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 patterns of fairytales, tag; lily/amy <3
james sirius potter
Posted: Mar 14 2012, 02:50 AM


i'm the hero of this story, don't need to be saved
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Posts: 555
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Joined: 17-October 10



And it's all part of the game It's just the same ol' thing with a different name And you can try and drown the pain But we both swim too well to submerge ourselves And I'm tired of the shame of being a fool too cool to maintain two dames And all I need is time Please forgive me, darlin' the blame's all mine
It’s the week before Valentine’s day and James finds himself lazily running one of Ginny’s feather dusters over the dresser he’s had since he was twelve.

The little Godric’s Hollow cottage is covered in moss so thick you can barely see the browny-red of the bricks that case the corners coming through, no larger than a cozy little couple’s dwelling when gazed upon from the outside. But naturally, its been charmed spacious within. There’s a lot of natural light during the day, James remembers now as the sun starts to set outside his airy bedroom on the second floor. It’s an addition, the newest part of the house and spacious – he’d demanded he get the new room when he was ten and the Potter parents decided it was probably best to split the boys up. Albus had remained with the old – ”old like his soul” Harry said with a ruffle of the younger boy’s black as night locks and James had defiantly started yanking trunks of belongings upwards with a guffaw about how old things ”smelled a lot like eye of newt.” All the spellotape room dividers in the world weren’t enough to keep the boys from fighting, then, especially when James decided Albus was keeping things of his on the opposite side of the room out of spite and literally crossed the line to take back what was his with lots of shouting and wrestling.

It was a good thing Harry was so familiar with glasses and the charms to fix them, then, given how often James broke Albus’ in the midst of a scuffle.

And theoretically, it was true that the twenty four year old could have been at his own place, instead, that sparsely furnished apartment on the outskirts of muggle London he’d rented when Dahlia had announced to roommate Johannes Horowitz that she was pregnant. It was a coupling the then-fugitive had risked a sighting to be rid of, not because he disliked the personages involved but because even he knew when his stay was past the period of welcoming. The move had been a lonely one, however, and in time James had grown bored of the stuffy little place with its lack of similar company and excess of work-out equipment. Subsequently, when the war had ended and the travels began, James hadn’t missed spending all his time away from the home (if one could even have called it that) he associated with levels of bitterness heretoforth inexperienced for someone so naturally optimistic.

Godric’s Hollow had been the solution to the problem when Lily lost her interest in the travels they shared. James put his insistence to escort down as an older-brotherly gesture, but truly, he simply hadn’t found a new flat worth renting during the afternoons he’d spent training half drunk on tequila in its place and even if he had gone as far as to think about where he’d be living upon his return to the United Kingdom it still remained that the old abode’s lease was a factor until March brought about its first. Furthermore, given his European tour with the Falcons was set to resume in two weeks, his plan was to play at nostalgia for just a bit of time. Ginny had taken it to mean her son had flashed back in time to the age of seventeen, and so she bid him clean the living quarters he once called his own.

And quite honestly, nothing had changed at all. Much as she swore she wasn’t, his mother was quite a bit like her own mother in her advancing age – both being of the over-protective and non-progressive variety. The thing was that Ginny had never really adjusted to her children moving out, though she’d acted calm enough with the boys moving onto careers as long as little Lily had remained a child bound by Hogwarts. All hell had broken lose upon the only Potter redhead’s graduation, however, and now James might have been fifty going on dead-and-legacy-less the way Ginny made it seem. ”But the resistance was so valiant,” she’d chirped breezily over her coffee cup the morning before. ”You can’t tell me all you’re going to do is go back to sports, now that you’re pardoned? Lily mentioned you were feeling lonely. What about Amy? Don’t you want a family?” Ginny Weasley had been twenty-two when she’d birthed her first son, and lately James had been getting the feeling that he was long past ripe for a wedding in her eyes. ”She’s not going to wait forever, you know.”

