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Jamie Potter is six years old when he realizes that things aren’t quite the same with him. His friends all love reading and he just can’t concentrate on what’s going on. The words make his head swim if he stares at them for too long, but his other friends seem able to just read forever and ever. They’re all good pure-blooded kids, the kinds you meet at parties and social gatherings, and no one screams and runs like Jamie loves.
He loves his little racing broom that Appa got for him for his last birthday. Being up in the air makes him feel awesome, even though the broom only goes four feet up off the ground, and everything just seems right. All the little things slide into place. Everything is nice in a way that the words aren’t, and feeling jumbled feels okay because the air is jumbled too, just like he is.
Jamie Potter is eight years old when the tutor starts coming home to teach him big kid things, like magic and reading, and reading still bothers him, but he can’t say. He can’t say cause he’s a Potter and he’s supposed to be good at all of this cause he’s gotta be good at reading if he’s gonna be working at the Ministry like Appa.
Jamie thinks being a Potter sucks, sometimes, but that’s another thing he’s not allowed to say.
The words still press on his head and give him headaches, like they’re smacking his face and brain, but he learns about how, in a few years, he’s gonna get to turn things into other things at Hogwarts. That sounds cool, he thinks, as he watches Amma tap a spare spoon with her wand to make him a fork. He wants to do that, see something change under his fingers. That seems like real magic to him.
Amma smiles and says maybe he’ll be an Auror someday. Jamie likes that idea. Aurors don’t have to read much, do they?
Jamie Potter is eleven years old at the end of March, when he gets his letter. It arrives with the rest of the mail, and gets dropped on the doorstep right next to packages from his grandparents. He opens the seal, a little scared that it’s them telling him he just wasn’t good enough, but it’s Hogwarts, asking him to come. Asking him, dumb little Jamie Potter who’s still scared of the dark and can’t breathe sometimes because it’s just too scary to think that someone might not like him.
Hogwarts wants him.
He runs his fingers over the broken seal, liking the smooth feel under his fingers, and resolves that he will do well.
Jamie Potter, who introduces himself as James on the train because Jamie is for babies or girls, is standing in a line of other first year students, waiting to be Sorted. Black, Sirius, the nice boy from the train who turns out to be a distant cousin or something, is up at the front. Jamie’s solidly in the middle, something he’s always liked about his last name. It’s nice to be P, not at the front, but not at the end either.
The boy in front of him, Pettigrew, Peter, is funny and scared just like him, but Jamie is good at acting like nothing bothers him. He’s been doing it for years. So he scoffs at Petey looking scared, talks about how great it’s going to be when Jamie gets into Gryffindor even though he doesn’t feel brave at all, and grins his way through everything, and when the Hat calls Gryffindor, he’s a little more confused than happy.
He wants to throw up, wants to bury his head in a pillow and disappear, because he doesn’t know what to do. The colors are bright, unlike him, but Jamie is a Potter through and through, so his face betrays nothing. He sits down between Pettigrew, Peter and Sirius and meets a new boy named Remus, who looks at Jamie like he knows every inch of him. Maybe Remus knows what it’s like to feel jumbled, Jamie thinks excitedly, but then Remus opens his mouth and is so smart and wonderful that Jamie just can’t manage. His brain feels full to bursting and there are too many sounds, too many lights and too many faces for him to see. He feels like the world is blurry, like all the colors are blending into one endless stream of information, but he is a Potter, so he never says a word.
Evans, Lily is on his other side, and she is quiet, staring across the room another boy sitting under banners of green and silver. Jamie knows how she feels, wanting something she can’t have, and quietly nudges the donuts she’s trying to reach a little closer. He smiles shyly at her, the only time he will allow himself weakness around her until the middle of seventh year, and introduces himself as James, because Jamie is weak and scared and full of faults. James can be someone new. Someone worthy.
“James Potter.” He says, grinning widely.
“Lily.” She replies, and shakes his hand.
God, he hopes he doesn’t scare her away.
