POTTER, james sirius

[James Sirius Potter]

James S. Potter

"Ahead of my Time, like i live my whole life backwards"

gRYFFINDOR

SEVENTEEN

MALE

TEAK 11" FORMIDABLE

HETERO-FLEXIBLE

[PTabbedContent]
[PTab=PERSONALITY]

I'M JUST AN ANIMAL, I CAN NEVER GET ENOUGH

POSITIVE - CHARISMATIC: James has always been a natural leader, whether he means to be or not. He has the ability to draw others to him with his energy and rejection of the austere, a lack of inhibition that some wish they had themselves. He has an innate ability to to seem like a relatable guy. Perhaps this is the manifestation of his attempts to be relatable. - ENERGETIC: There is a deep reservoir of enthusiasm and energy buried within James, and with very little effort, he calls upon it. He will beat an activity to death, is always the last person awake at night, and pursues new ventures with the ferocity of an untamed animal. - INCLUSIVE: It has never occurred to James to dislike people based on anything other than the demerits of their character. Despite the ingrained dislike along house lines in his peripheral during childhood, he's never quite been able to bring those opinions of others to action. To James, everyone has their bullshit, some just got the shorter end of the stick. They shouldn't be punished for it. - ATHLETIC: This trait can certainly speak for itself. James has, with contentious consistency, exercised and dieted with the goal of peak physical form. He takes runs in the morning, fasts after Quidditch games, and often has to force himself to get the proper amount of sleep. - GENUINE: No one could ever accuse James Potter of appearing to be anything other than exactly who he is, good or bad. Although there is a private layer under his surface, there is no inflection of dishonesty in his character.

LIKES - Red meat - Designer brooms - Watches - The Falmouth Falcons - Dirty magazines - Thrills - Flannel sheets - Cheese - Physical extertion - Challenges DISLIKES - Formal wear - Chocolate - Snow - Fairytales - Quidditch referees - Butterbeer - Most fruits - Waiting - Uncertainty

NEGATIVE - TENACIOUS: Although he is a tolerant young man, James is unyielding in his opinions. He is often of the mind that he exclusively is correct, and he can find it hard to believe that those with ideas differing from his are valid. This leads to a frank dismissiveness that is not only obnoxious, but often quite rude. - BRASH: With the gift of honesty comes the curse of cold truths among the warm. James announces his states and shares his exact opinions on any subject when the occasion arises, and this is sometimes at the expense of the bruised egos and feelings of others. His obliviousness to which words can be hurtful has not improved as he ages.  - CONTROLLING: When someone is convinced that their idea is the best one in the room, this lends itself to them being a little bit of a control freak. James prefers to have the appearance of someone who can be laid back, go with the flow, and calm, but those who know him best know of his wry ways to manipulate conversations as well as situations toward his own goals. When things don't go as planned, or in his favor, he can be noticeably irritated. - INATTENTIVE: James is oblivious, but it cannot be owned up to lack of focus or a general airy personality. He doesn't pay attention to details because he chooses not to pay attention to details. He consistently forgets birthdays, is flaky with plans, and has a terrible time reading the social cues of other people in favor of his own idea of the social temperature. - RESTLESS: Energy is a good thing. Inability to simmer is not. James detests being at the mercy of the timeline of others. He is impatient and dislikes physical containment. Small physical annoyances like bouncing legs or spinning quills are commonplace, just as active listening, simple patience, and sitting still are near impossibilities- absolute detriments to his ability to be a good friend, which is certainly a struggle.

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[PTab=BIOGRAPHY]

I AM ALL TEETH AND ALL SIN

part one

You have very little memory of your childhood. It's pieced together in small vignettes, all of them a marbled amalgamation with lack of chronological timeline until about the age of ten.

Discovering a wild niffler on the coastline in Flushing, as it dove headfirst into your mother's beach tote.

Your sister crawling around the warm living room, caked with pillows, blankets, and oriental rugs, an infant with a placated face but wild and watery green eyes.

Careening yourself into the sofa as the sound of Falmouth Stadium erupting into cheers blares through the wireless, a victory barely audible over your grinning cries of elation.

Slamming the door to your room, a frustrated escape from being scolded- you were old enough to fly if you wanted to.

