#hntbaw

[nhstadler]

3 9 7  P A G E S

Hey everyone! I realised it's been forever since I posted anything and since I'm not quite finished with the chapter, I thought I'd at least post a story snippet to let you know that I haven't fogotten about you and about HNTBAW. It's just been a little much lately and I've been struggling with writer's block (as always).

But anyway, this is a random scene from the post Hogwarts series (which I might title A Catalogue of Us). It's kind of a flashback memory sort of thing and maybe it's a little confusing and sad, but maybe some of you enjoy it. I hope you had wonderful holidays / Christmas if you celebrate it and I promise I'm still writing.

Let me know what you think if you feel like it... hearing from you guys always helps my motivation, honestly :)

I miss you, I’m sorry

Gracie Abrams · Song · 2020

When James fell, the world stood still. I stood still. 

Sometimes I still dream about it. His muddled form falling through the sky, the burst of levitation spells in the pouring rain, like perverse fireworks, missing him again and again and again. There was nothing anyone could have done and yet… 

And yet.

I take a sip of my coffee, trying to banish the scraps of the nightmare that still cling to my mind as I wrap the blanket tighter around my shoulders. The air is crisp, laced with salt and the subtle sweetness of the heather that grows along the cliffside, trembling in the breeze. I’ve been staring at the horizon for almost an hour, watching the darkness fade into that bluish glow that only exists in these few minutes before sunrise, when the world is in-between. Like the sky holds its breath for just a moment.

Like I held my breath when I was an ocean away, unpacking my old life into my new flat, barely paying attention to Ludo Bagman’s tinny commentary in the background. I didn’t even know why I had turned on the match in the first place. I should have stayed away, taken advantage of the physical distance, but there was comfort in the familiarity of it. In hearing his name chanted by thousands of voices. I missed him and I hated him a little for it. And then I heard the screams. 

I thought I had lost him before, but this was so much worse.

***

The room is bright, made of sun-drenched walls and filled with flowers and too many people. But I barely notice. James isn’t moving. There is a tangle of tubes, pumping healing potion from the IV bags into his system, mending his broken bones and his cuts and gashes as much as it can. But even magic can only do so much. 

Ginny sees me first. I’m lingering in the doorway like an intruder, not sure if I have a right to be here. I couldn’t not come. I don’t know what to say, though. My throat closes off when our gaze meets over the hospital bed. She’s clutching James’s hand in both of hers like she’s holding on for dear life, her eyes brimming with tears, and I’m crying too, biting my bottom lip to keep myself from sobbing.

“Seth!” Lily calls out, making both Harry and Al look up, but I still don’t know if I’m welcome. Not until Ginny lets go of her son and extends her hand towards me, the faintest of smiles curving her mouth as she summons me to his bedside.

I want to touch him, to feel that he is still here, warm and real and alive, but I don’t dare. There are too many IV lines and bandages and I’m afraid I might hurt him. “How - how is he?”

It’s a useless question, I know it, but there’s still the naive hope that the answer might have changed. That he’ll open his eyes and give me that infuriating half-smile, calling me Woodley and telling me that everything will be alright.

“I’m sorry,” someone says behind me and I turn around to look at the healer that has come into the room. “Only family is allowed in here.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” 

I make to get up, wiping away the tears with shaky fingers, but Ginny’s hand circles my wrist, her bloodshot gaze firmly on the woman in the lime green coat. “She is.”

***

I wanted to buy him some magazines, but half of the stock in the small St. Mungo’s kiosk is about brooms and Quidditch and the other half are gaudy newspapers that still seem to be in a competition over who can print the most disturbing pictures of James plummeting through the air. I was ready to give up and settle on the Kneazle Lover’s Digest when I saw the flashy book pyramid by the checkout. 

“I got you something.” I’m barely in the room when I hold up the shiny hardback with the gaudy cover and James raises an eyebrow at the shirtless guy that takes up most of the front.

“Holy Morgan, what is that, Woodley?” He lets his head fall to the side, smiling at me, even though he is too weak to move. Bruises and scratches still paint brutal patterns across his skin, covering his face and neck, his shoulders, his ribs, but they’re healing. 

Unlike his legs. 

“They had it in the hospital bookshop!” I can barely contain my excitement as I sit down in the chair next to his bed, thumbing through the pages, because this feels like a sign. A very dumb sign, but a sign nonetheless, and I’ll take anything I can get. “No way!” I press the open page against my mouth, my eyebrows arching at James over the edge of the book.

“What?” He’s frowning, amusement still tugging on the corners of his mouth. 

