Presented as the contents of an old shoebox under Remus Lupin's bed, The Shoebox Project tells the story of Marauders-era Hogwarts through letters, photographs, and diary entries.
"This story will lift you up and make your life a little better, and...
Part Twelve: June, 1976. Career Counselling, End of Year Photographs Both Official and Un-Official, One Game of Poker, and a Goodbye.
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James lingers outside McGonagall's door, drumming his fingers nervously against the wall. He's been out here for fifteen minutes -- he was five minutes late when he arrived, and every time he's knocked since it's been met with an infuriating "Just a moment, Mr. Potter, if you please!" He's starting to think that maybe he's somewhat resentful that someone is getting career counseling during his scheduled time, and not just because he'd really rather be back at the common room with Sirius, working on the universal tracking spell for their Map. As he's considering his options -- "just leave" is starting to look like the best choice -- the door suddenly flies open, revealing a very dark-looking Severus Snape. James twitches away automatically.
"Potions, indeed," he snarls under his breath, and barely even seems to notice James as he stalks away, muttering something about stupid Gryffindor hags don't know what she's talking about better in Defense than those gits in her house but we'll see who gets advised to do that, huh… "You may come in, Mr. Potter," comes McGonagall's voice, sounding extremely weary.
James pokes his head around the door, feeling strangely as if he's entering a lion's den unarmed. This is the last month of his sixth year. In only four months' time, he's going to be top dog at Hogwarts, a promising Seventh Year with all the world at his feet and all the First Years there, too, giving his shoes a nice spit-shine. It doesn't serve that the very idea of meeting with McGonagall about his future -- and really, what can old McGoogles know about his future, to begin with -- makes him so nervous. Nothing should make him so nervous.
He's James Potter.
He's brilliant. "That looked like it was fun," he says. "Bet you he doesn't like to be told what to do or when to --right, no commentary on other students, closing my mouth now, sitting down." At McGonagall's tight-lipped expression of extreme disapproval James feels the little happy man inside his stomach roll over and die. "Sorry," he mumbles into his chest.
"Snotmyplacewe'reclearonthat."
"Excellent, Mr. Potter," McGonagall says. "You are a fast learner. I'm almost proud."
