The Stag and The Harpy | James Potter

Prophecy

{{I didn't edit because I wanted to get this out! Thanks for hanging in there— please remember that I'm a full time student (insert me crying here) so I know I don't update regularly, but I am trying! Love you all!!!}}

James stands solemnly at Phoebe's side, Harry bouncing gently in his wife's arms.

He reaches out, gently sweeps back some of her hair as he whispers, "It might not be bad."

Phoebe scoffs and he realizes the hollowness of his words. They weren't sure what they were waiting for, only that Dumbledore would appear at the designated meeting place soon.

Phoebe had picked it, an abandoned building somewhere in London. When James had asked what it was, she hadn't answered. She only said that she'd been there before and that it was safe.

The weeks following the deaths of Fabian and Gideon Prewett had been wrought with anger, darkness. Mistrust. No one was certain who they could turn to, and the Order began to crumble from within. Remus was a shell of himself, and Lily was hardly faring any better. The redhead had taken to living with the Potters, helping them with Harry to occupy her mind. Remus...Remus didn't much care to speak anymore, and it was causing tension amongst the marauders. Specifically between the werewolf and Sirius.

Sirius wanted to go after the death eaters, attack them head on. Remus only wanted to prevent more pain, more heart ache.

James reaches out to touch his wife, something telling him to hold her, to anchor himself. He's glad he does. His fingers are just interlocking with hers when a familiar wizard appears in the darkness of the building.

Albus Dumbledore looks exhausted. Weary. Scared. And James grows fearful too, his grip tightening on Phoebe's hand. The Veela had never been one to dillydally, her voice shaking as she asks, "Well? You've gotten us here. What do you want? Has someone else died?"

James shoots her a warning look at her tone, muttering lowly, "Bee."

Her eyes narrow but her tight jaw slackens and she curls Harry tighter into her chest, glancing down at her son. Her breaths come easier at the sight of his grey eyes.

"There's been a prophecy."

James blinks at his old headmaster, brows furrowing in confusion. Harry suddenly grows quiet in Phoebe's arms, as if the young boy is listening to the older wizard speak.

He sounds nervous, he sounds as if he doesn't know what is going to happen. And the gravity of the situation dawns on James faster than he can restrain himself from speaking.

"What is it?" He demands, dropping Phoebe's hand. This time, he's the one with the curt tone, the anger filled gaze. Fear was an emotion that was too soft, too vulnerable. Anger was easy, volatile, iron clad and impenetrable. He could be angry, because then he wouldn't have to be scared.

Dumbledore hesitates, folding his hands together neatly before saying lowly, "While interviewing a new divination professor, she had a vision. A boy born in the closing days of July of 1980, a boy born to parents who have thrice defied the Dark Lord..."

Dumbledore trails off, wincing when James insists angrily, "Go on. Say it. Say it, Albus."

Phoebe is silent by his side, her eyes unflinching as she stares at the wizard telling them something she'd never dreamed she'd hear. Something she couldn't have even managed to have nightmares over. Something worse than the cruciatus curse or the death of friends.

"The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord does not," Dumbledore finally murmurs. He clears his throat quietly before continuing, "Neither can live while the other survives."