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Chapter Text

Sirius Black was born with a feather crowning his head and gold around his wrists. They told him he was fortunate, blessed by the gods to be born into marble halls and silken sheets, into a lineage carved by crowns and sharpened by swords. But even as a child, Sirius learned the truth of palaces: every gilded wall hid a shadow, every jeweled smile concealed a blade.

He grew up in corridors where whispers cut deeper than steel, where loyalty was bought, love was a weapon, and freedom was a myth spoken only in hushed, dangerous tones. To be royal was to be caged, to be watched, to be molded into something beautiful and brutal all at once. And Sirius, with fire burning in his veins, was never meant to bow quietly.

Less than two years later, Regulus Black was born with nothing on his head, small, silent, and already trembling at a world too sharp for gentle hands. Where Sirius burned, Regulus bent as he grew cold; where Sirius stood in the line of fire, Regulus hid in his shadow in the name of cowardly for the fire not to touch him. He was the spare child, the second son, raised to smile softly and bow lower, to never draw more light than his brother, to never shine. The palace taught him fear before it taught him words, and it clung to him like a cloak, he carried it like a second skin, clinging to Sirius as though his brother’s defiance could shield him from a crown that would never be his.

Regulus was born quiet, watchful, a child who seemed to know before he could speak that the palace was no place for softness. Where Sirius blazed, Regulus wilted, curling inward.

but in the stillness of his eyes there was something else, something brittle, something sharp. A boy too frightened to stand beside his brother, yet too clever to remain only the second son forever.

That didn’t last long. On the night of the crown prince’s eighteenth, Sirius was meant to walk into his coronation with pride, head high, chains of gold instead of iron, the perfect image of a king-in-waiting. But Regulus, small, silent Regulus had always known better. If Sirius ever came at all, it would be in metal chains.

The throne room glittered with jewels and tension. The court sat restless, painted mouths whispering behind jeweled hands, their eyes bright with anticipation. They smelled blood in the air. They wanted scandal, betrayal, collapse. And still, Regulus sat among them with his hands folded neatly, every muscle taut, heart beating too fast for his thin frame. A child still, though the court no longer saw him that way.

He waited, as he always had, in Sirius’s shadow. A small, desperate part of him hoped his brother would appear late, reckless, grinning the way only Sirius could, sweeping into the room as though crowns were toys and rules mere suggestions. For a moment, Regulus let himself imagine it. Sirius walking in, taking his place, in full mischief looking over his shoulder at him with that conspiratorial smirk that meant I’ll protect you. I always will.

But Sirius did not come.

The minutes stretched, cold and merciless. Their mother’s voice cut through the silence like a blade: “Lock the gates. The prince’s whereabouts are unknown.” A queens order.

A ripple of gasps followed, but Regulus only heard the silence ringing in his skull. He felt his throat close, as though someone had forced the whole world inside his throat. He should not have been surprised. He had always known Sirius’s fire would burn through the palace walls eventually. But still, betrayal ached like a wound. You didn’t think he’d stay for you, did you, Regulus?

Strange, isn’t it, the things we cling to when everything else is breaking?

How cruel.

At barely eighteen, Sirius left—left the palace, the crown, the family, the brother who had followed him like a shadow all his life. Left for a life unchained. Left for love.

His love was never enough to keep him.

And with that, Regulus was thrust into the center.

The court turned their eyes on him now, greedy, calculating. The spare was no longer a shadow but a vessel to be filled, reshaped, used. He could feel the weight of their stares pressing down, cold fingers curling around his throat, fitting him for a crown that had never been meant for him. His mother’s gaze was worse sharp, unyielding, daring him to falter so she might cut him down too.

Regulus had no fire like Sirius, no defiance to shield him. What he had was silence, obedience, and the gnawing fear that one wrong step would destroy him. And still, some desperate, broken part of him wanted Sirius back, wanted his big brother’s hand on his shoulder, his laughter echoing through the halls, his presence like a shield against the storm.

Instead, he had only the echo of footsteps that would never return. And a crown he never wanted that hung above him like an executioner’s blade, waiting to fall.

Chapter Text

The blonde woman collapsed to her knees, tears streaking her face.

“They drove me from my home. They murdered my husband. They took my children.” Her voice broke, raw and pleading. “Please, Your Majesty… you are a just king. You must help us. I beg of you.”

Sirius exhaled heavily, the weight of her words pressing against his chest. This was not the first desperate soul to kneel before him, nor would it be the last.

The Black Kingdom was tightening its grip on the land, slaughtering any who dared oppose them, dragging children from their mothers’ arms to be bound to service within the dark palace. And always, they left the old ones behind. A calculated cruelty, meant to drive the survivors here, to him. Meant to force his hand.

Meant to push him into war.

War against his own blood.

His brother.

“I will see what can be done,” Sirius said at last, his voice quiet but resolute. The woman bowed low, whispering frantic thanks, before being led away.

It stayed like this for a while, the council trying to come up with solutions, while some murmur and whisper about the cruelty of his younger brother.

They weren’t bad people, no. Sirius liked to believe they were wise measured minds who sought to temper his fire when it burned too recklessly. Many of them were his dearest friends, bound not only by loyalty to their crown but by years of shared struggle, trust, and love. They were nothing like the council he was raised in.

The courtroom was unadorned, simple its design, so unlike the chambers of his homeland. At its heart rose the twin thrones, their presence commanding without need for ornament. A few paces before them stretched a half circle of chairs, arranged with precision. Each seat carried weight, not for comfort but for purpose, for they belonged to those who shaped the kingdom’s will: his council.

Lily Evans sat at the forefront, her posture sharp, while her green eyes did not wander, they fixed with unwavering precision upon the pleading woman being dragged away by the guards. The chamber buzzed with whispers, but Lily remained unmoving, her silence heavy and deliberate, as though she were measuring the weight of the moment itself.

She was not a mere ornament of the court, nor some jewel to brighten the dais. No, Lily Evans was the mind behind the crown, the best royal strategist the kingdom had ever known. Every breath she drew was calculated; every silence laden with meaning. Her words, when they came, could turn the course of council debates.

Everyone in the Exiled respected the brilliance that had preserved Lilly, Sirius made sure of it.

Lily’s gaze lingered, not on the woman’s tears, but on the lesson her fate carried. She was always studying, always weighing consequence against mercy, sacrifice against gain. To the king, she was indispensable; to the realm, she was the unseen hand that bent chaos into order. And as the guards dragged the prisoner from the hall, the strategist remained still, her silence echoing louder than any shout.

Beside her, Mary Macdonald sat, a striking contrast to Lily’s silence. Nothing about Mary was still or restrained; her voice carried easily across the chamber, weaving through the clamor of the court. Where Lily’s power lay in watchful calculation, Mary’s radiated in words, in the easy tilt of her head and the quicksilver charm of her smile. Sirius could hardly fault her for it, after all, he had entrusted her with the mantle of Grand Diplomat for a reason.

Already she was speaking with a confidence that commanded attention without demanding it. Her gestures were light but decisive, her words threaded with persuasion. Every tilt of her brow, every measured laugh, every careful phrase was calculated to win favor and soften resistance. She had the rare gift of making others believe that her ideas were their own, and the court so often prickly and divided found itself compelled by her easy grace.

Lilly and Mary were something rare: two women who could command without lifting a sword.

Speaking of swords, at the opposite end of the circle sat his so called war department. It was represented in all its terrifying glory by Marlene McKinnon, whose back was straighter than steel and whose gaze was so sharp it could probably slice through plate armor. One look from her and you’d be sucking in a deep breath, wondering if you’d just been silently decapitated. Her silence wasn’t hesitation, it was a blade left in its sheath, which somehow felt more threatening than if she’d actually drawn it. Sirius blamed it on her dead like eyes.

The thing is, Marlene shouldn’t even be sitting in that chair. No, that first seat at the king’s right hand was reserved for his Lord Marshal. But, well, Sirius’ best friend had developed a long-standing allergy to politics and conveniently never showed up to court. Sirius never blamed him for it… until today. Today he blamed him with every ounce of royal authority he had. Luckily, Marlene was his War Councilor, a role she insisted was “close enough”, and with maps that could predict the fall of empires before breakfast, who was Sirius to argue? Her ink and foresight kept his armies marching in the right direction, so in the end, she earned her place in the front lines.

behind her sat the rest of the military brains: the stalwart General Emmeline Vance, flanked by Frank and Alice Longbottom. Together they made a trio that could conquer half the continent… if only they could stop correcting each other mid-strategy.

A number of seats nearby remained empty, a direct consequence of Sirius’ unfortunate habit of giving people a choice about attending court. Most of them chose, wisely, to stay home. Really, who could blame them? Endless debates about taxes and treaties didn’t exactly compete with a good hunt or a warm fire.

In the middle sat his best lords and dukes. Pandora Rosier, a runaway noble from the old Black Kingdom and now duchess through marriage, offered him what was meant to be a reassuring smile. It landed somewhere closer to awkward grimace, but Sirius appreciated the effort. The seat beside her was conspicuously empty, a silent announcement that her husband was off on some mission or another.

And at the far end, circling back to the beginning, sat Peter, his dear friend, his loyal warden of the borders. Peter looked slightly out of place among all the polished lords and commanders, but Sirius knew better than anyone that no fortress, no matter how strong, would stand without Peter’s vigilance.

An uncomfortable pit sank deep into Sirius’ stomach, Remus liked to blame it on all the French toast Sirius consumed on a daily basis. Sirius wished it were that simple. He would gladly blame his anxiety on butter and maple syrup if it meant avoiding the truth.

And honestly? Remus wasn’t wrong. He made really good French toast. Like, dangerously good. The kind of good that should be classified as a weapon of mass destruction if unleashed at the wrong diplomatic banquet. Sometimes Sirius wondered if Remus was secretly trying to kill him with cinnamon sugar, death by delicious breakfast. A noble end, but still.

But no. This pit wasn’t from French toast. This was the other kind of stomachache, the one caused by the sobering reminder of just how small his kingdom actually was.

He glanced around the court. Twenty. Twenty people. That was it. Not twenty divisions, not twenty battalions. Just twenty individuals, one of whom was currently picking at a loose thread in his cloak like they’d rather be anywhere else, and another who had dozed off mid-session.

‘How,’ Sirius thought miserably, ‘is this little circus of twenty supposed to take down the ancient, terrifying, dramatically named Kingdom of the Blacks?’

Sure, he had strategy (Lily, sharp as a guillotine). He had diplomacy (Mary, who could probably charm a dragon into signing a peace treaty). He had maps, generals, even a few dukes pretending to be busy. But twenty people? That was not a court, that was a dinner party. And not even a particularly lively one.

He imagined their grand army lined up in the field: them against an ancient dynasty. One sneeze from his dear cousin Bellatrix Black and half his court would run for the hills.

He slumped slightly on the throne, pinching the bridge of his nose. Maybe he could bluff it. Call them The Magnificent Twenty. Or The Order of the Nearly-Twenty-One if James ever showed. Or The Elite Council of Absolute Doom, population: 20. It had a nice ring to it, at least.

But deep down, Sirius knew titles didn’t win wars. People did. And unfortunately, the people he had right now looked like they’d struggle to win a potato sack race, let alone an actual battle.

‘Maybe,’ Sirius thought grimly, ‘I should just serve the Blacks Remus’ French toast. No one survives that’.

They could feel it too, the tension crawling beneath the marble floors, pressing against the walls, settling like a storm on their shoulders. The room was thick with unease, a collective breath held too long.

They were not bad people, no. They were clever, loyal, wise. But even wisdom bowed under the shadow of the Black Kingdom’s terror. Some fidgeted with rings upon their fingers, others exchanged wary glances when they thought Sirius could not see. It was not cowardice, Sirius knew this. It was fear. Fear for their children, for their lands, for the fragile peace that threatened to splinter with every messenger who staggered into the hall, begging for salvation.

And still, they looked to him. Their king.

Sirius could feel their eyes on his back, Marlene’s steady, Lily’s thoughtful, the others wavering but present. They would follow his word, he knew. They would ride into war if he asked it. They would sacrifice, as they always had.

That knowledge did not comfort him. It only deepened the ache twisting in his chest.

“Court is adjourned,” Sirius declared furiously.

The great chamber rose in unison, courtiers bowing as they filed out. All save one.

Remus Lupin remained by his side, his beloved, his confidant, his newly sworn husband. His joint sovereign.

“It will be all right,” Remus murmured, stepping closer.

“I don’t understand,” Sirius whispered, pressing his hands to his temples, his voice cracked, still soft almost childlike. He was so gentle, once. How did he turn this violent? goes unsaid.

“Perhaps it was the years he spent locked away in that manor—”

“No.” Sirius cut him off, sharp and pained. “I grew up in that place too. You cannot excuse him with that.” He almost sounded betrayed.

Remus’s sigh was slow, mournful. He reached out, gently prying Sirius’s hands from his face, cradling him instead. “Then we will face him together. Whatever it takes. You will see it done.” He tucked a loose strand of midnight silk hair decorated with threads of gold intertwined altogether behind Sirius’s ear, his thumb lingering against his cheek. “Tell me what you need, and I will make it yours.”

he meant it.

But Sirius only shook his head, eyes shut tight against the ache in his chest. Remus’s hands fell away, but his voice was steady.

“Name it. Whatever you want I’ll see it done.”

Something in those words must have pierced through the haze. Sirius’s eyes flew open, fixed on Remus as though seeing him anew. A smile creeped across his lips, sudden and wild, lighting his face with a reckless spark.

“Moony,” Sirius breathed, joy swelling in his chest. Then louder, almost laughing, he cried, “Moony, you’re brilliant!”

Before Remus could ask, Sirius seized him in a fierce kiss.

oh how much he adored those lips.

Confused, Remus smiled faintly against his lips. What man didn’t like to be called clever by the one he loved?

But then Sirius pulled back, eyes burning now with renewed purpose.

“You’re going to bring me Regulus.”

Remus’s smile dropped.

Chapter Text

Maybe—just maybe—he should’ve set some limits on Sirius’s wishes. Getting him Regulus was like trying to catch a star. A literal star.

Which, if you think about it, isn’t really a “thing” one can just hand someone. Unless the star had fallen, of course. But then it would turn into dust. And dust, Remus decided firmly, was not what Sirius wanted. He might have married Sirius but he for sure would have his head if he just hands him his brothers ashes.

Stars like Regulus didn’t just fall into your lap. No, they became massive, fiery balls in space, far bigger than you could imagine, slowly burning themselves down to their core.

And Remus? He had a very real fear that Regulus, the Regulus he knew of, might do exactly that.

Shaking his head, he wandered the palace halls like a man who had just been reminded he was supposed to be the “smart” one. He needed a plan. Or at least, a minor kidnapping.

Kidnap a king.

Easy.

Not like it was his first time.

He grinned to himself, but wisely decided to tuck that thought away before someone walked by and decided the king’s husband had officially lost his mind.

He had, after all, “kidnapped” Sirius once. Staged, technically. Sirius had escaped with him, because really, who could resist a scarred face, a charming smile, and a tendency to be wildly impractical? Remus could duel anyone in the kingdom, but when it came to his love or, rather, his husband now… he was a weak, hopeless fool.

And he would do it all over again.

To the other black brother now apparently.

⚔

Hours passed. Nothing helped. He had walked enough miles in the palace hallways to qualify as a marathon runner and stared at endless ancient portraits, hoping one of those stony faces would whisper a solution.

Nope. Nada. Not a single hint.

Regulus would agree to visit his brother’s divided kingdom, “his” kingdom, according to the king’s ego only if hell froze over. So that was a hard pass.

Option two: declare war on the Black Manor and take the king hostage. Messy. Dangerous. And honestly? Likely to end with him in a dungeon or as very well-cooked stew.

Sure, he trusted his army, knights loyal to a fault, but not in sheer numbers. The Black Manor had run the kingdom for decades; his little fledgling realm had been around barely long enough to get a decent coat of paint on the castle walls.

He tried another idea: sneak Regulus out quietly. Simple in theory. Flawed in practice. Because Regulus wasn’t just any king. He was the king holding the entire manor together with sheer charisma and possibly magic glue. Magic only causes who in their right mind would stay there.

brilliant headache now pounding, Remus wandered outside to the gardens, okay “gardens” was generous; they were basically sprawling fields where soldiers practiced their war shenanigans. Immediately, he spotted the brunette chaos magnet.

James Potter.

Monitoring two kids sparring with fake wooden swords, none older than twelve.

“Get up, Lyle! The fight isn’t over!” James shouted, apparently unaware of his official role as head of knights as he hovered like a caffeinated puppy.

The black-haired kid tumbled, rose instantly, and aimed at the blond opponent with all the precision of someone who might actually be holding a wooden sword wrong. Fair-skinned, sloppy grips, no technique, it screamed victims of the Black Manor, surviving on sheer grit and stubbornness.

It took James merely a minute to notice his king.

“MOONY!” James ran, pressing a wet kiss to Remus’s cheek. Heart-shaped eyes fully deployed. As if the whole kingdom wasn’t watching.

Marlene snickered few feet away, she was too training a set of kids.

Remus tried to look annoyed. Fail. Deep down, he liked this. This was exactly the kind of king he wanted to be: adored without the threat of decapitation.

“James,” he said, in a deadpan.

“What I missed you” he whined, which was funny coming from a man that looks like a he wrestles bears for cardio then apologizes softly to them.

Remus can only roll his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Of course, James Potter would know when Remus was stressed, because apparently, telepathy was a requirement in this friendship.

“We… have a problem.”

James frowned. “Don’t tell me we’re at war already?” more like fussed.

“No. Worse.”

James tilted his head, giving full “confused puppy” energy.

“We kind of need to… kidnap a king.” Remus waved his hands like this somehow made it less dramatic.

“AGAIN?!” James screeched, tone somewhere between horror and incredulity. “Moony, I haven’t recovered from Sirius’s kidnapping yet!”

Yes, yes, James had been there for the Great Escape from the Black Manor, though his role was technically just “help us sneak out.” He had entered the manor literally an hour before they exited. Yet somehow, trauma was registered.

“First of all, you just helped us, don’t act like a war victim—”

“But Moony! That manor gives me the shivers!” James shivered violently, looking like someone had just told him to take a bath in a cauldron of spiders.

Remus rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw his own brain.

“Commander James, I don’t think we can go on at this rate,” the blond kid whimpered, clutching his wooden sword like it might bite him.

“Oh goodness, I forgot you were still here,” James said, herding the kids off like they were particularly fragile kittens. Scolding them softly.

Remus stared at James. How can someone like him get Regulus Black here?

But then again, if James can’t, who can?

Chapter Text

James Potter was a firm believer that he was capable of almost everything. Almost. Unfortunately, “kidnapping the almighty Regulus Black” did not fall into that category.

Everything he’d ever heard about Regulus Black screamed don’t touch with a ten-foot wand. Oppressor. Manchild. Gold draped tyrant sitting on a throne while his people starved. Crown perched not in honor but pure malice. Mercy fled in his presence. Justice bowed before him. And somehow, he thrived on broken bones like it was a hobby.

Sirius. His king. His love. The one he would follow to the ends of the earth. And here he wondered how was someone from Sirius’s own bloodline capable of this?

No wonder Sirius had wanted to run.

James still didn’t get why Sirius forbade talking trash about his brother behind his back. Honestly? Regulus Black deserved the scolding. Personally a lot worse.

When Remus had approached him a few days ago about kidnapping none other than Regulus Black, James had assumed it was a fancy way of saying, execute the jerk already. But no. It was apparently for… a reunion.

A reunion. With a literal tyrant.

James was still confused. Why on earth would anyone want to speak to that man? Politics made less sense than potion instructions written in Ancient Runes. Fighting, on the other hand? That he understood. Fighting he could handle.

But then again Remus had promised him secretly, behind Sirius’ back of course, that if anything goes south, he can personally execute him. James can not lie that that did not engross him a bit more in the mission.

So, as always, James decided: if the kings want it, James Potter delivers.

Simple mission, really: extract Regulus Black from his own palace without dying, and escort him safely to the divided kingdom. Easy-peasy.

James took a deep breath. What could possibly go wrong?

A lot, apparently.

First: learn the entire layout of the Black Manor. Who needs this many dungeons, secret corridors, and exits? The Black family evidently. A whole labyrinth for a family who apparently hoards secrets like it’s a competitive sport.

Second: memorize the entire family tree. Hearing that Sirius’s parents were cousins made James want to… well, he decided vomiting in front of the king was probably not the best strategy. And don’t even get him started on the cousins’ lore. That sounded like a whole other horror story.

Finally: learn everything about Regulus Black from none other than Sirius himself.

Sirius talked fondly about his brother and brutally about his parents. James learned a few things when he wasn’t zoning out in horror: Regulus had been a scared, fragile kid until about age ten. After that, emotionally unavailable, thanks to years of abuse from his mother. Starved. Locked in closets. Punished for existing.

Something James’s late parents would never do.

Yet somehow, Sirius had zero memories of his brother being purely evil. Weird. Sirius seemed to think it was his fault, that after the escape, Regulus changed. The kingdom changed him.

“I wish I had brought him with me,” Sirius said, voice soft and sad enough to make James want to scoop him into a hug. Remus, predictably, had beaten him to it.

“He had a choice. He refused,” Remus said, trying to be comforting.

Sirius shook his head.

James wondered, for the hundredth time, why on earth would anyone want to stay behind in that kingdom, especially after the king and queen were dead?

Honestly, this mission was starting to sound less like a simple super-secret kidnapping and more like a therapy session crossed with a suicide mission.

 But that just made the mission even clearer: he would do this. He would save Regulus, keep Sirius happy, and somehow not die trying.

Hero mode: activated.

⚔

“Hey, you!”

James nearly tripped over his own boots at the sudden bark from behind him. He’d barely stepped out of the top-secret council chamber before that voice ambushed him.

Marlene.

She wasn’t in a amor like she usually always was, no she was dressed rather casual in a deep red robe, her hair carelessly in a high knot.

“You hey,” James shot back, trying to sound casual, as though her voice hadn’t just taken five years off his lifespan.

To be fair, Marlene had the kind of voice that could make hardened soldiers sit up straighter. Commanding. Terrifying. Like your mother catching you stealing chocolate cookies when you’re seven.

“What was that about?” she demanded, marching up to him with narrowed eyes.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” James replied, flashing his best grin. The one that usually worked.

She scowled. The grin faltered. Maybe he wasn’t as charming as he thought.

“James, you couldn’t lie your way out of a paper bag. So spill.” Her tone dripped with threat, and James briefly considered whether jumping out a nearby window would be less painful.

He weighed his options: lie, and claim he and the king were just catching up, which was normal, sure, but in the council chamber? Yeah, right. Or… tell her the truth.

It was Marlene. His second-in-command. His closest friend. The one person he actually trusted. Why was he even hesitating?

“It’s… a mission.” He exhaled like the word itself had been stuck in his throat.

“Elaborate.”

So he did. Every detail. And from the way Marlene’s expression went from disbelief to horror to murderously furious, James knew he was in for it.

“Are you out of your mind? You can’t just stroll into that manor, James! It’s dangerous! What are the odds you even make it out alive?”

James, to his credit, hadn’t really thought about that.

“Look—” he began.

“No, you look.” Her finger jabbed at his chest. “You’re loyal to the king, fine. Admirable, even. But this? This isn’t bravery. This is bullshit. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

James clutched at his heart like she’d stabbed him. “You wound me, Marlene. Truly. I thought you had more faith in my dashing survival skills.”

She did not laugh. She didn’t even smile.

“I’m coming with you,” she said firmly as she straightened her already straight back.

That made James blink. “Absolutely not.” He tried to summon his stern voice, the one that usually ended conversations. But Marlene McKinnon was immune.

“Why not? Because you know exactly how bad this is?”

She was right. It was bad. He didn’t even have words strong enough. Crazy? Suicidal? Somewhere between the two. But he was not dragging her down with him. If he had to burn, he’d burn alone.

Marlene, for once, didn’t look like herself. She always kept composed, even in chaos, but now? She looked like the world was tilting beneath her feet.

And James understood. He’d feel the same if it were her walking into this.

“Listen, Marlene—”

“What happens if something happens to you, huh?” Her voice cracked, eyes sad.

It made his heart ache a bit.

“You become Lord Marshal?” he offered, aiming for levity. His grin this time was shaky.

She didn’t laugh.

“James, please. We’re a team. Always. Don’t make me stay behind.”

His chest tightened. The thing about Marlene was, she meant it. She’d follow him into hell if he asked. And maybe that’s exactly why he couldn’t let her.

James set his hand on her shoulder, firm, final. “I said no. That’s an order, McKinnon.”

The betrayal in her eyes nearly undid him. Nearly.

But with a deep inhael, he turned away before she could see his own breaking. Back to his quarters. Back to preparing for what came next.

