Chapter Text
I try to speak but I can't find the words
Knees getting weak and my speech getting slurred
Hands feeling heavy and vision is blurred
I don't even know what I wanted to say
Didn't expect to be feeling this way
You turn your head and then you walk away
You're a different kind of beautiful
The kind that makes me scared
The kind that makes me turn around and act like I'm not there
The kind that takes my breath away and leaves me without air
Maybe I'm delusional
You're just that kind of beautiful
[Alec Benjamin]
Fourth year ended the way it always did. In noise and relief. The corridors swelled with laughter, rules bending just enough to feel irrelevant, teachers already half-absent in mind if not in body.
Behind the castle, the Marauders had claimed their usual stretch of grass, far enough from the stone walls that nothing felt imposing. The lake lay wide and harmless in the afternoon sun as June had baked the ground dry. Some blades of grass cracked beneath shifting weight.
James laid flat on his back, arms folded behind his head, robes discarded, tie loosely hanging on, with his face tipped toward the sky. He watched the clouds with the easy certainty of someone who had never learned to anticipate disappointment. As though the world, like a good broom, would always rise to meet him.
Beside him, boots kicked off and abandoned a few feet away, Sirius balanced half-upright on one elbow, one knee drawn up, boots kicked off and abandoned a few feet away. He flicked pebbles toward the lake with lazy precision, each stone skipping farther than the last. His grey eyes tracked their path, restless, as though disappointed when the water settled too quickly.
A short distance away, cross-legged and composed, Remus sat with a book balanced on his knees. He had chosen the edge of the group, close enough to belong, far enough to retreat. His fingers marked his place even when his gaze drifted, unfocused, as if the words on the page were only there to anchor him to something steadier than his own thoughts.
Closer to him than to the others, Peter hovered, with hunched shoulders and his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He shifted every so often, as though unsure whether he was allowed to take up as much space as he currently occupied.
“So,” Sirius announced, flicking another stone, “we’ve survived fourth year.” He sounded faintly offended by the fact. “Now we pivot toward the last free year before everything gets tedious and exam-ridden.”
“It already is exam-ridden,” Remus said, not looking up, “and will continue to be so even in the upcoming fifth year.”
Sirius scoffed. “You don’t count. You like suffering.”
“I don’t like it,” Remus replied, calmly re-reading the same sentence. “I just hate failing more.”
“I just… I hope it’ll be a good year,” Peter said quietly.
The lake swallowed another stone without ceremony.
“Nothing happened this term. Absolute drought,” Sirius said, faintly offended. “If next year’s dull too, I might actually die.”
Across from him, James rolled onto his side, bracing his head on one hand. The grin came easily.
“Well,” he said lightly, “that might change.”
Three heads turned.
“What did you do?” Sirius demanded, delighted already.
“Didn’t do anything,” James said, grin intensifying. “Just— my brother’s coming with me this time. Finally.”
A breeze shifted the brittle grass. Somewhere near the lake, something splashed.
Remus looked up first, green eyes sharpening slightly in focus, while Peter’s frowned, like he was trying to rearrange something in his memory but came up short. The last of them to show any reaction was Sirius. He didn't even seem to register his surroundings anymore. He just stared at James for solid five seconds straight, then he leaned forward in one fluid movement, puffing his cheeks in indignation:
“You have a WHAT?”
He was already halfway upright, hair falling into his eyes, expression outraged and delighted all at once.
James chuckled, then sat up too quickly. “Yeah, yeah. Twin. Been home-schooled. Parents finally agreed he could try Hogwarts.”
The outrage sharpened.
“You've never mentioned this!”
He shrugged. “Didn’t come up.”
The pebble slipped from Sirius’ fingers as the full gravity of it all hit him now.
“Merlin, you have a fucking TWIN!” He huffed, then pointed at James accusingly. “And you thought that wasn’t relevant information?”
“...I forgot?”
The second the words left his mouth he winced, as if they might rearrange themselves into something more convincing. They didn’t. Sirius' hands flung wide, nearly knocking into Peter in the process.
“You share a womb with another human being and that just… slips your mind?”
“Didn’t come up.”
