CHAPTER ONE

Please Don't Burn the House Down!

It was a very warm summer's morning and Fleamont Potter was failing to make toast. The grill in the oven was lopsided, the butter dish on the side was full of crumbs and the toast itself was a disastrous shade of black. Even so, Fleamont was feeling rather proud of himself.

"It's hard work, cooking the muggle way," he told his wife, Euphemia, who had appeared in the kitchen doorway. "I can't imagine how muggles and squibs manage without magic."

Euphemia, a tall, elegant woman with kind eyes and a handmade apron, eyed the slabs of charcoal on the grill. "How long had that been toasting for?" she asked. "It must be done by now."

Fleamont checked the handsome gold watch on his wrist. "Exactly forty-two minutes and nineteen seconds. It won't be done for ages yet-" But the rest of his sentence was drowned by his wife's shriek.

"Forty-two minutes?" she cried, running forwards to extinguish the oven. "Forty-two? Fleamont, you'll set the whole house on fire!"

"No, I won't," said Mr. Potter. He reached out to stop her. "You don't need to turn the oven off, dear. I know what I'm doing."

Sighing, Euphemia pulled out her wand and waved it. The grill lifted itself out of the oven and floated towards the bin, where it flipped over and dropped the ruined toast into it. Then the grill returned to the oven. "Honestly, dear, even James can cook better than you. Why don't you try again with some more bread, while I clear this up?" She gestured around at the mess of crumbs, buttery fingerprints, and dirty crockery that littered the kitchen, shaking her head at the sight.

"All right, dear," said Fleamont cheerfully, hurrying from the kitchen to fetch some more bread. His wife waved her wand again and the mess vanished, leaving the flagstone floor and wooden surfaces spotless. As the last plate landed in the sink, Fleamont returned, a roughly-hewn lump of bread in his outstretched hand. "I've got some more!" he cried, eagerly flinging it onto the grill, then straightening up.

"Did you even cut that?" asked an incredulous voice from the doorway. "It looks like half a loaf to me."

Turning, Mr. and Mrs. Potter found their twelve-year-old son James grinning back at them.

"Hello, dear," said Euphemia as James sauntered into the kitchen, his latest broomstick over his shoulder.

"Hi," replied James, rumpling up his dark hair with his free hand. He glanced at his father. "Trying to burn the house down, Dad?"

"No," said Fleamont, looking slightly offended. He turned to look at his son and smiled at the sight of the broomstick. "I can guess where you're going."

James grinned. "Quidditch," he said, hitching his broom more securely over his shoulder. "I'm trying out for the Gryffindor team this year."

"We know," said Euphemia, shaking her head in exasperation. Her son was Quidditch-obsessed and his whole bedroom was covered in posters of players on broomsticks. Like most of the Wizarding World, James listened to every game on the Wizarding Wireless Network, but he'd been going on about joining the school team all summer.

Still smiling, Euphemia turned to supervise her husband but, before she could do so, something feathered shot through the open window and landed on the kitchen table, hooting serenely. Barely a second later, another owl, handsome and tawny, landed beside the first, clicking its beak. Both had letters tied to their legs.

"Post!" exclaimed Mr. Potter, abandoning the second batch of toast, which had just caught fire, and hurrying over to the table. He removed the letters from the owls and examined them closely. "Both for you, James," he said, holding them out. "Looks like the Hogwarts book lists have been sent at last."

James took the letters and turned them over. The first was thick and heavy, with a seal bearing an eagle, a lion, a badger, and a snake on the front, while the second was hideously ornate and embellished with a large gold 'B'. The handwriting also looked rather familiar, but James slid this letter out of the way and opened the first.

A faded piece of parchment fell out, containing a list of all the equipment he'd need for his second year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His stomach skipped with delight as he read that second-years and above were allowed to bring their own broomsticks. Last year had been painful; first-years weren't allowed to bring brooms.

"You'll need some new books, I suppose," said his mother, picking up the list as James put it aside. "We'll have to go to Diagon Alley to buy it all."

James merely nodded and, frowning slightly, picked up the second letter. He didn't know anyone who would write to him using such formal stationary. His friends, Sirius, Remus and Peter, had been writing to him all summer and none of their letters looked like this.

