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d1lf-loverrr · 1 month ago

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The Promise You Never Chose (Pt.1)

✧.* J.P. x Arranged marriage! Reader ✎ Two childhood promises. One future neither of you chose. After years of silence, something between you and James Potter finally shifts — small, but enough to change everything. 𖦹 1.9k ☁︎ slow burn // angst // forced proximity // arranged marriage // pureblood politics [masterlist]

A/N: pt two next week!!! Much Love, Saige ★ request : @ashdreams2023 ϟ taglist ϟ : @littlemadamred @raiweasley @ulearnnewthingseveryday

You don’t remember the day the promise was made. You were just a swaddled infant when your parents signed your future away with a glass of wine and firm handshakes. The Potters were old blood, proud blood, and so were your family. To them, it made sense. Two respected pureblood lines, tied neatly together through you and James.

“They’ll grow up side by side,” your mother always said softly, smoothing your hair. “Best friends. And someday… they’ll understand.”

But James Potter understood early. And he hated it.

From the moment he was old enough to comprehend the word engaged, he fought it like a curse. You can still remember the first time he said it outright, in front of both your families, standing in the middle of the Potters’ sitting room. His voice cracked from how hard he was shouting.

“I’m not marrying her. I’ll never marry her.”

You had only been ten years old. You hadn’t understood what you’d done wrong.

His parents scolded him sharply. Yours looked embarrassed. And you… you’d felt your cheeks burn, tears threatening as James stormed past you without even looking.

It had been like that for years.

The arrangement lingered like smoke, something unspoken between the two of you. Something waiting. Something ugly.

You never blamed him. Not truly. It wasn’t fair, what had been done to both of you. But you also knew what your parents whispered in quiet halls, late at night: Our family depends on this. On you.

So, you learned how to smile, even when it cracked at the corners. You learned how to pretend you didn’t care.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You were six the first time you tried to make James Potter smile.

It was raining that day. The kind of grey, heavy rain that made the Potter estate feel smaller, even though the walls stretched higher than your childhood imagination could ever climb. You’d been brought over for another visit, another day spent being told that you and James would someday marry. Another day of promises neither of you understood yet.

James sat in the corner of the drawing room, arms crossed, scowling at the storm outside. His hair stuck up more than usual from the static. You thought he looked lonely.

So, you tried.

You crossed the carpet carefully, clutching the soft, slightly-worn stag plush you always carried with you. It wasn’t much. Just fabric and stuffing, a gift from your father when you were very small. But it was precious to you, and your mother always said sharing precious things was how you showed love.

You knelt down beside James without a word and gently offered the stag to him.

“For you,” you whispered, shy.

He looked at you like you’d handed him poison. “Why?”

Your voice cracked just slightly. “Because… you looked sad.”

James hesitated. For a moment — just a moment — you thought he’d take it. But then his little jaw tightened, and he shoved it back into your lap.

“I don’t want anything from you.”

You tried not to let your face crumple. You tried very hard. But tears burned hot behind your eyes, and you clutched the stag back against your chest like a shield.

James Potter went back to staring out the window.

You sat beside him anyway.

Even when he ignored you. Even when he glared. Even when your mother came to collect you later that evening and told you, quietly but firmly, “Give him time.”

You didn’t understand, but you nodded.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You learned a long time ago how to protect yourself instead.

You keep your head down. You keep your voice soft, polite. You smile when spoken to. You never, ever look at James Potter longer than necessary. It’s survival; it’s strategy. You tell yourself it’s working.

But some days, like today, it feels like you’re barely breathing.

You feel him watching you. You always have. At first, it was out of disdain, like he was daring you to force him into your shared fate.

You never did. But lately… it’s different. He stares for too long now, like he’s trying to remember something about you he used to know.

Or maybe he’s seeing you for the first time…you’re not sure which possibility hurts more.

Because you don’t let yourself hope. Not anymore. Not after years of being treated like the future he didn’t choose. The future he didn’t want.

You were taught from childhood to be grateful for your engagement. A safe future. A respectable family. Your mother always said it kindly, as if it were a gift, not a sentence, and Merlin did you try to believe her.

But you remember every look James gave you that said otherwise.

And now, sitting here in the Great Hall, pretending to read while your porridge goes cold, you feel it. The weight of his stare from across the room. You don’t lift your head. You don’t dare.

Because if you meet his eyes, and there’s still nothing there, no warmth, no recognition, you’re not sure your heart can survive it.

You stir your spoon slowly, carefully. You pretend your hands aren’t shaking.

You tell yourself it’s easier this way. If he hates you, you can hate him, but something deep inside tells you otherwise.

Maybe James didn't hate you. He hated the idea of you. The idea of belonging to someone just because two families signed a parchment and said it was so; a future he never chose.

Because every time your mother fastens a new set of wedding robes under your chin, every time your father tells you that it’s what’s best for the family, you feel the same ache James must have felt his whole life:

The ache of not being asked.

So no. He doesn’t hate you.

He hates what you represent.

And that, somehow, hurts less.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Fifth year is when it changes.

