How Snow Falls

Apparition felt an awful lot like a rug being pulled from underneath your feet, a chair tipping too far back as the moment lay suspended. It felt like gravity pressing onto your skin and sinking into your muscles. Breath lurching, and heart fisting into itself like it would collapse. 

It felt like falling.

There was a thrill to it, adrenaline pumping within the magic that James chased through the years. He loved it, loved apparition like he loved all dangerous things. He savored the scream of his atoms and noise of lightspeed that spoke of the magic that ran through the world.

He loved it, usually, and usually had happened to be when Lily Evans was not the point he was jumping away from. Usually was when apparition, the act of running and brushing out of death's grasp was very much handy to continuing his life. But now, while the earth screamed, he felt as if he were being stitched to the place he'd just left. Felt as if the life he usually loved to gamble on was suddenly very, very precious to him.

The black pocket of abyss he'd walked into brightened to gray on the usual plain of existence. It was a colorless, winter sky, he realized. The world quieted from the roar that had filled James’ ears leaving only an echo as he stepped out of the current. Before him stood a lone and decrepit, cobblestone manor. Tangles of ivy had overtaken the front, and crept into set cracks, and hanging off from dark, grand windows. The grounds surrounding the house were silent and skeletal as a graveyard. That's what Sirius Black had said when his uncle had passed, and the house had been bequeathed to him.  And it was with that in mind that he had renamed the old house to (in mind of the exterior of course): Graves Hall.

Before, James had thought it was a little on the nose, but now he had to admit standing before it in the bitter weather, that the name was rather fitting. A breeze, howling and wailing thing at that, shook the bare trees and they rattled . Dreary, this place was. He couldn't believe Sirius had settled here, so far from the noise and bustle of it all. 

He also couldn't believe how bloody cold it was. James was far from acclimated to the English weather, having spent the last two months on a case in Eastern Africa. He found the airborne ice nipping at his nose particularly tortuous, and beyond his tolerance, and standing around and looking at a building so decrepit did little to build it. James ran to the front door, book in one hand and grabbing the knocker with the other. The sting of frostbite bit his palm while he thundered and assaulted the entrance.

"Padfoot!" he called out, “Let me in!"

The thick thud of the latch was thrown open, the locks undone smoothly with what he assumed was an autonomous alohomora. Presently, he couldn't care less about the magic and barged in, door practically exploding in his wake, cold air rushing in and flooding the floor like low lying mist, his shadow overlaying the silvered tones. James shivered and shuffled in, tucked the book under the crook of his arms and cupped his hands together, blowing on them, they were so painfully cold all he could feel was the inverse, the heat pulsating in his fingertips, blood pumping and turning them red and pink.

"Pads!" He yelled again, this time in question. His voice echoed; he looked around now, trying to spy out his friend, but found nothing but the empty parlor. Graves Hall wasn't as imposing as its chilly outside, but that didn't say much. 

The place was covered in dust, checkered floors diluted from the contrasting boxes of black and white to shades of gray. The dark wood that paneled the wall was old and cracking, knicks and scratches that should have been mended remained engraved into the wood. There was a fireplace to the side of the massive parlor from him, gated with curling wrought iron, smoldering flames dying out in it. Another short wing to his right led to the coat check, and James both knew and remembered the moth-eaten jackets and coats that were there. Across from him was a winding staircase made in the same style as the fireplace and mantel. To the side of the staircase was where the house divided into wings and ballrooms and dining rooms and all the like.

The ceiling was unlike what the near abandoned mansion offered him now. It was grand and lustrous, painted like the night sky. Indigo dominated the ceiling, stars painted in silver that twinkled lifelike in the crown moldings. There are faint lines connecting the stars, like threads of a spider's web. They leapt to and fro, making the constellations from which all the names of the family come from. James looked for the Sirius star, tried to catch the glitter of it, but his luck was short changed and Sirius' fate was sealed, ironically written in the illustrated stars. He'd been removed from his house, his name crossed off the family tree in Grimmauld, the painting of the star burnt out.

"Potter!" A voice called from above, "You're back now?" 

James spun back to the staircase where the direction of the voice had come from and rubbed at his hands again. "No thanks to you! Nearly froze my arse off at the door." He shouted, "I said I wouldn't be gone long and you locked me out!"

There were echoing footsteps from upstairs, soft-shoe like. "Mate, you were gone for more than an hour. I figured you went out, you know how it is."

Sirius Black appeared and stood on the top of the stairs above James, familiar like the back of his own hand and in... in a bathrobe. Not just any bathrobe at that, it was silk, glossy and dark, a cross between blue and charcoal. His hair, the usual deft and delicate waves that came passed his shoulders were in a sort of bun that James couldn't even begin to make sense of. He rolled his eyes, took his wand out, directed it at Sirius and muttered a spell. As soon as the words were off his lips, Sirius' robe was transfigured into a casual dress shirt and matching pants. James wasn't able to button said shirt though, leaving a similar open chest cut to the dressing gown. On top of that, Sirius' feet were still bare. 

