headstrong

JAMES ϟ SIRIUS ϟ POTTER son. brother. seventh year. “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our Light, not our Darkness, that most frightens us.”

[jspotterii-blog]

explodedstarling:

It was fascinating seeing James Potter all emotion, all d r i v e and barely any calm emanating him. Usually, he was balance, able to see different sides of a situation and perfectly able to assess them. Now, he was all heart, and Artemis made sure to step in front of him and the prefect who wasn’t listening to him, “pardon, I can handle this, go do rounds for me, please?” Artemis dismissed the other prefect then, once again turning her attention towards James. “I KNOW you’d like to find your family – and you have every right to want that – but you’re not going to be able to sneak off and rescue them if you’re making a s c e n e, you realize??” Straightening her back, Artemis tried to appear more formal with James, as if she was maybe scolding him instead of offering any semblance of help. “I was under the impression that you were much stealthier than that.”

Just perfect. The last thing he wanted to be approached with was the puzzle that was Artemis Carrow. He had yet to discern what side she was on or what part she played, what position she held on the chess board of the war. Artemis was a swirl of possiilities in his head, as vast and murky as the night skies, but one thing she wasn’t in that moment was wrong. Drawing further attention to himself would only lessen his chances of slipping out. “In case you haven’t heard, I haven’t exactly been myself lately.” The words were bitter on his tongue, sharp and he curled his bottom lip into his mouth, berating himself for his behavior in quick retrospect. “The prefect was the one to approach ME. You may have notice that my family has a bit of a target on their backs and it’s hard not to be the focal point of attention.” It was not smething he wished for. He would much rather lurk about in the shadows where he’d taken up residence for days. “He’s probably getting a kick out of this whole spectacle. For all I know, he’s involved.” His words were quiet but no less fervant in nature, flicking his eyes around to see if there were any eyes or ears closing in on them, “I’m FRUSTRATED. And I don’t even know where they would be. If you have any idea of where they might be, I won’t even question how you know, alright? Just, if you do know, or if you have any semblance of a smart plan of action to find them, please just say the word.” Tonight, he wouldn’t question her involvement. He couldn’t afford to further split his focus and the edge of desperation revealed that he was in no spot to make accusations. 

[jspotterii-blog]

lanceahn:

             Seething. Lance was SEETHING, and usually, that meant reckless, enraged behaviour was soon to ensue. At least, it  u s u a l l y  did. Usually, however, Nadia’s face was behind a mask, not across the room, STARING at him. Willing him not to do what, USUALLY, he inevitably would. Instead of reeling around to the sound of James’ voice, instead of muscling his way past anyone that blocked their path: Lance Ahn was planning. He caught James’ wrist, and directed him, subtly, away from the prefect. “ Forget that  w a s t e m a n,  fam, ” he dismissed, corralling his old friend to the sidelines of the lockdown. He huddled by the boy, voice low, voice URGENT. “ There’s what, hundreds of students in this hall, init?? No one’s counted us yet, no one’s checked names. It’s still just setting in what’s gone down, it’s still early tings. So who’s to say, a distraction happens, a window breaks, a table flips, ANYTHING, that anyone would notice another two gone?? They got professors on the doors, but we’re both eighteen. No one can stop us apparating, feel me?? ” He reasoned, quietly, at about ninety miles an hour. Lance only paused to glance up, eyes locking onto James’. “ We’re going to find them, Jam. SWEAR DOWN, we’re getting them b a c k. ”

The pull of his wrist left James jolting. The boy almost wanted to uncharacteristically LASH out. Then again, he hadn’t felt much like himself in weeks. The sensation was not unfamiliar, but this time the tug of self-destruction was far quieter. There was no throwing himself into alcohol or the next willing body. No, there was merely a withdrawal into himself, keeping what he deemed a necessary distance from those that he cared about. And yet, still, he had managed to fail them again. Much like he had failed Lance who, once again, was unflappable in his loyalty. Pursing his bottom lip into his mouth, he listened to Lance’s line of reasoning. They could take advantage of the distressing situation like Lance was suggesting. There were more students than there were professors and prefects combined. As long as people were abuzz and no one was settled, they could seize the opportunity to slip out. The plan was SMART. “Even if they were to notice, by the time we disasppeared, it’d be too late to stop us.” His eyes kept moving around the room before they met Lance’s gaze. It was hard for him to keep the gaze steady, to look his old friend square in the eye when he no longer felt himself worthy of his friendship, when he had spent the last days HIDING. “A flick of our wrist and a harmless spell could buy us time. Hell, I even spot Peeves over by one of the tables if you want to bet on him bailing us out of here. We can’t waaste anymore time, Lance. It’s of the essence.” He didn’t have to remind Lance of the urgency of the situation. “What do you say for old time’s sake we cause a bit of a rukkus?” 

