The Stag and The Harpy | James Potter

Night

Phoebe tosses and turns for what feels like forever, sheets tangled around her legs before she gives up.

James was meant to come to bed an hour ago, and concern pricks her heart. She doesn't bother putting pants on, his shirt reaching her knees. She tiptoes down the stairs, checking the living room and the drawing room. She's about to give up and go to search the library when she sees a faint glow coming from the basement.

She creeps down the smaller flight of stairs before pushing the cracked door open wider. James looks up from his book, smiling slightly when he sees her. She eyes the way he's sitting, shoulders slumped. One hand on his book and the other gripping a glass of dark liquid.

"I thought you were coming to bed," Phoebe says quietly, rounding the table to sit in a chair he pushes out for her. He sighs and takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes before he admits,

"I'm just not tired yet."

When he places his glasses back on his nose he can see the way she's looking at him. She knows. This isn't just insomnia.

"What's wrong?" She wonders softly, scooting closer and resting her hands on his knees. He smiles weakly. He hesitates, not sure if he should share. He doesn't want to bring her more pain, unearth hidden memories.

"Tell me," She insists, taking the book from his hands and setting it down next to his glass of firewhiskey.

He sighs again, reaching out and grabbing her hand in his while the other fists in front of his mouth. He rests his elbow on the table, looking at her silently before saying,

"I...I used an unforgivable curse."

Phoebe nods once, her brow furrowing as she opens her mouth. James speaks first, his voice hushed,

"I-I know that we're permitted to use them. This is war, but...I used the cruciatus curse."

She swallows past the lump in her throat and studies him silently. He looks wracked with guilt, though she's not sure why. If he feels guilty for hurting someone, or feels guilty using the thing that still haunted her nightmares.

"Who?" She wonders calmly, and James is instantly grateful for her unassuming tone. She's so composed, so even. He hesitates again, the name causing bile to rise in his throat when he whispers,

"Bellatrix."

"Black?" Phoebe questions, her voice wavering slightly.

"Lestrange now. Evidently she and Rudolphus got married," James replies, reaching up with the hand he'd balled into a fist and stroking back some of her hair.

She smiles faintly, surprising him when she says simply, "Good."

"Good?" He asks concernedly, leaning forward.

"Yes," Shes quiet but firm. "Do you feel better?"

"Better now that I hurt her? Or better now that I've told you?"

"Both," She laughs quietly, squeezing his knee. He smiles and says quietly, "I think so to the first one. And yes to the second."

She sighs and murmurs, "She's an evil woman. You are not evil, James Potter."

The weight he's been carrying—the guilt of using magic that had caused so much pain to the person he loves the most—slowly fades. He grins slightly and asks lowly,

"Did you do as I asked?"

She quirks a brow, tilting her head to the side expectantly. She looks so cute, adorable. His grin grows when he says, "I asked you not to touch yourself."