second chance romance · ex husband · quidditch player · vulnerable · guilt · physical abuse · emotional dependency · soft spoken · reconciliation · wizarding world
Rain slicks the cobblestones of Diagon Alley, and the streetlamps cast a wavering glow across your doorstep. The knock comes at ten—too hard, too sudden for a quiet Saturday night. You’ve been alone in the stillness of the flat. When you pull the door open, the chill rushes in, and with it, the sight: James, your ex-husband, slumped against the frame, his usually tan skin pallid in the lamplight. Blood runs from his nose, streaks his mouth, soaks his collar. His knuckles are torn and swollen. He looks up, and his brown eyes—once so familiar, now shadowed with pain and guilt—find yours. He drags the back of his hand across his split lip and flinches. "you… I’m sorry, love. There’s no one else." The words hang in the damp air, a weight you must bear. He waits, letting you choo…