MajorMaybe1

“Mmm…Where are you going, handsome?” she murmured sleepily, peeking out from under the covers.

He froze, one button still dangling between his fingers. The collar of his shirt sat askew, and his hair was doing something unfortunate that a mirror might’ve warned him about—if he dared to look.

“Yeah. Hi. Morning,” he said, forcing a smile as he turned to face her. His voice cracked slightly, then stabilized, like a broom on a rough takeoff. “Listen, I—uh—I’ve got a meeting. At the school. Very important. Very…educational.”

She blinked slowly, propping herself up on one elbow, the sheet slipping slightly. Her expression was still soft with sleep, but confusion was clearly setting in.

“Oh. Are you a teacher?” she asked.

“Yes,” James replied quickly—because technically, yes. He was. Though this wasn't exactly how he'd planned to broadcast it. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly aware of how cold the floor was beneath his socks.

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Do you teach my daughter, Evangeline?”

His heart stuttered.

Did he?

This was not the moment to be mentally rifling through the student roster like a panic-stricken filing clerk. Evangeline—was that a second-year? Or a third-year with a habit of skipping his lectures? Tall girl with the plaits? No, that was Evelyn. Or Evie. Merlin’s pants, why were all their names so similar?

He nodded, but vaguely. A safe, noncommittal bob of the head. “Possibly. Hard to say. Faces, names—it all blurs together early in the year.”

She gave a half-laugh, forced or suspicious—he couldn’t quite tell. He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair with a little more urgency.

“Well,” he said, clapping his hands together once, as if that would somehow wrap this whole scene in a tidy little bow, “I should really get going. You were…uh…great. Really wonderful. Top-notch. Gold star.”

The words fell out of his mouth and instantly turned to ash. 

Gold star?

Who even said that?

Her brow lifted, one delicate arch rising over a sleepy, amused smile. “Gold star?” she echoed, clearly entertained. Then, after a beat: “You could owl me sometime, you know.”

James blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the softness in her voice. It wasn’t a request so much as a gentle offer—one he didn’t quite know what to do with. That was the trouble with nights like this. The morning always felt…blurrier than it should.

“Right,” he said, nodding a little too quickly. He reached for his wand on the dresser, narrowly avoiding knocking over a half-empty glass of water and a bottle of something that definitely hadn’t agreed with him. He fumbled the wand into his coat pocket, then gave a weak shrug. “Yeah, owl you. Or…you know...”

Why was he still talking?

“Or not,” he added quickly. “No pressure.”

“No pressure,” she agreed, her voice light, teasing. "But I'm here every Sunday night."

"Brill."

He made a mental note to avoid the bar downstairs on Sunday nights. 

James gave her one last, apologetic smile and turned for the door. His hand hovered on the knob for half a second too long, as though he might turn back and say something more, something redeeming or clever or even vaguely cool. But none of those things came, so he left.

He stepped out into the hallway, breathing in the stale scent of old carpet and spell-sanitized wood. Halfway to the stairs, he caught his reflection in a dusty wall mirror and grimaced. Hair like a haystack, shirt mis-buttoned at the collar, and a faint lipstick smudge just under his jawline. 

Great.

By the time he reached the inn’s poky little front lobby, he was moving far too quickly to look casual and far too stiff to pass for confident. His boot caught the edge of the rug by the door, and he lurched forward, arms windmilling in a way that would’ve been funny if it hadn’t been him. He only just managed to catch himself on the doorframe.

“Smooth,” he muttered, yanking the door open with more force than strictly necessary.

“Wait!” came a sharp voice from behind the counter. “Mr Potter! A letter came by owl post last night—”

James froze halfway out the door. “Pardon?”

The innkeeper bustled forward, skirts swishing. Her grey hair was wound up tightly round her head and pinned in place with a collection of frankly obscene peacock-shaped clips. She waved a battered-looking parchment in the air like it might make a run for it. “Came in while I was letting the dog out, just before midnight. Nearly took my eye out, it did.”

