16th February 1973
James had never been nervous about much. Detention? Part of the routine. Sneaking about the castle? He thrived on it. But Quidditch tryouts? That was another story. Not because he doubted his skills—he'd been flying since before he could walk properly—but because this was something he'd dreamed about for years. Being on the Gryffindor team meant something. It meant he was one step closer to the legacy he wanted to leave behind.
He had spent the entire week mentally preparing, going over drills in his head, practicing late into the evening on his beloved broomstick, a sleek, well-worn Nimbus model his parents had gifted him last Christmas. It wasn't the latest or the fastest, but it was his, and he trusted it more than anything. He spent hours perfecting dives, sharpening his passing skills, and pushing himself until his arms ached from gripping the Quaffle. Even Sirius had started complaining about it. "If I hear you talk about 'Chasing strategy' one more time, I'm throwing your broom into the lake, Potter," he'd groaned the night before.
James had laughed it off, but now, standing on the pitch, gripping his broom so tightly his knuckles were white, he felt that familiar rush of adrenaline. He ran a hand along the polished wood of his broomstick, grounding himself before kicking off. This wasn't just about playing Quidditch. This was about proving he deserved to be here, that all the hours of practice had been worth it. The morning air was crisp, and the entire Gryffindor team—new and old—watched from the stands. The sound of other students chatting, whispering about the tryouts, barely registered in his ears.
"Potter! You're up!"
James swallowed, nodded, and kicked off the ground. The moment his feet left the earth, the nerves faded. This—this—was where he belonged. The wind rushed through his hair as he soared higher than necessary, feeling the familiar thrill of flight steady his heartbeat. Up here, everything made sense.
The Quaffle was tossed in, and James snapped into action. He shot forward, catching it cleanly before the other Chasers could even react. He swerved past a defender, tucking the ball close to his chest as he accelerated down the field. A Beater from the opposing side aimed a Bludger at him, but James ducked at the last second, feeling the wind from it whip past his hair.
He didn't slow. He spotted another Chaser—a fifth-year who had played last season—zooming into position. Without hesitating, James feinted a pass right, only to flick the Quaffle left at the last possible moment, catching his opponent off guard. The movement was fluid, effortless, and the Quaffle soared toward the hoop.
The Keeper lunged, arms outstretched, but James had already anticipated it. He had spent years honing his precision, and the Quaffle shot just past the Keeper's fingertips and through the center hoop. A perfect goal.
A few students in the stands let out cheers, but James barely heard them. He was already moving again, weaving through players, calling out passes, spotting openings before they even appeared. He worked in sync with the other Chasers, pulling off feints, quick passes, and high-speed turns that made it nearly impossible for the other team to keep up. When a Bludger came flying his way again, he used the momentum from a sharp dive to propel himself back up, spinning midair before launching the Quaffle into the left hoop once more.
By the time the trial ended, James had scored more goals than any other player trying out. He landed, breathing hard, hands still gripping his broom, but he knew. He knew.
When the captain clapped him on the back and said, "Welcome to the team, Potter. You're our new Chaser," it only confirmed what he already felt in his bones. Years of backyard practice, stolen moments on borrowed brooms, every bit of effort he'd put into this moment, came together in a perfect rhythm. He dodged, spun, passed effortlessly, and scored goal after goal, his movements fluid and confident. He knew he was good. He knew he belonged on this team.
For a moment, James just stood there, absorbing the words, letting them sink in. Then, from the stands, a loud whoop shattered the quiet.
"THAT'S MY BEST MATE!" Sirius Black was practically hanging over the railing, nearly sending Peter tumbling off the bench in his excitement. "YOU SEE THAT? THAT'S A GRYFFINDOR CHASER RIGHT THERE!"
Peter, who had been gripping the edge of the bench so tightly his knuckles were white, let out a breath before breaking into a grin. "I knew you'd get it! I mean—not that I doubted you, but—I knew it!" He scrambled to his feet, clapping his hands together as if trying to contain his excitement.
Sirius ruffled Peter's hair roughly. "You hear that? Pete knew it! The boy's got instincts!"
