Music of the Night

Music of the Night

Chapter 4: Beyond the Horizon

"COCKADOODOOLE DOOOOOOOOOOO!"

James Potter sat upright in his bed with a start. What on earth?

His sleep-lidded eyes adjusted to the bright lights shining through the red curtains enclosing his bed. Red curtains...That's right. He was in Hogwarts. And that meant...

"SIRIUS!!!"

James scrambled out of bed with difficulty, his stiff limbs getting tangled in his bed sheets several times. A large black dog was eying him mischievously with wicked glint in its eye. It slowly reared onto its hind legs. It was unnaturally stretching and losing its masses of thick black fur. Sirius Black stood, fully dressed in his Hogwarts robes, grinning wildly.

"Rise and shine, sleepy-heads," he bellowed, throwing open the curtains to the dormitory and spreading his arms wide at the influx of sunlight that beamed through the window, filling with the room with startlingly bright rays that made James throw his arm up to shield his eyes.

Sirius swept over to the other two beds in the room and tore open the curtains concealing the sleeping bodies of Remus Lupin and a disgruntled Peter Pettigrew, who upon Sirius' rude interruption of slumber, mumbled something along the lines of, "Help... Quaffle with a pickax..."

Rolling his eyes, Sirius leaned his face into Peter's and yelled, "Oy! Wormtail!"

Peter's eyes flew open, his body jerking frantically, a wild expression on his face. "The Snitch is evil!" he shouted, a hint of sleepy drawl still in his voice.

Sirius clapped him on the back, making him stumble forward and off the bed. "That's right, Wormtail, ole' boy. Keep running from the winged walnut. You just might outstrip it yet."

Peter blinked lazily as he rolled over, clearly not taking in a single word of what Sirius had just said to him.

James sat down on his bed as Sirius advanced toward Remus, who had not stirred a bit. He figured that while Sirius was currently occupied with someone else, he might as well enjoy the peaceful moments when he was free to watch him, rather than to be the subject or sidekick of his jokes. He folded his arms over his chest, waiting to see how Sirius would fare trying to rouse Remus from his intense sleep.

Sirius tried to wake Remus the same way he had done with Peter. But alas, after countless attempts, Remus didn't budge.

James grinned at his friend's utter failure. "It's a hopeless cause, Padfoot," he called. "Remus sleeps like the dead."

Sirius stepped back, leaning his face on his chin in what he liked to call "The Thinker Position." He shook Remus back and forth yelling "Moony! It's time for food!" The only response he got was a punch in the nose from the sleeper.

"Ouch! Moony!" he yelled at this sudden attack of violence. He rubbed his nose fiercely, forming an even larger red spot on the growing lump. James met his glance and gave him a look that quite plainly said, "I told you so."

Sirius glared. "This means war," he stated in a manner that was a cross between severe and mocking. James snickered as Sirius, nose still glowing scarlet, turned into a dog once more and pounced on Remus's motionless body, licking his face vigorously.

That did it. Remus thrashed about wildly before opening his eyes. Upon sight of a large black dog sitting on his chest, he gave a startled scream of surprise.

"Padfoot! Get off me! That's disgusting!" He grabbed a towel from his night table and thoroughly wiped his face. "What was that for?"

Sirius changed back into human form and pointed to his bright nose. "This."

Remus looked mildly pleased. "Oh, did I do that? So sorry."

He grabbed a towel and lumbered to the bathroom. "I get the first shower," he mumbled.

James was about to protest, considering he had been awake first. But he quickly dismissed this thought when he remembered that Remus had just donned a face full of Sirius's dog drool.

He turned to his friend who was quickly pacing back and forth, looking at his watch, the familiar expression of awaited monkey business on his face.

"What are you so excited for, Padfoot?" James asked him in between spits while haphazardly brushing his teeth. "You're usually harder to wake up than Moony."

Sirius sighed with contentment. "Ah, James. It is the first day of our last year at dear old Hoggy Warty Hogwarts. The sun is shining. The ladies are waiting. The Quidditch field is green and grassy. Our friend Snivelly is looking as gruesome as ever. I won't be getting any more Howlers from my beloved Mumsy. I've got a whole supply of Dungbombs in my trunk and a whole house of Slytherins waiting to smell them. My best friend can take away points from the lot of them snakes, and we're having the traditional first-day-back breakfast this morning: Chocolate-chip pancakes." Glancing in the mirror, James saw an expression of utter bliss on Sirius's face.

