audrey.

“The sun rises in exactly one hour,” James explains, completely ignoring your attempt to hibernate. He is already fully dressed in his riding gear, looking entirely too alert for this time of the morning. “Which means we have exactly sixty minutes to get you up, get ready, pack the bags, check out of this tavern, and be on the road to the Vale.”

That effectively jolts you awake. 

You scramble out of bed, your boots hitting the cold floorboards as you hurry toward the washroom to take a quick shower and wash the last remnants of sleep from your face. 

When you step back into the main room, ready to frantically shove your belongings into your travel pack, you freeze.

Everything is already gone. Your clothes, your notebooks, and your cloak have been meticulously folded and packed away. Your leather satchel is sitting neatly by the door next to James’s massive military saddlebags. 

The only thing left out is a wooden tray resting on the table, stacked with fresh bread, sliced cheese, and a warm cup of tea.

James leaned against the wooden window frame, a knowing, amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched the slow progress of the packing. “If I waited for you to pack at your own pace, we would never make it to the border before nightfall,” he teased, pushing himself upright and gesturing toward the scattered belongings.

He paused near the door, offering a pointed nod toward the table to make sure his instructions were clear. “Get dressed and eat your breakfast. I’m going to go downstairs to check on Midnight and Maximus, and I’ll thank Jenny for the stay while I’m at it.”

You pause mid-buttoning your rugged tunic, giving him a flat look. “Her name is Joan, James. Not Jenny.”

“Right. Joan,” he chuckles, offering a casual two-finger salute before grabbing the heavy saddlebags and slipping out the door.

Left to your own devices, you quickly finish getting ready.

You double-check your pockets, eat your breakfast in record time, and make sure the leather-bound book from Remus and the map you annotated last night are safely secured at the very top of your bag.

Truthfully, you had slept amazingly well, despite the fact that this was the first time in your entire life that you had ever slept outside the familiar walls of your own room, let alone with someone resting a mere two feet away from you. Though the proximity might have unnerved anyone else, it had brought an unexpected sense of comfort to know James was near, guarding the space between you and the unknown world outside. 

(It obviously wasn’t anywhere near as plush or comfortable as your silk-sheeted, feather-down royal bed back at the palace, but hey—freedom has a cost, and a slightly stiff mattress is a price you are more than willing to pay.)

Slinging your satchel over your shoulder, you head down the creaking wooden stairs and step out into the crisp, cool dawn air.

As you round the corner toward the hitching posts, you spot James. He’s holding the reins of both Midnight and a restless Maximus, but he isn’t alone. 

A young village woman is standing entirely too close to him, giggling and twirling a lock of her hair while batting her eyelashes up at him. James is offering her that effortlessly charming, roguish smile of his, looking entirely comfortable in the attention.

The exact moment the young lady catches sight of you approaching, her smile falters. She clears her throat, gives James a hurried goodbye, and quickly struts down the street.

You walk up to James, adjusting the strap of your satchel, and raise an eyebrow at the retreating figure. “Who was that?”

James just shrugs, his smirk widening as he tosses you Maximus’s reins. “Just a local checking to see if the handsome travelers needed directions. Ready?”

“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes, though a small smile tugs at your lips as you take Maximus’s reins. “Let’s just get moving before the entire village queue forms to give you directions, Prince Charming.”

You hoist yourself into the saddle, settling in as Maximus gives an eager shake of his mane, clearly ready to leave the village behind. 

James swings effortlessly onto Midnight, and with a gentle nudge, the two horses pace forward, leaving the sleeping hamlet behind as the morning sun finally begins to bleed a faint amber glow across the sky.

The buildings fade into open, rugged terrain as you and James ride side by side. The lightheartedness from a moment ago quickly evaporates, replaced by the heavy, sobering reality of what lies ahead.

James adjusts his grip on the leather reins, turning his head to look at you. His expression is intensely focused.

“Alright, we’re out,” James says, his voice carrying that strict, military weight again. “Listen to me carefully. I’m going to repeat the rules one more time because once we cross that threshold, there is no room for error.”

You pull on your reins slightly, your chest tightening at his sudden shift in tone. 

“When we enter the fog, there is no stopping at all,” he continues, ignoring the interruption as he locks his eyes onto yours. “If your boot laces come undone, if you drop a canteen—you ignore it. We follow the route on the map explicitly.”

You swallow hard, nodding slowly. “Okay. No stopping. What else?”

“And once we get past the fog and enter the actual Vale… never, under any circumstance, look behind you,” he warns, his voice dropping to a low, commanding register. “You ignore the voices,” James counters sharply, leaving absolutely no room for argument. “You ignore any shapes, any reflections, or anything you think you see out of the corner of your eye.”

He leans in slightly, ensuring you are hanging on every single word. “We stay moving, we keep our eyes locked forward, and hopefully, we make it out of there in a day. Got it?”

You take a steadying breath, your fingers tightening around the leather of the reins. “Got it. No stopping, no looking back. I’m ready.”

For the next thirty minutes, the ride is quiet. The chirping of birds and the rustle of normal forest life slowly begin to thin out, dying down into an eerie, unnatural silence. 

The air grows noticeably colder, biting at your cheeks, and the horizon ahead begins to vanish behind that thick, suffocating grey-black mist you saw from a distance yesterday.

Right at the very edge of the shadow, just feet away from where the normal dirt path dissolves into the dense, dark thicket of the Vale, James pulls Midnight to a sudden halt.

He turns his horse slightly to face you. 

His hazel eyes are dead serious behind his glasses, searching your face for any sign of hesitation. “This is it. Once we take these next few steps, the fog closes in behind us. There is no turning around, and there is no going back. Are you absolutely sure about this?”

You look at the dark, menacing wall of trees, then back at James—the guard who risked his life, his title, and his freedom just to ensure you wouldn’t have to face this nightmare alone. 

You swallow the sudden lump of fear in your throat and set your jaw with fierce determination.

“I’m sure,” you say firmly, nudging Maximus forward. “Let’s go.”

Together, the horses take those fateful steps forward, crossing the threshold into the Deathly Hallow Vale.

The transition is immediate and jarring. The vibrant, living green grass of the outside world instantly shrivels away, replaced by dead, ash-grey soil and gnarled, blackened roots that twist across the ground like skeletal fingers. 

The trees here are massive, their bark a burnt, charred black, their branches clawing up at a sky that has completely disappeared behind a heavy, unnatural fog. The mist swirls around the horses’ hooves, thick and blinding, rising up to your chests within seconds.

James immediately pulls out his annotated map, holding it firmly with one hand while keeping the reins tight, and you quickly do the same with yours.

“The route is simple for the first stretch. We walk a few miles dead north, and then we shift directly east once we hit the curved path. Do not let Maximus wander. Keep him straight.” James commands in a sharp whisper, his horse practically pressing against yours to ensure you aren’t separated by the creeping white void.

You nod, your eyes darting between the parchment in your hands and the ghostly, blurred shape of James’s shoulder beside you, as you both plunge deeper into the mist.

The dense, suffocating mist rolls in completely, swallowing the path behind you until the entire world is reduced to shifting layers of pale grey and deep shadow. 

You can barely make out the gnarled silhouettes of the ancient trees towering over you like sentinels. The only sounds cutting through the eerie stillness are the whistling of a cold wind through the bare branches and the rhythmic, synchronized clop-clop of Midnight and Maximus’s hooves against the soil.

James rides so close to you that your stirrups occasionally brush against each other. 

Every few minutes, he glances over, his hazel eyes alert behind his wire-rimmed glasses as he checks on you. Every time he does, you offer him a reassuring smile, letting him know you haven’t lost your nerve just yet.

For the first two hours, the trek remains remarkably simple, if entirely unnerving. 

The sun is technically fully up in the outside world, but down here in the depths of the Vale, the light is filtered into a perpetual, somber twilight. 

After about forty minutes of nothing but the sound of breathing and dead leaves, the silence begins to feel too creepy. You decide to break it.

“Sooo,” you start, your voice cutting through the mist as you glance over at him. “What exactly do you plan on doing once we cross the border into Astravel? What’s the move after we get out of here?”

James blinks, looking genuinely shocked by the casual question given your current coordinates. “I won’t do anything,” he replies bluntly. “The only plan for Astravel is to find a secure, low-profile tavern, rest the horses and ourselves for two days, and then immediately continue on toward Solistia. Why?”

You fall quiet for a moment, shifting your weight in the saddle. 

Truthfully, you had expected a different answer. You knew how deeply James cared about his friends, and you had secretly assumed he would use the opportunity to do some quiet digging for Sirius while passing through his homeland. 

After all, Astravel belonged to the House of Black, and it wouldn’t be a shocker if James tried to gather information for his best friend.

“I don’t know,” you admit softly, looking down at your map. “I just thought maybe you’d want to look around for Sirius. To see if there was any word on his family, or… maybe find his brother?”

James let out a sharp, disbelieving breath, his grip tightening on Midnight’s reins. “Well… I mean, I did promise Sirius before all this that if I ever somehow ran into his brother, I’d tell him that Sirius is alive, well, and safe in Valenora. But I highly doubt we’re just going to casually run into a royal prince on the street.” 

“Besides,” James’s voice drops into a much darker, serious tone, “let’s not forget that his brother, Prince Regulus, is technically an enemy to Valenora. I mean… he’s what they call a Death Eater.”

Death Eaters.

The very title makes your stomach twist into a tight, cold knot.

Across the continent, they are feared as the elite, fanatical remnants of a regime that should have died with their master. Though the Dark Lord was killed many years ago, his poisonous ideologies still thrive in the shadows, kept alive by those who swore a binding blood oath to his cause. They wield a dangerous, forbidden strain of dark magic that corrupts everything it touches, leaving absolute ruin in its wake.

Among these factions, two noble bloodlines stand out as the most notoriously radical. There is the ruthless House of Black, ruling from the heights of Astravel, and the cunning House of Malfoy, pulling strings within the kingdom of Eryndor.

They are driven by a deep, ancient malice—and they utterly despise peaceful, prosperous kingdoms like Valenora.

You swallow hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “Well… yeah. But Sirius never mentioned Regulus being a Death Eater.”

“He didn’t,” James cuts you off gently but firmly, his eyes fixed on the misty trail ahead. “But that’s the thing—Sirius never mentions Regulus. At all. It’s too painful for him. So even if we did somehow cross paths with him… which I could handle, but you absolutely cannot… he could be incredibly dangerous to you. For all we know, he’s fully indoctrinated into their dark arts.”

James suddenly pauses, a look of realization dawning on his face. 

He pulls his horse slightly ahead, twisting around in his saddle to glare at you with deep suspicion. “Wait a minute. Why are you suddenly asking so specifically about what we’re going to do in Astravel? You don’t have some secret, reckless plan for when we get there, do you?”

“No!” you immediately deny, your cheeks flushing as you quickly look away and adjust your grip on Maximus’s reins. 

“No, of course not. It’s just… I have a feeling. A gut feeling that our trip through Astravel is going to be an advantage for us.”

You guide Maximus to the left, following the gentle bend of the road as you and James officially begin the curved path deeper into the mist. 

James keeps Midnight a fraction of an inch from your side, his sharp eyes never leaving your face as he waits for you to expand on your so-called “gut feeling.”

“Alright,” James says, his tone a mix of caution and genuine curiosity. “I’m listening. Astravel is a hornets’ nest of dark magic, and we are currently trespassing. What possible advantage could we have?”

You adjust your grip on the reins, looking back at him with a clever, confident smile. “Think about all the history lessons we had to endure back at the palace, James. Valenora and Astravel aren’t allies, yes, but they aren’t technically at open war right now either. It’s a cold, fragile peace built entirely on political distance.”

“But more importantly—think about how Astravel operates. They are obsessed with status, lineage, and royal protocol.” you continue on.

James arches an eyebrow, entirely unconvinced. “And how does a bunch of snobbish, dark-magic-wielding aristocrats help us exactly?” he asks, crossing his arms. “If anything, it makes a couple of common travelers like ‘James and Margaret’ look like easy targets.”

“Exactly!” You lean in, your eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. “They expect threats to come in the form of royal guards, massive military escorts, or high-ranking diplomats flying the Valenoran crest. They are looking for chess pieces.”

James scoffs, a dry, humorless sound. “Right. And we’re just two stray pawns wandering onto their board.”

“What they are not looking for,” you continue, gesturing between the two of you, “is a plain, ordinary girl in dusty clothes traveling with a single guard. To the guards at the Astraval borders and the spies in the towns, we will look completely insignificant. We blend right into the lower-class trade routes.”

You tap the side of your map knowingly, tracing a finger along the faded ink lines. “And here is the real advantage: because the House of Black is so focused on managing their internal factions and their oaths to the Dark Lord, their security is concentrated around the high courts and the major fortresses.”

“Which means the outer borders are understaffed,” James notes, his tactical mindset finally kicking in as he leans over the map with you. “But understaffed doesn’t mean empty.”

“The common sectors and the neutral trade villages we’ll be passing through are mostly left to local enforcers who are easily bribed or avoided,” you counter, a sharp smile touching your lips. “As long as we keep our heads down and play the roles of a simple guard and a village girl, we can move right through their territory completely undetected.”

James watches you, the silence stretching between you as your words sink in, his strict expression softening just a fraction. “It’s a massive gamble. If we get caught, there’s no backup.”

“We won’t get caught because we can use their own arrogant class system against them,” you add softly. “They won’t look at us because they’ll think we’re beneath their notice.”

James stares at you for a long moment as the horses maintain their steady pace through the shifting fog. The skeptical tightness in his jaw slowly relaxes, replaced by a reluctant smile.

“First bird,” you say, holding up a single finger to cut off his impending objection before he can voice it. “You get to help Sirius. You get to find out what is actually happening with Regulus.”

The reaction is instant. James rigidifies in his saddle, his broad shoulders locking into a rigid, military line as his knuckles turn stark white against the leather of his horse’s reins. “Regulus made his choice,” James says, his voice dropping an octave, hollow and hard. “He took the mark. He took the oath.”

“I know Sirius pretends he doesn’t care, and I know you think Regulus is entirely lost to the dark arts, but I doubt it,” you counter quickly, nudging your mount a fraction closer so your voice doesn’t carry across the open, quiet terrain. “Even if they stand on completely opposite sides of this war right now, Regulus is still his blood. He’s his younger brother, James.”

“Blood doesn’t stop a curse, Y/N” he says, the use of your name sounding bitter on his tongue. “It doesn’t change the dark magic woven into their family tree, and it certainly doesn’t change what the House of Black demands of its sons. You don’t just walk away from them.”

“But, he must care for Sirius on some level,” you insist softly, watching the tense line of his profile and wishing more than anything that he would look back at you. “He has to be wondering if his older brother is dead or alive after he fled the kingdom. Imagine the rumors he’s hearing in that court. If we can secretly find a way to get a message to him, or just gauge where his loyalties truly lie from a distance, we can bring peace to Sirius. We can give him answers.”

“You’d be doing it for your brother, James. Because he’s too proud to ask it of you himself.”

James’s jaw tightens. You can see the conflict raging in his eyes; you’ve hit a nerve. Sirius is his absolute world, and the rift between the Black brothers has always been a shadow over their friendship. He opens his mouth to argue, but you press on before he can interrupt.

“And the second bird we hit,” you continue, “is that it will actually help us when we get to Solistia. It will help us find the absolute truth about my powers. Because there is one thing I am completely sure of, James… my powers do not come from Valenora.”

James’s brows knit together in deep confusion. He pulls back slightly on Midnight’s reins, slowing the stallion’s pace down just enough to keep the two of you perfectly side-by-side on the rugged trail. “How can you be so sure?” 

“And why would Astraval have anything to do with it? I thought you were convinced the answers were buried in the ancient libraries of Solistia.”

“Solistia has the records, James, but Astraval has the source,” you explain, the theory you’ve been harboring in secret finally pouring out of you. “Think about the geography and the history of our realm. There are only two places in the known world where active, raw magic is openly used and woven into the very fabric of society.”

James keeps his gaze locked on you, his tactical mind trying to trace the lines of your logic.

“First, there’s Astraval—hence the literal cursed Dark Vale we are riding through right now,” you say, gesturing to the graying horizon ahead. “And second, there’s Azkaban, which is completely off the maps because it’s a high-security prison choked with dark entities. Aside from those two places, magic doesn’t just sprout naturally in our world.”

James scoffs lightly, though the tension in his jaw tells you he’s taking you seriously. “So…what are you saying?”

You gesture to yourself, drawing his attention to the warmth you can always feel humming just beneath your skin. “I exist, James, and I have these powers. Although they are good powers—magic used to heal and to bring life—they are still, fundamentally, a type of sorcery. I am an anomaly in Valenora, so where else could this gift have possibly originated?”

James stares at you, his horse shifting slightly beneath him as the sheer weight of your words starts to sink into his analytical brain. He opens his mouth to counter, but the words seem to fail him, his brow furrowing deeply as he tries and fails to find a logical flaw in your reasoning.

“You’re forgetting the most important piece of the puzzle, the thing we literally just read in Remus’s book,” you urge, pointing a gloved hand back toward the heavy leather satchel bouncing against your saddle. 

“The ancient Astraval king created this entire Vale using raw, unfiltered magic. It runs in the very soil beneath our hooves; it’s an open secret. The only difference is that the magic the House of Black wields today is dark, corrupted, and twisted by generations of malice.”

You continue, “But what’s to say that the original, pure source of that magic isn’t somehow tied to my bloodline? What if my healing light is the completely uncorrupted version of whatever they twisted into a generational curse? If anyone has access to the restricted, ancient family archives that pre-date the corruption of the House of Black, it’s the royal family. It’s Regulus.”

You lean in closer, your eyes wide with desperate hope. “If anyone can help us unlock the truth before we even step foot in Solistia, it’s him. But we have to use his connection to his brother Sirius to get him to trust us. It’s a massive risk, I know, but it’s a win for your best friend, and it’s a win for my survival. It makes perfect sense!”

James is entirely silent for several long moments. 

You ride in triumphant silence for a moment, entirely confident that you have thoroughly backed James into a logical corner. Y

our plan is flawless. It’s tight, it helps his best friend, it unravels the mystery of your powers, and it connects all the historical dots perfectly. 

You open your mouth, ready to drive the final point home and smoothly transition into how you should map out the city layout of Astravel—

Suddenly, James pulls hard on Midnight’s reins, bringing his mare to a jarring, abrupt halt. He twists around in his saddle, his eyes wide behind his glasses as a terrifying realization dawns on him.

“Wait. Hold on,” James breathes, his voice laced with sudden, sharp suspicion. “Was this your plan from the very start?! Did you plan this whole Astravel detour before we even left the hut?!”

You blink, caught entirely off guard, your cheeks flushing instantly. “What? No! I mean… okay, I had a loose idea, sure! But it all officially connected last night when we were doing our reading about the Vale. I figured out the pieces then. And… well, I knew that if I told you upfront that I wanted to make a stop in the middle of Astravel, you would have completely canceled the trip and dragged me back home. So I just… didn’t mention it.”

James lets out a harsh, incredulous scoff, throwing his hand up in the air. “So you waited until we were literally inside the cursed, inescapable Vale to drop this on me?! Great—”

He is cut off entirely as a sharp, piercing shriek rips through the quiet fog.

Maximus suddenly rears back, screaming in pure terror as his front hooves leave the ash-grey ground. 

You let out a panicked scream, desperately clinging to the leather saddle pommel as the stallion twists violently to the side, his back hooves slipping against loose, crumbling dirt.

“Y/N!” James yells.

Without a single second of hesitation, James digs his spurs into Midnight. The black mare launches forward through the thick mist, cutting directly into Maximus’s path and using her own massive body to forcefully block the white stallion from advancing another inch.

Maximus slams his hooves back onto the solid ground, panting heavily and trembling. 

You grip the reins with white knuckles, gasping for air as you look down at the ground right beneath Maximus’s front feet.

Your stomach drops into your throat. There is no more trail. Just two inches in front of your horse’s hooves, the ground completely sheer-drops into a massive, jagged cliffside. 

If Maximus hadn’t stopped, the fog would have guided you straight over the edge.

James immediately leans over from his saddle, gripping your shoulder tight, his voice thick with raw panic. “Are you okay? are—are you hurt?”

You nod breathlessly, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. “I’m—I’m okay. I’m fine. Maximus saw it just in time.”

Shaken, you lean slightly over the edge of the saddle to look down into the deep chasm below, and a fresh wave of horror washes over you. 

Far down at the bottom of the ravine, a dark, sluggish river cuts through the black rocks. But it isn’t normal water. 

Branching out through the liquid are thick, pulsing, obsidian-colored veins, spreading out like a spiderweb across the surface. The water looks entirely alive, undulating and rippling as though something massive and unseen is shifting just beneath the murky, dark depths.

“Don’t look at it,” James orders quietly, his hand gripping your chin to pull your gaze away from the creepy ravine.

As you look up at him, you both suddenly notice a shift in the air. The heavy, suffocating grey mist that had enclosed you for the last few hours is beginning to thin out, dissipating into nothingness against the black trunks of the trees. The open chasm has forced the fog to clear.

You’ve passed the first trial. You are officially out of the mist.

