Look, James Potter had faced down Death Eaters, survived Quidditch matches in hurricane conditions, and once convinced Lily Evans to go out with him (which honestly should have earned him some kind of medal for impossible achievements). But crouching in his own basement at midnight, drawing chalk circles while his brilliant wife questioned his sanity? That was definitely not on his list of "Things I Thought I'd Be Doing at Twenty-One."
The Potter Manor basement had seen its share of questionable decisions over the years. There was the Great Dungbomb Incident of '97, which had resulted in James being banned from three separate family gatherings and his Aunt Muriel refusing to speak to him until Christmas of '99. Then there was the time Sirius had tried to enchant James's old Snitch collection to form a boy band called "The Golden Wings." They'd only known one song—a terrible rendition of "Odo the Hero"—and it had taken a professional curse-breaker to make them stop harmonizing.
And who could forget Lily's unfortunate experiment with color-changing winter cloaks? The robes had been enchanted to shift through every possible shade, which sounded lovely in theory. In practice, they'd cycled through colors that could only be described as "aggressively hideous," including a particularly memorable shade of puce that had made everyone in the room physically nauseous.
But tonight was different. Tonight, the basement looked like the set of a really bad horror film, complete with flickering candles that cast dancing shadows on the stone walls, mysterious chalk symbols that hurt to look at directly, and one ancient book that practically screamed "BAD LIFE CHOICES" in seventeen different dead languages—literally. The book actually whispered occasionally, which was deeply unsettling.
"Remind me again," Lily Potter said, crouched across from James with her auburn hair catching the candlelight like flames, making her look like some kind of warrior goddess (which, let's be honest, she basically was), "why we're not just going to St. Mungo's for a fourth opinion?"
James ran his hand through his permanently disheveled hair—a nervous habit that had only gotten worse since the whole "cursed bloodline" revelation three months ago. The gesture made his hair stick up in approximately fourteen different directions, defying both gravity and logic in the way that only Potter hair could manage.
"Because, my darling, brilliant, occasionally terrifying wife," James said, his voice carrying that particular blend of charm and desperation that had gotten him through most of his life's disasters, "the Healers basically told us I'm about as reproductively useful as a Chocolate Frog without the chocolate. Or the frog. Just the crushing disappointment of an empty wrapper."
Lily raised one perfectly arched eyebrow—a gesture she'd perfected during their Hogwarts years when James was being particularly dramatic. "That is absolutely not what Healer Morrison said, James."
"It's what she meant!" James gestured wildly at the summoning circle, nearly knocking over three candles in the process. "Look, the exact words were 'ancient family curse,' 'incompatible magical signatures,' and something about my great-great-grandfather making a deal with a particularly vindictive banshee after a poker game went wrong. But the gist was the same—no little Potters running around anytime soon."
"Actually," Lily said, settling back on her heels and giving him that look that meant she was about to correct him on something important, "Healer Morrison said your great-great-grandfather made a deal with the banshee to win back his gambling debts, and the curse was her revenge when he tried to cheat the deal."
"See? Even worse! We're cursed because my ancestor was both a gambler AND a cheat. The Potter family tree is apparently rooted in poor life choices."
Lily sighed—the kind of long-suffering sigh she'd perfected during their seventh year at Hogwarts when James was being particularly James-like. It was a sigh that somehow managed to convey both exasperation and deep affection, which was really quite impressive when you thought about it.
"So your solution," she continued, "is to summon... what exactly? Because this book—" She gestured at the ancient tome that was currently whispering what sounded like either Latin or possibly ordering takeout in a dead language, "—doesn't exactly come with a customer service guarantee."
James picked up the book that Sirius had "gifted" them the week before. And by "gifted," James meant Sirius had shown up at their door at three in the morning, soaking wet from the October rain, holding a package wrapped in what appeared to be yesterday's Daily Prophet and a note that said: "Found this in a cursed shop in Knockturn Alley. Seemed like your kind of stupid. Also, the shop owner tried to curse me, so you probably want to handle this quickly. XOXO, Padfoot. P.S. - Don't tell Moony."