Breaking open the sea, James unfolded the letter and glanced at the signature. His heart leapt. It was from Sirius! But why had his best friend used such ornate paper? Placing his broomstick carefully on the table, James looked down and began to read.

James,

Sorry about the parchment, but I'm writing this at one of my aunt's dinner parties and cousin Bellatrix refuses to leave me alone. She was the one who lent me the stationary and, trust me, the quill's hideous.

How's your week been? The booklists arrived this morning and my parents are taking Regulus to buy his new Hogwarts things tomorrow. If he's in Slytherin, I said I'd disown him, but Remus says that wouldn't be very brotherly of me. He also says he'll be in Diagon Alley tomorrow, so do you want to meet us there? I haven't asked Peter yet, but he'll probably come too. Let me know if you can make it.

Have a good weekend.

- Sirius.

PS: I've just broken Bellatrix's quill. She's going to kill me.

Grinning, James finished reading and traced his friend's handwriting. Raised by manic purebloods and desperate to rebel, Sirius had always hated his neat writing. But no matter how hard he tried to make it messy, it always came out looking like the contents of a Victorian diary. He glanced up from the letter and turned to his mother, who was peering over his shoulder.

"Who's the letter from, dear?"

"Sirius," replied James, rummaging in his pockets. He found a crumpled bit of parchment, which he'd been using to complete some last-minute homework, and flattened it out beside his broomstick. "He's asked if I can meet him in Diagon Alley tomorrow to get our school things. I can go, can't I?"

"Of course," said Euphemia. "Are your other friends going to be there?"

"Yeah," said James. "At least, Remus is. But Sirius says he'll ask Peter today. You haven't got a quill, have you, Mum? I need to write an answer."

His mother shook her head. "No, but I can find one. Keep an eye on your father, will you, while I go upstairs? Don't let him burn anything." Giving her husband a stern look, Euphemia hurried out of the kitchen and into the hallway.

Fleamont, who'd been bent over the oven with his wand aloft, straightened up and watched her leave. "I don't need supervising, do I?" he asked James. "All I'm doing is making- Whoops!" He gave the black toast a prod and the whole thing set alight for the second time. "Aguamenti!" he cried and a jet of water soared from the wand tip, flooding half the oven as it extinguished the flames.

James smiled, then sat down at the kitchen table, staring back at Sirius' letter. What were his friends up to now? Peter had gone to France for a while, but he'd been back since Monday, and Remus had moved house. He'd sent James a long letter, moaning about how difficult it was to fit his books into a single box. Sirius, no doubt, was still stuck with his pureblood cousins at his aunt's house. His whole family was steeped in tradition and they held huge dinner parties at least once a week.

"Here, dear-"

James was jerked from his daydream by the sound of his mother's voice. Shaking his head, he looked around as she placed a handsome quill and a bottle of ink in front of him. "Thanks, Mum!" Unscrewing the inkpot's lid, he dipped his quill into it and pulled the crumpled piece of parchment towards him.

What should he write? Hesitating for a moment, James watched the ink gather in a thick black blob at the end of the quill, then put it on the parchment and began to scribble.

Dear Sirius,

If the parchment is hideous, I'm not sure I want to imagine the quill. Hope you're not being suffocated by your family and that Bellatrix isn't too angry at you - it'd be nice to see you alive tomorrow. Mum and Dad say they're happy to meet in Diagon Alley, so I'll see you there at around eleven.

Bye!

James.

Signing his name with a satisfying flick, James dropped the quill and rolled up the letter. Sirius' large, handsome owl was still sitting on the table; it held out a leg as James tied the scroll onto it, then took off through the open window. The Hogwarts owl was long gone.

Standing up, James picked up the broomstick and headed for the back door, hoping to practise goal-scoring with an old ball that his father had bewitched to be red. This year would be his year. He was determined to make the Gryffindor Quidditch team and no one was going to stop him.

A/N:

Hello, and thank you for reading. You might have stumbled on this by accident, or you might've just come from one of my other fanfictions (such as 'First Impressions' or 'Greater Than Good' - hope you found this without any problems). Either way, welcome to 'Second Guesses'! This is the second book in a series of ten, but it can also be read as a standalone novel. It is set in the Marauders' second-year at Hogwarts and is the sequel to 'First Impressions'.

Feel free to point out things that need improving. Hope you enjoy the story! :)

Thanks!

~ Lacy