Fifteen months after making a deal with the Greek god of death (which, let's be honest, should have been James Potter's first clue that his life was about to become significantly more complicated), Harry James Potter was sleeping peacefully in his enchanted crib when someone decided to ruin everyone's Halloween by trying to murder a baby.
Now, you might think that having a god for a sort-of stepfather would be the weirdest part of Harry's family tree. You'd be wrong. The weirdest part was probably the way his actual father could now sense death approaching from three counties away, which meant James had been having a really terrible day even before the wards around their cottage exploded like someone had set off magical fireworks in a china shop.
"Well," James muttered, feeling every protective charm around Godric's Hollow shatter against his consciousness like glass hitting pavement, "this is either the world's worst Halloween prank or we're about to have very unwelcome visitors."
The sensation of the wards breaking would have been impossible to feel before that memorable evening in the basement with Hades. Now, with divine essence flowing through his veins like caffeinated lightning, James could feel every magical protection crumbling under an assault of Dark magic that tasted like hatred, madness, and really bad life choices.
"LILY!" James shouted, taking the stairs three at a time toward Harry's nursery with all the grace of a caffeinated gazelle. "Take Harry and get to the safe room! NOW!"
But even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were about as useful as a chocolate teapot in a dragon's lair. Through the enhanced senses that came with carrying a piece of the Lord of the Dead inside his very mortal body, James could feel the approaching presence like ice water in his veins. Voldemort wasn't just at their door—he was already inside, moving through their home with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where to find them.
*Peter,* James thought with a sick lurch of betrayal that hit him like a Bludger to the stomach. *Peter told him everything.*
"James!" Lily's voice carried from the nursery, high with fear but steady as granite—always steady, his brilliant, brave wife who could probably organize a successful revolution while making dinner and correcting Ministry legislation.
"Bar the door and don't come out no matter what you hear!" James called back, pulling his wand and feeling the silver in his eyes begin to glow as Hades' essence responded to mortal danger like a very angry, very powerful night light. "I mean it, Lily! Whatever happens down here, you protect Harry!"
He heard the heavy thunk of magical locks engaging—enough protective charms to make Fort Knox jealous—followed by Lily's voice casting every defensive spell she'd ever learned, plus a few she was probably making up on the spot. The nursery would hold for a while. Long enough, hopefully, for James to do what needed doing.
The temperature in the hallway plummeted faster than a failed Quidditch dive as James called upon powers that no mortal wizard should possess, had ever possessed, or would probably want to possess if they knew what was good for them. His breath misted in the suddenly arctic air, and shadows began pooling around his feet like living things that had just remembered they had a job to do.
"Right then," James said to himself, because talking to yourself before a potentially fatal magical duel was apparently a Potter family tradition. "Let's see what fifteen months of divine essence training has taught me besides how to give Lily nightmares about my life expectancy."
That's when Lord Voldemort appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
Now, if you've never seen the Dark Lord Voldemort in person, consider yourself lucky. He was pale as bone, thin as a skeleton that had missed too many meals, and his red eyes gleamed with the kind of malice that made you understand why small children had nightmares and why grown wizards changed careers to become accountants in other countries. He radiated the sort of cold that came from having torn your soul into pieces and scattered them across Britain like the world's most evil treasure hunt.
"James Potter," Voldemort said, his voice carrying that sibilant quality that came from speaking Parseltongue too often and probably practicing intimidating speeches in front of mirrors. "The blood traitor who thinks he can defy Lord Voldemort. Where is the child?"
"Well, hello to you too, Tom," James replied, because apparently his survival instincts had taken the evening off. His voice carried harmonics that hadn't been there fifteen months ago—deeper notes that spoke of graveyards, winter nights, and the space between stars. "Lovely evening for attempted infanticide, isn't it? Though I have to say, your timing could use work. We were just about to have dinner."
Voldemort's red eyes narrowed like a snake focusing on particularly annoying prey. "There is something different about you, Potter. No matter. You will die the same as all the others who dared oppose me."
"See, that's where you're wrong, Tom," James said, shifting his stance and feeling power coil in his muscles like a spring loaded with divine energy. "I'm not the same wizard I was when you started this war. I've had some... consulting work. Career development, you might say."
