James Sirius Potter (so I looked up all their full names, sue me) (Sue me? Right?) is not the sort of person one expects to see alone. It's just not his natural environment; his natural environment is undoubtedly a swarming crowd of family and close friends, or else the company of his trusty partner-in-crime and cousin Fred Weasley. So to run into him alone is startling; to happen across him alone, on the school roof, without a broomstick or other plausible method of transport in sight, is nothing short of astounding. Truth be told, I almost fall off my broom again.

"Don't fall!" he exclaims inanely as my broom judders at my momentary loss of balance. "I thought you were a goner back there for a second," he adds nonchalantly. "When you jumped off your broom, I mean. Pretty neat trick."

"You were watching me?" My brain scrambles to keep up, but at the same time a part of me is coolly observing him, noticing the tremors in his limbs, his clenched fists, and his dilated pupils. "Wait, was that you who yelled?"

"I thought I was watching you commit suicide," he retorts defensively.

"Huh. Yeah, haven't got there yet." We both fall silent. I am still hovering outside my alcove, and Potter is still occupying it, hunched up uncomfortably. He seems suddenly to realise something.

"Hey, are these your apples? You come here a lot?"

"Why, Potter, are you chatting me up?" I respond wickedly, and he flushes.

"You know my- oh, yeah. Of course you know my name."

"Modest, too," I remark, as though to a third party. "Look, shove over, will you? I'm going numb." He obediently shuffles far enough back and sideways further into the alcove to allow me to climb in and park my broomstick in a gutter just below the opening. "Apple?"

The munching sounds are the only thing breaking the awkward silence until I think to ask, "How did you get up here, anyway?"

"Flew," he says, looking shifty.

"Oh yeah sure, sorry, I didn't notice the wings," I respond caustically, and he scowls.

"Look, I'm not going to just – who are you, anyway?" he snaps.

"Your worst nightmare," I whisper dramatically, and roll my eyes at his sulky expression. "Sue Barnthorpe. Sixth year Slytherin. I was in all your potions and defence classes for the first five years of our magical education."

"Yeah, well–"

"I know, I know. You meet tons of people, all want a piece of Potter. We all know the drill."

He falls silent for a second. "I dropped my broom," he says eventually.

"You did what?"

Bit by bit it comes out. He was trying to fly, but because he's crap at it he couldn't go down and kept going up instead. ("I'd never noticed you can't fly," I blurt out, and regret it when he gives me a strange look.) He panicked when he got to roof level, and lost his grip. Just managed to catch hold of the tiles and haul himself up. Tried getting through the boarded up window, but found it magically reinforced beyond his capability to undo. Had been sitting in my alcove wondering what to do for about half an hour when he spotted me.

By the time all this has come out it has started to rain- bloody April showers- but fortunately the wind direction is on our side, and the alcove protects us. "Why were you trying to fly anyway, if you're so bad at it?"

"Something to do," he shrugs. These bloody Gryffindors.

"Well, it's now- blimey, nearly seven, so I reckon I'll be heading back. Want a lift, Boy-Who-Fell-Off-His-Broom?"

Potter frowns at this uninventive reference to his father's nickname. "I need to get my broom back," he hedges. "I checked it out of the school broom shed, and if someone notices it's missing they'll know it was me."

"And how the hell are you going to manage that?" I enquire politely. He doesn't answer. "Look, if you will just let me take you down to the ground I'll come back later when it's not raining and see if I can find the damn thing." I lean over the edge and fish my own broomstick out of its gutter.

"Why do you care?" he wants to know tersely.

"Because I can't leave you stranded on the bloody roof," I say incredulously. "What if you fall and break your precious neck? Just get on the broom, will you?" I sit on the edge, legs dangling off the side straddling the broom, and pat the free space behind me impatiently. Unwillingly he moves awkwardly forward, crouches over the broom, and places his hands gingerly on my shoulders. I take off with a slight jerk, and suddenly we're hovering in mid-air and James Potter has his arms wrapped so tightly around my stomach that he's restricting my breathing. His own breathing is coming in sharp bursts as he buries his head in my back. Potter's afraid of flying.

He clambers off ungracefully when we reach the ground, and retches unattractively, staggering towards a covered walkway to escape the rain. "Doing alright, Potter?" I ask gruffly, but he seems to think I'm being flippant, as he glares at me ferociously.

"If you tell anyone, I'll…"

"Set Daddy on me, I suppose," I say boredly. "Don't worry, kid, your secret's safe with me. As long as you don't annoy me, of course."

"Set Daddy on you?" he repeats incredulously. "What do you think I am?"

I examine him carefully; his outrage seems genuine. "Perhaps not a snitch then," I admit. "What were you going to threaten me with then, Potter?"

"Oh, I'm sure I could think of something." He grins suddenly. "You do know who I am, after all, don't you?"

