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James Potter, the notorious prankster and king of chaos, felt the familiar feeling of anticipation run through his body.
His final year at Hogwarts awaited some sort of magnificent prank that would make any student jealous they didnt think of it first. This wasn't about earning bragging rights or winning the House Cup; this was about hammering the Marauders name into the very stones of the castle, a legacy that would stand through generations of students.
And if that legacy had to happen through morally wrong, high-risked acts, well, no one had ever accused them of being saints.
The idea had formed over countless late-night planning sessions, fueled by tons of chocolate and Sirius's increasingly elaborate, if slightly unneeded, charts.
"Think of it," Remus started, his eyes gleaming behind his glasses, "a definite end to the Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry. No more snarky remarks in the corridors, no more hex-induced boils!"
Peter, usually the most cautious, had clapped his hands with glee. "Imagine! Peace!" He cheered.
James, the leader, had simply grinned. The image of Snape's face terrified in horror was a powerful motivator.
Their target: anything that could bring down the Slytherin house from its pedestal. A hidden diary, a shameful secret, perhaps even a bizarre obsession with collecting... miniature garden gnomes perhaps? Absolutely anything was fair game.
The chill of the dungeons corridors seeped through James's robe, even under the warmth of the Invisibility Cloak. He moved with ease, like a whisper among whispers, his breath just a light mist in the air.
The portraits lining the walls seemed to watch him with judging eyes, their painted expressions varying from stern to outright bewildered. James winked at a particularly severe-looking eighteenth-century witch. "Don't fret, old girl," he'd muttered to himself, "it's for a good cause. Well probably. We'll see."
As he navigated through a particularly dark hallway, his foot caught on air. He stumbled forward, a muffled thud echoing in the silence. "Bloody hell," he whispered, regaining his balance. "Almost took a header right into a suit of medieval armor. That would've been a brilliant headline for Monday's Daily Prophet: 'Gryffindor Prankster Impaled by Historical Artifact: A Cautionary Tale for Upcoming Troublemakers.'" He checked his surroundings, but all was still.
He finally slipped through the entrance into the Slytherin common room. There was a stale, slightly damp scent, mixed with something vaguely metallic and expensive.
It was darker and moodier than Gryffindor Tower, all deep greens and silvers with very uncomfortable-looking furniture.
"Honestly," he mumbled to himself, scanning the scene, "you'd think they could afford some better lighting. And maybe a few more throw pillows. This place screams 'existential dread,' not 'elite wizarding abode.'" He passed a half-eaten plate of what looked like cold liver and onions by the fireplace, "Definitely existential dread," he confirmed before beginning his search.
He began searching through parchment scrolls on the desks, careful not to disturb the dust mites dancing around. He peered under the couch, behind tapestries of grim-faced ancestors, and even investigated a suspiciously lumpy cushion.
Nothing. No scandalous letters, no confessions of dark magic, no secret plans for world domination. Just schoolwork, Quidditch magazines, and a shocking number of potion books.
"Seriously?" James thought, frustration knotting in his stomach. "Do these people not believe in chaos? Where's the juicy scandal? The rogue Gobstone collection? A secret love for Muggle pop music?"
He was about to give up, to accept defeat (for the first time in Marauder history), when a faint sound, a choked gasp, reached his ears. It came from the upstairs.
He was walking up cautiously when he heard it again. All he could make out were mumbles and giggles, it was coming from past the sleeping quarters, near what looked like some sort of storage closet.
He crept towards it, his heart quickening. The sound came from behind the cracked door, and hesitantly, James nudged it open wider.
The space inside was cramped with forgotten trunks and dusty Quidditch gear. And there, huddled in a corner, was a figure with their head buried between their knees. James held his breath and waited, a strange knot forming in his stomach, the feeling of curiosity growing. Finally, slowly, the figure stirred, then raised its head.
The face that looked up at the wall, pale and tear-streaked, was utterly unexpected.
It was Barty Crouch Jr. – the sneering, self-absorbed, untouchable Barty Crouch Jr. – alone, vulnerable, and what seemed to be utterly broken.
What in Merlin's name was he doing here? And why did James suddenly feel a chill run down his back that had nothing to do with the dungeon's coldness?
"You think you're free," Barty rasped, the sound loud in the quiet room. His unfocused gaze swept over the floor. "You think you escaped? He's still here. With you. In you"
He chuckled, a low, guttural sound that made the hairs on James's neck stand, "And he always will be." Barty flicked his tongue out in a nervous, reptilian way, and licked his lips.
