Ebony wood. Phoenix Feather. Thirteen inches. Unyielding.
Unyielding.
James sat alone in the unlit empty classroom, turning slowly the new wand in his hands and wondering what in the hell 'unyielding' meant to a wand. It sounded intimidating, and he liked that, but the true meaning of the characterisation was lost on him.
It wasn't his old wand, his father's old wand, but it wasn't bad. Not in the slightest. In fact, it was slightly more powerful than his old one, but it just wasn't the same. It was too smooth, too polished. Northern wands had a more natural look to them. If you didn't hold them just right, they could be uncomfortable to handle. You had to wield them with care, with respect. He could hold this new wand in whatever way he pleased.
He supposed he should probably treat it kindly though. In a few moments time, he would take a walk into the lion's den, and if James was honest with himself, he was quite certainly shitting his breeches.
There came a knock at the door on the other side of the room. James almost didn't answer. How was he to know who was on the other side? He gripped his wand a little tighter.
"Yeah."
The door swung smoothly open. Silhouetted by the candlelight that spilled into the room behind him, the tiny Professor Flitwick stood on the threshold. It was hard to distinguish his face, but his voice had a smiling quality to it.
"Mr. Potter? How are you feeling?" he asked in his squeaky voice.
How do you fucking think?
James answered, "Yep."
"The sorting ceremony has started. The Headmaster wants you to have your sorting when the first years are finished."
"Why couldn't this...sorting horse shit get done in private?
The little Professor stood aside and gestured for James to go to him." I believe he wants to introduce you to the school, rather than have you surprise them out of the blue."
Or, James thought, I could just not meet them at all.
"Fine," James sighed, resigned to whatever fate lay ahead of him in that massive hall. He rolled up the overlong sleeves of his new black robes - Are they supposed to be this loose? - and followed Professor Flitwick out of the room. He was led through the winding corridors, the walls of which were lined with moving paintings, to the huge wooden door that led into the Great Hall. It was quiet on the other side, until it wasn't. A strange voice cried 'Ravenclaw!' and there was a swell of applause. James tried to figure out how many southern kids might be in the hall based on that applause. A few dozen, at least. His chest tightened.
Flitwick reached up to pat his forearm, a gesture which James didn't appreciate. "Just look forward and focus on walking, if you're nervous."
"Don't need to focus on walking," muttered James. "I've had fifteen years of practice. I'm quite good at it."
Flitwick smiled, listening closely to the sounds coming through the door. That strange voice cried out again, and there was another applause. The Professor nodded, lifted his wand, and a gentle flick later, the door began to swing open.
'No, no- wait-"
Too late. The doors swung inward and out of James' reach.
A few dozen, at least, James had guessed. He was wrong by roughly two-hundred. The hall hadn't been this well-lit when he had seen it that morning. A thousand candles floated above four long tables that also hadn't been there before. The southern kids lined the tables shoulder-to-shoulder. At the far end was a set of steps that led to the platform where the staff table was situated. A dozen older witches and wizards sat there. He had met them all already, and one or two hadn't been too pleased to greet him.
The only welcomed sight in the whole place was Albus Dumbledore. James had heard the stories in the years before he met the old man. His people referred to the Headmaster as 'the good one', and in the week following his attempt to hold the old man at spearpoint, he had begun to understand why.
Dumbledore stood silently at his podium, staring directly at James. To his left was an empty chair, and to the left of that chair was the Transfiguration teacher - Mergonnongall, was it? - holding a tattered old wizard's hat, the kind James had only ever seen in the pictures in Old Nan's storybooks.
He gave a start when Flitwick nudged him. Only then did he notice something that caused a sinking feeling to develop in his lower stomach. They were staring at him. All of them. All two-hundred-or-so.
Was he sweating? He felt like he was sweating.
They were all completely silent.
Shit.
He was definitely sweating.
His legs ached to step backwards, and James wanted so desperately to oblige them, but Flitwick chose that exact moment to beginning striding forward into the hall, his little legs carrying him with surprising speed. Every part of his body, every part of the sensible side of his mind told James to turn and run, and run far, but his heart always got its way, and his heart told him to man the fuck up and stop behaving like a craven. He was the first northerner any of those southerners had ever seen, even if they didn't know it yet, and he'd be cast down to the deepest of the seven hells before he would allow himself to bring shame to his people.
