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Chapter Text

Dear James Potter. That's how I start all my letters. Dear James Potter. First the "Dear" part because you don't have to be Einstein to know that's how you begin every single letter. It's standard, basic and probably overused. But, it passes.
Next comes the name of the person it's addressing. In this case, it's me. I'm writing to myself. So, yeah. James Potter. James is my middle name, actually. My mum wanted me to be James and my dad wanted me to be called Fleamont, which is his name. They both sort of won, according to my birth certificate. Fleamont James Potter. My dad won the battle, my first name is Fleamont, but mum won the war. She has never called me anything but James. Jim, Jamie, Jam. As a result, neither has my dad. (Spoiler alert: My parents split up and now they no longer love eachother!!)
I'm only Fleamont on my drivers liscense (which is collecting dust as we speak) or when I'm filling out for job applications and political stuff like that, I guess. Oh, and when it's the first day of school. Like today. My new teachers will call out "Fleamont" during attendance, and I will forget to answer. After class when no ones around I have to tell them that everyone calls me by my middle name. James.

When I say my actual name is Fleamont people get so offended and look at me confused. It's considered a "cool boy" name I guess, and they don't look at James Potter at the back of the classroom with an inhaler firmly in his grip 24/7 and see "popular, loud, annoying, fat crush, gets all the ladies" Fleamont Potter, they see a quiet, socially awkard, nervous, shy, away biting finger nails James Potter. Mum says I'm more of a Pisces than an Aries.
Mum's obsessed with all that astrology rubbish, which proved her wrong when she expected a social butterfly, leader aries and instead gave birth to me. I installed an app on her phone that displays all her daily horoscopes because for some reason I thought it was a period tracker for her? (Yes, if you were wondering the talk with her before I downloaded it, led me to having a panic attack.) Anyways, I got her obsessed. Now, she'll leave me handwritten messages everywhere in the house. I mean, everywhere. Shit like: Step outside your comfort zone today. Believe in yourself. Like your you because your you is the only you, you have. Never give up. Or she'll cram the day's message into our very short and awkward conversations: Take on a new challenge, James. A business venture with a friend looks promising. It's all a bunch of shit if you ask me.
But, I guess for my mum her horoscopes give her some hope and guidance, which is what my letters are supposed to do for me.

My mum and her horoscopes are the equivalent of me and my letters. Except I just think it's pointless. Speaking of which. After the greeting comes the actual meat of the letter: the body. My first line never changes. "Today is going to be an amazing day, and heres why..." Positive outlook yeild positive experiences. That's the basic concept behind this letter-writing assignment. I tried to get out of it first. I told Dr Slughorn "I don't think a letter to myself is going to help myself very much. I won't even know what to write." He perked up, leaning forward in his leather chair instead of casually sitting back as he usually does. "You don't have to know. That's the whole point pf the excercise. To explore! For example, you could start with, 'Today is going to be an amazing day, and heres why.' Then, branch out from there."
Sometimes I know therapy is absolute bullshit, other times I know the real problem is that I can never get myself to fully buy in to it. Maybe I'm too comfortable knowing I'm hurt. I take comfort in myself... hurting because I need to hurt to feel and feel validated. I'm not a fan of change, so I'd rather dig a deeper hole instead of trying to climb the steep walls out because I convinced myself it is pointless. Anyway, Iended up taking his advice - verbatim. (One less thing to think about.)

Because the rest of this letter is tricky. The first line was just an opening statement, and now I have to support that statement in my own words. I have to prove to myself why today will be a great day, when all of the evidence suggests otherwise. Every day that came before this one was not amazing, so why would I think today would be any different? Truth? I don't. So, it's time to power up my imagination, make sure that every molecule of creativity is wide awake and pitching in. (To fill myself with false hope.)
Because today all you have to do is just... be youself. But also confident. That's important. And be interesting. Easy to talk to. Approachable. And, don't hide. Great, my talents I've known to be amazing at my entire life are exactly what I can't do. Oh, and reveal yourself to others. Not in a pervy way, don't disrobe. Keep the clothes intact. Just, be you. The true you. God, I'm cringing at my own cheesy horoscope messages. But, whatever. Let's not judge. I can do that.
As Dr Slughorn would say, we're here to do exploring. Exploring: I have to assume this "true" me is better at life. Better at people. And less timid too. For example, I bet he would've never passed up to oppurtunity to introduce himself to Regulus fucking Black at the library last year. He wouldn't of spent all that time deciding which word best captured his feelings about his presentation in English but also didn't want to come off as a stalker. Good. Great? Spectacular... Luminescent. Enchanting! Solid..? And then, after finally settling on "very good", end up not speaking to him at all because he was too worried his hands were sweaty. What difference did it make that his hands were sweaty? It's not like he would've asked him to shake his hand. If anything, it was probably his hands that were sweaty from all the shaking they did while presenting. Besides my hands only got sweaty after i thought about them getting sweaty, and obviously this "true" James would never do something so profoundly sad.

Great now im doing tt again, willing my hands to get sweaty. Now I have to wipe down my keyboard with my blanket. And i just typed out "tyvygggbubvuvgf guvfygcddtruhvjvnvug" and now my arm is sweating too. The sweat will end up sitting under my cast, no air getting in and soon my cast will take on that smell . The kind of smell i dont want anyone at school to catch the slightest whiff of, especially on the first day of senior year. Fuck you, fake James Potter. You really are exhausting. Deep breath. I reach into my bedside drawer. I already took my Lexapro this morning, but Dr Slughorn says it's fine to take an Ativan too if things get really overwhelming. I swallow the Ativan down, relief on the way. That's the problem with writing these letters. I start off on a direct route, but I always end up taking detours, wandering into the dodgy neighbourhoods of my brain where nithing remotely good ever happens.

