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thistleanthyme · 14 hours ago

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Not So Golden Now, Are You? (2)

Summary - Where in your not-quite-friendship with James Potter thrives on mutual mockery—you call him daddy’s babygirl for living off his pureblood trust fund, he calls you whatever gets under your skin fastest. It’s never serious… until he parrots back a joke you made about your looks, the kind of joke people only make after crying over it alone. What he thought was harmless banter turns out to be your breaking point, and while everyone else laughs it off, you don’t. Not this time. And now James—cocky, clueless, James—is stuck trying to fix a crack he didn’t mean to make, humiliating himself in ways no Marauder ever has… all in the hopes of earning a single, goddamn, laugh from you again.

Tone: Gritty, emotional, enemies-to-lovers like kinda (idk I am confused myself. What do you mean just cause I wrote it I should know what it means) with heavy hurt/comfort and a golden boy begging for forgiveness.

Part -1

The courtyard was buzzing. Breaktime at Hogwarts always was—students spread across stone benches and patches of sun-warmed grass, laughter echoing, owls swooping overhead. It was the kind of day where everything felt too bright.

And then you saw him.

James Potter.

Striding through the middle of it like he owned the light, only this time… something was off. His shoulders weren’t cocky. His grin wasn’t smug. And in his hands—clutched awkwardly, like it might bite him—was a mug. Ceramic. White. Painted with messy little Quidditch doodles and a crooked heart.

He spotted you across the courtyard. You didn’t move.

You hadn’t planned on talking to him again. Not yet. Not like this.

Especially not after what you’d heard that morning. The Marauders had cursed a Slytherin so bad he spent an hour puking slugs and crying. Supposedly, it was James’s idea. Supposedly, he said it was “for a laugh.” Your stomach turned.

Cruel.

Heartless.

Classic Marauder bullshit.

And after everything? After that night in the Astronomy Tower where you bled your heart raw—he went right back to it.

You stood up the moment he neared. Jaw tight.

“Hey,” James said, breathless, that dumb hopeful glint in his eyes. “Thought maybe we could, you know… start over.” He extended the mug toward you. “Cold coffee.”

You took it. Smiled. Sweet. And without a word— Threw it directly in his face.

Gasps echoed.

The courtyard went dead quiet. The splash of coffee dripped from his curls and chin, soaking his collar. He blinked against it, stunned. A little broken. Then, slowly—he wiped a hand down his cheek.

“Alright,” he coughed. “Deserved that.”

You didn’t wait. You turned on your heel and stormed off before he could see the rage brewing behind your eyes—no, worse—before he could see the pain.

You didn’t look back once.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

You hid in the library after that.

Sat behind rows of thick tomes, clutching a copy of Advanced Hex Theory you weren’t reading. Your face still burned, your heart pounding as you replayed the whole thing again.

You shouldn’t feel bad. He deserved it.

Except… then came the whisper. The real reason behind that Slytherin prank.

“Did you hear? That bloke called lily mudblood yesterday. Loud. Didn’t even flinch. And not only that he also tried to degrade her with other words too”

“Bloody scum. I think it was Sirius who heard it first—lost his mind.”

“Yeah, but James is the one who hexed him. Said, ‘you talk like that again, you won’t have a tongue left to use.’”

“Serves him right.”

You stared at the words on the page, unmoving. He wasn’t being cruel. He was defending someone. And that someone was none other than your bestfriend. You were so consumed with your feelings that you forgot to see her pain.

You cursed under your breath and leaned back, rubbing your hands over your face. Now you were the asshole.

Still—you crossed your arms, hugged your ribs tight, and whispered to yourself, “He was mean to me first.”

That was true, wasn’t it?

He was.

He hurt you.

He joked about your worth like it was nothing. So what if you threw a coffee in his face?

Still. The image of him, standing there soaked, blinking through the coffee with zero anger in his expression—just quiet acceptance—it clawed at you.

Because the worst part wasn’t what you did.

The worst part was that..... he was fine with it. Fuck. He smiled when you did that. That makes you wanna punch him and kiss him at the same time. Wait..? Kiss? Where did that come from? You don't wanna kiss him. Or at least your ego is too big to admit that you do.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Just because James was right to hex that Slytherin didn’t mean you owed him forgiveness. Being right about one thing didn’t erase being so wrong about you.

Because this—this wasn’t about just James.

It was about every time you looked in the mirror and thought, If I could just lose five more pounds, maybe then… Every time you starved yourself through breakfast. Chewed mint leaves between classes to kill the hunger. Every time you stood next to Lily Evans and felt like a dull, washed-out background character. A placeholder. Contrast.

The "funny one." The "smart one.” The "you’re so cool to hang out with but I’d never date you" one.

You weren't just mad at James.

You were mad at everything. The boys who flirted with your friends and didn’t see you. The girls who batted lashes and got everything you wanted. The body that never looked like the ones in Witch Weekly. The voice in your head that whispered, you’re nothing special, just learn to be okay with it.

And maybe it was wrong—projecting all of that onto James Potter. But God, you were just so tired. Too tired to uncoil all the layers. Too tired to explain why the joke hit different. Too tired to tell him: You took the last thread I was hanging on and yanked.

