PART I

The small Potter family sat together in what they called the morning room, for it was where they spent many a morning, looking over the misty moors and the very edge of the broad leaf forest. Right now, the earth outside the walls was sleeping and would not awaken until spring. But inside the walls, there was a riot of color that belonged to the months of May and June, not December, courtesy of magic.

James Potter's attention, however, was not on the small miracle of honeysuckle and roses blooming outside the open window, but on the panic growing in his insides. There was very little that frightened James – not really. James thought that having a werewolf for a good friend might have toughened him up a bit: There were few things more terrifying than a werewolf under a full moon. And he'd met that danger, hadn't he? Every single month? But there was something about the discussion he was going to initiate with Lily, and the secret he was going to reveal to her, that had him quaking in his robes.

"Are you all right, dearest?" his mother asked, leaning over the table to peer at him.

James cleared his throat. "I, uh, yeah," he said.

His father, oblivious, said, suddenly indignant: "Will you listen to this, Euphemia?" The newspaper rattled in his hands. James heaved an inward sigh of relief: His mother's question had been much too pointed for James to evade, and The Daily Prophet would distract her right enough. "They're raising the prices again."

Euphemia hmphed. "Again! Preposterous."

Distracted from his own worries, James looked at his dad. "What prices?"

It was Euphemia who answered. "St. Mungo's… it used to be that St. Mungo's charged very little for its services, if anything, as it is to the benefit of everyone in our community that we be healthy, and St. Mungo himself knew that. Hufflepuff's cup healed all, after all."

"But they've steadily started charging for services… it used to be knuts and sickles, which I could understand, but now…!" Fleamont rattled his paper again. "It's a sickle for a week's stay. A sickle! Not every Muggleborn can afford that."

"Wait," said James, feeling as though he had missed something, "what do you mean? Why do you say 'Muggleborns'?"

His parents exchanged a dark, significant look. "Because it's almost solely Muggleborns who are being charged, though there are some immigrants who have been targeted as well."

"Grindelwald was defeated," Euphemia said. "It pains me so that the same spiteful measures that he wanted spread through the entire world would gain fruit so many years after he was defeated."

"What?" James repeated, looking from one to the other.

"They've gotten away with it because they claim that the pureblood families have made it a practice to donate to St. Mungo's," his father said, setting aside the newspaper, and curling his hands around his steaming cup of tea. No longer obscured by the paper, James recognized the hard, determined look on his father's face. "They say that – by virtue of having donated galleons and galleons to the hospital – purebloods who belong to the Sacred 28, or who have no Muggleborns or Muggles as, say, parents or grandparents, they've already done their duty, or their families have, and paid. But Muggleborns and half-bloods haven't the same background."

All thoughts of telling Lily his secret had been blotted out by outrage. "But they're also trying to limit where Muggleborns work," said James, outraged. "If Muggleborns can't work, how is it they're supposed to pay the higher prices at St. Mungo's?"

"That's the point, precisely," said Euphemia, reaching over to squeeze his hand. "It's to your credit that you can see that, James, dearest. Many can't. Many look at measures like this and think it right, because it is true that purebloods have donated to St. Mungo's in the past."

A thought struck him. "Is it just St. Mungo's?" he asked. "Or is St. Galina's…?"

"As yet, St. Galina's remains a charitable clinic," said Fleamont, a grim smile lifting the corners of his lips. "If I have to buy it outright, it will remain so. I have seen this before, these small measures to distance Muggleborns from wizarding society. They don't remain small for long."

"They never do," said Euphemia.

James looked from one parent to the other. His parents were an entire generation older than most of his other friends' parents, most of whom had been children during Grindelwald's ascension to power and subsequent defeat. His parents had been adults; moreover, both of them had worked to decrease the strength of the chokehold Grindelwald and his followers had had on the wizarding society in Britain. They understood things, James had always thought, better than most.

"So, St. Galina's will remain…?"

"Free? Yes," said Fleamont.

"You already donate much of their supplies, my love," Euphemia said, now taking her husband's hand. "You're a good man."

When his father raised his mother's hand to his lips and kissed it, James rolled his eyes a little and looked away. They were always kissing each other, which was sweet, but wasn't entirely necessary to do so when their only child was in the room. They murmured to each other quietly while his thoughts gradually began to fill with Lily again, angry with whoever at the Ministry or St. Mungo's who had, with a stroke of a quill, elected to make her life more difficult. Could they not see that Muggleborns could be just as brilliant with magic as purebloods? She was magical, Lily was, more magical than any of the witches at Hogwarts… she was Head Girl, she was at the top of both Potions and Charms… all of the professors liked her for she was attentive, thoughtful, and always—

-followed the rules.