"Your newfound confidence will not save you," Voldemort hissed, raising his wand with theatrical flair that would have made drama professors weep. "Avada Kedavra!"
The Killing Curse erupted from Voldemort's wand like a lance of green lightning, the kind of spell that had ended more lives than a particularly aggressive plague.
James didn't dodge. James didn't cast a shield charm. James didn't do any of the sensible things a wizard should do when faced with instant death magic.
Instead, James Potter reached deep into the essence that Hades had given him and did something that should have been physically, magically, and cosmically impossible.
He caught the Killing Curse in his bare hand.
The spell writhed against his palm like a living serpent made of pure malevolence, cold and venomous and absolutely lethal to any wizard who wasn't carrying around a piece of the Greek god of death in his bloodstream. But James Potter was no longer entirely normal, and the essence of death recognized its own. What was the Killing Curse, after all, but death given form and fired out of a stick?
"Huh," James said conversationally, studying the curse as it dissolved into harmless shadows between his fingers. "That's new. I should probably write that down for later. 'Dear Diary, today I caught instant death with my bare hands. Lily will not be pleased.'"
For the first time in several decades, genuine surprise flickered across Voldemort's inhuman features. His red eyes widened slightly, and his mouth opened in what might have been shock if shock were something Dark Lords were capable of experiencing.
"What... what are you?" he managed.
"I'm a father protecting his son," James replied, and launched his counterattack with all the subtlety of a Hungarian Horntail having a bad day.
What followed was the kind of magical duel that would have made historians weep and Defense Against the Dark Arts professors revise their entire curricula. James fought with magic that pulled from sources Voldemort couldn't understand, wouldn't want to understand, and probably couldn't pronounce correctly even if he tried.
Spells that commanded shadows to do his bidding. Curses that tasted of pomegranates and winter mornings. Hexes that made the air itself recoil in fear and the floorboards consider relocating to a safer house.
Voldemort was a master of the Dark Arts. He'd studied magic for longer than James had been alive, commanded power that had brought the wizarding world to its knees, and had enough experience in magical combat to stock a small library. But he had never—not once in his long, murderous career—faced an opponent who could channel the divine essence of death itself while making sarcastic comments.
"Impossible!" Voldemort snarled as James deflected another Killing Curse, this time transforming it into a flock of ravens that dive-bombed the Dark Lord with supernatural fury and what appeared to be personal grudges. "You are mortal! You are nothing but a blood traitor with delusions of adequacy!"
"See, that's your problem, Tom," James shot back, his eyes now blazing with silver fire that made the shadows dance like living things. "You always underestimate people. First you underestimated my wife—brilliant move there, by the way—and now you're underestimating me."
A curse that looked like liquid darkness shot from James's wand, and Voldemort barely managed to dodge it before it ate a hole straight through the wall behind him.
"You fractured your soul for power," James continued, pressing his attack with the kind of relentless determination that had made him Gryffindor Quidditch Captain. "But I embraced something greater. I chose to become more than human because I love my family more than I fear the consequences."
The battle raged through the cottage like a very destructive, very magical hurricane. Spells scorched walls that had stood for centuries, shattered windows that would never see another sunset, and turned the furniture into abstract art that no one would ever want to display.
James could hear Harry crying upstairs—not the terrified crying of a child in danger, but the indignant crying of a toddler who'd been woken up from a perfectly good nap by inconsiderate adults having a loud argument. He could feel Lily's terror through their bond, could sense her fighting every instinct to rush downstairs and help him, and it only made him fight harder.
The divine essence within him responded to his desperate need like a loyal friend who'd just remembered they knew karate. Power flooded his system, making his magic sing with harmonics from beyond the mortal realm, turning every spell into something that belonged more in mythology than in a standard dueling manual.
"You cannot defeat me!" Voldemort roared, sending a curse that turned the air purple and made reality hiccup. "I am Lord Voldemort! I have conquered death itself!"
"No," James said, dodging the curse and retaliating with something that made the shadows grow teeth, "you've just been really, really annoying about avoiding it."