Uncle Ron attempting to convince his sister that something called a 'telly' was much more useful than a wireless, as one could actually see the quidditch happening.

Your enormous family, squashed around the half cleared dinner table that made its way into the living room for more space, all paused to giggle while your grandfather's hand led yours up and down, his wand between your fingers causing the flowered centerpiece to shakily lift and spin.

Silently watching your father staring out the window of his study, a room used much less for scholarly pursuits and instead as a strategy for solitude, the occasional sweep of his hand across the unruly, yet receding line of his hair being a not-so-subtle trace of the lingering and daggered scar still penciled near his temple, the understanding of which evades you and irritates you and fascinates you. 

part two

You can't sit still.

You often see the exhaustion in your mother's face, and it confuses you. Why can't she just...keep going...as you do? Her patient demeanor is resiliency manifested, but you are the cracks in her careworn armor. She never expected the limitlessness of you. Until much later in life, you will not appreciate the serene relief that paints across her face as your eyelids flutter uncontrollably, despite your best attempts to force them open, sleep the only enemy whose victory you cannot evade forever.

Your ceaselessness runs your siblings into the ground. Hours of mirth and laughter can quickly become shouts and sobs if you berate them for their boredom, for their desire to do anything other than what you'd choose in whatever moment you choose it. It is on rare occurrences that you inquire after their interests, approach with curiosity masked by aloof opinion, perhaps joining them but only because they would benefit from your company. 

Deep breaths do not come easy to your father, who is quick to shout his disappointments but even quicker to reach out and wipe your tears- tears unmistakably of anger and never of remorse. This frustrates your father most of all. But his touch is light, almost nostalgic, as if he is trying to reach past you toward something more real, as if you remind of him something he knew of. He is most at ease among your aunts and uncles, exuding a simplistic calm that he could never achieve near your bursts of existence. Even young, you can see the trails of strain shoot through his sinuses as he turns his attention toward you, a mixture of adoration and confusion and fear and inspiration, simultaneously proud you are his but whittled down by his personal justifications and attempts at piecing you together. 

You see it with your siblings too, but never so extreme as you.

You aren't sure if you should be proud or be bitter.

part three

Flying come naturally to you, as does the desire to know everything about the sport of Quidditch and its constituents, although this becomes credited to your family's general interests. You find an attachment to the Falmouth Falcons, one that seems to surprise no one, especially the inexplicably silent portrait of Albus Dumbledore that hangs across from the window in the family home in Godric's Hollow, the same portrait that you have insisted winks at you from time to time, a confession that is met by the sincere displeasure of your mother, as it is known for its years-long complacency, a topic absolutely off-limits around your father.

You'd been stealing brooms from the age of three, barely able to wrap your little hands around the necks of the rich oaks of the Firebolts, Nimbuses, Starlights, and Abercrombies that you can find in your mother's closets and the shed. It didn't matter how many times your mother or your father took you out to the back to fly with them; it never felt the same as escaping without a watchful set of eyes. Nothing gave you more pleasure. 

You tried every position in your summer junior leagues. While you were quick, you did not have the patience that necessitated the position of keeper. It devastated you to have to watch things happen without your assistance from the other side of the pitch. You wished you could be a seeker, but even from a young age, you were never precise in your motions, and you could never foster the sharpness of attention that others found as their strength. You were more brash, more brutal, and all too obvious in the mere presence of your flight. A talented chaser you were, but even as a youth, your penchant for attention took too much from your teammates. It was better that you were groomed as a beater, and soon they said that you were born with a bat in your hand. Your energy benefits     you, and you dispense an alarming amount of strength behind your hits, on two very tense occasions even overriding the safety features on the charmed bludgers meant to protect youth from the true harshness of your sport.

Your friends, just as young and oblivious as you, thought this was the coolest thing they'd ever seen.

part four

"Don't worry dear, you'll be a Gryffindor, I just know it!"

"C'mon, buddy, you're a lion. You always have been."

"No matter what it says, you're still you, Gryffindor or not."