James frowned, mind scrambling to place the sender. Sirius had the mirror if anything urgent came up. Peter barely wrote when prompted. Remus—well, he was fairly certain that wasn’t Remus trying to get hold of him. Everyone knew where he was once term had started at Hogwarts.

He reached out and snatched the parchment from her grasp. The wax seal was cracked and uneven, the edges singed and frayed, as though it really had been dragged through hell and back.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, already prising it open with his thumb. “Did this come all the way from America or something?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. With a half-arsed wave over his shoulder, he stepped fully outside. The door swung shut behind him as he unfolded the parchment.

The morning air in Hogsmeade hit him like a bucket of icy water. It was sharp and clean, cutting straight through the seams of his cloak and biting at the back of his neck. The village was still half-asleep—only a handful of early risers about, lifting shop shutters or sweeping doorsteps. The clink of glass and creak of wood echoed softly along the cobbles.

James lingered on the stone steps, breathing it in. For a brief moment, he considered Apparating. Straight to the castle gates. Quick and tidy.

Except his stomach was still doing slow, unpleasant somersaults, and the last time he’d tried Apparating with a hangover, he’d ended up upside-down in a goat pasture near Inverness—sockless, disoriented, and being judged quite harshly by a sheep.

Right. Not happening.

With a weary sigh, he started down the road, skimming the scrawl at the top of the parchment.

Dear James,

He stopped dead.

That handwriting—he knew it. He’d known it for years. He’d seen it plastered across Gryffindor noticeboards, scribbled in the margins of essays, folded into letters passed hand to hand in the common room.

But why in Merlin’s name was Lily Evans writing to him?

Heart thudding a bit harder than it ought to, he read on.

Dear James,I wanted to apologise for turning you down for a date in front of everyone… and for the fact that everyone made fun of you all night for getting turned down by a sixth year.

I didn’t turn you down because I don’t like you. I actually—well, I do fancy you. Who wouldn’t? But you’re graduating, and I’m stuck here another year…and then God only knows what happens next with this war.

His grip tightened on the parchment.

I don’t want to get my hopes up about us when… well. When it might not last as long as I’d like.

He slowed to a stop again, feeling physically ill for a reason not attributed to alcohol. 

Please meet me by the one-eyed centaur portrait on the third floor tonight? We can talk. Work things out. Or just… talk. I hate that you won’t even look at me.

Yours,Lily

James stood there in the middle of the quiet street, the cold air completely forgotten. The parchment trembled in his hands—not from the chill, but from something far worse. For once in his life, he hadn’t the faintest clue what he was meant to do next.

And that—more than anything—made his chest feel painfully, impossibly light, as though the ground had dropped away beneath him.

‘I do fancy you.’

Lily Evans wrote that to him. 

The letter was dated 1977.

His seventh year.

Her sixth.

Merlin’s beard, the letter was delivered more than three years later?

He could see it all again, as clear as if it had happened yesterday. Gryffindor winning the first Quidditch match of the year, the tower in uproar, pints raised, voices hoarse with shouting. He’d been buzzing—flying high, invincible—and he’d asked her then, in front of everyone, because of course he had. James Potter never did things quietly.

And she’d turned him down.

Publicly. Calmly. Kindly, even—but that hadn’t mattered. Not when the laughter had started. Not when someone had made a joke about sixth-years knowing better. Not when his pride had taken a proper beating in front of the whole house.

He’d been livid. Properly furious. Convinced she’d led him on just to make a fool of him. After that, he’d avoided her like she was liable to hex him on sight. If she came near, Sirius or Remus would step in without being asked. Everyone knew the rule: keep Lily Evans away from James Potter.

He’d told himself she’d broken his heart.

Or so he thought.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

She’d fancied him back.

All that time, she’d actually fancied him back—and had been worried about a single year’s age difference and a bloody war hanging over their heads. A war that, absurdly, had ended last term in one final, catastrophic duel that had taken both sides with it.

All that distance.

All that bitterness.

All that wasted, bloody time.

