#aetherraeysworks

[aetherraeys]

evil twin !

regulus black x twinpotter!reader ⊹ 10.2k

(part ii)

cw ⟢ eventual poly!bartylus!!, slytherin!reader, fluff, friends to lovers

summary: the potter twins, a marvelous duo split by the sorting hat. just like your brother you presence was addictive, drawing in the attentions of a particularly brooding black brother.

a/n: THIS IS THE FIRST OF HOPEFULLY MANY PARTS HEHEHE I HOPE YOU ENJOY MWAH!!! not proofread x

Dumbledore was convinced that both Euphemia and Fleamont Potter had carried out a divide and conquer tactic apon your arrival in the castle.

Individually, you and James were a force to be reckoned with—both incredibly charismatic, intelligent and hard-headed, with a knack for mischief. So together, Dumbledore’s head only spun at the thought of the havoc the pair of you would cause.

Luckily, on the fateful day of your arrival, you were placed in Slytherin and your beloved twin brother was placed in Gryffindor—separated for the first time ever. The moment still vivid in your mind, the second the sorting hat was on you, the way you flinched when it hummed, pondering—voice ringing loud in your ears as it announced—Slytherin.

James had frozen at the Gryffindor table, half out of his seat, hand still twitching against the bench where he’d been saving your spot—watching as your lip trembled, walking glossy-eyed to the Slytherin table.

That first night, the castle felt too big, dungeon walls suffocating, too many corridors between you and your brother.

Of course it was hard, for the both of you.

James had always been protective over you—infuriatingly so. Always reinforcing the fact that he needs to take care of his little sister. Like those three minutes made any difference at all.

It had been a slow shift—painful, even. You and James had always been a unit, bound by childhood games, matching jumpers, and the unspoken certainty that wherever one of you went, the other wasn’t far behind. But Hogwarts had changed that. The Sorting Hat had done more than divide you; it had distilled you. Pulled apart the blended pieces of your personalities and exposed them for what they truly were.

It gave you both room to grow.

Individually. Distinctively.

Earning names for yourselves outside of ‘the Potter twins’.

You’d both carved your names into the stone walls of Hogwarts in your own distinct ways—loud and clear, unmistakable.

James Potter was sunlight. A walking, talking explosion of brightness. He lit up corridors with that crooked grin and wind-mussed hair, bounding through the castle like he owned every inch of it. Gryffindor Quidditch captain, chaotic and loud and brilliant in all the ways that made people want to follow him into a duel or disaster.

He was the kind of boy who laughed with his whole chest, who spoke like everything he said mattered, arms slung around friends like they were lifelines. Always in motion. Always burning. A golden retriever in human form, all reckless energy and genuine joy.

And then there was you.

Cool where James was burning. Still water to his wildfire. But no less dangerous.

No less alluring.

They called you the evil twin—never to your face, and never with confidence. Not seriously. Not really. But the name clung to you like smoke. It suited you in the way all the best lies do: close enough to truth to be dangerous.

There was a calm to you, deliberate and composed, but it was the kind of calm that made people lean in too close, not noticing that they were slipping under the surface until it was far too late. You moved with the kind of grace that made people watch without realising they were watching, your smile soft, voice smoother still, and eyes always gleaming with something slightly wild.

They whispered about you long after you left a room.

Head Girl before your quill ever touched the application parchment. A perfect record—at least on paper.

Your charm was quieter than James’, more calculated, more disarming. Beautiful, brilliant, and just a little terrifying. You made people nervous, even when you were smiling. Especially when you were smiling.

There was a glint in your eyes that made hearts skip and stomachs drop, that whispered of games and secrets and consequences. A wicked sort of glimmer, like you knew every thought in their head and were already deciding what to do with it. Like the sea right before a storm.

Yin and yang, Dumbledore had once said, half in jest. Opposing forces in perfect balance.

You enter the Great Hall like a secret unfurling—quiet and unannounced, not so much walking as gliding between tables, untouched by the noise that fills the air.

Steps silent across the stone floor, a slip of motion through the chaos of breakfast—chatter and cutlery and laughter clanging off the walls. You pass the Gryffindor table without so much as a murmur trailing behind you, and still, not one person notices.

Not until your hand touches James’ shoulder.

He jerks so violently he nearly knocks his goblet over, a string of startled swears tumbling from his mouth as his fork clatters against the plate. Pumpkin mash splatters. Someone at the table yelped. Sirius choked on his toast, and Remus actually gasped as if someone’s just hexed him.

Every head turned.

And James was clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him.

“Bloody—! Merlin’s sake, you can’t just—!”

You tilt your head at him, ever so slightly, a small smirk twitching at the corners of your lips—eyes glinting with amusement. “Jamie,” you say in a sing-song lilt, sweet and syrupy, “You wouldn’t happen to still have the History of Magic textbook you borrowed from me, would you?”

A hush falls over the table—just long enough to make you notice.

“Er. About that,” he says, eyes darting like he’s working out whether to lie or apologise. “I might still have it. Might. Can’t say what condition it’s in, though.”

Your smile fades instantly, its replacing expressing shockly serious.

“James,” you say flatly, eyes narrowing. “Did you ruin my book?”

He winces. “Define ruin—”

“James.”

“It wasn’t on purpose!” he insists quickly, shoulders raising like you’re about to hex him in the middle of the Great Hall. “There was this—uh—Sirius spilled ink on the table and then Remus knocked it over and there was just a lot going on.”

You stayed silent, blinking at him, unimpressed.

“I’ll get you a new copy,” he says, guilt creeping into his voice. “Later today. You’ll have to stop by the common room, though.”

You sigh like it physically pains you. “Fine. I’ll try to come by around seven.”

He grins, pleased with himself. “Sorry, Poppet*.*”

You roll your eyes, but the edge of your mouth twitches. Straightening, with a roll of your shoulders as you draw your hand away from him, letting it fall to your side. And when you glace up again, the stares hadn’t stopped.

Like they’d forgotten to look away, the silence hung in the air for barely a second, scanning the table momentarily—before offering a small smile—slow, sweet, almost smug.

The kind of smile that ruins people.

“M’kay, see you later, Jamie,” you murmur, then turn and slip back into motion.

Eyes follow you as you go—every turn of your heel, every soft shift of fabric, every second you exist within their line of sight. James barely registers it at first—too busy spearing his toast again, already halfway back into conversation. But then he pauses.

His eyes flick to Sirius. Then to Remus. Then to Marlene.

All three of them are still staring across the hall. Still tracking your path back to your table.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” James groans loudly, glaring. “Stop gawking at my sister.”

Marlene blinks, caught. “She’s terrifying,” she mutters, almost to herself.

“In a really…good way,” Remus adds, dazed.

Sirius only grins.

James lets out a strangled sound and buries his face in his hands.

The portrait swings open without hesitation, at exactly seven o’clock sharp, you’d been there enough times that even the Fat Lady doesn’t bother asking questions anymore.

James is already waiting on one of the overstuffed armchairs by the fire, textbook in hand. You barely slowed as you approached. He tossed it up with a practiced flick of the wrist, and you caught it one-handed.

“New copy,” he says proudly. “Didn’t even steal it. Aren’t you proud?”

You hum in approval, flipping it open to scan the pages. “No ink stains. No food crumbs. No smell of dungbombs.” You close it with a satisfied snap. “Miracles do happen.”

Before he can retort, you’ve already turned toward the couch, where Lily is perched cross-legged with a steaming mug of something floral and her usual tower of parchment. She smiles when she sees you, shifting over to make space without being asked.

Tucking the textbook under your arm as you lower yourself beside her.

James raises a suspicious brow, but you and Lily are already whispering to each other, heads tilted close and expressions conspiratorial. It’s nothing terribly sinister—something to do with Hogsmeade, and getting Slughorn to move a test back a week—but it’s enough to draw curious glances from the far side of the room.

You feel them. The eyes.

But you don’t look. Don’t need to.

Sirius was pretending not to stare. Which is laughable, really, because his entire body was angled toward you, elbow propped on the back of the couch, fingers tangled in his hair in that careless way he probably thinks is charming.

And Remus was worse. He’s trying to read, bless him, book in his lap and everything—but his eyes haven’t moved from you since you sat down. He shifts like he’s uncomfortable, chewing the inside of his cheek. You think you catch the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck.

You say nothing. Keep your voice low as you murmur something into Lily’s ear that makes her snort softly behind her hand.

After ten minutes of easy conversation, you rise without ceremony, slipping the textbook fully under your arm and smoothing your skirt.

“Well,” you say lightly, brushing a hand over your robes. “This was fun.”

Lily smirks. “We’ll finalise tomorrow?”

“Perfect” You glance to James. “Thanks for the book, Jamie.”

“No problem, Pop.”

You turn, finally acknowledging the two boys across the room with a glint of something wicked in your eye.

“Goodnight, boys,” you said sweetly—voice soft as silk, almost melodic. The slightest edge of a smile curves your lips as you roll your eyes, and then you’re already walking toward the exit, the hem of your robes trailing behind you like smoke.

You don’t look back.

But if you had, you would’ve seen Sirius run a hand through his hair and lean back with a low whistle.

“Merlin,” he mutters. “I’d swear she’s half siren if it weren’t for you, Prongs”

James, who’s still watching the portrait door swing shut, scoffs. “Oh, come off it.”

“What?” Sirius grins, unashamed. “It’s not my fault your sister is—” he gestures vaguely toward the door, “—whatever that is.”

Remus doesn’t say a word. His book is still open in his lap—he’s not reading it.

“I’m just saying,” Sirius continues, “if she weren’t your sister…”

“But she is my sister.” James rebutted, slouching back in his seat—swiftly ending the conversation.

The corridor curved with quiet shadows, lit only by the flicker of distant torches. Your footsteps echoed faintly against the flagstone, a soft rhythm in the stillness of the dungeons. It was late, you’d spent more time in the Gryffindor common room than you’d realised—most of the castle already asleep, save for the odd prefect or wandering ghost.

You turned a corner near the potions classroom and nearly walked straight into Regulus Black.

He stopped short, posture already impeccable, as if even in surprise he couldn't be caught off guard. There was a brief flicker of something in his eyes—recognition, hesitation—and then he stepped slightly aside, giving you room without a word.

“Burning the midnight oil, Black?” you asked, voice soft with the sort of casual familiarity that made his name sound like something you owned.

He glanced at you, dark eyes catching in the torchlight. “Prefect rounds. Took longer than expected.”

You fell into step beside him as naturally as breathing, and he adjusted his pace to match yours without needing to be asked.

“What was it this time?” you mused. “More Gryffindors smuggling sweets from the kitchens?”

“Fourth-years,” he said with a small exhale—amusement undercutting his otherwise smooth tone. “Said they were practicing for a future in espionage.”

“Ambitious,” you said, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Almost enough to make me proud.”

Regulus didn’t respond, but you felt the brief flick of his eyes on your profile, like he was trying not to look too long. Like he was trying not to seem too interested.

You didn’t comment, but you noticed.

By the time you reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, barely mumbling the password before the metal hinges whined, door opening slowly. Inside, the green-glass lamps glowed low, casting dreamy reflections against the water-like ceiling. The fire in the hearth crackled lazily, golden against the dark velvet furniture.

Dorcas sat half-curled on the rug, absently flipping through a magazine; Evan was draped across a couch like he owned it, cards floating above his face; Pandora leaned near him, humming as she threaded a strand of starlight-colored ribbon through her hair. It was a tableau of sleepy elegance.

Without hesitation, you crossed the room and lowered yourself to the center rug near the fire. Your hand stretched toward the flames without thought. A spark rose up, obedient and curious, dancing into your open palm.

Twirling it between your fingers like silk, the heat never burning you, the flame curling comfortably around your touch. Pandora’s fingers stilled in her braid, watching.

Wandless magic.

Dorcas tilted her head, eyes bright. “You really have to teach me how to do that one day.”

You didn’t look away from the fire. “Of course,” you said lightly. “But there’s a bit of a learning curve.”

“Like what kind of curve?” Evan asked, not looking up. “Burn-your-dormitory-down levels?”

“More like third-degree-if-you’re-clumsy,” you replied with a grin.

“I could do it,” a voice said behind you, full of loud confidence.

Barty stepped forward from where he’d been balanced on the arm of the sofa, his hair tousled, shirt rumpled, and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to make an entrance.

You turned your head slightly, one brow raised. “Could you now?”

“First try,” he goaded, brows arched in light challenge. “Swear on my father's boring haircut.”

Regulus snorted, not even looking up from his book. “You’ll burn yourself stupid.”

“I’ll be fine,” Barty said, already striding forward. “How hard can it be?”

He reached toward the fire, trying to mimic the smooth gesture you’d used, fingers tense with focus and impatience.

A small spark leapt up—and immediately sputtered, flaring far too quickly. The flame caught his skin with a sharp sizzle before he could react, and he yelped, flinging his hand back with a curse.

“Bloody hell!”

The room erupted with laughter.

Pandora’s hand clamped over her mouth as if to shove the laugh back in, both Evan and Dorcas threw their heads back in sync, barking out a laugh—sound mixing with yours, loud and delighted, as Barty glared at the fire like it had personally betrayed him.

“Under control, was it?” you teased.

He cradled his palm like it was a war wound. “Minor setback. I didn’t even flinch.”

“You flinched so hard you almost somersaulted.”

“Semantics,” Barty grumbled.

“Let me see,” you said, standing and stepping closer.

He hesitated only a beat before holding out his hand, palm-up. A faint red welt bloomed across his skin, angry and hot. Your fingers brushed against his as you took it, and you felt the brief hitch in his breath. You didn’t comment.

A whisper of magic curled from your palm, cool and quiet, threading over the burn like mist. The redness faded almost instantly, leaving only smooth skin and the faintest echo of heat.

Barty stared down at your work like it was a trick he couldn’t quite understand.

From the couch, Evan leaned forward, smirking. “You just wanted an excuse to hold her hand.”

“Shove off,” Barty muttered, pulling his hand back quickly, though not too quickly.

You shook your head, half-exasperated half-amused, and turned toward the hall. “I’m going to wash up.”

As you stepped away from the firelight, you caught movement in the corner of your eye. Regulus was still in his usual spot—half reclined in the reading chair by the window, a book open but forgotten on his lap.

His gaze was fixed on you, unreadable and unblinking.

You held it for just a moment, a soft smirk just barely twitching at the corners of your lips, before disappearing down the hall.

Unsurpisingly, both you and Regulus had more in common than you’d care to admit.

Both the less outlandish sibling, the ‘quieter’ ones—not necessarily in sound, but in presence. While James and Sirius blazed like bonfires, reckless and radiant, you and Regulus were something else entirely.

Subtle, magnetic.

You didn’t need to shout to be heard. You’d both entered a room and the air seemed to still slightly, as if waiting to see what you’d do.

Both of you understood what it meant to watch. To study a room before deciding what piece you wanted to play in it. You weren’t loud, nor silent just quietly unnerving. Regal, even.

There was a stillness about Regulus, an almost surgical precision to his movements and his clipped tone, like everything he did was measured twice before execution. He was painfully composed, almost uptight, his dry wit tucked behind an unimpressed brow and unimpeachable posture.

And where you differed—you were made of wild starlight and strange tides, chaos in your blood even if it rarely cracked your veneer, eventhough you rarely indulged. And where Regulus pulled inward, you leaned out. You loved a little disorder, havoc—a challenge; your eyes shining when something didn’t go to plan, smirking like you were always in on a secret.

There was a certain wickedness in your stillness—one that made Regulus look twice. Then three times. Then constantly.

Each thing he learned about you surprised him more than the last.

So he decided, quietly and with a calm sort of resolve, that he’d had enough of watching you from afar. He wanted a closer look.

The first time was in the library.

You were tucked into the corner of a row, arms full of books, hair falling across your face as you read the spine of a heavy tome. You didn’t notice him at first—or maybe that’s just what he told himself, though he should’ve known better. Regulus moved with the silence of a shadow, but when he was only inches away and just about to speak, your voice floated out, lightly entertained:

“Planning to sneak up on me, Black?”

He blinked, lips parting in the barest hint of surprise. “I wasn’t—”

Without sparing him a glance you handed him the book at the top, and he took it instinctively—letting his fingers linger on yours just that bit longer than necessary. And you held in a quirk of your brows, the squint of your eyes—making a mental note.

Because Regulus was nothing if not purposeful.

He didn’t say anything else at first, only helped, taking the weight from you and beginning to shelve them wordlessly. There was a moment—just before he reached for the last one—where his fingers paused. The cover was worn, clearly read many times.

Icarus.

A Muggle myth. One of his favourites, though no one knew that.

His hand hovered just a little too long, thumb brushing over the faded title.

“What did you think of the ending?” you asked suddenly, your tone soft but cutting through the quiet like a quill to parchment.

He almost stammered, nearly asking how did you know? But caught himself, clearing his throat before replying. “Tragic. I liked it.”

You tilted your head, teeth sinking into your bottom lip—scanning his face—something glinting behind your eyes that he couldn’t quiet put his finger on.

The way the corners of your lips threatening to curve into a smile, had him struggling to swallow, voice honeyed in his ears—“Of course you did.”

And you were gone, just like that, leaving him standing—ears hot, brain playing your voice, your smile on loop.

Regulus prided himself in his ability to read a person, and yet with you—every interaction left him more confused, more intrigued, more captivated. There was some sort of riddle about you, something flickering in the depths of your eyes that made him want to unravel it—you.

The next time he saw you, you’d agreed to meet after his Quidditch practice to finish a joint assignment for Potions. Waiting just outside the changing rooms, arms crossed loosely over your chest, leaning against the cool stone wall with your bag slung over one shoulder.

The first person out wasn’t Regulus, but Barty—lips splitting into a wide smirk like he’d been expecting to see you there.

“Well, well,” he drawled, striding over with no shame, his hair a windswept mess and his jersey clinging to his frame. Immediately he closed in on you, arm slinging lazily over your shoulders, a light scent of cigarettes and oak filling your nose.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, pretty?”

Groaning, your nose crinkling at the contact, you didn’t push him off though—”You’re sweaty, Junior,”

He only leaned in closer, grin laced with mischief, letting his breath fan over your jaw. “You love it.”

“I love showers, actually. You should try one.”

Tongue darting out to wet his lips, his eyes flickered across you face, the corners of your lips fighting to stay down—eyes glimmering with that twinge of defiance that had him only smirk even wider—“Only if you come with.”

Your brow cocked up slightly, narrowing your eyes as your plucked his arm off of you, placing gently back by his side—palms still wrapped around his wrist. He watched your movement eagerly, the smirk that was already etched onto his lips, adopting a positively wolfish quality when you leaned up into him—lips almost brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered.

“You wouldn’t last five minutes, Junior,”

Pulling away just as quickly as you came in, leaning back against the wall leisurely, rolling your eyes at the way Barty scanned your figure—adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

Then the door opened again, still not Regulus.

“Evan,” you called sweetly, “come collect your lost dog before he starts shedding on me.”

“C’mon, Crouch” Evan replied with a snort, catching him by the collar and dragging him off. “Leave her alone before you melt her into the floor.”

Barty turned just before they were out of sight, voice loud despite the distance—playful, “Miss you already, Treasure!”

For a few more minutes you waited, the corridor quiet now except for the flickering of enchanted sconces and the distant echo of voices. When Regulus finally emerged, his tie half-undone and hair damp around the edges, cheeks still reddened from the bite of the air—adjusting his uniform.

“Did you wait long?”

He’d already began the walk out, following after him, you hummed a small no—slipping through the hallways in the East Wing to find an empty classroom. It wasn’t hard task at all, settling in with the low scrap of the stool against the stone floor and opening your textbooks.

As he flicked through the pages of the book, your gaze dropped instinctively to his hands—his knuckles bruised and bloodied, red blooming like petals across pale skin.

Without hesitation, you scooted forward in your seat and took his hand in yours.

“We could’ve stopped by Pomfrey,” you said, brows knitting slightly as you examined the scrapes.

He didn’t pull away. Just kept his gaze fixed on your hand, the way you held his delicately, and your fingers, the way they moved so gently across his skin.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered. “I’ll heal.”

A frown had etched itself onto your lips as you continued to inspect his hand, if you weren’t so engrossed in your assessment, you would have noticed the faint flush of his ears, or how his eyes flickered back and forth between your face and your hand.

Your motions were slow and attentive, pressing your palm along the bumps of his knuckles—the heat of your skin ghosting over his—the simmer of magic was so soft he almost didn’t notice it.

There was a flicker of discomfort in his eyes as the wounds healed, but he didn’t flinch away.

And as your palm crossed over the edge of his hand, the final gash closed before his eyes, the skin was almost perfectly anew, as if nothing had happened—the only indication being a fading pink hue.

You continued to trace over the now-faint marks, fingertips ghosting along the healed bone, the tenderness of your touch leaving him slightly breathless.

“Better,” you whispered, half to yourself.

Regulus just stared at his hand when you let go, still feeling the echo of your touch, the whisps of your warmth. “Thank you,” he said finally, voice quieter than usual, lips still parted—stretching and rolling his fingers, watching the bones move comfortably under the skin, free of the light burning sensation.

When he looked up, you were already watching him—head tilted, expression cool—neutral.

Sighing out a breath his lips were moving before he could stop them, “I—how?”

A quiet hum escaped your lips, hands crossing over your lap as you leaned into the wood of your chair, “Well, James and I were really clumsy—more James than me, obviously,”

Recollecting, your lips curled into a smile, shrugging slightly as you continued, “Our mum got tired of us walking around bruised and battered when she was busy, so she taught me how to heal without a wand,”

The ghost of a smile almost twitched at the corners of his lips. Almost.

A short silence veiled the room as you fell into a working rhythm, mindlessly highlighting and note taking before the clattering of Regulus’ quill against the table broke your concentration. Eyes immediately shifting up to him—his lips pursed into a tightline but the words were already out. Blurted abruptly, cracking the silence just as his quill did.

“Teach me,”

Your brows raised into a suprised arch, confusion flickering across your face for brief moment, lips parting to respond. When he shrunk into himself slightly, shocked by his own outburst, muttering a small, “…please?” under his breath.

The response fell heavy on your tongue, lips stretching into an amused smirk and huffed chuckle bubbled low in your chest.

The wood of the chair scrapped and screeched loud against the stone as you stood, wordlessly making your way around the table. His eyes tracked your movements, just barely becoming frantic in their flickering when you sat beside him—knees brushing, so close.

Regulus breath caught when your gazes met, heat prickling at the base of his neck, hands curling into half-fists on the table, and you kept your eyes on him. Even as you leaned over closing his books, making space on the desk—warmth of your body vaguely gracing him.

He couldn’t bring himself to look away, tear his gaze from yours—as much as it made his stomach flip from its quiet intensity—the confidence that swam in your eyes. It sucked him in, making his adam’s apple bob in his throat.

All-consuming.

At the sound of a single galleon, lazily spinning on the table, you broke your stare—letting your sights fall onto the coin as it clattered to a halt. “Have you done wandless magic before?”

He sucked in a deep breath, allowing his lungs to fill completely—using that time to regulate his heart that threatened to beat out of his chest—before pushing all the air back out, forcibly rubbing his palms into the fabric of his robes.

“Once—accidentally,”

With a nod, you hummed at his words, waiting for him to continue, eyes back on him—boring into the side of his head. “I—uh, got the lights to turn on when i couldn’t find my wand,”

His eyes shift between you and the coin as you picked it up, rolling it between your fingers as your spoke, “Okay, lets start with something simple, shall we?” The way you watched him made his mouth painfully dry, he couldn’t even trust his voice to answer, silently nodding at you words.

“Try move the coin.”

When he whipped his head towards to, lips parted in slight disbelief, protests creeping up his throat—Regulus clamped his mouth shut at the smile on your face, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners swimming with mischief as you leaned in. Placing the coin back onto the table with a soft clink, instinctively he held his breath, short-circuiting at the sudden proximity—so close he could smell you, a light vanilla scent with a twinge of maple and freshly burnt fire-wood.

You made him so nervous, he found himself a bit pathetic.

And the honeyed cadance of your voice did nothing but make his heart race faster than it already was, “Just breathe, Regulus. Focus on the coin and where you want it to move—relax,”

Easier said than done.

Gods, even the way you said his name—he almost lost the rest of your sentence, letting it echo in his mind over and over again.

When you reclined, leaning back into your chair, he felt the urge to mourn the loss of warmth—rolling his shoulders back, focusing his gaze. Or at least, he tried to.

The coin sat quietly on the table, unmoved, unbothered by the sheer force of his will alone. His jaw tensed, brows pinched together, fingers twitching slightly as if the movement alone might spark the magic into life.

Nothing.

With a breath that was equal parts frustration and surrender, Regulus leaned back and exhaled sharply.

“Can you—” he muttered, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, —can you not watch me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Then a quiet chuckle slipped from your lips as you raised your hands in surrender, the teasing edge of your smile tugging at the corners. “Alright, alright,” you murmured, “Sorry.” Voice light and easy, but your eyes still sparkled with that same mischief that made his stomach clench. “Didn’t realise I was that distracting.”

“You are,” he muttered under his breath, almost too quiet for you to hear.

Still, you didn’t comment on it. Instead, leaning in again—slowly, gently—and placed your hand on his shoulder, the heat of you palm instantly radiating through his robes, hairs raising down his spine. His eyes flicked to the contact, then to your face again. You were closer than before.

“You’re thinking too hard,” you murmured, your thumb brushing once over the fabric of his robes. “And you’re not breathing.”

“I am breathing,” he argued weakly.

“Barely.”

You didn’t move your hand as you spoke again, your voice quieter now, velvet-soft and steady. “Close your eyes. Envision it. Just you and the coin. No pressure.” Regulus hesitated for a beat, then followed your instruction, lids fluttering shut.

A few moments pass before your voice reaches his ears again, “Can you see it?” and he nodded slowly, jaw tightening in focus.

“Alright,” you continued, tone low almost hypnotic now, “imagine it moving. Just a bit. Like there’s an invisible string tugging it toward you.”

He sucked in another deep breath, picturing it. The cool glint of the galleon. The subtle shine under the tinted light of the classroom. The gentle tug, like a current.

And then—scrape.

The softest sound of metal shifting against wood reached both your ears. His eyes shot open. It had moved—just barely a few centimeters, but undeniably there. His breath caught, disbelief flashing across his face.

When he turned to you, a bright beam had already split across your face, the sort of proud, delighted smile that hit him harder than the adrenaline from the magic—your hand finally slipped from his shoulder, leaving a coldness in its wake—fingers grazing the fabric of his robes. “You did it!” you said, eyes bright. “See? Easy.”

He let out a stunned breath, caught between awe and the bloom of success, heartbeat still rapid beneath his ribs. The warmth of accomplishment mingling with the quiet thrum of your presence, you. He was still processing when you reset the coin with a smooth sweep of your hand.

“Again,” you urged, nudging it into place. “Try further this time.”

He nodded, more focused now—confident. When he closed his eyes again, he could still hear the echo of your voice in his head. Could still imagine your hand on his shoulder, steading—warm.

And this time, it slid farther—too far.

The coin zipped forward, clattered off the edge, and hit the floor with a metallic clink that echoed around the empty classroom. You let out a short burst of laughter, delighted, as his head dropped, a sheepish huff escaping him. But the tension had melted from his shoulders, replaced with slow blossoming of something lighter. Pride.

He bent down to retrieve it, fingers brushing the cool metal before placing it back on the table. You were already settling beside him again, the warmth of your presence sparking something just under his skin. “This is the next step,” you said, tapping the surface of the table.

Regulus was still watching you.

Then you extended your hand, with a single finger, you hovered just above the coin—twirling it in a slow, controlled motion—and like it had a will of its own, the coin lifted.

Spinning, following the gentle twirl of your finger. A slow spiral, then faster, gathering speed until it hovered in the air, dancing in place.

He was entranced, gaze stuck on the coin even as it settled down, coming to a graceful halt—landing perfectly in the center of the table. He’d known magic, of course he did—but it felt different, raw and effortless. The same way the flame had danced between your fingers in the common room the other night—mindlessly intuitive, captivating. The coin spun like it wanted to please you. Everything did, it seemed.

He was still staring at the coin, hesitating—doubt creeping in through the back of his mind, like an unwanted invasive parasite—it barely flickered across his face. An almost imperceivable break in his expression, but you saw it.

Taking the coin again, you reached for his hand—laying your palm flat under his, eyes flickering to his face for permission before continuing. When he didn’t pull away, you placed the coin in the center of his hand, the warmth of your skin on his made the sharp bite of the metal feel that bit colder against his hand.

It lifted and spun confidently against his skin, puppeteered by the twist of your finger.

“Feel that?” Voice just above a whisper.

And he could feel it, a steady thrumming faintly circling in his palm, the buzzing with your magic. Swallowing before he spoke, a small “Yeah,” passing into the air between you.

“Now,” you spoke quietly, catching his other hand and bringing it to hover above the coin. “Picture that same feeling at your fingertips. Like it’s moving from your hand into the air—let it flow through you.”

He concentrated. You stayed close. Hand still gently cradling his from below, a silent encouragement, he started mimicking the slow twirling motion in the space above the coin.

For a few long moment—nothing.

Then, it happened. The coin jerked, slightly. Then again, shakily dragging to a stand. A tremble, stuttering before a spin. Jerky at first, but then it righted itself—smoothly gaining speed, falling into step with the command of his finger.

And your laughter, it rung through the room—soft, radiant—spilling from your chest with that same pride from before. He was too stunned to say anything. Blinking down at the coin with wide eyes, then looking to you, breathless, like he wasn’t quite sure it had actually happened. A smile—an actual, full smile—slowly curved onto his lips.

Rare and quiet, it lingered like a secret only the two of you shared.

The low buzz still resonating in his palm, the echo of your magic mingled with his own. The feeling of your hands—warm, steady, coaxing power out of him with nothing more than your voice and a bit of stubborn charm.

And even as the coin fell suddenly into his hand, all he could do was look at you.

Relish in the way your eyes shone with a glimmer of excitement, how your hands curved around his, jogging them slightly in enthusiastic joy of his accomplishment.

The coin was stagnant in his palm, Regulus flipped your hands, surrendering the cold metal into yours—and yet his hands lingering in your hold. He knew he probably should have moved his hands, the second he resigned the coin back into your possession; that was his cue. But he felt stuck, frozen under your sights.

Bewitched.

Even as your lips moved before him, the words almost fell deaf on his ears—taking a few seconds to let them echo in his mind, how did it feel? He responded with a sighing breath, as if relinquishing all remaining tension in his body, “…Good,” nodding his head as his continued, “really good actually,”

His small confession has your lips stretching even further along your face, and acknowledging hum rumbling in your throat as your touch slowly slipped away from his. Quietly tucking the coin into your bag before you started to pack up.

Just when you closed your notebook Regulus’ voice glided across the air, just above a faint murmur—if the room had any other sounds than the quiet rustling of papers, you wouldn’t have heard it.

“You’re a really good teacher,”

A small huff of laugh passed through your nose, tucking your notebook under your arm as you stood and offered a small, warm smile. “It’s easy,” you said lightly, “when you have a good student.”

Regulus shook his head faintly, a huff of something like disbelief leaving his lips—but the curve of pride hadn’t quite left his mouth.

The two of you walked in comfortable silence through the halls, your steps in sync. His hands tucked in his pockets, your bag slung over your shoulder. The dungeons were dim, washed in the dull blue of lantern light, shadows stretching along the stone. He kept glancing sideways at you, like there was something still lingering on his tongue he hadn’t quite worked up the courage to say.

Just as you reached the bottom of the girls’ dorm staircase, your hand curling loosely around the bannister, Regulus spoke.

“Wait—” His voice was low, tentative. Pausing, you turned slightly. “Hm?”

He stood a few steps back, one hand curled around the strap of his satchel, the other still shoved in his pocket. “Would you…” he paused, gaze dipping before finding yours again, more certain now. “Will you show me more?”

There was a beat of silence.

You tilted your head, watching him closely, fingers curled loosely around the railing. Blinking once, twice, reading the sincerity in his face, the open want—not desperation, harmless interest. He could see the cogs turning in your head just for a moment, before you murmured with a shrug, “Yeah.”

Descending the stairs again, you fell into step beside him as he led the way up the other staircase. The boys’ dorm was quiet when you reached it, the door creaking softly open under his hand. The warm scent of parchment, cologne, and something distinctly him met you in the space.

You paused at the threshold.

It wasn’t unfamiliar—you’d lounged across Barty’s bed enough times, lazily flipping through books while he tore the room apart looking for a missing assignment. You’d perched at Evan’s desk, rifled through his scribbled notes, borrowed a quill Barty’s nightstand. But never while Regulus was there. You’d never stepped into his space, not when he was in it.

He didn’t seem to notice your stillness. He moved through the room with ease, like you weren’t watching—dropping his books in a stack by the desk, slipping his robe off one shoulder, then tugging his jumper over his head. His shirt was rumpled beneath, sleeves already rolled up, collar slightly askew. You caught yourself staring.

He looked over his shoulder.

“You coming in?” he asked, voice a little lower now, pitched in that way it sometimes got when it was just you.

Without a word, you stepped in, toeing the door shut behind you and dropping your bag just beside the frame. You mimicked his motions easily, slipping off your jumper and draping it over the back of a nearby chair, fingers brushing absently along the edge of his desk as you walked further in.

It was a clean room. Structured, but not stiff. His bed was neat, the desk organised, quills and books perfectly aligned. But there were touches—human ones. A framed photo of the Quidditch pitch mid-game, a green ribbon pinned to the wall—a burnished Slytherin scarf neatly folded at the end of his bed, and a single piece of parchment stuck to the wall above his workspace.

With a soft exhale, you flopped onto his bed, letting your arms stretch out as you gazed up at the canopy. The hangings were dark, almost velvet black, and they made the whole space feel smaller, quieter. Private.

Regulus glanced over, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. He returned to his desk, potion book in hand, eyebrows arched in mild disbelief.

“You make yourself comfortable wherever you go, don’t you?” he said dryly, a smirk threatening at the corners of his lips.

You didn’t reply—just smirked smugly, twisting your head into the sheets below, stretching your limbs out, still gazing up at the dark, heavy curtains draped above the bed. The movement made your shirt shift, riding up slightly—just a touch above your waistband, exposing a sliver of skin, soft and warm under the low lamplight—the stretch of your abdomen and the small indent of your navel.

He was staring.

He didn’t realise how long until you sat up, balancing your weight on one arm, eyes still wandering lazily over the ceiling.

“You’d think your parents taught you it’s rude to stare,” you said lightly. “But you and your brother are just the same.”

Regulus cleared his throat, heat blooming high on his cheekbones, but he said nothing.

Your attention drifted to the stack of books on his desk—and the singular piece of parchment, handwritten in a precise script, pinned above it.

“What’s that?” you asked, nodding toward it.

He followed your gaze. “A line from a poem.”

You hummed, intrigued. “What’s it say?”

He crossed the room, settling a book on his night stand before he sat on the bed beside you.

You didn’t meet his gaze right away—still reclined, your hair spilling over the edge of the bed like ink, one hand absentmindedly twirling the galleon between your fingers.

Stretching out onto his stomach, bringing his chin on his forearm to look at you properly. He watched you for a moment. The way the gold shimmered in your grip, the way your mouth twitched with unspoken thought. You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t mention it.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft—gentle and low as he recited the line, something breathy and melodic in French. His accent was quiet but careful.

The coin fell still in your lap as you turned your head toward him.

“It sounds pretty,” you murmured. Your eyes traced his face, steady and curious. “What does it mean?” His gaze didn’t leave yours, sucking in a breath through his nose, the mattress beside you dipped as he promped himself up onto his elbows, words slow and hypnotising in your ears.

“Let night come on bells end the day, the days go by me still I stay”

You blinked at him, for a long moment, just letting the words rest heavy in the air between you, and his adam’s apple bobbed in his throat when you spoke, voice barely above a whisper, more breath than words—as if anything louder would crack the air as it stilled around you.

“It sounds extra pretty in your voice.”

Regulus swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. You were too close. Not close enough. The lamp behind you casted golden shadows across your face and your lips were slightly parted, just barely.

Before he could stop himself, the words were already tumbling out.

“I think you’re pretty.”

You didn’t say anything, just kept your eyes on him—blinks slowly as you took in each feature.

And then he was leaning in. Slowly, but not hesitantly—fingertips skimming along your jaw, guiding your face toward his with reverence more than boldness. He tilted your face toward him like he’d done it a thousand times before.

The ghost of a smile tugged at your lips, and as he got closer, you hummed, tone somewhere between amusement and a quiet gentleness, “Such high praise,” Gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips one last time before his mouth was on yours.

Regulus’ lips brushed yours with a delicate sort of caution, like he was afraid to startle the moment. His hand stayed warm at your jaw, thumb ghosting along the edge of your cheekbone, grounding himself in the quiet thrill of the contact.

When you kissed him back, slowly, deliberately, and it was like you lit a fuse under his skin. He moved closer, shoulders angling toward you, the hand on your jaw trailing down—fingers curling gently around your neck, not possessive, but fervored.

There was nothing rushed about it. Only the press of mouths and the occasional, breathless hitch of air as your noses brushed and he tilted his head, deepening the kiss slightly—still cautious, still a little hesitant.

But then then he heard it—just barely there, a small breath of contentment through your nose as your fingers slid up the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric.

That did it.

His lips moved with more intent now, more certainty, like he’d been holding back and couldn’t anymore. He tasted like peppermint and something you couldn’t quite place, and every time he pulled away even a fraction, he came right back—drawn to you like the pull of gravity.

Somewhere in the flurry of warmth and movement, the air around you shifted.

The curtains.

The ones above his bed rustled faintly, and then, slowly, they began to close—not all the way, but just enough to wrap the two of you in the hush of privacy. The dark velvet swept inward in a lazy draw, like someone had tugged gently at invisible strings. The air around you seemed to slow, thick with suspended magic and the soft scent of something like cedar and parchment.

Pulling back from the kiss, just barely, your lips brushing his as a breath of laughter escaped you. The kind of soft, genuine giggle that bloomed right in your chest and spilled out in surprise. Your forehead dropped back lightly against the pillow as you whispered, voice honeyed with delight, “Did you just—?”

He didn’t say anything at first. But there was the faintest flush at the tips of his ears, even as the corners of his lips twitched in a sheepish smile. You cupped his jaw gently, brushing your thumb along the edge of his cheek as you teased with a squint of your eye, voice low and fond, “Already showing off.”

He just huffed a laugh, dipping his head slightly—forehead pressing to yours, breaths mingling in the narrow space between you. His hand found your waist again, sliding over your hip to pull you closer, until your bodies were all but tangled together in the middle of his bed.

Then he paused.

Looked at you.

Really looked at you—eyes searching your face, the softness of your features in the low dorm light, the flush on your cheeks, the swollen curve of your lips, still flushed lightly from his kiss. His thumb brushed your waist absently, reverently, like he was trying to memorise the moment through touch alone.

You blinked up at him, slightly breathless, lips curving into that small smile—that quiet, knowing one—that had his pulse quickening.

“How long have you been waiting to do that?” Voice just above a whisper.

A beat.

His answer was just as quiet.

“…Too long.”

You didn’t say anything, you didn’t have to.

Because then his lips were on yours again, more insistent this time—hungry but still careful, still delicate. Like he was trying to learn the shape of your mouth with his own. His hand slid to the small of your back, curling to bring you even closer, your chest brushing his with every inhale.

Dinner came and went. Neither of you moved.

Body sprawled across the bed, head in Regulus’ lap, legs stretched out and one arm flopped over your middle lazily. His hand drifted idly through your hair, almost absentminded in its rhythm, as he spoke—quiet and thoughtful, voice lilting into stories you never expected him to share.

He told you about how he hated summer, because his skin burned too easily—how the Black family manor always smelled like dust and old magic. How he and Barty used to sneak wine from the cellar and sit on the roof, trying to name constellations. How his favourite book growing up wasn’t even magical—it was a Muggle text he smuggled in and read by candlelight.

You blinked up at him with a soft smile, utterly content, not interrupting—just listening.

For a man you’d once believed was of few words, he sure had a lot to say.

Not that you weren’t complaining.

There was something soft about him now—looser. Less controlled. Like the tightly wound strings he kept knotted around himself had started to loosen just enough to let you in, like he’d been waiting for the the chance to bare himself. And Merlin, he was affectionate. Not in the loud, boisterous way others might’ve been. But with soft hands and stolen glances. A touch at your hip, the gentle brush of knuckles down your arm. Aching for contact in any form, so careful about how he was gave and received it, like it could be torn away at any given moement—still so foreign, even in his own mind.

Your thumb traced slow circles into his knee as you murmured, “Can you read the line again? From the poem?”

Regulus looked down at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He nodded, brushing a piece of hair from your forehead before turning toward the parchment pinned above his desk. He recited it again in that soft voice—low and smooth, almost like a lullaby.

You closed your eyes, humming in contentment.

When he finished, you whispered, “Lemme show you something.”

And before he could ask, your hand curled into a fist. You held it up between you both. His brows furrowed slightly, watching with interest.

Then, you slowly unfurled your fingers—and from the centre of your palm, a small bluebell flower sprouted, delicate and glowing faintly with the magic that coaxed it into being.

“This,” you whispered, eyes flickering with warmth and voice like a secret, “is what I think of when I hear your voice.”

For a long moment, Regulus didn’t speak.

Just stared.

The shock in his eyes wasn’t loud. It was quiet and still, like everything else about him. But it was there. Etched into the way he looked at you—not just at the flower, but at your face. Your expression, the tenderness written across it with no ulterior motive, no mischief behind your eyes. No teasing lilt in your tone.

Just you.

And he didn’t know what to do with it.

His fingers reached out gently, brushing the fragile petals like they might dissolve under his touch. And when he looked back at you, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“You really are something,” he said, with a kind of awe that made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t prepared for.

Covering the sudden flutter of your chest with a scoff and biteless roll of your eyes. You didn’t give him the chance to say anything more, before you sat up abruptly, hair whipping slightly at your speed—movements fluid and unbothered as the mattress dipped under the concentrated weight of your knees.

Regulus frozen against the headboard, wide-eyed when your leg swung over his middle—settling on his lap in a straddle that was far too flippant. His hands hovered awkwardly at first, unsure where to settle—eventually, they found your hips, fingers curling there hesitantly.

The small smirk on lips only widened—at his obvious flush, relishing in the way the blush crept up his neck and spread across his cheeks.

“Relax,” you teased, brushing your fingers through his dark curls, tucking and retucking the strands behind his ear like you were sculpting something. And then, you nestled the bluebell flower in the space you’d created—right behind his ear.

“There,” you said with a proud grin, leaning back slightly to admire your work. Your hands slid down his neck, wrists resting lazily on his shoulders as you laced your fingers behind him, just barely hovering over his surely goosebump ridden skin. Tilting you head, you let your gaze rake over him like you were evaluating an art piece.

“I think blue might be your colour, Reg.”

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and you subtly shifted in his lap—closer, pressing into him with purpose. Regulus huffed a small scoff, finally finding a bit of his footing again, though his voice was still slightly strained. “Must you always be this brazen?”

You shrugged innocently. “It’s fun having people on edge.”

He hummed lowly, eyes flickering with something darker now—his grip tightening slightly on your hips. “Really?”

You leaned forward with a smirk, lips brushing his as you replied in a hushed, mocking whisper, “Reaaaally.”

That was all the prompting he needed.

His mouth met yours with vigor, kissing you like he couldn’t help it. Like he’d been waiting to. Desperate, yet controlled. His hands squeezing at the flesh of your waist as he pulled you closer, chest pressing flush to his, heat blooming between you, smiling into the kiss.

Pulled back slightly, lips still grazing his, and whispered against his mouth, “You must like brazen then.”

And that made him grin.

Actually grin. Wide and rare and perfect.

His hands gripped your waist more firmly as he kissed you again, feverish now, all slow control forgotten in favour of something more frantic and yearning. The kind of kiss that stole the air from your lungs and made time slip sideways.

So engrossed in each other, you didn’t hear the door creak open.

Didn’t notice the soft shuffle of footsteps.

But the moment the familiar sound of Barty’s voice filled the room, everything stopped.

“I brought teacakes,” he called out lazily from the other side of the dorm, “because you missed supper. I figured you were sulking or something—”

You and Regulus froze mid-kiss.

Legs still straddled across his lap. His hands halfway up your back. The flower still behind his ear.

Regulus’ eyes flew open. Your hand slapped over your mouth to muffle a curse.

“I left extra lemon ones, since—wait.”

Barty’s voice was closer now. Suspicious—”…Why are your curtains closed?”

Regulus was already looking at you, panicked. You swatted his arm sharply when he didn’t say anything, eyes wide and insistent. “Was Potter here?” Barty asked, a little louder this time.

“She—uh—” Regulus stammered. “She was here. Earlier.”

Stammered.

You physically winced.

He never stammered. And now Barty definitely knew something was off. There was the unmistakable sound of someone standing up. Then footsteps. Getting closer.

Barty’s voice was cool and skeptical. “So…she was here earlier…”

He paused just outside the curtain.

“…and just left her bag behind?”

Your eyes widened in horror. Your bag. You could envision where you’d left it—sitting in plain view.

A pained expression split across your face as Regulus turned to you with a look that screamed, what do we do??

But there was no time.

Because the curtain was already being drawn back.

Regulus didn't move. Neither did you.

Time seemed to stall between one breath and the next, and there was Barty—standing there with a half-eaten lemon teacake in one hand, his brows slowly climbing higher and higher as he took in the sight before him.

You, still straddling Regulus.

Regulus, pink-faced and looking about two seconds from imploding.

And the flower, still tucked delicately behind his ear.

A beat of silence.

He gasped—actually, audibly gasped, clutching his chest as if you'd physically wounded him. “Treasure,” he breathed, eyes wide and betrayed, “I cannot believe you traded me in for Black.”

You groaned. “Junior.”

“No—don’t you Junior me,” he said, stepping back like your words had scorched him, pressing a hand against the curtains pillar for support.

You slid off Regulus’ lap in a single, painful motion, trying to maintain any shred of dignity, which was difficult with your hair mussed and your shirt slightly rumpled from where Regulus had been clutching at the back of it.

Regulus didn’t even try to salvage anything. He just stared at the ceiling like he was mentally calculating how fast he could die and be buried—red down to the collar of his shirt.

“I thought we had something, Treasure,” Barty continued with a theatrical sniff, flopping onto his bed. “A shared love of mild chaos, midnight escapades, and morally ambiguous hexes.”

You just rolled your eyes. “Oh, please.”

He stared at the ceiling, hand still on his chest. “I’m heartbroken.”

“You’re eating a teacake.”

“I’m grieving, let me be.”

And then, his voice softened a little, still dramatic but now with an edge of sincerity. “I mean… obviously everyone’s had a crush on you, but I didn’t think he’d be the one to do something about it.”

You blinked, head whipping to Regulus, eyes narrowing. “You’re not denying it.”

He just shrugged lightly, like he didn’t see the point.

Barty’s laughter was smug as hell. “See?” he said, sitting up.

Regulus groaned softly beside you. “Is this going to end soon?”

Barty glanced between you both, a wicked little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So tell me,” he said, casually now, propping himself up on one elbow, “is this a new study method? Because I must’ve missed this chapter in Advanced Charms.”

“Jun—”

“No, no—really, I’m curious,” he said, waving his teacake for emphasis. “Do you rate each other’s technique? Is snogging now a core requirement for N.E.W.T. preparation?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying very hard not to laugh. It didn’t help that Regulus looked like he was actively contemplating vanishing spells, dropping his head into his hands.

Then he softened again, leaning his chin into his palm as he watched the two of you. “For what it’s worth, Reg… you look good like this. Like an actual person instead of a walking anxiety spell.”

“I hate you,” he muttered, hands slipping from his face to reveal a withering look.

Barty beamed. “That’s more like it.”

With a smug little wave, Barty finally stood, sauntering backwards toward the door with his usual flair.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—which, to be fair, is a very short list. Night, lovebirds.”

[aetherraeys]

visual learner

poly!marauder x inexperienced!reader ⊹ 5.1k

for this request!

cw ⟢ suggestive, first kisses, nervous!reader, tension, teasing, slightly domestic, newly established relationship, lots of kissing!

being a late-bloomer was never really an issue for you, until you're faced with figuring out how to go about kissing not just one boy, but three.

a/n: yes this is 5000 words of kissing and what? not proofread

If you were to think back, it honestly never bothered you much, you’d come to terms with it quite well—you were a late bloomer.

Sure, it meant that you didn’t have the exact same experiences as most of your peers when growing up, making those late nights in the dorms when the voices of all your friends danced around the room, feet kicking giddily as they shared which boy they’d gone to Hogsmead with that weekend. Or when they detailed the innocent lingering touches and fleeting eye contact they’d made with their crush—in person demonstrations and all. Of course, those nights were fun, playful girls nights, but it more listening than reenacting for you.

Even as you progressed further, graduating and starting univerisity, it didn’t bug you like your friends had assumed it would—’it’ being your lack of experience.

And it wasn’t that you were undesirable, far from it, opportunity isn’t an issue—you just weren’t in a rush. It also didn’t make you any more eager to speed things along after hearing countless disappointing and awkward recounts of your friends experiences.

Quite frankly, it just wasn’t the be-all and end-all of your youth, you had plenty of other things to worry about, plenty of other things that kept your mind comfortably occupied. And you were still young, there was still time for you to play catch-up, if and when you decided you wanted to.

The thing is, you were under the impression had a say in it in the first place—when in reality, the universe had other plans for you.

And those plans?

As it turned out, took form in the shape of three boys.

You’d thought they were a bit strange at orientation, their dynamic an interesting sight to say the least. But it wasn’t very long before you were sucked into their orbit, well and truly in the thick of it—completely out of your depth.

Because you’d yet to have a boyfriend, let alone three, but alas—you found yourself unable to deny them.

Falling into place with them relatively seemlessly, although the boys had been dating long before you came into the picture and have known each other longer, that wasn’t why you kept finding yourself picking at the skin around your nails, knawing at the flesh on the inside of your mouth, frequently lost in deep thought.

Granted, most of this was fairly new.

Welcomed, wanted, loved—you should be perfectly content right now, but there was small looming inkling of something in the back of your mind every time you saw them.

They were so comfortable together, in complete and almost constant harmony with each other—and it was a sight to behold, perfect and cozy as they lounged around Sirius’ thankfully large flat.

Both him and James lying on one end of the settee, tangled together in an obsure pile of limbs. Sirius had his hands underneath James’ shirt—baring the bottom of his stomach and pretty brown happy trail out in the open, fingers tracing soft and small patterns onto his skin. James’ hand carding and threading through his curls while mindlessly scrolling on his phone, occassional content hums leaving his mouth. Remus—he was sat on the floor resting his back against the sofa, pressed against James’ leg, head leaning on his knee, book in hand.

The epitome of domesticity.

All so very intune with each other, and then there was you.

Sat at the other end of the couch, just over an arms length away from them, scrunched into the corner covered in a blanket—trying to reach the word count for a project and failing miserably to focus on the screen in front of you.

It’s simple, you could go, scoot over and join them in their comfortable bliss, but it seemed just that bit too hard—where would you start?

Until now you never considered being inexperienced a bad thing, but you couldn’t help but wonder how if just a bit of knowhow would’ve make you less shy to join.

Navigating the mass of bodies should really be at the bottom of your to-do list, so taking a deep breath, you force your attention to the painstakingly boring work on your lap, once again starting to type. You’d built up a good rhythm, the words flowing easier as the time went by, and even though your legs had gone numb a while ago, it seemed like a good idea to ride the wave of concentration while you still had it.

So much so that you didn’t notice the shuffling sounds of movement going on a meer meter away. James had made his way up and off the couch, padding into the kitchen, switching on the radio upon entry—a telltale sign he’d about to start cooking.

The space James had left on couch was still hot from his residual heat when, on cue, Sirius reach his hand over to Remus’ shoulder, pouting dramatically, patting the still-warm space on the couch. “You’re not coming up?”

Remus, his neck tilted back slightly to look at Sirius, exhaled through his nose. He hesitated for half a second before shifting to stand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” he muttered, pushing himself up.

As he moved past you, his fingertips brushed against your leg—so lightly, so fleetingly that you barely registered the touch, too engrossed in your project to notice. If you had noticed, you might’ve seen the way he glanced at you, how his gaze lingered for just a beat longer than necessary.

By the time he plopped down onto the couch, Sirius wasted no time crawling onto him, sprawling across his lap like a cat seeking warmth. Remus just huffed out a light chuckle as Sirius melted against him, pressing his face into his shoulder and humming contentedly. Instinctively, Remus’ hand came up to his hair, fingers tangling in soft curls, stroking without thought.

But even as he did, his eyes flickered back to you—quick, searching glances that went unnoticed. He can imagine it to be overwhelming, entering an already established relationship—still so many things unspoken, still so much to learn. And Remus ever the watcher, had noticed how your little habits—your tendencies to take up as little space as possible, shrinking slightly under the pressure of intimacy.

It’s not that you’re afraid of it—affection, intimacy—it was that you were just genuinely clueless, there’s not exactly a manual on how to do all; something that they already do so well, so intuitively between themselves.

It made you nervous is all, unable to imagine how awkward it would be if you’d done the wrong thing, put yourself in the wrong place—the room for mistakes seemed endless.

Still, Remus wasn’t going to push, or pry. Not until he was sure, sure that the way your fingers twitch by your side was with the desire to join, sure that your not so discrete hesitant glances were of a longing nature.

All his thoughts were about you, that was until Sirius distracted him in the best way he knew how.

Soft, light kisses pressed against his collarbone, trailing up to his neck, his jaw. His lips warm delicately working his way up until he was scattering pecks across Remus’ face—his nose, the tops of his freckled cheekbones, his temple—Remus was still slightly spying on you despite Sirius’ playful assault.

And, of course just moments before this your concentration had finally faltered, the smell of whatever James was cooking breaking your focus ever so slightly.

His eyes flicked toward where you sat—shoulders hunched ever so slightly forward, brows furrowed in that way they always did when you were deep in concentration. He wondered if you even realized the way you bit at your lip, the way your fingers twitched ever so slightly like they wanted to fidget, to reach out.

Sirius barely registered the amused hum from him before the next kiss landed, this time firmer against the corner of his mouth. Then another—this one lingering, coaxing, before Sirius finally pressed their lips together properly, letting it stretch just long enough for Remus to forget what he was doing.

You blinked, taking in the scene, your eyes widening slightly before flitting away, your fingers pausing over your keyboard. Lips pursing together slightly before your teeth peaked out and took hold of the corner of your mouth.

Sirius felt the way the corners of Remus’ lips spread into a smirk before he pulled away from him, just long enough to whispered to him, breath tickling the shell of his ear, “Watch her,”

Pulling them both onto their side, stealing small looks in your direction as he kissed Remus again—this time deeper, more obnoxious, more deliberate—sighs and hums of contentment bouncing between them.

Naturally, your eyes drifted to the source of the noise, body stilling as though unsure whether to look away or keep watching.

They found it quite cute, the way you eyes darted around the room frantically, trying hard to not stare despite being helplessly drawn to look at the cause of sounds. Teeth mercilessly taking refuge in your cheek, forcing your lips in to a pout that bordered bashful.

Curious thing, you were.

Satisfied with the effect, he exhaled a quiet laugh against Sirius’ lips and decided to stop tormenting you—for now. With a final squeeze to Sirius’ waist, Remus stood, making his way over towering tall over you and, without hesitation, shut your laptop with a soft click.

Whipping your head to find him, brows arched up, a light smirk twitching at his lips as he looked down at you—gaze so intense you couldn’t bring yourself to look over at whatever was causing the sofa to dip beside you.

Only breaking when you felt his hot breath skim along the edge of your earlobe—spine immediately becoming taut, skin prickling down the back of your neck. Sirius was so close and you didn’t need to look at him to know he had a mischievous smirk playing on his lips—“I think you’ve worked hard enough, sweetheart.”

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the warmth radiating from them both, of the weight of their gazes—teasing, expectant, knowing. You weren’t completely unfamilar with their touch, James loved to press obnoxious wet kisses on your cheeks. Remus was also very well versed in the language of forehead kisses and hand holding—Sirius had even gone as far to occassionally sneak dangerous little pecks onto the thin skin behind your ear when you cuddled.

Alert, and flickering panicked looks between them, the tips of your ears felt hot as you stammered out the words, “uh—everything okay?”

Your hands were in your lap clasped together tightly—thumb unconsciously picking at the skin around your nails when Sirius came impossibly closer to you, a small huffed chuckle leaving as he neared. Fingertips brushing a few stray hairs behind your ears, voice low and smooth— “Mmmm, everything’s fine—Moony’s just got a question,”

He could feel the slight shudder that ran through your body, gaze shifting to Remus, hands stuffed into his pockets, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he leaned down over you—very clearly entertained by your reactions. His eyes darted around your face, scanning, observing your wide-eyed expression, how you sunk into the soft cushion, trying to put space between you.

The corner of his lips quirked up into a crooked smile, tilting his head as he asked;

“Would you like one?”

The warmth of Sirius’ fingertips trailing light ghostly touches down the side of your neck was so distracting, making your mouth painfully dry, air catching in your throat as your opened and closed your lips repeatedly. Wracking your brain for a response, words, anything—but it felt annoyingly blank, sucking in a shaky breath, your words came out pinched and meek—breathy on the exhale.

Sirius snickered under his breath, barely containing his delight at your reaction, and Remus exhaled a soft chuckle of his own.

“One what?”

Even if you tried to push yourself any further into the couch, practically willing yourself to become one with the fabric—anything to escape this awful flipping feeling at the pits of your stomach—you couldn’t. And it only got worse when Remus leaned in further, precariously close, the tip of his nose just barely grazing the skin of your cheekbones, Sirius could see the way your shoulders inched up and up, closer to your ears as your virtually shrunk into yourself.

Remus’ voice was rough and teasing, making the heat that resided in the tips of your ear spread invasively under the skin of your cheeks. “I saw you—it’s okay to be curious, my love, ” He took his hands from his pockets and brought one to the arm of the sofa, the other resting on the ball of Sirius’ knee, that was flush against yours. He leaned back as he continued, capturing your gaze, “You don’t have to be so shy about it.”

His words were low, steady, laced with that quiet knowing that made your stomach tighten. He was close—too close, and Sirius wasn’t any better, his fingertips still ghosting along your jaw, trailing up toward your ear, his shoulders brushing against yours.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe properly, heat blooming in your chest—radiating outwards, the close proximity, it all just had your head feeling rattled. “I—” You started, but the words immediately died in your throat, and Sirius huffed dramatically, shifting even nearer.

“C’mon, love, we won’t bite.” His breath was warm against your skin. “Unless you want us to.”

Your inhale was sharp, and Sirius grinned, practically preening at your reaction.

But Remus—Remus remained still, observing, reading for any flicker of hesitation, every small tell you didn’t even realize you were giving away. He tilted his head slightly, watching the way your hands curled into your lap, the way your breath hitched when Sirius’ fingers traced your pulse.

And then, his voice dropped even lower, softer—”So would you like one?” The back of his fingers came lightly over the curve of your jaw, lips brushing the bottom of your earlobes when he finally whispered,

“A kiss.”

Your stomach flipped violently, breath hitching and as a light shudder passed over your body—Remus must have noticed, because he smiled—soft and knowing, tilting his head slightly, giving you space, waiting. He wasn’t pushing, wasn’t demanding—just offering.

And somehow, that was even more overwhelming.

Lips parted slightly, words failing you completely, barely forcing out the start of a sentence, “B—” When his voice rang just behind you, dripping with amusement; “Have I walked into an ambush?” You hadn’t even noticed James entering the room.

But that was exactly how you felt, ambushed—trapped like a lamb in the midst of a group of lions, chest skipping out of its rhythmic rise and fall when James’ hand slid gently over your shoulder, your lips were still parted, holding the remains of your unfinished sentence. Sirius spoke, turning his head to look at James, smirk taking on a wolfish quality—”Just seeing if our girl would like a kiss,” As the last word left his lips, he was facing you again, head tilting to fit into the dip of your neck, lips almost gliding over the skin.

No where to run, the combined weight of their gaze made you awfully aware of your racing heartbeat, sounding loud between your ears, riccocheting off the empty space in your brain—only able to blink-up at Remus, mouth agape.

Sirius made an amused little noise in the back of his throat. “She’s thinking too hard again,” he murmured, his fingertips moving from their place on your collarbone, to travel down the curve of your skin—fighting every urge in your body to not arch away from his touch. His palm stopped and rest in the small of your back, hot and anchoring.

“Darling, it’s a yes or no question.” The words were still soft, still pressure-less, leaving you all the room in the world to stop this.

Your fingers twitched slightly, curling into the fabric of your sweater, throat suddenly unbearably dry—still completely entrapped under Remus’ watchful eye.

“I’ve never—” You swallowed. “I don’t know how.”

It was more breath than words, was barely a whisper, almost inaudible, but they all heard it.

Sirius exhaled sharply through his nose, amused, James’ palm soothed comfortingly over you shoulder, while Remus’ smile softened further, something impossibly tender flashing across his face.

“That’s alright,” he murmured, voice quiet, patient. His hand lifted slightly, fingers hovering near your cheek but barely touching, waiting for any sign, any indication from you. “I could show you.”

Sirius hummed lightly beside you, clearly pleased with where this was going. “Mmm, yeah, Moons is an excellent teacher.”

Your gaze flickered between them, caught between the heat of Sirius’ mischief and the warmth of Remus’ patience, the quiet promise in his eyes.

Your heart was pounding.

Opening your mouth, but nothing came out, your throat tight—only able to nod shyly. Sirius took pity on you, grinning as he shifted back and patted his lap invitingly.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” he purred. “Front row seat for the lesson.”

You blinked at him, completely dumbfounded,

“What?”

Remus, ever patient, gave Sirius a look, but there was amusement there, too. “We’ll give you a demonstration.”

Sirius patted his thigh again, eyes glinting with mischief. “Come on, love, don’t be shy.”

You hesitated for a long moment, but Sirius just raised an eyebrow, waiting expectantly, his fingers tapping against his leg. James had already made his way around the sofa, and looked just entirely too pleased at the idea.

Eventually, you sighed, heat creeping along the back of your neck as you shuffled over, hesitantly perching yourself on Sirius’ lap. His arms immediately wound around your waist, back flush against his chest, keeping you snug against him as he leaned in, breath tickling your ear.

Remus huffed out a quiet laugh, already reaching for James' collar, tugging him forward until their lips met in an easy, practiced rhythm. Practically melting into each others touch.

It was undemanding, natural. And unconsciously, your eyes darted away from the scene, flickering down onto your hands that still endlessly fiddled with the hem of your sleeve. But, against your luck, Sirius caught you.

“No no no, keep looking,” His voice was gentle, no traces of reprimand, he could feel stiff you were—breath shallow, shoulders tense. Pulling you in further against him, hand moving from your waist to settle on the round of your thighs—thumb stroking in a soothing pattern. Along with the way his voice rumbled of his voice in chest against your back and the velvety hum of his words, “Relax, love,” purged some of the nervous tension that had settled in your bones away.

It wasn’t just that they were kissing—it was how. The effortless way James’ hands slid into Remus’ hair, the way Remus exhaled softly into it, melting just a bit. The way their noses brushed, the way Remus tilted his head slightly to deepen it, slow and unhurried, languid in a way that sent something strange and warm curling in your stomach.

It was so fluid, second-nature.

James made a quiet noise in the back of his throat when Remus bit at his bottom lip, and Sirius hummed behind you.

“See that?” he murmured against your ear. “Slow, but firm. It’s not a race, love. It’s about feeling it, letting it happen.”

Your breath was shallow, completely entranced, and James—who had definitely caught the way your fingers curled against Sirius’ hands your thighs—broke the kiss just long enough to grin at you.

“You taking notes, sweetheart?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Sirius chuckled, chin propped on your shoulder. “Don’t worry, Prongs, I think she’s getting the idea.”

Your entire body was on fire.

And he could feel it, the heat radiating off your body against his, trying not fidget in his lap, and he didn’t help your case. Opting to torture you more with his low teasing cadance and lips dangerously close to your pulse, whispering; “Think you’re ready to try?”

You swallowed thickly, pulse hammering in your throat. Ready to try? That was the question, wasn’t it?

Because in theory, you knew what kissing was supposed to be. You’d seen it a thousand times—in movies, in books, in passing glances stolen between strangers. But knowing wasn’t feeling, and feeling was something else entirely.

Especially when three sets of eyes were locked onto you, waiting.

You wet your lips unconsciously, and Sirius made a pleased little sound behind you, his hands settling more firmly, squeezing lightly against your thighs. “That’s a good start,” he murmured. “Mmm, maybe she’s a natural, Moons.”

You exhaled sharply, tilting your head slightly to catch Remus’ expression. He was still watching you, his gaze steady, unreadable. You searched for impatience there, for amusement, for any sign of frustration—but there was none. Only quiet, open curiosity, waiting for you to make the call.

Inhaling deeply though your nose, a light wave of hesitance flickering through you.

“I…” You trailed off, glancing over at James, who had since leaned back against the couch, all easy confidence, his head tilting slightly to the side. “With…who?”

The second the words left your mouth, Sirius laughed, delighted.

“Oh, love,” he purred, adjusting his wide legged position even wider, causing your hips to fall further into his middle—sinking into his touch. “That’s the best part.”

James smirked at that, hazel eyes flashing. “Mmm, guess it’s only fair we let you pick,” he mused. “We wouldn’t want to overwhelm you.”

Liar.

You didn’t believe that for a second, not when Sirius was grinning like the cat that got the cream, and certainly not when Remus had the nerve to sit beside James, looking at you like he was already in your head, reading your thoughts before you could even think them.

Your heart was racing so fast you were surprised they couldn’t hear it.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to—you did. But what if you messed it up? What if you got the angle wrong, or forgot to breathe, or—

“Darling.” Remus’ voice cut through your spiraling thoughts, quiet but firm. You snapped your gaze to him automatically, fingers twitching, picking at the jean fabric of by Sirius’ hands. “There’s nothing to get wrong.”

You barely had time to react before he leaned in—slow, deliberate—just close enough that the warmth of him made your breath stutter.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured.

You hesitated, but after a beat, you did.

The next thing you felt was the feather-light brush of his lips against your cheek—not quite a kiss, not really, just the barest ghost of contact. Lips parting, letting a shallow hitching breath pass.

“There,” he murmured. “Easy, isn’t it?”

His lips brushed another kiss over the curve of your jaw, still unbearably gentle, giving you time, giving you space. You inhale shakily, body still burning against Sirius, Remus just hummed, trailing the kisses just slightly lower. There was barely any time for you to respond before he finally—finally—pressed his lips against yours

It was so much softer than you’d expected, warm and welcoming. Not demanding, not urgent—just there, patient, waiting for you to catch up.

Your stomach flipped, and Sirius hummed his approval against your ear, his hands rubbing absent, slow circles into your sides. James, let out a quiet exhale, watching intently from beside Remus—hands twitching almost in efforts to stay put.

Trying your best to stay out of your head, focus on the kiss but not too hard, pace yourself, enjoy the moment—your hands curling into themselves at your sides. But when Remus hummed, a small pleased sound into the kiss, the tension building in you slipped away. Further and further into the back of your mind.

He kissed you like it was the easiest thing in the world, like he wanted to be kissing you, and your brain was getting more mushy as the contact continued. Your hands twitched again, and this time, you actually moved, leaning slightly into the kiss—one of them hesitantly lifting to rest against the front of his shirt.

Sirius, sensing the change immediately, grinned, chin still propped on your shoulder.

“That’s it, sweetheart.”

James hummed in agreement, eyes dark with interest. “Looks like she’s a fast learner.”

Remus, still entirely too composed, simply smiled into the kiss, his hands finally moving to cradle your jaw, holding you there as he deepened it just slightly.

By the time he pulled back, you were breathless, cheeks flushed—lips wet and reddened.

James, evidently unable to contain himself, turned your chin slightly toward him, eyes practically shining with mischief.

“My turn.”

His lips were on yours, and if Remus was patient and careful, James was the opposite.

Kissing you like he was playing—feverish and teasing, like he knew exactly how new it was for you, how you were still unsure, and he was more than content in exploring.

Initially he let you take the lead, barely pressing into you, lips moving slowly, teasingly, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your jaw as if coaxing you forward. But as he leaned further into you, hands planting themselves firmly on your thighs—parting his lips against yours.

You were vaguely aware of the sound of Sirius humming in approval somewhere behind you, his fingers tightening just slightly on your waist as James’ tongue flicked playfully against your bottom lip. Your breath caught in your throat, and he grinned against your mouth, clearly pleased with your reaction.

James littered more kisses onto your skin, starting at the corner of your mouth, down your jaw, bringing the exposed skin of your collarbone gently between his lips—nipping and sucking softly. Earning him a breathy whimper, exhaling “Jamie,” as you craned your neck into him more, hands jumping to find purchase on his arms.

Remus’ hand inched up James’ spine, almost as a reminder that said, don’t be greedy. Withdrawing, he allowed the other a better look at your expression—half lidded, satified hums leaving your still kiss-flushed lips, unbareably pretty.

Sirius let out a low, appreciative whistle behind you, a low “Damn,” passing into the air, breath skimming over the back of your neck.

“Ready for round two?”

You hadn’t had time to come back down into the room fully before Sirius’ hands came down to your hips—the words barely proccessing in your mind as you spun on his lap. Positioning you so your legs split across his thighs. His hands settled on your waist, warm and steady, fingers splayed just under the hem of your shirt, grounding you.

Sirius was still watching you, that signature smirk playing at his lips, but there was something softer in his expression now—something reassuring, like he was making sure you weren’t too overwhelmed.

But how could you not be?

You could still feel the lingering warmth of Remus’ kiss on your lips, still taste James’ breath against yours. And now planted on Sirius’ lap, he was moving closer, eyes flicking over your face, searching for hesitation.

You didn’t even realize you’d clenched your hands into nervous fists until Sirius made a small noise of amusement and pried one open, lacing his fingers through yours. “Breath, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles. “You’re in good hands.”

Unlike Remus’ patience or James’ teasing, Sirius kissed you like he was yearning.

its like a torch had been lit, your body was set even further ablaze when Sirius pressed his lips firmly against yours, immediately tightening his hold on your waist. Pads of his fingers grasping almost desperately onto the flesh trying to pull you closer than you already were—shifting his hips upwards into you. Your voice trembled in your throat, failing to make it to your lips as muffled moan threatened to leave you. Hands coming up to his neck, fingers threading and tugging at the hair at the base of his neck.

“Fucking hell, you two,” sounded from beside you, but it felt so far away, dulled by the thumping echo of your pulse in your ears and the soft hums and mewls leaving the both of you.

He kissed like he meant it, like he wanted you to feel all of it, tongue just barely teasing against the seam of your lips, making you gasp out a whine. He took full advantage of the sound, his hands squeezing at your curve of your hips before he pulled back just enough to grin against your mouth.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

The words sent a sharp jolt of heat down your spine, it had you arching into him against you will, rocking involuntarily into him, and Sirius let out a delighted little laugh. Head falling into the crook of his neck, slightly embarrassed by the reactions he so easily compelled from you.

“Ohh, Pads,” James drawled, chin resting on his shoulder, breath warm against his ear. “You’re gonna break her.”

Sirius hummed, utterly unbothered. “Dunno, Jamie—” his lips ghosted against your neck again, just barely touching, a tease, “—she seems to be holding up just fine.”

You weren’t.

