A/N: This was very difficult to write. I know this is about a "fictitious" fictitious character- but I didn't see James' life being all smiles and sunshine, despite his spoiled upbringing. Everyone has to have some sort of heartache in their lives, and Lily's was already very apparent. James background, however, is pretty wide open- an author's dream J I hope you like despite the tone…
Chapter Four
The Seeker's Lament
A gentle breeze rustled through the trees as birds tweeted in the distance. Clouds obscured the piercing blue sky as rays of golden sunlight found their way through the darkness. Flowers blossomed among the weeping willows, emitting a delicate scent of lilac and honey. Blades of grass swayed underfoot as a crowd gathered on the outskirts of Seeker's Landing.
The prestigious grounds had been passed down from generation to generation, beginning with the great Tarrant Potter. Tarrant was the greatest dragon slayer who ever lived, having conquered twenty-four breeds by the mere age of thirty. Before the establishment of Gringotts, Tarrant was approached by an assembly of goblins that offered a grueling task. They met in secret in the clearing at the edge of the landing, discussing arduous plans for a future wizarding bank. The goblins offered him the very ground beneath their feet, plus a quarter of their wealth if he agreed to an exceptionally dangerous assignment.
The diminutive creatures shoved a map under his nose, and an extraordinarily long finger pressed its tip to the crinkled parchment- Dragons. Gringotts was not going to be just any wizarding bank, it was going to be the wizarding bank. Considering all the theft and pillaging of the time, people were afraid to keep their galleons in reserves- over ninety-seven percent of banks had failed. During this dark period many wizarding families hoarded their money, where it was even more likely to be stolen. The goblins, however, had a plan to change all that.
With dragons guarding the vaults, offenders would think twice before prowling for gold; the only problem was getting them there. That's where Tarrant came in. It took three years and seven months, but he was able to obtain no less than 21 Common Welsh Greens, 17 Catalonian Fireballs, 13 Swedish Short-Snouts, nine Ukrainian Ironbellies, three Norwegian Ridgebacks, and one Hungarian Horntail. He was paid handsomely for his work, and- along with the original agreement- was given a perpetual interest account to house his fortune. His wealth still grows to this day, and has been handed from Potter to Potter through the ages.
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James stared blankly at the vision before him, a bullion casket engraved with tiny fluttering snitches. The highly-polished handles gleamed in the sunlight and vermillion roses lined the quilted aperture. He stood from afar, zoning in on the golden vessel, void of all emotions. It felt as if all happiness was drained from his body, and he was left with nothing but grief and mourning.
The graven-faced boy slowly made his way to what he hoped he'd never have to face. The dark robes tailored precisely to his frame swirled around his skinny legs as a gust of cool air blew from behind him. James crept closer, shuffling his feet on the regal carpet strewn across the lawn. He dreaded what he was about to set eyes on, closing them tightly in apprehension.
Complete silence filled the clearing as James slowly inched his way towards the casket. He reached out a trembling hand and at long last came upon the edge of the exquisite coffin. His tiny fingers curled around the solid rim, carved in mahogany, and he pushed upward on the balls of his feet. The snitches glinted against the lids of his eyes, forcing them to pop open, and James gasped at what he saw.
There lay his beloved Uncle Alberic, not beaming down at his nephew saying, "Wotcher, James," but wearing an expression of utmost serenity. He donned old-fashioned Quidditch robes of scarlet and onyx, a tiny wasp stitched on the left breast pocket. A flood of memories came rushing back to him, bursting forth from his mind like a broken dam. James saw his second birthday, where Alberic brought him a children's racing broom. His mother smacked a hand to her face as Alberic and Harold beamed down at the zooming toddler, wearing nothing but a diaper and the widest grin you've ever seen.
The image jumped to James' first Quidditch match, sitting atop his uncle's shoulders. The messy haired three-year-old dripped Shifting Sherbet ice cream (changes colors as you eat it) all over Alberic's thinning hair, but you could tell he didn't mind. The pair screamed and shouted at the whizzing players on the field, and the crowd roared in triumph as Wimbourne caught the snitch to win the game.
Again the memory shifted. Now James was sitting cross-legged on the ginger rug in Alberic's flat. The young boy hung on his uncle's every word as he animatedly told the tale of all his Quidditch triumphs. Alberic was a professional seeker for the Wimbourne Wasps and retired before James was born. The elderly man cavorted around the room, causing James to 'ooh' and 'aah' at his spectacular feats.