Sirius clapped Peter, who was now awake and diligently taking in every word Sirius said, on the back. "Life is good." Peter grinned, then jumped up to claim the shower when Remus stepped into the room.

"Yup," Remus said. "It sure is." He paused. "Why?"

Sirius gave his infamous grin. "Because we've got havoc to wreak and a whole long list of ways to do it."

"Careful Padfoot," teased Remus, motioning to James. "We've got a Head Boy dorming with us now."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry too much," said Sirius, sauntering over to James and putting an arm around his shoulder. "I think ole' Prongsie will be able to pull a few strings for us. What say it? Give us a few passwords, sweet talk our ways out of detention...huh?" He gave him a light punch in the chest.

James furtively glanced at Remus, who was very intently tying his shoes, avoiding James's gaze. Not knowing exactly how to answer Sirius's question he simply grinned and responded, "What do you think?"

Sirius emitted a sound of glee and bounded down the stairs, finally growing unbearably impatient and not waiting for the rest of the group to come with him.

James turned to Remus, who was busying himself by tidying up his already immaculate chest of drawers. "Say something, Moony."

Remus looked up, the familiar look of exhaustion haunting his eyes. "He doesn't know, does he?"

James shook his head. "Come on, Remus. You heard him just now. That'll be really nice. I'll just go to him and say, 'Sorry Padfoot, but I don't think I'll be in on the pranks very much. Head Boy's a responsibility, you see.'"

"James, you don't have to do this. It's your last year in Hogwarts. Make the most of it. I don't want you to be miserable just because of me."

James raised his voice slightly, feeling himself getting heated. "Moony, you did not give up your position just so I could blow up toilets!"

"No," said Remus steadily. "I gave up my position because I had no business being in it. I'm out three days a month, and in a horrible state the few days before and after the full moon. And Dumbledore probably only made me a Prefect because he thought I could control you. Fat lot that did. I'm not at the top of the class, and could even be a danger to other students. You and Evans are the top students in the year. So what if you get into trouble now and then? Dumbledore obviously didn't care. Why should you?"

"I'll tell you why!" yelled James. "Because I would be one louse of a friend if you think for one minute that just because you're a werewolf and gave up your Headboyship for me, I'll just forget all about it and go off abusing the position that shouldn't even have been mine in the first place!"

Who did Remus think he was, outwardly commanding to be a naughty little boy? He could never do that to Remus, his best friend who had been forced to give up so much. What kind of decent person could just forget about all of that?

His chest was heaving, his nostrils flared. Remus didn't retaliate; he simply looked too tired. "I'm not going to argue with you now, James. Just don't change for me."

James opened his mouth to begin venting again, when Peter stepped into the room. He paused at the sight of the red-faced James. His eyes nervously darted back and forth between the two boys. "Everything all right in here?" he asked concernedly.

Remus looked away from James's glare. "Yeah. Just fine." Without so much as glancing at anyone or anything else except for his feet in front of him, he strode out of the room, a bewildered Peter looking after him.

James brought his hand up to his hair and began rumpling it, as he often did when he when he had a great deal of nervous energy.

"Prongs?" Peter said softly, looking up at his tall friend.

James snapped out of his trance. "I'm fine, Peter. You go to breakfast without me. I'll be there soon." He grabbed a towel and pushed open the bathroom door, leaving a stunned Peter alone in the dormitory room wondering what was going on right in front of his nose.

* * *

The tension between two of the four Marauders had subsided considerably by the time breakfast began. James had sat down at the table and began piling his plate with his usual five pounds of food. Remus had already been talking to an elated Sirius. Or rather, listening, as since the school year had approached, Sirius's usual perkiness had only intensified, making him more garrulous and cheerful, or more irritating, than usual, depending on whom was asked.

James noticed as he shoveled pancakes into his mouth, that both Remus and Peter wisely did not bring up the incident that had occurred in the dormitory. Peter didn't often try to get involved in issues that did not concern him. In his eyes, whatever other people did, they did for a reason, and he wasn't quite at the level where it was his duty and right to know what that reason was. Good kid, that Peter. He could have gone quite far if he weren't so insecure with himself.

