A/N: This chapter is a James special! I didn't intend for it to be, but I got a bit carried away and James loves himself too much for me to deny him this.

October 27th, 1975

James grunted as he lifted the trunk. "I reckon I could levitate this, Professor. Honest."

"Oh, you could, but it would impact what's inside, Mr. Potter, and I can't have that. I don't have endless galleons for replacements, unfortunately." The sky smiled down on them, which had been comforting for most of the day, until James had showed up to detention and they'd headed off in the direction of Hogsmeade Station. He reckoned if he'd been any less fit, his legs would've been killing him by now.

Nevertheless, they twinged a bit at the thought of lugging everything up several hills and then several sets of stairs to Professor Forcier's storage room. He gritted his teeth just holding the current trunk. It kept wiggling. He swore under his breath. I should've taken Divination, he thought. At least there'd be some end in sight. But no, his afternoons were completely free on Mondays. Free to work like a bloody house-elf. He hardly even remembered hitting Wilkes, though he probably definitely had. Even Dale had told him so.

James staggered over to the growing pile of supplies, and dropped the trunk down for now. It rattled harder when it dropped.

"Be careful!" Professor Forcier shouted. "I don't want it harmed." The next trunk was even bigger, but Forcier actually helped him this time, picking up the other end. "You don't have to look so miserable," Forcier said. "Would you rather be writing lines?"

James shrugged. "Maybe." It'd be quicker. Quidditch practice was tonight, and they were versing the Slytherins on Saturday. He'd be rubbish if he was too tired to train properly.

"What you need," Forcier said, gesturing for James to pivot, "is a little motivation. I've looked at your previous grades, spoken to your other teachers, and we all agree that you have plenty of potential, if you'd just use it. You and Mr. Black too, but I get the sense he veers off a little more into 'lost cause' territory than you do." James exhaled noisily through his nose.

"Are you allowed to say that?" he asked.

"Are you allowed to smoke marijuana on campus?" James blanched. Shit. Fuck. Shit. Shit. "I didn't pass that on to Professor McGonagall, you'll be pleased to know. Laura Vickers is excellent at Charms, she did wonders for your eyes, but you overlooked one thing." James sniffed as they adjusted the trunk. He hesitated for a moment, but it didn't seem like Forcier was about to turn him in to the Headmaster.

"What did I miss?" James asked.

"You stunk of it," Forcier said simply.

With a lot of groaning, they lowered the trunk to the ground. "You're working me like an elf," James complained, brushing his hands on his trousers. Beads of sweat were bubbling at his nape and beneath the black shag that flopped over his forehead.

"My grandfather was a muggle-born," Forcier said. "Whenever I got into trouble, any real trouble, at home, my parents would send me off to Grandfather for a week. He thought we made things too easy with magic - believed in a bit of hard work and discipline, he did. He'd have me do nearly all the chores by hand, weeding the garden as well as degnoming it, cleaning up after his little dog - it was a tiny fluffy thing, but it nearly bit my hand off half a hundred times." Forcier laughed at that, and James' smile flickered. He couldn't imagine having a grandfather like that. Even if he did, his parents wouldn't send him there. They preferred talking things through, which was fine by him. "But the point is, Mr. Potter - working like an elf has its benefits. There's a reason Hufflepuffs rise so high in the world, even though they may lack the ruthlessness, resourcefulness, and cunning to otherwise get to that position."

James raised an eyebrow. "Were you a Hufflepuff, sir?"

"No, Mr. Potter. I was a Ravenclaw, actually. But I have a great deal of respect for all the houses, which is why I could never wish to be a Head of House," he smiled weakly. "I lack a competitive spirit." James squinted at him.

"So, what? You don't care about winning? Anything?" Weirdo, James thought. Half the rush of stuff was from winning! If you didn't want to knock your enemies off their brooms and pummel as many goals through the hoops as possible, what was the point? James didn't think he'd wake up in the mornings if he didn't have to prove a point that Sirius was the laziest one of them.

"There's no winners and losers in life, Mr. Potter," Forcier said, like a prat. "All we can do is seek to learn more than we did yesterday."

That was why James kind of hated Ravenclaws sometimes. A detention with Filch might've been better. At least there wouldn't be all this deep shit that he knew he was meant to be taking seriously.

James moved the rest of the stuff off the supply train, some with Forcier's help, but mostly without. Sweat poured down his back and chest. He tore off his jumper and balled it up, throwing it at the ground to collect later. Now he had until dinnertime to lug everything up to the castle by hand. This had to be some sort of illegal. How wasn't it illegal?

