Gaunt Haunt
"Hey."
James grumbled and buried himself deeper into his blankets. How he could wear three layers in the height of summer was beyond Lyra. Maybe it was a comfort thing, a way of coping. He still hadn't forgiven himself for his fuck-up with the Horcrux. Speaking of —
Lyra slowly lowered the locket onto the exposed part of his face, letting the unnaturally cold metal do its work. He brushed her hand and the locket away, and his eyes cracked open blearily as he attempted to focus on her.
"What?" he murmured.
"Look what I've got," she said quietly, dangling the locket above his head. "Got it just after the meeting. Kreacher loves me now. I even got him to shut that portrait up. Sirius kept wondering why it wasn't screaming every time someone made a loud noise, ha."
James hummed appreciatively and then promptly went back to sleep. Lyra grabbed him by the shoulders and jostled him until he was lucid enough to smack her hands and try to glare at her, though the effect was a little lessened by the fact that his eyelids could barely keep themselves up.
"What do you want?" he whispered, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.
"You usually wake up early," said Lyra. "Though it baffles me why. What's the deal now?"
"I wake up at five-thirty early, not" — he fumbled for his watch — "three-in-the-morning early." He glanced at Fred and George, who were still sleeping on the other end of the room.
"Don't worry, I killed them," said Lyra, shoving the pocket back into her mokeskin pouch, which she in turn shoved into her enchanted jeans pocket.
"Oh..."
"Come on." Lyra snapped her fingers at him. "Do you want to come with me to Little Hangleton?"
"Little Hangleton?" he said sleepily, sitting up in bed. "Why do you need me?"
"The ring, man," said Lyra. "I'm going to fetch it. And, you know, it might kill me. I checked out the Gaunt shack a few days ago."
James stared at her, looking wholly unimpressed and maybe a little miffed.
"You've fetched the locket and went to the Gaunt shack?" he said. "Why don't you ever tell me all the shit going on inside your head?"
"I don't think you want to know everything going on up there."
This time James really did glare. "I meant regarding this stuff!" He rubbed his eyes again and swung his feet off the bed. "For once, I'd like to be tuned in to the barely-functioning cogs working inside your addled mind."
Lyra shrugged as she took a step back to allow room for him to stand up. "Well, you'll be really tuned in soon. Besides, I thought you deserved a bit of a break."
"Oh, so being in the know is too much but going to the place that killed Dumbledore is quite all right?"
"You don't have to come at all," said Lyra, watching as he gathered a ragtag collection of clothes from his trunk or from the floor.
"I'm coming," said James, heading for the door. "Just let me shower first." Then he paused and turned back. "What do you mean I'll be really tuned in soon?"
There was only one light visible in Little Hangleton as they came upon it. The small village rested between two steep hills. On one of them sat the Riddle House. Down its slope was the graveyard, and beside it the small cottage with a little light. Frank Bryce, no doubt.
Lyra hung in the cold morning sky, feet dangling off her Nimbus as she watched the village below, waiting for James to catch up. It would never not be surreal, seeing these fictional places in reality. She could go and talk to Frank Byrce right now if she wanted, the old man who Voldemort had so callously murdered. Or she could set the Riddle House ablaze.
The sound of a raven's caw broke the silence, and James darted by Lyra's head as he dove straight down, swooping low and skimming the grass of the valley. She rushed after him, the two shooting past Frank Bryce's home, past the graveyard, and up and around the hill the Riddle House was built upon, until at last they came to slow before the woods. James morphed back into human form as he landed, kicking up a bit of dust. Lyra landed more softly and put her broom in a pocket.
It was dark out, and the moon illuminated little. In front of them was the forest the Gaunt Shack was nestled in, and a narrow dirt path lay feet from them. They turned their heads slowly, following with their eyes the trail that led to Dumbledore's doom. It eventually disappeared into wild hedges and crooked trees.
"This place is terrifying," said James. "Once we're out of here, I'm going to write a creepypasta about it."
It was his way of making light of the situation, but Lyra knew he was just as disturbed as her; she had entangled their minds back at Grimmauld, where the presence of adults stopped the Ministry from properly detecting underage magic. Here, though, in this wizardless valley, they would know. It was only a question of how quickly they'd come to investigate.
Now, Lyra could loosely hear and feel James' thoughts, and vice versa. She figured (hoped) it would serve a layer of protection against the magic that had caused Dumbledore to so foolishly put on that cursed Ring. Maybe two minds linked together would withstand its effects. Or maybe they'd both die anyway, being pierced by the malevolent trees' branches, eaten alive by nameless things, swallowed whole by the house itself to never be seen again in the day of light —
"Stop thinking about all the horrible ways we can die," she snapped.
"You never go into the creepy forest, Lyra, especially not at night," said James. "The best way of staying alive is to sit in your cabin, ignoring all the footsteps, the animal noises, and scratching sounds outside, and pray to a god you don't believe in that the sun rises soon."
"Maybe I should have taken my mother," murmured Lyra, struggling to take a first step on the jagged path.
"I'm sure your mother has lost friends and relatives, from the previous war and all that," said James. "She'd be more susceptible to the Stone than I am." He glanced at her. "You haven't —"
"No," said Lyra, hearing the thought before he spoke. "There's no one dead I'd particularly want to see."
"That's reassuring," said James. "Remember, the people you miss aren't dead — in fact, they may not even be born yet, meaning the Resurrection Stone is useless for us."
It sounded to Lyra like he was saying that as much for himself as for her.
Lyra closed her eyes and sighed. All these years flaunting about her skill, and here she was too frightened to make a move toward that waiting shack in the woods.
"We can hold hands, if that helps," said James, only slightly teasing.
"If something swallows you whole, you're not taking my hand with you."
"Fine," said James, before gesturing elaborately. "Ladies first?"
Whatever. She threw her fears into the back of her mind and followed the path. One thing comforted her: it wasn't likely any of Riddle's protections would be set outside the shack; he wouldn't have wanted any muggles to be cursed or killed and for the Ministry to come snooping.
As they ventured into the woods, the vegetation became more, indeed, gaunt: twisting, spiralling towards the sky, the canopy thick enough to blot out the moon. The sound of chirping insects faded away into nothing with alarming suddenness.
"I don't like this," James said. "But I don't know if those are my actual feelings or if I'm being affected by some spell."
Lyra said nothing as she pushed through the foliage. It was nearly pitch-black here, and if she hadn't been a cat Animagus, giving her the ability to see in the dark when she wished, she knew she'd see nothing.
Then she stopped as she saw the shack, and James stopped too, before he saw it — because he knew she had seen it.
The Gaunt shack could barely be called a ruin, for that implied some measure of previous worth, or at least a subtle charm. No, the Gaunt shack was merely a wreck. Only the stone foundations stood steady, while a heavy branch falling from a tree had caved in a portion of the roof. The walls themselves were close to collapse, the surfaces peeling away to rot, and it was only the support of twisting vines and the adolescent tree growing through one wall that kept it upright.
"Jesus Christ," James said, recoiling in shock and disgust.
"What?"
"Don't you smell it?"
Lyra sniffed, and caught the faintest traces of iron in the air, growing stronger with each step forward. Blood, then, quite old. James' senses had seemed keener ever since attaining his Animagus form, reflecting Lyra's own experiences.
"Oh, that's just lovely," said James.