James stared down at the letter again, a short, incredulous laugh clawing its way up his throat. It came out sharp and breathless, edged with something uncomfortably close to regret. If he’d just stopped long enough to listen—if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in sulking, so busy nursing a bruised ego and playing the hero—

He cut the thought off with a sharp exhale and dragged a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. His heart was thudding now, but not from cold or drink. This was something else entirely.

“Well,” he muttered to the empty street, voice rough but betraying him with a crooked smile, “that’s just great, isn’t it Evans? Your letter arrived three years too late.”

He stuffed the stupid, impossible letter into his coat pocket and immediately regretted it, as though tucking it away somehow made the questions louder.

Where was she now?

Muggle-borns hadn’t exactly been safe during the war. He knew that much after two years of fighting in it. He also knew—had known—that Dumbledore had recruited her into the Order. Potioneer. Duellist. Brilliant, stubborn, terrifyingly capable Lily Evans. But where had she gone on Dumbledore’s orders? Who would even know now?

Most of the Order was dead.

“Fuck,” he breathed. 

The thought landed heavily. Had he seen her name? Had it been there, buried somewhere in those endless lists of the dead and missing? The names he’d skimmed too quickly because stopping had felt dangerous?

His chest tightened unpleasantly, and he forced himself to keep walking, not thinking. 

The path from the village to the castle curled up into the hills, and the sun was only just beginning to burn through the morning mist. Hogwarts rose in the distance like a memory he wasn’t quite ready to face—beautiful, imposing, and far too full of people who expected him to be sober, punctual, and vaguely respectable.

His boots crunched over gravel and uneven stone as he went, and he did his level best not to think about the woman he’d left tangled in the inn’s sheets. Or the deeply unsettling possibility that he might end up grading essays for her daughter this term. Or the fact that he couldn’t for the life of him remember the last time he’d eaten.

Dinner at the pub, probably.

If Firewhisky counted as a meal.

By the time the great stone gates came into view—tall, ancient, and just as intimidating as he remembered—his hangover had shifted. The stabbing pain had dulled into something heavier, more insidious. A low, throbbing dread. The kind reserved for facing colleagues who’d been tucked up in bed by ten, woken refreshed, and would definitely not be wearing yesterday’s socks.

He stopped just short of the gate and straightened his coat, clinging to dignity like it might actually help. 

“Merlin’s pants,” he hissed, scrubbing at it furiously with his sleeve until the evidence was at least mostly gone. 

He took a steadying breath.

“Act professional,” James muttered, stepping onto the long stone bridge. “You finally got the classroom you wanted. Transfiguration. This is your year.”

The castle loomed ahead, quiet but watchful. Hogwarts always held itself like this before term began—students absent, corridors hushed, but the walls already moving. The great oak doors creaked open as he approached, heavy and achingly familiar. The smell hit him at once: wax, cold stone, old parchment. 

Then the screams in his head started, he tried to make them roll off. 

James squared his shoulders and arranged his face into something suitably neutral. Responsible. Respectable. Like a man who hadn’t just trudged up from a one-night stand in questionable socks, a skull-splitting headache, and a letter in his pocket that threatened to tear his understanding of the past clean in half.

A portrait just beyond the doors clocked him at once. An elderly witch with a bun wound so tight it looked painful peered down at him through narrow spectacles, her painted lips pursed into a line of pure disapproval.

“You’ve been gone all summer, Professor Potter,” she sniffed, folding her arms.

James didn’t so much as slow. He tossed her a dry smile and a casual little wave over his shoulder.

“Sorry, Anita. I’m a big believer in a proper summer holiday,” he said, already moving on.

The corridors whispered around him as he walked. Same twisting passageways. Same cool stone underfoot. Hogwarts smelled of dust and fresh polish, of old magic sunk deep into ancient walls. It still had shows of the battle. Whole corridors blocked off. Holes in walls patched poorly. With every step toward the staff room, the truth of it settled more firmly in his chest.

New year, new school, new life post-war. 

