#james potter x reader fluff

[theshamelesssimp]

Me when I get to the part of a fanfic that has me giggling and kicking my feet

[colouredbyd]

'Til All That's Left Is Glorious Bone—

brother!sirius black x fem!sister!reader x brother!regulus black , james potter x reader

synopsis: being a Black means braiding silence into everything soft — childhood, love, even the ache in your bones. Sirius runs from it, Regulus folds beneath it, but you carry it still, tight at the nape of your neck. and when James offers his hands, his heart, you flinch — not because you don’t want it, but because you were never taught how to take what doesn’t hurt.

cw: Chronic illness, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, self-isolation, emotional breakdowns, grief, physical pain, mental deterioration, identity loss, emotional neglect, unrequited love, hospital scenes, overdose, allusions to death, trauma responses, unfiltered intrusive thoughts, self-hatred, references to childhood neglect, emotional repression. read with caution!!!!

w/c: 9.8k

based on: this request!!

a/n: this turned out much longer than i thought. very very very much inspired by the song Wiseman by Frank Ocean

part two part three dalia analyses of this!! masterlist

The hospital wing smells like damp stone and boiled nettle, and you have come to know its scent the way some children know their lullabies.

You’ve spent more of your life in this narrow bed than you have in classrooms, in common rooms, on sunlit grounds. 

Time moves differently here—slower, heavier—as though the hours have forgotten how to pass. The light through the tall window is always cold, a winter that presses its face to the glass but never steps inside. The sheets are tucked too tightly, the kind of tightness that makes it hard to breathe.

You don’t remember when it started, the pain behind your ribs, the illness that stole your breath and strength in careful, measured doses. It didn’t come all at once. It crept in slowly, like ivy through a cracked wall, quiet and persistent. 

You grew with it, around it, until it became part of you—a silent companion curled inside your chest. Some days it flares like a wildfire, other days it lingers like smoke, but it’s always there. You’ve learned to live beneath it. Learned how to stay still so it doesn’t notice you. Learned how to hold your own hand when no one else does.

Other students come and go with the ease of tide pools—quick stays for broken arms, for potions gone wrong, for fevers that leave as fast as they arrive. They arrive with fuss and laughter, and they leave just as quickly. But you? You stay. 

You are a fixture here, like the spare cots and rusting potion trays, like the chipped basin and the curtain hooks. Madam Pomfrey no longer asks what hurts. She knows by now that the answer is everything, and also nothing she can fix. 

Your childhood was a careful thing, sharp at the edges, ruled more by silence than softness. You were born into a house where expectation walked the halls louder than any footsteps. Obedience was mistaken for love, and love was always conditional. 

You were the youngest, but not alone. You came into the world with another heartbeat beside your own, a twin—your mirror, your shadow, your tether. And above you, Sirius. Older, brighter, always just out of reach. 

He was too loud, too fast, too full of fire. He tore through rooms like a comet, leaving heat and chaos in his wake. You admired him the way you might admire the storm outside the window—distant, thrilling, a little bit dangerous.

Your twin was the opposite. He was stillness, softness, observation. He watched the world carefully, his words chosen like rare coins he refused to spend unless he must. He was always listening. Always understanding more than he said. And between the two of them, you—caught in the current, too much and not enough, the daughter who was supposed to shine but learned instead how to fold herself small. 

You were expected to be precise. Polished. Perfect. The daughter of Walburga Black was not allowed to unravel.

Your hair was never your own. Your mother braided it herself, every morning, every ceremony, every photograph. The braid was too tight���always too tight—and it made your scalp sting and your neck ache, but you never flinched. You sat still while her fingers pulled and wove and twisted, like she was binding you into a shape more acceptable. Your fingers trembled in your lap, pressed together like a prayer you knew would not be answered. 

She said the braid meant order. Discipline. Dignity. But it felt like a chain. A silent way of saying: this is what you are meant to be. Tidy. Controlled. Pretty in the right ways. Never wild.

You wore that braid like a chain for years. A beautiful little cage. You wondered if anyone could see past it—if anyone ever looked hard enough to see how much of you was trying not to scream.

Your mother expected perfection. You were her daughter, after all. Hair always braided, posture always straight, lips always closed unless spoken to. She braided it herself most days — too tight, too harsh — and you would sit still while your scalp screamed and your fingers trembled in your lap. At nine years old, silence had already been braided into your spine.

The stool beneath you was stiff and velvet-lined, a throne made for suffering. In the mirror’s reflection, your posture held like porcelain. Every inch of you was composed, but only just — knuckles pale from tension, lips pressed in defiance.

 Behind you, your mother worked her fingers into your scalp with the practiced cruelty of a woman who believed beauty came from pain. Her voice matched the rhythm of her hands, each word tightening the braid, each tug a sermon.

“A daughter of this house doesn’t squirm,” she murmured, her grip unrelenting. “She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t disgrace herself over something as small as a hairstyle.”

The parting comb scraped harshly against your scalp, drawing a wince you were too proud to voice. Still, the sting prickled behind your eyes, a warning. When the sharp tug at your temple became unbearable, a breathy sob slipped out despite all effort to swallow it.

She froze.

Then, softly — far too softly — “What was that?”

Silence trembled between you.

“I said,” her voice clipped now, “what was that sound?”

A hand twisted at the nape of your neck, anchoring you like a hook. The braid tightened, harder now, punishment laced into every motion.

“Noble girls do not weep like peasants,” she snapped. “From now on, your hair stays up or braided. No more running wild. No more playing outside with your brothers. A lady must always be presentable — do you understand me?”

A nod. Barely a motion, but enough to release her grip.

She tied off the braid with a silver ribbon and smoothed a hand down your shoulder. In the mirror, your reflection stared back — hollowed eyes, flushed cheeks, a child sculpted into something smaller than herself. Her voice followed you as you stood.

“You’ll be grateful for this one day.”

Outside the room, Regulus stood waiting. He looked down at your braid and didn’t say a word. His tie was loose, lopsided in that way he never could fix. 

Your fingers moved on instinct, straightening it carefully, eyes never meeting his. He let you. The silence between twins had its own language — and right now, it said enough.

The hallway stretched long and heavy, lined with portraits that watched like judges. You didn’t stop walking. The destination had always been the same.

Sirius’s door creaked as it opened. He was lying on the bed, book propped open across his chest, thumb tapping absently against the page. 

His hair was a little too long, his shirt untucked. Eleven years old and already a constellation too bright for the house that tried to dim him.

He looked up — and the second his gaze met yours, his expression softened.

“Oh, pretty girl,” he breathed, sitting up straight. “Come here.”

You moved without thinking. As soon as the door closed behind you, the first tears broke free. Quiet, controlled — not sobs, not yet. Just the kind of weeping that clung to your throat and curled your shoulders inward.

“She did it again?” His voice was low, careful. “Too tight, yeah?”

A nod. You climbed onto the bed beside him, pressing your face into his sleeve.

“I tried not to cry,” the words came out muffled. “I really tried.”

Sirius tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, then gently reached for the braid.

“‘Course you did. You're the bravest girl I know.”

He began to undo it — not rushed, not rough. His fingers worked slowly, reverently, like unthreading something sacred. With each loosened twist, the tension in your body unwound too, your breath coming easier, softer.

“She says I’m not allowed to run anymore,” you whispered. “Says I have to look like a proper lady.”

“Well,” Sirius said, a hint of a smile in his voice, “I think she’s full of it.”

You let out a tiny, hiccupping laugh.

“There she is.” He brushed his fingers lightly over your scalp. “That’s better.”

The braid came undone, strand by strand, until your hair pooled over your shoulders — a curtain of softness, no longer a cage. Sirius shifted, lying back against the pillows, and opened his arms wide.

“Come here. Sleep it off. We’ll steal some scones from the kitchen tomorrow and pretend we’re pirates.”

You tucked yourself beneath his arm, the scent of parchment and peppermint wrapping around you like a secret. In the soft hush of the room, it was easy to pretend the house didn’t exist beyond these four walls.

By morning, you woke to find him sitting cross-legged on the floor, fingers gently working through your hair again. But this time, the braid was loose. Gentle. It didn’t pull. It didn’t sting.

“There,” he said, tying it off with a ribbon he pulled from his own shirt. “Just so it doesn’t get in your eyes when we go looking for treasure.”

And you smiled, because in that moment, you believed him.

The memory fades like breath on glass, slipping away into the sterile hush of the hospital wing.

You come back slowly. First to the faint scent of antiseptic and lavender balm. Then to the stiffness in your limbs, the press of cotton sheets against your legs, the dim ache nestled just beneath your ribs like something familiar.

“Easy now,” comes a voice, gentle and no-nonsense all at once.

Madam Pomfrey stands over you with her hands already at work, adjusting the blankets, feeling for fever along your temple. Her expression is set in that signature look — concern wrapped in mild exasperation, the kind of care she offers not with softness but with steady hands.

“You’ve been out for nearly a day,” she says, eyes scanning your face as if checking for signs of rebellion. “Stubborn girl. I told you to come in the moment you felt lightheaded.”

You blink at the ceiling. “Didn’t want to miss class.”

She snorts softly. “You think I haven’t heard that one before? You students would rather collapse in the corridors than admit your bodies are mortal.”

Her hands are cool against your wrist as she checks your pulse. You glance down at the thin bandage near your elbow — the usual spot, now tender. You don’t ask how long the spell took to stabilize you this time. You don’t need to.

She sighs and straightens. “Your fever’s broken, but you’ll stay here today. No arguments. I want fluids, rest, and absolutely no dramatic exits.”

You nod. “Thank you.”

Her gaze softens, just a little. “You don’t always have to carry it alone, dear.”

Before you can answer, the curtain snaps open with a flourish — a burst of too much energy, too much brightness.

“There you are!”

James Potter.

“Sweetheart,” James breathes, as if you’ve just risen from the dead. “My poor, wounded love.”

You barely lift your head before groaning. “Merlin’s teeth. I’m hallucinating.”

“Don’t be cruel. I came all this way.”

He plops into the chair beside you without invitation, sprawled in that casual way that only someone like James Potter could manage — legs too long, posture too confident, as if the universe has never once told him no. 

His tie is missing entirely. His sleeves are rolled up in that infuriating way that shows off ink stains and forearms he doesn’t deserve to know are attractive.

You squint at him. “You didn’t come from the warfront, Potter. You came from Transfiguration.”

“And still,” he says dramatically, “the journey was perilous. I had to fight off three Hufflepuffs who claimed they had dibs on the last chocolate pudding. I bled for you.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he counters, placing a hand over his chest like he might actually burst into song. “With a girl who is rude and ungrateful and far too pretty when she’s annoyed.”

“Then un-love me,” you mutter. “For your own good.”

“Can’t. Tragic, really.”

You shoot him a glare. He beams back like you’re the sunrise and he’s been waiting all night to see you again.

“I should hex you.”

“But you won’t.” He winks. “Because deep, deep down, under that armor made of sarcasm and resentment, you adore me.”

“I deeply, deeply don’t.”

“And yet,” he leans in, “you haven’t told me to leave.”

You stare at him. He stares right back.

Finally, you sigh. “Potter?”

“Yes, my heart?”

“If you don’t shut up, I will scream.”

He laughs, bright and boyish and utterly maddening. “Scream all you want, darling. Just don’t stop looking at me like that.”

James doesn’t leave. Of course he doesn’t. He lounges like he was born to irritate you — the embodiment of Gryffindor persistence, or maybe just pure male audacity. 

He props his elbow on the bedside table and peers at you like you're the eighth wonder of the world. Or an exhibit in a very dramatic museum: Girl, Mildly Injured, Attempting Peace.

“You know,” he says, casually adjusting his collar, “if you’d let me walk you to class yesterday, none of this would’ve happened. Fate doesn’t like it when you reject me. Tries to punish you.”

“Fate had nothing to do with it,” you snap. “I tripped over Black’s ego.”

He blinks, then grins. “Which one?”

You throw your head back against the pillow. “Get. Out.”

“But you look so lonely,” he pouts. “All this sterile lighting and medicinal smell — what you need is warmth. Charm. Emotional support.”

“What I need is silence,” you mutter. “Preferably wrapped in an Invisibility Cloak with your name on it.”

James leans closer. “But then you’d miss me.”

You sit up slightly, brows knitting. “Potter. For the last time — I am not in love with you!”

He looks wounded. “Yet.”

You glare. “Never.”

“Harsh,” he breathes, placing a hand over his heart. “Do you say that to all the boys who deliver their soul on a silver platter for your approval, or am I just special?”

“Neither. You’re just insufferable.”

“And you,” he says, looking at you like he’s just uncovered some hidden constellation, “are poetry with teeth.”

You blink. “Are you trying to flirt with me or describe a very weird animal?”

“Both, probably.”

There’s a silence then — or what should be a silence. It’s really more of a stretched pause, heavy with the weight of all the things you haven’t said and refuse to say. You busy yourself with fluffing the pillow behind you, more aggressive than necessary. 

James watches, unbothered, as if every second in your company is a privilege. He does that. Looks at you like you’re more than you know what to do with. Like if he stared hard enough, he could untangle the knots in your spine and the ones you keep hidden in your heart, too.

It pisses you off.

“Why are you like this?” you ask suddenly, exasperated.

James looks genuinely confused. “Like what?”

“Like a golden retriever who’s been hexed into a boy.”

He gasps. “You think I’m loyal and adorable?”

“I think you’re loud and impossible to get rid of.”

“That’s practically a compliment coming from you.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “Did you break into the hospital wing just to bother me?”

“No,” he says, stretching. “I also came for the adrenaline rush. Madam Pomfrey tried to hex me.”

“She should’ve aimed higher.”

“She said the same thing.” He tilts his head, eyes softening a little. “Seriously though. You okay?”

You glance away.

It’s a simple question. An honest one. And it cracks something in you, just for a second — a flash of how tired you really are, how the weight in your chest hasn’t gone away since the moment you woke up here. But you’re not about to tell him that.

“I was fine,” you say flatly, “until you arrived.”

James laughs, not buying a word of it. And you hate him a little, for seeing through your armor so easily. For still showing up anyway.

“Well,” he says, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder, “I’ll go. But only because I know you’ll miss me more that way.”

“In your dreams, Potter.”

“You’re always in mine.”

He tosses you a wink before heading for the door — whistling as he walks, bright and ridiculous and inescapable.

You throw the other pillow at his back.

You miss.And you hate that you're smiling. 

The door clicks shut behind him, and silence rushes in too fast. It settles over you like dust, soft but suffocating. 