"So you just decided not to eat anything last night?" It's my mum, standing over me, holding the 20 pound note I didn't use. I shut my laptop and shived it under my pillow. "I wasn't hungry." She frowned and tutted, shaking her head. She was a rather petite lady. Bronze sort of hair with a few gray strands. She has dark brown which oddly remind me of hot chocolate, her skin was the same as mine. A dark brown which made her look warm and welcoming. Her hair was in a messy bun, held with her pencil. "Come on, honey. You need to be able to order dinner for yourself if I'm working nights. You can do it all online with your apple phone pod." She butchered those last few words. "iPhone, mum." I quickly corrected her, earning a frown off her. "You don't even have to talk to anyone, James."
Well, that's not true. You have to talk to the delivery person at the door, you have to stand there while they hand you the change back. I panic because one hand takes the pizza box, well both actually so I'm scared i'll drop the money or pizza or both and completely and utterly embarrass myself. And they always never have enough change so they ask if you want to tip but you're too scared to say anything and so you just let them keep the £14.60 you're mum told you save on the counter for her. "Sorry." I respond, fiddling with my duvet. "Don't be sorry, Jamie. It's just- this is what you're supposed to be working on with Slughorn. Talking to people. Engaging. Not avoiding." I could've sworn I wrote exactly what she said just. In my letter? About revealing myself? Not hiding? I know all this already. I don't need- want her to keep repeating it to me. Its like the sweaty hands thing; the more you acknowledge it, the worse it gets.
Now she's circling my bed, arms folded as she scans my room like it's somehow different from when she was last in here, like there's a new answer to the great James conundrum waiting on my dresser or hanging on my wall that she can finally find if she looks hard enough.
Belive me, considering how much time I spend in this room, if the answer were in here, I would have spotted it already. I slide my legs off the bed and pull on my trainers. "Speaking of Sluggy, I made you an appointment with him this afternoon." She sighed as I quickly spun on my heel to face her. "Today? Why-? I'm seeing him next week-!" I don't like changing plans and- well I just don't like change at all! "I know." She says, staring down at the un-used twenty in her hands. "But I thought maybe you could use something a little bit sooner." Because I chose to skip dinner one night? I should've just pocketed the money so she wouldn't of known, but that would be like stealing from her and karmas a bitch. Maybe it's more than just the unused twenty? Maybe im giving off an extra worriesome vibe that I'm unaware of? I stand up to check myself in the mirror. I try to see what she sees. Everything looks to be in order. Shirt buttons are lined up. Hair has been tamed. I even took a shower last night! I havent been taking showers lately because it's such a pain to have to cover my cast, first with the plastic wrap, then the shopping bag and then duct tape. I basically just sequester myself in my room all day. Besides, nobody at school pays attention to how i look.

Theres something else happening in the mirror that I'm only just noticing now. I'm biting my nails. I've been biting them this whole time. Okay, truth is i've been dreading this day for months. After the safe isolation of summer, returning to school always feels like a sensory overload. Watching friends reunite with their bro hugs and high-pitched screeches. The cliques forming in corners as if all parties had been notified in advance where to meet. Bent-over laughter at what must have been the funniest joke ever told. I can navigate my way through all that because it's familiar to me by now.

It's the stuff I can predict that concerns me. I barely had a handle on the way things were last year, and now there will be so much newness to absorb. New wardrobes, tech, cars. New hair styles, colours, lengths. New peircings and tattoos. New couples. Whole new sexual orientations and gender identities. New classes, classrooms, seats, classmates, teachers. So much change. And everyone just marches on like nothings different and changed, but for me, every new year feels like starting from zero. I always feel so confident at the very end at the year (Well, atleast as confident I can be). I'm at the very top, the top of the world. But then september comes around and I have to start all over again until i reach the top and then get knocked back down. To restart. I hate change.

My mum is is also visible in my mirror, the tassel of her personalised key chain dangling from her pocket. (Over the years, I've elevated many crummy gifts- mugs, pens, phone cases, bags, wallets- by simply slapping Mum or Effie on there somewhere).
Poking around my room in her scrubs, she looks like more of a forensic scientist investigating a crime scene than a neurosurgeon. A very tired forensic scientist, though. She was always "the young mum" because she had me right after college, but I'm not sure the title still applies. Lately theres this permanent fatigue in her eyes that just seems less to do with how much sleep she manages she squeeze into her very busy schedule and more to do with me. Like she's getting tired of my excuses. Getting tired of dealing with me. Getting tired of carrying this huge burden (me) on her back all the time. Getting tired of my anxiety and my depression. Maybe she's finally give up on me?

"What happened to all your pins?" She asks, quickly making me internally shake my head. Of course she notices all this. She's got better sight than eagles do. I turn and face the map on my wall. When I started working at Ellison State Park this summer, I got into the idea of trying to skate all the best trails in the country: Precipice Trail in Maine, Angel's Landing in Utah, Kalalau Trail in Hawaii, Harding Icefeild in Alaska. I had them all marked on the map with different coloured pins. But after the summer ended, and my depression and anxiety took over completely I decided to take them all down- except one. "I thought I'd focus on one at a time.

The first one I'm hoping to do is West Maroon Trail." I finish. I lost my passion for skateboarding, so now my skateboard just sits in the corner collecting dust, but I left that pin there so I wouldn't forget where my dad is. I miss him, mums great but she's so...different without him. She's miserable and tired and she's never around. I miss them both. "And... that's in Colorado?" My mum asks, a frown in her eyebrows as she sighs. She can see it clear on the map, but still, she wants to hear me say it. I give it to her, I nod. "Yes. Colorado." I meet her gaze, feeling awfully brave as she looks away and guilt consumes me. The breath she takes is painfully lomg and slow. Her shoulders drop and she deflates. Her shoulders pratcially lift up after a while and reach her ears before they drop down even lower than they were before.