Everything seems a little less jumbled already, as long as she’s talking, but he can tell he’s not smart enough to be her friend. So he pushes around the kid that is, doesn’t know how to say he’s jealous that she is so wonderful and good and hates him so. He doesn’t know how to say that he casts Silencing Charms he won’t be learning officially for a couple years around his bed so that he can cry in peace while he tries to make the words explain themselves to him. He doesn’t know how to say he’s so scared of the dark, scared of what it means, scared of what might happen. He doesn’t know any of this and Severus holds the key, Severus knows who to keep and how to keep them.
Severus knows.
So James, no longer Jamie, sneers down at a sniveling Severus, who’s trying to collect all of his fallen books, and promises himself to never care about anyone like Severus cares about Lily.
He feels jumbled, feels out of place, but the boys are an easy place to drown himself and he does so. Jamie cannot be scared if he does not exist, James thinks, and pushes down the part of himself that is scared and feels things, because James is a true Potter, and true Potters are strong.
Gryffindor is where the brave dwell, he reminds himself each morning, as he drapes the red and gold scarf around his neck. To deserve the name, he must be brave.
James Potter is twelve (and a quarter) when he receives his first report card, and nearly chokes at the failing grade posted for flying. He thought he was doing well, but the feeling of clarity that flying gives him swept him away like the air streams he rides. His teacher calls him insolent, says that he doesn’t pay attention to instructions, and is too prone to going off on his own without warning. Father looks disappointed when James is picked up at the station and Mother says nothing of it. He knows that he did well where it matters, managing straight As in all the rest, and that they won’t complain if he plays the part of the good heir.
James does not touch a book all summer, leaving all of his school things to collect dust, and chases daylight on a real, adult broom. He lets his brain empty, knowing school will only be that much harder, but he can’t bring himself to care when flying brings him such happiness. He feels powerful, feels strong, and when they post Quidditch tryout information as part of this year’s Hogwarts letter, he eagerly gets his parents’ signatures and goes for it. James Potter is twelve when he is appointed a Chaser, one of only two people below fourth year on the team, and he revels in the sudden popularity. The older students view him with suspicion, amid murmured whispers that he must have bought his way on, until he scores some fantastic goals in his first game.
After that, everyone smiles at him in the halls, and he waves back. He becomes louder, more boisterous, as Jamie gets shier because Jamie hates the attention because someone might see and think that we’re off, James. James Potter laughs, long and loud, and says nothing of the fact that no matter how much he tries to fight Jamie back down, he is still scared of the dark.
James Potter is fourteen when he accepts that something might be wrong, that no one else feels as jumbled as he does, and tells Sirius one day.
“Mate, you think somethin’ might be wrong with me?” He whispers, hands shaking because it’s already nine and he hasn’t cast the Silencing Charm at 8:52 like he usually does.
“You’re just the same as the rest of us.” A sleepy Sirius answers, tired yawns punctuating the sentence in odd places. “Don’t worry, James.”
Right.
James, not Jamie.
James takes a deep breath and forces himself to fall asleep.
It’s the best he can do.
James is fifteen when his desire to just be around Lily turns into something more, and he is afraid, horribly afraid that he will grow to depend on her. He is horrified by the idea of telling anyone else that something might be wrong with him, fearful of any mistake he might make to show her that he is not quite all there, and so he stays quiet. He bothers her until she can’t stand him, and it is easier that way, because she won’t look too closely at someone she doesn’t like. He will even take detentions, he realizes, if it lets him feel less jumbled for awhile in the way that only working beside her can.
He starts bringing his work to the common room, instead of badgering Remus all the time, and asks her quiet questions sometimes while fiddling with his quill. The words still float off the page and make his head thump like a drum, but it’s better than being alone, at least. James wants to hug her, wants to thank her for what she doesn’t even know she’s doing, but that would be unbecoming. He is a Potter, and Potters aren’t like that.
Jamie would hug her and maybe even kiss her cheek and tell her she means something.
James wonders who he wants to be anymore.
Lily rides in their compartment instead of Severus’, on the way home for Christmas, and chatters excitedly with Remus about the upcoming OWLs and what she’s planning to do.
James shudders, says something theatrical on autopilot, and desperately tries not to think about all the words he has to read, all the essays he has to write to catch up and stay in place for those exams that everyone else doesn’t seem to take hard. He feels like he’s dying, feels like he’s having all the happiness sucked out of him, and can’t sleep, can’t think, can’t eat.
