Brother Mine

The last time he’d been on a broom, he’d been heading to Layabout Lane to have his heart broken.

In retrospect, it all sounded a little too dramatic.

The wind was biting, as was its nature this late in the afternoon and this early on in the year. It flapped past his collar, whipped the cloak draped across his shoulders into strange shapes, rubbed the skin off the bridge of his nose raw. The faster it blew, the faster he pressed the streamlined, carved piece of wood forward, bending until he was nearly level and flattened along the length of the room, a black and green blur that shot in and out of focus in the indigo-hued dusk slashed with streaks of gold.

He wove in and out of the stands, ascending steeply in a moment and hurtling down the next, then pulling out of the dive with barely an inch to spare, the hem of his cloak skidding sharply past the blades of grass. Every transition, one manoeuvre to the next, was executed seamlessly, with hardly a second’s pause in between. Borne on the wind like this, it was almost easy to forget that flight hadn’t come like second nature to him.

Almost.

Albus breathed, and with barely a nudge of his fingertips, pulled the Firebolt up to ascend again. Almost vertical, the broom was urged to its limits, the air resistance almost strong enough to rip the excess fabric flowing down from his shoulders. Flying was easier in jeans, always had been, but he was used to the drag of robes holding him down. That’s how they had all learned to fly.

He’d almost reached the upper perimeter of the stadium’s Notice-Me-Not wards, and took a second to straighten to a horizontal position. From here, he had a hawk’s vantage point- the ground was empty, deserted of human life for miles around, no one really liked to come fly when afternoon was closing into evening and the light began to fade, especially in such horrific wind conditions. Threw the entire rhythm of Quidditch off. Which made it perfect for Albus’ jaunts because yes, he had trained and bled toil and sweat to get on the team in school, but he had never much cared for Quidditch. Catching balls, lobbing them at hoops, or other players. All he cared about was to shed the shackles on the ground, lift off and……fly.

A second, with the silence dangerously loud in his eardrums and the ground more than fifty feet away, and Albus dived. The wind whistled loud enough to deafen, to make his teeth shudder uncontrollably in a tightened jaw, the ground looming up in vision, hard and unforgivable. One, two………Albus pulled again, straightened out of the plummeting descent, several seconds too soon. James would probably have pushed it so much closer.

Albus blinked, moisture springing to his lids, probably because of the wind. This was……it was an unwelcome thought. Not unwarranted, still bitter. But he wasn’t here to remember…….it didn’t matter. It was an unwanted intrusion in the silence blanketing his mind, the peace of his flight.
Flying was the one thing he liked to keep untainted from the caustic taste of the people he’d cast off, been cast off by, in his long journey till here. It was the one place where nostalgia smelt sweet. Because even if Harry James Potter had been the youngest Seeker in the century, Albus had known one person who had always flown better. The smell of broom polish was inextricably twined with the scent of the freesias that flowered in the Burrow’s garden, with the damp fugue of ink that used to spatter the edges of old, freshly written Quidditch Daily reports. Flying, to Albus, would always mean the one family member he had never managed to hate, no matter how hard he tried. His mother.

Which was why, when the soles of his feet finally came to brush against the ground and he looked up, he couldn’t help but startle- to see Ginny Weasley’s warm brown eyes staring at him less than ten feet away.

Then widened emerald eyes scoped over the rest of the features, and hardened almost imperceptibly. Smooth as glass, impenetrable as solid jade. His teeth tightened enough to numb the nerve endings in his gums.

F*ck you very much, Freddie.

He was calm though, despite it all, calm like an ocean may be before an impending storm. He wouldn’t have made a fuss. He had to stop feeling like a tempestuous sixteen year old everytime he was flung before his……brother. He would have dismounted smoothly, tightened his laces, tucked the broom under his arm and walked past the six foot tall apparition of the boy he’d known in his childhood, now taken the shape of a man. He would have done everything, done it right- hadn’t he been wearing masks for as long as he’d lived? What was another one, in the grand scheme of things?

Except when he was straightening up from his shoes, his stray gaze caught upon whitened knuckles clenched around a broom, and his brows furrowed. Almost absently, the words drifted out, no matter how he stiffened a second later and wished futilely to yank them back from the air.

“You’re…….holding it wrong.”

A Quidditch pitch always smelt the same way. It didn’t matter if it was a non-league ramshackle bunch of under-tens with willow branches folded into the shape of the rings or if it was a World Cup match. The smell was always the same, a strangely sweet-cum-sour fragrance that wafted off of the neatly trimmed blades of grass and filled the young men and women who had come to play with this indelible sense of hope. Knowing, though, that he couldn’t be a part of that hope that he could finally recall being such an intrinsic part of since well before he could eve walk somehow rankled with James Potter and for the first time since he’d been jumped in London on that fateful night he missed flying.

