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evermoreness · 3 months ago

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moonlight and mending | remus lupin

pairing: remus lupin x fem!reader

summary: since it's your seventh year at hogwarts, you have to choose a path for a future job, and you chose to be a healer and help madam pomfrey. you just didn't know remus lupin was a regular patient.

obs: this is going to be a series. here's part two of this story.

masterlist

The hospital wing was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the morning light filtering through the tall windows. You were already up, sleeves rolled to your elbows as you organized a tray of healing potions. You had been helping Madam Pomfrey for a while now, and despite the occasional sleepless night, you loved every second of it.

This was where you belonged.

Every student at Hogwarts had to choose their paths on future jobs by the seventh year. Some would go with the professors to learn a specific path, like aurors or politics and others would go with Hagrid (if they had interest in magical creatures). It was fun.

You would not spend all your days at the hospital wing, since there were other students helping around Madam Pomfrey. But sometimes you would ignore this fact and just stay around for more hours than needed.

You had just finished restocking the dittany when Madam Pomfrey entered, her expression tight with concern.

“Another patient?” you asked, reaching for a clean cloth and a basin of warm water.

She nodded, already moving toward one of the empty beds. “Yes, and he’s in rough shape. A regular of mine, unfortunately.”

Before you could ask what she meant, the doors swung open, and Madam Pomfrey levitated a limp figure onto the bed.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Remus Lupin.

He looked terrible—his school robes were torn, his face pale and slick with sweat. Bruises and scratches covered his arms, and there was a deep gash along his collarbone, seeping blood onto the sheets. His hair was messier than usual, strands sticking to his forehead.

You had seen Remus around, always in the company of his friends, always with a soft smile and warm eyes. He was quieter than the other Marauders, more reserved. But this—this was a side of him you had never seen before.

“Will he be alright?” you asked, stepping closer.

Madam Pomfrey sighed. “He always is.”

She glanced at you, her sharp eyes softening slightly. “I’ll leave you to clean his wounds. Be gentle with him.”

You nodded, rolling up your sleeves further as she walked away.

Gently, you dipped the cloth into the warm water and pressed it against a cut on his cheek, dabbing away the dried blood. He stirred, a soft groan escaping his lips.

“Remus?” you said gently. “Can you hear me?”

He let out a breathy sound before his amber eyes fluttered open. They were hazy with exhaustion, unfocused at first, but as he blinked, they found yours.

“You’re awake,” you said with a small smile, hoping to reassure him.

His brows furrowed slightly. “Where…?”

“The hospital wing,” you answered, still carefully cleaning the wound on his cheek. “Madam Pomfrey brought you in.”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable before he huffed a weak chuckle. “Must be bad if I don’t even remember getting here.”

“You look like you got into a fight with a troll,” you teased lightly.

He smiled faintly. “Did I win?”

“Hard to say. The troll might be in better condition.”

That earned a soft laugh from him, though it ended in a wince.

“Stay still,” you scolded gently. “I need to clean these properly, and that won’t happen if you keep moving.”

“Alright,” he muttered with a small smile, but he did as you said.

You continued working in silence, carefully dabbing at the scratches along his arms. His body tensed slightly under your touch, but he didn’t complain.

Then, your gaze landed on the wound on his chest—a nasty gash running diagonally across his ribs, partially covered by his torn shirt. You hesitated before clearing your throat.

“Um… I need to get to the wound on your chest,” you said, a little hesitant. “Can you…?”

His tired eyes widened slightly as he realized what you meant. “Oh. Right.”

There was an awkward pause before he weakly reached for the buttons of his shirt, his fingers trembling slightly.

You quickly stopped him, your hands gently brushing his. “Here, let me.”

He stiffened under your touch but didn’t protest as you carefully undid the buttons of his bloodstained shirt. As you pushed the fabric aside, your breath hitched.

His torso was littered with scars, old and new, crisscrossing his skin like a map of past battles. The fresh wound along his ribs was deep, still oozing.

You swallowed hard, trying to push aside the questions burning in your mind. What had done this to him?

Instead of asking, you dipped the cloth in the warm water again and gently pressed it to the wound.

He hissed through his teeth.

“Sorry,” you murmured. “I know it stings.”

“It’s alright,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’re gentler than Pomfrey, at least.”

You smiled softly. “She believes in tough love.”

“That’s one way to put it,” he muttered, his voice slightly strained.

Wanting to distract him, you asked, “So, what do you usually do when you’re not getting yourself nearly killed?”

His lips twitched. “Read, mostly.”

You knew that the best way to distract the patients was by talking to them, about anything, so they could think about something else besides the pain.

“I could’ve guessed that,” you said with a small laugh. “Any favorites?”

He relaxed slightly at the question. “I like Defense Against the Dark Arts. And anything to do with magical creatures.”

“Magical creatures, huh?” You carefully applied the healing salve to his wound. “You don’t seem like the type to go wrestling with a dragon.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “No, definitely not. But I like learning about them.”

You smiled, tying off the last bandage. “Well, you’re all patched up. Try not to move too much.”

Remus let out a long breath, his eyelids growing heavy. “You’re… really kind,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “Get some rest, Remus.”

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before they finally closed.

And as you sat beside him, watching over him as he slept, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to Remus Lupin—something hidden beneath the scars and the quiet smiles.

You just didn’t know what it was yet.

The morning was long.

You didn't have any classes this morning, despite still being Tuesday.

You figured it was best to stay by his side.

At least, until lunch, because after that you would have some charms classes.

You sat beside Remus, watching over him as the hours crept by, the hospital wing bathed in sunlight and quiet. His breathing was shallow, his forehead damp with sweat. A fever had settled in not long after he had fallen asleep, and you had spent the past few hours placing cool cloths on his forehead, ensuring he didn’t overheat.

Madam Pomfrey had come in once to check on him, nodded approvingly at your dedication, and left you to it.

You didn’t mind.

There was something about watching over him—something that made you feel… protective. Maybe it was the way he had looked at you before drifting off, like he wasn’t used to someone being this kind to him.

Or maybe it was just that he seemed to carry too much weight for someone so young.

You sighed, dipping the cloth in cool water again and pressing it lightly to his forehead. He shifted slightly in his sleep, brow furrowing, but he didn’t wake.

A soft murmur left his lips—too quiet for you to catch.

You leaned closer. “Remus?”

He didn’t respond, just turned his head slightly, a faint crease between his brows. His fingers twitched where they rested by his side.

“Nightmare?” you whispered, watching his expression.

You wanted to reach for his hand, to soothe him, but you hesitated. Instead, you gently ran your fingers through his damp hair, hoping the touch might calm whatever dream he was trapped in.

Slowly, his features relaxed again.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

And so, you sat there, watching over him, making sure he didn’t shift too much in his sleep or try to tear off the bandages in unconscious discomfort.

You kept taking care of the other students there, it was almost lunch time when your eyes glanced toward Remus—only to find his amber eyes already on you.

You came closer, staying by his side on the bed. “You’re awake.”

His lips curled slightly. “Yeah, unfortunately” His voice was rough with sleep.

You gave him a small smile. “How do you feel?”

He hesitated, as if he was actually assessing himself. “Like I got into a fight with a brick wall and lost.”

You smiled. “Well, you look better than some hours ago”

His brows lifted slightly. “Was I that bad?”

You gave him a look. “You had a fever, you were shifting in your sleep, and I had to stop you from undoing your own bandages twice.”

His eyes widened slightly. “I… did that?”

You nodded. “You don’t remember?”

“Not at all.” He looked both embarrassed and surprised. His gaze flickered toward the bowl of water and the pile of damp cloths beside it. “You stayed all morning?”

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “It’s part of the job.”

He studied you for a moment before shaking his head. “No. Madam Pomfrey would’ve done it if it was just ‘part of the job.’ You chose to stay.”

You hesitated. “…I didn’t want you to be alone.”

His breath hitched slightly. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just looked at you as if trying to figure out how to respond.

Then, softly, “Thank you.”

Your heart warmed. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” he said, holding your gaze. “No one’s ever… done that for me before.”

The weight of his words settled between you.

You frowned slightly. “What about James? Sirius?”

“They’re great,” he said immediately, but then he hesitated. “…They don’t see this part of me. I don’t let them.”

Something in his voice made your chest tighten.

Carefully, you reached out, brushing your fingers over the bandage on his arm. “You don’t have to hide when you’re hurt, especially not from me or what else i won't know how to help.”

His breath caught, and for a long moment, he just stared at you, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

Finally, he smiled—small, but real. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You returned the smile. “Good. Now, do you think you can eat something, or do I need to force-feed you porridge?”

He chuckled. “I’ll eat. If only to avoid that fate.”

You grinned. “I’ll go get you something.”

As you walked away, you could still feel his gaze on you.

Remus was still staring at the doorway where you had disappeared when you returned, carrying a breakfast tray in both hands.

“Alright, hospital food isn’t exactly a feast, but it’s warm, and you need it,” you said as you placed the tray on his bedside table.

Remus sat up a little, wincing as he adjusted his position. He looked down at the tray—porridge, toast, and a steaming cup of tea.

You noticed his hesitation and raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re picky.”

He smirked faintly. “No, just… hospital food isn’t usually something to look forward to.”

You rolled your eyes. “Just try a little bit, alright?”

With an amused chuckle, he picked up the spoon and took a tentative bite of the porridge. It wasn’t terrible, which was the best compliment he could give it.

As he ate, you had already moved on, fussing over the other students in the ward.

“Drink more water, Gabe, you’ll feel better faster.”

“Maggie, you’re supposed to rest, not reread your Transfiguration notes.”

“Barty, don’t poke at your stitches, I swear to Merlin—”

Remus found himself watching you, a faint smile playing on his lips.

You were different.

It wasn’t just that you were kind—you loved this. He could see it in the way you moved, the way you spoke to everyone, the way you cared. It was like second nature to you, tending to people, making sure they were comfortable.

And yet… you were also a normal student. That much was obvious.

It hit him suddenly—he’d seen you around before. Not just in passing, but in the places he liked best. The library, tucked away in the quietest corners, flipping through thick medical textbooks and advanced Potions guides. The Astronomy Tower, where the view was the clearest. The courtyard, always with a book in your hands.

You weren’t just here. You were everywhere.

How did you balance it all?

Remus was still lost in thought when a hand appeared in front of his face.

He blinked and looked up.

You were standing there, a familiar-looking chocolate bar in your hand.

“Madam Pomfrey sent this,” you said with a smile. “She said it would help you feel better.”

Something warm settled in his chest.

He took the chocolate from you, running his fingers over the wrapper before glancing up at you. “She actually let you give it to me instead of forcing it on me herself?”

“She’s busy,” you said, shrugging. “But I think she knows I’d make you eat it either way.”

Remus chuckled, unwrapping the chocolate and breaking off a piece. As soon as it melted on his tongue, he sighed.

“Better?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Much,” he admitted.

You smiled in satisfaction before sitting on the edge of his bed. “So… I have a question.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “How do you do it?”

Remus blinked. “Do what?”

“Everything,” you said, gesturing vaguely. “I mean, you’re top of the class, always reading, and somehow, you still have time to get into whatever mischief your friends drag you into.”

Remus smirked. “I could ask you the same thing.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m serious.”

He considered you for a moment before shrugging. “I guess… I don’t really think about it. I just do what I need to do.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

There was a comfortable silence between you.

Then, Remus glanced down at the chocolate in his hand. “You know… I’ve never had someone take care of me like this before.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Not even your friends?”

He hesitated. “They try. But I don’t let them.”

“Why not?”

His fingers tightened slightly around the wrapper. “Because… I don’t want them to worry.”

You frowned. “That’s a terrible reason.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Maybe.”

You would say something else, but some other patient called. You smiled before turning around and going around to help others.

Hours later, the hospital wing was quieter. Most of the students had left, and Remus, finally feeling somewhat human again, was sitting on the edge of his bed, stretching his sore limbs.

You stood in front of him, holding a neatly folded set of fresh Hogwarts robes.

“Well, you look better,” you observed. “Still a bit pale, though.”

“I’m always pale,” he said dryly, though he smirked.

“Fair point,” you said, handing him the uniform. “Come on, get changed. You can’t walk around looking like you just wrestled a hippogriff.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

You smiled, rolling your eyes playfully. “Just change, Lupin.”

He chuckled but stood, wincing slightly as he moved. You turned around, giving him privacy as he carefully removed the old ripped uniform he was using from earlier, and pulled on his new uniform. His movements were slow, careful not to aggravate his still-healing injuries.

After a few moments, he let out a small sigh. “Alright. You can turn around.”

You turned, scanning him critically before nodding in approval. “Much better.”

“You sound like Madam Pomfrey,” he said, amused.

You gasped in mock horror. “Take that back!”

“Never.”

You huffed but smiled, grabbing your bag from the chair. You had already changed into your uniform earlier, ready to head to class. “Come on, I’ll walk with you.”

Remus blinked in surprise. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” you said, giving him a pointed look. “But I want to.”

His lips parted slightly, but no argument came.

He liked your company.

So, instead of protesting, he simply nodded. “Alright then. Lead the way, healer”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname but walked beside him as you both left the hospital wing.

The corridors were bustling with students heading to their next classes. You and Remus walked side by side, keeping a comfortable pace.

“So,” you started, adjusting the strap of your bag, “what’s your favorite class?”

Remus hummed. “That’s an easy one—Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

You grinned. “I should’ve guessed. You do always get top marks in it.”

He shrugged. “It’s practical. Useful.”

“Okay, but what about for fun?” you asked, tilting your head. “Not just what’s useful—what do you enjoy?”

He hesitated, then said, “I like Charms.”

You brightened. “Me too! It’s so satisfying when you finally get a spell just right.”

“Exactly,” he said, nodding. “And you?”

“Besides Charms? I love Potions,” you said. “It’s precise, methodical… and it helps with Healing. I like that.”

Remus smiled. “That makes sense. You’re really good at it.”

You looked at him, surprised. “You noticed?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well… yeah. I mean, you’re always top of the class, and I have seen you brewing in the library before.”

You chuckled. “Guilty. I like experimenting.”

“What’s the best potion you’ve made?”

You thought for a moment. “Probably a modified Wiggenweld Potion. I adjusted it to work faster without causing side effects.”

Remus raised his eyebrows, impressed. “That’s incredible.”

You shrugged, but his praise made you warm inside.

“What about books?” you asked. “I know you’re a reader.”

He smirked. “What gave it away?”

You laughed. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that I always see you in the library with your nose buried in a book?”

He chuckled. “Fair enough. I like anything about magical creatures, honestly.”

You nodded. “I can see that. You seem like the type to befriend a werewolf or something.”

Remus nearly tripped.

You didn’t notice, continuing, “I love medical books, obviously. But for fun? I like Muggle literature.”

He recovered quickly, forcing himself to focus. “Muggle literature?”

“Yeah,” you said, grinning. “There’s this Muggle author—Stephen King. Have you heard of him?”

Remus’s eyes lit up. “I have! The shining is brilliant.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’ve read it?”

He smirked. “I grew up in a half-Muggle household. My mum had loads of Muggle books.”

“Oh, I love that,” you said excitedly. “Okay, tell me—what do you think of Jack Torrance?”

Remus chuckled. “Misunderstood, the man was literally being controlled by evil spirits”

You gasped dramatically. “Correct answer. I knew I liked you, Lupin.”

Remus blinked, caught off guard, but you just laughed, nudging him playfully.

He laughed too, shaking his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this light.

Before he knew it, you had reached your classroom.

You stopped at the door, turning to face him. “Well, this is me.”

He nodded, suddenly wishing you had a further walk.

“Thanks for walking with me,” you said with a smile. “And take care of yourself, okay?”

Something about the way you said it made his chest tighten.

He nodded. “You too.”

With a final smile, you turned and disappeared into the classroom.

Remus stood there for a moment before shaking his head with a quiet chuckle.

Then, with thoughts of you still swirling in his mind, he dragged himself to his own class, already looking forward to the next time he saw you.

Getting closer.

The days passed, and somehow, without either of you truly realizing it, you and Remus had begun to gravitate toward each other.

It wasn’t a conscious decision—at least, that’s what Remus told himself.

At first, it was small things.

You’d see each other in the library, sitting a few tables apart, until one of you would move closer—always under the excuse of needing a book the other was using.

You’d pass each other in the halls, exchanging small smiles, sometimes stopping for a brief chat about classes, assignments, or whatever book you were reading that week.

Remus, always more reserved, didn’t say much in the beginning. He would listen as you talked, and surprisingly, he never got tired of hearing you speak. You had this way of filling the silence without overwhelming it.

And what fascinated him the most?

You never got bored of him.

Most people—besides his closest friends—didn’t have the patience for his quiet nature, for his habit of getting lost in thought, for the way he preferred books over crowds. But you never seemed to mind.

If anything, you enjoyed talking to him.

And Remus liked listening to you.

Slowly but surely, Remus began seeking you out.

If he saw you in the Great Hall, he’d wave you over. If you passed each other in the corridors, he’d slow his steps so you could walk together. If he spotted you alone in the common room, he’d sit beside you, pulling out a book without a word.

And you? You found yourself looking for him, too.

One evening, you sat at your usual table in the library, a thick Potions book open in front of you. You were muttering ingredients under your breath, trying to memorize an antidote recipe, when a familiar figure slid into the seat across from you.

“You talk to your books a lot,” Remus observed, setting his own book down.

You looked up, smirking. “And yet, you still sit with me. What does that say about you?”

He chuckled. “That I’m patient?”

“Or that you secretly enjoy my rambling.”

He shrugged, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe.”

You grinned, flipping a page. “What are you reading?”

“Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them,” he said, holding up the book.

You raised an eyebrow. “Planning on running off to become a Magizoologist?”

“Not quite,” he said, amused. “I just like creatures.”

You hummed, tilting your head. “If you could be any magical creature, what would you be?”

He hesitated for a second. “A werewolf.”

You blinked, surprised. “A werewolf?”

He nodded slowly, studying your face. “Yeah. They’re misunderstood. People assume they’re just mindless monsters, but… they’re not.”

You frowned slightly, considering his words. “You’re right. They don’t choose to be that way.”

Remus swallowed hard, watching you carefully. “You don’t think they’re evil?”

You shook your head. “Of course not. I think… I think most of them are probably just scared. And lonely.”

Something in Remus’s chest ached. He had never heard anyone say that before.

“You’re… different,” he said softly.

You gave him a curious look. “Different how?”

He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You just… are.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “That’s a very vague answer, Lupin.”

He chuckled. “It’s the best you’re getting.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fine. But I’ll figure it out eventually.”

“I’m sure you will.”

You eyed him suspiciously but let it go. “Well, I’d be a phoenix.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“They heal people,” you said simply. “And they always come back.”

He stared at you for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then, quietly, “That suits you.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his voice.

For a brief second, neither of you spoke.

Then, he cleared his throat, turning his attention back to his book. “You were mumbling potion ingredients earlier. Studying for something?”

You exhaled, shaking off the strange warmth in your chest. “Yes. Madam Pomfrey’s quizzing me tomorrow, and I cannot mix up the bezoar antidotes again.”

Remus smirked. “Do you want me to test you?”

Your eyes lit up. “Would you?”

He nodded, and for the next hour, he quizzed you, throwing in the occasional joke just to make you laugh.

The Marauders.

Of course, being friends with Remus meant that you were friends with the Marauders now.

One evening, you sat cross-legged on the Gryffindor common room floor, surrounded by parchment and books. Remus sat beside you, his own notes scattered around. Across from you, James Potter and Sirius Black were sprawled on the couch, watching you both with lazy amusement. Peter Pettigrew sat on the armrest, nibbling on a biscuit.

“So, let me get this straight,” James said, stretching his arms behind his head. “You spend your free time—voluntarily, I might add—working in the hospital wing?”

You looked up from your parchment, raising an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“And you enjoy it?”

“Yes.”

James exchanged a look with Sirius, who smirked. “Merlin’s beard, Moony, you’ve found your twin.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “Because enjoying something that requires effort is such a crime?”

“No, but we just assumed no one else was as much of a workaholic as you,” Sirius teased.

You snorted. “I love what I do, thank you very much.”

Peter perked up. “Does that mean you’re good at Potions?”

“She’s brilliant,” Remus answered before you could, flipping a page in his book.

Sirius grinned. “Oh, that’s good to know.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why?”

James leaned forward, an eager look in his eyes. “Because we need a potioneer for our next prank.”

You stared at him. “You want me to help you prank people?”

“Yes,” Sirius said smoothly, “because you’re cool.”

Remus made a sound like he was choking on his own breath. “Cool?”

James ignored him. “Think about it. You brew us something—nothing harmful, just a little mischief—and we execute it.”

You tilted your head, considering. “Would this be used on everyone or just specific people?”

“Filch,” Peter answered immediately. “And Snivellus.”

You hummed. “No harm, no permanent damage?”

James put a hand over his heart. “On my honor.”

You smirked. “I could make an odorless dye potion that only reacts to moonlight.”

Sirius gasped in delight. “That’s genius.”

“Imagine Snape walking around, thinking nothing’s wrong, and then—BAM—his face turns green under the full moon,” James cackled.

You smiled sweetly. “You’ll owe me chocolate.”

Sirius clapped his hands together. “Deal.”

Remus sighed, looking at you with an exasperated but amused expression. “You do realize you’re enabling them?”

“Oh, I know,” you said innocently. “But it’s fun.”

James grinned. “She’s one of us now, Moony.”

Remus looked at you, then at them, then sighed again, rubbing his temple. “Merlin help us all.”

#remus lupin x you #marauders #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin #fanfic #marauders era #x reader #x yn #james potter #sirius black #harry potter #peter pettigrew

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ghostedgwen · 17 days ago

Text

hear it in the silence | j.potter

note : I've been writing this for about three days and it has concluded on 11.6k word count, which is crazy. But with such a fleshed out plot, I couldn't just wing it on about 2k words for my standard fics, and I didn't fancy having more series on my plate so here's one very long fic for JP to celebrate 800 followers further and cope with my own grief lol - enjoy.

warnings : grief and death, terminal illnesses - losing family members, reader had abusive parents and left her in debt, questionable themes of jp taking advantage of reader's predicament, fake marriage trope, just overall angst and lots of sad stuff but it has good moments slipped in between

James Potter feels like his whole world had crumbled apart, terminal Dragon Pox was the diagnosis. It was already too much he has to deal with his parents being sick but then, they ask him to assure them that when they leave, he wouldn't be alone. And you, you with your piling debt and threatening letters from Gringots can only fall into despair when the two grieving paths cross - and a deal is struck. He gets a wife, and you clear your tab.

You two are dancing in a snow globe, 'round and 'round, and he keeps the picture of you in his office downtown . . .

Diagon Alley smells like burnt sugar, star-anise, and smoke. You can no longer tell which scent is yours.

The oven’s been on since four. The air is thick with the scent of puffing pixie pies, their blue-glazed crusts still gently sparkling in the cooling racks. You rotate a tray of warm wandwood scones with steady hands and an aching back, ignoring the familiar twinge in your wrist - a brewing injury from years of kneading dough without proper rest.

