31 October, 1981
“Lights, Dada!” Harry said, clapping his hands while his mother bounced him in her arms. “Lights!”
“As you wish, my love,” James replied, grinning at his wife and son. As Lily danced, twirling in a circle in front of him, James shot colorful sparks in the air from his wand, making them swirl and jump as Harry tried to catch them. The little boy giggled with delight every time he nearly caught one, and his parents laughed along with him.
Merlin, James loved them. This chubby toddler with messy black hair and big green eyes – Lily’s eyes – and this beautiful, smart woman, who lived life with a passion as fiery as her hair. The whole scene was like something out of James’ dreams. He could think of at least two fantasies that he used to obsess over, late at night in his Hogwarts dorm, and neither could touch the reality in front of him.There was nothing he wouldn’t do for them.
Even lay down his life.
As if on cue, the family’s laughter was interrupted by a loud SNAP and then a CRASH as the wood of their front door cracked and then exploded into a thousand shards. In an instant all the warmth in the room disappeared, all laughter quieted into an eerie silence. James could feel his heart in his throat as he dropped his wand and shoved himself to his feet, pushing Lily and Harry behind him as a lean figure stepped into the small foyer and turned to look at the family of three.
“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him!” James took off running towards the intruder, glancing over his shoulder only to add, “I’ll hold him off!” He moved without thinking, not even considering whether it was the best course of action.
Lily’s green eyes went wide, but she nodded to her husband and darted towards the stairs. Fierce determination painted her features, but James knew Lily, and he could see the fear that seemed to brighten the jade and emerald in her eyes. He forced his focus to the task at hand. Lily was more than capable of handling herself; if James got distracted trying to comfort her now, it would only put them all at risk.
Lord Voldemort raised his wand, and only then did James realize he didn’t have his own. Still, he didn’t slow his approach, adrenaline kicking in to keep him moving forward, looking for any advantage, any way to tip the scales briefly in his favor. He didn’t need to win. He only had to buy his wife and son enough time to escape.
Voldemort hadn’t moved to attack yet, and instead was watching James with something like amusement in his reptilian eyes. His eyes tracked James like prey he wasn’t quite ready to eat, like a snake slowly cornering a mouse, playing games as if the fear and adrenaline sweetened the meal. He even lowered his wand slightly, though James noted his grip remained firm, ready to strike when he saw the perfect moment. Voldemort had the clear advantage here, and he knew it.
In the warped sense of time that comes with those moments of fight-or-flight, James had what felt like an eternity to study Voldemort like an athlete would, to hone in on how he could use his strengths against his opponent’s weaknesses. Could James slide-tackle Britain’s greatest Dark Wizard, like some Muggle footballer? Maybe – Voldemort would never expect it, and that had to count for something, right? Voldemort was tall and pale, lean and almost lanky underneath his voluminous robes. James was a bit shorter but obviously more fit. If he caught Voldy by surprise, could he wrench his wand away with pure strength? His eyes continued to flit over Voldemort’s form, looking for any possible points of attack.
The options were limited. The pale man’s hand tightened ever so slightly on his wand and James had the distinct feeling he was running out of time. And time was one thing he desperately needed more of, the one thing that might save his wife and son. But how?
Other than being tall, bald, and slender, the only things James was able to note about Lord Voldemort were that his hands were ghostly white with claw-like nails, his ankles were surprisingly frail-looking — James noted that a well aimed kick could help if he could close the distance — and his feet were…bare.
James skidded to a halt about two meters away from the man known to some as the Dark Lord.
“Oi!” he said, breathless but indignant. “What the fuck is that, eh?”
Voldemort blinked in surprise, his wand arm dropping a bit lower. “I’m sorry?”
“You can’t just burst into someone’s home with your dirty, scaly, bare feet, mate! That’s just not done!”