It was when James finally managed to land a Stunner that sent Voldemort crashing into the living room wall—taking out what had once been Lily's favorite bookshelf in the process—that he saw it. Saw the truth that even the Dark Lord himself might not fully understand.
With Hades' essence flowing through him like divine caffeine, James could perceive things that mortal eyes couldn't see, things that most people would probably prefer to remain invisible. And what he saw when he looked at Voldemort made his blood run cold and his divine passenger very, very interested.
The Dark Lord's soul was in fragments. Not just damaged—actually torn into pieces and scattered like the world's most evil jigsaw puzzle. Most of those pieces were elsewhere, anchored to objects that reeked of Dark magic, murder, and really questionable decorating choices.
Even if James destroyed Voldemort's body right here, right now, the monster would return. He would always return, like a particularly persistent rash, as long as those fragments remained intact.
"Oh, you absolute maniac," James whispered, understanding flooding through him like ice water in his veins. "You've actually done it. You've torn your soul apart. You've made Horcruxes."
Voldemort's red eyes went wide—the first real fear James had seen in them, and it was almost as satisfying as catching a Snitch in front of the entire school. "How could you possibly know—that word is forbidden—"
"Because I can see them, Tom," James interrupted, silver light pouring from his eyes as he channeled more of Hades' essence than any mortal body was designed to hold, like trying to run the entire electrical grid through a single light bulb. "I can see every fragment of your shattered soul. A ring. A diary. A cup. A locket. A diadem."
With each word, Voldemort went paler, which should have been physically impossible given his already corpse-like appearance.
"Five pieces scattered across Britain like some demented Easter egg hunt," James continued, power building around him like a storm made of shadows and starlight. "Five anchors keeping you tethered to this world. Five abominations that ensure you'll never truly die, never truly live, and never get invited to decent dinner parties."
"You cannot destroy them," Voldemort hissed, but there was genuine fear in his voice now, the kind of fear that came from realizing your deepest, darkest secret had just been casually mentioned by someone who should have been dead already. "They are hidden. Protected by magic you cannot comprehend. You could search for a lifetime and never find them all."
James smiled, and it was a terrible expression that would have made Hades himself proud, the kind of smile that made grown Dark wizards reconsider their career choices.
"I don't need to find them, Tom," he said, his voice carrying the kind of quiet confidence that came from knowing you held all the cards in a game your opponent didn't even know he was playing.
He reached deeper into the divine essence than he'd ever gone before, pulling on power that made his mortal body scream in protest like an overloaded circuit. The connection to Hades wasn't just about borrowed strength—it was a bridge to the realm of the dead, to powers that governed the very nature of souls and their journey through existence.
"I call upon the authority of Death itself," James said, his voice now carrying harmonics that made the air tremble and reality pay attention. "I call upon the power that judges souls and determines their fate. I call upon my divine heritage, and I'm really hoping this doesn't void the warranty on my mortality."
Voldemort tried to Apparate—tried to flee like any sensible Dark Lord would when faced with someone channeling actual divine power—but found himself held fast by invisible bonds that felt suspiciously like the grip of fate itself.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, struggling against bonds that grew stronger the more he fought them.
"What should have been done years ago," James replied, and reached out with senses that transcended the physical world, stretched beyond the boundaries of normal magic, and touched something that probably wasn't meant to be touched by someone who still had a mortgage.
There—he could feel them now, as clearly as if they were sitting in the room with them. The fragment in Voldemort's body was like a beacon in the darkness, connected by invisible threads to its scattered siblings. The ring, hidden in the ruins of the Gaunt shack and probably covered in more curses than a sailor's vocabulary. The diary, locked away in Malfoy Manor where it was undoubtedly making life difficult for house-elves. The cup, buried deep in the vaults of Gringotts where even the goblins were afraid to go. The locket, concealed in a cave by the sea that definitely wasn't suitable for family vacations. The diadem, lost in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts, which explained why no one had been able to find it.
James grasped those connections with power that came directly from the Lord of the Dead, and pulled with all the divine strength he could muster.
"NO!" Voldemort screamed as he felt what was happening, his voice climbing to octaves that shouldn't have been physically possible. "You cannot! They are mine! My insurance! My immortality!"