“It’s set in the 1800s.” 

He groans, though the grin on his face definitely dampens the effort. Rain is lashing against the windows, drowning out the steady drip of the IVs and, for a moment, it feels like it used to. Like Sunday mornings at his and Freddie’s flat, when he would refuse to get up and pull me back into bed with him.

“I’m so excited.”

“I bet.” He’s laughing, properly now, and my heart flutters behind my chest. It should know better. Especially because I saw her name flash across his phone screen last night before I left. “How long is that damn thing?”

I flip to the very back of the book, catching a few of the final words even though I try to not read them. “397 pages.”

***

“How many pages?”

He used to ask how many chapters. Then it turned to pages. Because he knows it too - that we only exist like the words on paper, between the pages. Until we reach the last one. The last sentence. 

“191.”

When the story ends, so do we. But ours is a tragedy. Maybe it was always meant to be.

I come back every day. I sit next to his bed and read A Witch’s Guide to Rakes and Romance, blushing fiercely at the spicy scenes but reading it all. James covers Lily’s ears when she’s cuddled up next to him and she complains loudly while Al and Freddie laugh and Harry and Ginny exchange soft, tired smiles.

Sometimes, the room is crowded. Sometimes, it’s just us - James and me and the steady whirring of the machines - and I read to him until he falls asleep. I read to him until twilight creeps into the room and we have to turn on the neon hospital lights. 

I read to him until he can feel his legs again. 

Until the IV lines become less.

Until he can sit up by himself.

“How many?” He says and I don’t look at him.

“16.”

It’s the last chapter. And, though I know that it’s time to go, that this semi-real version of us has an expiration date, I dread every page I turn.

“What if you stayed?” James says, quietly, and I feel like I might choke. I can barely breathe.

What if I stayed?

“I - I can’t.” My fingers are clenching the book in my lap, digging into the cover for something to hold on to. This feels awful, like a second break-up, and I wish I could just fold myself into his arms. 

But I can’t and he doesn’t argue. Because he knows me too well.

His lips are pressed together as he nods, a tear sliding down the side of his face into his pillow and I’m crying too. When he reaches out, I take his hand and weave my fingers through his, careful to not dislodge the catheter in the back of his hand.

“Do you want to hear the ending now?” I ask, wiping the tears from my cheeks, and his gaze slides from my face to the book in my lap, to our intertwined fingers.

“No.” I feel his hold on me loosen, his hand slipping out of my grasp a little. “I don’t want to know how it ends.”

[nhstadler]

M A G I C

I don’t know why, but these keep coming. I’m in a writing slump but this just works and I wanted to share it with you guys in case some of you might enjoy it. I’ve been writing a sort of post-Hogwarts episodic piece about Seth and James and the gang that includes scenes from the past and their present and I think I will continue this when the OG story is finished (there are only two more chapters and they are all planned out, so it’s happening :) ).

The whole thing is called A CATALOGUE OF US and this would be the very first installment (it's too short to call it a chapter, I guess).

Any feedback is greatly appreciated. Or questions, or hopes, dreams, fears… anything, really. I’d love to hear from you.

The end of summer is always a tragedy. 

Because it feels like a small death. Every time. There is a palpable chill that creeps back into the warm, endless nights - slowly, gradually - and then, in the blink of an eye, it’s over.

But when it starts, it’s magic.

I lean my forehead against the window, watching the world pass by as the train speeds through the landscape, lush greens bleeding into purple and blue as we get closer to the coast. There is an older lady across from me, knitting a neon green pair of socks. She sometimes looks up and gives me a smile and I smile back.

Tiredness is creeping back in. I’ve had three-and-a-half coffees already, but I’ve been awake for fifteen hours. Fifteen hours I spent mostly on aeroplanes and trains, trying to get back home. And maybe it’s the caffeine overdose, but it feels strange, somehow. Because it’s been almost a year and everything should look different, but it doesn’t. It all still looks the same; the soft hills and the harsh cliffs and the wild heather that crawls along the edges, barely swaying in the wind. 

I sometimes wish I wouldn’t remember it all so well.

… 

...

...

Rain is drumming on the window, blurring the view of the platform. There’s a sea of umbrellas that are nothing more than colourful smudges behind the glass and I let myself sink back into the seat, my hair chafing against the velvet backrest. 

The whistle blows once - a warning for those who still haven’t boarded the train - and I feel a strange sort of wistfulness at hearing the familiar sound. Like I’m mourning something that hasn’t happened yet. But this was always going to be difficult. Even without him.