It was absurd to him now, with all of his near-restored memories, that he had such a gut-clenching fear of heights. He knew that, a year ago, he would have tipped his head back and laugh at such a suggestion – but then, of course, he’d probably light another cigarette in between swigs of frothy beer that didn’t really taste at all. It seemed like a fair price to him in truth – sobriety for his first great love. He’d lost plenty of loves in his time – his father, his mother, the women he’d adored… in the end flying wasn’t such a loss. He didn’t even know if he missed it in truth and the way he held the broom, caught somewhere between not caring and unsure of how properly to man it even if he did, was indicative of that. Had he really not cared, he wouldn’t have been at a Quidditch pitch, either.

This was at Fred’s behest though, James told himself. Somehow, it just had to be different didn’t it?

In the end, it wasn’t even about Fred. It wasn’t about James, either. Somehow, it always came back to being about Albus. It was as though James was a strange satellite – a moon to Albus’ planet – that never really got to meet with his brother. Somehow he knew. The familiar approach was one he knew better than anyone else’s. When he looked up, he felt his heart constrict painfully in his chest and he simultaneously felt a burst of loathing for his cousin as well as a rush of love for his little brother. He vowed to pay a visit to their cousin before the week’s end but as yet, James wasn’t sure what his revenge would be.

“Thankfully, this is one of the few things that are inconsequential if I handle them badly,” James quipped with a self-deprecating smile, tossing the broom onto the ground carelessly. “I take it there was a Weasley behind your being here just as there was mine?” He lifted a curious brow before more tentatively inquiring: “How are you, Albus?”

“Thankfully, this is one of the few things that are inconsequential if I handle them badly,”

Great. The double-meaning sentences were out already. Except that would mean that James was actually…..admitting that he’d handled things horribly in the past, which – massive understatement much? Albus’ features flattened into the blank mask they did so well, while his legs fought against the irresistible urge to…..run. Sidestep the man and walk away because he wasn’t ready for this, would never be ready for this, if he never saw James’ face in his entire life again it would be too soon and-

Athena’s face flashed before his eyelids, head ducked, voice hesitant, so contrary to the naturally dignified bearing of the woman, as she admitted that she didn’t want to be a nuisance.
Something voiced, very quietly in his head. Maybe his remaining amounts of sense. You’re overreacting. Again.

Cool air whistled in and out of his lungs, and Albus raised his shoulders and let the tightness drain out of them in a deliberate move. He had walked away the last time, and the action had given him no peace. He wouldn’t walk away again. He was cowardly yes…….but not that big of one. If anyone deserved to shy away from eye contact now, it was James; not he.

A small, half-aborted snort of amusement reached his ears. It took Albus several belated seconds to realise that it came from him. “Really? Because from what I remember, this was the only thing of consequence in your life that mattered.” Nothing else. No one else.

Nothing like emotion-laced words of months ago, no anger, no outright accusations…..the words were punctuated by cool observation, but as always, hooked to draw first blood. Even the word ‘remember’, used with such purpose, such muted mockery. Because that was what pissed Albus off the most, wasn’t it? James didn’t remember. He didn’t remember his sins- perhaps a boy’s natural mistakes in the eyes of so many, but nothing short of crimes in the eyes of the resentful little shadow that had traced his brother’s heels when they were smaller. James didn’t remember why Albus was angry, why they were fighting, why they ought to be fighting, and that was the greatest sin of all.

But then Albus made the mistake of meeting James’ eyes head on, because he liked to watch the words his mind gave birth and tongue shaped with such sharp-edged skill dig in; but James’ eyes were softened, reticent and cautious, but warm with obvious affection and f*ck. F*ck.

Fifteen years too late brother. Albus felt the bitterness rise like a tide, the one that had taken residence in his veins since……he didn’t even remember how long it had been, any more. It felt like it had always been there, like he’d been born with it infecting his mind and tainting his life- and now it flowed through him again, like an old friend, like the cold comfort of alcohol or Spice to an addict that had never let go, not really. What wouldn’t I have done for this before. It wouldn’t have mattered if the world overlooked me. If only you’d noticed, you’d seen……..it would have been enough.

But f*ck if he was going to let James see that. He’d given his family enough power over him over the years, they didn’t need more ammunition. So Albus let the words flow meaninglessly as if directed to an old, inconsequential acquaintance, expression detached. “Fred knows I come here often so…..yes, in a way.” Hell if he was going to help that asshole on another case now. The bastard always thought he knew too much too good too often anyway.

“I’m……” There were so many ways he could have ended that sentence. So many derisive, cool, closed-off options. Albus was a writer you see, an artist with words, knowing just how to mould them to deliver maximum damage. But that would have been a disservice to the woman who’d chosen to seek her shelter in Albus’ home, the children who looked at him with adoring eyes and sprinted to hug his knees when he let himself in through the front door. And hell if Albus’ tone didn’t soften at the memory, quite unbeknownst to him. “….good. I’m good.”