Hero mode, right. That’s what he called it. Funny how it didn’t feel heroic at all.

Chapter Text

A few more days passed in preparation, about a week, and James was on the final steps of grooming his horse, brushing her coat until it gleamed in the rising sun. Dawn would soon break, and with the first beam of light, the beginning of the most insane mission of his life: breaking into the Black Manor.

He paused, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. Someone had to do this. Might as well be me, he thought.

Sirius appeared at the door, looking impossibly neat despite the early hour. His long hair fell freely with two braids framing his face, he wore plain clothes rather than a kingly robe. For a moment, James almost forgot the stakes, almost.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Sirius asked, leaning casually against the doorway. But there was guilt in his expression, a subtle tremble that made James’s chest tighten. Always protecting everyone else, even when he’s scared himself.

Sirius was a good king; he was also a really good person.

“I would do anything I can to serve this kingdom, Sirius,” James said firmly, brushing stray hair from the horse’s mane.

Sirius scoffed almost childlike. “You’re still my best friend, James. If you didn’t want to do this, I’d oppose the mission immediately.”

James looked up, meeting Sirius’s eyes. “I know you would. Still, it’s my choice.”

He couldn’t explain it to anyone not really. The truth was, James always felt the need to help. Someone had to step into impossible situations, to face danger head on. If he didn’t do it who would?

He blamed his parents, of course. Effie, always fussing over soldiers going off to war, insisting they eat properly and carry themselves with pride. And his dad well, his fearless, slightly terrifying knight of a father had shown him what it meant to step into impossible missions without hesitation. That courage had been passed down, whether James wanted it or not.

He rubbed the horse’s nose affectionately. “I’ll bring your brother back. That’s a vow.” He promised, hand by heart.

Sirius’s expression softened, and a smile, small but genuine broke across his face. “You’re such a dork,” he murmured. Before James could respond, Sirius leapt forward, arms wrapping around him in a fierce, tight hug.

A brother’s hug.

James returned it, feeling the weight of loyalty, love, and responsibility all at once.

“You really think you can do this?” Sirius asked quietly, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye.

James smirked, though his stomach fluttered nervously. “I have to. Someone has to save this. Someone has to save all of this mess. And if anyone can…” He let his gaze drift to the looming distance, “…it’s me.”

Sirius chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You really are impossible.”

James grinned, adjusting the saddle one last time. “And you wouldn’t have me any other way, wouldn’t you?”

“No,” Sirius admitted, voice sad but soft. “Go. Bring him back. And try not to get yourself killed, hero.”

“Hero is my middle name,” James replied with mock bravado, mounting his horse with a confident shove that masked the storm of nerves underneath.

He kicked the horse lightly, feeling her muscles coil with readiness. One last look at Sirius, more to memorize him with one last deep breath, and then they were off, charging toward the impossible, reckless, terrifying mission impossible that no one else could attempt but James Potter? He would make it work. Because that was what heroes did.

and he likes to believe he is one.

⚔

Just as he neared the border of the kingdom that had held him captive for years, James caught sight of a figure waiting at the edge of the forest road. A tall man, robed in deep blue trimmed with silver, the royal seal gleaming at his breast.

Remus Lupin.

His king. His friend. His dearest Remus.

“I assume Sirius was faster than me?” Remus called, his voice carrying easily over the chill wind.

James dismounted halfway, boots crunching on gravel as he scoffed. “You knew he would be.”

A wry smile tugged at Remus’s lips, though worry lingered behind his eyes. “Then you better come back in one piece or my divorce will be near. After all, I’m the one who sent you out there.”

James laughed, sharp and unrestrained, as he swung fully down from his horse. “As if Sirius could ever survive without your annoying ass.”

But Remus’s reply was softer, more dangerous for the honesty in it. “Not without you, either.”

The air grew heavier with those words, tension thrumming like the drawn string of a bow.

Sighing, James closed the distance, his armor clinking as he placed a firm hand on Remus’s shoulder. “I’m coming back,” he said with the conviction of a knight swearing his last vow.

The look in Remus’s eyes nearly undid him. He looked tired, weighed down by sleepless nights and the endless burdens of a crown that asked too much of him. Tired, and yet, he still shone.

“You have to promise me,” Remus whispered, his voice breaking with uncharacteristic desperation. “If anything goes wrong you flee.”

James arched a brow jokingly. “Is that a king’s order?”

“James.” The name was raw, stripped of rank, of ceremony. Just James. “Please. Promise me.”

For a moment, James considered teasing him again, brushing the worry aside as he always did. But the plea in Remus’s voice anchored him.

“I promise,” James said quietly.

Relief softened Remus’s face. Without hesitation, he pulled James into an embrace, tight and unyielding, the kind of embrace that carried both fear and faith.

“I believe in you,” he murmured.

And that was all James needed.

When he mounted his horse once more, the weight in his chest felt lighter. Remus’s words rode with him, stronger than any blade or shield.

His journey had begun.

Chapter Text

Nothing about the road to the Black Manor was easy. The miles themselves weren’t that far they had once been one kingdom after all, but the distance between the brothers made it feel like crossing a chasm.

James camped twice along the way. “Camped” was a generous word. Mostly he drank and ate what little he had while dozing under the shadow of a tree, ears straining for any sound that wasn’t the wind in the branches.

At dawn, he was up again, every morning bringing him closer to the dreaded walls of the manor. Less than three days later, he reached the border.

As the Black Manor loomed larger in the distance, James tied his horse to a distant tree. One final touch, skin-to-skin, forehead to forehead, a silent promise to return. “Be patient, girl. I’ll come back for you,” he murmured.

His steps toward the manor were cautious, timid even. It didn’t feel like the first time he had come here, but that first time had been with the fear for Remus’s head nearly made his own heart leap from his chest.

Now? No one was with him nor waiting for him inside, and the fear for his own life was equally real.

He almost laughed. A sharp, humorless laugh. This is ridiculous. He could practically hear his mother scolding him, voice sharp: James, what on earth do you think you’re doing?

Still he did not stop walking.

A selfish part of him wished he took Marlene to her offer, then he wouldn’t be doing this alone.

He knew better than to approach the main gate. Too many knights patrolled that way. No, he would take the safer path: the gardens.

The Black Manor had three gardens. The main garden led straight to the heart of the palace, a place he would never dare enter. Another lay at the side, used for parties and ostentatious displays of wealth. Rumor had it it looked like the Gardens of Eden, though he doubted the story was entirely true.

And then there was the third. The one no one talked about.

This one reeked of history, of pain, of something far worse than mere neglect. It wasn’t a garden at all it was a wild, twisted forest, where the fallen had left their mark. The Black family had used it for their darkest acts: slavery, bargaining, and whispers of things that made James shiver uncontrollably.

Some of the children they kept alive were for sale to other kingdoms. Some for far more sinister purposes. And there were always rumors of others for warming beds.

James’s stomach clenched. His hands tightened into fists.

Who would take a child into their bed?

He shook his head, forcing the thought away. Focus. That was all that mattered now. Step by careful step, he moved forward, eyes scanning, ears straining, heart hammering. He had a mission. And no matter how dark the path, he would see it through.

⚔

“As you take the path through the garden, there’s a secret passage no one enters nor even knows about. It’s for the royal family’s escape if the palace ever needs it. Far west of the garden. You’ll know it by an ancient oak tree. The grass might look off. Almost fake. Lift it up. That’s your safest path.”

Sirius’s words echoed in James’s ears as he walked, scanning every tree and shadow. Finding the oak wasn’t difficult—the tree was massive, its branches twisting like ancient arms, but Sirius had, of course, exaggerated about the fake grass.

Fake grass, James realized bitterly, looked exactly like the real thing. Brilliant.

He crouched, pressed his fingers to the ground, and gingerly lifted tufts of grass. Fifteen minutes? Maybe more. Definitely more. By the time he found the hidden flap, his shoulders ached, his palms were sweaty, and he was beginning to suspect that Sirius had been having a laugh at his expense the entire time.

A small, victorious smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Relief surged through him, so intense he could almost shed a happy tear.

And then reality hit him like a hammer.

He hadn’t even started the mission. Not really. He was still outside the manor, still in the garden,

still alive.

Stress and anxiety came rushing back in full force, crawling along his spine and gripping his chest.

James swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus. The hidden path was found. That was step one. The next steps well, that was where the fun or total disaster began.

Hero mode, James reminded himself. Deep breath.

You’ve got this.

James crouched lower, sliding the flap of grass back into place behind him. The hidden path screamed before him, narrow, dark, almost swallowing the little light around him.

Even breaths. Steady.

It’s fine. Totally fine. No king nor queen ghost is going to haunt me. Lovely. Totally relaxing.

The air was thick with the smell of earth, old decay and something worse he dared not name. Ashes? He forced himself to move, slow and careful, ears straining for anything that didn’t belong.

I don’t belong here, he reminded himself. Still, he kept walking.

“If I die here,” he muttered under his breath, “at least it’ll be heroic. Heroically crushed by a hidden royal passage. Story of the legend.”

His heart thumped like a war drum in his chest. Every breath was shallow. Come on, James. You’ve fought worse than shadowy passages. You’re James Potter.

Inevitably, something went wrong.

A sound, a soft scraping, deliberate. Ears perked. Most sane people would have run. James Potter? Hero, idiot, or both he inched toward it. Heart lodged somewhere in his throat.

It was probably a guard. Or a trap. Or death incarnate. His hand drifted toward the knife at his waist.

Gods, let this be quick, he muttered, though he wasn’t religious. Now, however, he was praying to every deity he’d ever heard of.

Just as he drew closer, a rat skittered across the dirt, squeaking indignantly.

Relief hit him like a lightning bolt. A rat? I am actually relieved to see a rat. The little creature paused, looked at him, squeaked again. Yes, tiny friend. Make all the noise you want. I am still panicking but in a controlled manner.

“I’m not panicking,” he muttered, deeper in the narrow walls. “Totally not.”

The stench grew worse, like something had died here recently. He nearly gagged, half considering breaking his own nose just to stop the smell from assaulting him further.

And then, thank the gods, he found stairs. Stairs leading upward, out of this suffocating tunnel. For the first time in his life, James Potter felt a strange, fierce gratitude for stairs.

He straightened, brushed himself off, and let a small, triumphant grin creep across his face. “Step one: survive the secret path. Step two: break into a house full of evil, overgrown, ridiculously well-protected people. No pressure.”

Muscles taut, senses razor-sharp, every nerve alert, he climbed.

The mission had officially begun.

Chapter Text

“repeat”

“what? Remus I drew everything right-”

“almost everything James, you missed a tunnel in here”

Remus’ finger hit the spot on the paper that James had previously missed.

“shit you’re right here I fixed it”

“repeat it whole” leaving no roam for argument.

“Remus I’ve been doing this for days”

”repeat”

With a sigh, James did as told.

⚔

If you asked James, he’d tell you he could draw the Black Manor with his eyes closed. Not only had Sirius lived here for eighteen long, twisted years, but Remus Lupin had personally ensured James memorized every corner of this cursed house.

James wasn’t sure if it was for the mission’s success or for sheer survival. Probably both.

The stairs beneath him were a hidden passage leading straight to the king’s room, a secret only a few knew about. This room belonged to Regulus after the death of his parents, carefully tucked away from the rest of the manor.

James wanted to scoff. And the princes? Did the late queen not think that danger might wander into their rooms?

The stairs ended in a ceiling with a small opening. It wasn’t something you could just pull open. James had to be sure no one was inside first. He needed to hide, to plan, to execute then escort the king out. This was the plan.

Ten minutes? James thought that was plenty of time. Famous last words. He made the call.

And so he broke in. Quietly.

Then he fell. Literally fell. Face-first into the dirt, dignity left behind, upon hearing a sound that could only have come from nature’s most wicked creation.

It wasn’t just a sound. No, this was a roar dredged straight out of hell’s ugliest pit. The kind of noise that makes grown men grip their swords tighter and pray to gods they’d never believed in.

James’s breath caught. His heart kicked into a sprint. His brain supplied images of claws, fangs, glowing eyes. Wolves? No, worse. A wyvern? A hellhound? Maybe some ancient beast dug up from beneath the earth just to feast on his sorry hide?

The night went still around him. Too still. Like the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for the slaughter.

He swallowed. His sword weighed heavy at his hip, but suddenly, he wasn’t sure steel would be enough. Maybe he should run. Yes, run, though where does one run when the devil itself comes calling?

The sound came again, sharp and drawn out.

Meow.

James froze. For fuck’s sake, this mission was already hard enough, now this?

The creature emerged from the shadows: small, sleek, and undeniably sinister. A black cat. Yellow eyes glowing like molten coins, pupils narrowed to the thinnest of blades. James knew what that meant.

It was going to attack.

“Not like this,” James whispered. “Not death by feline.”

The cat took one dainty step forward. James scrambled backward like a man who had just met the Reaper himself.

He raised a hand. “Stay where you are, demon. I’ve slain men twice my size, but I don’t mess with you lot.”

The cat blinked. A slow, deliberate blink.

James gasped. “Oh God. It’s plotting.”

The beast licked its paw, gaze still locked on him, as though calculating the most humiliating way to end his bloodline. He’d heard stories, legends whispered in taverns: men going missing, only for claw marks to be found on their bodies. Whole kingdoms brought down by these furry assassins.

James’s heart pounded. “I survived the king’s wrath. I survived Marlene’s temper. But I will not—cannot—survive you.”

The cat tilted its head. Innocent to the untrained eye. But James saw the truth. That was no head tilt that was the creature aligning itself to strike.

He braced himself, back against the wall. “If I go down, I go down a soldier. Just… please, not the face.”

The cat yawned.

James flinched like he’d been shot. “Mock me, will you?”

The little beast sauntered closer, tail curling with all the arrogance of a king demanding tribute. James clutched at the hilt of his sword, briefly considering if regicide was worth adding “caticide” to his list of crimes.

Then—boop.

The cat nudged his boot with its nose. Purring.

James blinked. “What sorcery is this? Seduction? A false peace treaty before the slaughter?”

It rubbed against his leg, meowing again.

James groaned. “Fine. I yield. Take my soul, take my rations, take my bedroll. Just leave my sanity intact.”

The cat climbed into his lap like it had just claimed a throne. James stared down at it in horror as it purred louder, vibrating like some unholy machine.

And the worst part?

He almost liked it.

Okay, okay.

Sirius needs this. I will do this.

With that James picked the devil of a creature, and entered kings’ quarter again.

The room was massive, more like a court chamber than a bedroom. Of course, Regulus Black wouldn’t settle for anything less. Shelves stretched to the ceiling, sagging under the weight of countless books. Tomes and manuscripts spilled onto the floor and furniture, stacked precariously as if gravity itself dared not intervene.

Yet the room didn’t smell of books. It smelled wrong. Dirty, but not filth. Something heavier, more pungent, almost metallic. James couldn’t place it. Fear, maybe. Or something the manor itself exhaled.

The cat wiggled from his hands, as he put it on the ground the abomination made a path to somewhere in the room. A bed.

The gigantic bed at the center caught his attention. It was enormous Remus, Sirius, and he could comfortably curl up there, he mused, and he really hoped Remus would suggest a cuddle session right now.

White chiffon curtains draped over the bed, billowing faintly in a draft. Shadows moved under the fabric.

James’s stomach dropped. Someone could be there.

Regulus Black.

He untangled his sword with practiced grace, inching forward, heart hammering like a drum in his chest.

He could do this. He had faced worse than a few chiffon curtains concealing the potential tyranny of an entire kingdom.

Each step brought him closer, muscles taut, senses straining for the slightest movement. The chandelier above rattled faintly, a single candle flickering in a shadowed corner. Somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard a whisper—whether real or imagination, he couldn’t tell.

He paused a mere foot from the bed, fingers tight on the hilt. Breathe. Focus. Hero mode.

With a final glance over his shoulder at the narrow passage he had just traversed, James grasped the curtain.

He pulled it back.

Chapter Text

It was in that moment that James Potter realized something terrifying:

 he had no idea what Regulus Black looked like.

Did everyone assume he would? He’d never seen him. He’d never paid attention to the portraits hung in the castle halls neither.

What did a tyrant king even look like? Probably big, ugly, and annoying, James thought. Hopefully.

Instead, curled up in the massive bed, was a boy who seemed far too fragile for the horrors of the Black Manor. Black hair, neither as long and flowing as Sirius’s nor too short, fell in soft curls around a pale, almost luminescent face. The ends of his hair flicked delicately, like tiny dark flames caressing his jaw.

He looked small, too small. And bruises marred his shoulder and neck, faint but cruelly deliberate. James’s blood boiled with anger, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.

he was also not entirely sure when the boy opened his eyes.

James froze. Heavens.

The eyes. Grey, like storm clouds over silver seas, with flecks that caught the light as if the room itself were reflecting off them. Eyes that could swallow kingdoms whole and leave you breathless. James, a confessed cliché when it came to beauty, realized he had never been unprepared for someone’s eyes before.

He was so pretty to look at, it pained him. He was beautiful in a way where angels must have lined up to kiss him before he was born.

Panicking, he tucked his sword awkwardly at his side and tried to look nonchalant.

“Before you scream,” he managed, voice a little higher than intended, “I promise I came in peace.”

what? he's panicking so what's better than rhythm

The boy rose slowly in full grace, sitting up with a calmness that unnerved James. Not a flicker of fear, not a twitch. Just perfect, disarming poise.

He looked like something forbidden carved into human flesh, an heir sculpted by the Gods themselves. Emerald earrings two gleaming prisms catching the candlelight with every tiny movement. He was truly a vision that stripped reason bare.

The cat now curled beside him, in pure mockery in James’ face.

“Who are you?” The voice, soft but commanding, made James want to apologize for existing.

“I—I’m here to save you?” he stammered, unsure if it sounded heroic or ridiculous.

The boy lifted a perfectly arched brow.

“From the king?” James clarified, hoping he sounded convincing.

The boy tilted his head slightly, and James internally melted at the curve of his jaw, the gentle slope of his neck. God must have gone overboard with this one, he thought. Perhaps a little too much beauty, not enough brains. James didn’t mind.

“Which one?” the boy asked, voice silk over steel.

“From… Black?” James ventured, uncertain if he was saying the right thing.

“Oh.” The boy leaned back, reclining with a faint sigh that made James’s chest ache. “Of course.”

James blinked, confused as usual, and then awkwardness settled over the room like a heavy curtain. The boy closed his eyes again, completely unconcerned with the sword still at James’s side.

“You can… per chance… help me?” James tried, smirking at his own ridiculous phrasing.

The boy’s eyes flicked open again. Silence.

“You can help me find the king,” James pushed.

“This is the crown prince’s bed,” the boy said, voice flat.

James froze. Wait, crown prince? Isn’t that the same as king? His brain short circuited.

“You’re not the crown prince, are you?” he asked impulsively, because his mother had always encouraged him to speak his mind, no matter how stupid.

“Do I look like a prince?” the boy shot back.

James swallowed hard. He did. He could be James’s prince, his treasure to protect. Not that he would say that. Not yet.

“But… you’re in his bed?” James pressed, voice trembling slightly.

“I warm his bed,” the boy replied casually, expression as serene as a winter lake. Not a hint of embarrassment, not a hint of fear.

James choked. Literally choked.

Chapter Text

 You see, James did not expect that. At all.

The boy had said it so casually, so offhand, like telling someone the weather or that dinner was late: “I warm his bed.” Just slipped it into the conversation.

James’s brain promptly short-circuited. He took a step back. Then another. His stomach clenched as if it had just been tied into some sailor’s knot, and it was in that exact moment James decided the Black Kingdom deserved to end in flames. All of it. Everyone in it. He’d light the torch himself.

If anything, he was now more determined in his mission.

“I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“What?” The boy arched a brow, one so perfectly shaped it could probably slice James open.

“I—I’m sorry,” James repeated, louder this time, as if doubling down would somehow make it make sense.

The boy’s lips twitched faintly. “It’s not like you did this to me, did you?”

“No! No, absolutely not.” James nearly gagged at the thought. “I would never—”

“You never know.” his lips twitched with that. As if he was so sure.

James blinked. “Excuse you?”

But the boy didn’t answer, slipping back into silence as if he hadn’t just dropped a verbal dagger into James’s chest.

Restlessness gnawed at James. He adjusted his grip on his sword, then loosened it, then adjusted again. Now what?

“Where’s the king?” he demanded.

That earned him laughter. Cold, sharp, dripping with a malice that made James’s skin crawl. It should’ve sounded angelic coming from lips like those, but no. This was mockery, plain and cruel.

Was he making fun of me?

definitely.

“You think you can reach the king? In a court full of people who worship him?”

James’s brows knit together. That was a good point. Dammit.

“You can’t,” the boy continued, voice cool, absolute. “Even when he steps outside, you can’t.”

James bristled. “You sound so sure for someone who doesn’t even know what I’m capable of.”

The boy rose then with a final pet to his cat, slowly, deliberately, every movement a performance. And James sword in hand, fully armed felt suddenly like he was the one cornered.

The boy wasn’t even holding a weapon. Just standing there in all his quiet glory, pale skin catching the dim candlelight, those grey eyes daring James to underestimate him.

“He sleeps with knights in the room, you stupid soldier.” His voice sharpened, anger burning through the calm façade. “He beds me with a mini army at his side.” His lip curled, eyes narrowing. “You can never get him alone.”

The accusation hit James like a punch. It was almost as if the boy were blaming him, and James’s chest tightened under the weight of it.

“I—” James started, but the boy cut him off with a slash of his voice.

“Get out while you still can.”

James swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat. That was it? The mission? Over before it began? He was supposed to just leave?

“Leave you here?” James asked, incredulous, his voice cracking in defiance. As if the very idea was absurd.

The boy’s gaze flicked over him, cold and assessing. “You don’t even know me, soldier.”

James wanted to scream. What was a man supposed to do now? His head spun, his stomach churned, his grip on his sword faltered. But his mouth oh, his mouth kept running, as always.

“Well,” James said finally, squaring his shoulders, “I’m James Potter. I’m almost twenty-two, and I’m here to slaughter the king and get you out.”

He tried to make it sound heroic. Bold. Legendary.

But it came out breathless, desperate, almost like a child asking to be believed.

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

The boy’s words were sharp, certain, like an unchanged prophecy carved into stone.

“If it means ending this, then I would gladly,” James shot back, trying to sound iron-clad in his conviction. And he was determined. He meant every word. It wasn’t his fault his voice betrayed him, cracking at the end like an adolescent. Heroic declarations never sounded as smooth as he imagined them.

The boy only shook his head slow at first, then sharper, as if the sheer physical force of it might rattle James out of the room, out of the manor, out of this ridiculous mission.

Then, without so much as a glance in James’s direction, the boy rose from the bed. His movements were deliberate, infuriatingly calm, as though James and his sword and his very existence were no more threatening than a candle flame. He swept past him, dark hair catching the dim light, and marched toward the balcony doors.

For one ridiculous moment James thought do I follow?

Of course he followed. He was James Potter. Following beautiful people into questionable situations was practically a family tradition.

The night air met them cool and sharp, and the boy lowered himself onto the stone floor of the balcony, hands resting lightly on the short wall. His gaze tilted upward toward the heavens, grey eyes fixed on something James couldn’t see.

James blinked, caught off guard. He looked so unguarded like this. Still, quiet, almost fragile. It struck James with a pang of déjà vu, because how many times had he found Sirius perched in windows, sprawled on rooftops, staring into the night as if it held answers he’d never share?

This boy, this stranger who had casually told James he 'warmed the king’s bed' was doing the exact same thing.

James lingered by the door a beat too long, awkwardly hovering, sword still in hand. Then, because silence was unbearable and his instincts for timing were abysmal, he let out an exaggerated cough.

“You know,” James said, voice too loud against the night air, “at the Order, the night sky looks way better.”

It was the kind of stupid comment he wished he could snatch back the moment it left his lips.

And yet, it worked.

The boy didn’t look at him, but his posture shifted. His head remained tilted skyward, but his ear twitched, delicate, sharp catlike. As if James had tugged him back from some trance, pulled him just slightly closer into the world.

James exhaled, his chest loosening. Maybe it wasn’t much. But it was something.

“Really, you can see the stars way better there,” James pressed, inching closer like he was approaching a wild animal that might bolt if startled. “Is that what you’re looking at? The stars?”

The boy didn’t turn. His voice came soft, edged in something James couldn’t quite name. “And if I was?”

Classic. Answering him, but never actually answering. James grit his teeth. This was going to drive him insane.

He crouched, lowering himself down, before finally crossing his legs to sit beside the black-haired beauty. It felt both like trespassing and like the most natural thing he’d ever done.

The boy didn’t flinch, didn’t shift away. Just rolled his eyes with the sort of elegance only someone truly blessed by the gods could manage. Somehow, even his disdain was attractive.