Suddenly the picture evolved in to the woods surrounding Seeker's Landing. A muggle tent that jutted out at odd angles stood in front of an old man and a small boy, both looking pleased with their handiwork. The two crawled into their quarters but no later began howling with terror. The already deformed pergola was put through its paces as legs, heads, arms, and elbows protruded from the thin canvas. The occupants tumbled out of the tent as it crashed down behind them, and the pair hot-footed it out of the forest while a skunk wallowed in their wake.
Now it was Christmas, and little James was galloping about the common room, giddy with excitement. Their enormous fireplace crackled merrily, emitting emerald flames and scarlet embers. A puff of smoke burst from the chimney, shortly revealing Father Christmas stopping by for a visit. Mr. and Mrs. Potter shared a smile as their son ran to the jovial man, bouncing up and down in delight. Their guest of honor left a considerably large sack of presents under the tree, a majestic evergreen radiant with fluttering pixies, and gave James a familiar wink as he headed back to the North Pole. Thirty seconds later Uncle Alberic arrived, and James ecstatically told him he would not believe who he had just missed.
Tears began streaming down the boy's face as he relived each moment in electrifying detail. His chest pounded and he tried to fight the uncontrollable sobs building up inside him. James' whole world was spinning, as if he was drowning, and his head was swimming in a sea of despair. His breathing became erratic and he didn't know how much longer he would be able to stand.
"Come on, dear, it's alright, love," a gentle voice cooed in his ear.
A woman's hand delicately made its way into his and she guided the boy away from the casket. She steered James over to his father and stood behind him placing her comforting hands on his shoulders. James looked up through his lenses to find his mother smiling down at him sadly, her brown eyes wet with jewels of sorrow. He shifted his gaze to his father, who was doing the same. The three of them stood together, grievant but proud, facing the mass of witches and wizards before them, ready to take on whatever lies ahead.
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A seemingly endless stream of mourners cascaded down the grand terrazzo, paying their last respects to the noble and gallant Alberic Potter. Many provided words of encouragement to James' father, shaking his hand or gripping him into a hug. Witches offered their many condolences as they dabbed at their eyes or locked Winnefred's frail arms in their own. Very few could bear to look at the disheveled James, either avoiding his eyes or simply patting his dark tousled head. One woman in a veiled pointed hat burst in to tears at the sight of him and darted from the clearing in tears.
Anyone fortunate enough to know Alberic knew that he and his nephew were inseparable. James was like the son he never had, not having any children of his own, and they shared a remarkable bond of love and friendship. The small and vulnerable James stood tall as his world crumbled down around him, and not one who came to grieve could grant him any words of comfort or understanding. Although their age difference was great, James had lost the only true friend he had ever come to know.
As the last of the crowd slowly meandered through the line, Harold pulled his son aside to the edge of the quiet pond. James fixed his deep hazel eyes on the sparkling water, watching the lily pads drift lazily along the surface. His father lightly placed the boy's tiny chin between his thumb and forefinger and turned his son's gaze to meet his own. Wet brown eyes flecked with jade stared up at the man before him, filled with hopelessness and sorrow.
"Here, son, I've got something for you," the aged man said as he dug into the pocket of his robes.
James watched as his father tugged at his hip for something struggling under the black satin cloth. He pulled out a tiny golden ball, tinged with rust, flapping its miniscule wings against the wizard's palm.
"This was your uncle's- it was the first snitch he ever caught as a professional, way back in 1915. He was going to give it to you when you made the House Quidditch team, but I think he would have wanted you to have it now. You were like a son to him, James."
With wide eyes the boy reached out a wavering hand and slowly grasped the lustrous winged treasure. The tips of his fingers delicately unfurled from the pocket-sized sphere and he watched as it gently glided away from his hand. Farther and farther it floated until James quickly snatched it back in to his palm.
His father chuckled and sported a genuine smile for the first time in days.
"Alberic and I used to do that all the time. Thought it would impress the ladies," he said with a wink.
James flashed that Potter grin he thought he'd lost as he trailed behind his father, pocketing the coveted ball beating fiercely within his tiny clasped hand.
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A somber gathering took place in the churchyard near Ottery St. Catchpole. White birches rustled in the breeze as a small boy stood between his parents, clutching their withered hands. The trio was fixated on the marble tombstone that rose up from the ground before them, bearing the words:
ALBERIC RIMMEL POTTER
NOVEMBER 8, 1897 - MAY 13, 1968
An older gentleman softly treaded up the path, standing mere feet away from the grieving Potters. Hands in pockets, he hobbled over to the party in mourning, stopping next to Harold and letting out an audible sigh. Three heads swung sharply to the left and the man patted a hand to Mr. Potter's back.
