#bells and spires

[dandelion-wings]

Still thinking about this particular Gunnhildr family tonight, and I've had this scene floating around in my head for literal years by now, so:

---

It's been two hours, and Alba won't stop crying. Jean has fed her, and changed her nappies, and bounced her, and rocked her, and whispered soft soothing words even though she herself wants to scream just as loudly as her daughter. None of it works. She's been up since four this morning, and it's nearly eleven at night, and all she can do right now is sit on the chair in the nursery and stare at Alba's crib, where her daughter lies wailing, because Jean doesn't trust herself to hold her any longer.

How did her parents do this? How does anyone do this? Why did Mother take that trip to Liyue and abandon Alba to Jean, when she has no idea what to do?

That last is unfair. Her mother has affairs of her own (personal affairs, that Jean is carefully not thinking about in detail) that she deserves to be able to take care of without being weighed down by the task of watching her granddaughter. And Jean does know what to do; she's watched her mother carefully, and heard advice from her father and the sisters of the Church and half the knights of the Ordo. It's just that none of it is working.

Over Alba's wails, she doesn't hear Kaeya come up the hall until he's slipping into the room.

"There's my little Gunnhildr," Kaeya croons, sweeping Alba up out of the crib and bouncing her on his shoulder as he turns to Jean. "I would ask if she just woke up, but as you look like you haven't slept…."

"She's eaten, she's changed, and I've tried to put her down, but she's been crying like this for hours." Jean is ashamed to hear the frustration in her voice. "I even sent for Sister Jilliana, who said she isn't colicking or teething. I don't know what else to do."

"I'd say you should start by getting some sleep. I'll take her downstairs to the kitchen and see what I can do. If I'm lucky, I can calm her down, and if I'm not, at least your room should be quiet enough for you to get some sleep."

"You just came in-"

"And I can sleep in tomorrow. You have a morning meeting with Varka and the Inazuman delegation."

That she can't miss. That's been preying on Jean, too. It's why she nods miserably instead of arguing further, and leaves Kaeya to carry their daughter away while she makes her way to her bed.

As far across the house as Kaeya can get, she can, indeed, barely hear Alba's crying, muffled by floors and doors and walls. The sound is so faint she could almost imagine it an echo in her own head. Jean still hates to hear it; her daughter is upset, and she should know why and be able to fix it. That she couldn't makes her want to shrink with shame. With tomorrow's duties in mind, though, she lies back and tries to relax into sleep.

Gradually, Alba's wailing fades into silence. No--not silence. Snatches of sound still come from below, coming and going, but they're soft and slow. Jean, pulling herself up out of the unhappy half-sleep she'd been hovering in, listens more intently, her curiosity as strong as her relief. It's Kaeya, singing, the tune drifting in snatches up from below. The music itself is the simple strains of a lullaby, familiar in form even if she doesn't recognize the specifics of the song. The language… sounds almost hilichurlian, but it's softer around the edges, their choppy cadences smoothed out, words and phrases longer and more complex.

Jean has never heard Kaeya speak Khaenri'ahan before.

It isn't particularly beautiful singing. She had been enough of a singer as a child for her father to give her lessons, Barbara listening wide-eyed at her side. Diluc and Kaeya have a classical aristocratic education just as she does--maybe more so--but she doesn't recall either of them having any musical inclination. Kaeya's singing is inexpert, shifting in and out of key, and the eerie similarity to hilichurlian makes it seem even more inelegant despite the flourishes. But there's a gentleness in it that makes Jean want to cry.

She falls asleep, instead, lulled at last by the relief of silence and intermittent bars of Keaya's song.

Kaeya lets her sleep until only an hour before her meeting, and so Jean can do nothing more in the morning than thank him for the sleep and scold him for the late waking in the same sentence and glance into the nursery. Alba is asleep at last, and Jean isn't going to wake her up, so she foregoes a goodbye kiss and rushes to get to the Ordo in time.

Then her day turns into the usual routine of work, one meeting followed by another, interspersed with inspections and reports and a patrol of the guard stations around the city, because rumors have been floating around about Abyss Mages again. Kaeya arrives shortly after noon with the reassurance that he'd handed Alba off to her father and sets off on a brief mission with his company that keeps him past when Jean finishes with her day and goes up to the Cathedral to retrieve her daughter from her father and the sisters' doting care.

He catches up with her an hour or so after she gets home, managing to make it while dinner is still warm. Alba is fed and, thank Barbatos, happy, cooing in excitement when she sees Kaeya come through the door. After a few minutes of playing with her, he serves himself a plate of bolognese and runs through a brief overview of the mission as he eats. The description of one unfortunate knight managing to fall halfway off and tangle herself in her stirrup leather is likely exaggerated for effect, but Jean giggles anyway.

"And my official report will be on your desk when you get in tomorrow," he concludes, rising to rinse his plate. "Are you and Lisa still on for your date tonight?"

"I can stay home and let Lisa know I'm unavailable, if you'd like. I don't know how late Alba kept you up last night."

"No later than the trail I was hoping to pursue at the Cat's Tail would have if it had played out as I'd hoped." Kaeya shrugs. "I did get her to sleep eventually."

"I noticed. I heard you singing," Jean confesses. "That was Khaenri'ahan, wasn't it?"

Kaeya's cheeks go dusky. "You have good ears."

"If it was private, then I am sorry. I wasn't trying to overhear."

"No need to apologize. There's no reason for it to be private. I… don't speak the language often any more, but it's hardly a secret. Not to you." Kaeya is still blushing, not quite meeting her eye. It isn't the Khaenri'ahan he's embarrassed by, Jean realizes. It's the song.

"It sounded lovely," she offers him. "What is it about?"

The question only makes him even more reluctant to meet her eye, hesitating to answer. When he does, it's with a shrug and a sheepish chuckle. "Not to disappoint you, it isn't nearly as nice as the tune makes it sound. It's telling a child to be quiet and still, because if they make too much noise, or cause too much trouble… well. The riftwolves will come and carry their family off."

"Oh." Jean is embarrassed herself now for prying. "That isn't that strange, though, is it? Some of Mondstadt's nursery rhymes are just as unpleasant when you really listen to them. That one about the mockingbird is said to relate to a curse by an ancient witch, and the rhyme children sing in that circle game is about a plague in Decarabian's day."

