AUTHOR'S NOTE !
yeah so hey there! the name's jess. i tend to get kind of carried away with these author's notes and say all sorts of useless and off-topic things so i think i'll just leave this one at hi and i really hope you enjoy the story, which takes place in the marauders' seventh year from james's point of view. it'll be fluffy and funny and serious and sad all in one, not at the same time of course, but...erm. anyway. yeah.
DISCLAIMER !
jo rowling is a literary genius and she owns the marauders, lily/james, hogwarts and the rest of harry's world. if i were her, i'd be off writing a real harry potter prequel, not one on .
August 27, 1977.
An unpleasantly sweltering day.
The Potter Manor.
James Potter often found himself writing stories in his head, in that unnecessarily melodramatic way of his – he liked to think one day there'd be a novel detailing his brilliant and exciting life, a bestseller, no doubt – and usually the purple prose came easily to him, but for the past few days he had found himself having trouble thinking of a word to complete the beginning of the story that would become his seventh and final year at Hogwarts.
And then it came to him, as his more spectacular (and outrageous) ideas usually did, when he was in the midst of a particularly calming, freezing cold shower, something James had realized he had an affinity for after Sirius had managed to freeze the Hogwarts pipes with Peter in third year. It was an almost unexplainable peace, that which he felt in those showers; he could feel his mind working at a mile a minute, but it wasn't a chaotic busy. In fact, most of the time he didn't even know where his ideas cropped up from and had long ago stopped attempting to follow his trains of thought. In fifth year, James remembered fondly, Remus had suggested that he bring a quill and parchment in with him so he could write everything down lest he forget while he was busy trying to tame the rat's nest that some would call his hair, and James had indeed done just that from that point on – never mind whether it had been sarcasm or not.
In any case, it came to him in the shower, and he felt an immediate sense of relief at the realization that the incomplete sentence would no longer be bouncing aimlessly around his mind. James scrambled for his quill (slipping and banging his left knee in the process, which for some unfathomable reason always seemed to be the one part of his body that was constantly bruised) and wrote in his most careless scrawl, THE SUMMER OF 1977 WAS AN UNPREDICTABLE ONE FOR YOUNG, DASHING JAMES POTTER.
A few hesitant moments later, James returned to the parchment and scratched out the last five words.
He wasn't sure why he hadn't thought of it quicker – what better way to describe it, really, than 'unpredictable'? For that is precisely what it had been, from that first unexpected owl from a certain untouchable redhead to Sirius showing up on his doorstep at three in the morning to receiving the most honorable title of Head Boy (he straightened up a bit at the last thought). And as all of this occurred to him, it really began to sink in what the following school year was going to be – their best yet.
That was, of course, assuming they executed everything exactly right – they were going to have be painstakingly clever, sneaky, devious, et cetera et cetera, certainly more so than their previous years, in order to make the next nine months (give or take a few weeks) as unforgettable as humanly possible. The "they" in question was, of course, none other than the in/famous Marauders, that tight little clique everyone knew about, whether they liked it or not. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, Prongs – James had objected to his nickname being placed last, but he had to admit it had an undeniable ring to it. His thoughts wandered briefly to the enchanted parchment lying locked safely in his trunk with other similar troublemaking magical artifacts, collecting dust, no doubt; and utterly woe begotten from its inevitable disuse during the summer months. James found it oddly comforting to imagine that the map had feelings, it was, after all, quite nearly alive; and he thought it only fitting to think of it as such.
Seventh year mischief had begun to be sketched out near the middle of sixth year, if they were being honest; they planned for it to go on completely unhindered, which in turn meant they'd need a good few months to sort out their schemes and develop nasty new jinxes to aid them on their misadventures. There was, however, one slightly major obstacle, as Sirius had so subtly pointed out – James was Head Boy.
It should be noted that Charles and Matilda Potter, while not exemplary disciplinarians, were not idiots. They knew of the shenanigans their son so frequently took part in, and the least they could do was keep themselves up to date on the most recent detentions he'd been assigned and points he'd lost for his house. Actually, if you asked around Hogwarts, the general rumor is that McGonagall had started the tradition of owling parents when their children got themselves in trouble merely because of James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter (expect this piece of gossip to be passed on with a rather bitter tone). And so it had become the Potter couple's routine to make sure they received James's Hogwarts letter first each year, just to relieve their worried old minds of the horrible, looming possibility that Dumbledore had finally seen sense and expelled their boy.
The mood in the Potter manor when they received that seventh letter was quite an odd one. Mr. Potter was in his study, quill flying across the parchment as he wrote a mysterious letter to a mysterious recipient, his fingers often smudging the ink of the line above for it had not yet had time to dry; Mrs. Potter was ambling about various rooms, doing nothing in particular – dusting mantles that need not be dusted, beating rugs that need not be beaten, and so on and so forth – and most obviously avoiding the hopelessly confused gaze of her son, who was desperately trying to figure out why his folks were acting like they'd gone batty overnight. Thinking back to it, James wasn't sure where Sirius had been all day, probably off flirting with the Muggle neighbor girl, or riding the motorbike he'd nicked from the lonely middle-aged man a few blocks down and attempting in vain to charm it so it could fly. But really, there was no denying the tension in the air, and finally James plucked up the courage to interrupt his father and ask him what the bloody hell he was playing at.