No. No she wouldn’t, would she? he’d thought glancing up open-mouthed from his orange juice when his mother’s red eyebrows had knit themselves almost haughtily (she was smug when she knew she had a point, Ginny was). Given the fact that Oliver Wood had remained a family friend well into Harry Potter’s middle age, James Potter had known his daughter, Amy, practically since she was born. The mentorship of the Wood male had never subsided in Harry’s mind, and so it hadn’t been unnatural at all to welcome his sons and little Amy to the Godric’s Hollow cottage for muggle super-bowl equivalent parties when the World Cup came around yearly and Harry blasted it over his family’s projector screen proudly. They’d grown up willful friends, equally matched in sports talent regardless of differences in position preference (a blessing, actually, given it made evading arguments over who would play what legitimately nonexistent), and it hadn’t taken the competitive edge to turn into passion of a different sort once Amy passed the age of child and entered that teenage stage where boys of an equally teenage variety thought ”holy muffins of Merlin, did she get hot.” James, being as red-blooded as any true Gryffindor should have (and more-than-occasionally, equally as thick), certainly hadn’t failed to notice, at the time.

And he shouldn’t have now, either, as he came to think of it. After all, he’d said he’d loved her and he’d meant it…then, when the foundation of his proverbial life footing fell out from beneath him and he’d gathered everything close to reassess. She’d been rock-like in her advice that good people were good – a sentiment that rung of profound wisdom when everything turned itself upside down and he couldn’t have known that one day he’d be grasping for that semblance of self he’d once been so sure of. Yet, it’d been hard to rearrange the puzzle pieces of life of the run, the glamour of the bad boy freedom-fighter escaping the Potter male on the nights he spent cooped up in fear of his life (or really, in fear that he’d somehow wound more than a handful should he perish recklessly). He’d lost the facets of personality he’d once felt defined by – the easy, inclusive graces and spur-of-the-moment sense of danger -- but most of all, he’d lost his career, and without quidditch, his passion for everything else had drained. Whereas it couldn’t be said that the joking manner he’d become acquainted with in his youth had dissipated, James certainly had resigned himself to aging during the war. As a full-fledged resistance rebel, he’d done the opposite of rebelling, quite frankly, and mellowed instead. He’d taken on lesser wages as a WWW stock boy, learning to live more modestly in its wake. And with Amy, oh, with Amy, he’d become a steady boyfriend. A guaranteed support system in her life.

Only when the war had ended and his name came down the wires at the top of the pardoning list, only when he’d departed to sunny Spain and historic east Europe did he realize that he had a reason to be jealous of her public success while he pretended to not exist at all.

Anger had bubbled in him when he thought back on Tate, so honest to love and want to free his mother, but so selfish to take James with his foolhardy courage down into the maelstrom with him. Had Tate deigned to think what might be given up had they failed? And had James been too hyped on victory to know what he was truly losing when Taddeo, Samuel, and Cassius had laid eyes on a face 98/100 Britons could identify from the most recent batch of name-brand sports drinks advertisements? No, he hadn’t, but eventually it’d hit. Amy had gone onto a quidditch career full of interviews where he watched the accompanying photograph tuck a thick, dark strand of hair behind an elfin ear and grin into the side of the room without much eye contact. She had a way of looking dreamy when in thought, Amy did, almost caught-in-the-middle of a storm and unintentional.

He hadn’t forgotten it, but he’d put it on pause enough to blur the lines, perhaps enough to lose his place in the movie. He’d stopped the tape, yes, but on which scene was it, again?

By the time the feather duster found its way back into the storage closet the sun had set and the knock came in a song-like tap at the door. He could visualize her outside of it before he approached the brass knob and pulled it open, her wide eyes glancing about the foliage that obscured the yard from the winding lane in front of it. He’d made it to the backyard many hours before when the sun was still warm on his sleeved shoulders, and there he’d plucked a few of the early winter flowers for a small bouquet. Amy wasn’t one for romantics, but James felt after so many weeks he ought to have made a gesture all the same. Perhaps it could pick up where it left off. Perhaps he could forget the faces that had come to replace hers as he regressed to something young – something stupid and naïve and fresh out of Hogwarts.