Lyra followed his line of sight. The object of his attention was the carcass of a common grass snake, one unnervingly recent. Hanging over the doorknob, perhaps the only piece of the shack that wasn't yet made completely useless with decay, the snake was gorging on its own tail in some twisted self-sacrifice, its body withered after death.
"Look," said James, gesturing. More snakes, these much older judging by the state they were in, but they too had died choking on their own tails. It seemed like they'd starved to death, consuming themselves in their own hunger, despite the small mountain of once-perfectly edible animal carcasses piled around the Gaunt shack. Rodents, birds, and amphibians were left untouched despite their death.
"Some spell over the area, I'm guessing," said Lyra, squatting down before the nearest carcass and staring at it. The whole scene was disturbing.
"What now?" said James.
"I'll go first," said Lyra, standing back up. "If there's some spell of compulsion, one that leads to" — she gestured at the dead animals — "that, then you pull me out."
"No," said James stiffly. "Let me."
Lyra frowned, then. "What if our mind-link just makes me do the same thing here?"
"What, begin eating your own feet?"
"What a shitty way to die."
They stood there for a moment, and then James carefully stepped over the rotting carcasses of the small animals. Lyra felt nothing on her side of the link.
Slowly, James nudged open the door with his foot, unwilling to touch it. The door creaked and shuddered, eventually falling off its hinges entirely, crashing into the mold-covered floor. James cringed as he looked back at her. Lyra made her way slowly to him, her wand held steady, wondering if something would burst from the ground at them, or from the tree branches, or from within the house itself —
"Focus," hissed James.
She grimaced. "Sorry."
As she stood some feet away from him, James carefully peered inside, his wand in one hand and his goblin-silver dagger in the other, before he stepped fully within the shack. A moment passed in strained silence, and some of the tension coming through the link bled away.
All good so far, came his thoughts, and Lyra followed him within.
"Under the floorboards somewhere," she said, "but carefully."
James crouched low to the ground, crinkling his nose at the infestation of mold, and searched for any roughed-up floorboards. Which, frankly, was most of them.
Lyra was about to transform into her Animagus form, to better sniff out the location of the Horcrux, but James latched onto the thought and held up a hand.
"What if whatever kills those animals outside will affect you in your cat form?" he said.
Lyra hesitated. "We keep our human minds as animals... but... yeah, let's not."
Then she had to stop James as she heard the incantation in his head.
"Stop," she said, and he stilled. "No spells, not unless we need to."
"Right," James said. "The Ministry."
Thankfully for them, the shack itself was not particularly big: it had three separate rooms, two of them used as bedrooms and the last one being a living room and kitchen with a cracked ceramic stove.
James stared at it for a moment, and through their linked minds Lyra could feel a pull, a spark of curiosity.
"Hey," she said as James approached the oven and knelt down in front of it. "James —"
"Relax," he said, waving a hand.
Lyra quickly approached, putting her own hand on his shoulder, and peered into the oven. It was hard to make out in the dark. James used a long stick to carefully remove the object of his attention from the soot-lined oven.
A small snake statue... small enough to fit on the palm of her hand, carved from black stone.
An ouroboros — just like the sacrificed snakes outside, the serpent biting its own tail, trapping it within itself. While somewhat faded, the details were precise enough to be seen after all this time — the blind eyes, the scales, on each of which a different rune of unknown origin was carved. James poked it some more with the stick, brushing off the soot that covered it. There was nothing terrible about its appearance... and yet...
Lyra felt the hairs on her arms stand on end as she looked at it, though she couldn't understand why, and then the link between their minds seemed to shudder, as if ready to snap and send their minds careening into an abyss.
"I suppose I should've expected something like this," whispered James. "Hogwarts is only the family-friendly side of a fantasy world, I suppose."
"Put it away," said Lyra, disturbed. "That thing's not normal — not even for us."
James pulled out a golden box from the mokeskin pouch Lyra had gifted him and carefully settled the statue inside.
"You're going to keep that thing?" she hissed. "Was one mind-fucking artifact not enough for you?"
"I'm not going to mess with this," said James. "The sheer disgust this thing inspires in me will keep me away, if nothing else."
"Then why keep it at all?"
James stared at the statue, ancient and dark. "There are things out there worse than just evil wizards, I think," he said quietly. "And I think you know what I'm thinking about."
Lyra did. She had read hints of eldritch things in old tomes. Deep in the Malfoy library lay forbidden texts that whispered forgotten languages in the corners of her mind. There had always been a darker, more sinister side to the wizarding world, Lyra knew, things beyond simple evil. Dementors alone were evidence of this; wizards didn't even like to think about them.
What else lay out there, otherworldly and unnatural even for the magical world...
"Maybe I'll give this to the Unspeakables," said James. "Their purpose seems suited to studying this sort of thing."
As he closed the lid, the dread subsided considerably, and they sighed in relief.
"Christ," said James, sagging slightly. "Is this the kind of stuff they keep in the Department of Mysteries?"
"Probably — just look at the Veil and what that does to people," said Lyra. "C'mon. I don't want to be here any longer than I have to."
He nodded in reply, and they slowly made their way through the rubble. James entered one room and Lyra another — and she found herself immediately regretting it as the scent of a deeper rot invaded her nostrils. Perhaps that was why James had subtly avoided this room. Still, she searched, and found nothing.
Meanwhile, James searched what appeared to be Merope Gaunt's former room. A shattered bedframe and a bedside table missing two legs seemed to be all the furniture she truly had. A tattered straw doll was dressed in a faded dress. After a moment of contemplation, he picked it off the floor and propped it up against the lone surviving pillow, avoiding looking at the unnaturally wide, childish smile stitched onto its face, likely by Merope herself.
He searched beneath the bedframe and found a relatively undamaged yet loose floorboard. He peeled it back and found a small golden box, just the right size to fit a ring within. Before he could call to Lyra, she entered the room, having sensed his mixture of triumph and fear.
"I can feel it calling to me already," he said grimly. "Good thing I have practice fending off Dark Lords assaulting my mind." He idly slapped away Lyra's wandering hand. "Contain thyself."
Lyra looked at her own hand as if she had never seen it before. "I didn't even mean to do that..."
"I knew you were going to even if you didn't mean to though, so I think the mind-link works," said James. "I think we should just stab the thing straight through the box. Goblin-silver should be sharp enough to do just that."
James looked at his dagger for a moment, and pressed the tip against the surface of the box. He glanced at Lyra, who shrugged, and then pushed down with all his strength.
Metal parted like water. A loud snap signified the destruction of the ring, and a faint sizzling from the basilisk venom. A faint wailing like a banshee in the far distance could be heard — or perhaps that was a figment of a hyperactive imagination. Lyra and James looked at each other uncomfortably, until silence descended upon the abandoned building once more.
James sheared off the box lid with his dagger, before shaking out its contents. The Gaunt family ring fell out, sizzling. James flipped it over with the knife, and sliced it into tiny bits. The horcrux, and whatever curse was laid on it, was clearly destroyed.
"Just be careful," said Lyra, and she knew James could feel her tension. "It seems too easy."
"Yeah," James said quietly. He picked up a fragment of the ring, with no consequence. He began prying off the embedded stone using his dagger. The object fell into his palm, and he slipped it and the ruined gold box inside the mokeskin pouch.