“Well look there,” James said, thrusting a hand toward the sky, trying not to sound like an overeager child naming shapes in clouds. His eyes flicked sideways, just to see if the boy would follow his gesture. He did. Smoothly, unhurriedly, but he did.

“That star is Si—”

“Sirius.”

The interruption was sharp, immediate.

“Yes!” James’s voice cracked with enthusiasm, and he straightened up, excitement bubbling out before he could tamp it down. “Yes, that one! Exactly!”

The boy’s lips barely curved, not quite a smile but something that lingered close.

“That’s the brightest star in the sky,” James went on, suddenly proud of a fact he’d never cared about in his life. “Isn’t that… I don’t know. Cool?”

He glanced at the boy, desperate for approval he didn’t understand wanting.

And then he froze. Because fuck. He was beautiful.

The starlight kissed the boy’s skin, turning pale into porcelain, casting shadows that deepened the sharpness of his cheekbones. His lashes caught the silver glow, impossibly long, impossibly delicate. And those grey eyes, fixed skyward, looked like they were made of the very thing they gazed at cold fire and endless depth.

“Very,” the boy murmured, sighing the word like it cost him something.

His gaze didn’t waver from Sirius, steady and unblinking, as though the star itself held him captive.

And James, James couldn’t look away either. Only, his eyes weren’t on the sky.

They were only on him.

Chapter Text

Time passed.

James would swear it had only been a couple of minutes. Maybe ten at most. Fifteen, if he was being generous.

But if anyone asked, he’d lie through his teeth. Because the truth was shameful, downright embarrassing for a man on a mission. He had spent, maybe an hour, maybe hours just staring at the boy.

And talking. May the gods help him, he had talked so much.

Even Sirius would be disappointed.

He justified it to himself by calling it reconnaissance. After all, he had learned things. Useful things. Mission advantage things.

Like: the boy’s name was Leo. Just Leo. No last name, no title, nothing to pin him down in history.

And he was twenty, almost twenty-one. Which technically meant he wasn’t really a boy anymore, though James still thought of him as one, if only because Leo had this perpetual look of someone too young to carry the kind of bruises he wore.

And… that was it.

Embarrassing I know.

That was the grand sum of intelligence gathered in however many ridiculous, humiliatingly long minutes or hours James had squandered.

Because Leo didn’t talk. Not much, anyway. No, Leo listened well. He listened with this unnerving stillness, as if every word James said entered him, rattled around for a second, and then disappeared into some private abyss where no one could ever reach it again.

And so James talked.

A lot.

He told Leo about his parents, about Euphemia’s laugh and Fleamont’s terrible singing voice, about how the Potter estate smelled like honeysuckle in summer and wet wood in winter. He rambled about Marlene's stubbornness and Franks unwavering mind and even Remus, about the Order, about the god awful food rationing, about sneaking whiskey past curfew.

Sometimes he didn’t even know what he was saying until the words were already tumbling out, spilling into the air between them.

And Leo… Leo never interrupted. He never rolled his eyes not for this, at least, never looked bored. He just sat there, his strange grey gaze pinned to James with a calm that was both terrifying and addictive.

Every now and then, James thought he saw the corner of Leo’s mouth twitch as though the universe itself had almost coaxed a smile from him, only for it to retreat like a shadow.

When James, flustered, had tried to apologize about bringing up dead parents, Leo had brushed him off. A simple, casual flick of the hand, as if grief was nothing but a fly in his periphery.

It unsettled James more than anything. Because very little seemed to budge Leo. Not sorrow, not sympathy, not even James’s awkward attempts at humor.

And yet James kept talking. Because silence felt unbearable around him. Because every second Leo didn’t leave was a second James wanted to fill.

Because maybe, just maybe if he spoke enough, he could plant something inside that calm, unshakable exterior.

Maybe he could make Leo move.

But no Leo, so often got lost in the sky, looking up at it as if he was wanted to go home.

⚔

The peace didn’t last long, of course it didn’t. Peace never does.

James was mid ramble something about how technically whisky should come with a health warning because 'if you don’t burn your throat, are you even drinking it right?' while Leo had already retreated into his favorite hobby: staring at the stars like they might one day blink back at him.

And then

The door opened.

Not a creak, not a polite knock. No, wide open, as if whoever was on the other side owned the air in the room.

James’s body moved before his brain did, entire body went rigid. Instinct took over sword in hand, stance ready, heart pounding a drumbeat so loud it could’ve been mistaken for battle horns it rattled walls. He placed himself in front of Leo without even thinking like an idiot hero from a half written ballad.

This was it. This was the moment. Was Regulus Black himself about to step through? The tyrant, the monster, the target? Was James finally about to meet the king whose downfall he had sworn upon?

His breath caught, sword gleaming in the dim light.

One step closer.

His chest tightened.

Another step.

He tried not to shake. He failed.

The shadow grew longer, broader, the figure finally filling the threshold. James held steady, sweat beginning to bead along his temple.

Whoever it was, they were tall. The sound of heavy boots echoed against the tiles. Step. Step. Another step.

James’s grip tightened around his sword hilt until his knuckles ached.

Sweat beaded on his temple.

The air in his lungs thinned, cold and heavy.

He tried to steady his breath.

Don’t shake. Don’t flinch. You’re James Potter, Order soldier. You’ve fought worse than this.

But he hadn’t, had he? Not here, not in enemy territory, not with someone like Leo behind him fragile, beautiful, completely unarmed.

The figure came closer, closer still, the details refusing to reveal themselves all at once. The doorframe swallowed half their form in shadow, and James’s mind raced with every terrible outcome.

And then—

It wasn’t Regulus.

At all.

A tall woman, broad-shouldered, in full armor that caught the faint light. Her helmet tucked under one arm, her other hand hovering at the hilt of her sword. Head full of braids while her sharp eyes scanned the room, and one brow arched so high James swore it could cut glass.

She wasn’t terrifying exactly, but she did radiate the aura of someone who would happily fold him in half like bad parchment if she felt like it.

Her eyes darted to Leo, then back to James, and she said the most damning thing possible:

“You do realize there’s a man in your room?”

Behind him, Leo shuffled forward into view, lazy as ever, as if this was just another Tuesday and not, you know, a situation.

“Oh really?” Leo deadpanned. “I hadn’t noticed.”

James nearly choked. Was that sarcasm? Was Leo being sarcastic at a time like this?

The armored woman Knight, Guard, Death-In-Shiny-Boots, whatever she was tightened her grip on her sword stretching it long in James' direction. “State your business.”

James froze.

Oh, brilliant. What was he supposed to say?

Hello, I’m James, I snuck in through a glorified rat tunnel because I’m here to kidnap your king. Lovely weather, isn’t it?

No. Absolutely not.

So instead he went for silence.

Which only highlighted the fact that he had told Leo his entire mission plan.

Well, Leo was different.

He was what? Pretty? Distracting? Unreasonably beautiful?

Shut up, brain.

Before James could even form a single excuse, Leo’s voice cut the air, soft but commanding:

“Dorcas, leave him be.”

The name hit the room like a drumbeat.

Dorcas.

Sirius had told about all of the guards he remembered in the palace, this knight Dorcas must be newly assigned since he never heard of her.

And just like that, the terrifying woman lowered her blade. She didn’t sheathe it, but she did step back, wary but obedient. Obedient to Leo.

James blinked.

Wait. Why was she listening to him? Since when did this pretty boy have guard dogs in full plate armor who obeyed his every word?

Suspicion pricked him, but before he could process, Dorcas muttered, “Well, you better dump him somewhere near the stables before the king graces you, Re—”

“Leo,” the boy snapped sharply, cutting her off. His voice had steel in it, sharp enough to slice. “It’s Leo to you, Dorcas.”

The knight’s eyes narrowed, her lips curling in frustration. “You’re back at this again?”

Leo didn’t answer. Which, honestly, was so on brand at this point. James could scream.

Dorcas sighed like she’d had this argument a hundred times already, then turned back to James with a glare so sharp he felt like his skin was peeling. “Leo, he needs to leave.”

Leo shrugged, calm as ever. “He will.”

Hello? Did they not see him standing right here? James raised a hand awkwardly, voice cracking just a touch. “I am literally right here. I can make my own decisions, thank you very much.”

Dorcas hissed. “You think I can’t spot an Order badge when I see one?” James was starting to believe this whole kingdom had a thing to representing cats.

James blinked. “Well, I never denied—”

“Exactly,” she cut him off.

Great. Everyone in this kingdom cut people off like it was a sport. Cats. They were all cats, aloof, self-important, impossible to argue with.

“He doesn’t want to leave,” Leo said suddenly, shrugging as if the whole thing bored him.

“He has to,” Dorcas hissed. Her voice was all venom now. “You have to.”

James finally straightened, gripping his sword again, his voice carrying more weight than he felt: “I’m here on a mission.”

Dorcas tilted her head, skeptical. “Which is?”

Before he could speak, Leo dropped the truth like a boulder into still water:

“He’s come to bring down the king.”

Dorcas froze. Her eyes flickered with something James hadn’t expected: hope. Honest, raw hope, like the sun had cracked through storm clouds for a second.

This was his chance.

James grabbed it instantly. “Listen, Dorcas—”

But Leo cut in again, casually twisting the dagger. “He’s here for Regulus Black.”

The change was instant. That hope? Gone. Snuffed out like a candle in the wind. What filled its place was sharper, colder: betrayal, fury, hatred.

She looked at James as if he had spat in her face.

“You’re leaving,” Dorcas said as she retreated her sword, voice coiling like a serpent ready to strike. “And if you don’t, not even Leo will be able to save you.”

The hiss in her tone made his stomach churn. For the first time, James felt the very real possibility that this wasn’t just a mission anymore, this was a noose tightening around his neck.

And yet, when he glanced sideways, Leo was still there, sitting so calm, so quiet, eyes on the stars again as if the world wasn’t crumbling in the space between them.

And James realized, with a weight heavy in his chest.

He couldn’t leave. Not now. Not when the stars looked brighter reflected in Leo’s eyes than they ever did in the sky above.

Chapter Text

“I’m not leaving,” James said, breath rough but steady, sword still in his hand though lowered to his side. His chest rose with defiance, eyes burning like embers. “You can kill me if you want, Dorcas. Run me through, send me back to the Order in a coffin but unless I’m still in pieces alive, I’m going nowhere.”

He sighed, a strange calm settling over him even as he raised his chin, daring her.

Dorcas’s lip curled into something between disgust and fury. “A coffin?” she spat, voice like venom. “I’m not even going to waste a coffin on you, traitor.”

And then she swung.

The sword came fast, steel slicing the air with a shriek, her full body weight driving it forward. James barely had time to react, instincts flaring as he pivoted sideways. The blade whistled past, and Dorcas’s momentum nearly sent her crashing forward.

That was her first mistake.

James’s eyes narrowed. Too much anger, not enough control. He’d sparred enough to know fury was as dangerous to its wielder as it was to an opponent.

Dorcas recovered with a snarl, fury blazing hotter. She came again, sword arcing, this time more controlled but James was ready. Their blades clashed, sparks flashing where steel kissed steel. His muscles locked against hers, their arms trembling with the force.

She growled, shoved back, and swung again.

He blocked.

Again.

Blocked.

Again.

Blocked.

The room filled with the relentless sound of ringing steel, echoing against the stone walls, almost drowning out the sound of their ragged breaths. James’s boots slid over the tiles, his stance firm, every movement measured.

“You can’t beat me, Dorcas,” he muttered through clenched teeth, sweat prickling at the back of his neck. He wasn’t even winded, not yet. But she was dripping with it, strands of hair clinging to her temples, chest heaving with every lunge.

“Shut up!” she spat, fury lacing her voice. She lunged again, harder, sharper, her grip tightening with both hands on the hilt.

James’s eyes flickered with something like pity. “I’m not even fighting you,” he said, pushing her back with a single twist of his wrist. “Stop.”

But Dorcas didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Her blade carved the air, fast and reckless, the clang of each strike ringing louder, angrier.

“Dorcas. Enough,” James warned, this time steel lining his tone.

And then, in one swift move, he put real force into his swing. Their blades met with a deafening crack, his strength shoving hers aside. Her sword wrenched from her hands and clattered across the floor tiles, spinning until it lay useless at her feet, just as she fell with it.

Silence followed, heavy and suffocating.

Dorcas sat there, chest heaving, hands trembling without her weapon. Her eyes burned holes into him.

“Leave,” she hissed, her voice brittle with exhaustion but sharp with venom.

James only shook his head, lifting her sword not in threat, but in stubborn declaration as he gave it back to her. “I don’t care what you say, Dorcas. I am not leaving.”

Standing her eyes hardened, fury cooling into something sharper, deadlier. “If you want to die so badly, fine. But don’t think you’ll get far. If you want me out of your way so bad, I’ll call the armors. You alone can’t stand against what waits in this manor.”

“Then call them,” James said, though his voice softened as his gaze locked on hers. “But you know as well as I do, you can’t scare me off. Not you, not Regulus, not this cursed house.”

Her face twisted. “You know nothing,” she snarled. “I know your kind. Self-righteous soldiers, drunk on loyalty, too blind to see the cost.”

James’s grip tightened, but his voice dropped, almost pleading. “Dorcas…”

She froze at the sound of her name. His tone wasn’t mocking, wasn’t cold. It was almost gentle.

For a moment, just a moment, she faltered. Her breath came shallow now, shoulders rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes flickered between rage, between doubt, between something James couldn’t name.

And through it all, Leo still sat at the balcony.

Unmoved. Silent. Watching.

Why? James’s chest ached with the question. Why was he so close, yet so far? Why did he sit there, detached from the fight that could decide both their fates?

The clash of steel had ended, but the war between them hadn’t. And James wasn’t sure who he was fighting anymore. Dorcas’s blade, or the truth unraveling inside her eyes.

Dorcas heaved, sweat glistening at her temples. Her sword lay forgotten at her feet, but her glare was sharp enough to cut.

“You are?” she demanded.

James blinked, caught completely off guard.

“I am?” he echoed, and immediately regretted it. Brilliant, Potter. Repeat her like a parrot, why don’t you?

Her eyes narrowed, the disbelief in them making him feel smaller than he’d care to admit.

“Your name, fucker.”

“Oh—uh. Right.” He straightened as though that might help him sound less like an idiot. “It’s James. James Potter.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Then, reluctantly: "Dorcas Meadows.”

James brightened instantly, seizing the fragile thread of civility like a lifeline. “Nice to meet you, Dorcas Meadows.” He tried a smile, one he hoped was charming.

“Can’t say the same, Potter.”

The smile faltered. The expression that crossed James’s face was so openly crestfallen, Dorcas almost hated herself for noticing. For half a heartbeat, he looked less like a soldier and more like a wounded poppy trampled in the mud delicate, stupidly earnest. Like it mattered to him whether she was pleased to meet him or not.

She shook her head, exhaling hard. “Look, Potter. You can’t save the king.” Her voice softened, but only slightly. Just as James tried to open his mouth, she was fast to shut him. “No—don’t interrupt. Listen to me. You’re not the first to try. Maybe the Order can do something, maybe. But you? Alone? This is suicide. You’ll never even glance at him before you’re ash in the wind.”

James’s jaw tightened, but his eyes didn’t waver. “Let me try.”

“Weren’t you listening?” Her voice cracked now, threaded with something rawer, more fragile. “You might as well be dead already, from this moment. Just for stepping in this room.”

“Then so be it.” His voice was quiet, steady. “Just let me, Dorcas.”

Her hands clenched at her sides. “Why?” she demanded. “Why would you even—”

“Because I have to.”

The words came out like a stone dropped in still water simple, heavy, final. And for a moment, the air between them shifted.

Dorcas stared at him, searching his face as though the answer might be carved into his skin. There was no bravado there, no arrogance. Just the terrifying steadiness of a man who’d already decided what he was willing to die for.

And she hated him for it.

Hated him for the conviction, for the sheer audacity of hope in a place where hope had been starved to death long ago.

And with one last try, and one last refusal, Dorcas finally accepted defeat for once in her stubborn life. She sighed, shoulders dropping like a general laying down her arms.

But now what?

“No blood, I see?”

Leo’s voice slipped into the room like silk, and James nearly jumped. He inched forward from the balcony, casual as a cat who’d just watched two dogs bark themselves hoarse.

And just like that, the attention shifted to him. James Potter had a sneaky feeling that in every room Leo entered, attention bent itself toward him whether he wanted it or not. Like gravity, but prettier.

Dorcas didn’t miss a beat. She gestured at James as if presenting an unruly toddler. “What are you going to do with him? He’s not leaving.”

Leo tilted his head, eyes narrowing with that too-quiet calm. “He won’t leave?”

“I fear not,” Dorcas muttered, as though she’d already written James’s eulogy in her head.

Now both of them were looking at James. He shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck. He had faced death soldiers, sparred with kings, led men into war, but never had he felt so unsettled. Never had two people from the enemy’s kingdom stared at him like he was the world’s dumbest houseplant.

“If he wants to die so badly,” Leo said, voice smooth but sharp, “then let him be.”

It was cruel. Utterly merciless.

And it gave James butterflies.

don't ask.

“Yes—sorry, what?” Dorcas spluttered, eyes wide and unbelievable whirling on Leo.

Leo ignored her. He stepped closer to James, his expression unreadable. “I’ll assist you in your mission, Potter.”

James blinked, mouth dropping. “Really?” His voice cracked on the word. He almost didn’t care that he’d squealed like a twelve-year-old spotting his favorite Football player. Almost.

“No,” Dorcas snapped. “That’s ridiculous. That’s actually impossible. You cannot just—just assist him in defeating Regulus when you’re when you’re you!” She waved at Leo, as if his very existence was incriminating evidence.

“I will,” Leo said simply, cutting her off.

“Yes, Dorcas, he will,” James echoed with way too much eagerness, trying his best to mimic Leo’s cool, detached tone.

It failed spectacularly.

What he produced instead was a smug drawl that made him sound like a bad actor in a bad play, which promptly earned him a synchronized eye roll and glare from Dorcas. If looks could kill, James would’ve been in his coffin already, Order badge polished and everything.

“You know what?” Dorcas finally groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t care. He’s dead anyway. Just—just tell me what to do before I lose the last of my brain cells.”

James grinned so wide his cheeks hurt.  After all, his charm was working.

Or, at least, that’s what he told himself.

Chapter Text

“Let me be very clear with you, James every version of this story ends with you being slaughtered,” Dorcas muttered as the two of them walked side by side down the long, torchlit corridor. The shadows clung to the stone walls like watchful eyes, and her voice, low and sharp, seemed to echo louder than it should.

James stuffed his hands into his belt, pretending he didn’t notice the weight of her words. “I don’t know, Dorcas. Call me crazy or delusional but I have this faith that everything is going to work out just right.” He flashed her a grin, all teeth, the kind of grin that was meant to reassure but only made him look like an idiot clinging to hope.

Dorcas rolled her eyes. Of course she did. It seemed rolling one’s eyes was the national pastime of the Black Kingdom.

For all his jokes, though, James knew the truth. Leo’s supposed “assistance” in this mission was little more than theater, a convenient performance to make James appear like he had a place in the game. In reality, James was now tethered to Dorcas, shadowing her as if he were a junior knight in training rather than a man with a dangerous mission.

He didn’t understand why Leo needed protection in the first place. What was so important about him that he had knights circling him like a crown of thorns? James didn’t ask. Maybe he was too afraid of the answer. Maybe he didn’t want to admit he cared enough to ask.

He was still caught in those thoughts when Dorcas suddenly grabbed him by the sleeve. Without warning, she yanked him sideways into a narrow door and shoved him into a small chamber one floor above the dungeons. James stumbled back, already half-protesting, but before he could get a word out, Dorcas slammed him against the cold stone wall.

Her elbow pressed under his throat, not hard enough to choke him, but close enough to remind him of her strength. Her face hovered just inches away, her braids swaying with the suddenness of her movement, her dark eyes blazing with warning.

“James,” she said, voice sharp as steel, “I’m saying this for the last time. Leave.”

James tilted his head back against the wall and grinned, reckless as ever. “And I will not.” He gave her his most obnoxiously charming smile. His perfect white teeth gleamed in the dim light like he thought this was a tavern brawl rather than a death threat.

Dorcas let out a guttural sound of frustration. She shoved off him, tugging hard at her braids with both hands like she needed to stop herself from throttling him. She stormed a circle around the room, then another, muttering under her breath before finally jabbing a finger toward his chest.

“No, James. You have to listen. You think you’re so clever because you made it through the border without anyone seeing you? Guess what, Potter they did see you. And they let you enter.”

James straightened, his smirk faltering. “No, you’re wrong, this—”

“Yes,” Dorcas cut him off, her voice cracking like a whip. “Believe it or not, you’re not the knight in shining armor here to save us all from our misery. You’re not salvation, Potter. You’re bait. You’re a distraction. You’re making things worse.”

Her words sliced into him like her blade hadn’t. For a moment, James just stared, wide-eyed, uncomprehending. “Dorcas, I don’t—”

“You don’t understand because you don’t want to!” she snapped. Her voice trembled now, anger fighting despair. “The king lets people in, James. He’s been provoking the Order for years. He wants men like you to walk right into his den. But no one leaves. He's not going to let you leave."

James shook his head, hard, refusing the words. “No. No, that—”

“It’s the truth,” Dorcas said, softer now but more deadly for it. Her eyes were wide, wild, the eyes of an animal caught in a trap. “You got in because he wanted you in. And you won’t make it out.”

His throat went dry. His hands clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. He thought of Sirius waiting for him on the other side, of Remus—would he blame himself if James never returned? He thought of Marlene, who would rage and burn the world down for his loss. Mary, gentle Mary, and the confession plan he had promised her. And Lily damn it, Lily who would scold him for being reckless and stupid and still cry anyway.

And his division. His recruits. The children who were still learning to hold a sword properly. Who would train them? Who would protect them?

His chest tightened painfully.

“James! JAMES!” Dorcas’s voice snapped him back. Her face, when he focused on it, was filled with something he hadn’t expected: pity. Confusion. Almost guilt.

“I’m sorry,” she said, softer now, almost pleading. But the words barely registered.

He dragged a hand down his face, breath shaky. What was he supposed to do now?

Dorcas seemed to hear his thoughts. “Look… you’re still alive. That counts for something. And thank the gods you didn’t barge into the king’s chambers while he was in there, that would’ve been messy.”

James barked a hollow laugh. “Yeah, how lucky.” He rolled his eyes, the gesture automatic now, almost contagious from being around her.

Dorcas sighed, rubbing her temples. “Leo’s plan is… gods, I don’t even know. But technically, with his idea, you’d be in disguise the whole time. Maybe that buys you a thread.”

James shook his head stubbornly. “The mission has to be done, Dorcas.”

She dropped her hand, staring at him in disbelief. “I just told you you’re as good as dead and you’re still thinking about your stupid mission, James?”

He looked up, his grin gone, his eyes hard. “At least help me get a thread by.”

Dorcas heaved loudly, the sound echoing like thunder in the small room. For once, she had no words.

⚔

It wasn’t long after that Dorcas finally left, her boots heavy against the stone floor. She carried with her his badge, his insignia, everything that tied him back to the Order. Every shred of proof that James Potter had once been more than a lone idiot in enemy territory was now tucked under her arm, destined for flame.

She had promised to come back. Promises were cheap, James knew, but somehow, the way she said it had lodged into his chest. A promise meant she didn’t expect him to be dead when she returned. That counted for something. Still, it made his heart ache sharp, hollow. Like she was taking a piece of him away with the badge, leaving him stripped bare.

Now what?

The room around him felt louder in her absence. Too quiet, too small. James began pacing, long strides across the cracked stone floor, boots scuffing against the dust as he tried to burn off the restless energy crawling under his skin.

He stopped. Looked around. Took it all in.

There wasn’t much to take in.

The space was plain, bare-boned no tapestries, no warmth, nothing of life or luxury. A narrow bed sat crooked in the corner, the sheets tucked military-tight, as though untouched by actual sleep. Opposite it was a desk, scarred with scratches and knife marks, a single wobbly chair pulled haphazardly to its side.

And the window.

A small square slit cut into the wall at the center, the kind that let in more cold than light. From where he stood, James could see the sliver of the Black Kingdom stretching out in shadow of the dark gardens, the sharp peaks of stone towers, the endless black banners rippling against the wind. It wasn’t freedom, that view. It was a reminder of the walls closing in.

James let out a humorless laugh, dragging his hand down his face. “Shoebox-sized,” he muttered. “Almost like a cell. Who am I kidding? It is a fucking cell. Just with furniture.”

He flopped into the chair, the wood creaking under his weight, and dropped his head into his hands. His thoughts swirled too fast, colliding with one another. Dorcas’s words. The trap he’d walked into. The fact that his badge his name, his purpose was now ash or well soon to be.

