Eyes as heady as mulled wine.
The mulled wine in his hand lingered far too long, its warmth doing little to ease his nerves. It seemed that the French in the Hautes-Alpes had quite the penchant for mulled wine. As soon as he arrived in Montgenèvre—one of the highest ski resorts, perched not far from the Italian border—he passed by no fewer than a dozen stands offering mulled wine in to-go cups.
And now, here he was, with el famoso wine again, at the introductory meeting for the new ski instructors of the 2024 season at the ESI, in a way, the French equivalent of an international ski school.
He clung to the cup for minutes now, casting uncertain glances around the room in search of a friendly face. The problem here wasn’t a lack of approachability—quite the opposite, really. In a room teeming with extroverts, all chatting and laughing boisterously, how on earth was James supposed to just be James? If Sirius were here, the game would change entirely. They’d be a dynamic duo—a perfect two-man act, with someone to haul him out of those treacherous moments when his mind drifted too far and he reemerged only to find a dozen puzzled eyes waiting for the end of his sentence or for him to come back to Earth.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He knew for sure it wasn’t Sirius, who was probably still semi-comatose, sleeping until noon. This morning, after a hearty breakfast with Peter –who was also starting his seasonal job today, and Barty –rather an early bird, James had peeked through the crack in Sirius’s door to catch a glimpse of him snoring, sprawled like a starfish in the middle of the bed. Nothing new there.
Yet, when he opened the group chat with his three best friends under the name of “hoes before bros”, he was surprised to see that Sirius had sent him a dog GIF wishing him good luck.
"Fell out of bed, mate?" He replied.
"Hope you landed on your head; you could use it," Pete quipped. James chuckled at the message, but Sirius responded with a simple middle-finger emoji, probably already on his way back to sleep. While Barty sent a voice message of just him laughing until he nearly choked.
"So, Prongs, how's it going?"
"Socializing mission not yet accomplished. I'm diving in."
"Alright, 007. GL"
With a resigned sigh, he downed the last of the mulled wine, his lifeline, and abandoned the festive reindeer-stamped cup on a nearby table. His mother’s voice echoed in his mind: "You’ve always been better with others, James. Silence sends you spiraling, but talking, well, that brings out your shine." A seasoned adult by now—vaccinated, even a father—he knew better than to dismiss maternal wisdom.
He straightened, smoothing his favorite red sweater and the dark suede jacket with its well-worn sheepskin collar. Then, putting on his best grin, he approached the nearest group busy helping themselves generously to the buffet provided by the ESI. Many of them already sported the ski school’s instructor uniforms—navy suits accented with crisp white stripes—and wore large stickers scrawled with their names in marker. James had written his full name in bold letters—because of course he had. Clearing his throat, he stepped into character.
“I’m James,” he began, weaving a jest about how mulled wine’s potency at high altitudes saved vacationers on bar tabs. The joke earned a round of laughter and, just like that, the mood shifted. This had the desired effect, making the group laugh and immediately warm up to him. He knew it: the smiles grew more welcoming, and just like that, he was no longer the overly tanned, not-yet-famous new instructor. He was funny James Fleamont Potter—full name, if you please.
“So, JFP,” said suddenly a man named Frank, flashing a toothpaste-commercial smile. “Where are you from?”
Frank was huge—burly in a way that made the seams of his uniform threaten rebellion—and led off-piste groups with an air of unshakable confidence. The moniker was typical of him, as James learned: Frank adored nicknames, most of them ridiculous. Sirius and this guy would’ve been instant kindred spirits.
“The Spanish Pyrenees,” James replied. “Station called Baqueira Beret, though I spent a lot of time hopping over to the French side.”
“Well, that’s controversial,” interrupted Alice, feigning an air of scandal. “Pyrenees versus the Alps—long-standing rivalry, you know. But we’ll forgive you.”
“How kind of you, Alice. I’m flattered,” James replied with mock seriousness. He’d heard they were a couple—nearly five years together now. It showed in the way Alice tugged Frank closer by his uniform sleeve and the way his eyes softened whenever she laughed.
“So,” piped up Emmeline, small but exuding frenetic energy, she managed competitive-level skiers and had no patience for clumsy seasonal recruits, “are you here just for the season or thinking long-term?”
“Hard to say,” James admitted. “I like my old station quite a lot.”
