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cipheress-to-k-pop · 1 month ago

Text

bloodlines (m.r.)

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 13.2k (wow)

Summary: When a centuries-old vow comes into fruition, you're bound to the boy who once swore he'd never love anyone — especially not you.

A/N: I actually hate this😭

Week 3 of @acourtofchaos's Festival of AUs

@obsessedwithceleste hope u like it pookie <3

The crackling of the fire in the hearth was the sole sound that stirred the stillness, each pop and hiss echoing through the chamber like a whisper of fate. Draped in heavy maroon velvets, the man in the high-backed chair let out a weary sigh, his gaze sharp as steel as it settled upon the figure opposite him.

"How am I to know you’ll keep your word, Salazar?" He asked, "You've never been one to turn away from glory — especially when it's for your own name."

His companion, cloaked in darker hues, paused. A slow, sly smile crept across his face — thin, deliberate, and far too familiar. Godric couldn't help but think of his companion’s namesake — all that was missing was a forked tongue singing sweet lies.

"Then let us bind our names as one," Salazar said at last, his tone smooth as still water, "What glory comes to Slytherin shall then be glory to Gryffindor as well."

Godric narrowed his eyes, fingers running through his beard. A humorless breath escaped him, half laugh, half warning, "You’ve no daughter, Salazar."

"Not yet, that much is true," The other replied calmly, "Yet that is the very point — a safeguard. Let us seal the pact with magic: when our descendants are come of age, they shall wed. Should they fail to do so… then let their bloodline be forfeit."

Godric regarded him in silence, the fire casting shifting shadows across his face. After a long pause, he stood.

"Very well," He said, "You have a deal, old friend."

***

Potions was hardly the class you needed to attend when you were this sleep-deprived. Snape gave out instructions quick and fast and one after the other — and it was difficult enough to catch all of them while wide awake. In your current state, it was a blessing you were understanding every second word.

You’d been plagued by nightmares all night — visions of a dark room barely touched by light, the hiss and rattle of a snake’s tail, and a searing golden thread weaving itself through your chest, leaving a burning trail in its wake as it tied a tight knot around your heart. You woke up feeling like something ancient had looked directly into your soul.

The classroom buzzed with low murmurs and the occasional clink of glass as students moved about, carefully preparing their assignments. You stood at your workstation with Hermione, watching your cauldron bubble gently as she measured out powdered moonstone.

“Careful,” She muttered, “Snape said too much will make it foam—”

Before you could respond, there was a loud laugh from the back of the room.

“Oi, Nott — your stirring looks like a troll having a fit!” Blaise teased, shoving Theo lightly from behind.

Theo rolled his eyes, scoffing, “You wish your potion looked half as decent, Zabini—”

But Blaise gave him another nudge — harder this time, more of a shove.

Theo stumbled back, and before you could react, his shoulder slammed into yours with full force.

You gasped and staggered forward, crashing into the classmate standing in front of you. You hit Mattheo Riddle square in the chest — hard.

And then — everything went wrong.

The moment his skin brushed yours, the room exploded in light. A brilliant, blinding pulse of gold erupted between you — not fire, not lightning, but magic, raw and ancient and alive. The light burst outward in a shockwave that swept through the room.

Every cauldron detonated at once.

Glass shattered. Potions hissed and spilled across the floor. Shrill screams echoed off the stone walls. Smoke and sparks filled the air.

You and Mattheo stumbled apart, dazed and breathless — and yet, the golden thread of light still shimmered faintly between your fingertips.

Everyone in the classroom froze.

Hermione had her wand half-raised, eyes wide. Ron was crouched behind the table, shielding his potion-splattered notes. Harry looked between you and Mattheo like he’d just witnessed the first sign of the apocalypse.

“What the hell was that?” Malfoy demanded from across the room, brushing sludge off his robes.

“Did you see that light?” “She cursed him—” “No, he cursed her—!”

“Enough!” Snape bellowed, storming out of the smoke cloud, looking more furious than you’d ever seen him.

But before he could speak further, another voice cut clean through the chaos like a blade.

“Miss (L/N). Mr. Riddle. You will come with me. Now.”

Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway, as if the castle itself had summoned her the second it happened. Her eyes were sharp as steel behind her spectacles, and the look on her face made your stomach twist with dread.

Mattheo didn’t say a word. He just shot you a glare — like this was somehow your fault — and stepped past the wreckage toward the door.

You followed in stunned silence, the echo of that magic still buzzing in your bones.

You had no idea what had just happened. But it had changed something. And you could feel it — whatever this was… it would never be the same again.

***

The heavy oak doors to the Headmaster’s office creaked open on their own, and you stepped inside behind McGonagall, your nerves fraying with every step. Mattheo Riddle trailed a few paces behind you, shoulders squared, jaw clenched like he was ready to bite someone’s head off.

Professor Snape was already inside, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He didn’t even blink when you walked in — just tilted his head like he was mentally cataloguing your sins.

But it was Dumbledore who drew your attention. He stood in front of his desk, hands clasped, that same maddeningly calm expression on his face.

"Ah. Miss (L/N)," He said warmly, "And Mr. Riddle. Good. You're both here."

You barely had time to open your mouth before he added, with a small twinkle in his eye:

“And… a very happy birthday, (Y/N).”

You blinked, “Um… thank you, Professor?”

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. It wasn't the usual eccentric kindness you were used to from him. There was something off about it. Something purposeful.

You glanced nervously at McGonagall, who was avoiding your eyes for once, lips pressed into a thin line. Snape still hadn’t moved.

“…Did I do something wrong?” You asked, voice quiet, “Because I didn’t—”

“You didn’t,” Dumbledore cut in gently, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

You exhaled — a brief flicker of relief — before his next words sent your stomach plunging.

“But you have… reached a rather important day. One that has long been awaited.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “What are you talking about?”

Dumbledore turned, walked behind his desk, and drew out a drawer. From it, he retrieved a scroll of ancient parchment — so old and brittle that it looked like it might crumble if you breathed too hard. Strange runes glowed faintly along the edges in gold and green ink.

“It may surprise you,” Dumbledore said slowly, unrolling the scroll with care, “to learn that you are not the first in your family to attend Hogwarts. In fact… you are of a very old line. One that traces directly back to Godric Gryffindor himself.”

Your mouth parted slightly, “Wait—what?”

“And Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore continued, without looking at Mattheo, “descends from another of our founders — Salazar Slytherin.”

Mattheo scoffed, crossing his arms, “Yeah? So what?”

Dumbledore’s eyes lifted, suddenly sharper — older, “So… a pact made a thousand years ago, in secrecy and desperation, has finally come to pass.”

“A pact?” You echoed, staring at the glowing scroll, “What kind of pact?”

McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence — tight and grave, “A magically binding agreement. Between the founders themselves. A vow that, should descendants of their lines be born in the same generation… they would be joined. In marriage.”

The word hit the room like a curse.

“A marriage,” Dumbledore confirmed, “Written into the fabric of their magic itself. Designed to activate when the conditions were… finally right.”

You stared at him.

“No. That’s — that’s insane.”

“I would be inclined to agree.” Snape muttered dryly.

Dumbledore continued, unshaken, “The spell lay dormant for centuries. Until today.”

“Because we — because I touched him?” You asked, turning toward Mattheo, who now looked two seconds from spontaneous combustion.

“Because you are now of age,” Dumbledore said gently, “and the pact recognizes you both. When your magic met his — it awakened.”

Snape finally spoke, voice cold, “You both witnessed the first sign today. The flare. The bond. Arcane magic, woven into your blood, has reawakened. You can no longer deny it.”

You stumbled back a step, hand pressing over your chest like you could still feel the thread of it under your skin — humming, burning.

Mattheo was the first to break the silence. His voice came out low, sharp, “So that’s it? I’m supposed to marry her because two dead men thought it was a good idea a thousand years ago?”

He scoffed, disgusted. “Are you all completely mad?”

Dumbledore held up a hand, “For now, I only ask that you both take this seriously. This magic is older than all of us — and it is already in motion.”

You swallowed hard, your voice shaking, “…And what happens if we don’t?”

Dumbledore hesitated — and that alone made your heart stop.

“It is my belief,” he said quietly, looking straight at you, “that if the vow is not fulfilled…you may lose your magic. Possibly… even your life.”

Your breath caught.

No. No, no, no—

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like you might vomit. Your lungs refused to expand. You barely heard McGonagall calling your name as your knees gave slightly.

Mattheo let out a humorless laugh, “Then let her die for all I care. I’m not marrying her. I don’t care if the whole castle burns down.”

And then he stormed out, slamming the door so hard that several portraits shouted in protest.

You stood frozen, tears burning your eyes. Even though you hadn’t wanted this marriage either, something about his words — how easily he said it — made something inside you crack.

“Am I really going to lose my magic?” you asked in a whisper, “Am I going to die?”

McGonagall was at your side instantly, her hand warm on your back as you began to sob, trying and failing to breathe through the panic.

Your first day as an adult. And already… you’d been sentenced to death.

***

The entrance to the Slytherin common room slithered open with a hiss, the chill of the dungeons seeping into Mattheo’s skin as he stepped inside. The low greenish light cast shadows across the stone walls, the usual scent of damp earth and smoke curling in the air.

“Oi, there he is — the man of the hour,” Blaise called from the corner, lounging on a leather sofa with Theo and a few others scattered around, “Thought you'd get stuck in detention for the rest of your life. Was worth it though — we got to leave class early.”

Mattheo forced a scoff, striding toward them with the practiced swagger he wore like armor, “The old crones are all senile.”

Theo snorted, “What happened anyway? She bumped into you and you lost your mind ‘cause her filthy hands doth not touch the pure skin of Mattheo Riddle?”

A few of the others laughed. Mattheo didn’t. He just dropped into the seat next to Blaise, jaw tight.

“I bumped into her. That’s all.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, “Bumped into her and what, set off a bloody fireworks show? Draco took four showers to get the Bubotuber pus out of his hair.”

Mattheo’s fingers tightened around his wand, “I said it was nothing.”

But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel it again — a dull tingling in his head, a sharp kind of pain right behind his eyes that made him screw them shut.

He raised his wand, needing a drink of water.

“Accio.” He muttered, aiming at a glass across the room.

A spark of light flickered. The glass wobbled. Then nothing.

Theo blinked, “Mate, what the hell was that? You losing your touch?”

Mattheo frowned, “I’m just tired. Had one of the most bizarre conversations of my life.”

He gripped the wand tighter — too tight — and tried again.

“Accio.”

A more violent spark this time — and then CRACK. The glass shot across the room like a bullet and slammed into the stone wall behind them, shattering into a million pieces. A few people flinched. Someone swore.

Mattheo didn’t look at the shards of glass.

He was staring at his hand.

It was shaking. Barely — just a tremor in his fingers, almost imperceptible — but it was there.

“Mattheo?” Blaise’s voice was cautious now, “You alright?”

Mattheo’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

Something was wrong. It was the way his magic felt. Like it wasn’t entirely his anymore. Like something was tugging on it — pulling threads loose in places he couldn’t see.

He stood abruptly.

“I’m going to bed.”

And without another word, he stalked off toward the dorms, leaving the others exchanging uneasy looks behind him.

***

The warm glow of the Gryffindor common room wrapped around you like a fragile shield as you pushed open the portrait hole. The chatter and laughter of your friends filled the air — Ron sitting cross-legged by the fire, Hermione quietly reading a book, and Harry leaning against the armrest, eyes lifting as you entered.

“(Y/N)!” Hermione’s smile faltered the moment she saw your face, “Are you—?”

But before she could finish, something inside you broke loose. The tight control you’d clung to shattered, and tears spilled unbidden down your cheeks.

You stumbled forward, unable to stop yourself, and Harry was instantly at your side, arms wrapping around you with steady strength. You leaned into him, your body shaking as sobs wracked your frame.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Harry murmured softly, his voice gentle as the warmth of the fire, “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You let the tears fall, the hurt and fear and confusion pooling in your chest and spilling out at last.

Ron and Hermione watched quietly, giving you space, their eyes full of concern but never pressing for answers.

***

The first light of dawn crept faintly through the narrow, green-tinted windows of the Slytherin dormitory, casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. Blaise sat up on the edge of his bed, nudging Mattheo’s shoulder with a lazy, “Oi, Mattheo, time to get up.”

There was no response.

He frowned and gave the shoulder another shove, “Wake up, you bloody tosser, or we’re gonna leave you here.”

Still nothing.

Theo, pulling on his uniform, raised an eyebrow, “He’s out cold or something?”

Blaise frowned deeper, reached out, and gently rolled Mattheo onto his back.

They both froze.

Mattheo’s face was ghostly pale — the usual sharp lines softened, drained of color. His eyes remained shut tight, breathing shallow and uneven.

But it was the dark crimson stains that stole Blaise’s breath — blood soaked the pillow beneath Mattheo’s head, seeping into the white sheets, splattered around the bed like a grim painting. Fresh, vivid, unmistakable.

Blaise’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Fuck… is that blood?”

They leaned closer, horror rising as trickles of dried blood traced haunting paths from his ears, nose, and the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly, Mattheo began to cough — a wet, painful hack that shook his whole body. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. His coughing turned into choking, a gargling, desperate sound as he struggled against the blood flooding his throat.

“Get a professor!” Blaise yelled, panic sharpening his voice.

Theo didn’t hesitate — he bolted from the room, racing through the dungeons to find help.

***

You pushed open the doors to the hospital wing, your heart thudding hard in your chest. Professor McGonagall’s owl had found you at dinner— a curt summons with no explanation, only urgency in the hurried scrawl of her handwriting.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. The soft clinks of vials and the distant rustle of linens were the only sounds as you stepped inside. The smell of antiseptic and iron hit you all at once — sharp, metallic, unmistakable.

Your pace slowed as you spotted them.

McGonagall. Dumbledore. Snape. And Madam Pomfrey.

All gathered around a single hospital bed.

The pit in your stomach grew deeper with every step as you approached.

It wasn’t until you rounded the bed that you saw who lay in it.

Mattheo.

Your breath caught.

He was barely recognizable. Pale — deathly pale — with dark shadows under his eyes and dried blood flaked around his mouth and nose. His usually sharp, arrogant features were slack with exhaustion. Soaked cloths were piled on the table beside him, stained deep crimson. A silver basin sat on the floor, half full with water and flecks of blood.

You stared, frozen, mouth parting in disbelief.

“…What—” Your voice cracked, the word barely a whisper, “What happened to him?”

No one answered at first. Madam Pomfrey wrung out another bloodied cloth and dabbed gently at the side of Mattheo’s mouth. He flinched but didn’t stir.

You looked at McGonagall, your voice harder now, “Professor?”

McGonagall exchanged a glance with Dumbledore, then stepped forward.

Dumbledore sighed quietly, folding his hands before him, “The effects began soon after the vow was unfulfilled.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“When Mr. Riddle rejected the vow — forcefully — the binding magic retaliated. Violently.” McGonagall said, her voice tight with strain.

You blinked, “Wait — so this is because he said no?”

Snape nodded, eyes cold and grim, “The pact is ancient, arcane, and sentient in its own way. It punishes defiance.”

“And if… if we don’t go through with it?” You asked quietly, the words sticking to your throat like ash, “He’s going to die?”

No one spoke at first.

Then Dumbledore nodded, solemn, “Yes.”

You stared at them, waiting for someone to laugh. To say it was a test or a joke or some horrible misunderstanding.

But they just stood there, faces lined with worry and exhaustion.

Your hands curled into fists.

“So let me get this straight,” You said slowly, your voice rising, “He tells me to drop dead — literally — storms out, acts like I’m some sort of plague, and now I’m supposed to what? Save him? Marry him? Because he decided to spit in the face of something he didn’t understand?”

Snape arched a brow, about to respond, but you cut him off with a sharp shake of your head.

“No. I’m not doing this. He made his choice. He wanted me to die instead. He said it himself — let her die for all I care. So where’s that bravado now, Riddle? Hm?” You looked at him again, still unmoving, still barely clinging to life, “You wanted me gone. So why the hell should I save you?”

No one tried to stop you when you turned and stormed out of the room, fury choking your throat.

But as you stepped into the corridor, just before the doors swung shut behind you, you heard voices behind you — low, urgent.

“…his breath is getting fainter.”

“At this rate, I’m not sure he’ll make it through the night.”

Your steps faltered.

And for a moment — just one — the triumph you thought you’d feel turned into something much heavier.

Like guilt.

Like dread.

But you walked away anyway.

***

The Gryffindor common room was quiet, the fire long since reduced to embers. You sat curled up on the armchair closest to the hearth, knees to your chest, the hem of your pajama pants twisting around your ankles. You hadn't moved in hours.

You couldn’t sleep.

Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was Mattheo — pale, barely breathing, the blood, the stillness, the weight of it all pressing in around you like a vice.

You told yourself he deserved it.

You told yourself you were right.

But then you remembered the way his lips were tinged blue. The way Madam Pomfrey’s hands shook when she dabbed the blood from his face. The way no one — not even Dumbledore — had been able to hide the fear in their eyes.

And then there was the way your heart had twisted in your chest when you heard them say he might not make it to morning.

It was past midnight now. The castle was silent.

You stood before you could think, arms wrapping around yourself for warmth as you padded barefoot through the corridors, the stone cold beneath your feet. You didn’t even bring a robe. Just your pajama pants and an old sweater. You didn’t care.

You just… had to see him.

The doors to the hospital wing groaned softly as you slipped inside. The lamps had been dimmed, casting long shadows across the rows of beds. Only one of them was occupied.

Mattheo.

“Miss (L/N)?” Came a voice from beside him, but you couldn’t even make eye contact with your professor — your eyes were locked onto the boy lying in the bed, on the verge of death.

He hadn’t moved.

His skin was even paler now, his breathing barely visible beneath the thin blanket draped across his chest. The basin beside the bed had been cleaned, but the faint scent of blood still lingered in the air.

You stood there for a long moment, arms still crossed tightly over your chest.

“I’ll do it.”

The words came out quieter than you expected. Like a secret. Like a surrender.

Your voice trembled as you took a step closer, “I’ll marry him.”

You looked over at McGonagall, throat tight, and nodded.

“I’ll do it,” You said again, “If it’ll stop this. If it’ll save him.”

Dumbledore appeared from the adjoining room, his eyes tired but gentle, “Are you sure, my dear?”

You looked down at Mattheo — at the stubborn furrow in his brow, still etched there even now. At the way he looked like a ghost in his own body.

“No,” You whispered, “But I’d never forgive myself if he died and I knew there was something I could’ve done to stop it.”

“You’re going to have to cast the spell yourself, Miss (L/N),” McGonagall said softly.

You nodded, eyes still locked on Mattheo.

You sat in the chair beside his bed and reached out — slowly, hesitantly — to take his hand.

It was cold.

But you held it anyway.

The silence in the hospital wing was thick — like the room itself was holding its breath.

Mattheo didn’t stir as you sat beside him, his hand heavy and cold in yours. Madam Pomfrey stepped back, her hands clasped tightly. Dumbledore watched you with a strange sorrow in his eyes. McGonagall stood beside him, her expression unreadable. And Snape... Snape looked like he already knew how this would end.

You looked down at Mattheo’s face — pale, drawn, lips parted ever so slightly as he struggled to breathe. If someone had told you a week ago that you’d be holding his hand like this, whispering a marriage vow to save his life, you would’ve laughed in their face.

But now…

You swallowed hard, lifting your wand with your free hand. It shook.

“What do I say?” You whispered.

Dumbledore stepped forward. “Repeat after me. Word for word. The spell will bind your magic, your life force, and your future to his — should he survive the bonding.”

You nodded, your grip tightening around Mattheo’s fingers.

Dumbledore spoke first, slowly and clearly, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

You repeated it softly, every word a thread stitching itself into the air, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

“…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

Your chest ached as the words left you, “…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

“…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

You could barely breathe as you whispered the last line, your throat tight with tears, “…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

Your wand pulsed with heat.

The tip glowed softly — a deep crimson — and then dimmed as the magic released into Mattheo’s chest in a slow, golden ripple, like sunlight spilling through water.

You felt it then — not a physical tug, but something… inward. A lurch in your core. A sudden pull between your body and his. Like your magic had reached out and fastened itself to his, anchoring to something inside him you couldn’t see.

A soft gasp escaped his lips.

You froze.

Mattheo’s hand twitched.

Then — a cough. Wet. Weak. Painful. His eyes cracked open, red-rimmed and glassy, and they locked onto yours.

“…You?”

His voice was barely a breath. But you heard it. Felt it. And then he passed out again — but this time, his chest rose just a little easier. The color returned, faintly, to his cheeks. The trembling in his hand stilled.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your wand falling to your lap.

It was done.

The pact was sealed.

You were married.

You dropped his hand, a sob racking through your body, “What have I done?”

McGonagall’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, her voice low but steady as she tried to ground you.

“You did something extraordinary tonight,” she said softly, “You saved a life, Miss (L/N). And that is never something to be taken lightly — no matter the circumstances.”

You nodded numbly, eyes fixed on the folds of your pajama sleeve. Your fingers were clenched, digging into the fabric, trying to stop the tremor still moving through you.

You hadn’t let go of the weight of what you’d done — not yet. The spell still lingered in your veins like fire and ice, like a tether. You hadn’t spoken since.

Not until a low, ragged breath tore through the silence.

And then a voice — hoarse, furious:

“What the fuck did you do?”

You froze.

Mattheo.

You turned slowly toward the bed, where he was now sitting upright — or trying to, at least. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his breathing was still shallow, but his eyes were wide and dark with realization. With rage.

He was staring straight at you.

“No,” He muttered, shaking his head like he could undo it just by refusing to believe it, “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t go through with it.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just sat there, stunned, heart pounding like a war drum in your throat.

“I—” You tried to speak, but your voice caught.

He swung his legs off the bed, swaying with the effort. His skin was ghostly pale, but the venom in his voice was unmistakable.

“You had no fucking right,” He spat, “You just wanted to play the hero — and now I’m the one chained to a decision I didn’t make.”

“Mr. Riddle,” Snape said coolly from across the room, “had she not acted, you would be dead. Is that what you would’ve preferred? That we stand by and let you bleed out?”

Mattheo didn’t even glance at him. His eyes stayed locked on you — like you’d cast the killing curse instead of saving his life.

“You think I should thank you?” He snapped, “You think shackling me to you makes you noble? It doesn’t. It makes you soft. Weak. All of you are fucking insane.”

You flinched like he’d struck you.

The silence that followed stretched taut — unbearable.

And then, barely above a whisper, your voice broke through.

“You’re right.”

Mattheo blinked.

Your hands clenched tighter in your lap, nails digging into your palms, carving crescent moons into your skin.

“I shouldn’t have done anything,” You said, louder now — your voice rising with every word, like something was building, choking you, “I should’ve turned around and walked out of this damn hospital wing. I should’ve let you bleed out, just like you wanted. Would’ve saved us both a lifetime of regret.”

McGonagall called your name — gentle, warning — but you didn’t stop.

“You think it makes me weak?” You hissed, tears blurring your vision, “Fine. Be grateful someone so weak was destined for you. Because no one else would’ve ever willingly bound themselves to you. No one else would’ve looked at what you are — the person you are — and still chosen to save you.”

Mattheo’s glare deepened. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack. His hands trembled at his sides — too weak to ball into fists, though you could see him trying.

But you weren’t finished.

“I’m cursing my ancestors for tying me to a monster like you,” You said, standing as you wiped at your face, trying to chase away the tears that refused to stop, “You hate this so much? Then do something about it. Go throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower.”

You paused — your voice cold as ice.

“Then maybe you’ll finally be good for something.”

The room went deathly still.

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and walked out, each footstep pounding like thunder down the hall, your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sobs clawing their way out of you — fury burning in your chest.

And behind you, no one said a word.

***

The next few weeks at Hogwarts felt like walking on glass.

Despite the long list of grievances — the near-lethal bickering, the glares that could freeze hell over, and the occasional hex cast under the table — there was one thing you and Mattheo Riddle agreed on:

The marriage bond was to remain a secret. Or so help you, you’d Obliviate the entire school.

But silence didn’t mean peace.

In fact, ever since the night in the hospital wing, things had gotten worse.