"Nothing is yours, Tom," James said, and his voice was no longer entirely his own—there were deeper tones there, older harmonics that spoke of judgment and finality and the kind of authority that made mountains listen when it spoke. "Souls belong to Death, and Death is reclaiming what you stole."
Across Britain, five objects began to burn with silver fire that belonged more in divine forges than in the mortal world.
At Malfoy Manor, Lucius Malfoy watched in horror as Tom Riddle's diary—which he'd been planning to use for some light political manipulation—erupted into flames that consumed everything except the screaming fragment of soul within. The fire didn't burn the parchment or the leather binding. It burned the evil, leaving only empty pages and a very confused peacock in the garden.
In the depths of Gringotts, where even the dragons knew better than to ask too many questions, Bellatrix Lestrange's precious cup melted like wax in summer, releasing a screaming fragment of soul into the ether and causing several goblins to revise their security procedures immediately.
At Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the lost diadem of Ravenclaw—which had been hiding in the Room of Requirement behind a stack of broken furniture and embarrassing love letters—crumbled to dust, its deadly secret finally revealed to absolutely no one because the Room was empty at the time.
In a cave by the sea that tourism brochures definitely wouldn't recommend, the locket of Salazar Slytherin dissolved into seawater, taking its guardian Inferi with it and probably improving the local fishing.
And in the ruins of the Gaunt shack, where the grass didn't grow and visitors weren't welcome, Marvolo Gaunt's ring shattered into pieces smaller than a wizard's common sense, finally ending a curse that had lasted for generations.
In the cottage at Godric's Hollow, Voldemort felt each destruction like a physical blow—like having pieces of his soul torn away by invisible hands, which was essentially what was happening.
"What have you done?" he gasped, falling to his knees as the pieces of his fractured soul were torn away one by one, leaving him feeling more whole than he had in decades and absolutely terrified by the sensation.
"I've given you what you feared most," James said, the divine essence burning through him like liquid fire, like molten starlight, like every good feeling he'd ever had concentrated into pure magical power. "I've made you mortal again."
The last Horcrux—the ring hidden in the Gaunt shack—crumbled to nothing, and Voldemort let out an inhuman shriek as his soul was suddenly, violently, made whole again. The shock of it, after decades of existing as a fractured abomination, was almost enough to kill him without any additional help.
For a moment, Tom Marvolo Riddle—not Lord Voldemort, but the scared, twisted boy who'd grown up to become a monster—stared at James with something that might have been gratitude if it weren't mixed with absolute terror.
"Now," James said, raising his wand one final time and feeling the weight of divine authority behind every word, "you can die like the mortal you always were."
"Avada Kedavra."
This time, when the Killing Curse hit Voldemort, there were no Horcruxes to anchor his soul to the mortal world. No fragments hidden away to ensure his return. No backup plans or contingencies or clever magical loopholes.
The green light enveloped him, and Tom Marvolo Riddle died—truly, finally, completely died—the way he should have decades ago if he'd had the good sense to leave well enough alone.
But here's the thing about channeling divine essence through a mortal body: it's a bit like trying to run the entire power grid through a household electrical outlet. Eventually, something's going to blow.
James felt his magic burning out like an overloaded wire, his life force consumed by powers that were never meant to flow through human veins. The divine essence had saved him, given him the power to end Voldemort once and for all, but it was also killing him in the process.
He collapsed beside Voldemort's body, his vision blurring as silver light leaked from his eyes like luminous tears. Every breath was a struggle, every heartbeat felt like it might be his last, and he could feel his connection to the mortal world growing thinner by the second.
Upstairs, Lily felt the exact moment James's life began to ebb through their bond—felt it like a physical blow that made her gasp and stumble against Harry's crib.
"No," she whispered, then louder: "No, no, no, this is not how this ends!"
She could hear Harry making the sort of confused baby noises that meant he was picking up on adult emotions and didn't appreciate the stress levels in his immediate environment. The magical locks on the nursery door were still holding, the protective charms still active, but she could feel that the immediate danger had passed. The Dark Lord was gone—she could sense his absence like a vacuum in the magical atmosphere, like a storm suddenly ending.
