James Sirius Potter's Story

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Five years he repeated in same routine with slight variations, although always present was the distraught expressions of his parents. Ginny and Harry Potter earned their delicate wrinkles through the tradition of rushing to Platform Nine and Three Quarters, and even as a seventh year James woke from his disturbed slumber hours before his family - pondering whether or not to ditch them regardless of the howler he'd be guaranteed to receive as consequence. Always he decided against it, later to regret it whilst listening to his mother's worrying disguised as a Quidditch lecture.

"Do a barrel roll and punt a bludger into the snitch, if it breaks into a hundred tiny pieces there's no way for them to win - got it." Bastardizing her advice he slips from her constricting hold on his wrist and enchants her with a quick peck on the forehead - mothers love that kind of thing - succeeding to grab a hold of his luggage. "Now remember to behave or I'll ground you forevermore, but more so than that remember that I love you and will write diligently throughout the year. Now, off with ye'!" James rambled to the unamused audience, volume of his voice rising with every reverse footfall that put more distance between him and his family until he could finally steady himself on the train's railing. "Farewell, my beautiful family! I'll think of you fondly!" Singing a light lament to them he disappeared into one of the rear cars, breathing the familiar atmosphere of old wood and freshly baked pastries, staring into the charming light reflected off bits of dust.

Yet none of this particularly mattered - in fact it was particularly dull the seventh time - and his surroundings slipped from his attention, colors blending in the vortex that is tunnel vision. Guiding his luggage behind him (saved by charms that kept each case bigger on the inside) he crossed through the tiny corridor, corners of his mouth twitching upwards to greet those familiar to him, and those not so familiar, his heart taut with the craving of wanting something more and the subtle hum of woe of knowing this will be his final year studying at Hogwarts. They're to be crushed, the emotions broken by the present, and James continued on towards the back, deceivingly happy syllables of "How are you?" leaving his mouth without an intention of hearing any answers.

It was like this; asphyxiated was he with the same scenery, for easily did he yearn to fly into new horizons, and he deviated only for a short list of those loved by him. Summer to him became a cruel spell of anxiety decorated with sporadic adventurous, later becoming lustrous memories.

( They were precious, but in those months there was family and friends he always saw, and in the first dawn of fall he vanished with crueler joy. )

Maybe beyond here, where his fingers curled into the sliding door's indent, is where he'll find the sarcastic sorcerer. And it was so, his crooked smile arising when welcomed by air laced with tobacco and infamous chemicals. The aroma was warmth, controlling the weather of his head, always related amorphous white clouds with one person.

"Is that a new spell?" Impish he interrupted the mantra with his shameless grim, entering the cabin as he normally would, had begun the semester just like this several times already. Step one - find Scorpius, step two - try to contain emotions, step three - fail. Proudly he carried with him simple chaos; he jostled Scoot from his slumber in the process of organizing his luggage, lost stray sheets stained with ink lyrics as they fell from above, and the owl murmured its discontent as the floor was patched by papers sick with jaundice.

Ignoring the lost pages he fixed his jumper of maroon, and curious James looked to the infamous boy known for the bewilderment he left strangers with and a bloodline considered of debatable value (there were wizards that would scorn a Malfoy and those that would vouch for them, the others expressing various of neutrality), but in the case of James Potter he could fill notebooks with Scorpius Malfoy, his knowledge ranging from the hidden trait of sentimental and the comfort he could achieve when just beside his dear friend. Pondering the array of facts his eyes slowly redirect to the other presence in the train car, a the wiring in his brain short circuiting, embers flickering, ashes piling in his cranium.

The seconds pile and the corners of his mouth are again contorted into an angular performance formally known as a grin. "I think I should have took my studies in divination with more moxie." The remark casually rolls off his tongue, the pupils that lingered on the blond's momentarily fixated on the infamous scoundrel known as 'Alice Longbottom'. Naturally the charade of nonchalance would persist, and thus logically he collapsed next to Scorpius, legs spread across the isolated room, briefly noting again that it's disappointing that there's not quite enough space to comfortably nap in one of these things. "Considering this recent omen, I can say with confidence that this year will be a fantastic tale of toil and trouble." His facial muscles relaxed enough for his expression to return to a less terrifying state, and pulled by the strings of distraction, he looked back over to his regular cynical companion.

"So, Clever Boy," James began, nudging his 'best friend forever until the permanent void of damnation inevitably swallowed them whole - and maybe even then'. "tell me, how much did you miss me?" Yes, shameless was right. One could mistake him for a narcissist when he wore that visage of exuberance, but he couldn't resist asking despite the probability of a negative response because he, as one may see, couldn't live too long without Scorpius before becoming absolutely stir crazy - the disheveled hair could vouch for that, no doubt.