You’d gone from mutual avoidance to open warfare. The moment your sleeves so much as brushed in a corridor, the air would shift — like the castle itself was bracing for impact. Even the portraits had learned to duck when you passed.

Your professors were at their absolute limit.

McGonagall had nearly taken her hat off in frustration during Transfiguration, and Snape — who normally relished assigning detentions — looked ready to swallow an entire cauldron of Felix Felicis just to avoid your next row.

The problem was: detention didn’t help.

You and Mattheo would just end up arguing behind closed doors. Or worse — he wouldn’t even show up. And if he didn’t show, why the hell should you?

Snape had tried to separate you. McGonagall had tried silent partnering spells. Flitwick had attempted a rotation chart. None of it worked.

Because the truth was simple: You two weren’t combustible. You were already on fire.

And the next explosion was only a matter of time.

It was supposed to be a simple lesson.

“Today, we’ll be practicing small-to-medium object-to-animal transfigurations,” McGonagall announced crisply, the chalk behind her scribbling across the board on its own, “The object must retain its original mass, and the animal must be fully functional.”

You weren’t even looking at Mattheo.

A single brush of shoulders in the corridor was enough to spark full-blown arguments. The professors had resorted to full-on assigned seating just to keep you apart.

Naturally, your desk was at the very front of the room.

And Mattheo’s?

Two rows behind and off to the right.

Far enough to ignore. Close enough to still feel him.

You gritted your teeth and raised your wand.

The matchbox on your desk trembled once — then, with a small pop, sprouted whiskers and legs, fur rippling across the surface like ink in water. It let out a high-pitched squeak and bolted.

Right off your desk.

The mouse-thing tore across the floor, weaving between desks like a heat-seeking missile until—

It launched itself onto Mattheo’s parchment, knocking over his inkpot and scrabbling up his sleeve.

His reaction was instant.

Mattheo shot to his feet, chair crashing backward with a loud bang, “Are you fucking serious?”

You stood too, wand half-raised, “It was an accident!”

“Every spell you cast ends up ruining lives,” He snapped, voice like shattered glass, “Why should today be any different?”

The class froze, eyes darting between the two of you.

Blaise’s jaw tightened. Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. Even Ron glanced nervously toward McGonagall, who remained impassive but clearly tense.

Your throat tightened like a vice.

“You’re one to talk about ruining lives,” You spat, stepping forward, heat flashing under your skin, “Next time I’ll let your skull hit the floor and see how noble I feel.”

“Oh, I’m the mess?” He scoffed, closing the distance, “I’m not the one who decided to play God—”

“You’re right. You’re not capable of caring about anyone but yourself.”

His eyes flashed, “I’d rather Avada myself than give a shit about you.”

“Do us both a favour and go ahead, Riddle!”

Your wand was in your hand before you even realized it.

“I swear to Merlin—”

Mattheo’s wand was already raised, aimed directly at you, “Do it. Go on. Every Gryffindor dreams of taking out a Riddle. Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve. Put me out of my fucking misery.”

“ENOUGH!”

McGonagall’s voice cracked through the room like lightning.

With a single flick of her wand, both of yours went flying — clattering across the stone floor.

She strode forward, every inch of her trembling with fury.

Neither of you said a word.

“Outside. Now.”

You turned first, jaw clenched tight. Mattheo followed a beat later, shoulders stiff with rage.

And as the door slammed shut behind you, you both stormed off in opposite directions, breaths ragged — not looking at each other. Not speaking.

But the silence buzzed louder than any scream.

Because neither of you said it aloud. But in that moment, you both knew: Something was going to break soon.

And it wouldn’t be the bond.

It would be you.

***

Snape had been more successful than usual at keeping you both apart during lessons. Your workbenches were set far, far away from each other, and all the tools and ingredients you’d need were already placed before class began. While it was completely unlike him, Snape had gone through the painstaking effort of making sure you’d never have to leave your bench—and thus wouldn’t run into each other.

Mattheo was halfway through slicing the stubborn boomslang skin when the knife slipped from his fingers. A curse barely whispered under his breath. He glanced down at the thin line of blood trickling from a cut on his palm.

“Are you bleeding?” Lorenzo’s voice cut through the quiet classroom, unexpectedly loud.

The noise struck you like a jolt to the chest. Your heart hammered in your ribs, and without thinking, you whipped your head around, eyes scanning the room in sudden panic.

For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. Was he sick again? Coughing up blood like last time? Was he hurt worse than before? Why? You had cast the spell, fulfilled the vow. Why was he bleeding? Was it because your magic was wearing off? Were you losing your magic?

Mattheo caught your frantic gaze from across the room. His brow furrowed as he watched the flicker of worry on your pale face—completely out of place among the usual sharp barbs you threw his way.

Why are you looking at me like that? his eyes seemed to ask.

You looked away quickly, biting the inside of your cheek. Your gaze flicked over his form, lingering briefly on the wound in his hand. Slowly, you sank back onto your stool, exhaling shakily when Harry leaned toward you with a concerned, “Are you okay?”

You just shook your head, forcing a faint smile. Nothing worth mentioning.

Mattheo’s confusion deepened.

He glanced once more at his bleeding palm, then back at you, narrowing his eyes.

The same person who tells me to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower is worried when I bleed?

A sardonic smirk tugged at his lips—bitter and cold. Pathetic, he thought. She’s weaker than I thought.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Hilarious.”

***

The dormitory was quiet, the other girls already asleep — or pretending to be. You lay motionless in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the moonlight tracing pale lines across your blanket.

It was the stillness that made it unbearable. No shouting, no clashing wands, no chaos to hide behind — just the raw, aching silence where your thoughts had nowhere to go but inward.

Your fingers curled in the sheets, heart leaden in your chest.

You’d read about soulbonds. You’d studied the magic. You understood the implications.

But knowing something intellectually wasn’t the same as feeling it. It wasn't the same as feeling that familiar tug in your soul whenever he was around. Not even affection, just recognition. Because deep down, his soul was yours now, and yours belonged to him.

Your husband.

Could you ever fall in love with someone else? Could you be touched, kissed, adored by anyone else without this bond protesting? Could you ever stand before another person in a white dress and vow yourself to them, when somewhere, in the deepest part of your soul, you were already tied to Mattheo Riddle?

Was this all your life was going to amount to? Would you ever be able to have children? A family?

Your chest tightened, a quiet grief building behind your ribs — not because you wanted him, but because now you might never get to choose.

Not really.

Not freely.

You turned to face the wall, eyes burning.

You hadn’t even wanted this. You had only done what was necessary. You’d cast the spell. You’d saved his life. You’d paid the price. And now the rest of your life might not be yours to live.

***

Mattheo slammed the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. His dorm was dim and cool, shadows sprawling over the stone walls like claws. He paced across the room like a caged animal, rage simmering just beneath his skin.

Every time he closed his eyes, he felt his soul reach out of his body, looking for his other half. His magic was writhing in protest—one part of him aching to return to his wife, the other wishing the bond had never been forged at all."

He grabbed a book off his desk and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a loud thud, scattering parchment.

No.

He wasn’t going to be tied to this. He wasn’t going to be one of those cursed bastards in old fairy tales, shackled to a girl because of some ancient, romanticised magic.

It wasn’t fair.

You weren't fair. Always so self-righteous. Always so brave, so noble. Like you were above it all. Like saving him meant you got to own his future.

He sneered, dragging a hand through his hair.

He’d go out with someone else tomorrow — hell, two people, maybe. Just to prove it meant nothing. Just to remind himself that he still had a choice. That no invisible string could dictate who he was or who he wanted to touch.

And if some part of his chest felt heavy beneath that anger — if his stomach clenched at the memory of you going pale with concern, like you cared about him — well, he wasn’t going to fucking think about that.

Mattheo pulled off his school robes with more force than necessary and threw himself onto his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.

This was just magic.

He didn’t believe in fate.

***

The greenhouse was muggy and buzzing with low conversation, the scent of damp moss and pollen thick in the air. You were partnered with Hermione — thankfully — while Mattheo was stationed several tables away, buried in a hushed conversation with Theodore and Lorenzo.

It should’ve made you feel safe — that distance — but your skin still prickled every time someone said his name. Every time he laughed like nothing between you had cracked wide open.

Professor Sprout bustled through the rows of tables, cheerfully guiding everyone toward the trays of unmarked magical plants, “Careful, class — some of these are… temperamental. I want you to handle them gently. We provoke nothing, understood?”

You nodded absently. Beside you, Hermione was flipping through her textbook, muttering classifications under her breath. Somewhere behind you, Mattheo’s voice filtered through the noise — low, unmistakable. Like smoke curling through your awareness.

You didn’t look. You didn’t need to.

Your soul already knew he was there. You could feel him. Feel his magic.

And it was driving you insane.

Your eyes scanned your workstation, landing on a thick-stemmed plant with curling, faintly shimmering leaves. It looked harmless. Almost pretty. Distracted, your hand reached toward it—

“Wait—!” Hermione started, too late.

The plant struck fast. Its leaves snapped open like jaws, revealing rows of tiny, sharp teeth.

You flinched back—

But not fast enough.

A hand caught your wrist and yanked.

Mattheo’s grip was unrelenting as he dragged you away from the plant’s snapping maw. The force of it knocked you into him, your chest colliding with his shoulder.

The scent of mint, smoke, and fresh grass hit you like a punch to the gut.

You froze.

Mattheo didn’t look at you. His hand stayed firm around your wrist, holding it up like it had personally offended him. His eyes were locked on the plant, jaw tight.

“For fuck’s sake,” He muttered, low and sharp, “Fancy losing an arm, do you?”

Your jaw clenched, “I didn’t ask you to—”

But your voice faltered.

Because your skin was touching.

And the moment it did, the air around you pulsed.

Raw magic cracked through the greenhouse like thunder. The floor trembled beneath your feet. Pots exploded. Vines twisted violently from their containers. One of the plants let out a shriek that made your bones vibrate.

Professor Sprout spun around, eyes wide, “What in Merlin’s name—?!”

Students shouted and scrambled back, clutching their wands as chaos erupted.

“Bloody hell,” Theo muttered somewhere to your right.

The plant that had nearly taken your hand shattered its entire pot in a final, violent explosion — soil and ceramic fragments flying.

And in the middle of it all, Mattheo did the last thing anyone would’ve expected.

He didn’t let go.

He pulled you closer.

One arm locked tight around your waist as he turned into you, shielding your body with his own like it was instinct. His back took the brunt of it — shards of ceramic and clumps of dirt pelting his robes and shoulders as the pot burst behind you.

You couldn’t breathe.

For one suspended second, the rest of the world vanished — the screaming vines, the spells, the panic. All you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Mattheo’s jaw was clenched, his eyes still fixed forward.

But his grip told you everything you didn’t want to understand.

Then, almost as if realizing what caused the chaos — who caused it — his body tensed even more. And suddenly, he let go like he’d touched flame.

You stepped back just as quickly, as though the heat between you hadn’t seared itself into your skin.

The distance snapped back into place.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t even glance at you. Just turned on his heel, stalking back to his workstation with his robes covered in dirt, hair mussed, and jaw tight — like nothing had happened.

But something had.

You watched him go, eyes falling to the soil on his back from where he’d pulled you close.

Then you looked away.

Neither of you spoke of it — not to each other, not to anyone else. But under your breath, the bond whispered what you both refused to say:

Husband. Wife.

And the magic remembered.

***

The steps up to the Astronomy Tower were slick with night dew, the stone worn smooth beneath Mattheo’s boots. The sky was a deep navy above them, scattered with stars, and the wind tugged at their robes as he and his friends climbed — Theo, Blaise, Draco, and Lorenzo trailing behind, their laughter low and easy.

“If we get caught, I’m throwing you all under the bus,” Draco huffed, “Making me leave my silk sheets for a smoke. I don’t even smoke! We’re not girlfriends going to the toilets together — why do I have to be here?”

Mattheo barely heard him.

They were nearing the final bend of the stairwell when he stopped short, his hand shooting out to halt Blaise mid-step.

“What—?” Blaise started, frowning.

Mattheo didn’t answer. His head tilted, brows drawing tight.

A voice floated down the stairs.

Yours.

The wind nipped at your cheeks, but you didn’t mind. It was quiet up here — calm — and that was rare these days.

You sat cross-legged on the ledge, a Chocolate Frog wrapper fluttering beside you. Harry leaned nearby, arms folded against the cold, chewing on a Bertie Bott’s bean with an expression like he’d swallowed a lemon.

He spat the offending thing over the ledge.

“Haz!” You exclaimed, grinning, “Was that dirt-flavored?”

“Vomit!” He cried, chugging his hot chocolate — and immediately burning his tongue, “Oh Merlin—hell—it was vomit-flavored!”

You burst into laughter — a belly-deep kind of laugh, bright and contagious, ringing through the tower like wind chimes in summer. And something about it hit Mattheo like a punch to the ribs. It flared through him like wildfire, warm and sickening and wrong. He didn’t know why it mattered. He didn’t care.

He shouldn’t care.

Harry blinked, turning to look at you — really look, “There’s that smile.”

You tilted your head.

He smiled, “Haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”

You grinned, “Really says something about your joke-telling, doesn’t it, Haz?”

He scoffed, bumping your shoulder, “You only laugh when I’m in pain.”

“Seriously though,” He said, softer this time, “What’s going on with you lately?”

You tried to play innocent, “What do you mean?”

He gave you a look, “Don’t do that. You know what I mean. What’s going on with you and Riddle?”

Mattheo’s lungs went tight.

“It’s very hard for you to hate someone, (Y/N),” Harry continued, “I should know. Despite everything those snakes do, you still manage to stay cordial with Berkshire and Zabini.”

“But you,” Harry said, nodding at you, “you’re practically on the verge of murder when Riddle walks into a room. What did he do to piss you off that badly?”

You sighed, shoulders sagging, “He’s an ass.”

Harry didn’t argue.

“He’s rude, arrogant, violent… thinks the world owes him something.” You paused, chewing your lip, “But the more I think about it… the more I feel like I owe him an apology.”

Mattheo’s pulse stuttered. His jaw clenched. He didn’t know why he was still standing there. Why hadn’t he turned around? Why were his feet not moving?

But his heart was pounding.

Harry blinked, “You? Apologize to Mattheo Riddle?”

“I know,” You groaned, resting your head against Harry’s shoulder, sipping your hot chocolate, “It sounds insane. And he’s still awful. He says the nastiest things and looks at me like I’ve ruined his life.”

“I hope there’s a but coming or I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s for a psych evaluation.”

You laughed softly.

“But,” You admitted, “I think I was wrong too. I didn’t ask for any of this… but neither did he.”

Silence. Just the wind and the sound of distant owls.

“He’d be lucky to get an apology from you,” Harry said finally, “But if he throws it in your face, I’ll hex his eyebrows off.”

From the stairwell, Mattheo turned without a word, brushing past the others. His expression unreadable. His hands clenched.

“Mate?” Lorenzo whispered.

Mattheo didn’t respond.

He lit a cigarette with a flick of his wand, the smoke curling from his lips as his eyes fixed on nothing.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he muttered. “This spot’s taken.”

***

The courtyard was cold and quiet, moonlight catching in puddles across the cobblestones. Mattheo walked fast, hands buried in his coat pockets, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His friends trailed behind, boots scuffing against wet stone, all of them exchanging looks like they were watching a wounded animal pace in circles.

“So,” Blaise drawled, jogging to catch up, “you gonna tell us why you just froze like you saw a bloody Dementor?”

Mattheo didn’t look at him, “Didn’t.”

“You did,” Theo said, grinning, “I thought you’d been Petrified for a second. And then just stood there. Listening.”

Mattheo exhaled through his nose, jaw ticking.

“Oh, come on,” Draco groaned, dragging his feet, “You stopped us cold like you’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. And then just stood there listening to Potter, of all people, like he was singing you a bloody lullaby.”

Mattheo scowled, “He was being loud.”

“Oh yeah, loud enough to make your heart stop apparently,” Blaise said, his grin growing, “Or—oh, wait—was it her voice that got you all twitchy?”

They all knew it was you that had him pausing. It was obvious, but they wanted to stretch this out as long as possible.

Draco made a scandalized noise, “Was that what it was? Is little Matty catching feelings?”

Mattheo shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, “Don’t call me that.”

“She said she owed him an apology,” Lorenzo sang, clutching his heart, making the others guffaw, “Oh, their lovers’ tiff finally coming to an end.”

“She also called him an ass, arrogant, violent, and someone who thinks the world owes him something,” Blaise added helpfully.

“Sounds like foreplay to me.” Theo commented.

Mattheo didn’t dignify that with a response. He took another drag off his cigarette and kept walking.

“You’re acting weird.” Theo called after him.

“You’re acting like she matters.” Lorenzo added.

“She doesn’t.” Mattheo said coolly.

Blaise snorted, “You stood there for ten minutes listening to a private conversation. Be serious.”

“She was loud." Mattheo repeated.

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m leaving.”

Mattheo threw a middle finger over his shoulder without turning around.

***

Your conversation with Harry had left you with one undeniable truth: you owed Mattheo a long-overdue apology.

The more you thought about it, the more you realized how ambushed he must’ve felt—going from dying to waking up magically bound to a girl he didn’t even like. If you were in his position, you would’ve been upset too.

'I probably wouldn’t have said he should’ve died… and I definitely would’ve reacted differently after learning he saved my life, but I digress.' You thought, gathering up your books as you prepared to leave the library.

It was almost curfew, and you didn’t need another reason to land yourself in detention. At the rate you were going, expulsion was starting to feel like a real possibility. Yet another reason to apologize to Mattheo and smooth things over.

The only issue? You couldn’t seem to actually apologize.

Not for lack of trying—you’d made several attempts—but every time, you froze. Mattheo was always surrounded by his friends, who, you were fairly sure, still didn’t know about your secret. And even when he was alone, you’d chicken out—whether out of pride or the fear that another argument would explode before you got the words out.

As you made your way toward the exit, your eyes caught on a familiar figure hunched over a table.

Mattheo Riddle. Asleep, head down on his Charms essay.

He was alone. Relaxed.

This was probably the best time to say something, you thought. But just as you reached out to touch his shoulder, you paused. Would he be the type to bite your head off for waking him?

Instead, you slowly sank into the seat beside him and decided to wait until he woke up.

So this is my husband, you thought, eyes scanning his face. His dark curls fell over his forehead, brushing his nose and making him scrunch it every few seconds with an unconscious little sniffle. You almost reached out to brush them away before stopping yourself, opting to lean your cheek against the table instead, so you could get a better look.

He was handsome—no denying that. Of course, that was only when his face wasn’t twisted in a scowl or a sneer aimed at you.

Thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks. A scar ran across his nose—one he’d gotten during a fight back in fourth year. You still remembered the chaos of that week, how everyone buzzed with gossip, applauding his opponent for landing a permanent mark on the Slytherin prince.

Your heart clenched at the memory. People had cheered over him getting hurt?

That didn’t seem right. Then again, he wasn’t exactly known for his kindness either. Maybe that was why.

You sighed, letting your eyes drift closed, lulled by the soft scratching of quills and the low crackle of the fireplace. Your breathing began to slow, your body relaxing next to his.

A few minutes later, Mattheo stirred.

His eyes opened slowly—and the first thing he saw was you. Sleeping beside him. Peaceful. Your face mere inches from his own.

He didn’t move at first, just stared.

You looked so calm… so soft. Your lips slightly parted, lashes brushing your cheeks. His gaze moved to where your hands nearly touched on the table. His pinky brushed against yours, and at the contact, something warm bloomed inside him—like drinking something hot and sweet on a cold day.

Then, from the spot where your skin touched, golden butterflies began to shimmer and rise. They floated gently up, delicate and radiant, then dissolved into glittering dust that rained over the two of you like pixie dust.

It was in that moment your eyes began to flutter open, the warmth rushing through you, tugging you gently back to consciousness.

You met his gaze—those deep, stormy eyes lit with gold, reflecting the butterflies as they danced around you.

Silence fell over the moment, thick and delicate like a spun sugar spell.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your voice barely audible, “For everything.”

His eyes softened, “I know. I’m sorry too.”

You slowly pushed your hand closer, not quite holding his, just letting your fingers rest against his—craving his touch a little longer.

***

The corridors were bathed in shadows as you crept beside Mattheo, the glow of torches casting golden light across the stone walls. It was past curfew—well past—and your shoes squeaked louder than you wanted with every step.

Your hand still tingled from where it had touched his. You tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the butterflies, or the way his voice had softened when he told you he was sorry, too.

Mattheo was walking close—too close—but neither of you said anything. His shoulder brushed yours once, and both of you stiffened like you’d been hit with a jolt of electricity.

“This is such a bad idea,” You whispered, glancing behind you, “We’re going to get caught.”

“Then move quicker.” Mattheo muttered, though you could hear the smirk in his voice.

You rounded a corner—and froze.

Footsteps.

You both ducked into the nearest alcove, pressing into the shadows. Filch’s voice echoed down the hallway, muttering about rule-breakers and “ruffling Mrs. Norris’ feathers”—which didn’t even make sense, because she was a cat.

You were both holding your breath, your back against the wall, Mattheo right in front of you. Too close again. His hand twitched, like he was going to reach for you, steady you—

You shuffled back with a hissed whisper, “Don’t touch me!”

His brows rose, and you could see his smirk even in the dark, “Why? Scared I’ll bite?”

“No,” You snapped, “I’m scared if you touch me, this entire corridor is going to light up like a bloody fireworks show.”

His grin faltered. A flicker of remembrance crossed his face—the butterflies, the sparkles, the magic. That same electricity was crackling between you now, humming beneath your skin like the promise of a storm.

“…Right.” He muttered, glancing away.

You both fell silent, pressed against your opposing walls, hands braced against the stone, breaths so shallow so that your chests wouldn't brush. Filch’s footsteps faded down another corridor.

When it was safe, you stepped out of the alcove. Mattheo followed—quieter now.

As you reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, you paused, blinking. Mattheo had followed you all the way there—even though the Slytherin common room was in the opposite direction. He clearly knew that, with the way he was now standing still, waiting as you whispered your password and the portrait swung open.

You turned around to find him watching you with an unreadable expression.

“Goodnight, Mattheo.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

“Get back safe, yeah?”

He chuckled, “Should be easy without you jumping at every bloody sound.”

You let out a soft huff of a laugh, offering him a small smile before stepping through the portrait hole. It closed behind you with a gentle thud.

The Fat Lady raised an eyebrow and smiled down at Mattheo, “Someone’s in love.”

He scoffed, “Don’t be daft.”

“Tell that to the lovesick grin on your face.”

It was only then he realised he was smiling. And that his heart hadn’t quite stopped racing.

Fuck.

***

The Astronomy Tower was quieter than usual, the moonlight casting soft shadows across the stone floor. You’d come up for some air, textbook in hand, hoping the cool night would lull you into drowsiness. It hadn’t.

You didn’t expect company—not at this hour, anyway.

“Merlin’s sake,” A voice drawled from the stairs, “why are you always here?”

You looked up to find Mattheo Riddle squinting at you, cigarette already between his lips, brows raised like you were the one interrupting him.

“I could ask you the same thing.” You shot back.

“I asked first.”

“And I’m ignoring you first.”

He scoffed, “Hilarious. You think you’re so clever.”

You shrugged, eyes drifting back to your book, “You can smoke here if you want. I don’t mind.”

You expected him to roll his eyes and leave—maybe mutter something smug under his breath. But he surprised you by stepping forward instead.

He moved to sit on your right, but you quickly lifted your hand and waved him off, “Not there. Sit on my left.”

He blinked, “What? Why?”

You gestured lazily at the breeze wafting through the open arches, “Wind’s blowing that way. I’d rather not get a face full of your lung rot.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes but, to your mild surprise, moved without argument, settling beside you with a muttered, “Bossy.”

You ignored that, flipping a page in your book.

He caught sight of the title and groaned, “Please tell me you’re not actually doing homework at midnight.”

You gave him a small smile, “Can’t sleep. Figured reading this would bore me enough to pass out.”

He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, “Suppose that’s one way to do it.”

Silence fell for a moment—not uncomfortable, just quiet. Then, casually, you said, “I didn’t expect to see you in the library the other day. Didn't think you knew where it was.”