The enchanted glass dome that displays your bestsellers glows faintly with golden sigils - today's highlighted treat is a fresh batch of Honeyduke-inspired fire-fudge croissants that puff steam in satisfying curls. A chalkboard near the till scrawls out notes in overly chipper handwriting:

Please don’t tap the jar of Charmed Cherry Tarts - they bite. Broomstick Biscuit special ends at sundown. Please remind ____ to eat.

You erase that last one quickly with the back of your hand, smudging away the concern Essie must’ve tucked into the notes.

The debt letters - from Gringotts, from old family contacts with clenched fists and colder curses - sit unopened in a toffee-colored cauldron bowl beside the register. They hum faintly. One of them pulses like a cursed wound, red wax seal still unbroken. The goblins have stopped pretending to be courteous - not that they ever were.

You left the last one unopened.

The wards above the till flicker as your morning protection spell resets, casting a soft violet shimmer across the room. It catches in the sugar that dusts your counter like frost. You stare at the floating menu quill scratching out the day's specials and feel absolutely nothing.

Until the door creaks open with the distinct jingle of spell-silver bells.

You nearly jump - but it’s just Essie, your apprentice, dragging her broom in behind her and mumbling under her breath. Her hair is twisted into a half-up knot with sugar pearls tucked in like constellations, and she’s wearing her favourite pink cloak with scorch marks at the hem.

"Morning," she yawns, flicking her wand to float the Fanged Brioche into the window display.

You nod, already elbow-deep in kneazle-cream batter for the batch of Custard Cauldron Cakes you need for the lunch rush. "Morning."

She eyes the cauldron bowl with the debt letters. "They sent more?"

You don’t answer, just tap your wand against the iron mixing bowl and watch the batter stir itself into stiff peaks.

"You know," she starts carefully, "there’s a program at the Ministry for -"

"No." Your voice cuts too sharp. You soften, slightly. "Just get the Skyberry Tarts prepped. I’ll open the register."

She mutters an understanding, "Alright, alright," and you hear her charm the stove to a low simmer as she sets to work.

The till clicks open. You count the galleons and sickles. Barely enough for rent.

The display case glitters as the floating pastry charms adjust themselves, casting brief illusions of glowing stars and festive flickers. Some customers come just for the theatrics. Most leave without buying.

It cycles on, one spell after another. You don’t notice the time pass - just the deepening ache in your legs and the strain in your voice from offering smiles like empty potion bottles.

By the time the shop thins out and the wards reset for the evening, you can barely feel your feet. The sun creeps low through the frosted windowpanes. You lock the door with a flick of your wand and collapse against the back counter, sliding slowly to the floor.

You lean your head back against the wall. Close your eyes.

The bakery smells like cinnamon and burnt hope.

And for a long time, you don't move.

The sign swung lazily in the breeze, a battered little thing that proudly read Back in 15 minutes in slanted gold script. You exhaled hard through your nose before disappearing into the back kitchen, apron strings snapping against your hips.

Essie was already wringing her hands by the cooling racks, her face creased in the worried way you had learned to dread.

“You can’t keep pretending it’s going to get better,” Essie said quietly. Her voice was soft, too soft, like she was afraid of shattering something already cracked to hell.

You yanked open the icebox a little too hard. The bottles clattered. “We’re fine,” you said shortly.

“We’re not.”

Essie shifted from foot to foot, casting a nervous glance toward the front door. “I heard from Malkin’s this morning. They’ve been getting letters too. The kind that come with curses stitched between the lines.”

You slammed the icebox shut and pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, willing the hot burn behind them to settle. It didn’t.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” you snapped. “Do you think I don’t know exactly how deep in it we are?”

Essie took a cautious step forward. “Maybe you could - could ask someone for help. You have. . . friends, don’t you?”

A bitter laugh escaped before you could stop it. Sharp and ugly. “No, Essie,” you said, voice low and shaking. “I had parents who gambled away everything. I had parents who drank themselves stupid and died brewing potions they weren’t qualified to touch. And now I have a bakery that barely scrapes by, a name no one dares trust, and debts that have more teeth than half the werewolves in Knockturn Alley. I don’t have friends.”

You swallowed hard. “I don’t have anyone.”

The silence that followed was worse than shouting could’ve been.

In the front of the shop, the door had creaked open.

Neither of you heard it - not over the ringing in your ears, not over the slow collapse happening between you.

But James Potter heard everything.

He hesitated on the threshold, the smell of vanilla and spellfire curling around him. He knew grief when he felt it - raw, ragged, clinging to the curtains and floorboards like cigarette smoke. It was the same cold weight that sat heavy on his chest these days, whispering things he wasn’t ready to name.

He thought about leaving. Thought about pretending he hadn’t heard the way your voice broke like that.

But his feet stayed rooted to the ground.

In the back, you exhaled sharply, dragging your hands down your face before smoothing your hair back into something that almost looked composed.

“I’ll take the rest of the deliveries,” you said, voice scraped raw but steady. “You stay here. Lock up when you’re done.”

Essie nodded mutely.

You stepped back into the front of the bakery - and stopped cold.

James Potter was standing there, unmistakable even in the simple navy robes, hair sticking up at every angle like he’d flown there backwards. He looked up from the display case with a polite sort of blankness - just another customer looking for a pastry.

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

Of all the people to walk into your bakery today - it had to be him.

You pushed a smile onto your face.

Professional. Untouchable.

If he recognized you, he didn’t show it - facial expression mastered over years of pulling pranks, he feigned innocence.

“What can I get you, Auror Potter?” you asked, voice calm, hands smoothing over your apron as if you could scrub away the tremor in your fingertips.

He didn't bother asking how you knew him - everyone did at this point. Starchaser James Potter quickly climbing Auror ranks, or whatever rubbish the Prophet blurted out these days.

James blinked at you, thrown for half a second - there was something familiar about the curve of your mouth, the sharpness of your gaze - but he shook it off.

Just a tired girl behind a counter.

Just another place he would leave behind when the real world came calling again.

“I’ll just have whatever’s hot and butter-y,” he said, flashing an easy, careless smile.

You nodded, turning toward the shelves without another word, heart hammering so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

The waiting room hummed with too-white light and antiseptic silence. James stood still for the first time in hours, though the tremble in his fingers betrayed him. His Auror robes were still singed from the mission he'd cut short, boots flecked with soot. He looked like he was ready to duel a dragon, but his wand was jammed too tightly into his belt, and his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of something heavier than duty.

He couldn’t sit. Couldn’t stop moving. Each tick of the wall clock pressed deeper into his chest. The healer’s door opened once - then twice - and still, not for him.

The world dulled at the edges. Muffled. Like he was underwater, ears clogged, vision blurry with the ache behind his eyes. He didn’t realise he’d stopped breathing until someone said his name.

“Mr Potter?”

He followed the Healer into a room where the walls felt too close. Too still. Her voice was calm - rehearsed, maybe. She said words like progressed, like untreatable, like comfort-focused now.

His mother and father had advanced Dragon Pox. The magical immunity treatments had failed. There was no cure.

They had months left. A year, if they were lucky.

James didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The sound in the room went static. The lights above buzzed like flies in his ears. The floor rocked like it might fall out from under him. He just stood there, barely nineteen, freshly graduated, a job he hadn’t even warmed into yet - and now this?

He left without remembering how.

He returned the next day.

Euphemia was pale, but smiling. Her hands had thinned, bones showing where soft skin once was, but she still reached for him like he was her world. Her room smelled like lavender, and there was a vase of sunflowers on the window ledge, yellow as his childhood.

“Don’t look like that, sweetheart,” she murmured, “we’ve had a good run, haven’t we?”

James tried to laugh, but it cracked in the middle.

“We’re not afraid, James. Not really,” she went on, voice low and steady. “We’ve had each other. We had you. You’ve given us everything.”

He shook his head, blinked hard. “Mum - ”

“What we’re afraid of is leaving you alone.”

She said it so simply, it cleaved something open in him. All his carefully stacked defences. All his grown-up bravado, tearing at the seems and ripping out stitches.

“We won’t rest easy knowing you’ve got no one left. Not when you've always carried so much. You never let it show, but we know. You’ve always been the light in our lives. We just want to know someone will carry that with you.”

He tried to brush her off. Said he had the boys - nevermind that they were all scattered around the world, all thirsty to find their purpose in this world and its brewing war. That he was fine. But she reached for his hand and stilled him with a look.

“Someone to come home to, James. Someone to stand beside you - not because they have to, but because they want to. You deserve that.”

James knew his parents' concerns too well. He's gonna be inherting that big manor, all to himself - with no one to come home to.

It lodged in his chest like a spell misfired. Her words, her softness, the knowing way she held him in her gaze. He nodded, but it felt like a lie. Because how could he promise her something like that?

How could he find love in the shadow of goodbye?

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

The manor was too quiet. Every corridor echoed. The portraits whispered too softly to hear. Grief sat heavy on his ribs, like wearing a crown too big, too heavy, for a boy still learning how to carry himself like a man.

He still had the traces of his youth, barely smudged by an adulthood stamp. He's still the same boy in red robes running through darkened halls with his brothers as their laughter echoed, followed by the loud sound of dungbombs going off.

He walked the halls until his legs ached. Stepped outside when he couldn’t breathe.

The night air bit at his cheeks.

And then - her voice.

Not real. Just a memory. Echoes from earlier in the week. From a tucked-away bakery in Diagon Alley.

“I don’t have friends. I don’t have anyone.”

He hadn’t meant to overhear. But now it's stuck on him like a gum he had stepped on during a stroll - he could get rid of it but that would require effort that he didn't manage.

You voice was stuck in his head.

It was sharp and tired. Raw and ragged.

He remembered her now - vaguely. Head Girl. Two years above. Always quiet. Always watching. She hadn’t looked at him like he was anyone special. And when she spoke, there’d been something in it he hadn’t known he needed until now - someone else falling apart.

Someone else with no one left.

And maybe - maybe two desperate souls can help each other out.

The bell above the bakery door chimed, soft and familiar, but you didn’t look up right away. Your hands were dusted in flour, wrists deep in dough. It was nearly noon, and you'd barely had a sip of your tea. The day had been steady - enough customers to keep you occupied but not enough to keep the intrusive thoughts out.

Your shoulders ached. Your back was killing you. (girl, same)

You muttered a quick greeting without turning around. "We’re out of treacle tarts. And the jam puffs won’t be ready for another hour."

A pause.

Then -

"That’s alright. I didn’t come for pastries."

Your hands froze. Not because you recognised the voice - not immediately. But because of the tone: uncertain, careful.

You looked up.

James Potter was standing just inside the bakery, hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers, hair a mess, robes too nice for this part of town. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there the last time he’d come in.

The last time. Which had been. . . what? Two days ago?

He looked out of place. But not like a prince slumming it. Like someone who didn’t know where else to go.

"You again," you said, more confused than anything. "If not for pastries, come back for what, then?"

He scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry. I know this is strange. I just - can we talk?"

Essie, hovering by the front counter, raised an eyebrow at you. You waved her off. "I’ve got it. Go get started on the almond wands."

Essie didn’t argue. Just wiped her hands and disappeared into the back - she'd surely ask about it later.

You turned your gaze back to him. Folded your arms. "Alright. Talk."

James took a breath like he was about to dive into something very cold.

"I need a favour. A big one."

You blinked. "You need me to do you a favour."

That was the last thing you expected from James Potter.

He smiled, grim and lopsided. "Yeah. Mad, innit?"

You didn’t return it. "What kind of favour?"

"Marriage."

The silence that followed was so complete you could hear the oven ticking behind you.

"Pardon?"

He took a step forward. "Not - not real marriage. Not like that. Not at first. I just. My mum. She’s sick, both my parents are. Really sick. And she asked me - well, she wants to see me settled. She wants to know I won’t be alone."

You stared at him like he’d grown a second head as he scrambled to explain himself.

"You don’t even know me."

"I know enough," he said quietly. "I know you’re proud. That you’re hurting. I heard you, the other day. You and your friend, in the back."

Your stomach dropped.

"You were eavesdropping?"

"Not on purpose," he said quickly. "I just - heard you. And something about it - about you. It stayed with me."

You looked away. Heat prickled at the back of your neck. Shame, and something else. Something heavier.

"So what? You figured we’re both miserable, might as well be miserable together?"

James smiled faintly. "Something like that."

You should have laughed. Or told him to leave. Or hexed him, maybe - blacklisted him from your bakery for such an incredulous proposal.

Instead, you said, "And what do you get out of it? Besides ticking a box for your mum?"

"I'll handle the debt - you’d live at the manor during it," he said. "You’d be safe. Comfortable. No debts. No dodgy landlords knocking on your door."

"And in return?"

He met your gaze. "We pretend. Just for a bit. We give my parents the peace of mind they deserve, just before they go."

A long pause.

You looked at his hands - tucked into his pockets, knuckles white with pressure. He looked exhausted. Raw around the edges. Just like you.

You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no, either.

He stepped forward and slid something across the counter.

A small piece of parchment. Just his name and an address, perhaps a place to owl. His handwriting neat and surprisingly careful.

You didn’t pick it up.

He nodded once. "Think about it."

Then he left, the bell over the door chiming again like a punctuation mark.

You stood there long after he was gone, arms folded tight across your chest, heart thudding loud in your ears.

You looked down at the name.

James Potter.

You didn’t throw it away.

The letter comes just after dusk.

It’s marked in red wax, the goblin seal pressed so deep into the parchment that it’s cracked the paper. You don’t open it right away. You don’t need to. You already know what it says.

You read it anyway.

Final Warning. Immediate repossession scheduled.

Your hands shake. The bakery’s quiet - too quiet - and the ticking of the old brass clock on the wall sounds like thunder. Upstairs, a leak drips steadily into a teacup you’ve stopped bothering to empty. It’s all falling apart. Bit by bit. Month by month.

You’ve sold nearly everything of value. You haven’t bought new robes in a year. You haven’t paid yourself in longer.

You sit at the kitchen table, still in your flour-stained apron, and stare at the parchment like it might change if you just will it to. It doesn’t.

Essie finds you like that. She’s still in her coat, scarf looped once around her neck. Her wand glows faintly as she steps into the back, eyebrows raised.

Then she sees the letter.

You don’t say anything. Just slide it across the table.

There’s a long silence.

“You’re not sleeping,” she says, not unkindly. “And you look like you’ve not eaten properly in days.”

You press your hands to your face. The tears hit before you can stop them - stupid, useless tears that burn your eyes and your pride alike.

“I’ve tried everything,” you whisper. “I’ve given everything I have, and it’s still not enough.”

Essie doesn’t interrupt. She lets you break. Quietly. Without judgment - like she always did, she's younger by a year but you feel as is she's decades matured than you.

Then, she says the one thing you’ve been trying not to think about:

“Maybe it’s time to take the offer.”

You freeze.

“You could do worse than a Potter,” she continues, setting her bag down. “And it’s not like he’s a stranger. Not really - and more than anything, his offer makes sense and it's not for shady reasons.”

But he is, you want to say. James Potter is a ghost of your childhood, a flicker of a memory too golden to have ever been yours. You haven’t seen him in years, and even when you did - you were just someone in the corner of his world.

He wasn’t supposed to remember you. He wasn’t supposed to come into your bakery. He wasn’t supposed to hear you like that.

But he had.

And he offered you a lifeline.

You don’t answer Essie. You just nod, once, and disappear up the stairs to your flat.

The letter is short.

You write it with trembling fingers, the ink blotching in one corner.

If your offer still stands, I’d like to discuss it. - ____ ____

You don’t sleep that night, either.

The café sits at the edge of Diagon Alley, just before the shadows of Knockturn begin to creep in. The windows are fogged, the booths are cloaked in perpetual half-light, and no one looks too long at anyone else.

You arrive wrapped in your thickest cloak, wand strapped at your thigh. The moment you step inside, you see him.

James Potter - sitting in the back corner, hood drawn up, still managing to look unmistakably like himself. Like autumn sun and lightning storms. Like a boy who’s never known real fear until now.

His eyes meet yours.

You sit across from him. The booth is too small, too narrow - your knees almost touch beneath the table. Neither of you orders anything.

You clear your throat. The words feel heavier now, weighed down by everything they mean.

“I’ll do it,” you say.

There’s a pause.

And then James exhales - not quite relief, not quite gratitude - something older, something heavier. The tension leaks from his shoulders, from his jaw. You realise he’s been bracing for a no.

“You’ve no idea what this means to me,” he says, voice low.

For a second, you think he’s going to reach for you. His hand twitches on the table, and your breath catches - but he pulls it back.

Then, from inside his coat, he pulls a neat scroll of parchment. Tied with a green ribbon. Thick and official-looking.

You blink.

“Is that - ?”

“The contract.” He grins, boyish and almost sheepish. “I wrote it up after I left the bakery. Had a feeling.”

“You knew I’d say yes?”

He shrugs, leaning back in the booth. A flash of something wicked glints behind his glasses.

“Call it intuition.”

And maybe he’s arrogant. Maybe he’s mad. Maybe you are, too.

But as your fingers close around the parchment, warm from his coat, you feel something almost like air in your lungs again.

A beginning.

Even if it’s the strangest one imaginable.

You arrive in a clean cloak, wand tucked tight in your sleeve, palms sweating despite every calming draught in your cupboard.

The manor looms quietly under the twilight - not cold, not cruel. Just. . . still. The way ancient places are. As if the walls remember everything.

James opens the front door before you can even knock.

“Alright, Head Girl?” he murmurs, and there’s that grin again, lopsided and golden, like this is all just a grand joke between the two of you. You elbow him gently.

“You’re lucky I don’t hex you for that,” you mutter.

But your smile stays.

"Relax, you look great, they'll love you." You pretend that your stomach didn't flip at the compliment. It was probably just to ease your nerves, not much to it.

You’ve rehearsed this story to death.

You were two years above him at Hogwarts. Head Girl. Known for your strict patrols and your no-nonsense duels with some Slytherins. He was a fifth-year nuisance, always in detention. You didn’t even remember him.

Not until he walked into your bakery, two years after you graduated, and said, “Your treacle tart’s going to ruin my life.”

You’d raised a brow. Told him you weren’t interested in love-struck boys with sugar on their lips. He’d come back anyway. Every week. Every Sunday without fail. Talking about literature, Quidditch, philosophy, muggle poetry and how you made the best almond croissants in London.

You tried not to fall. But the story goes - you caved.

It’s soft. Sweet. Just plausible enough to pass as truth.

And tonight, it has to be.

Euphemia Potter is already halfway to the door by the time you step inside. Her cheeks are flushed with excitement, hair pinned up with little golden combs. She’s wearing something soft - silk, maybe - in forest green.

“So you’re the one,” she says, eyes crinkling, voice like warm honey. “Our Jamie’s treacle tart.”

You blink then laugh, it was a real one - the opener was too silly. “That’s me, apparently.”

Fleamont’s footsteps echo from the hallway - slower, but steady. He gives you a long look, then smiles as he extends a hand.

“Didn’t expect him to fall for a baker,” he admits, voice gravelly, “but I respect a man with good taste - and we Potter men are known to have exceptional ones.”

They welcome you in like you’re already part of the furniture. Like you’ve always belonged - which is weird given how everything in the manor screamed luxury.

You knew he was rich and it was no secret that the Potters were influential - and he is to inherit everything, but you didn't really expect this.

You grew up far from all of this, and this might be your first time witnessing such grand luxury.

Now, dinner -

You talk about pastries, your best-sellers, your Hogwarts days. You even pretend to distinctly remember James in the corridors - “a menace in too-big glasses, always running away from trouble.”

They laugh. You laugh.

And each time, it cuts deeper. Because it’s not a performance to them -

It’s not a deal. It’s not debt.

It’s real.

You excuse yourself after pudding. Say you need a bit of air.

James joins you seconds later in the garden, stuffing his hands into his pockets like a boy again. You could almost laugh bitterly - even their garden screamed luxury.

“You alright?” he asks, quiet.

You shrug, eyes scanning the dark blooms around the gravel path. “Didn’t expect them to be so. . .”

“Lovely?”

You nod. “Real.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, and his arm brushes yours. “They are.”

He offers you his arm, gentlemanly and a little cheeky. You take it, because you’re supposed to.

But you don’t lean in.

You don’t think you could bear to.

Not tonight. Not when they believed every word.

You find James in the greenhouse, having been told by the house elf where he was so early in the morning. The morning hues were yet to bleed out, barely a sun peeking out but it was already bright.

It’s quiet, soft with the scent of damp soil and blooming citrus. Golden light spills through the glass, casting long shadows across the stone floor. He’s tending to something leafy and stubborn-looking when he hears your footsteps.

He doesn’t look up right away. Just says, lightly, “You’re early.”

You shrug and nod at him, “You’re always early.”

He turns to you then, wiping his hands on a cloth. There’s something different in the way he watches you - not amused or teasing, just steady. He nods toward the bench behind him -

“Sit.”

You do, without asking. And that’s when he pulls it from his pocket - a small box, velvet red and obviously old.

Your heart stutters.

He opens it, not with a dramatic flourish, but carefully. Like it presenting something heavy, yet important.

Inside, a simple gold band with a red gem in the middle glows under the greenhouse light. Thin. Elegant. The faintest shimmer of enchantment woven into its metal - and the gem that’s glistening like magic.

“It was hers,” James says softly. “Mum’s. She told me she’d like it to go to someone good.”

You blink. The weight of it hits before the ring even touches your skin, a family heirloom passed to every Potter bride.

You manage, “Then you’ve picked the wrong girl, Potter.”

He shakes his head. Smiling - not his usual grin, but something smaller. Truer, you wonder if how many of those he’ve had since the diagnosis.

“No. I don’t think I have.”

You reach out but he moves the box away from your touch, you frown as you watch him pluck it out, carefully moving as he slide the ring onto your finger.

It fits too well. And for one horrible second, you want it. Want this. All of it.

You look down at your hands. Then up at him.

“How are they?” you start, but the words catch.

James nods slowly. “Dragon pox. Started last year. Dad’s got it now too - not as bad, but. . .”

He trails off, sits beside you on the bench, his head hanging low in defeat.

“There’s no cure. Just potions to ease it. Mum’s pretending to make peace with it. But I think she knows.”

Your throat feels tight. You don’t touch him - can’t - but you shift closer, just enough that your knees almost touch.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, hoping your sincerity was bleeding into those two words. You keep your eyes on him, seeing how familiar he look - he looked like you with all the weight on him.

He breathes out. “They’re everything. And they asked me. . .” He hesitates. “They asked me to promise that when they go, I won’t be alone, they’re amazing and just want what’s best for me, I think they’re just holding on to see me happy.”

You understand then - what this is, so much deeper than a boy wanting to appease his parents. It’s a son who wants to give his parents peace.

There was a moment of silence, you turn away to not keep staring at him. Eyeing the plants.

“What about your debt?” he asks, careful not to make it sound like a threat, a burden for a burden.

You consider staying silent. But the ring on your finger glints in the light, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe.