Your thoughts were scrambled, body thrumming, your hands clutching onto Sirius as if he were the only thing tethering you to the earth.

And when you brought your head out of its hiding spot, Remus’ could barely contain the laugh that bubbled in his chest, musing with a tilting his head. “Mmm, think she likes it.” Your parted lips, chest heaving trying to catch your breath—pupils blown and hazy expression Remus was more than convinced you liked it.

Sirius, still curled up comfortably beneath you, pressed a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your collarbone. “Yeah, sweetheart?” His voice was teasing, syrupy sweet, lips dragging up to your jaw, inching up to the corners of your mouth—almost kisses—then trailing back away. And you could only melt into them, breathless and dizzy and completely, utterly lost in it all.

“Should we stop, or do you wanna keep learning?”

this is my first time writing poly! so pls be kind x

part 2 - hands-on lesson!

[aetherraeys]

evil twin ! (ii)

part 1

regulus black/barty crouch jr x twinpotter!reader ⊹ 7.0k

cw ⟢ eventual poly!bartylus, swearing, pining!barty, fluff, mild internal conflict, secret relationship

summary: keeping two secrets at once didn't seem like a hard task. barty kept you and regulus under wraps, and the other secret? it was unravelling in him in an all-consuming way he cant avoid; and thought the penny still hadn't dropped for you. regulus saw right through him.

a/n:this is turning out more slowburn than i expected itching to write the next parts heheheh

What Barty lacked in tact and aptitude he made up for in loyalty and devotion.

Because he truly was a devoted friend, to both you and Regulus—loyal to a fault infact, even when he pretended not to be. And while he did banter that it comes at the low, low price of frequent trips to Honeydukes and occasional ego-fluffing, the truth was: he didn’t need to be bought. Not by you. Not by Regulus.

Which is why, despite discovering the two of you tangled up in Regulus’ bed with no room for misinterpretation, he didn’t say a word to anyone. He didn’t need to be told to know that the recent developments between you and Regulus were to be kept exclusively between the three of you.

The next morning was telling enough, when you silently settled into your usual place at the dining table—beside Pandora and Regulus stayed at the far end, comfortable opposite him, buttering his toast composed as ever. But he didn’t miss the way Regulus’ eyes linger on you for a moment when he tucked himself into the bench, or how they helplessly flickered to you whenever you laughed at something Evan said.

Catching on to the minute touches you granted Regulus when you left the table early, fingertips hidden under your robes as you glided past him, just barely skimming across his arm, or how you would perk up slightly whenever Regulus’ voice rung lowly through the Ancient Runes classroom—paying extra attention to his careful tone.

Barty didn’t say it, but he noticed everything.

Because Barty was good with secrets—He’d carry them like crown jewels.

He even had a small one of his own brewing.

It was a lazy sort of evening—the kind where the light filtered through the windows in hazy streaks and time didn’t seem to press down so hard. You were in the boys’ dorm, perched in your usual spot: stretched halfway across Barty’s bed, legs tangled over the edge, head propped up on a pillow you’d stolen ages ago and never returned.

He sat cross-legged beside you, flipping through some half-finished notes, though he hadn’t turned a page in at least ten minutes. Instead, he’d tilted toward you slightly, cheek resting on his fist, watching the way your fingers absentmindedly threaded through his tufts.

It wasn’t new, really. Casual touches had always been your language with Barty. You ruffled his hair when he was being smug, smacked his arm when he teased you, leaned against him when you were tired. It was natural, familiar.

But the way he was looking at you now—quietly, fondly, like you were made of something softer than the world deserved—you didn’t notice.

You rarely did.

“Regulus is going to combust when he walks in,” Barty murmured, lips quirking faintly.

You didn’t even glance up. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Because you’re you.”

Before you could answer, with a dramatic roll of your eyes, the door creaked open behind you.

Speak of the devil.

Regulus stepped in, shirt slightly damp with sweat and sleeves rolled up, hair a bit disheveled like he’d run a hand through it a few times on the way back. His bag slung low over one shoulder before he let it drop to the floor with a thud.

“Well, well,” Barty said with that unmistakable glint in his eye, “look who’s returned from war.”

Regulus didn’t rise to the bait, just shot him a look as he moved to the other side of the room, unbuttoning his cuffs with precise fingers.

Barty’s gaze slid over him with playful deliberation. “Didn’t know you glistened, Black. I feel like I should be offended no one warned me.”

Regulus ignored him, unsurprised.

But his eyes drifted, just for a second, over to where you were sprawled across the bed—completely unbothered, still playing with Barty’s hair like you didn’t even realise you were doing it.

Regulus noticed. Of course he did.

The ease of your touch, the way your hand curled lazily in the soft brown curls near Barty’s temple, the way Barty leaned into it slightly—eyes half-lidded, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And the worst part?

The look Barty gave you, when he thought no one else was watching. Unapologetic. Unfairly fond.

It was obvious to everyone. Everyone but you.

Regulus didn’t say anything, but when Barty looked back up at him, he was met with one raised brow.

Barty smirked.

Then sighed, long and dramatic, as he shifted upright on the bed. “Honestly, Reg,” he muttered, stretching his arms above his head, “you really ought to learn how to share. I was here first, you know. She’s been my friend since—”

“Since you failed to con me into writing your essays?” you interjected, still not lifting your head.

He waved a hand. “Details.”

You groaned as Barty moved, your hand falling away from his hair with a grumble. “You were warm.” Barty gave you a faux-apologetic look.

“I know. I’m perfect. It’s a curse.”

“What’s the problem then, J?” you muttered lazily, stretching like a cat.

He only nodded his head toward Regulus.

And just like that, your whole face lit up.

Pushing yourself up in a heartbeat, a slow, sly grin crawling across your lips. “Well, well, well…” you said in a sing-song, teasing tone, hopping off the bed and padding toward Regulus, who immediately straightened up, gaze sharpening.

Unknowingly, parrotting Barty.

Your eyes flicked over him—his rumpled hair, the damp collar of his shirt, the flushed look lingering on his cheekbones. You let out a low, appreciative whistle.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock me out before you walk around looking like that?” you murmured, all candied mischief. Leaning in close, one hand brushing lightly up his arm as you rose onto your toes, lips ghosing against the his jaw on the way up, whispering into his ear.

It had immediate effect.

Regulus flushed. Like someone had set a match to the base of his throat and let it crawl up slowly toward his ears—frozen, standing there with his shirt clinging to his chest and his lips parted like he’d forgotten how to breathe. His entire expression was somewhere between awe and absolute crisis.

“Next time you want to sweat like this, I have a feeling I’ll be able to help with that.”

You pulled back, utterly delighted with yourself, smile too sweet to be innocent—before he could respond—a smug undertone to your deceiving light expression, eyes glinting like you’d just cast a spell that only he could feel. Which, to be fair—you had.

Humming quietly to yourself as you turned on your heel—grabbing your bag from beside Barty’s bed, and skipped out of the room like you’d done nothing more than offer a weather update.

Whispered straight into his bloodstream and just walked away smiling.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Regulus stayed planted where he was.

Across the room, Barty flopped backward onto his bed again with an exhausted groan, flinging an arm over his eyes. “Merlin’s balls, I need a drink.”

It was fine at first.

But morning after morning, day after day, *week after week—*it was getting harder and harder for Regulus to keep a bottle on himself. He was trying so hard to be discrete.

But he wasn’t very good at pretending.

He found himself looking for you in every corridor—eyes flicking up automatically whenever laughter echoed ahead. He lingered by doorways longer than necessary, shoulders tensing the moment your voice drifted out of a classroom.

He stuck close, sometimes without realising it. A shadow trailing behind, just out of sight but never far. At meals. In common spaces. During shared patrols. It was almost embarrassing.

Almost.

Because you didn’t seem to notice.

Or if you did, you didn’t let on.

You were maddeningly unaffected—floating through your days with your usual rhythm: charming and unbothered, joking with Evan, flicking ink stains off your notes, sharing your scarf with Dorcas in the chilly corridors, and once, falling asleep in the common room with your legs draped across Barty’s lap like it was nothing. Like Regulus wasn’t trying very hard not to combust in public.

Like you didn’t spend most evenings together in the confines of his four pillar-curtained bed, sharing lingering touches, whispers, glances—things that didn't belong to the outside world.

There were lines, invisible but firm, that neither of you crossed outside the sanctuary of shadows. A glance too long could mean a rumor. A touch too light could start a wildfire.

And it was starting to grate on him.

Hated the way he had to steel himself every time your hand brushed his in passing, hated pretending your teasing didn’t undo him thread by thread. You were so casual about it—bold, insufferably charming, the very picture of unbothered. Like you hadn’t spent the previous night tangled up in his sheets with your fingers pressed into the nape of his neck and his lips mapping out constellations against your throat.

Like you weren’t his.

And yet, in the corridors, in the classroom, in the halls where words echoed and eyes lingered—he had to keep his distance. He couldn’t give himself away.

Not yet.

He told himself it was fine. That this secrecy was necessary, that he didn’t mind. But then you'd do something—like pause beside him at the common room just to trail your fingers across his shoulder with faux-innocent mischief—or catch his gaze across the courtyard and bite back a smile, and it would wreck him.

He wanted to be next to you. Always. Not just at night. Not just behind closed curtains or locked doors.

You’d caught him in the library, quiet and golden-lit under the sparse candles, the smell of old parchment lingering in the air. He was tucked well away into one of the dark empty corner that no one else ever went near with a stack of dense tomes, hoping to distract himself with some heavy reading. Movements like still water, imperceivable—he hadn’t seen you enter, hadn’t heard your footsteps, but then—

You were just there.

Sliding into the narrow alcove beside him with that familiar glint in your eyes, a whisper of jasmine trailing after you. His breath caught before you even said a word.

Your hands found his collar first—fingers curling into the soft fabric, pulling him in as you leaned forward. He barely managed a startled noise before your mouth found his, plush and eager and so deeply familiar it punched the air from his lungs. Kissing him with a delicate vigour, like you had every right to—like you were claiming him all over again, and Merlin help him, he let you.

He gripped the edge of the table like it could anchor him, heart hammering wildly as your lips brushed down to the corner of his mouth, then along the curve of his jaw, peppering kiss after kiss like a spell cast only for him.

Breathing your name like a prayer.

“Someone could—” he whispered hoarsely, even as his hand found your waist. “Someone could see.”

Your only response was another kiss. Then another. His restraint frayed with each one, chasing your lips with his for more—

It was whiplashing the way you’d tempt and then pulled back, smile honey-sweet and cruel with mischief.

“Bye, Reggie,” you whispered, and then you were gone—vanishing around the corner with a bounce in your step, leaving Regulus flushed and dazed, chest heaving.

He blinked. Ran a hand through his hair with a sharp exhale.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, eyes flicking toward the exit like you might reappear.

You didn’t—Not until the evening in his dorm.

Moonlight was casting small pale ribbons of shadow across the dungeon floors, the room was quiet, just the two of you, enjoying your momentary slither of privacy with each other. Pressed against Regulus, your hands warm against the bare skin of his chest, your mouth finding his again and again like you were starving for him. Like he was the only air you needed.

He kissed you like you were a secret he never wanted to share—fingers tangled in your hair, other hand at the small of your back, pulling you closer. He couldn’t get enough.

Didn’t want to.

And for once, there was no hiding. No room for restraint. You were curled up on his bed, tangled in his sheets, soft gasps and laughter muffled into each other’s mouths.

His lips brushed your throat, then your cheek, then your temple.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered into your skin.

“Then I’ll die with you.” smiling against him.

It was perfect. Warm. Safe.

Until the door creaked open, you both froze.

Barty.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t stumble or act surprised—just stood there in the threshold for a moment, eyes unreadable, lips twitching into something that tried to be amusement, respectfully averting his gaze as the door shut behind him with a soft click.

“Merlin,” he drawled, voice light, “I swear if I walk in on you two one more time, I’m going to start charging admission.”

You laughed, easy and unbothered, slipping off the bed as if nothing had happened. Regulus sat up slower, watching you grab your wand and stretch with that infuriatingly charming grin.

“I should head down, two rolls of parchment on the effects of Stinksap won’t write itself,” words accompanied with a heavy sigh.

You leaned over, pressed a lingering kiss to Regulus’ jaw—too long for propriety, too short for satisfaction—before slipping past Barty with a pat to his shoulder.

“See you at breakfast, Junior,” you called over your shoulder.

The dull click of the door was the last sound in the room for a while, Regulus’ fingertips ghosted over where you lips had been, resting at his jaw, eyes fixed on it for a moment too long. Then looked back at Barty as he flopped onto his bed without a word, arm flung onto his forehead like usual. But the rhythm of his thoughts was different now. Louder.

And what Regulus saw it—saw right through him.

It wasn’t irritation. Or jealousy.

Something quiet and aching and hidden—floating behind his eyes as he stared up at his ceiling aimlessly—almost unblinking, and unaware of Regulus subtle watchful eye. Then abruptly sitting up, legs swinging over the edge of his bed carrying the motion of his swivel as his feet hit the floor with a soft pad—but not once did he lift his eyes.

Even look at Regulus.

Lips pursed into a tightline, head hanging for a moment before he rose to a stand—collecting and organising some items, uncharacteristically quiet. Taking his towel and drapping it over his shoulders stalking over to the door.

“You alright, B?”

The words rung clearly through the short stillness that had veiled the room, and it had Barty stop in his tracks, hand hovering over the doorknob.

He could hear the low rustle of fabric, could feel Regulus’ eyes boring into his back, unable to mask the way his shoulders rose and fell with the sigh he let out through his nose. “Yeah, gonna go take a shower,”

With that, he slipped out of the room.

Leaving Regulus perched up on his elbows, gaze once again, lingering on the door. Running a hand roughly through his hair, he sunk back against the sheets—rolling onto his side and burying his face into the pillow you’d laid on.

Trying to push down the almost dejected expression Barty had on his face, trying to quiet his mind with the lingering scent of you.

Groaning inwardly as he failed, replying the moment Barty frozen at the door—eyes scanning over both of you, shoulders sinking faintly. He knew too well what Barty sounded like when he lied, and the words he spoke at the door were most definetely not true.

Barty had no reason to shower—he already had during his free after Lunch, but he just needed an excuse, a second to compose himself. Even as he tried to walk casually, quietly—down the stairs and through the common room, your laughter floated around the room. Hung in the air in a way that had his throat tightening.

It seemed the odds were not in his favour today.

Because as he padded wordlessly behind the sofa, ignoring the way he struggled to swallow, fighting the urge to let his eyes fall on your turned back. You clearly had a sixth sense, perking up slightly at the sounds of his footsteps, voice light and teasing.

“Where you off to, Junior?”

You still hadn’t turned, but he could already picture the sly smile on your face from your tone—and he still didn’t stop his walk, mustering up as cheery a voice he could manage.

“Drain diving, Tres. Someone needs to keep Reg’s hair at bay,” he said, without missing a beat.

It was good. Solid. The kind of line he’d use any day of the week—and as sarcastic as it was, it lacked it’s usual dramatics. He was gone before you could say anything, before you could point out the lack of energy in his voice, or how he didn’t turn to you.

The water hit too cold at first.

He let it.

Let it numb the way his stomach was twisting in knots, the way the image of your mouth on Regulus’ jaw wouldn’t stop replaying on a loop behind his eyes. He tilted his head back, let the droplets soak through his hair, tried to will it all away.

Because he saw it—every time Regulus reached for you like he couldn’t help himself, Barty saw the same yearning reflected in himself.

An ever present slight burning ache settled under his ribs, aggressive and invasive, and impossible to ignore whenever you were in the room. It wasn’t that he was envious exactly—more like he was mourning—grieving.

Barty wasn’t stupid.

He knew it wasn’t your fault.

You were the same. Completely, achingly the same.

Still laughed at all his worst jokes. Still tugged at his scarf when it was crooked. Still looped your arm through his like gravity didn’t apply to your affection. Still smiled at him with that easy, unguarded brightness that made people fall in love with you in the first place.

And it killed him.

Because you hadn’t changed.

He had.

And now every time your hand brushed his in passing, every time you leaned into his side on the common room sofa or knocked your forehead against his in mock exasperation, he felt like he was drowning in a tide no one else could see.

He’d always known you were tactile—warm, generous with your affection. With your attention. Sometimes your fingers would still find his hair. Still ruffle it with a grin. Still tug affectionately at his sleeve. And he hated that it made his breath catch. You’d always loved easily, freely, and it had never meant more than that.

He found himself reeling in silence from touches that were meant to comfort him. From the way you reached for him like he was still safe to you, like nothing had shifted.

Until it did.

Until he started wanting it to.

Because he loved you. But not just the way he was supposed to. Not just the way a best friend does.

And you didn’t know, couldn’t—he’d made sure of that.

It was late the next afternoon when you found him on the edge of the Quidditch pitch, where the grass flattened beneath old boot tracks and the air carried the smell of damp leather and wind.

You plopped down beside him with a soft sigh, pulling your legs to your chest and letting the golden haze of the sunset warm your face. Shoulders bumping his lightly, and you didn’t move away. Just tilted your head toward him, lashes fluttering as you smiled, eyes squinting at the last light.

“So,” you said, lazy and light, “if you had to choose between fighting ten Blast-Ended Skrewts or one McGonagall-sized Bowtruckle—what would it be?”

Barty scoffed. “Are you serious? The Skrewts. At least I’d die with dignity.”

You burst out laughing. Loud and bright and so carefree it made his chest twist. Turning your face toward him, sun-warmed and glowing, and he couldn’t breathe for a second. Not with how close you were. Not with how your eyes crinkled when you smiled at him like that.

Just like you always had.

He had to look away. Had to force his eyes back to the sky before they gave too much away.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, completely at ease. “You’re still my favourite person to be stupid with, you know that?”

Gods, it burned.

Because that meant everything to him. And not enough.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

And you didn’t hear the break in his voice. Of course you didn’t. Because you hadn’t changed. Because this was normal. Comfortable. The two of you, tucked into each other’s space like you belonged there.

Like he wasn’t burning alive from it.

You reached for his hand without thinking, absently fiddling with his fingers the way you always did. He froze—just for a moment—and you didn’t even notice.

But he did.

He noticed everything.

The way your thumb brushed over his knuckles. The softness in your touch. The way his heartbeat thundered at your smallest movements. And how much it hurt, knowing it was just another day to you. Just another friend to touch and lean on and love in your way.

You didn’t know what it was doing to him.

Didn’t know how he went to sleep every night wondering when it had changed for him, wondering why he couldn’t seem to undo it.

You were with Regulus now. And you looked so good together. There was a softness to him around you, a steadiness you brought out that Barty had never seen in him before. And he was happy for that. Honestly, he was.

But somewhere inside, he was still quietly grieving.

Grieving the could-have-been.

Because before Regulus, before the stolen glances and secret kisses, before the whisper of your name like prayer from someone else’s mouth—he’d let himself think that the swirling in the pits of his stomach was nothing.

And now, looking at you—one of his best friends, his light, his treasure, the person he was closest to—and knowing that nothing had to be different between you, but everything was different in him…it made him feel like he was quietly rotting from the inside out.

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. Let you keep holding it.

And didn’t say a word.

The first Quidditch match of the season had finally rolled around, Hufflepuff V Slytherin.

Slytherin had, of course, won.

The match had been a brutal thing, all wind-lashed faces and thunderous roars from the stands. Hufflepuff had held their own for the first half, but once Regulus caught the Snitch, there was no denying it—the green and silver crowd had erupted.

And you, in the middle of it, had clapped with gloved hands and a too-wide grin. Not just for the House victory. Not even for Barty’s wildly impressive Bludger send-off or Evan’s smug little mid-air feint.

But because Regulus had looked up into the crowd moments after the win, and you knew he'd been looking for you.

He had asked you the night before, voice low, lips brushing your ear in the quiet of the library—

“You’ll come tomorrow, won’t you?” “I need my good luck charm,”

Your smile had been immediate.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you replied in a hushed tone.

So you came. Because he asked. And because you believed in him.

Now, you stood just outside the changing rooms, shoulder-to-shoulder with Dorcas and Pandora—hands buried in your coat pockets. Holding a chocolate frog for Barty, your usual offering of victory—it had become what of a ritual. A quiet constant. A way to be there without being seen.

The door creaked open and voices spilled into the hallway, bright and loud, energy buzzing off them in waves. Evan walked out first, hair still damp, dragging his broom behind him and already mid-laugh at something Barty had said.

And Barty—flushed, sweat-damp, beaming—was in the middle of some animated retelling of a mid-air collision, wild gestures slicing through the air like a Bludger. Regulus followed just behind them, quieter, polished, composed in that effortless way only he could manage—even after an hour in the air.

You felt the pull in your chest.

Regulus’ eyes found you immediately. That quiet, private smile cracked through his usual composure, like the sun peeking through mist. It had your fingers twitch at your sides. Thought, just for a second, about running to him—throwing your arms around his neck, kissing him full and proud, like you wanted to.

But you didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Not yet. Not when everything between you still lived in the shadows.

Before the longing could settle, Barty was already on you. Half-charged and grinning, still vibrating from the rush of play, arms thrown around you without warning.

“Oi—Barty!” you laughed, half-gasping, “You’re soaked!”

He only laughed louder, pulling you into a tight, jostling hug that had you wriggling with a grimace. “Victory sweat, darling—it’s sacred.”

You rolled your eyes, but your laughter was genuine, echoing down the corridor. Subtly flicking your gaze toward Regulus in the midst of it, catching the slight stiffening in his shoulders—watching the smile he’d worn moments ago dulled at the edges. He wasn’t angry—Regulus didn’t do anger—but you knew that look.

A barely visible twitch of disappointment. A small ache he couldn’t say out loud.

Still, he said nothing. Walked quietly beside Evan as Barty slung an arm over your shoulder with little fanfare, prattling on.

“I swear this is the real reason I play.” Barty crowed, accepting the chocolate frog with the reverence of a trophy.

“Not the glory? The House Cup?” you teased, resting your head against his damp robes despite yourself.

“Nope. This,” he said, holding the chocolate frog aloft like it was a prize. “My muse. My reward. My one true love.”

An exasperated snort built in your chest, and you let your gaze wander—back to Regulus. He was a step behind, his hands shoved in his pockets, the shape of his lips pressed thin. He looked at you again and your heart tugged.

The win didn’t feel like a win to him.

Not when he had to keep his distance. His eyes lingered a moment too long on where Barty’s arm wrapped around your shoulders, the casual intimacy of it—the way your body leaned toward him like it had done a thousand times. There was nothing scandalous about it. You and Barty had always been touchy, always unguarded.

Regulus didn’t see nothing.

He saw what he wanted to be doing. And what he couldn’t.

You slowed your pace, letting Dorcas and Pandora pull ahead with Evan and Barty leading the charge in boisterous celebration. When you felt Regulus fall into step beside you, you let your hand drift close—barely brushing his knuckles.

He relaxed.

Didn’t need to look at him to feel it, the subtle melting of tension.

“You were incredible,” you said softly, glancing sideways, smile tugging at your lips. “So controlled. So cold-blooded. Honestly, it’s terrifying how attractive I find that.”

His lips twitched, eyes dancing with restrained amusement. “I missed two passes.”

“You caught the Snitch.”

“Hufflepuff’s Seeker is twelve.”

“Hufflepuff’s Seeker cried.” you added with a snort.

He tried not to smile. Failed.

You slipped your arm casually around his shoulder, light and teasing—and Regulus very nearly stopped walking. He wasn’t used to this—getting to have even a fraction of you in public. It still made his stomach twist in the best way.

You scanned the hall. No one looking. Heart fluttering.

“A win’s a win,” you whispered, leaning in close, lips ghosting against the shell of his ear before pressing a soft forbidden kiss—too quick, too daring—to the corner of his mouth.

And just like that, you were gone again, dashing up the corridor with a light giggle, calling out to Dorcas and Pandora to wait up.

He stood stunned for a moment, flushed redder than the post-match sprint had made him, hand half-raised toward where you’d been—then with a grinning groan, he shoved it through his still slightly damp hair, picking up into a jog to catch up.

Because damn it, if he couldn’t hold your hand in front of everyone yet, the least he could do was walk beside you.

Even if his lips still burned where yours had kissed him, moments like that made it worth it.

And he’d chase you anywhere if you let him.

The Slytherin common room pulsed with victory. Music thrummed low through the stone walls, enchanted vinyl humming in the corner while the fire crackled with an almost celebratory ferocity.

The air buzzed with laughter and lazy conversation, bodies tangled across couches and sprawled across plush carpets.

Someone had dragged the green velvet cushions off the window seat; a pile of them now acted as makeshift thrones in the middle of the room.

Evan and Mulciber had charmed the fire to flicker house colours. Barty was lounged across the sofa, hair still wet, cheeks flushed, talking animatedly with Dorcas about some ridiculous midair save he’d supposedly made.

Pandora was upside down on an armchair, feet kicked over the back, humming absently to herself and passing a bottle of firewhiskey to the next person without lifting her head.

You were nestled near the hearth, legs tucked to one side on the thick rug, eyes glowing in the light. Comfortable. Warm.

A half-full glass was handed to you—offered with a wink by Avery, already slurring as he tried to convince you to toast to their clean sweep victory. But you just smiled and held up a hand, shaking your head. “I’m alright.”

That was all you said. Casual. Offhand. But Regulus, seated just across from you on the low couch beside Barty, didn’t look away.

His eyes flicked toward you, narrowing just slightly.

And you could feel it, of course you could—that quiet little thread tugging between you two again, subtle as a breath. He knew your tells. The slight purse of your lips. The measured tone. You were fine—but he was still watching. Barty noticed the flicker of scrutiny in Regulus’ gaze and raised a brow, curious.

“She doesn’t drink firewhiskey,” he offered with a lazy grin, nudging Regulus with his shoulder. “Too much of a Potter. Neither of them can handle wizarding liquor.”

“Oh, sod off,” you rolled your eyes, stretching out with a dramatic sigh. “It’s not that I can’t handle it—just that if I do, the night takes a turn.”

A few people snorted, but it was the way your eyes lingered—just a beat too long—on Regulus that made his throat go tight. A subtle, sly smirk danced on your lips. No one else saw it. No one else ever really did.

But he felt it, and it forced him to look away, ears tinged pink—the heat of your gaze—an unspoken thing sparking between you like flint and steel, hand curling around his glass tighter.

Dorcas let out a dramatic boo. “That’s exactly why you should drink.”

“Come on!” Evan bellowed. “What’s a party without a little chaos?”

The chants started immediately. First Dorcas, then Evan, then Wilkes and Pandora, all falling into a rhythm of exaggerated pleading.

“Drink! Drink! Drink—”

“Oh, fuck’s sake—” you groaned, laughing as Dorcas elbowed you, almost toppling you into the fireplace. “You lot are so dramatic.”

Rising to a stand, slow and measured, the room quietened slightly for a moment. And Regulus frozen, he knew that look. That wicked glint in your eye that always spelled trouble. That smirk that made his pulse stutter.

You walked toward him like you had no plan and every plan all at once. And that was the thing with you—you were unpredictable.

Devastatingly so.

Stopping just in front of him, gaze locked on his, and his breath caught.

Barty shifted beside him, watching with vague amusement, but Regulus was still, glass in hand, eyes tracking your every step like a storm was about to break.

Wordlessly, you reached down, plucking the glass of Firewhiskey out of his hands, fingers ghosting over his, and he remained still blinking—brows raised in mild surprise.

And with a swift turn on your heel, your facing the room like a performer stepping into the spotlight, and chugged.

The room erupted.

A chorus of shouts and laughter exploded around you as you tipped your head back, throat bobbing as you drained the glass with barely a wince. The firewhiskey burned—harsh, bitter, like swallowing heat—but you didn’t stop. When the last drop was gone, you lowered the glass, wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb, and bowed with a theatrical flourish.

Pandora let out a shriek of delight, accompanied with a war cry-esque noise erupting from Evan. But it all faded into the back, because your eyes were not on them at all.

They were on Regulus.

And the look you gave him made something in him unravel. Slow and deliberate as you leaned down—just enough to press the now-empty glass back into his palm. Touch warm and lingering against his, forcing saliva to unconsciously pool in his mouth—swallowing hard, Adam’s apple bobbing visibly, heat rising to the tips of his ears again.

Because you looked at him like he was something worth devouring.

And Regulus, for all his control, felt undone.

There was a tingle beneath your skin now, the firewhiskey spreading quick and heady in your bloodstream, setting your nerves alight. So, naturally, you went where you felt safest—chaos be damned. There wasn’t enough space on the couch between Regulus and Barty.

But you didn’t let that stop you.

With a smug grin, you yanked a cushion halfway out from under Barty, ignoring his protest, and dropped yourself to the floor between them, legs crossed, back pressed to the couch, arms draped lazily over both their knees like you owned the space.

Barty let out a mock offended noise but didn’t move.

Regulus, however, had gone entirely still.

Your head tilted back until it rested gently against the edge of the cushion behind you—just under Regulus’ knee. You looked up at him with a lazy grin, mischief written across your features, and the firelight caught in your eyes like gold.

He looked down at you, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling with a little more effort than usual.

“Comfortable?” he asked, voice low.

“Mmm,” tongue darting out to wet your lips as they stretched into an even wider smirk. “Getting there.”

And the tension between you buzzed, humming through the floor like a livewire, tucked beneath laughter and music and the haze of firewhiskey.

The alcohol licked like lightning down your spine, curling hot and fast through your chest until your cheeks were flushed and your limbs were loose with warmth. You weren’t drunk—not really. Just dizzy. Buzzing. Drunk on the music, the magic in the air, the heat of laughter blooming all around you.

You’d had just enough to drink for your thoughts to feel dreamy and untethered, a honeyed buzz settling into your chest and behind your eyes. Like gravity had decided to let go of you for the night. Your inhibitions drifted somewhere behind you, too far to reach back for.

You burned bright—laughter sharp and sweet in the air, cheeks warm, movements fluid. James-like, someone mumbled. Dorcas maybe. You didn’t catch it, but Regulus did. The way you were sparkling now, a little unhinged, that same Potter edge—chaotic and captivating.

The games had started at some point—card games from both worlds, charmed cups floating in midair, enchantments that made losing feel like something more than embarrassment. You and Barty had teamed up for the next round of some ridiculous Muggle game that Evan swore he remembered the rules to, though no one was really convinced he was playing it right.

You were curled up beside the couch again, cross-legged, giddy and unfocused, blinking down at the set of cards in your hand like they might start speaking if you stared hard enough.

And Barty—unapologetic as ever—had been peeking at your cards, barking out a laugh when you hissed at him.

“Oi!” you yelped, jerking your cards to your chest. “Cheater.”

Barty threw his head back with a laugh, completely unbothered. “We’re on the same team, you lunatic.”

You blinked. “Oh. Right.”

On the other side of you, Regulus was watching—shoulders relaxed, expression unreadable but for the faint twitch of his lips.

And when you leaned back against the couch again, huffing dramatically about your “genius being under appreciated,” the floor just…felt wrong. Cold. Hard. Unfair, really.

So, without warning, you wormed your way up into the impossibly narrow space between Regulus and Barty on the couch, folding your legs up to your chest, half-sinking into both of them as you settled like a cat who had decided the whole world belonged to you.

Barty snorted, shifting his hip to give you just a bit more space.

Regulus, ever composed, didn’t move.

But his gaze lingered on you—soft and slow, too fond for anyone who might’ve been watching not to notice. You were humming some nonsense to yourself, tapping the edge of the card deck against your shin, and it was like the whole world had dulled for a moment, the only sharp point left being you.

The game stretched on. Someone cheated. Someone else hexed the cards. You were lost.

And by the time the game ended, your spark had dulled to a flickering glow.

Barty elbowed you when you sighed dramatically, cards falling from your grip. “You’re a sore loser.”

“Stupid game anyway*,*” you mumbled into your knees, the top of your head now resting against your arms, voice muffled and sleepy. You didn’t even react when Regulus’ hand brushed gently down the slope of your spine—once, then again. Reassuring. Instinctual.

Head lifting slightly at the contact, lips parting to murmur something incoherent, but then you slumped again, boneless.

“She’s out,” Barty chuckled, shifting slightly.

There was a pause—silent and unsure—before he glanced at Barty, something unreadable in his eyes.

“I can’t—” he started. He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t finish the thought.

Couldn’t risk being the one to carry you up. Not in front of everyone. Not when they’d notice. Barty rolled his eyes, already pushing up from the couch. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” He bent down and picked you up like it was nothing, an effortless thing, your head instinctively tucking against his collarbone. You barely stirred.

No one batted an eye.

It wasn’t strange, not with you and Barty. Not anymore.

Regulus stayed behind, surrounded by friends, laughter bouncing somewhere far off as the warmth of your body left his side. He sat with the echo of your absence in the space where you’d been, hands limp in his lap, teeth clenched, a bitter ache pulsing low in his ribs.

When he finally made his way upstairs—after the room had nearly emptied, after he’d made sure no one would follow—he opened the door to his dorm quietly.

You were there.

Curled in the centre of his bed, arm tucked under your cheek, chest rising and falling in slow rhythm. Barty was lounging on his own bed, one arm draped lazily over his stomach, the other supporting his head.

Regulus crossed the room without a word, sinking onto the mattress beside you, hand reaching out instinctively to brush a strand of hair from your face.

And Barty was watching, the way Regulus’ touched you with the most fragile of hands—looking at you like you were made of moonlight. Like you’d hung the stars in the sky—a fond, unguarded tenderness in his gaze. He pushed down the lump in his throat with a hard swallow, detering the dull ache in his chest with a teasing tone;

“You could at least try not to look so in love with her in front of everyone,” Barty said lazily, voice cutting through the silence with a dry chuckle.

Regulus didn’t respond at first.

Just kept staring.

His hand hovered for a moment longer over your temple, finally pulling back like it hurt to let go. Then, finally—quietly, tiredly—he turned to look at Barty.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit hypocritical?”

part (iii)

feel free to reply to be on the taglist for the next parts mwah x

[aetherraeys]

evil twin ! (iii)

part (i) (ii)

regulus black/barty crouch jr x twinpotter!reader ⊹ 10.7k

cw ⟢ swearing, hurt/comfort, gay awakening lol, suggestive, secret relationship, pining!barty, mild angst, poor james is a scapegoat

summary: if you hadn't noticed it before, you've certainly noticed it now. barty been off, completely not barty and you can't seem to put your finger on the cause, and regulus doesn't have the heart to tell you.

a/n:poor barty is acc going through it. not proofread x

“Don’t you think that’s a bit hypocritical?”

There was a long beat of nothingness.

Then another. And another.

A tormented silence veiled the room the second Regulus’ final word left his lips, riding on the air between them and settling heavy in a cruel, unforgiving manner.

The word hypocritical sounding in his head over and over.

If Barty looked like he was going through the five stages of grief, it seems he barely made it half way, flitting between denial and anger before subsequently settling on the latter. His face said it all, as it morphed with each word, forced out on a pinched breath.

“The fuck are you on about?”

His eyes didn’t match the sharp tone of his voice at all, instead they swam with panic and an almost lost aching that made Regulus lips purse together. Barty was already sitting up, scrambling to a stand with a clenched fist and tight jaw, as he pushed a hand through his hair—already on his way out. Back towards Regulus as he spoke, words gritted and hushed.

“Don’t act like you know everything, when you really fucking don’t.”

With that, the door was closed behind him and Barty was gone.

Regulus was really starting to resent that door, far too often being left on the other side, staring at it—stressed, winded—conflicted. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to happen after he said it, but by then it was already out—already splitting the air between him and Barty before he could stop it. What was worse?

Regulus just sat there—still, emotionless—while his friend all but fell apart infront of him, any and all words falling dead on his lips.

When he sunk back into the bed, glancing at you beside him, asleep, blissfully unaware of the rift he’s just parted—his stomach churned. The soft pillows beneath his head, the warmth of your presence beside his did nothing to quell the unsettled stirring that had started inside him.

Maybe you wouldn’t notice, maybe Barty would cool off and it would all be fine—maybe he could take it back.

Each maybe more unlikely than the last, all with outcomes that the mere thought of gave Regulus a migraine.

Barty stood outside the door for a few moments, chest heaving, brows pinched high on his forhead—didn’t even know where he was going, it was already well into the early morning and he honestly just wanted to sleep.

Couldn’t go back up there because not only were Regulus there but it was you and Regulus. He much rather the Gods smit him than be suck in that room, watching Regulus watching him watching you.

A low swirling burn settled at the base of his chest.

Come to think of it, maybe storming out wasn’t the best choice, it probably made him look suspicious, like he had something to hide.

And he did, he knew he did.

The thing about secrets is, they’re only pleasant when they’re easy to hide, when you’re in control of them. So right now, lying face down on the lumpy sofa in the common room—Barty has never felt more out of control in his life.

This really was torture—surely the Gods were finally punishing him for all the near heart attacks he’d given his father, because even now, with his face smooshed into the pillow, he could still smell you—where you’d been just hours ago. At this rate he’d be insane not before long.

Groaning as he flipped, watching the warm flames of the candlelights flicker—he tried to push down the reoccuring pang that split through his chest.

── .✦

Sundays were nice.

Lazy morning lie-ins, no Head Girl duties.

The day was looking very promising. Heat from Regulus’ body warm around your middle, one of his arms slung comfortably across your waist. Holding you close even as you twisted and turned—drifting in and out—accepting the warm, tempting embrace of sleep with open arms.

Regulus had felt you shift slightly, heard the little hums that built in your throat as you teetered on the edge of waking up—he’s been awake for quiet some time—early bird habits. Just watching.

The slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint flinches of your brows as you dreamed deeply, how you curl into yourself and by extension into him periodically. He didn’t want to wake you, didn’t dare move—trying to savour the small fraction of tranquility you’d be granted before you have to deal with the inevitable storm that brewed the whole night.

Because Barty didn’t come back, still hasn’t stepped foot in the room—Regulus waited, hoping to maybe smooth things over, take it back even. But he didn’t return and Regulus didn’t leave the confines of his room.

Even as the morning drawled to a close and the early afternoon began, instead he focused his energy on admiring you, and your sleeping form. And when you stirred, twisting and turning towards him, lips pushed into a small pout—he really couldn’t help himself.

Planting a careful kiss to the exposed skin of your neck, and you didn’t move, still fighting off the pressing light of the sun in the room, holding onto the whisps of sleep.

He leaned forward again, lips ghosting over the curve of your jaw, and that got you to stir. Not fully awake, not yet, but enough that you sighed, contentedly, one arm reaching up to match the curl lazily around his middle. Eyes were still closed when you mumbled, voice scratchy and slow with sleep, fingers twitching where they rested against his ribs.

“Morning…”

His lips were still ghosting over your throat when he chuckled, low and husky, “It’s not morning anymore.”

Still, your eyes stayed closed. A little smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you turned your head slightly to chase the feel of his lips.

So he gave in.

Kisses fell like rain across your skin—first light and tentative, then firmer, slower, more intent. He brushed one beneath your jaw, then over the hollow of your throat, and when you shifted again with a sleepy sigh, he took the opportunity to drag his mouth lower, teeth grazing gently before sucking at the delicate skin there. And it made you shiver.

“Reg,” voice whispered, soft as a secret, a breathless note of fond exasperation in your tone.

“You’re awake now,” he murmured into your neck, voice muffled by your skin.

You didn’t argue. Didn’t push him away. Instead, your fingers found their way into his hair, lazily combing through the dark strands as his mouth continued its slow, indulgent path along your collarbone.

It was languid, affectionate, the kind of intimacy that didn’t rush. His hands slid over your waist, pulling you closer until you were nearly on top of him, legs tangled fully now, heartbeats pressed close together.

The kisses deepened slightly, becoming more indulgent, more possessive. The kind that left marks. Your skin warmed beneath his mouth, laughter bubbling in your chest when he found a ticklish spot and refused to stop, dragging another helpless giggle out of you.

“Stop, stop—Reg, I swear—” you squirmed, breathless from laughter, your cheeks flushed pink and body warm with affection.

He finally let up, grinning with pride, brushing your hair back from your face with a fondness that felt so achingly gentle it almost hurt.

You were glowing. That post-sleep, post-laughter kind of glow that made his chest ache.

He looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like he might blink and find himself alone again.

You met his gaze, cheeks still warm, lips kiss-bitten and curved.

“You’re looking at me like I’m your religion,” you said with a teasing arch of your brow, and he just leaned up to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your jaw.

“I might be,” he whispered.

You groaned, dramatic, as you pushed lightly at his chest. “I’m going to have to cover all of this up, you know.” You tilted your neck, already feeling the soreness blooming beneath your skin.

You made to roll out of bed, sheets sliding off your legs—but his hand curled around your wrist.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he said, voice low and gravelly. He tugged you back toward him, guiding you to straddle his lap. You blinked down at him, amused and a little breathless, hair falling like a curtain around your face.

“Regulus,” you said, half-laughing, “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I don’t want the morning to end,” he confessed, softly, eyes dark and steady as they held yours.

You leaned down, kissed him slow, whispered against his lips, “Thought it wasn’t morning anymore.”

He smiled into the kiss, hands resting on your hips—and for a few minutes, the world narrowed to just the two of you. Quiet and golden and slow.

Until your stomach rumbled. Loudly.

The kiss is broken with a startled laugh, hiding your face in his shoulder. Regulus chuckled too, low and pleased.

“Alright,” he said with a sigh, fingers brushing your waist, “We’ll feed you.”

You rolled out of bed, finally, pulling on yesterday’s clothes as you glanced around. The room was empty, apart from the two of you. You stretched, arms over your head as you grinned over your shoulder.

“Look at that. Even outlasted Junior,” you joked lightheartedly, tugging your jumper back on.

Regulus didn’t say anything at first—just hummed.

Pushing away the urge to spill his guts, to tell you how the word hypocritical had torn something raw between them during your slumber. You were halfway down the stairs before you turned and whispered, “I’ll meet you in the Great Hall—give it five, yeah?”

He nodded. Forcing his lips to curve into a small smile.

“Five.”

The second you disappeared down the steps, the quiet hit him like a stone wall.

Sitting there, at the edge of the bed, chest hollow, the lingering warmth of you already fading from the sheets. The sound of your laughter still echoed faintly in his ears, but it was drowned out by the noise in his head.

His face subconsciously scrunched, exhaling shakily—running a hand roughly over his face as he turned his sights forward—the bed across the room was still empty.

── .✦

Lunch was already well underway when Barty finally showed. He was late—noticeably late—just after the pumpkin juice had been poured and the several servings of lunch had been eaten. Quietly—wordlessly. Like a shadow slipping between the cracks of the castle stone.

Barty moved as if he were walking through water—slow, heavy, like every step cost him something. His hair was rumpled, flattened oddly on one side like he’d slept curled up somewhere unforgiving. His tie was askew, barely knotted, and his shirt was half untucked at the waist.

You caught sight of him first.

Of course you did. You were always aware of Barty—he had a way of commanding attention when he entered a room, usually by flinging himself into it like a spark looking for something to set alight. But now, he lacked something.

His eyes didn’t scan the table like usual. He didn’t offer that lopsided smirk he wore like a badge of honour or drop some cutting, clever remark that made Evan laugh and Regulus roll his eyes with a small smile. He just sat down—dropped into the bench at the far end as though gravity had forcibly yanked him there.

Your gaze unknowingly followed his every move—mindlessly observing out of habit.

But he didn’t meet your eyes.

Not even when you said softly, “Hey, Junior,” your voice as casual and light as always—and he all but deflated at the sound, sinking into his seat as he forked around at his plate, remaining uncharacteristically silent—maybe he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, but didn’t care.

You glanced at Regulus, but he was staring at his plate as if it was the most interesting thing in the room, silent—posture was too straight. Too carefully composed—everything unnaturally taut. The silence that veiled the far end of the table apon Barty’s arrive was unnerving, the cloud that loomed over him, seeping and bleeding out into all of you—bringing the light chatter to a slow halt.

In an almost pitiful attempt to ease the glooming aura that had swathed the table, you spoke again—keeping your words pressureless, ambiguos—simple, “Sleep alright, J?”

He finally moved—but not to look at you. Instead, he turned his body subtly away, like the space between you wasn’t enough, making it wider instinctively—like he wanted to escape your presence. Reaching for his fork, twisting it between his fingers, he still didn’t speak.

Not a word.

Picking at his food like he didn’t recognise it—like it might turn to dust in his mouth.

Evan broke the brittle tension that accumlated in Barty blatant disregard, nudging his shoulder with his elbow in a half-hearted attempt to lift the mood. “Oi, saw you passed out on the common room sofa last night. You’re lucky Mulciber didn’t hex you in your sleep for stealing his nap spot.”

He smiled when he said it, teasing, waiting for the usual witty jab in return.

But Barty didn’t laugh. He didn’t scoff. He didn’t even twitch.

He just set his fork down—still clean—and stood.

Your brows furrowed as you watched him, lunch having grown cold and forgotten—your stomach twisting.

“Juni—”

He was already gone.

Just like that. Walked away, tray untouched, head bowed low, his shoulders curled in like he was trying to fold himself out of sight. He didn’t glance back. Not once—not at Regulus. Not at you. Not even at Evan, who looked after him with a baffled, half-offended expression.

It took a few moments for the silence to leave after Barty’s departure, but when it did, it was only partial. Regulus still was silent, body ridgid, looking down at his plate as if he could read the truth in the gravy lines. And you could see it. The tightens in his jaw, something swimming behind his eyes, something that rarely did.

Something you couldn’t quite place.

You sat just as still has him, appetite gone—the table feelinf significantly more empty than it had done before. Barty’s absences, his behavious heavy on your mind—his silence louder than most.

Maybe it was a hangover, or he’d not slept well—you tried to tell yourself—maybe he’d gotten a letter from home and bile and rage was building in his stomach like always. Maybe he just needed some time to himself.

Deep down you knew something was wrong, and you had a feeling Regulus knew what it was.

You did looked for him that evening. Though it felt as though he’d vanished into thin air.

First the Observatory—his usual haunt after dinner when the halls grew quiet and the scent of parchment overpowered the smell of food still lingering from the kitchens. But the corner by the ledge was vacant, the nights air twisting and whistling around the hollow room—leaves whirling against the cold stone.

Then the common room. Empty. Or rather, full of people who weren’t him. The sofa was unoccupied, and Evan was lounging upside down on one of the armchairs, chatting aimlessly to Mulciber and Dorcas.

“Have you seen Barty?” you asked.

Evan shrugged. “Nah. Maybe he’s off brooding somewhere. You know how he gets.”

But that wasn’t how he got. Not like this. Not without a word.

Turning the corner to the boys’ dorms, letting yourself in.

His bed was untouched. Not in the usual disheveled way Barty left it—sheets tangled, pillows dented, covers barely hanging on. No, this was wrong. This was still. Cold. Hollow. His side of the room was lifeless.

The books stacked by his bedside table hadn’t moved. The record player you’d both stolen from the Muggle Studies classroom one night two springs ago sat quiet, lifeless. Shoes still tucked beneath the bed, as if he hadn’t bothered to wear them. As if he’d disappeared barefoot.

You stood frozen in the doorway for a short while, scanning the room. Regulus was sitting cross-legged on his bed, wand in one hand, idly levitating a quill and not meeting your eyes.

“You don’t know where he is?” you asked, quietly—padding over to stand by Regulus’ bed, leaning against the pillar as you watched him. There were a few beats of silence, “No,”

Just that.

You waited.

Waited for the rest—for the truth tucked between the syllables, for the explanation that would unravel this knot in your chest. But he didn’t look up, didn’t offer anything else.

“You don’t think there’s something wrong?” your voice was more pinched than normal, unrest settling into the end of your question—and he could feel your eyes on him, the weight of your gaze heavy on his form. But he knew if he tore his sights away from the quill, he’d break. Guilt already bubbling in his stomach from the second you entered the room

Instead Regulus just gave a slight shrug, words muttered and unconvincing. “Maybe he needs space.”

“From what?”

You were only met with further silence—not a word. Not a glance. Just the soft scratch of the floating quill tracing invisible lines above his bed, a tight purse of his lips.

The air was too still, as you stood by him, just barely an arms length away—and when you turned on your heel—bones aching under the suffocation of the room and the sting of Regulus’ avoidance.

You left. And the quill dropped onto his lap as the door closed behind you, rubbing his hand over his face as his turned—looking at the empty space beside him that would usually be occupied by you with a frown. Regulus couldn’t bring himself to glance over to Barty’s bed, as the sounds of your footsteps became further and further away.

The next day was no better.

You saw the back of Barty’s head once in the corridor before lunch, but the moment he registered your voice—your steps—he turned down a side hall and disappeared before you could call after him.

At dinner, he never showed. Everyone far to entertained by Evan, who was too busy charming a salt shaker to sing Celestina Warbeck to notice, but you did.

You noticed—you waited.

The day after that, and the one after. The world kept spinning like nothing had shifted, but your stomach ached with the weight of uncertainty. You tried brushing it off at first—told yourself he was being dramatic, maybe annoyed with something trivial. That he’d get over it.

But the days stretched longer. And lonelier.

And Regulus…Regulus never said a word.

He kissed you when you met in hidden corners. Touched you like he meant it, with fingers that found comfort in each inch of you—but he never brought Barty up. Never acknowledged the empty space he left behind, struggled to meet you eye each morning when your gaze would linger on the empty space left for him.

But you felt it—everywhere.

In the way your laughter always died quicker now. In the way you avoided the right side of the dormitory when you were there resting with Regulus—approaching the door and waiting there—in hope of hearing anything other than Regulus’ manicured silence on the other side—approaching less often all together.

You felt it in the ache behind your ribs when you sat too long in silence wandering the place you’d walk together, emptier now—missing the loud, crass, ridiculous everything that was there with Barty.

Because now he wasn’t.

And you didn’t know why.

And it was driving you mad.

Because it had been days.

And you couldn’t pretend not to care anymore.

Not when Regulus still refused to meet your gaze when you said his name. Not when Barty’s side of the room looked like a memory, not a life. Not when your chest burned every time someone said, “He’s probably just being Barty,” like that explained the way his absence scraped against your heart like a harsh burn.

You couldn’t be in that room anymore. Not with Regulus and all his silences. Not with the evidence of Barty’s absence staring at you with every step.

So you stopped going, spending more time in your own room—preoccupying yourself with Head-Girl duties, subsequently leaving Regulus’ room even colder. Your absence adding to the weight of Barty’s—thick, heavy and aching on his shoulders.

You did eventually catch sight of him after an entire week.

Just a flicker—a blur of pale hands and windswept curls vanishing around the corner near the Arithmancy wing. He was alone. For once. No sanctuary of a crowded corridor to shield him.

Instantly you were speeding up, robes filling with air as you all but chased after him, calling his name once, twice. “Barty!”

He faltered—just for a heartbeat, his steps slowing in a way that made your chest bloom with hope, only for seconds later to be filled with a burning dread.

Because he darted.

Actually ran.

Rounding the next corner so fast he nearly slipped, hand catching on the wall to steady himself as his robes flared out behind him like smoke. By the time you turned after him, the corridor was empty. Only the echo of your own breath met you in the stillness. It was clear now, it wasn't just absence anymore.

It was evasion.

Deliberate. Cold. Unwarrented

Lungs burning violently beneath your ribs, more from the sting behind your eyes than the pace of your pursuit. You stood there for a long moment, chest rising and falling unevenly. Cold stone walls pressed in around you, and something sharp curled inside your ribs.

He was hiding.

From you.

And Regulus wasn’t saying a thing, acting as though addressing anything would sear the surface of his lips. He just looked at you and somehow that was worse than his silence, the apologetic look everytime he caught you looking for him—and he still wouldn't break, wouldn't say anything.

Which left only one other person who might’ve done something.

Lunch was a blur of noise and clatter when you stepped into the Great Hall. But the moment your eyes landed on your brother—halfway through a sandwich at the Gryffindor table, seated comfortably between Sirius and Remus—it was as if everything else dimmed.

You crossed the room slowly. Quietly—with purpose.

The hum of chatter softened in your wake as students caught the shift in the air. Even the portraits seemed to pause mid-gossip, eyes flicking toward the slow storm building in your stride.

As always, James didn’t notice until you were nearly on top of him.

Turning just as your shadow fell across the table, his expression freezing mid-bite. The sandwich hovered in front of his mouth, a bite missing, and his eyes widened when they met yours—dark, unreadable.

You said nothing at first—just stood there.

The weight of your silence pressed down on the entire Gryffindor table like a hex. James blinked, mouth still full. “Er—something wrong?”

Your eyes narrowed, a muscle ticking in your jaw—a few more long moments of silence spread between you, words leaving with a sharp bitter bite that made him wince internally. “What did you do?”

The entire table went still.

Even Remus leaned back slightly, brows raised—as though he was bracing himself.

James slowly finished chewing, swallowed, then furrowed his brow—confusion splitting across his face in a loud smear. “To who?”

“Barty.”

The name landed like a dropped knife, harsh

James straightened. “What would I want with Batshit Barty?”

He was speaking far to causally for your liking, too flippant—as though you weren’t talking about one of your closest friends, someone you held close to you, like you weren’t talking to him about your Sirius or Remus.

You didn’t dignify him with answer—just kept staring. Cold. Quiet. Fury simmering beneath your skin, and your silence clearly spoke loud enough for you, because James was rushing out more words in order to quell your impending rage.

“I haven’t done anything,” he added, holding his hands up as if warding off a spell. “Why are you assuming—?”

“Don’t lie to me.” Your voice was low, unnaturally calm but razor-edged. “He’s been gone for days. He won’t look at me. He’s avoiding Regulus too. And you—” your voice caught, jaw tightening, slight desperation seeping into your tone as your looked at James.

It had his lips pursing into a tightline, sighing at the upset he could always easily recognise—easier than other, knowing it would settle into your brows. The telltale signs of your stress showing in the vein that appear by your temple when you spoke.

“—You never liked him. You’ve always hated that he was close to me. So tell me what you said.”

James couldn’t look more genuinely confused if he tried, glancing between his friends and back to you wide-eyed. “I didn’t say anything. I haven’t even seen him. And yeah, I don’t particularly like the git, but you’re seriously jumping—”

“You don’t have to like him. But I know you. You think he’s weird. You think he’s a bad influence.”

“Because he is, Pop! You’re smarter than—”

Your palm crashed onto the table, hard enough to rattle the silverware, and he cut off mid-sentence—mid insult. The other coming onto his shoulder in a deceivingly light and friendly manner that cause his stomach to sink.

And awful silence blooming in the wake of the sharp thud.

You leaned in, voice shaking with restrained fury. “If I find out you had anything to do with this, James, I will hex you so thoroughly McGonagall will have to reassemble you from a mist.”

You straightened, scrowl twitching into a slight frown. Turned.

And walked out of the hall without another word.

From two tables down, Regulus watched the entire scene unfold—eyes distant, shoulders stiff, guilt flickering like a shadow across his otherwise calm face. His fork remained suspended in mid-air, untouched, as you disappeared from view.

And back in the corridor, just outside the doors, you paused and pressed your hand against your forehead—squeezing your eyes shut, attempting to purge the stress from your system, calm your pulse.

But it didn’t.

And it wouldn’t not—until you found him. Found out what’s wrong, where he was hiding, what you’d done.

You were on a rampage.

There wasn’t a corridor you hadn’t stormed down, no secret niche or alcove left unchecked. Even Peeves stayed well out of your way—whistling obnoxiously from a distance as he watched you barrel past with a glower fit to set the suits of armor clattering in fear. Spenting the better part of the weekend pacing through every corridor of Hogwarts, searching high and low for Barty, and each fruitless encounter had worn your nerves even thinner.

Because Barty was somehow nowhere.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t right.

And the sharp, twisting frustration inside of you had nowhere to go, compounding into a taut knot at the base of your throat.

You tried, really tried not to take it out on Regulus.

It wasn't his fault.

He’d done nothing wrong, to your knowledge.

But tension—agitation—clung to you like smoke. Coiling in your chest and bleeding in to everything, even when you tried to bite it back—every brush of conversation feeling too short, too raw, as if a single wrong word might set the whole damn world tilting sideways.

Once again you found yourself wandering aimlessly down the third-floor corridor, shoulders rigid with barely restrained tension, brows furrowed so tightly it felt like they might permanently etch themselves into your skin. You barely even register Regulus' soft footsteps approaching from behind—he was always quiet like that—until you felt his presence like a cool shadow against the hot buzz of your thoughts.

Turning your head just as he parted his lips to call your name, catching him in the corner of your eye. He stopped short, his frown mirroring the one set stubbornly into your mouth. You did offered him a brittle, tight-lipped smile—a poor excuse for reassurance—it looked more like a twitsed grimace.

And if anything, it made his chest ache more.

Without a word, Regulus stepped into your space, fingers curling gently around your wrist and tugging you toward the darker recesses of the corridor, into the small corner by the old statue of the One-Eyed Witch.

There was no resistance, just barely dragging your feet in the direction he pulled you. A small part of you thankful for the anchor he always offered without needing to be asked.

Pressing you gently into the shadowed alcove, until your back met the cool stone wall. He shifted his body just enough to shield you from view, although this part of the castle was rarely trafficked on weekends.

His hands rose, cradling your face with a reverence that made your chest tighten all over again, thumbs brushing carefully over the creased furrow between your brows, trying to smooth away the silent worry written across your skin.

Dipping his forehead to rest against yours, and for a long quiet moment, he just held you, breathed you in—your frustration, your stress, your tangled turmoil. His thumbs continued their soothing pattern across your skin. Tilting your chin up, compelling your gaze to meet his, and his frown mirrored your own; a mirror of silent worry and guilt. Then, slowly, he dipped forward, pressing the softest kiss to your downturned lips.

You didn’t react at first.

The first few pecks were like kisses to a stone statue, your body slumped, your heart still swimming in anxious disarray.

But Regulus didn’t stop.

Didn’t falter.

He kissed you again—softer, longer—then pulled back only enough to kiss you again, not giving you room to slip away. His hands stayed at your jawline, steady and patient, and he began peppering kisses across your cheeks, your forehead, the corners of your mouth.

Another kiss. And another. Light, coaxing—careful not to demand anything from you, just to offer, patiently, again and again.

Something in you cracked.

Your body betrayed you.

Lips twitched at the corners—a small, stubborn curve, despite yourself when he abandoned your mouth to scatter kisses across your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, the tip of your forehead. Feather-light, stubborn little pecks that demanded you feel them.

Encouraged, he pressed one firmer kiss to your mouth, and this time you lifted your hands, rising from your sides almost timidly to touch him.

When he finally pulled back slightly, searching your face, he only waited a heartbeat before dipping back in—catching your mouth with a little more insistence, refusing to let you disappear into your own mind. Fingers reached up to clutch at the soft fabric of his jumper—he smiled into you and pressed a firmer, surer one against your mouth.

“I’m sorry, amour,” he whispered against your lips, voice low, aching.

Your heart gave a painful, traitorous little leap at the pet name. Inhaling shakily through your nose, burying your face against his chest for a moment, drinking in his familar scent, basking in his touch. Mindlessly fiddling with the hem of his jumper.

"No, I'm sorry," you murmured, voice cracking a little. "I’m not upset with you, Reg...I'm just worried."

You couldn’t meet his eyes.

And the guilt in his chest sharpened, too heavy to ignore. He could stomach Barty’s silence, could even stomach his own cowardice, could wait out the tension until it cracked and splintered and healed, but you—with your small, fragile voice—you were his breaking point.

He didn’t know how to tell you it was partly his fault. That if he’d kept his mouth shut weeks ago, none of this would have unraveled.

So he just leaned in, kissed you again—longer this time, letting it sink deep—until he felt the tightness begin to seep out of your shoulders, melting you into him. Thumb tracing idle, affectionate circles over your cheekbones, and when he pulled back, he gaze flickered briefly down to your now parted, lightly flushed lips.

He didn’t stay distant for long.

Ducking back down, connecting your lips again, this time more hungrily, a low, almost frustrated sound rumbling in his throat. His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you into the cool stone.

Letting his lips trail over the curve of your jaw, over the vulnerable line of your throat—slow and indulgent—between kisses he mumbled, almost inaudibly,

"Can we talk after dinner?"

Your mind was fogging under his touch, head tipping back slightly against the wall to grant him better access.

"Mmh?" you managed breathlessly, hands sliding up to tangle in his hair.

"In my room," he clarified, lips brushing your pulse point. "After dinner. Please, amour."

"What is it?" you whispered.

He only hummed, not willing to say more here, kissing down the slope of your neck.

"After dinner," he murmured again, "I’ll explain everything, my love."

And you could only nod, dazed, sighing a soft "okay" into the heated slither of air between you.

Hands rising to clutch the front of his jumper as his lips found their way back to yours. One hand sliding into the back of your hair, cradling the base of your skull, as if you might disappear if he didn't hold you close enough.

It was feverish, unsteady, all the bottled-up emotions from the past few weeks bleeding into it—frustration, longing, guilt, tenderness. Regulus made a soft, almost groaning sound against your mouth, low and aching, pressing you into him like he couldn’t bear even an inch of distance between you.

Indulging so much that neither of you noticed the faint creak of stone shifting nearby.

Hidden behind the narrow crack in the floor—the secret entrance to Honeydukes cellar—Remus had frozen halfway up the ladder, wide-eyed and horrified.

He’d only peered out because he thought the coast was clear—but instead, he found himself staring straight at you and Regulus, very much entangled, very much devouring each other against the wall.

Remus’ entire brain short-circuited. His mouth falling open wordlessly, heart thudding violently in his chest, a surge of secondhand panic washing over him.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered under his breath, scrambling backward so fast he nearly slipped off the ladder entirely.

“What?!” hissed James, who was climbing up behind him, bag and pockets full of stolen treats. Remus dropped back down onto solid ground, his face burning crimson, shoving James hard in the chest to get him to retreat.

“Peeves,” Remus blurted, voice cracking horribly. “Peeves is lurking—we can’t use this exit. Go, go!”

He practically herded James and Sirius back down the ladder, his hands flailing in frantic gestures, as if trying to physically wipe the mental image from his brain.

James scowled. “We’ll have to take the library passage, then—wait, why is your face redder than a howler—"

“DON'T ASK,” Remus snapped, voice embarrassingly high-pitched, speedwalking so fast Sirius almost tripped trying to keep up.

Behind the stone wall, blissfully unaware of the near-catastrophe, you and Regulus finally broke apart, both breathing hard, foreheads still touching. You opened your eyes slowly, and the look you found waiting for you in Regulus' eyes nearly knocked the breath from your lungs all over again—too fond, too devoted it made your chest ache.

His thumb brushed once more over your now kiss-swollen bottom lip, almost reverently.

There was a sudden, heavy tenderness hanging heavy between you—delicate and infinite and frighteningly real.

“I missed your smile, amour,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, but the vulnerability in it was unmistakable.

You felt your mouth twitch—the smallest of smiles threatening your lips, despite everything.

Regulus caught it instantly, his eyes brightening with something fierce and boyish and unguarded, something he usually hid so well.

He smiled—that same smile that softened all his sharp edges—and ducked his head, pressing one last kiss to your forehead.

“What?” he said, voice lighter, teasing. “You are my love. It’s just a fact.”

You groaned, half mortified, half wanting to curl yourself into him and never move again—slipping out of the alcove with a muttered sound of embrassment, dragging him by the hand into the empty corridor before he could say anything else to make your cheeks any hotter.

He followed you without protest, his fingers laced securely with yours.

Regulus chuckled low in his throat, clearly pleased with himself, and gently unwound your fingers from his jumper, lacing them with his own instead. Thumb stroked back and forth over the back of your hand.

After a moment, he squeezed your hand gently and said, softer this time, “After dinner. My room. Promise me you'll come.”

── .✦

It had been weeks, and they were grueling and awful and torturous if Barty were to describe them.

And he simply couldn't do this anymore.

The pressure of it—the churning, festering wrongness under his skin—was unbearable now. Like he was carrying it all inside his ribs and it was rotting him alive.

He’d hardly even been in a room with Regulus since that night. Or you.

And he could see it—the way his own twisted form of self-preservation was affecting you, how even in his absence he’d managed to damage you still. And he knew Regulus didn’t say anything—he saw the altercation you had between your brother, and how your presence dwindled in his room. How you would b-line to your dorm, and when he’d sneak into get his clothes that the room rarely every smelt like you anymore.

The guilt was eating him from the inside out, because it wasn’t just you, it was Regulus as well—walking around with a sharper scowl, shoulders hung heavy like the weight of everything and more rested on them. Not just his usual brooding self, almost dejected.

Barty couldn't sit still. Couldn't hide away anymore, ignore his feelings—pretend he wasn’t thrumming with an ugly combination of stress and something even worse—something desperate and raw and afraid.

He needed to find Regulus.

He needed to talk to him.

To fix it. To deny it. To clear it up or scream about it or something—anything but this awful limbo where the walls felt too close and his own skin didn’t fit right.

It didn’t matter that it was Sunday evening, that the castle was heavy with the scent of dinner being prepared, Barty knew Regulus’ habits like they were tattooed on the inside of his skull. Always disappearing for an hour or two before the evening rush—locked away in the luxurious marble bath, soaking in stupidly expensive bath oils, hidden behind thick clouds of steam and silence.

A ritual.

A sacred hour Barty had historically never dared to interrupt.

Right now, he didn’t care.

He just needed to see him. Needed to fix this suffocating knot inside his ribs before it swallowed him whole, before he ruined more than he already had. Feet moving faster, almost without his permission, carrying him through the dimming halls—running solely on adrenaline now—an ugly, volatile thing—praying it wouldn't abandon him at the wrong time.

The Prefects' corridor was empty, getting into the hall much easier than he’d imagined it to be.

Barty didn’t pause.

He wrenched open the heavy door to the bathroom and slipped inside like a shadow.

The air was thick inside—warm and wet and heavy with the smell of eucalyptus and something honeyed and rich. The world narrowed down to the soft sound of lapping water, the gleam of marble under golden torchlight, and the pulse hammering wildly in Barty’s ears.

And there he was.

Regulus.

Sitting at the far end of the enormous sunken bath, his slender back turned, arms lazily draped over the marble edge. Head tilted back, curls slicked down against his skull, pale throat bared to the ceiling.

He looked—

Gods, did was he a sight—almost ethereal, like something out of a dream Barty had never realise he had. His voice broke out of him before he could stop it, desperate and cracking—disrupting the perfecting calculated stillness that Regulus lounged in.

"Reg, listen I—I need to talk to you for a sec—"

At the sound of his voice, Regulus stirred. Moving so slowly, like waking from some deep underwater dream—a quiet exhale escaping his mouth, softer than he’d ever thought it could be, especially aimed at him, and almost grateful.

He turned towards Barty, lifting himself slightly against the marble, water sliding down the planes of his torso in glistening rivulets.

And Barty's pulse almost came to an abrupt stop.

Because what he saw made his blood run hot and cold all at once. Regulus’ chest was bare—slick, gleaming, flushed—and littered with deep violet hickeys—glistening under the soft golden light, hickeys blooming down the line of his throat, across his collarbones, scattered over the delicate cage of his ribs.

Your marks.

Your mouth, mapped all over him like he belonged to you.

Barty's gaze snagged helplessly on the dark purple bites smeared along Regulus’ skin, breath caught in his throat like it had been punched out of him.

He'd seen Regulus shirtless a hundred times. In locker rooms. In summer. It was nothing new.

But this—

This was different.

Regulus wasn’t just bare.

He was marked up.

Claimed.

Barty—he couldn’t fucking breathe, completely forgotten how.

Eyes glued to the way Regulus’ slender arms flexed as he shifted, the blue veins in his forearms prominent and glistening under the wet light. On the way his water-slick hair clung to the delicate slope of his cheekbone. On the lazy curl of steam rising off his flushed skin.

He was stupidly, obscenely beautiful—and it made something inside Barty twist so hard it hurt.

And then, just to add to it—as if the knife needed to twist even deeper—Regulus’ mouth shaped his name. "Junior," Regulus breathed, soft and fond and almost worried—his dark eyes scanning over Barty’s frozen figure, open and vulnerable and achingly glad to see him.

He could feel it, unbareably so—prevalent and impossible to ignore. The heat crawling up from the base of his throat, spilling across his cheeks, climbing up the tips of his ears until it felt like his whole skull was on fire.

Struggling, he wrenched his gaze away—disgusted with himself, with this, with everything—heart hammering like a snare drum.

"—Shit—sorry, this—" Barty stammered, voice cracking in half, "—this is a bad time, I'll just—I'll come back—"

He spun on his heel, desperate to get out, desperate to run before he did something unspeakably stupid. Behind him, he heard Regulus shift in the water with a sharp splash—heard the panic in his voice:

"Wait—! Junior, wait—"

But Barty was already gone—stumbling back through the doorway, half-blind with the sheer force of wrongness splitting him in half—barely making it three steps out of the prefect bathroom before he slammed into you at full force.

The collision was so sudden, so jarring, that both of you went down hard—the weight of it knocking the breath out of your lungs as you hit the cold stone floor with a painful thud, a startled groan slipping out of your lips apon impact with the dense stone. Papers were flying, scattering like feathers in the heavy, humid corridor air.

Barty landed half-sprawled infront of you, frozen stiff on the floor, like he couldn’t even think about moving. His chest heaved as he gasped in a broken, desperate breath—wide, panicked eyes locking onto you, like you were the only thing he could see.

It was you.

Of course it was you.

The person who had put their mouth all over Regulus’ body, the person who he branded themselves into every one of his thoughts, the person who he longed and ached for.

The person whose touch was still probably lingering on Regulus’ skin, sinking into his bones.

The person that Barty wanted nothing more than to be a victim of your touch.

"Treasure," he breathed out—helplessly, instinctively—voice cracked and raw.

And your eyes widened, glassy almost immediately—shimmering with emotion you didn’t even have time to name as your gaze swept over him, lingering on the flushed panic stamped across his face.

You barely registered the throbbing ache in your hip or the smarting scrape on your elbow—the only thing you could focus on was him—the way his brows were drawn up like it physically hurt him to see you in pain, the way he looked so panicked and almost small for the first time.

The heavy door behind him hadn’t even fully clicked shut yet when it swung open again.

And there—padding out into the corridor, steam still clinging to his skin—Regulus.

A towel hung precariously low around his narrow hips, damp from where it clung to the drops sliding down his chest and thighs. The cold castle air hit him hard, raising goosebumps along his marked, glistening skin—the fresh hickeys stark and scandalous against his usually-pristine appearance.

His mouth was still open mid-protest, the words "No! Barty, wait—" faltering into shocked silence as he stumbled into view...and saw you both. A messy heap on the stone floor, your papers strewn everywhere.

He froze.

Like someone had Petrificus Totalus-ed him in place.

For a wild, frantic second, he didn’t move—didn’t even breathe—looking for all the world like a soaked, deeply miserable, and highly stressed cat caught in a trap.

An uncontrollable flush blossomed up Regulus’ neck to the tips of his ears—a vivid wash of pink climbing higher and higher, curls dripping onto his forehead, his arms flinching as if debating whether to clutch the towel tighter or bolt for the nearest shadow.

It was so bad, so insanely bad, that a broken, half-hysterical laugh threatened to rise in your throat—but it caught halfway up when the door beside you creaked open again.

And out stepped Remus.

Still mid-conversation with you—or, he had been—before the disaster of the corridor scene snatched the words right out of his mouth. He took one look at you and Barty tangled on the floor, another at the papers littering the hallway, and then—

Then he saw Regulus.

