The Perils of Gingers and Flesh-Eating Slugs

Through the small windows, greased up with murk and fumes from the cauldrons chugging out fumes from dawn until dusk, shards of natural light could spread out into the basement department within the government building which was, as the name suggested, a mystery to all and most especially so to those who worked in its midst. No one asked the potions masters what they kept in their cauldrons just as no one ventured to the magical historians whether they could sneak a look at the artefacts retrieved from a previous dig site. They all stayed out of each other’s way and everyone upon everyone avoided those who worked in the Death Chamber – except of course, as you can well imagine, a curious young fellow with dark, perpetually mussed hair which he battled with to keep calm and collected, a fellow who, over his tortoiseshell glasses he peered, interested in everyone and everything that went on within the Department of Mysteries and, certainly, he was the only one that got away with such curiosity.

It had been more than a few months now and it was beginning to knock on a year, in actual fact, since James had woken up with no memory of who he was. Since he’d found his feet he’d been down in the department basement, trying to figure out both himself and the infernal mind manipulation charms that so many indulged in – particularly those in the Ministry who had to contend with the Statute of Secrecy for a living. Since he’d started, James had thoroughly enjoyed his work. The other people on his team had been incredibly friendly, if not incredulous at first, and they had enveloped James into what their team leader liked to call ‘their little family’ in the cheesy but no less reassuring cliché that we all know and love and it certainly wasn’t lost on James just how lovely that phrase could make a person feel. He’d been made the Probie and he realised he had a lot to learn but in a year, he’d gotten there more or less – he was something of a veteran now, in a manner of speaking. They had a new recruit so he had wisdom – or so he told himself.

As per the memories, as I’m sure you’re wondering, James didn’t have much luck. Then again, that depends on who’s asking. If a total strange inquires, he gives his bog standard answer of a small smile, a shake of the head and “I don’t remember.” If it’s Fred, he gets sweaty palms and can’t quite find the words. If it’s himself … then he’ll tell the truth. It was all a big jumble in his head now and James was loathe to try and sort through it all. He put it to the back of his mind, his past life, and he was determined to try his hardest to do as Healer Macmillan had encouraged: he had to make the most of the life he had now. It had been a total restart and while he had wondered on more than a few occasions whether he’d actually learnt anything from the experience or not – he technically was, still, hiding from his family – he decided that everything, being up to chance, could have been much, much worse so he just had to take it as it all came along: family included.

That morning, their new recruit was, as was to be expected, ill. Hay fever was beginning to affect them all, even down in the department – especially considering how stuffy it was. James himself boasted a slightly runny nose and swollen eyes. Nevertheless, that morning he rolled out of bed, ate breakfast and got dressed before popping to his local newsagents to pick up a copy of the Daily Prophet. He had sighed and shaken his head at the headline. There had been an amendment to the marriage law and at the sight of it, James had felt bile rise in his throat. He’d been let off easily, he felt. St. Mungo’s had forced the Ministry into being lenient. He was, after all, still technically a patient and he was being treated for something out of his control – the last thing he needed was to get married, too. James couldn’t have been gladder for having his Healers but he couldn’t help but wonder whether he should have been taking a stand. He should have been doing something, he felt. But what else was there to do but to carry on as he was?

“Jim!”

Looking up from his potions apparatus, not realising that he’d been daydreaming, James Potter’s eyes flipped over to find his team leader, Thomas, walking towards him. James straightened up, wincing as he felt a few vertebrate in his spine click. He stepped away from the bench and met Thomas half way, frowning a little at the clipboard that the man had with him. The said clipboard was placed in James’s grasp and the young man looked down over at the parchment, his eyes scanning it before lifting back up to look at Thomas.

“I need you to take this to Mr Weasley, would you?” Thomas asked, his smile reaching up from his lips to slide into his eyes.

“What’s in it for me?” James asked tartly, his own grin taking over his expression as he held the clipboard to his chest.

“I’ll buy lunch,” Thomas offered with a chuckle, watching the way James brightened. “How does Chinese sound?”

“Perfect,” James acquiesced. “Is Freddie in his office, d’you know?”

Thomas smirked. “If he was in his office, do you really think I would be asking you to do it, huh?”

James frowned, his lips coming into a soft pout as he considered the clipboard once more with his gaze. The last thing he wanted to do was go on a wild goose chase in search of his cousin but evidently that wasn’t high up on the list of things Thomas wanted to do either that morning. James reached up and rubbed his nose in muted frustration before pushing his glasses back up the bridge, raising his eye line so he could glare openly at Thomas who merely stood there and grinned at him – the bastard.

“I want you to buy lunch today and-”

“Dinner.” Thomas finished for him, wiggling his eyebrows. “Are you working late tonight?”

James scoffed. “Well I am now, obviously. Keep an eye on my potion, alright? It’s distilling. I’ll go and find Freddie-roo, shall I?”

“Don’t take too long, Jim. You’ve got a job to do.” Thomas teased, sidling past to look at the potion. “What’s this?”

“My actual job,” James replied grumpily, folding his arms over his chest as he leaned down over Thomas. “Why do I always have to do yours, huh?”