With a hollow smile tugging at his lips he hugged her and kissed her unfamiliar ones, the flowers in his right hand dangling over her shoulder clasped in his fingers before he remembered them and thrust them her way. ”I’m sort of in between places, right now,” he started, his tongue thick as it rolled around in his mouth and those brown eyes apologetic as he gestured towards the living space. ”Hope you don’t mind a film on the couch? Lily’s got some interesting ones, at least, a hell of a lot better than this Bill Nye the Science Guy Albus left behind when he flew the nest.”

for amy. 1,748 words. template is mine.




amy colleen wood
Posted: Mar 14 2012, 10:00 PM


21 | french navy, my sailor mate.
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Amy had always liked the house in Godric's Hollow, the moss and ivy that covered the bricks, the little stone path that led up to the door, the thickets of roses that peeped from the bushes. It was warm and friendly in a way that only an old house, an old house that had been lived in for decades, could be. Amy remembered walking up to the house with her father, her brothers, as they came by to listen to the World Cup, or walking back down the pathway with James when she was a teenager. She wasn't going to slide into nostalgia and say that it was a simpler time, or a better time, but as she kept hurtling into an uncertain future, those times looked so pleasant, so sure.

And now she was walking up the stone path, this time by herself. It had started to rain, as it always did in England during the winter, and so she hurried up to the door and knocked three times. Like always. And she was answered, like always, by James' mother. "Hi, Mrs. Potter," she said sheepishly, knowing that she had come unannounced and without a proper raincoat. "Is James around? I heard he was back from his tour, at least for a bit." Ginny nodded her assent and then Amy walked through the foyer to the sitting room, waved hello to Mr. Potter (the boy who lived, as her father used to say when they were at home), and then came up the stairs to James' bedroom.

Like always.

But Amy had found herself wishing she could rewind the clock. If she could, she would have slid it all the way back to the charity gala her last year of school, kept it in that tight little space when neither she nor James knew what was going to happen, when everything was not simpler or better but somehow more pleasant, more sure.

She came up to the door, ready to knock and then nudge the door open like always, peek her head in and say hello - but she hesitated.

It was funny, really, because now, now, Amy should have had what she wanted. She didn't have any reason to long for the past, if you were going to lay out all the reasons. She had a thriving Quidditch career - a prized spot on the Arrows team, recognition that she was, in fact, a skilled player (one magazine had called her gifted), interviews and even a bit of fan mail. She had a pretty townhouse that she loved and scores of friends. And, and, she had a boyfriend. A steady one, not like some of the girls she knew who bounced from boy to boy, searching for something they couldn't fill on their own. If Amy wanted she could be smug, watching these girls, content with the fact that she had someone she loved: James. Once, right before the Cresswell dam had burst, she'd said to a friend that her relationship with James had to be one of the best things in her life.

But it was different, now, and Amy was unsure.

She took a breath, and then knocked, in the same melody, like always. And he came to the door and gave her a smile and a kiss, his flowers grazing her shoulder blades, before they broke apart and he handed them to her. They were practically following the same script, like they always had, but it was different. A different inflection, a different subtext. His smile was hollow and Amy's kiss was limp. "The flowers are nice," she said. "From the garden?"

Hope you don't mind a film on the couch? Lily's got some interesting ones, at least.

"Oh," she said, "oh, I don't mind at all. At home I've gotten very friendly with my couch cushions, you know." This wasn't a lie. Over the past winter she had spent plenty of nights watching old films or listening to the radio, eating from flimsy white takeaway boxes, orange chicken and rice, crab rangoons and egg rolls. She would eat takeout and watch a movie, silently, sitting cross-legged with the thermostat turned up as high as it would go, and then she would fall asleep with the boxes strewn around her and a puddle of drool on the pillow. The food was greasy, usually, made her feel sluggish and sick the next morning until she could forget whatever was on her mind, whatever had made her feel the need to eat horrible Chinese takeout.

