Dear Lily,

It's bloody freezing out today – after ages of waiting, the first snow of the year finally came today. I've just finished walking from the greenhouses to the Common Room and I'm sopping wet. It's brilliant! Peter, Remus, Sirius, and I are going to have a bit of a snowball fight after lunch. Actually, we're going to ambush Sirius' prat of a younger brother, but it's all relative, is it not? No face shots, I promise, alright? …Fine. I'll tell them I won't go. What, you want me to? Thank you for being so reasonable, darling. That's just lovely of you. I feel so much better now that I've gotten your approval.

Dear Godric, I just took instructions from a piece of parchment. I'm going bloody mad.

Oh oh oh! Guess where Sirius and I are going for Christmas holiday? France! My parents are disappointed and wish that I would stay at home; perhaps go skiing or something similar, but bugger them. Sirius and I are going to France! And not only are Sirius and I going to France, but today was the last Quidditch match until 1978 (1978!) and we beat Ravenclaw by a landslide. They only scored ten points all game. It was so beautiful, I almost cried.

Speaking of Quidditch, the oddest thing happened after the game. As we were changing, Wilkes glanced over at me from the opposite end of the locker room.

"I'd like a word, Potter."

I was caught a bit off guard, but I had an inkling of what he wanted to say. "All ears."

"Alone."

I paused – my first thought was that they would find me in pieces in a bin, but, as I'm writing this, it obviously didn't happen quite like that. "Oh. Right."

Giggling and nudging each other, the team quickly filed out, apart from Marke, who, with his big build and giant-esque height towered over Wilkes and I. Eyebrows furrowed, he extended two fingers in our directions. "I want no hitting, no beating, and no fighting. You two aren't beaters, you're chasers. You two aren't animals, you aren't Muggles, you're wizards and you'll act like wizards. I want no sore feelings between my teammates. I hear you've laid blows, you're both off the team – you too, Potter."

"Understood, sir," Wilkes said quietly. Marke turned to me.

"Oh, no worries there. No blows from me, Marke – blowing isn't my style."

Marke winced and walked out. When he was out of earshot, I looked at Wilkes. "I suppose you're going to ask me what I said or what I did this time."

"She's a great girl, isn't she?"

I looked around the locker room awkwardly. This was, more or less, the last conversation I ever wanted to have with Wilkes, apart from one involving him telling me that you two had eloped in Tahiti one weekend. "The greatest."

"Did you do anything?"

"Do you think that I did?"

"Not particularly. Am I wrong?"

"No."

He stretched out his arm, resting it against the wall and leaning. "Did she say anything to you?"

"No."

He half smiled. "Thanks anyways."

He started to walk out, but I stopped him. "You really liked her, didn't you?"

Wilkes shrugged. "She's great, but, deep down, she's yours." I stared, nonplussed. "Take care of her."

I'm not sure I've ever endured anything quite so…uncomfortable, although I was rather thankful that he hadn't approached me just to beat me into a bloody pulp. Not that he could, of course. I'm a much better Chaser than he is…not actually, but I like to think so. It's just that I felt as if I should be apologizing to him, even though I did nothing wrong. It was the first time that the torch has ever been passed, and I'm not really sure how I feel about that. Shouldn't you be doing the torch passing, not Wilkes?

Oh well. I suppose I ought to just take what I can get and not complain.

Sirius and I leave on the 19th, as soon as the Hogwart's Express drops at King's Cross. I'll be sure to owl you something lovely from little ol' Paris for Christmas.

—James