James grinned up at them, feeling warmth spread in his chest at Peter's enthusiasm. Then he turned to Remus, who was standing beside them with a small but proud smile, arms crossed as he gave him a nod. Unlike Sirius and Peter, Remus wasn't shouting or jumping about, but James could tell he was happy for him in his own quiet way. It wasn't loud or dramatic like Sirius, but it meant just as much.
James quickly learned that being on the Quidditch team came with privileges—extra practice sessions, better seats at meals, and the occasional awestruck first-year staring at him in the corridors. Not that he minded. He quite liked the attention, actually, and Sirius made sure to remind him of it constantly.
"Potter, you're an insufferable prat now," Sirius said one afternoon as James twirled his broom in the common room. "You were already arrogant, but now it's gone full-blown."
"Oh, come off it," James said, grinning. "You're just jealous you didn't try out."
Sirius scoffed. "As if I'd waste my talent on organized competition. I prefer my games with higher stakes."
Peter, who had been half-listening while attempting to finish his Charms essay, rolled his eyes. "Right, because being hexed in the hallways is so thrilling."
But even as James basked in the glory of his new position, there was something more important occupying his thoughts.
Remus.
Since they had learned the truth, James, Sirius, and Peter had spent nearly every spare moment in the library, scouring books for anything that could help. Some of the material was old and useless, filled with fear-mongering and myths. Others were dark, detailing containment spells and dangerous potions. None of it felt right.
"There has to be something," James muttered, flipping through Cursed Beasts and Where to Find Them. "Some way to make it easier."
"Or at least keep him safe," Peter added, squinting at a particularly old text. He pushed the book aside with a frown. "This one just says to lock him in a reinforced cage. That's not exactly helpful."
Sirius, leaning back in his chair, scoffed. "Would be easier if we could just go with him."
James smirked. "You say that like we won't find a way."
Remus appeared behind them, arms crossed. "You three better not be plotting anything ridiculous."
Sirius grinned. "Us? Ridiculous? Never."
Remus rolled his eyes but didn't argue. Instead, he sighed, glancing at the pile of books. "You lot don't have to do this, you know."
James met his gaze, unwavering. "Yeah, we do."
…
The night of the full moon had arrived too soon.
James felt restless the entire day, his stomach twisted with nerves he couldn't quite shake. He had always known Remus disappeared once a month, but knowing why changed everything. He, Sirius, and Peter had made a silent agreement—they weren't going to let Remus go through this alone. Even if all they could do was be there.
They snuck down to the hospital wing just before curfew, their footsteps quiet against the stone floors. Madam Pomfrey, already preparing, gave them a sharp look as they entered.
"He's resting before I take him out," she said. "You can sit with him. But not for long."
James stepped inside first, his heart sinking at the sight of Remus curled up on the hospital bed, looking smaller than he ever had. He was pale, his usual bright eyes dull with exhaustion.
"Hey, Rem," James said, forcing a smile. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I'm about to turn into a monster in a few hours," Remus muttered. "So, you know. Normal."
Sirius sat on the edge of the bed. "You're not a monster. You're just... Remus."
Remus huffed a quiet laugh. "I appreciate the vote of confidence."
Madam Pomfrey returned soon after. "Time to go, dear."
He wanted to say something reassuring, something that would make it easier. But all he could do was watch as Remus's figure disappeared behind the door out of the hospital wing.
The next morning, they were back before the sun had fully risen.
Remus was worse than before—pale, covered in fresh scratches, his body trembling with exhaustion. It was worse than James had imagined. He clenched his fists at the sight, the helplessness gnawing at his chest.
Sirius was the first to sit beside the bed, his voice softer than usual. "Rem?"
Remus blinked at them blearily. "You're all idiots," he murmured. "You should be asleep."
James smirked, though his heart ached. "Yeah, well, someone has to be here to make sure you wake up to Sirius' ugly mug and feel better about yourself."
Peter set a chocolate bar on the nightstand. "Thought you might need this later."
Remus exhaled, something like gratitude flickering in his tired eyes. "Thanks."
James exchanged a look with Sirius. They would figure this out. Whatever it took, they would make sure he never had to face this alone again.