Three Lives, Then What?

The last dying rays of the setting sun spilled through James' bedroom window, casting a blinding glow across the TV in the corner and obscuring his view. This was especially annoying since the game displayed on the screen, an old Street Fighter-type one, had him obsessed. He, Sirius, and Peter had stumbled across it by pure chance, tucked away between a broken radio and a stack of musty, forgotten VHS tapes at a closing-down thrift shop.

The game was old enough to belong in a museum, but it didn’t matter, he couldn’t lose. Not now. Not when he was just one fight away from dethroning Sirius’ high score—the same score Sirius had somehow managed to set while lazily lounging on their hideout couch, one hand barely gripping the controller and the other buried in a bag of crisps.

He’d been practicing for weeks, refining every move, memorizing each frame-perfect combo until his thumbs ached.

It was his moment. Redemption was within reach, and he deserved it.

The sun thought otherwise.

His eyes narrowed as he shot a quick, frustrated glance at the window. With an irritated grunt he strode over, yanking the curtains together with a swift motion, praying they wouldn’t get caught on the rod.

Of course, they did. Because why wouldn’t they? It wasn’t like James was in the middle of an important moment or anything. No, clearly, the universe wanted to test his patience in the dumbest way possible.

“I’ve got the finesse of a bull in a china shop,” he muttered, remembering the many times his mum had said that to him as a kid. With a few more tugs, he finally freed the curtains, letting them fall clumsily and finally blocking out the blinding light.

For a brief moment, a flicker of triumph sparked in his chest—right up until his eyes flicked back to the screen. His stomach dropped.

'YOU LOSE' blinked in bold, pixelated letters, taunting him with every obnoxious flash.

With a defeated sigh, he tossed the controller aside and flopped back onto the bed. “Guess I’ll have to beat him next time.”

His phone buzzed against the rumpled sheets. James scrambled for it, miscalculating in his eagerness and nearly knocking it to the floor in the process. In his haste, he also managed to trip over a pile of dirty clothes, barely catching himself before faceplanting into his mattress. It was a mystery how someone raised by Euphemia Potter could be such an absolute disaster.

Squinting at the screen, he found a text waiting for him.

Peteyyyy :0
Got the smoke bombs?

Jamsie <3
No hello? Am I just a supplier to you?

Peteyyyy :0
Hi.

Do you?

James shook his head with a chuckle. His friends were probably the best thing that had ever happened to him—though they would tease him relentlessly if he told them that. Life before them felt distant, dull, like an old film reel collecting dust in the attic.

Peter, with his perpetually messy blond hair and those damn dimples that made him look innocent even when he wasn’t, could talk his way out of trouble even when the evidence was blatantly obvious—if only he got rid of that damn stammer. Sirius, on the other hand, was effortlessly cool—long black waves that always fell just right, stormy grey eyes that housed a permanent spark of mischief. Where Peter could talk his way out of anything, Sirius could charm his way in.

Instead of replying with a simple "yes" to his friend, James rushed to his walk-in wardrobe, where he’d hidden the smoke bombs under a pile of old hoodies earlier. He grabbed one with uncharacteristic care and headed back to his phone.

He snapped a quick selfie, grinning as he gave a thumbs-up, the bomb balanced on his head like a ridiculous top hat—something you’d expect to see in a ‘modern’ art exhibit that no one really understood.

Peteyyyy :0

You’re ridiculous.

James barely had time to bask in his own genius before another message followed: “We’re meeting outside the freak house to go over the final details.”

His grin faltered.

Jamsie <3

Ooooh, spooky.

Should I bring a cross? A stake? Holy water?

Peteyyyy :0

You should bring your brain. Oh, wait—never mind, you don’t have one.

The playful banter did little to ease the shiver that crept up James’ spine at the mention of the house. Even in daylight, something about it felt... off. Sirius, ever the dramatic bastard, had once called it ‘the perfect haunted house aesthetic.' But James thought that there was nothing remotely 'aesthetic' about the house.

The windows were dark like hollowed-out eyes, gaping and lifeless, as if something had sucked all the warmth from inside. The wooden porch sagged, and the paint peeled in long, curling strips, as if the house itself was shedding its skin. It slouched forward, groaning under the weight of its own neglect. The air around it always seemed still, like the entire house was holding its breath, waiting for something.

