Chapter 12: December 31st 1979
Cressida wails ferociously, her arm swinging out. A plethora of silver chess pieces soar off to the carpet. Peter chuckles meekly, leaning back out of the firing range. Her arms, now two months later, are left uncovered, painted in spots of fresh red around her wrists, palms and fingers. It had been a long process, unable to use her wand properly, unable to cook. And showering-
"When did you get so good?!" she demands, leaning over the board at a sheepishly proud Peter. His blonde hair grows longer, his fringe brushing over his brows and lashes whenever he looks upwards.
"I've been practising," he replies. "Clearly you have not."
Cressida grumbles to herself, hiding a grin under a ducked head. Waving her wand, the pieces soar back into place. "I don't have a set at home." She sends a withering glare in Sirius' direction who dismissed the idea of having one taking up space, but the long-haired boy is leaning against the doorframe leading away from the family room of the Potter manor. "Drag James here," she says to Peter. "He'll give you a run for your money."
Remus strides back into the large room with the roaring fire, a silver tray lined with small bowls of finger snacks. The fire roars with a beautiful warmth. Music softly playing from Sirius' record player. Each of their bodies are clad in knitted, patterned sweaters that were made by none other than Sirius himself. Cressida's is a rather hideous blue-green combination with odd white strips added through. But James had the worst with a mix of reds and browns that had no evenness whatsoever. They are, of course, meant to be hideous. And Sirius takes great pleasure in making them wear them.
"Hey," she whispers, leaning against the opposite side of the doorframe. Sirius smiles fleetingly, black eyes in another world. "Where's your mind at?"
His throat bobs, but not in a nervous or cautious manner. His features are set straight, giving no hint to distress or pain. "My father died," he answers. There's no waver in his tone, no remorse, but nor is he happy. "About a week ago."
Cressida breathes out a silent, "Oh." She knows better than to give him her sorrow, for neither of them are. "How does it feel?"
Sirius hums, turning so his back presses into the wood. His arms cross over his stomach, dark red sleeves scrunched up around his elbows. "Not any different."
"Good," she smiles. "If you said you felt free, I'd be concerned." He gives her a mirthfully bemused raise of his brows. "It would mean that you still felt weighed down by him. But you cut that tie on your own. You hold your own."
His eyes drift off over his shoulder, his head slowly bobbing in thought. "I like that."
Cressida smiles wider, reaching out to squeeze his side. Her mind travels to Regulus. He wouldn't be handling it the same. She hasn't heard from him in weeks and she would be lying if she said it didn't worry her. But she also hasn't sent one to him, unable to write properly for so long. She should, now that she can.
"It's nearly midnight," Sirius muses. Cressida follows his gaze to the large grandfather clock. "New decade. Exploding snap?"
"Probably not the best idea," a new voice to the conversation says. James sways up to them. He takes her arm gently, holding her palm up towards the ceiling. His thumb ghosts over fresh scarring that probably won't ever leave. "Just to be on the safe side."
"I have to agree," she smiles to Sirius, letting James fiddle around with her hand. His chest leans up against her side, letting her feel every breath he takes. He takes her ring finger, running his thumb from the base to her nail and back again. "Or I'll never fulfil my dream of being a hand model."
Sirius shrivels his nose. "That's a thing?"
"So is being a foot model, but that's an entirely different industry." Cressida barely supresses her smirk, hiding her face into her shoulder as Sirius tries to work out her meaning. "I haven't had a drink yet and that sounds like an equal amount of fun."
"Did someone say firewhiskey?" Remus calls out from his curled spot in front of the fireplace, hogging the snacks for himself.
Euphemia and Fleamont are attending a New Year's Eve Party with some of their closest business partners, leaving the four rascals to have the manor to themselves. Instead of throwing their own party, they fell into the comfort of each other's presence.
"Yes!" Cressida cries in answer. "But I don't know where it is."
"On it!" Remus announces, shooting from his spot ad darting towards the Potter's small cellar. The remaining three laugh, shoulders shaking. Sirius calls out to Peter, calling for a game of exploding snap. Eager to be involved, the mousey boy nods feverishly and Sirius is sauntering away, leaving James and Cressida in the doorway.
Cressida tugs James to stand in front of her, running her palms down his chest with a mirthful admiration for his sweater. "You're quiet tonight," she hums. "Usually this is when you are the drunkest of the entire year."
"You make me sound like I've got a drinking problem."
"And we both know you don't." Her fingers settle on his belt, hooking them through to cement her hold. "I'm just pointing out that this is usually an occasion that you enjoy yourself, and I'm wondering why you're not."
She smiles questioningly up at him, twisting his hips softly when he takes his time. James looks over the top of her head at the wood, lips pressed tight in a silent grin. "I don't feel like drinking tonight."
She tips her head to her shoulder. "No?"
"No," he confirms, bending down and taking her lips in a momentary kiss. "Do you want to go outside for a while?"
Cressida laughs, shaking her head. "It's freezing out there. Besides, you might not want to drink, but I would like one." She steps back into the room, taking his hands. He resists her pull, albeit it is gentle. Glancing over her shoulder, she frowns at him. "James? What is it?"
His lips furl inwards, side-glancing the hallway that would take them outside but he doesn't ask her again and gives into the tension of their arms. "Nothing. Do you want a glass or are you going to drink straight from the bottle?"
