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etherealily · 4 days ago

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ɪᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴛʏ // ᴊᴀᴍᴇꜱ ᴘᴏᴛᴛᴇʀ

As you can probably tell from stalking my main, I started off as a marauders account and I think it's time to go back to my roots.

Other fics of mine. If you have the time.

James Potter + fem!reader. Cuss words. Not proofread.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

He holds me in his big arms, drunk and I am seeing stars, this is what I think of.

Desc. : A lot can happen in a single night.

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James is pretty sure he's had enough of Valentine's Day talk for one lifetime. Being unable to go to what was essentially his spot in front of the alcove by the Lake because some other couple was sticking their tongues down each others' throats was diabolically infuriating, and he had to actually hold back a gag as he rolled his eyes and sped back into the castle.

It wasn't even the same month as Valentine's Day, but evidently, everyone was in the mood.

See, since couples were going to be separated for Christmas and New Years the next morning (a whole week, oh, the horror!), the Seventh Years decided to throw a party to commemorate their 'love'. James gave each and every one of them another three weeks, tops.

Tops, because he was pretty sure a girl in his year had chosen between two blokes on the literal flip of a coin.

With his mate Remus being a prefect on duty, Peter being home, and Sirius finally being able to visit his estranged cousin Andromeda since he'd just been newly disowned, and James' parents not being at home for him to go back home to, he was missing both Christmas and one of the best fucking parties thrown by his senior batch.

Just as well, he'd probably gag and throw up whatever Firewhiskey he'd down at the rager anyway.

Roaming through the Hogwarts grounds when it'd just gone midnight was risky, even for him, but he couldn't go to a party while his mate was stuck mentoring some newly-appointed Fifth Year Prefect. It's bad form. So, waiting for Remus to finish up his duties while roaming the corridors, it was.

And then he saw you. The bloody bane of his existence, with your glinting Ravenclaw Prefect badge, and your stupid hair all moonlit, as if you were taunting him. 'Oh, I'm so perfect, with my Slug Club, and my grades and my ability to get every guy so madly fucking in love with me'. Ugh, he could almost hear you. It had probably immensely enthralled you to reject Peter back in third year. God, what a bint.

The thing about James was that, sure, on paper, he was top-choice for Slughorn. Well-connected, son of Fleamont bloody Potter, good at Potions, rich. He should've been a shoo-in to the stupid Club, and he nearly was. But that was on paper. With the unfortunate fact that James' hatred for Severus was a school-wide knowledge, and the Slug Club was the only, only aspect of life where Severus was more influential than him, it would be devastating to Slughorn to have them both in the Club. Slughorn was basically cutting his losses.

So, yeah, he was seeing fucking red. Vivid, vibrant, in-your-face, horned-guy-with-a-pitchfork-red. It made no goddamn sense for you to be doing anything but what you were doing- prefect duties - but James' disdain for you made that somehow be infuriating.

Fuck, was he ready to shoot you.

He really had to get a fucking grip. Perhaps on your throat. Throttle you to death. Ugh. What would that even achieve? Nothing but a murder charge, or if he got away with it, memorials dedicated to you, a constant reminder of your smug little presence, perhaps your ghost floating through Hogwarts, badmouthing him. He didn't need that.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

The first thing he'd ever actually said to you.

"Draught of Wrath.", you replied, sparing him nothing but a momentary glance over your shoulder, before your gaze flew back to the two doves who were currently engrossed in a mini-war, all squawks and feathers. "Go back to bed, Potter, or I'll reduce points."

"That's not in our fucking textbook.", he spat, ignoring your order.

"Special project."

"You just do your own side-quests in Prefect time? And Slughorn lets you?"

"Well, he gave this recipe to me as a challenge, so I'm sure he isn't opposed. And you're the only idiot up tonight, so go back to bed."

"Fucking recipe.", he grumbled, snatching it up from the ledge you'd propped it on and straightening it out to squint at it in the moonlight. "You have no antidote?"

"I've halved the quantities so that the effects wear out far earlier."

"How do you keep them from attacking the rest of us?"

"Muffliato potion. Plus, initially, Obscuro charm before I cast a cloaking charm over this pillar. That's why the doves can't see us."

"You realise this is cruelty, right? Animal cruelty?"

"They're not real doves, I conjured them up, too."

"Yes, but they're really there."

"But they're not actual doves, though."

"You really want to go into Wizarding Ethics? Because—"

"You know what, perhaps you should go work on the general assignment. I'll allow you in the library if you just leave me alone."

He nearly actually throttled you. The audacity!

"Fuck off, alright, with your condescension.", he hissed. "Absolute cunt."

If you were offended, you didn't look it. "Do you always curse?"

"Do I always — yeah, why? Don't fucking tell me you're going to go all holier-than-thou."

"No, I'm just asking."

"Why?"

You shrugged. "If I brew you the antidote, you would be more chill."

"What is this? Is it the, what? Is it the fact that you're a girl that's got you so smug, and so sure that I won't hex you into fucking oblivion? Or is it 'cause you're part of the elite Slug Club or whatever?"

You furrowed your brows at that, gently uncorking the antidote and allowing the fumes to permeate through the little bubble you'd created with the doves. "What? Hey, I'm just saying, you seem to be holding in a lot of pent-up anger, so, I thought I'd help."

"Oh, yeah, you're a fucking angel, aren't you?!", he yelled, and it echoed throughout the desolate corridor some fifteen times, and you glared. "You just bought yourself a month of detention."

He mimicked you in a high pitch voice, rolling his eyes.

"How juvenile."

"How bitchy.", he retorted.

There was a silence as he watched you examine the remnants of your bottles of potion before gently placing them into the loops inside your tiny satchel.

His brows furrowed. "Did you just say there's a Muffliato potion?"

"Yeah, of course. Almost all spells can be replicated as potions."

"Could I get some of that?"

"Why? So the stupid V-Day party can use it and everyone can scream as loud as they want without wakin' any teachers?"

He chose not to answer that. You'd just mock him for missing the biggest party of the bloody year.