Sirius looked at his new attire, grabbed the fabric of it and scoffed. "Thank you for that, Prongs."

"It's past noon." He said by way of explanation.

"So?"

"So, it was high time you got up and put some bloody trousers on."

"That robe was Centaurian silk."

James shrugged. "You'll survive."

Sirius rolled his eyes and hoisted himself onto the smooth banister and slid down the stairs. "What's got your knickers in a twist, then?" he said as he landed before James.

"They're not." James said, only minimally flustered. One got used to Sirius and his bluntness after so many years of first hand experience with it, but only so much. "It's just-" he threw his hand up, exasperated because the words could come- they could come so easily with everything else; smooth replies, suave, charm even. Not with Evans. "Oh never mind!"

Padfoot said nothing as he conjured an apple and leaned on the railing. 

James sighed and walked to the fireplace, where the flames were so dark and red that if he squinted, they reminded him of her hair. Controlled tresses of pure fire, usually so tame, save for when it was kindled and thrown off its steady rhythm. Like today. Today it had fallen around her face, and she'd brushed it out of her eyes to see him. Instinctively fiddled with it while they talked. Had she always done that? Smoothed her hair, brushed her bangs? He couldn't be sure. 

He kept his eyes to the flames, gripping the mantel as he spoke. "I ran into Evans today." 

A crunch was his response. And James waited and Sirius chewed and mulled over his words. Finally: "As in the prude?"

James let out a sardonic, dry laugh, head dropping. "You still call her that?"

"I still call you Prongs, don't I?"

"Well stop." 

"Pardon?" said Sirius, voice closer.

"Don't call her that anymore." James clarified, heat leaching into the fabric of his coat and coming to him now. "It's ridiculous."

"Prude? Fine, even if it is true. I'm still calling you Prongs though. You’re not getting rid of that nickname so easily."

He let out another laugh, dragged a hand through his hair. "Sure, Padfoot."

Sirius' shadow drifted, something anxious about the way his transfigured clothes rustled, folds whispering as he shifted from foot to foot. James was content to the silence, watched the fire sway on the charred and ash splintered logs. 

"So?" Sirius prompted, and there was another biting sound. "How'd you run into her? What happened?"

James sighed again, dropping his head onto the cold mantel, a low warmth on his cheeks now. "The bookshop," he said quietly, "I ran into her at the bookshop."

"Bookshop?" Sirius asked.

James nodded, holding up the Belrose. "Yeah. I went to pick this up and-and well, there she was." 

There she was. Straight out of the past, where things were honeyed and green like dragon jade. Where the world was smaller but more cohesive, the foundation stronger. Where all he wanted was his friend's laughter in his ears, the most perfect face he'd ever seen to grace him with a smile. She'd done that today. Smiled. Laughed.

He wanted to see her do that again, wanted to see her smile at him, because of him.

How did Evans do this to him? So effortlessly and easily worm her way into his head, his chest. Squeeze his heart and make his blood soar the way she did? How did she have him reliving each and every moment he'd spent with her, feel every glance and touch so that his skin tingled, and he ached for more? He was like an addict, he thought, one who'd gone clean. Fooled himself into thinking he'd been riding smoothly on the wagon, only to have fallen-no- jumped off of it the first chance he had.

"Pass me one of your damn cigarettes', Sirius."

Sirius who always had a pack on his person, obliged with eyebrows raised in both surprise and consideration. James didn't care, he swiped at the pack taking also the offered lighter and lighting the butt of the stick. He let the haze into his lungs, the bitter taste in his mouth. Tilted his head up to the stately commission of a roof and felt something wind up in his stomach, his intestines knotting, knotting, knotting up.

It didn't help, whatever was in this foul thing was just that, foul. Disgusting and completely habitually at this point.

Addict indeed. James took another puff.

"Those things will kill you, you know," Sirius said, teasing as he always was. Smiling knowingly he selected his own cigarette and pinched it between his teeth, lighting it so that the new ambers followed along the hollows of his face, reflected in his eyes so that they glowed orange.

"I'll kill you if you don't shut up," said James, who wasn't in the mood for jokes. No, he had too much swirling through his mind, thoughts too rapid to catch, memories pouring from out of his throat with the smoke.

Padfoot tsked and conjured a chaise near the dying fireplace, throwing himself unto the plush cushions with as much flare as he possibly could, and for Sirius Black, that was quite a lot. "You kiss Evans with that mouth?" He crowed, because he of course was in the mood for teasing and prodding and poking.