He is different, when he boards the train again, neither confident James nor fearful Jamie, and he is scared of how numb he feels around everyone. James is too jumbled for anything to fix, too imperfect, too broken, and he wonders how he will ever be the perfect Potter now.
Maybe he won’t be.
Sirius makes the word disgrace a fixture in James’ life, for reasons that don’t even involve James, but James uses it on himself like a bandaid. He takes it to heart, wraps it around his thoughts as a reminder, and when he nearly gets as many OWLs as Lily and Remus, he keeps his mouth shut tight. They don’t need to know how much it took out of him, how much he is dreading coming back to school even as he boards the train, and he laughs and jokes like always, except there is nothing where a cloud of humor once was.
James Potter is sixteen when Sirius leads Snape down to the Whomping Willow and James throws himself in front, earning himself a strong bash to the ribs in an effort to get Snape out of the way. It’s too late, for Remus at least, because Severus saw, but James can still save Severus. James can still save this boy who used to be important to Lily and maybe, just maybe, he will be given a secret in return. Maybe this boy will tell him how she is so good at making everyone feel less jumbled and how to make James finally free. Snape, now Severus, sneers and tells him to get to the medical wing, although he looks even paler than usual, and goes back to ignoring everyone immediately after.
The story of James being a hero and saving Snape from a monster spreads around the school and it makes James’ skin crawl because that was not heroism. That was James being selfish and stupid because he wanted to be truly important to someone. But he is a Potter, and needs to have an appropriate reputation, so he says nothing.
James Potter is seventeen when he gets Remus to ask Lily Evans out for him. His mind is screaming, telling him no, James, don’t do this to yourself and he stands in a corner, occasionally ruffling his hair and biting his nails and trying desperately not to rip them clean off like he did just before his Potions OWL last year. Remus reassures him, tells him it’ll be fine, but James is missing his left index finger’s nail when Remus drags a smiling Lily back to him. James hides his left hand in his pocket and holds out his right for Lily to take as majestically as he can manage. James is powerful. James is brave. James is not weak. James is not scared. Lily takes his hand and the storm in his head quiets for a second.
James is a Potter, so he says nothing.
James Potter is seventeen, a month into dating Lily, who he thinks he will marry and love forever, when he is rudely awakened in the middle of Transfiguration class.
“Mister Potter?” Professor McGonagall calls, looking rather worried.
“Huh?” James says, shaking his head to clear away the jumbled parts. His hair shakes slightly with it and he can feel it on his ears and it’s too much. He’ll cut it himself, likely, after this class is over. “How would one go about Conjuring something?” She’s staring him down and it physically hurts to look back. He can see his hands shaking but can’t do anything about it. Everything seems like it’s shaking and the whole weight of the class watching him bears down hard like a block on his chest. He feels small, too small, and doesn’t know what to do.
“I don’t know.” He replies, trying to sound strong and smart and James as best as he can.
“Figures.” He hears Snape in the background, muttering to all of his Slytherin friends. James’ hearing has always been too good, but it’s never hurt him this much before. “Once again, someone expects too much out of poor, dumb Prince Potter.”
“Yeah.” He replies quietly, allowing little, scared Jamie to slip through for a second, taking Snape by surprise. “You’d think they’d learn, huh, Snape?”
It is the talk of the school when James Potter walks out in the middle of Professor McGonagall’s lecture, and he casts even more powerful Silencing Spells and wards that he isn’t supposed to know around his bed that night to scream and shout and tear everything apart until he can think even a little clearly again.
James Potter is seventeen when Severus corners him in a dark hallway that he is not supposed to be in, because it is clearly Slytherin territory. He is without the boys for once, having slipped out while they were off doing something or the other, and Snape seems to grow ten sizes in joy at having captured his prey. “How do you think she’d feel when she finds out you’re a nutter?”
“A—What?” He scoffs it off, trying to pull himself back together. “Nah, not me. You might want to get yourself checked, Snivelly. You’re the nutter here.”
“Everyone sees you losing it, Potter. You’re not as careful as you think you are.” Snape grins, baring sharp teeth for a split second. “Everyone can see the signs that good old Prince Potter is finally realizing that he’s not nearly as special and important as he’s always thought he is.”