"You're assuming I'm capable of pulling it from Moony's grip," she drawls, leaning forward as she walks backwards. James makes an expression of agreeance. Rolling his eyes, he slides his hands out of hers, turning towards the other doorway which would lead to the kitchen. Cressida's face falls straight, her heart singing out in an overwhelming desperation. "James?!" He stops with a soft sway, half-turning back with rounded eyes. Storming up to him, her still tender fingers rake through his black curls with urgency, their pads pressing against his scalp and pulls his head towards hers. Her lips press hard against her teeth, widening at his swift response of pressing back against her with a force stronger than her own.
One of her arms slides around to his neck and she forces herself to disconnect, moving her lips to brush over his lower cheek. James breathes heavily, his nose pressing against her own cheek. "I actually wanted to say something," Cressida pants out with short, breathless chuckle. "Don't know where that came from."
James makes a similar laugh, fingers clasping tightly around her sweater. "Don't think I'm complaining."
Cressida smiles, lightly kissing his cheek and leans back. His tongue runs over his lips, eyes settled on her lips and she can already see the plan formulating to go there once again. She pinches his chin gently, lifting his gaze back to her eyes. Her lip stretches between her teeth, visually tracing over the arch of his eyebrows and the slope of his nose. "You are so perfect."
"Cressida, my princess, I love you, but please don't say I am." His tone is teasingly chivalrous, but honest all the same. "Perfection comes from moments, not people."
"Then why do I feel the need to tell you?" she teases back, trailing after him as he continues towards the kitchen. "You have your idea of perfection, and I have mine."
"Because," he starts, heading towards the cupboard that holds an assortment of glasses. Cressida wraps her arms around him from behind, resting her head on his back. "It makes me terrified that one day I won't be perfect for you. And then what will you think of me?"
"I will be thinking, how could this man before me, fuck up so bad that the universe exploded? Though I might be dead after that happens." James sighs, pulling two glasses down and places them on the bench. "Why is it so hard to just accept that I think you're perfect?"
He shuffles around within her arms, leaning against the bench and settles his hands on her arms, rubbing them repetitively. "You're perfect in my eyes, don't think I'm trying to say I think otherwise."
Cressida perches her chin on his shoulder, twisting her head around with a shy smirk. "That's a bit ironic."
"What I'm trying to say," he draws out theatrically, "is that while I think you're perfect in my eyes, I don't believe people can inherently be perfect. I think you have flaws, but I love you for them. How you're saying it, makes it sound like you don't think I have my own. It's a… hazy view that can be shattered."
Cressida hums softly, resting her cheek on the front of his shoulder. Perhaps he is right. "Your sweater is itchy," she mumbles, using her knuckles to itch the side of her face.
"I know," he hisses, sending them both into a melody of chuckles. He winds an arm around her shoulders, keeping her tucked under his embrace while his other hands digs deep into the pocket of his black pants. James scratches the curve of her shoulder lightly, pressing a firm kiss to the edge of her hair. "What would you say if I asked you to marry me right now?"
It is like someone reaches up inside her, grips her stomach and yanks down on it. every time he hints to it, she finds a way to wriggle out of the conversation. They haven't reached that goal line of bliss yet. She has so much to fix still. "James…" How does she even word this?
"Thirty seconds to midnight!" Sirius cries, peeking in through the archway with a bottle of firewhiskey in hand. "Oi-hey!" He turns around as the arm holding the bottle is tugged away by someone behind the wall.
Feeling the conversation become forgotten, Cressida grins up to James. "Come on." Jogging out of the room, she joins the others back in the well lit family room. Music still plays, bowls of chips and lollies on the coffee table and a magical countdown floats in the air, looking like sizzling embers. Snatching the bottle out of Remus' hand she takes a quick sip before handing it back to the offended man. He takes it back with a sharp swipe but knocks the sour expression away as Sirius and Peter start counting down from ten.
Cressida spins her head around, looking for James. He's only just coming out of the kitchen, placing the glass on the coffee table. She waits for him to come to her, but he stays near the lounge, where she stands next to the fireplace.
"…Four! Three..."
Cressida grins again, turning to Remus. "..Two, One!" The floating countdown explodes like a small firework, the embers sprinkling down the room. "Happy New Year, Moon-pie."
"Happy New Year, Pooh-Bear."
"Hey!" Remus and Cressida turn wide-eyed to Sirius who has a very affronted expression. "Did you just call my friend shit?!"
The pair stare at him for a moment longer, wondering if he was drunk or deaf until realisation falls upon them and they burst out in synchronised cackles. Sirius soon turns up the volume of the record player, with no neighbours nearby to care about the noise.
They dance, they sing, they laugh.
Her cheeks are stained red from the constant heat pouring on them whether it be from the fire, the alcohol or just the way her cheeks strained from laughing too hard. Sirius splays out across the coffee table, the bottle of firewhiskey in his hand, eyes half-closed. Not drunkenly passed out, but in his own little world, humming to the music.
"I thought you weren't going to drink tonight," Cressida sings, approaching James who sits on the arm of the lounge, a very full glass in hand. She has just stolen the bottle from an unsuspecting Sirius who will surely realise in a few moments.
He sighs with a tight smile. "Yeah, well plans change. So may as well, am I right?"
His tone is a little blunter than she was expecting, so she pauses, watching him take a long swig. "Enjoy tonight, won't you?" Taking another step forward, Cressida rubs her hand along his resting forearm.
Before he can answer her, a muscled arm stretches across her front. Her feet are yanked from the ground, a squeal passing her lips. "Bloody witch!" On realisation who is wrestling her, she holds the bottle closer to her chest. "Give me."
"Never!"