All things considered, James Potter was a fairly rational man.

For example, if he was walking down a street and his eye was caught by a beautiful woman, he would probably stop and flirt with her for a short while before deciding whether or not she was worth a sleepless night.

It was a fair game, one enjoyed by everyone playing (and, indeed, spectating - Sirius often mocked James for his inability to sleep in an empty bed. Which was emphatically not true, since James Potter was also a big believer in the benefits of a long, peaceful sleep).

So yes, no one would look at James and think of him as being irrational, unless they knew him very well.

"Potter, for the Lord's sake, if you don't walk any faster I'm going to break your legs."

A laugh. "That's assuming you can even reach my legs, at your diminutive stature."

Peter Pettigrew scowled, punching his friend's arm.

"That hurt, you arse."

"Oh, what a shame."

James grinned. "At least you aren't as short as Sirius."

"Very true. I cannot wait to meet him and finally feel superior."

You might be baffled. How could Peter have not met Sirius before? Or, in fact, James have not met Remus?

It's very simple. Peter and James had only been friends for a couple of months or so. And their respective friends were inherently private people, prone to bouts of intense distrust with regards to the outside world, and both Remus and Sirius would decide to hide from humanity from time to time.

It just so happened that this time, their moods had coincided, and therefore Peter had not yet met the renowned muse, and James had not yet met the famous artist.

"Oi, look over there." James gestured off the side of the road, where the backs of three velvet-wrapped women were visible.

Peter whistled. "Wow."

Wow, indeed. The women spoke in some foreign language, their hair shining in the sunlight. A few more moments and James could discern where they were from.

He turned to Peter in disgust. "They're English," he declared, eyeing the women with a derisive eye. 

A horrified gasp. "Oh, no!"

They sniggered, sidling up behind the females.

"Hello, ladies!" James crowed, elbowing Peter in the side. This should be fun. He'd never shared a bed with an Englishwoman before.

The women turned around. One had brown hair tied in tight braids, typical of married women, and blue eyes, her mouth slightly open and her cheeks pink. Another had a head full of dark yellow waves, and looked a little startled.

The third, however, fascinated James the most. Her hair was a rich, dark red, flowing down to her waist. Badly concealed beneath a layer of white powder were freckles, scattered over her skin.

Two clear, green eyes watched him from beneath arched eyebrows, her red mouth twisted mockingly. "Why, good morning. And who might you be?"

James blinked. And then a charming smile lined his face. "James Potter, madame. And you?"

The woman's smile widened. "I don't believe it to be any of your concern."

"But I told you mine!"

"So? That does not give me the obligation of revealing my name to you."

Jesus Christ. And yet James found himself intrigued.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying a different tactic. "What brings three English persons such as your lovely selves to this small corner of Florence?"

"England is a dreadful place to live in. The greyness exhausts me, so I have moved here." Her friends nodded in agreement. "Not that it's any of your business, but there you have it," she added nonchalantly, walking slowly along.

"I've never been to England." And a good thing, too. "Is it really so bad?"

"Awful. Barely anyone can stand it."

James nodded, then changed the subject, falling into step beside her. "Your Italian is perfect, if I may say so."

"It's rather accented."

Smiling, he leaned in. "That makes it all the more attractive, don't you agree?"

Her eyebrows raised further, and she smirked at her friends, who giggled in response. "Yes, I suppose it does. But natural Italian sounds far more pleasant."

"I beg to differ."

She bit her bottom lip, smiling with a faux-sweetness and coming to a stop. "And who is you friend?"

Peter stepped forward, bowing. "Peter Pettigrew, my lady, at your service."

"Charming." She gestured to the other women. "Introduce yourselves, darlings."

The brunette curtseyed quickly, a shy smile on her face. "Alice Longbottom, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Marlene McKinnon," said the other, her gaze suspicious as the two men bowed.

"Believe me, the pleasure is all ours. It is rare to find three women so beautiful in this city."

The five people continued their way along the streets, making idle chat. During which, of course, James was deciding whether to try and bed this nameless female. Her eyes flicked his way often enough for him to understand that she was interested, too.

Eventually, he stopped walking, turning his hazel eyes onto her green ones. "Care to walk together along the river?"

"I should probably decline."

"Perhaps, but then where else does one find enjoyment?"

Her eyebrows raised. "I believe there are many places to find enjoyment - I do not need you to help me obtain it."

"It's just a walk. You interest me exceedingly."

"That sounds mildly threatening."

He pouted. "Please?"

She sighed. "Very well, then. I'll see the two of you back at the villa," she said to her friends.

They departed in their separate directions, the two other women being walked home by the ever chivalrous Peter, and James walking with the redheaded beauty along the riverside.

"You agreed to come surprisingly quickly," James mused.

"Well, you were quite insistent."

"Still, you made the decision to."

She smiled. "Does this train of thought lead anywhere?"

Shrugging, he smiled back. "I could be envisioning your murder, that's all I'm suggesting."

"And I could be doing so for you, too. See? We are both unheeding of the dangers that a lack of prior acquaintance could bring."

"You make an excellent point."

James grinned, and the woman smiled back, tucking her hair behind her ear. The river rippled cheerfully below them, a clear blue in the sunshine.

"Well, if you are of the belief that I am not about to throw you into the water," James continued, "then what would you think of seeing what other mischievous activities I do actually carry out?"

"Are you propositioning me, James Potter?"

"Almost definitely."

She stopped walking, rolling her eyes. "Of course you were."

"I'm taking that as a no, then?"

"You're taking it correctly." With a rustle of her skirts, she turned around and started heading back.

James winced, cursing his bluntness. Stupid, stupid man.

"May I at least know your name?" he called desperately after her retreating back.

"Absolutely not," she replied.

"But then what shall I call you?"

The woman turned her head back, and the most beautiful smile suffused across her face. James felt his heart twist in his chest with a painful uncertainty.

"You can call me the Flower."

He raised his eyebrows. "That's incredibly dramatic!"

"I'm aware!" With that, she turned a corner, disappearing from sight.

All things considered, James Potter was a fairly rational man.

Unless you threw at him a woman with red hair, green eyes, and a smile that could somehow pull at even James' shallow heart.

Jame stood there, eyes wide and blank, with no idea as to what had occurred.

It had barely been an hour, and yet within that time frame he had met... and angel? It had to be an angel.

Good Lord, where the hell was Sirius? His friend had to be notified about this entirely unprecedented turn of events.

***

Remus blinked at him. "You're telling me that you ran all the way from the river to here so that you could inform Sirius about the fact that you have fallen in love with a saucy woman with red hair?"

"Precisely, I'm so glad that one of you has caught on."

Turning his head, Remus asked Sirius, "Is he always like this?"

Sirius, of course, had no choice but to acquiesce, much to James' chagrin. It seemed his reputation as a rational man would not be upheld, after all.