“Because I’m boss and I’m delegating obviously so hop to it, Mr Pink Shirt, or you might not get any sesame seed toast.” Thomas retorted, nudging James out of the way with his shoulder.

“Just so you know,” James retorted, backing up and beginning to head for the lifts. “This is not just pink, this is baby pink, to be precise, and you will get me sesame seed toast or your bloody stationary order will get shoved up your arse!”

“I look forward to it!”

James swore. The final rebuttal. Thomas only grinned at him, waving him away. James shook his head and turned, finally, tucking his clipboard under his arm. He pressed the button on the lift and took a moment to smooth down his hair again, heat running to his cheeks like hot, frothy water as he realised it must have been sticking up all over the show again while he was talking to Thomas. Pinching the bridge of his nose, James shook his head again and looked up when the lift dinged in announcement of itself. The doors croaked open and James hopped lithely inside, sighing angrily as he realised all he’d done was mussed it up even more – as if the mop on his head was some sort of sentient being. In that moment, James resolved to get it cut. Tomorrow. There, done. Even if he knew that come the weekend, it would be just as long, as thick and as out of control – he needed to do something.

Heavy consideration about his hair passed the time and James was thrown out on Fred’s floor. As Thomas predicted, Fred wasn’t there but unlike his fair weather friend, James was a little more persistent. However, unlike Thomas, he wasn’t prepared to wait in discomfort either. Allowing the secretary to go and fetch him a cup of tea – she didn’t know, either, where Fred was, by the way – James popped himself down on the floor, setting the clipboard down in front of him.

“Are you alright down there?” The secretary asked, her clippy-cloppy shoes hailing her return with his tea. “Two sugars, just like you wanted.”

“Thank you so much,” James smiled brightly, taking the tea from her. “What has Freddie got you doing today?”

“A little of this, a little of that.” She shrugged. “Do you want something to read? I’ve got the Quibbler here, if you like.”

“Hey, that’d be great.” James took a sip of his tea. The secretary handed him over the magazine and he thanked her brightly before settling his cup down.

With that, James was content to wait. Regardless of whether or not he took a long while, he knew that Thomas wouldn’t scrimp on lunch – otherwise James and he both knew he wouldn’t hear the end of it. There would be sesame seed toast to return to, James knew that much. So, he sat with his tea and his magazine and settled comfortably into an article about how to best safe guard your window sill garden from miniature flesh eating slugs. Now those slugs... they were a menace.

Jack Dyllan had pretty much adjusted to working in the Department of Mysteries. Socially, the transition was easy. People mostly stayed out of each other’s business, which Jack appreciated. Those who did like to get comfy with each other were surprisingly easy going, and yet still brilliant. Being an Unspeakable required some level of brilliance, so it was not difficult for Jack to appreciate the talents of her coworkers, something she had learned was essential towards gaining any sort of happiness in a job that required any office work.

It was much different than her other jobs though, admittedly. Working at Wheezes had been like working in a mad scientist’s lab, and she had been able to play the mad scientist. Working in the Department for Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures had redefined the line between hard work that was fun and easy work that was miserable. Paperwork had been the death of her, interns had tempted her to commit homicide, and she had not had nearly enough time with dragons. Then there was playing for the Falcons. A dream. An exhausting dream that was sometimes more sweat and exhaustion than it was a mental challenge.

The Department of Mysteries had a little bit of everything. There were some days where Jack was put to her physical limit, which was fairly impressive for the strong woman – days where she was running for hours on end, hours of dueling practice, long weeks of training in combat she had never learned. The job also pushed her mentally and she often found that part of the job was sitting in her office, glaring at a wall, as she tried to reason through a complicated web of events. The emotional strains was mostly the fear that her dangerous work would somehow put her little family in harm’s way.

Fortunately, the job was so rewarding that she often forgot about the strains it put on her. She felt like she was moving in a direction of positivity and creativity, where good may actually be achieved. She felt clever doing her job, and very strong. She also had the good fortune of working with Fred Weasley. Fred had been a friend, yes, but mostly through her connection with James. Since she had begun working in the Ministry, the two had reconnected and found a very amiable, if sometimes obnoxious, friendship was easily kept. Neither put more work into it than necessary, as they saw each other every day in the office, and yet they still remained fairly close. They never seemed to have any qualms about teasing each other, at least.

It did, on occasion, hurt Jack, this friendship with Fred. It made her miss Albus, since Fred had been so key in reconnecting them – or attempting to reconnect them. Really it made her miss all the Potters. Teddy Lupin, the lug; Sawyer Weasley, the respectable prat; and of course James Potter, who had been so close to being her best friend. Despite this, Jack had really come to be glad to have Fred. It was nice to have a friend she could so totally abuse and yet still expect to get a greeting from the next day. In fact, the better she pranked him, the more cheery his next greeting seemed to be.

Jack had a nice little prank for him today. She was coming in with a potted fern that looked exactly like his own, but was enchanted to let out sudden, unexpected swears. And these swears were not subtle. They were about as loud and obnoxious as a foghorn. Jack had seen him pass by her own office and was certain she could sneak into his own to replace the fern (she had a deal with his secretary) without him ever knowing about it – until, of course, the fern scared him shitless. That was the plan anyway.

