james, Ron, and Harry entered the hospital wing, their footsteps barely making a sound on the polished stone floor. The infirmary smelled faintly of antiseptic potions and freshly laundered sheets, and the morning sunlight filtered through the high windows, casting warm golden beams across the beds.
Near the far end of the ward, Hermione was sitting upright, blinking in surprise as she caught sight of them. Her bushy brown hair was slightly disheveled, and her amber eyes widened before a brilliant smile broke across her face.
"You're awake!" Harry breathed, hurrying to her bedside.
Ron grinned, looking relieved. "Bloody hell, Hermione, you scared us half to death."
James smirked. "More like you scared them half to death. I was fine."
Hermione's brows furrowed in confusion. "What—what happened? Last thing I remember-"
"You were petrified," Harry explained. "The basilisk. It got you. We—" he glanced at Ron, "—we figured it out because of you."
Ron held up the small slip of paper Hermione had clutched in her petrified hand, the one that had ultimately led them to the truth about the Chamber of Secrets.
Hermione gasped, reaching for it. "You—you actually read it?"
Ron rolled his eyes. "Give us some credit, will you?"
James chuckled. "Well, to be fair, I mostly piece it together. But you did all the legwork."
Hermione's eyes flickered between them, her mouth slightly open. "So—you stopped it? The basilisk?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah. It's dead."
"And the Heir of Slytherin?"
James crossed his arms. "Not exactly what we thought. It was Riddle—a memory of him, stuck in a diary. Long story."
Hermione's lips parted in shock. "Tom Riddle? As in the one in the trophy case?"
"The very same," James confirmed.
She stared at them, utterly astounded.
Hermione sagged in relief, then glanced over at Ron, who looked sheepish.
"Your mum's gonna have kittens when she hears about this," she muttered.
Ron groaned. "Don't remind me."
James smirked. "Oh, I think we should. In fact, I might just send her an owl myself—describe the whole thing in detail."
Ron glared at him. "You wouldn't dare."
James shrugged, but Hermione quickly interrupted before Ron could grab him by the collar.
"But what about Dumbledore? And Hagrid? And—oh! Exams!"
Harry and Ron groaned in unison.
"Of course that's your first concern," James muttered, shaking his head.
Hermione looked scandalized. "But—surely we can still sit for them, right?"
Harry grinned. "Actually, McGonagall said they're canceled."
Hermione looked positively horrified. "Canceled? But—but—how will we be graded?"
Ron clapped her on the shoulder. "You were frozen for weeks, Hermione. I think you get a pass."
Hermione frowned, looking deeply unsettled at the idea of not taking exams, but James just chuckled.
"Welcome back, Granger."
The rest of the school year passed in a blur.
Hagrid returned to the castle to thunderous applause from the students, wiping his eyes on a massive handkerchief as he proclaimed loudly that he'd known he was innocent all along.
The school held an impromptu feast to celebrate the end of the chaos, and Dumbledore, in his usual fashion, awarded Gryffindor enough points to completely flip the House Cup standings in their favor—much to the dismay of the Slytherins.
James, however, wasn't celebrating as enthusiastically as the others.
He sat on the Hogwarts Express, staring out the window as the countryside blurred past. His mind was restless, caught in a loop of thoughts that refused to settle.
"I feel like I'm stuck in the time flow," he muttered to himself, watching the scenery rush by. "I want to change the future, shape it but I don't even know where to start."
His fingers curled into a fist as thoughts of the Death Eaters surfaced in his mind, burning in his chest like a lingering fire. Just thinking about them filled him with a sense of quiet rage. They had done so much damage, caused so much suffering—and yet, here at Hogwarts, their children walked around like nothing had happened. Like their families hadn't participated in one of the darkest periods of wizarding history.
James exhaled sharply, pressing his knuckles against his temple. He knew it was wrong to project his hatred onto their children—they weren't their parents. But whenever they spoke, whenever they sneered about blood purity, whenever they paraded their old, outdated beliefs like they were some divine truth, he felt that familiar spark of anger ignite in him.
"The Death Eater mentality is poison," he muttered under his breath. "It seeps into everything. And no one seems to care."
He could see it, clear as day—the way Slytherin House moved unchecked after the war. No real consequences. No deep reflection. They carried themselves as if they had done nothing wrong, as if they hadn't been complicit in the ideology that nearly destroyed their world.
He knew he was being unfair. Not every Slytherin had been a Death Eater. Not every Death Eater's child would follow in their parents' footsteps. But it didn't matter. The ideology was still alive, still poisoning the magical world.
And he was supposed to just ignore it?
James exhaled slowly, shaking his head their ideology does not matter to him . He had already decided—he would take his vengeance, one way or another. But how far was too far? How much could he push ?
He thought of Dumbledore, of his reluctance to act decisively against Grindelwald in the past. Hadn't that hesitation cost lives?
"But if I go too far," James murmured to himself, "I'll just be another psychopath seeking revenge."
And yet… anything less might not be enough.
He rubbed his eyes, feeling the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. What was the right course of action? How far was too far?
As the train sped forward, carrying him toward summer, James sat in silence, lost in contemplation.