Splintered In Time ♡ : A James Potter Fan Fiction.
pairing : James Potter x female!slytherin!reader
summary : When a spell gone wrong sends you hurtling back to the Marauders era, you find yourself entangled in a life you were never meant to live. Torn between the friendships you left behind and the forbidden love you were never meant to have, you must face the impossible choice: to hold on to a borrowed future or fight for the one slipping through your fingers. But time is never kind to those who dare to rewrite it. And love—love is the most reckless magic of all.
warnings : Emotional whiplash, time travelling, poetic language, heavy yearning, Marauders banter, but with a hopeful conclusion, angst with happy ending, slight ‘Snily’ in the ending. Please let me know if I missed any.
author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.
word count : 10k {Longest fiction I have ever written}
della's note : Babe! This request made me question and challenge my creativity. Thanks A TON for requesting!!! It felt wonderful to write about time travelling. Oh and btw, originally this was supposed to be a sad ending fiction. But I just can't do this to our James <333 I hope you like it!!!! Oh and it's a super long fiction. Like, I got really carried away while writing!!! I AM SO EXCITED. This is a really long fic, so sit back, grab your popcorn and ENJOYYYYY <33333
There are no stars tonight—only the burn of borrowed time.
You didn’t see it coming.
The curse, emerald and vicious, came hissing through the battlefield. You only heard Hermione’s choked scream, Harry’s ragged breath, Ron’s hoarse shout—everything distorted by the thunder of chaos. The three of them were only feet away, desperate and bloodied, backs pressed against stone as the fight splintered around them.
You reached for Harry, fingers outstretched, but the magic hit you square in the chest.
And you were falling—
Through time itself.
When you opened your eyes, the Forbidden Forest was far younger. The trees were taller, the air less burdened with ghosts. You tasted autumn in your throat. Time had slipped backward, cruel and nameless, and dropped you into a decade where your existence was an error.
You spent the first week haunting the forest’s edge like a ghost, walking its shadowed paths with trembling hands. You whispered Harry’s name into the wind, over and over, as if he might somehow hear you across time. You expected Ron to stumble through the underbrush, muddy and panting, calling you an idiot for getting yourself cursed. You waited for Hermione’s clever hands to grab your wrist and yank you back into the war.
Instead, you stood before the castle doors—haunted and hollow—and walked back into the school you had already left behind.
You were sorted into Slytherin. The Hat perched on your head seemed to hum with ancient curiosity, peeling back your layers and tasting the war on your tongue.
“Oh,” it murmured, almost gently. “You’ve already fought your battles, haven’t you?”
You squeezed your eyes shut. Please, just make it quick.
It considered you carefully. Measured the iron and fire in your bones, the loyalty stitched so violently into your chest.
But it placed you in Slytherin, and you didn’t argue.
You were already too tired to protest.
It started with James. It was always James.
He had a terrible habit of appearing out of nowhere. You’d be walking down the hall, perfectly content to avoid unnecessary attention, when suddenly, his arm would be slung over your shoulders as if it belonged there.
“You’ve got to stop looking so suspicious, snake,” he drawled one day, grinning lazily. “People might start thinking you’re up to something.”
You glanced at him, unimpressed. “I am up to something.”
James’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Yeah?” he smirked, leaning closer, voice low with mock suspicion. “Planning to kidnap me? Hex me into oblivion? Steal my heart?”
You deadpanned. “I was thinking more along the lines of poisoning your pumpkin juice, but sure.”
He laughed far too loudly for the middle of the corridor, earning glares from passing professors.
“Oh, she’s funny,” he announced loudly to no one in particular, hands over his heart. “Merlin, I think I’m in love.”
You shoved him off, fighting the way your stomach fluttered, but he caught your wrist before you could escape. His grip was firm but gentle, and when you glanced at him over your shoulder, his eyes were far too soft.
“Let me walk you to class,” he murmured, the grin slipping into something warmer.
You should have told him no.
But you didn’t.
You found yourself tangled with the Marauders far too quickly.
They were impossible to avoid—loud and ungovernable, a storm of mischief and chaos that you had no hope of resisting. You were stolen into their orbit before you could fight it, dragged into their endless schemes and reckless antics.
One morning, you were sitting by the lake, boots kicked off, enjoying the rare sliver of peace. You had foolishly thought you were alone.
Then a shadow fell over you.
“Hello there, Slytherin,” Sirius Black’s voice drawled lazily from above you.
You didn’t bother looking up. “Go away, Black.”
Sirius plopped himself down beside you, entirely ignoring your protest. He stretched out his legs with a contented sigh, as if he belonged there.
Moments later, James appeared, dropping down beside you with a casual grin.
“Morning, love,” he greeted cheerfully, far too pleased with himself.
You narrowed your eyes. “Why do you sound so smug?”
James’s grin widened. “Oh, no reason. I may have just turned McGonagall’s teacup into a toad. But, you know, totally hypothetical.”
You stared at him. “You’re going to die one day, you know that, right?”
“Probably,” James agreed easily, slinging an arm around your shoulders with infuriating charm. “But at least I’ll die with you scolding me. Very romantic.”
Before you could shove him into the lake, Remus strolled over with an exasperated sigh. He paused, taking in the sight of James practically draped over you, and arched a brow.
“Are you bothering her again?” Remus asked, voice dry as parchment.
James beamed. “She likes it.”
You snorted. “I loathe it.”
Sirius, clearly feeling left out, threw himself dramatically into your lap, draping one arm across his forehead with an exaggerated sigh.
“Why,” he drawled dramatically, “why does she only have eyes for James?”
You shoved him half-heartedly, but he only cackled and threw his arms around your waist.
“Get off me, Black!” you spluttered.