And Remus knew better than to argue once James put his foot down. James winced slightly into his breakfast, cursing his temper and his obstinacy. Remus had only been looking out for him, wanting the best for him. And he had lost it again. But why had he lost it? Was it really because of that, or because of something else, something greater? He really needed to learn to control himself. And figuring out the reasons for his sudden mood swings wouldn't hurt either. He grumpily stabbed at his hash browns.

Sirius suddenly halted his banter and raised an eyebrow at James. "Good mood, this morning, huh Prongs?"

James forced himself a small smile. "Yeah, you know. First day back."

Sirius nodded and contorted his face into what he must have thought was a mildly somber expression. "Ah. The taxing duties and obligations required of a Head Boy. The horrific prospects of spending more time than necessary in the headmaster's office, dealing with unruly First-years, and collaborating efforts with the dreaded Head Girl.

James snorted. If that's what Sirius wanted to believe was the source of his dour disposition, who was he to correct him? "Yeah."

"You've got quite a tough one there, James," Sirius warned, as the foursome glanced down the table to where Lily Evans was sitting with Sirius's cousin Thalia, who was animatedly telling an apparently very interesting story, as she held the attention of every person within six feet of her. She was clearly enjoying herself. Lily seemed otherwise occupied, however, as she absent-mindedly stirred her oatmeal, her brilliant green eyes somewhat glazed as they stared at a spot just above William Garroway's left shoulder.

"That," said Sirius, pointing with his thumb, "has got to be the most confusing person I have ever met."

James silently agreed. If he hadn't been the subject of an explosion of hers at the end of fifth year, he would have thought that she was merely positively stiff and stifled. Instead she just seemed to be volatile, with a very short list of things that got her ticked off. And James knew that he was on that list.

What was it that she had said to him? Messing up your hair because you think it looks cool to look like you've just got off your broomstick, showing off with that stupid Snitch, walking down corridors and hexing anyone who annoys you just because you can- I'm surprised your broomstick can get off the ground with that fat head on it. You make me SICK.

The memory still brought a fresh wave of embarrassment to James every time he brought that day to mind. He couldn't care less how Evans felt about him now, but back then it had been quite demoralizing. He hadn't realized that he could be so despicable. And Lily Evans, his crush since the first time he had laid eyes on her, had blatantly announced to a crowd of his fans exactly what she thought of the notorious James Potter and had then marched off, probably to gloat over her satisfaction at rendering him speechless.

James had felt like the ground would only be too kind as to swallow him up right then an there. If he hadn't had a reputation to uphold, he probably would have found it a great deal more difficult to appear nonchalant despite his feelings of incredible guilt and shame. He resolved then and there that he no longer could have feelings for anyone who had so willingly and knowingly caused him such conflicting and uncharacteristic emotions. He was James Potter! He would not be treated like that.

It had been that summer that he had begun his massive growth spurt, adding eight inches to his formally short and wiry body, making him tall, awkward and spindly. James had put extra efforts into his Quidditch training season that summer, increasing his already insatiable appetite. He had gorged himself considerably, filling out his skinny frame. He was not exceptionally brawny, but at least now he had some height to speak of.

And something very interesting that James learned about height and meat was that it attracted girls. He had never really considered his options before; he had always been mentally tied down by a certain redhead. He supposed his immediate status as a heartthrob could have been due to his exemplary Quidditch skills, which had, if possible, only gotten better over the summer. Or maybe it was because his parents were top-ranking ministry officials enhanced by rather voluminous paychecks. James hadn't really wasted a thought wondering what their reasons were; he just cared that they found him somewhat alluring, allowing him to be idolized even further, something he was very good at. It was fun. He never had to go anywhere alone. There would always be some girl somewhere willing to walk in on his arm, and the next day, he could find someone else.

So in a way, he supposed that Lily Evans had done him a world of good by publicly rejecting him, although he was certainly more than glad that for the most part, no one remembered that uncomfortable episode.

Remus looked at James, determined to end the prickles of whatever remnants of tension from earlier that morning were still in the air. He spoke in a casual manner, subtly hinting that he only wanted to continue things the way they once had been. "How do you think you're going to fare with her, huh? Win your way into her good graces?"