He smirked, “Charms essay’s due Monday. Figured I’d get it out of the way early.”

“That’s… surprisingly responsible of you.”

“Well,” He shrugged, “I’m going to that Hufflepuff thing by the Black Lake on Sunday. Didn’t fancy writing it hungover.”

You nodded, “Right. Forgot that was happening.”

Mattheo glanced at you, curious, “You’re not going?”

You shook your head, “Nah. Can’t swim. Bit pointless standing around while everyone else is diving in.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, quietly—almost too quietly—he said, “You should go anyway.”

You turned to look at him.

The moonlight lit up the edge of his face, the glow catching in his curls and the smoke curling from his lips. His eyes were on the sky now, not on you.

"Maybe I will."

***

The party at the Black Lake was in full swing by the time you arrived with your friends. You wore a hoodie over your swimsuit, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses perched on your nose, and your hair pulled back into a lazy bun that still somehow looked effortlessly good.

You hadn’t even planned on swimming—you just wanted to be out, feel the sun, maybe dip your feet into the water. You hadn’t thought twice about who else might be there.

Until you saw him.

Mattheo.

He was already waist-deep in the lake, surrounded by a cluster of Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws, laughing at something Theo said, water glistening on his shoulders. You weren’t looking at him. Not really.

You were looking in his direction.

At least that's what you told yourself.

You peeled off your hoodie as you neared the shore, tying it loosely around your waist before sitting at the rocky edge. Your legs dipped into the cool water, toes wiggling beneath the surface. You laughed at Ron and Harry as they cannonballed into the lake, sending up twin waves that splashed a few nearby Hufflepuffs. Hermione plopped down beside you with a fond eye roll, choosing to keep you company rather than swim—knowing full well you couldn’t.

And that was when Mattheo noticed you.

It was subtle—just a pause in his sentence, the flick of his eyes toward the shoreline. His laughter dimmed, something warm rushing through him despite the chill of the lake. Like sunlight breaking through glass.

Theo cracked another joke that made the group laugh again, but Mattheo didn’t join in. His eyes flicked back to you. Not obviously—just every few seconds. Like he couldn’t help it.

Like he was trying to figure out when the hell he started noticing the curve of your hips, the way your skin shimmered slightly from sun lotion, or how the sunlight kissed the top of your cheekbones.

And you?

You didn’t look at him once.

At one point, you stretched your arms back behind you, tilted your head toward the sun, letting it soak into your skin. Just for a moment. And when you sat back up, your eyes flickering over the lake to find him again.

Mattheo was gone.

Underwater.

Fully disappeared.

He resurfaced a few seconds later, farther out now—like he’d needed to cool off, or distract himself, or maybe just stop thinking.

You pulled your legs out of the water and wandered off with Hermione to get something to drink, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you left.

He watched the whole time.

You had just stepped away from Hermione to grab another drink, the sun warm on your skin, the breeze tugging at the hem of your hoodie where it clung to your still-damp legs. You didn’t even register the footsteps behind you until it was too late.

“Come on!” Someone called—a Hufflepuff boy you vaguely recognized from Charms, “You haven’t even been in the water yet!”

Your eyes widened, “Wait—”

And then you were airborne.

You hit the lake with a splash, the cold shocking through your bones, clamping around your lungs. Panic seized your chest like a vice.

Your arms flailed, legs kicking uselessly. You bobbed to the surface once—twice—each time barely catching breath before slipping under again. Your hands slapped helplessly at the water’s surface.

And then—

Strong arms. A chest against your back. That comfort and warmth that spread through you almost immediately that made you want to melt.

Mattheo.

You realized it only as you were pulled above water again, his arms locked around your waist as he powered you toward the shore. He dragged you up onto the rocks like you weighed nothing, water cascading off both of you.

You collapsed to the stone, coughing violently, lake water pouring from your mouth as your lungs fought to breathe.

Mattheo was crouched beside you, one arm bracing your back to keep you upright.

But there were no butterflies. No sparks. No golden shimmer between you.

Just him. You. And that familiar warmth pulsing in your chest.

Someone stepped forward, reaching to help—maybe the boy who’d thrown you in.

Mattheo saw red.

He grabbed the outstretched hand and shoved it away, his voice sharp and venomous, “Get your fucking hands off my wife.”

The guy froze mid-step.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mattheo snarled.

“It—it was just a joke! She wasn’t even that far out—”

“She can’t fucking swim, you twat!”

Silence rippled across the party. Heads turned. All eyes on you.

Mattheo glared at the boy like he wanted to throw him in and hold him down. He hadn’t moved his arm from your back. “Watch your back.” He growled.

You reached up with a shaking hand and pressed your palm to his chest.

“Mattheo—hey—” You rasped, still hoarse, lungs raw, “Calm down. It was an accident.”

His eyes dropped to yours, his jaw clenched tight. Slowly, his expression softened.

He brushed a soaked strand of hair from your cheek, voice lower now, “You alright? Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?”

You shook your head, “Don’t be such a worrywart. I’ll be fine.”

He let out a slow breath, something cracking open in his chest at the sight of you like that—drenched, shivering, eyes still wide with shock.

“I’ve got you.” He whispered.

And that’s when it hit you.

There was no magic reacting between you. No sparks. No glow. No reminder of your bond.

Maybe it was because you felt the pull without it. The weight of his hand on your back, the panic in his voice, the fury in his eyes when you were in danger.

Before, the magic needed to show you. To remind you your souls were tied together.

Now?

You already knew.

You stared your hand on his chest for a second. “There’s no spark.” You murmured.

Mattheo just looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes, “We don’t need one.”

***

You were wrapped in a blanket by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, a warm mug in your hands, now fresh out of the shower and in warm clothing, when Hermione sat beside you with a look. Ron and Harry flanked your other side like they were forming an intervention.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, “Alright. Spill.”

You blinked innocently, “Spill what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Ron said, “You nearly drowned and he pulled you out like bloody Prince Charming—”

“—and then threatened to murder a Hufflepuff on your behalf.” Hermione added.

Harry leaned forward, “You two have been fighting for weeks and now he’s—what? Your personal lifeguard?”

You shrugged, sipping your cocoa, “He was there. It’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep?” Hermione echoed, “He carried you out of the lake like it was a scene from Pride and Prejudice.”

Ron frowned, “You were holding his hand. Voluntarily.”

You pulled the blanket tighter, “I almost died, Ronald. Excuse me for not being picky about which hands I grabbed.”

Hermione still looked skeptical, “(Y/N) he literally called you his wife. There's something you're not telling us. Next we're going to find out that you're married and have 3 kids.”

You choked on your drink, “Excuse me?!”

“You heard me,” She repeated, smug now, “You’re blushing.”

“Because I'm cold! Because an idiot threw me in the lake and I almost died!” You declared, indignant.

“You’re a terrible liar.” Harry muttered.

***

Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dungeons, Mattheo was toweling off his hair, clearly having just changed out of his soaked clothes, when Theo, Draco, Enzo, and Blaise all rounded on him.

“So,” Draco said casually, “You gonna explain why you went full bloody Gryffindor with that dive and rescue?”

Mattheo didn’t look up, “She can’t swim.”

“Yeah, we gathered that,” Blaise said, “but most people don’t growl at the guy who pushed her in like they’re about to duel him at dawn.”

Enzo snorted, “You literally threatened the bloke who threw her in. I reckon he started crying because he doesn’t want the infamous Mattheo Riddle to rearrange his face.”

Mattheo tossed his towel aside and flopped onto his bed, “He’s lucky I didn’t drown him.”

“Oh, he’s in deep,” Theo laughed, “Pun intended.”

“Funny.” Mattheo muttered.

“Look,” Blaise said, “if you like her—”

“I don’t.”

All four blinked at him.

Mattheo sat up, “I said I don’t like her. End of.”

Enzo raised a brow, smirking, “Right. Because you just protect every girl and call her your wife like it’s nothing.”

Mattheo’s jaw clenched, “It was a slip of the tongue. Nothing more.”

Theo added, “Didn’t even flirt with anyone at the party.”

“I wasn’t in the mood.”

Draco smirked, “He didn’t want to flirt with anyone else besides his wife, guys. This is adorable.”

But Mattheo had already stopped listening to them.

He stared at his hand.

No magic.

But definitely a spark.

***

Hogsmeade looked completely different when you were on your own, with no distractions from friends pulling you along. Your eyes wandered over the little town, taking in all the unusual shops you’d never visited before.

A familiar voice cut through your thoughts.

“Wow, wandering Hogsmeade alone, huh? That’s kinda sad, (L/N).”

You frowned, “Well, Hermione and Ron are on a date, Harry and Ginny are on a date, so I have no one else to keep me company. I would’ve been on a date myself, if someone hadn’t declared me his wife in front of the entire student body.”

That was true. You’d planned to go out with a cute Ravenclaw from your year—but he’d bailed last minute. Didn’t say why, but you knew. It was because of Mattheo’s declaration, and how he’d practically threatened the boy who’d thrown you in the lake. Not just that, girls kept coming up to you, apologizing for flirting with Mattheo, not knowing you were—something. You had to firmly deny it. You weren’t dating Mattheo Riddle. Not at all. You were secretly married, bound eternally by your ancestors. But dating? No way.

Mattheo’s brow raised as he stepped beside you, “You had a date?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Is that a problem now? You didn’t seem to mind chasing after anyone in a skirt before.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?” You pressed.

He hesitated. A beat passed.

Then another.

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

Your brows furrowed, “Sounds like it matters to me.”

His throat bobbed, “Does it?”

Your breath caught. This was the moment. Say it. Say you care. Say you feel it too.

“…I don’t know,” You whispered, “Does it? To you?”

Mattheo looked at you, really looked at you—and for a split second, the truth shone in his eyes. The thing he wanted to say.

“Forget it.”

Your chest sank.

“Right.”

You let out a small breath, softer now, “Thanks, by the way, for saving me that day. I meant to say it sooner.”

Without waiting for a reply, you leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Then you turned and walked away, heart pounding, leaving the words hanging between you.

***

You stepped nervously into the office, the heavy door clicking softly shut behind you. Professor McGonagall sat poised behind her desk, her expression unreadable—but not unkind. Dumbledore reclined slightly in his chair, hands folded, his twinkling eyes settling on you both with quiet intent.

“Please, have a seat.” McGonagall said crisply.

You obeyed, heart hammering, and slid into the chair beside Mattheo.

“We’ve noticed a... shift between the two of you,” Dumbledore began, his voice gentle and measured, “From frequent discord to something far more... cooperative.”

McGonagall nodded, “It appears you’re managing your circumstances with considerably more maturity than when this began.”

You swallowed, “Yes, Professor. We’re trying.”

I’m actually falling in love with the person who tried to curse me to death not too long ago, if that’s what you mean by maturity.

Mattheo shifted beside you—silent but steady. His presence grounded you, even as tension lingered in the air. You kept your hands clasped tightly in your lap.

“As you're aware,” Dumbledore continued, “this bond you share is highly unusual, and it will require careful thought and handling. We wanted to begin a conversation about what the future might look like.”

McGonagall leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady, “We’re speaking not only of the magical implications, but also the emotional and academic ones. Your lives are going to be affected by this, one way or another.”

Dumbledore offered a soft chuckle, “But know this—you’re not alone. We’re here to support you both, in any way we can. That is why we asked you here.”

McGonagall added, “Think of this as the beginning of an open conversation. A safe space to ask questions or raise concerns—without judgment.”

You glanced at Mattheo. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, but he met your gaze.

Then McGonagall continued, carefully, “It’s important to consider all possibilities. Including how you might feel about the idea of... other partners.”

Your breath hitched. Your gaze flicked to Mattheo.

He didn’t speak. But his jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened.

Other partners?

When this began, you’d imagined—hoped, maybe—that someday you could fall in love with someone else. That the bond wouldn’t define your life. That maybe this could just be something you learned to live with... and move on from.

But it had never occurred to you that Mattheo might have thought the same.

Your stomach twisted. The idea of him with someone else—smiling at them the way he sometimes looked at you when he didn’t think you were watching—sent a sharp pang through your chest. Laughing with someone else. Touching them. Loving them.

No. You didn’t want that.

Dumbledore’s gaze softened. “Unfortunately, despite our efforts to investigate the depth of your bond, we still don’t fully understand all the implications. Which is why it’s best to be prepared. Bonds like yours... they can be complex.”

You nodded mutely, eyes fixed on your hands. A heavy ache bloomed in your chest—low and insistent. You weren’t ready to imagine a future where he wasn’t yours.

Even if you were never truly his.

***

You left the office in silence.

Neither of you spoke as you walked down the spiraling staircase, the echo of your footsteps louder than anything else. The corridor was quiet, dim with late-afternoon shadows filtering through tall windows. But the silence between you was deafening.

Mattheo’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight. You kept your eyes ahead, refusing to let him see the storm behind yours.

Other partners.

The words echoed like a curse. The ache in your chest hadn’t faded—it had only sunk deeper. You didn’t know what was worse: the idea of loving someone who didn’t feel the same… or the thought of watching him fall for someone else.

Then, just as you turned a corner, Mattheo stopped walking.

“So,” He said stiffly, gaze still fixed on the stone floor, “you ever think about it?”

You blinked, “Think about what?”

He didn’t look at you. His voice was low, carefully neutral, “Moving on. Being with someone else.”

Your heart skipped. You stared at him, caught off guard, “I—I don’t know. I did… at the beginning. When all of this felt like a curse.”

He nodded, slow and almost imperceptible.

You hesitated, “What about you? Have you thought about being with someone else?”

A pause. Longer than it needed to be.

His jaw flexed, “I don’t know.”

You nodded too, trying to mirror his indifference even though your stomach had begun to twist into knots, “It’s okay if you have, Mattheo. I mean... it’s only natural, right? We didn’t choose this.”

“You’re right,” He said quietly, “We didn’t.”

You stopped in front of the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady eyed you curiously from her portrait, but didn’t say a word.

Mattheo offered you a small, hollow smile—the kind people give when they’re pretending not to bleed—and turned to leave.

You watched his retreating back. You knew you were going to cry the moment you were alone, so what did it matter?

“But,” You said loudly.

He stopped. Turned.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve, “But I think I’d still choose you… if I had the choice now.”

Silence.

It blanketed the space between you, thick and charged.

Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something in his eyes fractured—like a crack through glass, sudden and sharp.

He stepped back toward you, slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. His voice, when it came, was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

You shook your head, “I mean it.”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize you—like he didn’t quite believe it, but desperately wanted to.

His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You make me crazy,” He said, almost helplessly, “You drive me up the fucking wall, and half the time I want to strangle you.”

A faint laugh escaped you—wet and shaky.

“But the thought of you with someone else,” He whispered, “Makes me feel like I can’t breathe.”

Your heart stuttered.

He stepped even closer now, “So no. I haven’t thought about being with anyone else. Not really. Not since you.”

The air was thick between you. Charged. Magnetic.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, “Mattheo…”

He raised a hand, hesitated—then tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment too long.

“If I had the choice,” he said, “I’d still choose you too.”

Neither of you moved.

And then, slowly, cautiously, you leaned into him—your forehead brushing his, your breath mingling with his in the narrow space between you.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

His hand slid from the back of your neck to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing softly against your cheek. You tilted your face toward him, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out everything else.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rough or rushed like you thought it might be. It was slow. Gentle. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast.

You melted into him, fingers curling into the front of his robes as he pulled you just a little closer—close enough to feel the shudder in his chest when you exhaled.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his again, both of you catching your breath in the quiet.

He didn’t let go.

Neither did you.

And in that small, stolen moment outside the common room, the world felt… still.

Like maybe—for the first time since the bond was formed—you weren’t fighting fate anymore.

You were choosing it. You were choosing him.

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@haniscrying

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

Mattheo Riddle Taglist:

@redeemingvillains

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle imagine #slytherin boys x reader #mattheo riddle angst #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle oneshot #mattheo riddle fanfic

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moonstruckme · 1 month ago

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hi congrats on 10k this is sooo deserved!!!! i was wondering if you could write a blanket fort poly!marauders drabble w the prompt “i didn’t have anywhere else to go”? if you already have an idea in mind for this please write whatever you would like to but if you’re open to having something to go off of i was sort of thinking of pureblood!reader maybe crashing a sleepover at potter manor after deciding to leave home because of a similar situation to what sirius went through

Thank you <3

cw: implied family abuse (both for Sirius and reader, though it's left vague what that entailed), takes place after hogwarts, insanely cheesy narration sorry not sorry

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

You don’t actually knock.

You’re planning to. Or, you think you were planning to. You don’t actually know that you had a plan. You just—you apparated here on panic and adrenaline, but Merlin, what the fuck? You’re a mess. It’s the middle of summer, and you’re shaking, your bones rattling around in the hollowness of your body like coins in a tin cup. This is the worst idea you’ve ever had. They won’t want to see you. A crushing loneliness digs its fingers into your gut, and you turn to go, but the door just—opens.

An older man stands on the threshold with a rubbish bag in his hand. His eyes widen to find you in his path, a warm, familiar brown. He says your name.

You’re surprised that Monty would remember you. You only met once, and you were a child then, trailing behind James and Sirius down Diagon Alley, trying diligently to keep up with their long-legged pace and rapid-fire jokes. He does, though. Monty says your name with a familiarity you didn’t realize you shared and a warmth that makes your chest ache. It feels like you blink and then you’re inside the Potter’s home with him closing the door behind you.

You can hear the boys in the next room. It’s that unceasing jabber that seems to accompany the marauders wherever they go, sometimes cut through with a bark of laughter or a shout of mock offense, voices rising and falling and overlapping in a cadence you feel like you know even now, but it sounds distant, like the echo of another life. Still, you move towards it.

Remus spots you immediately as you come around the corner of the kitchen. James and Sirius are too caught up in whatever they’re making—half of the pantry shoved into a blender, by the look of it—but Remus’ eyes lock on yours, the both of you stilling. Ultimately, it’s his aburpt silence that gets the attention of the other two. Monty’s quiet throat-clearing helps.

Sirius reacts much the same as Remus. Freezing, like he can’t make sense of you here and he doesn’t trust it. James, though—Godric, he looks just like his father when his eyes flare like that. They’re all older than you left them, more adult, and though you’d known they would be it pangs in a way you hadn’t expected. James breathes your name like it belongs to a ghost.

“I’m sorry,” you say, taking a step back. Monty has disappeared—it will never feel less strange to you, how much liberty the Potters give their son with his privacy—so there’s nothing between you and the door. You think it’s best if you go back from where you came.

“What?” Sirius’ brows furrow in a way that wavers between bemusement and upset. “Why are you—what are you doing here?”

Isn’t that the question of the evening? You don’t know, either.

You think James sees this on your face, sees that you’re about to run, because he steps around the counter with his hands held out in a pacifying gesture. “We’re just surprised to see you,” he says.

And, well, that’s fair. You haven’t seen any of them since your parents collected you at Kings’ Cross after your last year. You haven’t seen much of anyone, honestly. And while you were locked up at home, thinking of your friends and fantasizing about leaving, they were off living their own lives. Now, reunion stings. It reminds you that there was a separation in the first place.

Your voice shatters as you finally answer Sirius’ question. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

James’ arms come around you, and you become aware of the rattling again. You’re rattling yourself apart. He holds you together as best he can, though not tightly. It reminds you that this isn’t his first time. You’re not the first wounded stray to come to the Potters’ doorstep, and James knows how to handle you.

“It’s okay, you’re alright,” he says into the side of your head, letting you grip him so that your fingers bunch in his shirt. “You can always come here.”

“I’m—I—” Your breaths come harshly. You taste salt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

“Shh. Sweetheart, it’s alright. Why don’t we have some tea, yeah?”

You’re transferred smoothly into another set of arms. The worn knit of Remus’ jumper wraps around you. He rubs your back and ushers you into a seat.

Sirius stands over you. He cups your face, that same confusing furrow between his brows. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

“No.” You want to shrink, but his eyes trap yours. “Not…not in a way that’s…”

Pain flickers in Sirius’ expression. “Right. Okay, I understand. You’re okay, darling.”

His touch slips to the back of your head, and it’s all your need to drive you forward, your hands clutching his hips as your face buries itself in his chest. Sirius holds firm as you break down.

“I know. I know. You’re safe now, baby. We’ve got you.”

His voice tightens and strains, and you think of the peace you’d stolen from them by coming here. It makes you cry harder, broken apologies stuttering out your lips.

“Shh, breathe.” Remus rubs between your shoulders. His touch is heavier than the others’, lacking their same awareness of the state of you, but you welcome the ache. “Deep breaths. We want you here. We always want you here.”

“I just—when I left, I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking—”

“Hey, didn’t you hear Remus?” There’s a gentle teasing to Sirius’ tone now. “Breathe.”

You don’t feel like you deserve to, but you try for their sake, forcing air in and out of your nose. Sirius’ shirt smells like laundry detergent. You wonder if James’ mother washed it for him.

“There we go.” His nails scratch at your scalp rewardingly. “I think we’re all glad that you didn’t think, sweetness. However you ended up here, we’re happy about it. Okay?”

You sniffle. The clink of porcelain against the table turns your head. James is setting a cup of steaming tea in front of you, diluted with cream to just the color you like.

“I wasn’t invited,” you croak, just to him. “Your parents…”

His eyebrows lift. “My dad brought you in, didn’t he?”

You have no reply to that.

James smiles. It’s not his happiest, but the sight of it lightens something in you anyway. “You’re always welcome here, sweetheart. Consider it an open invitation, alright?” He nudges the cup toward you. “Have some tea.”

So you pick up the tea James made for you, with Remus’ hand on your back and Sirius lingering by your side like he plans to stand between you and the outside world. It tastes like coming home.

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3d-wifey · 1 year ago

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If you start writing for true blood I'll give you 50 dollars and a little smooch on the lips

#aw shucks #3d wifey talks #3d wifey answers #eric northman #eric northman x reader #true blood #godric true blood #godric x reader #pam x reader #pam swynford de beaufort #pam swynford de beaufort x reader #alcide herveaux x reader #alcide herveaux

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chloe-skywalker · 9 months ago

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True Blood Masterlist

Main Masterlist

By @chloe-skywalker

*= Requested

Eric Northman:

Godric:

~ Coming Soon . . . (Written not typed yet)

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lqveharrington · 6 months ago

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Loathing | D.M.

summary: you and draco have loathed one another since first year, but you know something happened over the summer before your sixth year. he had changed.

pairing: rival!draco malfoy x potter!reader

includes: fluff, angst, bleeding, both of them being oblivious, both of them taking care of each other

a/n: unadulterated loathing (guess who watched wicked last week?)

The moment you met Draco Malfoy – well, the moment he insulted one of your friends and then wanted to be friends with your brother – you knew you would loathe him for the rest of your life. From every glare from across the room to house rivalries, you loathed him for all you had. Especially when he ruined your Yule Ball experience by knocking the eggnog on you and refusing to explain why, only glaring instead.

But something changed in your sixth year. He changed.

Usually, the second you got on the train to Hogwarts, he would find you and start with the insults, but this year was different. Hell, when you were trying to find Harry on the train when you got to Hogwarts, Draco walked past you without even sparing a glance. He wasn’t even in his Slytherin robes, he was just in a black suit.

Then when the quidditch season started, you learned that he had quit his position as seeker and chance as quidditch captain. You were surprised he lost almost all interest in the sport itself when he used to brag on and on about how good he was at the game. Everything he used to egg you on about was close to nothing, and it worried you just a little.

You knew something was different – he was different – and wanted to know what happened, but you knew your friends couldn’t care less about the Slytherin Prince.

“Hermoine, please tell me you noticed something wrong with Malfoy.” You murmur and enter the potions room, eyes instantly meeting the gray and blue eyes you were speaking of. He quickly averted his gaze and stared down at his potions book instead, making you frown. “He hasn’t been throwing enough insults at us this year.”

“Is that not a good thing?” She creases her brows and takes her seat beside you, pulling her potions book out of her bag. Hermione looks at you with slight unease, not really understanding why you were asking in the first place. “Besides, why should you care? Don’t you hate him?”

