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finelinevogue · 1 month ago

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bound by fear

a/n: this was a request! (sorry I've been mia)

pairing: Azriel x Reader

content warnings: physical and emotional abuse by a parental figure (alluded to and described), anxiety, violence, misogyny, language

note this fic is a bit heavier than my usual. please take care of yourselves if this could be triggering for you - this is not meant to romanticize trauma, but I think sometimes fics that include these topics can be a comfort for some <3

word count: 9.2k

synopsis: You spent three decades suffering under the cruel thumb of your father. When you finally escaped, finally started to build your own life, the last thing you ever wanted was to find a mate.

my masterlist

~ ~ ~

You never wanted a mate. A mate was the last thing you ever wanted for yourself, after escaping from your wretched father. You never wanted another male in your life, controlling every decision, every thought, every breath that you made. You couldn’t have a mate.

Mates were rare, you had told yourself. It was unlikely that you would ever come across yours. It was an irrational fear, really. Especially once you fled from your camp—once you found an isolated cottage hidden deep in the Illyrian Steppes, miles away from any Illyrian camp.

It was a dilapidated thing when you stumbled across it, but it protected you from the unforgiving cold of Illyria and the wet snow that seeped through your clothes. It was the first place you felt safe, once the adrenaline had ebbed away and the oxygen returned to your lungs.

You made the place your own. Months passed, and the previous owner never showed. Eventually, you worked up the nerve to venture into the closest camp, and in a rare bout of luck, you befriended a female who owned a shop on the outskirts of the territory. She gave you any supplies and food you needed in exchange for tailoring. It was the only skill you had to your name.

Two years passed with the same, monotonous routine. It was admittedly a lonely life. Sometimes you longed for friends, for companionship, for family—then you remembered what family could look like, and decided you much preferred your solitary existence. Perhaps one day you could leave this mountain, seek refuge in a new court, and build an entirely new life for yourself. For now, though, you would stay put in your cottage, in your forest, and relish in the peaceful life you had found after nearly three decades of torture.

That was your plan.

Then you met him.

~ ~ ~

Two Months Ago

You thanked the Mother every day for bestowing the gift of nature to this world. The trees, the snow, the skittering and chirping animals that hid amongst the brush and tree canopies—they all provided you with a comfort that you were certain you would have gone insane without. Every day, you walked through the surrounding forest, absorbing the sounds and smells and the kiss of fresh air on your skin. All little joys you never had before.

It took months before you had the courage to amble around so freely. Months where you barely left your little cottage, a shell of a female that was terrified of discovery. You eventually ran out of food, though, the non-perishables left behind by the previous occupant long gone. You had not escaped your father just to die at the hands of starvation, so you bundled yourself in whatever clothes and scraps of fabric you could find in old drawers to make yourself appear larger, then trekked to the nearest camp. You befriended a local shopkeeper who knew all too well the cruelty of Illyrian males, and she swore to do whatever she could to help you stay hidden.

You never asked her name, and you never offered yours. It felt too dangerous—too personal. You were grateful for her help, but you couldn’t risk attachment. She couldn’t risk catching the wrath of an arrogant male.

She is the one that suggested that you take walks. To explore nature in a way you never could before. To take another slice of newfound freedom.

Your daily walks became a ritual. They were yours, and this forest was your home, and no one was around for miles to threaten you or scream at you. No one was around to hurt you. You felt safe in a way you never knew was possible, even if the fear that your father would one day find you still lingered.

The cold was biting today, and you almost skipped your walk all together, but decided against it. You had weathered far worse than some cold air, and your Illyrian skin was acclimated to the bitter weather. There was no reason to skip it.

Something was nagging at you though, the entire time you were out. There was an ache in the center of your chest, a dull anxiety, or anticipation, thrumming up and down your core. You rubbed at your chest as you took a step up to your cottage, the weight of your foot making the old wooden staircase creak.

An unfamiliar scent hit you, and you froze. There was cedar, which wouldn’t be all that unusual in the middle of the forest, but it was so potent, and it was mixed with salt. How you imagined the sea must smell.

Someone was here. Someone was in your home.

The door flew open, and towering in the doorframe was an Illyrian male, with blue siphons adorning his body. His eyes were wide as they met yours, and the breath was knocked from your lungs when that achy tension inside your chest snapped. The male stumbled slightly, his hand coming up to clutch his chest, and you knew he felt it too.

The mating bond.

It was unmistakable. The bond had snapped, and this male in front of you was your mate. This Illyrian male, that had invaded your home.

You took off running. You didn’t know where you were going, but you weren’t going anywhere with him. Your father must have sent him, and the Mother had a cruel and twisted sense of humor for binding you to him. The snow crunched beneath your feet, a likely beacon for the male to follow if he was determined, but you couldn’t care.

You couldn’t stop moving. Even as branches and twigs slapped at your skin, as snow fell into your hair, clinging to your eyelashes and mixing with your hot and silent tears. This couldn’t be happening to you. You were finally free. You were finally settling down.

You would rather die than succumb to the fate of an Illyrian male’s mate.

Something—someone—grabbed your arm, yanking you to an abrupt halt. You twisted to face your attacker, your heart pounding as you locked eyes with the male. Your mate.

His grip was firm, and it only tightened when you tried to break away.

“What is your name?” he asked. His voice was quiet. Soft. It made you falter.

You still tugged at his grip, trying to break free, but it was no use. “Like you don’t know,” you spat.

You waited for the inevitable blow, for the retaliation, but it never came. He simply stared at you, his brow slightly furrowed and his lips pressed into a hard line. “Is someone following you?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you huffed, tugging at your arm again. “You.”

His eyes narrowed. They were hazel, you realized. Nearly honey in the sunlight. You swallowed hard, averting your gaze as the little confidence you had wavered.

“How long have you been living in my safe house?”

Your eyes snapped back to him, your mouth going dry. “Yours?” you croaked.

He nodded slowly. “I’m particularly interested in how you broke through the wards.”

You shook your head. “I—I didn’t,” you stuttered. “I swear. I didn’t. I just found it, and it seemed abandoned. I’m sorry. Please—”

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his face inexplicably softening, and your words died in your throat.

“Let me go,” you demanded, but the words fell flat as your voice wavered.

His grip loosened, but not enough that you could run off. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he swore quietly.

You were trembling. Your entire body was shaking as you stared at him in disbelief. He was lying. He had to be. He was trying to coax you into a false-sense of security, to convince you to let your guard fall, and then he would sink his fingers into you. He would drag you back to that camp, to your father, perhaps. Maybe he would drag you back to his home, and make you answer to his every whim.

“What is your name?” he asked again. His voice was so gentle it made you shiver.

You still didn’t answer. He surely knew your name already, but in case he didn’t, you weren’t going to be the one to tell him.

“My name is Azriel,” he continued, unphased by your silence. The name made you falter, as if you recognized it somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind. “I work for the High Lord.”

You blinked at him, brain turning fuzzy. “The Shadowsinger?” you croaked, an entirely new chill of fear running up your spine.

“Yes.”

“Where are your shadows, then?”

“Away.”

You stared at him, the very axis of your world tilting beneath you as you stood before your mate. Your mate, that worked for the High Lord of Night. The Shadowsinger, who was feared across Prythian, and hated amongst Illyrians. You didn’t know what to make of any of it.

“What are you going to do with me?”

Azriel let you go, and the anger that flooded his eyes as he dropped your wrist made your stomach lurch. He stood and watched you tremble before him, the snow seeping into your boots as fresh flakes stuck to your lashes. Fear sunk its claws deeper into your core with every second that passed and he left your desperate question unanswered.

Then he just vanished. His body was swallowed whole by a swarm of dark shadows that came and went as easily as the breeze. The knowledge that he could winnow, that he could appear anywhere at any time he wanted made your stomach churn.

You stood there in a daze as the snow fell around you and branches creaked in the wind. The sun was creeping below the horizon, and your legs started carrying you toward your cottage before you could even begin to fully process the situation you were in.

You tripped on one of the old wooden steps as you climbed to the porch, the snow biting at the bare skin of your hands you used to catch yourself. A single sob fell from your lips as you pushed yourself back up, forcing yourself to move inside and out of the bitter cold. You frantically started packing your belongings, parceling out what you would take, what you would have to leave behind, all while a chasm grew in your chest. The entire time you felt like someone was watching you. A sixth sense screaming at you that you were not alone.

It had been years since you felt such panic, a bone-deep fear that would haunt you for months. It was such a sick and icy feeling that left you pain-stakingly numb, so numb that as the adrenaline wore off, you found yourself slumping to the floor in front of the crackling fire you couldn’t remember feeding. Silent tears fell down your cheeks as you sat there motionlessly, letting the minutes tick by and the odds of him coming back for you grow.

You had a mate. An Illyrian was your mate. One of the most powerful males in Prythian was your mate. There would be no escaping him. You could try to run and hide in another court, but you had no doubt that he would find you before you crossed the border. Probably before you even left Illyria.

Defeat and exhaustion weighed you down, your body sagging as the last of your fight faded out. Somehow, sleep managed to claim you, and you laid there on the floor until morning, when a soft and persistent knocking dragged you back to consciousness.

The fire still burned before you, the flames flickering as the wood crackled and popped. Your head snapped toward the door as the knocking continued. Dread swam in your stomach as you realized who must be on the other side of the door. In all your time living here, you had never had a visitor.

You debated making a run for it. Jumping through a side window with nothing but the clothes on your back. You weren’t sure your useless wings could fit through the frame though, and you would likely freeze to death if you somehow managed to escape him.

You slowly walked toward the door on shaky legs, your hand trembling as you let it hover over the lock. The knocking stopped. You couldn’t understand what sort of game he was playing. He had made it clear last night that he could just waltz into your home at his leisure. Your home, that was never really yours.

“I know you’re there,” his soft voice startled you. His voice was muffled through the door, but it still made your heart race. “Please,” he begged as you stared at the wooden door. “Please, can I talk to you?”

He sounded almost desperate. Your mind spun as you processed his request—his request, not a demand. Not a threat. You stumbled as heat pulsed in the center of your chest. It was unsettling, feeling the physical pull the mating bond had on you, practically screaming at you to go to this male.

You shakily unlatched the lock, feeling sick as you unexplainably opened the door for this male. His hazel eyes snapped to yours, his breath seeming to catch in his throat as he stared at you. Your grip tightened on the door.

He was dressed in plain clothes. Black boots, black pants, and a navy sweater. You could still make out the matching glows of the two siphons on his wrist, but the other five were gone. His wings tucked in tighter as you took him in, and your face burned as you forced yourself to meet his eyes.

“Hello,” he said quietly. His voice was uncharacteristically gentle. You couldn’t imagine it as the natural cadence of this Illyrian warrior, the Spymaster of Night Court.

You swallowed hard, fighting to keep your face impassive as your resolve wavered. “What do you want?”

Azriel’s face was calm and unflinching. “What is your name?” he asked, again.

As much as you wanted to slam the door in his face and pretend none of this ever happened, you knew that was not an option. Your soul was tied to this male on your porch, you had been living on his property for years—there was no escaping from this. “Y/N.”