“Oi!” There’s a sharp knock on the window and Katie yells out in shock, her elbow knocking into my side as she spills half of her magazines on the compartment floor. 

“Open the window, Woodley!” James’s voice is muffled through the glass. He’s trying to prise open the metal ledge from the outside and I stumble over Sam’s legs as I pull down the top part as far as it will go.

The smell of rain floods the compartment and the air feels heavy. He’s completely drenched, smiling his most adorable dimpled smile, and I wonder if I will ever get used to this; to James Potter looking at me like this. We had all summer. We had midnight talks and sun-drenched mornings and slow, salty kisses. And yet, when he smiles at me, my knees feel too soft and my heartbeat too fast.

“What are you doing?”

“He’s breaking my back!” Freddie shouts from somewhere below the window and I lean out a little to see him standing next to the train. His hair is plastered to his head and his hands are wrapped around James who is sitting on his shoulders.

“Did you think I’d let you go without saying goodbye?” James is still grinning as he dips his head, bracing his arms on the window frame. Strands of wet hair are sticking to his forehead, looking almost black, but the gold in his eyes gleams and my stomach swoops.

“But, we already said goodbye.”

He laughs - a small, secret, dirty laugh that makes my blush crawl to the tip of my nose. “Yeah, but your parents were watching.” 

He’s so much trouble. 

And so charming.

The whistle blows again, longer, more urgently, and I want to climb out through the window and into his arms. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I’m going to hurt myself,” Freddie mutters, loud enough for us to hear, but James ignores him and leans in more, across the gap.

“I’m going to miss you, Woodley.” His voice is low and rough, like it was that night at his grandparents’ house when he snuck into my room. His hand slides to the back of my neck and I can feel the press of each finger against my skin. “A lot.” 

He kisses me between the train and the platform. He kisses me like the whistle isn’t blowing, like it isn’t pouring, like no one is watching. Like we have forever.

“I’ll see you soon, OK?” He whispers the words against my lips and I nod because my throat feels tight and sore. 

Water is dripping from my nose.

I think I’m crying. 

The train is pulling away and James lets go as Freddie stumbles backwards. We’re picking up speed too fast, too suddenly, and there’s so much I didn’t say.

Like ‘I will miss you too’.

Like ‘please don’t fall in love with someone else’.

“Seth!” Katie gasps as I recklessly lean out the window like she thinks I might jump. I can feel her hand fisting in the hem of my jumper, pulling me back. Hard rain is pelting my face as I watch James follow the train to the edge of the platform. I watch him until he is nothing but a small, blurry dot in the distance and I think about the way he looked at me that night in the Burrow; when it was also raining and we were lying next to each other in that tiny bed, whispering underneath the blanket so no one would hear us.

…

...

...

The train rattles and I wake with a start. My mouth feels fuzzy and tastes like old coffee and I’m so disoriented that it takes me a moment to realise that we aren’t moving anymore. We have pulled into a station and the conductor is standing on the platform, having a smoke.

Across from me, the old lady is gone and her neon green socks are lying in my lap. I look at them for a moment and my throat closes off. I’m tearing up at a pair of slightly lumpy socks and I don’t know why.

It’s a hassle to collect all of the bits and pieces of my luggage. I’ve accumulated three random plastic bags since I left Boston, filled equal parts with food and rubbish, and I cram the socks into one of them. My backpack has a weird shape from all the airport impulse purchases and my suitcase is too big, but I fight my way through the narrow exit, consequences be damned. And then, I see her.

Katie’s hair looks brighter in the pale evening glow - more red than brown - and my heart feels heavy and light at the same time. There are sequins on her headband and they sparkle, even though the sky is cloudy. She’s pure light. 

I drop everything at once - the plastic bags and the backpack and the suitcase that is definitely dented now. We’re both screaming, our voices hollering across the empty platform as we fall into each other’s arms, swaying back and forth like a pair of drunk idiots.  

“Oh my god!” Katie shouts into my ear and her hands grab my arms, pushing me away and pulling me into her all at once. Her nose is pierced, which I knew, but I’ve never seen it in person. I wasn’t there when she got it. I didn’t hold her hand and grimace when the needle went through. “You look like hell. Still gorgeous but also like hell.”

She’s grinning. I am too.

“Trust me,” I push my hair back behind my ears in an attempt to tame the greasy frizz halo that I’ve involuntarily cultivated over the past hours, “hell has nothing on overseas air travel.”

“Why didn’t you apply for a portkey?”