You don’t respond, only spinning your ring and bringing your attention back to the Slytherin Prince himself, your teeth kissing your lips in your own turmoil. He looked so tired and… Helpless. You wanted to understand what he was going through despite everything he had put you through. He was still a student at Hogwarts. It may seem out of the ordinary from your usual loathing, but if something serious was going on, you hoped to Godric that he would be okay.

For the rest of class, Slughorn assigned the most ridiculous sounding potion to create. It was supposedly the most powerful love potion in existence and when Slughorn said it could help anyone identify their true love, you doubted it. It was only when Harry properly made the potion did you test the theory out. It seemed like Lavender was having a day with the potion and kept batting her eyes at Ron, making you and Hermoine roll your eyes in annoyance.

When Slughorn called the rest of the class in pairs to come over to smell the potion and describe what they smelled, you still believed people made up with what they smelled. You thought they were just believing they smelled the person they liked. From Hermione smelling freshly-mown grass and new parchment to Harry smelling some kind of sweets, it seemed quite fake.

And you could have gotten away with not having to smell the potion when you unashamedly yawned the second Slughorn turned to look over.

“Miss Potter, since you and Mr. Malfoy seem to have found this task boring, why don’t you both come up and tell me what you smell.” Slughorn beckoned you up toward Harry’s cauldron.

Pursing your lips, you do your best not to roll your eyes as you made your way over to the cauldron, only to be overwhelmed with Draco’s cologne when smelling the potion. You glance at him from the corner of your eyes, noticing he was just as confused as you.

“Maybe tone down the cologne, Malfoy.” You mutter to him and try to find a scent that wasn’t just his stupid cologne.

He rolled his eyes at you and leaned his head down, practically hissing into your ear. “Me? Your fucking shampoo is blocking all my senses right now.”

“Like you can smell that right now.” You turn your own head and glare at him, the tension growing larger and larger.

As if you were in a staring contest of who could hate the other more, you forgot about the class and only the loathing you felt for the blonde in front of you. However, the class soon began to felt the tension, uncomfortable with how you two were behaving. Whispers began to fill the air, but you two continued to bicker.

“Maybe use less product, Potter.” Draco suggested and flicked a piece of your hair off your shoulder, ignoring the way his cheeks flamed at how close the two of you were at the moment.

You crossed your arms and squinted, hating how he had to bend just to be at eye level to you. “Says the one practically bathes in Dior Sauvage—”

“Mr. Malfoy and Miss Potter, please, go back to your seats. We have gathered all the information we need.” Slughorn spoke with an amused smile.

For the rest of the week, it seemed like the entire student body was pointing to you and whispering. Even if you were just switching classes or sitting in the Gryffindor common room with Hermione, eyes averted to you before they eventually turned away when they caught your eyes.

You didn't understand what was going on. It felt like everyone you knew began to have a knew found hatred toward you and it bugged you. Even Harry gave you questioning looks from time to time. You don't remember doing anything cruel and vile.

Eventually, you did give up guessing why everyone was giving you dirty looks. You ignored all their staring and only acknowledged the people you knew didn't mean any harm toward you. It soon became a habit for you to leave the trio alone for a good hour or two, spending time to practice spells in the room of requirements; Mainly casting your Patronus and watching it have the time of its life.

Well, until one day the room began to change on its own.

“Hello? Room of requirements?" You stood abruptly and looked around at the changing room, your Patronus dissipating in thin air.

The room began to shift in size, becoming quite large in size with piles and piles of junk. As you tripped over the old trinkets decorating the room — trying to find the exit to the ever expanding room — you cut yourself on the sudden arrival of a rusted sword.

Holding your cut hand close to you body, you glared at the room like it was your least favorite thing in the entire world. "This is not what I asked—“

“Fuck.”

You heard the voice whisper before you jumped back in surprise when the person banged on something wooden. So someone who needed the room more came. That's why. As you tried to make your way out a give the person privacy, you tripped back into another pile of junk, making you wince.

“Shit.” You mutter and do your best to remove yourself from the pile, pursing your lips when you heard footsteps approach you.

Before you could even try to hide, the said person appeared right in front of you with their wand pointed at your face. You followed the wand up until you met their eyes, making you inwardly groan at your luck.

“What are you doing?” You spoke at the same time, both of you rolling your eyes at the same time.

Hastily, you stood up from your spot on the dirtied floor and dusted your clothes off, mentally cursing yourself for being ever so clumsy.

“I asked you first, Potter.” Draco tucked his wand away, glancing down at your bleeding hand. He frowned and moved around you.

You stepped away from him, still nursing your hand. Unsure of what he was going to do, you simply answered the question truthfully.

“I was using the room to practice my spells, but it changed because apparently your needs were far more important than mine.” You watched him dig through dusted cabinets and drawers, looking for something. “Now answer mine.”

“I don’t have to.” He muttered and pulled out some type of cleanser and a kit, making you recoil at the sight. You hated the doctors and it seemed like Draco was ready to operate on your hand.

“You know? I think I should go before—" You start before he raised a brow at you, looking down at your injured hand and then back up to your eyes. "What?"

“You could get in trouble, you know?” He gestured to your hand before guiding you to sit on a bed that seemed too clean to be one of the old trinkets lying around before. "You need to clean your hand before it gets infected. Everything in here is old and dusted."

"Then I will clean my hand on my own, thank you very much." You yank the cleanser from his hands and pop the cap open. You stared at your wound before looking at the bottle, already regretting your choice.

"What?" He looked over your face, noticing the hesitation in your facial expression. "Do you need me to do it?"

"Yes, please." You whisper quickly, shutting your eyes tightly when you felt him lightly dab your cut with the cleanser. You bit your lip when it stung, nodding when he told you it would be over in a second.

“I'm done." Draco murmured and threw the cloth in the trash, watching you slowly open your eyes and look at your now bandaged hand. He nodded at you before standing, finding his way back over to a wooden cabinet.

You looked around the place, noticing the fresh bedsheets and glass of water that surely hasn't been sitting there for Godric knows how long. Tucking your injured hand in your free one, you wandered the small sleeping area before stopping at all the books piled next to it.

"Malfoy, what are you doing in here?" You take a book from the top of the pile and read its title. The Fundamentals of Vanishing Cabinets. You raised your brows in curiosity, looking over at him to find him already staring. "Well?"

“Like I said, I don't have to answer you.” He murmured and stepped toward you, taking the book from your hands.

You stared at him and frowned. His image was even worse up close. You could see the bags underneath his eyes and the gel from his hair completely gone from how many times he ran his fingers through his hair. When he glanced down at you, you were once again millimeters from each other before you both pulled away in confusion and guilt, like your skin was on fire.

“Are you getting enough sleep?" You ask as he walks toward the cabinet again, but this time, you followed him over. "I don't see you eat enough during dinner either."

“You watch me, Potter?” He spoke in amusement, lips turning down to hide the smirk that wanted to present itself to you.

“What? No!" You splutter out and look away, face flamed in warmth. "Only in hatred.”

"Whatever you say." He murmured and began tinkering with the cabinet, placing a green apple on the top shelf. "Stalker." He whispered, earning an annoyed glare from you.

“Just answer the question. Why did the room change to this mess?” You look at the bed you assumed his stayed in and then change your gaze toward the cabinet he seemed so intent on working on. “And why are you spending all your time on this old cabinet?“

He opened his mouth to speak when he winced and clutched his left forearm, making you panic ever so slightly. Draco moved to sit on the bed, pursing his lips and trying to think of anything but the pain being emitted on his arm.

You frown and take his arm in your hands, pulling his sleeve up only to silently gasp in surprise. Draco pulled his arm away and tugged the sleeve down, glaring at you.

“You’re a death eater.” You look at him with wide eyes, stepping back in shock. You looked between his arm, his frantic eyes, and then the cabinet. Your head was reeling at all the information you learned. "You got the dark mark—"

“You can’t tell anyone.” Draco whispered, almost pleading you to not tell a soul. If you told Harry, then everything would go to shit. But when he saw your face clear of all shock and shift to remorse, he knew you wouldn't go against his wishes despite him being a real threat to you and your brother.

“Why? Why did…” You move closer and clutch his arm, pulling his sleeve up again and wanting to trace the design. When he stopped you, you looked up and knew it would hurt. You nodded and thumbed the skin below it, eyes looking over the ink. “You didn’t have a choice, did you?”

Draco nodded and shut his eyes when you continued to thumb the empty space, opening them when you stopped. He knew that the gears were turning in your head when you stared at him like he was you next project — which he knew you would never call him that despite the loathing you had for him.

After seconds of silence, you open your mouth and speak softly, thumb moving over the space once more. “Can't you tell Dumbledore at all? Maybe he could do something to protect you—“

“That’s not how it works.” Draco stopped your movements and tugged his sleeve down. He caught you hesitating to look over the mark again, tilting his head to the side when you took a seat beside him. "Why are you still here?"

"What do you mean?" You murmur and trace the bandage over your hand before looking up at him, meeting his blue-gray eyes. "I can leave if you want me to. But I want to know if you'll be okay if I leave first."

You kept eye contact with him for a little longer before looking away, eyes finding interest in a silver crown in the corner. You weren't sure why you cared so much about him. It was like a switch flipped on in your mind. In all your years at Hogwarts, his taunting was a constant in your life. So when that went away, you knew something was wrong and you wanted to make sure he was okay, even if your brother hated him. It was an instinct you suddenly gained.

"Why?" He stared at the mirror across from him, catching your eyes through the reflection once more. "Is it because you want more material to tease me about?"

"Godric, no." You huff and run your fingers through your hair. "I'm not a monster, Malfoy." You let a small smile slip through when he raised his brow at you. "I'm not a monster!"

"Not saying you are, Potter." He finally smiled at you. But even through the smile, you could see how exhausted he was. With whatever he was doing for the Dark Lord, you just hoped he would be fine in the end. "If I tell you I'll be okay, will you leave me be so I can finish my task?"

You turn your head to look at him properly, looking in between his eyes. You sighed and broke eye contact, "Yes." You look back up and find him millimeters away again, making you squint. "If you don't come to potions tomorrow with any kind of retort, I will be in here waiting for you, understand?"

He rolled his eyes and nodded, "Whatever gets you out of here, Potter."

Nodding, you stand and dust off your clothes once more. Talking with Draco civically was quite a feat, but you knew it was for the better or worse. But just before you could leave the room, you heard his voice ring out to you once more, you first name falling from his lips instead of your last.

"Don't use that strong of a shampoo anymore, yeah?"

You send him a half smile, "Only if you don't apply your entire bottle of cologne."

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bartonomy · 4 months ago

Text

SWIFT HOPPER

PAIRING James Potter x animagus rabbit! reader

SYNOPSIS James Potter can catch a Snitch- but not a rabbit much to a group of little gremlins' dismay .

CONTENT WARNING I know that James wasn't a seeker in canon but it just fits, fluff!!!

WORD COUNT 0.8k

library.

If James Potter had a Galleon for every time you slipped through his fingers, he’d be wealthier than the entire Black family ever.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t being paid for this endeavour, nor was he being particularly successful at it.

“Come on, darling, stop making this harder than it has to be!”

His voice rang through the Grand Staircase, bouncing off the walls in a way that made you want to laugh, except you currently didn’t have the vocal cords to do so. You had, however, very effective legs. And you put them to good use, launching yourself up the next set of stairs before James could lunge for you.

“You’ve got to be bloody joking,” James muttered under his breath, hands on his knees, breath coming out in sharp bursts. His glasses had slid halfway down his nose, and his tie was crooked from where he’d nearly strangled himself with it in an earlier attempt to grab you.

You, in your very cute rabbit form, twitched your little nose at him from the top of the staircase, entirely unaffected by the physical exertion that had James sweating.

You were mocking him. You had to be mocking him.

The castle made an unhelpful groaning sound beneath you, and the staircase immediately shuddered, beginning to move.

Ah. Well. That complicated things.

You saw James curse under his breath as the shifting staircases separated you. He stood across the the lower stairs, one foot braced against the railing, hazel eyes locked onto you with the intensity of a Seeker tracking the snitch.

“Don’t you dare,” he warned, as if he could somehow read your mind.

You wiggled your little nose. Oh, I dare.

“Alright, bun, fun’s over,” James announced, straightening and swiping a hand through his already-messy hair. “Be a good little bunny and come here before I—”

Before he could finish his sentence, the staircase shuddered once again.

His eyes widened as he watched, horrified, while the stairs started swinging away from the landing you were standing on.

“Oh, Godric's-”

You had been mid hop when the ground beneath you quite literally disappeared.

Which meant you were falling.

A startled squeak left your throat, your stomach flipping as the staircases spun around you. Your brain scrambled for a plan, but your current form didn't have the capacity to make any logical decisions.

James, however, didn’t think a second before he reacted. Years of Quidditch training had his body moving before his mind could fully catch up. He lunged forward, arms outstretched, diving for you before you could plummet into the gaping free space between staircases.

For one terrifying second, he thought he’d missed.

Then-

Warm fur and a tiny, panicked heartbeat in his palm.

James landed hard, knees slamming into the stone floor (luckily only one floor lower) as he clutched you to his chest, his breath ragged. He felt you wiggle in his grasp, probably about to scurry away again, and he tightened his hold.

“Oh no, don't even think about hopping off again,” he rasped, voice hoarse from the burst of adrenaline. “You almost died, and I, merlin’s soggy balls, I cannot believe I’m saying this- I refuse to let you humiliate me any further, bun.”

He barely had time to process what had just happened before a small cluster of very concerned (entertained) first years came into view at the top of the stairs, staring down at him with wide, fascinated eyes.

One of them hesitantly raised a hand. “Um… you are James Potter, yeah?”

James, still half sprawled on the ground, one arm wrapped securely around a very disgruntled rabbit, groaned. “Yeah?”

The first year blinked. “Aren’t you supposed to be really fast?”

James closed his eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. Count to ten.

A second one, with quite ugly glasses if he might add, nodded solemnly. “You are the best Seeker at Hogwarts....”

Another one agreed (how many bloody children are there?!) “That rabbit was so much faster than you.”

James exhaled sharply. “Holy balls, I hate this day.”

You, nestled in his arms, flicked your ears, entirely pleased with yourself.

He looked down at you, scowling. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

You wiggled your nose. Obviously.

James muttered something about bloody rabbits before shifting you so he could get back on his feet.

“You are so lucky you’re cute,” he grumbled and kissed your little furry head fondly, holding you a little closer as he turned to leave, ignoring the quiet snickers of the overgrown babes behind him.

This had not been his proudest moment.

And if Sirius ever found out about it?

James was never going to hear the end of it.

#james potter x reader #james potter x you #james potter x yn #james potter fic #james potter drabble #james potter #animagus rabbit! reader #james potter fluff #the marauders #james potter headcanon #james potter headcanons

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unconventional-lawnchair · 6 months ago

Note

Hello! Could you do a Barty Crouch Jr. x Fem! Potter! Reader.

Where they are both in Ravenclaw and get close and end up dating in secret because of the Slytherins and the marauders. But then something happens and they break up but Barty shows up at the readers house years later to warn her about Harry, James, and Lily. They rekindle (smut if you write it. Or leads to that?)

And I was thinking about two different endings.

Ending 1: The reader later finds out she’s pregnant and has to raise their child on her own until the triwizard tournament where their child meets their father?

Ending 2: The reader goes to godric hollow that night to try to help them but ends up dying and Barty finds her and holds her?

Or if you like both you can do two different Barty x reader!

Love your fics by the way and I am Hooked to the series!!

Making Mistakes

Barty Crouch Junior x Potter!RavenClaw!Reader

Summary: (See above) After a horrible break up in 7th year, Barty and you haven't spoken a word to eachother. Then, he comes barrelling back into your life begging for forgiveness, will you trust him?

Wc: 16.8k

CW: Angst Heavy. Hurt/Comfort, Barty and the reader are messssy. Sexual themes and scenes. Mom!Reader, AFAB!Reader, Dad!Barty, Non canon complacent, The first part of the fanfiction is focused on the reader- second is focused on Ophelia(your daughter).

The Potter Manor, once warm and full of life, now felt cold and empty. The high ceilings and ornate decorations that had once felt grand now only magnified the silence. The vibrant reds and golds of your family crest seemed muted, much like the life that had once filled these halls.

Your brother, James, was hiding somewhere even you couldn't name- hardly able to visit outside of special occasions. Your parents had been gone for over a year. The house was far too big, far too quiet, and far too lonely. It wasn’t just the emptiness of the space itself- it was the absence of the people who had made it a home. You’d told yourself that time would help, but the grief lingered, stubborn and heavy, refusing to fade.

Even now, curled up on the couch in the living room- the one you used to complain was too cramped- you felt the space around you stretch endlessly. With a blanket over your knees, the fireplace crackling softly, and a book resting on your lap, it should have felt cozy. Instead, it felt hollow. You ran your fingers absentmindedly over the cover of your book, your other hand drifting to the necklace around your neck, the small charm resting just above your heart- a lone magpie.

It matched your patronus. Well, it matched what your patronus had become. Once, it had been a darling doe- calm and serene, a reflection of your regal- that's what Sirius had said. Now, it was the magpie: small, fierce, and energetic. It suited you, or at least the version of you that remained. You’d felt yourself change, slowly but surely, in the years you knew a love so dangerous it tore off parts of you that you no longer remmebered.

Your fingers traced the delicate charm as your thoughts wandered to the person who had given it to you. Barty. The weight of his name still felt the same, a complicated tangle of emotions that hadn’t untwisted no matter how much time passed.

You could still see his face the night you’d told him you couldn’t do it anymore. The way his sharp features had frozen, the defiance and anger creeping in as soon as the words left your mouth. You’d said you couldn’t keep hiding, couldn’t keep pretending that what you had didn’t matter. You’d told him you were tired of the stolen glances, the whispered promises, and the constant fear of being caught.

But you knew now that what had hurt him most wasn’t the ultimatum- it was the fear. Fear of admitting to the world what you meant to each other. Fear of what he might lose if he dared to love you openly. Fear that his world and yours were too different, too far apart to ever coexist.

Now, as you sat there in the flickering firelight, your thumb brushed over the charm, the memories tugging at your chest. The book on your lap remained unopened as you stared into the flames, the ache in your heart as familiar as the necklace around your neck.

~~~

The flickering candlelight painted Barty’s sharp features in gold and shadow as he lay beside you, his bare chest rising and falling steadily. The heat of your bodies still lingered in the cool air of the room, your skin damp against the soft sheets tangled around your legs. His fingers toyed with the charm resting against your collarbone, his touch so gentle it made your heart ache.

“Crow, can we talk?” You whispered, your voice soft but firm, breaking the fragile silence that had fallen between you.

Barty’s hand froze, his fingers brushing against the charm one last time before he let it fall against your chest. His jaw tightened, his green eyes refusing to meet yours as he shifted slightly, feigning casualness. “What’s there to talk about, birdie?” He murmured, his voice smooth but unconvincing. Unsatisfied your little exercise didn't make you truly forget what you intended to talk about. “We’re here. Together. Isn’t that enough?”

You sat up slightly, leaning on your elbow as you looked at him. “No,” You said softly, the word carrying more weight than you’d intended. “It’s not.”

He finally glanced at you, his expression guarded. “You’re overthinking again,” He said lightly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. “Can’t we just- can’t we just enjoy this?”

“Enjoy what?” You challenged, your voice trembling slightly. “Hiding? Pretending? Barty, we can’t keep doing this.”

He groaned softly, falling back onto the pillow and running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Why do you have to ruin the moment?” He muttered, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness. “We’re happy, aren’t we? Isn’t that what matters?”

“Are we happy?” You shot back, sitting up fully now, the blanket slipping from your shoulders. “Because I don’t feel happy, Barty. I feel like I’m suffocating.”

He sat up abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he fixed you with a desperate gaze. “Don’t say that,” He snapped, his voice rising slightly. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” You said firmly, though your voice broke slightly. “I love you, Barty, but I can’t keep pretending this is enough. I need more. I need us- the real us.”

“This is the real us,” He argued, his voice frantic now. He reached for you, his hand gripping your arm as if holding onto you could stop you from slipping away. “This is how we work, birdie. This is how we survive. You think the world would let us be together? You think they’d let us have this?”

“I don’t care what the world thinks,” You snapped, your own desperation rising to meet his. “I care about us. But this- this isn’t sustainable. We’re tearing each other apart, Barty.”

“Of course you don’t care,” He spat suddenly, his grip tightening as his green eyes blazed. “You wouldn’t. You’re a Potter. You come from your perfect Potter family with your perfect, golden life. You wouldn’t understand what it’s like to have a family like mine- to be a Crouch.”

His words cut deep, the bitterness in his tone like a slap. But you didn’t flinch. Instead, you stared at him, your voice steady as you said, “Don’t you dare.”

He blinked, startled by the fierceness in your tone. “What?”

“Don’t you dare use my family as an excuse to run from what you deserve,” You said, leaning closer. “Just because my parents loved me, just because James and I grew up with something good, doesn’t mean you don’t deserve that too.”

He scoffed, the sound bitter and sharp. “I don’t deserve that. Not with who I am. Not with my name.”

“Yes, you do,” You said fiercely, your hand finding his cheek, forcing him to look at you. “You deserve love, Barty. Real love. Not this shadow of it we’re living in. But you have to believe that, or none of this will ever work.”

He stared at you, trying to read your expression, his jaw so tight you swore you could hear ticking. His grip on you was bruising, but you ached for it. You ached for his want, his desperate need, because without it- you felt like you were falling apart.

You leaned into him, your once hot skin chilling against the air of the room. On instinct, his hands slipped away from your arm and he wrapped them around your waist. Your hands found his chest and you moved all that bit closer. “Wouldn't that be a dream, Barty?” You whispered, voice strained and tears threatening to spill from your eyes. “If- if our kids,” You choked out and his eyes widened at your admittance of something solid. That was your dream. To be so true, so real, that starting a family was the obvious next step. “Our kids talk about us how I talk about my parents? That our son- our daughter- our little wix. They knew what a love like ours could do.”

Your words hit Barty like a physical blow, and for a moment, he looked utterly stunned. His hands on your waist tightened instinctively, pulling you closer as though the sheer force of your desperation could tether him to the dream you had just dared to voice.

“Our kids,” He echoed, his voice hoarse and filled with something you couldn’t quite place- something between longing and disbelief. His wide eyes searched yours, as if trying to find the certainty he couldn’t feel within himself. “You really think… that we could have that?”

“I know we could,” You said, your voice trembling but resolute. “But only if you let us. Only if you stop running from it.”

He shook his head, his hands trembling where they gripped you. “You don’t get it, birdie,” He said, his voice breaking. “I’m not… I’m not good like you. Like your parents. I don’t know how to be that kind of person.”

“You think my parents were perfect?” You asked, your voice rising in frustration, shaking. “They weren’t saints, Barty. They argued, they made mistakes- but they never stopped trying. They never stopped fighting for what they believed in, for each other. And you can do that too.”

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound almost choking on its way out. “You don’t know what you’re asking. My family isn’t like yours, okay? My father only believes in appearances, in power. He’d never accept this- he’d never accept us. And if he found out…” He trailed off, his expression darkening as a shudder ran through him.

“I don’t care about your father,” You said fiercely, your hands cupping his face. “I care about you. And you’re not him, Barty. You’re not your father.”

His eyes closed at your words, as though they hurt to hear. “I don’t know how to believe that,” He admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to be what he wants, and even that’s not enough. I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“You don’t have to be,” You said, your thumb brushing softly against his cheek. “You just have to be you. And you have to let yourself believe you deserve more than what he’s made you think you do.”

He opened his eyes then, and for a moment, you saw the cracks in his carefully built walls- the vulnerability he worked so hard to hide. “And what if I can’t?” He whispered. “What if I ruin us?”

“Then we fight through it,” You said, your voice firm even as tears threatened to spill. “We keep trying, just like my parents did. Just like I know we can. You don’t have to be perfect, Barty. You just have to let yourself love me.”

His breath slowed, his hands sliding up your back as he pulled you into a desperate embrace. His head dipped into the crook of your neck, and you felt the wetness of his tears against your skin. “I do love you,” He said, his voice raw. “I love you so much it hurts. It scares the hell out of me, birdie.”

“I know,” You murmured, your hands threading through his hair. “I know, Barty. But love isn’t supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be worth it.”

For a moment, you thought he might let himself believe you. His arms around you felt solid, grounding, as though he was holding on to you for dear life. But then, just as quickly, he pulled back, his eyes filled with an anguish that made your chest ache.

“I don’t know if I can give you what you deserve,” he finally muttered, his voice trembling. “And I can’t bear the thought of failing you.”

“You’re not failing me,” You said, reaching for him, but he was already pulling away, retreating back behind the walls he had built to protect himself.

“I am,” He said, his voice cracking as he shook his head. Pushing you back and getting to his feet. “I already am.”

You watched, your heart shattering as he put on his clothes, back to you. Your eyes trailed the path your nails made against his back, your silent claim on him that he always begged you for. “Barty, Barty, please.” You sobbed out and you saw how stiff he grew. “Barty, my love.”

“I hear you, Birdie.” He whispered and buttoned up his shirt. Walking back to the bed, but staying out of reach from you. “Always such a beautiful song.” He whispered before he leaned in and stole a kiss. “I'm sorry.”

“Barty-” You strained and he kissed you again. Over and over until he managed to push you back against the bed.

“I love you Birdie.”

“Barty-”

“But I'm.. I'm not who you need.”

Your heart broke with every word that fell from his lips, each one chipping away at the fragile hope you'd tried to build between you.

“Don’t do this,” You whispered, your voice trembling as tears spilled freely down your cheeks. “Don’t say that, Barty. Don’t leave me like this.”

He closed his eyes as if shutting out the sight of you would make this easier, though you both knew it wouldn’t. “I have to,” He murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “If I stay, I’ll ruin you. I can’t do that, Birdie. I can’t be the reason you lose everything.”

“You are everything,” You choked out, grabbing his wrist in desperation as he made to pull away. “Can’t you see that? You’re what I choose, Barty. You’re what I want.”

His breath stopped at your words, and for a fleeting moment, you saw the war raging within him. His body was tense, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might shatter. But then he shook his head, his eyes meeting yours with a tortured finality.

“You deserve more,” His voice breaking as he leaned in to press one last kiss to your forehead. It lingered, soft and agonizingly final. “You deserve a love that doesn’t hurt like this.”

“I don’t care about perfect,” Your hands clutching at his shirt as though you could physically anchor him to you. “I care about you.”

He pried your hands off of him gently but firmly, his touch reverent even as it was devastating. “And I love you,” He said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But love isn’t always enough.”

You shook your head vehemently, trying to reach for him again, but he stepped back, his retreat like a knife slicing through the air between you. “Barty, please,” You begged, your voice breaking entirely now. “Please don’t do this.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his own tears threatening to spill, but then he turned away, his movements slow and deliberate, as if each step was a battle.

He paused at the door, his hand on the frame, his back still to you. “You’ll always be my song, Birdie,” He said quietly, the nickname a bittersweet ache on his tongue.

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the room that still smelled of him, your heart breaking in the silence he left behind. The only sound was your sobs, muffled by the pillow you clutched to your chest, the magpie charm pressing cold against your skin- a painful reminder of what you’d just lost.

