Chapter Text
It was a cold, blustery Saturday morning in the middle of February, and James Potter was feeling uncharacteristically glum as he made his way towards detention. In the year and a half since arriving at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, detention had become less a punishment and more a regular feature of his academic career. In fact, James had elevated the practice of earning detentions to something of an art form. He currently held the record for the most detentions ever received by a Hogwarts second-year—a distinction he regarded with considerable pride.
Today’s punishment—polishing trophies in the trophy room, no magic allowed—was practically a gift compared to last week, when he and Sirius had been forced to help Professor Sprout extract Chizpurfle eggs from a nest they’d somehow made in her hair. Or the week before, in which he and Peter had endured a foul-smelling evening with Professor Kettleburn, manually massaging mucus-filled, constipated Flobberworms until they belched up a putrid shower of half-digested lettuce leaves all over their robes (James had sworn off salad indefinitely after that).
No, it wasn't the detention itself that was making him glum. He was quite used to detention and faced it with remarkable bravery (if he did say so himself). No, it was the solitude. A whole morning without Sirius. Without Remus. Without Peter. That was the real punishment. James was rarely alone in detention; usually, there was at least one of his friends alongside him. Sirius, almost always. Peter, fairly often. Remus, only when caught in the gravitational pull of the others' mischief.
Today, tragically, James was entirely on his own—all thanks to his arch-nemesis, Severus Snape. James had, in a bout of genius, devised a plan to ensure that Snape’s shoes would begin attempting to eat his toes on the walk back from lunch, causing him to break into an impromptu and wildly entertaining jig in the middle of the corridor. For a brief and glorious moment, the scheme had worked perfectly. Then, quite suddenly, it hadn’t. James, unfortunately, had been too busy laughing to notice his Head of House, Professor McGonagall, sweeping imperiously down the hallway towards him, and thus found himself resigned to a Saturday morning spent miserably alone.
James trudged up the corridor towards the trophy room, wand freshly confiscated by McGonagall, and shoved open the heavy oak door—only to come up short. Someone was already there.
The boy had a bucket of cleaning supplies in one hand, and a rag in the other. His green and silver tie loosened slightly beneath his robes. The boy looked up, blond hair fell lazily into eyes that were ridiculously blue—like someone had decided normal eyes weren't good enough and went full-on charm-happy on them. James frowned. Slytherin equalled enemy, that much was clear, but possession of the bucket and cleaning supplies gave this unknown quantity a temporary advantage. He decided it was best to proceed with caution, at least at first. He straightened, stuck his hands in his pockets, and sauntered forward confidently.
"So," said James, "are you in for murder too then?"
"Arson" the boy replied without missing a beat, his face impassive.
James raised an impressed eyebrow. "First offence?"
"No," the boy said meeting James's gaze steadily. "Just the first one involving major casualties.” A faint smirk twitched at the corner of the boy's mouth. "The curtains in the boys' dormitory won’t be crossing me again."
James laughed. He didn’t mean to. Slytherins weren’t supposed to be funny, but this one apparently was. The boy held out the bucket towards James. James hesitated for a moment before taking a cloth and a tin of polish.
"Better armed than defenceless, I suppose," he conceded, and then in the spirit of truce, added: "James Potter, by the way."
"I know," the boy said dryly. "Everyone knows the Gryffindor who thinks he’s clever."
"I am clever," James countered confidently.
"You got caught," the boy pointed out. "Can’t be that clever."
"You got caught too," James retorted.
The boy shrugged slightly. "True. Difference is. I've never claimed to be clever."
James paused, genuinely stumped for a moment when he couldn't think of an adequate comeback. He picked a random trophy and began to polish. The boy chose one at the opposite end of the room, but James could still see him in the mirrored surface of the plaques. He watched him as he worked, the boy was precise. No wasted movements.
“So, what’s your name, then?” James asked after a while.
The boy didn’t glance up. “Not going to tell you.”
"Why not," asked James.
"Because you’re mates with Sirius Black," the boy replied, tone flat and unimpressed. "And he’s a tosspot, which makes you one by association."
James blinked. He’d never heard the word tosspot before, but the delivery left James quite sure that whatever it meant, it wasn’t a good thing. There was a pause—a taut, who’ll-blink-first sort of silence. James usually won those. But the boy didn’t flinch, didn’t look away.
“You know,” said James. "I don’t think I like you very much.”
The boy snorted. “I’m devastated.”
James turned his back and re-focused his efforts on his trophy, scrubbing at a stubborn smudge that definitely hadn’t been there five minutes ago. The soft scuff of cloth and polish on metal filled the silence. Every so often, James caught the boy watching him in the reflection of a shield or the gleam of a goblet.
"You missed a bit," the boy said after a while, nodding at James’s trophy.