[jspotterii-blog]

“No, no, YOU are going to listen to me.” James’ hand visibly clenched around his wand at his side, fingers curling into a fist. He felt near volatile in that moment, a surge of emotions ( fear, frustration, anger, guilt ) threatening to suffocate him from the pressure that was weighed on his chest. It was a wonder that he even had the breath to form words, let alone ones that were caculated, even, cold. He would not break, steeling himself against any possibility. “I spent the last few weeks controlled by someone else so like HELL am I going to let anyone tell me what to do, especially when it’s MY family that’s missing. They are clearly NOT in the castle,” And he knew because he had checked and checked and checked the Map to no avail, “Leaving this whole lockdown pointless anyway.” What use was procedure after the fact? “Step aside.” He may be a student, but he was of legal age and now that he had his autonomy one more, he wasn’t going to let someone else dictate it for him.   

[labellepoison-blog]

It was odd, but actually being there was far less rewarding than she had expected. Sure, they were all a little worse for wear, but that didn’t matter. The others she simply did not care enough for to find the sweet aftertaste of victory in their pain, and James…well, it did seem like so much effort to break a boy she could have anyway. Sure, the idea of pulling his puppet strings like a plaything had amused her and the wreckage that puppet left in its wake was entertaining to observe. It was all so dramatic though. After years where she could have had him at the pointy end of a dagger without a split second’s notice, the entire elaborate affair seemed almost excessive.

Her disappointment with the lack of fun had would not hold her back though, of that she was certain. Gisèle Parkinson was nothing if not deliberate. The thought reminded her, though, that in the process of rolling out of bed and coming as she was, she had missed just that deliberation and foregone drawing her eyebrows and lips on. With the realization that she was without the wicked crimson mouth and defined brows, she felt conscious. Bared in a way she didn’t in the revealing fabric of her nightwear, even as she noticed his gaze slip lower. 

Perhaps it was overkill. Perhaps he would not even notice. Perhaps she was simply being too analytical in a vague situation, she considered. But carefully – deliberate like she had so much pride in being – she let her hand rest palm-up in her lap, the clean bare forearm placed directly in his line of sight, and left it to rest there.

Was she even sure what she was doing? Even as she positioned her limbs seemingly innocently to bait him, her mind protested how wrong it felt. Their relationship existed on a level plane of balanced intellect, where they butted heads but came back to do it again anyway, because it was interesting and amusing and equal. When they sat in cold, darkened corners of the castle and exchanged the cobwebs lurking in the cold, darkened corners of their minds, it felt fair. This upper hand tasted like sawdust in her mouth; it made her want to leave.

Balance would be good, she decided. And if nothing else, language would help. Therefore, she kept her tone casual, normal. “That’s nice. Wouldn’t want to make the mistake again and ruin both sides of your face. Careful, though, I think I can taste the bitterness in the air.”

It made the strangest urge to giggle rise within her. He was hard, brooding, sure, but he was also insulting Nate and that was something she was taking great pleasure in lately. Sure, she had appeared to like him, but nobody truly thought it really counted, did they? It was not difficult to appear to like somebody with an amusing sense of humour and a nice face to look at. She just could not be bothered to actually care, especially not when her own skin was on the line.

An amused smirk substituted the laugh that threatened to escape; a stark contrast to the spite presented. “I agree, he was a bit daft. We’re probably all a little better off for the amount of pitiful planning he’s removed from the war by getting arrested. That can’t have been safe for either side,” she jested, rather uncharacteristically for one of their exchanges.

[jspotterii-blog]

James was well aware that Gisèle, should she align herself at all, was a Death Eater. And she was not the type to just sit back and let others have all the so-called fun, so it wasn’t so much of an assumption as it was a fact that James simply couldn’t prove with any other evidence than the fact that, as unlikely as it would be to onlookers, he understood Gisèle pretty well. Parts of her, at any rate. There was always that wave of unpredictability between them. She was also a self-admitted killer. His eyes may not see any indication of her alliance on her bare arm, but that mattered little. Such a mark, after all, was now on his arm, and it said nothing of his own involvement in the war.  Gisèle wouldn’t get such a mark, no, that was not her style. That would be indicative of her being a slave of some sort, and she was all about control. And what was it she had said the last time they had spoken?

“If you want to win a war, you learn how to do things well.”

Good advice, he supposed, albeit a bit obvious. Gisèle would play the part of loyal, and she believed in blood purity, but he imagined she wasn’t so devoted to the cause that she considered it worth her life. And, in James’ mind, if you want to win a war, you have to be dedicated. The cause had to be greater than one’s own life, something that a person had to put themselves all in for. Choosing a side was much like placing a bet,, and the stakes were one’s own life, their loved ones who could be used against them, and it also came with the sacrifice of peace. 