~~~

You gave a low shaken sigh. Trying to still your shattering heart and gather your voice before it all became too much again.

You looked up at the mantle above the fireplace, unable to stop the smile that curled on your lips. The photos, of your parents on their wedding day, of James’s first birthday, then yours. Then a photo of Lily and James’s wedding, of Harry’s first birthday- just three months ago.

You stared at the photographs for a long moment, your fingers tightening around the magpie charm at your neck. The smiles in the photos were so vivid, so full of joy, that it felt almost cruel. Your parents, James, Lily, even baby Harry- they were all looping so present in the frozen moments captured by the camera. Yet here you were, alone in the vast emptiness of the manor, the weight of their absence pressing down on you.

The photo of Harry’s first birthday caught your eye. His tiny hand reaching for the cake, James’s laughing face as Lily leaned in to kiss Harry’s cheek. You could almost hear the sound of their laughter echoing in the back of your mind, a memory you clung to desperately.

Your lips quirked into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “James would tell me to get up and stop being so dramatic,” You muttered to yourself, shaking your head. “He’d probably say something ridiculous like, ‘You’re a Potter, we don’t mope, we plot.’”

The thought of your brother’s mischievous grin brought a pang of longing. You missed him fiercely- his energy, his unrelenting optimism, and even the way he teased you mercilessly. James had always been your anchor, the one person who could pull you out of your darkest moments. But now he was miles away, hiding with Lily and Harry, fighting a war you couldn’t see but could feel in every corner of your being.

Your gaze drifted back to the fire, the flames dancing and crackling softly. The silence in the room felt deafening again, the weight of your solitude settling back over you. You tried to distract yourself by opening the book on your lap, but the words blurred together, meaningless against the storm of thoughts raging in your mind.

You closed the book with a frustrated sigh, setting it aside as you leaned back against the couch. Your fingers traced the magpie charm absently, your thoughts inevitably returning to him.

Barty.

His name echoed in your mind, and with it came a flood of memories- his rare, boyish smiles that he reserved just for you, the way his green eyes softened when he thought you weren’t looking, the way he held you like you were the only thing tethering him to the world.

You closed your eyes, letting out a shaky breath as the memory of his voice played in your mind:

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, and you quickly wiped it away. Crying wouldn’t bring him back. Crying wouldn’t change the way he’d walked out of your life, no matter how much it hurt.

But Merlin, did it hurt.

The knock at the door startled you from your thoughts, the sound sharp and sudden against the heavy silence of the manor. You froze for a moment, your heart leaping to your throat as dread washed over you. The wards. You reminded yourself of the countless layers of protection James and Lily had insisted upon. No one with ill intent could step foot near the manor. Still, it took you a moment to move.

Your fingers tightened around your cardigan as you approached the door, peering cautiously through the window. Relief and confusion mingled as you saw Remus standing there, holding a bundle of flowers and looking chilled down to the bone.

You couldn’t help the way your lips curved into a smile, the first genuine one in what felt like weeks. Remus always had that effect on you, with his quiet strength and steady presence. You opened the door without hesitation, the chill of the winter evening brushing against your skin as you pulled him inside.

“Remus!” You laughed, wrapping your arms around him tightly before he could say a word. The flowers in his hands crinkled against your shoulder, and he let out a low, startled chuckle.

“Hello to you too,” He murmured, his arms coming around you after a brief hesitation. His embrace was warm and grounding, and for a moment, you let yourself rest in the safety of his hold. He cradled you like you were something fragile, something he was afraid might break if he squeezed too tightly.

When you finally pulled back, his sharp eyes roamed your face, scanning for any cracks in the mask you hadn’t realized you’d been wearing. “You didn’t have to bring me flowers,” You hummed softly, trying to inject some lightness into your tone as you gestured to the bouquet.

Remus gave a sheepish smile, shrugging slightly. “I thought it might brighten your evening,” he admitted. “But if I’d known the hug was part of the deal, I might’ve come sooner.”

You let out a laugh and furrowed your brow further, unable to help how the cheeky comment brightened up your night that little bit more. “I see Sirius has gotten into you. Come in, let's go to the kitchen.”

The kitchen glowed softly, the warm light reflecting off the polished wooden counters and copper fixtures. The steady hum of the kettle was a comforting backdrop to the quiet conversation you and Remus shared. You busied yourself preparing tea, your back to him as he leaned against the table, his long limbs relaxed but his eyes watchful.

“You’ve redecorated,” He remarked, gesturing to the new curtains hanging over the window. “I’m not sure the maroon suits the Potters, though. Sirius would call it RavenClaw overkill.”

You smirked over your shoulder, a hint of genuine amusement breaking through the lingering heaviness in your chest. “Sirius would call anything not leather or black an abomination,” you retorted, setting two mismatched mugs on the counter.

Remus chuckled, a low, pleasant sound that filled the room. “Touché. Though I do think the blue adds some warmth. This place could use it.” He glanced around, his expression softening. “It feels different without… everyone.”

You paused for a moment, letting his words hang in the air. The truth of them settled deep in your chest, an ache that had grown all too familiar. “It’s been a bit lonely,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “I’m not used to all this space- just me.”

He nodded, his gaze heavy with understanding. “I think they’d hate to see you like this. Especially James. He’d insist on dragging you to some ridiculous Quidditch match to cheer you up.”

You smiled faintly at the thought, a flicker of warmth chasing away the cold for just a moment. “He would,” You agreed. “He’d bribe me with chocolate frogs and promise not to embarrass me in front of the team, only to shout louder than anyone else in the stands. Calling us the seeker twins.”

Remus’s lips quirked into a small smile, but there was a flicker of something else in his expression- something that felt out of place. Nostalgia, yes, but also something deeper, something almost... reverent. His fingers drumming against his cup as he sat down at the table.

“You’ve always been good at making people laugh,” He said softly, his tone different now. His gaze lingered on you in a way that made your fingers hesitate as you poured the tea.

“You give me too much credit,” You hummed lightly, though his words sent a faint blush creeping up your neck. “James is the funny one. I’m just the stubborn one.”

He tilted his head, his smile turning crooked- letting his fingers graze your wrist and fixing your cuff as you poured him his tea. “It's a Potter trait. But I think it’s more than that.”

You turned to face him fully. “What are you getting at, Remus?” You narrowed your eyes, your tone teasing but your curiosity piqued.

He took the mug, his fingers brushing yours briefly, and for a moment, he didn’t reply. He just studied you, his hazel eyes unusually intense. “You’ve always had this way of making people feel seen,” He said finally, his voice softer now. “Like they matter. Even when they don’t think they do.”

His words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. “That’s… kind of you to say,” You managed, looking down at your tea as you tried to gather your thoughts. “I don’t think I’ve ever been particularly good at- ”

“You're selling yourself short, Birdie.” He chuckled. The nickname slipped from his lips so naturally, so casually, that it took you a moment to process. When it hit, your breath caught in your throat, and the air between you seemed to still.

You set your mug down slowly, your mind racing even as you fought to keep your expression calm. You turned back to the sink, gripping the edge tightly to ground yourself. “...What did you just call me?”

Remus stiffened, and you felt his gaze burn into your back. “What do you mean?” He mumbled, his voice suddenly cautious.

You turned around, your heart pounding- only one person called you by that name. “Why are you here?” You crossed your arms, your voice steady despite the storm building in your chest. “And don’t tell me it’s for tea.”

His expression faltered for just a second- just long enough for you to see through the carefully constructed façade. “I’m here because I wanted to see you,” His tone was measured. “To make sure you were all right.”

“No,” You scoffed, shaking your head as the pieces clicked together. “No, you know I'm not a fool.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but you didn’t let him. “Why are you here, Barty?”

His eyes widened, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. The careful demeanor, the warm smiles, the familiar quirks- it all fell away, replaced by a raw, vulnerable intensity that made your breath stop.

“You always were too clever for your own good,” He muttered, leaning back in his chair with a resigned sigh. “Guess there’s no point pretending now.”

Your chest tightened as the truth settled in. You gave a disbelieving scoff before you ran your fingers through your hair. Pacing slightly before you paused, a scary truth settling over you. “How did you do it?”

Barty rolled his neck and leaned further into his seat to face you again. His expression neutral- the natural arrogant energy coming from him felt horribly wrong coming from Remus’s stolen face. “What exactly, birdie?”

“Don't play coy.” You snapped. “How did you get as piece of Remus for the potion you used to lie your way past my wards and into my home, Crouch?”

“... I hate when you call me Crouch.” Barty's response was almost petulant, his lips twisting into a pout as he sat back in the chair, fingers tapping rhythmically against the porcelain mug he had barely touched. He tilted his head to the side, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you, the faintest ghost of a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“You always know how to wound me,” He continued softly, his tone a mockery of vulnerability. “But then again, you've always been too good at that, haven't you?”

Your stomach churned at the way he looked at you, like you were something to be admired and consumed all at once. It was too much, too familiar, and yet so far removed from the boy you once knew. You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, grounding yourself against the onslaught of emotions threatening to overwhelm you.

“Answer the question, Barty,” You said sharply, your voice cutting through the heavy silence of the room. “How did you do it?”

He sighed dramatically, as though the act of explaining himself was some grand inconvenience. “Remus has always been predictable,” He snarked lazily, his gaze never leaving yours. “He's a creature of habit, like clockwork. It wasn’t exactly difficult to collect what I needed.”

Your blood ran cold at the casual way he spoke about violating the trust of someone you cared for. “You stalked him. You used him,” Your voice trembling with anger. “You used him to get to me.”

He smiled then, a slow, deliberate curl of his lips that sent a shiver down your spine. “I did it for you, Birdie,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, honeyed murmur. “For us. You don’t understand how much I’ve missed you, how much I’ve needed you. Every single day without you has been... agony.”

“Agony?” You repeated incredulously, your voice rising as your anger boiled over. “You don’t get to talk to me about agony, Barty. You left. You made that choice, and now you want to waltz back in here, pretending like nothing’s changed?”

“Because nothing has!” He shot back, rising from the chair so suddenly that it scraped against the floor with a harsh screech. He moved toward you, and despite yourself, you took a step back. “You think I stopped loving you? You think I ever stopped thinking about you? Every second, every breath, it’s always been you.”

“Stop,” You said firmly, holding up a hand to keep him at a distance. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to waltz in here, steal someone’s face, and act like you’re some lovesick hero.”

“But I am lovesick,” He said, his voice trembling as he closed the space between you. “I’m sick, Birdie. Sick. You’re the only thing that makes me feel alive, the only thing that’s ever made sense. Don’t you see? I’m here because I love you.”

“Love?” You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. “You don’t even know what love is, Barty. Love doesn’t manipulate. It doesn’t lie. It doesn’t use people. Get out.”

His expression switched to one of complete shock. As if he didn't expect to actually be sent away. You turned on your heels and walked down the hall, ignoring the stunned boy for a moment before he began to follow after you, taking a heavy breath. “Baby, birdie, don't walk away. Princess.”

Merlin, you hated to hear that coming from Remus’s mouth. It made your skin crawl.

His voice followed you like a shadow, echoing in the high ceilings of the manor. “Birdie, please,” He pleaded, a mixture of whining and anger that grated against your already frayed nerves. You didn’t turn around, your footsteps quick and determined as you ascended the stairs. “Don’t walk away from me!”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Every part of you screamed to keep moving, to put as much distance as possible between you and the man who was once everything to you. Your grip tightened on the banister as you climbed, trying to block out the sound of his voice.

“Stop ignoring me!” He shouted, his tone sharp with frustration. He was right behind you now, his steps uneven and frantic. “Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I want to be like this?”

At that, you stopped abruptly, your heart pounding in your chest as you turned to face him. “Do I think this is easy for you?” You snapped, your voice trembling with barely contained fury. “You’ve made it abundantly clear, Barty, that you’ll do whatever you want- no matter who it hurts.”

He flinched at your words, the rawness of them cutting through his desperation. But instead of backing down, he stepped closer, his expression a twisted mixture of anguish and determination. His face flickered again, the remnants of the Polyjuice Potion struggling to hold as patches of his sandy hair and pale skin replaced Remus’s softer features.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” He said, his voice breaking. “I’m trying to fix this. To fix us.”

“There is no us,” you spat, your hands shaking as you stepped back. “There hasn’t been for a long time. And that was your choice, Barty.”

“No,” he said firmly, his green eyes blazing with an intensity that sent a chill down your spine. “You don’t get to put this all on me. You think I wanted to leave? You think I wanted to-” His voice cracked, and he clenched his fists, his body trembling with barely restrained emotion. “I didn’t have a choice, Birdie. You don’t understand-”

“You’re right,” You interrupted, your voice rising. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand how someone who claimed to love me could leave me to pick up the pieces of a life we built together. I don’t understand how you can come back now, pretending like you didn’t shatter me.”

He took another step forward, his hands outstretched as though reaching for something he couldn’t quite grasp. “Because I had to,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Don’t you see? I had to protect you. From my father, from the world we were in. I-”

“Stop,” you said sharply, holding up a hand to cut him off. “Don’t stand there and pretend you were some kind of martyr. You weren’t protecting me, Barty. You were protecting yourself.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked like he might argue. But then his shoulders slumped, and the fight seemed to drain out of him. “Maybe I was,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I love you. That I’ve always loved you.”

“Love?” You echoed bitterly, shaking your head. “You call this love? Breaking into my home, stealing someone else’s face, manipulating me into letting you in? That’s not love, Barty. That’s obsession.”

At that, something in him seemed to snap. His entire body tensed, and he closed the space between you in two long strides. “Fine,” he hissed, his voice low and trembling with barely contained anger. “Call it what you want. Call me a monster, call me obsessed- but don’t you dare tell me I don’t love you.”

Before you could respond, his knees buckled, and he sank to the stair landing at your feet, his hands clutching at your covered thighs as though it were a lifeline. His chin pressed against your skirt, looking up at you with those eyes a young girl you knew once spent hours of her time lost in. Those brilliant and calculated eyes. Here he was; Bartemius Crouch Junior, with an ego to rival the gods and the mind and skill to back it up- on his knees. Looking up at you like an obedient dog. “How can I not love you?” He whispered. “Birdie. My beautiful song bird. How?”

Your chest heaved as you looked down at him, his once-imposing figure now crumpled before you, hands gripping your skirt like you were the only tether keeping him from falling apart completely. His words, dripping with desperation, clawed at your resolve.

“Barty,” You whispered, your voice trembling, a mixture of anger and grief thick in your throat. “You need to leave.”

His eyes shot up at your words, his green eyes wide with disbelief. He stared at you as if you’d just struck him, his lips parting slightly, searching for something to say. “No,” he said softly, his voice unsteady but growing firmer. You watched as the full potion effect dropped away. “I can’t leave. Not like this. Not when I know you still love me.”

You flinched, his words cutting deeper with his true voice, but you didn’t waver. “This isn’t about love,” you said firmly, though your voice cracked. “This is about you not knowing when to let go.”

He rose slowly, his movements deliberate, careful, like a predator trying not to spook its prey. He hovered over you now, his height casting a shadow that made the grand staircase feel suddenly small. His hand reached out, trembling as it moved toward your cheek, and you instinctively stepped back, pressing yourself against the banister.

“Don’t,” You warned, your voice sharp.

His hand froze mid-air, his fingers curling slightly before he dropped it to his side. He exhaled shakily, his breath warm as it ghosted over your skin. “Birdie, please,” He murmured, his voice barely audible, his lips forming words you couldn’t make out. His shoulders hunched as if the weight of his own need was too much to bear. “Please don’t send me away.”

You shook your head, tears threatening to spill over as you fought to keep your composure. “You don’t get to do this,” You hissed. “You don’t get to break into my home, throw yourself at my feet, and demand I fix you. You’re not my responsibility, Barty. Not anymore.”

His hands twitched at his sides, his jaw clenching as he fought some inner battle you couldn’t see. Then, in a single motion, his hands reached for you again, his movements quick but not violent, desperate but not forceful. Panic surged through you, and before you could think, your hand flew up, striking his cheek with a sharp slap.

The sound echoed in the hollow silence of the staircase.

He staggered back slightly, his hand flying to his cheek, but instead of anger, a strange expression crossed his face. His lips curved into a slow, almost delirious smile, his chest rising and falling as if he’d just surfaced from drowning.

“That,” He murmured, his voice rasping with something unhinged, “felt real.”

Your stomach churned, the unease twisting tighter as he stood straighter, his demeanor shifting. His hand dropped from his cheek, and he let out a low, almost relieved laugh, shaking his head. “That’s the Birdie I know,” he said softly, his tone dangerously gentle. “The one who knew what our passion meant- I miss her. Can I talk to her?”

Your chest heaved with the weight of his words, the deranged calmness in his voice sending your heart into overdrive. His smug, unhinged smile made the bile rise in your throat as your fingers curled into fists at your sides.

“You miss her?” You snapped, your voice sharp and trembling. “The Birdie you claim to miss is the one you destroyed, Barty! She’s the one you left behind when you decided to join them!”

The smile faltered slightly, and for a fleeting moment, you saw something like regret flicker across his face. But it wasn’t enough. It could never be enough to erase what he had done.

“You made your choice,” you continued, stepping toward him now, your fury overriding the trembling in your hands. “You chose to follow him. You chose to become a monster, to fight against everything I stand for, everything my family stands for. You don’t get to waltz back into my life and pretend none of it happened.”

“I did it for you,” His voice rising, his green eyes blazing as he stepped closer. “Every single thing I’ve done was for you, Birdie! To protect you, to keep you safe, to make sure you’d never have to know what it’s like to be weak. You think I wanted to join them? You think I wanted to-”

“Don’t you dare,” You cut him off, your voice trembling with rage. “Don’t you dare try to make this about me. You didn’t join them for me, Barty. You joined them because you’re too much of a coward to stand up to your father. You wanted power. You wanted to prove to him that you were more then him. But you didn’t care who you hurt along the way, did you?”

He flinched as though you’d struck him again, his jaw tightening as his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” He hissed through gritted teeth, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t know what it’s like to live with the weight of that name. To have no choice but to-”

“You had a choice!” You screamed, the words tearing from your throat as tears stung your eyes. “You always had a choice, Barty! And you chose them. You chose power. You chose to stand against me, against my family. Against James!”

He froze at that, his eyes wide and his breath hitching as though you’d struck a nerve. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop now, not with everything bubbling to the surface.

“You think I haven’t thought about you every single day?” You demanded, your voice breaking as tears began to spill freely down your cheeks. “You think I haven’t wondered if there was something I could have done, something I could have said to stop you? To save you?”

“Don’t,” He whispered, his voice trembling now, the bravado in his tone beginning to crack. “Don’t say that.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to say,” You spat, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. “You don’t get to tell me anything anymore. You lost that right the moment you turned your back on me.”

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling unevenly as the weight of your words pressed down on him. And then, suddenly, he moved.

Before you could react, he closed the distance between you in a single stride, his hands gripping your face with a desperation that took your breath away. His lips crashed into yours with a force that stole the air from your lungs, the kiss searing and frantic, as though it was the only way he could express everything he couldn’t say.

For a moment, you froze, your mind racing as the heat of his mouth overwhelmed your senses. You wanted to shove him away, to scream at him, to remind him of all the reasons this was wrong. But then something in you broke.

Your hands flew to his chest, not to push him away, but to pull him closer. The kiss deepened, raw and terrifying, a collision of anger, grief, and longing that neither of you could control. His hands slipped from your face to your waist, his grip bruising as he pulled you against him as if he could fuse you together.

The kiss deepened, and soon words no longer mattered. There were no more accusations, no more pleas, just the raw, unfiltered intensity of everything you’d both been holding back for far too long. It wasn’t tender or sweet- it was desperate, filled with the kind of longing and pain that made it impossible to think about anything else. His hands mapped out every inch of you as though he was trying to memorize you, to hold onto something real in a world that had been slipping away from him for years.

And you let him. You let yourself forget, if only for a moment, what he’d done, what he’d become, and the mess he’d left in his wake. You let yourself feel, because Merlin knew you couldn’t stand the ache of silence anymore.

It wasn’t long before the tension gave way to something more, something equally terrifying and exhilarating. Clothes were discarded hastily, his lips tracing paths of fire along your skin, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the silence of the manor wasn’t suffocating. It was electric.

You didn’t speak a word to each other the entire time. The only sounds being your soft gasps and his inaudible murmurs- ones that sounded more like pleas than anything else. You couldn’t give him more then that. Words would have only reminded you of the impossibility of it all, of everything you’d both lost. Words would have shattered the fragile bubble you’d created, where nothing else mattered but the two of you.

