A/N: One reviewer asked if I would be doing one chapter for each Marauder in the start. Yes, I will. Here's James, next I think I'm going to do Remus.

James

A sleek trunk. Small etchings around all of the sides, barely noticeable except for when hitting the light, casting shadows of designs of a lion, and the Potter crest. The latches didn't squeak at all when they moved, perfectly shiny. James liked to look at the handcrafted etchings when he was bored. They weren't symbols there - it was a story, depicted through illustrations, stretching from one side to another. If you looked close enough, you could see embedded in the trunk were also a badger, eagle, and serpent.

The rest of the manor was silent, as James stood there. The house-elves were on other levels; down in their quarters, tidying up one of their private quarters on levels above, or down in the kitchens.

And his parents - They couldn't come. They had left three days ago on a mission. He never knew when they were coming back; he never knew if they would come back at all. They said he should be able to come back for Christmas; they shouldn't be on a mission at that time.

Shouldn't.

But they always were. They always said they shouldn't be gone, but they always were. James had grown up lonely. He had as much money as he could have wanted, he had a huge house, he had parents that loved him, sure. To anyone looking on he seemed to have the perfect life. He was James Charlus Potter, sole heir to the Gryffindor line! There were hundreds of swords he had used in the training room, and he had so much magic in his blood, he didn't know what to do with it!

But he had never had someone to confide in, someone to share a bond with. He was his parents' miracle. They were old when they had him; they thought they wouldn't be able to have any children. Yet James came, and as they reminded him countlessly, they would've traded all they had and more to have him.

James had never had any friends. He had never snuck out of the house, he had never been able to celebrate his birthday with friends, he had never been able to stay up late into the night, just talking. He longed for human company more than anything else. His only outlet was through his drawing and painting.

Years ago, when his parents left for a long mission, he felt too alone. It had been weeks since they left, and he had meandered through the manor. He had long since discovered all of the hidden passages and rooms, except for the ones he was banned from. Well, that's what his parents thought. There was no one in the house except for him, like it often was. He had leaned against the wall, thinking desperately about how he would love for something to do, something that only he could do. He had always been talented at quidditch and at magic, but there was always someone more talented.

He wanted something he would be good at that no one else was.

Where the wall was a second before, there was suddenly air. And he fell. He would like to say that he tumbled gracefully, but that was not true. Desperate to make contact with something solid, he groped about, his arms stretching into the darkness, trying to feel anything. His body started to feel weightless, and his heart beat erratically, and now he was enjoying the fall, and he started to think of it not as a fall, but as a leap. But all too soon, it was over.

He landed with a soft thwump on some sort of thick padding. His interest piqued, he got up and cast a lighting spell with his hands. He didn't have a wand yet, being only eight at the time, but his parents and tutors had taught him how to control his wandless magic.

He was standing on ground that looked hard, but felt like foam, an enchantment. The room was huge, not nearly as huge as the living room, but larger than his own room. The walls, despite being stone, still looked comforting. In the center of his room sat countless art supplies. Easels propping up canvases of all sizes, with oil and watercolor and acrylic paints in hundreds of colors. There were sketchbooks and large, thick, papers. There were what seemed like thousands of colored pencils, different brands and types and colors. And there were so many pens, in different thicknesses and colors.

James knew it. Somehow, this room had delivered him a cure to boredom.

His parents hadn't found out until a last year, where they demanded to know what James was hiding. He had been acting strangely about his parents going into his room ever since he discovered the art supplies, considering he had been hanging them up all over his room for inspiration. When his parents saw them, the product of years of loneliness, their mouths dropped open.

"James," his mother breathed, taking in every inch of his walls, "this is - how - why did you not tell us?"

James didn't reply, but instead looked down at his feet, blushing profusely.

Before he knew it, he was overladen with even more than he had found in that room.

He stood now, in front of the door, with his trunk in one hand and his owl, Bubonem, in the other. It was 11:00, and he had to walk to the nearest floo fireplace, before flooing to King's Cross. They had fireplaces connected to the floo at their house, but his parents insisted on disconnecting them whenever they went away.

So he set off, still reminiscing on years past, walking at a steady pace down the streets in the bright sunlight, heading for a friend of his dad's shop, where he would be able to floo to the station. All alone, a misunderstood boy walked, trunk in one hand, owl cage in another, wand tucked safely in a holster his parents had gotten him for his eleventh birthday. He could practically hear his parents wishes of good luck to him, and at last, he was comforted.

A/N: I got the idea of James being an artist from another fic. I forget what it was called, but I'll post it if I remember. The name Bubonem (according to google translate) means 'owl' in latin. So original. Thanks to all the reviewers from last chapter, can we get three for this chapter?