It meant that James could not be as indecisive as he had been. He had to act if he wanted to see this to its end. On his own terms. The pressure was on, and it as quite the weight to carry along with his guilt. If he were to continue on as he was, he’d no doubt fall again because it was too much for his shoulders to bear for too long. So he would need to store his guilt elsewhere, for now, and refocus.

A task easier said than done while he lay in a hospital bed, his arm singed with one of the torches he now took with him. A torch that was impossible to snuff, as far as he knew. So could he then turn it into a weapon to burn his enemies with? Like they had so burned him? James would need to put on a mask for both friends and foe alike. A mask that was not so unlike the one that Gisèle typically wore though she had oddly forgone putting it on before she came to the Hospital Wing. Back in fifth year, after any of their many trysts, she would not so much as think of leaving the room before readjusting her disheveled appearance. 

It made her look softer, somehow, less of the caricature girl that she painted herself to be. Only fitting, he supposed, that an artist also made a masterpiece of themselves. “Better be careful yourself,” James drawled, managing a cool, air-tight tone. “Or I might just start thinking you care.” He wouldn’t, but he couldn’t deny she was acting odd. 

The lift in her tone also threw him off, as if he wasn’t already knocked down off his feet the way it was. He didn’t like feeling so unsteady, and Gisèle’s presence and demeanor was doing little to get him off the ground. Her smirk wasn’t near as menacing without the blood red color. She was far more human this way, and he wondered if she realized that considering how often she painted herself out to be something else. James had never believed it, though, for when he looked at her, he still saw a lost girl. One who got so good at playing pretend she was even fooling herself. 

“No,” James agreed, “It can’t be. But nothing about war is meant to be safe. If you’re not willing to take a few risks, then you aren’t going to get anywhere. Nate clearly just didn’t know me as well as he thought he did. That or he got too arrogant.” James lifted himself further, keeping his arm underneath the duvet. “Either way, he’s nothing for me to worry about anymore.”

[jspotterii-blog]

labellepoison:

Humanity was unfortunate. It made a thread of something bleak settle in the pit of her gut with a dull thud. It wasn’t that she wasn’t pleased by the material victory — she was, or so she told herself. But this boy defeated felt wrong, somehow. Uneven.

She remembered him in the closest state to lost he had been in her memory, but that had been the year of loss for her too. It had been the year a woman she had always thought of fondly as cool and interesting and torn between the world and her child had thrown it back in her face, told her she was a child of nothing but regret and fucking Billy’s opposition of abortions. That year, he and she had been equals – stumbling, yes, holding on with fumbling fingers for reasons they didn’t care to divulge, yes, but equals. This power over him now felt good, but it also felt like cheating; like it was stolen.

             It made her want to reach for more.

Grandmère had instilled within her the importance of appearance and of always, without fail, being gracious and polite. It was a façade she had dropped soon after coming to Britain, for the Gisèle who existed in the British Isles did not have much use for it. She preferred, above all else, to simply reach out and pluck up what she wanted. Gisèle Rousseau did not care what others thought about it; merely what she wanted to do.

It was why she ignored his comment and walked up between the two beds, casting a dry glance at the boy unconscious in the next one. ( The blast of red light, she remembered it. Had cast it, even. It seemed so distant in the cold antiseptic of the day. Like another girl from another life; like she was just here to visit a friend in the infirmary. ) She took a seat on the edge of the mattress – far from comfortable, she noted with distaste – and crossed her legs, smoothing out the scant hem of her shift.

“May I?” she asked, leaning over. It was bare necessity; she reached forward without waiting for an answer, lining frigid fingertips in formation along the ugly mark. And for a second, she felt worse for it than she did for the stamp on his forearm, this blemish on such a pretty face. It made the artist inside her protest wildly; if anything, it should not have cut across the beautiful slant of cheekbone. She didn’t care about Potter, but it was just bald disrespect of a nice face. Nate Tuft was an idiot. 

“It’s not terrible,” she drawled eventually, decisively, drawing back a few inches and removing her hand. “Pity about the fall, though. You might be more careful next time.”

Uneven footing. That’s how he felt around Gisèle in that moment, and it was unsettling. And it was a first. James had tripped in the middle of his stride. A stride that he’d worked so hard to make confident again, and now that all had to be salvaged once more. But he couldn’t do that, not when on either side of him were two of his very best friends, and they were hurt because of him. 

He wasn’t in the right place to begin compartmentalizing, but he had to compose himself enough to have some kind of guard against a girl who had seen a part of him that no one else had. A girl who was capable of anything, at any given moment. Luckily, Gisèle wasn’t quite to the point of reckless. Teetering on the edge, maybe, but the most he believed he could expect is emotional manipulation, but would Gisèle even bother with that? He didn’t know, and quite frankly, he was too exhausted, mentally, physically, to spend too much time concerning himself with it. 