And then, caught in the softened shades of memory, Albus forgot to put the prejudiced glasses back on when he glanced up at his brother, forgot to obscure his vision with the mist of judgement. He’d always been perceptive, and what his eyes saw caught him offguard for a second. Because there James Potter stood, and he wasn’t looking happy. (Some honest part of Albus that he hadn’t quite been able to silence yet reminded him that James had never looked truly happy, not even in his days of glory). But he wasn’t…….wasn’t looking smug with his lot in life, eyes gleaming with his latest triumph. And then the realisations came crashing into the stubborn walls of Albus’ mind one after the other- the drawn shadows under his brother’s eyes, the paleness of his lips, the sag of his shoulders. Fred’s incredibly unsubtle hints, of how Jamie Potter was nice enough to everyone in his department but didn’t appear to have incredibly close friends, no one to go home to at night. The James who people flocked around and basked in the glow of was lost in the lanes of memory, the James now ducked out of dinner invitations and pub runs with pals to sit in an empty house. Albus didn’t believe it. It was the most ludicrous thing he’d ever heard, except James Potter stood in front of him with his thumb tucked in and index finger curled in what surely was one of the most horrible broomstick grips Albus had ever seen and……he didn’t know what to believe, any more.

And what a role reversal this was. Because Albus had voices in his house now- high, chirping voices, sweet, carefree voices, he was……..he was happy, and James was not, and this didn’t feel like a victory. It didn’t feel like anything at all.

He looks like you. The voice in his head murmured, and Albus resisted the urge to scoff, because before he had known anything, he’d known the universal fact that there was absolutely nothing, nothing in common between James and him. But….he looks like you used to. Before. When you had nothing to live for.

“For heaven’s sake, James.” And that caught him offguard too, even if it was his own voice, because it was quiet, and not quite cold, and he hadn’t voiced his brother’s name in a tone so devoid of venom for what seemed like decades. “Correct your grip. You’re hurting my eyes.”

Good. Good. James wondered what on earth ‘good’ meant. He supposed he must have felt it once, perhaps when he’d scored or perhaps when the other team had been low on players because the Falcons’ Beaters were on point as ever. He probably felt good then. When he won his first major trophy, he supposed that must have been good. He must have felt good. He must have been good. He had to have been, to help his team win. He was second highest scorer and everything. Would have been highest, too, if not for an injury before the Christmas period. But had any of that felt good? Good. Good.

Albus was good. But then, Albus had always been good in some way or another. He’d always seemed better and more like himself, as though he was really himself. Lily? Well, James wasn’t even sure about Lily. Yet he’d hoped that both could be more like themselves and all of the expectation he could take – not because he’d really wanted it, the benefit of additional years and rehab had led him to admit otherwise – so that they could be themselves and do what they wanted to do. But somehow all of the Potters ended up broken in one way or another. Despite the famous name, none of them were good.

When Albus’ snap cut through his thoughts, James looked up, an impish smile taking up his lips. He held out the broom and twirled his fingers around the other side in a way that didn’t make his hand strain as though his muscles remembered the right way of holding it. The broomstick softened in his palm, the familiar feeling of wood on calloused skin soothing his very soul – and somehow having his brother there with him, reproaching him for his naivety, did the same. He felt almost like they were children again, carefree and lolloping around before all of the Potter problems set in.

Potter problems. How many Potters does it take to sort out a problem? Usually only one. The Harry one.

It was never the James one.

No matter how hard he tried.

He’d only ever succeeded in causing more problems.

And hurt everyone he loved in the process.

“Before,” James’ clipped tone reverberated in the air, making him flinch as though he’d not even expected to speak until the words escaped his throat. “Before, Albus … I want to apologise for before.” James reached up and rubbed idly behind his ear, his lips coming together into a soft pout. “For everything before, actually. Not just dinner. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done and everything I’ve not done. I should have been so much and at the same time not as much as I became and I let you down and I let Lily down and I let m-mum,” James sucked in a half breath and lowered his gaze to the grass.

“I let mum down,” he murmured, as though he could barely get the word out, as though even conceding that there had been a point in time where Ginny Potter had existed was too difficult to comprehend in itself let alone vocalise. She was the one person he’d still kept to, glued to for fear of losing her. His desire to protect her had overwhelmed everything and his failure to protect her … and then to protect Kanade. Death seemed to follow the Potters like a dark shadow.

He didn’t even bother vocalising the fact that he’d let Harry down – this great invisible deity to whom everyone aspired. It was a given that he’d disappointed their father, distant and shadowy though the man seemed.

James took a breath and reached up to squeeze the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses. He exhaled and righted them before flicking his gaze to his brother’s.

“I don’t want to let you down anymore,” James told him, his voice clear. “I want to be your brother, or at least someone you like to be around, again. I don’t want you to hate me forever so … so,” he began more firmly. “If you could … if you could give me a chance. That’d … that’d be brilliant.”