“Then why come here?” she pressed, leaning in as though about to dissect his reasoning. Her red hair flew wildly with static electricity the moment she pulled off her beanie. The striking contrast of her fiery locks against her lightly tanned skin and almond-shaped eyes, where a hint of calculated mischief gleamed, was unmistakable. Emmeline wasn’t going to be kind to him—message received.
“My best friend’s got something big planned here. I wanted to support him. You know, lend a hand.”
“A hand?” Frank grinned wickedly. His sharply clipped German accent made his words slightly hard to understand.
“Not like that, you lot!” James rolled his eyes, laughing despite himself. “You’re all characters, aren’t you?”
“You’ll fit in fine,” Alice assured him. With a light touch on his arm, her chipped red nail polish stood out, a subtle hint that she didn’t seem to care much about her appearance. “You’re one of us now.”
"But you’re still a stranger."
"Emmeline!" Alice exclaimed, casting a worried glance at James, clearly afraid he might take it the wrong way. But not in the slightest.
"I understand it’s always hard to welcome new instructors—it’s fine. A scandal could hurt the resort quickly, and I imagine with your father’s role, you feel the need to protect it." He raised both hands, like a prisoner surrendering gracefully, his face twisted into a playful smirk. "I assure you of my goodwill. I don’t eat the children I capture, and I was born on skis."
"If you say so." Despite her words, the young woman seemed to relax slightly, and Frank effortlessly picked up the thread of the conversation, as if nothing had happened.
"Wait a second—you said Fleamont Potter, as in the full name?" asked the tall blond man with a buzz cut, his eyes wide. "Do you know Monty Potter?"
"Quite well, actually," James replied.
"How?"
Still defensive, Emmeline looked determined to wring every secret out of him.
"As in, he’s my father."
An immediate chorus of "No way!" and "Are you kidding?" greeted his response, and James offered a sheepish smile. That reaction was a familiar one. After all, his father was an Olympic gold medalist and something of a legend in the alpine skiing world. Even Emmeline let out an impressed whistle and edged closer to join Frank, both of them now bombarding James with questions. What was it like, being the son of such an icon?
Patiently, James answered every question until Alice came to his rescue, resting a hand on her boyfriend’s shoulder.
"Alright, enough. Let him breathe."
"No, I’m going to strangle him," Frank cut in, nodding vigorously, "then steal his body so I can call THE Monty Potter my dad."
"It’s not like we haven’t had celebrities here before," Alice remarked lightly.
"Monty Potter, though... That’s different. That’s a superhuman," Frank countered.
"Besides, I’m not a celebrity," James added, feeling the need to clarify. He had never aspired to follow in his father’s footsteps in high-level competition. He loved skiing and the mountains, but his world didn’t revolve around them the way his father’s had. Still, curiosity got the better of him. "What other celebrities?" he asked, glancing around.
"You see the two redheads ? Gideon and Fabian Prewett—their older brother is Bill Prewett."
"No way. As in, Bill Prewett, silver medalist four years ago for the fastest time ever recorded in Super G?"
"The very same. And our Frank here," Alice continued, "is the grandson of Augusta Longbottom, cross-country skiing medalist in ’75."
This time, it was James’s turn to let out an admiring whistle. But as his gaze swept across the room, two silhouettes caught his attention.
“And them?” James nodded toward two figures sitting a little apart from the crowd. One, platinum blonde and sharply dressed, reclined effortlessly. The other, raven-haired and slouched, spoke animatedly in quiet tones. They paid no attention to the hubbub around them, content instead to exist in a world of their own making.
Frank exhaled dramatically beside him, while Alice patted his shoulder with a small smile that was both besotted and vaguely mocking. It reminded James of his mother’s expression when she caught his father overwatering the plants or mixing colors in the laundry at his great age. He envied that kind of love.
Frank gestured lazily toward the room, now alive with people laughing, munching, and tugging at ski gear.
“This bunch? Most of us are regulars: residents, like the Prewett twins over there causing mischief, or seasonals like Alice and me. Emmeline grew up here—her dad runs one of the local hotels as you already know. But those two…” His voice dropped as he paused, glancing back at the two figures dressed entirely in black, who had also boycotted the ESI uniforms. “They’ve been here longer than all of us and remain absolute enigmas. I’ve spoken to them maybe three times.”
“Maybe they’re just shy,” James suggested, curious now.
“Or painfully aloof,” muttered Emmeline, sipping her drink with a scowl.