He’d finally landed Transfiguration. No more filling in. No more assisting or hovering uselessly at the back of someone else’s lesson. No more chasing first-years through the dungeons for a handful of galleons and a pat on the head. 

He’d earned this.

So why did it sit so heavy?

The staff room was already filling when he slipped inside. He claimed a spot in the corner, leaning against the stone wall, arms folded. He still felt rumpled. Still felt late. A tray of tea hovered near the hearth, steam curling lazily upward, completely untouched. The air buzzed with nervous chatter—laughter pitched just a bit too high, quills clattering to the floor, voices overlapping as introductions were made and remade.

Most of the faces were young. New recruits. Fresh from training. Half of them bright-eyed and keen, the other half doing a poor job of hiding their terror after surviving a battle that took out half the Professors. 

And then there was McGonagall.

She stood at the head of the long table, back straight as a wand, gaze steady and assessing. Her robes were immaculate—deep green, sharply pressed—and when she spoke, her voice cut cleanly through the noise, precise and commanding.

“Welcome back, everyone. For those of you returning, thank you for your continued service to this school. And for those joining us for your first full year—welcome. You’re here because we saw promise in you. Promise, and purpose.”

James found himself straightening without meaning to, spine aligning as if he were sixteen again and not pushing twenty.

McGonagall paused, letting her gaze travel slowly around the room. She didn’t smile—but beneath the sternness there was something else. Not warmth, exactly. Resolve.

“I know many of you are young,” she went on. “Some of you barely older than the students you’ll be teaching. And I know last year was… unprecedented.”

Her voice softened, just a fraction.

Even the fire seemed to quiet.

James swallowed. Candlelight flickered overhead, shadows sliding across faces he knew too well, and for a moment it felt as though the weight of the past year settled on them all at once. It was heavy, suffocating, unavoidable.

So many hadn’t come back.

They appeared in fragments, uninvited. Alexandra Creevey, still so painfully young, eyes always bright even when her twin’s grief hollowed him out from the inside. Professors Sinistra and Vector, lost when the Astronomy Tower fell—brilliant minds gone in a thunder of stone and fire. And Dumbledore. Always Dumbledore. Gone before the battle had truly finished, yet still woven into the bones of the place, a presence Hogwarts hadn’t yet learned how to exist without.

James could still hear it if he let himself—the shriek of spells tearing through corridors, the castle groaning beneath the assault. Stone scorched black. Towers shaking. The sky above ripped open by curses and light and something far too final.

Voldemort had died that night.

Dumbledore had made certain of it.

But the cost—it had been his first year teaching, taking over Quidditch after the previous Professor had died int he war. He felt like he’d lost a bit of himself last eyar when the Battle at Hogwarts took place. They’d lost on both sides–kids–parents—everyone…

Except him. 

And a few others. 

Sprout.

McGonagall. 

Bloody Hell, was that it?

Yes.

Everyone else was new.

Fuck. 

“The war is over,” McGonagall said, sharp and steady, cutting clean through the memories. “But our work is not.”

Her voice anchored them, dragged them back into the room.

“Hogwarts remains a place of sanctuary. Of learning. Of purpose,” she continued. “The students arriving tomorrow are not merely here to pass examinations. They are here to rebuild. To grow. And it is our responsibility to give them nothing less than the finest magical education we can offer.”

James exhaled slowly, shoulders loosening a fraction. The headache that had plagued him since dawn had finally dulled—no longer a spike behind the eyes, just a steady throb. A reminder of a night spent in entirely the wrong company with entirely the wrong priorities. He rubbed the back of his neck, watching torchlight ripple across the worn stone walls.

He had no idea what sort of teacher he’d be this year.

He didn’t feel wise. Or polished. Or remotely like a man with answers—hell, he wasn’t even sure he had the right questions. But he was here. He’d survived the war. He’d survived the losses. He’d survived the long, quiet summer where everything had stopped making sense.

Still standing.

At the head of the room, McGonagall gave a single, crisp nod.

“You will all do well,” McGonagall said crisply. “Term begins tomorrow. Let us give them a year worth remembering, for Albus.”