For the first time in a long while, James Potter felt stripped of his armor. And not the metal one the one made of bravado, charm, and stubborn faith that somehow, some way, he’d win.

His chest ached as he thought of Sirius, probably pacing a hole into the floor waiting for him. Remus, who would blame himself for not stopping him. And the others, their faces flashing through his mind one by one, each one heavy as a stone in his gut.

James leaned back, staring up at the ceiling, where cracks ran like veins through the stone. “Well, Dad,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, “guess I’ve really outdone myself this time.”

The silence answered back.

But it wasn’t perfect silence anymore.

James froze. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. The faintest sound soft, deliberate, not the shuffle of rats or the groan of the old manor brushed against the edge of his hearing. A step. Slow. Careful. Too careful.

His hand itched toward the hilt of his sword.

The scrape of wood, the shift of air—someone was outside his door.

James’s heart thumped, hard, so loud he swore whoever it was could hear it echo through the stone. He stayed perfectly still, every nerve alight, waiting.

the door creaked.

James rose to his feet in an instant, sword halfway unsheathed.

The door began to open.

And James had no idea if he was about to meet his executioner.

Chapter Text

The door creaked open.

James’s throat went dry, a single gulp echoing loud in his own ears.

Was it the king?

Had he really stumbled straight into Regulus’s trap? Was this it the grand finale, the dramatic execution where James Potter was dragged before the Black King, not even given the honor of a duel, just slaughtered like some nameless fool?

He straightened instinctively, spine rigid, fingers twitching near his sword. His heart thudded so hard it almost made him sway. No, he wasn’t scared. Not really. James Potter wasn’t scared of death; he was a soldier; he’d danced with it too many times before. But still, somewhere deep in his chest, buried beneath all the bravado, a quiet part of him whispered that he wished he was more prepared.

The door crept wider, groaning on its hinges, just enough for the faintest sliver of shadow to slip through. For a moment James saw the outline of something small, delicate.

A paw.

James blinked.

A paw.

Not an armored boot. Not a dagger. Not Regulus Black with his infamous deathly calm.

No. A paw.

The tiny creature slipped inside, tail flicking, whiskers twitching with arrogant ease. The little shit of a cat, the same cursed cat that had already made a habit of trespassing into James’s space had returned.

James let out a long breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. His laugh was half relief, half disbelief, and it came out broken and soft. “Oh. It’s you. Of course.”

The cat padded forward with the same sort of entitlement James had only ever seen in nobles or, well, in Leo.

And that was the exact thought that made James still.

If Leo were to be reborn as anything, James’s thought, it would be this creature: elegant without trying, cold without apology, demanding without a shred of shame.

The realization hit him strangely hard, a warmth curling in his chest before he could shove it away. Leo. Always Leo. Even when he wasn’t there, he haunted James’s thoughts like starlight burned into the sky.

What was he doing right now? Was he out on some balcony again, staring at the heavens like they’d whispered their secrets just to him? Or was he sitting quietly in some hidden chamber, unreadable as ever, pretending he didn’t notice the king lingering too long around him?

The thought twisted James’s breath in his throat. His lungs caught, aching in a way that had nothing to do with fear. Would Leo survive this kingdom, this king, this life that seemed to be nothing but cages stacked on cages?

Would he survive long enough to find out?

A sharp, high-pitched meow shattered his spiraling thoughts. The cat glared at him, tail whipping in annoyance as though scolding him for ignoring the most important being in the room.

“Oh, so now you want my attention, little man?” James said, crouching low, one knee to the cold stone. His grin returned, faint but real. “Alright then. You’ve got it.”

The cat strutted closer, brushing its sleek head against James’s knee with a practiced sort of entitlement, as though James had been waiting all day for this moment.

James reached out; hand gentle, careful almost reverent.

The cat hissed, sharp and immediate, before darting a step back, glaring with narrowed yellow eyes that could have sliced through stone.

James blinked, hand frozen mid-air. Then he chuckled, shaking his head. “So that’s how it is, huh? You beg for attention, but the second I give it, you act like I’ve committed some crime. Great. Just great.”

The cat offered no apology, of course. Instead, with all the disdain of a prince returning to his throne, it leapt onto the bed. James’s bed. His only piece of comfort in this gods-forsaken shoebox of a room.

The creature circled once, twice, tail curling around itself, then plopped down with regal arrogance. Within seconds it had claimed the sheets, as if James were merely the intruder here.

James rubbed a hand over his face, groaning. “Perfect. First Dorcas kicks me around, then Regulus is apparently baiting me like a rat, and now even you a bloody cat have decided I don’t own this room.”

The cat yawned, wide and unapologetic, and promptly turned its back to him.

James watched it, lips twitching into a reluctant smile. He hated that it reminded him of Leo again, but he couldn’t help it the resemblance was uncanny. The same impossible mix of cold indifference and hidden warmth, like they both decided the world would have to earn their softness.

James leaned back against the wall, sliding down until he sat on the cold floor, knees bent. His eyes drifted toward the ceiling again, though his thoughts always, endlessly wandered back to Leo.

Even in this kingdom, even in this prison, even when all he had for company was a hissing little cat, Leo found his way into James Potter’s heart.

And the gods help him, James wasn’t sure he wanted to push him out.

⚔

It stayed like this for a while, far longer than James would ever openly admit. Hours, probably. Time didn’t matter when your only conversation partner was a cat who couldn’t be bothered to give you the dignity of eye contact.

James talked anyway. He talked like the cat was a diary that purrs. Like this little furball could absorb his secrets, roll them into a ball of yarn, and bat them away harmlessly.

And oh, the secrets poured out.

“—can you believe Mary? She’s been in love with Lily for years. Years! And not once has she said a word. If it were me, I would’ve confessed on the very first day. Actually, scratch that—I would’ve confessed the second I laid eyes on her. People say I’m pushy, but really, I’m just a hopeless romantic. Big difference.”

The cat stirred, cracked one eye open, and gave him the most unimpressed look James had ever received in his life. A single, slow blink.

James froze, then pointed accusingly. “Wait—are you judging me? At a time like this? That’s cold, mate. Cold.”

The cat blinked again, this time closing both eyes as if to say, You’re not worth my retinas.

James scoffed, utterly betrayed. “What? Being a romantic is my best feature!”

No response. Only the soft, steady rise and fall of cat ribs under fur.

“Fine,” James muttered, flopping sideways against the cold stone floor. “One day you’re going to meet a beautiful cat stunning, shiny coat, whiskers to die for and you’ll understand. You’ll think back to this moment, and you’ll regret rolling your eyes at me. Yes, you did roll them. Don’t deny it.”

The cat ignored him so thoroughly it almost felt like a talent.

Still, James kept talking. Because what else was he supposed to do? Sulk?

Eventually, the little tyrant stretched once, yawned, and promptly curled back into a ball in the dead center of James’s bed. His bed. His only luxury in this prison.

James sat cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, like some kind of loyal bodyguard to a king who barely acknowledged his existence, which technically was partially true. He gave the cat space all the peace and quiet in the world, because that’s what a gentleman does, even when said gentleman is stuck in a glorified closet with a fur-coated dictator.

But the thought nagged at him.

Should he give Leo back his cat?

He chewed on the idea. On one hand, yes, the cat seemed perfectly content here, terrorizing James and stealing his bedding. On the other hand, what if Leo was missing him right now? What if, out there in some shadowed chamber, Leo was sitting on a balcony, staring at the stars with that blank face of his, pretending he didn’t care, but secretly he was wondering where his cat had gone?

The image made James’s chest ache in a way he refused to name.

He didn’t know the rules of cat ownership. Were they supposed to roam freely like tiny lions with no accountability? Or were they supposed to be guarded like treasure? What if someone hurt him out there? He was so little. And loud. And a bit dramatic.

Like Leo.

That did it. James decided. Determined, resolute, mission-ready. He had to bring this cat back.

Not because he was bored out of his mind. Not because he was dying for an excuse to leave the shoebox-sized room. And certainly not because he wanted to see Leo again, under different lighting, maybe with the night sky reflected in his eyes.

No. Absolutely not. This was purely about cat safety. He was being responsible. Heroic, even.

With that, James rose to his feet in a single dramatic swoop. His borrowed Black Kingdom armor clinked softly, the weight of it settling wrong on his shoulders. He flicked at it in disgust, too stiff, too heavy, and none of the personality of his Order armor. His armor had charm. This one just smelled like mildew and bad decisions.

Still, he strapped it on, squared his shoulders, and turned to the cat. “Alright, little man. You ready to be reunited with your owner? Don’t say I never did anything nice for you.”

The cat rolled onto its back, exposing its belly but the sharp swish of its tail warned James better than words: Touch this and you die.

James raised both hands in surrender. “Noted. No belly rubs. You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?”

The cat sneezed. Loudly.

James winced. “Brilliant. Now it sounds like I’ve got allergies. You’re a menace.”

Still, with an exhale that was half sigh, half laugh, he marched toward the door. Through enemy halls. With a stolen cat. With a stolen mission. With a stolen heart, though he wasn’t about to admit that part out loud.

There was a whole king in this castle who wanted him dead. And James Potter, in his infinite wisdom, was about to risk his life… to return a cat.

Typical.

James had barely made it two heroic, noble, completely selfless steps out of his cell before he collided headfirst into none other than Dorcas Meadows.

Helmet clanged, cat hissed, James winced.

Dorcas blinked at him once. Slowly. Then she tilted her head, her entire face screaming: You absolute idiot.

But James was prepared. He had armor. He had courage. He had well a helmet.

What? That was good enough, wasn’t it?

Meanwhile Dorcas, in the hours she’d disappeared, had somehow managed to look even more terrifying. Her hair was tied up in a high braided ponytail now, tight enough to kill a man, and she was back in full armor. No helmet, though because apparently knights in this kingdom just liked showing off their cheekbones while they murdered people.

James, meanwhile, was sweating inside his stolen tin can. Life was unfair.

She was also carrying a small metal box, rectangular and heavy, like a prison lunchbox. James stared at it, then at her, then at it again.

You’ve got to be kidding me. Was she really multitasking his imminent death and snack duty?

“I’m not even going to ask,” Dorcas muttered, her tone colder than the cell walls. With one hand she clamped onto his forearm, digging her nails in, on purpose, he was certain of it, and dragged him back into the room like he weighed nothing at all.

The door slammed shut behind them with a finality that made James gulp audibly.

Then came the glare.

Oh, that glare. Hands on hips, eyebrows arched like twin daggers, her whole stance radiating disappointed mother energy. It was so effective James almost checked if he’d forgotten to do his chores.

“James,” she said slowly, like she was addressing a toddler caught finger-painting with blood. “I know you lack a lot of brain cells honestly, it’s probably why you’re here in the first place but you must know how dangerous it is to just roam around this castle. What is wrong with you?”

Oh, she was pissed. Not just pissed—pissed pissed.

James, still clutching the little furball like a lifeline, tried his best sheepish smile. He went for charming. He landed somewhere closer to 'oops, I wet the carpet.'

Dorcas didn’t soften. She scowled harder, and James suddenly felt like a child caught red handed stealing biscuits yet again.

The odds were never in his favor, were they?

Desperate, he did the only thing he could think of. He shoved the cat directly in her face, holding it up like it was Exhibit A in his defense trial.

“It’s not me,” James blurted. “It’s him! He came to me, I swear been meowing restlessly for hours, I think he missed Leo.”

The cat, dangling in the air, turned its head sloooowly toward James. Its whiskers twitched. Its eyes narrowed. And James swore, swore, that in that moment, the cat was judging him.

Dorcas gave him a flat, unimpressed look. Then just to make it worse the cat gave him the same exact look.

Perfectly in sync.

“Great,” James muttered under his breath. “Now I’m outnumbered by a knight and a furball.”

The cat flicked its tail, offended.

“Here.” Dorcas shoved the tin box right into James’s face, nearly denting his helmet. “Keep Yuna with you.”

Yuna?

Who the hell was Yuna? Some secret knight ally? A code word? Was she giving him explosives in a lunchbox?

Seemingly, Dorcas could read his mind or, more accurately, his face had betrayed every single dumb thought that passed through it. Her glare deepened. “The cat, idiot. Her name is Yuna.”

James glanced down at the bundle of fur in his arms. The cat blinked back at him, smug, like she’d been waiting this whole time for someone to formally introduce her.

“Oh. She’s a girl,” James muttered, as he put the cat Yuna, back at his bed, suddenly feeling like he should apologize to her for assuming otherwise. But how exactly did one apologize to a cat? Bow? Offer a fish? Write her a sonnet?

He opened his mouth. “Sorry for calling you—”

“Don’t,” Dorcas cut him off, because of course she did. He was getting very used to that by now.

James shut his mouth, cheeks heating. Even the cat looked judgmental.

“But what if Leo miss—”

“James.” Dorcas’s voice went sharp, slicing through his words like a blade. She stepped closer, her expression dead serious, her tone lower now, like she was telling him a horror story. “Listen to me carefully. There are rules here. You can never and I mean never enter the King’s chambers at night. Do you understand me? Never.”

James frowned. “But why—?”

“Because,” Dorcas snapped, “the King is there for Leo. Every single night. Without fail. No knights are allowed in there other than his. No servants. No one. You walk in, James, you die. It doesn’t matter who you are. You. Me. A lord. Doesn’t matter. You step foot in that chamber at night, you’re already a corpse.”

Her words hung heavy, pressing into James like iron shackles. For once, he didn’t have a joke ready. He didn’t even try.

Instead, his stomach twisted. Night had already fallen. The moonlight leaking through the window told him dawn wasn’t far, but still… it meant right now Leo was—

His throat tightened. What was Leo going through at this very moment? Was he trapped beneath those curtains, suffocating under the King’s shadow? Was he enduring in silence the same way he’d endured James’s endless chatter, only this time with no choice, no escape, no jokes to soften the edges?

James’s hand unconsciously tightened around forming a fist, his nails digging in.

Dorcas sighed. She was pacing now, frustrated energy rolling off her in waves. “Just—” her shoulders sagged, the fight gone out of her, replaced by something sadder, almost broken. “Just keep Yuna with you tonight. Return her at the first beam of daylight. The King always leaves before dawn. Not a minute later. Do you understand, James?”

James wanted to salute, to crack some joke about captains and orders, to lighten her mood, but the look on her face stopped him. This wasn’t banter. This was survival. So instead, he nodded. A firm, wordless nod.

Her eyes softened just for a breath. Then, quietly, almost pleading: “I’m leaving now. Don’t do anything reckless. Please.”

The word please caught him off guard. Dorcas didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who begged, not even for her own life. For the briefest moment, he saw the weight she carried not just for herself, but for Leo, for whatever fragile balance they were all clinging to.

“Okay, Dorcas,” he said gently.

She gave him one last look, something heavy and sad that made his chest ache, and then she was gone. The door shut with a soft thud, and James was left alone again.

Well, alone except for the angry cat in his bed and the tin box sitting on the desk.

Curious, James cracked open the box. One look inside and he recoiled.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he groaned. Inside was a sorry excuse for food, something greyish, slimy, and suspiciously wobbly. He couldn’t even tell if it was meat or vegetable or some unholy alliance of both.

He gagged. “I’m never going to shit-talk the Order’s meal plans again. Ever. I swear it on my own grave.”

Yuna meowed, unimpressed.

James sighed, flopping down onto the tiny bed with the box on one side and the cat glaring down at him from her new throne the pillow.

“Well, Princess Yuna,” James muttered. “Guess it’s you, me, and starvation tonight. Lucky us.”

Chapter Text

James waited.

He waited a lot.

He didn’t even bother trying to sleep, his body wouldn’t have let him. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined one of two things: the King slipping into his room like a shadow to gut him in his sleep, or the sun rising without him noticing, dawn passing him by, and Leo slipping further out of reach. Neither was acceptable.

So he sat awake, eyes fixed on the thin sliver of moonlight creeping across the floor. His leg bounced restlessly, his mind a carousel of worst-case scenarios.

And then, at last, a light.

The first pale beam of dawn spilled across the window. The world outside shifted, night bleeding into day. James’s heart leapt so hard it nearly tripped out of his chest.

He stood so fast the room spun. A soldier brought down by dizziness before battle tragic, really. He caught himself on the wall, muttering under his breath, “Smooth, James. Very heroic.”

Yuna was still curled up on the pillow, dead asleep, her little chest rising and falling like she didn’t have a care in the world. James scooped her up as gently as if she were spun glass. Not just because he didn’t want to wake her, but because, well Leo had to see this. Leo had to know James Potter was gentle, considerate, downright cat whisperer material.

“See, Yuna?” James whispered. “Your boy’s gonna be impressed. I’ve got this.”

Clad in armor from head to toe, James pushed out of his cell and into the castle corridors. The place was already alive. Guards patrolled the halls, their boots striking the floor in unison, every one of them carrying the weight of the King’s name.

James kept his head down and moved with purpose, but his eyes caught everything.

On one floor, servants in crisp white slacks scurried about, balancing laundry baskets and trays of food, their movements rehearsed and orderly. The white cloth shimmered in the morning light, a picture of calm duty.

But not all were dressed the same. Some bore so little clothing it made James’s stomach twist. He didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know. Their silence, the way their eyes were lowered, told him more than he wanted to hear.

He swallowed hard, forcing his gaze forward. But then the thought struck him—Leo.

Leo hadn’t been dressed like this when James first saw him. No plain slacks. No thin fabric. He’d been wearing something else entirely expensive, ornate, something that could rival noble attire. Something that made him stand out, even in this gilded cage.

Why him? Why different?

James’s grip on Yuna tightened as unease coiled in his chest. He shook the thought away before it burrowed deeper. No. Not now. Not when he was this close.

Floor after floor, he climbed. Each step carried him closer to the King’s chamber. Closer to Leo.

At last, he reached the top floor.

Dorcas was there, stationed by the heavy doors, her posture firm even as her eyes drooped with exhaustion. The shadows under them told him she hadn’t slept either.

When she spotted James, her head lifted, and she gave the smallest of nods.

James, with Yuna still sleeping peacefully in his arms, managed only a weak smile in return. His armor gleamed faintly in the morning light, but his face betrayed everything he tried to hide fear, determination, and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, Leo would be waiting on the other side.

The door in front of him screamed king. Heavy wood, etched in gilded carvings, tall enough to make even the proudest knight feel small. It stood bold, intimidating, less a door and more a judgment. Do you belong here? it seemed to ask.

James didn’t know what to do. Knock? Barge in like a lunatic? Pretend he’d gotten lost on the way to the privy?

Before he could embarrass himself with indecision, Dorcas pushed the door open.

“Don’t linger too much,” she warned, her voice sharp with duty, but softer at the edges, like she almost pitied him. A nod, and then he was inside.

And oh.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

There he was.

Leo.

Not standing, not waiting, but sprawled across the balcony tiles as though the world had exhausted him, as though sleep had claimed him mid-thought. His face tilted up, catching the early kiss of dawn, pale light cutting across his cheekbones like a painter’s brush.

James’ chest seized.

Leo didn’t just look like an angel no, that word was far too light, too fragile. Right now he looked like something else entirely. A fallen angel perhaps, wings stripped, condemned to earth, his beauty too sharp to belong anywhere but heaven.

James took a step forward, then another, though it wasn’t his legs carrying him. It was his eyes, tethered to the figure before him like a moth helpless to flame. He never understood the story of Adam’s fruit, never cared for the metaphor of temptation, until now. Now it made perfect sense. How could anyone resist a thing so devastatingly alive?

Leo was the temptation.

Closer still, James could make out the details—details that made him ache in ways he couldn’t name. The faint beams of light softened Leo’s sharp jawline, turned the cruel edge of his cheekbones into something unbearably tender. His lashes, dark crescents against pale skin, fluttered faintly with sleep. His lips, slightly parted, looked as though they’d been carved with precision, a sculptor’s obsession.

At that moment, James decided no, knew that Leo wasn’t one of the prettiest boys he’d ever seen. He was the prettiest. Unmatched. Absolute. As if every star in the night sky had conspired to make this single human being, and James was foolish enough to look directly at him.

It hurt to look at him. Beauty wasn’t supposed to hurt, but Leo’s did. The kind of beauty that gnawed at you, clawed at you, left bruises on your ribs just for daring to breathe near it.

James’ boots betrayed him, clacking against the tiles. The sound was enough to stir the boy. Grey eyes storm-grey, sharp as flint snapped open, wide, alert. For a second Leo flinched, his body coiled like a creature born for survival.

James faltered.

Oh. He still had his helmet on. No wonder.

Quickly, while balancing the cat sleeping in his arms on one arm, he yanked it off, and the change was immediate. Relief flickered across Leo’s features brief, restrained, but enough to make James’ heart stutter against his ribs.

He was relieved to see him.

James felt giddy, almost dizzy with the thought. Like a fool who’d been handed a crown he didn’t deserve.

“I see you’re still alive?” Leo murmured, voice rough with sleep, but sharp enough to sting.

Ouch.

“In the flesh,” James answered with a grin, trying to swallow down the butterflies. “And look who I brought over too.”

With a flourish, he pulled Yuna forward, holding her like a sacred offering, a treasure. Because for Leo, James had a feeling she was.

And indeed, at the first sight of him, Yuna abandoned him without hesitation, wriggling free from his arms to leap straight into Leo’s lap. Betrayal, swift and merciless.

The little cat pressed her head against Leo’s chest, curling in as if she’d been waiting for this moment all night. Leo’s hands, instinctive and gentle, welcomed her. And James? James just stood there, aching in silence.

Talk about unfair.

Jealous of a cat. That’s what he’d become. What would he give to be in Yuna’s place, close enough to feel Leo’s breath, close enough to touch that dangerous softness he pretended not to have?

Everything. He’d give everything.

It stayed like this for a while, too long, perhaps. Leo giving every shred of his attention to Yuna, fingers tracing absent-minded paths through her fur, never once sparing James even a glance. And James? He just stood there. Awkward, silent, and utterly undone.

But content. Nevertheless.

Content in the way a starving man might be content staring at bread he cannot touch. Content in the way a soldier might be content standing before the gates of heaven, knowing he is unworthy to pass through.

He was happy simply to look at him.

Leo's attire unfurls like a dark coronation. The gown is steeped in black velvet shadows, its fabric clinging with a cruel elegance, as though woven from midnight itself. Sharp shoulders and plunging lines carving his silhouette into something both regal and untouchable, more prince of thorns than a boy of roses. Light dared only to brush him where it could not help itself, catching faint sheens of fabric that whispered silk beneath the weight of shadow. Each flicker of dawn across his form gave him a new shape, as though the heavens themselves were undecided, was he angel, or devil? Mortal, or deity?

James could not decide either.

all he knew, that he was truly divine.

Truly, painfully divine. Looking at him was like staring at the stars: too bright, too much, yet impossible to turn away.

James’ throat worked. His body ached with the simple act of standing, knees trembling, but still he hesitated. He feared breaking the spell, feared his own voice might shatter the fragile eternity hanging between them.

And yet, the words escaped, pitiful and unpolished.

“Can I sit here?”

Pathetic. It sounded pathetic even to his own ears. But what could a man do, when his very legs threatened to betray him, shaking with both exhaustion and the sheer force of his presence?

For the first time, Leo stirred. Just slightly, just enough to tilt his head, grey eyes sliding toward James like the edge of a blade. A glance, brief as lightning, cutting him to the core. And just as swiftly as it came, it was gone.

"you're asking?"

James swallowed hard. “Yes,” he whispered, voice rough with sincerity. “I’ll always ask.”

There was a silence. And then soft, subtle, devastating the curve of Leo’s lips rose, a ghost of a smile. A cruel kindness. A secret kept only for the air between them.

“Then be my guest, Potter.”

And just like that, James felt himself fall again.

literally physically and metaphorically.

Chapter Text

“Tell me, Potter, what month do you wish to die?”

The words sliced through the silence like a blade through silk. Leo had not spoken for what felt like an eternity; he had sat there, marble still, with only the faint movement of Yuna’s fur beneath his hand to prove he was alive. But when he did finally speak, he stole every ounce of air from James’ lungs, selfishly, as though he believed even breath belonged to him.

James blinked, struggling to process the question. “Pray… repeat the words?” His voice cracked with something between disbelief and unease. He had spoken of death countless times before around campfires, before battles, with men who knew their odds as well as their names. Death had been a comrade, a shadow, a certainty. But never—never—had anyone asked him like this. As if death were an appointment, a month to be penciled neatly into a calendar.

“Pardon me, Potter.” And just like that, Leo turned his face away, dragging the sliver of attention he’d bestowed back toward the horizon. The sky devoured him again, and James felt the sudden ache of absence.

No. He couldn’t lose those eyes. He needed them back, needed their weight even if it was colder than steel. Think, think.

