Chapter 7
The next few days passed in a haze. James kept his head down, buried in his responsibilities as captain of the Quidditch team. He kept his usual routine, but every moment felt like a struggle to stay afloat.
After practice, when the adrenaline wore off and the dorm became too quiet, that’s when James started to feel it again—the overwhelming weight of everything he had to hide. He took a longer shower than usual, hoping the hot water would help numb the sharp ache in his chest. But when he stepped out, it was still there. The rest of the dorm was in varying stages of readiness. Sirius was brushing his teeth, Peter was still lounging in his bed, and Remus was sitting in his usual spot, reading a book. James moved toward his bed, his eyes catching the glint of the box beneath it.
He needed something to make him feel. To stop feeling like he was nothing more than a shell going through the motions. But before he could pull it out again, he heard Remus’s voice, sharp and cutting through the quiet.
“James.” Remus’s voice was calm, but it carried an undercurrent of worry.
James froze. He had hoped to avoid this, but Remus had been more observant than he liked.
“Not this again, Remus,” James said, the edge in his voice sharp. He pulled a shirt over his head, his movements stiff.
“Why won’t you just talk to me?” Remus’s question was quiet, almost sad, as he watched James with an intensity that made James feel exposed. “You don’t have to keep pretending. We’re all here for you.”
James closed his eyes, fighting the urge to shove Remus away again. He didn’t want to be vulnerable, didn’t want anyone to see how broken he felt inside. But it was getting harder to hide.
“I’m fine,” James said, his voice low and emotionless. He didn’t look at Remus, didn’t want to see the worry on his face. “Just… leave it.”
Remus didn’t press further, but there was an undeniable sadness in his eyes as he turned and went to his own bed. James knew Remus didn’t believe him, but it was easier this way. It was easier if no one saw how badly he was falling apart.
That night, James lay in his bed again, staring at the ceiling as the numbness wrapped around him once more. He couldn’t feel anything—just the emptiness, the cold. And he hated it. But he didn’t know how to stop it.
The mask was the only thing keeping him from drowning. And so, he kept it up, pretending, smiling, laughing. It was all he could do.