"Huh. That's true." Kaeya looks over at Alba, who has wriggled partway under the table and is happily banging one toy against another. His blush has faded to a fond considering look. "There certainly aren't any riftwolves in Mondstadt to steal her away from us."

"No. And if they ever come, she'll have us to defend her. Lisa and Barbara, too, and Mother, and Father, and Grand Master Varka…."

"And no doubt half the Ordo as well. She doesn't need to fear anything, does she?" Kaeya sounds faintly wondering, as if this is a revelation that's only just occurred.

Jean is hardly going to remind him of all the things their daughter does need to fear, from falls down steps to clumsy drunks to Jean's own political enemies. She suspects she knows what that 'anything' encompasses for him, and she's as glad as he is that Alba is safe from the nightmares of his own childhood. Instead she comes to stand beside him, bumping his shoulder companionably as she watches Alba play.

He throws her a quick smile. "You're going to be late if you hang around any longer. I don't particularly want to face Lisa's wrath, so you'd better hurry up."

"Thank you," Jean tells him, bumping his shoulder again as she turns to go. She pauses in the doorway, glancing back once, and smiles to see him crouched down and carefully examining an offered toy. Then she heads out to meet with Lisa, leaving the two of them in the safest home she knows.

[msbellebelle]

Drew my Pizzelle and Fake Peppino fan dragons for fun :3

[scotianostra]

St. Giles, High Street, Edinburgh. 1904.

A rare picture of the clock on St Giles "Cathedral2 on The Royal Mile.

The first clock on the spire was installed 1552 but had fallen into disrepair. In 1585 it was replaced by one which came from the Abbey Church of Lindores in Fife at the cost £55. It had two faces with ‘twa hands’. It was built to strike the hours, relieving the bellman of that duty. The clock was set from the time shown on a sundial erected on the south wall of the Church

In 1721 the clock mechanism was replaced by one from a London firm of clockmakers, much to the annoyance of the Edinburgh clockmakers. This clock was repaired and the minute hand inserted in 1797 by the Edinburgh Clockmaker Thomas Reid.

In 1912, the firm of James Ritchie and son, installed a non-dial chiming clock which functions to this day. This clock has no faces for it was felt that the faces destroyed the appearance of the steeple. The hours and quarters are struck on the three bells still in the steeple – the great bell, originally cast in 1460 strikes the hours, and two small bells dating from 1706 and 1728 strike the quarters. The old clock was given to the Museum of Edinburgh, where its mechanism can still be seen.

[thelordismylightandmysalvation]

Roman Catholic Cathedral Basilica of St. John the Baptist, Savannah

My Photo

[dirtyoldmanhole]

i am having the absolute time of my life assassinating every mage in the raya academy with possessed!gunter's bare hands :D

[sinceileftyoublog]

Shemekia Copeland Interview: Break It Down to the Basics

Photo by Dave Specter

BY JORDAN MAINZER

A couple weeks ago, in speaking with Shemekia Copeland over the phone, I called her out. Though her new album Blame It On Eve, out Friday via Alligator Records, is her purported attempt to make an album that's a "break from the news" instead of "breaking news," she still sings about doomscroll-worthy topics. She admitted it right away. "I can't help myself," she said. "There was no way I couldn't talk about women's rights on this record." The album's very title refers to society's tendency to put the woman at fault, one that, of course, has biblical precedent. Copeland always has a way of selling you without hitting you over the head. "Hurricanes and tropical twisters / Always gettin' named after some sisters," she sings on the title track, "But the worst winds come from DC / Stealin' rights from you and me." Even alongside Jim Hoke's skronking saxophone and Luther Dickinson's screaming guitars, it's Copeland's wail that rises above.

Copeland calls herself "an idea person" who works with a stellar team of songwriters. Like most lyricists do, she jots down song ideas when they come into her head, and flushing the songs out with her team happens organically. "It's like getting a dress tailor made to fit you," she said. Blame It On Eve is her most balanced record yet. There are autobiographical songs (the blues stomp "Tough Mother"), paeans to interracial love ("Cadillac Blue"), gospel-rock jams ("Tell The Devil"), educational treatises ("Tee Tot Payne"), and even a couple covers, including her father Johnny's "Down on Bended Knee". Copeland turned to longtime collaborator Will Kimbrough to produce the record and play various instruments on it, and the core band of Kimbrough, bassist Lex Price, and drummer Pete Abbott treats Copeland's words with appropriate gravity. Kimbrough's mournful, echoing licks mirror Copeland's pained expressions on "Only Miss You All the Time". And the band's rock and roll strut gives levity to an otherwise serious song "Broken High Heels", where Copeland cleverly compares our collective attitude towards climate change to "Dancing in a graveyard in broken high heels."

Indeed, Copeland's songs that one might call "political" aren't really that--they're just about issues that affect everyday life. "Anything uncomfortable, people want to call it political," Copeland said. On "Is There Anybody Up There?" a duet with Alejandro Escovedo, the narrator starts to doubt that God is listening when looking at the ills of the world, like our broken immigration system, before realizing that his very doubts make him a sinner, too: "If they crucified poor Jesus, think what they'll do to me!" "Tee Tot Payne" is, of course, about the Black man who taught Hank Williams the blues. Copeland views the song as part of the larger conversation going on about Black influence on country music, and an important opportunity to engage with Black history. "Rhiannon Giddens wrote an amazing essay about the banjo and how it wasn't originally an instrument used amongst white bluegrass artists as much as it was used within Black culture," Copeland said. "They're trying to get rid of history, so for my last records, I try to put something educational in there."

As traditional as is the music Copeland makes, her view on making records and performing is pretty consistent with that of today's world. She's the first artist I've ever interviewed to admit that the sequencing of her albums isn't crucial. That is, she doesn't care whether listeners listen to the album's songs in order as much as they pay attention to what's in each song. "In all honesty, I don't believe sequencing is that important because people don't listen to records that way. I still do, but people don't listen to records in sequence. People pop it into their device and listen to it the way they want to," Copeland said. She then offered a caveat. "But it's important to me that they hear all the songs. They all fit on the record in some shape or form." That's Copeland, the idea person, thinking big picture, knowing that the collection of songs makes a whole, but each individual track tells a unique story. It's perhaps why her approach to playing live is so effective. Sequencing a set is important to Copeland, but it's less about planning and more about doing some of her own listening. "I don't really do setlists. I try to feel out the audience. I have some idea what we're gonna do, but I change it up," she said.