Unlike Gisèle, even though James had grown up under the spotlight, he didn’t care much about his outward appearance. He didn’t go out of his way to step on any toes, but that was out a mixture of curiosity and his want to keep a distance. And like the girl sitting next to him, he didn’t care what others thought of him outside of his family and close circle of friends. Everything he tried to do, he did for their sake. But so often anymore, he was left helpless on what to do. Was that why he’d been so caught off guard? 

He’d worked up his mental walls for so long that he thought no one could pierce them in the way that Nate had by placing him under the Imperius Curse. A skilled occlumens, he had assumed he was ready for anything, but he’d let himself get worn, spread too thin. He would need to try and collect himself once more before the guilt and shame swallowed him whole. For the second time. He couldn’t afford something like that. 

It wasn’t a matter of may between James and Gisèle. It simply was. So he didn’t flinch at the touch, despite his physical vulnerability in that moment. He merely watched her curiously, as if he could gauge her purpose for being there. As he knew full well it was not out of concern for his well being. Glancing down the front of Gisèle’s nightgown, he couldn't help but think that he was the one far more exposed.

He didn’t care about the state of his face, though he knew part of his appeal to Gisèle was his aesthetic.“Yes, a real pity.” He couldn’t stop the spite from bleeding into his tone. Though who that spite was aimed for, he didn’t know. “But I’m not the type to make the same kind of mistake twice. I come from a rather resilient family line.” And he’d just have to make himself stand taller the next time, make himself harder to reach. “And this war is just getting started. To be quite frank, Nate couldn’t have timed it better. For me, rather than him.”

[labellepoison-blog]

“Are you really gonna leave without asking me the question you’ve been dying to ask me?” // “I don’t believe you.”

“Are you really gonna leave without asking me the question you’ve been dying to ask me?”

Would the day be naught but indignity upon indignity, Gisèle wondered as she gracelessly pulled her sweater on and located the woefully shredded mess of laddered nylon she had called tights that morning. Her legs were still drifting around the side of gelatinous, the bloody tights were unsalvageable and she still wasn’t quite sure how they had ended up in the same situation yet again. It was terrible. She felt amazing.

Clothes mostly present and accounted for, she fished the tube of lipstick out of her satchel and set to fixing the smudged mess on her face, because her hair may be completely ridiculous but she’d be damned if she left the room without her face on perfectly. It was only once she was satisfied that she looked up to meet his (smug, why did he feel so smug to her?) gaze and immediately felt the dwindling flush of embarrassment and something a lot more satisfying flare up inside her again.

Amused and adamant not to admit it, she rolled her eyes. “Fine, go on then. Are you ever going to tell me where you learnt how to do that?”

                             ( The dry “nope” should really be less amusing than it is. )

“I don’t believe you.” 

People like him were so boring sometimes. Hold a knife up to their pretty little throat, and still they insisted on being their usual, unaffected self. It made her want to slide the keen blade between a blood vessel or two out of sheer spite. Or maybe just because he had yet to compliment the very fancy fencing footwork she’d been practicing and had used to get him in their current position.

She let it linger there for a second, letting it slip a few measured millimeters – enough for a shallow breakage of skin, maybe a few drops of blood, but nothing worse. She had control. ( And more importantly, she liked her peace and had no hankering for an unnecessary number of Wotter’s trying to exact vengeance. )

Eventually though, she released him; for the commendable control, if nothing else. She expected more of a reaction, usually, but she had gotten strangely used to be surprised by James bloody Potter. It was rather comforting, even, this never knowing what was coming. She grinned as she stepped back, therefore, and carefully wiped the smudge of scarlet from the blade with the silk handkerchief from her pocket before handing it to him, making a vague gesture towards his neck, and carefully replacing the knife back in its sheath.

“I told you, I could do it,” she reiterated, casual as ever. “I just prefer not to. You amuse me.”

[jspotterii-blog]

“I think I’m pregnant.”

Staring at Lily, his sister who was no longer the child who cried during thunderstorms but was still so young and filled with misplaced insecurities that he couldn’t begin to touch because of her well-erected walls let alone smooth over, James was left blinking for a long moment. Practically three years younger than him, Lily always stood taller than him in his perhaps slightly skewed vision of her, but in that moment, she seemed so small. Perhaps that was what caught him the most off guard. He had always wanted his sister to confide in him, to know that she was able to without reservation or judgment, and for her to turn to him in this moment of uncertainty and fear meant everything. She was giving him her trust, here, and he couldn’t afford to mishandle it. 