Lyra sighed and rubbed her face with a hand. This trip had been short but exhausting. She shook her head and looked up —
And she screamed, a cry of such deep terror that it shook James to his bones — or maybe it was her own horror seeping into his mind — something was behind him, something was looming over his shoulder —
He spun around, scrambling backward with his wand in his hand, scanning the scene as best he could in the dark. But nothing was there. Merope's doll continued to sit innocuously on the bed. He let out a harsh breath of relief and turned back to Lyra, ready to kill her if she was making a joke.
"I saw something," said Lyra, her voice trembling as she too pointed a wand in the dark corner of the room. "I swear to fucking god I saw something, James."
He looked back and still saw nothing. But he believed her; the sheer terror he had felt through their link couldn't be faked, unless she had grown particularly proficient in Legilimency; and maybe she had, but a joke like this would be too far over the line, even for her.
"Let's get out of here," he said, standing upright. "Come on. It might've just been the Horcrux playing one last trick on us."
He pulled her along to the doorway, pushing her through as she continued to stare wide-eyed at the corner of the room. Once she was out, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and then he took one last glance behind him. His blood ran cold as it drained from his face.
In the corner stood a shadowed figure, a woman, her dark hair hanging as loose and limp as her head did. Her face was shrouded in hair and darkness, and the only visible stretch of skin he could see were her hands, the skin pale as her fingers twisted in all directions, utterly and horrifically broken. Something dripped onto the ground between her legs.
Lyra gripped his shoulder and pulled him back, staring too at the specter. Then confusion set in, bleeding through the link into his mind. Confusion turned to some sort of realization, followed by pity. James glanced back at her in question.
"Come on," she said quietly, pulling him out of the room. "Let's go. She won't hurt us."
"Do you think —?" he said, glancing back at the doorway, though the woman was no longer visible from his angle.
"Yeah, I think it's her," said Lyra, a rare sorrow in her voice.
"Christ," said James heavily as he exited the house.
When they were both outside and away from the shack, they took one last glance at it. Where the front door had been now stood the ghostly figure of the woman again, haunted in death by her family's cruelty. A breath of wind swept past them, as if a sigh of relief.
Some time later, down south where the evil of the Gaunts didn't haunt the very wind, James and Lyra walked through the streets around Grimmauld Place. Lyra never much liked wandering around London. It was so clearly 90s that it induced almost nothing but surreality and existential dread. She couldn't get it out of her head that she wasn't supposed to be here in this time.
"McDonald's?" said James, elbowing her and pointing to the restaurant set up in between two other shops. "Christ. I haven't had McDonald's since negative twenty-seven years ago."
"Why?" said Lyra, frowning.
"My new mum's a bit of a health nut."
"Hm. I brought my mum to one a few years ago. She hated it."
"And what about the rest of your family?" James asked, making his way toward the restaurant.
"Dad and Draco would've never even considered it," said Lyra. "I've only ever managed to turn their prejudice from active hatred to passive distaste. Dad doesn't even care that I'm spending so much of my summer at Grimmauld."
"I suppose McDonald's wouldn't actually help in that regard either," said James.
"Mum was still willing to try it, at least. She actually loves muggle movies, even if she hates to admit it."
"What's her favorite, then?" asked James. "Does she watch sappy rom-coms? Will she watch 50 Shades when it comes out?"
"I hope not," said Lyra, opening the restaurant door for him. "I hope I can get her into the Marvel movies or something."
The employees inside looked like they'd rather dunk their heads into the frying oil than serve two teenagers so early in the morning, so the two of them paid with a tenner and politely requested they keep the change for themselves. They found a secluded but well-lit area near the corner of the store, next to a large window looking out at the city slowly coming to life.
"A Big Mac meal for two pounds," said James later, when he had finished his meal. "Can you believe it?"
Lyra shrugged, her cheeks full with grease and cholesterol. "Dunno."
"Even considering inflation, that's still... Actually, I have no idea. But it's still gotta be less than it was in 2020, without considering shrinkflation on top of that." James hummed. "Have we got any other plans?"
Lyra swallowed her food. "We've got all the Horcruxes we can get. I still need to figure out what to do with the diadem, and we can only wait with the diary. Nagini doesn't exist. I'm having Dobby destroy Señor Riddle's bones."
"Señor Riddle," James repeated, trying to keep his face straight. "And I suppose Barty Crouch Jr. shouldn't be a problem without Pettigrew around."
"Unless Riddle fished around your head and found out about him," said Lyra, wiping her mouth with a napkin and giving him a pointed look. "Something needs to be done about him."
"I'm not sure how we could possibly bring down the Barty Crouch, though," said James. "If anything, canon understated how influential he is."
Lyra ran her tongue over her teeth, then gave a noncommittal jerk of her head. "I could probably convince Dobby to assassinate him."
"Crouch Jr. also has a house-elf watching him. I assume they'd cancel out."
"I'd put money down on Dobby," said Lyra, shrugging a shoulder and looking as though she was seriously offering a bet.
"Fair. He is very trigger-happy."
"I suppose we can get him at the Quidditch World Cup, if we want to risk a year." She sighed wearily. "I'm not even sure if Dumbledore would believe us. Maybe. But he'd also ask how the fuck we knew even if he did. And it's not like Amelia Bones can just raid Crouch's home without a warrant."
"It'll have to be the World Cup, then," said James. "I don't see any opportunity to snag Junior before that. You'd have to get me a top box ticket — for me, a notorious Quidditch-hater. We'll see how that plays out."
"Might just toss Crouch Jr. out of that top box," said Lyra.
"We could make it look like he was being affected by the Veela," said James, then he slightly grimaced. "God, I hope I don't make a fool of myself."
A smile slowly grew on Lyra's lips.
"What?" said James. "Thinking about meeting Fleur? Again," he muttered.
Lyra scrunched up her used napkin and threw it at him. "No, it's just been a while since I've done something like this," she said. "Junk food early in the morning after a night of fun."
"Fun," James sighed.
"Brings me back to my other birthdays." Lyra's lips twisted with a mixture of fondness and regret.
"I thought you didn't care for your birthdays?" said James.
"I don't now. It's just weird to celebrate a same birthday twice."
"Enjoy it while you can. Personally, I felt watching Terminator 2: Judgment Day in a proper theater was fucking amazing."
"I can't wait til Lord of the Rings comes out in theaters again," said Lyra. "If only I could've been born a bit earlier — I would have prolonged Tolkien's life."
James smiled. "That's nice."
"Would've locked him up in my basement to forever write new material."
"It's okay, you still have an opportunity to do that with George R.R. Martin."
"At the very least, I can't allow season eight to happen again."
"Do you reckon they'll let me audition for Ned Stark?"
Lyra laughed, imagining goofy James Stark as Ned.
"You would actually make a half-decent Daenerys," said James. "You have the right hair color, at least. You just need colored contacts."
"Self-Transfiguration — I'll pretend it's natural. They'll have to hire me."
"Use the Flame-Freezing Charm and set yourself on fire to prove you're a Targaryen," said James. "It'll be hilarious. I'll get myself beheaded as well."
Lyra laughed again, this time louder.
They both lapsed into pleasant silence for a moment. There was only the sound of a car passing by outside, and the two employees chatting to themselves in the back. A moment of surreality hit her again, with the 90s aesthetic and all this talk.
