July 31st.
James looked around the manor grounds, taking in the chaotic sight before him. The entire lawn was practically brimming with guests, filled with laughter, loud chatter, and dozens of children running wild across the grass. Bright balloons in brilliant red and gold—Gryffindor colors, of course—floated above the crowds and swayed from the tall hedge rows. Off to the side, a massive wooden table groaned beneath a mounting pile of wrapped gifts. A raised stage had been erected near the patio where a live wizarding band was playing lively, upbeat tunes—it was still a children's party, after all, so a festive, bustling atmosphere was to be expected. Right in the center of the main pavilion stood a massive, multis-tiered birthday cake, sumptuously decorated in gold frosting and topped with enchanted, sparkling candles that spun through the air.
"You and Lady Potter have truly outdone yourselves, Lord Potter," remarked Elphias Doge, the elderly Department of International Magical Cooperation official and long-time Order ally, adjusting his spectacles as he took in the grand spectacle. "A magnificent turnout for young Charles!"
"Thank you," James replied, forcing a polite smile and a firm nod.
As Doge wandered off to greet other guests, James's smile faltered. Looking around at the flashing cameras of the press corps and the sea of Ministry officials mingling among young families, he could hardly digest how completely out of hand things had gotten.
James was fully aware that throwing a public gala of this scale for a sixth birthday was profoundly unusual in the wizarding world. It might be common practice among modern Muggles to celebrate every passing year, but certainly never to this extravagant, public extent. Yet, James had found himself thoroughly cornered into allowing it.
The Ministry had cleverly exploited Lily's unfamiliarity with high-society customs, persuading her to agree to a public celebration disguised as a charitable event for Charles's third birthday, and it had now become an annual tradition. James didn't blame Lily in the slightest; she simply hadn't known any better. He remembered how he had repeatedly urged his mother, Dorea Black, to hold off on teaching Lily pure-blood etiquette and estate traditions until the war was over. But then Dorea had perished protecting the children, taking those lessons to the grave. Without that guidance, Lily had no way of knowing that parading a child in public before his seventh year was viewed with deep suspicion and traditional disapproval.
Lily had honestly believed she was doing something good. After all, the proceeds and donations from these annual galas were channeled directly to those in need, particularly St. Mungo's Hospital, which had been drowning in financial strain for years. Between the astronomical cost of housing long-term curse victims, the skyrocketing prices of rare potion ingredients, and the Ministry perpetually slashing healthcare budgets to fund political campaigns, the hospital was on the brink of collapse. To Lily's compassionate mind, enduring a few hours of press cameras was a small price to pay if it kept St. Mungo's children's wards funded.
They simply hadn't realized the full extent of what they were walking into. By the time James discovered Lily had agreed to the Ministry's proposal, it was already too late. The Ministry had leaked an official announcement to the press, whipping the public into a frenzy of anticipation to see the boy who had saved them from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. To cancel or pull back after the story had broken would have made the House of Potter look heartless, erratic, and utterly foolish in the eyes of the nation. James had been forced to bite his tongue and play along.
So here he was, watching his son's party unfold.
Scanning the crowded lawn, James spotted Arthur and Molly Weasley standing near the refreshment table. Not far from them, the Weasley twins, Fred and George, were huddled behind a cluster of red and gold balloons, whispering conspiratorially as they plotted some innocent mayhem among the guest children.
Further down the patio stood his own superior, Director Amelia Bones—the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and boss to James's own division chief. She had accepted the invitation out of professional courtesy, though she notably hadn't brought her young niece, Susan—no doubt preferring to keep the girl well away from such a chaotic, media-frenzied circus.
Then there was Alastor Moody. His current boss and the division chief, in the Auror department.
The old veteran stood near the edge of the estate's outer wards, his electric-blue magical eye spinning wildly in every direction as he scrutinized every guest, server, and press reporter. Moody was present as both an Order guest and a vital layer of additional security. An event of this magnitude, centered around a high-profile child like the "Boy Who Lived," was a prime target for extremist threats, Death Eater sympathizers, or anti-Ministry dissidents looking to stage a high-profile disruption or launch a targeted assault.
"Dad."