So you stayed mad. Silent. Cold. Distant. And James Potter?

James fucking Potter took that as a challenge.

At first, it was subtle.

A few too many glances your way during meals. A quiet “hi” when you passed in the corridor. Holding the door for you with awkward stiff limbs like he was scared you'd hex him just for existing.

You ignored it all. But then came…

The Violin.

It started on a Monday morning outside your Arithmancy class. A screech. A very broken-sounding screech. Like someone was strangling a cat while dragging their nails down a chalkboard.

You flinched. Everyone flinched.

And then—James Potter turned the corner, standing there with a violin tucked under his chin, a determined sparkle in his eye, and murder in his fingers. “(Y/N)!” he called brightly, eyes locking on yours. “This one’s for you.”

You blinked. “The hell it is—”

He sawed at the strings like he was trying to kill the instrument with sound alone. “I’m soooooorryyyyyyy—!” he sang off-key, not even trying to follow the right notes. “I’m an aaasssssholeeeee—!” Students around you began to whisper. One girl laughed so hard she snorted. A Ravenclaw boy dropped his quill and muttered, “What the actual f—”

You stood there. Mortified. Speechless. He ended the "serenade" with a dramatic bow and winked at you. “See you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

You hexed the violin into a pile of wood chips the next day before he even got through the second verse. James, picking up the splinters, grinned at you like you handed him a bouquet. “Thanks,” he said, completely sincere. “I think it wanted to die anyway.”

You didn’t smile. But you didn’t walk away either. You just stand there watching James get scolded by your professor while he was giving you wink.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Meanwhile, in the Gryffindor dorms:

James flopped face-first onto his bed, groaning into his pillow. “She hates me.” “No shit,” Sirius muttered, tossing a Bertie Bott’s bean into his mouth. “You publicly compared her to beige wallpaper.”

Remus looked up from his book. “Well, actually, you implied she was the reason the wallpaper looked better. Still cruel. But poetic.”

“I’m trying,” James whined. “I’m playing music! I’m serenading her!” “You’re torturing her eardrums,” Peter said. James rolled onto his back. “You think she’ll ever forgive me?”

Remus didn’t even blink. “Not if you keep murdering instruments.” James groaned again and stared at the ceiling. “I just—I want her to smile at me again. Not that sarcastic one. The real one. The one where her nose scrunches and her eyes do that squinty-shiny thing.”

Sirius gagged. “Dude.”

“She used to laugh at my dumbest jokes.”

“You made her cry, James.”

James flinched. Visibly. “I know.”

There was a beat of silence. Then James whispered, “I wanna make her laugh again. Then make her fall in love with me. Then maybe after Hogwarts, we’ll get a flat together. Something small. Near a garden. With a stupid ugly cat she insists on naming after a pastry—like Croissant or some shit.” Sirius stared at him. “You good, Romeo?”

Remus snorted. “Man’s already planning the wedding and she just hexed his violin.” “Small steps,” Peter muttered. James sighed dreamily. “Yeah. Small steps.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t sleep the night before.

Every time you shut your eyes, you saw your younger self staring into the mirror with fingers digging into soft skin, begging it to look different. You remembered the silence in crowded hallways. The ache of always being there, but never chosen. You remembered the words James said, the ones that weren't meant to cut—but found the scar anyway.

So when Professor McGonagall handed you detention with a sigh and an apology in her eyes—parchment copying, of course—you welcomed it. Monotonous. Mind-numbing. Perfect distraction.

But when you got to the classroom early the next morning, head pounding from lack of sleep and soul heavy like wet stone, your desk wasn’t empty. It was stacked.

Neatly. Organized. All two hundred lines already written. Every word in your handwriting. Every letter perfectly charmed to look like it came from your hand. You froze. Stared at it.

Your fingers curled around the parchment. Your eyes lifted. And there he was—James Potter, across the room, watching you like a kicked puppy pretending he didn’t deserve the bruises.

He looked too bright. Too hopeful. Too guilty. Your stomach twisted. You hated that it made your eyes sting again.

Later, when class was over, you walked past him without a word. You dropped the parchment into his lap with the last page folded. Inside, scribbled in black ink:

"Try harder."

You didn’t look back. But he smiled. That stupid, soft smile like you'd just given him an entire galaxy.

That afternoon, you were sitting on the ledge behind the courtyard wall again—the spot nobody noticed unless they were looking. Your knees drawn to your chest, your heart somewhere between furious and numb.

And then… A presence. A familiar rustle of too-long Gryffindor robes and the sound of someone hesitating a few steps away. James Potter.

He didn't speak. Just stood there for a second. Then held something out in his hand. A piece of folded parchment—small, aged, and trembling ever so slightly between his fingers.

You stared at it but didn’t move. His voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “If you ever want to hide again,” he said, eyes not quite meeting yours, “until you're ready...”

A pause. He didn’t say what it was. Didn’t say how it would help.But it didn’t matter.Because you knew. The damn boy was trying to give you the Marauder’s Map. He was trying to give you the one thing they never gave anyone.

Your fingers twitched. You didn’t take it. But you stared at him. Long. Quiet. Endless. He looked different under the sunlight. His jaw clenched. “I was an idiot.”

