dalia • 18 years old • future doctor • palestinian • slytherin x cabin 6 • full-time student, part-time writer
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james potter x reader - royal fantasy series
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wait i just reread made from a man’s bone and i’m actually OBSESSED with the way the title alone feels like it carries so much weight. how did you come up with it?? and what does it mean in relation to remus because it feels like it’s about pain and love existing at the same time in a way that’s honestly kind of devastating but beautiful. this fanfic is my most favourtire i adore you D for writing it 💟💟
thank you so much for this ask, anon 🥹💗 this is such a lovely message to receive and i’m So happy you enjoyed made from man’s rib this much <33
regarding the title, it’s about how both his pain and his love come from the same place; his ribs. hence the title, and it’s also a play on the story of adam and eve, where eve is created from adam’s rib
So yes, at its core, it’s a story about accepting that some wounds do not disappear. there is no miraculous cure, no moment where the pain simply ceases to exist. the growth comes from realizing that permanence does not make someone unworthy of love, nor does it make them incapable of receiving it
i think people often treat pain and love as opposites, as though one must leave before the other can arrive. but i don’t believe that, i think they are deeply intertwined. the capacity to hurt and the capacity to love come from the same place: the willingness to care deeply about something beyond yourself
for remus, the journey is learning that his pain does not invalidate his ability to be loved. that the parts of himself he sees as broken are not barriers to connection. and beyond that, it’s about allowing himself to be loved despite them. accepting that someone can see the entirety of his suffering and choose him anyway
because the truth is that pain existing does not mean love cannot. if anything, some of the most profound forms of love emerge alongside grief, fear, and hurt. the challenge is accepting that they can occupy the same space without one diminishing the other
it’s a complicated idea, and i don’t always know how to explain it properly, but it’s one i find incredibly beautiful. i wrote that fic from a place of genuine passion and understanding, and that’s why it means so much to me :))
summary: the wizarding world still refuses to accept werewolves, and despite all its magical advancements, lycanthropy remains barely understood. one thing, however, is certain: there is no cure for it.
— after years of loving remus and navigating his condition together, you’ve come to terms with it. he trusts you, but the one thing he keeps to himself is that he’s getting much worse.
tags: struggles of chronic illness, hurt/comfort, lycanthropy, deteriorating health, remus' pov (therefore lots of self loathing), post-hogwarts, disability, implied ableism, established relationship, isolation, transformation aftermath, implied sucidal ideation (very brief like u need to squint to see it), background drarry, happy and hopeful ending ofc.
─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───
Truth was, no matter how many full moons Remus went through with you, you never seemed fully prepared for what they entailed.
Every transformation arrived with its own particular cruelty, never quite repeating the last, as though the curse itself delighted in refining its brutality, shaping new ways to make him endure and then remember that endurance meant nothing at all.
You had learned how to brew Wolfsbane potion long after graduating Hogwarts and during the first wizarding war. Life outside its walls had offered a fragile kind of privacy, a quieter place where Remus no longer had to vanish in order to transform.
Yet even that careful structure, built painstakingly between the two of you, had begun to feel increasingly insufficient, as though time itself were eroding whatever small mercy you had managed to construct.
The potion still did its work in the most technical sense. It kept the wolf from fully claiming his mind, from tearing away whatever fragment of recognition remained at the height of it. But it did nothing for the body.
By morning, there was always blood seeping through his wounds to the point where recovery no longer felt like healing, only preparing himself to endure it all again next month.
And over the years, that pattern had not lessened. It had only intensified.
It had begun to feel, in a way neither of you spoke aloud, as though the more he endured it, the more it demanded in return. Healing took longer. Recovery left deeper scars.
Remus understood, that none of this came from a lack of effort on your part. You had been meticulous in your care, learning the potion and refining it until it reached a consistency that could be trusted.
You prepared for each moon days in advance, arranging everything with precision. You stayed with him through the transformations in your Animagus form, close enough that he would not wake up alone.
Afterward, you remained without needing to be asked. You tended to him through the days that followed with attentiveness. You even made sure his wounds were cleaned and treated, his potions brewed and adjusted as needed, and every small change in his condition was observed with care.
It was not that your efforts fell short. It was that the situation itself had begun to exceed what care alone could contain.
There were moments, when Remus found himself entertaining thoughts he disliked almost immediately.
The idea that perhaps it would be easier if the Wolfsbane failed entirely, if there were no partial awareness left to endure, no memory of what had happened after each transformation. The thought never lasted long enough to settle into anything resembling desire, because even in its most detached form it carried consequences that were impossible to ignore.
Especially for you.
So he kept it contained, as he did most things that felt heavy to speak of outloud.
Later, after another full moon, the flat carries the faint, lingering scent of iron and crushed herbs that no amount of cleaning removes. You find Remus curled beneath several layers of blankets, his body drawn inward in a way that suggests he’s in pain more than usual.
The light coming through the window makes his condition easier to read than he would prefer; bruising spreads across his skin in uneven patches, some fading while others remain dark enough to look fresh, and overlapping scars trace older patterns beneath newer damage.
Even the freckles you once pointed out to him at Hogwarts, tracing them across his shoulders with fondness, have begun to disappear into the accumulation of all his recent scars
You step closer without hesitation. “Remus,” you murmur, voice softened as you crouch beside him. “Are you sure a heating charm won’t help? It might lessen the bone aches, love.”
He exhales through his nose, and shifts slightly beneath the blankets. “I’m alright,” he says.
You spend the rest of the night tending to Remus, cleaning blood from his split skin and binding clawed-open scratches while dark bruises bloom violently across his body beneath your healing charms.
By the time you manage to feed him a few spoonfuls of soup, exhaustion has already begun dragging him under completely.
He feels a little better, or at least better enough to convince you that sleep will handle the rest. That has always been the hope after transformations. A good night’s sleep. A few days of recovery. Another potion. Another full moon survived.
The night ends with you fluffing the blankets securely around him before climbing into bed beside him yourself, exhaustion pulling you under quickly enough that you fall asleep believing Remus has done the same.
Remus spends the entire night awake, silently crying in pain.
He knows everything that used to work does not anymore when it comes to easing it. The truth is one cruel, harsh thing: he is getting worse.
And if you do not notice the tear tracks left across his pillow the next morning, well, you remain none the wiser.
─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───
During their years at Hogwarts, Remus had gone through every full moon with the help of James, Sirius, and Peter.
Though that had been a lifetime ago now.
Back then, before the war took James and Lily, before Sirius was imprisoned for murdering Peter, things had been simpler. Not easy, but simpler in a way Remus found himself aching for more often lately.
The full moons had still been painful then. He remembered far too many important moments spent curled up in bed in the boys’ dormitory or recovering beneath the sharp medicinal smell of the Hospital Wing while Madam Pomfrey fussed over injuries that never seemed to shock her anymore.
The slow splitting of bone beneath his skin, the horrifying stretch of transformation, the knowledge that society viewed creatures like him as dangerous and unworthy; none of that was new.
One thing had been different, though.
The pain had been less.
The irony of it almost made him laugh sometimes, because if someone had told seventeen-year-old Remus Lupin that the transformations would someday become worse, that his body would continue finding newer and more unbearable ways to suffer long after adulthood, he was fairly certain his younger self would not have endured it nearly so long.
Standing at the kitchen counter making tea later that evening, Remus found himself relishing the memory of how much easier it used to be, even when those years had still been filled with pain.
There was a particular sort of bitterness in realising your old suffering had once been the better option. It left him wondering whether, a decade from now—assuming he survived another decade at all—he would look back at this version of himself and wish for this pain instead.
The thought settled heavily in his chest as his eyes drifted across the small home the two of you had built together.
Everywhere he looked, there was evidence of a good life.
Photographs from Hogwarts lined the shelves, moving portraits of him and his friends grinning after graduation, Lily laughing somewhere in the background while James nearly knocked Sirius over trying to celebrate.
Another frame held a much younger Remus sitting stiffly beside Lily while she carefully placed newborn Harry into his arms, his expression caught somewhere between terror and awe.
There were pictures from the years after James and Lily died too, quieter and sadder ones, the first photograph ever taken of you and Remus together where neither of you quite looked like yourselves yet. Then came the later years. Harry growing older. Summer holidays spent in this very house. Scarves abandoned over chairs. His spare glasses left forgotten on tables. A broom leaning carelessly near the back door after Harry had visited last.
Evidence.
Evidence of love. Of survival. Of family.
Your yarn basket sat beside the sofa exactly where you always left it, overflowing with tangled wool and half-finished crochet projects. A collection of horribly misshapen mugs crowded the kitchen shelves because neither of you could ever bring yourselves to throw them out after you made them together one winter.
Remus stared at all of it and suddenly felt sick with guilt.
Because what sort of person looked at a life like this and still thought, I cannot keep doing this anymore?
The thought stayed with him for the rest of the evening, settling heavily beneath his ribs while exhaustion slowly wore down what little patience he still had left.
So when the argument finally happened later that night, it had really only begun with a careless slip of the tongue.
“How are you feeling?” you had asked gently from across the kitchen while Remus sat at the table nursing a cup of tea gone lukewarm in his hands. “Do you want me to make something for the pain, love? Or maybe I could—”
“There’s nothing you can do to help,” Remus had snapped, the words coming out far louder and sharper than he intended.
The silence afterward had been immediate.
You stared at him from across the kitchen, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and hurt, as though the outburst had physically struck you. Remus looked away almost instantly, jaw tightening the moment he realised what he had done.
“Well,” you had said after a moment, your voice noticeably more restrained now, “sorry for trying.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean, Remus?”
He exhaled heavily, dragging a tired hand across his face. “Forget it.”
“No, because you don’t get to bite my head off for asking if you’re alright and then tell me to forget it.”
“I said it came out wrong.”
“And I’m asking you to explain it properly.”
The exhaustion already sitting heavily in his bones made patience difficult to hold onto. Remus pushed his tea aside with more force than necessary before leaning back in his chair, visibly agitated.
“There isn’t anything you can do,” he said again, quieter this time but no less tense. “That’s all I meant.”
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You say that as though I’ve been trying to fix a bloody cold.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Remus said, sharper than intended, the words coming out clipped with exhaustion rather than real anger. “Bloody hell, that’s not what this is.”
“Then what are you saying?” you asked, frustration finally bleeding through properly now, no longer softened by patience. “Because every month you pull further away from me like I’m doing something wrong and I’m trying to understand where I’ve gone wrong here, Remus, I just don’t get it. You won’t let me help you, and if I am doing something wrong then just tell me so I can stop.”
Remus immediately shook his head. “You are not doing anything wrong.”
“You act like I am.”
“I don’t.”
“You do,” you shot back, voice rising slightly. “You barely speak to me after transformations unless I drag answers out of you, and half the time you won’t even tell me where it hurts. You just sit there pretending you’re fine until you can’t anymore, and I’m left trying to figure out what’s changed every single time because you won’t say it out loud.”
His expression hardened slightly. “What exactly do you want me to say?”
“The truth would be a good start.”
Something bitter flickered across his face at that, quick and involuntary. “The truth?” he repeated more quietly now, almost as if testing whether it was worth saying at all. “Fine. The truth is I’m tired.”
“So am I.”
“I know that.”
“Clearly you don’t,” you snapped before you could stop yourself. “Because I have spent years trying to help you through this, through all of it, and lately it feels like you resent me every time I do. Like I’m making it worse just by being here and trying to help you get through it.”
“Well, I didn’t fucking ask you to spend years taking care of me!”
The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Your face crumpled for half a heartbeat before anger rushed in to replace it.
“Right,” you said tightly. “Because that’s the problem here, Remus.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Remus said at once, shaking his head slightly as if he could undo it by force. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“No,” you replied. “Apparently I don’t, because you refuse to actually say what you mean. You just say these things and expect me to somehow translate them into something else, and I can’t do that anymore, Remus. I can’t keep guessing what version of you I’m speaking to every time something goes wrong!”
The argument only escalated from there, both of you too exhausted and emotional to pull back once it had begun.
“You shut me out constantly now,” you said, your voice louder than before as you set your mug down against the counter with a sharp clatter. “Every single month I watch you suffer through this and you act like I’m some stranger hovering around you instead of the person who’s been beside you through all of it.”
“You think this is easy for me?!” Remus snapped.
“I think watching you slowly destroy yourself while refusing to talk to me about it isn’t exactly easy for me either!”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is this!”
The words rang through the kitchen harshly enough that both of you fell silent for a second.
You looked furious now, but beneath it Remus could still see the hurt sitting there untouched.
“I don’t know what else you want from me,” you admitted, your voice cracking slightly despite your effort to keep it steady. “I’m trying my best, and somehow lately it still feels like I’m failing you.”
“You are not failing me because there’s nothing left to help!”
Your arms folded tightly across yourself as though holding yourself together. “James, Sirius, and Peter could help you through transformations,” you said quietly now. “You always talk about Hogwarts like the four of you got through it together, so clearly they managed something right that I can’t.”
Remus physically flinched at that.
“It isn’t about you not being enough,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Then why does it feel like it?” you demanded. “Because every time I try to help you lately you tense up like I’m doing you more harm than good.”
“That’s not what’s happening.”
“Then what is happening, Remus?” you asked, sharper now, because the uncertainty was starting to feel worse than the argument itself.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because the truth sounded too horrible once spoken aloud. That his body was getting worse faster than either of you realised. That every transformation hurt more than the last. That no amount of love or care or healing could stop what lycanthropy was slowly doing to him. And perhaps worst of all, that he had started wondering whether there would eventually come a point where surviving it simply was not worth the pain anymore.
Instead of saying any of that, Remus looked away from you and said bitterly, “You cannot keep acting like there’s some solution to this, Y/N.”
Your face fell immediately.
“I never thought there was a solution,” you said quietly. “I just thought I was helping.”
Eventually, the two of you spent nearly an hour apart cooling off in different corners of the house, the earlier shouting leaving behind the sort of silence that felt raw rather than peaceful. Remus remained in the kitchen long after his tea had gone cold, staring blankly at the dim light above the sink while guilt settled heavier and heavier in his chest with every passing minute.
In the end, he was the one who came back first.
You were sitting curled up in bed when he stepped quietly into the room, still looking exhausted, shoulders slumped with defeat that made him seem younger than he was. The anger had long since drained out of him, leaving only regret behind.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly after a moment, his voice rough from exhaustion and shouting alike. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
You looked up at him immediately, hurt still lingering faintly across your face despite how quickly you always tried to hide it from him.
“I just wanted to help.”
“I know.” Remus sat carefully beside you, every movement betraying lingering pain no matter how much he tried to conceal it. “And you are helping. Merlin, you help more than anyone ever has.”
Even if it was becoming less true every month.
You softened almost instantly at that, the tension in your shoulders finally easing as you leaned into him. Remus wrapped an arm around you automatically, holding you close while you settled against his chest, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the old scars scattered across his skin where freckles had once been more visible years ago.
“It scares me when you shut me out,” you whispered quietly.
Remus closed his eyes for a moment. “I know.”
“You’re going to be okay,” you murmured after a while, more to reassure yourself than him. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
He felt something inside him twist painfully at the certainty in your voice.
By then, you had already forgotten most of the argument entirely. You believed him when he said your care was helping. You believed the exhaustion would pass the way it always had before. You believed Remus was okay, or at least that he would be.
Somehow, your kindness hurt him more than your anger ever could.
Remus genuinely did not understand why you tolerated him and all the endless complications that came along with loving him, even—especially—the ones you did not know about.
─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───
It had been nearly a week and a half since the previous full moon. Usually, this period served as recovery time for Remus, where you helped him slowly settle back into his regular routines and day to day life before the next transformation arrived to tear through it all over again.
It was always a tumultuous stretch of time for him because although his body would gradually improve; the physical pain easing little by little with each passing day, the mental burden only seemed to worsen in its place.
It was a Friday, which usually meant you and Remus would head out for one of your little dates with Harry and his boyfriend Draco, a pairing Remus still struggled to fully accept despite how many years had passed.
(He had insisted for ages that Draco was a “weird” fit for Harry, though he had never once stood in the way of Harry’s happiness. At this point, the stubbornness of it had become almost amusing).
Now, however, Remus stood in front of the full length mirror in your shared bedroom, supposedly in the middle of getting dressed, though he had not moved in several minutes.
Half dressed and exhausted already, he could see every flaw reflected back at him with painful clarity. Every scar. Every faded freckle buried beneath damaged skin. The bruises still linger faintly yellow and purple along his ribs. Loose skin. The slight softness now settled around his stomach from the weight he had gained over the years.
And really, Remus could not help but feel like throwing up.
He looked repulsive; he looked like a monster wearing the shape of a man.
The thought struck him so violently that his breath caught somewhere in his chest, and suddenly he was crying before he even fully realised it had begun, harsh sobs forcing their way out of him as years worth of self loathing finally cracked open all at once.
There was so much disgust festering inside him that he no longer knew how to contain it. So much bitterness and exhaustion and loneliness that had nowhere to go except inward, rotting quietly beneath his ribs month after month after month.
Because really, his entire life had become nothing more than a series of arithmetic checks designed to ration what little energy he had left: If I leave the laundry until tomorrow, then maybe I will have enough energy to cook dinner tonight. If I visit Harry this weekend, I will probably spend the following day unable to get out of bed. If the temperature drops tomorrow, my joints will ache worse. If it rains, the old injuries in my back will flare again.
If. If. If.
Everything had become a calculation.
It was exhausting constantly trying to predict whether his own body would betray him from one day to the next, and worse still was the humiliating awareness that half the time the calculations failed him anyway.
A few weeks ago, you had caught him sitting far too long at the kitchen table, quietly trying to plan the coming days around a stack of apothecary receipts and potion ingredients, and had teased him for treating something as simple as rest like a timetable. (“Remus, you don’t have to schedule everything like it’s an exam revision plan,” you had said, smiling as you leaned over his shoulder. “Merlin’s tits, do Muggles seriously plan their entire lives like a to-do list?”)
Remus had laughed along with you at the time, forcing out some amused remark while something ugly twisted sharply in his chest. You would never have to think about these things. You would never understand what it was like to ration your own life in increments because one missed recovery day meant everything else unravelled after it; because agreeing to see someone meant paying for it in pain later, because even rest itself had to be carefully budgeted or it stopped working at all.
Still, he had memorised every detail listed there anyway. He added all of it into the endless equation running through his head every waking moment now.
How badly will it hurt tomorrow?
It never truly helped, but the illusion of preparation gave him something dangerously close to control, even if that control was entirely fabricated.
The bedroom door suddenly swung open before he could stop crying properly, and you stepped inside still talking before you even looked at him.
“I swear the washing machine has a personal vendetta against me,” you rambled distractedly. “It ruined my dress completely, the threads along the sleeves are all coming apart and now I’ve nothing to wear tonight unless I—”
You stop abruptly once you notice him standing there.
Your eyes flicker from his tear stained face down toward the sweater clenched tightly in his hands, the old knit fabric stretched a little too tightly now across his frame.
“Oh,” you say quietly, immediately gentler. “Love, if it’s too uncomfortable I can charm it a little looser for you.”
And somehow, pathetically, that tiny act of kindness became the final thing that shattered him completely.
Remus broke apart with a noise so wounded it frightened even himself, sobs tearing violently out of his chest as he bent forward, one shaking hand pressed hard against his mouth as though trying to physically force the sound back down.
You were beside him instantly. “Oh, love, hey, hey, what’s wrong?” you murmur frantically, hands cupping his face before moving to steady his shaking shoulders. “Breathe for me, sweetheart. Remus, breathe. What happened?”
He could not answer.
“Remus, listen to me,” you continued gently, clearly trying to piece together what had upset him so badly. “Y’know it’s normal to gain a little weight in your thirties, right? You’re fine, really, the sweater probably just shrunk a little in the wash and—”
That only made him cry harder.
Because he was not crying over the extra weight.
God, he wished it were only that.
He wished this entire breakdown could be explained away by something as ordinary and fixable as weight gain or tiredness or stress from work. He wished he could simply laugh weakly and let you reassure him and move on from it like any normal person would.
Instead, the tears kept falling harder and harder no matter how much he tried to stop them, humiliation curling painfully in his chest because he knew you still did not understand what he was actually grieving.
Everything hurt.
It all hurt so much.
Remus had spent his entire life in pain in one form or another, but there had once been spaces between it. Small mercies; periods where recovery felt possible, where he could almost pretend the transformations had not left permanent damage behind each time they tore through him.
Lately, though, it felt as though those spaces had disappeared entirely. The pain no longer arrived only with the full moon. It threaded itself through ordinary moments until even standing at the kitchen counter making tea could leave his back aching badly enough that he needed to sit down halfway through.
And the worst part was how normal it had all started becoming.
Remus could no longer remember the last time he had experienced a day completely untouched by discomfort. There was only manageable pain and unbearable pain now, and lately the line separating the two had begun narrowing in ways that frightened him.
It was exhausting living like that.
Exhausting having to calculate every outing, every chore, every responsibility against how much pain it would cost him afterward. Exhausting pretending he was coping better than he truly was because the alternative meant watching concern settle into everyone’s faces all over again. Exhausting knowing his condition was getting worse while everyone around him still spoke about it as though recovery remained possible if he simply rested enough or took the right potion or waited for things to improve.
Things were not improving.
That was the part he could no longer force himself to ignore.
The wolf was destroying him slowly, and Remus had become painfully aware of it in ways he could not explain aloud without terrifying both of you.
A selfish part of him wanted everything to simply stop for a little while so he could finally rest, properly rest, without having to calculate and ration and recover endlessly. He wanted to wake up without immediately assessing what hurt that morning. He wanted enough energy to finish the mountain of unfinished work piling up around him. He wanted to be the person everyone around him believed he still was.
And somewhere beneath the panic clawing viciously through him, Remus knew some of this was simply the panic attack dragging him downward into its familiar spiral of despair.
Remus just wanted to be gone, whether that meant dying or disappearing or simply ceasing to exist for a little while. Anything, anything, so long as he no longer had to feel this way anymore.
Your voice continues drifting toward him through the panic, gentle and grounding and desperately trying to pull him back, though for several horrible moments it does not seem to reach him at all.
Remus can still barely breathe properly, his chest tightening painfully as tears continue spilling down his face no matter how hard he tries to stop them. The room around him feels distant and warped at the edges, every thought inside his head collapsing into noise until suddenly your hands are cradling his face firmly enough to force his attention back onto you.
“Remus,” you whisper shakily, your thumbs brushing beneath his eyes. “Look at me, love. Please look at me.”
And he does.
The second your arms pull him against your chest, something inside him completely breaks apart.
A sob tears out of him so violently it frightens even himself. The sound is rough and wounded and horribly animalistic in a way that makes humiliation immediately claw through him afterward because it does not sound human anymore.
He can feel the way his breathing keeps hitching uncontrollably against you while you hold him tighter instead of recoiling, your hand moving shakily through his hair while you whisper soft reassurances against his temple.
“What’s wrong?” you ask quietly. “Remus, talk to me.”
For a few seconds all he can do is cry harder.
Then eventually, brokenly, he whispers, “I can’t do this anymore.”
You pull back just enough to look at him properly, immediate concern flashing across your face as you rush to reassure him.
“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “We don’t have to go see Harry and Draco tomorrow, love, it’s alright. I’m sure they’ll understand if you’re not feeling well enough—”
Remus shakes his head almost desperately before another sob catches painfully in his throat.
“No,” he chokes out. “No, it’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
His hands shake violently where they clutch weakly at your sleeves.
“I just can’t do this anymore,” he cries. “All of this, I can’t—I can’t keep—”
The realisation slowly drains the colour from your face. Remus watches the exact moment you understand what he actually means.
Without a word, you carefully lower both of you onto the floor until you are sitting together against the side of the bed, Remus half collapsed against your chest while he struggles to breathe through the sobs still wracking through him. Your arms remain wrapped tightly around him, one hand gripping his almost desperately now as though you are frightened he might disappear if you let go.
“It’s gotten worse,” he finally admits through broken breaths. “So much worse.”
You stay silent, letting him speak.
“It hurts every day now,” he whispers. “Every second. I wake up hurting and I go to sleep hurting and sometimes it feels like my body never recovers properly anymore.” His breathing stutters unevenly. “The transformations are worse and recovery takes longer and the pain doesn’t leave afterward like it used to. I thought it would pass, I thought maybe I was just exhausted or stressed or getting older but it just keeps getting worse.”
Tears continue slipping down his face faster than he can wipe them away.
“My knees hurt all the time now,” he admits shakily, the confession sounding pathetic enough to make him hate himself for it. “My hips ache after every full moon for days afterward and sometimes my hands shake so badly I can barely hold things properly and I’m so tired all the time.”
