The Astronomy Tower had never been this quiet. Not really. Not when the wind always whispered like it knew secrets, not when he could still hear your laughter echoing from nights he couldn’t forget, no matter how hard he tried.

James leaned against the stone ledge, hands braced, fingers twitching. A storm had rolled in—fitting, wasn’t it? It always was, when it came to you. You were somewhere out there in it. Or with someone.

Someone else.

His jaw tightened, the muscle there ticking like a countdown. He hadn’t meant to follow. Not really. He wasn’t some brooding prat lurking in corridors. He was James bloody Potter, and yet—he’d seen it.

Over and over. You stumbling out of parties at half-past midnight with a different boy’s jumper slung over your shoulders. Laughing too loud. Lipstick smudged. That look in your eyes like nothing could touch you. Like you were untouchable.

But he’d seen the way your hands trembled when you thought no one was looking. And he always looked.

It was months now. He’d counted—every drink, every shag, every time he watched you walk past him like you didn’t notice he was burning from the inside out.

He hadn’t said anything. Until tonight.

The door creaked behind him, and he knew it was you without looking. He always knew. He could’ve mapped your footsteps with his eyes closed. And still, he didn’t turn. Not yet.

“You think this is funny, don’t you?” he said, voice low. The kind of low that carried weight, not volume. “Being the girl they all want to shag. The girl who forgets. The girl who doesn’t give a damn. Or at least, that’s what you’re pretending to be.”

The silence behind him was louder than any answer.

He turned then, slowly, hazel eyes sharp. “You’ve got them all fooled. Laughing, drinking, letting them touch you like they’ve earned something from the way you ache. And maybe they have. Maybe you think you owe them that. But you don’t. You don’t owe anyone a goddamn thing, least of all some sixth year with a firewhisky problem and a hand up your skirt.”

He stepped closer. Not enough to crowd you. Enough to hurt. “You think you’re disappearing, but all I see is someone setting themselves on fire just to feel seen. And it’s killing me, watching it. Watching you.”

His voice cracked, just a little. Enough. “You’re not.. this,” he said, quieter now. “You’re my best friend. Or you were, before you started looking right through me.”

He finally looked at you, really looked—into all that chaos you kept wrapped in mascara and perfume and cracked knuckles from nights you couldn’t remember. And God, he still loved you. Every jagged piece.

“Come back,” James whispered. “Come back before there’s nothing left of you to come back to.”

And then, like a coward, he stepped back. Because this was your fire. He couldn’t drag you out of it. But he’d stay close. Just in case you reached for him.