A Burning Reality
First Year
James Potter was a social butterfly, he wasn’t meant to be trapped or alone.
James Potter has dreamt about attending Hogwarts ever since he learned of its existence. Hogwarts became his light at the end of the tunnel. A solution. An obsession. James dreamt of the friends he would make, of the classes he would take, he dreamt of the teachers he would have, of the magic he would learn, and of the person he would be. He dreamt about it all. And he couldn’t wait to turn those dreams into a reality, to wake up and finally live.
James has been alone for most of his life. He had Peter, of course, and his parents, but for the most of it, he was depressingly lonely.
At some point, his parents had sent him to a muggle school in an attempt to both acquaint James with the muggle world and catalyze his natural inclination and desire to socialize, but even then, he was deserted. More often than not James would end up looking like a fool; he was raised in a world of wizards and witches with its own costumes and rules, which meant that most of the time he struggled to keep up with the simplest of muggle activities.
He was an outcast. The kids in his neighborhood would mock him whenever they saw James walk by with his parents dressed in robes– long, glamourous, eye-catching robes– prattling of potions, wizarding gossip, and a world they were oblivious of –or rather, they considered to be a work of fiction. And then, when the miracle happened and the planets aligned and James did manage to make any friends it didn’t last long enough to mean anything; James was a recklessly powerful young wizard, he had accidental outbursts of magic more often than he should, causing havoc wherever he went, consequently having to constantly and relentlessly lie to those he liked to call friends.
His friendships were doomed from the beginning. The lies would carcome James, eat him from the inside out. The lies would twist and knot and grow until the guilt was too poisoning to bear and the accumulated ball too big to hide. His friendships were restrained and had an expiration date. So James Potter sooner or later always ended up alone, always ended up back in his best friend’s arms, crying and whimpering over another dead friendship. Peter held him, time after time, and pretended his heart didn’t break every time James fractured and reminded Peter he was not enough for him; he was not enough for James Potter, for James Potter who had a heart of gold so big that it barely fit in his tiny body.
Those days James and Peter would spend hours and hours, over some hot tea and a feast of various candies—from Peter’s secret stash— envisaging the future Hogwarts promised them. Those days Peter would smile at James, offering him a piece of his favorite candy (a muggle sweet, Media Hora, that ever since Fleamont started bringing them back from his trips to Argentina, they had become a treasure for James), and promising him that soon, soon, he wouldn’t have to lie anymore, even, ever again.
He would fit in at Hogwarts. He would be a star, he would be the sun.
James Potter was meant for Hogwarts. He was meant to be a wizard and be among wizards. He was the sun: one-day people would orbit around him, and feel at peace. One day, James Potter would create his own solar system, he just hadn’t found all of his planets yet, or maybe, the planets hadn’t found him. One day, James Potter would be the center of a whole solar system, and that, that was a universal truth.
…
The universe of this story began, like any other, with a bang.
His Hogwarts letter came in late. James Potter was eleven years old, finally, and had been waiting for his acceptance letter like a dog its daily walk. Peter's letter had come already, but James’ hadn’t. His parents urged him not to worry, Pettigrew always came before Potter. But patience had never truly been James’ fort, so he took it upon himself to camp by the window, unwilling to succumb to sleep until that damned letter was safely wrapped in his hands.
But of course, it arrived while James was asleep.
James Potter woke up, the best day of his short life, startled, spread on the wooden floor (with an aching back) because of a loud, striking bang on the window glass. His hands began moving long before he even registered it, opening the window doors in a flash to allow the magnificent, glorious, miraculous owl to grace through the opening: a sealed, damned letter on its beak.
The little eleven-year-old jumped out of his feet, crying out loud: “IT CAME! IT CAME”. He was so relieved that he could have cried. He would finally be whole. He would finally be where he was meant to be. He would finally fit in.
Grinning, letter in hand, James leaped to the Kitchen, chanting and laughing.
“MOM! I GOT MY LETTER! I GOT MY LETTER!”
And then down the road, frantically calling out for his best friend.
“PETE! PETE! I AM GOING TO HOGWARTS! WE ARE GOING TO HOGWARTS!”
It was a dream come true. It was everything he had wished for ever since he was capable of remembering. It was everything that kept him going, now in his hand, safe and legitimate. It was everything and then, maybe, even a little bit more.
James hugged his letter to his chest, his eyes tearing up and a broad smile on his face.
That night James’ parents celebrated.