James watched Barty with curiosity and the growing sense that he shouldnt be witnessing whatever was happening.
Barty licked his lips again, an involuntary movement he'd gained over the past few months, that even the nobodies in Hogwarts had noticed. "He'll never leave you. Never. You belong to the dark. You belong to the cold. And it's all your fault, isn't it? Because you were weak. Because you let it in." His voice rose into a chillingly high-pitched whine. "And now it's here. Inside. It's me. It's all of me. But you like it, don't you, Barty? You always liked getting your hands dirty."
James shifted slightly. He'd always found Barty repulsive, a creature of impulse and recklessness. But this... this was something else. A sickness that went deeper than just being mere unpleasant. The careless cruelty that usually defined Barty was now being overshadowed by fragility and the desperate clinging to something that wasnt there.
"Everything he has done to you, you've deserved it all, and you'll never escape any of it.." Barty muttered, pressing his forehead against his arm. "Everything he has done has been to keep you... tethered. To remind you who you belong to." His breath hitched, and his voice cracked. "You're his. Always his."
Normally, James would've loved to see Barty like this, a chance to witness his confident facade crumble. But this wasn't pleasant. It was disgusting and disturbing. The raw madness coming from Barty was something James, the sun himself, couldn't find shade from.
Part of him didn't care about Barty's sob story, which he could only assume was from his father's torment, but the other part felt sympathy for the boy and what he grew up around.
Of course he knew. Everyone knew. Everyone knew about Barty Sr. and his hatred for his son, but no one ever dared to speak to Barty himself about it. Probably because if you did, he would cut each of your fingers off and make you swallow them whole.
Barty was strong and stern, but no man could ever stand a match between himself and his father.
"You're such a pussy," Barty whispered, licking his lips franticly once more. "Imagine stood in front of you now was father.. What would he say?" He laughed again, a terrific, broken sound. "He'd call you weak.. Say you're stained." He traced a line down his cheek, his fingers smearing downward a trail of tears. "Do you want that Barty? Do you? Nobody is coming to save you, get up."
James jumped, as Barty began to stand, and to which the floor creaked ever so slightly under him. He felt Barty tense and watched as his head snapped right up. His eyes, though unfocused and dark, locked onto the exact spot where James stood.
If James had been just a little less bright he might have believed Barty truly saw him there.
"Who's there?" Barty's growl was low and laced with the sound of paranoia. He licked his lips again, his gaze unwavering.
James froze, his heart hammering against his ribs, each beat acted as thunder in his ears. He knew if somehow Barty did catch him, he would never see the light again. He allowed himself to breathe only the lightest of breaths, just enough to keep himself alive.
"I said, who is there?" He punctuated each word with a pause, his voice gaining volume as he carried on.
Barty didn't wait for an answer. He began to walk forward, slowly at first, then increasing right when he got to the outside of the door. His head twitched from side to side, as if trying to catch a scent or a flicker of movement that wasn't there. His hands batted through the air hoping to touch something, but all there was, was the cold stone wall. He was searching, not with his eyes, but with an animalistic instinct.
Every muscle in James's body screamed in protest, urging him to run, to bolt, but he knew that even the slightest shift could give him away. He was a breath away from meeting his fate.
Barty wandered closer, his ragged breathing filling James's ears as his tongue jumped out of his mouth once more. A skeletal finger, stained with what looked like dried blood, brushed right against the fabric of the invisibility cloak, sending chills right through James.
For a terrifying second, Barty froze. His head was tilted and James could see a question forming on his lips. "Did you hear it too, Father? Or was it just my mind?" His mouth went up into a smirk and he let out a chuckle, letting his head drop.. "You're pathetic, Barty. You're imagining things. There's no one there, there never was."
The last words were whispered as Barty shook his head violently, as if getting rid of an unwanted thought. His attention, so razor-sharp a moment before, seemed to disappear as quickly as it had formed.
He backed away, his eyes still scanning the empty air, and moved towards a door James could only imagine was his dormitory. Barty muttered to himself, "Soon.. soon you'll see, Father. You'll be proud of me soon."
James knew Barty wasn't sane, but he didn't think it was in the way of "insanity."
James then took his chance. As Barty fumbled getting the door opened, his back turned, James crept, inch by inch, toward the stairs behind him.
He still heard Barty mumbling to himself as he rushed down the steps, but he figured it was best for Barty to finally be alone with his demons, even if they were winning in the fight.