Polite sighs of sadness rippled through the staff room, followed by a scatter of applause. It had barely begun to fade when a new voice cut cleanly through it—clear, warm, and confident without even trying.

“Excuse me,” the woman said lightly. “Sorry to arrive to late. I was told to come here for orientation?”

Every head turned.

She stepped through the doorway, red hair pulled back with a yellow-and-green scarf that caught the light like a banner in motion. Muggle jeans fit her as though they’d been tailored, paired with a soft purple knit jumper and scuffed boots that spoke of practicality rather than pretense. She looked utterly unconcerned about being underdressed for a witch—and somehow still managed to look different from everyone in the room.

Her eyes swept the room—curious, open, taking everything in at once—and then they landed on James. For half a second, she simply stared. The smile faltered, just barely. Surprise flickered across her face, sharp and unmistakable, before she smoothed it away with practiced ease. 

Oh.

McGonagall straightened, seemingly oblivious—or choosing to be as she gestured toward the newcomer. “Ah, lovely to see you, Miss Evans. I’d like to introduce the rest of you to our new Charms professor.”

The door clicked shut behind the young witch.

James didn’t blink.

Lily Evans.

Not the Lily Evans he remembered—the sixth-year with scarlet skirts flashing as she danced through corridors, hair like moving wildfire, laughter ringing out after some minor catastrophe. That girl belonged to another life.

This was a woman who’d changed in the three years they’d been separated. 

Still poised and self-assured. Radiant with the sort of confidence you couldn’t fake, even if you were pretending about everything else. She crossed the room like she’d always belonged there, her grin returning easily, her wave casual and warm. Not showy. Not arrogant. Just…comfortable.

Her gaze flicked back to James—quick, searching, openly disbelieving—and his stomach flipped hard enough to make him suck in a breath. 

Some of the other new professors were her year—or close enough—and the moment the tension in the room eased, they descended on her like she was a long-lost cousin. Lily greeted them warmly, hugging two of them without hesitation, kissing each cheek in that polite, effortless way she had. She laughed, shoulders relaxing, slipping into the familiarity with ease.

One of them was Severus Snape, the new Potions Professor.

He’d wanted Dark Arts, but McGonagall had cancelled that course for the year. 

Snape looked like Christmas had come early when Lily hugged him. His sallow face actually brightened—if such a thing were possible—and he leaned in far too eagerly as Lily greeted him, murmuring something James couldn’t hear. Snape straightened afterwards with the smug, satisfied air of a man who thought he’d just reclaimed something that belonged to him.

James’s jaw tightened.

He shot Snape a look sharp enough to draw blood.

James didn’t give a toss that Snape had switched sides during the war, or that he’d survived by the skin of his teeth. None of that scrubbed away the years of cruelty. None of it erased the word Snape had spat at her like a curse when she’d been barely fourteen and already too clever for his comfort.

Mudblood.

James bit back a harsh, mirthless snort. As if Snape honestly believed he could just wander back into her orbit—old friends again, all forgiven—after everything he’d said.

After everything she’d seen.

Not a chance in hell.

McGonagall leaned towards him then, voice low but ironclad. “You’ll mentor her this term,” she said. “She’s brilliant, of course. But young. Fresh blood needs guidance.”

James blinked, hauled abruptly back into the present.

“Right. Guidance.” He cleared his throat, painfully aware of how dry it felt. “I’ll… do that.”

Brilliant.

That was one word for it.

He kept his posture relaxed as the meeting dissolved, arms folded, expression neutral. Inside, everything was noise. It was impossible to reconcile Lily Evans across the room—the woman charming the staff without even trying—with the girl he’d once known.

The last time he’d really looked at her, she’d had rounder cheeks, an overstuffed rucksack that carried all her notes, and a habit of tugging her sleeves down over her wrists whenever she spoke up in class. Bright, yes (brilliant even) but unfinished and still finding herself at sixteen.

And now?