A spark of mischief lit behind James’s glasses. There it was. A purpose. His way to stand out. The group had labeled them untouchable, but James saw a challenge, not a warning. Filling three cups of mulled wine—trading the reindeer design for jolly Santa faces—he adjusted his glasses with the back of his hand and strode toward the pair.
Behind him, Frank called him insane. Emmeline murmured a prayer, while Alice let out an exasperated sigh that sounded oddly supportive. But if those two were the most senior instructors at the school, it couldn’t hurt to be on their good side, right?
All smiles, James approached them. As James neared, the blonde man raised his head, far too perceptive to feign ignorance of the approaching stranger. Not so for the one with curls, whose monologue James had to interrupt.
“¡Qué pasa! Mulled wine? My hands are full.”
That’s when the shorter of the two finally looked up, fixing his pale gray eyes on James. His throat tightened. Like a child before a bakery window. A baby before its favorite pacifier. James swallowed hard. Was it desire, curiosity? Shock, perhaps? He had never seen such striking eyes before—sharp and yet so vacant, their black pupils spilling into an iridescent gray like post-rainstorm clouds. The sight was vaguely familiar. The stranger’s nose—adorably scrunched, he thought—wrinkled as if the wine’s scent offended him.
James hesitated between flinging the cups over his shoulder or downing them all at once, scorching tongue and senses, just to make the smell vanish. Instead, the blond took a cup with a smirk, as if catching James’ faltering heartbeat in 4K.
“Well, someone has manners. Cheers.”
“Thanks,” James stammered, abandoning the other cups clumsily on the nearest table, rubbing his hands on his jeans as if to erase any trace of mulled wine from his life entirely. Maybe he could smell a little better now? He’d have to ask his father about the brand of his cologne. “Hey. Hi. I’m—James?”
The smaller man tilted his head, a flicker of surprise—or was it recognition?—crossing his face. An emotion James was too poor at reading to grasp fully.There is a world of difference between being able to read a room and truly understanding each person within it.
“James?” His voice, low and unhurried, drew out the name as though tasting it for the first time, but not quite.
“That’s me.” James tapped the sticker on his chest. “James Fleamont Potter. Had trouble fitting it all in; no one told me to use just my first name.”
The blond laughed. “Reg, your name wouldn’t even fit on that sticker.”
“Regulus,” the man corrected reflexively, blinking furiously yet never looking away from James whose ears had begun to burn uncomfortably. He was a grown man, in his late twenties, and yet he still managed to blush under the gaze of his new crush—seriously?
“Regulus,” James repeated, savoring it. Grinning so much, it felt like it might tear his cheeks. A name that stands out, just like the man who bears it, effortlessly breaking the mold. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Not mine.” And just like that, Regulus placed a hand on his companion’s sleeve. “Come on, Evan.” They rose, slipping through the door without so much as a backward glance, leaving James standing, red-faced, heart hammering, and glasses slightly askew.
Oh, Regulus was mean. And James suspected he might already be smitten.
After that strange interaction, and the time it took James to recover, he ordered his heart to calm down—fruitlessly. Behind his closed eyelids, he could almost trace the outline of his irises. Such beautiful eyes. He had always been sensitive to eyes, those windows to the soul as his mother liked to call them. Sirius, on the other hand, claimed that one couldn’t lie with their eyes—he, with his trust issues, always felt the need to seek out eye contact. His best friend’s eyes were dark gray, almost black, always seeming to move, perpetually holding either a smoldering anger or a deep boredom. James had grown accustomed to those beautiful eyes. But not to these, no. Regulus’s eyes unsettled him down to the smallest cell of his being.
He joined Emmeline, who was now talking with the famous twins, Frank and Alice mysteriously absent—something the redhead assured him was quite common. They were still as lovey-dovey as ever, even after the critical three-year mark, when passion was supposed to fade. James knew it well. Yet, some managed to escape that fate when the universe aligned in their favor.
The Prewett twins were funny. Particularly sharp-tongued, and James immediately connected with them. They spent nearly an hour together, exchanging as casually as if they had known each other for years, promising a beer at happy hour by the end of the day.
Conversations came to a halt when the supervisor, Minerva McGonagall, stepped through the door, followed by two other guys dragging a large whiteboard covered with the upcoming week's schedule. Dressed in a sleek, oversized white parka, the woman in her forties had her hair just as tightly pulled into a bun as the first time James had met her. She wore square glasses behind which two piercing eyes could make you feel compelled to behave like such an angel that Santa himself would come kiss you on the cheek—or at the very least, you’d feel under no illusion about what would happen if you dared to do otherwise.