"What if we get tossed into that universe next?" said Lyra casually. "Wanna fuck up Westeros together?"
"Only if we get to keep our magic," said James, shuddering. "The life expectancy of even the nobility there is not something to be admired. If we do, though, maybe I'll crown myself God-King of Beyond the Wall, build Barad-dûr on the Fist of the First Men, pervert Luna into a sex-crazed caricature of herself and commit a genocide or two."
"Barad-dûr..." said Lyra idly, pointedly ignoring all that. "Now that'd be a nice place to retire."
"Careful you don't cut yourself on that edge."
"No," chuckled Lyra. "I mean Middle-earth. The Shire, Rohan, Rivendell, Lothlórien... Man, that'd be amazing — if we kept our magic, at least."
James snorted. "That's a given."
"Mm," said Lyra, looking around the restaurant and out the windows. "I've been thinking, we should get Harry a birthday present."
"Like what?" said James, before pausing thoughtfully. "Considering his relatives, I think good clothes might be a good idea."
"Yeah. He's outgrown most of his clothes, it looks like. And he has no sense of fashion, although that's probably not his fault." Lyra glanced at James. "You, though, have no excuse."
"I dress fine," James grumbled.
"On the few occasions you deign to put effort into your look, maybe." She reached over and plucked at James' sleeve. "What do you call this?"
"You can't wear anything other than a tactical turtleneck when you're on a covert mission," said James. "The tactleneck, if you will."
"And cargo pants," said Lyra, trying to hold back a grimace.
"Stark," he said, his voice purposely gravelly. "James Stark."
The grimace came out fully.
"Speaking of presents," said James, "you ever get Lucius to buy you that Firebolt?"
"No," snorted Lyra. "Bastard says I've spent too much of his galleons. As if. He'd be repaying his debt to society by buying me it, you know."
"What, by terrorizing the other players even more on the Quidditch pitch?"
"It's not my fault I'm the best player in Hogwarts."
A sly grin crept up on James' face and Lyra eyed him warily.
"You know, Harry's getting closer and closer to beating you with every game —"
"Shut up."
"It's only a matter of time!" said James. "Especially since Sirius was hinting that he'd ordered a Firebolt for him. But at least you kept Draco off the team. How's he doing anyway?"
Lyra shrugged. "Same old. Tamer than he was in the books, still an asshole."
"I'm surprised he didn't end up worse with your influence," said James. "I was expecting him to be an unholy cross of a trust fund baby and a zoomer."
"I'm not that bad," Lyra protested. James' raised eyebrow told her what he thought of that statement.
"How rich are the Malfoys, anyway?"
"Armand Malfoy was William the Conqueror's favored court wizard," Lyra said. "The Malfoys have been close with English kings and queens up until the Statute. How rich do you think we are?"
"Fair enough."
"Meanwhile, you were born a filthy muggle-born," Lyra said, turning her nose up at him. "Compared to us, you're practically a peasant."
"Not for long," James said. "We're not exactly poor, by any means, and I've already invested in companies I know are going to make it big, convinced my parents to as well. Apple, Microsoft, and in a couple of years, I'll invest in Amazon and Google. I've turned the rest of my cash into precious metals so it doesn't lose value through inflation."
"If you're so confident you'll make it rich, you can be my treasurer for my world conquest."
"Oh, hush," said James. "You'd be doing the world a favor if you tore down old class barriers by redistributing Malfoy wealth instead."
"It would certainly be better than what ol' Dad is doing now," she said. "He collects dark artifacts like other people collect stamps or coins. It's not really as if he even uses them."
"Everyone needs a hobby, I guess," said James. "Besides, you're hardly one to complain about your dad collecting trophies."
"Unlike Lucius, I plan to actually use the Philosopher's Stone," said Lyra. "If I could figure out how."
"If you can figure it out," said James. "Will you ever?"
Lyra gave him a dirty look. "Of course I will."
James looked down at his soda cup. "All plastic," he muttered, setting it on the edge of the table. "The plastic problem was going to be a thing in the future, wasn't it? Well, it already is, but it's going to get even worse."
"Yeah," said Lyra, staring at the cup as James pointed his finger at it. "What are you doing?"
"Trying to wandlessly vanish it," said James. "No traces of microplastics left if I vanish it, yes?"
"Show off."
James narrowed his eyes at the cup, as if that would do anything. He waggled his fingers with malicious intent, but nothing happened.
"You're an idiot."
"Professor Vector doesn't think so," said James. "She thinks I'm Merlin come again."
"And Snape thinks you're the Antichrist."
James snorted.
"Honestly, that man," said James. "Which is more likely: that every Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff is a spawn of Satan — or that Snape himself is the arsehole?"
"Who cares — I've dealt with worse online. Some of the reviewers on my stories were real dipshits."
"And worse writers," added James, and blinked. Lyra turned to look at the plastic cup, half of which had simply disappeared as if it had been sheared off with a laser. Half-melted ice cubes spilled out from the gaping wound and all over the table.
"Terrible effort, really," said Lyra.
"I would call this half a success," said James. He ran his fingers through the space the cup had occupied until a moment ago, finding no resistance. "Yeah... I can be pretty amazing, can't I?"
"Oh, yeah. If Vector were here right now she'd be a literal fountain."
"Vector is not in love with me," said James. "If she was, she'd have said so. She's a very straightforward woman. I always liked that about her."
"Are you in love with Vector?"
"If I were born thirty years earlier, then maybe," he said. "Have you seen her Head Girl photos? You'd like her too. She looked kind of like Keira Knightly, no joke."
Lyra raised an eyebrow.
"And what does she look like now?"
"A slightly older Keira Knightly who let herself go a bit."
Lyra handed him her trash. "Vanish this, then yourself."
James placed it next to the semi-vanished cup and wiggled his fingers above them. Lyra wanted to sigh at his idiocy, if it weren't for the fact that he had been successful before, even if only partially.
"We might as well get our shopping done today," said James, focusing on the rubbish. "Do you know Harry's sizes?"
"I can guess, and if we accidentally buy a size bigger, well, he'll grow into them," said Lyra. "He's been growing like a weed these past few years."
James snapped his fingers in triumph and Lyra turned to look. The only evidence that the McDonald's waste was ever there was a slightly damp puddle from where the ice had melted. Lyra whistled lowly while James grinned.
"God, I'm good."
"Your turn," said Lyra. "Erase yourself from existence. I dare you."
"Nah. I don't want to accidentally only vanish half of myself like I did that cup," said James, and shuddered. "Let's go, in case the Ministry shows up."
They stood up, finished with their meal and blatant disregard of the Statute just as a few early-rising construction workers came in to order coffees. They stepped outside; the sun had risen high enough that they could feel its warmth for the first time this morning.
"Do you want to watch me fly to the Tower of London and sing God Save the Queen?" said James.
"And have you make the local paper again? Please stop bringing attention to yourself."
"They really liked my performance," he said. "You read that article, right? They used words like 'adorable' and 'highly talented.' Nobody's ever called me that while I'm in human form."
"Not true," said Lyra, pulling him along to a clothing shop. "Tonks said you were cute and magically impressive."
"Really," said James. "Is this one of those things where you tell me someone said something they didn't so I go and do something about it only for me to humiliate myself?"