She knew who she was now. She was laughing with Professor Sprout, the sound curling through the air like a charm laced with honey. Sprout looked practically incandescent at Lily's arrival. Even the Headmistress, who usually scowled through staff meetings, was leaning in with an amused smirk.

James hated it. Hated how easily she belonged. Hated how the room seemed to tilt subtly in her direction, as though the castle itself had decided she was worth paying attention to.

He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair.

Because the worst part?

He was already halfway in love with her again—and this time, he had a letter burning a hole in his pocket. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Headmistress went over a bit more with the newcomers, James mostly drowned her out. As chairs scraped back and parchment was gathered, McGonagall flicked him a brief, assessing glance before sweeping from the room. James lingered near the tea tray, suddenly fascinated by the tragic state of the biscuits, just as Lily made her way over.

“James Potter,” she said brightly. "As I live and breathe, is that you?"

He turned—and failed entirely at hiding his surprise. “Lily Evans,” he replied, managing what he hoped was an effortless grin. “Or should I say… Professor Evans?”

She laughed. “You probably should. Though I’m not convinced it suits me yet.”

“Oh, it will,” he said easily. “Give it a week. Some third-year’ll try to turn you into a frog and you’ll have earned it twice over.”

She laughed properly at that, the sound warm and unguarded, then tipped her head and studied him with open curiosity.

“You’ve changed,” she said.

James blinked. “I’ll take that as a compliment—provided you mean for the better.”

“Well,” she said, eyes dancing as they traced his face, “your hair still looks like you just jumped off a broomstick. But…I’m glad you’re alive. I wasn't sure if you made it.”

“Just glad?” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offence. “Here I was hoping for relieved. Or impressed.”

She smiled, softer now. “I knew you were fighting underground for Dumbledore for a while. I was close to him—close enough that news travelled, occasionally. About old friends.”

“Friends?” he repeated, raising a brow.

“I hope so,” she said, meeting his gaze without flinching. "After all these years, why not start over? It's what Dumbledore would want."

He swallowed. “And here I was thinking you’d personally delivered the letter to my room this morning.”

She froze.

A blink between them

“What letter?” she asked. Then, quickly, “I— I had no idea you were teaching here.”

James reached into his pocket and pulled out the battered parchment. A crumb of old wax flaked away as he handed it to her. Lily unfolded it—and then clapped a hand over her mouth, laughing in pure disbelief.

“Oh my God—James. Holy shit. Where did you even get this?”

“Some owl dropped it off this morning,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. Her cheeks flushed a vivid pink as she reread it—thank Merlin, because he was certain his own face was doing something similar. "It must've been lost in the owl post through the war."

“And here I thought you hated me for turning you down,” she said quietly, glancing up at him through her lashes. "It had just been lost. Unbelievable." 

“I was furious with you, you know,” James admitted. “You’d been flirting since the first week of term—what was I meant to think, Evans? That you were doing it out of charity?”

She huffed a laugh. “Which is exactly why I wrote the letter,” she said, flicking the parchment lightly between them. “I assumed you’d read it, burned it dramatically in the fire, and told Sirius Black to tell me you didn’t care anymore if I lived or died.”

“Didn’t care if you lived or died?” He laughed, breathless, shaking his head. “I was head over broomstick for you.”

Her eyes went wide—then softened. “Well,” she said faintly, “that’s…that's really good information to have.”

“Even now?” he asked quietly. “Over three years later?”

She held his gaze. “Especially now.”

A beat passed—heavy, charged.

Then Lily glanced towards the door, where McGonagall was watching, and gently tucked the letter back into his hand. Her fingers brushed his in the process. Deliberately.

“I should go introduce myself to the others,” she said. Then she paused, eyes flicking back up to his. “But—James?”

“Yeah?”

Her smile this time wasn’t polite.

No, it was warm, teasing, and full of promise.

“Try not to look so completely dumbfounded around me,” she said lightly, lips twitching. “I’d hate to spend another three years thinking you hate my guts.”

She turned away—then paused, glancing back over her shoulder. Her eyes glittered with mischief.

“We’ll talk later,” she added.

James blinked. “We will?”

