Life never goes the way you expect it to.
James leaned back against the battered armchair by the common room fireplace, the early morning light bleeding through the high windows. His fingers tightened around the crinkled edges of the Daily Prophet—so much so that the parchment audibly creaked.
The headline stared back at him, bold and brutal:
Bellatrix Lestrange Escapes Azkaban!
A muscle in his jaw ticked. He exhaled sharply through his nose, folding the newspaper once, twice—then slamming it down onto the table beside him with a dull thud.
He stood up abruptly, pacing in a slow, tight circle like a caged animal. His hands flexed at his sides, curling into fists, then unclenching. His mind raced.
This… this changes everything.
He didn't need anyone to tell him what Bellatrix Lestrange meant for the future. She wasn't like Barty Crouch Jr. She wasn't simply loyal to Voldemort—she worshipped him. Devoted. Unhinged. Dangerous.
Barty would have been cunning, yes, and under Voldemort's guidance, would have done tremendous damage. Kidnapping Harry right under Dumbledore's nose, manipulating events . But Barty was still tethered by his need for approval, still seeking validation.
Bellatrix, though?
Bellatrix didn't need guidance.
She created chaos.
James ran a hand through his hair, pulling slightly at the roots, his breath coming faster than he liked. His body vibrated with restless energy, the overwhelming need to do something warring with the bitter realization that there was very little he could do—yet.
If Barty could had succeed… Merlin knows what Bellatrix might accomplish.
His thoughts turned darker.
She'll try to bring him back. Sooner, faster, more brutally. And if she does—
James clenched his teeth until his jaw ached.
He didn't want Voldemort resurrected. That wasn't part of his plan.
No, his plan had been simple: kill Voldemort before he could regain full strength. Strike him down while he was still weak, barely clinging to life like a parasite. It would have been clean. Quiet. Final.
But now?
Bellatrix's escape tilted the board. It shoved James into a defensive position he hated.
He wasn't built for defense.
He has forged himself in fire, for vengeance. His entire fighting style—sharp, brutal, relentless—was meant to tear down, not to shield and protect. Defense was foreign.
He raked a hand through his hair again, tugging harder this time.
If only… if only I could just keep Harry safe within Hogwarts walls this year.
He had been planning to start targeting Death Eater influence in the Ministry—subtly, surgically. It would have been slow and difficult, but necessary. Chipping away at the rot from the inside.
That plan's on hold now, James thought grimly, sitting back down heavily into the chair, elbows on knees, face buried in his hands.
Because Bellatrix wouldn't wait.
And he couldn't afford to chase political battles while the future of the war sat laughing in the courtyard, blissfully unaware.
Protect Harry. Protect him at all costs.
James straightened, rolling his shoulders to shake off the tension. His mind sharpened, focusing through the panic. He needed to think. Plan.
Part of him grimaced at the irony.
He would have gambled on Barty Crouch Sr. staying strong—on the man's guilt and grief becoming weapons against the Death Eaters who ruined his son. Leaving Barty Jr. alive, tortured into madness, had been no accident.
A broken father with a score to settle.
A man with influence enough to push through the Unforgivable Curses being sanctioned again, if—when—Voldemort returned.
Because James knew Susan Bones—brave, idealistic—wasn't enough. She had heart, but not the weight of hard experience. Voldemort would crush her and originally did .
Barty Crouch Sr., though?
The old man had fought in the first war. He knew brutality. He understood it.
It had only been love—misplaced, blinding love for his son—that had brought him low in a future that doesn't exist now .
James drummed his fingers against his thigh.
He won't break, he told himself. He'll fight harder than anyone.
At least… that was the hope.
He blew out a breath, long and shaky.
Crouch had already resigned from most of his posts after the scandal—reduced now to Head Auror, a demotion disguised as mercy. His wife had returned home, silent and withdrawn. His family, his reputation—both in tatters.
Plenty of reason to hate.
Plenty of reason to strike back.
Now James had a new problem.
Bellatrix.
And she wouldn't be like Barty, quietly scheming in Hogwarts corridors. She would be a storm—loud, brutal, blood-soaked.
James rose again, moving toward the window. His reflection flickered against the glass—tall, tense, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. Beyond the castle grounds, the Forbidden Forest loomed like a slumbering beast.
He pressed a hand flat against the cold stone windowsill.
Prepare.
That's all he could do.
Prepare for Bellatrix.
Prepare to defend, even when every instinct in his body screamed for blood and retaliation.
He squared his shoulders.
The storm was coming.
And this time, he would have to hold the line.
No matter what it cost.
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