James Potter. Smiling.
Unsurprisingly, Lily wasn't with him, though neither were his friends. Which, when you thought about it later, seemed odd. You'd been curious about Peter, and beneath all the resentment, you wanted Black to admire you.
No broomstick, either, no Quidditch Cup; just James, tossing an ordinary pebble from hand to hand, at ease. His Muggle clothes and mussed hair looked so carelessly erotic, so different from your stilted, awkward form.
For months you touched yourself to that image before you finally realized: you weren't there beside him. You didn't want to have him. Just to be him.