CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
James feared that specific thought.
He dreamt of it every night, leaving him to wake with a sore throat and soaking in sweat. His night terrors became more frequent. His panic attacks happened regularly. He was unable to leave the house. Open the door. Pick up the phone.
James carried the horrors of that night in his pockets. Like heavy rocks, they made him unable to function, slowly, yet painfully crushing his exhilarated, living persona to the insubstantial, lifeless person he feared becoming. James carried the horrors of it all.
He particularly dreamt of Lily. Her body cold to the touch. And Harry– he couldn't bear the imagery. The small glasses upon the hope of dirt. He couldn't bear any of it any longer.
He became one with his shadow, living in a small apartment on the West end of London. He barely got out of bed and when he did he wouldn't leave his bathroom. Mary hardly visited anymore, as the last time he wasn't able to open the front door. She sends him letters instead of calling him, postcards from Libya filling his hall.
One evening he sat on the couch, some old aluminium foil-covered bowl that likely belonged to Mary on the far end, flies buzzing around it. He hadn't brushed his teeth in weeks and his hair was uncombed, tangled at different ends. His mug stuck to the table as he poured in more fire whiskey. It tasted horrible and wouldnt mix well with a basic espresso shot, but it would keep him awake. Barely, but functioning, too.
In that cold, empty room, James would unwillingly glance at the moving photographs of the daily prophet flashing on his carpet, The daily prophet's best-selling article; The Gryffindor traitor awry of its pictures. James had read it. And he had looked over Peter's picture an uncountable amount of times before finally removing it. The flash of the camera caused Peter to flinch, clinging to his prison ID; consisting of runes and numbers.
- 390.
It enraged James to feel so clueless.
He never had been clueless.
And now he was– he was a non-entity.
Between the pictures of Bellatrix Lestrange and Evan Rosier, James would find Regulus' face. He would think back to Hogwarts. The cold, callous expression never changing. Regulus would not even flinch as the flare of a flash whitened the image. Every time James would feel sick, by merely looking at it. His death was exploited like a muggle crime case and it repelled James. Rather than seen as a death, it was perceived as some sort of real-time, enjoyable entertainment story.
He looked down at the documents on his coffee table.
He shakily signed the papers, St Mungo's familiar emblem at the top, its watermark splattered across.
He dropped the pen, shooting back the glass of fire whiskey.
He didn't dare close his eyes at night. Not after his previous night terror in March 1982.
He could pathetically not even remember the previous months.
Not only would he dream of Lily, but of Sirius. Of his bravery and chivalry. And not to forget stupidity. The faint, remarkable grin on his cold, dead lips was engraved in James's head. He was so certain– so bloody fucking certain they had won. And then, in less than seconds, James lost everything and everyone.
James will and would never be able to wrap his head around it. Why he left him alive and took everyone from him. He looked at the documents, blurred by his now glossy eyes.
Tears would leave his eyes, but he never actually cried.
He hadn't cried since February.
It felt unfair.
It felt unfair to everyone.
James couldn't function or think properly.
And every time his mind would have processed anything at all, the thought of killing himself was most profound. He had tried it, killing himself. He had taken hold of every glass object in sight and smashed it to the bathroom tile, watching it slide into the basic, porcelain tub. It wasn't planned or thought out. He just felt really, really fucking shitty. He turned it on, watching water lift the glass to the tub's edges and undressed out of his dirty pyjamas. It was the day of Bellatrix's public assassination. He had been invited by Nicolas Macmillan, due to the damage she had caused– his friends, she had murdered.
But James never answered.
James never answered because he didn't want to be reminded. To take joy in the burning of flesh. Poisoned flesh. The blood of any other, really.
Instead, he got into the bathtub and watched the water discolour into a dark red. He lied in the bathtub for twenty minutes straight, teeth clattering as he pushed back any sound his throat willed to make. That, until the stinging of the glass, got worse and he started weeping quietly.
This is where it would end.
He would be with his friends.
He would be with Lily and with Harry.
And not here.
In this shitty apartment. In shitty Londen.
Fucking alone.
His thoughts drifted anywhere they could.