But James... James was dying, and there wasn't a thing she could do about it from behind a locked door surrounded by protective charms.
Actually, that wasn't true. There was one thing she could do.
"Hades!" she called into the darkness, her voice breaking with desperation and terror and the kind of grief that had no name. "Hades, please! I need you! We need you!"
Nothing happened. The shadows remained ordinary shadows, the temperature stayed normal, and Harry continued making worried baby sounds that suggested he'd inherited his parents' ability to sense when things were going very, very wrong.
"HADES!" she called again, tears streaming down her face as she felt James's pain through their bond like a knife in her chest. "You said family was family! You said you'd come when we needed you! Well, we need you NOW!"
Still nothing.
Lily took a deep breath, drew on every ounce of determination that had made her Head Girl and convinced her to marry James Potter despite his questionable decision-making skills, and played her last card.
"HADES! GET YOUR DIVINE ASS DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR BY ALL THE GODS IN EVERY PANTHEON THAT I WILL FIND A WAY TO MAKE YOUR AFTERLIFE VERY UNCOMFORTABLE!"
The temperature plummeted instantly, dropping so fast that frost formed on the windows. Shadows pooled in the corner of the nursery like spilled ink, and the Lord of the Dead stepped through darkness itself, his face grave with concern and what might have been impressed surprise.
"Lily," he said, his voice carrying the gentle tone of someone who'd just been thoroughly dressed down by a mortal and found the experience oddly refreshing. "I felt it. James called upon more of my essence than any mortal body can safely channel. The power required to destroy five Horcruxes simultaneously..."
"Help him," Lily interrupted, not caring about protocol or divine politics or the fact that she was giving orders to a god. "Please. He saved us all, he ended the war, but he's dying down there and I can't—I can't lose him. Not like this. Not when we finally have everything we wanted."
Hades's ancient eyes were filled with something that looked remarkably like grief, the kind of sorrow that came from watching mortals make impossible choices for love. "Lily, the cosmic laws are clear. I cannot simply restore a mortal life without consequences. There are rules, regulations, forms to fill out in triplicate..."
"He's your son too," she said fiercely, holding Harry closer and channeling every ounce of maternal determination that had ever existed in the history of mothers protecting their families. "You said family was family. You said you'd protect what was yours. Well, prove it."
For a moment—just a moment—Hades looked less like an ancient, all-powerful deity and more like someone who'd just been reminded why mortals were simultaneously the most frustrating and most admirable creatures in all of creation.
"You're right," he said simply. "Stay with Harry. I'll go to James."
The Lord of the Dead dissolved into shadow like smoke on the wind and reformed downstairs, where James lay dying beside Voldemort's corpse. The young wizard's breathing was shallow and ragged, his skin pale as parchment, but his silver-flecked eyes were still aware when Hades knelt beside him.
"My lord," James whispered, managing a weak smile that was still somehow recognizably his own. "Did we win? Please tell me we won, because if we didn't, I'm going to be really annoyed about dying."
"You won," Hades confirmed, studying the damage that using divine essence on that scale had done to James's mortal form. "Voldemort is truly dead. His soul fragments are destroyed. The war is over, and you can add 'Destroyer of Dark Lords' to your resume."
"Excellent," James breathed, looking more peaceful than he had since the attack began. "Harry and Lily are safe?"
"They are safe. Your son is currently making indignant baby noises that suggest he's inherited your gift for being dramatically upset about inconvenient timing."
James managed a laugh that turned into a cough. "That's my boy. Always complaining about everything. Gets it from his mother."
"I heard that!" Lily's voice called from upstairs, somehow managing to sound both tearful and indignant.
"Love you too, dear!" James called back, then looked at Hades with eyes that were growing dimmer by the second. "So, what happens now? Do I get to find out what comes after? Because I have to admit, I'm curious. Professional interest, you understand."
Hades was quiet for a long moment, considering options that most gods wouldn't even entertain, weighing cosmic laws against the desperate plea of a mortal woman who had become family through the most unlikely of circumstances.
