I. Mr. J. Potter

The summer days were slipping like cool creek water through James' fingertips. Leaves were transforming like magic to ashen gold diamonds along the riverbank where the adventurous boy had spent most of his holidays. Early on, in June, James had found that when the days were too scalding hot, taking the little set of plastic cars Aunt Jubilene had gotten him for his eleventh birthday and floating them down the river proved very entertaining. Whenever Missy wasn't away at piccolo lessons and Eddie wasn't trekking about in the Alpines, the three of them raced the toys through the currents. Whoever lost had to jump into the icy cold water- and often, there was all manner of misconduct to ensure that the race would not be won. Their glory days were coming to a close, unfortunately.

With Eddie set to go off to Wilson's secondary school to fulfill his parents' dream of having some sort of genius in the family, and Missy off to a grammar school in Southern France (which all six of her sisters had gone to before her, she had complained while skipping rocks at Eddie's wading figure), James was wishing for the first time that he could be normal. His two best friends, of course, had no idea that he wasn't as ordinary as his wealthy home life in Dahlia's Dwelling seemed to suggest.

It would be hard to explain to them that while they would be poring over their notes on Alexander the Great next summer, he would be worrying about Wendlen the Witch and her obsessive magic tendencies.

While James hadn't received his eagerly anticipated letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the young boy had no reason to believe he wouldn't be thoroughly invited and that the letter wouldn't come in the near future. Both his mother and his father were considered full of magic- his family had been pureblood for centuries. Finding other pure-bloods, half-bloods, or any-bloods of his kind was near impossible this section of Britain. Finding friends was even harder.

He was just a scraggly-haired brat with a strange array of animals (when he first moved to Dahlia's Dwelling, Goosebump the toad had still been alive), but he'd found a pal over sharing the last broken wax Blue Violet crayon in primary, and MIssy's company came not long after (from America, no less). She'd been enthralled with his Russian Blue; and Eddie with his fantastic collection of exotic toys that seemed to fill every corner of his house. Their journeys together had stretched for five long years now- but James grimly suspected that by the school year, his only friends would be his beloved animals and his robes.

Blue ball laden with a glossy layer of painted constellations was passed across the palms of mud-caked fingers to be tucked beside James' arm, hugging to his abdomen. Gravel pitched beneath worn trainers, sky glazing over candy apple red as the young boy made his way alongside the babbling brook. Cotton candy clouds glinted vainly into the rippling shudders of waves swishing by, but rather than appreciate the beauty, James continued by with hardly a blink. Leaves swaying in a complicated dance routine waved down at his feet, trying to swipe away the storm clouds creasing and building above a head of chronically ruffled hair.

His legs seemed to be working automatically, moving him from the stray dirt path to the bland grey of cement pathways that began leading James to the familiar cove of cozy houses that were cornered among the warm Dahlia's Dwelling.

As he turned onto Stonecliff Circle, his mind sauntered back to the paper bag he must've left back on the river's harbor-like shore. His mother had made the daring adventure down the winding streets to bring the three of them roast beef sandwiches. Missy had managed to sneak away her gran's pack of cream puffs, however, so they'd taken the bits of bread from her sandwich to toss half-heartedly at the wandering ducks along the bank. He hoped one of them wouldn't choke on the bag. Upon coming towards the end of Stonecliff, James began to search for the beauty of his house, rather than the numbers that would have identified it. He was sure the number was 23… or 93. Something like that. Up the steps of the chestnut cottage, past water sprinkling onto bronze wolves frozen among kept and styled bushes of carnations, columbines, and capers, past looped golden words reading:

Potter Residence

63

(ah, yes… that was it)

he went. His free hand brushed against the railing, sliding over the newly-polished surface as easy as butter. Above him stood twin glass doors, sharpened and and sparkled like the diamond his father had gotten his mother for Christmas. The handle bowed easily at the will of his touch, and he slipped his small little body into the marble entrance.

Without wiping the dirt off, toed shoes were strewn towards the wall, and his plastic ball went bouncing in the general direction of the toy closet. While his own room was located on the second floor near the flower balcony, his parents had been telling him since before he could talk that every floor was as much his as it was theirs. It was with that languid thought that he slid around the staircase, socks barely squishing (but damp enough that he skated past his destination) and pitched himself away from the wall. Instead, he tripped over the metal bar separating the wooden floors from the kitchen's doorway, opening into a sickly grey tile instead. And ahead, on the counter- the holy grail of sweets.

Apple fritters.

With close to no regard at all to the pot stewing above the stove (and how it was likely holding his dinner), James was climbing towards the counter through all means possible- not limited to the kitchen chair being used as an impromptu ladder (which Periwinkle wasn't allowed to do… but James wasn't a cat, was he?) Before he could properly stretch across the counter to reach the elegant glass case, two warm arms had wrapped around his middle.

Had James been even an ounce bigger than his small size, Rosemary Potter might've had an ounce more trouble lifting him back to the ground.

Deviously innocent eyes dragged up to the crinkles deepened by smiles on his mother's face, lips curling upwards as a warm towel embraced his dirty hands. Mrs. Potter was a beautiful woman- James often remarked that he had inherited her toothpaste commercial smile, and the autumn hue at the apples of her cheeks often mirrored his own in family pictures. Aside from cloudy-day streaks rushing through her dark hair and shimmering sea eyes, there were similar in almost every way.

"Now, Muffin," voice velvet like the dresses she so often adorned filled the empty kitchen walls, "you know our rules about mud in the house."

"I was going to wash it off… along with the crumbs from the apple fritters!" Protected with a grin, James teased with his smiles, urging to to grow wider- as sweet as the pastries his mouth was salivating for.

