Whimsical {James Potter}

Chapter 4: Hot Stuff

Chapter 4: Hot Stuff

The rain is the loudest thing in her small world. It pelts against the earth with unforgiving power, drowning any soul or dares to refuse shelter. Or those too unfortunate not to find it. Fortunately for Cressida, she is warmly huddled in the safety of the manor under a woven rug and in the comfort of the instrumental room. Ironically, it is one of the quietest and most isolated places.

Miraculously, Kirk had returned even through the rain, not long ago with a response from Remus who James had written to him a few days prior and now Cressida reads over it, smiling softly as his well-written words. Also ironically, despite his more inclined aptitude towards academic activities, Remus does not have the most elegant styled hand. That title is awarded to Sirius. Though, Cressida supposes it has nothing to do with academics and all to do with upbringing. A noble pureblood with gaunt lettering would be a disgrace. She snorts loudly at the thought, noting that his handwriting would be the least of Sirius' family's problem with him.

Everything that boy does is an act of rebellion against them. From his Hogwarts House to the long hair and embracing of muggle culture. For a while, she was even surprised that he continued to call himself a Black, but she soon realised that keeping the name is the biggest insult to the rest of the Black family who would wish nothing but to erase him. A big Fuck You.

Remus letter is simple but fulfilling. His father and mother are kind people who do their best to provide for him, despite their rough circumstances. Even with his father's job in the ministry, they still struggle for money even more than she does.

Finishing reading over it for a second time, Cressida folds it back up once again, holding it to her chest in a moment of reflection.

"Thought I'd find you in here." Cressida's eyes snap to the only entrance to the small room where James strides it. He's put on another layer – a thick grey hood. Very unlike his everyday style, but very much belonging to his array of comfortable clothes. "You look half-asleep."

"I'm tired," she says.

His left brow raises as he saunters further into the room, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his pants. "You haven't done anything all day."

Her head lulls to the side with a brief expression of disdain. "Because I'm tired," she repeats. "Are you here to cure your boredom or for something actually important?"

"To keep you company," he answers swiftly, ignoring both her offered options. He stops in front of the chaise, arms folded over his chest. James stares down at her before dropping to a crouch where Cressida now has to look down. "I've done something to annoy you, haven't I?"

Her eyes widen as a punch of concern hits her guts. "No," she splutters out. Has she been treating him ill? "Of course you haven't." She's been annoying herself with a plague of thoughts that she hasn't yet found the cure for.

James stares back at her for a few moments longer, attempting to find a lie in her face. "Do you mind if I practice some piano then?"

Cressida' lips turn upwards, glancing fleetingly over his shoulder where a black grand piano sits near an unlit hearth. "Go ahead," she encourages. "I'd love to hear some."

His lips match hers. "Alright. Any requests?"

"Something familiar."

His eyes wander in thought but eventually snap back to hers with a confident nod, then strides towards the piano. He uncovers the keys with graceful attentiveness, letting his fingertips dust over them without a sound even being made. Cressida sits straighter, pulling the woven blanket further around her shoulders. He's performed quite a few times, mostly for his parents and sometimes guests to the Potter Manor. One time, back at the end of third year, his father held a small feast of sorts where those who helped him in his potion's business feat were invited. Though then, James was dressed as formal as one rich British boy could get. At the time, Cressida thought he was utterly dashing, but now, with unruly hair, a simple grey hood and loose black pants and the way his knees bend crookedly under the piano – he is more handsome than ever.