“I’m here to murder you…and your son?” Voldemort’s obvious confusion caused his voice to rise at the end of his sentence, making it sound like more question than threat. His presence, which had once seemed overbearing in the small space of the hallway, seemed to shrink as he tried to follow James’ line of thinking, as he lost more of the upper hand.
“Not like that, you aren’t,” James said, shaking his head. “Did you know most dust is dead skin flakes? No way Lily’s gonna let you into Harry’s room with your feet looking like that. ” He sent a pointed look to the older man, with a quick flick of his eyes downward to hammer in his point.
Indeed, they heard the creak of a door opening at the top of the stairs, and then Lily’s voice called out, “Did you say he’s barefoot, James? Who goes on a murder mission barefoot?”
James shrugged and flipped his palms up as if to say, There you have it. “See? No one’s taking you seriously with your toes out, Tom.”
“I am Lord Voldemort,” Voldemort murmured absently, looking down at his dirt-crusted toes with their cracked toenails.
“Whatever you call yourself, your feet are a disaster.”
Voldemort’s tone turned defensive. "I'm plotting to take over Great Britain and then Europe, instituting magical rule on a scale never before seen. That doesn't leave a lot of time for skin care, you know."
“That’s bollocks, moisturizing takes, like, four minutes, tops.”
“I just find it ridiculous that there’s not a spell or something that can deal with this. You expect me, Lord Voldemort, to purchase lotion and apply it to my feet, daily? I’m very busy, and such tasks are beneath me.”
“Ha! Literally, eh? Because your feet…” James trailed off as Voldemort’s snake-like eyes narrowed further. “Never mind. Anyway, I’ve got this potion you should try, Lily makes it, actually. It goes on smooth but not oily, and it really softens up those rough patches. I used to have terrible cracked heels, Lily couldn’t stand it, but look!” James lifted one foot and crossed his ankle across his knee to pull off his sock, then stuck his foot out and wiggled his toes at the Dark Lord. “Ta-da!”
Voldemort frowned and leaned forward. “They do look good.”
“I know! You really ought to try it.”
Voldemort straightened and hesitated, his expression suggesting he was considering James’ offer, but then he shook his head. “That’s enough!” he hissed. “I am here to destroy you!” He took a step back, perhaps to give himself enough distance to cast a spell, since he had just been close enough to look at James’ toes. But as soon as he shuffled away and raised his wand arm, he winced in pain. “Ow!” He lowered his arms again and clutched his right foot. Hopping in place as he tried to maintain his balance, Voldemort craned his neck to look at the ball of the foot he was holding. “I think I’ve got a splinter. A splinter!”
“Yeah, well, you blasted down our front door, so you’ve really no right to be surprised there are bits of wood strewn everywhere.”
“It bloody hurts!”
James raised his eyebrows. “Again, I see this as a predicament of your own making, Tom. You broke the door. You came here barefoot. That’s not on me.”
“You would think after all that I’d have earned the respect to be called Lord Voldemort, but noooo,” Voldemort muttered. Louder, he said, “Fine, fine, just—have you got a pair of tweezers?”
“Lily probably does, for her potions, but I’m not sure she’ll let you use them.”
“I won’t!” Lily yelled.
“Bad luck,” James said with a shrug. “Maybe you can Summon it?”
“Yes, of course.” Voldemort smacked his palm against his forehead, and James was once again struck by how white and claw-like his hands were. “I should’ve thought of that first.” He pointed his wand at his foot and said, “Accio splinter!” A jagged, arrow-shaped shard of wood flew out of Voldemort’s foot and bounced off his robes, along with a few drops of blood. “Ouch.”
“Hmm, looks like it was a deep one. You oughta clean that up, mate, you wouldn’t want it to get infected.” James heard the obnoxious smugness in his own voice, but he figured if anyone deserved it, it was this arsehole.