He repeated your name softly, and you hated the tug you felt in your chest as the syllables fell from his lips. You hated that warmth that flooded your skin as his eyes glanced over you briefly before meeting your gaze again. “You have blood on your sleeve,” he observed quietly.

Your gaze fell to the fabric around your wrist, splotches of blood staining the dirty fabric. You could only imagine how disheveled you truly looked. The thought did nothing to quell your nerves. He likely didn’t want a mate that looked so poorly, whose hair was unbrushed and clothes were muddied. You didn’t care what he thought of you—but the thought of already angering the male you might be shackled to for eternity made you faint. You were certain you had done enough damage last night.

Mother above, this was really happening. You really had a mate. You were a fool to think your newfound freedom would last.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice making you flinch. You stared at him in disbelief as his eyes assessed you with seemingly genuine concern.

“What?” you rasped.

“Are you hurt?” he repeated, his eyes slightly wider as they met yours. “Do you need a healer?”

You let go of the door to cover your blood stained wrist, your heart pounding against your ribcage. A healer. He would take you to a healer? You had never been allowed to visit one. Even if you had…your camp’s healer was a male. You would have rather died than to try to seek the help of another wretched Illyrian male.

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t seem convinced, but he didn’t push it further. Instead, he said, “My name is Azriel.”

You blinked. “I know.”

His throat bobbed, and he glanced away. “Last night was…” He shook his head. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“And what do you want?” you asked quietly.

His face was soft, and his shoulders fell slightly as answered, “I just want to know you.”

~ ~ ~

Present

You didn’t believe Azriel when he told you all he wanted was the chance to know you. All he wanted was to have a conversation. Once a week. Nothing more. It was ludicrous. Insane.

At first, he wanted you to come to Velaris—but as soon as he uttered the words, you panicked and started begging him to leave you be, to not take you away, and he let it go. He swore up and down that he would never take you anywhere or make you do anything you didn’t want.

His promises fell on deaf ears. You were no fool. You had seen too much, endured too much, to ever believe such frilly promises from a male.

Except, two months had passed, and his promises remained unbroken. He let you stay in the cottage, and he showed you how to activate certain wards and enchantments that had apparently been at your disposal this entire time. For two years you had been chopping wood in the snowy forest when the damned cottage could apparently feed the fire itself.

Azriel came by every week like clockwork. The same day and time, and for only an hour. He never entered without your permission, even if it was technically his cottage that you had staked a claim to. The first couple of weeks were wrought with stiff and awkward silence, but Azriel didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he filled your pantry and medicine cabinets, cleaned the fireplace, swept the floor—all things that you were perfectly capable of doing yourself—but he did them anyway.

The third week your resolve snapped. Your anxiety ignited into a fiery rage that had you snapping at the male who had decided to make you soup, of all things.

“When will you grow tired of these games?” you snapped.

Azriel briefly tensed, his wings twitching slightly before folding in tight behind his back. He glanced at you over his shoulder, his face sincere as he said softly. “I'm not playing any games.”

You scoffed. “Then when will your patience grow thin? How many more weeks before you just take what you want? Before you drag me to that city of yours so I can play the part of the pretty mate to the High Lord’s Spymaster?”

Azriel slowly sat the spoon down on the counter, letting the soup simmer on the stove as he turned to face you. His eyes were hard as they looked at you, his jaw clenched tight. The look made your stomach fall, your heart pounding as you took a timid step back, cursing yourself for such a foolish outburst.

His eyes immediately softened when you moved away, and he didn’t make any effort to go near you. “I will never force you—”

You grit your teeth. “So you’ve said.”

“And I will say it again, and again, and again. However many times you need to hear it.”

He always said the right thing. It was infuriating. Although, even now, weeks after the bond had snapped and thrusted him into your life, you still didn’t believe him—and yet, you had started to anticipate his visits, rather than dread them. You had started to see them as a nuisance, instead of a threat.

He was due for a visit today, and he was late. The sun had moved past its apex in the sky, and the light was starting to filter in through the west windows. You ignored the unease you felt in your stomach with every minute that passed and he didn’t show. You told yourself you would be glad if he spared you of this week’s visit. Perhaps, he had given up on you entirely.

You couldn’t ignore the tightness in your chest, though, and you couldn’t shake the anxiety that was bubbling deep in your core.

You jumped when three knocks sounded on your door, and you instinctively moved to answer it. The band wrapped around your lungs loosened when you saw Azriel standing on your porch, looking a little disheveled.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he greeted breathlessly. You moved to the side to let him in, and you shut the door behind him as he toed off his boots that were unusually caked in mud. His leathers had matching streaks painted across them, and there were dried flakes of it caked to the dark strands of his hair.

“Are you okay?”

Azriel appeared as startled by your question as you were. You didn’t know what compelled you to ask him that, why you would even care, but for some reason, you did.

He blinked slowly, his lips parting slightly before finally answering softly, “Yes, I am.”

You swallowed hard, looking away toward the fire.

“My nephew started flying today,” he explained. “Unexpectedly, and he had an accident.”

“Is he okay?” you asked, voice quiet.

“Yes,” he said, voice still soft. “He is.”

You nodded slightly, dragging your eyes back to meet his. His eyes were already glued to you, and you forgot how to breathe for a second as you stood there under his gaze. The air felt charged and heavy as you stood there before each other, as if lightning was about to strike and shake you to your core. It was alluring. Intoxicating. Then something squeezed inside your chest and it felt like someone curled a finger around your rib, coaxing you toward the male in front of you, and a new wave of terror doused whatever delusion you had danced with momentarily.

You took a step back, and Azriel’s face fell slightly before he caught it. “Can I clean up?” he asked, breaking the tense silence as he pointed behind him to the tiny bathroom.

You nodded, avoiding his eyes. He quickly disappeared inside the tiny room, and you didn’t breathe until you heard the door click shut.

You slumped onto the wooden dining chair beside you, your hands rubbing at your temples as your stomach churned with anxiety. You hated this. You hated that the Mother was so cruel. How could you have a mate? Had you not suffered enough? Were the last two years the only taste of freedom you would ever get?

You knew your time left in this cottage was ticking. The minutes you had left to cling to your last dredges of independence were slipping through your fingers. Every time you looked at Azriel, every week he showed up on your doorstep, you were reminded that this was temporary. The life you had started to build for yourself was no longer yours.

And every time that damned bond linking the two of you together for eternity tugged at your chest, it made you want to scream. You had briefly thought about rejecting the bond. About severing the “gift” bestowed upon you by the Mother in two. Every time you did, though, it felt like an axe to your chest. You couldn’t stomach being bonded to an Illyrian male, but you weren’t sure you could survive cleaving the bond either.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Azriel stepped out with damp hair and a clean face, but his leathers were still muddied. He seemed to hesitate in the doorway, and it was unlike every other time he had been here, when he moved around your home with purpose and confidence—fixing things and stocking your pantry and needlessly stoking your fire. He looked almost…boyish.

He took a small step forward. “I need to ask you something,” he started. You folded your hands in your lap, your palms turning clammy. He glanced at the chair next to yours—the only other chair at the table—then back at you. You thought it might be a silent question, but you weren’t sure.

He tentatively moved for the chair, his eyes watching you, and when you made no move to stop him, he pulled it out from the table. He sat a bit awkwardly, his frame far too large for the wooden seat, and his wings bumped into the table as they unfurled and then snapped shut while he shifted around. The sight of his wings moving so gracefully made your heart hurt. It had been a very long time since you appreciated the beauty of Illyrian wings, since you witnessed their elegant strength without fearing it.

Without fear. The thought made your heart tumble, and you stared at the male beside you in disbelief and reluctant awe. This was the closest he had been to you since that night in the forest. If you could still stretch your wings, they would no doubt bump into his.

“How much do you know about mating bonds?”

His words were like ice water over your head. Your breathing turned labored and shaky as you met his eyes hesitantly. “Why?”

He ran a hand through his damp hair. You hated that a small part of you liked seeing him like this—so normal, even if he still wore his leathers and siphons. “Humor me, please.”

You suddenly felt foolish and naive. What was there to know about a mating bond? “I—” your mouth was dry as you searched for the right words “—I don’t know. I guess it’s eternal? Chosen by the Mother and honored above all other bonds.”

His face was unflinching as his eyes roved over you, your skin tingling in the wake of his gaze. “What else?” he asked.

You blinked. There was more? You shifted nervously in your chair, tucking your hands between your thighs as you thought of what else he wanted you to say. “I suppose it means I belong to you,” you added quietly, avoiding his gaze as the acidic words dripped off your tongue. You might as well have set the last scraps of your freedom on fire.

“That’s not—” Azriel started hurriedly, and you looked up to see his wide and slightly panicked eyes, “—That’s not what I meant.”

His shoulders slumped forward a bit as he looked at you, and you couldn’t help but notice how his leathers were stretched tight over his thighs as he rubbed his scarred palms over them. It of course was not the first time you had noticed the scars lining his flesh, but something inside you ached at the sight of them this time. You found yourself wanting to know who did that to him—then, a more terrifying thought creeped in, and you wondered what he might have done to provoke them.

How much blood was on his hands? How old was he? How long had he been fighting and killing for this court? How long had he served as fodder for faeries’ nightmares and horror stories?

“Y/N,” Azriel’s soft voice snapped you out of your spiral, and your heart started racing as you met his eyes. He almost looked like he was in pain.

Gods, what had he been saying? You should have been paying attention. How long had your thoughts been wandering?

His eyes were sad as he told you, “I need to leave.”

You blinked, the daze you had faded into clearing from your vision. “Why?” you asked, voice unexpectedly gravelly.

His eyes flitted over your face, searching for something. “Rhys needs me to do something for him,” was his vague response.

You swallowed, nodding once as your eyes stayed glued to him. The setting sun illuminated his tan skin beautifully—it was nearly glowing. His eyes were bright and honeyed, if not a little glossy. His hair was slowly drying in soft waves, the strands falling slightly over his forehead. And his lips. Mother, his lips were soft and pink and—

“Y/N,” Azriel said again, and your face heated as you were once again yanked from your thoughts. Panic clutched you again, and your chair screeched against the floor as you stood up quickly. You scrambled away from him, leaning against the kitchen counter as you folded your arms across your chest.

Azriel’s lips were parted as he stared at you, and you wished he would stop. You wished he would leave, and never come back. You wished these confusing and conflicting thoughts would stop plaguing you. You wished you didn’t find yourself attracted to this male who was your mate. This Illyrian male that terrified you to your core, no matter how pretty he was or how softly he spoke to you.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to melt alongside the snow outside your cabin, and never face this new fate that had been bestowed upon you—because despite all of the fear and anger you had toward this male, toward the mating bond that wound your soul to his—you didn’t actually want Azriel to disappear. You didn’t want him to abandon you. You didn’t want him to hate you, despite your desperate and icy attempts to push him away. It was all so fucking confusing.

“The mating bond,” you rasped, and the words seemed to rattle around inside you. It was the first you had ever spoken of it, ever outwardly acknowledged its existence. “You said you needed to tell me something.”