Or more specifically, Regulus' towel-wrapped, heavily marked figure standing shame-facedly in the middle of the hallway like a half-drowned mythological disaster. Nearly naked Regulus. Remus’ eyes went comically wide.

His jaw opened slightly—then closed—then opened again.

The way he stared at Regulus was enough to make you want to evaporate on the spot. It was almost impressive how many emotions raced across Remus’ face all at once; shock, horror, confusion, secondhand embarrassment.

He looked back at you with a look that screamed: what the fuck, oh my god, how?, all at once, his ears flushing a brilliant shade of pink under his shaggy hair.

And Regulus—blessed, doomed Regulus—only then seemed to realise what he was showing the entire damn corridor.

He made a noise—something between a choked squeak and a groan—and scuttled backward, towel slipping dangerously low, practically tripping over his own feet as he yanked the bathroom door closed behind him with a deafening thud.

The silence that followed was mindnumbing.

Barty shifted stiffly beside you, hands fumbling to brace himself against the floor, scrambling up awkwardly, movements jerky, clearly desperate to get away—to vanish into thin air if he could. But before he could bolt, you latched onto his arm—firmly, fingers curling tight around his sleeve.

"Junior," you said—clear yet rough and certain—making him still where he stood, as if he couldn’t do anything but listen to the command of your voice. Flinching slightly at the sound of it, his name on your lips—something raw and aching flickering across his face—and he didn’t pull away. Couldn’t even if he wanted to, because it was you.

Meanwhile, Remus—poor, long-suffering Remus, had very clearly decided that he wanted absolutely no part of this scene anymore.

Without a word, cheeks still burning, he inched carefully backward—edging into the room he'd just come from, shooting you one last deeply pained, bewildered glance before disappearing with a whispered, awkward "Yeah, I'm just—I'll go."

The door clicked shut softly behind him.

And then it was just you and Barty.

Standing in the wreckage of the hallway—papers still scattered everywhere like shrapnel, your heart hammering painfully hard in your chest. Fingers were still gripping his sleeve and he could feel you, the warmth of your palm radiating through his robes—both of you remained still, as if locked in that moment.

And when he finally lifted his gaze from the floor—finally looked at your for the first time in weeks—he looked at you like you were something half-sacred, half-terrifying—something he didn't know if he was allowed to touch or beg for or run from.

The moments drags, time slowing around you in the corridor as you wrack you brain desperately for words, anything, but your mind has gone blank—emptied under the pressure of Barty’s eyes on you. Something swimming in them that has your throat drying as the seconds go by. Hyperaware of him being close to you, him being infront of you after weeks of search.

You’re startled out of your thoughts when his arm shifted under your hold, stepping closer to him in desperation—convinced he’d run away the second he had the chance.

“Junior,”

That was all you said.

It sounded breathless and pinched and honestly pathetic—but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Eyes locked on where you held him, as if he wasn’t real—like he was going to dematerialise spontaneously and you’d be left standing alone again.

A frown was etched onto your lips as you contemplated releasing him, he’d already made it so clear that for whatever reason he couldn’t stand the idea of being near you. And yet you were holding him hostage in silence, heart hammering beneath your chest—lump heavy in your throat preventing any speech from leaving you.

He still had a pained expression on his face—lips parting when you gaze rose to meet his—eyes softening when your voice reached his ears, meek and so unlike you, lacking your usual spark, your casual confidence.

“I—I’m sorry.” your voice trembled, brows pinched on your forehead—and he saw the way you struggled to swallow before you continued, “For whatever I did—Junior, I’m sorry,” Each word reaked with desperation and a quiet hopelessness that made Barty’s heart plummet in his chest.

His muscles were taut under his skin, rigid with restraint—wanting to run away from the inevitable and pull you into him all at the same time. Words lingering in the air between you, fragile and lost. He could practically feel them sink into his bones, heavier than any hex he’d ever been hit with.

For a long, suffocating moment, he said nothing. Just looked at you.

Looked at you like you were a burning star about to collapse under your own gravity—something so devastatingly bright that getting close might kill him, looked at you with a helpless frown and pinched brows.

His jaw clenched once, twice, before he finally moved—slow, like it hurt him.

“Don’t—” he choked out, voice cracking mid-word. His hands balled into fists at his sides, nails digging crescent moons into his palms. “Don’t apologise.”

Your lips pursed together, blinking up at him with an expression he never wanted to see on your face again, and most certainly hated the fact that he was the reason for.

“I—” He stopped himself, raking a shaking hand through his hair, sending damp strands curling wildly. His whole body seemed to vibrate with a barely-restrained, chaotic energy, like a wire pulled too tight. “You didn’t do anything, treasure.”

And it only made you frown deepen, fingers twitching around his wrist—still holding him like he was some fragile thing that would vanish, that would crumble under any sort of pressure. Barty was too weak for his own good—surging forward and pulling you into him, arms wrapping tightly around you in an embrace.

He shouldn’t be doing this—holding you close this when your boyfriend was just a door down. He shouldn’t be indulging himself in you when even just this small touch means something different to him. Means more.

“You didn’t do anything,” he repeated, voice low and raw and agonisingly sincere.

“I’m the one—fuck, treasure, I’m the one who—”

His words caught in his throat when he felt you squeeze him, palm on his back—your warmth so soothing yet tormenting all at once and Barty just leaned into it. Leaned into you like a man who had nothing left—no fight, no resolve—just signing himself away. Pressing his face into the your shoulder, “I’m sorry,” he murmured back, words muffled against your skin. “I’m so fucking sorry, treasure. I—”

You didn’t let him finish, leaning away slightly—staring up at him with a look in your eyes he couldn’t understand, it lacked contempt, it didn’t have anything other than warmth and acceptance he couldn’t fathom. Affection, that he surely didn’t deserve.

“Junior. J—stop. You don’t need to explain right now,” you said, voice almost lost in the thick, suffocating air between you. “Let’s…let’s just go sit somewhere, yeah?”

But you barely had a chance to move before you heard the soft creak of a door behind you.

Regulus.

He stepped out of the bathroom, fully clothed now, his shirt rumpled and clinging slightly to his skin in places where his hair was still damp, curling against the nape of his neck and forehead in soft, messy tendrils. Water dripped lazily from the ends, soaking into the collar of his shirt, but he didn’t seem to notice.

His eyes found you first, standing frozen there in the corridor with Barty half-folded against you. Then his sights slid over to Barty, and the way Barty clung to you like if he let go, he’d come apart completely.

The way you cradled Barty’s wrist with your fingers—so gentle, so careful, as if you were holding something precious you didn’t know how to save. The look in Barty’s eyes—raw, unguarded—made Regulus’s chest ache in a way he didn’t want to name.

He just…watched for a moment.

Air stretching, heavy and taut and almost suffocating, until finally Regulus moved.

Walking up to you both in three long, silent strides and, without a word, reaching out—taking both of your wrists, Barty’s and yours, into his hands. Grip wasn’t rough, but it was firm. Inevitable.

He turned on his heel and tugged you both along. Neither of you resisted. Neither of you even thought to resist.

Following him blindly, feet scraping against the stones, the flickering torches blurring past in your peripheral vision. Barty stumbled once but caught himself, and you never once let go of him. The corridors twisted and turned, and after a short while, the only sound was quiet breaths mixing with the distant noise of dinner echoing from the Great Hall.

After a few minutes, you found your voice, smaller than you’d have liked, “Reg, where are we going…?”

He didn’t turn around, his fingers just tightened slightly where they held both your wrists, turning another corner. “Don’t you think we need to talk?” he said, his voice low, too neutral—almost strained.

You didn’t answer—letting the question hung unanswered between you.

Eventually, he pulled you both into the Slytherin common room—empty now—pulling you up the stairs into their room, the heavy velvet curtains drawn across the windows, casting the room in muted twilight. Only the faint golden glow of the sconces on the walls lit the room, flickering like dying stars.

Regulus let go of you both, stepping back a pace as if to give you space—maybe even to steel himself. The three of you stood there in the centre of the room, awkward and uncertain, like strangers stranded in the aftermath of a storm—the door clicking softly behind you and resonating around the silence in the room.

Barty’s shoulders were tense, hunched inward like he was bracing for a blow. His gaze was fixed stubbornly on the floor, refusing to meet either of yours. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, useless.

Regulus watched him quietly, no anger in his eyes—no disappointment, even. Just something quieter, heavier. Patient.

And you—

You hovered uncertainly, your hand still loosely wrapped around Barty’s wrist, your thumb brushing absently against the bone like you hadn’t even realised you were doing it—you never noticed, but Barty did.

His eyes flicking down, locking on the sight of your hand—so unaware, so comforting and yet it still made his chest tighten. Only then did you notice, feeling the way he tensed under your touch, following his gaze with dread pinching in you when you it landed on your hand.

Pursing your lips together, you pulled away—forcibly squeezing your own hand—fingers curling into your palm ike you could hide the upset bleeding into your skin.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice raw and breaking. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Barty flinched at your words, frustration flickering across his face before he scrubbed a hand roughly through his hair, curls falling even messier over his forehead.

“It’s not that—” he blurted, wincing. “Well—it is—but it’s not—” He stammered over the words, grimacing as he fought them, fought with his mind and tongue. “It’s not you. You don’t—you don’t make me uncomfortable. I just—”

He stopped, pressing his lips together hard like he could physically hold the rest of it in.

The silence stretched, pressed into him like it knew he would crumble, like it was waiting from him to shatter. And your gaze on him did nothing to quell his pulse sounding in his ears, it was open—confused, waiting. Unfairly patient.

Regulus’ stare was sharper—cutting into him with a quiet sort of knowing that made Barty’s stomach twist painfully.

And Barty couldn’t stand it—he couldn’t breathe under it.

“I—I thought I could do this. But I can’t. I’m sorry, I just—”

The panic was building, an unforgiving, rising tide in his throat, tight and hot and unbearable. He turned sharply, desperate to escape the weight of their stares, the suffocating walls, the unbearable truth burning under his skin. But before he could get more than a step away, Regulus moved—swift and sure, catching his wrist in a firm grip. “Stop.” Regulus said quietly, with an iron edge that brooked no argument. “If you don’t tell her, I will. It’s not fair anymore, Junior.”

And Barty's whole body jolted at the contact, stiffening like he’d been shocked. His stomach flipped—violent and sick and dizzying—but not just with anger. Not just with shame.

There was something else, something strange and warm tangled in it, something he didn’t want to name, something worse. The feeling of Regulus’ fingers curling around his wrist—soft and careful and familiar—it sent a pulse of heat ricocheting through him so abruptly that for a split second he was convinced his lungs had collapsed.

And it made him angry—at himself, at everything.

Because how dare his body still react like that, still betray him, even now when everything was clearly already falling apart?

He ripped his arm free like it burned him, staggering back with a harsh, broken sound caught in his throat, spinning around so quickly he nearly stumbled, chest heaving, his face crumpling with a sick, helpless kind of revulsion—at himself most of all.

“You think this is fair on me?!” he snapped, voice ragged and raw. He couldn’t even see Regulus’s face anymore—couldn’t bear to—only saw the wreckage burning behind his own eyes.

“You think I want this?!"

The words tore out of him, vicious and choking. "I wish—" And he breath caught, clawing its way out and trapping itself in his throat, as he continue words swallowed in the distress of his tone.

"I wish more than anything that I didn’t feel like this!"

His hands were shaking now, curled tight into fists, nails digging hard into his palms until he swore he felt blood bloom beneath them, knuckles white and tremouring under the tightness.

“What do you want me to say—huh, Reg?!” he demanded, a frantic, wounded sound punching out of him. “You want me to shout it from the rooftops?! Fine!”

He should have stopped himself, should have thought about it, taken a second to just stop. But Barty was always too volatile, always too crass for his own good—never able to find the middle ground, especially when it comes to emotions, so used to pushing them away. Hiding them under layers and layers of blaśe and cocky remakes. And now it was all spilling out of him like bile, thick like oil, staining and tainting the air as left him.

“You want me to say ‘I’m in love with your girlfriend!?’”

He wasn’t finished—the final truth tumbling out, raw and bleeding, voice cracking under the pressure,

"I’m in love with my best friend!"

And with that—it wasn’t just the room that stopped—Barty was use the whole world had, spinning on its axis, tilted upside down. He froze, his own heartbeat roaring in his ears, realisation crashing down on him like a tidal wave too heavy to survive.

The weight of what he’d said—what he couldn’t ever take back—slammed into him so hard he staggered, a half-step backward, dazed and wide-eyed.

You just stood there, staring at him, lips parted slightly, eyes glistening under the dim candle light—and Regulus didn't say anything. Didn’t even move either.

He just watched Barty quietly, his face frighteningly still, but his grey eyes were no longer guarded. They swam with something achingly gentle. Something like understanding, sympathetic—and he wanted to be sick, wanted to scream.

Because even now, even after everything—part of him still ached, wanting to reach for you, part of him wished Regulus’ hand was still warm and familiar against him. Still wanted to feel the impossible, burning comfort of being held by you.

And that?

That was the cruelest part of all.

already started part 4....were GETTING THERE YALL

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[aetherraeys]

bloodmoon

(part 2 x)

remus lupin x vampire!reader ⊹ 11.7k

For whatever reason, Remus couldn’t bear the idea of even being in the same room as you. His body had been telling him why, but clearly he needed it spelt out for him.

cw ⟢ hurt/comfort, slowish burn, swearing, self-loathing, meanish!remus, vampire!reader, blood

a/n: for this request! im sorry it took a while, i got a bit ahead of myself, hence the wordcount. enjoy x not proofread

Truly enticing—comparable to a siren—you carried an alluring presence that was impossible to ignore. With skin of a dazzling, pearlescent almost porcealine like quality—captivating eyes and a honeyed voice.

You were a creature to behold.

It wasn’t suprising in the slightest though, it seemed that everyone in your family held these same enthralling qualities, a notorious, long line of pureblood slytherin. And one would think you’d act as such, uppity, entitled and holier-than-thou, but it was quite the opposite.

Good-natured, courteous, poised—saintly, even. An overall good Samaritan.

Adored by many, hated by none.

Except Remus that is.

Well—hate was a strong word. He didn’t hate you, he had no reason to. But he couldn’t stop the agitating, grating feeling that crawled up the back of his neck whenever you were near.

He knew there was something wrong. He could feel it, it seemed like he was the only one who wasn’t helplessly drawn to you, like a moth to a flame—and it was starting to get to him.

He just didn’t get what all the fuss was about, granted, you were attractive—he wasn’t blind, he just didn’t like you. People practically worshipped the ground you walked on, praising you for being a decent human being, you even had the faculty playing into the palm of your hand.

And Remus wasn’t buying it.

He didn’t bother hiding the huffed scoff of disbelief and fed-up roll of his eyes from his friends when they passed you in the courtyard.

Predictably, you were surrounded—first-year girls giggling in your orbit, one perched behind you braiding your hair while you braided another’s. A few sat nearby on the benches, stringing together daisy chains like a scene plucked straight from a children’s storybook.

You looked like Mother Teresa, for crying out loud.

Later, in the Great Hall, his friends watched, as his spine became ridgid, grip on his spoon hardening the moment you walked in. As always, you strode in, arms linked with Pandora’s, that same wine-red lollipop in twirling your mouth, loud and obnoxious chatter circling between you.

At least, that’s how Remus saw it.

In reality, you’d walked in quite casually, reasonable volumed, light conversation following you, signiture lolly in hand. It seemed that today, Remus’ world was tinted slightly red with comtempt. He was practically burning a hole in the back of your head with his harsh gaze, as if he could will you spontaneously combust.

A sharp voice broke his concentration.

"Have you ever actually spoken to her?"

James.

Remus blinked, realization dawning as he registered the weight of his friends’ stares, the expectant looks they all shared. James’s tone was filled with exasperated skepticism. They knew he wasn’t your biggest fan—for whatever reason, he wouldn’t say.

Remus scowled, “Once.” And you were annoyingly nice through the entire interaction, despite Remus’ painfully obvious irritance, offering to help him infact.

It was late one evening when he limped into the hospital wing in search for Madame Pomfrey, still reeling in pain after a transformation—usually James or Sirius went to fetch his potion for him, but today he didn’t want to be bother. A white nurse’s apron tied neatly around your waist, gently changing the bandages of a battered Quidditch player. When you turned to him, peaceful expression contorting into one of concern. Without hesitation, you moved toward him, a little too quickly for his liking.

He stepped back, avoiding from your touch, as if it’d burn him, grumbling out, “Is Madam Pomfrey here?”

Slightly taken aback by his clear rejecting disposition, you explained that there had been a quite ghastly incident involving some first-years and the Whomping Willow. Reaching out a hand—

“She’s healing them on site at the minute, but if you tell me what’s wrong, I’m sure I can help you wit—”

Before you’d made it to the end of your sentence, he had already spun on his his heal and rushed away, sharply spitting, “Forget it.”

By the time he’d returned back to the common room, his limp had gotten slightly worse, straining under the pressure of his excertion—pain flaring with every step.

Lily was the first to notice, immediately rising from her seat to meet him, concern pinching her brows.

“Why didn’t you get healed?” she asked, her tone somewhere between scolding and worried.

He winced suddenly as he stretched his body out across the cushions. Both James and Sirius turned their heads in concern, faces mirroring Lily’s, brows knit upwards in a sympathetic grimance.

Sighing in defeat—“She wasn’t there.” Twisting and turning in a fruitless attempt to find a comfortable position where he couldn’t feel the searing ache in his bones.

“What do you mean, she wasn’t there? The hospital wing is never empty.” James’ voiced chimed in from his seat across the room, before he continue, ”Even then, you could’ve waited there.”

Lily was still adjusting the cushions she’d placed under his legs when she said, “I’ll go now if you wa—”

“No,” Remus interjected quickly, reaching out to stop her before she could stand, scratches on his knuckles still raw, sucking in a deep breath, willing his body to relax into the sofa, pushing the pain away from the forefront of his mind—he held her arm lightly.

“There’s no point going now, she won’t be back until later.”

Her face screwed in confusion, looking back at the others hoping they would intervene. Sirius made his way over to where they were, sitting by the fire, James following closely behind. They watched him, waiting for him to continue.

Lily frowned. “Who was there?”, his jaw tightened.

“It was only Y/N,” his eyes were shut as he ran a hand through his hair, his voice taking a sharp tone, a deep frown forming on his lips; “And I’d rather wait here in pain, than be healed by some girl playing dress up.”

His words were harsh and left little room for agrument, only cracking an eye open at the sound of James’ loud frustrated groan—his head rolled back, and his fingers forcibly rubbed at the wrinkles that had formed between his brows.

“So, let me get this straight, you turned away a perfectly good healer, in your state, because you don’t ‘like’ them?!”

Both Sirius and Lily looked gaped at him in shocked, shaking their heads in clear disapproval. He pursed his lips, forming into a thin, stubborn line.

“And she’s not ‘playing dress up’. Y/N has been volunteering under Madam Pomfrey since third year, Remus.”

Remus exhaled forcefully through his nose, but he didn’t argue.

Really, he should have felt guilty.

For the way he dismissed you. For the way he recoiled like you were something foul, despite your only offense being offering to help him. But he couldn’t find it in himself to act the slightest bit remoseful—pushing his face into the sofa, trying to block out the world. Wanting to ignore the way his head only throbbed—the headache had been making it’s presence known for hours.

Only pounding louder at the mention of your name. Even his friends came to your defense.

Since then, he’d made it his mission to stay out of your way—hating the person he became in your presence. It was ridiculous really, having such hostility to a person who had been endlessly kind.

He tried to avoid you, really.

But it seemed as though the Gods were punishing him.

First, it was in duelling class, you were no daisy, a truly gifted witch—and remained undefeated in casual combat.

He wanted to watch you get knocked off your high-horse, zero interest in parttaking. But alas, the Professor had decreed, that ‘The winner stays on’, and much to his misfortune it had rolled around to his turn.

He stepped onto the platform him and you turned to look at him—eyes bright, light pleasant smile on your face—he felt that same prickling irritation crawl up his spine.

You bowed to him, adherring proper etiquette, and he followed suit, gripping his wand tightly as he moved into position.

The duel began with a flick of wands and a burst of movement. He had to admit—grudgingly—that you were good. Swift on your feet, sharp reflexes, casting defensive spells, deflecting him with ease.

You weren’t even try to win.

The goal was to disarm, and disarm only—and yet you hadn’t made one attempt at him, effortless precision in the way you diverted every one of his spells, riccoching away with loud hisses. Barely having moved from you position, hand still comfortably behind your back—while Remus had broken a clear sweat, inching up the platform, closing the distance that was set between you.

Remus was by no means an amateur, so this was just embarrassing.

You were only blocking, like this was some silly game, like you were playing with a child. And it was starting to make him irrationally angry. The surrounding students had taken a step back, whispering amongst themselves as your wands clashed in bursts of white and blue.

Did you think you were so good, that you needed to pull your punches?

It was already in motion when he’d realised what he’d done, his aggrevation got the better of him, and with a calculated flick of his wrist, Remus sent a well-aimed flippendo, straight at you. You saw the look in face, the anger crumbling as the spell left his lips.

It immediately broke through, sending you flying upwards, a sharp white flash leaving your wand.

For a moment, the room was still.

Gasps sounded, echoeing in Remus’ ears, and the Professor stood up abrupty from his seat by the platform, eyes rising and falling, following the movement of you body.

He barely registered the sting of magic, the clattering sound of his wand, is what brought Remus back into the room.

Your chest heaved, each breath deeper than the last, trying to compensate for the wind that had been knocked out of you. Head bowed forward, sitting on you knees, palms spread across the floor, wand still in hand as you stumbled, failing to raise from your position.

Your reflexes had caught you, just barely preventing your entire body from crashing roughly against the hard mahogany.

Knees still burning from the hard connection. The silence broken as your friends made their way through the crowd, and as they neared, you raised a hand to halt them before they could fuss over you. You exhaled sharply, trying to straighten your spine, shaking the residual magic from your fingertips. Hands burning from bracing you impact, wand warm in your tight grasp, the energy still thrumming beneath your skin.

Remus stood frozen, chest rising and falling in rapid succession, his expression wavering between guilt and frustration. Someone reached out—Dorcas, maybe—but you only rolled your shoulders, breath still laboured as you shook off the lingering sting of the spell.

Despite his foul-play, you’d still won—effectively disarming him mid air.

Remus swallowed as he took a hesitant step forward—whether to speak, to apologize, he wasn’t sure. The professor finally spoke, ”That was reckless, Mr. Lupin.”Voice ringing in his ears, sharp and disapproving.

Without a word, you turned on your heel and strode toward the exit, footsteps ringing against the wooden floor.

You hadn't looked at him.

Hadn’t even spared him a glance.

The next time he saw you, days had passed, now in Potions.

He should have known Slughorn would meddle. The man had an affinity for grouping “brilliant minds” together, and Remus, to his horror, was no exception.

“You two will make an excellent pair,” Slughorn beamed, practically vibrating with excitement as he waved between you and Remus. “Top of my class, both of you—oh, the potential! I expect nothing short of excellence.”

For a few moments, you stood still, and he could have swore he saw you eye twitch. But then, you turned to him with a polite, yet tight-lipped and strained smile on your face, hands already moving to gather ingredients.

“Let’s get started, shall we?”

He didn’t respond—just nodded stiffly, shoving his sleeves up as he resigned himself to his fate.

The entire class, you worked in relative silence, opting to only speak when you spoke to him, your voice was so casual, so smooth, nowhere near as pinched and curt as his.

Still unable to fight off the relentless, gutwrenching burn of his blood at your proximity—he couldn’t explain it, couldn’t comprehend why his body has such an involuntary viseral reaction to you.

Observing you quietly, watching as you hummed while stirring the cauldron, peaceful concentration on your face. And he hated it, hated how when you look at him, your eyes remained just as kind as that day in the hospital—not holding an ounce of resentment towards him, not even a flicker of the disdain he was certain he deserved. It gnawed at him, made something coil tight and uncomfortable in his chest.

He should have been relieved—grateful, even—that you hadn’t taken his hostility to heart.

“Lupin?”

Your voice broke through his thoughts, dragging him back to the present. He realized, belatedly, that you were watching him expectantly, holding out your hand.

“Hmm?”

“The moonstone,” you repeated patiently, point at it, a jar of powdered moonstone that was next to his open textbook. “Are you going to add it, or should I?”

For a moment, he just stared.

And when your arm reached out and over to take the jar yourself, the time frame you needed add in the ingredient slipping away, the seconds almost slowed down as your arm made contact with the searing hot cauldron.

You retracted quickly, jar in your grasp, and holding your arm in pain.

Remus flinched, the scrape of your sharp inhale cutting through the low murmur of the classroom. “Shit—” the word slipped out, before he could think, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist. But your skin was cold, shockingly cold, like there wasn’t an ounce of warm in you at all—the gasp leaving before he realised.

You pulled your arm away from him abrupty, he sat still watching as you pulled out your wand and muttered a cooling charm under your breath.

“I’m fine,” you said softly, breaking the silence. “It’s nothing.”

His jaw clenched watching the redness faded slightly, but the skin still looked tender. Your eyes flicked away from your arm to the cauldron—gaze ever focused, ever composed. But Remus saw it, the fear and the colour drain from you face at his reaction—you knew he felt it, felt you, your temperature*.*

Remus swallowed the apology clawing its way up his throat. What good would it do?

“We’ve got time to redo the step.” You mumbled, rolling down your sleeves.

He reached for the moonstone, fingers brushing against the jar’s glass. Without a word, measuring out the powder and added it to the cauldron in slow, careful motions.

Noting how, for the rest of the class, your gaze didn’t meet his.

“Perfect!” Slughorn’s voice rang through the classroom, loud and booming, as he peered delightedly into your cauldron. “Absolutely textbook! I knew the two of you would be a fantastic match.”

Lunch couldn’t have come fast enough, immediately as the bell run, he watched your figure slip away silently into the corridoor.

Remus had barely touched his food, stirring absentmindedly at his plate as James and Sirius chattered animatedly beside him. Lily sat across from them, eyes flitting between her book and whatever ridiculous conversation was unfolding at the table.

His was in daze, replaying the moment over and over again—on question on loop in his brain.

Why?

He knew full well it wasn’t normal, there was no doubt about it in his mind, and sure he ran hot, for his own reasons, but he couldn’t shake away the look you had in your eyes, the panic, how when you tore your hand from his grasp, the surface of his fingertips were still cold.

That day, you didn’t walk in with Pandora like usual, the spot on the bench remained empty, for the entire lunch hour.

Instead of attending lunch, you were pacing around the Observatory in the Astronomy tower, hand rubbing over the skin where your burn should be, it would’ve healed completely before the end of the class anyway, but the cooling charm, cut the time down to a meer 5 minutes.

You’d been knawing at the skin of your bottom lip for too long now, a nervous habit. Staring mindlessly out, hoping the skies would provide some solace to the turmoil brewing deep in the pits of your stomach.

Why did he have to touch you?

Hands gripping the metal of the railing, it was familiar, cold—matching your skin. Gods, you hated this, hated how you were—cursed, hated how all it took was mistake and your whole world would come crashing down upon you. And you’d, unfortunately, survive, forced to find a new identity, just as your parents had.

The mantra was heavy on you lips—he won’t know, he doesn’t know, he can’t know.

You wanted to go about your day, to make your way down to the hospital wing, do some good for once, but you knew it wouldn’t be smart—you couldn’t focus anything right now. Let alone treat sick people, something that needed your undivided attention.

Maybe its best you skip dinner too, you weren’t exactly hungry.

Walking back to the slytherin common room, mind in a state of complete disarray—it was the wet dripping down your chin that made you realise—you’d bitten your lip swollen and raw. Metallic taste in your mouth, you picked up your pace into a small jog.

“bathroom, bathroom, bathroom,” muttering under your breath.

Of course, in your time of need the nearest girls’ toilet was, what felt like, miles away. You were sure it looked worse than it actually was. The small gash was already healing—but you were running now, the drops were going to stain your shirt if you didn’t hurry.

Hand covering the your mouth, you felt him, and the floor, before you saw him.

A loud, “Ooof,” sounded from above you—and when you landed on the hard stone, you bit down re-opening your nearly healed wound. You couldn’t help the pained groan that escaped your lips, the sharp sting of fresh blood flooding your mouth.

“Bloody hell—”

The voice above you was unmistakable.

It just had to be him, didn’t it?

You scrambled upright, ignoring the way your limbs ached from the fall. Remus came round by you side, and Lily was on the other—her words were genuine and full of concern, ”Y/N! Are you alright?!”

Her hands were already reach for you, when you tried to say tell her that you were fine. Instictively avoiding her touch, backing up, and into Remus’ grasp, you were well and truly trapped. Hooking their hands under your arms, and pulling you to a stand.

His hands were achingly hot against your robes, and you forced your teeth back into the closing gash—keeping the blood flowing.

You really were short on luck today.

“Merlin, you’re so cold Y/N,” her hands already running up and down your arms to warm you, you shied away from her touch, but Remus kept a tight grip on you.

“I run a tad cold, I’m fine though, just heading to the bathroom.” It came out rushed and pinched, completely muffled from you hand, still pressing your teeth into it—eyes becoming more glossy by the second.

You so desperately needed to be anywhere but here.

Remus felt like a looming presence behind you, you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him—feeling his eyes scanning your frame. You were still trying to squirm out of his grip, but he wouldn’t release you.

It took a few more moments for Lily to stop forcibly rubbing you arm and take a step back, concern still etched into her face. “Are you sure? You look—”, she hesitated, before gesturing your appearence.

You let out a breathy, forced chuckle. “I’m fine, really.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded slowly, allowing you a sliver of space.

Remus, on the other hand, hadn’t moved. His grip remained firm, his fingers twitching slightly where they pressed against your sleeve.

You refused to look at him.

He won’t know, he doesn’t know, he can’t know.

But the silence stretched between you, growing heavier with each second. You could feel his eyes on you, scanning every inch, catalouging every detail.

“You’re bleeding.”

It wasn’t a question.

Your stomach twisted violently. Your grip tightened over your mouth, fingers digging into your skin, willing yourself not to react.

“I bit my lip.” You interrupted quickly, words too sharp, too frantic. “That’s all.”

Remus still hadn’t let go, his face was almost unreadable—

“Let me see.”

Your heart lurched. “No.”

The word left your lips too quickly, too forceful, too much like a command. His grip tensed, just for a fraction of a second but you couldn’t wait any longer—each second riskier than the last, it was all already too much. Ripping your arm from is grasp, tears heavy on your waterline—”I have to go now.”

Before Lily was even able to offer her company, you were gone. Had bolted, practically running down the corridor, leaving them both behind.

You didn’t stop until you were safely locked inside the bathroom, palms pressed against the cold porcelain of the sink, chest heaving. You turned on the faucet, letting the water run over your trembling fingers, watching as it swirled pink before disappearing down the drain. Examining your lip—already healed.

He doesn’t know. He won’t know. He can’t know.

But no matter how many times you repeated it, you couldn’t shake the way Remus had looked at you.

The coil had already began to wined. It always started like this, suspicion, panic, terror. You could barely meet your own gaze in the mirror, splashing water on you face—hair sticking to your forehead, slow pulse thumping in your ear. A constant reminder.

Monster.

The rest of the week, you’d avoided meal times, giving Pandora a cheap excuse every morning, one day studying, the next day, tutoring, the day after hospital wing.

Thinking, hoping, praying to whatever deity had done this to you, for just a slither of mercy. You, of course, wrote home, detailing the incident. It was always better to keep them in the know.

The castle had begun to feel suffocating.

Too many eyes. Too many questions.

So you turned to the one place that had never judged you—the Forbidden Forest. Its not like anything in there could do real harm to you.

You were the monster they’d warn you about.

The shadows welcomed you, stretching long and dark beneath the canopy, swallowing you whole. Bark damp and cool under your fingertips, legs hanging comfortably from the branch. Feeling your stomach churn, as an unfamiliar heartbeat rang in your ears, much faster—nearing.

Its footsteps small and rapid, hands gripping onto the wood much tighter, when you saw it. A rabbit, your feet moved faster than your brain. Drawn in, you couldn’t help but instinctively follow, stalk—hunt— scent painfully sweet. You watched it wriggle into the base of a hollowed out tree, hand reaching in and dragging it out, it squirmed and squealed in your hold.

The saliva was building, pooling in your mouth, your chest shuddered with each breath, and swallowing thickly—you pulled out your wand, holding it firmly to the stomach of the creature.

“Episkey.”

It calmed, less frantic, less afraid.

And you placed it down, gently with a few tender stokes to the head, back into the safety of the cavern.

Hours has passed, trailing aimlessly up and down the outskirts of the forest, you crouched low by a river, staring at the distorted reflection staring back at you. The veins by your eyes bloomed over the curve of your cheekbones, a prominent dark-red, pulsing under your fingertips, the dark edge of your iris adoping a black hue and expanding, consuming almost all of the white.

A thing of nightmares.

You tilted your head back, admiring the moon, full and captivating—alone and understanding, like that of an old friend.

A branch snapped in the distance.

You stiffened, every muscle locking in place, every instinct screaming prey.

An itch beneath your skin. A sickness in your bones.

You squeezed your eyes shut, teeth digging into your bottom lip—

Then it rung, echoed, ricochetted off of every nearby surface, breaking the stillness of the water you stood over.

A howl.

One too close for comfort, the skin at the back of your neck prickled, you refused to take another breath. You should have paid more attention to your surroundings, should have a path ready, an escape route. It was too late now, it was too close, you could smell it now.

You’d wasted time.

There wasn’t much else to do, you didn’t know where to run next, each second of the chase to valuable to get lost. Taking the large rock that sat snuggly against the water’s edge, you blindly tossed it behind you, using every ounce of strength in your body. Before submerging yourself.

The water was freezing, so much so it made your eyes burn, you forced yourself to relax—to sink, avoid detection all costs.

Your mother had warned you about wolves, vicious, savage and beastly creatures—that killed for the sake of killing, for the thrill of the hunt.

It was ironic in your opinion, the way she spoke about them with such disgust and distain, like your kind of monster was any better than the next. At least werewolves could escape it, only spending 12 nights of the year a slave to their nature, able to blend in with the rest of the world, almost normal—they’d live and die in timely fashion, naturally or of disease.

The priviliege possibility.

You were the real vicious, beastly creatures. A parasite—feeding off the life of innocents, beautiful and magnetic to draw in the naive and weak, taking life, all that is good and disgracing it.

The ultimate perversion of nature, the condemned.

The pressure of the water above you had made your chest burn, ears filling with water, and as much as you tried to tune your hearing to the surface level, everything was dulled by the gurgling, whoosing the bounced back and forth between your ears.

You had to take the chance, you had to surface, you’d already been under too long.

Forcing yourself up, clothes weighing you down, making the ascent that bit more burdensome on your muscles, your fingers gripped the lip pond, tugging yourself free from the water’s embrace. You layed there for a moment, eyes still squeezed shut, half submerged, drinking in heaping gulps of oxygen.

You could feel it, the warm hum of the sun against your back, the life of the forest clear in the quite churps the swam across the air. The time under the water had passed so quick, peacefully, all thoughts subdued by the lulling sway, the push and pull of the current.

The rest of your body hit the ground with an uncomfortable splat, completely and thoroughly drenched, and yet you couldnt’t complain. Despite not having slept a wink, you felt less lost, thoughts a bit clearer, mind less polluted.

Still, you utterly were exhausted, trudging back to the castle—leaving a wet and dripping trail behind you.

It was just early enough that you’d been able to walk in through the main entrance unseen, but before you could turn the corner down to the girls’ toilets, it hit you, harsh, defeaning and impossible to ignore.

You doubled over, the roaring incessant pull, making your gums ache and vision blur. Stumbling forward, you tried to rest your back on the stone, but it whafted in again, stronger. Forcing you to screw your eyes shut, all but collapsing on the floor—clutching your stomach.

It was exactly what you hoped it wouldn’t be.

The sweet, sickly coppery smell, had your head spinning, and even after all the endless nights you’d spent in the hospital wing, sometimes dripping in the stuff, you’d still never smelt blood so compelling.

You could barely breathe, each inhale felt like an iron rod was being shoved down your throat, curled into a ball, writhing as you fought every cell in your body to not chase.

All you could hear was an awful shrilling sound, and you wanted to gag, a retch building in your chest.

You’ve learnt that fate is twisted, and sadistic—cruel in nature.

Because despite all your efforts, your struggle and labour to stay away.

It was coming to you.

There were three, you could hear them, all three heartbeats—one significantly faster than the others, though only one approached you. You groaned a pained sound in protest, they shouldn’t come closer, really.

Padding footsteps stopped by you, breath hitching as you shook with the effort, taking what little you had left in you—you pushed yourself as far away as possible. And when your head hit the wall, you just sobbed. Frantically shaking you head, whispering over and over to yourself—

“Please, no, Gods, no-”

They’d heard the impact first, and when James looked up, the small dark figure at the bottom of the hall thudding to the ground, he looked over at Sirius, who he’d been supporting Remus’ weight. That knowing look, the one that said, we need to help.

He was only inches away, his fingertips gently lifting away you robes, they were heavy and soaked, the splattering connection that sounded made Remus wince, ears still so hypersensitive.

James’ expression was grave, wordlessly, picking you up, carrying you with careful, measured movements.

Your body was stiff against him, trembling—not from the cold, but from the unbearable restraint you were forcing upon yourself. Hands locked into tight fists against your chest, as your jaw clenched so tight it sent sharp pangs down your skull.

You could smell him, so much closer now, just behind you.

The fresh wound. The slow, sluggish trickle of blood. The way it called to you like a siren song, wrapping invisible hands around your throat, pulling, pulling—

And then a voice.

"She’s absolutely freezing."

It was so distant, like layers and layers, gallons and gallons of water seperated you.

You wanted to scream at him, No, no I’m hot, its so hot. it burns— but your lips wouldn’t move, your body wouldn’t listen.

And then, another voice.

Deep, rough, hoarse from exhaustion.

Remus.

“Take her with us.”

A sharp, breathy whimper rattled in your throat. You can’t. Not when your willpower was teetering to close to the edge. Not when you could barely contain the way your fingers twitched toward him, the way your tongue pressed hungrily against your teeth.

Not when the taste of him still lingered in the air between you.

The scent had been overwhelming before—but now? Now it was unbearable.

Because he was so close.

Because you could hear it now—his and only his heartbeat, as if made just for your ears. His blood buzzing and pumping around his body, seeping through clothes, slipping through cracks—

You sobbed, twisting violently in James’ arms, thrashing, desperate to get away.

"Hold her still!" Sirius hissed, as he stumbled back against Remus.

"I am!" James snapped, struggling to keep you from writhing out of his grasp.

You shook your head violently, the world spinning, tilting—every inch of you screaming in protest.

"I can’t—" your voice was barely there, more breath than sound. "Please—"

But no one was listening.

Because they didn’t understand.

They didn’t know what you were.

And they didn’t realize the real danger wasn’t whatever had lead you collapsed in that hallway.

The danger was you.

Edges of your vision began to cloud, head lolling, a rolling with each step James’ took, tears drying on you cheek and body falling limp as the last fight you has in you dwindled away.

Madam Pomfrey was quick to aiding Remus, discretely as always, cornering off a large enough section for him, James and Sirius. Agonising groans as she healed the gashes across his chest, tending to the bruises and aching muscles with quick efficiency—falling into the routine she’d become so unfortunatley accustom to.

James and Sirius help, dabbing the sweat off of him, changing the bandages as they soaked again and again—disgarding them into a bucket nearby.

Now, her next mission was you.

She knew well of your affiction, thankfully, as did a few other select members of the faculty, hiding your true nature from the students, the parents, the papers. It pained her to see you in your condition, knowing you were a sweet girl, not an bad bone in your body. Trying so hard to be better, counter the instincts that clawed at you from the inside out.

Pomfrey had always been gentle with you, but now, her touch was laced with urgency. She pressed the back of her hand against your forehead, feeling the unnatural chill of your skin.

"Oh, my dear," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

You flinched, shifting away even in your half-conscious state.

"No—" your voice was hoarse, faint. "Don’t—"

But she shushed you, soft but firm, her fingers brushing over your pulse point, it was always slow, just barely there, but now—it was weak, a beat a minute. Not suprising, you hadn’t visited for your potion in some time, for whatever reason, denying yourself.

Forcing yourself to endure it, torturing and punishing yourself—while walking around with the biggest smile, nursing others back to health.

Remus was just coming to, the hair at the base of his scalp stuck to his neck, head pounding, jaw aching—when his eyes finally opened, he noticed his friends’ attention locked elsewhere—necks arched into a straining crane.

Transfixed on you, your poor shaking figure, fighting fever and something else.

By this time, Pomfrey had called for assistance in keeping you in place, keeping you running—hell bent on leaving the room.

Eyes raising heavily, following theirs, exerting his body into an upright position. He knew it was you, only from the familiar intrusive way his body shivered, hairs raising and skin prickling down is spine—because that wasn’t your voice,

No, your voice was always light, jarringly composed, sickly melodic. Not this, what filled is ears was hard to listen to, he wanted to shy away from the injured cries. Invasively loud, inescapable—and they didn’t seem to be stopping.

Becoming more urgent, more distressed, adopting a particularly harrowing edge when Pomfrey rushed back to you with a small green vial, attached to a concerningly large needle.

It felt disturbingly familiar, he saw himself in you—the futile struggle, the panic, the pain.

They all instictively turned away with a sharp intake of breath as Pomfrey pushed the needle deep into the dip where your neck meets your shoulder. It took a few more long moments before you calmed down—your head lolled again, body burning with exhaustion. Your head felt so far away, you didn’t want to sleep, but it was tempting—reminding you of the peace you’d found in the river earlier.

Eyes slipping away into the back of your head, before fluttering open just a sliver—just enough to see him.

Remus.

Still wincing, still covered in bandages, but his head was turned toward you.

Watching.

Brows furrowed.

Sighing as the sleep fully washed over your body.

Remus left the hospital wing that same day, still ridden with the usual post-moon aches, and he knew his own bed would be a better remedy.

The trio walked in silence, heads hanging as they slipped passed the closed curtain of your bay.

Barely out of earshot, it was Sirius who broke the silence first.

“D’you think she’s okay?” it was low and sincere, what they’d all been thinking.

No one answered for a moment, the memories still so fresh, too fresh for them to find the words. Remus couldn’t ignore the tight feeling in his chest—not the one cause by the night’s tearing, distorting and reassembling, but one of sympathy. Like he’d been forced to watch a wounded animal.

James’ voice was strained, struggling to capture the optimism his words clearly wished to convey, “I’m sure Pomfrey will take good care of her,” nodding to convince himself more than the others.

Whatever was wrong with you, you didn’t deserve it.

Remus chose not to say anything, because despite even her greatest efforts, she struggled to heal him—magic only going so far. And what he saw, what made you like that, he knew had to be a much worse problem than his.

The rest of the weekend passed with little commotion, though—Remus opted to collect his potion himself on both days, intending to catch a small glimpse of you, maybe you were fine—resting in the bed with your usual charming smile, surrounded by your friends—

On the saturday, your curtains were still close, no visitors, just silence around the wing. He was quick to leave, feet padding softly away as he shook off the gut-wrenching pinch he felt as he walked passed. But by sunday’s early evening, the wing was mostly clear, no sign of your presence, no signs of anything—just gone.

Of course, he attended classes as normal, when the first breakfast rolled around he only spared one glace at the entrance when Pandora walked in alone, by dinner his lips were sealed shut in confusion.

You weren’t in the hospital, you weren’t in classes, you weren’t at dinner.

The third day in a row of no-show. Remus’ body had the same tell-tale signs, as though you’d glided into the room, Pandora by your side—smile bright, lips reddened from your lolly. There was still no nothing though, halls feeling emptier, no smiles, no lollies, no you. He only pushed around the food on his plate, legs bouncing beneath the table, teeth grinding under the tension.

You’d think he’d be relieved to be rid of you.

Presence having always caused him such discomfort, such unjust agitation. But in spite of all that, you still plagued every inch of his thought, moments still flashing vividly behind his eyes of how he last saw you. He just needed to know.

That whatever sickness, whatever ailed you no longer did.

You still didn’t appear for another two days.

And when you’d finally walked into the Great Hall, practically clinging onto Pandora’s arm for support, Dorcas and Narcissa stuck to your sides, like bodyguards.

Still no smiles, still no lolly, still no you.

Because, that wasn’t the same girl who made his blood boil just by the way people were drawn to you, that wasn’t the girl who made his world tint red, body tensed and irritated, no. You were drained of all colour, eyes dull and trained to the ground—teeth knawing roughly at your lips.

Your sickness had left stripped everything away from you, a hollowed out husk of the girl you were before, and it made it hard for Remus to swallow the lump in his throat—made it hard for him to tear his gaze away from you.

So fragile.

The grip he had on his glass made his knuckles turn white, surely this wasn’t normal, surely there was someone doing something, Pomfrey—anyone.

Lily’s hand clapped over her mouth at the sight of you. Wasting no time rushing to your side, and Remus could hear her voice, the hushed concerned questions tumbling out, “Y/N, are you okay? Where have you been? Do you need anything?”

You were barely able push out a smile, in attempts to quell her worries, but your face was uncharacteristically stiff. Lips stretching and trying to curve up at the corners, but it was no use—it looked like a sort of twisted grimace.

Her hand ghosted over yours, cold to the touch, brows knitting tightly into a furrow—your whole body tensed under her touch, and as much as you wanted to pull away, you struggled to find the energy.

It was so clear that she meant well, but you had hardly taken in one breath, Remus was still watching you, and you felt his critical gaze on you as always.

“I’m fine, Lily, thank you though, just a bit poorly,” moving you hand away from hers to rest lightly in your lap.

Lily could see how every word was a strain on you, energy depleting as the interaction stretch beyond what you’d imagined. With a nod and a few more kind words, she sat back at the table.

Everyone’s eyes were on her expecting—waiting to her to detail the what she’d said, how you were doing.

She relayed, keeping it short and simple—but reinforcing one specific detail, you were still so cold.

You’d dismissed yourself early from dinner, a poor excuse of ‘rest’.

Remus still listening.

As everyone tried to offer you company, some support, an escort. “At least just to the common room?” Narcissa insisted, but you’d already stood and hushed her pleas—the same words, you’d become a record player, stuck on repeat.

“I’m fine, Cis—really.” Your smile didn’t meet your eyes.

He was so distracted that evening, always looking over to your table. No-one commented on it. Just allowing him to sit in his own state of disarray, internal conflict.

It would be inappropriate to pry, to check in on you. You weren’t friends, barely even associates—and he hadn’t been kind to you once in all your years as classmates.

Tolerating you with unfiltered scorn and hostility, never once considering how it would feel—to be on the receiving end of his indiscriminate contempt.

And finally, he felt it. What he’d been ignoring, allowing anger to push it down, letting the searing vex settle in the forefront of his mind—but it still lingered, waiting patiently to be acknowledged.

The guilt.

Abrupt and blunt were his words as he stood up from the bench, “going bed early.” And he didn’t wait for the responses or the goodnights, pace quick out of the hall.

He did go to bed, he just didn’t stay there. Reaching under his pillow and pulling out the map. Hesitating, as his fingertips ran over the rough, dry surface of the parchment. He shouldn’t.

That did little to stop him though.

He told himself, if you were in your common room, actually resting, he’d leave it alone. It wasn’t his place anyway.

But his eyes scanned for your name in the small circle of the dungeon.

Empty.

Brows pinched high on his forehead, frantically unfolding the pages, flicking back and forth for your name. Dread was settling in, what ifs—you could be in that same condition as the other night.

Scared, in pain, alone.

The sigh of relief when he found your name, heartbeat unusually fast and echoing in his ears. His feet moving faster than they should have, instinctively.

He wasn’t even sure why he was doing this. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t. Legs carrying him far as his strides picked up, walking, jogging, running, sprinting to you.

You were too weak to go where you really wanted, the walk to the black pond just too tasking. The next best thing was the Observatory.

The sky was dark, storming—violent claps of thunder and lightning clapping breaking the clouds. Wind whipping and forcing the rain onto the balcony. Your legs hung over the edge, robes dripping, forming a puddle around you.

Face resting on the bar in the middle of the railing—it was nice, the rain on your skin, the pitter patter on the stone left little room for your thoughts.

You were thankful.

Moments of peace so few and far between as of recently.

You knew he was coming, could smell him from a mile away, there was no point in running anymore. Growing accustomed to the cruel and bitter fates the Gods kept throwing at you.

And quite frankly, you had nothing left to fight with.

His heaving breaths sounded behind you, arms holding the door frame for a moment before he took a step towards you. He saw visibly the way your spine straightened and became taut, breath halting.

You weren’t as easily swayed by his scent this time, for one he wasn’t bleeding. And you’d already braced yourself for his presence—teeth biting harshly into your tongue, burning at the painful sting, drawing blood.

There was time for you to leave, but you had a feeling he wouldn’t give up. Sure his arrival wasn’t a coincidence. Either he knew or he was coming to find out.

Both inevitable realities with unfortunate ends.

He was still paused behind you, having stopped a few meters away—not exactly sure what to say, not sure why he was here.

Couldn’t even tell if the way his skin prickled and itched was because of you or the rain’s harsh assault on the surface of his skin.

All words failing to reach his lips, instead, he took a seat a few inches away from you, on the other side of bar you’d been resting against.

Legs joining yours, in their dangle and sway over the stone’s edge, robes darkening as the rain soaked further into the fabric.

For a long while, you both sat in silence.

Remus didn’t know you knew, it had barely been a week since your discovery. Your second day out of the hospital wing, you connected the dots—the howl you’d heard that night, the way he’d been so severely wounded, the cabinets in the hospital filled with small vials adorned with his name, his aversion to you, why his scent was so disturbingly alluring.

Even now, he sat mere inches away and your mouth was filling with saliva—jaw clenching in efforts to reject the lure.

You were almost shocked at your ignorance to him, his nature, suddenly seeming so obvious—wanting to scoff, both monsters that can’t recognise each other—the irony.

His first words tempted you to laugh.

“Cold?”, he asked, rain dripping off the tip of his nose as he turned to look at you.

It took a few more long drawn out seconds before you turned to meet his gaze. And his heart ached at the sight of you, so utterly defeated, eyes vacant.

You reply was so matter of fact—

“You know I am, Lupin,” maintaining eye contact, it had a layer of something he didn’t quite understand.

Breaking the stare, you turned and looked out longingly at the clouds, letting your words settle into the crisp air between you. His body heat radiated off him so far, it would have warmed your cold body—if that were possible.

He wanted to ask what you mean, and why you said it like that, wanted to ask what was wrong, and why you looks so..so—he couldn’t even put his finger on the word—so not you.

Mouth opening and closing once, twice before blurting out, “Are you okay?” as it left, he felt it was a rather stupid choice of question—considering the situation, but it was too late now.

“You’ve really come all this way to ask how I am?” Still you kept your eyes looking out into the distance, admiring the deep hues of the clouds that rolled over the horizon.

He was still looking at you, your body against the pillar, as if the weight of the world rest on your shoulders. “Well?”

You felt yourself fiddling with the edge of your sleeves, the lump that’d been forming in your throat for the last few minutes felt impossibly larger. You didn’t want to look at him, knowing it would break you, the exhaustion rolling over you in waves—and you couldn’t bear it much longer.

When you did look to him, your eyes pricked with tears, lips twisting into a deep frown.

“I’m tired, Remus.”

You were, so so tired, in pain, hungry.

He didn’t know what to do, completely helpless, it’d made him feel ill, the dejected look on your face, there were so many words swirling in his mind. So much he wanted to say, none of it fitting, none of it enough. Instead, he reached an arm around you, pulling you in, taking the weight you’d been pressing on the bar between you—your head on his shoulders.

He had no idea why he felt comfortable enough to do that, maybe it was the way you said his name—soft, fragile, or maybe it was the way you looked at him—lost. If it wasn’t that, maybe it was the reason why he was even in here in the first place—he cared.

The idea of telling you that it would be okay, seemed ill-fitting, he still didn’t know what was wrong. The rain was coming down slower now, less aggressive and the thunder sounded further away—drifting.

You pressed your lips together, questioning whether to say anything at all. But you were already here, it was already in motion.

“Remus, do you know why you hate me so?”

He looked at you, confused, ready to protest, he doesn’t hate you, he really didn’t. It was the knowing look on your face that stopped him, reflecting on his treatment towards you—he stayed quiet.

You nodded, at nothing, turning away from him.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

The question seemed silly, of course he knew why he was here, he came to check on you, see if you were okay. Find out what was wrong—

“Why?”

Your body was still rigid against his, there was no soft rise and fall, still holding your breath—waiting.

His lips parted when he found the right words to start his sentence, “Your condition-“

Your interruption was simple, yet vague—

“If you have to ask, you’re not ready to know.”

He gaze was on you, perplexed but he listened as you continued, “I wouldn’t be able to tell you anyway.”

There were rules, restrictions against sharing about your condition, not just for the safety of others, but your own—the hysteria, the uproar, an undoing.

His breath hitched as your eyes met his, drained, understanding—kind. The air seemed to still around his when the words fell from you lips.

“Does it hurt you greatly?—each moon?”

You knew, his mouth was dry, eyes searching your face, expecting rejection, contempt, fear. But there was none, you weren’t scared of him, and though your eyes lacked their usual spark, there was still a subtle warmth, accepting. The smallest smile, twitched at your lips, hoping to give him some comfort.

Neither of you moved from your position, his body burned hot despite the rain, harsh wind, and your presence—yours was still cold, as always, a stark contrast to his heat.

“How long have you known?”

…

“A few days.”

It was obvious to him what made you realise, his condition that morning when you saw him, he wasn’t surprised—you were smart.

He would have asked you if you’d told anyone, but he was sure for some reason, that you hadn’t—that you wouldn’t. He chose to answer your initial question instead, grimacing as his body recollected the way his bones would break, his muscles would tear and his own screams of agony were alien in his ears.

“It hurts. A lot, more than I can say,” confession honest and clear.

You hummed in acknowledgment, but still waiting.

Waiting for the dots to connect in his mind, he was thinking—it was clear in the expression on his face, blinks slow, brows furrowed.

Like he was running through every possible piece of information he’d cataloged about you. You couldn’t tell him, and he couldn’t ask—his brain felt muddled.

Just as the skies cleared with time, so did his expression—looking at you with wide, shocked eyes. Always cold, unnaturally so, brilliant reflexes, alluring and captivating to all—people flocked to you effortlessly, and now that he was thinking about it—he rarely saw you eat, at every meal time, lips tinted red from your lolly.

A honeyduke’s classic.

A bloodsucker.

He still didn’t understand, you were nothing like what he’d read about—presented as ugly, ghoulish creatures that burned in the sun.

He was stuttering, puzzled, ���But-but the *textbooks—*your—nothing like that”

Nodding, staring down into your lap.

“live long enough, and you can change history.”

His breath was caught in his throat—that’s why. He felt so blind, it should have figured it out soon, or at least suspected, from the way his skin crawled in your presence.

There were signs, so many, but it still seemed impossible, unfathomable.

“Show me.”

Head whipping towards him, shocked. He didn’t even know what he asked of you, eyes on his face, an incredulous look on yours—still contemplating.

“It’s…it’s not—uh, pretty.”

You felt silly at your remark. Of course it wasn’t pretty, he couldn’t be expecting something pretty.

He watched, face unchanging, not flinching away at the sight of your face distorting—whites of your eyes vanishing and the veins, they bulged, stretching out from your waterline and further down your face—protruding thickly out on your neck. You parted your lips, allowing the four sharp canines into his views, still he was neutral.

Just looking.

Cogs turning slowly.

“That morning—you were, in pain…was it—“

His insinuations were clear, the words dying on his lips when you nodded, trying to turn away from him.

“I don’t understand.”

It just didn’t make sense to him, after all these years, he’d never seen you like that, and the cause?

You weren’t even sure if you could tell him, if you should, even wording seemed hard. It didn’t seem right just say it—

Because I was hungry, because it was you.

It was clear to Remus how you were pondering your next words. It would be letting him in, allowing him to see through the cracks, the flaws, the unfortunate reality of you, the real you.

“Well, I hadn’t eaten—in a while, so it was just…”

He probably shouldn’t have asked, but it seemed the words were already in the air—

“Are you hungry now?”

Remus didn’t even know what he wanted you to say, he guessed that you were, still mild discomfort in your face, your body language. Not once did you breath in deep enough for your chest to even rise, back still straight and constantly fidgeting.

And if you weren’t—his mind couldn’t help but wonder.

The question wasn’t hard to answer, yes, every cell in your body screaming, deprived, angry. Your stomach twisted at the thought of eating, it had been so long, weeks—you’d even avoided the potion to keep the cramps at bay. You didn’t deserve the relief, because as much as it stopped the physical pain—your thoughts repulsed you.

But the shame, it never got any better, as much as your tried to push it the very back of your mind—ignore the suffocation of it, the nauseating pressure the clawed from the bottom of your spine and punched right through your chest every time your mouth-watered.

That same feeling stopped you from answering directly, mumbling, faintly above a whisper, as if saying it quieter would make it less difficult—

“It’s not something I enjoy—“

He was quick to intrude, sharp and direct.

“That’s not what I asked.”

It was even difficult to be near him now, insides lurching, in need of sustenance—and his heart was beating so strong, blood warm and intoxicating—appetising.

Your leg twitched with the effort it took to not move away from him, gaze transfixed on edge of stone you at on. Chewing relentlessly at your lip, it was unavoidable, so painstakingly aware of every pump of blood in his veins—

“Y/N,”

“Yes! Yes, Remus! Is that want you want me to say?! That i’m starving and haven’t eaten in weeks—That my throat feels like it’s closing in?!”

There was no need for you to be so harsh with your words, but you snapped—frustrated at yourself, frustrated at him for asking; for making you have to say it out loud.

And yet, he was seeming unaffected by your outburst, eyes sweeping over your figure—this whole time you’d been so composed, each sentence well-thought and calculated. It wasn’t his intention to strike a nerve, he could see the way you shrunk into yourself after, regret in your eyes—

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shou-“

“—Weeks?”

He cut you off again, echoing your words from before, your finger came up to pick at the lifted skin on your lips, only answering with a small nod. He couldn’t imagine it, having to walking around hungry for days, let alone weeks—the restraint you must have, working with the bloody and injured almost everyday.

“How?”

It seemed like such an incomprehensible task.

“How what?”

Right, he’d just blurted out the word random, as though you’d have access to his internal monologue.

“How do you do it—with Pomfrey, all the blood? Doesn’t it make you…I don’t know—uncomfortable?”

You hummed lightly at his explanation, thinking for a second, and for a while your face relaxed—as you thought back to the times you’d spent in the wing.

“It wasn’t easy, at first. But I wanted to help people, lessen their pain—so it doesn’t bother me anymore.”

You continued, confessing with a small scoff—

“It’s the least I can do in the life, something good, my soul maybe be damned—but at least i’ve found purpose.”

When you looked back at him, a deep frown was etched onto his face, eyes swimming with something you couldn’t quite read—looking at you as if your last words were blasphemous.

“You don’t really believe that do you? what you said—about your soul?”

Thinking back to your words, they did seem rather harsh, but you just pulled your lips into thinly lined smile, it stopped there just past the corners of your mouth, not travelling further up your face, as it should have. Sighing deeply through your nose—resigning with another nod.

“It’s a curse, Remus—what I am. A crime against nature.”

You weren’t bothered by your words at all, having come to terms with your reality many years ago, it made sense to you that he didn’t agree—he wouldn’t understand.

“Do you think that about me—and my soul? My curse?”

Brows stretched up and froze high in your forehead, frown now matching his—resting deep on your lips. Placing a hand on his���as if to make your words more sincere.

“I—Of course not. It’s different—you could never be damned Remus, you’re kind. And besides, you can’t help what you become, it’s just different.”

His eyes narrowed as he ran his other hand through his hair, you’d been sitting together so long it was almost dry. He was so confused, you contradicted yourself so plainly—

“You say it like you’ve got a choice in the matter, you didn’t ask to become what you are, Y/N. It’s not different at all.”

Your head was already shaking in dispute, he didn’t get it, yes you didn’t get a choice but there was no doubt in your mind about your fate. It just made sense to you that way, you were a different kind of monster.

Chest huffing in mild frustration, shifting your entire body to face him.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

Your words were harsher than you’d expected—too much of the contempt you held to yourself seeping in, taking a deep breath and correcting your tone.

“You don’t have a choice, Remus. You can’t fight against the moon—But you also don’t take life to sustain your own, you live and die—from old age or disease, the same why everyone else does.

We’re different.

You don’t leave death and destruction in your wake because of your selfish desires—taking advantage of the weak.

That’s my nature—That’s what I am.”

You pointed to yourself, finger poking hard and frantic in the middle of your chest—sick revolt burning in your eyes, wet with unshed tears.

He could see it, and it was so achingly familiar, the unadulterated distain for yourself. Too close to home, too much like his own—

Voice low and gentle, taking the hand that’d been accusing you so harshly in both of his.

“You’re nothing like that,”

It was true, to him at least, you were nothing like what you’d described—he wished so badly to be able to change your mind. Almost offended at how you could be so casually unkind to yourself—and he knew you meant it, that you truly did believe the things you said.

His touch was so hot against yours, and yours so cold against his—you wanted to tear your hand away, in fear of making him uncomfortable—so accustom the the sharp hiss that would leave everyone that made contact with you.

But he held your hand so tightly, with such earnestness, you couldn’t help but accept the warmth of his touch.

And for once, when holding your hand in his, there was no strange twisting in stomach, no hair standing on the back of his neck—no underlying loathing, no sickly feeling bubbling in this chest, no secrets.

Just you and him.

Understanding and solidarity.

“Is that why you do this—starve and deny yourself? Because of what you think about your soul?”

He saw through you, completely.

A single tear slid down your face, you couldn’t bring yourself to lie, deny it.

“I just don’t want to hurt anyone.”

The moon was barely visible now, resigning under the bright light that the sun had just barely begun to shine—

“And you won’t, you couldn’t even if you tried, Y/N.”

You frowned again, still so stubborn and untrusting of yourself—“You don’t know that, Remus.”

His words were immediate, explicit and absolute.

“Yes I do,” gaze so intense you had to tear your eyes away, “No, look at me—I do know that. I saw you—you passed out trying to get away from me that day.

So you wouldn’t hurt me.

You’ve already done so much good, you don’t need to suffer like this anymore.”

By his final sentence he already had you standing, dragging you out of the Observatory—hand in yours pulling you down the stairs.

“Remus, slow down! Where are we going?”

“A walk.”

“I—A walk?! it’s 5am?”

He didn’t bother answering, he knew his words weren’t enough to make you believe him, to change your twisted perception of yourself. And as you found your way out of the main entrance towards the forest—he spoke to you in a quiet soft voice.

You weren’t trailing behind him anymore, falling into step with your shorter, still exhausted stride. He spoke about the pain of his first transformation and as you passed the Whomping Willow—he revealed how it’d been placed by Dumbledore, for him.

When you reached the black pond, the sun was fully up, gracing the sky with warm rays and radiance. He’d been holding your hand the entire time—you began to wonder why he hadn’t let go.

Surely, it’d become uncomfortable for him, surely the surface of his skin burned from the cold. He must have noticed the skepticism in your gaze, asking, “Shall I let go?”

You shook your head, but pulled you both to a stop, opening his hand, and inspecting it—expecting it to be cold to the touch from the prolonged contact. But it wasn’t even flushed, just warm, too warm—considering.

He let out a breathy chuckle at your examination, rubbing his palm in confusion in confusion; the sound made your eyes snap to his face—lips stretched slightly across his face into crooked smile.

Simply taking your hand back in his grasp and continuing your walk, now back towards the castle.

In an almost smug tone—“I tend to run a bit hot, so don’t worry,”

How ironic.

Unprompted, as the exit to the forest became clear, he detailed how he got his condition—a cruel and vile act of revenge on an innocent.

He struggled to talk about it even after all these years, and you could hear how his heart rate quickened as though he’d been transported back to that moment—the little boy hiding in his wardrobe.

“If it’s too much, you don’t have to say,” voice gentle and comforting.

“I know i don’t have to, I want to.”

And your thumbs found themselves instinctively ghosting over his knuckles, tracing the skin of each scar—as if trying to sooth him, heal the wounds that still linger in more than a physical sense.

“What i’m trying to say, is that, there are twisted and sadistic people of all natures, that doesn’t mean you’re as bad as the worst of your kind—I promise.”

You hummed back to him, with a nod.

“Will you do one thing for me?” he asked when you slipped through the door in the West Hall. He was looking at you, with an unexpectedly fond eye.

“What is it?”

“You have to say you’ll do it first,”

A smile cracked onto your face, the first he’d seen in weeks, the one that reached your eyes—making them crinkle at the corners, the same smile he’d found irritating for all these years.

“How can I just agree—“

“Please?”

Rolling your eyes as you relented, not protesting when he walked you both down the hall, but after two left turns, it dawned on you.

He’s taking to you to Pomfrey.

You froze, a few meters from the door—mouth suddenly dry. He squeezed your hand, turning to you with a pleading look, “You said you’d—“

“I can’t.”

His chest lurched at the fear in your eyes, the way your shoulder inched up tighter, closer to your ears—shaking you head frantically.

Stepping forward, he released your hand but wasted no time wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him, on palm gently running over your back, the other instinctively holding your head against him—stroking over your hair.

You felt the vibrations of his voice in rumble his chest, a hushed tone.

“You know you can’t go on like this—you—this isn’t how you fix things.”

You padded in softly hand in hand, Remus still leading you in—and when Pomfrey turned to the door. She paused, looking between the two of you—fingers interlocked, the smallest of smiles twitched onto her face.

“Here for your potion, my dear?”

But she wasn’t talking to Remus—back already turning to the cabinets, you mumbled a small, yes.

You’d sat down on a bed, he hadn’t let go, and you were grateful—his warmth distracting you from the swirling pits of your stomach as she approached you with one small yellow and a larger red vial.

Pouring them carefully into a small metal cup, she patted a hand onto your shoulder—encouraging, the hesitation in your eyes clear to her.

One deep breath, flicking looks between her, Remus and the cup. It slid down your throat with ease but the taste—coppery and sickly sweet—made you struggle to disguise the heave the pushed through your stomach.

You hated it.

Placing the cup down, a grimace still on your face—you body thanked you for it. The cramps fazing away slowing, mind instantly less foggy. Remus could see the colour coming back to your face and his shoulders relaxed as though he’d let out the biggest sighs.

Pomfrey came back, she handed you your lolly and sent you on your way. You didn’t wait to leave before you unravelled it—looking at it as if it was the best thing in the entire world, a soft smile on Remus’ face when you popped it into you mouth with a small hum.

As the doors closed behind you both, Pomfrey let a knowing smile split onto her face as she cleaned up.

Two of a kind, she thought to herself.

[aetherraeys]

hideaway

for this request x

sirius black x reader ⊹ 6.8k

cw ⟢ swearing, very toxic household, angsty, reader has a bad homelife, descriptions of panic attacks, hurt/comfort

summary: in your mind, home was home no matter what, and as much as leaving crossed you mind, it was never a real option, never something you could commit to. you'd learnt to be brave in a different way, through sacrifice and endurance. and it wasn't until one slip-up, one glimpse through a crack that sirius found out about your well kept secret.

a/n:...i just twisted the knife in myself WHY?? this is prolly my most angsty fic yet, cried three times. not proofread x

Everyone found their way. Moved on, living their lives comfortably—peacefully.

Everyone except you.

It’s like you missed the train. Standing on the platform in a terminated station—frozen, trapped—living the same days on loop over and over.

You had small moments of peace; fleeting, few and far between—but it was something. something to take you out of the relentless dark cloud that loomed over your home.

If you could even call it that.

It even burned you to admit how it truly made you feel—imprisoned, burdened. Part of you wished you could feel different about it, and some days you did.

And though they were rare, they were truly amazing, each room overflowing with joy and light—as if there had never been a second of despair between the walls.

Sometimes, it was hard to explain what made it so suffocating.

It wasn’t the shouting—not always. It wasn’t even the silence that came after, stretched so thin it felt like it might snap and slice your skin open. It was the way it changed—constantly, rapidly—until you couldn’t tell what was real anymore.

It was cruel, in a way. The house knew how to pretend. How to charm you into staying, to blur the sharp edges with just enough warmth to convince you it wasn’t always bad. That maybe you were the one making it worse, and the one keeping it together, all at the same time.

There were moments where everything felt fine. Better than fine, even. There’d be laughter echoing off the kitchen tiles, the faint smell of something sweet baking in the oven, sunlight pooling across the floor like warmth had always lived there. Someone would tousle your hair, call you darling, say how proud they were of you for something small and stupid—doing the washing up, remembering to take the bins out—just being around even.

In those moments, the house felt almost normal.

But peace never stayed long. It never stayed.

A single misplaced word could ruin everything. A look. A sigh. A silence that lingered just a second too long.

Suddenly, the temperature would shift. Like someone had sucked all the oxygen out of the room. The same mouths that had just praised you would twist into sneers. The eyes that once sparkled with love would turn sharp, empty, or worse—disappointed.

And it was always your fault. Somehow. Some way.

You should’ve said something. Or not said it. You should’ve known. Should’ve tried harder. Should’ve been better.

And once the mood turned, it didn't end in hours—it lingered for days. Weeks. Sometimes it felt like the bad would never end, caught in an endless storm that just kept circling, even when the sky looked clear.

Before going home, you learned to prepare. It became a ritual.

Standing outside the door, hand frozen over the knob. Breath caught in your throat. Shoulders tense, jaw clenched. You’d stare at the grain in the wood or rusted metal of the bell, counting backwards from ten like it would change anything, like it would miraculously make it more bareable.

The russian roulette of what version you were going to get.

Maybe it would be the loving one. The one who called you precious and kissed your forehead and begged you to believe they were trying. The one who cried in your arms after yelling too much, whispering “I don’t mean to hurt you, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I’m just...tired.”

Or maybe it would be the other one. The version that needed someone to blame—someone to tear down so they didn’t have to feel so small. And you were always within reach.

It was like being whiplashed by affection.

One moment, you were too much. The next, you were everything.

And you knew, in your heart, that they loved you.

But they also burned. And when the fire started, you were always the one left singed.

They hated themselves for it—told you that often. Said you were the only one who understood, the only one who stayed. And you held them. Every time. Because that was the part that hurt the most: you wanted to help them. Even as they broke you. Even when your chest felt hollow and your hands shook.

You learned to read the room like a map of landmines. Learned which words to avoid, which tones to use, when to keep your head down and when to nod, to agree, to thank them for their cruelty as if it were a gift. Because sometimes it came with a kiss on the head or a rare, fragile I love you.

You couldn’t leave.

Not because you weren’t desperate to.

But because the entire house felt built on your presence. Like the walls would collapse without you, someone needed to carry it all—and you did. Every single day. Without asking for help. Without complaining.

Because how could you justify saving yourself when they were still drowning?

Passing moments of peace kept you head somewhat above water, it was easier to pretend when you were with them—your friends—dulling the neverending whoosing ring of your heartbeat in your ears and the weighty pressure of your own thoughts.

Just slightly.

You’d laugh along, smile widely when expected. Hug back and sway along with each easy, warm embrace.

And sometimes, in those short-lived, temporary moments of solace—you’d indulge yourself, allow yourself to believe it.

When James would throw you over his shoulder with loud barking laughter, when you and Lily would spend hours lounging on the sofa, nonsense conversation filling the room, or when Remus would drap his arm over your shoulders—you could feel weightless. Safe.

