Who Cassandra & James What James, after failing on his date, wakes up in bed with Cassandra, uh, naked... When February 15th, Morning Where Cassandra's bedroom! Status/Rating Incomplete / PG-13 for Nudity!
***
Valentine's Day had been a disaster. A complete, utter, total disaster measured by the fact that he'd ended up alone in his bedroom and not smothering himself in himself in his wife's thighs.
This blind date had started out all right, if a bit boring. He didn't know what Skeeter was playing at, having him there with some blonde girl he'd never met, but he had nothing against the whole arrangement. That is, until his wife walked in with her little arranged date.
Severus. Fucking. Snape.
After that, he didn't remember much of the conversation he'd had with Cassandra because, as much as he tried to listen, he kept finding his attention pulled across the restaurant to watch Lily at Severus' table. Was she smiling? Did he make her laugh about something? What were they talking about? Why was she enjoying herself?
"Sorry." He'd said to Cassandra, rising from the table in the same moment that Lily and Snape got up to leave after their dinner. "Sorry, I'll be back in one moment, would you just excuse me?"
He hadn't come back. He'd broken Severus' nose for kissing his wife and he'd ended up tied to a tree with a furious wife barely pausing to untie him before storming off to her cottage. But James was--James was furious too! How was he supposed to act when another man kissed his wife?! And not just any other man, but that one! She was his wife and he was not going to stand around and let Rita Skeeter, Severus Snape, or anyone else make a damn fool out of him!
But fine, let her be mad! She'd come around eventually, she always did, and James didn't want to put much more thought into it then that. He had a gift for her, a dress that he'd bought, but she could get it from him when she decided she wanted to stop being so damn ridiculous. He'd just gone home and, miserable, gone to bed.
***
Potter didn't remember the window being there, he thought as he blinked his eyes open. He sniffed and nuzzled down into his pillow, the memories of the day before still fresh in his mind, but the position of the window not entirely making sense. Nor did the colour of the curtains now that he thought about it, and his body stiffened, suddenly alert, he jolted upright and looked around. But he didn't have his ruddy glasses so all he could see were blurry shapes. Enough to recognise that he wasn't where he was meant to be, but little else. But, he could determine the following:
Room. Not his.
Girl. Not Lily.
Pants. Not there.
What had happened last night? How drunk did one need to be before they didn't even remember when it was they took a drink?!