Work Text:
James stands up from his bed, patting the sides of his coat and smoothing out all the wrinkles. He glances up to stare at his reflection in the mirror.
He looks good. He knows he does. Red suit jacket, black vest and bow tie, and a nicer pair of glasses than his usual. It’s all very professional. Fear curdles in his stomach, making his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. He’s been to plenty of dinners before. All the purebloods have. They’re held for tradition's sake. To encourage magical relations and further business opportunities.
It’s the first year James has to go by himself, though. Both of his parents opted out this time, now that he is old enough, encouraging him to embrace his newfound manhood without their watchful eyes.
He knew this day was going to come. Taking over the family business has been his dream for many years, but fulfilling it comes at a cost.
It’s not that James doesn’t enjoy social interactions. In fact, he was quite popular in school. He leaves his house any chance he gets, just to say hello to the neighbors or play footie with some of the muggles a few towns over. And it’s not that he doesn’t enjoy the opportunity to get drunk. But there’s something about these dinners— everyone there. They’re just scouring for opportunities. They plaster on smiles and twirl their drinks and promise fame and riches that James knows neither of them is particularly in need of.
Every pureblood wizard just seems to want more. No matter what it is, they’re never satisfied.
Unfortunately, if James wants to continue using the Sleekeazy billions for good causes, he’s going to have to keep going.
Fixing his stray curls, James sighs. It’d be easier if this year's traditions weren’t held at the Black Manor— a family known for being particularly ruthless when it comes to getting what they want. James has no doubt that Walburga and Orion will immediately try to prey on his young mind, seeing it as an easy opportunity.
He won’t give in. No matter what they offer. Fleamont says they’re bad business, and there’s no one James trusts more.
“James!” Euphemia calls, “you’re going to be late.”
James makes a face at himself in the mirror.
“Coming!” he calls back, grabbing at his wand from the dresser and leaving his room without another glance at his reflection. At the base of the stairs, his parents wait, smiling with proud faces. Fleamont wolf whistles, and Euphemia makes a flapping gesture with her hands.
“Oh, Effie,” Fleamont coos, “we can’t possibly have made this young lad. He’s too handsome.”
James squawks as he reaches the final step, practically begging for the world to swallow him.
Euphemia smirks up at her husband, both sharing the humor of finally getting the opportunity to tease their son. “I don’t know, Flea,” she murmurs. “Definitely looks like you.”
“And that is my cue to leave,” James says, revolving around his parents, avoiding their soft praises like he’s committed something shameful.
Euphemia laughs, something soft and sweet. She catches James' wrist, pulling him back into her embrace and whispering, “You know we’re teasing you, Bambi.”
He hugs her back quickly, giving her a swift peck on the cheek. “Don’t want to be late,” he tells her, looking back up at Fleamont and smiling. “Lots of important business ventures to get to.”
Fleamont rolls his eyes, patting him on the shoulder. “Oh, yes. Very important,” he agrees. Before James leaves through the front door, however, Fleamont warns, “Please do keep some decorum, son.”
Despite himself, James snorts. “Always,” he says, in lieu of goodbye.
There are a few seconds where he is sucked through essentially a very tight tube between space and time, and then he’s there. The Black manor stands tall and haughty against the evening sky. There are a few men lingering outside the house, drinks in hand, and house elves tending to their sides.
Adjusting his glasses one final time, he walks up the stone path, through the winding garden. As soon as he enters the room, faces turn to watch him, gawking at him like a prize on a shelf. For the first hour, he’s talked to at least thirty different people. Men and women wander into his presence, interrupting other people’s conversations when they seem to dry up and then starting their own.
James isn’t sure any of them know anything about him besides his name and his father. Which, sure, is what he should have expected. He hasn’t had the opportunity to give himself a name yet. But still. All their attempts to flatter him and the business he now holds fall flat once they seem to realize they hardly even know his first name.