"There's been a…rather large mistake."
"Oh?"
"Nothing to worry about, son, I've contacted the Headmaster, I'm only awaiting his reply."
"Was I expelled, finally?"
"Merlin, no!"
"Oh, yes, I suppose that wouldn't be much of a mistake, would it…"
"They've…er…well."
"Way to finish your sentence, dad."
"I'm simply not sure if I should tell you just yet. It's not my place to stir up false hope, I don't think."
"Why can't you just—"
"Chuck? Jamie? Are you in here? Oh, yes—"
"Mum!"
"It's such an endearing nickname, sweetheart. I'll never know why you're so opposed to it—"
"Well I don't know, possibly because it's a girl's name—"
"Tildy, love, what did you want to discuss?"
"Oh, right! Chuck, Dumbledore's just sent his reply, I think you should see it…"
"Why didn't Partridge deliver it to me?"
"She doesn't like you very much, Chuck."
"She really doesn't, do you still have that scar?"
"James, please—hand it over then, Tildy—"
"…Well? Are you going to tell me about this big mistake, or leave me hanging forever?"
"No dramatics, James."
"'Least you didn't call me Jamie that time. And if you think THAT'S dramatic maybe—"
"You've been made Head Boy."
"Fuck, you're kidding me!"
"JAMES!"
"Sorry, sorry, habit!"
"No, we're not kidding you. We thought it was a prank, possibly—"
"It was probably Sirius, that's something he would do; I think I remember him mentioning it—"
"—so we owled Dumbledore, but according to this letter he is quite serious about his choice—"
"He's off his rocker!"
"James, really!"
"—so here's your badge, I suppose."
"It's quite shiny."
"Oh, darling, it'll look fantastic with a nice new pair of robes—what do you say, Chuck?"
"Sounds wonderful, Tildy."
"Am I still Quidditch captain, at least?"
Presently James was relaxing on his bed, staring fondly at the aforementioned badge that his mother had cleverly made impervious to fingerprints, which had proved a useful charm due to (in Sirius's words) James's fondness for groping the thing. Being Head Boy was going to be a blessing and a curse, he knew. On one hand, there would be no one (save the Head Girl, who with any luck would be a Sirius fangirl or something) who could report him, threaten to report him, or otherwise deter him from the mischief he was counting on getting into. He could cover up for himself, and there'd be plenty of opportunity on patrols and whatnot for him to squeeze in some solitary tomfoolery, which he found he often preferred to being in a group – less risk of getting caught and more freedom in the reigns, so to speak. Then the more he though about it, the more he fantasized about his escapades as the official king of the school, he realized that he'd have responsibilities as well – there would be people counting on him, looking up to him, and things he'd need to do to keep everything running smoothly. It sounded…exhausting. Definitely like it was going to take a lot of effort. And effort was not exactly James's specialty.
He wasn't about to let this ruin his mood, of course. Four and a half days left until the start of what was going to be the best year of his life (so he had decided), and he felt like he was walking on air – James never failed to get those pre-school jitters, the butterflies in the pit of your stomach at the thought of going back and seeing all your friends and especially, in James's case, one miss Lily Evans, whom he had resolved was going to fall madly and passionately in love with him at long last.
Life, liberty, and the pursuit of Lily Evans – that was his motto.
No one could know about it, of course. They'd call him a stalker just as they always did. But they don't understand, he thought, feeling that familiar dreamy expression settle onto his face. If he closed his eyes now, he knew he could call up the exact shades and hues of Lily's own vibrant green pair, and the deep auburn that her previously orangey hair had darkened to over the years. So, all right, that was a tad creepy, he'd admit it – he knew plenty of things about Lily Evans that a normal person probably would not. For example, if you happened to be in dire need of a lacy, pinkish pair of boyshort panties, James could tell you to check Lily's bottom left dresser drawer. And when you raise an eyebrow at such a suspicious statement, he'll insist he'd never wanted to go snooping through her underwear, but that Sirius had claimed it would bring them closer together subconsciously. It had not, and James had been up all night trying to charm away his black eye. He could also tell you that Lily has a mean right hook.
James's thoughts wandered from Lily in general to the lone letter she'd sent him at the start of the summer – James had never really gotten a chance to look at her handwriting before, but unsurprisingly it was beautiful, and he'd spent hours merely taking in the way the letters connected so fluidly, the long curves of her Y's and G's and her Z's that looked like backwards S's. It had taken him awhile to actually realize there were words in the letter – though not very many, she'd only written a short, single paragraph – that meant something that he was supposed to read and reply to. Once he had realized this, he'd read it over and over again until the letter was burned into his memory, as if it were something extremely precious; this piece of unusually small lined paper (James would never know that Lily had hastily cut it out of one of her sister's old school notebooks) that seemed to be stained with coffee.