It was that thought that drove James to force his right leg forward, and then his left. Maybe Flitwick was right. Walking was harder when he was nervous. He kept his gaze on Dumbledore, ignoring the eyes that followed him, and the hushed voices that soon filled the air.
There was one thing he couldn't help but notice however - the ceiling...was gone. Where, earlier that day, he had seen arching stone support beams, he now saw the dark, cloudless, star-strewn sky. He frowned. No, the ceiling wasn't gone, it was some kind of complex charm that made the ceiling reflect the sky outside. That had to be Dumbledore's work.
Ascending the three steps that led to the platform, James found himself being turned around by Dumbledore, who had swept around the podium to meet him. He was suddenly in clear view of the students, and they were all watching him. Dumbledore gripped his shoulders, a supportive gesture, before he returned to his podium. He quietly cleared his throat.
"Now," he said lightly, "before we dive into the delicious feast that has been prepared for us by the Hogwarts House Elves, there is one final outstanding matter."
The attention of the students had briefly drifted to Dumbledore, but now it was firmly back on James.
"As you all have noticed," the Headmaster continued, "we have a guest."
James gritted his teeth. Stop drawing it out. Get it over with.
"It is my great pleasure to introduce you all to James Potter, who joins us from the Kingdom of the North."
If a pin dropped, it would sound like a cannon, and if the ground were to swallow James whole, he would welcome it glady. He would have preferred it if they all leapt to their feet and began shouting, or even casting curses at him. He could handle that. What he couldn't handle was the absolute, suffocating silence.
The aged Headmaster continued, "For as long as he wishes to remain, Mr. Potter will join our fifth-year group in their classes."
He paused, then continued in a more somber tone, "Like you, I am fully aware of the history between our two peoples. I ask that you allow it to remain just that. History. I trust that you will show Mr. Potter the same respect that you afford to one another."
Dumbledore paused, peering at the students over the top of his half-moon glasses. Apparently satisfied, be said, "With that being said, I believe there is one more sorting to be attended to. Mr. Potter, if you will..."
Mergonnongall laid a hand on James' arm and led him to the chair. She was still holding the miserable looking hat. James sat on the chair, and a moment later the hat was being lowered onto his head. The thing smelled like Maester Aemon's pillow.
The hat twitched. It twitched. The thing was alive. James was half-way through the process of leaping out of his seat when something else happened. It spoke, and James froze.
"Ah..." the hat purred, "this...the moment I've been waiting for. Mr. Potter, eh? Hmm...yes, you're an interesting one, aren't you. Clever boy...more than you know, I think. Cunning too...ah, but no desire for ascending the ladder."
The hat fell silent for a moment.
"Although...no. I think not. Tricky...very tricky indeed. Your people idolise the wolf, do they not? Yes, I can see it. Strong, yes, very territorial, of course...loyal, naturally...and there's no shortage of courage in you, is there? Although wolves have an aversion to fighting, while you...you're a born fighter, aren't you?"
James fought the urge to fidget. The croaking voice was reverberating through his skull, and it seemed to be reading his mind. Was this how the hat decided to which house a student belonged? By reading their personality?
The hat continued, "You could have done well in Slytherin house, Mr. Potter. But I believe you would do even better in another. Better be...GRYFFINDOR!"
"Yes!"
At the furthest table to the left, a boy with long, curly dark hair sprung to his feet, his fist punching the air. The rest of the hall stared as a smattering of people at that same table rose to join him. They began to clap, and slowly, more and more students followed suit.
"Bet you snakes are shaking now!" the dark-haired boy laughed. James followed his gaze to the table on the opposite side of the hall, where all of the students wore green strips of material that wrapped around their necks and hung to their midriffs. Every last one of them was watching James, and the looks of hatred on their faces stirred something inside his chest. It was a familiar something, the same something that caused his banishment. He looked away, and as the hat was lifted from his head, he noticed that each of the tables wore the same material, but in different colours. Blue sat next to green, yellow sat next to blue, and red sat next to yellow. That, apparently, was his colour now. Gryffindor red.
Mergonnongall - he was sure he was getting the name wrong - tapped James on the shoulder. He stood, then turned away from the applauding Gryffindors to look at Dumbledore, who looked delighted. He left the podium and moved to stand in front of James, before placing a hand on James' shoulder and saying, "Gryffindor was once my house as well, James. You will fit in well. Treat them as your family, for they will surely treat you as theirs."