James grumbled and buried himself deeper into his blankets. How he could wear three layers in the height of summer was beyond Lyra. Maybe it was a comfort thing, a way of coping. He still hadn't forgiven himself for his fuck-up with the Horcrux. Speaking of —
Lyra slowly lowered the locket onto the exposed part of his face, letting the unnaturally cold metal do its work. He brushed her hand and the locket away, and his eyes cracked open blearily as he attempted to focus on her.
"What?" he murmured.
"Look what I've got," she said quietly, dangling the locket above his head. "Got it just after the meeting. Kreacher loves me now. I even got him to shut that portrait up. Sirius kept wondering why it wasn't screaming every time someone made a loud noise, ha."
James hummed appreciatively and then promptly went back to sleep. Lyra grabbed him by the shoulders and jostled him until he was lucid enough to smack her hands and try to glare at her, though the effect was a little lessened by the fact that his eyelids could barely keep themselves up.
"What do you want?" he whispered, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.
"You usually wake up early," said Lyra. "Though it baffles me why. What's the deal now?"
"I wake up at five-thirty early, not" — he fumbled for his watch — "three-in-the-morning early." He glanced at Fred and George, who were still sleeping on the other end of the room.
"Don't worry, I killed them," said Lyra, shoving the pocket back into her mokeskin pouch, which she in turn shoved into her enchanted jeans pocket.
"Oh..."
"Come on." Lyra snapped her fingers at him. "Do you want to come with me to Little Hangleton?"
"Little Hangleton?" he said sleepily, sitting up in bed. "Why do you need me?"
"The ring, man," said Lyra. "I'm going to fetch it. And, you know, it might kill me. I checked out the Gaunt shack a few days ago."
James stared at her, looking wholly unimpressed and maybe a little miffed.
"You've fetched the locket and went to the Gaunt shack?" he said. "Why don't you ever tell me all the shit going on inside your head?"
"I don't think you want to know everything going on up there."
This time James really did glare. "I meant regarding this stuff!" He rubbed his eyes again and swung his feet off the bed. "For once, I'd like to be tuned in to the barely-functioning cogs working inside your addled mind."
Lyra shrugged as she took a step back to allow room for him to stand up. "Well, you'll be really tuned in soon. Besides, I thought you deserved a bit of a break."
"Oh, so being in the know is too much but going to the place that killed Dumbledore is quite all right?"
"You don't have to come at all," said Lyra, watching as he gathered a ragtag collection of clothes from his trunk or from the floor.
"I'm coming," said James, heading for the door. "Just let me shower first." Then he paused and turned back. "What do you mean I'll be really tuned in soon?"
~~~~~
There was only one light visible in Little Hangleton as they came upon it. The small village rested between two steep hills. On one of them sat the Riddle House. Down its slope was the graveyard, and beside it the small cottage with a little light. Frank Bryce, no doubt.
Lyra hung in the cold morning sky, feet dangling off her Nimbus as she watched the village below, waiting for James to catch up. It would never not be surreal, seeing these fictional places in reality. She could go and talk to Frank Byrce right now if she wanted, the old man who Voldemort had so callously murdered. Or she could set the Riddle House ablaze.
The sound of a raven's caw broke the silence, and James darted by Lyra's head as he dove straight down, swooping low and skimming the grass of the valley. She rushed after him, the two shooting past Frank Bryce's home, past the graveyard, and up and around the hill the Riddle House was built upon, until at last they came to slow before the woods. James morphed back into human form as he landed, kicking up a bit of dust. Lyra landed more softly and put her broom in a pocket.
It was dark out, and the moon illuminated little. In front of them was the forest the Gaunt Shack was nestled in, and a narrow dirt path lay feet from them. They turned their heads slowly, following with their eyes the trail that led to Dumbledore's doom. It eventually disappeared into wild hedges and crooked trees.
"This place is terrifying," said James. "Once we're out of here, I'm going to write a creepypasta about it."
It was his way of making light of the situation, but Lyra knew he was just as disturbed as her; she had entangled their minds back at Grimmauld, where the presence of adults stopped the Ministry from properly detecting underage magic. Here, though, in this wizardless valley, they would know. It was only a question of how quickly they'd come to investigate.
Now, Lyra could loosely hear and feel James' thoughts, and vice versa. She figured (hoped) it would serve a layer of protection against the magic that had caused Dumbledore to so foolishly put on that cursed Ring. Maybe two minds linked together would withstand its effects. Or maybe they'd both die anyway, being pierced by the malevolent trees' branches, eaten alive by nameless things, swallowed whole by the house itself to never be seen again in the day of light —
"Stop thinking about all the horrible ways we can die," she snapped.
"You never go into the creepy forest, Lyra, especially not at night," said James. "The best way of staying alive is to sit in your cabin, ignoring all the footsteps, the animal noises, and scratching sounds outside, and pray to a god you don't believe in that the sun rises soon."
"Maybe I should have taken my mother," murmured Lyra, struggling to take a first step on the jagged path.
"I'm sure your mother has lost friends and relatives, from the previous war and all that," said James. "She'd be more susceptible to the Stone than I am." He glanced at her. "You haven't —"
"No," said Lyra, hearing the thought before he spoke. "There's no one dead I'd particularly want to see."
"That's reassuring," said James. "Remember, the people you miss aren't dead — in fact, they may not even be born yet, meaning the Resurrection Stone is useless for us."
It sounded to Lyra like he was saying that as much for himself as for her.
Lyra closed her eyes and sighed. All these years flaunting about her skill, and here she was too frightened to make a move toward that waiting shack in the woods.
"We can hold hands, if that helps," said James, only slightly teasing.
"If something swallows you whole, you're not taking my hand with you."
"Fine," said James, before gesturing elaborately. "Ladies first?"
Whatever. She threw her fears into the back of her mind and followed the path. One thing comforted her: it wasn't likely any of Riddle's protections would be set outside the shack; he wouldn't have wanted any muggles to be cursed or killed and for the Ministry to come snooping.
As they ventured into the woods, the vegetation became more, indeed, gaunt: twisting, spiralling towards the sky, the canopy thick enough to blot out the moon. The sound of chirping insects faded away into nothing with alarming suddenness.
"I don't like this," James said. "But I don't know if those are my actual feelings or if I'm being affected by some spell."
Lyra said nothing as she pushed through the foliage. It was nearly pitch-black here, and if she hadn't been a cat Animagus, giving her the ability to see in the dark when she wished, she knew she'd see nothing.
Then she stopped as she saw the shack, and James stopped too, before he saw it — because he knew she had seen it.
The Gaunt shack could barely be called a ruin, for that implied some measure of previous worth, or at least a subtle charm. No, the Gaunt shack was merely a wreck. Only the stone foundations stood steady, while a heavy branch falling from a tree had caved in a portion of the roof. The walls themselves were close to collapse, the surfaces peeling away to rot, and it was only the support of twisting vines and the adolescent tree growing through one wall that kept it upright.
"Jesus Christ," James said, recoiling in shock and disgust.
"What?"
"Don't you smell it?"
Lyra sniffed, and caught the faintest traces of iron in the air, growing stronger with each step forward. Blood, then, quite old. James' senses had seemed keener ever since attaining his Animagus form, reflecting Lyra's own experiences.
"Oh, that's just lovely," said James.