Colorado is where my dad lives. Dad is a word you have to be careful about using in our house, and the same goes for anyword that makes you think for my dad, like Fleamont, Monty or in this case, Colorado. Mum turns away from the map and presents me with a face that is meant to be brave and carefree but looks like the complete opposite of those things. She's wounded but still stays standing. That makes two of us. "I'll pick you up right after school. Have you uh- been writing those letters that Sluggy wants you to do? The pep talks? You really have to keep up with those, James." I used to write a letter every single day, but over the summer I "slacked" off. I'm pretty sure Dr Slughorn told my mum, which is why she's been nagging at me about them lately. "Actually, I was just working on one." I tell her, relieved to not have to lie. I nod towards my laptop under my pillow and she nods in understanding. "Oh, good! Slughorn will want to see them, love." She says. She has thousands of nicknames but she will refuse to call me Monty. Which, I guess I only like because it reminds me of my dad? "I know- I'll finish it after school. I promise." I sigh and swallow, the word "school" making me want to curl up on the ground and cry as she holds me and rubs my back and tells me it's okay. But, I can't keep doing that to her. "Those letters are important, honey. They help build your confidence. Especially on your first day!" She see's something in me. A light dim in my eyes when she mentioned school. But oh, of course. It all makes sense. Another clue for why she thought today in particular warranted a visit to Dr Slughorn. "I don't want another year of you sitting home alone on your computer every Friday night. You just- have to find a way to put yourself out there!" I'm trying. It's not like I'm not trying. I'm trying so hard to not dissapoint my mum. I am trying for her.

She spots something on my desk. "Hey- I know." She pulls a Sharpie from the cup. "Why don't you go around today and ask people to sign your cast? That would be the perfect icebreaker, wouldn't it?" I honestly can't think of anything worse. That's like panhandling for friends. Maybe I should find an emaciated puppy to sit in the corner with me, really dial up the sympathy. It's too late. She's in my face. "James." I let out a sigh and look at my bare, red cast. "Mum- I can't." She puts the sharpie in my hand. "Seize the day. Today is the day to seize the day, James Potter." This siunds like that horoscope shit. "You don't have to add 'today'. 'Seize the day' already means 'seize today'." She just rolls her eyes, shaking her head. "Whatever, Einstein. I'm just saying- go get 'em, eh?" Without meeting her eyes, I sigh and turn the Sharpie in my palm. "Eh." She heads for the door, and just when I think I'm in the clear she turns with an uneasy smile. "I'm proud ofnyou, already." I give her an awkward smile and nod, popping the Sharpie cap lid on and off. "Oh, great." Her smile sags a bit, and she walks off. What am I supposed to say? She tells me she's proud, but her eyes tell me a different story. She ponders me, pities me, like I'm a stain on the tub she can't wipe clean no matter what product she uses. Proud of me. I don't see how that's possible. So, lets just keep lying to eachother.

It's not like I totally mind the sessions with Dr Slughorn. Sure, our conversations are scheduled, ignorganic, and typically one-sided, but there's some comfort in sitting down and talking with another human being. You know, besides my mum, who's so busy with work and classes that she's hardly ever around and who never quite hears what I'm trying to say wven though she's listening (and also is my mum). I call my dad every once in a while, on the rare occasions of me having some news to share with him. He's also pretty busy though, too. The problem with talking to Dr Slughorn, though, is I'm bad at it. I sit there, struggling to squeeze out even the simplest monosyllabic answers. I assume that's why he suggested I write these letters to myself. He told me it might be a little easier on myself, but I'm pretty sure it makes things easier for him, too.

I open my computer and read what I've read so far.
Dear James Potter,
Sometimes these letters do the opposite of what they're intended to do. They're supposed to keep my glass half full, but they also remind me that I'm nothing like anyone else. No one at my school has an assignment from their therapist. Most people at my school don't even have a therapist. They don't snack on Ativan. They don't shift and fidget when people get too close to them, or talk to them, or even look at them. And they definitely don't make their mum tear up when they forget to eat, or forget to shower, forget to smile, lay in bed, stare at the ceiling or bite their nails, when they wear long sleeves.
I don't need reminding. I know I'm not right. Believe me, I know.
Today is going to be an amazinf day... Maybe, if I just stay here in the comfort of my own room, then maybe it will actually come true. No need to talk to anyone, no need to walk through the busy hallways, no need to care about how I look. No need to bother, just to lay in bed. Thinking.

Just be yourself.
Yeah, sure. Okay.

Chapter Text

I'm at my locker, but I'm still standing there. Froze. Pretending to look for something. There's too much time before the bell rings, and if I shut my locker now, I'll be forced to hang around. I'm awful at hanging around. Hanging around requires confidence and the right clothing and a bold but casual stance. Yet again, I'm stood biting my nails, my other arm with my cast on held to my chest as I hear the chatter around me grow and grow. People must think I'm a statur. Stood not moving, the only movements is when I twist my hands to get another nail to bite at. Nodbody's looking at you, I reminded myself. They're looking at Marlene McKinnon (aka McKenzie).

Marlene McKinnon is a master hanger-arounder, always whipping her strikingly blonde hair out of her face and keeping her legs shoulder-distance apart as she lazily leans against the lockers as she talks to Mary MacDonald. Marlene has a wolf cut and rings on every single finger. She even knows what to do with her hands: four fingers inside her jean pockets and thumbs through belt loops so she can't get nagged at for wearing jewelery. Brilliant. I want to do what Dr Slughorn and my mum keep asking me to do- engage- but it's not in my DNA. When I walked onto the bus this morning, everyone was talking to their friend or staring down at their phones. What am I supposed to do? What's normal? Fact: I once did a search for "how to make friends" and I clicked on one of those videos that came up and I swear I didn't realise until the very end that I was watching a car advert. That's why I prefer to keep my back to everything. Unfortunately, I have to head to class now.

I shut my locker and with a deep breath, I turn on my heel and walk to class. I keep my head low enough to avoid unwanted eye contact but high enough so I don't trip over a shoe or whatever. I'm going. Sybil Trelawney is showing off her Invisalign to Alice Fortesques, Sybil's laying her head in Alice's lap and Alice is running her fingers through Sybil's hair as she hums in approval. (I could ask one of them to sign my cast but, no offence, I don't need signatures from kids who register as low as I do on the relevance metre.) I pass by The Twins (not actually related; they just dress alike) Avery and Mulciber who are looking around the hallway before shouting out snide comments. The "Russian Spy", Dorcas Meadowes has her black buckled boots up on the desk as she pops her bubble hum, painting her nails black. (Atleast I don't have a nickname- that I know of). Mary MacDonald is talking on the phone, twirling her chewed chewing gum around her fingers as she leans on the desk with her free hand. She's probably talking to her agent. (She's been in local adverts). Up ahead, two idiots are quite literally wrestling on the ground. Barty Crouch Jr's got Evan Rosier in a headlock. Barty's sitting on Evans back as Evan lays chest down. Barty yanks on Evans arm and holds it behind Evans back as he tightens his grip on Evans neck. "Tap out, fucks sake Rosier!" Barty laughs out, gruffly. "Pussy." Evan grits out quickly. And there's McKinnon outside Mrs McGonagalls room. She's got one thumb in her belt loop and the other hand on Pandora Lovegoods waist. Last I heard, Mary was with Lily Evans, but broke up because they were quote unquote "never dating" according to Lily. They're making out now- it's very wet. I look away. I don't wanna be called a perv.

