Had a photoshoot yesterday and it made me feel so much better abt everything that’s happened. The photos turned out great~~ under the cut if ure interested!
Had a photoshoot yesterday and it made me feel so much better abt everything that’s happened. The photos turned out great~~ under the cut if ure interested!
hiiii i love your writing so much. idk if you take requests or not but i wanted to request something with tasm! Peter and maybe the reader is stuck in a fire and she doesn't know he's spider-man and finds out while he rescues her. And she gets hurt really badly and peter is just losing it. Idk something really angsty with fire haha! Completely alright if you don't wanna write it
nearly lost you | p.parker
note : I am so sorry if this request has been sitting in my askbox for forever! I had a Marauders streak and focused on them a bit but lately I've been missing Peter so I will finally be doing this req! I kind of modified it into her finding out after the rescue. Thank you so very much for trusting me with this, I hope you enjoy!
also there was just a fire in my apartment like a few days ago and I thought I was a goner, so might as well cope by writing this now.
warnings : fire, reader in danger, peter panicking about it, a small argument abt his identity reveal, real heavy angst, themes of death, angst with comfort, so much curse words sorry
You should have seen this coming, probably. Or maybe not exactly this, but Peter has expressed concerns about your 'deathtrap apartment' building many times. Probably also not the best time to be recalling this but—
You argued it was temporary, that it was just so you could finally live independently away from your parents at the cheapest opportunity. It’s close to your job, and a good distance away from Peter’s place. Win win?
It was the most convenient place available, and the arrangements were truly supposed to be temporary but so much happened in between that you didn't have the time to look for a new place.
Between College, your side job, and your relationship—-yeah no chance. A majority of your weekdays were spent slaving for good credits, and a good chunk of your nights were used for work. Somehow in between that, Peter time.
So it all boils down to this.
You had been taking a nap when you heard the first sets of screams down the hallway. The nap was very much unplanned, you’ve been elbows deep in another textbook, reading in advance for the upcoming week of lessons so you can focus a bit more on your job.
You worked as a waitress in some retro-style diner a few blocks away. They’re open 24 hours so you were able to take the graveyard shift while juggling classes.
Peter was very much worried for your lack of proper sleep but you always made up for it on your rest day. He also knew how stubborn you are, so there was no use arguing over your schedule. As unhealthy as it is.
Busy schedule aside, you managed well. You were just studying, but you must’ve dozed off because you woke up disoriented, and there was so much smoke. It was all you could see, smell and taste when you pushed yourself off the couch.
Smoke clouded your vision, you could barely see your apartment through the thick veil of it. You coughed after getting a good chunk into your lungs from the gasp you let out, you instantly try covering your nose and push get up.
You reach the kitchen in a set of rushed steps, almost tripping over your coffee table.
Looking around your kitchen, you grab a dish rag and turn your faucet on (thank god there’s water running this time) to wet it. You squeeze out the excess water and replaceyour hand with the wet dish rag, you allow yourself to breathe through it as you look around for anything worth grabbing before you went.
It was as if a switch had turned in your brain. Fire. There’s a literal fire in your apartment! What the actual fuck!? Honestly, you’ve ran over this situation many times in your head. It’s one of those things you hear about in the news and imagine yourself in the scenario.
But the imaginations pale in comparison to the real thing. Being here, trying to find your way through your smoke-covered apartment.
Because at least then you can turn off the scenarios in your head and you’ll be back to your very safe reality. In here, this is very much real and the danger could very well be right outside your door.
Fuck.
So much for studying, you are so gonna hold this over yourself next time you decide sitting down and studying in advance was a good way to spend your only rest day. You should have just gone to Peter’s.
Also why now? Couldn’t this have happened while you were away at least? You would totally mourn your belongings, but at least there won’t be the need to fight your way out of the apartment.
Oh shit, you lived on the 7th floor.
Where’s the fire? No clue. There’s no use trying to find out anyway, you grabbed your phone. The only thing worth carrying at this point, and headed to your fire escape. You hurriedly climbed on only to look down in absolute shock.
The entire floor below is almost covered in fire, smoke escaping through the windows.
The flames are also big enough to reach the fire exit, your route is blocked. You also did not think trying to run through it would work, must the stairs give up on you on the way down.
You turn to your left and saw the next set of fire escape stairs remain unscathed. Okay, if you hurry now you can break your way into the apartment a few doors down and use their fire escape before the flame swallows it too.
It’s the only option you’ve got left. The stairs and the elevator down are out of commission.
You hardened your resolve and rushed out of your apartment. Your legs are shaking from the panic but you powered through it, this is not the time to trip and fall on your face like an unfortunate horror movie character.
Your door knob felt hot to the touch. It was enough that you recoiled with a hiss at the contact, but you twisted it open anyway, rushing out and feeling the heat on your skin now. You look down the hall in horror to see how close the fire is to your own apartment—it was inches away from your face. You had to step back before you get burnt. You were that close.
If you hadn’t woken up, you’d probably be waking up in heaven next. No time to dwell on that, you turn to the other side of the hall ready to proceed with your plan but stumbled on your way as if the floor had suddenly turned to jelly.
You must’ve inhaled more smoke than you thought before waking up, because your head is feeling light. You hold out your hand to steady yourself, probably flat against the wall. Focus. By pure sheer will to live, you commanded your legs to keep going.
There’s no time to collapse now. You can worry about the state of your lungs later, you just need to get out. So with much effort, you forced yourself to keep going, and you were so close to victory when barely audible, barely there—you heard a baby.
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck indeed, because instead of just proceeding on your merry way to safety, you abruptly stopped and turned to the sound of the cry. It was that instinct again, the one your Mother told you would kill you one day.
She always told you, you should keep your head straight and eyes cast down low. New York streets were dangerous, and the people ruthless at times. She told you to mind your business, to keep to yourself and maybe this city and its people won’t eat you alive.
But you’ve never been one to listen to your Mother.
You didn’t keep to yourself. You saw a boy getting bullied and threw your whole backpack at Flash Thompson. That was how your fates intertwined with one Peter Parker. You didn’t mind your business like you should have.
And your Mother might be right, like she usually is about everything. Because instead of proceeding with your plan, you allowed your sharp ear to pick up where the cry was coming from, walking down the hall to where the sound appears loudest. It was the apartment right across yours.
Who the fuck left their baby alone?
You ran the fastest you’ve ever ran your whole life and slammed your whole weight onto the door. It opened and you ran to the sound where the baby’s crying was coming from. Barely able to see through the cover of smoke and running on pure adrenaline, you picked it up the baby. You thought to cover its face with the wet dish rag but it wouldn’t be enough.
You rushed to the kitchen, tripping on the many toys scattered on the floor on your way. You hurriedly unwrapped the baby’s blanket and grabbed a pitcher of water from the fridge. You took the lid off and dunked the whole blanket inside, making sure it absorbed enough water.
You have no fucking clue what you’re doing, your brain is mostly shut off and you’re running on pure instincts. But you wrapped the baby in the now wet blanket anyway.
You can hear the crackling of the fire and just how warm it’s getting. It’s like being inside an oven, and the heat is rising and rising and rising. You have to get out now..
You grabbed the crying baby and rushed out that apartment only when you did, the flames have reached farther down your hallway that the flames managed to get a lick of your skin. It happened so fast, you barely had time to react and dodge out of the flames’ way. You scream out in pain, your skin sizzling at the contact.
It’s probably small, you hope. But it’s somewhere in your right arm, the pain travelling all the way to your back. You grit your teeth, looking down to find the baby is still crying but otherwise unharmed.
That is gonna be one sexy scar for sure.
You then do your best to rush back to the apartment you were aiming for before getting distracted, only to find that it’s locked. You grit your teeth and try your best to channel your remaining strength and consciousness, before full-on body slamming the door.
It didn’t give the first two tries and the baby’s crying continues to ring in your ears. The fire appears closer and closer but finally, with the third try, you push it open. But you must’ve been too disoriented by all the smoke now, that you lost your footing and landed on the floor.
Like a scene in slow motion, you fell to the floor with all the noise overwhelming your senses and the warmth from the fire wrapping you in a very uncomfortable blanket.
Your body moved on instinct to shield the baby from the fall so you just ended up injuring yourself more, probably applied pressure to your singed skin and just gave yourself a giant bruise as well. You definitely hit your head during it too, feeling like a headache will be paid in full tomorrow if you survive this. Hissing out a curse, you push yourself up and adjusted the baby in your arm.
This is officially the worst day ever.
With a light head and an aching body, you head for the fire exit.
You felt like your soul had escaped your body when it was finally a good feet away, a blue of red and blue swooped int through it. You scream at the shock and jostled the baby in your arms. Holy fucking shit, Spider-Man appeared out of nowhere!
You can feel your tensed muscles relax a bit, but it’s still nto enough. You’re still in the building.
“_____!” Spider-Man called out.
You frown. “Spider-Man?” How did he know your name?
You had no time to ask when he looked down and found a baby in your arms, you blink down at the baby all of a sudden having grown tired of crying, and managed to blurt out a quick: “It’s not mine!”
Why would Spider-Man even care to know that? You cringe at yourself and turn back to Spider-Man. He looks very tensed and ready to jump, which is honestly normal, given the situation. You’re only grateful he’s finally here now.
That doubles your chances of survival for sure. You don’t even remember what he said, or what happened next when your body having recognized your saviour finally decided to shut down.
Last thing you remember was your vision fading as Spider-Man rushed to grab you, or at least you hoped that’s what he planned. Oh, you sincerely hope you did not just drop the baby you were holding as you passed out.
When you came to, you were in a sterile hospital room. What greeted you first and foremost was the blank white ceiling. You had mistaken it to be heaven at first, until you trailed your eyes down and found yourself lying on a hospital bed.
Okay, hospital is better than heaven. You tell yourself with a sigh of relief.
Oh god, how is Peter going to react? You’re not even sure you managed to take your phone successfully, you could have dropped it from all the running you did. And that baby—he better grow up to cure cancer or something. Or something equally amazing. Or just… healthy, that’s good too.
How fucked up would it be if the baby you saved grow up to be some big bad villain for Spider-Man to have one mega battle with?
Your brain is running laps again, it’s something you did to cope with intense emotions and situations. You groan and try to shift in your position only to find your back hurts, like a shit ton. You don’t even wanna know how much of your skin was actually burnt and how badly.
You were halfway into fiddling with your hospital bed’s controls to hopefully raise your backrest higher when the door opened, in came Peter who looks like he had been losing a full week of sleep.
His eyes widened at the sight of you awake and moving about. You managed to plaster on a giant grin, greeting your boyfriend like normal, like you weren’t currently bedridden. Peter rushed to your bedside in an instant, crossing the distance in a hurry.
“_____,” he called out and you felt yourself melt, he must have worried so much when he heard about Spider-Man saving you from a burning building.
“Hey,” you greet him and take in the bags under his eyes. “How long was I out?”
Peter heaves a tired sigh, his hand reaching for your face. Caressing your cheek lightly, as if to prove to himself that you were real and you’re very much here, alive.
“2 days, you inhaled too much smoke and you got third degree burns on your back.”
You cringe at that answer, the extent of your injuries just now dawning on you. Well, a burn scar is a small price to pay for having survived with your life. And of course—
“The baby—”
He cut you off, “Safe. The Mother was very grateful, she was just down to get her laundry, she didn’t think the short time she was away that a fire would break out.”
Still shouldn’t have left her baby alone, you thought bitterly but you’re just glad the baby is safe in the end.