Voldemort took it in stride, the only sign of his annoyance a weary sigh. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
James rolled his eyes. “If you must.” The supposed “Dark Lord” made his way to the couch, before sitting down far too delicately for a man who promised death. James looked back up the staircase, meeting wide green eyes through a partially open doorway. Lily’s eyebrows drew in closer and James shrugged slightly. He was winging it at this point.
As the door quietly closed, James turned back to the task at hand. Tom was seated on their couch looking wholly out of place, if he was being honest. His robes appeared to swirl with dark colors, like an oil spill on asphalt, but upon closer inspection James could see that his clothes were just dirty. There were bluish circles under his strange eyes, and his gaunt frame looked like it would be swallowed whole by the Potters’ overstuffed couch. Even still, being so close to him made James uncomfortable. Voldemort seemed to absorb light and happiness like a Dementor, filling the living room with negative energy and making it feel dark and unsettling.
At the moment, though, the Wizard Formerly Known As Tom Riddle was pouting as he examined the cut on the bottom of his foot, the whole picture antithetical to the persona he had carefully crafted. It helped give James a bit more of a comfort.
James took a deep, centering breath. Much needed, honestly, because this shit was truly bonkers. “I can get you dittany for that, but it’s not going to solve the overarching problem.” He nodded at Voldy’s warped-looking foot, his lips twitching as he fought the urge to point out the pun. “Are you not constantly in pain?”
“Dittany would be great, thanks. But I can’t say I’ve fully noticed anything amiss. The life of the Dark Lord is…not as cushy as you think. I’m used to being uncomfortable.” Voldemort shrugged awkwardly. “I can’t let a little plantar fasciitis distract me from my mission.”
James walked to the kitchen, opening the cupboard where Lily stored their first aid care. Dittany in hand, he headed back to the living room. “You know, Tom, you need to take time to care for yourself. If that’s what your soles look like, what does it say about your soul?” James raised his eyebrows and smirked at Voldemort as he asked the question. He unstoppered the bottle, and Voldemort moved his hands away from the wound. James dropped two drops on the injury before reattaching the top.
The wound began smoking before stitching itself back up, leaving behind cracked, peeling skin. “Honestly, it’s hard to find the time. What, with the Death Eaters needing constant attention, and my own private affairs. I hardly have time to take a bath, let alone contemplate skin care,” Voldemort griped.
As if Summoned, Lily appeared through the doorway, potion bottle in hand. “Here’s the potion,” she said curtly. “Apply it twice a day and you should be sorted by midweek.” James’ eyes flicked between Voldemort and Lily, then he reached for the potion. Even though the evil wizard had seemingly let his guard down, James didn’t want Lily to get closer than absolutely necessary.
“You only need a little bit,” he said as he passed the bottle over. Voldy looked at him with confusion, so James added, “Just use a galleon sized amount in your hands, yeah, like that.”
Voldemort did the actions as James said them, and James encouraged him like he did with Harry when he was learning something new. “Good, now rub your hands together, and apply gently to the affected areas,” he continued.
The Dark Lord sighed as the potion started to work. “I’d gotten so used to the pain, I hadn’t even noticed how it was adding to my burdens. Even the small relief is a weight off my back. Thank you.” Voldemort sounded serene as he spoke, as if he had finally experienced inner peace.
James waved him off. “Ah, go on. Your feet were making me uncomfortable, honestly, I had to do something.”
Voldemort opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, another voice rang through the room. “I’ve made a pot of tea, if you’re interested, Tom.” James tried not to jump at the sudden reemergence of his wife. Her warm hand settled on his shoulder, and he felt both calmed and wired at the same time. With a flick of her wand, Lily set the floating tea set on the coffee table.
Wands. James shook his head, feeling incredibly stupid. Neither he nor Riddle had used a wand in several minutes; James wasn’t even sure he knew where his was. He scanned the room to see if he could locate it, finding it on the floor about six feet away. If he needed to he could easily make the dive and grab it, hopefully avoiding any curses Voldemort may throw in the process. Fortunately, he noted, Lily had more sense than he did — she had her wand and, despite her calm demeanor, James knew she was ready to fight if she had to.