"Nothing wrong with hard manual labour," Professor Forcier said cheerfully, when he asked. "Now, I've got to get some things done, so - I'd like your wand, please. Just to make sure. I'll return it to you when you finish." James grumbled, but handed it over. "And, Mr. Potter, this is relying on your integrity - but please don't get help from others with this. Now, water or food or some company is perfectly alright, but I don't want them to lift a finger. If you begin to feel really too ill, send someone to my office, and I'll take you to Madam Pomfrey to see what she says. But, James," Forcier said, locking eyes with him. "I want you to take this opportunity to learn. Please." His gaze was blazing. James wrenched his eyes away.

"Yes, sir," he said.

Professor Forcier left him alone on the platform. The blue train chugged away, sending plumes of steam towards the sky. James looked over at the pile of things he had to move. There were maybe fifteen or so, but with some of the smaller stuff on top, he could take multiple in one go. Best place to start, he shrugged. He grabbed two plum briefcases and trudged towards the castle.

It was a fair hike, longer than he remembered it being in first year, and he didn't have the luxury of crossing the lake in a boat. Instead, he skirted around the bank, gritting his teeth. His biceps were beginning to ache. He wondered if Professor Forcier had tampered with them. Look, he got the message - don't whack prefects. He didn't need a gazillion hours of moving stuff by hand to learn that. He doubled over when he finally reached the foothills leading down to the bank, and dropped the suitcases to the ground. There had to be a better way than this. A shortcut of some sort.

The grounds were spotted with a handful of students without classes, or those who had simply decided it was a nice enough day to risk a write-up. Unseasonable sunshine made the grass glow green-gold, and the sky was a perfect, pure blue, without any hint of a puffy cloud. It was the sort of weather James expected in June, not October. Sweat stuck to his skin, trapped by the waistband of his pants. He fiddled with his tie, giving his neck a little more room to breathe. James bent over and rolled up his trousers to his knees. He screwed his nose up. Hell, even if he couldn't use it to levitate the suitcases - couldn't he just have his wand for a Sweet-Smelling Charm?

No. He just had to be James "Stinky-feet" Potter. Brilliant. He spotted his friends lounging beneath their usual tree, and he took care to avoid them. He didn't need them giving him shit over his appearance or the fact that he was basically being used as a slave (in his opinion). His hands started to twinge. He slipped into the castle through a back entrance and headed up the nearest staircase. His lungs whinged as he went up four flights of stairs, only to find himself halfway up the North Tower. Fuck. He dropped the suitcases and leaned against the stone wall. He gulped down a few deep breaths. If only Hogwarts wasn't so damn unplottable.

He gritted his teeth and grabbed the briefcases, taking off down the stairs. It was easier than coming up, at least. He shifted the cases in his hands, trying to avoid the blisters forming on the mounts of his palm. He'd have to take the long way instead of bolting up a random staircase. His cheeks were hot.

He wove through the halls and passed through the Charms corridor, his sweat slightly eased by the Cooling Charms. Professor Flitwick was a gem at times. He put down the briefcases and leaned against the wall. He was getting closer, at least, to Forcier's office.

And then he'd have to all the way back down to the station and get the rest of the heavier objects. Awesome.

He shuffled around and peered through a stained-glass window into one of the Charms classrooms. He did a double-take – but no, it was Sirius' brother, not Sirius. Regulus Black sat up the front of the classroom with that little ring-in by his side, gazing intently up at the chalkboard. James' eyes flitted across the classroom. To his surprise, Cathy Roshfinger and Lisbete were sitting in the back row, where Cathy doodled on her parchment and Lisbete looked at herself in one of those weird little mirrors girls liked. He wiped his forehead, chest warming. Her golden hair caught the candlelight and shimmered beneath it. She wore a pink bracelet on her wrist, and she and Cathy had matching red ribbons in their hair. She shut the little mirror, and then looked around merrily. Her gaze wandered to the tapestries on the far side of the classroom, glanced at the chalkboard, and then – oh.

James locked eyes with her. She sat up. His insides curled and fluttered all at once. One hand went to his hair. All the Cooling Charms in the world couldn't've stopped the sweat trickling from his forehead. Her eyes weren't that gorgeous vivid green like Lily's, but they were still pretty, a nice grey-blue. She turned away suddenly and rose her hand. Damn. James stumbled back, grabbing the briefcases and taking off. He hadn't meant to be a creep! It was an accident! He didn't need any more detentions than he already had.

"Where are you going?!" He whirled around to look back, still moving away from the classroom. He stopped. It was just Lisbete. There wasn't an angry professor in sight.

He swallowed. "Hi."

