Houses of the Holy

The Space Between

TW: Anxiety, emotional distress, grief, detachment to the real world sort of? All James and his lil spiral :D (Regulus is just chilling on the side having a gay crisis)

And you can tell everybody this is your song

It may be quite simple but now that it's done

I hope you don't mind - Elton John, Your Song

James

James is cold. The sheets are wrapped around his ankles, his hips, crushing him, around his throat. Somehow, his breath is even, slow, and his heart steady in his chest. He feels calm, its not like he has anything on. Life is good.

And then it all comes crashing down.

Mum.

It sinks into his chest, heavy and thick, and all he can do is breathe.

In.

And out.

In.

And out.

Even that is bitter and rough against his lips, each gasping inhale dragging harshly against his throat, burning his eyes. Or perhaps that's just the tears, dripping down his cheeks. Tears, that he didn't even notice he started crying.

He forces himself into a sitting position, his stomach curling in on itself, something like hunger burning his ribs. He slowly stands, wandering mindlessly through his routine, clothes, glasses, school books.

When he next looks up, his vision spins a little, settling after a second. He's back in the library, not that he remembers getting there.

James stands there, blinking at the shelves like they've suddenly materialized in front of him, like the library itself just pulled him inside without warning. His fingers tremble as they grip the strap of his book bag, knuckles white with pressure, but his body feels distant, like it's moving on autopilot. He's dressed, bag slung over his shoulder, but none of it feels real. The floor beneath him shifts, though it doesn't move. His stomach growls, that gnawing sensation still twisting in his ribs, and he stifles the urge to double over.

Focus, he tells himself, swallowing thickly.

It doesn't help.

His mind keeps circling back, dragging him into the fog that hovers in his chest, threatening to spill over.

The bell rings, sharp and jarring, slicing through the fog in James's mind. For a moment, he just stands there, blinking in confusion as if the sound came from a dream, distant and unreal. His pulse quickens, but his body remains frozen in place, rooted to the floor of the library.

Exams already?

The thought crashes into him like a cold wave. He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog, but it lingers, thick and heavy. His legs move without thought, pulling him toward the History of Magic classroom as if on autopilot. The hallway around him is filled with students, their voices merging into a dull hum that barely registers. James feels like he's underwater, the sounds muted, his body weighed down by invisible pressure.

His feet drag as he enters the classroom, his limbs stiff, like they don't quite belong to him. He sits at his usual desk, but everything feels off. The chair is too solid beneath him, the surface of the desk too cold under his hands. He feels...disconnected as if he's watching himself from a distance, floating just outside his own skin.

"Potter, James."

His own name echoes in his head, and for a second, panic flares in his chest, but even that feels dulled, like his emotions are wrapped in cotton. His skin prickles, too warm, then too cold, and he wipes his palms on his trousers, feeling the dampness of sweat.