Chapter One

Yer a Wizard

The joy of life is made up of obscure and seemingly mundane victories that gives us our own small satisfactions

~Billy Joel

Sunlight filtered through the window and onto the bed. Sheets and blankets were strewn across the surface, signs of a fitful sleep. A young boy lay on his stomach, arms and legs akimbo, taking up all of the space. His eyes were closed and, despite the spread-eagle pose he was currently in, the boy looked peaceful, still in the grasp of sleep. His hair was a mess of brown, sticking up in every which direction, though that was normal for him. His appendages were thin, but not skinny, and he was of average height.

Slowly, as if at some unheard noise, the boy's eyes fluttered open, revealing pools of light brown brimming with mischievousness and curiosity. With a slightly ungainly stretch, James Potter sat up on his bed and took in his surroundings. His room was a typical room of a ten-year-old wizard boy. His walls were covered with Quidditch posters, his favourite team Puddlemere United making up the majority, but also joined by broom advertisements, and moving images of the various players on the team. His floor was covered with detritus, crumpled parchment, broken quills, and even some bristles from his broom that he'd spent the previous day mending and detailing.

With another, more coordinated stretch, James stood up from his bed and began carefully picking his way across his dirty floor to the door. He could smell the saliva-inducing scent of eggs, bacon, and toast being lovingly prepared for him by his mother in their large kitchen on the floor below. He takes a deep inhale before hurriedly making his way down the hallway, the stairs and into the kitchen.

"It smells delicious, Mum. Is it ready?" James asked, coming to an abrupt stop on the other side of a large island. It was covered with several serving dishes, some containing large piles of food but others empty. There is a large pile of scrambled eggs on one plate. Beside it is a plate of bacon and breakfast sausages. Several plates contain various fruits, melons and grapes and apples and bananas. James inhales the delicious array of scents and, as inconspicuously as possible, reaches for the plate with bacon and sausage. His mother is busy at the stove, preparing something James cannot see, and the young Potter assumes that if he moves quickly and quietly enough, he can sneak a piece or two of bacon off the large plate without his mother noticing.

"You'll ruin your breakfast, Jamie. I am still cooking the pancakes and if you fill up on bacon and sausages you won't have any room for them!" his mother sing-songed, her tone light but mixed in with a false warning tone. She didn't even turn around as she spoke, not once looking in the direction of her son. Not for the first time in his life, James wondered how his mother managed to do that. To know what he was doing without looking at him.

Finally, James' mother, Euphemia Potter, turned around slowly. She was of average height and had a curvy shape. Her face was heart shaped and framed by grey hair that James knew had once deep a dark chestnut brown. She had shimmering green-blue eyes, the same colour of a slightly stormy ocean, which were extremely expressive. James could always tell what his mother was thinking just by looking at her eyes. She smiled down at her son, her face lighting up as she did. James wasn't sure he'd ever seen his mother without a smile; she seemed to be perpetually happy and without a care in the world.

"Your father is in the dining room. Why don't you go join him and I'll bring all this food out when it is ready?" Euphemia phrased her words as if they were a request, but James knew that if he didn't follow them, it would not be appreciated. James returned his mother's smile before slipping out of the kitchen and towards the dining room. As he did so, the Potter's house elf, Strinkly, squeezed past him into the kitchen. Strinkly looked up at James before she joined Euphemia at the kitchen counter and began aiding in the breakfast preparations.

The messy haired boy continued through the door and into the elegant dining room. Sitting at the head of the long table that dominated the room was a man of very similar appearance to the young James Potter, just more aged. The man at the table, Fleamont Potter, had the same brown eyes and perpetually messy hair, though like James' mother, it was light grey instead of the brown it had been previously. Fleamont's face, similar to his wife's, was wrinkled with age, but also with the stress of having owned his own business for several decades.

"Morning, Jamie," Fleamont greeted his young son as the boy made his way down the table towards his father. His father's nose was buried deep in a newspaper, as was usual first thing in the morning. Fleamont always wanted to know the goings on in the wizarding world, but he mostly read the paper for the business section. On the few pages the Daily Prophet devoted to the wizarding industries, Fleamont Potter could keep track of the various Potter dealings. Fleamont himself was responsible for the Sleekazy hair potion, which he had sold some years ago and only had a small financial interest. However, the Potter family was an ancient and noble family and they had their hands in multiple business endeavours in the wizarding economy. Fleamont made sure to keep up with all of them on a daily basis.

James enjoyed knowing that he was a member of an ancient wizarding family. He was an only child having been born late in his parents' life, long after they'd thought it would be possible to have children and after the two Potters had tried to expand their family for decades. Being a part of an old wizarding family made James feel like he had a large family, with branches expanding outward to infinite points. The family he had now was small, just him, his parents, and their ever-present house elf; the idea of an extended family was a very welcoming thought indeed.

"How did Puddlemere do last night? I wish I could have stayed up to listen to the game," James asked his father as the youngest Potter took a seat at the table. He tried to give his father a puppy dog look, trying to make the older man feel a little bit bad about imposing James' bed time despite the fact that their favourite Quidditch team was playing an evening game that would be broadcast on the wireless.

