A/N: I know. I haven't posted a chapter in MONTHS, and I really doubt any of my original readers are still reading. However, please read this anyway...I'd really appreciate your reading (and hopefully reviewing) my story.

James was the sort who seldom pondered anything. He acknowledged things, joked about them, and understood, but was usually complacent when he wasn't trying to be difficult. And so it was as much a surprise to him as to anyone when he began to worry about the Sorting. A hint of doubt crept into his mind, an emotion, like remorse, foreign to him until this fateful day. What if he didn't get sorted into Gryffindor? Slytherin tendencies had indeed been surfacing, almost unconsciously, in recent times. James crossed his fingers, usually a Muggle practice, and muttered his concerns under his breath.

"What's wrong?" Lily asked cautiously. Unaware she'd been watching him, James blinked and turned away. That girl was a menace! She cared all too much about him, and her attention bothered James immensely. He wasn't used to it, and he didn't want to be. As long as he remained calm (well, as calm as he could be) and halfway content, no one really pestered him except for constant scolding and discipline. That, however, he could expect. The boy was a genuine troublemaker, and didn't wish to be anything more.

"Nothing, Evans," he grumbled in reply. The cloud of emotion and wondering disturbed him even more. Was he changing? Was he actually uneasy about things? It was impossible. "I'm just worried about the Sorting." James' face turned pale. It had slipped out so easily, and he punched himself silently for voicing his thoughts. What in the world was wrong with him?

Lily brightened considerably. "Oh, is that all?"

"You're a Muggle-born, Evans!" James scoffed. "What would you know about it?"

"Nothing," she admitted. "But it just seems so trivial."

"You're one to talk, then," he replied dryly. "What sort of things do you worry about, Queen Evans?"

"People." Lily paused, gazing around the room, crowded with excited first years. "And sickness. Certainly not about ceremonies, and the like. I wouldn't give it a second thought. What does it matter, anyway? We're all going to the same school, aren't we?"

"It matters more than you'd think, Evans. But you wouldn't understand."

"First of all, James, call me Lily. I thought we had that clear. And second of all…" With this, Lily stood taller, making eye contact with the boy. "Second of all, I understand plenty. I understand, but I'm the sort of person who wants a bit more than just knowledge." She gave him a quizzical look. "But I don't suppose you'd get that concept, the pureblood you are."

All James could do was gape, incredulous at her straightforward nature and slightly angry. Luckily for both of them, the conversation came to an awkward close by a third voice. Poised before the anxious crowd, adjusting her glasses nervously, a professor began to speak. She had long dark hair, neatly tied behind her head into a bun, and she seemed roughly 30 years older than the first years.

"I am Professor Minerva McGonagall," she hissed sternly, somehow silencing the chaos. "You will see me often in your seven years here, and you dare not ever treat me with any less obedience than at this very moment. I will be difficult to get along with, and I doubt you'll try, but all the same you must learn to listen with little reply. Studious students are always the finest examples." With this, the professor gave a look toward James specifically. "I knew a lot of your parents in my school years," she murmured cautiously. "I can only hope you'll live up to their standards."

With these words, left echoing ominously in the hall, she drew an old and tattered hat from beneath a small chair. "The Sorting Hat." Rather than a sea of muttering, the words came as almost a solitary statement. The students knew their fate, dreaded it, but were curious all the same. And then, coming as a shock to even the most informed first years, the hat began to sing:

"Once in a year in days of old

Four geniuses were gathered

And these four set their sights to mold

An artifact quite tattered

Gryffindor, a noble man

Was surely my creator

He gave me much intelligence

Which I would use for later

The next step was Rowena's plan

Establishing my task

And so my sorting there began

As Ravenclaw had asked

Hufflepuff, the gentle soul

Devoted all her time

To aid me and to make me whole

And so taught me to rhyme

The last of the founders' whims

Was Slytherin's technique

He cut a hole within my brim

Allowing me to speak

And so the sortings then progressed

For new ones through the years

To choose which house would be the best

Step up, and do not fear!"

The hall burst into joyous applause; evidently, the Sorting was a sort of entertainment for the older students. The hat seemed to sit in silent glory for a moment, giving the frightened first years a chance to reflect on the song. Then, with a burst of enthusiasm, it boomed out a name:

"Abbot, Ronald!"

A thin, almost mouse-like, blonde-haired boy stepped up the hat, and Professor McGonagall placed the hat on his head. It seemed to contemplate for a moment, and Ronald fidgeted. Then, with a burst of energy, it shouted, "HUFFLEPUFF!" The Hufflepuff table erupted with applause, and the boy awkwardly walked toward his new classmates.

"Black, Sirius" ended up in Gryffindor.

"Along with me," noted James smugly.

"What makes you think you'll be in Gryffindor?" grumbled Lily.

"I will. Don't doubt me." But even as he said the words, he eyed the Sorting Hat worriedly.

"Evans, Lily!" James watched her as Lily moved cautiously toward the hat, sensing an air of confidence. He admired her ability to care little about the proceedings, but silently cursed himself. Obviously the Muggle-born girl wouldn't care – what was heritage and reputation to her? She hadn't come from a long line of prestigious wizards like he had. The Sorting Hat paused and screeched, "GRYFFINDOR!" as the table burst into cheers and applause.

James watched anxiously as his group of companions slowly disappeared as one by one dozens of names were called out. "Lupin, Remus!" the hat shouted. There was a moment of tense silence. No one stepped forward. James and the other first years gazed around, whispering nervously to one another. Remus seemed to have disappeared. Professor McGonagall darted her eyes around, angry that she'd already lost a first year. He'd be in for a week's detention at least for disturbing the ceremonies and embarrassing his professors... A calm-looking old man stepped forward and whispered something in McGonagall's ear. She shuddered, just slightly (and hardly enough for James to see if he wasn't watching so intently), raised the parchment again, and seemed to pretend that another student had just been sorted.

"What was that about?" a stout boy behind him leaned forward to tell James. "No one ever misses the sorting," he said matter-of-factly. "I should know. My mum tells me absolutely everything about this wretched school." The boy proceeded to mutter something under his breath with a few nonsensical phrases like "Durmstrang" and "silly Gryffindor tradition" escaping his lips. James nodded, trying to be friendly, but sensing a certain...unpleasantness...about the boy all the same. Fortunately, the boy ("Pettigrew, Peter!) didn't stay for long, and was sent off to Gryffindor with nearly a score of his happy comrades.

And so, the moment of truth came, the two words that marked the beginning (and hopefully not the end) of James' wizardry career.

"Potter, James!"