You just sit there, perched on the edge of the infirmary cot, hands still curled in the blanket, knuckles pale. For a moment, there’s nothing. Just the quiet hum of the ward and the slow, measured ache blooming low in your back.

Then, you hear it.

James's laughter, bright and stupid and golden, spilling through the corridor like it doesn’t know how to stop. It chases itself down the stone hallway, reckless and echoing, as if it has never once had to apologize for being loud. 

He laughs like he’s never been told not to. Like the world is still something worth laughing in.

And then—his voice.

Sirius.

You’d recognize it anywhere. Cooler than James’s, more precise, threaded through with a sort of effortless arrogance he doesn't have to earn. Sirius doesn’t speak to be heard. He speaks because the world always listens. He laughs like the sun doesn't blind him anymore. Like he’s been here before, and already survived it.

Their voices blur together, warm and sharp and unbearably distant. A private world outside the thin curtain, a place you’re never fully let into, even when you're part of it.

You swallow hard. The taste of metal still lingers.

Madam Pomfrey told you to rest. Strict orders, she said. Full bedrest. You nodded then. Promised. But your body’s never listened to promises, and your mind is already slipping away from the cot, already pressing you forward with a kind of restless urgency.

The ache in your ribs flares when you move, but you ignore it. You swing your legs over the side and reach for your shoes with slow, shaking hands. Each movement tugs at the bruises hidden beneath your skin, the tender places no one else can see. You wince. You keep going.

It isn’t the pain that drives you. It’s something worse. Something quieter. That feeling, deep in your chest, like a hand gripping your lungs too tightly. Like something in you has started to rot from the inside out. You don’t want to hear them laughing. You don’t want to be the one in the bed anymore, weak and broken and watched over like a child.

You want to run until your lungs scream. You want to scream until your throat splits.

Instead, you walk.

The corridor outside is too bright. You blink against it, but don’t slow your pace. Your limbs feel like they’re moving through water, but you don’t stop. The voices are gone now, swallowed by stone and space, but they echo anyway. You hear the ghosts of their laughter in every footstep.

And it stings, because Sirius never laughed like that with you anymore. Not since you learned how to flinch without being touched. Not since the world cracked open and swallowed the parts of you that still believed he would choose you first.

You keep walking. Not because you know where you're going.

Only because you know you can't stay.

You don’t go far. You don’t have the strength.

Instead, you slip into the back corner of the library, the one with the high windows and the dust-lined shelves no one bothers to reach for anymore. It’s always too quiet there, always a little too cold — and that suits you just fine. You drop your bag and sit without grace, shoulders curling inward like you’re trying to take up less space in the world.

Your books are open, but your eyes keep blurring the words. The light from the window stripes your page in gold, but your fingers tremble as you hold the quill. 

There’s a pain blooming slow beneath your ribcage now, deeper than before, as if something inside you is tugging out of place. You press your palm to your side, hoping the pressure will settle it, but all it does is remind you that it’s real.

It gets worse the longer you sit. The burning in your spine, the throb in your joints. Your whole body pulses like a bruise someone won’t stop pressing. You grit your teeth and write anyway, like if you just get through one more page, one more hour, one more breath—you’ll be okay.

But you’re not. Not really. And every breath tastes a little more like defeat.

The days fold over themselves like tired parchment.

You wake. You ache. You drift from bed to class to hospital wing to silence. You ignore James when he finds you in the corridor and calls you sunshine with a grin too wide for the way your heart is breaking. 

You tell him off with a glare you don’t mean. He calls you cruel and laughs anyway. You walk away before he can see the way your hands are shaking.

The world goes on.

And then one afternoon, when the sun slips low and casts everything in amber, you see him.

Regulus.

Your twin. Your mirror, once.

He’s seated beneath the black lake window, where the light is darker and more still. His robes are sharp and his posture straighter than you remember. 

There’s a boy beside him — fair hair, eyes too bright. You’ve seen him before. Barty Crouch Jr. A Slytherin, like Regulus. Arrogant. Sharp-tongued. Always smiling like he knows something you don’t.

They’re laughing. Low and conspiratorial. Something shared between them that you’ll never be invited into.

And Regulus is smiling, real and rare and soft in the way you used to think only you could draw from him. His face is unguarded. His shoulders are relaxed. He looks... content. Not loud like James, not wild like Sirius. But happy. In that quiet, unreachable way.

It guts you.

Because both your brothers have found something. Sirius, with the way he flings himself into everything—light, reckless, loved. And Regulus, with his quiet victories and his perfect tie and his smiles saved for someone else. They’ve carved out slivers of peace in this cold castle, let someone in enough to ease the weight they both carry.

And you—you can’t even let James brush your sleeve without recoiling.

You can’t even let yourself believe someone might stay.

You sit there, tangled in your own silence, staring at a boy who you used to fix his tie after your mother left the room, because he never could quite center it himself.

And now—he doesn’t need you.

Now, he looks like the last untouched part of what your family once was. The only grace left. 

He sits with his back straight, his collar crisp, his shoes polished to a soft gleam that catches even in the low light. His tie is knotted with precision. His hair, always tidy, always parted just right, never unruly the way yours has always been. 

Everything about him is exact — not stiff, but composed. He is elegance without effort, and you don’t know whether to feel proud or bitter, watching him hold himself together like the portrait of what you were both meant to be.

He is the son your mother wanted, the child she could show off. He never had to be told twice to stand straight or speak softer or smile with his mouth closed. Where you burned, he silenced the flame. Where you ran wild with leaves tangled in your curls, he walked beside her, polished and obedient and clean.

If she saw you now — slouched, hair unbound and wild, dirt smudged along your hem — she would scream. 

First, for your hair. Always your hair. too messy, too alive. 

Second, for sitting on the ground like some gutter child, as if you weren’t born from the ancient bloodline she tattooed onto your skin with every rule she taught you to fear.

And third — oh, third, for the thing she wouldn’t name. For the thing she’d feel in her bones before she saw it. Something’s wrong with you. Has always been wrong with you. Even when you’re still, you’re too much.

There’s no winning in a house like that.

But Regulus — Regulus still wins. Somehow. He balances the weight she gave him and never once lets it show on his face. And maybe it should make you feel less alone, seeing him there. Maybe it should comfort you, to know one of you managed to survive the storm with their softness intact.

You blink hard, but the sting in your eyes doesn’t go away.

Because Regulus sits like he belongs.

The light in the library has thinned to bruised blue and rusted gold. Outside, the sun has collapsed behind the tree line, dragging the warmth with it. Shadows stretch long and quiet across the stone, draped between the shelves like forgotten coats.

Your hand closes around the edge of the desk. Wood under skin. You push yourself up, gently, carefully, like you’ve been taught to do. Your body protests with a dull, familiar ache — hips locking, spine stiff. You’ve sat too long. That’s all, you tell yourself. You always do.

But then it comes.

A pull, not sharp — not at first. It begins low, behind the ribs, like a wire drawn tight through your center. It pulses once. And then again. And then all at once.

The pain does not scream. It settles.

It climbs into your body like it has lived there before — like it knows you. It sinks its teeth deep into the marrow, not the muscles, not the skin. The pain lives in your bones. It nestles into the hollow of your hips, winds around your spine, hammers deep into your shins. Not a wound. Not an injury. Something older. Hungrier.

You stagger, palm flying to the wall to catch yourself. Stone greets your skin, cold and indifferent. You can’t tell if your breath is leaving you too fast or not coming at all. It feels like both. Your ribs refuse to expand. Your lungs ache. Your throat is tight, raw, thick with air that won’t go down.

Still, it’s the bones that scream the loudest.

They carry it. Not just the pain, but the weight of it. Like your skeleton has begun to collapse inward — folding under a pressure no one else can see. Your joints feel carved from glass. Every movement, even a tremble, sends flares of heat spiraling down your limbs. You press a hand to your chest, to your side, to your shoulder — seeking the source — but there’s nothing on the surface. Nothing bleeding. Nothing broken.

And still, you are breaking.

Your ears ring. Not a pitch, but a pressure — like the air itself is narrowing. Like the world is folding in. You blink, and the shelves blur, the light bends, the corners of your vision curl inward like paper catching flame. You think, I should sit down.

But it’s already too late.

Your knees buckle. There’s that terrible moment — the heartbeat of weightlessness — before the fall. Before the floor claims you. Your shoulder catches the edge of a shelf. Books crash down around you in protest. You feel the noise in your ribs, but not in your ears. Everything else is too loud — your body, your body, your body.

And then you’re on the floor.

The stone beneath you is merciless. It doesn’t take the pain. It holds it. Reflects it. You press your cheek to it, eyes wide and wet and burning, and feel the tremors racing through your legs. Your hands are claws. Your spine is fire. Your ribs rattle in their cage like something dying to escape.

It’s not just pain. It’s possession.

Your bones do not feel like yours. They are occupied. Inhabited by something brutal and nameless. You are no longer a girl on a floor. You are a vessel for suffering, hollowed and used.

White fogs the edges of your sight.

And then — darkness, cool and absolute.

The only thing you know as it takes you is this: the pain does not leave with you. It goes where you go. It follows you into the dark. It belongs to you.

Like your bones always have.

-

Waking feels like sinking—an uneven descent through layers of fog and silence that settle deep in your bones before the world sharpens into focus.

The scent of disinfectant stings your nostrils like a cold warning. Beneath your fingertips, the hospital sheets whisper against your skin, thin and taut, a reminder that you are here—pinned, fragile, contained. The narrow bed presses into your back, a quiet cage, and pale light spills weakly through the infirmary windows, too muted to warm you. Somewhere far away, a curtain flutters, its soft murmur a ghostly breath you can’t quite reach.

You’re not ready to open your eyes—not yet.

Because the silence is broken by a voice, raw and electric, sparking through the stillness like a flame licking dry wood. 

It’s James.

But this James isn’t the one you know. The James who calls you “sunshine” just to hear you argue back, or the one who struts beside you in the hallways with that infuriating grin, as if the world bends beneath his feet. No. This voice is cracked and frayed, unraveling with worry and something heavier — the weight of helplessness.

“You should’ve sent word sooner,” he says, and every syllable feels like a shard caught in his throat.

“She fainted,” he repeats, as if saying it out loud might make it less real. “In the bloody library. She collapsed. Do you understand what that means?”

The sound of footsteps shuffles nearby, followed by Madam Pomfrey’s steady voice, calm but firm, trying to thread together the broken edges of panic.

“She’s resting now. Safe. That’s what matters.”

James laughs, but it’s not a laugh. It’s a brittle sound, half breath, half crack.

“Safe? You call this safe? She was lying there—cold—and I thought—” His voice breaks, a jagged exhale caught between frustration and fear. 

“She doesn’t say anything, you know. Never says a damn thing. Always brushing me off, like I’m just some idiot who’s in the way. But I see it. I see it. The way she winces when she stands too fast. And none of you—none of you bloody do anything.”

Your chest tightens like a fist around your heart.

You hadn’t expected this.

This raw, aching desperation beneath his words—the way his concern flickers through the cracks of his usual arrogance and shields. The way he’s caught between anger and helplessness, trying so desperately to fix something that isn’t easily fixed.

You lie still, listening to him, feeling the swell of something close to hope and something just as close to despair.

James Potter — sun-drunk boy, full of fire and foolish heart, standing now like a storm about to break. He paces the edge of your infirmary bed as if motion alone might hold back the tide. He looks unmade, undone: his tie hangs crooked, his hair is more chaos than crown, his sleeves rolled unevenly as if he dressed without thought — or too much of it — only the frantic instinct to get to you.

“I should’ve walked her to the library,” he murmurs, and his voice is smaller now, like a flame flickering at the end of its wick. 

Madam Pomfrey, ever the calm in the storm, offers a gentle but resolute reply. “Mr. Potter, she’ll wake soon. She needs rest, not your guilt.”

But guilt has already laid roots in his chest — you can hear it in the way his breath hitches, in the soft exhale that seems to carry the weight of an entire world. His hands press to his face like he’s trying to hold it together, knuckles pale, fingertips trembling slightly at the edges. 

You blink. Just once.

The light slices through the shadows behind your eyes like a blade — too sharp, too clean. But you blink again, slowly, eyelashes sticky with sleep. 

The ceiling swims into shape above you, white stone carved with faint veins and a hairline crack running like a map across its arch. It feels strange, being awake again. Like stepping through a door and finding the air different on the other side.

You shift your head — careful, slow — not because you’re afraid of waking anyone, but because you know the pain is still there, sleeping under your skin like an old god. Waiting. You feel it stretch along your spine, an ache carved into your marrow. Your body is quieter than before, but not calm. Just… biding time.

He doesn’t notice you yet — too consumed by whatever promise he’s making to himself. You catch only pieces of it: something about making sure you eat next time, and sleep, and sit when your knees go soft. His voice is hoarse, edged with something too raw to name.

And though your throat burns and your bones still hum with the echo of collapse, you find yourself watching him.

Because this boy — foolish, golden, infuriating — is breaking himself open at your bedside, and he doesn’t even know you’re watching.

It’s strange.

This boy who never stops grinning. Who fills every hallway like he’s afraid of silence — like stillness might swallow him whole. Who flirts just to irritate you, calls you cruel with a wink when you roll your eyes at his jokes. 

This boy who you’ve shoved away a hundred times with cold stares and tired sarcasm — he’s here.

And he looks like he’s breaking.

Because of you.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat. There’s a weight lodged just beneath your ribs, sharp and unfamiliar, twisting like a question you don’t want to answer. 

You never asked him to care. Never asked anyone to look too closely. In fact, you’ve spent so long building walls from half-smiles and quiet lies, you almost believed no one would ever bother to scale them.

But somehow — somewhere along the way — James Potter learned to read you anyway.

Learned to translate silence into worry. To see the way your shoulders fold inward when you think no one’s watching. The way your laugh fades too fast. The way you don’t flinch from pain because you’ve been carrying it for so long it’s become part of you.

And for the first time — it doesn’t feel annoying.

It feels terrifying.

Because if he sees it, really sees it… the frayed edges, the heaviness in your bones, the way you’ve started to drift so far inward it sometimes feels easier not to come back — what then?

What happens when someone finds the truth you’ve hidden even from yourself?

You wonder how long he’s been carrying this fear. How long he’s noticed the signs you’ve worked so hard to bury.

And quietly — achingly — you wonder how long you’ve been hoping no one ever would.

You’ve pushed him away a hundred times. Maybe more. With cold eyes and sharper words, with silence that says stay away. You made yourself invisible. Not because you wanted to be alone—but because you thought it was easier that way. Easier than asking for help. Easier than letting anyone get close enough to see what’s really breaking inside.

Because the truth is: you don’t want to be here much longer.