He had a rather elaborate experience with Bellatrix Lestrange, who couldn’t seem to keep her hands off of her husband, no matter what they were talking about. Whenever James tried to excuse himself, though, she would rope him back in, insisting she had another business idea that he ought to take up on. James tried his best to let her down gently, but she ended up leaving in a fit of angry insistence that he was a stupid boy who didn’t know a good idea if it stared him in the face.
Although, it hasn’t been all useless.
He particularly enjoyed his conversation with Arthur Weasley, an older man with shockingly bright red hair whom James is sure he has met before.
Arthur talked continually about muggle contraptions, somehow making James laugh so hard that champagne shot up through his nose, and he had to excuse himself. When he returned, however, Arthur slipped a good word in that a few of the Ministry's potioneers needed a side job, which intrigued James greatly.
At some point, while James is in the kitchen, he hears a clinking of a spoon against glass. He peeks his head out into the ballroom, where he spots none other than Walburga Black in the center of it. Internally, he groans. He has avoided her all evening, and by some kind of miracle, hasn’t been trapped into hearing her voice even for a moment.
Now, it appears he’ll have to.
“Welcome one and all,” Walburga announces, and all attention gets locked onto her. She’s wearing a black silk gown, with her grey and black hair tied back in a tight knot at the back of her head. James thinks she looks a bit like a crow, black and sleek, with an intensity that even he has the urge to bow to. “I hope you are all enjoying the festivities, and I promise you I will not take too much of your time.”
Personally, James doubts it.
“I would like to start by thanking the many foundations who have helped plan this evening—”
Anddd that’s enough of that, James’ brain decides, turning back to exit towards the kitchen.
“Ah, shit—” he curses, drink toppling from his grip as he runs directly into a solid mass he did not realize was there. He falls to his knees, just barely catching the glass before it shatters against the floor, and quickly waves his wand to mop up the alcohol. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he pleads. When his gaze drifts up, James nearly gasps in shock.
A girl stares down at him, black brows cinched in concern. Her dress is splattered with alcohol due to James’ brashness, and her lips are pulled tight, making it almost certain that he’s upset her.
Still, James can’t do anything but stare back, only mildly aware of Walburga’s droning in the background. She has the most beautiful set of grey eyes. Like silver, James thinks, absolutely entranced.
They only appear more beautiful when matched with her navy blue dress, which, if it weren’t for the small spots where James has stained it, is the loveliest dress James has ever seen; cut flat across the collar with off-the-shoulder sleeves. Her neck is adorned with a dark green locket, a large S carved on the front of it.
She appears young. His age, if he had to guess. Maybe just barely younger. Her hair isn’t long. Actually, it’s quite short. Black curls just barely reach the crook of her neck, and her bangs frame the sides of her sharp face. It just makes her all the more attractive, if James is being honest.
He is just about to trail his gaze down to her wrists when he catches himself.
“Shit, I’m so sorry,” he repeats, genuinely frustrated with himself. James stands up, meeting her eye and hoping to convey his sorrow. “I— I didn’t see you.”
She raises a weary brow. “Clearly.”
James is going to die. A very slow, mortifying death. Right here.
“Uh— can I help you clean your dress?” he asks, cursing his own inarticulacy. Why did it have to be now that he lost his charming speaking abilities? “It’s very beautiful.”
To his surprise, this doesn’t receive any cold frown or comment. The girl glances away, arms coming up to wrap around her chest.
“It’s fine,” she mumbles. “Just an accident.” And then she is turning away, leaving James standing there with his empty glass and a head pounding more intensely than a drum.
“Wait!” James calls, quietly so as not to be overheard. He follows her into the kitchen and behind a tapestry— which, how did she know that was there?
When they reach the bottom few steps, she turns around like a blaze of fire. “Why are you following me?” she asks, voice harsh and cold.
“I… asked you to wait,” he says weakly, fumbling with the glass in his hand.
She starts to open her mouth, but then seemingly stops herself.
“What is it?” she asks, leaning against the brick wall, tapping her foot impatiently.
James swallows. “I’ve never seen you around before,” he says lamely.
“Astute observation.”
“Why is that?” he asks before he can stop himself.