James squinted at it. "Did not."
"You did," the boy said, crossing the room with infuriating precision to tap the top of the cup. "Right there."
James rolled his eyes and gave the spot a deliberately aggressive scrub. "Happy now?"
The boy gave him a flat look. "I’d be happier if you spent less time looking at your own reflection and more time actually polishing."
James, who absolutely had been checking out his hair in the reflective surface of one of the larger trophies, flicked his polishing rag at the boy. The boy blocked it with his bucket in one fluid motion, the rag hitting the cracked plastic with a soft smack.
"Careful," the boy warned, looking more amused than annoyed. "Another stunt like that and I’ll revoke your bucket privileges."
James scowled at him, the boy went back to work. He was faster than James, and had gotten through a solid quarter of the trophies on his side of the room already.
"Bet your name is something stupid," said James. "Like... Balthazar. Or Eugene."
The boy looked at him, long and slow. "Not even close."
"Mulciber then," said James, naming the worst person he could think of. Mulciber was in the year above, and it was generally agreed upon by everyone James knew that he was about as awful as it was possible to be.
The boy let out a short, incredulous snort. "Do I really look that inbred to you?"
James sniggered. "Bit rude to slag off your own housemates, isn’t it? What happened to Slytherin loyalty?"
"Bold of you to assume I care enough to be loyal," the boy said, giving a dismissive shrug. He finished polishing the last trophy in his case and stepped back to inspect it with all the gravity of a professional curator. "That’s the problem with Gryffindors. You lot think everything has to be either mortal enemies or die-in-each-other’s-arms friendship." He turned towards James at last, folding his arms. "And for the record, Mulciber’s an even bigger tosspot than you—he’s just one in green."
James opened his mouth, half-ready to defend himself—but he was cut off.
"I’m done," the boy said, dusting his hands off and nodding towards James’s half of the room. "How much have you got left?"
James glanced behind him and winced. At least ten untouched trophies stared back at him in varying stages of filth—including one truly monstrous plaque that looked like it had survived a small war.
"…A manageable amount," he said, straightening as if posture could hide just how behind he was.
The boy didn’t say anything. Just crossed the room, dropped the bucket beside him with a dull thud, and knelt in front of the massive plaque with his rag and tin of polish.
James blinked. "Wait—you’re helping me?"
"Excellent powers of deduction you got there," the boy muttered, already scrubbing. He stopped after a minute and glanced up at James and then added dryly, "Don’t tell anyone—it’s bad for my reputation as a hardened criminal."
James barked a laugh despite himself.
"Thanks," he said, shooting him a sideways glance.
"Don’t mention it, Tosspot."
When they finally stepped out into the corridor outside Mcgnagall's office, wands returned and hands smelling like lemon and effort, James paused and watched the boy walk away, calm and self-contained, not so much as a backward glance. Not half bad. For a Slytherin at least, thought James as he started off in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. He didn’t think about that detention again. Not for a long time. Not until near the end of third year, when an unexpected encounter dragged the memory back.
It was mid-May, and James was sneaking across the darkened Quidditch pitch toward the equipment shed, cloak pulled tight, steps silent. He moved like someone on a covert mission of the up most importance.
Because, quite frankly, he was.
For nearly a month, he and Sirius had been locked in a head-to-head battle of brilliance: the Great Prank-Off. Not against each other—no, that would’ve been childish. This was about legacy. Daring. Showmanship. Who could one-up the other with the most ridiculous, outrageous stunt. The most recent instalment? Sirius had managed to enchant all the third-year Potions texts in the library to fart loudly whenever they were opened. James had retaliated with a toilet that insulted anyone not wearing red.
Tonight, though—tonight would tip the scales.
Operation: Quaffle.
He reached the door and gripped the handle with exaggerated caution. Now, James knew stealth. Or at least, he liked to think he did.
The shed door gave an almighty creaaaak as he eased it open.
James cringed. Froze. Heart thudding.
Silence.
He waited a beat longer, then slipped inside. Moonlight slanted through the gaps in the walls, painting the shed in pale silver stripes. It looked empty—brooms neatly lined up, a few storage crates, a ratty towel curled in one corner like a sleeping cat. All clear.
He let out a quiet breath and moved toward the back of the shed, already grinning. Brilliant. Utter hilarity. Sirius wouldn’t see it coming.
Too dark to see properly. James raised his wand.
"Lumos."
The wandlight flared—and landed squarely on a figure at the far end of the shed.
James froze. His breath caught. For a split second as he squinted trying to decide if it was a person or just something vaguely human shaped.
"Evening," said a bored voice. Calm. Unruffled. As if midnight lurking in broom sheds was perfectly ordinary behaviour.