James, narrowing his eyes with faux jealousy, nudged Sirius none too gently with his knee. “Oi, off. She’s mine.”
Sirius gasped, clutching his chest. “Yours? Possessive much, Prongs? I knew you were a selfish bastard, but this—this is heartbreaking.”
James rolled his eyes, giving you an exaggerated look of betrayal. “Are you cheating on me with my best mate?”
You snorted. “If I were, you’d deserve it.”
Peter arrived late to the scene, holding a half-eaten pastry, and squinted at the chaos. “Wait—are you two dating?” he asked, blinking between you and James.
“Of course we are,” James said with mock indignation, eyes glinting wickedly. “Didn’t you get the wedding invitation, Wormtail?”
Sirius, still sprawled across your legs, clutched at your hand. “It’s true! She’s only marrying him for his money, you know. I tried to warn him.”
You shoved Sirius off you with a laugh, but James caught your wrist before you could scramble away. His grip was warm, his fingers curling around yours, far gentler than they should have been. When you glanced at him, his eyes were bright with mischief—but there was something softer beneath it. Something you weren’t quite ready to name.
And you hated that you didn’t pull away.
Hated how much you liked the way he held on.
You should have left.
You should have walked away.
But when James kissed you for the first time beneath the clock tower, you let yourself fall.
There are no stars tonight—only the burn of borrowed time.
James kissed you in every corner of Hogwarts.
He kissed you by the Black Lake, where the reeds bent with the wind and the water lapped at your boots. He kissed you in the hidden passageways behind the tapestry of Gregory the Smarmy, his fingers fisted in your robes, dragging you against him as if he could anchor you there forever.
And you let him.
You let him because he didn’t know the truth.
He didn’t know that when you kissed him, you were tasting borrowed time.
That when you clutched at his robes, you were holding on to something already slipping through your fingers.
Because you knew.
You knew that one day he would look at you and see nothing but betrayal.
And when the truth finally came—it broke you.
It was never meant to slip out.
You had spent months dodging questions, weaving careful half-truths and white lies. James had been curious, of course. He was a Gryffindor, after all—reckless and brash, always needing to know why.
But he trusted you.
And it made it too easy to lie.
Until one night, when it all came unraveled.
It happened in the Gryffindor common room.
The fire had burned low, its light casting long, honeyed shadows across the rug where the Marauders sat sprawled in their usual disarray. Sirius was lounging with his head in Remus’s lap, tossing Bertie Bott’s beans at Peter, who swatted at him with a scowl. James sat on the floor with his back against the couch, legs stretched out, fingers idly playing with the fraying hem of your sleeve.
You had barely noticed. You were too lost in the sound of their laughter, the way their voices filled the room—so young, so unbroken. For a moment, you let yourself forget. You let yourself imagine that this was your world. That you belonged here.
And then Sirius, ever reckless with his sharp-edged tongue, grinned at you through half-lidded eyes.
“So, how’d a Slytherin like you get mixed up with the likes of us?” he teased, lazily twirling his wand between his fingers. “You never did say, y’know.”
You smiled faintly, already preparing a half-hearted lie. “Fate, I suppose.”
But Sirius was grinning now, mischievous and sharp. “Come on,” he pressed. “I want a proper story. Surely you’ve got some deep, dark secret.”
Your breath caught slightly.
James must have felt the way you tensed beneath his touch. His fingers stilled against your sleeve, and he glanced at you, concern flaring subtly in his eyes.
But you forced a laugh, too light, too strained. “I hate to disappoint, Black,” you said, voice tight, “but I’m painfully boring.”
“Liar,” Sirius grinned, poking you in the ribs with his wand.
And then—
Without meaning to—
Without thinking—
You said it softly, a slip of the tongue, a betrayal on your lips.
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the low crackle of the dying fire.
The playful glint in his eyes vanished, his fingers curling slightly in the fabric of your sleeve. You felt the tension flood his limbs—the subtle stiffening of his spine, the sudden sharpness in his breath.
He turned slowly to look at you.
“Who?” His voice was low, almost gentle.
Too gentle.
Like the eye of a storm.
Your throat tightened. You opened your mouth, scrambling for a lie, but the name hung between you—raw and damning.
Sirius frowned. “Who’s Harry?”
And James—
James was already staring at you, the light in his eyes splintering into something sharp, something disbelieving.
You tried to move, but his hand shot out, gripping your wrist with a force that was far too desperate.
“Wait,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Wait.”
The others were watching now, their laughter gone, eyes narrowed in confusion. But James—James wasn’t looking at them. He was only looking at you.
“Say it again,” he breathed. His voice cracked. “Who did you just say?”
You opened your mouth.
Nothing came.
James’s grip tightened slightly, his knuckles white around your wrist. His voice, usually so steady, shook.
You felt yourself tremble.
Because you couldn’t lie anymore.
Not to him.
Not when he was holding you like that—
As if you were already slipping through his fingers.
And so you whispered it.
Soft.
Barely louder than a breath.
The color drained from James’s face.
He dropped your wrist like it burned him, his hand falling limply to his side. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came—only a sharp breath, hitched and uneven.
“Harry,” he echoed, voice hollow.
You saw it then—
The moment the pieces fit together.
The realization in his eyes.
The slow, devastating comprehension.
And then he was on his feet.
“James—” you started, reaching for him.
But he stumbled backward, out of reach. His chest was heaving slightly, his hands shaking at his sides.
Sirius and Remus were on their feet now, eyes wide and confused.
“James, what the bloody hell is going on?” Sirius demanded.
But James only shook his head. He took another step back, looking at you as if he had never seen you before.
And then he turned and left.
You found him in the Astronomy Tower.