They thought they were all being encouraging, helpful, and inspirational. Some of them even thought they were being progressive, by saying that anything could happen. But they'd already assigned you in their minds. You were born into a family of Gryffindors who probably wanted Gryffindors. They loved their children without question, but they also loved the infallible lion behind your eyes. You were the pride and joy of their past, the fastidious column of tradition among their growing and ever diverse family. You could see it in your father's eyes as the train exited the station, and his hand lingered in levitated farewell out to you, as if you might reach out and place yours against it, a hand that was maybe yours and maybe wasn't, the uncertainty of it bringing comfort to him and it brought confusion to you.

The buzz of the train, seeing those you knew and introducing yourself to those that didn't (yes...Harry Potter is your Dad, and yes...it is pretty cool), hummed above the small conversations about houses and hats, and your charisma encouraged them away without your charges ever realizing. You'd become the conductor of the train before leaving it, inflaming the eyes of your peers by gently levitating a cupcake off the sweets cart and having it spin merrily until it was dropped for fear of the cart's ancient stewardess noticing.

You could be a Ravenclaw, you thought, because it was simple for you to complete that old trick. You could be a Slytherin, you thought, because you were able to slyly divert their attention away from things you wished not to discuss. You could be a Hufflepuff, you thought, because you had already made friends, and you genuinely wanted more.

But it dropped on your head, and without a moment's pause blared Gryffindor into your ears as if everyone you'd ever known was yelling it in unison, forcefully dubbing you the manifestation of their expectations with the feverish delight of anxiety being sequestered.

You weren't disappointed...you even agreed.

You just wished, for a small moment, before you, the prodigal son of Harry Potter, greatest Gryffindor ever known, sat down among your peers, that it had been your decision...that it had been your choice.

part five

You learned very quickly that people were fascinated by the story of your father. You also learned very quickly that there were thousands of differing accounts and opinions of those fateful days of his adolescence, and that everyone wanted to discuss them with you.

It took a few months for these whisperings to die away. You found that you had to teach people who you were, by outward statements of opinion or emotion, or by entertaining and unexpected actions. You had to become James Potter, and shed the skin of the son. So you ruthlessly battled to create yourself. You often were a caricature of your own existence. And every year you had to do this, climb the ladder of your own self to reach the desired level of understanding, high above the preconceived notions huddled at the base. Each aging year, younger years becoming progressively less interested in talking to you, partially due to your overwhelming and intimidating presence, partially due to your siblings being altogether more accessible. 

It got easier, of course, once you had a self to build around. You started playing Quidditch in your third year, a scrappy specimen of a beater whose unbridled enthusiasm and energy was appreciated by his captain. A girl you knew pulled you behind a statue and kissed you, and it was then you decided that you liked kissing girls. You served the occasional detention for disturbing your class, having earned a reputation for such hijinks that even when the whiskers of your mouse in Transfiguration started sparking by mistake, you owned the charade and accepted the surrounding laughter and punishment as earned. 

It got really easy the September after your father's death. No one asked you about him after that.

part six

He didn't like to talk about it, so it went very unspoken. You couldn't blame him. It wasn't in your nature to talk about your innermost feelings either. This linked you, and it linked you inexplicably. He appreciated that you did not have to ask him. It was a redeeming quality of yours in his eyes.

Your mother would approach you sometimes, and ask you if you wanted to talk about it, ask you if you had any unanswered questions or any feelings that you wanted to share. When you were younger, you brushed her off with a laugh. As you got older, it occurred to you that she stabilized your family. She bore the burdens that he refused to. You continued to decline, but with care, and you never disrespected these advances again. She was one of the few people that could come close to understanding the things that he had seen. What little he said, he would say to her, but consumed with the determination to enjoy the life he had earned (as your aunt and uncle surely told him on occasion after occasion), so much was pushed beneath the surface.

The man who would take a toy bludger to the back and crumple to the ground with theatrical grandeur for the delight of his children was the same man who would yell aimlessly into the night as he jolted out of a restless sleep. The man who would ignite his eyes to play ten games of exploding snap was the same man whose eyes were weary by default, so far from the natural spark crackling behind the eyes of his three children. The man who would ask you who and what you wanted to be was the same man who seemed misty eyed at the answers provided, disappointed in some but endeared by others. You remain ever James, he would say, sometimes with a smile, sometimes with a shake of his head. You never knew what to make of that.

His broom collided with a turret. It was horrible.

And it was horrible to wonder, only in the darkest caverns of your silent mind, that it may not have been an accident.

part seven

It was all so incredibly impersonal.

