4
The next morning, James and Regulus head to brunch at the old Potter Manor. They go under the guise of picking up Harry and enjoying a meal with Euphemia, but Regulus knows what it really is - he’s pushed James too far. He’s pushed James more than he’d meant to, but nevertheless he’d done it.
James is running home. And that isn’t Regulus anymore. Merlin, it never should have been.
Regulus has had his entire life to come to terms with the darkness of that house. Really, it was less terrible to him because it was all he’d ever known. He was too young to understand that it wasn’t normal to be beaten, starved…
His brain can’t quite say the word for what Lucius had done.
Like always, Regulus finds himself staring at Potter Manor in awe. This was James’ upbringing. Someone like that must find Regulus’ history unimaginable.
So forcing James to see it…
Guilt is a pile of bricks stacked on his chest. They grow heavier and heavier each time James smiles. When Harry rushes down the stairs to fling himself into James’ arms. He really is James’ child.
He’s yours too, a small voice inside him says.
He doesn’t have time to squash it before Harry is moving to him. Without thinking, he lifts him up like he used to do when he was a newborn. At almost three years old, Harry still buries his face in Regulus’ shoulder.
It would take a blind fool to miss the fond look James shoots the two of them. Unfortunately, that’s Regulus for you.
“My boys,” Euphemia smiles from the top of the stairs, tray of biscuit crumbs in her arms. “Here for your darling little…?” She trails off and, ridiculously, Regulus thinks she’s fighting the urge to call Harry ‘pumpkin.’
Though, knowing his mother-in-law, she might be.
“This little goblin,” James says, reaching out a hand to fuss harry’s curls. The little boy laughs into Regulus’ shoulder at the motion.
They make it out the door in two hours, which is record fast timing for a visit to the Potter house. James is already running slightly late for an appointment with his mind healer - something nearly everyone had recommended for mister mirrorball himself, but it wasn’t until Regulus and Marlene physically dragged him into the office that he accepted the help - so he presses a quick kiss to both their heads before apparating.
Harry is still at that young age in which there’s a high risk of splinching, even with a parent. One misplaced desire on the kid’s part - maybe even a wish to go back to bed - and Little Suzy is missing an arm and a leg.
So Harry and Regulus take the bus. Harry fusses with the strings on his jacket, which makes some girl on the bus fawn and make little baby noises at him.
Regulus tries to explode her with his mind. The boy’s two, for fuck’s sake.
She then inquires about his wife, to which he flatly responds that he doesn’t have one. She then becomes very interested and mentions her name’s Varya and she works at the Three Broomsticks and she gets off work at five tonight.
Regulus thinks he might be more happy leaving the bus than when he left Grimmauld.
Harry recognizes the bus stop, which means he’s buzzing with excitement about getting pumpkin soda from that place where bowtruckles in fancy hats serve them. Regulus thinks it makes them look a little like green shrimp, but Harry loves it nonetheless. It’s a short walk, but Harry tugs Regulus forward like a puppy on a leash.
Regulus is undeniably, beamingly happy. He thinks he’d die a million deaths for each moment with his son.
And there it is again. Harry, oh, the poor boy will suffer so much. Here Regulus is, drilling holes in James. James, who will be Harry’s only family the moment he dies. He’s…
Regulus is rotting his family from the inside out.
He chokes on that knowledge.
He chokes a little more on the scent of the soda bar. It’s overwhelmingly earthy, the musk permeating just about everything inside. Trees shoot through the floors and ceilings, moss reaching across the floor. Regulus watches as a patch of lichen extends from a tree and tickles a little girl’s chin. If any of this plant shit touches him while he’s trying to order for Harry, he’s going to fucking riot.
There’s no queue, so it’s a fairly simple affair of ordering one pumpkin soda and a glass of pressed violet juice. At least, it’s a simple affair until Harry notices a display of chocolate wands. The bowtruckle at the counter notices his gaze and suddenly his mouth is spread by a wicked smile.
“Those are not for sale.”