At the end of the day, Copeland has an innate sense for what makes songs tick. As she and her team write and practice, they start to think about who else could feature on the song, always without overloading it. It's how they ended up with Jerry Douglas contributing lap steel on "Cadillac Blue", Dashawn Hickman providing Sacred Steel guitar on "Tell the Devil", and Cara Fox playing cello on "Belle Sorciere", on whose chorus Copeland sings in French. Copeland's song-making prowess, though, is never more so evidenced by her version of Ron Miller's "Heaven Help Us All", recorded most famously by Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles. The album closer, it features Kimbrough on organ and Lisa Oliver Gray and Odessa Settles providing impassioned backing vocals. Copeland had first heard the Charles version, which appeared on his 1972 album A Message from the People and featured Gladys Knight. "It [has] a lot of background vocals and horns. It was done in a very big, produced way," Copeland said. "I thought I wanted to break it down to the basics." She's not a minimalist, but when you listen to Copeland's albums or performances, or even talk to her on the phone, every word and moment is essential. She can't help it.

Tour dates:

8/30: Peoria Blues & Heritage Music Festival 2024, Peoria, IL 8/31: Fishers Blues Festival, Fishers, IN 9/1: Rhythm & Roots 2024, Charlestown, RI 9/5: Bell's Brewery, Kalamazoo, MI 9/6: The Ark, Ann Arbor, MI 9/7: Wheatland Music Festival, Remus, MI 9/17: Americanafest Showcase at 3rd & Lindsley, Nashville, TN 9/20: Fanatics Pub, Lima, NY, United States 9/21: Pittsburgh International Jazz Festival, Pittsburgh, PA 9/22: Center for the Arts of Homer, Homer, NY 9/27: Rochester Opera House, Rochester, NH 9/28: Spire Center for Performing Arts, Plymouth, MA 10/10: One Longfellow Square, Portland, ME 10/12: StageOne at FTC, Fairfield, CT 10/13: Ardmore Music Hall, Ardmore, PA 10/17: Daryl's House, Pawling, NY 10/18: Elkton Music Hall, Elkton, MD 10/19: Rams Head On Stage, Annapolis, MD 10/20: The Tin Pan, Richmond, VA 11/14: Music Box Supper Club, Cleveland, OH 11/15: The Acorn, Three Oaks, MI 11/16: City Winery Chicago, Chicago, IL 11/17: City Winery St. Louis, St. Louis, MO 11/22: Lizzie Rose Music Room, Tuckerton, NJ 11/23: Barre Opera House, Barre, VT 11/24: City Winery Boston, Boston, MA 11/30: SFJAZZ Center, San Francisco, CA 12/6: Sam's Burger Joint, San Antonio, TX 12/7: The Kessler Theater, Dallas, TX 12/8: Houston Blues Society Holiday Bash at Rockefeller's, Houston, TX 1/19: One Longfellow Square, Portland, ME 2/7: Zellerbach Theatre at The Annenberg Center, Philadelphia, PA 2/16: Vero Beach Blues Festival, Vero Beach, FL 2/22: Soka Performing Arts Center, Aliso Viejo, CA 2/23: Poway Center for the Performing Arts, Poway, CA 4/4: Lied Center of Kansas, Lawrence, KS 4/7: McCain Auditorium, Manhattan, KS 4/12: Bitterroot Performing Arts Council, Hamilton, MT

[sticksandsharks]

Sacred Bodies & Divine Faces

SACRED BODIES is part of a joint mini-exhibition in La Belle Adventure (Leith Walk, Edinburgh) for the duration of Feb 26th - March 23rd!

The exhibition is ran in tandem with the comic RUIN OF THE HOUSE OF THE DIVINE VISAGE by Eve & Spire Greenwood ( @evegwood & @spiremint ).

The exhibition features concept art, processes and commentary on our featured works.

On the 15th of March (Saturday), I will have a talk & book signing in the shop from 4 - 6 PM!

[jameelahmaury]

view from inside the top of the Spire in Bordeaux - August 2020

[theblacksheepcz]

WOAH

MAN I REALLY LOVE THESE FUSIONS HOMIE BRO

wasn't planning to draw too much more of these guys cause I think the idea is pretty out there but had more thoughts/fun facts thanks to lovely comments I gotten from folks

(last doodle I forgot to add to the doodle page, but cancelled classic is absolutely a crazy enough of a mf to guzzle down boiling hot water if there's a parasite in him)

[britishchick09]

the madeline church in utah looks so much like st. joseph church in new orleans! i wonder if it has the same perfect bell tower... ;)

[dandelion-wings]

Good morning. For no reason whatsoever this morning I started to think about the fact that little Alba Gunnhildr gets raised alongside Klee. Now I have the image in my head of her at sixteen, a junior knight, standing at attention as Jean dresses her down for taking Klee on a mission that truly didn't need bombs involved, a lecture which is utterly undercut by Kaeya standing behind Jean with a hand over his mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to hide his giggling. Alba is smiling in exactly the way he does when he's about to coax Jean out of her disapproval with a facile but smooth argument and Jean, once again, knows she's inevitably going to fall for it. But she will finish the lecture first.

(Lisa will very gently chide Alba over tea, later, and it will be ten times more effective. Klee needs to mature a bit more before she'll truly understand the nuances of appropriate bomb deployment, sweetie. Maybe wait twenty years before doing this again?)

[msbellebelle]

This is my first ever piece of Sugary Spire fanart. I think I made a good choice

[californiannostalgia]

Critical Role Campaign 3 had:

Crown Keepers

Calamity and Avalir

The Shattered Teeth

Astronomer who found City on the Moon

shit parents and shit powers and kids who grew up figuring out love on their own regardless

Aeor and the grief of warring gods

patented sentient furniture

an Aeormaton healer who defeated a terrifying warlord via selfless, selfish sacrifice

the Day the World Stood Still because a Champion of Death still loved, even after all this time

Moon people getting immigration visas to their Blue Dream

Vox Machina

Mighty Nein

Bell's Hells

lonely witches who found each other and never stopped finding each other, in the city of spires, in a maze of ruins, in storming dreams and death's embrace

hopeful endings in a time when the real world is actually for real crashing and burning

What an epic story. That was incredible.