The night was cold, the stars scattered wide and indifferent. He was leaning against the stone railing, knuckles white where his hands gripped the edge, his back to you.
“James,” you breathed softly.
He didn’t turn around.
He didn’t look at you.
“Who is he?” His voice was hoarse, barely louder than a whisper.
You stared at him.
The boy you loved.
The boy you were going to lose.
You swallowed hard. “He’s your son.”
James stiffened. His knuckles went even whiter against the stone. For a long moment, he didn’t move.
And then he exhaled, sharp and broken.
“My son,” he repeated slowly, voice cracking. “From the future.”
You stepped toward him, cautiously, as if you might scare him off.
“I didn’t mean for you to find out,” you rasped. “I—I didn’t know how to tell you. I—”
But James spun around sharply, and his eyes—oh, his eyes.
They were wide and wild, brimming with too much emotion for one person to hold.
“You lied to me,” he choked.
You shook your head violently. “No, I didn’t—James, I didn’t lie—”
“You knew!” His voice cracked, sharp with anguish. “You knew this whole time. And you let me—” His voice broke, and he dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “You let me love you anyway.”
Your throat tightened, your heart splintering in your chest.
But he only stared at you, eyes glimmering with disbelief, with heartbreak.
“You’re not mine,” he rasped, voice raw. “You never were.”
You choked on a sob, closing the distance between you. Your hands cupped his face, trembling fingers brushing against his cheeks.
But when you leaned in—when you pressed your mouth against his, desperate and pleading—
He didn’t kiss you back.
He only stood there, motionless, as your lips pressed against his.
And when you pulled away, he was already slipping through your fingers.
But you didn’t let go.
And somehow, impossibly, he didn’t either.
There are no stars tonight—only the slow ruin of hearts breaking in real time.
You stood in the Astronomy Tower long after James had gone.
The stone railing was still warm from where his hands had been, but the boy himself—the boy with honey eyes and a wicked grin—was gone. You pressed trembling fingers against the cold stone, the ache splintering in your chest so violently you thought it might hollow you out.
And you stayed there.
Even after the stars grew weary.
Even after the wind bit cruelly at your skin.
Because the only thing worse than knowing James Potter might never love you again—
Was knowing that he once did.
You tried everything to make it right.
He was still there, of course—still James, still a boy with fire in his chest and golden laughter in his throat. But he was no longer your James.
He stopped sitting beside you at breakfast. He stopped brushing against your arm when you walked beside him.
He didn’t meet your eyes when you passed him in the corridor.
Didn’t glance at you when Sirius slung an arm around your shoulders in the common room.
It was worse than hatred.
Because there was no fire in his eyes.
Only distance.
And you were drowning in it.
The Marauders noticed.
Of course they did.
You were walking beside Remus one morning, heading toward Transfiguration, when he slowed his pace, falling into step beside you. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, too perceptive by half.
“You look tired,” he murmured softly.
You offered him a weak smile. “I’m fine.”
Remus sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not fine,” he countered gently, his voice low. “And he’s not fine either.”
You didn’t say anything.
You only gripped your books tighter.
And Remus—Remus, who had always known how to read you—lowered his voice slightly.
“He still looks at you, you know,” he murmured, so softly it was nearly lost to the crowd.
You didn’t ask who he meant.
You didn’t have to.
You tried. Merlin, you tried.
You cornered James in the hallway once, days later.
You didn’t think. You just grabbed his wrist as he walked by, gripping him too tightly, too desperate. His breath hitched slightly at the contact, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t meet your eyes either.
“James,” you rasped, your voice barely louder than a breath. “Please.”
You didn’t even know what you were begging for.
But it didn’t matter.
Because James closed his eyes, as if you hurt him just by standing there, and carefully pried your hand from his wrist.
And he walked away without saying a word.
You started avoiding him after that.
If he didn’t want you, you wouldn’t force him to see you. You let him have his space. You sat at the Slytherin table for meals again, pretending you didn’t feel his eyes burning into your back.
You stopped walking by the Quidditch pitch in the evenings, unwilling to watch him practice, unwilling to risk seeing him so golden and alive when you were breaking apart.
You no longer reached for him when you were cold.
You no longer leaned against him in the common room.
You no longer laughed when he tugged at your hair or stole the last of your pumpkin pasty.
And you told yourself it was for the best.
You were going to give up.
You had almost made your peace with it.
Almost.
It was raining.
The sort of rain that slapped against the windows in sheets, a relentless downpour that filled the corridors with a low, mournful hum.
You had been walking back from the library, exhausted and hollow-eyed, your boots heavy against the stone floor. Your hair was damp from the drizzle that had clung to you on your way back from the Owlery.
You didn’t even see him at first.
James was standing by the window at the end of the corridor, his back turned to you. His hands were braced against the sill, shoulders hunched slightly, damp curls clinging to the nape of his neck.
You should have walked away.
You should have kept going.
You stood there, watching him in the half-light, letting yourself pretend for one final moment that he still belonged to you.
And then you turned.
Ready to leave.
Ready to walk away.
His voice was low, hoarse—so quiet you barely heard it over the rain.
You froze, your breath catching in your throat.
And slowly, slowly, James turned around.
You saw his face, and your heart splintered.
Because he was staring at you the way he once did.
Like he was falling.
Like he was still falling.
And then he was moving.
Two steps, then three—
And suddenly he was right in front of you, too close, his chest heaving slightly.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
You only stared at each other—
Breathless.
Broken.
And then he cupped your face with trembling hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as if memorizing the shape of you.
“I know,” you whispered brokenly.
But James shook his head sharply, his grip tightening slightly. His voice cracked, raw and uneven.