“I did,” I say, bending down to pick up my backpack again, feeling the weight of it. “Unfortunately, I’m not famous or rich enough.”

“Excuse me?” Katie has grabbed all of my sad plastic bags like they are serious pieces of luggage, her eyebrows raised as she looks at me. “You’re a fucking Woodley.”

“That’s what I said!” I sling my arm around her shoulder and she wraps hers around my back, pulling me into her despite the fact that I probably smell like lemongrass armpit sweat, and I can feel it sink in. That feeling you get around certain people, no matter how long you are apart. 

Like coming home.

[nhstadler]

A   S H O T   I N   T H E   D A R K

Two song choices: 

One:

Girl

Holly Humberstone · Song · 2023

Two (for my Swifties):

Say Don't Go (Taylor's Version) (From The Vault)

Taylor Swift · Song · 2023

So, I’ve had this James POV sitting around and I thought I’d finally share it considering we’re reaching the end of this journey. I’m not entirely happy with it because I’m not good at writing spicy scenes. They can go wrong so easily because there’s such a fine line between ‘just enough’ and ‘entirely ridiculous’. That being said, *trigger warning* for very mild spice. Like, one chilli pepper. Nothing explicit.

Please let me know what you think. I’m always so thankful for feedback, no matter how short, long, cryptic. And finally, thanks for still being here. It’s been an honour writing for you guys.

A   S H O T   I N   T H E   D A R K

For a second, I think I’ve lost my mind. That my endless thoughts of her have somehow taken shape and are playing cruel tricks on me. Because she’s there, in front of my window, still in that damn dress and clutching my jacket around her shoulders as snow drifts by, catching in her blonde waves. 

“What…” I freeze as I stare at her, my T-shirt stuck to my arms half-way, not daring to move for a moment; like she’s a deer and I might scare her away. I’m still not entirely convinced this is real, but then she lifts her arm and gives me a wave, her lips tugging into a careful smile.

It’s not in my head. 

Seth Woodley is actually standing in front of my window in the middle of the night, waving at me.

“Woodley?” I hastily pull my shirt all the way down, stumbling over my backpack - still where I dropped it two weeks ago - as I cross the room to open the window. “Are you okay?” I look her over, not exactly sure what I’m searching for. But she’s here, alone, standing in the frigid cold in her gauzy ball gown and I want to make it OK again. Whatever it is. “What happened? How did you-”

“I apparated,” she says, almost surprised, her words turning into puffs of smoke, clouding her face for a second. “I meant to end up at Katie’s house but –” Her cheeks darken slightly, the colour extending to the tip of her nose as another gust of biting wind whips through the trees. “I kind of messed up?”

I still can’t quite wrap my mind around this; around her, standing outside my window, eyes wide and biting her lip like my wildest fever dream. I’ve thought about this too much - about Seth in my room, my bed - but this feels fragile. Like the phone booth. Like I could mess it all up too easily. 

The smart thing would have been to tell her to go. But I’m decidedly stupid.

“Come on, Woodley,” I say when a shiver runs through her body and then hold my hand out to her. “It’s freezing.” 

Her gaze drops to my hand, like she, too, knows that she’s making a mistake, but then she takes a sharp breath and reaches out, letting me pull her up to the ledge and into my room. She stumbles a little, slipping on the icy wood, and I swipe my arm around her middle to catch her.

“Sorry.” She looks up at me then, her eyes round and so grey and damn it, I’m pathetic. There was still a part of me that hoped that maybe kissing her would get her out of my system, but it’s useless. Because all I can think about right now is kissing her again. All night.

Instead, I clear my throat and step away from her, still not entirely sure what to make of this; why she came here of all places. Apparition is not a vague sort of magic - you can’t take a wrong turn and accidentally end up somewhere else. That’s not how it works and we both know it.

“You’re not seventeen yet, are you?” I walk to my door to turn the lock for good measure. It’s late, but there’s no telling if Lily won’t suddenly burst into my room, demanding to draw a glitter pygmy puff onto my face.  

Seth looks at me for a long second, biting her lip again, and then nods. There’s a kind of haziness to her movements, her reactions, and I realise that she’s still drunk.

Right.

“So -” I say, trying to give her a casual grin even though something coarse is winding itself around my heart, crushing the dumb flicker of hope that sparked there when I saw her standing in front of my window.

“I’m not supposed to apparate, no.” She shrugs, like it’s not a big deal, even though I know it is. I know that she cares, that this nonchalant act isn’t her. Something’s wrong and I should give her a sweatshirt and take her home before I can do something very dumb. Even though I want to be dumb so badly. Just for a second.