I make a pit stop to the water fountain. I've already forgotten the plan: let people see you. How am I supposed to do that? Carry around a gun? Tell people I'm going to light the school on fire? Hand out condoms? I'm just not the seize-the-day type. Over the running water, I hear a voice. I think the voice could possibly be talking to me? I stop drinking. There is indeed a person standing next to me. Weird. A girl, same height as me, bright ginger curly hair and bright green eyes is tilting her head, to look at me. Lily Evans. "How was your summer?" She smiles, acting as if we are indeed best friends and talk about our summers together. I reckon Marlene's set her up to it, for a funny joke. Last year, Lily sat infront of me in English, but we never spoke. Are we speaking now? I'm unconvinced. "M-my summer? Mine-?" I hesitate, extremely confused at why Lily Evans has decided to talk to me this morning. "Mine was productive," she continues, smiling with her perfect, white teeth. "I did... three internships and ninety hours of community service. I know! Wow!" I raise my eyebrows. Ninety-? "Yeah. That's, wow. That's-" I start, before she interrupts me. She seems excited to talk about it, it's...nice? "Even though I was sooo busy, I still made some great friends. Or, well, acquaintances, more like. There was this boy called Severus, or Sevrus- I couldn't hear him that well. He didn't talk much. And then, Molly with a 'y'. And my fellow friend who comes here- Mary! Yes, Mary MacDonald. Also..." The only time I heard Lily's voice was when she was answering questions (every five seconds) or asking questions, which she'd do incessantly. Mr Ferox would ignore her hand at first until he realised it was the only hand up and he had no choice but to call on her- again. She's got a nerve, I'll never have, not to mention a very contagious smile, but in an another way Lily Evans and I have a lot in common. Even with her class participation and her gigantic backpack always knocking people, ans her perfect attendance, she goes around school the same way I do: unnoticed. Except, I'm just a bit quiter about it than she is.

Seize the day, mum says. Fine. Here I go. I nod to my cast, throat going extremely dry. "Do you uh- maybe want to-" I start before she cuts me off again. "Oh my Gosh! What happened to your arm?" She gives me a worried look before looking down at my cast. I unzip my backpack and dig around for my Sharpie. "I broke it. I was-" I get abruptly cut off again by her, sighing. "Oh really? My Granny broke her hip getting into the bathtub in July. That was the beginnimg of the end, the doctors said. Because then she dies." She nodded, lookimg up at the ceiling. "Oh...Uh- that's terrible." I draw my eyebrows together and frown. Also- getting a bit awkward. That came out of nowhere. "I know, right?!" She clapped her hands, her smile not wavering. "Happy first day!" She turns and her backpack knocks the Sharpie out of my hand. I bend down to pick it up, and when I'm upright again again, Lily is gone and Peter Pettigrew is in her place.

"Is it weird to be the first person in history to break their arm from wanking off too much, or do you consider that an honour?" Peter says, way too loudly. "Paint the picture with me. You're in your bedroom. Lights off. A few candles. Smooth jazz in the background. You've got Regulus Black's Instagram up on your weird, off-brand phone." I snort, knowing I have a better phone than Peter. Peter and I have a history. No, not like that! His mum sells real estates. She's the one who found my mum and me a new place after my dad left. For a few years there, the Pettigrews would have us at their swim club in the summer, and we'd go to their house for dinner, once for Rosh Hashanah. I even went to Peter's bar mitzvah. "Do you want to know what actually happened-?" I ask, shuffling my feet. "Nah, not really. Besides, you sound way cooler by saying you broke your arm from wanking too much." Peter replies, snorting. It's not cooler, I don't think? It sounds stupid. But something is driving me to say it, to share it with someone, maybe just to get it out there? No, I was not stalking Regulus Black's Instagram. Well- not on this particular occassion. "What happened is- I was climbing a tree and then I fell!" I felt myself getting a bit embarrassed but I could not have Peter going around, being a traitor. Telling everyone I wanked off to Regulus' Instagram.

"You fell out a fucking tree? James, I told you. You will never be a real acorn." He laughed at his own, not even funny joke. I sighed. "You know how I got a job as an apprentice park ranger this summer?" He looked at me bored, yawning. "Boring." He laughed as I narrowed my eyes onto his white converse. "Shut up, you work at KFC," I retorted to which he looked taken aback. "Anyways, I'm sort of a tree expert now. Not to brag" I said, cringing at my words as he snickered. "If you're such an expert, Mr Lorax. Why'd you fall out the fucking tree?" It was a rhytorical question, so I didn't answer it. I just carried on. "I saw this huge, atleast forty foot tall oak, and I just decided to climb it." That was the most boring explanation, ever. Jared looked at me like he was gonna fall asleep, but he was also very confused. "So- I climbed it and then I just..." I trailed off, mind blanking as Jared yawned. "Fell?" He snickered and shook his head. "Yeah, except it's a funny story, because there was a solid ten minutes after I fell when I was just lying there on the ground, waiting for someone to come get me." I finished, feeling slightly relieved. "Mate, the only thing that's funny about you falling out of a tree is that you actually fell out of a fucking tree." He clutched at his stomach and lurched forward, bringing tears to his eyes he was laughing that much. I gave him a blank expression and he stood back up, pulling his lips in to stifle a laugh. "Did- did anyone come?" He breathed out, biting his lip to hide the laugh. "No." As soon as I said it, he burst out kaughing, wiping his eyes which had gathered tears from laughing that much.