"James," she said. Her cheeks were the colour of her bracelet, which he could see better as she stepped towards him. It was made up of chunky flower shapes. "You came to see me." He lifted his hand to ruffle his hair again, but he was holding a briefcase in it. Her face lit up. "Is that for me?"

"Erm – I'm on detention," he said. "This is Professor Forcier's stuff." Her face fell. A wave of guilt rushed over him. "I, um, have to bring heaps of things up to his office for him, from Hogsmeade Station. I thought I'd pop in on the way through. To see you." She beamed again, and his muscles relaxed as much as they could after a lengthy walk and several flights of stairs.

"That's so sweet," she said, moving closer. "Can't you use your wand to levitate those?" He shook his head.

"Forcier wants me to do it all like a muggle," James said, attempting a shrug. His shoulders cramped, and he screwed up his face. These were meant to be light. They weren't pieces of parchment, but they weren't exactly large cauldrons either. "It'll teach me discipline, or something."

"Gross," Lisbete made a face. "I'm glad I don't have him." She was at James' side now. "Do you want me to come with you? I had to leave my wand in the classroom, but – well, I can keep you company." She looked up at him, eyes wide. She smelled like strawberries and summer. And she liked him. Enough to leave class just because she saw him. He puffed out his chest.

"That'd be great," he said, and her smile widened. They continued along the Charms corridor.

"Is that that prefect in your year? Lily Evans?" Lisbete asked. James heart leapt and then dropped in rapid succession. He caught a glimpse of dark red hair through the window. Lily brandished her wand and a flash of bright white sparks lit up the room like a strike of lightning. Then she laughed, though James couldn't hear her, and Marlene McKinnon laughed too, from where she sat on one of the desks.

"Yeah," James said, eyes riveted. "That's her."

"I always get her and Laura Vickers mixed up," Lisbete said.

"Oh." Marlene got to her feet. Lily stepped towards her, smiling. Lily's tie was done up properly, and her skirt skimmed her knees. James silently cursed the face of whoever-it-was in the stained glass window that obscured her slightly. He didn't care about some bald warlock from five hundred years ago.

"I know they look nothing alike, but Laura and Lily sort of sound the same, don't they?"

"Mm." Lily and Marlene said something to each other, and then Lily took a few steps back. Marlene brandished her wand, and there was another burst of white. It wasn't half as big as Lily's. Lily walked over to Marlene and put her hand on Marlene's wrist.

"Come on, your hands must be getting sore." Lisbete wrapped one arm around his. James jerked at the touch. "Sorry."

"No – no, it's – sorry." He moved his arm towards her, and she wrapped her arms back around it again.

He sighed when he saw the tapestry. "Through here," he said, lifting it up. The hidden passageway was lit by only a few stray torches at odd intervals, and had a slight upwards slope to it. Just enough to make his knees ache a little more. "By the way – what were you doing in a fourth year class?"

"We had our Charms class just before. There's an excellent Cooling Charm in there, better than what they've got in the corridors, and there's a couple of cu-" Lisbete looked away. "There's a couple of, um, our friends in there. And it was a lesson on 'Accio', which I really want to learn because it seems very useful. So she let us stay in class if we sat up the back and were quiet." James squinted at her, tilting his head to one side.

"You'd rather be holed up in there than out on the grounds?"

Lisbete lifted her chin. "Professor Abbott has cool classes. And I don't want to get all sweaty, it doesn't suit me."

James chuckled. "You're definitely not a Quidditch player."

"No," she agreed. "But I do like Quidditch players." She pressed her body against his arm, and he went all warm. They came out the other end of the passageway right by the Trophy Room. Even with Lisbete leaning on his arms, he didn't seem to ache so much. Maybe he'd gotten used to it. It was hard to care about blisters when she was right there.

There were only a couple more turns and they were at Forcier's classroom, which was unlocked. James nearly ran up the stairs to his office, getting Lisbete to grab the key from his pocket and shove it in the door. It clicked open, and he dumped the briefcases on the corner. "That took way too long," he said.

"It did," Lisbete smiled, leaning on his arm once more. She was shorter than he was, but taller than Lily. "You ought to get a reward for all that hard work."

James laughed. "I think if I get everything from the station, I get to go to Quidditch practice. Only five more hours." He rolled his eyes.

"Maybe you could get a reward sooner," Lisbete said.

"Forcier seemed pretty set on it," James said. "I wish."

After a bit of a break, he and Lisbete locked up the office and he went back for his second round. He sent Lisbete off to the Kitchens to get drinks for them, whispering to her about tickling the pear. Apparently, she'd never been down there before. James shook his head, mystified. He wouldn't've got through his first month at Hogwarts if he hadn't had the Kitchens.