Peter snorted, while Remus hid a smile behind his hand. Sirius jabbed a finger at his friend again. “Didn't come up for four years. Four! And you never once thought, ‘Oh by the way lads, there’s another me at home.’??”
James sighed. “Alright, fine: I wasn’t supposed to talk about him.”
“You?” Sirius immediately snapped, incredulous. “Following a rule?”
“Shut up,” James muttered, picking at the dry edge of a blade of grass. It snapped clean between his fingers. “We didn’t want people talking. Last time that happened, it didn’t end well. Kinda messy ordeal all in all, really.”
A breeze came off the lake, warm and slow. The book Remus had in his lap was closed, he was setting it aside carefully now.
“Messy how?” he asked.
James didn’t answer immediately. He stared out toward the water instead, jaw working once.
“People start asking awful questions,” he said at last. “Then they decide they know better. Offering...solutions.”
The grass crackled faintly as Sirius shifted his weight, a thin veil of dust rising where his feet had scuffed the ground. “Solutions to what?”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “He’s autistic, alright? That’s it. People just...get weird about it.” He tore another blade of grass in half without looking at it. “So we kept it quiet.”
Brows pulled together in confusion. “Autistic as in…?” A vague circling motion of Sirius' hand followed, searching for a word he didn't quite have. “Slow?”
Peter’s shoulders tightened instantly. He pushed his sleeves up his forearms, then down again.
“Yeah, like—can he even keep up with lessons?”
The reaction was immediate.
“He’s not stupid!”
Sirius lifted both hands, palms out. “We didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to, Padfoot” James muttered, jaw tight.
Peter’s gaze flicked between them, uncertain, as if trying to calculate which stance he was meant to adopt. Sirius brstled finally —chin lifting, pride pricked— then forced himself to roll his shoulders loose. “...I was just asking, we both were...”
Remus leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees. Sighing.
“What does it mean for him, James? Being autistic, I mean.” he asked, steady. "As it's evident we don't have much insight regarding that."
James exhaled through his nose.
“It means he thinks...differently,” he answered. “And that people constantly assume stuff about him.”
Peter tilted his head, frown returning. “So… he can handle Hogwarts?”
James’ jaw tightened again, but he didn’t snap this time.
“He’s more capable than half the idiots in our year, for sure.”
A corner of Sirius’ mouth twitched. “That’s a low bar.”
The tension thinned just enough. Peter let out a laugh a beat too late, which earned him a light nudge from Sirius’ shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Wormtail. You’re still in the top half. If barely.”
The smaller boy flushed, uncertain whether he’d just been insulted or reassured. It was a close call.
“But alright,” Sirius added, glancing back at James, tone less sharp now. “We’ll manage.”
He leaned forward again, eager. “So what’s he like?”
James hesitated.
“Quiet,” he said.
Peter rushed in, words tangling over each other. “Like shy quiet or weird quiet or—”
Sirius silenced him with a quick sideways glance before the sentence could land. “Quiet? That’s it?” He leaned back on his palms again, squinting at James. “What’s the catch?”
“There isn’t one.”
“Everyone has a catch,” he said cheerfully, kicking at a brittle clump of grass. “Moony broods. Wormtail—” Peter stiffened. “—has anxiety,” Sirius finished without missing a beat. “I’m devastatingly handsome. You’re too charming for your own good.” He grinned lazily at James. “So what’s your brother got going on?”
James snorted. “Eddy’s just… quiet.”
“Truly?” Sirius tipped his head back toward the sky as if searching for something more interesting written in the clouds. “That’s. Uh. Something, I suppose.”
“Hey, don’t be mean, Padfoot.” James leaned back slightly, fingers digging absently into the dry earth. “Eddy just… doesn’t talk much. Gets stuck in his own head. Forgets things.”
Remus tilted his head slightly. “Forgets what?”
“Eating. Drinking. Sleeping, sometimes, too.” James shrugged, but his fingers had begun shredding another blade of grass. “He just… forgets.”
Peter frowned, genuinely perplexed. “How do you forget to eat?”
James laughed, quick and unbothered. “Dunno. He just does. Especially when he’s buried in his books. Loves runes. Completely obsessed.”
