Whimsical {James Potter}

Chapter 22

Chapter 22: Midnight Moments

The day is a perfect one. In terms of the weather in any case. Steady snowfall through the night, leaving the air crisp and clear in the morning. Cressida had been up before dawn, reciting the chant that she must continue to do so every dawn and dusk until the fateful electrical storm surges through the air.

What Remus had said a few days prior has lingered in her mind like a cold that just won't be rid of. Left-out. Cressida had never doubted her spot in their little group before, and she doubts she ever would have if Remus hadn't said those two words. Because if they are thinking it, then there must be some truth. Is she on the edge? Is she the odd one out?

No doubt Cressida is the outlier, but that had never been of concern before. Muggleborn. The female. Not particularly talented at anything other than charms and few duelling techniques. Is that what it is barred against? How much magical knowledge she has to offer? If it were, it would not be her at the bottom of the group. So what makes her stand to the side in their heads?

And that is what she thinks about the entire day, coming to no conclusion.

And Sirius. Sirius is still bugging her.

Stretched out on her temporary bedding, Cressida has her new diary opened. A small bottle of ink balances on a spare book. The sound of a quill scratching the pages is oddly satisfying and draws her entire focus away from everything else. Her small sketches are roughly drawn and of nothing in particular, simply to keep her hand and mind busy. A drooping flower, a toadstool, the sorting hat. They become more and more obscure the longer she is locked up in her room.

Cressida doesn't even consider the notion that James would be seeing them since he's been occupied downstairs all day. But alas, during the middle of a sketch of a troll, her door creaks. Her head perks up impulsively, one hand ready to shut the dairy but those defences relax as the guest is none other than James himself.

"Pretty drawings," he says, smiling from the corner of his mouth. Cressida only smiles meekly in return. Placing the lid back on the ink, she pulls herself up to a seated position as James takes place on the side of the mattress.

"They weren't exactly anything to be shown," she murmurs. "It must be boring downstairs if you're occupying yourself with watching me draw."

James shrugs. "The others are playing exploding snap. Don't really fancy singing my hair off." Out of his own habit, his finger comb through the slightly curled locks. "It's too good to risk."

"And you want me to cure your boredom?"

"Precisely." James tilts his chin up and on an angle. "Come play some chess with me. If you didn't know already, I've got a brand new board and I think you should have the honour of being my opponent."

Cressida considers the offer. Stay holed up in her room until supper, or play a game that will occupy her mind even more so than drawing. "I want to be white."

James purses his lips together, eyes squinting as his cheeks raise and clicks his tongue. "See, that's going to be a problem, because I always play white." Cressida eyes off his lounging pose, debating her next move.

"Pity," she drawls. "Because I'm going to get there first."

For once in her lifetime, she moves quicker than James. Her laugh echoes through the manor's corridors, James heavy footsteps right behind her. It isn't until she reaches the bottom of the wide stairs that he catches up with her. Cressida' feet whip up off the ground, fingers curling around the wide forearms pulling her stomach into her kidneys. Her slightly shorter stance gives him the advantage he needs, depriving her of using her legs to evade him.