The storm sallied on through the night. By morning it had petered out to a steady stream of rain, pattering against windows and purling off eaves. It was a pretty noise, the thrum of raindrops, but James felt restless, lying awake in bed. He had hours until Quidditch practice, and all he could think about was his transformation yesterday.

After months, years of struggling, he'd finally transformed into a proper Animagus. A shiver coursed down his spine at the memory. It had been an incredible sensation, despite the strangeness of having to compete with the animal instincts all swirling about in his brain. And of course, the new legs.

Then they'd been rained out, and James felt a bit cheated. He'd only had a few moments to savor his transformation, while Sirius had had weeks of frolicking through the woods as a dog. It wasn't fair. James wanted another go.

Making up his mind with the trademark lack of hesitation that served him so well on the Quidditch pitch, James slipped out of bed and pulled on his robes, listening to the faint snuffle of snores echoing from behind closed bed-curtains. His friends were all still asleep. He briefly considered being obnoxious and waking them up for the hell of it, but in a moment of benevolence he tiptoed out of the room.

He moved through the castle with familiar stealth. Of course, he wasn't breaking any rules — it was only early morning and he was perfectly within his bounds to be out — but the castle felt eery and quiet, and old habits die hard.

The lawn, swollen with rain, squelched as James made his way across the grounds, hunched under the hood of his cloak as a swirling gust of wind blew icy pinpricks of rain against his face. The benefit of the weather, however, was that no one was out to see him slip behind a tree and into the Forbidden Forest. Once he was several paces in and certain no one could spot him, he shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

It came more naturally this time. Yesterday, he had almost hiccuped his way into it. One moment he was a boy, the next a great, ungainly beast. This time, his transformation came as an exhalation of breath: He felt his legs elongate, his torso heft, his spine arch, and a weight towards the top of his head mounted as antlers sprung skyward.

The stag straightened up. He took a few tentative steps; it was much easier this time. He trotted along, deeper into the forest, finding himself suddenly aware of things he had never noticed: the way the roots of alders and oaks twisted about under his hoofs, the lichen that grew soft green-white against the knobby bark, a brood of birds chattering in the nook of a trunk, a fox darting beneath his feet and down some sodden fox-hole.

The rain didn't bother him nearly so much as a stag. For one thing, he had no glasses, so the foggy splotches rain usually imposed upon his vision were irrelevant. He took a few moments to appreciate this novelty, then decided to test his new body again. He took off at a canter, leaping over winding roots and stones that jutted from the earth. He paid no heed to the curve of any path, and only when he came across a glen all misty with dew did he slow to a walk.

He had never been this far into the forest. He and his mates merely skirted the edge, generally only until Hagrid found them out and sent them off. But now…now he had completely unfettered access, and what's more, he belonged. No one would look at him and think he was out of place. He was a stag in the woods.

It was incredible.

The rain was slowing now, or perhaps the forest's leafy canopy simply made it seem so. He felt a pang of hunger in his stomach, and even as a stag, the cold was starting to grow uncomfortable. He tried to calculate how long he'd been out here and came up with the vague suspicion that if he didn't head back now, he'd miss breakfast; so he turned and began to trot back the way he came.

It only took him a few minutes to realize he was horribly lost. He had been so thrilled with his newfound freedom that he hadn't paused to take note of any landmark or to follow any path. The knotgrass under his hooves looked exactly like the knotgrass of twenty minutes ago. Stamping a hoof in frustration, he decided to just pick a direction and go. Like most of James Potter's decisions, this was either going to be really good, or really, really bad.

He was beginning to think it was doomed to be the latter when a sudden rustling noise made him stop in his tracks, wide-eyed and alert. The sound of voices drifted through the forest fog.

"—and Dumbledore does nothing!"

"Just because he's doin' nothin' publicly don't mean he's doin' nothin'."

Rubeus Hagrid emerged from behind a cluster of pines, donning his thick moleskin coat and carrying a large crossbow. A few steps behind him was Professor Dearborn, wrapped in a smart-looking cloak and evidently struggling to keep up with the enormous groundskeeper.

