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James Potter was nine years old when he told his parents he was a boy.
He was practically glowing, shaking with the excitement of what was to come. James had yet to face a problem without his parents by his side, and as far as he was concerned, there was nothing they couldn’t do. It had never even occurred to James to be ashamed of who he was or what he wanted because no matter how much mischief he caused or how many rules he broke, his parents would always be there to tuck him into bed at night. They’d fill his belly, brush his hair, and assure him that he was loved and deserved it too.
Being a girl had never felt quite right. The words and expectations of womanhood knawed at James like a hungry animal. A monster, eager to break free. Who better to help than his parents, who promised to protect him from the creatures that lurked in the night?
Dad could make books float across the living room, and Mum could patch up his knees with the flick of her wand. Surely they could understand how desperately James wanted to be their little boy? He couldn’t imagine them caring for a son any less than the daughter they believed him to be.
And of course, James had been right.
Euphemia and Fleamont Potter loved him with their whole hearts. He could ask for each and every star in the sky, and his parents would let their hands burn if it meant giving him a piece of sunshine.
Of course, Effie and Monty had been surprised, but looking back, it did make quite a bit of sense. James had always been a bit rougher around the edges than the other girls, much preferring to spend his time with Peter, the boy from down the road.
Perhaps they should have known after that hot day in August when Mrs. Pettigrew had shown up on their doorstep, red in the face with two boys hanging their heads behind her. James was trying desperately to look embarrassed, and failing miserably. A small smile perpetually stuck to the corner of his mouth. Peter, on the other hand, was beat red, staring at the floor and playing with his hands. The boys were covered in mud, missing their shoes, and slightly sunburnt.
James was shirtless.
“I don’t know what kind of lazy parenting goes on in this house,” Mrs. Pettigrew had snapped, “but I want to make it abundantly clear that if your daughter doesn’t learn to cover herself up, I'll be forced to stop letting her around my son!” Something had shifted on James’s face, though Effie couldn’t quite place it. He looked upset, which was reasonable given the circumstances, but there was something else.
“Honey,” she turned to her son, who had lost his usual air of confidence in lew of Mrs. Pettigrew's rant, “Why’d you take your shirt off?”
“It was hot,” he shrugged.
“Did anyone ever tell you you aren’t allowed to?”
Mrs. Pettigrew scoffed, “How could she possibly not know-”
“They’re kids," Effie sighed, "We all make mistakes. It’s hard to remember how much we see as a given that they still need to be taught." James was staring at her, eyes wide. The lenses on his glasses were cracked again. “You didn’t mean anything by it, did you, sweetie?”
“But…” James twisted his hands together, rocking back and forth on his heels, “Petey doesn’t have to wear a shirt.”
“Yeah well, that’s… different.”
“Why?”
“Well Peters is a boy, and you’re a girl. Girls have to cover up a little more than boys do.”
Something in James shifted, and Effie noticed it instantly. It was like a piece of him was cracking open, leaving her little boy vulnerable and frightened. “I didn’t know I was different,” he had whispered. James seemed to cave in on himself, and Effie had wondered how words so gentle, words that hardly seemed to matter, had managed to break away part of the small child in front of her.
“It’s okay, honey,” she’d said, kneeling down and letting him run into her arms. James had never been the type to turn down physical reassurance. He was a mama's boy in every sense of the word, though of course, Effie didn’t know it at the time. “You’re not in trouble. You didn’t know.”
James squashed his face into her chest and let his mother rub circles into his back. It was so unlike him to react so poorly to getting told off. He’d gotten much lengthier lectures for much worse mischief, but that was usually met with a frown and a promise to do better. This was different, and the fact that Effie couldn’t figure out why that was made her stomach swoop.
“See, it was a simple misunderstanding,” Effie turned to Mrs. Pettigrew, “She’ll keep her shirt on from now on.”
That night, as the Potters sat around the dinner table, it occurred to Monty that at some point, James would start having crushes. Not that his son running around shirtless meant anything, of course. James said that it didn’t, and he believed him. But it had got Monty thinking. His little boy was growing up, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to navigate that.
“You seem close with that boy,” he had said, “Peter?” James nodded. Monty didn’t know when children started developing crushes, though he supposed it could be any day now. Not that he expected anything serious, but he felt like it was his responsibility to make sure his son knew it was safe to talk to him about these sorts of things. It would only make things easier down the road.
“You know,” Monty said, “If you ever fancy someone, you can always talk to us.”
James gave him a strange look, “Like who?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Monty sighed, “What about that Peter boy?”
James made a wrenching noise, and Monty burst out laughing. Effie sighed, though there was still the ghost of a smile on her lips.
“I could never like Petey,” James shoveled another forkful of food into his mouth, “We’re like brothers.”
“Like bother and sister, dear,” Effie had corrected him, “Like brothers are what you would say if you were both boys.”
James chewed his food thoughtfully, “I like being a brother better.”
That summer hadn’t been the first time James had said something like that, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Now, two years later, their son had strutted into the kitchen with far more confidence than the typical nine-year-old. James was wearing plaid pajama bottoms and an oversized Chudley Cannons t-shirt. His hair was a mess and his glasses were who knows where, but for the first time in his nine years of life, James Potter had shown like the sun. He finally knew who he was, and the revelation poured out of him like a blazing ball of fire.
“I’m a boy,” he had said, and suddenly, all the scattered pieces of James’s childhood seemed to click into place. There was the time he’d run up to Monty, clutching a baby doll and asking how to be a better father. There was the Christmas he'd asked for a “boys sweater,” and the Gryffindor hat he’d tucked his hair into for months at a time. The clues had always been there. All Monty and Effie needed was a string to help tie them together.
I didn’t know I was different.
James wasn’t different. Not really. He was just as much of a little boy as Peter had been. They just hadn’t known it yet. He stared up at them with wide eyes, missing teeth, and a look full of so much hope that it was practically tangible.
I’m a boy.
And so he was. That was that.