Not in some dramatic way, not yet. 

But the thought is always there, quiet and persistent—like a shadow that never leaves your side. You’ve made plans, small and silent. Things you think about when the ache inside your bones is too heavy to carry. The nights when you lie awake and imagine what it would be like if you simply stopped trying. If you slipped away and no one had to watch you fall apart.

You’ve counted the moments it might take, rehearsed the words you’d leave behind—or maybe decided silence would say enough.

You wondered if anyone would notice. If anyone would come looking.

And yet here is James.

Pacing by your bedside like he’s carrying the weight of your pain on his shoulders. His voice trembles with worry you didn’t invite. Worry you thought you’d hidden too well.

But for now, you lie still, tangled in the ache beneath your skin. Wondering if leaving would hurt more than staying. Wondering if anyone really knows the parts of you that are already gone.

Wondering if you can find the strength to let him in—before it’s too late.

You don't mean to make a sound. You don’t even know that you have, until Madam Pomfrey draws a sudden breath, sharp and startled.

“She’s—James—she’s awake.”

There’s a rustle of movement. A chair scraping. A breath hitching.

And then James is at your side like he’d been waiting his whole life to be called to you.

But none of that matters.

Because you are crying.

Not politely. Not the soft, well-behaved kind they show in portraits. No. You're shaking. Wracked. The sob rises from somewhere too deep to name and breaks in your chest like a wave crashing through glass. Your shoulders curl, but your arms don’t lift. You don't even try to wipe your face. There's no use pretending anymore.

The tears fall hot and endless down your cheeks, soaking into your pillow, your collar, the edge of your sheets. It’s not one thing. It’s everything. It’s the ache in your bones. 

The thunder in your chest. The way Regulus smiled at someone else. The way Sirius ran. The way James calls you sunshine like it’s not a lie.

The way you’ve spent your whole life trying to be good and perfect and silent and still ended up wrong.

And the worst part — the cruelest part — is that no one has ever seen you like this. Not really. You were always the composed one. The strong one. The one who shrugged everything off with a tilt of her head and a mouth full of thorns. The one who glared at James when he flirted and scoffed at softness and made everyone believe you didn’t need saving.

But you do. You do.

You just never learned how to ask for it.

And now—now your chest is heaving, and the room is spinning, and you can’t breathe through the noise in your head that says:

What if this never ends? What if I never get better? What if I disappear and no one misses me? What if I’m already gone and they just don’t know it yet?

You hear your name. Once. Twice.

Gentle, then firmer.

James.

You flinch like it’s a wound.

“Hey, hey—” His voice is careful now, as if you’ve become something sacred and fragile. “Hey, look at me. It’s alright. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

But you shake your head violently, because no, you are not safe, not from yourself, not from the sickness that has wrapped its hands around your ribs and pulled and pulled until you forgot what breathing without pain felt like. 

Your throat burns. Your fingers curl helplessly into the blanket. You want to tear your skin off just to escape it. You want to go somewhere so far no one can ask you to come back.

Madam Pomfrey stands frozen in place, her eyes wide, her hand half-lifted. She has known you for years and never—not once—has she seen a crack in your porcelain mask.

And now here you are. Crumbling in front of them both.

“Black—please—” James tries again, voice breaking in the middle. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what to do, I’ll do anything, I swear—”

“I can’t,” you gasp, the words torn from you like confession. “I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to— I don’t—”

You don’t say it. The rest of it. You don’t have to. It’s in your eyes, wide and soaked and terrified. In your hands, trembling like the last leaves of autumn. In the hollow behind your ribs that’s been growing for months.

James sits carefully on the edge of your bed. His eyes are wet. You’ve never seen him cry before.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he whispers. “Not now. Not alone. You don’t have to be strong for anyone anymore.”

You sob harder. Because that’s the thing you never believed. That someone could see your weakness and not run from it. That someone could love you for the parts you try to hide.

James doesn't flinch. He doesn’t joke. He doesn’t call you cruel or cold or impossible to love. He just reaches out with one hand and lays it on yours, feather-light, as if you’re made of smoke.

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right here.”

  -

A week passes.

It drips by slowly, like honey left too long in the cold — thick and sticky, every hour clinging to the next. The pain in your body doesn't ease. It deepens. It threads itself into your bones like ivy curling around old stone, slow but suffocating. 

Some mornings it takes everything just to sit up. Some nights you lie awake listening to your heartbeat stutter behind your ribs, wondering if it will give out before you do.

James has not left you.

Not once, not really. He’s still insufferable — that much hasn’t changed — but it’s quieter now. 

The jokes catch in his throat more often than they land. He hovers too long in doorways. He watches you like he’s memorizing the way you breathe. And his eyes — the ones that used to be full of flirt and fire and mischief — are wide and rimmed in worry.

It makes you furious.

Because you don’t want his pity. You don’t want anyone’s pity. You don’t want to be a burden strapped to someone else’s shoulder. You don’t want to see that shift in his face — the softening, the sadness, the silent fear that you might vanish right in front of him.

It’s worse than pain. It’s exposure.

Still, he meets you after class every day, waiting by the corridor with two cups of tea, like it’s some unspoken ritual. He never says you look tired, but he walks slower. He never asks if you’re in pain, but his hand always twitches like he wants to reach out and steady you.

Except today.

Today, he isn’t there.

And you know why before you even ask.

Because today is Sirius’s birthday.

You try not to be bitter. You try to let it go, to let him have this — his brother, his celebration, his joy. But bitterness has a way of curling around grief like smoke. It stings just the same.

You walk alone to the Great Hall, half-hoping, half-dreading, and then you see them.

All of them.

There at the Gryffindor table, the loudest cluster in the room, bursting with laughter and light like a constellation too bright to look at directly. Sirius sits in the center, crown of charmed glitter and floating stars hovering just above his head. He’s grinning — wide and wild and untouched by the quiet rot eating through your days.

Regulus used to crown him, once.

You remember it like it happened this morning — the three of you, tangled in sun-drenched grass, scraps of daisies in your hair, Sirius demanding to be called “King of the Forest,” Regulus rolling his eyes and obliging anyway, and you balancing a crooked wooden crown on his head like he was the only boy who ever mattered.

You loved him then. You love him now.

But everything has changed.

Now Sirius is surrounded by friends and light and cake that glitters. Regulus is far away, still sharp, still polished, still untouchable. And you — you pass by like a ghost with a too-slow gait and a storm in your chest, unnoticed.

No one looks up.

Not even James.

Not even him.

You keep walking.

And you try not to think about how much it hurts that he isn’t waiting for you today. How much it feels like being forgotten.

How much it feels like disappearing.

You sit in the Great Hall, untouched plate before you, the silver spoon resting against the rim like even it’s too tired to try. There’s food, you think. Warm and plentiful, enough to satisfy kingdoms — but none of it ever looks like it belongs to you.

Your stomach turns at the scent.

You haven't eaten properly in days, if not longer. You don't bother counting anymore. Hunger doesn’t feel like hunger now. It feels like grief in your throat, like something alive trying to claw its way up and out of you. So you just sit there, alone at the far end of the table where no one comes, where there’s room enough for a silence no one wants to join.

You have no friends. Not anymore. Illness has a way of peeling people away from you like fruit from its skin. They stop asking. Stop waiting. Stop noticing. You can’t blame them, really — what’s the use in trying to be close to a body always fraying at the seams?

Across the hall, Sirius is the sun incarnate. He always is on his birthday.

He’s laughing with James now, something too loud and full of warmth. His cheeks are flushed with joy, hair glittering with the shimmer of charmed confetti, mouth parted mid-story as if the world waits to hear him speak. 

The Marauders hang around him like moons caught in his orbit, throwing wrappers and spells and terrible puns into the air like fireworks. It’s messy and golden and warm. And for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

You used to be part of that. Didn’t you?

Used to sit beside him and Regulus in the gardens with hands sticky from treacle tart and lips red from laughter. Used to have a seat at the table. A place. A life.

Now even Regulus is far away — his corner of the Slytherin table colder, quieter. But still not alone. He’s flanked by Barty, Evan, and Pandora. All sharp edges and shining eyes. All seemingly untouched by the rot that follows you. Regulus leans in, listens, offers a rare smirk that you remember from childhood, one he used to save just for you.

He hasn’t looked at you in weeks.

The ache in your chest blooms sudden and vicious. You press your knuckles into your side beneath the table — a small, private act of violence — as if you can convince your body to shut up, to behave, to let you just exist for one more hour. But the pain lurches anyway. Slow at first, then sharper. Stabbing between your ribs like something snapping loose.

You can’t do this.

You stand — too fast, too rough — and the edges of the room ripple like heat rising off pavement. No one notices. No one calls after you. Not even James.

Especially not James.

You walk out of the Hall without tasting a single bite.

And then you’re in the corridor, then on the stairs, and then climbing the towers toward your room. Step by step. Breath by breath. It should be easy — you’ve made this walk a hundred times. But your legs tremble beneath you. The pain isn't where it usually is. It's everywhere now. Your spine, your stomach, the backs of your eyes. Every inch of you buzzes like a broken wire. You clutch the banister like a lifeline, but even that’s not enough.

This is the third time this week.

It’s never been three times.

You should go to Pomfrey. Tell someone. Let someone help.

But your throat stays closed. You keep walking.

Some part of you wonders if this is what dying feels like — this slow crumbling, this breathlessness, this fatigue that eats your name and your shadow and your will to keep standing. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? To stop. Just for a little while. Just until the pain quiets. Just until the storm passes.

Except you know the storm is you.

You reach your dorm and shut the door behind you with the quiet finality of a girl preparing to vanish. The walls are too still. The windows don’t let in enough light. 

What if I just didn’t wake up tomorrow?

You let your bag fall to the floor. It lands with a dull, tired thud.

And then you see it.

Resting on the pillow — a single folded letter. Pale parchment. Tidy handwriting. Sealed not with wax but with duty. You don’t need to open it to know who it’s from. You don’t need to guess the weight of its words.

Still, you pick it up.

Your fingers tremble as you unfold it. Each crease feels like a wound reopening.

Darling, Christmas is nearly upon us. I expect you and Regulus home promptly this year — no delays. You’ve missed enough holidays already. No excuses will be accepted. — Mother

That’s it.

That’s all.

Twelve words from the woman who hasn’t written in months. No inquiry into your health. No mention of your letters, the ones she never answered. No softness. No warmth. Just expectation carved into command, as if your body isn't breaking open like wet paper. As if you’re still someone who can just show up — smiling, polished, whole.

You stare at the page until the words blur. Until they bleed.

And then something inside you slips.

The tears come without warning. No build, no warning breath. Just the kind of sob that erupts straight from the gut — ragged, cracked, feral. You sink to your knees beside the bed, hands still clinging to the letter like it might fight back, like it might tear through your skin and finish what your body started.

The pain blooms fast and ruthless. It surges from your spine to your chest, flooding every inch of you like fire caught beneath your ribs. You curl in on yourself, nails digging into your arms, into your thighs, into the fragile curve of your ribs. You clutch at your bones like you can hold them together — like you can stop them from collapsing.

But nothing stops it.

Nothing stops the sound that tears from your throat. A scream muffled into the sheets. A cry swallowed by solitude.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. All you can feel is this white-hot ache that eats at your joints, your heart, your hope.

You don’t want to go home.

You don’t want to keep going.

You want it to stop. All of it. The pain, the pretending, the loneliness of being expected to survive in a world that only ever sees the surface of you.

You press your forehead to the floor. Cold. Unmoving. Solid.

And you cry — truly cry — not in anger or silence, but in the voice of someone who has held it in too long, who has no more space left inside for grief.

And still, the letter stays crumpled in your fist, a ghost of a girl who once believed her mother might write something kind.

You move like your bones aren’t breaking.

You move like the letter from your mother isn’t still open on the desk, edges trembling in the breeze from the cracked window, her careful handwriting slicing you open with its simplicity. Christmas is coming. You and Regulus are expected home. No excuses.

You move because if you stop, you will shatter. Because the only thing worse than pain is stillness. Stillness makes it real.

So you go to the mirror.

The room is too quiet, too full of the breath you can barely draw. The walls feel too close, like they’re pressing in, trying to crush the last sliver of strength you’ve kept hidden beneath your ribs. Your legs are unsteady beneath you, every step forward a question you don’t want the answer to.

Your reflection barely looks like you anymore.

There is a hollowness in your eyes that no amount of light can touch. Your skin is pale and stretched thin, the corners of your mouth pulled in defeat. Your hair is a wild mess—matted from where you clutched at it in pain, tangled from nights curled on cold floors instead of in beds, from days where brushing it felt like too much of a luxury.

You reach for the comb. It clatters in your hands, and for a moment, you just stare at it.

Then you begin.

Each pull through your hair is a distraction from the agony blooming in your bones—sharp, raw, endless. You comb as if each knot you work through might undo a knot inside your chest. It doesn’t. But still, you comb.

You need to. You have to.

Because Sirius is downstairs. Laughing. Shining. Surrounded by love and warmth and them. You should be there. It’s his birthday. You remember the way he used to leap into your bed at sunrise, dragging you and Regulus by the wrists, shouting, “Coronation time!” and demanding to be crowned king of everything. You always made him a crown out of daisies and broken twigs. Regulus would scowl but help you braid it anyway.

He loved those crowns. He kept every one.

You remember how the three of you used to sit on the rooftop ledge, legs dangling, hands sticky with cake, Sirius declaring himself “the prettiest monarch of them all,” and Regulus pretending to hate it, even as he leaned against you, quiet and content.

Now Sirius is laughing without you. And Regulus is nowhere near your side.

You press the comb harder into your scalp. You need to focus.

Because Regulus—he should be here. You need him. Desperately. With a bone-deep ache that feels like hunger. But you haven’t spoken in days. He doesn’t look at you anymore. Not really. And you can’t ask. You don’t know how.

And James—bloody James—you almost wish he was here. As much as he drives you insane, with his constant chatter and shameless flirting, at least it means someone is trying to stay. At least it means you’re not entirely alone. But he isn’t here. He’s down there with Sirius, and you're alone in this echoing silence, braiding your hair like it might save you from yourself.

You divide it into three sections.

One for Sirius. One for Regulus. One for yourself.

You twist the first strand with shaking fingers, tight enough that it pulls your scalp taut. Then the second, even tighter. Your arms ache. Your chest tightens. The pain is good—it makes everything else fade. Not vanish, but blur around the edges.

By the third strand, your eyes are burning again.

You begin to braid.

Over, under, over.