"Yeah, charms aren't strong enough. C'mon, it'll help you when you finish your shift and come join us anyway. Me and Moony."

"Remus? He hates the Seventh Years, same as me. Him at their party? It'll be as funny to see as dropping a ballpoint pen in the middle of here and having everyone gawk at it, wondering what the hell it is."

"You have an odd sense of humour."

Unfortunately for him, you were the only Prefect (besides Remus) who knew he was out of bed past lights-out. Which was, uh... sad. To say the least, because he had to now stick by you so that he didn't run into any others. He'd have figured, with pushing you to the party, he could tag along and that would be a valid excuse to give to Remus as well, but you didn't want to go. Ugh.

"Come on, you look miserable, and you look like you'd fit right in with the V-Day party's, like... ambience, or whatever. It's awful. Isn't there another Ravenclaw prefect to handle your work?"

"He's wildly incompetent."

"Wow. Harsh."

"It's true, though."

"Listen, the other prefects would've found any late-night stragglers by now, wouldn't they have? It's not a rule that they can only punish people of their own house, yeah? Probably Moony's found the lot of them. So come to the party. Your misery's actually giving me a migraine."

"Shut up. Shoo. Try not to get caught by someone else.", you shot back, now setting up what Professor Sinistra had taught all of you a couple days ago was a moonlight-collector.

He had forgotten that there even was an assignment.

"How did you get the lens thing? She said it was only available at Hogsmeade!"

"That's not true. The textbook says convex lens, so I borrowed a monocle."

He was about to throw you into the Lake, trust. What a fuckin' swot! The assignment wasn't due for another three weeks! Ugh.

"From where?", he asked, offhandedly, with zero interest in the answer.

You shook your head. "Can't tell you that." Fine by him.

Fuck.", you mumbled, trying to change up the setup for the angle that would result in the perfect proportion of moonbeams to liquefy but no, apparently it would just not work. Packing up, you angrily stuffed everything into your satchel again. Apparently you'd just have to sneak into the Astronomy Tower.

"The party's this way.", he mumbled, scratching at the back of his head to snap himself out of the conversation so that he could go back to watching the moon and waiting for Remus.

"'M not going."

"Why not?"

"I have shite to do!"

"Where are you doing your 'shite you have to do', then?"

"Astronomy Tower, where else?"

Fuck, he was going to regret this. "Can I come with?"

Your eyes were ripped from the night sky in front of you back to him, glistening with amusement. "What? Why?"

He licked his lips. "You're the only prefect that knows I'm out and you don't care enough to give me detention, so I figure I should stick around with you."

Your mouth agape with a barely-suppressed snicker, you began following him after he angrily shouldered past you. Fuck it all to hell.

The winding staircases led the two of you - and your Lumos-emitting wand - up the Astronomy Tower, where some losers were sat, bloody snogging. It's not bloody VALENTINE'S DAY! He wanted to scream.

"Ugh. Never mind.", he grumbled, turning immediately around before the image was etched into his brain, but you put a hand on his chest.

"What are you doing?!", he hissed, watching you gesture at him to stay hidden as you climbed the last couple steps, clearing your throat. The couple scrambled to get up. "Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, yeah? Minus points. Get back in bed, now!"

Oh, yeah, prefect-privileges!

He stayed glued to the wall as the couple raced down the stairs past him, muttering about 'fuckfuckfuck, she saw our faces!'. Ooh, a clandestine affair, it seemed. How he wished he could find out more!

But no. You'd barked at a couple people just so he could get some immunity tonight, even though it was common knowledge he thought you were gum under his shoe, so he should at least respect that.

He's always thought you were annoying, with your attitude that you were better than everyone just 'cause you were a teacher's pet, but honestly, he'd also always thought that was an incredibly brave thing to do, especially seeing as you could get endlessly bullied for it.

Bravery, as a Gryffindor, was something James admired.

Lord knows without your stubbornness, Sirius may have got into much more trouble than just detention. He'd heard of this Muggle thing called a "spliff" from one of the Slytherins once, and had gone absolutely feral, to try it out. Thankfully, you knew enough about Muggle things to put a stop to that.

"You're being oddly nice.", he remarked, maintaining a safe distance in case your plan was to bring him up here, slit his throat, and then throw him off the tower in the name of defamation.

"I just took a couple points off your house."

"So... we're even?", he inquired, with narrowed eyes. No. There had to be a catch.

"Not even close. I told Slughorn not to give you detention.", you informed, offhandedly, as you kneeled down and unfastened the clasp on your satchel, bringing out your moonlight-liquefying equipment.

Oh. Yeah. This morning, he'd taunted Severus and you - Slug Club members, ew - for having finished brewing first. Taunting wouldn't have resulted in much, but he had tripped Snivellus over and caused him to crash into about three other peoples' cauldrons.

Your fault, he'd argue. Usually, it was you and James brewing together, and if you'd been there with him, you wouldn't have finished early and been chatting to Snivellus about fuck-all, basically bragging and rubbing it in James' face.

No, you and James would have tolerated each other for at least one Potions hour, as you always did.

So, it was your fault that James was pissed that you weren't seated next to him and— alright, maybe his argument wasn't the most sound.

"Yeah, I know. He didn't follow up."

He, in fact, didn't know that's why he hadn't followed up. He'd chalked it up to his charm and Slughorn's distate for punishing Purebloods.

"Yeah. I figured you were just curious how Snape and I finished that fast. And I didn't mean to provoke you, or anything."

Ugh. Fuck it all to absolute purgatory. You'd made him sound like a sore loser. Like he gave a toss about yours and Severus' Potions prowess. "Hey."

"What?"

"Sorry. For the 'cunt' thing."

"What cunt thing?"

"When I called you one?"

"Oh. Yeah, no, it's alright."

"I wish I could go to the party.", he groaned, pouting exaggeratedly in hopes of at least getting a chortle out of you. Maybe another 'get back to bed'. But you just nodded.

"Yeah. Looks fun."

He tilted his head. "You and I are going to the party, then."

This was now more self-indulgent than anything. He had to see you drunk. Seriously. It's quite literally on his list of things to see before he graduates. Number four, right before McGonagall high on catnip and right after Snape being tossed into the Great Lake.

