In Which James Potter Confronts the Ultimate Betrayal
James Potter had a bit of a problem.
The problem was that he was not, in fact, a brooding anti-hero, despite how much his friends insisted on calling him “mysterious” and “enigmatic” after his third espresso at the pub. He was a writer, sure, but he was also human. Which meant that, as he sat hunched over his desk later that day, staring at the two-sentence “plot outline” he had managed to put together after six hours of work, he had to admit: there was something—something—off about today.
Something about the café encounter was gnawing at him.
It wasn’t that the guy—Regulus, as he’d heard the barista mutter when he’d arrived—was rude, exactly. He wasn’t. He was just… honest. Too honest, really.
“Not really,” he had said, deadpan, when James asked about the book. And then went on to roast it with no filter. No hesitation. Just absolute disdain.
And the worst part? James had liked it.
Not the critique, obviously. The critique had left him reeling for a solid hour afterward. But there was something about the whole encounter that had made him feel—oddly alive. Like he'd finally met someone who saw right through the carefully crafted layers of his author persona and was completely unimpressed.
Not that he was used to being unimpressive. That was the part that stung. James huffed and let his pen drop onto the stack of half-crumpled notes. He needed a distraction. He needed someone to distract him from the embarrassing fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about Regulus Black’s perfectly timed criticism.
“Oi, Prongs,” Sirius called from the hallway. “You still sulking about the book?”
James, still lying flat against the desk, muttered, “I don’t sulk.”
“Sure, you don’t,” Sirius said, throwing open the door. He held up a bag of chips. “Brought snacks. Got some chocolate-covered pretzels and a bit of gossip from the bookshop.”
James didn’t sit up. “Please tell me it’s about my book. Because I really need to know if the universe is conspiring to crush me or if this is just a particularly bad day.”
Sirius plopped down on the chair opposite, tossing a chip into his mouth. “The universe is always conspiring to crush you, mate. But man, my brother had some thoughts.”
James, too intrigued to ignore it, propped himself up on his elbows. “Regulus?”
“Yeah,” Sirius grinned, clearly enjoying the moment. “I overheard him talking about your book when he left the café.”
James froze. “What?”
“Yup. And it’s not exactly glowing praise, I’ll tell you that.”
James’s face flushed. “What did he—”
Sirius held up his hand dramatically. “Said it was boring. And then, wait for it, predictable. He said, and I quote, ‘If the protagonist doesn’t learn how to use his actual powers instead of just thinking about them, I’ll lose my mind.’”
James blinked.
“What kind of power does he have?” Sirius asked. “Brooding? Eye rolls?”
“Stop,” James grumbled, flopping back down again. “I know it’s not great, but—”
“No, I get it,” Sirius said quickly. “But come on, mate, you’ve got to admit it stings when some stranger absolutely slays your work without knowing it’s yours. The audacity.”
“I don’t care about that,” James muttered, his face buried in his arms. “I care that he’s right. It is boring. And predictable.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am serious,” James replied. “I’ve been avoiding writing the actual plot. Trying to make it sound deep without doing the work. The guy’s… right.”
“James,” Sirius said softly, setting down the chips. “If you let one comment from my brother of all people wreck your entire career, you’re going to be in trouble. You’ve got to learn to brush it off. Besides, you’re famous for a reason.”
James grunted, rubbing his eyes. “Famous for writing about brooding idiots with no character development. Really setting the bar high, aren’t I?”
Sirius snorted. “Hey, it’s not all bad. I mean, a bit of brooding does go a long way.”
“But Regulus did mention a cliff. And a boat,” James groaned. “I’m actually going to write an apology letter to the literary world.”
Sirius raised a brow. “Isn’t that a bit dramatic?”
James just stared at him, eyes wild. “I’ll buy a new pen and start fresh. And then I’ll find that guy, and I’ll make it right.”
“Who, Regulus?” Sirius gave a knowing grin. “Mate, you’ve got it bad.”
James shot him a look that could’ve melted concrete. “Don’t be so obvious, Padfoot.”
“Well,” Sirius said with a smirk, “if you do find him, let me know. I’ve got a few bones to pick with him for ruining my best friend’s day. He won’t pick up his phone.”
James groaned. “You’re impossible.”
James stared at the screen of his laptop. Regulus Black. The critic. The mystery reader. The one who’d left him with a bruised ego and a spark of something else. Regulus had unknowingly made himself the benchmark for James’s next chapter.
And for the first time in ages, James had no idea whether it was the worst idea or the best one he’d ever had.