His shoulders slumped as the thought hit him with a dull thump. Glum again, he scrubbed his face. Lily always followed the rules. She liked rules. She didn't like rule-breakers; she was only now giving James a chance at friendship because he had been very, very careful lately…

"James, my boy," Fleamont interrupted his thoughts. "You look quite concerned. Is it St. Galina's?"

"Yes," said James. Then, immediately, amended: "No. Not really."

"I expect our son is distracted," said Euphemia, blue eyes kindling with humor. "Didn't you say that you would be having a guest over today? A Miss Lily Evans?"

James picked up his spoon and pointed it at his mother. "Why are you pretending you don't know her?" he asked, pretending his cheeks were not flooding with heat.

His mother smirked at him, looking about thirty years younger as she did. "Of course I know Miss Evans," said Euphemia, smirk growing. "I'm delighted, in fact, to know her better now that I'm seeing her in person, rather than just getting to know her through your letters."

"Mum," James groaned, "don't say that in front of her when she gets here. And you already know she's coming!"

"A lot earlier than your other friends, as I recall?" The comment from Fleamont was mild, but James groaned again.

"It's – I just wanted to, uh…"

"Spend time with the young lady?" Euphemia asked.

"I hope you're courting her properly," added Fleamont, a sly twinkle in his eye.

James covered his face. "Dad…"

Both of his parents laughed, then, as he'd expected they would. James shook his head, still a little embarrassed, and shaking his finger at them. "I hope you got all your teasing out of your system," he said, standing up, and flicking his wand so his dishes rose in the air and bobbed their way toward the kitchen. He'd not eaten much of his breakfast, but his stomach was not cooperating properly. A quick glance at the clock above the mantle told him he still had nearly thirty minutes before Lily was to arrive…

To his slight surprise, his father rose too, stooping to brush his lips against Euphemia's cheek.

"Where're you going?" They asked each other, at nearly the same moment.

"I'm off to look for frogs," said James, jerking his thumb toward their garden. Frogs flourished there at all times of the year, drawn toward the fresh water and spring and summer flowers.

"Don't get your hands muddy, dearest," murmured Euphemia.

"I'm off to town," said Fleamont. "We've a shipment coming from the company today, and I need to supervise the unloading. Then I'm going to go to my office… I had an idea for the antidote last night…" He winked at James. "Perhaps I'll see you down there. Bring Lily by to say hi, will you?"

"Perhaps," said James, knowing he would. Lily liked his parents almost as much as he did.

Euphemia stood as well, placing both hands on the table, and giving both husband and son a stern look. "And where will you two be this afternoon?" she asked in a tone that brooked no argument.

"At the town center," Fleamont and James chorused.

"And what time will that be?" she asked.

"Fifteen minutes before the pantomime is to start," they chorused again, then looked at each other and laughed.

"Don't worry, my love," said Fleamont, swinging his cloak around his shoulders. "I've not missed a pantomime since James was three, and the brightest star in the show."

"And that," announced James, "is another thing you can't mention in front of Lily."

"You might want to use a silencing charm on us, dearest," Euphemia said tranquilly, "you've given us so many instructions as to what we can and cannot say."

"Please, Mum," said James.

"Oh, all right," she said, waving her hand. "I won't try deliberately to embarrass you."

"Thank you," he said, grateful. Then, crossing the room, the doors opened at his approach, and the smell of sweet flowers growing hit him. It was warm out here, heated by charms to preserve the flowers. And, of course, the other plants that grew in the protected garden. His dad was a potioneer, after all, and though he no longer went to his company every day, he did spend a certain amount of time each week working on a couple of pet projects. His compromise with Euphemia was that while he would no longer Apparate the distance away, he would keep offices in Godric's Hollow, rather than filling their home with the smell of potions bubbling away in their cauldrons.

But Euphemia allowed Fleamont to grow his magical herbs and plants here, and that was why James skirted a wary distance away from juvenile Devil's Snare and dodged a questing tentacle from the Venomous Tentacula. In the center of the back garden was a burbling little fountain. This was where the frogs and toads of the garden congregated.

But, instead of looking for a suitable companion for Mary, James sat on the white marble and trailed his fingers in the water. The thought of frogs and this garden together had gently nudged Lily from his mind, for now, reminding him of the odd dream he'd had due to Old Bones teaching them oneiromancy. Only fragments of it were retained in his memory. But we were in this garden, James thought, frowning, watching the water drip from his fingertips. Had it been dead, though? It had, hadn't it? He'd stood in this garden and seen the last vestiges of it: the vibrant, living space had gone cold and silent as the moor beyond his father's charms and wards.

James gazed around the garden to reassure himself that it was no such thing. And besides, reading the future through dreams is nearly impossible, James reminded himself. How often had he read that in one of his Divination texts? Even regular means of Divination was by no means perfect… and dream imagery was metaphoric and representative at best, and silly at worst. A winter garden was not indicative of anything terrible happening…

He flicked the surface of the water, sending droplets to spray the other side of the fountain. A bug skittered across the surface of the water, escaping from James. Nearby, a frog croaked.