James nearly jumped out of his skin. Definitely a person. A person perched on an upturned bucket in the far corner.
"Bloody hell," hissed James, raising his wand higher so that the light spilling out of the tip fell over the figure. It was a boy. Roughly his age. Still in school robes, with a loosened green-and-silver tie hanging lazily around his neck. His posture was relaxed, legs stretched out, hands folded over one knee.
Of course. A Slytherin. Because that’s exactly what James needed right now—one of them interrupting his stroke of prank genius. He lowered his wand a fraction, but didn’t put it away.
An awkward beat passed.
James cleared his throat. "What are you doing in here in the middle of the night?"
The boy shrugged, leaning back against the wall.
"What does it look like?"
It looked like he was doing absolutely nothing. Just sitting. On a bucket. In the dark.
"It looks like you’re sitting on a bucket."
"Correct."
James waited for more. Nothing came.
"You just—what—decided the view of the brooms was too good to resist?"
"People don’t come here to snog," the boy said simply, glancing around the dusty, web-laced corners of the shed. "Suppose the spiders ruin the mood. Unless you’re into that. Either way, less likely to be interrupted here than anywhere else."
Which… okay. Fair point.
"Interrupted sitting on a bucket?" asked James, feeling oddly curious despite himself.
The boy gave him a level look. Or at least James thought he did—his face was still half in shadow, and then asked, "what are you doing here in the middle of the night?"
James considered lying—he could spin some excuse, sneak back later—but something about the boy made him hesitate. Maybe it was the disinterest, maybe the anonymity. Either way, he decided to tell the truth, just to see what kind of reaction he’d get.
"I was planning to enchant all the Quaffles. Thought it might liven up the Slytherin–Hufflepuff match tomorrow."
"Tampering with Quidditch equipment. Bold of you," the boy said.
James raised an eyebrow, unable to help himself.
"Bold’s my middle name."
"How unfortunate," came the answer. "Your parents must hate you."
James shifted his weight, ignoring the jab about his parents. "Aren't you going to try and stop me?" He asked curiously.
The boy tilted his head, and then he said with conviction. "No."
James hesitated. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do now. He’d assumed he’d be alone. That he’d be cackling over a box of warbling Quaffles while the rest of the castle slept. But now there was this… audience. And for some reason, that changed things.
He cleared his throat. "All right, then. I’ll just—get on with it, shall I?"
The boy crossed his arms and leant back agains the wall, his bucket creaking slightly. "Don’t let me stop you."
Right. As if anything could stop James Potter mid-prank. He turned to the equipment shelves, pulling down the chest containing the Quaffles with a grunt. Then with one last glance at the boy, he raised his wand and began the enchantment he’d rehearsed that afternoon. It took time. Nearly half an hour. A few misfires, a brief scare when one Quaffle glowed ominously red, but eventually, it worked. James sat back on his heels, sweaty and triumphant, and tossed one of the charmed Quaffles into the air. It hovered, spun slightly—then began to sing. Celestina Warbeck’s unmistakable warble filled the shed: A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love, belted in rich, orchestral tones from the red ball.
James beamed. "Ha! There we go."
The Slytherin boy observed the shrieking Quaffle with an air of quiet analysis. After a few moments, he tilted his head slightly. Almost impressed. Maybe.
“Not bad.”
"What?" James said, catching the look. "Think you could do better?"
"No," the boy replied, without hesitation. "I’m really rubbish at Charms."
James blinked. "Anything you are good at? Apart from lurking in broom sheds."
That earned him a real reaction—just a flicker, a half-smile so brief it barely had time to exist.
"Yeah. Duelling."
James raised an eyebrow, it was probably meant to be a boast, but it was said with such casualness that it seemed more like the boy was simply stating a fact. The Quaffle did a brief loop the loop around James's head, crooning the second verse at top volume. The absurdity of the moment hit James all at once: It was almost too much. A laugh bubbled up. He tried to swallow it, managed only to muffle it with a hand.
"Well," James said, chuckling, "this is… nice."
The boy gave a small, unimpressed snort. "Not really a ballad man myself. But sure. Whatever gets you going."
That did it—James cracked. The laugh escaped fully now, sudden and bright. He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks a little flushed.
"Well," he said again, he caught the enchanted Quaffle, and shoved it back into its box, "that’s me done. I’ll leave you to your... bucket I suppose."
The boy stood, brushing off his robes with faint precision. "I’m ready to call it a night." He gestured toward the door. "Safety in numbers and all that bollocks?"
James considered him for a moment, wondering if somehow it was a trap. But he couldn't see how, so he shrugged. "Alright."
Outside, the air was cool against James’s face. The castle loomed ahead, quiet and dark, no sign of Filch or Peeves as they crossed the grass in silence.