“Did you get into trouble?” I ask, skirting my bed as I walk back over to her. It’s unmade with my blanket piled on top and I curse myself a little for not cleaning my room when Mum told me to. It’s a mess and I can see Seth’s gaze sliding to the heap of clothes on my chair and the unfortunate pair of Quidditch underpants that dangle from the armrest. 

“Did you?” Seth gives me a grin that doesn’t fail to make my stomach jolt, even when I know it’s not real; even when I know she’s still pretending. But I humour her. Because she’s smiling and flirty and I’m weak.

“For kissing a girl?” I watch her cheeks flush, all the way across her nose, and for a moment, I don’t care that she’s been drinking or that she’s acting strange. Because she came here. Just like she let me kiss her in the Ministry phone box. A part of her wants to be with me and I want it to be enough. Even when I know it’s not.

“Your family probably wasn’t too thrilled.” I slide my hands into the pockets of my joggers instead of around her waist and watch the expression on her face shift - eyebrows drawing closer and lips pressing together as she avoids my gaze - and it all makes sense.

I only caught glimpses of her family when we stumbled out of the phone booth, mostly because she was ushered away immediately, before I could even so much as talk to her, but she’d told me earlier, hadn’t she? About that guy she was supposed to marry and about her family’s expectations.  

Maybe that’s why she came here; still drunk and reckless, trying to prove a point.

“I still have your jacket,” she says awkwardly all of a sudden, sliding the thing off her shoulders and holding it out to me. She’s probably realised it too; that this is the last place she should be. That I’m nothing but a bad decision. 

“Maybe - maybe I should go,” she says quickly, and I can see it in her face - the flicker of reason that pushes to the surface. 

“Yeah.” I let out a breath as I take the jacket from her and throw it onto the pile of clothes on my chair. I don’t want her to go, but I also don’t want her to stay like this. Like I’m just the means, not the reason. “Maybe.”

“Yeah.” Her voice is a whisper, fizzling out at the edges as she takes a step closer and places her palms against my chest. She’s frowning up at me, her eyes like storm clouds, fingers digging into the fabric of my T-shirt and, even though I know that this is going to hurt, I give in to it - to her.

I’ve kissed many girls before - and Augi on a dare - but kissing Seth feels different. New, somehow. Fluttery and shaky and so slow, like I’m doing it for the first time - nervous and a little scared to mess it up. She’s tugging on my T-shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric like she wants to tear it off, and I’m not really thinking as I pull it over my head. 

Seth blinks at me, her eyes and hair bright in the semi-darkness of my room, and then her gaze drops to my arm, her brows furrowing as she studies the letters that a very shifty bloke inked into my skin there in some London back alley two years ago.

“Seth,” I say, coming to my senses a little now that she’s stopped kissing me, even though my blood flow is directed somewhere else entirely. “Maybe we should -”

She looks back up at me, shaking her head just the slightest bit as she leans into me again, and I’m pathetically helpless when her mouth opens against mine. My tongue brushes against her lips and she makes a small sound that is my complete undoing, pulling resolutely on something below my abdomen. My fingers find the zipper on the back of her dress and, though I hesitate for a heartbeat, I’m too far gone to stop. 

It slides down her body, crumpling on the floor around us in a heap of silk, leaving her in nothing but gauzy underwear. It’s pale blue, with pink and red flower embroidery crawling along the lace, and I take my time taking her in - every detail - because she’s perfect.

Seth’s cheeks are flushed as I slide a hand into her hair and tip her head back, but she doesn’t pull away. When I kiss her again, it’s a little harder, a little more desperate, and it occurs to me then that I probably should be more careful. That I should slow down, because I don’t know if she’s done this before.

But she’s clinging to my shoulders, body pressed against mine, and I’m beyond reasonable thought as I trail my hand down her back until I can feel the tiny flower applications underneath my fingertips. 

We stumble a bit as I push her towards my bed - almost clumsily, with my hands grabbing her waist and pulling her into me a bit too roughly - and I bang my knee against my bed frame like an overeager 13-year-old. But she’s there, underneath me, her heart racing against my chest with every fast, shallow breath and her eyes heavy lidded. 

It feels wholly unreal as I press my lips against her throat, kissing and licking down the column of her neck to the birthmark above her collarbone while my hand drifts to the soft skin of her thigh. I don’t know what time it is, for how long we’ve been doing this, but it barely matters. 

I try to pace myself, but I’m breathing too fast and my heart stumbles along as I push closer, propping myself up just enough to not crush her underneath me. And then, she looks at me with those eyes that could be a painting and my breath catches embarrassingly.