Azriel stood slowly from his chair, but he made no move closer to you. His face was solemn as he said, “Yes, I—” He swallowed, then rubbed a hand over his face. “I do. I will—but I have to leave now. I’m sorry.”

You weren’t sure what to make of the wave of rejection you felt at his words. Two months ago, two weeks ago, you would have rejoiced he was leaving early. Now, it left you feeling cold and untethered.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. He lingered beside the table for another moment, as if he was hesitating. Then his shadows swarmed around him, and they swallowed him whole, leaving you alone in your cottage, and for the first time you resented the solitude that you once cherished.

~ ~ ~

The sun had set and the moon had long ago taken its place since Azriel had inexplicably rattled you and then left you in a whirlwind of shadows. You had replayed your conversation over and over in your head, and every time it left you even more anxious and confused.

The heat from the fire warmed your skin as you watched the flames flicker in front of you. You weren’t sure how long you had sat there on the couch, your feet tucked beneath you as you sat alone—your thoughts and the orange flames your only company. You should have gone to bed. It was late, and you were exhausted, but there was a part of you that wanted to wait—that wanted to see if Azriel would return, however unlikely it was.

A knock on the door made your head snap toward it. For a brief moment you felt relief—relief that Azriel had come back. Then ice slowly spread through your veins, and your breath caught in your throat as you stared at the door. That was not Azriel on the other side.

You didn’t know how you could possibly know it wasn’t him. You just knew in your core it wasn’t. Azriel made you nervous. You were always on edge around him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. You were always waiting for him to snap and treat you how every other Illyrian male you had encountered did.

This feeling was different. There was some primal part of you screaming “Danger!” and “Fucking run!” but you were frozen to your couch. You had never felt that when Azriel visited. You had not felt true and imminent danger in two years. It was not your mate standing on your doorstep.

The next knock made you flinch, and it was louder, more impatient. Panic was taking over, and your legs felt numb as you finally rose from the couch, but you just stood there and stared at the door. You had nowhere to go. There was nowhere to run, no way out except through the front door where your past sat waiting to tear you apart and drag your pieces back with them.

The wards. Azriel said this place was protected by wards. They should keep whoever it was out, right? The next round of pounding shook the door on its hinges, though, and your momentary confidence suddenly dwindled.

The heavy pounding didn’t stop. It only grew more and more persistent, more violent, until the force made the entire cabin tremble. “Open this fucking door!”

That voice flooded your veins with acid. You knew that voice. You heard that voice in your nightmares. It haunted you everywhere you went.

Maybe you were dreaming. Maybe you fell asleep waiting for Azriel, and this was just a terrible, vivid nightmare. Your stomach flipped inside out when he banged on the door so hard the windows rattled.

This was real. Your father on the other side of your door was real, and you were still fucking frozen in place as he screamed and pounded. You shakily reached for the dagger that had rested on your mantel since you first found the cottage. The black metal was warm from the fire, its weight heavy and unfamiliar in your palm. You didn’t know how to use it—how to properly defend yourself—but it was more than you ever had before.

“I will burn this place to the damn ground!” He screamed, his voice rough and feral. “Don’t think I won’t watch you burn with it! Open the door you worthless bitch!” He started kicking the door, and your heart stopped when you heard the wood splinter.

You had no doubt he would burn you alive in this place. Maybe the wards would protect you. Maybe they would fend off any flames he lit. Maybe they would keep him out when he inevitably broke the door down. Maybe they wouldn’t.

You should have asked Azriel more questions. You should have asked him just how safe you were here. You should have asked him how to wield the damned blade that must have been his that you now clutched uselessly at your side. You should have asked him—

“You knew it was only a matter of time before someone made you my fucking problem again,” he spat. “A fucking embarrassment. Maybe I should just burn you to ash.”

Your breath was stuck in your throat, and your lungs were paralyzed. Azriel. Did Azriel—did he tell you father where you were? You couldn’t fucking breathe. You never told him where you came from, who you were hiding from, but it wouldn’t be hard for the Spymaster to figure out. He had cut your visit short today. He had given you some vague excuse for why he had to leave—was this why?

Your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sob that escaped your lips. The skin of your cheeks was damp with silent tears, and you looked at the window to the right of you. There was no other option. You couldn’t stay here.

Your body’s movements were driven by pure adrenaline as you swung the window open, pulling it roughly to break it from its hinges, leaving the frame fully open for you to climb through. The glass shattered on the ground as it fell from your grasp and you shimmied through the too small frame. Your wings snagged on the wood of the cabin, and you yanked them free with a stifled yelp of pain as they were pinched and scraped against the worn wood.

You knew your father had to have heard you. You knew he would likely catch you, but you didn’t have to make it easy for him. You took off running toward the forest, your feet quickly going numb from the snow that seeped through the thin fabric covering them.

There was a sick sense of deja vu that washed over you as you ran between pine trees and shrubs, branches smacking and scratching at your skin. The Mother really did have a sick and twisted sense of humor.

Pain ricocheted up your nose and bloomed under your eyes. You were no longer running. You weren’t standing. Your cheek was pressed against hard stone and your palms were outstretched in front of you, caked in dirt and blood. A heavy weight lifted from your back, only for a more intense pressure to replace it at the center of your back. You let out a wheeze as the air was forced from your lungs.

A disgustingly familiar hand yanked your head up by your hair, and another gripped either side of your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. His eyes were as cold and vile as you remembered. He was the epitome of evil. You thanked the Cauldron you took after your mother, and your own face didn’t remind you of the monster leering at you now.

He tugged at your hair, snapping your neck back even farther as his boot still pressed into your spine. You thought he might snap you in two right there.

Your eyes caught on the blade scattered beside you, too far away to even think about grabbing it.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” he seethed, spit pelting your face. “Do you know what you cost me?” he screamed.

“First your mother embarrassed me when she was too weak to survive birth. Her only purpose, and she couldn’t even fulfill it. Then she left me with a pathetic and disrespectful runt of a daughter. No son to make me proud.” The punch shocked you, and you felt your mouth fill with an all too familiar metallic taste. Your cheek throbbed as he yanked on your hair again. “Then she runs away. Abandons her camp and responsibilities. Fucking pathetic. I couldn’t even pretend you were dead, because you were so lousy at covering your tracks, Illyrians across camps said they had seen you.”

A tiny, microscopic ounce of pride nestled in your chest. You had only ever been to one camp. The shopkeeper and you had planted seeds of doubtful but not implausible rumors of your whereabouts to specific patrons of hers—you wanted to be everywhere and nowhere—and it had worked.

“Do you think this is funny?” he sneered, and he kicked you in the ribs, rolling you onto your back and into the frozen earth. The next blow resounded with a sickening crack that left you gasping and wheezing through your tears. You hoped he killed you. If this was your fate, you would rather die now than face an eternity in his hands. In his hands, that your mate had dropped you into.

You squeezed your eyes shut as he straddled your hips, his weight a crushing force on top of your injuries. You hated him. You despised him for taking everything from you. He reached for the blade behind your head, and you held your breath as you waited for the blow. You expected him to go for your heart. Instead, he dragged the blade down the delicate membrane of your wing, leaving the skin in tatters as he repeated the motion.

The scream that left you was blood-curdling. You had never felt such pain. You had never experienced such all-consuming agony. You thought you might die from it—from the agonizing violation.

Then he was gone. One moment his weight was searing against your skin, and the next he was gone. A guttural grunt of pain had you weakly turning your head, and you could barely make out the sight of two figures fighting in the snow. Your vision swam as you watched them, as you watched one male land blow after blow to the one lying in the snow. Then they vanished into the shadows, and you thought you might join them.

~ ~ ~

Fingers on your jaw had you jerking from your daze, your vision clearing slightly to focus on the male hovering over you. You twisted away from him, screaming in both terror and pain as everything hurt. The touch fell away, and you squeezed your eyes shut again, tears falling as you sobbed and shook in the blood-stained snow.

“Y/N—”

“Please,” you sobbed. “Please—don’t. Leave me. Leave me alone. Please!” you begged, eyes snapping open again when he touched your hip. “Please!” you screamed. “I can’t take anymore!”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the male said, his voice sounding strangled. Your eyes snagged on his scarred hands hovering tentatively over your body. Azriel.

You sobbed harder. “I’m sorry,” you weeped. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you are stuck with me, I’m sorry—but please—please don’t take me back there.” You gasped through your tears and pain. “Please don’t leave me with him,” you cried, your entire body shaking. “I will do anything—”

“He will never touch you again,” Azriel growled, and you swore a tear ran down his cheek. You might have been hallucinating. “I promise.”

You stared at him—stared and stared as you shook and cried before him, desperate for a reprieve from this pain. His arms slid under your legs and back, and you screamed as your ribs shifted and your wings dragged against the ground. “Stop!” you cried. “Please, don’t—Azriel, please, I’m begging you. I will do anything, I swear—”

“Sweetheart,” the word was strangled as it fell from his lips, but his grip didn’t loosen. He stood slowly with you thrashing and crying in his arms. “You’re safe, I promise. I promise, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Then please,” you whimpered, “Leave me be.”

“I can’t,” he rasped. “I can’t leave you here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but it isn’t safe, and you need a healer.”

“No,” you gasped. “No healers.” You couldn’t handle another male touching you, leering at you, prodding at you while you laid broken and vulnerable.

“She won’t hurt you,” he soothed. “I swear it.”

She. A female healer?

“Close your eyes,” he murmured gently, and a warmth slowly seeped into your frozen core as you stared into his eyes.

You don’t know why you listened to him. You don’t know why all of the fight in your body had suddenly dissipated as he held you in his arms, or why you let your head loll against his chest as exhaustion took over your senses, and your eyes fluttered shut. Featherlight whisps brushed against your cheeks and arms, gentle phantom-like touches tracing up and down the gashes in your wings.

You slowly opened your eyes when warmth washed over your skin and you felt Azriel walking. You were in someone’s home. A home—unlike anything you had ever seen. There were paintings adorning the walls and carpets lining the wooden floors. A fire crackled in the room Azriel carried you past, and he slowly maneuvered the two of you up a smooth wooden staircase.

“Where are you taking me?” Your voice was so embarrassingly weak. You were weak, and fragile, and an embarrassment. What was the Mother thinking, giving the Spymaster, the Shadowsinger, you as his mate. You were still trembling and frozen to your core, yet your entire body was ablaze with pain. You were helpless in Azriel’s arms, and as his fingers dug a little tighter into your skin, you realized you were truly at this male’s mercy. It was terrifying.

His grip immediately loosened. “Don’t be scared,” he whispered—begged—as he climbed the final step. “You never need to be scared with me.” He moved down the hallway as he said, “You’re in Velaris. My home. You’re safe here.”

Don’t be scared. You’re safe. I won’t hurt you.

His words swam around and around in your head as he carried you through an open doorway, and sat you gently on the bed. You wanted to believe him. Everything inside of you wanted to accept Azriel as your mate, to relish in his touch and presence, but everything you had endured at the hands of other Illyrian males—of your father—had you ready to leap out of another window to make a run for it.

You flinched as you watched the blood and mud on your clothes and skin seep into the clean bedspread beneath you. “The bed—”

“I don’t care about the damned bed,” Azriel nearly growled.