A horrible, humourless laugh breaks weakly through another sob. “I keep trying to adjust to it and then it gets worse again and I have to learn how to live in my body all over again because this keeps becoming my new normal and I don’t know how much worse it’s going to get.”
By the end of it, he can barely get the words out at all.
Your own tears have begun falling quietly somewhere during his rambling, though you continue holding him through all of it, your thumb rubbing shakily across the back of his hand while he cries into your shoulder.
“Love,” you whisper brokenly once he finally falls silent. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Remus squeezes his eyes shut.
“I knew something was wrong,” you continue softly through your own tears. “I’m not a bloody fool, Remus. You’ve been shutting me out for months and refusing to tell me what was happening and I kept thinking maybe I was doing something wrong somehow, but you could’ve told me.” Your voice cracks painfully. “I would’ve been there for you.”
“I didn’t want to burden you,” he mumbles weakly. “Didn’t want to ruin whatever image you still had of me. At least the half decent one.”
You lean forward carefully and press a soft kiss against his damp cheek before resting your forehead against his.
“Remus,” you whisper, “I love you. Not whatever version of your body you think you’re supposed to be.” Your fingers intertwine more tightly with his. “Bodies change, love. Mine has changed too. That doesn’t make you harder to love.”
Remus cries quietly for a long while after that.
When the two of you finally crawl into bed later that night, his hips still ache, his knees still throb painfully beneath the blankets, and every joint in his body still feels bruised and raw from years of damage that no longer heals cleanly.
The pain has not disappeared.
Neither has the fear.
Though for the first time in months, the ache inside his chest feels just a little less unbearable than before.
─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───
And as it turns out, the road toward being okay is a tumultuous one, painfully non linear in all the most ordinary ways.
It takes time for Remus to learn how to ask for help when he needs it instead of silently enduring until he reaches a breaking point. It takes time for you to learn not to immediately offer help every time you think he might need it, because sometimes the loss of independence stings worse than the pain itself.
Most of all, it takes time for the both of you to learn each other all over again, for you to recognise the moments where he does need help even when exhaustion leaves him too tired or ashamed to verbally ask for it.
Eight months later, the two of you have fallen into something that cannot quite be called easier, though it is no longer as unbearable as it once was either. The pain still exists. Remus still has bad days where getting out of bed feels impossible, and the full moons still leave him aching for days afterward in ways neither of you can truly fix.
There are still moments where frustration gets the better of him, where pain and humiliation twist together until they come out harsher than intended.
(“I can do it myself,” Remus had snapped once while trying to stand from the sofa after a particularly bad full moon, exhaustion making his hands shake with the effort. “I’m not a fucking toddler.”)
Other times, though, there are moments that would have once been unimaginable to him, moments where he finally lets himself ask for help.
(“Can you help me up?” he had whispered one winter morning after his knees locked painfully beneath him halfway down the stairs, his voice thick with embarrassment. “Please. I just… I can’t do it right now.”)
And there are some rare times where Remus had stopped pretending he was fine when he clearly was not, and you had stopped trying to fix every part of his pain, understanding now that sometimes all he needed was someone willing to sit beside him through it. It did not make the lycanthropy easier, nor did it stop him from getting worse, but somehow carrying it together made it easier for Remus to survive.
Slowly, very fucking slowly at that, Remus begins pulling himself out from beneath all the burdens that have haunted him for years. Not perfectly and not all at once, but enough that he starts noticing the difference in small moments before he notices it anywhere else.
He begins accepting what has happened to him and what continues happening to him in this painfully mundane life of his.
Because that is the thing about chronic suffering in the end. Most of it is not a cycle of great torture. It exists in ordinary moments. In aching joints while making tea. In needing help buttoning a shirt after a difficult transformation because his fingers hurt too badly to cooperate. In learning how to build a life around pain without allowing pain to become the only thing life contains.
More often now, Remus finds himself staring at the photographs scattered throughout your shared home, though the feeling they stir in him has changed. Once they had filled him with grief for everything he had lost and guilt for all the times he had wanted to surrender beneath the weight of it.
Now they bring peace, or something close enough to it.
The memories of everyone he has loved and lost no longer feel solely painful. James and Lily smiling brightly from moving photographs, Sirius finally free and laughing so hard during Sunday tea that he nearly spills his drink across the table, even Peter lingering painfully at the edges of memory despite everything that happened; all of them remind Remus that his life has contained something meaningful enough to grieve in the first place.
It is bittersweet in a way he suspects life often is.
The glass is not entirely full, nor entirely empty either, and for the first time in years Remus finds himself capable of accepting that perhaps it does not need to be one or the other.
He has come a long way from the quiet, scrawny twelve year old boy crying in Madam Pomfrey’s office after full moons because he could not understand why this had happened to him.
He is no longer the twenty one year old standing shell shocked at James and Lily’s funeral believing he had lost all three of his best friends in a single night.
He is no longer the twenty five year old convinced he was ruining your life simply by remaining in it.
He is not that thirty eight year old lying awake wishing he could die just so the pain would stop for a little while.
Now, Remus finds solace in the people who remain.
In meeting Minerva every once in a while and sharing grief neither of them ever fully learned to put down.
In listening to Luna ramble happily about all her strange adventures across both the wizarding and muggle world with the sort of sincerity only Luna could possess.
In sharing tea with Tonks while she animatedly complains about work and laughs halfway through her own stories.
In watching Harry build a bright, beautiful life for himself despite everything that should have destroyed him.
In accepting Draco slowly and reluctantly at first before eventually recognising the great devotion with which he loves Harry.
Most of all, Remus finds comfort in you.
In your patience. Your stubbornness. Your quiet insistence on loving him through every ugly complicated part of being alive.
And these days, when Remus looks around the home the two of you built together, his chest no longer twists with guilt alone.
Now it twists with gratitude—because somehow, impossibly, he found a group of people so deeply convinced he was lovable and worthy of care that they spoon fed the belief into him for years until eventually, one day, he finally learned how to feed himself.
And it is at that point, almost two years later, that Remus realises this had been the point all along.
Not on some grand life changing day either, nor during one of the dramatic moments he once believed revelations were meant to arrive within.
The understanding comes to him quietly on an ordinary evening while he lays stretched across the sofa with your legs tangled absentmindedly with his own, watching you knit some sort of ridiculous mug warmer for his tea that he already knows he will treasure for the rest of his life simply because you made it.
You continue rambling softly about his upcoming birthday, asking what sort of gift he might want this year despite Remus insisting repeatedly that he truly does not need anything.
“It doesn’t have to be something big,” you tell him while counting stitches distractedly. “I just want it to be something you’ll actually like.”
“I’ll like whatever you get me.”
“That is not helpful at all.”
A smile tugs faintly at his mouth despite himself.
“You made me that scarf three years ago and I still wear it constantly,” he points out lazily.
“That scarf is falling apart.”
“And yet I continue wearing it.”
You laugh softly at that before finally looking up at him properly, and the expression on your face nearly undoes him where he lays.
Because your eyes are so unbearably full of love that it feels as though the feeling itself might spill over and drown him entirely if he stares too long.
You look at him with such uncomplicated affection, such complete certainty, that sometimes Remus still struggles understanding how a person like you can exist at all. It is as though you carry some endless bright thing within yourself and insist upon turning it toward every monstrous, complicated, ugly part of him until even he cannot help but stand inside its warmth eventually.
And unexpectedly, his ribs twist painfully around his lungs, though not with the familiar agony of transformation. This ache arrives differently, softer and deeper all at once, and the realisation settles over him so suddenly it nearly steals the breath from his chest.
Just like his ribs twist and split beneath the full moon to form something monstrous, they twist for you too.
Just like his heart clenches in pain, it also clenches whenever he looks at you.
The feeling is not the same, and somehow it is exactly the same.
Because the wolf is made from his flesh and bones no matter how much he despises it, and love is too. The worst parts of him and the best parts of him come from the very same place. They exist within the same body, beneath the same battered ribs that have endured both agony and tenderness so profound it frightens him sometimes.
It reminds him suddenly of Eve being created from Adam’s ribs, of love itself being born from flesh rather than separate from it.
And perhaps that is what finally frees him; the thing he has hated most throughout his entire life is made from the very same parts of him capable of love.
The same ribs.
The same heart.
The same body.
For years Remus believed the wolf had made him fundamentally unworthy of being loved properly, as though suffering and monstrosity somehow cancelled out tenderness. Yet here you are beside him still, years later, knitting ugly little mug warmers and arguing with him over birthday presents and looking at him with enough love to make his chest ache from carrying it.
And so, Remus accepts it.
All of it.
He accepts the wolf even as he continues hating the pain it causes him every month. He accepts the scars carved into his body and the exhaustion that still follows difficult transformations. He accepts the strange fragile joy of being loved so thoroughly despite all the parts of himself he once believed impossible to live beside.
Most importantly of all, he accepts himself.
Remus feels almost foolish for only now stumbling upon something human beings seem to have instinctively known since the beginning of time: that accepting the love you are given requires accepting yourself enough to believe you deserve to receive it in the first place. That fear has a way of blinding people not only from happiness, but from recognising love even when it sits directly before them. That the entire point of loving another person is to allow yourself to be loved in return despite how frightening and vulnerable and immeasurable that exchange truly is.
Slowly, Remus reaches for you.
You pause your knitting immediately when he tilts your chin upward gently before leaning down to press a soft kiss against your lips. The expression you wear afterward is so fond it almost makes him laugh.
“I love you,” he whispers quietly.
You smile instantly, warmly, beautifully, as though hearing those words from him will never become ordinary no matter how many years pass between you.
“I love you too,” you whisper back with such overwhelming sincerity that he feels his chest tighten all over again.
His ribs contract once more beneath the feeling, though this time it is not from pain.
And although Remus knows they will ache again soon enough because of the wolf, knows another full moon will eventually arrive as it always does, he finds himself breathing through the feeling instead of fearing it.
His ribs are constant reminders of every pain he has endured, of every person he has loved, and of every ounce of love somehow returned back into his hands despite everything he once believed made him unworthy of receiving it. They ache with old grief and survival alike, though somewhere within that ache lives the proof that he was loved through all of it anyway.
Remus Lupin has lived a hard, complicated, painfully ordinary life.
Though for the first time in a very long while, when he looks at it now, he realises it has also been a life filled with love.
And finally, after all these years, he wants to keep living it.
─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───
a/n: pheww this was so fun to write, i love writing angst and that includes making remus suffer. this fic is so, so special to me <3 some scenes were inspired by an ao3 fic i read a few months ago but i cannot find the @, i just remember it had the name rachel, so if u find it lmk please :))
I know you said you aren't planning on continuing The Nightingale but would you be open to passing it off to a friend or ghostwriter? Its genuinely a masterpiece and the lack of reunion is breaking my heart. Sorry I don't mean to pressure I just adored every second T-T -🌧️
honestly, i’m not really sure i would? 😭 i mean, the story is currently on hiatus, but i wouldn’t say it’s discontinued, so… never say never. i’m also not very proud of it as it is now because there are so many things i’d want to go back and edit, and a lot of it was written a long time ago with the help of someone i’m no longer in contact with
so overall, i don't really know. i don't have a friend i could hand it off to, and i don't want to delete it in case i ever decide to come back to it someday. and honestly, no one has ever reached out to me about taking it over anyway. i also don't really know how ghostwriters work, so maybe? if someone ever seriously contacted me about taking the story and continuing it, i think i'd at least be open to hearing them out
thank you again, and i'm sorry about that reunion never happening—especially on a cliffhanger :(💗
Hello there! uhm i just found you blog recently, and may i just say that i'm chronically obsessed with the way you write!!!!!!! i haven't gone through nearly all of your works but i've just been reading, rereading your marauders (solo or otherwise) works and i thought i should let you know how much your writing has given me comfort on my bad days. your writing feels like a warm hug on a rainy day. i should probably come up with something better than that but that's the best i could simplify it to. if you ever have any doubts about your writing style, please be kinder to yourself and remember this, you've brought me, a stranger to you, a very much needed hug through your immaculate storylines, your works. and that is the best thing one could ever do.
I’m sorry if it's a tad dramatic and/ oremotional, but i just thought you should know if this, and it also felt right for me to send you this, maybe to make your day a little better too YOU'RE THE BEST XOXO❤️
this is not dramatic at all 🥹💗 this is genuinely one of the kindest messages i’ve ever received, thank you so much for taking the time to write this!!
i can’t even properly articulate how much it means to me to know that my writing has been something comforting for someone on their bad days, because that is genuinely the entire reason i choose to share my work in the first place. i could easily keep everything private and just write for myself, but i choose to put it out into the world anyway, hoping that it might reach someone in a moment where they need it most
so to hear that it has done that, even for one person, makes the whole process feel incredibly meaningful in a way I genuinely struggle to put into words
and please don’t worry about how you phrased it, it came across perfectly. i really appreciate you telling me this, especially when it’s so easy to just read and move on, so thank you for choosing to say something instead <3
messages like this are exactly what keep me writing on days where i doubt myself, so i’m really grateful 💗 sending you the biggest, warmest hug wherever you are :)
hii i hope you’re doing well. i hope everything going on with your family and sister have been okay. you guys are always in my thoughts. wishing you the best💗💗
hii, thank you so much for your message, it really means a lot ❤️🩹 things are still the same with my sister, there hasn’t been any new changes. she’s still in a coma, but she’s stable. the hospital is planning on discharging her in less than a week, which has been really nerve-wracking for us since we’re trying to sort out aids for home care and apply to charities for rehab centres
as for me, i’m handling everything as best as i can. i’ve been going to therapy consistently and trying to stay grounded by keeping myself busy with writing and taking care of myself day by day. your message honestly was so sweet and touching, so thank you for thinking of us :) i hope you’re doing amazing, anon 🫂
I HAVE A 2WYUESTION!! since you write a lot of poly!marauders, do you sometimes unintentionally almost write poly stuff when writing for thgem individually???
(also i read your mafia au and its beautiful, your writing deserves to be framed)
hii!! okay first of all thank you so much, that’s really sweet of you to say about the mafia au 💗
and honestly no, not really ? i don’t find myself accidentally slipping into poly dynamics when i’m writing them individually. it’s actually kind of the opposite for me. i find writing poly marauders pretty challenging sometimes because there’s three love interests plus reader, and in a one-shot (especially around 2k–3k words) it gets really tricky to give each of them enough space, dialogue, and a clear role without it feeling rushed or forced
that’s probably why i personally find it easier to write poly ships with just two love interests, like poly jegulus or poly wolfstar, since it feels more balanced and easier to give everyone proper focus and chemistry without overcrowding the scene
but yeah, never really had the issue of them blending into each other while writing individually, they stay pretty separate in my head when i’m building scenes. thanks for the question, it was a fun one to answer ;))
I am absolutely obsessed with this series and can't wait for the next update! Quick question: I love making my own characters for reader-inserts, so I'm curious; how do you personally picture Princess Y/N looking? What about the OCs (Alaric, Cassian, Elias) and James? And if she had a canon name instead of Y/N, what would it be? Sending you so much love, your writing is amazing! 💕
omg i actually LOVEEE this question so much. thank you for being so invested in the story and the characters!!
first of all, just a heads up: feel completely free to imagine the characters however you’d like!! that’s one of my favorite things about reading, and i love seeing how differently everyone pictures the same story. these are just the appearances i personally have in mind while writing
king edmund - rufus sewell
this is almost exactly how i picture him. regal, commanding, intimidating when he wants to be, but still carrying warmth beneath the surface.
queen helena - tabu
queen helena comes from a completely different kingdom (which we’ll learn more about later 👀), and i’ve always imagined her looking something like tabu. elegant, striking, incredibly intelligent, and the sort of beauty that feels so timeless
prince alaric - fai khadra
alaric takes heavily after his mother’s side. he’s tall, broad-shouldered, and has a deep olive complexion with a very powerful presence. he gives me arab shawn mendes vibes
prince cassian - fernando líndez
cassian definitely inherited more of his father’s features. fairer skin, sharp features, and unfortunately for everyone around him, he’s ridiculously handsome. in my head, he’s the brother who has absolutely no idea how much chaos he causes simply by existing and being handsome ;))
prince elias - this random gorgeous pinterest faceclaim that i cannot identify
i genuinely don’t have a celebrity fancast for elias except this dude 😭 i’ve always pictured him to have long dark curls, softer features than his brothers, and an extremely beautiful smile :)
princess y/n — deva cassel
y/n resembles her father the most, which is why she and cassian look so alike. she has that same fairer complexion and refined features, but inherited her mother’s dark eyes and dark hair. if she wasn’t a reader insert, i’ve always secretly thought the name solène would suit her <3
james potter — marlon teixeira
and finally, james. i have never been able to picture him as anyone else while writing this story (plus the glasses). messy dark hair, a warm sun-kissed complexion, and of course a subtle flynn rider inspired beard!!compared to all the polished palace royalty, he stands out immediately
-
thank you so much for the ask, love!! i genuinely adore hearing how everyone pictures the characters because every reader seems to have a completely different version in their head and i think that’s so fun 🥹💞
series summary: James Potter, a soldier of the royal guard, is assigned to protect the princess at all costs. His new duty proves far harder than he imagined, for the princess has a habit of doing exactly what she’s not supposed to, and hiding a secret no one must uncover.
chapter summary: On the day of the royal procession, your plan with James to slip away succeeds, allowing you a moment of freedom. What begins as an escape becomes something larger as you reconnect with people you’ve longed to see again and encounter new faces whose lives change after crossing paths with you. (10.1k)
tags: running away from a parade, use of magic, depiction of a blind child with visual impairment, themes of control and being controlled as a child, references to loneliness and emotional neglect, mentions of familial arguments, mentions of arranged marriage.
series masterlist playlist moodboard
“The gates are opening in two minutes.”
The announcement cuts through the noise surrounding you, sharp enough to make your stomach tighten instantly.
Around you, the entire palace entrance moves frantically; guards shift into formation along the staircase, servants rush to clear the final arrangements from the courtyard, and somewhere beyond the enormous gold-lined gates, the sound of the crowd grows louder and louder by the second.
You stand at the top of the palace steps beside the royal carriage, sunlight flashing against the jewels at your throat while horns echo across the capital below.
Even with the gates still closed, you can hear the kingdom chanting your name beyond them, thousands of voices rising together until the sound rolls through the palace grounds.
Your mother smooths a crease from the sleeve of your gown before stepping back to inspect you one final time. “Stand straighter,” she says. “You look nervous.”
You let out a small laugh. “Well, that’s because I am nervous. There are thousands of people waiting beyond those gates, Mother. I feel like that’s a fairly reasonable reaction.”
Helena’s gaze remains fixed on you. “You have attended this parade every year of your life.”
“Yes,” you reply sarcastically, “and every year there are still thousands of people, Mother.”
Before she can answer, your father clears his throat. “Helena,” he says, a touch more gently. “Be easy on her.”
She glances toward him. “I’m simply reminding her of her responsibilities.”
“And she’s aware of them,” The King says. “I don’t believe our daughter has forgotten she’s a princess in the last five minutes.”
A faint smile tugs at his mouth before he turns to you. “Nervous is normal,” he says. “Anyone would be, sweetheart.”
The tension in your shoulders eases slightly at that. “Thank you.”
“Though,” he adds, looking pointedly toward the crowd beyond the gates, “I imagine half the kingdom is more nervous about meeting you than you are about meeting them.”
“That seems unlikely.” you mumble out.
“Trust me,” your father replies. “You’ve become rather popular.”
You groan. “See? That’s exactly the sort of thing that makes me nervous.”
Alaric’s mouth twitches with poorly concealed amusement. “At least someone in this family is honest about it,” he mutters.
You shoot him a look. “Thank you for your support.”
The captain of the guard steps forward before any banters can continue on. “Your Majesties,” he says with a bow. “The kingdom is ready.”
The entire kingdom has spent weeks preparing for this parade. For your birthday, and for the celebration that will end, by tomorrow morning, with the formal announcement of your engagement.
Your last parade as only a princess of Valenora.
A movement further back along the palace steps catches your attention and, before you can stop yourself, your gaze finds James standing among the royal guards.
His uniform is immaculate, dark fabric edged with gold catching beneath the morning sun. To anyone else he looks exactly as he should: composed, attentive, every inch the professional guard assigned to protect the royal family. Only you know he’s counting down the minutes just as much as you are.
Your eyes meet across the distance. For a moment neither of you looks away.
There can’t be more than thirty seconds left now.
Thirty seconds until your carefully constructed plan either succeeds brilliantly or collapses into the worst decision you’ve ever made.
The thought should make you nervous. Instead, James gives the slightest tilt of his head toward the gates below, a gesture so small nobody else would notice it. It isn’t much, barely even a movement at all, but somehow you understand exactly what he’s trying to say; breathe.
Before you can dwell on it any longer, the horns sound again, louder this time, their notes carrying across the courtyard and over the city beyond.
A ripple moves through the gathered crowd.
Then the palace gates begin to open, as the crowd erupts into cheers.
The sound crashes through the courtyard with enough force that you feel it beneath your ribs, thousands upon thousands of voices joining together until individual words become impossible to distinguish.
All that remains is noise, affection, excitement, expectation. An entire kingdom waiting for a glimpse of the people who rule it.
Above the gates, stretched across the great balcony overlooking the palace grounds, your family already stands waiting.
Your father looks every bit the king the crowd expects him to be, commanding without appearing severe, dressed in black and gold embroidered with the crest of Valenora.
Beside him, your mother stands with the same effortless perfection she carries everywhere, one gloved hand resting lightly against the stone railing as though she hadn’t spent the morning reminding you exactly what was expected of you.
Alaric is the only one who changes when he sees you. His expression softens almost immediately, concern flickering across his face.
Across the courtyard, his gaze briefly finds yours. You alright?
The question is written so clearly across his face that you almost laugh. You offer the smallest nod.
A second later your father steps forward and the crowd begins to quiet. The transformation is remarkable every time you witness it. Thousands of people fall silent not because they’re ordered to, but because they want to hear him speak. Your father has always possessed that rare quality some rulers spend their entire lives chasing and never find: people trust him.
When he finally speaks, his voice carries easily across the courtyard. “Today we celebrate many things. We celebrate another year of peace within our borders, another year of prosperity for our people, and another year of strength for the kingdom we have built together.”
Cheers rise from the crowd before settling again. “But above all else,” he continues, and you feel an uncomfortable suspicion begin forming immediately, “today we celebrate my daughter.”
The cheering grows even louder. Your father smiles. “Many of you have watched her grow from a child into the young woman she is today. You know her as your princess, but I have had the privilege of knowing her as something else first.”
“Since the day she was born, she has possessed a kindness that cannot be taught, a generosity that asks for nothing in return, and a stubbornness,” he adds, glancing briefly in your direction, “that has tested the patience of nearly everyone who has ever met her.”
Laughter rolls through the crowd. “But it is that same stubbornness that has taught her to stand firm in what she believes, to care deeply for those around her, and to serve this kingdom with a compassion that makes me proud every day to call her my daughter.”
You lower your gaze, pretending to focus on smoothing your skirts rather than acknowledging the sudden warmth creeping into your face. King Edmund continues speaking after that, shifting naturally into discussions of tradition, unity, the future of Valenora, and the responsibilities shared between crown and kingdom. The words become familiar territory again, practiced enough that you can almost predict each sentence before he says it.
He finally finishes to roaring applause, and almost immediately the palace gates begin to open. The noise waiting beyond them swells at once, louder and brighter than before.
An attendant steps forward to open the carriage door and you climb inside, smoothing your hands over your skirts as the procession begins to move.
The moment the wheels start turning, the capital seems to come alive around you. Flower petals scatter across the stone streets beneath the horses’ hooves, children push eagerly through the crowds to wave as you pass, and merchants emerge from their shops to cheer alongside everyone else.
Above it all, banners in royal colours hang between the buildings, snapping and fluttering in the warm afternoon breeze.
And for the first time all day, your chest loosens. because you’re finally outside. Outside the suffocating walls of the palace.
James walks alongside the carriage with the other guards, close enough that you can spot him easily whenever you glance toward the streets below. Every so often his gaze flicks upward toward you briefly before returning to the crowd again, still alert even now.
By the time the procession reaches the lower half of the capital, the crowds have only grown thicker.
The main carriage continues forward at an easy pace, guards riding alongside it while people spill into the streets in waves of colour and noise. Somewhere behind you, musicians are still playing loud enough for the sound to echo between the buildings, though it’s half drowned out now by cheering and conversation and children trying to push closer for a better look.
