☽𝐌𝐲 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧☽ -ᴊ.ғ.ᴘ

✾ɴᴇᴡ sᴛᴏʀʏ ɪᴅᴇᴀ✾

"Love you, buddy. See you on Friday"

Harry Potter, a strapping four and three quarters years old, grins goofily, looking the most resolute anyone's ever looked before when he strongly declares,

"Love you more, Dad"

James' chest feels heavy, somehow both in the best and worst ways possible. There's light and dark, happy and sad, love and hate, because that's another thing that passes through the generations of Potters. That phrase. Love you more. James had said it to his dad, his dad had said it to his dad and so on until the beginning roots of the family tree. He swallows past the lump growing in his throat, whispering back just as his dad would, his dad before him and so on until the beginning roots of the family tree.

"Not possible, Son"

If possible, Harry's grin broadens further, promptly running back inside after one last kiss to the head from his Dad. As soon as he's completely gone from sight, James drops his cheery facade, allowing his shoulders to deflate and his smile to fade, ignoring the concerned gleam swimming in Lily's eyes. He sends her a pathetic excuse for a wave, backing away and heading for his preferred method of transportation.

Muggle car.

Shutting the door, and buckling in for safety, he clutches the steering wheel, putting on a brave face for the sake of the cute little one peeping out from behind curtains a nice floral pattern. James pulls a funny face that makes him crack up and pull an even funnier one back, waving so enthusiastically he nearly topples over. God, does James love that boy. His motivation, his navigation, his strength. His lifeline.

Exhaling a shuddering breath, he turns the keys and stars the ignition, driving off back down the lane wonderfully maintained by the friendly community. The ride home has never gotten any easier, just as godawful as the first fifteen months ago. He'd cried inconsolably that day, nothing helped, not even Sirius' stupid skits that embarrassed the hell out of him to perform in front of Remus. Thankfully, Sirius resorted to other methods, methods that saved relationships and made James' Mondays a touch less unbearable.

Brunch. On Mondays, after he drops Harry off at his Mum's, at James' ex wife and her girlfriend's, Sirius and Remus meet him about halfway on the drive home for brunch. He never gets there at the agreed time on the dot, the traffic differs every week, but his friends never complain if he's five or forty minutes late. They're just pleased to see him dressed and out of bed. James never has the heart to tell them they are Sunday's clothes slept in despite how much it makes him feel like a fraud.

Harry is always showered, always clean and in a fresh set of whatever he picks from his wardrobe, most often something with a relation to quidditch on the front. Sometimes an owl or a furry wolf he wears with so much pride for his Uncle. James is the polar opposite, daggy and ungroomed. He hasn't had a proper haircut in years, his mop of curls now a rowdy hockey flow style, curling into his neck and ears. A spot of facial hair too, not long like Dumbledore's or short boxed like Sirius is recently experimenting, just scruff he hasn't gotten around to cleaning up yet.

Shoving his jingling keys into his pocket, he walks up to the café, a rich red colour that would make the old James' chest fizz with excitement. The James that used to love Mondays. He pushes the door open before he can think too hard on what he's feeling now, stopping short as the greeting bell chimes over his head.

Because on the opposite side of the room, behind working adults talking through professional meetings and muggle kids around Harry's age colouring in dinosaurs and princesses, tucked up in a corner booth,   his best friends. Remus is carefully reading over what James can only imagine the latest report Sirius has written up for work, improving any accidental errors. Sirius sits close, hugging a steaming mug in his inked hands, not to drink, to blow on gently until it's the perfect temperature for Remus to drink.

It's sickening as much as it's beautiful and suddenly James is taking a step back from the door, hesitant to intrude on the love that's stronger than ever. He swallows, debating on whether to leave and make up some excuse later when Sirius inevitably turns up at his front door demanding answers. He's so wrapped up in his thoughts  he doesn't notice the figure walking oddly near the strip of buildings, until it slams into his side so hard James ends up facing the street.

Most likely due to the swift instincts of being a parent to undoubtedly the most adventurous and courageous yet oblivious child in existence, James' arms thrust out, stabilising the figure wobbling unsteady at his eleven o'clock.

Their mouth immediately opens, still facing their forwards direction "Sorry, I heard the bell, I thought you'd g —— James"

James' head whips around in a lightning flash, thinking he must be hearing things. There's no way this figure, this stranger's just said his name, not like a question, unsure and confused, like a discovery, a breakthrough, breathy and knowing. They've not even seen his face. He's not even seen theirs. The most contact they've had is a brief brush of hands, it's hardly an area of identification. Not when there's over four billion other people on the planet.

He blinks crazily at the darkish bun loosely tied low on the back of their head, out of the way of the strip of thick black stretching from where it's sitting on their ear to something bigger, blockier around the eyes. Rather like the spectacles now crooked on James' face. Only theirs don't have transparent lenses from what he can tell from the side.

James doesn't have to say anything return and he's rather glad about because he's not entirely sure what he's supposed to say to that. They move, she moves, stepping an inch to the right along the pavement, away from him, breathing uneven. Like she's nervous or fearful or in a similar mindful state of him, unable to process what's happening right now.

His gaze drifts downward a fraction, lingering on a freckle three fingers down from their earlobe. It's familiar, his head hurts trying to figure out why it's so familiar. Cogs turning, memories replaying, he's nearly there, nearly at the place that displays the answer he's searching for in big, bold letters. She gulps and starts off walking away from him, fingers wiggling at her sides.

James watches, watches until she carefully turns the corner, disappearing from sight. His eyebrows furrow, peering down to his hands. Bare, empty, wandless. There's nothing special about his hands, nothing that spells out James Potter.

"Prongs, you coming in, mate?"

He turns towards the door, finding Sirius' standing there, smiling faintly when grey eyes scan over his jeans and jumper. Fraud. James is a fraud when he mirrors back the faint smile, stepping through the bell chiming door, following him over to the booth he and Remus claimed. They ask how Harry is, James doesn't tell them he made it a game, a challenge this morning for him to use his big boy muscles to pull James out of bed because he couldn't bear to himself.

They order their food, James doesn't order oatmeal with dribbled golden syrup.

He used to love Mondays.

He doesn't anymore.

{Thoughts?}