The girl picks at her nails nervously, quiet for a few seconds before— “My parents like to keep me well hidden.”
A sharp V forms itself between James' eyebrows as he mulls this over. He thinks about the expensive jewelry that lines her neck and wrists. The neat black nails and the expensiveness of the silk that covers the curves of her body.
It hits him just then, like a train really, how she knew where this hidden passageway was.
His brows shoot up.
“You’re Regi—”
“Stop,” she interrupts harshly, taking another step down the stairs.
“Stop— wait, I’m sorry.” James holds his hand out again, as if to catch her. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
She pauses, then, as if her legs have gone weak, she trickles down and sits on one of the stairs. James watches as she curls up there, the back of her head lightened up by the sunlight sinking in from the open tapestry above them.
James carefully takes the steps to meet her at the bottom of the stairs, sitting on the other side of a step just below hers.
At first, she avoids his eye, taking off her shoes and adjusting her tights like they’ve insulted her somehow. Eventually, she seems to give up, placing her heels just beside her and tenderly looking down at James.
For some reason, all the nervousness James has held onto all evening melts away like ice being set on fire.
She doesn’t smile or make any inviting gesture, but just by the way she is watching him, James can feel something.
“Is there… something else I should call you?” he asks, never one for long times of quiet.
It’s a very odd question, but something in the girl ignites at it. She licks her lips, nodding.
“Reg.”
“Reg,” James tries, “did I offend you? Earlier, I mean.”
She shakes her head, almost brazen in the action. Her delicate fingers come up to trace the long trail of diamonds attached to her earring. They sparkle in all shades of white and grey, and James is sure they cost a fortune.
She seems displeased with them, though.
Quietly, careful not to make any sudden moves, James leans over, lifting his hand up to one of the earrings. He never takes his eyes off hers. Reg’s lips twitch with surprise, but she doesn’t attempt to stop him. He smiles back in what he hopes is a comforting way and removes the backing of the earring, gently slipping the metal out of her ear and setting it into one of her palms. He does the same with the left earring, and when she takes that one as well, he murmurs, “Better?”
She blinks. Looks down at the earrings, then right back up. Swallows them whole with her fingers and asks, “How did you know?”
James pauses, enamored with the way Reg’s voice slips between accents.
Before he can say anything, the sun above them gets blocked out by a dark figure.
“Regina! What did I say about—” The high-pitched yell stops almost immediately as soon as James turns around to glare at Walburga. She falters, and then regains her balance, shooting him a wicked grin— which was the last action James anticipated. “Oh, Mr. Potter. I see you’ve met my daughter. Very well. Continue as you were.” She sends one particularly cold glare towards Reg, which James catches. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her shrink in on herself, all relaxation seeping its way into the cold stone stairs.
The tapestry closes behind Walburga, and several candles light themselves along the staircase hall, giving them a warmer lighting.
James adjusts the cuff of his sleeve, apologizing awkwardly, “Sorry, I— did I get you in trouble?”
Reg lets out a derisive snort, shocking James out of his feeble task. “No. If anything, you’ve probably earned me a week's praise.”
“What?!” James blurts.
Reg chips at the black nail polish on her left hand, still careful to keep her earrings secure in the other one. “Maman thinks we’re well suited.”
James’ eyebrows jump up to meet his hairline. “But… we’ve never met before?” he replies.
Reg shrugs, the light from the fire hitting her collarbones. “Hardly matters,” she explains. “We are the same age. You are rich. An heir. You’ll know how to take care of my riches.”
“Your riches?”
The corner of Reg’s lips tugs down, just the slightest bit. “I’m the heir.”
“I thought you had a…”
“He’s gone,” Reg interjects coolly.
“Oh.” James lets out a weak breath. “Sorry for your loss.”
Reg— proceeds to burst into a fit of laughter. James stares as her lips tug up into the most dazzling grin, and waves of laughter lap up the air around them until James is nearly breathless.
Not the reaction he was expecting, honestly, but he can’t really find it in himself to complain.