Frogs. That's right. That's why James had come out here.

But James could not shake the sudden misgiving. Disquiet, like a shadow, moved over him, and he continued to stare at his reflection in the water of the fountain, watching the ripples roam over his face, altering it. There had been something in his dream… it wasn't just the garden gone fallow. It was something to do with the Muggleborns. He splashed at the water, obscuring his reflection deliberately, scoffing at himself. He was no prophet: he'd decided on Divination as an elective because Sirius was into it, not because he had any innate talent for parting the veils of the future. He stuck with it because Old B, ones was a laugh.

"Don't be mental," he told himself sternly.

"I think that ship has sailed."

James whirled around, nearly toppling into the fountain. And there she was: Lily, standing in a sunbeam just inside the gate, a cheeky smile on her face, arms folded over her chest. His stomach swooped; all thought fled, leaving him light-headed and dazed.

"Lily!" he finally managed. The back of his neck got hot. Unless he was much mistaken, she was experiencing a similar flush of heat.

"James!" she said, in exactly the same way.

It had not been long since she'd shifted from calling him Potter to calling him James, and it did not help the swirling sensation in his stomach dissipate. "I didn't know you were here," he said, standing to his feet and brushing off his robes. "Is it already time…?"

"I'm a little early, actually," she said, twisting her lips into a small grimace.

"Is everything…?"

She blew out a breath. "It's my sister," she admitted, sidling over to lean against the honeysuckle covered wall; the little blossoms twined in her hair. The metal gate clanged shut; startlingly loud. James would not have minded if the gate had made a bit of a noise as it opened, giving him a warning. "She's been worse, lately. Well, not even lately. Dad died three years ago, and she just – ugh. Makes my life miserable."

"I'm sorry," said James.

She waved her hand. "It's not your fault. Tuney – Petunia – is who she is."

"She's always sounded… difficult," James said delicately. That was an understatement. He'd seen her on the platforms a time or two, always off to the side, face hard with disapproval. Sirius, who'd once tried to cajole her into a better humor, had come away from the encounter with a couple of harsh words. Lily rarely spoke against her, and even when she did, there was little malice in it.

"She's always been difficult," said Lily, shrugging. "She hated that I could do magic, hated Hogwarts, hated Severus—"

"That's one thing I've got in common with her," James said, with great good cheer.

Lily leveled him a stern look.

He raised his hands. "I'm just going to change the subject and say, it's been a very nice term at Hogwarts…"

A reluctant little giggle escaped her. "It has been, hasn't it? Well, between the two of them, one of them tugging me one way, and the other hating me for it… it's been a little unpleasant. And she was lighting into Mum, asking her when I was going to move out, complaining that she can't bring anyone home over the holidays, ever, because of me. And I just… I had to get away from that. So. That's why I'm early."

"Honestly, between you and Sirius, I don't mind being an only child," said James.

"Well," Lily said, with a grimace, and pushing herself away from the wall, "Petunia isn't at Regulus Black's level—"

"Oh," said James, immediately chagrined, "I didn't mean that, she's not – she isn't a, you know, Death Eater, but—"

"Relax, James," said Lily. "I know what you meant." Her eyes left his, then roved beyond to the gardens behind them. "Why don't you show me around?"

"The Gardens?" asked James.

She looked at him, quirking her eyebrow. "It has a name?"

"Well… sort of…" said James, scratching the back of his neck. "It's what the villagers call our place… it's on the signs, I mean."

Lily snorted. "Not everyone's house has a name," she pointed out.

"It's not really the house, you know," he said. He waved his hand. "It's the gardens."

"The Gardens," she repeated, in a lofty tone. "Carry on, James, do be a good wizard. Take me for a turn about the manor."

She offered him her arm. Chuckling a little, James took it. The Gardens truly were extensive, and it took near half an hour just to visit the plants who grew in spring and summer. James took special care to point out the pond with the nursery lilies growing in a tangle in the middle, each of them budding with sparkling little fairy eggs. The air was thick with a heavy, watery scent near this pond. Here, too, was a chance to catch a frog for their friend. When James suggested it, however, Lily shook her head and pulled him along, toward the flaming roses that burned in three different colors.

"He's even got blue," Lily murmured in appreciation.

"Of course," James said proudly.

"Will you join us?" Lily asked lightly, squeezing his arm.

"Hmm?" asked James.

She pulled back a little. "At your dad's… are you going to become a potioneer? Carry on the family business?"

"Oh," said James. "No."

"No?" Shock flitted across her face. "You really mean it, no?"

