old guitar strings
“Mr. Potter, have you heard of music therapy?”
James squinted in confusion at the woman in front of him, contemplating his decision to come here in the first place. He shouldn’t have folded under Regulus’ promise of scones when he returned home.
“No, but I’m assuming you’re going to tell me about it.”
Ms. Tate smirked, and scribbled something on her notepad. James fiddled with the sleeves of his Muggle sweatshirt with Champion printed on the front of it that Remus had gotten him for his birthday last year.
“Yes, well, a lot of my clients benefit from it. It’s mostly used with children, if you’re interested, for your son,” before James could let out his protests, she continued, “but, it does wonders for adults, as well. Would you be interested in learning how to play an instrument?”
James had begun picking at his fingers, wanting to be anywhere but this office, with its brightly painted walls and weird abstract paintings. “My dad taught me guitar.”
Ms. Tate beamed, scribbling on her notepad again. “That’s wonderful! Do you have one?”
Ugh.
“Yes.”
Her smile got brighter, if that was even possible. “Good,” she glanced at the clock beside the yellow (gross) couch James was sitting on, “well, that about wraps up our session. Your homework for this week is to pick up that guitar – all I want you to do is to brush up on the skills you have. Don’t think of it as a chore or something that overwhelms you. Think of it as an outlet, something that can turn your brain off for a moment.” She studied James’ face, making James forget for a moment that she was a Muggle doctor – the shiver that ran through his body reminded him of his few encounters with Legilimens.
“And, if you hate it, you don’t have to do it anymore.”
James nodded, not wanting his lack of filter to betray him. He already went through the one Muggle therapist, which ended with the man staring at him in horror. He simply handed him a business card with Ms. Tate’s office number. She’s better suited for people with your kinds of… issues.
She gave him another one of her blinding smiles, then stood, brushing off the invisible lint from her suit pants. It was something Remus did, too, James noted curiously. He also noticed, when he first walked in, that the books were arranged in alphabetical order, and she had cartons of disinfectant wipes on her desk, coffee table, and side table.
James shook the thoughts out of his brain. Not my monkeys, not my circus, as Sirius would say.
“Thank you, Ms. Larkin.”
Ms. Tate scoffed, waving the mention of her surname to the door. “Oh please, call me Riley.” She pursed her lips, holding open the door. James got up to leave, “Also, no need to use the missus. I’m non-binary.”
James raised his eyebrows. “Oh,” – and, after a moment – “cool.”
Riley gave a curt nod. “I hope that won’t be an issue, but I—”
James let out a laugh, “Um, I spent about half the session talking about my husband and gay best friends, it’s no issue.”
Riley smirked. “Can’t be too careful these days.”
“Don’t I know it,” James huffed.
Maybe, just maybe, this one could change his mind.
***
“Harry Fleamont Potter, if you don’t stop banging your trains on the kitchen table I swear–”
When he walked through the front door, James was greeted with the sight of his husband and son in the kitchen, both covered in pancake mix. The latter was babbling nonsense, as usual, and clenching two of his Thomas the Train toys in his chubby fists.
“Hello, darling, I’m home!” James called, setting his coat on one of the kitchen table chairs. Regulus whipped his head around and gave him a crazed smile, one that was most likely the product of caring for Harry for too long.
“Jamie, hey, you’re back!” Regulus surveyed the table (also covered in pancake mix), and the whisk in his hand dripping batter onto the floor. “I can explain.”
James chuckled and ruffled Harry’s hair before moving to Regulus. He enveloped him into a tight hug, burying his face in his neck. He smelled like eucalyptus and honey, with a hint of maple (probably why James felt something sticky on his cheek). “It’s okay, that’s why we have magic, my love.”
Regulus sighed and pointed childishly at Harry. “It’s his fault.”
James pulled away, raising his eyebrows. “Blaming the baby now, are we?” He took the whisk from Regulus and gave it a long lick. Regulus had put syrup in the batter, as well. James’ favorite. “He’s not the one doing the cooking.”