"No. You go, I won't tell."

Almost instantaneously, his eyes narrowed. "You won't?"

"No?"

Too fishy for him. "Why not?"

"Figure you should enjoy the party, since you're out already, and you wanted to go home these holidays anyway."

"How do you know that?"

"You were only moping about it in every class the entirety of last week. 'My parents won't be home, so I have to stay at Hogwarts this Christmas, ugh!' Set my bloody teeth on edge."

He really couldn't argue with that.

"Don't you want to come?"

"No, not particularly.", you replied, biting your cheek as your textbook hit the floor with a thud, and you brought your lit-wand over it.

"Well, I need immunity!"

"Too bad, Potter."

There. He was seeing red once again.

He let you underline a line in the textbook, before he began on his bullshit again. "Are there times that there are absolutely no out-of-bed-delinquents, and you lot have the entire castle empty to yourselves?"

You shrugged, biting your lip as you tried your hardest to get the telescope to budge with a squeak. "Yeah, usually it's around the holidays, like right now. I stay back at Hogwarts, usually, so it's often pretty calm at night."

"Mm. I see. Y'know what I'd do, if I were a Prefect with an empty school?", he teased, purposely dragging out his words and pairing them with a cheeky simper.

"Pull pranks even though no one's here, because you and your stupid 'Marauder' gang is absolutely unemployed in every sense of the word?"

"Sod off. That's Snivellus talking. No, I'd just run around, screaming, singing at the top of my lungs."

You snorted, one eye squinting as you looked through the telescope, positioning it just so, using it as your convex lens (kind of genius, actually. He'd have liked to have thought of that). "Yeah, go ahead. I feel like you're forgettin' that it's desolate of students, not teachers."

He grumbled. Right. His fantasies deflated almost instantaneou— hang on! "Didn't you say there was a Muffliato potion?"

Nodding, you continued uncorking your flask to collect the moonbeams, placing it perfectly in front of the telescope. "Yeah, so wh— no. Don't even fucking think abo—"

"I want to run around the castle, have my own party. What's wrong with that?!"

"Muffliato potion overdose? Running around, getting injured? You getting in trouble? Me getting in trouble for providing you with th—"

He scoffed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his own tiny flask. "I've got Firewhiskey."

"Are you intent on giving me reasons to give you more detention?! I thought you wanted immunity!"

James didn't reply, and you pointed at him in a very authority-figure-like-manner. "Get that shite out of my face, and go back to bed."

"C'mon, just mix a tiny bit, and we'll call it even, alright?"

"Even?!", you hissed. "You owe me more, if we're keeping score."

"Well, we're not! I'm just saying, I'll leave you alone! Won't tell anyone you're doing basically everything but Prefect-ing!", he retorted, gesturing wildly at your equipment.

"Are you blackmailing me?!"

His mind fought off the 'Sirius-Black-mailing' joke, while he shrugged, impassively. "Maybe."

"You're a right... prick!"

"Been called worse."

"But never better, right?"

He rolled his eyes, making grab-hands for the tiny bottle of Muffliato potion, that you held out of his reach. "What?"

"I'm not givin' you my whole stash!", you scoffed, snatching his flask from him and gently pouring about a quarter of the potion in, with total concentration. He watched you, the background filled with no sound but the occasional rustle of breeze and the tinkly sounds of liquid transferring.

"There."

"That's it?"

"What'd you expect? A fireworks show?"

"No, I just... never mind. You don't want any? So when you yell at me, I won't be able to hear it?" He proffered the flask.

"If we drink from the same batch, we'll still be able to hear each other. Other people just can't hear us.", you informed, as though he were an absolute dimwit, shoving the potion bottle back in. Was it too late to throw you off the railing? "Now go and yell and do whatever. I need to concentrate. Besides. I'm not gettin' drunk on the job."

"It's already a very dilute amount of whisky. The potion'll just dilute it further. C'mon, take a bit. It'd help you not be caught by Filch or someone here, anyway."

"Why would I be caught? I don't have the indiscretion of a 'Marauder'.", you mocked.

"Say our name like that one more time—"

"And what?"

He scoffed. "Fine, don't come with me. You probably have shite music taste anyway."

"Oh, please. You probably only know Wizard music. Like the Odd Brothers."

"What, like Muggle music is better?!"

"Yes, it is!"

He threw his hands up. "Show me, then."

"What, now?"

"Yeah, now! Show me! You know there was that recent petition by the Muggle-borns to have a record player in the music room so they didn't get homesick, yeah? So go ahead, show me!"

"Fine!", you spat, yanking the flask from his hand and downing half of it in one go. "You'll never bloody insult Queen in front of me."

"I didn't say anything about the Queen! Hey! Hey, don't go making me out to be unpatriotic! Sure, I may be anti-monarchy, bu—"

"Oh, do shut up!"

He clenched his jaw but didn't say anything. Didn't want to push it, you see?

He gulped down the other half of it.

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"Now, then. Play this insanely amazing Muggle music of yours.", he muttered, arms crossed tightly across his chest as he leaned against the closed door of the music room.

Some people were silly drunks. Some were affectionate.

Evidently the two of you were aggressive-music-fanatic-drunks.

"Wait, 'm looking.", you murmured, your fingers dancing across the tops of the tiny collection of vinyls seated safely in a shelf on the wall. "Ah-ha!"

James rolled his eyes. "Do you have to be such a caricature? A bloody nerd, who says 'ah-ha!'?", he asked, plopping himself down on a piano bench.

"As opposed to the rich pretty boy who's miffed that he can't get into an elite club based on talent and intellectualism because he's used to being given things on a silver platter?"

He couldn't even scoff, you were so on the mark. "Shut up."

"Lovely expansion of vocabulary."

"Alright, you know wh—"

"I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things, we can do the tango, just for two..."

The record spun around almost dizzyingly. God, Muggle stuff would never fail to fascinate him.

"I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings, be a Valentino, just for you..."

"Now's the best bit, now's the best bit, shut up!", you screeched softly, and he nodded, eyes fixed on the floor as he concentrated his ears on the record.