“No, you don’t,” he choked. “I hate you for making me fall in love with you, knowing you’d leave.” His breath hitched. “I hate you for letting me hold you when you already belonged to a different time.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, a sharp sob splintering in your throat. “James—”
But his hands tightened on your face, trembling slightly, pulling you closer.
“And I hate,” he whispered brokenly, forehead pressed against yours, “that I never stopped loving you.”
You let out a soft, broken sob—
And then you were kissing him.
Hard.
Furious.
Desperate.
Your hands fisted in his robes, dragging him closer, anchoring yourself to him. And James—James was everywhere. His hands slipped into your hair, fingers tangling desperately, as if he could keep you there forever.
When you pulled away, both of you were gasping. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath uneven, his eyes burning.
“You idiot,” you whispered softly, trembling against him. “You absolute idiot. I was never going to leave you.”
James let out a low, choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, and then he was kissing you again.
And this time—
When he held you,
He didn’t let go.
You stayed.
Time bent for you.
The war came. You fought beside him. You saved them all—James, Lily, Harry. The future was rewritten, the grief undone.
And when you stood with James beneath the canopy of a thousand stars, his hands holding yours, you pressed your lips to his knuckles and whispered,
“I would have loved you in every timeline, you know.”
And he smiled.
Because he already knew.
Time is not linear.
It bends for love. It always does.
You never thought you’d get to see it—the future you were fighting for.
But somehow, impossibly, you did.
And it was beautiful.
The war ended differently this time.
Voldemort fell.
Not in the ruins of Godric’s Hollow or the halls of Hogwarts, but in a forest clearing, far from the children who should never have had to bleed for a future that should have been theirs.
You were there beside James. You fought with him—back to back, his voice hoarse with spells and shouted warnings, his hand reaching for yours even in the chaos.
And when it was over—when the last curse had been cast and the world stood still—James found you in the crowd.
His hands were shaking when he grabbed you. His knuckles bloodied, his robes torn, his hair damp with sweat. But his eyes were bright and wild and alive.
And he kissed you like you were oxygen.
Like he had spent a lifetime holding his breath.
Like he had been waiting for you across a thousand timelines.
You stood beside him when the world was rebuilt.
You were there when Sirius was declared innocent, when he was free to walk into the sun with his head held high, grinning like a boy unburdened by ghosts.
You were there when Remus spoke softly in the quiet hours of the morning, voice trembling with hope, confessing that he had always wanted more than to simply survive.
You were there when Harry was born—alive and safe. When James held his son in his arms and cried without shame, his tears falling into the wild tufts of black hair on the baby’s head.
And you were there when James placed a trembling kiss against your temple, Harry cradled between you, and whispered,
Two years later, you were standing beside James at Lily and Severus’s wedding.
You had almost laughed when the invitation arrived. The ornate script, written in Lily’s elegant hand, had carried far too much smugness for a simple piece of parchment. The words had been formal and lovely, but you could still hear her voice in them—sweet and knowing, the subtext far too clear.
And now, standing in the evening glow of the wedding canopy, you watched as the girl with fire-bright hair clasped her hands with the boy who had once nearly lost her forever.
Severus stood at the altar, tall and lean, still a little stoic, still a little brooding—but there was softness in his eyes. A gentleness in the way he held Lily’s hands, his thumb brushing over her knuckles with quiet reverence.
And Lily—oh, she was radiant. Her hair was loose and wild, tumbling down her back in copper curls, adorned with tiny white flowers that twined through the strands. Her smile was bright enough to soften even Snape’s sharp edges, her eyes crinkling slightly at the corners as she gazed at him with unguarded adoration.
You glanced at James, who was watching them with a boyish grin, his arms folded lazily across his chest. His hair was windswept and unruly as always, the golden sunset catching the edges and turning them molten.
“They’re going to be insufferable about this, you know,” James murmured with a grin, leaning slightly into your side.
You hummed softly, tilting your head toward him. “Oh, absolutely. Lily will probably gloat about being right for the next decade.”
James smirked, dark eyes glinting with mischief. “Ten galleons says Snivellus cries during the vows.”
You shot him a deadpan look. “James, you can’t bet on their wedding.”
But he only grinned wider. “What, afraid you’ll lose?”
You rolled your eyes but fought a smile, elbowing him lightly in the ribs.
And when Lily walked down the aisle—when Severus turned toward her with something painfully soft in his eyes—James slipped his hand into yours.
His fingers wove between yours, warm and steady. His thumb brushed slow circles against your palm, as if he were trying to memorize the shape of your hand.
And when you glanced at him—
He was already looking at you.
His eyes were dark and golden and entirely too soft, shining with something far too raw for a wedding.
And you knew.
Right then.
That he was thinking about every version of you he had ever lost.
Every version of you he had loved.
And so you leaned over slightly, your voice barely louder than a breath.
“Stop looking at me like that, Potter,” you murmured teasingly.
James’s lips curved slightly, but his eyes didn’t soften.
They only burned brighter.
“Like what?” he whispered, his voice barely louder than the breeze, laced with unmistakable reverence.
“Like you’re in love with me,” you teased softly, arching a playful brow.
And James—James smiled softly, eyes molten with warmth, voice rough with emotion.
“I am in love with you,” he whispered simply.
And then he was leaning down, brushing his lips against yours—slow and gentle, as if the whole world had slowed just for you.
Later, when the sun had dipped below the horizon and the stars spilled carelessly across the sky, you stood in the garden with James, Harry fast asleep in his arms.
The evening was warm, the wind gentle, carrying the faint sound of music from the reception. The canopy was still aglow with golden lights, casting everything in soft, honeyed hues.
You watched as James shifted Harry carefully in his arms, his hand splayed protectively across his son’s back. The baby snuffled softly against his chest, tiny hands curled into fists, his breathing slow and steady.