"I'm not one for potions," said James, shrugging. "I can stir one up competently enough, but…"

"As the son of the owner, I don't think you have to be brilliant at it," said Lily. James heard the wryness behind the words and understood it for what it was: Lily believed that she, herself, had to be brilliant in order to scrape up a position in the magical world. James, not only a pureblood but the last in a lineage of potioneers, could coast through that profession as he coasted on his Thunderstick.

"You're right," he said. "I wouldn't. I'll be expected to play some part in the company, I'm sure, Lily, but it'll be helping out my dad. It won't be what I do as my calling. Dad wanted to be a potioneer, he loves it and he's good at it – like you. But… I don't want that."

Turning her back on the roses, she looked at him. With the fiery roses behind her, she looked like a creature of light with hair ablaze. "Well, what do you want to do?"

"Other than work out how to rid Britain of the Death-Eaters?" James asked. "I rather like Transfiguration."

"Transfig—really?"

The open surprise in her tone made him laugh. Feeling a bit smug, he pulled out his wand. "It's even what my wand's known to be good for," he said. "Ollivander said so. But no… I think I love transfiguration the way Dad loves potions and Mum loves herbology."

"I don't think I've ever noticed that you favor it," said Lily, still with an arrested sort of look on her face. "I mean, you're a good student, of course, but I guess I just assumed…" She shook her head. "Wow. Color me surprised."

"I favor it," said James. But the subject was now striking too close to the secret he must tell her – the secret he'd forced from his own thoughts in order to just enjoy being around Lily Evans. All term, they'd been coming closer and closer; the sarcastic sort of disregard with which she had once treated him – and he'd mostly deserved it, as a known trouble-maker – was transforming into something else, something warmer and deeper. But now James was caught between reveling in that warmth, which he'd wanted so long, and telling her his biggest secret.

"You're a man of mystery," she teased.

James opened his mouth to tell her, but his courage failed him. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as surely as if Sirius had been practicing a Tongue-Tie Jinx on him. "I like to think so," he stammered out instead. Damn it, James, he thought, disgusted. But there had been a particular way her eyes were sparkling – Lily's eyes! Who could blame him for wanting to preserve the moment, instead of squelching it?

"Hm," she said.

"Why don't we walk to Godric's Hollow?" he suggested, words tripping over themselves. "We can keep talking… we're right near one of the paths, it'll lead us there. It's a nice walk, even in winter." He eyed her up and down, noting her sensible black boots, her long cloak, and her high-waisted robes. "And you're dressed for it."

She made a swift little curtsey. "I'm glad I meet with your approval," she said, looking both dazed and amused.

James could not blame her; he was dizzy himself.

"Onward!" he said. The truth about his stag could remain here in this garden, waiting patiently for him to reveal it. It need not be told this exact moment; he could enjoy a walk with her. He could enjoy the rest of the day, having time to spend with Lily Evans, who made his palms sweat and his hands shake. The stag could pace here, silent, awaiting them.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHHP

At the crossroads, there was a sign with arrows pointing only two directions. James led them on the third path, the one that dwindled down to one that could only be trodden by foot as soon as they rounded a bend. It was an easy walk, and beautiful, but lasted quite a while, leading them into a broad leaf forest. More signs appeared, old and crumbling; even tinier trails, like the tributaries of a stream, led off from them. The directions to which they pointed were fanciful: Cat's Scramble, Hag's Point, and the Weeping Widower's Walk.

The signs seemed to amuse Lily, who ran her gloved hands over each of them, brushing away crumbled of old wood. "This path is like a nursery rhyme," she said, "are any of these still places?"

"Two of them, yeah," said James, slowing his pace. There was no particular rush to get to Godric's Hollow, there was no rush to tell her the truth, was there? "The Clowder family lives down the end of that one; it's a play on their name, a Clowder is a—"

"Group of cats, yes," said Lily; a corner of her mouth lifted in a smile.

"Yeah, that," said James. His chest had grown tight before he forced himself to relax. "Well, they all still live out there."

"And the hags?"

"Well, they're not really hags," he said, running his hand through his hair, hoping it gave him a disheveled, attractive look. Her smile widened, but that could mean he'd just made himself look ridiculous. "It's just a bunch of elderly witches living together."

Her eyebrows raised, and she looked down the tiny trail that looked hardly larger than a bunny trail. "Interesting choice for elderly witches," she said.

"It's some sort of retreat," James said, shrugging. "Mum would know more; her great aunt lived there before she passed. I haven't been up there."

"And the last one?"

"Ah," said James. He'd almost hoped she'd grown bored of the signs. "Well, there's only one person who lives up there, and he isn't alive, per se…"

"It's haunted?" Lily asked, surprised.

"Yeah," said James, "for centuries now."