She lifted a brow, clearly enjoying this far too much. “I did read my welcome letter,” she said sweetly. “You are my mentor, aren’t you?”

“Oh. Right.” James nodded once, dumbly. “Yeah. That’d be me.”

She smiled like she’d just won something, then disappeared back into the room.

James stood there a moment longer, heart lodged somewhere between his ribs and his throat.

She kept glancing his way as she made the rounds, introducing herself to each professor like they were old friends—warm handshake here, easy laugh there. Every time their eyes met, she smiled, small and knowing, like they were sharing a secret the rest of the room hadn’t caught onto yet.

It was getting uncomfortably warm.

James cleared his throat, shoved his hands into his pockets, and made a tactical retreat into the corridor, heading for his office under the very sensible pretence of preparing it for term. The cooler air hit his face, and he let out a long breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

“Fuck me,” he murmured to the empty hall.

And just like that, his first year as a real Professor was already unforgettable...

The corners of her lips trembled like her aged hands when her fingers brushed along a script that gave her pause. Because even after all these years, all these hundreds of students, she could still tell whose penmanship this was. 

The large letters crammed onto the parchment, like he knew he was going to run out of space for his sweeping t’s and large loops. The words slanting upwards as if wanting to escape from the paper. 

She did not doubt that, at the time, that was precisely what he’d had on his mind, while stuck doing a detention assignment for her. It was supposed to be an essay, but in true James Potter fashion, he’d ignored the explicit instruction and instead composed a letter. 

Dearest Minerva, 

As we sit across from each other in your office, a pot of lapsang souchong between us, I am aware you are pretending to be cross with me. For the sake of posterity, I will pretend with you. Though we both know that they deserved every miserable second. 

In the future, however, I will strive for a more creative solution. Even if I think turning their belts into snakes was quite a nifty piece of transfiguration. I will let you be the judge of that. Being the expert and all that. 

Speaking of the future, I am supposed to write an essay about where I see myself next year. Which I could have answered effortlessly a fortnight ago. But things changed. Every paper is full of it now. And I refuse to sit idle just because I happened to have been born into a family that fits into their narrow view of our world. 

One year from now, I will be as restless as ever. Using the privilege that comes with my name to help those who cannot help themselves. However, unlike before, I will not humour myself with the delusion that this can be achieved by mere words. 

I will gladly put my wand with my conviction and face whatever is in store beyond the safety of these walls. Together with my friends, we will make a difference. 

My friends and I are talking about getting a place together, somewhere nice and lively. We were hoping to travel, see some of the world. Those plans are on hold, at least for now. Though none of us will say it aloud, we hope that the four of us will be around for it.

So, we spend evenings talking about this trip, imagining places to go and things to do in the hopes that the four of us will get to go.

Hopefully, I will be dating Lily Evans. (Please don’t tell her I said that.) I think she is finally coming round to me. She no longer glares in my direction, though I can still feel her eyes on me sometimes.

Maybe I am crazy, but I can tell it is her just from the way it feels. Her watching me is special somehow. Often I itch to turn to her, to catch her looking. To catch a glimpse of her smile or her fluster. Just the fraction of a moment where I can believe she might actually feel the same way. 

Or maybe not the same way. I would not wish this complete and utter agony on her. If she does come to fall for me, I hope she falls softer. I hope that I am not too blind to see and catch her before the rough landing. 

That is only if I will ever be lucky enough to be enough for her. To have grown into a person, she can depend on rather than the childish prick (I am so sorry, did not mean to curse.) I used to be. 

I am afraid I am running out of space. I could fill several more rolls of parchment (Which is not me asking for more) with hopes and wishes for the year ahead. Some more achievable (Pass my N.E.W.T. s) and some more hopeful (Snog Lily Evans. Again, please don’t tell her I wrote any of this.)

Your favourite student, 

James Potter 

Her fingers crumpled the paper where she gripped it tight, a lump rising in her throat. Her eyes scanned the content of the letter once more before pressing it briefly to her heart before placing it atop her pile of keepsakes.