A/N: I know this makes 2 posts in one night, but I figured, meh. I was told this one is good by my beta-reader and very reliable source Josh. This chapter is dedicated to Jake (be he Voldy-whore or not), Buddy (for being falsely accused by those bastards at A and P), but not to Baxter (for throwing a sandwich too near my face and for making fun of my HP obsession!) Love ya much! Enjoy!

James Potter

7 Blanc Road

Queerditch Marsh, England

8:00 AM

"James..." Althea Potter's voice drifted into James' ears as if it was coming from very far away. James liked that idea and decided that it was true: his mother was a long way off and he was safe and warm in his bed. He smiled sleepily and rolled over so his nose was less than an inch away from his bedroom wall. His mother hammered against his door and the noise swam lazily to James like a fish though murky water; bumping here and there against his obscuring dreams until the sound became soft and gentle. "James Hart Potter are you awake yet?" she asked louder this time, jiggling the knob only to find that James had locked it, "oh honestly."

Her eleven year old son stretched resentfully, pulling the thick feather comforter over his head, perfectly content in its warmth. He yawned drowsily and was just beginning to drift off to sleep when his mother dosed him in cold water.

"What the---MUM?" James sputtered, sitting bolt up right, and throwing the sodden blanket to the floor. The water had soaked the comforter completly and James pulled at his wet pajamas that were stuck fast to his skin and wiped the hair out of his eyes.

Althea Potter laughed stopping the jet of water that was pouring from her wand tip, "that's what you get, I've been calling you for an hour."

"I know," James shot her a very dirty look as he ran his hand through his jungle of inky black hair. For most people the nearly gravity defying tangle would be given the title "Bed Head" but for James Potter this was as neat as his hair was going to get.

"Don't give me that look," his mother said her hands on her hips, "I have to get to the hospital and if you don't hurry I'll leave you here, you'll miss the train and then what will you do?"

Althea Potter was a healer at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. She was a very stern looking woman built like a pencil. Her hair was sensibly short and black as the night sky. Her eyes were brown and critical, but they still carried the sparkling secret love of mischief that had been genetically passed down to her son.

"There's always next year," yawned James looking down at his wet pillow but thinking better of sinking back into it.

"Up! Now! Come on!" She took her son by the hand and yanked him out of bed. James fell limply onto the floor. "You are impossible!" she snapped.

"I try," said James with another huge lion-like yawn.

"Breakfast is ready when his majesty is," his mother rolled her eyes.

"Appreciated," said James, "just put it in my mouth, right?" He laughed as his mother mock bowed out.

Still laughing he got up and looked at his reflection in the full length mirror hanging on his closet door. He began running his hands through his hair obsessively, trying to dry it off.

"You're doing it wrong," said his reflection, "you've got to flatten it."

"What do you know?" asked James turning his head to the side so he could see his hair in silluette.

"A lot more than you! I reflect people, I know what looks good," it told him pointing to its chest.

"Uh-huh." said James still running his hand through his hair and not really paying attention, "does this look windswept?"

"It looks scruffy and trampish." The mirror told him its arms crossed, "but you're not going to listen to me, are you?"

"Nope, I don't believe I am," said James pulling open the closet. The mirror swung open with the door still muttering about James to itself. Everything had been torn off the shelves and hangers inside the cavernous closet except for a black robe, a pair of blue jeans, and a t-shirt endorsing the Tutshill Tornados, who's seeker (a witch called Rachael Logan) was now folded up on top of his trunk in her poster, probably still looking for the pin prick snitch despite her handicap of being folded in on herself.

His room looked as though it had been suddenly gutted. The usual clutter was gone, the stacks of clothes so dirty they were starting to ferment were missing, the drawers had all been pulled open and emptied so they sagged sadly and pointlessly waiting to be filled. Paint was chipped on the wall showing where posters had once been taped (a few were still hanging up but James was taking his favorites with him, and those left behind looked at each other mournfully.) The usual cracks and bangs that poured out of his room had subsided replaced by an eerie ringing silence. The sight of his room clean, silent, and empty was discomposing to say the least.