“July,” James blurted, far too quickly.

At once, Leo tilted his head, a feline twitch of curiosity. “And why is that?” His voice carried an inflection James swore could unmake him, curiosity so slight, but dangerous, like a wolf sniffing the air.

“I’d like to die with the sun on my face,” James said, steadier now, finding ground beneath his tongue. “I want to feel warm in my last moments. To know that even if everything ends, I go down with the light at my back.”

Leo’s lips curved, not quite a smile, not quite scorn, something sharper, unreadable. “That is a curious thought to utter.”

James frowned. “Why? For wanting warmth at the end?”

He wanted to push, but instead the question turned itself back on him, slipping free before James could stop it.

“And you? What month would you choose?”

He regretted asking almost immediately, until Leo answered.

“December.”

The word rolled from his tongue like frost, low and even, almost humming with contentment. As if the thought itself his own death in winter was a lullaby.

James stiffened. “…We’re in December.”

A quiet chuckle, barely audible. “How fortunate am I, then?”

And then, grey eyes. Unrelenting, merciless, devouring. They caught James in their net, pulled him under until he felt like a prisoner bound in chains. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even want to.

“Well,” James managed, throat dry, “I hope this December passes you by.”

Leo’s only reply was an eye roll, disdain in its most elegant form. The silence returned, but James couldn’t leave it. Not now.

“W-why?” he pressed, desperate.

Leo hummed lazily, a question without words.

“Why would you want that?” James clarified, the words tumbling out, raw and unpolished.

“I would want the December air to brush me as I die,” Leo said evenly, gaze distant, voice void of tremor or hesitation. “So that I know. So that I am aware of my last moments. The sting of cold, it would remind me that I am still alive, even as I fall.”

Leo didn't answer what James had asked, no. Still James’ heart twisted. “But it would be cold.”

A beat. A flicker of amusement ghosted Leo’s lips. “We are all going to be cold when we rot, Potter.”

James shook his head. “Exactly. Which is why you shouldn’t be cold in your last moments. You should be warm. At peace.”

“Too bad.” The words came as a dagger dressed in velvet. His eyes returned to the horizon, empty of light. “I am always cold.”

The silence after that stretched long, cruel, and unkind. James studied him, really studied him, and he realized Leo wasn’t exaggerating. He was cold. Not in the simple way hands numb in winter are cold, but in the marrow of him. In his posture, rigid as a statue carved by grief. In his voice, smooth but edged with frost. In his eyes, those endless, grey eyes that carried the stillness of graveyards.

Leo was cold in the way a star is cold once it dies, collapsing into itself. He was cold like marble tombs, like the silence left after war. James thought, if Leo cared enough, he could freeze hell itself. Perhaps even the sun.

And the worst of it? James didn’t know whether he wanted to thaw him, or let himself freeze beside him.

I can happily warm you up, James thought, but the words went unsaid. They lingered in his throat, unspoken, dying before they could reach the air. For what good were they, really? Who was James Potter, in the shadow of this beauty? In the cathedral of Leo’s presence, James was nothing but dust caught in a shaft of light, drifting and insignificant.

Still, silence pressed on him, suffocating, so he tried. “Did you… did you have a good night?”

Brilliant, James. Absolutely brilliant. Out of every word in your arsenal, you chose the weakest, the dullest. A flimsy bridge built toward someone who had already burned every bridge and salted the earth beneath.

Leo’s eyes flicked over him then, just once, like a blade flashing in the dark. And the weight of that single glance carved James open. There was judgment there, sharp and precise, as if his very existence was an offense, his words a pitiful comedy.

“Yes,” Leo said at last, voice smooth as frost on glass. “I had an amazing night.”

Cruel. He was cruel without lifting a hand, without even trying. Cruel in the way only someone beautiful could be, because beauty made cruelty look like grace. James’ stomach twisted. He didn’t even understand why it hurt.

“That’s… good.” He tried to meet cruelty with warmth, tried to smile, but it trembled and fell flat, crooked and unsure. “I had a mediocre night, if you were wondering.”

He meant it as a joke, a shard of light to soften the edges. But instead, the room shifted. Thickened. The air grew heavy, as if every word had soaked up oxygen and left only tension behind.

What had he said wrong? Which syllable? Which misplaced inflection? Or was it simply the fact that he had spoken at all?

Leo didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at him. His silence was not absence, it was punishment. A deliberate erasure, as if James was not worth the effort of recognition.

James’ mind spun. Should he try again? Reach out, bridge the chasm with some other trivial question? Or should he surrender, bury himself in silence, and drown quietly in the cold Leo wrapped around himself like a second skin?

He parted his lips, reckless enough to risk another attempt—

But Leo’s voice cut him down before the words could bloom. “The Order must have scrambled your wits and left you hollow… but maybe you were always this pathetic, and I just gave them too much credit.”

James flinched. It was sharp, it was merciless, and it was beautiful. Everything was beautiful when Leo spoke, even cruelty.

“Oh, my,” James tried to laugh, tried to soften it, “how cruel of you, Leo.”

“All in the name of honesty, Potter.”

James blinked, tongue caught, unsure whether to retreat or jest again. “Well—”

“Get out.”

It landed like thunder. Short, brutal, inescapable.

James froze. “…What?”

Leo moved then, uncoiling from his seat with slow, deliberate grace, like a lion rising from its throne. He left Yuna behind, and she gave a small, unsatisfied whimper at the loss of warmth. But Leo didn’t falter, didn’t pause. His presence grew, towering, even when his tone remained soft.

“Out, Potter.”

James’ chest tightened. There was no room for protest in those words. No space to beg or plead. Leo didn’t raise his voice, didn’t spit venom, but it was worse that way. His cruelty wasn’t fire. It was ice. Quiet, patient, absolute.

And James, foolish James, realized in that moment: Leo wasn’t simply cold by nature. No, he chose to be. He wielded it like a weapon, sculpted it into armor, and with every word he froze James further into place.

Leo was really cruel. Cruel the way winter is cruel, indifferent, inevitable, devastatingly beautiful.

And James hated that a part of him wanted nothing more than to stay, even as the frost bit deeper.

James wasn’t going to let Leo repeat himself again, he didn’t need to. Those words fell heavier than steel, sharp as a sword’s edge, cutting through him with the weight of a king’s decree. They weren’t meant to be repeated. They were meant to brand.

But oh, may the gods be with him, the stain they left.

The echo of Leo’s voice clung to him, burning into the marrow of his bones. Cruelty dressed in silk tones, contempt veiled in elegance. Leo had a way of making even insults sound like scripture.

James’s body betrayed him before his mind could resist. His legs moved as if shackled by a kings command, carrying him out of the chamber. If out was what Leo wanted, then out he shall receive.

The door closed behind him with a finality that felt like judgment. And suddenly the air in the corridor felt thin, strangled, as if even the castle itself conspired to remind him of his humiliation.

James leaned against the stone wall for a fleeting second, his hand pressed to his chest as though to steady the storm thrashing there. His heart was racing, pounding against his ribs like a prisoner begging for release.

Why was it so hard? Why was leaving him, cold, cruel, beautiful him, so much harder than standing against armies? Against fire? Against death itself?

He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging a little too hard, as if pain might ground him. As if it might shake Leo out of his system. But it didn’t. Nothing did.

Still… a voice inside him reminded, sharp, insistent. He had a mission. He came here with a purpose, and it wasn’t to drown in grey eyes or to mistake cruelty for intimacy. He couldn’t let pretty distractions, no matter how divine, no matter how much they cut, pull him away from what mattered.

James straightened, forcing his shoulders back, his jaw tightening. The sting of Leo’s dismissal still lingered, but beneath it, something else sparked a stubborn flame that refused to be snuffed out.

Fine, your highness. You can wound me with words. You can cast me out of your chamber. But I’m not gone. Not yet. Not ever.

Because James Potter wasn’t built for retreat.

Chapter Text

James had been pacing his room for what felt like centuries. His boots scuffed the stone floor raw, the same dull circuit again and again.

How does one get to Regulus Black?

That was the question burning a hole in his skull. The riddle with no answer.

From everything he had pieced together in hushed whispers and half-truths from Dorcas, the conclusion was clear: the King was untouchable. Never alone, never unguarded, never unobserved. The man walked like a storm wrapped in steel, with a dozen swords ready to strike for him at any moment. James might have been reckless, but he wasn’t a fool. One sword against a dozen wasn’t bravery, it was suicide.

He pressed his palms into his eyes, sighing deep enough that his chest rattled. What does a knight on no duty even do in a cursed palace like this? He couldn’t roam, couldn’t blend in. The walls weren’t just stone, they were cages, every corridor ready to expose him if he faltered.

but he still had a mission.

Forgive me Sirius, forgive me Remus, Lily, Marlene, Frank—his mind listed them like prayers. But I will do whatever it takes. I am already here, the first knight of the Order to breach these walls. I cannot return empty handed. I will not.

He told himself that again and again, like armor against despair.

By the time the sun had risen, bold and arrogant in the sky, James had paced himself into exhaustion. His thoughts were so tangled he almost welcomed distraction when the door creaked open.

Dorcas swept in. No greeting, no explanation, no patience. Just two words, clipped and merciless.

“Follow me.”

James blinked, caught off guard. “Follow you? Follow you where?”

“To the kitchens. Or do you prefer starving?” Her tone made it sound less like kindness and more like a threat.

James scrambled for his helmet, muttering, “I thought you were going to get me that, sorry—”

That was when she froze. Mid-step. Her entire body went rigid, like a predator catching the scent of blood. James nearly bumped into her back, but before he could recover, she turned on him.

And her eyes, gods, her eyes. They weren’t just angry. They burned. A furnace of rage lived behind them, molten and unyielding.

“Because I’m a woman?” Her words were a hiss, sharp as a dagger pressed to the throat.

James blinked, stumbling back, hands half-raised in defense. “What? No, that’s ridiculous, it’s just because—”

“No, Potter.” Her voice rose, not loud but cutting, deliberate, the kind of voice that carried like thunder even when whispered. “You thought because I’m a woman, I’d make the perfect little servant for you. Fetch your meals. Tidy your corners. Smile while I do it. You thought me soft-handed, apron-wearing, kitchen-bound. Did you?”

The heat in her words blistered.

James flinched. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Dorcas—”

But she wasn’t finished. Her jaw clenched, her hand tightening on her sword hilt.

“All my life,” she spat, “men like you have looked at me and seen less. A pretty face, a lighter sword arm, something fragile enough to fetch and carry. Do you have any idea how many men I’ve gutted just to prove I belonged on the battlefield? How many knights I’ve left bleeding so they’d remember a woman’s blade is no gentler than theirs? And here you are, thinking the same tired thought.”

James’s patience cracked. He snapped back louder than he meant to. “Let me speak, would you? For fuck’s sake, every single person in this cursed kingdom cuts me off before I can get a word out!”

Dorcas narrowed her eyes, but she didn’t stop him.

“I thought I wasn’t allowed in the kitchens. That’s why I said it. Not because of you, not because you’re a woman, but because if I set foot where I shouldn’t, I’ll end up gutted before I get a bite to eat. That’s all.” His voice had dropped by the end, worn thin, his hands trembling with frustration.

For a beat, silence stretched between them. Her fury didn’t vanish—no, Dorcas didn’t forgive that easily, but it shifted. She exhaled hard through her nose, shoulders rolling back, the fire in her gaze banked but still smoldering.

“Follow me,” she said again, this time less like a hiss, more like a command.

And James, wisely, obeyed.

Still, as they walked, he could feel the heat of her rage trailing him like a shadow. Rage not just at him, but at the centuries of men who had dared to see her as less. Dorcas was a woman who had fought tooth and nail for her place among knights, and woe to anyone who tried to put her back in chains of expectation.

James almost pitied the next fool who’d cross her.

Almost.

The kitchens were chaos wrapped in stone walls. Heat slammed into James the moment he entered, rolling waves of it from great blackened hearths, from copper pots bubbling with stews thick as mud, from rows of ovens that hissed and spat like dragons chained to the walls. The air was dense with steam, the smell of singed meat and old onions clinging to every breath.

Servants darted like minnows in a current, carrying trays piled with trenchers of bread or pitchers of watered wine. Some were so small and slight they looked like they’d vanish if the pots tipped their way. Head chefs bellowed orders like battlefield generals, wooden spoons raised like swords, their voices ricocheting off the vaulted ceiling.

James felt small, swallowed whole in the tide. And yet, not one person spared him a look. To them, he was just another faceless knight in iron, another cog in the machine.

Dorcas leaned close, her words a blade pressed to his ear. “Go to the buffet in the corner. Do not—” she stressed the word with a glare sharp enough to slice him. "bat anyone’s attention. Understand?”

James nodded, perhaps too quickly, and with a sweep of her braid, Dorcas vanished into the fray.

He did exactly as told, drifting toward the long table where bowls of food waited. It wasn’t anything to write home about, boiled roots, shredded meat swimming in its own grease, and bread that looked more stone than flour. Worker’s rations, plain and joyless. Still, James grabbed a plate and piled on as much protein as he could manage.

What? He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and his stomach growled like a mutinous soldier.

He was just about to step away when his boot collided with another body. His plate tipped forward, its contents slopping unceremoniously onto the floor, and right onto his armored boots.

James froze, staring down at the sad heap of what could have been lunch. Man, I really wanted that.

The boy he’d bumped into looked no older than himself, maybe younger. His hair was a muddled shade between brown and blond, unkempt as though he hadn’t the time to brush it. His eyes widened, shock flashing across his face before, just as fast, he dropped his gaze to the floor.

“Forgive me, I didn’t see you there.” The words tumbled from his mouth in a rush, thin and trembling. He crouched so quickly it was like instinct, his head bowed as if he expected punishment. Already, he was scrubbing at James’s boots with his bare hands, picking pieces of meat off the floor.

And James? He knew what Dorcas had told him, don’t draw attention. He should walk away. Should leave the boy to it.

But he was James Potter.

“Here—let me do it.” He bent down, reaching to help.

The boy jerked back, horrified. “No, no, please—it’s my job!” His voice cracked with panic, as though the idea of letting James stoop was an offense punishable by death.

James shook his head stubbornly. “It’s my fault, really. Let me help.”

That seemed to break the boy’s brain. His brows pinched, his hands fluttering like he didn’t know whether to snatch the scraps back or run. “No—you should go to your duties. I’ll come by and fetch your boots to wash, I promise.”

“I can wash them.”

“It’s my job, sir.”

Sir? James blinked behind his helmet. Did he look like a sir? They were the same age, more or less. But then again James was still hidden behind his helmet.

“Please, get up—it’s my fault. I’m sorry to burden you.” James scooped the last bit of food onto his plate, then reached out to pull the boy up with him.

For a moment, the boy only stared, eyes wide with confusion, like no one had ever bothered to touch him gently. Finally, he let James help him rise.

“You’re… an odd one,” he muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Oh—nothing, sorry.” He ducked his head again, snatching James’s plate out of his hands like it was contraband. “Here, I’ll fetch you another.”

“Exactly—it’s my food, so I will fetch it.” James’s smile was wasted beneath the helmet, but he offered it anyway, as he took back his stolen plate.

The boy hesitated, then, almost shyly, said, “Uhm—I’m Evan.”

“Evan?”

“Rosier.”

James blinked. He’d only ever met one Rosier—Pandora. His mouth betrayed him before his brain could stop it. “Know anyone named Pandora Rosier?”

The effect was immediate. Evan’s whole face lit up, the terror slipping for just a moment. He looked like a boy on Christmas morning, waiting for his gift.

“She’s my sister.”

Of course she was. Now that James really looked, the resemblance was undeniable, Pandora's features were softer, rounder, but the Rosier blood showed clear.

“You know of her?” Evan pressed, hope bleeding into his tone.

James’s stomach dropped. Fuck. Blending in clearly wasn’t his strong suit.

“Heard of her, yes,” James lied, the words bitter as ash on his tongue. With that he tried to make himself busy. scooping meat.

“I miss her.” The brightness in Evan’s eyes faltered, dimming into something small and sad. He scooped another ladle of greasy meat onto James’s new plate, his hands trembling slightly.

James’s throat tightened. Against better judgment, he asked softly, “What happened?”

Evan swallowed, voice lowering. “She got exiled. A while back.”

James froze. He’d thought Pandora had left on her own, slipped into the arms of the Order by choice. But exile?

“Why?”

“You don’t know?”

James shook his head.

Evan’s voice cracked, just a little. “Reggie—” he coughed, corrected himself—“Regulus Black said she committed treason.”

James’s hand clenched on the plate. Fucking hell.

“A treason?”

“He said… she was a witch.”

James let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Sorry, what? I thought we left the women are witches nonsense back in the dark ages.”

“Well, yes,” Evan said with a weak shrug, “but it was the only way to exile her without executing her.”

with no answer back, Evan continued clarifying the missing bits. "The kingdom believe a curse would fall beneath if a witch is killed"

James’s jaw tightened. “Still—that’s evil.”

Evan only shook his head, eyes fixed on the floor.

“You don’t think he’s evil?” James asked carefully, testing the waters. “Regulus?”

Evan looked up at that, startled. Then his voice dropped lower, almost reverent. “Good heavens, no. She’s in a better place now—all because of him. Matter of fact, I begged him to do it.”

The words slipped out so fast Evan slapped a hand over his mouth, as if he’d spoken something forbidden. His eyes darted around, panic blooming on his face.

“And he listened?” James asked, softer now.

Evan’s hand fell away slowly. “Yes. He’s… he’s a good person. Shame what happened to him.” His voice cracked again, sadness weaving through every syllable.

James stood there, utterly confused, clutching a plate of miserable food, while the boy across from him looked as though the weight of an entire broken family pressed down on his thin shoulders.

does he mean that he turned evil ? yes that must be it, after all Pandora fled almost 3 years ago.

“I’m sure she’s in a better place now,” James offered, his voice soft, almost apologetic. Reassurance came too naturally to him, like breathing, even when he wasn’t sure of a word he was saying.

But it worked. Evan’s lips curved into a small, tentative smile. “Yes I heard she married a duke now.”

James’s mind flickered back to the Order. Xenophilius Lovegood. Yes, Pandora had married him, a duke both eccentric and admired, and absolutely nothing like the grim kingdom they’d left behind.

James’ heart ached thinking about The Order.

“Why don’t you send her a letter?” James suggested, trying to ease the heaviness. His tone was casual, friendly. To him, it was obvious, easy.

But Evan froze, confusion furrowing his brow. His voice dropped. “We can’t write or receive letters here. I thought it was a fact?”

Fuck.

The bottom of James’s stomach fell. He’d slipped. badly. His cover threatened to rip wide open.

And then, like a knife sliding through the tension, Dorcas’s voice cut in. “James is new here,” she said smoothly, with a softness James had never heard from her before. A smile, too sharp but practiced, curling her lips as if she were born to disarm suspicion. James swore she was allergic to smiles, but here she was, saving his reckless hide with one.

“Hello, Dorcas.”

“Hey Evan, doing well?”

“Yes, thank you very much.”

They shared a smile, brief but genuine, like a little inside joke between the two of them. James, watching it, he felt oddly out of place, like he’d stumbled into a friendship he had no business touching.

And then Dorcas turned to him. Her gaze ignited. Her smile vanished. The glare she gave him was so hot it nearly blistered through his helmet. James actually felt his skin prickle beneath it.

“It was nice to meet you too, James,” Evan said, cheerful and oblivious, clearly delighted with this strange knight who had stooped to help him.

“At least someone is happy to meet me,” James muttered under his breath. He managed a stiff, “You too, Evan.”

He didn’t have much chance to linger. Dorcas’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, her grip a death trap. He barely had time for a final nod before she was hauling him away, dragging him through the crowd of servants until the two of them disappeared into a shadowed corner of the hall.

And then Dorcas unleashed.

Her voice was venom, low but lethal. “I tell you not to roam around, and what do you do? You make friends, James? Really?”

James blinked, affronted. “Hey—I thought you liked Evan!”

“Yes. Evan.” Her voice cracked like a whip, and she jabbed a finger into his chestplate hard enough that it clanged. “Thank whatever god you pray to that it was just Evan and not a threat. You’d already be on your knees bleeding out if it were anyone else. Do you understand how close you came to screwing everything?”

Her eyes blazed, fury making her forehead crease into sharp lines. James swore he could see the pulse in her temple hammering like a war drum.

“I don’t pray to any god,” he muttered back. It sounded childish, even to him, but he couldn’t stop himself. He needed to say something, to not be the boy she was tearing apart.

Dorcas leaned in close, her breath sharp as steel. “Exactly. You only have yourself here, Potter. No god. No Order. Just me. And if you want to survive, you’d better start listening. Get your shit together and follow me.”

She gave him one last glare, one that could have sent an entire army scattering, then spun on her heel, her steps sharp and merciless as she stormed down the castle hall.

And James? James Potter, who had faced down a dozen angry teachers and half the Orders' wrath, who had thrown himself at impossible missions without blinking, trailed behind her like a chastised puppy.

Because Dorcas Meadows’s fury could burn hotter than any fire.

“I’m going to put you on duty. An actual one.”

James blinked. “An actual duty?”

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?” Dorcas snapped; her voice sharp enough to cut stone. How she could fit that much fury into such a frame baffled him. Rage, on her, was like an inheritance from all the women in her family, ancient and inexhaustible.

“And—” she added with a breath that sounded almost begrudging, “I’ll also try and help you with your mission.”

James nearly tripped. What now?

“Sorry, did you just say—”

Dorcas spun on her heel to face him, eyes burning. “Are you deaf? Why aren’t you listening?”

“Sorry, sorry—but—you’re going to help me defeat Regulus Black?”

“Not Regulus.” Her words dropped like stones. “The King.”

“Same thing.”

The look she gave him could have felled armies. James swore her glare burned straight through his armor. She made a sound low in her throat, half-grunt, half-growl, as though James Potter was the single most exhausting man alive. With a sharp turn, she stormed ahead of him, forcing him to trail after like a chastised squire.

They climbed the stairs to the second floor, shadows stretching tall around the arches, when something caught James’s eye: a door, left slightly ajar, spilling light into the corridor. His gaze slipped inside, curiosity prying him open like a lockpick.

It was a dining room, but not just any dining room. No, this was opulence made flesh. A crystal chandelier, a living constellation of flame and glass, hung at the center. Below it sprawled a round table carved of dark wood, polished until it shone like a mirror, its surface glowing with reflections of jeweled goblets and silver cutlery. It looked like what the word luxury might sound like if whispered by a courtesan, honeyed, deadly, tempting.

Several figures sat scattered around the table. Court players. Predators in silk. They lounged with the casual elegance of those who knew they were being watched, who wanted to be feared as much as adored.

James wished he could be inside, in the room where it happens, where the power lived.

Dorcas’s voice came sharp in his ear, low and precise: “The one directly in your line of sight, that’s Bellatrix Black, Regulus’s cousin.”

James knew her name. Who didn’t? But still, seeing her made his throat dry. Bellatrix sat at the head of the table; a throne carved from nothing but posture. Her dark hair fell in waves, so polished it caught the candlelight like spilled oil. High cheekbones carved her face into a blade, and her eyes—Gods, her eyes gleamed with madness dressed as nobility.

“She’s dangerous,” Dorcas whispered. “The most dangerous Black in that room.”

Only in the room? James thought. He’d bet she could burn kingdoms down with just a glance.

Bellatrix cut her steak with exquisite precision. Each slice was too practiced, too eager, like she was imagining it not meat at all but flesh, alive, trembling, screaming. Her gown clung in black velvet shadow, the neckline dipped low to showcase collarbones sharp enough to wound, decorated in strands of white gold. She was a crown of cruelty, a goddess of ruin.

Dorcas’s eyes shifted to the right. “The blond one, in white—that’s Narcissa.”

Ah. Narcissa Black. Different from her sister, though still cut from the same cruel cloth. Sirius had never spat much venom at this one, save for her 'monstrous choice in marriage.'

“She married a Malfoy barely months ago,” Dorcas muttered. “Trying to marry her way into the court. As though pearls and a name could save her.”

Narcissa’s gown looked almost bridal, lace from throat to hem, a white that wasn’t innocent but ambitious, screaming for attention. She gleamed like winter frost: beautiful, brittle, and desperate to be admired. She tilted her head just so, like each angle of her body was rehearsed, calculated to seduce power itself.

Beside her sat another, plainer in her beauty, though perhaps truer for it. Andromeda Black.

“That’s Andromeda,” Dorcas whispered. “The only one of them with her head screwed on straight. Mark my words, she’ll pull a runaway. Sooner or later.”

James’s brow furrowed, curious.

Dorcas shrugged, sharp as a blade. “I saw her with some stablehand. Filthy clothes, hands rough from work. Her family would exile her for less. She’s playing with fire, and she knows it.”