He stormed forward, bundling her up in his arms. He asked no questions, though they did poke at the back of his mind, his naturally curious nature coming forward along with a wave of panic that he couldn’t let wash over him. He had to remain steady for Lily’s sake even though he was scared for her. But he had to keep a cool head on his shoulders as well as he could. This was such a life-altering thing, so huge, but right then, he couldn’t let himself jump forward. He had to keep his feet planted firmly in the ground. While he couldn’t shield Lily from this, no matter how he protectively he held her, he could try and keep her there with him before she lost herself once more to the doubts of her mind. 

He had to hold onto her. 

“We’ll find out for sure, okay, Fox?” I think wasn’t I know and until they got there and crossed that bridge, James wanted to do what he could do try and soothe her. If only it would be as simple as it was before, where all it took was holding her and a few words of assurance. “And we’ll deal with this together.” Like they should with everything yet they so often failed to do because they were so stubborn, always trying to deal with too much on their own. “As a family. We’ll see you through this.” No matter the outcome, no matter what Lily decided, if it came to that. They were each other’s support in this world. And Lily, along with Albus, was so often the only reasons he himself kept going. He ran a hand over her hair, cupping the back of her head.”Until the very end, remember?” 

And Lily, wherever the path may take her, was only beginning. This was just another chapter in her story, but it was far from the end.

[labellepoison-blog]

Failure did not sit well with Gisèle Rousseau-Parkinson. It felt an awful lot like losing — even if had been a battle, not the war. Her idiot accomplice ( and he was definitely that, for only one with a deplorably low intellect would play with a Potter’s loved ones for petty envy ) being taken away had turned the pleasure of the whole event bitter in her mouth. 

                    Lying awake in a dormitory full of slumbering teenagers,                     she craved the sweet simple of  v i c t o r y.

Where she normally would never have because she was a lady for fuck’s sake, Gisèle forewent a dressing gown. If accused of doing it just for the contrast of the expanse of smooth unblemished alabaster skin revealed in her nightgown against a curious little tattoo on somebody else’s, she would have laughed. ( And not disagreed. ) If asked what she was doing going to the Hospital Wing in the early mauve-stained hours of morning, she had an excuse: pain relief potion for period cramps. ( Anybody who knew her fondness for Potions would roll their eyes at that one. ) 

In a strange twist of fate, though, she met no one. It emboldened her, just as the row of broken losers on hospital cots. Pitiful. Even as they had won, technically, there they lay like an assembly line of damaged toys. It made the power thrum gold in her veins; the sense of accomplishment keen. Sure, Tuft had been taken away, but that was all his own stupidity. Ada and her, they had gotten away like two thieves in the night, nary a scratch where the righteous lay fallen.

Never to be stopped from an award-worthy performance – for she did have a tendency towards the theatrical – Gisèle stopped, taken aback, when she saw her favourite little puppet shift. And like a prowling cat, she approached:

        “ Oh, hullo there, handsome. What have you got on your face there? ”

[jspotterii-blog]

James had half the mind in that moment of weakness to make a run for it while everyone was asleep. Go fox and just run, but there was no running from himself. And James Potter was many things: a screw up, a shadow of a person, a boy in the skin of a man that he had yet to grow into properly, but he was not a coward. He would own up to what he’d done and find a way to repent for them in due time. But time was of the essence and his mind was rebelling against him. Caging his spiral of emotions would be hard, but he would do what he must, no matter how much they rattled against his chest cavity, begging to be let out and f e l t.

                ( When was the last time he’d felt the full brunt of his emotions?                    Back in fifth year. Back before he had learned to muffle the screams                    in his heart, began to mask the i n t e n s i t y of his feelings. Back                    before he put a cork in his heart to stop the overflow of blood from                    continuing to seep out in spades. )

As he stirred, sitting up with a slight grunt, head a fog of hazy thoughts and his face feeling like it was going to melt off his skull, his arm a numbing string of pain as if it were an IV, James’ vision was blurred from the onslaught, dizzied by it, but when he blinked blearily, sure enough, his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. Gisèle Parkinson of all people was there to greet him, an odd, unfamiliar sight in the near light of day. He drank in her form, still a bit disoriented and out of sorts, and he had seen her in less, but the thin nightgown she was adorning was offputting, almost too intimiate ( and distracting. )

Unlike in the past, however, James was not in any shape to drown his feelings in Gisèle and he was hesitant anyway to expose himself like that anyway, despite the temptation, the ease of which he would find himself able to do so if he weren’t in a hospital bed. He imagined what she was talking about was the reason why his face was throbbing, where the curse had hit him square in the cheekbone. He didn’t like this, not anymore, this not being in control of his mind when he talked to Gisèle.

“Physical evidence of falling on my face, I suppose,” He forewent any drawing around the facts of the matter. He imagined the school knew of the happenings by now. “Can’t say I’m much in the mood for conversation, though.”