Jack’s arms were wrapped around the fern as she waked down the corridor – as Head Unspeakable, Fred had a nice little reception area before his office, so Jack entered this, the fern blocking he vision. She walked in and approached Fred’s secretary, with plans to quickly give her the rundown of the prank, when the woman said, “You may want to hold off. Mr Weasley has a visitor.” Jack quirked an eyebrow and turned to view the poor fool that would be seeing her friend.

“JAMES!”

It was James Potter. Jack could not believe this was how she was seeing him again. So unceremoniously, so randomly and out of the blue. And so strangely. He looked absolutely meek in his odd clothes, reading a magazine. Reading?! Jack stared for a moment at him, absolutely flabbergasted. But she could not try to reason her way though this. She just needed to-

CRASH.

The potted fern fell to the floor and Jack leaped onto James, trying to pull him into a hug and a headlock at the same time. “What the hell, man?! Where’ve you been?! “

According to the Quibbler, the best way to avoid encouraging the presence of miniature flesh eating slugs was to put down the same pellets you used on the larger garden variety. However, the Quibbler also noted that you needed to use the orange coloured ones as the miniature slugs were actually quite partial to the bright pink ones. It was bound to be a trial, though, when the time came to set out the ceramic pots that James had bought from a little shop a few minutes down the road from his flat. Nevertheless, James, having read the article, felt quite prepared. Turning the page, he moved onto another article – this one about Quidditch, situated on the same page that detailed how to get stray Wrackspurts out of your socks. Two genuinely interesting articles right there.

Taking a sip of his tea, James found him reading up on a familiar name. Frank Longbottom. It took a few moments for him to grapple at the information, discovering that Frank Longbottom was the son of Neville who his father had gone to school with. James knew it wasn’t quite as carte blanche and simple as that but for the moment, the vaguest of details would do to provide some context and he continued to read regardless, taking long and regular glugs from his teacup.

“JAMES!”

Looking up at the sound of his name, James’ eyebrows furrowed at the sight of an unfamiliar face. Yet, he was sure there was something. Something within him lurched and tried to jog something – a memory, he supposed. As ever, James suppressed it and he managed to rise a bright smile to his lips as he set his mug down. At the sound of the ceramic hitting the marble floor, James winced and he took his wand from his pocket. Before he could repair the pot, however, arms were thrown around him and James felt himself being dragged into an uncomfortably tight embrace with his cheeks squeezed between an arm and the woman’s chest.

“Uh, hello?” James mumbled, his hands coming up to the woman’s side, pushing her gently, hoping to dislodge himself. “Can you … I can’t …”

Extricating himself from the woman’s grasp, James managed to catch sight of the earth and the bits of pot, not to mention the now sad looking fern. He flicked his wand at it, muttering the corresponding charm, and soon enough the pot was sat on the floor looking good as new – if not better, he thought to himself quietly.

“Look, your plant is repaired,” James enthused brightly, trying to pat down the hair that the redhead had managed to send awry – as if the mop atop his head even needed an excuse.

“I’m James,” he introduced himself after a moment, trying to extend a hand to the redhead. “But I guess you know that,” he added lamely after a moment. “Are you here to see Freddie as well?”

Jack was not an affectionate, per se. She did not hug very often. Shaking hands with a firm grip was about as intimate as she got. But there was something different when she got around her boys. Jack had been a rambunctious kid without an outlet. Elliot had been too old to wrestle and Riley had been too relaxed. The neighborhood kids had been great fun, but Elliot had encouraged her to put distance between herself and them at the first sign of her powers. So when she had made friends in the Potter boy and his family, his cousins, his friends, she had been thrilled when one of their first Quidditch scrimmages had ended in a game of tag which then became a nice little wrestling match.

James had sort of been the last tie to those times. Fred reminded her of the old times, but they had become far too steeped in their work to be able to joke around with each other. They reminded each other more of work and paperwork and exhaustion than they did of fun times of their youth. That had always been James' place, since they had retained the connection of their talent and love of Quidditch. She could always find a reason to laugh around her friend, and she had always managed to bring out the playful spirit in him. Sure she was mad he had shown up so suddenly, but she could forgive that if she had her friend back.

But she could tell something was off the second she had latched on to him. She felt his body tense and draw back, and the long awaited greeting was still yet to come. And then, he was pushing her away. He was not launching back, pinning her arms, or attempting to flip her on her back. There was no flurry of insults as she had hoped for and expected. Perhaps this was good, though. James did like to surprise her, after all... but still. Jack knew James too well to be that thoroughly surprised by him.

He succeeded in throwing her off, mostly because her surprise was so great as to cause her grip to slip from him. She landed in the seat next to him and he shook himself off, before repairing her plant. Jack stared as he spoke, completely shocked and uncomprehending. "Why are you acting like this?" Jack said. She grabbed the hand he had extended and pulled him close as she carefully studied his eyes. "Are you high or something? Come on, James, knock it off! I haven't seen you in forever. Stop acting like such a prat."