Lily settled, half-sitting on the sign, folding over hands over her lap. Her low, knitted witch's hat caught some of the wan winter light filtering in through the barren branches of the trees. Sitting there, just like that, she looked even lovelier than she did on the regular. What would she do when he confessed to her? Would he see condemnation in her eyes?

But James thrust that thought away. Now was not the moment. She was asking about the Weeping Widower, and he had a few more minutes to stall, at least. He would've preferred a happier story, but… "Well, he wasn't actually a widower," said James. He blew out a breath. "He lived here when he was young, here in the Hollow… I forgot his name, but my mum would remember. It's one of the old names that died out—"

"Like Peverell?" she said, with a sly smile. "And that one's not so dead after all, is it?"

"Right," said James, chuckling. "They must be from a different line, though I'm still surprised, just because my dad was always so adamant that the name was gone. But no, definitely not Peverell, I'd remember that. One of the other old ones… Gaunt, maybe? Yeah, that might be it…" It would make sense, especially given how the story ended. His shoulders slumped, and he scratched the back of his neck.

"Ja-ames," she sang, saying his name as though it were two syllables rather than just the one.

"Yeah," he said. "You sure you want to hear this? It's not… happy."

"To be honest," said Lily, "I had a feeling that the name 'Weeping Widower' did not come from a happy place."

He chuckled. "True enough," he said. He shifted; leaves crunched under his feet, releasing a rich, earthy scent. "Well, he was from an old family, you know—"

"Pureblood?" Lily suggested.

"Yeah," he said. "It wasn't long after the Statute of Secrecy, less than a hundred years, I think, after we all retreated. Well – and you know, we did it because it was a genuinely good idea." Heat crept up his neck.

"I think so too," said Lily. "About the Statute of Secrecy, I mean." Her lips twisted. James presumed she was thinking of her sister, whom James had not formally met and did not want to.

"Well, of course, sometimes people don't keep it as strictly as others. Our Weeping Widower went to London and fell in love with a Muggle. He thought London was far away enough, since his parents and older brothers hated the city. He pretended to be a merchant, married her, and they settled happily enough. But, you know, these things get out. The Gaunts – or whoever they were – were told, and descended upon them without any warning."

There was a muffled clap: Lily had smacked her gloved hand over her mouth. "They killed her?" she whispered.

"No," said James, shaking his head. "They claimed afterward that they weren't murderers. What they did was to erase her memory of their son and everything she had been toward about the hidden, magical world. They turned her out and brought their son home. I'm told they purchased her a home far away, where her husband could never find her, but that is probably wishful thinking, just trying to make a sad story less terrible."

There was silence for a while; Lily's boots scuffed against the leaves and the earth. "So did the weeping widower, did he—"

There was a long pause. James thought he might know what she was asking. "Did he kill himself? No. Well, not really. His parents had taken away his wand; he tried to escape and died of exposure."

Lily shook her head, biting her lip, making it bloom red.

It took him two strides to be next to her. Then he was sharing the wooden sign with her. It creaked beneath their combined weight. He pressed his arm against hers; relieved when she returned the pressure. "I'm sorry, Lily," he said.

"For what?" she asked, genuinely surprised.

"I know I've said it before, but I wish our world were a better place for you," he said, "it's a damned shame that it doesn't treat you the way you deserve."

Color flooded her cheeks to match her hair, and she ducked her head. Auburn hair became a veil under which she hid. Lily had a swift wit; James expected a little sass and fire. Except she didn't; when she shook her head, the strands of her hair sweeping against his upper arm, and lifted her gaze, it was with an unwontedly serious: "Thank you, James."

HPHPHPHPHPHPHP

The stroll to Godric's Hollow was not long; just as they'd reached it, Fleamont hailed them, waving at them from beside the train tracks. There was a pompous-looking little man with a pointed beard and busy-looking feather quill standing beside him.

Lily nudged him in the side. "Look at his shoes," she whispered under her breath.

James swallowed a chuckle when he noticed the man wore chunky heels that gave him the lift he sorely needed. Fleamont towered over him, a fact that seemed to cause the other man great annoyance, considering how his baleful gaze flicked up and down every few seconds.

"Hey, Dad," he said.

"And this is my son James and his friend, Miss Lily Evans," Fleamont said, genial and polite as ever.

The other wizard's response was to purse his lips and make the pained sort of grimace James associated with eating a particularly bad flavor of Bertie-Bott's bean. The smile on his own face grew forced. It was one thing to have a bad sense of fashion, it was quite another to be rude to Lily.

"James, Lily, this is Garvius Garvey from the Department of Health and Healing," said Fleamont, still polite.

"Ah, that explains it," said James.

The official – whose name James had already forgotten – bristled, throwing his shoulders back, and attempting to make the most of his unremarkable height. "And what is that supposed to mean?" he barked.

"Your fashion sense," said James coolly.

