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i. Mr and Mrs Potter, loving parents
The Potter family were nice. Mr and Mrs Potter, despite their fortune, have always been nice. They didn't look down on other witches and wizards, not the way other Pureblood families did - not like the Blacks or the Malfoys or the Averys.
The Potters were better than that.
Granted, the Potters didn't know many Muggleborns, and they certainly didn't know any Muggles - but that was to be expected, given the lofty social circles which they frequented.
Still, the Potters knew right from wrong, good from bad, and the virtue of being decent.
They may not have known any Muggleborns personally, but they knew that they didn't have to subscribe to the narrative being pushed in the wizarding media. Frankly, the Potters found mentions of borders and walls and camps most distasteful.
They shielded their beloved son from the excesses of the most ardent Pureblood families, and they went to great efforts to instil their core values: Muggleborns were no lesser, whilst Death Eaters were the enemy.
It was a little cursory, granted, but the simplistic message would do for a child: knowing right from wrong, good from bad, and the virtue of being decent.
James wasn't bad. Exuberant, that's all. Admittedly, they frowned at his letters when they read that he'd taken up with a Black - "How did you stumble across a Black? Isn't he one of the Slytherins? What have we told you about that house?" - but they smiled with delight once they discovered how the young Pureblood had been sorted.
Their post owl was busy in his first few terms, not just carrying letters to and from their son, but also receiving a few from the Black family (immediately burned, never once mentioned to James), and many more from Professor McGonagall.
She's new, they thought, as they read through her careful script, she simply doesn't understand. Besides, Augusta Longbottom herself said as much - that Transfiguration hadn't been the same since Professor Dumbledore made the unlikely move to the role of Headmaster. Nonsense, all of it, the Potters muttered under their breath. Their James knew right from wrong, good from bad, and the virtue of being decent.
After all, James talked incessantly about that Muggleborn girl - the one who had some, frankly, extreme ideas about the potential for advanced integration between the Muggle and magical communities - and in addition to the Black outcast, he'd befriended the afflicted boy, and even that strange podgy boy with skittish features who made their skin crawl. Not that they'd ever say as much to James.
No, James wasn't bad.
He also talked a lot about the Slytherins who were aiming to be Death Eaters, especially the one who was friends with a Muggleborn. Sometimes his remarks didn't truly make sense - how could a Death Eater be friends with a Muggleborn - but he talked quickly and with his mouth full, never wanting to sit and politely discuss his thoughts. Instead, he always had one eye on the broom hovering outside the window, desperate to bolt from his place at the dining room table to resume his adventures in the skies.
Exuberant.
Naturally, he was always the hero in such games, found with his fist aloft more often than not, clapping himself and his friends, flying effortlessly around the grounds, both at home and at school.
It was no surprise when the Potters were informed of an incident. An heroic act. The details from Dumbledore were vague, but for once, James was more forthcoming: "I saved him. That Death Eater boy. I saved him."
It was all his parents needed to know.
They had a meeting with the Headmaster to discuss their concerns - their grave concerns - about how the werewolf boy was stumbled upon in the first place, and how their beloved son knew where to go to intervene, although they were rather sidetracked by Dumbledore's effusive praise of their boy and the fact that he'd so willingly endangered himself to save another - to save a boy, no less, who was committed to the wrong political cause.
Oh yes, James knew right from wrong, good from bad, and the virtue of being decent.
They stopped worrying about his numerous detentions, and when the Head Boy badge was bestowed upon him, it felt right - it was right. He was a good boy.
To their dismay, James had no aspirations to join the Ministry. They rather thought he might've taken up politics, or even journalism, perhaps carving a niche for himself as a thinking man with morals. The thought had even crossed their mind, in the very worst case scenario, that he might've undertaken the dangerous role of becoming an auror.
Nothing prepared them for his statement that he was intending to use the family fortune to become a vigilante; a freedom fighter.
"Can't you do that from within the Ministry, dear? At least that way you could have a good pension. Your father and I won't be around forever, and with the way of wizarding taxes-"
"-no. Least, not with the methods I want to use," he'd said, darkly - and then he'd laughed, his smile beaming. "Lighten up, mother. You can't fight Death Eaters with tripping jinxes, no matter what Dumbledore says."
They'd exchanged an anxious look, the Potter parents, but neither of them said anything, for they both knew that their son was telling an uncomfortable truth: the line between dark and light was anything but clear, and they didn't want to be the ones to tell him to restrain himself in pursuit of the moral high ground, leaving him free to be sliced to ribbons by a Death Eater with fewer morals.
They consoled themselves with the practical understanding that this was war, and all witches and wizards would find themselves compelled to perform dark acts when in mortal peril - and they reminded each other that there was nothing to worry about; James was a good boy.
ii. James Potter, esquire
Voldemort's rise had been meteoric, yet it was eclipsed by his fall from favour - within just a few years, his values were completely derided within wizarding society.
For his part, James didn't become a journalist, or an auror, nor did he remain a freedom fighter. Instead, conceding to the wishes of his parents, he joined the Ministry, keen to make his mark in the laws of the land.
James dated Evans - married her, even - and it was easy to detect her strong influence in his voting record. He hadn't gone so far as to push any amendments himself, but he was happy to cast his vote in line with relaxing the laws that Voldemort had brought in - James didn't need anyone to tell him that Death Eaters were bad and Muggleborns were good.
He'd never really got on with her sister. Or her sister's husband. Or their revolting kid. Or her parents, oddly enough, who seemed to have some sort of problem with his apparently forthright manner - although he knew that they were just covering up their disgruntlement that he'd swept her off her feet, fishing her out of their world and whirling her off to his.
They were a funny lot, Muggles.
