The Critics Are In (and They're All Rude)

James Potter had always known he was destined for greatness. Or at least a solid three-star average on Goodreads. At twenty-three, he had one novel under his belt, a tiny flat above a fish-and-chips shop, and exactly four clean spoons in his kitchen drawer—three of which were currently missing. His hair looked like it had been personally styled by a leaf blower, and his editor was sending increasingly unhinged owl-emails asking when book two would be finished.

It’s a process,” James muttered, staring at the blinking cursor on his laptop. “Art takes time. Also, Remus borrowed my charger.” Speaking of, Remus Lupin was currently stretched out across the lumpy cafe sofa with a cup of tea and the sort of calm demeanor only achievable by someone who wasn’t two months late on a deadline.

“You know,” Remus said, sipping lazily, “you could write instead of monologuing about your genius to the cat.”

“Arcturus understands me,” James replied, gesturing dramatically to the black creature curled on the windowsill.

“Arcturus knocked your plant off the bookshelf and peed in your shoe.”

“Criticism is the price of brilliance.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “What’s the book even about this time? Please don’t say it’s another brooding warlock with emotional intimacy issues.”

“Excuse me, he is not brooding. He’s pensive.”

“You literally wrote a scene where he broods on a cliff for four pages.”

“It was atmospheric!”

Remus snorted. “Atmospheric is just brooding with fog.”

James groaned and flopped backward into his chair. “You’re all against me. Everyone’s against me. You know who supports me? Sirius.”

Right on cue, the front door crashed open.

“Did someone say genius?” Sirius Black swept into the cafe in a swirl of leather and chaos. “Oh good, the gang’s all here. I brought bagels and a complete lack of respect for your writing process.”

James pointed a spoon at him. “You are exactly the kind of reader I write for.”

“Hot, rebellious, and mildly unhinged?”

“Exactly.”

Peter trailed in behind Sirius, carrying the coffee tray like it was a bomb. “He elbowed an old lady to get the last cinnamon roll.”

“She elbowed me. I retaliated. With dignity.”

James grinned. “You’re all terrible, and I love you.”

Remus raised a brow. “Still doesn’t get the book written.”

James groaned again, leaning back until his chair creaked ominously. “You know what I need? A muse.”

“You need a plot,” Remus said.

“You need therapy,” Sirius added.

“You need to pay me back for the last five coffees,” Peter muttered.

But James wasn’t listening. He was staring out the window, watching the early spring rain streak down the glass, daydreaming about readers who got him. Readers who saw all the hidden metaphors and subtle character arcs and maybe even didn’t skip the footnotes.

Somewhere out there was a perfect reader for him. Someone clever and quiet and mysterious, the type who would dog-ear pages and argue with him about endings. Someone who didn’t know they were about to insult his entire soul in a café. James Potter just didn’t know it yet.