After analyzing the complicated diagram, he smiled. He was quite happy to be responsible for the Bronze Classics in skiing and beginner snowboarding private lessons. He liked the young ones, and they reciprocated that fondness.
He cast another glance at the person who would be caring for the little stars to come, and an odd warmth spread through his chest. His gaze landed on the name "Regulus," spelled in elegantly curved letters, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. His son would be in good hands. There was no sense of threat radiating from the man—gruff though he had been earlier. Quite the opposite, in fact; it felt oddly familiar, like stumbling upon an old friend long lost, or rediscovering a path to a home he hadn’t known existed. He felt reassured.
Lily would bring Harry in a week, giving him enough time to settle in properly and prepare to welcome their son. The boy would spend the next three months here, and Sirius couldn’t imagine a more wonderful Christmas gift. After all, Harry had been homeschooled since a traumatic incident in preschool had left him deeply uneasy around kids his own age, making regular schooling difficult. But his son was resilient. So much so that he’d recently asked his father to enroll him in ski school with other children.
According to Harry, he was tired of only hanging out with Uncle Barty and Sirius, who fought like an old divorced couple. Sirius could have laughed at the irony of that statement—he and Lily had never married and rarely argued at all. Still, Harry’s desire to meet new people warmed his heart. It was the perfect example of his quiet courage, and Sirius could only hope this new chapter would be every bit as bright and promising as the snowy peaks surrounding them.
"We’re going to try to get her on skis this year," Fabian whispered in his ear, identifiable by his sunglasses perched on top of his head.
“¿Qué dices?”
"The harpy," said Gideon, rather perceptive, "we’ve never seen her ski, yet she runs an international ski school. She must be pretty good, right?" James had to agree. But he could hardly imagine the woman, her posture rigid and her expression stern even under her fur-lined hood, stepping onto skis.
"And how do you plan to do that?"
"Trust us, if we have to clear her apartment of every shoe and sock so she has no choice but to wear her dusty ski boots, we’ll do it." The two twins exchanged a knowing glance, a silent testament to the deep connection between their minds. Sometimes, James felt as though he shared that same bond with Sirius—he was his person, just as Gideon was to Fabian, and vice versa.
"Make the call, and I’ll be there. The guys too." James waved his phone in the air, having obviously mentioned his friends in the conversation, and the Prewetts had suggested inviting them to the bar that evening.
After setting a time for their meet-up, the twins disappeared, and James made his way to the door as well to pick up his ski gear from Mitch. Mitch was an old friend of his father’s who ran one of the local rental shops, Ski Palace. Barty had claimed he needed to outfit himself like the prince he was, and Ski Palace seemed like a good fit. Sirius had tripped him up so he’d fall, and since Barty had never been to the mountains and wasn’t used to walking in the snow, he’d ended up eating it.
It was nearly eleven. If he was lucky, he might manage to drag Sirius out of bed and get in a few runs before meeting Barty at the alpine restaurant run by Mary’s parents. Another acquaintance of an acquaintance, though that one had been somewhat accidental. His ex-wife’s business, where he’d have to spend three entire months for the ski season. He liked Mary, but it was still a little strange. Especially when Barty teased him about having turned his ex-lesbian, and Sirius called him a "non-hetero awakening."
For a moment, Peter had felt quite awkward about the whole situation too, especially since he was the one who had introduced Mary as his colleague at the teahouse where he worked. By the way, Sirius had never stopped laughing at the thought of someone as solidly built as Peter serving tea. But Peter had aspirations to save as much money as he could to someday open his own restaurant, so he took on anything in the food industry to build up solid experience.
But how could one fight or be ashamed of the twists of fate? Lily had fallen in love with Mary in a way she'd never been in love with James, and he understood. His heart had struggled less than his mind, because for him, it was about a plan, a goal, a loving family, and fulfilling the role of father and husband. Life, however, seemed to taste better in spontaneity, didn’t it? That’s what his psychologist kept telling him, alongside the need for him to learn to be selfish, to please himself rather than trying to please others.
He pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket as he stepped outside, snowflakes dusting his silhouette as he began the walk back. Dialing Lily’s number, he settled into a brief conversation with her about the meeting, and made sure to get a moment to speak with Harry on the phone as well.
At one point during the chat, as Harry babbled about his adventures with the family’s red cat, James slipped, mindless, in that he was absolutely going to love his future ski instructor.