Chapter Text
James was the kind of person that you couldn’t ignore in a room, not because he was loud in an obnoxious way, but because his energy pulled people in. He talked with his hands, laughed with his whole face, and could coax a grin out of someone who’d sworn that they weren’t in the mood. Teachers would shake their heads, half exasperated, half amused, because even when James was in trouble he had that disarming charm that made it hard to stay mad at him for long.
But under that grin was a constant hum, a restlessness that he couldn’t switch off. He always seemed like he was waiting for something, a reason, an excuse, a spark. Sometimes it came out harmless, doing dares or stupid challenges with other foster kids to see who would back out first. Other times it burned hotter, he could find himself squaring up to someone, hardly remembering how the argument had even started.
James wasn’t cruel, far from it. He never went looking to hurt people. There was just something in him that craved the heat of the conflict, the adrenaline spike when tempers flared. He tried to tell himself that he could control it, that it was just in the moment, that he wasn’t that kind of person. But the truth was sometimes he needed something to punch, it made him feel alive.
James Potter was a storm with no outlet. He was quick with his fists, but the fights he got into were messy, they were born out of a frustration he couldn’t name and an anger that never seemed to fade. He had a kind of restless energy that made him pace around rooms without realising what he was doing, a simmering tension under his skin that had nowhere to go.
Despite this James wasn’t cold. He was sharp tongued and quick witted, he was able to make people laugh even when he didn’t feel like smiling himself. If he liked you, he’d defend you without any hesitation, because loyalty, to him was all or nothing.
James’s life had been a series of arrivals and departures, constantly moving towns, never staying in one place for long. He was just another kid in care, that nobody paid much attention to. He learnt that some foster homes were more bearable than others. That some used more than aggressive words when he had done something wrong. Some were kinder than others. It didn’t matter he never stayed long. He learnt to keep people at arms length, to move on before anybody could leave him.
James wasn't sure what to expect, the whole situation seemed dodgy, he was approached by a man maybe in his late twenties telling him that he knew of a few ways that he could get rid of some of his anger and make some good money doing it. Underground boxing. It was illegal, but it wouldn't be the first time that James had done something he shouldn't and there was something in him itching to be released. He was constantly told to calm down, as though it was just a switch he could flip but the anger felt wired into his bones, ready to snap at the smallest thing. He didn’t even always know what he was mad at, sometimes it was the past, sometimes the day ahead, sometimes nothing he could name at all. Carrying it was as natural as breathing, and just as constant.
The damp basement reeked of sweat, blood, and cheap whiskey, its low ceiling rattling with the roar of a crowd packed shoulder to shoulder. James stood in the narrow corridor behind the ring, the thud of flesh on flesh echoing from the match before his. His pulse was a drumbeat in his ears, faster than the muffled chants rising from the mob. The concrete walls were slick with condensation, and the barebulb above him buzzed like it was trying to warn him away. He’d never been this close to a fight without rules before, never felt the way the air seemed heavy with both violence and money—but the promoter’s hand on his shoulder reminded him there was no backing out. Somewhere beyond the curtain, his opponent was waiting, and James wasn’t sure if he was about to make a name for himself… or lose it entirely.
Kieran pulled James aside, away from the crowd and away from the other fighters his voice was low but firm. "Out there, you are not James" he said pressing a finger into James's chest. "You never use your real name, it keeps people from finding you later" the man reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of tape, and wrote one word in black sharpie, 'PRONGS' "That's you tonight. Don't change it and don't ask why. The names all yours until the fights over, then you can be James again. Then you can disappear" Kieran smirked slightly, "Well that is unless you come back" He patted James on the back before leaving, speaking to many people as he moved around the warehouse they were in.
The bell rang, James's first match had begun. There were no rules. No gear. Just first one to get their opponent to tap out or pass out won.
It should have been an easy fight for his opponent, an experienced illegal boxer vs a fifteen year old foster kid having his first match.