Love them very much. Is it Thusday yet?

[scoobydoomistakes]

I am not making this up. This is the actual scene.

*rises ominously*

"Who are you?!"

"Folks call me Big Ben."

*deranged laughter*

"Look what I can do!"

*steals Rudolph's soul, puppeteering his likeness in the inky void of his eye as a deep church bell tolls*

"Climb inside! It's safe in there."

*Rudolph jumps in with no hesitation*

*makes bizarre garbled myyrrawrerrrp noise*

This may be the best, most-unhinged Christmas special ever.

Or at the very least the best Slay The Spire origin story ever.

[hellinistical]

Priest! Vampire! Rafayel x Nun! Reader.

synopsis: when a charming new priest is sent to your convent amidst the winter freeze, you're naturally untrusting. unfortunately, he's more knowledgeable of the faith, and you could learn a thing or two, especially if you want to protect yourself from the recent vampire attacks.

trigger warnings: (heavy plot!). minor and major character death, blood, dubious consent, sacrilegious themes (Not Christianity or Catholicism; made up religion but using synonymous terms), gore, porn with plot, fingering (fem. receiving), hand jobs, piv, non-consensual vampire transformation, bodily horror, drinking blood, playing with blood, human consumption, unwilling cannibalism, afab reader- usage of female anatomy (though not descriptive of size/skin markings). fem. reader- she/her used. biting. choking. manipulation. blasphemy. overstimulation. virgin reader. corruption. monster fucking. slight belly bulge, bondage. incorrect use of holy water. wax play. This list may be expanded and/or altered.

triggers for this chapter: fem. and afab reader. nothing to worry about!

a/n: this piece holds no actual religious scripture or quotes, I just needed those terms as they were synonymous. This is in NO WAY a jab at those faiths nor is it meant to spread hate or harm to them. It is also not an insult to those who practice. I tried to write with care, which yeah may be hypocritical of what I have here, so I apologize. Additionally, thank you to everyone who voted in the poll. While it was originally intended to be a one-shot, I felt it would be better to break it into chunks as this is very plot-heavy. Thank you for your support! Reblogs are highly appreciated!

word count: 4.1k

masterlist | taglist | next.

I. L'Inverno

"I vow. You vow. We vow."

Snow clung to the thatched roofs of Linkon, its crooked houses huddled together as if seeking warmth from one another. The village was near silent, save for the occasional groan of timber as the wind pressed its icy fingers against shuttered windows. Most homes sat in darkness, their inhabitants tucked away beneath layers of wool and fur, yet from time to time, a candle burned low, casting a feeble glow onto the frost-laced glass.

But the church—ancient, towering, its spire piercing the night like a needle through black silk—stood in stark contrast. Every arched window blazed with golden firelight, the stained glass casting fractured patterns onto the snow. The heavy oak doors, reinforced with iron, remained slightly ajar, beckoning stragglers into its embrace. The bells had long since gone silent, yet the warmth from within promised solace against the night’s bitter bite.

Somewhere, the distant cry of a lone crow shattered the stillness, its echo swallowed by the ever-falling snow. A path, trodden by hurried footsteps, led from the heart of the village to the churchyard, where the tombstones wore thick white shrouds, their inscriptions lost beneath the frost.

Linkon, though quiet, was not entirely dead. The village, half-buried in snowdrifts, exhaled plumes of smoke from crooked chimneys. A child, bundled in layers too thin for the cold, pressed small, chapped hands against the glass of a shop window. His wide eyes traced the contours of a single, dust-covered toy—a wooden horse with a broken leg, long since forgotten.

The boy lingered for a moment longer, his breath fogging up the glass as he gazed longingly at the wooden horse. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if he could will it into his hands just by staring hard enough.

"Mama, do you think I can get that?" His voice was small, barely more than a whisper against the wind. One of his front teeth wobbled slightly as he spoke, not quite loose enough to fall out but just enough to make his words lisp.

His mother, a tired woman with deep lines etched into her face, did not slow her pace. Her grip tightened around his wrist, tugging him away from the window with a scowl.

"You’ve no business playing with toys," she said, her tone sharp but not unkind. "Come now."

The cold bites at your fingertips as you flex your aching hands, the stiff joints protesting after gripping the rough bark for too long. The weight of the log still lingers in your muscles, a dull ache settling in your arms and shoulders. Your breath curls into the air in wisps of pale mist, vanishing as quickly as it forms.

The wagon creaks under the added weight, its wooden frame groaning in protest. You glance over the pile of logs, stacked haphazardly in the cart, some dusted with frost, others stripped bare where the axe had bitten deep. It’s enough for now. Maybe.

Rolling your shoulders, you take a moment to stretch, tilting your head back just enough to see the sky.

From the porch, Gran smoked her pipe. 

She scoffs, tapping the edge of her pipe against the arm of her rickety chair. Bits of ash flake onto her apron, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“Hmph. Thought you was going to be a postulant,” she says again, this time with less interest, as if the idea alone tires her. She takes another slow drag, the pipe’s ember glowing bright before she exhales another cloud of thick, acrid smoke.

You grimace, waving the fumes away with a scowl. The scent clings to the air, thick and cloying.

“I am, Gran. But I can’t let you get cold before I leave. Gotta make sure you got enough wood.” You heft another log into the wagon, the weight of it jarring through your arms.

Gran mutters something under her breath, half a curse, half a grumble of reluctant approval. Something about how you fuss too much, how she’s not some helpless old crow, but she doesn’t tell you to stop. You know better than to expect gratitude—her warmth was never in words, only in the way she let you stay, let you chop her wood, let you fuss.

She shifts in her chair, pulling the quilt tighter around her shoulders before taking another slow puff of her pipe. "Bet the nuns don’t let you run around swinging axes," she mutters.

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reach for another log. "Probably not."

“Why d’ya wanna be a nun anyway?” She exhales another plume of smoke, the scent thick and heavy in the cold air. “There’s nothin’ for you there, and you sure as hell ain’t no saint.”

You pause mid-motion, a log balanced against your hip, her words pressing heavier than the wood in your arms. You knew this conversation was coming—Gran had been biting her tongue for weeks, waiting for the right moment to let her doubt slip through.

A part of you wants to argue, to tell her that this is the only path left that makes sense, that it’s not about sainthood or salvation. But you know she won’t buy that. Not Josephine.