He examined the next lot of boxes. He'd probably have to take them one at a time, because they were definitely two-handers. He called Professor Forcier every name in the book under his breath, and sat down on the bench, staring out glumly at Hogsmeade. It seemed so unfair that they couldn't just pop down to the village for a butterbeer on their breaks – or to the joke shop. It would've made things so much easier. Damned wards.

He paused. Hogsmeade Station was out of the wards, wasn't it? Which usually meant out-of-grounds, and an immediate notification to some enchanted paper that Filch had. Forcier must've done something about it for him. Lucky him.

But Forcier wouldn't've done it for Lisbete.

He swore, and stood quickly.

James broke out into a jog, though it felt like a funeral march compared to his usual speed. He didn't know where exactly the wards began, but he hedged his bets at the edge of the forest. His feet pounded against the stone pathway, and he skipped over fallen branches and a few stray rocks. His glasses fogged up. He grabbed them and wiped them on his shirt, but it was so drenched in sweat that it made little difference. Grumbling, he shoved the frames back on his nose. Finally, he made the treeline, and halted abruptly. He bent over, hands on his knees, puffing.

"James?" Lisbete carried a cup in each hand, and a small picnic basket hung off her arm. "I thought you'd be down at the station."

"Yeah," he said, straightening up. He wiped his face and ruffled his hair. "But Forcier wouldn't've changed the wards for you. Filch would've been notified straight away." Lisbete pressed her pretty pink lips together.

"I'm not afraid of a detention," she said. "Not if it's for you."

"Yeah, but I figured I may as well help you dodge one where you can," James said. "Thanks for bringing food."

"Of course." She handed him a cup, and he pulled it to his lips. He tilted his head backwards, and gulped most of it down in a few seconds. It was cool on his tongue and soothed his burning lungs. He tipped the cup upside-down, and let the rest pour over his face. Rivulets of water streamed beneath his collar.

"You're the best," James said finally. "Sweet relief."

Her eyes glittered like sapphires. He was suddenly very aware of just how see-through his shirt had become, and the fact that she'd left her friend and come all the way down here just for him. James swallowed, and glanced up at the castle, trying to think of Quidditch and History of Magic and four foot essays and his father. Oh.

That certainly did the trick.

"Should we sit down, maybe?" James asked. "To eat."

Lisbete wrinkled her nose. "It's all a bit dirty around here, isn't it? I wouldn't like to sit on the ground." His legs felt a bit dead at the thought of his dad. His heart, too. It was like he'd eaten a quaffle. He found the nearest tree and pressed his back against it, and then sank down into the dirt. Lisbete stared at him.

"You can sit on me," he said, patting his legs. "I don't mind." Her face lit up, and she ran over to him, basket swinging wildly. He was only a little bit crushed, but she was much lighter than Pete, who he'd shared seats with before. She unpacked the food and he bit into a roast beef sandwich. She chattered away about some girls in her year and the assignment she'd got in History of Magic. James polished off his sandwich and let it churn his guts. He'd sent off another letter home that morning, marking the second of the week on just the second day of the week. He felt like a First Year again. Dad had been home for a little while now, resting, and Mum had cancelled all the supper clubs and ladies' meetings to take care of him. He'd managed a loopy, scribbled letter on Friday, barely six inches long, but James had poured over it for an hour.

The Healers were a bit stumped. Well, not stumped, they had ideas, but none could agree on one. Anything from old age to dehydration to a curse. His dad had been put on a diet of thick soups, fourteen glasses of water a day, and regular rehydration potions, which he had bemoaned in his letter. 'If they'd give me a cauldron and the ingredients, I could make it with my eyes closed in my bed. I might show signs of improvement if I weren't locked in the bedroom.' James shuddered. Rehydration potions had the consistency of slime. His mum insisted that his dad wasn't to look at a cauldron until such time as he was walking, which he wasn't yet ('because I'm not allowed out of bed!').

James' blood ran hot. How could the Healers not know? How were they that thick? His humours were imbalanced, but they'd fixed that quickly, and it was expected once you were older anyways. And – who would curse his dad?

Death Eaters, James thought.

He coughed loudly, banging his fist on his chest. Lisbete's hair flung past him, and her face moved very close to his.

"James?" she said, eyes wide. "Are you okay?"

"Um," he said. "It's just – I'm alright. Tired."

They finished up their picnic quickly, and then the bells rang out and Lisbete hurried off to go meet Cathy. James lumbered back down to the station and began heaving. It took another two hours before he'd finished it all, but that was earlier than he'd expected, and he pulled the desks in the classroom together and fell asleep atop them waiting for Professor Forcier to return.

"Mr. Potter?" James awoke with a start. Forcier was looking down at him, lips twitching. "All done?"