James was spared the trouble of thinking up a witty answer by Sirius's interruption. "I don't think Prongs would dare. Remember fifth year?"

"Ah, yes," commented Peter. "The legendary 'You make me sick!' affair."

"After which, I seem to recall, you locked yourself in the bathroom and emerged hours later looking as though you wanted to drown yourself," Remus pointed out.

James opened his mouth to argue that no, he had in fact been drenched head to foot by a water balloon thrown at him by Peeves, and he had only shut himself up in the bathroom to avoid the other three, but Sirius interjected once again.

"Oh, and then there was fourth year."

"I believe that was the year of the Tornado Hex," said Remus. "Pity, you just didn't realize that when Lily Evans says 'Kindly step away from me immediately, Mr. Potter, before I feel threatened and a hex flies out of my wand,' she really meant it.

Peter chuckled. "Yeah, that was funny." When he saw James's menacing expression, he immediately stopped. "Although James is the only person I've ever met who doesn't look all that bad with flapping clothing and hair."

"Nice save," James muttered, as Peter reddened slightly. "Are you finished yet?" he said bitterly.

Sirius grinned. "Oh, look at that. We've hit a nerve." James glared.

"Don't get so defensive, Prongs. Just reminding you why you'll need to be extra-careful that you don't get caught."

Peter leaned forward anxiously, recognizing the innuendo with which Sirius had alluded to a grand scheme. He had always enjoyed Sirius's pranks. "What've you got in mind, Padfoot?"

"Oh, nothing too original," he said. "Just something to remind everyone that we're all alive and well."

He glanced at James. "So what say it? You in?"

James looked at Sirius, his face wild with eagerness and expectations. Then he remembered Remus, the would-be-prefect who just happened to be a werewolf. He was looking more tired than usual, if possible, and exceptionally pale, despite the fact that he had just come back from a summer vacation. Was it really fair to Remus to join in on thoughtless pranks?

But was it fair to let down Sirius and Peter? He had been best friends with the lot of them since first year. They had done everything together. This was the first mark they would make as seventh-years. Would it be right to just abandon them?

And did he really want to do this? Would playing a joke truly give him the satisfaction he had once craved? But if he didn't do what was expected of him and agree, where would that put him? Sirius would understand about Remus, but what about whatever else it was that kept murmuring in his ear, telling him to just say 'no'?

But, then again, this was just one prank. One prank wouldn't hurt anything. One small, tiny, insignificant little joke would not be enough to jeopardize his Headboyship. And besides, he rarely ever got caught anyway. Look how much they'd gotten away with! They'd even become illegal Animagi for Pete's sake!

No, nothing would be wrong with one moment of harmless fun. Hadn't Remus told him not to change just for his sake?

He looked up. "Yeah, I'm in."

He found it difficult not to look at Remus. The young werewolf tried to look happy; he had, after all, encouraged James's involvement in Sirius's mischief, but James knew that deep down, he was feeling genuinely hurt.

His thoughts were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to face Lily Evans, or rather, to look up to her. Jeez, she was tall.

"What can we help you with on this fine morning, Lily-dear?" Sirius asked mockingly, giving James a knowing glance.

Lily answered back, her voice flat and monotonous, as though what she was saying was an absolute waste of her time. "I hate to interrupt your obviously fascinating conversation that is doubtlessly consisting of an accumulation of spontaneous plots thrown together for the sole purpose of making this fine institution we call school a more chaotic or, if you prefer, interesting place to be, but I'm afraid I must steal away Mr. Potter for one moment before he haphazardly forgets that he is supposed to be somewhat - dare I say it - responsible."

Sirius snickered. Peter merely looked dumbfounded.

"He's all yours, Miss Evans, ma'am," Sirius told her, beckoning with a wave of his hand.

"Too kind," she answered, as James stood up next to her. He was once again amazed at her height. If he had any desire to whatsoever, he could have nearly looked directly into her eyes, without bending his head at all. If he was 6"1, that would make her...blimey.

"What is it, Evans?" he asked her casually.

"Course schedules," she answered tersely, handing him an enormous wad of colored parchment. Hand the appropriate programs to the appropriate Prefects. Shouldn't be too hard. Red to Gryffindor, green to Slytherin, you understand, I'm sure. You are Head Boy after all."

