A/N: Hello and welcome back, everyone! I just wanted to give a big virtual hug to all of you who have reviewed and given love to my poor, neglected Jamione one-shot. I'm happy to report that I've had the bug for writing in this fandom again lately, and plan to follow my muse to finally deliver the rest of this story. Full warning ahead, my head-canon of James Potter, and Hermione Granger are greatly influenced from working on my longer monster fic, A Darkly Slanted Mirror. I like to think of this story as an AU to my ADSM verse, so there will be some alterations to strict canon. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy! Happy reading, friend :)


FALLING SLOWLY

III: Introducing James Potter


Time moved differently in the magical world, evidenced by not only their culture and style of clothing. Witches and Wizards aged much more slowly than Muggles, thanks to the magic coursing through their veins. As such, their memories were long. Some might consider this a curse and for the past two decades, he was inclined to agree.

James Merlin Potter hadn't invited a Witch into his home in over twenty years. Not to say he'd been opposed when his mates wanted to bring their dates by. It was a price he was willing to pay just so he didn't live alone. It was fair, he'd often thought, and he couldn't begrudge his best friends their happiness. Not even when Remus started bringing Andy's not-so-little girl around before their marriage at the end of the war. Or when Harry began to invite the Lovegood girl over when he was home during his off season.

Sirius, at least, rarely brought one of his "birds" by the renovated Potter Manor.

"Need to keep some things sacred, Prongs," he'd claimed when James had asked him why he kept that part of his life separate.

James supposed he could understand Padfoot's reasoning. Especially those first nine years after Lily… when the three surviving Marauders had been busy raising Harry together. Three Wizards and a baby. Honestly, he wasn't sure what he'd have done if his best mates hadn't stepped in to move him out of the cottage. There hadn't been a day since then when James didn't wonder what might have been—if not for Voldemort.

"You can't think like that, Prongs," Remus cautioned, "What are the chances you, too might have died?"

Only James had felt—far too often—that he had died with Lily that day. Vengeance had kept him going for years, vengeance, and Harry.

Twenty years after the night his life was shattered, and James Potter liked to consider himself a well-adjusted Wizard, father, and widower.

Time had indeed moved differently for him than his mates. Some days he woke up and half-expected to still hear Harry's cries in the night, or of the nightmares his son had been plagued with later on. Some days, James could have sworn he was still twenty-one and not forty-two.

It shouldn't have come as such a shock to James Potter that he hadn't looked twice at another Witch, not once in twenty years—not until today.

So soft, was his thought as he supported Hermione's landing on the green lawn behind Potter Manor.

James couldn't repress his amusement as she stumbled against him, a string of very un-ladylike curses spilling from her lips. She narrowed her cat-like gaze at him, magic crackling through the ends of her wild hair.

Gods, that hair.

He allowed her to step away by keeping his fists tucked close within his robes. Anything, to resist the unthinkable urge to fill his hands with that hair, draw her close, taste her lips…

For Godric's sake, get a grip, man!

Hermione, at least, seemed to overcome her ire and the effects of side-along Apparition with aplomb. She turned her focus immediately to their surroundings. He noted her manner was the same as everyone who had actively fought in the wars. She was scanning for immediate threats, the same as any of them might have done, even Harry. The thought made him sad and grateful at the same time.

Thankfully, her awareness seemed to soften, then, the buzz of magic soothing instead of ready to lash out. She turned her gaze from the extensive and relatively private warded grounds to the manor the Marauders had lovingly rebuilt over the years. A tiny thrill of apprehension caused James to rock back on his heels as he waited for her consensus of his home. He couldn't say why he cared so much.

It is not because she's bloody gorgeous. She's far too young for you, you dirty old man.

James offered what he hoped was not a lecherous grin and spread out his hands. "So, what do you think?"

Hermione frowned at the big house. "I was thinking I've known Harry for more than half my life, and I've never once been to this house." She gathered her robe over her arms as though warding off a chill. "I never thought it would be this... grand ."

He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and pretended to take in the grounds beside her. "Surprised Harry never invited you."

She sighed and tilted her chin slightly. James found the ironic curve of her mouth fascinating. "He...well, he might have a time or two."

James choked and quickly averted his gaze the moment she glanced over to him. He cleared his throat. "Why didn't you?"

He couldn't shake the irrational fear her reasons had something to do with her best friend's surly old father being her reason for keeping away.

Hermione shook her head, then seemed to steel herself to say, "After the war, and losing...well, I'm afraid I haven't done very well with other people. And, I suppose it was easier to stay away for a time, to pretend I was Muggle, even."

Curls blew madly with every gust of wind over the grounds. The sun chose that moment to peek between the clouds, alighting her with rays of scattered gold. Her amber eyes alighted upon him and James didn't think he could move a single step.

