035. 6 november 1976. date.
November 6, 1976 - noon
Hogwarts, Scotland
Great Hall
It's a nice, brisk Saturday as far as Saturdays go. The sky is overcast with brief periods of sunshine, it's chilly enough for a nice warm fall jacket, but not cold enough for hats, mitts and scarves.
And it's a Hogsmeade weekend, the first one of the year, which means any and all students from Third Year and up are brimming with excitement.
Of course, for James Potter, this Saturday means a whole lot more than just a Hogsmeade weekend trip. He's seen the shops, he's spent hours in The Three Broomsticks Inn, watching Sirius attempt to charm Madam Rosmerta and laughing when James did a much better job of it without hardly trying. All of it is nothing new.
Today is his date with Lily Evans.
After seeing his friends off, Sirius looking far more sullen than usual, assuring him that he was going to "miss a brilliant Saturday with your mates, Prongs - you're going to regret it when I come back from Hogsmeade with my pockets fat from Honeydukes sweets and jokes from Zonko's and all you get at the end of the day is boring prefect conversation, disappointment when Evans rejects your request for a second date and maybe a Sugar Quill if you're lucky", James checks himself in the mirror one last time before making his way to the Great Hall where he told Lily he'd meet her.
(He'd exhibited great self-control when he chose not to transfigure Sirius' nose into an elephant's trunk and jinx green pustules all over his cocky, arsehole face for that. Remus ought to award him at least 25 Gryffindor points.
He just gave James a sympathetic smile and allowed him to shove the stupid git out the door.)
He's dressed in his best casual clothing: a new red jumper and a pair of dark jeans, and then a black double-breasted peacoat on top and his usual (slightly worn but still in good condition) sneakers on his feet.
His attempt to tame his ever messy mop of black hair into something presentable falls through. After about five minutes of doing so in vain, he opts, instead, to make his mess look as purposefully done as possible. Then he wipes his glasses, readjusts them on his face, and heads out the door.
His hands and feet are cold, his limbs are a bit like they've been transfigured into jelly, his insides feel like they're being jostled about, and he feels bloodless, sliding down the length of the staircases and through corridors like a great, pathetic sack.
And yet, he's never felt more excited.
Nervous as hell, yes, but excited too.
Hogwarts, Scotland
Great Hall
It's a nice, brisk Saturday as far as Saturdays go. The sky is overcast with brief periods of sunshine, it's chilly enough for a nice warm fall jacket, but not cold enough for hats, mitts and scarves.
And it's a Hogsmeade weekend, the first one of the year, which means any and all students from Third Year and up are brimming with excitement.
Of course, for James Potter, this Saturday means a whole lot more than just a Hogsmeade weekend trip. He's seen the shops, he's spent hours in The Three Broomsticks Inn, watching Sirius attempt to charm Madam Rosmerta and laughing when James did a much better job of it without hardly trying. All of it is nothing new.
Today is his date with Lily Evans.
After seeing his friends off, Sirius looking far more sullen than usual, assuring him that he was going to "miss a brilliant Saturday with your mates, Prongs - you're going to regret it when I come back from Hogsmeade with my pockets fat from Honeydukes sweets and jokes from Zonko's and all you get at the end of the day is boring prefect conversation, disappointment when Evans rejects your request for a second date and maybe a Sugar Quill if you're lucky", James checks himself in the mirror one last time before making his way to the Great Hall where he told Lily he'd meet her.
(He'd exhibited great self-control when he chose not to transfigure Sirius' nose into an elephant's trunk and jinx green pustules all over his cocky, arsehole face for that. Remus ought to award him at least 25 Gryffindor points.
He just gave James a sympathetic smile and allowed him to shove the stupid git out the door.)
He's dressed in his best casual clothing: a new red jumper and a pair of dark jeans, and then a black double-breasted peacoat on top and his usual (slightly worn but still in good condition) sneakers on his feet.
His attempt to tame his ever messy mop of black hair into something presentable falls through. After about five minutes of doing so in vain, he opts, instead, to make his mess look as purposefully done as possible. Then he wipes his glasses, readjusts them on his face, and heads out the door.
His hands and feet are cold, his limbs are a bit like they've been transfigured into jelly, his insides feel like they're being jostled about, and he feels bloodless, sliding down the length of the staircases and through corridors like a great, pathetic sack.
And yet, he's never felt more excited.
Nervous as hell, yes, but excited too.