harry didn’t grow up with stories of james potter, the indian boy who ran through hogwarts, loud and proud and full of life. he didn’t know that his father’s voice would fill the great hall with laughter, or that james would argue passionately in defense of his culture, unafraid to bring the fire of his heritage into every room he walked into.
but as harry gets older, he starts piecing things together, collecting fragments of a man who left echoes behind him. he learns from professors that james would use his wand to create vibrant garlands during festivals, brightening the gryffindor common room with colors his classmates had never seen. he’d coax sirius into trying spicy food they’d never even heard of, laughing as they both coughed and spluttered but insisted on more. and when they celebrated deepavali, james would tell them, grinning with pride, about how it wasn’t just a festival of lights, but a reminder of resilience, of the light within that never dims. he'd shown that same resilience during the war.
harry hears whispers from people who knew his father—the way james insisted on using tamil compliments because they “sounded much better,” the way he would answer teachers in tamil just to remind everyone where he came from. the way he’d refer to remus as “nanbaa” (friend), that special affection saved for the people who shared your burdens. how he called lily his “thangam” (gold) because of the colour her hair shone in the sunlight.
and slowly, harry begins to reclaim pieces of his father. he learns how to wrap a veshti, stubbornly practicing until he gets it right, because he knows it’s something james would’ve worn proudly. he finds comfort in the smell of his dad’s favorite spices, brings them with him to work as his own quiet rebellion, and teaches ron and hermione how to roll up chapatis late at night in grimmauld place.
