*Previously published as Genesis: A Beginning of Various Ends - now re-edited/written/imagined
Prologue
Just take a run at it.
It's a wall.
It's a magic wall.
It's a bloody metal wall.
It's a fake bloody metal wall. It isn't really there.
It looks pretty damn there to me.
Your mother said you'd be fine. Your mother wouldn't lie to you.
Sure she would. She lies all the time.
No she doesn't!
Does too.
When has she lied?
Well, she told me that things would start growing under my bed if I didn't clean it, and that eventually they'd get so big, they'd try to eat me.
That's probably true. It was pretty gross down there.
It's a wall.
Just close your eyes and run.
I don't want to.
What kind of would-be Gryffindor are you?
With a heavy sigh, James Potter closed his eyes and gripped the handle of his trolley until his knuckles turned white. He knew there wasn't actually a wall there. It was magic – an illusion. A basic illusion meant to trick Muggles into seeing what they wanted to see. But it was a damn good illusion – it looks so real, so very there, and nothing could make James's eyes believe otherwise. Still, the annoying voice in his head was right: if he was going to be sorted into Gryffindor, he was going to have to run at this wall. Hell, if he was going to be sorted into any house (Merlin save his soul), he was going to have to run at this wall. It was fact. It was necessity. Even Hufflepuffs could pass through the barrier.
Why not? What could it hurt?
It could hurt a lot. It's a wall. A big, metal wall.
Squib.
"James, you're going to miss your train," his mother said sharply from behind him. He could sense her narrowed eyes leave the back of his head and look to the large clock on the wall. He glanced up himself, seeing that read 10:42. He had approximately eighteen minutes to run through this wall, find a compartment on the train, load and secure his heavy school trunk into said compartment, say goodbye to his mother, and, somewhere in that time span, breathe.
"You're wasting time," she said tartly.
James sighed again, took a deep breath, then held it.
"Darling, you do still want to go to Hogwarts, don't you?" his mother asked in that sickly sweet, patronizing tone of voice, the one that said he'd better answer correctly. No 'or else', just that he'd better. James knew the exact expression on her face – her chin tilted downwards, eyebrows slightly raised, eyes wide and expecting, mouth firmly set. She waited for him to reply, not because she didn't know the answer, but because she wanted to know that he did.
"Yes, Mother," James said upon releasing his breath.
"Because you don't have to," she insisted, and James didn't doubt for one moment that it was a trap. "We could just go home, and you can do whatever you want. And in a few years, you can get a job waiting tables, or cleaning streets, or you could even get a Muggle job–" And she wasn't bluffing. He could say he wanted to go home, and she would take him home. He would be allowed to do whatever he wanted, even if what he wanted to do was nothing at all. And he would spend the rest of his life leeching off his family's well-earned money, knowing he was a disappointment, and a disgrace to his father's name.
"I want to go to Hogwarts, Mother," James said through gritted teeth.
He jumped when he felt firm, slender fingers grasp his shoulder, tight enough to feel her sharp nails press against his skin, but not threateningly. He scrunched his eyes closed determinedly and tried to keep himself steady as he felt her lean down to him, felt her warm breath tickle his ear, making him shudder involuntarily.
"Then you'd better run."
Her voice was a deep whisper, soft and firm, and laced with honey and spice. James remembered. It was the same voice that would sing away the monsters in the dark of night when he was scared, and his pain when he was hurt or sick. It was the voice that had always told him to be strong, and brave, and that everything was going to be all right. And because he had always believed her, it was that voice that made him want to be brave now.
So James took a deep breath. He gripped his trolley tighter, and prayed to Merlin and to God to whomever else was listening that he wouldn't screw up.
And he ran.
The barrier was nothing more than a rush of wind in his ears. As soon as it had started, it was over. He'd made it through the barrier in one piece and with all limbs and various extremities attached just where they should be. He wasn't the smear on a metal wall he thought he ought to be.
Well that was simple enough.
James could feel that voice in his head roll its metaphorical eyes.
He looked around platform 9 ¾ for the first time in his albeit relatively short life. There were people everywhere in various states of rush and panic. The people there were in various forms of dress, from high quality, expensive robes, to all-but-patched-rags being passed off as robes, to muggle nightwear that clashed horribly with trousers and handbags, and various in-betweens.
James's mother strode through the metal barrier with her head held high, her posture perfect, just like she owned the place. Like she was rich. Like she was Pureblood. She was dressed smartly in a beige muggle blazer and skirt, complete with black heels and white pearls. Her long black hair was pulled tightly back in some elegant French hairstyle and her red lips complemented her fair complexion exquisitely. She looked ready to take over the world. She probably was. Her blue eyes were sharp, but kind, and she regarded her son fondly.
"Well, darling, here you are," she said with a slightly stiff smile.
"Yeah." Is it still too late to change my mind?
