I just want to dance with Mikey through the halls, beating on my tambourine and cartwheeling and flying for Albus Potter thinks I'm fit.

“Oh, Wilderson,” said James, smirking, “this isn’t a game. This is just dancing.” 

"Thank God you were caught," said Aspen, shuddering. "Madame Pomfrey said that if James hadn't caught you, you could have died you were so high up-"

And we looked at each other. I stroked his cheekbone, feeling the roughness of the underlying stubble, and he stroked my hair, his fingers grazing my left temple.

I burst out laughing, and I couldn't stop, not when he demanded it, not when he pleaded, but only when his lips came crashing down onto mine.

"I'm teaching her how to party like a Gryffindor," she explained loudly.

"Hey," said Al, his hands thrust in his pockets and his head tilted upwards, a sign of confidence, borderline arrogance. He had never looked more like James.

“Your bikini,” she repeated. “Oh come on, Eff. It’s like, thirty degrees- we’re going down to the lake.”

"No, Wilderson," he said, his tone gentler, his cool fingers grazing my arm, and then grasping slightly tighter when I didn't sit back down. "Stay. You should stay."

"If only Aspen was here," Oscar said, wistfully. "We really need her input to make a complete group decision about what you'regoing to do next."

The darkness of the party and the sensational freedom of being young and free and fluorescent in my adolescence.

 But here I am, after kissing Mikey, writing to you.

"Hello Professor," Rose said sweetly, her smirk only slightly widening. "I'd be better if LONGBOTTOM WASN'T ALWAYS SO LATE!"

“What’s up with him?” Oscar asked. “He still upset he didn’t get Quidditch Captain?”