It’s quiet for a moment between you two. 

Gran mutters something half-assed under her breath, the words trailing off into the wind like the smoke she puffs out. It’s too quiet for you to catch all of it, but you hear enough to know it’s not much of a compliment. She never was good at hiding her feelings, though. You’re used to it by now.

"I ain’t some poor fool that needs babysitting, y’know." Her voice is gruff, but there’s a thread of something softer in it—something you’ve learned to recognize over the years. She’s stubborn, always has been.

You give a small nod, moving to stack the last of the logs. "I know, gran. I know. But I won’t feel right leaving unless I know you’re taken care of. You know that."

Gran doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes another slow drag from her pipe, her gaze lingering on the snow-covered fields in the distance, the world outside seeming endless and cold. After a long pause, she huffs again, quieter this time. "Don't go thinkin' you’re some saint for it," she mutters. 

Finishing up, you dust your hands off on your clothes. You’d really need to get some balm for your hands later at this rate. 

The wagon creaks and groans as you guide it up the worn path to the porch, wheels crunching over the frozen slush of mud and snow and dead leaves. 

Steadying it at the base of the stairs,  the weight of the logs a comfort now that they’re safely in place. The cold air bites at your face, the evening shadows stretching long across the ground.

Gran has already begun making her way up the steps, her movements slower than usual but still determined, stubborn as ever. You catch up with her, slipping your arm around her shoulders to steady her, though she gives you a glare that says she doesn’t need it.

"I’m fine," she grumbles, but there’s a softness to it, and you know she’s just too proud to admit otherwise.

You press a quick kiss to her weathered cheek, the touch brief but warm. "Come on, gran. Let’s get you inside before that fire goes out."

As soon as you open the door, Gran makes her way toward the hearth, moving a little more slowly now, her back bowed from years of wear. You follow her, dropping the last of the logs into the small pile beside the fire. The hearth crackles and spits, the flames licking at the logs, eager for the kindling to catch.

You kneel down and add a few smaller pieces to the fire, feeling the warmth crawl up your limbs as the room begins to fill with its heat. The crackling flames dance in the dim light, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Gran settles into her favorite chair, a deep sigh escaping her lips as she rubs her hands together to warm them.

But then. 

The sharp scent of burning soup cuts through the warm, smoky air of the house, and you both freeze for a moment, the sudden change in smell jarring after the comfort of the fire. The frantic voice of Tara rises from the kitchen, a high-pitched, rapid-fire chant of "Oh no, oh no, oh no," each repetition growing more frantic than the last.

A smile finds its way to your face. 

“What the fuck.”

"Girl’s got no business in the kitchen," Gran remarks dryly, her eyes twinkling with the kind of amusement only she can manage at a time like this. She shifts in her chair, clearly comfortable in her role as the unbothered observer. "Can’t even cook a proper pot of soup without burnin' it."

You groan, heading to the kitchen, following the sound of Tara’s  frantic movements, the clatter of pots and pans unmistakable even from here. Gran’s right, as usual, but you can’t help the soft chuckle that escapes you as you push through the doorframe.

Inside, Tara is a whirlwind, her wide eyes locked on the blackened pot on the stove as she mumbles apologies to it like it's the one offended. The soup’s beyond saving, burnt beyond recognition, the acrid scent lingering in the air.

“Again?”

Tara whips around at the sound of your voice, looking both horrified and sheepish. "I—I swear it wasn’t this bad five minutes ago!" She gestures helplessly at the ruined pot. "I just... I wasn’t paying attention. Oh no, oh no..."

Gran’s voice calls from the living room, barely muffled. "She’ll survive, I’m sure."

"Put the damn pot in the sink, Tara," you say, your voice flat and tense, the stress from the day's work starting to catch up with you. The words are sharper than you intend, but it’s hard to keep your frustration in check.

Tara hesitates for just a moment, her shoulders slumping. Then, with a small, defeated sigh, she lifts the pot carefully, her movements slow as if she’s afraid it might bite her.

"You’re lucky I’m not trying to cook tonight," you mutter under your breath, rubbing at your temples as the weight of it all presses down harder. The house feels small, and the noise of the fire and Tara’s flustered movements make it feel even smaller, closing in around you.

That was a year ago. 

The cold slipped through the cracks of the old stone walls, settling deep in your bones no matter how many layers you wore. The convent was quiet this late in the evening, the only sound the rhythmic echo of your footsteps against the frozen floor. Winter, it seemed, was only growing harsher with each passing year, as if the world itself had grown bitter.

You pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, the fabric rough but familiar. Outside, the wind howled against the monastery walls, a mournful sound that made the candle flames waver in their sconces. The flickering light cast long, skeletal shadows along the corridor, stretching and twisting with each uncertain step you took.

Stopping by a frost-rimmed window, you pressed your palm against the cold glass, watching it melt some of the frost buildup. 

"Sister, why are you not inside?" A light, charming voice chuckles behind you. 

You turn slightly, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself as you glance over your shoulder. The voice belongs to a man—young, by the sound of him, with a tone too smooth to belong to any of the elder priests or the somber sisters of the convent.

He stands just a few feet away, wrapped in a heavy traveling coat, the fur-lined hood pushed back to reveal lavender curls dusted with melting snow. His features are sharp, striking even, but softened by the amused curve of his lips. His eyes—clever, too knowing—gleam in the dim candlelight as he studies you.

"Sister, why are you not inside?" he asks again, then pauses, tilting his head. "Ah, no—you’re one of the postulants, I take it?" His voice carries an easy charm, the kind that doesn’t quite belong in a place like this.

You straighten, instinctively guarded. "I am."

His smile widens. "Thought so. You don’t quite carry that air of solemn devotion yet." He gestures vaguely, as if that explains everything. "I imagine the cold must be unbearable, then. Postulants don’t get the good cloaks, do they?"

"You shouldn’t be wandering about at this hour," you say, keeping your voice even.

His chuckle is soft, almost indulgent. "Neither should you, Sister."

Something about the way he says it makes your skin prickle.

You don’t have time to say anything, though. A sharp, deliberate clearing of a throat cuts through the cold air, and you both turn.

Sister Jenna stands at the end of the corridor, her hands folded neatly in front of her, but her expression betrays a hint of unease—whether at your presence or his, you can’t quite tell.