His opponent lunged forward and delivered a punch straight into James's nose, blood dripped down his t-shirt. Next came a sharp painful jab to his cheek and his head snapped back, but James looked thrilled. This was the best part of the fight for him. He took a few more punches, each one appearing to give him more confidence than the last although he was yet to get in a hit. He hadn't even attempted to retaliate yet. It seemed clear who was going to win. You could hear the roar of the crowd in the background, something seemed to shift as James appeared to take the fight more seriously.
James started landing hit after hit on his opponent, whist dodging all their advances. He had clearing been playing around moments ago. The cheers deepened into a rolling wave as he began cutting the ring, slipping punches with inches to spare, and answering with hooks to the body that drew the wind from his opponent. James was dictating the pace entirely, unleashing combinations that forced his opponent to cover up and stumble backward. It was clear he knew what he was doing. When the final bell rang, there was no doubt in the air, what began as a fight he seemed to be losing ended as a clear, commanding victory, with James standing in the centre of the ring, soaked in sweat and smiling through a split lip, and a broken nose, he looked manic but he felt euphoric.
That was just the first of many matches, James built a name for himself, the crowds loved him. He was undefeated, he always allowed his opponent to get in a few hits at the start, it was as though he enjoyed the pain of it. Many of his opponents had no idea that they had just had the crap beaten out of them by a sixteen year old. All they knew him as was Prongs. He lived for the thrill of being in the centre of the crowds. James was the best fighter that many of them had seen in a long time which was why it puzzled people why he was always supporting some form of a bruise but to James being punched it felt good in a weird but reassuring way, it satisfied an itch.
The warehouse was hotter than usual, the air thick with the smell of sweat, beer, and cheap cologne. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a pale glow over the crowd pressing in against the ring. James stood in his corner, gloves tight, head down, listening to the low hum of voices around him. His opponent was taller, with a reach that would make this harder if James didn’t close the distance fast. The bell rang out, and James stepped forward without hesitation. The first exchange was quick, both testing the other’s guard. A jab slipped past his defense, grazing his cheek, but James ignored it, countering with a hook that connected solidly with the man’s ribs. The crowd erupted, stomping on the concrete floor. Sweat was already running down his back by the time the second round started, but his focus only sharpened. He slipped past a wild swing, driving an uppercut into the man’s chin that sent him stumbling. Sensing the opening, James pressed forward with a flurry of blows until his opponent crumpled to the mat. The ref’s count felt like it lasted forever, but when it hit ten, James stepped back, breathing hard, his pulse steady. No celebration—just the quiet satisfaction of another fight finished, another night’s noise burned out of his head.
Over time, James’s reputation in the underground boxing scene had grown into something almost untouchable. At first, people came to see him because they’d heard about the kid who fought like he had nothing to lose, but now they stayed because he’d turned that raw energy into skill. His footwork was sharper, his punches more deliberate, every move calculated without losing the edge that made him dangerous. Regulars would gather near the ropes just to watch him warm up, whispering about how quick his reflexes had gotten or how he could read an opponent’s intentions before they even twitched. Newcomers were drawn in by the way he seemed to own the ring—never cocky, but unshakably certain in his space. Even fighters who’d been around for years respected him, nodding from across the room or offering a brief handshake before stepping into their own matches. Between fights, he could hear the crowd talking about him, about how he wasn’t just good for his age—he was good, period. Each win only sharpened that respect, and while James never asked for the praise, there was a quiet part of him that thrived on it, the part that knew he’d built himself into someone people couldn’t ignore.
The warehouse was electric that night. The crowd pressed in close around the makeshift ring, their shouts and jeers bouncing off the corrugated metal walls. Sweat, beer, and cheap aftershave mingled into a thick haze. James stood in his corner, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, his gloves tapping together in a steady rhythm. Across from him, his opponent—a thick-set guy with a shaved head and a grin that didn’t reach his eyes—rolled his shoulders, glaring at James like he was already counting the cash he’d win.