You raised a brow, voice hoarse. “You’re still an idiot.” He exhaled a broken laugh. “Yeah. But I’m your idiot. Or—I want to be. Eventually. When you let me.”

You didn’t respond.

He shifted on his feet. Then, quieter, more real: “I thought you were untouchable. I thought… if I made you laugh, if we tore each other to shreds for fun, that meant I could keep you close. And then I used the wrong words and realized…”

He trailed off. Swallowed hard. “I realized you were already bleeding before I ever opened my mouth.”

The silence after that was cruel.You didn't take the parchment. But you didn’t leave either.

He tucked it into your bag anyway. Gently. As if he was afraid he’d break something else.

Then turned and walked away.

And for the first time in weeks, you weren’t sure who was hurting more—you or him.

James walked back to the dorm in silence, his hands trembling slightly, his throat burning. He’d made you laugh a hundred times. He’d seen you shine.nBut that day, in the sunlight, with your pain all but carved into your bones, he realized something devastating. He didn’t just want to fix it. He wanted to be there for it. For all of it.

He wanted to be the reason you smiled in the morning. The arms you could fall apart in. The idiot who stayed even when it got ugly.

He wanted… a life. With you in it. He wanted things he didn’t think he’d ever say out loud.

And just as he was about to spiral fully into a James-style mental breakdown about it, Remus lobbed a pillow at his head. “Before you plan your future wedding and children’s names,” Remus deadpanned, “maybe try just not making her cry again.”

James sighed. “Fuck you. I know that.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

James Potter had done a lot of dumb things in his life. But this? This might top the list.

The wool itched. His fingers cramped. And he was positive he’d stabbed himself with the knitting needles at least thirteen times—but he didn’t stop. Not when Sirius made fun of him, not when Peter tried to help and tangled half the yarn into a hopeless knot, and especially not when Remus muttered under his breath, “You know, flowers are a traditional apology, mate.”

But James wasn’t going for traditional. He wanted to show he was willing to bleed a little. Suffer a bit. Do something ugly and real and not smooth for once.

So he knit you a jumper.

Maroon, because he remembered you once wore it and said it made you feel safe. The letters across the front—“I’m Sorry”—were crooked. Lopsided. One ‘R’ looked like it was trying to escape.

It was hideous. And he was proud of it.

So, of course, he walked into the common room with it in his arms like it was the crown jewels. Students stared. Murmured. Whispered.

You were curled in your usual corner, books scattered around you like a shield, pretending you weren’t waiting for him. But you looked up when his shadow fell across the page.

James held the jumper out with both hands. Like an offering. Like an apology carved into yarn and regret.

His voice barely broke above the chatter. “I made this. For you.” You blinked. Slowly. Then looked at it. Really looked.

The way the letters leaned awkwardly. The loose thread at the sleeve. The stitch in the neckline that looked like it’d unravel the whole thing if you pulled too hard.

And before you could stop yourself, your fingers curled into a fist around your own anger. You stood. Took the jumper. Walked to the nearest bin. And dropped it in.

The room went silent. James didn’t say a word. He didn’t fight. Didn’t beg. Just looked down. Then walked away. His back tense, his head low, the usual bounce in his step long gone. You sat back down like your bones had turned to concrete. Pretended to read. Pretended not to care. Pretended like your throat didn’t burn.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

That night, the tower was quiet. The fire had burned low. Everyone else was asleep.

You stood in front of the bin for a full ten minutes. Arms crossed. Jaw locked. You weren’t even sure what you were waiting for. Permission? Clarity? Something. Eventually, you reached in. Pulled it out.

The wool was soft. He’d actually tried.

You could practically see him stabbing himself with the needles. Tongue sticking out in concentration. Cursing every time a stitch went wrong. You swallowed.

And with a quiet flick of your wand, you straightened the letters. Fixed the loose threads. Tightened the neckline. It still looked ridiculous. But it looked like him. So you folded it. Neatly. And shoved it under your pillow like a secret. Like a confession you weren’t ready to make.

You weren’t ready to forgive him. Not yet. Because this wasn’t just about James. This was about you. About every time you felt like the last choice. About starving yourself just to feel worthy. About screaming into pillows because you hated your body and hated your mind for caring so much.

You weren’t just angry at him. You were angry at every version of yourself that begged to be enough. Was it fair to throw all of that on one stupid boy with messy hair and a heart too big?

No.

But maybe, just maybe, he was willing to carry some of it anyway. You weren’t breaking yet.

But something in you cracked that night. And it whispered, quietly: Maybe he means it.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Maybe James Potter was tired now.

Not just of the grand gestures, or the rejection, or the confusion—but of waiting. Waiting for the world to fall back into place. Waiting for you to look at him the way you used to, even if it was only to glare. Waiting for a moment where he could just breathe near you without it hurting. Still—he hadn’t lost that ridiculous, unkillable determination.

He’d already written five plans in his head before breakfast.

Plan A: Let you punch him square in the jaw and call it even. Plan B: Buy you that overpriced French silk dress you once stared at in a magazine for ten full minutes. Plan C: Cry. Publicly. Plan D: Make Sirius pretend to be dying just so he could dramatically say, “But first, make up with James.”