You focus on the motion. The discipline. The illusion of control. Each loop is a scream you don’t let out. Each pull is an ache you refuse to voice. You braid like your life depends on it. Like if it’s tight enough, neat enough, maybe you’ll stop falling apart. Maybe you’ll be someone your mother could stand to look at. Maybe you’ll be strong enough to walk past Sirius without dying inside. Maybe you won’t feel so abandoned by Regulus. Maybe you’ll stop wondering what would happen if you simply stopped waking up.

Over. Under. Pull.

You want someone to notice. Just once. That you're not okay. That you haven’t been for a very long time. But you also want to disappear.

The braid is so tight it lifts the corners of your face, gives the illusion of composure. It hurts to blink. It hurts to breathe.

But at least now, you look fine.

You stare at your reflection. The girl in the mirror doesn’t cry. She doesn’t break. She’s polished, composed, hair perfect, pain tucked behind the curve of her spine. Just like Mother taught her.

But you can still feel it.

Inside.

Worse than ever.

The kind of ache that doesn’t come from sickness. The kind that whispers, What if you just stopped trying?

And for a heartbeat too long, you wonder what it would be like to let go.

But you blink. You blink and you turn and you reach for your school bag like the world hasn’t ended, and you prepare to go sit through another class, braid perfect, bones screaming, heart bleeding.

Because no one can save you if they don’t know you’re drowning.

And no one is looking.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing the braided strands that crown your head—a braid so tight and perfect, the first since you were thirteen. For once, the wildness that usually clings to your hair has been subdued, pulled into neat, unforgiving lines. 

It feels like a fragile kind of victory, as if this braid is a quiet rebellion against the chaos inside you, a way to tame not just your hair but the storm roiling beneath your skin.

Your fingers move almost mechanically as you smooth the fabric of your robe, the weight of it heavy with memories and expectation. Each fold you press flat feels like an attempt to iron out the wrinkles of your fractured soul, to shape yourself into something orderly, something that fits into the world your mother demands. 

The knot of your tie is next—tight and precise, a cold reminder of the control you’re expected to hold, even as everything inside you threatens to unravel.

Turning away from the mirror, you move to your bed, your hands carefully pulling the covers taut. The fabric is smooth under your fingertips, but your heart feels anything but. 

You straighten the pillows, tuck in the sheets, as if by arranging this small corner of your world perfectly, you can bring some order to the chaos swirling inside your mind.

Books come next. You stack them neatly on your desk, aligning every corner and spine as if the act itself could contain the chaos you feel. 

You run your fingers over the worn covers and flip through the pages, lingering on the words one last time. Your homework lies finished—no undone tasks, no loose ends to catch you. Everything is set, ready.

Your hands tremble slightly as you set your quill back in its holder. The quiet click in the stillness of your room feels loud, a reminder of the fragile balance you hold. In this small, solemn ritual, you prepare not just your things, but yourself—gathering the last threads of control, the last remnants of order before you let go.

The silence wraps around you, waiting.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing the braided strands that crown your head—a braid so tight and perfect, the first since you were thirteen. 

For once, the wildness that usually clings to your hair has been subdued, pulled into neat, unforgiving lines. It feels like a fragile kind of victory, as if this braid is a quiet rebellion against the chaos inside you, a way to tame not just your hair but the storm roiling beneath your skin.

The silence wraps around you, waiting.

The halls are half-empty, half-asleep in golden mid-afternoon hush, and your footsteps echo too loudly against the stone, like your bones are protesting with every step.

 The books in your arms weigh more than they should, tugging your spine downward, but you hold them like a shield. Like maybe the act of carrying knowledge — of submitting things, of finishing things — will be enough to make you feel real again.

You don’t notice James at first. Not until he steps out from where he must’ve been waiting by the staircase — leaning against the bannister with the kind of bored posture that usually precedes some ridiculous joke. 

But he doesn't speak right away this time. His eyes move to your braids, then down the neat lines of your uniform, and there’s a strange stillness in him. No grin. Just… surprise.

“Bloody hell,” he says finally, voice light but too soft to be teasing. “You’ve got your hair up.”

You blink at him. Say nothing. Your arms tighten slightly around your books, like you’re bracing yourself.

He lifts a hand, gestures vaguely. “Not that it’s any of my business — I mean, you always look like you just fought off a banshee in a thunderstorm, and now you look like you’ve… fought it and survived.” A smile tries to form, wobbly. “It suits you. You look really cute.”

You stop.

Not just physically, but inside too — something halting in your breath, like a skipped beat. Your gaze meets his, dull and quiet.

“Not today, James.”

Your voice is hoarse. Frayed silk over gravel. There’s no snap to it, no snarl or bite. You just say it like a truth. Like you’re too tired for anything else.

James straightens slowly. He doesn’t speak for a moment, just watches you like he’s trying to read through all the space between your words. Your name sits on his tongue, but he doesn’t use it. Instead, his brows lift — not in arrogance this time, but in something like confusion. Or worry.

“You—” He swallows. “You called me James.”

You shift your books in your arms, not meeting his eyes this time. “I just want to get through the day.”

He takes a step toward you, but something in your posture keeps him from reaching farther. “Hey, I can carry those—”

“I said not today.” you repeat, softer. Final.

And for once, he listens.

There’s a beat. Then he gives a small nod, stuffing his hands in his pockets, trying to play it cool even though you can see the concern crawling up his throat like ivy.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “But if you need anything, I— I’m around.”

You nod once — not in agreement, just acknowledgment. Then turn.

You don’t see how long he watches you walk away.

Your steps are heavier now, the ache blooming behind your knees and up your spine. It shouldn't be this bad — not again, not so soon. You already fell apart days ago. But the fire’s back in your ribs, licking up the side of your lungs, and you press your lips into a thin line, determined not to let it show.

You pass the Great Hall on your way. You don’t look in.

But Sirius sees you.

He’s mid-laugh, one of those rare carefree ones that sounds like summer. Remus has just handed him a small box wrapped in gold, and his crown — handmade from parchment, ink-smudged and jagged — sits slightly askew on his head. He freezes. The smile falters. His brows draw in. Something in his chest clenches.

“Was that—?” he begins, turning toward Remus.

“She didn’t see us,” Remus murmurs, already watching you too.

Your shoulders are too tight. Your spine too stiff. You don’t notice the silence left behind you. You don’t hear how the laughter quiets. You’re already up the next stairwell, already telling yourself you just need the potions. Just need to breathe. Just need to finish submitting your homework. Then maybe—maybe—

You won’t have to feel this anymore.

The infirmary is warm when you step inside, too warm. It clings to your skin like a fever, like the ache in your bones has grown teeth and is sinking in deeper the longer you stand.

You hug your books closer to your chest, as if they might anchor you here, hold you steady, keep you from unraveling.

Madam Pomfrey doesn’t look up. She’s bent over a boy laid out on the nearest cot—mud streaked across his face, quidditch robes still soaked in grass and sweat. 

Normally, she’d have noticed you by now. Normally, she would have called you over, already tsk-ing and summoning your chart. But she’s too absorbed today, too busy, and for the first time in a long time, no one’s watching you.

Your eyes drift to the far side of the room—to her desk. A tray sits just behind it, lined with small glass vials. Labels scrawled in Pomfrey’s sharp handwriting. Pale blue, golden amber, deep crimson—every kind of potion she’s ever poured down your throat. You know their names better than your own.

And there, at the back, barely touched, is the strongest pain reliever in her stores. Veridomirine. 

Dark and glinting in the soft light, like it already knows it’s too much for most. You remember it burning a hole in your stomach the last time she gave it to you. The way your limbs went numb. The way your mind stilled. The silence of it.

Your grip tightens on your books.

The decision happens slowly and all at once. You glance at Madam Pomfrey—her back still turned, wand still stitching, voice low as she murmurs reassurance to the boy on the bed. 

You step forward, quiet, deliberate. Like you’ve done this before. Like your body already knows the path.

The desk is closer than you expect. You set your books down gently, hands shaking just enough to notice, and reach for the bottle. The glass is cool. Heavier than you remember. It fits into your palm like it was made for you.

You don’t hesitate. You don’t think.

You slide it into the fold of your robe, between the fabric and your ribs, right where the pain always begins.

And then you lift your books again, turn on your heel, and walk out as if you’ve only come for a quick word, as if nothing is different. As if your hands aren’t burning from what you’ve just done.

The corridor is quiet outside. Brisk. The chill hits your cheeks and you let it. Let it bite and sharpen and bring you back into your body.

But something is different now.

Because inside your robe, glass clinks softly with every step.

And for the first time, you feel like you’re holding your way out.

All you can hear is your heartbeat, dull and heavy, and the quiet clink of glass from the bottle nestled beneath your sleeve.

You push open the infirmary doors, and the hallway blooms before you, empty at first glance. But he’s there.

Sirius.

Leaning against the stone wall, one foot pressed behind him for balance, arms crossed in a way that looks casual—effortlessly disheveled—but you don’t see the way his jaw keeps tightening, or the way he’s been picking at the edge of his sleeve, over and over again.

He straightens when he hears the door creak open. His head lifts, eyes scanning quickly—and softening, melting, when he sees you. You, with your too-tight braid, your hollow stare, the way you walk like you’re already halfway gone.

He doesn’t recognize you at first.

Not because you’ve changed on the outside—though you have—but because something’s missing. Something small. Something vital.

And Sirius Black has never known how to say delicate things, not with words. Not with you. So he does what he always does—he opens his mouth and hopes something human will fall out.

“Hey—”

But you’re already passing.

You don’t see the way he steps forward, the way his fingers twitch like he might reach for your arm. You don’t hear the “Can we talk?” die in his throat. You don’t even look at him. Not once.

You’re already turning away.

The braid down your back is tight, almost punishing. A line of control in a world unraveling thread by thread. Your robes are neat, too neat. Tie straight. Steps calculated. As if by holding the pieces together on the outside, you might silence the ruin inside. 

As if you can braid back the shadows trying to tear themselves loose.

Sirius opens his mouth. Wants to say your name. Just your name. Softly, like a tether, like a reminder. But the syllables die on his tongue. You’re already walking away, and the space between you feels suddenly endless. Like galaxies expanding between breaths.

And still—he doesn’t call after you.

He watches. That’s all he can do. 

Watches you walk with the quiet defiance of someone who has learned how to disappear in full view. Someone who was born under a cursed name and carved their own silence from it. He knows that silence. 

He’s worn it too. It’s in his name—in Black. Not just a surname but a legacy of storms. A bloodline that confuses cruelty for strength, silence for survival.

He told himself he had outrun it. That the name couldn’t touch him anymore. But now he watches you, and he realizes: Black isn’t just his burden—it’s yours too. You carry the same weight in your eyes. That same quiet grief. That same ache for something better.

You were the one who never bent. Never cried. Even when the pain took your bones, you met the world with cold fire in your gaze. But now he sees something else. Something crumbling. Something gone.

And it hits him like a curse spoken in the dark: he doesn’t know how to reach you. Not really. He was too late to ask the right questions. Too loud to hear the ones you never spoke aloud. Too proud to admit that sometimes, the ones who look strongest are the ones who are breaking quietly, piece by piece.

You vanish down the corridor, and Sirius stands there, the silence echoing louder than any spell. He leans back against the wall again, like if he presses hard enough, it might hold him together.

 His name is Black. And for the first time in a long while, it feels like a mirror—cold, cracked, and full of all the things he was too afraid to see.

You were light once. Maybe not the kind that burned—but the kind that steadied. Quiet, firm, constant. And now, he wonders if you’ve let go of the edge entirely. If you’ve stepped too far into that old name, into the dark.

And Sirius Black—brave, loud, impossible Sirius—does not know how to follow you there.

The bottle is cold in your hand, colder than it should be. 

You don’t know if it’s the glass or your fingers or something deeper, something in the marrow, in the blood. You sit on the edge of your bed like you’re balancing on a cliff, and everything around you holds its breath. 

The walls. The books. The light. Even the ghosts seem to pause, like they know something sacred and shattering is about to unfold.

You set the bottle down on your nightstand, watching the liquid shimmer inside. It’s a strange shade—amber gold, like honey and fire, like something that should soothe, should heal. But you know what it’ll do. 

You’ve read the labels. You’ve stolen the dosage. You’ve done the math. And for once in your life, the numbers give you certainty. This will be enough.

You glance around your room as if memorizing it, not the way it is, but the way it’s always been. The books stacked with uneven spines. The worn corner of your blanket where you’d twist the fabric between your fingers when the pain got too much. The chipped edge of the mirror where you once slammed a brush out of frustration. It’s a museum now. A mausoleum in waiting.

Your hands tremble as you reach for a parchment scrap—just a torn piece, nothing grand. You fold it carefully, slow and deliberate, your fingers aching as they crease the paper into small peaks. It’s clumsy, uneven. A paper crown no bigger than your palm. 

You think of Sirius, of sun-kissed afternoons when he used to run ahead and shout that he was king of the forest, the common room, the world. 

You and Regulus would laugh, always crown him, always believe him. You were never royalty, not really. Just children trying to carve a kingdom out of cracked stone and quiet grief.

You place the tiny crown on the edge of the desk. An offering. A prayer. A goodbye that won’t speak its name.

It’s his birthday.

You whisper it aloud like it means something. Like he’ll hear it. “Happy birthday, Sirius.”

And then, silence again. The kind of silence that screams.

Your fingers reach for the bottle. You uncork it slowly, and the scent rises—bitter, sharp, familiar. You think of your bones. Of how they’ve been singing a song of surrender for weeks. Months. Maybe years. Of how it’s taken everything in you just to exist in this body, in this name, in this world.

You think of Regulus. Of how his back was always straight even when everything else was falling. Of how you used to braid flowers into your hair for him, and he’d pretend not to care, but he’d look at you like you were magic. You think of James and the way his voice is always too loud but his concern is real, is warm, and how he didn’t call you a single name today. You think of how you almost wanted him to follow you.

You think of Sirius.

And it hurts so much you almost change your mind.

But the pain doesn’t leave. It never does. 

It sinks deeper, folds into your joints, nests behind your ribs. It becomes you. You can’t keep holding it. You can’t keep waking up in a body that feels like betrayal, in a mind that won’t stop screaming, in a life that forgot how to soften.

There is a kind of pain that does not bleed. It settles deep — in marrow, in memory. It builds altars in your bones, asking worship of a body already breaking. You've worn this ache longer than you've worn your name, longer than your brothers stayed.

You were born into the house of Black — where silence is survival and suffering is an inheritance. Regulus moved like shadow. Sirius, like fire. But you? You learned to stay. To endure. To carry the weight of a name no one asked if you wanted. And you did it well. Too well. Long enough for the world to mistake your endurance for ease.