When it was over, you lay side by side in the fading moonlight, your bodies tangled in the sheets as the world slowly came back into focus. His breathing was uneven, his hand still resting on your waist as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go. But you didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You stared at the ceiling instead, your mind a chaotic storm of emotions you weren’t ready to unpack.

~~~

The morning light filtered in through the heavy curtains, painting the room in soft hues of gold and grey. You stirred slightly, the ache in your body a reminder of the night before, but you kept your eyes closed, willing the world- and him- away.

You heard him moving about, the rustle of fabric as he dressed. For a brief, fleeting moment, you thought he might leave quietly, that he might spare you the agony of facing him after everything that had happened. But then he spoke, his voice low and hesitant, as though testing the waters.

“I’ll come back later.”

You scoffed softly, rolling over to face the wall, your back to him. You didn’t say a word. You couldn’t trust yourself to speak without breaking, without letting the storm inside you spill out.

“Birdie…” His voice was softer now, almost pleading, but you didn’t move. You kept your breathing even, your expression neutral, even as your heart clenched painfully in your chest.

The air felt heavier as the silence stretched, broken only by the soft creak of the floorboards as Barty lingered by the door. His shadow loomed across the threshold, hesitant, like a ghost caught between staying and vanishing.

“Birdie.” He whispered, his voice raw and strained, as though dragging each word out of his chest cost him a piece of himself. “One last thing.”

You didn’t respond, your body curled away from him, but he knew you were awake. He always did.

“You have to tell James.” He sighed, the words tumbling out in a quiet rush. “About his Secret Keeper.”

Your breath stopped, but you didn’t move. Every muscle in your body tensed as his words settled over you like frost, cold and unforgiving.

“Barty, what are you talking about?” You finally whispered, your voice hoarse as you turned just enough to glance over your shoulder. He looked so different in the pale morning light, the shadows on his face accentuating the cracks in his armor, the boy you once loved bleeding through the man he had become.

“Just promise me,” He cut you off, his tone suddenly sharper. “You'll.. warn him not to trust them.”

You stared at him, searching his face for answers, but all you found was that same haunted intensity you’d seen last night. He wasn’t lying- at least, not about this. But that didn’t make it any easier to believe.

“... okay.” You muttered. “I will.”

Barty stared at you like he wanted to say a million different things at once. Instead, he turned, the door closing behind him. You hugged your knees to your chest and willed away as much of reality as possible. Begging for any sense of normalcy to return; even the painful loneliness.

But nothing truly worked.

~~~

As the days went on, the weight of Barty's absence hung over the time that followed like a storm cloud. He hadn’t come back, and you weren’t sure if you were relieved or heartbroken. The last words he’d said lingered with you, haunting your every quiet moment: Tell James. Warn him.

You’d followed through on his warning, albeit reluctantly. It had been difficult to convince James without revealing the entire truth, but the grim look in his eyes had told you he believed you, or at least enough to act.

Nothing happened at first, but Peter was monitored. It didn't take long for everything to come to light; Peter was working against you. It all worked out. James was ready for him that night, the night he came for Harry, surprising the monster before he could act. Peter tried to run after the news came out, but a furious Sirius tracked him down for a confrontation. One with an explosive end for their former friend, nothing left of the boy but a finger.

It did take a few hours of wrestling with the Aurors, but after being proper witnesses and all of your evidence of treason- Sirius was released. Walking out of the holding cell with a smile that could blunt the sun. Lily and James were safe. Baby Harry, too. Relief and disbelief were all anyone seemed capable of, but you couldn’t bring yourself to celebrate. Not fully. Because in the same breath that the Dark Lord fell, Barty was taken to Azkaban.

You hadn’t dared to ask about the details. Not from James, not from Sirius, not from anyone. Knowing felt like it would only make it worse. But the knowledge of him locked away, cold and alone in a place that stripped people of everything, clawed at your chest in the silence of the manor.

You had lost him all over again, and this time, you knew there was no coming back.

The days that followed felt like a blur of motion and noise, a sharp contrast to the oppressive stillness that had once consumed you. You refused to let Barty- or the ghost of him that lingered in your mind- define you any longer. He was gone, and you couldn’t afford to let his absence drag you down any further. Not when there was work to be done.

You didn’t go to his hearing. You couldn’t. The idea of sitting in that courtroom, of listening to them talk about him as though he was nothing more than a monster, was too much. It wasn’t that you disagreed. He’d made his choices, and the world would see him for what he’d become. But for you, he was still the boy who had once traced your blemishes like constellations and whispered that you were the only light in his life.

Even now, looking back, you had always known what that young boy was capable of. The signs were there; and the raking guilt of knowing that you were possibly the only thing keeping him from becoming what he seemed so keen on being, taxed your self worth.

So, you pretended that night didn’t happen. That he didn’t exist. The magpie charm around your neck was tucked away in a drawer, along with the pieces of your heart that still ached for him. You buried it all deep, focusing on what you could control, on what you could fix.

Joining the Order to help clean up the aftermath of the war felt like a natural next step. It was what your parents would have done, what James would have done if he wasn’t busy. Saying he wanted to be a proper father to Harry and a good man to Lily. Lily still stayed close, there wasn't many healers with her talent. But James stepped down. It was what you needed to do. The world hadn’t stopped turning, and there were still Death Eaters to hunt, still innocent people to protect, still so much damage to undo.

The first few missions were grueling, physically and emotionally. You worked long hours, tracking down the last of Voldemort’s loyalists and dismantling the remnants of their operations. It was dangerous, messy work, but you thrived in it. The chaos kept you moving, kept you from lingering too long on the memories that threatened to pull you under.

You found solace in the chaos of the Order. Sirius, always protective, tried to keep a close eye on you, though he seemed to understand your need for space. Remus was steadier, offering quiet support when you needed it most, though you often pushed him away. And James- when he wasn’t with Lily and Harry- was your anchor, his unrelenting optimism a reminder of the person you used to be.

But there were moments, late at night, when the world went quiet, and you couldn’t escape the weight of it all. When you lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, and his voice echoed in your mind. When you caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of your eye that reminded you of him, and your heart clenched painfully before you forced yourself to look away.

And then there were the whispers. The Order didn’t really talk about Barty, he was just another cog in the operation, but you heard the murmurs. About his trial, about Azkaban, about how someone so young and clever could have fallen so far. You kept your head down, pretending not to hear, but the words cut deep.

The recklessness came on slowly at first, creeping into your choices like an insidious shadow. You pushed yourself harder on missions, volunteering for the riskiest tasks, throwing yourself into danger with a desperation that bordered on self-destructive. It was easier to focus on the fight, on the rush of adrenaline and the sharp edge of survival, than to confront the gaping void Barty had left behind.

Sirius and Remus noticed, of course. They weren’t blind to the way you flinched at certain names, or how you worked yourself to exhaustion. Sirius tried to laugh it off at first, making quips about how you were channeling your inner Gryffindor ‘under all that Ravenclaw’. But Remus, ever perceptive, wasn’t fooled. His hazel eyes lingered on you with quiet concern, though he said nothing outright. Not until the mission that changed everything.

It was supposed to be a straightforward raid: infiltrate a suspected Death Eater hideout, gather intel, and get out. But things rarely went as planned. The ambush was swift and brutal, spells ricocheting off walls and sending debris flying. You and Remus were in the thick of it, your wand moving instinctively as you deflected curses and fired back.

Then it happened. A flash of green light, too close, too fast. It was aimed directly at Remus, who had his back turned while shielding a fallen comrade. Without thinking, you moved. You felt the spell hit you like a freight train, knocking the air from your lungs as a searing pain ripped through your side.

You barely registered Remus’s horrified shout as you crumpled to the ground, your vision blurring. The sounds of the battle faded into a dull roar as your consciousness slipped away, the last thing you saw being his anguished face hovering over you.

~~~

Remus paced the length of the ornate carpet, his fingers raking through his hair repeatedly as though he could scrub away the memory of what had happened. Sirius sat slumped on the sofa, uncharacteristically silent, his dark eyes fixed on the fireplace. The flickering flames did nothing to ease the tension in the room.

Remus’s chest tightened with guilt, each second that passed driving the weight deeper. He could still see it- the flash of green light, the way you had thrown yourself in front of him without hesitation. The moment felt frozen in time, looping endlessly in his mind.

“Moony, sit down,” Sirius huffed finally, his voice low and hoarse. It was an order, but not a harsh one.

“I can’t,” Remus replied, his voice taut as a wire. “She- she could’ve-”

“But she didn’t,” Sirius interrupted, his tone firm. “She’s alive, and Lily is better then any healer we have.”

Remus halted mid-step, his jaw clenched tightly. “She shouldn’t have had to save me,” he said, his voice cracking. “She- she’s half alive, Sirius. If anything happens to her-”

Sirius’s gaze darkened, and he stood, crossing the room in a few long strides. He placed a hand on Remus’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly. “You listen to me,” His eyes were sharp but his voice was steady. “She’s as stubborn as James, maybe more so. There’s no way she’d have stood by and done nothing, and you know it. Blaming yourself won’t change anything.”

Remus opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of the front door opening cut him off. Both men turned toward the entrance just as James entered, his face pale and tense. Harry toddled in after him, clutching his father’s pant leg with wide, curious eyes.

“Where is she?” James asked immediately, his voice sharp with worry.

“She’s upstairs,” Sirius said quickly. “Lils’ with her. She hasn't come back down yet.”

The tension in the room was suffocating, the silence broken only by the faint crackle of the fire and the occasional creak of floorboards as Remus paced. Sirius watched James carefully, noting how his hands trembled ever so slightly as he held Harry close. It was subtle, but for someone as unshakable as James Potter, it was telling.

“I need to go to her,” James said abruptly, his voice sharp and breaking the heavy stillness. He passed Harry to Sirius, who took the toddler without protest, his dark eyes wary. “She’s my sister. She shouldn’t be alone.”

“You can’t,” Sirius said firmly, standing up to meet James’s gaze. “Lily said we need to give her space. She’s working.”

“I don’t care what Lily said!” James snapped, his voice louder now, desperation seeping into his tone. “That’s my little sister lying upstairs, Sirius. If something happens- if she-” He cut himself off, swallowing hard as he fought to steady his breathing. “I can’t just sit here.”

“You think I want to?” Sirius shot back, his voice rising to match James’s. “You think Remus wants to? Merlin, Prongs, we’re all going mad down here, but Lily knows what she’s doing. She’ll call us if- when- there’s news.”

James ran a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable. He knew if anyone could understand even a fraction of what he was feeling it was Sirius- you had endeared yourself to him in a way not many people could. And those people were in this house. “She doesn’t get to keep me from her,” He muttered, his tone dangerously low now. “Not her. Not anyone.”

“James, listen to me,” Sirius snapped, stepping closer, his hand gripping James’s shoulder tightly. “You storming in there isn’t going to help her. It’s not going to help anyone.”

Before James could respond, the sound of light footsteps descending the stairs cut through the room like a knife. All three men turned toward the staircase as Lily appeared, her face pale and her expression unreadable. The sight of her made James freeze, his words dying in his throat. Sirius’s grip on Harry tightened, and Remus stopped pacing entirely.

Lily’s hands were clasped tightly in front of her, and her eyes darted between the men before finally settling on James. “Can I speak with you alone?” She asked softly, her voice calm but heavy with something that made James’s stomach churn.

“What is it?” He demanded, taking a step toward her. “Lily, just tell me-”

“Please, James,” She interrupted, her voice breaking just slightly as she glanced toward Harry, who was still nestled in Sirius’s arms. “Come with me.”

James hesitated, his body rigid with tension, but the look in Lily’s eyes left no room for argument. He turned back to Sirius and Remus, his jaw clenched tightly. “I’ll be back,” He said, though his voice wavered.

James followed Lily just a few steps into the hallway before she stopped, her back to him as she hesitated. Lily’s words were hushed and inaudible, even to Remus’s keen ears- or maybe, he just wasn't willing to know just yet.

James’s expression shifted from tension to something unreadable, his brows drawing together as he processed Lily’s quiet words. The weight of whatever she had said seemed to hit him all at once, and his jaw went slack, his eyes widening in stunned disbelief.

Sirius and Remus exchanged a quick glance, their concern growing as they watched James stagger back a half step, his hand running through his already disheveled hair. His lips moved as though forming a question, but no sound escaped. Whatever Lily had told him, it had shaken him to his core.

Sirius shifted Harry on his hip, his protective instincts flaring. “What the hell did she just say to him?” He muttered under his breath to Remus, his dark eyes narrowing.

“I don’t know,” Remus replied quietly, his voice tight with unease. James finally looked at Lily, his wide eyes searching hers for confirmation.

James didn't hesitate after Lily's nod. He took the stairs two at a time, his worry and confusion pressing heavily on his shoulders. His hand gripped the banister tightly as he moved, the wood creaking faintly under his weight. Sirius and Remus exchanged uneasy glances from their spot by the fireplace, the tension thick enough to choke on.

Lily lingered at the base of the stairs for a moment, watching James's retreating form before turning back to the room. She mustered a soft, reassuring smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“She’s fine,” she said quietly, addressing Sirius and Remus.

Sirius raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Fine? You call that fine?” He gestured toward the staircase with a sharp nod, where James had disappeared moments before. “Prongs looked like he was about to keel over.”

“She is,” Lily insisted gently but firmly. “But James.. they just need to talk.”

Remus frowned, his sharp hazel eyes darting between Lily and the stairs. “If she’s fine, why is he in such a rush? What aren’t you telling us, Lily?”

Lily hesitated, her smile faltering slightly as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s not my place to say,” she said finally, her voice soft but resolute. “You’ll have to ask her yourselves when she’s ready.”

Sirius let out a low growl of frustration, running a hand through his hair. “Great. Love a good mystery. Just what we need after all this.”

Remus, however, wasn’t so easily placated. His gaze lingered on Lily, his instincts screaming that there was more to the story than she was letting on. But he didn’t press her. Not yet.

Instead, he leaned back against the arm of the couch, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Whatever it is, it’s obviously got James in a state,” he muttered under his breath.

Lily offered him a small, almost apologetic smile before excusing herself, taking Harry from Sirius, as she headed toward the kitchen, leaving Sirius and Remus to stew in their unease.

~~~

James reached the door to your room, his breath coming in shallow bursts as he paused to gather himself. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find on the other side. The worry twisting in his chest was relentless, and the weight of Lily’s cryptic words only added to his unease.

He knocked softly, his knuckles brushing the wood. “It’s me,” He called quietly, his voice trembling slightly. “Can I come in?”

There was a moment of silence, and then your voice- weak but steady- drifted through the door. “It’s open.”

James pushed the door open and stepped inside, his eyes immediately searching for you. You were propped up against a pile of pillows on the bed, your complexion pale but no longer deathly. A soft blanket was draped over your lap, and a steaming mug rested on the nightstand beside you.

Relief flooded through him at the sight of you awake, but it was quickly tempered by the shadow of exhaustion that lingered in your eyes.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice breaking the quiet.

You managed a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Hey, Jamie.”

He crossed the room in a few strides, pulling the chair closer to your bedside and sinking into it. His hands fidgeted in his lap as he searched for the right words, his gaze flickering between your face and the mug on the nightstand.

“You scared the hell out of me,” He sighed finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You looked down, your fingers picking at the edge of the blanket. “I know. I’m sorry.”

James shook his head, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Don’t apologize,” He said firmly. “Just… talk to me. Please. What’s going on? Lily said you’re fine, but-”

“Lily’s right,” You cut in gently, meeting his gaze. You were able to see all the true overbearing nature of James Potter. When you were younger his protective nature used to irritate you- he was always on, all the time, brash and loud- a proper lion. Now? You wanted nothing more than to curl up against him and cry. But that's the last thing you could allow yourself to be- weak. “I’m fine, James. Or at least, I will be.”

He studied you for a long moment, his hazel eyes filled with a mixture of concern and doubt. “Lily said.. you needed to tell me something.”

James tilted his head slightly, his brows furrowing as he studied your expression. There was something guarded in your eyes, something that made the air between you feel heavier. His concern deepened when you let out a soft, shaky breath and slowly ran your hand over your abdomen.

The motion was small, almost absentminded, but it struck James like a thunderclap. His eyes widened, his lips parting as the realization sank in. For a moment, he was utterly still, his mind racing to catch up with what you’d just silently told him.

“No,” he breathed, the word barely audible as he leaned back in his chair, his face pale with shock. “No.”

You didn’t say anything, didn’t move, didn’t breathe. You simply held his gaze, your fingers resting lightly on your abdomen.

James swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he asked, “Bambi, when?”

The nickname, soft and familiar, broke something inside you. But you held firm, your eyes flickering away from his as you shook your head. “It doesn’t matter,” You whispered, your voice barely above a murmur.

James’s leg began to bounce, his eyes flickering from you to the door a few times before he shot up from his seat and began to pace. “When did you find out?” He demanded sharply, his voice tight with tension.

“Tonight,” You admitted quietly, your fingers curling around the blanket on your lap.

James stopped mid-step, spinning on his heel to face you. “Tonight?” He repeated, his voice rising slightly. “And you didn’t think to tell me immediately? Merlin’s sake!”

You flinched as his voice raised, but you held your ground, meeting his gaze with a calmness you didn’t entirely feel. “I was a little busy almost dying, James,” You hissed, your voice firmer now.

He opened his mouth to argue but then snapped it shut, his jaw tightening as he resumed pacing. “Fine. Fine,” He muttered, more to himself than to you. “But you’re leaving the Order.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “As if they’d want me back after that stunt,” You shot back. “I’m not exactly in peak condition for fieldwork, am I?”

James ignored your sarcasm, his hands balling into fists as he continued his relentless pacing. “Good. You shouldn’t be anywhere near this madness,” He said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “Not now.”

Your heart clenched at his words, the overbearing protectiveness you’d come to associate with him hitting harder than ever. But before you could respond, he stopped abruptly, his hazel eyes narrowing as a new thought seemed to strike him.

“Who is it?” He demanded, his voice sharp and almost accusatory. “Who?”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his question settling over you like a lead blanket. “It doesn’t matter,” You pushed, though your voice wavered slightly.

James’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he began to pace once more. “Doesn’t matter?” He echoed incredulously, his voice rising. “It absolutely matters, Bambi. You can’t just- Merlin, you can’t drop something like this and expect me not to-” He cut himself off with a growl, shaking his head as he muttered under his breath.

James's pacing came to an abrupt halt, his hazel eyes narrowing as the pieces began to fall into place. He turned to you, his expression shifting from confusion to a dawning realization that made your stomach drop.

“The wards,” he said slowly, his voice low and dangerous. “The ones Lily and I put up for you- someone would’ve had to get past them. Someone who knew how to.”

You froze, your heart pounding in your chest as his gaze locked onto yours, sharp and unrelenting.

“Who was it, Bambi?” he demanded again, his tone deadly serious now. “Who the hell got past the wards?”

Your throat tightened, and for a moment, you couldn’t find your voice. You looked away, your fingers gripping the blanket tightly as if it could shield you from the weight of his question.

“Answer me!” James’s voice cracked, a mixture of desperation and anger bleeding into his tone.

You took a shaky breath, your gaze fixed on the wall as you whispered, “You don’t want to know, James.”

“That’s not your choice to make,” he shot back, his voice trembling. “Tell me.”

You finally met his gaze, your eyes brimming with tears as you whispered the name that had haunted you for weeks, for months: “Barty.”

The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of your admission hanging heavy in the air. James stared at you, his face a mixture of shock, anger, and something deeper- betrayal.

“Barty Crouch?” He asked slowly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak.

“Barty Crouch Junior?” James pushed and you gave a weak scoff.

“James- yes Junior.” You huffed, your anger boiling over.

James stared at you, his chest rising and falling with the effort of keeping his temper in check. His jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might shatter, but his eyes- those familiar, warm hazel eyes- betrayed the storm inside him. He was angry, yes, but the anger wasn’t directed at you. It wasn’t even directed at Barty. It was directed at himself.

For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the faint beating of rain against the windows. You could see it, the way his hands trembled slightly as he tried to decide what to say. Finally, he spoke, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the silence.

“How long?” He asked, his tone controlled but strained. “How long were you seeing him?”

You swallowed hard, gripping the blanket in your lap. “James-”

“How. Long.” His voice cracked, louder this time, the control slipping for just a moment. He was trying, you knew he was trying, but the weight of everything was too much for even him to hold back.

You took a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It started fifth year.” you admitted quietly. “It ended seventh. And he.. he showed up here. He told me about Peter.”

James’s face twisted, and he turned away, his hands dragging through his already-messy hair. He let out a low, frustrated sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “Fifth year?” he muttered to himself. “Merlin, Bambi, how did I not see it? How did I-” He cut himself off, pacing again.

You bit your lip, tears stinging your eyes. “James, please-”

“I..” He started but stopped- as if your tears alone tore apart at his flimsy heart. Closing his eyes and taking a steady breath. “So he made it past the wards. He came and told you about Peter and what? You-”

“James please just drop it. He's in Azkaban for life! It doesn't matter.”

James froze mid-step, his fists clenching tightly at his sides as his back remained turned to you. His shoulders heaved with the weight of unspoken words, his frustration palpable in the charged silence that filled the room.

"It doesn't matter?" He finally repeated, his voice low and filled with a quiet, simmering rage. "It doesn't matter?"

You flinched at his tone, gripping the blanket tighter as you tried to steady your breathing. "He's gone, James," you said softly, your voice trembling. "There's nothing left to fight over. There's no point in dragging this out."

James spun around to face you, his hazel eyes blazing with a mixture of anger, hurt, and disbelief. "No point?" He hissed, taking a step closer. "You think I’m angry because of him? Merlin, Bambi, I couldn’t give a damn about Barty Crouch. I’m angry because you didn’t tell me. You’ve been carrying this- this secret- alone, and now you’re trying to push me away again."

"I'm not pushing you away," You shot back, your voice rising slightly. "I'm trying to protect you! You have Lily, Harry- your family. You don't need to be dragged into this mess, James. It’s mine to deal with."

His expression softened for a fraction of a second, but the anger quickly returned. "You’re my family," he said fiercely, his voice breaking slightly. "You always have been. And if you think for one second that I’m going to stand here and let you face this alone, then you don’t know me at all."

You stared at him, the raw emotion in his voice cutting through your defenses like a blade. Your chest ached, torn between the desire to let him in and the fear of burdening him further. "James, I-" you began, but your voice faltered as tears welled in your eyes.

He closed the distance between you, dropping into the chair beside your bed. His hand found yours, warm and steady despite the tremor in his grip. "Listen to me," he said softly, his tone losing its edge as his thumb brushed over your knuckles. "I don’t care how messy this is. I don’t care how much it hurts. I just care about you."

The dam inside you broke, and a sob escaped your lips as you clung to his hand like a lifeline. "I don’t know how to fix this," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know how to move forward."

James squeezed your hand tightly, his gaze unwavering. "You don’t have to figure it out alone," he said firmly. "We’ll take it one step at a time, together. You hear me, Bambi? You’re not alone in this."

The weight on your chest eased ever so slightly as his words sank in, the overwhelming love and determination in his voice a balm to your fractured soul. You nodded, unable to speak as the tears streamed down your face, and James pulled you into a tight embrace.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you allowed yourself to lean on him, to let the walls you’d built around yourself crumble. And as James held you, murmuring reassurances that you would face whatever came next together, you felt the smallest flicker of hope begin to bloom in your chest.

After you recovered, you faced the daunting task of telling Sirius and Remus. Their reactions were nothing like you’d expected. After weeks of being stuffed up in that dingy room.

Sirius, ever the one to surprise you, turned softer than you’d ever seen him. It reminded you of the day Lily announced she was pregnant with Harry. He was standing in the kitchen when you told him, fiddling with a mug of tea. The moment the words left your lips, his eyes widened, and he nearly dropped the mug onto the countertop.

For a moment, you thought he might pass out, but then his face broke into a beaming smile that almost seemed out of place for the weight of what you’d just told him. “You’re joking,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. When you shook your head, tears welling in your eyes, he stepped forward, his hands gripping your shoulders firmly. “Merlin, you’re not joking.”

“I’m sorry,” You began, your voice cracking as the apology spilled from your lips. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, I-”

“Stop,” Sirius interrupted, his tone so warm it took you aback. He let go of your shoulders and instead pulled you into the tightest hug you’d ever received. “Don’t you dare apologize,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ll be a good mum, do you hear me? A bloody brilliant one.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks as you clung to him, his words washing over you like a balm. “But Sirius,” you tried again, your voice muffled against his shoulder. “The father-”

“I don’t care,” he said firmly, pulling back to look at you. His gray eyes were intense, but not with judgment- only love and determination. “I don’t care who he is, or what he’s done. This baby is going to have the best mum in the world. And they’re going to have me too, whether they like it or not.”