[lanceahn-blog]

“How you feel like people should see you, and how your family and all your mates sees you for reals: bare different, bruv,” Lance disagreed, though his demeanour wasn’t argumentative in the slightest. Only warmth oozed from the boy. Maybe a little sadness, too, but he hoped James wouldn’t notice it. A part of him, caught in the tangled web of emotions, at odds with an inherent need to turn everything into a joke, just wanted to cry. For Leon, for Lucy, for James and his siblings and their family. They had lost and been through so much. He’d never been particularly close with Harry Potter —- more cordial toward each other than anything else as a result of his friendship with James. And yet, as he caught a glimpse of the hazy morning light reflecting off the other boy’s teary eyes, Lance felt a sharp, sympathetic pang of longing for the man. For a guiding light that had been stumped out. ( Really, he just wanted to pull his friend into a hug —- but he was still in a hospital bed for a reason. ) James didn’t deserve any of this. And Lance couldn’t fix it for him, couldn’t make it all less grim with a laugh. Before he considered a reason not to, he extended his good hand, and rested it over James’ —- a gesture that seemed simultaneously unfamiliar, but one of the easiest things ever. “I know what you’re thinking, and don’t you question it for a moment because of fucking Tuft. He’d be proper proud of you,” Lance didn’t say the name aloud. “How could he not be? You’re one of the good ones, Jam. Even if it all seems a little fucked right now. He’d know that. You gotta trust, he’d know that.” He squeezed James’ hand once, lightly, and released it. 

“Nah. I can’t let you slate yourself for this. You don’t see it right now, but choosing a shit mate, who abused your trust and was bad from the start beyond your control —- that’s nothing, not even a drop in the ocean compared to how much better all of our lives are for having you in them. You had no choice in any thing that went down that night.” Lance shook his head, usual beaming grin replaced with an expression that made him seem a little older. A little less boyish. Tired. “You took a curse to the face for me, you broke the Imperius. A fucked arm, one that’s already healing? It’s a pretty damn small price to pay for a mate like you. ” Lance leaned back on his seat. “Leon and Lucy pulled up alright,” he skipped over the details for James’ sake. “And Nate? Well, right about now, he should be enjoying a nice morning snog with a few Dementors. Yeah, prick got permanent residency in hotel Azzy. But not before I went proper Victoire on his ass with my good hand.” 

[jspotterii-blog]

The people around him were too forgiving. James, typically, was much like Lance, full of warmth with a big heart. .There was a reason that they had been such fast friends, gravitated towards each other, that went beyond their affinity for trouble and the search for a good laugh. But there were times that James ran cold, zapped of all strength and it was always his own doing. First with Isla, then with Nate, who he had only let in because he had been a practical stranger and it had been so much easier his fifth year to be around people who didn’t care. He hadn’t wanted someone around like Lance who would want to help him feel better, because that had been the last thing he had wanted. And that was just what he had got in Nate in the end, someone who only cared as such that it helped him meet his ends. At least back then, when he had everything explode in his face, he hadn’t taken anyone with him. This time, Lance, Leon, and Lucy had been the victims of his own self-destructive nature. Should he have never let them close again to begin with? Maybe if he had stayed in the darkness instead of tried to step out of it, this wouldn’t have happened. He had never fully gotten rid of the shadows anyway. Expelling them completely, eradicating them entirely, was impossible, he knew, and perhaps that was why he jolted when Lance’s hand covered his own, a comforting gesture that he was not worthy of. Perhaps it was also because it reminded him of the mark that lay above that hand, a symbol of the organization that longed to see muggleborns like Lance killed just for existing. How fucked up was that? How fucked up was James? That he now bore the mark of the same people his father had defeated. His father: a subject that he didn’t breech unless for the sake of his siblings, but never for himself. It was too risky, too raw. So he said nothing about whether or not his father would be proud of him, as appreciative of Lance’s words as he was. He knew they came from the right place, and that Lance meant them, even if they didn’t resonate with James as true.

“You sure give me a lot more credit than I think I’ve earned, you know? I may not have controlled the type of person Nate was, but I did control letting him in despite the fact that I knew he wasn’t invested.” Pausing, James pursed his lips, recalling the conversation he’d had Nate before he fell under the Imperius, “You know when Lily and Albus’ birthdays, right?” Such a trivial thing that held so much more meaning now. “You know all these things about me.” But I’m not as good as you think. James couldn’t bring himself to say it. “And you’ve never blamed me for my mistakes, not once. Not even now. I remember what you said. It’s fuzzy but I remember. Taking a curse that was coming from my own wand is nothing compared to all you’ve done for me. And my family. Lily and Albus trust you. And I do, too, even if my trust doesn’t have much worth. I just don’t want the end of your line to be because of me.” Lance was already a target for being a muggleborn. Why put an even bigger target on his back for being associated with a Potter? He had a mother and siblings to get home to. “Is that right? Went all dragon on him, huh? I hope you made sure to pulverize his face. He always prized it for some reason.” James may not have gotten a swing it, but it seemed more fitting for Lance to have been the one to do it, really.