But those moments always ended.

And when they did, you’d find yourself drifting. Zoning out in the middle of a conversation. Watching James and Remus banter across the room, listening to Regulus hum absently to himself while reading, or Sirius—loud, beautiful Sirius—throwing his head back in a laugh so real it cracked something open in your ribs.

And the ache would start.

That slow, creeping anxiety that curled its way up your spine like frost. A sadness so soft and sharp you couldn’t explain it. The kind that whispered: This will end. This peace isn’t yours to keep.

You almost envied them—quietly, desperately.

Not just because they were happy—they’re happiness was your only escape, only taste of normality in your wharped, upturned daily combat. But because they’d all chosen to be. Sirius and Regulus had walked out of the same kind of fire you were stuck in, years and years before the idea even crossed your mind, and they didn’t look back

They had each other.

Sometimes, you wanted to Sirius. Tell any of them. But the words never came, getting caught on the lump that forms in your throat at the mere thought at opening up. And you trusted them—with your life—but they’d already escaped. They’d clawed their way into the light. You couldn’t drag them back into the dark for your sake-you couldn’t taint what they’d built with your shadows. So you kept it to yourself.

You bore it in silence. Let it hollow you out.

The first time Sirius really noticed, it wasn’t because of something you said.

It was more because you weren’t saying anything.

Sirius noticed it the first time when you were sitting at the edge of the couch, surrounded by warmth and noise and comfort, yet entirely apart from it. Your shoulders were stiff, posture too still to be at ease, your eyes fixed on nothing in particular—swimming with a dejected sort of melancholy that seemed to drag your whole presence down like an anchor.

All sprawled across the living room with mugs in hand, a record spinning lazily in the background. Conversation hummed around you, warm and full, but you barely blinked. You sat curled in on herself, tucked into the far corner of the couch like you were trying to disappear into it. Eyes dull, distant. Fingers pressed so tightly into the palm of your hand that Sirius could see the tremor across your knuckles, and the skin by your thumb was raw, scratched and pinched like a nervous tic left to fester. It was a small glimpse—accidental, unmasked—of something Sirius couldn’t name but knew wasn’t right.

It was like looking at someone underwater.

He watched you from the seat opposite, brow slightly furrowed, worry pressing lines into his face. And then Lily came around, all bright eyes and warmth, with a cup of tea held out toward you and a gentle hand on your shoulder. You blinked, startled, your body jerking almost imperceptibly before you looked up at her, and in the span of a heartbeat, the wall slammed back up.

You smiled—too quick, too practiced—and took the tea with a murmured thanks. Sirius could see the way you tried to shake it off, tucking your hands beneath the throw pillow in your lap, casting your gaze downward with a practiced tilt of your lips. But he saw it, always saw you.

He didn’t miss the performance.

The second time, it was during a seemingly harmless spat between James and Marlene. Something inconsequential—voices raised, tones sharp and clipped but still laced with the air of playfulness. No one else batted an eye.

Except you.

You’d gone still again, your fingers twitching faintly like you were reaching for something—some invisible thread to tug the tension down. Your eyes darted back and forth between them, wide and alert, chest rising too quickly for what the situation called for. And then, without a word, you slipped away into the kitchen.

Sirius waited a beat, ignoring the puzzled look on Remus’ face, trailing after your absences, heart tightening.

You were hunched over the sink when he found you, your hands gripping the ceramic edge so tightly your knuckles were white. Forcing the lump in your throat down with a laboured swallow—ears filled with a dreadful high pitched ringing that made your head spin.

Trying desperately to at least be discrete—avoid detection, because now really wasn’t the time for this. You were trying to breathe—he could tell—but it was shallow, uneven, a tremor threading through every exhale. Your shoulders trembled, your head bowed, and he could hear the faintest sound of numbers being whispered under your breath.

“Y/N,” he called softly.

You didn’t react.

He stepped closer, cautious, watching you closely. He could hear the shuddering breaths now, the way your voice cracked on the number seven, like your lungs were collapsing inward. “Y/N,” he tried again, a little louder.

Still nothing.

Coming around your side, ducking his head down to catch a glimpse of your face, eyes screwed shut tightly, brows pinched high on your forehead. He reached out, hand tentative as it landed on your shoulder. You jumped—nearly recoiled, entire frame jerking as you tried to flinch away from his touch. Sirius immediately withdrew, holding his hands up between you like a surrender.

“It’s just me,” he said, gently. His voice was quiet but firm, grounding. “Just me.”

Your eyes were wide, glassy, rimmed red. Panic painted across your face in strokes Sirius had never seen on you before, and it made something in him crack.

He slowly took your hands, still trembling at your sides, coaxing them away from the tight curl of your fists. “Look at me,” he murmured. “Just me, alright?”

He guided your hand to his chest, letting you feel the steady beat of his heart. “Breathe with me, yeah?”

It took a moment—didn’t speak, didn’t nod, but your breathing started to shift—still shallow, but not so frantic, breathing just barely evening out, He walked you backwards gently, step by step, until the kitchen door opened behind you, the air brushing cool against your skin, subdueing the flush that burned under your skin ever so slightly.

“Come on. Let’s get some fresh air,” he suggested softly, guiding you to the bench in the garden.

You still hadn’t said a word—curled up, knees to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself. Fingers picked absently at the skin of your thumb, scratching with a quiet urgency that made Sirius reach out again, covering your hand with his.

And though your face was no longer twisted and scrunched in panic, its replacing expression had Sirius feeling no more comforted; the vacany in your eyes, the way you were scrunched into the corner, taking up as little space as physically possible. Scooting closer to you cautiously, his warmth washing over you in slow swathe, silence stretching between you.

“Are you okay?” his voice was quiet, careful.

It was too fast—too easy, the wa you nodded, not able to look at him. Gaze focused on an unimportant slab of concrete.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” he said, his thumb brushing slow circles over the back of your hand.

Another nod, a shorter silence gracing you.

Before you stood up abruptly, muttering something about needing to go, moving faster than Sirius could process. Words only computing when he heard your short excuse and rushed goodbyes to the others.

He followed you in, quiet in his pursuit, waiting until the living room door closed before he rush his endless flow of questions—why you were leaving, if you were alright. You waved them off, pulling your shoes on with hurried hands, pulling on your coat—swift to escape.

“Just need to go,” you said.

And Sirius stopped you at the door, stepping out onto the road with you, voices and laughter from inside barely audible through the cracked front door, now a distant hum.

“Are we not going to talk about what just happened?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” completely dismissive, voice pinched.

Sirius scoffed, disbelief cracking through his voice, frustration creeping in. “There’s plenty to talk about. And don’t lie to me—I know when you’re lying.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted, voice sharper now, almost defensive. “Go back inside.” inching further down the path, putting a small distance between you.

“I’m just worried, alright? I’ve never seen you like that, you were shaking—.”

You huffed, turning your back to him, cutting him off. “—Sirius, I’m fine. Just drop it.”

Trailing away from him, walking down the driveway to the main road in hurried steps, and he was moving after you before he realised, instinctively reaching out, stopping you with with the soft pull of his hand around your wrist, his desperation seeping out, words adopting a pleading tone.

“At least let me drop you home—”

“No.”

The response was immediate, not even a second after his voice had uttered the words, home. So sharp, too much like a command, tone foreign to both your ears, voice cracked at the edges, panicked—raw.

He stopped, hands slipping from where they’d held you, palms raised. Your was breathing fast again, shoulders twitching with effort to stay composed, whole body ridged as though you were bracing yourself.

“Y/N…” he said your name like it hurt. And it did. Seeing you like this, curled in on yourself—it hurt in a way he hadn’t expected. And he stepped tentatively towards you, his approach so painfully careful—as if he was closing in on an injured animal, like he was fearful of scaring you away. You still wouldn’t look at him, but he could see it—that same dread swimming in your eyes and it made his stomach lurch.

“I’m sorry. I just want to make sure you’re okay. That you get home safe.”

With a shake of your head, you voice was quiet, hollow—“Don’t be sorry. I’m fine—I promise. Goodnight, Siri,”

And then you was walking away before he could stop you, the night swallowing your figure whole, shadow stretching before it vanished under the dull streetlights. His throat was painfully dry, the way you said his name, it lacked all aspects of you. Void of all warmth and wary, your empty words—promise—sounding too much like a lie for his liking.

Sirius stood there for a long time, the front door cracked open behind him—frozen on the pavement. A quiet ache twisted in his gut, cold and heavy as he pushed down the urge to chase after you. Brows furrowing further—tightly on his forehead as a small reality dawned on him.

He wouldn’t even know where to start.

He’d never been to your house, in all the years of knowing you, loving you, being your friend, he’d not once even seen the road you lived on, what your area looked like, what you went home to.

Stepping back inside the house where everything buzzed and thrived in his absence, settling solemnly into his seat—leg bouncing while he droned out the chatter around him—endlessly racking through his brain, almost spiralling.

Sighing as he tried to pinpoint just one time you’d spoken about your family, your home, something soild—real. But he couldn’t, not one detail. Not one word—throat tightening under the weight of his discovery, under the shame he felt.

It could be nothing, could be something—could be what he hoped and prayed it wasn’t. And now, he couldn’t stop replaying every second of what just happened, feeling sick to his stomach almost, scolding himself over and over. For not asking. For not realising. For not knowing for sure that you were okay.

The walk home was long, so long your feet burned in your shoes, hands tucked firmly into you coat pocket, fiddling with a loose string—the night’s biting wind had your ears burning. But you needed it—the time, the solitude. Watching the half-moon with a lonely eye, your only company until you reached your driveway.

Hesitating before you twisted the key, counting down slowly, fingers trembling and palms sweaty. Its been bad recently, the worst its been in a while; lasting especially long. And it had you on edge all the time, hands twitching around the door handle—and it was eerily silent.

You swallowed thickly, slipping off your shoes as silently as physically possible—treading up the stairs, recoiling under each whine and creak of the steps.

It felt like a short forever before you reached the top of the stairs and pausing, chest tight, fingers still wrapped in that string from your coat pocket. You didn't let go. You couldn't. That fraying thread was the only thing tethering you in the moment—something to anchor you before you crossed the threshold into your room.

The door clicked shut behind you with the softest sound, but it still made you wince. You stood in place for a second, maybe two—waiting. Listening. Hoping you hadn’t drawn attention, it was better this way—waiting for the storm to pass silently, with as little interaction as possible.

Looking down at your hands—red and raw from where you’d scratched them earlier, the skin near your thumb scabbed over. You picked at it without thinking. It was a habit you hadn’t even realised had gotten worse until Sirius noticed. You didn’t want him to notice. You didn’t want anyone to see the parts of you that were unravelling.

You curled up under the thin blanket on your bed, still in your clothes, pulling your knees to your chest. The silence wasn’t comforting anymore. It was just waiting for the next blow, the next explosion over the miniscule. And you lay awake like that for hours, flinching at every floorboard creak downstairs, eyes wide open in the dark, unable to find peace even in sleep—your pulse disruptive and invasive in your ears.

It was cruel, the way you felt trapped in your own space, in your own skin, folding in on yourself.

The look on Siriur’s face flashing behind your eyes—pleading, concerned. But you couldn’t drag him into this. He had escaped his own hell. He didn’t deserve to be tethered to someone else’s.

You turned over, burying your face in your pillow, holding your breath until your ribs ached. Truly forsaken—not even granted the small mercy of peace when with your friends—tainted with subsequent aftermath, the risidual burn from the scorching fire of your house.

Dinner was meant to be a break.

A breath of fresh air after two long, suffocating weeks. You had told yourself that over and over again while getting ready—while dabbing concealer beneath eyes sunken from too many nights spent awake. You’d smiled at your reflection in the mirror like you were rehearsing for a play. Even your voice, when it left your mouth, felt unfamiliar. Bright. Effervescent. Someone else's.

But the truth was your bones ached with exhaustion.

Two weeks passed. You hadn’t slept properly in days.

Maybe it was the walking-on-eggshells routine, the volatile rhythms of home. Maybe it was the internal noise that never seemed to stop—gnawing at the walls of your brain, keeping your body tired and your mind too wired to rest. You weren’t really sure anymore.

Your appetite had long since vanished. Food sat like lead in your stomach now—you hadn’t eaten all day, but the idea of it made your stomach lurch. The energy it took to just sit there—smiling, nodding, pretending—was all-consuming. The world felt too loud. Every clink of a glass. Every laugh. Every shifting of silverware scraped against the edges of your nerves.

Sitting at the restaurant table, smile wide, voice artifically light. You even laughed once or twice, chiming into the conversations with a manufactured sort of brightness. But it never reached your eyes.

But your posture was a little too perfect. Your hands too still in your lap—firmly pressed to your thighs so you wouldn’t give yourself away. Because the minute you let them move, they’d be scratching. Picking. Clawing. The skin at the base of your thumb already bore the quiet story of weeks spent fending off invisible monsters.

Sirius was watching you—he hadn’t looked away once in the past twenty minutes.

You could feel his eyes, a constant presence weighing on your shoulders. It was suffocating. He saw everything—every fake smile, every too-long blink, every glance downward as you recalibrated your mask.

And he wasn’t the only one watching anymore.

Regulus had clocked it too. His eyes didn’t leave you for long. The weight of their observation heavy on your shoulders—brothers with matching glares of concern—watching you across the table. Quiet. Calculating. Waiting.

It made your chest constrict.

So you excused yourself. Bathroom. You even smiled when you said it, tossing out a breathy little laugh to sell the illusion, leaving your phone on the table without thinking.

First mistake.

The bathroom was cool, mercifully quiet. You weren’t even gone for five minutes—fingers gripping the edge of the sink, letting your head fall forward. Gone just long enough to take just one breath. One single breath that didn’t feel like you were underwater.

When you returned to the table, something in the air had shifted.

Sirius had your phone. He wasn’t looking at it—not really. But he was holding it like it had burned him. The screen still lit up with missed calls. Texts. All from the same contact. Dozens of them. You felt the blood drain from your face.

Sirius didn’t look at you. Not directly. But you felt the flicker of his gaze as your expression fell—just a millimeter, just enough to crack the mask you’d so carefully painted on.

You forced another smile. Another hollow laugh. “I’ll just—step outside for a second,” you said, tone light, like your hands weren’t trembling at your sides.

He watched you slip out the back exit of the restaurant, disappearing into the alley. And the moment the door clicked shut behind you, you thumbed through your notifications and hit the call button.

It didn’t even ring once.

The voice on the other end was sharp. Cold. Punishment. Words hurled at you with precision and force, too fast for you to defend yourself. You tried anyway—murmuring apologies, soft placating words. Recoiling instinctively, holding the phone a few centimeters away from your ear as the berating began.

It wasn’t a conversation. It never was. Just a torrent of demands, accusations, complaints. Ech time you tried to get a word in, it only escalated the volume. Pacing the small space, like that might somehow drain the pressure building in your chest. Head bowed in shame—lump settling familiarly in your throat—one arm wrapped tightly around your torso, the other fiddling compulsively with the raw patch of skin by your thumb, picking until it bled.

Sirius cracked the back door open quietly. He’d lasted three minutes before excusing himself under the pretence of a smoke.

You didn’t even see him.

Didn’t hear him call your name quietly as he stepped into the alley.

But he heard everything.

The voice on the other end of the phone was loud even from a distance. Not the words, just the tone—loud and sharp enough that it cut through the quiet evening air. He watched the way you winced, head ducking as though the volume alone could bruise you—the way you flinched—physically leaned away from the device pressed to your ear. How your body shrank into itself as though trying to disappear. His stomach turned.

When you finally saw him, you froze.

He looked furious—hurt. And you backed up, instinctively shielding him from the sound, from your shame, from the bile being spilled into your ear, from the chaos bleeding through the tiny speaker.

The call ended after another five minutes, your voice small and desperate: “Yes, I understand. I’ll be home soon. I’m sorry—I’ll fix it.”

Silence followed. The kind that rang louder than shouting.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

A few long moments passed before your lips parted to say something, anything, but he cut you off, sharper than he meant to be; “Don’t—lie to me.”

It made the air in your throat catch, a grimancing frown pulled at the corners of your mouth as your eyes slipped shut, forcing a breath through your nose. His tone stung, the simmering anger in his voice almost too much—take a second to push down the urge to breakdown right then and there. Already on edge.

Sirius’s face immediately softened. He took a deep breath, correcting his tone before he spoke again, “I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry. Please…just talk to me.” Lips curving into a frown when he stepped closer to you, and in return you back away slightly.

Your voice came out flat, strained, as you shook your head. “Can we not do this right now?”

And he runs a hand roughly through his hair, feet twitching in the ground, desperate to reduce the distance between you, he tried to keep the soft tone of his voice, regulate his emotions not just for your sake, exhaling hard. “If not now, then when? You’ve been holding this in for God knows how long. It’s not fair—just let me help you.”

“I don’t want your help,” you said quickly, too quickly. “I can handle it.”

His eyes widened. “Handle it?” he repeated, voice laced with disbelief. “You’re not handling anything—this isn’t handling it. This is barely surviving.”

“I don’t need you to rescue me, Sirius,” tone rising. “Not everyone gets to run away,” you snapped, the words out before you could stop them.

Your voice cracked, sharp and cutting, and his mouth fell open, recoiling like you’d hit him.

“Do you even hear yourself?” he asked bitterly, stepping closer. “You think this is normal? That panic attack you had at James and Lily’s?” He didn’t even notice the climbing volume of his voice, the abrasive tone his words took as he stepped further into your space—stopping just out of arms reach.

“That twenty-minute verbal assault on the phone?! That’s not normal?! That’s not love!”

His words ricochetted off the brick walls that surrounded you, loud and booming. It had you staggering a step back until your back hit the cold wall, like you were trying to disappear into it. Breathing turned jagged—short breaths that never made it out again. Eyes screwed tightly shut.

Hands came up instinctively in surrender, shoulders tensing, chest heaving.

Sirius’ heart cracked, all air punching out of his lungs—eyes glossy as he watched you shake.

You flinched away from him.

Sirius reeled, instantly stepping back. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry,” he breathed, hands held out in front of him like he was warding off a wild animal. “I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

But you couldn’t hear him. Not properly. The ringing in your ears was deafening, pressing your trembling hand to your mouth, trying to breathe, but your chest was tightening like a vice—vision blurring. The only sound filling the backroads were his slow, cautious footsteps closer, eacch pitched shallow fight for breath accompanying.

And your hand came out infront of you, as if to keep him away, trembling and outstretched like a shield between you and him—an unspoken plea for space.

But your breathing was no longer steady. It had unraveled completely, fractured into desperate, choking gasps, each one more strained than the last. Your chest rose and fell in stutters, panic carving hollows into your ribs, lungs too tight to hold even the shallowest breath.

Sirius froze, his heart in his throat at the sight of you unraveling in front of him. But then—slowly, carefully—he edged forward, hands open, voice impossibly gentle as he murmured your name over and over again like a prayer. Like the sound of it alone might bring you back to yourself.

“Hey, hey—breathe with me,” he whispered, voice steady even as panic swelled in his chest. “Just breathe. In. And out. Come on, love, with me.”

And something about his tone—low and sure, threaded with a kind of fragile desperation—broke through the haze. Hands latched onto him like you were drowning. He cradled your head to his chest, murmuring affirmations, stroking your hair. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re alright. Just breathe.”

You did your best to listen. To match the rhythm of his breathing, to follow the rise and fall of his chest, to drown out the echo of everything else.

And eventually, your gasps turned into shaky, stuttered breaths. Still uneven. Still fragile. But breaths, nonetheless.

Sirius held you for a moment longer, just breathing with you, hands never leaving your skin—afraid that if he let go, you might disappear altogether.

“Do you want to go back inside?” he whispered, voice barely audible.

You shook your head. “I have to go.”

His brows drew together. “You’re not serious—you're not going back there.”

“They need me,” you said quietly, still not looking at him.

“Y/N, they’re hurting you.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just stepped away—untangling yourself from his arms, slipping from his grasp with quiet finality.

And all he could do was watch—stood there, helpless, in that dark alley as you walked away.

The ghost of you still in his arms, the ghost of you pressed into his chest lingered, carved into his memory like a wound. His lungs ached. His eyes burned. His heart—he wasn’t sure he still had one. It had followed you down the street, scattered in broken pieces behind you.

The back door swung shut behind him. Inside, laughter echoed. Warmth spilled from the lights and the soft hum of conversation. But Sirius felt none of it. Just the sting of cold night air and the bitter ache of the knowledge that you were suffering.

The following days were unbearable for Sirius. He tried to keep himself distracted—he really did—but every time he sat down, his eyes would flick to his phone. And when there wasn’t a notification lighting up the screen, he’d pick it up anyway, tapping to refresh the messages you hadn’t answered.

He called you more than he’d admit—morning, midday, evening. Sometimes just to leave voicemails: “Hey, just checking in… again. Let me know you're okay, alright? Please.”

But you rarely answered. When you did, it was always the same. Vague assurances, soft and distant: I'm fine. Don’t worry.

But Sirius did worry. Constantly. He couldn't help it.

He found himself wandering the halls of Grimmauld Place like a ghost, distracted and irritable. The silence echoed louder than anything else, and it left him pacing the creaking floorboards of Grimmauld Place, heart thudding with unease. He hovered by the fireplace more than once, fingers twitching with the urge to call Kreacher to search for you—just to know you were somewhere, breathing, safe. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to breach your trust, even if it cost him his peace of mind.

Then came the silence.

By the third day, his calls stopped going through altogether. Messages went unread.

Not even a "seen." Just nothing.

Not even the hollow comfort of your voice. And that silence drove him mad. Rain lashed against the windows that evening, dark clouds crawling across the sky like bruises spreading. A storm had rolled in and so had the panic in his chest. Something was wrong. He knew it. Felt it deep in his bones.

You were just making dinner when it happened.

Standing quietly at the stove, stirring, trying to stay invisible. But they came in, heavy-footed and already brimming with rage. The moment the door swung shut behind them, it all snapped. And you barely had time to brace yourself before their voice exploded through the kitchen.

“Useless. Just fucking useless. Can’t even stand the sight of you anymore—GET OUT. OUT!”

You didn’t move right away. You stood still, spoon hanging limply from your hand, staring at the bubbling pot like it might anchor you in place. But then you set it down gently. Shoes. Jacket. Phone. That’s all you took.

And then you walked. No direction. Just away.

The sky wept with you as you wandered aimlessly, soaked to the bone, your skin ice-cold and trembling. Hours seemed to pass—or maybe it was minutes. The line blurred in your exhaustion. Your eyes were bloodshot, swollen, throat raw from holding in sobs that still found their way out. And then, as if your legs had decided for you, you found yourself standing at the foot of Grimmauld Place. It loomed tall and dark, but it wasn’t scary.

It was familiar.

Safe.

Your hands were trembling so violently it was hard to hold the phone, your fingers fumbling until Sirius’ name was highlighted in green. The rain relentless, soaking through every layer of clothing, your skin burned from the cold.

Staring up at the steps for a long moment before lifting your phone with shaking hands, battery hanging on its last breath.

The call connected on the first ring. “Y/N?” His voice cracked with urgency. “Y/N?! Where are you—?”

But you couldn’t speak.

The only thing he heard was the storm. The rain pouring and your soft, broken sobs tangled in its rhythm. He was already moving, phone clutched tight to his ear.

Sirius didn’t hesitate. He was out the door in seconds, shoelaces untied, jacket forgotten, his voice cracked, “I’m coming, I’m coming—just hang on, alright?” as he threw open the door, leaving it wide open as he raced outside into the storm.

But there you were. Just at the bottom of the steps, a ghost in the rain. He froze for a moment, heart seized in his chest at the sight of you—drenched, shaking, hollow-eyed and utterly broken. He didn’t hesitate after that.

Rushing down, wrapping his arms around you, whispering your name like it was the only thing he knew how to say. You didn’t resist. You didn’t speak. You just leaned into him, letting your head fall to his shoulder as he half-dragged, half-carried you inside.

The warmth of the house hit you like a wave, but it didn’t reach you. Sirius took your coat off with trembling hands, calling Kreacher in a voice tight with urgency. The elf vanished to prepare a bath as Sirius led you to his room, cradling your shivering body with care.

You stood motionless, silent tears accompanying the drips from your clothing on the rug—barely there. He fetched a towel, wrapped you in it, pulling you gently into his arms again as you finally hiccuped out, “Didn’t know where else to go.”

He cradled your head gently, resting his chin there, whispering.

“It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re with me now. You’re home, yeah? You’re home.”

You didn’t nod, just let him hold you, your body trembling in his embrace. When the bath was ready, he guided you there slowly, his hand on your back like a tether, steady and warm. You let him undress you like a doll, mechanical and unresponsive, let him wash your hair with careful fingers, his touch delicate, reverent—like if he was too rough, you might shatter completely.

Afterwards, he dressed you in his clothes, gently guiding your arms through sleeves, pulling the jumper down over your head. You sat where he put you, legs curled under you on the sofa, barely blinking.

He brought food—warm, nourishing—but the moment the smell hit you, your stomach turned. Your hand shot up to your mouth, eyes watering with a lurch of nausea. Sirius reacted instantly, waving the food away, concern etched deep in the lines of his face.

He brought you back to his bed, wrapping you up in the thick duvet, curling himself around you like a barrier against the world.

You barely registered when the door knocked gently and Regulus stepped inside, a mug of tea in hand. He said nothing, just handed it over with a soft look, his concern etched in the way he lingered before retreating.

Sirius coaxed you to sit up, holding the cup near your lips, voice tender. “Just try, yeah? Please.” Palm warm against your spine, making small soothing circles of encouragement, eyes pleading before he continue

“You haven’t eaten or drank anything since you got here. Just a sip. For me.”

A long pause. And then, finally, you nodded. The smallest motion. He let out a quiet sigh of relief and helped you sip slowly, one hand around yours to keep the mug steady.

When you finished, he set the cup aside and pulled you back into his chest, wrapping the duvet around the two of you like a cocoon. You were shivering again, even under the warmth, so he rubbed soft circles into your back.

“You’re so brave, you know that?” lips brushing your temple as he spoke softly. “You’ve been so strong for so long. But it’s okay now. You don’t have to go back. Not ever. You’re staying here. With me.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, he thought you’d slipped into sleep—until the first shake.

That was when you broke—really broke. Not violently. Not loudly. Just a soft, unraveling cry that soaked into his shirt, your fingers weakly clutching the fabric, your breath hitching in little sobs you couldn’t control. He held you through it all, his own eyes stinging.

“So tired, Sirius.”

His throat closed. A sharp, painful tug in his chest.

“I know, love.” he murmured, kissing your temple with trembling lips. “It’s okay. I’ve got you now. Just close your eyes. You’re safe here. You can rest.”

The rain still whispered outside, but within Grimmauld Place, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself fall into sleep.

And Sirius stayed awake long after you’d gone quiet, holding you like you were the only thing tethering him to this earth—because maybe you were.

He pressed one last kiss to your temple, letting his eyes slip shut.

[aetherraeys]

bloodmoon pt2

(part 1)

remus lupid x vampire!reader ⊹ 11.9k

cw ⟢ swearing, harrassment, men being vile, blood, detailed description of pain, friends to lovers, slowish burn, biting, suggestive at the end

a/n: not proofread x SORRY THIS ACTUALLY TOOK DAYS IVE BEEN TRYING TO MAKE IT LESS THAT 12WC!! i hope you enjoy ,,, slightly obsessed with vampire!reader now.

“Finally realised she’s not the devil incarnate, have you, Moony?”

Its as though Sirius just physically couldn’t stop himself, everyone else had been ignoring it for weeks—the skeptically raised eyebrows changing into almost knowing looks. They’d all been silently watching.

Him and you, you and him.

How essentially overnight, Remus had become one of the people he used to openly scoff at, roll his eyes as if they’d fallen into some sort of trap that was only obvious to him. To his friends shock and relief, their dear old Moony, was not as immune to you as he’d made out to be.

Now, if anything, it seemed that he was more affected than anyone else, walking you from the slytherin common room, to the great hall, and back again—visiting you multiple times a day when you were working in the hospital wing. The complete 180 in the way he reacts to you, a sigh of relief when he sees you enter the room, rather than the erking gut reaction he had before.

And even as discrete as Remus has tried to be, he was unable to escape Lily’s watchful eye—having caught glimpses of a few Bloodsuckers rolling a round in the bottom of his bag.

It literally wasn’t even as secret as this point.

But, apparently unbeknownst to Sirius and Sirius alone, there had been an unspoken agreement: do not acknowledge it. Which explained why, the moment the words left his mouth, the entire table fell into a stunned silence.

A silence Sirius was still exactly one beat behind.

The ghost of a smirk still playing on his lips, Sirius barely had time to register James’ foot swinging under the table before—

“Ow! Bloody—fuck—” He doubled over, forehead colliding with the hard wood of the table.

By the time he pried his eyes open from the sharp sting of pain, everyone was staring at him with identical looks of disbelief, as if he were the idiot in the situation.

Raising his hands in surrender, he huffed, utterly perplexed by the turn of events.

“What?! So we’re all just supposed to act like it’s normal that one minute he hates her and the next he’s so far up her arse he could whisper in her ear?!”

At the very least, Sirius expected someone to back him up. James, maybe, because he was always on about Remus being a hypocrite. Or Marlene , who at least had the good sense to find humor in all of this.

But no.

Instead, James pinched the bridge of his nose like he was battling a migraine, Marlene muttered something that sounded suspiciously like for Merlin’s sake, Black, and Lily was just avoiding eye contact altogether, suddenly very interested in buttering her toast.

And Remus—Remus just sighed. That slow, patient sigh that meant he was this close to losing his temper, but he was doing that thing where he convinced himself he was above it.

“Pads,” he said, voice clipped, “I swear to God—”

“No, no, sorry,” Sirius cut in, straightening up despite the throbbing ache in his shin. “Am I the only one who remembers how you used to look at her like she’d burst into flames if you kept staring? How you’d turn green when she walked in the room?”

Across from him, James let out a sharp, incredulous breath. “Are you actually daft?”

Sirius just ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

He looked to Lily, hoping for a shred of backup, but the traitor was still focused on her toast. He turned to Marlene, but she just gave him a wide-eyed look that screamed drop it, Black.

He turned back to Remus, who was now very pointedly stirring his tea, as though pretending he wasn’t the center of attention would make Sirius forget the absolute insanity happening right in front of him.

“I hated her?” Remus repeated blandly, finally looking up. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

Sirius let out a laugh. Loud, disbelieving, scandalized.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he mocked. “What would you call it, then? Casual disdain? Deep-rooted, undiagnosed allergic reaction? Because I distinctly remember you not being able to stand within a three-foot radius of her without looking like you were about to be sick.”

At that, Remus’ jaw ticked. It was barely there, the kind of reaction only someone who knew him well would notice. But Sirius did notice, and so did James, and it was definitely why James suddenly went stiff beside him.

A beat of silence.

Before he could go off—before the tightness in his jaw and the twitch in his fingers could escalate into something actual. Just as the inevitable explosion was about to happen, Sirius bracing himself for the verbal annihilation that was surely coming—there was a sudden shift in the room.

You walked into the Great Hall, oblivious to the absolute war zone you were unknowingly interrupting.

Just barely brushing past him as you made your way to your seat, as always, Pandora on one arm, lolly in your mouth—as normal as ever.

It was nothing. Just a fleeting moment. The soft whoosh of your robes as you passed behind Remus, your fingers lightly skimming the back of his chair in a casual, absentminded way. Barely even a touch.

But it was immediate.

Remus’ shoulders relaxed. His hand, which had been clenched into a tight fist against his thigh, uncurled. The sharpness in his jaw eased, the tension around his mouth smoothing into something effortless.

He didn’t even turn his head. Didn’t watch as you crossed the hall to your usual table, settling in without a second thought.

But Sirius saw it all.

He saw the way Remus exhaled, slow and steady. Saw the way his fingers twitched slightly—like maybe they wanted to follow where you’d been. Saw the way, without even realizing it, Remus tracked your presence out of the corner of his eye before returning to his tea like nothing had happened.

Sirius gawked.

“You have got to be kidding me.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but the disbelief in it was palpable.

James cleared his throat, poorly disguising a smirk as he reached for the pumpkin juice.

“Pads,” he said, in a tone that was dangerously close to condescending, “I’d drop it if I were you.”

Sirius snapped his head toward him, scandalized.

“Did you see that?” Voice whispered, eyes gesturing wildly at Remus, who was now painfully composed, stirring his tea with the patience of a saint. “She brushed past him, and suddenly he’s a bloody monk! He was about to rip my head off, and now look at him—he’s practically floating.”

James just shrugged, taking a sip from his goblet. “Yeah, mate,” he whispered still, far too amused. Only mouthing his next words, in hopes to not break the peace—“We know.”

Remus quite literally looked as though he’d reached enlightenment, comfortable in letting himself ignore everything else around him.

He didn’t think it was weird how, as of late, his mind often wondered to you.

It seemed only natural really, you were more affected by him because of his condition, and he was more affected by you. Guessing that this was how everyone felt this whole time, drawn to you all the time—presence undeniably addicting.

Yeah. It made sense to him. A perfectly reasonable explanation.

That’s why he felt absolutely no way about having found himself in the hospital wing, yet again. Clearly once he’d been sucked into your orbit, there was no escaping—completely unavoidable, not that Remus was complaining.

You could smell him from a mile away, not even turning away from your station—

"Hello, Remus," you mused, setting down a tray of fresh bandages. "What is it this time?"

Remus hummed, glancing down at his hands like he needed to double-check. "Not sure yet. Give me a moment, I'll think of something."

Even during the hustle and bustle of the hospital wing, multitasking as he perched on the edge of an empty bed, silently observing your movements.

You were good company.

That was all the reason he needed.

All that mattered was the way the steady hum of your presence started to settled something deep in his bones, the way the corners of your mouth twitched in quiet amusement whenever your eyes caught his—half-exasperated, half-knowing.

Rolling your eyes, but there was no real bite to it. "You do know this isn’t a common room, right?"

Remus exhaled a slow breath, something curling warm and weightless in his chest. "Strange," he said, tilting his head. "Feels like one."

You gave him a look, but he could tell from the slight twitch of your lips that you were trying not to smile. "Unbelievable," you muttered, shaking your head. "Well, since you're so comfortable, you might as well make yourself useful."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

You turned away, reaching for the large pile of freshly folded bedding, before handing it to him. “Put these on top of the cabinet in the corner, since you’re clearly in no rush to leave."

He took the pile without hesitation, fingers brushing against yours in a way that sent something sharp and fleeting through him—odd, but not unpleasant. Not anything worth thinking about.

"Mm. Of course." Using his height to his advantage, placing them with ease. As much as he wanted to trail after you as you moved around the ward, he’d already been told—several times—that if he wished to stay, he needed to stay out of the way.

Even if he wanted to help it, he couldn’t. There was a pull to you, a presence that drew in attention in ways both subtle and impossible to ignore.

As much as it was special—it’s not something unique to him, at least. You had that effect on everyone.

Rather unfortunately actually.

Not everyone who was drawn to you, was quite as pleasant as Remus. You had a feeling he would come, saunter in—unbelievable high and mighty, friends trailing behind him.

Remus was still sitting on the empty bed, reading, as you packed up the last few things—only fifteen minutes left before the end of your shift. That’s why he was waiting, having fallen into the habit of walking you back to the common room—supposedly because ‘company wouldn’t hurt’.

The sharp inhale that left your lips had him sitting up straight immediately—alert.

“You okay?” Already walking over to where you stood, face twisted into an expression of concern, you simply shook your head—mumbling “Yes”.

Still training your gaze downwards, eyes almost twitching and lips pressed into a thin line. Then he heard them, not too far from the entrance—obnoxiously loud, howling laughter accompanying.

A clear grimance was stuck on your face now, placing a hand on his chest as you finally raised your eyes from the tray of empty vials you’d been sorting.

“Let me handle this, okay?” Voice suddenly hushed, hand lightly pushing him to sit in the far corner, out of sight. He didn’t protest, walking backwards in the direction you motioned him, despite the look of confusion, only asking—

“What? What’s the matter—“

You cut him off completely, practically pleading while you backed away to close him into the bay, brows knit high.

“Just promise you’ll stay here? Please?”

When he finally nodded, you shut the curtains behind you, taking in a final deep breath before plastering the most polite smile you could muster on your face.

It made you want to physically shrink into yourself, the arrogant, smug smirk his lips curled into when he saw you—as jarring as ever.

Avery.

Closely followed by Malfoy and Mulciber. Pathetic really, the lot of them. Walking around as if they were Heaven’s gift to earth, like they graced the presence of everyone they’d met. Fragile, weak men, who so clearly took pleasure in the discomfort they caused others.

So self-important and big headed that they can’t fathom the idea of rejection.

Because you had, in fact, rejected him.

But Avery was relentless—so used to being the one doing the discarding, so accustomed to having others scramble for his approval—he’d not taken it well.

You had tried patience. You had tried politeness. But it was becoming increasingly clear that neither would get you very far.

He leaned against the nearest bedframe, all mock ease and arrogance, his lips twisting into a grin that sent a fresh wave of repulsion through your stomach, setting uncomfortably beneath your ribs.

"Merlin, love," he drawled, letting his gaze drag down your figure, lingering far too long in places that made the surface of your skin crawl. "You really shouldn't be wasting your time in a place like this." He tutted, shaking his head in exaggerated pity. "What a shame—a pretty thing like you, running around cleaning up after other people's messes. Bet you could be doing something much more...suitable for a girl like you."

Malfoy and Mulciber chuckled under their breath, the former nudging Avery's shoulder as if egging him on.

"Shame she's not taking any applicants," Mulciber added with a grin. "Not officially, anyway."

Spine becoming taut, you didn’t even try hide the way your expression visibly distorted into disgusted frown.

Avery’s grin widened, his tone dropping into something lower, more vile. "Come on, sweetheart. I know you’ve got better things to do than play nursemaid to a bunch of useless sods," he said, stepping forward. "That uniform—" He whistled, dragging his eyes over you like you were something to be had. "Merlin—makes a man wonder, doesn't it?"

Roughly dropping the empty vial he’d been fiddling with back into the tray—"Bet you'd be a real treat with a bit less of it on."

The pressure in your jaw from the clench sent sharp pangs through your skull, stomach twisting.

"Shame, though," Avery continued, completely ignoring your stiffened posture, "a bird like you, wasting away in a place like this when you could be spending your time with someone who can show you a good one, a real man."

"Yeah?" you deadpanned. "Where would I find one of those?"

Mulciber let out an obnoxious bark of laughter, while Avery's smirk wavered for the briefest moment before he recovered.

"Feisty," he mused, tilting his head, eyes glinting with something nasty and superior. "I like that."

Knuckles white, fingers numb—you were sure your nails had drawn blood from their harsh digging into your palms.

"But let’s be honest, love," Avery continued, stepping even closer, his voice taking a somewhat conspiratorial cadance. "A girl like you—" He clicked his tongue. "I know what you really are. You act all high and mighty, like you’re better than us. But I reckon if I just—" He reached out toward you, fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeve. "Pushed a little, you’d fold like the rest of them."

That was it.

"Right," you said, voice cold and even. "If you haven't got anything wrong with you, feel free to leave. I've already given you my answer." Snatching your arm away from him as though he was something filthy—purposefully dusting off where his fingers had been with a loud, “ugh,”

It was painfully silent, and for a moment Avery didn’t move.

His smirk vanished.

Its replacing expression, something ugly, almost unhinged—filled with malice, his nostrils flared as your words, your viseral reaction set in.

"Right," he sneered, stepping even closer, until there was barely a breath between you. "Of course. Because you think you're too good for me, don’t you?"

You stood your ground, not moving an inch—but the fury radiating from him was palpable.

"Don’t you?" he repeated, louder this time, his chest rising and falling in quick succession, puffed out as if to make you cower before him.

A dramatic sigh passed your lips, head rolling over your shoulders—when you looked back at him, an almost devious smirk played on your lips and with a condescending, feigned sympathetic coo, you responded.

“Yeah…I do.”

And that’s what really did it.

Avery’s lips curled into something vicious, eyes narrowing.

"It would be real unfortunate if something happened to that pretty little face of yours," he murmured, voice mockingly sweet but dripping with spite, his finger suddenly reaching up—so light, so deceptively gentle as he brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. You began physically recoling away from his touch, but his fingers gripped the bottom of your jaw—holding you in place, "Seeing as that’s all you really have."

A hand clamped down over his wrist.

It happened so fast—one moment, Avery was inches from you, the next, he was yanked back, spun around so fast that his head barely caught up before he was staring at the broad chest of someone towering over him.

Remus.

He wasn’t angry.

No—anger was too simple, too small.

He was seething.

His grip on Avery’s wrist was bruising, his knuckles white with the pressure. His expression, usually so composed, so calm, was something terrifyingly unreadable.

"You’re a sick bastard, you know that?" Remus finally said, voice eerily smooth—so quiet it sent a shiver of something primal down everyone’s spine.

“Pestering a girl who’s already rejected you, and when that doesn’t work, you threaten her? Because your fragile ego couldn’t stomach the idea of her not wanting you?”

Avery sneered, yanking his arm, but Remus didn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightened.

“You’re a sick little boy with nothing to offer,” Remus continued, slow and deliberate, his voice dripping with disgust.

“I mean, it’s no wonder no one wants you—you’re a pathetic excuse for a human being.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Avery’s face turned red—not just with fury, but humiliation. His eyes flickered to Malfoy and Mulciber, both of whom had stepped back ever so slightly, watching with careful amusement, not stepping in. The muscles in Avery’s jaw ticked. His free hand twitched, curling into a fist.

Remus didn’t so much as blink.

The cracking, whining sound of the hospital wing doors is all that was heard.

“What on earth is all this commotion?!”

Madam Pomfrey’s sharp voice cut through the ward, almost bouncing—echoing violently off the walls, her stern expression making even Malfoy stand a little straighter. She narrowed her eyes, gaze flicking between each of you before they landed on Avery.

Yanking his arm from Remus’ grasp, stepping back with a sneer.

"If you’re not sick, you’ve got no business being here," she snapped. "Out—the lot of you!"

Avery was still enraged, but he knew better than to argue.

"Disgraceful," Madam Pomfrey muttered under her breath as she turned to you, her hand coming onto you shoulder with a soft pat. "You’re dismissed for the evening, dear. Go on and get some rest."

You exhaled slowly through your nose, lips still pursed into a thin line, nodding.

But just as you turned to leave, Avery leaned in just close enough for only you to hear, voice low and dark.

"You’ll regret this," he murmured.

Then, with one last glare at Remus, he turned on his heel and stalked out, Malfoy and Mulciber following close behind.

You still hadn’t moved from behind your station, lost in deep thought, goosebumps still raised on your neck from Avery’s vile touch—the blood beneath your skin felt warm, too warm and buzzing with something you’d only describe as fury.

Gaze still fixed on an unimportant spot of the floor, the agitation seemed to only swell, invasive—inevitable, its just that you couldn’t believe it.

The audacity, the nerve, and on top of that; you let him get to you, knowing he relishes in the rise, knowing—

Warmth and a gentle hand, ghosting over your spine is what broke your chain of thought, you could still feel the skin of your cheeks internally burning. If it was anyone else, you would have flinched away, but, it was Remus.

He didn’t say anything at first, just let his hand settle lightly against the small of your back, grounding. You finally took the steps to remove your dressings, hanging them by the doors—still warmed by the heat radiating from his palm.

A silent question, a quiet offering of comfort.

You exhaled, long and slow, willing away the leftover tension still coiled in your muscles. It didn’t work. Barely having made it half way through the walk to the common room, almost trudging to a stop—footsteps getting heavier the further you walked.

“That was—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head as a humorless huff left your lips. “Unbelievable.”

Remus’ fingers twitched against your back, the only sign of the anger still simmering beneath his composed exterior.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that, you didn’t deserve it,” His voice was even, comforting but still slightly strained, turning the last corner before reaching the dungeon, he pressed further—“You know that, right?”

Pausing outside the common room door, you nodded, rolling your shoulders as if that would shake off the lingering filth Avery had left in his wake.

“I know,” you muttered. “Doesn’t make it feel any less disgusting.”

Remus didn’t respond right away, and when he did, it wasn’t with words. Instead, his hand slipped from its place on your back, pulling you in lightly by your wrists towards him. Engulfing you completely, arms firmly wrapped out you, anchoring—when you lifted your head to look at him, he was already looking down at you. Eyes swimming with sympathy and unspoken words of compassion that just escaped him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured, searching his face. “Step in like that.”

The way his brows furrowed made it seem as though the thought had never even occurred to him.

“Of course, I did.” The answer was simple, final, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

And to him, it was.

You studied his face for a little while longer, the look in his eyes so unbareably fond, it had the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end—you forced yourself to look away shaking your head, the ghost of a smile twitching at the corners of your lips.

Just the glimpse of your smile had a small twinge of pride blooming in Remus’ chest—unable to avoid the way his lips mirrored yours, forming a crooked one. Having felt the tension in your shoulders melt away, the way you comfortably tilted your head up at him again—a soft, sincere “Thank you,” resting in the air between you, he allowed himself to relax.

Ever so slowly, reluctantly, you were putting space between you, arm trailing down his as you walked backwards towards to door, drawing out the seconds so you could absorb his warmth just that bit longer.

“You don’t have to thank me,”

Still basking in the lasting grip of his hand on yours, arms stretching out and away from both your bodies, inching painstakingly back—”I know,”—the words were soft, airy—fingertips just barely connecting now, eyes locked with his.

The heavy sound and creeking of the door, is all that hung between you for a few long moments, both still savouring the last whisps of skin on skin—until your back was pressed against the door, a lazy smile spread across you lips, breathing out—”Goodnight, Remus,” before finally disappearing behind the cold metal.

Not even moments after you were out of his sight, he sighed, almost dreamily—fingertips still buzzing from your touch, he ran a hand through his already messy hair, letting it drag down the side of his face. Settling on his lips, still stretched into a cheesy grin as he started his walk back to his common room.

After that day, Remus somehow found a way to make sure you were rarely alone, always with you on your shifts, putting imperative effort into essentially escorting you around the castle—its not that he thought you couldn’t handle yourself.

It was that Avery was notoriously cruel and twisted on his own, but with the added encouragement of his entourage, and the burning desire Remus knew he had to defend his bruised ego.

It felt necessary to him.

He’d been so thorough, that even as the full moon came and went—Lily had coincidentally taken the time to join you before the end of your shift, grabbing dinner in the great hall every night that Remus was away. You were almost never alone.

Almost.

To and from classes, it became a bit harder to ensure you had company. But quite frankly you weren’t convinced it was necessary at all. It’s not just that you weren’t particularly fond of people taking time out of their day to get you from point A to point B.

It’s that you didn’t even believe Avery was actually going to do anything, it had been almost two weeks and he still had yet to utter a single word to you. Apart from the occassional glare from across the great hall—Avery’s little threat had been relatively harmless.

You didn’t even grant him the satisfaction of acknowledgement as you walked by him and his friends while they sat on a bench in the courtyard. And even as another snide and vulgar remark reached your ears, you continued to where you needed to—completely unfazed.

Though, it did make the grip you had on your textbooks, that tad bit tighter. Taking in a deep breath, you told yourself—you’re above it, you’re better than them.

It seemed that Avery was a bit of an opportunist, waiting for the right time to jab at you, waiting until you were alone.

One after the other, they hopped off the bench—trailing after you, the scuff of boots against the dry ground, the low murmurs of laughter that sent a wave of irritation down your spine. It was calculated—deliberate, the sun was low, casting long shadows across the courtyard—students milled about in the distance, not too many, just enough.

“Going somewhere, sweetheart?” Avery’s voice was deceptively light, laced with the same condescension that it dripped the last time. “You’ve been awfully rude, you know. Ignoring me like that.”

You sighed through your nose, forcing your steps to remain even—you’re above it, you’re better than them.

A presence at your side. Another just behind. You were surrounded, their shadows stretching long under the fading sunlight.

“I’m busy, Avery—don’t you have a stone to kick or something.”

His smirk twitched, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw his fingers flex like he was resisting the urge to grab you. “You know,” he said, voice all mock thoughtfulness, “I wasn’t going to let you get away with what happened in the hospital wing.”

That made you stop.

The words dug under your skin, prickling, burning, unrelenting—you turned sharply, finally looking him in the eye.

Avery smiled, slow and victorious, relishing in the reaction.

“That’s more like it,” he murmured, taking a deliberate step closer.

The urge to wipe that smug, entitled look off his face clawed at your insides.

“Oh, so that’s what this is about?” you said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You think you’re being gracious, do you? Letting me ‘get away with it’? What, so I’m supposed to thank you for your mercy?”

Avery’s smirk twisted.

“Wouldn’t kill you to show a little gratitude,” he mused, eyes flicking down your body with a slow, assessing gaze had you fighting every urge to not simply swing at him. “You’ve been walking around here like you’re above people. You ought to be taught a lesson.”

He took a step closer, a sick, dread beginning to pool in the pits of your stomach, fingers twitching for your wand—you’re above it, you’re better than them.

“That uniform of yours,” he murmured, tilting his head like he was considering something. “You have to know what it does, don’t you? Little skirt, all dolled up like you’re just begging for attention.”

Eyes darkened with something vile.

“Though I suppose you’re already getting plenty of attention, aren’t you?” he sneered. “Flitting around in that little thing, acting all innocent, when we both know what you are.”

He leaned in slightly, just enough to make it invasive.

“Lupin have you playing nurse, is that it? Bet he just loves having you at his bedside, don’t you, sweetheart?” His voice dropped lower. “Bet you wouldn’t even have to ask to get on your knees for him.”

You’d finally had enough, completely disgarding your textbooks to the floor as your shoved him back aggressively. The heated argument erupting in no time—vexed and roaring, “All this bitching because one girl doesn’t want you—pathetic!” You almost didn’t recognise your own voice, shrill, abrupt, nasty.

Words violent and clashing against his, boiling and sharp, insults spewing, slicing through the once peaceful air of the courtyard. A few heads turned, a few onlookers slowing their steps as the tension grew thick, simmering with something electric, something dangerous.

It was the principle, you refused to back down.

Refused to let him win.

And when the venom on your tongue reached its peak, when you could no longer stand the sight of his smug, entitled face—taking a step back, face twisted and scrunched into a look a revolt, while you surveyed him. Eyes scanning from head to toe, you let out a loud, bellowing incredulous laugh before spitting, “You’re not even worth it, Avery. Infact, you’re a waste of time and good air,”

Then you turned away.

Disregarding—dismissed him like he was nothing.

The sharp crack of an insult, a curse from Avery’s lips, venomous and unchecked.

And that was when it happened.

You heard the whisper of fabric, the flick of a wrist—the fizzling hiss of magic.

The moment was barely a fraction of a second, having put just enough space between you, there was time—you’d be quick enough to deflect it—the hex. Every instinct, every reflex kicking and screaming to do so, to move, fight back before it hit you.

But—there were just too many people.

Too many bodies standing in your proximity, too many possible targets, too much risk of having someone else caught in the crossfire. Enough time to deflect, not enough to redirect—you’d have no control over where it would go, you didn’t even hear the curse he muttered, no chance of knowing what it could do, no control of who it could hit.

So you made a choice, bracing yourself, every muscle of your being constricting, becoming taut.

You took it—biting into your lip as the awful, searing burn of the spell made contact with your back, the impact making you seize up even further, hurtling forwards, upwards.

The world around you blurred, spun—then—

Stone.

A sickening crack as the side of your body collided with the hard stone of the courtyard walls, ribs taking the brunt of the impact, before you bounced off it, gravity pulling you down. Slamming against the firm ground with a dull thud.

At some point, Regulus has caught sight of the commotion and was already running to the great hall in search for his brother—who would without a doubt be with Remus.

Pain exploded through your side, agonising, blooming mercilessly with every breath, every slight movement. The sharp stinging throb of your ribs, your lungs burning as the weight of every inhale pressed against the bones—each one more of a struggle than the last.

Curling in to yourself, hand desperately clutching at your side—eyes squeezed shut, the world sounded so distant, muffled, the first thing you register was the silence—all you could feel was the small shards of grass brushing against the side of your cheek with each shaking tremble of your body.

Then, a second later—murmurs. A ripple of shocked voices.

A small crowd had formed, hesitant, concerned, a voice was so close but so far away you wouldn’t make it out over the gurgling, rushing sound that floated between your ears—instictively raising a hand, a signal—stay away.

Barely hearing the sharp gasp from somewhere in the distance—the sound of loud panicked footsteps—running. Unsure of how much time you’d spent laying there—only disturbed by the way the footsteps made your body shake as they got closer, you couldn’t bring yourself to acknowledge the desperate calls of what you thought might have been your name.

Hand coming into contact with something hard and hot—trying to push it away, it was all too much and you were still—the pain of movement so overbearing. Pushing through the crowd, his heart rested firmly in the pits of his stomach at the sight of you—fragile, just a small mass of robes, folded into yourself.

Eerily similar to that morning two moons ago.

He scooped you up quickly, despite the weak and pitiful protest that left your lips, the heartbeat that was now pressed close to your ear was mildly soothing—familiar.

Remus.

Each one of his rushed jolting strides made the stabbing pain in your side more noticeable, and though the voices blurred and blended into eachother, you could make out three, maybe four other sets of rushed footsteps behind you.

A mild, faintly sweet smell of anti-bacterial filled your nostrils, the hospital wing. Even in his panic, you could recognise the overly catious, gentle way Remus set you down on bed—still pained whimpers spilled from your lips, once again curling in on yourself.

Pomfrey’s voice was sharp and alarmed, bringing you ever so slighty back into the room, she was telling, no asking something, and Regulus’ voice chimed in.

“It was Avery, he hexed her while her back was turned—coward.”

You could feel the heat of Remus’ hand on your back, trying to sooth you, calm the injured groans that you couldn’t hold in. And as Pomfrey’s gentle hand came to move yours from their desperate grasp on your side, you squirmed away—cracking an eye open as another wave a pain radiated through your body.

She shushed you, voiced becoming more tender and quiet—”You have to let me see, dear,”

Slowly, reluctantly, you withdrew your hands, breaths becoming more shallow with each moment, and as she lifted the hem of your shirt, revealing your skin, a chorus of horrified gasps sounded around you.

Your side adorned with dark splotches of red and black and blue surrounding the area, streaking up your side in cruel, uneven smears. The skin was swollen, raised in places where the bone had set wrong—a clear distorted, raised bump peaking at the side. Flinching sharply at the prodding touch Pomfrey pressed into you, hands gripping the sides of the bed in restraint.

“Oh dear,” The grave tone in which she spoke did not give Remus the sense of comfort he was looking for, brows knit high on his forehead, and like the others, gaze transfixed on the huge blossoming mark on your side.

She turned in a flurry of motion, disappearing behind the curtain only to reappear moments later, her expression unreadable but urgent.

They waited anxiously to be in the know. Barely minutes had passes since your arrival, and a sobering silence had already hung in the ward, the only audible sound was you.

The laboured, heaves and cries you struggled to contain.

No one spoke.

Lily and James stood stiffly at the foot of the bed, their worried eyes darting between you and Pomfrey. Regulus was deathly still, his lips pressed into a tight line.

Finally, after multiple rounds to and from the cabinet Pomfrey, took the first of three vials and put a few drops of the cloudy white liquid under your tongue, doing the same with a few more drops from a vial with green liquid—it must have been foul tasting from the way your body stiffened with a small retch. With a deep breath, she announced to them—

"This is nasty business," she said, voice low, steady. "I’ll need you to hold her down."

Remus’ head snapped up.

"What?"

His hand had come up to your head, stoking the hair that had stuck to your face away—sweat prickling at your hairline.

Pomfrey didn’t hesitate.

“She has a broke rib, it’s healing in the wrong position,” her hands her already moving to press against the swelling at your side, even as you twisted in agony, she continued,

“I need to re-break the bone.”

Eyes nearly popped out of his head, heartbeat ringing loud in his ears—though still not loud enough to drown out the constant shallowed, wheezes that left you, littered with moans of distress that got weaker as the seconds passed—your lungs struggled to fill with enough air to support your voice.

Re-break the bone.

It sounded so clinical, so matter-of-fact, so detached from the reality of what it actually meant.

Your breaths were coming too shallow, too fast, your vision slightly spotting at the edges. The sharp, stabbing ache in your ribs with each inhale made it impossible to breathe properly. Every tiny movement sent daggers through your body, the weight of it all crushing.

“But she’s still awake,” James whispered mostly to himself, soft, quiet—but everyone still heard.

The words rattled around in your skull, sinking past layers of pain and exhaustion, now, you were panicking, hand frantically clawing up Remus’ forearm.

“We don’t have time to wait for a sleeping potion to work, it’s already healing as we speak.”

Your vision was blurry, but you could feel Remus’ hand against your forehead, could hear the barely restrained emotion in his voice.

“Shhh, it’ll be over soon,” What else could he have said?

There was nothing he could do.

Nothing anyone could do but hold you down and watch.

It needed to be done, you understood that, but it didn’t make your next words any easier to say, every syllable a struggle against your fractured ribs, “Do it now—,”

Pomfrey nodded.

James and Regulus hesitated for only a second before stepping forward, grim-faced, exchanging silent glances before reaching for you.

James’ hands found your shoulders, firm but careful, his grip like iron. Regulus settled by your legs, a single hand pressed against your thigh, his face etched with a deep frown—your pain so clear, so raw he couldn’t look at you. Lily hovered just beside him, her fingers twitching at her sides, as if resisting the urge to reach for you herself.

And then there was Remus.

His hands were steady, one gripping yours tightly, the other resting against your head, his thumb brushing against your temple in slow, comforting strokes, feeling truly tormented—harsh wrinkles between his brows as he winced with you. Dreading the idea that you will now know of a pain so awful and familiar to him.

Pomfrey took a deep breath—"On three."

Your own breath caught by the lump in your throat.

"One.”

Gripping on Remus tighter, gaze fearful as it fell on him.

"Two."

Your body tensed, finally screwing your eyes shut, forcing the brewing tears out the corners, instinctively bracing—

"Three."

The crack was sickening.

But the sound that followed was much much worse.

Your jaw slacked releasing a truly blood-curdling, tortured, harrowing, an ear-splitting scream—it ripped through your throat, hoarse and choked, resonating through the ward with an echo.

A pain unlike anything you’d ever known exploded through your side, hot and sharp, rattling up your spine and everywhere. It felt like being torn in half, deep and intense. Your body tried to arch away, escape the splittering agony that set every nerve on fire, but James held you down, gritting his teeth as you thrashed weakly against him.

Only able to focus on the reorganising of bones at your side, the low grinding and shifting sound you heard from within yourself.

A fresh wave of agony struck—white-hot and blinding—and suddenly, you weren’t sure how much longer you could stay awake, head lolling in clear delirium, vision blurring, blackening at the edges, sob ridden whimpers and hiccups still tumbling out between wheezes, your grasp on Remus faltering.

Your vision tunneled, black at the edges, fading—

"Stay with me, y/n,” he whispered, voice raw—wrecked, laced with something aching. "You’re okay."

You didn’t believe him.

The slow and gentle soothing, lulling stroke of his palms over your hair matched the pattern his fingertips ghosted over your hand, fingers intertwined—he held your hand close, pressed to his chest as if letting you go would mean losing you completely.

Still reeling from the pain, nerve endings on fire, all you could muster the strength to produce was one word, weak and unsteady—”Remus?”

Pomfrey worked quickly again, pressing another vial to your lips, the taste barely registering past the burning in your chest—applying a large bandage coated in medicinal ointment to your side. Remus took the small towel by the bedside, softly dabbing off the beads of sweat that remained on your forehead—

"Breathe, love," he murmured, voice soft as silk, but no less urgent. "In through your nose, out through your mouth."

Your lungs shuddered—staggering at the effort, the air thick, heavy, impossible to take in. But you tried. The worst of it dwindled away, not gone, not by a long shot—but enough for the unbearable pressure to settle into something dull, something that no longer consumed everything.

Your body went slack.

Regulus let out a long, slow breath.

James loosened his grip, rubbing a hand over his face.

And Remus—His legs almost gave out beneath him, barely able to swallow the lump in his throat as he took a deep breath for the first time in what felt like forever, and he leaned in closer—the idea of continued space between you was basphemous.

No one spoke.

For a long moment, the only sound in the ward was the shallow, uneven rhythm of your breaths.

"It will heal properly now," she said, her voice more gentle than before, but edged with a small tinge of relief, “I slowed her healing, so the pain will linger for a few days. She’ll need rest.”

Then she was gone, disappearing behind the curtain, leaving the rest of them standing around your bed, and Remus—he only stared at you, his thumb still absentmindedly tracing the back of your hand, eyes running over your exhausted figure, eyes clearly heavy with the grueling after effects of your ordeal.

A long silence stretched between you.

Letting out a slow, jagged, painful inhale, tongue darting out to wet your dry lips to no avail—it was hushed and raw, “Water,”

Remus all but scrambled to get the small metal cup by the bedside, gently slipping a hand under your neck to tilt your head forward—helping you take a few sips. The others all just watch the scene unfolding infront of them, the comfortable way you leaned into Remus’ touch, the unnecessarily fond and tender look in his eyes as he instinctively dotes on you. How his hand trailed back to yours, drawn in to it like a magnet.

Lily couldn’t help the small knowing smile that twitched onto her lips.

Then, the heavy wooden doors of the hospital wing slammed open abrupty with a force that rattled the glass vials on Pomfrey’s shelves.

Everyone’s heads snapped up.

Sirius stood in the entrance, his chest rising and falling with sharp, heavy breaths, his knuckles raw and split. His robes were disheveled, streaked with dirt and something darker, something red. And in his grasp, dragged by the scruff of his collar, was none other than Avery.

Or, at least, what was left of him.

Avery was battered—face swollen, a deep gash running from his cheekbone down to his jaw, lip split so severely that blood had seeped into his teeth. His robes were torn, dirt and grime smeared across the fabric, and his wand—his precious, useless wand—was nowhere to be seen.

Sirius took a few steps forward, his grip tight on Avery’s collar, until they were just a few paces away from your cot.

And with a sharp jerk, he threw Avery to the floor.

The Slytherin crumpled like a ragdoll, landing in a heap at the foot of your bed, groaning as his battered body hit the stone.

Pomfrey gasped, hand flying to her chest.

"What on earth—"

But Sirius wasn’t listening.

He stood over Avery, hands curling into fists at his sides, his entire body still taut with adrenaline. For a long, stretched-out moment, he simply stared at the boy on the ground, nostrils flaring with every furious breath, as if daring him to move. Then, voice low and seething, Sirius asked,

"Haven’t you have something to say?"

The room was silent.

Avery coughed, his body shuddering with the effort.

Straining yourself to move further up the bed—you watched with everyone, every breath rattling in your lungs, eyes dark and cold.

Avery hesitated for a second too long, and Sirius moved—a single, sharp step forward, hands twitching, still ready to rip him apart.

"Alright!" Avery wheezed, flinching back. "Alright!"

The silence stretched thick.

"I did it—I hexed her!"

The words came out weak, broken, almost panicked—pathetic.

Sirius said nothing, only raised a brow, unimpressed.

Avery swallowed hard, shifting painfully on the floor.

"I’m sorry."

There it was.

Sirius still didn’t speak, just watched him, waiting—the digust dripping off of the scrowl that sat on his face.

"He—" Avery’s voice cracked, shaking violently as he forced himself to continue, "—he didn’t do anything to me. I just…" His throat bobbed, his entire face twisted in humiliation. "I just walked into the Whomping Willow."

James was grinning now, shaking his head in mock pity. "Wow. That’s just—" he let out a low whistle, "—real unlucky, mate."

Sirius smirked, slow and dangerous.

But Remus wasn’t smiling.

He was staring at Avery, his face unreadable, his grip on your hand still firm but not tight. He hadn’t said a single word since Sirius arrived, hadn’t moved a muscle—just watching.

Sirius took a deep breath, exhaling sharply as he rolled out his shoulders, like he was only just calming down from whatever happened before he’d stormed into the ward.

Then, crouching down so he was eye level with Avery, he grinned.

"You should consider yourself lucky," he mused, voice dangerously casual, "because if it were up to him?" He tilted his head, nodding over to Remus, smile sharp and positively wolfish. "You wouldn’t be conscious right now."

Avery’s entire body shuddered.

Sirius only chuckled darkly, clapping him on the shoulder—hard enough to make him flinch.

“Off with you now, before Remus decides to be less forgiving,”

Avery swallowed thickly, glancing toward the matron—who, while still clearly appalled, had her arms rigidly crossed but was making no move to defend him. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself off the floor, every movement making him wince. And then—without another word—he turned and limped toward the exit, humiliated beyond belief.

The moment the doors shut behind him, a collective breath was released.

Remus turned his attention back to you, the anger that previously blazed in his eyes melting away in seconds, another smaller, more comfortable silence lulled over the ward. Sirius turning, and as he took the last few steps toward your bed, looking you up and down, taking in the way you were still clutching weakly at your ribs, holding onto Remus, he let out a breath, asking—

"You alright?"

The very corners of your lips curled, twitching up every so slightly as you huffed out a choked snicker, and though it was cut off by a sharp hiss—you were clearly amused. Letting your head fall back tiredly with—”I’m alright, much better now,”

Pomfrey slipped through the curtains again, and while she changed the small now sweat ridden towel by your bed, refilling the water, she said—

"I assume I don’t need to tell any of you to let her sleep."

She eyed the group pointedly.

James had the decency to look sheepish. Lily nodded. Regulus said nothing, but his arms were crossed, as Sirius rested his elbow on his shoulder—the usual indifference returning.

But Remus, he couldn’t bring himself to tear his hand away—you looked so tired, probably wanted some rest, but he was frozen in place, stuck by your side.

Pomfrey sighed.

"Fine," she muttered, almost to herself, "just don’t let me catch you keeping her awake."

He let out a sigh of relief as she left, the others slowly filtering out, Lily giving your hand a comforting tight squeeze as she left. Remus pulled his chair up closer, allowing his body to lean slightly on the bed, just watching you eyes full of worry.

It was slowly and shaky, but you brought your free hand up to him—he stayed still, watching expectantly for your next movements. Your fingertips threading slightly through his hair in a gentle stroke, pushing it away from his face—mirroring his from before.

But yours slipped down and settled at the base of his neck, fingers still curling around the strands—touch too tender. Eyes scanning his face just as much as his were scanning yours.

“You don’t need to stay here—I’ll be fine for the night,” It came out heavy and mumbled, less convincing than you’d hoped. His face flashed slightly with an almost offended expression, the idea clearly never having crossed his mind.

“I want to stay,”

His words were plain, honest—left little room for protest on your end, but you still tried. And even as your eyes got heavier, sleep weighing heavy on your body—”But you can’t sleep on that chair all night, you’ll break your back,”

A huffed laugh came through his nose, typical crooked smile playing on his lips—”I’ll be fine—”

“Come up here,”

Yours words cut him off, light and simple, and you shuffled over onto your side—lips pursed to hold in a wince, making space for him before he could protest. His eyes just darted between you and the now open space, trying and failing miserably to stutter out an excuse—but the sleepy bored look in your eyes, accompanied with the light pats on the bed made him relent.

Slipping into the bed, careful not to knock you and keeping a safe, meticulous distance from you, you couldn’t help yourself, eyes rolling with a dramatic sigh—”I’m not made of glass, y’know,”

Watching as his form relaxed a bit, taking up more space, you slowly curled into the gap he’d left, drapping the thin cover over you both, humming as you finally closed your eyes. He watched you settle carefully, hesitating before bring an arm around to softly pull you in slightly closer to him, the smile twitched onto his face, when you unconsciously burrowed into him—allowing sleep to over come him too.

The change between you wasn’t instantaneous, nor was it something either of you consciously acknowledged. It was slow, creeping, like ink bleeding through parchment—gradual, yet utterly inescapable.

Because it wasn’t just that night you spent in each other’s comfortable and content company, and though it started with the nights, this was the first of many.

Somewhere along the way, your post-shift routine had shifted. You never really meant to end up in Remus’ dorm every night—it had just happened. One moment, you were finishing up in the library, the next, you were in his bed, limbs tangled lazily, a book forgotten between you as you talked in hushed voices about anything and everything. His sheets smelled faintly of parchment and something woodsy, and without fail, your shoulders, your knees, your arms would brush, a constant, grounding touch that neither of you ever pulled away from.

At some point, you both stopped pretending this was something normal friends did.

Maybe it was the way his fingers always lingered on your wrist when he passed you something, or the way he never failed to have a Bloodsucker rolling around at the bottom of his bag.

It had started as a small thing—insignificant, really. You hadn’t even noticed it at first, not until the third or fourth time it happened.

The first time, it was after a particularly long shift, your legs aching from standing too long, your mind buzzing with exhaustion. You’d barely slumped into your usual seat beside Remus in his common room when he wordlessly reached into his pocket and pulled something out. A small, wrapped sweet.

You had blinked at it, then at him.

“What’s this?”

He shrugged, as if it was nothing. “Thought you could use one.”

Then again between classes, during late-night study sessions, in the middle of a quiet walk back to the dorms—whenever you reached for one absentmindedly, he had one ready, handing it to you without a second thought. He never even looked like he thought about it, just pulled it from his pocket like it was as natural as breathing.

The realization hit one afternoon, sitting across from him in the library, books scattered between you. He passed you a piece of parchment, and along with it, he slid a familiar, wrapped sweet across the table.

You narrowed your eyes at him, picking it up. “Okay, you definitely don’t carry these around for yourself.”

He barely looked up from his book, but the ghost of a smirk played on his lips. “Maybe I just like being prepared.”

“For what?”

Remus finally glanced up, a single brow raised. “For you, obviously.”

Maybe it was the projects—you always ended up partners. Whether it was a conscious decision or just something unspoken between you, you gravitated toward one another like it was inevitable. Like it was meant to be. The others barely batted an eye anymore, rolling their eyes as you took your usual seats together, heads ducked in close as you whispered back and forth, scribbling notes in the margins of each other’s parchment.

Or maybe it was the bookstore.

That trip to Hogsmeade was different. You’d both walked through the cobbled streets, the wind crisp but pleasant, your arms brushing as you made your way toward the small, tucked-away shop Remus had offhandedly mentioned once before. It was his place—somewhere quiet, somewhere his. And yet, he’d brought you.

He watched as your fingers trailed the spines, his own hand brushing over yours as he pointed out his favorites. There was a certain weight in the air, a quiet understanding you both wordlessly acknowledge—both so easily able to find solace in each other, a unspoken harmony—solidarity.

And then there were his nights.

Pomfrey was very understanding when you began to ask to have the days after the full moon off.

You had entered his dorm without knocking—because, by now, you never had to. You expected him to be curled up in bed, exhausted and aching, maybe reading, maybe just resting. Instead, the moment you sat down beside him, he shifted—eyes heavy-lidded, body sluggish, but his arm curled loosely around your waist, his face nudging into the fabric of your jumper.

You barely even hesitated before your fingers found his hair, carding through it with a softness you didn’t even have to think about.

You were there every morning after, pulling the duvet up over his shoulders, murmuring softly as he pressed closer, his fingers grazing the fabric of your sleeve like he needed to feel you near.

And somehow, somehow, the nights you stayed over became less about exhaustion and more about something else.

You weren’t sure when you stopped leaving.

There was no more, “I should go,” no more, “It’s getting late.”

One day, you simply didn’t.