You let out a shaky laugh, his unwavering support lifting some of the weight off your chest. He grinned at you then, that mischievous, boyish grin you thought you’d lost after the war. “Merlin, James is going to lose his mind when he meets them,” He said, his voice laced with humor. “But I’m going to be the favorite uncle, just you wait.”

But then there was Remus.

You found Remus later in the sitting room, a book in his lap, though he wasn’t reading it. His eyes were distant, his fingers absently tracing the edges of the pages. He looked up when you entered, and the small smile he gave you faltered slightly when he caught sight of your expression.

“Remus,” you started hesitantly, sitting down on the sofa across from him. You fidgeted with your hands, unsure of how to begin. “There’s… something I need to tell you.”

He didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth quirked upward ever so slightly. His gaze flickered to your stomach for a moment, then back to your face. His expression was calm, almost amused, but there was a glint of something in his hazel eyes- something knowing.

“I-” you faltered, feeling suddenly uneasy under his gaze. “It’s… it’s important.”

He hummed softly, setting the book down on the armrest. “Go on, then,” He said, his tone light but laced with curiosity. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied you.

You took a deep breath, the words caught in your throat. “Remus, I-” You stopped when he lifted a finger to his nose and tapped it lightly, the gesture so quick and casual it took a moment to register.

You frowned, your heart skipping a beat as realization slowly dawned on you. “Remus,” you said again, your voice sharper this time. “You already know.”

His smirk grew slightly, the mischievous tilt of his lips catching you completely off guard. “I might,” he said nonchalantly, leaning back against the couch with an air of smugness. “Though it’s much more fun watching you squirm.”

You stared at him, your mouth opening and closing as you tried to process his words. “How?” You finally managed, your voice a mix of shock and disbelief. “How do you know?”

He shrugged, crossing one ankle over his knee. “It wasn’t hard to figure out,” he said casually, though there was a teasing lilt to his tone. “The scent changed a few days ago.”

“The scent?” You repeated, utterly baffled.

His smirk deepened, and he tapped his nose again, his hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. “Enhanced senses, remember? The subtle shifts, the hormones- it’s all there. Just like Lily. Didn’t think I’d notice?”

You stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. “You could smell that I was-?”

“Pregnant?” He finished for you, his tone softening slightly. Hearing Remus be the first to break- to finally say the word properly- it brought a smile to your face. “Yes.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning softly as the embarrassment washed over you. “Merlin, Remus, you could’ve said something!”

“And miss this moment?” He teased, leaning forward again. “Not a chance.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, narrowing your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“Only because I care,” he quipped, his smirk turning into a warm smile. He reached out, his hand resting gently on yours. “I knew you’d tell me when you were ready.”

His words melted some of the tension in your chest, and you let out a shaky laugh. “Well, I’m telling you now,” you said softly. “I’m… I’m having a baby.”

His smile grew, the teasing glint in his eyes giving way to something softer, something warmer. “I know,” he said simply, his voice steady and reassuring. “And you’re going to be amazing.”

Tears pricked at your eyes as his words settled over you, their sincerity hitting you squarely in the chest. “Thank you, Remus,” you whispered.

~~~

Even after everything, it was as smooth as it could possibly be. James, Lily, and Harry all finally packed up from their safe house and moved back into the Potter Manor.

Sirius and Remus finally stopped torturing everyone and confessed to their little run around of affections.

The years passed like a dream, each one carrying its own triumphs and heartaches. The war faded into history, though its scars remained etched into the lives of those who survived it. Life moved on, not always neatly, but with a resilience that surprised you.

Sirius and Remus opened a small library nestled on the corner of Diagon Alley and a quiet cobblestone street. It was cozy, with tall shelves of books that seemed to reach the ceiling, a perpetually warm fireplace, and a small reading nook tucked into the back. The name on the window read Padfoot and Moony’s Rare Reads, though it quickly became known simply as “The Den.”

Remus spent his days writing accurate, unbiased Defense Against the Dark Arts books, ones that became staples in Hogwarts classrooms. His name grew to rival even Gilderoy Lockhart’s (though, unlike Lockhart, Remus didn’t need embellishments to sell books). Sirius, of course, claimed full credit for every ounce of their success, though he spent more time charming patrons and hosting wildly popular storytelling nights than actually working.

Your daughter, Ophelia, was the light of your life. She had her fathers eyes- but carried a quiet intensity in her gaze that reminded you of a young girl you once knew. Sirius adored her, and James, ever the doting uncle, took it upon himself to teach her everything he could about Quidditch, much to Lily’s dismay. Harry, now only 6, had taken on a brotherly role, often sneaking her chocolates or helping her catch frogs in the garden when no one was looking.

But it was Remus who seemed to understand Ophelia in ways even you sometimes struggled to. He noticed the way she retreated into her own thoughts, the questions she asked that were far too insightful for her age. He never pushed her, always waiting patiently for her to come to him with her thoughts, her worries, or her triumphs. It was Remus who first noticed how much she loved books, spending hours reading to her in that steady, soothing voice of his.

One quiet afternoon, while Ophelia played on the rug with a stack of enchanted building blocks, you stood at the counter of the library, watching Remus as he worked on editing a draft of his latest book. The sunlight streamed through the windows, catching the streaks of silver in his hair, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” You said softly, your voice breaking the comfortable silence.

Remus looked up from his notes, his hazel eyes warm and curious. “What’s on your mind?”

You stepped closer, your hands resting lightly on the counter. “I wanted to ask if you’d consider being Ophelia’s godfather.”

His expression froze for a moment, his pen hovering above the page. Then, slowly, a smile broke across his face, wide and genuine in a way that made your chest ache with affection. “Are you serious?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Dead serious,” You teased lightly, though your voice trembled with emotion. “She adores you, Remus. And so do I. There’s no one else I’d trust more.”

He set his pen down and rose from his chair, crossing the short distance between you in a few strides. He hesitated for only a moment before pulling you into a tight, warm hug. “It would be an honor,” He murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

~~~

It was late summer, and the warm golden light streaming through the windows of the Potter Manor made the room feel alive, even as you worked through the seemingly endless task of packing Ophelia’s trunk for another school year at Hogwarts. She sat nearby, perched on the edge of the armchair with her dark hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders, her head bent over her meticulously written list.

She was elegant without trying, a quiet sort of grace that seemed inherent in her very being. Even now, as she frowned slightly at the parchment in her hands, the faintest furrow of her brow betrayed her focus; her fingers fiddling with the magpie necklace you gifted her on her eleventh birthday. You couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at your lips as you watched her. She was so much her own person- intelligent, curious, and brimming with quiet determination- but in her moments of focus, you could see glimpses of her father in her too. It made your chest ache with a love so fierce it almost hurt.

“Mum,” She said finally, her voice gentle but tinged with that signature note of exasperation. She didn’t look up from her list as she spoke. “I told you- I need new potion vials. The ones from last year cracked.”

You folded one of her robes carefully and placed it into the trunk, glancing over at her with a soft chuckle. “And I told you, my love,” You hummed, your voice calm and warm, “that you’ll get them when we go to Diagon Alley. Harry and the Weasleys are meeting us there, remember?”

She let out a dramatic sigh, finally lifting her head to meet your gaze. Her sharp, inquisitive eyes- so much like his and yet so uniquely her own- sparkled with that combination of pride and determination that seemed to define her. “I don’t see why I can’t just go by myself,” She challenged, crossing her arms over her chest in that effortlessly regal way of hers. “I’m not a baby, you know.”

You raised an eyebrow at her, the corners of your mouth lifting into a knowing smile. “You’re thirteen,” You countered gently, pausing in your task to give her your full attention. “And while I have no doubt that you could navigate the alley on your own, I’d prefer to keep you in one piece. Humor your mother, will you?”

Ophelia rolled her eyes dramatically, but the faint smile that tugged at her lips betrayed her. “Fine,” she relented, her tone light but tinged with mock indignation. “But only because you insist.”

You laughed softly, reaching over to brush a stray strand of hair from her face. “Thank you, darling,” you murmured, your voice soft with affection. “I don’t know what I’d do without you to keep me on my toes.”

She tilted her head slightly, her expression softening as she studied you. “Probably live a very peaceful, boring life,” She sighed in faux aspiration, her words playful but her tone warm. “No dramatic letters about professors or requests for obscure potion ingredients.”

“Don’t forget the long rants about Magic Theory,” You added with a smirk, resuming your task as you carefully folded another one of her robes. “I’d be lost without those.”

Ophelia gave a delicate shrug, her lips curving into a smile that was pure mischief. “Well, someone has to keep you informed,” She said lightly, glancing back down at her list. “You’d be dreadfully out of touch without me.”

“Perish the thought,” You mused, your tone laced with mock horror. But as you reached for another item to pack, you couldn’t help the warmth that bloomed in your chest.

Despite her pride and sharp wit- or perhaps because of it- Ophelia had a heart so full of love and passion that it left you in awe. She was your miracle, your everything, and the reason you had fought so hard to build a life worth living after everything you’d endured. And though she sometimes tested your patience, you wouldn’t trade a single moment with her for the world.

As you worked together in companionable silence, the house around you buzzed faintly with the promise of the day ahead. Soon, the Floo Network would carry her off to join Harry and the Weasleys, and you would meet James and Lily later at the Leaky Cauldron. But for now, in this moment, it was just the two of you, and the quiet love you shared was enough to fill the room with light.

“Ophelia,” You called softly, breaking the silence as you tucked the last item into her trunk. She looked up at you, her expression curious. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

Her sharp features softened instantly, and she set her list aside, crossing the small space between you to wrap her arms around your waist. “Of course I do, Mum,” She murmured, her voice quiet but sure. “And I love you too.”

You held her close, your heart swelling with a love so fierce it threatened to overwhelm you. No matter how many years passed or how independent she became, she would always be your little girl. And in that moment, as the sunlight streamed through the windows and the world felt soft and safe, you were reminded once again of just how lucky you were to have her.

~~~

The cobbled streets of Diagon Alley buzzed with life, the chatter of families mingling with the clink of cauldrons and the rustle of shopping bags. Children darted between storefronts, their excitement infectious, while parents called after them, juggling lists and parcels. But Ophelia paid the lively scene no mind. She moved with purpose, her steps elegant yet determined, weaving through the crowd with a quiet confidence that belied her thirteen years.

“Honestly, Harry, it’s just a bookstore,” she’d said earlier, rolling her eyes at her cousin’s protests. “I’ll be fine.” Her tone, a perfect blend of exasperation and poise, had left little room for argument. She’d dismissed him with a wave of her hand, her pride unwilling to entertain the notion that she needed an escort for something so trivial.

Now, her prize- a hefty tome on advanced magical theory- was clutched tightly under her arm, its worn leather cover radiating the promise of knowledge. She moved briskly, her dark hair swaying as she navigated the bustling street, her mind already racing ahead to the countless possibilities the book would unlock. The noise of the crowd seemed to fade as she glanced down at the book, her lips curving into a satisfied smile.

It wasn’t just the content that thrilled her- though the promise of unraveling complex magical concepts certainly did- it was the independence of it all. She’d insisted on going alone, had chosen the book herself, and now, with it safely in hand, she felt a sense of accomplishment she wouldn’t admit to anyone.

With her head held high and a quiet pride radiating from her, Ophelia turned her steps back toward the group, determined to reunite with Harry and the others before anyone could begin another lecture on responsibility. For now, though, the world felt bright, the possibilities endless, and she relished the brief moment of freedom.

That was when she heard it.

The cheerful hum of Diagon Alley faded into the background as a sharp, panicked cry reached Ophelia's ears. She froze mid-step, her heart skipping a beat as her gaze snapped toward a shadowy alley just ahead. The sound came again, muffled but unmistakably distressed. Her fingers instinctively tightened around the book she carried, and she shifted her weight forward, craning her neck to see.

In the dimness of the alley, two figures stood locked in a tense struggle. The taller one had the smaller pinned against the brick wall, his grip tight around the other’s collar. “You've got nerve, Pettigrew.” The smaller figure’s pale hair fell in messy strands across his face as he squirmed against the hold, his voice trembling.

“Please,” the blonde figure gasped, desperation lacing every syllable. “I’m sorry! I won’t look for you again. H-he won’t hear of your escape- not from me!”

Ophelia’s breath hitched. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she took in the scene. The smaller figure’s voice cracked with panic, his pale blue eyes wide and darting frantically. The taller figure, shrouded in shadows, stood silent and imposing, his wand raised. A faint, menacing glow illuminated the tip, the threat unmistakable.

She didn’t think. She didn’t pause. Her wand was in her hand in an instant, and she stepped into the mouth of the alley, her voice cutting through the tense air like a blade.

“Oi! Let him go!” She shouted, her tone sharp and commanding.

Both figures froze, their heads snapping toward her. The taller man’s wand lowered slightly, his body going rigid with hesitation. The smaller figure twisted his neck, his gaze locking onto hers, and for a fleeting moment, Ophelia saw a flash of something in his pale eyes- hope? Relief?

It didn’t last.

The blonde man’s lips parted, and before she could speak again, his body jerked unnaturally. The sound of cracking bones and tearing sinew filled the air, a grotesque symphony of transformation. Ophelia’s stomach churned as she watched the man’s form contort, shrinking and twisting. Within seconds, he was gone, replaced by a scruffy, dirt-streaked rat.

“What the- ?” The words barely escaped her lips before the rat lunged forward, its sharp teeth sinking into the taller man’s hand.

The man let out a hiss of pain, his grip faltering just enough to allow the rat to squirm free. In a blur of motion, it darted down the alley, disappearing into the shadows with a faint, scuttling sound.

Ophelia stood rooted to the spot, her wand trembling slightly in her grasp. Her wide eyes flicked from the spot where the rat had vanished to the man now turning toward her, his movements deliberate, his frustration radiating like heat.

As he stepped into the dim light filtering from the street, his features came into view. Sharp, angular lines carved a face that was both striking and unsettling. His dark hair fell messily across his brow, and his green eyes burned with a mixture of irritation and something else- something far more dangerous.

Ophelia squared her shoulders, her heart thundering in her chest but her chin lifting in defiance. She clutched her wand tightly, the poised elegance of her posture belying the unease bubbling beneath the surface. Every lesson her mother had taught her about composure echoed in her mind, steeling her nerves.

“Who do you think you are?” she demanded, her voice cold and cutting. “Picking on someone smaller than you in an alley? How pathetic.”

The man’s lips quirked into something that might have been a smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He took a step closer, his tall frame casting an intimidating shadow. “And who,” he said, his voice low and measured, “do you think you are to interrupt something that doesn’t concern you?”

“I’m the girl who’s about to hex you into next week,” she shot back without missing a beat, her wand steady as she pointed it at his chest. “Back off, or you’ll find out just how much trouble a thirteen-year-old can cause.”

The man hesitated, his head tilting slightly as he studied her. His gaze dropped from her face to her neck, and his sharp eyes narrowed, honing in on the small magpie charm resting just above her collarbone. The faint light caught the delicate metal, and for a moment, his composure faltered.

“That,” he murmured, his voice strained, “isn’t yours.”

Ophelia’s brows furrowed, her hand instinctively rising to the charm. Her fingers brushed over the familiar metal as her mind raced. “What’s it to you?” she retorted, her tone sharp, her grip on her wand unwavering. “It was a gift.”

The man’s jaw tightened, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered across his face- recognition, anger, and a hint of something she couldn’t quite place. “Who gave it to you?” he demanded, his voice rougher now, almost desperate.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she straightened her spine, her wand tip glowing faintly as she met his intensity head-on. “That’s none of your business,” she said firmly.

He took another step forward, his green eyes blazing with an intensity that made her breath hitch. “I’ll ask you again,” he growled, his voice a dangerous whisper. “Who gave you that charm?”

Ophelia didn’t flinch. Instead, she tilted her chin higher, defiance sparking in her gaze. “My mom,” she said clearly, her voice carrying an unmistakable note of pride. Her lips curved into a faint, deliberate smile as she added, “You should know her. I’m a Potter, after all.”

The man froze. His entire body stiffened, his green eyes widening ever so slightly before narrowing again. Something shifted in his expression, a mixture of shock, pain, and anger that he quickly tried to mask. He stared at her as though he were seeing a ghost.

Ophelia arched an eyebrow, her confidence swelling as she saw the cracks in his composure. “Oh,” she said lightly, her tone dripping with mock disappointment, “don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about us. That would be awfully sad- we are war heros.”

The man’s lips pressed into a thin line, his hands twitching at his sides. He took a small step back, his expression unreadable as he muttered, “A Potter.”

“That’s right,” she said evenly, her wand still raised. “And unless you’d like to explain what you’re doing lurking in alleys, I suggest you leave.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he turned sharply on his heel and disappeared into the shadows without another word, leaving Ophelia standing in the mouth of the alley, her chest heaving as she tried to steady her breath.

She glanced down at the charm again, her fingers brushing over its surface. Who was that man? she wondered, a faint chill creeping down her spine. And why did the sight of this charm seem to haunt him so?

~~~

The Leaky Cauldron buzzed with its usual chatter, the comforting scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread drifting through the warm air. You sat at a large table with James, Lily, Sirius, and Remus, laughing at one of Sirius’s over-the-top tales from Hogwarts. The lightness in the room felt like a rare and precious gift, a momentary escape from the shadow of battles fought and sacrifices endured.

The door swung open with a sharp creak, a gust of cool air sweeping in as Harry entered with Ron, Ginny, and Ophelia. Their cheeks were flushed from the bustling streets outside, their movements slightly hurried. Your gaze instinctively fell on Ophelia.

Something was wrong.

She lingered behind the others, her usual confident stride replaced with hesitant steps. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, as though trying to shield herself from the world. Her sharp features looked drawn, pale, and etched with unease.

“Oi, there they are!” Sirius called out, raising a hand in greeting. “Took you long enough. Did you stop for ice cream?”

Ron mumbled something about Fred and George dragging them into Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, but his words barely registered. Your focus stayed fixed on Ophelia as she slipped into the seat beside you. She didn’t look up, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her cloak, her head bowed like she was trying to disappear.

“Ophelia, love,” you said gently, leaning closer to her. “Everything alright?”

Her shoulders tensed, and for a moment, she said nothing. She just sat there, her hand brushing against the magpie charm around her neck. It was a small, almost subconscious motion, but it spoke volumes.

“Yeah,” she murmured after a pause, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. “I’m fine.”

You frowned, your worry deepening. She was many things- brilliant, fiery, and determined- but never this quiet. You reached into your bag, pulling out a few Galleons, and slid them toward Harry, Ron, and Ginny. “Why don’t you three grab some ice cream for real this time? My treat.”

The three exchanged uncertain glances, but Ron was the first to shrug and stand. Harry hesitated, his concerned gaze darting toward his cousin, but eventually, he and Ginny followed Ron out of the pub.

The second they were gone, you turned back to Ophelia. “You don’t look fine,” you pressed softly. “What happened?”

Across the table, James and Lily shared a look, their worry mirrored in their expressions. Sirius, his usual joviality replaced with quiet intensity, leaned back in his chair, studying Ophelia closely. Even Remus put down his cup of tea, his sharp gaze focused on her.

Ophelia’s fingers twisted together in her lap, her head ducked low. “It’s nothing,” she muttered, her voice barely audible.

“Ophelia,” you said again, your tone a little firmer this time. “You can tell me. Whatever it is, I’m here.”

For a moment, she stayed quiet, the tension in her shoulders radiating like a pulse. Then, in a gesture so small it almost went unnoticed, she leaned into you. Her head rested against your arm, her nose pressing into the fabric of your sleeve.

You froze for half a second before wrapping an arm around her, pulling her close. She didn’t cry- Ophelia never cried- but the way she clung to you spoke louder than words. “Mom.” She muffled against your side. As if recharging her spent bravado and bravery in your arms. “Do we know a Pettigrew?”

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sunnami · 1 year ago

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❝i am half-agony, half-hope. . . i have loved none but you.❞

summary: how the marauders loved you in their time. featuring harry potter the time-traveller and sixth-wheel.

pairing/s: poly!marauders + lily x reader.

tags: reader is referred to as she/her and a mother throughout the whole fic[!], reader is a violent gremlin who craves blood but the marauders love you for that, implied child abuse[!], mentions of blood and violence[!], disgustingly sappy poetic fluff, no angst, happy ending, not proofread we die like finnick odair, edited: very minor detail.

note: there is little plot, it’s just the marauders and their adoration for you. thank you all so much for your kind responses to my first marauders fic :(( ilysm! i hope you enjoy this one as well! because there are parts when i was writing that i ended up kicking my feet in the air and smiling to myself.

“MY NAME IS HARRY POTTER. I come from twenty-years in the future, you’re my mum — one of my ‘em, actually. It’s complicated. And you’re married to James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black.”

You blink.

“Get the fuck out of my room!”

Harry James Potter has dodged many things in his life. Killing curses, jinxes, girls, Draco Malfoy, and Dudley’s sloppy punches, but he’s never had to dodge his sixteen-year-old mother’s fuzzy slipper before. (Godric, that sounds weird, even in his head.) He doesn’t know precisely how he arrived here. In the Slytherin common room, to be exact, in your dorm. Harry remembers duelling with Death Eaters, Hermione calling his name, and a flash of light hitting him square in the chest, then he remembers waking up in the cold tiles of the snake dungeon. He nearly throws himself off the window when he meets your eyes, bleary from interrupted sleep — it’s not often he gets to meet [read: one of] his dead parents, after all, three had been brutally murdered by Voldemort, and one killed by his own loony cousin. He misses Sirius, though. A lot. And right about now, he could do with some of Hermione’s nagging and brilliant plan-making.

At present — or past, Harry guesses — he watches you scramble out from your duvet, hand clumsily reaching for your wand as you snarl at him. He wonders if his mother knows that he’s encountered other creatures far more threatening than her. Oh shit, he realizes with all the forces of an angry Hermione Granger, isn’t this the last thing he’s supposed to do? But, well, Harry has given, and given, so much of himself all for the greater good — just this once, he’d like to see his parents alive and well. Even if they were currently trying to blast him into the walls.

“If you’d just let me explain, mum—!” Harry pleads, nearly dropping his glasses after dodging one of your stinging hexes. Godric, you’re crazy. “Please!”

“Stop calling me that!” You screech, eyes set ablaze. Harry finds that you’re quite dynamic with your attacks. A hairbrush, followed by a stinging jinx, then a thick History of Magic textbook — which rudely hits him in the face, but he doesn’t dare complain because you’re his mother, and he’s respectful like that — and after you’ve exhausted your breath, running him into a corner, and your nostrils flare with the stubbornness of a lion, you point the tip of your wand at him. “If this is another one of the Prewett’s shitty pranks, I want you to leave! You are in the girls’ dormitory beyond midnight, and so help me, if you aren’t walking out that door in the next five seconds, I will kill you and string you up by your bottoms for everyone in school to see! Maybe all your stupid rumours of me being a Death-Eater might come true after all!”

“You’re a Death-Eater?” Harry asks dumbly.

You growl furiously, and Harry figures that was not the right thing to say. “I wonder what McGonagall would say if I delivered your head to her on a silver platter.”

“Professor,” Harry corrects with a toothy grin. “Professor McGonagall.”

You slam his head against the wall.

Definitely the wrong thing to say.

Harry groans, little Dobby heads floating around his vision. Why was this so much harder than actually facing Voldemort? Quick, he needed to think of something, otherwise he’d end up eviscerated to ashes on your cold, stone floors. Harry is pretty sure you’d use his remains as decoration to send off a message to your enemies.

“You hate your father,” Harry slurs through the pain, remembering Remus’s stories of how you were the gentlest magical being he’s ever had the privilege to love — now that Harry thinks about it, Remus was being extremely biased, nothing about you is gentle at all. “He’s forcing you to marry someone old enough to be your grandfather. You love to read Muggle literature but had to stop when your father burnt your whole collection of books. Your favorite novel is Persuasion by Jane Austen. It’s the one book you carry with you everywhere, you could never get tired of it.”

Your grip on his shoulders falters, but the fury in your eyes crackles. “This isn’t funny.”