Lyra followed his line of sight. The object of his attention was the carcass of a common grass snake, one unnervingly recent. Hanging over the doorknob, perhaps the only piece of the shack that wasn't yet made completely useless with decay, the snake was gorging on its own tail in some twisted self-sacrifice, its body withered after death.
"Look," said James, gesturing. More snakes, these much older judging by the state they were in, but they too had died choking on their own tails. It seemed like they'd starved to death, consuming themselves in their own hunger, despite the small mountain of once-perfectly edible animal carcasses piled around the Gaunt shack. Rodents, birds, and amphibians were left untouched despite their death.
"Some spell over the area, I'm guessing," said Lyra, squatting down before the nearest carcass and staring at it. The whole scene was disturbing.
"What now?" said James.
"I'll go first," said Lyra, standing back up. "If there's some spell of compulsion, one that leads to" — she gestured at the dead animals — "that, then you pull me out."
"No," said James stiffly. "Let me."
Lyra frowned, then. "What if our mind-link just makes me do the same thing here?"
"What, begin eating your own feet?"
"What a shitty way to die."
They stood there for a moment, and then James carefully stepped over the rotting carcasses of the small animals. Lyra felt nothing on her side of the link.
Slowly, James nudged open the door with his foot, unwilling to touch it. The door creaked and shuddered, eventually falling off its hinges entirely, crashing into the mold-covered floor. James cringed as he looked back at her. Lyra made her way slowly to him, her wand held steady, wondering if something would burst from the ground at them, or from the tree branches, or from within the house itself —
"Focus," hissed James.
She grimaced. "Sorry."
As she stood some feet away from him, James carefully peered inside, his wand in one hand and his goblin-silver dagger in the other, before he stepped fully within the shack. A moment passed in strained silence, and some of the tension coming through the link bled away.
All good so far, came his thoughts, and Lyra followed him within.
"Under the floorboards somewhere," she said, "but carefully."
James crouched low to the ground, crinkling his nose at the infestation of mold, and searched for any roughed-up floorboards. Which, frankly, was most of them.
Lyra was about to transform into her Animagus form, to better sniff out the location of the Horcrux, but James latched onto the thought and held up a hand.
"What if whatever kills those animals outside will affect you in your cat form?" he said.
Lyra hesitated. "We keep our human minds as animals... but... yeah, let's not."
Then she had to stop James as she heard the incantation in his head.
"Stop," she said, and he stilled. "No spells, not unless we need to."
"Right," James said. "The Ministry."
Thankfully for them, the shack itself was not particularly big: it had three separate rooms, two of them used as bedrooms and the last one being a living room and kitchen with a cracked ceramic stove.
James stared at it for a moment, and through their linked minds Lyra could feel a pull, a spark of curiosity.
"Hey," she said as James approached the oven and knelt down in front of it. "James —"
"Relax," he said, waving a hand.
Lyra quickly approached, putting her own hand on his shoulder, and peered into the oven. It was hard to make out in the dark. James used a long stick to carefully remove the object of his attention from the soot-lined oven.
A small snake statue... small enough to fit on the palm of her hand, carved from black stone.
An ouroboros — just like the sacrificed snakes outside, the serpent biting its own tail, trapping it within itself. While somewhat faded, the details were precise enough to be seen after all this time — the blind eyes, the scales, on each of which a different rune of unknown origin was carved. James poked it some more with the stick, brushing off the soot that covered it. There was nothing terrible about its appearance... and yet...
Lyra felt the hairs on her arms stand on end as she looked at it, though she couldn't understand why, and then the link between their minds seemed to shudder, as if ready to snap and send their minds careening into an abyss.
"I suppose I should've expected something like this," whispered James. "Hogwarts is only the family-friendly side of a fantasy world, I suppose."
"Put it away," said Lyra, disturbed. "That thing's not normal — not even for us."
James pulled out a golden box from the mokeskin pouch Lyra had gifted him and carefully settled the statue inside.
"You're going to keep that thing?" she hissed. "Was one mind-fucking artifact not enough for you?"
"I'm not going to mess with this," said James. "The sheer disgust this thing inspires in me will keep me away, if nothing else."
"Then why keep it at all?"
James stared at the statue, ancient and dark. "There are things out there worse than just evil wizards, I think," he said quietly. "And I think you know what I'm thinking about."
Lyra did. She had read hints of eldritch things in old tomes. Deep in the Malfoy library lay forbidden texts that whispered forgotten languages in the corners of her mind. There had always been a darker, more sinister side to the wizarding world, Lyra knew, things beyond simple evil. Dementors alone were evidence of this; wizards didn't even like to think about them.
What else lay out there, otherworldly and unnatural even for the magical world...
"Maybe I'll give this to the Unspeakables," said James. "Their purpose seems suited to studying this sort of thing."
As he closed the lid, the dread subsided considerably, and they sighed in relief.
"Christ," said James, sagging slightly. "Is this the kind of stuff they keep in the Department of Mysteries?"
"Probably — just look at the Veil and what that does to people," said Lyra. "C'mon. I don't want to be here any longer than I have to."
He nodded in reply, and they slowly made their way through the rubble. James entered one room and Lyra another — and she found herself immediately regretting it as the scent of a deeper rot invaded her nostrils. Perhaps that was why James had subtly avoided this room. Still, she searched, and found nothing.
Meanwhile, James searched what appeared to be Merope Gaunt's former room. A shattered bedframe and a bedside table missing two legs seemed to be all the furniture she truly had. A tattered straw doll was dressed in a faded dress. After a moment of contemplation, he picked it off the floor and propped it up against the lone surviving pillow, avoiding looking at the unnaturally wide, childish smile stitched onto its face, likely by Merope herself.
He searched beneath the bedframe and found a relatively undamaged yet loose floorboard. He peeled it back and found a small golden box, just the right size to fit a ring within. Before he could call to Lyra, she entered the room, having sensed his mixture of triumph and fear.
"I can feel it calling to me already," he said grimly. "Good thing I have practice fending off Dark Lords assaulting my mind." He idly slapped away Lyra's wandering hand. "Contain thyself."
Lyra looked at her own hand as if she had never seen it before. "I didn't even mean to do that..."
"I knew you were going to even if you didn't mean to though, so I think the mind-link works," said James. "I think we should just stab the thing straight through the box. Goblin-silver should be sharp enough to do just that."
James looked at his dagger for a moment, and pressed the tip against the surface of the box. He glanced at Lyra, who shrugged, and then pushed down with all his strength.
Metal parted like water. A loud snap signified the destruction of the ring, and a faint sizzling from the basilisk venom. A faint wailing like a banshee in the far distance could be heard — or perhaps that was a figment of a hyperactive imagination. Lyra and James looked at each other uncomfortably, until silence descended upon the abandoned building once more.
James sheared off the box lid with his dagger, before shaking out its contents. The Gaunt family ring fell out, sizzling. James flipped it over with the knife, and sliced it into tiny bits. The horcrux, and whatever curse was laid on it, was clearly destroyed.
"Just be careful," said Lyra, and she knew James could feel her tension. "It seems too easy."
"Yeah," James said quietly. He picked up a fragment of the ring, with no consequence. He began prying off the embedded stone using his dagger. The object fell into his palm, and he slipped it and the ruined gold box inside the mokeskin pouch.