The bell rang, sharp and metallic. James didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward fast, cutting the distance before the other guy had time to settle into his stance. A quick jab to test the guard—blocked. James circled right, feinted low, then sent a hook toward the ribs. It landed with a dull thud, and the man grunted, his guard faltering for just a fraction of a second. That was enough. James snapped a jab at his face, followed by another to keep him off balance.
The crowd roared, some shouting James’s name, others calling for blood. His opponent came back swinging—a heavy right aimed straight for James’s jaw. James dipped under it, felt the air rush past his ear, and answered with a sharp uppercut to the chin. The man staggered but didn’t drop.
“You hit like you mean it,” the man growled, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.
James just smirked. “I do.”
They clashed again, the sound of leather on flesh cracking through the noise. James felt the sting in his knuckles even through the gloves, but the adrenaline dulled it. His opponent tried to drive him back, landing a couple of body shots that made James’s ribs ache, but James stayed grounded, ducking and weaving, waiting for the opening he knew would come.
Halfway through the round, the man’s movements slowed—just slightly, but James caught it. His breathing was heavier, his swings a little wider. James stepped in, jabbing to keep him guessing, then slammed a cross straight into his nose. Blood sprayed, and the man stumbled back into the ropes.
The crowd’s noise rose to a fever pitch. James didn’t let up. He pressed forward, hammering his gloves into the man’s midsection, each hit making him fold a little more. The man tried to clinch, arms coming up to hold James back, but James shoved him off with his forearm and landed a brutal right hook to the temple.
The man hit the mat hard. The referee—more of a guy with a stopwatch than an actual official—stepped in and started counting. The opponent groaned, rolled to his side, but couldn’t get his feet under him.
“Eight… nine… ten!”
The bell clanged again, and the crowd erupted. Some cheered wildly, others cursed and tossed bills toward the side of the ring. James’s chest heaved, sweat dripping down his temples, his gloves heavy at his sides. His knuckles throbbed, and his ribs would probably bruise by morning, but the rush was intoxicating.
Kieran was at his side in an instant, grinning as he slapped James on the back. “Easy money, kid. You made him look like he was moving in slow motion.”
James climbed out of the ring, the noise of the warehouse still pounding in his ears. The fight was over, but his pulse was still in the ring, beating to the rhythm of every blow he’d landed.
The “locker room” was just a back corner of the warehouse sectioned off with plywood sheets and an old curtain, but to James, it felt like a sanctuary after the noise of the ring. The hum of the overhead fluorescent light buzzed in his ears, mingling with the ringing still lingering from the crowd’s shouts. He peeled off his gloves slowly, his hands stiff, knuckles red and swollen beneath the wraps.
Kieran leaned against the wall, arms folded, grinning like he’d just won the fight himself. “You see the look on his face after that hook? Man didn’t even know where he was.”
James dropped the gloves onto the bench, letting them thud. “He was slower than I expected,” he said, reaching for the water bottle someone had left on the table. The first gulp was ice cold, almost shocking after the heat of the match.
“Slower?” Kieran raised an eyebrow. “James, you broke his rhythm in the first thirty seconds. You had him chasing you the whole time. Hell, half the guys in that crowd probably just realized they don’t want to fight you.”
James smirked faintly but didn’t say much. The adrenaline was fading now, leaving a dull ache in his ribs and a sharp sting in his shoulder. His breathing had steadied, but inside, there was still that restless buzz that always came after a win—half pride, half hunger for the next fight.
Kieran pushed off the wall, pacing a little. “You keep this up, you’re gonna be the name people drop when they talk about the best. Not just in this dump—anywhere. I mean it, James. You’ve got that thing, that edge.”
James sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, water bottle dangling from his fingers. “Yeah, well… edge doesn’t mean much if I don’t keep winning.”
Kieran crouched in front of him, voice dropping. “And you will. But you’ve gotta remember—it’s not just about fists. It’s about knowing when to strike, when to hold back. You’ve got instinct, but you’ve also got control. That’s what scares people. You’re not just swinging wild—you’re thinking while you’re killing them in there.”
James glanced up at him, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Killing them, huh?”