Your brothers, thankfully, are nowhere near any of it.
Cassian and Elias had remained behind at the palace under strict orders to help receive the noble families arriving throughout the afternoon, which, knowing both of them, probably meant Elias was making the servants miserable while Cassian charmed his way out of doing any actual work.
Inside the carriage now, it’s mostly quiet except for the occasional exchange between guards outside and the constant sound of the city moving around you. James stays close to the carriage even while walking beside it, never far enough that you lose sight of him whenever you glance out.
And then, finally, the procession comes to a stop. The moment the carriage stills, several guards immediately move into position around it.
James is already there before the carriage door is fully opened. He offers you his hand without hesitation, and the moment your feet touch the ground, the reality of it hits you all at once.
For the first time in years, there are no carriage walls between you and the city.
You turn slowly, taking in the crowded streets, the rows of shopfronts draped in royal colours, the people packed shoulder to shoulder along the route, and something bright and giddy rushes through you so quickly that you can barely contain it.
A laugh escapes before you can stop it.
For years you’ve watched the parade from behind carriage windows and palace balconies. You’ve watched people laughing in the streets below, watched children weaving through crowds, watched musicians and merchants and performers move through the city as though it belonged to them.
Now you’re standing in the middle of it. “Oh my God,” you whisper, turning slowly as your gaze jumps from one thing to the next. “James, look at this.”
Everywhere you turn there is something new to see. Flower petals cover the stones beneath your feet, music drifts through the air from somewhere further down the route, and people are packed shoulder-to-shoulder along the streets, cheering and waving banners in the royal colours.
You take a step forward instinctively, already starting toward the nearest stall. Immediately, James catches your wrist. “Not yet,” he murmurs, leaning slightly closer so only you can hear. “If you disappear before we’ve even left the carriage, I’m never hearing the end of it from the guards.”
You open your mouth to argue. Unfortunately, that’s the exact moment one of the accompanying guards notices what’s happening.
The guard is already hurrying toward you, looking seconds away from a complete breakdown. “Sir Potter, the princess is meant to remain with the procession!”
James doesn’t even glance at him at first. His attention stays on adjusting the cuff around his wrist before he answers casually, “And she will.”
The guard hesitates. “That is not within the established parade route.”
“I’m aware of the route,” he says evenly. “I helped secure it.”
The guard shifts slightly beneath the stare. “Then with respect, sir, I do not understand why Her Highness is leaving the carriage.”
James steps a little closer before answering, lowering his voice just enough that it forces the others to lean in and listen. “Because His Majesty trusts me with her safety,” he says simply. “And because we’re walking fifty feet down a road that was searched twice this morning, secured since sunrise, and currently contains more royal guards than civilians. I promise you she’ll be okay.”
Another guard speaks before the first can stop him. “But that was never approved—”
James cuts him off cleanly. “Fortunately, that’s my problem not yours. If something goes wrong, you can put it in your report, hand it directly to the king, and tell him I ignored your excellent advice.”
The man opens his mouth again, clearly debating whether or not to push further. James tilts his head slightly. “Would you like to explain to the king later that you created a public scene in the middle of his daughter’s birthday parade?”
That shuts him up immediately. James smiles pleasantly, “Thank you.”
He nods once the matter is settled, then turns back toward you. “Try not to run away,” he mutters.
You’re barely listening. “This is the best day of my life,” you say again, almost laughing as you turn toward James. “I’m actually outside.”
James laughs, shaking his head as he starts leading you away from the carriage before the guards can recover enough courage to protest again. “Careful,” he says dryly. “What happened to all that terrifying royal etiquette training Lady McGonagall spent years drilling into your head?”
You grin so brightly it almost hurts your face. “Dead. Completely dead.”
“I can tell.”
“No, James, you don’t understand,” you say, already walking backwards for a second because you physically cannot stop looking around. “This is going to be the best three hours of my life.”
“Hour,” he immediately corrects from behind you.
You ignore him entirely. “Three.”
James groans softly. “Princess—”
“Three.”
You laugh and continue forward into the center square beside him while people along the streets begin noticing your presence properly now that you’re no longer elevated behind carriage walls.
The further the two of you move from the main square, the easier it becomes to breathe. Not because the city grows quieter — if anything, it becomes louder the deeper into it you go — but because of all the new things you’re seeing.
The streets narrow slightly away from the parade route, crowded with little shops pressed shoulder to shoulder beneath hanging flower baskets and faded painted signs.
The air smells like warm bread, spices, smoke from nearby chimneys, and something sweet you can’t quite place. People still recognise you, of course. That part is unavoidable.
You’re in the middle of turning your head to look at a musician playing outside one of the taverns when something across the street catches your eye.
You stop so suddenly James almost walks into you. “James, look!”
James glances at you immediately. “What?”
You point across the street. “That’s your father’s restaurant, isn’t it?”
James follows your gaze and visibly freezes. Nestled between a tailor’s shop and a florist sits a warm little restaurant with wide windows glowing gold against the afternoon light. The painted sign above the entrance is slightly crooked, ivy curling around one side of it, and even from across the street you can see people moving around inside.
The moment you look back at James, he already knows exactly where this is going. “No.”
You tilt your head, completely unbothered by the warning in his tone. “Oh, please, can we go in?” you say, stepping a little closer as if that might help your case, “the guards surely won’t mind, they look like they’re mostly trying to pretend I don’t exist anyway, and besides, I really want to see Lady Euphemia.”
“Fine,” he says at last.
The second the word leaves his mouth, you’re already moving.
You cross the street with far too much purpose, James following close behind. The restaurant looks even warmer up close, the glow from inside spilling onto the pavement, voices and laughter faintly audible through the glass, and you don’t even hesitate before stepping up to the door and knocking twice
Behind you, there is a pause. “Did you just knock?”
You turn slightly, hand still hovering near the door handle. “Yes?”
“You don’t need to knock on public places, you know.” James says, like he’s genuinely trying to process the logic out loud. “It’s a restaurant. People just walk in.”
You blink at him, then glance back at the door as if reassessing reality itself. “So I can just… barge in?”
“Well…yes,” he says simply, stepping closer without thinking about it. “You can. That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do. The place is all yours.”
You stare at him for a second before crossing your arms. “So I can just go in and your mother won’t think I’m rude?”
At that, his expression softens as he holds the door open a little wider. “If anything,” he says, quieter now, “she’s been waiting years to meet you again properly, so I think the only person overthinking this is you.”
Shaking his head, James gestures for you to enter first.
The restaurant itself is smaller than you expected, though somehow it feels fuller for it. A couple sits near the windows sharing a meal while arguing over something that neither of them seems genuinely upset about, and a woman at another table is attempting to convince her young son to finish his vegetables while he negotiates with her.
For several wonderful seconds nobody notices you. That until the old man looks up.
His eyes widen so dramatically that even before he says anything, his wife follows his gaze, and the moment recognition dawns across her face she jerks upright. “Oh my god, Your Highness.”
Within moments half the room is trying to stand.
“No, no, please stay seated,” you say quickly, horrified by the effect you’re apparently having. “Really. You don’t need to get up. Please, continue enjoying your meals.”
Unfortunately that seems to make everyone even more nervous. James closes the door behind him and barely glances at the commotion.
“Relax everybody,” he says, sounding entirely unsurprised. “She’s here for a warm meal away from the palace, not to inspect the building.”
You smile at him before taking your seat near the corner table James pulls out for you.
The room is only beginning to settle again when the kitchen door swings open.
“James, if you’re here to cause trouble with Sirius, I swear to—”
The man emerging from the kitchen stops mid-sentence.
He’s still wearing an apron dusted lightly with flour, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark hair streaked slightly with grey near the temples. For one brief second his expression brightens automatically at the sight of his son.
“Oh, James, you’re here without Siri—”
Then his eyes land on you.
Everything after that happens very quickly. Fleamont Potter nearly drops the towel in his hands.
“Your Highness—”
Before you can even react, he’s already trying to bow. You stand immediately so fast your chair almost tips backward. “No, no, please don’t Sir—”
“I had no idea you’d be here,” he says quickly, visibly scrambling to recover while wiping his hands nervously against his apron. “Had I known, I would’ve prepared something proper, the front should’ve been cleaned again, James why didn’t you warn me—”
“I tried,” James says unhelpfully.
You can’t help laughing a little at the panic unfolding in real time. “I’m sorry for arriving unexpectedly,” you say quickly, still smiling. “I just saw the restaurant and wanted to come inside properly. James talks about it all the time.”
"Of course you're welcome here. Euphemia is going to be devastated she missed your arrival."
Your entire face brightens. "Lady Euphemia is here?" The question leaves your mouth so quickly that Fleamont looks momentarily caught off guard.
"Upstairs."
"Can I see her?" For a moment, both Potters simply stare at you. Then Fleamont lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head.
"Oh, she's going to adore you."
Despite your repeated attempts to convince him otherwise, Fleamont insists on treating your visit like an occasion. By the time you and James finally manage to sit down, menus have already appeared on the table, someone has been sent upstairs to fetch Euphemia, and Fleamont is still hovering nearby as though personally responsible for ensuring you have the perfect dining experience.
"You can have anything you'd like, Your Highness," he says, setting the menus down in front of you. "Absolutely anything."
"Please. There’s no need for the formalities and titles while I'm here," you reply immediately.
A laugh escapes him. "All right then. Anything you'd like."
You open the menu while James settles into the seat across from you with an ease. The difference is subtle, but impossible to miss once you see it. The constant vigilance remains, woven too deeply into him to disappear entirely, yet something about being here has softened the sharp edges of it. His shoulders are less tense, his expression less guarded. For the first time since leaving the palace, he looks entirely at home.
“What’s good?” you ask, glancing up from the menu.
James lets out a quiet laugh, leaning back in his chair as he glances at the page without much real effort, as if he already knows exactly what he’s going to say before you even asked. “Everything, honestly,” he replies, like that should somehow narrow your options instead of making them worse.
You narrow your eyes at him immediately. “That was completely unhelpful, James.”
His mouth twitches, finding that more amusing than insulting. “Alright, fine. If you actually want something good, get the caldo de pollo. That’s my personal favourite.”
You glance back down at the menu, then back at him. “What’s actually in it?”
“It's chicken soup, but not the boring kind. There’s chicken, rice, garlic, lime, vegetables, and a mix of herbs that my father gets exported.”
You hum softly at that, still studying the menu. “So it’s the signature dish?”
“Yeah,” he says without hesitation. “It’s the signature in the restaurant.”
That pulls your attention up again. “Did he always want to open a restaurant?”
James shifts slightly in his seat, expression changing. “Not really. At least not at first. In my family, the expectation was always the Valenoran army. It runs through generations on both sides, so that’s what he joined when he was younger. Same thing my grandfather did, and his father before that.”
You tilt your head slightly. “So how did he end up here instead?”
There’s a small pause before James answers, a faint smile appearing like he’s heard this story before and still finds it strange in the best way. “He got older, I guess. He said he spent most of his life talking about food whenever he was on leave, more than anything else. My mum says the restaurant was the first time he ever chose something just because he wanted it, not because he was supposed to do it.”
You glance briefly toward the kitchen, where Fleamont is moving between counters with easy confidence, clearly in his element. “He seems happy,” you say quietly.
“He is,” James replies immediately, like there’s no room for doubt in it at all.
You close the menu after a moment, making your decision. “Alright. I’ll have what you’re having.”
James looks at you for a second, mildly incredulous. “That’s not really a reason to order food, you know.”
“It’s the reason I’m using,” you say simply.
That earns the faintest laugh from him as he leans back again. “Yeah. I’m starting to notice a pattern with you.”
A beat passes before Fleamont claps his hands together from across the room. "Right. I'm going to get Euphemia before she finds out later that you're here and murders me for not telling her immediately."
The threat seems entirely genuine. A moment later, footsteps echo overhead, followed by the sound of a door opening upstairs.
The reaction is instantaneous. The second Euphemia Potter spots you from the landing, she gasps and presses a hand to her chest. "Oh, sweetheart—"
You're already on your feet before she reaches the bottom of the stairs.
The moment she's close enough, you throw your arms around her. Surprise stiffens her shoulders for the briefest second before she wraps her arms around you just as tightly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head as though she still can't quite believe you're standing in front of her.
She had probably expected something more appropriate, like a greeting or a curtsy.
Instead, you’re clutching her like you’ve finally reached home, because that’s what Euphemia feels like; home.
She had never felt like part of the palace to you. While everyone else seemed to belong to that world of endless rules, she’d always existed just outside of it.
When you were younger and your powers first began manifesting in ways nobody could predict, there were weeks when you barely left your rooms. The palace physicians came and went. Tutors were dismissed. Servants watched you with nervous eyes.
Euphemia never did.
She would appear in the evenings carrying contraband from the kitchens and settle beside your bed as though nothing had changed, talking about whatever happened to cross her mind that day until you stopped feeling like someone dangerous that people needed to keep contained.
When Alaric and Cassian decided you were too young to follow them around the training grounds, it had been Euphemia who sat beside you while you cried dramatically into her lap about the cruelty of your older brothers.
When Elias seemed effortlessly good at everything while you struggled through endless lessons and restrictions, it had been Euphemia wiping your tears and telling you that being gentle was not the same thing as being weak.
She had never spoken to you like a princess, only like someone worth loving. Even now, with her arms around you, some part of that feeling returns.
“Oh, look at you,” Euphemia murmurs the second she pulls back enough to properly see your face. Both her hands come up immediately, cupping your cheeks as her eyes soften with something dangerously close to tears. “The last time I saw you, you barely came up to my shoulder.”
You laugh, though your throat feels suspiciously tight. “I wasn’t that small.”
“You were.” Her thumb brushes across your cheek. “And now you’ve gone and become an entire young woman while I wasn’t looking.”
“It’s only been a few years.”
“Exactly,” Euphemia says, as though that proves her point. “A few years too long.”
She takes you in fully then, gaze moving over your gown, your crown, the soft curls pinned back from your face. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says again, sounding genuinely overwhelmed now. “You’re beautiful.”
Heat rises immediately into your cheeks. “Don’t start or I’ll cry again.”
“Again?” James repeats from the table.
You point at him accusingly. “Don’t.”
Euphemia immediately turns toward her son. “James Potter, what did you do?”
“Nothing,” he says, offended.
The answer rises to your tongue automatically, but before you can give it, your gaze drifts toward James out of pure instinct.
The mistake becomes apparent almost immediately.
He's already looking at you from across the room, one arm draped over the back of his chair, his attention fixed entirely on you with ease that catches you off guard. There isn't a trace of the usual sarcasm lurking at the corners of his mouth, nor the dry amusement he wears like armor whenever anyone gets too close to him. For once, he's not trying to hide behind anything at all, and the simple warmth in his expression hits with enough force that you find yourself glancing see away before you've fully processed it.
You suddenly become very interested in Euphemia. “He’s been…” You clear your throat slightly. “He’s been doing an adequate job.”
James scoffs from behind you. “That’s devastating considering I’ve prevented at least four disasters this week alone.”
“Only four?”
“See?” he says to his mother. “Completely unappreciated.”
Euphemia laughs before swatting his shoulder as she passes him. “Go help your father before he starts pretending he can manage everything alone again.”
James groans under his breath but still gets up, and you watch him move behind the counter toward the kitchens while Fleamont immediately starts talking at him like he isn’t already fully aware of where everything is, rolling his sleeves back in that familiar way that suggests this is something he’s done a hundred times before.
Something about the scene settles oddly in your chest.
Nothing about it feels staged or considered. There’s no awareness of being watched, no shift in behavior to match expectation, it’s just a family moving around each other with the kind of ease that comes from repetition and belonging, from knowing exactly where you fit without needing to be told.
You sink back into your chair slowly, letting yourself take the restaurant in properly while their voices blend together somewhere behind the kitchen doors.
The interior is beautiful.
Everything is wood and warmth and life. Paintings cover the walls in mismatched frames, some landscapes, some old portraits, some clearly done by friends rather than professionals. Dried herbs hang near the windows beside climbing ivy, and the late afternoon sunlight spilling through the glass turns the entire room gold.
Your attention drifts back toward the little boy from earlier, who is sitting alone at the table near the window while his mother stands outside speaking with an elderly woman.
His feet swing idly beneath the chair as he traces absent patterns across the wooden tabletop with his fingertips, seemingly content to entertain himself while he waits.
You watch him for a moment before realizing that he isn’t actually alone at all. Every few seconds his head turns slightly toward a nearby conversation, then toward the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, then toward the front door as somebody enters laughing. He seems to be mapping the entire room through sound alone.
The realization washes over you.
You had noticed his eyes earlier, of course, but only in passing. Now, from across the room, the clouded whiteness of his pupils becomes impossible to miss, and suddenly a dozen small things click into place all at once.
Without thinking too much about it, you push back your chair and make your way toward his table.
The moment you’re close enough, the boy’s head lifts. “Hello?” he says politely.
His voice is cautious but not frightened, carrying the practiced confidence of somebody accustomed to identifying strangers without ever seeing them.
You stop beside the table and offer him a small smile before remembering he cannot see it.
“Hi,” you say instead. “Would you mind if I sat with you for a minute?”
Surprise flashes briefly across his face, followed quickly by uncertainty, as if he’s deciding whether there’s a correct answer to give. “Oh. Um, no, that’s okay.”
You pull out the chair across from him and settle into it, noticing the way his fingers stay lightly curled around the edge of the table, not quite tense but constantly aware, like touch is how he keeps track of the world when sight won’t cooperate.
For a moment, neither of you speaks, the sounds of the restaurant filling the space between you in a way that feels oddly easy, unforced.
“What’s your name?” he asks after a while.
The question is simple, but it catches you slightly off guard anyway. Most people already know who you are before you ever say a word, which has made introductions feel like something that doesn’t really belong to you anymore.
“My name is Y/N.”
There’s a short pause before his expression shifts with recognition.
“Oh,” he says, a little brighter now. “You’re the princess.”
You almost smile at that.
“And you are?” you ask gently.
He straightens a little in his chair, like the question matters more than it should, and answers with quiet certainty, “Rowan.”
A small laugh escapes him before he shifts in his chair and adds, “My mum talks about you sometimes.”
That surprises you. “Hopefully nice things.”
“They are nice things.”
The answer comes so quickly and sincerely that your chest tightens.
Rowan reaches for the glass in front of him, finding it effortlessly without looking. “She says you helped pay for the new school roof after the storm.”
You blink in surprise since the project had happened years ago. You had barely thought about it since. “Oh.”
Rowan shrugs as though he doesn’t understand why you seem surprised. “People talk about that sort of thing.”
The conversation comes easier after that.
Children, you’ve always noticed, care very little for titles once they stop being intimidated by them. Within minutes he’s talking freely enough that you almost forget you met him less than five minutes ago.
He tells you about the stray cat that keeps sleeping outside his apartment despite technically belonging to someone else. He tells you his mother burns toast nearly every morning because she gets distracted while reading. He tells you he hates rainy weather because it makes the streets too slippery to walk confidently.
You find yourself smiling more with every sentence.
“And then Ma dropped the basket directly into the fountain,” Rowan says dramatically, hands moving as he talks. “Like fully into the water.”
You laugh. “No.”
“Yes! And then she tried to pretend she did it on purpose.”
“That sounds exactly like something my brother Cassian would do.”
“Does he also lie badly?”
“Terribly.”
Rowan beams at that. Then, after a moment, he says casually, “We might be leaving soon anyway.”
You tilt your head slightly. “Leaving?”
He nods. “To Solistia, maybe.” His fingers trace lightly against the edge of the cup in front of him while he speaks. “Ma heard there are healers there.”
Something in your expression must shift because his voice softens slightly after that.
“I’m sick,” he says with a little shrug, like it’s no big deal. “Or I was. I don’t really know anymore.”
You don’t interrupt, sensing that this is not the sort of story people often allow him to tell all the way through.
“I could see fine when I was really little,” he continues, his fingers moving in small circles on the tabletop. “Then stuff started getting blurry. Now I mostly just see light sometimes.”
The words land with a quiet heaviness that seems entirely lost on him. There is no bitterness in his voice, no self-pity, only the matter-of-fact acceptance of someone who has been carrying the same reality for so long that he no longer remembers what it felt like before.
“But there’s supposed to be a cure in Solistia,” he adds a moment later, sounding brighter. “That’s what my ma keeps saying.”
“A cure?” you ask softly.
Rowan nods immediately, hope lighting every part of his expression. “That’s what everyone says. People come from all over to see the healers there, and my ma thinks they might be able to help me too.”
For a brief moment, your gaze drops to your hands.
Healing.
The word settles somewhere deep inside your chest and refuses to leave.
Because you can heal him.
The certainty arrives instantly, as natural and undeniable as breathing. The moment you truly looked at him, you felt it; that familiar pull beneath your skin, that awareness that always appears in the presence of pain, illness, or injury. It is already reaching toward him before you consciously stop it, drawn to the damage in the same instinctive way water seeks a crack in stone.
But you also know exactly what would happen if you tried.
Your mother’s voice still echoes clearly enough in your head after all these years.
Your abilities are not for strangers.
You swallow hard before Rowan notices the shift in your expression. “That sounds hopeful,” you say gently instead.
He smiles. “I think so too.”
Before either of you can say anything else, the kitchen door swings open again.
Euphemia walks back into the dining room balancing several plates effortlessly across her arms while Fleamont follows behind her carrying another tray, the smell of fresh bread and herbs filling the room almost instantly.
“There we are,” she says brightly. “Absolutely no one is starving under my roof, especially not guests.”
You stand immediately to help her despite the way she already starts shaking her head in protest. “Careful, sweetheart,” she laughs as you take one of the plates from her hands. “You’re dressed far too nicely to be trusted around hot soup.”
“I survived years of palace etiquette lessons,” you reply, carefully setting the plate down. “I think I can manage soup without causing an incident.”
Fleamont snorts as he places the tray onto the table. “Confident words from someone who’s never witnessed Euphemia spill an entire pot of stew on a duke.”
“That happened once,” Euphemia says defensively.
You laugh despite yourself, the sound slipping out more easily than anything has all evening, while Rowan’s mother hurries back into the room apologising profusely for leaving him alone for so long. The table quickly fills with dishes, and the smell alone is enough to make your stomach tighten painfully with sudden hunger.
James drops back into his chair across from you just as Euphemia finishes setting down the final plate. “Told you it’d be good,” he says with unmistakable satisfaction.
“You haven’t even let me taste it yet.”
“I know my father’s cooking,” he replies easily. “I don’t need confirmation to know I’m right.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself as you finally sit back down, but your attention drifts again toward the walls surrounding the dining room now that you have a moment to properly look at them.
There are paintings everywhere.
Some are small enough to fit between shelves while others stretch across entire sections of wooden paneling, filling the room with colour and warmth. Landscapes mostly. The capital painted in soft evening light. Forests heavy with mist and gold. Oceans caught somewhere between stormy and calm, the blues so vivid they almost seem alive beneath the candlelight.
“They’re beautiful,” you say honestly, your gaze lingering on one of the larger paintings near the fireplace.
Euphemia visibly brightens at the compliment. “Aren’t they just?”
You glance toward her. “Who painted them?”
“Oh,” she says immediately, clearly pleased by the question. “Most of those were painted by James.”
For a moment, you just look at her in genuine surprise, the answer not quite settling at first, before your attention slowly shifts back to him.
James is suddenly very invested in his piece of bread, tearing it apart with an intensity that suggests it has become the most important object in the room.
“You paint?” you ask.
He gives a small, almost absent shrug without looking up. “Sometimes.”
That earns him a longer stare from you as you glance back at the walls again, now seeing them differently. “Sometimes?” you repeat, more incredulous now. “James, these are incredible!”
Only then does he look up, and when he does, there’s a faint blush on his cheeks. “My mother exaggerates.”
“I absolutely do not,” Euphemia cuts in at once, without missing a beat. “That boy has been painting since he was old enough to get charcoal all over my curtains.”
You glance back at the paintings again, something shifting in your expression as you take them in properly now that you know they’re his. They don’t feel different exactly, but they feel clearer, as if you can suddenly see the same person reflected in all of them.
And then Euphemia adds, almost casually, “He started painting you constantly after he began training at the palace.”
James nearly chokes on his drink. “Mother!”
You turn toward him so quickly your chair scrapes sharply against the floor. “What?”
Euphemia looks completely unbothered by his horror. “Oh, sweetheart, you should see them properly someday. Half the upstairs hallway looks like a royal portrait gallery at this point.”
“Ma, please stop.” James repeats flatly, the colour already climbing high across his cheeks.