You nodded, your throat feeling like sandpaper as you tried to swallow the anxiety and fear still bubbling in your core. The room was spinning a bit, and you faintly recognized the brush of something cool against your cheek as a dark tendril of shadow flitted from you to Azriel.

Azriel had one hand gripping yours while the other was wrapped firmly around your forearm, his strength alone keeping you upright. It was probably for the best. You weren’t sure you would ever get back up if you lied down right now. You couldn’t fathom the pain you would be in if you put pressure on your ribs or your wing.

“Madja will be here soon,” he said softly, and you absently squeezed his hand. He squeezed it back gently. A beat of tense silence passed, and you stared blankly at the wall in front of you, replaying the night on a loop in your head. “Y/N,” Azriel started, “who was he?”

Azriel’s tone told you he already knew the answer to his question—he just needed you to confirm it. There was no point hiding it anymore, and you were fairly certain he was the one who led him straight to you anyway. “My father,” you rasped. “How did he find me?” You forced yourself to meet his eyes, to watch them for any flicker of a tell, of emotion, that gave away what he had done.

His throat bobbed. “I don’t know.” His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, and you relished in the gentle touch before recoiling, pulling you hand away. His hand fell to his side, but the one keeping you upright stayed on your arm. You supposed it would make sense for a spymaster to be a flawless liar.

“Then how did you know he was there?” you asked, and you braced yourself for the inevitable anger—braced yourself for the blow he would deliver for such an insolent accusation after he had saved you—even if he was the reason you needed saving.

Azriel stiffened, and you glanced at his face that had gone pale. “I felt your panic,” he said quietly. “Your terror—” You sucked in a sharp breath when his hand fell away and his shadows replaced him, the inky black tendrils holding you up.

“They won’t hurt you,” he promised gently, his eyes glossy in the moonlight that seeped in through the window. “They would never hurt you—I would never hurt you. I swear to you, I don’t know how your father found you. I don’t know how he got through the damned wards.”

Your face flushed at that, shame dragging sharp claws down your back. “I ran.”

Azriel shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. He should never have been able to even see the cottage, let alone step a foot on the porch.” His eyes snapped to you, the hazel of his irises warming slightly. “This was not your fault. You did the right thing by running.”

Another wave of excruciating pain washed over you, and the shadows surrounding you somehow`` held you up as your body tried to fold over. A whimper escaped your lips, and new tears started to fall as your body started to wake up. The adrenaline was fading, and you were quickly reacquainted with an entirely new awareness of the pain your body was in.

Azriel’s face twisted as if he felt your pain alongside you, and even in your delirium, in your mind-numbing agony, your mind snagged on something he said. “My terror,” you gasped. “What do you mean you felt it?”

Azriel seemed to be using all his restraint not to touch you. “I felt it through the bond,” he murmured, albeit reluctantly. As if now was too inconvenient for him to be having this conversation, but he kept speaking, perhaps to distract you. “I’ve never felt such undiluted terror, Y/N.” His words were whisper-soft, and his eyes still shined with pain. “I’ve always felt your fear around me—it’s not uncommon—but this? This was terrifying. It made my heart stop dead. And your pain,” His voice cracked. “As soon as I felt your pain, as soon as I realized something was wrong, I left. I left in the middle of a meeting with Rhys and tens of Illyrian camp lords because all I could feel was my mate hurt, possibly dying—and I couldn’t let that happen.”

His hand finally reached for you again, his knuckles barely grazing the bruised and bloody skin of your cheek. Your head was spinning, from both pain and confusion as you struggled to make sense of his words—make sense of him feeling you through this, this bond—you didn’t know what to say.

His touch fell away as quickly as it came. “You never have to be mine. If you never want that, it’s okay. It’s your choice. Always.” That made your heart clench, and you didn’t know why. You couldn’t think of much else besides the pain radiating across every part of your body. “But I’m yours.” Tears fell down both of your cheeks, and you absently wondered if you had ever seen a male cry. If you had ever witnessed a male show such vulnerability and tenderness. “I will always be yours. I am devoted to you—and I will always protect you, I swear it.”

The door swung open then, and another Illyrian male appeared in the doorway, moving briskly toward your bed. His eyes met yours, and your entire body tensed, your muscles screaming in agony as your panicked mind grasped for some way to defend yourself. Azriel’s wings flared out and he stepped forward, effectively blocking the male from your sight, and you from his. “Cassian,” he growled.

“Feyre is getting Madja,” the male said hurriedly. “They should be here any minute.” There was a pause, then the male asked Azriel softly, “What can I do?”

Azriel’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, and he turned to look at you over his shoulder. You could only imagine how pathetic you looked. You were in tatters and bloodied and shaking like a leaf and you couldn’t move. You couldn’t move. If this male lunged for you, it would be over. There would be no defending yourself.

Azriel turned back toward the male. “You need to leave,” he gritted out. “And get Nesta—please.”

The door clicked shut softly behind the male, and Azriel’s wings folded back in as he turned to face you. You stared at him wide-eyed and shaking. You had so many questions, so many fears, but you couldn’t find the words—the strength—to speak them.

“That was Cassian,” Azriel murmured. “My brother. He would never hurt you. No one here will hurt you.”

He kept making the same promises, kept saying the same words, and you wanted to believe him. Mother, you wanted it more than anything. His eyes drifted away from you, focusing on the wing splayed out beside you. The injured wing, that was starting to shake more than the rest of you. A new fear leached into your brain. Would you lose your wings? They were useless but they were still yours. They were still a part of you. You couldn’t—the thought of having a permanent reminder of your father’s cruelty made your stomach twist.

“Not long ago,” Azriel said softly, his voice slicing through your panic, “Cassian’s wings were in tatters. Ribbons. I thought he might never fly again—but Madja healed him. You would never know now that the fate of his wings was in peril, besides some faint scarring. She’ll heal you, too.”

As if his words summoned her, an elderly female came rushing into the room, the door flying open on its hinges. She pushed Azriel to the side fearlessly, and you stared at her dumbly as she dropped an armful of supplies next to you on the bed. She completely ignored the swarm of shadows around you, pushing you to lay back on the bed. You screamed as your ribs shifted and your wing throbbed, and a low growl came from beside you.

Azriel had Madja’s wrist in his hand, his eyes glowing with something feral, but there was no fear or pain on the healer’s face. “Shadowsinger,” she said calmly, her voice even and steady. “Let me do my job.”

Regret flooded his face, and he immediately dropped her wrist. Madja started ruffling through her belongings, and you grit your teeth as nausea clutched at your throat. You would not throw up. You weren’t sure you could survive the pain that would accompany it.

Your head snapped up as Madja took scissors to the hem of your dress, cutting a quick and uneven line up the center. Panic took over you, and this time you were the one to grab her wrist. “What are you doing?” you asked frantically.

“I can’t heal you if I can’t see you.”

“No,” you rushed out. Not with him here. You couldn’t. He couldn’t see you like that. You would have rather laid on hot coals than laid there naked and injured in front of a male—in front of Azriel.

Madja followed your involuntary glance to Azriel, and something like morose understanding softened her wrinkled face. Her head turned to Azriel, who was watching the two of you with wide eyes. “You need to leave,” she told him.

Azriel’s hackles instantly raised. “Excuse me?”

“Leave,” Madja repeated, her voice holding no room for argument.

“I am not leaving my mate—”

“Az,” another feminine voice said from the doorway, snagging Azriel’s attention. Her voice was cool and steady, not unlike her eyes or stature as she moved toward the three of you. “Go wait in the hall.”

He glanced at you again, but you couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’ll be right outside,” he swore quietly, and you knew he was looking at you, knew he was promising you that he wasn’t leaving. The unusual but familiar warmth that inexplicably soothed a tiny piece of your battered soul reaffirmed his words. You didn’t understand how he did that. You didn’t understand a lot.

“Go,” the female said again as Madja resumed cutting at your dress. The door shut softly behind him, and you listened for his footsteps, listened for his breathing and his heartbeat, and a tear fell down your cheek as you heard them, unwavering outside the door.

You never wanted a mate. It terrified you, being bound to another male for eternity. You feared him. You couldn’t even stand him being in the same room as you while a healer tended to your wounds—and yet, the thought of him leaving terrified you more.

You were frightened by having a mate—but you couldn’t deny that in the two months you had known him, Azriel had never made you feel the way your father did, not even the first night you met him. You thought you might even feel safe, knowing he was outside, that he would come if you called.

That is what truly frightened you, you thought, more than anything.

~ ~ ~

a/n: might do a part 2 with reader's healing?

#read this if you want a good cry

932 notes · View notes

finelinevogue · 2 months ago

Text

I Hate It Here | J.P.

feat James Potter x animagus!reader

SUMMARY: As a bat animagus, you're used to spending time alone: a creature of the night that prefers quiet solitude over the bustle of Hogwarts life. But when one James Potter charges into your life, you start to wonder why you hated daylight so much in the first place.

CW: MDNI 18+, FLUFFFF (James is down so bad), multi-pov, injuries and blood, shy!reader, protective!James, fighting and mentions of reader being bullied, light angst, HEA

AN: bats and deer are known to be close collaborators in the wild, with bats helping keep insects away from the deer, and the deer making it easy for the bats to find food. inspired by “I Hate It Here” from Taylor Swift’s album The Tortured Poets Department.

masterlist

James’ POV

“Pads, what the fuck!” James shifted back into his human form, scrambling to drag Padfoot out of the massive blackberry bushes he’d launched himself into. The run had been quiet, almost peaceful, just the two of them out for a moonlight romp to blow off some steam from the day.

Then, of course, Sirius buggered that right up.

Padfoot yipped and whined, the thorns pulling at his onyx fur, and flopped onto the ground beside it with a dramatic grunt. He quickly shifted back into a disgruntled Sirius, checking over himself for injuries.

“I didn’t know they were like…pointy!” Sirius huffed, relaxing when he realized he only had a few shallow scrapes. “Just wanted a fucking snack—”

“Of course they are—what is that?” A high-pitched clicking sound interrupted them. James crouched down, peering into the thicket of brambles and ripe, midnight purple fruit.

Something tiny and velveteen was trembling in a knot of thorns, it’s squeaks of discomfort barely audible. A wing fluttered out, delicate and leathery, a bead of carmine dripping from a hole pierced clean through the taught flesh.

A wee bat was caught in the brambles.

“Shit,” James cursed, tugging his sweatshirt sleeve down over his hand and shoving his arm socket-deep into the loathsome bush.

“What are you—”

“It’s alright, I’ve got ya’—please don’t bite me, please don’t bite me.” James wrapped his hand as gently as he could around the little bat’s body, feeling it’s heart fluttering rapidly in it’s chest. “Okay, there we go. I’m just gonna—fuck, ow, sodding thorns.” James brought the critter out as carefully as he could, making a concerted effort to keep his fist lax despite the thorns snagging his sleeve and jabbing into his forearm.

Once he had it completely removed from the bush, he slowly uncurled his fingers. The bat lurched upwards, flapping it’s tattered wings once, twice, then plummeted. James dove forward, catching the little thing just before it crashed to the ground, and cradled it safely back to his chest.