James couldn't think of a reply, and instead dropped onto the chaise himself.

"Alright," said Sirius through a heavy blow of gray, hand outstretched. "Give it here."

"What?"

"Your book. Your precious fucking book." James leveled him with a stern look, and Sirius rolled his eyes, adding; "If you please."

James reluctantly handed the soon-to-be-present over. Sirius took the liberty of opening it, thumbing through the pages as he inhaled and exhaled fumes. James watched, but found his eyes unfocused, and he didn't care enough to rouse himself to the present. His mind was on other things.

"I'll see you around then?" She said, "Maybe at some reunion down the road?"

It repeated in his head. A mantra. Inflections memorized, the shape of her words engraved into the back of his eyelids. It sounded so... indifferent. Polite, motionless. A friendly farewell that held no warmth.

He knew that Lily Evans had always been guarded, saw the chains and bolts in the depths of her eyes. Had always enjoyed lock-picking her open, seeing what lay beneath the containment she'd put herself under. The best way to accomplish such a task in their school years was to irritate her. What he learned early on was that he was talented at capturing her attention that way, and reserved or not-she had a temper.

Perhaps that had been what drew him to her. Not the anger, no (though he understood the hot headedness himself)- but what it had the potential to become. If she burned that brightly when vexed, became so quick and witty and challenging when she was impassioned, how would she change when she was soft? Happy?

In love?

James had waited to be verified with bated breath, watching her, hoping. Had captured glances, brief flashes so momentary he wondered if he'd imagined it.

But the answer... well he never fully grasped that now, had he? It had drifted out of his grasp like the smoke he'd now caged in his lungs, eluded him. And he found that fitting, seeing that James Potter's career in Curse-Breaking had begun with the most interesting secret unshared; the vault he so desperately wanted to crack sealed in her name. He thought about that often enough while he was away on his assignments. Circled and retraced those years like a tick on nights when he couldn't fall asleep. 

He was saved from those returning thoughts when a throb of candled pain and heat burned his fingers. In his deep thought, he'd failed to notice how short the cigarette had whittled down to, and how the ambers landed on his tawny skin. James cursed and shook his hand free of the pain, flicking the withered stick away.

"Oh," said Sirius, happening upon something in the Belrose just then. "Interesting."

James hummed in question, unable to keep the rising interest at bay when it comes to anything Lily Evans might have known about. "What is it?"

“A note.”

For some reason, he was disappointed. He tipped his head against the backing of the couch, closed his eyes as his spirits puckered and fell. “A footnote, you mean,” he mumbled. 

“No, not at all. There’s a note in here.”

James’s brows furrowed, hands stilling on the soft fabric of the armrest. “What? Like someone’s annotated it?”

“Wrong again, Prongs.” Said Sirius, and James knew the tone of amusement and mischief in his voice, had parrotted it with Sirius enough over the years that he could mimic it in his sleep. 

“Padfoot…” He started, opening one eye and turning it on his friend, who was indeed looking at James with a shit-eating grin. “What are you getting at?”

“Oh nothing, nothing,” yet the grin reinforced. “Just admiring the excellent penmanship of this beautiful invitation. Look familiar to you?” 

James watched with dawning shock (that was the only word that came to mind), as Sirius revealed a stock card from within the pages of the book. He caught the shimmering and practiced slant of ink gliding across the smooth surface, highlighted with a yellow border. 

It glinted in the low light of the foyer, taunting him. 

“You are cordially invited to attend an engagement party given in honor of Ms Petunia Evans and Mr Vernon Dursley.

Saturday, December 16th at 8:00 p.m. Evans Residence 07, Avondock Road.”

Evans. Evans, Evans, Evans. It hit him, again and again, swum in his eyes and rung in his ears.

She had a sister that he knew. The other details, things such as said sister’s relationship, the sister’s age, the fact that she might have been seeing someone, were all lost to him. It hadn’t seemed important, and James, trying to forget all the little details of her life, had decided that holding onto those snippets of stories, conversations he could nearly recite word for word were counterproductive to keeping his sanity.

Now he was scrambling, drawing in those very same, freshly dusted off memories with ease. 

Her favorite color is cyan, she looks lovely in it. Her ears are sensitive, allergic. She always wears silver studs. She’s afraid of dogs, and takes her tea with more lemon than sugar. She reads. She reads and reads until my head spins. She keeps her books in perfect condition, and has never been one for arm chairs but couches, she’s always wanted a cat and a ‘proper english garden’. She’s-

He’s absolutely gripped by her again, the buried besotted boy of Hogwarts springing up from his surprisingly shallow grave. James lunged for Sirius, desperate for the card. 