There was a short moment of silence. The reality of it probably settling in, for both of you. You just survived a fire, not without injuries, and he probably worried so much he lost 2 whole days worth of sleep over your well-being.
You grab his hand on your face and bring it down to settle on your lap, yout thumb tracing circles on the back of his hand. Peter has been your boyfriend since high school. You’ve been together for almost three years now, and you can always tell when he has something eating away at him.
He looks almost the way he did when his uncle died.
“Peter,” you called out, testing the waters, “what’s wrong?”
He hesitated, inhaling sharply. Then retracted his hand. “It’s my fault.”
Your eyebrows stitch into a frown, scoffing at his words. “Unless you’re about to confess your arsonist tendencies, then I doubt it was your fault.”
That was one of his flaws, he always took on so much. So much work, so much blame. He didn’t even know! How could any of you know that a fire would just start one random afternoon? Hell, even if you had predicted it, it still would not be his fault.
He was at work, taking pictures of Spider-Man or whatever it is Jameson has him doing this time. He was nowhere near the apartment, and even if he was, it’s not like he can swoop in and save the day.
You actually preferred that he was away. That is was just you. You don’t think you would have reacted as well as you did if Peter was there, because you would worry too much over him and most likely panic and just endanger yourselves more.
You said those words as half jokes but he seemed very much affected either way, you try and reach for his hand again but he avoided your touch. Okay…
“What’s going on?” You ask, wondering what on earth could he be thinking. Just how could he spin this to be his fault?
“I should’ve gotten there faster,” Peter mumbles, barely enough for you to hear. But he said it with that defeated expression of his, like he carried the sky and it was up to him to keep upright must it all come crashing down on you all.
You cannot fathom it. “And then what? Just put us both in danger?” Because realistically, what could he have done? He’s no firefighter, and there was no way he can rush to the seventh-floor and save you.
“No, it’s—” Peter abruptly stopped, letting otu a sharp exhale of frustration. Your frown only deepened, what’s going on? Why is he so angry? “I should have been there. But there was this robbery nearby that I had to stop first and—”
You stop listening after that, did he just say he stopped a robbery? You know your Peter. He’s someone who kept his head down… mostly, he knows how New York and its people worked. But he always lectured you on safety, especially at night.
So what is he saying about stopping robberies now? None of it is makign sense. Perhaps you truly inhaled too much smoke.
“---I almost lost it when I saw you still inside the building.”
You try pushing yourself up again, sitting upright now to face him with a conflicted look on your face. You take in his words, although confusing and how defeated he looks. You carefully choose your words before speaking again.
“Peter, I know it was scary. You almost lost me, I would be terrified too, if the roles were reversed but… you couldn’t have helped. I was only lucky Spider-Man showed up last minute. But I’m okay, I’m here.”
Peter was not at all comforted by your words. “But that’s exactly it! I showed up at the last minute—”
It was like a chord was snapped. You blinked once and everything came rushing to you. Oh my fucking god. There was no way but—the timing lined up too well, all the missed dates makes so much sense now, and the mysterious bruises. He had used the Spider-Man excuse, saying he had to be onsite to snap pictures.
It was for his job, but that was only half-true.
Oh my god, your boyfriend is Spider-Man.
Well, maybe there had been signs all over. But it’s not like you wanted to dive head first into believing that yes, your boyfriend, your sweet, adorable Peter, is the vigilante in red and blue spandex swinging around the city saving civilians.
What kind of crazy person would you be if you just assumed that?
In hindsight though, it makes too much sense now. Only Peter would have the heart big enough to put on that mask and go out every night to look after the people of New York. Only Peter would have the conviction strong enough to be a… a superhero.
“Holy shit,” you breathed out in exaspheration, “holy fucking shit, Peter.”
Peter’s entire body froze as he took in your expression. Shell shocked, your eyes blown wide open as you slowly lift your head to look at him. As if you were finally seeing him for who he is, for all he is.
He’s not just Peter anymore. He’s also Spider-Man, and he was too late.
He came way too late. You had gotten hurt and he almost didn’t make it in time.
“Shit…” you are probably cursing too much, but that’s the least of your worries when your whole world had just turned upside down. “Oh god…”
Peter is not sure whether that reaction is positive or not. He cannot get a read when you’re raining curses while looking like you are going crazy, he moved on instinct to put both hands on either sides of your shoulders.
“____, breathe,” he tells you inn a soft voice, trying to calm you down must you trigger a panic attack from his unprompted identity reveal. “It’s just me.”
Oh but it’s really not. It’s also Spider-Man now. And you’re gonna have to take some time to sit down and process that your Peter is the very same hero swinging around fighting villains and stopping crimes.
Is that what he’s been doing all this time? Of course it is, and you were oblivious to all of it. You didn’t know—why now?
“Were you ever planning to tell me?” You ask, not sure if you wanted to hear the answer.
“I wanted to keep you safe, away from all this. From Spider-Man and all the danger.”
You nod slowly. You know Peter too much, much more than he probably knows himself, so it was safe to assume that—”But you just learned that danger will come anyway, whether I know, or I don’t.”
Peter’s silence was the confirmation you needed.
Peter fell forward, grabbing your face in his hands and levelling his gaze with yours. You look into his doe brown eyes, unable to get angry. Were you even supposed to? You’re not entirely sure.
You’re entitled to being pissed that he hid an entire other identity from you, for three whole years, or probably more— Spider-Man has been around for four years. But you can’t get angry, because you hold too big of an understanding for everything involving Peter.
You will always choose to understand him, no matter what. Because you love him. That’s right, you… “I love you,” you tell Peter. A reminder to him and yourself, and his hands on your face trembled at the declaration.
He was afraid he wouldn’t get to hear it again. First, when he almost lost you to the fire. And second, when he revealed the truth that he had been lying to you all this time.
“I love you,” he repeated.
And you know he means it.
the end. masterlist
end notes: funnily enough, I actually ended up saving my neighbour's kids. My wife and I knocked on their door and the parents were away, leaving the grandma with the two kids and one infant. The grandma carried the baby, whilst my wife and I carried one kid each out of the building. I am still very much shaken by it, sometimes I'd be sitting around and smell that same burnt rubber smell again and go into panic mode. Otherwise, we're fine and unharmed. Also sorry if I'm rusty, been a while since I properly wrote an x reader. Please be merciful.
note : I've been writing this for about three days and it has concluded on 11.6k word count, which is crazy. But with such a fleshed out plot, I couldn't just wing it on about 2k words for my standard fics, and I didn't fancy having more series on my plate so here's one very long fic for JP to celebrate 800 followers further and cope with my own grief lol - enjoy.
warnings : grief and death, terminal illnesses - losing family members, reader had abusive parents and left her in debt, questionable themes of jp taking advantage of reader's predicament, fake marriage trope, just overall angst and lots of sad stuff but it has good moments slipped in between
James Potter feels like his whole world had crumbled apart, terminal Dragon Pox was the diagnosis. It was already too much he has to deal with his parents being sick but then, they ask him to assure them that when they leave, he wouldn't be alone. And you, you with your piling debt and threatening letters from Gringots can only fall into despair when the two grieving paths cross - and a deal is struck. He gets a wife, and you clear your tab.
You two are dancing in a snow globe, 'round and 'round, and he keeps the picture of you in his office downtown . . .
Diagon Alley smells like burnt sugar, star-anise, and smoke. You can no longer tell which scent is yours.
The oven’s been on since four. The air is thick with the scent of puffing pixie pies, their blue-glazed crusts still gently sparkling in the cooling racks. You rotate a tray of warm wandwood scones with steady hands and an aching back, ignoring the familiar twinge in your wrist - a brewing injury from years of kneading dough without proper rest.
The enchanted glass dome that displays your bestsellers glows faintly with golden sigils - today's highlighted treat is a fresh batch of Honeyduke-inspired fire-fudge croissants that puff steam in satisfying curls. A chalkboard near the till scrawls out notes in overly chipper handwriting:
Please don’t tap the jar of Charmed Cherry Tarts - they bite.
Broomstick Biscuit special ends at sundown.
Please remind ____ to eat.
You erase that last one quickly with the back of your hand, smudging away the concern Essie must’ve tucked into the notes.
The debt letters - from Gringotts, from old family contacts with clenched fists and colder curses - sit unopened in a toffee-colored cauldron bowl beside the register. They hum faintly. One of them pulses like a cursed wound, red wax seal still unbroken. The goblins have stopped pretending to be courteous - not that they ever were.
You left the last one unopened.
The wards above the till flicker as your morning protection spell resets, casting a soft violet shimmer across the room. It catches in the sugar that dusts your counter like frost. You stare at the floating menu quill scratching out the day's specials and feel absolutely nothing.
Until the door creaks open with the distinct jingle of spell-silver bells.
You nearly jump - but it’s just Essie, your apprentice, dragging her broom in behind her and mumbling under her breath. Her hair is twisted into a half-up knot with sugar pearls tucked in like constellations, and she’s wearing her favourite pink cloak with scorch marks at the hem.
"Morning," she yawns, flicking her wand to float the Fanged Brioche into the window display.
You nod, already elbow-deep in kneazle-cream batter for the batch of Custard Cauldron Cakes you need for the lunch rush.
"Morning."
She eyes the cauldron bowl with the debt letters.
"They sent more?"
You don’t answer, just tap your wand against the iron mixing bowl and watch the batter stir itself into stiff peaks.
"You know," she starts carefully, "there’s a program at the Ministry for -"
"No." Your voice cuts too sharp. You soften, slightly. "Just get the Skyberry Tarts prepped. I’ll open the register."
She mutters an understanding, "Alright, alright," and you hear her charm the stove to a low simmer as she sets to work.
The till clicks open. You count the galleons and sickles. Barely enough for rent.
The display case glitters as the floating pastry charms adjust themselves, casting brief illusions of glowing stars and festive flickers. Some customers come just for the theatrics. Most leave without buying.
It cycles on, one spell after another. You don’t notice the time pass - just the deepening ache in your legs and the strain in your voice from offering smiles like empty potion bottles.
By the time the shop thins out and the wards reset for the evening, you can barely feel your feet. The sun creeps low through the frosted windowpanes. You lock the door with a flick of your wand and collapse against the back counter, sliding slowly to the floor.
You lean your head back against the wall. Close your eyes.
The bakery smells like cinnamon and burnt hope.
And for a long time, you don't move.
The sign swung lazily in the breeze, a battered little thing that proudly read Back in 15 minutes in slanted gold script. You exhaled hard through your nose before disappearing into the back kitchen, apron strings snapping against your hips.
Essie was already wringing her hands by the cooling racks, her face creased in the worried way you had learned to dread.
“You can’t keep pretending it’s going to get better,” Essie said quietly. Her voice was soft, too soft, like she was afraid of shattering something already cracked to hell.
You yanked open the icebox a little too hard. The bottles clattered. “We’re fine,” you said shortly.
“We’re not.”
Essie shifted from foot to foot, casting a nervous glance toward the front door. “I heard from Malkin’s this morning. They’ve been getting letters too. The kind that come with curses stitched between the lines.”
You slammed the icebox shut and pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, willing the hot burn behind them to settle. It didn’t.
“Do you think I don’t know that?” you snapped. “Do you think I don’t know exactly how deep in it we are?”
Essie took a cautious step forward. “Maybe you could - could ask someone for help. You have. . . friends, don’t you?”
A bitter laugh escaped before you could stop it. Sharp and ugly.