"Uh – yeah, all done, sir," James said. He pushed himself upwards off his elbows, and his back groaned. He stretched backwards, pressing a hand to the base of his back. No crack. He grimaced. "Next time, can I use my wand?"

"I was rather hoping there wouldn't be a next time, actually, Mr. Potter," Professor Forcier said, raising his eyebrows. He wandered over to his desk and retrieved James' detention sheet, and filled it in with a flourish of his large quill. He then tapped the parchment, and it duplicated. James slid off the desks and stood in front of Forcier's. "Here you are. But before you leave, might I ask you a question?"

James blinked. "Sure."

"Do you think that you learned anything from this?" Forcier asked, looking up at him. James pursed his lips, glancing upwards.

"I….shouldn't hit prefects," James decided, flashing a grin. Forcier smiled sadly at him.

"Off you go, Mr. Potter."

"Thanks, sir."

James took the slips of parchment and raced to Filch's office, trying to crack his back as he walked. It still resisted. Bastard, he thought. Filch opened up with a scowl and grunted as he put the slip in the ever-expanding 'Potter' folder.

"Yeah, I'm sure the chains were a sight," James said, leaning against the doorframe. Filch glared at him.

"Get out! Out with you! Now! Or I'll have you hanging by your ears!" James dodged Mrs Norris and slammed the door shut. Filch poked his head out, shouting something about respect for property. James headed for Gryffindor Tower.

He used the lion-head knocker thrice and then said, "James Potter, fifth year." The oak door swung open, and he went up a short flight of stairs. Tapestries in maroon, red, and burgundy decorated the walls, depicting various Gryffindor forebearers. He came to a second door, and knocked lightly.

"Mr. Potter," McGonagall said, pulling the door open. Her eyes raked him up and down. "Have you come in search of a uniform infringement? I would have thought Miss Evans would be happy to give you one."

"I finished my detention with Professor Forcier," he said, hands going to his tie. He pulled it into a lazy knot and followed McGonagall into her office. A brilliant red rug covered most of the floor, and a smattering of portraits decorated the walls, neatly spaced between shelves, cabinets, and the odd tapestry. James grinned at the Quidditch Cup, which sat in pride of place in the largest mahogany cabinet. For the last two years, it denoted that Gryffindor had won on golden plaques around the wooden base of the trophy.

"Sit," Professor McGonagall said. James pushed his trouser legs down and tucked his shirt in haphazardly. He sat down in one of three chairs on the other side of McGonagall's desk, and helped himself to a biscuit from her lion-head shaped tin.

"Chocolate chip?" he asked.

"You'll find it's white chocolate chip, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said. "You'll also find that I generally prefer to offer a biscuit, rather than having them taken for no good reason."

"Right," James said, scrunching his nose. "Sorry." Professor McGonagall began sorting through papers, and James sat there, jiggling his leg while he waited. After so many visits, there wasn't much to look at that excited him. He could probably list the titles of the books on the shelves off by heart, and he'd spent hours studying the faces in the small, singular family photo in the office, which showed a young witch he presumed was McGonagall with two younger boys (her brothers, probably) and her parents. Weirdly, the photograph didn't move at all, but there was no way McGonagall could be a muggle-born. Maybe her parents had just been enthusiastic about muggles. He'd always been quite keen to get a muggle photo taken. He wanted to see if it really just happened in an instant - no posing for however long?

"Mr. Potter," McGonagall said, after ages. "How did you find your detention with Professor Forcier?"

"Exhausting," James said immediately. "Hot. Sweaty. That's why my uniform was all messed up -"

"I would believe that, if it weren't in a similar state before every Transfiguration class you have," Professor McGonagall said sharply. "Or do you make a habit of carrying luggage from Hogsmeade Station to the school thrice a week?" James shrugged, leg jiggling even quicker. "Mr. Potter, pay attention!"

James' gaze snapped back to her. Her nostrils flared. "I am disappointed in you. We've not been at school two months, and yet you have been in my office half a dozen times at least. You do understand how important your O. are? Failure to get four will result in you either having to repeat, or simply leave the school entirely."

"I'll get more than four O. !" James said, sitting up straighter. It wasn't like he was an idiot. He could pull through for some exams at the end of the year, but it wasn't like his homework made up much of his grade.

"Only if you aren't expelled by the end of the year," Professor McGonagall said. "And then where would that leave the Gryffindor team? We could make Miss Vickers captain next year, I suppose, or Mr. Bagman -"

"What?" James slammed his hands on the desk, eyes goggling. "What are you talking about captaincy for?!" McGonagall looked at him through her glasses, and then sighed. She took a large drink of her tea.