And with that, James was spun around, and sent on his way with a gentle nudge in the direction of the Gryffindor table. It was a long walk, throughout the duration of which the Gryffindors continued to cheer and clap their hands. Some looked unsure, like they were just going along with the rest, but most, James realised, looked equally as happy as Dumbledore had.
As he neared the table, he locked eyes with the boy who had started the ruckus. The boy's grin widened as he motioned for James to approach him, which James did, if a little warily.
"Potter, right?"
He snatched James' hand in his and shook it vigorously, "Oh, this is brilliant! This is great! Oi, Pete, shift over, will you? You too, Mckinnon, make some room!"
'Pete', a short, stocky boy with thin, mousy brown hair, shuffled a few inches to one side, his wide-eyed gaze never leaving James, as the other, a very pretty girl with short, carrot-coloured hair did the same, though she did so with her eyes averted.
"Come on then!" the boy exclaimed, his hand still eagerly shaking James'. "Plenty of space here, mate, sit with me!"
James never, ever let himself be manhandled, not by anybody, most especially if that somebody happened to be a southerner. But he was utterly surrounded, so when the boy gripped his hand tighter and dragged him to the section of the table that had been cleared for him, he allowed it to happen. The applause died away, and as James took his seat, the rest of the table followed suit.
The moment his backside touched the wooden seat, an empty golden plate appeared before him, accompanied by an equally empty, equally golden goblet. Immediately, James turned his focus to counting the tiny jewels that lined the cup's circumference. He could feel the eyes burning into his face from every direction, and it was best that he distract himself.
"With that," Professor Dumbledore's voice rang throughout the hall, "at last, let the feast...begin."
Perhaps distracting himself wasn't the best of ideas, because when the mountains of food appeared along the table, he was entirely unprepared, and he just about jumped out of his skin. The people who shared his table didn't so much as blink before they began, hands reaching and batting one another aside. It stood to reason that such displays of magic were common at Hogwarts. James thought it was too much. No wonder southerners were so lazy, he thought, when they scarcely needed to move an inch for their food.
The boy who had shook his hand tore a strip of white meat from the chicken leg in his hand before turning to him, his brow furrowed, "Not hungry, mate?"
He was, he really was, but his immense discomfort had destroyed his appetite. He shook his head.
"You must be," came the boy's indignant reply. "People are always starving by the time the sorting is done. Takes ages, it does. Go on, get something in your belly."
He didn't give James a chance. Switching his chicken leg to his other hand, he reached past James and grabbed a silver ladel, with which he scooped up a great mound of potatoes and spilled them onto James' plate, and he didn't stop their. Next came the peas, then diced carrots, followed by four slabs of roast beef. Finally, with the chicken leg trapped between his top and bottom teeth, he grabbed a silver boat, and proceeded to pour a generous serving of gravy over the disorganised pile of food that now sat before him.
"There," the boy said brightly, "and get some of that down your gullet, yeah?"
He gestured to James' goblet which, to James' surprise, was suddenly filled to the brim.
"That's pumpkin juice, that is," he explained. "Gorgeous."
James stared at the boy, stunned by the display, and the boy stared back as he tore into his second leg. He looked at his plate, then back at the boy, then again at the plate. He didn't trust it.
His stomach growled.
That did it.
Fuck it. If it kills me, I'll die on a full stomach.
And with that, he dug in.
Oh...it was good. All of it was cooked to perfection. The beef melted in his mouth, the roast potatoes snapped with the first bite, then his tongue was greeted by pillowey softness. The carrots crunched, the peas popped, and the gravy - Seven save me! - had been prepared with the juices of the meat; it was exactly how he liked it.
He had experienced many feasts at Winterfell. A perk of being a ward of House Stark was that he got to dine with the Highborn folk. Or, at least, he got to dine in the same room, and eat the same food. Lady Catelyn wouldn't be seen dead eating at the same table as a lowborn bastard. The feasts had always been remarkable, but none ever came close to this.
"Um..."
The tentative, female voice broke James out of his reverie. His mouth was still full when he looked to his right, and found that the carrot-haired girl was staring at him warily.
"H-Hello," the girl said in an unsteady voice. "I'm- er... Marlene McKinnon."
