James Potter I

Author's note: There have been many attempts to write these fics. I haven't read one of them. Here's my try. Hope you like it, review.

James Potter I

"It's here, it's here, it's here," James cried as he looked out the window in the kitchen.

"Calm down Jamie, you knew it would arrive today, you're birthday is today," his mother said, ruffling his hair, making it a lot messier than it already was.

"I'm going to Hogwarts, I'm going to Hogwarts, I'm going to Hogwarts," James started hopping up and down, causing his father to crack a smile when he walked into the kitchen.

"Calm down there, tiger. 'G'morning James, happy birthday. I see you got your letter," he said, opening up the window, letting the owl inside.

George Potter was not a young man. He and Sarah, James' mother had both been in their late forties when James came. They had been trying to have a baby for many years and had almost lost all hope, when Sarah started to have morning sickness which could only be explained one way. Their age had started to show; George had grey hairs above his ears and Sarah had started to get a bad sight, but George had been wearing glasses since before he could walk.

"Thanks dad," James said, grinning his all-to-well-known mischievous smile. But when he saw the owl hop inside, his grin faltered.

His hands shaking, he got up and slowly making his way over to the window. When he reached it, he hesitated a moment before carefully removing the letter from the owls foot. When finished, the owl flew outside again.

"You don't have to rip it up so quickly," his father said laughing, noticing James opening the letter so that it wouldn't rip.

"I want to keep it," James said, sticking his tongue out in concentration. "I'm going to keep every letter so I can remember what I felt like when I got them for the rest of my life."

"That's nice, Jamie," his mother said, ruffling his hair once again.

"Hand me the paper, will you Sarah?" George, James' father, said.

"Sure George, but I got to warn you, there's nothing interesting in there."

There was a loud gasp from the other end of the room.

"Nothing interesting? It's my birthday, and the date is extremely interesting, read it at the top." James' eyes drifted back down to the letter he was clutching in his hands.

"No Quidditch first year," he said, glumly. "And not even a broom." Now he looked miserable. "Well, there's always next year, I guess." He doubted it.

"I remember your father having the exact same response," Sarah Potter said, sending her husband an affectionate smile.

"How'd you see it?" James said, confused.

"He wouldn't stop talking about it on the train," she said, still smiling.

"Well, I got the beater position second year," he shrugged. "I guess you can't have everything in life."

"A history of magic by Bathilda Bagshot. Isn't she the one you always go to tea with once a month, mom?"

"She sure is. There is no information dating after 1900 in there, though."

"Why?" James looked perplexed.

"Well, I just don't think she would have fitted it into the book, plus, there is plenty more left of this century."

"Oh." James continued on with his letter.

"Who's teaching transfiguration?" he asked.

"Well, if I'm not mistaken, Minerva McGonagall teaches it now."

"That strict Head Girl from first year?" Sarah's eyes bulged.

"Yeah, that's the one. I tell you, son, you do not want to get on her bad side."

"Don't tell him that," Sarah said, throwing a warning glance at George. "You know he always does the opposite of what we, or perhaps you, tell him."

"I've got some well planned pranks for first year," James said, thinking. "Maybe I could use one or two on ..."

"James Potter."

"Oh, all right. I was just joking, Mum."

"You better."

"Now, who wants some egg and bacon," George said cheerfully.

"Me, me, me," James chanted, his letter long lost. "But, dad, when can we go and buy school things?"

His father laughed. "We probably won't go until August, there's a little over five months until school starts."

"So I won't get my want 'til August?" James looked disappointed.

"Well, we could go and buy your wand next month ..."

"I'm going to get a wand, I'm going to get a wand ..."

"James, sit down and eat your eggs," Sarah said, her mouth twitching.

"Sure Mum." He sat down and stuffed food in his mouth. "'m oa o ie a e'er," he said as an explanation to his rush.

"How many times do I have to tell you, James," his mother said, "don't eat when your mouth is stuffed."

He swallowed. "I'm going to write a letter, that's why I'm eating so fast."

"Oh, to whom, may I ask?"

"Brian. He won't get his letter until next month," he said as an afterthought and a mischievous smile spread across his face.

Brian McKinnon was James' best friend, his father, Joseph, being George's best friend since Hogwarts. Brian was, like James, a child that came late. But Brian also had brothers, older than himself, all of whom had finished Hogwarts, the oldest, a little over eight years before. James' chanting of: "I'm older than you," when trying to decide who got to be in charge, could often be heard around the house when Brian visited, even though there only was a two weeks difference.

"Can I invite him over for my birthday this weekend?" he asked hopefully. James hated to have his birthday on a week day, and particularly on a Monday, as it was that year.

"Sure, if Marlene and Joseph are all right with it, I don't see the problem."

"Wicked, thanks dad," James grinned.

"Now, why don't you go and write that letter of yours. I'm sure Brian will be thrilled when you show off for having received the Hogwarts letter."

"Did you hear Dumbledore's Headmaster now?" James heard his mother say as he walked out of the kitchen. He walked up two flights of stairs, finding his room on the first door to the left.