James’s expression goes deathly serious as he looks ahead at the stark, clear path cutting sharply to the east along the edge of the ravine. The environment is now entirely exposed, and the suffocating, unnatural silence of the inner forest settles over you like a heavy shroud.

“Pull up your cloak,” James commands in a low, tense whisper, his eyes scanning the dark, twisted treeline. “Cover your head.”

You quickly grab the heavy fabric of your dark travel cloak, pulling the hood deep over your face until your eyes are shielded by shadow. James does the same, snapping his visor-like focus toward the eastern path.

You have officially entered the true heart of the Deathly Hallow Vale. The rules are now active.

James falls completely quiet, his jaw locked tight as he guides Midnight to lead the way down the narrow eastern trail. 

He doesn’t say a single word about your reckless Astravel plan anymore—all his energy is entirely poured into survival. But even from behind him, you can see the tight, rigid line of his shoulders. 

He is deeply nervous. Every few seconds, his head twitches slightly, his eyes cutting to the side, his gaze constantly snapping back to make sure you are directly behind him, safe, and completely untouched by the looming shadows of the forest.

You press forward along the narrow, rocky ledge of the eastern path, the horses’ hooves making a hollow, scraping sound against the dead stone. 

The black river with its pulsing, obsidian veins remains thousands of feet below on your left, while the jagged, dark treeline presses in tightly from your right. 

The mist is entirely gone now, but the clarity only brings a more suffocating sense of dread.

As you ride, your eyes stay fixed on the back of James’s head. You notice the rigid, unnatural tension in his frame. His shoulders are locked, his knuckles white against Midnight’s leather reins. 

But after a few minutes of agonizing silence, you see his posture stiffen even further. His chin drops slightly, and his shoulders begin to tremble as he deliberately closes his eyes, his head slightly tilting toward his shoulder as if trying to block out a physical assault.

Your chest tightens. The realization hits you like a physical blow: He’s hearing them.

The Whisperers have started.

Even though you can only hear the rushing of the wind and the panting of the horses, James is already locked in a silent, mental warfare with his own voice echoing from the shadows behind his saddle.

Without a second thought for the danger, you lean across the narrow gap between your saddles. You stretch your arm out, reaching across the space between Maximus and Midnight until your fingertips brush the leather of his sleeve. 

Gently, you slide your hand down to grasp his rigid, gloved fingers, offering him a fierce squeeze.

James’s eyes snap open behind his glasses, his head instinctively starting to turn back toward you—but he catches himself just in time, keeping his gaze locked rigidly on the path ahead. He looks down at your joined hands, and the sheer terror in his jaw slowly gives way to relief.

“It’s not real,” you whisper softly, your voice a desperate anchor cutting through whatever nightmare is playing in his ears. “James, it’s not real.”

James swallows hard, his throat bobbing as he turns his face just enough so you can see the tight, grateful lines of his expression. 

“I know,” he manages to breathe out, his voice rough, gravelly, and entirely stripped of his usual roguish confidence. “I know.”

It is a deeply cruel thing, this ancient black magic. To force a person to listen to their deepest, darkest secrets, their raw insecurities, and their worst nightmares, all delivered in the exact cadence of their own voice, mocking them from the darkness just inches behind their shoulder. 

You don’t know what James’s nightmares sound like. You don’t know what darkness claws at the son of the legendary General Fleamont Potter when he thinks no one is looking. 

But you do know one thing with absolute certainty: James has always been the light in your world. Offering him a hand to hold in the dark is the absolute least you can do.

After all, for the last month, it had always been James reaching for you in your moments of suffocating darkness inside the castle walls. It was James who pulled you out of your panic, James who sneaked you out of parades, James who looked at you like you were a person, not a royal asset.

And ironically, it was always you keeping him in the dark.

Your mind involuntarily flashes back to the night of your birthday ball, just a few days ago. The memory is so vivid it makes your breath hitch. The way the moonlight caught the sharp edge of his jaw, the sudden, breathless gravity that had pulled the two of you together until your lips were a mere breath away from his. 

You had almost kissed him. He had almost kissed you.

And you know it is incredibly cruel of you that you still haven’t addressed it yet. You’ve acted as if it never happened, buried it beneath the chaos of your escape. But things are different now. They are terrifyingly complicated. 

Back home, you are technically, politically engaged to Prince Caelum Delmar. Admitting that you had nearly crossed that line with your personal guard—admitting that you wanted to—feels a little too dangerously similar to the scandal that happened years ago with Lily.

Except you and Lily had the luxury of time, status, and forgiveness; you recovered from that and moved past it as friends. 

But with James? You look at the fierce, protective way his fingers are woven through yours right now, and you know that if you step over that line with him, there is no turning back. You don’t think you could ever recover if a confession ruined what you have.

So, really, dismissing the near-kiss, locking it away in the dark, and pretending it was just a moment of shared madness is the only real solution you have. 

Because confronting the burning reality of his feelings—and yours—will end the safe, beautiful boundaries of the friendship you rely on.

And looking out at the vast, terrifying wasteland of the Vale stretching out before you both, it is far, far too soon to end it. You need him too much.

James gives your hand one final, lingering squeeze before slowly letting go, his fingers dragging across yours as he repositions both hands firmly on Midnight’s reins. 

A sudden, sharp ringing pierces through the heavy silence of the valley, vibrating right at the base of your skull. You flinch, your heart leaping into your throat, but you forcefully lock your neck in place. You stare straight ahead at the dark leather of James’s riding cloak, squeezing Maximus’s reins until your knuckles turn entirely white.

Don’t look back. Do not look back.

The ringing doesn’t fade. Instead, it slowly morphs, growing deeper and louder until, after ten agonizing minutes of riding, a new sound cuts through the rhythm of the horses’ hooves.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Footsteps. Heavily matching your pace, stepping through the dead, dry leaves directly behind Maximus’s tail. The hair on your arms stands on end, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead.

You lean slightly toward James, your voice a tight, terrified whisper that barely leaves your lips. “James… how long do we have left in this place?”

“It’s only been nearly four hours since we entered the tree line,” he mutters, a rare swear slipping through his teeth as he checks his internal timeline. “Fuck. That means we have another twenty hours to go.”

Twenty hours. 

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to ignore the heavy, rhythmic thudding of the unseen feet trailing your horse. 

(If you’re going to survive twenty more hours of this, you might as well just get used to it.)

“Y/N…”

The sound of your own name makes you freeze. It is a soft, melodic breath, cutting through the chilling mountain air. There they are; the Whisperers.

The voice drifts closer, gliding through the dead space until it feels as though someone is hovering directly over your shoulder. 

Suddenly, a cold, mocking laugh ripples right against the back of your neck. The sensation is so physical, so utterly real, that you tense up immediately, your entire body going rigid in the saddle.

The laugh sounds exactly like you. It possesses your exact pitch, your exact cadence, your exact inflection—but it is dripping with a venomous, cruel malice you would never possess.

“Look at you,” the voice whispers, the breath icy against your skin as it begins to taunt you, slow and deliberate. “A royal princess, running away like a thief in the night. What a disgrace you are.”

You press your eyes shut for a brief second, shaking your head, but the voice only grows clearer, taking a step closer behind your horse.

“Think of your father,” your own voice jeers from the dark, hitting you where it hurts most. 

“Think of your brothers. They protected you, they shielded you from the world, and how do you repay them? You abandon your duty, and you run off into the dirt with a common guard. You are a coward, Y/N. A selfish, spoiled little girl playing at being a hero.”

The phantom footsteps behind Maximus’s hooves multiply, shifting from a single follower into a rhythmic, dragging march. The air grows so freezing cold that your breath plumes in thick white clouds, but the sweat running down your spine is pure, unadulterated panic.

The voice—your own voice, twisted into a jagged, mocking instrument—creeps closer until the sound isn’t just in the air anymore; it is rattling inside your teeth.

“Did you really think you could just walk away from the throne and be free?” the entity purrs, a low, guttural giggle vibrating right against your ear. 

“Look at what you’ve done. You’re a pathogen. A disease disguised as a princess. Think of Lily. How she must absolutely despise you right now for abandoning her, for leaving her to pick up the pieces of your disgraceful mess. You think she understands? She hates you!”

“Don’t listen,” James’s voice barks from the front, sounding a million miles away. “Keep your eyes on my cloak. Keep them on me!”

The Whisperer takes your silence as an invitation, its phantom weight practically pressing into the small of your back, sending a violent shiver down your spine.

“And what about James?” your own voice echoes in your mind, but it is distorted, dripping with a venomous spite that makes your stomach turn. 

“Look at the back of his head. Look at how tight his shoulders are. He’s terrified.”

Your eyes tear up from the strain of staring strictly forward, the edges of your vision blurring into horrific, shifting shadows.

“He could never truly forgive you for what you’re putting him through.” the voice hisses, pressing closer until it feels like a cold breath against your ear. “You dragged him out of his noble life, out of his honor, just to be your meat shield in a cursed wasteland. He’s going to die out here because of your vanity. His blood will be on your hands!”

“No,” you choke out, your knuckles turning white on the reins as you fight the urge to turn around. “No, he chose to come. I didn’t force him.”

Ahead of you, James tenses in his saddle. Hearing you argue with the empty air, he calls out, his voice tight with strain. “Y/N? What is it saying to you? Don’t listen to it—”

But the entity ignores him, its tone shifting into a manic, screeching crescendo that makes your skull ache.

“And for what? This… glorious power?” the voice violently mocks, laughing at your misery. 

“It’s not a divine blessing, you foolish, arrogant girl. It’s a cancer. A dark, unnatural curse. You won’t find any answers in Solistia. There is no truth waiting for you in the light—only a grave.”

“Stop,” you whimper, tears finally spilling over your eyelashes, burning hot against your freezing cheeks. “That’s not true. It’s not a curse.”

“—talk to me!” James yells, except his voice is so, so far away. He can’t look back to save you; he can only listen to your frantic denials. “Whatever you’re hearing, it’s lying to you! Keep your eyes forward!”

The shadow only presses heavier against your back, the weight almost suffocating.

“You were born to be a secret.” it whispers, a final, chilling promise. 

“You were meant to be trapped, hidden away in the dark where no one can see the freak you are” the shadow hisses, its cold malice completely suffocating you. 

“This little expedition? It’s going to end you all. You’re going to kill James. You’re going to destroy your family. You will bleed out in the dirt, forgotten!”

A breathless, choked gasp tears from your chest, your heart hammering so violently against your ribs that you can barely draw air into your lungs. “No—please, God, no,” you shriek, a raw, unhinged sound born of pure terror as you claw blindly at the leather reins.

Ahead of you, James flinches at the sheer agony in your voice. He calls out to you, but his voice sounds suddenly muffled, warped by the heavy fog as if he is standing miles down a dark tunnel.

“Not real—don’t—you can’t listen to—”

His words slice through the mist, but the fog swallows the jagged pieces, cutting him off before they can fully reach your ears.

“TURN AROUND,” a chorus of jagged, overlapping voices suddenly screeches inside your skull, shattering the silence with a deafening volume. 

“LOOK AT WHAT YOU ARE. TURN AROUND AND LOOK AT YOURSELF!”

“I’m going to kill him,” you hyperventilate, the horrific certainty of the whisper taking root in your mind as your vision fractures into absolute darkness. Your hands shake violently against the leather reins. “I’m going to destroy them all. James, I’m sorry—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I need to get away from you, I’m going to kill you—”

You can see the desperate, rigid line of James’s shoulders just ahead of you. His head shakes fiercely as he fights the absolute worst of the urge to look back. 

He screams your name again, his voice cracking with a helpless panic that sounds terrifyingly distant, entirely drowned out by the roaring in your ears. “Shut your eyes— look at—listen to my—”

The sound shears away, isolated and distant, completely unable to break through the suffocating weight pressing into your spine.

“YOU ARE A MONSTER. TURN AROUND! LOOK AT THE FREAK YOU REALLY ARE!”

The screams multiply, clawing at the inside of your mind in a manic crescendo that demands your submission. 

“FACE WHO YOU ARE!”

“Get away from me!” you scream at the empty air, trembling so violently you can barely stay in the saddle. Tears stream blindingly down your face. “Stop it! Just shut up, shut up, please let me go!”

The forest around you begins to spin, the black trees warping into towering, clawed monsters.

The sheer, deafening volume of the screaming shatters something vital inside your mind. 

The psychological pressure snaps your logic completely. You lose all sense of time, space, and the warning rules James had drilled into your head. The terrifying, agonizing need to just make the screaming stop overrides every instinct of survival.

“Get away from me!” you shriek, a raw, primal scream ripping from the depths of your lungs.

And in a final, frantic, blind explosion of madness and terror—completely forgetting the rules of the Vale—you violently yank Maximus’s reins and turn your head, throwing your eyes wide to look directly behind you.

Before your eyes can focus on whatever horror is lingering a mere inch behind your saddle, a heavy, thick fabric slams over your head, completely enveloping your face and blocking out the entire world. The scent of leather, pine, and distinct Valenoran metal hits you instantly.

James.

He had anticipated the snap. With the lightning-fast reflexes of a trained guard, he had ripped his own heavy riding cloak off his shoulders and thrown it blindly over your head the exact millisecond you turned around. 

Through the heavy layers of wool, you feel the massive, solid bulk of Midnight pressing violently against Maximus, and then James’s strong arm wraps securely around your waist, holding you steady in the saddle.

“Don’t look,” James whispers, his voice right against your covered ear, strained and thick with a terrifying amount of adrenaline. “Don’t you dare move that fabric, Y/N. I’m going to turn Maximus around, and you’re going to follow my lead. Do you hear me? Just follow the pull.”

A violent, jagged sob rips from your chest. The reality of what you just did crashes down on you like a tidal wave. 

You nearly did it. You nearly looked. You nearly got yourself killed, or worse, trapped forever in the looping void of the mist, all because you let the forest break you. 

Your hands shake so violently you can barely hold the reins beneath the dark cloth.

Around you, the air turns absolutely feral. The moment the cloak blocked your sight, the voices didn’t just fade—they screamed. A deafening, agonizing shriek echoes from the path behind you, sounding as if you are physically burning alive.

“Take it off!” your own voice screeches in pure, unadulterated agony, clawing at the outside of the cloak. “Rip it! It’s suffocating you! She’s trying to kill us! TURN AROUND AND LOOK AT ME!”

You press your hands over your ears through the fabric, curling into yourself as you sob. But James’s steady hand remains on your waist, anchoring you to the earth. “Shh… it’s okay. It’s not real, alright? None of it is real. Just breathe and listen to my voice.”

“James…” you whisper out, the name catching in your throat as a fresh wave of tears burns your eyes in the pitch black. “James, I’m so scared. I’m really, really scared.”

“It’s okay. I know,” James’s voice soothes you, his tone incredibly gentle despite everything. “I know you are. But listen to me… I can’t fight this part for you. I can’t help you pull it out of your head. You gotta help yourself right now, yeah? You have to push it out so it goes away, okay? Come on, I know you can do this. You are so incredibly strong. Don’t let it take your mind.”

“How…” you whisper, your voice cracking as the phantom shrieks of your own voice continue to violently taunt your lineage and your failures just outside the wool. “How did you make them stop for yourself earlier? How did you quiet them?”

There is a brief pause, the steady clop-clop of the horses the only grounding rhythm left. “I didn’t make them stop,” James confesses quietly. “You did. You held my hand.”

Even though the heavy cloak is completely covering your face, blinding you, you instinctively turn your head toward the direction of his voice. “But… you’re holding mine right now,” you whisper, feeling the distinct, steady grip of his fingers securely woven through yours over the saddle pommel.

“Sure am,” James replies instantly, his grip tightening in a firm, unwavering squeeze. “And I will keep holding it until we are completely out of this hellhole. But the noise… you have to drown it out yourself. Find something else to listen to.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, squeezing his hand back. You close your eyes in the darkness of the cloak, forcing your mind away from the horrific accusations scratching at your ears. 

You search for something—anything—that belongs purely to you.

[i highly recommend playing City of Stars (Humming Version) here for a better experience]

Slowly, shakily, you part your lips. You start to hum.

It’s a low, soft melody. An old, familiar lullaby you had learned deep within the palace nurseries during your childhood, a song you used to sing to keep the night terrors away. 

At first, your voice is trembling, barely audible over the screeching of the Whisperers. But as you focus entirely on the notes, your humming grows steadier, louder, filling the dark space beneath the cloak.

Remarkably, the effect is instantaneous. The second the melody leaves your lips, the screaming outside the fabric hits a wall. The venomous voices of your duplicates start to sound distant, melting away into the background. 

You continue to hum, pushing the darkness away note by note, constructing a fortress around your own mind.

James lets out a long, ragged breath of sheer relief. “Great job. Good job, love. Just like that. Keep going.”

You keep humming, the rhythm guiding your breathing until your heart finally slows its frantic pace.

“Now, I’m going to guide Midnight back around, and we’re going to move forward together, okay?” James instructs softly.

You nod beneath the cloth. You feel the subtle shift as James guides Maximus’s reins, turning your stallion back toward the true eastern path. Once the horses are aligned, James reaches up. 

With a swift, careful motion, he pulls the heavy riding cloak off your head.

The dim light of the Vale rushes back into your eyes. You blink against the sudden clarity, your face completely tear-stricken, your cheeks flushed red from panic. 

James is sitting directly beside you on Midnight, his cloak swung back over his own shoulders, his hazel eyes staring at you from behind his glasses with a soft, incredibly proud smile.

“Continue,” he reminds you gently, his eyes locking onto yours with total reassurance. “Don’t stop.”

You offer him a weak, incredibly grateful nod, keeping the melody flowing steadily from your lips. 

With one final, lingering look to ensure you are entirely back with him, James turns his head forward, and together, you continue riding into the deep, dark heart of the forest.

The horses maintained their steady pace along the dark, narrow ledge, the rhythmic clop-clop of their hooves blending with the low, steady melody drifting from your lips. Though the terrifying shrieks of the Whisperers were muted, the forest itself seemed to resent the intrusion of the music. 

A sudden, violent gust of freezing wind howled through the bare, blackened branches above, rattling the wood like dry bones and threatening to tear the tune straight out of your throat. You shiver, pulling your hood tighter, keeping your eyes pinned directly on James’s back.

James keeps his gaze locked strictly on the rocky path ahead, his posture still rigid against the Vale. But after a long moment, a warm, unexpected smile breaks across his face.

He lets out an amused chuckle, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. “I didn’t know she taught you that one too,” he murmurs.

You pause your humming for a second, a sudden draft of cold air biting at your lips. A wave of confusion hits you. “What do you mean?”

“The song you were just humming,” James clarifies, shifting Midnight’s reins as the path narrows further. He doesn’t turn around, but his tone softens, losing the sharp, military edge it has held for hours. “It’s City of Stars, isn’t it?”

You let out a small breath, your eyes widening beneath your dark hood. A sudden, profound shock replaces the last remnants of your panic. “How on earth do you know that?”

James bursts into a hearty, genuinely delighted laugh. The sound is incredibly rich and human, cutting right through the eerie, dead silence of the valley. “What, you think you’re the only one she doted on? My mom taught it to you, obviously she taught me it too.”

A soft, tearful smile spreads across your face as a wave of memory washes over you. Euphemia.

“I had no idea,” you whisper, your voice catching slightly as Maximus steps over a gnarled, twisted root that bleeds a strange, dark sap onto the grey soil. “She never mentioned she sang it to anyone else. I always thought it was just our secret.”

James keeps his eyes trained strictly on the path ahead, but his shoulders relax just a fraction. “Ma wasn’t really one for hoarding secrets. If she found something beautiful, she shared it. Especially with the people she cared about.”

“Yeah,” you muse, staring at the dark leather of his saddle as the memory begins to play clearly in your mind. “I remember the night she sang it to me so vividly. It was a few weeks after my fifth birthday. I was sitting on the ledge of my bedroom window, looking out into the pitch-black night. Way far out in the distance, past the palace walls, I could see hundreds of tiny, glowing lights dancing in the dark.”

“The lanterns from Solistia,” James notes quietly, a small, knowing smile touching his lips.

You smile softly at the memory, the heavy tension of the Vale lifting just a bit. “Euphemia came into my room to tuck me in, and she sat right next to me on the stone sill. She told me those lights came from the City of Suns. That song… it’s actually where I got the idea for the floating lantern lights on my birthday.”

James pauses for a beat, his head tilting back just enough to show his profile in the twilight. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you say, looking up toward the canopy. “I wanted to recreate that exact feeling. Bringing a piece of that distant, impossible light right to the palace gates.”

You let out a soft chuckle, the warmth of the memory providing a desperate shield against the freezing mountain air. “And I remember turning to her, entirely deadpan, and saying, ‘But Effie, they don’t look like suns. They look like stars.’ She just laughed at me, stroked my hair, and explained to me that the sun was a star. She said that when a sun is far, far away, it loses its heat and just looks like a tiny, brilliant star in the dark. Then she started singing that exact lullaby to get me to sleep.”

“That sounds exactly like her,” he says, his voice thick with fondness. “She always had a way of making the massive, terrifying things in the world feel small and beautiful.”

He shifts his weight in the saddle, pulling his cloak tighter around his chest to ward off the damp chill. “You know, I practically grew up with that melody. She was determined to make sure I had some sort of artistic refinement, since my dad was entirely focused on teaching me how to swing a vanguard sword. She made me sit at the grand piano in our estate for hours until my fingers ached, teaching me the keys to that exact lullaby. I used to complain so much.”