The text writhed across the pages like it was trying to escape the parchment, except for one section in clear, bold English that seemed to glow with its own ominous light. James was about seventy percent sure the glow wasn't supposed to be green.
"According to this delightful tome of questionable origin," James read, his voice taking on the tone he usually reserved for explaining Quidditch plays to people who didn't understand the sport, "we're summoning 'any entity capable of granting the deepest desire of the heart.' See? Very specific. Very professional."
He looked up at Lily with that trademark Potter grin that had gotten him into approximately seventy-three percent of his life's problems, including but not limited to: detention with McGonagall, a memorable incident involving a cursed bludger, and that time he'd convinced Lily to sneak out to Hogsmeade during a blizzard because he'd wanted to buy her chocolate.
"What could possibly go wrong?" he asked, still grinning.
Lily stared at him for a long moment, her green eyes bright with the kind of intelligence that had made her the best student in their year and occasionally terrified their professors. "Oh, I don't know," she said, her voice dripping with the sarcasm that had first made James fall in love with her during a particularly heated debate about the ethics of Transfiguration in their sixth year. "Maybe we accidentally summon a demon with abandonment issues? Or a dragon going through a midlife crisis? Or worse—your mother?"
"Hey now," James protested, placing his hand over his heart in mock offense, "that's completely uncalled for. Mum loves you."
"Your mother thinks I corrupted her precious baby boy."
"You did corrupt her precious baby boy." James waggled his eyebrows in a way that should have been ridiculous but somehow still made Lily's heart skip a beat after three years of marriage and seven years of knowing him. "Best corruption of my life. Really top-notch work. I'd recommend your corrupting services to anyone."
"You're impossible," Lily said, but her smile gave her away—the soft, genuine smile she reserved for moments when James managed to be charming instead of just charmingly annoying.
"Impossibly handsome," James corrected.
"Impossibly irritating."
"That too. It's all part of my roguish charm."
"Roguish? James, yesterday you got confused by a Muggle toaster."
"In my defense, it made that popping sound without any warning. It could have been cursed."
"It was making toast."
"Cursed toast is a real thing, Lily. I read about it in—"
"If you say 'Quidditch Through the Ages,' I'm hexing you."
"I was going to say 'The Daily Prophet,' actually."
"That's worse."
Between them, the ancient book lay open like some kind of mystical dare. The ritual instructions seemed simple enough—too simple, which should have been their first clue that this was going to go spectacularly wrong in the way that only Potter family endeavors could. Light some candles (check). Draw a summoning circle (check, though James's circle looked like it had been drawn by a particularly artistic octopus). Place something precious in the center (their wedding rings gleamed in the candlelight, looking almost innocent despite being part of what was definitely going to be a questionable magical ritual). Say the magic words (ominous Latin—or possibly Greek, the book wasn't entirely clear on that point).
"You know," Lily said, twirling her wand between her fingers in the way she did when she was thinking hard about something, "there's still time to back out. We could adopt. There are plenty of magical children who need families. The Clearwaters mentioned that the orphanage in Diagon Alley—"
"Lily." James reached across the circle and took her hand, his thumb automatically tracing over her wedding ring in the gesture that had become second nature over the years. His voice dropped to that soft, serious tone he usually reserved for moments when he wasn't trying to be funny or charming or deflect from his feelings. "We've talked about this. We want to try everything first. And if this doesn't work..."
He shrugged with that easy Potter confidence that masked the vulnerability in his hazel eyes—vulnerability that only Lily ever got to see, usually late at night when he thought she was asleep and he was staring at the ceiling, worrying about things he'd never admit to anyone else.
"Then we'll adopt half the wizarding world if that's what it takes," he finished.
"Just half?" Lily asked, squeezing his hand.
"Well, I figure we should leave some children for other people. I'm generous like that. Sharing is caring and all."
"What if we adopt the half that includes a young Tom Riddle?"
"Then we love them enough to make sure they don't grow up to be a dark lord. Simple."
Lily blinked at him. "James, that's... actually quite profound."