"Aren't those Bill Nye videos those muggle chemistry ones? Where the man wears a bowtie? I remember watching them, they were a laugh." Amy sank down on the bed and adjusted the collar of her turtleneck sweater, then took a closer look at the bouquet James had given her. They were pretty flowers, at any rate; she'd take them home and put them on her dining room table, and maybe she would eat there for a change, instead of on the couch at ten o'clock at night. It sounded nice. She opened her mouth to say something, along these lines, then shut it. She hadn't seen him since December, and she almost expected herself to feel more emotion, to gush, in a way, but somehow she felt stiff and restrained. "So, do you have something in mind? I'm really open for anything, I just…"

Her voice trailed off.

In the past year, her head had been filled with faces that weren't his, and her hands had held ones that didn't feel quite like his. She'd gone on dates with people she didn't really know, people that could have replaced James if Amy wanted, but nonetheless filled an empty cavern reasonably well, until they were gone. And Amy told herself that it didn't really mean anything and when the dust settled everything would be back to normal. James didn't have to know a thing, and they would just continue on, like always, like they always had in the past.

Amy cleared her throat and hastily started again. "I thought I'd see you before you left again, that's all."

But this stilted exchange between them, riddled with subtext, seemed to tell her that there was no like always, that today was different. She had hesitated before knocking on the door. She had hesitated before walking up the stone path, the rain chivvying her forward. She had hesitated before apparating. She had hesitated before getting up that morning and getting dressed to see him. She had hesitated the entire time. A part of Amy knew that was significant. A part of Amy knew there wasn't going to be much left in them, that they were flickering and breaking apart, cracking under pressure. She knew she had hesitated because something was going to happen.

And at the same time, another part of Amy was stupid and optimistic and thought she really could rewind the clock to a time where things weren't necessarily simpler or better, but pleasant, and sure.

*

1191. template coming tomorow.

james sirius potter
Posted: Mar 27 2012, 11:35 PM


i'm the hero of this story, don't need to be saved
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Group: New Order Admin
Posts: 555
Member No.: 480
Joined: 17-October 10



And it's all part of the game It's just the same ol' thing with a different name And you can try and drown the pain But we both swim too well to submerge ourselves And I'm tired of the shame of being a fool too cool to maintain two dames And all I need is time Please forgive me, darlin' the blame's all mine
James felt himself try to muster some warmth in the smile that followed – he didn’t want Amy to think he wasn’t trying when it’d been so long. “Yeah,” he replied, trying not to notice the way his chest wasn’t puffing out this time. He should have been showing off, as he always was whenever he did something particularly romantic. “Mum’s planted the winter roses and Lils calls the weeds in between wildflowers.” It was an attempt at a joke, but the laugh was light, not boisterous. There was no raucous anything to this reunion, no hands on the locks of the doors and falling backwards into the walls with their lips pressed to one another’s. None of the fervor that used to characterize them, just that feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him he shouldn’t be trying in the first place.

The thing was that, when it came to relationships, James had never been particularly good at them in the first place. It wasn’t that he didn’t attempt to be attentive, nor that he was too proud to do nice things like open doors for his lady loves to go through. It was just that he didn’t quite understand when they didn’t understand how darned important it was to sleep until noon. Or how much time it took to create a the diet of an athlete. Or the fact that quidditch was his true passion and when it came to the choice between practicing to win or spending his time arguing over ”where things were going”, James always chose his first love. Most girls simply didn’t like to be a back burner, they wanted him to share their excitement over new purchases or understand when late nights were spent studying for morning exams. But he didn’t know how to agree to such things because he thought they were being asinine. How could one choose studying when he finally possessed an hour or two to play exploding snap? And how could grades come first when the Gryffindor team’s latest win meant firewhiskey shots until the sun came up?

Amy’d never cared a lick about either, and it was why he’d loved her. It was also why he envied her.