“Is that a bat?” Sirius asked, stepping closer.

“Must’ve been eating some fruit,” James muttered to himself, peeking open his fingers to peer at it. It blinked at him, eyes wide and dark as obsidian, the grayish fur of it’s snout stained with blackberry juice. It was trembling terribly, heart going a million miles a minute, and James knew he couldn't just leave it here.

Sirius looked stricken. “Shit, I’m sorry, mate.” he stroked a finger across the wing draped over James’ knuckles and the bat writhed in his hand, clicking disdainfully.

“Should we take it to Hagrid?” James asked, wincing when it’s thumb claw scratched across his inner wrist, uselessly trying to flap the injured appendage. Poor little thing.

“Poppy, probably. Hagrid’ll squish it.”

“Good point. Grab my scarf, will ya’?” Sirius tossed him his scarf from their belongings and James wrapped it as best he could around the creature, effectively immobilizing it, tiny head poking out from the top of the bundle.

“S’kinda cute,” Sirius said, leaning closer.

The bat loosed a vicious hiss, and he recoiled.

“Nevermind, christ.”

As quickly as they could, they hurried to the infirmary, the swaddled bat tucked into the crook of his arm, pressed against his chest.

“Boys! What one earth—” Madam Pomfry rushed to greet them at the door, probably expecting the worst given their history. “What’s that?”

“It got caught in a blackberry bush, tore up it’s wings…” he carefully unfolded the blanket, expecting the bat to try and fly away again, but it seemed to have exhausted itself, lying limply in his hands, breathing hard.

“Oh, dear,” Madam Pomfry tutted, taking the bat from him and setting it onto an examination table. “You poor thing.”

“It’s actually a bat,” Sirius joked, and she swatted him as she rushed past to grab some supplies.

“Have you nothing better to do?” Madam Pomfry bit, returning with a tincture and some stitching supplies.

“You know what, Poppy, I actually do. C’mon James, I bet the kitchens still open—”

“I’m going to stay—if that’s alright,” he said, glancing at Madam Pomfry. “Just to make sure it’s okay.”

“Suit yourself. Stay gorgeous, Pop!” Sirius blew her a kiss before making a swift exit.

Madam Pomfry began cleaning the scratches and tears along it’s wings and soft belly, and James was shocked to see how docile the bat had become. Relaxed even when Madam Pomfry lifted it into her hand to place a clean towel underneath it.

It was rather cute, almost puppy-like as it blinked up at him, nose twitching from the strong scent of the tincture, ears flicking this way and that.

“Dearie, I think it would be best if you changed back,” Madam Pomfry said gently, stroking the bats head.

James looked down at himself, confused. “To a deer?”

Suddenly, there was a flash of magic, one James knew all too well, and then there was a girl sitting where the bat was moments before, his scarf draped around her neck.

He reared back, stunned that not only was the bat an animagus, but an animagus he knew.

“Y/n?” He gawked, and you rolled your eyes.

“Potter,” you replied.

“You-you’re—you’re a bat?”

“And you’re a genius.”

He blinked at you, completely dumbfounded. A bat tracked, he supposed. You were quiet, a loner. He couldn’t remember ever seeing you with more than a friend or two, and you’d never attended a party. Really, he only ever saw you in his afternoon Charms class and in the library in the evenings. You hardly ever spoke, wrapped up in your own world.

He always had the distinct impression that you hated people, and now, staring down the barrel of your glare, he was certain of it. But saints, you were gorgeous. Death glare and all.

It then occurred to him that he’d had his entire hand wrapped around you not even ten minutes prior, and went hot under his collar.

James couldn’t remember the last time he’d been at a loss for words, but here he was, staring slack-jawed like a complete idiot.

“Perhaps you should thank him for saving your from that bush,” Madam Pomfry prodded gently, taking your arm to examine the gashes riddled there.

“Wouldn’t have been an issue if he kept a leash on his dog,” you bit.

James winced, guilt curdling in his stomach even though there was nothing he could have done to stop Sirius. The cuts on your arms looked bad, a deep and angry red, dried blood mixing with the purple stains on your skin.

How could he make this right?

Reader POV

You fought to hold your glare, but the pained look in James’ eye was rapidly unraveling your resolve. Of course it was James fucking Potter that found you. The golden head boy of Gryffindor, in all his infuriatingly handsome and tender-hearted glory, saved your dumbass from crucifixion-by-blackberries.

You’d almost rather be crucified than sit there for another second. The lights in the infirmary were too bright, the space too open, too sterile.

Why couldn’t you have been anywhere else tonight? If you had ever believed in good luck, you certainly wouldn’t believe in it now.

“Thank you, James,” you acquiesced, unable to mask the bitterness in your tone.

James smiled at you despite your tone, because he never stopped fucking smiling. “Thank you for not biting me,” he said, looking down at his palm—still stained with blood. Your blood. Because he had his hand wrapped around you. His giant, deliciously warm hand holding you ever so gently…

“Ow!”

“Sorry, dear. Just a few more,” Madam Pomfry soothed, having made the first stitch while you were distracted. Distracted by James fucking Potter.

You needed to get a grip. Him saving you doesn’t change anything. Sure, you would have been forced to stay there for eternity, or skewer yourself shifting back. But he was still James Potter, the embodiment of everything you despised most.

You hated Hogwarts, hated the crowded halls and musty rooms and catty students. You hated the classes, which either moved too slow or too fast. You hated the professors, with all their snobbery and favoritism.

Thus, you hated James. Because he not only loved the school, but the school loved him back.

Graduation couldn’t come soon enough. No more morning classes, no more roommates, no more James fucking Potter.

James seemed to sense your discomfort, his dark brows drawing together in concern. “Are you alright, though? Really?”

“Fine,” you hissed through gritted teeth, a headache blooming behind your eyes so sharply it rivaled the stitches you were receiving. You squeezed your eyes shut. Merlin, it’s too fucking bright.

You tried desperately to disappear into your mind, that secret garden where it was always midnight, always dark and quiet and safe, and escape for a little while.

“I suppose I’ll leave you to it then,” James said, sounding almost forlorn. Unsure in a way that was so unlike him, it made you open your eyes again. He shuffled on his feet, running a hand through his unruly black hair. “See you in Charms, then?”

You nodded, and he left without another word, glancing back at you a final time before the door swung shut behind him.

“James is a good lad,” Madam Pomfry said, giving you a pointed look. “Would do you well to let him in a little bit.”

You shrugged, and closed your eyes once more.

It wasn’t until you’d been patched up and sent on your way that your realized you still had his scarf wrapped around your neck, the smell of him, sun-dried laundry and cedar, lingering in your nose. You tucked it into the bottom of your trunk, telling yourself you’d take it to the be cleaned tomorrow morning.

The following afternoon…

You were dreading Charms, dragging your feet as you walked down the final corridor. You’d slept most of the day, your schedule being mostly afternoon classes, and the last thing you wanted to do was socialize.

Not that anyone talked to you, but still. Just being around other people was draining. Not to mention, James would be one of those people.

And sure enough, when you made your way into the classroom, you found James sitting next to your usual spot in the back corner, chatting animatedly with his friend Remus. The only one of his friends you found somewhat tolerable.

Of course, every other seat was taken.

James was dressed in his usual Gryffindor attire, a sweater vest and loosely done tie, white sleeves pushed up to show off the thickness of his sun-kissed forearms. Black slacks hugged his toned legs. Really, all of his clothes seemed just a fraction too tight over his Herculean build—saint’s sake you needed to get a hold of yourself. You were not interested in James Potter.

“There you are!” James chirped, and you groaned inwardly. You noticed the other students murmuring to themselves, wondering why James had taken an interest in you of all people, but James seemed oblivious to it. “How are you feeling?” He asked, pulling out your chair for you as you approached.

“I’m fine, a little sore,” you said, dropping into your seat and rummaging through your bag to avoid meeting his eyes.

“Goldenrod helps,” Remus said, giving you sympathetic look. “And chocolate.”

“I’m fine,” you repeated, setting your books on the desk, and Remus shrugged, bidding you both farewell before walking back to the boys usual spot by the sunlit windows. It made your preferred corner look like a cave in comparison.

Flitwick dove into the lecture before James could ask anything else, to your profound relief.

But then—“I brought you these,” James whispered, sliding a tin across the table and under your nose. He seemed almost…nervous? “They’re, ah—they’re blackberry scones.”

Oh, no. You felt your heart swell in real time as you reached for the lid, a current of electricity flying through you when your fingers accidentally grazed his. “Why would you—”

“Ms. y/l/n!” Flitwick scolded. “Pay attention!”

You quickly pushed the tin away, heat scorching your cheeks. “Sorry, sir,” you squeaked, ducking your head back down to your notes. When the lecture resumed, you shot James a rueful glare.

“Sorry.” He grimaced. “They might be rubbish, I’ve never really baked before.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Was this real life? James fucking Potter baked you scones? “James, you shouldn’t have—”

“I wanted to, as an apology for last night.”

“You don't have to apologize. I’d rather just forget it, honestly,” you admitted.

“Oh.” A flicker of hurt passed through his expression as he looked down, and you immediately regretted your blunt words.

You really were terrible in these situations, sucking the fun out of the room like a blackhole.

“Well, I’m glad to have properly met you,” he said after a beat, flashing you a toothy smile, dispersing the tension as quickly as it came.

You stared at him, perplexed. Your attitude had rolled off of him like water on a duck’s back. “Uh, thanks,” you said, painfully awkward, and stuck your nose into your book.

James’ POV

His palms were sweating, why the fuck were his palms sweating? And he couldn’t keep his hands out of his hair. And he wanted to keep talking, merlin, he felt like he could talk your ear off, but he held his tongue.

Talking to him seemed like the last thing you wanted to do, so he kept his mouth shut, not wanting to annoy you further.

You practically ran from him when class ended, and now, he was racking his brain for something he could have done to make you dislike him so much while sitting at dinner in the Great Hall.

There was something different about you, a depth in your eyes that piqued his interest. He was so used to people fawning all over him, tripping over themselves to talk to him, but you couldn't care less about who he was.

If anything, you seemed to like him less because of who he was. Which as driving him a little bit mad.

“You reckon he’s still thinking about that bat girl?” Peter muttered to Remus.

“Oh, absolutely. He was up at 5 a.m. baking,” Remus chuckled. “Spent the entirety of Charms today practically drooling all over her.”

“That's pathetic,” Marlene tittered, and it was enough to draw James out of his head.

“Fuck off, ‘Kinnon,” he said, flicking a chip at her.

“What's the obsession, anyways?” Sirius asked, his feet kicked up on the table, twirling his wand in his fingers. “It's not like you smashed her into a thorn bush.”

“No, I believe that was you,” James bit, avoiding the question, an ember of irritation flaring in his chest. He wasn't obsessed. Just…intrigued. “Have you even apologized?”

“To her human face? No,” Sirius said, looking a bit guilty. Then, he stood up on the bench, sweeping his gray eyes across the Great Hall. “I don't see her.”

“She's not here,” James grumbled, sounding more petulant than he probably should.