“You know what I mean.” Kieran slapped his shoulder—not too hard, knowing the hits James had taken. “Just don’t get cocky. Guys will start coming for you harder now that they’ve seen what you can do. They’ll think taking you down makes them the king.”
James nodded slowly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Let them try.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The muffled roar of another fight filtered in from the warehouse, but back here it was quieter, almost peaceful. James stared at the floor, the faint scent of sweat, leather, and damp concrete filling his nose. He thought about how the fight had felt—the timing, the precision, the moment his opponent’s guard had dropped—and it made his pulse quicken again.
Kieran’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You hungry? We can grab something before the next round starts. My treat.”
James gave him a look. “You’re only buying because you made bank off me tonight.”
Kieran smirked. “Damn right. You’re my golden ticket, kid.”
James rolled his eyes but stood anyway, tossing the empty bottle into a dented trash bin. The aches and bruises were just part of the deal, in a way he enjoyed them the most. What mattered was that he’d won—and that people were talking. And if Kieran was right, they’d be talking about him for a long time.
The warehouse was cold enough to see his breath, but James barely noticed. Heat was already building in his chest, that slow burn of adrenaline settling into his muscles. The place smelled like oil, sweat, and stale beer — the scent of men who’d been standing shoulder to shoulder for hours, betting more money than they could afford to lose.
The “ring” wasn’t much. Just a square roped off with fraying nylon cord, duct-taped to rusted posts. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering in a way that made shadows stutter across the walls. The crowd pressed close, faces eager and loud, their voices blurring into a wall of sound.
James stepped through the ropes, rolling his shoulders, the leather of his gloves creaking as he flexed his fingers inside them. Across from him, a thick-necked man in his late twenties was bouncing on his heels, grinning like he’d already won. His nose had been broken before — James could tell by the way it bent slightly left — and there was a cocky gleam in his eyes.
Someone banged a wrench against a steel pipe to signal the start.
The man came in hard. James didn’t move. Didn’t even bother to dodge. The first jab clipped him across the cheek, the next thudded into his jaw. He let them land — not enough to rattle him, just enough for the guy to think he had him figured out. James could feel the sting bloom across his skin, it would bruise and the thought made him elated, you could hear the crowd’s cheer spike at the sight of him taking hits.
Then he smiled.
It was small, almost lazy, but it made his opponent hesitate just long enough.
James slipped the next hook, stepped inside, and buried a shot into his ribs. The impact sent a satisfying jolt up his arm.
The guy grunted, stumbled, but came in again with a flurry.
James danced just out of reach, boots scuffing the concrete, his breathing slow and even. He could feel the rhythm already — step, slip, counter. When the next punch came, James ducked under it, came up inside the man’s guard, and drove a right cross square into his face. There was a crunch — not enough to break, but enough to daze.
From there, James didn’t rush it. He jabbed to snap the head back, another jab to blind him, then a hook that landed with a dull thud. The man’s legs buckled.
The crowd roared, money changing hands, but James barely heard them. He stayed locked in, measuring his breathing, eyes fixed until he knew it was over. Two more clean punches, and the man went down hard.
James didn’t throw his hands up. Didn’t even look at the crowd. He just walked away, unwrapping his hands as he went, leaving his opponent and the noise behind.
The arena buzzed with anticipation, the chants for Prongs swelling like a tide that seemed to crash over every corner of the venue. Everyone knew the outcome, this was less a question of if he’d win and more a matter of how and when.
Still, his opponent came out swinging, perhaps hoping to shock the crowd by catching the champion off guard, landing a few glancing shots that James absorbed without a flicker of concern. His eyes never left his target, his breathing slow, almost casual, as if he were waiting for the right beat in a song only he could hear. Then, with a sudden burst, he stepped inside, slipping a right hand by a hair’s breadth before unleashing a crisp uppercut that drew a collective gasp from the stands. The rest became an exhibition James was pivoting gracefully, firing precise jabs that snapped his opponent’s head back, weaving under wild hooks, and punishing every mistake with mechanical precision. By the final round, the other man was clinging to survival, while James, still composed, dictated every second.