“No, Essie,” you said, voice low and shaking. “I had parents who gambled away everything. I had parents who drank themselves stupid and died brewing potions they weren’t qualified to touch. And now I have a bakery that barely scrapes by, a name no one dares trust, and debts that have more teeth than half the werewolves in Knockturn Alley. I don’t have friends.”
You swallowed hard. “I don’t have anyone.”
The silence that followed was worse than shouting could’ve been.
In the front of the shop, the door had creaked open.
Neither of you heard it - not over the ringing in your ears, not over the slow collapse happening between you.
But James Potter heard everything.
He hesitated on the threshold, the smell of vanilla and spellfire curling around him. He knew grief when he felt it - raw, ragged, clinging to the curtains and floorboards like cigarette smoke. It was the same cold weight that sat heavy on his chest these days, whispering things he wasn’t ready to name.
He thought about leaving. Thought about pretending he hadn’t heard the way your voice broke like that.
But his feet stayed rooted to the ground.
In the back, you exhaled sharply, dragging your hands down your face before smoothing your hair back into something that almost looked composed.
“I’ll take the rest of the deliveries,” you said, voice scraped raw but steady. “You stay here. Lock up when you’re done.”
Essie nodded mutely.
You stepped back into the front of the bakery - and stopped cold.
James Potter was standing there, unmistakable even in the simple navy robes, hair sticking up at every angle like he’d flown there backwards. He looked up from the display case with a polite sort of blankness - just another customer looking for a pastry.
For a moment, you forgot how to breathe.
Of all the people to walk into your bakery today - it had to be him.
You pushed a smile onto your face.
Professional. Untouchable.
If he recognized you, he didn’t show it - facial expression mastered over years of pulling pranks, he feigned innocence.
“What can I get you, Auror Potter?” you asked, voice calm, hands smoothing over your apron as if you could scrub away the tremor in your fingertips.
He didn't bother asking how you knew him - everyone did at this point. Starchaser James Potter quickly climbing Auror ranks, or whatever rubbish the Prophet blurted out these days.
James blinked at you, thrown for half a second - there was something familiar about the curve of your mouth, the sharpness of your gaze - but he shook it off.
Just a tired girl behind a counter.
Just another place he would leave behind when the real world came calling again.
“I’ll just have whatever’s hot and butter-y,” he said, flashing an easy, careless smile.
You nodded, turning toward the shelves without another word, heart hammering so loudly you were sure he could hear it.
The waiting room hummed with too-white light and antiseptic silence. James stood still for the first time in hours, though the tremble in his fingers betrayed him. His Auror robes were still singed from the mission he'd cut short, boots flecked with soot. He looked like he was ready to duel a dragon, but his wand was jammed too tightly into his belt, and his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of something heavier than duty.
He couldn’t sit. Couldn’t stop moving. Each tick of the wall clock pressed deeper into his chest. The healer’s door opened once - then twice - and still, not for him.
The world dulled at the edges. Muffled. Like he was underwater, ears clogged, vision blurry with the ache behind his eyes. He didn’t realise he’d stopped breathing until someone said his name.
“Mr Potter?”
He followed the Healer into a room where the walls felt too close. Too still. Her voice was calm - rehearsed, maybe. She said words like progressed, like untreatable, like comfort-focused now.
His mother and father had advanced Dragon Pox. The magical immunity treatments had failed. There was no cure.
They had months left. A year, if they were lucky.
James didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The sound in the room went static. The lights above buzzed like flies in his ears. The floor rocked like it might fall out from under him. He just stood there, barely nineteen, freshly graduated, a job he hadn’t even warmed into yet - and now this?
He left without remembering how.
He returned the next day.
Euphemia was pale, but smiling. Her hands had thinned, bones showing where soft skin once was, but she still reached for him like he was her world. Her room smelled like lavender, and there was a vase of sunflowers on the window ledge, yellow as his childhood.
“Don’t look like that, sweetheart,” she murmured, “we’ve had a good run, haven’t we?”
James tried to laugh, but it cracked in the middle.
“We’re not afraid, James. Not really,” she went on, voice low and steady. “We’ve had each other. We had you. You’ve given us everything.”
He shook his head, blinked hard. “Mum - ”
“What we’re afraid of is leaving you alone.”
She said it so simply, it cleaved something open in him. All his carefully stacked defences. All his grown-up bravado, tearing at the seems and ripping out stitches.
“We won’t rest easy knowing you’ve got no one left. Not when you've always carried so much. You never let it show, but we know. You’ve always been the light in our lives. We just want to know someone will carry that with you.”
He tried to brush her off. Said he had the boys - nevermind that they were all scattered around the world, all thirsty to find their purpose in this world and its brewing war. That he was fine. But she reached for his hand and stilled him with a look.
“Someone to come home to, James. Someone to stand beside you - not because they have to, but because they want to. You deserve that.”
James knew his parents' concerns too well. He's gonna be inherting that big manor, all to himself - with no one to come home to.
It lodged in his chest like a spell misfired. Her words, her softness, the knowing way she held him in her gaze. He nodded, but it felt like a lie. Because how could he promise her something like that?
How could he find love in the shadow of goodbye?
That night, he couldn’t sleep.
The manor was too quiet. Every corridor echoed. The portraits whispered too softly to hear. Grief sat heavy on his ribs, like wearing a crown too big, too heavy, for a boy still learning how to carry himself like a man.
He still had the traces of his youth, barely smudged by an adulthood stamp. He's still the same boy in red robes running through darkened halls with his brothers as their laughter echoed, followed by the loud sound of dungbombs going off.
He walked the halls until his legs ached. Stepped outside when he couldn’t breathe.
The night air bit at his cheeks.
And then - her voice.
Not real. Just a memory. Echoes from earlier in the week. From a tucked-away bakery in Diagon Alley.
“I don’t have friends. I don’t have anyone.”
He hadn’t meant to overhear. But now it's stuck on him like a gum he had stepped on during a stroll - he could get rid of it but that would require effort that he didn't manage.
You voice was stuck in his head.
It was sharp and tired. Raw and ragged.
He remembered her now - vaguely. Head Girl. Two years above. Always quiet. Always watching. She hadn’t looked at him like he was anyone special. And when she spoke, there’d been something in it he hadn’t known he needed until now - someone else falling apart.
Someone else with no one left.
And maybe - maybe two desperate souls can help each other out.
The bell above the bakery door chimed, soft and familiar, but you didn’t look up right away. Your hands were dusted in flour, wrists deep in dough. It was nearly noon, and you'd barely had a sip of your tea. The day had been steady - enough customers to keep you occupied but not enough to keep the intrusive thoughts out.
Your shoulders ached. Your back was killing you. (girl, same)
You muttered a quick greeting without turning around. "We’re out of treacle tarts. And the jam puffs won’t be ready for another hour."
A pause.
Then -
"That’s alright. I didn’t come for pastries."
Your hands froze. Not because you recognised the voice - not immediately. But because of the tone: uncertain, careful.
You looked up.
James Potter was standing just inside the bakery, hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers, hair a mess, robes too nice for this part of town. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there the last time he’d come in.
The last time. Which had been. . . what? Two days ago?
He looked out of place. But not like a prince slumming it. Like someone who didn’t know where else to go.
"You again," you said, more confused than anything. "If not for pastries, come back for what, then?"
He scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry. I know this is strange. I just - can we talk?"
Essie, hovering by the front counter, raised an eyebrow at you. You waved her off. "I’ve got it. Go get started on the almond wands."
Essie didn’t argue. Just wiped her hands and disappeared into the back - she'd surely ask about it later.
You turned your gaze back to him. Folded your arms. "Alright. Talk."
James took a breath like he was about to dive into something very cold.
"I need a favour. A big one."
You blinked. "You need me to do you a favour."
That was the last thing you expected from James Potter.
He smiled, grim and lopsided. "Yeah. Mad, innit?"
You didn’t return it. "What kind of favour?"
"Marriage."
The silence that followed was so complete you could hear the oven ticking behind you.
"Pardon?"
He took a step forward. "Not - not real marriage. Not like that. Not at first. I just. My mum. She’s sick, both my parents are. Really sick. And she asked me - well, she wants to see me settled. She wants to know I won’t be alone."
You stared at him like he’d grown a second head as he scrambled to explain himself.
"You don’t even know me."
"I know enough," he said quietly. "I know you’re proud. That you’re hurting. I heard you, the other day. You and your friend, in the back."
Your stomach dropped.
"You were eavesdropping?"
"Not on purpose," he said quickly. "I just - heard you. And something about it - about you. It stayed with me."
You looked away. Heat prickled at the back of your neck. Shame, and something else. Something heavier.
"So what? You figured we’re both miserable, might as well be miserable together?"
James smiled faintly. "Something like that."
You should have laughed. Or told him to leave. Or hexed him, maybe - blacklisted him from your bakery for such an incredulous proposal.
Instead, you said, "And what do you get out of it? Besides ticking a box for your mum?"
"I'll handle the debt - you’d live at the manor during it," he said. "You’d be safe. Comfortable. No debts. No dodgy landlords knocking on your door."
"And in return?"
He met your gaze. "We pretend. Just for a bit. We give my parents the peace of mind they deserve, just before they go."
A long pause.
You looked at his hands - tucked into his pockets, knuckles white with pressure. He looked exhausted. Raw around the edges. Just like you.
You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no, either.
He stepped forward and slid something across the counter.
A small piece of parchment. Just his name and an address, perhaps a place to owl. His handwriting neat and surprisingly careful.
You didn’t pick it up.
He nodded once. "Think about it."
Then he left, the bell over the door chiming again like a punctuation mark.
You stood there long after he was gone, arms folded tight across your chest, heart thudding loud in your ears.
You looked down at the name.
James Potter.
You didn’t throw it away.
The letter comes just after dusk.
It’s marked in red wax, the goblin seal pressed so deep into the parchment that it’s cracked the paper. You don’t open it right away. You don’t need to. You already know what it says.
You read it anyway.
Final Warning.
Immediate repossession scheduled.
Your hands shake. The bakery’s quiet - too quiet - and the ticking of the old brass clock on the wall sounds like thunder. Upstairs, a leak drips steadily into a teacup you’ve stopped bothering to empty. It’s all falling apart. Bit by bit. Month by month.
You’ve sold nearly everything of value. You haven’t bought new robes in a year. You haven’t paid yourself in longer.
You sit at the kitchen table, still in your flour-stained apron, and stare at the parchment like it might change if you just will it to. It doesn’t.
Essie finds you like that. She’s still in her coat, scarf looped once around her neck. Her wand glows faintly as she steps into the back, eyebrows raised.
Then she sees the letter.
You don’t say anything. Just slide it across the table.
There’s a long silence.
“You’re not sleeping,” she says, not unkindly. “And you look like you’ve not eaten properly in days.”
You press your hands to your face. The tears hit before you can stop them - stupid, useless tears that burn your eyes and your pride alike.
“I’ve tried everything,” you whisper. “I’ve given everything I have, and it’s still not enough.”
Essie doesn’t interrupt. She lets you break. Quietly. Without judgment - like she always did, she's younger by a year but you feel as is she's decades matured than you.
Then, she says the one thing you’ve been trying not to think about:
“Maybe it’s time to take the offer.”
You freeze.
“You could do worse than a Potter,” she continues, setting her bag down. “And it’s not like he’s a stranger. Not really - and more than anything, his offer makes sense and it's not for shady reasons.”