“Father Rafayel,” she says, voice carefully measured. “We weren’t expecting you to come so soon.”

Your breath catches slightly. Father Rafayel?

Your gaze snaps back to the man beside you, taking him in with fresh scrutiny. This—this is the new priest?

He hardly looks the part. No somber robes, no quiet piety in his posture. Instead, he carries himself with the easy confidence of someone used to being watched, someone who finds amusement in the scrutiny of others. His traveling coat is dusted with melting snow, but beneath it, you catch the glimpse of a dark cassock, barely visible against the dim candlelight.

Father Rafayel, for his part, only smiles, unfazed by Sister Jenna’s presence. “Ah, yes. I’m afraid the storm made it easier to press on than turn back.” He spreads his hands in an almost apologetic gesture. “I do hope I haven’t caused too much trouble.”

Sister Jenna shakes her head. “No trouble at all, Father. We simply expected you closer to the week’s end.”

You’re still eyeing him, suspicion creeping into your bones like the winter chill. This is the man meant to guide the convent, to lead prayers, to uphold the faith? Something about him doesn’t sit right. Not the charm in his voice, not the sharp glint in his eyes, nor the way he watches you now—curious.

There’s no way he was qualified. He looked too young for such a position—too worldly, too.

A man like him didn’t belong in a convent, much less as its priest. His sharp, knowing eyes, the way he carried himself with an ease that lacked the usual humility of a clergyman.

Priests were supposed to be solemn, restrained. Father Rafayel looked like a man who had seen too much of the world to be satisfied with prayers and penance.

Sister Jenna, however, seemed unfazed. She led him down the corridor without hesitation, speaking softly, though you couldn’t make out the words. You stood frozen in place, watching the flickering candlelight stretch his shadow long against the stone floor.

Just before he disappeared around the corner, he glanced back at you, his expression unreadable. And then, just as quickly, he was gone.

The cold pressed in around you once more, but somehow, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the real storm had just arrived.

You sat curled on the low stool, knees tucked to your chest, as Sister Jenna worked in practiced silence, the soft snip, snip of her shears the only sound between you.

Loose strands of hair fell onto your shoulders, then to the floor, forgotten. It had grown too long, peeking out from beneath your habit—a small indulgence you had let slip, one that had finally caught up with you.

"You're growing it too long again," she chided, skilled fingers steady as they guided the blades. "You know the rules, child."

You knew. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to trim it back, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Still, you found yourself reluctant each time. The strands fell around you, dark against the cold stone floor.

“You were out late last night,” she said after a moment, not unkindly.

You exhaled slowly. “I couldn’t sleep.”

She hummed, neither questioning nor believing you entirely. The shears snipped again.

It wasn’t a lie. Something about Father Rafayel had set you on edge. His presence felt like an ill-fitting piece in the convent’s quiet, predictable world. He was too young, too smooth, too something that you couldn’t quite place. And the way he had looked at you—like he knew you, or wanted to.

Sister Jenna hummed as she brushed the stray hair from your neck. "Change can be unsettling. A new priest means new ways of doing things. But it is not our place to question Astra’s will."

You exhaled slowly, watching as a strand of hair landed on the toe of your worn leather shoe. "I suppose."

She gave your shoulder a gentle pat, signaling she was finished. You straightened, reaching up to brush your fingers along the freshly trimmed ends, still uneasy.

The morning light filtered pale and cold through the narrow window, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Somewhere beyond, the village was beginning to stir, the air thick with the scent of burning wood and the distant chime of the church bell.

"Sister Jenna? Where is he from? He's certainly not from Linkon. His clothes are too fine."

Sister Jenna paused, dusting stray hairs from her lap before responding. “No, he’s not from Linkon.” Her voice was measured, careful.

You turned to look at her, frowning. “Then where?”

She hesitated, which only made your unease deepen. “The capital, I believe. Or somewhere near enough to it.”

That made sense, in a way. His fine clothes, the way he spoke—it all carried the air of someone who had been raised far from the humble quiet of Linkon. But the capital bred men of ambition, not men of faith.

“And he was sent here?” You couldn’t hide the skepticism in your tone.

“I’m not sure where he’s from, but he was sent from the main cathedral in Anbusas. Handpicked by the bishop himself.”

That didn’t sit right with you. The bishop rarely took personal interest in appointing priests to small villages like Linkon.

“But why him?” You tried to keep your voice measured, but suspicion was creeping in. “He’s young. Too young, I’d say, for a position like this. But….wow. So he must really know what he's doing then..." A hint of awe laced your tone, surprising you.

Sister Jenna glanced over her shoulder at your words, and the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. It was a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"One could say that, yes," she replied, her voice softer now, as if measuring her words carefully. "He has the bishop's favor, after all. It’s not often one is given such a position at his age."

Simone’s voice cut through the quiet like a bird’s chirp, the door creaking slightly as she poked her head into the room.

"Good morning, Sister Jenna!" she chirped cheerfully, unaware of the tension lingering in the air. "Father Thomas wants you to know that Father Rafayel is ready whenever you are and he'll be in the left Temple."

Sister Jenna nodded, her demeanor shifting instantly to one of calm professionalism. "Thank you, Simone. I’ll be there shortly."

Simone smiled and disappeared, leaving the door ajar. The distant chime of the bell rang, signaling the start of the day’s service. Sister Jenna turned back to you, her expression softening.

You blinked, taken off guard. “Wait—no breakfast first? I didn’t wake up late this time though!” You felt a small twinge of frustration at the idea of going straight to the Temple without even a moment to eat, especially after the restless night you’d had. 

Sister Jenna gave you a long, measured look, as if weighing your words. For a moment, you thought she might give in to your light protest, but instead, her lips quirked up into a faint smile, as if she wanted to laugh.

"Breakfast can wait, Sister," she said with a soft but firm tone. "The Lord’s work must always come first. The Temple needs its faithful."

With a reluctant sigh, you adjusted your habit, smoothing out the wrinkles. "I didn’t wake up late this time, though. That’s got to count for something."

Sister Jenna’s smile widened ever so slightly, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Perhaps you can indulge yourself with a piece of bread afterward. But for now, we have more important matters."

And just as expected...

It was dull.

The air inside the Temple was thick with incense, its rich fragrance heavy and choking in the early morning. The dim light from the candles cast flickering shadows against the walls, making the whole place feel like a forgotten crypt rather than a place of worship. The cold stone beneath your feet was no better than the air above, offering no comfort.