“My parents made a mess,” you say. “Gambled everything away. Stole from the shop. Wrote my name on too many contracts and disappeared. I’ve been trying to pay it back ever since. The bakery keeps me fed, but barely.”

You glance at your lap, willing yourself not to sound too pathetic. Despite laying out all the

“I didn’t think I’d make it,” you admit.

Unsure what to say, he just swallowed the forming lump in his throat. Then he decided to part his lips, - "You're really strong, ____. You didn't deserve any of that, but you're still here."

You laugh a bit, nudging him with your knee. "Guess we both are - must come with being Gryffindors."

A long, quiet silence stretches between you.

It’s not uncomfortable.

The engagement announcement happens that night over dinner - nevermind the fact it wasn't all romantic how you got the ring on your finger.

James was the picture-perfect excitement, grin so wide you almost thought he was genuine about wanting to marry you.

James, lifting his goblet - cleared his throat. "Mum, Dad, we're engaged."

You almost smirk, he did not even make some grand speech. He just dropped it like that - that is so him.

Euphemia gasps like it’s the best news she’s ever heard - and perhaps it was. Fleamont claps James on the back - he sat at the head of the table and to his left was James - you sat next to him.

But Euphemia reaches for James’s hand over the table, and you can tell something’s bothering her - a look of worry paint over her wrinkled features.

“Just tell us this isn’t because of us,” she says. “What we said. About wanting to know you’d be alright.”

You glance at James. He hesitates - he appears to be losing it - the smile faltering and he seems like me might burst, at the reminder.

So you step in, a hand on top of his that rested on his thigh under the table, you didn't think much of it but he was shocked.

“It’s not because of that,” you say, voice even. “He didn’t pressure me. He’s been. . . kind. A gift I didn’t expect while I was struggling.”

Your words were true, you weren't lying and James could tell, he moved his hand to intertwine it with yours under the table, willing himself to be grounded by your warmth and your touch.

He exhales, exaspherated.

You meet Euphemia’s eyes and say, “I’d be proud to marry him.”

She smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at.

Fleamont raises his glass. James is quiet beside you - his grip tightened just slightly.

You don’t look at him.

You move in the next morning - the Potters were very eager to welcome you in as a housemate, Euphemia already discussing what tea to have with you every afternoon as that dinner progressed.

You felt warm all over, they were kind people - you somewhat felt goof to be giving them the peace they deserve, even if it is under deceit.

There’s only one trunk. Your life condensed into canvas and charm-bound compartments.

James carries it easily. Leads you up the stairs to his room - soon to be yours too.

You glance around. Quidditch posters, books on dueling theory, the faint scent of broom polish and pine. It is unexpectedly organized, with his personality - you expected a mess.

He clears his throat, feeling a bit awkward with how you eyed his room - his childhood room. “You alright sharing?”

You drop your trunk at the foot of the bed. “I’ve been through worse,” you say dryly. “Sharing a bed with a man is the least of my worries.”

He laughs, nodding slightly. “So I’m not even a little bit intimidating?”

You raise an eyebrow, turning to give him a look. “I still see you as that troublesome fifth-year. You’re a little boy to me, Potter.”

James scoffs, deeply offended. “I’ll have you know I’m an Auror now. Very manly. Very brave. Very capable.”

You wave him off. “Yeah, sure.”

“Need me to prove my masculinity? I can take my shirt off. Show you the Quidditch captain physique. Maybe throw in some Auror combat moves.” James wiggled his eyebrows and you just laugh at him - shaking your head.

“Merlin, please don’t.”

He grins, but it fades slowly, leaving something quieter behind.

Then the night finally came, the time to actually share the bed - that gryffindor red bed.

There’s space between you. But it’s warm - and you could feel him right behind you, backs turned on each other as if facing each other would reveal things you dared not discuss yet.

Still, it's warm.

Not love. Not yet.

But maybe something like safety.

The invitation arrives tied in a red silk ribbon, dropped onto the breakfast table by a smug little owl who barely waits for a scrap of bacon before flying off again.

You stare at the embossed lettering. Your name in fancy script. An invitation to a Hogwarts friend's wedding. Someone you haven't spoken to in years - not really. Someone who belonged to a life you thought you’d buried somewhere between unpaid invoices and final warnings.

Hariett Selwyn.

James plucks the card from your fingers before you can shove it away - he inspected it.

“A wedding?” His eyebrows lift, and he reads it aloud in a falsely posh accent, smirking. “How charming. Perfect opportunity to show off my beautiful fiancée.”

You groan, reaching for your tea like it might save you - ignoring the compliment, safer to do so. “I’m not going.”

“Come on,” he says, already leaning back in his chair like the decision’s made. “It’ll be fun.”

“Fun,” you echo dryly.

He grins, utterly unbothered. “We’re supposed to look like a real couple, aren’t we? Consider it . . .practice.”

You narrow your eyes. “I have nothing to wear.”

James shrugs like he’s been waiting for you to say that. He waves his wand lazily and a box appears, neatly wrapped, on the table between you.

“Handled,” he says with a wink.

You blink at him. At the box. At him again.

He has that shit-eating grin, you almost worried it was gone - James Potter now 18 years old with the weight of the world on him, he still has that youth in him after all.

“You’re insufferable.” You tell him without any bite to it.

“Thank you. Open it.”

Inside: a dress. New. Beautiful. Silky under your fingertips, clearly expensive - but not loud or garish. Thoughtful. Something you might’ve picked yourself, if you ever let yourself dream that way anymore.

You’re blinking too much. You cover it by rolling your eyes and muttering something sarcastic. James just smiles, infuriatingly pleased with himself.

You arrive at the wedding together - and you might as well be walking into a fairytale.

James is devastating in tailored formal robes, hair artfully messy, glasses gleaming. And you - you barely recognize yourself in the mirror. The dress fits like a second skin. It catches the light when you move.

When James looks at you, there’s a flicker in his expression he doesn’t bother hiding. You swallow all the butterflies down as if you could flush them out -

James Potter is straight out of a dream, no wonder girls swoon at the sight and mention of him.

People flock to you the moment you step inside. Champagne glasses pressed into your hands. Laughter and perfume and old, blurred memories swirling around you.

“You two look so in love!” someone coos, squeezing your arm. Probably in your year, you can't recall.

“About time someone tamed James Potter,” another one laughs - maybe another Gryffindor? Who knows.

James plays his part flawlessly. Arm around your waist. Whispered jokes in your ear. Smiling like you’re the only person in the world. Like he’s been waiting years just to be standing here with you.

At first, you fake it. Smile, laugh, nod in all the right places.

But the longer the night goes on - the easier it becomes. The lies sit lighter on your tongue. The champagne warms you from the inside out. For a few hours, it’s almost frighteningly easy to believe in this story you’re telling.

When the music changes, James holds out his hand with a theatrical bow -

“May I have this dance, Miss Treacle Tart?”

You roll your eyes but place your hand in his anyway, snorting at the name.

The floor tilts under you slightly - too much champagne, too many lies - but James steadies you without a word. His hand fits at the small of your back like it belongs there. His other hand twines with yours, easy and sure.

He twirls you under the soft golden lights.

You forget yourself for the berifest moment.

Forget the debt. The bakery. The past nipping at your heels like wolves - how everything has changed for the worse since Hogwarts.

For a dizzy, dangerous heartbeat, you forget where you end and he begins.

You laugh - breathless, lightheaded - and when you look up, you catch James already looking at you.

Soft. Something terrifyingly earnest in his hazel eyes. Right, they're hazel, so warm - the color of late autumn, all gold-flecked green and fading warmth, like the last good day before winter

The song ends. You pull away too quickly, mumbling something about needing air, needing another drink, needing space - just to put a distance between you two before it all collapse.

James lets you go without comment, just watching you with that same unreadable look -

Later, across the room, you feel his gaze again - heavier this time, more sure.

Your heart stutters traitorously in your chest. You tell yourself it’s just the champagne, you never did hold your liqour well - memories of your sixth-year, first time trying Firewhiskey, playing in your head.

You woke up in the Gyffindor common room on top of one Sirius Black, he had teased you relentless about how you quite literally passed out on him - said it was the first time a girl has thrown herself on him without getting a snog out of it.

You of course shut him up with a hex.

The bakery smells like sugar and cinnamon and something warm you can’t quite name. You’re behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair twisted into a messy bun, a smudge of flour at your temple you haven’t noticed yet.

You’ve only just reopened for the morning rush when the doorbell jingles - and there he is.

James Potter, grinning like he invented sunshine - or like it pours out of his ass.

He leans against the counter like he belongs there, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair as artfully messy as if he planned it. His glasses catch the morning light. He looks maddeningly pleased with himself.

You pretend you don't see him - but it never works.

He pretends you aren't pretending.

The girls by the window definitely see him.

You catch it out of the corner of your eye - the sharp gasp, the hurried whispering. You brace yourself.

Sure enough, a girl (eighteen? nineteen?) edges closer, clutching a pastry box like it might shield her. “You’re -” she breathes, wide-eyed, “you’re marrying him?”

You glance lazily over at James, who wiggles his eyebrows at you, utterly shameless.

You sigh dramatically. “I know. I still don't believe it either.”

The girl giggles and practically skips back to her friend. You see them both collapse into chairs by the window, whispering furiously.

James presses a hand to his chest, mock-affronted. "You wound me," he says loudly enough for half the bakery to hear. "Here I was thinking you were the lucky one."

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, without looking up from the till. “A real catch, Potter. Just what every girl dreams of. A boy who can't iron his own robes and thinks treacle tart is a balanced meal.”

"Oi," he says, affronted. "I've improved. I even have investments now."

"Mhm. I'll believe that when you can go a week without blowing something up in the kitchen."

James turns toward the waiting crowd like he’s hosting a press conference. "For the record," he announces, "best baker in the Alley. Also my fiancée. Did I mention that? Fiancée. As in, tragically, devastatingly off the market."

You throw a dish towel at his head.

He catches it one-handed, still grinning.

The bakery hums around you - the low chatter, the clink of silverware, the golden morning pouring through the windows - and for a few minutes, it feels almost terrifyingly easy. Like this was always meant to happen. Like there was always a version of the future where you ended up here, with him, like this.

James lounges at the end of the counter, watching you work.

“You look happy,” he says after a minute, voice lower, like he doesn't mean for anyone else to hear.

You blink at him, hands deep in the pastry case.

"I am," you say, and it's mostly true. "Feels good. Being here again. It's. . . grounding."

James smiles, soft and crooked, observing you as you continue to work. So natural, so in your habitat.

You clear your throat and reach for a new box. “We're famous now, you know," you tell him, more to fill the sudden quiet than anything. “Top gossip on Witch Weekly.”

James snorts. “Let them talk. They’re just jealous.”

"Of what?" you ask, deadpan. "Your charming humility?"

"My undeniable sex appeal, actually," he says, winking.

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle you don’t sprain something.

Somewhere between boxing up an order and wiping the counter, you lose track of him. You hear a suspicious rustle near the pastry display.

You whirl around just in time to see James, mouth full, cramming a stolen tart into his pocket with the guilty look of a five-year-old.

"James Fleamont Potter!" you gasp, brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon.

He backs toward the door, laughing so hard he nearly trips over a chair.

"You’re banned!" you call after him, chasing him halfway onto the street. "Banned for life!"

"See you at home!" he calls back, victorious, scattering powdered sugar in his wake.

You stand in the doorway, hair flying loose, apron dusted in flour, laughing in spite of yourself. Your heart is still racing, from chasing him out or something else - you dared not wander there.

The kitchen at Potter Manor's kitchens was all warm light and drifting flour when he found you.

You were kneading dough on the marble counter, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back, lips pursed in focus. You barely glanced up when he entered, dusting flour off your palms like you had every right to be there. Like you always would be.

James lingered in the doorway a moment longer than necessary. Watching you with a look you didn’t catch - soft around the edges, almost shy. Like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real. Like he thought if he blinked, you might disappear.

A wife, he hasn't really thought of that. He just got out of his Gryffindor robes and rucked it away, never to be worn again - it's all too fresh, a wife. . .

Finally, he cleared his throat.

"You know," he said, voice too casual to be anything but deliberate, "I was thinking we could bake something together."

You arched an eyebrow, skeptical. "You? Bake?"

He clutched his heart in mock offense. "I’m a man of many talents, I’ll have you know."

"You’re a menace," you said lightly, turning back to your dough. "And you’ll ruin your kitchen."

"Our kitchen," he corrected without missing a beat, flashing a grin so boyish you didn’t have the heart to argue - right.

You wiped your hands on a cloth and sighed, pretending to think it over. "And what exactly did you have in mind, Potter?"

He shifted his weight awkwardly, running a hand through his messy hair, not that that ever worked in his favour. "Something for my parents. I. . . I’ve never really done that before. Baked for them, I mean. Thought it might be nice, you know, for once."

Something warm flickered in your chest at that. The sentiment, awkward and sweet, was so very James. It softened the place inside you that had been hardened by necessity, by all the pretending.

"Alright," you said, gentler now. "Let’s do it."

He lit up, the way only James Potter could - sudden and breathtaking, like a boy seeing Christmas lights for the first time - you ignore how your stomach flipped.

You rolled your eyes but laughed anyway, nudging a mixing bowl toward him. "Start by cracking the eggs," you instructed, biting back a smirk.

James nodded solemnly - then immediately dropped half a shell into the batter.

You both burst out laughing, rich heir James Potter couldn't even crack an egg properly into a bowl after years of intricate Potions classes.

Somewhere down the line, flour ended sprinkled all over his messy hair.

"Right," he said, laughing breathlessly as you swatted him with a tea towel, "this is war, then."

"You started it!" you accused, dodging another cloud of flour he lobbed your way.

"You called me a menace."

"You are a menace."

He lunged for you, and you shrieked, ducking under his arm and grabbing a handful of flour to throw back at him. It puffed into his hair, turning it an even more chaotic shade of white, if that were possible.

"You’re going to regret that," he said, grinning wide and reckless.

"Big talk for someone covered in flour, Potter."

He chased you around the kitchen island, both of you laughing so hard you could barely breathe. When he finally caught you, it wasn’t with the triumphant crow you expected, but with a gentle touch - his hands settling lightly at your waist, holding you still.

You froze. Not because you were scared. But because it was so easy. Too easy.

Your chest rose and fell, your pulse a drumbeat against your ribs.

For a moment, neither of you moved - just staring at each other like there was something settling in between. You neglect to notice how his lashes are painted white now, he blinks at you.

James’ smile faltered, slipping into something softer,, you pray to all your ancestors to calm your hammering heart in fear that he would hear it.

"I like seeing you laugh," he said, voice low.

You swallowed hard. "Don’t get used to it."

His mouth tilted in that familiar lopsided way. "Bit late for that."

You turned away under the pretense of rescuing the now-forgotten batter. Your hands shook just slightly as you picked up the whisk, you clear your throat.

James didn’t push. Just stood nearby, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him - you both pretend like you didn't get assaulted by the flour man.

"You ever bake anything before?" you asked, trying to sound casual.

He leaned on the counter, grinning. "Does nicking biscuits from the kitchens count?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then no."

You laughed under your breath. "Hopeless." Yep, you both were.

"And yet you’re letting me help," he pointed out.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. "That’s because I’m benevolent."

He nodded solemnly. "Saint-like, really."

You hid your smile as you handed him the whisk. "Beat that until your arms fall off - put all that quidditch and auror manliness to work."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, giving you a ridiculous salute before setting to work - slopping batter across the counter within seconds.

"You’re a disaster," you said, half fond, half exasperated.

"Disaster’s just another word for creative genius," he said breezily.

You rolled your eyes and bumped his hip with yours. He laughed and bumped you back, and you ended up side by side, shoulders brushing, working together.

Somehow, it didn’t feel strange at all.

Later, once the pastries were cooling on the rack - a little lopsided, a little burnt at the edges - you leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching James lick a smear of batter off his thumb.

You fought yourself from watching how his tongue darted out to lick it off, feeling your cheeks grow hot.

"You’ve got a bit on your nose," you said, pointing - distracting yourself from the image of him licking the batter off.

"Where?"

You stepped closer, hesitated, then reached out and wiped it away yourself.

His eyes stayed glued to you and for one charged heartbeat, neither of you spoke - like the world decided to pause so you can once again just look at each other, everything remains unsaid.

You cleared your throat and stepped back quickly. "There. All sorted."

"Thanks," he said, a little hoarse.

You turned away, fiddling with the edge of a tea towel. "S’pose you didn’t do half bad, for your first try."

"High praise coming from you," he said, mock-gravely.

You shot him a look over your shoulder. "Don’t let it go to your head, Potter."

"Everything goes straight to my head, actually."

You rolled your eyes again, but there was no heat behind it.You watch him pat his hair and the flour on it creates a veil of white in the kitchen, you laugh.

It was then you heard a soft noise behind you.

You turned.

Euphemia and Fleamont were standing just beyond the threshold, watching the two of you with matching expressions - fond, unbearably gentle, a little misty-eyed.

Euphemia had her hands clasped to her chest, her smile wobbly around the edges. Fleamont was clearing his throat, pretending not to be emotional and failing miserably.

You felt your chest twist sharply.

Because in that moment, it didn’t feel like pretending at all.

It felt terrifyingly, achingly real.

You straightened a little, brushing your flour-dusted hands on your apron, but Euphemia only shook her head, eyes shining.

"Don’t stop on our account," she said warmly. "It’s lovely, seeing the kitchen so full again."

James ducked his head, looking uncharacteristically bashful. You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself not to cry.

"We’ll leave you to it," Fleamont said, giving James a meaningful nod before steering Euphemia gently away.

The kitchen felt too quiet once they were gone.

James scratched the back of his neck. "They like you, you know."

You huffed a laugh, blinking fast. "I can’t imagine why."

"I can," he said simply.

The inevitable was happening, the Potters were getting worse - Dragon Pox was not something one could just power through for so long, they were bound to break down.

They've done so well holding it together for James, for their dutiful son who did everything to make it seem like he wasn't breaking down with them.

As they got worse, so did he. You can only watch as the entire family crumbles down, too afraid to pick up the pieces yourself and put them back together.

You still saw yourself as an outsider, an actor in a role - forced to play.

Instead, you resorted to helping him assist his parents. Nevermind that the house elves were there, you wanted to lend a hand. He lets you.

He feels oddly at peace when you'd sit by Euphemia and Fleamont's bed, talking about how your day has been at the bakery while they listen in. Too weak to stand up.

He watches as you take Euphemia's hand in yours and his mother's eyes fill with fondness.

Like you were the daughter they never had.

James felt something heavy settle in his heart as the days dragged on that they remained in bed, being fed potions to maybe help them regain mobility.

After three days, they were better - not healed or cured from it, but just better. Enough to get out of bed, to have dinner altogether as a family again while you all pretend death wasn't just outside the manor doors.

After those three days of dread, wondering if that was the end - you found James in your bedroom. Sat on the floor, leaned against the bed with his head hanging low.

The room looked like hell, like a bludger was set loose and it made efforts to ransack everything. Only your items remained unharmed, you heave a sigh at the sight of him so defeated.

You decided to sit beside him, distance closed. Your shoulders right next to his and he flinched at the sudden contact.

He made a move as if he was gonna say something and you stopped him. "Don't be sorry, a simple spell can fix all of this," you shake your head and bite your lip, feeling the tears build up.

It was hurting you. So much, and you were just a pretend daughter-in-law, you could only imagine what he's feeling.

He's only 18, and his whole world is falling apart before his very eyes. You probably didn't have the right to cry, this pain wasn't yours.

Then complete silence. You looked around the room to asses more of the damage, it's almost unrecognizable. Like a battle had taken place.

"You're a good son," you tell him quietly in the dark, "they're very lucky to have you.

He laughs, void of humor. "A good son wouldn't lie to his parents just to ease his guilt. A good son would go to the ends of the earth to find a cure."

You felt the tears escape then, his words hurt for so many reasons. He doesn't see himself the way you and his parents saw him, too deep in his regrets.

"That's not - " you breathe out shakily "You're a good son for giving them hope. For giving them peace. Although this is a lie, the fact remains that you have me."

He was quiet for a moment, then he turned. In the dark, you see jsut how tired his eyes are, his cheeks glossed by tears. "I won't always have you."

You were unsure now. Would another lie be better? Would another scam on top of the damned deal patch all this up and wrap it neatly in one big bow?

You decided against it, you only give him a sad smile. He doesn't say anythign after that, a whole minute passes as you looked at each other, everything unsaid still hanging in the air.

Then, swiftly, he shifted his body and his lips were on yours. Your shock rattled your whole body, barely processing the fact he was kissing you as you began replying.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It tasted like grief, and salt, and something desperate you didn’t want to name - his hands grabbed you like you were a lifeline to hold on to.

You let him, you kiss him back like you were answering it all. All the questions he would throw at the void. Why me? Why them? Why now?

You kissed him like you were able to calm the brewing storm inside him. Then he pulled back, heaving as he desperately gasped for air. You were the same, lips swollen and eyes glossed.

You didn't realize you were crying in the kiss.

He retracts his hand, holding his head like a madman. "Merlin, I'm sor - "

"Don't," you dared not let him apologize, because that would make it a mistake. And it wasn't, not to you - at least.

"Don't apologize. Don't explain," you tell him.

You understand, to some extent, why he did it. But there was no need to unpack it, it was the least of your priorities. You threw yourself at him to hug him, that was a first.

He hasn't really had that - something he didn't know he needed until he got it. He broke down in your arms like a man come back from war, he lets you hold him together while his edges were crumbling to dust.

"I'm here, James."

The garden had always been Euphemia's favourite place in the manor, she used to tend to it every day - James has taken over in her absence.

Even now, when her hands trembled too much to hold a trowel, when her legs ached too much to carry her beyond the cracked stone path, she still insisted on sitting outside - breathing in the crisp afternoon air, the fading scent of late blooms clinging stubbornly to the hedges.

You wiped your palms against your skirts, smearing soil across the fabric, and pushed to her feet. You had been kneeling in the dirt for the better part of an hour, stubbornly trying to coax life back into the frostbitten flowerbeds.

Another lost cause, probably. But there was something oddly comforting in these small, foolish acts of hope.

"Come here, darling," Euphemia called softly, her voice a thin thread against the quiet.

You brushed hair out of your face and crossed the grass. The sun caught in the pale wisps of Euphemia's hair, haloing her like a painting. Euphemia patted the bench beside her, and you sank down wordlessly.

Euphemia's hand - delicate - found yours. Her thumb brushed over your knuckles in a slow, steady circle. You couldn't remember the last time someone had touched you so gently, a mother's warm touch.

"Promise me," Euphemia said, voice almost inaudible. "Promise you'll stay with him."

Youblinked, throat tightening.

"He's always carried so much," Euphemia continued, her gaze far away, as if watching something only she could see. "Too much. Even when he was a boy - always looking out for his friends like the leader - he even gave us the gift of another son, our Sirius - "

You stay quiet. Yeah, the runaway Black has been visiting as well. If he knew the deal between you and James, he didn't say anything. Only exchanging greetings and thanking you for caring for his adoptive parents.