James chewed his food slowly, waiting for Marlene McKinnon's reason for speaking to him to present itself. But it didn't. Her gaze faltered. She looked away. Quite suddenly, and quite disturbingly, James felt a pang of pity for the girl. He swallowed his food heavily, and was about to speak when the boy to his left piped up again.
"The name's Sirius, by the way."
James looked at him. "Sirius?"
Sirius gaped at him, a fleck of chewed potato dropping from his lip, "You speak!"
Frowning, James rather wished he hadn't. "Aye."
"I mean," Sirius cleared his throat, "I thought you might be mute or something."
"No."
Sirius blinked, closed his mouth sharply, opened it again, then hesitated, "Sorry, mate. I didn't mean to-"
"Your name is...Sirius?"
"Yessir."
"That's a ridiculous name."
Sirius' expression became blank. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face, "I'm glad someone else agrees with me. Fucking daft, innit?"
"That's putting it lightly."
"It's not the worst name here though, mind you. You'll find that out. Take him for example..."
Sirius pointed to the pale, brown-haired boy who sat across from him. The boy looked up from his meal, and now illuminated by the candlelight, James saw a smattering of light scars covering his face.
"His name's Remus Lupin."
Remus Lupin gave James the smallest of nods in greeting, but James was too fixed on his name to respond. "Remus?"
"Yep," said Sirius, popping the 'P'.
"As in Remus and Romulus?"
Sirius and Remus both blinked.
"How do you know that?" asked Sirius.
"It was one of Old Nan's stories," James explained.
They went on like this for several long minutes, during which James was properly introduced to the short boy, Peter Pettigrew. Gradually, James began to feel somewhat at ease, forgetting entirely the other hundreds of students who surrounded him.
Almost.
Near the end of the feast, James paused his conversation to take a swig from his drink - pumpkin juice...not his favourite. There was a flash of red in the periphery of his vision that caught his eye. His head turned automatically to find it.
A girl he hadn't noticed before sat five seats away on the opposite side of the table. She had a porcelain heart-shaped face, a small upturned nose, and almond-shaped eyes that were the brightest - unnaturally so - shade of green he had ever seen. That red something that had gotten his attention turned out to be her hair. It wasn't ginger like the other girl's, or like any kind of redhead he had seen before. Hers was actually red, a bright, fiery red. It shone in the candlelight and spilled past her shoulders and down her back, ending only the gods knew where.
At the exact moment when James spotted the girl, her face was alight with laughter. She reached for her goblet, and James noticed how dainty her hands were. She froze mid-sip, and the irrational part of James' mind told him she could feel his gaze on her. But perhaps it wasn't such an irrational thought, because as he looked away, he could swear he saw her head turn in his direction.
"It's good, right?"
James blinked, "Eh?"
Sirius nodded towards the goblet in James' hand, "The juice. It's good, yeah?"
Swallowing, James said, "It's...It's okay."
Sirius' brow disappeared behind his fringe. For a moment, he looked offended. "Prefer something, ah...stronger?"
"Like wine?"
"Is wine strong where you're from?"
"No - that's why it's easy to get piss drunk on it. You forget there's alcohol in it."
A slice of buttered bread in hand, James mopped up the last of the gravy on his plate. When he was finished, he sat back in his seat with a heavy sigh. He had eaten his weight in roasted everything, and the piles of food had barely diminished. He was contemplating challenging himself, to see if he could eat Samwell Tarly's weight, when quite abruptly, the banquet vanished. There were a few scattered groans of disappointment, the loudest of which came from Sirius.
"Ahem..."
Dumbledore had returned to his podium. The hall fell silent at once. Now, James thought, a smile forcing itself onto his face, that's respect.
"Now that you are all fed and watered, I have a few start-of-term notices to give you."
"Here we go," Sirius muttered, nudging James' arm and speaking like they were lifelong friends, "ten galleons on the new rules being broken in a day."
"Keep your galleons, and keep them far away from me," James answered coolly.
Sirius smirked in response to James' tone, "Oh, I'll make a capitalist out of you, Potter. Just wait."
Dumbledore continued, "First years, and some of our older students, should note that the forest on the grounds is strictly forbidden to all pupils."
James smirked at that. He was going to make that Forest his home.
"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the school caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors."
He frowned at that. There was no such rule in the North. People were encouraged to use their brains and do things the hard way, rather than resort to magic, which was the easy way out, but magic wasn't outright banned, like it apparently was at Hogwarts. Strange, he thought. He rarely used magic for anything other than entertainment, but having the option of using his abilities taken away from him made James feel uncomfortable.
