t feel this warmth in her chest, this wonderful ache of the hollow space, where the Heir once resided, having been rapidly filled. She didn’t feel the warmth of Harry’s presence. No matter how quiet Harry was, or how thin or watchful, he was still Harry . James could feel it, even if his eyes needed a moment to adjust.
He added, “But, I don’t believe it’s as Fawcett said it was-”
Lily snorted. “I know Benedict’s tells.” James fought the urge to roll his eyes. Lily met Fawcett when she’d briefly apprenticed with a law office and they’d become friends, despite the age difference. It had been right before things had gotten so bad that the Ministry had to admit there was a war on. He was pulled from that particular thought when she added, “He was lying through his teeth.”
“They just don’t want to admit it’s necromancy,” James said.
“How could it possibly be necromancy?” she asked. James was quietly pleased when she relaxed enough that hints of her Brummie accent came through. His fingers pressed a bit more firmly, and she sighed. “He’s grown, changed. They all have. The rules of magic-”
“There are no rules of magic,” James said, unable to contain a smile when she huffed angrily. They’d been married nearly half their lives and they’ve had this same argument too many times to count. “Entities as fickle as death are especially resentful of rules.” James ignored the sudden chill in his bones, which was just as quick to leave as it had been to appear.
“I hate when you talk like that,” Lily muttered, before sighing. “I can’t believe he’s back.” She sniffed. “He’s so beautiful, James.”
“He is,” he said, his voice back to a low murmur. He pressed down a little more firmly, and she sighed. “I’m surprised you let him out of your sight.”
“You and Weasley were taking too long,” she said. She was quiet for another moment before adding, “Rem and Sirius will keep watch over him. He needed a moment without us there. He tenses up every time we speak.”
James’s hands paused before they resumed their movements. “I’ve noticed.” He hesitated before telling her, “In the Great Hall, he said that his parents were dead.”
Lily whirled around and James’s hands fell away. Her brows furrowed. “Well, that doesn’t make any sense. If it’s truly necromancy, I mean. Unless Benedict was telling the truth? Perhaps the false memories included…” She trailed off, and James couldn’t blame her. The thought of his son, of any of his children, being orphaned at such a young age broke his heart. They’d spent countless nights worrying about such things, back when the war was on.
James’s lips pressed together, his own brow furrowing as he realized he hadn’t considered how Harry’s comments and behavior fit within his personal theory. His son not only possessed a sort of amnesia about his own life, his childhood home, his sister. But he moved like Remus and Sirius had, like James himself had, immediately after the war ended. “Hm.”
He turned, leaning against the wall of the hallway. His, however many great-grandmother Hestia mutely waved from her portrait, and he nodded in acknowledgement. To Lily, he said, “It is necromancy… But, I admit I don’t know how these false memories fit.”
Lily leaned on the wall across from him. “Is it possible you’ve decided on a theory before you’ve collected proper evidence?”
“I suppose it’s possible for me to be wrong.” He added, “Hasn’t ever happened before, mind.” She rolled her eyes, but he succeeded in causing a small smile at the corner of her mouth. “But it’s possible .” He cleared his throat, glanced down the hallway. He hesitated. He trusted his wife with his life, with so many of his secrets. But some things were bound to the House. After a moment, he finally settled on slowly saying, “I will do some research.”
She nodded. “So will I, when there's a free moment.” She sighed. “I don’t like the unknown, James.”
“I know,” James said. His eyes met hers, that vivid green filled with equal parts worry and frustration. There were far too many unknowns with all of this. It hadn’t just been Harry who’d returned, after all. Over three hundred children, resurrected and fully grown. “But you know what we do know?”
“Hm?”
“Our son’s come back to us,” James murmured, unable to stop his grin. “Haz is out on the balcony.”
“He’s going to sleep beneath our roof,” Lily added. Not beneath the ground, went unsaid. She grimaced. “Even if he’s staying with the Weasleys tomorrow night.”
“He’s going to eat dinner with us tonight. Then breakfast tomorrow morning,” James said, because he refused to think about Harry away from him, at the Burrow, of all places. “He’ll play Quidditch with Ivy and Leo, I’m sure.”
Lily suddenly let out a soft gasp, tears pricking her lovely eyes. “He’s going to meet Holly.”
James and Lily shared a smile. Lily’s was quite weepy, as was James’s and he'd freely admit to it. He’d had dreams where Harry and Holly played together, sat at the same table, got to exist within the same plane.
“He’s going to meet Holly.”