Because strength was never the crown you wanted. It was the chain.

You bring it to your lips.

There is no fear, not anymore. Just the hush beneath your ribs loosening for the first time. Not with hope — never with hope — but with rest. The kind no one can take from you. The kind that doesn’t hurt to hold. That doesn’t ask for your smile in exchange for survival.

You close your eyes.

And then — a crack of wood. A bang loud enough to split the night wide open. Like the universe itself couldn’t bear to be quiet a second longer. 

The door crashes against the wall, unhinging the moment from its silence.

Wind howls through the space between now and never. Curtains billow like ghosts startled from sleep. You flinch before you mean to. Before you can stop yourself. The bottle slips from your hands.

It falls. A slow, glassy descent. And when it hits the floor — the shatter is almost gentle. A soft, final sound. Like the last breath of something sacred. Potion and silence spill together, staining the rug in pale, merciful ruin.

And there — Sirius.

Standing in the doorway like someone who’s already read the ending. Like someone who sprinted through every corridor of this house just to be too late. 

His chest is rising like he’s run miles through storm and stone. His eyes — wild, wet, unblinking. The kind of stare that begs the world to lie.

There’s mud on his boots. A tremble in his fists. Panic stretched tight across his shoulders, brittle and loud. And something in his face — something jagged and unspoken — slices right through the stillness.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

The room holds its breath. Around you, time stands uncertain. The glass glitters between you like a warning, like a map of everything broken. The smell of the potion hangs in the air — soft, floral, almost sweet. A lullaby for leaving.

Your hands stay curled in your lap, still shaped around the ghost of what almost was. Still cradling the moment you thought you could disappear, undisturbed.

You were supposed to be gone by now.

Supposed to leave like snowfall, like mist at morning — soft, unseen, unremembered. You had rehearsed the silence. Folded your goodbyes into creases no one would find. You had made peace with the vanishing.

But he’s here. Sirius. And he is looking at you like he knows.

Like he’s known all along.

Not just the pieces you performed — the smirk, the sarcasm, the deflection sharp enough to draw blood. But the marrow of it. The hurting. The leaving. The way you’d been slipping away for years in small, invisible ways.

And you can’t take it back.

Not the uncorked bottle. Not the weight in your chest you were ready to lay down. Not the choice you almost made — not out of weakness, but weariness. The kind no one ever sees until you’ve already left.

And still, even now.

Something loosens in your chest, not quite hope but something softer, like release. Like breathing out after holding it in for too long. The weight begins to lift, slowly and gently, like smoke rising.

It slips out of your lungs, out of your spine, out of the quiet place where it had lived for so long, unnoticed but heavy all the same.

And for the first time, the ache goes with you.

‘Til all that’s left is glorious bone.

[vampbloodbunny2]

Remus: you really put aside everything and came all this way to save me? how did you even get here?

James: several traffic violations

Peter: three counts of resisting arrest

Sirius: roughly thirteen cans of energy drinks

James: also, that's not our car

[anonyymouslyyours]

hi there!

maybe a fluff with my favourite James Potter? i was thinking something about reader leaving a lipstick mark on James..

enjoy writing, kisses:*

james my beloved, i want to kiss him all over <3

james is technically supposed to be leaving for quidditch practise... technically. but, instead, you've distracted him. i mean, how could he not kiss you, when you exit the bathroom, ready for the day- with your lips painted a perfect red.

how could he not pull you over, begging for a kiss. of course, you oblige, because how could you resist james potter. its sweet, hes all giggly, cheeks flushed as you kiss. his hands are firmly placed on your waist, pulling you tightly against him.

"okay.. practise jamie, you have practise." you giggle, pulling back and resting your hands on his shoulders.

"i know.. but-" he says, squeezing your waist.

you giggle, leaning in and kissing his cheek, leaving a lipstick print.

"off you go." you say, neglecting to till him of the mark you left on his cheek. and patiently waiting to hear the reaction of his teammates when james arrives at practise.

[madwcman]

pairing: james potter x fem! reader

warnings: mentioned of drinks, james and peter are intoxicated (briefly mentioned!)

a/n: loosely based on this tweet! i thought it was hilarious and fit james :) also not proof read.

“are you getting married soon?” you hear your boyfriend ask as you enter the bar where he was drinking with sirius, remus and peter. you turn to the sound of your boyfriend’s voice. james has his eyebrows furrowed, looking down at a woman’s left hand who is wearing a silver ring on her middle finger.

“and do you have any suggestions for wedding venues?”

the woman slightly chokes on her drink and gives james an alarmed “what?” she’s looking at james as if he’s grown two more heads. you can’t help but laugh.

“are you getting married soon?” he yells, thinking she didn’t hear him the first time.

“no, why would i?” she seems even more confused by the question that james is asking.

“you have an engagement ring on.” he says in a bored tone, like he’s pointing out the most obvious thing. waving his hand towards the woman’s finger.

“it’s on my middle finger?”

“what-“ james shakes his head and squints his eyes. his glasses are gone.

“james?” he gasps, and turns around ignoring the woman who he was just talking to. “baby, you’re here!” you smile at your very drunk boyfriend. who opens his arms and hugs you.

“i’m sorry, he’s very drunk.” you apologize, to the woman with a small smile. “also he’s not wearing his glasses.”

“i’m going to marry her!” james smiles proudly, as he slightly stumbles over nothing.

“congratulations?” she’s still confused, and seems slightly tired talking to james about marriage. she smiles politely and makes an excuse to leave. not that james notices as he nuzzles his nose into your neck.

“james, where are your glasses?”

“with sirius!” he looks up from your neck, giving you his best smile. which is crooked, and adorable.

“and where’s sirius?”

“with remus!”

“and where is he?”

“at his apartment?” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. you’re going to kill sirius and remus.

“of course, and where’s pete?” james just smiles, pointing behind you, you turn and see your friend dancing rather awkwardly on the dance floor with no care in the world. figures, your friends are idiots.

“oh.” you continue to watch peter dance until he trips on his foot. you turn back to your boyfriend, ignoring the second hand embarrassment you’re feeling. “let’s go home, yeah?”

“what about pete?” james asks, concerned for his friend.

“he’ll be fine.” you mumble, as peter stands back up, with wobbly legs. “alright.” you turn james towards the exit.

“so, what flowers would you like for our wedding?” before you could even answer james question, he’s spitting out his suggestions. “i’m thinking tulips!”

“yeah?”

“yes, but i’m not sure which color.” he shakes his head solemnly, clearly this is the most tragic thing to happen in your boyfriend’s opinion.

“we need to pick out a color palette first.” you’re surprised james potter knows what a color palette is. you can’t help but snort out in laughter. “james you haven’t even asked me to marry you yet!”

james looks at you horrified, and yelps out a slightly high pitched “what?!” as you leave the bar laughing.

[chxrryhxrt]

James potter pure smut and he’s whimpering. Maybe we’re pegging him, maybe he’s being a munch, I don’t know I just need him really bad 😔

Birthday Boy - James Potter x Female Reader

Synopsis: It’s James’ Birthday and Sirius kindly gifts the pair of you an empty dorm for the night. It only seems right that you fulfil one of James’ fantasies.

Warnings: smut, handjob, anal (male receiving), swearing

A/N: tysm for the ask and sorry it took so long to write! this is my first time writing for James, my first time writing smut, and my first time writing pegging, so please be kind! (though constructive criticism is welcome and encouraged pls i need it) 😭

Sunbeams poured through the windows, thawing the condensation that thinly coated the panes. As the early morning light began to cast a warm hue over the Gryffindor common room, you made your way down the staircase, clad all in pyjamas.

Most students would choose to spend their Sunday curled up in front of the fire, or running around with seemingly endless energy, in the case of some particularly rowdy first years. Knowing this, you and your friends had decided to get up early to give James his birthday presents, hopeful to avoid the daytime rabble.

Socked feet met with the cozily carpeted floor as you scanned the room, eyes falling on a drowsy looking James – no longer asleep, but not awake quite yet. Settling down opposite him, you made sure to offer a grateful smile to the other three boys, knowing that he likely put up a fight, not being a morning person by any stretch.

Even as he noticed you take a seat he refused to perk up, choosing his usual melodrama instead.

“Can’t believe you’re doing this to me,” he huffed, sinking deeper into the sofa, “and on my birthday as well.”

“Don’t be daft, Prongs, it’s only six thirty – you’re up earlier on a weekday,” Remus reasoned, elbowing the sulking boy beside him. He quietened down – albeit reluctantly – as the logic of Remus’ observation sank in. That was, until Sirius decided to pipe up.

“I dunno mate, it does seem unfair that I should have to lose my beauty sleep for this muppet–“ he leant close to Peter, fingers pulling his skin taut– “do you see the wrinkles this has given me?”

Before their descent into typical marauder chaos, you interjected, swiftly moving the conversation forward.

“More importantly than your complexion, Sirius,” you began pointedly, “it’s James’ birthday and he should open his presents,”

Amazingly, at the mere mention of gifts, any remnants of fatigue disappeared, Peter being the first to hand a neatly wrapped box to James, a little bow adorning the top.

Thick hands grasped the package, only a soft rustling audible as he held it up to his ear, shaking it around. Swiftly declaring that he couldn’t possibly guess, the ribbon was untied and wrapping paper torn off, revealing a maroon knit sweater with a stag embroidered on the front. As he said his thank you’s, he slipped the jumper over his head, groaning at its softness.

“You need to feel this,” he urged, not leaving much choice as he grasped your wrist, running your palm along the sleeve, “it’s so soft,”

Hearing this, Peter beamed proudly, “It’s made from puffskein mohair,”

Everyone else took turns at handing him presents, the chairs around you filling up as Marlene and Dorcas arrived, followed by Lily. The room was brighter now, the midmorning light sending dust motes flying through the air. A steady stream of Gryffindors flowed past your small huddle, some wishing James a happy birthday, but most just focussed on making it to the Great Hall in time for breakfast. Almost instinctively, you pushed yourself up and merged into the crowd. James, trusting Sirius with his presents, hopped up too, his toned arm coming to rest loosely around your waist.

Stood patiently, you leant against his chest, awaiting the moving staircase. Taking this opportunity away from any prying eyes – or at least anyone who would care, as you had lost both Marlene and Lily in the masses – you decided to let James in on a secret.

“I’m so glad you liked your tickets to the Quidditch World Cup,” you confessed, running a hand down his chest, “they were a total pain to get a hold of,”

Looking down at you, eyes wide and gentle, he replied, “I loved them - seriously, best present ever, I can’t wait.” He tenderly stroked your hair. “Besides, I’d love anything you got me, even if it was like, a single shoe.”

Lips sealed tight to hold in a laugh, you got on tippy toes, mouth at his ear.

“That’s good, because Sirius agreed to let us use the dorm tonight. Maybe we could try out that thing you suggested?”

Heat flooded James’ face as he pulled you in tight to his side, his gaze elsewhere as he offered a short, yet very enthusiastic, nod. 

Hours were spent chasing James around on his new broomstick – courtesy of his parents – as he got used to it, readying himself for the match against Ravenclaw later in the month. Sirius joined the pair of you in practicing, whilst Remus and Peter (who were much less athletically inclined) grabbed snacks for everyone to share before heading to The Three Broomsticks.

It was late evening now, as you arrived back at the castle with James in tow. A thin sheen of moonlight illuminated your path up the staircase, stone steps twisting their way to the boys’ dorms.

Arm working to haul your boyfriend in behind you, the bedroom door swung heavily shut. Despite promises to give you some alone time, you knew better than to trust any Marauder, so, to be safe, you swiftly cast a locking charm.

Satisfied, your gaze fell upon James’ shirtless figure, bent over and wrestling to remove his jeans.

“Woah, Buckaroo,” you laughed airily, tentatively moving toward him, “let’s go slow, yeah? Tonight’s all about you.”

Brown curls bounced with his nodding, catching the warm light and reflecting it with a glisten akin to that in his eyes as he faced you. One hand threading into his hair, you dragged him down to you, your lips meeting in a slow kiss.

Testing the waters, you tugged lightly, a stifled groan leaving his mouth, and a trail of goosebumps rising as you trailed your fingers down his bicep.

“Please,” he whispered, face inches away from yours, “been thinkin’ about this all day,”

This somewhat desperate admission makes you reconsider any teasing. It was his birthday after all, it only seemed fair that he gets what he wants so badly.

You soften. Lowering yourself to the floor, you undo his belt, ridding him of his remaining clothes, and begin to work his cock with your hand. Though, he needed little help, already well past half-mast.

“Jamie, you’re so hard for me.” You tease, licking his tip fleetingly. “You could’ve told me you were feeling needy, I would’ve helped you out.”

Your mouth takes his full length then, and James’ fingers fly to your hair, in a desperate attempt to ground himself. Evidently unsuccessful though, as the moans spilling from him seemingly replaced any need to breathe.

“More,” he panted through ragged breaths, “please,”

Spurred on, you gripped his calves, taking him all the way down your throat. Some tears welled in your lash line, but you blinked them away, too focused on pleasing your boyfriend. Swallowing around his cock and working your tongue around the head, it quickly became clear that he was close, so you pulled off, rising from your knees. 

“Get on the bed, I’m gonna grab some things.” You directed, feet padding over to the chest in the corner. Having removed your clothing, you rummaged around, grabbing a bottle of lube and a strap-on.

When you returned to James, you found him on all fours, waiting more patiently than you had expected. The bed dipped as you clambered behind the boy, who began to whine and wiggle his hips around at your arrival.

You ran your palm down the plane of his back, soothing him with intermittent shushes.

“I’m just going to start with one finger,” you warned, careful to take your time, “is that okay?”

“Yes - need it so bad,” he whined, a deep sigh of relief leaving him as your middle finger eased into him, gradually beginning to move it.

Noticing his weak attempts at taking you deeper, you reached for the lube. The boy in front of you shivered, taking a sharp inhale as the cold liquid made contact with his skin and you pushed a second digit in. You continued to crook your fingers, working back and forth in preparation for what was coming next.

Minutes later, once you deemed him loose enough, you retracted your hand, receiving a rather bitter look from James.

“Hush, I’m gonna fill you with something even better – “ you lined up with his entrance, tapping against his hole – “you just gotta be patient for me.”

Attention fully on his arse now, you tried to sink in, met only with tight resistance. This was normal, you had heard (mostly from Remus and Sirius, as they were your main source of information on the topic – though you wouldn’t tell James this), but forcing would simply not help. So, you offered a little distraction, your body folding over James’ as you reached for his rouged cock, stroking it and paying extra care to run your thumb over the tip.