Andromeda wore a beige gown, simple, soft, with little puffs on her shoulders, elegant, but understated, as though she’d rather be invisible. A flicker of humanity clung to her, a rebellion hidden beneath silence.

Before James could linger, Dorcas hissed sharply: “The boy with dark hair—there. Barty Crouch.”

“Wasn’t he supposed to be… older?”

Dorcas’s lip curled. “That’s Junior, Potter.”

Oh. Right. The sadist son. The one whispered about with dread, even outside these walls.

Barty lounged like sin itself, his shirt half open to bare his chest, a silver serpent necklace dangling there, his tie abandoned altogether. His blazer had been discarded over the chair, like rules were beneath him. Everything about him screamed danger, but not the noble kind, no the feral kind.

“He’s being groomed for court?” James asked, frowning.

Dorcas shook her head. “Unlikely. Word is, every time he steps into his father’s chambers, it ends in a screaming match, His place here is… a mystery.”

A dangerous mystery.

James’s gaze slid further—to two men who could only be kin, their resemblance uncanny. They sat slouched in near identical suits, eyes glittering like hounds.

“Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange,” Dorcas said, her voice laced with disgust. “A lost cause, the both of them. Malice is their only language. Fun, to them, is shredding men like you into pieces.”

James swallowed, but nodded.

Finally, his eyes landed on another, one he did know, or thought he did.

“Mulciber,” James muttered.

Dorcas gave him the faintest smirk, as if he did his homework correctly. “Well done. He’s as dangerous as the rest, ruthless really, willing to cut down anyone who dares stand in his path to the court. Stay out of his shadow if you want to breathe.”

James studied him. Mulciber’s face was all sharp lines and cold pride, his suit immaculate, every inch of him exuding the calculated cruelty of a man already sharpening his knife.

James’s eyes roved back over the entire table. They sat together, but not united. Each wore hunger like a crown, every smile edged with threat. It was a gathering of knives pretending to be a family meal.

And James couldn’t fathom how they could sit so calmly, eating with grace, when every one of them looked ready to kill the other at the slightest opportunity.

It was less a dinner table and more an altar, each of them both worshipper and sacrifice.

Chapter Text

Regulus Black, the King of their fractured court, of course would never be found dining at a common table with petty courtiers and eager sycophants. No, the King ate alone, tucked away in the fortress of his private chambers, where no poison could touch his plate, no whisper could slip through the gilded cracks of his walls.

He didn’t even trust his future ministers.

What a laughable man. What a joke of a King. A boy wearing a crown too heavy for his head, choking on the gold he worshiped.

“Alright, Potter. For your duty tonight—you’re just going to be me.”

So simple, spoken like a command Dorcas thought required no explanation. James, however, stared blankly as if she had spoken another language.

“And that is…?”

Dorcas rolled her eyes with a sigh sharp enough to slice glass. “My shifts are long protecting Leo. So you’ll switch with me at night until morning. I’ll cover till noon. You just stand where I usually stand.”

“Protect him from what?”

“Nothing. Everything.” Her tone was clipped, as if those words were one and the same. “Whatever happens, you stay by his door. Look dangerous if you can, though I doubt it. And above all do not, under any circumstance, make eye contact with the King when he enters his chambers. Do you understand, James?”

“Yes, sir,” James replied in mockery, giving her a sloppy salute.

Dorcas scoffed. Almost fondly. Almost. If there was such a thing as fondness in her arsenal of expressions. For all her venom, she was helping him after all. And helping him meant placing him one step closer to the King, closer to the threads of this mission Sirius had begged him to take on.

Closer, also, to Leo.

“Go back to your cell,” Dorcas said, folding her arms. “Or do you need me to escort you like a child again?”

“No, no.” James shook his head rapidly. He wasn’t about to repeat the mistake of wandering. He learned fast, or fast enough to survive.

That rare flicker of a smile curved her lips, a ghost of humanity in a face usually carved from flint. And then, without ceremony, they parted.

James didn’t linger. Not tonight. He went straight to his cell, though every step pressed heavy on his aching legs, hopping they would last more. He collapsed onto his cot, staring at the low ceiling, at the cracks that crawled across the stone. His thoughts, of course, went elsewhere.

To Leo.

James Potter did not understand the force that pulled him toward the boy. It was as though the stars themselves had their ropes knotted through his ribs, dragging him to Leo’s orbit. Was it just the kind of gravitational pull that made men look at stars and forget to breathe? Or was it something deeper, something James had no business wanting?

He prayed it wasn’t the latter.

Because in every story James knew, he leaves. He runs, he fights, he finishes a mission and goes home. But Leo? Leo would be left here, in a kingdom that consumed and drowned its own.

There was no version of the story nor any universe where they got a happy ending. James didn’t belong here, and Leo belonged too much.

And what terrified him most was not the thought of leaving. It was the thought that with every glance, every stolen word, every quiet presence—he was dragging himself under.

James might be a good swimmer, yes, but he didn’t know how to save someone from the water they’d already chosen to sink into.

He turned his head toward the narrow window of his cell. The sun hung there, still burning, still mocking him. For the first time in his life, James wished it would fall quicker, wished it would bleed into the horizon and vanish. Not because he longed to see a boy with midnight hair and eyes that struck him like lightning. No, never that.

Because every sunset brought him closer to his goal. Closer to finishing this mission. Closer to going home.

Home. To Sirius. To Remus. To Marlene.

Marlene. was she still furious with him? Would she still be furious when he came back, if he came back? Or would there be no “back” at all?

His chest tightened. He couldn’t think about that now. Couldn’t think about forgetting their faces, their voices, their laughter. The thought that time in this wretched place could scrub them from his memory, that was what frightened him most.

The sun bled into the earth at last. And James rose, his stomach tight with dread, his throat lined with ash.

He found Dorcas at the highest floor, outside the King’s chambers. She leaned against the stone wall, as if she owned the place. As if she wasn’t the only barrier between Leo and the jaws of the court.

“Remember,” she hissed, catching his sleeve before he stepped too close, “don’t you dare move until the King has passed. Don’t speak. Don’t look. No matter what you hear.”

James swallowed hard. What was he going to hear?

He didn’t know if the warning was meant for his safety, or Leo’s. He didn’t know which terrified him more.

Alas, Dorcas shifted, her hand dropping, her footsteps echoing down the hall as she vanished into shadow. And James, left alone, straightened himself at the door.

His throat burned with the thick knot of fear. The weight of what was coming pressed against his chest like a blade.

And for the first time, James Potter stood where Dorcas Meadows had always stood, at the mouth of danger, with only silence for company, and only his heart to betray him.

It didn’t take long for the night sky to take over. In this kingdom, it felt permanent. As if daylight was only a rumor the walls tried to convince him of, a distant story told to keep people hoping. Even when the sun was burning overhead, shadows still bled through the cracks of stone, pooling in corners and curling like smoke.

James leaned against the wall beside the great chamber doors, trying not to let the silence eat at him. His hands twitched at his sides. Dorcas’s warning echoed like a curse: don’t move, don’t look, no matter what you hear.

And then—footsteps. Heavy, measured. The rhythm of boots on stone.

His back snapped straight. His chest locked.

Is that him? Regulus Black?

The figure appeared at the end of the corridor: a man draped in black robes, his frame cutting the torchlight into fragments. He didn’t move with grace—not like the stories whispered in taverns, where kings glided like gods. No, Regulus Black walked like a man going into war. His shoulders sharp, his pace deliberate, his chin raised as though the world beneath him was already conquered.

Behind him strode four knights, plated in blackened steel, the crests on their shoulders glinting with red enamel. Their faces were expressionless, eyes fixed forward, every step in perfect synchronicity. Soldiers turned shadows.

Regulus did not glance at James. Not once. Not even to acknowledge the guard at his door. He swept past as if James were less than a fly buzzing in the rafters. He crossed the threshold like a predator stepping into its den, and the chamber swallowed him whole.

Three knights went with him, vanishing into the darkness of the room. One remained.

The last knight stopped at James’s side, his armor clinking harshly as he settled into place. James dared a sidelong glance and immediately regretted it, the man’s expression was stone, his jaw rigid as though it had been carved, his gauntlet tightening on the hilt of his sword with a slow, deliberate motion. A warning in silence.

James’s breath came unsteady, sharp in his throat. He fixed his gaze forward, muscles locked. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts.

At first, there was nothing. No voices, no laughter, not even the faintest scrape of movement from inside the chamber. The silence was so absolute James thought he might be imagining it.

But then—the sound began.

It wasn’t voices. Not words. Just… a shift. A low groan of wood straining under pressure.

The bed.

The bed inside was moving.

It started slow, like a gentle sway. But with each passing minute, it grew heavier, with nothing gentle about it. The creak grew sharper, louder, the wood groaning in protest as though it were alive, bending and breaking under hands that demanded too much.

James’s stomach lurched. He shut his eyes, but it made it worse, the sound filling his head, painting pictures he didn’t want. The steady rhythm of weight on wood, the muffled scrape of a frame dragged against stone.

The nausea came sudden, cruel. He swallowed hard, fighting it back. His body swayed, betraying him. His knees nearly buckled as if the sound alone had hands reaching into his gut, twisting.

The knight beside him didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. He stood rigid, staring forward, the faint glow of torchlight turning the steel of his armor red, as though he were soaked in blood.

James gripped his fist, nails digging into his own skin. He told himself it was nothing. Told himself it could be the walls shifting, the wind rattling something loose.

But the rhythm continued. Relentless.

He pressed his head back against the cold stone, eyes shut tight. He couldn’t let himself listen, couldn’t let himself picture. Yet his mind betrayed him, Leo’s face flashing unbidden in his head, caught between anguish and silence.

The nausea crawled up his throat again, and for the first time, James Potter wished more than anything that he wasn’t here. That he wasn’t this close to the King. That he wasn’t this close to the truth.

The chamber door loomed in front of him, silent and solid. And still, the bed creaked.

There were sounds, faint at first, but sharp enough to catch in James’s ears.

Not sounds of pleasure. No laughter. No warmth.

They were brittle, breaking sounds. They carried the weight of grief more than anything else, the hollow ache of a child crying out for his mother, for his father, for anyone who might come. For anyone who would never come.

James’s chest tightened until it hurt. The breath he pulled in didn’t feel like air but smoke, thick and suffocating. His eyes shut on instinct, as though darkness could block it out. As though refusing to see might mean refusing to know.

But he knew.

It was happening right there, only a few feet away, sealed off from him by nothing more than a carved oak door. A door so thin it mocked him, a door that may as well have been glass for all the weight it carried. The barrier didn’t make it distant, it only made James’s helplessness sharper.

He pressed the back of his head against the cold stone wall, trying to hold himself upright as the sounds shifted, as they grew rawer. His stomach twisted violently. He wanted to believe it was the stone groaning, the bed frame bending under its own age, but no amount of lying to himself could strip away the truth that clung to every muffled cry.

It was pain. It was violation. It was silence being ripped apart.

And James could do nothing.

His fists clenched until his nails cut into his palms. He wanted to move, to crash the door open, to drag the king off by the throat. But Dorcas’s warning sat heavy in his ears—don’t move, don’t make a sound, don’t look at him. His duty was to stand still. To be invisible. To survive.

So he stood there, rooted like stone, listening while every part of him begged to act.

And for the first time in his life, James Potter closed his eyes not from exhaustion, not from pain, but from defeat.

Chapter Text

Night had long since stolen the sky from the kingdom. The hours between midnight and dawn stretched like a wound that wouldn’t close. James kept count in breaths and tiny rhythms, anything to stop his mind from looping. He didn’t know how long he’d been pressed against the stone by the king’s door, how many times his stomach had threatened mutiny. He only knew he had somehow survived the hours without throwing up, and for a ridiculous second, he felt he deserved a medal for not collapsing into retching sobs.

How did Dorcas carry it?

How did Leo bend and not break?

He had no tools to answer that question. Dorcas wore fatigue like armor; she moved with the quiet competence of someone who had learned to bury terror beneath duty. Leo—if what he’d heard and the weight, he’d felt meant anything—kept his suffering inward, the way winter keeps its cold behind frosted glass.

At last, the dawn bled over the horizon. James felt it like a promise: the king would exit the chamber at first light. He watched for the sound of boots, for the shift of knights; the corridor filled with the soft solid rhythm of departure until the footsteps faded entirely and the castle seemed to loosen its grip on him. But the sounds that haunted him weren’t the thunder of armor so much as the rotten residue left inside his ears, ragged, filthy noises that scraped the inside of his skull. They would not be erased by daylight.

He hoped dawn would come closer with each passing day.

The door opened. The knights left. The corridor released a held breath. James hesitated for ten heartbeats, and then, unable to stand the waiting, he crossed the threshold and stepped into Leo’s chamber.

He expected quiet. He expected the same tableau of stillness he’d learned to associate with Leo: the same reclining figure, the same spare movement, sitting by the balcony. He did not expect the scene before him.

Leo was on his knees, barely wearing any fabric to the chill air, hands stretched forward as if beseeching a sky that did not answer. His head bowed, eyes closed, lips barely moving in prayer. The sight struck James like a physical blow; his stomach pitched and he had to steady himself against the jamb of the doorway.

Religion had never unsettled him before. Men in camps had knelt to gods of steel and iron and James had considered it another kind of armor. But this, this private, raw imploring unmoored something in him.

This made him uncomfortable. Almost sick.

“I didn’t know you were religious,” James said, and the words left his mouth with the gracelessness of someone trying to speak after a blow. Stupid, inadequate, the sort of remark born from panic, but it was all he had at the moment.

Leo did not startle; he merely continued, a slight tilt to his chin suggesting he’d heard, like he felt James's presence before he even entered. His voice came like a fact, not a confession: “Everyone is, Potter.”

A soft domestic shock. James blinked. “I’m not,” he replied before he could measure the humility out of it. The denial felt petty and pathetic in the face of the bowed figure before him, but honesty had always been his fallback.

Leo kept his hands folded a second longer, a faint tremor passing through his fingers, something like grief or meditation, and then he asked, very simply: “We all are. Who do you pray to?”

The question cut deeper than the earlier silence. James searched for a witty deflection and found none. He heard the edges of himself in the answer he gave, a boyhood shrug of stubborn honesty. “No one. Not really.”

Leo turned then, and the light pale, timid morning, caught the rim of his eyes, making them raw and red as if sleep had been too thin or nights too long. He was truly beautiful.

"I pray to everyone,” he said, and there was nothing flippant in it. His face held a weathered softness. “I call the names of saints and strangers, saints and skeletons. I pray to the wind. To the moon. To a mercy I cannot see. Not because I believe in any single god more than the next—” he looked at James with a clarity that felt like glass, “—but because even if they don’t answer, the act of asking forces the world to be addressed. That matters.”

James’s chest felt suddenly too small. He wasn’t used to theological subtlety at kitchen-table level, Order men spoke in strategies, not parables, but the sentence lodged itself in his head. It was an approach that sounded less like belief and more like an ethical experiment: address the world as if it were listening, to keep yourself honest.

"Do your gods listen?” James asked, unable to not push. The question came out blunt and a little petulant; he could feel the defensiveness in his tone.

Leo’s laugh was so quiet it could have been a sob. “I don’t think so, Potter.” His fingers clasped together, knuckles whitening. “Not in the comforting way you want. The gods do not always hand down neat answers. They do not tidy the world for you. Sometimes prayer is a ledger you keep with yourself; sometimes it is a way to name your grief so it doesn’t gnaw you from the inside.”

"I don't pray to any god... cause if the one almighty god of ours made his most beloved pure angel fall why do you think he'd save you?"

"If you're not full of sin he will"

“You don’t have to tell me your sins,” James blurted before he could swallow the thought. He hated the sudden protectiveness in his voice. It felt foolish, overreaching. “If you’re thinking you’re damned for it, you’re wrong.”

Leo’s head tilted, a movement like an intake of frozen air.

"I’m full of sin, Potter,” he said without drama, as if stating a weather report. The words were neither plea nor performance; they were a worn, factual confession. “Rotten to the core.”

The room closed in. James wanted to rebut, to argue theology like a barrister, heat versus frost, mercy versus justice, the doctrine of original sin versus acts of will. He wanted to call on Augustine and on mercy and on the raw logic of paradox: if God is just and merciful, then punishment and pardon can coexist; if God is omnipotent, then why would he allow the innocent to suffer? But those were school arguments for dry halls. They felt paper-thin next to the dampness of a man on his knees and the hollow ache inside of James.

"you're opposite of sin"

He wasn't sure if Leo even heard, but for sure he didn't reply.

“I don’t pray to any god,” James said, irritable against himself. “Not because I’m proud, but because I don’t have a god-shaped space in me. Doesn’t mean I’m not… I don’t think I deserve—” He groped for words that wouldn’t sound like bravado. “I might to be worthy of heaven but I also don't think I deserve hell. I prefer no tidy answers.”

Leo let the silence stretch, still Leo couldn’t bring himself to face James; it was as if meeting his eyes would strip away the veil and expose him entirely—who he truly was, what he had done, and every sin he carried. But he answered like a scholar and a mourner combined: “A belief is still a belief even if that belief is disbelief. You construct a frame to hold meaning. To say you believe in nothing is, in effect, to believe in nothing. Faith is not only a God; it is a structure. The mind must live in some architecture.”

James blinked. He hadn’t expected the sentence to be so deep and clean. It made the hairs on his arms stand up. “So, you think I do have a faith… in not-faith?”

“I think you have a posture,” Leo replied, and for once his voice was utterly vulnerable, rimmed with fatigue. He met James’ eyes then—truly met them—and James saw something that was not performance but small, wounded truth. “I pray because the silence frightens me less when I have given it a name. Naming gives me a shape to my suffering.”

James wanted to reach out, to touch him, to hold him. He almost did—hand lifting halfway—then stopped. He was afraid his touch would be read like pity or worse, presumption. Instead, he said the stupidest, truest thing he could think of: “You’re not sin. You’re not rotten. You’re the bravest person I know.”

Leo’s eyes cooled, like a room that had been too close to fire and then stepped into shade. He let out a breath that could have been a laugh or a surrender. “Bravery and sin sometimes share the same bed, Potter. One saves you; the other buries you.” He shifted, looking away toward the window where morning was beginning to burn brighter. “If I believed in absolution, in forgiveness, I would ask for it. I do not expect it. I am… pragmatic.”

“Pragmatic?” James echoed. The word felt wrong, small, but he used it anyway. He wanted to be clever for a moment, to break the tension with technicalities, as soldiers always tried to do. “You sound like you’re arranging your sins on shelves.”

Leo’s smile—if it could be called that—was an icicle. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m cataloguing them so that I can hand them back at the right moment.” He turned his head and fixed James again with those grey, unreadable eyes.

 “Do you think being brave makes you clean?”

“I’ll never be clean”.

James’s anger lit suddenly, easy as tinder. “Well no. Bravery is not an absolution. But it matters. It matters to those who live. It matters to the people you keep breathing beside.” He could feel his voice shaking. “I keep thinking: if I don’t try, if I don’t go after what I promised my friends will be left without me.”

“Then be pragmatic and brave,” Leo said softly. “Not for gods. Not for holiness. For the living.”

James listened to the tautness in that sentence, to the refusal to romanticize suffering. It was a different kind of theology, less cathedral and more counsel, less pulpit and more bedside.

 The two men, one kneeling in confession, the other standing in an awkward hero’s pose, traded beliefs like contraband. Neither converted; neither surrendered. Yet something had shifted: a mutual recognition that the shape of their convictions, however different, was what steadied them in the dark.

For a beat after that, they simply existed in the quiet: Leo, hands shed of theatricality, Yuna curled between them like a small, warm accusation; James, helmet forgotten, the morning light haloing his shoulders like a promise he did not trust. Outside, somewhere in the palace, life resumed its monstrous, polite routine, dishes clanged in kitchens, a page’s footsteps skittered, and the castle continued its slow, patient appetite. Inside, where confession met pragmatism, two men tried to hold each other’s vulnerabilities without turning them into weapons.

When at last James spoke again it was softer, less flippant. “If you ever think—” He hesitated, the weight of everything pressing. “If you ever think the ledger is too heavy, tell me. I’ll stand on it with you.”

Leo’s answer was so small it might have been missed if one weren’t listening for truth. “I'll try.”

Chapter Text

He’ll try.

Try what? Try to change? Try to keep breathing? Try to survive another night under the weight of this place?

Those were Leo’s last words, and James couldn’t decide whether they meant anything at all. They hung in the air like smoke, shapeless, curling, dissolving into nothing. Leo always spoke like that, tangled in metaphors, in phrases that could mean the world or nothing at all. It was as if he was daring James to pull the words apart, to find the lie buried in them, to uncover the truth Leo had no intention of confessing, to solve his game of riddles.

James hated it. Or maybe he craved it. He couldn’t tell anymore.

After that, silence swallowed the chamber. It wasn’t the easy kind of silence James knew with Sirius, sitting around the fire with a drink, or even the watchful quiet he shared with Remus, when words weren’t needed. No, this silence pressed against him like the weight of stone. For Leo, it seemed natural, almost comfortable, as if keeping his mysteries intact was a relief. For James, it was unbearable, uncomfortable, his whole body itching with the need to do something, say something, pry something.

But Leo didn’t send him away. That had to mean something, didn’t it? James repeated that thought to himself, trying to convince the pounding inside his chest.

He was spared from choosing what to say when a knock sounded at the door. Dorcas’s voice carried through, clipped and steady, announcing the change of shift. James wondered, just briefly, if he asked her to leave it, to let him stay the rest of the morning, would she listen? Would she give him that small victory, let him stay closer to Leo for a while longer?

Probably not. His luck never ran that far. And he didn't test, not tonight.

So he stepped out. The door shut behind him like a final verdict, and James felt the weight of it in his bones. Dorcas stood there, her eyes sharp and assessing, the sort of look that could cut a man down to size with nothing but silence.

“Go back to your room, James.”

She didn’t raise her voice, but the tone was iron. James had learned enough, fast enough, to know when arguing wasn’t worth it. He gave her a stiff nod, the kind that said fine, you win, and let it go.

He was tired. Gods, he was tired. Tired from standing for hours outside that damned door, tired from hearing sounds that would stain his mind forever, tired from words he didn’t want to listen to but couldn’t stop chasing after anyway.

So, for once, James Potter didn’t go wandering. He didn’t try to map the halls, didn’t poke around for answers. He just let his legs carry him down the stone corridors, past flickering torches that left the walls dripping in shadow. His boots scraped against the floor, each step echoing too loud in the empty spaces. Maybe the halls were deserted because of the hour, or maybe because even the bravest didn’t care to linger here at dawn, when the night still clung stubbornly to the stones.

It all blurred together, haze and shadow, until James didn’t know if he was walking through a castle or through some dream he couldn’t wake from.

By the time he reached his cell, his chest felt heavy with something he didn’t want to name. He slipped inside, shut the door, and leaned against it with a sigh that felt dragged out of his very bones.

Now what?

He stared at the bare walls as if they might answer him.

What does a man on a desperate mission do?

What would Remus do?

The name hit him harder than expected. Remus.

The words rang hollow, as he thought of Remus–steady, clever, always with the right plan. What would Remus do?

And just like that, the ache in his chest sharpened. Because Remus wasn’t here. Neither was Sirius. Neither was Marlene. They were home. Home.

Right, home.

He still had one to return to.

The thought didn’t ease him like he hoped it would. Instead, it twisted inside him, harder, sharper. Because if he had a home to return to, then every hour he spent here, in this place, in these halls, in this cell, was borrowed time. Every dawn, every silence, every word from Leo’s lips pulled him further from where he was meant to be.

And what if he never got back?

What if the James who came back wasn’t the same man who left?

He pressed his hands into his eyes until all he saw was burning color. He needed rest, but the bed looked more like stone than salvation.

James Potter, who had always been full of life, of laughter, of noise, sat down on the edge of the cot in silence.

And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t know what to do next.

And yet, in the back of his mind, a whisper he couldn’t kill:

What if you stayed?

“Here you are.”

Dorcas entered without knocking, without a greeting, without a trace of gentleness. Her steps were sharp, echoing off the stone walls of his narrow cell, and the door slammed shut behind her like a gavel.

James looked up from the straw bed, where he’d been trying—and failing—to collect himself. He raised a brow. “I am indeed,” he replied dryly, though his voice lacked its usual bite. Exhaustion weighed down his words.

She ignored him completely, striding toward the desk and sweeping aside a neglected candle stub to drop a stack of papers that immediately spilled across the surface like a small avalanche.

“Let’s brainstorm.” She dropped onto his chair with all the grace of a storm cloud.

James blinked. “Brainstorm?” He sounded almost offended by the word, as if he had no energy left to conjure storms, mental or otherwise.