He stared blankly. He couldn't fathom how one person could be so rigid, so dry, so much of a martinet, and still have people to call friends. Sirius was right. She was the most confusing person he had ever met.

She noticed that he wasn't moving. "You see, Mr. Potter, generally when one must deliver something, one must first move his or her feet."

"Oh, right."

Evans gave an exasperated sigh. "This is going to be one long year." She then turned to distribute her half of the schedules.

The three Marauders still remaining at the table watched this entire scene while chortling considerably.

"What d'you reckon?" Sirius asked as he watched James dazedly make his way over to the Hufflepuff table.

Remus grinned. It was obvious that James still had a thing for Lily Evans. "I think she'll do him a world of good."

* * *

Each class seemed to begin identically, give or take a few sighs of foreboding.

No teacher was shy about letting every seventh-year know at every possible available moment of the dire importance of the N.E.W.T.s. James was thoroughly bored with it. Yes, it was imperative that they work to their utmost abilities. Yes, the results of the exams would have tremendous impacts on the rest of their lives. So why were the teachers wasting precious time telling this to them instead of actually teaching?

James strummed his fingers on his desk as Professor McGonagall repeated her version of the same speech he had been hearing all day.

"...one of the most important things you will ever do. I must impress upon you the seriousness of these exams. They should not be taken lightly. This year, they must be your utmost priority. All else can wait. Your future lies within the tests ..."

The future. What of the future? James certainly didn't have any clue what he wanted to do. He had simply chosen his classes by which ones he felt were the most useful in general; he didn't have a specific occupation in mind.

He definitely did NOT want to work for the ministry. It wasn't exactly that it was boring, but politics drove him up the wall. It was far too much of a bother to worry about knowing certain people and knowing how to get done what it is that you want, even if you might not be the person authorized to do it. He couldn't for the life of him keep track of all the officials his parents had brought home to dinner over the years. In fact, he was willing to bet that even his parents didn't know who half of them were.

Sirius had suggested that he look into a career playing professional Quidditch. For reasons totally beyond the grasps of anyone else he had discussed this with, James knew he would never even consider that. Flying was something that just came naturally to him. It was his way of letting everything go. It was his time to be free, to just be James. Turning that into a career would just be wrong. He felt that flying should be something he loved, not something he had to do.

James glanced over to Sirius, who was presently bewitching his roll of parchment to write rather obscene words in fluorescent ink colors open being opened by anyone other than Sirius himself.

He brought a hand to the back of his messy, black-haired head. With nothing else to do, he pulled out a role of parchment and began to take notes on the lesson that McGonagall had thankfully just started.

His next class's start was little better. James thought very highly of Professor Flitwick, more than anything else because of his uncanny ability to remain positively upbeat and cheerful throughout the entire lesson, no matter what hex or faulty charm was sent his way. However, James felt that one more talk about the impending N.E.W.T.s, and he would hurl an inkbottle at whoever's head happened to be nearest. He didn't want to have to think about his future just yet. He was only seventeen.

"Now that you've heard about as much as you can handle about the N.E.W.T.s, we can go on to our lesson," said Professor Flitwick, after finishing up his brief introduction to the significance of this year's curriculum.

The class let out a highly audible sigh of relief.

"Now, now," joked the professor. "It wasn't so bad. Everyone please take out your books, The Seventh Year's Guide to Charms."

The rustling of parchment and pages was heard as everyone unearthed battered copies of their textbooks.

Professor Flitwick looked around the room the best the he could, given that the top of his head barely reached the uppermost drawer of his desk. "Very nice," he squeaked. "I'm glad to see that you have all managed to scrounge for a copy of the textbook. Like the other books in this series that you have studied with thus far, it is incredibly old and out of date, much to our dismay. The language used is ancient, and the misspellings of the most basic words are horrendous. However, be that as it may, it is the most accurate of all the Charms textbooks in circulation." He cracked a grin. "Makes you wonder about those other textbooks."

"We will be using them for references. I do urge you to learn what you can in the classroom itself, and to take ample notes. In the event that you are unable to do so, the lessons explained in the textbooks will have to suffice, although I would rather that you just use it as a final resort."