“What?” she asks innocently. “It’s true. There are sketches and paintings. Honestly, I think I’ve watched this boy spend more hours staring at you than his own military reports—”
You stare at him in genuine disbelief as you interrupt Euphemia in shock. “You painted me multiple times?”
James leans back in his chair like he is reconsidering every decision that led him to this exact moment. “You’re making me sound like a creep.”
Euphemia laughs warmly at his misery while you continue staring at him, unable to stop smiling now despite his obvious embarrassment.
“You never told me this,” you say.
“Because unlike my mother, I possess privacy.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Euphemia says. “They’re lovely paintings.”
James drops his head briefly into one hand. “I cannot believe this family betrays me so casually.”
James closes his eyes for a long second before finally looking back at you with the exhausted expression of a man accepting defeat.
“You are all profoundly irritating people.”
But when your laughter dies down and the teasing fades slightly, the embarrassment on his face shifts into silence.
“You really painted me?” you ask again, softer this time once his parents are out of sight.
For the first time since the conversation started, James holds your gaze without looking away. The amusement fades from his expression little by little until only honesty remains beneath it, warm and unguarded enough to make your chest tighten unexpectedly.
Then he leans back slightly in his chair and says, almost casually, “You’re very difficult not to paint.”
And somehow that feels infinitely worse than if he had simply admitted it outright.
“I’d love to see those paintings one day, James’’ you whisper warmly as you start stirring your soup.
James smiles in embarrassment. “Don’t let it get to your head, I painted them when I was fifteen. Now eat your soup, princess.”
“Whatever you say, Picasso.’’ you snicker, which has him laughing loudly as he tries eating his dish.
The tension dissolves little by little after that, settling into something easier as everyone finally begins eating properly.
And the food is good.
Alarmingly good, actually.
You had expected something warm and comforting, but Fleamont’s cooking somehow tastes both effortless and impossibly practiced, the kind of meal made by people who feed others out of instinct rather than obligation.
Between Euphemia’s constant commentary, Rowan interrupting every conversation he can reach, and James arguing with his father over whether too much garlic makes the dish better, the entire room feels painfully alive in a way palace dinners almost never do.
Nobody here waits for permission to speak. They interrupt each other. Laugh over one another. Complain loudly. Tease freely. It is messy and warm and entirely unfamiliar.
At some point, you realise you have stopped sitting with your shoulders tense.
You catch James watching you from across the table for half a second before he leans back slightly in his chair, one corner of his mouth lifting faintly. “You’re smiling,” he says, sounding almost suspicious about it.
You glance up from your plate. “Am I not allowed to?”
“I didn’t say that.” He tears another piece of bread apart casually. “It’s just rare. Usually you look like you’re enduring social interaction rather than participating in it.”
“That’s because most social interaction is something to endure.”
James laughs under his breath, and for a moment the conversation around you fades into the background beneath the softer rhythm settling between the two of you. Then, almost too casually, he asks, “So tonight’s your birthday ball, right?”
You nod once. “Unfortunately.”
“Which means,” he continues carefully, “it’s also apparently the beginning of several kingdoms trying to marry you off to their sons.”
You let out a long sigh through your nose. “Ah. So we’ve reached that topic now.”
“I’m curious,” he says easily, though there is something sharper beneath the amusement in his voice now. “Are you actually expected to choose one of them?”
You lift your spoon thoughtfully like you are considering it very seriously. “Oh, absolutely.”
James narrows his eyes slightly, already sensing trouble. “You sound quite enthusiastic about getting married.”
You smile sweetly. “Because I’ve decided I’m going to pick the worst possible prince available.”
James stares at you for exactly one second before laughing outright. “I’m sorry?”
“I mean it,” you continue, leaning back in your chair with complete confidence now. “I’m going to find the single most disastrous option imaginable and devote my entire evening to encouraging him.”
Across the table, James looks immediately intrigued. “Continue.”
“Oh, I have a strategy already.” You wave your spoon vaguely. “There’s always at least one terrible prince at these things. Usually several. The arrogant ones are easiest to identify. So, really, it won’t be that hard to find a horrible prince and pick him as my option.”
“And your plan is what exactly? Publicly humiliate that poor prince?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of deeply encouraging his worst qualities until my mother bans him from the kingdom herself and cancels the idea of a marriage.”
James laughs again, quieter this time, genuinely entertained now. “That is an awful idea.”
“It’s an excellent idea if you truly think about it.”
He shakes his head, still smiling into his drink. “You seem disturbingly excited about this.”
“I am excited,” you say immediately. “You underestimate how good I am at making first impressions and figuring people out quickly.”
James leans back slightly, resting one arm against the table as he studies you with open curiosity now. “Oh really?” he asks. “And what exactly was your first impression of me, Your Highness?” the sarcasm in the title makes your eyes narrow automatically.
“You truly want the honest answer?”
“Always.”
You look at him for a moment over the rim of your glass, and suddenly the question feels less playful than it did a second ago. “At first,” you admit slowly, “I thought you were unbelievably irritating.”
James places a hand dramatically against his chest. “I’m offended.”
“No, genuinely,” you continue, already laughing slightly. “You talked too much. You were constantly everywhere. You kept banning me from climbing things. I distinctly remember thinking you were the most annoying person I had ever met.”
“Especially since…” Your voice softens slightly. “after the healing incident when we were kids, I hated you for a while.”
The amusement fades from his expression immediately. Around you, the rest of the table continues talking loudly amongst themselves, unaware of the quieter conversation unfolding at your end of it.
James looks down briefly at the table before speaking again. “...do you still?”
You exhale slowly, turning your spoon absentmindedly through the soup before answering. “No,” you say honestly. “Not anymore.”
He doesn’t interrupt, so you continue. “I think at the time I just needed someone to blame,” you admit. “Everything happened so quickly after that. My brothers told on me anyway, and honestly they probably would have eventually even if you’d never said anything to your mother about me healing Maximus.”
You glance down for a second before looking back at him again. “I was angry about being locked up. Angry that everyone suddenly looked at me differently afterward. Angry that I couldn’t heal properly anymore without my family panicking.”
A small shrug lifts your shoulders. “You just happened to be the easiest target.”
James stays quiet for a moment after that, his expression unreadable in the warm candlelight. “I did tell my mother,” he says eventually.
“I know.”
“And it did make things worse.”
“No,” you correct gently. “What made things worse was the palace deciding I needed to be hidden away afterward like I was dangerous.” Your mouth twists slightly. “You were a child, James. You saw a horse bleeding and tried to help. I don’t exactly think that makes you the villain in the story.”
Something in his face changes at that. Small enough most people would miss it entirely, but you see the way the tension eases from his shoulders little by little, like he has been carrying guilt about it for far longer than you realised.
Then, because the conversation has suddenly become too serious for your liking, you point your spoon toward him. “Besides,” you add lightly, “I don’t hate you anymore. You’re mostly tolerable now.”
“Mostly?”
“Mhm.” You nod solemnly. “Still deeply annoying though. I think it’s because you’re an only child,” you continue thoughtfully. “Only children tend to be unbelievably irritating.”
James looks offended immediately.
“I’m just saying. No siblings means nobody spent enough time humbling you during development.”
“I was humbled constantly.”
“Clearly not enough.”
He laughs despite himself, shaking his head as he points toward you accusingly. “You know, you’re significantly meaner than people at court think you are.”
“And you’re significantly more annoying than your reputation suggests,” you shoot back immediately.
James smiles slowly, resting back in his chair again as the candlelight catches the faint warmth still lingering across his face. “Careful,” he says lightly. “You’re getting dangerously close to sounding like you actually like me.”
You take another sip of your drink before answering with deliberate calm. “Don’t flatter yourself. I already said you’re tolerable. Let’s not get ambitious.”
By the time the meal finally begins winding down, the table has dissolved completely into overlapping conversations and lingering laughter.
For a little while, you had almost forgotten what waited outside these walls. Forgotten the palace. Forgotten the ball. Forgotten the suffocating weight of expectation waiting for you the second you returned.
James stands first once the last plates begin emptying, gathering several dishes into his hands before Fleamont can stop him. “Don’t start,” he says immediately as his father opens his mouth. “I live here too. I can carry plates.”
“A miracle,” Fleamont replies dryly. “Write that down, Euphemia. Our son has discovered responsibility.”
James rolls his eyes but takes the dishes anyway, disappearing toward the kitchen beside his father while Euphemia begins stacking the remaining bowls with practiced ease.
“You sit,” she tells you firmly the second you start reaching for one. “You’re a guest.”
You smile warmly at her and settle back into your chair instead, watching the room move around you for a moment.
Rowan’s mother is helping him into his coat near the front of the restaurant, quietly apologizing to Euphemia for how late they stayed while Rowan insists he is awake enough to walk on his own despite very obvious evidence to the contrary.
You barely notice the small footsteps approaching until something pokes lightly against your arm. You glance down in surprise.
Rowan stands beside your chair, smiling up at you with the same bright warmth he has carried all evening.
“I wanted to say goodbye,” he says shyly. “Mama says we have to leave now because our carriage journey is long.”
“Well,” you say gently, “then I suppose I should wish you luck on your journey.”
His smile widens immediately. “Will you?”
“Of course.” You hold your arms open slightly. “Come here first.”
The grin that spreads across Rowan’s face is immediate, and before you can say anything else he throws his arms around you with wholehearted enthusiasm. You barely have time to react before you’re hugging him back, one hand settling between his shoulder blades as he squeezes you with complete trust, entirely unaware of the war unfolding inside your own head.
You know this is a terrible idea.
You know exactly why you’ve spent years learning restraint, why every lesson, every warning, every conversation behind closed doors has revolved around the dangers of using your abilities carelessly.
Magic like yours is not supposed to be given away on impulse. It is not supposed to be guided by emotion, by pity, or by the simple fact that someone deserves better than the hand they were dealt.
And yet Rowan had spent the entire afternoon navigating a world he could barely see, listening for footsteps instead of watching faces and finding his way through instinct rather than sight, and somehow he had remained brighter than almost anyone else in the room.
There had been no resentment in him, no bitterness, no anger at the unfairness of it all. Just hope to find a cure in Solistia.
Before you can reconsider, you lift a hand and brush it gently against the side of his face. Rowan doesn’t flinch. He simply tilts instinctively into the touch, trusting you without question, and that trust alone is all that you need to feel confident in the choice you are about to make.
Your palm comes to rest lightly over his eyes.
The magic responds instantly, unfurling beneath your skin with a familiar warmth that spreads through your veins like liquid sunlight.
You feel it gather beneath your ribs before flowing outward, answering a call that seems to exist beyond conscious thought, and the sensation is so deeply ingrained within you now that directing it requires almost no effort at all.
Golden light slips between your fingers in delicate threads, faint enough to escape notice from anyone across the room, while the healing magic sinks quietly into him and begins searching for what is broken.
You feel it the moment it finds its target.
Not pain exactly, but damage. Years of it. Layer upon layer woven so deeply into him that it has become part of the way his body understands itself. The magic presses forward, mending what illness had taken and rebuilding what should have been there all along.
You keep your expression carefully neutral as the glow slowly fades, but your heart is pounding hard enough that you’re certain Rowan must be able to hear it.
When you finally pull your hand away, your pulse is hammering hard enough to make your fingertips tremble.
Rowan blinks against the sudden change, and for a moment you think nothing has happened at all. Then a faint crease appears between his brows as he squints slightly, his gaze moving uncertainly around the room while confusion slowly ebbs away.
The clouded white veiling his eyes fades so gradually that it almost looks like a trick of the light, until hints of green begin emerging beneath it, growing clearer with every passing second.
His attention drifts toward the window first, drawn to the late afternoon sunlight pouring through the glass and painting the floor in bands of gold.
Beyond it, people move along the street in a blur of color and motion, and Rowan stares as though he cannot quite believe any of it is real.
His eyes track every detail greedily, lingering on things most people would never think twice about, while his breathing catches somewhere in the middle of it all.
When he looks back at the table between you, his eyes remain fixed there for several long seconds, tracing the carved grain of the wood as though he is seeing it for the very first time.
Then his gaze drops to his own hands, turning them over carefully in his lap before he stares at the faint scar crossing one knuckle.
When his gaze finally settles back on you, it does so with sudden clarity, understanding arriving all at once across his expression. “You did this.”
You glance briefly around the restaurant before leaning in slightly, lowering your voice. “Keep your voice down.”
Rowan nods quickly, obeying at once, though the excitement in his face makes it clear how hard he is trying not to let it spill over into something louder. “How?” he asks, almost breathless now.
You hesitate, searching for words that won’t unravel what you just did. “I can’t really explain it.”
There is a short pause where he simply stares at you, before his expression shifts again, lighting up with sudden, unrestrained astonishment. “You’re a witch!” he whispers, as if it is the only explanation that could possibly fit what he has just experienced.
You immediately press a finger to your lips. “Shhh.”
His eyes widen even further now that he can actually see you doing it.
You laugh despite yourself. “No, I’m not,” you whisper back quickly. “I just… have strange powers. And you absolutely cannot tell anyone about this, alright?”
Rowan nods so fast it almost looks painful. “I promise,” he whispers immediately. “I swear. I won’t tell anyone.”
The excitement in his voice is so genuine it nearly makes you laugh again.
Before anyone can notice something is wrong, you straighten and take a small step back, forcing yourself to ignore the frantic pounding of your heart. “Good,” you murmur. “Now go before your mother starts worrying.”
Rowan nods immediately and turns toward the door, taking only three steps before abruptly stopping. For a second you think he’s remembered something, but then he spins around and launches himself back across the space between you.
The impact nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.
His arms wrap tightly around your waist, holding on with a strength that seems impossible for someone his size. “Thank you,” he says, the words muffled against your shoulder. “Thank you so much.”
The sheer sincerity in his voice makes your throat tighten. Slowly, you wrap your arms around him and squeeze back. “You’re welcome.”
Rowan pulls away a moment later, though the excitement still seems to be radiating from every part of him, and you quickly crouch down before he can say anything else loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear.
“Before you go,” you say quietly, holding out your hand, “I need you to promise me something.”
His eyes immediately drop to your extended pinky. “A pinky promise?”
“A very serious pinky promise.”
Rowan hooks his finger around yours without hesitation.
“You cannot tell anyone what happened here. Not your mama, not your friends, not the people at school, and definitely not anyone you meet.”
A grin threatens to break across his face. “I can do that.”
You narrow your eyes. “If you tell anyone, your pinky breaks, Rowan.”
His expression becomes instantly solemn. “Oh.”
“Completely snaps off.”
Rowan gasps. “That’s horrible.”
“Terrible consequences for breaking a promise.”
For a moment he studies your face as though trying to determine whether you’re joking. Whatever conclusion he reaches seems satisfactory because he tightens his pinky around yours and nods firmly. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Satisfied, you release him.
The grin returns immediately. Then he’s gone.
He tears across the restaurant toward the front door with all the restraint of a runaway horse, already calling for his mother before he’s even reached her. Panic shoots through you so fast it nearly makes you dizzy.
The moment Rowan reaches the doorway, you turn sharply toward the opposite side of the restaurant and begin moving. Every instinct is screaming that you need to leave before anyone starts asking questions, before somebody notices Rowan staring at things he should not be able to see, and before his mother realizes what has happened and traces it back to the princess who had been sitting alone with him moments earlier.
Across the room, James is saying something to his father, neither of them paying attention to you yet.
You grab your cloak, offer the quickest excuse you can think of to the nearest person unfortunate enough to make eye contact with you, and head for the door with urgency, praying that by the time anyone starts putting the pieces together, you’ll already be halfway across the city.
“Fleamont,” you call lightly, already reaching for your coat. “Thank you for dinner. It was wonderful.”
“Oh, sweetheart, you’re leaving already?” Euphemia asks, looking genuinely disappointed as you cross the room toward her.
“I should get back before the palace sends out a search party.”
“That does sound terribly accurate for His Majesty, Edmund,” Fleamont mutters.
You laugh before leaning down to hug Euphemia tightly. She squeezes you immediately, warm and familiar. “You come back whenever you like,” she says firmly as she pulls away. “And preferably next time without armed guards waiting outside.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
James finally reappears from the kitchen just in time to watch you grab his sleeve. “We should go,” you say quickly.
He blinks. “What?”
“The guards are probably already preparing reports about me disappearing from the parade.”
“Right. Leaving. Understood.”
He barely has time to say goodbye before you are already dragging him toward the front entrance, ignoring his increasingly suspicious expression as the cold air rushes around you both outside the restaurant doors.
Behind you, inside the warmth of the restaurant, Rowan reaches his mother and comes to such an abrupt stop that she immediately drops to her knees in concern.
You don't hear what he says, but you see the exact moment her expression changes.
Her hands fly to his cheeks, her expression crumpling as Rowan begins speaking so quickly he can barely get the words out, pointing excitedly around the room while tears gather in her eyes.
A moment later she's pulling him into a fierce embrace, openly crying now as he laughs and talks over himself, overwhelmed by the simple miracle of being able to see her again.
And through it all, James remains completely none the wiser beside you. Euphemia and Fleamont, who have known Rowan since the day he was born, don't look surprised in the slightest when his mother tearfully announces that somehow, miraculously, her son's sight has returned.
a/n: now time for the long rant!!
this chapter was honestly so much fun to write, although it was also one of the most tedious. i ended up writing most of it while sitting in the hospital, so if the flow feels a little rougher than previous chapters, i sincerely apologize :( i promise the chapters coming up are much stronger and i'm really excited for you all to read them!!
reader finally reunited with euphemia yayyyy :3 i absolutely adore james' parents and i've been waiting forever to write them properly. they're such an important part of this story to me.
also, the parade isn't actually over yet! timeline-wise, reader and james spent around two and a half hours at the restaurant, so there's still less than an hour left of the procession. we'll be covering the rest of that in the next chapter along with the long-awaited ball where reader gets engaged (so sad)
now let's talk about rowan. my BABY. my sweet little child. i love him SO much.
for the first time in years, we finally see reader use her healing abilities on someone. her magic isn't particularly flashy or dramatic, which is why nobody immediately noticed what happened. whenever she heals someone, there's only a soft golden glow that comes from her hands, very similar to rapunzel's healing magic. so yes... she absolutely can heal blindness, and rowan has officially gotten his sight back ;)))
which means no trip to solistia after all HAHAHA
and euphemia and fleamont knowing exactly what happened at the end means so much to me. they've known reader since she was little. they've watched her grow up, watched her struggle, watched her become who she is, and they know better than almost anyone else what a miracle she truly is. i think there was something very special about them taking one look at rowan and immediately understanding that it was her kindness that gave this child his sight back.
anyways, this chapter is so cute but for some reason i kept reading it back and thinking i could've written parts of it better, so apologies if some sections feel weaker than i wanted them to. i think i've just stared at it for so long that i've lost all sense of perspective at this point 😭
as always, let me know your thoughts, theories, favorite moments, and predictions because reading your comments genuinely motivates me more than you know.
and as always, that's all from me for now. i really hope you enjoyed reading this chapter, and i hope you're all doing well, staying happy, healthy, and hydrated (the triple h's!)
every comment, theory, scream, keyboard smash, and reaction genuinely makes my day and helps keep me motivated, so please tell me your thoughts!!
funny thing, my phone stills remembers your monster high era 🌝
how was your day? 🫶
omg that theme is so nostalgic :(
i've been doing okay!! my day's been going well so far :) my sister had surgery yesterday, so i've been spending a lot of time at the hospital with her, and now i'm also trying to prepare for graduation since it's only a few weeks away. it's been a bit of a chaotic balance between hospital visits, resting whenever i can, and trying to squeeze in writing whenever inspiration strikes 😭
other than that, things have been good! it still feels a little surreal that graduation is so close after spending so long working toward it.
(This is my reactions when i started reading the chapter, I apologize for the mess and disorder when writing.)
“And I need you to be selfish for once. Just once.” She gives you a small look. “You are genuinely one of the most selfless people I know, and it’s okay to think about yourself sometimes when everyone else around you spends all their time thinking about themselves.”
Lily I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!! PLEASE BE WITH MARLENEEIRJNTRBRB
SHE HAS A HANDCRAFTED CROSSBOW ENGRAVED WITH HER INITIALS NOW BE PREPARED FOR CHAOS (Cassian WE LOVE YOUOUYYYY)
OMG THE PAINT?! ELIAS GAVE HER PAINT 😭 MY BABY?! (Insert when will my life begin from Tangled.)
I LOVE MEN WHO NOTICE WITHOUT BEING ASKED?! “I remembered” TAKE MY HEART ELIAS
SEEING ITEMS AND THINKING OF READER. TAKE MY EYES
To love is to notice. Not some fickle words that express how you love someone. Words like “i remember “ and to notice and get items that you envision your loved ones in is the true meaning of love (learning that now after my past relationship was filled with nothing but pain.)
😢 Alaric not being able to see his siblings because of his Royal duties.. being an heir is no easy feat, it’s understandable why he’s so busy, yet it hurts. I love being able to see small glimpse of him during writings and trying to protect reader.
OMG ITS JAMES TIME.
“James lets himself be pulled without much resistance, stumbling half a step before he’s laughing again, breathy and entertained more than anything else.”
He lets himself.
HE LETS HIMSELF.
LEMME KISS HIMMMMMMMMMMM.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOURE NOT DOING THE PLAN. I ain’t kissing him
No more.
“Because nobody ever lets me do anything properly! I am always surrounded by people deciding what I can and cannot handle before I’ve even tried.”
THAT. It’s painful and knowing especially because her powers have to be kept hidden from the world. Nothing in her life has been her proper decision. Everything has been decided as if the world was the Fates in Greek mythology, as if forcing a predestined path in which she has to follow the lines whether or not the decisions are truly good or not. It’s what they think is protection but it’s just a golden cage adorned with decorations and to be paraded on.
MAN I WANTED TO LIKE THE MOM BUT SHE RUINED THE BEAUTIFUL MOMENT BY BRINGING THE DELMARS?! APPRECIATE YOUR DAUGHTER?! YOUR DESIRES AND OBSESSION FOR SOME MISPLACED PROTECTION IS MAKING YOU LOSE YOUR DAUGHTER.
I’m so sad and yet it’s such a cruel reality for princess or any Royal when it comes to marriage and politics. No desires can truly be exorcised when it comes to Royal Politics. Love is something thrown out of the ruling because it’s not “righteous.” The moment a Royal is born, their life is a chess piece whether assassinated or married whether they are happy with the decision or not. Desires can never be met or accomplished. You are what you were arranged to be. Especially when you are a princess. (Let’s give reader some love.)
“No one is trying to hurt you.” Trying doesn’t change the fact it has happened. You have already decided for her and now you’re facing the reactions of your actions. Calling her dramatic for being rightfully upset over what you’re choosing for her.
Each birthday is like a countdown of the inevitable reality of her future
YES SNAP BACK AT THE READER?! GO SPEAK YOUR TRUTH?!!!!!
HUG US HAMES 😭 WE NEED A HUG PLEASE. “You don’t have to be fine right now.” AHHHHHHHH-
Oh mi gosh i love the little “amá and Mi papá,” it shows little shout out of his heritage and culture (especially the food on the third chapter 🤤)
EUPHEMIA?! 😭 MAMA EUPHI WENT THROUGH SO MUCH?!
JAMES IS THE SUN IN EVERYONE’S LIFE HES A MIRACLE BABY
WAIT LAMO READER SAID IT!!
THE LANTERN LIGHTS!! THEYRE HERE!!!
READER TAKE THE LEAP OF FAITH. DONT THINK YOURE SELFISH. LISTEN TO LILY AND TAKE ITTTR!!!!
“James has discovered over the years that there is very little he can refuse you when you ask like this” just kiss us man.
USE HIS WORDS AGAIST HIM.
“And it’s going to be a very big leap.”
AHHH THE CLIGGHANGER?! I NEED MOREEEEE 👹👹👹👹👹.