"James," he said finally, his voice carrying the weight of decisions that would echo through eternity, "I can save you. But it would require... significant changes."
"What kind of changes?" James asked, because even dying, he was still James Potter, and James Potter asked questions about everything.
"You would become something more than mortal but less than fully divine," Hades explained, his words careful and precise. "A guardian spirit, bound to protect your family across generations. You would age, but slowly—very slowly. You could be hurt, but not easily killed. You would exist in the space between the mortal world and mine, serving as a bridge between realms when needed."
James considered this offer with the same careful thought he'd given to accepting Hades's essence fifteen months earlier, back when the biggest problem in his life was a curse preventing him from having children.
"And the cost?" he asked, because James Potter had learned that when gods offered gifts, there were always costs, and they weren't always the ones you expected.
"You could never again be entirely human," Hades said honestly. "You would always be somewhat apart from the mortal world, even from your own family. There would be duties, responsibilities, calls that you would have to answer whether you wanted to or not. And you would be bound to me, to serve as my representative in the mortal realm when circumstances require it."
"But I could watch Harry grow up?" James asked, and his voice carried all the hope and desperation of a father who'd just saved his son but might not live to see him take his first steps.
"Yes."
"Be there for his first word? His first steps? His first day at Hogwarts? His first heartbreak? His wedding? Hypothetical grandchildren who will probably be just as much trouble as he is?"
"All of it," Hades confirmed. "Though I suspect your son will provide you with more than enough excitement to last several lifetimes."
"And Lily?" James asked, because even faced with his own mortality, his wife came first.
"She would need to understand what you'd become," Hades said gently. "But yes, you could still be her husband, still be the man she fell in love with, still make terrible jokes at inappropriate moments and convince her to go along with your ridiculous plans."
James smiled, and despite everything—despite the battle, despite dying, despite the cosmic weight of the decision he was making—it was still that trademark Potter grin that had charmed everyone from his Hogwarts professors to the woman upstairs who was probably planning to hex him for being a heroic idiot.
"Well," he said, his voice growing stronger with decision, "I've made stranger bargains with gods before. And honestly, existing in the space between mortal and divine sounds like exactly the sort of impossible thing a Potter would end up doing."
"Are you certain?" Hades asked. "This choice, once made, cannot be undone. You would be mine as much as hers, bound by duties that may sometimes conflict with what you want."
"I'm certain," James said without hesitation. "I choose my family. I choose love. I choose to be there for the people who matter most. Everything else... well, we'll figure it out as we go. That's what Potters do."
Hades smiled—a real smile that transformed his entire face and made him look less like a terrifying divine entity and more like someone who remembered what it was like to be young and in love and willing to risk everything for the people who mattered.
"Then rise, James Potter," he said, placing his hand over James's heart. "Rise as guardian of your bloodline, protector of the innocent, and bridge between the mortal and divine realms. Rise as my son, my representative, and something entirely new."
Silver light poured between them, and the transformation was gentler this time—power flowing into James like cool water instead of burning fire. His mortal wounds healed, his magical channels rebuilt themselves stronger than before, and his connection to the realm of the dead became as permanent and natural as breathing.
When it was finished, James sat up, flexing his fingers and marveling at the sensation of being truly alive again, but alive in a way that transcended normal human existence. He looked the same as always—messy black hair that defied all attempts at organization, bright hazel eyes behind glasses that had somehow survived a battle with a Dark Lord, that slightly lopsided smile that had won Lily's heart.
But now there was something more. Something that spoke of starlight and shadows, of winter mornings and ancient wisdom, of the kind of quiet strength that came from having died and chosen to return for love.
"Thank you," he said simply, and the words carried weight that mere mortal gratitude couldn't hold.
"Thank your wife," Hades replied, standing and brushing dust from his robes like someone who'd just completed a very satisfying piece of work. "She reminded me that some bonds transcend even cosmic regulations. Also, she threatened to make my afterlife uncomfortable, which was surprisingly effective."
They could hear Lily's footsteps on the stairs—running footsteps, because the protective charms had finally faded and she was done waiting behind locked doors while the men in her life made dramatic decisions about life, death, and divine intervention.
