give her love » james potter

4

NEWT level classes suck.

Muggle Studies is the only decent one out of them all, it's really useless for me to even be in it when I could probably teach it, but at this point in my life I could honestly care less what's important, all I want is to finish school with at least decent grades.

The farther you get in Hogwarts, the smaller certain classes get, as people start to specialize in whatever career they plan on. Once and awhile a class might have all four houses, which can either go decent or very bad. Whenever you have Slytherins in classes nowadays it's usually just bad, none of them take this class for reasons like pure-blood prejudices and muggle propaganda.

There are fourteen people in the class, and O'Connor and I are the only Hufflepuffs in it. But we don't really matter in the grand scheme of things, we're only Hufflepuff, basically insignificant in the eyes of almost everyone, except maybe the Minister of Magic who is an alumnus. What really matters is that the Marauders are in our class and as our local boy band basically, girls wait for them when class ends and some dedicated fans have even taken the class in hopes of making one of them fall in love with them.

Sometimes I realize how much I think about them myself and wonder, am I one of their fans?

Then kick myself mentally and say, no, in this brain we only have room for one boy band and that's the Sex Pistols.

"Now, as much as I love the topic of muggle sports, we must move on," Professor Jackman says, sadness coating his voice thickly. I hear a sigh from the room and I scrunch my nose. One of Ravenclaw girls has gotten it into her head that he's a silver fox, and it has gotten very annoying very quick. "We're going to start a project! Come on now, some enthusiasm would be nice," Sirius Black lets out a loud whistle, "yes, thank you, Mr. Black. Now, I don't want to constrict your creativity, so I will give it lots of openness. I simply want you to show what you have learned, in a creative way. It can be anything from Pop Culture to Politics, or even Gardening. Then you get present it any way you'd like, a song, play, just a normal presentation, it really doesn't matter, I want you to show me that you've learned something over the last few years."

Jackman continues to talk about the project giving examples, due dates and a list of expectations. We all listen absentmindedly, half of our brains in here and the other sitting in some daydream, then he says the word.

"Partners have been assigned by myself," a collective amount of groans ripple through the classroom. "Ay, you guys need to have some faith in me. It's not like I assigned you with your mortal enemy or anything. It's simply alphabetical," he says, then starts to read out his list.

My brain does a one-eighty of sorts, trying to think of who could be my partner, P, P, P.

"Pierce and Potter."

I like to think I'm smart, but sometimes my brain is that of a four-year-old.

My eyes zoom in on the boy who is already starting his walk towards me. He's tall, with dark hair, and glasses that emphasize his eyes. Everything about him reeks with something I can't quiete place. Charm? Aristocracy? Life?

James Potter arrives at my desk and looks at me with that most infectious grin I have ever seen, and my mouth almost wants to replicate it. Then he opens his mouth, "Okay, so imagine this," he moves his hands dramatically. "You are John and I am George because you seem like the thoughtful type and--well it's obvious I'd be George, just look at me. I ooze sexuality and charm. We could get Pad--Sirius to be Paul, but I think he'll be a horrible co-star and try to take the spotlight away from us. Now, we are fighting some kind of evil, like the government or death eaters, but the twist is; it's a musical and all the songs are ABBA songs. Maybe there's this girl, and, like, she doesn't know who her father is so we have to--"

"Are you on crack, Potter?" The words tumble out of my mouth before I can even wrap my head around the last ten seconds because my head has turned into pudding. "That sounds horrible."

He blinks, as if not believing I, a Hufflepuff, have just uttered negative words. Then he rolls his eyes. "No it's a very good one, it would be a terrific movie too! Maybe there might be space for a creative perspective, and it should be set in . . . Greece! But I know, that people would love it and god, Pierce, we should do it."

"I love ABBA," I tell him, "but I will not subject myself to this. I have higher standards."

"But you dated Sam Bellfinckle, I'd like to think my ideas better than that tosser."

The Head Boy from last year pops into my head, and I grimace. Samuel wasn't my best decision, but when I was asked out in front of the whole school it wasn't as if I could've said no.

I stare at him. "No."

He furrows his brows. "Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

The words are our bullets, and it's like we're to soldiers in war, trying to get the best shot at our opponent. Jokes on him though, my father is--was a history professor and I've listened to many of his lectures throughout the years, and I could probably recite his WWI one by heart.

"Miss Pierce. Mr. Potter. I'm sure you two have come up with a lovely plan," Professor Jackman's voice says, we both turn to him he staring at us pointedly. "When the time comes, I'm sure you'd love to go first."

James' elbow, which is very sharp and, surprisingly, boney, jabs into my rib cage.

"We'd love to sir," I say sweetly, being sure to glance at James, "James over here has even decided we might enter it in movie festivals."

My words seem to make Jackman excited. "Oh, so it seems you've decided to film it?"

James nods. "Yes, high precision camera. Pierce here, seems to have the best model at her house, and all our friends are gonna make cameos."

It's like Professor Jackman is a kid at the candy store and we've told him his favorite candy is on sale. "Not surprised at all, you two have always been keen at this class." He pauses and shakes his arms. "Oh lord, I'm already getting goosebumps."

The professor leaves very excitedly, and dread coats my veins. We have dug ourselves a very deep grave because James Potter does not know when to stop and he seems to get me riled up with his words, if my social resistance wouldn't crumble, I would probably hit him with my shoe.

"We're fucked," he says.

I frown. "Very."