A wry eyebrow rode up her forehead. "And our rule about desserts before dinner."

All he had to do was bat his eyelashes. "Please?"

"I… alright, James. One and one only."

Delighted movements had his hands tearing from the towel and reaching for the case above his head. With his mother's graceful mercy, a particularly puffy fritter was settled into his squeaky-clean hands, her hips resting beside his shoulders as she smiled down.

"When your father gets home from the Ministry, I have a surprise for you both."

The word "surprise" was like opening a large package on Christmas day- eyes alight with fireworks of joy, James' stomach curled and leaped at the aspect, both eyebrows softening, lips pulling together, pitting his teeth against one another to avoid instantly crying out to know more. Surely his father wouldn't have to know if he received the surprise early, right?

"Is it a large-ish surprise?"

"James, no-"

"-a cool surprise?"

"James-"

"-a wizard-y surprise?"

"We've talked about you being difficult-"

"-pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?"

"Fine, but you're only allowed to look at it."

It was common knowledge that nothing but a smile reminiscent of his toothless, five-year-old self would guarantee the young Potter next to anything. His dear mother whisked away to an old bamboo box that James was always suspicious of. From what he knew of wizards (from annual family gatherings), they didn't just have normal boxes. Slender fingers filed through the spare-paper box that had never been interesting enough to explore- and the one time he'd been desperate enough to check, he'd only found newspaper clips and bills with dust collecting on them. With her trimmed nails, Mrs. Potter unsheathed a shabby old letter full of lumps and bumps as though the contents of the envelope had been jammed and packed haphazardly inside.

The moment that James had his hands on the coarse paper, he was touching and feeling around, turning it over to examine further. Beneath his thumb glimmered hard wax, marron under the kitchen lights. Four animals were separated on the seal by borders like canals to the pads of his fingers. His eyes were instantly drawn to only one of the four, however; the mighty lion, each of his features etched perfectly, from the fan of his whiskers to the daring slant of his eyes. The lion of Gryffindor. In awe, he close to stroked the address as well, his name like artwork in fresh emerald ink, swooped and curved by delicate hand. Where else could this letter have come from but Hogwarts?

Right then, James wanted to dig into that letter like he would dig into a Christmas feast. There must've been a particular glow to his face, because he could swear he could see the reflection of an overjoyed glint in his eyes against the paper. With the same excited, his eyes raced up to his mother's face, lips trembling. Had he not been gripping the envelope so tightly, he might not have noticed it being eased from his hands.

"Is it-?" James giggled as his mother tucked it back away into the boring old spare-paper box.

"Yes, dear."

"I'm accepted?" Only with a child's voice could this level of triumph be reached, the sound amplified heartily from the wide angles of his grin.

Tucking a piece of unruly black hair away from her son's face, Rosemary Potter laughed; akin to the sound that the owl wind chimes on their back porch produced. "Of course you are, Muffin. And you're going to be the best wizard that ever went there!"

James wasn't sure he was going to be able to keep his mouth shut long enough to wait and tell his two best friends (not realizing at the moment that he couldn't tell his two best friends). Luckily, he didn't have to wait long at all before someone came that he could tell. The front door opened with the sound of his father's feet just as the sun began to saddle the horizon, like it did every evening since James had been born (not including Christmas).

Holding the letter behind him like a streamer of achievement, the youngest Potter bounded down the bannister and through the large entrance hall to greet Mr. Potter, whose radiant smile and charismatic twist of already friendly words had landed him a life-long job working with the Ministry. Chanting for his father (a cadence of "dad, dad, dad!"s over and over), many games of tag made him a blur up until he braked, heels skidding against hardwood; it wasn't long before they resumed motion, helping him bounce up and down.

"It's from Hogwarts! It's from Hogwarts! Do you think Dumbledore himself wrote it? Will you finally teach me how to play Quidditch? I'll be great as a beater, just like mum! I'll even be a Gryffindor prefect, like you! Will you open it with me?"

In regards to his bouncing son, Caric Potter laughed warmly; and in regards to his wife's loving (albeit exasperated) expression, he laughed even harder. Even though James despised it, even he couldn't be angry at his father for ruffling his hair with ringed fingers. In fact, he even beamed up to him, clutching the sign of acceptance to his chest like a trophy of his inherited magic.

"Give yourself some time to breathe, son." Hand firm on James' back, he put up a crisp suit coat and began to herd the child into the general direction of the dining room. "We'll open it later when we don't have rumbling stomachs to distract us."

"My stomach's just fine!" Despite having caught sight of his mother setting out bowls of broth for them to eat, James ignored her and protested.

Still, Mr. Potter played as an usher and managed to convince James' legs to the dark wood table. "Your stomach might be fine now, but who's to say it won't be bothering you later?"

At that reasoning, James gave in, and as a family, they tucked in. He could hardly wait for the bowls to be dry and empty, having to sit through tortuous subjects ("How was your day, Rosie?" "Oh, just fine. Nurse Whitewood performed the wrong healing spell again. And you, dear?" "Well, I'm not the Minister of Magic, yet." Cue laughing. "How about you, Jimmy How was your day?" "Fine.") until his parents found it appropriate to finish their chatter and move on to the important things.

The bowls clanked as they were set into the sink, and at long last, the enveloped opener was passed to James' eager hands. As though he'd been trained for this very moment his entire life, the blade easily against the top of the parchment. Out tumbled two slips of paper (though he did check inside the gold-shelled insides for more, just in case the lumps he'd seen earlier were important). He picked up the first one, and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL

of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY


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Part 1 of The Marauder's Series