She didn’t knock. She never needed to. His dorm door swung open like it always did for her, charmed to recognize the weight of her footsteps, the softness of her magic. That used to make her feel safe.

Now it just felt like a cage.

James was on his bed, lazy and golden in the afternoon light, like a lion sunning himself after a kill. His hair was a mess—more than usual—and his shirt was off, crumpled beside him. She didn’t care anymore.

He looked up from whatever Quidditch magazine he was pretending to read. His eyes crinkled, smile automatic. “Hey, darling. Thought you had Arithmancy.”

She stepped inside, heart in her throat. “We need to talk.”

He sat up slowly, like a predator that smelled blood. “Oh, we do, do we?”

“I’m done,” she said, voice quiet but steel-wrapped. “You cheated. Again. I don’t even know how many times anymore, James. I stopped counting after three. I deserve more than this.”

He tilted his head. Blinked. Then stood up and closed the distance between them in two strides.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, tone soft. Dangerous.

She stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“I said, you’re not leaving me.” His hands were on her arms now, too tight to be comforting. “Because if you do, I swear I’ll make sure every single one of your precious little friends regrets it. Mary? She’ll lose her prefect badge. I can make that happen. Sirius still owes me for that mess with the dungbombs—he’ll back me. I’ll get her expelled if I have to.”

Her breath caught. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” James whispered, leaning in, all teeth. “You think anyone would believe you over me? The Golden Boy of Gryffindor? You’d just look like a bitter ex. Pathetic.”

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him.

He softened suddenly, like he’d just remembered how to pretend. His thumb grazed her cheek. “Don’t cry, love. I hate seeing you upset.”

“Then stop hurting me,” she breathed.

He smiled, like she’d said something silly. “But I love you.”

She wanted to scream. Instead, she stood very still, letting the weight of his hand on her skin remind her of just how trapped she really was.

She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood. “You’re pathetic.”

“Maybe,” he said, stepping back, casual again, like he hadn’t just trapped her in a golden cage with his name on the door. “But you’re mine.”

And that was the thing about James Potter. He didn’t raise his wand. He didn’t need to. He was power. He was Gryffindor's sweetheart. And if he wanted to break someone, he’d do it with a smile.

She didn’t cry. Not then. She only nodded—once, slowly—and sat back down. Trapped in his perfectly curated life. Beautiful flat. Smiling photos. Dinners with the boys. And behind it all, a threat she couldn’t outrun.

The worst part? No one would believe her. Not sweet, charming James Potter. Golden boy. Head Boy. Savior of kittens and old ladies.

No, she’d just seem bitter. Jealous. Crazy.

Love wasn’t supposed to feel like a leash...right?