The entire world wanted to mourn with you. People sobbing on the street would ask to hold your hand and thank you for your strength during this difficult time. Your professors all pulled you aside, perhaps each thinking they were the only one proactive enough, compassionate enough to do this, and asked if there was anything that you needed or wanted to talk about. The Minister for Magic clapped you on the back and called you a tough boy, a good one, raised by the best.

Why the fuck did he think he knew anything about how you were raised?

There were a few who kept their distance, but you could still see the grief beneath their demeanor. Minerva McGonnagall watched you with tight-lipped tact, a silent enforcer of the continuation of your typical day. Rubeus Hagrid could not hide near daily streams of tears behind his silver bushel of wiry hair and beard. Even the Fat Lady seemed to tense at the sight of you, sometimes forgetting to ask you for a password before revealing the portrait hole for your entry.

When you did get a moment alone, one that you felt safe inside of, when it would be ok to scream, or whine, or cry- you found you couldn't. You were too exhausted from the residual of everyone else's pain. You were being robbed one interaction at a time, every feeling stolen from underneath you to ease each piece of the puzzling societal ache that sought you as its cure.

You agreed with them all- he was great. He was unique. He was a hero.

He was your hero. None of them really seemed to get that.

part eight

"Just try it, honestly, it's fucking brilliant."

When you join, everything about Quidditch is a boys' club. The locker room stinks to high heaven and the residual effects of pure adrenaline seem to ooze out of every vent, but you love it. The first time you walk in, you're hit hard in the chest with a bat.

You ready, Potter?

They make your life hell- running to a recently changed practice so you won't be late, tying the strings of your shoes together so that when you slip them on you'll trip without realizing, charming the bludgers to change course and confuse you. But you learn to run faster, prepare better, and focus more.

They never once mention your dad. 

There's nowhere else you'd rather be.

The wily tests of your physical and mental character transform themselves into extensions of trust. You enjoy spending your free time with the rest of your team, your brothers, your teachers. They tell you which classes to avoid, how to wrangle Peeves, why pumpkin juice closer to the staff table is better than the pumpkin juice closer to the entrance hall, where to place your fingers between a girl's legs to make her moan your name, what kind of broom best fits your flying style, who you can give money to in exchange for stolen firewhiskey.

"Just try it, honestly, it's fucking brilliant."

As you do, it burns your throat with the fever of liquor, excitement, and a seal of fraternal friendship.

part nine

The badge hits the table as you shake it out of its envelope recklessly. You already known what it is, but you want to see it, and you want to see it immediately. Your mother dives in an attempt to retrieve it before it lands, but exhales her frustration instead, her hands retreating to her hips as she surveys you picking it up and rubbing it between your thumbs.

Well, you've finally got it, haven't you?

You aren't surprised, but you're still excited. You're the obvious selection- you organize weekend exercises, and  you even stay after practice to help some of the younger kids with their techniques. You're pretty much perfect for the job, actually.

You know, your f-...well, James, don't be too much of a prat to them, you hear?

You don't need to be reminded that your father was Quidditch Captain. Or that your grandfather was Quidditch Captain.

Too late. 

You abandon the badge with a toss back onto the counter and return to your breakfast. You'll grab it before you leave for King's Cross.

part ten

You WHAT, Potter?

Two words never brought you such joy. You repeat them again, stating yourself as the noun and presenting the clapping "q" sound with gleeful rapport, accentuating the usually diminutive "t" so it becomes an unnecessary but fascinating syllable.

McGonnagall is truly out of sorts. It seems in all her years of wrangling Potters, this was an action that she could not justify, that she could not have expected. No one else would expect it either- they would whisper in the hallway as you walk by, and they'd be whispering about you. They'd ask you why you did it, and your shrug would drive them mad. Most of your teammates are stunned, because they made the same mistake as everyone else.

They just assumed you were your father's son, your grandfather's eternal image.

Turning your back on that silver badge was the best damn feeling in the world.

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[PTab=PLAYER]

A BEAST HUNGRY IN LOVE

played by JIGGY! TWENTY-FIVE - EST - PM (JIGGYSNACKS)

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BRODY, ADAM as JAMES SIRIUS POTTER

deltra of gangnam style

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[Admin Rach]

Accepted

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