Chapter Text
James Fleamont Potter had woken up in the summer (the last one before he’d finally receive his Hogwarts letter) to an odd hushed feeling all over the house. He’d sat up on the mattress his mum had levitated into the lounge, and turned around, then climbed onto his knees to look over the couch behind him. It had been covered in haphazard pillows and blankets and sheets - but weren't they meant to be hanging up, making the roof of his hut? Over the top of the couch, James had seen a wizard in auror robes standing next to his dad, their backs to him, talking over the counter. What a weird dream , he had thought .
James had never particularly wanted to be an auror, though on that day he wouldn’t have said no to it. Still, usually his dreams had been - well, usually he didn’t remember his dreams. But he was sure, that day, that if he had had dreams, and if he had remembered them, then he would have been the auror, not whoever that guy was. He hadn't even been able to hear what they were saying. Soon enough, though, the auror had left - James had heard the door shut. It must have still been dark, then, since there hadn’t been any light coming in from the front of the house. It must have still been dark, since he hadn't even been able to hear the birds yet. It must have still been dark, because the lights had been on over the counter his dad had been leaning against.
“Dad?” James had asked, because if this was a dream , he had wondered, then why was it dark ? But if it was real, why had there been an auror in their house? When his dad had turned around, the look on his face was not one James had ever seen before. It hadn't answered any of his questions. It had just made more .
“James,” he’d said, just looking at him poking over the couch for however many moments had passed.
“What’s happened?” James had asked, staring right back. His dad had started to move around the couch, walking towards him. “Why did the hut magic go away?”
“James,” his dad had said, again. “James,” he’d said, “Come here.”
James’ dad had held out his arms and sat on the chair by the couch, and James had turned his head to follow him but hadn't run over to sit on his lap. “Dad?” he’d asked, once more.
“James,” his dad had said. “James, I need to tell you something.”
“Okay,” he’d replied, “You can.”
“No,” his dad had said. “James, please. Come here.”
And so James had, had stood up and walked over to sit on his dad’s knee.
“What is it, Dad?”
“James,” his dad had said, again, and this was a truly weird dream. Much weirder than that one with the ladybug, the only one he remembered remembering, but he’d supposed it had been dark then, too. “James—”
And most of what his dad had said was stuck in his head, more or less there and not all that important, not as important as what he’d said next. But James doesn't remember what he’d said next. He knows there was the word mum and the word died , and somehow a sentence, a kind one, as kind as it could be, but he has no clue the order of the words at all. It was all stuck between two layers of rippling water - and then he’d been running, out of his dad’s arms, up the stairs, down the hallway and into his parents’ room - the second one on the right - because although he couldn’t remember thinking of his mum once up until then on that morning in August, he must have assumed she’d just been in bed, sleeping in like she so often had. Did, before .
But his mum hadn’t been in bed. Not then, and not at all since. Not even now, a year later. August twelfth, 1996 .
In the year since that day, James had been to his first funeral, attended a muggle primary school for a year, and even gotten his Hogwarts letter. At the funeral he’d met just about all of the blood traitor wizarding families, though pretty much all of them were older than he was. Pretty much none of them had come by since. The kids at the muggle school, the only people who were his age, were nice enough - he had nothing against muggles, of course, but they weren’t his mum . The teachers didn’t teach the same, and there was no magic there. Well, there were magical things , he supposes, like… There had been , anyway. Magic wasn’t the only magical thing, and he knows there must have been something magical at that school, with its kids and its early mornings and its afternoons, but James isn’t altogether sure what it was. He doesn't remember it altogether too well.
And then his Hogwarts letter .
James Potter had been looking forward to getting his Hogwarts letter for his entire life . His entire life, until, that was, the day he realised that his mum wouldn’t get to see him get it. She wouldn’t get to see him off on the Hogwarts Express. She wouldn’t get to send him letters, even though she said she would. She wouldn’t get to do anything. James wouldn’t get to have her.
And so, the day his Hogwarts letter had arrived, all he’d done was stare at it. He’d petted the owl, of course, found a cup in the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap, let the bird drink, but then he’d gone back to sitting at the counter and just stared , even as the owl flew away, back out the open window.
