James
What does it mean to be Harry Potter's son?
Let's see… It means that I'm recognised wherever I go as I very much look like him (apart from my eyes, I've got my mother's eyes). It means that everybody wants to be my mates, people treat me with respect and give me my way in anything, they look up to me as if I'm a kind of bloody God or something, even teachers spoil me sometimes (not McGonagall or Longbottom obviously, they are such a pain in the arse). It means that at seventeen I got more babes than all my mates put together. When they were discovering the joy of a good snog, I was at another level altogether. I snap my fingers and girls open their legs. It's amazing.
I got money too. Like a lot. Not because my parents lavish on me more than is necessary but because being son of him, you can get them quite easily in many silly ways if you have some wit. And I do. For example, I just need to nick one of his t-shirts from the laundry basket after he had had one of his runs (they are all the same he doesn't even notice if one is missing) and there is always a stupid enough girl ready to give me twenty or thirty galleons for it. For a sweaty t-shirt. Hugh. I'll never understand girls.
Once, and I've done it just the one because is very tricky and complicated (and possibly not legal), I asked Rose to brew me some Polyjuice potion, she didn't want to at first. She said that my purpose was surely reprehensible, immoral and blah, blah, blah… such a bore. But at the end, grudgingly, she gave in. I protected her so many times from bullying that she couldn't let me down.
Well, on Christmas holidays I sneaked in my parents' bathroom, and I nicked some of his hair from the shower. When I dropped in the potion it was lit! Minutes later I was my dad! Not an anybody grown man but my dad, famous Harry Potter! I stared at myself in the mirror gobsmacked and, in the reflection, behind me, there was the mad babe that entreated me to do all this. She was already stark naked. Unbelievable. A babe way older than me. A woman.
Well, we spent the next hour very pleasantly. He can keep the rhythm the old man to be almost forty.
I was slightly mortified, however, when the hour was up, and I was back myself. She actually laughed in my face, stroked my hair as if I was a little boy or something and she got dressed straight away. Bloody bitch.
Oh well, sod it! She gave me so much money I didn't ask my parents not even for a sickel for a very long time. I got a present for Rose, I bought her a book, the biggest and most boring I could find, and she seemed vastly pleased, I got my dad some t-shirts to make up for the sold ones, I tried to get something different from what he usually uses (just to be sure I won't end up selling those too) and he seemed pleased likewise. He wore them from what I could gather from letters.
Then Francis and Patrick pointed out that what I've done is probably illegal and goes under the name of prostitution as well. It was surely envy speaking but they may be actually right. I didn't do it again. I had also some scruples of conscience I must admit. It didn't seem too right. Especially in regards of mum… But I don't want to talk about mum.
And anyway, I'm sure he cheated on her so many times that when I think about it, I go mad! And she always trusted him. So naïve. She didn't understand man's nature at all.
I see how women gather around him, how they look at him, all the girls he calls "groupies" ready to do whatever for him. I've seen magazines with so much as pictures of him with other women. All the time I showed them to mum she said that it was only rubbish. But it didn't wash with me. I'm sure he bangs them all right all those bloody girls.
I would.
And do we want to talk about that Regina? Going around the house as if she owns the bloody place?! With all those miniskirts and tight jeans, huge tits, and everything… She is a Slytherin, for god's sake! What possessed them to let her in the secret? What possessed mum to let her into the house? Didn't she see her?! Didn't she understand the danger?
I see how dad feign disinterest, but I know better. No straight male can have Regina under his eyes and not craving to bang her until losing consciousness.
I've got very firm principles against Slytherin and yet when she comes in summertime I must do at least one trip to the toilet to clear my mind and being able to stay in the same room as her composedly. Sometimes even twice if the day is particularly hot and therefore, she is particularly undressed. I don't see why it should work differently for him. I'm so sure they were, and possibly still, having an affair. Dad thinks I'm dumb and I don't notice but I do. I see how he averts his eyes when she looks at him or how he avoids being too close to her. Those are signs if you can read them.
I know he secretly doesn't give a shit mum died, and he could have the decency not to pretend he is heartbroken. He makes me sick. But I don't want to talk about it.
I'm sure when he was in Hogwarts he was getting laid like crazy. Once I asked him about his first time. But he went all elusive. He said seventeen and, like usual, changed topic. Which make me think it's bollocks. Seventeen. As if! Is he taking the piss or what?!
I asked Uncle Ron, (if there is somebody who knows, it's him, and usually he tells me stuff not like dad) but in this occasion he had been all elusive and for some reason got pissed off too, he told me to bugger off. Dodgy.
Anyway, to crack on, the meaning of being Harry Potter's son…
It seems all fun and games up to now, innit?
I suppose it is.
But then I cannot explain why I feel so dreadful all the time especially when I'm in my four-poster bed at night-time and I cannot sleep, I feel all this bitterness and anger. I should be as happy as a lark and I'm not. I pretend to be alright; I pretend all the time but I'm not. Even before mum.