The wizard's cheeks turned pink. This time, when his gaze flicked James up and down, his lip curled. Then, dismissing him, he turned back to Fleamont. "As I was saying, sir," he said, "we had a warning from an anonymous source that your company was donating potions to St. Galina's Clinic in excess of that allowed by Ministry decree."

"That would be incorrect," said Fleamont, his tone mild, despite the fact James knew he was lying through his teeth: His dad flouted the Ministry decrees every time he sent out a shipment to St. Galina's in Godric's Hollow, St. Timmerus's in Holyhead, and Coronet's House of Healing in London: The three locations where Muggleborns were allowed to receive healing without paying overly inflated prices for their care.

"Be that as it may," said the official, in a tone that said he did not believe the lie, "it is Ministry policy, as I have described, to conduct an inspection."

"And as I have reminded you," said Fleamont, "I have no issue with your inspection: you will find that everything is conducted with regard to Ministry policy. But I'm afraid the inspection is to be done here, in accordance with that same Ministry decree, at the depot"—he gestured toward the empty tracks and the dilapidated looking shed across the way—"rather than risk the tampering with these potions, many of which are valuable."

"Too valuable," was the muttered reply.

Lily looped her arm through his, squeezing his forearm.

"—of course."

James had no idea what his father had just agreed to, but it did not matter: Just then, a loud squeal rent the air, like a zipper being ripped downward. A musical horn erupted in the sudden space.

James's head swiveled at the merry, clanging sound of what could only be the horn of the Knight Bus. Beside him, his father chuckled, and said, "Best get out of the way…" No sooner had he spoken when the bus materialized, landing on the cobbled stones with a heavy thump. Lily's hand on his arm tightened, and he was pulled out of the way just in time: James felt the whoosh of hot, compressed air push against him.

"She just saved your life," Fleamont observed.

"Oh, it would've swerved around him," said Lily, cheerful.

Three steps ahead, the Knight Bus came to such a sudden stop that it might have run into a barrier more solid than the filmy, penetrable one that separated Muggle Godric's Hollow from its more magical twin. The bus squeaked and bounced on its wheels. Then, with a cheerful clatter, the horn honked again and the doors opened. Two figures leapt out, as though they'd been waiting pressed against the doors.

"Oh!" said Lily. "They did come!"

And there were Harry and Ginny Peverell, patting themselves down, chuckling at each other.

"Friends from school?" Fleamont asked mildly.

"Well… yeah," said James, after a fleeting glance at Lily. "They're new students – they just arrived this year – I've invited them to the panto and our party."

"Sir," said the Ministry official, whom James had nearly forgotten.

Fleamont made a bow to him. "I do apologize," he said, in that mild tone that told James that his father did not like this man. "Ah, yes. James, go ahead and greet your friends… The shipment. Well, the train was due to come…"

Lily pulled him toward the Peverells, who were staring about the place as though they'd never seen anything like it before, mouths agape. Both were carrying broomsticks, and neither one seemed to notice that Ginny's spangled witch's hat had slid a quarter of the way off her head, and now pointed drunkenly to the side.

"There you are," said James, with somewhat forced cheer. An instinct had him wishing to remain beside his father and the Ministry official, whose purpose here and curiosity about the shipment from his father's company could not bode well. "And you're early, too!"

"We had no idea what time to be here," said Ginny, shaking out her hair, and fixing her witch's hat.

"We thought the earlier the better," Harry put in, gaze bouncing around.

"No matter," said Lily, cheerful. "James can show us around – I've only been here the once—"

"—and James took you to the cemetery," said Ginny, with a small laugh.

James spun on Lily. "You told them that?" he asked.

"Only because of their last name," she said. Her green eyes were sparkling; James love it when they did that. It always meant she was laughing on the inside. He did not care if she was laughing at him – all that mattered was that she was happy. "But you can show us some other—"

"James!" His father was waving him back.

"A moment," he said, turning away. The sound of footsteps on snow-covered stone followed him. "Dad? What is it?"

Fleamont dangled his pocket watch from his palm, showing the time to be ten after ten in the morning. "Our shipment was meant to arrive—"

"At seven after," said James. "Yeah, I remember."

"It's late," the Ministry official huffed.

"Would you – and your friends – want to find out what is causing the delay?" Fleamont asked. "It ought not be too far away…"

"—is hardly proper way to run a business, I've got to get my report to the Ministry and to St. Mungo's—"

"Of course, Dad," James said loudly. "We'd be happy to." Then, looking askance at the Peverells, he muttered, "I mean, d'you…?"

"We don't mind," said Ginny, shaking her head.

Harry was silent; James did not know if he had even heard the question. But this was not unusual of him; he had noticed, all this last term, that Harry did not offer much up. There was a watchfulness about him; it was even more present now, draping over him like the cloak that he wore. Ginny was the more talkative of the Peverell siblings, he and the others had noted that already. He'd supposed Harry might be a bit more open outside of Hogwarts: if anything, he was even more silent.