Peter’s uncertainty shifted into something closer to horror. “Runes? As in those dreadful things Professor Babbling insists are ‘foundational’?” He grimaced. “Merlin…”
A puff of air from the side— Remus shook his head softly. “It’s not that horrible, Peter.”
James grinned. “You’re allowed to say it’s dull, Moony. It really is. He loves it, though. Absolute prodigy. It’s frightening what he can do with them, really.” He paused, then added fondly, “Utterly hopeless at most other things, though.”
“So no second Potter tearing up the Quidditch pitch? Shame. Was already picturing the havoc.” Sirius picked another pebble up, watching it in thought.
For a brief second, the image flashed unbidden within James' mind — his brother gripping a broom like a lifeline, hovering inches above the ground, frozen with panic so complete it bordered on paralysis. He wouldn't even need to be hit by a bludger to fall off that thing...
Laughter burst out of him sharp and bright, folding him forward at the waist. It startled a flock of birds near the water. He pressed a fist to his mouth and failed spectacularly at containing it, shoulders shaking, breath hitching as it kept spilling out of him in helpless waves.
“Merlin, no,” he wheezed. “That would be a total disaster! He’s positively terrified of heights.” He grinned wider, warming to it. “One time he got stuck in a tree, he just… malfunctioned. Grabbed a branch and wouldn’t let go. Mum tried reasoning with him, Dad tried bribing him, nothing. I had to fly up there and peel him off like some terrified cat. He left little scratch marks, for real.”
He laughed again, easier this time, shaking his head.
“Blimey. Sounds like he’d be lost without you.”
His answering smile came easily. It always did when his brother was involved.
“Yeah,” he said. “He kind of would be.”
The final day of their term a few dys later ended faster than anticipated.
By the time the train pulled into the station, summer had reached it's peak. The chatter of students spilled onto the platform in waves—trunks thudding, owls protesting, parents calling names. James watched his surroundings for a moment before he jumped down before the train had fully settled.
Euphemia and Fleamont eagerly went over the moment they saw their boy. He barely had time to register the platform before his mother’s arms were around him.
“I missed you so much, my darling boy,” she said, holding on as though she feared he might vanish again.
James laughed, breathless, trying half-heartedly to protest. When she finally loosened her grip, he pulled her back in at once, returning the embrace with equal force, all warmth and momentum. Fleamont watched with a fond smile, already having taken hold of James’ trunk. He set it aside before clapping a firm hand on his son’s shoulder.
“It’s good to have you back, son.”
James barely paused for breath.
“Dad, you won't believe how Sirius and I managed to turn our last match into a clear win for Gryffindor! Qur new Beater Kylie nearly knocked me clean off my broom the first few minutes by accidently diving too fast and bumping into me, but I—”
His hands moved as he spoke, expression shifting rapidly, excitement spilling out in every direction. Euphemia and Fleamont exchanged a glance, momentarily taken aback by the sheer volume of him — the noise, the movement, the way James filled the space around him with ease. It had been months since they’d had this kind of lively energy around. It was almost jarring in comparison to their other child.
James faltered mid-sentence, as if a thought had finally caught up to him.
“Let’s get home first,” he said suddenly, brightening all over again. “I can’t wait to talk to Edmund properly! Gosh, I still can’t believe he’s actually coming with me after the holiday! DId you already buy all his stuff? Does he have his uniforms?" he halted and his face brightened impossibly more, "Oh, did he make another tutor quit or did the last one stay? — What was her name again, Mrs. Hamilton, no?”
Both parents exchanged a glance.
"Yes, we bought the necessities already." Euphemia said. They went down the stairs by now, toward an open space where there was enough room so no one accidently got affected by them using their portkey. While rummaging through his mantle pocket Fleamont sighed. "And Mrs. Hamilton quit, James —no smart comments."
James snorted. “How long did she last? Longer than the one with the nose ring?”
His parents’ expressions answered him.
“Oh Merlin,” he laughed immediately. “Not even? What about the one who bit her nails so badly that Edmund wanted to offer her a tincture out of pity? I guess she managed two weeks at least. Or— oh! Tell me you asked the one with the stutter again. Please! She was absolutely brilliant. Drew him up the wall for a change. Took her three attempts to finish a sentence and he kept asking her questions in rapid speed, poor thing was so lost.”