A gentle tug on his robes made James look down. Standing at his knee was his little girl, Rose, who had just turned five. She looked almost identical to Lily—a fact that brought Lily immense joy, given that Charles, Noah, and the lost twins, Harry and Nathan, had all inherited the messy Potter hair and facial features. Rose was the only one of their children who had inherited James's hazel eyes instead of Lily's bright green ones.
"What's wrong, pumpkin?" James asked, leaning down to pat her head affectionately.
"Charles doesn't want to come out of his room," she said, looking up at him with a small pout.
"Oh? Why's that?"
Rose gave a helpless little shrug, but James already knew the answer all too well. Charles had never cared for parties. The boy took strongly after his late grandfather and namesake, Charlus Potter. Where James had been a boisterous, theatrical Gryffindor performer at that age, young Charles possessed that same steady, quiet seriousness Charlus—James's father—had carried.
"Alright, I'll go talk to him," James said gently, smiling down at her. "Why don't you go say hello to Ginny and Luna?"
Rose brightened instantly at the suggestion. Since the Weasleys and Lovegoods were neighbors and the Potters and the Weasleys interact often, Rose played with Ginny a lot, and Ginny was practically joined at the hip with Luna, making the three young girls fast friends whenever they gathered.
With a joyful nod, Rose scampered off toward the lawn where Ginny and Luna were standing near the punch bowl. James watched her for a brief second before turning back toward the manor house, only to be stopped by a voice in the crowd.
"Lord Potter! My felicitations on the occasion," called out a well-dressed Ministry department head, stepping into James's path with a glass of champagne in hand. "A splendid gathering! Though I must ask—where is Lady Potter? I haven't seen her on the grounds yet."
"Thank you," James replied smoothly, slipping back into his practiced host persona. "Lily is running just a bit late from St. Mungo's, I'm afraid. Her shift at the hospital ran over, but she should be joining us shortly."
The official offered a polite, understanding nod before drifting back toward the patio, leaving James to let out a quiet, tired sigh.
It was true. Lily was at the hospital, delayed by the relentless demands of her shift. She had wanted to become a Healer for as long as he could remember. During the war, seeing so many people injured with so few Healers available to treat them had only deepened her passion and resolve. But when the fighting intensified, she had been forced to put her clinical training on hold. Then came the children, and her dream was shelved even further.
James knew Lily loved their family deeply and had set aside her career without hesitation. Yet, he also recognized it for what it truly was. A profound sacrifice of her personal ambition.
Once Noah turned three, James had finally managed to persuade her to resume her training at St. Mungo's. It hadn't been an easy argument to win; Lily still felt a lingering hesitation about leaving the children in the care of house-elves for long stretches of the day. But James refused to let her brilliance be smothered by domestic routine. His wife was extraordinarily talented—the brightest witch of their year—and the magical world deserved a Healer of her caliber.
Even if she was starting back much later than her peers, working exhausting hours alongside trainees years younger than her, James knew in his heart she would excel.
Turning away from the bustling lawn at last, James headed up the stone steps and stepped inside the quiet interior of the manor to find his son.
*****
James knocked gently on his son's bedroom door.
"Come in," a quiet, subdued voice called from inside.
James turned the handle and peeked into the room. It was every bit a proper six-year-old's bedroom, strewn with colorful toy blocks, brass puzzle pieces, and an enchanted miniature broomstick hovering lazily near the ceiling, its tiny tail feathers twitching in the soft breeze.
Sitting on the floor with his back leaned against his bed was Charles, fiddling absently with the gears of a toy Snitch. His bright green eyes—so strikingly like his mother's—flashed with clear annoyance as he stared down at the carpet.
"Hey, little fawn," James said gently, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him to block out the dull roar of the band and press cameras outside. "You are feeling alright?"
He didn't answer. James sighed.
He crossed the room, his dragon-hide boots sinking quietly into the thick rug, and lowered his tall frame onto the floor right next to his son.
Charles didn't look up right away. His small fingers kept nervously turning the gear of the toy Snitch, his green eyes fixed downward. But then, as he often did when he was upset or overwhelmed, Charles reached up with his free hand and gently rubbed the center of his chest.