News of his adoption was no secret to all of Hogwarts. He was a Marauder, another headache for the Prefect that you were, four troublesome third-years, and then you were Headgirl and catching him snogging girls after dark.

He's changed a lot. Tattoos, longer hair - lots and lots of rings. But you also saw how he looked defeated. He's losing his parents again, how tragic.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. The lie hovered at the back of your throat - Of course, I promise — but it stuck there, heavy and sour.

You couldn't do it. Not again. Not to her, and not right now - it was all too much.

The words tumbled out before you could stop them.

The money. The debt. The arrangement you two agreed on to be made because you were both was desperate and selfish and terrified. The fake love you had branded around like it was actually yours to hold.

You poured it all out into the trembling space within the garden.

When you finished, you couldn't meet Euphemia's eyes. Shame burned down your spine like a lash, throbbing.

But Euphemia only smiled. A wise, old glint in her tired eyes and it undid you. Tears falling even more now. She knew.

"Thank you for being honest. But if I may - it stopped being fake long ago, dear. For the both of you."

Your heart twisted, sharp and aching.

You covered your face with your hands - and then, without thinking, buried your head against Euphemia's shoulder. Like a child. Like you hadn't allowed yourselfto be vulnerable in years.

And Euphemia stroked her hair, murmuring nonsense, the way mothers do - holding you like you were hers, and you fell apart even more.

Your voice cracked open on the words you had never said aloud, even when they clawed at your ribs in the dead of night:

"Thank you," you whispered, choking on the sound of it. "Thank you for being the first mother I ever had."

None of you saw him.

James had come to call you for dinner.

But now he stood frozen just beyond the hedge - the golden light of the dying day catching on the frames of his glasses, painting him in shades of grief and awe.

He had heard everything.

Every word.

And for the second time in his life, James Potter didn't know how to move forward. Didn't know how to carry it all.

He just stood there, heart splitting open silently inside his chest, as the girl he had fallen in love with cried quietly against his mother's shoulder - not for herself, not even for him, but for a family she was terrified to lose.

It happened days later, when the worst of the storm had settled - when Euphemia managed a frail smile again, when Fleamont grumbled weakly about his porridge being too bland.

You were in the kitchen, elbows deep in soap and dishwater, when James leaned against the doorway. Arms crossed. Watching you like he had all the time in the world.

The elves could've done it - but you wanted to do something more than just exist within the walls of Potter Manor. A future daughter-in-law waiting to be.

"Come out with me tonight," he said.

You blinked at him, suds dripping from your fingertips. "James - we can't leave your parents - "

"We won't be too far, just the gardens," he interrupted gently and you frown at him.

"Is this about the," you look over your shoulders to see Fleamont cradling a tea between his hands on the counter. You lower your voice. "The kiss?"

"What"

You shake your head. "You don't have to make up with me for that, I told you it was truly fine - "

"Just say 'yes', you stubborn woman," he laughs a bit at the end but he was pleading.

You pressed your lips together, searching his face. No jokes despite his boyish grin. Then you gave in, no word needed to be said as he let out a satisfied hum.

The garden was transformed.

Hundreds of tiny candles floated in the air, bobbing like fireflies. The table was small, intimate - just two chairs and a scattering of wildflowers in jam jars. The night air was cool and sweet, stitched through with the scent of late summer roses.

"The elves were the rewal MVPs for this by the way," he commented, grinning. You snort.

James pulled out your chair with a dramatic bow. You laughed, cheeks warming despite yourself, and sat down.

There was a picnic basket between you. He opened it with a flourish - and there, tucked carefully inside, was your favorite pastry from your own bakery. The lemon tart you always made fresh on Sundays.

You blinked. "You stole from me."

"Purchased, actually." He grinned. "You're very expensive, Miss Future-Potter."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt so full you were surprised it didn't spill out your mouth and drop to your lap.

You ate under the stars - swapping stories, teasing, laughing - like it was the easiest thing in the world. No performances. No pretending.

Just. . .you and him. It felt very real now, after the kiss was a date in the gardens - you can only guess that his parents were watching from the drawing room window.

Halfway through, James pushed his chair back and stood up. For a dizzy moment, you thought he was going to fetch more food - but then he turned to you and, without hesitation, dropped to one knee.

The world tilted.

You stared at him - at the way the candlelight caught the gold in his eyes, at the way he looked more sure, more himself, than he ever had before.

"This time," James said, voice steady, reverent, "I'm asking for real."

No contracts.

No debts.

No saving each other.

"Just me," he said, reaching for your hand. "Just you."

You covered your mouth with trembling fingers, tears blurring your vision. You didn't trust your voice, so you just nodded. Hard. Over and over as he caressed that ring.

You felt like you could choke from happiness but finally, you found your voice -

"Yes," you answered, laughing through the tears.

James surged up, caught you in his arms, spun you once under the floating candles - avoiding tipping the table over. You were both laughing, crying, a little broken, a little mended.

Maybe the world was ending - maybe winter was coming fast and cruel - but right now, right here, you could pretend it was only this.

Only James.

Only you.

And it would be enough.

It is a small thing - nothing like the grand celebrations that the tabloids expected and theorized soon as they heard that the esteemed Potter bachelor was to be wed -

They called it a wedding to look out for, with the Potters being rich and all, but it turned out to be an intimate gathering. One that you prefered very much.

Euphemia is wheeled into the garden, bundled in soft blankets, a wreath of tiny white flowers tucked into her hair. Fleamont sits beside her, his hand resting atop hers, their fingers still finding each other after all these years.

The air smells of lilies and earth and late spring - the world on the cusp of summer, trembling at the edge of something new.

You walk down the aisle alone, lilies cradled carefully in your hands, heart rattling against your ribs like it might break free. Had Fleamont been strong nough, he would have been with you - he said so himself.

Friends sit at the front, close friends of James from Hogwarts - a few of the Gyffindor girls from his years, you managed to invite your Headboy counterpart and his wife, the Longbottoms, there was even Essie, your greatest friend who stuck through the hardest times.

Essie winks as you pass. You mouth her a ‘thank you’ as she wipes her tears away, happy to see you finally in the light after so long in the dark.

Sirius stands beside James, ridiculously overdressed in formal robes, grinning like he knows a secret he’ll never tell.

Remus lingers just a step behind them, hands clasped neatly, a rare and quiet warmth in his gaze, behind him was also Peter who just looked happy to be included.

And James - Merlin, James.

He looks like every good memory stitched into one living, breathing thing: black hair wild in the breeze, glasses catching the light, suit fitted perfectly to his frame.

When he sees you, the whole world shifts slightly off its axis. For a moment, it’s just you and him, like it always was meant to be.

You reach him, hand trembling when you slip yours into his. He squeezes gently, grounding you, steady and sure.

The ceremony is short. Sweet.

No grand speeches. No crowds. Just the two of you standing stubbornly in front of everyone you love, hearts bare and open.

James says his vows like he’s carving them into the very bones of the earth, voice low and rough with feeling. "You came to me in the quiet, and you stayed. I will never forget that."

You barely make it through your own. The tears come halfway through, thick and hot, making the lilies in your hands blur into nothing but white and green smudges.

When you slip the ring onto his finger, you are shaking so badly that James has to guide your hand, thumb brushing your knuckles, steady and patient.

When the officiant says, "You may kiss the bride," James doesn’t wait.

His hands cradle your face like you're something holy - and he kisses you like a man who has finally, finally found home.

There are cheers, and petals tossed high into the air, and Sirius shouting something wildly inappropriate that makes everyone laugh through their tears.

Later, under the flowering arch, Sirius gives a toast - half a roast, really - about how he 'he never expected a troublemaker Marauder to marry a proper Headgirl who always gave them detention, but he supposed it was fitting as both became Heads in their last years' and "Prongs here got himself a Head Girl, although older, eh? Guess you like 'em more mature, mate!"

You laugh so hard your ribs ache. James presses a kiss to the side of your head, rolling his eyes at the implication, murmuring something only you can hear.

Probably to insult Sirius.

There are tiny cakes, charmed lights strung between the trees, plates passed hand to hand. The air is heavy with lilac and laughter and the stubborn kind of joy that refuses to be dimmed by grief.

You dance barefoot with James under the golden wash of the lights, your dress trailing behind you like a whisper.

The grass is cool beneath your toes, the sky wide and open above you. James spins you once, twice, until you are dizzy with it, until all you can do is clutch his hand and laugh into his chest.

The world feels soft. Real. Precious beyond measure.

Euphemia watches from her chair, smiling like she is imprinting the whole thing onto her soul. Fleamont squeezes her hand. She leans her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes, a small, satisfied sigh leaving her lips.

It isn’t forever.

But for now, it is enough.

And for once - enough feels like a miracle.

. . . And you understand now why they lost their minds and fought the wars, and why I've spent my whole life tryin' to put it into words.

end. masterlist | married life snippets ask

#james fleamont potter #james potter #james potter marauders #james potter x reader #james potter imagine #marauders #marauders era #hp marauders #marauders x reader #harry potter #harry potter marauders #harry potter marauders era #don't blame me

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pbaz7 · 20 days ago

Text

NORTHBOUND

paige x azzi

word count: 5.9k

A/N: I felt really inspired to write something like this. It’s random but tackles a different side of my usual writing. Very short synopsis: they meet on a train. Talks about religion, life, who knows😭. Let me know what you think!!

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The train moved like a long, exhaled breath across the spine of the Northeast—steady and rhythmic. It was the kind of motion that lulled secrets to the surface, coaxing confessions from silence with strangers. Outside, trees stood like sentinels in soft focus, slipping past in shades of red and yellows. Inside, the hum of metal against the track became the pulse of the people inside the vessel.

Azzi stepped into the car with a glance down the aisle. She moved like someone who didn’t need to ask for space—she simply found it. Her eyes scanned the scattered passengers until they landed on a figure near the back.

She sat like still water—serene, reflective. A blonde woman with her hair pulled back in a loose bun, the kind of effortless style that took a little time. Her eyes were closed beneath headphones that rested like a crown, music turned low or maybe not playing at all. The world hadn’t disappeared around her—it simply waited for her permission to exist in her mind.

A flannel hung from her shoulders, sleeves rolled just slightly enough to reveal her wrists too precise to be unintentional. The shirt was soft, broken-in, but unmistakably tailored. Its muted pattern didn’t shout money, but it whispered it. If you studied the seams, the buttons, the way it fell—it became clear: this was wealth disguised as ease. Likely worth five hundred dollars, yet she wore it like it was no more than a memory, like something she grabbed from her closet without any afterthought.

Around her neck, a silver chain sparkled with each flicker of overhead light—small diamonds catching movement. The diamonds weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. It was the kind of necklace someone gave you when they wanted the world to notice your put together appearance without knowing exactly why.

On one wrist, a Cartier watch sat with the confidence of old money. A minimal and sleek silver.

“Is this seat taken?”

Azzi’s voice was a little raspy but smooth, a voice you’d want to hear first thing in the morning as sunlight poured through the window. A voice you’d want to fall asleep to at night with moonlight shining in. Paige didn’t stir, didn’t open her eyes. Her head remained tilted against the train’s headrest.

“It’s yours,” she murmured, the words slipping past her lips without much thought. Not unkind, just uninterested. Or better yet maybe...practiced.

Azzi nodded to no one, slipping into the seat diagonally across from the woman. Close enough to catch the trace of her cologne—something subtle, woodsy, expensive—but far enough not to trespass. Azzi respected space, understood the intimacy of sitting in your own silence.

The train rocked gently on its path. Neither of them spoke.

Minutes passed, unmeasured. The two of them drift into their own headspace.

Then Paige opens her eyes.

The light hits her face as if the sun had been waiting for this moment. She blinked against it a few times—her sensitive blue eyes taking time to adjust. Then she turns slightly, catching sight of the woman seated diagonally in front of her.

The woman looked like she’d walked out of a still from a Wes Anderson film: timeless, styled with effort and intention. Her dark hair was swept into a ponytail that managed to be messy and meticulous, a few curls softening the edges of her cheekbones falling off the side. Her sleeveless, light blue button-up vest clung like it was tailored to her specifically. Jewelry dotted her wrists, ears and neck—all delicate silver, placed like punctuation marks in what was already a perfect sentence. The woman was beautiful—in the objective kind of way, where no one with eyes would suggest she was anything but breathtaking.

In her hands, Man’s Search for Meaning sat cracked open, a finger gently marking her place as she read.

Paige slid her headphones down, the padded muffs resting around her collar now. SZA’s voice spilling into the air between them.

“That’s a good book,” Paige said, her voice clearer now—low, melodic, suggesting she was interested in the words coming out of her mouth this time around.

The sound of Paige’s voice caught Azzi slightly off guard. Her gaze lifted from the page, and for the first time, their eyes met. The stranger had soft blue eyes, holding a quiet intimacy—a gentless that you wouldn’t expect from a stranger.

Azzi didn’t smile with her mouth—just her eyes, a soft curve at the corners.

“First time reading it,” she replied simply.

Paige tilted her head slightly, a small smile on her face. “It’s a little heavy for a train ride.”

Azzi looked down at the book, then back up at her, shrugging gently. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s perfect for a train ride.”

Paige studied her for a moment—something about the calmness in her tone, the steadiness in her hands, in her demeanor.

She noticed Azzi was nearly at the end of the book. A well-worn ribbon tucked near the final pages.

“Let me know what you think when you’re done.”

And just like that, she slid her headphones back over her ears, SZA’s voice soft as it filled her space once more. Her eyes closed, lashes casting faint shadows on her cheeks as the train pushed forward.

Azzi didn’t say anything. Just watched her for a moment longer, then looked back down at the book.

Neither of them knew how much time had passed.

The world outside the window shifted like watercolor paint—blurred towns, trees, sun slipping between clouds in pale golden streaks. The steady hum of the train stitched time together in long invisible threads. Paige rested against the seat, still and composed, while Azzi sat with her legs crossed, the book now finished and resting closed in her lap.

The words had clung to her, page after page, until there was nothing left to turn. Now, she stared out the window, letting the weight of the words settle. Her reflection ghosted back at her in the window, soft brown eyes caught somewhere between thought and feeling.

After a while, she glanced over.

Paige hadn’t moved—head tilted back, lashes low, headphones still hugging her ears. There was a softness to her face that hadn’t been there before. As if sleep had touched her, but hadn’t quite taken her.

Azzi wanted to say something. She wasn’t sure what. Maybe you were right—it is heavy. Or maybe something lighter, like what would you recommend next?

She didn’t speak. She just looked.

Somehow, Paige felt it. Her eyes opened slowly, as if the weight of Azzi’s gaze had stirred her awake.

Blue met brown—warm and cool at the same time.

Neither one of them smiled at first. It was just a quiet acknowledgement.

Paige turned off the music, the faint hum of SZA slipping into memory as she slid her headphones off. She looked over again, her blue eyes resting gently on Azzi’s profile.

“What’d you think?”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She exhaled slowly, like the words she was about to speak needed space to sort themselves out.

“It’s one of those books that sits with you,” she said. “Not because it’s trying to impress you with anything fancy, it just tells the truth—and lets that be enough.”

She turned to Paige a little more. “Frankl’s way of looking at suffering—how it’s not something to be avoided, but something to lean into, to find meaning through it—it feels I don’t know...like progressive writing. Especially now, when everyone’s always trying to escape discomfort. He doesn’t preach, either. He just tells you what he saw. What he lived.”

Paige watched her closely nodding along, letting the words settle before speaking. “You’ve read it before?”

Azzi shook her head. “First time. But I think I’ll come back to it.”

Paige smiled, a small nod accompanying her reply. “I’ve read it a few times. I think it’s one of those books that means something different depending on when you pick it up.”

That made Azzi pause as she thought about it. A slow smile blooming at the edges of her lips. “That’s a really beautiful way to put it.”

They sat with that thought, letting the silence stretch again—not empty, but reflective.

Azzi’s voice came again, softer now. “But...it’s not your favorite.”

A statement, not a question.

Paige’s lips curved—not into a smile exactly, but something close. “It’s not.”

Azzi tilted her head. “So what is?”

Paige leaned back, letting her gaze drift to the ceiling of the train car before finding Azzi again.

“Parable of the Sower.”

Azzi’s eyes lit up, recognition flickering through her expression. “By Octavia Butler? Why?”

“Well, it’s post-apocalyptic for one,” Paige said, half-grinning.

Azzi chuckled.

“But really,” Paige continued, the humor softening into something more serious, “I like her take on things we don’t usually give enough credit to. Empathy. Fear. Despair. Jealousy. Desperation. Love. Resilience. Hope.”

She said each word with care, like she wasn’t just listing themes—but naming something deeply thought about a few times.

Azzi looked at her quietly, her gaze drifting for a moment to the delicate silver cross resting against the expensive flannel—how it caught the light in flashes, just like the diamonds along the chain.

“And religion,” Azzi added gently.

Paige looked at her, a faint smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Her take on a religious and universal journey...together. It’s not something you see often. Not done like that really.”

Azzi hummed softly in agreement, a thoughtful sound that lingered between them.

Paige shifted, eyes studying Azzi’s expression now. “Are you religious?” she asked, voice a little softer, like she wasn’t sure how far she could go. “I am sorry if that’s...too much. I don’t mean to offend. It’s just not everyday I can have a natural conversation with someone.”

Azzi shook her head, not dismissive—just sincere. “No,” she said quietly. “It’s not too much.”

She looked out the window again, the landscape blurring past. A beat passed. Then another, before she spoke. “I’ve been trying to find my footing with religion,” she admitted, fingers tracing a seam on her vest. “There’s... a pull there. But there’s also a lot of confusion.”

Paige nodded once, encouraging her silently.

Azzi sighed softly. “One—I don’t really know how to study the Bible. People say just read it front to back, but that’s not...realistic for me in all honestly. It’s like trying to drink the ocean.”

Paige let out a quiet chuckle—brief, but full of understanding.

“And two,” Azzi continued, gaze lowering, voice quieter now. “I’m gay so that’s a whole nother thing.”

Azzi didn’t look up right away, not fully wanting to see the reaction. But Paige didn’t flinch, didn’t shift away.

Instead, she thought. Let the quiet settle without trying to rush past it.

Finally she said, “You know, the word ‘homosexual’ didn't appear in any Bible translation until 1946.”

Azzi’s head tilted slightly, a flicker of surprise lighting her eyes.

Paige went on, calmly. “In the original German Bible from the 1800s, Leviticus doesn’t say ‘a man shall not lie with a man.’ It says, ‘a man shall not lie with young boys, as he does with a woman.’”

Azzi studied her as she continued, voice thoughtful, as if she’d carried this information closely for a long time. As if she’d studied it herself, for her own comfort.

“And in Corinthians... the term that’s now translated as ‘homosexuals’ It used to mean ‘boy molesters.’ Not consensual love between adults.

Azzi looked at her now—not just intrigued, but changed, slightly. Like something inside her had loosened. “No one’s ever told me that,” she said softly.

Paige shrugged, a touch of humility in the gesture. “Most people haven’t been told. That’s kind of the problem.”

Azzi was quiet, her gaze steady, curious now in a gentler way. “Have you always been religious?”

Paige let out a slow breath, eyes drifting toward the window for a moment before returning to Azzi. “I’ve always been Christian,” she said. “Went to church with my stepmother growing up. But I didn’t really start appreciating religion—God…the universe, the importance of it all—until college.”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, inviting more without needing to ask. Still, she did, softly: “How?”

Paige thought about it. She didn’t rush, and the silence stretched. The train hummed beneath them like a heartbeat keeping their conversation alive.

“I had…” she paused, adjusting the words in her mind before letting them pass her lips, “have…a lot of eyes on me. Expectations. Pressure. I didn’t always understand why certain things were happening. Why things felt so heavy, even when it looked like I was doing everything right.”

Azzi nodded faintly, something familiar stirring in her eyes.

“I was in the same boat you’re in,” Paige continued. “Didn’t get how reading the Bible cover to cover was supposed to help. Didn’t even know where to begin. But then one day I was struggling with understanding myself, life, everything. Then I heard a verse—Proverbs 3:5-6.”

She shifted slightly in her seat as she recited:

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your path.”

The words hung in the space between them, Paige watching the stranger across from her take them in.

“I don’t know,” Paige added, eyes distant, “something about that…hearing it at the right time, it felt like permission. To stop needing to know everything. To stop solving everything on my own.”

Azzi watched her, her hands now loosely folded over the book in her lap, the weight of their conversation replacing the words on the page.

“That’s amazing,” Azzi said finally.

There was a reverence in her voice—not for the verse alone, but for the way Paige carried it, the way she presented it to her.

Azzi didn’t say anything for a moment, but her eyes hadn’t left Paige’s. There was a softness to her silence—not hesitation, but reflection. The train rocked gently beneath them, the metallic sigh of tracks slipping beneath wheels like a quiet agreement to stay in motion.

After a moment, Azzi spoke. “I’ve always felt like religion and science couldn’t live in the same room. Like you had to pick a side.”

Paige’s lips curled slightly, not in amusement—but in understanding. This stranger reminded Paige of her journey, of her questions at the beginning.

“I used to think that too,” she said, opening herself up more, spreading her legs. “But I don’t anymore.”

She glanced out the window for a second—trees blurring like thoughts too fast to name—before looking back.

“I believe in science. In research, in biology, in the way our bodies hold memory. I think evolution is beautiful, and the human brain is a miracle. But I also think we’re made of more than matter like science mentions.”

Azzi was still watching her, head tilted now in quiet intrigue.

“I don’t think faith and science cancel each other out,” Paige continued. “I think they’re both trying to answer the same questions. Just...using different languages.”

The words landed softly, like snow on top of a roof on christmas morning.

Azzi leaned back, arms now crossed loosely. “So for you, it’s not one or the other.”

Paige shook her head gently. “No. It’s both. It has to be. I need the facts—need to understand the world around me. But I also need something to hold when the facts don’t comfort me. When life doesn’t make sense. And sometimes...it just doesn’t and you have to turn to faith.”

Azzi smiled at that, a quiet smile that touched the corner of her lips but lived mostly in her eyes.

Paige mirrored it, before adding, “Faith, for me, isn’t about certainty. It’s about surrender. It’s about connection. About knowing there’s something bigger than me—something good—whether I understand it all the time or not.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was full. Full of things they didn’t have to say. Of questions they’d been holding separately, now slowly untangling together.

Azzi looked down at the book in her lap again, then back at Paige. “I think I’ve been afraid to want that,” she said. “To want something bigger for myself.”

Paige’s blue eyes were quiet, inviting. “What kind of afraid?” she asked softly.

Azzi’s lips parted, like the question caught her off guard—but not in a bad way. More like she hadn’t expected someone to care enough to ask. She looked down, thumb brushing the edge of the book’s cover, then up again.

“The kind that tells you you’re asking for too much,” she said slowly. “Like…if I let myself want more—hope for more—I’ll either disappoint myself or disappoint everyone else. And I don’t know which is worse.”

The train hummed around them, a cocoon of steel holding their words in.