The inevitable came with a sharp left to the ribs followed by a devastating right cross that sent the challenger tumbling. The referee’s count was almost drowned out by the roar of the crowd, already celebrating a victory they had never doubted.
James stood over him for half a second, chest heaving, before stepping back and raising his gloves in the barest acknowledgment of the noise.
When he got back to Kieran, the man was grinning like he’d just stolen the crown jewels.
“That,” Kieran said, clapping him on the shoulder, “is how you make a statement.”
James took the towel Kieran handed him, wiping the sweat from his face. His pulse was still pounding, not from the win, but from the way the crowd had looked at him afterward—like they’d seen something dangerous and couldn’t look away.
As they left the ring, people moved aside without being asked. James didn’t smile, but inside, he knew Kieran was right. He wasn’t just fighting anymore. He was building something.
In the dim glow of the warehouse lights, James had a way of commanding attention without even trying. The regulars knew his name, and newcomers quickly learned it after watching him move—sharp, precise, each punch carrying the kind of weight that came from both power and control. Between fights, people would nod at him in quiet respect or clap him on the shoulder as he passed, murmuring about his footwork, his timing, the way he could read an opponent like an open book. He never smiled at the praise, never lingered to bask in it, but the admiration was there all the same, hanging in the air whenever he stepped into the ring.
Fighters sought him out, either to test themselves or to earn bragging rights just for lasting a round with him. Promoters started calling Kieran more often, offering higher stakes and bigger venues. By the time James was sixteen, he could walk into any fight space in the city and feel the shift in the air, people turned, whispers started, and a path opened without him asking. He wasn’t just a contender anymore; he was the guy they came to see, the one whose name filled seats and kept the crowd buzzing long after the final bell. And though James didn’t say it out loud, there was a part of him that fed on it—the way the legend of “Prongs” seemed to grow bigger every time he stepped into the ring. He was well known in the underground community by now.
There were nights when the fights didn’t end the way they were supposed to, when the bell wasn’t the thing that stopped James, but the sight of someone crumpled on the canvas. One match in particular stuck in people’s minds: his opponent, a wiry guy with a quick mouth, had been taunting him since the warm-up. By the second round, James wasn’t thinking about technique, only about shutting him up. A left hook landed harder than he intended, and the man’s legs buckled instantly, his head hitting the floor with a sickening thud. The crowd went from roaring to dead silent in seconds, and James stood there, chest heaving, staring at what he’d done until someone shoved him back so medics could get through. The guy woke up eventually, but the whispers about James’s temper started spreading that night.
Another time, it wasn’t even about anger—it was instinct. The fight had been close, both of them trading heavy shots, when James saw an opening and threw everything he had into an uppercut. His opponent’s body went limp before he hit the ground, and the referee waved it off immediately. Later, James heard he’d fractured the man’s jaw and caused a concussion bad enough to keep him from fighting for months. It wasn’t the kind of win that felt good, but in the underground scene, people talked about it like a badge of honor.
The worst was a winter night fight in a warehouse so cold James could see his breath between rounds. His opponent was slower, already taking a beating, but James couldn’t seem to pull back. Every punch landed heavier than the last, until the man collapsed against the ropes and slid to the floor. This time, he didn’t get up at all—not for the count, not when the crowd started to shift uneasily. They carried him out on a stretcher, his breathing shallow, and for the first time James felt something close to fear mix with the adrenaline. People said he was becoming one of the most dangerous fighters in the circuit. He couldn’t decide if that was supposed to be a compliment.
Some days, James moved like there was a fire under his skin; restless, sharp, talking fast, unable to sit still for more than a few minutes. He’d throw himself into training, sparring round after round until his knuckles ached, chasing an energy that felt unstoppable. Other days, it was like someone had pulled the plug; he’d barely leave his room, staring at the same spot on the wall, his thoughts slow and heavy. The swings came without warning, and though he tried to hide them, the people around him could tell something shifted in him.