They invited the whole family: the close ones, who James saw every other day and who he favored over the rest of them all. The distant ones who flew from all over London to salute their favorite niece – because yes, James was their favorite, truly he was everyone's favorite; he had always been the spoiled kid, the one aunts and uncles, and cousins, and grandparents and great grandparents, always remembered to call for a birthday, the one who got the first plate of food, and the one who everyone always loved to use as an example, a bar, to compare their own kids to. The even more remote ones, who apperated from every corner of the world, but especially Argentina. And, then, the ones from the heart, like the Pettigrews and the Longbottoms.
The Potter's manor had never been so alive. They danced and sang, and drank, and laughed, and prattled, and ate, and then drank some more. They celebrated the beginning of an era. James was hugged, patted on the back, and kissed on the chics more times that night than he ever was in his entire life. The whole night danced around him – and Peter– and James savored each minute of it, moving through the crowd with the confidence of a king who knew his throne was safe and his subjects adored him on it.
James was having, to say the least, a blast.
“Are you nervous about going to Hogwarts, James?”
“No”
“Not even a little bit?”
However, like with any blast, at some point, the fire would catch, and the smoke taint the air:
“Not at all” And really James was not nervous, it was rather astonishing why he would be so, why would anyone be? Hogwarts was the safest of schools, of places, final dot. His parents had manifested so countless times. It was the home he was so desperate to construct. It was a place, the place, to learn how to be a real wizard, like his father. It was Hogwarts. If Anything James was thrilled, and that elatedness shadowed any other emotion James could have about the topic.
“Well, I’m impressed. When Hogwarts stopped being a dream and became my reality, I had no idea how to handle it; I was a nervous wreck”
“Really? But why?” It was a character James struggled to grasp. He never had phantom the possibility that a scared and uncertain Frank might exist.
“I was terrified of everything it entailed. Aren’t you scared of leaving home? Of being away from your parents?” the fire, vibrant, burnt, “and, I guess I was also scared of the responsibilities that came with leaving for Hogwarts alone, and unattended. Suddenly you are meant to represent your family name and keep their reputation” fire, fire “I was petrified. What if I failed my classes? What if I was sorted into the wrong house? What if everyone hated me?” red, the fire blazed and flashed, blinding “What if I made a fool of myself and dragged my family’s reputation through the mud?” it was everywhere, there was no escape, no surviving, no opening “Of course, it didn’t take me long to realize that was utter bullshit” fire, fire! “Those were all silly inventions of my head but st– James, are you okay?”
It was hypnotizing, the way the fire danced and his heart ached at the sensation of its cage, made of wood, burnt. It was hypnotizing, the way his ears fussed, a band drumming on his ear. It was hypnotizing, the way his mind accelerated to a point of no return, the fire racing with it, and the water left behind, to rot.
“Yea, I- Of course, I’m fine”
“Are you sure? You look pale”
It was terrifying, the way James’ whole world seemed to be collapsing from right under him, turning into ashes. It was terrifying, the way he was never afraid of fire, but now he was (read: this is not about fire). It was terrifying, the way fire could catch so rapidly and destroy everything in a wimp of a second. It was terrifying, the way his mind accelerated, and now, with burnt and broken roads, there was no returning.
“Yes, yes. Don’t worry. I just- I need some fresh air”
“James-”
Fresh air. James whirled around, pleading for the soft wind of a starry night, vexed by the lack of air in his lungs. The breaths stung through his throat, like sand, turning into glass from the inside of his body. James tried to remain calm and collected through chopped intakes. But he needed to get away, he needed fresh air. He needed to escape the fire. He needed to escape the blast of a party –his party– well thrown.
He needed to stir away from oil, and petrol, and wood. His feet made a rush venture through the crowd. Hoping, and praying there could be an escape; a clearing.
“James! My boy!” An uncle, he thought, although James couldn't be sure, grabbed him off his track, pulling him in for a hug, “We are leaving now, good luck at that school of yours kiddo, I know you’ll make the family proud, as you always have”
Oil, that was oil.
“Goodbye, thank you, I will, I promise” The words streamed out of his mouth just as quickly as his feet made efforts to continue on their track, but not quite as fast as how he was indulged into another hug, from an aunt this time.
“Jameies! Oh, look at you, you are all grown up!” the pinch on the cheek hurt that time “Mi pequeño geniecito, I know you’ll do great things at Hogwarts. Make sure to show off just a little bit, just for me, I am sure your parents wouldn’t want you to be showing off too much, but indulge your old, poor tia, will you? I can’t wait to hear about it all”
Petrol, that was petrol.
James forced a laugh, backing away “I sure will”
How, really, could a fun silly blast turn into such a devastating force of heat disaster? How could it do so so swiftly, like a coin turning in the air? How could it be that it came with no warning?
What a scene to see, truly, James Potter slowly melting away in a fire of his own creation.
