fite the nargles

Ginny used to tease him about it, when he nervously ran his hands over it out of old habits, saying he’d rub himself bald. She didn’t tease him about it now, though, which might mean it was actually happening.

He sighed; how old his reflection had gotten. The years passed and he knew that well enough, but each reflective surface still came at a bit of a shock.

He remembered the first time he looked in a regular mirror and saw his father staring out. Not approximations of his father, not the oft-comment of “you look just like James” from some adult, but actually looked in the mirror and saw the same man he knew from photographs.

And he remembered when he looked in the mirror and his father was gone and he was back to approximations. Looking like James Potter never had a chance to.

It was a morbid way of counting birthdays. This year I’m older than my father got to be. This year older than Remus and Snape. This year older than Sirius. In a few years he would be older than Alastor Moody.

No one ever said he looked like his father anymore.

The doors opened onto the floor for The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. The Department had two settings: chaos when some magical mishap had to be brought in to be dealt with, and silence when everyone was off tackling the mishap in person. Today was the latter but that was fine. It was James’ turn on desk duty, which was the reason he’d come down, brown bags in hand. It was the only time he could ever seem to wrangle his oldest son for lunch.

Only when he got to the desk, a young witch - a child who hardly looked old enough to be at Hogwarts much less to have graduated from it - smiled up at him.

“Mr. Potter! I have a message for you from your son. They had a catastrophe that really needed his expertise so he had to go.”

Harry gave a small smile. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “Just started last month.”

“Ah. First thing you should know is to never believe James Potter, especially when it comes to desk duty. He’ll do anything to get out of desk duty.”

She gave a smile you would give to an elderly relative doling out advice. “I will remember that next time.”

Oh well, if he was playing the role already, might as well commit. “And don’t let him push you around or beg off. He’ll always have a good reason but you’ve earned your field time like anyone else. And since I brought it down, you can have his lunch.”

That got a laugh as she took the bag. “Thank you. You’re welcome to join me…?”

He waved her off. “No, no, I have paperwork to deal with anyway. But thank you.”

He was about to turn back when she spoke.

“Y’know, it’s remarkable. I would’ve known who you were from a mile off.”

Harry raised an indulgent eyebrow. Four decades had dimmed people’s immediate recognition of him as The-Boy-Who-Lived, especially among the younger crowd, but it was hardly an uncommon occurrence. Still, he acted as if he didn’t know what she meant. “Oh?”

“Oh yes. You look so much like James.”

Time seemed to stop after her words. He didn’t breathe or blink, everything paused in a moment of both newness and familiarity.

Then it was done but the weight of his shoulders had eased a little bit and he gave a brief but genuine smile. Then he laughed. “Don’t say that to him; he’d be mortified.”

“I’ll remember that if he tries to put me on desk duty again then,” she teased.

sirius black: blood pumping, sideswept smirk that stops the heart, chin-tilted-upwards-neck-bearing-column-of-throat-show-of-defiance-what-you-gonna-do-about-it stance, cracks his knuckles a lot, strong arms, resting facial expression that is forbidding and gutting all at once, smells like cigarette smoke, wears his tie around his forehead, twirls his wand around his fingers and it drives everyone insane, never has his charms book, finds himself at the top of the astronomy tower at 3am but doesn’t know how he got there

remus lupin: wakes up with blood in the mouth, glint in the eye that betrays his anger, will comprehensively tear you to shreds in an argument, constantly has a bar of chocolate between his lips, cuffed sleeves, reads for pleasure, owns a lot of threadbare, oversized sweaters, will drink the tea when it’s scalding hot just to feel something, nail biter, constantly picks at the hem of his clothing, bites his lip a lot, lies in the dark staring at the ceiling with an instrumental record on in the background on his bad days, he seems to be having a lot of those recently