“James,” Euphemia said, firmly this time. “That’s enough.” But there was no real bite in it.
The teen chuckled. “What? I’m just saying — you can’t really blame him. He only ever asked questions. Very polite ones. Very accurate. ‘Why does this work?’ ‘Why is that rule necessary?’ ‘Why can’t it be done another way?’” He mimicked the calm cadence of his brother perfectly, blinking slowly, keeping his face unmoving yet inquisitive. For a moment he resembled his twin quite well. Then the impression broke as his mischievous grin spread again over his sun-kissed cheeks. “He's driving people mad.”
James huffed in amusement about his own comment, hands shoved into his pockets. "Seriously though, who did you manage to get to tutor him these past few months then?"
Fleamont pinched the bridge of his nose. “…I have been tutoring Edmund myself.”
James made a high, startled noise. “Dad— no. You’re kidding.”
“Compose yourself,” Euphemia sighed, though her mouth was already betraying her.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” James wheezed, trying hard (and failing) to hide his laugh. “I just— that’s incredible. Absolutely incredible. How long did you last before wanting to hex him?”
“James.” both said.
“Right. Sorry.” he straightened, still grinning, entirely unrepentant. The image of his father — jaw tight, patience fraying as Edmund calmly dismantled every word he said— threatened to send him laughing again. Fleamont Potter was a kind man. Yet he was also a man who hated being questioned. James swallowed it down, forcing a few steady breaths as his father drew out the portkey: a cracked little teacup, chipped at the rim, decorated with ugly painted horses and far too many flourishes.
“Okay,” James said lightly. “I can breathe again. Let's get it over with.”
Fleamont lifted a brow, attempting a stern look that didn’t quite take. His eyes betrayed him, glinting with reluctant amusement. Even Euphemia — who had tried hardest to impress upon James that this predicament wasn’t funny— had already softened, her disapproval worn thin by habit.
James clocked it. All of it. And with sudden clarity, he remembered Sirius’ words after they had managed to get Kylie back cleanly for her stunt on him at Quidditch. 'Seriously, Prongs, you would get away with murder on charm alone.' His mouth tilted into a small, knowing smirk.
Yeah. Sirius was probably right. He damn well could.
Fleamont held out the portkey —the faded horses on the teacup prancing along its rim. James blinked shortly, a bit startled for a moment.
“On three.” his father said and James hurriedly held on.
The familiar tug behind the navel came sharp and sudden, the world folding in on itself—
—and then the quiet of home hit.
“I’m back!” James called the moment his feet hit the hallway carpet, already shrugging out of his jacket.
Fleamont moved past him without comment, trunk hovering obediently at his side as he guided it toward the staircase. Euphemia lingered just long enough to smooth a hand down James’ shoulder lovingly before following after her husband.
“No roughhousing,” she reminded absently, already halfway up the stairs.
James didn’t answer. No answer to his call came from deeper in the house either. He sighed, then headed down the hall. Edmund was in the sitting room, exactly where James had thought he'd be—curled into his typical corner of the sofa, legs tucked beneath him and a book braced against his knees. Typical. He didn’t look up. Didn't seem to have registered them returining at all.
Behind James, he could hear the muted thud of his trunk being set down upstairs. A drawer opening. The quiet domestic rhythm of things being handled for him.
He leaned against the doorframe, watching for a moment. His brother hadn’t moved from the corner of the sofa, the one he usually occupied since being a toddler. Still folded in on himself, sitting on crossed legs. Still pale as a ghost. James himself had tanned significantly over the term, wind-burned and broadening from Quidditch, but Edmund looked almost exactly as he had the last time they'd seen each other. Well, except for his hair falling a little too long into his eyes, already reaching his shoulders. James frowned. He'd meant to remind him to get it trimmed before school started. Didn't want his brother to give a false impression.
He sighed. So. A trip to the hairdresser before term. Maybe he should also try to get Edmund to be outside more, he thought automatically. There was no reason for him to stay cooped up anymore after all. And it would maybe lessen the far too pale complexion of his. Maybe they could go shopping for new clothes, too, then. Making him more presentable. First impressions were important after all.