“Yes, James.” She snatched one of the papers from the pile, smoothed it out, and tapped it with an impatient finger. “Gods, the mission.”

Her tone was sharp, cutting through his fog. The mission. How could he have let himself forget, even for a moment? James straightened slightly, guilt pricking him awake.

Dorcas leaned forward, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “The king has just announced the next big masquerade.”

“Masquerade?” James repeated the word like it was foreign on his tongue.

She nodded, eyes glittering. “It’s a massive ball for kings and lords from neighboring kingdoms to mingle. Everyone wears masks. Even knights.”

James frowned, still lost in the image of glittering halls and masks hiding faces. “And we can enter?”

“Yes.” Dorcas smiled for the first time since stepping into the room. It wasn’t a soft smile—it was sharp, feral, hungry. “We’ll both be there. We can gather information for our next step.”

James tilted his head, skeptical. “And then what exactly?”

“Then,” she said, leaning back and spreading her arms as if unveiling a grand design, “we find allies. People who aren’t chained to the throne. We don’t have to do this alone we’d have a better chance with others who hate his rule as much as we do.”

The words stirred something in him—hope, maybe, though faint and fleeting. But before it could take root, she shoved another stack of papers into his hands so suddenly that he almost dropped them.

“Here. These are the lists of attendees.”

James scanned the names, eyes widening. His heart gave a jolt. The king hadn’t just invited his allies, he’d invited rivals, enemies, people whose loyalty was questionable at best. Even kingdoms that had openly condemned his rule. Bold, reckless, or arrogant, it was hard to say which.

“The king will be there?” James asked, his voice low, almost hushed at the thought.

“Yes.” Dorcas leaned closer, voice cutting into him like a blade. “Masked, of course. He’s not hard to spot, but with that many people in the room, we can’t move on him directly. It’s suicide.”

She was right. He hated that she was right.

James set the papers down with a long exhale. “And when is this… ball?”

“In a day.”

A day. His stomach lurched. No room to breathe, no time to think, no moment to prepare himself for whatever pit this would turn into.

“Here.” Dorcas thrust another paper at him, her movements sharp with urgency. “I made a list of possible allies.”

James’s eyes fell on the first name, and he nearly choked. “Sorry—Barty Crouch Jr.?”

Dorcas crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Think about it. He despises his father. He’s desperate to carve out his own place, away from his family’s chokehold. He doesn’t even want to be in the court.”

“So you’re telling me he’d help us for the sake of rebelling against his father?” James asked incredulously, waving the paper in the air.

Her shrug was careless, dangerous. “Not certainly. But it’s worth trying.”

James dragged a hand through his messy hair, letting out a low groan. “Dorcas, I know you want to help, but this is dangerous. He could run to his father the second we open our mouths and slit both our throats without lifting a blade.”

Her glare snapped to him, eyes burning. “Do you want to end the king or not?”

The question cut deeper than she meant it to. James’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. Of course he did. Of course he wanted this nightmare to end. But—

“I don’t want us to end with him,” he finally bit out. His voice cracked with exhaustion and fear he hadn’t intended to show.

Dorcas leaned forward across the desk, close enough that James could feel her anger radiating off her skin like heat from a forge. “We have to try. If we don’t risk anything, we gain nothing. You think waiting around in these cells will bring you victory? You think keeping your hands clean will save you?”

Her words struck like blows. James swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. He hated that she was right, but he hated even more how reckless it all sounded. Playing with fire. Playing with lives.

The silence that followed was tense, both of them refusing to break eye contact, until finally Dorcas pushed back her chair with a scrape of wood against stone.

“I’ll deliver clothes for you tonight. A mask, too.” Her tone was final, no space for argument.

James wanted to protest again, wanted to claw back some measure of control, but the words stuck in his throat. His chest felt heavy, his lungs unwilling.

With a final sharp glance, Dorcas strode toward the door. The papers on the desk rustled in the wind of her movement, scattered fragments of a plan more dangerous than anything James had ever been part of.

The door shut behind her, leaving James alone with the silence and his own storming thoughts.

He stared down at the list of names, Barty Crouch Jr. glaring up at him like a curse, and rubbed his temples until stars danced in his vision.

This wasn’t just a mission anymore. This was a game of masks and daggers, and tomorrow, he’d have no choice but to play.

Chapter Text

Marlene McKinnon stormed down the palace halls like a tempest given flesh. Her boots struck the stone with merciless rhythm, echoing off the vaulted ceilings. Guards flattened themselves to the walls at the mere sight of her; servants ducked into alcoves as if her fury could sear through them if they lingered too close.

She was not mad.

No, madness was far too small, too pitiful a word.

This was rage that curled hot in her veins, rage that boiled her blood until even the cold marble beneath her palms could not steady her. It was the kind of rage that made her body tremble not from weakness, but from too much power contained in one vessel.

When she reached the carved oak doors of the kings’ chambers, she didn’t pause, didn’t breathe, didn’t knock. Respect had been scorched away in the fire that devoured her reason. She shoved the doors wide open, the hinges screaming in protest.

Inside, the sight that greeted her nearly broke her.

Remus Lupin and Sirius Black sat together, wrapped in quiet comfort, clothed in casual attire that spoke of warmth and safety. Their world here was soft—untouched. Sirius’s hair fell loose over his shoulders as he toyed with his sleeves, his jaw tight but his body sunken in weariness. Remus looked steadier, but the guilt sat in his eyes like lead weights, dragging them down even as he met her gaze.

And James—James was out there. Alone.

Maybe suffering. Maybe dying.

The air choked her.

“Glad to see you have each other,” Marlene spat, voice cutting sharp as glass. No greeting, no bow, no restraint.

Sirius stiffened instantly. His eyes widened with shame, but before he could speak, Remus’s calm voice intruded, too steady, too controlled.

“Thank you, McKinnon. Still, you should have knocked, per chance?”

It was measured. Detached. Almost mocking in its composure.

Marlene’s hands curled into fists. How dare he? How dare he sit there, dressed in calm, while James—

Her gaze cut Sirius next. He couldn’t meet her eyes. He fidgeted, sleeves twisting, shoulders rounding, as if he could shrink smaller, vanish into the fabric of his tunic. She saw the torment written across his face, yes—but it was not enough. Not for her.

And Remus—Remus with his calmness, his heavy silence, his cloak of rationality. He carried his guilt like it was a shield. As if knowing he’d condemned James was enough to absolve him.

It wasn’t.

“We need to send rescue units,” she demanded, her commander’s voice ringing out like a battle cry. This was the voice that had carved her a place among warriors, the voice that made soldiers obey without question.

But Remus didn’t flinch. He didn’t bend.

“Denied,” he said simply.

The word was final. It landed in the air like a sword driven into the ground, immovable.

Marlene’s breath hitched, fury rising higher, hotter, spilling into venom. “Why? Because you can’t risk losing more men? Is that it? You’d rather let him rot than risk your precious numbers?”

Sirius inhaled sharply, horrified. “Marlen—”

“It’s fine, Sirius,” Remus cut across him, palm firm against Sirius’s chest to keep him seated, to silence him. Then his golden eyes locked on hers. “I know you resent us right now. I would too. But do not forget James had a choice.”

Marlene laughed then—a sharp, broken sound that wasn’t laughter at all but a mockery of it. “A choice?” she echoed, her voice cracking into bitterness. “You knew he’d never refuse you. He would have walked into the flames if you asked him, and you did. Don’t you dare stand there and dress it up as a choice.”

Her chest ached. Tears, unwanted and unwelcome, burned at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them soften her rage. “There was no choice, Remus. You knew it. And you used it.”

The silence that followed was thick, pressing against the walls, suffocating.

Remus absorbed every word, his face taut, his jaw clenched. But he did not waver.

“Still, Marlene,” he said quietly, almost mournfully, “your request is denied. I’m sorry.”

Her hands trembled now—not with fear, but with a fury so vast she could hardly hold it. “He might already be dead in that place. It’s been three nights!” Her voice rose until it shook the chamber itself. “Three nights while you sit here, weighing risks and excuses. Three nights while he bleeds for your cause!”

“Marlene—” Remus began, but she cut him down with a glare so sharp he faltered.

“Don’t. Don’t speak to me as if your words hold weight. I thought kings were cruel, that they played with souls for their own advantage—but I believed you two were different. I believed you fought for something more.” Her voice broke then, but her words came steady, deliberate. “Turns out you’re no different. Turns out power rots everyone the same.”

“Marlene, you don’t mean that,” Sirius whispered, finally rising to his feet. His eyes were wet, his face twisted in pain, his voice desperate.

But she stepped back, chin raised, fury blazing through the tears streaking her cheeks.

“Goodbye, your majesty.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She spun on her heel and left, slamming the doors behind her. The sound echoed like thunder, rattling in the silence she left in her wake.

And in that silence, Sirius sank back down, face buried in his hands, while Remus stood frozen, bearing the weight of her rage, her words, her truth.

"We shouldn't have done that" Sirius muttered into his hands.

And Remus can't help but think:

I cornered him into that mission.

James found himself in that same position once again—back pressed into the cold wall, eyes squeezed shut as if the darkness could shield him from the truth.

The silence was different tonight. No whimpers. No broken cries. No muffled sounds that clawed at his insides. Only the groan of the bedframe when someone shifted.

It was almost worse. The absence of sound was louder than anything else.

And James didn’t know whether to be grateful, or sick with dread.

Leo never gave him answers. Not in words, not in expressions. He was a riddle, and James was both cursed and blessed to be the one trying to solve him.

When dawn came, the king emerged at last, flanked by his guards, the heavy door groaning open. His black robes whispered across the stone as he passed, his face as unreadable as always. James lowered his head and waited. He counted his breaths—ten, twenty, thirty. More than a few minutes. Not quite an hour. Enough time for Leo to gather himself… if he ever did.

With a soft knock, James stepped inside.

The air was different here. Lighter somehow, but tinged with something sharp.

Leo wasn’t crumpled on the floor. He wasn’t even sitting. He stood tall, framed by the balcony, a silhouette painted in the pale wash of dawn. His back was straight, one hand resting on the stone railing, his hair tangled yet somehow regal.

He always seemed to be looking at things James couldn’t see. Beyond the horizon, into some other world.

“Prepare me a bath, Potter,” Leo said suddenly. He didn’t turn, didn’t blink. His voice was velvet threaded with iron.

It startled James enough to nearly make him flinch. “A bath?”

No reply. None needed. With Leo, silence was its own command.

So James obeyed.

Because even though he was not Leo’s servant, nor his knight, nor anything but a commander sent on a mission, he couldn’t help but move at the sound of that voice.

He filled the basin, the steam rising thick and curling around his arms. He thought about temperature, about preference, about the strange intimacy of something so ordinary. Did Leo like cold water that bit into the skin? No… Leo seemed like the kind of man who would embrace fire itself, who would rather be burned alive than feel chilled.

James made the water hot—burning hot. He carried it carefully, glancing up at the figure still by the balcony.

Leo turned at last. The light caught his features in full, and James’s chest tightened. He looked ethereal, almost holy, as if dawn itself had paused just to rest on his skin.

“Attend me, Potter,” Leo said softly, though there was nothing soft in the way his eyes pinned James.

James’s heart stopped. “A-as in…?”

“Take my clothes off.”

The words landed like a stone thrown into a still pond, sending waves of heat through James’s chest, down his arms, all the way to his trembling hands.

How do you strip someone you desire so fiercely? Someone who feels untouchable, divine?

James rose slowly, his legs heavy, his throat dry. Their eyes locked—gray and hazel—and neither of them looked away. It was almost a challenge.

His hands shook. “Can I… touch you?”

Leo’s lips curled faintly, not quite a smile. “You’re asking?”

“I told you,” James murmured, voice low, “I’ll always ask.”

“You have to touch me to take my clothes off.”

That was all the permission he needed. With reverence more than lust, James’s fingers ghosted over Leo’s wrists, loosening the ties of his sleeves. His touch was clumsy, almost too careful, but it felt sacred. Each undone lace was a prayer.

When he reached the knot at Leo’s throat, he swallowed hard before tugging it free. The white shirt loosened, sliding across narrow shoulders, making Leo look smaller, more fragile. An illusion, James knew—but one that made his chest ache.

“Can I?” he whispered again.

“Yes.” The answer was raw, unpolished, like the single word had cost Leo something.

James drew the fabric away, his breath catching as the shirt slipped off and revealed the pale line of Leo’s collarbone, the delicate curve of his chest. For a moment, James nearly forgot the world outside the room even existed.

He didn't even notice the scars all over.

Then came the shorts—beige, elegant, dignified in a way that reminded James that this was no servant, no ordinary man. Still, his hands hesitated. This felt heavier, more dangerous. But Leo had chosen him. That thought alone sent a flutter through his stomach.

He fumbled with the laces, then looked up, searching for reassurance. Leo gave only a small nod. Not much but enough.

James slid the shorts down, breath shallow, heart hammering. Leo gripped his shoulders lightly as he stepped out of them, steadying himself. That touch lingered even after he let go, burning through the fabric of James’s tunic.

James can't help but get giddy by his touch.

Only one barrier remained. James looked into those storm-gray eyes and shook his head faintly. “I… I think you should do that on your own.”

Leo tilted his head, unreadable.

James’s thoughts tangled, desire and restraint at war. Did he want to lose himself in Leo? Absolutely. But he wanted more to prove that his presence was not another violation, not another theft of choice. And gods, those eyes… they were crafted by some cruel deity who knew what beauty was meant to do to men.

Leo only shrugged, careless, and slipped the last of his clothing away himself. He brushed past James with the weightless grace of a shadow, stepping into the steaming bath.

James’s eyes widened. His instincts screamed to look, to drink in every detail, to worship. But he didn’t. He kept his gaze steady on the water’s surface, proud of his restraint even as his body burned with the effort.

The quiet splash of water finally broke his trance.

“Is the temperature to your liking?” James asked, voice rougher than he meant.

“Yes,” Leo breathed, leaning back into the steam as though it was a throne.

Relief flooded James. He grinned, wide and foolish. “What can I say I make really good baths.”

Leo gave him a glance so sharp it nearly undid him. James laughed softly, embarrassed, but sat beside the tub anyway, close enough to feel the heat radiating.

He found himself counting Leo’s lashes like a madman. One, two, three… losing track and starting again. As if perfection could be measured in numbers.

His hand drifted to the bottles of oils lined up on the table. He picked up rose oil, adding a few drops into the water. The scent blossomed immediately.

Leo arched a brow, one eye opening in lazy scrutiny.

“Sorry,” James said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You just look like someone who should be bathed in oils.”

A pause. Then, with quiet precision, Leo asked, “To smell sweeter for your desire?”

James’s cheeks flared hot. He shook his head quickly. “To relax.”

Another pause. A hum. And then—“Then add more.”

James obeyed without hesitation, pouring in the oil until the water shimmered faintly on the surface.

And for a moment, the world felt unbearably fragile. Just James, the scent of roses, and the man who seemed carved from both mystery and fire.

The silence had stretched too long, the steam wrapping around them like a heavy curtain. James sat on the low stool beside the bath, his knees drawn up, fingers drumming restlessly against his thigh. He was about to say something foolish just to break it when Leo’s voice cut through, smooth and sudden.

“Do your kings bathe in oils?”

James almost flinched. Leo’s words always did that—slicing the quiet with precision, aimed directly at him.

“Remus sometim—”

“No. The other one.” He didn’t even bother to glance at him, only tilted his head faintly, eyes half-lidded against the rising steam.

James blinked, taken off guard. “Ah. Sirius.” He paused, then smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth softening. “He would much rather bathe in mud, to be honest.” The memory tugged at something in his chest, warm and aching. “I can see him now, hair dripping, cursing the world for making water exist.”

For a second James let himself drift into that thought—Sirius, alive and free, with mud on his cheeks and laughter spilling out of him. What he would give to be back there, in that world where everything was simpler, even if it was full of war.

But Leo gave no answer. No hum of amusement, no mockery, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. He sank deeper into his silence, a silence that seemed alive, swallowing James’s whole until it felt like even his thoughts were too loud.

James shifted on the stool. He shouldn’t want this so badly, shouldn’t crave a reply from a man who gave nothing. And yet—he did. He wanted more of him.

He wanted to hear Leo talk, to draw out whatever hidden truths coiled behind those unreadable gray eyes. He wanted to ask him questions, reckless, endless questions: How did you end up here? Why do you stay? What chains you to this bed, this palace, this king?

But those were the wrong questions, the kind that would make Leo retreat further into the walls he built around himself. So James bit his tongue.

His eyes roamed Leo’s profile instead, memorizing every sharp line softened by steam, every bead of water glistening against pale skin. He wanted to know everything—the great tragedies that had made him, the smallest habits that grounded him. He wanted to know how Leo ate his bread, whether he picked at crusts or tore them apart with impatient fingers.

He wanted to know how he slept, if he ever did.

Oddly he wanted to know where Leo threw his orange peels.

The thought came unbidden, absurd, and yet it made James’s chest tighten with something dangerously close to fondness. Because curiosity wasn’t just about the grand, it was about the ordinary—the small, human pieces of a man who otherwise seemed like marble, sculpted by gods to be untouchable.

He swallowed, his throat dry. “Do you…” His voice faltered. He almost asked it out loud. Do you even eat oranges? Do you leave the peels scattered, or do you line them neat in a bowl?

But Leo had closed his eyes again, lashes dark against his damp skin, as he sunk his whole body into the water, and with that James was left with the steam, the silence, and the unbearable ache of wanting.

Chapter Text

The day of the masquerade arrived before James had time to catch his breath.

He had returned to his cell expecting nothing but damp stone and silence, yet waiting for him was a velvet suit laid neatly across his cot. A matching tie, folded with near-military precision, rested on top. And beside them, as though left there by invisible hands, a mask: velvet lined, designed with black lace that curled like creeping vines.

James stopped in the doorway, staring at the garments as though they were alive. His stomach dropped.

It felt real now. Too real. Too soon.

His palms itched with unease. He hadn’t prepared enough for this. Not nearly enough. The mission had seemed like a story when they whispered it in dark corners—now it was pressed into velvet and lace, waiting for him to wear it like a brand.

What if it all collapsed tonight?

Would Barty Crouch slip, betray them with that restless, eager mouth of his? Would Andromeda, proud and sharp-eyed, refuse to aid them at all? Would the Order’s fragile threads snap before the first dance even ended?

James had a hundred questions, and not a single answer.

He exhaled, long and bitter. No use delaying. His hands weren’t steady as he dressed, tugging the jacket over his shoulders. 

The fabric was soft, rich, far finer than anything he’d worn in years, yet it felt alien on his body. Like wearing someone else’s skin. The deep, blood-red velvet suit clung to him like it had been stitched with his body in mind, the velvet dark and deep, the color of spilled wine in candlelight. The jacket hugged his shoulders, its lapels edged in a subtle black sheen that caught the light whenever he moved. The tie—silken, perfectly knotted—pressed against his throat, a reminder that this wasn’t armor, but a disguise. 

Even the mask, soft velvet traced with delicate black lace, seemed designed to mock him; it fit close across his face, smothering, as though daring him to pretend he belonged in a world of chandeliers and whispered betrayals. He felt elegant, yes, but wrong in it, like a soldier forced into costume, stripped of his weight and purpose.

It should have made him feel powerful. Instead, James longed for his armor—the weight of metal, the familiar comfort of leather straps across his chest. This suit was for show. Armor, at least, had purpose.

The hinges of the cell door creaked, dragging him from his thoughts. Dorcas stepped inside.

She looked lethal.

Her gown was black as midnight, its fabric clinging to her with dangerous elegance. A slit ran high up one side, revealing a flash of pale thigh with every stride. Lace patterned her bodice like spiderwebs, half-masking strength with beauty. A black mask cut harsh lines across her face, desecrating any softness she might’ve once shown. Her hair had been braided and coiled high, out of the way—practical, even when dressed to kill.

James gave an exaggerated bow, extending his hand with mock gallantry. “My lady.”

Dorcas arched a brow, rolling her eyes as if the gesture pained her. Still, she took his arm. “Try not to trip over your own ego tonight.”

His lips twitched. “I’ll do my best.”

They moved down the hall together, their steps echoing against cold stone. James kept his gaze forward, but every nerve buzzed beneath his skin. The silence pressed on him until he broke it.

“Anything I should expect?” His voice was light, but the words snagged in his throat.

Dorcas didn’t hesitate. “Other than arrogant kings and cunning dukes?”

James managed a crooked grin. “If it’s only that, I can manage.”

Her tone shifted, sharper now. “It won’t only be that.” She glanced at him, her eyes glinting under the torchlight. “We’ll see things tonight that will make us want to look away. Don’t. Keep your face neutral. No reactions. No matter what.”

James gave her a two-fingered salute. “Aye aye, captain.”

Her eye-roll this time was deeper, bordering on theatrical. “You’re impossible.”

“Everyone adore me for it.”

“Hardly.” But there was the faintest curl at the corner of her mouth, almost a smile. It was a win

Then the corridor opened into brilliance, and James forgot how to breathe.

The ballroom doors were colossal, carved from dark wood and gilded with gold leaf. Each panel bore elaborate designs—crests, flowers, twisting beasts—that gleamed under the torches. When the doors swung wide, the light inside hit them like a tidal wave.

The chandelier was the first thing James saw, suspended so high it seemed part of the heavens. Its arms sprawled in every direction, dripping crystal and gold. Hundreds of candles burned within it, their glow fractured and multiplied, until the whole room shimmered as though caught in starlight.

Below, the floor stretched out in perfect symmetry: a grand circle of polished marble, reflecting the dance like a mirror. Men and women glided across it in sweeping arcs, their gowns flashing like jewels, their masks catching the light with every turn. Music wound through the air, elegant and commanding, played by an unseen orchestra.

It was beautiful. Terrifying, too. A stage too grand for mistakes.

Dorcas slid her arm free the moment her eyes landed on a figure across the floor. “Well. Here’s where I leave you.” Her voice was brisk, but James caught the way her shoulders stiffened slightly—Andromeda. Of course.

James bowed low, grinning faintly. “By all means, my lady.”

Dorcas didn’t bow back. She scoffed, sharp and amused, before sweeping away into the crowd. James chuckled under his breath.

In another life, he thought, Dorcas would’ve been a friend—an easy one, the sort who teased without cruelty, the sort who stayed. But this was the only life they had, and it wasn’t kind enough to allow that.

He straightened, letting his eyes drift across the ballroom. He forced himself to scan, to observe—not to search for the familiar curve of black curls, though his chest ached with the temptation. The mission came first. Always.

Still, unease slithered in his stomach. Something here didn’t fit. Something was off.

And then—

A man dressed in gold entered through the far doors. He didn’t just walk; he arrived, as though the room belonged to him. His suit was silk, every inch gleaming, his mask a sculpted piece of gold that swallowed his eyes in shadow. His hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. He radiated wealth, power—corruption dressed in finery.

The devil, James thought, but the devil in silk is still the devil.

And behind him—

James’s breath caught.

Leo.

He looked divine.

James could hardly breathe when Leo entered—cloaked not in fabric alone but in mystery itself. That baroque mask, etched with gold and ink-dark swirls, seemed less a disguise and more a coronation, crowning his very existence with myth. The sight of him was unbearable in its beauty. The ivory shirt, loose and flowing, seemed spun from some celestial fabric, each fold catching the starlight like a whispered secret from heaven. Its sleeves hung wide, untamed, yet gathered at the wrists as though even chaos longed to be near him. The cut of it shaped him in a way that felt deliberate, as if the garment itself knew it had the honor of draping Leo’s form.

The gilded king in gold took his seat like a monarch taking the sun for himself, and Leo trailed behind him like a chastised cat — half by duty, half by something else he couldn’t name. 

He should have been watching the king. He should have been memorising Regulus’s posture, the way the mask swallowed and reshaped his features, the slow, imperial cadence with which he moved through the room. But Leo had stolen the air from his lungs; every glance that strayed to the balcony came back to the pale figure standing there as if gravity itself favored him.

Regulus’s mask was molten artistry: a sheet of gold hammered and breathed into curling filigree, one side daringly partial so the world could glimpse what it wished, the other side a solid monarch’s face that needed neither crown nor smile. When he spoke, the gilded patterns seemed to catch and fracture the chandelier’s light into a constellation that moved with him. He was a king in exile and dominion all at once, a presence that made the ballroom feel like his chapel.

But James could not focus on the king. He could not. Leo, even shrouded in pale linen and shadow, appeared to James like a holy relic set in a profane hall. Each tilt of his head was a small liturgy. Each ripple of his breath was grace that made James ache with something close to worship. 

Jealousy tasted unfamiliar and sour in his mouth; he had never wanted to be beside anyone as he wanted to be beside Leo. He wanted — irrationally, wholly — to kneel and swear fealty.