Okay, okay, this.. broke my heart, the beginning where we felt the love and care of the friends and family of Reader just for it to crumble when her parents decided to crash and burn her joy by bringing marriage talks on HER BIRTHDAY. Already decided without indirectly deciding it. And the slow burn of reader and James… ugh.. ugh..
thank you very much and i apologize for the long message. 🙏 love you 🥰
omg why am i only reading this now when chapter 6 is literally about to go up AHHHH 😭😭😭
first of all, i need you to know that reading your comments is genuinely one of my favorite parts of posting because the way you analyze things scratches my brain in the best possible way. the entire section about reader's lack of agency and how everyone keeps deciding things for her under the guise of protection??? YES. EXACTLY. that's the tragedy of it. almost everyone in her life loves her, but love and control are not the same thing, and sometimes people become so focused on protecting someone that they stop asking what that person actually wants.
and don't even get me started on lily because i adore her. sometimes being selfish is the most selfless thing you can do, especially when you've spent years sacrificing every piece of yourself for everyone around you. reader deserves her leap of faith more than anyone.
also THANK YOU for noticing all the little love language details because that is literally my favorite thing to write. elias remembering the paint, noticing things without being asked, seeing something and immediately thinking of reader... UGH. to love is to notice has always been one of my favorite concepts and i'm so glad that resonated with you <3
and YESSS the little "amá" and "mi papá" references!! i love sneaking those details in whenever i can. james' heritage is really important to me and i always want it to feel like a natural part of who he is rather than something that only gets mentioned once and forgotten.
now onto the MOST IMPORTANT PART OF THIS COMMENT.
the crossbow.
that handcrafted crossbow engraved with her initials.
the very same crossbow that definitely won't become important later.
the very same crossbow that definitely won't cause massive problems.
the very same crossbow that definitely won't end up being used in a way that changes everything.
(i wonder who's going to get shot and killed by it...)
OOP.
who said that??? certainly not me 😇
also your reaction to euphemia made me laugh because YES. mama euphi supremacy. i have such a soft spot for her and fleamont. they've always loved reader exactly as she is, and that means a lot in a story where so many people are constantly trying to shape her into something else.
anyways thank YOU for the long comment because i ate up every single word of it. never apologize for rambling in my comments. i will happily read every theory, every scream, every keyboard smash, and every emotional breakdown.
people really need to stop being so demanding and rude in authors’ inboxes demanding updates for a series
if you’re excited for an update, that’s one thing. i love knowing people are invested in my stories. but messaging me just to tell me to “hurry up” is incredibly disrespectful. instead, tell me what you enjoyed about the last chapter. tell me your favorite moment was. tell me what you’re looking forward to seeing next. that’s how you encourage a writer
because here’s the thing: comments like that make me want to write. they remind me why i started the story in the first place. they make the hours spent planning, writing, editing, and rewriting feel worth it.
what doesn’t make me want to write is opening my inbox and seeing demands for more content like i’m some kind of content-producing machine whose only job is to pump out 10k-word chapters every other day. i have a life, i get busy, and WRITING TAKES TIME.
i promise a genuine comment will get you a lot further than “update?” ever will
as someone who’s not from the united states…tipping culture is SOO weird. no way you get attacked if you don’t tip 20%??? this is new knowledge to me omg
series summary: James Potter, a soldier of the royal guard, is assigned to protect the princess at all costs. His new duty proves far harder than he imagined, for the princess has a habit of doing exactly what she’s not supposed to, and hiding a secret no one must uncover.
chapter summary: On the morning of your birthday, you receive countless gifts from loved ones, though some come with your parents’ attempts at arranging your future, leading you to plan an escape with James. (11.1k)
tags: familial arguments, duty and royal expectations, emotional introspection, mentions of arranged marriages, hints of being forced to marry, strained parent-child relationships, mild angst, discussion of miscarriage, brief emotional crying scene. not proofread, sorry
series masterlist playlist moodboard
“Happy birthday, love.”
You barely have time to process the words before Lily throws herself at you, arms winding tightly around your shoulders hard enough to nearly knock you backwards.
She smells like rose oil and fresh bread, which means she’s been sneaking around the kitchens again instead of attending to whatever duties she was actually meant to be doing.
You laugh despite yourself, hugging her just as fiercely. “Lily, you’ve already done more than enough.”
“I absolutely have not.” She pulls back just enough to look at you properly, hands still fixed around your arms. “It’s your birthday. I’m allowed to be unbearable today.”
“You’re usually unbearable every day.” you smile teasingly.
Lily gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest before turning on her heel and hurrying across the room. She returns almost immediately with a large box balanced carefully in her arms, a ribbon tied around it so neatly.
“There,” she says, setting it down in front of you with unmistakable satisfaction. “Open it before we run out of time.”
You lift the lid, peeling back the layers of tissue paper carefully, and the breath leaves you before you can stop it.
A gorgeous gown beneath catches the pale morning light pouring through the windows, lilac silk glowing soft as dusk beneath threads of gold woven through the corseted bodice and trailing down the skirt in delicate patterns that curl like climbing ivy.
“It’s finished…” you murmur, fingertips brushing lightly across the embroidery. The stitching is impossibly intricate up close. “Mary actually trusted you enough to help?”
Lily scoffs instantly, though the sudden colour rising to her cheeks betrays her almost at once. “Trusted is a very generous word. I simply refused to leave.”
You glance up slowly, already smiling. “Ahhh. So this had nothing to do with wanting an excuse to spend hours alone with the royal seamstress.”
Lily freezes for half a second before flushing outright. “Oh, for—will you just put the dress on?”
“So it did.” you smile mischievously.
“It did not,” she snaps, already pushing you gently toward the screen. “Change now before I regret making you anything at all.”
You grin as she begins pushing you toward the folding screen anyway, muttering complaints the entire time. There’s no point arguing once Lily decides something. The kingdom itself would sooner move its borders.
She follows you behind the screen without hesitation, lifting the gown from the box with surprising gentleness. The teasing fades from her expression almost instantly as she helps you into it, careful with every layer of fabric.
“Careful,” she murmurs quietly, mostly to herself now. “Wait, no, hold still for a second.”
You obey automatically, lifting your arms when she nudges at your elbow. The two of you fall into an easy rhythm you’ve known for years.
“You know,” Lily says after a moment as she tightens the laces at your back, fingers moving with confidence that comes from having dressed you a hundred times before, “you are alarmingly calm for someone who’s about to spend the evening trapped in a ballroom full of nobles asking when you intend to marry.”
You let out a long sigh, tipping your head back slightly. “Please don’t ruin my birthday before it’s even started.”
“I’m serious. Lady Ashbourne apparently arrived two days early just so she could parade her son around court.”
You glance at her through the mirror. “The terrifying blond one?”
“The very one.”
You stare ahead for a moment before saying flatly, “You know, he once told me my eyes looked like wet moss.”
Lily stops for half a second, then makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. “I’m sorry, he said what?”
“With full confidence,” you add. “Like he thought he’d said something meaningful.”
“That’s actually worse,” she says, still laughing under her breath as she goes back to tightening the corset. Lily shakes her head, pulling the laces a little more carefully now, her movements slowing as the dress starts to sit properly. “People are strange.”
“You’re just noticing this now?”
“I’m reminded of it every time I dress you for an event like this,” she says, softer, adjusting the final section so it sits snug but comfortable. “There. Don’t move too suddenly or you’ll regret it.”
You test your breath, then mutter, “I always regret something at these things anyway.”
“That’s the spirit,” she says, stepping back to look at the whole thing properly.
Lily threads the final lace through the corset. When she reaches the end, her movements slow slightly, careful as she pulls it snug against your waist. “There,” she says quietly once she ties it off.
Her hands linger for a brief second at your waist, smoothing the fabric almost absentmindedly before she steps back to look properly at her work.
The difference is astonishing.
The dress had looked beautiful folded inside the box, but wearing it is something else entirely. The lilac silk catches the morning light with every small movement, shifting between soft violet and muted silver where the sun reaches it.
Gold thread winds through the bodice in delicate patterns subtle enough not to overpower it, only glinting now and then when you turn. Around the waist, tiny embroidered flowers climb across the fabric in pale shades of blue and blush pink, so finely stitched they almost look painted on.
You run your hands lightly over the skirt, feeling the fabric around you.
She adjusts the off-shoulder layer carefully where it’s slipped too low against your arm, fingertips feather-light as she smooths the sheer fabric into place. Then she reaches up to straighten your crown where it sits slightly crooked atop your head.
“Oh, Y/N…” Lily says your name so quietly it almost sounds like she forgot you could hear her.
You glance up at the mirror. “What?”
She’s just standing there staring at you with both hands still resting lightly near the ribbons at your back, like she’d been in the middle of fixing something and completely lost her train of thought halfway through it.
“What?” you repeat, laughing a little at the way Lily’s still staring at you.
Lily blinks once like she’s only just remembered she’s supposed to speak. “Sorry, I just—” She presses a hand briefly to her chest. “God, Y/N.”
You turn slightly toward her, smiling despite yourself. “That bad?”
“Mary did amazing,” Lily says immediately, stepping closer again to fix a piece of fabric near your sleeve even though it’s already perfect. “The dress is gorgeous, obviously, but it’s not even just the dress.”
Her eyes lift to yours through the mirror. “It’s you.”
The teasing fades out of her voice completely then, replaced by adoration and pride.“You look more like yourself than I think I’ve seen in a long time.”
You glance back toward the mirror automatically, fingertips smoothing over the fabric at your waist. The deep colour catches the candlelight every time you move, rich enough to look almost molten in places.
“It might be a little much,” you admit, though there’s barely any conviction behind it now.
Lily lets out a soft scoff. “It’s your birthday. You’re allowed to be a little much.”
You laugh under your breath, and before you can answer, Lily suddenly steps forward and wraps her arms around you. The hug catches you off guard enough that you freeze for half a second before hugging her back.
“I know your parents are probably going to find some way to make today difficult,” she says softly near your ear, her voice losing all its usual sharpness for once. “But I’m really proud of you, Y/N.”
Lily pulls back just enough to look at you properly. “And I need you to be selfish for once. Just once.” She gives you a small look. “You are genuinely one of the most selfless people I know, and it’s okay to think about yourself sometimes when everyone else around you spends all their time thinking about themselves.”
You stare at her for a second before a smile slowly pulls at your mouth. “Is this your way of approving whatever rebellious thing I end up doing today?”
Lily laughs immediately. “I don’t know what you’re planning,” she says, which already sounds unconvincing. “But I do know you’re absolutely planning something.”
“And?”
“And it probably involves James somehow.”
You fail completely at hiding your expression. Lily points at you at once. “See? That face alone just confirmed everything.”
You laugh, shaking your head as she grins at you triumphantly.
“I’m not encouraging it,” Lily says, still smiling as she reaches up to straighten one last piece of your hair. “I’m just saying that if, hypothetically, you decided to do something slightly reckless for your own happiness today…” She shrugs lightly. “I might understand it.”
“Now, come on,” she says eventually, pushing herself upright again. “Everyone’s waiting for you downstairs.”
You nod, reaching for the door handle and pulling it open—
only to jump violently as two figures practically throw themselves forward from the other side.
“Happy birthday!”
Cassian’s voice rings through the corridor loud enough to make you flinch before Elias can even finish laughing beside him, both of them lunging forward at once and nearly knocking you off balance with the force of the hug they pull you into.
You barely manage to brace yourself against Cassian’s shoulder as they crush you between them. “God, are you trying to kill me?” you laugh, shoving uselessly at both of them. “Get off.”
“You’re both horrible—” You open your mouth to answer before properly looking at them for the first time. “Oh my god.”
Cassian grins instantly. “What?”
Both of them are wearing crooked grey wigs that sit unevenly on their heads, paired with ridiculous curled mustaches that look seconds away from peeling off their faces entirely. Elias’s is hanging halfway loose already.
You stare at them in disbelief. “What exactly am I looking at?”
Cassian spreads his arms proudly. “Age representation.”
“You’re turning old,” Elias says with a deeply serious nod. “We thought we should honour that.”
Cassian hums in agreement. “Three more birthdays and they’ll start introducing suitors with bad knees.” Then his gaze drifts properly over you for the first time, the joke softening slightly at the edges. “Oh.”
You raise a brow. “Oh?”
“You actually don’t look half bad.”
Elias nods immediately beside him. “Like properly royal terrifying. I feel like I should bow or apologise for something.”
“That might be the nicest thing either of you have ever said to me.”
“You look beautiful,” Elias says more honestly this time, the teasing fading just enough for you to hear it properly beneath the grin. “Seriously.”
Something in your chest warms a little at that before Cassian ruins the moment entirely by squinting at you. “You definitely look expensive enough to scare men.”
“There it is,” you sigh.
“Had to balance the sincerity somehow.”
Before you can answer, movement further down the corridor catches your attention.
James.
He’s already halfway toward you, calm and composed. Even from a distance, he looks perfectly put together, dark formal clothes immaculate, posture straight, expression unreadable except for the faintest hint of amusement lingering in his eyes as he takes in the scene before him.
More specifically, your brothers, and their wigs.
Cassian, somehow, still has the confidence to stand there proudly.
James stops in front of the four of you and bows neatly, precise enough to satisfy court etiquette. “Your Highnesses.”
Elias doesn’t even let him straighten fully before grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him into a quick embrace. “Potter,” he says, “where the hell have you been?”
James lets out a quiet laugh, clearly caught off guard for only a moment before returning it easily. “Prince Elias—”
“I have told you repeatedly not to call me that.”
James pulls back slightly, expression smooth as ever. “Elias, then. I’ve been exactly where I was assigned to be.”
Elias pulls back from James with a scoff, though the grin never fully leaves his face. “Honestly, Sirius has spent more time with me than with you lately. It’s starting to get concerning.”
“That,” James replies smoothly, “would be because Sirius is still stationed with the outer guard. I’m not.”
Cassian folds his arms. “And you actually prefer this assignment?”
James barely pauses before answering. “It’s my duty.”
Elias groans immediately. “There he goes again.”
“What?”
“You always say things like that,” Elias says, waving a hand vaguely. “‘It’s my duty.’ ‘It’s my responsibility.’ One day you’re going to wake up and realise you sound exactly like someone’s exhausted father.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. James looks entirely unimpressed. “Somebody in this palace has to behave like an adult.”
Elias studies him for a second before grinning again, entirely unconvinced. “You know, when we were younger, I genuinely thought you’d grow out of the whole honourable knight routine.”
James exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head slightly, though his eyes drift toward you again for half a second longer than necessary before Cassian suddenly straightens.
You laugh immediately as both of your brothers turn around at the exact same time and disappear back down the corridor in a rush of overlapping voices.
(“How did we forget the entire reason we came here?” “Because you were busy harassing Potter.” “You were also harassing Potter.” “Yes, but I’m not the one responsible for remembering things.”)
A few moments later, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes back down the corridor before Elias and Cassian reappear carrying several boxes between them, both looking far too pleased with themselves.
“There we are,” Elias says brightly, already pushing one of the boxes into your hands before you can properly react. “Now it’s a birthday.”
Cassian points at the larger one immediately. “Open mine first.”
Elias is practically vibrating beside him. “Just open it.”
You laugh under your breath before setting the boxes carefully atop the nearby table. James steps aside to give you room while Lily lingers near the doorway, already smiling like she knows exactly what’s coming.
The first box is heavier than expected. Your brows pull together slightly as you undo the clasps and lift the lid.
“Oh my god.”
Cassian immediately looks smug. “Yeah, alright, I know.”
Nestled inside the velvet lining sits a crossbow so beautiful it barely looks real.
The polished wood gleams dark beneath the corridor light, carved with intricate silver detailing curling along the limbs in elegant patterns you recognise instantly as royal craftsmanship. The bolts resting beside it are sharper than anything you’ve ever owned, their metal tips glinting dangerously even untouched.
But it’s the engraving near the handle that makes your breath catch.
Your initials.
Carefully etched into the wood and painted in deep royal purple.
For a second, you can only stare at it. Then a squeal escapes you before you can stop yourself. “Cassian!”
You practically throw yourself at him, nearly crushing him in another hug as he laughs loudly, stumbling backward from the force of it. “Oh my god, thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, grinning despite himself as he pats your back awkwardly. “Just don’t let Mother find out I bought you a weapon or she’ll have me executed by sunrise.”
Elias cuts in. “‘Crossbows are for soldiers, Cassian. Your sister is a lady, Cassian.’” He pitches his voice higher in a terrible imitation that makes James choke on a laugh.
Cassian points at him. “Exactly that.”
You pull back just enough to look at the crossbow again, still slightly stunned. “This must have cost a fortune.”
Cassian shrugs with exaggerated casualness. “Worth it.”
You run your fingers carefully along the engraved detailing again, almost afraid to touch it too roughly. “It’s beautiful.”
His expression softens at that, just briefly. “I knew you’d like it.”
“I love it.” You laugh again, warmth blooming painfully in your chest before Elias suddenly nudges the second box toward you. “Alright,” he says impatiently. “Mine now.”
You glance at him with a smile before carefully lifting the second lid.
Unlike Cassian’s gift, this one isn’t a single item. Inside rests a beautifully crafted wooden paint case lined with rows of rich oil paints in colours so vibrant they almost glow beneath the light. Beside them sit delicate brushes with polished handles and fine sable bristles, far finer than any you’ve ever been allowed to own before.
Your face immediately lights up. “Eli…”
“I remembered you staring at that set in the artisan district last year,” he says quickly, suddenly looking weirdly nervous about it. “You wouldn’t stop talking about the pigments.”
You reach down carefully, fingertips brushing over the paints in disbelief. “These are imported.”
“Yup,” Elias says, leaning one shoulder against the wall as though he hadn’t spent the last month secretly tracking the set down across half the city. “The shopkeeper kept trying to explain why the paints were worth an absurd amount of money. Something about imported pigments and handcrafted brushes and techniques passed down through generations. I nodded at the appropriate moments and stopped listening after the word rare.”
You can’t help laughing as you lift one of the brushes carefully from the case, turning it gently between your fingers. Even the handle is beautifully made, polished dark wood carved with delicate silver detailing near the base, the bristles impossibly soft compared to the stiff palace brushes usually handed to noble children and promptly forgotten abou
“You actually remembered,” you say, looking back at Elias in disbelief.
He immediately rolls his eyes like the sentiment embarrasses him. “Of course I remembered. You spent the entire journey home from the artisan district talking about those paints.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself as you place the brush back carefully, but when you begin settling the paint case into the box again, something beneath it catches your attention.
Your brows knit together slightly. “There’s more?”
Elias suddenly looks far too pleased with himself, which immediately tells you this was intentional. “Maybe.”
You lift the bottom layer of velvet lining and freeze when you see the thick leather-bound book hidden beneath it.
The cover is a deep forest green faded softly at the corners with age, intricate gold lettering curling elegantly across the spine. Even before opening it, you know exactly what kind of book it is.
Your fingers brush over the cover almost reverently before you flip carefully through the first few pages. Detailed botanical illustrations fill the parchment. Medicinal herbs. Wildflowers. Rare mountain plants. Notes written in faded ink line the margins beside diagrams so intricate they look almost hand-painted.
Your eyes widen immediately. “Eli.”
This time when you look up at him, he’s grinning openly now, all traces of fake nonchalance gone from his face.
“I found it in one of the old southern markets,” he says. “There was this ancient bookseller who refused to let me touch anything without gloves because apparently I looked destructive.”
“That was a fair assumption,” Cassian mutters.
Elias ignores him entirely. “Anyway, he said the book belonged to a royal physician years ago. I saw the herb sections and thought of you immediately.”
You look back down at the pages, completely absorbed already. There are detailed sketches of moonwort and wintershade, entire sections dedicated to healing plants found only in colder regions, pressed diagrams explaining the differences between herbs that look nearly identical despite one being medicinal and the other poisonous.
“It has annotations,” you murmur, almost to yourself as you notice handwritten notes squeezed carefully between paragraphs. “Whoever owned this actually used it.”
“I know,” Elias says, and for once his voice softens a little around the edges. “I thought you’d love that part.”
Love doesn’t even begin to cover it. You keep turning pages, finding more and more details tucked between them. Drying methods. Seasonal growth patterns. Entire passages dedicated to flowers you’ve only ever heard mentioned in old stories.
“This is incredible,” you say finally, looking back up at him. “Seriously, Elias, I can’t believe you found something like this.”
He shrugs, but there’s obvious satisfaction in the way he’s watching your reaction now. “I figured if anyone would appreciate a seven-hundred-page book about dangerous plants, it’d probably be you.”
Another laugh slips out of you, softer now, but this time it catches strangely in your chest because suddenly the full weight of everything they’ve done settles over you all at once.
None of the gifts were random. Not a single one.
The crossbow Cassian knew you’d never be allowed to ask for openly. The paints you’d spent months admiring without ever expecting to own. The herb book filled with subjects you’d rambled about for years while everyone else politely lost interest halfway through.
They’d noticed all of it.
You look between both of your brothers and feel something warm and painfully fond tighten beneath your ribs.
“You two are amazing,” you say quietly, though there’s no real criticism left in the words anymore.
Cassian grins immediately. “That’s not new information.”
“No, I mean it.” You close the herb book carefully against your chest before looking at them properly again. “This is genuinely one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”
Elias’s expression softens first, something quieter slipping through the usual teasing. “You deserve nice things.”
“And honestly,” Cassian adds, “you’re terrifyingly easy to shop for. You either want weapons, art supplies, or books about poisonous plants.”
You shake your head, laughing a little under your breath before stepping forward and wrapping your arms around Elias hard enough to make him stumble back a step.
He hugs you immediately, nearly crushing you against his chest just to be annoying. “So,” he says after a second, voice muffled against your shoulder, “safe to assume I’ve moved up the rankings?”
“Temporary promotion,” you mumble.
Cassian lets out a deeply offended noise from across the room. “Are you serious? I get you a handcrafted crossbow with your initials engraved into it and he’s winning because of a plant book?”
“It’s a very good plant book,” Elias says.
“It’s still a book.”
“And your gift was still a weapon.”
“A beautiful weapon.”
Elias finally pulls away, reaching up to fix the fake moustache peeling off one side of his face as he starts toward the corridor again. “Besides, who said I’m her favourite?”
“If anything,” he adds, glancing back at you, “it’s probably Alaric.”
Cassian looks personally betrayed by that suggestion too. “Oh, that’s worse somehow.”
You lean against the doorway, still laughing quietly as the two of them keep arguing their way down the hall. Then the mention of Alaric catches up with you. “Actually,” you call after them, “where is Alaric?”
Both of them slow immediately. Elias sighs before turning back around. “Still with Father.”
“At this hour?” you ask.
“There’s apparently some issue with tonight’s seating arrangements,” he says, sounding exhausted on Alaric’s behalf already. “And after that there was a council meeting, then something involving trade routes, and now Mother’s apparently redesigning half the ballroom because she decided the flowers looked depressing.”
Cassian winces. “Poor guy.”
Your smile fades slightly. “I feel like we barely see him anymore.”
The words come out quieter than you intended. It’s true, though. Alaric used to spend evenings with the rest of you whenever he could, usually sitting through dinner looking exhausted while Cassian irritated him for entertainment. Lately, he’s either in meetings or locked away with tutors and advisors or trailing after your parents through endless royal obligations that never seem to end.
Elias leans against the banister with a small shrug. “Father’s preparing him for the throne. That’s basically his entire life now.”
Cassian, meanwhile, looks completely unbothered by the idea. “It doesn’t seem all that bad, at least he’s gonna be a king,” he says. “I wish I could be in his place.”
“That would be a disaster” Elias says, “ because you’d be a terrible king.”
“I’d be a fun king.”
“You’d bankrupt the kingdom within a month.”
You shake your head, smiling faintly despite yourself. “I still think it sounds miserable.”
“Exactly,” Elias says immediately. “Imagine spending every day in meetings while Mother screams instructions at you for six straight hours.”
Cassian snorts. “Alright, fair point. I forgot about that part.”
Elias straightens after a moment, glancing toward the staircase. “We should go before Mother notices we disappeared.” Cassian adjusts his crooked wig again with absolutely no dignity left in it. “If she sees this moustache, I’m finished.”
You shake your head, still smiling as they start to move off again. Elias pauses mid-step like he’s just remembered something. “Right. And you should get ready for your parade. It’s in an hour.”
Cassian points at you. “Yeah. Try not to look like you’re about to bite someone’s head off during it.”
“Can’t promise anything,” you say.
“Happy birthday,” Elias adds, a little quieter now.
“Yeah,” Cassian follows, lifting a hand in a loose wave. “Happy birthday. Try not to embarrass the family name too badly.”
They start toward the stairs again, Cassian muttering about wigs. Elias slows just before he reaches the end of the hallway.
He turns back, steps in, and pulls you into a tight hug. “Enjoy it, yeah?” he whispers.
You hold onto him a second longer than necessary. “Thank you, Eli.”
He gives your shoulder a small squeeze before letting go. “Go on then.”
Their laughter fades as they disappear down the stairs, still arguing with each other the entire way until eventually the corridor falls quiet again.
You’re still holding the herb book against your chest when James appears in your path, like he’s been waiting just long enough to make it seem accidental.
“Happy birthday, Princess,” he says, easy and warm. He gives you a quick once-over, head tilting slightly as he studies your dress. “You look especially lovely today, purple really suits you, it brings out your eyes.”