Regulus made a noise of discontent and grabbed the whisk back, waving his hand to cast a wordless scourgify at the utensil. “You didn’t see him when he was helping earlier. He was trying to see if he could get the eggs to stick to the ceiling.” Regulus gave a small, warm smile to Harry in his highchair. “Although, he did use a bit of magic to make one stick for a couple seconds, so I can’t be that mad.”
James gasped and went to pick up Harry, who had already thrown both of his trains across the room. “Is that true, Hazzy? I’m so proud of you, you’re such a smart boy!” Harry gurgled in response and grabbed a fistful of James’ hair and pulled.
Regulus winced and managed to pry his hair out of the baby’s hands. “Yeah, but he’s still been pretty wild most of the day.”
James sighed and set Harry back down in his highchair, and began to pull plates down from the cabinet. “I’m sorry, I would’ve came back and helped —”
Regulus tutted at him and cast another cleaning charm on the floor and table. “Nonsense, you had important things to do,” he returned to the frying pan on the stovetop, glancing at James in slight apprehension, “so, how was it?”
He paused. James wasn’t sure what to tell his husband: that he wanted to crawl out of his skin every time they mentioned Lily? That every scribble on the notepad caused his mind to go into a tailspin? That he was scared that it wouldn’t work at all?
“It was great.”
Regulus hummed in acknowledgement of his blantant lie, but it seemed as though he didn’t really believe him. He flipped the last pancake onto a plate and brought it over to Harry, waving his hand over it as it chopped itself up into little squares.
“You know, I thought the same thing when I first went to my Muggle counselor,” He scoffed and sat beside Harry, “I mean, if Mother could see me now, trusting a non-magical person with our deepest thoughts.”
“Oh, who cares what she thinks, all she is is a portrait in the attic now.”
Regulus smirked as he began to feed Harry his pancake, and James sat down across from him. He could see the pancake crumbs already ending up around his mouth, and even one in his hair. James reached over and brushed it out – Merlin knows Harry’s hair is already messy without food particles in it.
“I know, that’s not the point. The point is, it took me a long time to realize that getting help was okay. That admitting I needed help wasn’t a weakness,” Regulus pointed his form at James, then took a large bite of his pancake, “and that’s coming from a former Death Eater.”
They left the conversation at that. James happily ate his pancakes for dinner with his husband, who, three months ago, couldn’t even mention his mother or the fact that he was a part of a pureblood supremacist cult without going into a full mental breakdown that lasted days on end. It gave James hope, really, to see that his husband was so sure of himself and his mind. If Regulus, who had gone through literal hell in his childhood, could come out of therapy a new man, then why couldn’t James do the same?
***
James was losing hope. Why was he like this? Why couldn’t his brain just shut the fuck up?
“Prongs, are you listening, mate?”
He barely heard Sirius, but he nodded anyway and sipped his tea. His eyes decided to focus on him, however, right when he gave Regulus a knowing look. Oh, it’s bad again. James became angry at Sirius’ worrying look, and he cut him off before he could even ask the question, the question that would surely make him lose his mind more than he already has.
“Yes, Sirius, I am. I have ears,” James huffed, setting his mug down aggressively on Sirius and Remus’ coffee table. He tried to feel bad, really, but he couldn’t. “I’m going to check on Harry.”
James stormed past the Black brothers before Regulus could even open his mouth. He whipped open the door to his friends’ garden, where Harry and Remus were sitting on the swingset. Remus was swinging lazily, with his head resting on the rope, while Harry pumped his tiny legs quickly. His swing didn’t move, so Remus flicked his wrist and a gust of wind gave Harry a small push. He squealed happily, and James felt himself smile. He was too caught up in his son to notice Remus had been studying him.
“He only wants to help, you know that, right?”