Sirius, who knew James all too well, dodged out and under James’ arms, rolling off the cold marble floor. 

James followed after, tripped over his feet and got back up. A frantic pulse in his ears. “Sirius!” He ground out, hair hanging over his glasses. Sirius smirked and held the card, passing it over his palms, and then- 

It disappeared. 

James' eyes widened, felt himself bristle and flush with the sudden heat of exertion. He threw his coat off, ruffed his hair out of his eyes and glared. "What exactly do you think you're doing?" He asked, though it sounded more like an accusation. 

"Funny," said the other, smoothing down his own shirt and picking at an imaginary speck of dirt. Glancing up he said: "I was going to ask you the same thing, mate."

"Where's the card, Sirius?"

Sirius rolled his eyes in his own fashion. "Nowhere far. Listen, I know your whole thing is ' do first, ask questions later' , but I'll need you to temper your brashness for a moment and listen to the voice of reason."

"Voice of reason?" James asked, "from you?"

Sirius grinned, white teeth glinting. "Drastic times, as they say."

James groaned, knowing full well that when it came to the defense line of talking him down from his- well his more rash ideas, first to the call was Remus. Peter was for back up, and in the worst case scenario, as in the absolute worst case- was Sirius. Usually he could be coerced into not completing the horrendously stupid deed he'd set out to do by then. But Remus wasn't here to knock sense into him at the moment, and Peter wasn't here to attempt reason. That left Sirius and James. One left to convince the other of the egregious error that lay just ahead and around the corner.

Quite the standoff, he thought.

But that was the thing, wasn't it? Whatever Sirius was going to try and say, James was positive it couldn't match nor last against the surety that this was right. That Evans was right.

"How did you get this?" Sirius asked.

That threw him for a loop, "What do you mean?"

"I mean," repeated Sirius, who took a place by the wall and leaned against it. His friend tossed the embers of his cigarette to the floor, where they exploded into soot, a black mar on the surface. "How did you get the invitation?"

"Not exactly clarifying, but I think it was her mother. She slipped it in somehow, with the receipt."

"Hmm, maybe you're not meant to be dear Lily's date then," Sirius tipped his head, "Did Mrs Evans ever say she was taken?"

"I'm not Evans’ date-"

"That much is obvious."

"Sirius," he groaned, "could you take this..." Oh Merlin, he hated himself for what he was about to say, "well, could you take this more seriously? Please?"

Grin flickering in and out like 'the statics' on bad muggle television (whatever that was), Padfoot waved him off. "Right, right," he said, the smirk not quite dissipated, "but point is, mate, it wasn't Lily that invited you, was it?"

"Well no-"

"It was her mother," he interrupted pointedly, "who snuck it into your book, while her daughter wasn't watching." James said nothing, and Sirius continued on, "I don't think she wants you at her sister's engagement party, mate."

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you.”

James shook his head ruefully, "but I know her ." 

And that was all that mattered to him at the end of the day. He knew Lily Evans, past all the fronts and the gaps of time they'd endured. She was that same girl back at Hogwarts, kind and exasperated. They'd been friends once, he recalled, close enough for that, for more. Now she was right there, and there was a foot pinned in the door, an opening. James wasn't going to let her slip away again, not without trying.

Sirius scried James' face, and whatever he saw in his eyes must have spoken volumes of his determination (fixed and settled on the matter. There was nothing in either the magical or muggle world that would stop him), because he sighed. 

“You’re a mad man,” Sirius said, rubbing his temples. “And I’m a dead one at that. Remus is going to murder me.” 

A crease deepened James’ brow. “I thought Remus liked Evans?” he asked.

Sirius sighed, lapsing into a slanted smile, “Oh he does, and that’s precisely why he’ll be pissed that I let a bloke like you after her.”

James chuckled and clapped a hand onto Sirius' shoulder, with the other rubbed at his jaw, covering a small smile. “Thank you,” he said, “for letting me go through with this.”

Sirius considered him in an amused manner, and with a flourishing movement, the vanished card reappeared in between his fingers, offering itself to James. “It'll be quite the spectacle from her end, you know-you arriving,” Sirius said, “Sixty galleons says she’ll assure you’ll never see the light of day again."

"At her own sister's engagement party? I doubt it."

"You're right," Sirius agreed, and his grin turned wicked, "she'll take you out back and then dispose of you. Now that- I'd pay to see."

James rocked back on his heels, rapping the stock paper on his knuckles. “I’ll just have to convince her otherwise, then. Who knows? She might even be glad to see me.” A daring feeling swelled then in his chest. Like a spark had caught in his sternum, steadily growing, warmth spreading. James couldn’t help but smile down at the invitation as he turned it over in his hands.

Wait for me for a little longer, Evans, he thought, I’m coming.