High. Are you high? James. James. What’ve you taken? James? Look at me James.

Suddenly, it felt as though he wasn’t quite there in the moment, in the relative warmth of the cavernous Ministry. It felt as though he was back in St. Mungo’s with the Healers around him, trying to get him out of the pattern of consciousness and unconsciousness, attempting through that to get something out of him, information that would give them the best course of action. He was clean, though, he remembered with a start. He was clean. Yet, for a moment he doubted himself. He had to think. He’d had caffeine. He’d had a cup of tea that morning when he’d gotten and then one once he’d gotten dressed and then one when he arrived at the Ministry and … that was all, though. He hadn’t taken anything. He wasn’t high. He had to take Pixie Dust in minute forms to deal with the withdrawal symptoms but he hadn’t gotten high. Not since he’d gone into St. Mungo’s.

“What?” James spluttered finally, unable to keep the look of horror from his face. “How could you… how could you ask that?”

James got to his feet, stealing himself away from her. The hurt replaced the dismay and tinge of fear and James shot his hands into his pockets. He frowned, glancing over at the secretary whose gaze had fixed upon him in puzzlement. James didn’t think he’d get much defence from her, in that case. He fought a look of petulance, trying to school his expression, but in the end it arrived on his features regardless of his intention and he found himself scowling at the redhead. Needless to say, James was offended. What upset him most, though, was that she must have known him… before. His Healers had been pretty vague when it came to the extent of the habit he’d developed but he had read bits and pieces of the Prophet. He had half an inkling just how bad his drug problem had been. The fact that it was then mentioned by someone he must have known… a bit of him broke inside, though what he wasn’t sure.

“I’m not…” James reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose before forcing his glasses back up. “I’m not on anything.”

He wasn’t entirely sure what he owed to this woman, to be explaining anything to her, but he felt he needed to. He didn’t know what it was but somehow… somehow something inside of him said that he should’ve. Something made him feel like her opinion of him mattered and though he knew that probably came from the old him, he was going to work on the assumption that the old him wouldn’t have cared. This James did, though. He wasn’t high.

“And I’m not being a prat, either,” he added belatedly, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m just sat… or I was just sat waiting for Fred. I don’t really do that expecting to be tackled by a stranger, alright? So, I’m sorry if I’m being a bit funny but I have a bubble…” he drew his hands around himself, “and this is my bubble of personal space and you… you burst that so I’m … I’m very angry.”

You’re such a Hufflepuff, James.

Once again, Jack's expectations were met with a much different reaction than she had been waiting for. Surely, James would have been angry she had suggested it, but he would have known he had no right to be angry at her for bringing up such a viable option. His irritation would have been more than she had the nerve to suggest it, rather than the suggestion itself. Still, he would have gritted his teeth and answered her, soon losing the offense. But... he did not. He looked appalled that she could suggest such a thing, responding almost... she wanted to say violently, but she was getting this harmless vibe from James that was so unlike the man she had hurled Bludgers at for so many years.

Jack had known of James' habit, of course. She had known the minors of it, and had not minded when he had been telling them all that he only succumbed during off weeks, breaks, and off-seasons. She had not been thrilled with it, but her time with Nemo had also changed her opinion on how to deal with drugs and users. Everything had changed with a single article however. That was when everything had come to light and the team had met grimly. Coach had had no choice, of course. Rules were rules. Jack became Captain of the Falmouth Falcons as one of her best friends was stripped of the title. Jack had never lectured him, something he had surely been waiting for. They had never spoken of it. Jack had thought his punishment was more than enough, and had no interest in being apart of those harping on him.

That said, she had not ignored the circumstances either. She had inquired more into his habits and encouraged him to find balance. So it was not completely out of left field for Jack to ask whether or not he was currently on something. So she could not understand this strange reaction from her friend.

"I can ask that by forming the letters in the back of my throat," Jack quipped back. He jumped up and escaped her and her eyebrows folded inward in confusion and concern. "Look, it's a viable question-" But he was in his own world, away from her, a world where her words and even her presence did not seem to be of any good to him. She watched him carefully, forgetting the other person in the room, forgetting her prank, forgetting anything that did not have to do with James Potter and his strange behavior.

Again he spoke and this time he proved his hurt to be infectious. Jack had been called a lot of names in her relatively short, though it felt long, lifetime. Freak. Mudblood. Bully. Ms onster. Cutthroat. Ronald McDonald. Traitor. Death Eater. Troublemaker. Most recently, Gabby had coined her Queen of Fire and Ice. But of all the names, Stranger was the most surprising, and it was one of the few to really reach farther than the surface and sting her soul. Something... Something was terribly wrong with her friend. This was not James Potter.

"Stranger," Jack repeated, her voice oddly faint. "James... I don't understand. Don't you recognize me? I haven't changed much since I last saw you - not enough to be unrecognizable, surely! Besides - you're seeing Fred? That goof's been away far longer than we've been apart! James, it's me."

