Love and the Qualities of Cheap Tea
Disclaimer: As ever, I own nothing that you recognise, they all belong to J.K Rowling and her almighty company. I fear their power and make no claims to any of this that didn't come out of my own head.
AN: So... It's been a while. I've been kind of busy and also not really in a writing mood but I just got a new laptop so I am probably going to be back in a big way. This particular fanfiction comes to your courtesy of my inability not to steal bits of real people for characters.
There is something magic in this. In a warm fire and an excitable dog (even one who's really Sirius) with a squeaky toy no one should have bought them, in a pint mug of tea made exactly how you like it, even without telling anyone, and a blanket tucked around your shoulders. It's not magic that you learn, or magic that you read, or even magic that you struggle with. It's magic that can be found anywhere, in any happy home, or group of friends, or load of siblings. This comes with warmth and understanding with comfort and gentle arguments and with love.
To you, it came with James. Eventually. First he brought annoyance and anger and fighting. Following that, he brought endless confusion and embarrassment and affectionate mocking from your friends. Now he brings flowers and the smell of wet dog and bread baking; he brings worry when he doesn't come back from a mission on time and joy when he walks through that door. He is a safety net you never expected but sleeping next to him is easy and you don't think about letting him see your scars. Not any of them. Not the one Petunia gave you when you dropped her doll in the stream, not the ones you got from stubbornly refusing to do paper cutting any way other than muggle. Not even the ones you gave yourself, also the muggle way, in the dead of night when the only phrase in your head was "you can't kill yourself, it's Christmas". And he didn't flinch, or question you, or do anything other than hold you a little tighter and make you another cup of tea.
He got it from his mother, this endless tea making. You didn't notice it until you were both in charge of the prefects, the way he'd start every meeting with handing everyone a large steaming mug. He learnt people's preferences almost without trying, Alice liked hers with milk, but Marlene drank it black with as much sugar as she could have, Benjy didn't like anything other than herbal tea and Remus wouldn't touch anything that wasn't bog standard builders. He knew yours already, had watched you make it down the breakfast table until he could do it in his sleep, tea so weak people didn't like looking at it, with a lot of milk. And sugar if you were having a bad day. The first time he handed it to you without you telling him how you wanted it he turned the same colour as your Gryffindor tie and you laughed until you were gasping for breath.
When you finally moved in together you gave him a sack of tea bags so big he swore you'd never be able to use them all but sleepless nights, first from missions and later with Harry, soon put paid to that. (You never finished the second one, though, left scattered to the wind on Hallowe'en). It sat on top of the bread bin, far more frequently used and filling the kitchen with the faint scent of tea, which you realised, some what belatedly, was the exact scent of his dorm room at Hogwarts.
It filled your house, this tea-smell, which to you meant love and comfort. Long after you and James were gone, the smell of Typhoo tea sent Remus back to a living room full of people playing stupid card games and sitting under blankets, forgetting whatever harrowing sights you'd seen that night. Sirius would find himself remembering holding Harry in one arm and you in the other, waiting for James to come back to you all, with two large mugs on the table and one waiting for him on the side. Even Peter, perched in the Weasley's kitchen, found it difficult to escape the memories of friends and trust. That kind of love has a staying power, one that lasts.