He'd said as much to Reggie Black, who had seen the light mid-war and moved over to align with Sirius. Oh, how James missed Sirius. To his surprise, Regulus had been a fair swap - unthinkable all those years ago at Hogwarts, but he was a different man, now that he was out from under the influence of his awful parents. Both dead. Dragonpox.
"It wasn't Dragonpox," Reggie said, one day, his head down, busying himself by straightening the ornaments on the desk. He glanced at the closed office door of the Prime Minister. "It was a Muggle virus."
James' eyes widened. "A Muggle virus?"
"Yeah," Reggie whispered, leaning behind him and pulling out a stack of papers from a tall filing cabinet, "I heard them talking about it."
James quickly flicked through the notes, his frown deepening. "This is ludicrous. Nobody thought to say anything?"
Reggie shrugged. "Didn't want to spread panic."
"Didn't want to spread panic?" James looked furious. "It killed hundreds! Three generations of the Malfoy family!"
"Well, that's no loss, is it?" Reggie drawled, shooting him an amused look.
"Well…" James looked uncomfortable. "It's still magical blood, isn't it?"
iii. Regulus Black, trusted advisor
It wasn't true, but it was that easy. Regulus was not Sirius. Sirius had stopped listening before the politics his parents shouted about made any sense to him, but Reggie was in deep. He believed.
He believed what his parents said, and what his housemates told him. He saw that kid - the underfed one who died in the battle at the Ministry - saw the abuse his Muggle father saw fit to bestow upon him, and he heard what James had to say about those Muggles that Evans herself descended from.
But Voldemort had been defeated. Vanquished. Erased from history.
It had been a blow, but Reggie had long seen the writing on the wall, and whilst his brother had defected, screaming and shouting and beating his chest along the way, Reggie had been far sharper, far more cunning, far more Slytherin. His supposed defection had been little more than a quiet word in the right ear at the most opportune time.
He'd watched in silent horror as the wizarding world had disbanded everything he'd ever believed in and systematically dismantled everything that Voldemort and his movement had successfully implemented. It was one thing to lose, but this was ignoble.
It kept him up at night, but he wasn't stupid - for the entire wizarding world to have turned their backs on the cause so quickly, there had to be good reason, and it ate away at him.
Reggie resolved that he needed to see for himself, so he'd manoeuvered his way into the Muggle world via the Ministry, and he soon discovered that everything he'd been told - indoctrinated with, according to those arrested Death Eaters who'd thrown themselves on the Wizengamot's mercy - whilst he was growing up had been absolutely correct: Muggles were dangerous.
Without magic, they should've been harmless, yet they somehow managed to cause each other great distress - they fought and murdered and massacred. They discriminated and subjugated and imprisoned one another, and created metal birds to drop propaganda and poisons and explosives on each other in faraway lands.
Riddle had gone too far; that was his mistake.
Reggie grabbed his quill - separation between magical and Muggle, not separation between magical and Muggleborns. And decidedly no scary masks, ridiculous cloaks, or ludicrous names. Lord Voldemort. How infantile.
No, what Reggie needed was someone with standing - someone who wasn't already tainted with what had gone before. A war hero, preferably with a medal or two, but someone who was seen as a radical.
He mulled it over, his quill hovering over the ink pot, and then a slow smile crept across his face. Who better than a Pureblood vigilante-turned-respected-politician who married a Muggleborn?
It started slowly. A vote here, and a vote there. A speech to ten people, a speech to thirty, to fifty, to a hundred. A signed polemic in the Prophet. An amendment. A speech to a thousand. More amendments, all passing unanimously. A speech to two thousand. A law. And another. Three thousand. Six thousand. Nine thousand. Borders. Walls. Camps. Fear sold well. It always does. More laws, more segregation, more commentary in the media. More votes.
A march, culminating in a speech to ten thousand. A rally - his name being chanted from the rooftops. Law after law after law. As Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement James had finally permitted use of the Unforgivables, and as he made his speech, Reggie sat in his office, holding his breath.
There were conditions. In certain licensed circumstances, of course. Only by those deemed worthy: aurors, politicians, those of standing from the families of old.
"It is to keep our world free," James had insisted, "it's for your own protection."
And he knew he was right - he could have such tools at his disposal, because he was good.
An internal vote, behind closed doors. There'd been a few whispers of discontent, but all were easily silenced; he'd long been regarded as the true leader of the party, the driving force behind their reform, and the architect responsible for their newfound popularity.
The public vote was a forgone conclusion. A mere formality. The new Minister for Magic was swept into power, and as he stood to make his speech, he warned about the integration of the two worlds - the very platform on which he had long campaigned - a sole voice was heard from the crowd.
"We've all heard this before. You're nothing but a Death Eater, Potter!"
His wand moved quickly, but the aurors were quicker. They manhandled the wizard, palming his wand, his arms bent awkwardly behind his back.
Frankie Longbottom.
James scanned the crowd, who were watching the scene unfold with their hearts in their mouths. Was this the start of mass dissent? A riot? An uprising?
"No," James said, carefully and calmly, "we do not use such language."
Longbottom's face was twisted in pain, the aurors gripping his arms tightly. "Yeah, well," he spat, "if the sorting hat fits, Potter!"
The reverberation of shock around the crowd almost made James lose his composure - whispers and mumbles and murmurs and a ripple of laughter.
Would he really be dethroned so early into his reign?
Would this moment come back to haunt him?
By a Longbottom?
James straightened his back. "If the sorting hat fits?" And then he smirked as he pointed his wand directly between Longbottom's eyes. "Well, if the sorting hat fits, then who am I to argue? Crucio!"
And the crowd clapped and cheered and rejoiced as the quivering man was dragged away. Why wouldn't they?
James Potter was protecting them.
James Potter knew right from wrong.
James Potter was good.