“Yeah, all good, James.” You assure him, falling into step beside him as you approach the cross walk at the end of Sirius’ street. “Thank you for walking me home. You really don’t have to. You could still turn back, I’m only a couple minutes down the road…” 

James makes the same noise of disapproval he did when you’d tried to shut him down the first time, back in Sirius’ kitchen. “Well then it’ll only be a couple minutes on my way back, won’t it?” He grins, turning briefly as he walks to look down at you. 

His eyes are so kind, determined in his stead. Your tummy flutters at the thought and you have to remind yourself that that’s just James. Kind, funny, caring. 

You roll your eyes good naturedly at him, shoulders bumping as you step down from the curb onto the road. James, without even really realising, places his arm out to halt you, checking there’s no traffic coming before continuing. It’s only once he’s assessed the situation that he talks again. 

“How did your presentation go, yesterday?” He asks. 

He notices your surprised silence, he adds, “Remus mentioned you were stressed about it.” 

You nod, turning into the alleyway that connects your street to the main road. James steps closer to you in the darkness. You become all too aware of how good he smells, how warm he feels. You push on, regardless. 

“It went okay, I think. The proposal got approved, so that’s this campaign finished and I’ll be on to the next one, next week.” You tell James, aware that you’ve slowed ever so slightly so you’re just behind him. James doesn’t seem to mind that you’re very obviously offering him up as bait should someone come down the alley. 

James doesn’t know the ins and outs of your job, only that you chop and change projects all of the time. You only get the ball rolling on them before passing them on and starting another one. James can’t imagine spending so much time on something only to have someone else see it through. “Well, that’s good, at least. I knew you’d be fine when Remus brought it up.” He compliments. 

You’re suddenly glad for the darkness of the alleyway when you feel the heat that creeps up your neck at his kind words. “Thank you.” you mumble, blushing. 

“You have much on next week?” James asks. 

The streetlights along the front of your house come into view. You feel a little resentment about it, selfishly wishing you could spend a little more time with James. 

“Nope. Just the early stages of prep, should be a light week.” You answer. 

“Fancy dinner? Wednesday?” James asks. 

“Sure, I need to talk about a book we want to promote with Remus, anyway.” You follow James into the light of the street. 

James hums, looks like he’s debating saying something, having an internal argument with himself. He stops, dead in his tracks and you almost bump into his back until he turns to face you. He looks down. His hair flops into his eyes, he forces himself to take a breath. 

“What if it was just us?” James asks, trying to stuff his hands further into his pockets. 

“Like you and me?” You ask dumbly. 

James fights a smile, and probably a snide remark about how he couldn’t have meant anyone else. “Yeah.” He breathes. 

Your heart stammers. He’s James. Your friend. Who is incredibly sweet, who dotes on you, who flirts and brings you sweet treats and leaves parties to walk you home. It makes sense, suddenly. Perhaps he doesn’t do that for everyone. Shit. 

“Like a date?” You’re aware of how silly you sound but you need to be sure. 

“Not like a date,” James’ smile is slow to start, but when his teeth peak through, you can tell he’s sure, “a date.” 

Your cheeks dimple when you smile, red with both cold and your ridiculous blushing. “I’d like that.” You tell him, honestly. 

James nods once, schooling his features, “perfect. Okay, c’mon, let's get you home before you freeze.” 

You follow him dumbly, still reeling. Your house comes into view along the street and suddenly, the dread you’d felt at leaving James is gone. You’ll see him in a few days. On your date. God, what a revelation. 

When you reach the bottom of the path to your house, James’ hand reaches for yours. It’s warm, soft skin brushing against yours. You turn to him, smile genuine, if a little nervous. 

“I’ll see you Wednesday?” He asks. 

He’s so handsome. 

“Yes.” You tell him, biting back the most ridiculously happy smile. 

Turning to walk up the path is hard. Your conversation feels unfinished, you feel reluctant to leave James. You get three steps away from him when your feet stop of their own accord and you turn to look at him. He’s already watching, waiting until you get into the house to leave. If you think twice about what you really want to do, you’ll talk yourself out of it. 

James looks amused, if confused, when you approach him at lightning speed. His glasses bump your nose as you stand on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. It’s warm, the scent of cologne filling your nostrils. James looks infinitely happy when you pull away, fingers lifting to touch where you’ve just left a glossy mark on his cheek. 

“Thank you for walking me home, Jamie.” You whisper, fingers brushing his when he returns them to his side. 

James’ smile is the brightest you’ve ever seen, like the sun, “best decision I’ve ever made, lovely girl. Goodnight.” 

“Sure.” You get up, joining him in the kitchen. Was this James’ way of asking for you to join him? You feel guilty for making him ask. James deserves someone who offers to help. 