And James really did try to get away. He really did need a moment. He really did need to step outside, to be hit by the hot air of summer, touch grass with his feet, and ground himself. He needed to get out.
Get out.
Get out.
Get out of his house.
Get out of his head.
Get out of this new reality that was settling.
But he was young, naive, and unprepared, and he didn’t understand the consequences a blast could have or the havoc a raging fire could cause.
He did not run fast enough, or maybe he didn’t run with enough intention, or maybe he didn’t do it with the right intent. Whatever the blame, whatever the fault, James Potter choked on the smoke, James Potter became blind within the smoke. James Potter, blinded, and desperate ran right into the trees; into the woods – or maybe the woods ran into him.
And right there, at that moment, James Potter (or the woods, by that matter), without realizing the consequences of one mere interaction, set into motion, with the addition of one last fuel, a fire that could not, and would not be extinguished for years and years, and that would leave behind a destroyed city, a city that used to be James Potter’s mind.
“Jamie! Nuestro solcito” the woods – his grandparents – cheered “We are so proud of you. Of the men you are becoming. We are so, so proud”
James tried to smile, relying on muscle memory, or a version of it, to remember the way his heart used to swell up with pride at hearing his gran's tender voice spoil him with sweet words, a token of her unconditional love toward him “Thanks, nona”
“I love you so much, James Fleamont Potter, and I can’t wait to see you fly. Enjoy Hogwarts, my boy, they will be the best years of your life” she crunches down a little and embraces him, whispering in his ear “I know you'll be just a great wizard as your father, if not better”
And, just like that, fire met wood.
James swallowed, “I love you too, gran” he held tighter onto her, hiding his face in her neck, his eyes stinging with tears. James didn’t think he would ever be as good as his father. It didn’t matter how much he tried – and oh, he was going to try, just how much he was going to try – how much he studied and practiced, how much he pushed himself to the limit, how much of himself he burnt away just simply trying, James would never be as good as his dad, or his mom, for that matter.
How could he ever compete with perfection?
And James didn’t know how to break it to his nona. She sounded so sure, so certain, as if she knew it would happen, as if she had seen it and lived in a reality where James had managed it already. James didn’t know how to explain it to her, how to confess to her that he bore no talent, and no passion, not as his dad did, much less how to disclose how he was dreadfully ordinary at everything, how he didn’t excel in anything, how he was only good at Quidditch, and how he was merely mediocrely so.
“You are gonna be just fine at Hogwarts, mi sol, you are gonna be so happy, I just know it”
And then James walked away from his grandparents, turning around and, with slumping and resigned feet, joined the blast of a party —his party— well thrown. Because, really, what was the point in escaping the fire when he was the flame to start with?
And then, the morning after, with the lingering consequences of a burning reality, James Potter began the tedious process of burning out.
—-
The morning after a party well thrown the Potter parents were met with a crushing headache and a crushing son.
James Potter’s Hogwarts letter had arrived alongside a parchment with a list of supplies for the school year. The morning before, James, preoccupied by the excitement of Hogwarts, had not noticed the list. Had not noticed the underlying list of classes he was going to undertake the incoming year. Had not really noticed the weight of expectations it came with.
But now, with nothing but the ashes of a burning reality, with only a smoky memory of a childish emotion, James Potter saw it all as it was. Saw the letter, and the list of books, and the underlying list of classes. Saw it all as it was and understood just how inadequate he was.
Therefore he was to become adequate. To reshape, and remodel his body, his mind, his soul, to tidy it up, the whole of his essence, and knot it up, and craft it to fit into the expectations that lie in his shoulders. He was to turn himself into something better, someone, something, worth caring for, worth befriending, worth the family name Potter, worth being the son of his parents. James Potter was to become someone who left no room for mockery, for disdain, for hatred, he was to become a charade that entertained people, that won their smiles and their laughs, that made people, maybe even friends, proud of being around him.
James was to be someone, anyone, however they would take him, but someone at the very least.
He would adapt to be anyone and anything Hogwarts wanted him to be, and he would be everything his parents expected him to be, and he would be the friend his friends needed– because he would make friends, he was sure of it… he had to– , whatever version of James they seeked for, James would gift them, even if that version did not exist.
He would become adequate, and that meant embracing the fire, and adding even more fuel to it: paper.
Dragging his parents out of bed, James Potter commenced his transformation, where, with a smile in his face, that reached perfectly stilled from one ear to the other, creating little dimples in his cheeks, and hurting the edges of his mouth, he began the process of learning to be adequate. He jumped in his parents bed, like he remembered doing the week before, although the childish emotion was not quite there anymore. He begged and screamed, and dragged his parents to Diagon Alley, and Euphemia and Fleamont Potter glowed, as their kid bussed with the euphoria of Hogwarts.