He’d never get over the fact that she’d gotten to fly about the skies and completely butcher her first game a free woman, tied to nothing but her whims. He’d never get over the fact that their relationship was publicly declared a thing of the past to put suspicions aside and get her out of the line of fire for questions when he’d gone missing. On the nights she’d had to do publicity stunts and mentioned a teammate who’d be accompanying her whose name rung very male, James had simply smiled and told himself it was all for the best. He couldn’t be reckless if he wanted to live, and Amy couldn’t go out alone, for mourning his deeds would deem her a traitor in the eyes of the Lestrange administration. Yet James could hardly help his regret that he missed the chance to be the first arm around her shoulders when she was upset. He had, after all, been so talented at pep talks when he was captain of the Gryffindor team.

And maybe, just maybe if his mother and her mother hadn’t shoved the marriage idea down their throats – maybe then he’d want to.

It was a stressful situation for two people who simply didn’t know how to deal with stress because they’d been so terribly young and so terribly naïve and so terribly in love. It was easy to resent things when they got tough. It was easy to see the light in the moments directly after rescue. Now, James didn’t know if he’d meant it. He didn’t know if Croatia and Australia and Sweden and Spain had been anything more than a vacation. Did he send the subsequent owls for attention? Now that he was back, could he pretend they hadn’t happened?

He might have, had the thought of lying blatantly not chipped away at his soul like Amy chipped absently at her nail polish when the boring love scenes flashed across the television screen.

James licked his lips, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards ever-so-slightly. ”Can’t say the same, these days. I missed touring.” It wasn’t even a legitimate run, just scrimmages and camps to prepare for the pre-season. He’d gotten drafted late, but then again, quidditch hadn’t been the same during the war, and things seemed to be picking up again with quite the zeal. Spirits were high, rosters were changing, and James was famous again. He’d have been lying if he’d said he wasn’t basking in it almost too much. Hell, he’d only come home when the things to do ran out. Had there been any more teams worth playing to practice with, he couldn’t have guaranteed he’d make it in time for Valentine’s day. But now, he was wont to suggest thai.

He attempted a chuckle. ”Then again, I spent a lot of time planted on cushions during the war.”

"Aren't those Bill Nye videos those muggle chemistry ones? Where the man wears a bowtie? I remember watching them, they were a laugh."

”They are. Albus said something about links with potions and then shoved a grip o’ papers at my eyeballs. Naturally, I explained I couldn’t be threatened into watching them with papercuts and he scurried off in a huff.”

The tall beater shrugged and sank down into a backwards chair opposite the bed, resting his elbow on the wooden back. In the past he may have sat down beside Amy, just to feel close to her. He may have even tried to put the moves on her after so long. Something about this moment, however, made such a thing feel forced. How long had it been again? December? James had never been good with numbers, anyways. That’s what he’d say when someone asked how he could lose count of a thing like that.

"I thought I'd see you before you left again, that's all."

”Oh, right.” He was running his hands through his hair now, freshly shorn on the sides because longer hair just got sweatier when he flew and Lily had once remarked that he looked like a drowned cat when the curls stuck to his forehead. ”I suppose I got distracted abroad. Playing again, y’know.” But when his eyes met hers he couldn’t spit it out and he supposed at least he was telling part of the story. At least he wasn’t lying, that was. The next sentence came hastily. ”You too, though.” A smile. ”I saw you in Quidditch Quarterly. The piece was nice. I might even be a little scared when the Falcons come up against the arrows in the fall.”

for amy. 1,137 words. template is mine.




amy colleen wood
Posted: May 11 2012, 09:03 PM


21 | french navy, my sailor mate.
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Group: New Order Admin
Posts: 468
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Joined: 24-October 09



I supposed I got distracted abroad. And maybe they'd both gotten distracted, maybe that was it. She'd gotten distracted, too, distracted with sports and high heels and makeup and bottles of wine, distracted by hands and cologne and nice words she could float away on. Distraction was temporary; this was temporary. Maybe it could be temporary, this funny little hollow space between them, and then it would go away. I saw you in Quidditch Quarterly. The piece was nice. I might even be a little scared when the Falcons come up against the Arrows in the fall.