"Oh, Quintus…" Mrs. Potter said faintly, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I know, Winnie. I know."
"At least they're- they're together now…" James' mother croaked.
James knotted his brows together and tilted his head toward the mysterious conversation to his left. Why was Mr. Dearborn here? What were his parents talking about? It was as if they were speaking a secret language impossible to translate. He failed to notice, however, the gravestone sitting promptly to the right of his uncle's:
ERIS CALEA DEARBORN
FEBRUARY 16, 1898 - DECEMBER 21, 1917
"Mum, who's that?" James asked bluntly, tugging on the hem of his mother's robes.
The woman gave a sorrowful sigh as her brown eyes, brimmed with tears, fell to the inquiring face of her son. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but abruptly turned away, giving her husband a lost and pleading look. Harold met her gaze with poignant eyes, searching her wizened face for an answer, but it was Mr. Dearborn who spoke first.
"Eris was my sister. She was several years older than I was- started Hogwarts when we were five," Quintus said, glancing at Harold. "Excellent Quidditch player, taught me everything I knew…"
The man slowly turned his head skyward, lost in thought, and Mrs. Potter took up where he trailed off.
"She was a pretty little thing, silvery blonde hair and gorgeous blue eyes. "
"Shined like sapphires," Harold said softly, eyes fixated on Mr. Dearborn's leather Oxford's.
"Oh, she was beautiful. It's no wonder Alberic was so taken with her."
"She spent every summer at the Landing, her voice was like an angel."
"Her death hit Alberic really hard-"
"He was never the same. If he didn't have Quidditch I don't know what he would've done-"
"Probably would have spent his life right here, where we're standing…"
Silence fell over the group as thoughts of the couple danced through their minds like wind through the trees; they were finally reunited after countless years apart. Ominous clouds began to cover the sky and a thick fog settled in around them. Mrs. Potter shivered under the chill and the troupe turned to go, but James was still confused.
"Wait- what happened to her?" James asked fervently, dying to learn more about his uncle's past.
His mother looked at him with tired eyes, hoping James wouldn't press the matter further. Harold, however, understood where his son was coming from and felt he had a right to know.
"Your uncle Alberic and Eris went to Hogwarts together- in the same year. She was a Ravenlcaw, he a Gryffindor. They courted in fourth year, playing against one another on the House Quidditch teams. Apparently she caught his eye, because from then on they were joined at the hip. Eris and Alberic were betrothed at the age of seventeen, immediately after graduation. Eris was an extraordinarily talented witch, and although a force to be reckoned with on the Quidditch pitch, she didn't devote her life to the sport." He paused and took a deep breath, plunging forward.
"Alberic was drafted by the Wasps right out of Hogwarts, and signed a two-year magical contract committing to the team. Rookies back then weren't allowed a lot of freedoms, and the patrons had to be sure their players would be loyal to their organization. He traveled with Wimbourne for two years, while Eris trained to become a Mediwitch. On the eve of his return, the couple planned to elope, and Eris waited for Alberic at King's Cross. She-she was standing on-" but he couldn't continue. Harold croaked out the last words as the violet gleamed in his eyes, and he quickly turned his head.
"She stood on the platform and waited for Alberic, alone in darkness," a hollow voice said from behind them. James whipped around to find Quintus staring at his sister's grave, his face completely void of emotion.
"His train was late, and Eris became frightened. Although it was well past midnight, the lack of human contact was unnerving. She heard strange noises all around her, but continued to wait for Alberic. Heavy breathing came from behind her and she began to panic. Eris quickly tried to leave the platform but never got the chance. She was attacked in the train station by followers of Grindelwald. He was just beginning his rise to power, preying on the young and innocent. Her lifeless body fell limply to the solid concrete, and Alberic watched in horror from his compartment on the train. He lunged out of his seat and tore through the entry, but it was too late. Eris was gone."
Silent tears streamed down the man's hardened face, his gaze never leaving her immaculate headstone. Mr. Potter held his wife in his arms as she buried her head in the crook of his neck, muffling her sobs. James stood dumbfounded- he never knew. As he shared in the sadness of those around him, he clenched the struggling ball in his pocket; he would never let go.
A/N: I sincerely hope you liked it- I KNOW it was sad!!! I promise later chapters will contain a lighter tone- just wait 'til the Marauders get together J