It was selfish, wanting you after everything. After not listening. After hurting you in ways he hadn’t even understood at the time. But James Potter had always been selfish when it came to you.

He didn’t want almost. He didn’t want eventually. He wanted all of you. The broken parts, the jagged edges, the terrifying, beautiful chaos. And he wanted to be the one who stayed.

He was spiraling over it again, as usual, legs dangling off the edge of the Astronomy Tower, eyes blurry with too much sky and not enough of you— When he heard soft footsteps. Then, silence.

Then... you.

You sat beside him.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t look at him. Just sat, spine straight, hands folded in your lap like it was any other night. Not because you were ready to forgive him. But because you were tired.

So fucking tired of being alone in your head. Sometimes, just sitting beside the person you’re mad at is easier than sitting with your own thoughts. James looked at you. Just—looked.

Like his soul had been drowning and you were the first breath of air. You didn’t even turn your head. “If you don’t stop staring at me like some deranged romance novel idiot, I swear I’ll jump off this tower.”

“Right, right,” he mumbled, turning his gaze dramatically to the moon. “Nothing romantic about the moon. Ugly, lifeless ball.” You huffed. That half-smile tried to sneak up, but you fought it down like a soldier.

James let the quiet stretch a little longer. Then he said—softly, not grand, not loud—just real, “Look, I know you hate me and all. I don’t think you understand what you do to me. You walk into a room and suddenly I’m breathing like I haven’t in years—like my lungs remember what they’re for only because you exist. You smile, and it’s not just sunlight—it’s whole galaxies cracking open inside me, and I swear I’d burn just to keep you warm. I look at you and it’s like the universe finally made sense and said, “Here, this one. She’s the reason.” You could scream, you could shatter, and I’d still hold the pieces like they were sacred. I don’t want some neat little fairytale—I want your chaos, your quiet, your bruised edges and bright mornings. I’d take every storm you’ve ever carried and call it a privilege. You think you’re hard to love, but baby, loving you is the only thing I’ve ever been sure of. I’d ruin myself a thousand times just to hear you laugh without flinching. You don’t need to be anything more than what you already are—because you, just as you are, you’re everything. And I mean that like I mean air. Like I mean survival.”

You didn’t reply for a long time.

Then finally, you exhaled—like you were letting go of something that had been rotting inside you for far too long. “Please don’t say things like that, James. Not when I’ve spent so long teaching myself not to hope. You come in with all this love—too much of it—and part of me wants to fall right into it, let it wrap around me and forget everything that came before. But the rest of me is screaming. I don’t want to be a project you pour yourself into to fix what you broke. I don’t want your heart if it’s just your guilt dressed up in poetry. I’m not some fragile thing to be saved, and I don’t want to be seen as something you owe love to. I’ve spent nights convincing myself that being invisible was safer, because at least then, no one could decide I wasn’t enough. And now you’re here, saying all these beautiful, terrifying things, and I can’t tell if you see me or just the girl you hurt. I want to believe you mean it. I want to let you in. But what if you stop meaning it when the weight of what happened fades? What if I let you matter and then you forget how to hold me when I’m not glowing under your guilt? I can’t survive being seen just long enough for you to feel better. And the worst part? I think I’d still take it. Even if it’s temporary. Even if it ruins me. That’s how much I want this. But wanting isn’t the same as trusting. And right now, I don’t know if I can give you both. And maybe—God, maybe I’m dragging this out, this apology thing, because I like the way you look at me now. I like the attention. I like feeling seen. And I’m scared that the moment I forgive you, you’ll stop looking at me like that. But I can’t say that out loud. My pride’s too loud. My ego won’t let me ask you to stay, to keep seeing me, to not stop. I don’t even know if this makes sense. I just... I don’t know how to trust this. Or you. Or myself.”

The world was quiet. Even the wind dared not move. James Potter, Quidditch star, loudmouth, born showman—he didn’t try to make a joke. Didn’t reach for dramatics. He just smiled. And it wasn’t a smirk, or a grin, or a flirtatious flash. It was soft. Like worship. Like you were a sunrise he had no right to witness but never missed a single morning of. And he finally said something “Then let me say this—really say this, because you need to hear it, every word of it, like it’s the truth carved into the bones of the world:

It was never pity. Not a second of it. Don’t you dare shrink what I feel for you into something so small. I didn’t start caring after what happened—I just got loud about it, finally. I’d been loving you in silence long before the world gave me an excuse to say it out loud. You think I see you now because I’m trying to make up for something? No. I’ve always seen you. You were never invisible to me—not once, not even in the chaos of everything else. You were the constant. You were the steady, quiet hum in the back of my mind, like the world was just a frame for you to move in. I didn’t wake up one day and decide to fall for you out of guilt. I fell for you the way people fall asleep—slowly, then all at once. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re frustrated. The way you laugh when you think no one’s listening. The way you argue when you care too much. You made my whole world sharper, better, realer. And it wasn’t because you forgave me, or because I felt bad—it was because you’re you. You’re everything. Not just some placeholder until something easier comes along.