You blink at him, a little caught off guard. “Thank you, James.”
His attention shifts, then, to the crossbow still resting against your arm, and his expression breaks into immediate amusement. “And I see you’ve collected some… interesting birthday gifts this year.”
You lift it slightly in response, as if presenting evidence. James laughs at that, head tipping back a little. “No, I knew it, I knew Cassian would do something like that.”
“Though, I do believe it’s technically my responsibility to make sure you stay alive, so on that note—”
“Come with me.” you say, already starting to move.
James lets himself be pulled without much resistance, stumbling half a step before he’s laughing again, breathy and entertained more than anything else.
You finally stop near the alcove between two tall windows, letting go of him at last. Light spills in from outside, pale and gold, catching the edges of his uniform and the slight disarray you’ve caused without meaning to—his sleeve creased where you held on, his posture still half-adjusted to being moved without warning.
James glances once down the empty corridor, then back at you. “You realise,” he says calmly, “someone could have seen that.”
You brush past that entirely, like it’s not worth entertaining. “What happened to the plan?”
That gets his attention properly. He looks at you for a second too long, searching your face for context he’s missing. “The plan,” he repeats.
“Yes, James. The plan.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, princess. I have several plans,” he says slowly with a wicked smile. “Most of them involve preventing you from doing things you think are reasonable.”
“James, I’m talking about our plan.”
He exhales, rubbing briefly at the bridge of his nose. “Right. Narrow it down for me.”
“The parade,” you say, voice tightening with patience you are rapidly running out of. “The arrangement where I leave the procession for a few hours and go into the city.”
“Ohh,” James says.
You narrow your eyes immediately. “Oh?”
“Now I remember the plan,” James shifts back against the wall beside the window alcove, one shoulder resting against the stone as he folds his arms loosely across his chest
“Yes. That plan.”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” he says carefully.
Your entire face brightens. “Great, that’s perfect!”
“I thought about it extensively,” he continues, ignoring you completely now. “I considered every possible outcome, weighed the risks, reflected deeply on the consequences—”
“Oh my God, just say it.”
“And,” he says, finally looking at you properly, “I’m not doing it.”
“What?! What do you mean you’re not doing it? I thought you figured something out—”
“I did figure something out,” he says carefully, “which is that helping you disappear during a royal parade is an excellent way to ruin my life. And then I remembered I enjoy having a stable income and a head attached to my body.”
You make a frustrated sound under your breath and start pacing the small stretch of corridor between the windows. “Oh my God, you are unbelievable actually. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this parade? This was our entire plan.”
“No,” he says, far too calmly, “you announced a plan at me. There is a difference.”
You step closer without thinking about it, frustration sharpening your voice. “James, this is not complicated. I want a few hours during the parade where I am not surrounded by ten people who panic if I take one step too quickly.”
“And I want to keep my job,” he replies immediately.
You lift your chin. “You won’t lose your job.”
James lets out a short, humourless laugh. “Your optimism is inspiring.”
“I don’t get why you’re so set on disappearing during the parade,” he says. “You’re still going to see the kingdom. You’ll just be in a carriage where nobody is shouting your name from three feet away. It’s not like the view changes because your feet are on the ground.”
“That’s not the point,” you say quickly.
“Then what is the point?”
You throw your hands up, exasperation breaking clean through your restraint. “Because nobody ever lets me do anything properly! I am always surrounded by people deciding what I can and cannot handle before I’ve even tried.”
“That,” James says, quieter now, “is a separate issue.”
“It is not a separate issue, James, it is exactly the issue.” You stop pacing long enough to glare at him properly. “You cannot spend every hour following me around and climbing trees with me and talking to me without a royal court rules and then suddenly decide you care about rules now.”
James rubs a hand briefly over his face, like he’s choosing patience on principle. “Princess,” he says, voice gentler now, “listen to me properly. You are asking me to help the only daughter of the royal family vanish in the middle of a public celebration that half the kingdom is attending. That is not a small request I can just nod at and pretend I didn’t hear.”
You fold your arms. “So that’s it. You’re just going to say no.”
“I’m saying,” he continues, ignoring that, “that if I were to even consider something like that, it would involve planning, timing, and at least a basic understanding of how many guards are going to be stationed along every possible exit route. None of which you have thought about yet.”
“…So you’re saying there’s a chance.”
James exhales through his nose, giving you a long look that lands somewhere between exhausted and mildly impressed that you’re still pushing this. “What I’m saying is that we should probably go and see what your parents want first, because they asked for a word before your parade, and then I’ll consider, very carefully, whether I’m willing to participate in whatever this is turning into.”
“Right,” you say. “That part.”
“Mm,” he hums, like he doesn’t entirely believe you forgot.
James falls into step just behind you as you walk, close enough that it’s clearly deliberate but not close enough to look like he’s hovering. His hand stays near his sword out of habit rather than threat, and his attention keeps shifting ahead down the corridor in quiet, practiced checks as you pass under carved arches and past tall windows spilling pale light across the stone floor.
You can feel him still thinking about your “plan” even when he’s not speaking.
By the time you reach the grand doors, the guards straighten immediately at the sight of you. They bow low, and the doors swing inward without hesitation.
Inside, the throne room is brighter than the halls outside, sunlight spilling through the high windows and catching on gold detail along the walls.
Your mother turns first, your father only a moment after her, and across the room Alaric rises from his seat the instant he catches sight of you.
“Ah,” your father says at once, his expression breaking into something warm and unmistakably fond. “There she is. My little girl.”
Your mother is already moving before he finishes, crossing the room with purpose and pulling you into an immediate embrace, firm and familiar, her hands briefly smoothing over your shoulders.
“Happy birthday,” she says into you, and for a moment her voice is softer than it usually is in court.
When she finally pulls away, her hands remain lightly around your arms as she looks you over properly, her gaze lingering on the gown with quiet inspection before something softer settles across her face. “Lady Lily and Lady Mary did well,” she says, smoothing an invisible crease near your sleeve. “You look beautiful, darling.”
Warmth almost reaches you then, brief enough to feel dangerous, but before you can answer, she adds in the same calm, conversational tone, “I’m sure the Delmars will be very pleased.”
The room changes instantly; Alaric’s smile disappears first, the easy expression fading from his face so quickly. Your father straightens almost imperceptibly beside the window. Near the doors, James goes still.
You glance between them, confusion slowly twisting into unease. “The Delmars?”
Your mother turns toward you fully then. “Yes,” she replies carefully. “They arrived earlier than expected for the parade. They’ll be attending the celebrations tonight, along with the court reception afterward.”
Your father exhales through his nose. “Helena,” he warns. “I told you not to mention it yet. We agreed we would handle this conversation after tonight was over.”
“And continue letting her walk blindly into it?” your mother replies, finally looking at him. “She was going to find out eventually regardless, there’s no use delaying the truth, Edmund.”
Delaying.
The word settles heavily in your chest, and suddenly every strange look, every carefully avoided conversation over the past few weeks rearranges itself into a clear image, an awful one. You stare at them both for a moment before asking, more slowly this time, “Delaying what?”
Alaric steps in before either of your parents can answer. His voice is gentler than theirs, like he is trying to soften the blow before it lands. “It’s a proposal meeting,” he says quietly. “After the parade, the Delmars requested a formal audience with the family while they’re here.”
The silence that follows is unbearable, thick with the feeling that everyone else in the room already knew this conversation would happen eventually except you. You look at Alaric first because he is the easiest to look at, because if you look at your parents too long you think you might already understand the answer written across their faces.
“A proposal meeting?” you repeat, and even to your own ears your voice sounds distant, like you are hearing it from somewhere outside yourself. “You mean an actual marriage proposal?”
Your father finally speaks. “Several kingdoms have expressed formal interest in alliances over the past few years,” he explains carefully. “The Delmars are simply the first to move the discussions into something more official. Nothing has been decided, and nobody is forcing you into an agreement tonight, but conversations regarding your future have existed for some time now because whether we like it or not, your position has political weight attached to it.”
You stare at him, stunned by how calmly he says it, as though he is discussing trade routes instead of your life.
“I thought tonight was just a celebration,” you say slowly. “I didn’t realise the entire point of it was to prepare me to be handed off to another kingdom.”
“That is not what this is,” your father says immediately.
“Then what is it?” you ask, the hurt finally breaking through the disbelief. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like everyone in this room has spent months discussing who I might marry while conveniently forgetting to mention it to the person actually expected to live through it.”
“You are not a child anymore,” your mother says, her composure sharpening. “You were born into a position that comes with responsibility, and pretending otherwise will not change reality. Every royal family in existence survives because of alliances like these. This is not unusual, and it is certainly not cruel.”
A sharp laugh escapes you before you can stop it, disbelieving more than amused. “No, of course not,” you say. “There’s nothing cruel about turning your daughter into a political arrangement so long as everyone calls it duty instead.”
Your mother’s expression hardens. “Do not twist my words into something theatrical simply because you are upset.”
“Theatrical?” you repeat incredulously. “You just informed me, minutes before I’m expected to stand in front of an entire kingdom, that foreign royals are attending my birthday celebration to evaluate whether I would make an acceptable wife. How exactly would you like me to react to that?”
“Enough!” your father shouts, though the command lacks its usual force because even he knows there is truth in what you are saying.
Alaric moves closer, his expression careful, almost pained. “It isn’t supposed to feel like this,” he says quietly. “The discussions were meant to be gradual. Father wanted time before anything official happened because he knew how overwhelming it would sound all at once.”
You turn toward him so quickly the fabric of your gown twists sharply around your legs. Frustration finally breaks through the shock, hot and sudden after being forced down for too long. “Then what exactly was the plan, Alaric?” you ask. “Was everyone just going to smile through dinner while I sat there completely unaware that every conversation around me was secretly about where I’d end up living and which prince might decide I’m useful enough to marry?”
“No one is forcing anything immediately,” he says. “You will meet them. Speak with them. Consider your options properly.”
“My options,” you repeat.
“Yes,” he continues. “Prince Caelum of Thalassia has formally requested first audience. It is a strong match. Their kingdom is stable, their alliances align with ours, and it would secure long-term peace across the southern trade routes.”
You shake your head once, almost disbelieving. “So it’s already decided.”
“It is not decided,” your mother corrects sharply. “It is being arranged.”
“That’s the same thing,” you say.
“It is not,” she insists. “You will still have a choice.”
You let out a short laugh that holds no humour in it. “A choice between what? Three princes you’ve already vetted for politics instead of people?”
“Do not reduce this into something childish simply because it is upsetting,” she says carefully. “You are speaking as though this is some cruel betrayal when in reality it is a responsibility that has existed since the day you were born.”
“I’m not being childish,” you reply immediately, your voice rising despite your efforts to keep it steady. “I’m asking why nobody thought I deserved to know. I’m asking why I had to find out like this, standing here in the middle of my birthday while everyone else in the room apparently already understood what tonight was actually for.”
Alaric steps forward again, cautious in the way someone approaches a wound they know they cannot fix. “You would have been told after the parade,” he says quietly. “Father wanted the evening to pass first before any formal discussions happened. Nothing had been finalised yet.”
You stare at him in disbelief. “After I’d already spent hours being paraded through the capital in front of every visiting royal family?”
“That is not what the parade is for,” your father says firmly.
“It may not be what you call it, but it is certainly what it feels like.”
Silence follows immediately, heavy enough to pull the air taut between all of you. Even James, still standing near the doors, remains motionless now, his attention fixed entirely on the room in a way that makes it painfully obvious he no longer feels like a guard witnessing a conversation but a man trapped inside one.
Your mother’s expression softens slightly, though not enough to undo the damage already done. “You are letting emotion cloud your understanding of this situation,” she says, her tone gentler now, almost coaxing. “No one is trying to hurt you.”
Your jaw tightens so quickly it aches. “I’m being told that my future is currently being negotiated between kingdoms for political convenience,” you reply. “Forgive me if I’m not reacting with perfect composure.”
“It is not a stranger,” your mother continues, pressing forward as though she can still reason you into calmness. “You would have time to know him properly before anything official occurred. That is the purpose of courtship.”
“And if I don’t want to?” you ask.
The question changes everything. It is small, quieter than the rest of the argument, but it cuts through the room with terrifying clarity because for the first time it is no longer about politics or alliances or duty. It is about refusal.
Your father straightens slowly near the window, his expression shifting into something far more careful now. “That is not a decision you are expected to make impulsively,” he says. “Marriage at this level affects more than personal preference.”
“I didn’t ask whether it was impulsive,” you reply. “I asked whether it was mine.”
“It is your decision,” she says carefully. “But it is also your responsibility to think beyond yourself when you make it.”
You take a step back without meaning to, the movement instinctive, as though the room itself has become too small to breathe in. Your chest feels tight, every word they’ve spoken pressing heavier against your ribs until it no longer feels like a conversation at all.
Your mother’s voice sharpens. “Enough. You are not listening.”
“I am listening,” you fire back. “I am listening very clearly. I am listening to you tell me that I don’t get to decide my own life because it would be inconvenient for the kingdom.”
“That is not what this is,” she says, but there’s steel in it now. “This is protection.”
“Protection?” you repeat, louder this time, stepping forward before you even realise you’re moving. “You want to talk to me about protection? Do you actually hear yourselves right now?”
Your father’s expression tightens. “Watch your tone.”
“No,” you say, and now it’s no longer careful, no longer contained. “No, I won’t watch my tone, because I am so tired of all of you standing there pretending this is for my benefit.”
Your voice rises further, filling the room now, bouncing off stone and gold and silence that no longer exists. “You all talk about me like I’m something fragile you need to manage. Like I’m some kind of risk you need to control. ‘Oh, she’s special, oh, she’s important, oh, she has to be protected.’ Protected by what exactly? By handing me over to someone I’ve never met and calling it safety?”
Your mother steps forward slightly. “You are being emotional. This is not—”
“No.” you interrupt sharply.
The words come faster now, sharper, building on each other until there’s no space left between them. “You want to talk about protection?” you continue, voice shaking now not from fear but anger. “Then explain to me why I spent years locked in this place. Explain to me why I wasn’t allowed to leave, why I wasn’t allowed to have friends, why I couldn’t even step outside without someone standing over me like I was going to shatter if I breathed wrong.”
“You say it’s because I’m ‘special’,” you continue, voice rising again. “Because of my powers. Because I might be dangerous. But the only time I’ve ever actually been allowed to use them was when it benefited you, or when it was controlled, supervised, limited to whatever you deemed acceptable.”
Your hands tighten at your sides. “So tell me,” you say, voice low now but shaking with everything behind it, “is that what you call protection? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like control, Mother.”
Your mother’s face has gone pale with anger now, but her voice when she answers is still controlled. “You do not understand what those powers mean for this kingdom. If they are not safeguarded properly, they will be used against you. Against us. Against everything we have built!”
You laugh again, but there’s nothing in it anymore. “So this is what it is,” you say. “It’s not about me at all. It never has been. It’s about making sure I end up somewhere useful. Somewhere safe for you.”
You don’t wait for permission. You don’t wait for response. You turn sharply, the sound of your dress brushing against stone too loud in the silence you leave behind, and for the first time there is no careful exit, no composed restraint.
Behind you, your mother’s voice rises. “Do not walk away from this conversation.”
Alaric moves immediately, stepping forward. “I’ll go after her.”
Your father exhales, tired now more than anything else. “Let her go.”
Your mother doesn’t agree.
“Helena—”
But you’re already gone before the rest of it becomes words again. James catches up to you before you make it halfway down the corridor. Your hands are tight at your sides, your breathing uneven in a way you are clearly trying to control, and your gaze stays fixed ahead like if you look at anything else you might stop entirely.
“Princess,” James says eventually, quieter than before.
You don’t answer.
He exhales once, low and controlled. “Okay.”
And then he simply walks with you. The corridor opens into a quieter section of the palace, one of the older wings where the light is softer and the walls feel less watched. Only when you reach a small recessed alcove between two stone pillars does he finally step slightly in front of you, not blocking your path, just gently interrupting it.
“Hey,” he says.
That’s all it takes.
Your expression crumbles completely. You try to speak, but it doesn’t come out right. It catches halfway, turns uneven, and before you can stop it you’re shaking your head like you can physically push it back down.
James steps forward and pulls you into his arms. His arms come around you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, one hand at the back of your shoulder, the other firm enough at your upper back to keep you anchored when your breath starts to falter.
You don’t even realise you’re shaking until you’re already there.
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly, not like a promise he’s making for the future, but like something happening right now. “You’re alright.”
You press your face into his shoulder, trying to swallow it down, trying to stop it from spilling over in a place where it absolutely cannot happen, but your breath stutters anyway.
“It’s fine,” you manage, though it comes out uneven. “It’s fine, I just—”
James tightens his hold slightly, not in response to panic, just in response to you. “You don’t have to be fine right now,” he says simply.
You let go properly then, the sound caught somewhere between frustration and hurt, and for a moment there is no composure left at all, only the kind of collapse that doesn’t look like anything from the outside but feels like everything inside shifting at once.
When your breathing finally steadies again, it’s not because anything is solved. It’s just because you’ve run out of energy to keep it all moving.
You pull back slightly, but he doesn’t let go completely until you do first.
For a moment neither of you speaks. Then, quietly, you say, “It’s not your fault.”
James lets out a slow breath, like he’s been holding it since the moment he found you. “Yeah,” he says after a moment, his hand still resting lightly against your back. “I know.”
The words settle between you for a second. Somewhere below the balcony, music drifts faintly through the palace halls, softened by distance until it barely sounds real at all.
James glances away briefly, jaw tightening like he’s thinking through something carefully before he speaks again.
“But I’m still sorry.”
You look up at him properly then.
The usual sarcasm is gone from his face for once. No dry remark waiting to pull the moment apart before it becomes too honest. He just looks tired on your behalf.
“I didn’t realise how much the parade actually meant to you,” he admits after a moment, his voice lower now, less teasing than before. “I thought it was just another excuse for you to cause problems in public.”
Despite everything, a small laugh slips out of you. “It is an excuse to cause problems in public.”
“Right,” he says, but there’s no argument in it anymore, only a faint, thoughtful acceptance. “But not only that.”
You lean back against the stone railing, letting your gaze drift past him instead of meeting it, toward the distant sprawl of Valenora below the cliffs, where the city lights blur into one another like scattered embers held too close to water.
“It’s supposed to be my birthday,” you say after a while, quieter now. “Or at least that’s what everyone keeps telling me it is.”
James shifts slightly beside you. “I’m sorry your day has been crap.”
You don’t answer that directly. “It never really feels like my birthday during the parade,” you continue instead, choosing the words carefully as they come, like you’re testing how much of them you can actually say out loud. “It feels like… something I’m placed inside of, rather than something I’m actually part of.”
James doesn’t interrupt. He just watches you the way he always does when the teasing fades, like he’s listening properly rather than waiting for his turn to speak. “And what would it feel like,” he asks after a pause, quieter now, “if it was yours? If you could have it however you wanted?”
A small smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it. “That’s a secret.”
You finally look at him properly at that, and the expression on his face is so openly mock-offended it almost breaks the seriousness entirely.
He studies you for a moment, still smiling, then sighs like he’s accepting defeat on principle. “Fine. Keep your mysterious celestial secrets.”
You hum softly, still watching him. “You can have it if you tell me one of yours.”
That makes his expression shift just slightly, curiosity slipping in under the amusement. “One of my secrets?”
“Yes,” you say simply. “Fair trade.”
James lets out a quiet laugh under his breath, glancing away for a moment toward the city below as though actually considering it properly. The wind catches lightly through his hair, and for once he looks strangely uncertain, caught between amusement and something quieter.
Then he exhales. “I always wanted to be in the royal guard,” he says. “Ever since I was little.” the corner of his mouth lifts briefly before he continues. “That’s part of why I became friends with your brothers in the first place.”
That catches you off guard enough that you turn toward him properly. “Seriously?”
“Well, mostly,” he admits. “I genuinely liked Alaric, Cassian, and Elias, obviously, but when amá first started bringing me to the palace…” He shrugs lightly. “I was fascinated by all of this. The guards, the training, the discipline. Mi papá used to tell me stories about serving the crown when I was younger, and I think I just decided somewhere along the way that I wanted to be like him.”
You watch him carefully. “Is that why you kept coming with Lady Euphemia whenever she visited?”
“That, and because your brothers kept challenging me to increasingly stupid competitions,” he says dryly. “But yes. Mostly because I wanted to prove I was capable enough to earn a place here one day.”
“My parents hated the idea, though.” he says sorrowfully.
You frown slightly. “Why?”
James lets out a small breath through his nose. “Because of the risks, mostly. Mi mamá especially.” He glances down briefly at his hands before looking back out toward the kingdom again. “They couldn’t really bear the thought of losing me.”
“Amá had a lot of miscarriages before me,” he says more quietly. “Enough that they’d pretty much stopped believing they were going to have children at all. Then somehow I happened, and…” He gives a small shrug, almost embarrassed by the seriousness of the conversation now. “Well. There’s me and Sirius now, obviously, but she still worries constantly. Even now she acts like being in the guard means I’m one bad day away from dying heroically somewhere.”
Understanding settles slowly through you. “Oh,” you murmur softly.
James glances sideways at you. “Yeah.”
A smile slowly pulls at your mouth then, gentler this time. “So that’s your secret, James,” you say quietly. “You’re a miracle.”
His head snaps toward you immediately. “What? No, that’s not—” He laughs under his breath, already shaking his head. “The secret was that I originally befriended your brothers because I wanted to join the royal guard.”
“No,” you insist lightly, still smiling at him. “I think the miracle part is significantly more important.”
James groans softly, dragging a hand down his face. “See, this is why I shouldn’t tell you things.”
You laugh, leaning your shoulder lightly against the railing beside him. “No, this is exactly why you should tell me things. That was adorable, you’re literally a miracle child who became a royal guard because he hero-worshipped his father.”
“I hate the way you just phrased that.” he murmurs with a grimace.
James shakes his head . “Anyway,” he says after a moment, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own, “there’s your secret.”
“Now,” he says, “you’re telling me about your secret birthday wish.”
A faint smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it. “I wish to see the suns.”
James looks at you. “The what?”
You lift a hand slightly, pointing past the palace towers toward the northeast horizon, where the sea meets the sky in a line. “The suns,” you repeat, like it should make perfect sense. “They arrive nearly a month after my birthday every year.”
Realisation settles into him slowly. “Ohh,” he says at last, quieter. “You mean the lantern lights from Solistia.”
“I think so,” you say, tilting your head a little. “Though I’m not entirely convinced that’s actually what they’re called. I’ve asked Alaric before and he insists it’s the Suns from the City of Suns, which sounds completely made up, if I’m honest.”
“It does sound made up,” James agrees, a faint smile returning.
“Well, yeah.” You shrug lightly. “They come every year,” you say softly, looking back toward the horizon. “Ever since I was born, apparently. A few weeks after the parade, the lights start appearing over the water and everyone gathers along the cliffs to watch them drift across the sky.”
James watches you carefully now instead of the city. “And you’ve never seen them up close?”
You shake your head once. “No.” A quieter pause follows. “But I really want to.”
“Because they’re pretty?”
“That too.” You hesitate briefly before admitting, “But I also…” You exhale softly through your nose. “I have this stupid feeling sometimes that maybe there’s something connected to them. To my powers.”
“You know the stories people tell,” you continue quietly, your gaze drifting back toward the distant horizon beyond the cliffs. “About how the Suns first appeared the same year I was born, and how the light over the palace supposedly lasted for three entire days afterward. Father insists it was some divine blessing sent by the gods. Alaric thinks it sounds more like an omen, which honestly feels significantly more like something he would say.”
James huffs a laugh beside you, but he doesn’t interrupt.
You glance down at your hands instead, fingers twisting lightly together against the stone railing. “I don’t know,” you admit after a moment, softer now. “I just keep thinking… they could be connected somehow, couldn’t they?”
The words sound almost childish once they’re out loud, but James doesn’t look at you that way. He just waits.
“They only started appearing when I was born,” you continue slowly, trying to untangle thoughts you’ve never really said properly to anyone before. “And ever since I was little, every time they come back, I feel…” You hesitate briefly, frustrated by your own inability to explain it. “Drawn to them, I guess. Like there’s something there waiting for me to understand it.”
The wind shifts softly around the balcony, carrying the distant sounds of the kingdom far below.
“I’ve watched them from my bedroom window every single year,” you say quietly. “Every year since I can remember. Everyone else just stands along the cliffs for a few hours and calls them beautiful, but I always end up staying awake half the night watching the last lights disappear over the water. And all I can think about is wanting to know where they come from.”