After he was first discharged from St. Mungo’s, James went home. It wasn’t his home, despite it being owned by him. In amongst dusty records and expensive bottles of Firewhisky, trophies and crusty pictures of family he could name for the sake of recital but not for any personal bond with the people, he found a small sack of Pixie Dust. The scent was as pungent a source of memory acquisition as any and as he held it in his palm he could remember lapping it up, mixed in with sugar or deposited in his tea. He could recall sitting on a hospital bed, trying to convince Healer Macmillan through a mixture of grunts and pitiful pleading to tape up his ribs so he could play that day, having gotten high the night before, only to wake up with cracked ribs and a whole host of other little nicks and scratches. He could also remember the night the Daily Prophet had ruined his career and the way he’d consoled himself with first his cigarettes, then the treasured Firewhisky and thirdly Pixie Dust, the same bag he held in his palm, before moving onto something harder. The remnants of that endeavour was strewn across the living room floor, as though it hadn’t been a single night since the event. Afterwards, the liquid memories ran dry in his mind and all they left behind was the strange twinge and grogginess that he would later have identified as withdrawals from the drugs. The alcohol went that afternoon. Following that, he was treated for the nicotine problem. The other drugs took a little bit longer and he was still trying, even as he stood before the stranger who remembered he was trying. He’d still feel irritable from time to time, fatigued towards the end of the day and he’d feel sore inevitably. But it was getting better. Every day it was getting better.

“No!” James exclaimed with a stricken expression. “No! No it’s not a viable question. I’m not … I’m not high. I’m not… I’m… I’m not that person. I’m better than that now. I’m not…”

But was he, really? It was something that plagued him during the nights he couldn’t sleep, when the slumbering dog had more pleasant dreams than him. He didn’t know if he was any better than the man he’d been before the accident. He didn’t speak to his family and from all accounts it didn’t seem as if he did that back then, either. He had drug problems still, even if he wasn’t an active user. He was still being treated for it. He was still jittery, irritable and unpredictable as a result of not having a fix. He’d feel uppity and his hands would quiver and shake, knowing he had nothing to play with, nothing to light and smoke. He was broken, still, and so far from being repaired. No amount of diligence or goodness thrust upon the world with dinners with his co-workers thrown in made a changed man. Hiding from his family with only a cousin he could recall vaguely could constitute as change. He supposed Fred was the only person he talked to towards the end before. Then this woman, too. He wasn’t changed at all. He wasn’t better. He wasn’t high but that didn’t make it better. He was hiding in a different way this time. He mightn’t have been James Sirius Potter, the disgraced Quidditch player, anymore but he was still James Sirius Potter, the man who hid in one way or another, to protect himself, he thought, or, rather, to stop himself from feeling, from facing the fact that he’d always been wrong about everything and about everyone.

James grasped at his hair, clamping his eyes shut as he felt them moisten. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings but the dampness in her voice, the incredulity, suggested he’d only gone and done just that. James wiped his hands across his face, rubbing furiously at his eyes. He heard the retreat of the secretary and he had a feeling that, somewhere along the line, she’d return with Fred as the mediator to the whole conversation – or perhaps let him know. James knew that with the way his luck was going, Fred would probably attend to the matter at a later date or something ridiculously useful like that. It wasn’t that James was averse to a relationship redux – which is a complete and total lie, he was contemplating where all of the exits were that very moment – but he would’ve rather… no, he just wanted to avoid it, actually. He wasn’t man enough. There was nothing Gryffindoresque left in him, he didn’t think.

“Fred… Fred gave me a job. Here. He gave me a job. Ages ago! He…he’s… he’s the only one I’ve…” James sighed, tugging on his roots as he fathomed his fingers through his hair, trying to find a way out of the situation he’d brought himself into. He’d made no effort. How was he supposed to explain that to her? Could he ask that of her, to understand when all he’d done is hide? She was clearly his friend, or used to be. Close enough, maybe, to be privy to whatever had been really going on before the accident.

“I don’t recognise you, I’m sorry,” James murmured, dropping his gaze to the floor. His hands hit his legs as he dropped his arms and he sighed heavily, reaching up to rub at his nose as he tried to figure out what he was supposed to say or what he could say to make it better.

“I was… I was obliviated. I don’t remember anyone. I mean, I … I could run you off a list of names of the people I’m supposed to know family wise but I … I only really know Fred and I’ve just been… trying… I’ve been trying to get my life in order and I… I’ve been trying to do it this way and I’m not … well, I am hiding but I’m not … Oh for Godric’s sake,” James’ fingers looped back into his hair again. “I’m not me. I’m not… the old me. Or, the real me or whatever me was me before I ended up in St. Mungo’s so I don’t remember you, red. I don’t. I don’t mean to not remember but I can’t… I can’t. I don’t know you. I mean, I must’ve. But … now… I don’t have a clue… and I’m sorry. I don’t want to disappoint you but I can’t… I’m not going to pretend because I wouldn’t know where to start and I’m babbling and I just don’t know what to say because I don’t think anything can make this better, can it?”

