It hadn't snowed yet.
The rain beat off the bay windows, scattering the streetlight and melting the colours of the world outside like an unfinished painting. Outside was wet and cold, but in that grand, sandstone house, behind the magnolia tree, it was warm and mellow. And what more could a person ask for, but for the soft light on the table before them, illuminating the wooden chess pieces on the board. What more could an old man ask for than the company of his wife, humouring his desires for games, and for music on the wireless and his requests for another slice of cake. What more could a father want than the long-awaited quiet after another day filled with chatter when their over-indulged and soft-at-heart son fell asleep on the carpet by the fire, book abandoned on the floor beside them.
"What's that funny look on your face for?" Euphema asked, smirking at him. "I hope you're not getting sentimental."
Fleamont snorted and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "Is an old man not allowed to get sentimental?"
His wife rolled her eyes and considered the board before them. "Do you want to give up?"
"I suppose I should, before I lose."
"Yes," She yawned and stretched. "Quit while you're ahead, old man." Euphemia offered him a cheeky look, then turned to James, on the floor.
"Looks comfy," she commended, sarcastically.
"Oh, to be young, and boneless." Fleamont flicked his wand casually and levitated James up onto the sofa, before having the book dog-ear itself and return to the shelf.
Euphema reset the board and returned it to the cabinet before pulling the curtains closed, shutting out the rainy evening. "It's strange. I thought things would be different, but it's like nothing ever changed." She lowered the volume on the wireless and sat herself on the same sofa as James, careful not to disturb him, lest she curse them with another few hours of impenetrable monologuing.
"It's not a long time, really. Eleven years and then only a brief glance at them for several months out of the year before they're a man."
"I thought I was the sentimental one," Fleamont accused, dryly. "Goodness knows if it wasn't for boarding school, that child would be so spoilt that he wouldn't be able to carry his own head."
"It's your huge head he inherited."
Fleamont dropped his head to the table. "And however would my poor withered neck carry it from room to room if not for the assistance of my long suffering scaffold of a wife?"
"And your ridiculousness." She added.
"It's strong in the Potter line," he said, apologetically, still smiling.
And so they amused each other, in the cosy little sitting room, and life was just as she'd said it would be. The lucky old man and his brilliant wife, worryless and kind, unburdened by the politics of muggles or wizards in the sandstone four-storey in Stow on the Wold, where the men were fools and the women were bold, so they said. A home, gold, an heir and a blessed little life without a care. He often thought of that old Potter, in his garden with his plants, a wise old fool. What a pleasant fate.
Of course, it was easy to be delighted by your domestic life when your child was asleep.
"Mum? Dad?" Fleamont's eye cracked open at his hiss and he groaned. He hadn't meant to fall asleep on the armchair downstairs, and yet here he was, crick in his neck and cramp in his legs. He sat up.
"James?"
"Is it Christmas yet?"
If he'd been more awake, he would have laughed.
"James, it's only," he checked his watch. "Half eleven."
The boy pouted. Framed in the doorway by the dim hallway light, his face was barely distinguishable. Sleep certainly hadn't tamed his hair. He stepped into the room proper, barefoot on the carpet, and crawled up onto the footstool to join him.
"Why are you asleep down here?" he yawned.
"Why do any of us do anything, James," he answered blandly, stretching his legs. "What are you doing out of bed?"
"Why do any of us do anything?" The retort was cheeky, but without any malice. He smiled up at his father, eyes gritty with sleep and unfocussed without the glasses.
They sat in companionable silence for a short while, James leaning against his fathers' legs, Fleamont silently willing said legs not to fall asleep under his son's weight.
"What were your friends like in school?" James asked, abruptly. Fleamont raised an eyebrow, though James couldn't see his face. James asked plenty of questions about Hogwarts and about the wizarding world, but he'd never asked about friends before.
"Hmm… well I had a few different friends over the years," Fleamont offered, evasively.
"Yes, but who was your best friend?" James insisted.
Flemont thought for a while. "Well, I suppose if you asked me now, it'd be hard for me to choose, but I suppose at the time my best friend was someone called Eilis. She was in the year above me, so I was devastated when she left me behind in seventh year."
"Your best friend was a girl?" James asked, incredulously. His father snorted.
"What's the matter, have you not met one yet?"
"No, just, they're fine, but what about the boys in your dorm? The Gryffendor girls are fine, but I just see my dorm-mates more - y'know?"
"I suppose. The thing is, I was blessed with a ridiculous name and rather cruel dorm-mates, so I had to look elsewhere. Besides, there's nothing to say you shouldn't branch out. The opposite, in fact. When else in your life would you have the opportunity to meet so many different children from all around the country? I'm sure Sirius, Remus and Peter are delightful, but you'd do well to talk with some of the other students, too."
James 'hmm'ed placatingly and Fleamont had the impression that this had washed over his head completely.
"So, who is your best friend?" Fleamont asked, guessing that what James actually wanted to do was talk about his own dorm-mates.
"Sirius, obviously," he answered immediately. (It seemed he'd assumed correctly). "He's the best person I've ever met."
"I'll choose not to take that personally," muttered Fleamont. James ignored him.
"But, before we left for Christmas, he was really weird with me. Everything was fine, then he didn't want to talk to me any more."
Fleamont scratched his beard absently. Who was he to fathom the mind of an unknown eleven-year-old?
"Well, did you say something rude to him?"
"Of course not!" James turned to look at him, indignantly. "And anyway, if I was rude to him, then I'd know why he wasn't talking to me. It's like it came out of nowhere."
As much as Fleamont hated to admit it, James wasn't the most introspective and considerate child that he'd ever known, so he decided to humour this uncharacteristic concern he was showing. Normally, if anyone had a problem with him, he'd simply brush it off and move on, untouched. Seemingly this Black child had poked some sensitive part of him (thank goodness someone had).
"Well, when did it start? Maybe he's not upset with you, maybe you're just noticing it because you're his friend?"
James leaned his head back to rest on his father's knees, thinking. "No, it's definitely me. He's mostly normal with everyone else… It started near the Christmas holidays."
Fleamont hummed in thought. "Well, there's your answer."
"Well?" James encouraged him.
"Well, you haven't had the pleasure of meeting that family, but I have, very briefly, and have heard much more. By any chance does your friend talk much about his family?"
"He never writes to them. He doesn't like them. He said they would have wanted him in Slytherin, and that it's okay to keep secrets…" James paused to think if he could remember anything else. "Oh and that they would hate me," he finished, proudly. Fleamont laughed.
"Yes, I fear that's accurate. Well, Silly Jimmy, your friend is feeling a little resentful, I'd wager."
"Like, jealous?"
"Close enough. I'm doubting he's having such a cosy and welcoming experience as you are, my lad."
James was silent for an uncharacteristically long while, before Fleamont could have sworn he'd heard him sniff, wetly.
"I should have stayed at Hogwarts…"
It wasn't that James was an unkind child. He was polite, bright, sunny and forgiving, but Fleamont wasn't blind to his flaws. Certainly he could be accused of being hard-headed and single-minded, and it led to the frequent impression that he was uncaring, or thoughtless. And it wasn't that Fleamont didn't know that this was an unfair conclusion. It was simply that, having lived with only his memory of the boy for the last three months, he had forgotten some details. He sighed and placed a hand on his son's head, prompting him to look around and meet his eyes.
As he'd thought, they looked a little wet. James accepted the silent invitation for a hug, despite the cramped chair.
If they'd been under the light of day, he knew his son would have insisted he was far too old.