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The birds were too loud and too happy.
Sunlight pierced through the gaps in the thick curtains, scattering freckles across the old wood floor like constellations of laughter. The fire crackled away peacefully, and happiness floated up from the Gryffindor common room.
And James was supposed to be at quidditch practice.
Sirius’ bed was empty, Remus’ too. Peter was sitting up on his, hurriedly scrawling out an essay for divination, his hair curling over his eyes in that god-awful bowl cut he’d insisted on. The essay had been assigned over a week ago, on the same day as the assignment for defence against the dark arts.
James hadn’t started either of them.
He pulled the covers up over his head, squeezing his eyes shut and wrapping his arms around himself. Trying to feel something, anything.
But everything was numb.
The sunlight swam past him, the clock ticking an irregular rhythm that he couldn’t zone in on. The covers around him were warm, but only vaguely. He wasn’t quite sure where the blankets stopped and the air of the dorm began.
He was breathing. His heart was beating. But he couldn’t move, he couldn’t focus on anything, he couldn’t remember yesterday or even how to speak. Everything was wrong, somehow.
Burrowing further into his pillow, he let his brain shut the world out completely.
He’d be late to class. Or maybe he wouldn’t show up at all, just spend the entire day tucked away in the dorm.
He didn’t care anymore.
Maybe he’d say that he’d been out smoking by the lake, or he’d met a pretty girl at Hogsmeade, or that he’d been exploring the forbidden forest. Anything to keep his reputation up.
After all, Snape and his cronies would have a field day if they knew James Potter hadn’t come to class because he was feeling a bit sad.
“James?” Peter squeaked, cutting a small slither of the real world back into James’ senses.
James hummed back, not bothering to move.
“I’m gonna go to breakfast now,” Peter continued with a rustle of robes and something clattering on the floor. “Do you want me to bring anything back?”
“Nah, not hungry. But can you tell old Minnie not to miss me too much today?”
“You got it Jamesy Boy.”
“Please never call me that again.”
“Alright Pothead.”
It took a few seconds and the door creaking open before Peter gasped. “I didn’t mean it like that! But, like, I hear Marceline’s selling if you’re interested…”
“Just go to breakfast,” James groaned.
He should be laughing, he’d normally be laughing. But he couldn’t even force a smile.
The door slammed shut and James was left with no one but the emptiness for company.
Time disappeared completely. It became an odd, floaty thing that sped up and slowed down at the hands of some unknown being. Every time James thought he had a handle on it, it danced just out of grasp.
The world was so dark, so unreachable. He’d spent his entire life hoping and wishing and dreaming. His childhood had been built on laughter and magic but it was all shattering around him now. Everything was dark and lost and gone. He’d strayed too far now and he didn’t know how to turn back to happiness.
The knock on the door came as a sharp surprise.
“Hello?” James answered cautiously.
The door creaked open and he knew he should sit up. He should put on a smile, or at least scan the room so he wasn’t so vulnerable.
But he couldn’t.
“What’s going on, Mr Potter?” McGonagall asked, voice hushed. “Mr Pettigrew said you wouldn’t be attending classes today, but there’s been no visits to the infirmary. You didn’t even come down for lunch.”
“Teenage rebellion,” he mumbled.
“Oh, I’ve seen teenage rebellion. Mostly at the hands of you and Sirius, mind, but I’d recognise teenage rebellion anywhere. And this isn’t it, Mr Potter.”
James pulled the pillow down on his head. His arms didn’t really feel connected to his body, and the movement just didn’t feel real. But it meant there’d be no chance at seeing McGonagall’s disappointed face.
“You can talk to me,” she said softer. “Believe it or not, I really do have your best interests at heart.”