It may be because all the people that gather around me are only hoping to be introduced to my dad or they want to be talked of him, how wonderful he is, how great… Hugh… I feel like puking all the time.
They look up to me all right, but they are always expecting me to do something amazing or other and I feel bound to do it or they may find out I'm nothing special after all. I feel I have to keep on a mask all the time and it's fucking tiring. Sometimes, when I cannot sleep, I wonder who I am really beside Harry Potter's son and there are some scary moments in which I realise I'm just nothing at all. Would they want to be my mates if I was only James? In those same scary moments, I'm inclined to think, that perhaps the answer is no.
All this bloody popularity amid girls has its own drawbacks as well. For example, I scarcely can have an unbothered moment with mates. There are always silly girls who think it's ok to interrupt us for the sake of a stupid chat or to invite me here or there. A bore hardly describable. But that's the least.
I must be careful as well. It's true I like a fuck well enough, but I still care to have it happen for a choice and not an imposition. I always ought to be extra careful with whatever food or drink I intend to consume. Babes just loooove to slip love potions in whatever. I learned it on my own skin. I must thank god that I was with Francis when I swallowed stupidly that butterbeer that appeared from nowhere on my bedside table an afternoon in my fourth year. He had to beat me up real bad to prevent me to rush to the idiotic girl who had the idea. I struggled like a whomping willow, and I don't even remember having done so. In the end he had to jinx me, and I spent the rest of the day and night petrified in my bed until I got over it. The next day I was raging like a rabid dog. I threatened the girl so viciously that she exploded into tears and from then on maintained a more than ample distance. And I sent a furibund letter to Uncle George. Those potions are fucking dangerous! He thought my story a very good fun however and not a good enough reason to withdraw them from the market since it is one of the most sold products, but he taught me a useful spell to check whether the food is poisoned. Later I realised that dad use it all the time when he drinks or eat something outside home. I taught it to Albus as well. Better be safe than sorry.
And even if it seems like a blast having plenty of freakishly-hot babes willingly opening their legs so easily, sometimes it debases me amazingly. They don't give a shit about me. What they really want is only to be seen hanging around with me, they don't give a shit whether I speak or not and when they do, I regret having ever wished for it.
I try sometimes to engage them in a worthwhile conversation, but they always seem kind of shallow and not very interested in me anyway. They don't even see me; they see my dad.
There is one who seems interesting. I think I had a pretty bad crush for her, perhaps I still do. Well, just because it's only me and you I'll admit it; I actually still do, but she despises me for the use I make of my dad's fame. She doesn't understand anything. It's the only thing that gives me an edge! And anyway, I never use it, it's everybody else that does it for me.
I never got anything from my him. He has always been so secretive and distant. I always had the impression I didn't know him at all.
When Lily died my impression grew stronger. Dad was seriously scary; I've never seen him like that. I'm sure he did something nasty to mum when we left her alone with him. I didn't want to go the Burrow. I didn't want to leave mum. But I have been forced to and when he came to pick us up, he was like usual, mild, and quiet.
He had done something to her, and I know exactly what. They won't tell but I know. I'm not dumb.
I don't want to talk about mum anyway.
The year I freaked out, he finally explained us all what he never did before. I was gobsmacked. Really. He had it tough. I felt sorry for him for a while.
I think he understood my point and tried in his way to get close. It had been ok. But a bit too late. Fourteen years too late.
For all my childhood I felt left out. I could see how well he got on with Albus, they always talked and laughed together, I was only the troublesome, the unmanageable.
I only wanted the same perhaps.
When Lily arrived, we fell into oblivion. I can understand why. She was real charming my sister, cheeky little monkey I called her, I could understand him being smitten by her. I was smitten too. My little sister. I can still visualise her falling down on the snow. The mayhem that followed, the realisation of what happened. The realisation that it was my fault. It wasn't Uncle Ron. Everybody thought it was him, but it wasn't. It was me. Mum didn't want to go, dad neither. They knew uncle was mad. I knew it too. But I didn't want to miss the fun. Such a spoiled selfish baby. And she paid.
I don't want to talk about her though.
When dad decided it was time to spend some time with us that he preferred Albus' company was blatant, so often I was going with mum instead. She was taking me to the team's trainings, and they were always proper nice with me. Mum was lovely, she was always happy to spend time with me. She would talk to me, listen to me and explained me things. She was always there for me. My mum.
But I don't want to talk about her.
When dad found out I was skilled in defence against the dark arts things changed a bit. I finally felt important in his eyes. There was something I could do well, and he seemed to enjoy my company for once. He would spend hours training me up and when he did, bit by bit he started to talk to me like if I was… well… a person at his same level. I liked it. I wanted to be an Auror. I wanted to be like him. What a prat I was in thinking I was worth something. When back at Hogwarts, I could realise it well enough. How people talked about him, all what he did! What could I do to match it? Nothing. I would never have been like him. I would never have been really important to him. There was always Lily first, Albus second and later Sunrise. Never me.