You wonder if James is thinking the same thing. You wouldn’t blame him for wanting someone better, who does more than you. He probably wants someone who leaves the house more often than to go to work. 

You do, sometimes. Not as much the last few weeks. The last few weeks, you’ve gotten up, gone to work, come home, eaten dinner in front of the television, and gone to bed. You’ve barely been conscious. (It’s better than being conscious. Any time consciousness creeps up on you, lately, you end up feeling too wretched to do anything at all.) The days drag on in dribs and drabs. If you unfocus your eyes, it’s two weeks ago, and everything exactly is the same. 

James definitely deserves better than that. 

You hold a couple of bread rolls over the steam coming off the pasta while James cleans the dishes you forgot to clean the night before. When he comes back and sees what you’re doing, he clicks his tongue approvingly, reaching around you to give the pasta a stir. 

“Brilliant girl,” he says, bending closer. By the time his lips brush your temple, the rest of him has already turned away. 

You wait for a glow that doesn’t come. 

It’s not brilliant, anyway; James is wrong. All you end up with is soggy, half-frozen bread and too-hot hands. 

He eats it anyway. In front of the television, as has become your ritual, not talking. You feel like you haven’t talked to James in ages. 

He talks, of course, about small things, but nothing substantial. It’s your fault for not asking the right questions. You know his team has drafted a new player who James likes, but you don’t know if he misses his old teammate. You don’t know how his dad is doing apart from his frustrations with the unknown pest in his garden, or what James’ favorite song of late is, or what actually ended up happening with that thing he was going to bring up with his coach. 

James wouldn’t know much of the same sort of information for you, but that’s not his fault. You haven’t been much of anything for a while. 

“Hey,” says James, during a commercial break. You look over and see that his bowl is empty, set on the coffee table. You’re still picking at yours. “I wanted to ask you something.” 

“Okay,” you say, wary. 

He glances at you, then back at the television. He looks almost nervous. “I wondered if—okay.” James seems to resolve something inside himself, turning to face you fully. “Here’s the thing. I don’t want you to feel weird about it, I’m just asking because I want to know.” 

Dread sinks like a stone down through your middle. “Okay.” 

“I can’t tell if you’re just upset or upset with me.” 

You blink. It’s wounding, though you have no right to be the one wounded. Gore seeps from you anyway. “I’m not upset with you, Jamie.” 

He nods. Then, “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah,” you say, softly, “I’m sure. I’m sorry for making you think that.” 

“It’s okay, don’t be sorry.” James brushes you off easily. He reaches for your leg, rubbing as his eyes go back to the television. Some ad for dog kibble. Once again, you wait for a warmth that doesn’t come. “You just haven’t seemed like you wanted to be around me very much.” 

“I’m trying to.” 

James turns back, hurt embedding itself in his features. “I don’t want you to have to try to, angel.” 

“Sorry, that’s not what I meant. I’m just not…I don’t want to do much. It’s not you.” You pause to look at him sincerely. “You’re the best part.” 

James has been indelibly lovely, as much of late as ever, but it’s like you’ve forgotten how to appreciate it. It doesn’t burrow itself inside you like it should. You crave his attention, but when he kisses you, compliments you, knows your favorite fork, you don’t feel loved the way you think you usually do. You don’t feel much at all. 

It’s unsettling. Like a food that used to be your favorite, your death row meal, suddenly tastes bland in your mouth. 

“The best part?” James echoes, teasing and yet somehow sincere at the same time. He’s aiming for levity but seeking reassurance, and you have no reservations about giving it to him. James loves you (though you can’t imagine why, can’t figure how the you you’ve been recently could be meant for love at all) and you love him. 

“Of course you are,” you say. 

His smile fades. Not into sadness, but something more pensive. He’s considering you. Your show is back on the television, but neither of you turn to face it. “You seem tired,” he says, kindly. 

You shrug. “It’ll go away.”

It’s strange, knowing something and still not believing it. You’ve laid in bed the past several nights in a row drowning in the dread that this might never go away. It feels innate to you, inextricable, the way some parasites take over their hosts. But you find you can tell the truth for James’ sake. 

James hums. “Do you want to be around me now?” 

“Yes,” you say, automatically. 

“You don’t have to say that if you don’t feel like it, sweetheart.” 

“I do.” 

“Okay, then…” He shuffles around a bit, looking almost shy. And a shy James Potter is enough to make you hold your breath. “Want to have a cuddle for a while?” 

You move into his hold wordlessly, letting your boyfriend fold his limbs around you until you’re practically wearing him like a jumper. James sets his lips to your head.

He lets out a sigh. “I've missed you.” 

Your throat forms a stone.