The process of becoming an actor, of becoming a hypocrite (like the Greeks would call him) came natural to James. And maybe it was a skill he has been perfecting his whole life, an act he was preparing for for the past eleven years, and now, simply, the rehearsals were over, and the show began.
The family strolled through the different stores, rapidly filling their bags with books, and robes, and quidditch gears James was definitely too young to be giving any use to, but that he insisted on buying either way, under the pretext that he was just manifesting his future, which, in a way, he was doing. And just as abruptly and the little Potter had dragged his parents into the Alley, he pulled them back into their home, running off to his room the minute they did so.
That morning, James Potter continued the process of burning away. And it was at this moment, in this very instance, in this very short frame of time, and not every again for a very long time, that the Potter parents could have noticed the burning woods, the melting kid. From this day, until the day Hogwarts began James hid away, scrutinizing over his textbooks, learning them from behind back and then, we he could recite them, sing them, but specially explain them, he would move on, to harder topics, to subjects he had no business even thinking about, stealing books from his father’s study, and sneaking into his lab to practice potions. James Potter disappeared into himself, for the only time ever, burnt himself away right in front of everyone, during the light of day. And it could have been then, and only then, that Euphemia could have watered the fire, lessened it down, the Fleamont could have lowered the intensity of the fuels, the self proposed expectation, that were responsible for his kid’s fire, but they didn’t.
And it wasn’t that Euphemia and Fleamont Potter were bad parents, or neglecting one's for that. Not even a little bit. If anything, they cared so much for James, they loved him so much, that maybe, sometimes, they were blind to his pain. The Potter’s had seen their son break, crumble, shake to the ground so many times, helping him build himself back up from the crumbs time after time, that when Hogwarts proposed the possibility of a different James, a happier James, they grabbed themselves too tight to the idea. The cracks in their logic would one day show– they could have shown during the summer of 1971, but the sun shone brightly, and it didn’t shadow the truth.
So James Potter grew knowledgeable in service of lack of sleep, and the isolation of his self, where he ghosted the reality of his existence as a human being in a society that demands interactions. Until the minute he boarded the train, waving goodbye to his parents from the windows of an empty compartment, James buried himself in a book; making himself adequate.
“Good Morning, excuse me, is this compartment free by any chance” and so the moment James had been preparing himself for arrived: the final test. He closed his book, hiding it under his seat, and smiled at the boy standing in front of him.
“Hi! Yes, yes it is, come on in! Hi! I am James, James Potter” he bussed, “And you are?”
The boy grinned, his eyes glimmering in recognition. He closed the door behind, moving to sit in front of James, he sat still, however his eyes betrayed any stoicness he could be trying to impose, where he seemed to be bussing to cause mischief.
“Hello James, James Potter. I am Sirius, Sirius Black, and we are gonna be great friends”
And wasn’t that just perfect, just a dream, just everything James ever wanted to hear? And at that, he had to blink, one, two, three times, slowly, and then, four, five, six times rapidly, trying to convince himself it was true. He proceeded to pinch himself, close his eyes, rub them, and then pinch himself again.
“Uhh- James? Are you alright?”
And then, James proceeded to pinch Sirius, who slapped his hand away, “hey! what was that for?!”
“Sorry!” James ushered, although he didn’t sound a tiny bit apologetical, he smiled, from ear to ear, a crooked smile, that showed parts and parts of his teeth, an honest smile, “I just wanted to make sure you were real, that this was real”
Sirius laughed, which was great, amazing even. James glowed, it was happening. He was becoming the person, the somebody he was hoping to become. And it was better even, that Sirius laughed when he did, because it meant James hadn’t scared him away in his moment of stupidity.
“Oh James, we are truly gonna be great friends, just you wait, I am gonna be so real in your life that you are gonna wish I wasn’t there quite as much”
“Never, I’ll always want you there”
It was, to say the least, a very naive way to commence a friendship, nonetheless, James knew his promise to hold true, because James meant it, he would bend himself over, over and over again, just to be someone worth loving, worth caring for. And James Potter, wanted Sirius Black, cool Sirius Black who just offered to be his first friend, to care for him, so whatever the action, whatever the consequence or the circumstance, James Potter would never grow tired of Sirius Black, would never want the palpability of their friendship to die down.
James meant it,
meant it,
meant it.
He would be the friend his friends needed him to be. He would be the person they needed him to be, whatever the charade, whatever the act, whatever the need. He would mold himself to be someone they needed, they wanted in their lives.
Because Sirius Black would always come before James Potter.