Muscles slackening, his whole body becoming less tense, you managed to push in to the hilt, your pelvis pressed against him as you gave him time to get used to the feeling of his arse being filled completely.

“You can move,” he assured between gasps for air, “please- please move,”

Grasping one of his hips, you bottomed out, keeping a steady pace as you thrusted into him.

Meanwhile, your other hand continued to jerk him off, a particularly guttural whine being made as you massaged his balls.

A few short minutes later, and James was already a mess, fisting the sheets beneath him and pushing back to meet your thrusts. You could tell he was close from the way he struggled to hold himself up, so you began to speed up your movements, eager to make him come.

“I’m- fuck- I’m gonna-“ he tried, voice shaky.

“I know, come for me, pretty boy,” you encouraged, pressing kisses into his spine and whispering quiet praises to him.

As soon as he reached his peak, hot spurts of fluid leaking down onto the duvet, you urged him onto his back. With a small cloth you had grabbed earlier, you began to wipe him clean, careful not to overstimulate him. At the sight of this, however, your boyfriend’s brows knitted together with confusion.

“What about you? You didn’t get to come-” he started, interrupted as your lips pressed to his in a sloppy, passionate kiss.

“Tonight was just for you, Birthday Boy,” you reassured, “besides – we don’t have long ‘til Sirius tries to bang down the door,”

i hope you enjoyed and have an amazing day wherever you are 🩷🩷

dividers by @enchanthings-a

[luvindrr]

Remus gets sprayed with weaponized sunscreen

poly!moonchaser x gn!reader (but mostly remus) | fluff | 388 words c/w: remus is 24, comparison of aerosol bottle to gun

Summers with James are easy, lazy. He brings you to the golfing grounds, content to let you lounge on a lawn chair, reading, as long as you occasionally yell flattery to keep up his ego. It’s great.

It’s exactly what you’re doing when a large hand pushes up your sunglasses so they sweep back your bangs. Lips brush against the newly exposed skin- slightly chapped and sun-warmed.

You smile, looking up. “Hi, Rem.”

“Hi, dovey. Still working through that manuscript?”

“Yeah, but there’s something I want to ask you.” You flit through the sheets quickly, landing on a sentence you’ve underlined in red. “I don’t think you’ve worded this right; it doesn’t make sense.”

Remus furrows his brows, accentuating the freckles that have already started to appear. He likes them because they take attention away from his scars. But they’re beautiful on their own- clusters of downy dandelions in valleys of soft grass. They make him look boyish in the way he really is.

It does mean, however, that he hasn’t been wearing sunscreen regularly; he wasn’t this speckled last week. You bring a hand under his chin, tilting his face upwards, beaming at him your sweetest smile. He looks confused- wide-eyed, doe-like- and you almost feel bad for what you’re about to do. “Close your eyes, love.”

You spray him like a fly.

“AH- bloody hell is that?” He sputters, recoiling away from you.

“It’s sunscreen; now come back- I’m not done.”

“You’re mad if you think I’m going anywhere near you!”

You shake the bottle menacingly, pointing it towards him like a gun. “You’re just as bad as Sirius; come here!”

He does, reluctantly, but his pout only makes him cuter. You reach back into your bag, and he eyes the spray, offended, when you replace it with a sunscreen stick.

“Don’t start, Lupin; I knew you’d run.”

He grimaces when you run the balm along his cheeks, but stays still nonetheless. You’re massaging it into his skin when James joins you on the patio, club swung over his shoulder.

“Moony, you look absolutely miserable.”

“He may be miserable but he’s not getting skin cancer.”

“Too bad you couldn’t save him from premature wrinkling.”

Remus scoffs. “I’m not wrinkling; I’m 24.”

“Twenty-four and wrinkly, my love.” James kisses his lips to appease him. “And graying, too.”

masterlist

[heaven4lostgirls]

Hi!! Could you write poly!moonchaser with adhd!reader where she is rambling about something and the boys are loving listening to her and watching her get excited? And maybe she pauses and thinks she’s talking too much and the boys reassure her they love it? Idk if that’s too specific lol. Thanks!!!

pairing: poly!moonchaser x adhd!reader

summary: request above!

word count: 1.1K

content warnings: angst (its more fluffy but the angst is there), obvious mentions of adhd, neurodivergence and feeling excluded

author's note: thank you for requesting! i had so much fun writing this, i hope you like it! peep the background regulus x evan x barty. i also dont have personal experience with adhd but i tried to keep this as informed as possible, this is what i know from my psychology classes, if something is incorrect or offensive please let me know x

You open the door to the boys room to their fond expressions before you start talking, barely pausing for a breath as you state, “Pandora told me that Evan told her that he didn’t actually like Barty in the beginning because he thought they were just friends- which, what?- so Evan didn’t respond to Barty’s owl so when they got back last semester, Barty started ignoring Evan so Pandora and Regulus came up with a plan to lock them in their dorm room-”

The boys watch you in varying stages of affection but the more you talk, the more your jaw starts to ache and the more you grow aware of how heavy your bag feels on your shoulder and the fact that you’re tired of standing.

You’d come straight from class to tell the boys about your day, wanting to share the news with them as soon as you could.

You’re aware of the fact that you tend to get a bit carried away, talking quite fast that it’s actually more so a rant while your brain feels like its playing catch up with your mouth.

Remus looks slightly concerned whereas James looks completely enamoured. James dopily smiling as you rush through your speech without pause as Remus’ gaze is locked on your heaving chest and your hand clenching your bag, so it doesn’t slip off of your shoulder.

“Breathe Dovie,” Remus says softly but you hear it, nonetheless, automatically attuned to his voice that it shocks you out of your rant, pausing unceremoniously as your face starts to heat in embarrassment.

You hesitate, noticing the notes scattered in front of Remus at his desk and how James is halfway dressed in his Quidditch Uniform.

A frown finds its way to your face, “I’m rambling.” You murmur with a slight wince; Remus offers you a comforting smile as James nods with a grin.

“You were saying?” James prompts as he situates himself on his bed, tugging on his socks as Remus tidies up his desk with an interested hum, keeping his body slightly turned towards you to convey his attention.

You bite your lip guiltily, “It was nothing, just something Pandora and I talked about today.” You say softly, wringing your hands together anxiously as you shuffle self-consciously on your feet.

Remus tsks from the right of you as James coos from your left, “Don’t do that.” James gently admonishes when you look up to meet his gaze.

You shrug in a helpless gesture before Remus starts to speak, “We were listening to you love” Remus tries to gently coax you back out of your shell.

You feel the excitement in your body start to fester into something more akin to anxiety, “I was kind of rambling,” you admit with a shy look.

“Sure,” James says easily and your heart twinges, “But there’s nothing wrong with that, we like hearing you talk about things you’re interested in” James states, comforting you so simply with a couple of words that you feel your previous excitement returning.

“Do you get upset at Jamie when he rambles about Quidditch when you know you don’t understand?” Remus says with a raised brow; you shrink into yourself meekly as you shake your head negatively.

Remus nods in approval, “Exactly, because you like seeing him happy because it makes you happy.” He says and a small smile starts to bloom on to your face.

“Do you get annoyed at Remus when he rambles about his novels when you know they’re not your favourite genre?” James prompts this time and with more confidence, you also shake your head no.

James smiles approvingly and you get the gist of the mini intervention.

You know they don’t mean to make you feel like you’re annoying them when you speak, that for the most part you’ve put pressure on yourself to mask most of the symptoms of your ADHD, but it hurts all the same after years of knowing that your brain functioned differently from other people.

“Alright?” James asks, watching you with a soft and fond expression on his face as you nod with a big smile.

“Good.” You affirm and the three of you share a smile before Remus clears his throat.

“You wanna continue your story angel?” he asks kindly, offering you an out if you wanted to take it.

You smile before nodding, watching James hesitantly, “Won’t you be late for practice?” you ask guiltily, worried about taking James away from his captain duties.

He shrugs nonchalantly, “I already told Sirius I’d be a bit late because I knew your class ended around the same time and I wanted to catch up with you.” He says.

Your heart flutters, you move from your position by the entrance of the dorm to take a seat next to James on his bed as the two of you face Remus.

You pat the spot next to you in offering before he shakes his head, “If I join you both, James won’t leave for practice and I won’t finish this essay” he says seriously and in tandem, you and James are pouting in sync.

Remus shakes his head with a tut, “Those won’t fool me, I know how you two get.” He admonishes you both fondly, exasperation tinging his tone.

Your frowns remain as Remus sighs dramatically, remaining unmoving from his chair as he gestures with his hands for you to continue talking.

“Well,” you start again, excitement returning as you begin to recall the details, “So Reg and Dora locked them both in the dorm because they thought if they stayed in their long enough that they’d give in and talk to each other. So, after like 3 hours, they come back to the dorm and Barty and Evan are like,” you pause to whisper as if it’s a dirty secret, “Naked in Barty’s bed together.” You laugh softly after saying that.

James and Remus’ eyes widen, “Crouch and Rosier?” Remus asks curiously, contemplating softly with a frown and you nod excitedly before James hums confusedly to your side.

You look at him in question, “I dunno, I saw Reg and Barty making out in the showers after the Slytherin vs Gryffindor match last semester” James says with a confused puppy expression as you and Remus gape at him.

“What?” he asks defensively before you squawk indignantly, hitting his chest. “And you didn’t tell us?” you screech, pushing at him playfully as he tries to protect himself with his hands.

“I didn’t know I was supposed to tell you!” he shrieks as you hit a bit too close to his upper thigh, “I just thought they were like…celebrating.” He finishes lamely as you and Remus snort at his excuse.

[ginevrapng]

the first time james saw you he lost interest in any other girl, you just looked so soft, so adorable. he wanted to keep you all to himself, away from prying eyes. before you he would tell people he doesn't have a type because before you he didn't, now though, well it's a different story, he just wants to wrap his arms around your plush waist and never let you go. he would gladly die between your thick thighs, buried between them.

one day you came into class and he figures that you must have run out of clothes to wear so you had to wear some of your old ones and that may have been one of the happiest days in his life. your shirt too tight and your skirt too short. he could see how the fabric and buttons of the shirt was struggling to stay covering your chest and your skirt short enough that james could see light stretch marks covering your skin, but also long enough to not cause a scene. no one else took notice of your attire that day, but james did. he couldn't help it, and he swears he tried to look away but he just couldn't, you're just so beautiful. he felt like a creep but he couldn't pay attention to anything else, he wanted to delicately trace your stretch marks with his fingertips. he wanted to do things that he'd never say out loud.

james wants to pull you down into his lap while he see's you making your way to your own table in the great hall. he wants to feel your body pressed against his and smell your sweet perfume. he knows you'd complain about being too heavy, he's overheard you mention it before, about how you think you're too heavy to get picked up or be on top of someone. james wants to impress you, to show you that he can, because of course he can pick you up and of course you're not too heavy for him, you're perfect the way you are and he's strong enough to lift anything and everything. he'd carry you with one hand all the way up a mountain if it would impress you and get you to notice him.

he wants to pinch your chubby cheeks and wants to kiss your forehead. he wants you.

his friends obviously notice this new attraction james has towards this girl but chosen not to mention, that is until he started to constantly bring you up and gushes to them about how perfect and cute you are. this getting very mixed reviews from his friends, lily having pity for you, aware of how he gets when he likes someone, sirius constantly teasing him about you, mary saying how nice you sounded, remus seemed mostly indifferent to the whole thing, marlene telling him to make a move. if james was honest he didn't take much notice of the teasing or the annoyance that they had because he kept bringing you up, he just needed to tell everyone about how amazing you are.

james knows how to pine after a girl and god does he do exactly that and he makes that very known to you. at first you were wary and skeptical of this sudden attention the famous gryffindor quidditch captain bestowed on you, he was one of the most popular students in hogwarts but after a while james broke down your walls with his charming smile and his acts of kindness, walking you to classes and pulling pranks on anyone who says nasty comments about you weight.

soon enough you end up in wrapped in red and gold on your way to support him in a match, his scarf keeping you warm from the harsh weather. after his win you end up running into his arms, congratulating him as he spins you around, you complain that he's sweaty, causing him to chuckle.

cupping your cheek, he lowers his voice and whispers to you, "you're my good luck charm, 'course i won." your face heats up and you shyly smile up at him. "what would i do without my good luck charm. you wanna be m' good luck charm always doll? wanna be mine?" he tucks some of your hair behind your ear, leaning in even closer, " 'cause i'm already yours. no one else for me doll." soon enough you accept to be his girlfriend, on the condition that he takes a shower straight away.

[consciouscarrot]

day 24 - frowning [j.potter]

james potter x fem!reader

content warnings; nothing i think !! just fluffy

notes; short and lovey dovey

kinktober/flufftober masterlist

—————

you were sat by the black lake with your friends, leaning back on your hands as you fretted about your rather long to do list for the day. james was sat next to you, watching you silently, just enjoying being near you, when he noticed you tensing up, expression going stern as your hands gripped at the grass beneath your fingertips.

you nearly jumped when james smoothed out the crease between your eyebrows with his thumb, gently stroking away the tension that resided there. you turned to face him, meeting his concerned expression with a lazy smile.

“please be less frowny, or you’re going to get premature wrinkles,”

“are you saying you won’t love me when i’m old and grey?” you pulled down under your eye, scrunching your face to make it look all wrinkled up.

“of course not, i’ll love you always, just worry about you,” he looked mildly crushed at the notion, making you melt at his lovely words as he pulled you by the hips to be closer, thighs pushed together.

you leant into him, pressing yourself into him as much as you could manage without attracting the attention of any suggestive comments from sirius. james welcomed the added weight without question, shifting to accommodate you as he wrapped his arms around you, cheek squished against your forehead.

fiddling with a button on his shirt, picking at the loosened threads with your nail as you nuzzled against him. he was so warm, always radiating heat, even in the depths of winter. and he smelt so good, the kind of smell that made your heart flutter and eyes droop whenever you smelt it, associating his scent with comfort and safety.

tilting your head back, you shoved your face further into his, giving him sweet butterfly kisses, causing him to laugh softly at the ticklish contact, turning to give you an actual kiss, one to your lips and then one to the tip of your nose.

“oi, stop being so disgusting,” sirius whined, tossing his head back dramatically, making you roll your eyes fondly, burying your burning face into james chest.