"Ooh, love, ooh, lover boy, whatcha doin' tonight?"

He hated the fact that you were bobbing your head, because in his firsthand, personal experience, that meant you had heaps more dancing you wanted to do. And so, against his better judgement, he stood up.

"Set my alarm, turn on my charm, that's because I'm a good old-fashioned lover boy.", you sang, and he giggled.

Yes. James Potter fucking giggled over a girl he fucking complains about every bloody night.

Kill him now.

"Ooh, she's got moves.", he remarked with a toothy grin, watching you twirl and sway and basically make this whole night so much better in the most magically Muggle way possible.

And then abruptly...

The whisky began hitting both of you.

How did he know that?

Because he seized your wrist and began to twirl you. And then you let him.

Yeah, he was genuinely going to have the absolute fucking mick taken out of him if this got out. Oh, my god, Sirius! Ugh, if he found out... no, even Sirius was alright. Remus would haunt him about this in the afterlife, he just knew it.

"You've got very Muggle moves, mate."

"Yeah? That's a thing, then, is it? Wizard moves vs Muggle moves?", he asked, laughing deeply as your back thudded against his chest after his fourth try at turning you smoothly. "This isn't working."

"Yeah, because you're a sore loser! Please, as if the Odd Brothers could hold a candle to Queen!"

"Ooh, let me feel your heartbeat grow faster, faster."

The music room rang with the sounds of your laughs, breaths intertwined, feet shuffling, squeals and scratches of the vinyl, and of course, his jumbled-up attempts at singing along to a song he had never heard before. Why? Because he's James Potter.

"Ooh!", cooed James, attempting (and failing horrendously) at mimicking the effortless 'oohs' of the song, making you giggle, now.

"That's pathetic, if you don't know the song, don't sing!"

He feigned offence, gaping with a hand on his chest, while the other underarm-twirled you a couple more times. "And what's he talkin' about, 'long, hot, summer nights'? It's winter!"

"Well, yeah, but the song was recorded ages ago."

"It's not even time-accurate."

"Wizard songs change according to the situation you're in, yeah, for sure, but not Muggle songs."

"Wait...", he began, tilting his head as he rested his arms on the small of your back. "They just stay the same?"

"Well, yeah. Our pictures don't move, either."

"What?!", he spluttered.

"Yeah."

"Why's that?!"

"Our pictures, our songs... we want to capture that perfect moment forever. In a picture. In a song, or a poem, or even a painting. But it has to be that moment."

"So, 'long, hot, summer night' was when... this... good old-fashioned lover boy met you? I mean, y'know, the listeners of the song."

"Yeah, I suppose."

"And... is there really a 'good old-fashioned school for loverboys?'", he whispered, conspiratorially, because if there was, he'd assume it'd be top-secret.

You mumbled back, "I can't say."

Pulling back to glare at your face, he raised a brow, and then, the both of you burst into fits of laughter. "God, I need more Firewhiskey."

"Do you have more?"

"No."

"Well, y'know where we could get some, though?", you asked, and something in his gut told him that was rhetorical.

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This was barmy. Psychotic. Absolutely demented, deranged, insane, nutty and any other synonyms that eluded his mind!

How had waiting around for Remus to finish prefect-duties so that they could maybe get into the biggest party of the year turn into him helping his Potions-partner sneak into Professor Slughorn's private quarters to nick some sherry? He could replay the night over and over, and he'd still probably never understand.

"Did you hear that?", he hissed.

"Shut up, let me concentrate!"

Precariously lifting the smallest but heaviest bottle from off the tray and trying not to make so much as a clink, you grimaced as you made each excruciatingly slow move, and that nearly sent him doubling over with laughter.

And he really should've watched his step, because down fell a cane, onto the ground with a thwack.

"Fuck!", you yelled, your eyes wide as you looked at him— he had to steady you, lest the glass fall and shatter.

You seemed to have forgotten that you were on Muffliato-potion, and your yells wouldn't be heard.

Even though you were the best at Potions, you panicked.

And then, it hit him.

You weren't a caricature, you really had never done this before, the sneaking about, the mischief.

"C'mere.", he hissed, and you complied, because what the fuck else could you do? At least he could attempt to charm his way out, like he always did, and lower the sentence to detention, rather than expulsion. God. This is what you'd come to. Relying on James Potter's bullshit skills to save your academic future.

Surprisingly, his hand crammed into his pocket, and you half expected him to pull out one of those dungbombs he and his stupid gang of 'Marauders' liked to throw around, but instead, he pulled out a tiny bundle of cloth.

Well, seemingly tiny. Until he removed the bow and unravelled it. And unravelled it. And unravelled, and unravelled, and unravelled. And then, there, brimming over his hands was a shimmery velvet cloak.

"What, are you going to throw this at his face and make a break for it?!"

"Get under it!", he instructed, dragging you to another side of the room and under the cloak just as the lights came on.

An INVISIBILITY CLOAK?! This absolute— oh, everything made sense now! Oh!

"Come out! Come out, I say!"

Slughorn's half-asleep voice was nearly as annoying as his normal voice. James had learnt to control his breathing under the cloak, but he knew that you hadn't, obviously, so his palm was clamped over your mouth. And though he remembered the Muffliato-potion, it was clear you still didn't, by the way you were biting your tongue as if your breaths would give him away. Fine by him. He didn't need you talking.

And, in all honesty, he was terrified your guilt would overtake you and you'd run out from under the cloak, fall at Slughorn's feet and confess, begging to stay in the Slug Club.

"Come out now or face the consequences!"

James jerked his head towards the door, beginning to take slow sidesteps that you fell in tune with. Before you knew it, you were out the door, which slammed and caused Slughorn to mutter : "Oh, bloody drafts!"

And then, you ran.

Where, why, how, you don't know, all that you two knew was that it was fast. Sprinting through the chilly winter night, past paintings that were ready to curse your whole bloodline for the disturbance of air, but couldn't see you or hear you, past Filch's cat who could also feel you two but not see you or hear your footsteps? Heaven on earth.