It had been living in disarray for nearly a year, ever since the man who lived there began slipping further and further into madness. Rumours circulated about the place— whispers of likely exaggerations—but there was one rumour that stood out, the one that seemed the most believable because it was rooted in sadness rather than anything supernatural.

A few years ago, they had been like any old family—a mother, a father, a son. Ordinary. Whole. Then the mother fell ill. The kind of illness that doesn’t forgive, doesn’t bargain, doesn’t leave room for hope. When every treatment failed and machines became the only thing keeping her alive, the family was forced to make the impossible decision.

They let her go.

Grief settled in like a sickness, seeping into the walls, thickening the air, suffocating the house in a silence that never truly broke. Time passed, but loss clung to the place, a shadow that refused to fade. And then, as if the universe had not taken enough, the son vanished. One day he was there, and the next, he was gone—no signs of a struggle, no clues to where he could have gone. Just absence. As if the earth had opened up and swallowed him whole, erasing him as thoroughly as it had taken his mother.

The father had searched relentlessly, his desperation curdling into obsession. He chased every lead, clung to every whisper, knocking on doors long after the rest of the town had moved on. But no one had seen the boy. No one had heard his voice—only silence remained, stretching endlessly where he once stood. Nearly a year had passed, and with each day, his presence faded further—just a name left behind in his father’s grief.

A wave of unease settled in James’ stomach, heavy and unwelcome. The story struck a nerve, too close for comfort. It wasn’t that he feared for his own family—not really—but the mere thought of losing someone like that, of watching them slip away into nothing, was a fear that lurked in the back of his mind, persistent and unshakable, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

James barely registered the dull thunk of something bouncing off his head, but the sudden, unmistakable crash that followed immediately snapped him back to reality.

The bomb tumbled to the floor and ricocheted between his desk legs like an cursed game of pinball, zigzagging with all the grace of a drunk squirrel before finally smacking into his bedroom door with an ominous thud.

Relief settled in for approximately two seconds—right until two wisps of inky grey smoke began curling out of the blasted thing, hissing as it hit the air.

“Oh, that’s not good.”

The smoke thickened fast. James flailed uselessly, batting at it as if he could just shoo it back into the bomb. The smoke billowed defiantly, climbing toward the ceiling and growing at an alarming rate.

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” He coughed, waving a hand in front of his face as his room vanished into the fog. His eyes burned. His lungs protested. His brain screamed.

He whirled toward the window and yanked the curtains open in a dramatic flourish—only for them to catch on the rod and collapse in a tangled heap.

“Great. Perfect. Amazing.” he muttered, his mum’s voice echoing in his head: Finesse of a bull in a china shop, that one.

"Whatever, Mum," he hissed under his breath. "It’s not like ‘how to handle spontaneous indoor pollution’ was part of my upbringing."

The smoke, unbothered by his suffering, continued thickened.

A knock at the door made him freeze mid-flail.

“James?” his dad called from the other side. “Everything okay in there?”

James' soul briefly left his body.

"Yeah! Totally fine!" he called back, pitching his voice into the most unconvincing level of casual. He grabbed a pillow and started flapping it wildly, accomplishing absolutely nothing. "Just... cleaning! Deep cleaning! Big spring refresh!"

Silence. Then another knock. “Are you sure?”

“Yes! Just being... thorough!" James shoved his phone in his pocket like that somehow helped, then tried to shoo the smoke toward the window. It curled mockingly around his head.

He darted back to the window, stumbling over his own feet in a panic, and yanked it open with all the grace of a toddler. The fresh air rushed in, and the smoke followed it, swirling in the open air like it had no intention of leaving.

Wiping his hands on his jeans, he took one last glance at the disaster and sighed.

Just then, his phone buzzed again.

Peteyyyy :0
Mate, do you know if the bombs actually work?

James stared at the screen for a moment, feeling an overwhelming urge to either laugh or cry. They definitely worked—if the state of his room was anything to go by.

“They do, but I may have also turned my room into an oven finding that out,” he typed back. He could picture Peter’s inevitable response: 'You’re an idiot, James.'

James took one last look at the smoke curling out the window like a distress signal. His dad, thankfully, had decided not to investigate further—but that was future-James' problem.

Right now, present-James had a different mission: meet up with Sirius and Peter before they got themselves killed by the man who owned the house. Heartbroken or not, he was creepy and possibly dangerous.

With one last futile swipe at the lingering smoke, he grabbed his bag, shoved the rest of the smoke bombs inside, and bolted for the door.