And I get it—you’re scared I’ll stop. That I’ll stop looking at you like you’re the sun cracking through a storm. But love like this doesn’t just fade. It doesn’t wear off like guilt. It burns. It lives. You think I don’t know the risk you’d be taking by trusting me again? I do. And I don’t expect you to dive in without fear—but I’ll be here, every damn day, proving to you that this isn’t obligation. It’s not guilt. It’s worship. And you want to talk about violin music? That horrible mess I tried to play for you? That wasn’t the first time I thought of you like a song—it’s just the first time I dared to try. Because when I look at you, it’s not silence. It’s symphony. It’s this soft, aching melody the world plays just for me when you walk into a room. And no one else hears it. Just me. You said you don’t know how to trust this. Or me. Or yourself. And that’s okay. I’ll be here while you figure it out. I’ll wait. I’ll keep seeing you. Really seeing you. Not just as something beautiful—but as something irreplaceable. You’ve always been more than enough. You don’t even have to try.” You didn’t say anything. Didn’t kiss him. Didn’t touch him. But you looked at him—really looked. And for the first time, you didn’t flinch from how he looked back. Like you were the only girl in the world. Like he’d known it forever.

You stayed in the Astronomy Tower longer than expected.

After his confession, after the way James bared his heart like he didn’t care how much of a fool he looked, silence settled between you again. But this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was soft. Like a blanket you could crawl under, finally warm.

He glanced at you sideways, still hesitant—still unsure if that emotional striptease had been enough. Then came his voice, a little hoarse, a little vulnerable.

“What can I do to make this right? For you to give us a chance?”

And you tilted your head slowly toward him, a deceptively sweet smile curving your lips. The kind that meant you were about to be a menace.

“Admit, publicly, that Severus Snape is better than you.” James choked. Literally. The boy went pale, like you’d asked him to snog Filch or shave his head bald.

“Come again?” You leaned closer, innocently batting your lashes. “Louder this time. So the whole school can hear.”

“Oh hell no.” His voice cracked into a squeak. He looked genuinely betrayed, like you’d just kicked his Firebolt and insulted his mum.

You only shrugged, still grinning, and didn’t say another word. He stared at you like you had just announced your plan to marry a Blast-Ended Skrewt. But the challenge had been issued—and he’d heard it loud and clear.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Next morning at breakfast.

The Gryffindor table was as loud as ever—toast flying, owls dropping packages, Sirius balancing arguing with Lily over something. . Normal chaos. Until James Potter stood up.

The entire table paused mid-chew, forks halfway to mouths. Even the Hufflepuffs looked over. He cleared his throat and announced, very seriously:

“I, James Fleamont Potter, publicly declare that Severus Snape is a better wizard than me.”

Audible gasps. One girl dropped her pumpkin juice. But James wasn’t done. No—he sold it.

“In every way. His hair is shinier. His spells are stronger. He... he has depth.” He sounded like he was reading his own eulogy. Like each word carved a new piece out of his pride. His soul practically levitated out of his body in protest.

Across the hall, Sirius dropped his toast, jaw hanging open. “You traitor! You swore an oath—” Remus spat out his tea. Peter was half-under the table from laughter.

And you? You were just standing there, arms folded, laughing. That laugh—the one James always secretly adored. The one that made him feel like he'd done something right in the world. Because it wasn’t about Snape. Not really.

It was about being seen. Not as a second choice. Not as the invisible one. For once, you were standing there, centre of attention, without shame. Finally being seen by the right person. Maybe you didn’t feel this years ago because fate had a sick sense of humor. Because it was waiting for James to grow the fuck up. And maybe, just maybe... it was worth the wait.

He came toward you, face beet-red, Sirius hissing “traitor” in the background. He stopped right in front of you, running a hand through his already tragic hair. You didn’t say anything.

You just kissed his cheek. It was quick. But it was everything. James froze. Red. Redder. Red as a goddamn Gryffindor tie. Hell, you were surprised he didn’t combust.

And for a moment, all the noise in the Great Hall vanished. Because maybe you weren’t “pretty” in the textbook sense—maybe your skirt wasn’t perfectly pressed, maybe your eyeliner smudged at the corners, and maybe your laugh was too loud, too sharp.

But fuck beauty standards.

You were hot. You were confident. You were yours. And James Potter?He was a dumbass. But he was your dumbass now.

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thistleanthyme · 1 day ago

Text

Not So Golden Now, Are You?

Summary - Where in your not-quite-friendship with James Potter thrives on mutual mockery—you call him daddy’s babygirl because he flaunts his daddy's money, he calls you whatever gets under your skin fastest. It’s never serious… until he parrots back a joke you made about your looks, the kind of joke people only make after crying over it alone.Which you were sure that you never made about him. What he thought was harmless banter turns out to be your breaking point, and while everyone else laughs it off, you don’t. Not this time. And now James—cocky, clueless, James—is stuck trying to fix a crack he didn’t mean to make, humiliating himself in ways no Marauder ever has… all in the hopes of earning a single, goddamn, laugh from you again.

Part - 2

There was a particular type of hell reserved for group hangouts where everyone was prettier than you. You know the kind—flawless skin, perfect hair, the kind of laugh that didn't sound like a dying kettle.

And unfortunately for you, that was every single Gryffindor gathering.

