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Etiquette & Waltzing

by whimsicallydrifting

There is a certain etiquette involved in waking one's roommate, a procedure to be followed to ensure the harmonious passing of time between both people.

It should not involve a bucket of water. Absolutely not.

"Oi, wake up, arsehole. You have class." The loud and unfortunately familiar voice broke through the pleasant haze of sleep falling over him, punctuated by a poke on his shoulder.

James rolled over in his bed, burying his head in pillow. "M'no," he mumbled. "Classes" a yawn "—s'at eleven." He felt the waves of sleep recede, then rise again…

Another poke. "It's daylight savings."

A grunt. "So?"

A pause of silence, the sound of footsteps walking away then returning. "You're twenty minutes late." And then Sirius Black dumped a bucket of water over his head.

James shot upright in his bed, sputtering and shaking his head. "You—what the actual fuck Padfoot—" He wiped the water out of his eyes and glared mutinously at his best friend, whose blurry form was staring unapologetically at him.

"You wouldn't get up," was all Sirius said, then he turned and flounced away.

Sitting alone in his wet bed, soaked to the bone and very seriously contemplating murder—any sensible jury would acquit him on this one, he thought—it was only then that Sirius's words registered.

Daylight savings.

James shoved on his glasses, squinting at his bedside—the clock read 11:17.

Class was at eleven.

His curse echoed through the room. "Shit!"

vVv

There is absolutely no etiquette involved in being late for class.

James didn't think he'd ever gotten ready that fast—he didn't bother to brush his hair, shoved his legs into his pants backwards, buttoned only what kept him decent and non-pneumonic in November and Remus looked entirely confused when he raced down the stairs as fast as possible, stole the half-eaten bagel right out of Pete's hand, stopped to give Sirius the finger, and was out the door.

"God dammit, of course I had to live off campus," he wheezed to himself, pack hanging unzipped over one shoulder and his scarf trailing on the frosty sidewalk as he sprinted, attempting to eat at the same time and only succeeding in nearly choking. "Fucking Sirius's fucking idea. Why did I ever listen to him—?"

Oxford was a comparatively small town to his hometown of London, but his lungs, burning and aching (possibly from a stuck piece of bagel that just wouldn't go down. And it was garlic. He detested garlic), seemed to think the ten minute walk was more along the lines of a ten kilometer sprint when he entered the university campus, pushing through the masses of people and praying to whatever deity deigned to listen to him that it wouldn't start to rain.

His mother's voice rang in his head. It's always raining in England, James. He could picture her, standing in the garden and clicking her tongue at him as the slate grey skies—a perfect blue only minutes before—opened up. See?

The sky looked similarly grey today and a brisk wind was slicing through the stone courtyards, but James didn't pay any attention to that or the fact that he thought his fly might be unzipped (because dear God, it was freezing down there) only that his watch now read 11:31 and he was skidding to a halt in front of the double doors of the Theater department and racing down the empty corridor—

His glasses, perched precariously on his nose the entirety of his travel, finally gave up at aiding him in not bumping into other pretentiously misleading Homo sapiens and decided to take a little trip to the floor.