The class murmured in understanding. James noticed Lily Evans smile to herself and scribble a few notes onto a piece of parchment.

Professor Flitwick jumped out of sight. Scuffling noises were heard behind the desk where the teacher was undoubtedly walking. Some of the students in the front rows craned their necks to try to see over the desk. Lily Evans broke into a wide smile once again. James remembered overhearing her complaining once to Thalia about her intolerant sister, who apparently had an abnormally long neck, usually used for peeking over the garden fence to spy on the Evanses' neighbors. Undoubtedly, Evans had been reminded of this.

Professor Flitwick was finally seen as he walked around to the front of his desk, peering up at his students. "Who," he asked in his high-pitched voice, "knows what a Loquerer is?"

To no one's surprise, Lily Evans, who excelled in Charms, was the first to raise her hand.

Professor Flitwick pointed to her as he called on her. "Yes, Ms. Evans?"

"A Loquerer is an object charmed to allow for communication between two or more individuals across long distances. Loquerers usually come in pairs, one for each person involved in the conversation. They generally take on the forms of ordinary household objects, so as to be concealed from the enemy. I say 'the enemy,' because they are widely used among underground spy networks. However, they may serve many practical uses too, similar to muggle telephones or walkie-talkies."

Professor Flitwick beamed. "Excellent, Ms. Evans! Ten points to Gryffindor! Perhaps you would be so kind later as to explain to some of our less-informed students exactly what a telephone is."

James glanced at Sirius, who wore a twisted expression that relayed the utmost turmoil. Sirius undoubtedly agreed with Flitwick, as did James. Muggles were a lot smarter than most wizards gave them credit for. But James also knew that Sirius's internal conflicts were not due to his own feelings of Pure-blood Pride. His clash was with his family, some of the most intolerant wizards on the planet.

Sirius hadn't really told James much about the row that had finally driven him to leave Grimmauld Place for the Potter residence, and James hadn't pushed him for the story. But James had a nagging feeling that Sirius's family's bigotry against anything remotely muggle-related and Sirius's acceptance of other ways of life were largely to blame.

The rest of the lesson was spent discussing the various uses of Loquerers. Professor Flitwick informed them that later on in the year, they would be charming their own Loquerers, much to the delight of the class.

James breathed a small sigh of relief when the bell rang signaling the end of class. It wasn't that he hadn't somewhat enjoyed his Charms lesson (after the N.E.W.T. shpiels, of course), but he had piles of work to do, and he was just itching to get onto his broomstick.

* * *

James shoved his textbook closed and grabbed his head compulsively.

"Prongs?" Remus asked him tentatively, looking up from his Defense Against the Dark Arts essay.

"Sorry, Remus. I've just got a lot to deal with."

Remus looked away. "Yeah." He began shuffling through the pages in his textbook once more.

James leaned his head back onto the plush armchair, trying to release his mind of the multifarious facts and images swimming in and out of his thoughts. "Look," he started to say. "About before, with Sirius-"

"It's alright Prongs," Remus hurriedly interrupted. "Really. This is your last year. You should be having fun."

"But that's just it, Remus. I don't know if, I mean, it's not so fun anymore." James blurted it out. He had been trying to keep it in.

Remus raised his weary gray eyes and stared intently into James's. "Stop it, Prongs. I meant it. You don't have to go changing for me."

James stood up. "Fine." Without bothering to pick up his things, he made his way to the staircase in the back of the Common Room, nearly tripping on Sirius, who was sprawled out in front of the hearth, tossing Squimfiddle Squealers into the fire to listen to the slightly rude noises that they emitted.

"Hey watch it!" he exclaimed, as several Squealers spontaneously combusted, leaving behind a trail of purple slime. Several third-years who had been watching gave a few loud hoots and a quick round of applause.

He looked up to see the identity of the culprit. "Oh, hey James. Sorry about that. Thought I might finally get to hear a donkey in labor. But now at least we know what the Squealers are made of, huh?

James forced a feeble smile onto his face and continued past Sirius.

"Hey James?" Sirius called loudly over the raucous laughter. "Where you off to?"

James paused pensively for a moment, cocking his head to the side. "I think I'll take my broomstick out for a bit."

"Right. It's always the broomstick, James. Do you have something you're not telling me?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, gaining an even wilder response from the crowd.