He pushed the thought aside for now, smiling fondly as he watched his brother fiddle with his quill. Edmund’s fingers were stained faintly blue, ink smudged along the side of his thumb. His notebook lay open across his lap, margins crowded with precise, cramped notes — runes layered over runes, lines intersecting in ways James couldn’t begin to follow.
He exhaled softly. His brother was long past standard runework, most of these were his own creations and utter jubberish to most people, certainly.
“Eddy,” James said.
Still nothing.
James snorted softly and leaned towards him some more. “Oi.”
Edmund shifted. Not toward James, but further into the book, as if the sound had only registered as a disturbance. Which was close enough, James thought with grim amusement.
From upstairs, Euphemia’s voice floated down faintly. “James, my dear, is your brother settled?”
“Yeah, yeah!” James called back easily, already moving forward. “He’s fine.”
He didn’t notice how Edmund flinched at the raised volume. He stepped closer to his twin. “Did you eat?"
Then he glanced toward the coffee table. The plate from breakfast still sat on the counter near Edmund, untouched.
“Honestly,” James muttered, exasperated yet unmistakingly fond. “You’d forget breathing next, I swear..."
He reached out and tapped the edge of the book. A last resort. Edmund flinched and then looked up. Finally. His eyes passed over James without landing, unfocused for a beat too long, like he was surfacing from somewhere far deeper than the room.
“Hello James,” he said, after a pause. The words were flat. Automatic. Almost whispered.
James smiled, satisfied. “Hello to you too, dork. I’ll make something, do you wanna have toast, like usual?”
Edmund blinked, tried to gauge if he felt hungry, came up empty. Yet if James thought it necessary than he probably should eat. If only so his brother would stop nagging him. So he nodded, belatedly, which set James into motion immediately: He turned toward the kitchen, getting the cheese out of the fridge while beginning to chat with his usual energetic demeanor.
“I finally told them about you.”
Edmund’s eyes remained on the page.
“Who?”
He already knew. It wasn’t difficult to deduce as the same three people orbited James as reliably as planets around a sun. Still, he asked. James liked the prompting. Liked the opening. So he asked even though James would have told him everything regardless. Even though Edmund found it unnecessary precicely because of this fact. Still he was doing it anyway— if only to see his brother's eyes spark with genuine delight.
“My friends of course, silly. They’re all really hyped to get to know you,” James went on, unable to keep the grin from spreading. “You should’ve seen their faces when I finally revealed everything! Priceless, really! Well... Padfoot was a little mad, I think.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s my best mate and this is… quite a big secret to keep, I guess.” James dropped onto the sofa beside him with a theatrical sigh. For a flicker of a second, something else crossed his face — uncertainty, maybe— before he smothered it with brightness. “He’ll survive. He forgets things quickly. Prick.”
Edmund frowned, eyes lifting now. The word did not sit right. It had been delivered with warmth, even fondness, and yet it carried an edge that made no logical sense. He watched James for a moment longer, trying to reconcile tone with vocabulary.
James laughed at the look and draped an arm around his brother. “Oh, don’t start. Just ask if you’re confused. Don’t try to solve it yourself like it’s one of your runes.”
Edmund lowered his gaze again, though he wasn’t reading anymore. Runes did not shift beneath scrutiny. They did not rely on tone or shared history to soften their meaning. A symbol carved into stone meant what it meant — cleanly, precisely. There was comfort in that certainty.
James’ world operated differently, though. Words bent in his mouth. Insults became affection depending on who was speaking and how. Meaning seemed to hover somewhere between what was said and what was implied, and one was expected to simply know which to follow.
Edmund had learned to observe it, to catalogue the patterns. He understood that “prick” in James’ voice meant affection, not contempt. He understood that laughter could hide worry. He understood, too, that this arm — draped carelessly over his shoulders now — was not casual at all. James did this when something unsettled him. He reached for physical contact under the pretense of ease to ground himself.