"They won, but it was a long game. I don't think Franklin caught the snitch until almost three hours into play. You would have fallen asleep before the end of the game anyway," Fleamont responded, not succumbing to James' attempted guilt trip. As an only child, James Potter was definitely spoiled. He was doted on and loved immensely. He usually got the things he wanted, new brooms, new potions sets, new games, a new owl. In spite of that, of maybe because of it, James could never make his parents feel guilty on the few occasions when they denied him something. They'd already given him so much, so they didn't have to feel bad when they didn't give him everything.

"You don't know that," James grumbled under his breath as the house elf brought out a cup of juice and a plate filled with the delicious food his mother had been making. "Thanks, Strinkly," James responded, inclining his head to the small creature. James couldn't remember a time in his life when the house elf hadn't been an ever-present part of the Potter household, more his mum's assistant than a slave or house keeper like other households James had been in. His mother did most of the work around the house and Strinkly pitched in, helping her with larger tasks or to get things done quicker.

James tucked into the meal, quickly shovelling food into his mouth. His father, at the end of the table, took small, careful spoon and forkfuls, a little distracted in his eating by the stories in the paper he was reading. Fleamont always ate breakfast like this, with small bites taken in between periods. Eventually, his mother joined them as well, carrying her own plate laden with food.

"What are your plans for today," Euphemia asked her two boys, a warm, loving smile on her face. James turned to look at his father. Unlike some other fathers, James' didn't have to run off to work. It was one benefit of a wealthy, older, already retired father. The two could spend a lot of time together, bonding and sharing interests.

"Well, I was thinking that Jamie and I would spend some time working on his Quidditch skills. Before he knows it, he'll be at Hogwarts trying out for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. How does that sound, Jamie?" Fleamont asked, slowly lowering his paper to give his son an appraising look. James just beamed at his father.

James was under no illusions that his life was idyllic; that he was spoiled and pampered and wanted for nothing. His parents loved him, gave him the world. He was their little miracle, the child they never thought they would have. They treated him like that miracle as a result. On top of that, the Potter family was prestigious, wealthy, ancient, noble. He was treated differently by others he met, almost like wizarding royalty. He definitely had a charmed life and he wouldn't give it up for anything.

At that moment, his charmed life was leading to him zooming around the vast gardens of the Potter family estate. He had to be careful not to fly to high, lest the muggle families that lived nearby spot him on his broom. He loved living just outside Godric's Hallow because it was a magical village, with lots of magical families living reasonably nearby, but it also provided him with contact with muggles, something a lot of wizarding children did not have the opportunity.

His broom was top of the line, the most expensive one money could buy. It was fast, though James had never raced it against anyone, so he wasn't sure if it was fastest broom on the market. It was agile and could easily move, change direction, and perform some tricky moves. Currently, James was just flying laps, trying to go as fast as he could and avoid hitting the various trees, bushes, and other things that decorated the gardens.

"You're turning a little too sharply. You might fall off or head off in the wrong direction," Fleamont commented as James flew by the back porch of the house. "Try slowing down just a little. It will help you over all." James nodded at his father, making a note to take the advice. This was one of James' favourite things to do. His father had played Quidditch, not professionally but at school, and had some great insight into what James needed in order to improve. The two of them could spend hours out in the back garden working on Quidditch moves, maintaining James' brooms, or discussing the match they had either attended or listened to on the wireless the night before.

James took another lap, slowing down just a little before he made a turn to keep it from being too sharp ad sudden. He wasn't sure if it helped with his speed, but he definitely felt more in control of his broom. When he got back to his father, he dismounted his broom, looking expectantly up at the older man.

"Much better," Fleamont commented, smiling warmly down at his son. James was about to remount his broom and try again when a light pop alerted the two men to an apparition. Standing only a few feet away, where she hadn't been before, was the Potter's house elf Strinkly.

"Mrs. Potter says that lunch is served. She has also asked that Master James clean up his room this afternoon. It is getting a little messy and she has threated to allow me to throw away whatever is on the floor." The elf smiled warmly up at the two. Strinkly had an odd obsession with throwing away things that were on the floor, even if they weren't garbage. She was always confused when James was upset that something, he had left on the ground went missing; Strinkly assumed that things left on the floor were unimportant and belonged in the trash.

"I'll do it," James grumbled. His mother was of the belief that, even though Strinkly's role was to serve the Potters, that didn't mean she did all the jobs the Potter's didn't want to do. James had to take on some household responsibilities, especially when it came to his room. He wasn't happy about having to clean his room instead of spending the afternoon on his broom, but he would do it to make his mother happy and keep his items from the trash bin.

Really, if James was being objective, his life could be a lot worse than occasionally having to clean his room and tidy up after himself. Though, he thought, it could, and would, get a lot better when he finally got his Hogwarts letter and went off to school. Not only would he get to learn magic, play Quidditch, and meet hundreds of people his own age, his mother wouldn't be there to tell him to clean up his room.

Hogwarts would make an amazing life even better.