House: Gryffindor
Prompt: James Sirius Potter/OC (not really another option, is there?)
A/N: Thanks much to rileyluvr13 for beta-ing. ^^
Expectations: Life is so constructed that an event does not, cannot, will not, match the expectation.
-Charlotte Bronte
James Sirius Potter loves his dad very much. But then again, his dad is freaking Harry Potter, so who doesn't? Although he loves his dad with all of his heart, deep down inside, he admits only to himself that sometimes he wishes he wasn't the son of the great Boy Who Lived.
Because, well, living up to the expectation of being just as great as your father isn't easy.
And even though his younger sister loves to bask in the glory, and even though his younger brother likes nothing better than to yap away to others about his father's famous wizarding-worldwide known adventures, it seems like he's the only one who knows better.
He knows people expect great things when you're the son of the man who stopped one of the greatest, evil wizards of all time, the man who saved the wizarding world from being demolished. They want you to be exactly like him; to think, to talk, to act all the same way.
But, who cares if he's actually someone different? No one, but himself.
People are swarming him once he gets on the train. They all want to see the first-born son of Harry Potter board the train to Hogwarts; they all want to be his friend.
He swears he has to move down at least five sections of the Hogwarts Express before he finds a compartment all the way in the back. But just as he sits down, wiping his sweaty forehead in relief and thinking he has gotten away, other students start flowing in, jabbering to him and pointing excitedly.
James actually has to pull out his father's invisibility cloak and slide it over his body before racing away to find an emptier compartment. As soon as he collapses and is about to remove the cloak, a girl, another first year like him, walks in and slides the door shut. She sits down and pulls out a book to read.
Oh, crap. That means he has to stay under the cloak for the whole trip.
"I can see you, you know," she says in a bored tone of voice. Which is crazy, because she shouldn't be able to.
"What? How..." He's baffled. Never before has this cloak failed to work.
"I didn't know you'd be as naïve to think those replicas from Zonko's actually work. They're just for show." She snorts, causing him to look down at himself, seeing his body through the sheer, translucent cloak. And then, suddenly, the answer comes to him. He knows exactly what happened.
"Fuck!" he says out loud, never mind that he's only eleven and yet already influenced by his cousin Teddy Lupin's obscene language, while the girl looks at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Fred!" That arse must have replaced his cloak, hoping James would get caught by Filch or someone during the school year!
"I have to go. Thanks for telling me," he says quickly, poking his head outside and searching the empty corridor for signs of first years chasing after him. And when he doesn't see any, he grabs his stuff and heads out.
She glances up from her book once more to say, "No problem. And for future reference, the name's Lynn Thomas."
"I'd tell you mine, but you probably already know it."
"Don't flatter yourself," she says, but a smile is tugging at the corners of her lips.
"Potter, James."
His name arouses interest and a quiet murmur ripples throughout the house tables at Hogwarts as he steps up towards the stool. Because, after all, who hasn't heard the name Potter before? And who doesn't know that he's Harry Potter's first-born child? He takes a seat, and the sorting hat is plopped on his head.
And once he's sorted into Gryffindor, he decides he hates Hogwarts, that he wants nothing more than to go home and run back into the protective arms of his family.
Because the stares are like blazing rays of sun that seep through his robes and burn his skin. So uncomfortable that they make him shift from side to side in his seat on the bench at his new house table.
Lynn ends up getting sorted into Ravenclaw. Figures. He remembers their brief interaction on the train, and he thinks that maybe they at least might be able to be friends. It's the only chance he has for one, as it stands now. But she doesn't even look at him. His stomach sinks, although he's not exactly sure why.
From then on, he puts on a façade of confidence, of arrogance, of certainty. Both back home and at Hogwarts. Because when everyone turns his or her eyes to glance at you, looking like you know everything is way better than knowing absolutely nothing at all. He's a living example.
The door to the boys' bathroom shuts with a bang. He takes the towel wrapped around his neck and swipes at a drop of water falling down his forehead, quite pleased with how everything turned out.
"You did that on purpose." He jumps back, surprised at the sound of her voice. She's sitting on a bench next to the door of the changing room, reading another book. Merlin, how many books can one person read? He's beginning to think she's a clone of Aunt Hermione when she speaks up again.
"You screwed up the tryouts on purpose." The fourth year looks up from her novel and narrows her eyes at him, as if trying to draw him into a trance. He shakes his head in denial at her accusation.
