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.
His fingers move with ease as a familiar tune does indeed play.
"Sorry," he hisses as he hits a wrong key, but she wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't said so. The rain continues to pelt, and with the sound of the piano alongside it, there is something sublime about this moment. The tune continues to flow towards the end of the piece and Cressida sits there contently until he trails off before the few final keys. James's fingers hover, each finger moving slightly as though miming playing. "I…I can't remember the rest." He lets out a hesitant chuckle.
Letting the blanket fall to the lounge, she strides over to his side and leans over his shoulder. Her smile is delicate and mirthful at the same time. She reaches down, pressing a finger against the cold keys. A note plays, but a little of from what she wants to hear. Moving up two, Cressida presses down again, the tune resonating in her memories. "That one," she whispers, then begins humming the rest of the tune, pressing keys where she can.
"I didn't know you played," James murmurs softly, as though not to overspeak her hushed humming.
"I don't. I've just heard you play this enough." She laughs lightly, standing back up straight. "I can't believe you even forgot it."
James half turns in the backless seat, hands laying on his legs. He blinks unhurriedly, eyes pointed somewhere just past her legs before trailing back up to hers. "I was distracted," he says. "Maybe I'm just as tired as you."
Cressida hums mirthfully, trailing back to her spot on the lounge and immersing herself back into the warmth of the blanket. "Well you're welcome to join me for a nap," she sighs, already closing her eyes.
"I want to finish it first," he responds, turning back around to the piano. Cressida lays her head on the chaise' edge where the two long ends meet as the tune slowly picks back up where it left off.
The last three notes trail off together, lapsing the room into silence again. Cressida's shoulder jostles as the cushion of the chaise dips under a foreign weight. Her eyes peel back open, glaring at her disturbance only to find James kneeling on the adjacent length. "Shove over."
With a deadpan expression, she retorts, "That's rude." Nevertheless, Cressida pushes herself upwards to let him take the other length of the lounge. He settles down into the corner, laying his head on the junction of the armrest on the backing as his legs laze out diagonally across the wide but short additional side.
Cressida glances around, rearranging her spot in her mind, figuring that she'll have to lie the other way instead. But there is a soft tug on her upper arm that guides her eyes back to James. With her attention, his other hand rises to grip her other arm. He pulls her downwards; Cressida too caught up in her mind to even speak or move away. Her eyes shut close in blissful content as she lays her head down just below his chest.
"I'm not that rude," he murmurs, and she can hear the words resonating from inside him.
Merlin this is one of her fantasies. "You can't be comfortable," she notes in a sleepy tone.
His chest jostles slightly with a silent chuckle and at the same time, the blanket lain over her rises as his arm crawls underneath in search of warmth. "You'd be surprised."
Cressida makes a gruntled sound of questioning, falling closer to sleep every second as she is very comfortable. But her muscles snap into action as his hand dips under the rim of her shirt. "Your fingers are cold," she hisses as their icy touch trails up alongside her spine.
He laughs again, this time the sound coming through with a warm and deep touch. "Sorry." His hand retreats but doesn't leave entirely, instead settling over the top of her shirt and his fingers curl and uncurl rhythmically in a soft scratching motion.
James doesn't move from that position and Cressida can feel with every passing second how much closer he falls to the oblivion of sleep as his fingers slow. But something inside of her snapped awake and now she's doomed herself to lay there with a racing mind and nothing to do but stare at his face.
A grandfather clock in another room strikes and she realises just how late it has gotten into the night. It is barely a nap they need – it's a bed and some actual sleep.
With a long breath, Cressida's bones creak as she pulls herself into a seated position, James' arm slipping into her lap. Unable to resist the urge growing wild inside, her fingers drift across his forehead, pushing his fringe to the side before clasping the frames of his glasses and carefully pulling them off. Her eyes trace over the contours of his face, admiring the smoothness but strength behind it. The urge from before has not wavered as she hoped it would, growing stronger by the second. Wishing nothing more than to quench it, Cressida leans down and places a delicate kiss on the apple of his cheek.
The rain outside still pelts down, masking the sound of her deep breaths and the creak of the lounge as Cressida leans over the top of James to place his glasses on the small table that holds a lamp and Remus' letter.
As cautiously as she can, Cressida leans backwards. However her lungs contract instinctively as she glimpses at James to try and assure herself that he is undisturbed, only to find his tired eyes wide open. "Merlin," she hisses, feeling adrenaline race down to her toes. "Did you enjoy scaring ten years off my life?"
"What were you doing?" he questions, ignoring her berating with a croaky laugh.
"I wanted to make sure you didn't break your glasses," she responds with a roll of her eyes before her stomach drops. "What woke you?"
His eyes close in thought with a grunted sigh. Her heart hammers harder each second that he doesn't answer. "Not sure," he eventually says.
Cressida nods slowly, eyes pointed towards the hearth rather than his face as her own beats red. "Should get to bed."
"But I'm perfectly comfortable here," he counters. James' lips draw up into a mild smirk that tells her immediately what type of mood he is in. However, her own mood has little patience or tolerance for snarky remarks or witty banter.
"Then stay," she breathes. "I'm going to find an actual pillow." Knowing that to stay, would be a tremendous pain on her heart and mind, Cressida begins to slip away from the lounge. She can't do this. It was a mistake staying for this long – or even letting anything so intimate happen in the first place.
James sits up, his arm pushing off the blanket that had fallen onto him. "You don't want to stay?" he questions.
Cressida's jaw locks together, eyes scanning the floor at the base of the chaise. Swallowing what is left of her pride, she says, "So you can keep imagining me as Lily? No. I'm tired of imagining something else too."
Despite the weakness that has taken over the muscle of her legs, she pushes off the lounge. "What? What is that supposed to mean?" Cressida ignores his demands, raking her fingers through her hair to push it back into something suitable enough to last her until she reaches her room on the far side of the manor. James' sits straight, his mouth hanging open partially as he racks his brain for something. "I-I'm sorry, Cress. I didn't… that wasn't what I meant by…this."
Without looking at him, Cressida nods. "I know," she answers in the most straightforward tone she can conjure. "It's not your fault. I've just not had the best headspace and I don't want to come off in a way I don't mean to." Excuses and lies. She may as well be Slytherin. "And neither do you." Forcing a smile, her head stretches over her shoulder. "Go to bed hot stuff."
James bows his head, brows pinching together in befuddlement. Or at least, that is what it looks like from the outside. Cressida sighs knowingly, noting that he probably hadn't even realised where his mind was wondering – as she has found herself doing too many times to count.
The sound of the doorbell – a sweet series of three keys – rings throughout the house. Cressida's eyes narrow, glancing down at James who meets her with the same expression. It is almost the middle of the night. Who in the world is showing up at his doorstep at such time?
It rings again – the person on the other end becoming impatient. James tugs his wand out of his pocket then marches past her towards the front door, Cressida right on his trail.