cigarette daydream || james potter

"lookin' for the answers in the pourin' rain,"

The cold, biting wind of the previous night had died down, leaving the high stone towers of Hogwarts bathed in the crisp, fragile light of an October dawn. Estella blinked her eyes open as the first rays of the orange sun cut through the heavy velvet curtains of her four-poster bed, painting the wooden floorboards in a warm, amber glow. The air in the dormitory was chilly, carrying the faint, earthy scent of woodsmoke from the common room fireplace below. For a moment, she didn't move. She could feel a heavy, comforting warmth rising and falling against her chest-Oliver, her massive ginger tomcat, had curled himself into a tight, furry ball right over her ribs. Smiling faintly, she reached up a hand, her fingers sinking into his thick, soft fur to pet him right behind his ears. Oliver let out a deep, vibrating purr that rumbled against her chest, his claws gently kneading her duvet in pure contentment.

Very carefully, trying not to disturb his morning nap, Estella scooped the heavy cat up and shifted him onto the empty patch of mattress beside her. Oliver let out a soft, disgruntled mew but immediately curled back up into a ball, his tail tucking over his nose. Estella swung her legs out of bed, the cold stone floor sending a sharp, sudden shiver straight up her spine. She grabbed her uniform from the trunk at the foot of her bed and began to get changed, the fabric stiff and cold against her skin. She pulled on the crisp white button-up shirt, her fingers moving nimbly down the front, but she intentionally left the very top button undone. She absolutely despised the suffocating, tight feeling of the collar pressed right up against her throat.

Next came the pleated grey wool skirt, which she pulled up and fastened at her waist, followed by the familiar red-and-gold Gryffindor tie. She looped the silk fabric around her collar, pulling the knot up just high enough to look respectable but loose enough to breathe. Sitting back down on the edge of the mattress, she reached for her favorite pair of black Converse. The canvas shoes were worn and heavily scuffed, the rubber soles still caked with dried, crumbly mud from the wide, windswept fields back home in Yorkshire where she had spent her summer running through the moors. She tugged them onto her feet, tying the laces in quick, practiced motions.

Slinging her heavy leather schoolbag over one shoulder-the straps digging into her collarbone from the weight of the massive charms books she'd smuggled back from the library-Estella stood up and walked toward the tall, ornate mirror hanging near the door. She stopped, taking a moment to look at herself in the glass. The reflection staring back at her looked thoroughly exhausted. The relentless midnight research sessions and the stress of the ongoing prank war had taken their toll; deep, dark purple bags shadowed the skin beneath her eyes, and her blonde curtain bangs framed a pair of sharply sunken cheeks.

But it wasn't her tired eyes that made her pause. Estella's gaze locked onto the jagged, pale line of the deep scar cutting across her skin, a permanent reminder of a dark night she preferred not to think about. The sight of it always made her stomach twist with a faint, phantom ache. Chewing the inside of her cheek, she reached up with a slightly trembling hand, gently tugging a few long strands of her curtain bangs forward, carefully arranging the hair until the thick fringe fell just right, veiling the silver tissue from sight before she finally turned away from the glass.

The heavy silver bands on Estella's fingers clinked softly against one another as she continuously fiddled with them, sliding the metal up and down her knuckles in a restless, rhythmic habit. The morning air in the stone corridors was crisp, carrying the sharp scent of damp earth and fallen leaves from the grounds outside. As she made her way down to her first class of the day, her trainers slapping quietly against the flagstones, she passed the open-air archways leading into the quad. A sudden movement caught her eye. There, sitting precariously on the low stone wall of the courtyard, was Remus. He was enveloped in a lazy, gray cloud of smoke that drifted up into the autumn air, the acrid, bitter scent of cheap tobacco instantly cutting through the morning breeze.