He might just be in for a long couple of years.
There were a few more notices, the most interesting of which, it seemed, was something called a 'Kidditch trial', before, at last, the headmaster bid them all goodnight and sent them on their way. Sirius leapt to his feet and offered to lead James to the dormitory. James followed automatically, and joined the throng of students as they poured out of the hall.
He never noticed the group of boys at the Slytherin table, whose eyes followed him unwaveringly.
"Welcome to the den."
It was a small room: five four-poster beds hung with deep red, velvet curtains that were situated in a semi-circle around a multi-faucet stone sink. At the foot of each bed sat a large wooden chest. The contents of one of them likely consisted of his few belongings. Robb had been kind in letting James take more with him that just the clothes in his back.
Stepping further into the room and looking around, James noticed something off.
"Where's the other lad?"
Sirius flopped down on his bed and peered up at James, "What other lad?"
"There are five beds. Where's the fifth boy? Did you kill him?"
A laugh from behind him as Remus Lupin entered, followed closely behind by Peter Pettigrew, who scurried past James without a glance in his direction. Remus said, "Of all the things Black is capable of, murder isn't one of them. There isn't a fifth boy."
"Never was one," said Sirius. "It was a light year when we arrived. We're a girl short in our year, too."
He gestured idly to the bed next to his, "That one's yours. Don't get too comfortable, mate. The night is but young."
James knelt before his chest and glanced over his shoulder. Remus and Peter were busy unpacking, while Sirius was staring up at the canopy of his bed, and fiddling with a small silver object that opened and closed. Each time it opened, a small flame, would erupt from it. James thought it was quite dangerous to play with fire near flammable materials, until he realised his own hypocrisy, and decided to forget the matter.
With the other boys preoccupied, he opened the chest just enough to see inside. A large, deep leather box sat atop thin silver cloak that was embroidered with stars and half-moons. That was it. All James Potter had left from home was those two objects, along with what was inside the box.
"Let's have a look."
James gave a start. Sirius had somehow snuck up behind him, and was now peering over his shoulder.
"At what?" James said through clenched teeth.
"I want to see what northerners wear," said Sirius simply. "I heard you wear great big fur cloaks and old medieval-type stuff."
"Well you'll see none of that in here."
James snapped the chest shut, drew his wand and placed a locking charm on it. "Now back off."
Sirius raised his hands in submission, looking mildly concerned, "Didn't mean to pry, mate. I was just curious is all."
"Well don't be curious. What's in this chest doesn't concern you."
Remus and Peter had stopped what they were doing to watch, and there was worry in their eyes, and something else that resembled fear. So they were scared of him. James decided he had gotten too relaxed around these boys. He resolved to keep them afraid, at least until he knew whether or not he could trust them.
Slowly, Sirius lowered his hands and stuffed them in his pocket. He asked, a little caution creeping into his voice now, "You...can do nonverbal magic?"
"You can't?"
All three boys shook their heads. Remus said, "We haven't learned it yet. It's on next year's curriculum."
James surveyed the boys, confused, "How do you do it then? You speak the incantations?"
Remus nodded, and once again, James was perplexed by the southern way of life. "We were taught to cast spells wordlessly from the start."
Sirius gave an impressed whistle, "So, are all northerners, like, super talented?"
James snorted, a few particular names coming to mind right away, "I know some lads who can't tell their arse from their elbow where magic is concerned, but most of them can cast a spell without uttering a single word."
Silence fell after that, and James hoped the boys would finally turn away. He wanted to get into his leather box. His throat was beginning to tighten and a feeling of subtle anxiety was starting to creep into his bones. His craving had returned.
Mercifully, Sirius returned to his bed, and Peter did the same, but Remus was still watching him.
"What?"
Remus opened his mouth, but did speak until a few more moments passed, when he said slowly, "Why are you here?"
If there was a question that would least ease his anxiety, that was it.
"I mean," Remus added quickly, "you aren't here to learn, are you? You're already at least a year ahead of us."
James pursed his lips, "That...is none of your business. Everything about me, my life, and what's inside this chest - none of it has anything to do with you. Understood?"
Remus nodded sharply and turned away, "Right, yeah. Okay."
Finally.
James opened his chest again. The box was calling to him. He reached in after it.