But he is, you want to say. James Potter is a ghost of your childhood, a flicker of a memory too golden to have ever been yours. You haven’t seen him in years, and even when you did - you were just someone in the corner of his world.
He wasn’t supposed to remember you. He wasn’t supposed to come into your bakery. He wasn’t supposed to hear you like that.
But he had.
And he offered you a lifeline.
You don’t answer Essie. You just nod, once, and disappear up the stairs to your flat.
The letter is short.
You write it with trembling fingers, the ink blotching in one corner.
If your offer still stands,
I’d like to discuss it.
- ____ ____
You don’t sleep that night, either.
The café sits at the edge of Diagon Alley, just before the shadows of Knockturn begin to creep in. The windows are fogged, the booths are cloaked in perpetual half-light, and no one looks too long at anyone else.
You arrive wrapped in your thickest cloak, wand strapped at your thigh. The moment you step inside, you see him.
James Potter - sitting in the back corner, hood drawn up, still managing to look unmistakably like himself. Like autumn sun and lightning storms. Like a boy who’s never known real fear until now.
His eyes meet yours.
You sit across from him. The booth is too small, too narrow - your knees almost touch beneath the table. Neither of you orders anything.
You clear your throat. The words feel heavier now, weighed down by everything they mean.
“I’ll do it,” you say.
There’s a pause.
And then James exhales - not quite relief, not quite gratitude - something older, something heavier. The tension leaks from his shoulders, from his jaw. You realise he’s been bracing for a no.
“You’ve no idea what this means to me,” he says, voice low.
For a second, you think he’s going to reach for you. His hand twitches on the table, and your breath catches - but he pulls it back.
Then, from inside his coat, he pulls a neat scroll of parchment. Tied with a green ribbon. Thick and official-looking.
You blink.
“Is that - ?”
“The contract.” He grins, boyish and almost sheepish. “I wrote it up after I left the bakery. Had a feeling.”
“You knew I’d say yes?”
He shrugs, leaning back in the booth. A flash of something wicked glints behind his glasses.
“Call it intuition.”
And maybe he’s arrogant. Maybe he’s mad. Maybe you are, too.
But as your fingers close around the parchment, warm from his coat, you feel something almost like air in your lungs again.
A beginning.
Even if it’s the strangest one imaginable.
You arrive in a clean cloak, wand tucked tight in your sleeve, palms sweating despite every calming draught in your cupboard.
The manor looms quietly under the twilight - not cold, not cruel. Just. . . still. The way ancient places are. As if the walls remember everything.
James opens the front door before you can even knock.
“Alright, Head Girl?” he murmurs, and there’s that grin again, lopsided and golden, like this is all just a grand joke between the two of you. You elbow him gently.
“You’re lucky I don’t hex you for that,” you mutter.
But your smile stays.
"Relax, you look great, they'll love you." You pretend that your stomach didn't flip at the compliment. It was probably just to ease your nerves, not much to it.
You’ve rehearsed this story to death.
You were two years above him at Hogwarts. Head Girl. Known for your strict patrols and your no-nonsense duels with some Slytherins. He was a fifth-year nuisance, always in detention. You didn’t even remember him.
Not until he walked into your bakery, two years after you graduated, and said, “Your treacle tart’s going to ruin my life.”
You’d raised a brow. Told him you weren’t interested in love-struck boys with sugar on their lips. He’d come back anyway. Every week. Every Sunday without fail. Talking about literature, Quidditch, philosophy, muggle poetry and how you made the best almond croissants in London.
You tried not to fall. But the story goes - you caved.
It’s soft. Sweet. Just plausible enough to pass as truth.
And tonight, it has to be.
Euphemia Potter is already halfway to the door by the time you step inside. Her cheeks are flushed with excitement, hair pinned up with little golden combs. She’s wearing something soft - silk, maybe - in forest green.
“So you’re the one,” she says, eyes crinkling, voice like warm honey. “Our Jamie’s treacle tart.”
You blink then laugh, it was a real one - the opener was too silly. “That’s me, apparently.”
Fleamont’s footsteps echo from the hallway - slower, but steady. He gives you a long look, then smiles as he extends a hand.
“Didn’t expect him to fall for a baker,” he admits, voice gravelly, “but I respect a man with good taste - and we Potter men are known to have exceptional ones.”
They welcome you in like you’re already part of the furniture. Like you’ve always belonged - which is weird given how everything in the manor screamed luxury.
You knew he was rich and it was no secret that the Potters were influential - and he is to inherit everything, but you didn't really expect this.
You grew up far from all of this, and this might be your first time witnessing such grand luxury.
Now, dinner -
You talk about pastries, your best-sellers, your Hogwarts days. You even pretend to distinctly remember James in the corridors - “a menace in too-big glasses, always running away from trouble.”
They laugh. You laugh.
And each time, it cuts deeper. Because it’s not a performance to them -
It’s not a deal. It’s not debt.
It’s real.
You excuse yourself after pudding. Say you need a bit of air.
James joins you seconds later in the garden, stuffing his hands into his pockets like a boy again. You could almost laugh bitterly - even their garden screamed luxury.
“You alright?” he asks, quiet.
You shrug, eyes scanning the dark blooms around the gravel path. “Didn’t expect them to be so. . .”
“Lovely?”
You nod. “Real.”
“Yeah,” he says softly, and his arm brushes yours. “They are.”
He offers you his arm, gentlemanly and a little cheeky. You take it, because you’re supposed to.
But you don’t lean in.
You don’t think you could bear to.
Not tonight. Not when they believed every word.
You find James in the greenhouse, having been told by the house elf where he was so early in the morning. The morning hues were yet to bleed out, barely a sun peeking out but it was already bright.
It’s quiet, soft with the scent of damp soil and blooming citrus. Golden light spills through the glass, casting long shadows across the stone floor. He’s tending to something leafy and stubborn-looking when he hears your footsteps.
He doesn’t look up right away. Just says, lightly, “You’re early.”
You shrug and nod at him, “You’re always early.”
He turns to you then, wiping his hands on a cloth. There’s something different in the way he watches you - not amused or teasing, just steady. He nods toward the bench behind him -
“Sit.”
You do, without asking. And that’s when he pulls it from his pocket - a small box, velvet red and obviously old.
Your heart stutters.
He opens it, not with a dramatic flourish, but carefully. Like it presenting something heavy, yet important.
Inside, a simple gold band with a red gem in the middle glows under the greenhouse light. Thin. Elegant. The faintest shimmer of enchantment woven into its metal - and the gem that’s glistening like magic.
“It was hers,” James says softly. “Mum’s. She told me she’d like it to go to someone good.”
You blink. The weight of it hits before the ring even touches your skin, a family heirloom passed to every Potter bride.
You manage, “Then you’ve picked the wrong girl, Potter.”
He shakes his head. Smiling - not his usual grin, but something smaller. Truer, you wonder if how many of those he’ve had since the diagnosis.
“No. I don’t think I have.”
You reach out but he moves the box away from your touch, you frown as you watch him pluck it out, carefully moving as he slide the ring onto your finger.
It fits too well. And for one horrible second, you want it. Want this. All of it.
You look down at your hands. Then up at him.
“How are they?” you start, but the words catch.
James nods slowly. “Dragon pox. Started last year. Dad’s got it now too - not as bad, but. . .”
He trails off, sits beside you on the bench, his head hanging low in defeat.
“There’s no cure. Just potions to ease it. Mum’s pretending to make peace with it. But I think she knows.”
Your throat feels tight. You don’t touch him - can’t - but you shift closer, just enough that your knees almost touch.
“I’m sorry,” you say softly, hoping your sincerity was bleeding into those two words. You keep your eyes on him, seeing how familiar he look - he looked like you with all the weight on him.
He breathes out. “They’re everything. And they asked me. . .” He hesitates. “They asked me to promise that when they go, I won’t be alone, they’re amazing and just want what’s best for me, I think they’re just holding on to see me happy.”
You understand then - what this is, so much deeper than a boy wanting to appease his parents. It’s a son who wants to give his parents peace.
There was a moment of silence, you turn away to not keep staring at him. Eyeing the plants.
“What about your debt?” he asks, careful not to make it sound like a threat, a burden for a burden.
You consider staying silent. But the ring on your finger glints in the light, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe.
“My parents made a mess,” you say. “Gambled everything away. Stole from the shop. Wrote my name on too many contracts and disappeared. I’ve been trying to pay it back ever since. The bakery keeps me fed, but barely.”
You glance at your lap, willing yourself not to sound too pathetic. Despite laying out all the
“I didn’t think I’d make it,” you admit.
Unsure what to say, he just swallowed the forming lump in his throat. Then he decided to part his lips, - "You're really strong, ____. You didn't deserve any of that, but you're still here."
You laugh a bit, nudging him with your knee. "Guess we both are - must come with being Gryffindors."
A long, quiet silence stretches between you.
It’s not uncomfortable.
The engagement announcement happens that night over dinner - nevermind the fact it wasn't all romantic how you got the ring on your finger.
James was the picture-perfect excitement, grin so wide you almost thought he was genuine about wanting to marry you.
James, lifting his goblet - cleared his throat. "Mum, Dad, we're engaged."
You almost smirk, he did not even make some grand speech. He just dropped it like that - that is so him.
Euphemia gasps like it’s the best news she’s ever heard - and perhaps it was. Fleamont claps James on the back - he sat at the head of the table and to his left was James - you sat next to him.
But Euphemia reaches for James’s hand over the table, and you can tell something’s bothering her - a look of worry paint over her wrinkled features.
“Just tell us this isn’t because of us,” she says. “What we said. About wanting to know you’d be alright.”
You glance at James. He hesitates - he appears to be losing it - the smile faltering and he seems like me might burst, at the reminder.
So you step in, a hand on top of his that rested on his thigh under the table, you didn't think much of it but he was shocked.
“It’s not because of that,” you say, voice even. “He didn’t pressure me. He’s been. . . kind. A gift I didn’t expect while I was struggling.”
Your words were true, you weren't lying and James could tell, he moved his hand to intertwine it with yours under the table, willing himself to be grounded by your warmth and your touch.
He exhales, exaspherated.
You meet Euphemia’s eyes and say, “I’d be proud to marry him.”
She smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at.
Fleamont raises his glass. James is quiet beside you - his grip tightened just slightly.
You don’t look at him.
You move in the next morning - the Potters were very eager to welcome you in as a housemate, Euphemia already discussing what tea to have with you every afternoon as that dinner progressed.
You felt warm all over, they were kind people - you somewhat felt goof to be giving them the peace they deserve, even if it is under deceit.
There’s only one trunk. Your life condensed into canvas and charm-bound compartments.
James carries it easily. Leads you up the stairs to his room - soon to be yours too.
You glance around. Quidditch posters, books on dueling theory, the faint scent of broom polish and pine. It is unexpectedly organized, with his personality - you expected a mess.
He clears his throat, feeling a bit awkward with how you eyed his room - his childhood room. “You alright sharing?”
You drop your trunk at the foot of the bed. “I’ve been through worse,” you say dryly. “Sharing a bed with a man is the least of my worries.”
He laughs, nodding slightly. “So I’m not even a little bit intimidating?”
You raise an eyebrow, turning to give him a look. “I still see you as that troublesome fifth-year. You’re a little boy to me, Potter.”
James scoffs, deeply offended. “I’ll have you know I’m an Auror now. Very manly. Very brave. Very capable.”
You wave him off. “Yeah, sure.”
“Need me to prove my masculinity? I can take my shirt off. Show you the Quidditch captain physique. Maybe throw in some Auror combat moves.” James wiggled his eyebrows and you just laugh at him - shaking your head.