“Did you play it well?” you ask softly, leaning forward slightly.

“Horribly at first,” James admits, a genuine smirk evident in his voice. “I think I cracked one of the ivory keys out of frustration once. But she’d just sigh, tap my knuckles with her fan, and make me start over. Gods… I’d give anything to hear her play it one more time.”

A heavy, sudden rustle echoes from the dark woods to your right, a sound like a dozen skeletal hands scraping against the dry bark. You and James contie forward, ignoring it.

“It’s a little nice, isn’t it?” you murmur, your voice trailing off as Maximus matches Midnight’s steady stride. “Finding out we actually have a lot in common. Even the things we didn’t realize.”

James lets out a soft, breathy laugh, though his eyes remain peeled on the dark path. “Well, yeah. I mean, I’m no prince, obviously, but we practically grew up together in the exact same place. Our worlds were only separated by a few palace corridors and a courtyard.”

You shift slightly in your saddle, pulling your cloak tightly around your chest as a low, ominous groan echoes from the depths of the black trees to your right. 

“James?” you ask softly, leaning forward. “Did you ever wish you were one?”

“Once, I did,” he admits, his voice dropping into a rare, vulnerable register. “When we were younger… yeah. I really, really wanted to be a prince. I used to look at Elias and Cassian and think about how effortless they made it look. The armor, the titles, the respect. I wanted that.” 

He pauses again, a thoughtful look crossing his face as he shakes his head. “But then… I sort of didn’t? As I got older, I realized the price of that crown. I mean, I’m still not entirely sure who I am yet beyond a guard, but I guess I’m satisfied. I don’t envy it anymore.”

You let out a genuine laugh, the tension leaving your shoulders for a brief moment. “You really are Lady Euphemia’smiracle. If anything, I wanted to trade places with you. I wanted to have her as my mother, to live in a house where someone actually hugged me when I walked through the door.”

James chuckles, the sound warm and grounding. “Hey, I thought we already agreed back at Valenora that we both are miracles. Though, I suppose I’m just an ordinary one. You’re more of a…” 

He hesitates, his head tilting back slightly toward you. “…a divine one.”

You shrug beneath your heavy cloak, looking down at your gloved hands. “Not really.”

Through his glasses, James shoots you a pointed, disbelieving look over his shoulder.

“Okay, fine,” you concede, huffing a small breath that plumes into a white cloud. “I know that, in a way, my powers are considered divine miracles or whatever. But I’m not special, James. Outside of these healing powers, I’m just a princess.” Your voice drops, a sudden, heavy raw honesty overtaking you as you look out at the terrifying wasteland of the Vale. “And if anything… lately, I just feel violent.”

James pulls lightly on Midnight’s reins, slowing her down just enough to keep pace with Maximus. The path widens slightly, but the atmosphere doesn’t loosen. The wind is low, making a dry, clicking sound through the bare branches like teeth.

“Violent?” James repeats. He doesn’t sound shocked or disgusted; he just sounds tired. He keeps his eyes moving, scanning the treeline before cutting a sharp look at you behind his glasses. 

“It means exactly what I said,” you mutter, your fingers tightening so hard around the leather reins that the cold stitches bite into your skin. “Everyone thinks it feels like some holy blessing to heal people. It doesn’t. When someone is broken and I have to fix them, that light rips out of my chest like it’s trying to tear me open from the inside out just to get to them.”

“And lately… since we left… I don’t feel like a princess anymore. I wanted to crack your head open with that pan, James. I wanted to hurt those guards at the gate. I’m angry. The magic itself feels violent.”

James looks over at you, his eyes dead serious, completely stripped of his usual roguish smirks.

“You’re alive,” he says, gesturing between the two of you, his voice cutting through the heavy mist. “I’m alive. We are currently trespassing in a graveyard that has swallowed entire armies, and we’re doing it on two horses and a couple of maps. You want to talk about violence? We are refusing to die out here.”

He pulls slightly on Midnight’s reins, forcing his horse a fraction closer until his stirrup brushes against yours, ensuring you can’t look away from him.

“Think about it. If it weren’t for that exact magic, you would have been poisoned. You would have died during your birthday ball,” he says, the harsh truth landing like a physical blow. “Your powers fought back. They gave you life when someone tried to steal it, and if in exchange they demand a little violence to keep you breathing, then to hell with it.”

The wind howls through the gnarled trees, but James doesn’t break eye contact. The exhaustion in his face gives way to a cold, stark reality.

“If anything, none of us are pure-hearted. Least of all me,” he continues, a bitter, self-deprecating edge bleeding into his tone. 

“There is a reason the king chose me to be your guard, Y/N. It wasn’t because I was good at royal etiquette or standing pretty at galas. It was because I could kill men. My entire worth to the crown—my capability to protect you—was determined solely by my capacity for violence.”

He leans forward slightly, his gaze locking onto yours with an absolute, unwavering intensity.

“So if that makes you violent,” he says flatly, his voice dropping into a quiet, hard register, “then sure as hell I am too. Guess we both are.”

A sudden, unexpected bubble of amusement hits you, cutting through the thick dread of the forest. You let out a dry, breathy laugh, shaking your head beneath your hood. “So much for being two divine miracles. More like violent ones.”

James huffs a small, rare smirk, his knuckles turning white against the reins as a low, unnatural groan echoes from the dark woods to the left. He doesn’t flinch.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his hazel eyes locking back onto the dark road ahead. “Could be both, though.”

You take a slow breath, clear your throat, and continue following the map, and side by side, you keep moving into the dark.

The lingering warmth of your conversation is violently shattered.

A sudden, ear-splitting sound of ringing screams echoes through the canyon, vibrating so violently it makes your teeth rattle.  Maximus rears up slightly, whinnying in panic as the very ground beneath the horses’ hooves begins to churn. 

Before your eyes, the ash-grey dirt cracks open, rapidly producing thick, pulsing black roots and oily veins that slither out like a nest of disturbed vipers.

“James…what is that?!” you panic, your voice turning thin and sharp as you desperately try to keep Maximus from throwing you.

James’s head snaps left and right, his usual vanguard composure fracturing. “Uh—I don’t know! There was nothing in the book about this!”

The veins spread with terrifying speed, blackening the trail ahead. James grips his reins, his eyes wide. “Okay, change in plans—RUN!”

You both dig your heels in, launching the horses into a hard, frantic gallop. Midnight and Maximus tear through the darkening forest, their hooves narrowly missing the writhing black tendrils bursting from the earth. But the Vale isn’t letting you escape. 

As you ride harder than ever, the atmosphere turns suffocatingly hostile. The gnarled trees seem to shift, their bark twisting into hollow knots that look exactly like dozens of glaring, unblinking eyes tracking your every move. 

The horrific sounds of mocking laughter and the ringing screams mix into a deafening cacophony around you, clawing at your sanity.

“Keep moving! Don’t slow down!” James roars over the noise, pushing Midnight to the absolute limit just a pace ahead of you.

Suddenly, a massive, thick black vein whips out from the undergrowth. It wraps violently around Midnight’s legs and pulls.

Midnight lets out a terrified, strangled scream. James screams too as the sudden whiplash throws him forward against her neck. 

Reacting on pure instinct, he reaches down and draws his vanguard sword, swinging the heavy blade down to cut the vein—but the moment the high-grade metal contacts the black tendril, it violently hisses.

The fucking metal melts away like cheap wax, dissolving right before his eyes.

Holy fuck. James’s face goes entirely pale, an expression of sheer, unadulterated terror overtaking him as his weapon is destroyed.

(And, yup. Screw you, Remus, for conveniently leaving out the tiny detail that the Vale has veins that actively chase people and melt master-crafted steel. Truly a fantastic omission for a guy whose entire job is writing things down.)

Before James can even process it, the vein yanks backward with monstrous force. The ground beneath them gives way completely, collapsing into a deep, massive hole that wasn’t there a second ago.

“James!” you shriek, the sound tearing from your throat as he and Midnight plummet straight into the pitch-black abyss.

You try to pull Maximus to a halt, to reach for him, but it’s too late. The slithering black veins violently swarm Maximus’slegs, binding his hooves in an inescapable grip. 

The white stallion collapses, and a wave of thick, pulsing darkness rushes up to meet you as you are forcefully pulled down, swallowed entirely by the deep, suffocating depths of the forest as darkness envelops you completely.

-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-

You open your eyes, blinking rapidly against the heavy, oppressive dark. Everything is a blur at first, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and rotting copper. 

Fuck. You passed out after the fall. 

You slowly lift your head, testing your limbs. It is a good thing you can’t feel physical pain, because judging by the sheer force of that drop, you just know your skull would be throbbing terribly right now.

You scramble to your feet, your eyes adjusting to the dim, bioluminescent glow of the underground cavern. A few feet away, Maximus is sitting on his haunches, shaking his white mane out, and Midnight is right beside him, already pushing herself up. Both horses are shaken, but otherwise completely fine.

Your heart suddenly leaps into your throat. “James?”

You spin around, searching the shadows until you find him lying on the cold dirt a few feet away. Your breath catches. James is on his back, his face twisted into pure agony. 

He must have landed directly onto a jagged, fallen tree limb—a thick, sharp branch is stabbed straight through his right bicep, pinning his arm brutally toward the ground. The fabric of his shirt is already completely soaked through with dark, heavy blood, and a ragged groan escapes his lips as his eyes flutter.

“James!” You rush over and drop heavily to your knees right at his side. Your hands hover over him, trembling. “Hey, hey—look at me. You must stay awake, okay? Keep your eyes open.”

His hazel eyes find yours behind his cracked glasses. He tries to form a roguish smirk, but it falls completely flat, his teeth gritted in pain. “So much for… staying alive and protecting you, yeah?” he rasps, his breathing shallow. 

“Worst guard… in history.”

“Shut up,” you command, your voice cracking as you immediately start tearing at the bloody fabric of his shirt, unclasping the heavy leather straps of his guard gear to expose the wound. “You’re not dying out here. I’m not letting you.”

Before you can stop him, James suddenly grunts, tensing his entire upper body as he reaches across with his left hand, gripping the jagged wood embedded in his arm. He prepares to violently yank it out himself.

“James, stop!” you scream, slapping his hand away from the branch. “Don’t touch it!”

“What—it didn’t hit anything vital,” he pants, sweat rolling down his pale forehead as he glares at the wood impaling his shoulder. “It’s just wood. If I leave it in, it’ll fester. I’m gonna be okay, I just need to pull it out—”

“No, you’re not,” you cut him off, your voice fierce and unyielding. You grab his good shoulder, forcing his attention back to you. “Listen to me. I’m going to heal you. It’s going to feel strange, but you have to trust me. Don’t fight it.”

James stares up at you, his eyes darting to your hands as a sudden, frantic alarm flashes across his face. He actively tries to twist away from your touch, his heels digging into the grey soil.

“Whoa, whoa, wait—yup, nope, absolutely not happening,” he stammers, his voice cracking with a mix of pain and genuine panic. “Y/N, literally right before this hellhole attacked us, you were screaming about how your magic feels like a violent fever that tries to rip you open from the inside out. You were terrified of it! And now you want to blast that straight into my open wound? I love you, but no way in hell.”

James freezes mid-breath, his hazel eyes widening in sheer, localized panic as the words hang between you in the freezing air. He stares at you, completely horrified at himself, the realization of what just slipped out clearly hitting him like a physical blow.

You both immediately ignore it, a silent, desperate agreement passing between you to pretend the slip of the tongue never happened. But you can’t ignore the sudden, frantic fluttering behind your ribs—the chaotic, breathless sensation of a thousand restless roaches suddenly taking flight in the pit of your stomach at the word I love you.

“Come on, James,” you urge as you lean over him to pin him with a fierce look, forcing your focus entirely back to the crisis. 

“You can’t exactly be this great, violent miracle that you are if you’re bleeding out in a cursed forest over a piece of wood. You just told me to let my magic be vicious if it keeps us breathing. Well, this is me keeping us breathing. You trusted me enough to follow me into a graveyard, now trust me to fix you.”

A weak, exhausted sigh escapes his lips, and he finally lets his head drop back against the dirt. “Yeah… hate when you’re right.” 

You breathe a sigh of relief and immediately position both of your hands directly over the gruesome wound, hovering just inches above the bloodied wood and torn flesh. You block out the lingering fear of the Vale. You focus every single ounce of your energy, your blood, and your thoughts entirely into the warmth humming deep within your chest.

You close your eyes, letting the light spark beneath your skin. 

Whenever you use your powers, this is how you focus—drawing inward and repeating those specific phrases to anchor the energy. You aren’t sure what the words mean or where they came from; no one ever taught them to you. Ever since you were a child, the chant has simply been there, rising to the surface like a deeply ingrained instinct that makes the manifestation smoother, helping you control magic.

Make the clock reverse,

Heal what has been hurt,

Change the Fates’ design,

Save what has been lost,

Bring back what once was mine.

Over and over, the words echo in your head, and beneath your palms, the blinding light finally erupts, flooding the darkness of the Vale with brilliant gold. 

You keep your eyes squeezed shut as the mantra loops on an endless track, but as the gold light pours into his wounded shoulder, your internal compass begins to violently spin out of control.

Usually, the magic is a simple, guided process. Your power acts like a bloodhound on a scent, instinctively drawn to the precise location of the damage to seamlessly stitch the flesh back together. But the absolute second your power sinks beneath James’s skin, that familiar clarity vanishes, and you are hit by a deafening wave of pure, disorienting static.

There is damage everywhere. 

A suffocating, crushing weight of decay presses against your senses from every single direction, so intense that it makes your mind reel. You try to filter through it, reaching out blindly through instinct to locate the specific tear in his bicep. 

You tell yourself it’s just because you haven’t healed a traumatic wound like this in years. 

Back in Valenora, your powers were a localized, dainty luxury—you used them to dissolve your father’s blinding migraines or to smoothly erase the shallow wrinkles around your mother’s eyes. 

You have never had to knit a mangled muscle back together around a jagged piece of wood. You assume the sheer scale of the agony you are sensing is just the raw, bloody reality of James’s injury. Though, even when healing Rowan’s blindness it wasn’t this intense.

Make the clock reverse,

Heal what has been hurt, 

you think, pushing harder, pouring every drop of the humming fever in your blood into the void. 

Change the Fates’ design,

Save what has been lost,

Bring back what once was mine.

Suddenly, a sharp, choked gasp rips from James’s throat.

The sound breaks your concentration. Your eyes snap open, your breath catching in your throat as the golden glow recedes from your palms. You look down, expecting to see his arm cleanly closed up, perhaps a bit of lingering blood to wipe away.

Instead, you find yourself frozen by the look on his face.

James is staring at you, but he isn’t looking at his arm. His eyes are wide, completely blown out with an expression of such profound, paralyzing shock that his jaw is literally slack behind his glasses.

It isn’t just the standard disbelief of a man who has witnessed a miracle. It is something much, much bigger. “Y/N…” he breathes, his voice barely a squeak. “What did you do?”

Your gaze instantly drops to his right arm. The jagged branch is gone—crumbled into nothingness. His bicep is completely whole, the flesh smooth, tanned, and flawless, without so much as a single scar or scratch to mark where the wood had impaled him. 

But as your eyes track outward from his arm, the breath is violently knocked from your lungs.

Within a perfect, sweeping twenty-foot radius centered entirely around where you are kneeling, the dark horror of the Vale has ceased to exist. It looks as though someone has sliced a hole straight through a nightmare and dropped a piece of a celestial paradise into the center of a graveyard.

The ash-grey dirt has completely vanished, replaced by a thick, lush carpet of vibrant, emerald-green moss and soft grass that smells of damp rain and spring. The suffocating, choked environment has been rewritten into something out of a master’s painting. 

Overhead, the jagged, rotting canopy of the dead trees has completely softened, bursting into bloom with delicate, glowing flora and hundreds of colorful flowers that cast a warm, heavenly glow over the forest floor. Where the terrifying, oily black veins once slithered to drag you to your death, there are now thick, blooming clusters of pale crystals and raw, shimmering diamonds sprouting from the earth like wild lilies.

Even the weather within the boundary has changed. The freezing, heavy fog has been entirely incinerated, replaced by a sudden, breathtaking burst of golden afternoon sunshine that washes over your skin with warmth. 

And directly overhead, piercing straight through the suffocating gloom of the valley’s canopy, sits a brilliant, fucking flawless rainbow.

But as your eyes scan the outer edge of the vibrant greenery, tracking the glittering floral roots, your blood turns entirely to ice.

Nestled perfectly within the blooming grass, glittering beneath the soft glow of the flowers, sits a scattering of pristine, glowing Lumicrysts.

The realization hits you like a physical blow to the chest. These are the exact, most sought-after treasures in the entire realm—the ones documented in the old texts of Remus’s books. This is the legendary hoard that the maddened King of Astravel had desperately protected by casting a horrific, indestructible black magic curse over the land, sacrificing his entire kingdom’s borders to ensure no outsider could ever steal them.

And you, with a single, desperate prayer to save James, had just accidentally erased that ancient black magic entirely.

Beside you, James slowly lowers his healed arm, his gaze moving from the vibrant green grass up to the sunshine, before finally settling on the glittering crystals at your knees. 

He lets out a breathless, uneven laugh, completely stunned into submission by the sheer absurdity of the reality sitting around you.

“Holy fuck,” James whispers, shaking his head as his eyes slowly lift to meet yours. “Y/N… I think you just broke the immortal curse of the Vale.”

a/n: well that was a rollercoaster -

The stone bench beneath him is uncomfortable enough to explain the ache running down his spine, but it does absolutely nothing to explain why he is waking up outside in the palace gardens in the first place.

His eyes narrow. What the fuck?

He pushes himself upright, immediately regretting the motion as a violent, blinding headache crashes through his skull. Pressing the heel of his hand hard against his forehead, he squeezes his eyes shut, desperately trying to piece together the fractured shards of the previous night: staying awake until dawn waiting for the healers to emerge with good news. Tracking you down to your quarters. The fierce, whispered argument that followed. Words exchanged about selfish acts and miracles. And finally, his promise to meet you in the gardens in just a few hours.

Then, nothing.

The timeline simply shears off into an abyss.

He has spent years training as a soldier. Soldiers do not accidentally sleep through entire nights on stone benches. More importantly, soldiers do not lose hours of memory only to wake up feeling as though somebody has taken a hammer to their skull.

Something is wrong, very wrong.

By the time he reaches the castle, the situation somehow becomes even stranger. Guards are scattered throughout the corridors in various states of unconsciousness. Some are only beginning to wake, blinking around in confusion while others remain sprawled across benches, walls, and floors. 

Servants appear equally bewildered, stepping around sleeping soldiers while attempting to continue their duties as though this is not the most bizarre morning in palace history.

James has just spotted Sirius and Frank dragging themselves awake near the entrance hall when the great wooden doors slam open with enough force to rattle the stone walls.

Every head snaps toward the sound.

Prince Alaric strides inside first. Despite the early hour, he is impeccably dressed, his posture rigid and commanding. Behind him trails Elias, who looks considerably less composed—his hair is a tangled disaster, his shirt hangs half-buttoned, and he is in the middle of what appears to be his eighth yawn in under a minute.

“Alaric,” Elias complains, vigorously rubbing his eyes, “I swear to the gods, if this isn’t important, I’m going right back to bed. I’ve never been this exhausted in my life.”

Alaric doesn’t answer. Instead, he stops dead in the center of the hall, his gaze sweeping over the unbelievable scene before him. He looks at the sleeping guards slumped against the walls, the ones groggily pulling themselves off the floor, and at at the utterly bewildered servants.

James has known the Crown Prince for years. He has seen Alaric annoyed, exhausted, and deeply frustrated. But he has never seen the terrifying, cold dread that suddenly bleeds the color from Alaric’s face.

“Where is she?”

The question cuts through the hall, a sharp, deadly edge that causes several people to instantly freeze in place.

Alaric turns in a slow circle, the reality of the empty room finally clicking into place. Then, with a sudden, thunderous force that makes half the room visibly jump, Alaric roars, “The princess is missing! Every available guard will begin searching the grounds immediately!”

The hall instantly erupts into chaos. Orders fly in every direction as guards scramble to their feet, shedding their grogginess in a heartbeat, while terrified servants scatter.

Amidst the noise, James feels his soul physically leave his body.

The princess is missing. His princess. The one woman he is specifically employed to protect, who has apparently vanished into thin air while he was taking a nice, long nap on a garden bench.

Absolutely brilliant. This is a catastrophic failure, the exact kind of treasonous negligence that gets a man publicly stripped of his titles and beheaded. At this point, James is fairly certain his life is already over.

His eyes lock onto Alaric, and his stomach violently plummets as the prince zeroes in on him, marching across the stone floor right towards James. 

Wonderful. The executioner has arrived personally. 

And, yup, this is it—James has a massive heart attack right there in the entrance hall and dies a painful death on the spot.

THE END.

No, but really—his heart drops so hard it feels like it punches straight through his ribs and lands somewhere near his knees. 

(He is very much alive, unfortunately, and still forced to face his impending doom).