But he was going to Hogwarts!

James grinned almost maniacally to himself thinking about Hogwarts. Both his parents had been in Gryffindor, they'd met there, fallen in love, planned out their futures, which had fallen like fairy tales into place. Both became highly successful members of the magical community. His mother Althea Jones-Potter became a healer and soon was the head of the ER at St. Mungo's in London. Harold Potter, his father, was the head of the entire Magical Law Enforcement Department. Both of his parents were proud to have come from Hogwarts holding the school responsible for their vast accomplishments.

When James's letter had come in June the Potters held a loud celebration. Letters poured in from his family telling him how wonderful it would be for him, what an enriching experience, how it could put him on the right track for great triumph, how with his given abilities and Dumbledore's godlike powers James could easily do anything he wanted.

Talk like this made him gag. He couldn't wait to go to Hogwarts because it gave him a chance to share his expertise with a much wider audience, as well as hone his skill.

James Hart Potter was a mischief maker, quite possibly the greatest one in existence. His parents had always gotten school reports home that said things like "not living up to his potential", "bright boy, but under motivated", and in the case of one thoroughly enraged music teacher from his primary school, "Satan".

James left his bedroom, which took entire basement along with his bathroom, and nearly galloped upstairs, giddy with anticipation. His mother and father were deep in conversation as James joined them grinning broadly.

"Morning James," said Harold Potter brightly, taking a long gulp of tea. He was a tall man, with dark brown hair and matching eyes. These eyes were more obviously those of a retired trickster, and though he'd long grown out of pulling pranks himself, he was much easier on his son than his wife was. He was slightly scruffy, his chin dotted with whiskers and his hair hanging like a mane around his face. "Excited?"

"Definatly!" Said James pulling a plate towards him and starting on the scrambled eggs his mother piled onto it.

"Worried?" asked his father watching his son scarf down his food.

"No," James shrugged, "should I be?"

Althea rolled her eyes behind her granny glasses giving Harold a secret look that she'd obviously given a meaning to earlier. James arched an inquiring eyebrow trying to figure out what their silent conversation was about, gave up, shrugged, and kept eating.

"Wonder what house you'll get into?" said Harold as Althea dropped into her own chair sipping her tea, strong, black, tea leaves only, no bags.

"Gryffindor," said James without looking up.

"What makes you say that?" asked Althea.

"Sixth sense," he tapped his nose knowledgeably getting egg on it.

Althea laughed, "we'll see what happens at the sorting, won't we?"

"How do they do it, anyway?" James asked, "do you take a test or something?"

"No," said Harold thumbing through the Daily Prophet, "much more intimate than a test."

"What do they have a bag or something and you pull out a stone, one for each house?" James was reading the front page of the Daily Prophet replacing his name in the headlines.

"No," laughed Althea, "how would that work?"

James shrugged, "I dunno, the ancient Britons used to do it instead of a trial, put three rocks in the bag one said innocent, one said guilty, and one said 'trinity' which meant like kind of guilty but also kind of innocent. Hogwarts is ancient, right? so you never know."

"James," said Althea magicing away the dishes, "if you know that why are your history marks so...so...did you blow up the teacher or something?"

"Honest answer?" asked James looking up at her.

"Don't tell me!" she said throwing up her hands, "I really don't want to know. Just try not to cause trouble at Hogwarts, okay?"

"Okay," said James truthfully. He was not going to cause trouble. He could promise her that. He was going to make mischief and if he was lucky maybe even a little mayhem.

A/N: Okay, okay I know in the book the mirror talks to Harry, not the reflection, but I've ALWAYS pictured it as the reflection itself, which I thought was funnier...so...there you go! Peter and Sirius to arrive shortly...just as soon as I can catch Sirius and get Peter out of that dark corner in the side of my brain...