James Potter (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alotofgood) wrote2010-12-23 11:52 am
alotofgood) wrote2010-12-23 11:52 am
Entry tags:
post-001. december 1975.
December 24, 1975 — 16:30 hours.
London, England.
The Potter Residence.
"Whyyydihdihaf'tbeepeet'r?" James moans into his pillow, his voice muffled in goose-down feathers and linen.
"— what's that?"
James repeats himself.
"Look, Potter. I don't understand 'Whiny Nonce'. You're going to have to enunciate."
James lifts his head. "Peter," he repeats. His glasses are mashed up against his face, lenses slightly smudged. "Why'd it have to be him?"
Sirius groans. "Oh. That again."
"You brought it up," James growls. "I was fine, you know —" He shifts so he's lying on his back now, pillow behind his head. The comforter gets mildly disheveled in the process. "— or it seemed that way anyway, when we were —"
"In that bloody pub at the end of the universe?"
"Yes."
"The same one you're obviously making up because there's no such bloody thing?"
"No." James kicks at his best mate's leg with the tip of his sneaker. Sirius swats at him with James' Quidditch magazine. On the cover, Joseph Fitzherbert of Puddlemere United waves from his broom. "I just haven't figured out a way to get you there."
"Yeah, all right." Sirius pretends to go back to his reading, which only makes James want to kick at him again.
He does.
"Oy! Potter, stop being an annoying twat." He sighs heavily and puts the magazine down. "All right. For the hundredth time. She kissed Peter because the poor bloke needed some encouragement. If anything, Evans did us all a favour. No need to get involved in illegally charmed mistletoe anymore. Maybe we ought to send her a box of Bertie Botts to thank her —"
James snorts bitterly. "You know as well as I do the illegal charms are the best part."
Sirius shrugs because James is right.
"— but why Evans?"
"Because, you idiot, you had to go and tell her everything. Why do you do that, anyway? When you see her, it's like your tongue just falls right out that mouth of yours and you're spilling every secret we've ever had."
"I don't," he protests, but it sounds weak. Even to him. He doesn't know why. It's like he wants her to know everything about him, even the bits she might not want — or need — to know. It's the eyes. Or maybe her hair. Or maybe it's the fact that she could, quite literally, hex answers out of him and he'd really rather keep his nose right where it is.
"Right." Sirius waves a hand. "So you go and tell her everything, and as a thank-you, she goes and plants a rather dazzling little kiss upon one unsuspecting chubby bloke with bad skin and a penchant for stuttering," he continues. "It's not like she fancies him or anything. They're not going to start going out by next year, if that's what you're worried about."
"Why would you even say that?" James sits up, looking appropriately horrified. He sits there, stewing on the thought — Sirius even thinks he might get some reading done now — before he straightens. "But just in case, perhaps someone ought to tell Wormtail that. Have you got any parchment paper on you? I could send him an owl right now —"
Sirius starts to laugh.
"I hope," he says in between snorts, "I never catch whatever you've got. You've stooped to some new heights of patheticness, even for you."
"I could kick you out the window in nothing but your Y-fronts," James threatens. He points to the tall window to his right. "It's snowing. It's a nippy minus thirteen degrees. I suspect a little underage magic would be forgiven by the Ministry on account of a shoddy mate trying to ruin Christmas."
But his best friend only starts to grin, which is even more maddening than anything. "Look, James. I'm inexplicably, utterly, ardently, terribly sorry for bringing it up again. If I knew the cost of you getting uncomfortable and mopey was ... well, you whinging for three days straight, I would've shut my ruddy mouth from the get-go."
"Yeah," James says. "Yeah. Serves you bloody right then, doesn't it? Evans and I even had civil conversation without any threats of bodily mistreatment. Oy — not like that, you effing pervert. Anyway, I reckon I was nearly ready to ask her out again. And then you had to go and bring up the mistletoe again."
"Really, Potter?" Sirius gives him an exaggerated look of enthusiasm. "I'll get the camera. This ought to make a nice addition to your scrapbook. We could write beneath it, 'Potter Gets Slapped By Evans For the Thirty-Millionth Time'. And in brackets, 'Surprised he hasn't got Evans' hand imprinted into his cheek'. It'll be brilliant."
"I really will kill you, Padfoot."
Sirius laughs. "You could show it to your children when you and Evans are appropriately shacked up."
After a moment of surly sulking, which only makes Sirius laugh harder, James rolls his eyes. He's been defeated this round, and they both know it.