Somehow, you two managed to have the drunken stamina to make it back to the Astronomy Tower, chuckling and gasping and holding up the bottle of sherry in the glinting moonlight like a championship trophy.

"We are fucking crazy!"

"Absolute loons!", he agreed, nodding as he took the bottle from you, taking desperate swigs. "Salud, Prefect!"

"Cheers, Marauder!"

He collapsed onto the floor of the Astronomy Tower, hands over his stomach as he gazed up at the moon, seeming right at his nose thanks to the Firewhiskey and the sherry.

Unconsciously, he began humming that stupidly phenomenal Muggle song you'd introduced him to.

"I told you. Muggle songs are just... better.", you called, from somewhere across the floor.

"Shut up.", he grumbled, grunting as he shuffled up onto his elbows to get a better look at you, leaning your elbows behind you on the railing, wind in your hair, the sparkling night sky as your backdrop.

It felt wrong to not examine this magnificence up close.

He scrambled up, continuing to hum.

"'S growin' on you, I can tell.", you grinned, with a playfully snail-paced punch to his cheek as you turned around to watch the stars.

He groaned, catching your hand mid-air and turning it over in his palm. "Are you never lettin' me live this down?", he questioned, wrapping his arm across the expanse of your collarbone and gently wrenching you closer to him, chin now settling nicely on your shoulder.

"Nope. I think the whole school should know how utterly enthralled you are by Freddie Mercury— hey, that's your mate!"

"What?"

"Sirius!"

Stupidly, James actually looked around for him.

Reaching up, you tugged a little on the arm around your neck, scratching at his elbow and pointing at the vast expanse of inky black nothingness and everythingness that never failed to awe him. "That's Sirius!"

"Oh, the star? How do you know?"

"I study."

"Why do you say that like I don't?"

"Because I've seen you in class. You're never focusing, either. Always zoned out. Maybe if Sirius was there, you'd at least do something.", you answered, gesturing at the star to illustrate your point.

"Well, with a know-it-all, swotty, infuriating little loser like you as a Potions partner, I really can't do much, can I?"

"Yeah, I thought of that, too, so I figured I'd partner up with Severus, who doesn't need help. That somehow made it worse, this morning. You got detention."

Because you were talking to him, you oblivious, gorgeous girl.

"He's a git. Bad news."

"Who do you like besides your 'Marauder' mates?"

James paused. Good question. "Marlene."

"She's your cousin. You sort of have to."

"I tolerate Regulus?" He didn't like this conversation. He was a social butterfly who was quite often asked how many girls wanted him, or how many people wanted him at their parties, but never how many people out of his devoted fanclub he actually liked.

He could practically see his metaphorical circle actually shrink in his mind's eye and he didn't like it.

You pointed at the Sirius star again. "That is your favourite person in the world, and Regulus is his brother, so yeah, I'd wager you'd tolerate him. But I mean 'like'."

Okay, he needed to shut you up, but he was all out of sherry.

"And what about you? We both know the only reason you're not at that party is 'cause you've no friends right now, they're all at home on holiday. And you're alone. You'd know absolutely no one."

You scoffed. "Did I remind you to fuck off today?"

"No, maybe you should do it, I was sort of starting to miss it."

"Fuck off."

"Ooh, sexy, say it again."

You gagged. "Bleh. Get off me." He laughed as he pulled you closer against his chest, muscles basically covering your mouth now, humming again. "I can't bloody get it out of my head."

"Does that to ya, yeah.", you replied, muffled.

"Which one's Sirius again?"

"That one. The brightest one."

"That's ironic."

"Oh, you beat me to it, I was about to say that."

He laughed, swaying you slightly against the railings. "So. Noticed you've not mentioned my Cloak.", he began, cocking his head so he could get a view of your face.

"What's to mention? It just explains how you lot rarely get caught."

"And? You're not going to try confiscating it?"

"You know I could, right?"

"Yeah."

"You know why I'm not, right?"

"Please say 'cause you're in love with me."

He already knew it was the other reason.

You smirked at him, and he'd swear he's never seen anything more lovely and more sinister in his entire life. "You're evil."

"Whenever I want. Noon or midnight. Rain, hail or shine, legal or illegal reasons. Access. I don't care if you're writing bloody mock-NEWTS. I call, you come with the Cloak."

"Well, I have a counter-condition."

"You're blackmailing my blackmail? With what?"

"Well, we've got your classic theft.", he said, thumbing back at the empty bottle of sherry lying by the satchel you'd abandoned a couple hours ago. "And that can be proven by Veritaserum, and it will be used, because this is theft from a Professor." He counted on another finger before continuing. "And then, y'know, not Prefect-ing. Knowing about a party but just not reporting it."

"What about you? Owning an Invisibility Cloak? Having whisky on school grounds and supplying a minor with it and convincing her to steal more?"

Uh-oh. Impasse. "Alright, so we've both got shite on each other. Are we even?"

"Cloak whenever I want. I'll send a note, and you need to give it to me."

"Immunity whenever I want. I use you as an alibi and you need to cover for me."

You shook on it.

"Teach me another Muggle song.", he murmured against your temple. Alright, the drunk excuse was hanging by a thread. There was no reason, sober or otherwise, for him to be this close to you, this intimate, this... boyfriend-y.

"Mm... there's this one I really like. It's called All Shook Up."

"Alright?"

"It starts off so depressing."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. The first, first line is just... 'Well, bless my soul, what's wrong with me?' !"

He doubled over in laughter then. Not particularly because this random Muggle singer's lyricism was bonkers, but because it was you. You were laughing. So, he was, too.

And you two giggled and giggled because the sherry hit perfectly into your brains.

"Show me Regulus' star."

It was funny, you spent the next five minutes showing him Regulus, Sirius (he'd forgotten), Bellatrix, Alphard, and whatever other Black family members he could remember, and when he ran out of those, his fingers dug gently into the flesh of your arm that was extended right in front of his face, as you were pointing. He used that grip to haul you right where he wanted you. Against his chest. Against his lips.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Prefect."

"It's the 23rd of December, you absolute tosser!", you exclaimed, shoving him back by the chest.