James,
It's the least I can do to thank you for…well, you know. Your connections, I suppose. Even if nothing happened after all, having aurors there was extremely comforting. (They made quite convincing Muggles, as you said they would.) Please thank your parents for me as well. I can't really explain how much it's appreciated.
See you next year,
Lily
Her signature was large and extravagant and flowy, and she dotted her I with a little slash that went through the L next to it. James sighed.
Lily's father had died, shortly before the previous school year had ended, and she'd been devastated. Severus Snape – Snivelly, of all people, James thought with a disgusted little wrinkle of his nose – had insisted that he use his connections to get aurors to go to the funeral. Just because it was Snape, James had been ready to refuse, but then again, he'd accepted in the end just because it was Lily and Lily's safety. So his father (who worked in a flexible job as a consultant for the Ministry) had owled his auror friends, and James had accompanied them to the memorial to make sure they stayed successfully undercover, as the majority of Lily's family didn't know about, well, everything. It was the first time they had been on a first-name basis since they'd met each other that first day on the train when they were eleven.
He'd written back, asked her how she was doing, how her family was doing, and he hadn't said anything cocky or stupid or even remotely prat-ish, but had received no reply. He tried not to think about it much, because it was thoroughly disheartening. Even Sirius had been convinced he was making progress.
Pain blossomed in the side of James's head where someone had just unexpectedly and quite forcefully smacked him and he became aware that he'd been daydreaming; lost in his thoughts and wishful thinking as he so often was. He nearly rolled off the bed in his surprise, and though he didn't need his glasses to know the identity of the perpetrator he put them on anyway and was greeted by none other than the handsome, grinning face of Sirius Black.
James combated his mate's smug expression with an incredulous one, staring at him in silence for a few moments before exclaiming "What the hell?" with all the over reactionary anger he could muster.
Sirius gave his usual barking laugh in reply. He ducked to the side just in time to avoid what would have been a precisely aimed kick to his nose, and James groaned a little, falling face-first into his comforter. He mumbled something unintelligible and added a muffled whimper of pain for good measure.
"If you don't drop the drama queen act and talk like a normal man so I can understand you, I'll hit you again. You shouldn't doubt me."
Massaging his temple, James pushed himself back into a sitting position and gave Sirius a rather odd look that seemed to be some sort of mix between anger and despair. "You interrupted me," he whined, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "there's something called knocking you know…"
"And what, exactly, was I interrupting?" There was a suggestive glint in Sirius's grey eyes.
"Sod off!" James threw a pillow and missed miserably. "I was just thinking."
Sirius's expression turned dreamy and he stared dramatically off into nowhere in particular. His voice was lofty and mocking as he said seriously, "About Lily Evans, no doubt; the love of your life, the apple of your eye, the –"
"That," James agreed, "and just…stuff in general. You're one to talk about dramatics, by the way."
"Aren't I?" Sirius collapsed on the bed next to James and gave a contented little sigh, his eyes fluttering closed. He wiggled his toes. James snorted. While not as tall as James, Sirius had a good build; he was well-muscled from his position as Beater on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and in the short time he'd lived with James he had grown much tanner. "You should give up, mate. On Evans. It's been six years, nothing's changing now."
"I beg to differ." James tossed the Head Boy badge to the floor, where it joined the countless other items that hid the plush carpet almost completely from view. The mess drove his mother mad. "Things are going to be different, this year."
"How so, pray tell?"
"They just will," James insisted, resisting the strong urge to hit Sirius back. "You'll see."
Sirius chuckled under his breath and threw his long arms up in an arcing stretch. "I'm sure I will, mate. Did you see those letters I left for you to send?"
"Yes."
"Well did you send them?"
"No."
"Why not?" Sirius offered his most innocent puppy eyes, complete with a jutting lower lip; an expression he was frightfully skilled at.
"Because you're perfectly capable of sending a letter yourself, last time I checked," James explained, looking Sirius up and down and putting on his best doctor face. "Still have full use of your limbs? No deadly illnesses developed overnight?"
Moaning loudly, Sirius fell over sideways, clutching at his heart with his head hanging limply over the side of the bed. "The pain is too much! Kill me now, I beg of you! End my suffering!" Raising his head with exaggerated effort, Sirius cracked open his right eye; the corners of his lips twitching madly as he held back a smile. "Your owl hates my guts, Prongs."
"She doesn't like my father much, either," James mused, watching Sirius's theatrics with a grin of his own. He ran a hand through his hair. Sirius rolled his eyes. "Fine, I'll send your bloody letters, if that's what makes you happy."
Sirius lunged forward and captured James in a suffocating bear hug before he could throw himself out of the way. James spat out a mouthful of Sirius's dark hair and gasped as loudly as he could, "Choking…not breathing…let go…Merlin!" James socked Sirius a bit unnecessarily hard in the arm (We'll just consider that even for now, he thought) and straightened his glasses. "What've you been smoking and why didn't you share?"
With a cryptic wink, Sirius stood and sauntered to James's door, waving his hand as if to blow the question away. "High off of life, Prongsie dearest," he answered, bowing deeply as he backed out of the room. "High off of life."