“It’s not meant to be funny, mum,” Harry croaks, voice cracking pathetically — strange how this is the most he’s ever uttered the word, mum; it’s a peculiar string of letters, foreign on his tongue. “You have tremors in your left leg from when your father cast the Cruciatus curse on you. One of your dearest friends is a Hogwarts house-elf named Pipley. You cheated on your Transfiguration essay once, and—”

“That’s enough!” You bark, eyes narrowed in dangerous slits. “I don’t know where you heard those from, you creepy, little stalker, but if you want to keep breathing, then I suggest you shut up.”

Harry scoffs — you don’t understand. Everything he’s learned about you is from Sirius and Remus. They talk about you with whispered devotion, your name like a prayer on their lips, their eyes glazed with wistfulness as though they could see you reaching out for them — but you were dead in Harry’s time. Yet, you might as well have been alive with their tales of you.

(“She’s a different kind of beautiful,” Sirius had said, a year after breaking out from Azkaban, sitting by the fire in Grimmauld Place, taking a swig of decade-old firewhiskey, “The kind of beautiful you don’t want to take your eyes off from because you’re afraid she’ll disappear from your eyes. But you won’t forget her, oh no, you’ll memorize the freckles and moles on her skin, the scars from her years, the light in her eyes, and the way she holds her head up high. You should have seen her, James, she. . . she was — is glorious.”)

“I told you,” says Harry firmly — although he loves his mother very much, she’s beginning to wear him out, “My name is Harry James Potter, I come from twenty-years in the future. You are one of my parents.” A lightbulb flashes in his head. He squirms in your hold, reaching for his robe pocket until he finds the thing he’s looking for. Harry dangles the ring in front of you, grinning in success when your eyes flash in recognition. “It’s—”

“A family heirloom,” You say breathlessly. The alexandrite winks under the light, a familiar gold band with the Latin inscription of your House words. “Where did you steal this from?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “You left it for me in my Gringotts vault. It’s my heirloom now. You have to believe me, there’s no way you can deny this.”

You take a step backwards, nibbling on your lower lip, as you stagger to your bed — Harry nearly stumbling to catch you in case you fell; adjusting to the living proof of time travel was quite difficult, he, of all people, should know. He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “Magic, amirite?”

You throw a pillow at him, which he catches gracefully thanks to his Seeker reflexes, as you plop down in the comforts of your quilts. “Sleep. The other girls won’t be back until the end of the holiday. We can deal with whatever this is in the morning. It’s way too early for me to process the idea of a future Potter spawn following me around.”

Harry smiles. “Yes, mum.”

ONE THING THAT his fathers failed to tell him about you, and that Harry had to learn himself, was that you took ages to get ready. You sat on the chair in front of your vanity mirror, the birch wood legs whittled with snakes, and it was as though you had a Sticking Charm on the cushion. Harry didn’t know there could be so many creams, oils, and serums, and powders one put on their face. He blanches when you turn to offer him a cream for his under eyes. (“Suit yourself.” You shrug, turning to brush your cheek with dusts of pink. “Just saying, those dark circles aren’t doing you any favors.”)

“What am I like in the future?” You ask, a kind lilt to your voice, much like a warm hug, much like home.

Harry stiffens, shoving his hands in pockets of the robes that were twice his size — you had given him the garments of Lucius Malfoy to change in, which you apparently had stolen from his room. It’s come full circle, really, the Sorting Hat had once told him he would be great in Slytherin, and now here he was, looking fabulous in green — because he was about to hurl at the feel of the velvet on his skin, knowing slimy Lucius Malfoy had worn it. (“No son—” You pause with a tight purse in your lips, as if you still can’t accept the fact. Harry doesn’t blame you. “—no son of mine will be parading around in red of all colors, future or not.” And Harry finds that he really doesn’t care, so long as you call him your son.)

“Loved,” replies Harry gruffly, avoiding your eyes in the reflection of your mirror — they were piercing. One look and Harry wanted to spill all of his deepest, darkest secrets. He remembers the photographs in his album, the one he’s stared at so many times as a child. It’s a moving photograph of the five of you, fresh out of Hogwarts, each wearing a smile that stretched from ear-to-ear. Before Sirius and Remus, it was the only semblance of proof that Harry had — that you had once been alive. Remus is holding you by the waist in the picture, twirling you around as autumn leaves fell. You were — are — loved, and Harry thinks there’s no better description than that.

(“I bloody hated her cat,” says Remus with a roguish quirk to his lips, regalling Harry with more talks of his parents. “Sirius, too. We just never got along with the little creature. But your mother loved it, and we would have done anything to make her happy. She deserved it, you see. She deserved more than what I had to offer her, but still she chose me anyway. And I am a selfish man, Harry, I crave glimpses of her and the whispers of her voice. She has made me a mad man whose only reprieve is her touch.”)

You hum knowingly. “Stupid question, I guess. Since you aren’t allowed to reveal anything more about the future.” You sigh, gracefully threading your arms in the sleeves of your shirt, a green tie in the center of your collar. “Except, of course, when you gave me a heart attack in the middle of the night by telling me the last thing I want to become — no offense, I just don’t see how a relationship with those rowdy bunch would work. They get on my nerves far too much for me to ever feel anything other than disgust.”

Harry doesn’t need a mirror to see that his expression has contorted in confusion; brows knitted and upper lip crinkled. By their memories of you, you all were madly in love in Hogwarts. Damn. This just made his trip to the past a lot harder. No maze seems to be ever just a maze.

Luckily, you don’t notice him brewing a grand master plan to bring his parents together. Instead, you say, “But you don’t seem to be phased by any of this. If I had been thrown twenty years into the past, I would have puked my guts out twice at some point.”

“Thanks for the image,” says Harry with a scowl. Truthfully, it had either been a present with a noseless Dark Lord to face, trauma to unpack but really never have the chance to, or a past where all of his parents were alive, and a chance to talk with them for however long he has. He knows where he’ll be staying, thank you very much.

“Anytime,” You reply with an impish smile.

Your heels pad across the floor as you walk over to him, mouth clicking as you pat the top of his head, full of wild, untameable Potter hair. “You need a trim soon,” You mutter, frowning, as you brush the thick strands away from his eyes, then you gasp — and Harry knows exactly what’s coming next. “Oh, you’ve got Evans’s eyes. That’s freaky.”

“I know.” Harry grins.

“Here’s the plan,” You say as you lead him out of your room, making sure no one saw him walking out of your door and getting the wrong impression — because that would be so wrong on many levels, but also, explaining to someone else that the person beside you was a time-traveller was just complicated in general. The Slytherin dungeon is unfamiliarly familiar, eerily quiet, as the two of you made your way out. “Just say you’re Potter’s distant relative, twice or thrice removed, and you’ve always been here. If you lie to their faces enough, they’ll believe it eventually.”

“Will that work?” Harry doesn’t really mind — he needs a connection to James, his father, if he’s going to work out a connection between you and the others, because at the moment, it doesn’t seem like you’re too fond of them. There’s a tick on your jaw every time you mumble the word, Potter. Nevertheless, Harry decides he’s going to spend the duration of the holiday break trying to set you up with them — on the list of most insane things he’s ever done, living out the Parent Trap was high up the tally.

You shrug. “They’ve fallen for less.”

(“She’s got this adorable habit when she lies,” Sirius tells Harry, whipping up a stack of pancakes for their breakfast — Remus browsing through the morning paper. It’s the closest he’s ever been to a normal family. “It’s not obvious to her, of course, but I know her more than I know my own name. So we play along with it.” For a moment, he stops drizzling the maple syrup on the well-cooked batter, gazing at Remus fondly. “D’you remember that, Moony? She led us straight to one of her pranks, and we ended up covered in slug slime. She was so obvious — with her adorable fucking giggles. I need help with Charms, she said, and we knew right away it was a set-up. But it didn’t matter. I’d happily let her lead me to my ruin.”)

The Great Hall is the same as Harry remembers. Now that most have returned home for the holidays, those who stay back mingle with students from other Houses, sharing meals under the bewitched ceiling, their low murmurs and hushed Christmas greetings bouncing off the walls. Harry scours the four tables to find a hint of blazing red hair, or the scent of impending trouble. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to search very far. As fate would have it, James Potter finds you — and where he is, Sirius Black is sure to follow.

You’re barely seated when James comes bounding over to your table — more precisely, he struts, and Harry is horrified to ever be proven wrong by Snape, of all people. He ignores the roll of your eyes as he drags a leg over the bench, sitting to face you as Sirius occupies the space to your left before Harry can even sit down. He can’t even fathom how weird it is to see his parents as rambunctious teenagers. Lovesick, rambunctious teenagers.

“Morning, dove.” James preens under your glare, stealing a grape from your bowl with a boyish smirk. His hair looks as though he’s ran his hand through it many times. “You look ravishing today.”

“As always,” Sirius pipes in. “But that eyeshadow really isn’t complementing your skin tone, my darling.”

You smile at him, right before your lips twist into a cutthroat sneer. “Piss off, Black.”

James stifles a laugh as he shovels a mass of potatoes on your plate, then pumpkin pasties, and slides a steaming cup of Dragon Well tea in front of you.

“What the hell are you doing, Potter?” You reach over to smack his arm when he sprinkles apple slices and bacon on your breakfast.

“What does it look like?” James smiles lopsidedly. “You need to eat more, honey.”

(In the future, Sirius will tell Harry, “It started off as a joke, a way to get on her nerves — but then, it just became this thing about taking care of her, making sure she got enough sleep before her tests, wondering if she had breakfast or dinner, staying with her in the library, walking her to the Slytherin common room, and sending her stupid notes just to make her laugh. You don’t get it, Harry. I’d give my every breath to ensure her life. We all would.” Harry doesn’t see Sirius any more during that evening, but he hears a bottle crashing against a wall, cracking into a million pieces, and the masked sound of Sirius sobbing, and Harry decides to leave him alone for the night.)

Then, you tear your eyes away from James — he huffs, pushing your plate to you, mildly annoyed that you’ve deprived him of your eyes; they were his favorite part of you, you see, so expressive and full of life; James thinks you put the stars to shame — and thankfully, you remember that Harry still exists. You lightly smack Sirius’s leg until he gives Harry some room to sit. “Potter, meet other Potter. It’s the holidays, shouldn’t it be the perfect time to let go of House prejudices and spend time with family?”

James looks at Harry up and down. “You must be from dad’s side of the family with all that hair.”

Harry lets out a breath of relief. That was easy — way too easy. When he takes the vacant space in between you and Sirius, you dump all the available food on his plate, just as James had done for you.

“Eat,” You say with a tone of finality. “You look like the wind could snap you in half.”

“Yes, m—” Harry stops himself before he could finish his sentence, avoiding Sirius’s curious gaze.

“Wow.” Sirius pokes Harry in the shoulder and in the cheek. “You really look like a mini-James, you’ve even got his terrible eyesight.”

“Oi!”

Your fork clatters against the silverware as you turn to Sirius with a shrill. “Not that I do enjoy your company — because, trust me, I do not want you here at all and would very much prefer if you got out of my sight — but why are you here? The Gryffindor table is over there. Unless your housemates finally got sick of you, Potter, which I can definitely see happening.”

James chuckles, tossing another grape in his mouth without taking his eyes off you. “It’s as you said, isn’t it? It’s the time for putting aside House prejudices. And I think it’s a lovely day to enjoy a meal with my favorite snake.”

“Drop dead,” You retort, digging into your chicken with a little more force than necessary.

“Oh, dove.” James shakes his head, a teasing grin pulling at his lips. “It’s cute that you think death will keep me from you.”

(Harry’s been told before, probably by Sirius, that this line had been wedged into his wedding vows for you. “A dramatic one, James was,” Sirius chuckles to himself one morning, Harry and Hermione listening intently, “He always said he’d rather die than ever hurt her. There was this time in seventh year, they had a fight — it was ugly — and she had ignored him for a week. James cried in Remus’s arms begging him to cut his heart out, saying that he didn’t deserve to keep on breathing, not after making you cry.”)

“That is so creepy,” You say in disgust, scrunching your nose. Sirius chortles at your side. “I still wonder why Evans agreed to go out with you.”

“It’s all part of the charm, dove.” James winks. “It’s all part of the charm.”

Harry wants to barf, actually.

After breakfast, James then decides to introduce Harry to Lily, Remus, and Peter. (He’s gonna need the patience of a saint to not Avada Kedavra that rat on the spot.) Harry had spent the whole morning watching Sirius peel oranges and give them to you with a smitten look in his eyes — naturally, you gave whatever Sirius offered you to Harry, and each time Padfoot would visibly wilt. If he were in his Animagus form, Harry thinks he would be whining by now, tongue out and all. James and Sirius follow after you like lost puppies when you extricate yourself from the table.

“Where are you going?” James calls, hot on your heels as you leave the Great Hall.

“Away from you, Potter!”

And James actually sighs when you turn the corner and disappear from their peripheral vision. Seconds later, he turns to Harry with a blinding smile, “She’s definitely charmed.”

Harry chortles.

“Well, come on then!” James guffaws as he wraps an arm around Harry’s neck — this is so, so strange. They begin walking in the opposite direction of where you went. “I still can’t believe we’ve got another Potter here and in Slytherin. I think I would have remembered Minnie calling your name during the Sorting Ceremony. What year are you in?”

He’s supposed to start his sixth-year in a few weeks. “Fifth.” Technically.

“We should ask Lily,” says Sirius, hands in his pockets and ebony ringlets tickling his nape. “She’s got the best memory out of all of us.”

It’s odd, Harry thinks, meeting the person who’s got his eyes — or the other way around, as people have told him. It’s like someone carved out the emeralds of Lily Evans’s eyes and bestowed it upon Harry for safekeeping. She sits beside Remus Lupin, head resting on his shoulder, hands clasped together, as they enjoy the shade. Nex to them, oblivious to their intimate conversation, is Peter Pettigrew — with his rosy, cherub cheeks and innocent blue eyes; not at all the image of a pathological, cowardly liar. Their heads snap in attention as James boisterously cries for their name.

“Marauders — and Lily-pad — meet ickle Potter.” James lightheartedly whacks Harry on the back, to which Harry feels his lungs spill out from his mouth, he’s sure there’s an imprint of his father’s hand on his back now.

“There’s two Potters in Hogwarts?” Sea-green eyes look at him in scrutiny as Lily knits her brows. “How even is the castle still standing?”

James cackles like it’s the best joke he’s ever heard in his entire life, slapping his knee for dramatic effect. Oh, well, at least they’re buying Harry’s half-baked lie. At this point, it’s not even baked, it’s just wet, soggy, and poorly done. “Good one, Lily-pad!”

Sirius ruffles Remus’s shaggy blonde hair, canines bared in a wide grin. “This one here’s Moony, uptight prefect in the morning and absolute beast in the evening.”

Harry blanches. Surely he was talking about his furry problem, right? Right?

Remus doesn’t even flinch, just peels off Sirius’s hand from him and extends his hand out to Harry. “Please do not mind him. Remus Lupin, nice to meet you. Although, I can’t believe this is the first time we’ve met. We would have definitely remembered if we had another Potter in our midst.”

“It’s true, we Potters are just hard to forget,” says James, smiling cheekily.

Harry pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Mum didn’t take the Potter name. I’m part Dursley. Muggle.”

Lily hums, toying at the ends of her bright hair. “Dursley, huh? What a familiar name.”

“It’s a common one,” Harry assures her — not at all the names of the people who would take him in after they died. And make his life miserable.

“I suppose you’re right,” says Lily, unconvinced.

“And this is Peter.” James introduces the boy eagerly, pride in his voice — as though this isn’t the person who literally allies himself with Voldemort. As if Peter won’t betray his friends all because of fear.

“N–Nice to meet you,” Peter stammers with a nervous fidget, “Any family of James is a friend of ours.”

Harry’s eye twitches.

IT IS ALMOST COMICAL — the way their eyes land on your figure, bursting through the courtyard from the corridors, winter cloak swishing with every step, tendrils of hair swaying in the crisp wind, and head held up high, thick books under your arms. You pause in front of the Marauders, face blank, then you turn to Peter, greeting him with a: “Hello, only Gryffindor I can tolerate.”

Peter’s cheeks burn a saccharine hue of pink. Oh, no, no, no — absolutely not — Harry will not stand for a little crush Peter Pettigrew has on his mother. He needs James to act now. “Hi,” Peter replies shyly.

Lily quirks her lips. “Hello, princess, see your score for the Astronomy test yet?”

You scowl. “Zip it, Evans.”

The sound of Lily’s laughter fills the atmosphere — it’s the sort of melody that makes flowers bloom in deserts. “Had a bit of difficulty with the star charts?”

Sirius pinches your cheek — Harry thinks you’re going to murder him on the spot. “Difficulty? I think this one just slept through the whole thing.”

James snickers. “Must have been one hell of a nap, princess. You were drooling on my jumper.”

“I most certainly do not drool!” You gasp, appalled, eyes wide as you step away from Sirius.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “What? Is drooling too barbaric for the pretty, little pure-blooded princess now? Newsflash, pet, you’re just as human as we are.”

“Oh, you horrible, loathsome, infuriating—” You whip around to beat his chest with the course book in your grasp — it’s the kind of book Hermione would consider for light reading.

“Irresistibly attractive—?” Sirius supplies for you, grin widening with as he captures your wrist with his hands.

“In your dreams!” You shrill.

You exhale slowly, eyes closing, chest rising when you take a sharp inhale. You open your eyes and stare straight at Harry — for a moment he fears that you’ll bite his head off. “Harry, dear, will you accompany me to the library? I think I’ve found something important regarding your situation.”

Harry nods. “Is it time already?”

“Yes,” You say firmly. “And time is of the essence. Come on.”

“Wait!” Lily calls out to you as you turn to head back to the castle, Harry in tow — he tries to avoid the way James is glaring at your linked arms. “Hogsmeade next week?”

Your jaw falls to the ground — this must have been unrehearsed, if the others’ reactions were anything to go by; Remus had dropped his book in shock, Sirius looked like he couldn’t decide between applauding Lily’s bravery or shaking her, and James was somehow frozen in time. “Excuse me?”

“You’re excused, princess,” says Lily, dimples poking out of her cheek as she takes another step towards you. “You, me, Hogsmeade. A date. I’m sure you’ve gone on one of those before.”

Harry elbows your stomach as you stare at Lily in shock. It takes a few moments to break you out of your stupor. “A–And what makes you think I’ll just go with you?”

Lily shrugs. “I’m fit. Aren’t I, Remus?”

“The fittest,” says Remus without missing a beat.

You laugh incredulously. “Do you just expect me to go along with this? You’re mad, Evans.”

Harry glares at you. You need to go along with this.

“Are you scared, princess?” Lily’s face is inches away from yours, noses almost touching — Harry doesn’t know if he should keep watching this painful way of flirting — as she grins at you, happiness barely contained within her eyes.

To your credit, you don’t back down. (Harry has to say this for the masses: he saw your gaze flitter down to Lily’s lips for a split second.) “Stop calling me that, Evans.”

“One date, then.”

You growl in exasperation, eyes flickering to the boys behind her back — pretending not to hear their conversation. “I suppose I’ll have to deal with them as well?”

Lily beams and Harry swears sunflowers could grow in her direction. “We’re a package deal.”

“Unfortunately,” You utter — but Harry notices it, the lack of venom in your voice. You straighten your posture, nose lifted haughtily, “I choose where we’re going.”

“Done.” The sun peeks out from the cloud just as Lily smiles at you.

“And I want to—”

“Done,” Remus interjects raspily, peering up at you from underneath his lashes. “Anything you want, it’s yours.”

You fight a growing smile, but continue, “If we’re going out in public, you’re going to have to wear—”

“Done,” says James giddily, he looks as though he could kiss you in front of everyone without a care in the world.

“You can’t just agree to anything I say!” You flap your arms in frustration.

“Yes, dear,” Sirius teases.

“Do you know how much you piss me off, Black?” You squawk. “Because you are this close to—”

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Sirius confesses, every pretense shed raw from his skin, sincerity pouring from his words.

“I—” You falter, heat rushing to your cheeks. “You’ve gone mad.”

“It’s your fault, dove,” says James, eyes twinkling like crescent moons as he smiles. “You best take accountability for this.”

“You’re incorrigible — all of you,” You say as you avoid their gazes.

(But they were yours. Past, present, and future. They loved you so much that their soul was no longer their own — it was yours; yours to keep, yours to break, and yours to love. It would be unjust to ask them why they loved you. Do we ask why the sun rises each day without rest? Do we ask a daisy to stop blooming, or a tree to stop growing after it has endured storms and floods? After all, we do not ask why humans follow the light in a tunnel shrouded in darkness.)

“Come on, Harry, let’s go.” You reach for his hand, he notices immediately that the tips of your ears are pink, and your palms are warm with sweat. He barely sees Peter wave goodbye before you tug him in the direction of the castle entrance.

“Wait up!” Remus catches up to you two in quick strides, offering to carry your books for you — not that you agree, stubborn Slytherin that you are. “I’ll walk you to the library.”

“There’s no need for that, Lupin, thank you.” You dodge his eyes, lips tightly pressed together, nails slightly digging into Harry’s arm.

“Remus,” He says with a twinkle. “Call me Remus.”

“Alright.” You pause. “Remus.”

(In that moment, Remus wonders if you remember decking Lucius Malfoy in the face to defend him in your fourth year. He didn’t think he deserved to even breathe in the same air as you — the pure-blooded princess, dressed in clothing worth more than his life, adorned in jewelry he could only dream to afford, raised to believe she was better than everyone else. Then, you beat up Evan Rosier the next month in the courtyard, eyes ablaze, extravagant silk marred with grass stains and mud, and knuckles split open. You spit blood on the ground, looking at Lily then back at Rosier. “Red,” You say, kicking him one last time in the stomach, unafraid of McGonagall’s wrath growing louder and louder. “Just like everyone else. Like those Muggleborns you fear. We’ve all got dirty blood, Rosier. Suck it up.”

“I’ll tell your father about this!” Rosier bellows through bloody teeth.

“Tell him!” You grab his neck and slam your forehead against his. “Tell him that I decide my own future now!”

Remus doesn’t even have to think about it.

He falls in love.)

FUNNILY ENOUGH, IT’S LILY who gives you her heart first, before anyone else does. It’s the last month of her first year at Hogwarts — it still hasn’t quite sunk in yet that she was a witch. Her, not Petunia, but her — Lily Evans, the witch. Apparently, some people can’t believe it either. A girl from Ravenclaw calls her this foul word, she’s heard it a few times now but it always hurts the same. James and Sirius get into a fight for her honor, now faced with detention later this evening. But she can’t help but wonder, what if they were right? What if she really didn’t belong in this world? It was too good to be true, anyway. Perhaps she’ll just run a flower boutique with Petunia.

“Oi.”

The sound of your voice startles her, and she nearly topples over in the Great Lake. Lily catches sight of your Slytherin colors and resigns herself to another round of name-calling. “What do you want?”

“They’re wrong, you know,” You tell her, ignoring Lily’s question. You look down on her with your nose raised arrogantly — she wishes she could be like you. Born to be magic. “You’ve got a terrifying brain locked up in your head there, Evans. And they know it, too. They’re scared.”

Lily scoffs. “I’m just a Mudblood to them. There’s nothing to be intimidated by.”

You sneer. “Don’t say that word. You’re more than that. More than them. They’ve got long ways to go to prove they have a place in this world. But you — you’ve defied the odds and you were destined to become magic. You don’t have to prove anything. You have the right to be in the wizarding world and no one can take that away from you.”

Then, you pivot on your heels, not bothering to hear her reply. “You’re my rival now, Evans. Do keep up. We’ve got an Astronomy test tomorrow. I look forward to seeing how you do then.”

Lily just gapes. She’s certain there’s butterflies in her stomach. Her heart thumps wildly against her ribcage. Lily raises her hands to feel her blushing cheeks. There’s a light unfamiliar sensation in her stomach — like the urge to kick her legs and scream into a pillow, or more precisely, chase after you and hold your hand.

She stiffens.

Oh.

part two

#hp angst #hp fluff #hp imagine #hp x reader #james potter x reader #lily evans x reader #marauders angst #marauders fluff #marauders imagine #marauders x reader #sirius black x reader #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders fluff #remus lupin x reader

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