"Smoke?"
Oh, for fuck sake.
"What?"
From his reclined position on his bed, Sirius raised a thin white object, "Do you smoke?"
It didn't surprise James that the south had tobacco, but the look of the cigarette certainly did; the ones he saw back home were wrapped in brown paper, not white, and there's were hand-rolled, whereas the one Sirius was holding clearly wasn't.
"No," James answered, pulling out the box and resting it on his lap. "No, I don't smoke."
"Do you mind if I do?"
"Nope."
There was a pause, then the clinking of that metal object in Sirius' other hand as it was opened. He lit the cigarette with the flame that sprouted from it. Ah, that makes sense.
Sirius inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly, a thin line of smoke escaping his lips. Soon, the air was filled with the familiar smell, though it wasn't so familiar. Even their tobacco smells strange.
"We all have our bad habits," Sirius said. "Like Remus and his chocolate, or Peter and his fingernails. I suppose yours is drinking, yeah?"
"Yep," said James, as he quietly opened the box. And other things.
Inside the box were hundreds upon hundreds of little red leaves. James picked one out and brought it to his nose, breathing in its dreadful, but oh-so welcomed sour scent. He picked out another four, stowed them in his pocket, then sealed the box and hid it away in his chest.
Wordlessly, he locked the chest and rose to his feet, and without another glance at any of the boys, he swept towards the door.
"Where are you going?"
To kill someone, if you don't stop talking.
He stopped with his hand on the doorknob and looked back over his shoulder. Peter was watching him, and now so were the other two.
"Outside," he said to the smallest boy. "I need air."
"I'll come with," Sirius said eagerly, swinging his legs off his bed. "Make sure you don't get lost."
"No," was James' curt reply. "There's a bare window near that fat woman's portrait. That's where I'm going. It's hard to get lost from there. I want to be alone for a while. Am I at least allowed that?"
Sirius looked slightly downcast, "Yeah, 'course you are, mate. You go, have some you-time and all that."
Downstairs in the common room, James was slightly annoyed to find there were a few students still lurking about. And of course, naturally, they all noticed him. He focused his gaze on the portrait hole and set off towards it. He was was so close, so beautifully close, when-
"Excuse me?"
James halted, his eyes closing tightly. Deep breathes, Potter. He turned around. The girl with the red hair was sitting cross-legged in an armchair next to the fire, an open book resting on her knees. At this distance, he could see that her skin wasn't as flawless as it had seemed in the Great Hall. A light dusting of freckles graced her rose and the patch of pale skin beneath her eyes, eyes that seemed to glow, such was the intensity of their colour.
As the girl appeared to be trying to find her voice, James was trying to slow his heartbeat. Whether it was his craving, or whether it was the girl who caused it, he didn't know. At last, the she swallowed, then asked, "Where are you going?"
James wetted the inside of his mouth - it had suddenly gotten quite dry. When he answered her, his voice was hoarse, "Outside."
The girl frowned, "It's almost curfew."
Curfew? There's a curfew? No magic allowed, and now there's a curfew? Is this a school, or one giant, well-furnished cell?
"When the curfew starts, you come and tell me. Or don't."
James turned on his heel an hurried for the portrait hole, not wanting to give the girl the chance to speak, or make his heart break through his ribcage.
He was still inside when he emerged out of the other end of the hole, but he suddenly felt much more free. The air was cleaner, fresher, a result of the many glassless windows that lined the corridor to his right. James set off down that corridor, his hand rummaging for a leaf as he went, searching for the window with the best picture of the outside. He found one which gave him a clear view of the forest, illuminated by the half-moon, which seemed brighter here than it did back home. Satisfied, he hoisted himself up onto the windowsill and sat with his back against the stone frame, and one leg hanging over the edge. It was a long way down.
Leaf in hand, he picked off the stem and tossed it away. Then, with a grateful sigh, he popped the leaf into his mouth and chewed. It was a horrid taste, as sour as it smelled, but it was a taste that he had grown to depend on. Like Sirius had said, everyone has a bad habit, and James' favourite habit was the sour leaf. It was thick, very chewy, and filled with a juice that had the ability to numb minor aches and pains, but that wasn't why James favoured the leaf. There was another benefit to the juice; it made him feel happy. One leaf was all it would take, and a few minutes later, maybe five at the most, all his worries would vanish, leaving nothing but a blissful emptiness in his mind. If the damned things didn't taste like week-old goat's milk, his mouth would never be empty.
