The Stag and The Harpy | James Potter

Kick

{{hopefully worth the wait! I didn't edit, so forgive me!!!! Enjoy :) }}

Phoebe didn't worry when James didn't return to Grimmauld place that same night.

In fact if he had, she would've left. She didn't want to know what Lucius Malfoy had to say about her. Truthfully, the night James went to meet him she had awful dreams of Bellatrix Lestrange, crucioing her until her bones felt like they were going to break in half.

When she woke, she decided she needed space. They needed some space, some time to cool off. Gone were the days of shouting matches and petty pranks and then snogging in broom cupboards as reconciliation.

They were adults now.

But Phoebe still felt like she was a kid just playing dress up. A phony. Unprepared for this world, and certainly unprepared to bring a child into it.

Damage. She'd always been the damaged one.

Her heart hurts at the thought, her mothers and grandmother's voice easily infiltrating her mind and telling her what a burden she is, that if she stuck to being pretty and quiet perhaps her husband wouldn't hate her right now.

Does he hate her right now?

She had lied, that she could confess too. But she'd do it again to protect Sirius, to not reveal that they'd picked out a ring for Marlene that morning in Diagon Alley.

Phoebe sighs when the door to the kitchen creaks, tone flat as she says quietly, "I'm fine, Kreacher."

Her brows furrow when she doesn't get a response, her head lifting from the Witch Weekly she's pretending to read. Her heart thumps wildly when she sees James Potter standing in the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face. His shirt is rumpled, his eyes tired and red. She instantly feels alarmed, asking urgently,

"What's—"

"Do you know how much I love you?"

The question causes her to stop short, her body almost recoiling instinctively at the words. Her mouth runs dry and she hesitates, trying to come up with a response to the abrupt question.

James offers her a wane smile, his feet shuffling across the floor and over to where she is sitting. He takes the chair next to hers, pulls it out and sits down so their knees bump each other. His fingers itch to touch her, but he refrains, leaning back and staring at her evenly as she looks away nervously.

"Don't tell me what you think I want to hear," James insists, his eyes locked on her and the way her fingers have begun to tap patterns on the swell of her belly instead of her legs. His heart warms when he imagines the baby hearing, listening to the gentle taps. Everything she does is good, is just. Even when she does things that are stupid or brash, she is being righteous. And yet she still seems insecure in where she stands. After all this time.

Phoebe struggles for a moment before the honest truth leaves her lips, her shoulders freeing of the weight she'd been feeling since yesterday.

"No," She says quietly. "I think...I think I just keep waiting for you to leave. I keep waiting for the time where I'll push you too far."

James nods thoughtfully, a odd sense of pride surging through him at her honesty. It takes a lot for her to say what she feels, though he thinks it's getting easier. He hopes it's getting easier.

He scoots his chair forward, grabs her hands and tangles their fingers together. He sighs quietly and Phoebe braces herself, her heart flipping when James says simply,

"Nous sommes faits l'un pour l'autre. Je t'aimerai jusq'à mon dernier souffle,"
[we are meant for eachother. I love you till my last breath.]