"Yeah, yeah. Look, I've got a free period second, so if it's stopped raining by then I'll go and have a look for that broom, and let you know at lunch?"

"You were serious about that? Thanks, man." He seems surprisingly grateful, but then I suppose another trip up to the roof might seem to him something of an ordeal.

"No worries, Potter."

"James."

I hesitate. "I suppose you should call me Sue, then." We shake on it, and go our separate ways.


Breakfast has already begun when I reach the Great Hall. It's still relatively empty, but regardless I don't stay to eat, opting to grap a couple of warm bread rolls and take them to my favourite bay window on the fourth floor. I eat slowly, watching the rain sweep relentlessly across the grounds, and gradually ease up. By eight o'clock it's beginning to look quite bright, and I head up to my room to shower and dress for Herbology.

Herbology is the one class I have with Abi and not Graham, and we meet outside Greenhouse 4 before going in together.

"Did you eat this morning?" she asks sternly, and cuts across my protesting confirmation to add, "And have you slept? You look like the walking dead."

"Yes," I say sulkily. "I woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep, that's all. I'll have a nap later." Just then, Professor Longbottom arrives, and Abi shuts up quickly, smiling at him. She's a bit of a suck-up, truth be told, which can make Herbology a little dull.

"Graham told me you were in the Willow again yesterday," Abi continues when we have been set our task (pruning Devil's Snare, and collecting the flowers), and everyone around us is talking.

"He told you?" I'm indignant. And after all that about hurrying away before she spotted us!

"Of course he did," she replies smugly. "Graham can never keep anything from me for long. Gerroff!" This last is addressed to the Snare, which has sneakily worked its way into her pony tail. Grateful for the distraction, I laugh at her as she wrestles with it.

"Heat and light, remember," I remind her teasingly.

"I'm not going to set fire to my own hair!" she retorts, still pulling at the Snare with her fingers. When these too become wrapped in its curling strands, and her hands are anchored to her head, I sigh and relent. Catching up an empty jar intended to contain the Snare's flowers, I pour blue magical flames into it from my wand, and seal it up. As soon as I hold the jar up close to the Snare, it shies away, loosening its grip on Abi.

"Bad plant," I tell it sternly, as it cringes back into its pot. I'm already back to pruning the sullen Snare, while Abi runs her fingers through her pony tail, when Professor Longbottom approaches.

"Ten points to Slytherin," he says unexpectedly. "An ingenious solution to the problem. Without the jar, those flames would certainly have set Miss Brown's hair alight."

"Thanks, sir," I say respectfully, and Abi beams, delighted for my sake.

"Anyway," she continues, when he has moved on, "I was just going to say be careful. I know you're good with plants, but the Whomping Willow could literally kill you."

"Yeah, sure." I pretend to take it lightly to wind Abi up, but she is right. It's just a nice place to sit, much more comfortable that most trees, and if you get up there while it's still immobilised and sit fairly still when it wakes up, it doesn't notice you.

I spend the remainder of the lesson teasing Abi, and am almost sorry when my free period comes around and she has to head off to charms. Remembering my promise to Potter, I head round the side of the castle to where the Slytherin dormitories are, and find the window to mine. Although the common room is entirely underground, the actual dormitories are at more of a basement level, and hence those on the edge have windows just above ground level. I unlock and open it, summon my Lightening, and kick off straight away.

The broom is easily found, lying on a flat roof of chimney pots just higher than my alcove, and within five minutes I am back on ground level. I decide to return it to the broom shed and then head straight back to my dorm for that nap; the exhaustion is really starting to catch up with me. However, my plan is foiled when I meet Potter lounging outside the broom shed.

"Hey!" he says cheerfully.

"Oh. Hey. What are you doing here?"

"Transfig was cancelled," he explains. "Fred went off to find his girl, so I thought I'd come and see how you were doing."

"I see. Well, I found it, so…" I wave the battered broom at him, and he takes it gratefully. "Why were you so bothered about it anyway?" My curiosity gets the better of me. "I didn't think you cared much about getting in trouble."

"Yeah, well…" he looks embarrassed. "I don't generally fly, is all, and the less people know about that episode the better, as far as I'm concerned."

I wonder why he's being so open with me, a Slytherin he's just met. "Well, like I said, as long as you don't annoy me I won't be telling anyone."

He grins at that. "Look, this might be a kind of personal question, but- uh, did you eat this morning?" What is it with people and my eating habits today? He must have spotted my chagrin, for he continues hurriedly, "It's just that I didn't see you at breakfast, and an apple isn't much to get you through the morning. And, uh, you helped me out so I guess we're mates now? If you wanted."

"You are such a Gryffindor," I groan. "Okay, fine, we're mates. But that doesn't mean you have to check up on my eating habits."

"Mates look out for each other," he says stubbornly.

"Right. Sure. Well, if you must know, I had a couple of bread rolls, but I didn't stick around to eat them. Not fond of crowds. Or meals with other people. Happy now?"