The words are on the tip of my tongue, though I can’t say them. I should ask her if she’s sure about this. If this is alright. But I feel her fingers tremble slightly as she weaves them into my hair, the hitch in her heartbeat, and I know it’s not. 

She doesn’t want this - me. Not really. Not like I want her.

“What the fuck am I doing?” I mumble to myself as I push myself up too forcefully, but I have to. I have to bring physical distance between us to jolt myself out of this. “Shit.”

“What?” Seth blinks at me, the look of confusion on her face fading to something more gut-wrenching. She’s yanked the covers up to her collarbones, mortified, and I hate that I’m doing this to her. That she’s doing this to me. 

“I – I can’t fucking do this.” I shake my head, hands clutching at my hair, but I can’t look at her. Because it fucking hurts and I don’t know what to do. How to make it stop.

[nhstadler]

Margaret (feat. Bleachers)

Lana Del Rey, Bleachers · Song · 2023

A/N: I’m sick at home and feel very sorry for myself so I wrote something a little weird and a little dark and a little different. 

I wasn’t going to share it, but then I thought, maybe some of you might enjoy it, even if it’s turned out slightly strange.

So, here it goes… this is a snippet about post Hogwarts Seth and James (Seth POV) that takes place the night before the “In Another Life” snippet.

I would LOVE to hear what you think.

T H E    P O E M   O F   U S

The lights are low, flickering in the salty breeze that drifts up from the ocean. It’s too dark to see the waves, but I can hear them - rising, falling, crashing, drowning out the tangle of sounds from downstairs. There’s music and laughter and I know I should be a part of it. 

I want to be. 

But I need to take it all in, first. To make it last, make myself remember every little detail, before the night is over, before I can’t get it back.

It’s a little dramatic, but I can’t help feeling the weight of it. The melancholy that lives in nights like this; in the easy laughter and the familiar faces and the old stories that take me back every time. 

I haven’t been home for a year. Which isn’t much, but it feels like it. Like time is moving a little too fast, even as I try to hold on to it. 

“Woodley.”

I hold my breath for a second. For one wave. 

Rising, falling, crashing.

Because I know his voice. 

I think I'll always know it, even when there are a thousand others.

James is standing in the doorway to the veranda with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, not smiling but almost, and, for the smallest moment, it hurts. He is framed by the dim kitchen counter light and it takes my heart a second to remember what my head knows. 

That it’s OK. 

We’re OK.

I don’t exactly know what I’m doing when I push myself away from the railing and walk towards him, but he does the same and we collide in the middle, like a wave. Crashing. I let my arms slide around him, let him pull me closer - into him - until my face is pressed against his chest. Against his old Gryffindor sweatshirt that used to be his dad’s. The one that I gave back to him in a box when it was cold and snowing and we were both crying.  

Everything is so familiar and yet so strange; his warmth, his arms, his scent. I thought I’d forgotten it all but my body hasn’t. It’s melting into him, finding the spot beneath his sternum where my head still fits too perfectly, remembering everything.

James’s head settles on top of mine, tucking me underneath his chin as his arms wrap even tighter around my neck, and it feels like yesterday, when the ocean was wild and I was careless and swam out a little too far and the waves were a little too high.

“Holy Sorceress,” I say as I pull back from him, my palms pressing against his shoulders to bring some distance between him and my clumsy heart. “James Sirius Potter.”

He’s grinning at me and my gaze catches on the corner of his mouth, on his dimple that makes my chest feel too tight. There was once a version of us that was fighting over IKEA furniture in his and Freddie’s empty flat until we were laughing so hard that we ended up on the floor, with me in his lap, running my fingers through his hair. It was hard to let go of those people; of who we were. 

It still is sometimes.

But it’s OK to miss him. Even if he broke my heart.

“I’m glad you lost the man-bun.” I pat his shoulder and he snorts and shakes his head, one hand raking through the dishevelled dark brown strands. It’s so gut-wrenchingly familiar that my heart misses a beat. 

Two beats.

“Oh come on, Woodley.” James gives me his best smile. “I looked smashing.” 

I laugh and it feels real for the first time. Like maybe we can do this after all. Maybe we can assemble the pieces and glue them back together into something else.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” I say as I lead the way back into the kitchen. It’s cold outside and the salty air has crept into my hair, curling the ends and making them frizzy. “Katie said you have practice until late tonight.”

“I did.” He looks at me, his face barely visible in the low light, and I think that he’s going to say more, but he just frowns and then bites his lip, his gaze lingering strangely.  

