Cooler than a First Year

James couldn't have eaten breakfast any quicker as he hurriedly took a swig of pumpkin juice to wash down the oatmeal he'd scarfed down before he raced out into the Entrance Hall, and down the steps towards the pitch.

Today was the Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts, and James, now a second year, was overjoyed. He loved the feeling of being up in the air with his broom. It truly was peaceful in the sky; what with the wind softly bustling in the background and the dull hums of voices down below, there was nothing in the world like it.

That was why he was eager to go for his Quidditch team. James had initially wanted to try out during his first year, but he had heard first years were almost never chosen since they ended up flubbing up games due to nerves.

But second years were permitted. They were so much cooler, quicker, smarter, and not to mention cooler than first years.

According to James, anyway.

Arriving with lots of time to spare, he put his broom down – carefully avoiding the muddy puddles courtesy of yesterday's rainstorm – and vaguely wished he had some company.

Sirius had stubbornly refused when James asked him if he wanted to try out together. When asked why, he replied: "Don't get me wrong, I love Quidditch and all, but why would I want to wake up before the crack of dawn? Haven't you ever heard of beauty sleep? On second thought, never mind…"

This, unsurprisingly, earned him a trip to the hospital wing with the strangest case of talking boils.

The pitch was eerily silent, and James shifted uncomfortably. He hated the quiet. Ever since he was a child, James always had to be talking or cracking jokes or laughing randomly just so it wouldn't be quiet. James liked the Great Hall with all the noise and the common room where not one student knew how to settle down.

But out here, alone with only the wind whistling in his ears, it felt spooky.

"You're here early."

James spun around to the sight of the captain, lugging behind a heavy trunk with the Hogwarts' logo in the middle. "Guess I am," he said, proud that his voice hadn't wavered, unlike any un-cool first year who would probably burst into tears.

"Terrence Timms," said the boy, giving him a nod. Terrence was a seventh year, and therefore cooler than the cool in James' books. His electric blond hair was styled into spikes and seemed lethal as it looked for Terrence winced as he ran his hand through his hair.

"Keep forgetting to stop doing that." He muttered, and then catching James' expression said: "It's a new hairdo. For the laaaaadies…"

The rest of the hopefuls started to pour in at that moment which snapped Terrence out of his trance. "Ahh, welcome!" he greeted and began to hand out the school brooms to those who didn't have any. "Glad you can all be here today. I'll just jump (or should I say fly?) into it. I don't worry about warm-ups, so penalty shots against Wood will be first on our agenda." Terrence undid the straps of the trunk, but sat on it quickly, before shouting, "What are you waiting for? GET INTO POSITIONS!"

Nobody managed to get their five shots past Wood, the keeper, but James and two others finished with three. Then Terrence made them do it all over again, but this time with beaters added to the mix. James had never concentrated so hard in his life fighting to stay on his broom as menacing Bludgers were batted his way.

After ten minutes, Terrence called them down and told them to wait around for the results as he tested for the other positions.

James collapsed on the bench the minute Terrence blew his whistle and exhaled noisily; he didn't know it was going to be this hard. Man up, Potter, it'll be worth it in the end. James loved Quidditch and wanted to play professionally after school. Although he knew it could be difficult; that Voldy-dude was getting stronger by the second. Maybe they would even stop Quidditch playing forever.

James laughed at that. That was preposterous. Nobody could be that powerful. Besides, if that maniac somehow destroyed his chances of playing professionally, he was going to regret it. No one messed with a Marauder.

Remus groaned as he attempted to brush his tawny hair down. It just wouldn't stay put! Before he had come to Hogwarts, it was so tamable and neat and orderly, but now the back of his hair stuck up like a – like a delinquent. And he was pretty sure James had something to do with it.

As if on cue, James entered in, frowning heavily before tossing his broom to the side.

Remus scowled and turned around, but his anger drained away as he saw the expression on James' face. "How were the tryouts?"

"Awful."

Sirius placed his magazine down and narrowed his eyes. "Those pillocks must've been drunk."

Remus rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

"You'll get picked next year, James," Peter said optimistically, although he didn't sound too convinced.

James put his head in his hands.

"There's not going to be a next year," he sniffed unhappily, and the boys froze. Crying girls they can handle (you just run away) but a crying James was almost impossible to ditch.

"Why not?"

"Because," and he lifted his head from his hands to show that he was grinning widely. "I MADE FIRST STRING!"

There was a pregnant pause.

It was Peter who started it first, as he recalled proudly years later. The happiness and excitement he felt for his friend making the team – as a bloody second year - was just too much for him to handle and so he began to scream.

They all joined in, then, and in no time the room was filled with whoops of joy. Sirius accidentally hurled the pillow he had been dancing with to James' face. Very quickly, a pillow fight was initiated and what with the high octave war cries they were giving (they had just entered puberty, you see) it all very much resembled a girl sleepover party.

After several minutes of this, they grew tired and decided to head down to the common room, ready to rub the fact that their friend made the Quidditch team to anyone who looked their way.

The first years were going to be very jealous.