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July 1st, 1979 | Safe House | Emmeline & James | "Unmasking Lestrange"

James had excused himself from the Gala almost absurdly early, but when he was sure that his assistance wasn’t much necessary at the event itself, he decided to trade in a couple of hours of leisure time with Lily and his mates for more Order business.

He changed clothes before leaving through security, so as not to be too much of a sore thumb in the swarm of Muggles that were undoubtedly going to be roaming the streets of London at that hour. He received an affirmative nod from one of the Ministry officers as the wizard bid him farewell, seemingly not at all concerned of the nervous beads of sweat trickling down his sideburns or shaky hand as he fixed the frame of his glasses. Running a clammy palm over his messy black curls, he exited the telephone box and proceeded to make his way through the crowd of pedestrians.

Over the past few weeks, the Order had been in charge of keeping witnesses of Voldemort’s followers in safe houses until… well, James didn’t really know what came after until because, to James’ knowledge, the Ministry hadn’t the time or capability, or really even the motivation or desire, to protect these people or let them testify properly against those who have ties within the Ministry itself. The whole thing was very frustrating to James, but seeing as he wasn’t very knowledgeable about the whole situation, he tried to reserve his judgments and instead invested his energy in protecting the witnesses in that moment as opposed to fretting terribly about their future.

He was good at that.

When he had walked so far that the balls of his feet began to ache in his black leather shoes, he examined his surroundings to make sure he hadn’t picked up any stray followers along the way, snooping about his business. He decidedly affirmed the situation clear enough and apparated to his destination with a short, brief crack—what could have been mistaken as a gunshot.

The safehouse was an old car garage, the advertisement on the front of it hanging from one loose bolt, the other side having fallen to cover the front entrance. It was archaic, reminiscent of the Model-T days and nothing short of condemned as it had ivy vines growing in and out of the broken window panes—or so it would seem to most Muggles and witches and wizards who, decidedly, did not belong there.

Pushing aside the sign, he entered through the rusty front entrance to reveal an inside that was not nearly as shabby as a Muggle would perceive and it did not at all resemble a car garage on the outside, but a homely little cottage. James felt as if he had stepped into a grandmother’s home, not a temporary safe house for someone whose life was in terrible danger. It was almost ironic how safe it really felt to be there as, arguably, it might not have been safe at all.

Not seeing the witness immediately, he called out, stepping through the cottage as he followed the sound of a whistling teapot, “Mister Coolidge?”