She only wished it could have been a mutual distraction. Distractions were, after all, only appealing for a short time: once the boring period ended, you were right back to where you started. "You'd better be," she said. "I've been training hard, waiting for you." The trouble was that they weren't back to where they started; everything between them was so strange, so still. She could feel dust motes catching the light, the clamminess of her palms, the itchiness of her sweater.

Amy and James were never still; that's why they'd gotten along. They got along because they both moved at a frenetic, frantic pace, terrified that life would outpace them before they got a chance. They were feverish and mad and passionate, partners on their own brand of rollercoaster. Amy had tried, numerous times, to date people who were sensible, classmates of hers who would go on to have respectable jobs and alarm clocks and dogs and she had found it horribly, dreadfully boring. Who wanted to be tied down when there was so much? When there were games to play, sports moves to practice?

"It must be nice to be playing again," she said, voice distant and flat. "After so much time away, yeah?"

She thought back: she'd been in a turquoise dress and hadn't been wearing shoes, he had been in a shirt too warm for the weather (because, it occurred to her later, he'd been in the darkest, coldest of places), and he'd said they're going to come for you, the mobs. And she had blinked a few times and brought him a glass of orange juice and said she believed him, believed what he had done was right because she had faith in him. She trusted him, she had said, because good people were good.

And Amy still trusted him, that wasn't the point.

But that moment had changed things. The war had changed things. It had made their relationship more serious and then, or at the same time, whatever, it broke it apart. That morning put them on two separate paths: Amy and her eternal sports glory, James and couch cushions. Even when she was with someone else - sometimes they were, indeed, the kind of men with respectable jobs and alarm clocks and dogs - she had entertained the idea that their paths would merge again, and everything would be normal again. Maybe she knew the truth the whole time. Maybe she hadn't. And even if they had ended up on the same path again, there was this huge empty white space between them, a space that was so quiet and strange and still, and it spelt disaster.

"Your old glamorous life back," she added faintly before reaching over and plucking a Bill Nye tape from the ground. Bill Nye Explores The Human Body! Muggle photography never moved, and she always found it unsettling - she reached for her wand and jabbed it a few times so that Bill Nye would wave at her. She liked his bowtie. "Like everything else didn't happen?"

She hadn't meant to phrase it as a question, but she had anyways. And it was a question, fundamentally, so maybe it was fitting: like everything else didn't happen? She didn't know, and didn't necessarily want to know, what had happened all those months they went without seeing each other, but she wondered if she could erase them, erase all the things she had done, start all the way over again and pretend that she hadn't cheated on him and there was no stress between them and nobody wanted to get married and there was no strange still space between them.

That time, that time before everything, had been glamorous. At the time she might not have thought that way, but in her memories it shone and sparkled: careening towards the future, running headlong at breakneck speed, stopping only for more, always more. In her memories they were riding on a rollercoaster only for them.

But rollercoasters, Amy had once read, had to be carefully engineered so they didn't fall apart, so you didn't fall off, and Amy wasn't an engineer.

And maybe it was supposed to fall apart all along. If it did, Amy didn't know if she'd cry for the broken thing, the thrill she'd loved (still loved?) with so much fervor, or find another ride to fill herself up.

*

841. my apologies for the length, the lateness, and the (still) lack of template.

james sirius potter
Posted: Jun 22 2012, 01:52 AM


i'm the hero of this story, don't need to be saved
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Posts: 555
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Joined: 17-October 10



And it's all part of the game It's just the same ol' thing with a different name And you can try and drown the pain But we both swim too well to submerge ourselves And I'm tired of the shame of being a fool too cool to maintain two dames And all I need is time Please forgive me, darlin' the blame's all mine
He should have been standing in front of her all smirks and chortles and smiles he couldn’t hold in. He should have taken her wrists and pulled her towards him the way she liked – just forcibly enough to feel like he was starting something. Stoking a fire. Planting a challenge when his neck bent at the cervical vertebrae and his lips hovered centimeters from hers with the dimple on the left side creeping up and up and up and James Sirius Potter said “Oh yeah?”