Especially when Lily Evans was present. With her radiant glow, timeless hair, and bone structure carved by Aphrodite’s jealous cousin. And not to forget Marlene McKinnon, who looked like she got ready by having woodland creatures sing her into a custom-tailored outfit.

Meanwhile, you looked like you were personally styled by anxiety and unresolved childhood trauma.

You were sitting cross-legged in the Gryffindor common room, huddled in a circle on worn rugs and beat-up couches with the usual suspects: Sirius, James, Remus, Peter, Lily, Marlene, Dorcas… and unfortunately, you.

You were always the +1. A friend of a friend. Mostly tolerated. Occasionally useful. Never the moment. Or that’s what you liked to believe. You leaned back on your palms, casting a casual glance at Lily, who was radiant even while fiddling with her shoelace.

And then you did what all insecure, self-deprecating people do—you made a joke before anyone else could beat you to the punch. “Some girls are born to be photographed. I was born to stand next to them and make them look like paid models by comparison.”

It was said with a wink and a smirk, aimed at Lily—because that's what you did. Make fun of yourself first, before someone else could. Maybe to hear that you’re not just a background character. Those people actually liked hanging out with you. That you were not a charity case. The group chuckled. Lily swatted your shoulder gently, "Oh, come on, you're gorgeous, shut up."

You held up your hand. “No, no. I bring balance. I’m the garlic bread on the table of ten-star entrées. Comforting. Slightly burnt. Easily ignored once the main course arrives.”

Sirius snorted. “You are the garlic bread. Bit crunchy, slightly dangerous, but always there.” You faked a smile, the thing you have mastered for years.. “See? Someone appreciates my contribution to visual mediocrity.”

James was leaning back in one of the armchairs, lazily bouncing a snitch between his fingers. You hadn’t said much to him—your friendship was more a result of mutual proximity than actual emotional investment. You didn’t like him, really. Or that’s what you tried to believe whenever your heart beats too loud near him or whenever you catch yourself smiling, whenever he laughs or whenever you care about him too much but c’mon friends care about each other. That’s not love. Right?. He was loud, always joking, and had a superiority complex that made you want to shove him into a broom closet and lock the door.

Still. He had his moments.

“Honestly,” he said, voice casual, “we should give (Y/N) a badge or something. Hogwarts’ Official Pretty-Girl Enhancer.” He didn’t even look up. Just tossed the snitch in the air again. “Without her, hot girls everywhere would lose contrast.”

There was a beat of silence. Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just… still.

Like someone had knocked the air out of your lungs without touching you. And then, like the smug bastard he was, he added with a grin, “MVP of average.”

Your face didn’t move. You didn’t laugh. You always laughed at yourself, even if it hurt—but not this time. Because he said it with such ease. Such dismissive amusement. Like it was true. Like he just casually confirmed the thing you’d been trying to pretend wasn’t already gnawing at your insides.

Sirius barked out a laugh. “Oi, she’s gonna hex your balls off, Prongs.”

James just shrugged. Still grinning. Still not looking at you. And you? You wanted to melt into the floorboards. Or maybe launch yourself off the Astronomy Tower. Either one was fine.

You looked around—Remus furrowed his brow slightly, eyes flicking toward you, but didn’t say anything. Peter was too busy stuffing his face with biscuits. Marlene giggled absently.

But Lily. Lily noticed. Her gaze snapped to you, sharp and immediate.

She cleared her throat, forced a smile. “So! Who’s ready for Hogsmeade this weekend? I heard Honeydukes is stocking those fizzy sugar spiders again—”

And just like that, the moment passed.

Except it didn’t. Not for you.

Because you weren’t angry. Not really. You were humiliated. Quietly. Sharply.

And that was always worse.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

James Potter didn’t think much of it at first.

You always laughed at jokes. Even the ones aimed at you. Especially the ones aimed at you. It was your thing—sarcasm, wit, never letting anything stick long enough to scar. You insulted him all the time. Called him an overgrown golden retriever with the emotional range of a teaspoon. Told him he looked like a walking ego with legs. And he gave it right back—always.

So when he made that comment earlier about you being the "MVP of average," he expected you to roll your eyes, maybe call him a narcissistic broomstick with daddy’s money, and then snatch the last chocolate frog from his hand out of spite.

He didn’t expect silence.

He didn’t expect that deadpan look on your face.

He didn’t expect you to leave the circle early, claiming you had to finish a Potions essay you definitely finished last week. But hey. Maybe you were just tired. That’s what he told himself.

Right up until that night.

The dorm was dimly lit, soft firelight flickering across the old stone walls. Sirius was balancing Bertie Bott’s beans on his nose, Peter was whining about something in his sleep, and James was halfway through retelling a Quidditch story that no one had asked for.

That’s when Remus spoke. Quiet. Cold. “Do you ever think before you open your mouth?”

James blinked. “Er—what?” Remus didn’t look up from his book. “About what you said to (Y/N).”

Sirius, for once, stopped being a jackass long enough to glance up too. James frowned. “It was a joke. We always—she always says worse things about herself.”

“You just took someone’s worst fear and turned it into a punchline,” Remus said. His voice wasn’t angry. That would’ve been easier. It was disappointed. And that? That cut deeper. “She doesn’t think she matters, James. And you just proved it.”

