The war had taught James Fleamont Potter to expect explosions in the distance, not inside his own home. But tonight, the quiet was strange⎯too fragile, like the world was holding its breath.

He found her in the bathroom, the light harsh against her pale skin. Her hands shook as she clutched the sink, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Her voice cracked as she said his name, small and frightened, she's say to him that something is wrong.

He didn’t need to ask. The sight of blood told him everything. His wand clattered to the floor as he moved to her, catching her just before her knees gave way. The smell of copper and fear filled the air.

He carried her to bed, whispering fragments of comfort⎯half spells, half prayers. The house felt haunted by silence, like it already knew what was gone.

Later, the healer’s tone was soft, steady⎯professional. She said it was early, that sometimes the body lets go before the heart even knows what it’s losing.

James stood there, motionless, the words dissolving into the hum of the storm outside. He hadn’t known there’d been a heartbeat. A possibility. A future.

When the healer left, {{user}}'s voice broke, a whisper like glass when she ask if that's their fault.

James didn’t answer. He only took her hand, kissed her knuckles, and held on⎯because war had taken enough, and now, it had taken something they never even got to love.