“Special? Important?” James mutters. “Yeah. Shove it, Snivelly. We all know that’s a load of crap.” He pushes him off, leaving Snape stunned again, and walks off to Gryffindor Tower again. Funny that the place he feels least safe at is the only place where he is actually safe.
James Potter is eighteen when he finally loses it.
He’s sitting at the base of the girl’s dormitory stairs, minding his own business while he writes the end of his Potions essay, when a first year sees him and yells that there’s a boy trying to get in. He is curled up in a blanket while he finishes his writing and manages to roll it up and tuck it under his arm before McGonagall is called by the wards. She looks at him with something akin to pity before he realizes that he’s lost weight this year. His uniform must be a little big on him. Oh well, he’ll only need it for two more months.
“You do realize that was extremely unwise, Mister Potter.” She sighs as she leads him to her office, as protocol (and the first year who didn’t know who he was) demand. “People might misinterpret your actions. Now what is it that you’re so concerned about?”
“Snape called me stupid.” He says, voice breaking. “He called me stupid exactly three months, twenty-three days, two hours, forty-two minutes and twenty-seven seconds ago.”
“Potter, that is hardly anything to be concerned about.” McGonagall frowns. “And if you are worried enough about your grades to act like this, I suggest actually applying yourself to your studies for once. NEWTs are approaching, Potter, and if you want to go anywhere in life, you had best start studying.”
“I’ve been applying myself all this time!” He growls, anger bubbling up from somewhere inside him. “I’ve been doing all this fucking work the whole time and I just—I just want to—I don’t know! I feel like I’m going to explode! And the worst part is, I wouldn’t feel too damn bad about it!” He yells out the last sentence like a promise, like any true Gryffindor would, and runs for it.
He doesn’t return to the dormitory that night, after hearing word from a gossiping Hufflepuff that Lily is looking for him, and instead hides in the Room of Requirement, only using the passage it gives him to the boy’s dormitory once he’s sure everyone’s fast asleep. James climbs into his bed, casts a Silencing Spell, hugs the pillow close to his face and screams into it until he feels like he’s going to suffocate. Wouldn’t be too much of a loss either.
Poor Prince Potter, people would say. Finally realized that he just couldn’t make the cut all along.
Lily would miss him.
Would she?
His hands stay eternally in his pockets, because the skin that’s bared to the elements now that he’s chewed his nails straight off burns when the sun hits it. He holds Lily’s hand when she nudges his wrist with hers, and makes sure the hand she is holding is perfect and new looking, just like the rest of him should be. Her hands are soft and perfect and she doesn’t have to hide scars from biting the skin of her palms and fingers hard enough to draw blood.
James is embarrassed, of and for himself, but he is good at hiding, so he says nothing.
Lily holds his hand through a doctor’s visit he was not warned for, and so his nails stay unhealed and half bitten through. Lily’s eyes are full of quietly controlled fear as they look over the rest of his body, wondering if there are deeper scars than she’d thought, and James finally lets Jamie speak. He finally tells about how everything is so jumbled and how he tried so hard and nothing still works and help me, the words are so big. He tells about the nails and being so nervous he can’t breathe and how his accidental magic showed up as healing himself because he’d bite his hands hard to prove he wasn’t all jumbled up in the biological sense, at least.
James is shuddering when he’s done, clenching and unclenching his fists because he doesn’t want to bite his nails too hard in front of Lily, not after all he’s said, and the doctor nods sympathetically.
“This happens a lot, with children from privileged families. They keep issues quiet to avoid shaming the name, but then it gets beyond your control. Jumbled, like you call it.”
“Yes.” James breathes out, because that is his story.
That is it, in small, bright words that fit instead of making his head thump.
That is him feeling jumbled in unjumbled ways.
James is given a row of neat labels that make his head swim a little, but promise a whole world of better that is just about ready to open up to him if he’ll push the door. Lily knows how scared he is now, and will automatically hold his hand if they are out too late. She knows how much everything is jumbled, so she casts spells that make it so the loud noises don’t scare him, and explains the books to him so that the big words don’t thump in his head. She is quiet about it, confident and clear, and he wonders how she does it.
But he’s starting to feel the same way, a little at a time, and thinks that maybe he can be brave too.