"This year is my year!" James Potter proclaims as he lumbers ungracefully through the hallways of the Hogwarts Express. Voices buzz excitedly, engines roar and clank, muffled cries sound from passed compartments encasing first years (He could relate). There's even a distinct smell, a bittersweet scent, like pungent oil and burning coal. And maybe a hint of chocolate. He sends a lopsided grin to his friend. "It's in the air, Moony. Can't you just feel it?"
Remus makes an unattractive snort. He angled his body sideways to squeeze past his housemates, unlike the uncaring approach James has. "Uh huh, sure," the boy responds, softly rolling his eyes. "You definitely haven't said this every year."
In the middle of the hallway, James abruptly flips. His shoulders knock into people as they pass by, sending him glares. "Well, that's because every year might be my year. You never—"
All the sudden, a figure crashes into James, causing him to nearly lose his balance. Pain explodes, and he brings up a hand to his shoulder, frowning. They were oddly rough, like a jagged boulder. "Oh, sorry—"
"Oi! Watch it!"
Behind Remus's unashamed smirk, is a girl James's not seen before. She didn't even spare him a glance, only a fierce shout of scorn. He knows everyone, at least his age. She must've transferred. Her eye-burning pink jumper sticks out like a sore thumb in the crowded halls, yet it's her gull that hits him deep. Wherever she came from, they clearly didn't uphold etiquette. If she wasn't sorted now, she'd certainly be a Slytherin.
Whatever, James shakes his head. It's unlikely he'll have a run-in with her again—if he can help it. He really didn't need anything bogging down his year, especially so early.
"You see who that was?" Asks James, now more carefully maneuvering through the cramped hall. He shan't be repeating his mistake. Eyeing the cracks of age in the wood paneling and the frayed stitches of the carpet, James is reminded of his eventful first day. Back when the material wasn't so worn and things were a tad bit brighter. At eleven years, he belabored to the back, head ducked, totally ashamed and frightened, only to find a similar black haired boy as nervous as he was.
"Nah," answers Remus, shrugging. "New student most likely."
The Marauders' compartment—yes, dubbed so by the members—is harbored at the very end of the train. It's quiet, and it was the perfect place for a scared first year. Many a time he'd seen wizards attempt to magically fix the questionable strains on the carpet or stop the rattling of a loose screw, yet they always return. James finds comfort in the conformity. He can always rely on this rickety box, and his ragtag troop of friends, as well as the ripped seat cushions.
Most would consider it odd the loudest group at Hogwarts preferred the solitude of an alienable room, yet they've always delighted in their own company. Life ensues the minute the train halts, buzzing workloads and, in his case, exhaustive training. He'll partake in the peacefulness of his friends. Of course, scheming is always welcomed. It's best to plan ahead.
When the two finally arrive at their familiar smudged window, James' eyes instantly land on Sirius staring off in the distance, wistfully ruminating. He always seemed lost in thought, more so recently. Nevertheless, James slides open the doors. Arms raised outwards and a huge, lopsided grin on his face, he announces his presence, "Pads!"