"Why do you have to assume that because my dad's good at Quidditch, so am I?" It's partially a lie, since he's quite skilled at the particular sport. But he's been itching to say that for quite a while, and it is truly something he wants to know.
"You do know you're still going to make the team, don't you?" Lynn tells him, ignoring his previous question. He then realizes that she's completely right. After all, he is Harry Potter's son. If he doesn't get on the team, the whole school would be in shock and outraged at how the Chosen One's child was not given the chance to play like his father did. But James just shrugs in response, and she turns back to her book.
When he finally walks away, he shivers involuntarily. It's like he can still feel those eyes of hers on his back, as if they can see right through him. As if he's just as transparent as the fake cloak he had on when he met Lynn for the first time.
And he knows then that she doesn't believe his little act. At all.
The next time he sees her, it's already Christmas. The days just fly by with all the work their professors have been piling on them, the weekly Quidditch practices (something about that meeting with Lynn convinced him to finally start playing like he usually does, maybe just to prove her right), and a whole bunch of other duties that just blur together, losing their significance and instead earning the label of just another thing to do before the holidays.
He's running down the hallway, pursuing a snitch that Fred has "accidentally"set free (that moron!) but having no success. He's a chaser, after all, not a seeker like everyone expects him to be. James has finally chased it down a small, almost deserted corridor when he sees Lynn sitting down on the floor in the middle of it, submerged in a book almost as thick as a desk.
The snitch flies away unnoticed, no longer in pursuit as James stops in his tracks and stares. Why is she sitting on the ground? As if in spite of him, the snitch zooms right in front of his face. His hand shoots out almost immediately, trying to grab it, but it soars away up near the top of the ceiling. It hovers near a plant with oval, evergreen leaves and smooth, waxy, white berries. Enchanted mistletoe. And sitting directly under it is Lynn, trapped.
"I suppose you want me to snog you senseless?" Her head shoots up as the loud, obnoxious tone of his voice rings and echoes through the empty hallway.
"Not at all," she says, furious at her own lack of perceptiveness that got her into this situation in the first place. "Don't you dare touch me, James."
"Funny." He smirks, tilting his head to the side. "Most girls would be dying for a chance like this."
"I am not," she says, seething, but whether it's at her own helplessness or his facade he doesn't know, "one of those girls, and I most definitely don't need your help getting out of this."
"Alright then," he says, whistling and walking away, pretending not to notice the slight twitch in her cheeks as if she's trying not to smile. When he comes back later that night with the aid of the invisibility cloak – the real one this time, which he had rightfully retrieved from Fred – he notices she has fallen asleep on the ground. She was always too proud for her own good, that girl.
And he decides to do something gutsy. He inches over to her, quietly of course, and kisses her on the forehead, just once, very lightly. He watches with satisfaction as the invisible bonds retract, and the enchanted mistletoe above her head explodes into a shower of gold dust. Then he steps quietly back to the Gryffindor common room, leaving Lynn alone and confused in the morning and wondering why in the world the mistletoe had released her and disappeared.
He looks back over his shoulder to see how close they're getting, and, sweet Merlin, they're lapping at his heels! He tries to take a deep breath to get his heart pumping evenly, but it continues to race irregularly at the speed of light. It's frightening how obsessed they get, how strangely scary they are and have been ever since he turned sixteen and they decided he was ripe for the picking. Yeah, they might have missed out on their chance to get Harry Potter – his mother's awfully monster-like when she uses that Bat-Bogey hex on anyone who gets too close to her husband – but hey, look! His son! That's just as good, if not better, isn't it?
He turns around the corner, opening the door to the library and completely ignoring the fact that Madam Pince is standing right there. She glares at him as he flies by, followed by the oh-so many girls who have much more on their minds than just being his friend.
A light bulb flashes on in his head when he sees Lynn sitting at a table, hiding behind her book on who-knows-what. He doesn't care what she's reading, but only that she's there.
"Lynn!" he hisses, as the girls stop a few meters away, watching carefully at what they believe could be a lovers' quarrel. "Lynn!" he whispers loudly again, and this time she lowers her book, shutting it with a loud thump and glaring at him.
"What?" she mouths back. She smirks in a very arrogant way and, clearly remembering something he said to her not too long ago, says, "Those many girls dying for you to snog them senseless?"
He swallows his pride. "I need your help."
"Oh ho, the infamous James Sirius Potter needs me, Lynn Thomas, lowly peasant, to help him out?" This time the roles are reversed, and instead of Lynn being trapped, he's in the predicament himself, and she's the one standing over him with all the power.