Regulus isn’t sure why the creature is smiling. Something about the gleam in his eye suggests that he doesn’t want to know. But Harry-
The poor boy is salivating.
“Why the display then?” Regulus finds himself asking.
Based on the look the bowtruckle gives him, he’s asked the right question.
“They cannot be bought, but they can be… won over.”
“Won?”
“Yes, those were specially imported from the Old Ives. They’re… how do you say… the wand chooses the owner, yes?”
“Real wands, yes.”
“These are no different.”
One glance back at his son and Regulus is prepared to do whatever it takes. “How do you know if these… special chocolate wands choose you?”
“They’re attracted to exchanges. For each you want, you must make a trade. Good luck.” With a wink, the bowtruckle whips around to prepare their drinks.
With some hesitance, Regulus and Harry approach the display. Harry’s eyes are wide enough to pop out of his skull. Regulus can’t deny there’s something spellbinding about the wands. Really, he can’t draw his eyes away. One is maroon, which is just so James that Regulus is tempted to trade anything to bring it home.
Oh. Home.
Harry’s eyes have glued to a blue one with ornate little spirals along the sides.
What does one trade in order to get a chocolate wand?
He’s still trying to puzzle it out when a different bowtruckle serves their drinks. In fact, he’s leaned in so close that he’d practically inhaling chocolate. That can’t be up to health code at all. In fact…
He exhales and the blue wand is flying into Harry’s hand. The little boy shrieks with delight. Regulus jerks back in utter surprise. What had he traded? What had he traded? What had he-
Breath. He’d given a breath to the wand.
He tries it again on the maroon wand, but to no avail. He tries a lot of things, actually. At one point, he even finds himself trying to teach the wand the lyrics to the Slytherin quidditch fight song. It doesn’t budge.
“James,” He whispers to it softly. The wand chooses the owner, right? Certainly it would recognize who it so clearly belongs to.
It doesn’t move.
He looks around self-consciously, as if others might be watching to see what he does next. Nobody is watching, but it does very little to calm his nerves as his voice drops to a mumble. “James, I love you.”
The wand glows, but does not move.
A little louder, he repeats. “James, I love you.”
The wand flutters. From the other side of the counter, the bowtruckle that took his order raises an eyebrow. For Salazar’s sake-
“James, I love you,” He says in as level of a voice as he can manage. The wand shoots straight for his hand. Of course it does.
“The breath of life, the breath of love,” The bowtruckle says, handing him a bag in which to carry it home. “Have a good day, Regulus Potter.”
He doesn’t even bother wondering how the bowtruckle knows his name. He and his son push out the door and into the wide street, straws to their lips.
James knows that he’s doing this whole mind-healing thing wrong. Ted is a lovely guy and all, but James just can’t seem to get vulnerable. Every time he sits in the waiting room surrounded by people with tearstained faces or scarred bodies, he’s reminded of why it took so much work for his friends to convince him to get help.
He doesn’t need it. Not when there are people who have really suffered. People like his own husband. No, James doesn’t deserve therapy and it’s evident the moment Ted asks how he’s feeling today.
“I’m well.” He replies instinctively.
Ted chuckles a little, which maybe James deserves.
“What have you done today?”
“I had brunch at my mother’s. It was nice. My husband and son were there too.”
“Does it feel odd, going to your childhood home to see your mother? You don’t call it home anymore, just your mother’s.”
“It’s fine, really. Mum doesn’t do much redecorating, so it’s a lot like when I grew up there, aside from a few things.”
“Things like your father.”
James winces. “Yeah, definitely weird to go there and not see dad in his study or in front of the fireplace… but it’s fine. He’s been gone for years.”
“James,” Ted clears his throat a little, leaving forward with his elbows perched on his thighs, “I’m going to be level with you here. You’ve been my patient for about four months now and all you’ve managed to tell me is that sometimes you worry about your teammates getting hurt during games and one long monologue about how some little girl maybe gave you a mean glance when you were ordering ice cream for your son.”
“That little girl wanted to spill my blood.”