“She eats in the library,” Lily supplied.

James whirled around to face her. “How do you know that?”

“Because I pay attention to other people, you git.”

“C’mon, then. I have wrongs to right.” Sirius hopped down and grabbed his bag. James was already on his feet.

“You really shouldn't!” Lily called after them, but they were gone, Great Hall doors swinging shut behind them.

As they neared the library, James felt his skin start to heat, palms going clammy as his heart beat faster and faster. When they reached the doors, James nearly changed his mind, almost told Sirius they should just return to the Great Hall and leave you be, but his friend was on a mission.

Sirius pushed open the doors, startling the dozen students milling around at the front. “Any of you lot seen y/n?”

James felt his lungs shrivel in his chest. This was going to go badly, he could feel it.

“Padfoot,” he chastised.

“She's always back by the Forbidden Section,” a Ravenclaw offered.

“Cheers!” Sirius grabbed James by the elbow and dragged him through the crowd that had gathered and towards the Forbidden Section.

James had never felt so conspicuous in his life, and it made his skin crawl with aversion. Normally, he loved nothing more than being the center of attention, but he didn't want you to see him like that.

They rounded a corner, entering the darker, quieter part of the library, and sure enough, there you were. Curled up in an overstuffed armchair under a single, low-burning lantern, a book open in your lap and a scone in your hand.

You brought it to your lips, nibbling on the edge while your eyes drifted over the page, focused intently on whatever you were reading.

James had the strange realization that he'd very much like to be scone right about now, and felt his cheeks warm for the upteenth time that day. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to clear the image from his mind.

“There she is!” Sirius called, and you nearly jumped out of your skin. Though you quickly masked your surprise with irritation, lips pulling down into an adorable frown.

“Were you looking for me?” You asked, eyes flitting to James before quickly averting.

“We were, doll.” Sirius sauntered up to you, dropping onto his knees in front of your chair. You looked like you couldn’t decide whether to shift and fly away, or kick him in the teeth.

“Sorry to bother you,” James said, leaning against the bookshelf beside you. “Lily said you'd be here.”

“What, um, why exactly were you looking for me?” Your looked back and forth between the two of them, a small furrow forming between your brows, fidgeting in your seat.

“Prongs here was gracious enough to remind me that I hadn't properly apologized for hurting you.” Sirius patted James’ knee. “So, I am sincerely and deeply apologetic for body slamming you into an evil, evil bush.Can you ever forgive my inelegance?”

Your eyes widened, the color of you irises richer, more captivating in the low light.

Fuck, he was staring again.

“It's, uh—it’s okay, Sirius,” you said, glancing up at James again with a look he immediately recognized: help me.

Maybe you didn't hate him so much after all.

“Alright, mutt. You apologized, back off of her,” James said, sticking out his leg to push Sirius back a step. Your eyes melted with gratitude, and James’ heart lost its rhythm, beating slower as something foreign and liquor-sweet flowed through him.

“I vow to be more careful in my pursuit of late-night snacks.” Sirius stood up, crossing his heart.

“Just no snapping bats out of the air, yeah?” You said, a shy little smile lifting the corner of your mouth.

“Never,” Sirius promised, and you nodded.

“How'd the scones come out?” James asked, filling the small gap of silence.

You shot him another grateful look and holy shit, he could get used to that. “You only managed to burn some, so that's good.”

He smirked, thoroughly enjoying this more mischivious side of you. “I blame the ovens,” he said.

“Sure, James,” you chuckled.

He could jump for fucking joy. You laughed at his joke!

“That's impressive, considering it was the ass crack of fucking dawn when he made them,” Sirius teased, flashing him a malicious wink.

You pulled a face, nose scrunched up in faux disgust. “That's way too early.”

“Nocturnal type, hm?” James asked without thinking, mentally smacking himself. Of course you were a night owl, you were a bat for Godric’s sake.

“You could say that,” you giggled. “Most of my classes are later in the day.”

“Then you should study with us tomorrow morning!” Sirius said suddenly, and James groaned, ready to neuter him for being so uncouth. “We're going to meet here after breakfast to study for the Potions exam.”

“Oh, uh—” you started to pick at your nails, loosing your footing in the conversation as quickly as you'd found it.

“No pressure,” James added, seized by the need to alleviate your discomfort. “It’s just going to the four of us, Lily, and Marlene.”

“And Prongs will make more scones!” Sirius waggled his eyebrows.

It's decided; James was going to smother him in his sleep.

“Maybe,” you finally answered, avoiding James’ eye, and his heart sank.

Sirius nodded, apparently satisfied with how this disastrous encounter went. “Lovely. Now, if you'll excuse us, James and I have to, ah, hit the gym…for…Quidditch reasons.”

You raised an eyebrow at the obvious lie, but didn't comment. “Enjoy,” you said, sinking back into your chair and turning your attention back to your book.

James chased a cackling Sirius out of the library. “You're a terrible fucking wingman,” James hissed, smacking him on the back of the head.

“I know, that was god-awful,” Sirius snorted. “But, maybe you'll get to see her tomorrow? So not a complete failure.”

“Or, she’ll never talk to me again because I'm friends with imbeciles that send her to the infirmary!”

“I guess we'll find out!”

“Now, I'm actually taking you to the gym with me as punishment,” James glowered. He needed to work off some of this stagnant energy, too, his mind and body buzzing from that small interaction.

“No! Merlin, please—no!” Sirius cried as James hauled him by the hair down the corridor.

Reader’s POV

You lingered outside the library, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Were you really doing this? You couldn't remember the last time you hung out with more than a few people at a time, let alone in the morning.

But you couldn't deny that at part of you, a miniscule, insignificant part of you that barely garners mentioning, wanted to see James. And with James came his friends.

He'd been kind to you, saved you from certain stabbing, made you apology baked goods, the least you could do is show your face for one morning study session.

There was something about James that was hard to say no to. He was so genuine, so eager. Even you couldn't bring yourself to pop his optimistic bubble, no matter how ambivalent you felt towards most things.

He was making it very difficult to continue despising him.

You could suck it up for one morning to make him happy. And only because he saved you. You owed him. Not because you cared about him, his feelings, or his opinion of you.

Definitely not.

Before you could chicken out, you pushed through the doors and into the library. It was sun-soaked and bustling, energy humming along the walls and marble floors. The chandeliers cast rainbows across the space, brightening the countless rows of books. Dust hung in the air like glitter, and it was almost, almost pretty.

Already, your head was starting to ache.

It didn't take long to find James and his friends, James’ voice carrying across the quiet library.

“She gets headaches if it too bright! Help me or fuck off, Pads,” James said, his voice pitching with distress.

“You need to relax, James. Your stress sweat is stinking up the room,” Marlene teased.

“That is so not helpful,” James bit. “And I smell delightful, thank you very much.”

“Because you practically fumigated the dorm with cologne,” Remus retorted just as you stepped around the corner.

“I did not—y/n!” James nearly toppled off the chair he was standing on, dropping the robes he was trying to pin up over the window.

The whole group swiveled towards you, and your stomach dropped out.

“Morning!” They all chorused.

You managed a small wave. “Good morning,” you mumbled, kicking yourself for agreeing to this. What the hell were you thinking? You didn't belong here.

Then, James was beside you, dropping a brawny arm over your shoulders, the alleged cologne wafting over you like a summer breeze. Verdant and sunny. “I'm so glad you came,” James murmured to you as he lead you to an available spot on the less-sunny side of the table. His bag was sitting in the seat, though his stuff was cluttering the space directly next to it.

He'd saved the spot for you, knowing you'd prefer to be out of the sun.

“Me too,” you found yourself saying, butterflies tickling the underside of your ribs.

That's it, you've officially lost your mind.

James pulled the chair out for you and you sank into it, the shade enveloping you like a cool blanket, and you felt a little more at ease. The group immediately launched into conversation about classes and Quidditch, their ease quickly growing contagious as you worked on your Potions formulas. James was reclined beside you, apparently able to work on his essay while chattering endlessly, and you found yourself chiming in, laughing at his silly quips and lame jokes.

One study session turned into two, then three, then a week passed before you knew it. You'd spend the morning with them, studying in the library or common room, then James would meet up with you for dinner in the library after Quidditch practice, sometimes with Sirius and Remus in tow.

You hadn't given much thought to your new routine, brushing it off as a temporary anomaly, until Saturday morning, when you woke up two hours earlier than usual and realized there would be no studying this morning. A kernel of disappointment lodged in your chest.

You were starting to wonder why you disliked him, any of them, in the first place. They were kind, funny, and more welcoming than ninety percent of the other people you'd met at Hogwarts.

The kernel of disappointed grew into a boulder of guilt, crushing and cold, at the realization. Your comfort was a construct. You'd been so stuck in your own head, in your assumptions, that it hadn't occurred to you that maybe you were wrong. That maybe, way out of your comfort zone, you'd actually love it.

A soft knock sounded against your dorm door. You threw off your covers and wrapped the blanket around yourself before pulling open the door.

You were not expecting to see Lily Evans standing there dressed in shorts and a bikini top, a pair of sunglasses keeping her copper hair out of her face. Her had a colorful bag slung over her shoulder.

“Morning, sunshine,” she chirped, smiling at you.

“Oh, uh, hey, Lily. What's up?” You pulled the quilt tighter around yourself. Merlin, Lily was beautiful.

“We're spending the afternoon by the lake and I was wondering if you wanted to join?”

“Who, ah, who’s going to be there?” You asked, tongue thick with anxiety.

“James,” she replied, green eyes glimmering. “And the others too, but who cares about them.”

“Well, I—I don't have a bathing suit—”

Lily pushed past you, dropping her bag onto your bed and rummaging through it before pulling out an adorable black bathing suit. “I had a feeling you'd say that. And before you start—” she held up a finger to shush your protests, “We can make it whatever size you need.”

“Lily—”

“Please? We really want you there. It's been nice having a sane person around,” she said, taking your hands. “And James was too shy to come here and ask himself.”

You snorted. “James Potter? Shy?”

“I know.” Lily nodded solemnly. “He's different with you—good different,” she clarified when your frowned. “He's baking, for Merlin’s sake.”

You giggled, warmth blooming in your chest. “Alright, you win.”

Lily grinned, clapping her hands together. “They're already there, so let's go!”

You quickly changed it the bathing suit and your one pair of shorts, fishing your sunglasses from the very bottom of your trunk.

“Oh, honey,” Lily purred, casting an appreciative eye over you. “He's going to combust.”

Embarrassment burned your cheeks, but deep down, you hoped she was right.

It was a gorgeous day, temperate and blue-skied, a rare, cloudless afternoon in Scotland. It seemed half the school was frolicking around the grounds, piled onto picnic blankets and playing football in the open fields, wildflowers dotting the hillside.

When your reached the edge of the lake, your traitorous eyes immediately found James.

Waist-deep in the blue water and sun-kissed, rippling muscles on display as he splashed around with Peter and Remus, dark hair slicked back and dripping onto his broad shoulders. He was practically glowing, a gilded God among scrawny teenagers, and your mouth went sandy.

Then, he saw you.