When he pulled himself together, he gave me an embarrased look. But hey, I'm in on the joke. I know how pathetic it sounds that I waited there on the ground for someone to come and help me. I'm trying to laugh at my own inadequacy, but as usual, my delivery is way off. There's a lot going on in my head right now. Grandmothers passing away and I've got dark spots on my shirt from the fountain spraying everywhere, and I still haven't made it to first period, where I'll have to answer to "Fleamont" for atleast forty five minutes. This is what I get for trying to have a conversation with Peter Pettigrew, who once laughed during a leason on the Holocaust. He swore he was laughing at something unrelated to the horrid black and white photos that the rest of us were gasping at, and I believe him, but still, I'm pretty sure that fella doesn't have a conscience.

Peter hadn't walked away yet, so I ask a question that I stole straight from Lily Evan's mouth. "How was your summer?" I fidgeted with the dark green sleeve of my hoodie. "Well, my team completely dominated in capture the flag and I got to second-base-below-the-bra with this girl from Italy who's going to like- be in the army. So, yeah. Does that answer your question?" I look down to the Sharpie in my hand, nodding. Why am I bothering with the cast signing thing? So mum can say she's proud? "Actually, do you want to- sign my cast, Pete?" He laughs, laughs right in my face. "Why? Why're you asking me?" I just shrug, the next words just falling out of my mouth. "Well- I don't know. We're- we're friends." Peter's eyes just narrow as he snickers. "Family friends. That's a completely different thing, mate." Is it? I've played on Peter's Xbox on his attic sofa. I even changed out of my swimming costume infront of him. He's the one who laughed and pointed and told me its not normal to wear your boxers under your swim shorts. Fair enough, we don't hang out anymore and we only spend time together with our families sround, but those memories have to count for something. Right? A family friend is still a friend. Family friend still has friend in it.

"Tell your mum and my mum I was nice to you or else my parents won't pay for my car insurance." Peter states, beginning to walk away. Peter's a dick, but he's my dick. Actually- lets not. I just mean, he isn't the worst ever. He acts tough ans hard and as if he's the shit, but he really isn't convinving. His size six shoes are way too big on him and his Paw Patrol pyjamas still fit him, the massive, bulky headphones he wears around his neck like a personal necklace aren't even plugged in, leaving the wire to just trail after him. That's why his nickname is "snail trail" because everywhere he goes, it trails after him like a little snail trail.

That being said, his whole look is still far better than I could ever pull off. I make it to class just as the bell rings and I find a seat. (I prefer to be in the row closest to the door at the back of the room, out of sight and near the exit.) As I'm getting situated, I feel a slight sense of accomplishment. No names yet on my cast, but I've already interacted with more people than I did the entire first month of school last year. How's that for seizing the day! Who knows? Maybe this will be an amazing day after all? A fresh start? New year, new me? Oh God, James. Shut up, I make myself cringe too much. I say too much cringey shit. But, we're making progress. Only, the rest of the school day to go... yeah. I can do this.

Chapter Text

Nope. Not amazing.

First period was fine, meaning nothing terrible happened. Same for my next few classes. All name corrections from Fleamont to James were successful. i was feeling decent, even positive. But then, of course. Lunch. I've never liked lunch. There's not enough structure. Everyones free to go where they please, which is nowhere near me- and it changes every single day. No routine. I tend to claim a spot at a forgotten corner tablw with the other randoms. Force feeding myself the leftover, cold pizza, pasta, salad oenpretty much anything that was left over the night before. Which also changes, which stresses me out even more. But sitting in the corner now feels like hiding, and I promised my mum, Dr Slughorn and myself that I wouldn't hide today. Not today. I spot Peter carrying his tray through the food line. He usually sits by himself and edits his bands (him and only him) music videos on his laptop. I wait for him at the cash register. He's over the moon to see me again. "You again?" Peter sighs, rolling his eyes. My instinct is ti let him walk away, but for once i tell my instinct to fuck off. "I was thinking- maybe I could sit with you today?" I shut my eyes before opening them slowly. Peter looks like he"s about to throw up. He scrunches his face up and rears back.

Before he can officially deny me, he disappears behind a dark shroud. Passing between us is the mysterious creature known as Sirius Black cuts through our conversation, head low, unaware of his surroundings. Peter and I watch him go. Sirius has his hair half in a bun held by a paint brush and the rest just down. His black, shaggy hair just a bit lower than his shoulders, floating behind him as a cape. It looks good on him. "Love the new hair length," he snickers, turning to me. "Very school-shooter chic." I cringe, shaking my head. School schooter jokes make me uncomfortable, it's just wrong and it's one of those things that then jokes are never funny. Just awkard. Sirius halts, his Doc Martens landing with a thus. His eyes- what little you can see of them through his overgrown hair- are two steely almost black death rays. He definitely heard Peter. I guess he's not as oblivious as Peter thought. Sirius isn't moving, isn't speaking, just staring. Everything about this kid makes me nervous. He makes me shiver. He's permafrost. Maybe that's why he's wearing all those thick layers even though it's still techically summer.

Peter may bw brazen but he's not stupid. "I was kidding, man. It was a joke." Peter sounds almost, scared? Anxious? Worried? Maybe he feels the same shiver? "Yeah, no, it was funny. I'm laughing. Can't you tell?" Sirius is sending daggers into Peter. And Peter is crumbling, eyes widening. Peter isn't looking so cocky anymore. "Am I not laughing hard enough for you?" Sirius carries on, clenching his fists. Peter begins to laughbnervously, which makes me laugh nervously. I can't help it. This whole situation is so- awkward. "You're such a fucking freak, Black." Peter spits to Sirius, before he darts away. Should I be following Peter? I can't move my kegs. I can only stand there, nervously laughing as i begin fiddling with my sleeve. Sirius steps forward, towards me. "What the fuck are you laughing at?" His voice is venomous and I visibly shudder. I don't know. I do stupid thingd when I'm nervous, which means I'm constantly doing stupid things. "Stop fucking laughing at me." He doesn't even have to raise his voice to get me to stop. He's terrifying. "I'm not." I say, which is true. I'm not longer laughing. I'm officially petrified. "You think I'm a freak?" He frowns at me and I shake my head. "No. I don't-" He abruptly cuts me off, stepping closer to me. "I'm not the freak." He spits. "I didn't-" he cuts me off again, if looks could kill. I'd be deceased. "You're the fucking freak, Potter!" A bomb slams down on me. I'm on the ground, Sirius is standing over me. Like- I'm in my grave and he's watching me be buried alive. Not a real bomb. Connors arms, weighed down by all those black bracelets, slammed my chest and knocked me off my feet. Before he storms off, I see that he looks as shaken as I feel.