Yet there he was sitting with the chair back between them, some physical barrier to represent the emotional one that’d flared up as a result of the times. He supposed, well, he would have supposed, had he have been the type to think in hypotheticals, that such a thing made him a victim of the times. The war meant oppression, the injustices spoke dire volumes to which he felt that heroic calling of Potter-dom – the one that blessed all the oldest sons with the foolhardiness to commit treasons. Perhaps he should have sat back and grinned away on the pages of Quidditch Quarterly himself. He could have pulled a Fred or a Molly or a Lucy and kept mum despite the way the tyrannical regimes ran the most bigoted of governments. After all, he’d been a beneficiary of preferential treatment in the past, had he not? His grades were nothing worth a history tome’s cursory mention when stacked against the natural athletic chance, nay, the sheer quantity of energy that’d driven him into the proverbial arms of extracurriculars, anyhow. The graduation of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry must have been a fluke. Surely, the administration was aware that they hadn’t produced the sort of alumnus that improves world situations by way of creative invention.

And somehow, James thought, propping his elbow up on that chair back with his roman chin in a palm, that the girl across from him must have known. He wasn’t a victim, nor was he the observational type. Contrary to popular belief, he’d never been detention-prone in his school days because there was little malicious intent to his actions. Idiocy was one thing, for in terms of altercations involving fists, James certainly could never remember the quantity in which he’d participated. Yet he was a smooth talker, if not a very vocabulary-inclined sort. There was something undeniable in his personage where one felt immediately as though his heart was in the right place. James was the type of boy (or had he become a man in the last few months? He certainly couldn’t bear to think about a thing like that) who went all in for the causes he deemed true. He was the type of person who’d crack his knuckles across a delicate pureblood cheekbone enough times to make a mark, but never to inflict permanent damage. In that way, he was all show. At the end of the day, all thrill-seeking aside, he wasn’t the sort of person who cared to bear much on his shoulders.

Only he did because he couldn’t resist the idea of the thing. It was as primal as it was natural. Something protective and just. Goodness knows that before even Septimus Peterson had gone rogue, James had believed wholeheartedly in the message of equality. He still did.

Of course that left Amy. Amy the complete stranger. Amy the completely same individual it’d taken him years of watching her grow to fall for. She’d started a friend, perhaps even a better alternative to the little sister he’d been cursed with in his youth and she’d weaseled her way so unintentionally to the peripherals of his subconscious. A game here, a talent discovery there. A great save in a Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff match that caught his attention for the tiniest of seconds and the respect and wonder that followed. The way he’d jogged after her around a corner in between classes to congratulate her on the thing. The way his bulky fingers fell over her soft skin in the dark broom closests. The way the rumors flew, then, and they both shrugged and passed a dragonweed joint to the other without commenting because it didn’t fucking matter what people said as long as it felt right.

Was there nothing there to be saved? Would it be a disservice to the memory of brushing the naysayers off, then, to break it off now? Maybe it wasn’t different at all, now that the war had passed. Maybe it was the same as it used to be, a simple lapse in the time. Maybe the feeling would be there if James could just let it.

How could he guarantee that she didn’t have her secrets, as it was? He’d never been one to force others into saying things they couldn’t say. Amy wouldn’t have been the type to mention if it’d been hard being away from him, anyways. Perhaps a break was good. A pause in the film to pop some popcorn, if he could imagine a thing so simple.

James licked his lips. He couldn’t tell her. He wouldn’t tell her. He wasn’t himself and they weren’t together in the sense that they’d been meant to be together. He wanted her. Maybe he needed her. Maybe there was no one else in the world who could have understood if he even mentioned it, but he couldn’t help that feeling in his heart that the outrage might not be there. She was being so soft and her eyes were so dead and this was so very, very wrong.

So he got off the chair just as fast as he sat, slipped his arms around her waist and laid his chin on her collarbone. ”Like everything else never happened,” he whispered, the warmth of his breath on her ear a precursor to the kiss on her neck.

Reality, he thought, clasping his hands together over her belly button. My old glamorous life back.



for amy. 994 words. template is mine.




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