Your fingers tighten slightly together before you let out a small breath through your nose, almost embarrassed by how much you’ve said now. “Sorry,” you murmur. “I’m rambling.”
For a moment James says nothing at all. Then, quietly, “I hope you find it.”
You look over at him confused.
“The truth, I mean,” he says. “Whatever it is you’re looking for.”
A faint smile touches your mouth despite yourself. “Even if finding it means marrying some foreign prince?”
The question is light when you ask it, almost teasing, but James stills beside you anyway. It is subtle. So subtle most people would never notice it; aslight pause before he answers, the near-imperceptible tightening in his jaw, and the way his gaze shifts briefly toward the kingdom below instead of remaining on you.
For a moment the only sound between you is the distant rush of the sea against the cliffs beneath Valenora.
Then James exhales softly through his nose. “If that’s what it takes,” he says at last.
You look back toward the horizon after that, following the dark line where the sea vanished into the day. Somewhere beyond it sat Solistia, distant enough to feel half imagined. A kingdom made of stories and maps and drifting lights no one in Valenora seemed capable of explaining properly.
“And if it isn’t?” you ask quietly.
James glances over. “If what isn’t?”
“If marrying someone.” You hesitate briefly before continuing. “If the answer isn’t waiting for me in another kingdom or another marriage.”
The words come out calmer than you feel. Over the last few years every conversation about your future had slowly become the same conversation wearing different clothes. Alliances. Suitors. Stability. Legacy. As though your life were a negotiation already halfway completed around you.
“Then,” he says slowly, “maybe it takes a leap of faith.”
You frown slightly. “What’s that?”
“It means,” he says carefully, “that sometimes there isn’t going to be a clear answer waiting beforehand. No proof that things will work out the way you want them to.” His gaze drifts toward the horizon for a moment before settling back on you again. “Sometimes all you really have is this feeling pulling you toward something, even when it scares you. And eventually you reach a point where standing still starts feeling worse than the risk of falling.”
A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth. “So you jump anyway and hope that something matters enough to risk the fall anyway.”
“And you believe that?” you ask quietly.
James’ mouth curves faintly, though there’s something sad hidden underneath it. “I think,” he says, “It might be the only thing I truly believe in.”
You look away before he can see that too clearly, focusing instead on the distant lights scattered along the lower streets of Valenora. From this height the city looked peaceful.
You draw in a slow breath, trying to steady yourself before speaking again. “James?”
“Yeah?”
“I know this is probably the worst possible moment to bring this up again,” you say slowly, fingers twisting tightly into the edge of your sleeve, “but could you at least try?”
James’ expression shifts immediately, already knowing exactly where this is going.
“Please, just listen first.” the words come out quicker than you intended, desperation slipping through before you can smooth it away.
You look down briefly, gathering your thoughts, then force yourself to continue.
“This is the last parade I’ll ever have.” Your voice softens around the admission. “By tomorrow morning I’ll be engaged, and after that everything changes. Every appearance, every decision, every part of my life will belong to someone else’s.”
James stays quiet. You let out a small breath, staring out toward the city below instead of at him.
“I know how selfish it sounds,” you murmur. “Wanting to disappear for an hour when the entire kingdom is preparing to celebrate me. But I can’t stand the thought of spending the whole day smiling at strangers while everyone decides the rest of my life around me.”
The wind shifts softly through the balcony, carrying distant music from somewhere deep in the palace below.
“My brothers love me,” you continue after a moment, quieter now. “I know they do. But not enough to go against my parents over this.” A faint, humourless smile pulls briefly at your mouth. “Alaric would give me sympathetic looks and would probably just give me a pep talk.”
“But you…” Your voice catches faintly before steadying again. “You might actually be the only person here who understands what this feels like.”
James’ brows pull together slightly.
“To have every part of your life decided for you,” you say quietly. “To belong to something bigger than yourself whether you want to or not.”
You step a little closer without meaning to, desperation slowly outweighing pride now.
“I know your position’s at stake,” you say. “I know I’m asking too much. But I just…” You stop, frustrated by how difficult it suddenly is to explain something that has lived inside you for years. “I need one day that still feels like mine before all of this becomes permanent.”
“And I don’t think there’s anyone else I could ask. So, please James?”
James doesn’t answer immediately. He just looks at you. And suddenly, with a kind of reluctant clarity, he realises he has been losing this argument from the very beginning.
The weeks of refusing, of arguing, of reminding you how catastrophically dangerous your plan was had never actually been about stopping you. If he were being honest with himself, truly honest, he would admit he started considering routes through the lower city the very first time you brought it up.
Every objection after that had been performance.
A final attempt at convincing himself he still possessed enough sense to deny you something.
Because the truth is, James has discovered over the years that there is very little he can refuse you when you ask like this; painfully, hopelessly earnest in a way that makes him feel like the worst person alive for even thinking of saying no.
And standing here now, looking at the desperation you are trying so hard to hide beneath composure, he thinks he would probably walk you straight through the palace gates himself if you asked.
Which is precisely the problem.
James glances down the corridor briefly, checking instinctively for movement even here, then looks back at you again. “I can’t promise anything,” he says carefully. “If your mother notices you missing, I’ll be lucky if I’m merely exiled instead of publicly executed.”
Despite yourself, you let out a weak laugh. “There’s the dramatics again.”
You shake your head, and he watches carefully as the last of the tension starts slipping from your shoulders, little by little, until you’re no longer holding yourself quite so tightly together.
“It’s not dramatic when your mother is terrifying,” James says, laughing under his breath as he falls into step beside you again. “No offence to Her Majesty, obviously, but I genuinely think being on her bad side is equivalent to facing the angel of death.”
“Come on, James,” you burst out laughing. “take a leap of faith.”
James’s eyebrows lift immediately, and then a grin starts pulling at his mouth, slow and knowing. “Ahh,” he says lightly, “using my words against me now, are we?”
“You just said it now!”
“Because it’s good advice.”
“You only think it’s good advice when you’re the one saying it.”
“That’s because I usually am.”
You roll your eyes, still smiling despite yourself, and start walking again before someone inevitably comes looking for you. James falls into step beside you easily, hands clasped behind his back now.
James watches you for a moment before speaking again, more casually this time. “And when exactly are you planning on taking your leap of faith?”
You look ahead instead of at him as attendants finally spot you from across the hall and immediately start ushering you toward the rooms where your final parade preparations are waiting.
“Soon, James, soon,” you say, smiling at him as bright as the sun.
At your response, James smiles back even brighter, if that’s possible, the sun meeting the sun without dimming, light recognizing itself and returning doubled:
“And it’s going to be a very big leap.”
a/n: okay time for the long rant, folks!!
this chapter was originally around 19k words, which is honestly really long, so i ended up splitting it into two chapters. apologies if this one feels a little transitional because of that. the good news is that the next chapter is already written and currently being proofread, so unless i spontaneously die, the update should be coming very soon.
now onto the actual chapter!
first of all, the gifts were some of my favourite scenes to write. they were incredibly sweet, but they also carry a lot more weight than they seem to right now. several of them will become important later on in the story, so keep an eye on them, especially that crossbow cassian gave her. absolutely no reason in particular. none whatsoever. i am being Very normal about it…😃
we also got a bit more family drama this chapter and a better look at the pressure the princess is constantly under. queen helena is… well, queen helena. however, i am once again asking everyone to be nice to alaric. my sweet boy is trying his best. he has the weight of an entire kingdom sitting on his shoulders and unfortunately being heir means he doesn’t always get the luxury of choosing what he wants. let’s cut him a little slack for not speaking up on behalf of his sister. he gets a redemption very soon guys, i promise :)
and james!!! our miracle baby!!! i loved writing that conversation so much. i think it tells us a lot about who he is and why he is the way he is. he and the princess are finally putting their plan into motion, and that leap of faith we’ve been talking about for a while now is getting closer and closer (screams and jumps in excitement)
my two miracle lovers. i adore them.
that’s all from me for now. i really hope you enjoyed reading this chapter, and i hope you’re all doing well, staying happy, healthy, and hydrated (the triple h’s)
as always, every comment, theory, scream, keyboard smash, and reaction genuinely makes my day and helps keep me motivated, so please tell me your thoughts!!
summary: twelve years after remus saved you from being killed in the underground, you’ve built a life beside him, james, and sirius at the center of one of the most powerful mobs in the country. but during a high stakes event, everything shifts when you become a target, and suddenly the life you’ve fought to keep is put at risk. ( 7.5k words )
tags: mafia au, reader has she/her pronouns, established relationship, angst, violence, blood and injury, murder, gun violence, fight scenes, kidnapping, hostage situations, torture, drugging, childhood trauma, starving kids, poverty, slut shaming, mentions of scars, healer reader, creepy snape, panic, fear, morally gray characters, remus centric, happy ending
a/n: this was written months ago and i just rediscovered it buried in my docs. might turn it into a mini series because mafia poly marauders has no business being this hot masterlist
You met Remus way before anyone knew his name, before the respect he earned and the reputation that made people step aside without thinking about it.
Back then, he was just another kid surviving off whatever the underground world didn’t manage to take from him.
Too thin, clothes hanging loose like they belonged to someone else, eyes dulled by exhaustion but still alert in a way that didn’t match the rest of him; no family, no one waiting, nothing tying him to anything except the instinct to keep going.
He didn’t beg, didn’t waste words, didn’t draw attention unless he meant to, which was rare. Most people passed him without noticing. The ones who did never looked long.
The first time you approached him, it wasn’t out of kindness. You were a starving teenager, and he looked worse.
You’d found half a sandwich behind a closed diner, warm and edible, something you should have kept. You meant to. But he was there, slumped against a rusted pipe, fighting sleep like it might take more from him than rest ever could, and before you let yourself think twice, you stepped forward, pressed the food into his hands, and walked away.
Remus never forgot you after that.
The next time you saw him, it was your blood soaking into the ground.
A group of men had him cornered deep in the tunnels. Even then, he knew how to fight; quick, efficient, and already dangerous in a way that came from necessity rather than skill, but there were too many of them and numbers always tipped the scale.
You moved fast despite your weak form, grabbed the nearest man, sank your teeth into his forearm hard enough to feel skin break, kicked, clawed, made noise, anything that would pull them off him long enough to save Remus.
It worked for a moment. Until one of them turned and drove a knife into your shoulder, clean and deep.
After that, everything blurred. Movement, sound, the sharp pull of breath you couldn’t steady; by the time your eyes could focus again, the men were dead, two at Remus’ hands, the third barely managing to crawl before the blood loss killed him.
Your parents didn’t make it either, they were both killed by an underground gang.
You weren’t given the chance to grieve them properly—not with your arm throbbing and your body struggling to stay upright.
Remus didn’t speak. Aside from a scatter of bruises and shallow cuts, he’d come out of it mostly intact—steady enough to catch you before your knees gave out, his arm firm at your back as he pulled you upright and kept you moving.
You went with him because there was nothing left to stay for, your weight leaning into him more with every step, the pain in your shoulder turning sharp and distant all at once. He took you deeper into the underground, to a man no one trusted unless they had no other choice—unreliable, difficult, but capable enough to keep people alive when it mattered.
Remus stayed.
Through all of it. While the man worked, cutting into your shoulder to get the bullet out, stitching what he could, wrapping the rest, Remus didn’t step away, didn’t look elsewhere, didn’t leave you with it alone
The days blurred into each other after that.
You spoke less, kept your head down, learned quickly what not to react to; blood stopped meaning anything beyond whether it needed to be dealt with. Remus didn’t offer comfort, not out of cruelty, but because it wasn’t something he knew how to give, and you didn’t ask for it.
What he did know was survival.
How to move without being noticed, how to find warmth when the tunnels turned unforgiving, how to take what was needed without drawing the wrong kind of attention, how to end a fight before it had the chance to turn against him.
So he handled it, for both of you, without making it into something worth mentioning.
He considered teaching you, once or twice. You could see it in the way his attention lingered when you tried to handle anything, but it never went further than that. You were small, your strength unreliable, your hands unsteady even with something as simple as a rusted pipe, and he wasn’t careless enough to pretend otherwise.
The idea dropped, without discussion. Instead, he made sure you didn’t need to fight.
And in return, you learned how to keep him standing.
Every time he came back injured, you were there. Your hands weren’t steady at first, and you didn’t always know what you were doing, but you worked through it anyway; gathering scraps of cloth, heating water when you could, learning piece by piece until it became routine.
You never asked where his injuries came from.
Pain was something he understood, something he carried without complaint. You didn’t have that same tolerance for it. Those early years wore you down in ways he couldn’t ignore, even if he didn’t know how to fix them.
You got sick often—lungs too weak, body too fragile for the cold and the damp—and there were nights when the coughing didn’t stop, when it dragged on until breathing itself felt like work.
He never tried to soothe you with empty words. Instead, he stayed, sitting beside you in the dark, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead as if that alone could tell him what to do next. It never did, but he didn’t leave.
For a while, that was enough.
Things held together, barely, until they didn’t.
The fight came out of nowhere and everywhere at once, built from too many nights without food, too little sleep, too much pressure sitting unspoken between you.
You had given away part of your food, not much, just enough to quiet the whining of a stray dog that had been trailing you for days. You hadn’t thought of it as a decision that needed weighing. Remus had.
He had already been worn down by a horrible day full of fights, his patience stretched thin, and when he realized what you’d done, the reaction came horribly.
He told you that you couldn’t afford choices like that, that you were careless, that keeping you alive was costing him more than he could sustain, and even if the dog had been the trigger, it wasn’t the reason. You understood that much without him saying it.
You didn’t interrupt him. You didn’t argue, didn’t raise your voice to meet his, didn’t give him anything to work against.
You stood there and let him finish, quiet in a way that should have forced him to hear himself, to stop before he crossed the line he was already approaching. He didn’t stop. By the time he was worn out from his lash out, he turned away from you as if it had been nothing more than another conversation, laid down, and let sleep take him without a second thought.
By the time he woke up the next morning, you were gone.
Your clothes were still there, your blanket exactly where you’d left it, the tin box of stolen medicine untouched. Everything remained in place except you. There was no note, no sign that you had planned it beyond the fact that you had followed through. The absence said enough on its own.
He understood immediately what he had done and what it had cost without needing to search for another explanation.
The realization hit hard, and there was no way around it. This was on him. By the time he was on his feet, he wasn’t thinking about anything else except finding you.
He searched anyway.
Weeks of it, moving through every part of the tunnels he knew and plenty he didn’t, cutting sleep down to nothing, food to whatever he could grab without slowing himself. Every girl he passed made something in his chest tighten; every still body in a corner forced him to look twice, just in case.
Remus found you five months later, by accident more than anything else.
You were sitting slumped against a wall outside a supply depot near the edge of the underground, so thin you barely looked alive, clothes caked in dirt, head tipped forward like holding it up took more effort than you had left.
He almost didn’t recognize you. Almost kept walking. He looked again, properly this time, and the moment it clicked, everything in him went still.
He crossed the distance in a few quick steps, dropped into a crouch in front of you, said your name to try and pull you back. When he reached for you, there was no reaction at first. Then, slowly, your head lifted, your eyes found his, and recognition settled in with a kind of silence that hurt more than anything louder could have.
You looked away.
He didn’t give you the choice to leave again.
When he pulled you to your feet, you didn’t fight him. There wasn’t enough strength left for that, your weight giving easily as he steadied you, lifting without hesitation when it became clear you couldn’t manage it yourself.
He took you back without saying a word.
You didn’t speak for three days.
Most of the time you stayed where he left you, too exhausted to move unless you had to, your body giving out in short stretches of sleep that never lasted long. You avoided lying down, staying upright even when it hurt, as if the effort of lowering yourself was more than you could afford.
Remus handled what needed handling.
He cleaned the dirt from your skin, worked through the worst of it carefully, fed you what little he had, kept watch without scaring you away. He didn’t ask where you’d been or what had happened.
“I didn’t think you’d care if I left,” you croaked out a week after he rescued you.
Remus had just handed you a tin of soup. He froze.
“You told me it’d be easier without me,” you added, eyes fixed on the wall. “So I made it easier.”
He stared at you for a long time before answering. “If I say anything like that again,” he said quietly, “don’t listen. Just hit me, beat me up if you have to. Don’t walk away, don’t leave me again.”
That night, for the first time, he cried in front of you. Quiet, broken tears that traced the scars littering his arms and chest, each mark a story you’d never heard. He pressed his forehead to yours, voice trembling. “I might be a monster, but I cannot live without you. You can’t leave me again. Please, don’t ever leave me again.”
It wasn’t an apology, not in the way words usually are, but it was everything. That night, you promised him that you wouldn’t. And it was a promise you meant to keep.
After that, things changed.
He kept you close. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was different after losing you. Sharper, more alert and dangerous. He fought harder, stole more, built a name for himself in places where kids like him usually didn’t survive long enough to earn one.
And you stayed. You learned. Your hands stopped shaking when you cleaned wounds. You taught yourself pressure points, bone breaks, ways to stop bleeding when there was no thread.
You became someone people trusted when they had nowhere else to go. A healer in a place that didn’t believe in healing.
Almost exactly a year after Remus had pulled you from that alley, he returned with two new faces behind him.
The first was Sirius Black; lean, loud, reckless. His body was thin and covered in faded lash marks, evidence of a life spent running. He had cut ties with his family and spent the last two years with the wrong crowd, dealing drugs and learning violence the hard way.
The second was James Potter. He looked more put together but had clearly been through hell. Broad-shouldered, tanned, with dark curls falling over his forehead and striking brown eyes hidden behind glasses.
Despite their differences, the two of them stuck together almost like brothers (ironic now that you think about it, because they’re anything but brothers). They both needed shelter, both needed someone to keep them alive, and though you had no idea why Remus had saved them—he never trusted strangers—you knew one thing: if Remus trusted them, so did you.
And just like that, the four of you were no longer alone.
You had no idea, then, how much they would come to mean. But you knew, in your heart, that your life had changed the moment Remus found you.
And it was about to change all over again.
It is almost too easy now, twelve years later, to understand the extent of their protectiveness.
Years have passed, yet their vigilance has only deepened with time. You have come to know each of them in entirely different ways, loved them not in halves or fragments but in full, as they are, as they choose to be in the shadows of a world that demands more than loyalty. It demands blood.
Their devotion to you doesn’t come from anything gentle. It comes from the same place that taught them how to shoot, how to lie, how to kill with their hands and walk away without blinking.
So now, as you sit beneath a gilded chandelier in the grand ballroom of an estate that smells of wealth and corruption, it is easy to forget, just for a moment, what tonight really is.
On the surface, it appears to be a charity gala. People are laughing into fluted glasses, dressed in fabrics worth more than most make in a year. But beneath the satin and the small talk, tonight is a congregation of power. The five most dangerous syndicates in the region have gathered in this single room, each dressed in their finest.
And you are seated alone, at a table cloaked in cream linen, with your back to the far wall and your eyes on the men you came with.
You spot James first, standing near the eastern archway. He is speaking with a man you don’t recognize, a thickly built figure with twitching fingers and a smile that does not touch his eyes. James is smiling too, but it’s mostly a facade.
Remus stands a few feet behind him, arms crossed, eyes trained not on the conversation, but on you. He offers a small smile when your gaze meets his. You return it without thinking.
A sudden warmth at your side draws your attention.
Sirius appears beside you without warning, already close enough that you feel him before you properly see him. He slides into the chair next to yours in one easy motion, then pulls you into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, one arm settling firm around your waist, keeping you there.
His suit fits him too well, dark against the soft gold of the room, his hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck, eyes scanning the crowd before dropping back to you. He leans in and presses a brief kiss to your temple.
“There you are,” he murmurs, voice low against your skin. “Been looking for you. How’s my girl holding up?”
You let out a slow breath, fingers catching lightly on the edge of your dress. “Tense,” you admit, eyes still moving over the room. “I hate these things, Sirius. One wrong move and everything turns into a mess. There’s too many of them here tonight, too many people who don’t trust each other pretending they do. It’s unpredictable.”
He hums, his grip on you tightening just slightly, thumb brushing absent circles against your side. “Yeah, it is,” he replies. “But you know Remus. Strongest one in the room, and he’s watching everything. Place is locked down, including entrances, exits, security—we’ve got eyes on all of it. Nobody’s getting close without us knowing, love.”
You shift against him, a quiet, uneasy laugh slipping out. “I know. It just… doesn’t stop me thinking about it. I hate that you’re all targets half the time, even if I know you can handle it.”
Sirius tilts his head slightly, studying you, his hand coming up to rest more securely at your waist. “All I want is for you to sit, relax, look pretty, and enjoy yourself. Once we’re back home, I promise, we’re gonna make it worth your while.”
You glance toward James, scanning his posture across the room, and then back at Remus, whose calm presence seems to hold the room in balance. “How are they holding up?” you ask, a little edge of concern in your voice.
“James is fine,” Sirius says with a slow breath, almost smug. “He’s in his element. Man could sweet-talk a corpse back to life if he wanted. Remus, on the other hand, is playing the long game. He didn’t like the Russians showing up uninvited, or Malfoy bringing his own security.”
Your stomach tightens at the thought, a low thrum of nerves threading through your chest. “So what am I missing? What’s really going on?”
Sirius’s jaw tightens slightly, the playful edge fading into seriousness. “There’s a leak,” he says quietly. “Someone’s feeding intel to the other families. Names, operations, schedules. Remus thinks it’s someone close, someone he’s trusted. He’s been tracking it quietly, trying not to spook anyone.”
You shift slightly in his lap, glancing up at him. “And that’s why you came over here? To check on me?”
He lets out a quiet scoff, like the answer should be obvious, his grip on you tightening as he leans in, pressing a slow kiss to your shoulder. “You think I’m only here for that?” he murmurs against your skin, voice dipping back into something lighter.
You huff a small laugh, shoulders lifting as his lips brush over your shoulder blades, the tension easing despite yourself.
Sirius hums softly, pulling back just enough to look at you. “We’re not leaving you sitting here alone while half the room’s watching us,” he adds, tone still easy but edged with something firmer underneath. “Remus didn’t want you worrying before we knew for sure, but that doesn’t mean we’re not paying attention. You’re covered. Always.”
You nod, though it barely soothes the knot in your chest, your eyes drifting back over the crowd, catching Remus’s faint nod across the room. You let out a slow breath, trying to sink into it, even as the tension continues to hum beneath your skin.
And then, as Sirius gently squeezes your shoulder and mutters something about needing to get back, a man in a waiter’s uniform approaches.
He’s smiling politely as he sets down a champagne flute in front of you with a subtle bow. You take a slow sip, the cold rim brushing your lower lip with familiarity.
In a life this precarious, where every shadow might hold a loaded gun and every handshake could be your final one, you've long known the value of perfection.The kind drilled into your bones by men who love you too much to be soft with you.
Remus taught you that lesson first, years ago in the blood-soaked corridors of the underground when he pulled you out from hell with his bloodied hands.
Mistakes weren’t small back then, and they certainly aren’t now. One slip can cost not just a life, but all the lives tethered to it.
And you do not make mistakes.
But sometimes, it's not about what you do. It’s about what you don’t notice. What slips through the cracks. What you forget to question.
And as the sip slides down your throat, smooth as liquid gold, something cold settles in your gut before the poison even begins to work.
You never ordered a drink.
And that realization alone is enough to make your spine lock. Your eyes flicker down to the flute still in your hand, now far more weapon than refreshment.
You force your breath to steady, to remain as it was, because movement—any movement—before confirmation could draw the very eyes you need to avoid.
You twist sharply, eyes scanning the floor, the servers, the crowd, until your gaze lands on the back of the waiter. It’s not his face that gives him away. It’s the hair. Slicked close to the skull, but a single braided rat’s tail hangs just above his collar.
Your breath catches as something hot coils low in your spine and spreads too quickly to ignore.
Your hand trembles, fingers curling in on themselves before you can stop it, your muscles tightening, then loosening in a way that feels wrong. You’ve felt this before. You recognize it immediately, even as panic tries to push in.
Paralysis. Fast onset. Your throat tightens, chest burning, your body slipping out of your control piece by piece. You force yourself to stay focused, to think through it instead of giving in.
Tetrodotoxin.
You know it from case studies and forensic files Remus made you read when he was teaching you how to recognize a killer’s fingerprint. Extracted from the pufferfish, odorless, tasteless, and lethal in micrograms. You have maybe—if you’re lucky enough—two minutes before your diaphragm stops working.
You turn, slowly and painfully, to the only three people who matter in this room. James, still mid-conversation, nodding at some low-level syndicate boss as if he doesn’t already know more than the man’s own mother. Remus, watching the exchange, smiling faintly with Sirius.