"I have my moments."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late. I'm already composing the letter to my mother about how my wife thinks I'm profound. She'll be so proud."
"Your mother will assume I've been cursed."
"Nah, she'll just think you've finally come to your senses about my many wonderful qualities."
"Your many wonderful qualities," Lily repeated slowly, "currently include dragging me into a basement at midnight to perform a ritual we found in a book that literally whispers threats."
"See? Adventure, spontaneity, willingness to embrace the unknown—all excellent husband qualities."
"The book called me a 'foolish mortal wench' ten minutes ago."
"It has terrible manners. We'll give it a bad review."
Despite everything—the candles, the creepy book, the fact that they were about to attempt to summon some kind of supernatural entity in their basement—Lily laughed. It was the kind of real, genuine laugh that had first made James realize he was completely and utterly in love with her during a Potions class in their sixth year when she'd accidentally turned Severus Snape's hair bright purple and then spent the entire class trying not to giggle about it.
"I love you, you impossible man," she said.
"I love you too, Lily Potter. Now, shall we potentially make the worst decision of our lives?"
"After you, Mr. Potter."
They began the incantation together, their voices blending in perfect harmony the same way they had when they'd exchanged vows, when they'd cast their first spell together as partners in Defense Against the Dark Arts, when they'd whispered promises in the hidden corners of Hogwarts castle during those few precious moments when they could pretend the war wasn't happening outside the school walls.
The Latin—or Greek, they still weren't entirely sure—rolled off their tongues like music, even though neither of them was completely certain what they were saying. James was about sixty percent sure they were asking for help, twenty percent sure they were offering something in return, and twenty percent convinced they might accidentally be ordering a very complicated meal.
The temperature in the basement plummeted. Not gradually, like when winter was coming, but all at once, like someone had opened a door directly to the North Pole. The candles flickered and turned an unsettling shade of blue-white that made everything look like it was underwater. Above them, the October wind that had been rattling the shutters suddenly stopped, as if the entire world was holding its breath.
"James," Lily whispered, her breath visible in the suddenly frigid air, "is it just me, or do the shadows look like they're... moving?"
James glanced around the basement, his newly heightened senses picking up things he'd never noticed before. The shadows weren't just moving—they were writhing, pooling together in the center of their circle like liquid darkness with a mind of its own. "Yeah, that's definitely not normal basement behavior."
"Should we run?"
"Probably."
"Are we going to run?"
"Probably not."
"Why not?"
"Because we're Potters. We don't run from weird magical situations. We run toward them while making jokes."
"That's a terrible family motto."
"But accurate."
Neither of them moved as the shadows continued to gather, forming something that might generously be called humanoid if you squinted really hard and had a very liberal definition of what constituted human shape. The darkness seemed to fold in on itself, condensed and twisted until—
With a sound like expensive silk being torn by very sharp claws, a figure stepped out of the writhing shadows.
The man—because it was definitely a man, despite the whole emerging-from-literal-darkness entrance—was tall, pale, and dressed in robes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. His hair was perfectly styled in a way that suggested either supernatural powers or access to magical hair products that definitely weren't available at the apothecary in Diagon Alley. He moved with the fluid grace of someone who had never bumped into furniture or tripped over his own feet, which James found immediately intimidating.
But it was his eyes that made both James and Lily take an involuntary step backward. They were deep, dark, and ancient—the kind of eyes that had seen civilizations rise and fall before breakfast, watched empires crumble into dust, and probably had very strong opinions about the decline of proper manners in modern society.
"Well," the stranger said, his voice carrying the kind of quiet authority that made mountains sit up and pay attention, "this is unexpected."
James Potter, being James Potter, decided that the appropriate response to meeting what was clearly a supernatural entity of considerable power was to make polite conversation and possibly offer refreshments.
"Right, hello there!" James said with the same cheerful tone he used when meeting Lily's friends from work. "Lovely evening, isn't it? Well, I say lovely, but it's actually quite cold now, isn't it? Though I have to admit, the whole shadow-entrance thing was incredibly dramatic. Very impressive visual effects. Do you do parties?"