Alaric halts directly in front of him, studying James’ pale, wide-eyed face before the rage in his expression suddenly fractures, giving way to a heavy, deeply tired sigh.

“Oh, James,” Alaric mutters, the anger yielding to a devastating sort of realization. “You too?”

James swallows hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. “Your Highness, I… I am so deeply sorry. I was supposed to meet her in the gardens, and I—I don’t know what happened. I sat down for a moment, and the next thing I knew, the sun was up.” He presses a hand to his temple, the lingering ache pulsing viciously. 

“I don’t understand how she could have slipped past me, or where she could have possibly gone.”

He expects Alaric to call for the irons, or at least to tear into him with the righteous fury of an older brother who’s about to get him jailed for failing at his only job.

Instead, Alaric just looks at him, his gaze sad and hollow.

“She didn’t slip past you, James,” Alaric says, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet register that cuts cleanly through the surrounding chaos. “Look around. She didn’t get taken, and she didn’t just sneak out. She put the entire palace to sleep.”

Behind him, Elias blinks confused, looking out over the sea of groggy guards before lifting a slow pointed finger. “Oh. Ohhhhh. Right. So that’s why everyone is unconscious. I thought the morning shift had just been canceled by father.”

“Congratulations,” Alaric mutters, not even bothering to look back at him. “You’ve finally caught up with the rest of the kingdom. Your medal is in the mail.”

Elias ignores the sarcasm entirely, a sudden wave of panic breaking through his exhaustion. “Wait, but hold on—how did she even manage that? She doesn’t know the first thing about apothecary—”

“The incense,” James breathes, the realization hitting him so hard the words leave his mouth before he can stop them. 

As Alaric and Elias both snap their heads toward him, James drags a hand down his face, feeling physically ill. “The incense she bought from that merchant at the parade yesterday. She spent twenty minutes asking dozens of highly specific questions about the smoke, the properties, and the burn rate. I thought she was just being her usual, overly curious self. But it wasn’t just the incense—it was the maps she was hoarding, the books, the sudden, bizarre interest in other kingdoms. She planned this. She planned every single second of this.”

Alaric looks entirely unsurprised, his jaw tightly clenched, proving he had already connected the dots a while ago. Slowly, he turns his gaze toward his younger brother.

Elias offers a weak, incredibly nervous smile, shifting his weight. “What? Why are you looking at me like I’m the one who did it?”

Alaric doesn’t waste words. He steps forward and smacks Elias across the back of the head. The crack echoes loudly across the stone entrance hall, prompting a few nearby guards to look over in terror.

“Ow! What the hell was that for?” Elias yelps, rubbing the spot with a wounded pout.

“What was that for?” Alaric repeats, his voice vibrating with a terrifying mix of brotherly fury and royal authority. “If I recall properly, you gave our younger sister a rare text containing enough advanced botanical and herbal knowledge to incapacitate a royal army as a birthday gift, Elias! You practically handed her the exact recipe to knock out her own guards and vanish into thin air!”

“How was I supposed to know she’d actually use it to drug a castle?” Elias argued back, throwing his hands in the air defensively as he scrambled to keep up with Alaric’s sudden, angry stride. “She’s always been interested in herbs and botany and all that nature stuff! I thought she was going to press flowers, not orchestrate a mass poisoning! Besides, if we’re handing out blame, Cassian literally got her a military-grade crossbow. Why aren’t you screaming at him?”

Elias shifted his voice into a high, mocking tone, tossing his head. “Oh, look at me, I’m Cassian, here’s a deadly weapon, hopefully my sister doesn’t shoot anyone with it!”

Alaric let out a grumble, not even pausing to look back at his brother. “Good luck explaining to Mother and Father that your thoughtful little gift is the exact reason their only daughter is currently missing. Because they are already furious, and I am not shielding you from them this time.”

The color drained from Elias’s face with alarming speed, his defensive posture instantly collapsing. “Oh, god. They’re already awake?”

Alaric didn’t answer. Instead, he kept marching, tossing a sharp command over his shoulder. “James. Follow me. The King is waiting for an update in the solar, and he specifically requested your presence.”

James’s stomach did a violent flip, but he immediately fell into step beside the crown prince, his boots clicking sharply against the stone floor. Elias trailed a step behind them, uncharacteristically quiet now that the terrifying reality of their parents’ wrath was setting in.

As they navigate the winding corridors toward the royal quarters, the silence grows heavy. Alaric keeps his eyes fixed ahead, his jaw tight as he calculates their next move. “Did she leave a note? Anything?” he asks James quietly.

“Not in her chambers,” James replies, his voice tight with a mix of exhaustion and guilt. “At least, nothing visible. It looks like she only took the essentials. Clothes, coin, and the maps.”

Alaric closes his eyes, a heavy sigh escaping him. “She’s smarter than we gave her credit for. She knew exactly how much time the incense would buy her.” He pauses, glancing sideways at Elias. “Where is Cassian, anyway? If the palace was thrown into an uproar, he should have been at the armory by now.”

Elias rubs the back of his neck, letting out a weak, nervous chuckle. “Oh, he’s still sleeping like a baby. I tried to shake him awake on my way down, but apparently, he inhaled a bit too much of that lavender-scented sleep drug, too.”

Alaric keeps up his relentless, punishing pace, his heavy boots echoing through the vaulted corridors as he leads the way toward the royal chambers. James walks half a step behind, his mind a chaotic whorl of guilt and confusion, while Elias brings up the rear, uncharacteristically subdued by the looming threat of their parents’ wrath.

When they finally reach the heavy, iron-reinforced oak doors of the throne room, the usual grand formality of the space has been entirely replaced by a thick, suffocating tension.

James immediately drops to one knee, lowering his head in a deep, reverent bow to the monarchs.

King Edmund is pacing a frantic, erratic path across the stone dais, his fingers gripping the hilt of his ceremonial sword as if it is the only thing keeping him anchored. Across the room, bathed in the weak morning light filtering through the stained glass, Queen Helena sits rigid upon her throne. She is leaning forward, speaking in a sharp, hushed whisper to Lily, the princess’s loyal lady-in-waiting, whose eyes are red-rimmed and downcast.

Hearing the doors close, King Edmund snaps his head toward them. His face is lined with a profound, exhausted stress that seems to age him ten years in a single night. His eyes immediately bypass his sons and lock onto James.

“James,” the King commands, his voice rough. “Get up. Come here.”

James rises, his chest tight, and steps forward into the light of the dais. “Your Majesties, I… I offer no excuses. I am profoundly sorry. I was meant to watch over her, to meet her in the gardens, and I failed to foresee this. I take full responsibility for my negligence.”

To James’s absolute shock, King Edmund doesn’t shout. Instead, the monarch rubs a weary hand across his face and exhales a long, shuddering breath, dropping heavily into his gilded chair. “Take it easy, son. Stand down. If anything… we should have seen this coming.”

“Seen it coming?” The Queen’s voice cuts through the cavernous room like a shard of ice. Helena turns sharply away from Lily, her gaze blazing as she glares at her husband. “Edmund, have you lost your senses? Did you happen to forget that our daughter is technically engaged? What, pray tell, are we supposed to say to the Delmars? That the crown princess of Valenora hassimply gone on a whimsical, unannounced holiday to parts unknown?”

She stands up, her silk skirts hissing against the stone as she takes a commanding step forward. “We cannot even announce that she is missing! If word of this leaves these walls, it will be a catastrophe. A scandal of the highest order. An unmarried royal princess, completely unaccounted for, wandering the wild lands alone? The nobility will tear this family apart.”

King Edmund closes his eyes, his jaw clenching as he holds up a hand to cut her off. “Helena, enough. You will handle the Delmars. Buy us time, fabricate a diplomatic retreat, tell them she has taken a vow of silence—I do not care. But I have far bigger worries right now than court gossip.”

The King reaches over to the small table beside his throne, picking up a small bundle of parchment. He gestures for Alaric and Elias to come closer, handing the papers directly to his eldest son.

“James, listen to me very carefully,” Edmund says, his voice dropping into a low, deadly serious register. “No one outside of this room is to know that the princess is missing. Aside from the three of you, Lily, and Cassian when he finally rots awake, the official narrative is that she is on a secluded retreat. There is a traitor in this castle, James. We both know the poisoning yesterday was an inside job, and whoever slipped her that toxin is still walking these halls.”

The King stood back up, looking squarely at the young guard. “If word spreads that she is out there, unprotected and alone, it will put her in far more danger than she already is. The wolves will hunt her. We must find her before they realize she’s gone.”

Alaric unfolded the parchment his father had handed him. Elias leaned heavily over his brother’s shoulder, his eyes scanning the elegant, familiar handwriting left behind in your empty chambers.

As James watches both of them read the letters—the quiet, devastating farewells you had penned to each of them—a heavy, collective sigh left Alaric’s chest. 

Alaric looks up from the page, his expression hardening. “She’s clever, Father. She left no tracks, and she took the best horse in the stables. But James and I will bring her back. We have to.”

His voice is steady, carrying the certainty of a future king.. He is already half-thinking ahead, planning routes, supplies, how quickly they can leave. “We’ll follow her trail, ride through the night if we have to, and have her home within the week.”

“No.”

The word is not shouted, but it carries enough weight to smother the throne room in silence.

King Edmund rises from his chair and steps down from the dais, placing a heavy hand on Alaric’s shoulder before his eldest son can move.

Alaric blinks, his rigid composure cracking with disbelief, while Elias’s jaw parts slightly.

James straightens immediately, every muscle locking into place as the king’s piercing gaze shifts away from his sons and settles on him. “You are not going anywhere, Alaric,” King Edmund says softly, though his eyes never leave James. “If the Crown Prince suddenly vanishes from court alongside a high-ranking royal guard, it will raise every red flag from here to the borders. The nobility will know within hours that something is wrong. To avoid suspicion from the court, the council, or the Delmars, life in this castle must continue exactly as normal. You will attend your briefings. You will shadow the council. And you,” he adds, shooting Elias a sharp look, “will act as though everything is perfectly fine.”

The king steps closer to James, his expression a grim mixture of trust and necessity. “James, you will be the only one sent to find her. You will track her wherever she has gone and bring her back to Valenora unharmed before the wedding in two months’ time. That is your window.”

James feels his breath catch in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Two months.

Two months to find a princess who clearly does not want to be found, somewhere in a vast and unpredictable world.

“You will leave tonight under the cover of darkness,” Edmund continues, his voice dropping lower. “Before you ride out, you are permitted to stop at your family’s estate, if you wish to do so. As long as you bring my daughter back safely, and as long as no one discovers who she is, your negligence from last night will be forgiven.”

His gaze hardens. “Every seven days, without fail, you will send an encrypted letter to the castle updating us on your progress. Do you understand?”

“I understand, Your Majesty,” James replies immediately.

Truthfully, there was nothing in the world he wanted more. 

The thought of you out there—alone, exposed to the harsh realities of the wild lands, unprotected against the very traitors who had tried to poison you just twenty-four hours ago—sent a cold, violent wave of distress straight through his chest. 

The further away you rode on Maximus, the more a suffocating ache tugged at his heart, pulling him toward the open road. James didn’t just want to find you because it was his duty; he needed to find you to ensure you were safe, sound, and breathing. 

He would tear the kingdom apart brick by brick if it meant bringing you home unharmed.

“I will not fail you, sire,” James vowed, bowing his head deeply. “I’ll bring her back.”

Right then and there, the solemn, heavy atmosphere of the throne room was abruptly shattered.

The massive oak doors groan open, and Cassian saunters inside. He is leaning back, stretching his arms high above his head as he releases a wide, profoundly loud yawn that echoes off the high stone ceilings. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, blinking groggily while adjusting his tunic.

“Why the hell is half the castle panicked?” Cassian mutters, his voice thick with sleep.

He takes a few more steps into the room, his boots dragging slightly before he finally looks up and takes in the scene.

Cassian’s arms slowly drop to his sides, his relaxed demeanor faltering into deep confusion at the sheer gravity in the air.

“Uh… what’s going on? Why does everyone look like someone died?”

“Your sister is missing, you absolute fool!” Queen Helena snaps, her voice cracking through the room like a whip. Cassian visibly flinches, any remaining trace of drowsiness evaporating from his face.

But the Queen isn’t finished. Her furious gaze immediately bypasses Cassian and pivots back to Elias, who instantly tries to shrink behind Alaric’s shoulder.

“And as for you!” Helena unleashes a torrent of royal fury, stepping off the dais and marching toward her middle son. “Elias, look at me! Did you honestly think it was a wise, intelligent decision to give your younger sister a rare text filled with experimental herbal recipes for her birthday? On the very eve of her engagement?”

“Your sister is missing, you absolute fool!” Queen Helena snapped, her voice like a whip crack that made Cassian visibly flinch, any remaining drowsiness instantly evaporating from his face.

Elias holds up his hands defensively, his face completely pale as the lecture rains down upon him, while Cassian stands entirely frozen by the door, trying to piece together how the world has turned completely upside down while he is taking a nap.

Alaric steps seamlessly into his role as the anchor of the room, raising a steady hand to cut through the mounting storm of their mother’s fury. “Mother, please,” he urges, his voice a calm, grounding force that instantly takes the edge off Queen Helena’s sharp breathing. “Lecturing Elias will not bring her back, nor will it undo the night. We have a plan in motion. Let us focus on that.”

Turning his sharp gaze back to the dais, Alaric looks at his father. “How exactly will the tracking proceed, sire? If James is going out there alone, he needs an advantage.”

King Edmund nods slowly, his expression pragmatic as he leans forward. “She cannot have gotten that far, Alaric. For all her cleverness and the speed of that stallion, she is utterly unfamiliar with the world outside these walls. She has never had to navigate a real terrain, sleep under the stars, or read a true horizon. She will slow down out of sheer exhaustion or hesitation.”

The King then shifts his eyes to the young guard. “I have already quietly dispatched the Master of Horse and a trusted armorer to prepare your equipment, James. Your saddlebags are being packed with the finest rations, fresh maps, and a coin purse that won’t draw suspicion. Everything you need for an extended hunt is being readied at the western stables as we speak.”

James feels a profound wave of gratitude break through his lingering panic. He steps forward, bringing his fist to his chest in a crisp, deeply reverent soldier’s salute. “Thank you for your trust, Your Majesty. I will not squander it. I give you my word as a knight of Valenora: I will find the princess, and I will bring her back to you entirely unharmed.”

“See that you do,” Edmund sighs, waving a dismissive hand. “You and Alaric are excused to oversee the final preparations.”

But as Cassian and Elias instinctively turn to follow them out, desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the throne room, the King’s voice booms like thunder.

“Not you two. Stay exactly where you are.”

Cassian freezes mid-stride, his jaw dropping, while Elias lets out a soft, defeated groan “James and Alaric can handle the logistics,” King Edmund states flatly, giving his two younger sons a look of profound exhaustion. “You two only ever manage to cause trouble when left to your own devices. You will stay here and help your mother devise the diplomatic cover story for the Delmars. Consider it your punishment.”

James and Alaric don’t wait to see the rest of the fallout. They exit the throne room swiftly, the heavy oak doors closing behind them and cutting off the sound of Elias’s dramatic complaints.

The moment they reach the quiet, shadow-draped corridor away from the guards, the rigid, unyielding posture of the Crown Prince vanishes from Alaric. Without warning, he closes the distance between them and pulls James into a fierce, tight embrace—a rare, raw display of emotion from a man who usually keeps his heart locked behind steel armor.

“Thank you,” Alaric mutters against his shoulder, his voice thick with a vulnerability he never allows the court to see. “Thank you for not refusing him.”

James blinks, slightly stunned, before returning the brief, grounding hug. As they pull back, James offers a weak, tired smile. “Alaric, I’m a guard. I can’t exactly refuse a direct command from the King.”

“You could have, and you know it,” Alaric counters fiercely, his hands gripping James’s shoulders. “My father respects you enough that if you had told him your head injury was too severe, or that the task was impossible for one man, he would have listened. He would have looked for another way. But you don’t hesitate.” Alaric’s eyes burn with an intense, desperate intensity. “I trust you more than anyone else in this kingdom, James. I know you will find her. So please… just keep my little sister safe. Keep her unharmed out there.”

James looks into the eyes of the brother who has carried the weight of the realm on his back for as long as they have been alive, and his resolve hardens into something unbreakable.

“I promise you, Alaric,” James says, his voice steady and solemn. “I won’t let anything happen to her. I’ll bring her home.”

Leaving the heavy atmosphere of the throne room behind, James makes his way down the sweeping stone corridors toward the western wing, where the stable guards are already preparing his horse and packing his travel gear.

His boots click rhythmically against the stone, but his mind is racing ahead. He passes the grand, arched entrance of the palace library, and his feet slow down of their own accord. 

Remus is always in there. And if James is being entirely honest with himself, he knows that if anyone had even a shred of a clue about where you went, it would be two people: Remus and Lily.

Whenever you had a burning curiosity or a wild idea, Remus was your living book of questions. And whenever you needed emotional support, Lily was your anchor. James can’t suppress the sharp, sudden pang of jealousy that twists in his chest. 

He wishes you had trusted him enough to tell him directly. But then, a cold wave of realization washes over him.

You did tell him. In your own way.

Now that he forces his aching brain to re-examine last night’s conversation in the garden, it is blindingly obvious. Your strange questions about whether it was inherently selfish to do something entirely for yourself… and James had looked you in the eye and told you no. 

In a bitter twist of fate, James had practically given you his blessing to run away. He has no idea if he regrets saying it. He knows you were suffocating here; he just wants you to be safe.

Steeling himself, James pushes past the heavy library doors. Inside, the scent of old parchment and beeswax is thick. He immediately spots Remus sitting at a long oak table, but he isn’t alone—Sirius is leaning against the edge of the desk, looking uncharacteristically groggy.

Sirius’s eyes light up the second he sees James. He lunges forward, throwing an arm around his shoulder in a loose, heavy hug. “Prongs! Thank the fucking gods. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“I’m in a massive hurry, Pads,” James replies, gently untangling himself from Sirius’ grip. His eyes lock onto the resident scholar. “Remus. I need you to think back to yesterday. When Princess Y/N came to see you, what exactly did she want?”

Remus blinks, caught off guard by the sheer desperation bleeding through James’s voice. He adjusts his spectacles, looking puzzled. “Uh… she just came in asking to see a bunch of old texts on neighboring kingdoms and specific map routes. Honestly, I thought she was just hyper-fixated on some epic romance or an old tale about a prince and his adventures. But… it was a little odd, I have to say. She was taking exceptionally detailed notes. Why? Is there something wrong?”

Sirius chimps in, rubbing the back of his neck with a loud groan. “Fucking tell me about it. Yesterday was completely cursed. I don’t know what the hell is going on in this palace, but I fell asleep near the entrance hall like a total piece of wood. Literally dropped dead to the world.”

Remus nods in agreement, sighing. “I’ve felt dizzy all morning myself. There must be some sort of virus sweeping through the castle. Half the servants are still practically stumbling around in a daze today.”

James ignores the virus talk—if only they knew. 

He steps closer to Remus, his chest tightening. “Routes, Moony. What kind of routes? What exactly was she looking at? Think.”

Remus frowns at James’ intensity, flipping open a ledger on his desk. “Well, let’s see… she asked about a few border areas, but she showed the most interest in the Kingdom of Solistia. And… the deathly Vale.”

Sirius lets out a dramatic, disgusted noise, throwing his hands up. “The Hallow Vale? As in the deathly hallow vale surrounding my family’s old kingdom, Astraval? Heavens above, that place is fucking creepy. A total nightmare. I still don’t know why my great-great-uncle decided to cast some wicked witchcraft over it generations ago, but it’s completely plagued.”

James feels the remaining color completely drain from his face. His stomach does a violent, sickening flip, and for a terrifying second, he feels like he’s actually going to throw up right on the library rug.

The Deathly Hallow Vale.

You can’t possibly be that reckless. You can’t be that stupid. A royal princess, completely untrained in the dark arts, riding a single horse straight into a forest cursed with literal black magic.

“James?” Remus asks, his voice dropping into a tone of genuine concern as he notices his friend trembling. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“I have to go,” James chokes out, already backing toward the door, his heart hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm against his ribs. He has to get to the western wing right now. He needs to move.

Sirius instantly lunges forward, his hand clamping onto James’s forearm like a vice before James can even take another step back. “Hey, James—what the fuck is going on?”

James freezes, Sirius’s grip anchoring him to the floor. The panic in his chest suddenly collides with a crushing wave of reality. Fuck.

He is about to leave the kingdom. He is riding out into the unknown tonight, and he might not see his best friends for weeks—if not months. If things go wrong in that cursed forest, he might not see them ever again.

Without a word, James lunges forward and throws his arms around Sirius, hugging him with a fierce, desperate tightness.

“I have to leave on a mission for a while,” James says, his voice thick as he buries his face against his friend’s shoulder. “It’s a private one. Completely classified, assigned directly by the King. I don’t know when I’ll be back, Sirius. But if anything—and I mean anything—happens to me out there… you take care of Ma and Pa, alright? Promise me.”

Remus immediately stands up from his desk, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on a minute. What do you mean mission? And what the hell do you mean if something happens? James, what is going on?”

James pulls back from the hug, shaking his head frantically. “I can’t say, Moony. I—”

“It’s about Princess Y/N, right?”

