Thick of it : reboot

It was Christmas time at the orphanage, and while most of the other children slept soundly beneath threadbare blankets, James sat in his cramped room by the cold stone wall, nose buried in a spellbook. The quiet was almost reverent—the only sound being the soft rustle of turning pages and the distant, muffled snores of those who'd succumbed to sleep.

Across the hall, Arthur—whose habit of waking at the crack of dawn was as ingrained as his military discipline—made his usual rounds. He moved through the corridor with determined steps until a faint light flickered from James's room. Pushing open the creaking door, Arthur's eyes fell on the young boy, still studying intently by the dim glow of a battered candle.

"James, did you sleep?" Arthur asked, his voice low and laced with concern.

Startled, James nearly dropped his quill. "Good morning, sir. Yes, I slept," he replied, his eyes wide as he tried to hide his apprehension.

"Good morning. But when did you wake up?" Arthur pressed, stepping closer.

"Just an hour ago," James mumbled, shifting uncomfortably.

Arthur's gaze swept the modest room, then returned to the boy with worry etched in his weathered features. "And how much did you sleep, then?"

"Five hours, optimal," James answered, a hint of defiance mixing with weariness in his tone.

Arthur's brow furrowed as he considered the answer. After a moment's pause, he spoke. "Right, James, in fifteen minutes you're gettin' ready—we're goin' for a run."

James groaned softly. "Really, sir? I mean, that sounds a bit of a drag."

"Get ready " Arthur ordered .

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Outside, the winter air bit sharply at their cheeks as Arthur and James trotted along the frosted park. The ground was dusted with a fine layer of frost and the occasional stubborn patch of snow, making the park look like a frosty battlefield. Arthur kept a steady pace, while James struggled to keep up, his legs feeling leaden and his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

Noticing that James was lagging behind, Arthur slowed and came to a halt. He stopped, leaning against a frosted bench, and waited patiently. "Don't stop now, lad—keep walkin'," he urged gently, his weathered face softening as he spoke.

James panted as he caught up, a wry smile tugging at his lips despite the effort. "Sir, with all due respect, you're a proper slave driver," he muttered, shaking his head as he attempted to regain his rhythm.

Arthur chuckled , then spoke to why he had bring james here "Ah, James, you've always been a different sort—so mature, never causin' trouble. I always reckoned it was that magic in you, but when you got that letter from Hogwarts, I'd hoped you'd open up a bit more. Instead, you've become as reclusive as a hermit. Your eyes—they're always starin' off at somethin' beyond your grasp."

Arthur then slowed his pace further until he was right beside James. He lowered himself to the boy's level, resting his large, calloused hand firmly on James's shoulder. His gaze was steady and piercing, filled with paternal concern. "I fear, in chasin' the future, you might miss the present and come to regret it later."

For a long moment, James said nothing, his gaze fixed on Arthur's face—the very man who had raised him and given him a roof when he'd been alone in the world. Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, James admitted, "Sir, I don't rightly know how to put what I feel into words."

Arthur straightened up, his tone softening further. "Speak up, James. Whatever it might be, I promise I'll listen like an adult—no judgment."

Taking a shaky breath, James began, his voice wavering, "Sir, you know how my parents died…" His words trailed off as he recalled the faint, hazy memory of a tragedy too terrible to fully grasp.

Arthur's expression darkened with sadness. "Yes, they were killed in a house burglary gone wrong."

"What if I say I remember their faces—their killers?" James blurted out, his eyes flashing with pain.

Arthur's face tightened in disbelief as he leaned in, almost in shock. "That's impossible, James—you were only a wee infant, barely a week old."

"But sir, believe me—I do remember. It might be some trick of magic, but I remember their faces," James insisted, his voice trembling with a mix of suppressed anger and sorrow.

"Is this what has troubled you since you were a child?" Arthur asked gently.

James's voice grew low and raw. "Yes. At first, I didn't know what to feel, but now I know—it's Rage. They took my parents from me, my mum, my dad… and I can't just let it go."

For a long moment, Arthur stood silent, the weight of James's anguish hanging heavily between them. Finally, he exhaled slowly. "Let's go, then. I have a friend in the police who might be able to help."

"No, they can't," James snapped quickly, his eyes flashing with defiance.

"Why not?" Arthur pressed, leaning closer still.

"Because they're from the Muggle side," James replied bitterly.

Arthur's eyes softened with concern and determination. "Then we'll go to those who understand our world—perhaps your headmaster can help."

"Sir, listen—I don't want to speak any more about it. The more I say, the more danger you and the others might face. Ask me more and I might just shut up about it," James warned, his voice low and trembling with hidden resolve.

"Is there no other way?" Arthur pleaded, his voice cracking with worry.

"No, it's somethin' I have to do myself," James said firmly.

Arthur's heart sank as he looked at the boy, a mere eleven years old, consumed by vengeance. After a long, heavy pause, Arthur sighed and said softly, "Alright, I can't change your mind, but you must promise me two things."

James frowned, his eyes narrowing. "What, sir?"

"In preparin' for the future, you must not sacrifice the present. You have to live in the here and now—be lively, take part, and don't just stand aside watchin' life pass you by," Arthur said, his voice steady and unwavering as he met James's gaze.

James hesitated, then slowly nodded. "Okay."

"Don't just say 'okay' to me, lad—mean it. You see, those who look too far ahead often end up ignorin' what's right in front of 'em, hurtin' those they love, and sometimes even destroyin' themselves. Promise me, James—you'll live in the present," Arthur implored, his tone earnest and full of paternal warmth.

"I promise, sir. And what's the second thing?" James asked, his voice softening with a hint of curiosity amidst his sorrow.

Arthur's tired eyes twinkled as he grinned wryly. "I can't have you pushin' yourself into danger all willy-nilly. I'm gonna teach you to throw a punch or two—so you can defend yourself when the need arises."

James scoffed lightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "But I'm a wizard, sir—I'd be shootin' spells, wouldn't I?"

"Doesn't matter, now—start runnin'. Stamina's what counts," Arthur ordered playfully, clapping a hand on James's shoulder before stepping back to resume his pace.

James shook his head, still unsure, but reluctantly set off after him. "I'm not so sure, sir," he muttered.

"Less talk, more runnin', James! Come on, now!" Arthur barked, his tone a mixture of strictness and encouragement.