A/N: Okay, so this was on here before as A Miserable Soul. But I've changed a few things and I am slowly putting it back. Anyway please please please please please times a zillion review and give me feedback :)

Big love!

Disclaimer: I own nothing that you recognize. Nooo shit.

Slap. A stinging pain shocked the young wizard, his left cheek burning with the pain from the blow that his father had just dealt him.

He looked down at the freshly polished wooden floor, determined not to cry, determined to keep a stony, expressionless face.

He examined a piece of mud on the side of his shoe intently, wondering, fearing, apprehensive of what was coming next.

"Are you listening to me, boy? Look at me when I'm talking to you, you ungrateful no good child!" screamed the boy's father, grabbing his son's chin forcefully, and pulling it up to face him, making the boy's neck crack from such a fast movement.

The young boy looked up at his father's rage filled face, cheeks red, chest heaving in anger, green eyes glazed over with anger, unlike with their usual twinkle.

The boy winced inwardly, bracing himself for the next blow, and then- Slap. Another stinging blow was dealt, this time to the boy's right cheek.

James Potter looked up at his father, face expressionless. He was barely looking at his father, more looking behind him, not daring to look at the anger in his father's eyes again.

Mr. Potter glared at his son once again, and held up a piece of parchment, waving it in front of James' face.

"You see this, boy?" he yelled, small droplets flying from his mouth and onto James's cheek.

James didn't reply, just continued to look past his father and the parchment, in a silent protest.

"You see this?" he yelled again, getting even closer to his son, a little too close for comfort if you asked James.

"Yes," said James quietly, not wanting to be slapped again, and wishing he were anywhere else than in the kitchen of his own home, facing his very own father.

His father held up the parchment, and read a segment aloud.

"Mr. Potter has a lot of potential, and could go very far with his schoolwork as a 7th year, and could be a wonderful auror someday. If only he would apply himself to his work, instead of focusing more on social commitments, and creating minor chaos with childish pranks throughout the castle. We are rather disappointed in Mr. Potter, although we are quite pleased with the work he has applied himself to."

Mr. Potter stopped reading, and looked at his son, the anger subsiding a little as he saw James's solemn expression.

'Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"

James returned to staring at the ground, blinking ferociously to keep the tears that were threatening to fall from cascading down his more-than-rosy cheeks, which were still red from the slaps earlier.

This was all Mr. Potter could handle.

"I said, what do you have to say for yourself!" he screamed, his voice cracking a little as I started to go hoarse, his face going red, and his hands clenching into fists at his sides, one of them crumpling the parchment into a small ball in anger.

James kept looking at the floor, trying with every ounce of pride he had not to cry. Every ounce he had… But to no avail.

A tear slipped out, and fell to the floor poignantly and silently, James not being able to do a thing about it.

Mr. Potter saw the teardrop fall, silently and poignantly, until it the floor, splashing without making a sound.

His face softened immediately, and he looked at his son's face properly for the first time. The mixture of fear, anger, defiance and sadness was a rare show of emotion from his son, and Mr. Potter began to feel a little remorseful.

"I'm sorry son, but this is for your own good! The Potter family are winners. We have always been winners. You cannot afford to lapse on your schoolwork!" there was a pause in Mr. Potters speech, as he took a breath, and worded in his head what he was going to say next.

"I admit, I caused a bit of mischief at your age too, everyone does, but you can NOT let it interfere with your schoolwork!" said Mr Potter, starting to get worked up again, but not letting the anger take over so much that he hit his son again.

"Yes father," said James miserably. He knew exactly what was coming next. The generation speech.

Sure enough, all sense of remorse had disappeared from his fathers deep voice.

"The Potter family have been winners, and proud of it, for generations. I went to Hogwarts, and was top of the Quidditch team, top of my year, top of all of my classes, and I still managed to fit in a social schedule. Your grandfather went to Hogwarts, and he…"

This was about as far as James got before he started to faze out of the meaningless word that were spouting from his fathers mouth. He had heard, and taken on the exact same speech countless times, he had been in the exact same position countless times, and did not want to bother with it all again.

He understood. His family, relatives, ancestors were all genius's, legends on the Quidditch field, and all of them managed to have social lives, as well as be top of their classes and Quidditch teams.

He wished he was back at Hogwarts again, in his dormitory, with his best friends, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew.

It was only the first week of the holidays, and already he missed them terribly. Missed the fun they had together, the mischief they caused, the plans they made. How they could make him happy no matter what, and that even if they were fighting, he still felt safe, comfortable, and happy with him.

When James was with the Marauders, he was in a good state of mind, a state of mind he was safe in. But at home, James was a different person, a dangerous person. Not dangerous to anyone but himself, but still dangerous nevertheless. The only people that could save him from himself existed only at Hogwarts, and when he was at home they couldn't be with him. Couldn't save him from himself.

He tuned back in again quickly, just in time to hear the end of his father's tiresome speech.

" If only you could be more like me James…"

James snapped his head up, locking eyes with his father. Mr. Potter noticed that there was a new expression in James's eye… not guilt… no, not fear… what was it?

" Well, maybe, I don't want to be like you! Maybe I don't want to be Harold Potter's son, James Potter, wonderful student, Quidditch extraordinaire, just like his father! Maybe I just want to be plain old James Potter! Did you ever think of that!" James suddenly yelled, screaming at his father, finally exploding.

Harold stared at him. He now realized what that had been in his son's eye. Hate. It had been hate. Defiance. Anger. Recklessness. All the things that a Potter should never, ever show.

"How DARE YOU!" shrieked Mr Potter, face contorting with anger.

James looked slightly regretful at first, knowing he could not possibly have said anything worse, but then got that defiant look back again. He had been waiting to say that for an eternity, and it felt so, so good. The part of his mind that told him it was wrong, told him he shouldn't have to put up with it anymore, finally kicked in, and he became reckless, not caring what he said anymore.

"You know what? Fuck you. Slap me, punch me, kick me out for all I care, I hate you. I hate you and your stupid rules, your stupid fake, meaningless life, your stupid expectations. If I'm never going to be good enough for you, why bother?" yelled James, and with that, he stalked out of the house and into the pouring rain.

Harold Potter just looked after him in wonder, anger and despair. What had he done to deserve such a disobedient son?

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James sat in a nearby park on a bench, sobbing his heart out, letting the tears fall, his face dripping, his clothes soaking, not caring anymore, not wanting to do anything anymore. Not wanting any responsibilities, no expectations, no family honor, no school… nothing.

He slumped down on the bench miserably and closed his eyes, teeth chattering from the cold.

And that was how it came to be that James Potter, son of famous Auror, good student, fantastic Quidditch player, friend to all… Spent the night on a park bench.