"Harry?" James nudged.

"Eh?" he said. "Oh. Right. No, I don't mind. Not at all."

"I'll just Apparate home and grab my broom then," said James. "Lily, you can ride with me?"

She nodded.

A part of him wondered if the shipment would arrive in the two minutes it took him to retrieve his broom. But it was not the case. The only thing that had changed by the time James returned to the village was that the Ministry official's face was perhaps a brighter shade of red than when he had left. Lily, who was as fond of Fleamont as he was of her – in fact, when they had first become friends, James had known it was because of how charming his parents always were to her at King's Cross – was standing near him, laughing with him.

"Ready for the off," said James, cheerful.

It was a particularly enjoyable moment when Lily settled behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and nestling up against his back. "Don't go too fast," she murmured.

"You know I won't," he said.

"Sirius would," she muttered.

"Just as well I'm not Sirius then, isn't it?" said James.

"Does that mean you're a prankster?" asked Ginny.

Both Fleamont and Lily laughed rather loudly even as James groaned. "You're just encouraging his jokes!" he accused, kicking off into the air, and hovering at his father's shoulder level.

"Only because he isn't here," said Lily.

"Don't take life so… seriously, James," said Fleamont, managing to keep a straight face.

The Ministry official made a sound like a boiling tea kettle.

"Seven years," said James, "I've had seven years of serious jokes. You'd be tired of them, too. C'mon, let's get out of here…"

But he was not truly annoyed by the banter. He knew, at least in part, what his father was doing. Or, at least, he thought he did. It was decidedly odd that an official from the Ministry – and fairly high-ranking at that – was observing the shipment of potions from his dad's factory to a small clinic. It was even more unusual that the shipment itself was late. As soon as they were out of sight of Godric's Hollow and anyone who might be watching them, James leaned forward and went a bit faster.

Lily's arms tightened around his waist.

Despite the speed, Ginny seemed perfectly comfortable to take both hands off the broom, reach into her pockets, and pull out her gloves.

"So what exactly is happening?" Harry asked, to James's surprise. "What are we doing?"

"Erm," said James. "The Ministry decided to audit Dad's shipment to the clinic – St. Galina's – it's the local one here in town – but it's late."

"I gathered that," said Harry, tone dry.

The Hollow was nestled within a moor; James was quiet as they followed the upward curve of another hill, keeping the silvery train tracks in his sight. He did not particularly want to talk about what might or might not be happening with the shipment; he wanted to enjoy how it felt to have Lily's hands splayed on his stomach. They felt hot, even through his robes. And was it his imagination, or was her thumb ever so slightly stroking a gentle little circle?

To his surprise, Harry was a bit of a persistent fellow.

"But is this normal, or…? Why has he sent us?"

"Well, you're along because you're with me," said James, stalling. "And I'm going because – because he's my dad."

Harry just stared at him without blinking.

"Sometimes sons just do as they're told," said James, with great dignity.

Behind him, Lily laughed, making pleasure ripple up and down his back.

Harry raised both brows. To James's relief, however, the persistence died off. Harry dropped away. James enjoyed the feel of Lily at his back for another few hills before, just as he'd crested one with rocky crags at the top, Ginny cried out: "Is that it?" Down below, just at the base of a slow, winding incline, was a freight car that was near camouflaged by the surrounding rocks.

"That's it," said James. His stomach squeezed, and not from the way Lily's arms had tightened around him. This was a normal sized car, not the smaller version that regularly pulled into Godric's Hollow, carrying the amount of potions that St. Galina's could stock for a town that size. Sweat swept down his back. Of all the days for the Ministry to have sent someone out!

Both of the Peverells were watching him, faces alight with curiosity.

"Well, uh, I guess we better get down there," said James.

If his father had known that the freight car would be like this, he never would have suggested that the Peverell siblings join them. Mindful of Lily, James slowly angled his way downward, mind racing ahead. What was he going to do? How was he going to adjust the situation so that the right train car arrived in Godric's Hollow? How could he communicate with his father the stickiness of the situation with the Ministry official breathing down his neck?

After landing and giving Lily a moment to catch herself, James propped his broom up against a boulder, placed his hands on his hips, and stared at the train. He knew why it had stopped here, now he thought of it. A few more feet, and it would be within the bounds of Godric's Hollow – the Ministry official might have been able to detect it himself. Scrunching up his face, he walked halfway around it. There was meant to be someone here – someone his father trusted – to unload half of the shipment and transfigure the car.

Casting a look askance at the Peverells, he scratched the back of his neck, then looked at them again.