The weight settled across Edmund’s back, familiar and secure for James, heavy and distracting for him. He did not dislike closeness. That was the part everyone seemed to misunderstand. It was the pressure he minded. The way another body’s expectation pressed into his own space without asking, without warning. But James needed the reassurance of it. So Edmund stayed still.
He let his gaze drift toward the framed photograph on the opposite wall. Four figures arranged in symmetry, smiling as though harmony were effortless. He sighed deeply. Staring intently at his own face that seemed happy, yet...felt hollow.
He sighed. All he wanted was connection that did not require translation. Words that did not bend under tone. Something that meant exactly what it claimed to mean.
He had read about such things often enough. In books it always seemed simple: one person choosing another with frightening clarity. No guessing. No negotiation. No careful measuring of pauses or expressions in the agonizing way he himself always had to do. He tried not to linger on the thought.
Books were generous in ways the world rarely was. He understood, rationally, that relationships depended on instincts he did not possess — on fluidity, on unspoken negotiation, on a language he had only ever learned secondhand through observation.
He also understood, though less comfortably, that he wanted it anyway. Not affection in the broad, imprecise sense others seemed content with. Something narrower. Quieter. Singular. To be understood without effort. To be chosen deliberately.
And yet it would be unwise to expect what had never been designed with someone like him in mind. So he tried, as he often did, to close the thought down before it could spread too far. Wanting was a luxury best kept theoretical.
That fact did not, unfortunately, stop him from feeling it.
James huffed softly beside him.
“Oi. What’s on your mind?”
Edmund sighed and leaned a fraction further into the constant weight of his brother’s arm. It was exhausting to spend energy on things that would never happen — things he could neither change nor reason himself out of.
“I wonder,” he said carefully, “if your friends will be content having me around.”
Even though technically it wasn't wrong, it still felt like a lie as that hadn't been on his mind at all right now.
The arm around his shoulders tightened at once, heavier now, meant as reassurance. Edmund pressed his teeth together against the added pressure.
“Nah, don’t worry. They’ll like you just fine. You’ve got my face after all — that’s already half the job.”
Edmund suppressed a flinch. He hated when James said things like that. As if their resemblance erased him rather than reflected him, too. As if his face belonged first to James.
“For everything else,” James went on easily, “I’ll prepare you. Already thought we should go shopping.”
“Why?”
A grin spread slowly across James’ face.
“There doesn’t have to be a reason to go shopping, you know. But it’d help if you had a few new things.”
“What is wrong with my current clothes?”
“They’re… fine. For home.” James tilted his head, considering him. “But for school you’ll want something that signals who you are. You’ll be less of a target that way.”
Edmund frowned. “What does clothing have to do with that?”
James let out a long breath.
“You, brother mine, are utterly hopeless.”
The words landed harder than they were meant to. Edmund blinked. Then, very quietly, he adjusted his posture. His shoulders drew in by a margin most people would not notice. Tighter. His hands folded together more carefully in his lap, too.
James noticed.
“Nah, don’t look like that,” he said quickly, already leaning in, ruffling Edmund’s hair as if the correction were simple. “I’ll handle it. That’s what big brothers are for.”
Edmund held himself still under the touch, jaw set lightly.
“...You are only forty-five seconds older than me, James. That has no measurable significance—”
“Aw, come on, Eddy. That’s semantics.”
James' eyes caught onto the counter and suddenly he pushed to his feet, quick enough to unbalance his brother. Edmund caught himself late, fingers tightening briefly against the couch as James crossed the room. Chuckling, James assembled the toast he'd made before with brisk efficiency and returned it like an offering.
“Voilà. Nutrition. Eat.”
Edmund obeyed. He hid the small, unwilling twist of his mouth behind the first bite. It felt unfair to resent something meant kindly. James was only making sure he stayed well after all. But the quiet anger came anyway. Persistent.
He hated being told when to eat.
“Oi.”
Edmund glanced up. His brother was watching him now, head tilted slightly, as if reassessing something he couldn’t quite name.
“That rune thing you are working on,” he said. “I think from what I saw it had doubled anchors?”
Edmund blinked once.
“What about it?”
James shrugged. “You never finished explaining how that works. Dad interrupted us with his call for dinner, I believe? You know, the day before I went back to school.”