James nodded slowly, not wanting to admit that his attitude was slightly uncalled for. “Yeah, I know,” James went around behind the swings. He placed a kiss on Harry’s head, earning him yet another squeal that made his heart hurt. He began gently pushing Harry’s back. “It’s just… I wish I knew what I wanted to be told to make it all okay.”
Remus looked at him curiously. “What do you mean?”
James sighed in frustration. Remus had a way of bringing about questions that he himself didn’t even know needed to be answered. “I mean… there’s nothing to say that makes it go away. The feeling of… hopelessness. Asking if I’m okay feels like a slap in the face, because, of course I’m not, but also I want to be asked that?” James pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, willing the tears away. He didn’t want to cry in front of Harry.
He let out a sharp cry, wiggling in his swing. Remus reached out and rocked him gently, making small shushing noises. And, after a moment of thought, “well, how about … asking for that next time?”
“Asking for what?”
Remus shrugged, reaching out to brush a curl out of Harry’s eyes. “For what you want.”
***
He thought this was stupid. Incredibly stupid, in fact. But, Riley challenged him (not really, but it felt like a challenge), and he never backed down from a challenge.
The guitar was sitting across his lap. He ran a finger gently across the string, from the top of the neck to the bridge. The body of the guitar was standard wood with a slightly darker brown pickguard – Fleamont told James he had bought it at something the Muggles called an “estate sale.” This was peculiar for two reasons: one, it was some dead man’s guitar, and two, Fleamont refused to tell him why he was there in the first place. I just saw it, and wanted to learn to play a song for your mother, so I learned. For their tenth anniversary, when James was eight, his dad gifted Effie with his own rendition of Can’t Buy Me Love by the Beatles.
After all these years, the guitar was worn, soft around the edges. The day before, James had gone out to the music store down the street and bought a new set of strings. He strung them on the guitar, and it looked brand new. Now, he was waiting. For what, he didn’t know. Inspiration? A sign from the gods?
He groaned and let himself fall against the bed. Staring at his Snitch fan, which was off at the moment, he thought, what’s the worst that could happen? He sounds like a dying cat?
James let out a puff of air he had been holding and sat up. He grasped the neck with his right hand, hovering his left over the soundhole.
Can't buy me love, love
Can't buy me love, oh
I'll buy you a diamond ring, my friend
If it makes you feel all right
I'll get you anything, my friend
If it makes you feel all right
'Cause I don't care too much for money
But money can't buy me love
Regulus was stopped at the door of their room, Harry perched on his hip. James didn’t even notice them come in. He had his eyes closed, and couldn’t feel anything else but the music and chords against his fingers. It was like he had never stopped playing.
I'll give you all I've got to give
If you say you love me too
I may not have a lot to give
But what I got I'll give to you
I don't care too much for money
Money can't buy me love
Can't buy me love
Everybody tells me so
Can't buy me love
No, no, no, no
James was gone, now, lost to the melody. He felt his father’s voice deep within his chest, and it felt like a warm hug from him, something he hadn’t felt in years. He played another verse one last time, slow, like he was savoring it.
Say you don't need no diamond rings
And I'll be satisfied
Tell me that you want the kind of things
That money just can't buy
I don't care too much for money
Money can't buy me love
“Da-da…”
James’ head whipped to the door’s opening. Harry continued to gurgle out the two syllables, and although they were the same, James felt as though his heart could burst from joy. Is this what it felt like?
“Jamie, oh my god– did he just—”
“Da-daaaaa!” Harry started to make grabby hands at his father, and of course, he immediately obliged. James swept him up in his arms, and cupped his plump cheeks.
“Oh, Harry, baby…”
Regulus leaned his head against James’ arm after planting a kiss on top of Harry’s unruly morning hair.
“He seems to like when his daddy sings, mon soleil.”
Harry simply gurgled in response, tugging at a lock of James’ identical curls, and James wanted to cry. He leaned into Regulus, hugging Harry to his chest. This, this is the feeling he’d been missing.
The only thing was – why didn’t he feel anything?