"You're right, of course," sighed Dearborn.

"Summat else is botherin' yeh."

"I suppose I'm just frustrated. Being cloistered here, back at this damned school, when I should be out there — fighting. But of course, Dumbledore doesn't think I'm ready."

"There's no shame in takin' time," said Hagrid gently.

Dearborn responded with a disdainful snort. "I'm not 'taking' time. I'm being force-fed time that I neither want nor require. You know as well as I do that things are only getting worse — and fast. This war is escalating, and ever since Sam—"

Dearborn stopped and took a deep breath. As his professor swept the hair from his face, James noticed his hand was shaking.

"I shouldn't be here," said Dearborn. "Sitting safe behind a desk while Sam…" His voice trailed off, the unspoken words fluttering away into the fog. He didn't seem able to finish the sentence.

Hagrid clasped a giant hand on the young professor's shoulder. "Yeh need time, Caradoc. Yeh survived summat terrible and yeh just need time."

"There is no time! Voldemort—"

But at this Hagrid interrupted him, flapping his enormous hands so violently that James glanced hastily around the forest, in case some monstrous beast had come storming towards them.

"Gallopin' gargoyles, Caradoc! Are yeh tryin' to give me heart failure?"

"Oh, come now, Hagrid," said Dearborn. "Surely you aren't afraid to speak the name V—"

"Will yeh keep yer voice down?" growled Hagrid.

"What, do you think he can hear us? Here?"

"Dunno." Hagrid cast a furtive glance around the trees. "I've known stranger magic."

"Dumbledore speaks the name freely."

"'Course he does," said Hagrid gruffly. "But that don't mean you or I—"

"Oh, all right," said Dearborn with an impatient wave of his hand. "You-Know-Who, then. He's out there, building an army, and I'm stuck here. Doing nothing."

"Yer not doin' nothin'. Yer trainin' up the next generation, and that's crucial. Dumbledore thinks so. D'yeh know the last time those kids had a decent Defense teacher?"

Dearborn did not respond, and James suddenly realized with an uncomfortable prickle that his professor was looking directly at him.

Hagrid followed Dearborn's gaze as well, and a surprised grin peaked out from his tangled beard as he noticed the stag. "Hullo," he said.

Lost and very hungry, James had never been happier to see Hagrid in his whole life. He trotted over merrily.

"Friendly, aren't yeh?" said Hagrid. He shifted his crossbow in his hand, and James, suddenly remembered that he was a stag. He skittered a few steps back.

"I won't hurt yeh! Yeh haven' seen a great ruddy unicorn around here, have yeh?"

James began to shake his head, and then, panicking at this transparently human act, tried to play it off as though he were merely shaking away a fly. Thankfully, Hagrid was gazing contemplatively out into the forest, paying him no mind. "Well, if he don' want ter be found, he don' want ter be found. Migh' as well move on. Those bowtruckles won't bind themselves."

"Yes," said Dearborn vaguely, evidently less interested than Hagrid in the forest's denizens. "Well, I suppose I ought to get back to the castle. I do have a class this afternoon. Thanks for the little tour, Hagrid. And the news…"

They parted ways at that, Hagrid disappearing off behind a thicket of trees, while Professor Dearborn followed a more clearly marked path, a path that James hoped led to breakfast. He trotted along behind the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, dreaming of eggs and toast.

Dearborn stopped and turned back, frowning at the stag. "What are you following me for?"

James froze until Dearborn began walking again, then continued after him.

"If you're looking for food, I don't have anything for you."

James cocked his head.

"Go on, shoo."

Thinking this was quite rude, James considered following his professor all the way back to the castle just to annoy him, but eventually he realized they were near the forest edge, so he took off at a canter. Once he was reasonably certain no one was around, he changed back into human form, and fell against the trunk of a great oak, panting, unable to keep from grinning at his adventure.