***

By the time James arrived, the night had settled thick and heavy around the quiet street.

The house stood apart from the others, slumped in on itself like it was trying to retreat from the world. Its peeling paint curled in jagged, flaking strips, and the porch railing leaned at an unnatural angle, barely hanging on. The windows were dark—emptied-out sockets staring blindly ahead—but James couldn’t shake the feeling that something lurked behind them, watching, waiting. The porch light flickered weakly, its bulb buzzing like an insect trapped in amber, casting twitching shadows across the rotting wood.

He pulled his jacket tighter around himself. The place looked even worse up close.

A voice cut through the stillness. “What took you so long?”

James turned to find Sirius leaning against a lamppost, arms crossed, a lopsided grin already in place. Peter stood beside him, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes glinting with mischief under the streetlights.

“And—what the hell is all over your face?” Sirius added, raising an eyebrow.

Shit. He should have checked the mirror before leaving.

James jogs over, opening his mouth to reply—only for Peter to beat him to it, slinging an arm over his shoulder with a shit-eating grin. “Jamsie boy here set off a smoke bomb in his room.”

Sirius’ eyes light up like he’s just been handed a box of fireworks and told to cause go crazy. “No way. You actually did?” He let out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Fuuuuck, I wish I’d thought of that—would’ve driven dear old Mum up the wall.”

He grins, clearly enjoying the thought, before suddenly tilting his head, like a realization has just dawned on him. “Wait—” Sirius’ expression shifts, his lips twitching as he tries (and fails) to look serious. “That means…”

His eyes widen like James has just revealed something truly earth-shattering. Then, with a dramatic gasp, he staggers backward, clutching his chest as if physically weakened by the sheer weight of the revelation.

“No. No, I refuse to believe it,” he declares, fingers splayed over his heart. “James Potter, fallen from grace? Stripped of his freedom? Grounded like some common delinquent?” He shakes his head in mock despair. “Merlin, what a cruel world.”

Then, in a final, tragic flourish, he wipes away an imaginary tear. “Oh, mate. Truly devastating.” With an overly solemn sigh, he places a hand on James’ shoulder, giving it a pitying squeeze. “So… how long are you locked away for?”

James puffs out his chest. “Fuck you, I handled it just fine.”

Sirius scoffs, barely holding back a laugh. “Sure you did.” The sarcasm is practically tattooed on his forehead in multicoloured ink.

With a long sigh, James deflates like a popped balloon, realizing there's no talking his way out of this.

Peter, who had been watching the whole exchange in amusement, cuts in, dimples flashing as he grins. His pale skin practically glowed under the streetlights, making him look even more like the mischievous little shit he was. “As much as I love making fun of James, we’ve got a prank to plan.”

Rolling his eyes, James mutters, “Oh, now you remember why we’re here.”

Sirius grins that Sirius Black grin. “Obviously. And since you nearly blew up your house, you get to be the one sneaking around.”

"Wait—when the hell did we decide that?"

“Just now,” Sirius smirks, looking way too self-satisfied for James’ liking.

James squints at him, unimpressed. He should give him a noogie, mess up his prized hair—wipe that smirk right off his face.

But that would only make Sirius even more insufferable, so he sighs instead, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “You know, one day, I’m going to start charging you for all the bullshit I put up with.”

Sirius grins. “And yet, here you are, still putting up with it.”

James groans but doesn’t argue. Instead, he adjusts the strap of his bag, glancing between them. “Alright, let’s go over this one more time—how are we pulling this off?”

Peter flashed a knowing grin, dimples deepening. “Simple. I’ve got a free period tomorrow, which means I can slip into the supply closet unnoticed and hide the smoke bombs behind the janitor’s cart. No one ever checks back there.”

James raised a sceptical brow. “And if you get caught?”

Peter waved a hand dismissively. “Please. Do you know how many times I’ve talked my way out of detention?”

Sirius spun a smoke bomb between his fingers, despite having heard what happened to James not even 15 minutes earlier. “He’s got a point, Jamie. Pete’s practically a professional at the whole ‘innocent face’ thing.” His gaze flicked toward Peter, lips twitching. “Even if you do stammer like you’re trying to break a world record.”

Peter elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Shove off.”

James rolled his eyes. “Alright, fine. And then?”