I sit up and lift my hands off the floor, the dust from so many trainers and shows clinging to my sweaty palms. People walk by, stepping around me, some offering unhelpful commentary, but it doesn't matter. I can't hear them. I can't move, either. I don't want to. Why should I? It's like when I fell from that tree in Ellison Park. I just lay there. I should've stayed under that tree forever.. Just like I should've stayed at home today. What's wrong with hiding? Atleast it's safe. Why do I keep doing this to myself?

"Are you alright..?" I look up, shock. Double shock. One shock because it's the fourth person to speak to me today. Two shocks because it's Regulus Black. Yes, the one and the only. "I'm fine." I sigh, wiping my palms on my trousers incase he demands for a hand shake like I imagine him to. "I'm sorry about my brother. He's insufferable. A psychopath." He nods at me, his sharp features, his face, his black curls which have fallen into his eyes. His gren, cloudy eyes. A few freckles on his nose and cheeks. "Yeah, no. We we're just messing around." First time I've had to lie today, great. She nods the way my mum would when she has the tell the family in the waiting room the bad news. "So, you comfy on the foor...or?" He says, crouching down to my eye level. Oh yeah, I'm on the floor. I quickly stand up, dusting my hands off. My head spins so I rear back for a second before shutting my eyes. "James, right?" He asks and my eyes shoot open. "James?" I draw my eyebrows together, confused. "That's your name..?" He gives me a funny look and I snapnout of my trance. "Oh. Yeah! James. It's James. Sorry." I clear my throat and he nods, a slight grin playing on his lips. "Why are you sorry?" He has a french kind of accent, making James' palms sweat as he thinks he'd like to hold his baguette-

"Well, just because you said James and I repeated it. Which is so annoying when people do that." How come I can cope with not spesking for days but as soon as Regulus is speaking to me, the words just- flow out? "Oh." He heldnout his hand, a small smile etched onto his face. "I'm Regulus." I wave my hand, instead of shaking his hand, because all off the dust stuck to my sweaty palm, and I immediately regret doing it. I've somehow made this exchange even more awkward than it already was. "No, I- uh- I know." His eyebrows furrow and I feel my cheeks heating up. "You know?" He asks and I just know. Regulus, I stalk your Instagram everyday. Okay- I sound like a perv. "No- I mean, I know you. I know who you are. I've seen your presentations and they- they blow my mind. Not that I stalk you- oh my God. I'll shut up, I'm so sorry." God, can I be any more weirder? I sound like a fan. He laughs and rolls his eyes. "You apologise a lot." I nod, shuffling my feet as he twists the snake ring on his finger around. I know what I'd like to have in my hand. "I'm sorry." I laugh and he laughs too. Damn. I don't know why I'm so nervous, other than the fact that I'm always nervous and I just got thrown to the ground by a burnout who happens to be related to Regulus by blood. But why does Regulus in particular do this to me? It's not like he's this handsome, popular boy or anything. (Except he is). But, he's also normal. Not normal as in boring. Normal as in real.

I guess it's because I've waited for this moment, the chance to talk to him, for so so so long. It goes back to the first time I ever saw his writing. I knew he was year below me. I had seen him around the school thousands of times. But I didn't reslly see him until I read his writing. If you asked anyone else who was in that assembly that day- and there weren't many of us- what they thought of Regulus' writing. They probably would've said "Who?". Marlene and Lily were the stars with their singing, followed by Mary's dance and Sirius' guitar skills. Regulus, meanwhile, was way off to the side. He didn't have a dance or a song but he did have a poem about brown eyes. He didn't stand out in any overt eay. Maybe it was because he was in the background that I felt drawn- connected to him so strongly? To me, there was no one else on the stage, just this one spotlight shining down on Regulus as everyone else fell into the shadow of Regulus Black. I can't explain why it happened that way, but it did. I've read every single one of his poems, songs, stories and descriptions that he posts on his Instagram account. I've studied what he writes about: Brown eyes, shadows, deep oceans, drowning, smoking, moving on, sleeping, daisies, sunflowers, clouds, blood, tears, vampires, jazz songs, werewolves, rain, the colours green and orange. He writes poems about artists. Taylor Swift, Conan Gray, Cigarettes After Sex, Bruno Mars, Olly Murs, Lana Del Rey and The Weeknd.

"Do I have something on my nose?" He asks, brushing his nose with his sleeve. "No. Why?" That's random. Am I being used as a mirror? "You're staring at me." He smiles, without his teeth. It's pretty. "Oh- sorry." I said it again. Fuck. Regulus nods. "My lunch is getting cold." He says, eyeing me with an undeciferable expression which I can't read. Somethings telling me that he's done this a million times before, arrived to clean up one of her brother's messes. Now that he's confirmed that I'm okay, he can go about his day. But I don't want to be just another of his brothers messes to him. Ouh, bold of me. "Wait!" I beg, I hope he does wait. He stops and spins back to me. "What?" Reveal yourself, James. Say something. Anything. Tell him you like: The Weeknd, Olly Murs, Conan, Cigarettes After Sex, Akon, DMAD or Miles Davis or Django Reinhardt, one of those famous jazz guys. Ask him if he likes them too. Tell him about the documentary you recently streamed about EDM and how you tried to make your own EDM wong afterwards, and the song was atrocious, obviously, because you have no musical talent. Just give him something to hold on to, a peice of yourself that he can carry with him. Ask him to sign your cast. Do not shy away. Don't be your dad. Do not do what you know full well you're about to do.