Harsh, but fair.

Clandestine affairs had always enthralled you, but it was really not a good look for you, of all people, to be having one with a pureblood Gryffindor, known for his impressive detention record and asshole-streak, and it definitely would not do his amazing reputation any favours by him being this addicted to snogging you, a goody-two-shoes, stickler-for-the-rules-except-when-with-him, pretentious bookworm that everyone in Gryffindor house knew (thought) he hated.

Yeah, not your finest moments, either of you.

"I think we should stop."

His heart nearly stopped at that. Fuck.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Why? There's no valid reason to."

"Is there a valid reason to continue?"

He rolled his eyes. "I know you overwork yourself, but I do hope you're familiar with the concept of having a good time. You are, aren't you?"

Yanking you right back, he cupped your face in his hands. "Fine, then, look down at my wristwatch. It's nearly Christmas Eve."

"So?"

"Come on. You're supposed to be the swot here. Us gettin' along is a Christmas miracle, isn't it? Just like your eyes in the starlight.", he grinned, dimples popping up as though to second his statement and help convince you to snog the life out of him.

You rolled your eyes, and he cocked his head, resting his elbows on the railing and his chin in his palm, almost patronisingly. "What's that?"

"What's what?"

"That. Almost looks like... no can't be! Is that... are the corners of your lips... are you... smiling?"

"Fuck off, no I'm not!"

He tapped on your nose, before pinching it to move your head from side to side. "You can steal pretty beautifully, darling, but you can't lie to save your life." You slapped him away, and he used the opportunity to grip your hands and drape them over his shoulders. "Trust me."

How had he gone six years hating you, three years jealous of you (Slug Club, ugh), and seventeen bloody years without kissing you?

He's not sure that's a survivable feat.

Maybe he's been dead all this time.

"Trust a Marauder?"

"Trust me. It's like your mate Freddie Mercury says, 'everything's alright, just hold on tight'.",he replied, mimicking the same slow-motion-punch you'd landed on his cheek earlier.

"Don't bring Mercury into this. That's not fair."

He shrugged, sighing magnanimously. "I'm a good, old-fashioned loverboy."

"Oh, please—"

"Come on, kiss me again, I'll prove it." He looked down at his watch once more. "You kiss me until midnight, and then, on Christmas Eve, if you still have reasons to hate me, then this stays within tonight. Doesn't spill over to tomorrow. Sound fair?"

"What's the catch?"

"If you feel differently, you have to tell me. Alright? No hidin' it to save your pride. Yeah?"

"Fine."

It took you a long while to agree, but he wasn't impatient, because he knew he'd win this. He'd seen it in your eyes, your smile, your skin, glowing.

Yeah, glowing was common when you find something you didn't expect. Treasure. An old journal. This.

He's sure you will lie, for a couple more days, act like he doesn't exist, especially during that annoying span of time between Christmas and New Year's, because it always makes everyone supremely miffed for no apparent reason. He knows you're going to lie and say it was the Firewhiskey-slash-sherry, and ruin the best thing ever, that both of you have accidentally stumbled upon.

But honestly, come on. It's James Potter.

What's he going to do?

Let you?

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onlybeeewrites · 23 days ago

Text

What are the Odds (2/ )

Pairing: light Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!reader, Haymitch Abernathy x Lenore Dove (mentioned/referred), very light Wyatt Callow x Fem!reader

Word count: 3k

Warnings: SPOILERS FOR SUNRISE ON THE REAPING!, light violence, mentions of death

What are the Odds series: Previous

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. This was all one terrible nightmare. And soon you’d wake up next to Burdock. With your Ma’s cooking in the air while she hummed, Pa sitting in his chair by the fire. and everything would be okay.

But a part of you knew this was a nightmare you’d never wake up from. This was a living nightmare featuring you and your friends. Your peers. Innocents that had done nothing wrong, being punished for those who simply wanted to be free.

The still shock clung to you like the coal dust that stained your home. It sunk into your skin, into your lungs, into your bones. You felt it in the weight pressing down on your chest, in the ringing in your ears that muffled everything else.

The world had moved on without you, the anthem playing, people speaking, names being read. But you were stuck. Frozen in the moment your name had been pulled from that bowl. But you refused to allow the Capital to see it.

Your schooled features were all you allowed them to see. The inner thoughts and panic were all your own. A silent weight that sunk deeper and deeper.

Though you were still trying to process it. Who could truly blame you? Out of all the kids in District 12, they had picked you.

District 12 was not that large. Twice as many tributes, twice as many names, twice the deaths. The odds had been worse this year, you knew that. You should have been prepared for the possibility. And yet—

You had never actually believed it would be you.

Or Haymitch. Or Louella. Or Wyatt.

People you knew. People you had laughed with, fought with, lived with. People you grew up with? How were you supposed to survive? How were you supposed to get home?

How awful. How absolutely awful this whole thing was.

You barely heard the conversation as Drusella, who remained you of a canary, wrapped up the hole thing. The square started to empty, though it seemed they were all hesitant to go. As if it would be the last time they saw the four of you—which you supposed it was.

That was until a sharp voice cut through the haze of your mind, causing you to snap back to the present.

“You.”

The man—Plutarch, you think—pointed at Louella first. Then he hesitated, scanning the rest of you before his gaze settled between Wyatt, Haymitch, and you.

“And you,” he finally decided, his finger landing on Haymitch.

Your escort took a pause, then with a flick of his wrist. Dismissive. Like none of you were even people to her. Just names. Just bodies to be moved. Animals to corral.

“Fine. Make sure they’re on the car for the train in five minutes.” She said as she pulled out a cigarette and left the stage, heading out behind the Justice Building.

Then, everything moved too fast.

The Peacekeepers pulled Louella and Haymitch away first, leading them toward the crowd, toward whatever sick Capitol production they were staging. Maybe they wanted a shot of their tearful goodbyes. Maybe they were filming a show of strength, proving how easily they could take your people and turn them into sacrifices.

But you didn’t care about that.

Because the second rough hands clamped around your arms, the second cold metal cuffs snapped around your wrists, it hit you.