You reached out, brushing a soft lock of hair from Harry’s forehead, and James glanced at you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
You only stood there, bathed in the amber glow of the evening, watching the stars blink sleepily overhead.
And then James, voice barely louder than a whisper, murmured,
Your eyes flicked to him, searching his face—certain you had misheard. But James was only looking at you softly, his eyes wide and unguarded, his voice steady despite the slight tremor in his hand.
You stared at him, your heart stuttering violently.
“James,” you breathed softly, barely able to say his name.
But he only smiled.
Soft and slow and so achingly sincere.
“Marry me,” he whispered again. His voice was hoarse, barely louder than a breath. “I—I know it’s sudden. I know we’ve already stolen so much time. But—” He exhaled sharply, his voice breaking slightly. “I want this. With you. Always.”
You stared at him, your throat tightening, your eyes burning with tears you couldn’t hold back.
And when you reached for him—when your hand pressed against his cheek and you nodded, unable to speak through the lump in your throat—James let out a shaky, disbelieving breath.
Soft and trembling and impossibly tender, tasting of hope and home and every version of you he had ever loved.
And you kissed him back—
Knowing that this time,
In this life,
You were his forever.
Love is timeless.
It does not belong to one lifetime.
It exists across all of them.
Not with fear, not exactly. But with something bigger. Something heavier.
The morning sun spilled through the enormous windows of the bridal suite, bathing everything in soft, golden hues. You stood barefoot on the cool stone floor, wrapped in a silk dressing gown, staring at your reflection in the floor-length mirror.
Your fingers were cold.
Your knees felt a little weak.
You were getting married.
To James Potter.
And somehow, the thought made it harder to breathe.
Not because you were afraid.
But because the weight of happiness pressed so fiercely against your chest, you thought it might shatter you.
“Are you trying to hyperventilate, or does that just come naturally?”
You glanced over your shoulder to find Bellatrix standing in the doorway, one dark brow arched, her lips curled into a smirk.
She was stunning, as always, dressed in elegant silver robes that caught the morning light, the fabric shimmering faintly as she stepped into the room. Her black curls tumbled in perfect, wicked waves down her back, and her eyes glimmered with mischief.
But when she saw the trembling in your hands, the playful glint softened slightly.
“Hey,” she murmured, striding over, her voice low and surprisingly gentle. She took your hands in hers, squeezing them slightly. “You’re all right.”
You let out a shaky breath, laughing weakly. “I feel like I might pass out.”
Bellatrix’s lips twitched faintly. “I mean, if you want to cause a scene at your own wedding, be my guest. Would be pretty dramatic. Very on brand.”
You let out a watery laugh, squeezing her hands.
And then you felt a soft hand on your shoulder.
Narcissa appeared beside you, her pale blonde hair cascading in soft waves over her shoulders. She was elegant and ethereal, dressed in ice-blue robes that brought out the sharp cut of her eyes. But her voice, as always, was soft.
“You look beautiful,” she murmured, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face.
You swallowed thickly, your throat tightening.
She stepped into the room, her auburn hair glimmering with tiny pearls woven into the braid that circled her crown. Her smile was impossibly bright, her eyes warm with too much emotion.
She held up a handkerchief dramatically. “Don’t even think about crying yet,” she teased, her voice trembling slightly despite her playful tone. “Save it for the aisle, or I swear, I’ll hex you.”
You let out a strangled laugh, already blinking back tears.
And when the three of them crowded around you—Bellatrix playfully poking at your hair, Narcissa fastening the delicate bracelet around your wrist, and Lily brushing a bit of gloss onto your lips—you felt the trembling in your hands finally still.
You stood at the edge of the garden, your hands trembling slightly around the bouquet of white lilies and wildflowers. The sun was warm against your face, the sky a soft, cloudless blue, the air perfumed with the scent of roses and honeysuckle.
And then—
Harry, your precious little ring bearer, toddled out onto the stone pathway.
He was dressed in a tiny, perfectly tailored black suit, with his wild black hair sticking up in every possible direction. He held the little velvet pillow in his small hands, his bright green eyes wide with delight as the crowd let out a collective coo.
When he spotted you standing in the archway, his face split into a gap-toothed grin, and he squealed,
You let out a watery laugh, your chest tightening painfully.
But when you finally took that first step—
When you slowly made your way down the aisle, surrounded by the people you loved—
Your eyes found only one person.
And oh, he was already crying.
You saw him before he saw you.
Standing there at the end of the aisle, dressed in tailored black dress robes, the collar slightly askew, his hair hopelessly messy in that perfectly disheveled way. His hands were trembling faintly at his sides, his lips parted slightly as he stared at you.
And when his eyes finally met yours—
His breath caught audibly in his throat.
You saw the moment it hit him.
The moment he realized that this was real.
That he wasn’t dreaming.
That you were walking toward him—
To be his.
Forever.
And then he let out a sharp, uneven breath, his eyes glimmering with unshed tears. He dragged a hand roughly through his hair, laughing wetly through the emotion clogging his throat.
Sirius, standing beside him, smirked and clapped him roughly on the back, grinning smugly. “Told you you’d cry, mate.”
James sniffled, his voice breaking slightly. “Shut up, Pads.”
And then his eyes were back on you.
And he was beaming.
Like he was seeing the sun for the first time.
Like he was falling in love with you all over again.
You barely remembered walking the rest of the way.
All you could see was him.
And when you finally reached him—when he took your trembling hands in his—you felt your whole chest constrict.
Because he was crying so softly, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles as if he were trying to memorize the shape of you. His hands were warm and trembling, his voice rough with emotion.