“I grew up in a house where everything had to make sense. My parents are...rational. Practical. We didn’t talk about God. We talked about scholarships. Five-year plans. My career. Faith was…optional. Sentimental.”

She paused, and Paige didn’t fill the silence. She let Azzi find the rest of her words herself.

“So I built my life like that—measurable, structured, focused. But sometimes I feel like I’m living inside a blueprint that someone else drew for me. And when it gets quiet—when I’m not moving—I start wondering if I even know what I believe. Or who I am without all the plans.”

Her voice didn’t tremble, but something in her hands did—a quick twitch, just enough to make Paige notice the way she clasped her fingers together, grounding herself.

Paige exhaled slowly, not to interrupt, but to remind Azzi she was still listening. Still there.

Azzi glanced out the window, then back again. “Sometimes I think I’m scared to believe in something bigger because I don’t want to find out it won’t believe in me. What I’ve done with life.”

Paige’s expression softened—almost imperceptibly, but enough. There was no pity in her face, only understanding, like she recognized the weight of those words because she’d carried something similar.

“I don’t think it works like that,” she said quietly. “God doesn’t wait around deciding who’s worthy. I think He’s just always there. Always believing in you. It’s just…” She paused, gathering her thoughtsl. “Sometimes we forget to believe in ourselves. Or we think we need to be perfect before we can approach something sacred.”

Azzi looked down at her hands, turning them over as she played with one of her rings, like she might find something written in the lines of her palms.

“But what if you don’t know how to approach it?” she asked. “What if you don’t know how to…start? To get your footing.”

“You don’t need a perfect entry point,” Paige said. “You don’t need to have all the answers or some special prayer. That’s the thing. Everyone has their own relationship with God. It doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s. And it doesn’t have to be loud or traditional. It can be quiet. Curious. It can start right here. Talking to a stranger on the train.”

Azzi’s eyes lifted slowly to meet hers. “What does it look like for you?”

Paige thought for a long moment. The train rumbling beneath them.

“It changes,” she said honestly. “Some days it’s gratitude—being thankful for the privilege I have. Some days it’s asking questions. Some days it’s just being still enough to listen. But when I really need something to hold onto, I go back to certain verses. They’re like anchors. Holding you in place when you start to drift away from what matters.”

Azzi tilted her head. “Like Proverbs?”

Paige smiled a little, nodding. “Yeah. But there’s one that I think might settle with you. Isaiah 41:10.”

She said it gently, her voice a low current:

“‘Do not fear, for I am with you. Do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.’”

Azzi didn’t speak. But the verse hung between them for a moment.

Then Paige added, softer, “You’re never alone in this world. Even when you feel like it.”

The words didn’t ask anything of Azzi. They didn’t push or preach. They just rested gently in the space between them, like light filtering through a half-closed window.

Azzi blinked slowly, like she was holding the words carefully, trying to decide where to place them inside herself. Then finally she offered a quiet: “Thank you.”

Paige’s smile was genuine. “Of course.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—it was full, like something sacred had passed between them. But eventually, curiosity nudged its way back in, as it always does between strangers learning one another.

Azzi moved a curl that was in her face and asked, “What’s your profession?”

Paige let out a soft laugh, already anticipating the shift in Azzi’s expression. “You’re expecting something noble, huh?” she teased.

Azzi grinned, the edges of her lips tugging up. “Something like that.”

“Well,” Paige said, a sparkle in her eyes, “I dribble a ball for a living.”

Azzi blinked. “You what?”

“I play basketball,” Paige added, laughing now. “Professionally. Dallas Wings.”

Azzi leaned back in her seat, eyes wide with pleasant surprise. “You’re serious?”

“As a buzzer-beater in the fourth.”

The laughter between them was easy now.

“What about you?” Paige asked, still smiling, still watching her.

Azzi hesitated for just a second—just long enough for Paige to catch it. Then she said, “Modeling.”

Paige’s lips curved into a charming smile. “I can see that.”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, almost playfully. “You can?”

Paige nodded, her eyes never leaving her. “You have that kind of beauty that doesn’t ask for attention. It just… has it. Effortless. Like it doesn’t even know it’s happening.”

Azzi blinked, caught off guard again—this time by the way the compliment landed. Not abrasive or showy. Not some throwaway flirtation meant to flatter and move on. There was something soft in it.

Most people gave her compliments that came at her like flashes of a camera—bright, loud, and gone too fast. But this—this felt like light through curtains. Poetic. Kind. Genuine.

She offered a smile then, the real one—the one that started in her eyes and unfolded slowly across her lips.

“Thank you,” she said, quiet again, but not shy.

“Wait…” Paige said, her voice cutting softly through the quiet between them. “I’m sorry, I never got your name.”

Azzi smiled, turning slightly in her seat as she extended her hand. “Azzi.”

Paige took it, her fingers brushing Azzi’s delicately. Her eyes stayed on Azzi’s, even as her lips parted to repeat it. “Azzi,” she echoed, like she was tasting the name. “That’s beautiful.”

Azzi’s expression shifted—something flickered, soft and pleased, almost shy for the first time.

“It suits you,” Paige added.

Azzi’s smile grew.

Paige held her hand just a moment longer before gently saying, “Paige.”

Their handshake wasn’t really a handshake at this point. It was a pause in time. An invitation wrapped in eye contact and the gentle stroke of Paige’s thumb on the back of Azzi’s hand.

Then Azzi slowly pulled back, but her gaze lingered just a little longer before she sank into her seat again.

The train hummed beneath them. Neither spoke, but the quiet between them felt anything but empty. They both watched the world blur past the window—flashes of trees and towns stitched together by tracks.

But Azzi’s gaze kept drifting, again and again, back to Paige.

She watched the way Paige’s fingers moved in slow, thoughtful patterns—thumb brushing over the edge of her nail, a subtle press to the pad of her ring finger. The light caught her Cartier watch with each motion, glinting in soft pulses that felt strangely hypnotic.

It was peaceful. Intimate in a way neither had expected.

Paige felt the eyes on her before she saw them. She turned, met Azzi’s gaze, and offered a small smile.

“So,” she said, her tone inquisitive, “what has you heading to New York?”

Azzi blinked, as if she was caught daydreaming, then let out a breath. “Vogue,” she said. “They’re doing a ‘day in the life’ spread. Should be flattering—or terrifying.”

Paige lifted an eyebrow, impressed. “Vogue huh?”

Azzi shrugged, but the corner of her mouth curled up. “Apparently, they think my life’s interesting enough.”

Paige grinned. “They’re not wrong.”

“What about you?”

“Nike thing,” Paige said simply. “A promo event.”

There was another stretch of quiet, not awkward. Just making room for reflection.

And then, as if pulled by the same thread, they both spoke at once:

“So why the train?”

They paused, eyes meeting. Laughter stirred in their throats.

“You first,” Azzi said, gesturing.

Paige shifted slightly in her seat, one arm draped over the armrest as she looked out the window, then back at Azzi.

“Airports are a nightmare for me,” she said. “It’s too loud. Too many eyes. People either recognize me or think they do, and even if they don’t, the energy is just...heavy with eyes on me.”

Azzi watched her, listening more than looking.

“On the train,” Paige continued, “it’s quieter. More grounded. People mind their business. Or they talk like you and I are talking. There's something almost romantic about it.”

She glanced at the window again, the scenery moving like brushstrokes in motion—riverbanks, trees, the occasional structure blinking past like a memory.

“I like the way it all moves by,” she said. “Like the world’s telling a story and you get to just watch. No rushing. No pressure. Just…stillness in motion.”

Azzi nodded, smiling softly. “Yeah. It’s slower, but that’s the point. You get to actually be in it. The moment.”

Paige looked at her then—really looked. The light hit Azzi’s face just right, illuminating the soft golds in her skin, the quiet curve of her cheek.

“And,” Paige added, a slow smile tugging at the corner of her lips, “sharing a train car with a beautiful girl who still believes in real conversation—who’ll talk to a stranger about books and God like it’s the most natural thing in the world—that feels like a rare kind of reward.”

Azzi’s lips parted just slightly, surprised—but she didn’t look away. She smiled instead, a little breathless, as if the compliment had landed in a place rarely touched.

Their conversation found its way back to that quiet space again—words woven like threads between long stretches of silence, both of them gazing out the window as the afternoon light shifted golden.

Azzi broke the stillness first, her voice low but certain. “Do you think…God speaks to people?”

Paige turned her head. “Yeah,” she said, after a beat. “Just not always in the way we expect.”

Azzi nodded slowly, as if tucking the answer into the folds of her mind. Then Paige leaned down and unzipped the bag at her feet, pulling out a worn book with gilded edges and a cracked spine. She handed it across the aisle without a word.

Azzi took it gently, fingers brushing Paige’s just for a second. “What’s this?”

“Mythology,” Paige said. “Most of the stories are in there. I’ve had that since college.”

Azzi began to hand it back. “I can’t take it. Just tell me the title, I’ll find it.”

But Paige shook her head. “No, I want you to have it.”

Azzi hesitated, unsure how to respond to the quiet generosity.

“Mythology gives shape to things,” Paige continued, her voice more like thought than sound. “It holds the metaphors that religion is built on. The stories that came before the verses. I started reading it when I was young—before I ever picked up a Bible. Now I read both. One teaches me how to believe. The other, stories of why we need to.”

Azzi ran her thumb along the edges of the worn pages, flipping gently through the book. Tucked between myths were scribbled notes in the margins—fragments of thoughts, connections to scripture, little arrows linking one world to another. She paused on a page where someone—Paige—had written grace isn’t always gentle, but it’s always there.

Her smile was faint.

Paige watched her, eyes soft, the corner of her mouth lifting at the sight of Azzi so focused, so careful. She didn’t say anything, but something in her chest settled, like a weight she hadn’t known she was carrying had shifted into place.

Azzi glanced up, catching Paige’s gaze before returning to the book, something tender flickering behind her lashes.

She felt quietly lucky—because this athlete sitting across from her, this kind, gorgeous athlete with a voice that was warm and a heart full of questions, had a depth most people didn’t bother to reach for. A thoughtfulness that felt rare. Sacred.

And Paige… Paige was quietly amazed that this genuine, stunning model wasn’t just curious—she was searching for connection. For understanding. For meaning. Azzi looked like a dream, but here she was—interested in the fabric of the world, not just how it dressed.

They sat like that for a few moments, both of them holding something unspoken but warm.

Stillness never feeling so full.

Azzi finally spoke, her voice laced with the softness of the moment. “How have I never met you before?”

Paige leaned her head back against the seat again, the corner of her mouth twitching into a small smile. “I’m a homebody,” she said, almost like a confession. “Games and promo events—that’s about it. Manager makes sure I keep the image clean.”

Azzi’s eyebrow lifted. “Seems squeaky clean to me. You’re sitting here giving out mythology books to strangers on trains.”

Paige laughed. “Touché.”

Then, with a glance that lingered a little too long, Paige added, “How have I not heard of you? I’m pretty into the fashion world.”

“Not sure,” Azzi said, completely honest. “I’m kind of everywhere in that world.”

Paige’s laugh was warm and genuine—the kind that made people want to hear it again. “A little humility wouldn’t kill you Azzi.”

Azzi grinned, eyes sparkling. “I’m just being honest.”

Outside the window, the skyline had begun to bloom—New York creeping in, bold and inevitable.

Azzi glanced out the window, then back at Paige. “Looks like we’re almost there.”

Paige nodded, watching her more than the view. “Shame. I was just starting to enjoy the scenery.”

Azzi didn’t look away this time. “You mean the skyline?” she asked playfully, but her voice was lower now, like she didn't want to break whatever spell had settled between them during the train ride.

Paige smirked, eyes still on her. “Something like that.”

Their silence wasn’t empty—it pulsed with everything left unsaid. The city stretched out before them now, but neither one of them moved to gather their things just yet.

Azzi ran her finger along the spine of the mythology book Paige had given her. “You ever think about how strange it is…the way strangers meet? How sometimes the smallest decision—taking the train instead of flying—becomes something that lingers? That changes your life?”

Paige’s gaze softened. “I think about that a lot more than I’d like to admit.”

“Do you think moments like this mean something?”

Paige didn’t answer right away. She leaned back slightly, the light glinting off the diamond cross at her neck, her voice quiet when it came. “I think the universe has its way of folding people toward each other. Even if it’s just for a conversation.”

Azzi held her breath for a beat, then exhaled slowly. “And if it’s not just a conversation?”

The train began to slow, brakes humming like a quiet sigh.

Paige’s smile returned. “Then I guess we’d be wise not to waste the moment.”

With that, Paige slid her phone out of the pocket of her pants—the first time either of them had broken the spell of analog stillness. The screen lit up, a quiet glow against the fading sunlight outside the window.

“I figured a phone number might be too forward,” she said gently, almost with a smile, as she opened Instagram and turned the screen toward Azzi.

Azzi took it typing in her name before she tapped “Follow,” the quiet gesture speaking louder than it should have. Then, reaching into her own bag, Azzi pulled out her phone to do the same.

On both screens, their profiles flickered into focus—millions of followers between them. Faces they would never meet. Names they’d never know. Yet, the list of who they each followed was strikingly sparse. Paige followed just 129. Azzi, only 57.

Until now.

Azzi hit follow back and Paige saw it shift in real time—57 became 58.

Azzi glanced up, that same half-smile still playing at the edge of her lips. “Guess I’ll be seeing more of your world.”

Paige held her gaze, slipping her phone back into her pocket. “Maybe I’ll get a first-person point of view of yours someday.”

Azzi's smile deepened, quiet and sincere. “I’d like that.”

The train gave a soft lurch as it rolled to a stop beneath the city. They stood, gathering their things in an unspoken rhythm.

“Let me know what you think of it,” Paige said, more of a request than instruction.

“I will,” Azzi promised, then added with a quiet spark in her tone, “Read The Body Keeps the Score. It’s not mythology, but...it lingers.”

Paige nodded, tucking the title away with care, as they stepped out into the station, the cool underground air brushing against their skin like the first breath of something new.

Together, they moved up into the city, footsteps echoing in tandem until they reached the street—where, waiting side by side, were their blacked-out SUVs. Different lives, different destinations, but somehow the same arrival.

Before they climbed into their respective vehicles, something caught their eye. Just across the street, Times Square pulsed with light—and there, almost absurd in its timing, were two billboards.

One of Paige in motion, captured mid-jump shot in a Nike ad, muscles coiled in a perfect capture. The other of Azzi, frozen in a soft gaze, draped in something impossibly elegant under the bold white serif of Vogue.

They looked at each other, then back at the glowing billboards.

A small, disbelieving laugh escaped Azzi.

Paige’s grin mirrored it, a gentle shake of her head as she opened the door to her car. “Only in New York.”

Their eyes lingered for a beat longer—long enough for something unspoken to be shared, folded neatly between them—before they both slid into their separate cars, the doors closing behind them.

And just like that, the city swallowed them up.

Both of their phones stirred to life—screens lighting up like small galaxies in their hands.

It started slowly: a trickle of notifications, then a flood. Whispers turned wonder.

“Wait… Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd?”

“No way my two worlds are colliding.”

“The athlete and the model?? Need it real bad”

“They just followed each other. No way.”

Some posts came dressed in exclamation points, others wrapped in heart-eyed emojis or slowed-down screenshots of them on the train taken discreetly. Fans speculated like poets, reading into silence, into timing.

In the vast, digital noise of the world, something soft was happening. Not confirmed. Not denied. Just noticed.

And somewhere in the backseat of two separate SUVs, Paige and Azzi each looked down at their glowing screens, smiled, and let the moment live.

Quietly. Like a secret blooming.

#pazzi #paige x azzi #pazzi fics

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todays-xkcd · 10 months ago

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Hint: If you ever encounter this puzzle in a crossword app, just [term for someone with a competitive and high-achieving personality].

A Crossword Puzzle [Explained]

Transcript

[A square 15x15 crossword puzzle is shown. Only 21 of the 225 squares are black. The black squares are in a pattern that are 180 degree rotationally symmetrical. Three black squares down from the 11th column and similarly three black squares up from the 5th column. Three black squares out from the right in row 7 and then two more black squares diagonally up from the end. Similarly three black squares out from the left in row 9 with two more black squares diagonally down from the end. A single black square is three above the first black square on the diagonal going down to the right and similarly there is a black square three under the first of the diagonal squares going down to the left. (Row 6 column 12 and Row 10 column 4). Finally there are three black squares on a diagonal crossing over the central point by going up from the left through the central point (Row 8 column 8). There are numbers at the top of every column (except the one that is a black square) and similarly at the left edge of all rows (except the one that is a black square). There are also numbers at the bottom of every black segment (except the one that reaches the bottom) and all rows after black segments except the one that reaches the right edge. In total all numbers from 1 to 51 is written. They are written in reading order from 1 to 51.]

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51

[Below the square there are two rows of clues for each number that belongs to across (rows) and to the right there are one row of clues for each number that belongs to down (columns). Both segments have an underlined and bold title above the clues. ]

'''Across'''

1. Famous Pvt. Wilhelm quote

11. IPv6 address record

15. "CIPHERTEXT" decrypted with Vigenère key "CIPHERTEXT"

16. 8mm diameter battery

17. "Warthog" attack aircraft

18. Every third letter in the word for "inability to visualize"

19. An acrostic hidden on the first page of the dictionary

21. Default paper size in Europe

22. First four unary strings

23. Lysine codon

24. 40 CFR Part 63 subpart concerning asphalt pollution

25. Top bond credit rating

26. Audi coupe

27. A pair of small remote batteries, when inserted

29. Unofficial Howard Dean slogan

32. A 4.0 report card

33. The "Harlem Globetrotters of baseball" (vowels only)

34. 2018 Kiefer song

35. Top Minor League tier

36. Reply elicited by a dentist

38. ANAA's airport

41. Macaulay Culkin's review of aftershave

43. Marketing agency trade grp.

44. Soaring climax of Linda Eder's ''Man of La Mancha''

46. Military flight community org.

47. Iconic line from ''Tarzan''

48. Every other letter of Jimmy Wales's birth state

49. Warthog's postscript after "They call me ''mister'' pig!"

50. Message to Elsa in ''Frozen 2''

51. Lola, when betting it all on Black 20 in ''Run Lola Run''

“Down

1. Game featuring "a reckless disregard for gravity"

2. 101010101010101010101010 [sub]2→16

3. Google phone released July '22

4. It's five times better than that ''other'' steak sauce

5. ToHex(43690)

6. Freddie Mercury lyric from ''Under Pressure''

7. Full-size Audi luxury sedan

8. Fast path through a multiple choice marketing survey

9. 12356631 in base 26

10. Viral Jimmy Barnes chorus

11. Ruby Rhod catchphrase

12. badbeef + 9efcebbb

13. In Wet Let's ''Ur Mum'', what the singer has been practicing

14. Refrain from Nora Reed bot

20. Mario button presses to ascend Minas Tirith's walls

24. Vermont historic route north from Bennington

26. High-budget video game

28. Unorthodox Tic-Tac-Toe win

29. String whose SHA-256 hash ends "...689510285e212385"

30. Arnold's remark to the Predator

31. The vowels in the fire salamander's binomial name

32. Janet Leigh ''Psycho'' line

34. Seven 440Hz pulses

37. Audi luxury sports sedan

38. A half-dozen eggs with reasonably firm yolks

39. 2-2-2-2-2-2 on a multitap phone keypad

40. .- .- .- .- .- .-

42. Rating for China's best tourist attractions

43. Standard drumstick size

45. "The rain/in Spain/falls main-/ly on the plain" rhyme scheme

#xkcd #xkcd 2957 #webcomics #a crossword puzzle

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alex51324 · 2 years ago

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North American Total Solar Eclipse, 8 April 2024

This is your friendly heads-up that if you want to travel to see the total solar eclipse coming up in the spring, now* is a good time to start making your arrangements!

This one will be visible as at least a partial eclipse to most of North America, with the path of totality cutting a diagonal from Sinaloa, Mexico to Newfoundland, Canada, including 15 US states from Texas to Maine.

Although we just had one a few years ago in 2017, we won't have another solar eclipse visible in the continental US until 2045--and the path of totality for the 2024 one is within driving distance for a much larger proportion of the US population than either 2017 or 2045. The Northeastern US won't see another until the 2070's.

For millions of people, including me, this will be a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see a total solar eclipse without getting on a plane. Hotels in major cities along the path of totality are already starting to fill up.

Last time, in 2017, I was able to see the partial eclipse from where I live, but it wasn't feasible to travel to see the totality. I heard from people who did see the totality that it's really quite something, so I decided back then that I was going to go to this one. (The one in 2079 might be a bit closer to where I currently live, but I'll be 101 by then, so I figure I'd better not wait.)

Erie, PA is the closest place for me to see it, and I figured I'd camp. I started looking into it last night, and pickings are pretty slim already. I lucked into a camping cottage at a park 20 minutes' drive outside the path of totality--I think someone must've cancelled recently, for me to get it, because out 87 spots, all they had left was 9 tent/trailer sites, and the one cottage.

So anyway, if you want to go, it's an overnight trip for you, and you don't want to end up sleeping in your car at a rest area, now's* the time!

(*Actually several months ago would have been the best time, but the second-best time is now.)

#2024 solar eclipse

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lilis-palace · 6 months ago

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INTARSIA : WAINSCOT WONDERLAND | DX11 Update & Overhaul | 2024. Oct. 🔴 PLEASE REDPLACE THE ENTIRE FOLDER!! 🔴

✅ ALL ITEMS - Textures were made compatible with DX11 - Tags were updated

✅ Coffered Ceiling One Tile - Texture made less crunchy - Updated Bump map & Thumbnail images - Updated mesh to better fit ceilings

✅ Coffered Ceiling Half Tile [New object] - New .package file. Made for diagonal walls.

✅ Coffered Ceiling 3x3 Tiles [New object] - New .package file. Makes building quicker.

✅ Coffered Ceiling 2x2 Curved Tiles [New object] - New .package file. Makes building quicker.

✅ Panelling [Replacement] - New .package file - Previously existing files were combined for easier use - Removed the footprints, so won't block paths - Removed occluders so won't cast shadows

✅ Curved Panelling [New object] - New .package file, made to fit small curved interior walls

✅ All doors - File names were changed - Textures were updated to look much better - Door wings are centered and made thicker

✅ Polished Marble Floor - Swatches were updated (I added some darker ones) - Normal & Specular maps were updated

✅ Florence Frescoe Add-ons - Added a single swatch

🔴 NOTE - REPLACE THE WHOLE FOLDER 🔴 File names were updates. Previously all the panelling meshes were standalone files. Now that I combined them, the old ones are no longer useful. PLS DELETE THEM, or delete the entire folder, and replace it with the new one!

#ts4 buy cc #ts4 historical #ts4 historical cc #ts4 update #update #dx11 update

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charmed-quill · 4 months ago

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Summary: Y/N, an American half-blood witch newly arrived in Muggle London, stumbles into the warmth of the Weasley brothers after a serendipitous meeting in Diagon Alley. Drawn into their world, she finds herself at the Burrow more often than not. Meanwhile, Bill Weasley is learning to navigate life as a single father, relying on his mother’s help to care for Victoire. Though their worlds orbit each other, Y/N and Bill’s paths never seem to align—until one evening when fate finally draws them together. Will it be the start of a love story, or will they be left with nothing but heartache?