"I don't suppose you'll be there to hear the story."
"Are you bloody kidding me? I'll be the one telling it."
London, England.
The Potter Residence.
"Whyyydihdihaf'tbeepeet'r?" James moans into his pillow, his voice muffled in goose-down feathers and linen.
"— what's that?"
James repeats himself.
"Look, Potter. I don't understand 'Whiny Nonce'. You're going to have to enunciate."
James lifts his head. "Peter," he repeats. His glasses are mashed up against his face, lenses slightly smudged. "Why'd it have to be him?"
Sirius groans. "Oh. That again."
"You brought it up," James growls. "I was fine, you know —" He shifts so he's lying on his back now, pillow behind his head. The comforter gets mildly disheveled in the process. "— or it seemed that way anyway, when we were —"
"In that bloody pub at the end of the universe?"
"Yes."
"The same one you're obviously making up because there's no such bloody thing?"
"No." James kicks at his best mate's leg with the tip of his sneaker. Sirius swats at him with James' Quidditch magazine. On the cover, Joseph Fitzherbert of Puddlemere United waves from his broom. "I just haven't figured out a way to get you there."
"Yeah, all right." Sirius pretends to go back to his reading, which only makes James want to kick at him again.
He does.
"Oy! Potter, stop being an annoying twat." He sighs heavily and puts the magazine down. "All right. For the hundredth time. She kissed Peter because the poor bloke needed some encouragement. If anything, Evans did us all a favour. No need to get involved in illegally charmed mistletoe anymore. Maybe we ought to send her a box of Bertie Botts to thank her —"
James snorts bitterly. "You know as well as I do the illegal charms are the best part."
Sirius shrugs because James is right.
"— but why Evans?"
"Because, you idiot, you had to go and tell her everything. Why do you do that, anyway? When you see her, it's like your tongue just falls right out that mouth of yours and you're spilling every secret we've ever had."
"I don't," he protests, but it sounds weak. Even to him. He doesn't know why. It's like he wants her to know everything about him, even the bits she might not want — or need — to know. It's the eyes. Or maybe her hair. Or maybe it's the fact that she could, quite literally, hex answers out of him and he'd really rather keep his nose right where it is.
"Right." Sirius waves a hand. "So you go and tell her everything, and as a thank-you, she goes and plants a rather dazzling little kiss upon one unsuspecting chubby bloke with bad skin and a penchant for stuttering," he continues. "It's not like she fancies him or anything. They're not going to start going out by next year, if that's what you're worried about."
"Why would you even say that?" James sits up, looking appropriately horrified. He sits there, stewing on the thought — Sirius even thinks he might get some reading done now — before he straightens. "But just in case, perhaps someone ought to tell Wormtail that. Have you got any parchment paper on you? I could send him an owl right now —"
Sirius starts to laugh.
"I hope," he says in between snorts, "I never catch whatever you've got. You've stooped to some new heights of patheticness, even for you."
"I could kick you out the window in nothing but your Y-fronts," James threatens. He points to the tall window to his right. "It's snowing. It's a nippy minus thirteen degrees. I suspect a little underage magic would be forgiven by the Ministry on account of a shoddy mate trying to ruin Christmas."
But his best friend only starts to grin, which is even more maddening than anything. "Look, James. I'm inexplicably, utterly, ardently, terribly sorry for bringing it up again. If I knew the cost of you getting uncomfortable and mopey was ... well, you whinging for three days straight, I would've shut my ruddy mouth from the get-go."
"Yeah," James says. "Yeah. Serves you bloody right then, doesn't it? Evans and I even had civil conversation without any threats of bodily mistreatment. Oy — not like that, you effing pervert. Anyway, I reckon I was nearly ready to ask her out again. And then you had to go and bring up the mistletoe again."
"Really, Potter?" Sirius gives him an exaggerated look of enthusiasm. "I'll get the camera. This ought to make a nice addition to your scrapbook. We could write beneath it, 'Potter Gets Slapped By Evans For the Thirty-Millionth Time'. And in brackets, 'Surprised he hasn't got Evans' hand imprinted into his cheek'. It'll be brilliant."
"I really will kill you, Padfoot."
Sirius laughs. "You could show it to your children when you and Evans are appropriately shacked up."
After a moment of surly sulking, which only makes Sirius laugh harder, James rolls his eyes. He's been defeated this round, and they both know it.
"I don't suppose you'll be there to hear the story."
"Are you bloody kidding me? I'll be the one telling it."