Jack stared at James in earnest, all of the play gone from her expression. Hope that this was some poorly-extended prank was fading fast. Her frustration was turning from the cause of being fooled and to the cause of being incapable of understanding the predicament she found herself in. James Potter was not looking like a prat who was about to get punched because he would not just admit it was all a joke and he, too, was beginning to look like a stranger. Jack had to really take him in and his features struck her as changed. Not really change. But he was like a potrait that had been lit one way for so long that when the artist decided to change the lighting, it looked new. This once familiar face, Jack now struggled to understand.

He continued speaking and Jack was felt her emotions clawing at their fleshy confines to escape, frustrated and agitated as they were. Fred gave him a job? First off, she had heard nothing of the sort. Second, was this how James knew his cousin, his friend? As an employee? And if this was true, why had she heard nothing of the sort from Fred? It wasn't like they worked together, or anything. Or that they were friends. Or that she had more than once wondered over the whereabouts of his cousin and her friend.

She could deal with Fred later. She was frustrated, yes, but she had James right before her, so why make a fuss to find the information out from the third party? As terrible as it all was, she had to hear it from James. She had to know when she had fallen from grace in his eyes and when she had become so little. She did not want to presume too much, but had she been allowed to, she would have guessed her names would have been one of the first James Potter looked up when he returned from... wherever it was that had stolen him from herself and her friends. Friend. But he had not. They had stumbled into each other. Her belief in her importance had been measured and declared more than she deserved.

She could not reply, though, because he continued. She was almost struck dumb by his statement. Almost, but it took much more to silence the outspoken woman. She blinked, once. Twice. "Don't recognize..." This was something she could scarcely understand. She had never thought such a predicament could be real. He continued on, making the situation more and more real, more heart-wrenchingly real until she wished he would stop talking at all.

Jack had always held her friends in a dear spot in her heart, because they had been sparse and fleeting. But once a friend to Jack Dyllan, always. It was for this reason that she could not celebrate the disappearance of Vito. For this reason that she still searched for Andrew Thompson's name in the papers. For this reason that she was still plagued by dreams of Chase Moor. That she still sent Keith Nicholas free Wheezes products. That she would break Aaron Marcheti out of Azkaban again if he only but asked.

The loss of a friend was not something Jack bore well, and James was taking himself from her. His arrival marked his exit from her life, it seemed. He did not remember her. And who would sign on as a friend now? With children at home, secrets at work, and troubles on the mind. Jack struggled to her breath even and steady as she stared at the eyes of a man incapableof returning any look of familiarity.

"We were friends in school," Jack said, not so much to remind him, but almost to appeal with him. "And after... you got me the second try out with the Falcons after I decided not to sign on. I was there when Albus told you about Jamie. I rode Sirius' bike with you. You- you said I was one of your best mates."

The worst nightmare that he had been trying to avoid was letting someone down. The last thing he’d wanted to do and the reason why he hadn’t was walk into a familial situation and find faces he didn’t know expecting to know him. He wasn’t that same person. He didn’t know who he was to Rose or Louis or Molly. He barely understood himself in relation to Fred who still refused to acknowledge that this James was different from the James he expected to walk through the door every day. He didn’t ignore the twinge of disappointment in Fred’s eyes, either. It hurt him, too. Every time his heart ached with sorrow, knowing that he wasn’t what Fred expected him to be. Then, this lady, this redhead who could’ve been family and who probably was near as dammit, he was letting her down, too. He just didn’t know. He looked upon her and he saw her peripheral features as ones he should’ve recognised but as he drew in, trying to capture her face with his gaze, it was as though the spell blocked him off and as though he couldn’t really see and understand her properly. He could only view her as a stranger, nothing more like he wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” James gasped pitifully, staring at the woman with large, saucer-shaped hazel eyes. The tears wanted to flood his cheeks but he was desperate not to let them. He didn’t think the old James cried. In fact, he was sure that the leather-wearing, motorcycle driving Quidditch player never cried. This new, bowtie-clad version had made it a reasonably often occurrence. It was often borne out of frustration but when he saw Fred, caught the man’s expression when he thought that James wasn’t looking, he wanted to scream with anguish and beat his fists upon the walls until his hands were red raw. Looking upon the redhead before him, he felt as though someone had launched their grasp into his chest and had torn his heart clean from inside. He knew that I wouldn’t be the last time, either, but he so desperately wanted to be the person she wanted him to be, the man she remembered. He didn’t want to hurt her in that way. Yet, he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t that man. He didn’t know if he could ever be.

“Albus,” James whispered, his lips coming together as he looked upon her. “You know my baby brother: you know Albus?”

Of course she did, something cynical in the back of his mind griped. She must’ve known him. If they’d been friends in school, she must’ve known Albus. It wasn’t until he’d sifted through his photographs that he realised just how strained and awkward the relationships between himself and his siblings were. There wasn’t a photograph of himself or Albus to be found after James’ seventh year and even then, they were on opposite sides of the line, grinning but with a handful of people betwixt them to keep them separate. The one he kept with him, as though from it he planned to draw some courage, was in his wallet, crinkled and faded now but it was one of James, Albus and their father. The boys were together, James’ arm around his neck. They were actually smiling. They looked happy to be with each other. But that, so the articles later informed him, was long before Harry had died. After that, the media coverage ensured that James wasn’t without some semblance of the way his life, and Albus’ had panned out. Not well, if his own case was indicative.