“I prefer to be called–” Voldemort stopped and shook his head. He swallowed hard before starting over. “Thank you,” he said again, and James paused. Wait. Did that sound teary? His eyes snapped to the pale man on his couch. “I can’t tell you the last time I’ve felt cared for,” Voldemort continued. He took a long drag of his tea. “I swear, if I took five minutes to myself, the Death Eaters would lose their heads. They can’t do anything without my approval, and they mess up everything when I’m not looking. It’s impossible to plan and execute a war when your army is a bunch of idiots and opportunists.”
Lily nodded in apparent sympathy, but James knew her well enough to hear the sarcasm in her tone when she spoke. “It must be hard to manage it all.”
Voldemort drained his cup and placed it lightly next to the rest of the set. He scrubbed a pale hand over his face and sighed. “You’ve no idea. It’s exhausting, I could honestly—” His voice cut out suddenly, and he gasped for air. His eyes went wide with accusation just before he crumpled forward.
Deadly silence filled the room as James took in the form in front of him. Voldemort’s body was perfectly still. Sadly, through the course of this war, James had gotten used to looking for signs of life in fallen bodies. Here, there were none. His own body tensed, and he glanced at his wand laying on the floor. When Voldemort still didn’t move, James opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “Uh, Tom?”
“Oh, thank god.” Lily’s voice cut through the tension in the air, and James’ body relaxed in an instant. Of course Lily knew what was happening. She was possibly the smartest person James had the honor of knowing, which said a lot considering who his parents were. He turned to find her relieved expression.
The gears in his mind turned as he watched his wife begin clearing the teapot and cup used by Voldemort, all the while ignoring his lifeless body. The pieces finally clicked into place, and James’ eyes widened. “Wait, did you poison him?”
Lily rolled her eyes and sighed, the sound so fond and familiar that James’ face broke into a huge grin. "You didn't really expect me to sit here and have tea and chit-chat with Lord Crusty Feet, did you? In case you forgot, he came here to murder us, James."
“You’re bloody brilliant, you know that?” He pulled her down to him, holding her tightly as he felt tears prick in his eyes. “You saved us.”
Lily drew in a shaky breath, a bit of her bravado fading, and set down the teapot before squeezing her husband just as tightly. “It’s over, James. It’s over,” she murmured. With her arms still wrapped around him, he felt her flick her wrist behind his back. With a whisper of “Accio, Harry!” she Summoned their son to them. The little bundle floated down the stairs and into their arms, and they held him between them for several minutes, basking in the warmth that came with peace and safety. They were free.
After a few more moments, James gave his family one more squeeze and raised his head. “What should we do with…?” He made a face and nodded in the direction of Voldemort’s pasty, rigid form.
Lily shuddered. “Can we just Vanish him? I don’t want him in our living room any longer than necessary.”
James chuckled. “No, I expect the Ministry will want proof of his death. We need to turn him over to the proper authorities.”
“‘Proper authorities,’” Lily grumbled. “You never used to give a fig about the ‘proper authorities,’ you know.” She smirked, and James was glad she could tease him in this moment. “But you’re right, of course. I’ll send a Patronus to Alastor Moody, he’ll know what to do.”
“Brilliant.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll go make us a proper cup of tea, perhaps with a spot of whiskey? I think we’ve earned it.”
“Sounds perfect.” Lily pulled Harry entirely into her arms and looked down at him with a soft smile. “You’re safe now, my love,” she said, kissing his forehead. Then she stood on her tiptoes to give James a kiss, too. “I love you, James.”
“I love you, Lily Potter.”
She sat down on the couch, and James made his way into the kitchen to prepare their tea. He heard his wife send her Patronus, and he smiled to himself. All was well. Nothing would ever threaten Harry again.
And nothing ever did.