James's heart twinged. It was an odd habit the boy had picked up a while ago—a sudden, unexplainable ache or hollow tug in his chest that had appeared out of nowhere. Lily had obsessively run diagnostic after diagnostic on him, and they had even quietly brought in a trusted family healer to examine the boy at home. Every scan came back identical. Perfectly healthy, robust magical core, and strong pulse. They couldn't take him back to St. Mungo's or summon more healers for secondary opinions without the press catching wind of it and running wild rumors that the "Boy Who Lived" was sickly or weak. It might cause an uproar.
"Chest still bothering you, Charles?" James asked softly, keeping his voice low and warm.
Charles gave a tight, mute nod, his palm resting flat over his heart before dropping back to his lap. He didn't say anything else.
James sighed quietly, resting his elbows on his knees. He knew that look. He knew that stubborn silence. Charles hated the party. He had told them as much for weeks leading up to today, pointing out in his sharp, solemn way that he didn't want strangers in their garden. James and Lily had tried to reason with him, explaining that as the face of hope after the war, the Ministry needed this, that the public needed to see him happy and safe.
Sitting here now, looking at his small, miserable six-year-old, James felt a sharp pang of guilt. The truth was, Charles had never once had a normal birthday party. Not a single one. Every single year had been a grand, hollow production managed by Ministry event handlers, swarming with journalists taking flashbulb photographs, and crowded with Ministry officials who only wanted to be seen shaking the hands of the Boy Who Lived.
"I know, mate," James said gently, placing a hand on Charles's small shoulder. "I know it's a lot. And I know you hate all those people out there."
"They aren't my friends," Charles muttered, his voice thick with a mixture of anger and childish exhaustion. "They just stare at me. And they keep asking me to smile for the pictures. Why do I have to go down there? It's my birthday."
"You're right," James admitted candidly, abandoning the polite host excuses he had been giving guests downstairs. "It's completely unfair. And if I could snap my fingers and send every last one of those Ministry suits back to London right now, I'd do it in a heartbeat."
Charles glanced up at his father, his green eyes searching James's face.
"We try to give you a quiet family party every year after they all leave," James continued softly, "but by the time the Ministry crowd clears out and the reporters pack up their cameras, you're always completely exhausted, your mother is worn to the bone from acting polite, and the whole day just feels... tiresome."
James leaned his head back against the side of the bed, looking at his son with deep, honest affection.
"So, here's what we're going to do," James murmured. "You don't have to go down there and perform. You just have to make one quick appearance at the top of the patio steps with me, cut the cake, let them clap, and then you can come straight back up here. Ten minutes, Charles. That's all I'm asking. Deal?"
Charles stared at his father for a long moment, weighing the promise, before slowly letting out a quiet breath. "Ten minutes?"
"Ten minutes," James confirmed with a crooked smile, holding out his hand for a firm handshake. "Not a second longer."
Crack.
"Master James?"
A small Potter house-elf appeared near the wardrobe with a bow, her large, floppy ears twitching nervously.
"Yes, Mipsy? Now is really not the best time," James said, turning his head while keeping a reassuring hand on Charles's shoulder.
"Gifts from the House of Black have arrived, sir," Mipsy reported softly, wringing her tea-towel apron. "And Mistress Lily has just returned from the hospital. She is freshening up in her study now."
"What?"
The mention of the gifts caught James's attention instantly. Sending an invitation to the House of Black had been a massive gamble. A desperate shot in the dark that he hadn't expected to bear any fruit at all. While he had intentionally sent it hoping to reach Sirius, he couldn't exactly owl Sirius directly when he had no idea where his old friend lived. His former flat in London was no longer available. The only formal channel was through their formidable Head of House, Lord Arcturus Black.
"Are they here?" James asked, a sudden, heavy thud of hope knocking against his ribs. "Is Sirius with them?"
"No, Master James," Mipsy clarified, shaking her head. "No members of the family came in person. A Black family courier delivered the parcels to the estate boundary and departed immediately. Mister Moody is currently evaluating them in the side parlor near the security checkpoint."