[starriesworlds]

starriesworlds's JAMES POTTER fic recs

you’re losing me

⤷ by @astonishment

you and james potter have a friendship like no other, with the most unbreakable bond… or so everyone thought. when you get hanahaki, you start pulling away from james and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to do anything right. with your friendship being put to the ultimate test, will you find your way back to each other? or will james lose you for good? (also a remus lupin x reader fic)

if i kiss you, i’m sorry

⤷ by @astonishment (the way this whole post could easily be all mal's writing)

a miscommunication at a party leads to james asking y/n to be his girlfriend and the two quickly find themselves going from strangers to lovers. the problem is, it’s all fake… until it isn’t.

saudade

⤷ by @embrassemoi

James Potter realized he spent years chasing after the wrong girl. But is it too late to finally tell you how he feels?

what’s happening to me?

⤷ by @harrytpotter

James Potter was starting to feel more and more overprotective towards his friend Y/N and considerably annoyed at the blatant flirting she and one of his best friends were displaying publicly and at the thought she might be falling for Sirius. What was happening to him?

and i love her

⤷ by @dilf-lover99

The 3 times James tries to get the girl and the 1 time he finally does. Or In which James Potter is hopelessly in love with his best friend.

shattered

⤷ by @willowbleedsonpaper

fake dating james seemed easier in theory. you assumed feeling would never have to get involved. until everything flipped…

the one that got away

⤷ by @llavenderhazze

having a soulmate isn’t always easy, especially when the only thing on his mind is your best friend.

no longer yours

⤷ by @singmyaubade

James had disregarded you for multiple years, but when you have an epiphany in your final year, how does it feel to taste his own medicine?

hope you enjoy these wonderful fic recs! these authors are freaking amazing and deserve all the love for their writing.

- starriesworlds

[imthebadguyyy]

loml

pairing : james potter x reader

fandom : marauders

series : the tortured poets department

synopsis : james is the love and loss of your life.

a/n : hope you enjoy!!

who's gonna stop us from waltzing back into rekindled flames?...

seventh year

The Great Hall was buzzing with the usual lunchtime chatter. Students from all four houses mingled, their laughter and conversation filling the vast space. Plates clattered, and goblets clinked, but you barely noticed. Your eyes were fixed on a spot in the middle of the table, your thoughts miles away.

You could still remember the first time James had pulled you out into the rain.

fifth year

It had been a warm spring evening, the sky darkening with ominous clouds. You were supposed to be studying for a Potions exam, but James had other plans. With that mischievous glint in his hazel eyes, he had taken your hand and led you outside.

"What are we doing, James?" you had asked, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

"Dancing," he had replied simply, and with a dramatic bow, he had pulled you into a waltz right there on the soggy grass. The rain had poured down, drenching you both, but you hadn’t cared. You had twirled and laughed, your wet hair plastered to your face, his glasses fogging up. It had been pure, unfiltered joy.

“Y/N? Hey, Y/N!” Marlene’s voice snapped you out of your reverie. You blinked and looked around, suddenly aware of your surroundings again. The Great Hall, the noise, the chatter – it all came rushing back.

“Huh? What?” you said, shaking your head slightly as if to clear it.

“You were miles away,” Marlene said, her brow furrowed in concern. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, just…thinking,” you replied, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Marlene studied you for a moment, then glanced over her shoulder. “Thinking about James?” she asked quietly.

You didn’t respond, but your silence spoke volumes. Marlene sighed and scooted closer to you, lowering her voice. “Y/N, you know it’s okay to still have feelings for him, right?”

“I don’t…” you started, but Marlene cut you off with a knowing look.

“Don’t lie to me. I’ve seen the way you look at him. And I saw how he looked at you when he walked in just now.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you couldn’t help but glance over to where the Marauders were sitting. James was laughing at something Sirius had said, his head thrown back in pure amusement. For a moment, your heart ached with the memory of his laughter mingling with the sound of rain.

“Whose gonna stop us from waltzing back into rekindled flames?” Marlene said softly, echoing the words you had once whispered to her in confidence.

You swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in your throat. “It’s not that simple, Marlene. Things are different now.”

“Different how? You’re both still the same people. And I’ve seen the way he looks at you – like he’s lost without you.”

You shook your head. “We’ve both moved on. He’s with Lily now.”

“Are you sure about that?” Marlene asked gently. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like he’s just as lost as you are.”

You looked at James again, your heart aching. Could it be true? Could there still be a chance for the two of you? The memory of dancing in the rain was still vivid, a symbol of the love you had once shared. Maybe Marlene was right. Maybe it wasn’t too late to find your way back to each other.

Marlene squeezed your hand, giving you a small, encouraging smile. “Talk to him, Y/N. You owe it to yourself to find out.”

You nodded slowly, determination building within you. It was time to stop daydreaming and start living. Maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance to dance with James in the rain once more.

if you know it in one glance, it's legendary...

first year

James Potter stood on Platform 9 ¾, his eyes scanning the bustling crowd of students and parents. It was his first year at Hogwarts, and excitement coursed through his veins. He had already met Sirius Black, a boy with an equally mischievous glint in his eye, and they had quickly become fast friends. But as he looked around, his attention was suddenly captured by a girl standing a few feet away, saying goodbye to her parents.

She had an air of quiet confidence, her hair catching the sunlight in a way that made it seem to glow. She laughed at something her mother said, the sound clear and bright amidst the chaos of the platform. James couldn’t look away.

“If you know it in one glance, it’s legendary,” his father had once told him, speaking of love and destiny. James had scoffed at the time, but now he wondered if his father had been right. He didn’t even know her name, but he felt a pull towards her, something deep and inexplicable.

He was still staring when Sirius elbowed him in the ribs. “Oi, James, what’s got you so spellbound?”

James blinked, tearing his gaze away from the girl. “Nothing, just…looking around.”

Sirius followed his line of sight and smirked. “Ah, I see. Got your eye on someone already, eh?”

James felt his cheeks heat up. “Shut up, Sirius.”

The whistle of the train interrupted their banter, and students began boarding. James watched as the girl hugged her parents one last time before picking up her trunk and heading towards the train. On an impulse, he moved closer, wanting to catch her name.

“Do you need help with that?” he asked, stepping up and offering a hand.

She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, and for a moment, James felt the world narrow down to just the two of them. “Thanks,” she said with a smile that made his heart race. “I’m Y/N.”

“James,” he replied, struggling to keep his voice steady. “James Potter.”

“Nice to meet you, James Potter,” she said, her smile widening. And just like that, she was gone, disappearing into the crowd of students boarding the train.

James stood there for a moment, staring after her, before Sirius dragged him onto the train.

Years later, James sat in the Gryffindor common room, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. Lily Evans sat beside him, her head resting on his shoulder as they talked quietly. He loved Lily – he knew that. She was brilliant, brave, and kind, everything he admired in a person. But sometimes, he found his thoughts drifting back to that moment on the platform, to the girl with the glowing hair and the infectious laugh.

“If you know it in one glance, it’s legendary,” his father’s words echoed in his mind, and he felt a pang of doubt.

“What’s on your mind, James?” Lily asked, sensing his distraction.

He looked at her, guilt washing over him. “Just thinking about old times,” he said, forcing a smile.

Lily reached up to touch his face gently. “You’re always thinking, aren’t you?”

James chuckled softly. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”

As Lily continued to talk, James tried to push the memories away. He had chosen Lily, and he loved her. But deep down, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a part of him that would always be tied to that moment on the platform, to Y/N, and the way she had made him feel with just one glance.

in your suit and tie, in the nick of time...

Fifth Year

The Great Hall was buzzing with the usual Friday evening chatter, but tonight, there was a different kind of excitement in the air. James Potter, notorious for his messy hair and casual demeanor, stood nervously by the Gryffindor common room entrance, dressed in a sharp suit and tie. His friends, Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, were nearby, watching with amusement as James fidgeted with his cuffs.

"You look great, Prongs," Remus said with a reassuring smile. "Relax, she's going to love it."

James adjusted his tie one more time and took a deep breath. "Thanks, Moony. I just want everything to be perfect."

Sirius grinned, nudging James playfully. "Don't worry, mate. Just remember to breathe and don't trip over your own feet."

James shot him a look but couldn't suppress a smile. "Thanks, Padfoot."

Just then, the common room door swung open, and you stepped out. James's breath hitched as he saw you in a beautiful dress, your eyes lighting up when you saw him.

"Hi, James," you said softly, blushing.

"Hi," he replied, equally bashful. "You look... amazing."

"So do you," you responded, your eyes sparkling with excitement.

James offered you his arm, and together you walked out of the castle, heading to a secret spot he had found—a cozy clearing in the Forbidden Forest, magically lit with floating lanterns and enchanted music. It was the perfect place for a dance.

As you both swayed to the music, James couldn't take his eyes off you. You giggled when he spun you around, and your laughter was infectious. You were both so wrapped up in the moment that you didn't notice Remus sneaking up with a Polaroid camera.

"Smile!" Remus called out, snapping a picture just as you and James looked over, caught mid-laugh, your faces glowing with happiness.

Sirius's voice rang out from behind, "Look at the lovebirds! Don’t get too carried away, Prongs."

James rolled his eyes but couldn't wipe the grin off his face. "Shut it, Padfoot."

You and James shared a knowing look, the teasing only adding to the magic of the evening.

Seventh Year

James Potter sat on his bed in the seventh-year boys' dormitory, the chaos of the day swirling around him. His eyes were fixed on a worn Polaroid photo he held gently in his hands. It was the picture Remus had taken that night two years ago, the night of your first dance.

In the photo, you and James were laughing, so clearly in love that it was almost tangible. James traced your smiling face with his thumb, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"Still staring at that old thing?" Sirius's voice broke through his reverie.

James looked up to see Sirius leaning against the doorframe, a knowing smirk on his face. "Yeah," James admitted, "I can't help it. That was one of the best nights of my life."

Sirius walked over and sat next to him, peering at the photo. "You two were adorable."

James nodded, his thoughts momentarily lost in the memory.

Sirius glanced at him, a more serious look in his eyes. "James, are you sure you didn't make a mistake?"

James looked up sharply, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you and her were great together," Sirius said softly. "You loved her."

James sighed, his eyes drifting back to the photo. "I know, Sirius. But things changed. We grew apart. And now... now I'm with Lily."

Sirius leaned back, considering his friend's words. "Do you love Lily?"

James hesitated, his gaze fixed on the Polaroid. "Yeah, I do. It's just... it's different."

"Different how?" Sirius pressed gently.

James struggled to find the right words. "With her, it was easy. Natural. With Lily, it's... more complicated. But that doesn't mean it's not real."

Sirius nodded slowly. "Alright, then. As long as you're sure."

James slipped the photo into his pocket, standing up. "I am. I think."

Sirius clapped James on the shoulder. "Just make sure to keep making new memories, mate. Don't get stuck in the past."

James nodded, feeling a mix of nostalgia and uncertainty. He knew his past with you would always be a part of him, but he was determined to give his relationship with Lily his all. As he headed out to find Lily, he couldn't shake the lingering doubt, but he resolved to move forward, hoping to create even more unforgettable moments.

you said I'm the love of your life...

sixth year

The stars twinkled brightly above as you and James lay on a blanket in the Astronomy Tower, the cool night air filled with the scent of blooming flowers from the grounds below. It was a perfect night, far away from the chaos of school and the looming threat of exams. You had a small box of chocolate-covered strawberries between you, a treat James had managed to sneak past the house-elves.

James looked over at you, his eyes reflecting the starlight. "This is perfect," he murmured, a soft smile playing on his lips.

You picked up a strawberry, the chocolate glistening in the moonlight, and gently held it to his lips. He took a bite, closing his eyes in delight. "Delicious," he said, his voice filled with contentment.

You giggled, feeding him another piece. "I'm glad you like it."

As you continued to feed him the sweet treats, James reached out and took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. "You know," he began softly, "I've been thinking a lot lately."

You raised an eyebrow, curious. "Oh? About what?"

James's gaze was intense, filled with a mixture of nervousness and determination. "About you. About us."

Your heart skipped a beat. "What about us?"

He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. "You mean everything to me. More than Quidditch, more than anything else at Hogwarts. I... I love you."

Your breath caught in your throat as you stared at him, his words hanging in the air like a sweet melody. "James..."

He squeezed your hand, his voice steady and sincere. "You’re the love of my life. I can’t imagine a future without you in it."

Tears welled up in your eyes, but they were tears of happiness. "I love you too, James. So much."

He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you as you both lay there, the stars above and the world below seeming to fade away. In that moment, nothing else mattered but the two of you and the love you shared.

As you fed him another strawberry, your heart swelled with joy and contentment. James Potter, with his messy hair and mischievous grin, had captured your heart completely, and you knew without a doubt that you were his, just as much as he was yours.

seventh year

The halls of Hogwarts were quieter than usual as you made your way to the Gryffindor common room. It had been a long day, and you were looking forward to relaxing by the fire. As you approached the entrance, you noticed the door slightly ajar and heard voices inside.

Curiosity piqued, you peeked through the crack and saw James and Lily standing by the fireplace. Your heart clenched. You and James had broken up a few months ago, and though you were trying to move on, it was still hard seeing him.

James's voice was soft, almost tender. "Lily, there's something I need to tell you."

Lily looked up at him, her green eyes curious and a bit nervous. "What is it, James?"

He took a deep breath, his usual confidence replaced by a vulnerability you rarely saw. "I've liked you for a long time, but it's more than that now. I love you, Lily. I think I always have."

Your breath caught in your throat, and you took an involuntary step back. The pain was sharp and immediate, like a dagger to the heart. You knew things had changed between you and James, but hearing him say those words to someone else was harder than you had imagined.

Lily looked stunned, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. "James, I... I don't know what to say."

He reached out, gently taking her hand in his. "You don't have to say anything right now. I just needed you to know."

Unable to bear any more, you turned and walked away, your footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of his words pressing down on you.

Reaching an empty classroom, you slipped inside and leaned against the wall, struggling to hold back tears. The memories of your time with James flooded your mind—your first dance, the laughter, the love you once shared.

It was over now. He had moved on, and you knew you had to do the same. But in that moment, the pain was raw and real, and you allowed yourself to feel it, if only for a little while.

mr steal your girl, and make her cry..

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with excitement. James and Lily had called everyone together for an announcement, and the atmosphere was charged with anticipation. You stood near the back, feeling a mixture of curiosity and unease. You had your suspicions about what the announcement might be, but you tried to push those thoughts aside.

James and Lily stood by the fireplace, hands intertwined, both beaming with happiness. James cleared his throat, and the room fell silent.

"We have some exciting news to share," James began, his eyes shining as he looked at Lily. "Lily and I are getting engaged!"

The room erupted into cheers and applause. You forced a smile, clapping along with everyone else. You made your way through the crowd to offer your congratulations.

"Congratulations, James. Lily. I'm really happy for you both," you said, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest.

