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James sat awkwardly on the chair outside the Head’s office, fiddling with the burnt remains of a Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes firework. From Professor McGonagall’s office, he could hear a low murmur. A male voice.
He winced. He’d assumed it would be mum, and that had seemed bad enough - that was what he had been most worried about - but somehow the knowledge that his father was in there was worse.
A suspension. He never thought a week off school would be something he would be upset about. It just seemed so… Embarrassing. The teachers actually wanted him gone for a few days. The Grey Lady drifted solemnly past, without so much as a glance at him.
When his parents and uncles talked about all the mischief they got up to, they always talked about the detentions and the loss of house points and the teachers that shouted at him, but none of them, not even Uncle George, had ever said that they had been asked to leave the school before.
Professor McGonagall had told him, and then asked him to wait outside while she Floo’d his parents. He had sat there, in the silent corridor, the pride of his great prank deflating into a twist of anxiety as he imagined the way his mother would shout, and how everyone would gossip when he didn’t return to the Common Room.
The gargoyle statue moved, and he looked up to see his father, unsmiling, step out. ‘Come on,’ he said, jerking his head back to the office.
James got up from the chair hesitantly. He hadn’t seen his dad since Christmas, and to not even get so much as a hello…
His dad made him climb the spiral stairs into the office first, following close behind. Professor McGonagall was still sitting at her desk, her lips thin, surveying James over her glasses.
James stopped in the middle of the room. 'I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.
Professor McGonagall didn’t move for a second, and then, in a measured voice, said, 'you see, that’s the problem, Mr Potter. This is the first time you have said that.'
He felt his dad’s hand grip his shoulder tightly, and push him towards the fireplace. 'Thank you,’ he heard him say to Professor McGonagall, and the Headmistress gave a short, sharp nod.
James went first - he stepped into the large fireplace, dropped the Floo powder, and said, 'Sparrow Cottage’. The green flames leapt up, but he could still see his dad glaring at him.
Then, quite suddenly, he was in the living room. It felt very odd to be there during term time, almost like he was a guest. It was utterly silent except for the ticking of the clock - he supposed Mum was at work, or out. He wasn’t really sure what to do with himself.
He dusted off the ash from his sleeves, and sat on the sofa, his knee bouncing as he waited. His dad had been right behind him, why wasn’t he here yet?
Finally, after the longest six and a half minutes of his life, the fireplace roared, and his father stepped smoothly out.
Then walked straight past him into the kitchen.
Swallowing, James rose and shuffled after him, feeling incredibly small. Dad was leaning on the kitchen island, writing out a letter.
'I don’t have any of my stuff,’ James said hesitantly.
His dad didn’t look up, just paused writing and rubbed at the scar on his head. 'Professor McGonagall has sent one of the Prefects to gather some of your things, they’ll be sent on to us.’ Then he carried on writing, in silence. The cat sat on the kitchen table, staring at them coldly, the end of her tail flicking.
His father finished the letter and folded it; it made a slight ripping sound as he ran his nails along the fold. The he left again, presumably taking it to Barnardo, his handsome great grey owl.
Should he go up to his room? Should he… Do some chores? He stood there helplessly, pressing his lips together, still fiddling with the burnt remains of the firework.
Finally, his dad returned, still silent, still avoiding his gaze, and filled the kettle.
'Can you say something?’ James asked him, and he realised how childish his voice sounded.
'Not much to say,’ said his father, still not looking at him. 'I believe Professor McGonagall said it all.'
James looked down at the firework. It’s burnt edges crumbled charcoal into his fingers. 'I’m really sorry,’ he said again.
There was a clatter; James started in shock and blinked as he realised his father had either dropped, or thrown, a mug onto the floor. He took off his glasses, ran a hand over his eyes, and groaned. 'Oh, James, what do you want me to say?'
He could hear the growl in his father’s voice, and, for the first time ever, it made him fearful. 'I… I don’t know…'
'Do you want me to say something parents are supposed to say, like I’m not angry, just disappointed?’ he asked him, shoving his glasses back on and leaning against the counter. 'Because it’s just not true. I am angry. I’m fucking furious with you.'
He had heard his father swear before, of course - all the adults swore when they thought the kids couldn’t hear, and naturally there had been times - stubbed toes or burns or particularly annoying news articles - where his parents had let “a bad word” slip out in front of them. But this was something different, this was directed at him, and it made his eyes water.
'Uncle George gave me the fireworks…'
'It’s not about the fireworks!’ Dad burst out. 'How can you still think, after everything, that this is about the fireworks?'
James thought about the prank, the loudness of it, the colour, the other laughing students - the fury of the Professors has he had run off.
'This is about Johnny Bellhouse,’ his father said.
Johnny Bellend. Ding Dong Dumbarse. Jerk-off Johnny.
'He’s an idiot, Dad-’
'You humiliated him!’ His father’s shout was so loud that the cat leapt up and ran from the room. 'You stuffed those fireworks in his bag, and you waited - you waited - until he was surrounded by people before setting them off.'
'It was just to-’
'No, don’t talk,’ he said, raising a hand. 'For once, James, don’t try and talk your way out of this. This isn’t the first time that boy’s name has come up, it’s always him, isn’t it? Isn’t it?’ he demanded, when James didn’t answer.
