Chapter Text
It didn’t start at once, it went in steps. That’s how one falls away from the shape of their soul — not like a house caving in, but like frost inching across glass. Quiet. Inevitable. There's always a catalyst. A word. A look. A silence held a second too long. And suddenly something shifts. It might be slow or instant, gentle or violent, but from that moment, the world is no longer the same. The air tastes different. The sky isn’t quite as blue. One begins to move differently — not because they want to, but because they must, because the new lens through which they see demands it. And by the time one stops to look back, the person they were has already vanished into memory. They don’t remember the feel of their old skin, or the weight of their former thoughts. They are changed. For better, or in this case, much, much worse.
Each step after the catalyst brought him closer to his dimmest self. Like a dying star that has burned too hot for too long. A smaller star dies gently, folding inward, becoming a hushed, glowing core — a white dwarf, a faint echo. But he wasn’t small. He was born with gravity. Born to burn. So when he began to collapse, it was not quiet. It was apocalyptic. First, the expansion — trying to be more, to shine harder, to hold together everything falling apart. Then the rupture. And then came the final stage: not death, exactly, but a transformation into something else. Something dense. Consuming. A black hole where once there was light. And by then it was too late to reverse. Too late to save what had been lost.
Step one: the catalyst. It doesn’t have to be loud, just a sentence sharp enough to slip beneath the ribs, spoken by someone who once held your heart like it was sacred.
That’s all it takes: one careless cut to crack you open wide enough for the dark to climb in and make itself at home.
The stairs creaked under James’s socks as he bounced down them, humming something off-key, fingers tapping along the bannister. His curls were still damp from a quick shower, and he smelled vaguely of cinnamon toothpaste and fireplace smoke. His jumper was too big — probably stolen from Pete — and the sleeves flopped over his hands.
But his grin? That was all his.
“Oi, is that coffee?” he called as he turned into the sitting room, eyes lit. “You two are absolute angels, love you to bits. I had the weirdest dream about Professor McGonagall last night, I swear she was wearing—”
“James,” his father said, not looking up from the Daily Prophet. The paper rustled. The air shifted.
James blinked, mid-step. “Er. Yeah?”
“Sit down,” his mother said, patting the couch with a little too much intent. Her voice was gentle, but there was a tightness to it — like she’d rehearsed this.
His smile faltered, just a touch. “Alright…” He dropped into the armchair instead, one leg swinging over the side. “You look serious. No one’s died, right?”
Fleamont set the paper aside. “We’re worried about you.”
James laughed, a quick startled burst. “Me? Why?”
Euphemia folded her hands over her navy blue dress. “You’ve spent the entire break sleeping in, doing Merlin-knows-what with your friends, and barely touched your schoolwork.”
James frowned. “That’s not true…”
“You came down at noon yesterday, James. And the day before that you were gone from morning until dark.”
“I was with Remus. Studying.” His voice wavered, more hurt than defensive. Sirius and Remus had spent their winter break at Remus' new apartment he got from a support trust of the ministry (or see the Potter’s charity).
“You were laughing when you came back,” his father said. “You don’t laugh when you’ve been studying.”
That stung more than it should have.
James sat up straighter. “I do, actually. We were going over theory, and it just, clicked. We made a joke about binding charms—” (okay a sex joke, so it was good that his mother the next second interrupted him)
“James,” his mother interrupted, her tone carefully neutral. “You’re not taking your future seriously.”
He blinked.
“You’re coasting. On charm, on Quidditch, on being a Potter. You act like everything will fall into place for you and maybe it will, for a while. But that won’t last forever.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it. His cheek twitched, and he bit the inside hard.
His father sighed. “You’re good at flying. And being liked. That’s not the same thing as being prepared.”
“I’m Head Boy,” James said softly. “I’ve been keeping up—”
“Head Boy,” his mother repeated, almost sadly. “Because you’re popular, not because you’re focused. Your popularity is worthless in the end.” -you are worthless.
That one cut so cleanly he didn’t feel it right away.
They didn’t see the late nights at his desk. The emotional support he always gets to give to his friends. The way he’d stay up late all first month if one of the first years got homesick or even some of the older kiddos got a bout of homesickness. The weight in his chest when he looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize himself under all the smiles.
He felt like a balloon — all brightness and bounce on the outside, one sharp word away from bursting.
“I just wanted to talk,” he muttered, “about nothing important. Just… talk. Before I go.” They hadn't talked or even been with each other a lot this summer, James had been busy with his friends and boyfriend, and his dear dear parents had been busy going to meetings and planning for the after war time.
“You can’t keep avoiding real things,” his father said. “We’re trying to help you grow up. To make you something other than an overgrown spoiled brat. You are our only heir.”
James looked down at his hands. They were shaking, just barely.
He smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Got it.”
He stood, too fast, knocking his knee on the table.
