James Potter never believed that beauty could exist in self-destruction. Then he saw her. And her eyes told stories with dangerous beginnings and no ends, every page breathing with colours. He had never known desire had flavor till he kissed her. It turns out they taste like ambitions and ancient fire, desperation and self-destruction, determination and dark matter and the mind-numbing fear of losing her as if she would disappear between his fingertip. James never gave the night sky much thought but God, she was so fucking gorgeous under the moonlight. Lyra Black never received that look before, but there he lays, looking at her in a way no one had ever done so before, her hands shaking as she explains her knotted past. Yet here she was lying.