"I fear I risk inflating your ego by saying this," she said, "but frankly, Potter, you are the best player on the team, and you have only missed three Quidditch practices in the entire time you've played for Gryffindor, even as a reserve - twice of those times were because you were in the Infirmary, and the other occasion was when you had detention for setting Mr. Snape's robes on fire and I refused to let you attend. Mr. Brown is set to graduate at the end of this year, and you would certainly be a strong candidate to become captain, if - and only if - your behaviour improves." McGonagall sniffed. "It would not do to have a captain who is in trouble more often than not. And I will not have it especially, because of the demands on your time that all this troublemaking requires that I would prefer to be spent on planning how to keep my cabinet appropriately decorated."

James blinked. Quidditch Captain. The thought set his heart on fire, made him want to run and jump and scream and steal the broom McGonagall had on display and fly it out the window. Imagine if he were Quidditch Captain! He'd get to decide their strategies and training sessions and their afterparty themes! He shut his eyes, picturing himself hoisting the Quidditch Cup high into the air, the crowd cheering. He didn't really know what he wanted to do afterwards, but a captaincy would certainly boost his resume if he tried to go pro.

"I could be Quidditch Captain?" he asked. "For Gryffindor?" McGonagall looked at him.
"Not the way you're going," she said sternly. "You're intelligent, James. You know what I'm looking for." She wrote something on her notepad. "Furthermore, there is one last thing before you're dismissed: your Transfiguration marks."

James' head was still circling the hoops in Quidditchland, Quidditchvania. He skidded to a stop on his imaginary broom, watching as the hoops transformed into giant bubble-blowers. "My Transfiguration marks? What's that to do with Quidditch?"

"It isn't. Do keep up. You're still doing quite well, on track to be top of the class, though you might find some competition from Mr. Vane -"

"I won't," James said crossly.

"-as he turns in much more thorough and much more timely homework pieces than you do. Nevertheless, as you rank in the top five of your year, I wish to inform you that I will be taking a selection of students to the International Transfiguration Tournament this year, as one of the primary coaches." James ran his fingers through his hair. Not Quidditch. Transfiguration.

"I've heard of that," James said. "The Headmaster won it a billion years ago, didn't he? And so did you." So it was worth sticky-beaking at all the trophies in those cabinets.

"I've won it four times, Potter," McGonagall smiled. "I was the champion in the Junior Beginner and Junior Intermediate class once each, and I had two wins in the Adult Beginner class before I became too engrossed in my teaching to compete. Unfortunately, you cannot take up the Scottish helm for me, but you can certainly try for England."

James smirked, and leaned back in the chair. "England can beat Scotland any day of the week in anything they do."

"You will find that of the animagi registered in this century under the British Ministry of Magic, four are from Scotland, and just one is English," McGonagall said. "So I would think that perhaps the Scots are better at Transfiguration. Anyhow," she waved her hand, "we will be holding trials in the school in January, just after Christmas break, in which you will compete against those of your age group to earn points. We will open it up to every student fifth year or higher, but we very rarely get any entries from outside our top five in the cohort. If you are successful, you will then represent Hogwarts against other competitors hoping to represent England in your age group, and if you are victorious, then you will join the British team and attend the competition in April."

James took a moment to process all of that. He'd definitely win against the other losers from his year - really, who would want Glen Vane to represent Hogwarts, let alone England? - but he'd never met any English witches or wizards who hadn't attended Hogwarts. "There can't be much competition for my age group to represent England," he said. "There's not even any other wizarding schools here."

McGonagall raised her eyebrows. "There is school by correspondence, for those needed at home - if they work on farms and such - or for those who simply do not wish to or cannot attend Hogwarts, but still want to learn magic. There are those who are home-schooled, or recieve private tutoring. Hogwarts does usually win," she admitted, "but sometimes there are very good students who have been educated at home. And of course, there are a few very small schools scattered throughout Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, but that's naught to do with you."

A very broad grin spread across James' face. "If I was to enter - and win - would I be guaranteed Quidditch Captain? Because I would have to be very responsible and all that."

"You would not be guaranteed anything," McGonagall said pointedly, "but I would hope that training for the competition might lessen the time you have to cause mischief."

James was freed from McGonagall's office with two shimmering golden trophies glinting at the forefront of his mind. He threw himself into the shower without much of a care in the world. Even things with his dad didn't seem so bad - they're Healers, they will figure it out, and he'll be good as ever. He dried off his hair until it turned fluffy and threw on his Quidditch gear before heading downstairs. Sirius and Peter poured over a catalogue and agreed to buy fifty pumpkin-shaped balloons that really smelled like pumpkins while Remus combed through their History of Magic essays.