Her whisper was nearly lost to the wind. "I don't know if working for the Ministry is even what I want anymore. But I have to try this one last time...for Harry, don't you see?"

James swallowed past the lump in his throat. His fingers itched to reach for those curls, to tuck them behind her ears, to bury his hands in the golden tresses and capture tendrils of her magic. His heart ached for the loss she skimmed over, the pain lurking just beneath the skin.

Gods, but he understood, so much better than he wished. They'd all lost someone in the war. In an odd twist of fate, James saw she hadn't just lost people she cared about, she'd lost her future just as he had. They both clung to Harry to pull them through.

The urge to reach for her grew, and when he allowed the silence to grow when he couldn't bring himself to speak, or look away, Hermione ducked her head.

Wait.

Sunlight seemed to follow her as his son's best friend began to slowly walk towards his home. "I know you said I shouldn't thank you, but I really do appreciate your taking the time to meet with me today," she called over her shoulder.

James caught up with her in three long strides. His laugh sounded forced even to him. "Would you believe me if I told you I'd been looking forward to it?" Her startled glance urged him to amend his words. "It has been a while since anyone has offered themselves to me for willing torture."

Hermione shivered and screwed her pretty features into a scowl as the doors to his home opened before them. "Now I see where Harry gets his appalling sense of humor."

James took her cloak and his smile faltered as he set it on the hook beside his.

When was the last time he'd taken a Witch's cloak?

"Ja—Mr. Potter?"

He shoved his hands in his pockets as he turned to face her. "Cup of tea before today's grueling session?"

A tiny frown line appeared between Hermione's brows. "I don't know, shouldn't we get started while the clouds hold?"

"Oh, you'll thank me later." James offered his arm without thinking and nearly tripped when she automatically slipped her hand over his elbow.

"A quick cup, then, please," Hermione replied.

He settled her to a chair and hurried to ready the pot with wandless gestures to the stove and kettle. When he pulled down the tin they'd both need later, James finally found his voice again. "Tell me why you're afraid to fly?"

She was quiet for so long, the pot whistled and James was carefully steeping their tea into his mother's favorite porcelain pot before she answered.

"I've always hated flying," she whispered in a hollow voice.

James paused as he lifted their tray and finally faced her. She had a white-knuckle grip on her wand between both hands under the table. His magic prickled in response to the swell in hers. He batted his nerves aside with his favorite coping mechanism.

"Miss Granger, I must say I am surprised at you!"

She jumped slightly at his volume and sudden presence in the chair adjacent. "Excuse me?"

"Well," he paused to pour her a cup, "here I've been, hearing about the bravest and brightest Witch of her age. The same Witch, mind, who not only rode a dragon, and a thestral, but who had enough Gryffindor courage to follow my mad son about the country."

Her fingers gripped the cup tightly, but the corners of her lips twitched. "I think you are making fun of me, Mr. Potter."

James rested a heavy elbow on the table and propped his chin in his hand. "I think you greatly underestimate your magic, Miss Granger."

She nearly spat out her tea to blurt, "Pardon?"

"I'm not surprised, and I swear on Godric's good head, I'm not judging. It's quite common for a Witch or Wizard to mistrust their magic. That is the reason you've always hated flying, isn't it?" He took a steady draw from his cup.

Hermione's lips thinned. "I never trusted brooms."

James nodded. "Well, why would you?"

Her brows rose in disbelief and James couldn't help the joy he found in confounding her.

"You weren't raised around magic or flying unless by airplane, yeah? Sounds reasonable enough to me. But it's more than that, I think." He rubbed his chin and pretended to take his time sorting her out.

Hermione shifted in her seat. His smile grew.

"You're logical, and prefer magic backed by evidence. Flying on a piece of enchanted wood feels too much like a leap of faith for you, I'd wager." He rapped his knuckle on the table and finished off his cuppa.

Hermione shook her head at him and the smile she'd been hiding transformed her pretty face into something more than beautiful. "You, Mr. Potter, are very perceptive."

He shrugged. "So I've been told."

"Or…" She set her cup on its saucer and narrowed her whisky gaze at him. "You let people think you're perceptive when you just happen to have done your research in advance."

"Suppose you'll never know." He held her glare a moment longer, then laughed and pushed back from the table. Hermione joined in his laughter, and the house seemed to brighten around them for one impossible moment.

As he led her to the broom cupboard near the back door leading from the kitchens, their laughter faded. James slipped on a thicker padded Muggle jacket and pulled another one of Harry's out for Hermione. "Here, you should bundle up a bit."

Hermione followed his instruction with only a faint grimace now. Much better than the bundle of nerves she'd been in Godric's Hollow.

