Art
Detention.
James wanted to get it over with as fast as possible; it was always so mind-numbingly boring, so much so that it was almost physically painful.
Monty, if he knew, would try and stifle his laugh all while saying, “Hey, kid, you do the crime, you do the time”.
Effie would smile softly and roll her eyes, but not in an unkind way; she would say, “James”, in a way he knew, now, would bring him to tears.
She means it as a warning, but much more as an encouragement- an encouragement for him to explain his side of the story without any judgment at first.
It’s a conversational opening that would only lead to warmth, softness, and love, in it’s purest form- unconditionally.
Knowing or feeling unworthy of that love, burns, badly.
There’s no particular reasoning behind that thought- no conscious one at that, it just was a certainty, a cold, hard fact, if you will.
James would have a hard time saying that anyone is unworthy of love, he just is, according to his friends, so pure.
James did well in Hogwarts, academically that is, not exceptionally well, but well enough to earn a Professor's nod of approval when they looked at his written or practical assignments. He was second or third in all his classes, except Transfiguration and Potions.
James absolutely loves Minnie, so do the other Marauders, especially Sirius; he loves her so much that it’s almost comical.
She is the first mum that Sirius has ever had.
Before, he only had a “mother,” a “ma’am”, a “Mrs”.
Potions James was also passing, but he always got quite distracted with the different sounds, colors, and general movements.
He didn’t have the precision, patience, and concentration for the subject- or art, depending on who you are.
Never before had he thought, a subject where you add stuff, gross stuff most of the time, creating concussions, potions that smelled bad and tasted worse, could be compared- or itself be art.
James once asked what Remus thought the definition of art was, he only listened long enough to hear something along the lines of … works that are produced that are appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power.
Every witch and wizard in that musty classroom had the ingredients, materials and tools, but only one was an artist, the rest were utter fools. But only fools in the presence of the artist. The rest of them, most of them passed, they weren’t, per definition, fools.
But yes, they were, James included.
The artist: Regulus Arcturus Black.
The git, Snape, was good at potions, but you couldn’t compare the two, and Snape was an utter bum, and James thought he could go fuck himself.
Every movement Regulus made, you knew it was incredibly precise, careful, and correct; he was always in control, but it always looked effortless, instinctual, and natural, just like breathing.
He never looked at the instructions for more than a minute at the start, and then he never looked back.
It was utterly frustrating but at the same time utterly beautiful- alluring even.
James knew that Regulus was talented, everyone did.
For starters, he participated in their class, not that of his friends who were a year, like Regulus, below him.
Second he never made a mistake, nothing ever looked the way it shouldn’t, nothing ever sounded the way it shouldn’t, nothing ever smelled the way it shouldn’t, somehow, it was always perfect.
The way Regulus brewed is how you would imagine an angel would.
Which is an interesting comparison, because Regulus never looked angelic, he had a cheeky, almost devilish smirk, that could give the arrogance of James a run for its money.
Regulus, generally, didn’t have a calm aura, but when he brewed, he looked utterly at peace. He also didn’t smile much, which disappointed James.
Over the past years, James has always known Regulus was there, but he was always in his blind spot; somehow, he would go almost unnoticed by him and others.
Maybe that’s what Regulus wants.
The complete opposite of James. James was loud, and unforgettable, for whatever reason, positive or negative.
He never knew it was due to choice or circumstance, but he was never silent, never not out there, never not bold.
His excitement sometimes took up the room, having no mercy for those who weren’t at least annoyingly loud or in his close proximity.
He didn’t have much object permanence for those people. Regulus was until the last couple of weeks part of the crowd, the unknown, the ghosts, the unnamed but unbeknown to Regulus himself, in the mind of James Fleamont Potter, he was now in the spotlight, he had a name, a face, a presence, he was utterly unforgettable now.
James, for the life of him, didn't know why this revelation came to him on a random Thursday, but it did. James felt so wound up by Mulciber, the prick, that he had to fight all his demons and impulsivity, to fit back down and not get back up and punch the dick.
He knew it wasn’t really about Mulciber, it was about so much more, so much more of something that has been building under the surface, like a volcano only waiting to erupt, for disaster to strike.
Internally, James was fighting for his dear life against himself; he was close to tears, tears out of pain, confusion and utter frustration.
In moments of distress, Minnie once told James to look for every color of the rainbow, in a room. Sounded stupid at the the time, but sometimes it helps, a little.
Red: Moony’s flushed cheeks.
Orange: some Gryffindors potion (it’s supposed to be yellow).
Yellow: Everyone else's potion.
Green: Eyes. Regulus was staring at him.
James almost fell out of his chair when he saw.
Slowly he grabbed the table to steady himself.
It didn’t help.
It also didn’t take long to realize that Regulus was looking past him, at Sirius, whom James sat in front of.
The other boy then looked away, and carried on with his brewing, like nothing had happened. Nothing did happen, but somehow it did?.
And that is when James realized the art that was Regulus Black. Breathing became a little easier the more he looked at Regulus, at his calm and uniform movements, which were the counterparts of his own.
He craved that other part of himself. He mourned a part of him that he never knew he had lost and, more importantly, never had in the first place.
Fuck.
The sound of a textbook crashing to the floor during his detention nearly sent James himself on the floor himself.
Suddenly he sat upright, his eyes widened slightly as he realized, only now, that he had been daydreaming about the potion lesson earlier today and more importantly about, whom.
Oh, Regulus.