DISCLAIMER: I own no part of the Harry Potter universe. (Duh.)

As I make my way back to my flat that evening, I realise I've been thinking about him ever since I left the train at London Bridge.

Huh. That's certainly...unexpected. I'm usually not one to obsess over blokes; I'm much more likely to obsess over my course work, or my next-to-nil career prospects. But not blokes. Especially not blokes that I've only spoken to for mere minutes on a crowded Jubilee line train.

And yet, he seems to have taken up residence inside my head. His crooked grin and rather swotty specs (insofar as specs can be swotty) have flitted through my mind while I was meeting my study group, while I was sat in my early evening lecture, and now again that I'm back on the tube. I half expect him to appear in my carriage at the next station.

But he doesn't, of course. That would've been far too easy. No, the universe would much rather tease me by magically placing tantalizing, mystery men in my path only to whisk them away before pertinent details (such as names and contact information) can be exchanged.

Though I suppose, to be fair, he wasn't "whisked" away. Not precisely. More like I was so involved listening to him prattle on about literature while trying to surreptitiously stare at his lovely hazel eyes that I nearly missed my station and had to dash pell mell off the train like a fool. Stupid handsome bugger.

By the time I reach my flat I'm in a full-on sulk. I am the walking representation of that scene in Amélie where she collapses into a puddle of misery on the floor. That's me: Little Miss Misery Puddle. I'm about to settle in for a night of sad telly and a pint of ice cream when my social gadfly of a flatmate, Marlene, makes it her mission to pull me out of my funk. God bless Marlene. We end up heading down to the pub where I have a drink or six and spend the night moaning to her about shaggy-haired bespectacled sex gods (I mean, he could've been), and she makes all of the right sympathetic and supportive responses. When we stumble back home hours later I am well pissed. It feels good.

I make it through much of the next day without thinking too much about Mr. Shag-Who-Got-Away. (Marlene's nickname for him, but it has a certain je ne sais quoi.) I mentally congratulate myself on my fortitude and strength of character. Plus, it turns out that a pounding headache and a mountain of coursework can do wonders to focus the mind.

Two days gone, and I'm doing splendidly. I only think of him once an hour. Once every thirty minutes, maximum.

Three days gone, and it's Marlene who notices the ad—Marlene always notices those kinds of things.

"Question for you," she says, leaning against my bedroom door with her laptop in her hands and a sly smile on her lips. "You still carrying that Oscar Wilde book with you everywhere you go?"

"What..? Well, yes, it's for that course project..." I'm confused, and rightly so. Marlene is probably the least studious person I know. Naturally, her query had nothing to do with uni.

"That's what I thought!" she exclaims, a triumphant gleam in her eye. "Listen to this: Oscar Wilde on the Jubilee Line, 19/3/2014 around 14:30. You—early 20s, beautiful auburn hair, lovely green eyes, gorgeous smile. Me—early 20s, slightly tongue-tied bloke, messy hair, 'rather swotty' glasses (your words)."

When she first starts reading, I'm sceptical, verging on annoyed. Marlene knows full well that I have vowed to forget my sexy stranger. But when she gets to "rather swotty" I'm out of my chair like a rocket and ripping the laptop out of her hands.

"WHAT? Let me see that." And then I'm hastily reading the missed connections ad:

Oscar Wilde on the Jubilee Line, 19/3/2014 around 14:30

You—early 20s, beautiful auburn hair, lovely green eyes, gorgeous smile.

Me—early 20s, slightly tongue-tied bloke, messy hair, "rather swotty" glasses (your words).

I got on at St. John's Wood and sat next to you. Worked up the nerve to comment on the Oscar Wilde text you had, and we chatted about your lit course until you left at London Bridge.

Should've got your name—I quite fancy another chat.

Let me take you out to dinner? Please contact me.

It's him! It's definitely swotty specs! And he's definitely describing me! My libido breaks into a raucous celebration, complete with streamers and confetti. Marlene is clearly the greatest mate a girl could have. I want to hug her and jump up and down and shout until I'm hoarse.

"So? What are you going to write to him?" she asks. Because there it is, at the top of the ad, a little button reading Reply. "I mean, you do want to meet up with him, right?"

"Yes! Of course I do!" But now that it's a real life possibility, I'm feeling more nervous. Thinking about him was one thing, but meeting in the flesh? There's potential for all manner of embarrassing fuck-ups, or worse. He could be mental, or a stalker, or one of those pretentious gits who like to brag about not owning a telly and only watching independent film.

When I voice these thoughts to Marlene, the look on her face makes it plain that I'm the mental one. Which hurts, I suppose, but it's nothing I wasn't already aware of. Plus, she makes all kinds of promises that she'll follow me when I meet him, and we'll have phone signals worked out, so that makes me feel somewhat more confident about the whole affair.

The writing of the response, however, is proving to be a complete disaster. Marlene is clearly a horrible mate who cares not a jot for my future happiness, as her suggested responses consist of the following:

Dear potential sex god

Dear super shaggable

So what should we name our children?

I veto all of these, with much eye-rolling and pointed stares.

After about an hour, and much intense discussion, I have settled on the following text:

Dear swotty specs,

I'm sorry I had to dash out at London Bridge like that. I was enjoying listening to your interesting (albeit misguided) theory that the works of Lewis Carroll are somehow superior to those of Oscar Wilde.

I'd fancy another chat with you as well—you clearly don't know as much about literature as you think you do. Would love to get dinner sometime. My number is 07455 624421.

Your mystery red-head

Yes, a person reading English lit took that long to craft this missive, which is, at best, a barely passable response. Yes, I know it's pathetic. But Marlene and I agree that while pathetic, it hits all the proper notes: a little bit cheeky, very clear on the fact that I was interested, and enough detail to let him know that I was the actual red-head from the train and not some ginger imposter.

After reading over the reply roughly fifty times, I finally hit send. I think Marlene and I are both holding our breath, as if her laptop might explode or similar. It's something of an emotional letdown, to be honest. Now I have to sit about and wait, something I'm not particularly skilled at. What if it takes him days to get back to me? What if he thinks my reply is utter shite and never gets back to me? Fuck. Fuckety bloody fuck fuck!

That's when I hear my mobile ringing. I almost kill myself in my race across the bedroom to grab it, Marlene hot on my trail. Seeing an unfamiliar number, we indulge in a momentary happy dance before I put on my "I am a very serious adult face" and answer the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this mystery red-head?"

My heart almost stops beating. I can vaguely feel Marlene pawing at my arm, mouthing, "Is it him?"

"Yes...is this swotty specs?"

"Yes."

There is a pause then. I grin at Marlene and nod like a maniac.

"I'm James Potter." James Potter. It's a good name. I decide I like it very much.

"Hello James Potter. I'm Lily Evans.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is my first foray into an AU...yay! I may write additional chapters if people are interested in seeing how their date goes. Reviews appreciated! Thanks for reading.