“You’re so beautiful,” he choked, voice barely louder than a breath. His eyes burned fiercely, glassy and golden. “You’re—you’re so beautiful, love.”
You let out a watery laugh, squeezing his hands.
James was shaking slightly when he slipped the ring onto your finger. His voice cracked halfway through the words, and he let out a shaky, breathless laugh, blinking rapidly.
His hands were warm, his eyes glassy and reverent as he whispered the words against your knuckles.
“I choose you,” he murmured, his voice trembling. “I’ll always choose you. In every time, in every life. It’s you.”
And when you pressed your trembling lips to his—when you felt his hands tighten desperately at your waist, holding you as though you might slip away—you knew.
That you had never belonged to just one lifetime.
You had belonged to all of them.
To him.
Always.
Later, when the sun was low and the garden was alight with golden lanterns, you stood with James in the orchard.
The reception carried on behind you—the clinking of glasses and soft laughter drifting through the night—but James didn’t seem to care.
He had abandoned his tie long ago, and his hair was a mess of unruly curls, golden in the lantern glow. His arms were wrapped around you, holding you too tightly, as if he was still afraid you might disappear.
“You’re mine now,” he whispered playfully against your ear, his voice low and honeyed, pressing soft kisses against your neck.
You smiled against his shoulder. “I was always yours.”
James pulled back slightly, eyes dark and molten. His voice softened, barely louder than a breath.
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he whispered hoarsely.
And when you kissed him beneath the canopy of golden lights, with the stars spilling wide and endless above you, James Potter held you like he had loved you across a thousand timelines.
Because he had.
And he always would.
Time had bent for you.
It had splintered and unraveled and stitched itself back together just to bring you here—
Into his arms.
Where you were always meant to be.
The stars were burning softly above the orchard, spilling across the inky blackness in glimmering constellations, as if the entire universe had come to witness the ending of your story.
Or rather, the beginning of it.
Because you weren’t running anymore.
You weren’t slipping between timelines or losing yourself to fate.
You were here—rooted firmly in this life, this time, with James Potter’s hands tangled in yours.
And Merlin, he was still looking at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
The reception was still alive behind you—laughter and music floating lazily through the orchard. Golden lanterns swung gently from the low branches, casting honeyed light over the dark grass.
But James didn’t seem to notice any of it.
You were his whole world.
His tie was long discarded, and his robes hung loosely around him, a few buttons undone at his collar. His hair—already unruly from the hours of dancing—was an utter mess, windswept and falling into his eyes in hopeless curls.
He was absolutely breathtaking.
And he was holding you too tightly, like he still wasn’t entirely convinced you were real.
“Merlin, I can’t stop looking at you,” he murmured, his voice rough with something deeper than reverence. His thumb brushed slowly over the back of your hand. “You’re so—bloody hell, look at you.”
You let out a breathless laugh, warmth blooming in your chest. “You’re making me sound like some divine vision, Potter,” you teased softly.
James’s lips curved slightly, but his eyes softened with something almost dangerous—something entirely too raw and reverent.
“Because you are,” he murmured, his voice so low it made your skin flush.
Your breath caught slightly at the weight of his words.
At the warmth in his eyes.
At the softness in his touch.
And then—because you were helpless against him—you reached up, brushing your fingers softly through his windswept hair. You let the tips of your fingers trail down the side of his face, tracing the sharp edge of his jaw.
James’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. His breath stuttered slightly, the warmth of it fanning against your wrist.
And when he opened them again—
His eyes were dark.
Molten.
Utterly ruined by you.
You didn’t know how long you stood there, swaying slightly in the golden lamplight. You didn’t know how many times James pressed his lips to your knuckles, as if trying to memorize the feel of you in his hands.
But you knew that you weren’t in a hurry.
You let him pull you close, let him bury his face against your neck, breathing you in like you were air. His arms were loose around your waist, his thumbs slipping beneath the fabric of your dress, brushing slow, idle circles against the small of your back.
And when you shifted slightly in his arms, leaning into him—
James let out a low, breathless sound that made your skin flush beneath the fabric of your dress.
“Dance with me,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm against your throat.
You let out a breathless laugh. “James, there’s no music out here.”
But he only pulled back slightly, his eyes glimmering with boyish mischief. “Since when do I need music to dance with my wife?”
The word wife sent a shiver down your spine, settling warm and heavy in your chest.
And he must have seen it in your eyes.
Because James’s lips curled into a wicked grin.
“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” he murmured, voice low and teasing, his nose brushing lightly against yours. “You like being my wife.”
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, rolling your eyes. “I suppose it has its perks,” you teased lightly.
James’s grin widened, his voice a low, playful rasp. “Oh, does it?”
And then he was spinning you in the dim light of the orchard, twirling you beneath the canopy of golden lanterns, his hands warm and steady in yours.
You laughed breathlessly as he tugged you close, arms winding securely around you. You pressed your face against his chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat settle against your cheek.
And James—
James pressed his lips against your temple, his voice a low, lazy drawl.
“You’re stuck with me now,” he murmured playfully against your hair, his hands sliding slowly, reverently over your back. “No take-backs. You married me. It’s legally binding and everything.”
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, tilting your head back to meet his eyes.
And Merlin, he was still looking at you with so much love it made your knees weak.
“Oh, I think I’ll manage,” you teased lightly, brushing your fingertips over the back of his neck.
James’s eyes glimmered with warmth, but his voice softened, barely louder than a breath.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered reverently, as if saying it too loudly would shatter you. His thumb traced along your cheekbone, eyes dark with awe. “You’re—you’re so bloody beautiful, love.”
You leaned into his touch, your lips parting softly.
And then he was kissing you.
Softly at first.