Then he glanced at his watch. "Oh, shit."

James just barely made it to Quidditch practice on time. He barreled onto the pitch, still pulling on his Quidditch robes as he ran. The rest of the team was already gathered around Montgomery, shivering as the rain began to pick up again.

"Sorry!" James called, skidding to a muddy halt next to Aisha Collins. Montgomery scowled at him. "Sorry, Dave — I'm here."

"You're late," said Montgomery.

"Actually," panted James, "I think if you examine your watch you will find that I am precisely — to the nanosecond — on time."

Next to him, Aisha snickered. Montgomery looked to his watch, realized he couldn't argue, and merely shook his head in annoyance. "Well, let's get on with it then."

As Montgomery dove into his instructions for the day's practice, Aisha leaned over and whispered, "Slept in again, did you?"

"Er — something like that."

"Well, there's nothing on your face this time at least."

"Ha," said James, remembering Sirius's little prank. "Yeah, I still haven't got him back for that."

It was properly raining again by the time the team kicked off to run drills. Normally, James could happily lose himself in Quidditch practice for hours, but this morning, with the icy rain pricking his skin and his stomach growling like Remus on a bad day, James was relieved to hear Montgomery call them in, bellowing across the pitch through the hurl of wind.

It had a been a strong — if unpleasant — practice and the team headed towards the locker room with a grim sense of satisfaction. The first match of the year — Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff — was tomorrow, and the Gryffindors were as good as they'd ever been. Usually, in the week leading up to a match, Montgomery grew surlier with every passing day, but following today's successful practice, he was in unusually good cheer. The same could not quite be said for his teammates.

"I think my balls are going to freeze off," said Burdacke Dunne, his shoulders rolled against the wind.

"I can't feel my toes, Dave," moaned Aisha. "If I get hypothermia and die, I'm going to kill you. And then we'll never win the Cup."

"Relax," said Montgomery. "The weather's supposed to improve in time for the match tomorrow. And besides, if we can play so well in this weather, we'll have Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin in the bag."

"Speak of the devil," said Kingsley Shacklebolt in a low voice. James followed his gaze. A large group of green-clad Quidditch players were striding across the field: the Slytherin team. The Captain of the Slytherin team was a seventh year named Rabastan Lestrange. He was tall and lanky, with a thin face that seemed to be perpetually twisted into a sneer. Admittedly, he was a decent Chaser, though James would never admit it. James knew Rabastan only by reputation. His older brother Rodolphus had married Sirius's cousin, and from everything Sirius had said, the family was bad news.

Lestrange stepped forward. "We booked the pitch for ten o'clock," he said, giving Montgomery the sort of look generally reserved for a dog that pissed on the carpet.

Montgomery glanced at his watch and scoffed. "It's five after."

"Exactly," said Lestrange. "And you're still on our pitch."

"Don't wet yourself, Lestrange," said James. "We're headed off. You can practice your pirouettes now."

He marched ahead, and the rest of the Gryffindors followed, some snickering, some grumbling. As they reached the locker rooms, James threw a glance over his shoulder, back at the Slytherins, and what he saw startled him.

Standing near the back of the group — leaning disinterestedly on his broomstick and looking as though he'd rather be anywhere else — was the slight, scowling duplicate of James's best friend: Regulus Black.

After stopping by the kitchens to solicit the house-elves for some much overdue breakfast, James returned to the Gryffindor common room to find his friends lounging in their usual spot. Remus was curled in an armchair, intent upon A Compendium of Defensive Magic, occasionally scribbling notes onto his homework. Sirius was folding up bits of parchment into paper birds and charming them to dive bomb students as they descended the dormitory stairs. Peter lay on the rug before the fire, The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 5 resting atop his face.

"Where have you been all morning?" demanded Sirius as James approached.

"Quidditch practice, obviously," said James. He collapsed sideways onto a chair, his legs dangling over the arm, and took another bite of the sweet bun he'd pinched from the kitchens.