The man tilted his head, studying James with the kind of look usually reserved for particularly interesting insects or people who had just said something so profoundly stupid that it defied immediate comprehension.
"You summoned me, mortal," he said, and somehow managed to make the word 'mortal' sound like a mildly disappointing diagnosis.
"Yes, well, that was rather the point," James replied, running his hand through his hair again and making it stick up in even more impossible directions. "Though I have to admit, we weren't entirely sure what to expect. The book was a bit vague on specifics. Very mysterious. Lots of ominous pronouncements about 'entities' and 'desires of the heart,' but surprisingly little in the way of practical details. No FAQ section or anything."
"James," Lily hissed, grabbing his arm, "stop making small talk with the possibly-demonic entity."
"He seems friendly enough," James whispered back, loud enough that their visitor could definitely hear him. "Very polite. Good posture. Excellent dramatic timing."
"He stepped out of literal darkness, James!"
"Well, yes, but he did it very stylishly. You have to appreciate the craftsmanship."
"This is not the time for your aesthetic appreciation of supernatural phenomena!"
The stranger watched this exchange with what might have been amusement, if beings who stepped out of shadows were capable of being amused by mortal married couples having whispered arguments in the middle of summoning rituals.
James turned back to their unexpected guest with his most winning smile—the one that had convinced Professor McGonagall to let him retake his Transfiguration N.E.W.T. after the infamous "incident" with the desk that had gained sentience and tried to eat Remus's homework.
"Sorry about that," James said apologetically. "We're still figuring out the proper etiquette for supernatural visitations. This is our first time, and the book didn't come with an instruction manual. Very poor customer service, really. But we're going to need some identification before we proceed. You know how it is these days—can't be too careful with mysterious entities showing up in one's basement. Could be anyone, really. Dark wizards, confused house-elves, traveling salesmen."
For the first time since his dramatic entrance, the stranger's expression shifted to something that definitely looked like amusement. The corner of his mouth curved upward in what might have been the beginning of a smile, if smiles could somehow make you think about winter nights and distant stars.
"I am Hades," he said, his voice carrying the weight of millennia and possibly several rather impressive educational degrees. "Lord of the Dead. Ruler of the Underworld. Guardian of the souls of the departed. King of the realm where shadows go to rest." He paused, as if waiting for them to fall to their knees in reverence or possibly faint from the sheer weight of his divine presence. "Does that suffice as identification?"
James blinked. Then blinked again. Then opened his mouth, closed it, and blinked a third time for good measure.
"Oh," he said finally. "Oh, that's... that's an actual god. Like, proper divinity. Capital-D Divine."
"Not quite capital-D," Hades corrected with the patience of someone who had had this conversation many times before. "That's a different department entirely, and we try not to step on each other's jurisdiction. Professional courtesy. But yes, I am what you mortals would call divine."
"Right. Divine. Got it." James nodded rapidly, his hair bouncing with the motion. "So, just to clarify, we were expecting maybe a helpful spirit or a particularly powerful wizard, and instead we've summoned an actual god of the actual Underworld."
"That does appear to be the situation, yes."
"And you're not angry about being summoned? Because I feel like gods probably have very busy schedules. Lots of divine responsibilities. Souls to judge, underworld politics, that sort of thing."
Hades considered this question with the seriousness it probably didn't deserve. "I was having a rather dull evening, actually. Paperwork. You'd be surprised how much paperwork is involved in running the afterlife. Mountains of forms. Death certificates, soul processing documents, appeals for early reincarnation. It's mind-numbing."
"So we're... what, a welcome distraction?"
"Something like that."
Lily, who had been processing this information with her characteristic quick thinking and growing concern, stepped forward with her wand raised. Not threatening exactly, but definitely ready for trouble in the way that only Lily Potter could manage—polite but prepared to hex first and ask questions later if necessary.
"We weren't expecting someone quite so... significant," she said carefully.
Hades raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow—a gesture that somehow managed to be both elegant and slightly condescending, like a professor dealing with students who had just asked if they needed to study for the final exam.