It just took one moment—you were dozing beside him, your legs tucked between his, your cheek pressed into his pillow. The next, you were waking up, his arm draped heavily over your waist, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. His scent clung to you, warm and familiar, and you could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the soft warmth of him against your back.

It was inevitable.

The stolen glances, the lingering touches—each one more obvious than the last. The shift had been slow, careful, but now it felt like a rope being pulled taut, a thread stretched thin between the two of you, waiting to snap.

The day it did, was so ordinary.

Nothing out of the daily routine for you and Remus—you’d made your way over to his dorm, to keep him company, of course—James and Sirius were off at quidditch practise, leaving just the two of you. Both lying on your backs, sprawled across the bed.

The light music of one of Remus’ records droning on in the back as you listened to the low and steady melody of his voice—reading outloud, you’d have to admit, you weren’t paying as much attention to what he was saying as you were to the light vibrations his words sent through the matress beneath you.

Taking a few moments of near silence for you to realise he’d stopped reading, mumbling out quietly, “Why’d you stop?”, as you turned to look at him—but he was already looking at you. The sudden intensity of his gaze made your breath catch in your throat, but his voice as casual as ever in your ears—”You were falling asleep, that’s why,”

The ghost of a pout reached your lips, lightly defending yourself in feigned offence, “No I wasn’t.”

He huffed out a light scoff, shifting onto his stomach, somehow impossibly closer to you—the breath of his words brushing over the curve of your cheek. One of those crooked smiles that made your chest bloom with an undeniably fuzzy feeling etched onto his face, “If you weren’t falling asleep what did I just say?”

Your lips parted, sucking an inhale as if you were about to answer, but all that came out were stammered stutters of half started words, before you huffed out in defeat—he was already laughing at you. And it shook the bed, making you bounce slightly up and and down in sync with him, it made you giggle—joining and mixing in with his as it echoed off the walls of his dorm.

When it finally quieten down, lazy grins still stretch out on both of your faces, he couldn’t help it—it was second nature at this point, he leaned in closer, fingertips rushing the hair lightly away from your face with a low content hum.

It didn’t make sense, the familiarness of his touch was the same as always, and yet today, it made your mouth so incredibly dry—swallowing thickly as he inched closer and closer. The space between you barely a fingers width.

The sun shone in lightly through the window behind him, giving a small spotlight to the golden brown whisps of curls that framed his face—his eyes were scanning your face, for reluctance, hesitation—anything.

But your expression was calm, matching his movement—eyes darting around his, catalogueing his features, the way his eyelashes became slightly straighter towards the ends of his eyes, and the extra freckles by the edges of his eyebrows. Involuntarily, you sucked in a small sharp breath as he closed in, when there was just a slither of space left between you.

He paused, eyes flicking between yours and your lips, words so shockingly tender, barely above a whisper—”Do you want me to stop?”

You couldn’t trust your voice to not break under the pressure of his gaze—so warm, so fond. Instead you just shook your head, fingers twitching up to his arm, he was so close—but hesitant still. Catious.

Even as he leaned down towards you, he paused again, just as the tips of your nose brushed against each other—eyes still searching for even a drop of doubt in yours. Shifting to hover over you lightly, fingertips coming to just lightly trace along the line from the bottom of his jaw, to the drip in his neck.

His lips brushed against yours.

It was soft at first, testing, but the moment your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, he pressed closer, Remus abandoned all his reserved. Melting against your touch with a low sigh, dropping the weight he held on his forearms and pressing into you, deepening the kiss. Something that was once gentle and timid, bloomed into more feverish, wanting touches and grasps.

His hands gripping almost roughly at the curve of your hips, rolling you over and onto him—erupting in giggles against his lips—the sound muffled between the spaces where your mouths met, soft and breathless.

His laughter mixed with yours, a quiet, husky sound that sent warmth curling deep in your stomach. His hands slid over your waist, fingers splayed against the thin fabric of your shirt, his touch firm, but reserved—like he wasn’t sure if he should be holding you like this but couldn’t bring himself to stop.

You didn’t want him to.

Both hands sliding to his neck, exploring, travelling up and down—carding through his hair one moment, holding desperately onto his jaw the next, pulling him closer as if to fall into him—become one. His touch leaving the surface beneath your skin, warm and craving.

Muffled groans and whimpers sounded through the room, the pads of his fingers pressing slightly harder into the rounds of your hips—leaning up into you, into the kiss, breathless and greedy. Sitting himself up straight—allowing his hands to wander, trailing down your spine—spending jolting shivers through you, pawing at your thighs.

Indulging in the first taste of you, the pent up desire set free in the form of unrestrained, frenzied kisses. Relishing in the contact, the cooling sensation of your cold body against his—touches becoming rushed and eager as he drank in every gasp of his name that passed from your lips onto his.

It wasn’t until his hands, once again, found purchase on your hips—grasp almost bruising, causing your to rock helplessly against him, did you pull away suddenly with a sharp gasp. Burying your face into the curve of his neck, chest heaving. A string of apologies immediately tumbled from his mouth, “fuck m’ sorry, I didn’t mean to—y/n,”

He leaned back, trying to catch a glimpse of your face, but you’d brought your hands up to cover it, barely loud enough to hear, squeaking out, “It’s fine—just don’t look at me,” It was a bit late for that, he could already see them—the small dark veins that pulsed and protuded from the base of your neck stretching further up.

“Y/N,”

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, not yet, not like this—hands still stuck firmly to your face—chest still rising and falling in quick succession, just as breathless as him. He pressed again, voice low and soft, comforting—”Lemme see,”

“Just gimme a minute,” Voice panicked and muffled by your palms.

He didn’t wait, just taking your wrists lightly, and pulling them away—your head hung low in shame, avoiding his gaze, still trying to catch your breath. Letting go of your wrists, they fell to your sides, and his hands came up to your face, compelling your gaze to meet his.

“Why are you hiding from me?”

Eyes as warm and sincere as ever, he let his hands trail down your neck, ghosting over you shoulders—gently tracing the curve of your spine, forcing a soft gasp from your lips as a shiver ran through you.

His touch was delicate, reverent, as though he feared you might break beneath his fingers. His thumbs brushed just beneath your jaw, tracing slow, featherlight circles against your skin—where the veins pulsed dark and traitorous against the curve of your throat.

“Y/N,” he murmured again, softer this time, like he was afraid to startle you. “It’s alright.”

Leaning down, peppering slow, calming kisses to the exposed skin of your collarbones, the goosebumps raising in their wake impossible to ignore—hands finding their way to grasp at the fabric of his jumper.

His hands now rested low on your waist, making your breath hitch as he nipped lightly at the skin of your neck, trailing his soft pecks up and down from your neck to your jaw. Humming as you leaned into them, melting.

Becoming putty in his hands, once again.

Light gasps slipping through your lips when he brought the thin skin behind your ear in between his teeth—the lightest of bites and bruises littered between his words; “Did you have your potion last week?”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, just barely tugging at the soft brown tufts, panting out, breathless; “Forgot,”

He only hummed back again in acknowledgment, bringing his lips back to yours, swallowing the whines of his name the your couldn’t contain. “So pretty,” he mumbled against your lips. Touch worshipping each piece of skin it passed, fingertips inching up the underside of your shirt—leaving light feathering touches across your skin before residing in the dip of your waist.

Kisses slipping away from your lips as you shuddered against him—lips pressing firm against the curve of your jaw he whispered, “Want a bite?”

The drag of your fingertips against the skin at the nape of his neck forced a groan from his lips, as he continued his assault on the sensitive skin by the dip in your neck. You almost didn’t notice what he said, brain warm and fuzzy from the hot kisses—eventually mumbling out, “Not funny, Rem,”

Your words came out breathy and distracted, less convicted than you’d like, sighing dreamily against his touch. You could feel the way he smiled against your skin—“Mmm not laughing,” so close you could feel each rumbling vibration of his words in your chest the warmth radiating off him mind numbing.

A gasps catching in your throat as he tightened his grip on you, anchoring—punctuating his words with the small nibbles and pecks, “Been thinking about it…for a while,” it was so hard to focus on what he was saying with the way the pads of his fingers dug into flesh at your side—as if it were possible to pull you any closer than you already were, “—trust you,”

He leaned back slightly, taking a look at your hazy expression—lips swollen and glistening, half lidded and breathless. Absolutely bewitching. He looked just as tempting, tops of his cheekbones reddened matching the deep red of his parted lips. Just barely brushing his nose against yours, sighing almost dreamily at the contact—his thumbs stroking slowly back and forth over the flesh of your hips.

Whispering so softly, “Only if you want to,” a pressure-less offer.

Instead of responding, you just leaned into him further, reconnecting your lips making him sigh contently. Eventually, trailing cautiously light, ghosting kisses down his jaw, mirroring his own nipping and sucking pattern. Fingers twiddling and intertwining with the small curls at the base of his scalp.

Testing, contemplating his offer when you found yourself hovering over the junction by his neck, his heartbeat joining yours in its loud thumping rhythm that rung in your ears. Ever so slightly craning his neck, baring the skin to you—soothing your hesitation with simple words, “It’s okay,”

The air almost stilling, his voice so delicate even as he felt the small sharp, piercing of your teeth into his skin. He’d thought it would hurt more, be more uncomfortable—unpleasant. But he just felt a rush in his head, jaw slacking slightly permitting the prettiest groan you’d ever heard. Hips stuttering against yours, eyes almost rolling as he flooded all your senses, unconsciously grasping onto him tighter.

A hot buzzing filling him entirely—surprisingly euphoric, intoxicating. Your body shuddered against his, muffled delicate whimpers passing through you, licking lightly at the broken skin as you withdrew—it was short, barely ten seconds of connection. All nerve endings in your body set alight, looking back at pupils blown.

Drunk on him.

Exhaling with almost a honeyed purr, he lifted his thumb wiping gently at the corners of your mouth. Planting a kiss just by where is thumbs had been, letting them trail again down your jaw—slower than before, less fevered, more lax. Smirking against you when he bit over a mark he’d already made—earning a sweet gasp from your lips.

“Better?”

His voice took an almost smug cadence, and when you hummed back shy and lazy, lips still parted, satisfied sighs spilling for you. Remus couldn’t help the bubble of light laughter that rumbled in his chest—shaking you on his lap. Messily kissing back up to your lips, smiling against you. Savouring each and second of your moment.

When lunch struck and you strolled into the great hall, hand in hand—you shrunk slightly at the quiet murmurs that sounded as you walked between the benches. It wasn’t that you were together, no, that was normal.

It was the trail of red and pink bruises and hickeys that adorned both your necks—failing miserably to cover it with the collar of your shirt. Remus on the other hand, walked in as confident as ever—squeezing your intertwined fingers reassurance. Wearing his marks like a badge of honour—leaning down to your ear, whispering in a teasing tone,

“At least we’re matching,”

And when you sat down at the table with him, rather than your usual spot two tables across, lolly in hand—after Remus silently shot a look at Sirius that said you better not start. He settled beside you, hands interlocked under the table, his warmth against you, your cold against him, comfortable. Blissfully ignoring the way Sirius muttered “About time,” under his breath.

[aetherraeys]

pinched nerve

for this request x

remus lupin x reader ⊹ 2.6k

cw ⟢ hurt/comfort, remus lashes out, self-loathing, angsty

there are times when remus really wishes he could help his nature, hating the way he got, even if he couldn't help it. but you were always so understanding of him, despite it all, always there.

a/n: i hope this was what you had in mind, thank you for requesting luv!! not proofread x

Remus is one of the most soft hearted, sweet natured, kind, gentle men you think has ever walked the earth, voice almost always dripping with his adoration for you—unbarebly smitten with each other.

You were his rock, his safe haven, his taste of heaven while he still lived—completely convinced that from the second you’d met, his heart beat just for you. There was something about you, ever patient, falling into step with every aspect of Remus’ life, learning him like the back of your hand—reading him as though he was a children’s book, an easy read.

He’d began to suspect you were a mind reader.

Because it seemed you had a sixth sense that was specifically tuned to him—moments when he felt less than, barely worthy to grace the earth. You were able to swoop in, ease the burden of his overthinking mind, graciously break down the wall he’d tried to put between you. Other times, allowing him the space he needed, just close enough to provide him comfort but far away enough to give him the illusion of solitude.

You never pressed when he needed time, never demanded more than he was ready to give. Instead, you simply existed beside him, unwavering, a quiet reminder that love—real, unwavering love—was patient.

On nights when the weight of the moon sat heavy in his chest, when his ribs ached from something deeper than just the pull of transformation, he found himself reaching for you. And you let him. You let him be selfish, curling into you like a man starved for warmth, for reassurance.

"You don’t have to be strong all the time, you know," you’d murmured once, fingers tracing soothing circles against his back. "You can let me carry some of it too."

It made him fall for you all over again, every single time.

Remus had closed his eyes, swallowing past the lump in his throat. He’d never known love could be this—effortless, boundless, something that didn’t come with conditions or expectations. He only knew that whatever this was, whatever you were to him, he never wanted to be without it.

Never wanted to be without you.

No matter what was thrown at you, you had this innate ability to tackle it head on, understanding the situation with such ease and grace—almost always knowing what to say, what to do.

Almost.

It was about four days before the next full moon, and like usual, Remus had been showing some of the tell-tale signs, the lure of the moon steadily blurring the lines between his two sides. Sleeping into the late afternoon, lack of appetite, body physically burning up—it was understandable why he was on the grumpy side of things.

But as of late, Remus was experiencing some rather inconvenient internal conflict.

Uncharactaristically quite whenever he was near you, seeming lost in deep thought, brows furrowing high on his forehead—a scowl etched onto his face, evidently not wanting to leave because it was there every time you saw him.

You hadn’t taken it personally, thankfully, it made you worry if anything—the way he was constantly in the medicine cabinet, search for something to at least take the edge off the grating burning that had settled into his bones.

By his third trip into the bathroom, before 3pm, you thought it was best you check on him. Bringing your laptop screen down, almost closing it, padding as lightly as possible towards the open bathroom door. It wasn’t in your nature to pester, especially when he clearly didn’t want to be in your space.

Voice coming out soft, relaxed—”You okay?”

He didn’t acknowledge you with anymore than low grunt, continuing to rummage through the cabinet—rattling of products getting louder by the second, matching his growing frustration. Loudly sucking in a sharp intake of breath, palms gripping the porcealine of the sink excessively tight, knuckles turning white under the pressure.

Closing the cabinet slowly, he didn’t raise his gaze from the sink—his eyes screwing shut, bringing his hands to massage the space between brows—jaw clenched, muscles tensing beneath his skin, as if he were holding back.

“Are there any painkillers left?”

Words simple and blunt.

You pursed your lips, just shaking your head—hesitating to step onto the cold tiled floor. The stress and discomfort he felt was so plain to see, all you wished to do was take it away, take it for yourself—release him.

Watching him, furrowed brow mirrored on your face, you spoke carefully, “I’ll make some tea, it’s probably to early to take more now,”

Its not that you were on eggshells around him, it was more that—he had a tendancy to be more sharp than he’d intended, and to avoid the situation all together, you saw fit to be tad more catious with your approaches. Though, it was never too much for you to deal with—the routine of Remus’ prickly waves never bothered you.

He still didn’t look at you as he slipped passed the doorframe, mumbling out—”It’s fine, gonna sleep instead.”

Bedroom door shutting behind his tall figure with a finality that made you wince slightly. Trailing back into the dining room, trying to resume the work you’d been doing on your laptop, but the subtle anxiety was creeping up the base of your spine—making your legs bounce faster the longer you tried to ignore it.

You couldn’t help it, just worried about him.

In efforts to quell the bubbling in your chest, and restless body—you’d opted to start dinner, figuring it would maybe help Remus if he had a hearty, homecooked meal. Preparing the ingredients for chopping, dicing, mashing, stewing, falling comfortably into the domestic rhythm. It did make you feel better, relinquishing some of the pent up stress you’d held for your boyfriend in sympathy. And giving you some piece of mind that you’d made something he’d enjoy.

Unfortunetly, Remus had not infact gone to sleep when he said he would, tossing and turning fruitless for a while—not one position he tried reduced the pressure on his spine. He shifted out of the bed, and began pacing.

Long strides taking up the room quicker than he’d liked, just replaying your last interaction on a loop in his mind. He wished he hadn’t been so curt, wished he’d caught a glimpse of your face, wished he’d have to guts to apologise. But even as the guilt, simmered lightly in the pit of his stomach—he couldn’t bring himself to act on it.

And the longer he pondered on your words, the more they distorted in his head, shifting from gentle words of concern to patronising words of condescention. The irrational feeling jarring him more and more, hand clenched into a tight fist—he knew he was being unreasonable, and that’s what made it worse.

You were his beautiful, kind, doting partner, and he was treating you like a right arse. Running his hand roughly through his hair, sigh heavy on his lips—he didn’t deserve you, you shouldn’t have to tolerate his behaviour, put up with his moodswing—put up with him.

The self-loathing spiral had began and there was no stopping it now, not when he’d allowed all his emotions, already heightened by the draw of the moon, to fester—weighing heavier on his chest the longer he was away from you. And with that a new emotion entered the scene—shame.

Gods did he feel pathetic, not only had he been harsh and rude to you—he wanted to then be reassured by that very person. Truly caught in emotional disarray—your light knock on the door took him out of his own head. Voice smooth and velvety as always, free of any of the contempt he surely deserved.

“Rem?”

And he so desperately wanted to follow it, wanted to call back out to you—but his words caught in his throat.

“Are you up?”—Silence.

You tried again, fingers tempted to twist the knob and work your way into the room—but you didn’t, instead you spoke again.

“I made some dinner, if you’re hungry—”

There was no doubt in your mind he was, hadn’t eaten anything all day, a pitiful half-slice of toast and coffee in the morning all that was keeping him going.

When your words were once again surrounded by silence, you retracted. Maybe it was the weight of the silence pressing against the door, thick and unyielding. Maybe it was the way you could feel his turmoil through the wood, as if the walls themselves carried the burden of his emotions. Or maybe it was the undeniable truth that no matter how much you wanted to reach him, Remus had to let you.

He heard the sigh that left you, as the sound of your footsteps dwindled further away.

It had been another fourty minutes before you heard any signs of life in the house—other than the infrequent tapping of your fingers on your keyboard. You sat hunched over your laptop, two mats out beside you—food plated neatly on them, uneaten.

The door closed behind him harsher than he’d liked, not exactly wanting to alert you to his presence and failing miserably.

He skulked towards the dining table where you sat, it smelled delicious still, even having cooled, and he could tell you went through a lot of trouble to make it—only deepening the guilt that’d been burning in his chest.

Frown deepening as he took in the sight before him—the untouched plate of food sitting beside you, the way you absentmindedly tapped at your keyboard, eyes flickering to the food every so often. His chest tightened.

“You haven’t eaten,” he said, voice rough from disuse.

You glanced up, blinking at him. Then, with a small, almost sheepish shrug, you murmured, “I waited for you.”

Something in him clenched at that—at your unwavering patience, your kindness. But instead of letting himself sit with it, instead of being grateful, the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

His tone came out sharper than intended, irritation laced through each syllable. It wasn’t you he was angry at, but the ache in his bones, the pressure in his skull—the moon creeping closer, stripping away his patience.

The anger, the irritation—the things that had been simmering beneath his skin—were spilling over, poisoning something that had never deserved to be tainted. But you didn’t fight back, didn’t raise your voice to match his. Instead, you just let out a small sigh, steadying yourself.

“I wanted to.”

And that—that hurt more than anything. That despite his short temper, despite the sharp words he threw carelessly, you were still here. Still choosing him.

Without another word, you gestured toward the food, a quiet invitation. He hesitated, guilt swimming in his stomach, but he sat anyway.

The conversation didn’t stretch much further. Instead, the two of you sat down in silence, the only sounds in the room being the dull clink of cutlery against ceramic. Remus’ head pounded, each scrape of metal against the plate sending another sharp pang of discomfort through his skull. He clenched his jaw, pushing the sensation down as best as he could. He didn’t want to ruin this more than he already had.

You, however, simply picked at your food, eating in quiet contemplation. Eventually, you returned to your laptop, balancing your plate on one hand as you resumed typing with the other. And then—you started humming.

The gentle melody mixed with the soft, rhythmic tapping of your keyboard, a sound that under any other circumstance might have soothed him. But tonight? Tonight, it tipped him over the edge.

It was all too much.

“Can you stop?” he snapped, voice taking a tone you’d never heard—losing the loving, honeyed touch you’d become so accustom to. The words ripping through the just barelt established, fragile peace that had settled over the room.

You froze, fingers hovering over the keys. Your eyes met his, wide with surprise, and for a brief moment, he saw it—the hurt flashing behind them, the slight welling of tears you stubbornly blinked away.

Still, you only nodded, swallowing down whatever emotion had threatened to surface. And then, in a move that made his stomach churn with guilt, you reached out, palm hovering just above his wrist. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice impossibly soft.

But before you could fully touch him, he flinched away, retreating without another word.

Remus couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t stomach the way you were still reaching for him despite how utterly awful he’d been. Without another word, he pushed away from the table and disappeared into the bedroom, leaving you alone.

You exhaled shakily, pushing past the lump in your throat. The stress of the night settled heavily in your chest, but your concern for him outweighed it all. The moon was being particularly cruel to him this time around, and if he couldn’t find it in himself to ask for comfort, then you would give it to him anyway.

Exhaling slowly, trying to shake the tension creeping into your bones. Instead of dwelling, instead of letting the hurt fester, you did what you always did—you took care of him.

Carefully, you cleared the table, stacking the plates with quiet efficiency. You washed them, dried them, and then, as the final step, you made a cup of tea. His favorite blend, the one that always soothed the sharp edges of his moods. You grabbed some painkillers too, knowing they wouldn’t do much, but it was something.

With a steadying breath, you padded toward the bedroom, knocking softly.

No response.

So you let yourself in.

Remus was curled up on the bed, his back to the door, shoulders tense with self-inflicted shame. He looked small like this, as if he was trying to disappear into himself.

Setting the tea down on the nightstand, you moved carefully, easing onto the mattress beside him. Your hand found his cheek, brushing gentle fingers against the warm skin. He tensed for a second, but then—he sighed, leaning into your touch, even as a frown remained etched onto his face.

Wordlessly, you climbed into bed beside him, curling your body around his warmth, the . His arms stayed rigid for only a moment before he melted, allowing himself to sink into your embrace.

“Are you angry?” His voice was hoarse, uncertain—barely above a whisper.

“Never,” you murmured, fingers running through his hair.

“You should be,” he argued weakly. “I’ve been horrid to you all day.”

A sigh passed through your nose, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of his head. “You could never be horrid, Rem.”

“You don’t have to say that—”

“I won’t ever understand exactly how you feel,” you interrupted softly. “I don’t know what it’s like to go through this. But I do know that no matter what happens, I’ll be here.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly, eyes pressing shut against the overwhelming weight of it all—shifting just enough to press his forehead against your collarbone.

You hummed at the contact, stroking his hair soothingly. “I love you—and I know you love me.”

He let out a shuddering breath, one hand snaking around your waist, allowing himself to relish in the touch he’d been longing for all day; “I do,” he whispered. “So much.”

The tension in his body finally eased, and though the weight of the moon still loomed over him, for now, in your arms, he found something close to peace.

[aetherraeys]

beneath the surface

sirius black x fem!reader ⊹ 9.6k

cw ⟢ strangers to lovers, fluff, pining!sirius, non-chalant!reader, endless teasing, tension, sirius is quidditch captain, mild Black sibling rivalry, slytherin!reader

summary: you had absolutely no interest in sirius, but for some reason he had loads in you. they say opposites attract but he wasn't sure if you were really so different.

a/n: this took ages for me to write but it was so much fun and i love sirius so so much! let me know if i missed any content warnings and i suck at proofreading.

When you and Sirius were first seen together, sitting next to each other in divination—poor James abandoned—then couped up in the library, people assumed that you were brought together purely for education purposes.

Assumed you had been assigned to keep Sirius at bay almost, and to ensure he wouldn’t fail his next set of exams. The consequences of another awful report for Sirius were world-ending in his opinion. If he failed to bring his grades up he would have to forfeit the next quidditch season, according to madame Hooch, he needed to graduate with credentials outside of sports.

It wasn’t that Sirius was dumb, that was entirely not the case, no, he just didn’t care to study, didn’t care to show up on time, and used quidditch as an excuse to leave classes more frequently than he should have. Really, if he put his mind to it, he was rather brilliant.

And surely, you, a top student, head-girl infact; reserved—indifferent, never seen without a book or a scroll of parchment. You would have absolutely nothing in common with the hard-headed, outlandish, troublesome Black brother. No, you would better be suited to his more refined, quiet younger brother, Regulus.

When you were then seen by the boys’ changing rooms after a quidditch match, potions textbook in one hand, a slightly displeased expression dorning your face, waiting for none other than the captain—some eyebrows were raised. Still, most brushed it off as a tutor waiting for their student, you were rather regimened like that.

Despite all of that, that still wasn’t the reason you and Sirius were being seen together so often.

In the great hall, Sirius sat restlessly—legs bouncing, eyes darting, neck craned towards the entrance then round to where a group of slytherins sat and back and forth, over and over again. Remus finally let out an exasperated sigh, drawing the attention of James, who with a full mouth spluttered, “Something the matter, Rem?”

“Why don’t we ask Sirius?”, if he were still sitting there, all the eyes would have landed on him. But after looking at his watch, as quickly as the words, “m’ late for something—i’ll be back soon,” left his lips, Sirius was gone.

“Where’d ya reckon he’s off too then?”, a small peace of sausage flew out of James’ mouth—grimancing, Remus replied,

“Haven’t a clue mate”.

The next time you were spotted together, it was by none other than Lily Evans, once again in the library researching for her herbology report, she caught Sirius trailing after you, not unlike that of some lovesick puppy.

Because, unbeknownst to the rest of his friends, Sirius had take quite a liking to you. Although initally you were simply placed together in a group, for an ancient ruins project. Now you just couldn’t seem to shake the boy.

Still in her seat, she watched your expression for signs of anything other than indifference. You walked as poised as always, picking and placing books back on the shelf, humming back uninterested at whatever Sirius was saying to you.

Eyes trained forward as the pile of books you began to stack in his arms grew.

Said project had barely finished a week ago, and now Sirius layed spralled across the sofa in the gryffindor common room, staring aimlessly at the ceiling fan, as it spun round and round.

Lily sat cross-legged on the floor resting her back on the chair that Marlene sat in as she receited the ingredients of the potion she was studying. Nudging her foot and nodding over to Sirius, Marlene scoffed,

“Aren’t you going to pick up a book, Black?”

He didn’t break his gaze from the fan, just mumbling, “Yeah I will…later”

Lily shut her book, and sighed dramatically, adding—”I don’t think Sirius has books on his mind right now, Marls”, in a light, knowing voice.

That caught everyone’s attention, including his.

“Ooo, pray tell, Evans.” Marlene leaned forward in her seat, watching as Sirius shuffled uncomfortably in his seat.

Lily’s voice adopted a dramatic hushed tone, “I think there’s a particular girl on his mind, aren’t I right Sirius?”.

With that Sirius shot up and off the sofa, suspiciously fast, rushing out an, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She was right.

Sirius had been racking his brain for excuses to see you, trying to find more reasons to be in the library of all places, just to spend a bit more time with you.

Even he was shocked, not only were you a slytherin— he knows they’re not all bad but still.

You had zero interest in quidditch, barely acknowledge him and always had your nose in the most boring of books. And yet, he found himself painfully drawn to you. Intruiged, watching from a far spot in the courtyard as your face cracked a bright smile, your hand coming down on your friends leg as you barked out a laugh.

Eyes glowing and crinkled in amusement—listening carefully to your friend’s recount of what had happened in Transfiguration that morning. Times when you bursted out of this shell, animated and full of life one moment, then stoic and apathetic the next.

At this point, Sirius was going to run late for quidditch practice that he’d scheduled, but he just couldn’t tear away his gaze, your head thrown back, clutching your stomach as your laughter bounced off the pillars of the courtyard. Sirius thought you looked absolutely bewitching.

“Could you be any creepier?”, Regulus voice cut through the moment, dry and unimpressed.

Sirius nearly jumped out of his skin, his head whipping towards his brother with a loud, “Merlin!”

He’d been utterly transfixed by you—the way your laughter softened into breathless giggles, the way your fingers wiped at the corner of your eye where a tear had formed.

Regulus rolled his eyes. "Aren’t you going to be late?" he pointed out, arms crossed.

Dragging a hand through his hair. "Quidditch can wait," he shrugged, before his gaze inevitably tried to turn back to you.

Sirius blinked, his expression dropping as his eyes swept the courtyard once more. Just moments ago, you had been right there—laughing, glowing, utterly captivating. And now? Gone. Like a wisp of smoke slipping through his fingers before he even realized he was reaching for it.

Regulus huffed beside him. "Tragic, really," he drawled, already turning on his heel. "Maybe next time you'll spend less time staring and more time speaking."

This time it truly was coincidental.

You sat in the three broomsticks, butter beer in one hand and, as suspected, a book in the other. Today though, Sirius thought you look particularly divine, when not wearing your uniform, you look much less uptight more, you.

Whatever that meant.

He wanted to pay attention that strategies James had devised for the up-coming quidditch games but he couldn’t stop his eyes from flickering back between you and the person who sat across from you in the booth—conveniently out of his view.

James’ sudden huff brought his eyes back, “Were you paying attantion to a word I was saying?”

“I don’t think he was James, he’s been practically drooling over Y/N since we sat down,” Remus didn’t even look up from his pasty as pressed his knife into it.

Sirius felt his jaw tighten, fingers twitching slightly where they rested on the table. It wasn’t the accusation that got to him—he could handle the relentless teasing, the knowing looks. It was the casual way Remus had said your name, like it was something familiar on his tongue.

“Since when are you and Y/N so chummy?” Sirius shot back, trying to keep his voice light, but the sharp edge was impossible to miss.

Remus, finally glancing up, only raised a brow. “Since we both take Astronomy, and I actually talk to people instead of just staring at them across the room.” He cut another piece of his pasty, utterly unbothered.

James snorted. “He’s got you there, mate.”

Sirius wanted to argue, wanted to say I do talk to people—just not when they disappear into thin air the second I look away, but the words stuck. Instead, he only grumbled under his breath and tore a piece off his toast, chewing with far more aggression than necessary.

Now, you were packing up your things, slowly stacking the used plates, neatly placing the utensils in a pile—a hand stuck out handing your bag over to you. Sirius’ eyes squinted, hoping to get a better look, when he saw him.

His brother, his own flesh and blood—but with him, your face looked relaxed, free from the unimpressed expression that it so often had in his presence. Something twisted uncomfortably in Sirius’ chest. He wasn’t sure what it was—annoyance, confusion, maybe even something uglier—but he hated the way you walked so comfortably beside Regulus. Hated the way his brother stood there with your bag in hand, offering it to you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And yet he remained seated, appetite gone, roughly tossing down the toast on to his plate.

Sirius barely registered James and Remus still talking beside him, their voices muffled under the rush of his own thoughts. His legs began to bounce under the table as he watched you and Regulus exchange a few more words—ones he couldn’t hear, which only made it worse—before you laughed softly, shaking your head at something his brother said.

Turning and walking out together.

Sirius’ moping was beginning to grate on both James and Remus. They all knew why he was in such a state, Remus telling him, if it bothers him that much, he should just go and ask his brother why you were there together.

But instead Sirius whined and let his head fall onto the table, narrowly missing the saucer of jam.

“Is he still sulking?”, Lily asked, tucking herself in.

A fed up mmhm, left Marlene in affirmation. Sirius’ head shot up at the sound of your voice from the table infront of them, effortlessly engaged in conversation, for once books nowhere to be seen.

Sirius barely caught what you were saying, too busy zeroing in on the way you smiled mid-sentence, eyes alight with enthusiasm. And worst of all? Sitting beside you, looking perfectly unbothered, was Regulus (and Pandora), though Sirius payed her no mind.

Sirius groaned, slumping back down onto the table with a dramatic thud. “This is actually torture,” he muttered.

Lily rolled her eyes. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, just talk to her.”

“I can’t,” Sirius grumbled, voice muffled against the wood. “What if they’re—” He hesitated, lifting his head just enough to peer over at you and Regulus again. “What if they are?”

James sighed, shoving a hand through his hair. “What if they are what?”

“Together,” Sirius hissed, glaring at his friends like it was their fault he was in this mess.

Remus sighed, thoroughly unimpressed. “And what if they aren’t? You’re spiraling over nothing.”

Marlene leaned her chin into her palm, watching him with amusement. “Or,” she added, “you could grow a pair and go find out.”

Sirius groaned louder, dramatically dragging his hands down his face. But even as he protested, his eyes kept flickering back to you—your soft smile, easy conversation, and the way Regulus seemed perfectly at ease beside you.

Yeah. He was going to lose his mind.

The evening on that same day, Sirius was still distraught, eyes glazing over the same page of his potions textbook for what felt like 100th time. Lily came rushing in a wide grin stretch across her face.

Stationing herself infront of Sirius, she waited from him to look up at her, “You owe me big time, Sirius”.

He blinked up at her, barely registering her words at first. His brain was still stuck on the same miserable loop—Regulus, you, Regulus, you—but Lily’s smug expression was enough to snap him out of it.

“What?” he asked warily, closing his textbook with a dull thud.

Lily wiggled her brows. “I may have happened to find out exactly why Y/N and Regulus were together today.”

Sirius sat up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor. “And?”

Lily folded her arms, basking in the moment. “And you, my dear Sirius, are an absolute idiot.”

“That’s not news, Evans, context—now.”

She let out an exaggerated sigh, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Y/N is tutoring Regulus in Arithmacy.”

Sirius blinked. Then blinked again. That’s it? He opened his mouth, then closed it, as if trying to compute the information. All this time, all this sulking—

Lily smirked at his stunned silence. “He’s ahead in his class, so Y/N is prepping him to join advanced classes.”

He let out a sigh of relief, her hand patting his shoulder as she stood, “That’s not all.”

“I’ve decided to graciously help your cause, and take you as my plus-one to Slughorn’s party on Friday.”

His face scrunched in displease, “Why would I want to go to Slug’s Party? Besides I have to train for quidditch.”

Lily shook her head, question why she bothered to help the boy in the first place. “You really are hopeless, aren’t you?”, her hands now placed on her hips, “Because, Sirius, Y/N is going to be there, and unlike you, I have an actual plan.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “A plan?”

Lily sighed dramatically, as if she were speaking to a particularly dense child. “Yes, a plan. One that involves you actually talking to Y/N instead of sulking and shooting death glares at your own brother across the Great Hall.”

Sirius groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t shoot death glares.”

Lily gave him a flat look. “Regulus actually asked me today if he’d offended you in some new way. And frankly, he looked delighted about it.”

Sirius scowled. “Smug little git.”

“Exactly. Which is why you need to do something before he catches on that you’ve been acting like a jealous, brooding fool for the past two days.” She crossed her arms, tilting her head. “Besides, Slughorn’s parties are the place for whispered conversations and accidental strolls through the greenhouse.”

He huffed, torn between appreciation and sheer annoyance that Lily had clearly been scheming without him. “And you’re sure Y/N’s going?”

She responded with a light, ”Yup”.

Then Lily shot a very guilty look toward the door before lowering her voice. "I was originally going to take James."

At that exact moment, James’ voice rang from behind her, utterly deadpan. "Yeah. Thanks for that, by the way."

Sirius glanced over Lily’s shoulder to see James standing there, arms crossed, looking entirely unimpressed.

Lily winced. "I’ll make it up to you."

"You’d better," James muttered, though there was an amused glint in his eyes.

Sirius’s mouth opened as another thought hit him. "Wait—what about Regulus?"

Lily tilted her head, looking far too pleased with herself. "Oh, he was invited," she said airily, inspecting her nails. "But he had to decline. Prefect duties, I think."

Sirius blinked. Then, ever so slowly, a grin curled at his lips.

"Well," he drawled, stretching out his arms. "Why didn’t you lead with that?"

By Godric’s graces, Sirius was sat next to you, sweaty palmed barely able to look up from his plate. His tie felt too tight, strangling him, making his throat dry. The chatter of the party buzzed around him, but all he could focus on was you.

There you were—calm, composed, your posture straight, as though you were perfectly content to sit there in silence, only speaking when spoken to, listening without much reaction. It felt like a nightmare and a dream all at once—being so close to you, yet so far out of reach.

How exactly was he supposed to casually strike up coversation, when your expression was so unreadable. He missed the way your face looked when it wasn’t so tightly bound, when it was loose—and carefree. You didn’t fidget, didn’t seem to notice the clinking glasses and hushed conversations at nearby tables.

And of course, as a top student, you were sat on Slughorn’s main table. Among the smartest in Hogwarts, and though he had been steadily working on his grades—again thanks to Lily.

He couldn’t shake how ill-fitted he felt for this event.

He was always so sure of himself—always so confident, a boistrous charm in the way he carried himself. But here, next to you, in the hush of your carefully maintained silence, he felt unsettled. Out of place. Uncharacteristically unsure.

You weren’t unkind, nor were you cold, but there was a deliberate distance in the way you held yourself. Private. Dignified. A quiet sort of control that left no room for unnecessary conversation. You weren’t ignoring him, but you weren’t indulging him either.

Sirius was used to attention, to easy smiles and playful banter, to people leaning in when he spoke. With you, there was none of that.

He just wanted to, for once, be the reason your exterior cracked, to get a glimpse beneath the surface first-hand.

The silence stretched, thick and unbroken. He should have found it uncomfortable. Maybe he did. But something about it—about you—held him there, kept him still when he would have otherwise filled the space with careless words.

And then, you glanced at him, catching his eye. Waiting expectantly, something about the way you looked at him, your gaze neutral but observant—

"Sirius," you said, your voice low, subtle, soft around the edges, catching him off guard. Whispering, “He’s talking to you?”

Lily less graciously clear her throat and parroted Slughorn; “He was saying he thought Regulus was already quite a gifted alchemist. And that maybe you should consider joining him in the advanced potions class”.

There was small snickers as he spluttered out, “Oh! Uh right, well um…I’d love to but um, with the quidditch season starting, I’m not sure what electives I’ll be able to take”, he rubbed his palms forcibly drying them on his trousers.

When his eyes flicked momentarily over, he swore he saw the corners of your lips twitched up into a the smallest of smirks, shaking yorur head in unimpressed amusement. The tips of his ears felt hot, but he couldn’t ignore the sense of satisfaction blooming in his chest—a win, was a win in his books, embarassing as his was.

Slughorn nodded hastily in acknowledgement, “Ah yes…yes! I’ve see you on the pitch, Black. You’re quite the talent.” Seamlessly launching into a speech about ambition, talent, and the bright futures of his carefully selected guests. Sirius barely heard a word of it.

He found his fingertips aimlessly picking at the buttons of his cuffed sleeve, still reeling in his small victory. However minuscule, however brief, it was something. And for Sirius Black, that was enough to keep his spirits lifted, even as he sat in his stiff chair, enduring Slughorn’s endless praise for his star pupils.

Pushing boundaries, wanting to get another reaction out of you. Something more than a smirk, more than that slight shake of your head.

Leaning slightly closer, he dropped his voice just low enough for only you to hear. “Do you reckon Slughorn’s rehearsed this in the mirror? Or does he just feel it in his soul?”

You didn’t look at him immediately, only reaching for your glass with careful ease, as if you were debating whether or not to entertain his comment.

You mimicked his lean in feigned drama, your voice coming out measure and hushed.

“I imagine he does both,” you mused, tilting your head slightly. “Practice ensures confidence, but true passion?”—your eyes met, the glint of jest that he saw was undeniable, “That can’t be faked.”

Sirius blinked, momentarily a small huffed chuckle slipped past his lips. It wasn’t what he’d expected—just enough to match his teasing but just ambiguous enough that he couldn’t tell if you were just playing along or making a genuine observation. Either way, it was enough to disarm him.

He exhaled, feeling his shoulders ease from the tense position they had been locked in all evening, the stiffness melting away before he even realized it had been there. The tight grip he’d had on his own nerves loosened, and he had to fight off the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

For the first time that night, Sirius felt like he had an in.

The mingling had begun, hors d'oeuvre and a variety of other dishes were handed out. You stood with Lily, and your plus-one, Pandora. Lily caught him staring hopelessly at your turned back—called him over with a knowing smirk, her voice cutting through the buzz of conversation. “Sirius, why don’t you join us?”

You turned you attention to him as he walked over, slowly inserting himself, listening—Pandora, who was currently enthusing to you about magical creature care. Her eyes were bright with excitement, hands gesturing animatedly as she described a recent lesson on the behavioral patterns of mooncalves. Lily, equally engaged, nodded along, chiming in with her own thoughts.

Unlike the other two, you weren’t adding much to the conversation, simply holding your glass loosely in one hand, gaze flickering to the room beyond as if your mind was elsewhere.

His eyes drifted lower, catching sight of your near-empty glass, condensation pooling at the edges. Before he could second-guess himself, he stepped closer, angling toward you slightly.

“Would you like another?” His voice was even, polite—none of his usual theatrics, no teasing lilt. Just a simple offer.

Your gaze lifted to meet his, searching his face for a moment before you glanced down at your glass. There was a brief pause, then a small nod. “That would be nice.”

“Any preference?”

You considered for a moment before answering, “Something fruity. Not too sweet.”

You watched as Sirius took your glass with a quiet nod before turning toward the drinks table. For a moment, you considered staying put, letting him bring it back to you, but something about the way the room buzzed with conversation—Lily and Pandora still deep in their discussion—made you move.

Without a word, you stepped away from the group and fell into step beside him. Sirius glanced at you, brows raising slightly, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he adjusted his stride to match yours, the two of you weaving through the crowd in a comfortable silence.

At the drinks table, he reached for an empty glass. “Something fruity, not too sweet,” he murmured, repeating your request as he scanned the selection.

You hummed in affirmation, watching as he carefully poured. Letting a soft, “Thank you,” pass into the air between you.

As you took a sip of your drink, you glanced at Sirius, curiosity flickering in your eyes. “I was expecting to see Lily with James tonight, not you,” you remarked, tilting your head slightly.

Sirius exhaled a small chuckle, swirling the liquid in his glass. “So was James. He was less than pleased when Lily swapped him out for me.”

You hummed, lips pressing together as you nodded. “And yet, you still came.”

Sirius placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “What, you think I can’t enjoy a sophisticated evening of small talk and fine dining?”

You gave him a dry look, unimpressed. “I think you’d rather be anywhere else.”

He gasped—actually gasped—so theatrically that the man standing beside you both at the drinks table glanced over in alarm. “You wound me,” he said, staggering back half a step as if struck. Unfortunately, in his dramatics, he miscalculated his footing, knocking his elbow against a tray of glasses just as the man set them down.

One wobbled, teetering dangerously toward the edge. Instinctively, Sirius shot out a hand to steady it, but the sudden movement caused his own drink to slosh over the rim and down into the sleeve of his shirt. With a twisted expression and he let out a disgusted groan, feeling the cold liquid slide up towards his elbow.

The moment was so ridiculous, so perfectly clumsy despite all his usual effortless bravado, that before you could stop yourself, a laugh escaped you. Not just any laugh, not the superficial, light laugh he had heard from you once before, no, your laugh was full and rolled through the quiet area by the drinks table. Earning a few turned heads.

Sirius looked up sharply, frozen for a moment as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d managed to get such a reaction out of you. Then, slowly, his lips curled as he chucked to himself in disbelief.

You bit back the rest of the laugh that threatened to bark out of you.

You clear you throat, hand coming up to physically stop you from breaking once again. “Sorry, I—,” you stopped yourself, licking your lips as a smile of amusement lingered at the corners of your mouth.

Sirius shook his head, eyes still fixed on you in an almost fascinated way. “Don’t apologise,” he said, voice softer now. “Good to know you’re human.”

You scoffed lightly, raising a brow. “Not everyone is always quite as animated as you, Black.”

His grin turned wolfish as he leaned in ever so slightly. “And yet, here you are, laughing at my misfortune.”

You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head as you glanced away, but the atmosphere between you had shifted, lighter now, easier.

The conversation that carried between you was more casual that he’d expected. Finding out that you weren’t quite as anti-social as he’d originally pinned you.

Learning your indifferent silence wasn’t cause by anything other than a preference for meaningful conversation over idle chatter. You spoke when you had something worth saying, and Sirius found himself even more drawn that he was before.

As you became less of a mystery to him, he marked your almost dry, understated wit—one that revealed itself in carefully chosen words and small sarcastic remarks. He stood beside you, soft rings of laughter and chatter resonating, the distance between you closing as the hours shed away.

Perched on a window in the Bell Tower, you admired that stars that were scattered across the sky—he’d also learnt that you had soft spot for Astronomy. Explaining why when he was looking for you in the library, 60% of the time he’d failed. Revealing that you spent more time in the Astronomy tower than anywhere else in the castle.

But speaking about the stars was when you truly came to life, gushing at the high-visibility of the constellations that hung in the sky that night.

“It really is a privilege to seen the sky like this—Look, look there! Can you see it? An hourglass with three stars in the middle.” You leaned forward over the window, pointing earnestly at the stars above.

“Y/N, I have honestly no idea what I’m supposed to be looking at.” Small chuckles littered through his sentence.

Your hands dropped dramatically, huffing out an exasperated sigh. “Sirius, you aren’t even looking in the right place!”, moving to stand impossibly close to him, first guiding his fingers up to point closer to where he should look.

There was still had no reaction, you watched his eyes dart up and down, left and right—brows creasing in efforts to see what you had. Growing impatient and fearful a cloud may steal the precious opportunity away—you reached up, your skin warm and radiating through his cheeks, touch too tender as you angled his chin ever so slightly higher.

Palms lingering on his face, watching—waiting for him to register what was so obvious to you, “Have you found it yet?” Your voice faintly above a whisper, calm and hypnotic.

"Not yet," he murmured, though his voice had lost the usual mischief. You wanted to look back at the stars yourself, so tempted to give up. But he was still looking—still searching, eyes pinched, his lips parted slightly; whispers of his hair dancing over you every so often.

You could see them reflected faintly in the darker silver specks in his eyes, your hands still hadn’t moved from his face, any space between had now vanished entirely, neither of you in any hurry to step away.

Then, just as you opened your mouth to prod at his delay once more, his breath caught, and his gaze finally narrowed, focusing.

“There!”, almost in awe, as if the constellations above had been birthed before him—lips curving up into the biggest beam you think you’d ever seen, so bright it challenged the very stars you beholded.

An incredulous laugh punched through him, his shoulders bouncing, body vibrating against yours. Obviously, Sirius had seen the stars before, and yes, they were beautiful—and until tonight, they were just that, stars—far away orbs charged with fading into the distance.

But in this quiet moment, they felt impossibly closer somehow, and Sirius was suddenly ashamed to have only just noticed them, ignorant to the small pleasures they could hold.

You followed his gaze, to the familiar pinpricks of light shining in the night sky. “About time,” you teased, your voice had lost its edge.

He could hear the smile on your face in your voice, light and airy, bewitching him as the seconds passed, “And if you look at there…jussttt across, that really really bright one,” Now, he could feel your breath skipping over the skin below his ears, goosebumps prickling down the back of his neck. Sirius hummed softly back.

Your hands gently slipped from his face, leaving warmth and wanting in their wake, as your words, the softest of the night—

“That’s you.”

Your voice seemed to echo over and over in his head, unmistakably clear. For a moment, Sirius couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, his heartbeat sounded loud in his ears. Eyes flicking between you and the star.

“That’s me?” he echoed, voice a little quieter than usual, in a hushed tone, afraid of discovery.

You nodded, a small mhmm.

A faint nervous chuckle bubbled in him, still close enough to be gently shook by his vibrations. “Well, you sure know how to make a guy feel important.” Almost laughing at the absurdity of it—

Tearing your eyes away from the sky, the corners crinkling in amusement, this time you didn’t hold back, didn’t cut your laugh short. You threw your head back, moonlight bouncing off the skin of your neck—as a hearty laugh ripped through you. One hand clasping your stomach, muscles beginning to ache, the other finding purchase on his arm. And it seemed that, once you had started, you struggled to stop.

Melodic giggles mixing with his, he couldn’t help but join in—your vibrant and unrestrained joy infectious. His free arm finding your waist, giving you some stability as you leaned into him, breathless.

“What? What—what’s so funny?”, grinning like a fool, his own question punctuated with the laughter bubbling from him.

When you finally pulled back, gasping for air, there was a softness in your eyes, your fingers still rested lightly against his arm, the proximity making the depths of his stomach flip.

“Merlin,” you breathed, shaking your head as if trying to steady yourself, “You’re actually quite funny, Sirius,” Bodies now resting against the cold stone wall, hands still on each other.

“Glad you think so,” his voice again confident and dripping with teasing sarcasm.

You rolled your eyes, but it was accompanied by another smile, turning to pointing at the star.

”That—” you started, but you knew his gaze hadn’t left your face yet; elbowing him lightly before you continued. “That, is the Dog Star, the brightest star in our skies and it’s named Sirius. Gods, you really are something,” words littered with of faux annoyance.

He raised his hands in defeat, another laugh rolling through him, “Now was I meant to know that!”

Quickly leaning into you, fueled by your relaxed smile, he brought his lips mere millimeters from your ear, and you could feel the warm of his body—smell his scent of roasted coffee, warm sandalwood and burnt parchment.

“And I bet that’s your favourite,” just above a whispered tone, painfully smug.

He could feel the shiver that ran down your spine, breath audibly hitching, “Oh, spare me, Black!” failing to fight the twitching smile that wanted to play on your lips.

“My favourites are actually in the hourglass I showed you earlier.”

His eyes glimmered with mischief, watching your expression carefully, “Oh, I totally believe you, Y/N. And what might it be called?” His closeness was disarming, that irritatingly charming, teasing confidence of his—combined with the way he looked down at you with an uncalled for fondness. You couldn’t, didn’t dare look back at him, not until the heat that’d built up and began crawling up your neck simmered down.

“It isn’t just one star, it’s the three that split the hourglass,” picking up one hand from the cold ledge, directing his gaze away from your face—”It’s called Orion’s Belt, apparently because it cuts across the ‘waist’ of the constellation.”

The smirk that spread across Sirius’ face, far too smug and self-satisfied, a snicker slipping in—“Orion’s Belt, huh?” he mused, leaning slightly closer to inspect the stars with you.

Squinting, whipping your head to him, suspicion written all over you face, “Yeah…Why’d you say it like that, though?”

He turned to casually lean his back against the pillar, crossing his arms, keeping his eyes on you, “I didn’t say it like anything?” Playful. Feigning innocence.

“Then why do you look so unbareably pleased with youself?”, mimicking his lean and crossed arms. He enjoyed the skeptical look in your eyes, pushing himself up off the pillar, abruptly closing the space you had so recently put between you.

One hand curved around the rock that framed the window, and the other hand, oh so conveniently placed just above your head; closing in. Eyes helplessly travelling from his face down his neck—he was getting dangerously close now, only now noticing his unbuttoned shirt, chest exposed, and silver necklace dangling away from his skin at the depth of his incline.

Dipping his head down to catch your wandering eye, leaning further—inching closer and closer, holding you captive in his gaze. Leaving barely a fingers space between your lips, deliberately skimming your jaw with the very tip of his nose before stopping by just below your ear.

So close you swore you could hear his pulse, loud and steady, rhythmic. It was torturous, the tips of your ears burned hot, lips pressing into a thin line. He still hadn’t said anything, seconds passed like hours, a breath held so tightly in your chest your shoulders began to raise.

His voice low and breathy—

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

There was nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide; even as he made his retreat he stopped again, hand that once rested on the stone frame, resided precariously in the gap of the wall and your waist. Searching for any signs of protest, or discomfort in your face, he waited at eye-level with an intensity that made your chest stutter its rise and fall pattern.

Sirius tilted his head just slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking up in unfiltered amusement, you weren’t going to let him win. Dropping his gaze and letting your eyes drift so obviously down his chest, raising your hands from your side.

Swallowing the scoff that edged that tip of his tongue, as you pulled him in by the collar closer—delicately trailing your fingertips down, down, down. Your eyes were on his again, challenging, teasing, and relishing in his expression. Adam’s apple bobbing as the tips of your thumbs brushed directly against the skin of his chest. Before smoothing over the fabric, looking up at him, innocent, effortless—yet so painfully calculated. You tip-toed slightly to reach his ear, palms now firmly pressed against torso, this time you could feel his heart, thumping, fast and firm.

“I think…”, the whispering presence of your lips against the reddened shell of his ear, smirk deepened when you felt the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. “I think I’m going to bed now, Black.”

And then—just as quickly as you’d drawn him in, you let go, pushing him back with little to no force, he teetered, hand ghosting over where yours had been.

Spinning on your heel, he watched you walking away, not sparing a single glance back.

You heard his voice bouncing off the walls, getting further and further way—“At least let me walk you back!”, Sirius let out a sharp exhale, running a hand through his hair as he fought off the stupid grin tugging at his lips.

“Goodnight, Sirius!” You called back, silhouette fading into the dim corridors of the castle.

His body still hummed with the memory of your fingertips, your voice, that look in your eyes, a laugh bubbling up in his chest only now noticing you’d buttoned up his shirt, he shook his head.

Merlin help him.

When his friends saw him in the Great Hall the next morning, he had a new-found pep in his step. Excessively cheery and energised, just itching to get a glimpse of you again.

“I take it Slug’s party went well then,” Remus remarked, smirking as he sipped on his orange juice. Sirius tried to hide the way his lips wanted to break out into a grin, failing miserably, “What makes you say that?” he chimed.

His friends scoffed at his words, as obvious as his moping and longing were, he also wore his triumphs on his face. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe its the way you’ve smiling like a psycho into your bowl of cereal. Just a guess, though!”, James didn’t even try to disguise his loud snort at Marlene’s comment.

Sirius shrugged, too caught up in his own bliss to pay any attention to what she’d said. He was still flicking looks at the entrance, not entirely sure what he would do when he actually saw you, nevertheless waiting, rather impatiently at this point.

Remus rolled his eyes, setting his glass down with a soft thunk. “It’s almost pathetic, really,” he mused, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “You’d think after all these years, you’d have a little more subtlety.”

Sirius scoffed, finally tearing his gaze away from the doors to flash Remus a cocky grin. “Subtlety is overrated, Moony.”

“Not when you’re staring at the entrance like a lovesick kneazle waiting for its owner to come home,” Lily cut in, settling into the seat next to Marlene. She gave him a pointed look before lazily stirring her tea. “So, are you going to tell us what happened, or are we supposed to sit here and suffer through your dreamy sighs?”

“I don’t sigh,” Sirius argued, but before he could elaborate, James jumped in.

“You do. And, honestly, it’s disturbing.”

Marlene snickered. “And loud.”

Remus hummed. “And frequent.”

Sirius groaned, shoving his spoon into his cereal with a little too much force. “Fine,” he relented, though he hardly looked annoyed, his grin creeping back into place. He let himself sink into the memory of the night before—the way your voice had softened, how your fingers had trailed down his chest, how you had absolutely played him before walking away like it had meant nothing.

It had definitely meant something.

But before he could speak, the conversation around him stilled.

His heart stammered. He didn’t need to turn to know why.

You had finally arrived.

And, just to be cruel, you didn’t acknowledge him right away. No, you were far too composed for that, greeting Pandora with a smile, engaging in brief conversation with Dorcas. Sirius forced himself not to pout—you had to have known he was watching.

Almost in sync, all three of you turned your sights to him, Pandora’s lips pressed into a thin line, containing a laugh, while Dorcas did little to conceal her reaction, both hands coming to her mouth, as if trying to force the spluttering laugh that had escaped back into her mouth.

There it was. That hint of amusement, the ghost of a smirk tugging at your lips before looking away again—pretending as if nothing had happened at all.

Sirius let his head drop onto the table, melting with a dramatic groan.

“Oh, yeah,” James laughed, slapping him on the back. “He’s absolutely done for.”

After that morning, you and Sirius had been seen together at a much higher, frequency rate. It started subtly—him waiting for you outside the library after your tutoring sessions, lingering near the Slytherin common room under the pretense of “just passing by.”

Then it became impossible to ignore. Stolen moments in the Astronomy Tower, lying on the floor as you told him stories of the stars, his leather jacket draped lazily over your shoulders on particularly cold nights. Walking up to the Great Hall side by side, bickering about something utterly ridiculous, only to separate seamlessly at the entrance—he to his table, you to yours.

It’s not that that you didn’t like his friends, and it wasn’t that they didn’t notice the shift. Lily’s knowing glances, James’ exaggerated winks, not even meant for you to see, but James wasn’t exactly discrete—still none of it phased you. Your friends had noticed too, they saw the way you’d started to schedule your head-girl duties around his Quidditch meetings so you could ‘coincidentally’ bump into him in the Courtyard.

You still refusing to confirm or deny their suspicions—because you and Sirius were still just friends.

And yet, Sirius Black, the boy who had never carried a single book of his own, had been spotted time and time again with your textbooks in his arms. Slinging your bag over his shoulder like it was second nature, grumbling about how ridiculously heavy it was, but never once handing it back until you were where you needed to be.

And if anyone commented on it, he’d simply shrug, flashing a lazy grin as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“What do you carry in here?” he muttered one afternoon, adjusting the strap over his shoulder. “A dozen bricks? A severed head?”

“Oi, nosy Parker! Do I question what you lug around in that ghastly duffle bag?” you quipped back, lips twitching when he scoffed dramatically.

But more telling than anything was you. Sirius’ presence had breathed life into you, and the more time you spent with him, the more he chipped away at your most guarded parts. The carefree laughs that, before your friendship, were few and far between, corridors now rung with a mix of your vibrant giggles and his howling laughter—on more than one occasion being scolded for disrupting nearby lessons.

“I’m so sorry, Professor, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,”

The door of the classroom barely closed before Sirius grabbed your hand pulling you away, both snickering, trying to run, impossibly faster to keep up, him parroting your empty apology. There was an ease in the way you spoke, a lightness in your voice, even when you hissed out a Sirius in that exasperated, almost always fond tone.

And in turn, you were learning him. The Sirius Black behind the bravado. The one who stayed up far too late studying because he swore he wouldn’t fail another Potions test (though, truly, you were the one keeping him from failing). The one who distracted you during tutoring sessions, doodling on your parchment instead of taking notes.

“You do realise this will not help you pass, yes?” you deadpanned, pointing at the horrendous stick figure he’d drawn.

“I disagree,” he said solemnly. “This is a visual representation of the tragic fate of the gillyweed. Taken too soon.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a laugh.

And then there were the other moments. The ones that left you holding your breath, the air between you taut—thin and the space between you even thinner. His fingers brushing against yours a second too long when he handed back your quill. The times in the back corners of the library when he’d leaned in just close enough that your noses nearly touching, only to reach over your shoulder and pluck a book he didn’t need from the shelf behind you.

And if Sirius hadn’t know any better, he’d think he saw a pout on your lips when he stepped back, “Disappointed, are we?”

To alot of people, you made no sense.

You were put-together, composed, meticulous. Sirius Black was reckless, loud, and endlessly exasperating. But what they didn’t realise—what no one truly saw—was that beneath all of it, you weren’t so different.

By the time you’d made your way into the Great Hall; the usually conjested walkways between the tables were clear, some students still milled about—finishing their breakfasts and making their way out.

You sat, as you always did, with Pandora, Regulus and Dorcas, parchment in one hand and toast in the other. Humming along with the conversations that carried beside you. You’d seen Sirius when you entered, knees resting on the bench as he leaned over the table, huddled amongst his friends and a few faces you didn’t quite recognise.

Sirius was preoccupied.

“—and if I loop around Flint here before he can block, that leaves me wide open to feint left and pass here—” James was rambling at full speed, Quidditch playbook spread across the table, but Sirius was barely paying attention. His eyes kept flickering toward the dwindling crowd, tracking your movements as you slowly gathered your things.

“Uh-huh,” he muttered absently, cutting James off mid-sentence as he abruptly stood.

James blinked. “Mate?”

Sirius ignored him, slipping through the benches and making his way over to you. You didn’t even look surprised when he appeared beside you, just raised a brow as he fell into step next to you.

“Good morning to you, too,” you murmured, adjusting the strap of your bag.

Sirius grinned, keeping pace with you easily. “I had a thought—”

“Oh, Shall I call Madame Pomfrey?”

He huffed, nudging your shoulder lightly. “I think you should come watch me play.”

You hummed, not slowing down. “Quidditch?”

“Yes, Quidditch,” Sirius said, as if there was any other answer. “You know, the most thrilling, heart-pounding, exciting sport at Hogwarts?”

“I have no interest in it.”

His jaw dropped dramatically, stopping in his tracks, face dorned with a look of pure offense. “What! But it’s the first game of the season! Everyone’ll be there!”

Trudging to a stop, you turned to face him, weight shifting onto one hip—arms crossed over your chest. Your lips twitching, the slightest of smirks gracing them before you spun away from him and continued toward the doors. “Exactly, with everyone else there, I’m sure you’ll survive.”

Sirius jogged to catch up, eyes twinkling, his hands on your shoulders, lightly shaking you. “Come on, Y/N, just this once. You wouldn’t want me to lose, would you?”

“That depends,” you mused. “Would you blame your loss on my absence?”

“Absolutely.”

Earning him an eye-roll and a quiet chuckle, even after all this time, he still felt a pang of victory when he was the cause of your smile. Finally, you pushed an exasperated sigh out, shaking your head. “Fine, Black. I’ll come.”

Truthfully, you’d already rescheduled, even post-poning your tutoring sessions so you’d have time to go, simply finding amusement in his grovelling.

His face lit up, “Anndd will you come by the changing rooms after the match? We can go with everyone to Hogsmead after, to celebrate.” His last words came out rushed, a clear after thought, eyebrows still raised into a pleading expression, you didn’t respond immediately.

A feigned debating look on you face, lips pressed into a thin line, foot tapping and an unsure hmmm reaching his ears.

He bent his head down to meet your eyes, always so close but so far away—“I’ll make it worth your while,” he voiced faintly above a whisper. You groaned, head rolling back in playful reluctance, your words came out more pinched than you’d hoped, mumbling out “Maybe…”

Escaping his clutch with a turn of your heel, retreating down the corridor without looking back. Sirius lingered there for a moment, watching you go before he spun around and bolted back to the table.

James barely had time to react before Sirius all but crashed into the bench beside him, looking positively giddy.

“She’s coming,” he announced, practically vibrating.

Marlene snorted. “Poor girl.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “Merlin help us if he wins.”

But he wasn’t paying attention. He was already envisioning it—the roar of the crowd, the wind in his hair, the knowledge that you would be there, watching.

Sirius was unnecessarily righteous when it came to his duty as captain, and as much as winning was important to his pride, feeding off the energy that surged around him when he brought his team to a victory.

Now, winning really mattered.

You’d never been to a Quidditch match before, opting to avoid the commotion all together. Frankly, you’d written it off as ‘too violent’, after passing by the hospital wing time and time again—seeing poor Madame Pomfrey overwhelmed with the sheer volume of injured players post-match. Just the idea of watching made you grimance slightly, anxiety lightly brewing in you.

The match had been brutal.

Barely half-way through your voice adopted a coarse and gravelly cadance, suprisingly over-zealous and commited to cheering. A shocked laugh leaving Remus’ mouth, as your voice boomed, travelling rows away.

A grueling hour and a half of hard-fought goals, relentless defense, and a nail-biting chase for the Snitch. But in the end, Gryffindor had come out victorious, and Sirius had played one of his best games yet.

The hope of ‘maybe’, made him dress just that bit faster—fighting the aching tension of his muscles. He was still the last to stide out of the changing rooms, James roughly massaging his shoulders, grins of exhaustion on their faces. Hair still damp and clothes still slightly askew, he’d expected his usual friends to be waiting—Remus, Marlene, Lily, maybe even a few other.

He didn’t expect you.

And you weren’t there, though he was welcomed with a rally of loud cheers, applause, too hard pats on the back. He really was trying to enjoy the moment, honest, but it felt slightly incomplete. Because the only person he was looking forward to celebrating his victory with, was you.

Minutes had passed and they were still stood there, just barely a meter away from the doors of the changing room.

It was James who caught sight of you first, elbowing Sirius roughly in the ribs. Nodding his head in your direction, ”No way,” he whispered, grinning.

Barrelling through the curtains, you hunched over hands on your knees—panting breaths as your chest heaved. Marlene let out a low chuckle. “Huh. She actually came.”

Your voice came out tight, each word wheezed out. “So…so many—people”, inhaling deeply through your nose, “Got—got lost,” Eyes squeezing shut as you failed miserably to catch your breath.

Sirius blinked, momentarily stunned, before a slow, triumphant smirk spread across his face. You still hadn’t found the strength to look up. His feet carried him toward you without hesitation, and by the time he reached you, his grin was unstoppable.

“You made it,” he said, a touch smug, but there was something else beneath it—undeniably soft. Hand reaching out to him in desperate purchase, he caught it, bringing his other hand gently around your waist—stabalising you, as you rested your weight on him.

You cracked one eye open, still huffing out your breath. “Clearly.”

“Well, I’m honoured,” he drawled, tilting his head. “Didn’t think you’d run to me.”

Before you could muster up a proper retort, one hand shifted your shoulder, guiding you ever so slightly out of the way as James, Remus, and the others brushed past, leaving the two of you alone in the corridor.

Sirus waiting patiently for your breathing to steady, when you eventually stood up straight, his gaze was tender—a warmth spreading through his chest, feeling like he could finally relish in his victory.

He was looking down at you, the awareness of your proximity making your barely regulated heartbeat ring obnoxiously in your ears, breaths shallowing again—not from exertion, not from the running, but from him.

Arms still holding onto you, not tightly, not in a way that caged you in—just enough that if you wanted to move away, you could. Touch somehow firm and gentle, grounding, fingertips twitching ever so slightly against the fabric at your waist.

Instead, you looked up at him, swallowing past the dryness that inched up your throat—gaze heavy and burning. “You did amazing,” you murmured, voice softer than you’d meant, like the words weren’t quite enough for what you felt, “Really,” confession direct and sincere.

His lips parted, breath catching, eyes trained into yours. The teasing smirk he so often wore faltered, replaced with something deeper, something that sent heat curling low in your stomach.

“Mmm that’s high praise, Y/N.” His voice had dropped, slow and deliberate—honeyed, like he was savoring each word, letting them hang heavy in the air.

Sirius tilted his head, just slightly, gaze flickering—your eyes, your lips, back to your eyes. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t careful. It was knowing, full of intention, and it made the prickling skin at the back of your neck travel, helplessly further down your spine.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, the urge to reach for him overwhelming, shoulders squeezing up, sucking in a breath smaller than you needed when he inched closer. The distance between you was shrinking, a measly sliver of space left.

He was giving you a chance to stop this.

You didn’t take it.

His hand tightened at your sides, just barely, and the moment you tipped your chin up—just the slightest bit, just enough—he was there.

The first touch of his lips was ghostly, so faint you wondered is was just his breath, inconceivably cautious, testing—savoring your moment before committing to it fully.

And then raising slightly to your toes, nose skimming his skin, that was all it took.

Sirius exhaled sharply through his nose, and the kiss deepened, urgent and needing, like he’d been waiting for this longer than he was willing to admit.

And he had.

His other hand found purchase at your jaw, fingers curling just beneath your ear, angling your face as he pressed closer—so close you could taste the lingering remnants of triumph on his lips.

The arch of your feet began to burn at the stretch.

You barely registered when your hands found his jumper, curling into the damp fabric, trying to close a non-existent gap between you. Pulling him in as you pushed your feet to press firmly into the ground beneath you—his neck craning further down chasing you, unwilling to breakaway. He smiled against your mouth, he couldn’t help himself, kissing you was the easiest thing in the world, second-nature.

He prayed this moment wouldn’t end.

Lips plush and warm against his, the echoes of his teammates’ cheers lost, one palm slipping so intuitively into the dip of your neck, fingertips entwining with the strands at nape—basking in you, like you were a small slice of heaven.

When he finally pulled away, he didn’t go far, forehead resting against yours, his breath fanning against your lips. His smile had returned now, still bright, but softer—contented.

“Well,” he murmured, voice still hushed, “I suppose that’s a fair prize.”

You scoffed, but your lips were still tingling, wanting, your fingers were still curled into him. “Oh, shut up, Black.”

He laughed, vibrant and victorious, and just this once—you let him have it.

[aetherraeys]

unspoken words

Remus Lupin x gn!reader ⊹ 4.7k

⟢ cw: best friends to lovers, Remus is emotionally constipated, reader has abandonment issues, hurt/comfort, alcohol, drunk arguments?, mild self-loathing.

a/n:this turned out significantly longer than i had anticipated, this is my first fic so please be kind x

Remus wasn’t sure when he started to look at you differently. He wasn’t sure when he began to daydream of more than just your usual conversations. Perhaps it was in the quieter moments, when your laughter lingered a little too long in the air, and he suddenly found himself feeling in a better mood. Or maybe it was in the way you said his name—soft, familiar, like a refuge he hadn’t realized he needed.

Remus wasn’t sure when he started to look at you differently. He wasn’t sure when he began to daydream of more than just your usual conversations. Perhaps it was in the quieter moments, when your laughter lingered a little too long in the air, and he suddenly found himself feeling in a better mood. Or maybe it was in the way you said his name—soft, familiar, like a refuge he hadn’t realized he needed.

He told himself it was nothing, just familiarity.

The way his pulse would stumbled whenever you touched his arm was just habit. That the way he watched you, the way your voice curled around his name like a melody he never wanted to forget, fondness. Perhaps it was the way you always seemed to see him, truly see him, even on the days when he felt like nothing more than the sum of his worst parts.

It became harder to deny when he started reaching for you in crowded rooms before he even thought about it. When his heart ached at the idea of you walking away. When he caught himself wondering how well your hand would fit into his, how soft your lips would feel on his neck.

The truth settled in slowly, heavy and inescapable, until it carved a burning pit deep in his gut. It was the kind of realization that couldn’t be undone, couldn’t be shoved aside like an inconvenient thought. It lingered, twisting in the quiet spaces of his mind, a relentless whisper of something he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.

Because admitting it—admitting that he wanted more, that he needed you in a way that went far beyond friendship—meant risking everything. And losing you? That wasn’t a possibility he could bear to consider.

So naturally, slowly he began to retract, putting space between you two for the first time in years. Fighting against every twitch of his fingers to pull you in, to allow himself the comfort he had grown so accustomed to. It was easier this way, he told himself. Easier to smother the ache before it had the chance to grow into something unbearable.

But distance had a weight of its own. It settled between you like an unspoken curse, stretching wider with every conversation he cut short, every touch he shied away from. He saw the confusion flicker in your eyes, the way your laughter came a second slower, as if waiting for him to catch up. And yet, he forced himself to hold the line, to pretend that nothing had changed.

But it had.

And worst of all, you had noticed too.

It was impossible not to, Remus’ lips pressed into a thin line whenever he drew closer to you, how his eyes darted around the room, rarely meeting yours - before, it had always felt like your eyes would find each other, no matter the distance—like an unspoken thread bound you together, pulling you into the same orbit even when miles apart.

The first real sign was when he no longer sought you out before and after his transformations. Where he had gravitated toward you—seeking comfort in your presence, in the quiet understanding you offered—now there was only absence, a space where he used to be.

Of course, you still worried for him, still tossed and turned into the early hours of the morning when the moon hung heavy in the sky. Fingers hovering over his name, itching to press dial—desperate to see if he was alright, if his last transformation made it too hard for him to chew even if he won’t admit it, if he was missing the updates of the brewing romance you suspect between the two baristas at your local coffee shop.