That was until his Neighbour barged into his apartment.
She apparently had heard the loud noise and felt eerie at the sudden silence. James, barely awake, was pulled out of the tub and brought to a muggle hospital in a small, compact muggle car, where he was treated for his cuts in the ER. His neighbour, he later realised was named Eleanor, stayed throughout the procedure. He wouldn't utter a word to her, though. Whilst driving him back home, she did suggest he sign up for some sort of mental hospital. All that came up was a sore, Hmph, before it went quiet once more.
So there he was, at his coffee table in April, signing himself into St Mungo's sanitarium.
He. Felt. Crazy.
He let his head fall forward, too exhausted to move from the spot. His mug barely reached his lips. It slipped from his shaky fingers into his lap, causing him to cuss. He then got up and tugged off the tracksuit bottoms, entering his bathroom. He glanced around, the blood cleaned away by now. He watched himself in the mirror. Purple scars and faint bumps scattered across his body.
He then looked at his hair.
He grabbed a simple wooden comb and tried to brush through it without luck.
"Fucking–" He breathed out frustratingly, pulling it away. He tugged at it again, hurting himself. He let his head fall back against the tile, closing his eyes. He breathed properly for a couple of seconds, taking hold of one specific piece. He brushed through it with trouble, letting out pained grunts every time he tugged at a knot. Once it didn't work he threw it aside annoyed, reaching for a pair of clippers, flicking the switch and buzzing off his curls.
Soon, he saw a stranger look back at him in the mirror. He had shaven off his stubble and he looked– strange.
His jaw trembled slightly as he ran his hand across the fresh buzz.
This was who he was now.
Permanently.
Not him.
Merely James Fleamont Potter.
That week, Saturday to be specific, he stood at the reception of St Mungos, in a pair of fuzzy slippers and a pillow under his right arm. It was freezing, and he got many strange and puzzled looks from the patients within the hospital. He even heard a group of teens mutter about Voldemort and, "His wife and son died, you know, he's probably here for that sanitarium Pomfrey set up." The receptionist was at lunch; patience, please.
Eleanor had driven him there, confused at the amount of "Funny hats" and "Strange fashion sense", but left him without asking any questions. She had gifted him a strange basket, filled with fruit and toiletries. A muggle thing, he supposed.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the usual habit of tugging at his curls was now not possible. It took everything for him to leave the house. He kept seeing those– those betrayingly sweet blue eyes. Even in that empty hallway, the scene repeated on a loop.
"Peter!" James had smiled, opening the door wider, "Do come in–" He realised quickly something had been awfully off. "Peter?" "Hmph?" Peter had stared back at him, knowingly, with a nervous look, pulling at his earlobe as he usually did when he– he had done something he shouldn't. James's brows had furrowed, still stupidly trusting. Usually, it was stealing Remus's chocolate, or accidentally eating Sirius's shoelace in animagus form– but then…then James knew it was far worse.
"Welcome to St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, however can I–" The girl glanced at him, her eyes widening slightly. James remembered her, too, Amelia Florence.
"James–"
"Hey." He answered curtly, not really in the mood to bring up any old memories. Especially not Sirius. "Howve you–" "I signed in for the sanitarium?" She went quiet, opening a small notebook, likely with all the sign-ins.
He quickly spotted a couple of familiar names; Edward Tonks, Dirk Cresswell, Gideon Prewett–
He glanced back at Amelia.
"I'll call someone down– to guide you up." She picked up the cell, it ringing loudly in the quiet room. He fiddled with the pillow, "How have you been– Ah, Nic, we've got a sign-in. Mhm. J.P. Room 505. Thank you, Nic." She placed down the cell phone, looking back at James. "I'm glad you're looking better." He wanted to scoff at her stupidity, instead, he kept quiet, waiting for Nic. Eventually, Nic arrived, nodding at James. "Bye–" Amelia peeped, but James was already on his way up.
He passed various floors before arriving on the fourth. Passing the Janus Thickey ward, knowing Alice and Frank had been placed there. And Remus before he– He shook it off, following Nic further down the hall. He stopped at a massive glass door, double-sided, with no one on the other side.