James let out a long breath, a bittersweet mix of disappointment and deep relief settling in his chest. Of course, Sirius hadn't come in person not to a Ministry-sponsored media circus swarming with Aurors, press cameras, and political hawks. But the fact that gifts had been delivered at all meant the invitation had reached the House of Black.
He glanced back down at Charles, whose green eyes were now wide with quiet curiosity, the mention of mystery presents temporarily breaking through his gloomy mood.
"Well, Charles," James said softly, standing up and extending a hand to help his son off the carpet. "Your mum is back, and it seems we have a few unexpected presents to inspect before you make your grand ten-minute appearance."
*****
The last of the Ministry dignitaries and press reporters had finally departed, and in James's opinion, the gala had ended as a resounding success.
Between the silent auction and direct donations from noble patrons, they had managed to raise over twelve thousand Galleons for St. Mungo's children's ward, alongside generous contributions earmarked for war-widow relief and magical creature sanctuaries.
Upstairs, the estate had settled into a quiet hush. The children were exhausted and tucked safely into their beds while the Potter house-elves bustled through the grounds, clearing away champagne flutes, folding up press tables, and restoring the garden lawn.
James had kept his word to his son. Charles had only needed to endure ten minutes at the top of the patio steps—just long enough for the official photographs, the cutting of the cake, and a polite wave—before escaping back to his bedroom, escorted by young Neville Longbottom and Ron Weasley.
A few guests had voiced mild disappointment at the boy's brief appearance, but their grumbling was easily smoothed over. It was easy enough to argue that six-year-olds belonged in private playrooms with friends rather than stuck on stage under media lights.
Besides, the crowd had been thoroughly distracted mid-afternoon by an alarming security breach. A fanatic—a middle-aged wizard from a newly formed "Boy Who Lived" fan society—had attempted to slip past the estate's outer boundary wards just to get a personal look at young Charles.
The incident had left both James and Lily deeply unnerved. It was one thing for the Daily Prophet to print glowing articles about their son, but realizing there was a growing subculture of adults forming obsessive, idolizing clubs around their six-year-old child felt distinctly unsettling and dangerous.
Yet, despite the media circus and the intruder, the indisputable highlight of the day was the delivery from the House of Black.
James had never expected a response, let alone a gift. What arrived was a masterwork. A miniature, hand-carved training broom crafted from dark ebony, detailed with delicate silver inlay, and bound with heavy anti-collision charms and safety wards. It was enchanted to hover only a few feet off the carpet and restricted to a strict boundary radius, making it virtually impossible for a child to fall or crash.
It was every young boy's absolute dream. James and Lily had never seen Charles so genuinely thrilled. His usual solemn quietness had instantly vanished the moment he unwrapped it in his room.
Lily, of course, had initially frowned at the sight of it. She and James had previously agreed that Charles was still far too young for a real broomstick. But watching their usually reserved boy laugh out loud as he navigated the low-flying craft around his bedroom rug—with Neville and Ron watching in wide-eyed awe—made it impossible to stay cross.
After all, safety charms or not, a broomstick was every young wizard's ultimate treasure.
Lily groaned as she sank into the armchair near the hearth, her posture instantly slumping. A relentless double shift at St. Mungo's, followed by uncomfortable formal silk robes for a three-hour Ministry gala, had drained her completely.
James smiled gently, crossing the room to pour her a warm cup of tea. "How was the hospital?"
"Draining," Lily said, though a tired, proud smile touched her lips.
She was only a few months away from sitting her final practical examinations. Once she passed, she would finally receive her official license as a fully accredited Healer. Of course, she wouldn't immediately leap into high-level medical research. She would have to start at the bottom as a Junior Healer on the general wards, but it was a real, tangible start.
As she took a sip of tea, her eyes drifted over to the side table, landing on two neatly wrapped parcels that hadn't been taken upstairs with the rest of Charles's presents.
Lily frowned, eyeing them with growing suspicion. "What are those?"
"Oh, the other gifts Sirius sent," James replied, his tone shifting slightly as he tried to sound casual.
Lily's brow furrowed. "Shouldn't you have given those to Charles? Wait... is there something wrong with them? Did Moody find a curse?"