[bbuchanann]

[lanceahn-blog]

He’d been up already for half an hour when the faint sounds of stirring came from the other boy’s bed. For anybody who knew Lance Ahn well enough, they’d know that how he saw it, soup was never a main. It was the starter for the main. And it definitely was not breakfast. Which was what he’d spent the last twenty minutes arguing ( endearingly, apparently, as the nurses hadn’t stopped cracking up and or smiling at his very valid points, ) about. “Missssss, please man. There’s nothing that a bowl of pumpkin soup could do for my arm that some bacon and eggs and a few hash browns couldn’t, trust me.” When Pomfrey sauntered off, Lance leaned back in his seat. He was about to grudgingly, and awkwardly as manoeuvring with one arm when used to two could be, shovel soup into his mouth when —- “yoooo, Jam.” Lance’s heart dropped. He’d already spent too much time in these beds with one too many Potters. It seemed these kids, each one brave beyond measure and fearlessly caring, easily three of the best people he knew, could never catch a break. 

Lance placed his soup aside. He was out of his bed as soon as Pomfrey cleared out, collecting a chair with his good arm —- the left —- to sit by James’ bed. Fuck. What could he say? What could possibly be said to make this better? He closed his eyes and saw Lucy, terrified and indignant, wide eyes on him. He saw Nate’s face on the floor by his feet, purpled and swollen by the edge of his fists. He saw vibrant red pooling around a boy that he’d still attest as his best mate. Lance had never been so scared in his life. He knew now that the fear of losing a friend, a loved one —- it was easily the worst of them all. “I know you’re gonna blame yourself for this, lad. No matter what anyone says,” he said, quietly now, and drew a breath. “But none of us do. Not for a second.” James had taken the curse for them. Lance should have been the one with the scar —- but James would rather it be him than his friends. That’s the kind of guy James was. “We don’t have to talk if you don’t feel it. I just needed you to know that… that we’re all good, proper.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand. “We’re more than good, Jam, yeah? Your fam’s gonna be round real quick now that you’re up. Just do me a favour and whenever you feel bare shit about what happened, try to see yourself through their eyes. Anyways, want some pumpkin soup?” 

[jspotterii-blog]

James strung his eyes tightly shut to the familiar nickname. A fuzzy recollection was brought forth from its use, of Lance using it when he spoke of this not being James, when he rose a wand to them. And he remembered with a cold clarity that it had been Lance that had been quick to jump forward when James had fell, though what happened after was unknown as he’d slipped into the darkness. Lucy had been so scared, reasonably so, and Leon had already been knocked out by that curse thrown by the Death Eater. Had they managed to catch the other two? What had happened after James had lost consciousness? So many questions spiraling through his head, yet his throat was clamped shut. There were many words hanging on the tip of his tongue, so many that they were all scrambled, choking him with the weight of them. As he heard from behind him Lance move to take a seat beside him, James’ eyes looked to the figure in the bed beside him. Leon. Had he not woken up yet? A fear seized James, just as strong and heavy as the guilt and shame that made his body feel as if it were lead. How he almost wished he were hollow. How much easier of an existence that would be. 

His head moved to stare up at the ceiling once more only out of courtesy of Lance, who did not deserve to be ignored. Who didn’t deserve any of the trouble that he’d gotten into just because he was associated with James Potter. That heavy name that his father had gifted him and his siblings. What would his father think of him now? Dispelling that thought as soon as it formulated, wiping it from his mind, James listened to one of his oldest, most true of friends. The first friend he’d made in his House at Hogwarts. If only he had listened to him before this, if only he hadn’t pushed him away, maybe then he could believe the words that he was saying. Maybe he wouldn't even have to hear them because it wouldn’t have come up to this. He flicked his gaze to Lance then, staring at the cast on his dominant hand. He vaguely recalled Lance standing up to Nate, but that was all muffled. It wasn’t so much of a stretch to imagine, though, with Lance. “Through their eyes?” James parroted, his own eyes shimmering with emotion that he wasn’t capable of forcing down yet. A moment of vulnerability, one that he could expose to Lance. He trusted him with it. “They were the ones that told me that Nate has been acting suspicious since the start of the year. They were the ones that warned me. I can imagine how they see me. How they should see me. Don’t excuse my fault in this, Lance. Please. I caused you to get your arm bent like that, scarred my cousin, and I don’t even know what happened with Leon.”

Body aching, muscles tense, and his arm aflame, James recalled the DADA lecture on the imperius curse. The pain endured while under it was only experienced once the curse was broken. Sitting up, he shook his head, “I’m not sure I could stomach it,” he answered honestly, “What      what happened to Nate? And the others?”