"What exactly were you expecting when you performed a ritual asking for 'any entity capable of granting your heart's desire'?" he asked, and there was definitely amusement in his voice now. "A helpful house-elf? A motivational poster? Perhaps a very enthusiastic leprechaun with a business degree?"
"The house-elf would have been considerably less terrifying," James muttered.
"I am not terrifying," Hades said, sounding genuinely offended. "I am imposing. There's a significant difference."
"Right, sorry. Very imposing. In a good way. A divine, lordly way."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. So, just out of curiosity, do you get summoned often? Because this seems like the sort of thing that would happen a lot. Desperate mortals, impossible situations, that whole thing."
"More often than you might think, less often than I'd prefer. Most mortals who attempt this particular ritual either mispronounce the incantation so badly that they summon their neighbor's cat, or they use the wrong type of chalk and end up opening a portal to a dimension populated entirely by very confused accountants."
"That sounds awful."
"The accountants or the mispronunciation?"
"Both, really."
Lily shot her husband a look that clearly said 'stop bonding with the god of death over small talk,' then addressed Hades directly with the no-nonsense tone she used when she needed to get important information quickly.
"You know why we called you," she said. It wasn't a question.
Hades nodded slowly, his expression shifting from amused to something deeper and more serious. "Yes. You want a child. You, James Potter, carry a curse in your bloodline—old magic, vindictive and remarkably petty. It prevents you from fathering children, despite your wife's considerable magical gifts and what I assume have been extensive medical consultations."
His gaze moved between them, taking in their expensive robes, the well-appointed basement, and the kind of subtle magical signatures that spoke of old wizarding families and inherited power.
"You've tried everything the mortal world has to offer," he continued. "Every Healer in Britain, possibly a few in France. You've consulted with curse-breakers, potionmakers, and probably at least one person who claimed they could solve your problem with the power of positive thinking and a really good herbal tea."
"The tea was actually quite good," James said. "Didn't work, but excellent flavor profile."
"And now," Hades continued, "you're desperate enough to summon a god."
The word 'desperate' hung in the air between them like an accusation. Lily's hand found James's automatically, their fingers intertwining with the unconscious ease of three years of marriage and seven years of loving each other through war and peace, graduation and jobs, hope and disappointment.
"I understand desperation," Hades said quietly, and for a moment his ancient eyes looked almost... sympathetic. "It drives mortals to extraordinary acts of bravery and stupidity, often simultaneously."
"Which is this?" James asked, because he'd never been able to resist asking questions that probably didn't have comfortable answers.
"I'm still determining that," Hades replied with the kind of honesty that James found both refreshing and mildly terrifying.
James grinned—actually grinned at the Lord of the Dead, because apparently his self-preservation instincts had given up entirely. "Well, at least you're honest about it."
"I find honesty refreshing. So few mortals appreciate it these days. They prefer comfortable lies and polite evasions."
"We're not most mortals," Lily said, lifting her chin with the kind of quiet pride that had made her Head Girl and convinced James Potter that he was going to marry her someday, even when she was still hexing him for asking her out.
"No," Hades agreed, studying them both with renewed interest. "You're not."
He moved around their circle then, stepping carefully around the chalk lines with the fluid grace of someone who had never once stubbed his toe on furniture. His hands were clasped behind his back like a professor examining students' work, which was probably exactly what he was doing.
"Your summoning circle is adequate," he said finally, "though the geometric proportions are slightly off, and your pronunciation of the invocation was absolutely atrocious."
"Hey, we did our best with ancient Latin," James protested.
"It was ancient Greek."
James and Lily looked at each other.
"...That explains a lot, actually," James said.
"It really does," Lily agreed. "I was wondering why it didn't sound like the Latin we learned in school."
"The book wasn't exactly clear on the language requirements," James added. "Very vague. Lots of mystical mumbling about 'words of power' but no actual pronunciation guide."
"Ancient texts are notoriously unhelpful that way," Hades said sympathetically. "You'd think after thousands of years, someone would have added footnotes."