“James-” Ted holds out his hand to silence him, “I’ve seen a lot of people like you, yeah? A lot of people come here because some else told them to. There’s a reason your husband and your friend Marlene wanted you to come to me. And I don’t think it has anything to do with some girl at an ice cream shoppe or a casual thought about on-the-job injury or even your refusal to talk about your dad.”
And oh, does that punch somewhere deep.
“I’m going to ask you again - how do you feel today? - and you’re going to tell me the truth.”
“I feel,” Fuck, his waterlines are already stinging. His chest is unbearably tight. “A lot of things. I feel like the place where the waves break against the shore, which is so stupid I know, but it’s my place in the grand scheme of things to be the thing that everyone can feel good around or express themselves, which is not the sand but like the waves crash. That’s what the waves do. And in order to do what they do, they have to be able to crash against something. That’s me. I’m James Potter and I’ll let you crash against me because I’m alright. I have - had - perfect parents and a perfect childhood and I’m their little miracle boy and so I’m everyone’s miracle and because I’m alright, I’m something that you can vent to. I can carry your burden because I have nothing of my own to carry.”
He takes a shuddery inhale and Ted looks at him with something so close to understanding that James just wants to burst into fucking tears.
“My husband is dying, which I’m also not fond of, but it’s… y’know, I’ll be fine. A lot of people find that out and they start like looking at me differently, which is bullshit because aren’t we all dying?
“Yes, but not all of us are going to quickly nor so certainly.”
“That’s… fair. But I don’t need people to pity me.”
“I’ll let you in on a secret I’ve learned over my many years of doing this job. There’s some pretty shit people in the world. There’s some people who do bad things just because they like doing bad things but, on the whole, I’ve found that people are good. People want the best for each other, even if they have different ideas about what that looks like. The people who look at you with pity are likely just sad that you have to suffer.”
“I don’t suffer, though. I’m not the one who’s dying. Everyone seems to miss that part. This isn’t about me.”
“Of course this is about you, James. Your husband, someone you love, is leaving this life. There’s no pain quite like grief, and your unique situation gives you somewhat of an in-between. You’re forced to already grieve something that isn’t gone yet.”
“What do I even do with that?” James asks miserably.
“What can you do?”
“I can’t save him.”
That’s where the tears finally come. Loud, raucous sobs that shake his body. Because James Potter, the battered shore and fixer of broken bodies, cannot do anything.
“No, you can’t.” Ted says gently. “But there are still things he can benefit from while he’s here. Things that will make his life more enjoyable. You can still give him love, and laughter, and happy memories with you and Harry. There’s still life left to be lived.”
“Harry,” James whispers, growing more and more devastated by the moment, “how do we tell him? He’s so young, he wouldn’t even understand what that means. Harry, your-” He struggles for breath, “Harry, your father is dying. What do I do with that?”
Harry and Regulus wander mindlessly along the riverside path, occasionally pointing out ducks or something similar. Harry’s hand is clasped in Regulus’ and it’s taking every bit of his strength to keep it there.
His heart must be pounding at a million miles per hour, his stomach twisting into hateful knots. He’s alright, he’s alright, he’s alright. He’s safe. He’s safe and Harry is a child. Still, it’s skin to skin and skin to skin means danger danger danger.
“Harry, love?” He prods gently. His son turns to look up at him with great big doe eyes. “Why don’t we go into that bookstore up on Fifth?”
Harry’s reached that special age where the pictures in picture books can be accompanied by the occasional word or label. Oh, Regulus’ heart surges at the thought of his son growing up to read and love books in the same way he does.
He takes the moment they step inside as an opportunity to disconnect their fingers and slide on some thin black gloves. A saving grace given to him by James, of course.
Harry toddles into the kids section, Regulus in tow. It’s admittedly a bit of an eyesore, with gauche blue walls and chairs shaped like hands. There’s already a few kids sitting on a rug adorned with the alphabet. Harry, very much James’ child, immediately seeks their friendship.
