Chapter Text
𝕵ames used to love Mondays.
For him, Mondays were like mini New Year's, a fresh start, a clean state, another week full of opportunities and possibilities.
Monday's were waking up at six on the dot, throwing on the first thing he could get his hands on and rushing down to the Quidditch Pitch. Monday's were flying solo up to owl's eye view to watch the golden light dribble over the dewy land like the sticky sweet syrup he has on his oatmeal.
Monday's were receiving letters from Mum and Dad and being chased from one side of the castle to the other after pranking Filch, his noble sidekick, Mrs Norris more often than not exposing their hiding spots. Jotting his name down on the detention slip didn't feel like the terrible ordeal others made it out to be because Mondays were James Potter's days.
Never could he even begin to understand the rest of the world's paralysing dread, the reluctance to peel away the cosy quilt, the hatred to be at number one of seven again. James never understood any of that.
Not until now.
"James,"
The call for attention isn't impatient, but isn't exactly patient either. A medium. Not a happy medium, there's nothing happy about this, well not for him anyway. Just a medium.
"What?" He mutters, hating how familiar the gruffness of his voice is becoming to his ears. Gruff, curt, short, Euphemia Potter would be slapping his wrists if she heard.
Shame crawls up his throat like Malevolent Mixture, forcing a weak smile to his face when he manages to convince his eyes to meet hers. She looks different, free. James couldn't remember the last time he looked free. Felt free.
"I said, is there anything else? We have a booking slot for the Niffler farm we'd like to make on time."
He could, however, remember the Niffler farm, visiting when the extra shiny gates first opened and the we was their family of three. He could remember the first hour or so going well, how lateness was forgotten when Godric Niffledor nuzzled his sniffling platypus beak in all Harry's ticklish spots, dissolving him into the most infectious laughter. He could remember the torrential midday downpour, making their sandwiches irredeemably soggy and Lily laying into him on the q.t. for obsessing over the other visitors and their surroundings instead of the fun of their son.
He remembers the absence of his mum's wedding ring only being noticed when dinner was on, and the severe lack of hurry to get it back, safe and sound.
He remembers Lily swearing they would never go back again after their night was filled with silencing charms and screaming matches and deafening alarm clocks to move from the couch before Harry's rumbling belly woke him up for Daddy's delicious pancakes, shaped in the form of whatever special interest phase he was in. They didn't go back again. Not when the we was their family of three. The we isn't their family of three anymore, hasn't been for a while.
James swallows roughly, spotting the familiar, dark coiled curls bouncing out from behind the kitchen cupboard that hides the practical muddy wellies from plain sight. Three pairs of boots in three different sizes plant down against the spotless, tiled floor and then the cupboard's swinging shut, revealing the gorgeous face that steals hearts.
The gorgeous face smiles, greeting him the same way it had across the Gryffindor table since they were eleven, twelve,
"Hi, James!"
James holds up his hand in the air, all fingers folding down onto his palm as he nods back the same way he would across the Gryffindor table when they were eleven, twelve.
"Morning Mary,"
Flashing another pearly white smile, Mary Macdonald disappears, presumably off to find the coats next, there is a slight chill in the air. No sunshine, bright and blinding, all clouds, grey and grim. Hand falling limp to his side with a light slap, James' gaze drifts back to the free redhead leaning against the doorframe, the raise of her eyebrows reminding him of the question asked.
He quickly shakes his head, dismissing, "No no, nothing else. I'll — uh — I'll let you get going, can't be late for your slot."
Lily smiles, not at James, at the little, fast growing body that's suddenly springing out the door from behind her, sprinting up the path to the arms opening big and wide for him. Up into the air, James throws him once, twice, until giggles that remind him of pure love chime in his ears and then it's time to tuck him close and squeeze the next four days worth of hugs out of him.
Because Mondays mean handing over his baby and not seeing him again until the end of the week.
He buries his nose deep into the unruly mop of curls that make him a Potter through and through, planting a firm kiss to his head,
"Love you, buddy. See you on Friday."
Harry James Potter, a strapping four years old, grins goofily, looking the most resolute anyone's ever looked before when he strongly declares,
"Love you more, Daddy."
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. As soon as he's completely gone from sight, James drops the cheery facade, allowing his shoulders to deflate and his smile to vanish, turning a blind eye to 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 pretty 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. Merlin, does James love that boy. His motivation, his navigation, his strength. His lifeline.
