James Potter´s boss is a killer, in the most legal kind of way.
It´s 6am, Christmas morning, and he wishes he had the courage to park his Range Rover at the bottom of the sea. His burbs smell like Sirius´ bird-sperm-eggnog, he has coffee stains on his trousers and the only song the radio plays at this merry hour is all I want Christmas is you, but none of that matters because justice never bloody sleeps!
On the verge of stomping through the snow in his fuck-you-flip-flops until his toes are no longer attached to his feet, even the traffic light stabs him in the back and turns red. "Mary´s baggy tits, what have I ever done to deserve this?"
"Do you want a list?", his Siri-conscious-voice asks and James´ forehead hit the steering wheel, repeatedly. Chief Moody will have his balls if he gets in late again. Oh hell, he might also take the stick with them! He was so screwed. So exceptionally screwed. Merry Christmas, his soon to be beaten arse!
"A GIRL CAN DO WHAT SHE WANTS TO DO AND THAT´S WHAT I AM GONNA DO! AND I DON´T GIVE A DAMN ´BOUT MY BAD REPUTATION!" A red-haired girl in a baby-blue Mini Cooper yells along, and maybe it's the dizziness he´s gotten from hitting his head, or the caffeine overdose, but James Potter has never seen something that breath-taking.
He readjusts his glasses and messes up his hair, before rolling down the window to his right.
"Oi!" She turns at the call or at his unattractively wild waving and blushes a pinkish hue.
"What´s your name?" James mouths, and the red-head squints at him and gestures to her ears. She couldn´t hear him.
Some street-lamp light catches her grimacing freckled face, and he could not possibly let her go without the reassurance of meeting her again. " .THE.WINDOW." He desperately mimes word for word, his mouth forming each one too.
The Joan-Jett-Vocal-Clone laughs, but complies.
Switching, the traffic light turns orange.
"Give me your phone number?" James squawks and hopefully ogles her over the rim of his glasses.
She shakes her head, no. Her thin lips suppress laughter, but her eyes, God her eyes, they shine.
He manically pats his stained trousers for his phone, finds it and throws it through her window.
"I´LL CALL YOU ON MY NUMBER THEN!" James Potter cheers over the hollered chorus, taking off with a victory roar.
Not even Alastor mad-as-a-bag-of-ferrets Moody could ruin his mood today.