I shrug, looking down at the floor. "Nothin'." Fuck's sake, James. He lingers for a second, opening his mouth to speak before spinning on his heel and striding off. I watch as his black converse hightops stop for a second, and I think he's about to look back- before he just doesn't. He carries on walking and I want to cry. I watch him walk away. Step, by, step. When I finally get around to eating lunch, I find that the fall I took not only flattened my fragile ego but also my tuna and pasta. The tub containing it had cracked and now there was bits of mayo, tuna, cucumber, cheese and pasta were all over my books, bag and phone.

My mum texts me when I'm in I.T, asking me to call her. I'm thankful for the interruption; I've been staring at a blank screen for twenty minutes now. I'm trying to finish this letter for Dr Slughorn. When I started seeing him in April, I'd write a letter every morning before school. It became apart of my daily routine. Every week, I'd show Dr Slughorn my letters, and although I didn't always believe in what I'd written, I'd felt a sense of accomplishment just seeing him hold that stack of papers in his hands. That was me, right there. My work. My writing. My thoughts. My feelings. But after a while, Dr Slughorn stopped asking to read my letters, and pretty soon I stopped writing them. It's not like the letters were really working, they weren't actually changing my mind. Summer brought a new routine, and writing those letters just wasn't part of it. It had started to feel like a chore. Dr Slughorn sensed that I had been skipping my "homework". Now he's asking to see my letters again, and if I don't finish this one, I'll have nothing to show him later today. I've been through that before- shown up without a letter when he was expecting one. One time I arrived at a session empty handed (I'd forgotten my letter at home) and I'll never forget the look on Dr Slughorns face. He tried to keep his face neutral but he couldn't fool me. After all these years, I'm a wizard at detecting even the slightest hint of dissapointment in others, and any amount at all is unbearable.

I'll have to show Dr Slughorn something, and all I have so far is "Dear James Potter". I erased all the stuff from this morning. All that crap about being true to myself. I just wrote it because I thought it sounded good. Of course it sounded good. Fantasises always sound good, but they're no help when reality comes and shoves you to the ground. When it trips up your tongue and traps the words right in your head. When it leaves you to eat your lunch on your own. There was one silver lining to the day, though. Regulus Black not only talked to me, but he knows who I am. And was. He. Knew. My. Name. As with black holes or sterograms, my brain cannot compute this. As hopeful as I feel after our breif interaction, I worry that I squandered the moment and that there may never be another. I call my mum. After a few rings, I'm ready to hang up but she answers.

"Honey hi," she says. "Listen, I know I was supposed to pick you up for your appointment, but I'm stuck here at the hospital. Hope called in for the flu and I'm the only neurosurgeon available, so I took her shift. It's just, they announced more budget cuts this morning, love. So, anything I can do to show I'm part of the team, you know?" Sure, I know. She's always part of the team. The thing is, she's supposed to be part of my team. My mum is more like my coach who gives impressive pregame speeches, and then as soon as the whistles blown and it's time for me to step onto the feild. She's nowhere to be seen. "It's fine, I'll take the bus." A clear tone of annoyance in my voice. "Perfect, that's perfect. Thank you, James."

Maybe, I'll skip the session with Dr Slughorn. I never asked or wanted it in the first place. I'm finished seizing the day. "I'm going straight here to class, so I won't be home until late, so please eat something. We've got those microwavable cheese burgers in the freezer." She sighs and I do to. "Maybe." I rub my hand over my face. I bet Regulus' mum doesn't remind him to eat. "Did you finish writing that letter yet? Dr Slughorns expecting you to have one." It's official. The two of them definietely talked. "Yeah, no, I already finished it. I'm in the I.T room right now, printing it." I haven't even realised until now that I'm biting my nails again. "I hope it was a good day, sweetheart." I hum in response, attempting to keep my voice from wavering. "Yeah, it was, really great." Just two classes left. "Great! That's great. I hope it's the beginning of a good year. I think we could both use one of those, huh?" Yes is the answer, but I barely have time to think it, let alone say it. "Sugar- I have to run. Bye! I love you." Her voice disappears.

I'm left with the loneliness so overpowering it threatens to seep from my eyes. I have no one. Unfortunately, that's not fantasy. That's all-natural, 100 percent organic, unprocessed reality. There's Dr Slughorn, but he charges by the hour. There's my dad, but if he really gave a shit he wouldn't have moved to the other side of the country. There's my mum, but not tonight, or last night, or the night before. Seriously, when it actually counts, who is there? In front of me, on my computer screen, is just one name: James Potter. Me. That's all I have. I place my fingers on the keyboard. No more lies.

Dear James Potter,

It turns out, this wasn't an amazing day after all, but I predicted that long before it proved me true. This isn't going to be an amazing week or an amazing year. Because why would it be? Oh, I know, because there's Regulus. And all my hope is pinned on Regulus. Who I don't even know well and who doesn't even know me. But maybe if I did. Maybe if I could just talk to him, really talk to him, then maybe- maybe nothing would be different at all.
I wish that everything was different. I wish that I was a part of something, someone. I wish that anything I said mattered, to anyone. I mean, lets face it: would anybody even notice if I stopped showing up to class, if I stopped queing to get food, if I stopped showing up at school, if I stopped breathing? Would anyone even notice if I disappeared tomorrow? Tonight? This evening? Now?
Sincerely, your best and most dearest friend,

Me.

I don't even bother readinf it back. I hit printans jump up from my chair, feeling energized. Something happened just now when I was writing. What a concept, saying exacly how I feel without stopping to second-guess. I mean, now I'm second guessing, but as I was writing it and as I was sending it to the printer, no hesitation, just one fluid motion. Except it's pretty clear that the letter should be torn up immediately and thrown in the bin. I can't show it to Dr Slughorn. He keeps asking me to seek optimism, and this letter is nothing but hopelessness and despair. I know I'm supposed to share my feelings with Dr Sherman, and make my mum happy, but they don't want my actual feelings. They just want me to be okay, or atleast say I am. I turn around, eager to reach the printer, but instead, I almost run into Sirius Black. I flinch, preparing for another shove, but he keeps his hands to himself.