“Merlin, please don’t.”
He grins, but it fades slowly, leaving something quieter behind.
Then the night finally came, the time to actually share the bed - that gryffindor red bed.
There’s space between you. But it’s warm - and you could feel him right behind you, backs turned on each other as if facing each other would reveal things you dared not discuss yet.
Still, it's warm.
Not love. Not yet.
But maybe something like safety.
The invitation arrives tied in a red silk ribbon, dropped onto the breakfast table by a smug little owl who barely waits for a scrap of bacon before flying off again.
You stare at the embossed lettering. Your name in fancy script. An invitation to a Hogwarts friend's wedding. Someone you haven't spoken to in years - not really. Someone who belonged to a life you thought you’d buried somewhere between unpaid invoices and final warnings.
Hariett Selwyn.
James plucks the card from your fingers before you can shove it away - he inspected it.
“A wedding?” His eyebrows lift, and he reads it aloud in a falsely posh accent, smirking. “How charming. Perfect opportunity to show off my beautiful fiancée.”
You groan, reaching for your tea like it might save you - ignoring the compliment, safer to do so. “I’m not going.”
“Come on,” he says, already leaning back in his chair like the decision’s made. “It’ll be fun.”
“Fun,” you echo dryly.
He grins, utterly unbothered. “We’re supposed to look like a real couple, aren’t we? Consider it . . .practice.”
You narrow your eyes. “I have nothing to wear.”
James shrugs like he’s been waiting for you to say that. He waves his wand lazily and a box appears, neatly wrapped, on the table between you.
“Handled,” he says with a wink.
You blink at him. At the box. At him again.
He has that shit-eating grin, you almost worried it was gone - James Potter now 18 years old with the weight of the world on him, he still has that youth in him after all.
“You’re insufferable.” You tell him without any bite to it.
“Thank you. Open it.”
Inside: a dress. New. Beautiful. Silky under your fingertips, clearly expensive - but not loud or garish. Thoughtful. Something you might’ve picked yourself, if you ever let yourself dream that way anymore.
You’re blinking too much. You cover it by rolling your eyes and muttering something sarcastic. James just smiles, infuriatingly pleased with himself.
You arrive at the wedding together - and you might as well be walking into a fairytale.
James is devastating in tailored formal robes, hair artfully messy, glasses gleaming. And you - you barely recognize yourself in the mirror. The dress fits like a second skin. It catches the light when you move.
When James looks at you, there’s a flicker in his expression he doesn’t bother hiding. You swallow all the butterflies down as if you could flush them out -
James Potter is straight out of a dream, no wonder girls swoon at the sight and mention of him.
People flock to you the moment you step inside. Champagne glasses pressed into your hands. Laughter and perfume and old, blurred memories swirling around you.
“You two look so in love!” someone coos, squeezing your arm. Probably in your year, you can't recall.
“About time someone tamed James Potter,” another one laughs - maybe another Gryffindor? Who knows.
James plays his part flawlessly. Arm around your waist. Whispered jokes in your ear. Smiling like you’re the only person in the world. Like he’s been waiting years just to be standing here with you.
At first, you fake it. Smile, laugh, nod in all the right places.
But the longer the night goes on - the easier it becomes. The lies sit lighter on your tongue. The champagne warms you from the inside out. For a few hours, it’s almost frighteningly easy to believe in this story you’re telling.
When the music changes, James holds out his hand with a theatrical bow -
“May I have this dance, Miss Treacle Tart?”
You roll your eyes but place your hand in his anyway, snorting at the name.
The floor tilts under you slightly - too much champagne, too many lies - but James steadies you without a word. His hand fits at the small of your back like it belongs there. His other hand twines with yours, easy and sure.
He twirls you under the soft golden lights.
You forget yourself for the berifest moment.
Forget the debt. The bakery. The past nipping at your heels like wolves - how everything has changed for the worse since Hogwarts.
For a dizzy, dangerous heartbeat, you forget where you end and he begins.
You laugh - breathless, lightheaded - and when you look up, you catch James already looking at you.
Soft. Something terrifyingly earnest in his hazel eyes. Right, they're hazel, so warm - the color of late autumn, all gold-flecked green and fading warmth, like the last good day before winter
The song ends. You pull away too quickly, mumbling something about needing air, needing another drink, needing space - just to put a distance between you two before it all collapse.
James lets you go without comment, just watching you with that same unreadable look -
Later, across the room, you feel his gaze again - heavier this time, more sure.
Your heart stutters traitorously in your chest. You tell yourself it’s just the champagne, you never did hold your liqour well - memories of your sixth-year, first time trying Firewhiskey, playing in your head.
You woke up in the Gyffindor common room on top of one Sirius Black, he had teased you relentless about how you quite literally passed out on him - said it was the first time a girl has thrown herself on him without getting a snog out of it.
You of course shut him up with a hex.
The bakery smells like sugar and cinnamon and something warm you can’t quite name. You’re behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair twisted into a messy bun, a smudge of flour at your temple you haven’t noticed yet.
You’ve only just reopened for the morning rush when the doorbell jingles - and there he is.
James Potter, grinning like he invented sunshine - or like it pours out of his ass.
He leans against the counter like he belongs there, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair as artfully messy as if he planned it. His glasses catch the morning light. He looks maddeningly pleased with himself.
You pretend you don't see him - but it never works.
He pretends you aren't pretending.
The girls by the window definitely see him.
You catch it out of the corner of your eye - the sharp gasp, the hurried whispering. You brace yourself.
Sure enough, a girl (eighteen? nineteen?) edges closer, clutching a pastry box like it might shield her. “You’re -” she breathes, wide-eyed, “you’re marrying him?”
You glance lazily over at James, who wiggles his eyebrows at you, utterly shameless.
You sigh dramatically. “I know. I still don't believe it either.”
The girl giggles and practically skips back to her friend. You see them both collapse into chairs by the window, whispering furiously.
James presses a hand to his chest, mock-affronted. "You wound me," he says loudly enough for half the bakery to hear. "Here I was thinking you were the lucky one."
“Oh, absolutely,” you say, without looking up from the till. “A real catch, Potter. Just what every girl dreams of. A boy who can't iron his own robes and thinks treacle tart is a balanced meal.”
"Oi," he says, affronted. "I've improved. I even have investments now."
"Mhm. I'll believe that when you can go a week without blowing something up in the kitchen."
James turns toward the waiting crowd like he’s hosting a press conference. "For the record," he announces, "best baker in the Alley. Also my fiancée. Did I mention that? Fiancée. As in, tragically, devastatingly off the market."
You throw a dish towel at his head.
He catches it one-handed, still grinning.
The bakery hums around you - the low chatter, the clink of silverware, the golden morning pouring through the windows - and for a few minutes, it feels almost terrifyingly easy. Like this was always meant to happen. Like there was always a version of the future where you ended up here, with him, like this.
James lounges at the end of the counter, watching you work.
“You look happy,” he says after a minute, voice lower, like he doesn't mean for anyone else to hear.
You blink at him, hands deep in the pastry case.
"I am," you say, and it's mostly true. "Feels good. Being here again. It's. . . grounding."
James smiles, soft and crooked, observing you as you continue to work. So natural, so in your habitat.
You clear your throat and reach for a new box. “We're famous now, you know," you tell him, more to fill the sudden quiet than anything. “Top gossip on Witch Weekly.”
James snorts. “Let them talk. They’re just jealous.”
"Of what?" you ask, deadpan. "Your charming humility?"
"My undeniable sex appeal, actually," he says, winking.
You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle you don’t sprain something.
Somewhere between boxing up an order and wiping the counter, you lose track of him. You hear a suspicious rustle near the pastry display.
You whirl around just in time to see James, mouth full, cramming a stolen tart into his pocket with the guilty look of a five-year-old.
"James Fleamont Potter!" you gasp, brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon.
He backs toward the door, laughing so hard he nearly trips over a chair.
"You’re banned!" you call after him, chasing him halfway onto the street. "Banned for life!"
"See you at home!" he calls back, victorious, scattering powdered sugar in his wake.
You stand in the doorway, hair flying loose, apron dusted in flour, laughing in spite of yourself. Your heart is still racing, from chasing him out or something else - you dared not wander there.
The kitchen at Potter Manor's kitchens was all warm light and drifting flour when he found you.
You were kneading dough on the marble counter, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back, lips pursed in focus. You barely glanced up when he entered, dusting flour off your palms like you had every right to be there. Like you always would be.
James lingered in the doorway a moment longer than necessary. Watching you with a look you didn’t catch - soft around the edges, almost shy. Like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real. Like he thought if he blinked, you might disappear.
A wife, he hasn't really thought of that. He just got out of his Gryffindor robes and rucked it away, never to be worn again - it's all too fresh, a wife. . .
Finally, he cleared his throat.
"You know," he said, voice too casual to be anything but deliberate, "I was thinking we could bake something together."
You arched an eyebrow, skeptical. "You? Bake?"
He clutched his heart in mock offense. "I’m a man of many talents, I’ll have you know."
"You’re a menace," you said lightly, turning back to your dough. "And you’ll ruin your kitchen."
"Our kitchen," he corrected without missing a beat, flashing a grin so boyish you didn’t have the heart to argue - right.
You wiped your hands on a cloth and sighed, pretending to think it over. "And what exactly did you have in mind, Potter?"
He shifted his weight awkwardly, running a hand through his messy hair, not that that ever worked in his favour. "Something for my parents. I. . . I’ve never really done that before. Baked for them, I mean. Thought it might be nice, you know, for once."
Something warm flickered in your chest at that. The sentiment, awkward and sweet, was so very James. It softened the place inside you that had been hardened by necessity, by all the pretending.
"Alright," you said, gentler now. "Let’s do it."
He lit up, the way only James Potter could - sudden and breathtaking, like a boy seeing Christmas lights for the first time - you ignore how your stomach flipped.
You rolled your eyes but laughed anyway, nudging a mixing bowl toward him. "Start by cracking the eggs," you instructed, biting back a smirk.
James nodded solemnly - then immediately dropped half a shell into the batter.
You both burst out laughing, rich heir James Potter couldn't even crack an egg properly into a bowl after years of intricate Potions classes.
Somewhere down the line, flour ended sprinkled all over his messy hair.
"Right," he said, laughing breathlessly as you swatted him with a tea towel, "this is war, then."
"You started it!" you accused, dodging another cloud of flour he lobbed your way.
"You called me a menace."
"You are a menace."
He lunged for you, and you shrieked, ducking under his arm and grabbing a handful of flour to throw back at him. It puffed into his hair, turning it an even more chaotic shade of white, if that were possible.
"You’re going to regret that," he said, grinning wide and reckless.
"Big talk for someone covered in flour, Potter."
He chased you around the kitchen island, both of you laughing so hard you could barely breathe. When he finally caught you, it wasn’t with the triumphant crow you expected, but with a gentle touch - his hands settling lightly at your waist, holding you still.
You froze. Not because you were scared. But because it was so easy. Too easy.
Your chest rose and fell, your pulse a drumbeat against your ribs.
For a moment, neither of you moved - just staring at each other like there was something settling in between. You neglect to notice how his lashes are painted white now, he blinks at you.
James’ smile faltered, slipping into something softer,, you pray to all your ancestors to calm your hammering heart in fear that he would hear it.
"I like seeing you laugh," he said, voice low.
You swallowed hard. "Don’t get used to it."