Sirius eyed him skeptically. "Since six a.m?"

"Ah." James couldn't help but smile. "I went for a jog — well, I say jog. Bit of a trot, really. In the forest. As a stag."

At this, Remus looked up from his book, and Sirius made a frustrated noise. "Why didn't you tell me? I would've come."

"At six a.m.?" replied James with a snort. "Not bloody likely. Anyway, I didn't mean to be gone so long. I got a bit lost in the forest, to tell you the truth, but I ran into Hagrid and—"

"You ran into Hagrid?" interrupted Remus, looking alarmed. "Did he—?"

"Relax, Remus. he didn't know it was me. How could he? He just thought I was a very sociable stag. Anyway, I just barely made it to practice on time."

"Ready to 'beat the Badgers bloody' tomorrow?" asked Sirius with a faint smirk.

"To a pulp," said James cheerfully. He chewed thoughtfully on his sweet bun while Sirius snickered at a group of third years fleeing the dormitory stairs, pursued by paper birds. James supposed he ought to tell Sirius about his brother being the Slytherin team's latest acquisition. It didn't seem like that big of a deal, but Sirius was weird about stuff with his family, and the smallest mention could spiral into a week-long sulk. It could wait, surely, until after the match tomorrow…but then again, it might be worse if he found out from someone else.

Oh, to hell with it.

"Funny thing happened at the end of practice. Ran into the Slytherin team coming onto the pitch. They've got a new Seeker."

"Bully for them," said Sirius without much interest, his attention focused on the new paper bird he was crafting.

"Yeah," said James. "It's your brother."

Sirius stopped folding the parchment and stared. Both Remus and Peter looked up, their expressions wary. "You're joking," said Sirius, and James shook his head. Then, after a brief frown, Sirius scoffed. "Well, that's good news for Gryffindor, I suppose. As far as I know, Reg hasn't touched a broomstick in years. What the hell's he playing at, Seeker? Since when does he care about Quidditch?"

"Dunno, mate," said James. "Just thought you ought to know."

"Fuck if I care," said Sirius, and he went back to dive-bombing students with paper birds.

James observed his friend for a moment, then shrugged it off. If Sirius wasn't bothered, then James wouldn't be either. He had plenty of other concerns on which to focus. Or rather — on which to not focus. For instance, he was steadfastly ignoring the far corner of the common room where a certain prefect was sitting cross-legged on the floor, bent over her homework. He absolutely was not paying any attention as she distractedly sucked the end of her quill and tucked a wayward strand of long red hair behind her ear.

For reasons that he was steadfastly ignoring, James's inner-life had suddenly become an inexplicable muddle of frustration and yearning, and thus Quidditch was a thoroughly welcome distraction. The upcoming match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff was all anyone wanted to talk about anyway. Most days James could barely walk through the hall without someone shouting "Beat the Badgers bloody!" And while he did get a certain thrill from students he didn't even know clapping him on the back and wishing him good luck, he harbored a tiny, secret, Snitch-sized ball of anxiety in the pit of his stomach that whirred about as the match approached.

By the time the morning of the match arrived, however, James was fairly certain that the stomach-Snitch had multiplied and an entire swarm of them was darting around his gut. Contrary to Montgomery's optimistic predictions, the weather had not cleared but had instead grown foggy and inclement — not stormy, but dreary and dripping with rain. As the Gryffindor team pulled on their scarlet robes, Montgomery pelted them all with bits of advice.

"Now remember, Hufflepuff's Beaters tend to cluster around their Chasers. They're more defensive than offensive, so if you can get the Quaffle and get out, it should be smooth sailing…"

James was only half-listening. He knew what he had to do. It was the doing it that made him so nervous. This was his shot, maybe his only shot. He had to prove to Montgomery, to everyone, that he deserved to be on this team. That last year hadn't been his fault at all…that he could and would win them the Cup.