As the distance between you and Remus grew, the initial fear—the endless questioning of what you had done wrong—slowly twisted into something heavier, more severe. Resentment.

Remus opted to sit next to James or reside in the beat-up single armchair in Sirius’ flat, that he’d revealed to you was the most uncomfortable seat in the house; rivaling that of the rickety chair in old caretaker Pringle’s office, just to be as far away from you as possible. The sinking feeling in you stomach, that made every breath feel like the last wasn’t enough, as if overnight shifted into a simmering anger, sharp and unyeilding in nature.

You think back to the late nights you’d spent with Remus, your legs resting across his as he reclined on the sofa bed in his studio, the horror movie you had chosen droning on in the back as you revealed layers of your soul to him, and him to you. Confiding in him in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to before— the vulnerable part of you, you so desperately wanted to bury, surfaced so quickly you hadn’t had a time to hide.

Under the impression that your baggage—your past, your insecurities, your weakness—would be too much for anyone to handle, that it would scare them away. But with him, it felt different. You allowed yourself to lay it bare, hoping that he would understand, hoping that, for once, someone would stay.

And yet, after everything—he was leaving. Before your very eyes, the one person who you thought would stay despite it all, who accepted you and who you accepted was retreating away from you, building back up the wall you had once easily scaled so tall you could couldnt phathom getting over the top—felt like an insurmountable task.

Each brick he placed sent you spiralling into a reckless panic, in a desperate, fruitless attempt to appear unaffected, to appear as though the foundation of your very being that you had delicately rested on Remus wasn’t crumbling away with each second you spent in this unspoken distance between you.

It turned in to a battle of who can build their walls higher but now, you felt lonlier than ever, you were once again trapped in a prison of your own making, and every word left unspoken made it a bit harder to be in his presence. The silence between you stretched like a chasm, thick and suffocating, until even the most casual glance felt loaded with things neither of you were willing to say.

Lily had pulled you into the corridor, trying to be pry subtly, into the strange tension that had settled between you.

"Are you two...?" she asked, her voice gentle, leaving the question hanging in the air, the concern in her eyes was unmistakable.

You forced a smile, but it felt foreign. The corners of your mouth strained with the effort, creating something that looked more like a grimace than anything genuine. Lily's brows furrowed in sympathy when your voice came out with in a freigned bright tone, artificially light yet hollow, completely at odds with the heaviness settling in your chest.

"Oh, um, we're fine. Just stretched a bit thin…with work, I suppose," you said, your words tumbling out a little too quickly.

Lily’s eyes were still searching your face, in hopes you would continue before Sirius came barreling through his too small corridor, clinging to the walls for stability—evidently very tipsy.

A long, drawn-out call of “Where have my girls goooone?” echoed through the hall. He finally reached you both, arms slinging lazily over both your shoulders, his breath warm and slightly slurred.

“Tell me it’s not just the two of you, I need some real drinking buddies,” he grinned, clearly oblivious to the tension hanging in the air.

Lily rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of relief in her smile as she playfully nudged him off. “You’re a mess, Black.”

A surprisingly heavy sigh slipped past your lips as he dragged you both back into his living room, Sirius didn’t seem to notice, too busy swaying on his feet.

The lights dimmed, music blaring too loud in one corner of the room and not loud enough in the next. Though by the time you reached the table piled with drinks, Lily had skillfully escaped Sirius’ grasp and found her way over to Marlene—who sat perched on the window-cill, blowing the air from her cigarette out the small crack, both had their eyes trained on you, the smoke now curling around them both.

You turned to Sirius, who was still swaying slightly, his eyes almost blinking unsynchronized as he tried to focus on you. "Right, what are we drinking then?" you asked.

His gaze lit up immediately, a grin spreading across his face. "Well, seen as you so graciously ask," he drawled, "Jamie made a devious little cocktail that I think might tickle your fancy."

He gestured grandly toward the table, as though unveiling some grand prize. "It's a bit... experimental, but I’m sure you'll love it. If you survive, that is."

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at the glass in his hand. "Experimental, huh?" you said, a small giggle escaping your lips, you were grateful for the distraction. The last thing you wanted was for Lily to push any further.

Both you and Sirius raised your rather large cups, not breaking eye contact as you brought them to your lips. The moment felt charged, like a silent challenge between the two of you, a kind of unspoken rivalry that had always existed in moments like these. You knew very well what this meant—the tension, the expectations—and before you could second guess it, a small chorus of “CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG!” erupted from the people around you.

You tilted your head back, letting the liquor burn down your throat, the sharpness of it spilling slightly down the sides of your lips as you tried to keep pace with Sirius. His eyes was wide, mischievous, full of vigour, he crushed the cup in victory.

You barely managed to finish your drink, the liquid’s warmth spreading through your chest, leaving a bitter aftertaste. The back of your hand came up to wipe away the alcohol that now dripped down your chin, a small sigh escaping your lips as you set your cup down on the table.

Sirius, not missing a beat, cheered for you with exaggerated enthusiasm, barking a boisterous, “Atta girrrl!” His voice rang through the room, drawing more attention. He clapped you on the back a little too hard, making you stumble forward, the heat in your cheeks wasn’t from the drink.

You shot him a playful glare, trying to hold onto whatever composure you had left. “You’re insufferable,” you muttered, but there was no real bite to it.

He just laughed, clearly enjoying the chaos of it all, before dropping down into one of the chairs beside you, the glint in his eyes still dancing. “You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Silently, you poured yourself another tall glass full of the cocktail, the liquid sloshing slightly as you filled it to the brim, feeling the weight of eyes on you from every direction. When you lifted the glass, you could almost feel Sirius’ gaze boring into the back of your head.

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re having another?”

You hummed back dismissively, your gaze locked on the drink in your hand, as if the peach liquid was more interesting than anything else happening around you. “Why not?” you replied, your voice casual, though you could feel the heat creeping up your neck.

Sirius chuckled, clearly amused, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something that made you wonder if he was watching you for a different reason than just the challenge of the drink. “As long as you’re sure you can handle it, y/n, I’m game.”

“You sure about that, Black?”, chimed in Marlene stubbing out her cigarette with a casual flick of her wrist. Her eyes narrowed playfully as she raised an eyebrow at him, “Do you even know what James put in there?”

Sirius waved her off with a dismissive hand, “Don’t know, don’t care—drink is drink,” he stuck his tongue out at her in jest. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at the exchange, starting with a careful sip from your newly filled glass, but then drinking it too quickly for your own good.

As quickly as one drink turned into two, two turned into three, four, five—and you eventually lost count. The room around you started to blur, the edges softening as the noise from the party grew distant, muffled. Sirius’ teasing voice, Marlene’s laughter, everything became a vague hum that you couldn’t quite focus on.

You didn’t care anymore. The heat in your chest from the alcohol, the pressure that had been weighing on you since you had stepped into the room—it all seemed to fade, if only for a little while.

Sirius once again coming to the rescue, seeming much more sober than despite the excessive consumption you had both partaken in, “How bout we step out for some fresh air, doll?”, you giggle to yourself quietly as he pulls you through the crowded room.

“Someone’s having a fun ni—” Sirius started, his words trailing off when you loudly proclaimed, “Of course, Siri, I loooove drinking with you!” Your voice echoed through the room, drawing a few amused glances from the people still lingering by the table.

Sirius shook his head, a knowing smile on his lips. “I think you’ve had a bit too much, love.” But he didn’t push the issue, instead guiding you towards the door.

The cool night air hit your face as soon as you stepped outside, but it did little to clear the fog in your mind. You let out an exaggerated sigh as you sat on the steps that led up to Sirius’ door, still left ajar.

“Penny for you thoughts?”

You turn to look towards him, head moving faster than you reflexes can keep up with, head almost rolling from the abrupt motion, “A penny for my thoughts?”, you quitely mumble back to yourself, taking the statement far to literally.

“Whats bugging you y/n?”, he shuffled closer to you, allowing your head to rest on his shoulder.

Out of habit, you began to pick at the skin around your nails, looking down at you lap in defeat—the sobering thoughts of Remus crept back up from where you tried to relinquish them. The breeze felt almost liberating against the heat of your cheeks, but it didn’t stop the lump from forming in your throat—quick and unexpected. The sting of shame and disgust prickled your skin as you struggled to swallow.

You really were about to start drunk crying over some boy.

“I’m tired, Siri,” you murmured pitifully, your voice small and fragile as you pressed your forehead lightly against his shoulder. The words felt heavy, like they carried more than just the exhaustion from the night, more than the alcohol clouding your mind.

Sirius didn’t say anything for a moment, letting the silence stretch between you two, but he shifted, making sure you were settled comfortably against him. “I know, y/n,” he said quietly, his voice warm and steady, “I know.”

Your next words came out at barely a whisper, “I don’t know how to fix it.”

He didn’t try to tell you everything would be okay, didn’t offer empty words of reassurance. He simply stayed there, letting you feel the weight of his presence.

It all boils down to the fact that he isn’t just some boy, he was you best friend, your rock, your Remus.

Was.

Remus wasn’t just someone you could walk away from, someone you could forget about.

And you couldn’t just let things go on this way, if he was going to keep avoiding the fight, then you were going to bring the fight to him—he was the problem, and you were going to make him see it.

Without thinking, you pushed yourself up from the steps, a surge of anger filling your chest. You didn’t care if you were drunk, didn’t care if the world was spinning.

“I don’t have to deal with this,” you muttered under your breath as you quickly rose from your seat beside Sirius, pacing back and forth in front of him, whispering something along the lines, your hands clenching and unclenching at your sides. You whispered something along the lines of, “This isn’t fair,” and “He can’t just do this to me,” each phrase slipping out of you like a rushed confession, you weren’t sure if you were speaking to him or to yourself.

You brushed past Sirius, who called out your name in confusion. But you didn’t stop, stumbling slightly as you made your way towards the door.

You weren’t thinking about the consequences, about how out of control this was. Sirius did chase after you, but Merlin were you quick.

If Remus was happy with just letting years of friendship wordlessly slip away, then fine—but you weren’t. You refused to let the way you felt fester inside you like an open wound, refused to let him leave you drowning in uncertainty while he pretended everything was fine.

He was going to know.

If he was going to walk away from you, from your friendship, from everything, then he was damn well going to look you in the eyes while he did it.

By the time you reached Remus, he’s sitting solemnly staring into his glass while James ethuse about the most recent Quiddich game. You just stood in front of him for a moment, as he refused to lift his gaze and James’ words fell heavy on his tongue.

The party had dialled down severely since you were last drinking earlier, not that you noticed, you chest heaved as your sights remained locked on Remus.

“Won’t you look at me?”, the warmth in your voice had vanished, leaving only something sharp—something unfamiliar.

“Remus.” His name, even felt foreign in your mouth, distant—he heart ached to hear it the way you used to say it, laced with tenderness, with love, with something that felt like home. But now, it was just a word—empty, hollow.

It no longer carried the weight of familiarity, the quiet assurance that it always had before.

Remus had never realized how much he depended on the way you said his name—how much he had needed the warmth in it, the way it softened the rough edges of his world. But now, it was just a word. A sound. Stripped of meaning, stripped of you.

And as Sirius finally reached you, there wasn’t much he could do now, you cut all the wires of bomb and everyone was now waiting for the explosion. Your friends attempted to make themselves scarce with haste, as the tension rose in the room faster than they could leave.

Some watched through the window, others took it as the signal that the party was over and took themselves well away from the scene that was about to unfold.

Remus was still yet to even acknowledge you, let alone respond, gazing into his glass as if it quite literally the most interesting thing in the world.

“y/n-”, it came out in a short, breathless whisper.

“You don’t get to do this,” you cut him off. Tired of waiting yet again for him to say something to you. “You don’t get to do this to me and act like everything is okay!”, your voice came out less conviced and more pitifully than you had hoped, sounding alien to you ears.

The liquid courage faded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind only the weight of the moment. And then—your name, spoken in that voice, his voice. It shattered your resolve in an instant, unraveling you from the inside out, leaving you defenseless against a weakness you hadn’t thought to acknowledge.

“You don’t get to make this decision for both of us.”

His brows furrowed, jaw tightening, and finally looked up at you but he didn’t interrupt. He just watched you carefully.

You swallowed, forcing your voice to steady. “I don’t know what I did to you that was so wrong, but if I’m just supposed to let you cut me out of your life—if you don’t want in your life anymore, then say it. Look me in the eyes and say it, because I refuse to let you just disappear without a word.”

Remus inhaled sharply, his lips parting like he wanted to respond, but nothing came out. His hesitation only fueled your frustration.

“Say it, Remus!” Your voice cracked, the weight of it all pressing into your ribs, your eyes filled with tears you desperately prayed wouldn’t fall. You had already spent countless nights soaking your pillow, letting the hurt spill over. You couldn’t let it happen again—not here, not now. You wanted to stay composed, needed to keep the walls up.

“Because I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep wondering what I did wrong, what changed, why you suddenly act like just being in the same room as me is some unbearable burden—like I’m something you have to endure.”

The look on his face was something you had rarely seen—stricken with such complex pain, a mix of regret, sorrow, and a something you couldn’t quite distinguish.

“It’s not,” he cut in, voice rough. His hands gripped the glass in his hand like it was the only thing keeping them steady. “It’s not a burden, y/n.”

“Then what is it?” you demanded. Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. You took a step back, shaking you head as spoke, barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t think you’d leave me too.”

His face twisted, eyes flashing with something unreadable. And then, finally—finally—he exhaled shakily, taking his glass with careful precision before setting it aside. When he looked back up at you, there was something raw in his expression, something unsaid that had been sitting between you for far too long.

“You don’t understand,” he said, his voice so quiet you almost missed it. “I didn’t mean for it to get like this, I just—”, he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, his cheeks puffing out as he exhaled sharply, as if the weight of his own words were too heavy to carry.

“I’ve been pushing you away because I’m scared,” he continued, his gaze dropping to the floor, unable to meet yours. “Scared of how much I need you. How much I’ve always needed you.” His voice cracked slightly, yet he pressed on. “I didn’t want to ruin this—us. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you because I couldn’t control myself. I thought if I stepped back, if I gave you space, maybe... maybe the way I feel, how badly I want more from you, how badly I want us to be more, would... I don’t know. I thought it would make everything easier.”

He paused, his chest tightening with every word as if saying it out loud somehow made it real, that if he didn’t say it, he could still run away from the all-comsuming feeling that bubbled in his in his gut at the very moment. Then, almost too quietly to hear, he spoke again, his voice cracking under the pressure.

"I love you."

"And I think I've been in love with you for a some time now."

The words hung in the air, heavy and uncertain. He looked up at you, almost defeated, like the weight of his confession had crushed him, leaving him exposed in a way he had never allowed himself to be before. His eyes searched yours, as if waiting for the impact of those words to land, praying that somehow, you would understand—

“You love me?” you repeated his words back to him, your voice small, barely a whisper, like you didn’t quite understand, like the words didn’t even belong to your reality. Like they were coming from another planet.

He took a step forwards, his reaching out with such a delicacy, as if he was afraid to shatter whatever fragile space was left between you, his eyes swimming an apology that didn’t reach his lips. He stopped just short of reaching you, his fingers hovering in the space between, as if waiting for you to decide whether you’d let him in, or push him away for good.

“I-I-I don’t get it,” you stammered, your face scrunching as the words spilled out, “you pushed me away for weeks on end... because you’re in love with me?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he murmured, his voice thick with regret.

“Rem—”

“I thought if I let myself get too close, it would all fall apart. I couldn’t ask you for more than you already give, if I shut myself off, I could protect you from everything that’s so... complicated inside me—”, his words rushed out, almost panicked, as if he feared he’d finally done the damage he had been so terrified of—ruined everything with his own hesitation, his own need.

“Remus!” you exclaimed, and when he raised his gaze, he braced himself for the worst. But instead of the disgust or contempt he had anticipated, your face wasn’t shrouded in anger. It was relaxed, almost... understanding.

There was no judgment there, only a quiet recognition—like you could see the parts of him he’d been hiding from everyone, especially himself.

The air between you seemed to pulse with the weight of everything unsaid, but for the first time in what felt like forever, it didn’t feel suffocating.

“Do you really think I’d be standing here right now, if through all of this, I wasn’t thinking about you?”

He remained quiet, as you stepped closer, closing the gap until it was virtually nonexistent, taking his hands in yours, fingers interlocking as you watched his eyes darted around you face, searching for any whispers of uncertainty.

Instead, you reached up to his face, your thumbs gently caressing the tops of his cheekbones. The heat radiating off of him warmed you, there were no more walls between you, no more doubts or hesitations—

His gaze dropped to your lips, your nose brushing against his, and before either of you could say another word, you closed the gap, his lips crashing softly against yours.

It was slow at first, tentative, as if testing the waters of something both of you had wanted for so long but had been too afraid to admit. Your lips moved together, soft and eager, tension melting away as his arms snaked around you waist pulling you in impossibly closer—making up for lost time, as if every second apart had built up to this very moment.

When you disconnected, your breath hitched, the tips of his ears reddening, a soft flush creeping across his cheeks. Heat rose from your chest to your neck, hair stood on end, the sensation of his touch lingering, the warmth of his body an anchor in the midst of everything that had once felt lost.

Your arms wrapped around him, head resting on his chest, feeling the quickened pace of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. He held you tight, like he was afraid you’d slip away, as if you could turn into smoke at any given moment.

“I’d never leave you,” he mumbled into the crook of you neck.

A declaration you didn’t know you needed, but was grateful to hear, in the quiet space between you, it filled you with the sense of peace—certainty, you had longed for for weeks.

please feel free to leave requests, i really enjoyed writing this and want to improve so i would appreciate any advice xo

[aetherraeys]

rebel

sirius black x slytherin!reader ⊹ 7.1k

for this request x

cw ⟢ swearing, slightly suggestive, COCKY!sirius, pining, tension, kind of enemies to lovers, angst if you squint, internal conflict, slytherin!reader

summary: sirius black is shameless, even is his conflicted pining and endless watching, of you. but after years of successful rebellion, one thing could make it all come crashing down, prove his parents right--make them proud. and sirius is struggling to stomach the idea.

a/n: again idk how this became so long im just a girl. not proofread x

Sirius Black.

The disgraced heir, blood traitor, the run-away who burned too brightly for the cold halls he was raised in.

He was wildfire in human form—untamed, untethered, always on the verge of consuming everything around him. Fire is never safe. And Sirius Black had never once tried to be.

He was shameless in the way only someone truly unrepentant could be.

Defiance lived in his bones. In every choice he made, every rule he broke with that easy grin. In the way he carved out freedom with bare hands and bleeding knuckles, daring the world to punish him for it. He would not kneel. Not for his mother. Not for their pureblood rot. Not for anyone.

He wore rebellion like a second skin.

There was no hesitation in the way he looked at people—like he had the right to. Like he wanted you to know you were being watched. Desired. Picked apart by eyes that never pretended to be subtle. Sirius never mastered the art of pretending, not when it came to impulse, not when it came to you.

Regal, in the way a blade is regal—sleek and polished, but built to cut. You were every inch the legacy they praised in whispers and expected in silence: one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, born with history in your bones and expectations curled like silk around your throat. You wore your pedigree like a cloak, but never let it chain you.

Poised, deliberate and sharp, like you’d studied how to command a room before you ever learned to walk.

Sharp eyes that missed nothing, mouth even sharper, and a presence that made people step aside without quite knowing why. Slytherin suited you like a whispered secret.

You knew the weight of your name, but you wore it on your own terms. And that, perhaps, made you more dangerous than any of them. Because you saw the system for what it was—and still moved through it boundlessly.

A truly captivating sight to behold. Never in the way that begged for attention, but in the way that demanded it. Like art in a gallery too expensive to touch. People looked, they always did, and then they looked away—because looking too long felt like trespassing.

Except Sirius never looked away.

Eyes endless in their following, stalking—almost hungry in the way they lingered.

When he looked at you, which was almost always, it felt like being scorched—burning holes into your from ever angle, as if he could set your soul alight with nothing but his gaze.

Truthfully, it used to anger you—made your lips purse into a tightline, grip onto your fork a bit harder, when you felt his eyes on you from across the Great Hall. The infamy that surrounded him was nothing positive, and each time his sights helplessly drifted to you, you couldn’t help but feel like a target had been placed on you back.

So unbareably brazen in the way he scanned over your figure, that same smirk smeared across his face, when you’d enter Charms—settling into your seat with a roll of your eyes as he quickly abandoned his one beside James, in exchange for the one beside you.

You hide to fight the urge to openly scrowl, calming yourself with a deep breath—you didn’t even spare him a glance as you flicked through the textbook and began delicately scratching into parchment with you quill. Though, unfortunately for you, Sirius didn’t miss the small reaction his meer presence had earned him, scooting slightly closer with an eagerness that almost had your eyes flickering over to him.

Perching his elbow on his empty desk, chin on his hand, he watched you for a few moments—very obviously—before he leaned in, too close for you liking. So close infact that you could smell him, leather and warm sandalwood and cinnamon, maybe. His head was ducked, trying to catch your gaze—*and failing—*then his voice, low dripping with a uncalled for casual tone.

“I’m Sirius, by the way,”

Gods, was he distracting—it had you pressing your quill unforgivingly harder into the blameless parchment. Pausing, before you accidently broke your quill, slow and reluctantly your gaze shifted over to him.

Wide smirk and wild eyes.

You blinked at him, eyes doing a once over his slouched form—unimpressed before turning back to your work, and to your shock and horror. Sirius all but melted into his seat beside you—grinning like the cat that got the cream.

What a peculiar reaction.

You didn’t know what you expected after that, you were hoping for silence. Maybe for him to get bored and slink back to Potter, tail between his legs.

But Sirius Black didn’t take silence as rejection. He took it as encouragement.

“Not much of a talker, huh?” he asked, voice warm with amusement as if this were all a game and you were the shiny new toy he’d decided to break. “That’s alright. I like a bit of mystery.”

You didn’t dignify him with a response, moving your quill purposefully, though the words you were writing made less and less sense as his presence curled around you like smoke—thick and cloying and difficult to ignore.

Most would be completely deterred by your lack of acknowledgement, but it was becoming more and more apparent that Sirius wasn’t like most. Unbeknownest to you, you were quickly becoming the object of his affection.

Sirius felt like he was drowning in something he didn’t understand.

He shouldn’t have been looking at you like that—should’ve shrugged it off, moved on, found someone else to bat their lashes and giggle at him. He could’ve. Merlin knew he had options. There was always someone willing to chase the fire.

But you didn’t chase. You endured.

And gods, he couldn’t look away.

There was something in the way you held yourself—shoulders straight, chin lifted, gaze sharp enough to draw blood—that made his pulse trip. You weren’t just beautiful. You were untouchable. Unbothered. And it drove him mad.

You were infuriating. And he was fascinated. Completely, utterly wrecked by the quiet fury behind your eyes, the way you made him feel loud and messy just by being near you. He didn’t know why. He didn’t even like Slytherins. But he watched you, like you might disappear if he blinked. Like you were something from a half-forgotten dream he’d been trying to recall his whole life.

The push and pull went on for ages.

Sirius never stopped. Not really. He pestered, prodded, flirted, lingered—always with that maddening gleam in his eye, always circling like a star caught in your orbit. He made it a point to sit near you in every class he could. Made himself a nuisance in libraries and corridors, at assignment meetings and Quidditch stands.

But you remained ever the picture of composed indifference, met him with narrowed eyes and razor-edged retorts. You had mastered the art of dismissing him without ever quite telling him to leave. And perhaps that’s what kept him hooked.

Because despite everything—your scorn, your status, your silence—Sirius liked the chase. He shouldn’t have. Especially not after he finally put the pieces together.

One of the Twenty-Eight Sacred. One of them.

The very type of pureblood he was raised to despise. To dismantle. To escape from.

But you were different. You always had been. Not cruel, not bigoted. Not brainwashed. Just…sharp. Steely. Independent in a way that made his chest ache. You hadn’t chosen your name—but you had chosen what to do with it. And Sirius had never seen anything braver than that.

And he was infatuated. Still. Helplessly.

He couldn’t say when it started. And you couldn’t say when it changed.

Somewhere between the sarcastic quips and biting glances, something shifted. It was subtle at first. A twitch at the corner of your mouth, a less scornful scrowl, a slightly delayed response. The way you didn’t move away quite as fast when he leaned too close. A pause where there had once only been dismissal.

And then, one day, it happened.

Charms class again. Seventh year. The classroom warm with late autumn sun, shadows stretching across parchment and desks. You had arrived early, as usual, and settled into your usual seat without fanfare. Sirius slid in beside you, as he always did, far too casual, far too smug.

“Good morning, your majesty,” he said with a grin, dragging the words like silk between his teeth. “Gracing us with your presence again, I see.”

Normally, you’d roll your eyes. You’d sigh or pointedly ignore him. But that morning…something in his tone was especially absurd, and something in you—maybe the soft air, maybe the way he looked at you like you hung the bloody moon—broke the routine.

Your lips twitched.

It shocked you even, you didn’t mean to. Not really. But they did. Just enough.

A small, restrained thing. Barely there. Gone in an instant.

But he saw it.

And Sirius Black lit up like the bloody sun.

His mouth parted slightly, blinking as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d witnessed. Then—slowly, irrepressibly—a grin spread across his face, wide and utterly boyish, delight pouring from him in a way you hadn’t expected. Not cocky. Not flirtatious. Rather radiant, actually.

Proud.

“Was that—?” he whispered, hand pressed to his chest in mock-shock. “Was that a smile, princess?”

As always, you rolled your eyes, but not with the same exasperation as before. It didn’t have the same venom. In fact, there was something dangerously close to amusement in the way you turned back to your notes. Sirius leaned back in his chair, the beam on his face entirely uncontainable.

He didn’t even care that Professor Flitwick had started lecturing. Didn’t care that James shot him a confused glance from the row behind.

He’d seen it. He’d earned it. After years.

And if there was one thing Sirius Black had learned about you, it was that you didn’t give your softness freely.

From that moment—that damned smile—something shifted between you.

The icey exterior had began to melt, and you dont know when it had started, only that it did. Slowly. Reluctantly.

Sirius, for all his insufferable grins and arrogant charm, somehow started to feel less like a thorn in your side and more like a…habit. One you hadn’t meant to form. One you couldn't shake.

Letting him sit closer without side-eyes and sighs. Sometimes even answering his questions when he poked at your homework or made some snide remark about Slughorn’s newest “favourites.” You’d begun meeting his teasing with deadpan sarcasm instead of silence. And occasionally—very occasionally—you didn’t hide the way your lips curled at something he said.

You weren’t sure why it happened. Maybe it was the persistence. Maybe the way he never pretended to be anything but infatuated, even when it was inconvenient, even when it would’ve been easier for him to stop. Maybe it was because you saw something in him—beneath the bravado and leather and grins—that reminded you of yourself. A recklessness born from rebellion—hunger to be known.

And Sirius? He was too far gone to pull back.

He’d always watched you, but now he read into everything. The way you no longer flinched when he leaned in, how you didn’t swat his hand away when he nudged your quill out of your grip. How, sometimes, your eyes lingered on his profile when you thought he wasn’t looking.

So when Saturday rolled around and he hadn’t seen you all day—not at breakfast, not in the common areas, not even passing through the library—a strange itch clawed at him. He told himself it wasn’t a big deal, but he couldn’t help it, he felt deprived of nutrience, of your presence. Maybe you were just sleeping in or studying or avoiding the Gryffindor rabble.

But by evening, he cracked.

Against every instinct, against everything in his brain that told him this was probably a very bad idea, Sirius reached for the Marauder’s Map.

And there you were.

A tiny dot, alone in an empty classroom on the fourth floor. Probably studying. Probably buried in books and ink and the smell of parchment.

He couldn’t help it, he went.

…

The door creaked open with a reluctant groan, and you startled, head snapping up from your book.

You hadn’t expected anyone. Least of all him.

And there he stood—framed in the doorway with a grin too wide, too smug, like he'd just stumbled across treasure.

“Well, funny seeing you here,” Sirius said, like this was all pure coincidence and not the result of him committing several minor breaches of privacy.

You blinked at him. “Did you follow me?”

He placed a hand to his chest, faux-offended. “Follow you? Please. I’m just a curious soul drawn to light. And look—here you are, all lit up and studious.”

You rolled your eyes, but your voice held less bite than usual. “I think you just came to distract me.”

“Distract you?” He was already halfway across the room, dropping into the chair beside you with the sort of lazy ease only he could pull off. His knee bumped yours, and you didn’t move. “You think I’m distracting?”

He leaned in close, far too close. You barely had time to process the proximity—the warm scent of him, like spice and mischief, the way his voice dropped just low enough to slip down your spine—before you tilted your head toward him.

Eyes locked with his, sharp and steady, with a confidence that made his grin stretch visibly.

“That is your one goal in life?” you asked, tone silken and mocking. “Or am I mistaken?”

Sirius froze—not visibly, not in a way anyone else would notice—his pulse sounding loudly in his ears. But you were so observant, even if you hadn’t been looking at him, you would have felt it. The flicker of breath caught—the way his grin twitched, lips parting just slightly as his gaze dropped from your eyes to your mouth.

And lingered.

The tension that knotted between you was painfully palpable, the air gone suddenly too thick. He leaned in—just a fraction—and you swore the space between you crackled. His hand flexed on the table beside yours, struggling to stay in place—twitching as though if it had it’s own mind, it would already be on you. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and for a moment, you thought—

In that split second, something like hesitation crossed his face. Regret, maybe—or fear. His smirk faltered.

He pulled back.

Barely. But enough.

And he looked at you like maybe he’d ruined something by not doing it.

You didn’t say anything.

Not because you were disappointed—though maybe you were, a little—but because you didn’t trust yourself to ask. To question if this was real or just a long game he’d been playing, entertained by the chase, by the idea of an untouchable prize. Like you were just something to be worn down, after all.

Your gaze stayed on him, unreadable. And he almost shrunk under it, second passing like hours as your eyes practically punctured his skull. Stare too cool. Too neutral.

Wordlessly, you turned back to your book, fingers brushing over the forgotten text, you couldn’t remember a single word you'd just read—mind feeling scattered—disrupted. He always had that affect on you, more than you cared to admit, inwardly scolding yourself for being so soft, so naive.

Sirius watched you for another long second—jaw tense, eyes searching—like he’d just watched all his efforts spoil right before his eyes, watched the wall go back up in realtime.

“Right,” he said softly—more to himself than anything—before leaning back in his seat with a forced exhale.

The silence stretched again. But this time, it was different. Colder, almost dismissive, begging to be unravelled—understood.

Sirius stormed into the Gryffindor common room with the energy of a brewing storm—quick, loud steps echoing in the corridors, hair wild from his fingers raking through it too many times. By the time he slammed the dormitory door behind him, he was already pacing like a madman.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

He didn’t notice the quiet creak of the door opening again behind him.

Didn’t see James and Remus freeze on the threshold, their eyes wide as they watched him stalk across the room like he might combust.

James gave a silent what the fuck look to Remus, who just raised a brow, waiting for an opening.

It didn’t come.

“Sirius,” Remus said, voice slow and cautious. “Did something happen?”

No answer. Just a ragged sigh as Sirius ran a shaking hand through his already-wrecked hair. His face was taut, jaw clenched.

He looked up like the words physically hurt. “I—I don’t know what I’m doing.”

James, ever calm when Sirius wasn’t, moved to the windowsill and perched there. “Alright, mate. Pause. Just breathe.”

Sirius obeyed, if only because he didn’t know what else to do.

“Try again,” James said.

Sirius exhaled, long and sharp. “I ruined it.”

“Ruined what?” Remus asked.

“Everything,” Sirius said, dropping onto his bed like gravity had finally caught up to him. “I could’ve kissed her. She was right there and I could’ve. And I didn’t.”

James blinked. “Why the hell not?”

Sirius scrubbed a hand down his face and then—quietly, bitterly—voice just above whisper, stained with shame, “Because she’s exactly the kind of girl my parents would want me with.”

A short silence shrouded the room, thick and overbearing before Remus stepped forward, slowly. “Wait…what?”

“She’s regal. Poised. Slytherin. Perfect! One of them—” Sirius bit out, like the words tasted like ash. “And fuck, I’ve never wanted anything less than to make my parents proud. But she—” His voice cracked, frustration bubbling up. “She’s not like them. She’s not like them at all. But they’d love her. And what does that say about me?”

James stared. “You didn’t kiss the girl you’ve been obsessed with for years because your mum might approve? Because she’s a pureblood? That’s—actually insane.”

“You don’t get it,” Sirius snapped. “I’ve spent years trying to tear their world apart. Burn every expectation. Every rule. And then she walks in, and I can’t stop looking, and it makes me sick because it feels like they’d win.”

He didn’t need to look at him to know there was a frown etched on to Remus’ face. “Sirius—”

“It’s not her fault,” Sirius said quickly, defensively. “She’s not them. She’s sharp, and brilliant, and she knows what she is, and she still doesn’t play their game. But that’s what makes it worse. Because I look at her and I want her. Not out of spite. Not to rebel. Not to destroy anything. Just—because I do. And that makes me feel like I’ve already lost.”

James sat back, arms crossed. “So you let her think you’re toying with her. Because that’s better?”

Sirius looked up sharply. “Of course not—”

“But that’s what it looks like,” James said, gentler now. “You think she doesn’t know exactly what she is? Exactly how she’s seen? She probably assumed you were interested just long enough to mock her, to make a statement. And when you didn’t kiss her—after all this time—you proved her right.”

Sirius swallowed the lump in his throat, and the guilt settling in the form of an unforgiving weight, like a stone heavy in his stomach. Remus moved closer, voice low. “Is this really about her? Or are you scared that if you like her for the right reasons, it means maybe they got something right?”

Sirius didn’t answer, eyes wide and hollow

Because fuck.

Maybe they were right.

Maybe he was a coward.

…

For two whole days, Sirius acted like nothing had happened.

He still greeted you with that infuriatingly easy grin, still dropped into the seat beside you in class like it was habit, like it hadn’t once meant something more. He cracked jokes at the same tempo, still leaned too close when he spoke—but something was off.

Forced. Brittle.

And you? You didn’t even look at him. Not once. Not when he spoke, not when he laughed a little too loudly trying to get your attention, not when he lingered beside your chair a bit longer than necessary.

You sat there, eyes focused and face composed, ice sliding beneath your skin. Where once your silence had been cutting, now it was impenetrable.

He was unraveling, and he knew it. He’d been so close—so painfully close—to something real. The memory of you in that quiet classroom haunted him: your voice smooth and laced with quiet confidence, the heat of your gaze holding his without flinching, the way your words had wrapped around his chest like a fist and squeezed.

You would have kissed him—let him in, he’d felt it.

But he’d foolishly let it slip right through his fingers—just as it entered his grasp. And now you were gone. Not physically—you still walked the same halls, shared the same spaces—but the shift was irreversible. Whatever thread had tied you to him had snapped.

So when he spotted you in the side corridor, alone and unreadable, he didn’t think. His body moved faster than his doubt. He caught up in seconds, slipping a hand gently around your sleeve, tugging you into the empty class room nearby. “Stop,” he said, breath already short. “Please. Just give me a second—”

You ripped your arm back like he’d burned you, and for a second, the flash in your eyes looked lethal.

“Don’t.”

It wasn’t loud, but it cracked between you like that of a lightning strike, harsh and cold and burning. Sirius was frozen, fingers still half-curled in the empty air. His stomach churned when it caught your gaze, full of ice and fury and a rare kind of heartbreak that didn’t scream—it seethed.

“I just—please,” dripping in his voice as he spoke again, hands open, pleading. “Let me say this. Just let me explain. I know what you’re thinking—”

“You don’t know anything,” you snapped, tone suddenly louder. Fiercer. “You don’t know what I’m thinking, Sirius. You never did. You just assumed, and I let you.” cutting him off so sharply it knocked the air out of him.

He almost flinched away from the biting cadance of your words, and yet his eyes still remained soft, swimming with a quiet desperation that made your stomach turn, that made you want to run away—hide from the weight of his affections.

“Did you even for a second think about how it feels?” you continued, voice tight and trembling with anger. “To feel like some…experiment in your rebellion. One of the sacred twenty-eight, right? How thrilling for you. How poetic.” The venom in it had him fightly every urge in his body that screamed retract.

“It’s not like that,” he said quickly, breath hitching. “I didn’t mean for it to come across that way. I wasn’t using you—”

“No?” you cut in, a hollow laugh slipping from your lips. “Because that’s exactly what it felt like. Just another way for you to stick it to your family. Another line crossed.”

He stepped forward, almost desperate now. “I promise—I wasn’t meant to be like that, just—”

But with each step closer he took, in return, you backed away, putting more distance between you; shielding yourself, as if even the idea of his explanation made your skin crawl. “I don’t care anymore, Sirius.”

That hit harder than any spell.

“I don’t need to tolerate this,” you said, quieter now—vulnerable. “Not when I already have parents breathing down my neck, pushing names and suitors and with titles lined up—expectations. They want someone who’d take me seriously.”

His expression cracked. It happened all at once—something behind his eyes just broke.

He looked lost, like he was being peeled open slowly and painfully. Hands dropping to his sides, one twitching like he still wanted to reach for you. Even though he shouldn’t—couldn’t—because you had already slipped passed him. And the last look on your face made him shiver, the controlled, polished fury—that had flashed like a flame frozen mid-burn, had vanished.

Instead your eyes swam with a dejected, gloom that he knew all too well, your usually untouchable exterior cracked under the pressure of empty promises, under the weight of hope you didn’t know you were holding.

Hope that had already gone.

The silence that stretched in your absence was brittle and cold, and Sirius just stood there—silent, stunned, and aching wishing he’d done more as the door clicked shut behind you with finality that burned.

Sirius wasn’t going to hesitate—not anymore.

He stormed through the castle like a man possessed, fury and desperation curling hot beneath his skin. His chest was tight, thoughts snarled and tangled, and before he even fully registered it, he was standing in front of Regulus’ dorm.

Twisting the handle with a vigour that made the hinges whine.

“Regulus!” he barked, pounding on the door with a flat palm. “Oi, Regulus!”

A beat. Then another. Then the wall began to shift with a groan, and there, in all his , unimpressed glory, stood his younger brother. Cloaked in his usual composed disdain, book in hand, and a brow already lifted.

“What in Merlin’s name—how the hell did you even get in here?” Regulus asked, eyeing his brother like he’d dragged in mud behind him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sirius snapped. “I waited.” He pushed past him into his room without permission, pacing immediately, eyes wild. Regulus blinked, still holding his book open, voice dripping with disinterest.

“Charming as ever.”

“I need to know something,” Sirius said, turning back to him sharply. “Now. What’s going on with the—you know, the pureblood lot. Events. Ceremonies. Matches. L/N’s.”

Regulus’s expression didn’t change, but he slowly closed his book with a soft thud. “L/N’s?” he repeated, flatly.

“Yes,” Sirius snapped again, running a hand though his hair, with such tightness his brows raised involuntarily. “She said her parents already have suitors lined up. Lined up, Reg. What the fuck is going on?”

Regulus tilted his head. “You really don’t read the letters they send you, do you?”

Sirius scowled, rolling his eyes as if even that was even a possiblity, “Of course not,” he muttered. “I’d set them on fire to see what the delightful expectations they’ve dreamed up this week smell like.”

“Well,” Regulus said, crossing the room to set his book on his desk, “then it’s no surprise you’re completely out of the loop.”

“Loop?” Sirius echoed, exasperated. “I didn’t even know there was a loop.”

“There’s an event,” Regulus said, tone clipped. “Soon. A ceremony, more or less—each of the Sacred Twenty-Eight hosting, rotating through their estates like some grotesque little social carousel. A chance to flaunt heritage, to parade eligible heirs and daughters like prized livestock, and, of course, to sniff out the most suitable matches. To keep the lines pure.”

Sirius stared at him like he’d been slapped. “You’re joking.”

“Am I ever?” Regulus replied dryly, arms crossed now, gaze neutral.

“And she has to be there?” Sirius asked, voice low now, more to himself than anything. “They’re forcing her to—”

“They aren’t forcing anyone,” Regulus said. “They’re expecting it. Same thing, really.”

Sirius was quiet for a moment, jaw clenched, fingers twitching like he didn’t know where to put them. Then—“Are you going?” he asked.

Regulus tilted his head again, slightly.

“I was requested, Sirius. Not all of us can run away from our obligations and burn bridges on a whim.”

That earned a deep, heaving sigh. Sirius dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “I didn’t come here for a lecture, Reg. Just—just tell me when it is.”

Regulus blinked slowly, a curious note in his eyes. “Why?”

Sirius turned toward the door, not looking at him.

“Next time you write home,” he said over his shoulder, “tell them to send an extra suit.”

And with that, he was gone—black robes flaring, boots echoing down the stone corridor, fury and purpose trailing behind him like a storm.

Regulus remained in place, staring at the empty doorway for a long beat. Then, slowly, he walked back to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and retrieved a fresh piece of parchment. He uncapped his ink bottle, dipped the quill with a practiced hand, and began to write.

Once finished, he folded the parchment neatly, sealed it with deep green wax embossed with the Black family crest—and held it in the candlelight just long enough to watch the wax catch fire at the edge and curl to a close.

…

The estate was bathed in gold and candlelight—opulence hanging in the air like perfume, rich and cloying, too heavy to breathe in properly. Everything gleamed. The walls, the glasses, the laughter. It was a curated thing—pure, controlled, a dance of lineage and power dressed in silk and arrogance.

The guests were already gathering in clusters—family names floating in the air like ghosts, ancestral ties whispered behind fans, strategic glances exchanged beneath low chandeliers.

And then the room shifted. Subtly.

It wasn’t his name that announced him. It was his presence. A current, a tension, like something electric slipping beneath polished marble.

Sirius stepped through the entrance—alone.

Manovering through the room like he belonged there, which only added to the stir. No parents in sight, just him in a sharply cut black suit with silver-threaded detailing that caught the light when he moved. His hair, often untamed and wild, was tied back at the nape of his neck, loose strands framing his features. There was something about him that looked sculpted and regal—yet defiantly unbothered. Untouchable.

Undeniably Black.

And people noticed.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd like wind brushing over a pond—soft and hushed, as if the very idea of Sirius showing up was somehow offensive, even as it made them all crane their necks to get a better look. Some turned their heads quickly, unwilling to acknowledge him at all. Others simply watched—too curious, too scandalized.

He didn’t glance at a single one of them.

Eyes set like steel, Sirius beelined across the room, moving between clusters of witches and wizards dressed in robes worth more than cottages, heading straight for the two familiar figures near the drinks.

Regulus stood poised as ever in black and green dress robes, brows lifting slightly at his brother’s approach.

Narcissa stood beside him in a floor-length silver gown that shimmered with every subtle turn, hair twisted into a perfect knot of braids and twist, chin tilted at just the right angle. She saw Sirius first, and while her expression didn’t falter, her fingers stilled around her glass.

Well,” she said, voice low and dry as Sirius came to a stop before them. “I see the rumors of your arrival were not exaggerated.”

“Hello to you too, Cissy,” Sirius said, voice smooth as sin, eyes scanning the room with bored calculation. “You look like you're about to gut someone with a compliment.”

She hummed. “And you look like you’ve come to start a war.”

He smirked faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Regulus, beside her, sipped his drink. “Nice of you to grace us with your presence. I trust you remembered the name of the family hosting?”

“Of course,” Sirius replied airily. “I even wore their colors—look.” He gestured lazily to the subtle detailing in his suit. “Silver for virtue. Or was it for vanity? I forget.”

“You’re impossible,” Regulus muttered, though his eyes flicked down the hall—searching. Sirius followed the glance instinctively. He hadn’t seen you yet.

But he would.

And when he did, he knew the room would fall away.

Because despite the suit, despite the defiant way he held his head high like this was all some elaborate game he didn’t care to be apart of—he wasn’t here for theatrics.

He was here for you.

But yyou didn’t notice him, not at first.

Not until the weight of his gaze sank into your skin, unmistakable—cutting through the sea of eyes that had lingered on you all night. People always stared, their glances clung to you, your family, the expectations woven into the hem of your gown. But his gaze was different.

It sought you, nothing more.

So when you finally looked up and caught it—caught him—your breath faltered. Lips parted in shock, only to snap shut again as your eyes narrowed. He looked good. Too good—untouchable in the dim glow of the chandeliers, all shadows and silk and the sharp cut of that smirk he wore so well.

The tilt of his brow was smug, a silent challenge. But you held his gaze a moment too long, just long enough for the swell of something warm to flutter between you.

But then, just like that, someone called your name.

An you turned away quickly, heart knocking against your ribs, and let the swell of polite conversation sweep you off before your reaction could be noted. But the look…it stayed with you. Beneath your ribs. In the corner of your mind.

You didn't expect to seek him out. Not really. But at some point in the evening, after doing your dutiful rounds—smiling, nodding, tolerating—you found yourself wandering towards the drinks table with the precise kind of detachment that made you feel normal again.

Like you hadn’t grown up learning how to smile through marriage negotiations. Like you didn’t know exactly which families your parents wanted you to charm.

Hands reaching for a drink when you felt it. That familiar warmth. The subtle hum of chaos wrapped in silk.

He was beside you before you could stop it. And even though you didn’t look at him, your lips twitched upward the moment he said, smooth as ever, “Funny seeing you here.”

Reaching past a crystal decanter, voice casual as you picked up a flute of something pale and effervescent. “Black.”

He grinned—not his usual roguish grin, but something smaller, almost boyish—relieved. “You’re not fleeing in the opposite direction. That’s progress.”

Taking a small sip, you tried to ignore how warm your face suddenly felt, heat curling beneath your cheeks in a way you couldn’t escape. “Wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”

His eyes didn’t leave you. You could feel it. That slow, indulgent drag of his gaze from the curve of your neck to the subtle shimmer in your gown. Like he couldn’t tear his eyes away even if he tried, gaze overflowing with want—something craven even he couldn’t name.

“If you stare any harder,” you murmured, setting your drink down with a soft clink, “I might disintegrate.”

He laughed low, leaning in just enough for you to feel the pull of him. “Just the clothes though, right?”

A startled gasp left you as you choked on your drink, coughing delicately behind your hand. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here you are,” He picked up a glass, holding it between his fingers with idle grace. “You look bewitching, by the way.”

You always found your eyes rolling in his presence, but it was the smirk—that tugged at the corners of your lips no matter how hard you tried to push it down that betrayed you. “Thank you for the assessment, Black.”

“I can assess more if you want.”

“Sirius.” You hissed his name like a reprimand, but it lacked real venom. He heard that softness, low and creeping as it slipped through, and he wore it like a badge, hand rising in mock surrender.

Conversation blurred around you, background noise as the two of you drifted towards the edge of the room. A whisper of unspoken understanding passed between you—no need to say anything. The glittering, gold-drenched facade of the ballroom fell away with each step, until you were sliding through tall glass doors onto a balcony bathed in night.

The air was cooler out here. Cleaner. A balm against the perfume and pressure, the prying eyes and scrutiny.

Sirius leaned against the stone railing, gazing out at the dark gardens below, moonlight catching the silver thread in his suit. You didn’t mean to stare—but your eyes lingered, studying the shape of his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, displayed without the usual cloak of his dark curls—the wild softness of the strands that had escaped the hair tied at the nape of his neck.

He turned slightly, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What was that you said about staring earlier?”

You shrugged, scanning him more brazenly, unapologetic as you sipped your drink, “You scrub up nicely,” words so matter of fact, light.

He looked at you then, eyes that usually swam with unadultered mischief, lips that held a smirk so well—free from it all. And for a long while he didn’t say anything, just held your gaze hostage under its unfair tenderness.

No mischief, no smirk—just him, with that maddeningly fond expression that made your stomach twist. You looked away first for once, cracking under the pressure, looking down to your half-empty glass.

Voice soft. Quiet.

“I appreciate that you came—despite everything.”

When he spoke, his voice was low, just above a whisper—and it didn’t need to be any louder, because he was already so close. Word earnest, confessional—sincere in a way that made your breath catch. “I’d do it again for you.”

It made you gulp, throat dry despite the lingering chill of your drink. He was close—too close now—and yet not nearly close enough, heat radiating off of him like it was set on defending you from the harsh bite of the night’s air. Eyes were fixed on yours, unreadable but intense, like he was waiting for something, for permission or a sign or maybe just a heartbeat where you didn’t pull away.

“I really do like you,” he murmured, voice quieter now, all velvet and gravity. There was a kind of raw sincerity bleeding through his words—none of the cocky theatrics, no grin or drawl.

Just Sirius.

“I mean it.”

Your chest rose and fell, slow and unsure. The teasing edge in your voice was brittle when you managed to speak, trembling at the edges. “Really?” Your gaze flicked between his eyes, searching. “How much do you ‘like’ me?”

The question lingered in the air like a challenge—half jest, half dare.

But he didn’t laugh, didn’t smirk. He only exhaled, like the weight of every unsaid word had been pressing on his ribs, and leaned in slowly. Palm coming up to brace against the cold stone wall beside your head, the other brushing feather-light against your waist as he tilted toward you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips.

“This much,” he whispered.

And then there was no space between you—his lips soft and warm against yours—holding you in an embrace so delicate that you could mistake his touch for the wind.

It was gentle at first—like he was still afraid you might change your mind. Like the moment itself might collapse beneath the weight of history, your families, the thousand things neither of you had dared say. His lips still hesitant, just ghosting over yours, testing, asking.

But you didn’t pull away.

You leaned into it.

And Sirius needed no more invitation, his palms slid from the wall to cradle your jaw, tilting your face to his with such reverent care he could surely feel your heart hammering beneath your ribcage. The kiss deepened—not rushed, but aching.

Starved.

Months of lingering glances, of holding back, of almosts and maybes spilled out all at once in that kiss. Clutching the fabric of his jacket, gripping him like a lifeline, and he groaned softly into your mouth, like he’d been holding this in too long and it was finally—finally—unraveling.

Kissing like you were trying to memorise each other with your lips alone. Like it was the first time, and the last, and everything in between.

When he finally broke away, barely pulling back—lips still tempted over yours—both of you breathless, his forehead rested against yours. His hand stayed at your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your ear as if to capture you both there, in the small moment, just a fraction of solace, of something warm and real.

“I would’ve gone mad if I hadn’t kissed you tonight,” he whispered, his breath shaky, brushing across your lips.

Your grip loosened slightly in his lapel, voice barely above a whisper. “I think you already have.”

Sirius huffed a chuckle—soft, hoarse, breathless—but he didn’t move away, smile fading slight as he stared at you, gaze dark and so full of feeling it nearly shattered you.

“I’m not playing games,” he said, voice low and rough. “Not with you. I never was.”

Just him showing up was enough, going against everything he stood for—you already believed him.

[aetherraeys]

lasting impressions

( a night to remember, pt3, pt4)

sirius black x afab!reader ⊹ 6.5k

cw ⟢ biker!sirius RARARAR, nervous!reader, alcohol, swearing, suggestive, strangers to ????, tension, teasing

it seemed by the time the morning after the party rolled around, you'd forgotten most of what you'd done, not to worry, sirius was your walking reminder.

a/n i litch skipped class to write this today LOL, i hope yall like it, man bun sirius is just hhhhh not proofread x

The rest of that night was a complete and utter blur. Marlene was meant to take you home but ‘coincidentally’, she ended staying at Dorcas’ to clean up after the party.

That left you with James.

Poor James, had to keep his eyes on you before you ravaged his best mate.

All the swimming you’d done, thankfully tuckered you out for a while—becoming less like Trouble the tasmanian devil and more of a sweet gooey puddle on the sofa.

Proclaiming your love to everyone and everyone.

You had tried to put your clothes back on—but it seemed that no one wanted to let you get dress, and it was getting rather cold.

Sirius had been watching as you padded wobbly, back to the pile by the pool, humming off-beat to the music that still played int the living room—seeping through the crack in the door. Hopping around with one foot partially through your wet bottoms, Sirius decided it was time for him to chime in.

“Busy?” an amused smirk playing on his face.

Huffing in frustration, still trying to force your foot through the wet tangled pant leg, you didn’t answer—you also didn’t hear the sound of his footsteps coming towards you.

Using all your sense at one seemed to be a difficult task at the time.

If you’d had the capacity to think of shaking the clothes out, you probably would have already had them on. Sirius stood over your hunched figure waiting for you to notice him, but you lost your balance—sending yourself right into him.

A soft “oh!”, leaving your lips when you made contact, of course, Sirius was ready to catch you—after having watched you sway back and forths for a while, he figured it would happen sooner or later.

Your chin was still resting chest when you looked up at him, a lazy grin slowly spreading across your face, accompanied with a, “Hello!”

He couldn’t stop himself from matching your smile, entertained by the way you melted against him, letting his hands settle at your waist to steady you, “Fancy seeing you here,” his voice light and teasing.

Nose scrunching slightly, you hummed, “Mmm, you’re so warm,” seemingly deciding then and there to stay pressed against him.

“Mind telling why you’re trying to put your wet clothes back on, sweetheart?”

“S’cold,” words still slurring, and now muffled against his skin. He chuckled, shaking his head, taking the towel that was quite literally right next you clothes—and drapping it over your shoulders.

Sirius began dramatically, rubbing his hands up and down your arms—using all of his might to warm you; “James is going to hex me if I let you catch hypothermia on his watch.”

It only made you break out into loud giggles, wriggling under the towel like your situation was the funniest thing you’d ever seen. Clutching your stomach, laughter ringing through the garden. As he stopped, he leaned in to your ears—whispering in a soft, low tone—”Better?”

It made your ears burn, and stutter several incomplete words, before eventually giving up speaking, feigning non-chalance with a roll of your eyes. And Sirius couldn’t stop the bark of laughter from leaving him—

"Merlin, you’re so cute," Sirius mused, watching as your face scrunched up, trying and failing to pretend his words hadn’t made your heart stutter.

You let out an exaggerated sigh, determined to move on. “I’m putting my trousers back on.”

Tilting his head at you, amusement dancing in his eyes, “Are you, now?”

Nodding firmly, you reached down to grab them, still heavy with water—only for Sirius to pluck them up first, holding them just out of reach.

"Oi!" You swayed slightly, glaring up at him. "Gimme."

"Mmm... no," he hummed, examining the soaked fabric like he was contemplating setting them on fire. "See, I just spent all this time warming you up, and now you want to go and undo all my hard work? Tsk, tsk."

"But I’m cold," you whined. "Clothes make you warmer, Sirius, it’s science."

"Not when they’re wet,” he countered, lifting an eyebrow. “Putting these on is just going to make you colder.”

"But I’m already wet," you argued, throwing your arms out as if that proved a point. "I’m wet, the clothes are wet—so it cancels out."

Sirius stared at you. "That’s...that’s not how that works.”

"It is," you insisted, crossing your arms. "Like...double negatives. Wet plus wet equals dry."

Sirius blinked. "That was the single worst attempt at logic I have ever heard.”

"You’re the worst attempt at logic I’ve ever heard," you shot back, wobbling on your feet.

"That didn’t even make sense," he snorted, running a hand down his face. "Merlin, you’re impossible."

"Gimme my trousers."

"No."

"Gimme."

"Nope."

Before you could protest further, Sirius simply sighed, tossed the offending trousers aside, and scooped you up like you weighed nothing.

"Sirius!" you gasped, clinging to his shoulders on instinct. "Put me down, fiend!"

"No can do, sweetheart," he grinned, carrying you inside with ease. "You’ve lost trouser privileges."

"That’s not a thing," you grumbled, voice muffled against his shoulder.

"It is now."

Sirius stepped into the living room, plopping you both down onto the couch in one smooth motion. You huffed, still tangled up against him, but the warmth of the house—and him—was already seeping into your chilled skin. You could feel his chuckle rumbling against you as he reached for the nearest blanket, draping it over you both with an air of finality.

"See?" he murmured, voice smug. "Much better."

You grumbled something unintelligible against his shoulder, but you didn’t move—not even an inch. Partly because you were comfortable and partly because your limbs still felt like jelly.

Sirius huffed out a quiet laugh, adjusting the blanket so it covered more of you.

Dorcas rolled her eyes at the wet trail you’d left upon entry, grumbling about how she’d just mopped, before tossing a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a jumper in yours and Siruis’ general direction.

"I love Dorcas," you announced from the couch, voice muffled but enthusiastic. She came towards the sofa as you confessed, a glass of water in hand, passing it to you with a soften sigh—small smile on her face.

"I love everyone!" It came out shockingly louder than your last statement; “Everything is so good,”

Sirius chuckled, shifting slightly so he could look down at you. “Yeah?”

"Mhm," you hummed, snuggling impossibly closer. "Sirius, you’re my favorite."

"Ooooh, scandalous," Marlene called from the other room. "James, how does it feel to be replaced?"

"I am not replaced!" James shot back indignantly. “And I’ve been stuck with cleaning up this mess, while Sirius is lazing on the sofa.” The last sentences was mumbled and huffed under his breath.

Dorcas snorted, flicking her wand to banish a suspicious-looking stain from the carpet. “James, he quite literally had to drag her inside.”

Marlene hummed in agreement. “Yeah, poor bloke probably had to wrestle her just to get her to drop the wet clothes.”

The light chatter continued among them as they cleaned, but eventually, all that could be heard from the couch was your soft, content sigh as Sirius tightened the blanket around you both.

Sirius glanced down at you, only to realize your breathing had evened out, your face smushed sleepily against his shirt.

"Merlin’s beard," he muttered, shaking his head fondly. "You really are trouble."

It took another thirty minutes before the house was back to its original state, James let out an exasperated sigh, plopping onto the single chair by Sirius—eyes scanning over your sleeping figure.

Sirius had his phone in one hand, the other on your thigh—your shoulders rising and falling slowly with heach breath, head rested on his shoulder—very very comfortable.

James squinted his eyes at the pair of you.

"Alright, let’s get moving," James announced, stretching his arms over his head. "I want to be in bed before the sun comes up for once."

Sirius sighed dramatically but sat up, shifting you carefully in his hold as he did. You stirred only slightly, mumbling something incoherent before settling again.

"Right then," Sirius said, looking over at Marlene expectantly. "Time to take your gremlin home."

Marlene raised a brow. "My gremlin? No, no, you two are taking her home."

"What? No," James argued, pointing an accusing finger at her. "You were supposed to take her home!"

Marlene gave him an unimpressed look. "And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that? There’s one of me, and she’s basically liquid right now."

"S’not true," you mumbled sleepily, shifting against Sirius' chest. "I’m solid. Mostly."

"See?" Sirius smirked. "Mostly solid. You’ll manage."

Marlene rolled her eyes. "James, you have a car. Sirius, you have a motorbike. There are two of you and one of me. Basic math says this is not my problem."

James groaned, rubbing his face before turning to Sirius. "Rock, paper, scissors for it?"

"Not a chance, mate," Sirius said, already standing with you in his arms. "You drive. I’ll follow."

James huffed but didn't argue further, muttering about how Sirius always managed to get out of the worst parts of every situation.

The drive back to their flat was mostly quiet, save for the occasional hum of a song from Sirius as he trailed behind on his bike. You remained blissfully unaware, curled up in the passenger seat of James’ car, only half-waking when he parked and Sirius pulled open the door.

"Up we go, trouble," Sirius murmured, lifting you effortlessly before you could try and stumble your way inside.

James locked the car, sighing as he followed them up the stairs. But when he opened the door to their flat, he realized something.

"Wait," he frowned. "Where is she supposed to sleep?"

Sirius, still carrying you, blinked at him. "Uh. My bed?"

"Oi," James pointed a warning finger at him. "That’s my friend, so no funny business."

Sirius rolled his eyes, adjusting you in his arms. "Please. I’m not the one you need to worry about."

James scoffed, but let it go, too tired to argue further. "Fine. Just—behave yourself, alright?"

"Always do," Sirius grinned before disappearing into his room.

The moment he set you down, you sighed, rolling onto your side as you curled into the warmth of his duvet. Sirius exhaled, shaking his head with a small smirk before tugging the blankets up over you properly. His bed had always been big—more space than he usually needed—but right now, he didn’t mind it.

For a moment, he just watched you, taking in the peaceful expression on your face. The soft rise and fall of your chest. The way your hand curled slightly into the pillow.

With careful fingers, he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch barely there.

"Pretty," he murmured fondly.

And with that, he switched off the light and settled in beside you—close, but not too close. Just enough to make sure you were warm.

When the morning rolled around, the light in the room making your eyes burn even while closed, head pounding and throbbing—mouth abnormally dry. A groan left your lips as you shifted slightly, body stiff from sleep, but as you stretched out, something felt… wrong.

For one, the bed was too big. And for another—

Thud.

You hit the floor with a graceless, painful sort of smack, tangled in the sheets you’d apparently dragged with you.

"Bloody hell," you muttered, squeezing your eyes shut as you lay there for a moment, reeling from the sudden impact. That definitely didn’t help your headache.

Panic set in almost immediately.

You blinked, finally taking in your surroundings, mind scrambling to piece together where the hell you were. The room was unfamiliar—dark bedding, posters plastered lazily on the walls, the faintest lingering scent of cologne and cigarette smoke.

Your stomach dropped.

This—this wasn’t your room. And it definitely wasn’t Marlene’s or Dorcas’.

You scrambled to your feet, legs wobbling slightly beneath you, hands clammy as you pressed them to your temples. The pulsing ache behind your eyes did not make thinking any easier. Your heart hammered as you backed up toward the door, mind racing through every terrible, worst-case scenario imaginable. Your body moved on autopilot—twisting the handle, slipping out into the corridor with the sheer desperation of needing to get out of here.

And then—

"Oh, look who’s up," James’ voice.

Your head snapped up, vision still slightly blurred, but sure enough—James Potter was standing in the open kitchen, casually stirring a bowl of cereal. And next to him, leaning against the counter, was Sirius Black, sipping a cup of tea with all the ease in the world.

Your breath caught. James’ flat.

Some of the panic loosened its grip, but the mortification settled in just as quickly.

"She lives," Sirius smirked over the rim of his cup.

You opened your mouth—closed it—then tried again. "I—I don’t—" You winced at the sound of your own voice, throat dry and hoarse. "What—"

James raised a brow. "Need some water before you start asking questions?"

You swallowed thickly. "Maybe."

Sirius nudged a glass across the counter without a word. You took it hesitantly, stepping forward just enough to grab it, before downing the whole thing in a few gulps.

It helped. Slightly.

"Alright," you breathed out, trying to regain some sense of composure. "What…happened?"

Sirius and James exchanged looks, and you did not like whatever silent conversation they just had.

James was the first to break. "You happened," he snorted, shaking his head. "You were sloshed, love."

Your brows knit together. You remembered getting to the party. Swimming. Bits and pieces of the night flickered through your mind, but it was all… hazy.

"You don't remember?" Sirius tilted his head, watching you closely as you chewed at your bottom lip, avoiding eye contact with him.

"I—" You hesitated. "Some of it? I remember the party. And—I think I was trying to… put my clothes back on?" You frowned. "But Marlene had already given me some?"

Sirius grinned, all too happy to remind you. "Ah, yes. You were determined to put your wet clothes back on, actually. Told me that ‘wet plus wet cancels out,’ or something equally brilliant."

You groaned, pressing your fingers to your temples. "Merlin’s sake. I told Marlene this would happen.”

"You also declared your undying love for everyone about five times," James added, chewing lazily. "But apparently, Sirius was your favorite."

Your head shot up at that, eyes wide. "I what?!"

Sirius hummed, parroting Marlene’s words from last night, looking far too smug. "Scandalous, I know."

You stared at them both in abject horror, any lingering dizziness temporarily forgotten as you fought the urge to crawl out of your own skin. This is exactly what you were worried about, being a public nuisance and making an absolute idiot of yourself.

You just groaned again, leaning against the counter, face heating—hoping some unknown force would strike you down, anything to avoid the mortifying feeling in the pit of your stomach.

James snickered before shrugging. "Could’ve been worse. At least you didn’t puke."

Small mercies.

Sirius walked over to where you stood, handing over a packet of ibuprofen, you still couldn’t meet his gaze. The intensity of his stare, paired with the almost cocky smirk that played on his face made you shrink into yourself—his fingertips lingering on your hand for just a second longer than they should have. Before he walked back over to lean against the counter.

James watched the entire interaction rather unimpressed, but he chose not to say anything about it, instead he pulled out the seat next to him—motioning for you to sit down. Your brows were still knit high up on you forehead, endlessly wracking your brain, willing it to focus on the events of last night. Unconsciously picking at the skin around you fingers, eyes glaring at a spot on the table, a deep frown settling on your lips.

It took a few calls, but eventually James got your attention, offering you some toast.

But the idea of eating anything made your stomach lurch slightly, you shook your head immediately, muttering, “I think i’ll pass, thank you though,”

The guilt was killing you, not only did you make a fool of yourself, you didn’t remember and you didn’t make it home. Standing up from your place in the table, asking James if you could borrow something to change into after your shower. He spluttered slightly, mouth still full—”Course,”

The hot shower did little to calm your mind, only washing the slight smell of chlorine off your skin, opting for the smallest clothes James had, they still were very ill-fitting, hanging off of your frame. Your hair dripped onto the towel you’d hung over your shoulders, taking your spare toothbrush out James’ cabinet, you began brushing.

Brain mindlessly trailing away, memories of your antics flashing vividly behind your eyes, more specifically that moment in the pool, like you’d been transported back to that very second, your heart raced and thumped in your ears—cheeks heating at the thought of the kiss.

Groaning as you shut off the running tap, fingertips brushing over your lips. Exhaling through your nose, you shook your head, mumbling to yourself as you left the bathroom.

“What have i done?”

Trailing over to James’ room, he was at his desk, typing on his laptop. You stood by him wordlessly for few a moments, a frown on your face, eyes trained on the floor. The smile on his face dropping at the sight of yours, “What’s the matter, love?” turing his whole body towards you.

“I’m sorry.”

Your voice was meek as you continued, “I’m sorry you had to take care of me, I hope I didn’t ruin your night,” You looked like you were about to cry, he couldn’t help the huffed chuckle that passed his lips as he hugged you,

“Y/N, you didn’t ruin the night for anyone, if anything, you made it more fun.”

Head still in his chest, he leant away slightly, catch a glimpse of your face, barking out a laugh at your wet eyes, “I promise, doll. And I didn’t mind taking care of you, I’m sure Sirius didn’t either.”

Still not raising your head, you flooped dramatically onto James’ bed, face first—the teasing tone of his voice playing in your head over and over. Another wave of embarrassment washing over you. James was already standing up, still laughing lightly at you, before he took a pillow from the top of his bed—dropping it on your head.

“As much as I’d love to watch you be awkward and embarrassed with Sirius, I need to go to the gym—I’ll drop you home when I get back.”Voice drifting further away as he finished.

He was already out of the door before you could beg him not to leave you with Sirius.

What was more mortifiying was that you knew your brain wouldn’t let you rest until you’d apologised to him, and now that James was gone for however long—you were trapped with the guy you’d drunk kissed with no buffer.

It took you another twenty minutes of internal conflict before you slowly skulked out of James’ room, food calling your name more than anything. You’d prayed Sirius would be back in his room, allowing you more time to work yourself into a mental space confident enough to talk to him like a normal person.

Everything about him just felt so intimidating, so confident, so straight-forward, so handsome.

The kitchen was thankfully empty, giving you space to boil the kettle—maybe a cup of tea would settle you.

Once again lost in thought, you’d failed to notice how the Gods had tricked you into thinking you were safe. Comfortably slotted into the corner in the counter—waiting for the kettle to tick over, when Sirius had walked into the space, resting against the door frame—watching.

You looked so deep in thought—drowning James’ jumper, hair still slightly damp. Sirius wasn’t going to deny it, despite your very comfortable, almost disheveled appearence—he still thought you looked just as gorgeous as the night before.

He interrupted you chain of thought with his voice; “Boil enough for two?”

The way you almost jumped out of your skin at the sound of his voice was rather comical, practically clutching your non-existent pearls. And he didn’t grace you with time to recover, because, he was already so close to you by the time you’d turned around—stalking over to where you stood.

You did try to stutter out an answer, but your heart beating so loudly in your ears was distracting, preventing you from forming one conscious stream of speech. Instead, you gave up and just nodded—turning away from him and the cocky grin on his face.

Staring at the marble counter as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.

Sirius was still closing the distance between you, so much so that you could feel the heat that he radiated on your skin, could smell his freshly washed hair, laced with caramel and dark leather. You wanted to move away, but you were effectively cornered, the only escape would be if you somehow went through him.

You turned to find away to give him more space, but he just leant further in, looking down at you with that same smirk, so painfully aware of how panicked you were at the proximity. Breath audibly hitching as he reached over your head—eyes still locked with your, pulling out another mug from the cupboard and placing it beside him.

And instead of moving away after getting what he needed, like any normal person, he entrapped you by placing his arms on both sides of you body—palms pressing against the counter.

"Something on your mind, sweetheart?"

Sirius’ voice was low, smooth—far too amused for your liking. The way he was looking at you, all hooded eyes and lazy smirk, made it very clear he was enjoying your predicament.

You swallowed, attempting to look unaffected despite the fact that your pulse was hammering at your throat. "No."

He tilted his head slightly, like he didn’t quite believe you. "No?"

Your fingers curled against the counter, desperate for something to ground yourself. The heat of him was overwhelming, every sense, every inhale filled with something distictly Sirius. It was ridiculous how effortlessly he took up space, how he had you feeling cornered without even laying a hand on you.

"Then why," he murmured, dipping just slightly closer, "do you look like a rabbit caught in a trap?"

Your breath hitched. His voice was too smug, too pleased with himself, and it sent something hot curling low in your stomach.

"I don’t," you lied, attempting to shift to the side—only for Sirius to mirror you, blocking your escape with ease.

His lips twitched. "Mmm, I think you do."

He was so close now that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, his hands braced on either side of you, caging you in like he had all the time in the world.

You hated how your voice came out weaker than intended. "Do you make a habit of cornering people in kitchens, or am I just special?"

His smirk deepened. "Oh, you're special."

Your stomach flipped violently at that, and you cursed yourself internally for the reaction.

The kettle clicked off behind you, but neither of you moved.

Sirius’ gaze flickered down, lingering for just a second too long before meeting yours again, dark and unreadable. "Seems you’ve lost the bite you had last night."

Your lips parted—whether to say defend your drunk actions or tell him to piss off, you weren’t sure—but before you could get a word out, he finally pushed off the counter, retreating as smoothly as he’d approached.

The loss of his warmth left you feeling almost unsteady.

He reached for the kettle, pouring the water into both mugs like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just obliterated your ability to think straight.

"Relax, darling," he murmured, stirring his tea with a spoon. "I'm just having my morning fun."

You exhaled sharply, gripping the counter just to reorient yourself.

Sirius glanced at you from the corner of his eye, smirking again when he saw your still-flustered expression.

Bastard.

With another deep breath, you turned to him, a frown now etching itself into your face—it came out slightly begrudge, more reluctant and dreading than you’d hoped.

“I—uh, wanted to say…I’m sorry, for uh—how I acted last night. I’m not usually that drunk or forward or shameless actually,” Twiddling your thumbs, lips pursing together before you spoke again; “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable in anyway, or um—make you look after the random girl who drank too much…”

The feeling that prickled on you neck, made your throat drier was undeniably, shame. What a way to present yourself. Sirius had stopped stirring his tea, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place. His smirk was gone, replaced with something softer, something unreadable. For once, he didn’t look like he was about to tease you.

