Thick of it : reboot

James stepped into the dimly lit chamber, his boots echoing faintly against the cold stone floor. His sharp eyes immediately landed on Harry—lying motionless, face pale, with a discarded turban resting ominously beside him. James frowned.

"Well, looks like everything's done," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he sighed and crouched down. "Come on, Harry, let's get you to the hospital wing. You're racking up a fine collection of infirmary stays, mate. At this rate, they'll name a bed after you."

Grumbling under his breath, James hoisted Harry onto his shoulder with surprising ease. As he adjusted his grip and turned to leave, he heard the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps approaching—fast. His muscles tensed instinctively.

Within moments, Professors Snape and McGonagall appeared at the entrance, robes billowing as they skidded to a stop. Hermione was hot on their heels, her face flushed with exertion and worry.

James straightened slightly, shifting Harry's weight. "Oh, brilliant. Just what I needed. More people to stare at me like I've just kicked a puppy."

McGonagall's sharp eyes immediately locked onto the scene. "What happened here?" she demanded, her Scottish brogue crisp with authority.

James, ever the picture of casual nonchalance despite the situation, shrugged. "Dunno, ma'am. Just found Harry knocked out on the floor, so I figured I'd do the decent thing and take him to the infirmary. Bit of a bad habit he's got going, this unconsciousness business."

Snape's dark gaze flickered over the scene before he stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "No need," he said curtly. "I will take care of this."

James arched a brow but said nothing as Snape reached out, his long fingers checking Harry over with precise efficiency before scooping the boy up into his arms. 

Snape's gaze flicked back to James. "Follow me, Mr. Dawson."

Before James could respond, Hermione rushed forward, throwing her arms around him in a quick, fierce hug.

"Are you alright?" she asked breathlessly.

James smirked, patting her shoulder. "Still standing, aren't I?"

Hermione pulled back, giving him a once-over before nodding. "Good. Let's go, then."

Together, they followed Snape and McGonagall through the dim corridors of Hogwarts, the cold stone walls seeming to press in around them as they made their way toward the infirmary.

=====

Madam Pomfrey bustled about the room, muttering under her breath about reckless children and near-death experiences. Ron, already propped up in bed with a few minor injuries, craned his neck as they entered.

"So," he asked, eyes bright with curiosity, "how did it go?"

Before James could answer, Snape's voice cut through the air like a whip.

"What do you mean, Mr. Weasley?"

The mood in the room shifted instantly. Hermione stiffened, Ron swallowed, and James rolled his eyes ever so slightly.

McGonagall, arms folded, gave the trio a pointed look. "I believe we are owed an explanation."

Hermione, ever the model student (even when breaking rules), immediately launched into a full account of everything that had happened. James watched Snape's expression shift from irritation to something far darker.

"So you were suspecting me?" Snape interrupted, his voice silky with displeasure.

Ron and Hermione exchanged uneasy glances, clearly seeking some lifeline from McGonagall—or James.

James exhaled and crossed his arms. "I was only there to keep them from getting themselves killed. Someone had to be the responsible one."

Snape scoffed. "And do you consider yourself some sort of knight, Mr. Dawson?"

McGonagall, though clearly fighting the urge to roll her eyes, interjected, "This is no small matter, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger. I did explicitly tell you not to suspect a Hogwarts faculty member."

James, feeling the conversation tilting against his friends, quickly added, "Yeah, but I found this." He gestured toward the discarded turban. "No idea what it means, but it's the same one Professor Quirrell wore."

Ron and Hermione perked up at that, looking hopeful. Maybe, just maybe, that little revelation would keep them from getting in bigger trouble.

Snape's lips curled slightly. "Ah, so now you're playing detective, are you, Dawson?"

Before James could speak, the door to the infirmary swung open, and in walked Dumbledore, his expression as calm as ever, though his blue eyes twinkled with understanding.

"Now, now, Severus," Dumbledore said with a gentle smile. "I understand we all have many questions, but patience is a virtue, my friend. Let us allow these young ones to receive proper treatment before we ask question them further."

He turned to Madam Pomfrey. "Would you be so kind as to check on Mr. Dawson and Miss Granger as well?"