Slow and reverent, his lips barely brushing over yours—
As if he were still tasting the promise of forever on your mouth.
But then—
Then the kiss deepened.
James’s hands slid lower, gripping your waist tightly, pulling you flush against him. You let out a soft, surprised gasp, and James swallowed the sound with a low, breathless hum, his lips dragging over yours with slow, teasing purpose.
His fingers splayed over the small of your back, slipping just beneath the fabric of your dress, his touch impossibly warm. He pressed you closer, as if he could make you a part of him—
As if he were still afraid you might slip through his fingers.
“Merlin, I love you,” he rasped against your lips, his voice low and uneven, hoarse with longing. His teeth grazed your bottom lip slightly, sending a delicious shiver down your spine.
And oh—
You were trembling slightly in his arms.
Not with nervousness.
But with want.
And James—
James, who had always been golden and mischievous and utterly smitten—
Noticed immediately.
His eyes darkened slightly.
His lips parted faintly, breath uneven.
“Love,” he murmured lowly, his voice rough around the edges, “if you keep looking at me like that, I might do something utterly indecent at our wedding reception.”
You let out a breathless laugh, cheeks flushing faintly. “Oh? That’s unlike you, Potter,” you teased, your voice barely louder than a murmur.
And James—
Oh, he grinned wickedly, lowering his mouth to your ear.
“You have no idea, Mrs. Potter.”
His voice was a low rasp, his lips grazing the shell of your ear with slow, torturous reverence. His breath was warm against your skin, and his fingers—Merlin, his fingers were dangerously slow as they traced teasing circles along your spine.
Your breath caught slightly, your heart hammering violently in your chest.
And James—James only grinned wider.
“Shall we sneak away, love?” he murmured silkily, brushing a teasing kiss against your throat, lips warm and deliberate. “Or do I have to suffer through another hour of dancing with respectable people before I get you all to myself?”
You laughed softly, breathless, your cheeks warm and flushed.
And when you leaned up on your toes, brushing your lips teasingly against his, you whispered,
“Take me home, Mr. Potter.”
And James—
James smiled against your lips, utterly ruined by you.
Because you already were.
You always had been.
His home.
The universe had been cruel.
It had torn you from your timeline, stripped you from the arms of the people you loved, and scattered you across history.
But in return—
It gave you this.
Him.
Them.
A future you had never dared to dream of.
The cottage was small, but it was yours.
Tucked away in the countryside, hidden behind sprawling fields of wildflowers and enchanted thickets, it stood like something out of a dream. The stone walls were weathered but sturdy, honey-gold in the morning sun. The windows were always open, letting in the scent of lavender and fresh-cut grass, and the chimney was forever puffing lazy ribbons of smoke into the sky.
It wasn’t grand.
It wasn’t a manor.
But it was warm and worn and safe.
And it was home.
You awoke slowly to the feel of warm, slightly chapped lips pressing soft, lazy kisses along your shoulder.
You let out a drowsy sigh, rolling over slightly to meet James’s half-lidded gaze. His hair was an absolute mess—dark and rumpled and deliciously wild against the pillows. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, golden in the morning light, and he was looking at you like you were the first sunrise he had ever seen.
“Morning, Mrs. Potter,” he murmured hoarsely, voice thick with sleep, his lips brushing lightly over the tip of your nose.
You smiled faintly, brushing a hand through his hair. “Morning, Mr. Potter.”
James let out a soft, contented hum, burying his face into the curve of your neck. His arms tightened slightly around your waist, pulling you closer, as if the entire bed were too big without you in his arms.
“Mmm, don’t move,” he grumbled drowsily, his voice muffled against your skin. “You’re warm. Stay right here. Forever.”
You let out a sleepy laugh, running your fingers lazily through the thick curls at the nape of his neck.
But then—
A loud crash echoed from the hallway, followed by the unmistakable sound of something heavy hitting the floor.
Then—
The distinct sound of tiny, gleeful giggles.
James groaned dramatically, his face still buried against your throat. “Your son is a menace,” he mumbled, voice muffled with mock exhaustion.
You smiled, brushing your lips lightly against the crown of his head. “Our son,” you corrected softly, but there was nothing but adoration in your voice.
James let out a low, exaggerated groan, flopping onto his back. “Merlin help me.”
And then the bedroom door burst open.
Harry, still in his little blue pajamas, came sprinting into the room, clutching a suspiciously bent toy broom in one hand. His wild black hair was an absolute disaster—sticking up in every possible direction, an adorable replica of his father’s morning mess. His green eyes were wide with childish delight, a bright, mischievous grin tugging at his tiny lips.
He launched himself onto the bed with absolutely no regard for either of you.
James let out a low oof as Harry pounced onto his chest, sprawling over him with all the elegance of a baby thestral.
“Merlin’s beard, Prongs Junior!” James groaned dramatically, mock-gasping for air. “You’re going to break my ribs, you absolute menace.”
But Harry only grinned wider, clearly unimpressed with his father’s suffering, and bounced gleefully on James’s chest.
James made a loud, strangled, dying-man sort of sound, throwing his head back with mock agony. “Darling!! Help me! Our son is trying to murder me!”
You arched a brow, lips twitching. “Oh no,” you deadpanned flatly. “How tragic.”
James shot you an utterly betrayed look, gaping at you like you had personally destroyed his soul.
“You betrayed me, wife?” he gasped, clutching his chest dramatically.
Harry squealed with delight at his father’s theatrics, utterly oblivious to James’s Oscar-worthy performance of a man meeting his untimely end.
You simply shook your head with mock solemnity, rolling your eyes. “Potter, you’re being outwitted by a four-year-old.”
James stared at you, lips twitching with mock indignation, then turned his attention back to the tiny boy currently using him as a human trampoline.