You try to get up.
That’s when the hand lands on your arm.
It’s firm, a companionable touch, like a friend leaning in with a secret or a lover about to steal a kiss. You brace, pivoting toward the stranger, only for his voice to drop into your ear, rich with condescension and amusement.
“Don’t make a scene, darling.” the command is low, velvety, and utterly sure of itself.
“You can’t fight it. Not anymore. And you don’t want to get anyone’s attention, now do you?”
Your hands twitch, useless. All you can do is turn your eyes toward him, only to meet a face you’ve never seen before. Which is far more terrifying than a familiar one.
He smiles, soft and tight. “There it is,” he murmurs, not unkindly.
You try to speak. Try to scream, but your jaw is already locked.
“You’ve been such a good girl,” he says, almost sweetly, as his hand snakes under your arm and gently lifts you to your feet like a dance partner. To anyone watching, it looks like nothing. A tipsy beauty and her suitor. “Let’s not ruin that now. Come on, walk for me.”
You barely register the way his hand tightens around yours, guiding you out of the ballroom step by step.
Your knees buckle more with each stride, your vision wobbling like water over glass. You catch a final glimpse—three suits like shadows across the marble floor, three sets of eyes scanning, unknowing. And then—
The sound falls away first, the chandeliers blur, and just before the velvet curtains swallow you whole, the world blurs away.
The last thing you think, before everything goes dark, is that you’re about to break the promise you made to Remus twelve years ago; you weren’t supposed to leave him again.
*******
James tilts his glass to his lips without really tasting the whiskey. He’s still engaged in meaningless diplomacy, his tone all faux charm as he converses with a Russian arms dealer too rich and too drunk to be useful.
His glass is untouched in his hand, his eyes flicking instinctively across the ballroom in search of you—just a habit by now. You were standing near the orchestra moments ago. Laughing and smiling in Sirius’ lap.
But you’re not there.
His smile falters.
James’s body goes still, the easy grin on his face freezing just slightly. His hand twitches. "Remus."
"Remus," James mutters again under his breath, turning toward the other man without taking his eyes off the spot. "Where’s she gone?"
"What?"
"I asked where she is." There’s a steel edge to his voice now. “She was just by the pillar.”
Remus follows his line of sight, frowning as he glances past the crowd. A cold flicker passes over his features when he doesn’t find you either. "I saw her not two minutes ago—" His words cut off. His eyes are moving faster now.
James doesn’t wait. "Sirius."
Sirius’ eyes snap up, finding James first, then Remus, then the empty space where you should be.
In an instant, he crosses the room eyes scanning, chest tight, every step measured for speed and control.
James is on his heels a second later. "Where the fuck was she standing?!” he hisses, scanning the crowd for the flash of your dress, your hair, anything.
“She didn’t leave through the front,” Remus mutters behind them. He’s pulled his earpiece into place, one hand disappearing inside his suit jacket. “James. Sirius. We lock this place down, now.”
There’s a subtle click beneath the music as James draws his sidearm and tucks it to his hip beneath his coat. His other hand lifts to press a button on his comms. "Code black. I want every single exit fucking sealed. No one moves unless I say. Shut the gates. Clear the floor. Confirm visuals on her—last seen by the east arch, ten minutes max."
The line crackles.
Remus’s voice crackles into the comms again, louder now, sharper. "Sweep the perimeter. Search every hallway, every service corridor. If someone touches her, I want them in pieces. James, Sirius—stay close.”
*******
Your world returns in pain.
Your head is forced downward, plunged into a basin of cold water with such force your teeth slam together. The water floods your mouth, shoots up your nose. You can’t breathe. Your lungs flare in agony. Your mind screams for air.
You are yanked back just as abruptly, choking and sputtering, water gushing from your lips as you cough uncontrollably. The sensation of drowning clings to your skin, your ears ringing with pressure, your throat raw from the violent intake.
Your blindfold is ripped away.
Light, white and sterile, floods your eyes. You blink rapidly, gasping, vision swimming as you try to adjust. Shadows dance around you until one shape sharpens into a man—tall, angular, hair black as oil slicked back from a pale, skeletal face.
Severus Snape.
You recognize him instantly. The face from every intelligence file you have flipped through, the name whispered in your boyfriends' meeting rooms like a curse.
"Ah. Welcome back," Snape says, his voice cold and composed, as if greeting an old patient. He circles you slowly, hands clasped behind his back. "Forgive the method of revival. I don’t usually favor theatrics, but you were quite... unresponsive, and I needed you awake."
You glare at him, throat burning. "You sick fuck. Let me go!"
He tilts his head, eyes assessing, almost bored. "No. I don’t believe I will."
"You don’t know what you’ve done," you hiss, struggling against the ropes. "You have no idea what they’ll do to you."
"On the contrary," Snape replies, and now there’s a flicker of amusement in his tone. "I know exactly what they’ll do. That’s the entire point, little mouse. They won’t come to negotiate or discuss business. They only come when something is taken."
His gaze drags over you slowly, taking his time, like you’re something he owns already. “So I took you.”
“It isn’t personal,” he continues as he steps closer, close enough that you can feel his breath against your skin. “From what I’ve gathered, you’re valuable. A truly skilled doctor, too. Useful in ways most people down here never manage to be. That alone would have made you worth taking.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying you, then lets out a low, dry laugh. “A loyal—” he cuts himself off, the word turning into something ugly in his mouth. “No. No, that’s not right, is it?”
“Wouldn’t call you loyal when you’re spread between all three of them like a whore, would I?”
You try to spit at him, but it barely makes it past your lips, your body too weak to follow through.
“Lupin, playing leader like he’s holding everything together. Black, the poor little traitor who ran from his own family. And Potter…” His voice tightens on the name, real hatred slipping through this time. “Fucking Potter.”
There’s something off in the way he says James’ name, it makes you wonder why he might hate him so much.
“Tell me, do they take turns, or do you let them share?” His mouth twists faintly. “Or do you just not care who you crawl into bed with as long as they keep you safe?”
Your hands curl against the restraints, anger cutting through the weakness. “Go fuck yourself.”
He smiles at that, slow and thin. “There it is.”
You yank against the ropes, the fibers digging into your skin hard enough to sting. “You’re a coward.”
Snape doesn’t react the way you expect. If anything, he seems calmer, like he’s enjoying it. “I’m alive,” he says quietly. “That’s more than most people who cross them get to say.”
You twist again, fury rising, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Let me go, you fucking—”
He moves faster than you expect, the blade already there, resting flat against your pulse.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low and almost bored. “You strike me as smart. Don’t ruin that by acting stupid.”
The knife shifts just slightly, enough for you to feel the edge bite. "You speak again, and I will open your jugular so cleanly you’ll bleed out before you even scream. Don’t test me."
You freeze. The metal remains against your skin for several seconds, the threat humming louder than your own heartbeat. Then it lifts. He tucks it back inside his coat with maddening nonchalance.
You scan the room with your eyes now, desperate for anything; an exit, a weakness, something to exploit. But the room is concrete, windowless, reeking of mildew and damp. The only door is behind him.
He flips a small device in his pocket, eyes glinting as he tilts his head.
“Well, well, look who’s finally here,” he says slowly, savoring each word, letting the pause hang. “Your little fuckers, coming to save their precious whore.”
Your heart lurches. For a moment, hope flares like a match. Then his eyes meet yours again, and he laughs. A slow, cruel laugh.
“Oh, don’t look so relieved,” he says. “You think they’re heroes, don’t you? That they can just walk in here and snatch you back? They’re idiots. All of them.”
He crouches slightly, letting his eyes roam your face. “Lupin, the big-hearted fool. Black, the reckless little shit. And Potter… Potter, you little whore, I’ve never hated anyone like him. Tell me, mouse, do you even know why I hate him so much?”
Your throat tightens.
“You’ll see soon enough,” he continues, voice low, almost a hiss.“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to vanish into the walls. Your lovers are going to come storming in ith their guns, fists, whatever pathetic courage they have. They’ll think they’ve got you. They’ll think I can’t touch them. And you’ll sit there, pretty little bitch, tied up, watching and listening.”
He crouches to your level. Tilts his head. “But right as they let their guard down—right when they’re stupid enough to save you—I will paint the walls with their blood. And then, when they’re all dead, you’ll watch me slit your pretty throat.”
You scream and kick and thrash until the ropes cut into your skin. You scream again, hoping someone will hear, hoping your voice can reach through concrete and steel.
Snape sighs. "I don’t want you ruining my plans, little miss smarty-pants." He walks over, pulls out a strip of duct tape, and tears it slowly, the sound slicing through the air like a warning.
"You’ll sit still, you’ll stay quiet, and you’ll watch. That’s all you’re good for now."
He slaps the tape over your mouth with brutal finality, pressing it hard against your lips until your screams become useless muffled noise. You sob through it, chest heaving, vision blurring with tears.
And then he’s gone. Slipping into a hidden passage behind a shelf of crates. You’re left alone. Chair bound, gagged, and shaking with fear—not for yourself, but for your boyfriends.
You hear the door bang open a minute later, and for the first time, you don’t feel saved.
Remus is first through the door, gun raised, eyes scanning—walls, exits, angles of light, you. Then Sirius. His breathing is ragged, like he ran the entire way. Suit jacket open, shirt wrinkled, hair falling into his eyes. Then James.
All three freeze the moment they see you.
Remus lowers his gun just a fraction. His mouth moves, but no sound comes out. Sirius swears under his breath, rushing forward to tug the tape from your mouth, hands shaking, careful not to hurt you more.
James doesn’t move. He just stares, like his brain can’t process the sight of you bound, shaking, soaked in blood.
And in that moment, you realize something horrifying.
Snape was right.
You want to scream, to tell them to run, to leave you, to not play into whatever trap this is. But you’re still bound, still gagged before a word can escape.
The door slams so hard it nearly tears off its hinges. Gunshots echo. Another. And another.
Gunshots, gunshots, gunshots.
You jerk violently in the chair, chest heaving, throat burning behind the tape. Your eyes sting from tears and the harsh light, but all you can see is them.
James is the first to reach you, dropping to his knees so fast the floor cracks beneath him.
“Oh god, you’re okay—” His voice is breaking. His hands fly to the ropes, fumbling over the knots, muttering under his breath. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re alright. Fuck, baby, breathe—just breathe—”
You shake your head violently. The chair rattles with you. Your legs are trembling uncontrollably beneath the restraints, eyes wild, trying to scream past the suffocating gag.
“James!” Sirius’s voice cuts through from the other side of the room, sharp, gun cocked. “Is she okay? Is she—”
“She’s not hurt! No blood—she’s clean, just panicking. Fuck, her wrists are bruised—” James’s hands work faster, snapping one of the bindings with a hiss. “I’ve got you, baby, just—just keep looking at me—”
The last restraint comes loose. James reaches for the tape around your mouth and peels it back slowly, trying not to hurt you.
“Hey—hey, it’s okay. You’re safe now, we’re here, baby, just talk to me—”
Your breath starts hitching harder, your chest seizing with sobs so loud they echo off the stone walls. You’re gasping like you're drowning, eyes darting wildly behind them.
“No—n-no—no, y-you—Remus—Remus, pl-please—” Your voice is torn raw, barely recognizable.
“Sweetheart—” Remus is beside you now, crouched so close you can smell the blood on him. His hands hover, unsure where to touch. “Where does it hurt? Tell me where it hurts. Look at me, love, please—what did they do to you?”
“I—I—y-you h-have to l-leave—” You clutch his shirt, shaking like a leaf. “N-not safe, n-not s-safe—he’s—he’s still—Remus, h-he’s still here—he’s here—”
Remus freezes.
James looks back sharply. “What?”
You’re clawing now, sobbing harder, shaking your head. “P-please, you h-have to run, y-you have to go—you can’t be here—he said—”
“No. No.” Remus’s voice drops, low and cold. “We’re not leaving you. I’m not fucking leaving you.”
“Y-you don’t understand!” You scream, or try to, but your throat cracks halfway through. “He’s—h-he’s watching, he’s going to—he said he’ll kill you!”
“Where is he?” Sirius growls, eyes scanning the room. “Where the fuck is he?”
“H-he said—he said you’d think y-you saved me and then—then—” You choke on your breath. “Then he’d kill you. A-and then me—he said that!”
“She’s not making sense—” James starts, but Remus’s hand shoots up.
“She is,” he says, eyes narrowing. “It’s a trap.”
Remus’s hands cup your face now, gently, firmly, grounding.
“Where is he?”
You’re sobbing too hard to answer. Words collide in your throat, hopeless. Your gaze flicks to the far corner, to the shadows. Remus follows it instantly.
A slow click echoes.
“DOWN!”
The next moment erupts. A shot tears through the air, a scream splits the room, and a flash blinds you. Remus throws himself over you. James shoves the chair sideways to shield you. Sirius spins, firing three sharp rounds into the darkness, each shot precise.
Your ears ring, your body curls sideways, half-tied, half-broken, blinking through smoke and tears. And somewhere in the haze, a voice laughs.
“Touching,” Snape drawls, slow and deliberate. “Really. I almost cried.”
Gunfire tears across the room again, louder, relentless. James and Sirius react instantly, weapons raised, moving with practiced precision.
Snape steps out of the shadows, his crooked smile chilling, his hand lifted as if conducting an orchestra of violence. “You didn’t think I’d come alone, did you?”
Triggers click overhead. From the mezzanine and behind stacks of rusted machinery, a dozen men emerge, rifles trained on all of you. Every angle accounted for.
James clenches his jaw, scanning the upper levels. “Sirius, floor two, west side. At least eight.”
Sirius shifts smoothly, eyes sharp. “I see them. Left flank’s mine.”
Shots snap through the air. Steel and wood splinter under fire. One of Snape’s men screams and drops. You barely register it, trembling, pressed behind the crates where Remus left you.
Your hands shake so violently you can’t lift yourself upright, body rattling with leftover adrenaline. Then he’s there again, dropping to his knees behind you, chest pressed close, shielding you from debris.
“Look at me,” Remus says, voice low, tight, controlled. He cups your face, thumbs brushing your tears, grounding you. “Look at me, love.”
You cling to him without thinking, sobs shattering out in broken bursts.
“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing your cheeks. “No tears, not now. Don’t cry, dovey. You’re safe. We’ve got you. I’ve got you. Just hold on a little longer, alright?”
You shake your head hard. “N-no… Remus, you don’t… you don’t get it, he’s—he’s going to—”
“I know,” he cuts in gently, trying to soothe you, but you pull at his shirt harder, and your voice finally rips out in a scream, muffled by the roaring gunfire.
“You have to go! Please Remus—go! It’s not safe, he has more—he has more upstairs! Take Sirius and James—RUN!”
Remus flinches, his body jerking ever so slightly at your words, as though you’ve struck him with something sharper than any bullet. He goes still, staring at you, chest heaving, eyes dark with hurt, fear, and anger all tangled together.
“I’m not leaving you,” he finally says, there’s an edge that makes it clear your words wounded him. “Don’t say that. Don’t ask me that again.”
“But, you’ll die!” Your voice cracks, choking on fear. Your fingers dig into his blood-soaked shirt as though you can hold him in place. “Please—please—I can’t—I can’t lose you—I can’t—”
He grabs your face, pressing it closer until your foreheads touch, his eyes locked on yours, burning with certainty. “You’re not going to,” he growls, voice thick and fierce. “Hear me? You’re not. I’ll make it out. James will make it out. Sirius will make it out. And so will you. I will never let anything harm you or them. Ever.”
“You hear me?” he breathes, forehead pressing to yours tighter. “I’ll burn this whole fucking place to the ground before I let that happen.”
His hands tighten at your jaw, grounding you, keeping you here, alive. “You stay hidden behind these boxes. Don’t move and don’t peek. I need you safe while I make sure Sirius and James are okay, alright?”
You nod, your panic subsiding just enough as you watch him lift, ready to move, and the thought of him protecting your other two keeps the knot in your chest from tightening completely.
Your breath is hiccuping. He kisses you like he’s grounding himself in it, fast and firm, like there isn’t time to mean it properly.
Then the crates behind you shudder violently and Sirius stumbles around the corner, one hand clutching his shoulder, blood running down his arm, teeth gritted against the pain.
“Got tagged,” he mutters. “Upper right. Took five down but I think there’s more.”
Remus doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you tighter to his chest for one last second, then shoves you gently toward Sirius. “Take her. Get the fuck out. Go now.”
Sirius looks at him, reluctant to leave James alone there, but understands that he has to get you out. “We’ll meet you outside. You better make it out with James.”
“We always do.”
You’re lifted up before you can resist. Sirius drags you around the crates, one arm firmly around your waist. Outside the warehouse, backup has arrived. You can hear more engines now. You don’t dare look back. You just cling to Sirius, face buried in his neck, heart hammering.
And then you see the black SUV parked at the far end of the lot.
The door slams shut behind you and Sirius. He barely wastes a second before throwing himself into the front passenger seat to unlock the back door and drag you inside, arms looping around your waist with a trembling urgency.
You’re half-limp from exhaustion, adrenaline still flaring in bursts, barely even noticing the click of the seatbelt as he fastens it over your chest. The world outside feels like a blur of motion and noise. You can hear the shouting, the echo of gunfire, the rush of footsteps behind you.
Sirius is breathing hard. You can see it; the subtle shake in his shoulders, the way he stares out the tinted windshield toward the warehouse as if sheer willpower alone could summon James and Remus out from that inferno. His hands are clenched tight, white-knuckled, and for a moment you’re afraid he’s going to jump out and go back in.
“Sirius,” you whisper, voice hoarse and dry like ash in your throat.
His head whips around instantly, his eyes bloodshot and wide as he turns in his seat to look back at you. “Fuck. Baby.”
He’s already unbuckling. A second later, he’s in the backseat with you, one hand cradling your jaw, the other holding the side of your neck as if to steady himself more than you.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and the words are not casual. They carry fear, guilt, and desperation. “Are you hurt? Did they—fuck, did he do anything to you?”
“I’m okay,” you say, the words fragile and barely convincing, but they are all you can manage.
His thumb grazes your cheek. “Then why are you crying, huh? What’s all this, baby? Look at me.”
Your breath catches, and you struggle to put it into words. “I… I thought I was okay, I really did. But when everything happened—being trapped, Snape, the fire—I just… I panicked. I couldn’t stop thinking what might happen to you and… everyone.”
Sirius’s jaw tightens. His voice drops low, dangerous and raw. “You were gone. You disappeared, and I swear, I thought I was losing my mind. We didn’t know if you were alive. I couldn’t…” His tone softens suddenly, almost breaking.
You flinch at the intensity, and he notices immediately. He presses a hand gently against your cheek, grounding you. “No, no, no. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not mad. I just… Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”
“I… I didn’t know my drink was drugged,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I didn’t see it coming until it was too late.”
Sirius leans closer, pressing a reassuring shoulder to yours, wrapping an arm around you. “It’s okay, love. It’s okay. You’re here now, you’re safe, and that’s all that matters. Nothing else matters as long as you’re safe.”
Your eyes flick to the mirror, catching the orange flicker of the warehouse fire outside. A new surge of panic hits. “Remus… James…”
“They’re dealing with Snape,” Sirius says. “They’ll be fine. Most of our men went for backup, it’s more than enough to take down Snape. That piece of shit’s going to wish he never touched you.”
Sirius pulls you into his lap, one arm wrapped around your shoulders, pressing you close. Your ear rests against his chest, and the steady thump-thump of his heart slows the frantic rhythm of your own. His hand rubs small circles along your back as he speaks quietly into his phone, checking on the others.
You watch the fire fade in the distance, each pulse of his heart a quiet promise: they’re all alive, they’re all okay.
Minutes later, the doors slam open.
James throws himself into the driver’s seat, blood streaked across his shirt, breath coming fast. Remus climbs into the passenger beside him, eyes sharp. Both covered in ash and smoke. The warehouse burns behind them, glowing orange in the distance, and the SUV shudders with the weight of escape.
“What the fuck are you doing hunched in the backseat like a goddamn cryptid?” James snaps, spinning the wheel sharply as the tires scream against asphalt.
Sirius glances up, still crouched beside you. “I was making sure she’s okay!”
James looks into the rearview mirror, his gaze locking on you. “You alright, love?”
You nod, still breathless. “I am. Are you both okay?”
“Yeah,” James says, driving like a mad man. “We’re okay.”
Exhaustion hits you fully. You bury your face into Sirius’s chest, letting yourself feel safe for the first time in hours. He holds you close, his arms wrapping around you like a shield, steady and unyielding.
From the front seat, you hear the faint rasp of a lighter. Remus leans out the window, cigarette igniting, smoke curling into the night air. Behind it, the faint echo of James laughing, Sirius whining about wishing he’d been there to see Snape bleed out. The words are distant and unimportant.
All that matters is the warmth pressed into your body, the steady rhythm of Sirius’s heartbeat beneath your ear, and the eyes of Remus in the mirror, soft with love. You know now that despite the violence, the blood, and the scars each of them carries, there is enough love in the four of you to fill every corner of the world.
The last thing you see before you let your eyes close, finally for sleep, is Remus’ smile, gentle and full of adoration, as he exhales smoke from his cigarette.
I’m going to be VERY annoying, my brain is just spiralling because of crown of valenora (in a good way.)
There’s this song from the amazing, Sufjan Stevens, Futile Devices. I’ve been listening to it a lot and I can’t help but think about James (and Lily when she used to love Reader.)
of course not every line but many lines reminded me of
“It's been a long, long time since I've memorized your face” From James having not seen her ever since childhood up until the present in the series.
“It's been four hours now since I've wandered through your place.” Wandering the halls of the castle and I sometimes imagine him staring at the door to her chamber, staring at it, touching the door with his palm and contemplating.
“And I would say I love you, but saying it out loud, Is hard, so I won't say it at all.” How can James say he loves the princess when he is meant to be her knight. The feelings he had when he was small blossomed into a flower inside of a garden that he isn’t allowed to touch, to pluck, to hold or to water and care of. A flower that glows bright without anyone dimming it, yet her radiance is hidden in a cage meant for her protection.
That sentence can also be applied for Lily when she used to love Reader as well. Realizing that her love can never be reciprocated and yet it’s also so very complicated. The love she had for Reader who cared for her without even asking for anything in return, has become a form of love in which Lily loves her in a way that is a form of care. Protecting her and caring for her, a different form of love yet it shouldn’t be dismissed as anything less either. (I WANT Marlene and Lily cause I’m sure I’ve seen some signs HEHDJKDKDJDN).
“And words are futile devices.” Words in the English language cannot describe the form of love James has for Reader. Perhaps no language can either. He loves her, aches for her, his love for her hurts because he just loves her so much, his body and heart knew it before his mind even realized it.
SORRY I HOPE THIS IS OKAY. I’ve been going brainiac mode over this. You don’t need to respond or read this either, I just needed to write out my thoughts. I hope all has been well for you and your family and as always, lots of love and support for you and your family. ♥️
(ps. I love your playlist.)
wait stop because this is actually insane in the best way. i literally love your brain
futile devices fits them in such a hauntingly intimate way because james has always been infatuated with her long before he even understood what love was supposed to mean. even as children there was always this pull toward her, this fascination he could never really explain. not in the “love at first sight” way, but in the sense that she became stitched into the way he viewed the world. she was always the person he looked for first, the one he measured things against without realizing it and it all makes me so
and i think what makes their relationship So special is that they crave each other in completely different ways. princess craves james like he’s freedom. and james craves her like life itself, like he represents every soft, human thing he’s never been allowed to want for himself. being around her lets him forget duty for a second and just exist as a person instead of what everyone expects him to be. that’s why he’s always drawn back to her no matter how much distance or time is between them
but for reader, james is almost the opposite. she’s drawn to him because underneath all his restraint and control, there’s something steady about him that she can lean into. he feels inevitable to her in a way that scares her a little. she wants freedom, but she also wants to be understood completely, and james sees parts of her that nobody else does even when they’re barely speaking
their dynamic has always been built on that imbalance of longing. they’re reaching for entirely different things, yet somehow finding them in each other without meaning to. and honestly a lot more about why they function this way is going to become way clearer in the next two chapters because there’s still so much about their history and emotional dynamic that hasn’t fully come to the surface yet 👀
and genuinely don’t apologise for sending this, i love when people spiral like this because it means the story is actually living in your head the same way it lives in mine while writing it. so in short, YES futile devices is a perfect song and it has been added to the playlist! (everyone thank gilel rn)
and just so you know i’ve been on a huddle writing non stop so expect a bunch of double updates very soon ;)) once again, i am in love with you and your brain