“I…” James buttoned his lips, unsure how to press on now he’d expressed an interest. “I …” James sighed again, his brows furrowing low over his eyes. Healer Macmillan had said that he’d find forming sentences difficult for a while. It’d been a year, nearly. For goodness sake. He almost wanted to slap himself or perhaps go and make another cup of tea and eat a sandwich – or ten. Then maybe he’d hide behind the workbench and bury his face in his hands and ignore Thomas, regardless of the man’s insistence that James talk to him. He’d want to know. He’d been there. He’d tried to get in. He’d tried. He’d tried with this James. More than anyone else he seemed to understand. Even the Healers looked at him like he was a ticking explosive, on self-destruct mode with no timer to give fair warning when he was going to explode. Fred didn’t believe him. This redhead… this lady. His friend. His friend, she wanted him to be that. She wanted him to be who she remembered and Merlin, he wanted too.

“How is he?” James asked quietly, finding his words. “Is he alright? Is he… does he need …” James closed his eyes. Me, he wanted to say, does he need me?

He couldn’t remember the happier times. Had he been able to, perhaps he wouldn’t have felt so awful about it. He could’ve feigned, or rather, genuinely possessed, ignorance and eagerly could have taken up the gauntlet from where he believed them to have been at their best: when James was six, just before Harry died. But it had all changed, hadn’t it? James knew, he just knew, that Albus didn’t like him. It made sense, didn’t it, after everything that he’d read? Maybe he didn’t, but James highly doubted it. He knew that he probably didn’t like Albus very much, either, before everything had gone wrong. But how could he be sure when he didn’t even know his own name waking up for the first time? How could he be sure that his baby brother was safe and warm somewhere with someone to love him and everything settled and right? He couldn’t be. Just like he had no idea where Lily was. Lily Luna, the other anomaly he knew he cared so much about but couldn’t face. Was she safe and warm … did someone love her? But what of him? James had been safe and warm from the get-go but he didn’t know if there was anyone, apart from maybe his attention-to-detail, James-needs-sesame-seed-toast-or-he’ll-kill boss who understood him as he was now, who loved him. Red, Fred… they loved the old him, misguided though it was. Misguided though he was.

James collapsed back into a chair and he took off his glasses. Catching the handle between his teeth, he rubbed his hands across his face, smoothing the escapee tears into his skin. He sighed loudly, heavily and hardly. He didn’t know what to do. Whether Albus needed him or not and whether Lily did, too, was irrelevant. If it was all as poor as he’d been told then they didn’t need him. Not old him and probably not the new version of himself either who was, in two pairs of eyes, viewed now as lesser and strange, alien, and not… not James. This person beside him, this friend, needed him. For some reason she needed him.

“I… want to try to understand, alright?” James asked, thoroughly finished with this whole debacle. He rubbed his hand across the hair on his cheek and brought his fingers round to pull at the hair on his chin absentmindedly. He looked at her out from under his long eyelashes and dropped his gaze immediately, shame sending him into a metaphorical puddle on the cold stone floor.

James laughed a bit despite himself all of a sudden as he brought his hand round to tug at the back of his neck. He shook himself and lifted his eyes up once more to look at the redhead as a wry smile lifted across his features.

“Do you want to know a secret?” He asked as he picked a bit of stray lint off of his trousers. “I’m actually terrified of heights. But I, uh, I still have the bike.” James sat back in the chair, sticking his legs out and folding his ankles over one another. He then crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his head back, letting his eyes close as he braced his head against the wall.

“Sirius is my dad’s godfather, yeah? My granddad’s best friend. One of the Marauders.” He cocked an eye open as a sly, almost-Jamesian smile swept over his lips. “I’ve done my reading, believe you and me. I spent hours sifting through that flat, trying to get something – anything – in my head about me and everyone else. Nothin’, though, it was all for nothin’. Here I am, none the wiser and the bits I can get to grips with … they’re fuzzy and none of it feels like it’s me, y’know? So, that useless fact for you there is …yeah, useless.”

James sighed, his frustration bleeding through into cynicism. He shook himself a little, trying to get some optimism flowing through his veins again.

“So, Jamie’s… a friend too or?” James glanced over at her again. “Sad story I probably don’t want to know about, yeah?” He inquired, that wry smile returning once more. He chuckled a little, albeit humourlessly, and resumed his former position.

“I’m James, by the way,” he interjected finally. “And you, being one of my best mates are … you have a name, surely? Or did I call you ‘Red’? I mean, that’s fine. That’s … that can be a thing but I guess, names are better, huh? Because I feel like … I’m not, look… oh, Merlin. I don’t reckon I’m going to remember you or anyone else sharpish so what I’ve been trying to do not very successfully with Fred is be… me and for him to be friends with me as me and not… old me.” James sighed, realising how ridiculous he sounded. “Can we backtrack and start again, d’you think? Maybe you could tell me some more things?”