If you thought he was glowing before—Lily was right, the poor boy damn near combusted. His face shattered into an enormous smile, his glasses going crooked from the force of it.

“Y/n!” He called loudly enough to alert everyone in the general vicinity, throwing his arms out in surprise.

“Hey, James,” you laughed, giving him a timid wave. It felt like every eye turned to you, burning into your skin like the dazzling sunlight. “I'm just going to go set my stuff down,” you said to Lily, spotting a shady tree just by the water you could retreat to.

The tree was just wide enough to hide you from prying eyes, the shadow of its leaves a balm on your overheated skin. You'd only been outside for five minutes, and already you were floundering. Here you were, hiding away instead of running into the water with Lily, towards the fucking Adonis waiting for you.

“Hey, you.”

You jumped, whirling around to find James standing right behind you, rubbing a towel over his sopping hair. “Oh, uh, hey.” Merlin, he was even more beautiful up close.

“Lily dragged you out, huh?” He wrapped the towel around his waist, leaving his hair even wilder than usual.

“She did,” you replied, desperately trying to keep your eyes from wandering down his torso. “Said you were too much of a pansy to ask me yourself.”

James guffawed, head falling back on his shoulders as he laughed. “That witch,” he chuckled. “You didn't come just to humiliate me, did you?”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, you are the center of the universe.”

“Your universe, ideally.” He flirted, and your stomach flipped, somersaulting with your lungs and leaving you a bit breathless.

Thankfully, a screech from Lily being thrown into the water by Remus saved you from having to formulate a response. You turned at the sound, and your gaze snagged on a group of fifth years ogling James, and glaring daggers at you.

One of the girls shielded her mouth with her hand, muttering something to her friend while her eyes flicked up and down your body, and they burst out laughing.

Anxiety coiled tight in your chest, skin suddenly too tight on your body, the bathing suit suffocating. Everything was too bright, too loud, too open—

“Hey,” James said gently, his hands finding your hips and turning so his body was blocking yours from the girls. “Love, look at me. What's happened?” He bent down, trying to catch your eyes as they bounced around from onlooker to onlooker.

Fuck, everyone was looking.

“Them,” you mumbled, voice pitched an octave higher.

James looked back towards them, brows furrowed, and you made a hiss of protest, grabbing his chin and turning his head back towards you.

“Don't look,” you pleaded, crossing yours arms over your chest to cover yourself.

His confused expression twisted in consternation, guilt flickering in his eyes. “Look at me.”

You couldn't, too focused on the others.

“Don't look at them, look at me,” he said, a little firmer, his grip tightening on your hips. Your eyes flicked up to his, finding them molten, burning, pupils wide and dark. “Do you want to be here with me?” He asked.

Tentatively, you nodded. Unable to lie to him when he was looking at you, holding you, like that.

“I want you here with me too. More than anything.”

“James—”

“If you want to go back to your dorm, I'll take you myself right now,” he promised, voice trodden with sincerity. “We will do whatever you want to do. Just say the word.”

We will. The two words echoed in your mind, as tangible and concrete as your bat sonar. Whatever you decided, whatever you wanted, he was with you.

“I want to stay here,” you said, forcing yourself to hold his eye so he knew you meant it.

“Would you like to swim, or stay here in the shade?”

You hesitated, then— "Swim,” you answered.

He grinned, and one his hands skimmed across your hip towards your stomach. “That's a brave girl,” he cooed, and with a flick of his wrist, he popped the button of your shorts open.

Your mind went gooey as James helped you shimmy your shorts down your legs, letting them drop into a heap at your feet, tingles erupting over your skin in the wake of his hands.

“Brace yourself, sweetheart. Water’s cold,” was his only warning before he scooped you up, wrapping your legs around his waist and charging into the frigid water with you in his arms.

“James!” You shrieked as he spun you, the heat of his body a sharp contrast to the bite of the water reaching your ribs.

“Couldn't let you talk yourself out of it,” he hummed, one of his hands coming up to smooth the hair out of your face. Droplets of water ran down your neck, making you shiver, and his smile widened.

“Just don't throw me,” you warned, failing miserably at sounding stern.

He scoffed. “You're crazy if you think I'm letting you go now, love.”

Then, a giant arc of water came crashing over the both of you, soaking you completely in a blast of cold. James tightened his grip on you, sturdy enough to keep you both upright under the onslaught.

You sputtered and wiped the water from your eyes, cursing, only to find Sirius doubled over laughing.

“Hold that thought,” James said, carefully setting you on your feet, the water reaching your chest. He shot a withering glare at Sirius, and the tattooed boy straightened, eyes glinting with challenge. “You're gonna regret that.” And James lunged, tackling Sirius back into the water with an echoing splash.

You wasted the afternoon in the water, splashing and horseplaying until you were shivering, toes numb and fingers crinkly, cheeks sore from smiling.

James wrapped an arm around your middle from behind, catching you mid-yawn, the setting sun and the cold sapping the last dreggs of your energy. “C’mon, love. Your lips are looking a little blue,” he murmured, resting his chin against your shoulder.

“Why are you looking at my lips?” You chided lightly, turning your head so your nose brushed his cheek.

He chuckled. “Can't help myself.”

You let him coax you out of the water and onto the plush grass, and stretched out on your towel under the tree you scouted earlier, letting the warmth of the sinking sun soak into your chilled skin.

James sat beside you, his back against the tree and legs stretched long. “Never thought I'd see this,” he said, quietly enough you weren't sure if he was speaking to you.

“See what?” You asked, tilting your head back to peer up at him, dappled sunlight kissing his tanned chest.

“You stretched out in the sun like a housecat,” he teased. “Sunshine looks pretty on you.”

Affection curled in your chest, simpering and saccharine. “Thanks, Jamie.” You inched up at bit, resting your head on his lap and letting your eyes flutter closed, basking in the drowsy decadence of it all.

His fingers combed thorough your hair, untangling the knots sewn by the water, and drawing you deeper into oncoming sleep.

“But you look stunning in the moonlight too,” he murmured, fingertip tracing the slope of your nose, the curve of your jaw. “My little night dweller.”

It felt like a dream, sweet and simple and golden, and you couldn't believe how different your life looked with James Potter in it.

“Tell me something awful about you,” you asked, twisting to look up at him.

“Something awful?” He smirked, dropping his arm over your waist, thumb grazing lazily on your skin. “I snore in my sleep. I put too much sugar in my tea. What kind of awful are you after?”

You giggled, shaking your head. “Nevermind.”

“I’d think you'd find plenty awful about me,” he ribbed.

“You'd think,” you hummed, turning your face away so you didn't melt under the radiance in his gaze.

Quickly, you were succumbing to James’ charm, being drawn closer and closer to his gravity, a lonely moon caught in the heavy orbit of the sun.

You felt helpless to it, and that scared you more than anything. You didn't want to need him, to need anybody. It was so much safer to be on your own.

But you weren't sure you wanted safer anymore.

James’ POV

After that day by the lake, James was hooked. Trailing your scent, your energy, your presence like a starving hound. He couldn't get enough of you, and you were kind enough to indulge him. Things hadn't progressed further than they did that day, lingering touches and loaded glances.

Normally, James would dive head first into the deep end, but he found himself wanting to follow your lead. Relishing in the quiet in between moments as much as the more charged ones, content to just be near you, savor you in whatever capacity you'd allow him.

He was just grateful you'd let him in at all. It felt like a gift, a glimpse at something secret and deeply rare, and it was not a blessing he was keen to squander by indulging in his usual hedonistic impulses.

He was happy to tread lightly, to let you step out of the shadows one bit at a time. Patience was never a virtue of his, but for you, he'd find the strength.

A week later, James was late to dinner, Quidditch practice having run well over. Sweat and dirt still clung to him, his training uniform uncomfortable against his balmy skin. But he was fucking starved, the gnawing in his stomach eating away at his mood.

The only thing getting him through was knowing that you'd be there waiting for him. He hadn't seen you at all that day, and it was wearing on him much like the hunger. Leaving him raw and wanting.

He went to push open the doors to the Great Hall at the same moment Lily came dashing out of them.

“Lils?”

“James! What took you so damn long?” She grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him into the Hall. “I was just going to look for you!”

“Practice ran long, saints, Lily—what's up?” He registered the shouting in the next moment, Sirius’ booming voice echoing off the high ceiling. A crowd had gathered at the end of one of the tables, jostling and jeering. Slughorn was in the thick of it, trying to get between Sirius and whoever he was raging at with little success.

Then, James noticed you standing just behind Sirius, Remus hovering protectively at your side. You had a hand pressed to your mouth, the other arm wrapped around your torso. Tears were pooling in your pretty eyes, and the last shred of James’ patience severed.

He knew instantly what had transpired, had heard the mutterings in the hall, the gossip and the merciless chatter. He knew people were talking about the two of you, the Head Boy and Hogwarts' resident recluse, and he knew that it was wearing on you, despite the brave face you put on.

He just never thought anyone would take it this far.

He was across the Hall in a few long strides. He grabbed the bloke Sirius was screaming at by his hood and yanked him backwards, throwing him down onto the ground. “What do we have here?” James snarled, looming over the sniveling rat, his boot placed firmly on the pricks sternum to keep him from scuttling away. “Upsetting my girl, are we?”

“No, no! I, uh—”

“What happened, love?” James asked, looking over his shoulder to you, but you only shook your head, too upset to speak. His rage flared hotter. “Padfoot?” James tried again, turning to Sirius.

“Him and his buddies were crowding her, calling her mute—” Sirius voice broke, splintering with anger. “Asked if her tongue worked at all,” Sirius spat, glaring at the other two boys cowering behind Slughorn.

James turned his attention back to the roach under his boot. “Give me one reason why I shouldn't rip your tongue out and shove it up your ass?”

“Fuck, Potter! It was a joke!” He sputtered.

“Let’s see if it was worth the laugh, then,” James cocked his foot back, kicking the kid sharply once in the side, then again in the kidneys when he curled up to protect his vitals.

Too fucking bad.

James kicked him a third time, pain shooting up his shin from the force, but before he could drop onto him, imagining ripping the fuckers tongue out with his bare hands, breaking his face open under his fists, a pair of arms wrapped around his middle. They pulled back on him with meager strength, trying to tug him away from his groveling victim.

He immediately knew it was you.

“Stop, Jamie. Please stop,” you whimpered, your forehead pressed between his shoulder blades. “It’s done. It’s over.”

His hand rested over yours on his abdomen, his breath coming out in jagged huffs. He hadn't realized he was shaking with rage until he felt your steadiness pressed against him. Trying to hold him together.

“He hurt you,” was all James could think to say, the crimson pulse of anger still throbbing at the edges of his vision. No one fucking hurt you.

“And you hurt him back,” you murmured into his jersey, clinging to him like you were afraid he'd lunge again. Hurting him wasn't enough. He needed to ruin him, throttle him, beat him so badly no one fucked with you ever again— “It's over.”

James drew a deep inhale, trying to focus at your warmth against his back, your willowy fingers clasped under his. “It's over,” James repeated, fixing the perpetrators with a warning glare. “So apologize, and stay the fuck away from her.”