[jspotterii-blog]

There was a gap in his mind. One that stretched to a week’s worth of time. He remembered being on the Clock Tower, arguing with Nate, and then the next thing he knew, his wand was pointed to Leon, Lance, and Lucy. He’d been able to break the Imperius Curse, but at what cost? He had woken up mere hours ago, sometime in the dead of night, to a pitch black that was all too familiar, almost comforting. The side of his face had a slight sting where the blow of the Sectumsempra had hit, but it was nothing compared to the aching in his chest. As if a hand had taken ahold of his heart and was squeezing it dry. Nate’s hand. Bile rose to his throat as shame filled his entire being. What a familiar feeling that was. Shame, guilt. He had thought he’d gotten passed this. That he was a better person now. How many times did he have to burn himself before he got it right? Would he ever get it right? What had he said, what had he done during that week? He’d already seen the singed mark in his skin, etched in like it was a tattoo, but having no place among the rest of them. 

Good work, Jamie, truly. He didn’t know if it was Nate’s voice mocking him or his own. He couldn’t even begin to tackle all the emotions surging through his heart, all the thoughts running through his head. There was a loud, static noise vibrating through his ears, and he turned his head on the pillow, swallowing thickly. But the regret would not go down so easily. He would have to force it down, he knew, but he didn’t quite have the strength do that yet. The sun was rising, the start of a new day, shining through the curtains, yet James faced away from it. He deserved none of the warmth that a new start had to offer him. 

[jspotterii-blog]

( JAMES SIRIUS POTTER & POST IMPERIUS ) Ϟ INTERNAL EMOTIONS

❝ i am afraid that if i open myself i will not stop POURING. why do i fear becoming a river. what mountain gave me such SHAME? ❞

[jspotterii-blog]

( JAMES SIRIUS POTTER & POST IMPERIUS ) Ϟ EXTERNAL EMOTIONS

❝ Because when push comes to shove, you taste what you’re made of. You might bend till you break ‘cause it’s all you can take. On your knees, you look up, decide you’ve had ENOUGH. You get mad, you get strong, wipe your hands, shake it off. THEN YOU STAND. ❞

[serpentinadia-blog]

[jspotterii-blog]

DIAD + The Office [6/?]

ft. James Potter and Amma Avery

[ofwoodsandwars-blog]

A sharp pang reverberated around Ara’s chest, his words a painful echo of their fifth year. Briefly she wondered if she had somehow upset him the other night and that was why he was acting like this, though if his issue was with her surely he wouldn’t have made Annette cry? She loved James, and while she believed that there was some explanation for this un-James like behaviour, she wasn’t going to stand by and act like it was okay. “You made Annette, one of your closest friends, cry. So no, you’re not fine, and no I’m not leaving until she gets an apology. For fucks sake, you promised you wouldn’t shut me out again, now keep it and tell me what the hell is going on.”

[jspotterii-blog]

"What are you, her mother? You don’t need to try and always jump in, you do realize, when it’s not your business?” Not true. James always admired Ara’s tenacity and her loyalty that knew no boundaries. She stood up to anyone and everyone who upset those that she cared about. She never even hesitated. “What are promises, really, except words tagged onto a sentence? I don’t remember taking any Unbreakable Vow, and I certainly do not need to explain myself to you, no matter what you may think.” No one was getting an apology. Not yet. But, if they were to forgive him, it would take James even longer to try and forgive himself.

[roxannewexsley]

Roxanne did not like the feeling of nostalgia, in all honesty. It made her feel bitter, sad, and so very unlike the person she wished to be. Either way, she smiled at the memory, it being a fond one, and while she had been trying hard lately to be mature, she wished she could play the game again. “I remember hiding with the chickens for almost half an hour once. It was quite the task to try and find everyone.” It was nice, this moment — or at least, that was how she felt. “Right. Thanks,” she spoke, looking at him as he talked and wondering if she should worry. She was no worrier, though, and believed James when he said he would get there. Whether it was because she believed he was telling the truth or because she had faith in him, she didn’t know — she assumed it was a combination of the two. “Oh, yeah, I‘m fine, generally. And just a few discussions with a few people, but that’s it, really.”

[jspotterii-blog]

"That made for a good hiding spot for you though, didn’t it? Some of us eventually would give up and not bother to announce it loud enough for everyone to come out.” That was the kind of thing younger James would love doing, just messing with his family in a good-natured kind of way. “Well there were always at least eleven others of us to look for, if there weren’t other stragglers at the Burrow that day.” Growing up had been a blissful time. He considered himself lucky, privileged, even, to have had it as nice as he had. “Discussions? What kind of discussions? Did you go all feminist on someone’s arse? I always love hearing your rants. So long as they aren’t aimed at me, anyway.” And he’d said some problematic things before, so it wasn’t too much of a stretch to worry about having to be the target of one.