He eyes me thoughtfully. "Not fond of crowds or meals with other people, eh? Look, I don't know if you're busy, but if not, there's something I could show you. To, uh, repay you for this morning I guess."

I waver- I really do want that nap- but in the end curiosity wins out again. The Potter-Weasleys do know some interesting stuff, after all. It could be a set up, but then I do have something over him, which is comforting. I follow him, wondering when my life got this strange.

I allow him to lead me through a few corridors in the general direction of the Hufflepuff common room. We stop in front of a large painting of a bowl of fruit, and my suspicions grow. "Look, Potter, if this is some kind of joke…"

My voice trails off as he tickles the picture. The pear giggles, swells into a doorknob, and the picture swings open. I stand frozen, astounded at the scene before me.

I come from the sort of family that is pureblood if you don't look too closely too many generations back. We certainly aren't the kind to have a house elf, and we haven't the money to employ any of the newly liberated ones. That being the case, I have never actually seen a house elf in real life before. And now, suddenly, dozens are bustling about in front of me. Several turn at our approach, and begin bouncing about in excitement. "Master James, Master James!"

"Some brownies, sir?"

"Pibbin will fetch Master James' favourite milkshake!"

Potter smirks at my expression. "No thanks, guys. I'm still pretty full from breakfast. Those fried eggs were smashing- Oggle, that must have been your handiwork? The pinch of garlic salt- genius." The house elf in question turns a brilliant shade of red, and begins busying him or herself with a tea towel, thanking him profusely. "Could I have something for my friend here, though? She didn't eat properly at breakfast."

"Oh really," I begin, but I am cut off by Pibbin, who turns on me ecstatically.

"What would you like, Miss? Pibbin can help!"

"I – er – what do you have?" I manage weakly.

"Whatever Miss wants!" he says, beaming. Then, seeing my confusion, adds kindly, "Some fruit salad, perhaps? Coffee? Bacon? Pastries?"

"Some fruit salad would be lovely," I admit. "And it's Sue, by the way."

"Fruit salad coming right up, Miss Sue!" And then he disappears into the throng, and I am left to join Potter, who has already made himself comfortable at one of the tables.

"This is nuts," I tell him blankly, and he laughs uproariously. "Shut it, Potter. How did you know this was here?"

"James," he corrects, and then smiles mysteriously, tapping his nose. "I've got connections."

"Of course you have," I sigh. My fruit salad arrives, borne by a genial Pibbin. I take one bite, and groan softly, eyes falling closed. It tastes heavenly.

"Hot," remarks Potter, and I aim an unenthusiastic swipe at his head.

"So's your mum. Hey Pibbin, this is–" But Pibbin has gone, disappeared back into the swarm of busy elves.

"They love to be complimented, but they never hang around for it," Potter explains. "You have to catch them unawares."

"Like you did earlier."

"Yeah. Look, not a lot of people know about this place, but if having to eat in the Hall is stopping you, you should make use of it. The elves are happy to help at any hour – there's always some of them up. Don't try and offer to help though, that tends to offend them. They think it means you don't trust them to do a good job."

"Noted. Hey, Potter–"

"Will you drop that 'Potter' business?" he complains. "It's James."

"Fine. James. How do you know I won't just run off and tell all my Slytherin mates about this, and bring them all swarming in?" I'm curious; he's shown a surprising amount of trust in me, and he really doesn't know me that well.

"I don't- not really. But I don't think you will."

"Why not?"

"Well, for a start, I get the impression that you're quite a 'knowledge is power' kinda gal. I don't think you tell anyone things they don't need to know unless it benefits you, and if you don't like crowds, it definitely benefits you not to tell anyone."

"And secondly?" I enquire, refusing to confirm or deny any of this.

"Uh, well… don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not sure you actually have any mates. I've been thinking about it, and I know the other sixth years in your house, and I never see you with any of them. And besides," he adds, with a genuine smile, "If you want to go around telling people, that's your right."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I don't own the kitchens. I shared this with you to do with as you will. If you want to tell everyone," he shrugs, "that's your lookout."

"Huh." This is not an attitude I have encountered a lot. In Slytherin everything is a game of trades and barters, and to share a payment of a favour with someone else is seen as somewhat disrespectful to the giver, as though their offering is insufficient payment, as though they still owe you. And Graham and Abi, well, their typical Hufflepuff loyalty means they assume that if they tell you a secret you'll guard it with your life; that's what they'd do.

We sit and chat for a while longer, and James eventually gives in to the elves' relentless offers and requests a coffee. In fact, by the time I look at my watch, it's five to eleven. "I've got to get to Runes!" I exclaim in a panic.

"Oh Merlin." James checks his watch too. "I have to get to Astronomy- and it's ten minutes to the top of the tower at a run."

"See y'round, James!" I dash from the kitchen, fumbling with my wand to summon my textbook as I go.