“Oi, you,” he gasped weakly at Harry, voice hoarse with false agony. “Don’t you want to save your dear old dad? Be my hero? My knight in shining armor?”
Harry only giggled maniacally, gripping his bent broomstick and declaring with great importance, “I’m gonna be a seeker!”
James let out a soft, incredulous laugh, eyes bright with warmth.
“Merlin, you’re going to give me a heart attack,” he muttered, ruffling his son’s hair fondly. But he was grinning like a fool, eyes glimmering with a ridiculous amount of pride.
You watched them quietly for a moment.
James.
Harry.
Your entire world pressed into the same bed, giggling beneath the golden morning light.
And just for a moment—
You allowed yourself to pretend you had always belonged here.
The fireplace roared suddenly with green flames, and in strolled Sirius Black, entirely uninvited.
“Prongs!” Sirius barked cheerfully, arms flung wide as if announcing his arrival to a crowd of thousands. “I come bearing whiskey, terrible advice, and absolutely no concept of personal boundaries!”
James’s grin widened immediately. “Now there’s my responsible fatherhood role model.”
You groaned softly, covering your face with one hand. “Oh no.”
But it was already too late.
Sirius strolled into the living room like he owned the place, his black hair tousled in artful disarray, a cocky grin tugging at his lips. He bent down dramatically, ruffling Harry’s hair with enough force to make the boy squeal with delighted laughter.
“Look at you, little menace!” Sirius crowed, plucking Harry off the ground with exaggerated flair, tossing him lightly in the air. “Merlin, you’re almost as big as your old man.”
Harry squealed gleefully, grabbing at Sirius’s hair with tiny fists.
James’s eyes widened slightly. “Oi, gently, Padfoot!” he barked, though he was grinning far too widely to be genuinely concerned.
But before James could intervene, Remus strolled in through the front door, already exuding the aura of the only sane person in the room.
He shook his head fondly, running a hand through his sandy hair. “Honestly, I don’t know why I still expect you lot to act like responsible adults.”
Sirius snorted loudly, tossing Harry lightly onto the couch with a dramatic flourish.
“Responsible adults?” he sneered with mock outrage, planting a hand on his chest. “I’ll have you know, Moony, I once drank half a bottle of Fire whiskey, dueled a goblin, and convinced a centaur to let me ride him through the Forbidden Forest—all in the same night.”
Remus arched a brow, utterly unimpressed. “You also got a month’s detention and lost two teeth, if I recall correctly.”
Sirius’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s slander, Lupin. Absolute slander.”
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, watching them fondly.
And for a moment—
Just for a moment—
You forgot that they had once been nothing but memories.
Phantom faces in a future you could no longer reach.
For now, they were here.
They were real.
And Merlin, you held on to them like they might slip through your fingers.
The cottage was silent that evening—Harry long since tucked into bed, his tiny hands clutching the worn stag plush James had gifted him.
You stood by the window, staring out at the endless black, your breath fogging the glass.
And when you closed your eyes, you could see them.
Ron, throwing his head back in laughter, eyes glinting with boyish mischief.
Hermione’s soft, steady voice as she carefully unwound the impossible knots of the world with quiet brilliance.
And Harry—your Harry—
Older.
Burdened.
Carrying too much weight for one boy.
You pressed your palm lightly to the windowpane, as if you could reach through the glass and touch the life you left behind.
But it was James who found you.
Always.
You didn’t hear him enter the room.
But you felt his arms slip around you from behind, warm and familiar.
Without a word, he pressed his lips softly to your shoulder.
“Can’t sleep, darling?” he murmured softly, voice low and sleep-rough.
You swallowed thickly, leaning back into him, your fingers tangling loosely with his.
“Just thinking,” you whispered faintly.
James was quiet for a moment.
And then—
He squeezed you a little tighter.
“About them?” he asked softly, no accusation in his voice. Only understanding.
You nodded, your breath hitching slightly.
And James—
He pressed his lips against the curve of your jaw, his voice barely louder than a breath.
“You don’t have to forget them, my love,” he murmured, softly, reverently. “You just have to keep living.”
And you let him hold you.
Because somehow, James knew how to make the grief feel a little softer.
A little quieter.
Like something you could carry, rather than be crushed beneath.
The evening was soft and golden, the fire crackling faintly in the hearth. James was slouched in the armchair, legs dangling lazily over the side, a book balanced haphazardly on his chest. His hair was a complete mess, dark curls tumbling over his forehead.
You sat on the couch with your legs tucked beneath you, an old quilt draped over your lap, fingers absentmindedly running over the worn fabric.
The room was quiet, save for the occasional flutter of parchment as James absentmindedly flipped a page.
Then—
Without warning, James’s voice broke the silence.
“Do you ever regret it?” he asked softly, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
You blinked, looking over at him, your breath catching slightly at the softness in his eyes.
“Regret what?” you asked faintly, though you already knew.
James’s eyes didn’t leave yours.
“Staying,” he murmured, voice quiet and earnest. “Choosing me. Choosing this life.”
Your chest tightened slightly at the rawness in his voice—the quiet, vulnerable plea behind his words.
You were silent for a long moment.
And then—
You rose slowly from the couch, padding across the room and climbing into his lap.
James’s arms wound around you immediately, pulling you closer, holding you like he was still afraid you might slip away.
You pressed your lips softly to his temple, voice low and trembling with certainty.
“Never,” you whispered fiercely. “Not for a second.”
James let out a breathless sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, burying his face into the crook of your neck.
And he held you.
And you held him back.
And the life you left behind—the one you would always carry with you—felt a little lighter, a little softer.
Because here, in this time,
In this life,
You were home.