"You're a champion," James said brightly, clapping Remus on the back. He got an eye-roll in response.

They went down to dinner and Lisbete smiled at him and gave him a little wave. James grinned into his sausages and ignored the furious elbowing until Sirius grabbed his plate and lifted it into the air.

"You and the bird," he said seriously. "Now. Tell us." James snatched a sausage off his plate and bit into it, chewing and swallowing before he answered. He tried to sound cool-as-can-be, and in his opinion, it came off pretty well. They'd just had lunch together. That was it. She cheered him up with a picnic during his detention.

"I'll bet she cheered you up," Peter sniggered.

"Perhaps the lesson Professor Forcier wanted you to learn was that if you look like a charity case, the girls will fawn over you," Remus said.

"In that case, you'd be the most popular guy in school," Sirius smirked. "Well, aside from Peter." James drowned out their protests by glancing down the table. Lisbete daintily ate a scoop of salad, and then fiddled with her golden necklace while she chewed and swallowed. She'd changed out of her school robes into fluffy pink lounge robes. Her hair was twisted up in a funny knot, but it looked great on her, not messy or scruffy at all.

At quarter to seven, James got a tap on the shoulder from John Brown, who had his captain badge pinned to his robes.

"C'mon! Pitch is booked from seven, not wasting a minute!" James shoved the last of his mashed potatoes in and said a quick "Bye!" to his mates. He slugged Marlene on the arm as he passed, and Marlene squawked at him but scrambled out of her chair. Lily turned to watch her leave. He caught Lily's eye, just for a second. She rolled hers and pointedly turned to Mary, asking her loudly about her thoughts on stripes. James looked away. He hadn't even said anything to her and she was being all funny; what was with that?

They gathered up the gaggle that was the Gryffindor Quidditch Team and jogged down to the Broom Shed. After a sweltering day, the cool of night was a relief, though it was still significantly warmer than they might've expected for late October. John unlocked the shed and then the section that held the brooms belonging to the Gryffindor team. James marched up to his Cleansweep Fantastica and tapped his wand twice on the restraints. They immediately retracted, and he grabbed his broom with a grin. It'd been a present for him on account of making the team in his second year, back when it had been the hottest on the market. It hadn't let him down yet.

They gathered just outside the shed as John frowned over a bit of parchment. Most of the team was returning from the year before - only reserve spots had been open, and they hadn't even all been taken up. James personally would've gone for filling all the empty spots up with someone, just in case (and to train the team that would eventually take over from them), but John said he wasn't letting shitty players onto the team 'just because'. That left a third-year girl, Loretta Flint, as their sole new member as a reserve Chaser.

"Alright, c'mon! We've got a match on Saturday!" They ran onto the Quidditch Pitch and hopped on their brooms. James flew three circles on his Cleansweep before coming up alongside Kelsey Wood, one of his fellow chasers. The team formed a semi-circle around John, who held the quaffle, as the snitch zoomed around them. "You know there's big expectations of us in this match. We have to beat Slytherin - not just because they're Slytherins, but it's the first match of the season and we need to show who is boss! We're the reigning champions and we have to make sure they remember that! I need everybody to be on their game! You hear me?" James shouted his agreement, ducking his head to avoid a bludger. "Great. Now, chasers - all of you - stick here with me for a second. Marlene, Alastor, I want you to each go grab a set of hoops. Brilliant. We're having a practice match. Ludo, Micky, you're on Alastor's team, Amy, you're on Marlene's. Billy, go with Ludo. " John clapped his hands, and the rest of the team sped off. James flew closer to John to narrow the semi-circle.

"Is mixing us all up a good idea?" James asked, nose scrunched. "I mean-"

"Got a badge, James?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. No, James thought, but I might well next year. "Didn't think so. The Slytherins will be playing at full-strength, not reserve strength, so no good setting the primaries and the reserves up against each other - besides, we don't have enough reserves." We would if I were captain! James thumbed his broom. "So, Kelsey and Laura, you can take Loretta to Marlene's team, and James and Livia, you're to Alastor's. Six-a-side." Kelsey, and Laura rounded up Loretta, and James took off towards the middle of the pitch.

"We can win," Livia said, hot on his tail. "They've only got one beater, it's not like they can whack both of us at once." James laughed, looking over his shoulder at her.

"Yeah, but when they knock you out of the sky, who am I meant to pass to?" he joked. Livia threw him a rude gesture as they found their place in the middle of the pitch. Once John was satisfied, he blew hard on his whistle, and threw the quaffle up into the air.

James shot upwards immediately, snatching the quaffle just before Kelsey got there. He leaned forward, accelerating towards the goalposts, only a few feet behind Marlene. If he could get there before she was even ready to defend - it'd be brilliant -

THWACK!