"Would you two mind getting back up in the air?" James asked, finally coming to a decision. "Maybe keep watch over – uh… back the way we came?" That direction made the most sense, didn't it? He just wanted them unable to see the intricacies of what he was about to do. "Um, please?"

The glance the siblings shared was fleeting: there was nothing but amiable willingness from either of them. A second later, they kicked off into the air with a speed and skill that belied their clumsiness when he'd first met them.

"What's going on?" Lily asked, once the Peverells were out of earshot. "Why'd you send them away?"

As much as he didn't know the Peverells, he did know Lily. They might be unknown quantities, but he trusted Lily with both his life and his family business. "Dad always sends… just a bit more to the clinic here than he's meant to," he said, in a low, low voice. The side of the freight car had a shiny ribbon of silver winding around it. James tapped it, impatient and nervous both. He left off mentioning that his dad always shipped potions for the magical beasts and other races that weren't strictly human. Too many potions in a shipment would have his father slapped on the wrist. If the Ministry found out that Fleamont was providing succor to house elves, goblins, vampires, and even werewolves… there would be a fine, or worse.

Whispering the password and tapping his wand, had the doors opening without a squeak. It was packed full to bursting – fully half of it would have to be unloaded and then hidden until his father could find the associate he worked with and they delivered the rest to St. Galina's. Sunlight flooded the inside of the car: a glance upward showed the two Peverells high above them; a glance beside him showed him Lily, face lit with questions.

There was no hiding the contents of the freight car. James sighed. "Listen," he said, again in a low voice. "Can you help me get these"—he gestured toward the bottles at the back of the car, with names like Goblin's Galengale, the Crimson Drink, Baruffio's Cure for Elvish Ailments, and Dryad Draughts—"out of here?"

Lily caught his eye and held it; James held his breath.

"I—"

But James did not get a chance to see if she was willing to break the rules or not. There was a sharp CRACK! of Apparition and a stocky, red-headed wizard with a long mustache and thick glasses appeared just beside the tracks, already waving his wand in a slow arc.

Lily cried out.

"Wait!" said James, gripping her arm stopping her from shooting a hex at him. "Don't! That's Gideon Prewett… he works for my dad."

"Charmed," muttered Gideon. The bottles began to rattle. "Do be so good, and stand aside, I've a great deal to do in very little time."

"You were late," James pointed out, "what happened? Dad's back at Godric's Hollow… there's a Ministry official breathing down his neck, hoping to poach some potions for St. Mungo's."

Gideon jerked his head toward his upper arm. There was a great gash in his robes, there; the edges of it were burned and there was large, angry looking slash that still had bright droplets of blood along the edges. Inside, the potions bottles were rattling. "My sister is mother of three children, pregnant, and had an erumpent in her orchard… her husband's working, couldn't get away from a raid."

"You were injured by an erumpent?" Lily asked, shocked.

Gideon let out a short laugh. "No. My second oldest nephew – Charlie – grabbed my sister's wand and tried to help."

"It looks bad…"

The bottles were swiftly, and silently, filing out the door, and one by one crossing the invisible boundary that marked the beginning of the wards of Godric's Hollow.

"I tried to ignore it," said Gideon, "but my sister was panicked… I'd hoped Fabian – my brother – would help her, but none of us could reach him."

"It's all right," and James, "as long as you—"

But one of the bottles crashed to the ground, splashing its contents onto the rocky ground of the moors.

"Damn and blast!" Gideon said, clutching his arm. "If it isn't my damned wand arm."

"D'you need-?"

Gideon made a savage gesture. "No, I'm almost done, I've got this, I shouldn't have been late, damn it." But when all the bottles had been moved and hidden, he sank to sit on a boulder, face white, squeezing his forearm.

"Let me help," said Lily. "I can help."

"She can," James put in, "she's always wanted to be a healer."

"I've got to transfigure the train, it can't pull into Godric's Hollow like that—"

"I can do it," said James.

"It's not really a trick for teenagers—"

"I can do it," James insisted.

Gideon eyed him. James didn't know the other man well, so he didn't know what it meant that his mustache quivered. He'd worked for Fleamont's company for at least five years, and he knew his dad trusted him enough to perform such sticky services as hiding potions and transfiguring train cars. There had been little reason for the two of them to know each other: James was seventeen, and Gideon had to be at least thirty.

"Fine," he grumped, "But you better tell your dad it was your idea…"

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Author's Note: I have no excuse for the length of this interlude, except that writing from James's perspective was a lot more fun than I expected it to be. It proved to be a pretty potent combo: Christmas, James, time-traveling Harry, cheeky Ginny, Lily, etc. I hope you had fun reading it. As always, please review! Some days, the only motivation to write comes from external sources and the hopeful thought that all these words I'm writing aren't just being flung off into the void.

I outlined the next, Harry POV arc of this fic, and I'm actually really excited to write it!