The smell of blooming flowers filled both your nostrils. The greens and yellows, along with all the colors that would make Monet jealous, could only be described as something from a novel. Soft sounds of insects were closely followed by birds chirping. Oh, and his breathing. The small chuckles. The warmth of his voice. That was nice too, you supposed.

It wasn't often you found yourself alone with James. If he wasn't with his best friends—better known as the Marauders—he could be found with you. The wound-down version of him was something you held most dear. He was ravishing on about Quidditch strategies, something you knew very little of, but listened to nonetheless. Your head rested in James' lap, his hands lazily propped on the ground behind him to hold him up. At least until you felt him shift and his hands brushed through your hair instead, his fingers softly playing with a strand.

"I swear, if we don't win next match I might denounce my position as Captain," he chuckled as he continued speaking.