"Sorry for the mix up, mate." James jabs a thumb towards Lily. She's chatting amiably to a fellow ginger down the hallway of Beacon Hills High School. Beacon Hills High School, which they found themselves in by some sort of strange magical tick. "It was the hair, you see. Red, like my wife's. Easy to confuse."
The fidgety boy in front of him – named Stiles, James thinks. Or Miles, maybe? Giles? James isn't sure Stiles is a real name. – waves dismissively with his left hand, gnawing aggressively on the nails of his right.
"Yeah, wha'ever, don' worry 'bout i'," Stiles says around his thumb.
James shrugs. "I think I will worry," he confesses, "but not over you. Over my wife. Accidentally goosing another girl and all, you know… She may very well kill me."
Eyebrow arched, Stiles drops his thumb from his mouth. He folds his arms tightly across his chest and jiggles his knee, seemingly impatient. James wonders if he's on some of those Muggle uppers Lily told him about once. "You think she's jealous?" Stiles asks.
Together, they glance at their respective partners who are snickering behind their hands, tilting their heads not-so-discreetly in James and Stiles's direction.
"No," James exhales. "Lily's not the jealous type. Or, she's not vocal about her jealousy, anyway. She's going to kill me because I wasn't wearing my glasses."
Confused, Stiles furrows his brow. His mouth hangs open dumbly.
"I wasn't wearing my glasses. Which is why I confused your girlfriend for my wife. And squeezed her bum. But! Like I said, it was also the hair-"
"Lydia's not my girlfriend," says Stiles. His narrowed eyes shift between James and the girls.
"Oh. Sorry. I shouldn't have assume-"
"And her hair is strawberry blonde."
"Strawberry blonde is a shade of red, isn't it?"
The look Stiles fixes James with makes him feel uncharacteristically small. "No! God, it's a shade of blonde."
"Well-"
"Who are you, again?" Stiles snaps.
Slightly insulted, James straightens his back, puffs out his scrawny chest, pushes his glasses up his nose. "James Potter: Newlywed. And that beautiful witch over there is my wife, Lily."
"She lets you call her a witch?" Stiles asks.
"Of course."
"Huh."
"And you're, er, Biles, yes?"
"Stiles."
"That's what I said."
"Right," Stiles grumbles. "And… what, exactly, are you doing here?"
Blankly, James stares at Stiles. He's unsure how to answer. He's unsure what, exactly, he is doing in this American high school himself.
"Can time turners go to the future?" James asks no one in particular. "I suppose so, hm? My wife and I are in The States on business – what sort of business is classified information, I'm afraid – and we were supposed to go thirty six years back in time but we – what's the year now?"
Stiles blinks. "2015."
"Ah, of course. But we seem to have traveled thirty six years into the future instead," explains James.
He expects Stiles to laugh at him, like most close-minded Muggles are inclined to do. But, instead, Stiles blinks wildly, shaking his head in minute succession. "Time travel. Yeah. Why not," he deadpans.
James is thrown by this non-magical folk's reaction to such wild news. He wonders briefly if he'll be carted off to Azkaban for breaching the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy if this boy decides to report him for treason.
"I assume you know my friend Scott?" Stiles asks. "Tall, dark, handsome werewolf?"
"No, but I know Remus," says James. "Average height, scraggly, bookish werewolf."
"Great. There's more."
"I think it's great as well." James' grin is tight. "Are you a wizard, then?"
"Wizard?"
"That's what I said."
"Wizards. Wizards! What the actual-" Stiles rolls his head back, his body careening backwards with it. "No. No. I am, apparently, the only goddamn human being in this freaking town!"
"Settle down now. My wife and I are human too! I think," James assures him. "And your girlfriend – sorry. Your friend. She's human, right?"
"She's a banshee," says Stiles.
A surprised laugh bubbles from James's chest. "Now that's not what banshees look like here, is it? The ones where I'm from look ghastly."
"Yeah, well, I guess we have the pick of the litter," Stiles grumbles again.
Perturbed by his new acquaintance's impolite behavior, James studies Stiles. Then he turns his gaze to Lydia, who is deep in conversation with Lily. James returns to Stiles, who is swiveling his head back and forth, surveying the hallway for something.
Politely, James asks, "I'm sorry, but is there a reason you're being rude?"
Stiles' snaps his attention to James, eyebrows drawn high upon his forehead. "Rude?" He points to his chest with an abnormally long index finger. "I'm being rude?"
With an apologetic frown, James nods.
"It's not like you and your wife showed up in the middle of my school's hallway in the middle of the night, with British accents and outdated clothing, distracted me and my friends from catching the latest Big Bad when you squeezed my girlfriend's ass because you thought it was your wife's or anything."
"Aha!" James lifts a finger into the air, a toothy grin lighting up his face. "So Lydia is your girlfriend!"
Stiles' mouth flounders like a fish. "I – yeah – no – jeez – no!" he balks. "Not yet, alright? Or maybe not ever. I dunno. I've got a ten year plan."
Solemnly, James nods. "I had one of those too."
For the first time since James palmed Lydia's bottom on accident, Stiles stills. "Yeah?" Conspiratorially, he leans in closer, lowers his voice. "Did it, uh, work?"
"God no!" James claps Stiles on the back. "Girls aren't plans, Files-"
"Stiles-"
"They're people. The sooner you realize that, the sooner things will work in your favor."
An ungodly howl echoes through the halls, bouncing off the walls and practically rattling James out of his skin. "What type of school is this?" he cries.
Rubbing his hands together, Stiles is bouncing on the balls of his feet again. "A public one."
Then he's off, running towards Lydia, grabbing her hand and dragging her around the corner towards whatever terrifying creature awaits them.
"I think that boy is on the Coca Cola you told me about," James tells his wife.
Lily slinks toward him, then presses a loud, obnoxious kiss on his cheek. "Is that what we're calling pretty redheads now? Coca Cola?"
"Lydia's not a redhead," James corrects her. "She's a strawberry blonde."