They weren’t going to let you say goodbye.

“No, wait,” you gasped, jerking back, your pulse spiking. The panic ran through you like ice water. The Peacekeepers barely reacted, just kept marching forward, starting to pull you along like dead weight.

The cuffs bit into your skin as you twisted against them. “Let me come! Let me say goodbye! It’s the least you can do!”

They didn’t slow. If anything, they moved faster.

“No, please—please!”

Your feet dragged against the dirt, the heels of your boots skidding as you fought against their grip. But they were stronger. Larger.

No matter how hard you dug in, they kept moving. Through the entrance of the Justice Building. Past the halls lined with closed doors—doors that should have been open, should have had your family behind them. But you wouldn’t get that. No final words, no last embrace.

Only this. An unforgiving last glance at your family in the crowd from the stage.

Only the cold hands forcing you forward, out into the back of the building where a black truck sat waiting idle for the four of you.

“Please, just let me—”

“Shut it.”

The first warning.

You twisted harder, your heart slamming against your ribs. Your wrists throbbed where the cuffs cut into your skin, but you barely noticed. All you could think was no, no, no, I can’t leave like this. Not like this.

“I just—please—I just need a minute! Just—“

“I said shut it.”

The second warning.

Then came the pain.

The stun baton cracked against your ribs, and your whole body lit up with agony. Electricity surged through your nerves, burning from the inside out.

Your legs collapsed before you even registered what had happened. The breath was punched from your lungs, your muscles locking up as you hit the gravel beneath you.

Your head spun. The world flickered in and out of focus for a moment.

And still, they didn’t stop. They didn’t give you a moment to pull yourself back together.

Hands yanked you up again, too rough, too fast. The cuffs dug deeper as they forced you forward, your body struggling to keep up. Your limbs felt useless, trembling, weak. The only thing keeping you upright was the strong grip that caught your arm before you could fall again.

Wyatt.

He was cuffed too, his face tight with but showing no emotion. But he didn’t fight them, though. Didn’t waste his breath. He just held on, his grip steady, solid, anchoring you in place as the Peacekeepers shoved you both toward the truck.

He helped you inside, guiding you when your legs refused to work, your mind still lost in the haze of pain.

Then the doors slammed shut behind you.

Darkness.

No goodbyes. No last words.

Not for you, at least.

Not to your Ma or Pa. Not to Lenore Dove, who used to sing with you by the old fence line. Not to Burdock—your brother, your blood. The person who had been by your side through everything.

Your heart broke and you squeezed your eyes shut. Your head leaning back against the cool metal of the truck.

For the first time since they called your name, the fear finally, truly sank in. You allowed it to. Better now without the cameras. Better to do it now until every moment from here on out is recorded and shown on screen.

The truck’s interior was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a small, barred window near the ceiling. The air was stale, carrying the faint scent of rust and oil. You sat on the cold metal bench, wrists bound in front of you, the sting from the stun baton still resonating through your ribs. Wyatt sat beside you, his own hands cuffed, his expression unreadable as he stared at the floor.

But it was company. You’d known Wyatt from school. Knew that he was different than the rest of his brother’s, or even his father. The way his brain worked was fascinating. But now? Now he was a welcome comfort of company as you both faced the same death sentence.

Minutes passed in oppressive silence, each second stretching longer than the last. The weight of what had just transpired pressed heavily upon you, making it hard to breathe. Your mind raced, replaying the events over and over, searching for some way this could all be undone.

The truck’s rear doors swung open abruptly, the sudden influx of light causing you to squint. Two Peacekeepers stood silhouetted against the brightness, their grips firm on Louella’s arms as they hoisted her into the vehicle. She stumbled slightly, her eyes wide and glassy, a stark contrast to her usual composed demeanor. The doors clanged shut behind her, plunging the three of you back into semi-darkness.

Louella took a shaky breath, her gaze darting between you and Wyatt, before landing back on you. “Are you both… okay?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded numbly, not trusting your voice to remain steady. Wyatt offered a curt nod as well, his jaw clenched tightly. But didn’t respond.

You weren’t alright. None of you were. You were all going to be dead this time by next week. How were you supposed to comfort Louella? Were you supposed to lie and make a promise you couldn’t keep?

Another agonizing minute crawled by. Then another one before the doors opened once more. This time, it was Haymitch. He was ushered in more roughly than Louella had been, but the tension in his posture was evident. His eyes met yours briefly, a flicker of something passing through them before he settled onto the bench opposite you.

The four of you sat in silence, the weight of your collective fate hanging heavily in the confined space. The truck’s engine roared to life, and with a jolt, you began moving, the vibrations rattling through the metal floor beneath your feet.

As the vehicle rumbled over the uneven roads of District 12, you couldn’t help but think of the families left behind, the goodbyes that were stolen from you. The image of your parents’ faces, etched with worry and grief, flashed before your eyes. Burdock’s teasing smirk, now a distant memory, felt like a cruel reminder of the life you were being torn away from.

The journey to the train was brief. The truck came to a halt, and the doors were opened once more. Bright daylight flooded in, revealing the imposing structure of the train station. The Peacekeepers gestured for you to exit, their expressions impassive.

One by one, you stepped out, the cuffs around your wrists a constant reminder of your captivity. The train before you was sleek and opulent, a stark contrast to the grim reality you faced. Its polished exterior gleamed under the sun, a symbol of the Capitol’s excess and control.

Though the next few parts were a bit of blur. All you remembered was being shoved forward onto the train platform and then into the train.

The next thing you had known was the four of you were sitting in chairs. Wyatt was next to you, Louella across, and Haymitch was diagonal.

Your mind kind of shut out for a moment as Drusilla rambled on in annoyance at the four of you. She had mentioned something about mentors.

Since District 12 had no live mentors, they would be assigned one from one of the other districts. Spares for the outliers. You remembered the last victor though. She wasn’t spoken about often. But you knew enough to know that whatever actually happened, wasn’t something they your family spoke about often.

It was a grief that moved on. But no one forgot her name. Not you. Not Lenore Dove. Or your uncles. You knew exactly where the missing covey girl was.