James' room was enormous. The walls were covered with Quidditch posters of famous chasers, though you could hint a bit of favouritism in Topher Connolly, playing for the Irish National Quidditch team and the Kenmare Kestrels.

Dear Brian ….

'No, scratch that. I don't want to have it look like I'm in love with him or something,' James thought, throwing the parchment in the garbage.

Brian,

I just got my letter. I can not believe I'm eleven years old already. I mean, I can remember when we were eight and playing with those action figures your dad bought you. We're to mature for them now. We're practically adults. Well, I am. You won't be for another fourteen days. (A large happy smiley). Sorry, I won't say I'm older than you …

Anyway, dad says that you can come over this weekend to celebrate my birthday if your parents allow you to. I'll cross my fingers and hope they do, even though I know they almost never say no to you, since you're the youngest (spoiled brat, not that I'm not).

Dad says he's going to go with me next month to buy a wand. I can't wait to see what I'll get. (Phoenix feathers, unicorn hair?). I've heard from dad that Mr. Ollivander is freaky. I'm already nervous.

Dad also said that some women named Minerva McGonnawho, or something, teaches Transfiguration now. That's the subject that appeals to me the most. He also says never to get on her bad side (now why would he say that to me?). She was supposedly Head Girl when he was a first year. I've got some great pranks forming in my head, and I'm hoping to get one or two on the Slytherin head this year (…). I've just got to be extra careful and plan it well so I won't get caught.

So, what do you reckon Dumbledore's like. Mum, okay, dad to, say that he's a bit of a weirdo, but brilliant. He was their transfiguration teacher I think. I don't know, Mum says he wears purple cloaks and matching hats with stars in it. I reckon he's a bit coocoo

Now, I'm going to inspect my letter better. They say you can bring an owl, and I think I'm going to pursue my parents to buy me one.

Yours,

James.

Later that day, when James was sitting in the kitchen again (he never could go three hours without eating) he heard saw his dad's owl tapping on the window with a letter tied to its leg. He immediately rushed to open it, allowing the owl to hop inside.

The response was just as long as James' letter.

Dear James, ('Come on, we're eleven. Dear my ass,' James thought, but dismissed it.

Mum says I can come this weekend. I can't wait, your parties (does it count as a party with just the two of us?) always are the best. I mean, prank your parents and not get scolded? Life doesn't get any better than that.

As to what wand you'll get: I think it'll be Phoenix feathers, (pliable perhaps?) and of mahogany. (Dad says it's almost every time after the months you're born in). I met Mr. Ollivander once. When Chris ('Christopher McKinnon, the rule-breaker. Such a role-model,' James thought) broke his wand during fifth year. Your parents are right, he creeps the living shit out of me.

As for Minerva McGonagall (not McGonnawho, James), my brothers say you're right. She's extremely strict. I don't think we should be getting on her bad side.

As for the Slytherin head, I'm in, you've just got to tell me what the plan is. I'm looking forward to it. Chris says Horace Slughorn picks out his favourite students and invites them to his so called "Slug-club". Ugh, the thought makes me sick.

As for Dumbledore, Lewis (Brian's oldest brother) says he's brilliant. He always starts the year be saying some words no one has ever heard before, then they eat and then he comes with his full-of-jokes speech. I can't wait to hear it on our first day.

How do you reckon they sort us? It's always been a bit of a secret, I guess. But I don't think I believe Chris telling me that we have to fight off a werewolf. Then there would be too many werewolves in Britain.

Yes, why would your dad say such a thing to you? Well, it might have something to do with that you manage to get in more trouble than all my brothers combined, even Chris. And that's a tough job to pull. Well, that's all there is to say about it.

You just had to rub it in my face, didn't you? That I'm fourteen days younger than you? It's not as if I'm slower in maturity than you. I mean, I probably think that I'll hit puberty before you.('Ew, I'm eleven,' James thought.) And as to that we're elven, we're ELEVEN, not fifteen. I mean, all right, I remember the action figures too. We burnt them on my last birthday.

Dad says he'll buy me an owl for school. "So I can write to them every day," he says. Like hell. I'll maybe write two-three times a week. ('He's definitely a teenager.')

Chris is trying to steal your owl. I think he's confunded or something. Have to talk to Lewis about it. It looks like he thinks it's his. So bye.

Yours,

Brian.

Author's note: I can not believe I pulled it off. 1927 words in a story that could have just as easily been 300 words. Well, I'm proud of it. I'm actually thinking about maybe writing a story to go along with this one, The First Day. So it will be like two-shot, in two stories, so every character will have their chapter on exactly the same number.

By the way, I just had to squeeze it in that James thinks he's so mature. I mean, I'll be fifteen this year, and I feel so mature, I mean, next year, we'll be the oldest in our school. But then we'll be just youngsters again. (Miserable expression.)

Anyway, the other story, it's just a thought now. Hope you like this one and review. Next one will probably be Lily Evans. I've got some ideas. (Ki'n.) You won't understand 'til you read it.