Home is where you are
James Potter had never wanted anything more in his entire life.
Which was saying something, considering the extensive list of things he had begged his parents for over the years—including, but not limited to: a pet owl (denied), a dirt bike (denied), and a lifetime supply of chocolate frogs (compromised to one year’s worth).
But this—this—was different.
“hogwarts is the best boarding school in the country, Mum,” James insisted, hands gesturing wildly as he followed her around the kitchen. “You and Dad always said you wanted me to get the best education, and this is the best! It’s got top football teams, insane academics, and—”
“—and it’s also very far away,” Euphemia interrupted, arching a brow as she calmly stirred a pot of soup on the stove. “Which means I would not get to see my only son’s face every morning.”
James groaned, collapsing dramatically into a chair. “I’d come home for every holiday.”
“Not the same,” she said simply, giving the soup a taste.
James shot a look toward his father, who was sitting at the table reading the newspaper. “Dad? Help?”
Fleamont Potter barely glanced up. “I try not to get involved in battles I know I’ll lose.”
James groaned again, slumping forward over the table. “Mum, come on.”
Euphemia sighed, finally turning to face him properly. “James,” she said, softer this time. “Why do you want this so badly?”
James hesitated.
Because truthfully? He wasn’t sure he had just one answer.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love it here. He did. His parents were incredible, the kind that actually listened to him and encouraged him to be himself. His house felt like home, warm and full of laughter.
But still—he wanted more.
More freedom, more adventure, more… something.
“I just—” He sat up, running a hand through his hair. “I feel like I need to do this, Mum. Like I need to get out there, meet new people, do something different.”
Euphemia studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
Then, finally, she sighed again. “I don’t like it.”
James sat up straighter, hopeful.
“But,” she continued, “if it’s really what you want… then alright.”
James nearly fell out of his chair. “Wait—seriously?”
She shot him a sharp look. “On one condition.”
“Anything.”
“You write,” she said firmly, pointing a wooden spoon at him. “Every week.”
James grinned. “Deal.”
His dad chuckled, shaking his head as he folded up his newspaper. “Looks like you’re off to boarding school, son.”
James could hardly contain his excitement, practically buzzing in his seat. He didn’t know what was waiting for him at St. Godric’s, but he knew it was going to be something good.
Something great.
And for the first time, he felt like he was stepping toward ther est of his life.