The nurse huffed but did as she was told, quickly examining them before declaring, "They're free to go."

Dumbledore clapped his hands together softly. "Splendid. Now, you two should head back to your dormitories and get some well-deserved rest. In the meantime, I believe Mr. Weasley and Professor Snape will fill me in on the details."

James exchanged a glance with Hermione before offering Ron a small salute. "Good luck, mate. Try not to get another limb broken while telling the tale, yeah?"

Ron huffed. "Oh, ha ha."

With that, James and Hermione made their way toward the door, the tension in the room still lingering like a bad smell. As they stepped into the dimly lit hallway, James let out a low whistle.

"Well, that was a right mess."

Hermione nodded, rubbing her temples. "You have no idea."

James grinned. "Oh, I do. And somehow, I get the feeling this isn't the last time we'll be dealing with absolute nonsense at this school."

Hermione sighed. "Unfortunately, I think you might be right."

And with that, the two trudged off toward Gryffindor Tower, ready to collapse into their beds—but knowing full well that Hogwarts had a way of never letting things stay quiet for long.

James lay sprawled across his four-poster bed, his wand held loosely in his fingers as he absently flicked it up and down. The scarlet drapes of Gryffindor Tower swayed gently , casting flickering shadows across the dormitory. The soft, steady breathing of his roommates filled the room, a stark contrast to the storm of thoughts raging in his mind.

On his way back, he'd done another good deed for the night—freeing Neville from the Full Body-Bind curse. The poor bloke had barely managed a grateful stammer before Hermione had practically folded him into an apology hug. Now, Neville was curled up in his bed, snoring softly, blissfully unaware of the world.

James, however, was far from restful.

His fingers twirled his wand as he stared at the ceiling, deep in thought.

"So, I've stepped into the light now. No use pretending otherwise."

This little adventure had undoubtedly put him on Dumbledore's radar. Whether that was a good thing or not remained to be seen. The question was—what now? Should he play the golden boy, make the most of every opportunity, and win every battle in a way that suited him?

Then, as if summoned by his conscience, a memory surfaced—Arthur Pennyworth, staring at him with those knowing eyes, offering words of wisdom that had become a quiet mantra in James' mind.

"Live in today, James. Don't ignore the suffering around you just because you have grander goals. Regret is a weight you don't want to carry."

The first part? Easy enough. No one wanted to be shackled by regret. The second? That was a trickier matter. Helping others should be on his terms—when it was convenient, when it aligned with his goals. After all, he wasn't a saint.

A sudden noise interrupted his thoughts.

A rustling sound. A whisper of movement.

James tensed, wand gripped tighter, as he rolled off his bed, landing silently on his feet. His eyes darted toward the source—Ron's bed.

the movement had come from a different occupant of room.

Scabbers.

The rat sat there, beady eyes watching him. Too still. Too aware.

James stared at the rodent, something twisting in his gut. His mind ran through the pieces—the knowledge . 

And then, as if the answer had always been waiting at the back of his mind, it clicked.

Without hesitation, he flicked his wand. "Petrificus Totalus."

The rat froze instantly, rigid as a board, its small limbs locking unnaturally in place.

James exhaled through his nose, staring at the unmoving form of Scabbers.

"I refuse to be bound by knowledge."

That was the thing about knowing too much—ignorance might be bliss, but knowledge? Knowledge could be a curse. Thanos had been right about that much.

And James? He was cursed with knowledge.

He sat at a crossroads, able to reshape the wizarding world itself. With what he knew, with the power he had, he could change everything.

Hiding in the shadows had never been his plan. Shadows were useful, yes—they concealed, they protected—but they were not where he intended to stay. The events of tonight had already pushed him into the light, whether he liked it or not.

And the light? It was both power and vulnerability. Strength and exposure. It gave a man a voice, a presence—but also made him a target, subject to scrutiny at every turn.

"If I'm to stand in the light, I will decide the height of my own importance."

James' gaze flickered back to the petrified rat.

He grabbed Scabbers, shoving the stiff rodent into his pocket.

Then, without hesitation, he turned on his heel and strode out of the dormitory.

There was work to be done.