Total Word Count: 42.2k

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter Five

Chapter six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter tweleve

Epilogue

Bonus Chapter

#bill weasley angst #bill weasley fanfiction #bill weasley fluff #bill weasley x reader #american reader #fanfic community #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter x reader #hogwarts fanfiction #reader insert

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onlyquinns · 1 month ago

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soft clayton pls i’m having serious withdrawals i love the man so so much

it’s breezy as you walk through the park, hands tucked deep into your pockets. lucky looks back at you as he trots ahead, ears bouncing up and down and tongue hanging from his open mouth. you pull the worn tennis ball from your coat and grin.

“is this what you’re looking for?” you tease, crouching a little to mimic the dog’s immediate playful stance. you wave the ball in the air, laughing as lucky’s big eyes track it through the air. “okay, bud… go fetch!” you say, throwing the ball far down the park path.

lucky bounds off at an unbelievable speed, legs moving quickly underneath his body as he runs after the neon green ball. you giggle and call after him, cooing and calling for him when he gets the ball in his mouth.

“c’mere, lucky!” you call, cupping your hands around you mouth to heighten your voice. lucky runs at you at full speed, ears pressed back from the wind blowing against his fluffy face.

when he gets close enough, you drop to your knees and hold your hands out expectantly. instead of going right to you, however, lucky bounds past you.

“hey, bud!” clayton says, voice rumbly and tired from practice but still filled with glee.

you gasp and turn around, finding clayton’s lean body angled halfway away from his dog, one hand precariously holding onto a drink carrier. lucky jumps up onto him, ball still in his mouth, and clayton pulls the slobber-coated tennis ball and throws it out into the green again.

“how did you know i was here?” you ask, standing and brushing loose dirt and leaves from your pants.

clayton gives you a crooked grin and reaches for your hand, tucking it into his jacket pocket. “mm, remembered you said you were gonna bring lucky to the park last night—y,know, when you thought i was sleeping.” he bumps his hip to yours, bringing the drink carrier to the front of you and letting you pull a paper cup from the cardboard.

you note the other cup placed diagonally from yours, dark coffee staining the little opening. “did you already take a sip without me?” you joke, letting clayton pull you to a bench nestled between two large trees.

clayton places the drink holder into the bench, pulling you down to sit next to him. “no,” he says matter-of-factly, plucking his drink from the cardboard. “messed up your drink so i had ‘em remake it; the mess up is mine, jus’ was tasting it before i left the cafe ‘cause it looked off.”

your heart melts at his sweet confession, lips forming into a soft pout. before clayton, no one ever put the effort into making sure your specific coffee order was perfect.

“thank you, clay,” you say, pressing your lips to his in a gentle kiss before pulling away and resting your head against his shoulder.

“always,” he tells you, brushing his lips to the crown of your head.

lucky takes then to trot back over to the two of you, legs coated in mud and ball in his mouth. clayton laughs, deep and rich and comforting, and pulls the ball from lucky’s mouth—he’d never let you have to get your hands dirty with dirt and slobber if he can do it himself.

you watch him pretend to throw the ball, sending lucky’s head snapping to the side before he turns back to clayton. he lets out a deep chuckle before launching the ball out into the park, eyes crinkled as he watches his dog race away, and you’re so damn grateful for mornings like these.

#val’s reqs 🧃#nhl x reader #nhl imagine #nhl blurb #clayton keller x reader #clayton keller x you #clayton keller blurb #clayton keller imagine #clayton keller #nhl x you #nhl x y/n

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cece693 · 3 months ago

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Not Going to Change, Honey

pairing: carlisle cullen x male reader tags: evil reader, he doesn't really have morals tbh, Carlisle is your mate, rocky relationship, unresolved conflict, part 2 if people want it

For all the centuries Carlisle Cullen had roamed the earth, he had never encountered anyone quite like you. He had seen grandeur in architecture, brilliance in art, and compassion in the tender eyes of mortals. But when he first laid eyes on you—one of the Volturi’s most lethal guards—he was utterly unprepared for the impact you would have on him.

Carlisle’s initial impression was one of quiet awe. You stood poised in the grand reception hall of the Volturi fortress, clad in the distinctive blood-red cloak that symbolized your allegiance to Aro. Long, elegant lines formed your silhouette—every inch of you exuded a kind of potent, dangerous allure that was hard to ignore. Perhaps it was the severe cut of your jaw or the dark gleam in your eyes that made Carlisle’s breath catch. But despite the warning prickle of tension in the air, there was something undeniably captivating in your presence.

“I presume you are the esteemed Dr. Cullen,” you said smoothly, voice as cold and refined as the marble walls around you.

Carlisle inclined his head, forcing himself to maintain calm even though his chest felt inexplicably tight. “Yes. Carlisle Cullen,” he replied politely. “I recently arrived at Aro’s invitation.”

You surveyed him with an intensity that made him feel as though every thought he had was laid bare. Carlisle found his gaze lingering on the sharp contour of your cheeks and the elegant line of your mouth. There was a deadly grace about you, but more than that, a magnetic pull he couldn’t explain.

“Word of your…unique lifestyle precedes you,” you remarked, a slight edge of amusement curling your lips. “I suppose you’ll find Volterra quite different from your usual endeavors.”

Carlisle almost smiled in return. “I suspect I will,” he said quietly. Then he glanced around, torn between fascination and a subtle dread of the Volturi’s rigorous methods. “Though I’m eager to see what the Volturi’s world is truly like.”

You nodded curtly, turning on your heel to guide him deeper into the fortress. The moment you moved, Carlisle found himself transfixed by the fluidity of your steps, by the swish of your cloak. He wondered if you realized how captivating you were, or if cruelty and power were all you cared to claim as your own.

As time slipped by in Volterra, Carlisle discovered the Volturi’s customs and tactics were indeed difficult to reconcile with his beliefs. Yet, even amid that discord, he found himself drawn to you. You were everything Carlisle was not: ruthless, unwavering in your loyalty to Aro, and wholly accepting of a vampire’s predator nature. And yet, it was your contradictions that made you all the more alluring.

Carlisle had never believed in the concept of “opposites attract” until he crossed paths with you in the fortress library. He had been reading an antique medical text by the pale light of an ornate lamp, trying to distract himself from the day’s unsettling events, when he heard the soft echo of footsteps.

“Does Cullen also dabble in the history of human medicine?” you teased as you approached, a crimson sash draped diagonally across your chest. Your posture was perfect, your head held high.

Carlisle looked up, the faintest warmth creeping into his golden eyes. “I’ve devoted my life to saving humans. It’s…a passion.” He paused, watching as you took a seat across from him, uninvited and unbothered. “I’m surprised to see you here. I didn’t realize you had an interest in medicine.”

Your lips curved into a small, wry smile. “I don’t. But I was curious to see what keeps you tucked away in this dusty library night after night.”

Something about your directness made Carlisle’s throat tighten. He shut the old tome carefully, inhaling the scent of aged paper. “And now that you’ve seen me, what do you think?”

Leaning forward, you regarded him thoughtfully, your crimson eyes lingering on the gentle lines of his face. Your gaze was unsettling, piercing, but Carlisle found it shockingly intimate. “I think you’re a man out of place—yet you keep striving to adapt. There’s something admirable about that.” Then your smile vanished. “But I also think you’re naive to believe you can find any goodness here.”

Carlisle’s lips parted slightly. “There must be some measure of order, of morality, if the Volturi have kept the vampire world hidden so efficiently for so long. It can’t be all cruelty.”

“Morality?” You laughed under your breath, a low and dangerous sound. “Is that what you think you’ll find among us?” You shook your head, your eyes glinting. “Aro is cunning; Caius is cruel. Marcus is…numb. Morality is a tool, wielded only when convenient.”

And yet, as you spoke, Carlisle couldn’t help but notice how the lamplight highlighted the sculpted angle of your cheekbone, the richness of your voice, the slender cords of muscle in your neck as you half-turned away. He felt drawn to you, as though in another life, you might have fit in the place he dreamed of—somewhere far gentler.

As the weeks passed, Carlisle had more and more reason to question the Volturi’s practices. He witnessed the methodical punishments, the harsh interrogations, and the unwavering loyalty demanded of each guard. And yet, in quiet moments, he also witnessed small kindnesses from you—fleeting but unmistakably real.

Once, in a secluded corridor, he caught you covertly offering a sympathetic word to a newly turned vampire, shaken and afraid. You hid it behind a stern command, but Carlisle recognized the concern flickering in your eyes. Another time, you saved a mortal servant from the wrath of another guard who had lost control. Though you claimed it was only for efficiency’s sake, Carlisle saw the truth. You possessed a depth of compassion you refused to acknowledge.

You confronted Carlisle one evening by the window of the fortress’s grand hall, where silvery moonlight reflected on the polished floor. He was staring out into the silent streets of Volterra, hands clasped behind his back.

“What are you really looking for, Carlisle?” you asked, voice hushed yet insistent.

“I’m not sure,” He answered honestly. “Perhaps reassurance that I made the right choice coming here—or proof that I should leave.”

You lifted your chin, a scoff escaping your lips. “If you despise our methods so much, why stay?”

Carlisle’s gaze drifted to your face, gentling as he took in the faint lines of tension on your brow. “Because I’d hoped to find something good here—someone I could help redeem. And I…” He swallowed, voice trembling with emotion. “I’d hoped you might join me in that.”

You stared at him for a moment, your expression unreadable. Then, to his surprise, you raised a pale hand to brush an errant lock of hair back from his temple. The touch was achingly gentle, contradictory to your reputation for merciless skill in battle.

“Why waste your compassion on me?” you whispered, red eyes flickering.

Carlisle felt his throat tighten at the quiet vulnerability in your question. “It isn’t a waste,” he murmured, turning his head just enough to press into your hand. “I see your strength, your elegance, and beneath it all, a heart that still cares.”

Your lips parted slightly in a faint expression of surprise, but you hardened your gaze, retracting your hand as though burned. “Don’t romanticize me, Carlisle. You’ll only be disappointed.”

Yet, despite your dismissive words, Carlisle could see the faint quiver of your jaw—proof that not everything in you was made of stone.

Carlisle wanted to stay with you—see the connection between you blossom into that of mates—but as time went on, his resolve to leave the Volturi grew stronger. He couldn’t reconcile his moral code with the violence he saw. The tipping point came when he witnessed an unjust execution—one Aro insisted was necessary to maintain secrecy. Carlisle found himself unable to stand by as a life, no matter how tainted, was extinguished without mercy.

He sought you out in the ancient corridor lit by flickering torches. Stone arches framed you like an immortal sculpture, and for a moment, Carlisle’s heart clenched at how beautiful you appeared—like a painting come to life.

“I’m leaving,” he said softly but firmly, stepping closer than he ever had before. “I can’t stay here and watch this cruelty. It goes against everything I believe.”

Your expression hardened, but your eyes betrayed a flash of pain. “So, that’s it?” you asked, voice low. “You leave because reality offends your delicate conscience?”

Carlisle exhaled shakily. “It’s not about being offended. It’s about upholding the sanctity of life. You know that’s my creed.”

You swallowed, the torchlight catching in your hair, illuminating your features in deep shadow and warm highlights. Carlisle’s gaze flickered over your face, taking in every detail—every elegant line, every subtle contour he had come to find so enthralling.

“I already asked you before,” Carlisle continued, breath trembling. “but please come with me. Whatever bond is between us—whatever this is—I can’t bear the thought of leaving it behind.”

He reached out, gently brushing his fingertips along your jaw. The featherlight contact sent a tremor through both of you. For a moment, you closed your eyes as if steeling yourself against an onslaught of emotion.

“Carlisle,” you murmured, the single syllable loaded with longing and heartbreak. Then your eyes opened, scarlet irises locking onto his golden ones. “I cannot follow you. Aro trusts me. I have earned my place here through centuries of service.”

Carlisle’s lips parted, and his chest constricted painfully. “But what about your happiness? Don’t you see there’s more to life than this endless cycle of violence?”

Your jaw tightened. “This is my world. My choice. I’m not like you. I can’t pretend that moral codes and hopeful ideals will keep me safe.” You lowered your gaze. “You have to go. If you stay, you’ll be broken—one way or another.”

Something inside Carlisle cracked, the pain resonating through every fiber of his immortal body. “So that’s it?” he asked, voice faltering. “You choose them over—”

“I’m sorry,” you interrupted, your voice trembling at the edges. “But you have to leave. Now.”

In a final desperate moment, Carlisle pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough to feel the slight chill of your skin. You stood perfectly still, your eyes sliding shut in silent torment. Then he stepped back, letting the cold air slip between you as though forming an invisible wall.

You remained where he left you, the slow hush of your unneeded breath the only movement. It took several minutes before you opened your eyes, composure already brittle. You touched the spot on your forehead where his lips had lingered, an ache you couldn’t name thudding in your chest. You had chosen your duty over love—and it stung in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

Carlisle eventually found a new life far from Volterra, building a family and fostering the ideals he cherished. Yet in the quiet hours of predawn, when his coven was at rest and the world was still, he thought of you. He recalled the elegantly carved lines of your face, your unwavering stare, and the fleeting softness you revealed only to him.

No matter the distance, no matter how many centuries stretched between him and that fortress of stone, you lingered in Carlisle’s thoughts—an unhealed wound and a cherished secret. He imagined a time you might leave the Volturi’s shadows behind, stepping into the light he so desperately wanted to share with you. Until that day, he carried the memory of your touch and the haunting depth of your eyes. For in the darkest corners of his heart, he still believed you were worthy of love—and that one day, you might finally believe it too.

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uvobreakmylegs · 6 months ago

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Rework

vampire!Feitan x werewolf!reader (with a side of Feitan x werewolf!Phinks)

🎃Happy Halloween🎃

Warnings: mentions of kidnapping, captivity, blood, depictions of violence, death, murder, gore, body horror, stockholm syndrome, implied future poly relationships

Word Count: 13.7k

“So, what are you two going to be doing at that castle?”

The taxi driver's question pierced through the silence within the cab as he looked back to where you and Feitan were sitting, looking the both of you over in the rear view mirror. It came out of nowhere, as over a half hour ago the drive had begun with little chatter from any of you. It made you nervous, and you couldn't help but gulp as you kept your eyes on what you could see out the window. It would be better to pretend that you hadn't heard him.

Feitan didn't like it when you spoke to other people, after all.

When neither of you answered, the driver went as far as to turn his head around. Ultimately his gaze ended up on Feitan as he was sitting behind the front passenger's seat, making it easier for the driver to keep his eyes on him.

“Well?” the driver asked.

Feitan finally responded to that just to say “it's private.”

“Private business at a castle. That's a new one,” the driver commented, laughing a little to himself after.

Feitan didn't reply.

Luckily the driver seemed to get the hint that neither Feitan or you were in the mood to talk, and he returned his attention to the road as the taxi steadily continued up the woodland path.

You felt relieved when he stopped pressing, mostly because you didn't want him to be injured or killed. You had found yourself wanting to like the driver simply because of the hat he wore – it reminded you of your grandfather, as he wore that same style of pointed newsboy caps that your grandfather would wear when he went out, and thus you associated the cap with him. So you were feeling warmly towards the driver, as silly as it was, and you hoped that any sort of incident could be avoided when it came to him.

At least Feitan wasn't prone to random acts of violence against other people for no reason.

For the most part, anyway.

With the chatter in the cab now ceased and nothing else to focus on, you kept your eyes trained on the view outside of the window, watching as the car drove past brightly colored falling leaves and the trees whose branches were slowly becoming more exposed every time the wind blew past them, stealing away more of their leaves in a sign of the upcoming winter.

It made for a pretty view, and keeping an eye out for the various colors that came from the different types of trees kept you occupied on what would otherwise be another long and boring journey. Unlike Feitan, you didn't feel comfortable attempting to read while in the car as you were too worried that trying to do so would make you ill, so the options you had for entertainment were limited.

It wasn't much, but at least it was nice enough to keep your mind on.

It also kept your attention away from the luggage that sat diagonally from you in the front passenger's seat.

…. You shouldn't have even had that thought. Because just like that, the temptation was there again, and you needed to force your neck to stay in the same position. All to avoid your gaze straying in that direction. It was made harder due to the fact that the large burgundy suitcase was just within your peripheral vision. The very edge of it taunted you, it seemed. It would be so, so easy to keep your attention on that case for the entire journey, staring at it as you allowed the anxiety and desperation to fill your mind.

What if, this time, they wouldn't work when you got them back? What if they were ruined now and you were left like this permanently? Was there any accounting for that? Did he have a way to restore you if that happened? Or would you be in this state forever?

Would he even still want you if you couldn't go back to the way you'd been before?

You did your best to keep those thoughts at the back of your head as you focused on the outside. Worrying about it wouldn't do you any good, and as much as you wanted to blame it on the fact that the case couldn't fit in the trunk due to the wheelchair, directing your attention over to where it sat would only annoy him.

… How was Feitan doing, mood wise?

You tore your gaze away from the window to glance over at the man who sat next to you, finding that his focus was still on the book he had opened at the very start of the journey, several hours ago before the taxi when you had gotten on board the train the day prior. By now he was more than halfway through that book, though given that you were on the last legs of your journey, he probably wouldn't be able to finish it before the cab reached its destination.

He clearly noticed the way you stared at him as he glanced over in your direction.

Upon making eye contact, you gave him a small smile.

Feitan stared at you for a moment.

Then he ultimately chose to return to his book, turning the page once he picked up where he'd left off.

He was in a pretty alright mood, then. Though you followed suit and returned your attention to the window immediately after. Even if he was in an okay place, it was better not to press your luck, as it could be incredibly easy to annoy him.

That was one thing you had learned about him: he didn't punish you without a reason. Though his rules and demands were tiring and hard to keep up with sometimes, he had never ordered anything that was so unreasonable you were automatically doomed to fail. Some of the things he made you do were difficult, yes, but never had he forced you into something that was a losing battle from the start.

At least in regards to your captivity and the way he treated you, that was one thing to be grateful for.

And technically, with what was happening right now, you weren't being punished: he just didn't trust you enough during travel. Surely in the future things would be different. As long as you remained on good behavior and kept him happy with you, things would definitely be different, and hopefully different in a way that favored you at least somewhat.

Just keep your attention on the outside, you told yourself. Take note of all of the different fall colors that you were lucky enough to catch sight of and don't even think of what you would be going through in the upcoming days.

There was no way to put it off, but you could at least enjoy the current moment, even if it did feel somewhat stifling within the small space of the car.

The taxi continued to climb through the uphill path. At one point the forest that was directly next to your window vanished, the trees dropping off in favor of giving you a view of the entirety of the wilderness around you as the taxi drove along the edge of a cliff. The sight helped to calm your nerves a bit as you managed to relax a little more. Once the taxi left the cliffside and reentered into the denser forest, you again kept your focus on that, and you had an easier time keeping your mind off of the little worries that usually plagued you.

There was nothing to be done about any of them, after all. Not in this moment.

A sign that you were entering an older part of the area came when the driver took a turn to the right, and suddenly the ride became a lot more rough as the road turned bumpy. There was one moment where were it not for the security of your seat belt, you would have been thrown directly into Feitan. As it was, you found yourself lurching about uncomfortably regardless, and you needed to keep your grip on the handle of the door as you waited for the ride to become smoother again. The taxi driver made some joke about the rough terrain during that time, and Feitan made no response to him, though it seemed that the conditions were too much for him to continue his book as he soon shut it and put it away.

At some point during all of that, the blanket that you had tucked around your waist began to fall to the floor. Yet you didn't notice until it had fallen completely.

With that, your lap was exposed. Or rather, what was left of it. If the driver were to glance behind him, he would see what you had been so futilely trying to hide from him:

The stumps in the middle of your thighs where the rest of your legs should have been.

The fact that the rest of your legs were gone was still a sight that you struggled with, and seeing the way others would look over at you with questioning glances whenever you had the rare trip out in public made you feel worse. No one was ever rude enough to ask, but just to have that attention on you made your skin crawl. You didn't like it. Not one bit. If the impossible happened and anyone saw beneath the bandages that were hidden under the rolled up legs of your pants, they would have seen the sutures that held your flesh together and the still fresh wound that refused to fully heal.

But no one would ever get that close.

Feitan would never allow it.

Upon realizing that the blanket had fallen, you reached down, straining yourself somewhat in order to pick it off the rubber mat that covered the floor. Despite it being slightly dirty, you placed it back on top of your lap, once more securing it and this time keeping your hands on it just in case it fell again. Given that the taxi was now beyond the roughest part of the old road, that seemed unlikely, but you felt better holding onto it.

As expected, Feitan made no comment to you, but you could tell he was watching you. Without something else to keep his attention, his eyes would generally move over to your form, keeping an eye on you regardless of if you were doing anything noteworthy or not.

Why was he so fascinated with you?

As often as you had wondered that to yourself, you had yet to come up with a sufficient answer to that question. There was no point in attempting to ask Feitan directly as you knew he wouldn't answer. You had tried that once. A long while back, after your rage from being taken captive had died out and you were left with nothing but apathy, you dared to ask why he wanted you, of all people, and his only response had been to stare at you in that same intense way that he always did.

All this time later, and you still had no clue as to what the answer to that question was.

But by this point, it was easier to accept this as your current reality. Things weren't perfect, but they weren't completely bad. Not like they used to be.

After ten minutes of travel on the now only slightly bumpy road the roof of the small castle within the forest could be seen through the front windshield of the taxi. Five minutes after that, the yellow cab was pulling up to a large iron gate that was left locked, requiring Feitan to step out and unlock the large, gated entryway so the cab could gain access. Feitan watched you from the outside as the driver pulled into the rounded courtyard of the aged building. Creeping vines covered a majority of the base of the structure, the reddend leaves all piled upon one another while the thin branches reached upwards as if with the intent to cover the entire wall. Despite how old the building was by now, there was no sense of decay upon looking at it. The nameless castle within the wilderness remained strong, and it seemed certain that only some otherworldly force would be capable of bringing it down.

A part of you really enjoyed the place; it was nice to look at, and certain areas within the structure were cozy during certain times of the year. But there was another part of you that felt a wave of anxiety fall over as you looked at the building in its entirety and your hands began to clench at and fiddle with the blanket over your lap.

Being in this place would be much more enjoyable if Feitan bothered to bring you here outside of the timing of the full moon. Sadly, he never seemed inclined to do that, so you were forced to associate the castle with the awful few days you consistently experienced here.

Maybe that might change, you told yourself. Though you wouldn't hold your breath on that.

The cab driver got out, and both he and Feitan headed towards the trunk to unload the wheelchair and the other luggage that had been placed in there. When the trunk opened, the view you had of them from the backseat was obscured.

With Feitan not able to keep as close of an eye on you, you took the time to steal a glance at the burgundy case in the front seat.

