#genre reader

Sheer panic overwhelmed Jamie as they stared at the dead body before them. The saying always went that your best friend is the one that’d help you hide the body but they’d never thought it’d be literal, let alone the body of the King!

Sure, they’d joked a few days ago about how terrible of a leader the king was, and how miserable the people were, and what they’d do if they were the leader, but to have a dead body in the middle of your lounge room with your best friend standing over it with that stupid grin on their face, was a whole nother issue.

Jamie was surprised that the city guards hadn’t come knocking yet.

Somehow, their idiot of a best friend, had managed to not only assassinate the king, but carry his dead body through the palace, out the front door, through the streets, out the city gate, and into Jamie’s tiny hut just outside the city walls, all without raising any alarms. Flabbergasted was an enormous understatement when trying to describe how Jamie was feeling.

How?

How??

Taking a deep breath, Jamie attempted to collect themselves before levelling Jerry with a glare. “So you got the king here, hip hip hooray.” The sarcastic drawl caused Jerry to scoff. “What do you think is going to happen next? Hm? The city guard just turn up at my door, see the King and go ‘oh there he is, glad to know we found him have a nice day’?”

The proud smirk didn’t drop from Jerry’s face. “In my defence-” But Jaime was having none of it.

“In your defence?!?! Nothing you could possibly say, would make any of this okay!”

Still, the amused and satisfied smirk didn’t drop from Jerry’s lips.

“I didn’t kill the king.”

Jaime paused for a split second, trying to process before they lurched back into their panic. “That doesn’t change the fact that you brought him here!”

It was then the facade slipped from Jerry’s face, if only for a split second, as they glanced down at their boots. “Just thought you’d rather hear it from me than the city guard when they come to collect their new monarch.”

Jaime’s panic started to ebb away as suspicion settled in their stomach. “New monarch?”

“When your grandfather was the king’s bastard, and therefore you are the closest relative to the king, congrats on being the next in line for the throne.”

Jaime faintly heard mention of a coronation ceremony before he passed out.

Why did there have to be eight.

One by one, you counted and traced each bullet wound, wishing away it’s existence.

You had the power to heal, that’s why you were with the Avengers, even after being held by Strucker, but bringing the already dead back to life? This was beyond even your capabilities. 

Once again, if only to torture yourself, you counted again each of his bullet wounds, placing a soft kiss to each one in the hope that maybe there was something, something you could do.

To the one on his collarbone, for all the nights you had fallen asleep together under the stars.

To the one above his heart, for however long he’s had yours.

To the one on his left arm, for all the times he had held you.

To the one on his right shoulder, for all the times he was there when you needed a cry.

To the one on his sternum, for every moment you ever had together.

To the one on his stomach, for every meal you had cooked together on the run.

To the one on his hand, for when he never let you go.

The second time they met, it was late at night in the library, well past curfew, and he noticed she had been staring intensely at a book for nearly an hour without turning a page.

Sliding past her to replace a book, he noticed the drawing of a giant snake on the page. With all the petrifying happening recently, he knew that he should be scared, but with all the help she had been in potions as his partner, he couldn’t help but grow the slightest bit concerned for her.

Forgoing his book, he slid into the seat beside her disturbing her from her thoughts as she pulled her overly bushy hair back in a tie before facing him with a small, tense smile.

The third time they met, he silently cheered when she punched his so-called friend in the face.

For years, he had put up with his friends piss poor behaviour, all so that his father would be in his family’s good books. “It’s all business, you know,” his father would say, and he would have to keep his mouth shut, because he was 13, he didn’t know (and he didn’t know why his father would think he did).

Watching her land a punch after everything this year, he felt himself swell with pride. I taught her that, he thought to himself, not that he would ever tell anyone, not her Gryffindor friends, or worse, his Slytherin ones.

There were so many different levels of wrong with their friendship, if you had asked anyone else, not that they’d know. A Slytherin and a Gryffindor? A pureblood and a muggleborn? A member of the golden trio and one of Malfoy’s cronies? His friendship with her, he realised it was the first real thing in his life, and he would do anything to protect it.

The fourth time they met, he saved her from being overwhelmed by the overrated fool, Krum.

The famous quidditch player had been stumbling along the shores of the Black Lake, through the library, every possible quiet place he thought he could find. His only relief was the Slytherin common room, but that silence never lasted, not as long as Malfoy remained the prince of Slytherin.

Sitting on the shores of the Black Lake, his eye caught that of hers, and together they both rolled their eyes at the sound of Krum and his gaggle of gossiping girls that followed him.

Snapping his book shut, he scuttled over to her before the lump of a man could, and took a deep, shuddering breath.

The fifth time they met, his breath was taken away.

She was stunning in periwinkle-blue.