He coughed. A bludger had hit him square in the ribs. He fumbled the quaffle, and it dropped. Amy Brown glared at him, and hit her bat against her hand menacingly.

"Sorry about that, James!" Ludo shouted as he went after the bludger. "Won't let it happen again!" Marlene waved at him mockingly from her position just in front of the centre hoop.

"Fuck you, McKinnon!" James shouted at her, before diving down to follow the play. The wind messed his hair as he cut through the evening sky crisply. His heart pounded, and his stomach felt light. He kept smiling even after his face ached. He rolled to dodge another well-aimed bludger from Amy, and did a loop around John when he sped towards the snitch. His pulse raced as he jabbed his elbow and nodded at Livia. The two of them sped towards Loretta Flint, who had the quaffle tucked beneath one arm. Upon seeing their approach, Loretta threw the ball into the air. James shot upwards, but so did Livia. Livia bumped his shoulder, and he bumped her harder.

"Watch it!" she said, elbowing him in the shoulder. He stretched his arms out to grab the quaffle, and kicked a leg out at her broom. It hit. Livia went sideways. He could nearly touch the quaffle - it was at his fingertips -

SLAM!

He rolled over, clinging to his Cleansweep, and Livia laughed so hard her broom shook. Furious whistling screeched in his ears, and he looked down, panting. John waved his arms maniacally, blowing hard. Livia dived down, and James followed.

"I am this close to booting the three of you off the team, or resigning myself," John said, red-faced. James grimaced at Livia, who shot him a dark look. "Loretta, I know you're new, but if you ever chuck the ball in the air again just because two opposing players are coming at you, that's it. Be brave! And you two!" John sped closer to them. "You're meant to work together! James, get your head out of your arse -"

"She started it!" he said, jabbing a finger in Livia's direction.

"I was closer!" she said hotly. "It was my ball by rights and you swooped in and tried to-"

"Shut up!" John said, lifting his hands up and shoving his palms towards both of their faces. "I don't care who started it, but one of you needed to back off. And thanks to you lot, the practice match is over -"

"Thanks, James!" Marlene called, flipping him off.

"-and we're starting teamwork drills. We are better than Slytherin!" John shouted, turning to face the rest of the team. "We will only beat those dirty, selfish cheaters if we aren't dirty, selfish cowards. Come on, everyone in two lines! And James, you're getting that quaffle off the ground!"

They staggered into the changing room at quarter-to-ten, thoroughly exhausted. James shrugged his robes off and stumbled into one of the shower cubicles. He shivered as he waited for the water to turn hot. When his fingers finally felt the warmth, he dived in. He ran his fingers through his hair, letting the warmth soak into his scalp. His muscles relaxed, and he leaned against the tiles. The good thing about these showerheads were that they were automatically-adjusting. He lifted different body parts, and the head moved to best shoot him with the hot water. His blinks grew sleepier and sleepier as the steam rose. If not for John banging on the door, he probably would've been happy to spend the night in there. He mournfully turned the shower off and wrapped a towel around his race, ducking back out into the main area.

The rest of the team was changed, and into their pyjamas at that. James pursed his lips exaggeratedly. Between everything that had happened today, he'd forgotten a change of clothes. Pointedly ignoring half the team's sniggering, he pulled his wand out of his discarded robes and tapped on the door to his locker. It swung open, and he grabbed an old set of clothes out. They were small, but not by too much. Thank you, wise master me from fourth year, he thought. He pulled his clothes on and threw the towel in the basket, wishing he knew those funny spells his mother used to clean clothes.

John debriefed them all on their training regime for the leadup to the game, and they trudged up to the Gryffindor Common Room together, leaning on one another. The Fat Lady gave them a slight mouthful for coming in after curfew for even non-prefect Seventh Years (let alone Loretta Flint's third year curfew), and found that the common room was mostly empty. A handful of students his age or a little older were still up, reading or scrawling their own essays. Lily Evans was one of them. Her dark red hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she had a book open on her lap, though she was staring into the fire.

"Marls, Amy," she said, looking up at them. "I thought you were due back at nine-ish?"
"Potter made us run overtime," Amy said flatly. Marlene threw him a mischievous grin.
"He's not a team player, see," Marlene said brightly. James tugged at the sleeves of his shirt, which kept riding up to show off his shoulders. "Not until John told him he was playing like a Slytherin."
"Slimy gits," James grumbled. "Night." Lily glared at him like she wanted to say something, but she just shrugged. He fumbled his way up the staircase to his dormitory, and fell into bed and a dreamless sleep.