Hades continued his circuit of the basement, examining their handiwork with the kind of professional interest that made James wonder exactly how many summoning circles the Lord of the Dead had seen over the years.
"I cannot simply father a child with mortals," Hades said eventually, his tone matter-of-fact. "There are rules. Pacts. Agreements made in the early days of civilization when my brothers and I learned that divine intervention in mortal affairs tends to result in... complications."
"What kind of complications?" Lily asked, though something in her expression suggested she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know the answer.
"Wars. Plagues. The occasional apocalypse. Mass hysteria. Really awkward family dinners." Hades waved a hand dismissively, as if discussing divine catastrophes was just part of his daily routine. "The last time we had direct children with mortals, it nearly destroyed Western civilization. Twice."
"Twice?" James echoed, his voice climbing slightly higher than usual.
"Troy was just the warm-up act. The real drama came later when three of my nephews got into an argument over who had the most impressive temple complex. The resulting conflict lasted for centuries and involved approximately seventeen different pantheons, four different apocalyptic prophecies, and what historians now remember as 'that time all the gods got really petty about architecture.'"
"Right. Good to know." James looked at Lily, who was wearing her 'processing potentially catastrophic information' face. "So, you can't help us then?"
Hades stopped his examination and turned to face them, his expression shifting to something that might have been a smile if smiles could simultaneously make you think of starlight and gravestones.
"I didn't say I couldn't help," he said. "I said I couldn't father a child directly. But there is... a loophole."
James perked up immediately, like a dog hearing the word 'walk.' "Oh, I do love a good loophole. Loopholes are brilliant. Some of my best decisions have involved loopholes."
"Most mortals do appreciate them," Hades observed. "It's rather endearing, really. The way you find hope in the most technical of circumstances."
"So what's the loophole?" Lily asked, though her tone suggested she was already preparing herself for something complicated and possibly dangerous.
Hades moved to the center of their circle, somehow managing to step over the chalk lines without disturbing them—a feat that should have been impossible but apparently wasn't when you were a god with several thousand years of experience in supernatural navigation.
"I can give you a portion of my essence, James Potter," he said, his voice taking on a formal quality that made the words feel like an official pronouncement. "Not enough to make you immortal—that would violate approximately forty-seven different cosmic regulations—but enough to carry a fragment of divine power within your mortal form. Any child you father would then be both fully yours and partially mine, mortal and divine, satisfying the terms of the ancient pacts while still being technically legitimate offspring."
The basement went quiet except for the sound of their breathing, the soft guttering of candles, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell chiming midnight. James and Lily looked at each other, years of marriage allowing them to have an entire conversation with just their eyes—a conversation that involved raised eyebrows, meaningful glances, and the kind of silent communication that only came from knowing someone well enough to predict their thoughts.
"What's the catch?" James asked finally, because he'd learned long ago that if something sounded too good to be true, it usually involved either Dark Arts, dangerous magical creatures, or his mother finding out about it.
"Wise question," Hades said, nodding approvingly. "There are several catches, actually. First, you, James, would be forever changed. The essence of death and the Underworld would become part of your fundamental nature. You would be stronger, considerably harder to kill, but also marked in ways both visible and invisible. You would sense decay, feel the pull of darkness, know when death is near—not just your own, but others' as well. It would not be a comfortable existence."
James considered this, unconsciously running his hand through his hair again. "Would I still be me? Would I still be the devastatingly charming man my wife fell in love with?"
"You would still be you," Hades assured him, "but more. Think of it as... an upgrade with some rather significant side effects. Like getting a new magical ability that came with a lifetime subscription to existential dread."
"That doesn't sound entirely awful," James said thoughtfully. "I mean, the existential dread part is unfortunate, but I've been dealing with that since I found out Voldemort was specifically interested in killing me, so it's not exactly new territory."
"James," Lily said quietly, "what about the child?"
The question hung in the air between them, heavy with three years of hope and disappointment. Hades's expression grew serious, the kind of seriousness that made you understand why he was the Lord of the Dead and not the Lord of Cheerful Afternoon Picnics.
