(James) Potter
James Potter excelled at what he did effortlessly. Whatever he did. Quidditch, studies, girls, money, friends. He had everything. He was happy-go-lucky, confident, and more than anything, he was excellent.
This is what he told himself as he laid curled in his bed, staring at his wall, still as possible save for his right hand, thumb touching each of his fingers in turn. Pointer, middle, ring, pinkie. Pinkie, middle, ring, pointer.
James Potter was a class clown but he never stepped over the line. He knew when enough was enough. He was a prankster, but when described by any peer or mentor, “trouble” was not a word that came to mind. “Disruptive”, perhaps, but affectionately so. What he lacked in poise he made up for in charm.
James Potter was rich, but generous. He was not a snob, he didn’t carry himself with contempt. He offered to pay whenever the chance arose, and he’d put money down on any good-natured bet. He’d be just as happy to lose, too; James Potter was sportsmanlike.
Pointer, middle, ring, pinkie.
James Potter was respectful, and he knew that you get what you give, but that wasn’t his motivation. He was simply raised right. He adored his mother and idolized his father. He was a good son.
James Potter did not have problems; James Potter was effortlessly excellent. He was not sad. James Potter did not have to speak to any shrink about his feelings; James Potter did not have issues. How could he? He’d been handed everything most people spend their life praying for on a silver platter when he was born; health and money and unconditional love. He had no issues with his looks, his talent, his intelligence, his personality. All of those were excellent. Effortlessly.
Pinkie, ring, middle, pointer.
James Potter was a good friend. He always knew what to say. But he was never desperate, never angry, never scared. He was not quiet and he was not uncertain.
James Potter did not let James slip into his image.
James was not excellent. He was anything but effortless. He was a stumbling, stuttering mess. He had to take speech therapy as a child.
James had to study. James Potter copied homework because he was confident in his ability, but happy to allow himself more leisure time, and had the affability to back himself up. James copied homework because sometimes, when he looked at the pages of his Arithmancy textbook, he could feel his stutter burning at his waterlines.
Pointer, middle, ring, pinkie.
James Potter moved in his seat because he was eager to get out of class and slack off. It didn’t matter what he did, because he would excel anyway. James moved in his seat because for some reason, he had nerves bubbling inside him like a geyser. He would explode if he didn’t let his thoughts bounce his legs at the speed of their tightening around his temples.
But James didn’t know how James Potter would handle Sirius. Because lately, Sirius and Sirius Black had merged. Which meant that James had to let himself match, or he had to decide if James Potter would lose Sirius Black, or if James would lose Sirius.
Obviously, the choice had already half been made for him; Sirius Black only remained in Sirius in the fragments that were already his; his snaggletoothed grin, his aura of tragedy that was poorly masked with style and cool self-assurance, the fire of defiance that raged just under his pale skin.
Pinkie, ring, middle, pointer.
Sirius had stopped worrying about the mesh between himself and Sirius Black a long time ago. James envied it, the way Sirius seemed to be able to breathe when something too raw slipped through; a fist tangled in his pitch black head, as if he could grasp the frustration from his mind, eyes bleary and rimmed with something that wasn’t the early morning.
So what would James Potter do when faced with this new creature, this boy whose breath was now ragged and whose shoulder blade was maimed with the curse of his mother’s hand that he could be nothing but raw? James Potter was a good friend, and he did not bite his nails and sob himself to sleep in the horror that love had left him no choice but to curl in bed and wait for his heart to lodge in his throat and push the impediment he’d spent three summers willing to sit there up to sit on his tongue, already heavy with culpability.
Pointer, middle, ring, pinkie.
It’s not that he cared what other people thought of him loving Sirius. That was one thing that James knew was not light on people’s lips when they described him; he loved fiercely, and that was effortless. Although, perhaps the James Potter part of it all was that he loved excellently. James Potter would know what to say, what to do, how to knock on a door in his own home and fix, on some level, the jagged wounds in his best friend’s back. That, he knew, was what Sirius needed; to be reassured his sobs of hoarse guilt in the night as if he were apologizing to the moon itself had not rippled and splintered the foundation of the only pillar he had left.
James, on the other hand, loved like fire. Wild and roaring and in a nature he could not control and was therefore terrified of. He was sure it terrified others too, the unfastidious burning severity of it all. He feared that if he opened the door, heard Sirius’s lungs fighting against his capitulating spirit, he would throw licks of red hot flame instead of soft, glowing warmth like he meant.
But the sun had not yet risen, and for now, James could still close his eyes as if he were still allowed the bliss of sleep, and he could touch his finger tips to his thumb and wonder how on Earth he was going to be James Potter in a situation where only James was welcome but only James Potter was needed.
Pinkie, ring, middle, pointer. Pointer, middle, ring, pinkie.