James snaps his head toward Sirius. He completely forgot that for all of Padfoot’s dramatic, lazy behavior, the bastard is dangerously smart when he wants to be. 

Sirius’ gray eyes are sharp, drilling straight into him. “She’s been abducted, hasn’t she? That’s why the castle is a goddamn graveyard this morning.”

“What? No! No one abducted her,” James blurts out, his instincts taking over. Realizing his mistake, he quickly darts past them, grabbing the heavy brass handles of the library doors and pulling them shut until they click securely, ensuring no wandering guards or servants can overhear. 

He turns back to his friends, running a stressed hand through his messy hair. “Okay, fine. She’s missing. But she wasn’t taken—she practically orchestrated a giant prison break and ran away from the kingdom on her own. And I’m the one who has to find her.”

Remus’s eyes widen behind his spectacles. “That’s what yesterday’s questions were about? The maps… the routes…”

“Yeah,” James says, pacing a small, anxious circle. “And now that you mention it, I’m almost certain she’s heading toward Solistia, which means she’s going to try to cut through the Vale. That’s where I’m following.”

Sirius’ face loses all of its usual humor, turning deadly serious. “James, you know how dangerous the Vale is. It’s not just trees and wolves. It’s dark magic. It’s unpredictable.”

“I know, I know,” James insists, trying to sound braver than he feels. “But I have Maximus’ tracks to follow, I have the King’s backing, and I’ll be safe. I swear.”

Remus sinks back slightly, running a hand over his face. “I can’t believe this actually happened. A royal princess… just packing up and leaving.”

“Right?” Sirius chimes in, a sudden, familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips despite the tension. “A runaway princess? That is so fucking cool. I mean, I’m a runaway too, except I got brutally banished by my psycho family and she just willingly bounced. So that’s great for her, I guess.”

Remus rolls his eyes dramatically, letting out a tired sigh. “Yeah, you got exiled, Sirius, because you tried to literally kidnap your baby brother on your way out the door.”

“I didn’t kidnap him!” Sirius fires back, his voice rising defensively as he throws his hands up. “I wanted him away from those birth-givers! I was trying to save his life, except Regulus was completely brainwashed by them.”

(James can’t help but note the phrasing; Sirius flat-out refuses to call his parents parents, opting for “birthers” or “birth-givers” instead because, in his eyes, that is technically all they are. It was a little odd to hear at first, but James and the others have long since gotten used to it.)

At the mention of Regulus, the fire in Sirius’s voice instantly dies out. James watches as a familiar, heavy shadow falls over his friend’s face. Regulus has always been Sirius’s soft spot—the one open wound that never truly healed after he fled Astraval.

Upon sudden impulse, without even fully thinking the words through, James steps closer to him. “If I pass by Astraval on my way around the Vale… I’ll speak to Regulus for you.”

Sirius freezes, looking up at James in absolute shock. “You… you would do that?”

“Of course I would,” James says softly, offering a genuine, reassuring smile. “I’ll find a way to get a message to him. I’ll tell him you’re alive and well. I’ll tell him you’re safe, that you’re happy here in Valenora, and that if he ever wants to escape that place, he can pay a visit. I’m certain my parents wouldn’t mind welcoming another prince into our home.”

Sirius stares at him for a long moment, his throat swallowing hard as his eyes soften with immense gratitude. A small, genuine smile breaks through his melancholy. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be fucking great, James. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” James says, checking the grand clock on the library wall. His time is officially ticking down. “I have to get to the stables.”

Before he can move, Remus and Sirius close the distance. James pulls both of them into one final, fierce, bone-crushing hug.

“Be careful, Prongs,” Remus murmurs near his ear, gripping his jacket tight. “Read the maps. Don’t take stupid risks.”

“Keep your eyes open, and get back to us in one piece, you idiot,” Sirius adds, clapping him hard on the back.

“I will,” James promises, tearing himself away from the warmth of his brothers. He turns on his heel and sprints out of the library, his heart heavy but his path finally, terrifyingly clear.

Emerging from the quiet sanctuary of the library, James is instantly hit by the buzzing chaos of the western wing. The palace is a hive of activity; despite the lingering grogginess clouding the air, servants are rushing through the halls with linens, and guards are shouting orders to secure the lower perimeters.

Before James can take more than a dozen paces, a senior guard detaches himself from a nearby squad and approaches him with a crisp nod.

“Sir James,” the guard says, his voice low and professional as he falls into step beside him. “Everything is ready for your departure. The perimeter checks are clear, and your clearance has been logged under the King’s personal seal. If you need to pass by the barracks to gather the rest of your personal belongings, or if you need time to say your goodbyes, we can delay the stable opening for another hour.”

James swallows the heavy lump in his throat, thinking of his parents’ estate, but shakes his head firmly. “No. Every minute we waste is a minute she gets further ahead. Take me straight to the stables.”

“Understood. Follow me.”

They step out into the brisk morning air of the western courtyard, where the scent of hay, leather, and polished steel hangs thick. Waiting in the center of the ring is a magnificent, jet-black destrier. The beast is massive, its coat gleaming like polished obsidian under the pale sunlight, pawing at the dirt with an eager, powerful energy.

The stable guard pats the horse’s muscular neck, turning to James as they approach. “This is Midnight. She’s one of the finest and fastest mares in the royal stables, bred for endurance and long-distance tracking. She can match the pace of a stallion if pushed, and she won’t spook easily in thick brush.”

The guard gestures to the heavy, oiled leather saddlebags securely strapped to the mount. “As per the King’s direct orders, we’ve packed everything you could possibly need for a two-month hunt. Inside, you’ll find a fresh set of wilderness maps detailing the border regions, three weeks of lightweight, high-density rations, a fully stocked field medic kit with antitoxins, flint, tinder, and a hidden, heavy coin purse sewn into the inner lining so it won’t draw any unwanted attention from bandits.” 

The guard hands James the thick leather reins. “She’s freshly shod and ready to run, sir.”

“Thank you,” James says, his fingers tightening around the leather reins as he prepares to stirrup up and mount. “You’ve done an exceptional job.”

He places his boot into the stirrup, ready to swing himself into the saddle, when a frantic shout echoes across the courtyard.

“James! Wait! Hold on a damn second!”

James pauses, hovering mid-motion, and turns his head to find Elias and Cassian sprinting out of the castle doors toward him. Both princes look completely disheveled, their royal capes flying wildly behind them as they skitter to a halt by the horse.

Cassian is panting slightly, his face still a bit pale from the earlier lecture, but his expression is entirely serious now. Elias steps forward first, resting a heavy, uncharacteristically firm hand against the side of James’s saddle. All the joking, playful energy from before has completely evaporated from the middle prince.

“You find her, James,” Elias says, his voice thick with a raw, protective desperation as he looks up at the guard. “You track her down, and you bring her back to us safely. I don’t care where she’s hidden herself, or how angry Alaric or our parents are. Just… keep her safe out there. Don’t let anything happen to her.”

“I will, Elias. I promise you,” James says, his voice settling into a steady, unshakeable register despite the absolute storm raging inside his chest. He holds Elias’ gaze and hopes that your brothers know that James will do everything in his power to bring you back.

Before he can even adjust his grip on the leather reins, Elias steps onto the mounting block and pulls him into a fierce, bone-crushing hug that nearly knocks the wind out of him. “You’re a great friend, James. A brother, really. Just bring our sister home in one piece.”

James lets out a breathless, emotional laugh, clamping his arm around Elias’s shoulders and clapping him firmly on the back. “Yeah. You too, Elias. Take care of things here, and try not to get killed by the queen before I get back.”

As Elias steps down, his expression still taut with anxiety, Cassian moves in next. He grips James’s forearm first in a tight warrior’s salute before pulling him into a heavy, solemn embrace. “Send updates, Potter. Letters with every single detail. Don’t keep us in the dark, and don’t try to be a hero if things get ugly out there. If you find yourself in over your head, or if you need reinforcements, you write the word and I’ll break out of this castle myself, army or no army.”

“Every seven days, without fail,” James promises, looking Cassian dead in the eye. “You’ll know everything I know.”

Just then, the heavy stable doors click open once more, and Alaric steps into the bright courtyard. He doesn’t say a word, his royal composure firmly back in place, but he walks up to the side of James’ mount and offers a single, deep nod of profound, silent gratitude. 

As Alaric steps back to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his brothers, James’s eyes drift past them, scanning the shadow-draped edges of the western wing’s awning. There, standing completely frozen in the far, quiet corner of the stables, is Lily.

She doesn’t approach the royal circle or say a single word aloud, knowing the ears of the castle are always listening. But as James locks eyes with her across the distance, he can see the absolute, suffocating worry swirling in her gaze. 

If anyone in this palace truly understands the psychological depths of what has happened—the sheer desperation that drove you to run—it’s her. James knows that Lily knows exactly why you escaped, and in this heavy, shared silence, an unspoken pact forms between them. 

She doesn’t have to beg him to be careful, and she doesn’t have to ask him to protect you from the dangers of the road. James already knows. He reads the silent plea in the line of her shoulders.

Slowly, Lily gives him a single, firm nod—an expression of total, unreserved trust that pierces right through his lingering self-doubt. James nods back, the silent vow sealing his resolve like molten steel.

With a deep, centering breath, James swings his leg over the saddle and settles fully onto Midnight. The massive, jet-black mare shifts beneath him, her muscles bunching as she senses the urgency, her iron-shod hooves clicking sharply against the cobblestones. James gathers the heavy leather reins, wrapping them securely around his gloved hands, preparing to strike his boots against her flanks.

But just as he looks down to say his final goodbyes, Prince Alaric steps forward into the center of the ring.

The Crown Prince of Valenora places his right fist over his heart and bends deeply at the waist, delivering a formal, reverent bow of absolute respect to a common guard such as James.

James’ breath catches sharply in his throat. Before he can even process the sheer shock of the gesture, Elias and Cassianfollow their older brother’s lead, dropping their heads and bowing deeply. 

Within a heartbeat, like a ripple across water, every single guard on duty, every stable hand, and every servant in the western courtyard snaps to attention and bows toward the horseman, honoring the man carrying the fate and the heart of the royal family on his shoulders.

James feels a thick, emotional lump form in his throat, a brilliant, bittersweet smile breaking across his face. He doesn’t say another word—there is nothing left to say. He offers his brothers, his princes, and his comrades one final, sweeping wave of his hand.

“Hyah!” James barks, pressing his heels sharply into Midnight’s powerful sides.

The magnificent black mare rears back slightly, letting out a spirited snort, before launching forward into a thunderous gallop. The heavy iron gates of the western courtyard swing wide in perfect synchronization, and James streaks through them.

The crisp, biting wind whips fiercely against his face, clearing the last lingering remnants of the palace incense and the suffocating guilt from his mind. 

He cuts a straight, merciless path through the outer fields of Valenora, his eyes fixed entirely on the darkening horizon ahead, heading straight toward the terrifying, black-magic-choked depths of the Dark Vale.

-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-

Hour after exhausting hour bled together as James pushed Midnight relentlessly forward, the rhythmic thud of her hooves against the dirt roads acting as his only company. The pristine, manicured lawns of the inner palace slowly gave way to the sprawling farmlands of Valenora, and then to the rougher, wilder outer territories. 

He didn’t stop for lunch, and he barely paused to drink from his canteen. By the time the sky bruised into a deep, heavy violet and night finally settled over the land, James finally relents. Knowing he can’t risk laming his prime mount in the dark, he camps on a secluded ridge just outside one of the kingdom’s outermost border villages, falling into a light, restless sleep with his hand resting flat against the hilt of his sword.

The moment the first pale cracks of dawn pierce the horizon, James is back in the saddle. The morning air is crisp, biting at his cheeks, but his eyes are tracking the ground like a hawk. 

And then, he sees it.

Cut deep into the damp mud of a fork in the road are the distinct, heavy imprints of horseshoes. Not just any horse—the stride length, the depth of the print, and the slight, familiar curve of the left front shoe tell him everything he needs to know. It’s definitely Maximus.

A sudden surge of adrenaline completely washes away his exhaustion. 

He spurs Midnight into a swift trot, tracking the trail through a dense thicket of pines until it clears into a small, overgrown meadow right on the boundary line of Valenora’s territory. Nestled against the edge of the tree line sits a very old, weathered wooden hut, its roof covered in moss and its windows caked in grime.

James slows Midnight to a silent walk, his gaze sweeping the perimeter. He can immediately tell someone is inside—there’s a faint, almost imperceptible column of grey smoke curling from the stone chimney. But the definitive proof is waiting right around the back. 

Standing under a makeshift lean-to stable, happily crunching on a pile of wild apples, is a familiar, massive white stallion.

Fucking finally.

A massive, triumphant grin breaks across James’ face. It took him exactly fourteen hours of hard riding and tracking to find you. 

(Honestly, not too bad for a lone guard hunting a princess who tried to vanish off the face of the earth.)

James happily hops off Midnight’s back, tying her reins loosely to a low-hanging branch. He creeps up to the side of the hut, keeping his footsteps completely silent against the grass, and peers through the dirty glass window. The small main room looks entirely empty.

Deciding he’s done waiting, James steps up to the front entrance. He grips the rusted brass handle, gives it a sharp, practiced jolt with his shoulder, and easily breaks the rotted wooden lock with a dull snap. He pushes the heavy door open and steps inside, the floorboards groaning beneath his boots.

He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs, just about to call out your name and reveal himself.

Suddenly, a shattering, blood-curdling scream tears through the air directly behind him.

James spins around on his heel, his hand instinctively flying to his sword—but he’s a fraction of a second too late. 

The last thing his eyes register is a flash of bright, flying metal, your terrified, wide-eyed face, and the massive cast-iron cooking pan you are wielding like a broadsword.

CLANG.

The sound echoes like a church bell inside his skull. A blinding explosion of white light flashes behind his eyes, instantly followed by total, suffocating darkness. 

As his knees buckle and he crashes heavily to the floorboards, the single, deeply embarrassing thought James has before darkness takes him is: Of all the weapons in the kingdom, she chose a fucking frying pan.

a/n: anyone caught the tangled references? :')

this chapter definitely feels a bit more rushed and fast-paced, and that was intentional to a degree since it’s written from james’ pov, as will be the next chapter. because princess doesn’t appear in this one, i didn’t want to drag the pacing or overextend scenes that didn’t need it.

that said, i’m not completely in love with how it turned out 😭 but i think sometimes not every chapter has to be perfect, especially when it’s just setting the foundation for what’s coming next. and on the bright side, the journey has officially started and we’re finally outside the palace, which is honestly one of my favourite parts of the story.

from here onwards, the focus shifts much more into romance, character development, slow-burn progression, adventure, and a lot more self-discovery for everyone involved. things are finally moving ;)

and that’s it for this chapter. there isn’t much of a long rant since i’m feeling quite blue today, but as always i hope you had a happy reading. i’d genuinely love to hear all your thoughts. stay safe, healthy, and hydrated, and i’ll see you in the next ones <33

***

Finals were right around the corner, and to say you were slammed with work would be an understatement. You’re a serial procrastinator and end up in this position every year: stressed, overworked, overtired, and a mess. 

Except this year, you had a boyfriend to help you.

Not just any boyfriend. Your dream boyfriend and childhood crush: James Potter. Your first friend at Hogwarts. The man who made you believe that, perhaps, not all men were awful (though they usually were). 

He looked down at you with sweet eyes, a warm hand extended for you to take. You were looking up at him, sleep weighing down your face as you lethargically interlaced your fingers with his. 

“But my stuff…” You mumbled, surveying the piles of books and notes you have scattered on the couch.

“I’ll get them,” James had replied simply. Instinctively–like it was a given that he’d gather your belongings once you’d safely made your way to your room. 

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s my job, isn’t it?”

His reply confirmed your thoughts. 

Tenderly, he’d wrapped his arm around your waist and walked you up to your room. You had tried to insist he didn’t–it was only a ten minute walk back down to Slytherin–but he wouldn’t budge. He never did. 

“How’d you know I was awake anyhow?” You had asked him, whispering in the echoey corridors. 

“‘Cause I know you,” he told you.

You had rolled your eyes. “You’re so cryptic.”

He had chuckled at this. It was a tired sort of sound because it was ridiculously past his bedtime, but not forced. You always liked seeing him like this–out of his element. Not the James that was on. Talking to five different people at once; doing his Potions essay on the Quidditch pitch then hopping on his broom to soar through the sky at heights that made you nauseous. 

When it was late, James let himself turn off. He let himself be, without the pressure of wanting–no, needing–people to like him. He’d never admit it then, but that side of him always came out when you were together. He was never able to help it. 

“What I mean is that I know you are a workaholic who, somehow, focuses better at night. I also know you lose track of time easily, and before you know it it’s four in the morning and you still haven’t slept. And you have your early Runes class tomorrow morning, which means you need to get to bed relatively early.”

Your exhausted brain didn’t pick up on his detailed (and spot on) analysis of your living habits, so you just smiled.

You arrived at the entrance to the Slytherin common room and nearly cried at the prospect of your bed waiting for you. “Thanks for retrieving me,” you hummed, looking up at him. 

“Anytime.” He planted a kiss on your forehead, and you could practically feel his lips turn up into a smile. “Night.”

You waved, slipping back into your room. You could feel your lips turning up into a smile of their own. 

Fifth Year: December

You’d always resented the winter holidays, because it meant you had to go back home. 

It’s not that you had a horrible home life or anything; no, you always had a roof over your head, food on the table, and you never had to worry about finances. You were always grateful for that.

But it always kills you, just a bit, to come back home and find everything is the same. Your mother is still angry, your father is still emotionally stunted, and you are still pulled into the middle of it. 

Most of your friends were celebrating the peculiarly long break you had this year; something about the days final exams were scheduled meant you had nearly three weeks off. You, on the other hand, were dreading it. 

You’d come to rely on the telephone as your source of motivation. As long as you got to talk to your friends (and now your boyfriend), you’d be able to get through it.

Christmas Day was particularly awful that year. Your parents got into a fight–which is not out of the ordinary–but it ended with the three of you in a shouting match, rehashing awful childhood memories and pointing fingers. It was a fruitless argument, but those were the ones that hurt the most.

The air in your house was thin, tightening your chest and blurring your vision. You heard your parents’ voices fade into nothing but muted soundwaves as you stared off into the fireplace. Your hands had been anxiously knotted together in your lap for the last hour as the argument continued. In a haze, you had found yourself standing up from the couch and going upstairs. You couldn’t sit there any longer. 

You went to your room and locked the door behind you as tears streamed down your cheeks. The only person you had thought to call was James.

You had frantically dialed his phone number, praying he’d answer. You had rubbed your nose against your sleeve, trying to sound less like you’d just been crying. 

“Hello?” A woman’s voice had come through the other line. 

“Hi, is James in?” You’d squeaked out, sniffling again. 

“James, the phone for you!” 

Not five seconds later, an out of breath James spoke into the microphone: “This is James. Who’s calling?”

You swallowed past the lump forming in your throat. “Hi, it's me.”

“Hey! Happy Christmas!”

“Happy Christmas,” you’d replied with as much enthusiasm as you could. “How’s…how’s your day going?”

A brief pause. “Pretty good. You know we don’t really celebrate, but we’ll usually still just make cookies and whatnot. Mum makes the best snickerdoodle cookies…”

He continued to ramble on about his loving family, and you couldn’t help the tears from rolling down your cheeks. You were green with envy, truthfully. You knew you’d never be able to have that with your parents, not after everything that’s happened between them; between all of you.

“That sounds great,” you told him, and a sob snuck out. “You should bring some of those cookies back to school.”

Another pause. “Love?”

Your breath caught in your throat at his tone. You knew that tone all too well, his patented “I’m-not-an-idiot” tone.

“Mhm?”” you had hummed. 

You could hear walking, you assumed it was him going into another room. 

“Tell me what’s going on,” he murmured delicately.

“Nothing,” you’d lied. “Just wanted to hear how you were doing.”

“You’re crying. I can hear it in your voice.”

“I’m…I just have a little cold. My nose is all stuffy.”

He hated when you did this. When you would shut down and refuse to talk about what’s making you upset. It drove him up the wall–not because he was actually frustrated with you, but because he was frustrated you wouldn’t let him help you. 

“Is it your parents?” he had asked tentatively.

You completely broke down.

You felt like an idiot, curled in on yourself as you tried to stifle sobs. You knew you were crying about more than just what had happened with your parents earlier in the day. You were crying because your boyfriend spent his Christmas making cookies and laughing with his parents, while you made every effort to interact with your own parents as little as possible. 

“I just want to go back to school,” you finally said, hot tears escaping from your eyes. “I got into a huge fight with my parents, again, and I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

“How’d it start?” he had asked.

“I don’t even know. I think with breakfast? Somehow, our breakfast got fucked up, and my mom just…lost it.”

“And after that?”

“Well, the breakfast debacle spiraled into my dads’...issues. And you know my mum, so she managed to turn it into an argument. We had a cheery conversation about my childhood. Which always ends well.”

In that moment, James didn’t know what to make of your deliberate pause while talking about your father. He also didn’t want to mention how, no, he didn’t know your mum. He really didn’t know much about your parents, nothing more than that you’d never seen eye to eye with them. Other than that, he had always noticed how you avoided talking about them altogether. 