As her laughter slows, Reg shakes her head, exasperated. “He’s not dead, Potter.”
James coughs, caught off guard with the butterflies awakened in his stomach. “Oh— uh, what happened to him then?”
“Ran away with his boyfriend,” she says, a faint smile on her lips. “This is why I have to get married, you see?”
James… doesn’t. His parents haven’t given him the slightest hint that marriage should come any time soon. They’ve encouraged him to date, sure. Explore his options. But never—
“But you don’t want to marry me, surely?” James stammers. “Not when we’ve just met.”
Reg looks him up and down, and it’s like a silver dagger is being traced up his skin. Her voice softens as she admits, “There are certainly worse men out there.”
Fuck, James thinks, almost unwell with the thought. It looks like the Black’s have found an offer I can’t refuse.
“Well, sure,” James exclaims, recovering from the fantasy. “But don’t you want to marry someone whom you love, and who loves you?”
This seems to be the entirely wrong thing to say. Reg’s expression drops, and quick like a whip, she responds, “No one will ever love me.”
James’s heart breaks, easy like a plate being thrown against a wall. Not at the words alone, but at the certainty of which they’re said.
“Hey— wait, no,” he challenges. “Someone will. Certainly someone will.”
Despite his general lack of gracefulness, Reg lights up.
“What makes you say that?” she asks, leaning in closer.
It takes everything in him to continue breathing and respond as calmly as he can, “Well— you see, I just —um— you’re really. I— I mean. I just… know.”
Great going, he thinks, about ready to introduce his palm to his forehead.
Reg grows giddy at his incompetence, which softens him up all over again.
“I doubt it,” she informs him, close enough that James can spot small freckles dusting her cheeks. “But you make a convincing argument.”
James grips at all his courage, letting his dry tongue run across his teeth just before he asks, “Would you go out with me?”
Reg’s jaw unhooks itself, lips falling open just the smallest bit. “What?”
“Maybe I can prove you wrong,” James breathes, his broken heart beating quickly in his chest. “If you give me time.”
Reg’s lashes flutter, dark and almost handsome.
Then, she’s pulling back, leaning against the stone again. “I don’t want to be courted,” she mumbles. “I’d rather you just marry me and be done with it.”
James fidgets. “Why?” he asks, all intensity gone.
Reg grimaces, body curled tightly like a ball.
Cringing at her unease, James scoots over and lends an affectionate hand to her cheek, meeting her glance and assuring, “You can tell me.”
Reg lets out a sigh, looking around as if for any wandering souls. When she finds none, she whispers in a very low voice, “I don’t want to wear a dress more often than I have to.”
James feels a tightness in his throat at the confession. He’s not entirely sure why, but he gets the feeling that her admitting that makes her braver than James has ever been in his life.
“You don’t have to,” he promises. “If we’re on a date… I want you to be comfortable. Whatever that means.”
Under the firelight, James can just catch how she lights up at the reassurance.
“Are you sure?” she asks, eager now. “Don’t you want me to dress all pretty for you?”
James brushes his thumb along the sides of her face. “Wear what you want,” he tells her. “You’ll still be the most beautiful person in the room.”
And Godric, if that isn’t true, James doesn’t know what is.
He drops his hand, staying close to her, but turning to give her some privacy and waiting out the silence while she prepares her answer. The few moments feel like a lifetime, but still, he sits comfortably. He’d wait here for a very long time, he thinks.
Eventually, a subtle giggle escapes Reg’s lips, making James watch her just to admire it. She shares that glorious grin with him yet again, and all he can do is reflect one back.
“Yes,” she agrees, quiet but by no means ashamed in her answer. “I will go out with you.”
James wants to squeal. He wants to scream with joy and pump his fists in the air. He wants to kiss her.
He does none of that, saving the screaming for later when he is in the confines of his own bedroom.
Instead, he leans in and murmurs, “What are you going to do if I do fall in love with you?”
Reg meets his challenging gaze, matching him with something equally as competitive and assured.
“Love you back.”