And then it hit him.

The way your laugh hadn’t had that sharp, mischievous ring to it. No sass. No playful dig. Just… that sound. Bitter. Hollow. Like someone smiling at their own eulogy.

He sat up straighter. His mind flicked back to earlier—your crossed arms, your stiff posture, the way you stared at the fireplace without saying a word while the rest of them laughed.

The way Lily had cut in, voice suddenly chipper, shoving the conversation forward like she was trying to outrun something. The way you never came back with a comeback.

And James Potter, who could bullshit his way out of every detention, every prank, every emotional disaster, suddenly found himself choking on silence.

His breath caught.

All he could see was your face when he said it. That flicker in your eyes. That little twitch of your mouth that wasn’t amusement—it was restraint. Control. You’d been swallowing it down, choking on the embarrassment while he and Sirius laughed like idiots.

“You think she’s fine because she’s funny,” Remus muttered, standing and tossing his book onto the trunk at the foot of his bed. “But sometimes funny is just... the mask.”

James didn’t sleep that night.

Because now he remembered every time you called yourself “forgettable,” how you always stood behind Lily in photos, how you never really let anyone compliment you without joking your way out of it.

And now? Now he realized he hadn’t made a joke. He’d hit the bullseye on someone’s deepest wound and laughed about it.

He remembered the way you stayed up all night when Remus was sick during exams, rewriting all his notes, color-coded and organized like some kind of academic art piece.

How you always, always made Sirius laugh on his worst days. Even when he came back from Christmas break with bruises on his wrists and a cigarette burn he didn’t explain, you were there. Mocking him gently. Loving him fiercely. Whispering, “I’m proud of you, Sirius Black,” like your voice could stitch him back together.

He remembered how you scolded them like a mother one minute and made them snort Butterbeer through their noses the next. How your eyes always twinkled before a comeback. How you once threw your shoe at him for transfiguring your ink into glitter, then asked if he was cold and tucked a scarf around his neck anyway.

He loved that about you.

God, he loved you.

Not that he’d ever admit it. Not to himself. Not out loud. Not when everything between you was built on chaos and roasting each other like Sunday dinner. But you mattered to him. And tonight, he’d made you feel like you didn’t.

He’d taken the thing you feared most—and instead of seeing it, understanding it, protecting it—he’d dragged it out in front of your friends and slapped a joke sticker on it. All because he didn’t think. Because he figured you’d laugh. Because he always made you laugh. But you didn’t.

And now, the damage was done. James Potter had humiliated the girl he secretly, stupidly, undeniably loved. And now?

Now he was completely, utterly screwed.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

James couldn't sleep.

His bed felt too stiff, the blankets too heavy, and every creak of the castle sounded like the echo of your laugh—that hollow, bitter one that had etched itself into his skull. He needed air. Space. Somewhere to untangle the storm inside his chest.

So he walked.

Up the stairs, past the darkened classrooms and snoozing portraits, until he reached the one place that had always helped him think. The Astronomy Tower. He pushed the heavy door open quietly, half-hoping for solitude. But he stopped dead the moment he heard it.

A soft sound. Muffled.

A sniff.

Then another.

And then your voice—barely a whisper. Wavering. “God, pull it together…”

James froze.

He crept quietly around the stone barrier, heart hammering. And there you were, tucked into the hidden nook behind the telescope—knees hugged to your chest, jumper sleeves soaked from wiping your eyes. The stars above cast pale light across your face, catching the streaks of old tears, fresh ones still trailing silently down.

He didn’t think. “Hey,” he breathed.

You jumped, swiping at your cheeks violently, like you could erase the evidence before he fully saw you. “Oh,” you croaked, blinking fast. “James.”

You said his name like it burned your mouth. “What are you doing here?” you asked quickly, voice stiff, pretending like your throat wasn’t raw.

“I could ask you the same,” he said, carefully stepping closer.

You sat up straighter, already slipping your mask back on. “I, uh—nothing, just allergies,” you lied, blinking up at the sky. “Stars make my eyes water. Bastards.” He didn’t laugh.

“Really?,” he said, gently. You didn’t look at him.

“I’m fine.” He crouched down beside you. “Are you?”

You nodded quickly, too quickly. “Yeah, it’s nothing. Really. Just—long day. You know me, dramatic as ever.”

He hated that.

The way you hid pain behind humor like it was a shield. Like you weren’t allowed to be hurt. You sniffed, voice light, too light.

His jaw tensed. “Is this about earlier?”

You didn’t answer.

“I’m serious,” he said, moving to sit beside you now. “That thing I said... I didn’t mean it like that.”

You gave a little shrug. “Doesn’t matter. It’s fine.”

“No,” he snapped, sudden and sharp. “It’s not fine.”

You turned your head, startled.