Well of course it was. Him and Johnny couldn’t resist sniping at each other, right from the first day. Everything about him was annoying, every breath he took was offensive, every whiny, smug reminder to the teacher that they hadn’t handed in homework, always with that nasty smirk at James if he knew he hadn’t done it. Every time he bored the dorm room with his condescending lectures on whatever they were doing that was irritating him at that moment in time, acting as mother, his obnoxious, passive-aggressive notes, his tattling to Professor Longbottom about every minor infraction, they way he would always sanctimoniously announce that he didn’t care who James’s father was, even though no one had asked him, no one had brought it up, no one but him seemed to care in the slightest…
James nodded, that twist of anxiety returning. 'Yeah, we… We have a rivalry. Like you and-’ he tried hopefully, but his father cut across him.
'Don’t even bother, James. It’s not the same,’ he said shortly. 'And even if it was, I don’t care, it’s not an excuse. You’re not the first to-’ His father looked for a second like he was going to say something, then thought better of it, and to James’s surprise, he turned away as though to compose himself. 'I don’t care what other people do, or did in the past, or what you think is perfectly normal. It’s not acceptable.'
An anger flared in James, borne of embarrassment and hypocrisy. 'You used to get into actual fist fights with Malfoy! I’ve heard you all laughing about it! Don’t pretend you’re shocked and appalled, it’s no different to the life you had-’
'Why would you want a life like I had?’ he demanded. 'Don’t you realise, don’t you get it - how lucky you are that there’s someone here angry with you for your behaviour?'
'Yeah, all right,’ said James spitefully. 'Play the orphan card-’
His father moved forward and seized him by the arm, his grip painfully tight. He dragged him to the hallway, pulling him round to the base of the stairs. 'Just go up to your room, I don’t want to see you-’
'What happened to that unconditional love you and Mum are always banging on about?'
'Love is unconditional, my pride isn’t. Just go upstairs, your mum can deal with you when she gets back-’
'Right, palm me off to Mum, sure-’
'You have no idea!’ he yelled, and because James was a few steps up, they were face to face. 'You have no idea what it’s like to be humiliated in front of others, to have all your peers laugh at you and ostracise you!'
'It wasn’t like that!’ James shouted back, 'he plays the victim, he always has done! He’s always trying to humiliate me-’
'Then be the bigger man! You already have so much over him - popular, is he?'
'No,’ James admitted reluctantly.
'On the Quidditch team?’
'No.'
'Charismatic?’
'No, everyone hates him.’
'Big family?'
'No, he-’ James hesitated. 'He lives with his grandparents.'
'Jesus Christ,’ said his father, turning away again and raising his hands to his head.
'Not because he’s an orphan or anything!’ said James hurriedly. 'His parents are fine, he’s always bragging about them, they just live in America, and they didn’t want him to go to Ilvermorny, so-’
'James,’ said his dad sharply. 'I don’t care if you fail all your O.W.Ls next year. I don’t care if you’re constantly in detention for setting off fireworks or- or spray-painting walls or sneaking out at night. I don’t want the map back, and you can keep the cloak. But James, if you are so spoilt, if you are so lacking in empathy that you think you are above others - that you try to hurt or embarrass them… That is my failure as a father-’
'No, it’s not,’ said James quickly.
'Yes it is,’ he said firmly. 'It’s not just what I think, it’s what the rest of the world will think too. I would never wish suffering on you, ever, but I never wished this either. I never imagined I would raise a bully.’
James sat on the step with a thunk, stared up at his father’s face, and began to sob. He had never had it spelled out so plainly, and that it was his father who was saying it… 'I want Mum,’ he choked through the tears. He felt embarrassed, as if all his friends at school knew he was crying on the stairs like a six-year-old.
His father sighed huffily. 'Yeah, well, I want her too, but she’s at work.'
And then, as James continued to cry, his dad sat on the stairs with him. James sniffed, and attempted, poorly, to stop crying. 'I’m really, really sorry.’ He felt his father’s arm pull him into a sideways hug, and he leaned his head on his shoulder, taking shuddering breaths,
'The man you were named for did similar things,’ said his father after a few moments.
James looked up, gulping. His dad was staring ahead with a resigned sort of look in his eyes. 'Really?'
'Yeah. It doesn’t mean he was a bad person. And he changed when he was a bit older than you. And obviously I still love him, and I’m still proud of him. But not about that, I’m not proud of what he did then.'
'I’m really sorry,’ James said again, and he realised that he finally, truly, meant it.
Perhaps his father knew too, because he pulled him closer, and said, 'you’re going to have a miserable week here, then you’re going to go back to school and be the bigger man. You’re going to stop antagonising him, and you’re going to shrug off whatever he does to you.'
'Yeah,’ said James, nodding his head against his father’s robes. 'Yeah, I promise.'
'And you will apologise to him, in person and sincerely.'
James looked up, horrified. 'Dad, no, that’ll be so embarrassing, he’ll really rub it in my face-’
'It’s not for you, it’s not to make you feel better,’ he said. He rose, and squeezed his son’s shoulder again - still tightly, but in a more reassuring way. 'If you want to soften the blow before Mum gets home, you could start by scrubbing the bathroom.'
Wiping his face with the back of his hands, James nodded, and watched his father walk away to the kitchen.