"James!" Lily's voice called, closer now, carrying relief and terror and love in equal measure.
"I'm here, love," James called back, his voice carrying new harmonics but still unmistakably his own. "I'm alive. We're all alive. And Voldemort is very definitely not alive, which is really the important thing."
Lily appeared in the doorway, still holding Harry, her red hair disheveled and her green eyes bright with tears of relief. She took in the scene—Voldemort's motionless body, James standing upright and whole, and Hades watching them all with an expression of quiet satisfaction.
"Is it over?" she asked, though she already knew the answer from the way the magical atmosphere had lightened, the way the shadows no longer felt threatening, the way Harry had stopped making worried baby sounds and was now making the sort of curious noises that meant he was trying to figure out why everyone had been so upset.
"It's over," James confirmed, holding out his arms with a grin that was simultaneously exhausted and triumphant. "Voldemort is gone—really, truly, permanently gone this time. No more Horcruxes, no more returns from the dead, no more terrorizing innocent wizarding families. Just very dead and staying that way."
Lily rushed to him, and they embraced with Harry between them—a family reunited and forever changed by the events of this Halloween night. Harry, for his part, seemed to approve of this development and expressed his opinion by grabbing James's nose and babbling something that might have been "Dada" or might have been "Dangerous man, stop making Mama worried."
"What happens now?" Lily asked, studying James's face and noting the subtle differences that came from his transformation—the way his eyes seemed to hold starlight, the way his smile carried depths that hadn't been there before.
"Now," Hades said, beginning to fade back into shadow like smoke dispersing on a breeze, "you raise your son. You live your lives. You probably deal with a considerable amount of paperwork from the Ministry about tonight's events. And when the time comes for Harry to face his own impossible choices—and it will come, because he is, after all, the son of James Potter and the stepson of Death itself—he'll have parents who understand what it means to walk between worlds."
"Will we see you again?" James asked, though something in his new nature told him the answer.
"When you need me," Hades replied, his voice already growing distant but warm with something that might have been paternal affection. "When duty calls. When the balance between worlds requires attention. Family is forever, James Potter, and you are family now in ways that transcend mere mortality."
"Any parenting advice?" Lily called out, because if you're going to ask a god for help, you might as well get the full consultation.
Hades's voice echoed from the dissipating darkness, tinged with amusement and the wisdom of ages. "Love him fiercely. Trust him completely. Teach him to question everything, especially authority figures—even divine ones. And always, always keep a good supply of emergency chocolate on hand. You never know when you might need it."
And then he was gone, leaving the Potter family alone in their damaged cottage with their sleeping son and their dramatically altered future.
"So," James said after a moment, his voice carrying new harmonics that somehow made even casual conversation sound slightly more profound, "that happened. Again."
"That happened," Lily agreed, studying his face in the dim light and finding the man she'd fallen in love with still there, just... more. "How do you feel?"
James considered the question, much as he had fifteen months earlier in their basement when they'd first made this impossible bargain. "Different. Like I'm still me, but expanded. I can sense things I couldn't before—the way magic flows through everything, the connections between life and death, the fact that our upstairs bathroom tap is about to break and flood the house if we don't fix it soon."
"That's... oddly practical for divine insight."
"I contain multitudes," James said solemnly, then grinned. "Also, I'm still your impossibly charming husband who makes questionable deals with gods and somehow always ends up saving the day through a combination of luck, love, and sheer bloody-minded determination."
"Still the man who just saved the wizarding world by channeling death itself?"
"Still the man who would do anything for his family. That hasn't changed. That will never change."
Lily kissed him then, fierce and desperate and full of relief, while Harry slept peacefully in her arms, unaware that he was now the son of a wizard, a muggle-born witch, and a god—and that his father had just redefined what was possible when love met divine power.
Outside, the storm that had raged during Harry's birth fifteen months earlier finally broke, and dawn began to creep across the sky. The war was over. Voldemort was gone. And the Potter family was safe, whole, and ready for whatever extraordinary adventures lay ahead.
After all, they were Potters. They didn't run from the impossible—they ran toward it while making jokes and redefining the laws of magic.
Some things, apparently, never changed.
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