He looked at you, eyes burning. "You think I don’t see it, but I do. God, I do. I saw your face today—the way your smile cracked like glass, the way you laughed like it physically hurt, like it was splintering something inside you just to pretend. And I can’t take it. I can’t keep watching you fold yourself smaller just to make everyone else feel okay. I need you to tell me what’s wrong. Don’t shut me out like this, don’t lie to my face with that same soft “I’m fine” when your eyes are screaming everything but fine. I know I hurt you. I know I did. And maybe you don’t want me to carry that, but I should. I am. You’re allowed to be mad, to be heartbroken, to want to scream or cry or even hate me for what I did. You don’t have to protect me from your pain. You don’t have to smile through it just to keep the peace. I don’t want peace if it means you breaking yourself into pieces to give it. So don’t look at me like that and say it’s fine."

Your lips parted slightly, but you didn’t speak.

“I thought you’d laugh,” he said quietly. “We always mess around. I didn’t know I—I didn’t realize it was something real. That it would actually...”

He trailed off.

You exhaled shakily. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, James,” you snapped, eyes finally locking on his. “It’s mine. I told myself it was okay. That I’d be the sidekick. The friend. The funny girl who stands in the background. The contrast. Because if I say it first, if I laugh about it—then it can’t hurt, right?”

Your voice broke on the last word.

James felt like the ground had cracked under him.

“But it still did,” you whispered. “When you said it out loud, it just—it felt like someone had pulled the last thread holding me together. I don’t think you understand what that moment did to me. It wasn’t just words. It was everything I’ve ever feared, wrapped in your voice. Like it wasn’t a joke anymore. Like it was real. Like everyone around us already knew, and you just finally said it out loud. That I really am the filler in the photo. The extra. The one you crop out or blur past. The shadow to someone else’s light. I’ve felt like that for so long, like I’m just there, taking up space, trying to smile pretty enough that no one notices I don’t belong. But hearing it from you—it shattered something in me. And the way you said it, so fucking casually, like it didn’t matter... that’s what kills me. It’s like I didn’t even register as something fragile to you.

And I know I didn’t say anything. I just laughed it off like always. Like I’m good at doing. Like I’ve trained myself to do. But inside, I was screaming. I was begging for someone to just see me—really see me—and pull me out of this mess in my chest. I kept hoping, stupidly, that maybe you saw something more in me. Something worth holding onto. But maybe that was my fault. Maybe I made that up. Maybe I wanted too much. I’m sorry. No—really—I’m sorry. For having expectations. For thinking I could be someone that mattered to you, even for a second. I should’ve known better. I always do.”

His heart twisted.

You wiped your nose, furious at the tears that wouldn’t stop.

“I’ve spent so long convincing myself I was fine with it,” you said, quieter now. “But when you said it? I don’t know. It felt like the whole world joined in.”

James swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

You looked away.

“I mean it,” he continued, voice thick. “I’m such an idiot. I didn’t mean it like that. When I called you the “MVP of average,” I thought I was being funny—stupid, harmless—but I wasn’t thinking, and I sure as hell wasn’t seeing. Not the way you needed me to. Not the way I should’ve. And it’s killing me, knowing those words came from me, from someone who looks at you like you hung the stars and then taught the sky how to shine. You think you’re the shadow to someone else’s light? No. You are the light. You’re the kind of light that slips through curtains at 4am and makes a broken person believe in warmth again. You're the reason color exists in a world I forgot was turning grey. And me? I’m just the fool who thought he could throw around careless jokes and you'd somehow still know how goddamn divine I think you are.”

He continued, His voice so pure of determination that it made you think he has practised this script thousand times before but the pureness in his eyes made you think otherwise. He continued “If you asked me to, I’d write your name into the marrow of my bones just so you’d know you’re etched in me. If you told me you liked the rain, I’d drown smiling just to taste what you love. I would pour honey on my heartbreak if I thought the sweetness might remind you of your laugh. I'd salt my wounds if it made them smell like your perfume. I would tear out every page where I wrote someone else's name, just to make space for yours. I didn’t say what I said because I had to—I said it because I thought I was close enough to be stupid and you'd forgive me. But I forgot… I forgot how deep words can slice, especially when the person hearing them already walks around stitched together with silence. Remus had to tell me. That’s how blind I was. You laughed, and I believed it—because I wanted to believe it. And that’s on me. That’s my failure. But now that I know? I’d beg if that’s what it takes. On my knees, on broken glass, under the weight of every word I should have never said. I’d beg a thousand times over, not just for forgiveness—but for another chance to look at you right, to say it right. Because you’re not average. You are the goddess I whisper prayers to when no one’s listening. And I—I am just the fool who didn’t realize he was already living in the temple of your presence. Let me stay. Let me make it right. Let me love you like I should’ve from the beginning.”

Your eyes flicked to his—raw, red, vulnerable. Then you stood. Fast.

The cold air caught your breath as you turned your back to him.

“You don’t get to make this about your guilt,” you said, voice low and hard. “I’m allowed to be angry, James. I’m allowed to not forgive you.”

He stood slowly behind you.

“I know.”

You didn’t look at him as you stepped toward the stairs.

“I’m not the girl who falls apart in front of people,” you said. “And I’m sure as hell not the girl who forgives the boy who made her feel invisible so easily with just some speech he gave her..”

And then you walked away.

James didn’t follow.

He just stood there—alone, under a sky full of stars—and watched the one person he wanted to make smile disappear down the steps, carrying a storm in her chest and tears he’d put there.

And for once in his life, James Potter had no idea what the fuck to do.

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