The irritation inside Edmund faltered, loosening it's hold a bit.
“It stabilises directional spells,” he said automatically. “If the sequence is correct.”
James leaned back on his hands, attentive in the loose, uncomplicated way he often wore for those he loved. “Sequence how?”
Edmund hesitated only briefly before continuing.
“The anchors have to correspond first,” he said. “Structurally. Most people match them by their visual shape, which is inefficient. You have to account for the directional weight of the rune itself, otherwise the spell drifts.”
James nodded as if this were perfectly reasonable.
“If the runes aren’t balanced,” Edmund went on, quieter now but gaining momentum, “the double anchoring collapses inward. That’s why the spacing matters. It’s not just placement — it’s proportion. The second anchor has to compensate for the first or they destabilise each other.”
James tilted his head. “Right.”
He had absolutely no idea what the fuck his brother was talking about. Edmund adjusted his grip on the plate, no longer aware he was doing it.
“I think it works best if the pairing is asymmetrical,” he added, thoughtful, yet almost absently. “It distributes the strain more evenly across the structure.”
James grinned at once. “See? You’re brilliant. They’ll like you. If not for your quirky personality than for the points you'll gain our house.”
Edmund looked down again, noticing only then how much the tightness in his chest had eased.
“…I hope so.”
James snorted lightly, already shifting his weight forward, restless energy returning to him in visible waves.
“You worry too much.” He pushed himself upright in one easy motion and picked up his broom from the corner. “Come on — let’s go outside. I’ve been dying to show you a new turn I learned this year.”
Edmund picked up his toast and followed.
A few days in James had decided they were going to Diagon Alley, as he'd already announced.
“It’ll be quieter now in the morning,” he insisted, already halfway to draw the floo powder. “Trust me.”
Edmund copied his brother, closing his eyes as he muttered their destination.
It wasn’t quieter, was the first thing Edmund noticed.
Diagon Alley moved in waves regardless of what time it was— heat, noise, voices overlapping faster than Edmund could separate them. Someone laughed too loudly behind him and every few steps someone drifted too close to him - the rush of wind every time they did felt weird on his skin and made his clothes move slightly which he absolutely disliked. The smell of smoke and sugar and something sour sat heavy in the air.
James navigated it easily, weaving through bodies without slowing, talking the entire time.
“You’ll need cool clothes to chill. And decent shoes. Merlin, those ones won’t survive first scrutiny.”
Edmund followed, keeping his eyes low and his steps measured so he wouldn’t lose the rhythm of walking.
The robe shop was even worse. Too bright. Too many mirrors reflecting light. He instantly hated it. James moved quickly between racks, pulling things down and holding them against his shoulders as if dressing a mannequin.
“This one. No — brighter. That’s better.”
“What is wrong with the darker one?” Edmund asked.
James didn’t look up. “Nothing. These here are just better.”
“Better how?”
James hesitated, searching for language he didn’t quite have. “They just are.”
Edmund considered this.
“If people dislike me,” he said after a moment, “clothing will absolutely not prevent it, James.”
The self-proclaimed older brother huffed. “It’s not about that.”
“It appears to be.”
James paused then, properly looking at Edmund for the first time since they’d entered.
“…Just trust me.”
Edmund did not answer. Just sighed, then he allowed himself to be measured, adjusted, turned.
He thought vaguely that invisibility would be preferable...
The platform was already loud when the Potter's arrived — steam hissing, people stepping on each other's toes, voices overlapping in ways that made the very air feel crowded. James broke away from them immediately, grinning.
“Mum, Dad — I’ll see you after!” he called, then doubled back just long enough to pull both into a quick hug.
Edmund was leaning away from it. He stood half a step behind Euphemia, fingers tight around the handle of his trunk, shoulders already drawn up. When Fleamont’s arm came around him from one side and James barreled in from the other to drag him into the group embrace, Edmund startled hard — a sharp intake of breath, body going rigid before he could stop it.
“There we go,” Fleamont said warmly. “All of us.”
Edmund’s hands rose between them without conscious thought. His ears began ringing from the close proximity on top of everything around them.
Euphemia withdrew at once, her face tightening. “Oh, darling — I’m sorry. We forgot.”