There was another silence, but this one was more weighted. You knew he was trying to pick his words, because saying something like, “Have you tried just talking to them?” would end horribly. 

He had settled on: “You know it’s not your fault, yeah?”

“What isn’t?”

He himself wanted to cry at that response. “Your parents’ fighting.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Yeah.”

“I’m so sorry, angel.”

“It’s fine,” you said, wiping your nose on your sleeve again. 

He had sighed in a sad sort of way. “It’s not, though. You should be able to come home and not have to walk on eggshells.”

“Yeah,” you had hummed, starting to calm down. 

“You believe me, right?”

“Yeah,” you had repeated, but you had both known you didn’t quite believe it. 

“I know you don’t like to talk about…well, a lot. You’re guarded, which is understandable given everything. But from what you’ve told me about your parents and your home, I can say that it takes an extraordinary person to remain kind in an unkind environment.”

“James–”

“Hold on. You are a good person, whether you’ll let yourself believe it or not. Everyone who knows you can say that about you, love. I just want you to know that it’s not your fault.”

Your mind had gone completely blank at this. His words sat heavily on your chest, the weight of them grounding you in an unfamiliar sort of way–his words had always had that effect on you, even early on in your relationship. 

The only thing you could think to say was: “Thank you.” 

Fifth Year: February

You always knew your boyfriend was around simply because you could hear him.

Whether it was his bright, booming laugh, his school shoes striking the ground whenever he walked (though he swore up and down he didn’t strut), or simply his talking voice, James Potter would be heard. 

You had been tucked away in your little corner of the library, hunched over the table as you tried your best to write about Blast-ended Skrewts for your Advanced Care of Magical Creatures course. You had no idea what you were writing about, but you were always able to bullshit pretty well. 

Your head had shot up at a certain cadence of walking through the library. Shoes clacking on the ancient wooden planks and a chorus of “hey’s” and “how are you’s” to accompany it. It was like James’s entrance music. 

A pair of warm hands had landed on your shoulders, spooking you despite your awareness of his presence. “What’re you doing Saturday?” James whispered into your ear.

You had been waiting for this question, of course, because Saturday was Valentine’s day. And so, you had concocted your perfect annoyingly charming answer. 

“Well, this guy from Potions asked me to dinner…” you had told him coyly, batting your eyelashes up at him. 

He had rolled his eyes. “Not funny.”

He had pecked your forehead before grabbing the chair next to you and planting himself on it. “So, Saturday. What’re you doing?”

You had smiled. “Hanging out with you.”

“Correct! My smart girl.”

You had giggled, just quiet enough that Madam Pince couldn’t detect it even with her extraordinary hearing. 

“So, I’ve made us a reservation at Legna’s in Hogsmeade.”

“Legna’s? Fancy.” You had furrowed your brows in…shock? Confusion? 

“Well, it’s Valentine’s day.”

“You don’t have to do all that for me, Jamie. I can pay half.”

He had chuckled. “Never gonna happen.”

You had nodded, smart enough to know that you’d never get him to budge on paying for you. “What time?”

“Seven? Is that good?”

“That’s perfect, yeah.”

He had hummed, frowning a bit. “You alright?”

“Mhm. Just stressed about this paper. Almost done, though.”

“Okay, good. Let me know if you need any help, yeah?”

He had kissed you, but you were left with an uneasy feeling in your stomach.

Valentine’s Day. A day all about love. 

It was hard to date someone who was so comfortable with love: loving his parents, loving his friends, being in love. That area of life has always been foreign to you. James has been teaching you the language of love, little by little, for the last four months you’ve been going out. How it’s okay to ask him to help you with things instead of trying to do it all yourself; how to be vulnerable without running away; how to show up for him. Not that you were selfish, but you’d been studying how he liked to be loved. You’ve noted that he loves how you remember all the little things about him, like how he takes his tea. He likes when you come to his Quidditch matches and tell him that he played well. He really likes when you hold his hand out of nowhere, you’ve noticed. 

Those were all things you’d become comfortable with. 

But you had realized all the things you were uncomfortable with come Saturday night. 

Fifth Year: Valentine's Day

You had been in your room getting ready and listening to Lily’s Pet Sounds vinyl that she had brought down. The first hour was spent wondering how in the hell Brian Wilson wrote God Only Knows, then Lily harassed you into finally preparing for the evening. You and her had always had an affinity for Muggle music, given you were both Muggleborns yourselves. 

“Almost done?” She had asked you, ever the one for punctuality. 

You had simply nodded as you clipped your earrings on. “Do these look good?”

She had smiled as she came up behind you with a necklace. “You look beautiful. Now hold up your hair.”

“He’s totally going to tell you he loves you,” she had whispered into your ear in that giddy sort of tone. 

Any excitement you had about the evening sunk into a heavy weight in your feet, planting you at your desk. Your stomach churned, and before you had the ability to analyze why you had that reaction, you were panicking trying to make it go away. Because it was 6:45, and your boyfriend would be here in fifteen minutes to take you out to a lovely Valentine’s Day dinner.

“What?” You had asked her, your breath hitching.

“C’mon. Valentine’s Day? Taking you out to a fancy dinner? You know James; he loves all this romance stuff. He’s totally going to tell you he loves you!”

She had seemed more pleased at his potential declaration than you were, and it was written all over your face. 

“You do love him, right?”

You turned around, wide-eyed and blinking rapidly. You did love him. He knew that, surely. You wouldn’t be going to all of his Quidditch matches and helping him study for his exams if you didn’t love him. 

“Yeah, I think so,” you had replied apprehensively. “Anyways, do you think the white sweater looks good with this?”

You spent the next ten minutes sitting anxiously on your bed and pretending to read a book. James had arrived promptly at seven o’clock, and Lily had nearly squealed when he did. Honestly, she should’ve been the one going out on that date. 

The first thing you noticed when you opened the door was the bouquet of flowers he had clasped in his hands. Hydrangeas–your favorite. 

“Hi,” he said in an uncharacteristically nervous voice.

“Are those for me?”

“No, they’re for the house elves. Yes, they’re for you, angel.”

You let out a small giggle. “Where’d you find hydrangeas in February? And in Scotland?”

A cocky smiled was plastered on his face. “I have my ways.”

You quickly grabbed the flowers and placed them on your dresser before walking out the door. He immediately took your hand in his, and the warmth of his touch helped to soothe your nerves. Just a bit.

“You look beautiful,” he had whispered. 

“Thank you.”

The restaurant was not as fancy as you’d envisioned, and you were thankful for it. You had been worried you were underdressed upon arriving, but your waiter complimenting your sweater had helped to ease your worries. 

You and James were now sharing a piece of chocolate cake, which you had managed to devour despite having filled up on bread and pasta beforehand. You were too busy with the cake to notice that James had stopped helping you finish it. No, now he was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed and smiling. 

You had huffed out a laugh, smiling. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he had said with a shake of his head. 

“You’re grinning at me eating chocolate cake.”

“Nothing! I just love you, that’s all.”

Suddenly, you weren’t so hungry anymore. Your entire demeanor had shifted in one sentence, actually. You put down your fork and chugged water to buy yourself more time to brainstorm a response, but it was like your brain had just shut down. The only thing circling through your mind was: “Lily was right. Lily was right.”

You had looked down into your now empty water glass, refusing to make eye contact with him. You didn’t want to see the look on his face; the heartbreaking image your mind had conjured up was enough. 

“Love?” He’d said after a minute of silence. 

You finally looked up at him, but immediately regretted it. You were met with a pair of wide eyes, darting rapidly between yours from behind his glasses. You wanted to look away, but it was like you were forcing yourself to continue looking at the hurt on his face. It was as if you wanted yourself to see the hurt you were inflicting on him, just to twist the knife. 

“I think–I’m gonna go get some air, I think.”

“Get some air?” He parrotted back at you in disbelief.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, scurrying off to the door. 

The night air was colder than you remembered it being two hours ago, and since you had departed so quickly you’d forgotten your jacket hanging on the back of your chair. Now, you were practically curled in on yourself on a bench outside the restaurant, trying to preserve as much body heat as you could. 

It didn’t take long before James appeared through the double doors you had just escaped out of. Even from afar, and even in the dark blue night sky, you could see how devastated he was. James always wore his emotions across his entire body, and right now his shoulders were slumped, his steps were slow, and his head was hanging. The boy’s ability to wear his heart on his sleeve was his greatest strength and his cruelest curse. 

“You forgot your coat,” he said to you quietly as he sat down next to you. He held it up and helped you into it, which shattered your only broken heart into tiny smithereens. 

“Thank you,” you whispered. 

He stood up, then, and for the first time in months he didn’t extend his hand to help you up.

“We should probably head back. It’s getting late.”

You had just nodded. 

You two walked in silence for the first five minutes. You hadn’t realized the simple comfort of his hand in yours, his occasional kisses, and the warmth of his shoulder brushing against yours had provided until now. He grew more despondent as you two retreated back to the castle. He didn’t talk, but you’d known him long enough to tell when he was upset. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally worked up the courage to tell him. After a moment you added: “I don’t know what’s wrong with my brain, and I’m sorry if that sounds dramatic but that’s the best I can think to explain it right now.”

You saw him nod out of your peripheral vision. 

“James?”

“Yeah?” He replied in a raspy voice.

“You deserve someone who can tell you that they love you.”

More silence, this one more excruciating than the last. You exhaled a shaky breath, shoving your freezing hands in your pockets.

“Why can’t you?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know. But it’s not your job to try and find out and fix me.”

He turned to you then, brows furrowed angrily. “Why’re you acting so…so nonchalant about all of this?”

“What?” You practically scoffed.

“You’re just standing there, telling me I deserve better like this means nothing to you.”

“It–That’s not what I’m doing.”

“For Christ’s sake, for once in your life will you just let yourself feel something?”

You practically halt your steps right there. 

For all the flack James gets about being a class clown and a jock, it’s easy to forget how intelligent about emotions he really is. He was raised by two of the most emotionally stable parents you have ever seen; it’s no surprise that he’s the way he is. Euphemia and Fleamont Potter cultivated a house brimming with love and music and magic, and James was surrounded by it from the moment he was born. He is a class clown and a jock, yes, but he is an extraordinarily kind human, too. Compared to all the other class clowns and jocks, he’s a bit of an anomaly. But from where you’re standing on the other side of the emotional spectrum, he seemed so unfamiliar at that moment. 

James feels everything, whether he wants to admit it or not. You do, too, but you’ve become an expert at refusing to acknowledge it.

You have mastered the art of compartmentalization. Anything that’s uncomfortable gets shoved away to the depths of your brain–but the weight of it never leaves. It sits heavy on you everyday, everywhere. In your sleep, as you eat, while you’re with your friends. 

“You know how you said I deserve someone who can tell me that they love me?” He asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, you deserve to be able to tell someone you love them without feeling like there’s a boulder sitting on your chest.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at that, if only just a little. And when he cracked a smile back at you, some of that weight lifted, and you felt air finally flow into your lungs for the first time the entire walk back.

“You don’t have to walk me down to the dungeons, James,” you told him, the sound of your footsteps echoing throughout the castle. 

“Well, tough.”

“I’m sorry,” you told him again. 

He took a deep breath, nodding. “I know.”

“You don’t seem angry.”

“I know it’s not your fault. Can’t really be angry with you then, can I?”

The stone snake carved into the wall of the dungeons slithered upward at your presence, revealing the entrance to the Slytherin common room. “Thank you for walking me back.”

“Anytime,” he said with a small smile.

He turned on his heel and took one step before whipping back around.

“Can we remain friends?” He asked.

“Friends would be nice, yeah,” you replied. His small act of kindness had you practically tearing up. No one other than James would ask to be friends with his ex after they’d just broken up with him the same night. 

“Alright, then. Goodnight.”

sorry this is lowkey ass don't hate me k thx!! <33

You were not an easy girl. 

And everyone knew that. 

There had never been a specific reason as to why you refused to do anything sexual. Muggle religion wasn't something you were raised with, you weren't a hopeless romantic waiting for "the one", and you certainly weren't scared of sex. It was simply something you weren't necessarily interested in.

It started in fifth year when Marlene barged into your shared dormitory with messy hair, swollen lips, and her face flushed. Despite being fifteen at the time and more focused on what you were going to eat for dinner, you weren't clueless. You knew simply by her appearance that she'd ventured into territory none of you had yet, and her words only confirmed that assumption. 

"Sirius and I snogged for nearly two hours!" She had exclaimed as she fell back onto her bed with a sigh. "It was... like nothing I've ever felt."

"Alright, you've snogged him before, this isn't anything new," Mary had commented from her desk, her eyes not leaving the book she'd been reading. 

"But it is different this time," Marlene replied. She sat up, and the smirk on her face was one of pure mischief. "We were only one step away from shagging."

That caught everyone's attention. 

The rest of the evening was spent with millions of questions being asked, and Marlene's cheeky answers that were accompanied by explicit details. By the time everyone was tucked in bed, you were far too aware of what was hidden underneath Sirius Black's trousers, and it left an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of your stomach. 

At first you thought it was only because it was Sirius who she'd been describing in that manner. He was an immature, loud, and annoying boy. You were cordial with him, when he wasn't acting like a complete asshole. So, it only made sense that the idea of him naked didn't appeal to you specifically. 

That write-off only lasted a year.

Sixth year brought tales from all the girls. Mary had spent the summer with some muggle girl, and while you had nothing against that, you still didn't care much for the details. Around Christmas, Lily began to go out with some Ravenclaw boy and that relationship progressed far faster than anyone expected. By the time spring started to melt away the cold winter of sixth year, all your friends had stories to share, and you began to realize that maybe sex wasn't for you. 

When you and all the girls began to hang around the Marauders more, you became brutally aware of the fact that you were the only person who hadn't snogged someone. You hadn't even been on an official date. And unfortunately, they were all aware of those facts too. 

During lunch one day near the end of the term, Charlie Wright, a Hufflepuff boy in your year approached the Gryffindor table, specifically you who sat at said table. He tapped your shoulder gently causing you to nearly choke on your pumpkin juice as you whipped your head around at an inhuman speed. 

"Uh, hi Y/N," he greeted you with a small laugh as you coughed from the pumpkin juice in your throat. 

"Hi, is there something I can help you with?" You asked, too aware of all the eyes of your friends on you in that moment. 

He shrugged. "I was just wondering if you'd fancy going to Hogsmeade with me this weekend." 

Your eyes widened for a second. "Like a date?"

"Well... yes." 

"Oh!" 

You ran a hand through your hair nervously. Charlie was cute, and you'd spoken with him plenty of times during Herbology to know he was a decent enough guy. But you'd never pictured him in that way. You'd never really thought of anyone in that way. This wasn't the first time you'd been asked out, not at all. However, this was the first time you'd been asked out in front of all your friends who you could tell from your peripheral vision, were watching with hopeful, entertained eyes. You'd never wanted to be able to disapparate more in your entire life.

"Listen Charlie, you're really nice, but I'm just... not interested in dating," you said, already feeling the awkwardness in your chest. 

Unlike some of the other guys who'd asked you out in the past, Charlie was a good sport. Instead of frowning or questioning you further, he gave you a curt nod and said something along the lines of, "I understand." Then, he turned and disappeared into the crowd of students. 

You turned back to your plate, a slight hint of red on your cheeks, and picked up your cup of pumpkin juice. Down the table, you caught James setting his fork down a bit harder than necessary, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly before he looked away. But you were already focused on the warmth spreading across your face, too embarrassed to notice—or care.

"Are you serious Y/N?" Marlene asked from across the table.

"No." You pointed to the person sitting a bit further down the table. "He's Sirius." 

It earned a quiet chuckle from Peter and Remus. Marlene, Mary, and Lily on the other hand remained silent, all their eyes on you with clear disappointment written on their faces.

"Charlie is a nice guy," Lily said. 

"And he's cute!" Mary added a bit louder than you thought necessary.

You held up your hands in defense. "I never denied those facts."

"So what's the problem then?" Marlene leaned forward, genuinely baffled. "He asked you out. He's nice. He's cute. Those are literally the only requirements."

"My requirement is that I actually want to go," you said flatly.

"But why don't you?" Mary pressed. "Like, actually. Is it because of something he did?"

"No, it's just—" You set your fork down, already exhausted by the conversation. "I'm not interested in dating. I've told you all this."

Sirius, who'd apparently been listening from a few seats over, let out a loud laugh. "Mate, she's rejecting Charlie Wright. Charlie's like, objectively a catch."

"She's mental," James muttered, but there was something almost protective in his tone—a quality that didn't match the casual dismissal of his words.

"I'm not mental," you said, feeling heat creep up your neck again. "I just don't want to date him. Or anyone."

Lily exchanged a look with Marlene that made your stomach twist. "You've never even kissed anyone, Y/N. Don't you want to at least try it?"

"Not particularly, no."

The table went quiet. It was the kind of quiet that made you want to disappear.

"Blimey," Remus said softly. "She really hasn't."

"The Saint," Sirius announced suddenly, raising his goblet like he was making a toast. "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Y/N L/N—the only person in this entire friend group who's never snogged anyone and has absolutely zero interest in changing that fact."

A few people laughed. Most of them looked at you like you'd grown a second head.

You stared down at your plate, feeling the weight of their collective confusion settle over you like a heavy cloak. The Saint. Of course that's what they'd call you. Because apparently, not wanting something everyone else wanted made you some kind of anomaly.

You picked your fork back up and took a bite of food, hoping they'd move on. They didn't.

~~~

"The Saint" title didn't leave you all summer. In fact, it became almost like a nickname for you. Each time you were around any of your friends, there would always be at least one question of if you'd gone against your dubbed name. And each time you'd give the same answer, only solidifying the name. 

By the time you were sitting in the already too full compartment on the Hogwarts Express to return for your final year of school, you'd gotten used to the name. You weren't embarrassed or ashamed of who you were, and no amount of commentary would change that. So, as you sat crammed between the window and Marlene, you flipped through some muggle magazine Lily had brought you casually. 

The compartment door opened, but you didn't look up, too focused on the Muggle magazine to care who'd decided to squeeze in.

"Good day Prongs, Padfoot," Remus's voice filled your ears. "Nice of you two to finally join us."

James leaned against the window frame near you, while Sirius threw himself into the remaining seat.

"What can I say Moony? My adoring fans needed to see me. Though it seems Prongs here had almost as many admirers as I did," Sirius replied.

You finally glanced up from the magazine, ready to make some sarcastic comment about Sirius's ego—and the words died in your throat.

James Potter was standing less than two feet away from you.

James Potter, who you'd known since first year. James Potter, who you'd sat next to in Transfiguration countless times. James Potter, your friend.

Except—

Merlin's beard.

When had he gotten so... tall? He had to be at least 6'1 now, maybe taller, and the way he leaned against the window frame made his shoulders look broader than you remembered. His skin was deeply tan—he'd always been darker than the others, but the summer sun had turned him golden in a way that made your stomach do something very strange and unfamiliar.

His hair was still a mess, still defying every law of physics, but somehow it looked... good? Like he'd just run his hand through it and it had fallen perfectly into place. And his face—had his jaw always been that defined? Had his eyes always been that warm shade of hazel? Had his nose that was always a bit longer than the others always been so appealing to look at?

You realized, with growing horror, that you were staring.

And then he shifted slightly closer, and you caught his scent—something clean and woodsy, like broomstick polish and cedar, mixed with whatever soap he used and something underneath that was just... him. It hit you like a physical force, and suddenly the compartment felt about ten degrees warmer.

Your mouth had gone completely dry.

This was James Potter. James. The same James who'd made stupid jokes at breakfast and helped you with Charms homework and been part of your friend group for a year. The same James who'd been sitting at that table when Charlie asked you out, who'd muttered that weird comment you hadn't understood.

So why did you suddenly feel like you couldn't breathe properly?

Why was your heart doing that thing—that rapid, fluttery thing you'd heard Marlene describe a hundred times but had never, ever experienced yourself? Why did your face suddenly feel all flushed as if you were embarrassed? 

"You alright there, Y/N?" James asked, and oh Merlin, even his voice sounded different. Deeper. "You look a bit flushed."

You absolutely were not alright.

Because apparently, over the course of one summer, James Potter had become the most attractive person you'd ever seen in your entire life.

And you—the Saint, the girl who'd never been interested in anyone—were suddenly, overwhelmingly, catastrophically attracted to him.

~~~

The next three months were absolute torture.

It started small. Innocent. The kind of things that had happened a hundred times before without you batting an eye.

In Transfiguration, James leaned over to borrow your quill because he'd forgotten his—again—and when his fingers brushed yours, you nearly dropped the damn thing. Your skin burned where he'd touched you, and you had to grip the edge of your desk to keep from doing something completely mental like grabbing his hand back.

It was just a quill. You'd passed him quills before. This was normal.

Except it wasn't. Not anymore.

At meals, he'd sit next to you like he always did, except now you were painfully aware of every single point of contact. His thigh pressed against yours under the table, warm and solid, and you couldn't focus on anything else. Not the food. Not the conversation. Just the heat of him bleeding through your robes and the way your pulse kicked up every time he shifted closer to reach for the salt.

You tried to rationalize it. Told yourself it was just proximity. Just your brain misfiring because you'd never experienced attraction before and didn't know how to handle it and James had always been conventionally attractive to the majority of the female population at Hogwarts.

