A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 59: Dripping Half-Promises

Chapter 59: Dripping Half-Promises

The stairs creaked under his feet as James ascended the Astronomy Tower, the Invisibility Cloak slung over one shoulder like some dramatic, star-covered scarf.

It was quiet up there.

Which was unfair, really. If James was going to spiral, he would've appreciated some dramatic thunder. A bit of cosmic sympathy. A falling star, maybe.

But no. Just the wind nipping at his ears, the echo of his own what the actual fuck did I just say cycling through his brain like a howler on repeat.

His neck was still red.

He could feel it. That blotchy, telltale warmth crawling up from his collar like shame had its own pulse.

He groaned into his hands. "Brilliant performance tonight, Potter."

He'd really done it. Really bared his whole chest—feelings flayed open like a textbook—and for what? For a few seconds of righteous honesty and the long, aching silence that followed?

He'd gone full bleeding heart, full soul-bared-in-the-light-of-day confession. Not even under duress. No Veritaserum. No wand at his throat. No curse hanging over his head.

Confessed like some lovesick idiot—loud, tragic, uninvited. He might as well have thrown himself on the floor and declared a monologue to the heavens. Maybe the next logical step was writing her a sonnet and bleeding on it for dramatic effect. Hell, maybe he already had.

He barked a quiet laugh under his breath and shook his head, dragging a hand through his hair as he turned another corner. If he ever saw Remus tonight, he was going to have to make up some insane lie about falling down a flight of stairs to explain this neck colour. Or blame the firewhisky he hadn't had. Or say he'd been hexed. Maybe all three.

Because what else do you say after all that?

Hi. Sorry I emotionally combusted in your bathroom. Can I borrow a jumper?

He leaned forward against the railing, knuckles white on the stone. His breath misted in the cold. He didn't watch it dissipate. He was too busy trying not to scream into the void.

What was he thinking?

He hadn't even meant to say any of it.

He should've shut up. He wasn't going to talk about it. That had been the plan since day one—take the grave route. That was the plan. A nice, quiet martyrdom. Repressed feelings. Bottled longing. Dignified suffering and all.

But instead?

She had looked at him with those eyes, with that voice, and asked why he always pretended his feelings didn't matter, and suddenly his mouth had gone off like a confession charm on fire.

He dragged his palm down his jaw. He could still feel the shape of the words on his tongue, like a burn.

"I wanted it to mean something".

James dropped his hands and stared out over the grounds. He'd said everything. Every goddamn thing. And now the words were out there, dripping between them like something neither of them could mop up.

Right. Well. That was done now.

Out in the open. Floating somewhere in the ether. The world's worst love letter, smeared with blood, power, and zero dignity.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, sighing.

"Brilliant," he muttered, rubbing at his jaw. "Should've just bitten your tongue off. Less painful."