James studied the available brooms and stepped in deeper to run his hand over the worn handles. He hadn't realized Hermione followed until she softly spoke from his side. "Are all these yours?"

His hand froze over his old Nimbus from his Quidditch Chaser days. "Not all." He offered her a warm smile as he pulled a newer, but less temperamental broom beside the Nimbus. "Here, this should do for you today."

Hermione accepted the broom with a firm nod. "Thank you."

James caught his breath as his arm brushed hers in the tight space. "Remember what I said about thanking me today, Witch." His voice was rougher than he'd intended.

Hermione rushed from the cupboard and kept a solid half meter of space between them as James exited and led her out the back.

He kept a running, buoyant commentary about the house, the grounds, and three Wizards raising a baby. But inwardly, he cursed his over-awareness, his eagerness to draw nearer to her as he corrected her hold and seat on the broom.

"Tell me what you feel," he began, once he was happy with her hold.

Hermione frowned as she concentrated on the wood between her palms and legs. "Bloody terrified."

James nodded. He did know a little more behind her fears than she'd confessed. "You're not afraid of falling, you're afraid of failing."

This drew her fierce gaze to his. "You know nothing of how I feel."

His hands covered hers and he knew he was too close again. Her ire drew him in instead of away. "Tell me what you're thinking now."

Hermione gaped as he leaned in, close enough her curls lifted and brushed against his cheek in an accidental caress. "I…"

James nodded to her. "Feel the energy beneath your hands, in the earth at your feet, through me."

She kept her eyes on his and slowly breathed in and out. He couldn't help following her breaths with his.

"Now, feel the power inside yourself. Magic is intent and willpower, Hermione. It's instinctive in all of us. Even Muggles feel the effects of it. If you believe you can fly, you will. Trust yourself."

Her whisky eyes flickered from his mouth to his hands. "What if I can't?"

James squeezed her hands. "Trust me, then."

She met his eyes, and the wind kicked up around them, a breeze of her own making.

James didn't let go of her hands, and he didn't let her hover too high. Not yet.

Instead, he reached out with his magic and buoyed hers, until the air between them brewed a mixture of sparks and scents, cardamom and cinnamon, lightning and smoke. The clouds peeled further back above as James allowed Hermione to rise above his shoulders.

He smiled and said, "Ready to let go?"

Something twisted in Hermione's expression. Her gaze remained on him, but she was no longer looking at him. She was years away, to whatever caused her panic to resurface.

He sensed her fall before it began.

The broom became lifeless beneath her the instant she gave in.

James caught her with a surge of magic that kept them both hovering above the hard ground. He came to his feet as he released his breath and set down.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut but didn't fully release her hold on his arm yet.

"You're safe, Hermione. I swear you're safe here."

With me, he nearly said aloud.

"Come on, big, slow breath, in and out, yeah?"

Again he found himself drawing magic-infused air with her and dared tug on a stray curl when she finally opened her eyes again.

"There we are. That was a good start, I believe. Ready to try again?"

"Are you serious?" Hermione choked on a laugh and released him to rub her hands over her face. "I would have fallen on my arse if you hadn't been here, and you want me to try again? Gods, I'm such a mess."

She yelped as James hauled her to her feet and squeezed her shoulders, invaded her space until she was forced to look him in the eye.

"Enough of that bullshit, Witch. I thought I already told you—you're Hermione fucking Granger," he growled. She gaped at him, attention diverted to his dirty mouth. This only fueled him further.

"You lost your focus this time, but you won't next time," he ground out. "You're going to climb back on that broom, and you're going to try again, or, Merlin help me, I'm going to make you ride with me. And trust me when I say you don't want to be on my broom, the way I like to fly."

Her cheeks flushed and she drew her lip between her teeth, which elicited a very sudden, surprising, and visceral reaction from him.

Oh, gods, she's embarrassed. You've just been talking about your fucking broom, you lecherous old man.

James released her and snatched up her broom with more force than necessary. With his back to her, he closed his eyes and willed his blood to stop racing (particularly down there ).

You can do this, Potter. You can be a bloody professional, and not lust over your son's best mate.

Hermione was busy studying the skies when he found enough courage to face her again.

James squeezed the broom in his hands and ducked his head as he approached. "Look," he began with a quick glance at her sun-kissed face, "you're going to fail every time unless you decide right now to tell the bastard voice in your head to shut it."

Hermione's hands were soft and cool beneath his. He placed the broom back in her hands and held on.

"I may not know you the way my son does…" He swallowed as her gaze returned to his. "But I know enough about you, Hermione, to say with every confidence I know you can do this. It may not be today or tomorrow, but I'm not giving up on you, Miss Granger."

"Well, I suppose I should try again—James."

They shared a smile.


Review: If you fancy :)