Lyra sighed and rubbed her face with a hand. This trip had been short but exhausting. She shook her head and looked up —
And she screamed, a cry of such deep terror that it shook James to his bones — or maybe it was her own horror seeping into his mind — something was behind him, something was looming over his shoulder —
He spun around, scrambling backward with his wand in his hand, scanning the scene as best he could in the dark. But nothing was there. Merope's doll continued to sit innocuously on the bed. He let out a harsh breath of relief and turned back to Lyra, ready to kill her if she was making a joke.
"I saw something," said Lyra, her voice trembling as she too pointed a wand in the dark corner of the room. "I swear to fucking god I saw something, James."
He looked back and still saw nothing. But he believed her; the sheer terror he had felt through their link couldn't be faked, unless she had grown particularly proficient in Legilimency; and maybe she had, but a joke like this would be too far over the line, even for her.
"Let's get out of here," he said, standing upright. "Come on. It might've just been the Horcrux playing one last trick on us."
He pulled her along to the doorway, pushing her through as she continued to stare wide-eyed at the corner of the room. Once she was out, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and then he took one last glance behind him. His blood ran cold as it drained from his face.
In the corner stood a shadowed figure, a woman, her dark hair hanging as loose and limp as her head did. Her face was shrouded in hair and darkness, and the only visible stretch of skin he could see were her hands, the skin pale as her fingers twisted in all directions, utterly and horrifically broken. Something dripped onto the ground between her legs.
Lyra gripped his shoulder and pulled him back, staring too at the specter. Then confusion set in, bleeding through the link into his mind. Confusion turned to some sort of realization, followed by pity. James glanced back at her in question.
"Come on," she said quietly, pulling him out of the room. "Let's go. She won't hurt us."
"Do you think —?" he said, glancing back at the doorway, though the woman was no longer visible from his angle.
"Yeah, I think it's her," said Lyra, a rare sorrow in her voice.
"Christ," said James heavily as he exited the house.
When they were both outside and away from the shack, they took one last glance at it. Where the front door had been now stood the ghostly figure of the woman again, haunted in death by her family's cruelty. A breath of wind swept past them, as if a sigh of relief.
~~~~~
Some time later, down south where the evil of the Gaunts didn't haunt the very wind, James and Lyra walked through the streets around Grimmauld Place. Lyra never much liked wandering around London. It was so clearly 90s that it induced almost nothing but surreality and existential dread. She couldn't get it out of her head that she wasn't supposed to be here in this time.
"McDonald's?" said James, elbowing her and pointing to the restaurant set up in between two other shops. "Christ. I haven't had McDonald's since negative twenty-seven years ago."
"Why?" said Lyra, frowning.
"My new mum's a bit of a health nut."
"Hm. I brought my mum to one a few years ago. She hated it."
"And what about the rest of your family?" James asked, making his way toward the restaurant.
"Dad and Draco would've never even considered it," said Lyra. "I've only ever managed to turn their prejudice from active hatred to passive distaste. Dad doesn't even care that I'm spending so much of my summer at Grimmauld."
"I suppose McDonald's wouldn't actually help in that regard either," said James.
"Mum was still willing to try it, at least. She actually loves muggle movies, even if she hates to admit it."
"What's her favorite, then?" asked James. "Does she watch sappy rom-coms? Will she watch 50 Shades when it comes out?"
"I hope not," said Lyra, opening the restaurant door for him. "I hope I can get her into the Marvel movies or something."
The employees inside looked like they'd rather dunk their heads into the frying oil than serve two teenagers so early in the morning, so the two of them paid with a tenner and politely requested they keep the change for themselves. They found a secluded but well-lit area near the corner of the store, next to a large window looking out at the city slowly coming to life.
"A Big Mac meal for two pounds," said James later, when he had finished his meal. "Can you believe it?"
Lyra shrugged, her cheeks full with grease and cholesterol. "Dunno."
"Even considering inflation, that's still... Actually, I have no idea. But it's still gotta be less than it was in 2020, without considering shrinkflation on top of that." James hummed. "Have we got any other plans?"
Lyra swallowed her food. "We've got all the Horcruxes we can get. I still need to figure out what to do with the diadem, and we can only wait with the diary. Nagini doesn't exist. I'm having Dobby destroy Señor Riddle's bones."
"Señor Riddle," James repeated, trying to keep his face straight. "And I suppose Barty Crouch Jr. shouldn't be a problem without Pettigrew around."
"Unless Riddle fished around your head and found out about him," said Lyra, wiping her mouth with a napkin and giving him a pointed look. "Something needs to be done about him."
"I'm not sure how we could possibly bring down the Barty Crouch, though," said James. "If anything, canon understated how influential he is."
Lyra ran her tongue over her teeth, then gave a noncommittal jerk of her head. "I could probably convince Dobby to assassinate him."
"Crouch Jr. also has a house-elf watching him. I assume they'd cancel out."
"I'd put money down on Dobby," said Lyra, shrugging a shoulder and looking as though she was seriously offering a bet.
"Fair. He is very trigger-happy."
"I suppose we can get him at the Quidditch World Cup, if we want to risk a year." She sighed wearily. "I'm not even sure if Dumbledore would believe us. Maybe. But he'd also ask how the fuck we knew even if he did. And it's not like Amelia Bones can just raid Crouch's home without a warrant."
"It'll have to be the World Cup, then," said James. "I don't see any opportunity to snag Junior before that. You'd have to get me a top box ticket — for me, a notorious Quidditch-hater. We'll see how that plays out."
"Might just toss Crouch Jr. out of that top box," said Lyra.
"We could make it look like he was being affected by the Veela," said James, then he slightly grimaced. "God, I hope I don't make a fool of myself."
A smile slowly grew on Lyra's lips.
"What?" said James. "Thinking about meeting Fleur? Again," he muttered.
Lyra scrunched up her used napkin and threw it at him. "No, it's just been a while since I've done something like this," she said. "Junk food early in the morning after a night of fun."
"Fun," James sighed.
"Brings me back to my other birthdays." Lyra's lips twisted with a mixture of fondness and regret.
"I thought you didn't care for your birthdays?" said James.
"I don't now. It's just weird to celebrate a same birthday twice."
"Enjoy it while you can. Personally, I felt watching Terminator 2: Judgment Day in a proper theater was fucking amazing."
"I can't wait til Lord of the Rings comes out in theaters again," said Lyra. "If only I could've been born a bit earlier — I would have prolonged Tolkien's life."
James smiled. "That's nice."
"Would've locked him up in my basement to forever write new material."
"It's okay, you still have an opportunity to do that with George R.R. Martin."
"At the very least, I can't allow season eight to happen again."
"Do you reckon they'll let me audition for Ned Stark?"
Lyra laughed, imagining goofy James Stark as Ned.
"You would actually make a half-decent Daenerys," said James. "You have the right hair color, at least. You just need colored contacts."
"Self-Transfiguration — I'll pretend it's natural. They'll have to hire me."
"Use the Flame-Freezing Charm and set yourself on fire to prove you're a Targaryen," said James. "It'll be hilarious. I'll get myself beheaded as well."
Lyra laughed again, this time louder.
They both lapsed into pleasant silence for a moment. There was only the sound of a car passing by outside, and the two employees chatting to themselves in the back. A moment of surreality hit her again, with the 90s aesthetic and all this talk.
"What if we get tossed into that universe next?" said Lyra casually. "Wanna fuck up Westeros together?"