"Any child born of this union would be powerful," he said carefully. "Possibly too powerful for their own good. They would be hunted by monsters who see divinity as either a threat or a prize to be claimed. They would be feared by some gods who view half-mortal children as unpredictable variables in the cosmic order. They would be worshipped or reviled by mortals depending on the political climate and how well their divine heritage could be hidden."
He paused, studying their faces as the implications sank in.
"Their life would be dangerous in ways you cannot possibly imagine," he continued. "They would face choices that could reshape the world, bear responsibilities that would crush most adults, and carry the weight of bridging two realms that were never meant to coexist peacefully."
The silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of impossible decisions and the kind of love that made people consider taking risks that any rational person would flee from.
"But would they be loved?" Lily asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The question seemed to catch Hades completely off guard. For the first time since his dramatic entrance, the ancient, imposing god looked almost... vulnerable. His perfect composure cracked slightly, revealing something raw and unexpectedly human beneath the divine authority.
"Yes," he said finally, his voice soft with something that might have been remembered pain. "Any child of mine is precious to me, regardless of the circumstances of their birth. I may be the Lord of the Dead, but I am not heartless. I do not abandon those who carry my essence."
"Even if they're trouble?" James asked.
"Especially if they're trouble. Trouble usually means they're thinking for themselves, which is both admirable and terrifying in roughly equal measure."
"And if they need you?" Lily pressed.
"Then I will come," Hades said simply. "Divine politics, cosmic regulations, and bureaucratic red tape be damned. Family is family, mortal or otherwise."
James and Lily exchanged another look, this one longer and more intense than before. Three years of disappointment passed between them in that glance—three years of Healer appointments and failed treatments, of watching their friends announce pregnancies while they remained childless, of hope raised and crushed and rebuilt and crushed again. Three years of loving each other through the kind of grief that had no funeral, no closure, only the endless ache of dreams deferred.
"We accept," James said without hesitation, his voice carrying the same determination he'd used when he'd asked Lily to marry him, when he'd joined the Order of the Phoenix, when he'd decided that some things were worth fighting for regardless of the cost.
"James—" Lily started.
"No, Lily." James took her hands, his eyes bright with the kind of fierce determination that had made him Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team and convinced a brilliant, practical woman to fall in love with a boy who thought racing broomsticks through thunderstorms was a reasonable hobby.
"We've waited long enough," he said, his voice steady despite the magnitude of what they were considering. "We've tried everything else. We've been responsible and careful and practical, and none of it worked. If this child is going to face danger, then they'll face it with parents who love them unconditionally and a literal god looking out for them."
He looked up at Hades, still holding Lily's hands like anchors.
"Right?" he asked. "You'll look out for them?"
"I protect what is mine," Hades said, and there was something in his voice that suggested enemies of his children would discover exactly why he was feared across multiple pantheons.
"Then we're in," James said, flashing that reckless Potter grin that had gotten him into trouble since childhood but had also gotten him everything he'd ever really wanted. "All three of us, apparently."
For the first time since his dramatic entrance, Hades actually smiled—a real smile that transformed his entire face and made him look less like a terrifying divine entity and more like someone who might actually enjoy a good joke or remember what it was like to be young and in love and willing to risk everything for the people who mattered.
"You are either very brave or very foolish, James Potter," he said.
"Why not both?" James replied cheerfully.
"Indeed," Hades said, his smile widening. "Why not both?"
He gestured for James to approach, and the temperature in the basement seemed to drop another ten degrees just from the movement.
"This will not be pleasant," Hades warned.
James stepped forward, still grinning but with significantly less bravado than usual. "Define 'not pleasant,' if you don't mind. Are we talking 'stubbed toe' unpleasant or 'eaten by a dragon' unpleasant?"
"Imagine every cold you've ever had," Hades said thoughtfully, "combined with the worst hangover of your life, while being struck by lightning and having your soul reorganized by cosmic forces that don't particularly care about your comfort level during the process."
James considered this. "That's... oddly specific."
"I have experience with this sort of thing."