He hadn’t opened the letter until his father had finally gotten up and come down to the kitchen.
“Good morning,” his dad had said, and James had snapped his head up and smiled at him.
“Morning,” he’d replied, and his dad’s gaze had been dragged down to the letter on the counter.
“What’s th- oh!” his dad had exclaimed, walking towards the counter. “Is that your Hogwarts letter, James?”
“Yes,” he’d said, because it was the first letter ever addressed to him, and it had green ink, and it said third bedroom on the left (which were all things he’d been told it would have).
“Go on then,” his dad had told him. “Open it!”
And so James had, even as his dad put a hand in his hair and told him he hadn’t had to wait for him before he did. James had smiled back up at him once he had finally gotten it open, spilling its contents out onto the counter. A book list. A uniform list. No brooms. Oh.
His dad had grinned and patted his back. “Come on then, when do you want to go shopping?”
“Can we go later?” James had asked, looking up at him.
“Sure,” his dad had replied.
And then, probably, they’d had toast for breakfast. That was about a month ago, or so, it didn’t really matter.
But now it is August twelfth, and it's still dark outside, and James’ dad has the day off of work, and James wants to go shopping today, he's sure of it.
So, he goes down to the kitchen and makes some toast, and he sits at the counter and waits. The toast tastes weird, and his stomach feels off, and his fingers keep shaking when he tries to take a bite, but it's still all well gone before his father makes his way down.
“James,” he hears, and when he turns around the light is only just coming in through the windows. “What’re you sitting in the dark for?”
James shrugs. “It’s not dark anymore,” he tells his dad, who nods, coming over to stand beside him at the counter, his hand going up to rest on James' head.
“It’s not.”
The time ticks by.
“I want to go to Diagon Alley today,” James says, eventually, and feels the hand in his hair move, his dad turning to look down at him.
Sometimes it still feels like a dream. James had stopped hoping he’d wake up a long time ago, though. It just didn’t seem realistic to think he could anymore. It just hurt more every time he wondered what might happen if he did. It just stopped him feeling anything, at all (or maybe it was all at once).
“Yeah?” his dad asks him. James nods.
“Shopping day,” he says. His dad sighs, but nods.
“Shopping day,” he whispers back, and then the hand in James’ hair becomes two arms around him, for just a few seconds. “Go get dressed, then,” his dad says. “Are you hungry?”
“No,” James replies, climbing off the stool and heading towards the stairs, down the hallway, into the third room on the left. Not the second room on the right. Not that room for a while.
Once he's dressed, James walks back down the stairs. He holds himself up by the wall on the second to last step and pushes himself forward onto the floor with a little thump.
“Let’s go, Dad,” he says, and his father walks out the front door, James following behind. His father’s hand finds his arm, then, and after a moment of twisting darkness he opens his eyes to the cobblestone street of Diagon Alley.
The shops are as tall as they always were, and the cobbles have the same endearing wobbly placement as usual. The air sings with magic and the people walking past them are mostly dressed in robes, carrying cauldrons and owls and shrunken trunks. There aren't so many people around, but it still isn't as bright as it could have been. The same must go for why James doesn't see any kids around the same age as him. Diagon Alley hasn’t changed, not really, even though he hasn't been here in over a year.
“Right,” his dad says, “List?”
James pulls the book list out of his pocket first, holding it up but not quite handing it over to his father. He has that look on his face, maybe. Maybe it's just the air of magic around them. Maybe it's that James hasn’t been here since before . Maybe it's… whatever.
“You can go home if you want, Dad,” he tells his father, anyway. “I know my way around.”
His dad’s face doesn't change, not really. Not for a few seconds. Then, he shakes his head. James looks away.
“Nonsense, James,” his dad says. “Come on, where do you want to go first?”
James sighs inwardly, eyes roaming over the book list behind his glasses. He doesn't answer verbally, just heads off for Flourish and Blotts, his dad following behind. James walks around and picks up his books, and his dad follows him again and holds them for him, even when he tells him he doesn't have to. When they get to the counter, James is grinned at.