"Only if we get to keep our magic," said James, shuddering. "The life expectancy of even the nobility there is not something to be admired. If we do, though, maybe I'll crown myself God-King of Beyond the Wall, build Barad-dûr on the Fist of the First Men, pervert Luna into a sex-crazed caricature of herself and commit a genocide or two."
"Barad-dûr..." said Lyra idly, pointedly ignoring all that. "Now that'd be a nice place to retire."
"Careful you don't cut yourself on that edge."
"No," chuckled Lyra. "I mean Middle-earth. The Shire, Rohan, Rivendell, Lothlórien... Man, that'd be amazing — if we kept our magic, at least."
James snorted. "That's a given."
"Mm," said Lyra, looking around the restaurant and out the windows. "I've been thinking, we should get Harry a birthday present."
"Like what?" said James, before pausing thoughtfully. "Considering his relatives, I think good clothes might be a good idea."
"Yeah. He's outgrown most of his clothes, it looks like. And he has no sense of fashion, although that's probably not his fault." Lyra glanced at James. "You, though, have no excuse."
"I dress fine," James grumbled.
"On the few occasions you deign to put effort into your look, maybe." She reached over and plucked at James' sleeve. "What do you call this?"
"You can't wear anything other than a tactical turtleneck when you're on a covert mission," said James. "The tactleneck, if you will."
"And cargo pants," said Lyra, trying to hold back a grimace.
"Stark," he said, his voice purposely gravelly. "James Stark."
The grimace came out fully.
"Speaking of presents," said James, "you ever get Lucius to buy you that Firebolt?"
"No," snorted Lyra. "Bastard says I've spent too much of his galleons. As if. He'd be repaying his debt to society by buying me it, you know."
"What, by terrorizing the other players even more on the Quidditch pitch?"
"It's not my fault I'm the best player in Hogwarts."
A sly grin crept up on James' face and Lyra eyed him warily.
"You know, Harry's getting closer and closer to beating you with every game —"
"Shut up."
"It's only a matter of time!" said James. "Especially since Sirius was hinting that he'd ordered a Firebolt for him. But at least you kept Draco off the team. How's he doing anyway?"
Lyra shrugged. "Same old. Tamer than he was in the books, still an asshole."
"I'm surprised he didn't end up worse with your influence," said James. "I was expecting him to be an unholy cross of a trust fund baby and a zoomer."
"I'm not that bad," Lyra protested. James' raised eyebrow told her what he thought of that statement.
"How rich are the Malfoys, anyway?"
"Armand Malfoy was William the Conqueror's favored court wizard," Lyra said. "The Malfoys have been close with English kings and queens up until the Statute. How rich do you think we are?"
"Fair enough."
"Meanwhile, you were born a filthy muggle-born," Lyra said, turning her nose up at him. "Compared to us, you're practically a peasant."
"Not for long," James said. "We're not exactly poor, by any means, and I've already invested in companies I know are going to make it big, convinced my parents to as well. Apple, Microsoft, and in a couple of years, I'll invest in Amazon and Google. I've turned the rest of my cash into precious metals so it doesn't lose value through inflation."
"If you're so confident you'll make it rich, you can be my treasurer for my world conquest."
"Oh, hush," said James. "You'd be doing the world a favor if you tore down old class barriers by redistributing Malfoy wealth instead."
"It would certainly be better than what ol' Dad is doing now," she said. "He collects dark artifacts like other people collect stamps or coins. It's not really as if he even uses them."
"Everyone needs a hobby, I guess," said James. "Besides, you're hardly one to complain about your dad collecting trophies."
"Unlike Lucius, I plan to actually use the Philosopher's Stone," said Lyra. "If I could figure out how."
"If you can figure it out," said James. "Will you ever?"
Lyra gave him a dirty look. "Of course I will."
James looked down at his soda cup. "All plastic," he muttered, setting it on the edge of the table. "The plastic problem was going to be a thing in the future, wasn't it? Well, it already is, but it's going to get even worse."
"Yeah," said Lyra, staring at the cup as James pointed his finger at it. "What are you doing?"
"Trying to wandlessly vanish it," said James. "No traces of microplastics left if I vanish it, yes?"
"Show off."
James narrowed his eyes at the cup, as if that would do anything. He waggled his fingers with malicious intent, but nothing happened.
"You're an idiot."
"Professor Vector doesn't think so," said James. "She thinks I'm Merlin come again."
"And Snape thinks you're the Antichrist."
James snorted.
"Honestly, that man," said James. "Which is more likely: that every Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff is a spawn of Satan — or that Snape himself is the arsehole?"
"Who cares — I've dealt with worse online. Some of the reviewers on my stories were real dipshits."
"And worse writers," added James, and blinked. Lyra turned to look at the plastic cup, half of which had simply disappeared as if it had been sheared off with a laser. Half-melted ice cubes spilled out from the gaping wound and all over the table.
"Terrible effort, really," said Lyra.
"I would call this half a success," said James. He ran his fingers through the space the cup had occupied until a moment ago, finding no resistance. "Yeah... I can be pretty amazing, can't I?"
"Oh, yeah. If Vector were here right now she'd be a literal fountain."
"Vector is not in love with me," said James. "If she was, she'd have said so. She's a very straightforward woman. I always liked that about her."
"Are you in love with Vector?"
"If I were born thirty years earlier, then maybe," he said. "Have you seen her Head Girl photos? You'd like her too. She looked kind of like Keira Knightly, no joke."
Lyra raised an eyebrow.
"And what does she look like now?"
"A slightly older Keira Knightly who let herself go a bit."
Lyra handed him her trash. "Vanish this, then yourself."
James placed it next to the semi-vanished cup and wiggled his fingers above them. Lyra wanted to sigh at his idiocy, if it weren't for the fact that he had been successful before, even if only partially.
"We might as well get our shopping done today," said James, focusing on the rubbish. "Do you know Harry's sizes?"
"I can guess, and if we accidentally buy a size bigger, well, he'll grow into them," said Lyra. "He's been growing like a weed these past few years."
James snapped his fingers in triumph and Lyra turned to look. The only evidence that the McDonald's waste was ever there was a slightly damp puddle from where the ice had melted. Lyra whistled lowly while James grinned.
"God, I'm good."
"Your turn," said Lyra. "Erase yourself from existence. I dare you."
"Nah. I don't want to accidentally only vanish half of myself like I did that cup," said James, and shuddered. "Let's go, in case the Ministry shows up."
They stood up, finished with their meal and blatant disregard of the Statute just as a few early-rising construction workers came in to order coffees. They stepped outside; the sun had risen high enough that they could feel its warmth for the first time this morning.
"Do you want to watch me fly to the Tower of London and sing God Save the Queen?" said James.
"And have you make the local paper again? Please stop bringing attention to yourself."
"They really liked my performance," he said. "You read that article, right? They used words like 'adorable' and 'highly talented.' Nobody's ever called me that while I'm in human form."
"Not true," said Lyra, pulling him along to a clothing shop. "Tonks said you were cute and magically impressive."
"Really," said James. "Is this one of those things where you tell me someone said something they didn't so I go and do something about it only for me to humiliate myself?"
He's still alive here! Cure his amyloidosis and we won't have to deal with Brandon Sanderson trying to figure out which way is up!