“James—”
“I’m going for a walk,” he said, voice thin. “Don’t worry. I’ll think about my future or whatever.”
He grabbed his coat from the hook, barely getting the sleeve on right, and slammed the front door behind him.
The cold bit into his skin. He barely noticed.
What he did notice — what burned under his ribs — was the need to see Regulus. Now.
Regulus, who looked at him and saw. Who didn’t think he was a joke wrapped in broomsticks and jokes and sunshine. Who knew the way James’s hands went still when he was trying not to cry, how his knee bounced when he was anxious, how he always said “it’s fine” when it wasn’t. When he felt too much.
I want you, James thought, hurrying down the road with his breath clouding the air. I just want to be in your arms and not feel like I’m failing at being myself.
The kettle whistled over the silence. James stood in the kitchen, still in his pyjamas, staring out at the frosted grass while his mother poured tea and his father folded the Prophet with deliberate care.
No one said anything for a while. Then Euphemia cleared her throat.
“Your trunk’s packed,” she said softly, like it was the most dangerous thing to announce. She usually packed it, or at least laid the groundwork before James came in and added his personal touch. But not this time, this time had James decided to be a big boy and do it himself. She understood why he did it, and it was good that he did it. But it still had its growing pains.
“I packed it last night,” James replied. It came out too sharp. He swallowed. “Thanks.”
Silence again. Fleamont finally looked up from the paper, but James avoided his gaze. He could still feel the weight of last night’s conversation—how he needed to focus more on his future, how there were responsibilities that came with being a Potter.
His parents hadn’t said don’t be himself. But they’d made it clear: Be careful. Be smart. Don’t forget who you represent.
James had nodded like a good son. He always would. But it didn’t mean he agreed.
When it was time to go, Euphemia kissed his cheek too fast, like she was afraid of holding on too long. Fleamont offered a pat on the shoulder.
James hugged them both, stiff-armed and tight-jawed. Respect. Always. But the warmth wasn’t there, not this morning. It wasn’t that rumbling and earth warming loving hug that the family was used to.
“I’ll write,” he promised, stepping back.
“Do,” said Fleamont. James knew it didn’t mean that he should write poetry about his boyfriends birthmarks or anything, more akin to a report of his progress.
“Stay out of trouble,” Euphemia added, too quickly.
He gave a half-smile. “No promises.”
The Hogwarts Express hissed and chugged to life. James sank into the corner of their compartment, head tilted against the window, pretending to be absorbed in the scenery. All he could think about was when. When he could see Regulus again. When Regulus would slip his cold, perfect hands into his and say something cutting and beautiful (maybe even a poem). When he’d kiss him again.
Sirius and Remus were tangled up on the seat opposite, whispering and giving each other heart-eyes like they hadn’t spent every second of the holiday together. At one point Sirius giggled—actually giggled—and James groaned without opening his eyes.
Peter kept talking about how Barty had sent him a “late Christmas owl” and how mysterious and charming and brooding he was, and James resisted the urge to say something mean just to shut him up.
Lily was in the next compartment over, laughing with Marlene and Dorcas and Mary. James could hear them through the wall. Something about red lipstick charms and demonstrations.
But all James wanted was Regulus. His dear, dear, adorable boyfriend. Who didn’t giggle or natter or flirt in public. Who had probably already thought about claiming a shadowed nook in the library or was sitting cross-legged in some dark corner of the Slytherin compartment reading a book on magical poisons, looking immaculate and untouchable.
He’d see him at the castle. Maybe even sooner if they timed it right at the station.
James sighed dramatically. No one noticed.
He traced a foggy heart on the window with his finger. Then, carefully, drew a tiny ‘R’ inside it.
Only the passing trees saw it fade.
The dungeon corridors were moody and always somewhat cold, but James had snuck through them a hundred times. He slipped past the tapestry entrance with a grin already half-formed, hair a mess, jumper thrown on inside-out. His heart beat faster — not with nerves, but with relief.
Regulus. Finally.
He hadn't seen him since before break — not really. Not properly. They’d exchanged three letters: short, stilted. James had filled the space with hope anyway. He always did.
The common room was near-empty, fire flickering low. Regulus stood near the hearth, arms folded tightly across his chest, jaw clenched. His silhouette looked wrong. Brittle. Worn.
“Hey,” James said, quietly. He smiled. “Hi.”
Regulus turned sharply, he looked like a truly adorable little angry kitten.
“James,” he snapped. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
James blinked, thrown. “I— I missed you?”
Regulus stepped forward, voice low and sharp. “You think this is smart? Sneaking into the Slytherin common room? In your bloody Gryffindor pyjamas?”
James laughed awkwardly, scratching his neck. “They’re not that obvious—”
“You’re so loud, James!” Regulus hissed, eyes dark and wild. “You’re always loud. You don’t think. You just, burst in like everything revolves around you!”