"No. No, nothing like that," James said quickly, holding up a reassuring hand as he looked at his wife, treading very carefully. He knew this ground was dangerous, and he did not want to trigger her anger. "They aren't for Charles, Lily. They're for Harry and Nathan."
Lily froze, her teacup hovering inches from her lips. "What? James, we both agreed—"
"It's from Sirius!" James interjected, his voice pleading. "You know the wards Dumbledore placed around Petunia's house mean that Sirius can't track or find the boys on his own. He probably figured he'd send them to us so we could forward the parcels to Privet Drive on his behalf!"
"No, we won't, but the rest of the world would!" Lily's voice rose, cracking with raw, suffocating pain before dropping into a harsh, fierce whisper. "With Charles as the Boy Who Lived, Harry and Nathan will always be targets for our enemies. And they won't be able to fight back! They don't have magic, James! They'd be defenseless lions in a den full of wolves!"
"Lily, they're our sons!" James snapped, his own composure cracking. He clutched the two small, parchment-wrapped packages tighter against his chest, his knuckles turning white. "Sirius took the time to wrap these! He doesn't even know where they are because of Dumbledore's wards, but he still remembered them! Are you telling me I have to burn these? Toss them in the fire like they mean nothing?!"
"I'm telling you to protect them!" Tears finally spilled down Lily's flushed cheeks, though her jaw remained set like stone. She crossed the distance between them, pointing a trembling finger at the gifts.
"You think I don't lie awake every single night picturing their faces? You think my heart doesn't bleed every time I walk past their empty nursery? I do this because I love them! Out there, in the Muggle world, with Petunia, they are just normal boys! They can go to a normal school, make normal friends, get normal jobs, and live without the weight of the Potter name dragging a target onto their backs!"
She took a deep, shuddering breath, her voice breaking into a fragile whisper.
"You don't understand that James... if we reach out to them—if we establish even the smallest connection—I know myself. I'll break. I will be so weak that I'll be tempted to bring them right back home. And I cannot do that to them. I cannot be that selfish. To drag them back into a world where they will only ever be pitied, looked down on, and left defenseless?"
She wiped her eyes fiercely with the back of her sleeve, wrapping her arms around herself.
"I made a promise to give them a normal life, James. Free from magic, free from blood prejudice, and free from our war. If we send these parcels, we break that seal. We open a door we can never close again. I won't do it. I can't."
James stared at his wife, his throat tight, the burning fire of his argument slowly dying out into a hollow, agonizing defeat. He looked down at the two small parcels in his hands—carefully wrapped in deep crimson paper, sealed with dark wax.
"All right," James murmured, his voice sounding hollow and entirely drained. He offered her a tired, reassuring smile, stepping forward to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. "All right, Lily-flower. Go get some rest. You've had a long day."
Lily let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders sagging as she nodded. She didn't say another word, simply giving his hand a weak squeeze before turning to head toward their master bedroom upstairs.
James waited until the sound of her soft footsteps faded up the stairs.
Once the hallway was completely silent, he walked out of his study, treading quietly down the secluded east corridor of Potter Manor. He stopped before an unmarked wooden door tucked away at the far end. A room no one, not even the house-elves, was instructed to disturb.
With a quiet tap of his wand, the heavy wards unlocked with a soft clack. James pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room was silent, dim, and preserved like a private shrine. Shelves lined the walls, stacked high with neatly wrapped boxes, hand-carved wooden toys, children's books, and small broom accessories—every single gift James had quietly bought or set aside for Harry and Nathan over the past few years.
He didn't tell Lily about this room. He knew it would break her heart or spark an argument they couldn't recover from. But James couldn't bring himself to stop. Every year, on their birthdays and on Christmas, he would come in here alone, add new presents to the shelves, and sit in the quiet room wondering how big his boys were getting.
Slowly, James walked over to the main table in the center of the room. He gently placed Sirius's two crimson-wrapped parcels alongside the others, smoothing down the parchment paper.
"Happy birthday, boys," James whispered into the dark, quiet room.
He stepped back, pulled the door shut, and sealed the secret wards, leaving the gifts waiting for sons who would never come home to open them.