James Potter knew he was in love.
He'd known since his first year.
Of course, she currently hated him. How charming.
They say history repeats itself.
James couldn't have agreed more with this statement (even though he hadn't a clue as to who 'they' were). It seemed as if his grandfather's personality had slipped inside of James and decided to take residence there. James didn't have a serious bone in his body. Neither did his best friend, Fred Weasley. Together, the two made a frightening duo. A duo which saw fit to terrorize first years and create a general air of havoc throughout the ancient castle. They were joined in their escapades by Dominique, who they jokingly dubbed the first female marauder.
Because that was what they called themselves. The Marauders.
The trio preferred this name to the handle given them by the media, the Silver Trio. Apparently, this was some knock off of the 'Golden Trio,' whatever that rubbish was.
But he was getting off topic.
Yes, James was quite in love. So head over heels was he, James was no longer capable of telling up from down. He strove to impress her, to shower her with attention. Of course, James was about as romantic as a donkey's arse, so more often than not his attempts at romance fell flat. He was not deterred, however. He was certain someday her cries of outrage- he hadn't meant to turn her hair pink- would turn to confessions of love.
Her name was Margaret. Margaret Finch-Fletchley. And she wouldn't hesitate to give you a good 'talking to' -which more often than not consisted of more hitting and less talking- if you called her by anything other than Madge. In his early years, James had learned this lesson the hard way. Even though he was sorely tempted to call her by her full name, James knew it wasn't worth the verbal- and physical- onslaught he would receive after doing so.
Her hair was not red, another attribute James found admirable. He lived with a family of red headed people; he had no desire to bring yet another one into his large family of gingers. Instead, her wavy locks were a soft caramel, darkening at the roots to a delicious dark chocolate. It was also incredibly thick, James knew, because it took Fred an hour to cut through it all in their fourth year. She hadn't been so pleased with either of them when she woke to find her beautiful hair scattered across her pillow, quite unattached to her head.
She was brilliant. James was rather intelligent- if one didn't mind him saying- but Madge made him look dimmer than a dying light bulb. She perhaps even surpassed the academic accomplishments of his Aunt Hermione, a feat impressive in and of itself. And she did it with minimal studying on her part.
Where does one find a bezoar and what is it made of? Why, in the stomach of a goat, obviously. And it's of course not made of stone, like the common belief. It is actually a combination of plant fibers, hair, and other indigestible materials ingested by the goat that hardens in the stomach to form the supposed 'stone.'
Why are baby unicorns afraid of the male gender? That is a common misconception, honestly. A young unicorn isn't actually frightened by males; he simply wishes to avoid territorial confrontation that would, undoubtedly, spring up in the wild. Male unicorns are quite possessive of their land domains and of their females; a young unicorn will know purely by instinct that it is better to avoid anything of the male gender, regardless of species, until it is much larger and more capable of fending for itself.
It frightened him how much she sounded like Aunt Hermione, actually.
She played quidditch. And was bloody good at it too, by James' measure. He was, naturally, captain of the Gryffindor squad and he prided himself on being an incredible judge of talent. And Madge had more talent than most players had in their middle finger. Quite the Keeper, she was. Literally.
James also prided himself on his incredible formation of puns.
Not only did she play quidditch, she was just as crazily obsessed with the sport as James himself was. Another impressive feat, he thought. The only civil conversations she seemed to be willing to engage James in were centered around quidditch. D'you think the Harpies will take the league this year? How 'bout them Tornadoes? Still rootin' for them losers, the Canons? Her expansive knowledge of his favorite game was a surprising turn on and only furthered his love for the feisty Margaret Finch-Fletchley.
James loved her for everything she was, and he was quite certain he would still love her if she looked like a hag. Thank Merlin she didn't; if she had it would have put a slight damper on the physical aspect of a relationship. James may have loved her personality but he sure could appreciate the package it came wrapped in.
Like her personality, Madge was beautiful. Her thick mane of hair fell over broad shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist. James had found himself dreaming of that small waist, of wrapping an arm around it and splaying one large hand across her flat abdomen. Of pulling her possessively into his body, sheltering her from the world.
Between those shoulders, and above that tiny waist, lay a chest of proportions that made James' mouth water. He often daydreamed during class, his gaze wandering in the direction of those lovely ornaments gracing her body. They strained against the white shirt of her uniform and when it was hot, she often unbuttoned the top two buttons, allowing a nice glimpse of her creamy skin whenever she leaned forward to reach the ink pot. It drove James to distraction.
Below the waist, the rest of her was just as beautiful. Her arse was round and supported by rather voluptuous hips, tapering into shapely, muscular legs. James had never been one for skinny, doe eyed girls whose arses were flatter than the Great Plains in North America. He'd always preferred a fuller figured woman. And that was exactly the preference Madge fulfilled perfectly.
The graceful curves of her body would fit snugly with his, he was sure. Fate had meant for their lives to one day intertwine. She was a perfect match for him; he a perfect match for her.
She just hadn't realized it yet.
But she would. Soon. Because James had a plan.
Okay, he really didn't have a plan but pretending to have one made him much more confident. Saying he had a plan made it much easier to appear suave when he leaned against that huge willow down by the Black Lake and ran a hand through his unruly hair.
His imaginary plan had not prepared him for actual words however, and he soon found his nonchalant facade shattered, along with his pride, when incoherent sentences began to drift from his lips. He wasn't entirely aware of what he was going on about but the tentative smile that graced her lips was encouraging. Perhaps there was something to be said for random babbling.
"Yeah, the Arrows have a really good chance at the league this year. Speaking of really good chances I was wondering whether I had a really good chance of you goingtohogsmeadewithme." It came out in one long breath, after which James tried his hardest not to clamp a hand over his mouth. Instead, he settled on cursing his imaginary plan for its obvious lack of preparation in case of foot-in-mouth situations.
James was very prone to foot-in-mouth situations.
The small grin on Madge's face was growing wider, blossomed into a full fledged smirk.
"Hogsmeade with James Potter. Could be entertaining. Seven, Potter. Don't be late." James' cursing stopped mid expletive, his surprise painted across his features. She laughed and turned away. The swaying of her hips caught his attention, as always, before the situation fully caught up with his brain.
She said yes. After exactly 276 rejections, she'd finally said yes. James Potter was quite surprised at this turn of events. Five thoughts skittered across his mind at that moment.
He hadn't gotten slapped/punched/kicked/etc.
Random babbling didn't get enough credit.
277 was his new lucky number.
James was absolutely, without any shadow of a doubt, head over heels in love for one Margaret Finch-Fletchley.
And she maybe didn't hate him as much as he previously thought.