His mouth tilted in that familiar lopsided way. "Bit late for that."
You turned away under the pretense of rescuing the now-forgotten batter. Your hands shook just slightly as you picked up the whisk, you clear your throat.
James didn’t push. Just stood nearby, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him - you both pretend like you didn't get assaulted by the flour man.
"You ever bake anything before?" you asked, trying to sound casual.
He leaned on the counter, grinning. "Does nicking biscuits from the kitchens count?"
"Absolutely not."
"Then no."
You laughed under your breath. "Hopeless." Yep, you both were.
"And yet you’re letting me help," he pointed out.
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. "That’s because I’m benevolent."
He nodded solemnly. "Saint-like, really."
You hid your smile as you handed him the whisk. "Beat that until your arms fall off - put all that quidditch and auror manliness to work."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, giving you a ridiculous salute before setting to work - slopping batter across the counter within seconds.
"You’re a disaster," you said, half fond, half exasperated.
"Disaster’s just another word for creative genius," he said breezily.
You rolled your eyes and bumped his hip with yours. He laughed and bumped you back, and you ended up side by side, shoulders brushing, working together.
Somehow, it didn’t feel strange at all.
Later, once the pastries were cooling on the rack - a little lopsided, a little burnt at the edges - you leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching James lick a smear of batter off his thumb.
You fought yourself from watching how his tongue darted out to lick it off, feeling your cheeks grow hot.
"You’ve got a bit on your nose," you said, pointing - distracting yourself from the image of him licking the batter off.
"Where?"
You stepped closer, hesitated, then reached out and wiped it away yourself.
His eyes stayed glued to you and for one charged heartbeat, neither of you spoke - like the world decided to pause so you can once again just look at each other, everything remains unsaid.
You cleared your throat and stepped back quickly. "There. All sorted."
"Thanks," he said, a little hoarse.
You turned away, fiddling with the edge of a tea towel. "S’pose you didn’t do half bad, for your first try."
"High praise coming from you," he said, mock-gravely.
You shot him a look over your shoulder. "Don’t let it go to your head, Potter."
"Everything goes straight to my head, actually."
You rolled your eyes again, but there was no heat behind it.You watch him pat his hair and the flour on it creates a veil of white in the kitchen, you laugh.
It was then you heard a soft noise behind you.
You turned.
Euphemia and Fleamont were standing just beyond the threshold, watching the two of you with matching expressions - fond, unbearably gentle, a little misty-eyed.
Euphemia had her hands clasped to her chest, her smile wobbly around the edges. Fleamont was clearing his throat, pretending not to be emotional and failing miserably.
You felt your chest twist sharply.
Because in that moment, it didn’t feel like pretending at all.
It felt terrifyingly, achingly real.
You straightened a little, brushing your flour-dusted hands on your apron, but Euphemia only shook her head, eyes shining.
"Don’t stop on our account," she said warmly. "It’s lovely, seeing the kitchen so full again."
James ducked his head, looking uncharacteristically bashful. You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself not to cry.
"We’ll leave you to it," Fleamont said, giving James a meaningful nod before steering Euphemia gently away.
The kitchen felt too quiet once they were gone.
James scratched the back of his neck. "They like you, you know."
You huffed a laugh, blinking fast. "I can’t imagine why."
"I can," he said simply.
The inevitable was happening, the Potters were getting worse - Dragon Pox was not something one could just power through for so long, they were bound to break down.
They've done so well holding it together for James, for their dutiful son who did everything to make it seem like he wasn't breaking down with them.
As they got worse, so did he. You can only watch as the entire family crumbles down, too afraid to pick up the pieces yourself and put them back together.
You still saw yourself as an outsider, an actor in a role - forced to play.
Instead, you resorted to helping him assist his parents. Nevermind that the house elves were there, you wanted to lend a hand. He lets you.
He feels oddly at peace when you'd sit by Euphemia and Fleamont's bed, talking about how your day has been at the bakery while they listen in. Too weak to stand up.
He watches as you take Euphemia's hand in yours and his mother's eyes fill with fondness.
Like you were the daughter they never had.
James felt something heavy settle in his heart as the days dragged on that they remained in bed, being fed potions to maybe help them regain mobility.
After three days, they were better - not healed or cured from it, but just better. Enough to get out of bed, to have dinner altogether as a family again while you all pretend death wasn't just outside the manor doors.
After those three days of dread, wondering if that was the end - you found James in your bedroom. Sat on the floor, leaned against the bed with his head hanging low.
The room looked like hell, like a bludger was set loose and it made efforts to ransack everything. Only your items remained unharmed, you heave a sigh at the sight of him so defeated.
You decided to sit beside him, distance closed. Your shoulders right next to his and he flinched at the sudden contact.
He made a move as if he was gonna say something and you stopped him. "Don't be sorry, a simple spell can fix all of this," you shake your head and bite your lip, feeling the tears build up.
It was hurting you. So much, and you were just a pretend daughter-in-law, you could only imagine what he's feeling.
He's only 18, and his whole world is falling apart before his very eyes. You probably didn't have the right to cry, this pain wasn't yours.
Then complete silence. You looked around the room to asses more of the damage, it's almost unrecognizable. Like a battle had taken place.
"You're a good son," you tell him quietly in the dark, "they're very lucky to have you.
He laughs, void of humor. "A good son wouldn't lie to his parents just to ease his guilt. A good son would go to the ends of the earth to find a cure."
You felt the tears escape then, his words hurt for so many reasons. He doesn't see himself the way you and his parents saw him, too deep in his regrets.
"That's not - " you breathe out shakily "You're a good son for giving them hope. For giving them peace. Although this is a lie, the fact remains that you have me."
He was quiet for a moment, then he turned. In the dark, you see jsut how tired his eyes are, his cheeks glossed by tears. "I won't always have you."
You were unsure now. Would another lie be better? Would another scam on top of the damned deal patch all this up and wrap it neatly in one big bow?
You decided against it, you only give him a sad smile. He doesn't say anythign after that, a whole minute passes as you looked at each other, everything unsaid still hanging in the air.
Then, swiftly, he shifted his body and his lips were on yours. Your shock rattled your whole body, barely processing the fact he was kissing you as you began replying.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It tasted like grief, and salt, and something desperate you didn’t want to name - his hands grabbed you like you were a lifeline to hold on to.
You let him, you kiss him back like you were answering it all. All the questions he would throw at the void. Why me? Why them? Why now?
You kissed him like you were able to calm the brewing storm inside him. Then he pulled back, heaving as he desperately gasped for air. You were the same, lips swollen and eyes glossed.
You didn't realize you were crying in the kiss.
He retracts his hand, holding his head like a madman. "Merlin, I'm sor - "
"Don't," you dared not let him apologize, because that would make it a mistake. And it wasn't, not to you - at least.
"Don't apologize. Don't explain," you tell him.
You understand, to some extent, why he did it. But there was no need to unpack it, it was the least of your priorities. You threw yourself at him to hug him, that was a first.
He hasn't really had that - something he didn't know he needed until he got it. He broke down in your arms like a man come back from war, he lets you hold him together while his edges were crumbling to dust.
"I'm here, James."
The garden had always been Euphemia's favourite place in the manor, she used to tend to it every day - James has taken over in her absence.
Even now, when her hands trembled too much to hold a trowel, when her legs ached too much to carry her beyond the cracked stone path, she still insisted on sitting outside - breathing in the crisp afternoon air, the fading scent of late blooms clinging stubbornly to the hedges.
You wiped your palms against your skirts, smearing soil across the fabric, and pushed to her feet. You had been kneeling in the dirt for the better part of an hour, stubbornly trying to coax life back into the frostbitten flowerbeds.
Another lost cause, probably. But there was something oddly comforting in these small, foolish acts of hope.
"Come here, darling," Euphemia called softly, her voice a thin thread against the quiet.
You brushed hair out of your face and crossed the grass. The sun caught in the pale wisps of Euphemia's hair, haloing her like a painting. Euphemia patted the bench beside her, and you sank down wordlessly.
Euphemia's hand - delicate - found yours. Her thumb brushed over your knuckles in a slow, steady circle. You couldn't remember the last time someone had touched you so gently, a mother's warm touch.
"Promise me," Euphemia said, voice almost inaudible. "Promise you'll stay with him."
Youblinked, throat tightening.
"He's always carried so much," Euphemia continued, her gaze far away, as if watching something only she could see. "Too much. Even when he was a boy - always looking out for his friends like the leader - he even gave us the gift of another son, our Sirius - "
You stay quiet. Yeah, the runaway Black has been visiting as well. If he knew the deal between you and James, he didn't say anything. Only exchanging greetings and thanking you for caring for his adoptive parents.
News of his adoption was no secret to all of Hogwarts. He was a Marauder, another headache for the Prefect that you were, four troublesome third-years, and then you were Headgirl and catching him snogging girls after dark.
He's changed a lot. Tattoos, longer hair - lots and lots of rings. But you also saw how he looked defeated. He's losing his parents again, how tragic.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. The lie hovered at the back of your throat - Of course, I promise — but it stuck there, heavy and sour.
You couldn't do it. Not again. Not to her, and not right now - it was all too much.
The words tumbled out before you could stop them.
The money. The debt. The arrangement you two agreed on to be made because you were both was desperate and selfish and terrified. The fake love you had branded around like it was actually yours to hold.
You poured it all out into the trembling space within the garden.
When you finished, you couldn't meet Euphemia's eyes. Shame burned down your spine like a lash, throbbing.
But Euphemia only smiled. A wise, old glint in her tired eyes and it undid you. Tears falling even more now. She knew.
"Thank you for being honest. But if I may - it stopped being fake long ago, dear. For the both of you."
Your heart twisted, sharp and aching.
You covered your face with your hands - and then, without thinking, buried your head against Euphemia's shoulder. Like a child. Like you hadn't allowed yourselfto be vulnerable in years.
And Euphemia stroked her hair, murmuring nonsense, the way mothers do - holding you like you were hers, and you fell apart even more.
Your voice cracked open on the words you had never said aloud, even when they clawed at your ribs in the dead of night:
"Thank you," you whispered, choking on the sound of it. "Thank you for being the first mother I ever had."
None of you saw him.
James had come to call you for dinner.
But now he stood frozen just beyond the hedge - the golden light of the dying day catching on the frames of his glasses, painting him in shades of grief and awe.
He had heard everything.
Every word.
And for the second time in his life, James Potter didn't know how to move forward. Didn't know how to carry it all.
He just stood there, heart splitting open silently inside his chest, as the girl he had fallen in love with cried quietly against his mother's shoulder - not for herself, not even for him, but for a family she was terrified to lose.
It happened days later, when the worst of the storm had settled - when Euphemia managed a frail smile again, when Fleamont grumbled weakly about his porridge being too bland.
You were in the kitchen, elbows deep in soap and dishwater, when James leaned against the doorway. Arms crossed. Watching you like he had all the time in the world.
The elves could've done it - but you wanted to do something more than just exist within the walls of Potter Manor. A future daughter-in-law waiting to be.
"Come out with me tonight," he said.
You blinked at him, suds dripping from your fingertips. "James - we can't leave your parents - "
"We won't be too far, just the gardens," he interrupted gently and you frown at him.
"Is this about the," you look over your shoulders to see Fleamont cradling a tea between his hands on the counter. You lower your voice. "The kiss?"
"What"
You shake your head. "You don't have to make up with me for that, I told you it was truly fine - "
"Just say 'yes', you stubborn woman," he laughs a bit at the end but he was pleading.