They all nodded, muttering apologies while scooping up their groaning friend and hurrying out of the Great Hall. Only once they were gone did you release him.

James turned to face you, guilt churning in his stomach and an apology on his tongue, but you were already half-way down the aisle, wiping angrily at your cheeks as you stormed out. Leaving James standing there, feeling as filthy inside as he was on the outside.

No, no, no.

He knew he shouldn't. Knew he should let you go, give you space so you both could calm down. But he ran after you anyways.

“Y/n!” He shouted, running out into the hall and catching up to you in a few long strides. “Hey, wait—sweetheart, please—”

“I can't do this James,” you blurted, spinning on your heel to face him, and he staggered to a stop. “I-It's too much.” You shook your head as tears rolled down your cheeks, like you'd come to some sort of decision in your head. “I thought I could, but I can't—I tried, I—I’m sorry.”

His mind was reeling, too cluttered with anger and adrenaline and panic to find the words to make you stay. “Baby, don't go—” He reached for you, but you took a step back, then another. “We can do this—” His fingers brushed your hand the same moment you shifted, rocketing off through an open window, disappearing into the dark night.

“No, y/n! Wait!” He cried, but you were long gone, leaving his heart cleaved in two, his soul hollowed out. “Shit,” he cursed under his breath, tugging hard at the roots of his hair. It wasn't enough. “Fuck!” He shouted, his fist connecting with the stone wall and making the nosy portraits scatter. Something cracked in his hand, but he could barely feel it over the agony in his chest.

“Prongs,” Sirius called, he, Lily, and Remus following him out onto the hall.

“I went too far,” James muttered, chest rising and falling rapidly, barely able to breathe through the crushing guilt. The sucking vacuum of emptiness you left behind.

“We all did,” Remus said gently. “Sirius whacked one of them in the head with a dinner plate.”

James loosed a wry chuckle, splintered and uneven, and shook his head. “I fucked this up, pushed her too far.”

None of his friends commented. The pity on their faces was answer enough.

“You can fix it, just—just give her some space,” Lily said, approaching cautiously. Like he was some kind of wild animal.

He stepped back from her, unable to bear their sympathy when he felt so wretched. “I'll see you later,” he muttered, turning on his heel and stalking away.

Reader’s POV

A week later…

Burrowed under your blankets, cocooned in the thick warmth of your own labored breathing, steamy from your countless shed tears.

You couldn't believe you had run off like that, skittish as a hare, spooked at the first sign of trouble. He'd stood up for you, damn near got himself expelled because some dip shits wagged their tongues at you.

But you couldn't escape the cloying tar pit of shame their words opened in your gut—what if they were right? What if all you were to James was a conquest? Another trophy for his display case?

It ate through you, sticky and dark and consuming, worsened by the guilt swimming through like a barbed alligator. Because how could you think that of him? How could you dismiss all you'd learned about his heart over the last few weeks so flippantly?

James wasn't like that, and he surely wouldn't have risked his Head Boy status for a meager hunt already halfway snared. He wouldn't treat someone like a consolation prize.

But…how well did you really know him?

Certainly not enough to expose yourself to the inevitable agony of trying to wrap your arms around the sun. He was James fucking Potter. He was everything. And you were bitter and lonely and lost.

You were better off here, saving all your romanticism for your inner life, rather than waste it on a fantasy.

“Y/n,” one of your roommates called gently, shaking your shoulder through the quilt. “You have some visitors.”

“I don't feel well,” you muttered petulantly.

“That makes two of you,” Sirius said, and your stomach dropped.

Slowly, you inched yourself out of the blanket, squinting at the golden sunlight filtering into the room. The air was decidedly cooler out there than in your little cave, and it stung your tear-scraped cheeks.

Sirius and Remus stood by your bed, the latter looking supremely uncomfortable.

“What do you want?” You asked, scrubbing a hand over your face to clear the cobwebs and crustys.

“Normally we wouldn't, ah, get involved,” Remus began, scratching the back of his head. “But—”

“But James is our best mate, and he's an absolute disaster,” Sirius cut in. “And clearly you aren't fairing much better.”

“So you've come to lecture me?” You bit, stung by his bluntness.

“No,” Remus said, glaring pointedly at Sirius. “We wanted to talk to you because—”

“Because we probably understand what you're feeling better than anyone,” Sirius finished.

You raised an incredulous eyebrow. “That’s presumptuous.”

“Perhaps,” Remus placated. “But we know better than anyone what it's like to be loved by James, and not really understand why.”

Your jaw clenched, a bitchy retort lashing at the backs of your teeth despite the glow his words stoked to life in your chest. James didn't love you. How could he?

Sirius sat on the edge of your bed, yet again completely unperturbed by your attitude. “James can be really fucking naive, and entirely too optimistic. Down right ignorant sometimes if I’m honest—”

“But he's also genuine, and loyal,” Remus interjected. “And it makes you want to, ah, redirect him, if you will.”

“You push him away because you don't think he understands what he's signing himself up for,” Sirius clarified. “Moons and I have done it at least a dozen times each.”

“And how is that relevant to me?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, like that would stop them from seeing into your heart further.

“Maybe it isn't.” Sirius shrugged. “Maybe you actually do think he's a brute and hate him for defending your honor in front of the entire school.”

Ouch.

You shot him a loathsome glare.

“Or maybe you're scared shitless by how loudly he loves, so you bailed to try and protect yourself,” he shot back.

“And to protect him from you,” Remus added.

You shook your head, fresh tears burning behind your eyes. You hated how right they were, and how pathetic it made you feel.

“Look,” Sirius said, softening his voice. “We just wanted to say that it's worth it.”

You looked back up at them, their faces blurred with salt water, as the fight rinsed from your body like grime from a window pane.

Remus offered you a handkerchief. “It's vulnerable, and it's messy, but it's worth it,” Remus said. “He’s worth it.”

Sirius nodded sagely. “You just have to trust him.”

“It's not him I don't trust,” you murmured, ringing the handkerchief in your hands, Remus’ initials staring up at you in delicate silver thread.

Remus gave you a sad, knowing smile. “You have to trust yourself too.”

“Alright, that's quite enough sentimentality for one afternoon,” Sirius said, pushing to his feet and ushering Remus towards the door.

“His first match back is Saturday!” Remus called over his shoulder as Sirius herded him out onto the hall.

“We'll save you a seat,” Sirius said with a wink before closing the door behind him.

Their words echoed in your mind, ringing true despite the countless excuses you'd made over the last few days. Deep down, you knew Remus was right; James was worth it.

But could you love him the way he deserved with all your pessimism and anxiety and thorns?

Would it be so bad to try?

James’ POV

He didn't see you for two weeks after that, besides in Charms, where you kept your head down and refused to look at him. He returned to his usual spot beside Remus, wishing it was your warmth he felt instead of the afternoon sun.

Two weeks he sat in evening detention, staring out the windows and hoping to see your silhouette flutter past the moon. 14 days he was benched from Quidditch for his injured hand, remembering the way your soft skin felt under his rough palm. 336 hours he found himself without words, preferring the silence over pointless chatter. 20160 seconds he spent in his head, where you were still beside him, and you looked at him with fondness instead of fear.

Everyone was buzzing for his first match back on the pitch. But he felt disconnected from it all, like the James Potter they were talking about was someone else entirely.

He didn't want to be that James Potter, he wanted to be your Jamie.

He hoped the feeling would melt away once the match started, flying through the air always did wonders for his mood, but if anything, he felt worse. You weren't there to watch him, so what was the fucking point?

His mood reflected in his play, and so the match went on, and on, and on. In the sixth hour, the sun long ago set, the players were dead in the air, the stands listless. But Quidditch didn't stop until the snitch was caught or enough points were scored that losing team forfeited, and James hadn’t scored a single point.

His hand was aching, sore from disuse, and his captain was screaming at him. Even his friends looked disappointed, slumped against one another in their seats, where they hadn't budged for the entire game.

Something whizzed by, catching his attention. At first he thought it was the snitch, and lifted his hand to signal the Seeker, but then it flew by again. Zipping by like a little shadow.

He nearly fell off his broom when he realized.

You slowed a bit, fluttering around his head, the delicate breeze from your wings ruffling his sweaty hair.

“Hey, you,” he murmured, unable to stop the smile pulling the corners of his mouth. He reached out to touch you when you suddenly banked away, swooping down towards the goals.

You gripped the top of the largest hoop with your little feet, and dangled upside down from it, stretching your wings before wrapping them around yourself, like you were getting comfy.

The Hufflepuff Keeper spotted you and flew a bit closer, curious. James was about to shout for them to leave you alone when you loosed a wrathful hiss, flaring your wings, and the Keeper reared back, screeching about a flying rat.

“Potter!” King shouted at him, and he turned just in time to catch the Quaffle headed his way.

The Keeper was too distracted by you to guard the hoop properly, and James smirked.

“Potter scores ten points for Gryffindor!”

“Another ten for James Potter!”

“That's 50 points for Gryffindor, what a come back!”

The continued scoring seemed to re-energize the game, the crowd on its feet and roaring in approval. James couldn't remember the last time he enjoyed a Quidditch match so much, and it was all because of you.

“And the Seeker catches the snitch! GRYFFINDOR WINS!”

James whooped and cheered with his team, but he was searching the sky for you, his heart so full he thought he might choke on it. It seemed you were gone, though, as he had a feeling you might be, the excitement and cheering too much for your sensitive ears.

He landed heavily on the ground, his muscles exhausted from hours of staying airborne, and straightened to greet the crowd of Gryffindors that were pouring onto the pitch. But as soon as he did, he spotted you racing towards him.

“You did it!” You cried, throwing your arms around his neck as your body collided with his, making him stagger back a step.

His mind short-circuited, struggling to process what was happening. You weren't gone, you were here and wearing his scarf and…hugging him? In front of the entire student body?

Did he fall off his broom and hit his head? Because this had to be a dream.

He dropped his broom to hold you properly, one arm looped around your waist, the other holding your head against his shoulder. He squeezed as tight as his tired muscles could, burying his nose into your neck and drawing a long, greedy inhale.

“Couldn't have done it without you,” he murmured, fighting back the tears of relief pooling behind his eyes. You were here. It wasn't a dream, or a fantasy. You were real, solid and beautiful and trembling in his arms as the crowd cheered, confetti raining over your heads as fireworks popped in the obsidian sky.

You pulled your head back, cheeks streaked with tears and gave him a wobbly little smile. “I'm so proud of you, and I'm sorry for what I said.”

He shushed you with a peck on the cheek, then another on your nose, temple, the corner of your mouth—Merlin, he couldn't stop himself.

“I want to try again,” you said through water-logged giggles, fingers curling the hood of his uniform. “Please, Jamie?”

“Of course,” he said, caving to temptation and pecking your lips. “I’m yours,” he mumbled against your lips, and you grinned, kissing him again. You tasted like nectar and moonlight. Sweeter than any victory. And he let himself indulge, setting you on your feet so he could kiss you harder, deeper, drown in your winsome little sounds as you finally, finally, opened up for him.

The shadow to his sunlight, the moon to his tides, the other half of his heart, safe in his arms at long last.

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