Chapter 2: Spanish Colours

"…And there was this really pretty purse that was like, this, soft pink with a gold clasp and chain strap." Cressida smiles brightly at the memory. She glances to Euphemia who sits on her right as they dine at some fancy restaurant on their last night in the muggle realm of France. "I fell in love at first sight."

Euphemia's face matches the young girl's, a delicate hand resting against her chest. "Oh it was absolutely stunning," she agrees airily. The males sitting opposite share similar expressions that mix with amusement but attentiveness. Euphemia and Cressida had taken to the fashion streets that day to simply browse some of the most exquisite labels and pieces they had ever seen. James and Fleamont spent the day sight-seeing instead. "And there were also these gorgeous earrings," she adds slowly and coyly to her husband of many years.

Undoubtedly used to his wife's unsubtle hints, the older man leans back in his chair with a smile. "I suppose we do have an anniversary coming up. If I have time in the morning that is." Euphemia raises her glass with a twinkle in her eye.

Cressida's smile softens but remains just as true as before, tenderly admiring their relationship for a few moments. Then she glances back to James who sits opposite her at the small table of four. His eyes are pointed towards her already and though his lips are still pressed together, they flaunt one of the most brilliant smiles she's ever seen. Maybe it isn't just his mouth – but his eyes show it too. The same sparkle that shines in his mother's.

Suddenly he breaks away from her gaze, glancing towards his father instead. "I'll come with you," he says through a stretch of his shoulders. "I've been wanting a new watch and they might have a place nearby."

Fleamont's brows raise in the interest of the topic of watches that Cressida' finds slightly odd. If her family ever talked about watches, it'd be because her father had noticed a man watching him wearing a particular one. Always a suspicious person – though she supposes he has to be. Nevertheless, their avid discussion draws her attention, even if the words fly over her head.

They've dressed very similarly, she observes. James dons a white undershirt and black vest with dress pants, and his father the same only with the brown counterparts. And he has a gold chain looping from the breast pocket where a pocket watch sits. There are two very opposite ends of the spectrum that she finds him most attractive. The most common, yet absolutely heart shuddering is his comfort clothes; simple pants and jumpers which he lounges around in when there's nobody around. And the entirely opposite end – this end, when he looks finer than any of the well-dressed Frenchmen she's seen.

Cressida can only hope that she matches in with the Potter family enough. Her dress is a gift from Euphemia for the occasion; a dark Gryffindor-red with a short rounded-edged collar and buttons down one side asymmetrically. It ends just at her knees, framed to her figure until her waist where it then flows down softly enough for the fabric to fold over itself slightly.

Even after five years, Cressida cannot help but feel slightly out of place in such a luxurious context that the Potters find so natural. "Thank you for having me," she says to Euphemia as James and Fleamont still ramble on about the different types of leather. "I'm just sad that Sirius couldn't come."

Euphemia nods softly, taking a short sip of her wine from a perfectly polished glass. "I too, dear," she says gently. Her eyes betray the same emotion that Cressida feels in her own heart. Having one extra companion here would make a brilliant trip absolutely perfect. "He's a fine young man, despite whatever his family speaks. I just wish the risk of taking him wasn't too great."

"He would have been up for it," she whispers mirthfully. "Sneaking out of the country that is. Actually, I'm surprised he hasn't done that already. But he'd never want to put you in that position – not for a Quidditch match." She just hopes he's alright. By this time of the holidays, he's typically already settled in at the Potters' and Cressida would be coming by any time. And it doesn't help that he seemed set on pissing his family off even more so this year. Merlin knows what his father would have done if he heard about him snogging a muggle-born. "I don't know how he does it."

"The same way you do."

Euphemia's response catches Cressida off-guard. It takes her a moment to piece together that the kind, older woman is speaking about her own family. But that would be impossible since she has told nobody of her true homelife except for Sirius. He once spent an entire night in second-year confessing what had transpired over the previous Summer holidays after he was sorted into Gryffindor and Cressida realised that same night that he would be someone she could talk to as well. Not for sympathy or someone to act as her saviour, but someone to just listen and understand.

But in saying that, the main source of trouble in her life is rarely home anyway – mostly off travelling to locations that would be unmarked on a map to bring home a few trunks worth of imported goods. But there are also times when he is home.

Horror must be blatantly present on her face as Euphemia sighs softly through her nose, half turning in her chair. "Don't believe that it changes anything about you, or your position in our family. Sirius informed us two years ago when you weren't replying to his letters and he was growing concerned."

Cressida isn't sure what she is worried about. Maybe just their perceptions of her? Coming from a narcissistic pureblood family is one thing, coming from a working-class, muggle family that runs an illegal underground business in weapons trading is another. "They locked all the windows," she recalls in a tone barely above a whisper. "Sirius' owl couldn't get in and my father kept shooing it off. I watched it come every day. After the fifth, I thought he might shoot it down but Windsor flew off in time." Realising her eyes are pinned on nothing but a blurry spot on the far end of the restaurant, Cressida snaps her head back towards James' mother. "Thank you for letting me stay all the time."

"Our home is always open to James' friends."

Cressida nods, partially in agreement, partially in thanks. Her eyes turn back to James slowly, affection growing in her heart. People don't realise how much he does for his friends.