It looked the same as it had at the beginning of your journey: an unremarkable but large suitcase that was slightly heavy from the contents it held. But from your vantage point, it didn't appear that anything was wrong with it. It didn't look damaged, nor did there appear to be any leaks spilling out of the seams of the case.

That had you feeling a little better, though your hands continued to nervously clench at the blanket.

When your door was opened and the wheelchair was brought out, Feitan didn't allow the driver to assist him in moving you. When you unbuckled yourself and moved to the edge of the seat to make getting you out easier, Feitan was the one who picked you up. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you allowed him to move you from the interior of the cab out into the courtyard, and you stayed in his embrace for only a few moments before he placed you in the wheelchair that stood not far away.

The blanket fell again, this time onto the leaves that covered the old cobblestone beneath you. As you were being set down, the driver made a move to get it for you.

Feitan beat him to it, and the shorter man gave the driver a look that seemed to make him nervous as he took a few steps backwards.

That was a slight overreaction, you quietly thought to yourself as Feitan shook out the now dirty blanket.

But as long as that was all that happened, it didn't matter much.

With everything out of the trunk, it had been swiftly closed, as had the passenger's door once you had been removed from the vehicle. The driver adjusted his cap as he watched Feitan hand you the slightly cleaner blanket, and you were quick to pull it back up around your waist. When the driver's side door had been opened, you couldn't recall.

In the middle of all of that, you heard the driver speak again.

“All right, guess that's it, then.”

You looked up to find the taxi driver had turned around and placed one leg inside his car as he prepared to get in and take off.

That was it? But-

The case was still in the front seat.

And he was getting in without taking it out.

He was going to leave with it.

That fact seemed certain when he settled into the driver's seat.

“NO!”

You yelled so loudly that it startled him, and he turned his head just before Feitan materialized next to the driver's side door, holding his hand against it in order to keep it open.

“Wh-what's wrong?” the driver asked, his head swiveling as he looked to the both of you.

“Front seat,” Feitan said.

“O-oh. Right….”

Dutifully, the driver exited the vehicle and walked around it in order to retrieve the case, though he didn't bother to hide the alarmed looks he gave the both of you as he did so. Feitan glared at him the entire time while you clenched at the armrests of the wheelchair. You weren't going to feel good until you saw that case out of that car.

The sound of the passenger's side door opening seemed to echo within the space of the courtyard, and you breath hitched when you saw him reach in and pull out the suitcase.

Be gentle with it, you wanted to tell him.

The driver circled around the cab, seemingly in an attempt to avoid Feitan. As a result, he chose to approach you, and handed the suitcase to you instead. You caught the way Feitan's eye twitched at that, yet you chose not to acknowledge it as you grabbed at the case being offered to you.

With a sigh of relief, you held it tightly against yourself, ignoring the weight and the awkwardness that came with holding it.

“Sorry for upsetting you,” the driver told you, though his tone didn't make him sound very sorry. The way he looked at you clearly indicated that he felt as though you had been overreacting.

It looked like he was going to say something more, but Feitan chose then to step in.

“Your job is over,” he told the driver, “leave.”

“Fine, fine.”

The driver headed back towards the driver's door of the taxi, stepping in as he had before. But just before the door closed behind him, you heard him mutter the word “assholes.”

The ignition turned and the engine rumbled, and within a few moments the cab rolled out of the aged courtyard, once more jittering horribly as it drove over the old, cobbled road. Feitan followed behind as the car exited through the entryway, and once it was completely clear, he closed both sets of iron gates shut and just as swiftly locked them. The key to the gate was soon back in the safety of his pocket, and the vampire stared at the vanishing cab before he turned around and set his sights back to you.

The case had already been set upon the ground in front of you, your hands now in your lap as you kept your gaze to the side.

You messed up.

You weren't supposed to talk to other people. Feitan didn't like that. Even though you had only said one word to that driver and it was just to keep him from driving off with the case, you had still done what you shouldn't have and spoke to him instead of trusting that Feitan would realize the man's mistake and prevent him from leaving.

Feitan's footsteps sounded against the cobblestone, and you straightened your back slightly, though you still kept your gaze averted.

If you apologized right now, would he forgive you?

It was worth a shot.

“I'm sorry,” you told him.

“Sorry?” Feitan repeated.

“For disobeying you,” you clarified, your hands wringing the blanket as you continued “I didn't mean to, I just – no. Never mind. I'm sorry.”

Stopping yourself from pointing out that he was about to leave with the suitcase was a good move, you felt. Doing that would have been interpreted as making an excuse, and that was never going to end well for you. It was better to acknowledge your failure and leave it at that.

“Hm.”

Feitan was standing in front of you now, staring down at you while you shifted uncomfortably beneath the weight of his gaze. You weren't sure what to expect from him in this moment, but you told yourself that whatever it was he said or did, you needed to go with it.

What a stupid thing to think. Of course you needed to go with it – what other choice did you have?

Your internal dialogue was interrupted when Feitan spoke.

“You did speak to him,” he began, “but this once, I'll overlook it.”

Your neck snapped up so you could look at him, uncertain if you had heard what you thought you had and wanting to know if he was being genuine or if this was some way to lull you into a false sense of security before pulling the rug out from under you.

Looking at him as he was now, it didn't feel as though he was particularly angry.

Feitan continued.

“He was going to drive off with it, after all. He's more in the wrong than you are.”

He then cocked his head as he looked at you before he asked “don't you agree?”

You waited a moment before you nodded your head in agreement, saying “yeah.”

That was all to be said on the matter, as Feitan then turned his attention to the suitcase you had set down. His dark eyes looked it over before going back to you, and he pointed to it with a single pale finger as he asked a different question.

“Do you want them back now?”

Your breath hitched in your throat. Then you looked back down at the suitcase.

The answer was yes. Of course you wanted them back now. You'd never wanted them taken in the first place.

….. That sort of answer wasn't what Feitan would be looking for though, would it?

With your hands wringing at the blanket once more, you answered “only….. Only if you think I should have them back now.”

“Hm.”

The action after your response wasn't immediate, and you were left to sweat nervously in front of him as you waited for some sort of sign from him. He could tell you were nervous as well; his hearing was good enough that he could hear the way your heart began to beat frantically when you felt too much time had passed.

When he did choose to act, it seemed like that yours had been the correct answer, because Feitan reached over to stroke his fingers through your hair, petting you in the way he only did when he was pleased with you. Considering the trouble you had first believed yourself to be in, the action came as a relief. Not that it lasted long, as he pulled away soon after.

Without another word to you, he leaned down, lifted the suitcase by the handle, and walked around you as he made his way to the large doorway.

You bit your lip and clenched at the blanket once more, your shoulders sagging as you accepted his decision, even though it frustrated you that he had decided on that. It was being taken away from you again, the only option you had was to accept the unfair situation.

Maybe he was more upset over your outburst than he was letting on.

When you were certain that he was out of earshot, you let out a slow, sad sigh.

At least you had answered correctly, you told yourself.

Not long after Feitan returned for you, and given the age of the structure you found yourselves in and the lack of accommodation for the wheelchair, he needed to carry you up the steps and through the doors before walking along a familiar path through the castle, down a few hallways and up a single flight of stairs. Soon enough you had been placed in the room that would act as your bedroom for the remainder of your time here, and Feitan left you on the bed before exiting the room to get the rest of the things that had been left outside.

He wouldn't stay here long once that was done, probably. Once that was done, he would leave for the night, not coming back until morning. He had things to prepare for.

All of it had to do with the night of the full moon that was fast approaching.

You felt compelled to turn your head then, the tall glass of the window that overlooked your bed giving you a good view of the sky. You found what you were looking for in an instant: the waxing moon, still hanging low due to the earliness of the evening, but still visible over the tops of the trees. Within a few days, it would be full.

Once that happened, you would change as you always did.

Hence why you'd been brought to this place: for the isolation. Feitan wanted a controlled environment for you as you waited for the full moon to come and bring about your transformation. When you would change into what could only be described as a monster. Ravenous and violent, you couldn't be allowed anywhere near a large population. During the time that followed your transformation, you would be completely out of your mind, and the only thing that would drive you was instinct; instinct to hunt down and devour anyone within your immediate vicinity.

The thought of all that made you shudder, and you reached back to pull the curtains over the window to hide the sight away.

Such a thing was useless, you knew, but it made you feel better.

Late into the evening of the following day, Feitan brought you down into the main kitchen of the castle, specifically the one with the fireplace that was especially nice to spend time in during the winter. When the snow outside and there was a large fire going, it made for a cozy feeling that was pleasant.

Though you doubted whatever happened here tonight would be in any way nice.

But then again, it could be something good. Feitan didn't seem upset with you as he placed you upon a chair that stood near the unlit fire. With the exception of your outburst at the cab driver, you couldn't remember the last time you had done anything to genuinely upset Feitan.

His temperament just made it so hard to tell if things were okay.

Feitan kept silent after leaving you at the table. He didn't stay in the room long either, leaving almost immediately as he stalked down the hallway. The place where you sat allowed you to watch as he stopped in front of a door that led down into the cellar, the aged metal of the hinges creaking as he pulled it open before he slipped down into that darkness. The door shut with a heavy thud behind him, and you were left alone.

You let out a shaky breath.

Something was going to happen. All you could do was hope that it wouldn't be too bad. After all, you haven't done anything wrong, you once again told yourself, so you haven't done anything to warrant cruelty.

You repeated that in your head over and over as you did your best to calm your nerves.

It was sad how often that was the only solution you had for your issues.

The cellar door opened again with the hinges creaking for a longer period of time as Feitan was forced to open it wider than before. Though again it shut with a similarly loud thud as Feitan let it go once it was through. The noise of the hinges combined with the echo that accompanied it through the aged hallway was unpleasant, and you flinched as the sound grated at your ears. Not that you had much time to focus on that, as you quickly noted that it sounded as though Feitan was carrying something.

One quick glance at him and you saw what was in his hand: the burgundy suitcase.

You tore your gaze away and found yourself sitting up straighter again, your hands gripping at the edge of the chair as you stared at the empty fireplace while your heart began to beat wildly in your chest.

He could hear that heartbeat.

He knew exactly how anxious you were as he approached.

Feitan was soon upon you, standing in front of the chair you occupied with the case still in hand. As was expected of you, you looked up at him from where you sat, staring back at him as you waited for him to say something.

Holding up the case a bit, he asked “do you want them back?”

“…. Yes.”

Things were silent between the two of you then, your heart continuing to beat erratically while you kept your grip on your seat. You felt like saying 'yes' was the right answer, but there was always a chance that you were wrong. Whatever it was, Feitan was choosing to drag this out, his eyes focused on you while you knew that he was aware of how much you were panicking internally the longer this moment lasted.

You would accept it if he decided not to give them back. You would be disappointed, yes, but like those other times before, you wouldn't argue or fight him on it and would instead simply accept his decision.

Cooperating with him was the fastest way to get what you wanted.

Feitan then made his decision.

With one swift motion, he dropped the suitcase in your lap. Your breath hitched in your throat as you felt the weight of the suitcase against you once more, holding it tightly as you looked back up to Feitan to make sure you had his permission.

He had already stepped away, pulling out a different chair from the table so he could sit in front of you before he also took his place, leaning forward and resting his arms on his legs as he watched you.

Feitan wanted you to open the case.

You were more than eager to do so, your fingers going to the clasps that held it shut as your heartbeat hadn't slowed even a little. No longer thrumming with anxiety, you were now shaking from anticipation. What was yours was finally being given back.

Wasting no time in undoing the clasps, you threw open the case and felt relief upon seeing what was inside:

Your severed legs.

They were folded neatly within the case, along with a few towels tucked in at the sides to keep them from moving about too much for whenever the case was being transported.

The relief you felt upon seeing them was immediate and you wasted no time in beginning the process of reattaching them. Setting the case on the table, you went to work on the bandages that covered up your thighs, tearing them off with ease until your flesh was exposed, and from there, you began to tear out the stitches that had been placed at the end of your thighs to keep the wounds from bleeding out.

Not that you would have died even if all of your blood had left your body.

The process of removing the stitches was more strenuous than removing the bandages, and you couldn't help the small noises of pain that came from you as the thin thread was torn out of your body, ripping through the skin when you pulled hard enough. But just as quickly as you had removed them, those injuries were beginning to heal, the small wounds on that part of your skin closing up and mending with no trace of there being any stitches to begin with.

When all of the stitches were removed and lay in pieces on the floor beneath you, you were left with the open wounds at the end of your thighs, bone and muscle exposed while blood began to drip down onto the surface of the floor alongside the torn up stitches. The excess skin at the end of your legs which had been used to patch you up like a band aid now hung loosely, waiting to be reunited to your legs that still sat in the suitcase.

Now for the next part which would take longer but wouldn't be as painful: putting your limbs back on.

Reaching over to the case, you grabbed one of them at random. It turned out to be your right leg. Despite feeling that you were in a slightly weakened state after dealing with the stitches, you were able to handle the weight of your own leg easily as you pulled it out of the suitcase's confines and slung it over onto your lap.

Feitan continued to watch, still saying nothing, but you were able to feel the interest he had in this part. You didn't quite understand why he was so fascinated by this; he was also immortal, so shouldn't he be used to seeing such things with himself?

You kept that thought to yourself and instead focused on the task at hand.

Lifting up one of the flaps of skin with one hand, you used the other to position your limp leg up against your open thigh. Like putting puzzle pieces together, you grabbed the end of your leg with both hands as you started the reattachment process by putting the bones of each segment together. Once you had positioned it correctly, you felt it when the two connected.

The sensation had you shudder and you needed to grab onto the nearby table to keep yourself steady as everything else followed suit with the bone of your femur.

Marrow mixed back together as muscles reached out for one another, ends connecting in the same way the thigh bone had melding together as they were supposed to. Veins and your nerves did the same, and you gripped the edge of the table tightly as the process left you out of breath. It wasn't that it was painful, just uncomfortable. Like the sensation of a limb falling asleep only for the feeling to come back once you moved it. It was just that this was ten times as intense as that, and no matter how many times you went through this, you doubted that you would ever truly get used to it.

You stole a glance at Feitan then, peeking up at him to find that his gaze was just as intense as you imagined it was. He was concentrated on the way your muscles repaired themselves, on the way the blood from the injury dripped down onto the floor until it didn't, finally stopped when the ends of those veins found one another and sealed themselves up.

When all of the internal components of your leg had been repaired, you only moved your hand to smooth out the flap of flesh that had remained pulled back. Now with everything else done, the skin of your leg was finally allowed to mend itself as well.

Within moments, your right leg was firmly back on you, and you took the time to stretch out and move your foot to test that everything felt right. When that appeared to be the case, you slowly pushed yourself back so you were sitting up straight again, and then you reached back to the case for your left leg.

At least the process was a bit easier the second time around.

By the end of it, both of your legs were back, reattached with no sign of having been chopped off in the first place. You, however, felt exhausted. Sweat had collected on the back of your shirt and you were laying your arms and your head on the table, breathing out from your mouth as you calmed down after the experience.

It was fine now. It was over. You did it.

The sweaty feeling was gross, though, and you desperately wanted a shower.

That thought was enough to incentivize you to sit back up, though that too was a struggle as your arms felt weak. Still, you made yourself do it, and you turned to look to Feitan once you were done.

He was no longer leaning forward in the chair; now he was resting his back against it with his arms folded across his chest. One of his eyebrows raised when you turned your attention to him, and he asked “want something?”

“Just to get a shower,” you answered.

He nodded, and you took that as permission to leave the room.

Not that leaving was easy. How long had you been without your legs? You weren't completely sure, but however long it was, it was long enough that you were incredibly unsteady as you brought yourself up to your feet, and you needed to brace yourself against the table, the chair you had been sitting on as well as the wall as you made your way out of the kitchen, taking small, soft steps as you hoped the feeling of walking would soon become normal again.

“Having a hard time?” you heard Feitan ask.

“I'll be okay,” you replied, “just need to get used to it again.”

“Hm.”

Pausing at the edge of the room to catch your breath, you made the mistake of glancing over at one of the tall windows at the other side of the kitchen.

Just like the night prior, the moon was in the sky despite the relatively early hour, and when you caught sight of it, you turned your head away, looking down at the floor and trying to will away the sight in your mind.

Feitan noticed.

“What is it?” he asked.

“…. Outside,” you answered.

He looked, and hummed when he saw the moon as well.

“Scared?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Why? Shouldn't you be used to it by now?”

After a long moment, you again nodded.

Feitan made a noise at that which almost resembled a laugh before he ultimately waved you away, telling you “get your shower.”

You nodded and exited the room.

The sound of the chair moving across the kitchen floor was loud, and once you had reached the door that led to the cellar, you heard him call out to you once again.

“I'll be gone when you get out.”

He probably wasn't looking at you, and he probably wasn't in need of any sort of response, but you nodded again anyway.

The ache had firmly settled in.

You were curled up on the bed, the sheets haphazardly thrown aside as it now felt too warm to keep them on top of you, but even if the cold set in again you weren't sure you would have the strength to reach for them again. Your arms hurt too badly by now, as did your legs.

You were hungry, too.

But as you spied the small refrigerator full of supplies that had been left for you, specifically for this predicament of yours, you had a hard time imagining you would be able to gather up the strength needed to crawl off of the bed and over to where it stood. You just felt too weak.

As much as you hated how it felt when you transformed into that monstrous state and the carnage that you had left in your wake more than once, you wanted it to happen just so this part would be over with already.

It would happen soon, you told yourself. Tomorrow, when the full moon would be in the sky, you would have your relief.

You began to feel cold again, but as expected, when you reached for the blankets by your feet your muscles protested vehemently and you were forced to bear with the cold as you placed your arms back down on the bed.

Ah, this part was always the worst.

You wanted food. You wanted a shower.

You wanted Feitan.

And by this point you were too far gone to find that feeling of yours to be wrong. Because once he walked through that door, you were fine again. The aches and the pains brought about in the period before your transformation would vanish the second you saw him, and the only thing you would be left wanting for after that was for him to be closer to you.

That wasn't how it had always been. In the months that followed your kidnapping, you were relieved that he was gone for that day and a half before you turned. It had been nice to get so much time to yourself, and you hadn't been afraid to show a sour expression when he came back.

You couldn't imagine doing that now. To treat him as though he were a pest that wouldn't leave you alone? Your mind wouldn't allow it. Not when you were in such a vulnerable state and you truly felt that you needed him with you. His continued absence during this time had set alight within you a yearning.

It was easy to wish that you could go back to before your time with Feitan, when the pains and the need for another's presence didn't even exist, when you had dealt with everything on your own.

But now, even if you went against your better judgment and defied him by running, it couldn't go back to that. He had done something to change you, and you feared that change was permanent. That you would always be longing for him and be happy to see him even when he returned covered in the scent of another.

He left you to spend time with someone else

For some reason, it bothered you. Both that he did so and the fact that you still didn't know who that person was. Those times at the beginning when you asked Feitan had refused to answer, and you had no wish to bring it up now as you knew he would only tell you if he decided that you needed to know.

As long as he came back, that was all that mattered.

That thought was what got you through the long hours that followed; when the sun finally set and the waxing moon rose, now only one step away from reaching the full moon state, you felt it begin to affect you. Knowing what would happen tomorrow night, the muscles beneath your skin began to loosen up as they prepared for the time when they would need to expand. The ache in your bones became more pronounced as they anticipated the way they would need to snap and grow, and your skin started the process of separating from the muscle beneath, all so it would be easier for when you would need to tear it away.

You hated it, but as long as he came back, you could deal with the pains, you told yourself.

The next day, after having spent all of those hours doing nothing but laying on your bed as you felt your body continue to prepare for the coming night, the sound of the lock clicking open had you shoot up from the bed, sitting at attention as your eyes were focused on the door, waiting for it to open.

Anticipating that you would see him.

The relief you felt when you saw that Feitan had indeed returned to you was immense, and all memory of the pain and longing you had gone through for the previous day and a half was forgotten as he stepped through the door, his eyes meeting yours before he looked you over.

No doubt you looked a mess, your wrinkled clothing and the circles beneath your eyes giving him some insight about the rough night you'd had.

As usual, he didn't comment on it. Instead, the vampire shut the door behind him before he headed over to the mini fridge, opening it to find that the food and water he had left for you were all untouched.

There was an ever so slight hint of a smile on his face when he saw that.

“Hungry?” he asked, turning his attention back to you.

Not feeling as though you had the strength for words, you responded by nodding at him.

Then come over and feed yourself

The words he had once told you at a different time echoed in your mind, and you gripped at the sheets, uncertain if he would have a similar response now. As usual, he noticed that reaction of yours, and for a few moments he watched you closely. Perhaps he was still deciding what treatment you would get today; no doubt he was going over the behavior you had displayed over the past month and deciding whether or not you had been good enough to deserve a bit of kindness from him.

Feitan made his choice when he took out a cup of yogurt from the fridge, pausing briefly after he closed it to grab a nearby spoon that had been left for you before he made his way over to the bed. When he pulled the seal off the top after he sat down, you held out your hands, ready to take the cup and the spoon from him so you could feed yourself.

The raised eyebrow and the annoyed look he gave you in response to that was surprising, and after a moment of him staring at you like that, you lowered your arms despite your confusion.

He wasn't just taunting you, was he?

You thought he might have been when he dipped the spoon into the cup, where it then seemed as though he was going to eat in front of you – he doesn't even need food, you dejectedly thought.

Then he turned back to you, the spoon raised up and hovering in front of your mouth.

“Open,” he told you.

You obeyed, and within a moment, he had placed the spoonful of yogurt into your mouth.

……

This…. This was horribly degrading. Your captor was literally spoon-feeding you.

After all of the hours you had spent wanting Feitan's presence with you, the irritation you felt at this one action was enough to break that spell, and you remembered all of the things that were so wrong about your situation. He had kidnapped you and had proceeded to train you as if you were an animal, teaching you to behave for him through punishments and rewards, all so he could get you here, to a place where you were so compliant that you didn't question or fight him on anything. Feitan wanted you to be dependent on him and he wanted you to be grateful for it.

You wished you could kill him.

As he pulled the spoon from your mouth to dip it back into the yogurt cup, you imagined yourself leaping on him and tearing his throat out. Gouging out his eyes. Smashing his head open against the floor. Biting off his fingers for having the nerve-

Feitan looked back to you.

The instant his eyes met yours, all of that fire inside of you died out.

He was strong; far stronger than you could ever hope to be. Even if you fought with all of your strength, you knew you would lose. Your rebellion would be ended swiftly and with more force than necessary, and the only thing you would gain from it was punishment. Many punishments, in fact. After he had spent so long to get you to this point, they would be harsher as a way to teach you the lessons you still refused to learn.

You didn't want to go through with all that again. Things with him were so much better now; why ruin that?

When Feitan brought the spoon up to your lips again, you opened your mouth and once more allowed him to feed you. There was no indication that he got any sort of enjoyment out of this, but the fact that he was doing so at all meant that he needed to be getting something out of it.