Still the boy didn't even bare him a glance.

The orchestra struck its first soft notes, a swell of strings washing over the ballroom like a tide. James’s throat tightened. For a fleeting second, he let himself slip into a dream.

He saw it clearly: himself crossing the polished marble floor, bowing low before Leo as though the boy were some crowned sovereign, not a slave. His hand would hover in the air, trembling in anticipation, until Leo set his pale fingers in his palm. He would kiss them—not too bold, not too desperate, but reverent, as though even his lips were unworthy of touching him. He imagined leading Leo to the heart of the dance floor, every gaze turning upon them, envy burning in their eyes.

James would guide him gently, one hand at his waist, the other laced with his. He would hold him as though Leo were made of glass and starlight, terrified that too tight a grip might make him vanish and break. The steps would not matter—Leo could stumble, falter, overthink every motion—and James would whisper reassurances with a smile that told him he was perfect. In his mind, they moved as one: James’s chest brushing Leo’s shoulder, the rhythm carrying them into something holy, a dance not of flesh but of souls. He would breathe him in, the faintest trace of oils and candle-smoke, the scent that now haunted James like incense.

But the vision shattered with a cruel truth.

Because in reality, Leo did not turn toward him. Did not glance, did not smile. He sat still as stone, eyes bored fixed anywhere but on James, as though James were nothing more than another shadow among the crowd. The orchestra’s melody swirled on, yet James remained rooted in place, a knight without a partner, a supplicant denied even a flicker of acknowledgment.

And the ache of it was unbearable. James felt like a hungry dog chained at his master’s feet, yearning for the smallest scrap of affection. His chest burned with a longing that mocked him, gnawed at him, and yet he could not look away.

Still, he dreamed.

Even if Leo’s silence consumed the room, even if his indifference crushed him, James clung to that imagined dance—as though in some other life, some other world, he might have been allowed to hold him without shame and fear.

The dance wound down, ribbons of music softening into a lullaby. Courtiers began to search the room for an audience with the king; a parade of lords and ladies drifted forward with practiced smiles. James tried to tamp down the way his hands shook, tried to breathe with purpose. He was here to work. He was not here to lose himself staring.

He had almost given up hunting for allies when the doors thundered open again and a dark-haired boy strode in — all crooked bravado and too much brandy. Barty Crouch Jr. entered like a storm that didn’t know where to land.

He was a mess, deliberately, insolently so. Where the room shimmered with silk and immaculate tailoring, Barty’s jacket clung askew, one sleeve pushed halfway up, cuff buttons undone. His shirt gaped in careless, indignant slashes; a necktie was looped like a joke around his throat and clung to nothing, laying on his shoulders. His mask hung crooked on his face, revealing a smear of rouge lips and the start of stubbled cheek where he’d forgotten to shave properly. He smelled faintly of alcohol and reckless youth. 

The effect was discordant and oddly defiant — a son trying to be an act of protest in the middle of a court.

Mur murmurs threaded the air like threads of smoke. The Crouch name carried weight, but Barty Jr. carried another burden: he was legacy without decorum, a cautionary tale in tailoring. People watched him with a mixture of amusement and disdain. Noblewomen pursed lips; bored dukes exchanged looks. No one rushed to meet him as they had the gilded arrivals. He wasn’t the sort of scandal the court loved — he was a bruise.

Behind him cut a smaller but colder shadow: Bartemius Crouch. The senior Crouch moved with clipped, practiced dignity, every inch a man whose life had been banked on tradition and order. His mask was immaculate, his robe immaculate, his jaw a cliff. When their eyes found each other, the ballroom’s hum sharpened into a drawn breath.

Their interaction was volcanic, waiting for a spark. Bartemius closed the distance with the economy of a man who weighs consequences. He leaned forward, voice low but lethal in its restraint. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

Barty Jr. smiled like a razor. “Drinking, Father,” he said, the word sliding off his tongue in a sardonic salute as he lifted a glass in mock gravity by the table they both stood by now. 

Bartemius’s jaw clenched. “You come here to embarrass me,” he said, every syllable precise as if he were carving the boy’s reputation into stone.

“Embarrass you?” Barty snorted, shameless. He helped himself to another drink with the same casual defiance as a man lighting a match in a dry barn. “You imagine I care what you think of me. Why would I? I know the part I play.”

“You imagined a line of succession and an heir that would be respectable. You imagined continuity, not spectacle,” Bartemius cut in, each word a plate of ice set on Barty’s shoulders. His eyes were glittering blades that people instinctively stepped away from.

“Respectable?” Barty flung the word out like a challenge, posture all swagger and ruin. “You’ve caged me in your legacy like a trophy. I would rather roast it than be its ornament.”

The father’s face went hard as the marble floor. He towered over his son in both stature and cold authority. Around them, heads swivelled. A few guards drifted like silent reefs into place.

Bartemius lowered his voice until it was a promise and a threat braided together. “Such talk in this room will cost you more than a couple marks, boy. This court is a machine of influence — you are not exempt from consequence.” With that Bartemius left his disaster of a child all alone.

That was his first mistake.

James edged closer, curiosity and mission colliding in his chest. This was the opening, the crack in the armor. If he could tilt Barty Jr. toward them, if he could convert that reckless fire into alliance — they might have a spark. He swallowed his fear and lifted a glass in a false, easy toast. “Family is complicated, isn’t it?” he offered, voice soft, like someone trying to patch a wound.

Barty’s eyes, black and manic with the liquor’s sheen, flicked to him. There was a dangerous, calculating light to them that made James’s skin prickle. “Don’t even start,” Barty said. He leaned closer, conspiratorial and volatile. “You don’t understand. Family is ash if you stay in it too long.”

He was right, James didn't understand. 

“Barty Crouch, if I’m not mistaken?” James kept his mask level, assumed manner casual, though his pulse hammered. He needed Barty’s attention, needed to calibrate the boy’s instability.

“Junior.” Barty corrected with a lopsided grin, as he helped himself with yet another drink. “I haven’t seen you before.” He stared hard at James, assessing whether the man was friend or mark.

“New to court,” James lied. “A knight.”

“Knight?” Barty’s laugh was a wet cough of amusement. “Good for you. Knights always look so… noble. I wish I were one.”

James bristled but held his tongue. He needed to be smooth not righteous. “And what would you do if you were a knight?” he asked, baiting.

Barty’s face darkened, some raw center momentarily exposed. “I’d run far far away from here... not before i burn this place to the ground.” The words came out like an oath. “Ash and smoke. Maybe save two people while I’m at it.” He punctuated the line with a slurred, bitter smirk.

“Two is an oddly specific number." James prodded, though his stomach dropped at the hint of violence. “Who are the lucky two?”

“That's why i said maybe,” Barty said. “Maybe someone who can actually look at me without pretending. And maybe someone who long died here” He shrugged as if mattering to the court and matters to the man were equally pointless. “Now, if you'll excuse me I’ve got a scene to cause.” He drained his glass and stormed — or sauntered, depending on perspective — into the center of the ballroom.

At first people barely noticed. Then the boy climbed on a low dais, the erratic flash of his mask catching the candlelight, and he raised his glass. The cacophony of polite murmurs died down into the heavy expectant silence that attends a show.

“People! People—please, your attention!” His voice cut across the hall, loud, slurred, but commanding in its madness. “I’m Barty. Bartimus Junior. Don’t mix me up with my father, I beg you—it would be a tragedy to confuse the relic with the heir, don’t you think? He’s brittle, I’m in my prime!” His voice pushed past the polite chords of music and dragged the room to attention. 

A few strained laughs broke the air, mostly from men eager to mock him later. The rest whispered behind jeweled fans, eyes narrowed, disgust sharp as knives. James forced a chuckle, but his stomach twisted.

“I want to welcome you all,” Barty continued, bowing with exaggerated grandeur, nearly spilling his drink, “on behalf of the Crouch family. You’ve served this king—ah, this land—faithfully for years, haven’t you? Loyal little dogs, all of you.” His grin was vicious, curling like a wound.

James saw Bartemius Sr. stiffen near the dais, jaw tight enough to break. He also felt the air tighten. This was dangerous. Embarrassment could be brushed off, but Barty was aiming for the throat of the court. He had the floor, and he intended to use it to burn.

“And me?” Barty thumped his chest, eyes wide and feverish. “I’m just a man, just flesh and bone—but I remember. Oh, I remember!” He dragged the word out, voice pitching up until it cracked. “The king and queen—ha!—one poisoned, one butchered in her own chamber. Tragedy! Tragedy! A kingdom soaked in blood and yet you dance, you drink, you smile and call it peace!” He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye, face twisted in mock grief.

Gasps hissed through the crowd. No one mentioned the queen’s murder. No one dared.

“And who could forget the blood traitor?” The words spat like venom. 

James’s chest seized; Sirius. His Sirius. 

"The man who built a kingdom from nothing, who dares to spit in your faces and yet—yet!—he thrives. Expanding, growing, tightening his grip while you bow and scrape here.” He laughed—a sound too loud, too jagged, almost feral. “Me? I’d bet on him! Every coin, every drop of blood—I’d bet on him.”

The nobles recoiled as if his words had claws. Whispers swelled into a tide of outrage. James’s hand clenched around his glass until he thought it would shatter.

“Quiet him,” someone hissed. Small groups of stewards in embroidered livery began to approach like a tide.

Knights were already moving, weaving through the crowd toward him, their armor clinking like thunder.

But Barty wasn’t finished. His voice dropped low, then rose into a shriek. “And what about the baby brother? Not a baby anymore, no—but still a child in spirit, aren’t you, Regulus?” His head snapped toward the throne, eyes blazing. “Tell me, do you call for your brother’s name while you lay in bed with him at night? Or do you still pray to your God? Hm? Do you beg for Him to save you, while knowing no one is coming?”

A ripple of gasps cascaded through the ballroom. Some ladies clutched corsages to their chests. A few spluttered into offended laughter to cover their discomfort.The orchestra faltered, the violins trailing off into an awkward hush. James felt the air itself tighten, as though the walls wanted to close around Barty’s throat.

“I’ll tell you the truth!” Barty bellowed, hurling his glass up. “No one will save you. You’ll rot with them, and I’ll burn you all—burn this place until only ash remembers you!”

With that  noise exploded; the ballroom erupted into instinctive self-preservation. Nobles drew back; servants rushed in to clear the broken glass and calm the scene. A contingent of royal guards moved to restrain Barty. The spectacle resolved into a tidy rerun of order: restraint, whispers, apologies. Bartemius, with the thin smile of a man whose world is cracked but not collapsed, accepted the grovelling murmurs of explanation from courtiers as he shepherded the embarrassment away, his dignity barely scuffed.

The knights seized Barty then, dragging him down, his limbs flailing, his laughter tearing through the room like a blade.

“You’d set me aside like refuse, Bartemius. Keep your legacy. I am not yours to polish. I’ll burn the roof to make you see the sky!”

For a moment, chaos reigned. But it was brief.

Bartemius Crouch Sr. stepped forward, voice booming with cold command. “My son has had too much to drink. Forgive this disruption. Please, enjoy the evening.” His words smoothed the uproar like a heavy hand pressing down upon fire, suffocating it. The nobles—hungry to erase discomfort—obliged. Conversation resumed. Laughter forced its way back into throats. The orchestra struck up again, as though nothing had happened.

The crowd resumed its social choreography with practiced speed, like people re-tying their collars after a sudden gust. Conversations rerouted; scandal turned into gossip for afternoon teas. But one pair of eyes did not look away.

Leo watched the commotion with red-rimmed eyes and something close to pain in his stare. He did not clap or hiss, nor did he join the collective amusement or disdain. He simply looked — with the kind of attention that sets a person on fire from the inside. James felt that look like a physical thing pressing into his chest. For a breathless, savage instant the ballroom narrowed to a line between himself and Leo’s gaze — and James, hungry and ridiculous, felt his whole world tilt.

Around him the ball continued, glittering and oblivious. Barty was escorted out; the choir resumed its music; the court folded its scandal into polite rumor with the kings' dismissal hand.

But James stood rooted, more aware than ever of how small his plans could be and how monstrously large his hunger for Leo was.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time — or perhaps long before time ever dared to count — in a realm very far, there lived two princes born beneath the same bleeding star.

They were radiant beyond measure, the kind of beauty that kingdoms tore themselves apart and went to wars to claim. Men crossed oceans for a starved glimpse of them, mothers carved prayers into their skin for their safety, and soldiers-built pyres of their own bones to keep their names alive.

And yet, for all their worship, the elder prince felt nothing but a quiet curse pulsing beneath his ribs.

He was a body made with foxglove shrubs — beautiful, yes, but lethal to the touch. hexed with a crown made of thorns pressing into his scalp until blood ran in unseen rivulets, and his smile — oh, his smile — was a dagger, sharpened against his own reflection.

He was poison wearing a prince’s skin. And poison cannot run away.

How could he, when a younger lamb still trusted him to guard the gates?

The younger prince — sweet, soft, hopeless — was not truly a lamb, though his gentleness would have fooled even the wolves. Delicate moth wings unfurled from his back, pale and trembling, fragile enough to break beneath a careless wind.

“I will find the white stag,” the younger vowed one night, his voice bright with belief. “It will grant us three wishes. We can be free.”

The elder knew better. No stag, no wish, no miracle could untangle the thorns that had rooted themselves in his soul, no stag would cure him from these peculiar miseries.

Still, he watched — helpless, heartsick — as his brother wandered barefoot through briars, blood blooming with every step in search of something that did not exist.

“You should come with me,” the boy urged, still breathless with faith. “If the stag can heal me, it can heal you, too.”

Hope. Such a cruel thing to hold when the world had already ended. The elder resented him for it — resented the way his brother’s heart still beat in harmony with impossible dreams.

I am the stag, he wanted to scream.

I am the one standing between you and the darkness.

I am the hands over your ears so you won’t hear her crawling closer.

I am the creature you pray for, and still, I am not enough.

The sound of glass shattering snapped the fairytale in two. Both princes flinched. Reality crept in like smoke beneath the door.

Because Sirius — the elder — was no stag. His hands did not silence the terror slithering through the walls. His love could not stop what was coming.

“I don’t want to die,” whispered the younger — Regulus — his tears saltwater storms that threatened to drown them both.

And oh, how he wept. He wept until Sirius swore the sea itself would rise to swallow the castle whole.

He was scared it would swallow him first.

“Sirius,” Regulus gasped, voice breaking on the syllables. “I-I really don’t want to—”

“Shh,” Sirius murmured, his own hands trembling as he cupped his brother’s face. “I’m not going to let her.”

“No—no, I don’t want to—” The shaking grew violent, frantic as he shook his head violently. The room felt smaller. The air thinner. Death’s footsteps louder.

“I don’t want to die, Sirius.”

Sirius.

Sirius.

S

   I

    R

      I

       U

          S

You left him to die.

he doesn't believe in stags anymore

The words roared in his skull — a chorus, an accusation, a truth.

Sirius woke with a violent gasp.

The dream collapsing around him like a dying star. The ghost of his brother’s voice still clung to the edges of the night, and his hands were still outstretched — as if they’d been reaching for Regulus all this time.

And once again, he was too late.

The masquerade had long withered into silence by the time Dorcas found him again. The music was gone, the laughter reduced to ghosts clinging to the vaulted ceilings, and only the faint scent of wine and roses lingered — heavy and sweet and suffocating.

She slipped beside him like a shadow, her tone maddeningly casual for a woman who’d just manipulated half the noble class.

“Andromeda’s down,” she said, as if ticking off an errand on a grocery list. “One name off the list. Only a dozen more to go.”

To anyone watching, they were just two knights off-duty — leaning close, shoulders nearly touching, eyes fixed on the same distant wall. Strangers might think they were flirting. James knew better.

He hoped they looked boring.

“Dare I ask how?” he murmured, suspicion curling around the words.

“Well,” Dorcas began with a too-innocent shrug, “there might be an additional person we need to help escape.”

“Pardon me — what?” James turned his head so sharply it nearly betrayed them.

“She’s madly in love,” Dorcas continued, utterly unfazed. “Apparently, if we don’t help her stable boy get out too, she’s not leaving.”

James stared at her. “That’s dangerous, Dorcas.”

“The more the merrier?” she offered, lips quirking.

He exhaled a long, weary breath. What had begun as a mission to extract one person — Regulus Black, the king’s brother — was now morphing into an elaborate jailbreak. Every conversation Dorcas had seemed to add another name to their list.

“And Crouch?” She asked finally, knowing she wouldn’t like the answer.

He scoffed. “How could I possibly get close after that little performance?”

James rubbed at his temples. His bones felt heavier than his armor, and they weren’t even halfway done. Only one name crossed off — and a growing sense that the walls of this kingdom were closing in on them.

“The knights won’t imprison him,” Dorcas added bitterly. “Too noble for that.”

“Of course.” James didn’t know whether to feel relieved or furious. If anyone else had stood in the center of a royal ball and hurled threats at the king, they would already be rotting in a dungeon. But Barty Crouch Jr.? He’d likely get a scolding and a glass of water.

“Go find him, Potter. We still need him.”

James nodded once and slipped away. He was a man on a mission — even if that mission felt increasingly like trying to catch smoke with bare hands.

It took longer than he expected to find Barty. He moved like a phantom through the castle’s corridors — sometimes James would catch a flash of his coat in the corner of his eye, only for it to vanish when he turned.

But ghosts always leave trails, and this one led him to the farthest edges of the palace gardens — a place so remote it kissed the border of the slaves’ wards.

The night here was different. Quieter. The air tasted of damp earth and wilted roses. Moonlight leaked through the trees like silver blood.

And Barty was not alone.

“It was dangerous,” hissed a voice James didn’t recognize. “It still is, and you know it.”

“Aww, you’re worried about me?” Barty’s reply was drawled, drunken but sharp-edged, a mockery of sincerity.

“Barty.”

From his hiding place behind a stone arch, James could see Barty clearly. His coat was wrinkled and half-unbuttoned, hair wild as if he’d wrestled with a storm. Opposite him stood a blond man dressed not for a ball but a confrontation — crisp white slacks and no mask, as though the whole charade had never touched him.

“Knock it off. I’m still here.”

“You could’ve not been,” the blond snapped, voice trembling at the edges.

Barty rolled his eyes. “Then appreciate me while I still am.”

“Stop saying that.” And then, with a surge of frustration, the blond punched him square on the shoulder. It wasn’t hard — more of a desperate attempt to reach him.

Barty laughed softly, and to James’s astonishment, his expression softened. Almost tender. He caught the man’s hand before it could pull away and pressed a kiss against the knuckles.

“Don’t worry. I’m made of steel,” he murmured. “No one’s going to get me.”

James blinked. He hadn’t expected this version of Barty — the broken boy beneath the chaos, the one who smiled with bruised affection. He looked far gentler.

The blond sighed, exhaustion leaking from his every breath. “Just stop doing this. Please. You know better. You’re not getting anything from it.”

“Oh, I am,” Barty said with a crooked grin. “I’m getting Father’s humiliation. That’s enough for me.”

James wondered if the man looked at Barty the way Barty looked at him — that strange, sorrowful fondness, like someone watching a fire and knowing they couldn’t put it out.

It stayed like this for a while, both men exchanging fond mixed with scared glances, until James’s legs nearly gave up on him from standing too long.  

“I’m leaving now. Bye, Rosie.” Barty patted the blonde’s head like he was a beloved dog.

“It’s Rosier,” the man huffed, finally stepping into James's view.

Evan Rosier.

The name hit James like a stone to the chest. He hadn’t seen that coming. Not here. Not like this.

And as Barty disappeared back into the labyrinth of hedges, James stayed hidden, the night colder now, heavier. This mission was no longer just about allies and enemies. It was about the ghosts that lived inside people — and the ones they couldn’t seem to let go of.

Evan stayed rooted to the spot long, as if gravity itself had bound him to the earth — shoulders squared but trembling, eyes fixed on the space where Barty had been seconds ago. The longing in his gaze was unbearable to witness; it was the look of a man already grieving someone still alive.

James’s stomach twisted. How cruel this kingdom was — how thoroughly it poisoned even the gentlest parts of people, turning love into something shameful, forbidden, deadly.

It didn’t take long for James to step out from behind the shadowed columns. The moment Evan’s eyes found him, his body reacted before his mind could — he bolted, like a deer caught in headlights hearing the snap of a hunter’s bowstring.

And James? He followed.

“Evan! Wait—”

No response. Evan moved quickly, his stride brisk and desperate, a silent rebellion against pursuit. For a man who wasn’t technically running, he was fast — too fast.

But James was faster.

“Rosier!” he called again, his voice echoing through the stone corridors.

Still nothing.

“For the Gods' sake — wait!”

They were deep now — past the tapestries, past the chandeliers, past the perfumed halls of the noble wing — until the air grew heavier and colder. The narrow passageways of the slaves’ quarters swallowed them whole.

“I know Pandora.”

The words sliced through the silence like a blade. Evan’s feet halted mid-step. He didn’t turn. Not yet.

“She’s in the Order,” James continued softly, careful now, like approaching a wounded creature that might flee. “She’s… happy. Married to Xenophilius now.”

“Everyone knows that, Potter,” Evan muttered, his voice low but sharp, like broken glass.

“I don’t know of her,” James said, taking a small step closer. “I know her.”

That finally made Evan turn. And when their eyes met, James felt his heart stutter painfully. There was something raw in Evan’s expression — fear, distrust, sorrow, all tangled together.

“What are you?” Evan asked quietly. “You’re just a knight. How do you know her?”

“I’ll tell you everything,” James promised. “But please somewhere private. Not here.”

“And how do I know,” Evan said bitterly, “that you won’t hand me to the king the moment I turn my back? For I have sinned, after all.”

“Loving someone,” James murmured, “is never a sin.”

Evan laughed once, hollow and humorless. “It is here.”

“Well,” James said, meeting his eyes, “I’m not from here. If that helps.”

When James had first seen Evan Rosier—barely a day ago—he’d thought of him as nothing more than a quiet kitchen boy, naive and harmless. Now, standing before him in the dim light of the lower halls, James saw someone else entirely: a man who had suffered and survived far too much.

“Follow me,” Evan said at last, his voice breaking slightly. “But I’m begging you, Potter… don’t make me regret this. I’ve endured enough.”

The plea pierced James deeper than any blade could. He nodded silently and followed.

They walked through twisting corridors until they reached a small, cell-like room — Evan’s room. It was barely more than stone and straw, but it was his.

“Talk,” Evan said, lowering himself onto the narrow bed. His tone was clipped, but his eyes betrayed his nerves.

Right. Talking. James needed to talk.

“I’m James Potter,” he began.

Evan’s unimpressed look said it all.

“Right, bad start,” James muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I’m the War Marshal of the Order Kingdom.”

That got Evan’s attention. He stared, disbelief flickering across his face. “And the War Marshal is here for…?”

“To rescue the king.” Rescue was a big word, but he didn't want the scenario with Dorcas to repeat itself.

“Tom Riddle?” Evan scoffed, his lips curling in disdain.

“Who? No — Regulus Black.”

Silence fell. Then Evan stood so suddenly the bed creaked beneath him. “Is this real? Are you lying to me?”

“I vow it,” James said, placing a hand over his heart. In the Order, such a vow was sacred — the highest truth. But here, it meant nothing. Evan only raised a skeptical brow.

“We’re trying to gather allies,” James continued. “Barty is one of them.”

“Barty?” Evan repeated, his voice softening. Hope — fragile, aching hope — crept into his tone. “Barty…”

James nearly forgot. Of course — Evan was in love.

“Yes,” James said gently.

“That’s… good,” Evan whispered. But the word sounded like it had splintered in his mouth. He turned away, shoulders collapsing inward. “He deserves an escape from this hell.”

How filthy love could be — and yet how beautiful.

“I can get you out too,” James said, surprising even himself with the words.

“You can’t possibly mean that,” Evan said flatly.

“I do.”

Evan shook his head. “Don’t pity me, Potter. Go save Barty.”

“I will get you out,” James insisted.

Evan studied him carefully now, eyes narrowing as if trying to see through him. “Under what condition?”

“What? Condi—” James paused. Then an idea sparked. “Convince Barty to come with us.”

Evan blinked. “And what makes you think Barty would listen to me?”

“He looked… fond of you.”

A faint, reluctant blush colored Evan’s cheeks — a small, human moment amid the darkness.

“Is that a yes?” James asked, unable to help the small smile tugging at his lips.

“Consider it done, James Potter,” Evan replied softly. And for the first time, he smiled back.

The smile was contagious.

James loved love — loved its stubbornness, its tenderness, its refusal to die even here, in this rotten place. And as Evan’s smile lingered, James’s thoughts drifted — inevitably, painfully — to a certain person of his own.

And just like that, the mission no longer felt like duty. It felt like hope.