James flinched.
“I just wanted to see you.”
“You don’t get it,” Regulus said, voice rising. “You never get it. You breeze through everything. You laugh and joke and talk like the world will rearrange itself to suit you. But it won’t. Not here. Not for me.”
James’s mouth opened, then closed. He took a step back.
“I thought you might… want me around. After break. I figured it was rough and-”
Regulus scoffed, bitter. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not!”
“You are! You show up thinking your smile and stupid stories will fix everything, like you’re a bloody sunrise walking on two legs and the rest of us just have to bask in you!”
James’s voice cracked. “That’s not fair-”
“You’re not fair,” Regulus bit. “You’re exhausting. You’re stupid and obvious and too much.”
The words landed with more force than even Regulus intended. James’s face crumpled just slightly, like something inside him folded.
There was a long pause.
James’s voice was small. “Do you… want a break from me. A pause?” When James said that, he meant something like seeing each other in the morning or over the weekend.
Regulus’s jaw was set like stone. “I think we should make it permanent.”
Silence.
It rang louder than the shouting.
James nodded, slowly, like he was watching his own limbs move from somewhere far away.
“Okay,” he said, too softly. “Okay.”
He didn’t wait for Regulus to take it back.
Didn’t push.
Didn’t even cry.
He turned.
And walked.
Out of the common room, out through the dungeons. Past startled paintings and torch-lit hallways, feet carrying him somewhere he didn’t decide on. He barely noticed the cold until it bit into his fingers.
The lake shimmered in the distance, dark and quiet and so still.
James sat on the frozen slope and stared out at nothing.
His breath fogged in front of him.
He didn’t wipe his eyes when the tears came.
Just let them fall. One by one. Quiet as snow.
The cold had started to seep into his jumper, but James didn't move. He just sat there, staring at the way the moon turned the surface of the Black Lake to silver, blinking hard, jaw tight. The space Regulus had left in his chest was gaping.
Then suddenly, as if struck by lightning, he stood.
“No,” he muttered. “No, right. Okay.”
He started pacing in tight circles, arms crossed over his chest, then hands running through his hair. His brain had kicked into overdrive, and it was awful.
He was right. Regulus was right.
Too loud. Too obvious. Too much.
Lazy, arrogant, spoiled. Just a bloody jock who coasted on charm and luck and a wand his parents paid too much for.
He kicked at the snow. “Bloody hell, James.”
He needed to change everything. Everything. He would fix it. He could. He had to.
First thing tomorrow — schedule a meeting with McGonagall.
He’d tell her he was underperforming. He’d admit it. He’d take responsibility. “I know I’ve been wasting potential, Professor, but I want to pick up Ancient Runes and Magical Law. I’ll study on my own time if you can’t work it into my timetable—”
He nodded to himself, now pacing faster, arms flailing slightly as if his thoughts were physical things he needed to swat into order. Magical law sounded serious, and he would need it to be the head of the Potter house later on. His dad was right, he had slaked off. Runes to find stable protection for his family.
He’d train every morning before classes — 5 a.m., no later. Flying drills. Strength work. Reflex training. He’d get the team in shape, every single bloody one of them. They’d win the Quidditch Cup this year, even if he had to fly the whole pitch with a broken broom.
He’d study every night. He’d rewrite all his notes. Stop being the loud one in class. He’d stop cracking jokes just to fill the silence.
He’d act like a real Head Boy. Not just the charming idiot they gave the badge to so he’d finally shut up.
He didn’t notice how fast his breath was coming now, how cold his hands were, how red-rimmed his eyes still were from crying.
He’d apologise to his parents. Properly. Not just “I’ll try harder.” He’d show them. He’d bring home top marks and an award for leadership and a Quidditch Cup and a whole new James.
Maybe then—maybe then they’d stop looking at him like they were waiting for him to grow up.
Maybe Regulus would—
He swallowed hard. No. Don’t think about him now.
This wasn’t about that. This was about being better. Fixable. Not being some walking mess everyone had to put up with.
“Right,” he said aloud, wiping his nose with his sleeve, ignoring how cold he was. “Timetable.”
He counted off on his fingers.
Monday:
5 a.m. – Training
7 a.m. – Study Magical Law
8 a.m. – Breakfast
9 a.m. – Charms
...and so on.
He muttered through the whole week like that, half aloud, pacing faster. No free slots. Not one. Even meals were strategic: “Eat fast, revise notes during lunch.” Bed by midnight. Wake at five.
Four hours of sleep? Fine. He didn’t need to be well-rested. He needed to be worth something.
He was halfway through planning his Sunday revision block when he stopped, suddenly, chest rising and falling.
The wind off the lake whispered cold against his neck.
He sat down again, roughly.
Put his head in his hands.
Whispered, voice hoarse and cracked:
“I’ll fix it. I promise. I’ll fix all of it.”