Chapter Fifty


December 25th, 1983

"What did you see?" James asked, refilling Hermione's glass of firewhisky.

They'd arrived at James's home, the three bedroom townhouse that Hermione had helped him choose. He and Harry had moved in a month earlier, and already Harry's toys and clothes were thrown around the place, mixed with James's papers from work, and a pile of laundry in the corner of the living room that he'd meant to tackle earlier.

James sent a message to Allie, asking her to go to the Burrow to see if she could arrange for Harry to stay the night either there or at Longbottom Keep. Hermione needs me was his last message before he put the blue coin down on the counter and grabbed a bottle of firewhisky and two glasses. He found Hermione in the living room, sitting in front of the fire.

She was silent for the first hour as they drank. He'd sat down at her side but slowly moved behind her, letting her head lean back and rest against his chest. When she finally admitted that the Horcrux had given her a vision of sorts, James was intrigued.

"Harry," she replied when he asked what she'd seen. "It was a lie; I know it was a lie, but . . . all I've had are memories, and after so long, I've tried to forget them. Forget what he looked like when . . . It's been two years. Two years ago for me. Christmas Eve. He died on Christmas Eve. That's not . . ." She brought her glass to her lips, drinking down the rest of it.

"I used to love Halloween," James muttered, glancing down to his own empty glass and the severely dented bottle of firewhisky. "Now it's tainted."

"I don't want to hate Christmas anymore."

"Harry's alive. He's not your Harry, but he . . . he is," he said, rubbing her shoulders and pressing his forehead against her wild curls. "I don't want to think about it anymore."

She swallowed hard. "I want to forget."

He inhaled deeply. "You smell good, Hermione."

She dropped her glass and leant back against him, tilting her head to the side and moaning softly when his lips pressed against her neck. "James," she whispered, letting the alcohol work on her brain and her body, letting her forget why she'd wanted to drink in the first place.

"Turn around."

When she did, James ripped his t-shirt over his head, his arm getting stuck halfway through. Unable to see her, he could still hear her giggles which only increased when he finally escaped the shirt, his hair sticking up in various directions. "You think that's funny?" he asked with a crooked grin and grabbed her by the hips, pulling until she fell forward into his arms, bracing her hands against his now bare chest.

The giggles died on her lips.

"I . . ." she began, fear evident in her eyes.

He frowned. "I won't hurt you."

She shook her head. "I know that, it's just . . . I'm not . . ."

"Not what? Not experienced? That's okay. Are you not ready? I . . ."

"I'm not Lily," she blurted out.

James blinked rapidly, shocked by the admission, and he focused on the depths of her brown eyes. Brown. Not green. He twirled his fingers in her curly brown hair, letting the texture soothe him. "I'm not Harry."

Her brows furrowed and a momentarily disgusted expression crossed her face. "That's different," she insisted. "I've told you before, Harry and I were never—"

But then he was kissing her. Kissing away her objections and her insecurities and lighting a fire deep down inside of her in ways that no boy or man before ever had. Some had warmed her heart, and others stoked a heat, but none had been able to do both at the same time and with such intensity.

"Bloody . . . buttons . . . stupid . . ." James muttered against her mouth as he worked on her blouse.

Hermione threw her head back and laughed, reaching for the hem of her blouse. She pulled it up and over her head, losing a few buttons in the process—all worth it, she noted, for the look on his face: hungry and wanting and full of aching awe.

"Beautiful," he whispered, placing a kiss against her sternum, reaching around to fumble with the hooks of her bra. "I am . . . way too drunk for this."

Hermione sat up straight. "What if . . . Wait . . . We should stop."

"No," James whined, falling backward, his back colliding with the ground. "Ow!"

"Are you okay?!"

"No . . ." he groaned. "I'm pretty sure there's a Lego stuck in my kidney right now."

Hermione put her hands over her mouth to stop herself from laughing.

"Bloody kid," he murmured, reaching behind him to find the long, plastic toy. He launched it across the room and let out a sigh as he ran his hands through his hair. "I have Sober Up Potion in the bathroom."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Let's go!"

It took three tries to get up the stairs. The first time, they were derailed when Hermione tripped and nearly sent the both of them tumbling down. The second time, the allure of Hermione's backside was too much for him to take, and James figured that stripping her of her jeans before they made it upstairs would just save time.

"No, James, we're d-drunk."

"You're drunk," he accused.

"We're . . . We are drunk."

The Sober Up Potion did the trick. It tasted bitter, but Hermione found that James still tasted sweet without the encouragement of alcohol. In a movement of childish athletic showmanship, James threw her over his shoulder and carried her to the unmade bed, his pyjamas from the night before still hanging off of the footboard. He wasted little time in peeling the soaked cotton from her thighs, throwing her knickers into the pile of dirty clothes on the floor and feeling a strange sense of victory over the idea of her laundry mingling with his.

Minutes later, exhausted and panting, James rolled onto his back, desperate to catch his breath. When Hermione fidgeted beside him, he reached out, grabbing her hand. "Don't go."

She curled into his side, resting her head on his sweaty chest, her own damp curls sticking to her neck. "I won't."