"Get your mind out of the gutter," James muttered as he turned to head up the stairs.

"And that," he heard Sirius telling his audience, "was denial. First sign of absolute, genuine, utter attraction."

James sighed. They just didn't get it.

He walked over to his trunk and carefully pulled out his most cherished possession. He unwrapped the layers of protective cloth and rolled out the gleaming broomstick, a sleek Silver Arrow, glossed to perfection, twigs trimmed to flawless equality. He ran his hands over the smooth wood, treating it tenderly, almost like a newborn baby that would cry if it were handled in any manner slightly less than affectionate.

After gingerly placing his broom onto his bed, he dressed in his warm woolen cloak, which he had bought from Diagon Alley, specifically with flying in mind. It was thick, so it kept in his body warmth, but despite its weight, it was light and fluid. It didn't hold him down, allowing him to swerve in and out of goalposts at his leisure.

Broom in hand, he went down the stairs and left toward the Quidditch pitch.

Countless thoughts were whirling through his brain like rampant cyclones. He didn't know what had happened to him over the summer, but something definitely had. Suddenly he didn't feel so in the mood for pranks anymore. Not just because of Remus, but because...of something else.

Why was that? Why was it that they didn't give him the same thrill that they used to, the same feeling of superiority and amazement that anything could be that hilarious? He had once thrived on the anticipations of the mischief that would ensue in the near future. And then one day he woke up, and his tricks just didn't seem that funny, his mannerisms suddenly were pompous, and he had felt distant, more alone.

But the Marauders were the best friends he'd ever had, and could ever hope to have in the future. So why couldn't he tell them? Because they wouldn't understand. No one would understand. Their ringleader, their source of enjoyment, their genius, brilliant, scheming James Potter wanted to be a good boy?

Did he want to be a good boy? Or did he just not want to be a bad boy?

And then there was the flying. No one could possibly grasp the exact sensations he felt when he was flying. It wasn't just a hobby; it was a necessity.

He sighed. Flying. His escape. That was exactly what he needed right now. To be released of his complex and confusing emotions, and to just let everything go.

He reached the edge of the Quidditch Pitch and paused, drinking in every breath of sharp wind, absorbing the movement of every blade of newly cut grass.

He mounted his broomstick and kicked off, soaring through his endless space, savoring every moment. He was home.

The twilight sky was engaging and enrapturing. Arcs of marigold mingled with beams of streaming magenta and hues of violet, blending seamlessly, branching outward from a half-moon of fire, which glowed scarlet from behind a translucent layer of periwinkle, gold-tipped clouds. The streaks of color were reflected in the tranquil lake, the waters like a smooth sheet of glass, mirroring the sunset above it. Beyond the verdant lawns, Hogwarts castle stood silhouetted against the near-night sky, its towers and turrets appearing even more majestic and magnificent. The setting was purely serene, nature in its proper course. James breathed in the crisp evening air, feeling the invigoration in his lungs and the rush of adrenaline throughout his body.

He streaked off toward the goalposts, swerving in and out of the hoops, enjoying the flipping sensation in his stomach, relishing the breezes of wind rushing through his hair and whipping about his robes, reveling in the glorious feeling of being lighter than air, being the king of the world, being free.

That's what this was. Freedom. All worries and anxieties were left behind on the ground. All other appointments and activities could wait. He loved every particle of matter, every element of nature. He bore no grudges, had no fears. No one could judge him; no one could tell him the way things were supposed to be. He wanted to learn everything about everything, to better understand and embrace the glorious world.

He knew something was changing, and while it was confusing at the present, all would work out in the end, because it always did when he was in his special place. His answers were all there, just beyond that miraculous sunset, just beyond the horizon.

He was just James.

This was freedom, and the air was his to conquer.

* * *

The little old woman hobbled down corridor after corridor, without any clue as to where she was going. Each stone passageway looked the same as the next one, and every door seemed identical to the one before it.

Why had she come to Hogwarts castle now? She should have done this years ago, when she was still in her prime, with a memory strong enough to remind her whether or not she was going in circles.

She paused with a sharp intake of breath at a sudden acute pain searing through her left ankle. She grabbed the stone wall and lowered herself, cradling her ankle in her withered hands. She rocked back and forth, cursing herself for making such a long and tiresome journey at a time when she was no longer capable of accomplishing such a feat.

