The dormitory was quiet, save for the usual nighttime sounds—Neville snoring softly in his corner, the rustle of curtains shifting as Ron turned in his sleep, and the low hum of wind pressing against the castle walls.
James lay awake.
Blanket drawn up to his chest, hands folded behind his head, staring at the underside of the bed canopy as if it held the answers to the unspoken questions circling in his mind like vultures.
His wand rested beside him on the pillow, close enough to grab. Not that he needed it.
Sleep wouldn't come.
"The mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind."
The old saying whispered in his mind like a half-remembered riddle.
He'd heard it before folklore. A predator so focused on its prey that it never notices the predator behind it. Layers within layers. Predators watching predators. It struck him now, with uncomfortable clarity, that he might not be the hunter in this story.
He had been so focused on Marcus Flint, so consumed by questions and purpose… and yet all the while, someone else had been watching him.
Pulling strings.
Testing.
Dumbledore.
James exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze still fixed upward. His jaw clenched.
The man was a bloody enigma.
To most, Dumbledore was just a kindly old wizard with twinkling eyes and a taste for odd sweets. But James had seen past that. He knew the man wasn't just a headmaster. He was an architect of wars. A survivor of two magical conflicts that reshaped the Magical world.
And war, well… war changed people.
Once, Dumbledore fought for order—to preserve the fragile balance in a world teetering toward chaos. That was the first war.
Voldemort hadn't even existed then. Grindelwald had. A different kind of monster. And Dumbledore had been the one to stop him.
The second war? That was about power. Voldemort had wanted domination, control over life and death. And again, Dumbledore had been at the centre—this time not as a lone hero, but as the grand strategist.
And he Won that as well . what he gain ?
Peace?
Stability?
James doubted that. He created the Viel of them . Men like Dumbledore and Tom didn't stop playing the game just because the board looked tidy. No, they planned for the next war before the last one was cold.
He turned onto his side, eyes narrowed in the darkness.
So what does he want from me?
The pieces were scattered, but not beyond reach. Time to sort them.
Point one: I got involved with Harry. Helped him in ways no one else could. That made me useful. Interesting. A variable Dumbledore hadn't accounted for—until he did.
Point two: I found Scrabbers. Not by accident. Not by luck. I pieced it together—saw what others missed. That, too, must've caught Dumbledore's attention. Shows I think outside the box. A thinker. A builder.
Point three: I faced down the dark part of myself. And instead of running from it, I locked it away. I bent it to my will. That's not something you teach a child. That's not something a child should know how to do.
So, what does that make me?
A prodigy?
A threat?
Or worse—potential.
James pressed a hand to his temple, fingers drumming lightly.
He remembered a moment—one not from Hogwarts, but from film . The Dumbledore fears what the Harry might become . It had seemed like just a line back then.
Dumbledore had feared Harry's power, hadn't he? Not out of malice, but necessity. He'd tried to shape his character, protect his heart—because he feared what raw power without restraint could become. so he didn't become another Tom .
Was this the same?
Was Angelica's suffering… part of the plan?
James shook his head.
No. He didn't believe that. Even Dumbledore wouldn't go that far.
But he damn well knew how to use pain when it showed up.
He'd watched James react. Had likely orchestrated the test with Flint—not the assault itself, but the opportunity. The question was never if James would find out.
It was what he'd do once he did.
And James had passed. Barely.
He hadn't cast the Cruciatus. Hadn't tortured Flint. Had shown control.
But now…
Now the game had Expanded . Because James saw the board.
And Dumbledore… he wasn't just a headmaster anymore.
He was the Oriole.
Watching from the branches. Always watching.
James rolled onto his back again, staring at the ceiling with new eyes.
Flint was just the first. There were others. He knew that now. Names floated up in his memory from Flint's mind—faces jeering, laughing. Complicit.
He'd find them. Each of them.
And he'd make them feel what she felt.
Not because he cared about Angelica—because he didn't. Not really. He couldn't afford to.
But because he was already in too deep.
And if Dumbledore was watching, then James would give him a show worth remembering.
He let out a soft breath, his lips curving in the dark.
"Repeat the act," he whispered to himself.
He would do to the rest what he had done to Flint.
And wait.
Not just to see how they'd respond—but how he would.
And how Dumbledore would.
Because if this was a game of shadows, James had just stepped fully into the dark.
And this time, he wasn't stalking anyone.
He was waiting for the Oriole to blink.