Counting Sheep

3. James

James Potter

September 1st, 1971

Amidst the bustling crowd around him, James itched at his new robes.

He tugged on the collar, the scratchy fabric suddenly feeling much more constricting than it had done so when he'd tried the robes on only two hours prior. It had felt smoother and looser then—in fact, the overall ensemble James had excitedly donned early in the morning had felt very comfortable in a surreal sort of way: new black robes, clean trousers, and polished dress shoes from his dad. He'd even tried to apply some hair gel to tame his hair, though he'd given up halfway through when his wild hair had seemed to just envelope the substance, as though each individual strand was casting that disappearing spell his mum always used on clothing lint onto the slippery substance.

Now, two hours later, not only was his hair still sticking up in the back like in the morning, but the smooth fabric of his robes had somehow transformed into an itchy, scratchy mess. Any excitement he'd previously harbored for today had slipped away to be replaced by a foreign, fluttering feeling in his chest. He didn't know what to categorize it as—if he didn't know any better, he'd almost say he was nervous.

"Stop that, honey." A hand gently pried James's fidgeting fingers away from his collar, ending the one-sided tournament of tug-of-war momentarily and breaking him out of his reverie.

Euphemia Potter smoothed her hand over James's hair fondly, wisps of her graying hair brushing against the just-there wrinkles on her face. "You'll pull the threads loose." She had to look down slightly to speak to her son, though this would not be the case in a few years.

For James, the sound of his mother's voice was a welcome distraction from the incessant itch of his robes. He grinned boyishly. "I thought they were a bit too tight anyway."

Next to James's mum, Fleamont Potter shook his head goodnaturedly, removing one arm from around his wife to pat James on the shoulder. "Look at you, already growing out of your robes." Although this was said with a humored chuckle, James thought he detected a hint of melancholy in his dad's voice.

They were standing at the platform at King's Cross Station. Overhead, a large sign with the number 9 ¾ hung. All around them, the bustling of the environment was pervasive—people hurried about, lugging large suitcases behind them and pushing overfilled carts through the crowd. Owls screeched as they were pushed by in big cages by adolescents in billowing black robes. Families mirroring James's littered the platform, with emotional parents giving tearful goodbyes to blubbering children and disgruntled teenagers.

Most grand of all was the scarlet train pulled in at the station, gleaming red all over its large body and puffing steam overhead, the foggy smoke whirling upwards and dispersing before the domed glass roof of the station. Its doors were open, revealing rows of compartments and red-suited crew members within. Painted in gold against its crimson side were the words: 'HOGWARTS EXPRESS' in glistening, pristine letters.

From the moment he'd stepped onto the platform, James had recognized the Hogwarts Express from his parents' stories; since he was a child, he'd always loved listening to his parents' anecdotes about their time together at Hogwarts as students. The three of them would gather by the fireplace in the Potter Manor library, and his mum and dad would just reminisce into the wee hours of the night, until James's bedtime was long passed, his parents were lost in past memories, and he himself was imagining the many years into the future in which he could experience such events as a Hogwarts student himself.

The many years had passed now, and the day James had been looking forward to for so long had finally come. From where he stood on the platform, he stared up at the crimson locomotive—this was his transportation to a new stage in life.