He nodded, relief easing the tension from his shoulders in visible increments. His mother smoothed his hair instead, careful now. “You remember, don’t you? If it’s too much, you can leave. You don’t have to stay anywhere you’re uncomfortable. And if a professor says something you don’t understand—”
“I know. I won’t argue.”
Euphemia hesitated at the tone, the immediate reaction of deflating. “I didn’t mean—”
James laughed lightly, already dissolving the moment. “Mum, he’s fine.” He slung an arm around Edmund’s shoulders. “I’ll watch out for him.”
She looked reassured by that arrangement. “All right. Just— be careful.”
James nodded, already angling toward the train, arm leaving Edmund's shoulder again. “C’mon.”
Edmund stumbled forward. The trunk clipped his ankle once before he corrected the angle, recalculated the tilt of his wrist, and continued after James, who was already weaving through the throng further along with effortless certainty.
The train loomed larger up close than it had from the platform. Metal shrieked faintly as doors slid shut further down. Steam breathed along the sides like something alive.
James grabbed the handle of the nearest carriage and hauled the door open with practiced ease. “Quick, before it fills.”
Inside, the corridor was narrower than Edmund had anticipated. Sound changed there, too. Outside, noise had been expansive — chaotic and diffuse. Inside, it compressed. Voices ricocheted. Laughter burst too close. Someone dragged a trunk across the floor ahead of them and the vibration travelled straight through his legs up to his ribs.
James didn’t notice the struggle. He was already calling over his shoulder, “It’s not that far. We’ll grab the usual compartment each year.”
Edmund adjusted his grip yet again. The trunk resisted differently on carpet than on stone. The corridor forced proximity, shoulders brushed past him from both directions. Each contact required recalibration — angle, distance, breath being held.
He kept moving despite it all.
Halfway down the carriage, a compartment door stood open. A boy sat alone inside. Long, dark hair. Sallow skin stretched thin across sharp bones. Black robes already immaculate despite the journey, if rather worn-out. He was watching. Unusually intense. Book on his lap, currently ignored.
The stare landed like a pin driven straight through fabric into a thumb and Edmund faltered without meaning to. He stumbled and his trunk struck the narrow wall with a dull knock, which then forced his shoulder to knock into the compartment door. Hard. The other boy’s eyes flicked to the impact, then back to Edmund’s face.
Assessing.
Edmund held the look for a fraction longer than he meant to. Long enough to feel the scrutiny of the boy slide over him.
— “Eddy.”
James’ voice snapped the thread.
“Hurry up.”
Edmund broke the stare first. Heat crawled up his neck at the realization that he had simply been standing there, gazing at the stranger. Like a fool... He swallowed, grip tightening on the trunk handle even more, before he adjusted and moved on. His pulse being slightly elevated though he could not have said why.
Behind him, the compartment door slid shut with a quiet click.
Severus Snape did not look away until the second Potter vanished from the narrow frame of the corridor window.
Up close, the resemblance fractured more cleanly than it had from the platform. The structure of their appearance was the same, yes — but not the effect. The second one was paler, sharper, the squared glasses practical, nearly translucent instead of round and flashy.
Where James moved with blunt certainty, this one carried himself carefully, almost awkwardly, as though measuring the space before entering it.
Severus huffed, already annoyed. So now there was one Potter who took up space with ease. And one who had clearly learned how not to.
Interesting.
He leaned back slowly. Tapping with his finger on the back of his book in contemplation. If the boy had been sickly, humiliating — some defect ripe for mockery— Potter would have paraded him long ago. He was incapable of resisting spectacle, of painting himself as some sort of sick savior.
And yet that brother of his had been hidden.
That alone was worth noting.
Severus felt no sympathy for the other Potter. The resemblance alone was aggravation enough. An unnecessary duplication of a face he had already catalogued as intolerable. So whatever flaw had kept the second one out of sight was not his concern. It was, however, an anomaly.
And Severus Snape did not ignore anomalies.
The whistle blew, shrill and insistent — the first official step toward a new term. Severus looked outside, watched the steam swallowing everything onto the platform.
This year, something would shift.
He could feel it.