You pressed your lips together, searching his face. No jokes despite his boyish grin. Then you gave in, no word needed to be said as he let out a satisfied hum.
The garden was transformed.
Hundreds of tiny candles floated in the air, bobbing like fireflies. The table was small, intimate - just two chairs and a scattering of wildflowers in jam jars. The night air was cool and sweet, stitched through with the scent of late summer roses.
"The elves were the rewal MVPs for this by the way," he commented, grinning. You snort.
James pulled out your chair with a dramatic bow. You laughed, cheeks warming despite yourself, and sat down.
There was a picnic basket between you. He opened it with a flourish - and there, tucked carefully inside, was your favorite pastry from your own bakery. The lemon tart you always made fresh on Sundays.
You blinked. "You stole from me."
"Purchased, actually." He grinned. "You're very expensive, Miss Future-Potter."
You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt so full you were surprised it didn't spill out your mouth and drop to your lap.
You ate under the stars - swapping stories, teasing, laughing - like it was the easiest thing in the world. No performances. No pretending.
Just. . .you and him. It felt very real now, after the kiss was a date in the gardens - you can only guess that his parents were watching from the drawing room window.
Halfway through, James pushed his chair back and stood up. For a dizzy moment, you thought he was going to fetch more food - but then he turned to you and, without hesitation, dropped to one knee.
The world tilted.
You stared at him - at the way the candlelight caught the gold in his eyes, at the way he looked more sure, more himself, than he ever had before.
"This time," James said, voice steady, reverent, "I'm asking for real."
No contracts.
No debts.
No saving each other.
"Just me," he said, reaching for your hand. "Just you."
You covered your mouth with trembling fingers, tears blurring your vision. You didn't trust your voice, so you just nodded. Hard. Over and over as he caressed that ring.
You felt like you could choke from happiness but finally, you found your voice -
"Yes," you answered, laughing through the tears.
James surged up, caught you in his arms, spun you once under the floating candles - avoiding tipping the table over. You were both laughing, crying, a little broken, a little mended.
Maybe the world was ending - maybe winter was coming fast and cruel - but right now, right here, you could pretend it was only this.
Only James.
Only you.
And it would be enough.
It is a small thing - nothing like the grand celebrations that the tabloids expected and theorized soon as they heard that the esteemed Potter bachelor was to be wed -
They called it a wedding to look out for, with the Potters being rich and all, but it turned out to be an intimate gathering. One that you prefered very much.
Euphemia is wheeled into the garden, bundled in soft blankets, a wreath of tiny white flowers tucked into her hair. Fleamont sits beside her, his hand resting atop hers, their fingers still finding each other after all these years.
The air smells of lilies and earth and late spring - the world on the cusp of summer, trembling at the edge of something new.
You walk down the aisle alone, lilies cradled carefully in your hands, heart rattling against your ribs like it might break free. Had Fleamont been strong nough, he would have been with you - he said so himself.
Friends sit at the front, close friends of James from Hogwarts - a few of the Gyffindor girls from his years, you managed to invite your Headboy counterpart and his wife, the Longbottoms, there was even Essie, your greatest friend who stuck through the hardest times.
Essie winks as you pass. You mouth her a ‘thank you’ as she wipes her tears away, happy to see you finally in the light after so long in the dark.
Sirius stands beside James, ridiculously overdressed in formal robes, grinning like he knows a secret he’ll never tell.
Remus lingers just a step behind them, hands clasped neatly, a rare and quiet warmth in his gaze, behind him was also Peter who just looked happy to be included.
And James - Merlin, James.
He looks like every good memory stitched into one living, breathing thing: black hair wild in the breeze, glasses catching the light, suit fitted perfectly to his frame.
When he sees you, the whole world shifts slightly off its axis. For a moment, it’s just you and him, like it always was meant to be.
You reach him, hand trembling when you slip yours into his. He squeezes gently, grounding you, steady and sure.
The ceremony is short. Sweet.
No grand speeches. No crowds. Just the two of you standing stubbornly in front of everyone you love, hearts bare and open.
James says his vows like he’s carving them into the very bones of the earth, voice low and rough with feeling. "You came to me in the quiet, and you stayed. I will never forget that."
You barely make it through your own. The tears come halfway through, thick and hot, making the lilies in your hands blur into nothing but white and green smudges.
When you slip the ring onto his finger, you are shaking so badly that James has to guide your hand, thumb brushing your knuckles, steady and patient.
When the officiant says, "You may kiss the bride," James doesn’t wait.
His hands cradle your face like you're something holy - and he kisses you like a man who has finally, finally found home.
There are cheers, and petals tossed high into the air, and Sirius shouting something wildly inappropriate that makes everyone laugh through their tears.
Later, under the flowering arch, Sirius gives a toast - half a roast, really - about how he 'he never expected a troublemaker Marauder to marry a proper Headgirl who always gave them detention, but he supposed it was fitting as both became Heads in their last years' and "Prongs here got himself a Head Girl, although older, eh? Guess you like 'em more mature, mate!"
You laugh so hard your ribs ache. James presses a kiss to the side of your head, rolling his eyes at the implication, murmuring something only you can hear.
Probably to insult Sirius.
There are tiny cakes, charmed lights strung between the trees, plates passed hand to hand. The air is heavy with lilac and laughter and the stubborn kind of joy that refuses to be dimmed by grief.
You dance barefoot with James under the golden wash of the lights, your dress trailing behind you like a whisper.
The grass is cool beneath your toes, the sky wide and open above you. James spins you once, twice, until you are dizzy with it, until all you can do is clutch his hand and laugh into his chest.
The world feels soft. Real. Precious beyond measure.
Euphemia watches from her chair, smiling like she is imprinting the whole thing onto her soul. Fleamont squeezes her hand. She leans her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes, a small, satisfied sigh leaving her lips.
It isn’t forever.
But for now, it is enough.
And for once - enough feels like a miracle.
. . . And you understand now why they lost their minds and fought the wars, and why I've spent my whole life tryin' to put it into words.
It’s been a full year since. Still one of my favourite fics to write ever. I am still in awe that I was able to cram a full length story in just an 11k words worth one-shot.
I miss this story so much, I might have to actually do the follow-up asks now.
Hello lovelies, wanted to come on here and say that Tumblr is currently blocked in our country as it was mistaken for a gambling site. Horrendous mishandling to be honest, I've been lurking here and there, though life has been busy and this news just hit me out of nowhere. I tried logging in a few days ago and was blocked over and over, I honestly thought my account was banned for whatever reason. I am able to access the site now with a free vpn, though it has limited use time. I also don';t wish to spend money on vpn subscription, so this is just a heads up that I might disappear for a longer time than intended during my hiatus because atm Tumblr is inacessible to me unless I use a vpn. I hope you all have been well, much love <3
Oversharing vent under the cut so kindly ignore if you want
I have a friend (or had idek where we are at rn) who has a pattern of hurting me with this specific thing she does almost like tradition. Some of our big fights have always been abt this thing and I always do my best to move past it.
And I have, I forgive her and we move forward but then it happened again for the nth time. Considering she’s been my friend for 8 years, you can only imagine how many times it has been that she’s done this thing to me.
I’ve always forgiven her. And until recently, when she did it again, I did not forgive her right away. I did not shrug it off this time around because I thought I have had enough.
I’m not an endless pit to pour into. I am but a fragile glass that’s been filled up to the brim. So I confronted her about it, pointed out how this is a pattern for her and I’m done tolerating it.
And she got upset at me for bringing the past times. She said I was being a bad friend for throwing it all back in her face, and keeping scores. Saying I wasn’t genuine if all this time I harboured some form of resentment for her.
It of course shocked me. I was flabbergasted that she took my criticism of her pattern of behaviour as an attack and direct criticism of her.
I couldn’t even come up with words to say from my absolute shock. She said so many hurtful things after, even cursing at me and she’s going around telling people I’m keeping scores.
It just enrages me to think she found a way to turn this around and make it out to be my fault for reacting to something she did. And even if I was keeping scores, there wouldn’t be any to keep if she didn’t do the things the did 🥲
I’m feeling so regretful bc it’s 8 beautiful years of my girlhood spent growing alongside her and this is how she chooses to take this. I always forgave her because I thought the person mattered more than the mistake but it has gotten to the point that her treatment of me made me question my worth to her.
That said, I am currently on a limbo unsure of where to take this. I am incredibly and deeply hurt by what she said and did and she refuses to understand my side bc she’s too drunk on her own pain.
I moved out of our shared place and left without another word. We actually got to talk things first and I thought I could go back to normal, but then I learned that while I was away— staying at my mom’s to cool off during the whole argument—she had been using my computer without permission.
It baffled me how she could disrespect me so much to use my things without asking me all the while we weren’t on good terms.
So I found a new place, packed my stuff and left. She has not reached out since and I doubt I will as well. I am so happy to be rid of someone like that.
I was only her best friend when I forgave her every single time and the one time I decided not to, I’m suddenly the worst friend ever.
This is also to inform you my comeback might be pushed back a bit, I am too busy settling into my new apartment and fixing things up. Work has also gotten busier and busier, hope the new year is treating you all well!
My cat died on January 2 and that set the theme for the rest of my year, so forgive me for taking a while to post again.
2026 has not welcomed me kindly, I lost my baby Salem and I am still processing it all. No worries as I have drafts saved up, will post them once I have enough energy to format :))
Hello may I have a Percy Jackson x reader. She always felt like the second choice (see what I did here) for everything friendship, love . Everything. But Percy loved her like she was the sea. He always felt like she was his first choice . That despite speaking to Annabet. It always had been the reader. Annabeth is a matchmaker tho
Please
Light Gone Out
percy jackson x athena!reader
summary ☛ Life, in the eyes of 'always the second choice' daughter of Athena, could be compared to a dark, somber tunnel, with no lights whatsoever. Though, somewhere in this black tunnel, there's a light; A simile for Percy Jackson.
word count ☛ 2.3k+
warnings ☛ hurt/comfort. reader feels neglected and not enough. self insecurity.
mene's note ☛ the diaries entries are taken from "Luci Spente" by Jacopo Sol, except for the last one.
dividers by ☛ @cursed-carmine and @cafekitsune
masterlist percy jackson riordanverse: PJO
Annabeth this, Annabeth that. When will her turn come?
She loved her sister, truly. Everyone could see just how much she looked up to Annabeth, she was her role model. Her go–to person when she wasn't feeling her best, when their mother didn't acknowledge her efforts. For Gods’ sake, she used to follow her around Camp like a lost duckling!
So her deep–rooted and soul–consuming envy wasn't the fruit of hatred. No, not at all. It was the exact opposite.
What hurt most, though, was the constant comparison she inevitably did with her sister. Beautiful, intelligent– almost like their mother. Loved and feared by all. Wise to a greater extent and quick to give out directions in battle.
No one dared to disobey her. No one dared to even ruffle her feathers. She was everyone's hero, everyone’s favourite, the Architect of Olympus. Everyone’s first choice. Whether she… She was everyone's second choice.
Growing up in a messed up place such as Camp Half-blood, filled to the brim with teens with mummy and daddy issues alike, under Annabeth Chase’s shadow was not a stroll in the park. It meant always being surrounded by a crowd, but never really acknowledged, never truly seen. It meant being part of a conversation, but never heard, never taken into account, unless Annabeth was of the same opinion.