Feitan got up when the yogurt cup was empty, heading to the other side of the room to dispose of it.

That was when you spoke.

“Thank you, Feitan.”

Your voice was soft, but there was no way he hadn't heard you. Yet there was no verbal response on his end.

But when you glanced over to him and looked at his face, you caught sight of it again:

The barest hint of a smirk.

You had been hyperventilating for some time now.

With you locked away in the deep cellar of the aged castle, Feitan watched how you writhed about on the floor, breathing hard as you clutched at your head. Every now and then a twitch from a leg or an arm would jolt through your entire body and the pathetic noises coming from your mouth would only increase in frequency. Through your wailing and sobbing, he would occasionally catch words. Or rather, one word. One that you repeated over and over again.

“Please please please please-”

Feitan doubted you were trying to ask him to actually do anything – even if you were, there was nothing that he could do to relieve your pain. As content as he was to take complete control over your life, this was one aspect of it that was out of his hands. No matter what, once the light of the full moon hit you, you would transform. There was no getting around that.

He glanced up to the small window towards the ceiling, and he noted that it likely wouldn't be long until the moon came into view.

An idle thought came to mind – how was he handling it? – before his attention returned to you. And Feitan continued to wait, standing at the edge of the room as he watched what was the torment of your pre-transformation.

When the first rays of moonlight shown through the glass of the window, the result was violent.

Your entire body jumped, and the wails that had turned into quiet whimperings ceased as you were left speechless, your mouth hanging open and your eyes wide.

You began convulsing on the floor.

When you began to choke, you rolled over onto your front. The blood that had begun to block your throat spilled out from your mouth as hacked it out in violent coughs, and after a few moments, the red liquid that came from your mouth was accompanied by something else: your teeth. They came out in bunches, scattering as they were spat across the floor, one of them traveling far enough to bounce off the side of Feitan's shoe. Tears were streaming down your face again, this time accompanied by the blood that poured out from your gaping, bleeding gums.

The holes in your gums didn't stay empty for long, as Feitan could see the tips of the sharp, canine teeth coming through to fill up the empty spaces.

Then your bones began the process of rearranging themselves.

The way your bones cracked apart before they splintered back together filled the small room of the cellar, and he watched with no small amount of awe as you changed before him. Your limbs were becoming longer with the skin on top of them starting to tear apart as it no longer fit. Your face was going through a similar change as your skull broke apart, moving about as it changed its shape completely in favor of the form the moonlight wanted you to have. The skin of your face was tearing up as well as your nose and mouth began to push outwards, and more blood managed to come pouring out of your mouth as your gums were ripped apart by two long rows of sharp teeth.

By the time your hands began to tear away at your old skin, your mind was gone. Your eyes were wide and wild as you ripped yourself apart, showcasing the fur that had formed underneath. First your arms, then your torso followed by your legs; the skin was swiftly removed and tossed to the side as easily as trash. By the time you got to the skin that had once covered your head it was already in tatters, tearing further when your claws dug into it and ripped it off.

With that, your transformation was complete.

Anything that could have been identifiable as “you” was gone now. What stood before him was nothing less than a beast. With sharp teeth, long claws and powerful muscles that meant that few were capable of fighting or even outrunning you, you truly had become the monster that was the subject of stories that had been passed down through the ages, capable of decimating entire towns just to satisfy a primal bloodlust.

This version of you was breathing harshly, still affected by the trauma that had been the transformation process. But he was most interested in how you would react once you saw him.

Feitan knew very well by now that immediately after a transformation, werewolves had very little control over themselves. The first actions that would be taken were that of violence against anyone who was in their immediate vicinity, and if there was no one to be found, they would hunt for someone, anyone, to exact that violence on. Only then would anything resembling rational thought return to the shifter. After seeing the process so many times, Feitan had began to wonder if that was the result of the brain still catching up after the body had changed. The mindlessness seemed to indicate that, and maybe it was that act of taking a life that shocked the brain back into normalcy.

Though he also knew now it didn't need to be a life to snap you out of it.

He waited, his hands still in his pockets as he watched you collect yourself up from the floor, the blood still clotting your fur as you stood on shaking legs. He saw the way you sniffed at the room, but the scent of iron clogging your nose must have been too much, otherwise you would have noticed him by now.

It took you rising to your new, full height and looking in front of you before you noticed him, and you froze within an instant, yellow eyes growing wide as your fur stood up in shock.

Feitan's eyes met yours, and he waited to see what action you would take.

You stayed shocked for only a moment before your lips curled back to reveal the newly formed rows of canine teeth snarling at him as your ears folded back and your legs tensing as you crouched slightly.

One of aggression, then.

He tsked.

You lunged at him, claws extended and mouth open as you snarled-

Feitan hit you with the back of his hand.

The force was great enough that you were flung to the other side of the room, rolling over on the floor before you crashed against the wall. The hit made you yelp, and he had heard something crack beneath the force of his strike. Now you were cowering on the floor again, one monstrous hand clutching at the area where his hit had landed.

Had that been enough to wake you up?

Feitan again waited to see what you would choose. He was prepared that you may very well decide to keep fighting him, though at this point he trusted that you were past the point of fighting him through the whole night. From early on you recognized that forcing him to fend you off until the sunrise only left you hurting for days after, so these days it only took a few hits to knock the fight out of you.

When you pushed yourself back up and looked to him, your ears once again folded back. But not in anger.

This time, your form cowered against the wall as you bent your head low, letting out a small whimper as you did so.

A sign of submission.

That was better.

Your ears perked back up when he spoke to you.

“Come here,” he ordered.

A few seconds went by before you moved, shuffling over to him across the floor while still holding your injured maw, though he knew it wouldn't take long for that injury to heal.

Feitan couldn't help the smirk that made its way to his lips. Although you still weren't where he wanted you – ideally you wouldn't attack him at all – this was progress. Even in your most unstable form, you were learning what your place was.

When you were kneeling beside his feet, that same hand that had struck you now reached out to lay upon your head, petting the matted fur softly. You kept your eyes averted as he did as he pleased, your head still facing downwards.

“Hungry?”

That question of his made you look back up before you faced down again, answering with the smallest of nods.

He chuckled as he pulled his hand away, and he was about to motion for you to follow him out of the room when-

A wolf howl could be heard in the far-off distance, coming in clearly through the thin layer of glass that separated the both of you from the outside. You reacted, jumping slightly in place as you turned your head in the direction of the noise, your ears going back again in fear.

Feitan brought your attention back to him when he told you “don't worry about him.”

Then he motioned with his finger as he told you “follow me.”

When he began to head to the room's exit, you got up to follow, trailing behind him by a few paces.

It would be some time still before he would let you out to hunt. The way you had attacked him earlier was a clear sign that he couldn't let you out yet; if you were to get even the smallest taste of freedom from him, then you might very well try to run from him. And then all of his work would be set back and he would need to start again from the beginning.

As much as Feitan tried to be patient in the process, he didn't want to go through with all of that again.

Walking wordlessly through the cellar, he led you to a different door, one that had been padlocked from the outside. From inside the room, the sound of someone crying could be heard, though it was muffled by the heavy door. A few moments later a different voice snapped at the crying person, hissing at them to stop.

What followed after was tense silence.

Removing the key from his pocket and unlocking the door, Feitan pulled it open for you, revealing the half a dozen people he had gathered for you in the days and hours prior. One of the women in the room shrieked at the sight of you, and all of them began to cower in the furthest corner, all yelling at one another as they tried to push past each other in an effort to get away from you.

Half a dozen sets of eyes looked at you in fear, and that was enough to make you shudder in place as you stared back at the people in that room.

Yet you hadn't moved. Instead of going in, your yellow eyes looked to Feitan, who still held the door for you.

He nodded.

That was when you charged in.

The screams started up immediately as Feitan shut the heavy door behind you.

Waking up felt similar to the way your father's ancient desktop computer would boot up back in your childhood home. It had been the kind with the monitor that looked like a large square box, and while it would initially turn on at the touch of the power switch, it would take several minutes until it was actually operational, the screen staying black with little bits of text popping up before it would wake up. That was how you felt now. Your eyes were open and you were staring at whatever was directly in front of your line of view, but you weren't really taking any information in as your brain needed some time before it could function properly.

That memory came to mind first: when you were a child living in your family home and watching from around your father as he turned on his computer, waiting for him to get up and allow you to get online to play games on some website. It was so clear in your head and yet you couldn't remember what games you played or even what the website was called. That was enough to get you to huff out a small laugh.

It felt like a lifetime ago that you were there.

But now you were here, naked and sprawled on the floor of the cellar with the only source of heat you could feel being the sunlight coming from the window that hit a small portion of your legs.

You closed your eyes as you took in a deep breath.

Finding yourself on the cold, hard floor was normal now. It had happened so often that there was no longer any surprise when you came to and discovered that you had been left in one of those cellar rooms. Sometimes surrounded by the remains of your victims from the previous night, sometimes not. A quick look around the room showed you that you were alone, nothing else with you aside from the ashes that surrounded you from your change back into your human form.

Pushing yourself up to a sitting position, you idly thought that it was nice of him to bring you back here. Even if you still felt like shit, it was nice that he didn't leave you locked in that room he had taken you to last night.

You knew you had hurt people – more than that. You had killed them. While your memory of it was only bits and pieces, you knew that it happened.

And you also knew the night ended with you nuzzling your face into Feitan's lap while he was petting you softly.

Like you were a dog.

……

At least you were a dog that he treated somewhat well, as you noticed the over-sized sweater hanging from the hook on the back of the door. If he only intended for you to be his mindless beast that killed at his command, he wouldn't bother letting you have some dignity by allowing you to cover up your nudity. Even if, after you had slipped the sweater on, it showed off a lot of your bare legs that were still covered in goosebumps from the chill of the cellar. But at least all of the important parts were covered.

This was a consideration – a kindness – that he didn't need to show you. The fact that he chose to do so meant something.

…. You certainly hoped that was the case.

The heavy door opened easily when you pulled on it, and you walked out into the hall on unsteady legs, still feeling the affects from the night prior. You were so unfocused that it took you reaching the stairs to realize that there was a wailing coming from one of the rooms at the other end. Taking a glance back, it didn't seem as though it was coming from the room you had been taken to previously. So someone else was down here.

…. You couldn't tell if they were crying out of pain or if their cries were that of emotional distress. Perhaps from being kidnapped.

Perhaps from something worse.

Listening for only a few more moments, you turned your attention back to getting yourself up the stairs, putting your weight on the railing as you hauled yourself up.

You wanted a shower. Your skin always felt so weird after transforming, like there was an invisible layer of grime that you needed to scrub off before you felt you could do anything else. You would see Feitan after that was done, probably. He was never around when you woke up, but he would always be back once you left the bathroom. Though you often wondered where exactly he went off to, you didn't bother asking him.

Much like whatever was going on with that wailing person you were leaving downstairs, there were things he did that you didn't need to know about.

The door at the top of the stairs as another heavy one, but it too opened easily when you pressed against it. This time your walk was more of a stumble as you entered the first floor, holding onto the knob for a moment before closing the door behind you.

You felt a bit more light-headed than usual. What had caused that? Certainly you had eaten enough. Ah, maybe it was water. You couldn't remember when you last-

You turned around and saw a man standing in the kitchen at the end of the hallway.

All the thoughts in your mind went silent as you froze.

As you stood there in shock, you noticed that he seemed just as surprised as you were.

It was clear that he had showered recently as his blonde hair was still wet, and despite your senses still being out of whack, you caught the smell of his body wash that had all but just been applied. His height made him slightly intimidating, as he was far taller than either you or Feitan, and by looks of his muscles, he was clearly strong. Whether or not he was stronger than Feitan was hard to determine, but certainly he was far stronger than you. At least, as you were right now.

His golden eyes were wide as he looked you over, that expression of shock and awe still clear on his face as his gaze traveled downwards before it traveled back up again, those eyes meeting yours once again and this time maintaining the eye contact.

As for you, once the initial shock of seeing a random man in the kitchen passed, you were hit with another sense of shock as you realized something:

He wasn't human, was he?

Despite your senses being frayed, you were able to tell that much after a few moments in his presence. Like you and Feitan, this man was something else, one that only appeared to be human at first glance.

So then what was he?

Why the hell was he here?

What was Feitan going to do when he found out about this intruder?

And did this man plan on doing something to you?

Now you were scared to move, keeping your hand on the knob of the door next to you as your palms grew sweaty. A wrong move on your part could make this man snap, and with how weak you still were, you wouldn't be able to run far if that happened. The only guaranteed safety you had was if Feitan were to appear, but you had no idea where he was at the moment.

The man wouldn't stay like this forever – what do you do?

You didn't get a chance to consider your options further because the man's expression changed, and he smiled at you.

“It's nice to finally see you,” he said.

You blinked, uncertain what to make of that.

Your heart began to pound hard in your chest when he began walking towards you, however, and the grip you had on the doorknob was the only thing keeping you upright.

“I've waited a long time,” he continued, still walking towards you at a pace that attempted to be steady, yet it was hard to miss the pure excitement in his step.

“I really wanted to see you earlier but he's so particular on how things should be done. He really thinks that if you weren't ready when you met me that I'd manage to bungle your training.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at his words, not understanding what exactly what he was saying. Was he talking about Feitan?

The man stopped in front of you and noticed your confusion.

“… Do you know what I'm talking about?” he asked.

You shook your head.

To that, he sighed, looking disappointed as he gazed at you.

“Figures,” he grumbled, “though I really thought by now he would've mentioned something about me.”

You were listening to him. Technically. But now that he was so close, you were caught off-guard by something else: his scent.

It was the same scent that was always, always all over Feitan when he returned to you before you transformed. That of another werewolf, going through the same pre-transformation stage that you were.

… This was him?

He was like you?

He had known about you all this time while you were left in the dark?

The man was speaking again, and what he was saying came in clearer when you noticed how he was raising up a hand to cup your cheek.

“But that's okay. We have all the time in the world to get to know each other.”

Still uncertain as to what was going on, you kept silent. You kept still as well, even when his palm came so close that you felt the heat that radiated off of him on your skin.

When was the last time someone with a pulse had touched you softly?

He opened his mouth, starting with “I know we'll all-”

“Phinks.”

Feitan's voice called out, and chill ran down your spine. Based on the look on the blonde man's face, one ran down his as well.

The two of you looked to find the vampire standing at the other end of the hall, his hands in his pockets and his cowl missing, allowing both of you to see the full extent of his disgruntled expression.

“Not yet,” Feitan continued, his eyes on the male werewolf.

The blonde – Phinks, he seemed to be called – scowled before he looked back to you, pulling away and placing both his arms by his sides. But his hands clenched into fists after, and it was clear that he wanted to get ahold of you.

The blonde werewolf made no move of touching you, but he didn't make any move to back away from you, and when a few seconds ticked by like that, you saw Feitan's gaze narrow as his expression grew darker.

“Phinks.”

The warning in the way he said the man's name was even more clear this time, and even Phinks flinched slightly at the sound, gritting his teeth as anger was growing within him as well. It was clear that he didn't want to listen to Feitan, but he was compelled to do so.

With a deep sigh and something incomprehensible that he mumbled under his breath, Phinks turned away from you, heading back to where he'd been when you saw him before. He stopped when he reached Feitan, and from the way the two of them glowered at each other, there was some sort of argument that was silently playing out between them. One that Feitan was victorious in as soon after, Phinks' shoulders slumped downwards in defeat before he walked past the vampire.

Feitan then looked back to you, and upon seeing those dark eyes on you and the way he ordered you to leave without speaking, you jumped into action. With renewed energy, you turned and spotted a door that you knew led to a bathroom.

Perfect. You could clean yourself off and by the time you were done, hopefully whatever confrontation Feitan was having with this other werewolf would be over and you could go back up to your room.

Though technically you could've headed up the stairs that were only a few steps away from the door you had entered. Although by the time you thought of that, you were almost halfway done closing the door behind you, and if you changed course to do that, you might actually end up angering Feitan.

Better to just commit to this.

Only once you looked at the room you now found yourself in, you realized that you forgot that the downstairs bathroom didn't have a shower. Only a bathtub.

Oh well. You'd get clean either way, right?

You could pick up on the voices down the hall, recognizing both that of Feitan and Phinks. It was possibly an argument. Though you didn't try to listen in, instead heading over to the tub and turning the handles. Water immediately began rushing into the empty tub and all that noise blocked out their voices.

It took a few minutes until the temperature of the water was to your liking and the tub was filled, and when you shut the water off, you couldn't hear either of them anymore.

It was confusing; not knowing who Phinks was when he clearly knew you. Feitan knowing him and clearly not having any major issues with him considering that he didn't attack the blonde upon seeing him with you. And the thing Phinks had said, something about having all the time to know each other?

Just what was Feitan keeping from you?

You sighed before you slipped the sweater over your head, leaving it on the floor as you stepped into the tub, slowly lowering yourself before you were submerged up to your shoulders.

The next sigh that escaped you was one of relief, as you felt the tension leave your muscles once you had settled in the water. This was nice; nice enough that you felt safe as you closed your eyes, leaning your head against the rim of the tub while you let your thoughts drift away. Perhaps it was a little dangerous to be in the water when you were still feeling so weak, but you told yourself it would be fine.

Even if you did slip under, you no longer needed to fear death by drowning.

The moments of peace you felt lasted for some time, and you made no move to scrub yourself down like you had originally planned as you felt too content to bother now.

Then the door creaked open.

The daze you had been in was broken immediately and you sat up as you turned your attention back to the door.

Unsurprisingly, Feitan was the one who had walked in. When he shut the door behind him with a good deal of force, you found yourself cowering slightly as you worried what that might mean for you.

You sat quietly as he approached, his steps echoing off of the smooth surfaces of the bathroom until he reached the edge of the tub. Feitan's gaze flitted down to what he could see of you beneath the water's surface for a moment before he turned around and sat down on the edge of the tub. Oddly enough, his attention was on the door.

What was his mood right now? Your brows furrowed as you tried to figure him out. With him being closer now, you found that he didn't seem angry, or even annoyed as he so often was. If anything, he just seemed a bit perturbed.

All because of your encounter with Phinks? Why was it that bad that you met him? Were you even supposed to meet the other werewolf? Phinks made it sound as though you were, but with the way Feitan was acting both outside and in here made you wonder if your paths were never meant to cross.

Curiosity drove you to say something then, and you cleared your throat as you asked “did I do something wrong?”

Feitan glanced at you, then shook his head.

“Then…. Can I ask who Phinks is?”

Feitan turned his attention to you fully and you couldn't help but shrink down slightly into the water once the weight of his gaze bore down on you.

“You can tell, can't you?” he asked.

You nodded.

His eyes narrowed as he continued with “so why ask stupid questions?”

Your response to that was to look down into the water as you mumbled out a “sorry.” Feitan scoffed in response, but then he shifted himself on the edge of the tub so his body was turned more towards you. He wasn't saying anything more, instead once again choosing to stare at you.

Did he really need to do that when you were in the bathtub?

Unable to stand the silence and the irritation that came with his last answer, you meekly asked “was I not supposed to meet him?”

Feitan let out a small sigh as he said “not yet.”

With a roll of his head, Feitan looked back to the door one more time as he added “he's just too overeager. He doesn't understand patience.”

You nodded along like you understood everything that he was saying, although when you thought on it, previous experiences with Feitan had you thinking that it was rather hypocritical for him to criticize others on being patient. Especially when the vampire had been around for as long as he had, you would have thought patience would be something that he was a master of.

That was yet another thought in a sea of them that you kept to yourself.

Not wanting to leave things there, you spoke up again.

“Phinks seems nice,” you said.

Feitan looked over to you and his expression was blank.

“…. Is he not?” you asked.

“He's better now,” Feitan told you, “but you wouldn't have liked him at the beginning.”

“Beginning of what?”

“His training.”

The vampire dipped his hand into the water, moving it about with gentle motions as he added “the process of teaching him to be obedient took decades. Training you has been much easier in comparison.”

He said nothing else as he kept his hand in the water.

You stared at him as you felt slightly shocked.

… Feitan… The things he had done to you…. Had he also done them to Phinks? Were you not the first victim of his to be kidnapped and subjugated? Phinks was so much stronger than you, and he had honestly seemed to be just as strong as Feitan, if not more.

Yet Feitan had managed to gain control over him?

Part of you wanted to ask the vampire more while another part of you never wanted the subject to be brought up again. And luckily for that latter half of you, that part was the one that got its wish as you got the sense that Feitan didn't want to talk anymore. In his mind, no doubt, he had been nice enough to give you the answers you had sought. Answers to questions that you shouldn't have even had since it truly seemed you weren't meant to meet Phinks. Not this day. To push him further would be to cause distress for yourself. If not now, then in the future.

You desperately didn't want that, if just for the sake of your own well-being.

There was then a quiet that settled within the confines of that room. Neither you nor Feitan spoke, and the only sound that regularly battled against the emptiness in the air was that of the gentle sloshing of the water against the smooth sides of the bathtub. With nothing else left to say to him, you told yourself that you should continue as you were. Clean off that grime and refresh yourself as you had been intending when you first entered the room. If Feitan wanted to watch then he would. If he didn't, he would leave.

…. For some reason, you didn't want him gone yet.

What possessed you to do what you did next, you had no idea. But slowly, you moved, scooting up slightly in the tub until your head reached where Feitan's thigh was sitting on the edge. Just as slowly, you moved your head forward until your cheek was resting on his leg.

Feitan said nothing, nor did he make any move to stop you.

Eventually, you were resting the weight of your skull on his leg, the parts of your hair that had been soaked by the water getting his pants wet in the process. Still, Feitan didn't do anything.

He couldn't have been completely against it. If he had, he would have shoved you away or stood up and left. That he allowed you to do as you pleased meant that he couldn't have minded that much.

When he finally reacted, you held your breath.

Feitan pulled his hand out of the tub, and with the water still dripping off of his skin, that same hand came down to rest on the top of your head. How he felt about this became clear when he began to pet your hair with soft, gentle strokes. At that, you allowed yourself to relax more against him, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch, humming contentedly.

It was similar to what had happened last night.

The memory came back again: of you kneeling before him in a room full of blood and body parts while he stood before you, and a single hand had reached out to stroke the top of the head of your monstrous form, his fingers becoming stained with red as they moved through the blood soaked fur.

This time was much nicer, you felt. The clean bathroom and the soothing water were much better accompaniments to the rare gentle touches from him that you had come to yearn for. Because he only did as such when he was especially happy with you. As you thought over the events of the past few days, you counted three different times, including this one, where he had shown you such affection.

That was good, you told yourself. It meant you were doing something right.

Things would be easier if you did the things that would please him. If you made that your goal, then you could be happy. And already, you felt a fragmented part of you wanting just that: for Feitan to be happy with you. To please the ancient vampire that had decided to choose you. Please him and accept whatever he wanted, be it to keep you to himself or to bring Phinks into whatever it was the two of you had.

Or were you the one being brought into something he had with Phinks?

It didn't make much difference.

As long as your mind could break enough so that it could accept this life with Feitan, that was all that mattered.

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