“Your first year at Hogwarts, young man?” the woman asks, glancing at the pile as his dad puts it on the counter. “You’ll enjoy yourself,” she winks, “pull that smile back up, hm? Everyone ’s excited for Hogwarts, don’t try and hide it. Aye, Dad? I’m sure he’ll enjoy himself once he gets there.”
“Oh,” James hears his dad reply as he pays. “Yes, of course. He’s always wanted to go, really, haven’t you, James?”
James nods, looking up at his dad for a second. “I have.”
“Well,” the wizard grins, pushing the books back toward their side of the counter, “I hope these poor books don’t bore you too much.”
James smiles at her, enough. “Thank you,” he says, reaching out for the books even as his dad picks them up and shrinks them, putting the stack in his pocket. He smiles down at him, and James looks back out onto the street.
“Where to next?” his dad asks, and James responds by walking towards the door again.
They go to Madam Malkins, to the Apothecary, to get a cauldron, to Scribbulus Writing Instruments, even to look in all of the broom shops, despite first years not being allowed to have one. James then walks right past Eeylops Owl Emporium, not daring to look. His father puts a hand on his shoulder.
“How about we go get some ice cream?” he asks, and James slowly nods up at him. They make their way to Fortescue’s. James looks over all of the flavours, examining every one of them for a very long time. Eventually, he decides on the plum punch flavour, one he’s never chosen before. His dad gets a firewhisky once they get to the counter, nothing new in his eyes when he sees James’ choice. Oh.
James hasn’t come here in a long time, though. Quite possibly he’s never really been in Fortescue’s with his father. Oh.
When they sit down, though, he waits. Just to be sure. Then, he slowly picks up a spoonful of the ice cream, watching his dad’s face as he looks around the room. James swallows the spoonful and has to scrunch up his nose. The plum isn’t bad , it’s just… Well, he doesn’t particularly like it. His dad doesn’t say anything, though. James takes another bite.
There are a few more kids around, now. The sun’s properly up over Diagon Alley, highlighting everyone that runs around, all the kids, all the parents, all the families . James swallows and quickly takes another bite. It’s still plum. He still doesn’t really like it.
“Did you know,” his father begins, and James looks over at him. He’s looking down at James’ cup. “That was your mother’s favourite, the plum punch. We used to have dates here, and she’d always…”
He trails off. James feels his chest squeeze up, and he frowns.
“Of course I knew,” he answers quickly. Why else would he have gotten it? He hates plums. The dates his dad talks about bring up something else in his memory, a small, fading thing. It vanishes before he has a chance to think about it any more.
“Of course,” his dad repeats, and takes another swig of his drink.
“What time is it?” James asks, watching his dad closely. The man swallows, and James almost sighs in apprehension of the answer.
“Late enough,” is his father’s reply, like he’d expected anything else . “Now then, let’s get you a wand, shall we?”
James stares at him, taking another bite of his ice cream as he nods. But James doesn’t want a wand. Or, he does , but not like this. Not today. Not without his mum …
But every day is a day without his mum. He’s had a whole year of those days, today. You’d think he would be used to them by now. In a way, he supposes he is. That’s why he dumps his cup - not quite empty, but once his father’s glass is drained - and gets up to follow his dad, after all. That’s why he smiles when he finally meets Ollivander. That’s why he takes wand after wand, why he tries over and over to get one to work . That’s why he doesn’t cry when one finally does , just takes the box and puts it in his father’s robes and leaves the store.
Outside, it’s busy. He starts moving through the crowds towards the apparation point. He just wants to go home .
But he can’t. There is no home. Not his one , anymore, anyway. Not really.
But his father stops him. There’s something in his voice when James turns around to look at him.
“Don’t you want an owl, James?” he asks, and James wants to cry . Not here, though. So, instead, he just answers as truthfully as he can at the moment. One resounding word before he goes back to trying to get through the crowd.
“ No. ”
His father’s hand drops from his shoulder. James finds his way through the crowd and waits at the apparation point for quite a few minutes. He half expects his father to show up with an owl anyway, but when James finally sees him, he hasn’t. As his arm is silently held to prepare for the disapparation once more, he’s not sure if he should be feeling relieved or not. Once the twisting darkness is gone, he’s not sure what he does feel.