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When the compartment door opens to reveal Alice Longbottom, Scorpius barely looks up, but James Potter happens to be right behind her, his question much more disruptive than Alice's comment. Scorpius scoffs and bring his cigarette back to his lips, finally looking up at the intruders. He offers the girl a nod instead of looking at his best friend. “Is there any other way but traditional?”

He and Alice weren't really close anymore, but there was a certain bond knowing each other from childhood gave them, so Scorpius liked her company okay. James, however, was both his number one and the most annoying thing to ever wiggle it's way into his life.

He narrows his bright blue eyes as the door clatters shut, luggage bangs on railing, a particular horned owl sounds very displeased at being woken, and then the floor was covered in paper, each sheet making its own noise as it fell to the ground.

Why. Why was James always so noisy.

And why the hell did he find it so endearing?

Scorpius watches James fall into the seat next to him, sprawl out and take up all the room like he was prone to doing...either physically or with his personality. The blonde shook his head, dejectedly, fingers clenching over the results in his hands. Scorpius didn't even want to talk about his Divination scores. Or any of the others, for that fact. The paper in his hand was literally stupidity in a handful of letters. The only reason why he was even allowed to move onto Sixth year was because McGonagall took pity on him and weighted his practical scores over his written ones.

He lets the paper fall to the floor, getting lost somewhere in the myriad of what was likely song lyrics that James had dispensed when he'd entered the room. “I didn't miss you at all, idiot. It's quiet without you around. Clean.” Scorpius Malfoy, among other things, may be a really horrid liar, but that was his own business.

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Lysander could barely suppress the urge to part his lips and let out what was to most likely be an outstanding yawn, the thought itself prompting him to raise his palms and scrub vigorously at his drooping eyelids. It took every fibre of his being not to simply sink into the crimson cushions that lay beneath him which, at the time, didn't seem unlike a soft, airy cloud. Be as it may, the day itself was still young and stillness of the steam-powered vehicle, coupled with its deafening hoots and screeches, signified that it was not even yet eleven o'clock- the assigned time in which the train begins to make its way to Hogwarts.

The young wizard had no one else to blame but himself for his current state of drowsiness and it wasn't uncommon for him to be in such a state; he's always up during all hours of the night doing something or other that kept him from resting. During this particular instance, he had stumbled upon his grandfather's, Xenophilius Lovegood, recordings of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. There wasn't much to read, per say, but there was much to analyse about the creature. The elusive magical creature most likely hailed from Sweden , but was never found (even by his mother, who searched the globe for the improbable creature for years.)

Lysander and Lorcan had been fortunate enough to snag an empty compartment while others were distracted by fellow friends and classmates they had not seen for quite a time. Lysander knew how difficult it could be to find a compartment that was either not completely full or would, at the very least, accept you once the students were in their respective places and the train was off and moving. The twins made that mistake second year; they had a rather unpleasant ride with a domineering fourth year Slytherin and two very snippy Ravenclaws, one of which sweated profusely. By their sixth year, well, they valued the peace that came with picking one's own space.

Despite his letharigic state of being, there was a familiar buzz of excitement that coursed through the young wizard's veins. It happened every time that he found himself back in the Hogwarts Express once again, the very sight of the sleek ebony and crimson vehicle left him breathless and exhilorated. Even at the moment Lysander was breathing in the earthy scent of the train's interior like he couldn't get enough of it and the compartments, to which some may argue are constricting and stifling, were welcoming, warm, and cozy. It was his favorite place to be. Well, second favorite to Hogwarts, of course. “I’m off to find Briggs.” Lorcan grinned that signature boyish grin of his, the one that always made Lysander want to smile back at him, no matter what mood he was in. Briggs was Lorcan’s fellow Gryffindor and good friend to boot. Lysander liked Briggs- he was a rather plump fellow and smelled of sugar plums and pumpkin spice, but he was kind and accommodating. “I’ll be back before you can say Dashing Dugbogs. Make sure Tolstoy stays out of trouble!”

Tolstoy was, if anything, an unattractive creature; he was an ugly shade of arboraceous brown, his back legs were too short for his large, lumpy body, and his eyes were bulging and cockeyed. Yet, his twin had to have found him oddly charming, for he was the one that picked out the unfortunate toad during their visit at The Magical Menagerie when they were only eleven. Lysander had to admit, Tolstoy grew on him as well throughout his years with his brother.

Tolstoy sat adjacent to Lysander, staring at him expectantly with his crooked eyes and croaking meekly. “He may cause quite some trouble, Lorcan.” He replied as earnestly as he could. It had Lorcan chuckling and patting his twin’s shoulder before vanishing.

As Lysander now found himself alone, he raked a hand through his blonde curls and pulled out a book. He might as well do some reading. He’d have a quick catnap later on the way to Hogwarts and feel rested by the time they got there.