The Gryffindors filed out onto the pitch, Montgomery in the lead, as the Hufflepuffs approached from the other side of the field in their yellow robes. They were a good team, James grudgingly admitted to himself. Their Keeper was very quick on his broom, and their Beaters were efficient, if predictable. However, their Chasers lacked the ruthless daring that James knew he possessed. All he had to do was get the Quaffle and get out.

The Captains shook hands, and Madam Hooch instructed them all to mount their brooms. The rain was falling steadily now; visibility would be compromised, but not too badly. James stole a look up at the raised stands from which the entire school was watching. Somewhere under the swells of umbrellas, his friends were watching. Lily was probably watching too.

A deep breath.

Get the Quaffle, get out.

Then the whistle blew, and the players pushed off the sodden earth with a great squelch. Fourteen brooms rose rapidly into the air…and the match began.

"What I like most about Gryffindor house," said Remus, calmly surveying the wreckage of their common room, "is our temperate and even-keeled reaction to victory."

Bits of red and gold streamer hung listlessly from the ceiling, draped over chairs, and huddled in lumps on the floor. Shoals of confetti swam along the carpets, while discarded bottles, sweet wrappers, and other debris cluttered every surface. Several chairs were knocked on their sides. At the other end of the room, Davey Gudgeon was slumped unconscious over an ottoman, wearing only his pants and an enormous lion mask.

"I'll drink to that," agreed Sirius, raising a glass of definitely-not-butterbeer.

"Hear, hear," hiccuped Peter.

James grinned lazily from his seat. He had done it. He had proven to everyone that he deserved to be on that team. Gryffindor had won the match against Hufflepuff — obviously — and they had done it magnificently. Though the entire team had performed well, it was widely accepted that James had been the star of the pitch, scoring goal after goal until it hardly mattered whether Gryffindor caught the Snitch or not. They did, incidentally, and the party that followed was the stuff of legends.

Professor McGonagall, their Head of House, had long since ceased to interfere in post-match parties. Partly this was because she was a Quidditch fan herself and thus understood the urge for celebration, but mostly, James suspected, it had to do with the incident a few years ago when she came in to scold them for being too loud and left a few hours later covered in magical glitter that took weeks to wash off.

The party was beginning to die down now, the rowdier revelers dispersing into small groups around the common room. James, who had been required to be at the center of the whole affair, had only just sat down to enjoy a drink with his friends.

What a week. He was exhausted, but in the best possible way.

"So," he said grandly, "who wants to go to the forest with me tomorrow morning? I'm getting the hang of those stag legs. You'll be impressed."

"No, no," said Sirius. "I've got a prior commitment with my hangover."

"Maybe dogs don't get hangovers."

"Interesting theory. I'll explore it tomorrow from my bed."

"You know," James took a contemplative swig of punch, "I've been thinking—"

"Oh dear," said Remus.

"—we really ought to have another name for you. As a dog, I mean. We can't exactly keep running through the forest shouting 'Sirius! Sirius!' Not very stealthy, is it?"

Sirius snorted. "What d'you want to call me? Rover? Spike?"

"Goodness, no. I was thinking something that better reflects your personality. Something sweet and lovable. Like Snuffles. Or...Snuggums. Pupcakes, perhaps."

Sirius glowered as the boys all laughed. "If you call me any of those, stag boy, I will steal Hagrid's crossbow, hunt you down, and convince the house-elves to serve fresh venison for dinner."

"Calm down, Cuddles," said James, grinning.

"Your parents didn't let you have a pet growing up, did they?"

"Did so," said James. "We had lots of cats, and I had a Niffler for about a week. Mr. Niffles!"

"A Niffler?" said Peter. "Really? Why only a week?"

"It — er — didn't end well."

"Well, what about you?" interjected Remus. "You don't get to have all the fun. If we're calling Sirius 'Snuffles'—"

"Which we are not."

"—and I can't get you idiots to stop calling me 'Moony,' then what silly name are we going to call you, James?"

"There aren't any silly names for a stag. We are far too dignified and magnificent a breed."