But then he'd laugh at something Sirius said, and you'd catch yourself staring at the way his throat moved. Or he'd run a hand through his hair in frustration over a Potions essay, and your stomach would flip. Or he'd lean down to pick up your dropped book in the common room, and suddenly he was right there, close enough that you could smell that cedar-and-something scent again, and you forgot how to form words.

"Here," he said one evening, handing you the book with an easy smile. The same smile he'd flashed you so many times before that you hadn't thought twice about.

Your fingers brushed his as you took it. Again. Always again.

"Thanks," you managed, and your voice came out strangled.

He gave you an odd look—concerned, maybe—but you turned away before he could ask if you were alright. Because you weren't. You were losing your mind.

The worst part? He had no idea. None of them did. You were still the Saint, still the girl who didn't care about any of this, and you couldn't exactly announce that you'd suddenly developed an all-consuming obsession with James Potter's hands and the way he smelled and how stupidly tall he'd gotten.

You'd spent five years being completely unaffected. Untouchable. And now you couldn't sit next to him without your heart trying to break out of your chest.

It was humiliating.

By the time Gryffindor won their first Quidditch match in November, you were wound so tight you thought you might snap. The common room erupted into celebration, someone produced Firewhisky from Merlin-knows-where, and for the first time in months, you saw an escape.

If you couldn't think straight around James Potter sober, maybe you just needed to stop thinking altogether.

The Firewhisky burned going down, but you didn't care. You took another sip, then another, letting the warmth spread through your chest and blur the edges of your overthinking brain.

The common room was packed—everyone shouting, dancing, celebrating Gryffindor's victory. Someone had charmed the record player to play louder than it had any right to, and the bass thrummed through the floor. You'd lost track of Marlene, Lily, and Mary somewhere in the chaos, but it didn't matter.

Because James was across the room, still in his Quidditch gear, hair a complete disaster, laughing at something Sirius said. And for once, you weren't trying to look away.

The alcohol made everything easier. Simpler. You weren't the Saint anymore—you were just a girl at a party who wanted something, and for the first time in your life, you were going to take it.

You crossed the room before you could talk yourself out of it.

"Potter," you said, and your voice came out steadier than you expected.

He turned, eyebrows raising in surprise. "Y/N. Hey—"

"You played well today."

"Thanks, I—"

"Really well." You stepped closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him. Close enough to smell the sweat and broomstick polish still clinging to him, mixed with that cedar scent that had been driving you mad for months. "You know, I've been thinking."

His eyes widened slightly. "Yeah?"

"I've been thinking," you continued, emboldened by the Firewhisky and the way he was looking at you—like he couldn't quite believe this was happening, "that I've been an idiot."

"You're not—"

"I have been." You reached up, fingers curling into the front of his Quidditch robes, and his breath hitched. "Because I've spent three months trying to pretend I don't want to do this."

"Do what?" His voice had gone rough.

You pulled him down and kissed him before you could logically stop yourself.

For a second, he froze—shocked, maybe, or trying to figure out if this was real. But then his hands came up to cup your face, and he kissed you back like he'd been waiting for this just as long as you had.

And oh.

Oh.

His mouth was warm and tasted like Butterbeer, and when his tongue swept against yours, your knees actually went weak. One of his hands slid into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you made a sound you'd never made before—desperate and wanting and completely beyond your control.

This. This was what everyone had been talking about. This heat, this need, the way your entire body lit up like someone had cast Incendio under your skin.

You pressed closer, and he groaned—actually groaned—his other hand dropping to your waist to pull you flush against him. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest, could feel the way his fingers tightened in your hair like he was afraid you'd pull away.

You weren't going anywhere.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard, his eyes were dark and slightly dazed.

"Merlin," he breathed.

"Yeah," you agreed, because coherent sentences were beyond you.

His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, and he was looking at you like you'd just turned his entire world upside down. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Enough to do that," you admitted. "Not enough to regret it."

His lips curved into a slow, devastating smile. "Good. Because I've wanted to do that since the train."

Your stomach flipped. "The train?"

"The train," he confirmed. "You looked up at me and I thought—" He shook his head, laughing softly. "I thought I was going to lose my mind."

"Join the club," you muttered, and he kissed you again—softer this time, but no less intense.

Around you, the party raged on. But all you could focus on was James Potter's mouth on yours and the realization that you'd been missing out on this for eighteen years.

You were never going to be the Saint again.

And you were completely fine with that.

~~~

You woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and a stomach full of dread.

Oh Merlin. Oh Merlin, what did I do?

The memories came back in flashes—your hands in James's hair, his mouth on yours, the way he'd groaned when you pressed closer. You'd kissed James Potter. In front of everyone. While drunk.

He probably thought it was a mistake. A drunken impulse you'd want to forget.

You spent breakfast avoiding eye contact with everyone, pushing eggs around your plate and trying not to think about how badly you'd humiliated yourself.

"Y/N."

You looked up. James was standing beside the table, still in his pajamas, hair even messier than usual. "Can we talk?"

Your heart sank. Here it came—the gentle letdown, the "you're a great friend but—"

You followed him out into the corridor, bracing yourself.

"Look," he started, running a hand through his hair. "About last night—"

"It's fine," you interrupted. "I was drunk, you were drunk, we can just forget—"

"I don't want to forget it."

You blinked. "What?"

"I don't want to forget it," he repeated, stepping closer. "I've wanted to do that for months. Since the train. Before that, actually—do you remember when Charlie asked you out?"

"Yeah?"

"I wanted to hex him," James admitted, laughing softly. "Right there in the Great Hall. I know I had no right to, but I couldn't stand the thought of you going to Hogsmeade with him."

Your brain was short-circuiting. "You... what?"

"I've been mad about you since fifth year," he said simply. "I just didn't think you were interested in any of that. In anyone."

"I wasn't," you breathed. "Until now."

His smile was blinding. And then he was kissing you again—slower this time, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.

When you broke apart, you were both grinning like idiots.

"So," he murmured against your lips. "Want to do that again sometime?"

"Yes," you answered instantly. "Definitely yes."

~~~

"Sometime" turned into every spare moment you could find.

Between classes, in empty corridors, behind tapestries, in the Astronomy Tower after dark—you and James were constantly sneaking off to snog like teenagers who'd just discovered what kissing was.

Which, in your case, wasn't far from the truth.

A week after the party, he pulled you into an empty classroom after Transfiguration, and you ended up pressed against the door with his hands in your hair and your legs wrapped around his waist, feeling more of him than you ever thought possible. 

When you finally came up for air, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

"We should probably talk about this," he said, his breath ragged.

"Talk about what?" You kissed his jaw, his neck, anywhere you could reach.

"About—Merlin, that's distracting—about what we're doing."

You pulled back slightly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He set you down gently, keeping his hands on your waist. "I want to take you on a proper date. To Hogsmeade, or—I don't know, anywhere. I want to do this right."

Your stomach twisted. "James—"

"I know you've never been interested in all that," he continued quickly. "But I fancy you. A lot. And I don't want this to just be... I don't know, sneaking around and snogging in empty classrooms."

"I like sneaking around and snogging in empty classrooms," you said, only half-joking.

He laughed. "I do too. But I want more than that. Eventually."

You bit your lip, trying to organize your thoughts. "I don't need all the romance right now," you admitted. "I don't need dates and flowers and—all of that. I just..." You took a breath. "I just really want to try all of this. With you. The physical stuff. I've spent eighteen years not caring about any of it, and now I can't stop thinking about it, and I don't want to wait."

His eyes darkened. "You want to—"

"Yes," you said firmly. "I want to. With you."

He was quiet for a moment, studying your face. Then he cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over your lips. "Okay. We'll go at your pace. Whatever you're comfortable with."

"But?" You could hear the unspoken word.

"But eventually," he said, smiling, "I'm taking you on a real date. Because you deserve that too."

You kissed him instead of answering. But you were smiling against his mouth.

~~~

It happened two weeks later.

The common room was empty—everyone at dinner—and you and James were on the couch, his hands under your shirt, your fingers working at the buttons of his.

"We should go somewhere," he murmured against your neck. "Somewhere private."

Your heart was hammering. "Your dorm?"

He pulled back to look at you, eyes searching. "Are you sure?"

You nodded. You'd never been more sure of anything.

The walk up to the boys dormitories felt like a walk across the entire castle. Your heart hammered in your chest, your hand a bit sweaty in his as he guided you up the stairs. When he pushed open the door and led you inside, you were met with a sight that seemed very fitting for a room that held four teenage boys.

Clothes thrown around on one side- Sirius's you were sure of by the inappropriate muggle magazine pictures hung on the bed frame- books stacked on trunks, the overwhelming smell of cologne, and more Quidditch gear than you'd seen in your life. James led you to his bed, which was not made, but still not nearly as messy as Sirius or Peters. 

"They won't be back here for a while, you know how much Sirius eats," he mentioned, his voice lighthearted. 

"He eats as if he's been starved his entire life," you replied, trying your hardest not to sound nervous despite how fast your heart was racing. 

James stood in front of you so close that you had to tilt your head up to maintain eye contact. "We don't have to-"

"I want to." You wrapped your arms around his neck. "I really do."

Without another word, he kissed you, slower this time. The backs of your knees hit the mattress, you sat, and he followed you down, bracing himself above you.

"Hi," he said softly.

"Hi."

His hand slid under your shirt again, palm warm against your ribs, and you arched into the touch. He took his time—kissing your neck, your collarbone, pushing your shirt up inch by inch until you sat up to pull it off completely.

He stared at you for a long moment, and you resisted the urge to cover yourself.

"You're so beautiful," he said, voice rough.

"You're not so bad yourself, Potter."

He grinned and kissed you again, and then his hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, sliding up to unclasp your bra with surprising dexterity.

"Impressive," you managed.

"I've been practicing," he deadpanned, and you laughed, swatting his shoulder.

"On who?"

"Sirius. He's very supportive."

You were still laughing when he kissed you again, but the laughter died when his mouth moved lower—down your neck, across your collarbone, closing over your breast.

"Oh—" The sound escaped before you could stop it, and he hummed against your skin, clearly pleased with himself.

Your hands found his shirt, tugging insistently, and he pulled back long enough to yank it over his head. You'd seen him shirtless before—Quidditch practice, swimming in the Black Lake—but this was different. This was yours to touch.

So you did. Ran your hands over his chest, his toned abdomen, his shoulders, the muscles of his back. He shivered under your touch, and the knowledge that you could affect him like that sent a thrill through you.

"Well, let's see it," you said, fingers moving to his belt.

He helped you, kicking off his trousers and pants until he was completely bare, and—

Oh.

"Is that—I mean, is it supposed to—" You cut yourself off, face burning.

James was trying very hard not to laugh. "Yes. That's... yes. That's normal."

"Right. Obviously. I knew that."

"It's okay to be nervous," he said gently, settling beside you and hooking his fingers in the waistband of your skirt. "We don't have to—"

"I want to." You lifted your hips, letting him slide the fabric down along with your knickers, and then you were both completely naked, and this was actually happening.

He kissed you again, long and slow, one hand sliding up your thigh. When his fingers brushed between your legs, you gasped.

"Okay?" he murmured.

"Yes. Don't stop."

He didn't. He touched you carefully, watching your face, adjusting based on your reactions. When he found the right spot, your hips bucked involuntarily.

"There," you breathed. "Right there."

He circled that spot with his thumb, and pleasure sparked up your spine—sharper and more intense than anything you'd felt on your own. His other hand was in your hair, his mouth on your neck, and you were drowning in sensation.

"James—"

"I've got you," he said against your skin. "Let go. I've got you."

The pleasure built and built until it was almost too much, breaking over you in waves that left you gasping his name. He worked you through it, gentle and steady, until you collapsed back against the pillows.

"Holy shit," you managed.

He was grinning. "Good?"

"Understatement."

He kissed you again, and you could feel him hard against your hip. You reached down, wrapping your hand around him experimentally, and he groaned.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to," you said. "Show me?"

He covered your hand with his, guiding your movements, and you watched his face—the way his eyes fluttered closed, the way his breath hitched when you twisted your wrist.

"Okay," he said after a moment, stilling your hand. "Okay, if you keep doing that, this is going to be over embarrassingly fast."

You smirked. "Really?"

"Really." He shifted, settling between your legs, and your heart kicked up again. "Are you sure about this?"

"Yes." You pulled him down for a kiss. "I'm sure."

He reached for his wand, murmuring a contraceptive charm, and then he was lining himself up, pressing forward slowly.

It hurt. Not terribly, but enough that you tensed.

"Breathe," James said softly, stilling. "Just breathe. We can stop—"

"Don't stop." You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Keep going."

He moved slowly, carefully, giving you time to adjust. The pain faded into pressure, into fullness, into something that wasn't quite pleasure yet but wasn't entirely uncomfortable either. You'd never felt so full in your life. When Marlene had gone into explicit detail of how it felt to be shagged, you thought her description of "fullness" was absurd. But now, in this moment, you finally understood exactly what she meant. And you loved it.

"Okay?" he asked, voice strained once he was fully inside.

"Okay. You can move."

He did—slow, shallow thrusts that gradually deepened as your body relaxed around him. And then he shifted his angle slightly, and—

"Oh—"

"There?" He did it again, and pleasure sparked through you.

"Yes. There. Don't stop."

He didn't. He found a rhythm that had you clinging to him, your nails dragging down his toned back as he fucked you, gasping his name, chasing that feeling building low in your belly. When he pressed sloppy, wet kisses to your neck, you threw your head back and whimpered- actually whimpered- his name. You felt the way he tensed at the sound of you saying his name, and it only made your thighs clench around his hips even harder.

"You feel so fucking good," he murmured, the vibration of his husky voice on your skin sending a shiver down your spine. One of his hands slipped between your bodies, finding your clit, and the combination was overwhelming. "Fuck- Y/N."

You felt like you were going to explode. "James, Merlin, James."

"Come on," he whispered. "I feel how—fuck—let me feel you."

The pleasure became too much again and you came, sharper this time, and you cried out as it broke over you. Your teeth sank into one of his shoulders, your whole body shaking as you practically saw stars. He followed moments later, burying his face in your neck and groaning your name, his glasses hard against your soft skin.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just lay there sweaty, breathing hard, tangled together.

"So," James said eventually, voice muffled against your shoulder. "That was—"

"Yeah."

He lifted his head to look at you, grinning. "You okay?"

"More than okay." You kissed him. "I get it now. Why everyone's so obsessed with this."

He laughed, rolling onto his side and pulling you against him. "It's not always like that, you know. It's—" He paused, searching for words. "It's different with someone you care about."

Your heart squeezed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "I meant what I said before. I want to do this right. I want to take you on dates and hold your hand in the corridors and—all of it. Not just this."

"I want that too," you admitted. "I think I just needed to figure out the physical stuff first. To know that I could actually... feel all of that."

"And?"

"And I definitely can." You kissed him again. "With you."

~~~

Three days later, James took you to Hogsmeade.

He held your hand the entire way, bought you hot chocolate at the Three Broomsticks, and kissed you in the middle of the street like he didn't care who saw.

"You know," you said as you walked back toward the castle, "a year ago, if someone had told me I'd be here with you—"

"You would've laughed in their face?"

"I would've thought they'd been hit with a Confundus Charm."

He grinned. "And now?"

You stopped walking, turning to face him. The sun was setting behind the castle, painting everything gold, and James Potter was looking at you like you were the only person in the world.

"Now," you said, "I can't imagine being anywhere else."

He kissed you, soft and sweet, and you thought about Charlie Wright asking you out in the Great Hall. How you'd rejected him without a second thought because you genuinely hadn't been interested.

You weren't the Saint anymore. You were just a girl who'd finally found someone worth wanting.

Ostensibly, you’re here because you want to be certified as a swim instructor, like James is. Amina is also your camper, the only one this session who showed up without already knowing how to swim, and so your boss thought it would be helpful for you to observe her daily lessons with James. These are all very true and practical reasons for your being here. 

Another one is that you’d been so shocked at James’ handsomeness the first day you met that you hadn’t said a word to him for fear of embarrassing yourself, and still he’d been friendly enough to come over to you in the mess hall that night to try and make friends. You have more than one reason for wanting to be around him. 

“Well, you have a golden opportunity here,” says James, his eyes leaving yours after a drawn-out second to focus on Amina. “I’m going to step back here, and I want you to kick your legs and splash me in the face as hard as you can. Okay?” 

Amina nods. You press your lips together as James puts on a good show of dread, stepping behind her and helping to lift her ankles to the surface. “Ready?” he asks, a put upon waver in his voice. “Go!”

Amina starts kicking, and James throws up his hands, pretending to fall back. 

“Ah, oh my god! You’re so strong! I bet if you kicked with your whole legs instead of just your feet it’d be—woah, yeah. Wow, you’re drowning me back here!” 

Seemingly for effect, James does allow himself to get completely soaked. By the time he tells Amina to stop, his curly hair is dripping and slickened in spots to his forehead and his chest shines with tiny water droplets. You do not get at all distracted by either of these observable facts. 

“That was brilliant,” he says, helping Amina off the wall so she can find her footing again in the shallow end. “We’re almost done for the day, but before you go I want to practice floating one more time, alright?” 

You watch your camper’s expression cloud over. They practice this at the end of every lesson, but it’s the skill Amina struggles with the most. James’ eyes seek you out. 

“Maybe y/n can help us out today,” he says. “What do you think?” 

“Yes!” Amina agrees excitedly, while you tilt your head at him. 

“Me?” 

James nods. “Do you mind hopping in? I need a floater.” 

You shrug, standing to strip out of your clothes to the one-piece you wear underneath. It’s not a sultry process, but you’re conscious of how on display you are as you slide your shorts down your hips, stepping out of them. You accidentally meet James’ eyes when you turn around to get into the pool, and you think his cheeks may be a tad darker than they were a minute before. 

Amina cheers as you lower yourself in. James wades over to you. You don’t let yourself notice how he’s become taller than you again now that you’re on even footing. 

“I’m going to do with you just like I do with Amina, okay?” he asks, and you nod, knowing what he’s really asking. I’m going to touch you. Will you let me? 

You lean back, letting your legs rise to the surface. James’ hands come up under you a moment later. One pressing up lightly beneath your knees, the other at the small of your back. Making like he’s holding you up even when you don’t need for him to. James grins down at you, his face blotting out the sun, then looks up to say something to Amina you can’t hear with your ears below the surface of the water. 

You don’t really know what to look at. It feels silly to close your eyes, so you keep looking at James. At the shape of his neck, the way his jaw casts the top half of it in shadow, the sun-warmed shelf of his shoulders. His voice is a lulling, indistinct thrum. 

After a minute, his hands fall away, showing Amina how you float on your own, and a short while later James is tapping your shoulder to signal that you can stand up. 

“That was some superb floating,” he praises as water empties from your ears. “But I think you can show her up, Mina, what do you say?” 

You back out of their way, but James grabs your arm. 

“Don’t go far,” he says, his hand warm around your wrist. “We might need you again.” 

You take the sketchbook off of your bedside table, remembering belatedly that you can’t write. Not really. Can’t draw. You shove it back, where it slams into a lamp and sends the shade skittering across the wall. 

You feel heat in your eyes. Tears that aren’t big enough to fall, wetness lining your lashes and shimmering. You wipe them away. 

This room will be small forever. It won’t ever get bigger. It’ll stay beige and full, but you don’t have to stay here. Maybe you want to. 

You push your quilt back with your feet and stay scrunched up, waiting for the energy to get up. It doesn’t come, so you rush, on your feet and over to the curtains for a paranoid glance outside. There’s a familiar black Jeep outside, a shining, foreign beacon compared to the other more worn neighbours surrounding it. 

You turn back to your room. Thinking of what to do. How many boxes would you need to pack everything away? Sirius says you can keep your flat, but as much as you might wanna pretend things aren’t changing, they are, you’re better off now.

Another weary tear wells in your left eye. Just the one. You scrub it away with the back of your hand, letting out a wet breath. 

You’re not thinking as you open the door to your room. It feels achy, to know you have to leave home. You aren’t on kilter. Every step is like a shake in your hip, clumsy, the blood roaring in your ears until it’s eery quiet again. The fridge is humming in the kitchen. The clock is ticking on the wall. Sirius is snoring rolled up in a throw blanket on the sofa, but James is drinking from a steaming mug standing by the living room window, a phone in hand. 

He puts it in his pocket and turns to you. His eyes flare gently, then his brow wrinkles. His nice mouth, usually set so plainly in a calm smile, goes rigid. “Hey,” he says quietly, blended into the white noise. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

You frown back at him, not understanding. 

“You’re crying.”

You don’t really hear him. In about five steps, you’ve closed the distance between him and you, pressing your face without care into his chest. You wrap your arms around him. You’re worried he’ll move away. 

James hugs you with an arm, the other careful behind your head, “Oh, hey,” he murmurs, “hey, hey, you’re okay. I have you. You’re alright.” 

You can feel your eyes under your eyelids, pressed to his chest, his creased sleep shirt. He smells like boy, not that you have a ton of experience with what that is. It’s not sweat but not not sweat, either, deodorant that’s mixed with it, which you know from yourself. The rest is too new to know. He smells nice. You breathe him in and let your hackles fall, better when James rubs the tension from your back with steady up and downs of his hand. 