Who the hell decides to preach at 5 in the morning?

You stifled a yawn, keeping your head bowed as you sat with the other postulants, staring ahead at Father Rafayel who stood at the altar. He was as polished as ever, his posture impeccable, voice smooth and persuasive as he recited verses in a tone that could put anyone into a trance.

But you weren’t listening. You couldn’t. His words were like an echo in your skull, a ringing noise that faded the longer you stared at the flickering candlelight in front of you.

It’s too early. Too much incense. Too many eyes on me.

Your fingers clenched at the hem of your habit, and you glanced at the other postulants beside you. They were all in some sort of trance, eyes glazed, faces reverent, nodding along with every word he spoke.

How can they stand this? You thought, almost irritated. It’s the same every day...

Your eyes flickered up to the altar again, drawn to Father Rafayel.

He was watching you.

Not the others. Not the candles, not the altar, not even  Astra’s book. No, his eyes were locked on you. A glimmer of something passed between you—something sharp and knowing—and for a split second, you felt like you were the only one in the room. 

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over his face, making the sharp planes of his features seem even more severe, almost otherworldly. His voice carried through the temple, smooth, unwavering—yet somehow, you felt as if his words were meant for you alone.

"And so, Astra delivered both sustenance and shelter, and with that, commanded that the devil’s kin watch as the festivities begin."

The devil’s kin.

Your fingers curled instinctively against the fabric of your habit. The phrase lingered, wrapping around your mind like a vice. The way he said it—like it held weight, like it was more than just scripture—made your stomach twist uncomfortably.

You glanced around, but no one else seemed to notice. Simone was still half-asleep beside you. Sister Jenna sat upright, hands folded, expression placid. The other postulants were dutifully listening, reverent in their silence.

Just you, then.

Just you, under his gaze.

The moment passed as quickly as it had come.

Father Rafayel finally looked back down at his scripture, his tone shifting into something more measured, more fitting of a man in his position. He explained the verses, weaving meaning into them with ease, as if nothing had happened—as if he hadn’t just spent an eternity watching you.

The rest of the sermon blurred together. The words flowed in and out of your ears, but none of them stuck. The incense, the candlelight, the steady rhythm of his voice—it all folded into something dreamlike, something unreal.

And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

The sun had begun its slow ascent, spilling weak, golden light through the stained-glass windows. The cold stone of the temple seemed a little less biting, but it was still winter, and the air still clung to you, heavy and unmoving.

Father Rafayel closed the book, lifting his head once more.

“Go in peace,” he said, his voice carrying through the space. “And may Astra’s light guide you.”

The sisters murmured their responses, standing from the pews with quiet rustling. Some stretched discreetly, others moved toward the door without hesitation, eager for warmth and food.

You hesitated.

Only for a second.

But it was long enough for Father Rafayel’s gaze to flicker back to you.

A knowing look. A brief thing, barely noticeable.

And then, just like that, he turned away, bidding you all good day.

©hellinistical 2025 do not copy, translate, distribute, plagiarize, or reproduce in any form without permission, and do not share to any media outside of tumblr.

[stateofmarauders]

About You - James Potter

“Do you think I have forgotten about you?”

London hasn't really changed since the last time you were there.

It was charming as ever —timeless in its blend of old-world elegance and modern bustle. The streets were alive with their familiar rhythm: the hum of black cabs, the distant chime of church bells, and the chatter of bundled-up locals and tourists. The bridges over the Thames stretched gracefully as always, framed by a skyline where historic spires stood side-by-side with sleek glass towers. Every corner seemed to whisper stories, as if the city itself had been waiting patiently to welcome you back.

You strolled through the streets, colourful leaves crunching under your footsteps. You had no idea where you were going, relying on your instincts to guide you. You could’ve contacted your friends from Hogwarts to ask them if they want to meet up. You could’ve contacted him. But you didn’t. He probably doesn’t even remember you anymore.

He must have forgotten about you.

The thought lingered, bittersweet and unshakable, as you wandered through the city that seemed to remember everything. The golden light of the late afternoon wrapped London in a familiar warmth, but your heart felt caught in a chill. You had always told yourself it was better this way—leaving the past untouched, preserved like a perfect photograph. Yet, as the memories surfaced, unbidden, you couldn’t help but wonder if he ever walked these same streets, thinking of you too.

Perhaps it was foolish to hold onto the echoes of what once was, but you couldn’t help yourself. This town screamed his name.

You shook your head, trying to dispel the ache that swelled with each passing thought. But no matter how much you tried to focus on the now—the vibrant city bustling around you—his shadow remained, trailing you like the autumn leaves caught in the breeze.

———————————————————————

James Potter stood on the crowded pavement of Diagon Alley, leaning casually against the doorway of Quality Quidditch Supplies. He was supposed to be here to pick up a new pair of gloves before the Gryffindor team’s next match, but his mind was elsewhere.

His hazel eyes followed the movement of the crowd with idle curiosity, though his trademark grin tugged faintly at the corners of his mouth as he greeted passing friends and acquaintances. The chill of autumn was biting, but James barely felt it. He rarely felt the cold—it was hard to feel much of anything when his thoughts were as loud as they were today.

For the first time in ages, he wasn’t thinking about Quidditch strategies or even his mates back at Hogwarts. No, today his mind had wandered somewhere he usually tried not to let it go. Someone, to be exact.

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, ignoring the breeze that tousled his already messy hair, and allowed himself to think about her. About you.

The last time he’d seen you, you had been laughing. That was how he remembered it, anyway—your laughter, bright and full of life, echoing in his mind as if it were a memory burned into his soul. You had that way about you, didn’t you? You could fill a room just by being in it.

He had told himself not to dwell. People came and went in life, and Hogwarts had its way of making the fleeting feel permanent. But here he was, standing in the middle of the busiest wizarding shopping district in the country, wondering if he’d ever run into you again.

“Oi, James!” Sirius Black’s familiar voice broke through his thoughts. James looked up to see his best friend striding toward him, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips.

“What’s got you standing there like a lost Puffskein?” Sirius asked, slapping James on the shoulder.

James forced a laugh, the easy mask slipping back into place. “Just thinking, mate. Trying to decide whether I’d look better in black dragonhide gloves or burgundy. The decisions I have to make, eh?”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You’re full of it, Potter. I know that look. Who’s got you all tangled up in your own head?”