James glanced sideways. Now that they were both standing, he could see the boy more clearly in the unfiltered moonlight—and, well, he was sort of... pretty. If you could call a boy pretty. Not in the same way Lily Evans was pretty, exactly, but still. He had one of those faces, the kind that looks good regardless of if it's on a boy or a girl: sharp angles, clean lines. A straight nose, strong jaw, sharp cheekbones. And his eyes—despite the silver cast of the moon—were unmistakably blue. Not just blue. Very blue. Blonde hair cropped short into a neat buzzcut. James was certain the boy wasn’t in his year—he’d have remembered him. He was sort of memorable. And yet something about him tugged at James’s memory, familiar in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
They reached the stone steps of the castle. The boy paused, turning to face James with a look that suggested he was weighing something. Then he said: “I’m going to make the Slytherin Quidditch team next year.”
His tone was flat. Certain. Like it was already decided.
James raised an eyebrow. Then shrugged. “Guess that means we’ll be playing each other,” he said after a beat. “If you do.”
James was on the Gryffindor team—made it that year along with Sirius. James was a Chaser. Sirius a Beater. They were good.
The boy nodded once. “We will.” And then he added: “If any of my kit starts singing, I’ll hex you.”
James snorted. Couldn’t help it. “What’s your name?” he asked. “So I know who to avoid.” He meant it as a joke. Mostly. But he was curious too—
The boy just smirked. “Still not telling. See you later, Tosspot.” And with that, he disappeared into the shadows of the castle.
Recognition struck like a rogue Bludger. Detention. A plastic bucket. Trophies and polish. Same smirk. Same eyes. A little taller now. Much shorter hair. But it was him. The same boy.
James blinked. How hadn’t he noticed earlier? He shook his head at himself—but the smile crept in anyway. Twice now, the same boy had wandered into his life, made him laugh, and then vanished without a name. The next morning, James scanned the sea of green and silver in the stands, looking for blond hair and a bucket’s-worth of attitude. Nothing. No smirk. No spark of recognition. All week, James found himself watching—absently, almost reflexively. The corridors. The Great Hall. Even the library, though that felt a stretch. He didn’t think Bucket Boy seemed like a swot. Not the type to hang out in the library.
The week spiralled past. He hexed Snivellus’s nose until it turned plaid and tripled in size. Lily Evans—right there in front of half the school—called him a “complete and utter toerag.”
Mortifying. And by the time the Hogwarts Express pulled away from Hogsmeade Station, the boy in the broom shed had been pushed back to the corners of James’s mind.
Their compartment was loud—predictably so. Sirius kept charming Peter’s Chocolate Frogs to hop away whenever he tried to bite into them, which had already led to one spectacular collision with the window. Remus, ever long-suffering, had his book open and a quill tucked behind his ear, but James noticed he hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes. Occasionally he muttered corrections at Sirius under his breath.
“I’m telling you,” Sirius said, sprawled sideways across two seats, “we should rewrite the Map to track Peeves. It would save us a tone of trouble.”
“Assuming you can figure out how to adjust the tracking charm for a poltergeist,” Remus said. "Then yes, it would be useful."
“I think between me and James we could do it,” said Sirius confidently.
There was a lull in conversation. James watched Sirius surreptitiously aim his wand at Peter's last chocolate frog, it kept out of his hands and onto his head causing Peter to nearly fall off his seat as he made a grab for it.
“Pete mate," said Sirius with a sardonic grin, "stop wrestling your sweets, you look deranged.”
James laughed, then stretched, and stood. “I’m going to find the trolley witch,” he announced. “We need reinforcements.”
“Get me something that explodes,” called Sirius after him.
James wandered out into the corridor, squinting as the bright sunlight poured through the windows. It was quiet for once, most of the train settled and occupied. He was halfway to the next carriage when it happened. He pushed through one of the doors connecting the carriages too quickly and nearly collided with someone. Two someones.
“Watch it, Tosspot.”
James’s heart jumped. Actually jumped. Like a Snitch had fluttered in his chest.
“S’cuse me,” James said, backing up half a step.
A blonde buzzcut—very blue eyes. It was definitely him. Same as before. Next to him was a small girl with long blonde hair and a Ravenclaw tie. She looked up at James curiously as she passed, her arm linked through the boy's.
James watched the pair walking away, and then on a whim called out after them "Oi, Bucket Boy."
The boy stopped. Turned. Slowly.
“Have a good summer,” said James, and for reasons he couldn’t entirely explain, he meant it.
The boy smirked at him, then nodded once. And then he turned back down the corridor, the way James had come, the girl trailing beside him. James stood watching the pair go for a moment longer than he needed to, a strange sense of satisfaction settling into his chest. Then he continued on down the train in his search of sweets.