Deep inside her, words written in black ink into pages of her personal diary, she felt alone. How was that possible? She wasn't alone. Still, that was the feeling that reigned over her mind and heart. The feeling that often clouded her judgments, that held her back, that made her think of herself as a light, turned off by a stealthy creature of the night.
Her diary, oh her diary. It was her only confidant. The one thing that she crawled back to when everything felt too much. Secrets were spilt late in the nights, tucked under the comforting weight of her blankets. Hushed confessions were written in the margins, so small, in hopes that it was enough for her to ignore the next time she opened that page. Not important enough to be in the centre. Silly little thoughts she wanted gone.
Her diary wasn't a friend to her; no. It was the treasure chest of her real self. No filters, no forced smiles, no lies. Simply, her.
One page especially stood out. Completely blank, whereas the following pages were written so much they creaked when turned. Only in the margins could be found tiny writings, unreadable scribbles only she could interpret. They reflected her perfectly, the mirror of her soul. She often found herself opening that page, perhaps attracted by the raw emotions, poured on a poor sheet of paper, a means to lift the hefty weight off the trembly shoulders of a vulnerable sixteen–year–old.
”I always seem cheerful, I know that, and sometimes I'm terrified of having eyes on me”
”Being alone, it doesn't change what I feel, and I turn off everyone's light. Sometimes I look at my reflection, and I don't even recognise myself.”
”Please, forgive me if I can't help but feel inadequate when I'm talking about me”
Ironically, reading the outcome of her dark, lightless moments gave her an unusual sense of comfort, as if recalling those episodes were the evidence of a dim light in the pitch black tunnel that was her life.
However, in those soulless tunnels, while stumbling and falling, tired and spiritless, at some point a blinding light is all our eyes can see; With its beam, warmth returns, and a wave of fresh hope and optimism comes over us, gifting us the necessary energies to get up and regain control of our life.
This light came to her in the form of Perseus Jackson, son of Poseidon, saviour of Olympus.
She couldn't grasp what made him so… so enamoured with her. Annabeth was right beside him, with her astonishing intellect and quick wit. Why her, if he could have Annabeth? She always got plenty of answers from the sea–swept haired boy, but none satisfied her, none were valid in her opinion.
But the one he always answered with, was that she reminded him of the sea. He said she was his morning sea breeze that swept his already–messy jet black locks. Said she was the fresh waves tickling his feet, ever calm and rhythmic. Said that when she allowed herself, she could also be a stormy sea, threatening the sailors with just one thunder.
Despite all those metaphors not making sense in her mind reigned by logic and facts, she did fall for them. Hard. Unapologetically so. She felt in one of those ‘he fell first but she fell harder’ trope books she oh so loved to read in secret.
Finally someone saw her. Finally someone heard her. Finally someone’s first choice. She could get used to the feeling.
Despite not being half bad in combat, specifically sword fighting, she utterly despised the times Annabeth would drag her ass out of her cabin. Far from her warm blankets and her small lamp, and far from her copy of ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’ to train. Fighting was bad, and she wasn't bad at it. Annabeth had only interrupted her peaceful reading in the middle of a breathtaking discovery; Who was the man hidden in the moor, under a Neolithic dwelling? The answer apparently had to wait, because Annabeth decided it came after training.
Her sister was blathering about some key point to disarm the opponent, going on and on for several minutes about something she had stopped listening to two minutes into the yawnsome speech. Her attention was however caught by Percy's back, droplets of water running down his spine from his hair, a clear evidence of his daily swim break. For a good few seconds, she hadn't even cared to blink, too focused on the godly–looking boy walking out the sea.
The lovestruck glint in her eyes wasn't missed by the watchful gaze of her older sister. No, not at all. The blonde girl had even decided not to be subtle in her detection. “You fancy Seaweed Brain?”, she asked with her chin held high, eyebrows and lips pulled in a teasing expression.
The insinuation left her feeling hot, hotter than it was meant to be under the sun. While her older sister– by only a year, she likes to insist!– was all knowing smiles and wiggling eyebrows. A wet hand on her shoulder interrupted the staring contest between the two Athena’s girls, taking her already stressed heart by surprise.
In her head, a string of imprecations was resounding in a loop, agonizing the moment she'd come face to face with the reason her mind was in a messy turmoil; the greatest fear for a child of the Goddess of wisdom and logic– second only to spiders. Those hairy–legged bitches…
“Hey there, Seastorm”, he smiled down at her, flashing her a carefree smile, that lasted a bit too long for it to be just friendly. He then turned to her sister, acknowledging her with a brief nod and a simple, “hey Annie”, to which the blonde, curly haired girl answered with an amused nod of hers.
He didn't miss a beat– something her heart was not able to do with him so close to her– and grabbed her hand, tugging her lightly with him towards the beach. “Mind if I steal your pupil, Wise Girl?”
Annabeth regarded him with an amused done expression, clearly full of his incessant dance around her, and her stubbornness to deny the obvious. “By all means, Kelp Face. She's all yours today. You know what? I don't want her returned to me if not your girlfriend”, she smirked deviously.
… What was happening?! The words said were running around like crazy in her mind, a pinball where words were the tiny balls crashing around with no order or specific organization.
In that flabbergasted state, she was tugged away from the Arena, and dragged to the sandy seashore of Camp Half-blood. “What–”, she tried to ask, but one single killer smile over his shoulder from Percy was enough to send her heart into a frenzy and shut her up for good.
Her heartbeat was as loud as the crashing waves, if not louder. Irregular thumps, loud and almost suffocating echoed in her ears, blood rushing to paint the tips a vermilion. Meanwhile, her eyes searched for his sea–green ones, who were shining with mirth and anticipation.
“Annie kinda spoilered it all…”, he said scratching the back of his neck, looking like the epitome of sheepishness itself, the words coming out like whispered confessions over the roaring of her heart's pounding and waves crashing.
She raised an eyebrow, her breath short and heavy from the leftover surprise of it all. She leaned slightly in, with a hand dramatically clutching her chest to calm her raging pulse and lips hung wide, in an attempt to catch her breath. “Eh?”, she muttered out of breath and utterly confused.
At her silly state, he let out a loud chuckle and sat down criss–crossed on the white sand, tugging her down with him, patting the seat in front of him.
“Aren't you supposed to be smart and quick?”, he teased light-heartedly.
She rolled her eyes, with a smile playing on her lips, shaking slightly her head at his poor excuse of a joke.
He reciprocated with a grin of his own, almost hesitant, reaching out to hold her hands in his. His confidence returned only a few seconds later, and he acquired the courage to squeeze her fingers tenderly, not a single sound escaping him.
Though, as it took everyone by surprise– Him, her and Poseidon, ‘cause he was definitely staring down at his sole son–, he suddenly got straight to the point, only after a few good minutes of complete silence over them, the only sounds filling the void were distant chatters and laughter.
“Be my girlfriend”
A stunned, breathless scoff escaping her caught him off guard, throwing him off completely. As realisation hit her hard on her face, she slapped her hand over her mouth, mortified for her insensitive answer.
“I'm so sorry, Perce– I just–”, she spluttered out, red in the face, hand still clasping over her lips.
He only let out a chuckle at her incoherent state, an ever–growing affectionate smile replaced his earlier confident grin. His eyes no longer shone reflecting the Sun’s light, but rather from love and tenderness for the red–faced girl in an embarrassed mess standing in front of him in the soft, warm sand.
He only widened his smile when she got even redder, the hue now extending to her neck. He teasingly fanned her with his hands, getting slapped away in response from her.
“Oh, shut it…”, she mumbled behind her hand, shying away from his adoration gaze. “It just startled me…”
“Perhaps I should have learned sign language… I would have surely got a clue on your confusional signals”
“What are you blabbering about?… It was a clear yes”, she answered, looking up at him through her eyelashes, suddenly feeling sheepish from her bold statement.
A mix of emotions passed over his face, one by one, but the one he settled on was one of pure happiness. So pure that he didn't think twice to pick her up and spin around, with her laughing joyfully while holding his shoulders.
Once he placed her back down, he hugged her tightly, and rested his head on hers. While she, tearing up and moved by the situation, hid her face in the crook of his neck, shaking slightly from the quiet sobs leaving her lips.
He chuckled softly and broke the hug to cup her cheeks, smiling reassuringly at her while wiping her tears with his thumbs. “I know I'm pretty eventful, but I never expected this kind of reaction…”, he joked to try to make her smile.
“I just– It's stupid, really…”, she tried to say in vain, still shaken, seeing that Percy immediately shook his head firmly.
“Nothing’s stupid. Especially not you”, he wiggled his eyebrows with an idiotic grin, successfully making her crack a hint of a smile. Puffing out his chest proudly, he added,“you can tell me anything. I'm your boyfriend now”
After a deep breath, or perhaps two or three, she met his gaze, locking it. “Sometimes… Sometimes I feel like I'm not that important to everyone. There's always someone who comes before me. Always. And– And now you come saying all that stuff… The sea–themed similes, the girlfriend thing…”
Another big, deep breath. “It's nice”, she stated finally, lifting off a weight she had been carrying for too long. A trembly, but nonetheless genuine, smile made its way on her lips, eyes wet and a bit swollen from crying.
“Yeah, well… It's called love, Seastorm. You better get used to it, cause you're ‘boutta get loads of it from now on”
Their eyes stayed locked in place, together. Thousand of words being replaced by a single glance. Then, finally, another tight hug sealed all their confessions together; That's what love is.
Second choice? Not anymore. At least, not to the person that mattered the most.
BONUS PART
They approached Annabeth, walking hand in hand, swinging them and chuckling under their breaths. With a wave of his free hand, Percy grabbed the blonde’s attention, and watching her face changing from confusion, to realisation and to joy was priceless. What was even better, was the squeal that unexpectedly left her.
She and Percy shared a look of bewilderment, and burst out laughing loudly. “Think I can return her to you, now”, grinned Percy.
Oversharing vent under the cut so kindly ignore if you want
I have a friend (or had idek where we are at rn) who has a pattern of hurting me with this specific thing she does almost like tradition. Some of our big fights have always been abt this thing and I always do my best to move past it.
And I have, I forgive her and we move forward but then it happened again for the nth time. Considering she’s been my friend for 8 years, you can only imagine how many times it has been that she’s done this thing to me.
I’ve always forgiven her. And until recently, when she did it again, I did not forgive her right away. I did not shrug it off this time around because I thought I have had enough.
I’m not an endless pit to pour into. I am but a fragile glass that’s been filled up to the brim. So I confronted her about it, pointed out how this is a pattern for her and I’m done tolerating it.
And she got upset at me for bringing the past times. She said I was being a bad friend for throwing it all back in her face, and keeping scores. Saying I wasn’t genuine if all this time I harboured some form of resentment for her.
It of course shocked me. I was flabbergasted that she took my criticism of her pattern of behaviour as an attack and direct criticism of her.
I couldn’t even come up with words to say from my absolute shock. She said so many hurtful things after, even cursing at me and she’s going around telling people I’m keeping scores.
It just enrages me to think she found a way to turn this around and make it out to be my fault for reacting to something she did. And even if I was keeping scores, there wouldn’t be any to keep if she didn’t do the things the did 🥲
I’m feeling so regretful bc it’s 8 beautiful years of my girlhood spent growing alongside her and this is how she chooses to take this. I always forgave her because I thought the person mattered more than the mistake but it has gotten to the point that her treatment of me made me question my worth to her.
That said, I am currently on a limbo unsure of where to take this. I am incredibly and deeply hurt by what she said and did and she refuses to understand my side bc she’s too drunk on her own pain.