“You - you look great,” he finally says - quietly, gravelly - and my cheeks feel hot as I think about my hair again. About my jeans and my jumper and about how, for a dumb second, I wish I was wearing my new dress with the strappy back. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Yeah,” I say softly, because it’s true. It’s been more than two years. Two years since I saw him in that hospital bed - in a tangle of IV lines and bloody bandages - and it feels like a different life.

“Gee said you’re a professor already?” He leans against the kitchen island, his arms folded across his chest as a small, lopsided smile curves his mouth. “You little Dumbledore.” 

“Assistant Professor.” I snort and shake my head. Leave it to Genie to completely oversell my phenomenally low-paying gig at a medium-tier university. I wonder what else she’s told James. If he knows about Adam. What he knows about Adam. “I mostly have to grade potentially explosive undergrad projects and teach two very basic introductory level courses.”

“And you love it.” 

“I do.” 

His smile softens to something else - something entirely more disastrous - and I look away. It’s self-preservation. Because, even though I know his smiles and his frowns and everything in between, it doesn’t mean that I’m immune. I fell for him a million times before.

“Congratulations on winning the World Cup, by the way. That last goal was very impressive.”

“You watched?” 

“Yeah.” I brace my hands on the kitchen counter and hop on, looking at my legs as I swing them back and forth. I hadn’t watched a game since the accident. I couldn’t. But it was England against the US and every magical place in Boston was broadcasting it. There’d been no way around it. “Genie was screaming my ear off when you did that fly-jump stunt.” 

James laughs and I can see him untie his arms from the corner of my eye. My heart stopped when he’d launched himself into the air, but I don’t tell him that.

“I’m taking classes at uni again,” he says suddenly and I look up at him again, unable to hide my surprise. He’d given it all up to play professionally. The youngest chaser to ever play for England. He’d fought with his parents that night, with me. I was crying and he stormed off. We’d never been in a fight like that before.

“You do?”

“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair, tousling it at the back, looking almost bashful. “Sports science and healing.”

“That’s - I…” I  try to find the right thing to say. I want to tell him that I’m proud of him, but the words get tangled up in my throat. Because it’s not my place anymore. “That’s amazing, James. Really.” 

“After the accident, I thought a lot about what you said to me.” His dark gaze is intense and I wonder if he remembers how he showed up at my dorm at midnight with that deep frown pulling on his beautiful face because he’s always cared too much. We spent an eternity in the cold hallway, wrapped up in each other, whispering promises of never fighting again.

I should have realised it, then. How badly we could hurt each other. How easy it was to break someone’s heart. His heart.

“It’s tough with Quidditch and everything, but I really like it.” James’s mouth slides into a devastating half-smile as he pushes himself away from the kitchen island. “Potions is still kicking my arse, though. I could use a good tutor.”

He’s coming closer and my chest is rising. Falling. 

Like waves in the darkness. 

“Can you remember our first tutoring session?” I ask, pressing my hands against the counter, my fingers curled around the edge of the wooden surface.

Rising. Falling.

“I remember everything, Seth.” His voice is low and raspy and he is so close. 

Rising. Falling. Crashing. 

I am the wave and he is the tide.

Pulling me out into the dark ocean. 

[nhstadler]

Trashfire

Tommy Lefroy · Song · 2021

CHAPTER 49: OF LOVERS AND LIARS

I knew it too well - that feeling that sank its claws into me sometimes like an evil curse. That fear of failure.

I’d lost every game of wizard’s chess I’d ever played against my family. Every single time, my pieces had ended up massacred all over the table, broken and shattered. 

I used to cry over the slaughtered chess pieces when I was a child. I could never save them, no matter how hard I’d tried. All my cleverness couldn’t have prevented the tragedy. Because it had all been there on my face; everything I had felt and thought and planned, right there for everyone to see with my naive little heart on my sleeve.

At some point, I just couldn’t risk the carnage anymore.

[nhstadler]

Delicate

Taylor Swift · Song · 2017

My hands felt clammy and I pressed them together to give myself something to do as I rounded yet another corner. I tried not to, but I was listening for footsteps, looking over my shoulder a few times. It was silly, of course. I was early and James was always late. He’d come jogging along the hallway, tossing a careless grin at a glaring Filch and then pet his grumpy geriatric cat who’d press her head into his palm and purr.

Or maybe he wouldn’t. 