Exhaling a shuddering breath, he turns the keys and starts the rusty ignition, driving off back down the lane wonderfully maintained by the friendly community. The ride home has never gotten any easier, just as awful as the first fifteen months ago. Inconsolably, he cried that day, nothing able to help, not even Sirius' stupid skits that embarrassed the hell out of him to perform right in front of Remus. Thankfully, Sirius soon resorted to other methods, methods that saved relationships and made James' Mondays a touch less unbearable.
Brunch.
On Mondays, after he drops off Harry at his Mum's house, 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 five 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 phoney.
Harry is always showered, always smelling delicious, dressed in a fresh, clean set of whatever he picks from his wardrobe, usually something relating to quidditch on the front. Every once in a while an owl makes an appearance or a furry wolf he wears with so much pride for his Uncle. James is the polar opposite, daggy and ungroomed. It's been years since he had a proper haircut and it shows, his dark curls now a rowdy hockey flow style, curling into his neck and ears.
A spot of facial hair now shadows his face too, nothing majestic like Dumbledore's waist-length look, or short boxed like Sirius is currently experimenting with, just some 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 far side of the room, behind working adults talking through professional meetings and muggle kids around Harry's age enthusiastically colouring in dinosaurs and princesses, tucked up in a corner booth, his two and only best friends.
Ever so carefully reading over what James can only imagine is the latest report Sirius has written up for work, Remus, correcting and improving any accidental errors the pump of adrenaline caused him to skip over. Sirius sits close, hugging a steaming mug in his inked hands, not to drink, but to gently blow on until it's the perfect temperature for his boyfriend to drink.
It's sickening as much as it's beautiful and suddenly James is stepping back from the door, hesitant to intrude on the love that's stronger than ever. He bites his lip, debating on whether to leave and make up some lousy excuse later when Sirius inevitably shows up at his front door demanding answers for his unexplained no-show.
He's so wrapped up in his thoughts he fails to notice the figure walking oddly close to the strip of buildings. Fails to notice until it slams into his side so hard James ends up back facing the street.
Most likely due to the reflex instincts of being a parent to undoubtedly the most adventurous and courageous yet oblivious child in existence, James' arms thrust out, respectfully stabilising the figure wobbling quite unsteadily at his eleven o'clock.
Their mouth immediately opens, still facing their forwards direction, "I'm so sorry, I heard the bell so I thought you'd — 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, but 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, which is hardly an area of identification. Not when there's over four billion other people on the planet.
He blinks crazily at the darkish, lopsided up-do their hair is messily thrown into, out the way of the thick strip of black stretching from where it's sitting on their ear to something bigger, blockier around the eyes. Not unlike the spectacles now crooked on James' face, only, from what he can tell from the side, the lenses aren't transparent.
James doesn't have to say anything return and he's rather glad about it because he isn't entirely sure what he's supposed to say to that. They move, she moves, stepping an inch or two to the right along the pavement, away from him, breathing uneven. Like she's nervous or fearful or in a similar headspace as him, unable to process what on Merlin's magical earth is happening right now.
His gaze drifts downward a fraction, lingering on a peculiarly shaped freckle three fingers down from her earlobe. It's familiar, his head hurts trying to figure out why it's so bloody familiar. Cogs turning, memories replaying, he's nearly there, nearly at the place that displays the answer he's searching for in letters as bold as the sunglasses hiding her identity. Nearly.
She gulps and starts off walking away from him beforehand, curiously rubbing the palms of her hands together. And James watches, watches her every careful and wary step until she turns the corner, disappearing from sight. His eyebrows furrow, peering down to his own hands. They're on the larger end of the scale, sinewy and maybe a little worn from years of tending to a wooden broomstick, but nothing spectacular, out the ordinary. Distinguishable.
"Excuse me, Sir? You're letting in a draught. Are you coming in?"
He turns towards the open door, coming face to face with the muggle barista he's exchanged pleasantries with a few times. Times when he went along with it, pretended he wasn't what he is. A phoney. He shakes his head, choking out a weak apology as he shuts the door, walking briskly back across the street before his friends can spot his retreating figure. His retreating, cowardly figure. He can't tell if that's better or worse than being a phoney. Can't tell which would have made his parents more disappointed in him. He's almost glad he can't find out.
Entering his inherited manor, empty and silent, he drops his keys onto the kitchen counter, ignoring the pantry housing the oats and sticky, sweet syrup and heading straight for the stairs. He climbs up them slowly, climbs into bed even slower, burying his face into the pillow Harry had playfully hit him with earlier to wake him up.
He tries to sleep Monday away.
He doesn't love them anymore.