Peter’s smirk widened. “During lunch, you and Sirius grab them. We sneak into the science wing, stash them near the lockers, and set them off right before the bell rings.”

Sirius shot him an approving look. “Solid. That way, when the alarm goes off, everyone will be flooding the halls, and the teachers won’t know where the smoke’s coming from.”

James let out a long sigh. “Why am I always the one doing the dangerous bit?”

“Because,” Sirius said, slinging an arm around James’ shoulders, “you’re the fastest if we have to run. And let’s be honest—if anyone’s getting caught, it’s Pete.”

Peter’s head snapped up, eyes wide with exaggerated outrage. “Excuse me? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He jabbed a finger between them. “I have never been caught.”

James smirked. “That’s because you always make us do the hard part.”

Peter gasped, clutching his chest like James had personally insulted his ancestors. “Unbelievable! You lot act like I don’t contribute anything, but who always comes up with the plans? Who’s the mastermind behind this whole thing?”

Sirius snorted. “Yeah, yeah, alright, evil genius, we get it.”

Peter sniffed, lifting his chin. “Damn right, you do.”

James chuckled, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Relax, Pete. We’d never do a job without our brains.”

Peter squinted at him, unimpressed. “You definitely just called me a nerd.”

James and Sirius exchanged looks before grinning and saying in perfect sync, “Yup.”

Peter groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you both.”

Sirius clapped him on the back, completely unbothered. “Nah, you love us.”

Peter muttered something under his breath about being underappreciated, but the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

The wind picked up, whistling through the trees. James rolled his shoulders, suddenly aware of how quiet the street was. The house loomed behind them, dark windows reflecting the streetlights like watching eyes.

“Alright, let’s—”

The front door creaked open and all three of them froze.

James hadn’t been sure what he expected—maybe some kindly old man, maybe no one at all. But the figure stepping onto the porch wasn’t just anyone.

He was the father from the story.

The man in the doorway was tall—imposingly so. James wasn’t short, but he still had to tilt his chin up to meet the man’s shadowed gaze. James wondered if his son was just as tall.

But height wasn’t the most unsettling part, though. It was the way he stood, stiff and unmoving, as if he were listening for something beyond them, something only he could hear. The flickering porch light cast deep lines across his face, making his expression unreadable, but his eyes—sharp, dark—darted between them like he was sizing them up, searching for something.

James felt Peter stiffen beside him. Sirius didn’t move, but James could sense the shift in him—shoulders squaring, body going still, like he was preparing for a fight he wasn’t sure was coming.

The man’s gaze flicked over them, slow and deliberate. Then, finally, he spoke.

“You boys lost?”

His voice was calm—too calm. The kind of calm that made James’ skin itch.

Peter swallowed hard. “Uh—no, sir. We were just—uh—”

“Leaving,” James cut in quickly.

The man—Lyall, James thought his name was—didn't respond right away. His eyes lingered on them a second too long before he stepped back inside the house.

James could feel Sirius tense beside him. But Lyall didn’t shut the door completely. He lingered in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame, watching them like he wasn’t convinced they’d actually go.

Then, just before he disappeared into the house, he said, “It’s not safe to be out after dark.”

The words should’ve been innocuous, maybe even concerned. But there was something in his tone—something firm, edged with something almost urgent.

James’ stomach twisted. Peter went rigid.

Sirius, ever Sirius, just lifted his chin. “That supposed to be a threat?”

Lyall didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched long and heavy before he finally said, “Take it however you want.”

And with that, he shut the door.

The click of the latch echoed in the quiet street.

Peter exhaled shakily. “Holy shit.”

Sirius gave a low whistle. “That man’s got a presence.”

James glanced back at the house, still feeling the weight of the encounter. “I don’t think the rumours do him justice.”

Peter shook his head, eyes wide. “I honestly thought he was gonna murder us on the spot.”

Sirius smirked, but the usual cockiness was a little absent. “You? Please. If anyone’s getting murdered, it’s James.”

James shot him a glare. “Not funny.”

“A little funny,” Sirius muttered under his breath.

Peter shuddered, looking at the house one last time. “I don’t care what you say, I’m never coming back here again.”

James wasn’t sure he disagreed.

James forced a chuckle, nudging Sirius as they turned away. “C’mon, let’s go before he curses us or something.”

They walked down the street, their conversation picking back up—but James couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on his back.

When he glanced over his shoulder, the porch light had gone out.