Xx

Even with the match still hours away, through the walls of the large tent, they can hear team chants though the two young Gryffindors can hardly understand the foreign languages. There is an air of anticipation and exhilaration that is so thick, Cressida swears she can run her hands through the air and feel it.

Currently her hands are occupied with a paintbrush in one, and James' chin in another.

"You're being very meticulous," he notes off-handed. Her eyes dart from the gold and red stripes she's been painting on one side of his face to his eyes which are brimming with mirth and taunt.

"I'm trying to make sure it's straight," she retorts, going back to detailing the linework. Her mouth tweaks up. "You've actually been quite patient. I thought I'd have to bribe you with something to sit so still."

"Honestly I'm scared that if I move you're gonna scream at me." Cressida purses her lips, pausing her painting to glare at him. James cracks into a short chuckle, ducking his head away from the wet brush. "Alright, you're not a screamer. You're more of a book pelter."

"Only when you deserve it," she snorts, placing the paintbrush down for a moment. "Tell me why we're going for the Spanish team again?"

"Cause they're Gryffindor colours," he answers swiftly. "Well, close enough to them." Cressida shifts her eyebrows up momentarily to acknowledge his observation but her focus in pinned on the remaining part of his forehead that is unpainted. "Before you continue-" he leans backwards over his small cot, reaching for something in his pack, "better have a chat with Sirius."

"Are you sure?" she questions. "He might be a bit upset not being here."

James only shrugs, holding the mirror up to his face. "He's the one who wanted me to call before the match." Cressida nods, readjusting her weight onto her ankles that are crossed underneath her as James calls for Sirius in the two-way mirror. He doesn't appear at first, but they can see the unmistakable sight of a muggle poster on the wall. While they wait, James softly calling for him, Cressida picks up the brush again. She rakes her fingers through the front of his hair which hangs over his forehead slightly and then holds it to the top of his head in a firm but gentle grip.

"Finally," she hears a familiar voice sigh. The image in the mirror shifts as Sirius appears, sinking down along his wall next to his bed. He looks tired, she notes – more so mentally than anything. "Hey, you're getting your makeup done."

Cressida doesn't hold her snort. "He's enjoying too," she adds.

"Je suis magnifique," James drawls, tilting his head around to show off the bright colours. Cressida only laughs further rather than berating him for moving his head around. "How's it been, mate?"

Sirius sighs, looking somewhere over the top of his side of the mirror. "How it is usually. Even Kreacher's being a little bitch to me now. Though he never liked me to begin with." Cressida knows that his house-elf is the least of his worries at home. But she won't say that because he already knows and that's why it was his answer. "They tried to tear down all my Gryffindor stuff in my room while I was gone. But as you can see-" he turns the mirror around to reveal his room which is a sea of colour, specifically the red and gold, "they couldn't touch a thing. I think I have Cress to thank for that."

She shrugs, abandoning the painting for the time being again. "I only gave the suggestion; you performed the spells."

"Still have my thanks."

They talk for a little while longer, sharing their Summer stories that sound better in person than over mail. Sirius has been in contact with his aunt, Andromeda more closely – his favourite family member. She's glad that he at least has someone, even if Andromeda is down a similar path only a few years ahead.

After a while, something in the Black House calls for Sirius' attention and though his reluctance to say goodbye is as clear as day, his fear of doing otherwise is even more so. James tucks the mirror back away as Cressida stays silent, thinking to herself. The paintbrush is still wet with red paint, pointed upwards from her firm grip.

Rather than call her name to take her attention – or maybe he has been but she isn't listening – James curls a finger around the brush and pulls it downwards. He releases it like a catapult and the paint splatters across the lower half of her face.

Startled, Cressida nearly knocks herself backwards, feeling globs of paint along her cheek and lips. James looks both amused and concerned – more likely at the repercussions than anything. She refrains from the natural instinct of licking her lips. Staring at James, she lifts the pad of her thumb to her lip but pauses, turning her hands into fists.

Almost launching forward, Cressida curves her face around and plants her lips on his cheek, just next to his ear. She's laughing before she even leans back onto her heels. James' eyes are closed and his brows raised in shock, feeling the paint now on his skin where it transferred from her.

Swallowing, he lets out a slow chuckle. "Alright, I guess I deserve that." He goes to do the same thing she did and touch it, but also hesitates and decides otherwise, his hand falling back into his lap. "Are you going to finish the rest of my face?"

Cressida nods bashfully, forcing her eyes to peel off the slight imprint of her own lips. Dipping the brush back into the red paint, she goes back to the right side of his face, running her fingers through his hair to pin it back. James stays quiet for the most part, only answering anything she says. After she finishes, Cressida gently resets his short fringe, making sure it won't get into the damp paint. "I'll get something to wipe it off before it dries," she says in reference to her paint marking.

"Why?" he demands abruptly, a slow but sure smirk befalling his lips. "Afraid people will think you're with me?"

Cressida's brows teak together for less than a second, thinking quickly and intently about her answer. Letting out a hesitant laugh, she nods, sliding off the bed. "Something like that."

Sourcing down a wet-wipe, she returns to his cot. His smirk has softened into something more gentle but genuine as he leans against his hands. Cressida swallows thickly, keeping her eyes strictly pointing towards her hand which is wiping his cheek clean. "Okay," he breathes with a boyish grin, picking up her discarded brush. "Time for your face."

Cressida raises her brows high, plucking the paintbrush from his fingers. "No."

Thank you for the awesome reviews! 3