His friends all snorted in unison.

"Only when you stand still, maybe," sniggered Peter.

"I told you, I've made a lot of progress with the legs."

"I'll believe it when I see it," said Remus. "You nearly impaled yourself on the the prongs of your own antlers."

There was a pause during which James tried to think up a clever comeback, but the punch had somewhat dulled his wits.

"Prongs," said Peter suddenly.

"What?"

"That should be your name. Prongs. 'Cause of the antlers."

"That's a stupid name," protested James. "What am I, a fork?"

"I like it," said Sirius.

"You only like it because I called you 'Snuffles.'"

"No, I genuinely do. It's short, to the point, but obscure enough that no one will know why we're calling you that."

"Prongs," repeated James uncertainly.

"Mr. Prongs," Remus corrected him. "You're dignified, remember?"

James shook his head. "You lot have had too much to drink." Then, in a flash of red hair, he noticed Lily crossing the common room, headed for the punch bowl. "Or…maybe I just haven't had enough. Excuse me, I'm going to get more punch."

He moved through the common room with brisk purpose, draining the last slug of punch from his cup as he made his way towards Lily. He'd barely spoken to her at all since she'd stormed out of his dormitory the morning after that fateful day at the lake. The week that followed had passed in a confusing, contemplative whirl. If James had hoped that his newfound infatuation with Lily Evans would fade quickly, he'd been sorely disappointed. Instead, it only seemed to grow, until it suddenly felt like an outrageous oversight that he'd never before considered her in this light. It was as though some veil had been lifted, and now he could see everything so clearly that it seemed absurd he'd ever missed it before.

This was not to say that he wasn't still nettled by the discovery. He was, but what bothered him most was that he hadn't done anything about it. He'd had plenty of opportunities to talk to her, but he'd always found a reason to hurry in the opposite direction. That wasn't right. He was James Potter. He wasn't scared of anything, let alone a girl. Let alone Evans. He needed to deal with this, and now was his chance.

He reached the refreshments table as Lily was spooning the dregs of the punch bowl into her cup. "You do know there's alcohol in that, don't you?" he said lightly. "You, with your shiny prefect's badge — surely you wouldn't be caught sipping spiked punch?"

Lily continued ladling the punch into her glass without looking up at him. "It's a well-established Gryffindor tradition that prefects are off duty at House parties. And besides," she paused, setting the ladle aside with a clink and taking a sip of the punch, "this stuff is weak."

James had not thought the punch to be particularly weak — he had watched as Sirius had tipped an entire bottle of firewhiskey into the bowl a few hours earlier — but he did not say so. Instead he said, "Seemed to do dear old Davey in," nodding at the unconscious boy in the lion mask.

"Everyone knows he's a lightweight," said Lily.

Look at them, having a friendly chat! James felt almost giddy. Or maybe that was the punch.

"So," he went on, taking a step closer to her as he scooped up the last bit of punch and poured it into his own cup, "did you see the match then?"

"No," said Lily dryly. "I missed it. Did we win?"

He laughed and took a long drink. Swallowed. This was his moment. He just needed to do it. Go on. Just ask her out.

But Lily had turned to leave.

"Hang on—" he said quickly. "I've been wanting to talk to you."

She turned back to him with an expectant, impatient look on her face, lips primmed, a frown in her brow. Once again, James was taken aback by how pretty she was. How had he never noticed before how pretty she was? Surely it could only be because he'd never taken the proper time to admire her face, with its pale skin, blemished so wonderfully with the occasional freckle, and the rosy flush that always crept up her cheeks whenever she was embarrassed or flustered. And of course, her eyes…so bright and startlingly green. He was just admiring the poetic way her hair fell in little waves over her shoulders when Lily cleared her throat impatiently.

"You wanted to talk to me? About what?"

"Right," James caught himself. "Yeah. Sorry — er — you're not still cross about that old book, are you? I really was going to give it back."

"What book?" asked Lily sweetly. "There are a lot of books in the world."

