Happy Accident
Having a son wasn’t truly in the plans. Of course, Euphemia and Fleamont had tried for children in their youth but had rarely conceived. And the few they did conceive, all miscarried. The strength it took to overcome each miscarriage was diminishing; it was simply easier to pretend they didn’t want kids.
They say the best things happen to those who least expect it. If so, then James was a miracle of a child. A gift to them for all of their struggles. The happiest accident they’d ever experienced.
They were older than most parents, making it harder for them to keep up with their active child’s game ideas. But they tried. James would never know a day his parents turned down an offer to play with him.
Perhaps it was because they had ample money. The Potter fortune wasn’t a mere rumour, after all. With numerous investment properties and the successful Sleakeazy business, both parents had ample time to spend at home. House elves to cook and clean, seemingly endless money — James barely spent a minute away from his parents.
Perhaps that was why his childhood was so different to Peter’s. Their financial situations. Though Peter’s family wasn’t poor, they weren’t rich like James’s.
Euphemia Potter saw little James as nothing but her perfect angel. It didn’t hurt that James was very well-behaved too. So it was no surprise that each of his teachers adored him too. That he was always surrounded by clusters of friends, even at his muggle primary school.
The extroverted little boy who always managed to set his peers off into peals of laughter. The sporty boy who’d always be first picked to be captain of a sports team. The well-behaved student who was so academically gifted, he scored well without any effort.
Neither Euphemia nor Fleamont could express more pride in their son. Both made sure James knew they were proud of his work, no matter what he achieved.
Even if James didn’t particulary care about his grades. They were so easy to achieve, why bother with them?
Nevertheless, friendship, school and games came easy to him. James hadn’t known a life other than the one he consistently thrived in. He didn’t know a world where he didn’t get what he wanted. He didn’t understand a life full a pain; he couldn’t comprehend a family that didn’t love their kids the way his parents did.
It was so easy for him to love, why was it so hard for others?
Was it like school? Where, while he excelled in his subjects, the other students didn’t seem to understand as quickly or remember the content as fast. Or, was it like in games? While he seemed to never tire and was fuelled by his competitiveness, others seemed to bore quicker or just simple not care about winning a game. Maybe it was just like friendships. James loved being surrounded by everyone, loved by everyone.
The way all the planets in the solar system orbited the sun, his peers surrounded James. Like bees to flowers, cats to yarn, moths to a flame, James was the centre of attention. In a good way, in a bad way.
The Wizarding World didn’t care much about race and ethnicity. Nor did they care too deeply about sexuality. Quite a few purebloods were literally inbred and they had magical potions for conceiving between similar sexes, why would they care about something stupid like same sex relationships?
Of course, the muggle world was not at all the same.
James had grown up quite proud of his heritage. He’d grown up speaking Tamil, learning English alongside it all. Then juggling both languages into an atrocious mix as a baby that even his parents could barely tell head from tail, english from tamil. His english-speaking peers didn’t quite always like that, though they’d rarely comment such things about the popular James Potter without masking it as a joke.
“Eugh, why does your food smell like that?”
“What are you wearing? Is that like a Halloween costume?”
They didn’t call their parents like he did. Amma for his mother and Appa for his father. No, they just used Mum and Dad. Secretly, he thought that was more weird. More formal, somehow. So, while he’d call his parents ‘mom’ and ‘dad’ in front of said friends, he’d never try to call them that at home. His parents didn’t have to be any wiser.
“What’s that? Why does it look like that?”
“Why don’t you just eat sandwiches like us.”
He’d swap his favourite lunches for plain sandwiches and pretend he liked those better. He’d just have rice when he got home — it was much more filling (and delicious) anyway.
“Ew! You eat with your hands?”
“That’s so unsanitary. I could never.”
He’d learn to eat rice with cutlery. Even if was ten times harder that way to mix every curry in. (Really, how did they manage? The flavour was so… reduced!)
But he needed to maintain those friendships. So he’d manage.
The sun was a star, and aren’t all stars known for burning out? The death of the queen bee destroyed the hive; the burnout of the sun would destroy the solar system. He’d suck it up. He had to.
His parents had only one shot at having a child. He wouldn’t let them down. Even if they’d never really asked him to make them proud; his existence already did.
The queen bee provided the children the hive needed to flourish. The sun provided the warmth needed for humanity to survive. James would be the support his friends needed, even if they cut him down to reach his height.
The tree gave its oxygen for wildlife to breathe, it’s limbs for them to survive and it’s nutrients for the flora to continue to thrive. The sun gave its light, heat and radiation for all beings on Earth to co-exist. James would give all he had. He’d been given so much; it was only fair he returned the favour.
Maybe it was overkill. James had never done things in small.
Oh, but if only little James could see him now. Embracing every single beautiful part of himself, and unapologetically himself. Endlessly supplying a loving friend group with all the biryani, rasam or chicken masala they craved. Loving loudly and not regretting it for a second.
A war hero, sure. His parents endlessly proud, certain. But he was a man that little James would adore. A brave, strong and courageous friend who’d learnt and understood different family dynamics to a point where he no longer struggled to understand the capacities of love and how it varied from person to person.
The only child, a happy accident who only strove to make sure every child he was around knew they were more than a product of creation between their parents. A man who made mistakes by the dozen, but who strove to do right by everyone nonetheless, covering for each of his mistakes as graciously and thoroughly as he could.
A man who was forgiven far more often than he was cursed. A flawed, perfectionist people-pleaser.
Such is the tale of one James Potter.