Maybe he wouldn’t come at all. Maybe he’d pretend like last night hadn’t happened. Like he couldn’t remember the way he’d pulled me into him between kisses and constellations, telling me that everything was going to be alright. He hadn’t said it back - that he wanted me too - and I was scared I’d revealed too much.

[nhstadler]

OK, so before we do this, before you read this, I need to warn you guys. 

I’ve been in a reading and writing slump and I’m having a hard time putting my thoughts into words at the moment. I’m very sorry that the new chapter takes me so long, but I’m just not in the right headspace. 

That being said, I wanted to give you guys at least some sign of life so you know I haven’t forgotten about Seth and the gang. Usually, this would be a James POV, but even that just didn’t work. So, while I was free-writing, trying to get all the clutter out of my head, this short scene below happened. And here’s the warning: it’s kind of sad.

I’ve always been writing little scenes that take place after the events of HNTBAW and I swear, the entire thing is not as dramatic as it is in the short excerpt below, but this wanted out and I wrote it down and I kind of like it. 

It is a bit of a spoiler… not quite but a little, and if you are not up for a little heartache then I would strongly advise you just ignore this post and wait for the chapter, which I’m working on, I promise. Whatever you choose, thanks for being here and reading and all the support. I really appreciate it.

I watch him for a moment - how he leans against the bannister, bracing the railing with locked out arms, the sea breeze ruffling his already tousled hair. I can still remember when I used to try and convince myself that I didn’t find him attractive; even when I could hardly take my eyes off of him.

“OK, show me.”

He turns towards me, the look of surprise quickly turning into something softer as he watches me approach. “Woodley, what-”

“I want to see it,” I say as coolly as I can, folding my arms across my chest against the cold wind. The sun is gone but there’s still a faint glow along the horizon, like a gleaming seam that separates the ocean from the sky.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

I look up at James, feeling a familiar prickle of frustration run up my spine at the infuriating lopsided smile that tugs on his lips. At the dimple in his cheek. It’s been two years and he should be a stranger to me, but he isn’t. No matter if he’s 17 or 24; when I look at him, it’s always James.

But I’m not falling for that anymore; for him. The only reason my heart is beating faster is because it’s used to reacting that way to James’s stupid smiles. It’s just muscle memory. 

“Potter.”

“Woodley.” He’s grinning, the git, obviously enjoying this way too much, and I sigh before I look out at the ocean again. The water is dark and calm, and it reminds me of the Black Lake on hot summer nights. Of one particular summer night, when James and I were fresh and new and terrifying and we spent the entire night wrapped up in each other, talking, laughing, kissing. 

Mostly kissing.

Maybe he remembers it too.

“Fine,” James says quietly and I turn to look at him as he grabs the hem of his sweatshirt and lifts it up to his collarbone, just enough to reveal the thin, geometric lines that are inked into his skin there - into the spot above his heart.

I could trace them with my eyes closed.

“I thought you had it removed.”

James snorts softly, the sound barely louder than the steady rush of the ocean, and I feel the familiar pressure behind my chest that makes it hard to breathe. I should have just let this go - I shouldn’t have started this. It shouldn’t matter that he still has it. He was 19 and drunk and dumb. It doesn’t mean anything.

But I still can’t look up at him. So, instead, I let my eyes drift lower, down to the thin, white scar that snakes along the side of his waist and across his abdomen. It feels incredibly strange that there is something about James’s body that I don’t know. Some part of him that I haven’t touched. That I never will.

“Seth?” He says so quietly, it’s barely more than a whisper, and I know we’re standing too close to each other; almost touching but not quite. 

I finally look up at him, and my heart is thrashing against my chest like it hasn’t done in forever - not since James Potter. Everything about him is familiar in a way that hurts just a little too much. Because, even though we’re not us anymore, he’s still the boy who flew up to my window in the pouring rain. The boy who kissed me in an old telephone box on New Year’s Eve. The boy who has all of my firsts.

A part of me will always be his.

“Shit.” James lets out a shaky breath as he tilts his head, his forehead pressing against mine, and I close my eyes, trying to sort out my messy thoughts. This is probably the dumbest thing I have done in a while, but I can’t stop. I can’t walk away from him. 

James’s arms slide around me, pulling me in, and my hands go up to his chest, fingertips digging into the cloth of his sweatshirt, right above his heart. 

Because, even though millions love him, a part of him will always be mine.

[nhstadler]

My heart had permanently migrated to my throat, shamelessly crushing my windpipe as I struggled to get enough air into my lungs to not swoon like a Vicotrian bride. Unfortunately, there was only so much I could do with James staring at me like that; all clenched jaw and broody eyes.