Lily grabbed James's arm. "Are you sure about this?"
James covered her hand with his, squeezing gently. "Lily Evans Potter, I have never been more sure of anything in my life. Except maybe marrying you. That was definitely my best decision."
"This is either going to be your second-best or your worst."
"Only one way to find out."
Hades extended his hand, and power rippled through the air like heat waves. "Are you ready, James Potter?"
"Absolutely not," James said cheerfully. "Let's do this."
The moment Hades touched James's forehead, the basement exploded with cold, dark energy. James's knees buckled as power poured into him like liquid ice, rewriting his very essence. His magic roared and twisted, fighting the foreign presence before gradually accepting it. For a terrifying moment, Lily could swear she heard whispers in a dozen different languages, the voices of the dead welcoming their new brother.
James collapsed, gasping, his eyes now flecked with silver that seemed to move like liquid mercury. The curse that had plagued his family for generations shattered like glass, its broken pieces scattered by divine wind.
"James!" Lily was beside him in an instant, checking him over with practiced efficiency.
"I'm... different," James panted, slowly pushing himself upright. "But still me. Still your impossibly charming husband." He looked up at her with those new, unsettling eyes. "The curse is gone, Lily. I can feel it. It's really gone."
Hades stepped back, looking satisfied with his work. "It is done. The child, when they come, will be extraordinary. When they are born, if you have need of me, call my name three times in darkness. I will come."
"Why?" Lily asked, helping James to his feet. "Why help us? Why risk the complications you mentioned?"
Hades was quiet for a long moment, his expression distant. "Because I, too, know what it is to be denied the things that bring joy. And because..." He paused, studying them both with those ancient eyes. "I have a feeling your child will be important. More important than you can imagine."
"Important how?" James asked, though he wasn't sure he really wanted to know.
"That remains to be seen. But mark my words, James and Lily Potter—your child will bridge worlds. They will walk in both the mortal realm and the divine, and they will face choices that will echo through eternity."
With that cheerful thought, Hades began to dissolve back into shadow, leaving only the faint scent of pomegranates and the lingering chill of graveyards.
"Wait!" James called out. "Do you have any parenting advice? You know, divine wisdom and all that?"
Hades's voice echoed from the dissipating darkness, tinged with what might have been amusement. "Love them fiercely. Trust them completely. And always keep a good supply of ambrosia on hand. You never know when you might need it."
And then he was gone, leaving James and Lily alone in the basement with their flickering candles and their dramatically altered future.
James swayed on his feet, and Lily caught him, both of them sinking down to sit on the cold stone floor. "So," James said conversationally, "that happened."
"That happened," Lily agreed, studying his face in the candlelight. "How do you feel?"
James considered the question seriously. "Different. Like I'm still me, but more. I can sense things I couldn't before—the age of the stones in these walls, the mice in the corners, the way magic flows through the Manor like blood through veins." He looked at her with those new silver-flecked eyes. "But most importantly, Lily, I can feel that the curse is gone. Really, truly gone."
Tears started flowing down Lily's cheeks—happy tears, for once. "We're going to have a baby."
"We're going to have a baby," James confirmed, pulling her close. "A baby with a god for a second father, apparently. That's not going to be awkward at all."
"Oh, it's going to be incredibly awkward," Lily laughed through her tears. "But James? I don't care. I want this. I want our child, however complicated their heritage might be."
James kissed her then, fierce and desperate and full of hope. When they broke apart, he was grinning that signature Potter grin that had first caught her attention in their seventh year at Hogwarts. "Well, Mrs. Potter, ready to become the most interesting parents in wizarding history?"
"With you? Always."
They sat there for a while, holding each other in the candlelit basement, making plans for a future that suddenly seemed bright with possibility. Above them, the October wind resumed its rattling of the shutters, as if the world had finally remembered how to breathe.
Nine months later, during one of the worst thunderstorms in British magical history, Harry James Potter was born—a child destined for both Hogwarts and places that wouldn't be discovered for years to come. But that night in the basement, James and Lily simply held each other and dreamed of the child they would finally get to love.
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