Disbelief. The woman who was always so full of convictions and believes was being attacked by the polyar opposite. Disbelief. It flooded Jack, because it felt a whole lot better than defeat. She had figured James had just goe off the deep end and had taken a vacation to Spain or America until the heat was off of him, and he would return in all cocky glory, as she had come to love and dread. Disbelief.  He would return and she would have her flying partner back, her drinking buddy. It would be nice to have a friend other than Gabby to randomly drop in on her and Max, one that would not drive her as mad. She had been patiently waiting for the day her friend returned and they could go on as they always had before.

And now that day might never really come.

Disbelief.

Heartbreaking understanding.

Unwilling acceptance.

He apologized, making Jack feel terrible for being so upset that she made this stranger apologize for something he had no control over. It was so hard to consider him a strange when the face and body was so familiar, everything else being the foreign reminder. His eyes were gleaming like he wanted to cry - definitely not James Potter, not the one she had known anyway. James Potter would have never cried in front of her. They had been bonded by sports and trouble, while she had bonded with his brother over the more sensitive subjects. She would prefer not to cry in front of either Potter boy, but if she had to, it would certainly be in front of the younger before the elder. But here he was on the edge of tears, and Jack could not even feel too weird about it either. It was hard to hold New James to something he did not understand.

New James. Hm.

Suddenly, he was roused by the name of his brother. He looked at her with shining eyes and an earnest expression. She stared back, afraid to begin speaking. She would want to tell all, but even old James did not know much of her new relationship with Albus Potter. So she bit her bottom lip and nodded. But James would not let it rest there. He began to stutter, before managing to string together a few sentences that spelled out his worries and inquiries after his younger brother. Jack realized that this explained so much of Albus' latest concerns about James. Jack knew the younger Potter siblings had felt abandoned by their brother, and this was surely going to be a shock. They would not be happy to have to surrender their justified anger and bitterness, but they would have little choice. Knowing the classic Potter/Weasley stubborness, though, the two dark haired siblings would find a way. Jack knew that.

Still, James' reasons for his absence did help. It was not his choice. Perhaps this could signal a time of peace in the warring Potter family. Jack had been close with James, and then she had been close with Albus. She would love the find a place in their weird little family and be able to enjoy both brothers (and hopefully Lily too) without bitterness rising between them. She had always felt as though being friends with the pair of them were an impossible task, but she would like to see that change.

"He..." What could she say? "He could definitely use someone accepting him rather than trying to guide him. He has a lot of pressure from the family, and he's taking care of Lily now. She's not doing too well but now he's dealing with it. He's made some friends that you wouldn't approve of - or, you would not have approved of before, so it's really important that he has people around him who just want to care for him." It's funny how easy it was to say it to him here and now - after months of trial and error and pain and angst, she had finally figured it out. The discovery had been made after both of their hearts were broken, but at least she had been able to pass on the information to someone who could make a difference with it.

James collapsed in the chair and rubbed his eyes. Jack stared at him, her heart aching. This situation was fairly unique, but it could not help but remind her of what she had done to Nemo. This would be the conversation she would have with the first man to completely encapture her heart if she saw him today. No, she would not have this conversation. She would never let the silence break, never reveal what she had been to him. He was better off starting a new life with his daughter in his home country, no memory of cruel Death Eaters or absuive mothers, suicide attempts or drug overdoses. At least she did not have too many terrible things to reveal to James - if she decided to reveal it.

She could save the news on Lily needing to retake seventh year for later. Or the whole Albus-Is-Probably-A-Death-Eater thing. There was a lot she did not need to tell him immediately. Mostly because she was not sure how she would go about that.

He revealed his desire to understand Jack nodded, understanding his desire. He suddenly chuckled and his confession was enough to bring out a small smile, though a sad one. A James that was afraid of heights meant she no longer had her scrimmage buddy. Still, she had gone this long without him... She supposed. It still felt like a loss. "I might borrow that bike sometime," she weakly joked.

He continued on and she smiled. "I actually had the Marauder's Map. You were always threatening to steal it from me but I kept it out of your reach. I had more need." He deviated on a frustrated rant and Jack gave him a bracing look. With a breath, he was able to continue on. She grimaced at Jamie's name. Oh... She did not know whether or not it would be good to reveal the existence of his baby mama. Not now at least. "The... sad thing. But it's something of the past, and not something that I have enough information on to tell you of. That'd be best from... someone else. Dunno who, but not me. Sorry."

He introduced himself and Jack smiled sadly. "Yeah, I know." She took a cleansing breath, though, for that had to be the last time she mourned in front of this... stranger-friend. "I'm Jack." That hurt, but she kept the hurt out of her face. "Nicknames work for me though. You used to just call me nasty names, so I'm used to anything." She grinned, to show him no harm done. "Yes, backtrack. Um. We're a few years apart. You were my Quidditch captain, then I took over. You wanted me to sign on with the Falcons right out of school like you did, but I took the Ministry route to right some wrongs of my own. Eventually, you talked me into it. We drank together, quite a bit. I had sort of a weird home life at the time, so you helped keep my mind off of it. When things went south with the Falcons for you, I became Captain but we didn't really talk about all the bad stuff much. Just kept each other company." She shrugged, as though it had not meant the world to them both.