“What’s wrong, honey?” he says, something sweet in the pet name, like condescension without the cruelty, like pity without shame. He sounds sorry he can’t fix it before it crops up, whatever it might be. “Say?” “

You grab him tighter. He doesn’t try to pull away. 

“Is it your hand? Those boxer’s fractures, they hurt bad for the first few days, I know, but your painkillers will’ve worn off in the night. Is that why you’re up so early?” 

“I think I have to leave.”

He hums quietly. “The flat?” 

“Not safe here.”

“No, hey.”

James makes another hum as he eases you back from him, placating, a promise you can put your head back where it was hiding. “Hey,” he says again, his eyes light despite the force of his frown, “you’re safe where I am. I will keep you safe. You can stay exactly where you are if that’s where you want to be.”

“The car outside…” 

“What car?”

“The jeep. It’s out of place. I’m–” You shrug ineffectually. “This isn’t my place.”

James shakes his head in confusion, though he says, “You’re okay,” with a hand spreading out at the small of your back. 

He doesn’t offer more words or placations. In fact, you get what you want —James brings both arms around you with that mug still in hand held an inch apart, but the arms are holding you so tight it borders on uncomfortable. It never gets there. You put your face in his shoulder, breathing, waiting for the panic and your pattering heartbeats to settle. It doesn’t stop. It keeps going, twisting, no matter how dedicated James is to keeping you flush to his front. He lets his cheek rest on your forehead with a sigh, his face skewed into the contact, waiting you out. Everything is too much until the details fade away, your eyes shutting, your mouth warming the fabric beneath it one heavy breath at a time. 

“I can’t draw,” you confess. 

“You can’t draw,” he repeats. 

“My hand…”

“I know about your hand,” he says gently. “Is that what’s upset you?”

You aren’t sure. 

You mumble unintelligible and inaudible nonsense into his shirt and imagine it was skin instead, so awfully starved for touch that this hug is the longest of it you’ve had in years. It draws strange, nice thoughts to the surface pretty quickly. How James’ hand would feel if it slipped under your shirt, the skin of a knuckle. He touched you helping you put it on last night. He’d been very careful not to do it again. The memory sends an involuntary shiver through you, which only serves to worsen James’ worry. 

He waves into your shoulders. “It’s okay. It won’t be long. Six weeks and you’ll be completely fine.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you confess to yourself. 

“Nothing is wrong with you,” James tells you easily. Simple as the sky is blue. “Don’t say that.”

You peel away from him eventually, less yourself than when you’d started. He nods to the armchair and presses his mug into your hand, cool but not cold, bending over you with an assessing eye as he says, “It’s only tea.” 

—

For breakfast, Marlene makes toast. 

“I’m tired,” she says. 

Having food cooked for you is a privilege James refuses to ignore, accepting four slices of toast to spread pear jam over. He takes your plate to you where you’re scrunched up in the armchair and kneels, spreading pear jam over half of yours, too, in case you want it. He pops three ibuprofen out of a blister packet and hands them to you wordlessly. By the time Sirius has roused from the sofa, no doubt drawn to the smell of golden bread, your eyes have dulled but your trembling has paused. James struggles with his relief, not sure what to make of you, or do, or say, but sure he deserves this. He failed you again. He can’t stop. He doesn’t deserve his post if he can’t get a handle on the things that are happening to you. 

Well. No more covert rendezvous to cinemas or supermarkets. His protection is clearly not enough. From now on, you’ll have James and an additional two men keeping your person, more on standby. He has these assets to use and he hasn’t been using them, because he is a proud, stupid boy. Forgiving himself for this will be impossible without rectifying changes. You might not like those changes, but James can contend with anger after the bruises on you have faded. 

Your hand is an angry shade today. He can see the bruise where your splint leaves your pointer and middle fingers free. It really will heal quickly.

“Here,” he says, not minding the piece of toast you have held in a mildly disinterested hand as he takes your wrist, “hold your hand here,” he says, moving your hand to your collarbone, “just above your heart.” 

“Why?” you ask through toast. 

“It helps with inflammation. The ibuprofen, as well.” 

Okay, you mouth. 

“Then I thought we’d go online and find you something.”

You pause your chewing. “Um, what sort of something?” you ask shyly, like you’re the stupid one. 

“Anything you want. A book, a movie, maybe what you want for dinner tonight. Let’s look, shall we?” he asks, employing a tender tone that crops up whenever you’re hurting. 

“Sure,” you say, going back to your toast. You like the pear jam, eating your two half-slices before picking at the buttered ones slowly. 

James swaps your plate for his. You’re so out of things that you don’t protest, just eat. James denies himself the pleasure of wiping a crumb from your cheek, gathering himself off of his annoyed knees to get you a glass of orange juice. You drink it in quick pulls. He brings you a glass of water to finish after, and you manage about half. 

Things mill slowly through time. Dorcas pops in and asks if she’s doing the clean up alone, and James, sitting straight-backed and nervous on the arm of your chair, gives her a grateful nod. It isn’t self loathing to assume that Dorcas will do a better job of things on her own. 

She takes over. James notes an absence of relief as he opens your laptop and turns it on. It’s not like he lied about the online shopping, but it’s not a coincidence when an email from the royal therapist flashes along the bottom of the screen. 

You hum. James looks down at you steadily, waiting for a response. 

You click the browser icon and wait for things to warm up. 

“Will you email her back?” he asks, a request rather than a question. 

“She wants to call me.”

“Do you want to speak to her?” Especially after yesterday. And this morning. All your tears and lethargy. 

“Not really. She’s kind, but I don’t… like talking about everything. It doesn’t make me feel better.” 

“What makes you feel better?”

You let out a breath neither of you are expecting, hurrying to move the cursor on the screen but stopping when you can’t think of what to type. The silence stretches like taffy, too cold, waiting to snap. “Nothing,” you say.

“Nothing?” he repeats, feeling like he’s been kicked in the solar plexus. 

“Having company has been nice.”

“What else?”

“The food. Eating well.”

“What’s the most urgent thing, right now? What hurts the most?”

You hesitate. James isn’t sure you’re going to answer him, though he has his fears locked and loaded; you’re scared and you don’t want to tell him. But you rest your hands on the keyboard, looking up at him with guilt written into every line of your face. 

“I know exactly what I’m supposed to do, and I don’t want to do it.” 

“What’s that?”

You chew your lip. Your eyes dart over to Sirius, still sleeping on the sofa. James doesn’t like getting rough with Sirius, but fuck, he’d like to slap him upside the head for the things he’s told you. James knows what you’re supposed to do, what you will do, but knowing what you’re gonna have to do is the scariest part. Admitting that everything is different now and changing yourself accordingly is a stinging transformation. You would’ve done it without the guilt, yet the weight of the Baron’s eventuality weighs over your head. 

“I can’t– I can’t finish school,” you say. “I have three months left and now my hands out of commission for half of that, and I’m already behind because of how much time we spent in Genovia, and I don’t like my degree, but I didn’t want to be the girl who drops out. I’m always the girl who– can’t do anything. Things that are easy for other people have always been hard for me.” You look back at the laptop. “And… Why am I pretending I have the– the courage to do what I want? I don’t want to be–” You tip your head forward. Your hand comes up slowly, where you hide your eyes in your fingers and palm, trembling again. “I couldn’t afford the bus fare a few weeks ago, how awful is that?” 

He senses an overwroughtness brewing in you he’s probably not equipped for, but James will always try. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, measuring each word as he says it, hoping it’s the right one, the correct tone, “about everything. I’m sorry about your dad, and how hard these last few weeks have been for you, but you’ve been brave the entire time. You’ve done things many people wouldn’t be willing to do, even now– even right here, you’re thinking about the future and the things you’ll have to do, and you’re thinking about everybody else, too. It’s a brave thing, to be born into this. It’s another thing entirely to do it because you’re being asked to. You are not a coward.”

He wasn’t expecting empty words from himself, but he’s still startled at how accurate he finds his own assessment. He’s been thinking about you in terms of himself more often than not —how he’s protecting you and how he isn’t, how he can be a friend to you, and occasionally how there are threads of you he’d like to keep close and private— without considering the way it must ache to be thinking about it in your own head. At least James carries the burden of looking after you. He has an active role. But you have to worry and wonder if you’re doing what needs to be done, if you’re allowed, if this new life is permanent, it’s vastly overwhelming, because it’s more than being a princess. It’s entering a guaranteed line of succession. 

James can see that that’s what this has been. This awful morning, your unconscious tears as you’d come for the first person you could. You are overwhelmed by everything, and he’s lucky you didn’t break worse than this weeks ago. 

“You are a good princess,” he says, laughing quietly  when you scoff at him. “You’re going to be amazing. You just have to give yourself the chance, first.”

“I don’t want to be a Queen,” you murmur, as though worried the admission will face a roaring laugh. “That’s what this is, right? There’s no– I’m the only one in the Genovian line of succession from our family, so when–”

“Her Majesty won’t abdicate,” James says, still gentle. “Do you understand what that means? She’ll die before she gives you the throne. Not– not that you wouldn’t be good at it. But… it sounds so urgent, doesn’t it, when we tell you about things at home, but it’s not–” James scrubs his mouth. “Nobody expected Prince Phillipe to die like that. Alright? They thought he’d have more time, that he’d– that he’d produce an heir. I honestly believe that they were going to leave you alone.” 

Something like indignation flares across your features, which is… interesting. You should be indignant! This is your birth right, and they weren’t going to give you the chance. They were going to leave you here all alone. All alone. The last Renaldi.

James swallows. “And that was their mistake. The Queen’s mistake, the entire monarchy, they underestimated the person that you are and what you’re capable of becoming, but I see it. Sirius, Remus, all of us here, looking after you, we see it.” You look after them. You give up your bed for them. Doesn’t James replay the scene of it that very first night when you’d offered him tea and biscuits and your one lovely pillow? “You can be anything you want. Genovia needs someone with your heart–”

“You don’t know if I’m even that good,” you say. 

James meets your eyes and holds them. Looks right into the core of you. “You are good,” he says. “I know good, Princess.”

For the first time since you met, the title doesn’t make you flinch. 

“You’re flirting with me,” you say quietly. 

A joke. If only you knew how close to the line he’s been walking. 

“I’m securing my future,” he says, to your delight, your laughter easing that screwed up ball of nerves he’d been tightening in his chest. “You don’t have to be everything at once,” he adds. “You’re doing fine as you are. But I have to make some changes for us, if this is going to work.” 

You settle back into your chair. You seem to have released a similar ball of your own tension. A smile teases the corners of your mouth. 

“Okay,” you say, clicking on the search bar of your browser. James watches you type one-handed. The best place to get dinner in London? 

The results are ridiculous. You backspace dinner and swap it out for pizza. 

“Pizza hut buffet?” you read. 

James wants more than anything to hug you with one arm a drop a friendly kiss into your hair. He settles for a nudge. “No, definitely not.” 

—

A week passes without much fuss. Remus recovers from one of the worst migraines he’s ever had between beds and under people’s arms, your lessons paused. He helps you write an email to send to your college-uni-classes and promises that someway, somehow, he’ll get you the credits for the first module transferred over. What he means to say is that he can play your Princess card should he need to, though Dorcas wonders at him about getting your education records expunged from any public record. She wants you off the grid completely, and James, for lack of a better phrase, is letting her run rabid.

Sirius plays keepaway. Remus isn’t sure where he is half the days, which isn’t enjoyable nor optimal, but Remus stays at the flat most of the time with you pretending not to hear your murmured conversations with James. They concern him. You’ve gone shaky and half-done, not wanting to leave the flat for the gym, no longer interested in spending a bit of your pocket money. Remus knows what it’s like to have money after long years without, knows how it burns a hole in your pocket wanting to be spent, and how there’s a part of you that doesn’t wanna part with it anyways. 

He also thinks that perhaps the reality of your situation has caught up with you. You were photographed with the royals, you’ve taken hits for being who you are —there aren’t any take backs coming. You aren’t going to wake up to a big white banner stretched from hand to hand that says, You fell for it!

It takes half a day for James and the boys to pack your flat into boxes. Remus isn’t sure when you decided you were done, but he gets to the flat with a paperback of children’s traditional Genovian fairytales tucked under his arm and finds you sitting on your bedroom floor surrounded by your things, unmoving. You glance around at it as though it’s a shifty dog, waiting to see if it’ll nuzzle under your hand or bite. 

“You okay?” 

You shrug. “No,” you say. 

He admires your honesty. Remus squeezes down into a gap between books and paints. 

“I was sitting there when they called me,” you say. 

“Here?”

“Right there.” 

“You didn’t believe it.”

“Not really. I don’t know? As spam calls go, it was convincing.” 

“What’s going on?” he asks, gesturing to your unboxed room. 

“I thought I’d do it myself in case… you know, like, in case there was dirty socks under the bed or something, but I don’t really want to do this.” 

“You don’t want to move?” he tests. 

“Remus, I don’t think I really care anymore. I don’t see why I need a new home, this one’s fine, but I know it’s not gonna work.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

“But what I really mean is that I don’t want to do this,” you say, spreading a hand flat over the floor. “I don’t care what anyone sees. I– this is my life, and it’s always been my life, so now seeing it spread out and knowing that this is all it is?”

“All it was,” Remus says. “It can be anything you want.” 

“James said the same thing, but it’s not true.” 

Remus sighs over loud for your benefit. There’s a stack of sketchbooks in front of him, rugged and dirtied by pencil on their corners. “Can I?” he asks, taking one with care off of the top. 

“Sure.”

He opens it to the first page. It’s a pear tree. Remus recognises the angle, looking down from the scholar’s wing into the expansive gardens of Beauville House. You’ve started in graphite but added yellows and oranges to the leaves. Blended into the gray, it looks dark, and expressive. Remus knows you love to draw, it’s one of the first things he’d learned about you, but he finds himself unfairly surprised by how good it is. He flicks to the next page, an unfinished window. The next is a rough, almost black shadow underneath a heavy door. You’ve written a few lines in pencil beneath that Remus ignores out of simple courtesy. The next page is full of handwriting, as is the next. 

“Had a lot on my mind,” you murmur. 

Remus flips to the next page. It’s a half realised portrait of Sirius. The line of his nose is perfect, and the quick scratch of his eyelashes capture his smile without need for perfect realism. “You’re really good at this,” he murmurs, thumbing under Sirius arm fondly. “It’s him.” 

“Oh, thank you. He was moving. He–”

“Doesn’t stay still? Only when he’s sleeping.” Remus clears his throat. “It doesn’t matter. It’s obviously him.” 

You reach forward to slip a finger between the pages. You turn over three or four at a time, opening to a page where you’ve drawn three boys sitting together. James grows down at something in his lap hidden by a crossed leg, Remus beside him leaning into his arm, Sirius turned sideways to talk to both of them. The sketch is gray and blue in the shadows. Remus pauses as he looks it over, first to analyse the details of himself, wondering how he looks in your eyes, then in delight. 

“I didn’t see you doing this one,” Remus says. 

“You’re not supposed to know. That way, when they go badly, nobody’s offended.” 

“They don’t seem to go badly for you,” he says. 

You flip to the next page, find James with his head thrown back in a quick laugh where his shoulders are wrong-sized and you’ve drawn a tiny frowny face where a signature might be. Remus huffs a laugh at it. 

“He moved too fast, too,” you say. 

Remus turns the page for more but finds it empty thereafter. He closes it gently, putting it back on your pile of books, says, “They are good, though. They’re brilliant. I can’t imagine how you learned to do it by yourself,” as he stands up. 

He offers you his hand. 

“Someone else can do the packing,” he says. “James will. He won’t mind. Might get Sirius to stretch his legs.”

You take Remus’ hand and climb to your feet. He lets his palm slide up your arm to squeeze at the crook of your elbow, proud of you and not sure how to tell you without your immediate cringing. 

“You’re doing well,” he says finally. 

You escape his sincerity into the living room, where James is deconstructing the coffee table you’d admitted to liking too much to part with. The new flat, chosen by James, and then agreed upon without reluctance by you (though you’d been too sad to go see it in person) has its own coffee table. James promised you could swap them, but you’d been resigned, and told him you’d break it back into its pieces. Remus thinks it’ll probably stay undone in storage, no use for two, but it’s what you want and James has promised you that you can keep everything. It’s nice that he’s taking it apart for you. 

James lights up when he sees you. Remus watches it with his mouth held firmly shut. His eyebrows lift from frowny eyes as he pauses. Remus wonders if he realises how fully his attention falls to you. 

“What’s up?” he asks. 

“I don’t wanna do it.”

“Okay, don’t,” he says easily. “I’ll do it, after. Do you want to sit down?”

You’re uncomfortable being handled with kid gloves, shifting your weight from one foot onto the other. “I want to go out.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Will you take me?”

“Sure, angel,” he says, his voice descending into a softness Remus has heard before. When Sirius feels like everyone’s mad at him, waiting to flit into anger or quiet depression, or when Remus is sick of everything. When Monty got sick and James had to look after both of his parents for the first time. “Right now?”

“I– whenever.”

“I’ll finish this and then we’ll go?” 

“Okay.” You hesitate more. God, Remus doesn’t know what to do with you. He hates seeing you unsure of yourself. You don’t have to feel like this, like you’re an imposition, because if you were it wouldn’t matter. “James?” 

“What, angel?” 

You sit down on the edge of the armchair, perching there as you look into your lap. “I wanted to say thank you for this,” you say, hard to hear from over the din of the kitchen, “you’ve done all the hard work. I’m really grateful.”

“We talked about this.”

“I know.”

James rests a folded arm across your knee and his chin on the back of his hand. You fluster a little, tiniest of tiny smiles on your lips. 

“Do you want to know a secret?”

“What?” you ask quietly. 

“I’d do this for you anyways. ‘Cos we’re friends now, right?”

“Right,” you say, looking altogether too pleased for such a small kindness. 

You better know what you’re doing, Remus thinks at James, hard enough to make his eye twitch. 

Like he can feel it, James turns around to see Remus standing there. He doesn’t move his arm. 

“Remus, darling, where’s our other half?” he asks. 

Remus rolls his eyes. “Why should I know?”

“Only that you’ve known where he was since he was twelve. They have a soul bond,” he tells you conspiratorially. 

“Sirius Black can do whatever he likes wherever he’d like to be.” 

“Have you had a tiff?” you ask, peering around James with owlish eyes. 

“No, of course not, he's just doing whatever it is he thinks he should be out doing. The car’s gone. Maybe he’s gone to get his hair permed.” You make a questioning hum. James shakes his head, not really. If Remus weren’t dedicated to the bit of wanting Sirius dead at the moment, he’d find it cute. “I don’t really care.”

“You’re breaking my heart, baby.”

Remus groans as Sirius makes his way out of the kitchen. James is smiling evilly, no doubt aware of Sirius’ presence the whole time. 

“I was out,” Sirius allows, “but I came back in time to hear your slander, Moons.”

Remus slouches as Sirius lets himself into his space, wrapping an arm behind Remus shoulder, lithe and lean, smelling of everything Remus has ever come to love. There are things that will serve to remind him of their lives together forever, stuff he wouldn’t share. The smell of Sirius’ hair in the morning after a night of light sweating in a pillow too small for both their heads. The feel of a familiar hand tracing lines up and down his back, like he’s doing at current, the sudden zigzag he pulls up to make Remus shiver. 

“Thought you liked me.”

“Thought wrong then, didn’t you?”

This is where Remus will want things he can’t have. 

Sirius holds his eye. He probably knows what Remus is thinking. How couldn’t he, after so long in each other's skin? Remus makes a face, as if to say, do something about it or stop. Sirius ruffles Remus’ hair until it’s fuzzed with static, fingers brushing down his cheek as he pulls apart. 

—

The new flat is huge. So big that you know that James knows you never would’ve said yes to it if you’d been in the mood to look at it. Not because you aren’t coming to terms with the money —it’s a change, not exactly a hardship— but how are you ever going to manage this place? Sirius gets you a maid after three days of your overwhelmed picking-up, which you hate more than anything. You don’t want to be someone who has a maid. You can clean up after yourself. 

James catches you using too much bleach in the bathroom and drags you away from it. You’re not stupid, but this is you coping with things you can’t handle in a stupid way. 

You’re expecting him to say, “Get dressed,” to force you to take a walk in your new neighbourhood, try this celebrity spotting everyone’s been excited about doing, but he pushes you showfully by your shoulders into a new leather sofa, throwing a blanket over your legs, and disappears out of the living room toward the kitchen. A minute later he returns, carrying a Tupperware full of Marlene’s raspberry and pear turnovers, and a small bottle of juice. 

“Telly?” he asks, nodding at the remote as he sits down beside you. The blanket stops you from making any skin on skin contact, but James doesn’t leave a millimetre of space between you. He is startlingly warm. 

He swaps your remote for the juice and Tupperware, filling your lap with it as he turns on the TV and clicks a sticking volume button until the automatic previews of the different channels begin. 

James clicks onto a channel, then a movie. He lets it start, tipping his face to the side to meet your eyes. 

His smile is so… odd. Soft, warm, but something held back as his gaze dips down to your mouth. 

You rub your lips and chin, not sure what it is he sees. 

“Alright?” James asks.