Albus told me it's all bollocks, it gets proper angry when I mention it which is odd from him. He says I don't understand dad at all. That he really loved mum and never cheated on her, that he never told us things because it's difficult for him and wanted to protect us, that I'm actually the sodding apple of everybody's eye but just too a moron to notice and blah blah blah…Yeah, right. I'm blind and he has got the third eye. He is just such a daddy's boy.
But then, as well, he seems so much happier than me. I don't understand why. He is called Potter too. He has got exactly the same eyes as him and they are proper magnets for babes. He never seems too interested though. I thought he was a poof or something at one time, but no. It's only because of Rose. With her he gets horny enough. Fair enough. Perhaps that helps. Not bragging about girls I mean, not incestuous love.
And he doesn't seem to care whether people like him or not and everybody adores him anyway. He doesn't do anything special to earn it. He doesn't boast, he doesn't look for troubles and he has got everybody's respect. Why? Why does he obtain so easily what I must struggle to keep up? And damn, I cannot help liking him also! I should hate him as I hate dad, but I can't. Not him.
Oh yes, you understood perfectly well, I hate my dad alright. I could be happy if it weren't for him. I hate him for what he did in the past, for what he is. I hate him because everybody loves him but most of all I hate him for what he has been uncapable to do. In regards of me but overall, in regards of mum.
He let that maniac killed her! He didn't protect her! He left her alone! He didn't care about her as I did. I would never have left her alone! I'll never forgive him this! Never! Mum was the most important person in my life, the only one who understood me, and he hasn't been able to protect her! It's his fault, totally his fault if she died! If it weren't for him, we could all have been happy!
I hate him. I wish I wasn't his son. I wish I hadn't this face. They should take away Sunrise from him and not allow him to get close to her anymore. He will ruin her life like he ruined mine and I can't stand it!
Apparently, he is keeping up the heart broken bullshit. Aunt Hermione is at our place, Rose told us. He is not well, or so she says. I got two letters from him. Albus too. He was very pleased, I could tell. I didn't want to open mine. I shoved them both in my trunk.
A couple of nights ago though, I couldn't sleep. I was keeping turning in bed and I was feeling awful. I missed mum so much, I know I shouldn't, I'm seventeen for god's sake, I should know better than snivelling for my mum. But at night-time it gets difficult to have the strength to fight off… well… feelings, I guess.
Anyway, upset as I was, without knowing what I was doing, I found myself rummaging in my trunk looking for the letters. I brought them to the common room to read them.
It was quite empty, too late into the night to find anybody, there was still a low fire in the fireplace giving enough light for me to read. My hands were slightly trembling, and I didn't even know why.
And I began reading. There was nothing special written in them and I don't know why but it got to me. They were exactly his style. If he wrote something sentimental, for example that we will all be happy again or bullshit of that kind I would have felt right in hating him and chuck everything into the fire straight away. But as it was, I couldn't. I know all he wanted to convey with those letters even if he didn't write it down. He didn't need to. I know him well enough to understand his meaning. And it seemed suddenly so blatant he is genuinely grieving. It was hidden in every line, in every word. And I felt so lonesome and miserable right then that I started to cry. For no apparent reason if not my dejection but I feel dejected almost every minute of my horrible bloody life and yet I don't usually weep, but that night I did. I don't know for how long, it felt it was unstoppable. There was nobody around and I thank god for that, it would have been my death otherwise! Harry Potter's son behaving like a cry-baby! I felt ashamed of myself, at my age, a man, weeping. Shameful. Especially because while I was crying, I found myself wishing for a visit from dad, I found myself realising that I missed him and longed to talk to him, for a contact of some kind. And those silly wishes infuriated and humiliated me because I don't need him really, I hate him really, I must hate him, I need to hate him! Otherwise… Otherwise…. I don't know…
Therefore, I pushed all those shameful feelings at the bottom of me. I locked them up and I threw what made them surfaced, that is the two letters, into the fire, rekindling that anger I was entitled to feel. I watched them burn slowly and a part of me, the weak one, wanted to snatch them from the fire before it was too late, but I repressed it and hardened. I forced myself observing them crumpling, all the words disappearing eaten by the flames. When they were nothing but cinders, I returned to bed, to my sleeplessness. And I felt even worse. For a second reading those letters there had been a glimmer of a warm feeling making his way in the sourness, a bit like when I was a kid, I caused mischief and dad was angry but when it was bedtime, and I felt guilty and couldn't sleep, he would come to kiss me goodnight, because he knew how I felt and wanted to reassure me he didn't hold a grudge, and I could serenely doze then.
Reading those letters, it was the same feeling.
That night I turned in bed for quite a long time feeling guilty. But nobody came to appease me. The only thing that could do it was in the fireplace, burned down, turned to cinder.