James hesitated for a beat, his grin faltering ever so slightly. He glanced away, watching a group of witches hurrying by with packages from Flourish and Blotts.

“No one,” he said finally, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue.

Sirius snorted. “Right. And I’m about to join the Celestina Warbeck fan club.”

James rolled his eyes and then stared into the distance.

“Two years ago, today. . .” James spoke, trying hard to say the painful words, “she left.”

Sirius sighed. “You haven’t spoken about her in so long. I thought, we all thought, you got over it. Over her.”

James exhaled a sharp breath, his jaw tightening as he shifted on his feet. “Yeah, well,” he said, his voice low and uneven, “you were wrong.”

Sirius tilted his head, the usual teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something softer. It wasn’t often that James Potter showed cracks in his confident, easygoing exterior. But Sirius knew better than anyone how deep James’s feelings ran—how loyal he was to the people he cared about, even if he didn’t always say it out loud.

“I don’t get it,” Sirius said after a moment, folding his arms. “You’ve had girls throwing themselves at you since third year, mate. But her—” He paused, searching for the right words. “She wasn’t even… I mean, she was brilliant, but she wasn’t the type of girl you usually go for.”

James’s head snapped up, a flicker of defiance sparking in his hazel eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Relax,” Sirius said, holding up his hands. “I just mean she was… different. Muggle-born, quiet. Not exactly a Quidditch groupie, was she?”

James shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “No, she wasn’t. That’s what made her so… I don’t know. Real.”

Sirius frowned, leaning back against the shop window. “So why haven’t you done something about it? Two years is a long time to mope around.”

“I’m not moping,” James said quickly, though his voice lacked conviction. He kicked at a stray cobblestone, avoiding Sirius’s piercing gaze. “It’s not that simple. She’s out there in her world, living her life. She probably doesn’t even think about me anymore.”

Sirius snorted. “That’s bollocks, and you know it.”

James blinked, caught off guard. “What are you on about?”

“You don’t just forget someone like that, James,” Sirius said, his tone unusually serious. “If you haven’t let her go, what makes you think she’s let you go?”

James didn’t answer right away. The noise of Diagon Alley seemed to fade around them, replaced by the steady thrum of his own heartbeat. He wanted to believe Sirius was right. Merlin, he wanted to. But the fear of reaching out and finding nothing there—no spark, no connection—kept him frozen.

“What if she has?” James finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

———————————————————————

James wasn’t usually one to brood, but today the city felt heavy. The memory of his conversation with Sirius lingered, as did the unanswered questions that followed him like shadows. What if she had forgotten him? What if she hadn’t?

The thought was maddening, but James wasn’t ready to let it go. His feet carried him aimlessly through the bustling streets, weaving past bundled-up strangers and dodging the occasional pigeon. He kept his head down, trying to shake off the nagging ache in his chest.

He didn’t notice the figure until it was too late.

“Sorry!” you exclaimed as you collided with him, your shoulder bumping against his. Your shopping bag slipped from your hand, the contents spilling out onto the pavement.

“No, it’s my fault,” James said automatically, bending down to help. He reached for a book at the same time you did, and his hand brushed against yours.

“Here, let me—”

The words died on his lips as he looked up and saw your face.

You froze, the breath catching in your throat. For a moment, neither of you moved, your gazes locked in a mix of shock and disbelief.

“James?” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the noise of the street.

James swallowed hard, his mind racing. He hadn’t seen you in two years—not since the day you’d left Hogwarts—and yet here you were, as if the universe had decided to play some cruel trick on him.

“It’s you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He straightened up, still clutching your book in his hand. “I—wow. Hi.”

You blinked, your cheeks flushing. “Hi.”

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with all the things left unsaid. James searched your face, looking for answers to questions he didn’t even know how to ask.

“What are you doing here?” You asked him, avoiding his gaze.

“What are you doing here?” He repeated your question. “You’re supposed to be in America!”

“I’m here for just a week. My cousin’s getting married in a few days.”

“Married,” James repeated your words once again. “How exciting.”

You smiled, finally meeting his gaze for the first time. You’ve felt the same feeling you used to feel when you saw him. “Yes, it is. And what about you? What are you doing in Muggle London?”

His grin returned, faint but familiar. “Avoiding Sirius. He’s been nagging me about Quidditch gloves all day.”

Your lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Some things never change, do they?”

James laughed softly, the sound warm and easy. “No, I guess they don’t. Except you—you’ve changed.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and for a moment, he regretted them. But you didn’t look offended. If anything, you looked almost… wistful.

“Two years is a long time, James,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” he said, his throat tight. “It is.”

The silence stretched between you, heavy again, and James found himself wanting—no, needing—to fill it.

“I thought about writing to you,” he blurted, his cheeks flushing as the admission hung in the air. “A lot, actually.”

You blinked, startled. “Why didn’t you?”

James hesitated, his confidence faltering. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I thought maybe you’d moved on. I didn’t want to mess things up for you.”

You stared at him, your expression unreadable. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Did you move on?”

James opened his mouth to answer, but the words wouldn’t come. Because the truth—the messy, complicated truth—was that he hadn’t. Not really.

Instead, he reached up to scratch the back of his neck, a nervous habit that hadn’t changed since your Hogwarts days. “I guess I thought if I saw you again, I’d have my answer.”

Your heart clenched at his words, but you didn’t let it show. “And do you?”

James looked at you, his hazel eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Not yet,” he said softly.

A chill wind swept through the street, rustling the leaves at your feet, and you pulled your coat tighter around you. James noticed and cleared his throat, his voice breaking the tension.

“There’s a café just up the road,” he said, nodding toward the corner. “It’s warm, and they do this cinnamon hot chocolate that’s… well, it’s something else. If you’ve got time, that is.”

You hesitated, your mind spinning with a thousand reasons to say no. But then you looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the boy you used to know. The boy you used to care for, who still looked at you like no one else existed.

“Alright,” you said, your lips curving into a small, tentative smile. “Lead the way, Potter.”

James’s grin broke through, bright and unguarded, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the weight between you didn’t feel so heavy.

As he walked beside you, the golden light of the late afternoon casting a soft glow over the streets, James couldn’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—he was finally getting his answer.