There’s a family owl, anyway, he tells himself as he walks up to his room. It doesn’t matter. His father can still contact him, or not contact him. It doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t .
His dad brings all of his new stuff up to his room, but doesn’t come in. James hears him downstairs, moving around, for the rest of the day, but he feels too exhausted to move, and his father never comes up the stairs again. Eventually, though, it starts to get dark, and he hears a knock on his door.
“James?” his father asks. “Dinner.”
Dinner. James isn’t super hungry, but then again his father isn’t ever anymore, either. He’s not really sure when he eats, but he must. Maybe it would have been good to have a house elf, then at least his father would eat more often. But they certainly aren't going to get one now . James is almost off to-
And his mum hadn’t wanted one, anyway. The Potter ones have all died off, so it's unlikely there would even be one. James had been the one to remind his father of that when he'd suggested it, however long ago. James hadn't, didn't , care about his reasons. His mum hadn't wanted one. Why on earth would they get one now ? That's just-
It doesn't matter. There's food for dinner, and all his dad has to do is feed himself while James is-
He doesn't want to go. Not anymore. But as he makes his way downstairs, and his father smiles at him and asks what House he thinks he’ll be in, James realises - or reinforces, really - that he doesn't have much of a choice. All eleven year old wizarding folk go to Hogwarts, at least if you live in Britain. It's the only thing that makes his father smile, even a bit, which means he's looking forward to it, even if James isn't. That means he has to go, even if he has to leave him behind, which he doesn't want to do.
At least he knows how it will go, he tells himself. He won't be missing anything more than he has been for the last year, right? It’s not like he’ll miss this ; the too-quiet dinners, the few-and-far-between smiles, the things they don't talk about. The words he can't say, not even today.
His dad pats him on the back once they're done, scraping plates into the bin.
“I’ll be at work tomorrow, remember,” he tells him, as if James could forget .
“Yeah,” he replies. “I know.” And I’ll be up early enough to say bye, just in case.
“Good. Don’t forget to have your lunch.”
“Sure.” Like you have yours.
“James…” his dad says, finally, turning to him.
“It’s fine, Dad,” he tells him. “Have a good time at work. I’ll be here.”
His dad pauses, then goes back to the dishes, soap in the sink (that's how it goes now). “Not long left of summer, James,” he tells him. “September will come soon, then you’ll be off at Hogwarts, with wizarding friends your age. It’ll be good for you.”
“Yeah,” he replies, half-hearted. Good for him.
His dad tries to smile at him as James gets up.
“Goodnight, James.”
“Night, Dad,” he says, smile a mirror.
Once he’s trudged up the stairs, and back to his bed, James flops down. He’s not very tired, but he’s exhausted . He wants to cry, but he doesn’t really, not anymore. He just lies there, and, eventually, gets up to brush his teeth. Doesn’t want his dad to worry. Doesn’t want his dad to be sad.
He misses his mum, so much . But he misses his dad, too. Just as much. Different. More.
Or, it hurts more, anyway. Maybe because his dad is just down the stairs, and there shouldn’t be anything to miss, not like his mum. But there just is. There’s everything to miss.
James finds himself thinking, finally, that maybe Hogwarts will be good for him. At least there he’ll have a reason to miss his dad. At least there, everyone will miss their parents. At least his dad won’t have to worry, will be happy, because James can write to him with the family owl and bring home stories at Yule and over summer, and it won’t matter if they’re true or not, because at least they won’t just be yeah, I was here all day. I had lunch .
Still, he doesn’t want to go to Hogwarts , he thinks as he turns onto his side. Because his father might be happy he is but James isn’t. Maybe his dad just wants him to have something to look forward to, his dad loves him after all, he knows , he knows that , but it still feels a little bit too much like his dad is happy not to have to worry about him anymore.
Isn’t that what you wanted?
It had been. He hadn’t wanted his dad sad. Hadn’t wanted him to worry. But he still had . Still does , James knows he does.
That’s probably why the man is so happy, really. But it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like hurt . It feels like the way he feels when he misses his mum (which is always ). It feels like… that mess in his head he doesn’t know any of the answers to.
James falls asleep, eventually. He doesn’t dream. He never has.
He never remembers them, anyway.