He grinned. She could give it as well as she could take it. He'd always liked that about her too. "I deserved that. Listen, about what happened at the lake, I hope you're not embarrassed or anything, because I didn't—"

"You know," Lily interrupted, her voice suddenly sharp, "it would probably be better if we never spoke of that again. Ever. Okay?"

She fixed him with so furious a glare that James couldn't help but laugh.

"Okay," he agreed. Then, with the flippant air of someone changing the subject with absolutely no ulterior motive whatsoever, he continued: "So, are you going to Hogsmeade next weekend?"

Lily gave her punch glass a little swirl. "Yeah, I'm going with Anson."

James froze. "What? Who?"

"Anson Nott."

James felt something akin to a Bludger to the gut. "Nott? The Ravenclaw Seeker?"

"That's right."

"You're going to Hogsmeade with Anson Nott?"

"Is there a problem?"

"Yeah, you can't date Nott."

"Why not?" said Lily, looking very offended.

"He's the Ravenclaw Seeker!"

"So?"

"It's treason!"

Lily rolled her eyes. "I didn't realize inter-house dating was forbidden. Really, I must re-read that rulebook."

"Inter-house dating is fine, but inter-Quidditch dating? No way."

"I'm not on the Gryffindor Quidditch team," Lily pointed out.

"True," conceded James, "but if you had any proper Gryffindor pride you wouldn't even speak to any of those Quaffle-hogging Ravenswots."

"Oh, you're being childish. What do you care, anyway?"

"I don't care. Just surprised is all. Still, there's no accounting for taste, I suppose."

"Oh, that's nice," said Lily. "You don't even know him."

"I know he's dull as a doorknob and only caught that Snitch last year by dumb luck."

"Of course, this is about your wounded ego."

James opened his mouth, then shut it again. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She wasn't supposed to have a date with someone else — let alone Anson bloody Nott. Unsure how to proceed, he fell back into his most comfortable persona: cocky amusement.

"Tell you what," he said with forced indifference, "if it doesn't work out with Nott, I'll buy you a drink."

Lily scoffed in irritation, a faint tinge of pink encroaching upon her cheeks.

"What?" laughed James with an impressive display of unaffected bravado. "Like you weren't dying for me to ask."

Lily glared at him, then shook her head in disgust. "You're unbearable," she said, and then she took off towards her friends without another look his way. James watched her go, despair washing over him like a bad hangover.

That was an absolute disaster.

For want of any better idea, James returned to his friends, half-empty punch glass in hand, his enthusiasm for the party abruptly diminished. He slumped into his seat, depressed, letting his friends' banter carry on around him without participating. Suddenly, all of his accomplishments this week didn't seem to matter — the Animagus transformation, the Quidditch victory — it all felt useless and dull and disappointing.

Anson Nott. She was dating Anson Nott?

"Hi James," a breathy female voice interrupted his brooding. He looked up: Alodie Blunt stood before him, beaming.

"Oh, hi," said James.

"I just wanted to tell you," said Alodie, "I thought you were really amazing today."

"Thanks," said James, trying not to sound bored. This wasn't the first stroke of his ego he'd received tonight, and ten minutes ago he would've enjoyed it thoroughly. But now it just felt redundant and silly. Lily hadn't thought he was amazing.

"So," said Alodie with pretty smile, "are you going to Hogsmeade next weekend?"

"Dunno. Probably." And James sunk back into his own miserable thoughts of handsome Ravenclaw Seekers and beautiful redheads for a moment, until he realized Alodie was still hovering beside him, watching him expectantly.

"Well," said Alodie, "I was thinking of getting a drink at the Three Broomsticks. Maybe I'll see you there?"

James considered this logistically. "I expect so. It's not that big of a pub."

Alodie's face fell. "…Oh. Right."

And she left, looking thoroughly disappointed.

Shrugging off this slightly baffling exchange, James turned back to his friends to see all three of them shaking their heads at him in something resembling disbelief.

"...What?"