He noticed various spells buzz between the glass panels, taking a sharp breath of air, which tasted sour.
He had brushed his teeth.
Brushed them till his gums bled.
He wanted to seem remotely sane entering the Ward.
"There you go." Nic sounded an awful lot like Hagrid, causing James's chest to prick painfully, "Thanks–" He responded shortly, entering the ward. He then found out there was a charm to make the ward seem empty and soulless when in reality it buzzed with life. Well, depressed and crippled life.
They all wore the same attire; men and women.
A strange pale tracksuit, fitted largely and made unable to stretch…for different sorts of reasons.
There were no zippers or buttons or any kind of close-up.
The collars sat just right, unable to– choke a patient.
The trousers ended at the ankles, unhandy for the taller patients.
No one younger than 20, it seemed.
"Oh my–" He heard a familiar, mellow voice. He glanced at the short woman, her shocked face trying to resist the sombre frown that already filled her eyes. "James." She spoke softly, causing his jaw to tremble slightly. He clenched it quickly, looking down at her, "Poppy." He croaked. She smiled faintly.
"your room is down there, let me help–"
"It's fine, Pop–"
"Dont speak nonsense," She took ahold of the basket, giving it a puzzled look.
"A gift." He answered, "Hm– strange." He huffed in agreement, following her down the hall. She opened a door, with no keyhole in sight and no handle. He felt sick. She used a silent charm to get in, revealing a small, but not tight room.
It looked like the average grandmother's residence. With a rocking chair, an unopenable window, a dresser attached to the wall with no handles, a mirror that seemed spelt, lamps were installed in the ceiling and a bed. A simple bed. With white covers and no pillow.
"Well, it's quite easy to get around," Pomfrey spoke finally, walking around the room with her small, dragon-leathered heels. With a simple nudge she opened the dresser, "Here are your clothes." James furrowed his brows, "There are no pants–" Poppy nodded, "Yes– you are not supposed to be wearing them. The trousers have built-in– oh, you get it." He nodded slightly.
"A nice little sight," He glanced out of the window. A garden, filled with flowers. "And a comfortable bed, I see you brought your own pillow, great."
She stood by the door, looking at him, "breakfast starts at seven in the morning and ends at nine. Lunch starts at twelve and ends at one, teatime is spent in the TV room, which you can enter at any hour, until dinner, which is at five and ends at seven, lights go out at eight, which means everyone is assumed to be in their rooms." James nodded slightly, trying to remember all the information, "Every time one of these happens, a loud buzz will make sure to notify you." She smiled at him. "Where can I wash?" He questioned.
He knew he would have a hard time getting himself into a bathroom or out of his room, but he had to.
He had to recover.
"Every night and morning, down the hall."
"Which one?"
"There is only one hall, sweetheart."
"Ah."
"I'll leave you to it, now." She smiled at him,
"You're doing great, James."
"I haven't done anything." He replied hopelessly, a deeper meaning laying upon that sentence, "You've done more than most." She whispered softly, "You are strong and willing and I know…"
A loud buzz caused James to flinch. She pushed back the pained expression and looked at him, "I suppose that's dinner." She left the room, the door shutting.
It made a clicking sound, causing James to feel strangely calmer.
He sat on his bed, fiddling with the sheets anxiously.
When he had undressed, his clothes vanished.
It felt similar to Hogwarts. Yet so– estranged from everything else.
He shifted uncomfortably in his new clothes, the fabric rubbing against his skin. His wrists were exposed as were his ankles and his collar bone. Places he favourably kept hidden. A second buzz sounded about ten minutes ago, meaning in about fifty minutes the lights would be shut off and he would be able to lie down.
He paced around the room, barefooted. He traced every pattern he could find, which were not many. He repeated the last song he could remember over and over, trying to keep his mouth moving.
He wouldn't look at himself in the mirror. His glasses sat strangely and his head was still buzzed.
He eventually sat back on his bed, "2994, 2995, 2996, 2997, 2998, 2999, 300–" Another loud buzz and the lights shut off.
James lied down on the bed, closing his eyes tightly. He drifted off that night, still jittery.