Squib!
"Stand up straight," Mrs. Potter said brusquely, and James automatically, almost involuntarily, stopped slouching. He glanced down at his shoes, cheeks burning, but his mother lifted his chin with a finger. He looked up into her eyes and found them… moist. And unusually warm.
"Your first day of Hogwarts," she said smiling, not in her usual business-like tone. She said like a mother to her son. "Your father would say this is your first step into manhood."
"I'm sure he would if he were here," James grumbled. Mrs. Potter ran a hand through her son's unruly black hair, tried to tidy it, then gave it up.
"He wanted to be here, James. But you know he had to –"
"Work," James finished, pulling away from his mother.
"Your father's an important man."
"I know," James sighed, defeated. James straightened up again, telling himself that it didn't matter. And that he wasn't lying.
"He's proud of you," she told him.
"I know," he answered, forcing a smile.
The train screamed and steam billowed into the air in a great stream. The clock on the platform read 10:53. Mrs. Potter straightened herself and cleared her throat, and so James did the same.
"Be sure to write home once you've settled in," she told him.
"I will," he answered with a courteous nod.
Mrs Potter approached her son and wrapped him in a tight hug. James tensed at first, but soon relaxed and returned the embrace. He closed his eyes and breathed in her perfume, and could recall bedtime stories and childish games and laughter and warmth. He remembered that his mother loved him.
He reminded himself that Gryffindors don't cry.
He pulled back first, and looked his mother in the eyes. She held his shoulders at arm's length, subtly refusing to let go completely. Her eyes were filled with shimmering liquid now, but the tears did not slip out. She had been a Gryffindor as well, after all.
"Have a good term, darling," she said, and kissed him on the forehead. James smiled a small smile and said nothing, not trusting his voice not to waiver, or worse, crack.
He turned back to his trolley and rolled it up to the closest train door. A couple older boys wearing shiny silver "P" badges helped him lug his trunk (which probably weighed as much as he did) onto the train. He was about to pull himself onto the train when heard his name practically snapped over the cacophony. Feeling a sudden jolt in his stomach that he figured was surprise, James spun around and scanned the thick crowd, looking for the body that belonged to the voice. He pulled himself up onto the step of the train to give himself a little height, a better view, all the while feeling completely sure he'd imagined the voice. And then suddenly, he found himself staring into grave hazel eyes.
"What are you doing here?" James asked through the lump forming in his throat. He automatically snapped to attention: back straight, shoulders squares, chin up. His muscles were pulled so tight he thought he might snap, oozing to the ground like over-boiled spaghetti.
The man walking brusquely towards him through the thick crowd was tall and lithe, and James knew he was solid muscle. The face was somewhat haggard and worn, though still vaguely handsome, with deep lines around the mouth and eyes, and the dark hair was greying visibly at the temples. The bespectacled eyes held no humour, and little warmth. He was no older than forty, but easily looked ten years older. He wore dark robes (or it could have been a long coat) open over dark clothes, and it fluttered ominously behind him as he approached.
James swallowed hard and stood his ground. He tried to look tough. He felt nauseous.
When he reached the train, the man, holding James in place with his firm gaze, wordlessly reached into the pocket in his coat (or robe). James stiffened, but did not dare move. The man pulled out a slender wooden box and handed it to the boy, who blinked stupidly once and took it with a baffled expression. James looked up at the man with a furrowed brow, his own bespectacled eyes asking his multitudes of questions for him.
"Dad…" was the only thing that managed to escape his lips.
"Have a good term, son," the man, James's father, said almost conversationally.
"Thanks," was all James managed to say, slipping the box into his back pocket, next to his wand. As he fumbled with the thing, trying to ensure that it wouldn't fall out and be lost, he felt a large, calloused hand clap him sharply on the shoulder.
"Loosen up, kid, you look like you're going keel over. You're not going to war."
At these words, James felt a surge of heat flood to his head, and yet he somehow couldn't keep the smile from spreading across his face. He felt all of his muscles relax as he realised he'd been being stupid. His father was right, he wasn't going to war, he was going to school. And he didn't have to try to impress his parents, because there they were, both standing on the platform, already proud. A lightness settled in his heart as excitement and determination took the place of the nerves that had been accompanying him since the moment he'd awaken, at the crack of dawn that morning.
He turned and started to leave when he heard his name again. He looked back at his father, who was now standing with his wife. His dark clothes and scruffiness contrasted sharply with the light business suit and immaculate appearance of the woman beside him, but somehow it matched.
He was still going to impress them, though. He'd give them a reason to be proud.
"Write home the minute you get a chance, otherwise your mother will fret and I'll have hell to pay."
James couldn't help but laugh. "Bye Dad," he said, smiling fondly at his parents. He turned around and marched into the train, his chin held high, his posture perfect, just like he owned the place. Just like a Pureblood.