Why hadn't she done this when she was still a sprightly young witch, still with the ability to prevent so much pain and suffering? It had all been for nothing. If only she had come sooner.

She gave a tiny yelp at an unexpected throb from her foot.

"Hello? Who's there?" The voice of a young man called her from within the shadows.

"Over here! Please help me!"

The few seconds seemed like an eternity until a teenage boy came running to her, broomstick in hand. It was hard to make out his face. The boy was extremely tall, and the faint flickers of light that spasmodically gave the hallway an eerie glow were obscuring his features. In this poor illumination, he almost reminded her of someone else, a tall young man, with black hair...

Upon seeing her, he immediately knelt at her side. Through teary eyes she made out the forms of black-rimmed spectacles and a thin face. "Here," he said gently. "Let me help you."

He effortlessly scooped up the old woman in his arms, handling her carefully so as not to let her knock into the broomstick. "Thank you," she whispered jaggedly, trying not to faint from the pain.

"Would you like me to take you to the hospital wing? I'm sure Madam Pomfrey will be able to cure your ankle in an instant."

She shook her head. "No, thank you. I need to see Professor Dumbledore right away."

He sounded concerned. "Are you sure? It can't be good for you, trying to get around on that foot. I'm sure if she just looked at it-"

"No!" She felt the boy's arms contract for a moment in alarm. "No," she repeated, softer this time. "I must see Dumbledore immediately."

If the boy had any inquiries as to the reasons of her anxiety or her request, he showed no signs of making any motions to express that. He walked swiftly and gracefully, despite the weight in his arms. She silently thanked him for that. She found it hard enough to articulate and experience over again the guilt that she had felt every day for the last seven years even once; to burden her anonymous rescuer with the innermost remorse and regrets of an ancient old woman and have yet another scorn her for her selfishness, was just more than she could bear.

The boy carried her in silence for what seemed like an eternity. So long had she waited to free herself of her affliction. As much as she was dreading the things she would have to admit to, she felt that the moment would never be able to come soon enough.

The boy finally paused in front of a large block of stone. Between the dimness of the castle and her wretchedly poor eyesight, she was not able to make out its form.

"Pumpkin Pasty!" The boy declared, his eyes on the hulking mass.

It moved sideways, sliding out of view to reveal a large spiral staircase. On this, the boy stepped, carrying the bedazzled old woman, and the stairs moved upwards, to stop in front of a large majestic door.

He kicked the wood with his foot, as his hands were occupied. They waited for a few moments before a feeble voice called "Enter" through the door.

The door opened of its own accord, revealing an elderly wizard seated behind a grand mahogany desk. The room was illuminated by candles, allowing the woman to take in some of her surroundings had she wanted to. But she just looked imploringly at Dumbledore, who eyed her with an expression of curiosity and foreboding, as though he knew from her dismal countenance that whatever news she bore would be words of darkness and warning.

The headmaster looked up to meet the gaze of the boy. "Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"Excuse me, sir. I was returning from the Quidditch pitch when I found this woman. Her ankle is hurt, but she was very insistent on seeing you, Professor, even before she got any treatment."

The woman nodded her head briefly, wincing from the intermittent aches in her ankle, which now spread up to her shinbone.

Dumbledore motioned to the young man to leave her with him.

The boy called Potter delicately lowered the woman down to a plush armchair in front of the desk. "Thank you," she whispered, looking into his eyes, seeing there maturity blended with uncertainty and youthfulness, swirled in a whirlpool of countless shades of green and brown.

He nodded, tersely said farewell to his headmaster, and walked out of the door.

The old woman watched him leave, and then turned face Dumbledore, taking sharp intakes of breath, both because of the intolerable stabs of pain in her leg and because of the trepidation that was consuming her upon revealing her darkest secret.

He snapped his fingers together suddenly, and a tight bandage wrapped itself around her ankle, dulling her pain considerably.

"Thank you," she uttered.

Dumbledore did not reply; he merely gazed at her with an inquisitive intensity, waiting for her to speak.

She inhaled deeply, mentally preparing herself for what she had to do.

"I have something to tell you...Something I should have told you long ago."