"So," Sirius says. "What happened?" I'm taken aback. What's he on about? "Excuse me?" Is he trying to be nice? It's weird. I don't know what to think. Or do. He glances down. "Your arm.." I look down as if to check if what he's referring to. Oh. This? "Well, I was working as an apprentice park ranger this summer at Ellison Park, and one morning I was my rounds, and I saw this- amazing fourty foot oak tree, and I started climbing it, and I just- fell. But it's actually a funny story, because there was a good ten minutes after I fell when I was just laying on the ground, waiting for someone to come and get me. 'Any second now' I kept thinking 'Any second now'. But yeah, nobody came so..." Sirius just stares at me. Then, realising I'm finished, he begins to laugh. It's the reaction I pretended to want from my "funny" story, but now that it's happening, I have to admit it's not at all what I wa going for. Maybe this is payback for me laughing at Sirius before, but something about it doesn't sound like revenge.

"You fell out a tree?" Sirius asks, still grinning. "That is the saddest fucking thing I've ever heard. I can't argue with him there. Maybe it's the few black whiskers on his chin or the smell of smoke on his hoodie or the black nailpolish or the fact that I heard he got expelled from his last school for drugs, but Sirius seems like he's way older than me, like I'm a kid and he's a man. Which is sort of weird, because standing next to him I realise he's pretty scrawny, and if he weren't wearing those Docs, I'd actually be taller than him. Right now, we're the same height. "Take my advice, you should make up a better story." He shakes his head, tears escaping his eyes as he chuckles. "Yeah, probably." I admit, falling out a tree is such a sad fucking thing. Sirius drops his gaze to the floor. So do I. "Just say you were battling some racist dude." His voice is so quiet. "What?" I couldn't hear him. At all. Whatsoever. "To Kill A Mockingbird" he says, as if it was obvious. To kill- oh, you mean the book?" I couldn't picture Sirius as a book reader. The most he's probably done of reading is the sideaffects of drugs and smoking. "Yeah. At the end, remember? Jem and Scout away from that redneck guy. He breaks Jem's arms. It's like- a battle wound." Most of us read To Kill A Mockingbird last year. I'm just surprised Sirius actually read it, and I'm surprised that he wants to talk to m about it right now and so calmly.

After collecting his hair behind his ear, he looks at my cast. "No one's signed your cast." I take a hard look at my cast: still blank, still pathetic. Sirius shrugs. "I'll sign it." Oh. My gut says retreat. "You don't have to." I draw my eyebrows together, biting at my lip anxiously. "Do ya have a pen or somethin'?" I want to say no and run off, but my hand betrays me by reaching into my bag and presenting the Sharpie. Sirius bites off the cap and lifts up my arm. I look away, but I can still hear the squeak of the pen against my cast, individual sounds stretching out longer than you'd expect. Sirius sticks his tongue out in concentration and he takes his time. Sirius seems to be treating each letter like it's own mini Picasso. "Voilà," Sirius says, evidently completing his masterpeice. I look down. There, on the side of my cast that faces the world, stretching the entire length and reaching up to ridiculous heights, are six of the biggest capital letters I've ever seen: SIRIUS. And, under the 'R' is a penis. With a smiley face though!

Sirius nods, admiring his creation. I'm not about to burst his bubble. "Wow! Cheers-" He spits the cap into his hand, slides it back onto the tip before handing it back to me. "Now, we can both pretend we have friends." I'm not exactly sure how to take this comment. How does Sirius know that I don't have any friends? Is it just because he doesn't have any friends and he recognises me as one of his kind? Or is he just assuming it because no one else has signed my cast? Or, is it possible he knows something about me? That would mean I made an impression on him. Sure, making an impression on Sirius Black isn't ideal, and the impression I made on him isn't a flattering one, but still, it's an impression, and if a certain someone were actually trying to follow his therapist's advice and focus on the bright side, thus development could be seen as something of a modest victory. "Good point," I say.

Sirius reaches for a peirce of paper tucked under his arm. "Is this yours? I found it on the printer. 'Dear James Potter.' That's you, right?" I'm screaming inside. "Oh, that? That's nothing. It's just this writing thing I do." He scans my face, eyes fluttering down to the peice of paper every now and then. "You write?" I shake my head, trying to keep my cool. "Nah, not really. It's not like- for pleasure." He reads more and his expression changes. "There's Regulus." He looks up. A cold glare. "This is about my brother?" His lips tighten and I see now that our momentary connection is broken. I step back. "Your brother? Who's your sister? No, it's not about her." With one menacing stride, he closes the space between for us. "I'm not fucking dumb." Too close. Too close, Sirius. My hands are starting to go all sweaty again. "I never said you were-!" His eye twitches and he shakes his head. "You thought it." I shake my head, terrified. "No." Theres sweat practically dripping from my hands now.

"Don't fucking lie. I know what this is. You wrote this because you knew that I'd find it!" He spits out and I know that isn't true. I wrote that stupid fucking letter because I'm lonley! For my therapist to read. "What-" He scowls and steps closer to me. "You saw that I was the only other person in here, so you typed it and printed it so I'd find it!" His voice is laced with venom. I look around the room. "What- why would I do that?" I frown. I hate being accused of things which I know aren't true. "So I would read some creepy shit you thought- wrote about my brother and freak out. Right?" Where was this coming from-? "No- wait. What-?!" Why do I bother? "And then you can tell everyone I'm crazy, right?" I shake my head. No. "No- I didn't-" He shoves a stiff finger between my eyes. "Fuck you, Potter." I'm expecting those two words to come with a red exclamation point, something painful, but they actually land weak. He turns around amd heads for the exit. He doesn't think I'm worth the effort. I couldn't agree more. Anyway, I'm grateful. I'm not sure I could survive another fall today. The air releases from my lungs, my body loosening. But the relief I feel lasts only a second.

As I watch Sirius Black stalk out, I call after him, but he's too fast. Clenched in his fist as he slips out the door is a totally different kind of red exclamation point: He. Still. Has. My. Letter.