“You think I was uncomfortable?” he asked after a beat, his voice quieter now.

You swallowed, suddenly unsure. “I mean…I don’t know. You had to drag me inside, jumped into the pool for me, I kissed you—and—Merlin, I don’t even remember half of it, but I know I was being ridiculous and unruly.”

Sirius exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he leaned against the counter. “You weren’t ridiculous.”

You shot him a dubious look.

“Alright,” he amended with a small grin. “Maybe a little ridiculous. But you were also sweet. And funny. And probably the most affectionate drunk I’ve met.”

Your face burned. “Merlin.” You buried your head in your hands. “Please, please don’t tell me everything I said.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.” He was definitely enjoying this a little too much. “Not when I could use it as leverage later.”

Your groan of embarrassment only made him chuckle.

“But,” Sirius continued, a little more serious now, “you don’t have to apologize, love. You didn’t do anything wrong. We all have our nights.”

You hesitated, glancing up at him. “Really?”

He nodded, taking a slow sip of his tea. “Really. Besides, I’d hardly complain about you curling up in my lap and calling me your favorite.”

You almost choked. “Sirius.”

His grin was downright wicked now. “What? I’m just saying, if you ever feel like being that affectionate sober, I wouldn’t mind.”

You stared at him, unsure whether to be flustered or exasperated.

Sirius only winked. “Tea’s getting cold, sweetheart.” Then, as effortlessly as ever, he turned on his heel and sauntered out of the kitchen, leaving you standing there—stomach in knots, head spinning, and entirely unsure what to do with yourself.

It was getting late, and you’d been sitting in James’ living room for hours since he left, waiting rather impatiently for him now.

God’s this would have been easier if you hadn’t left your bag at Dorcas’.

Sirius eventually showed himself again, shocked to find you sitting there, still no James.

Sirius’ voice broke the silence like a stone skipping across a still lake.

“Are you waiting for James?”

You looked up, slightly startled, your fingers curling tighter around the blanket wrapped around your shoulders. Sirius stood in the doorway, arms crossed, dark eyes scanning you with mild amusement and faint incredulity.

“Yeah,” you admitted, shifting slightly in your seat. “He said he wouldn’t be long.”

Sirius frowned, glancing at the clock on the wall. “That was hours ago.”

You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. “I know.”

“Then why the hell are you still sitting here?”

You exhaled, dropping your head back against the couch. “I left my bag at Dorcas’,” you admitted begrudgingly. “No bag means no keys. No money. No phone. So, I figured I’d wait.”

Sirius blinked. “And you didn’t say anything?”

You shrugged. “Didn’t want to be a bother.”

A sharp breath left him, his lips parting before he ran a hand through his hair. “So, let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “You’ve been sitting here alone, in a mostly empty house, for hours, when I could’ve just driven you home?”

Your face warmed. “I didn’t—”

Sirius let out a disbelieving laugh. “For fuck’s sake, sweetheart.”

You bristled at the exasperation in his voice. “I said I’m fine. I chose to wait.”

Sirius scoffed, pushing off the doorframe. “You chose to sit in a silent house, curled up like a bloody lost puppy, instead of just asking me?”

You frowned. “I wasn’t curled up like a lost puppy.”

“Are you sure? Because that’s exactly what James’ couch has been hosting all evening.” He gestured toward you. “At this point, you might as well start whining for him to come back.”

You shot him a glare, blanket tightening around your shoulders. “Dramatic.”

Sirius folded his arms, tilting his head. “You really don’t want me to take you home?”

“I—” You hesitated. “It’s not that.”

“Then what?” You bit the inside of your cheek, blinking rapidly, trying to find the words that wouldn’t expose you, but would stop his pestering. His eyes narrowed slightly.

And then something clicked.

“Oh, Merlin,” he breathed, an unrestrained grin creeping onto his lips. “You’re scared of my bike.”

Your stomach twisted. “I am not.”

Sirius barked out a laugh, pure delight lighting up his face. “You totally are.”

You scowled, hating how much he was enjoying this, as if you hadn’t suffered enough embarrassment to last you a life time in the last twenty-four hours. “I just… don’t trust two wheels to keep me alive.”

Sirius smirked. “You think my death machine is going to kill you?”

“I never called it that.”

“You were thinking it.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples, squeezing your eyes shut, tilting your head. Voicing coming out a bit more sharp and desperate than you’d hoped, “Can you just—drop it?”

He hummed, watching you carefully. Then, his smirk softened into something more amused, something more real.

“You trust me though, don’t you?”

The question caught you off guard, and your lips parted slightly, mind scrambling for an answer.

Because you did. You knew you did.

Sirius must’ve seen something in your face, because his voice was quieter when he spoke next.

“I’d take care of you,” he murmured. “I will take care of you.”

Your chest tightened, the swirling in the pit of your stomach only getting worse the longer you pondered on his words, the tone of his voice and how it had you melting in your seat.

And you hated that that was what finally made you relent.

With a deep breath, you stood, setting the blanket aside. “Fine.”

Sirius grinned like he’d just won a bet. “Knew you’d cave.”

You rolled your eyes, following him toward the door.

Outside, the air was crisp, and the night was still—making you much more aware of the sweat building on the palms of your hand, The sleek black motorcycle stood ominously under the streetlamp, its chrome glinting under the dim glow.

You eyed it warily.

Sirius watched you, then held up a helmet. “Here.”

You hesitated, staring at it, before reaching to take it. But instead of handing it over, Sirius stepped closer, gently placing it over your head himself.

Your breath caught.

He was careful, fingertips brushing against your skin as he adjusted the straps, securing it beneath your chin. His touch was fleeting but warm, sending something strange skittering through your ribs.

“There,” he murmured, pulling back slightly, his face still close to yours. “Not so bad, huh?”

You swallowed thickly. “Mm.”

Sirius chuckled, stepping away—but then paused, eyes raking over you. His expression shifted slightly.

“You’re going to freeze,” he muttered.

Before you could even think about protesting, he was already shrugging off his leather jacket, draping it over your shoulders.

“Sirius—”

“Not up for debate.” His voice was firm, but there was a teasing glint in his eyes. “I’d hate for you to lose feeling in your limbs before you can tell me how much you love my driving.”

You sighed but didn’t argue. Instead, you slipped your arms into the sleeves, the scent of him—something rich and warm, like cedar and leather—enveloping you.

Sirius straddled the bike, motioning for you to get on.

“Hold on tight, sweetheart.”

You hesitated for only a second before gripping onto him, arms wrapping firmly around his waist, fingers locking in front, resting your head on his back—taking in a deep breath, trying to brace yourself. Playing his words of reassurance over and over again in your head, he’s going to take care of you, you’ll be fine.

He softly patted your thigh, a final comfort, before—the bike roared to life, and you barely had time to take another breath before Sirius took off, the rush of wind stealing the breath from your lungs.

A shrill scream leaving you mouth before you could even stop it, and he felt your grip on him become impossibly tighter—holding on for dear life. Sirius laughed, his voice mingling with the night air whipping past you.

It took a while before your pulse slowed, for the rise and fall of your chest to become less rapid, less frantic and settle into pace with Sirius’. And just as you were becoming accustom to feeling of the ride, you realized something.

The streets were unfamiliar.

Your brows furrowed. “Sirius.”

“Hm?”

“This isn’t my house.”

“I know.”

You shot him a look, but he was already parking in front of a small diner, flicking the kickstand down before hopping off. “Figured you haven’t eaten all day.”

Your stomach grumbled in response.

Sirius smirked. “Thought so.”

Inside, the diner was warm, golden light casting soft shadows on the walls. You sat across from Sirius, eating in quiet companionship, for a while, the occasional teasing remark breaking the silence—and once he’d started talking, he really didn’t stop, endless questions streaming out, asking how you met James and other random acquisitions.

It was easy. Comfortable.

And you didn’t quite know what to do with that.

Afterward, Sirius drove you home, putting your helmet on your you once again, this time his eyes scanning—drinking in your face for a moment too long. Before setting off again, he pulled your arm to wrap around him tighter—squashing any space between you.

At your doorstep, you hesitated, shifting slightly on your feet—God’s did he look good, hair pulled back, a few pieces framing his face from the way he pulled off his helmet, cheeks slightly pink from the bite of the wind.

Then, before you could overthink it, you asked, “Do you…want to come in? For a cup of tea?”

Sirius’ lips twitched, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Inside, the two of you sat on your sofa, tea in hand, conversation flowing effortlessly.

Until you found yourself staring.

Really, it wasn’t your fault, it was his.

He just looked like he was hand-carved by the God’s, not just that, he looked like they took their sweet time with him. Eyes almsot sparkling under the dimly lit light of your lamp, you had no control over it—the way your eyes flickered from his lips, to his eyes, just absorbing every inch of his face.

Sirius arched a brow. “What’s the verdict?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Without your drunk goggles…” His voice was lower now, edged with mischief and something more. He leaned in impossibly closer to you, the heat of his breath, ghosting past the shell of your ear, sending an involuntary shiver down you spine—and he saw the way it ran through you. “Do you still think I’m as hot as you did last night?”

You tongue darted out to wet you lips that had become painfully dry, the second the rough tone of his voice reached your ears, and rung over and over in you head. He’d pulled back just enough to look at you, a slither of space between you.

And in a rare, unfiltered moment of boldness, you answered without hesitation.

“Yes.”

Sirius’ smirk faltered just slightly. His gaze flickered over your face, his fingers drifting from the edge of his knee to ghost just barely grazing yours. But the only thing you could focus on was the way he was looking at you.

He looked like he was considering something. Like he was daring you to say more.

Every part of you wanted to close the space between you, but you couldn’t, you wouldn’t—

“Gods, you’re pretty,” His words came out rushed, yet sincere—almost immediately pressing his lips to yours. Hands no longer hovering over your skin, pressing his palms on your thighs and leaning into you—you couldn’t exactly hold yourself up, not when your fingertips were trailing up his neck, toying with the stray hairs at his nape.

Falling softly against the settee, kiss becoming more intense as the moments passed—his hands travelling, gripping you hip, inching up to hold your waist, chests heaving against each other. Sirius had been dying for this, excruitatingly impatient and feverish in his actions, airy sighs and muffled groans passing between you.

“Sirius—mmpf,”

Your hold shifting from his hair to grasp at his shirt, the other trailing up underneath, palm hot and pressed firmly to his chest, sliding towards his shoulder, leaving light red lines in the wake of your soft scratches. Neck craning into him as his kisses travelled slowly down your jaw—nipping and sucking at the thin skin, before trailing back up—lips parted and swollen, memorising your face.

Blown out pupils, cheeks reddened, half-lidded, just perfect. His hands inched up slowly, running over the dip of your waist, the curve of your breasts, resting at your neck, pulling you up slightly and taking your bottom lip between his teeth—earning him the sweetest whimper.

Silently thanking your drunk self for granting you access to this, enjoying the moment as it continued—melting into eachother’s indulgent and plentiful touches.

[aetherraeys]

different on you

for this request x

poly!wolfstar x reader ⊹ 6.7k

cw ⟢ angsty, insecure!reader, body image issues, hurt/comfort, reader has scars

summary: shame doesn't suit you, but its getting harder to be comfortable in your own skin knowing it needs to be seen by other—loved by others.

a/n: i feel like a victorian child waiting for the plague to finally take me...being sick 9 days before finals is devious behaviour

Comfortability is weird and finnicky thing—it comes easy for some, natural even, and incomprehensibly harder for other. A day struggle in some cases.

A day struggle in your case.

One you thought you’d moved past after years and years of turmoil. But it didn’t take so much as as a single intrusive thought—one of innocent origin, one of admiration—for you to feel almost back at square one.

Reigniting a flame that you thought was almost snuffed out.

To be comfortable in your own skin—accepting that this is what will house you until the day you die. And you told yourself you were grateful for it, it kept all your muscles and organs in place, allowed you to touch things—gave you access to all the sensations of the world. And you tried not be harsh with it, with yourself—treating it with kindest and a gentle hand.

Because really it wasn’t its fault, the blame didn’t reside with your skin—an innocent entity in the cruel and fiery game your mind played on you—and Gods did the fire hurt?

Burning low at first, small—unimportant. A matchstick. Then bigger. Hotter. All-consuming.

Spreading like wildfire, uncontrollable and bruttish in nature.

Trampling it’s way into everything you did, spilling like oil—staining, tainting, tarnishing, every thought in its wake.

Honestly, it’s just unfair. How sick you feel—ashamed of your own thoughts, ashamed of being in your body—the way your brain does all sorts of gymnastics, a mirage of hops, skips, leaps, and jumps to get you to conclude on one thing. You’re not enough.

Comparison kills happiness.

It was never your intention to compare, it was harmless admiration—adoration. And yet, in an instant, that invasive creeping thought slid into your brain, and suddenly you couldn’t take your eyes off of Sirius.

Bold, beautiful Sirius—craved by Aphrodite herself, licked by the goddess of all that is love and beauty and grace. So effortless in the way he captures your eye—even just his eyes—seemingly endless pools of silver and grey with specks of blue that you just wanted to drown in, lashes long and fluttering with every easy affectionate word on his lips.

And then there was Remus, you could speak at great length about how much you adored Remus. He was a sight to behold, skin sunkissed, warm and freckled—you’d spent hours tracing over them and his scars. Convinced that the inside of your skull was engraved with a map—a constellation of his skin.

His voice, soft and steady, had this devastating way of making you feel like the most important person in the world. He listened like the stars might stop shining if he didn’t.

And beside them—what were you?

A flickering candle. Wax melting too fast. Skin too tight. Thoughts too loud.

You hadn’t realised how long you were staring at Sirius—eyes locked on the smooth, pale expanse of his stomach, the subtle ridges of his ribs, rising and falling with each breath. Water clung to him in beads, glinting in the low light like glass shards. You tracked a droplet as it slid from his chest, curved past the hollow of his waist, and disappeared beneath the towel slung lazily around his hips.

He was effortless. Unthinking. Just existing in his skin like it had never betrayed him. Like it had always belonged.

You didn’t notice the smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. Didn’t notice the way his eyes kept flicking over, catching you in the reflection of the mirror, until he spoke—words nearly lost beneath the hum of the blowdryer.

“If you keep staring at me like that, love, you’ll burn a hole right through me.”

You blinked at him, instantly averting your gaze as heat crept up the base of your neck—Remus snickered slightly under his breath at your reaction, peering over the top of his book from his lounged position beside you. Long limbs tangled with yours.

And your lips parted, to protest—shyly deny that you’d be staring, or more that you’d be caught. But they fell dead on your tongue, Sirius’ lips splitting into a wider grin at your poor attempt to be non-chalant.

Voice light and playful as it filled the room “No, no, don’t stop on my account—I love being a distraction,”

It had your lips quirking up slightly, mumbling begrudge under your breath, before turning back to your phone. You were helpless to it, using every braincell to not let your eyes travel back to Sirius’ sculpted form.

Fingers subconsciously picking at the skin around your thumb, bad habit. They always arose when your brain was full, allowing you to lose yourself in the endless sea of thoughts.

Sirius was touchy, generous with his affection—having been starved of it so long, he’d quickly become some sort of an addict. Constantly itching to close to one of you, usually—typically, Remus.

And he would revel in the contact, allow Sirius to curl up onto him like a cat seeking warmth at all times. Completely accustom to the way Sirius would all but try live in his skin with him—his hands, arms, thighs, head—something in constant contact with Remus.

Not to say you didn’t like touch, didn’t want to bask in his attention and generous comfort. But right now?

Right now your skin was already crawling, feeling prickly and too much. So when Sirius came to the bed, slotting himself between your legs, head resting over your belly button—automatically sighing into your warmth, you fought the urge to freeze. His smell drifting up to you, vivid and bright post—shower, a mix of a warm sandalwood and the light freshness of the shampoo you shared.

Really you wanted to tangle your fingers into his hair, let them be engulfed by soft mass of curls—but something was stopping you. Keeping your hands trapped by your sides.

Sirius had already started a conversation with Remus, effectively distracting him from the book he’d been reading. And you heard it plop by the pillow you rested on—you wanted to turn your head, engage in the small chatter but you couldn’t.

Couldn’t focus on anything other than the mindless way Sirius’ fingertips trailed up and down the sides of your thighs—dragging against the seam of your bottoms—up and down and up again. It was a completely innocent, ordinary touch. But today it was too much, too taxing, too dangerous.

You were all but petrified in place, lying still beneath him, breathing almost shallow—trying to act normal, trying to act like your mind wasn’t spiralling with each skim of his fingers.

Finally cracking when Sirius reached under the hem of your shirt—he hadn’t made direct contact with your skin just yet—still fiddling with your pockets and belt loops, trailing his hands over the curves of your hips.

Until he almost brushed against your skin—shirt hitching up to expose you. His voice rumbling and vibrating lowly against your body when you moved.

The urgency in your movement was noticeable—eyes wide and shaking slightly as you grabbed his hands. The touch was thankfully light. Sirius looked away from Remus, who also silenced along with your action.

The quiet barely hung for a moment before you forced your lips to curve into a sheepish smile—eyes still stuck on Sirius’. You were quick to interlace your fingers with his, letting them rest on the fabric of your stomach above his head—and his brows were quirked up in mild curiousity. The words slipped out easy with a small huffed laugh, “I’m ticklish, Siri,”

Maybe that wasn’t the best excuse.

Because the glimmer in Sirius’ eyes as the final syllable left your lips was undeniably mischief—lips splitting into a small grin as he raised his head, chin pressing into your stomach.

“…Ticklish, eh?”

Your lips dropped immediately—expression shockingly grave as you felt his hands try to tug out of your interlinked hold. It was obvious what he wanted them for—and there was no way you could let that happen—let his hands wander and travel, even if it was in the name of harmless mischief.

Couldn’t let his fingers feel the rough outline of the scars that smeared themselves across your skin.

Thankfully, Remus came to your rescue as your struggled to keep Sirius’ hands in yours and away from your stomach in your vulnerable position—squirming coming to a stop when his voice sounds beside you.

“Stop torturing her with the threat of tickling, Pads”

Your pulse was ringing in your ears as he relented—casually winking at you before he rested his head back on your stomach, thumbs rubbing over skin of your palm as he picked up his conversation with Remus like normal.

And though it took a short while for your heart to settle, the itching pressure clearly had no intention of dissipating—the longer you spent connected with Sirius, each shift on his face against the fabric that covered your stomach had it churning.

Because what if he could feel them, what if the texture was clear even through your shirt, what if he recoiled away from you at the discover, the exposure of what you likely wouldn’t be able to hide for much longer.

You’d narrowly escaped one instance, thanks to Remus, but what of next time—that’s a river you’ll have to cross when you’re in front of it. The longer you stay in your head, the more suspicious you’ll look, but you can’t help it—focusing all your energy on ignoring the way your hands want to shake in Sirius’.

When you turn your head, pushing the darker, insecure thoughts into the back of your mind—you find Remus’ gaze on you, watching you intently with a look you couldn’t quite read. It was likely nothing—just watching, and yet even as you forced your lips curled into a shy smile for him, you struggled to swallow as he looked away.

Another day.

Another hard one.

Harder than the last few, more distressing, more distracting and for the first time in a long time, you found yourself struggling to look in the mirror.

At least not without your hands instictively running over the roughened skin with a unkind, critical eye—frown etching itself onto your lips as your chest tightened. You’d been avoiding the bathroom mirror all day.

But it was that time now.

Time to shower, time to spend time with your body, time to wash and rub, to cleanse your skin.

Not a particularly difficult task—you’d done it thousands of times.

But right now, stripping bare was the hardest obstacle ever—because that would been you’d have to see them—have to touch them over and over and over, no barrier of fabric to disguise the texture.

And you felt sick, as your top hit the bathroom floor with a dull thud. Gaze locked onto the floor, stuggling to look at the skin, at the mirror, at yourself. So you didn’t.

Turning swiftly on your heel—focusing your mind on the sound of running water, using a loofah to rub over the skin to avoid physical contact with it. But after some time, you inevitably found your way back. Lathering soap over the area with vigour, scrubbing harder and harder—aggressively—as if to remove it entirely. Rid yourself of the unforgiving texture and darkened colour that dorned your skin in a way that made your insides revolt.

Of course it wouldn’t come off, wouldn’t release you from its tormenting shackles, it stayed. Relentless. A stubborn, inescapable, ugly reminder, and the surface of your skin burned under your excessive friction—itching and prickling as you continued to scrub away at it.

The water pressure suddenly wasn’t enough, wouldn’t clean you how you needed and you broke.

A choked sob built in your throat, clawing its way out when you hand dropped to your side. Head hanging low as your eyes stung, tears mixing with the water cascading over your bare form. You let out a shaky breath, lungs shuddering with the next inhale—clamping your hand over your mouth as another sob threatened to errupt into the bathroom.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you willed everything everything—turning and tipping your head back to rinse it away—the lathered soap, your thoughts, the scars. Even as your tears subsided, the aching pressure beneath your ribs was still going strong—now accompanied with a growing tension headache and a pair of dry, bloodshot eyes.

Stepping out of the shower, you kept your eyes shut as your dried—back to the mirror, just barely patting over the, now sore, expanse of skin. Padding your way into the bedroom as quietly as possible, tugging on extra layers.

A vest, a tshirt, a jumper.

You hung your towel over the heater to dry, and curled into the bed—curled into yourself, trying to sink into mattress. Distract yourself for the too loud thoughts that spun in your head.

It was maybe an hour of tossing and turning, skin stinging under the layers of fabric—when you finally relented, throat sore and dry—the duvet was thrown off haphazardly, and you exited the room. Making your way into the kitchen, trying to attract as little attention as possible as your poured a tall glass of water.

But to your misfortune, both Remus and Sirius padded into the kitchen at the minimal sound of your movement. Sirius automatically resting his head on the curve of your shoulder as you sipped quietly.

“Missed you, love. Have a good shower?”

You hummed, head still bowed as Sirius audibly breathed you in, planting a gentle kiss to the curve of your jaw when you murmured. “Mmhm, was very relaxing,”

It was a lie, a simple but necessary one you’d thought.

Though ultimately useless, because the second you turned around to press the kettle on and Remus caught a glimpse of your face, his brows furrowed and he leaned into you. On instinct you shied away slightly, keeping your eyes on the marble of the counter and avoiding his perceptive gaze.

He slid closer to you—pressing his back into the counter as you turned to open the cupboard, “You okay, dove?”

The mug hit connected to the marble with a small clink, and you held back the sigh the bubbled in your chest—pushed down the urge to shrug Sirius’ touch off of you when you hummed back in response.

Remus dipped his head down to get a closer look while you prepared your tea, skin around your eyes puffed, whites of your eyes still reddened. A frown worked it’s way onto Remus’ lips, but before he could ask what the matter was, your voice reached his ears, light and quiet—joining the low rumbling of water in the kettle.

“Would you like one?”

It was a simple and open question, but you didn’t raise your gaze from the empty cup before you, fingers circling the rim mindlessly.

They both ignored your question.

Remus had flashed a look to Sirius that said something’s wrong, and he lifted his away from its position, craning his neck to peak at you. And he noticed how your shoulders sagged, like they weighed tonnes more than they had before you disappeared.

Sirius let his hand drag down the curve of your spine, and as much as you knew it was meant to be a comfort—it really did nothing of the sort—body stiffening under his touch.

His brows pinched on his forehead, matching the concerned curve of Remus’ as he spoke, “’S something wrong, love?”

The question had the lump in your throat grow impossibly larger and you felt suddenly much closer to breaking down than you’d care to admit. You couldn’t even disguise the sigh that left you as your hand reached for the kettle that had ticked over, trembling slightly.

“No, just tired—throat hurts.” Your voice was pinched and shaky as you spoke, and Remus could see how your eyes glossed upon their inquiring, reaching for the kettle instead and pouring the water for you. Sirius’ palm was still rubbing small circles into your back, lips curving downwards at the sound of your voice. And he spoke softly, “Come rest on the sofa with me—Rem will make us the tea, yeah?”

Your lips pursed together, but there was no resistance when he took you hand—pulling you away from the counter and into the living room—tv still droning on in the back ground. His chest tugs a bit tighter at the exhuasted way you curl into yourself on the sofa. Taking up as little space a possible, putting too much distance between you.

He doesn’t question it though, allows you your extra slither of space and watches you for a few moments, how your hands are clenched into small fists, watching how your lip has been pulled into the endless assault of your teeth and how you blinked like your eyes were the heaviest thing in the room.

Sirius only brings his hand to rub gently over your head as he stood, walking to get a blanket before draping it over your lap, you barely moved—muttering a small thank you when he straightened and tucked it around you.

Remus eventually made his way into the room, tea in hand and look of concern on his face as he approached. Placing it beside you so gently, as if the sound alone would startle you.

“Put some honey in to help soothe your throat,”

You thanked him with a small smile that he could see was forced, watching both and you and Sirius from the single seater. Sirius’ hands twitched on his lap, restaining himself from reaching out and touching you—because you’d sat so far, frozen under his touch in the kitchen—clearly you wanted space.

Even if it burned him to give it too you.

The tea was only half finished when you dozed off—head slumping forward, your chest raising and dropping slower as you fell deeper into sleep.

Remus was careful to lift you—padding to the bedroom and settling you down and tucking you in. He sat perched on the edge of the bed beside you for a short while, fingers brushing gently over the surface of your cheekbones. Let his eyes wander over your peaceful expression—Remus knew it was more than a sore throat, more than just being tired.

But for now he’d let you sleep, let you enjoy the peace of a much needed slumber.

He’d ask again tomorrow.

And he did.

Subtly at first, just about how you slept, if you were feeling better—you only gave simple, vague answers and forced half-smiles. Sirius was fidgety and restless in his seat across from you—you’d opted to sit in the single chair away from them. Despite the larger sofa capacity for three, even four bodies.

Sirius was less subtle in the way he watched, eyes monitoring your figure, pennying each time you would frown unconsciously. He rose without ceremony from his place beside Remus—he’d noticed the excess layers—the way they bunched up and how you tried to carefully adjust them without too much fuss. But he noticed.

“You cold, love? Shall I turn on the heating?”

The worry in his voice was just as quiet and gentle as the one that swam behind his eyes—you shook your head quietly, lips pressing together in a strained smile and his heart all but sank in his chest. The way your hands wrapped around your middle almost protectively.

He didn’t push further, but you saw his eyes flicker over to Remus, saw the way his brows raised higher on his brows as he murmured something about taking a shower—padding down the corridor without another word.

You watched as he left—eyes stuck on the darkened hallway long after he’d gone, mind drifting as guilt burned in your chest. It was a double edge sword really, how you hated feeling so pathetic, trapped in your own skin—how you couldn’t help but retract under the pressure of your own thoughts.

And to top it all off, your mind wasn’t just damaging you, it was seeping out and spreading onto those around you. They didn’t deserve this, this weak, insecure version of you that loomed around the house, refusing help.

They didn’t deserve to be affected by your own inner turmoil. And they were still treating you so nicely, so careful and attentively—it all just translated to another reason you don’t deserve them.

You hadn’t noticed the shifting of fabric, or the movement from the sofa to your left—not until a dark mass all but spawned in front of you.

Remus.

He was looking down at you with that look. The one accompanied with a crooked smile and soft eyes that had you sinking into the sofa. When he reached out his hands, taking yours from the shielding position around you and dragging you to a stand—you couldn’t find the energy to resist.

Allowing him to walk you backwards across the room, until the back of his knees hit the sofa and you stood between his legs as he settled. Looking up at you as if you were the answer to everything, too tender, too fond and accepting and you wanted to run away from it.

Curl away from the affection that swam in his eyes and the honeyed tone of his voice, “Will you sit with me, dove?”

Remus had a way with his touches. His fingers gliding slowly up your wrists, ghostly and pressure-less, but still warm, inviting, pulling you in like a tide you couldn’t fight. Like water you wanted to drown in.

It took a mere moments more of anchoring touches before you found your way onto Remus’ lap.

He kept his hands in yours, just barely trailing up your forearms before coming back down, his warmth seeping in through all the layers of fabric separating you. Still holding your gaze, everything drifted away into the background, just you and him. And he held you with such delicacy, such reverence you almost didn’t notice the lump building in your throat.

Remus brought both your hands to rest on his chest—and his heart thumped beneath your palm, strong and confident and partially for you. “What’s the matter, my love?”

His hands were already by the sides of your face, thumbs grazing over the tops of your cheekbones and he simply held your gaze with that aching kind of tenderness he always seemed to reserve just for you, his thumbs smoothing away the wrinkles that were formed along with your frown.

You only shook your head, closing your eyes—willing the tremble of your hands to steady against his chest—curling them into his jumper, fists bunching in the soft wool, and you leaned forward until your forehead met his shoulder. It was second nature for his hands to slide down your sides, resting at the dip of your waist but then he felt it.

The way your breathe skipped and how you went ridgid in his hold.

It was obvious, undeniably something.

And his brows arched high on his forehead, creases of concern forming as he leaned back—hands frozen on the bunching fabric of your jumper. You still hadn’t moved, had barely breathed. Remus waited for the exhale, for the slow rise and fall of your shoulders but there was nothing and it made his throat feel unexpectedly dry.

Stomach twisting at the thought of you being uncomfortable because of him, because of his touch.

“Love?”

There was no response, your eyes were squeezed shut, pressed into the fabric of his clothes and you could feel the way his fingers twitched hesitantly at your sides—heat from his palms feeling that bit hotter even if you didn’t want it. Throat feeling tighter, skin all but burning beneath the layers of fabric.

“Are you—d’you want me to let go?” His voice was barely above a whisper, undercut with a concern that was palpable. You didn’t answer, couldn’t—it was already hard enough for you to stablise your pulse. Let alone bring your voice to travel out of your mouth.

And you didn’t know what you wanted—if it would be better for him to let go, or pull you in closer, allow you to sink into him—there were too many thoughts spinning around in your head.

It took everything in you to take a breath, shallow and shaky and not enough for your lungs.

Unfortunately, Remus took your silence as rejection—peeling his hands away from you, letting them drop by his side. His pulse had sped up, you could still feel it beneath your palms, thrumming through the fabric of his jumper. The task of raising your head from his shoulder was too much, instead, you let your hand travel up towards his neck.

The trembles were evident, fingertips just barely tracing over the scar that dorned the curve of his jaw in a small back and forth motion—soothing, lulling.

Remus hesitated only a moment before bringing his hands up, gentle and unsure, to cradle your face. His touch was featherlight—thumbs brushing just beneath your cheekbones, as if he were afraid you'd flinch. His brows were furrowed in that familiar way, concern etched into every line of his face.

"Look at me," he murmured, voice low and soft, coaxing rather than commanding.

You didn’t want to. Didn’t want him to see it—all the cracks, all the things you were barely holding in. But his touch was grounding, and you were so tired of carrying it alone. Slowly, reluctantly, your eyes met his.

"Talk to me," he said. Not a demand, but a plea. “Please.”

It hurt to even think about it. To try and put it into words, to expose it all—so raw, so unhealed, so shameful. Your throat clenched tight with the effort it took not to speak, and the silence stretched between you like a held breath.

You couldn’t do it. You just couldn’t.

But your hand was still against his jaw, still resting there like it had been since the moment you'd reached for him. Remus glanced down, then slowly, deliberately, he slid one of his own hands over yours. His fingers curled around yours, firm and warm, as he guided them into his palm.

“You know you can tell me anything, love,” he said quietly.

He was only met with a nod, eyes falling down to your joined hands—his hand cradling yours like something sacred and fragile. Gaze lingering on the skin there, where old scars stretched and puckered, weaving across the back of his hand like faded threads. You watched the way they shifted as he held you, how they flexed and moved with each small twitch of his fingers.

It brought you back to the moments he’d got them, new ones—scars to add to the collection.

He hadn’t wanted to talk about it, had waved off your and Sirius’ concern with a thin-lipped smile. But later, when it was just the two of you, you’d seen him sitting at the edge of the bed, shirt half-on, half-forgotten, staring down at the newest scar like it was a curse.

Jaw tight. Knuckles white around the bedsheets. And no matter how many times you or Sirius told him he was beautiful, that you loved every part of him—he never quite believed you.

Not really.

Deep down still hated them, those marks. Saw them as a reflection of the thing inside him he couldn’t escape. The monster he feared he was.

And now, staring down at those same hands holding yours, something inside you twisted.

How could you show him yours? If he could barely stand the sight of his own, how could you ask him to stomach yours? To love them?

Your vision blurred again, eyes stinging as the pressure built. Remus must have seen it—of course he did—because he ducked his head to try and meet your gaze again, voice breaking with quiet urgency.

“Love,” he said, “what’s this about?”

You tried—Gods, you tried—to stay still, to keep it all in. But the dam was already cracking. Your lip wobbled, a single tear slipping down your cheek, betraying you before you could stop it. And then it was too late.

You leaned forward and pressed your face into his chest, breath hitching, your body trembling with the effort of keeping the sobs at bay. His jumper soaked up your tears, and your fingers fisted the fabric instinctively, like you were drowning and he was the only solid thing left.

Remus froze for half a second—uncertain, panicked—before wrapping his arms around you again. Tighter this time. Protective. Careful.

He didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know where it was okay to hold you anymore, didn’t know what he’d touched that had opened you up like this. But he held you anyway.

Held you like that for a long time—until the trembling in your shoulders slowed, until the tears had soaked a warm patch into his jumper, until your hands unclenched from their grip on his chest. You didn’t speak. He didn’t push.

The room felt still in that hushed, heavy way that always followed a storm, like the air itself was holding its breath around you.

And then the bathroom door creaked open down the hallway.

You heard it before you saw him—Sirius padding barefoot into the living room, hair damp and curling at the ends, towel slung haphazardly around his neck. He wore an old, faded T-shirt and joggers low on his hips, still drying his arms with the edge of the towel when he glanced over and paused.

His eyes caught on the two of you curled together on the sofa—your face buried in Remus’ chest, Remus’ arms wrapped around you like he wasn’t sure he could let go.

Sirius blinked, the smile he’d been wearing slipping off his face like someone had cut a string.

"Everything alright?" he asked, voice gentle. He didn’t move closer just yet—just stood there, gauging, watching.

You didn’t lift your head, but you felt Remus nod, “Think so,” he said, his voice still low from before. “We’re just…sitting.”

Sirius gave it a beat longer, then crossed the room and dropped down beside you, his leg pressing into yours where you were curled. One of his arms draped across the back of the sofa, not touching, but near enough to remind you he was there. A quiet sort of presence.

He didn’t press either. Didn’t say anything else. Just let the silence settle again.

You sat like that for a while—Remus still cradling you close, Sirius quietly rubbing a thumb over the seam of the cushion. Someone had turned on the lamp earlier, casting the room in soft amber, and somewhere outside the wind was rattling the windowpanes.

Eventually, Remus shifted a little, enough to look at you again. He didn’t pull away, but his head tilted as he studied you, a slight furrow returning to his brow.

You didn't answer.

Remus had asked so softly—"Love, what’s with all the layers?"—but the question settled deep in your gut, heavy and aching. You stared down at your hands, still curled with his, fingers interlaced like a lifeline.

Silence stretched between you. Sirius shifted beside you on the couch, quiet and still now, the usual spark in his eyes dulled by something softer—something more watchful that edge of concern.

His thumb brushed the back of your hand again, gentle, grounding. Then, after a long pause, he said quietly, “Can I touch you?”

Your eyes flicked to him, startled—not because you didn’t understand, but because you did.

He didn’t mean it like that. He meant the layers. The reason you’d stayed swaddled in fabric even as the flat had grown warm and the fire crackled faintly in the hearth. He meant that.

You gave the smallest nod.

Remus shifted, careful and slow, lifting his hands from yours. He didn’t move toward you right away—just let you breathe, let you have the space to decide. And when you didn’t flinch, when your shoulders didn’t rise to curl away like they usually did—he reached out, palms finding your sides through the thick material, warm and trembling just slightly.

You let him.

And then, maybe out of instinct or guilt or something bitterer, you looked over at Sirius.

Perfect, scarless Sirius.

He was watching you both, eyes wide and dark in the low light, hair still damp from the shower. His skin caught the glow of the lamp and turned gold—soft, beautiful, untouched by the things that marred you. You didn’t think he meant to look so effortless. But he did.

And it made you want to curl into yourself.

You looked down again, chest tight with shame. It sat in your lungs like smoke, cloying and hot. How could you explain it to them—how your own body felt foreign and broken and ruined in ways they couldn’t see? How could you show them the jagged edges of what was left behind?

But then—

Then Remus’ hands, steady against your ribs, slid just slightly, not to expose you, not to see—just to be there. Just to hold. And you felt the faint, rhythmic thump of his heartbeat against your ear, where your head still rested against his chest. A quiet, constant drum.

Strong. Steady. His.

He couldn’t feel them. The scars. But he knew you were hiding something, knew something was there.

You hadn’t said a word, and somehow he still knew.

And then his voice came again, quieter now, closer to your temple.

“You don’t have to tell me what it is,” he said, careful, measured, as though every word was something sacred. “But will you show me?”

For a moment, no one moved. Not even you. The weight of Remus' question hovered in the space between you, heavy and trembling like your own hands.

Then—Sirius.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His hand came to rest at the curve of your neck, gentle, anchoring. His fingers were warm, just barely there, and you felt it for what it was: silent reassurance. Encouragement. A tether.

So you moved.

You leaned back slowly, your lips pressed into a thin, tight line. Your fingers fumbled at the hem of your layers—one, then two, then the third beneath—and they trembled, the fabric bunched and clumsy in your grip. Your head dipped down, shame pooling low in your chest as you began to lift.

The clothes gathered at your ribs, and you stilled, bracing yourself.

It was out now.

The skin that you had hidden for so long—marred and uneven, smeared with raised texture and darkened pigment, raw around the edges. Ugly, your mind supplied. Ugly, brutal, wrong.

You couldn’t look at them. Not Remus, not Sirius. You stared at your lap, blinking fast.

And then Remus breathed out, barely a sound, but you caught it.

“Dove…” he whispered.

Your body tensed up, wanting to recoil, wanting to pull the layers back down and disappear under them forever, hide the mess of what you were. Because surely—surely—they hated it. Thought it looked grotesque, ill-fitting, revolting.

Your voice came out small and shaking. “I know they’re hideous. I tried to hide them, but—”

“No,” Sirius cut in sharply, fiercely. “Absolutely not. They’re not hideous. Not at all.”

His voice didn’t waver.

Remus made a soft sound in agreement, and you felt his hands rise again, hesitating for the briefest moment before they brushed against the skin. You flinched at first—couldn’t help it—but he didn’t withdraw.

His palms were warm. Gentle. They moved over you with such unbearable care, and you could feel how his touch softened around the sore spots, the still-tender parts of you.

A silence fell, heavy and waiting, wrapped in the crackle of the fire and the quiet thud of your heart.

You couldn’t stop yourself from asking.

“Do you…do you hate them?”

The words barely left your mouth, but they were enough. Remus’ head snapped up, and the expression on his face made your chest hurt. Offence. Pain. Worry. Love.

You reached down, trying to tug the layers back into place, trying to hide again, to close the space between your body and theirs. He let you. Let the fabric cover his hands that hadn’t moved, that still rested lightly on your skin like a promise he wasn’t ready to let go of.

He watched your eyes, wide and glossy, how your fingers twisted in the sleeve of your jumper, how your lip trembled and you still couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

His voice broke when he spoke.

“I—I could never hate it. Never, my love.” His breath hitched. “How could you think that?”

You didn’t answer. Not for a long moment.

Then, quietly—almost too quietly for the room—you said, “You hate yours…I just thought…”

You never finished the sentence.

Remus' hands slipped out from under the hem of your clothes and moved to your face, cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing over the delicate stretch of skin beneath your eyes. His touch was reverent, his gaze brimming with affection that was raw and aching. Twisting with unspoken apologies and guilt.

“No…no,” he whispered, eyes locking with yours. “Never on you. You’re perfect.”

Remus’ voice cracked at the end,

“There’s nothing I could hate on you. I promise, love.”

Your breath hitched at Remus’ words, chest tight beneath the weight of emotion pressing down on your ribs. He still held your face between his hands, gentle as ever, and you couldn’t quite bring yourself to meet his eyes, not when they held that much tenderness, not when your shame still clawed at your throat.

He spoke with such conviction, like your perfection was an indisputable truth.

Sirius shifted beside you. You felt the couch dip as he moved closer, hand still resting lightly at your nape, his thumb brushing back and forth in soft, grounding circles. He leaned in, forehead just brushing yours, voice low

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “if you only knew how beautiful you are to us. You could tear the stars out of the sky and I still wouldn’t look at anything else.”

You blinked and your cheeks were wet—the tears spilling over, silent and slow. Remus’ thumb brushed one away, and then another.

“They’re not something to be ashamed of,” Sirius continued, shifting to press a kiss to your temple. “They’re a part of you. And we—” he glanced at Remus “—we love all of you. Even the bits you think are unlovable.”

Remus nodded, leaning his forehead to yours. “Especially those,” he whispered. “the ones you hate, the ones can’t love for yourself.”

You were quiet for a while after that, held between the two of them, your face tucked beneath Remus’ chin, Sirius’ lips occasionally brushing the back of your neck in a way that made you feel real again—held close, Remus smoothing the fabric over your skin with the same care someone might offer to silk.

Hands lingering just long enough to reassure, to ground, and then they slid back to your waist, wrapping around you in tandem with Sirius.

The scars were still there, and so were they—keeping you close, allowing you to bask in their warmth, their unending affection—safe and loved in the arms of the boys who never asked you to be anything but exactly who you are.

[aetherraeys]

passing moments

remus lupin x reader ⊹ 9.6k

for this request!

cw ⟢ rekindling friends to lovers, tension, pining, lots of angst, reader is a big daydreamer, slowish burn

time was the enemy, always working against you. until remus had enough and decided to take control of his fate--you.

a/n: did cry real human tears writing this...but anyway hope you enjoy!! not proofread!

Quite early on in life you learnt two things.

First—timing is everything.

One split-second decision has the power to change the entire trajectory of a moment, and that will trickle into your day, your week, your month—altering things in ways you’ll only notice much later. A choice as small as turning left instead of right, staying instead of leaving, speaking instead of staying silent.

And although, you tried not to dwell on things like that too much, you often found yourself staring up the ceiling fan, thumbs twiddling on your lap—lost in deep thought. Recounting moments, mind flitting back and forth trying to distinguish things, pin-point the trivial choices you’d made. Pondering. The possibilities, the what-ifs, the way things could change, if you’d done something else how different the moment you were in now could be.

Only sometimes did it frustrate you, the way life was seemingly always a one track path—curious of the small branches each decision could form.

All the coulds, woulds, shoulds melting away in a fraction of a second.

The permanance of it all erked you.

Still, you’re thankful that in the moment, you aren’t debilitated by the action of decision making, rarely plagued with regrets, just harmless wondering. It wasn’t a frequent occurence for you to wish to turn back time.

“You’re thinking too loudly, Y/N, it’s distracting.”

Regulus.

Sitting behind you with James and his brother on the table in the Gryffindor common room, supposedly studying for the advanced potions exam but you zoned them out ages ago. Head tilted back resting on the edge of the sofa—you looked quite peaceful in your mindless contemplation, Remus thought, he’d been subtely watching from the other end. His back against the arm of the sofa, book resting on the ball of his knees that he’d brought up into his chest. Tracing over your side profile in his mind, your head rolling slightly as you lifted it up, as if it was weighty on your shoulders.

You didn’t turn back to look at them behind you, only producing a small questioning hum, gaze falling on the fire. Remus continued watching as your eyes unfocused, blinks become slower and slower, almost entranced by the embers flicking off the body of fire.

The rise and fall pattern of your chest slowing as you sunk deeper into yourself again. He had to fight the twitch at the corners of his lips, sometimes you drifted away with the fairies, only a physical presence in the room—and he found it rather endearing. Using that time to steal small glances at you, the way the jogging of your foot slowed to a stop, how your face relaxed and rested in a slight pout.

He stretch out one of his long legs, letting it fall off the edge and brush against your ankle—the contact brought your back down, turning your head to him quickly a small sheepish smile blooming on your face; you’d been caught.

Still shifting in his seat, sitting upright, letting his limbs extend and crossing his ankles over one another, his book opened face down on the armrest. Remus was still looking at you, a huffed chuckle leaving through his nose when he asked, “You tired?”

Your face scrunched slighty, arms wrapping around yourself, fingertips playing with the loose yarn of your jumper. Shaking your head and mumbling a light, “No,” Remus had already made space for you, gently patting his lap, a signal. You rolled your eyes, but there was no real bite—you were already moving, twisting your body to rest the back of your head on his lap. Looking up, admiring him, melting into his touch—his hands instinctively playing hairs at the nape of your neck when you turned your head.

And the second you did, he looked down to you, mirroring your previous actions. Watching as the light from the fire flitted across the skin of your cheek, reflecting off the glisten in your eye. He whispered to you, fingertips ghosting over the skin of your neck as he twirled a strand around it, “What y’thinking about?”

Shifting further to get more comfortable, your head rolled back over to him, tongue darting out to wet your lips before you inhaled deeply through your nose—eyes boring into each others. Your brows raised on your face, humming out an answer, “Hmmm…just things,”

Remus leaned down dramatic and inquistive, hand having abandoned your stray hairs, and was now stroking over the top of your head. Your face split into a wide grin at the playful glint in his eye—voice full of feigned skepticism, wiggling his brows at you.

“Ooo, scandal! What things?”

You couldn’t help that laugh that bubbled in your chest, shaking on his lap, eyes squeezing shut as you giggles filled the room—his chest bloomed with pride when you broke, grinning with you. His fingers twitched at his sides in efforts not to just squish your face because, Merlin were you pretty.

Your friends watched the scene from the far table.

But no-one said anything, it was the norm. You and Remus—close, very comfortable with each other, but just friends. They all knew it; he liked you, you liked him, but for whatever reason neither of you addressed it.

The fond looks, lingering touches, magnetised to each other, but never crossing that line that you’d both magically drawn in the same place.

In the great hall, you sat with Lily, Marlene and Dorcas, they were all engaging in light conversation—enjoying their lunch. But you sat there silent, face vacant, mind drifting off far far away. So far infact that even in all their noisy hustle and bustle, the clattering of plates and scratching of benches, you hadn’t notice the late arrival of the boys.

Toast barely half buttered let alone eaten, hands cradling your wrists, completely content in your daydream. Not long after they settled in, Sirius snicker at your flat gaze—nudging James with his elbow before nodding over to you, and he quickly joined him in amused observation. Unsuprisingly, the whole table began watching you, the sound of metal against the china of their plates had slowed and they were waiting—waiting for you to notice or feel their gaze.

Sirius even went as far as to blow at you in hopes of a reaction, barking out a laugh when you didn’t move at all; “D’you reckon she’s sleeping with her eyes open?”

Even Remus chuckled lightly at your blank expression, after eventually deciding that your friends had had more than enough fun experimenting and speculating, he ran his hand from the top, gently trailing down the entirety of your spine, settling in the small of your back. And following the movement of his hand, your back arched, straightening, becoming taut—finally blinking your way back into the room with a deep inhale through your nose.

The table erupted with small giggles and snickers, you whipped your head around at them, and then to Remus—wide-eyed and innocent, he just ducked his head down with an airly laugh, his palm still pressed against you. “What? What’s so funny?” You couldn’t help but smile along with them, even in your oblivion.

“Oh nothing. It’s just that Moony factory reset you like you were a Monster Book of Monsters.”

This time it wasn’t just small snickers, the laughter barked and sounded loud around the great hall at Sirius comment, poor Lily even choked on her pumpkin juice, spluttering out a laugh. Your mouth was agape, heat rushing to your ears but you didn’t have any words to fight back with, just shaking your head—hand reaching out for your globet and taking a shy sip.

The chaos did eventually die down, as did the heat in your ears—chatter building again at the table that you stayed present to, humming along. Remus’ hand slid up lightly to your waist as he leaned in, head dipping to your ear. You could feel his breath warm against the skin of your neck as he pulled you in slightly closer, low enough only for you to hear—

”Where d’you go, love?”

You were sure there were goosebumps appearing down the back of your neck.

As you turned to him, your breath hitched just slightly—just enough for Remus to notice, his lips twitching at the corners. His eyes, soft and inquisitive, searched yours, waiting for an answer you weren’t sure you could give.

Nowhere, you almost said, but your lips parted, and something else came out instead.

“Just thinking.”

His fingers, still resting at your waist, squeezed gently. “About what?”

Pads digging in to your robes slightly, like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet, and you rested further into him, a small huff of laughter leaving you—but you stuggled to find the words, hesitating. You were always thinking about the same things, the moments that have passed, the infinite possibility before choice.

“Dunno,” you said, though the words tasted like a lie.

His eyes lingered on you a moment longer, like he wanted to press—like he wanted to reach into your mind and untangle every thought keeping you so far away from him. But then, just like that, the moment passed.

Remus only hummed, low and thoughtful, before leaning away. The warmth of his breath on your skin disappeared, his hand returned to his plate, and you tried to continue your meal—but a small twinge of doubt built in the pits of your stomach. The same itching thoughts, if you’d just said, if you didn’t hold back, if your didn’t lie.

Once again leaving the room, slipping away into yourself.

If, if, if.

Your only hesitation, your only regret, your only reason to wish to turn back time.

Remus.

It wasn’t until your final year that a small distance built between you and him.

At first, it was barely noticeable. A few missed conversations, a shift in routine, your usual late-night talks fading into occasional, fleeting moments. You told yourself it was just school, just NEWTs, just exhaustion. But deep down, you knew better. It was you. It was him. It was time—always working against you.

And then, one evening, during the celebration of Gryffindor’s Quidditch win, you saw it.

Remus, standing in the middle of the common room, golden light flickering across his face, his arms wrapped around her. A Hufflepuff girl—someone kind, gentle, with a soft smile and bright eyes. He was beaming, spinning her to the music that played.

The world around you dulled. The cheers, the base, the laughter—it all became muffled, as if you were underwater, sinking deeper with every second.

You watched as she laughed against his shoulder, her fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. Watched as he leaned in, lips brushing against hers like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

Your heart ached, twisted into something tight and unbearable, and for a while you didn’t look away. You couldn’t. Maybe some part of you thought you deserved to watch—deserved to feel this.

Time was cruel, the second thing you learnt was that nothing lasts forever.

You’d hesitated, debated—watch as a bystander to the passing of time, missing all of your many windows of opportunity, this was your punishment.

The music, laughter, loud chatter, thumping of feet still danced around you, and yet you sat in the corner of the sofa—transfixed on absolutely nothing. Unaware of the time as it slipped away from you—lost, at some point, Regulus took notice.

He had been standing off to the side, lingering in the shadows like he always did, observing. He saw the exact second your expression changed—the way your eyes dimmed, the way your body seemed to curl in on itself, like you disappeared into the noise.

He sat next to you, but you didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge him. Your mind was somewhere else—somewhere far away, but he could always tell, always hear how loud your thoughts were.

So, after a moment, Regulus took your hand.

You blinked, barely registering the warmth of his palm against yours, barely noticing the way he guided you out of the common room. You let him. You followed. The party faded behind you, swallowed by the quiet halls, the cold air biting at your skin as he led you to the bell tower.

And then, you sat.

Neither of you spoke. Regulus wasn’t the type to offer empty words or false reassurances. He didn’t tell you it would be okay or that it would pass. He just stayed. And in the end, that was enough. It wasn’t until he wrapped an arm around you—his touch gentle, grounding—that the cracks began to show.

A single tear slipped past your lashes, landing on your lap, and you forced out a nod.

“He’s happy,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Regulus frowned. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. The weight of his silence was enough to say I know—to say I see you.

The next morning, you couldn’t bring yourself to sit next to him.

You came to breakfast late, sliding into the empty seat next to Lily, despite the open space beside Remus. You didn’t feel his gaze on you, heavy and searching. You plate remained untouched, no one questioned your silence—accustom to your drifting. But Lily saw it—the puffiness around your eyes, the way your fingers picked slowly at the skin of your nails, fading in and out of the room.

And so did Remus.

The way your face didn’t have it usual peaceful thinking expression, your shoulders were sagged, each small breath, each rise and fall of your chest moved like it was too heavy, too taxing to breath any deeper—there was no pout on your lips, a telltale sign of your contemplation. Instead your lips were curved down, edged with something sadder.

It made his stomach twist, made something unfamiliar settle in his chest. But before he could act on it, before he could make his way around the table and ask you what was wrong, he heard his name.

“Remus!”

His girlfriend, smiling up at him, tugging on his sleeve. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

He hesitated.

Just for a second.

But then he let himself be pulled away, let himself walk out of the Great Hall without looking back.

Time was a silly and fickle thing.

Without the one constant presence, Remus, time seemed to escape you—more often than not just far away, floating through the days. Because any time you were actually present in the room, a squeezing pressure in your chest gathered, making each word, each thought heavy and burdensome.

It was so much simpler to just fade away with the time.

The first year after graduation, your barely saw him, it made it a bit easier—less like rubbing salt in an open wound and more like a dull ache, something buried just beneath the surface. Manageable, if only because you didn’t have to look at him, didn’t have to hear his laugh or catch the warmth in his eyes that no longer belonged to you.

Time blurred. Days bled into weeks, weeks into months. Life went on—without him, without the weight of what ifs pressing down on your shoulders.

But absence didn’t mean forgetting.

There were still moments—passing through a bookstore and spotting a title you knew he’d love, hearing a joke that would’ve made him throw his head back in laughter, seeing the first full moon of the month and feeling that quiet, familiar worry settle in your chest. Even smells, whiffs of fresh parchment and earl grey tea, laced with rich dark cocoa.

The memories lingered, slipping through the cracks when you least expected them. They weren’t as painful, not exactly. Just...hollow.

Because no matter how far the time stretch, Remus would still have a piece of your soul.

It was a chance encounter, one of those moments that felt almost cruel in its inevitability.

A cafe in Diagon Alley—warm, light streaming through the windows, a stark contrast to the biting cold outside. The scent of roasted coffee beans lingered in the air, mingling with the quiet hum of conversation and the occasional clink of porcelain against saucers. It was the kind of afternoon that made the world feel a little slower, a little softer.

Remus hadn’t planned on stopping. He had only been passing by, coat pulled tight around him against the cold, mind elsewhere. But then—through the fogged-up glass of the window—he saw you.

His breath caught in his throat and his legs moved before he could stop them.

You were sitting alone at one of the small corner tables, hands curled around a cup of something warm, though it remained untouched. Your gaze was distant, fixed on nothing in particular, lost somewhere far away. The familiar empty expression, corners of your lips still tilting downwards.

Against all rational, he stepped inside the café, ordered himself a cup of tea, and made his way over to you.

You didn’t notice.

Not when he pulled out the chair across from you, not when he sat down and set his cup gently on the table. You remained frozen in thought, thumbs gently rubbing over the procealine of the handle—chest rising and falling in that same pattern that Remus knew so well—shallow on the inhale, deeper on the exhale.

He watched you for a few long moments—old habits creeping back in, it hadn’t even been that long—maybe fifteen months since graduation, and you were the same you that he missed. He’d memorised it easily, those small things; the way the slower your blinks were the further away you were, how when you drifted, the longer you spent the more your body would begin to sway.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, he spoke.

“Y/N,”

Gods, it was that same unfairly warm and fond tone he always used without knowing, it just rolled off his tongue.

It was as if you’d been pulled abruptly from the depths of some distant memory, yanked back into the present. Your entire body stiffened for a fraction of a second before your eyes finally lifted to meet his, breath catching in your throat—eyes running over his figure.

Remus watched as recognition flickered through them, followed by something else—something unreadable. Your fingers twitched slightly against your cup, and your back straightened, as if bracing yourself.

For a moment, you just stared at him.

Then, your lips parted slightly, and in a voice quieter than you intended, you breathed, "Remus."

His name on your lips did something to him. Opening up that quiet ache in his chest, caught somewhere between longing and nostalgia, between familiarity and distance.

A small, careful smile tugged at his lips. “Hi.”

You blinked, and for a second—just a second—your expression cracked. Something raw passed over your face too quickly for him to grasp. Then, like always, like before, you smoothed it over with a practiced smile, one he had seen countless times before.

Another moment of silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable, not easy either—thick.

For the first time since seeing him, you let yourself look at him. Really look. He was the same, but different. His hair had grown out slightly, curling over his ears. There were faint circles under his eyes, like he hadn’t been sleeping much. The scar on his cheek, the one you used to trace absentmindedly with your fingers, was still there.

And his eyes—they still held that same warmth, the same quiet intensity, the same way they had always looked at you like he could see through every carefully constructed wall you had ever put up.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Still away with the fairies, Y/N.”

It was a simple statement, lighthearted, harmless—but you felt your lungs squeeze at his voice.

Huffing out a small laugh, though it lacked real amusement, fingers tracing over the rim of your now cold cup, avoiding his gaze with a light shrug; “Mmm, old habits die hard,”

Remus hummed, taking a slow sip of his tea before glancing back at you. “I missed you at Mary’s birthday last month.”

The pressure of his gaze was undeniable, it made you want to hide away, run, escape it. And though he surely didn’t mean it to be scrutinising, you could look at it no other way.

Your fingers curled slightly against your cup.

You hadn’t gone. You’d intended to—had even gotten ready—but in the end, the thought of seeing him had felt too much. It wasn’t that you hadn’t wanted to, it was just…you weren’t sure if you could bear standing in a room with him and feeling so far away, like a stranger.

Swallowing thickly, “Yeah, I—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “I got caught up with things.”

Leaning forward, brows raised, eyes glistening with a playful curiosity that you hadn’t seen in so long, “Ooo, what things?” His voice was so casual, slipping so easy back into old mannerism with you he couldn’t even catch himself. He smiled softly, watching as your eyes widened slightly—earning a real laugh, small and breathy, shaking your head.

Noting the way the grip on your cup lessened, relieving your shoulders from their overly tense position when you replied. “Nothing interesting,”

Gods did he miss your smile.

He almost missed your words, absorbed in the moment of you, “I would’ve liked to see you there,” he admitted.

Something in your chest ached, like bandages were being taken off too early, too slowly, the wound underneath burning against the harsh contact of air. Inhaling deeply, your smile faltered slightly, swallowing the words you want to say and Remus studied you for a beat too long, he saw it but wasn’t going to push you on it.

Instead, he nodded at nothing, a soft exhale escaping him, as he brought his tea to his lips—he’d tried to drink it slowly, prolong the time he could sit with you, but it was almost finished. His time was almost up.

Placing the cup back onto the table with a dull click, he glanced at your cup, barely touched as you traced the rim—“I was going to the market—if, you’d uh…like to come?” His words were lightly rushed at the start, slowing down in hesitance by the time he reached the end.

Your mouth opened and closed several times, eventually sighing in way that told Remus, she’s about to refuse. A quiet war waged in your mind, hesitation curling around your thoughts like vines, creeping and twisting until they tangled themselves into knots too tight to unravel.

It’s not like you didn’t want to go.

But things were different now—time had passed, life had changed and the space between you both had been filled with too many unspoken things, too many missed chances.

So, instead, you inhaled softly, gaze dropping to your untouched cup. “Remus, I—”

“It’s not too far from here, I promise,”

His gaze was almost pleading as his interrupted, words hurried with a cadance that teetered on desperate. “Just to the market,” you breathed back, more to yourself than anything. As if that made it all alright, as if your heart wasn’t already well on the way to giving out with each moment you spent with him.

He knew deep down he was being selfish, he shouldn’t have put you in this situation, shouldn’t have disturbed you and sat down at the table, shouldn’t even have come in to the shop when he saw you—but he just couldn’t help himself, it was you.

“Just to the market.” He affirmed, a glimmer of hope blooming in his eyes as he watched the cogs turn in your brain, the internal discourse—debating if you should go.

“…Okay,” you said, barely above a whisper—shoulders slumming slightly as you relented.

Remus had to use every signal in his brain not to beam at you, just allowing the corners of his mouth to twitch into a small smile, eyes crinkling at the edges, flickering with something warm, something light—releasing the smallest exhale of relief.

He pushed his chair back slightly, standing and shrugging on his coat before motioning toward the door. “Shall we?”

You nodded, your own movements slower, more careful, as if afraid the moment would shatter if you moved too suddenly.

The streets were painted in hues of late afternoon gold, the cool breeze threading through the air, tousling Remus’ hair and slipping beneath your sleeves.

At some point, without thinking, his fingers brushed against yours—the conversation was light, easy—effortless, just like two friends catching up. Technically, that’s what you were.

Just seeing you settled some of the unrest that seeped into Remus’ bones, but being with you, in your space, conversating like it were just yesterday when you sat together infront of the common room fire—it had him forcing the pits of his stomach to rest with shuddering intakes of breath. It made him feel like he was living again, made him realise that he’d not known peace in your absence.

Constantly finding his heart reeling as each crease forming by your eyes when you smiled, each time you wandered over to a stall, his breath hitched watching you enthuse with the vendor—unbelievely bewitched by your presence. The familiar shiver down his spine when you got close to him, like he was a teenager again.

Gods, you should have said no.

You should have made up a cheap excuse to avoid this, the slippery slope that was Remus Lupin.

You should have said no because you knew you were weak to him, every word that left his lips more hypnotising than the last, willing the away the invasive pinch that accompanied the crooked smile on his face, smothering the urge to let your eyes linger on him as his brows squeezed together with each laugh he let out.

You should have said no because it wasn’t just the market.

Unknowingly, time had escaped you both, trailing down the emptying narrow roads, slowly treading along the cobbled paths, hours passed like minutes until the sun had resigned under the horizon and the skies filled with small scattered pin-pricks of light, the moon smiling down at you.

The laugh that spilled from your lips was cut off with a gasp when you caught glimpse of your watch, it was already so late. Trudging to a sudden halt, Remus looked back—eyes filled with concern, frantically scanning your frame, words immediate and panicked, “What’s the matter?”

Shaking your head, realising how quickly time had slipped through your fingers. “Nothing—I hadn’t realised the time” you admitted, glancing back up at him. “I should probably—”

Go.

You should go.

Remus’ face fell almost imperceptibly, but you caught it. The subtle downturn of his lips, the flicker of something like disappointment in his eyes before he schooled his expression slightly, into something more neutral.

You’d barely started to fill the gaping hole you left in Remus—and now you were leaving?

“You don’t have to rush off,” he said, voice gentle but insistent.

You let out a small breath of a laugh. “Remus, it’s late.”

“All the more reason you shouldn’t go home on your own,” he countered easily, slipping back into that same old protective streak of his. “And besides—” He glanced down at your hands, your half empty takeaway cup from earlier, before looking back up at you with raised brows. “You haven’t eaten anything.”

You blinked at him. “I can eat at home—”

He’d only just begun to feel like he could breath again and time was already up?

Remus wasn’t a particularly prideful man, and most definetly was not above begging, not when it came to you—already rushing out words, as if he needed to say them before he lost the nerve. “You can eat with me. At mine.”

That startled you into silence.

Running a hand through his hair, pushing it back before shoving both hands into his pockets. “It’s not far. Just a few stops on the train.” He tried to keep his voice casual, easy, but there was a layer there, undeniable—something raw and vulnerable and desperate.

Your mouth opened, instinct telling you to protest—but at that exact moment, your stomach betrayed you, letting out a rather loud rumble.

Remus’ lips twitched, amusement flashing across his face before he pressed his hand over his heart in mock sincerity. “Really, I insist.”

Your jaw clenched, eyes narrowing slightly at the smugness creeping into his expression.

But despite yourself—despite every hesitation curling in the back of your mind—your lips curved upward, just a little.

“…Fine.”

And if Remus let out a breath of relief, if his smile stretched just a bit wider than before—neither of you mentioned it.

The train ride to Remus’ was comfortable and quick—he hadn’t exaggerated when he said it was only a few stops. But as you turned the corner onto his road, as his footsteps slowed, and a quiet realisation settled over you.

You’d never been to his house before.

It wasn’t a big deal—he’d never been to yours either—but still, something about it felt strangely significant. You’d spent countless afternoons, evenings, nights, knee-deep in conversations about homes you’d live in after Hogwarts—the perfect little flat you imagined for yourself, the cozy two-story house Remus had always wanted—planning.

And now, after almost a year and a half apart, you were finally seeing the place he called home.

When he unlocked the door, the lights at the bottom of the corridor were already on, accompanied with the faint sound of a radio and quiet clattering, you were still slipping off your shoes when you looked up at Remus. An expression of mild concern at the liveliness of his house, eyes flickering between the end of the corridor and him—he only huffed out a small chuckle, placing his hand lightly on your back motioning you further in.

Squinting at him in slight suspicion before following, allowing your eyes to wander around the walls, absorbing the decorations, the small homely touches he’d added—the graduations pictures, the keys hanging next to the broom stand, two framed burgundary ties with mustard yellow strips.

Two?

You were still in a state of curious admiration when the door infront of you swug open wildly with a vigour that made the hinges release a high pitch groan, almost immediately you were ingulfed in to warm clutch—feet lifted off the carpet and the world around you spun. The squeal of shock that left you was completely swallowed by the loud bellowing call of your name.

“Y/N!”

When you finally made contact with the floor again, leaning back to take a good look at your assailant, the largest grin split across your face—matching his enthusiasm and pulling him in to another tight, squeezing hug. “Jamie?!” Rocking side to side in his grasp, a laugh of disbelief bubbled through his chest—even when you seperate his hands moved to your cheeks, smooshing your face into a pout as you laughed.

“Where have you been, love?”

It had hardly even been three months since you last saw James, and he was still acting as if you had disappeared off the face of the earth. His thumbs brushed against your cheeks before he finally released you, though not without a playful shake of your shoulders.

“I swear, one minute you’re here, the next you’ve vanished into thin air! I was starting to think you’d moved to another bloody country,” James accused, though his grin never wavered.

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest only grew. “Three months, Potter. Hardly enough time to start missing me that much.”

James scoffed, dramatic as ever. “Three months too long, if you ask me.”

Remus stood not to far behind you, and as much as he was warmed by the scene that unfolded before him, a small sharp pang of something else shot through his chest, something ugly—something green. James made it look like it was the easiest thing in the world, pulling you back in, slotting you so effortlessly into the space you had once occupied in their lives.

James had always been good at that—at making people feel like they belonged, like no time had passed at all. But Remus…Remus wasn’t sure he had that same ability. Not with you. Not after everything.

His fingers twitched at his side, resisting the urge to reach for you. He watched the way you laughed, eyes crinkling as James animatedly retold some ridiculous story, and it should’ve made Remus feel nothing but comfort, ease. Instead, there was that pang again—the bitter discontent and regret tangled and settled uncomfortably beneath his ribs.

He couldn’t help but think back to the times when that would have been him, easily able to pull you close, not treading lightly around undisclosed boundaries and avoiding silences.

You’d all sat on their sofa together, eating dinner—thankful James still hadn’t mastered portion control, always making enough to feed the five thousand. It was pleasant, relaxed—unpressured conversation filling the room, time once again passing too quickly for his liking.

James let out a loud yawn, stretching his arms above his head before slinging them back around both of you, pulling you in for one last quick squeeze. “Right, I’m off to bed,” ruffling your hair before turning to Remus with a lopsided smirk, “Have fun with the dishes, Moony,” he teased.

Remus scoffed, rolling his eyes as James trudged up the stairs, his footsteps heavy against the wood. The house settled into a softer quiet in his absence, the warm hum of the radio still playing faintly in the background.

You stood up abruptly, taking Remus’ plate with you on your rise, gathering the dishes on the coffee table, swiftly making your way into the kitchen. Remus followed behind, a tad bit too low to stop in your wordless flurries—as you surveyed the room he gently tried to pry the dishes from your grasp but you quickly pulled away, “At least let me help clean up. I did kind of barge in on dinner—”

Remus cut you off, frowning slightly. “You didn’t barge in. I invited you.”

But you were already brushing past him, stationing yourself at the sink as you rolled up your sleeves.

“Still,” you murmured, voice stubborn but gentle, “it’s the least I can do.”

Remus sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, but didn’t argue further. Instead, he grabbed a clean dish towel and joined you, falling into place beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. The lulling sound of water running, dishes clinking softly as you scrubbed and he dried, felt almost domestic, shoulders brushing together with each movement.

For a moment, it was like nothing had changed. Like time hadn’t stolen so much from you both.

And as he watched you, sleeves pushed up, hands covered in suds, brows furrowed slightly in concentration, something in his chest ached.

Because this—this quiet togetherness, this moment, this you—it burned him to think that it would eventually have to end.

The quiet hum of the radio faded into the background as your hands moved on autopilot, warm water running over your skin as you scrubbed a plate, mind drifting in the comfort of routine. You barely noticed the way Remus stared as he worked beside you, slipping into a rhythm that felt like you had done this a hundred times before.

You hissed, yanking your hand back as a bright bloom of crimson welled up along the curve of your palm.

“Shit—” His voice was sharp with concern, his body moving before his mind could catch up. Remus was on you in an instant, dish towel abandoned on the counter, forgotten, as he closed the space between you in a heartbeat. “Let me see.”

“It’s noth—”

But he had already reached for your wrist, his fingers curling around it, gentle but firm as he tilted your hand toward the dim light of the kitchen. The sting pulsed under your skin, warm and insistent, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his touch, the way his thumb brushed over the uninjured part of your palm in silent reassurance.

His brows furrowed as he studied the wound, jaw ticking. “It’s deep,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. His grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly before he exhaled sharply. “Come on, sit down. We need to clean it.”

You let yourself be led to the dining table, pulse thrumming a little too fast beneath your skin. Remus released your wrist only long enough to retrieve a first aid kit from the cupboard, and you sat there, suddenly hyperaware of the way your hand throbbed in time with your heartbeat. Mumbling out a small string of excuses littered with apologies, before he could even begin fussing over you.

When he returned, he knelt in front of you, one knee pressed to the floor, his free hand resting lightly against your knee for balance. His eyes flicked up to yours, filled with something exasperated but fond. “Are you seriously apologising for bleeding?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, heat creeping up your neck. “Well—no, but—”

His lips twitched, cutting you off before you could fumble out an excuse. His voice was low, unfairly gentle. “It’s fine, Y/N.”

You swallowed, pressing your lips together as you dropped your gaze to where he was already tearing open an alcohol swab. He worked deftly, practiced and careful.

“This is going to sting,” he warned, glancing up at you briefly.

You took a slow, steadying breath, closing your eyes. “Okay.”

The antiseptic made contact, and you hissed, the sharp burn blooming across your palm.

Remus’ fingers tensed around yours, brows knitting together at the sound. “I know,” he murmured, voice softer now, soothing. “Almost done.”

You nodded, forcing yourself to relax as he continued, his thumb absentmindedly brushing slow, reassuring circles against your wrist. After a moment, he leaned back slightly, inspecting the wound with quiet concentration. “Not deep enough for stitches,” he murmured, reaching for the closure strips, “this’ll seal it to keep anything out.”

You watched him as he worked, your gaze tracing the furrow of his brows, the way his lips parted slightly in focus. He hummed softly under his breath—an old habit, one you hadn’t heard in so long it made something in your depths of your chest sting and squeeze.

You hadn’t realized you were staring until his voice cut through the quiet.

“What?”

Your eyes flicked up to his, startled. “What?”

The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement, and though he hadn’t stopped tending to your hand, you could feel the air around you thin slightly. “You’re staring,” he said simply.

You hesitated. The instinct to brush it off, to deflect, clawed up your spine—but instead, you inhaled, considering your words. The confession was quiet, airy—

“I just like looking at you.”