Regulus lets his fingers trail over a few book spines. They’ve placed the philosophy section right next to the kids corner, which is certainly a Choice. He nearly pulls out a Jean-Paul Sartre before remembering he likely won’t have enough time to read it before his untimely death.
Well, I guess every death is timely when you’re born rotten.
An hour later, Harry is still talking to the other kids while mindlessly pulling out picture books moments before abandoning them for another. Regulus buys every single one he touches. He wants to give Harry everything.
One of the other kids’ moms chuckles at the act.
“First kid?” She asks
“Yeah.”
“I spoiled my first too,” She smiles as if recalling the best days of her life. Maybe they were. “Daphne. She’s the blonde one. By my second, I’d gotten a little better at moderation.”
“Daphne?” Regulus marvels slowly, looking between the woman and her kid. She does look awfully familiar. “You wouldn’t happen to know my friend Cerci, whose niece is named Daphne?”
The woman’s grin spreads wider. “Why yes, I would happen to know my sister Cerci.”
Regulus comes home wearing his gloves, which James knows is a bad sign. Or, at least, there could be better signs. He’s carrying a bag full of picture books and a maroon chocolate wand, which he hands to James before sitting at the kitchen table and scribbling letters into the books.
He started doing it the day Harry was born, annotating every book for their son. Now, with everything on the imminent horizon, there’s a sour taste to the gesture. Someday, these letters and annotations will be all they have left of him.
After a while, James says, “I feel like we’ve both been stripped a little raw recently.”
Regulus’ head shoots up, eyes wide before his lips curve into the hint of a smile. “You talked to Ted.”
“Yeah,” James nods, “yeah, I think we reached a good talking point.”
“That’s wonderful. Really, I’m so proud. I’d kiss you if I could.”
“I know,” James replies fondly, eyes fixed on Regulus’ gloves.
“But I was saying that I feel a little bit like an open wound, and I think you do too.”
“I do,” Regulus admits quietly. “You make that better.”
“You do the same for me. I just - the world’s been awfully loud recently. There’s a lot of pressure coming in from my teammates for me to lead them to victory next summer, and that’s weighing heavily on me.”
“That’s not all, James.” Regulus hums, eyes kind.
“No, it’s not,” He agrees reluctantly. “You know how everyone calls me the sun?”
“You are,” Regulus says with enough reverence to knock James back a few steps.
“It’s hard for me to be that, to keep that persona up.”
“So don’t.”
“But they need me to be-”
“You. Everyone just needs you to be yourself. The person you are is more than enough. You don’t have to be anything. James, you’re already the sun. Don’t burn out by trying to burn brighter than you’re meant to.”
“Would it be alright if we looked at happier memories tonight? Of course, I want all of you, but maybe just a little bit slower because-”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Regulus cuts him off. “You’re allowed to have boundaries, mon ange.”
James looks like a million pounds have been taken off his shoulders. “I had a talk with Ted about how to approach death with Harry. I think… I think maybe we should try to approach it tonight.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes, James. Let’s do it.”
So James and Regulus try. When night reaches out over the horizon, they make tea and crawl into bed, Harry alongside them. The three of them watch some memories of Regulus spending time with Pandora and laughing with Cerci. James shows them some time with Peter and Lily. To keep things as kid-friendly as possible, he notably ignores memories with Remus or Marlene. He promises to show Regulus everything later.
When past happiness exhausts them, they tumble back into reality.
“Harry,” Regulus says softly.
The little boy hums in response.
“I don’t know when, but sometime soon, I’m going to go away and I’m not going to come back.”
“Why?” Harry sounds so heartbroken that James wants to obliviate him and return the bliss of a few minutes ago.
“I don’t want to leave,” Regulus sobs, unable to turn over and look at his son or husband, “but it isn’t my choice. It’s not your choice or your dad’s either. It just has to happen.”
“Where are you going?”
Regulus is too overcome with emotion to speak.
“He’s going back home, to the stars,” James says.
“This is home.” Harry insists. “You, me, Dad.”
“Yeah,” Regulus agrees wetly, “Yeah, it is.”