"You owe me."
"I... what? I don't owe you anything! What in Merlin's beard are you talking about?"
He plays his final card. "Who do you think freed you from the mistletoe?"
"You what? After I specifically told you not to?"
"And? You were planning to stay there forever? I don't think so."
She struggles to look for something to say, then blows out a surrendering sigh. "Fine. What do you want me to do?"
"Snog me," he says simply while her mouth drops open, gaping wide before she has the sense to close it. She ogles at him like he had just asked her to jump off the Ravenclaw tower and tumble to her death.
"You've got to be kidding..." Lynn starts, still in obvious disbelief, but the girls, finally convinced nothing is going on and that the two are nothing but acquaintances, are starting to stalk closer to him just like he was chasing the snitch his idiot cousin set off this past Christmas. And because there's no more time, he draws her to him and kisses her.
Pince stomps over angrily, carrying a book as big as an encyclopedia, and holds it above their heads.
"Not in my library, you miscreants!' she shouts and shoos them out of the library. Oh well, at least his plan has worked, and it's not exactly like he goes to the library much anyway. Too bad he can't say the same for Lynn.
But when he sneaks a glance at her, she doesn't seem too displeased or upset. Because at the moment when they kissed, well... they both happened to notice that there just might be the slightest possibility that there's something there.
Well, he's finally done it this time. He's gone loony. He has finally lost it. Not only had he plotted together with the Scamanders for their cauldron to explode green, sticky jelly all over the classroom, but also when the teacher was lecturing him about his father and how he should have known better, James hexed the Slug. And to make it even worse, he just walked out of Potions. Skipping it entirely. Might as well expel him from Hogwarts right now. Then he won't have to see all their incredulous faces staring back at him ever again.
"James," a voice says, hesitant and tentative, as if it's afraid its words might provoke him to do something irrational.
He chooses to ignore the voice. He winds his arm back and then releases the smooth, cold, gray stone. It flies forward into the air, skipping across the water and making ripples, and then sinks into the Black Lake. Deep, deep down, where it will go unnoticed for the rest of time.
"James," she starts again, as if she thinks saying his name over and over again will somehow cause him to react.
"I'm not in the mood, Lynn," he says, because who else could it be? And when she pauses, he continues to throw rocks. Each one plops into the water, and it fills out the silence hanging in the air. He waits for the sound of her retreating footsteps, but it doesn't come. Instead, she walks forward and takes a seat beside him.
"They're expecting you to go back, you know. To apologize for the ruckus you created. Apparently it was something your father used to do all the time after he lost his temper. And well, they all assume you're exactly like your father."
"I'm not." He throws a rock harder this time. It splashes once, causing water to fly in all directions, making her to flinch. A tentacle shoots up not too far away from them and grabs the stone, then disappears back underneath the tranquil, undisturbed surface from where it came. He's sick and tired of all the expectations that are already set up for him. For once, he wishes he doesn't have to be what people expect him to be. The boundaries that refuse to let him be who he really is.
"I'm not my father." The anger inside himself is rising, growing, like a flame that cannot be smothered, his voice as harsh as a whiplash.
"James," Lynn says again. This time, it's firm. Rather unlike the small, unsure voice she used at first. And this time, he stops in his tracks. Because there's something in her voice that sounds like it will make her worth listening to, that tells him he won't want to walk away from it.
"You're not your father. I know that. You're James Sirius Potter, someone who's entirely his own." She says this slowly, but with certainty. The sentence echoes in the distance, repeating itself over and over and over again, as if it's trying to drill itself into his head, to convince him otherwise.
The next part she says so quietly, so timidly unlike her defiant self, it almost sounds like it's coming from the wind. It's such a whisper, it's like it was never said in the first place. But it flows to his ears, and to his ears only. What she meant for him to hear.
"And that's what I love you for."
She steps in front of him, blocking his way to the castle. She wraps her arms around his neck, and she crushes her lips to his. He kisses her back, tilting his head to get closer to her and lifting his hands up to cup her chin.
That's when he knows that there's one person out there who doesn't expect him to be Harry Potter's perfect, ideal son. That there's someone out there who expects him to be himself, to be James Sirius, the person he really is inside. That someone has expectations for him. Expectations to begin fresh, to begin anew, to refuse boundaries that are already set in his path.
And while it may be only one person, at least it's a start.