But one thing was for certain.

The four of you would be completely on your own.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The train hummed beneath you, steady and ceaseless, a lullaby for the damned. You lay on the upper bunk of your shared room, facing the wall. Your knees drawn to your chest beneath the Capitol-issued blanket. The room was dim, lit only by the soft green glow of a control panel near the door.

Louella’s breathing was slow and even beneath you, curled up on the lower bunk, her arm draped over the edge like a doll left behind. Across the room, Wyatt was sprawled on his back in the bunk opposite, one foot hanging off, rather loud snores occasionally catching in his throat.

“That’s going to get him killed,” you think to yourself. In the arena. If Wyatt snored like that? He would be dead quicker than given the chance.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. Every time your eyes closed, they were filled with images of home—of Burdock calling after you in the square, of Ma’s quiet smile, of the reaping stage, of Woodbine’s body hitting the ground, the gunshots, the crying.

Your fingers twisted the ring on your middle finger. The small copper thing was smooth from wear, the edges dulled by years of being fidgeted with. It had belonged to your grandmother. You’d taken to spinning it around your fingers when you were little, back when bad dreams were your biggest fear.

Now, it was a tether, something to remind you that you were still here, still real. Something to keep you grounded.

Across the room, you noticed the faint shift of movement from the corner of your eye.

Haymitch.

He was sitting up in his bunk, elbow resting on his knee, turning something over in his hand. The light caught the object just right, flickering softly against the polished metal. You squinted, blinking past the shadows.

The flint striker.

Lenore Dove’s present.

Your breath caught slightly. You didn’t know why it surprised you to see it, but it did. Maybe because your cousin had been so excited to give it to him.

“Pretty with a purpose,” she had said to you when she told you of the idea. She had been so excited. She was so in love with him. A love like that was something you were so jealous of. Though you were unsure if it was because of the genuine love that they had for each other, or if it was because who Lenore Dove was in love with.

Haymitch looked up, catching you watching. He didn’t flinch or tuck it away, just held your gaze for a long moment in the dark.

You whispered first.

“She gave it to you,”

His voice was rough, low, barely above a breath. “Yeah, this morning. Before the Reaping,”

You smiled faintly, shifting to lie on your side, one arm tucked beneath your cheek as you whispered back, “I’m glad. She wouldn’t stop talking about it. It came out really pretty,”

He gave a quiet huff, something like a half-laugh, barely audible. “Yeah?” He asked, and you nodded.

“Yeah she came up with it months ago. Working out the design with Tam Amber. Watched over his shoulder and everything when making it,” you say though the memory was hard. How excited your cousin was when she had thought of the perfect gift for her guy.

Haymitch let out a soft hum as his thumb ran over the smooth surface again. As if hearing what you said made it even more dear to him; if that were even possible.

Silence settled again, soft and strange—not heavy, not uncomfortable. Just… quiet. The kind that only people who’ve lost the same thing could sit in. He had always understood you, just as he understood Burdock.

You traced the edge of your ring again, absently. “I thought I’d be more scared than this.”

Haymitch glanced over at you, his face unreadable in the dark. “You are scared,” he said, not unkindly. “You’re just not showing it. You’ve always done that. Even when we were kids. Putting on a brave face. But once you’re alone…then you’ll allow yourself to feel,”

You nodded a little, almost hating how well he knew you. Your tells. Your habits. Straight down to knowing how you’d handle situations like this. “You know me too much, Hay,”

He looked down at the striker again, turned it once more in his hand. “Yeah I know. Makes two of us though,”

You swallowed. You hadn’t expected that to matter as much as it did. But something in your chest unknotted, just a little.

The train hit a slight curve, the walls groaning softly. Louella shifted below you, mumbling something in her sleep. Wyatt rolled over.

“Do you think we’ll…” you started, then stopped.

“Live?” Haymitch finished, blunt and quiet.

You nodded.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I know I’m not going down easy. There are twice the amount of tributes. Twice the careers. The odds aren’t exactly looking great for us,”

You watched him for a second longer, then whispered, “I know. But we have to at least try, right? Or at least try and get Louella home..”

His thumb flicked over the striker, “Yeah. One of you girls,”

“Louella,” you corrected.

But Haymitch’s grey eyes flickered to yours again, “No. One of you girls. Your family needs you too, sweetheart. I know Ma and Sid will be taken care of when you get back.”

And there it was. That irritatingly sweet nickname he always called you. It started out as a condescending nickname a year or two ago. Everyone kept saying how sweet you were. How you were so willing to spare your own food to those who were hungry. To help out along the Seam, whether with laundry, or cleaning, or medicine.

But to Haymitch you were a menace. Which is why he couldn’t believe it when he heard someone referring to you as the sweetest girl in the District.

Though as you both grew older, it kind of stuck. And still, it gave you butterflies every time he called you that. You wondered if he’ll ever stop, not that you would want him to. But what did Lenore Dove think of it? Did she care?

“They have Burdock. And Burdock has Asterid. Sure, they’d grieve. But they’d move on. They’ll help your Ma and Sid. And eventually Burdie and Asterid will have some kids. The Everdeen will be alright without me, Hay.”

“You say that now. But you’re more depended on than you realize. They’ll grieve you harder than you’ll ever know. I know that for a damn fact,”

“Just promise you’ll look out for Louella. At least I can hunt. But she’s…” your voice trailed off softly as you couldn’t put it into words. You couldn’t say how she was a frail girl. A poor girl, from the poorest District in Panem. A twelve-year old with no experience even holding a weapon.

You could defend yourself. But Louella needed someone to keep an eye on her. And you would make sure to do just that. Louella needed to be the one who got home. She had no much ahead of her.

Haymitch stared at you for a moment, the flint striker between his fingers, “Fine.” He finally had said, “As long as you don’t try to be some hero and pull some self-sacrificing bullshit,” he then tucked the striker back under the collar of his shirt, arms behind his head.

“Alright.”

You turned back toward the wall, ring still on your middle finger, twisting softly.

Neither of you said another word, but sleep came a little bit easier after that.

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