Not for you, though. You’ve long since learned to keep your distance, to not hope, to settle into the quiet corners where you can exist without pressing on James Potter’s nerves. He’s never cruel anymore — not like when you were children — but he’s cold, distant in a casual way.

But for James… its fifth year when something shifts. And he doesn’t know when.

He notices it one evening after Quidditch practice. You’re sitting under the stands, cross-legged in the grass, waiting for the game to clear so you can walk back to the castle without being trampled. You’re reading, of course, your forehead crinkled like it always is when you concentrate. And he wonders — though not for the first time — how he knows that. When did he start noticing things like that?

When did he start noticing you?

He shouldn’t care. But suddenly, he does.

Suddenly, he’s remembering how you’ve never once spoken a cruel word to him, not even after all those years of pushing you away. How you help the younger students in Herbology when you think no one’s watching. How you tie your hair back with that same worn ribbon every day, the one his mother gave you when you were children.

He looks at you and doesn’t see an unclaimed promise anymore. He sees a person.

And that terrifies him.

Because now, when the professors mention N.E.W.T.s and careers and futures, the word marriage doesn’t feel like smoke and shadows anymore. It feels real. Heavy. Closer than he’s ready for.

Closer than he ever expected.

The worst part is — he can’t remember when Lily Evans stopped being the center of his thoughts. He can’t remember when you replaced her.

And when you look up from your book that day, catching his eyes accidentally, you smile. Just politely. Just like always.

But for James Potter, it’s the first time he doesn’t look away.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It doesn’t take long for the Marauders to notice.

At first, it’s little things. Things even James doesn’t realize he’s doing.

“You alright, mate?” Sirius asks one morning, frowning over his toast as James nearly walks straight into a suit of armor outside the Great Hall.

“Fine.”

But his eyes flick toward you, sitting two tables away with your usual quiet grace, spoon stirring slowly in your porridge as you read. James doesn’t even realize he’s watching. Sirius does.

It’s Remus who comments first — carefully, as always. “You’ve been quieter lately. Especially when she’s around.”

James stiffens. “Who?”

Peter blinks, then says plainly: “Y/N.”

Sirius slaps him on the back of the head. “Brilliant, Wormtail. Subtle as ever.”

But the damage is done.

James shoves his spoon down onto the table. “I’m not—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched too tight. The truth is choking him, and he doesn’t even know what it is.

Sirius leans forward now, curious, sharp. “Not what, James?”

James doesn’t answer.

Because how can he explain something he doesn’t understand? How can he tell them that sometimes, when you laugh softly at something in a book, his stomach flips in ways it never did with Lily? That sometimes, he catches himself waiting to hear your voice in the hallway, only to curse himself when it happens?

Instead, he looks away. Back toward where you’re sitting. You don’t notice him. You never do. You’ve long since trained yourself not to.

And Merlin help him… he misses it.

Sirius follows his line of sight, then blinks. “No.” His voice cracks the word like a whip. “No. Not her.”

Remus looks between them, frowning. “Why not?”

“Because it’s her, Moony! Y/N! The girl he’s meant to marry and despises—remember?”

But Remus stays quiet, thinking. Because even he can see now what Sirius won’t admit.

James doesn’t despise you. Not anymore.

Peter, of course, just looks confused. “I thought he hated her.”

James finally speaks, voice quiet and strained. “I thought I did too.”

Silence.

Sirius leans back in his chair, expression unreadable for once. But his voice is soft when he mutters, “Well, bloody hell.”

The four of them sit there, not speaking. Not understanding.

And across the hall, you keep stirring your porridge, entirely unaware that James Potter is unravelling.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It happens in the hallway, between classes. You’re walking alone as usual, head down, books clutched tight to your chest. People move past you without a second glance. You’ve learned to like it that way. Invisibility hurts less.

Until you hear it.

“Y/N.”

Just your name. Nothing more.

But you stop walking. Immediately.

It’s not the sound of your name that freezes you, it’s the voice that says it. Rougher than you remember, like it’s caught on something inside him. But unmistakably, unquestionably… him.

James.

Your throat tightens as you turn slowly. And there he is.

Standing a few feet away, school robes slightly crooked like they always are, hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets. And looking at you. Actually looking at you. His hazel eyes aren’t cold or resentful. They’re uncertain. Maybe nervous.

You don’t know what to say. You’ve spent years rehearsing conversations in your head, conversations that never came. And now that he’s standing here—saying your name—you’re blank. Empty.

But you don’t have to speak. Because for once… James does.

“Hi.”

One word. That’s all.

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t make your heart stutter or your stomach twist. It’s nothing.

But to you—it’s everything.

You stare at him for a heartbeat too long. His eyes flick down, like maybe he’s regretting it. Like maybe he’s afraid he’s made a mistake.

So you force yourself to do something you haven’t done in years.

You smile. Just softly. Just enough to show him you’re not angry. You never were.

“Hi.”

James nods once, sharp and awkward. Then he’s gone, brushing past you in the crowd without another word.

But the air feels different.

He said hello.