A few minutes went by, and the change in James' mood was noticeable. So what if it was past curfew? Dumbledore hadn't told him. He would just feign ignorance, and pretend the girl hadn't been there to warn him. And so what if he was surrounded by southerners, the mortal enemy of his people? They were all harmless children. They wouldn't be a threat to him. Southern children didn't learn how to fight like northerners do. He was willing to bet he knew more combat spells than all of them combined.
Another minute passed, and by that point, he had gone from dismissing his worries, to forgetting them entirely. All there was, was fresh air, a lovely view, and silence. Blissful silence. James closed his eyes.
That girl was pretty.
That girl was very pretty.
Beautiful, even.
His eyes snapped open. No. No bad thoughts! My mind is a fortress, and the sour leaf is its guard, and the sour leaf only allows good thoughts to come inside.
But...
That wasn't a bad thought, was it? No, it was merely an observation. The girl was beautiful. There was nothing wrong with thinking that.
"You there."
He had thought Sansa was beautiful, the most beautiful girl in the kingdom. James had never been fond of Sansa, and she - he laughed - had hated him, but he had thought she was beautiful regardless, and there was nothing wrong with that. The redhaired girl in the common room might be as insufferable as Sansa was, he didn't know, but that wouldn't make her less beautiful, nor would her beauty make her a better person.
"Oi!"
He would often tease Arya, saying she was pretty. He would tell her she would grow to be a greater beauty than even her sister. Arya had never liked that. Arya didn't want to be beautiful. She would pout and knit her brow in that adorable way she did, and her little fist would strike his arm, and he would laugh at her, and keep on laughing until she smiled.
Lady Catelyn was beautiful. But she was evil, and that did detract from her beauty. He laughed again. He remembered when he stuffed her riding boots with goat shit after she had referred to him as bastard.
Again, James laughed, and said, in a shrill interpretation of Lady Stark's voice, "You there, bastard. Away with you!"
The laughter died as suddenly as it came. A sudden chill crept up James' spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge. He opened his eyes again.
Four boys clad in black school robes that were trimmed were green stood in front of him. The expressions on their faces were like acid, full of hate and disgust. James blinked.
The largest of them, a dopey-looking boy with a shaved head looked James up and down with contempt on his dopey face. "What's the matter with you?"
And a dopey voice to match his dopey, dopey face...and his massive, dopey head.
"Eh?"
The four boys snickered. The dopey boy said again, "What the matter with you, savage?"
James frowned, "Nothing's the matter with me. Now go. Leave me alone."
The boys glanced at each other. This time, dopey stayed silent, and instead, the boy with the ferret face spoke.
"What's wrong with your teeth?" asked the ferret.
James ran his tongue along his upper row of teeth, cleansing them of the sticky, blood-red juice, and said, "What's wrong with your teeth, ferret? Have you never scrubbed them? Not once in your whole life?"
Ferret's jaw tightened. The other two, whom James named Lizard and Bean sprout, tightened their grip on the wands in their hands. Dopey guffawed stupidly, "The savage thinks he's funny!"
"He doesn't think," said James. "He knows."
Bean sprout sneered, "You're not welcome here."
He had a big pair of balls for a little thing.
"Dumbledore disagrees."
"Dumbledore is senile!" spat the Lizard. "He's lost his marbles, he has!"
"I don't know what that means, and I don't care."
James slowly reached into his pocket and fished out another sour leaf.
"Wha's that?" Dopey asked dopishly.
"This..." James spat the juice out of his mouth and replaced it with the fresh leaf, "is my happy time, and you lads are ruining it. So if you want a fight, start now, or fuck off and leave me in peace."
The boys looked at one another, nodded, and slowly raised their wands. With one swift flick of his wrist, James was armed, his new ebony wand in hand.
We don't know each other yet. But don't let me down.
James bit down on the leaf, then smiled a red smile.
"So, boys...who's first?"
A pause. A single beat of his steady heart. Then...
"Diffindo!"
"Fulmencio!"
"Flippendo!"
"Crucio!"
A/N:
Apologies for the delay on this one. This chapter went through several rewrites from the perspectives of four different characters in two different locations. I do hope I finally got it right! As ever, your thoughts are massively appreciated!
Cheers!