Remus’ fingers stilled over your palm, and you felt rather than saw the breath he sucked in. He didn’t move, didn’t speak for a long moment—just looked at you, something flickering behind his eyes that you couldn’t quite pinpoint, then, a quiet, disbelieving chuckle left him, breathy and low.

His hands, still warm against you, curled slightly against your knees as he tilted his head, something playful and teasing in his voice. “Do you now?”

Your lips parted slightly, and though your pulse was hammering against your ribs, you held his gaze. “I do.”

The words left you on an exhale, soft and breath—yet certain.

Disarming him completely, briging to the surface what he’d always pushed down, unravelling something Remus was always to fearful to face.

His fingers flexed, unconsciously pulling himself closer, the warmth of his breath brushing against heating surface of your skin. His eyes flickered to your lips—lingering—just for a moment, but you felt it, the hesitation, the war between thought and impulse. The space between you was dwindling, a mere breath away from closing entirely—

Then, the sound of near footsteps, the screeching of hinges.

Remus shot to his feet so fast it was almost comical, nearly knocked the first aid kit off the table, his face twisting into something like panic. The tips of his ears flushed pink, guilt flickering over his features like he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.

James stood in the doorway, frozen, a glass in his hand.

His eyes flicked between you and Remus, and his face twisted slightly in slow realization, when he muttered, “Shit—sorry, I just…came to get some water.”

Voice flat, mildly exasperated, as if he knew exactly what he had just interrupted. You swallowed hard, heart still lodged in your throat as James stepped around the room, deliberately avoiding eye contact as he filled his glass at the sink.

Remus ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, the tension still clinging to the air like static. “Yeah, no, it’s—uh—it’s fine.”

While you sat still in your seat, heart pounding, fingers curled tightly around the edge of the chair, James practically tiptoed around you both as if being quieter would make it any less painfully awkward.

Then, without another word, he left, water glass in hand.

The silence he left behind was deafening.

Remus let out a slow breath, still standing rigid beside you. You swallowed. Hand—still warm from his touch—lay limp in your lap. Your pulse still thrummed wildly beneath your skin. Clearing his throat, busying his hands and clearing the first aid kit, he mumbled something about getting to the dishes later.

You stood, looking around the room aimlessly—you both knew it, it was about time you left, made your way home.

But he wasn’t ready. You can’t leave, not yet.

Rubbing his palms forcibly on the surfcae of his trousers, wracking his brain for an excuse, a reason for you to stay, words to reset your time.

“Would you like to see the garden?”

He scolded himself internally, of all this he could blurt out, the garden was his best answer? There wasn’t even much to see—

“You have a garden?!” cutting his reprimanding monologue short with a small gasp, your words overflowing with enthusiasm that shocked him, purging some if the anxiety that had built in his shoulders. With a huffed chuckle Remus nodded, extending an arm to guide you through the house.

If there was one thing you missed about Hogwarts, it was without a doubt the endless view of the clear skies, the privilege of seeing the stars in all their beauty any time you wished—cloud free.

As you stepped though the sliding doors after him, another gasp slipped from your lips, Remus turned, watching you marvel at the skies, eyes wide with childlike wonder as you stepped further into the small patch of land.

The garden itself was modest, with a few well-tended plants lining the perimeter, a bench seated against the fence, but you hardly spared them a glance. Your gaze was locked skyward, drinking in the sprawling expanse of stars, their silver glow scattered like spilled ink across the inky blue.

Remus watched, momentarily forgetting himself, his lips quirking into something impossibly fond.

"You like the stars that much?" he asked, voice softer now, lower, as if speaking any louder would shatter the moment.

You turned, beaming at him, an excitement so pure that it made his breath catch in his throat. "Are you kidding? It’s been ages since I’ve seen them properly like this." Your voice was full of quiet awe as you turned your gaze back upward, taking a few more steps into the cool grass.

"I used to sneak out to see them all the time at school, but it’s hard to find a good view in the city."

He swallowed, tucking his hands into his pockets, watching the way your face reflected the soft glow of the moon. He had brought you out here on impulse, desperate to keep you close, to not let you run away again. A cool breeze drifted through the night air, brushing loose strands of hair against your cheek, and without thinking, Remus reached forward, tucking them gently behind your ear.

You stilled.

The warmth of his fingers lingered against your skin, fleeting but unmistakable. You turned to him fully then, eyes searching his face, and the only thing he could hear was the loud thumpng of his heartbeat bouncing between his ears, throat bobbing as he swallowed, the hum of the world around you steadily fading away.

"You really love them, don’t you?" His voice was barely above a whisper now.

You nodded, gaze never leaving his. "Yeah," you murmured, smiling softly. "They make me feel small, like in a good way. Like...I’m part of something bigger."

He exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "You always say things like that."

"Like what?"

He barely even hesitated—

"Things that make me realize how much I missed you.”

Remus could see the internal panic set in, flashing wildly behind your eyes, completely undeniable, so was the way your breath audibly hitched in your throat fingers twitching where they rested by your side.

The way he said it—automatic, definite, without fear of what it might mean—had all your heart threatening to pump right out of your chest and land on the floor beneath you. His voice, the quiet certainty in his tone, the way his gaze held yours without wavering—it was too much.

Your lips pressed into a tight line, as if to keep words from escaping you, as if it could stop everything from seeping through the cracks. Crumbling under the intensity of his gaze, the weight of his words, the wanting his touch left in its wake.

His fingertips still ghosted over your skin, light yet burning, grounding yet unsteading—caught in the strange balance between too much and not enough. And though you were outside, it seemed there wasn’t enough air for you—each one of your senses overwhelmed with something distictly Remus.

You wanted to look away. Needed to. If you could just turn your head, break the moment, maybe then you could breathe properly, think again. Maybe then, the seconds wouldn’t feel so suffocating. But you couldn’t. You were frozen in place, trapped, imprisoned under his gaze—he was still, patient—searching, waiting.

The moments continued to stretch, until you finally parted you lips, exaling shallow and testing, as if you’d forgotten how to breath. Voice meek and quieter than you’d meant it to be.

“I didn’t mean to disappear,”

It was the truth. But only part of it.

The rest of the words died, heavy on your tongue, unwilling to be spoken aloud.

But it seemed easier that way. But that was the only way you knew how to survive.

That every time you saw him, it felt like pressing on an open wound, one that was so far away from healing, one that probably never would. But you didn’t say it. You couldn’t.

Remus hummed softly, and there was something knowing in the sound, something that made your stomach twist. He could see it—could feel it. That there was more. That there had always been more. And for so long, he had let it slide, let it slip through the cracks, let you get away with unfinished thoughts and lingering pauses, mystery and obsurity, silences that stretched too long between words.

But not this time.

His voice was steadier when he spoke again, pressing, “But?”

Your throat bobbed, struggling to swallow, fingers curling into your sleeves, curling into yourself as the temptation to look away won, eyes flickering down the the grass.

He tilted his head slightly, compelling your gaze onto him, studying your face with careful intent, reassuring, he was so close—one hand just barely ghosting over the fabric that rested over the dip in your waist, and the other’s palm pressed flush against the skin of your neck—spreading the heat that already prickled down your spine even further.

“It seemed easier,” the words trembled, breaking slightly at the end, and his brows pinched high on his brow at the raw cadance your voice took, but he still wouldn’t let you look away—forcing your presence in the moment, forcing you to not drift away, not again.

He knew what you meant, the words hung heavy in the air, bouncing and echoing in Remus’ brain over and over again, easier. Easier to allow the distance between you to build. Easier to fade away before his very eyes. Easier to just escape everything. Even if it did hollow you out.

His fingertips curled slightly where they rested, finally grasping on to you, palm warm against your waist, anchoring you, tethering you to him in a way that made escape impossible. Touch still cradling the side of your neck, firm but gentle, thumb running over your pulse, feeling it race beneath him.

Pursing his lips together, exhaling through his nose, the guilt in your eyes so clear to him, but he wasn’t satisfied, he wasn’t going to accept half truths anymore—you’d both already wasted so much time, he couldn’t stomach the idea of letting this go on any longer than it already had.

“Was it?”

The second the words left his lips and reached your ears, he could feel the way you tensed in his hold, your breath catching in your throat as though the very question had knocked the air from your lungs.

Your lips parted, a response forming—then hesitating, your voice failing you entirely. You swallowed thickly, gaze flickering over his face, searching for something—what, you didn’t know. A way out, maybe. A sign that he’d let it drop.

But he wouldn’t. Not this time.

His hand at your waist shifted, his fingers pressing gently into the fabric of your shirt, thumb tracing absent, soothing patterns against your side. He was patient, unyielding but never forceful, his grip warm, grounding. And the way he looked at you—soft, knowing, understanding in a way that made your chest ache—was so much. Too much.

Your lips moved soundlessly at first, as if your thoughts were warring with your voice, stuck somewhere deep in your throat. And he just waited, unwavering, unwavering in the way only Remus could be, the way that made you feel like there was nothing in the world except this moment.

Finally, you breathed out, “I—”

Then nothing.

You swallowed, throat dry, you weren’t sure you wanted to be here, standing in front of him with nowhere left to run, no more room to hide behind half-truths and evasions. Lips parting, then closing, then parting again, like the words were caught somewhere deep in your throat, tangled and knotted together, refusing to be spoken aloud.

“You… you were happy,” you murmured, voice trembling, like you were forcing the words out through a tight throat. Your fingers twitched against the fabric of his sweater, eyes darting away. “It just made sense—”

His head shook before you could even finish.

No.

He knew you were skirting around it. Knew you’d try to twist the truth, try to say just enough without saying anything at all, try to dance around the edges of what you really meant, as if that would be enough. As if he would let it be enough.

He wouldn’t let you. Not now.

The words came haltingly, breaking as they stumbled out of you. The effort of articulating the truth left you trembling, and as soon as the words left your lips, you instinctively broke eye contact, unable to bear it any longer. But Remus would not let you drift away.

"No, no, no, no—" The words were quiet, but firm, insistent. His hands moved then, slipping from your waist to your face, cradling it so delicately, so reverently, like you might shatter if he wasn’t careful. "Look—look at me…please," his eyes searching yours with an urgency that made your pulse race. Touch steadying you, and despite the tremor in your body, you found yourself listening, unable to look away.

“Was it easier?" he asked again, his voice low and sympathetic, each word a gentle command that left little room for evasion.

You knew it. He knew it.

But saying it—admitting it—felt like standing at the edge of something bottomless, staring down at the unknown.

In the quiet that followed, your eyes became glossy with tears as you shook your head slowly, once, twice, until you couldn’t stand it, everything just too much to contain, eyes squeezing shut.

Remus's thumb came up to gently wipe away the wet drops from the corners of your eyes, his touch both tender and apologetic. Leaning forward, he rested his forehead against yours. Voice, soft and laden with tenderness, that made the surface of your skin prickle, breaking through the silence once more.

"I know,"

That single word, conveyed all the unspoken emotions that had built up between you—the ache of separation, the pain of absence, the desperate hope and longing that you’d both let fester for too long.

You struggled to breathe, each inhalation more shallow and shuddering than the last, your lips trembling as you fought to contain the bubbling sobs. The sight made the depths of his stomach churn with concern.

The tip of his nose brushed against yours, and wisps of his hair skimmed the surface of your cheeks as he let his hand slip down to pull you closer, his palm rubbing soothing circles into the small of your back. He coaxed your ragged breaths into a steadier rhythm, his voice just above a whisper and lulling as he murmured—

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, love.” softer, like he was absorbing the ache from your chest into his own.

You clenched your hands into the fabric of his shirt, gripping so tightly your knuckles ached, like if you let go, you might lose yourself completely.

His thumb brushed against your cheek, catching the last remnants of your tears, and for a moment, neither of you spoke, neither of you moved. You could feel his heartbeat—fast, unsteady, as if it was caught in the same whirlwind you were. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly, eyes searching yours for something—hesitation, permission, an answer to a question he hadn’t spoken aloud.

Remus’ lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something, but no words came—just a slow exhale, like he was finally letting himself from getting lost in you.

Closing the gap, his lips ghosting, shy—testing over yours.

So you leaned into him instead, letting yourself fall into the warmth of his touch, into the way his fingers curled slightly against your jaw as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. It was slow, unhurried, like a quiet confession in itself—one that had been waiting far too long to be spoken. The weight of unsaid words, of time lost and wounds left open, all melted away in the spaces where your lips met, where his hands held you like you were something precious, something he was terrified to let slip through his fingers again.

His thumb traced delicate patterns against your cheek, a stark contrast to the quiet urgency with which he kissed you, as if trying to make up for every moment he had spent holding himself back. Your fingers, still trembling from the unraveling of emotion just moments before, found their way into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself to him, grounding yourself in something tangible. He sighed against your lips, the sound reverberating through your bones, pulling you deeper into him, into this fleeting eternity you had both fallen into.

Finally able to bask in each other, in the way your breaths tangled between kisses, in the way his hands pulled you closer without hesitation—no more space, no more running. Just this. Just you and him.

The world outside of this moment ceased to exist, the weight of time and consequence nothing more than a whisper against the night air. Two entwined souls that had the fortune to overlap at this singular moment in time, comfortable, peaceful—fated.

[aetherraeys]

thrills

(a night to remember, pt2, pt3, pt4/this)

sirius black x reader ⊹ 8.2k

cw ⟢ swearing, injury, blood, mild hurt/comfort, new relationship, suggestive, biker!sirius, very domestic, fluff

summary: Sirius Black was far more domestic than you'd ever imagined, falling into his new role of boyfriend without a hitch.

a/n: the shame i feel for taking so long to start this...but its here at least, all be it lamost 5weeks later,,,thank you anon for giving me ideas on a final part MWAH! not proofread x

New is fun, new is good.

New is firsts.

And while some kinds of new—that confessional i love you, that leaves you breathless and dizzy and at a loss for words—is more welcomed than others, there is also the other kind.

The first (but most definitely not last) time you had to hold Marlene back from lunging at and attacking Sirius like some rabid animal. That sort of new is...well, new. And admittedly? A little entertaining.

It really was because of that blasted spare key.

Marlene had decided maybe it was best to let the dust settle before she forced her way into your space. To try and console you and make you realise that maybe it was better that Sirius was a right foul git and you deserved better—she had it all prepared, planned it out on the drive over.

Brought your favourite films and snacks in preperation for a long, quiet day of comforting, ice-cream, junk food and trash talking the older Black brother.

So you can just imagine the shock and horror when she pulled into your usually empty drive way, to see that same goddamn motorbike there—blocking her from parking. And though Marlene did eventually find a spot, just down the road—where she had to pay for the parking—it just added to her anger.

Barging into your building in a hurricane of fury.

Because how dare he, the absolute cheek—he’d gone and snogged Emmeline right in front of you—he’d shown up to torture you more, plead his case when that was the last thing you needed. Neither of you had time to compute the sound of the door slamming open, the hinges yelling under the pressure of Marlene’s swing. You’d been asleep, cuddled and scrunched up together on the too small sofa, face buried into the corner of Sirius’ neck.

And when your head shot up at the sound of knob crashing into the wall—hard—wincing at the impact and it surely left a dent. If the way the harsh bang echoed through the room didn’t awake Sirius, the way your forehead knocked against his chin definetly did. A pained groan sounding from him as your scrambled to a stand, hands pressing into his stomach to support your rise—forcing a low “Oof,” out of him.

The look on Marlene’s face had alarm bells ringing in your head—still fuzzy from sleep, the thud of the bags to the floor shook you out of it—allowing you to hone in on the way her face was getting redder by the second. Eyes franctically darting between you and Sirius’ disgruntled, winded figure.

“Are you fucking joking right now?!”

Sirius all but teleported to the other side of the room at the harsh sound of Marlene’s tone—arms mimicking yours in their raised to defense while yours were more to ward her off.

Voice still hoarse from sleep and the night’s shed tears, trying to calm the impending attack on your newly appointed boyfriend—”Marls…MARLENE! Just wait—let me explain—!” you started.

But she didn’t wait—all but vaulting over the couch surely in search of a way to get Sirius into her grasp and throttle him. Rant loud on her tongue, littered with profanity and every insult under the sun as he rounded the corner of your dining table.

Sirius had managed to evade her thus far—breathless on the other side of the dining table—but to his misfortune, he’d trapped himself.

It was only a few more tense moments of back and forth circling the table before you found your way into the mix. Edging Sirius into a safer corner, standing between them brows stretched into a distressed grimance—she took another step forwards—and Sirius mirrored her with a step back.

The whole situation was painfully laughable—sleep still clinging to the corners of your eyes, lips chapped and dribble stained. Sirius’ hair pushed up awkwardly on one side, matching the panic in his eyes as you shielded him.

Marlene wasn’t going to give up, threats slipping throught the cacophany of clattering furniture as she advanced.

“Black! When I get my hands on you, I swear to Merlin...” The frown on her face morphed into a scrowl when he responded.

“Not having the best morning? Are we Marls—Oi!” He just narrowly dodged the banana hurtled in his direction, and you hissed out his name in a chiding way that all but screamed not the time. Trying again to have her see some reason, or at least stop throwing objects around your kitchen—

”Marls, please. Just hold on a sec—Please, don’t throw—!”

It was a bit late for that. Another poor fruit from the bowl clattering against the counter—and satsuma this time.

“Why are you protecting that lump of shit, Y/N!”

You could only roll your eyes at the way Sirius muttered from behind you, “I can hear you, y’know,” Arms still outstretched in a rather pitiful attempt at shielding him, pleading with your eyes as much as you could, words urgent and rushed as they leave your mouth.

“He didn’t do it on purpose—it was a misunderstanding!” You step back hazardly, just barely missing Sirius’ sock-clad feet as you back him away from her, she resembled an angered bull more than anything. You could practically see the steam leaving her nose as she huffed out in disbelief—

“How does one snog another accidently?!” Marlene, undeterred, advanced again.

Okay, she had a fair point. But it really was just an unfortunate circumstance, you almost winced at her pitch—“If you gave me a second, maybe I’d be able to explain—”

“Black’s a slick git—you can’t trust a word out of his lying mouth!”

“You have such little faith in me, McKinnon!” Sirius gasped from behind you, like he’d been physically wounded by her words.

“Oh, shut it, Black—” Marlene snapped, advancing another step like she was genuinely weighing whether a cereal box could double as a weapon. “You’re lucky I left the bloody bat in the boot.”

You flinched at that one. Sirius did too.

“Marls, breathe, please,” you said, still firmly planted between them, arms stretched like a human barricade. “Just listen to me for one minute, okay? One. And if you’re still mad after, I’ll let you chuck the whole fruit bowl at him.”

“You say that like I wasn’t already planning to,” she growled, but her pace slowed—just a touch. The red in her cheeks hadn’t faded, but her eyes flicked to you, and some of the fury cracked around the edges.

You seized your chance.

It was rather finnicky to explain, how Emmeline had just grabbed the nearest person in a drunken flurry—all but dragging him into her by his collar—emphasising how it barely lasted not even five seconds.

How Sirius pushed her off in an instant, how it just happened to be him—how he’d never do anything like that to you—his hand coming down to rest on your waist lightly. Marlene looked between you both again. Sirius’ head poked out from behind your shoulder, expression genuinely apologetic now. “It really was just a misunderstanding—swear on my bike.”

“…That’s not very reassuring.”

“It is to me,” he muttered, then visibly winced when you elbowed him.

Marlene let out a sharp exhale, pinching the bridge of her nose, chiding thoughts interrupted by Sirius’ almost goading comment he murmured, “Can’t have a morning with my girlfriend without getting chased about the kitchen.”

Her eyes snapped up at that, and he knew well that she’d hear it—the room was all but silence, still edge with simmering tension as Marlene contempleted whether to let him live despite it all.

Narrowing her gaze like she’d just caught wind of something foul. "Girlfriend?" she repeated, voice climbing to a sharp pitch, eyes darting between you both like she was genuinely concerned for your well-being. "As in, officially? Now? As in overnight?!"

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. But you could feel the burn start in your chest and crawl rapidly up your neck, setting your ears ablaze. Sirius, behind you, seemed completely unbothered by the sudden exposure of it all.

“Yep,” he said simply, rather chuffed with himself like he wasn’t outing something so fresh it was barely processed even by you. And you froze as he stuck his tongue out at Marlene over your shoulder and then pressed an obnoxiously loud, wet kiss to your cheek with a ridiculous mwah noise, hands still casually resting on your waist.

So startled by the contact and the very bold declaration that your body went completely stiff under the affection. Heat surged to your face in mortifying waves as Sirius just grinned, completely unapologetic.

Marlene recoiled with a grimace. “Oh bloody hell,” she muttered, dragging a hand down her face like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “You’re so lucky she’s soft.”

Sirius grinned wider. “She is. It’s why I like her.”

“You’re pushing it,” Marlene warned, still eyeballing you both with such profound disbelief it could've peeled wallpaper. “Good thing I found that out before I keyed his bloody bike.”

That got Sirius’ attention. His expression dropped like a stone. “You were going to key my bike?!” he gasped, scandalised.

Marlene only shrugged, turning on her heel like it was the most casual thing in the world, shopping bags swinging in her hands as she marched toward the living room.

Sirius was already following after her like a panicked puppy, tugging you along with one hand still clasped in his. “Marlene—I swear to Merlin—my bike! What did it ever do to you?!”

“Oh calm down,” she drawled over her shoulder. “Didn’t even have time to scratch it.” She let out a long, theatrical sigh as she dropped her bags on the coffee table. “Guess I won’t be slagging off Sirius Black today.”

“You can stay, you know!” you protested, finally finding your voice again, still trailing behind Sirius like your brain was lagging ten steps behind this whole morning. “At least stay for a cuppa—”

Marlene made a gagging noise so exaggerated it almost echoed. “No, no—I won’t intrude on your morning—” she checked her watch, “afternoon with your boyfriend.” She shot you a pointed look over her shoulder, fingers wiggling in a phone gesture as she mouthed we’ll talk later.

Sirius, meanwhile, was still stuck somewhere between relief and residual panic. “You almost keyed my bike,” he muttered, half to himself.

Marlene didn’t even grace him with a second glance as she slipped out the door. “I still might, Black.”

The door clicked shut.

And then it was just you and Sirius in the stillness of your flat, your face still hot, your limbs still awkward, and Sirius—as ever—completely unfazed.

He turned to you, that stupid smirk tugging at his lips, eyes dancing with mischief.

“You froze when I kissed you,” he teased, tilting his head as his hands slid back to your waist, fingertips pressing gently.

“Shut up,” you muttered, still burning, unable to look him in the eye.

But then he was walking you backwards, slow and deliberate, until your back met the cool wall and he caged you in with a certain smugness.

“You’re really cute when you’re all flustered, y’know that?” he murmured, eyes soft but playful, brushing a strand of hair away from your cheek. “Think I might have to do that more often.”

You glared at him, or tried to, but it lacked conviction when your face was still hot and he was looking at you like that—eyes all lazy delight and intent amusement, lips quirking like he had you pinned in more ways than one.

“I will literally kill you,” you muttered, trying not to smile—failing—as you turned your face away, pulse ringing embrassingly loud in your ears, heart thumping rapid beneath your ribs. .

“Ooh,” he grinned, leaning in closer, his breath warm fanning over your cheek, “is that a threat from my girlfriend?” He exaggerated the word with a mock gasp, like it still thrilled him to say it aloud. Which, honestly, it probably did.

“You’re lucky I don’t set you on fire,” you muttered, voice tight with embarrassment.

“I’d let you,” he said, dramatically placing a hand over his chest. “Burn me to ash, darling, but kiss me first.”

You let out a splutter of laughter that you tried to smother with your hand, but he caught your wrist, gently pinning it to the wall beside your head. The other hand skimmed your waist, touch maddeningly light, and he grinned like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“I hate you,” you whispered, but it came out soft and breathy and baseless.

“Oh I know, sweetheart,” he whispered back with mock solemnity, brushing his nose against yours. “Tragic, really. Because I’m about to do something unforgivable.”

And before you could ask, what—he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft, not exactly—it was all smugness and heat, lips pressing ato yours with that same teasing confidence he wore like a second skin. He kissed you like he was winning, like he’d caught you mid-swoon and was soaking it in. Letting his hand sliding up your back, keeping you close—his warmth radiating through the thin fabric of your bed clothes, the wall behind you keeping you from melting into a puddle while your knees did their best impression of useless.

When he finally pulled back, his grin was obnoxiously wide.

“You froze again,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours now. “Gods, I’m good.”

“You’re insufferable,” you managed to say, breath shaky, though your hands had somehow wound into his shirt like you’d forgotten how to let go.

“Mm. And yet…” he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, your cheek, your collarbone, just barely grazing the skin with his teeth like he couldn’t help himself, earning him a quiet gasp. “Here you are. Still kissing me. Still blushing. Still all mine.”

New titles, new teases, new thrills.

Because Sirius really did bring a blood-pumping, head-spinning thrill into everything, every moment laces with and intertwined with the intoxicating feeling that was just him.

Even the mundane wasn’t just that with him—it was more, it was better—everything it had already been and everything you’d hope it to be.

He made his presence known in your little flat with purpose, claiming an entire shelf in your bathroom cabinet—and you welcomed it.

Watched it fill slowly, piece by piece, with his things: the woodsy-sweet aftershave that you fought the urge not to take a swig of some mornings, a crooked stack of faded hairbands, a few silver chains that clinked together gently, a worn tin of hair gel, cologne, a hard bristle brush. The toothbrush you’d given him “just in case” had somehow multiplied into three.

And you put his array of toileties to use—mainly helping him though.

You’d thought it nearly impossible for Sirius to be at yours more than he already was. Yet somehow, he proved you wrong, subtly phasing out of his shared flat with James and all but moving in with you.

His boots in the hallway. His coat thrown over your chair. His bike helmet permanently perched on top of your record player.

Although it wasn’t official—no formal conversation, no labelled drawers or declarations—it was becoming more and more apparent how well integrated Sirius was becoming into your daily routine.

It was most obvious in the mornings—and though you’d shared many before, it was different now somehow.

The alarm buzzed obnoxiously, sharp through the hush of your room, cutting through sleep like a blade and your hand shot out from under the covers, patting around blindly until you found the button and silenced it.

For now.

Sirius hummed softly from behind you, arm still looped lazily around your middle, you tried to sink deeper into his warmth, eyes squeezing shut, cheek pressing into him like the night had only just begun.

“You’ve got to get up now, love,” he whispered, mouth brushing against the shell of your ear, lips curling into a smile when you shook your head defiantly and mumbled, “Absolutely not. I’m deceased.”

That earned a soft chuckle, and the vibrations rumbled through both your tangled forms. “You said that yesterday. Still here.”

“M’time was tragically short-lived.”

“Come on,” he coaxed, his voice a warm rasp in the low light. “I’ll get up with you.”

Another unintelligible mutter left you, but your eyes cracked open—just barely—a reluctant olive branch. Then, before you could react, protest to his offer, he was shifting out from under you, gathering you into his arms like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Curling into him you hummed, limp in his arms, arms clinging around his neck as he carried you to the bathroom, bare feet padding quietly across the wooden floor. Pushing the door open with his hip and deposited you gently in front of the sink, keeping his arms around you when your knees buckled slightly from the shock of standing. You slumped against him, eyelids heavy again, pout forming without thought.

“Merlin,” he breathed with a smile, brushing your hair gently out of your face, “you’re hopeless.”

All that left you was a sleepy sound of protest, trying to ignore the harshness of the bathroom light with closed eyes—“Open,” he prompted, his own voice till hoarse with sleep—toothbrush already ready in hand.

You obeyed, lips parting slowly. He brushed your teeth for you with practiced care, murmuring something about how spoiled you were. When he held the mug of water to your lips so you could rinse and gargle, he pulled your hair back with the other hand, moving through it all like a routine he’d rehearsed.

When you’d finished, he turned you around by the hips to face him again, your eyes puffy from sleep but a little more awake now. He grinned, leaned down, and pressed a firm kiss to your pout.

“Shower,” he said, rubbing slow circles on your back.

You nodded with a small hum, and he turned to set the water running—one hand testing the warmth before reaching for the hem of his shirt on you. He peeled it off carefully, knuckles grazing your skin like a whisper, and helped you step into the steam.

While you showered, he moved about the flat with habitual ease—setting out your clothes for the day, your work bag prepped with charger and laptop, tea steeping on the counter. He even warmed your towel in the dryer before coming back to swap places with you.

And when you were dressed, now far more alive than earlier but still yawning as you dried your hair, you returned to the bathroom to find Sirius half-ready, leaning into the mirror drying his face and opening the cabinet to reach for—

His brows furrowed at the clear empty space on the shelf that would usually housed his brush, running a hand thorugh his hair—eyes flitting around the bathroom before landing on you.

And you stifled a grin, holding it up smugly from behind him. “Looking for this?”

He turned around, eyeing you dramatically. “My saviour!”

“Hand me the gel,” you said, stepping up onto the little wooden stool you kept by the sink just for this reason. Sirius passed it to you obediently and stood still as you carefully slicked back his hair—your fingers threading through it with far more affection and attention to detail than necessary for simple grooming.

His motorbike helmet sat nearby, ready and waiting.

He watched you quietly as you fussed over his hair. He didn’t say it, but it was in his eyes, swimming gently behind his half-blown pupils—the affection, the comfort, the subtle contentment in the luck he had, that you were the one standing there, fussing over him.

When you finished, you gave his chin a gentle tap. He leaned in and kissed you again, longer this time—smiling against your lips.

“I’ll drive you,” he murmured, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. “So maybe a jacket, hmm?”

Like usual, Sirius drove from your workplace to his garage, the familiar hum of the engine beneath him like second nature now. The ride was short, but it was always enough to clear his head and slip him into that comfortable rhythm—the one that only came with grease-stained hands, petrol in the air, and the familiar clangs and creaks of a place that felt more like home than anywhere else.

By the time he rolled the bike up the ramp and into the workshop, the garage was already humming with life.

Music blasted from the scuffed speaker perched haphazardly on a high shelf—something fast and loud, the kind of thing you’d call ‘chaotic’ and he’d call ‘motivational.’ He tossed his helmet onto the bench, ran a hand through his hair—now slightly undone from the ride—and tugged his shirt over his head, leaving him in the plain tank beneath.

Tools clanked as he got to work, fingers nimble as he tuned a few finicky components in the engine. Between adjustments, he took moments to add a few new stickers to the side of the bike’s fuel tank—some sent by friends, others collected at odd shops, and one he’d been waiting to arrive for weeks. Hands working on muscle memory, a towel tucked into the waistband of his faded jeans, ready for the inevitable grease and smudges.

He didn’t notice James arrive until the soft crunch of tires sounded on the gravel outside. The car door slammed, and a familiar voice rang out, slightly muffled beneath the music. Sirius looked up with a grin as James strolled in, carrying a brown paper bag and two takeaway drinks.

“Oi, Pads!” James called, already grinning. “Brought lunch. Figured you’d forget to eat again unless it walked in on its own legs.”

Sirius laughed, tugging the towel from his waistband to wipe the oil from his hands as he made his way over. “Speak for yourself. I’m just incredibly selective with my meals.”

“Selective, my arse,” James shot back, giving him a few hearty taps on the back as they met in the middle of the garage. “You’d eat three bags of crisps and call it gourmet if it came with a pint.”

Sirius snorted, already peeking into the bag. “And yet you bring me exactly what I didn’t know I was dying for.”

“You’re welcome.” James flopped onto the worn leather sofa tucked into the corner of the garage—its cushions permanently dented from years of lounging, gaming, and midday naps. Sirius washed his hands properly in the sink this time, swapping out his grease-smudged top for a clean black tee before joining James with a satisfied hum.

They ate casually, talking in that way they always did—overlapping thoughts, half-finished stories, laughing at things they didn’t even need to explain anymore. But not long into it, James leaned back and let out a dramatic sigh.

“You know, I rarely see you anymore,” he complained, gesturing lazily with a crisp. “We live together. Or at least, I thought we did.”

Sirius just laughed, brushing the crumbs from his lap as he pushed off the couch and wandered back to the bike. “You’re being dramatic. You see me all the time.”

“Hmm,” James muttered. “Funny. The ghost of you leaves mugs in the sink but doesn’t speak.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, grabbing a stool and plopping down onto it, new stickers in one hand and a blowdryer in the other. He leaned over the bike carefully, lining up the next addition with practiced precision.

The collar of his shirt hung low on his shoulder as he concentrated, exposing just a bit of skin.

And James caught it immediately.

He sat up straighter, eyes narrowing with amusement. A very fresh, very obvious set of hickies peeked out from under the shirt, nestled high on Sirius’ collarbone and flushed faint pink, trailing down further than he could see.

And just like that, James was on his feet with a bounce in his step, sauntering over with all the mischief of a boy who’d just discovered the best secret.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, dragging out each word as he approached. “So that’s who’s been stealing you away then, Pads.”

Sirius didn’t even look up, brows furrowed in concentration as he forced an air bubble from under the letter. “What on earth are you on about now?”

James stopped just beside him, towering over the stool where Sirius was still focused on the bike’s curve, trying to smooth the sticker just right. His voice dipped into a hum.

“Hmm. Not sure. Could be the disappearing acts. Or maybe,” he said, dragging the moment out, “just maybe it’s the very telling bruises on your chest.” Putting a painful emphasis on the s, grinning at him like the cat that got the cream.

That got Sirius’ attention.

He blinked and turned his head sharply to look at James, realisation dawning almost instantly. “Fuck off,” he muttered, rolling his eyes and shifting on the stool, tugging his collar up without too much urgency—but the smirk that twitched at the corners of his lip gave him away.

And James just grinned wider. “Whoever she is, mate, she’s got a serious biting problem.”

“Oh, shove off, Prongs.”

“Does she know you get all flushed like a schoolboy when you’re caught?”

Sirius clicked the blowdryer on pointedly, drowning out James’ snickering. But even over the buzz, his grin was unmistakable, his ears tinged slightly pink.

James wasn’t going to let it go that easily—not when his best friend was clearly smitten. Not when Sirius was practically glowing with the kind of quiet joy that didn’t come from engines or speed or mischief—but from something, or more accurately someone, who’d managed to make even Sirius Black domesticated.

Or at least something very eerily close to it.

Sirius had been doing well to stay off James’ radar. He dodged the teasing with dramatic groans and artful deflections, buried any real details beneath smirks and shrugs and the occasional cryptic comment that meant nothing and everything all at once. You hadn’t talked about it explicitly—it wasn’t technically a secret—but Sirius hadn’t exactly broadcasted it either.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Hell, if it were up to him, he’d happily shout it from the rooftops. He’d staple flyers to lampposts. Spray paint your initials across the hood of his bike. But he also knew—without question—that James would wrestle him off said rooftop if he ever found out.

Not because James didn’t trust him. Not really.

But because James was just as, if not more protective over you than Marlene was. He always had been, you were one of his closest friends too. His sister in everything but blood. And from the very beginning, James had drawn the line so clearly it may as well have been carved in stone.

You were off limits. Non-negotiable.

And Sirius? Sirius understood. He got it. He respected it. Until you kissed him by the pool, your eyes glassy with drink and affection. Until you fell asleep in his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. Until he looked at you and saw something quiet and golden and terrifying.

And even then—especially then—James had still written it off. Dismissed it entirely.

Even after the way your eyes trailed after Sirius when you thought no one was watching. Even after Sirius had carried you to bed that night, careful and silent and far too gentle, while James followed with crossed arms and a tight jaw, muttering something about “no funny business.”

He’d made his stance perfectly clear. That night was the warning shot.

And Sirius?

Sirius had tried—really tried—not to fall over that line.

But lines get blurry in the dark. And when you invited him in for tea, slowed him down with soft eyes and an even softer voice—and he had no choice but to fall.

By some insane miracle, Marlene still remained the only one who knew.

And it’s not like you were being slick in the slightest—always together, practically attached at the hip, Sirius’ bike a permanent fixture outside your flat, his jacket thrown over the back of your couch, your shampoo smelling suspiciously like his cologne. Clothes folded together, mugs interchanged, playlists bleeding into one another like you’d been tangled up for years instead of months.

Realistically, all James needed to do to figure it out was open his eyes. Drive by your place, see Sirius’ bike parked out front. Stop by unannounced and spot his boots by the door, or worse—him, sprawled on your sofa like he paid rent.

But somehow, the world had yet to catch up with the two of you.

It was a random weekend when Sirius suggested driving you to his garage. “If you’re gonna keep nicking my shirts, might as well see where they end up covered in grease,” he’d said, flashing that easy grin, his hand already on the small of your back as you both headed out.

Placing a helmet on your head before riding out of your road.

It was your first time there—eyes wide with curiosity as you stepped into the wide, sunlit space that smelt like oil, metal, and faintly of something that was just...him.

Music booming from an old speaker tucked on a shelf, some grungy rock track you half-recognised, while Sirius pulled the garage door up with a heave and parked the bike inside.

He’d already shrugged off his jacket, wearing just a faded black tank that clung to his chest and arms like a second skin, muscles glistening slightly from the ride over. You’d been trying very hard not to oogle—failing miserably—as you wandered around, pretending to be interested in the shelves lined with tools you couldn’t name.

Watching from behind him on a rickety stool as his hands worked a wrench into a metal crevice with a whiny squeak.

But then you saw it.

A sticker on the side of his bike, your initials in bold—tucked into the design between a handful of other vinyl patches.

You blinked, scooting closer on the chair, hinges whining with each movement—eyes narrowing, head tilted. “...Is that...?”

He glanced back over his shoulder, lips twitching up into a smirk as he caught your stunned expression—following your eyes to the curve of his bike. “Took you long enough to notice,” he said, eyes glinting. “It’s been on there for weeks.”

You tried—really tried—to purse your lips and school your face into something unimpressed. But the smile tugging at your mouth was impossible to suppress. “You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, heart thudding against your ribs.

Sirius just wiped his hands on a rag and crouched down beside the engine again, voice light. “Could get you one of your own, y’know.”

“One of what?” You craned your neck to get a better look at him.

“A bike.”

You eyes all but pooped out of your head, jaw slacking. “Why the hell would I want my own personal death machine?”

He rolled his eyes, grinning, voice muffled by the hollow metal he spoke into. “Come on, you’ve been on mine loads of times. At this point you could probably drive me around.”

“Not the same,” you grumbled, arms crossing. “You know it’s not the same.”

But he was already straightening up, seriously considering it. “I could teach you.”

“No,” you said instantly—eyes closed as you shook your head.

“Yes,” he countered, and before you could even protest again, he had his hands at your waist and was lifting you, setting you down onto the leather seat of his bike like you weighed nothing. Voice was pinched and high as you squawked in his hold, “Sirius! I’m not qualified! This has to be illegal—”

“You’ve got a license, don’t you?”

“Not for this! I can barely drive a bloody Prius.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll stick a big ‘L’ plate on the back.” He winked. “That way everyone knows to stay the hell away.”

“Sirius, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“It’s literally not that hard.” He hopped on behind you, guiding your hands to the handles, voice low and patient in your ear. “You’ll be fine.” Settling his hands on your hips as he whispered lowly, words clear with each demonstrative reve of the engine.

You made a few hesitant attempts with him helping from behind, feet planted, steering gently, fingers over yours like a guide. And honestly—it wasn’t that hard. Not with him purring instructions into your ear, chest warm against your back—not with the way he made everything feel stupidly safe.

Eventually, he stepped back and nodded toward the open space in the lot. “Alright. Go on. Try a little circle, hotshot.”

Your heart thumped in your chest. “You’re insane.”

“Mmhm. And yet you love me.”

You didn’t have time to deny it before you were inching forward, tires rolling with a gentle hum. Keeping it slow, circling once, then twice, wind brushing past your cheeks and Sirius watching from a distance with that annoyingly proud smile.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad, the thrill, the rush—the undeniable adrenaline rushing through your veins, the feeling of invincibility going straight to your head.

Until the front wheel caught a thick stone on the ground just as you accidentally nudged the gear. The bike lurched forward, engine revving with unexpected speed. And panic crashed over you in an instant. Sirius was yelling—something about braking—but the sound was lost beneath the roar of the bike and the rush of blood in your ears.

Your hands fumbled—your balance tipped.

Catching sight of the brick wall in front of you, you swerved, narrowly avoiding it, but the motion threw you clean off the seat. And you hit the ground hard, a dull crack against your temple and your skin scraping viciously against concrete.

The pain was sharp, immediate, blooming hot across your arm and head.

You barely had time to process it before Sirius was there—running toward you, shouting your name—almost drowned out by the sound of the bike still revving a few meters away—shuffling against the gravel—dust kicking around the faintly turning wheel.

“Hey—hey, hey, I’ve got you—shit, love, stay still.” His hands were already on you, gentle but frantic, lifting you from the pavement as you winced, trying to blink away the spinning.

The whole underside of your arm stung, head throbbing as blood sticky and warm trickled from a gash above your brow. Sirius pressed the towel from his waistband to your forehead, muttering soft, soothing nonsense as he picked you up in his arms and carried you back into the garage.

“It’s okay, you’re alright. I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, half-choked with guilt and panic—pulse still ringing in your ears. “The bike—I didn’t mean to—I don’t know what happened—”

“Shh, it’s okay.” He settled you on the edge of the workbench, your legs dangling as he stood between them, brushing hair from your face. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“But I scraped it up—your bike’s probably all ruined—” you rambled, the words tumbling out in a breathless panic as you stared at the floor, the edges of your vision still fuzzy, the sting of your wounds flaring hotter with every second.

But Sirius was already in front of you, hands cupping your face with the kind of gentleness that shouldn’t have been possible from someone who’d just sprinted like his heart was on the line.

“Love.” His voice cut through your spiral like a balm. Steady. Low. Firm. “Right now, I don’t give a single shit about the bike.”

And then, with impossible tenderness, he leaned in—close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips, smell the faint trace of leather and metal and the shampoo you both used. Soft, fleeting, just a brush of his lips against yours like he wasn’t sure how much pressure you could handle right now. Like he didn’t want to break the moment, holding you like you were made of the finest china.

When he pulled back, air caught in your throat, heat swirling in your chest as his voice reached your ears.

“Just stay still,” he murmured. “Let me take care of you, yeah?”

You nodded

He exhaled, watching your face for a beat longer, like he was making sure you were still in there with him, then turned slightly, tugging open a drawer beside the bench with one hand while the other still braced lightly against your knee.

The first aid kit clattered onto the surface beside you, and he opened it with quick, practiced motions. You watched, dazed, as he tugged on a pair of gloves, popped the cap off a bottle of antiseptic, and gently soaked a gauze pad.

You winced as he reached for your arm, the sting of your scraped skin reigniting the moment his fingers brushed near.

Sirius worked quietly, brows drawn together in concentration, the soft scrape of gauze against your skin the only sound between you. Deft fingers careful and precise, but even then the occasional sting had you wincing slightly, shifting on the bench—legs swinging slightly off the edge, watching the way he moved like he was doing something sacred.

He didn’t say much—just pressed a little harder here, smoothed tape there—and finally muttered, half to himself, "How on earth am I ever supposed to leave you alone?"

It was meant as a joke. A throwaway. But you latched onto it without thinking.

“You…you don’t have to,” you said softly. “You could just move in with me.”

There was a pause.

Not dramatic. Not crushing. Just…quiet. His hand didn’t stop moving, didn’t flinch or drop or freeze. Sirius just kept working, brows furrowed as he concentrated on the last of your scrapes. He hummed faintly in response, but it was dismissive—distant. Unreadable.

Your stomach twisted. Shame crept in, slow and thick, your body tensing in its wake.

Too soon. It’s too soon. You pushed it. He’s not there yet.

Quickly you averted you gaze, focusing on the dangle of you legs—each flick of your shoelaces, retreating into yourself. “Actually, um…I probably don’t need any more fixing up—I feel fine,”

You started to hop off the bench, your head still spinning slightly, one foot hitting the floor with a wobble. Pain flared through your arm and your side as you shifted your weight, making you stumble slightly.

Sirius straightened in alarm. “Whoa, hey—where are you going?”

“M’fine now,” words rushed and breathy, brushing at your shirt like it could distract from your spiraling, arm burning at the stretch of your skin. “Really, I’m okay.”

“You’re still bleeding,” he deadpanned, brows pinched in concern, reaching for your waist again to steady you. “Let me finish. We can go home, yeah?”

You didn’t reply. Just nodded, eyes locked on the floor while he coaxed you gently back onto the bench. He kept working, patching the final gash on your forearm—but now there was something different in the air.

A silence that wasn’t peaceful. Tension had crept in, curled around the space between you.

Even as he applied pressure to the scraps, spread cold ointment over your skin, you remained silent—lips pursed together. Just the occasional hiss, and then silence again. Staring at your shoes, at the concrete your feet swung above.

When Sirius finally finished, peeling off his gloves with a snap, watching you closely. His voice was gentler now, lower—and you could feel his breath fanning over the surface of your skin.

“What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer, not looking at him.

So he stepped in closer, arms sliding around your waist, hands warm against your sides, caging you in. He tilted his head, trying to catch your eyes.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Talk to me. Does your head hurt?”

You glanced up, lips pursing again as you shake your head slightly. There was no accusation in your expression—just uncertainty. Vulnerability. Like you were already preparing for rejection. And it made him pause for a moment—eyes scanning your face before his lips twitched at the corners.

“I do want to move in with you, love,” he said softly, eyes warm as he looked down at you. “Of course I do.”

He held you gaze as you blinked, lips parting. “You don’t have to say that. I’m not upset. It’s perfectly fine if you don’t want to—really. I don’t know why I even said it—” Your voice sounded meeker than you’d wanted it too, not at all convincing.

“I’m not just saying it.” His voice dropped, edged with that dry Sirius Black sincerity that only ever showed itself when he needed you to believe him. “When do I ever just say things?”

Your brows arched upwards, giving him a long look. A very pointed one.

He huffed out a laugh, tipping his head like he was conceding the point. “Okay—fine, fair enough. But you asked me while I was trying to stop you bleeding out, trying to keep you from staining your lovely little outfit, by the way. I’m a simple man. Can’t focus on so many things at once.”

You couldn’t help the little laugh that escaped your lips, even through the lingering ache of embarrassment. He leaned in and kissed your cheek—soft, warm, forcing any shame away. His voice was quieter when he added—

“But I meant it. I want to move in. I want to be with you. Always.”

It had your breath stilling in your lungs, he felt so much closer now—too close, maybe. Body still radiating heat, arms still looped securely around your waist, thumbs idly tracing the edge of your shirt. You felt flushed again, but not from pain.

Flushed like the blood was torn on where to go—bouncing around your body, from the tips of your ears, base of your neck to the plastered cut by your brow—torn.

“Really?” you mumbled, dazed.

His smirk curved slow and easy against your skin as he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw.

“Reaalllly,” he drawled, voice low and teasing—before capturing your mouth again, this time deeper. Certain. Like a promise. Like a yes.

And you melted into it, the sting of your wounds forgotten in the warmth of his hands, the slide of his mouth against yours—slow at first, like he was savouring the feel of your lips under his, but it didn’t stay slow for long.

The adrenaline hadn’t fully worn off; it simply shifted—into the warmth of his hands roaming under your shirt, the drag of his teeth against your bottom lip, the way your legs instinctively bracketed his hips when he stepped between them again. You were back on the counter, your fingertips tugging at the hem of his vest, pressing into the bare skin just beneath it, desperate to feel something real—him, all of him, grounding and warm and yours.

It was messy and breathless and a little bit frantic, Sirius always had that affect on you. Everything holding a bit more intensity than normal—his palms splayed across your hips, thumbs digging into the dip where your thighs met the curve of your body as his mouth trailed kisses from your lips to your jaw.

“’s good you said yes,” you murmured between kisses, breath hitching as his tongue flicked against your pulse, “because…I already cut you a key.”

He froze just slightly—only to chuckle lowly against your skin, lips brushing your throat. “I know,” voice rough with laughter. “Saw it in your bag last week.”

You pulled back, startled. “You what?”

Sirius grinned, impossibly smug, the kind of wolfish, pleased smile that could undo you far more than anything he’d just done with his hands. “Meant to be a surprise, was it?”

The glare you gave him was weak at best, completely undermined by the way your hands were still under his shirt, now dragging lightly against the curve of his ribs.

He laughed again—loud and delighted—before pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss just beneath your ear, hands sliding to the curve of your back, pushing you into him. “Darling, how did you plan on keeping it a secret when I pack your bag every morning?” he asked, his words broken up by soft bites down your neck, tongue soothing the marks he left behind.

But you weren’t listening anymore.

The kisses had gone from teasing to distracting, and you were already breathless again, head tipped back, clutching at his vest as your thighs pulled him even closer.

You didn’t hear the car pulling around the corner.

Didn’t hear the idle screech of tyres over gravel. Or the distant clunk of the garage door as it creaked open.

Not until your eyes flicked sideways—catching a figure in your peripheral vision. A tall silhouette. Familiar glasses. Wide eyes.

A scream caught in your throat—coming out more like a shocked gasp, a strangled noise as you jolted as your entire body tensed—squeezing Sirius into a startle—nearly losing his footing as he spun around—arms coming up defensively like he thought someone had come to attack you.

Instead, there stood James Potter.

Frozen in the open doorway of the garage.

A bottle of wine dangling uselessly from one hand, and the most horrified, scandalised, absolutely floored expression etched across his face. His jaw hung open. Eyebrows nearly in his hairline. He looked like he’d walked in on a crime scene.

Sirius blinked, chest heaving, hair disheveled. “Prongs?”

His eyes landed on you first: flushed cheeks, bruised lips, a fresh bandage on your forehead, sitting on the bloody workbench like you'd been carefully laid out and devoured. His jaw all but fell off its hinges—finger point at Sirius as his eyes darted between the two of you.

James’ mouth opened and closed. Then opened again—arms lifting as he pointed furiously at Sirius. “What have you—what did you do to her?!”

Sirius opened his mouth to reply, utterly unrepentant, but James was already in melt-down mode, voice pitching as the dots connected in his head.

“This—you’re, I—”A slow, disbelieving exhale escapes his lips. “No,” he says finally, softly, like he’s trying to convince himself. “No, nope. I’m not seeing this.”

You scramble a bit—pushing Sirius out from where he was slotted between your legs, hands tugging your shirt straight. “James, I—”

He cuts you off. “No.” He looks at you, expression unreadable—turning his sights on Sirius, who was rather unbothered considering how unbecoming the entire situation was.

“She’s injured, Sirius. Injured. And you’re—what—ravaging my friend in your greasy murder garage?” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

“I was being gentle,”

Sirius shrugged with a light tone, dodging the nudge of your elbow that he knew was coming—and James nostrils flared slightly, like he’s biting down a thousand words.

Maybe you should have stayed silent—let Sirius deal with him, but you didn’t—words muttered beneath your breath, “He’s—he was patching me up?”

Sirius looked like he was biting his cheek to keep from laughing.

James gaped at you, expression mixed between disbelief and confusion “Right. Is that what we’re calling it!?”

You and Sirius stand in silence for a moment, his hand sliding around your waist again. And James drags a hand down his face again, throwing his hands in the air as he spun on his heel, already walking out.

“I don’t even wanna know anymore. I—I need a drink.”

[aetherraeys]

a night to remember

(pt2, pt3 x)

sirius black x afab!reader ⊹ 4.2k

cw ⟢ alcohol, swearing, sirius has a motorbike, drunk!reader, partying, drinking games, reader is a bit reckless

most of the time you avoided parties, you warned her that it was for good reason, marlene doesn't believe you could do any harm. she was so wrong, watching you in action as you make sirius black your first victim.

a/n: not proofread, im tempted to make a part two of this bcs i want biker sirius so BAD RARARARARAR also a bit dialogue heavy sorry x

Maybe, your first mistake was letting Marlene persuade you into attending this party her friend was holding. She’d been slowly wearing you down for weeks, planting the seed in your head ages before she popped the question.

And when you completely refused the first time, she didn’t push—oh no, that wasn’t her style. Instead, when she next came over—she subtly reintroduced the idea while handing you a pastry she’d bought enroute. You still didn’t entertain the idea, much prefering a night-in the mingling with drunk people, but you enjoyed the sweet treat.

Unfortunetly though, you were a weak soul, and she exactly how to sweeten you up, passing by your work when you were on your break, hinting at the idea again, this time you seemed very so slightly more agreeable. Finally, the straw that broke the camels back was when she came over to your small studio, matcha in hand, dvd copy of a film you’d been itching to see, and a bag of snacks.

Bringing it up again, this time with a little anecode—talking about the sweet girl who helped her secure her tattooing apprenticeship, Dorcas, and saying she couldn’t possibly go without her best friend.

With an exasperated sigh, you caved.

You had to commend her commitment to the cause.

Or maybe your real mistake was finally arriving at the party, only for Marlene—relentless as ever—to push a drink into your hand. "It’ll work wonders for the nerves," she assured you. "Everyone needs a bit of liquid courage."

You eyed the shot glass like it had personally offended you. "Marlene, I—"

"One," she cut in smoothly. "Just one. You’ll barely feel it."

That was a lie.

The drink burned as you forced yourself to swallow, a shiver running down your spine as a twisted grimace stuck to your face. Marlene just laughed, handing you another shot with a loud, "Bottoms up!"

And gods, you hated how quickly the liquor hit you. A slow, creeping warmth unfurled in your chest, blurring the sharp edges of the world, making your limbs feel weightless. The music pulsed through the floorboards, and suddenly, the crowd didn’t seem so unbearable.

If you were sober, you’d have scolded yourself, too easily coming the drunk that you dreaded being around—it wasn’t that you were messy or angry, no. You, thankfully, weren’t an emotional drunk either.

You were a friendly drunk.

The kind that skipped around with a too big, lazy grin pastered on your face for no reason, laugh with a bellow at silly things, and struck up conversations with strangers as if you’d known them your whole life.

You’d become a liability, not that Marlene minded, she lived for moments when you’d step out of your skin. And of course she knew you were fun, that’s why you were friends, but you reserved that side of you for a select few—clearly unless there was alcohol involved.

With the now, tipsy warmth curling through your veins, you found yourself nodding along enthusiastically to a conversation you hadn’t even been fully listening to.

At least this time it was with a familiar face.

You’d coincidentally met James when you’d called Marlene in need of a jumpstart, and she came to save the day with him, friendship easily blossoming between you.

He definetly wasn’t as drunk as you, but getting there for sure. He stood beside you, animated as ever—you’d had the brilliant idea of perching precariously on the edge of the sofa, swaying back and forths, swinging and kicking your legs out recklessly.

James had somehow fallen to the role of your bodyguard, not that he minded—finding you wildly entertaining, such a stark contrast from your usual self. He was just ensuring you didn’t cause too much chaos to those around you.

Though even when you did, all it took was one innocent wolfish grin and a candied giggle, to get away with it.

You still thought you had wits about you, vaguely aware of Marlene laughing at you from across the room.

It was all going quite well—until someone suggested Ring of Fire.

At first, you’d hesitated, knowing your tendancy to be a sore loser, but James had thrown an arm around you, grinning wildly, and Marlene had shouted something about how you needed to experience a proper drinking game at least once in your life. And well—you didn’t take much persuading.

Now, you were thoroughly trapped, wedged between James and another girl whose name you’d already forgotten, with a circle of people watching as you reached for a card from the makeshift pile in the center. Your fingers fumbled slightly, and James snorted.

“Steady there, love,” he teased, nudging you. “You pull a king, and we’re all doomed.”

You squinted at him, then at the card in your hand—a five. A chorus of cheers erupted around the group as someone yelled, “Five is for guys!” and the men groaned before collectively downing their drinks. James, ever the showman, made a dramatic display of it, throwing his head back with an exaggerated gasp before slinging an arm over your shoulders again.

You were well and truly out of your depth, the alcohol buzzing around your chest plesantly, your cheeks aching from laughing so much.

And then the front door swung open.

You’d never seen him before, knew absolutely nothing about him—but boy did you want to. There was just something about him, striking in the way he commanded the attention of the entire room without trying.

He didn’t so much as walk into the room to he did claim it, a lazy smirk already tugging at his lips as he surveyed the scene before him. Dressed in that same effortless, disheveled charm, hair pulled back into a low bun, helmet in hand, clad in leather, jacket slung over his shoulders like he owned the place.

Trapped by James at your side, your eyes remained fixed on Sirius, watching as he scanned the room—pausing, briefly, when his gaze landed on you.

You were shamelessly staring.

Dorcas couldn’t help it, the moment too good, the opportunity had practically fallen directly into her lap—begging to be taken.

“Well, well,” she mused under her breath, amusement thick in her voice. “Looks like someone’s got an admirer.”

You tore your gaze away, face burning, but it was too late—Sirius had already caught you. And judging by the slow, knowing grin spreading across his face, he wasn’t about to let it go unnoticed.

Sirius, with all the confidence of someone who knew exactly how good he looked, strolled over and dropped down into the circle like he’d been there all along. Someone handed him a drink without question—because of course they did—and he took a lazy sip before glancing at the pile of cards in the center.

"Jumping in late, Black?" James quipped, nudging him with his foot.

"Had to make an entrance, didn’t I?" Sirius drawled, flashing an easy smirk

If there was less liquor running through your bloodstream, you’d have been painfully embarrased still, you just managed to roll your eyes, the flush on your face slowly fading.

The game continued, rounds passing in a blur of drinks and laughter, and then—Marlene pulled a queen.

A wicked grin stretched across her face.

"Question round," someone cheered, already bracing for the chaos.

Dorcas, sitting cross-legged beside her, tilted her head, a slow smirk curling at the edges of her lips. "Alright, Marls," she mused, voice sweet and deceivingly innocent. "How many piercings do you have?"

Marlene blinked, clearly caught off guard. Then, after a moment of thought, she grinned proudly. "Nine."

A beat of silence. Then, a chorus of impressed murmurs.

"Hmmm" her voice adopting a skeptical and accusitory intonation, raising a single finger, " I only count seven."

There was a half-step of silence, allowing Marlene to take a large swig from her glass, leaning back confidently, chest puffed—”I’ve got nine.”

The group erupted.

Hoots and hollers filled the air, people whistling, James cackling beside you as someone banged a fist against the floor in delight. Marlene simply sipped her drink, looking unbearably smug as Dorcas sat back, expression nothing short of victorious.

"I knew it," she said, smirking.

"You minx," James gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "And here I thought I knew everything about you!"

"You've gotta leave some mystery, Jamie," Marlene teased, winking.

You laughed along with the rest of them, but you felt Sirius shift beside you, an amused huff of laughter escaping him. When the cheers finally settled, it was his turn.

With the air of someone who was far too entertained by all of this, he turned his gaze onto James. "Alright, Prongs," he drawled, tapping his fingers against his bottle. "How many tattoos have you got?"

James sputtered mid-sip, nearly choking on his drink. "What—?!"

Sirius grinned. "Come on, be honest. We’re among friends here."

James set his drink down, shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh. "You wish you knew, Pads."

"That’s not a number," Dorcas sing-songed, leaning forward. "Give us a number, Potter."

James narrowed his eyes, clearly debating his options. Finally, he huffed. "Three."

The room went silent for a split second before absolute chaos ensued.

You turned to him, betrayed—”WHERE?!" someone shrieked.

"Liar!" Marlene accused, pointing dramatically.

Sirius, looking thoroughly entertained, leaned back on his hands, his grin positively wolfish. "Well, well, well."

James was grinning now, clearly enjoying the uproar he’d caused. He waggled his eyebrows at the group, leaning back against the sofa with the air of someone who knew he held all the power in this moment.

"Three?" Marlene repeated, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. "Three?"

James simply raised his drink to his lips, taking a slow, exaggerated sip.

Everyone knew about his arm tattoo, Dorcas having done the fineline work herself, now watching him like she was trying to decipher a particularly tricky puzzle.

"Okay, okay," you cut in, still giggling. "But where?"

The group leaned in, expectant.

James smirked. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

The reaction was immediate—groans, shouts, a few cushions thrown in his direction.

"James!" Marlene practically whined, flopping onto Dorcas in defeat. "You can’t just say that and not elaborate!"

But James only shrugged, clearly reveling in his newfound mystery. "A magician never reveals his secrets."

The group was still laughing when the game moved on, but you could feel the shift in the air, the residual heat of the conversation lingering like smoke. Your tipsy mind was already running with possibilities, and judging by the way Marlene kept side-eyeing James with renewed suspicion, you weren’t the only one.

And then it was your turn.

You reached for a card, flipping it over to reveal—another queen.

A fresh round of chaos stirred.

"Oooooh," Marlene cooed, nudging you excitedly. "Alright, sweetheart, pick your victim."

Your mind swam through options, but in your slightly drunken haze, you weren’t feeling particularly cruel. You hummed in thought, gaze flickering across the group.

And then, as if pulled by some unseen force, your eyes landed on Sirius.

The second your gaze met his, a slow, knowing smirk curled at his lips.

Oh, this was dangerous—but you were already committed.

"Sirius," you said sweetly, feigning innocence. "How many people in this room have you kissed?"

A sharp, collective oooooooh echoed through the space, the energy shifting into something much more intrigued.

Sirius grinned.

James, beside you, let out a delighted cackle, clapping his hands together. "Merlin, I love this game."

Marlene gasped, eyes gleaming. "Oh, this is good."

Sirius exhaled through his nose, amusement flickering behind his eyes as he stretched his legs out, completely at ease despite the attention suddenly pinned on him. He tilted his head, pretending to think.

"Well," he mused, his voice rich with amusement, "define kissed."

More shouts, more laughter.

James practically howled. "Mate, that is not a difficult question."

"It is if you’re me," Sirius shot back smoothly.

Sirius looked at you then—directly at you—his smirk slow and teasing, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Tell you what," he murmured, leaning forward slightly, voice just loud enough for the group to hear. "Why don’t you take a guess?"

The room erupted again, an unmistakeble flush sprung to your cheeks, and everything you could've possibly said left you brain. His gaze making your brain melt more than it already had.

You were so finished.

More rounds passed, more drinks were downed, and at some point, you’d stopped keeping track of who was winning and who was just there to cause chaos.

And then you pulled a king.

The last king.

The reaction was immediate.

A loud gasp, followed by a dramatic, "Ohhh, shit!" from someone behind you. The cup in the middle—an ungodly mix of everyone’s leftover drinks—was waiting.

James’ face dropped.

You see, not only were you easily affected by alcohol, you’d spent the majority of the night backing drinks faster than your body could handle, and you weren’t of a particularly large stature—the abomination in the middle, was a full bottles worth of alcohol.

He’d been sobering up the last half hour anyway, but now, he was fully aware of what was about to happen.

“Absolutely not,” he declared, sitting up straighter, his hand already halfway to intercepting. “That is the last thing you need right now.”

You waved him off, a lopsided grin on your face. “I can handle it.”

That was with out a doubt the alcohol talking.

James knew it. You probably knew it.

But it didn’t matter, because the group was already chanting, egging you on, and you’d never been one to back down from a challenge. With a flourish, you grabbed the cup, giving James a wink before throwing it back.

It was foul.

The mix of liquor burned like fire, and you had to fight the urge to gag, blinking rapidly through the sting. The room cheered as you slammed the empty cup down, a ridiculous war cry-esque sound leaving you in triumph, but the moment you stood—legs wobbling dangerously—James knew.

You’d lost.

He reached for you, but you were already stumbling back, nearly landing on Marlene, who had to clutch your arm to steady you.

"Oh, that’s it," she howled, practically doubling over in laughter. "She’s a goner."

That traitor. She’d basically brainwashed you into coming to a party—got you smashed and was cosigning the beginning of a truly awful reign of terror.

That drink had been the finishing blow. You’d teetered over the edge and were now firmly in the reckless drunk category—something Marlene had only ever warned James about once, you always kept such a tightlid on yourself. Your friends knew that—once in a blue moon indulging in the fun things in life, moments when your friends got to see you let loose were few and far inbetween. Even for Marlene, and you’ve known her most of your life.

More than anything, it was because you weren’t the biggest fan your drunk self. Usually insighting casual chaos here and there, nothing too extreme. But after, you always felt like you’d been a chore, fearful of having ruined the night for others with your outlandish tendancies.

Even though your friends tell you that you’re really not as bad as you think you are.

Although, tonight you seem hellbend on proving them wrong.

Because now you’d disappeared.

Not literally. You were still very much in the room, but now, no one could keep track of you.

You weren’t drinking anymore—thank Merlin for that, because your bladder was full to the brim—but you were everywhere else.

One second, you were twirling in the middle of the room, grabbing strangers to spin around with you. The next, you were on the table, belting out the lyrics to the song playing—all wrong, but with such confidence that no one cared.

At some point, a layer of your clothing had come off—a jacket? A sweater?—and you’d swung it around ungracefully, whipping James in the face at least once.

“For the love of God,” he groaned, trying to wrestle it from your grip.

Sirius was watching now, equal parts entertained and mildly concerned, swirling his drink as he leaned back, eyebrows raised. Marlene and Dorcas were in stitches, watching as you flitted across the room like an untamed storm, dancing and twirling with whoever would let you. And then, just as James was considering whether or not he needed to actually intervene, he noticed something.

The person you were currently dancing with?

Not a stranger at all.

Sirius, still looking far too entertained, raised an eyebrow as you grabbed his hands, spinning him wildly. “Well, well,” he drawled, lips curling into a slow smirk as he let you drag him into the chaos. “Didn’t think I was your type, sweetheart.”

You didn’t even register the teasing lilt in his voice.

“Less talking more dancing!” you all but commanded, tugging him forward. It wasn’t long before the music began to shift. Gone were the loud, reckless beats that had fueled your earlier antics—replaced now by something smoother, sultrier. A deep bass thrummed through the room, the melody melting into something slow and seductive.

It seeped into your bloodstream, guided your movements as you swayed, your body languid and fluid, the weight of the night settling into your limbs like honey. Sirius was still there, his hands warm where they rested against your waist, fingers pressing just enough to keep you anchored, to keep you from stumbling.

You leaned into him, movements effortlessly enticing, not even trying to tempt but doing so anyway. A playful game of push and pull—dancing just out of reach before melting back into him, the alcohol making you bolder, more carefree.

His grip on you tightened instinctively when you rocked back against him, your head tipping back in laughter, body fitting against his like you belonged there. His breath hitched—just slightly—but you didn’t seem to notice, still lost in the music, in the moment, in the way the world spun around you like a hazy dream. You weren’t as untamed as before, the mellow thump of the music, allowed your heartrate to slow—the pressure of the night antics settling into your bones.

You hummed into him, less clumsy than you’d had been when you first reached for his hand, alcohol less polluting in your veins—your eyes now able to focus on him. With a hand on his neck, fingertips threaded into the stray hairs at the nape of his neck, you pulled him down towards you, lips brushing the shell of his ear, your breath warm as you whispered, "I need some fresh air."

Sirius barely had time to process your words before you pulled away, slipping from his grasp with a grin and making your way toward the open doors leading to the garden. He watched as you paused at the threshold, silhouetted by the moonlight, eyes locked onto something beyond.

The pool.

The cool air hugged you so pleasantly, diffusing the heat that had been radiating off of your skin the whole evening. The surface of the water ever so light, occassional ripples—so tranquill, almost gleaming under the night sky, the water dancing with silvery reflections, beckoning you closer.

And it did call to you—so much so that you felt incline to reach for the hem of your sweater and tugged it over your head, revealing the soft fabric of your tank top beneath. “Oh, fuck,” he muttered, watching you stand prettily, skin softly illuminated by the lights in the garden. But still standing just a touch too far away.

Sirius blinked, gaze flickering back to you as you stretched, rolling your shoulders, feigning nonchalance. “Bit warm in here,” you mused.

James, horror dawning, immediately turned to Sirius. He shook his head at James, almost as if to wordlessly say, “She wouldn’t,”

But James has a pained expression, his face scrunched, with a wince and a knowing nod—affirming that, yes, you actually would.

You shimmied out of your bottoms.

Marlene gasped, Dorcas choked on her drink, and James physically recoiled. “Oh, no, no, no—"

But it was too late.

There you stood—clad in nothing but your tank top and what Sirius can’t help but notice is a very pretty set of lacy underwear, utterly unbothered as you took a step forward, toes curling against the cool tiles at the pool’s edge.

Sirius barely had the presence of mind to curse before you ran.

For a second, there was silence, all remaining eyes in the room looked to the outside.

“Oh, fuck me—"

Sirius was already moving, yanking his shirt off in one swift motion before diving in after you, water crashing around him. The water was so cold, mindnumbingly so—but when he resurfaced, hair dripping, chest heaving, scanning the pool for you—still unable to believe the situation he was in right now, trousers heavy, socks soaked, just generally soaked actually. He was quick to spot you—

You were fine.

More than fine, actually—floating on your back, eyes closed, a blissful smile on your face.

Sirius blinked. "What the fuck?" Forcing harshly out of his mouth to deter the chlorine filled water from entering his mouth.

You turned your head, grinning at him. “That was refreshing.”

"Refreshing?" he repeated, incredulous, pushing his wet hair back, stands now fell from where it was so neatly tied back before.

"You jumped in without a second thought—"

“I’m sure she thought about it, just a bit,” Marlene quipped from the sidelines, towels in hands, clearly thriving in the chaos.

James, still looking slightly pale, pinched the bridge of his nose, mumbling how this was surely going to make him die young.

You giggled, drifting closer to Sirius, who was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that you’d actually done it. "Sorry to ruin your hero moment," you teased, nudging him with your foot. "But—" You tipped your head back, stretching your arms through the water lazily. "I do know how to swim, Black."

Sirius just stared at you, shaking his head with a soft chuckle, mumbling something along the lines your, ”you really are something, huh,”

The water lapped around you in gentle waves as you floated aimlessly, your limbs loose, body weightless. The shock of the cool pool had settled into a pleasant hum beneath your skin, the drunken haze in your mind softened but still present, making everything feel easier.

Your gaze, however, wasn’t on the water.

It was on him.

Sirius hoisted himself up onto the edge of the pool, arms flexing effortlessly as he pulled his weight onto the marble. The muscles in his back tensed as he leaned forward slightly, shaking out his wet hair, droplets running down his bare skin. The moonlight cast him in a silvery glow, accentuating every dip and ridge of his toned body, the inky swirls of his tattoos stark against his skin. You traced them with your eyes, shamelessly drinking him in—how the water clung to his chest, glistening; how his dark hair dripped, stray strands curling against his sharp jaw.

You swam toward him without thinking, the water parting easily as you pushed through. When you reached the pool’s edge, you rested your arms on his thighs, then let your head fall onto his lap, blinking up at him through wet lashes.

Sirius exhaled, a sharp breath, and you barely noticed how his jaw tensed.

The water had made your tank top nearly translucent, clinging to your body, the outline of your breasts painfully visible. He swallowed, throat bobbing, his usually sharp tongue failing him for a beat too long.

You remained completely oblivious, your grin lazy, gaze full of an almost innocent mischief. Your fingers trailed idly over his knee, aimless, absentminded.

“Y’know, Sirius,” you mused, your voice honeyed with liquor and warmth, “you’re really hot.”

Before he could process the words, you shifted—lifting yourself up just enough to press a soft, fleeting kiss against his lips, the taste of pool water lingering between you.

And then, just as easily as you came, you pulled back, tilting your head at him with an amused little hum, as if you had no idea what you’d just done.

Sirius stared.

Then, suddenly, he let out an incredulous laugh, the sound rich and disbelieving. He fell back, his back colliding with the cold marble of the poolside, one hand running through his dripping hair as he shook his head.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, voice laced with wry amusement, staring up at the night sky. "You're gonna kill me, sweetheart.”