James smiled warmly at you. "Thanks. It means a lot."

Lily hugged you, her happiness radiating from her. "Thank you. We're so excited."

You nodded, the smile still fixed on your face. "You both deserve all the happiness in the world."

After a few more words, you excused yourself, claiming you needed some fresh air. You slipped out of the common room and wandered the halls, your heart growing heavier with each step. You found yourself outside an empty classroom and ducked inside, your composure finally breaking.

A few moments later, the door creaked open, and Remus and Sirius walked in. They had seen you leave and had followed, concern etched on their faces.

"Hey," Remus said gently, his voice full of empathy. "Are you okay?"

The tears you had been holding back began to flow, and you shook your head. "No, I'm not."

Sirius moved closer, his usual playful demeanor replaced with genuine concern. "Come here," he said softly, pulling you into a hug.

You collapsed into their arms, sobbing uncontrollably. The weight of everything—your broken relationship with James, seeing him so happy with Lily, and the future you had once imagined now completely out of reach—came crashing down on you.

Remus held you tightly, his voice soothing. "It's okay to feel this way. Let it out."

Sirius rested his chin on your head, whispering softly, "I'm sorry, love. Sometimes it feels like life's just Mr. Steal-Your-Girl-And-Make-Her-Cry."

Despite the tears, you let out a small, bitter laugh at Sirius's words. They stayed with you, offering comfort and support as you slowly began to gather yourself.

"It's going to be okay," Remus said, his voice steady. "We're here for you. Always."

You nodded, grateful for their friendship and support. Though the pain was still there, you knew you weren't alone. With Remus and Sirius by your side, you felt a glimmer of hope that you would find the strength to move forward.

you shit talked me under the table, talking rings and talking cradles..

Sixth Year

The Great Hall was transformed for the Halloween feast, filled with floating pumpkins, flickering candles, and enchanted bats swooping around the ceiling. The atmosphere was lively, with students chatting and laughing as they enjoyed the festivities. You and James sat side by side at the Gryffindor table, the warmth of his presence making the evening even more special.

Under the table, your hands were intertwined, a secret connection amidst the public celebration. James squeezed your hand gently, drawing your attention away from the decorations and back to him. He had that familiar mischievous twinkle in his eyes, but there was something deeper, more serious, behind it tonight.

As you reached for a goblet of pumpkin juice, James deftly took your other hand and slipped the ring from your middle finger. Your heart skipped a beat as he held your gaze, his touch sending shivers down your spine. He carefully placed the ring on your ring finger, his movements slow and deliberate.

"James?" you whispered, a mixture of curiosity and excitement in your voice.

He lifted your hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly, his eyes never leaving yours. "I can't wait to marry you and have a family with you," he said softly, his voice filled with sincerity and love.

Your breath caught in your throat, tears of joy welling up in your eyes. "James, I..."

He smiled, his expression tender. "I know we're still young, but I can't imagine my life without you. You're everything to me."

You felt a rush of emotions—love, happiness, and a deep sense of connection with the boy sitting next to you. "I love you, James. More than anything."

He leaned in, brushing a soft kiss against your lips, the world around you fading away as you shared that intimate moment. The noise of the feast, the laughter of your friends, and the decorations all seemed distant compared to the warmth and love you felt for each other.

As the evening continued, you couldn't help but glance at the ring now adorning your ring finger. It was a simple gesture, but it symbolized a promise—a future filled with love, commitment, and the dreams you and James shared. Holding hands under the table, you both knew that this was just the beginning of a beautiful journey together.

years later...

The cozy cottage in Godric's Hollow was filled with the soft coos and occasional cries of a newborn. You stood at the doorstep, a mix of anticipation and nerves swirling inside you. You hadn't seen James and Lily since they announced the birth of their son, Harry, and now you were here to meet the newest member of their family.

James opened the door, a tired but proud smile on his face. "Hey," he greeted, stepping aside to let you in. "Come on in."

You smiled warmly, stepping into the house. The living room was filled with baby items—blankets, toys, and a crib in the corner. Lily sat on the couch, cradling baby Harry in her arms. She looked up and smiled when she saw you.

"Hi," you said softly, approaching them. "Congratulations. He's beautiful."

"Thank you," Lily replied, her eyes shining with joy. "Would you like to hold him?"

You nodded, your heart pounding as you carefully took Harry into your arms. He was so small, his tiny fingers grasping at the air. You felt a rush of emotions—happiness for your friends, but also a twinge of bittersweet nostalgia for the dreams you once had with James.

James watched you with a mixture of pride and something else—guilt. He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the floor.

"He's perfect," you said softly, your voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside you.

James cleared his throat, finally meeting your eyes. "I'm really glad you came. It means a lot."

You smiled, your voice gentle. "Of course, James. I wish you all the happiness in the world."

Lily looked between the two of you, sensing the unspoken history. She smiled warmly, trying to bridge the gap. "We have something we'd like to ask you."

You looked up, curiosity piqued. "What is it?"

Lily took a deep breath, her eyes sincere. "We would be honored if you would be Harry's godmother."

The weight of her words hit you, and you felt tears welling up. "Lily, I... I'd be honored. Thank you."

At that moment, Sirius appeared in the doorway, having just arrived. He took one look at the scene and immediately understood. His eyes narrowed at James, anger flickering in his gaze. He walked over and stood by your side, his presence comforting. He gently took your hand, offering silent support.

James shifted uncomfortably, his guilt evident. "We really do want you to be part of his life. It means so much to us."

Sirius's grip on your hand tightened slightly, his voice cold as he addressed James. "You don't get to just ask her to be godmother and think it makes everything okay, James."

You squeezed Sirius's hand, a silent plea for understanding. "It's alright, Sirius. I love Lily, James, and Harry. I want to be here for them."

Sirius looked at you, his expression softening, though the tension remained. "Are you sure? You don't have to do this if it hurts too much."

You nodded, your eyes filled with determination. "I'm sure. They need me, and I need them too."

As you stood there, holding baby Harry and surrounded by your friends, you felt a mixture of pain and healing. Life had taken unexpected turns, but there was beauty in the new connections and the love that still bound you all together.

"Welcome to the family, little one," you whispered to Harry, feeling Sirius's steady hand holding yours through it all.

i can't get out of bed, cuz something counterfeits dead...

The sunlight streamed through the windows of your cozy apartment, casting warm patterns on the walls. But despite the brightness outside, the room felt dim and heavy with sorrow. You lay in bed, cocooned in blankets, your thoughts consumed by memories of happier times with James.

Remus and Sirius had grown increasingly concerned about you. They knew you hadn't been yourself lately, spending more and more time alone, lost in your own thoughts. They had tried to give you space, but they couldn't ignore the pain they saw in your eyes.

Remus knocked softly on your bedroom door, poking his head inside. "Hey, how are you feeling today?"

You mustered a weak smile, though it didn't reach your eyes. "About the same."

Sirius followed Remus into the room, his expression a mix of concern and determination. "We brought breakfast," he said, holding up a tray laden with food.

You forced yourself to sit up, feeling a pang of guilt at their worried expressions. "Thanks, guys. You really didn't have to do that."

Remus sat on the edge of your bed, his gaze gentle. "We want to help, Y/N. You're not alone in this."

You picked at your food, unable to summon much of an appetite. The weight of your heartache felt suffocating, and it seemed impossible to imagine ever feeling whole again.

Sirius reached out and took your hand, his touch warm and comforting. "We're here for you, Y/N. Whatever you need."

Tears welled up in your eyes, threatening to spill over. "I miss him so much, Sirius. I can't stop thinking about him."

Remus squeezed your shoulder, his voice soft but determined. "It's okay to grieve, Y/N. But we don't want to see you suffer like this."

You nodded, feeling their love and concern wash over you like a lifeline in the storm. "I know. I just... I don't know how to move on."

Sirius leaned in, his voice filled with conviction. "We'll figure it out together. One step at a time."

They stayed with you, offering words of comfort and encouragement, their presence a beacon of hope in the darkness of your grief. They helped you out of bed, coaxing you to eat and drink, and gently guided you through the days ahead.

With Remus and Sirius by your side, you began to find the strength to face each new day. Their unwavering support and love became your anchor, helping you navigate the rough waters of loss and healing. And though the pain of losing James would always linger, you knew that with Remus and Sirius by your side, you would never have to face it alone.

still alive, killing time at the cemetery..

The news came like a thunderclap, shattering the fragile peace of your world. James and Lily were gone—taken from you by the dark and vengeful hand of Voldemort himself. The grief was overwhelming, suffocating, as if the weight of the loss would crush you where you stood.

You and Sirius raced to Godric's Hollow, your hearts pounding with dread as you approached the ruins of their home. The sight that greeted you was almost too much to bear. The once quaint cottage lay in ruins, smoke still rising from the wreckage.

You stumbled forward, tears blurring your vision as you searched desperately for any sign of them. And then you saw him—James, lying on the ground, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. Lily was upstairs, her body lying mere inches from where baby Harry was nestled in his cradle, who miraculously survived.

You fell to your knees beside James, your heart breaking into a million pieces. You wailed and sobbed, clutching his lifeless body to your chest, unable to comprehend the magnitude of your loss.

Sirius collapsed beside you, his grief mirroring your own. He reached out, pulling you into a tight embrace as you both mourned the loss of your friends, your family.

But amidst the pain and despair, a spark of determination ignited within you. You looked down at baby Harry, his eyes wide and innocent, and you made a silent vow. You would raise him, protect him, and ensure that he knew the love of his parents, even if they couldn't be there to give it themselves.

As Sirius prepared to leave for revenge on Pettigrew, you made your decision. You stood up, your eyes filled with resolve, and you looked him in the eye.

"I'll raise Harry," you said firmly, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. "I promised Lily and James that I would look after him, and I intend to keep that promise."

Sirius nodded, his expression one of fierce determination. "I'll do whatever it takes to bring Pettigrew to justice. And then we'll make sure Harry knows the truth about his parents."

You embraced Sirius one last time, drawing strength from each other as you faced the uncertain future ahead. Together, you would honor the memory of James and Lily, and ensure that their son grew up knowing the love and sacrifice that had defined their lives.

You made your way to lily, combing her beautiful locks out of her young, lovely face, breaking down in tears again as you enveloped her in your arms. "I won't let you down Lils" you vowed, rocking back and forth, clearing the specks of dust that had landed on her cheeks.

You went back to James, running your hand through his mop of curls one more time, a raspy sob breaking past your lips as you pressed a kiss to his forehead, tears dripping down onto his nose. "I love you and i always will" you sobbed, stroking his cheek, wishing his arms would envelop you instead of hanging limply at his sides.

You took a minute to compose yourself, picking baby Harry up and heading to the door, apparating to the apartment you shared with Sirius.

You would never let anyone take him from you.

you're the loss of my life...

The fire crackled softly in the cozy living room of Grimmauld Place, casting flickering shadows on the walls. You sat nestled in an armchair, a book in your lap, but your mind was far away, lost in memories of the past fifteen years.

Harry, now fifteen years old, had grown into a remarkable young man under your care. He was fiercely loyal, brave, and kind-hearted, qualities that reminded you so much of his parents. He often called you "mama," a term of endearment that warmed your heart every time you heard it.

You had raised Harry as your own, pouring all your love and devotion into him, determined to give him the happy childhood that had been stolen from him by Voldemort's cruelty. And in return, Harry loved you fiercely, seeing you not only as his guardian but as his closest confidante and a second mother.

But despite the love and joy Harry brought into your life, there were still moments of darkness and pain, moments when the weight of the past threatened to crush you under its unbearable burden. Tonight was one of those moments.

"I miss him, Sirius," you whispered, your voice barely above a whisper. "Every day, I feel his absence like a hole in my heart."

Sirius reached out and took your hand, his eyes filled with sympathy. "I know, Y/N. We all do. He was... he was everything to us."

Remus nodded, his expression somber. "James and Lily were the best of us. Losing them... it's a pain that never goes away."

Tears welled up in your eyes, and you struggled to compose yourself. "I still love James, Remus. I always will. He was the love of my life, the loss of my life."

Sirius's grip tightened on your hand, his own eyes shining with unshed tears. "We'll get through this together, Y/N. We'll keep Harry safe, and we'll make sure James and Lily's sacrifice wasn't in vain."

Just then, the door creaked open, and Harry stood there, his eyes wide with concern. He had heard your conversation from upstairs, and his heart ached at the pain in your voices.

"Mum? Mama?" he called softly, his voice trembling.

You turned to see him standing there, his eyes filled with tears. Without a word, he rushed forward and threw himself into your arms, clinging to you as if you were his lifeline.

You held him tight, feeling his warm tears soak into your shirt. "Oh, Harry," you whispered, your own tears flowing freely now. "We're okay, sweetheart. We're okay."

Sirius and Remus joined the embrace, forming a tight circle of love and grief. Together, you cried for the ones you had lost, but also for the strength and love that still bound you together.

In that moment, surrounded by the ones you loved most in the world, you felt a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness. You knew that as long as you had each other, you could face whatever challenges lay ahead, and that James and Lily's legacy would live on in the love you shared with Harry and with each other.

a/n : well...this broke my heart a lot. as always, comments likes reblogs feedback etc is always appreciated 🤍

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[colouredbyd]

hey, can i request a poly!marauders fic where remus ends up hurting reader so bad durig a full moon, like lots of angst and obviously u can pick a fit ending. i love ur writing, ur so talented!!

Secrets Have Teeth: part one

poly!marauders x fem!reader

synopsis: A prank gone wrong shatters the quiet trust between four lovers, leaving behind wounds deeper than any scar. In the aftermath, two broken souls face the wreckage with guilt clinging to skin and silence weighing heavier than blame. When forgiveness finally flickers to life, it does not erase the pain but dares to ask if something softer can still survive.

warnings: graphic injury, blood, post-transformation trauma, emotional breakdown, panic attacks, guilt, bathing scenes (non-sexual), intense regret, betrayal, depiction of self-loathing, partial nudity (non-sexual), heavy angst, complex grief, subtle references to recovery and healing. basically The Prank but with some comfort

w/c: 10k

a/n: this was abit challenging to write but i loved the idea <3

part two final part masterlist

Secrets are heavy things. They press against the ribs, nestle deep in the cavity of the heart, whispering their weight into your bones. 

You’ve carried theirs for months now, cradled in the hollow of your chest like something fragile, something dangerous. It lingers in the spaces they leave behind, the silence that drips from their mouths when they think you’re not listening. 

It’s the way Remus flinches when you touch his hand sometimes, the way his eyes flicker with something haunted, something raw.

It’s James, all restless energy and tight-lipped smiles, his gaze skittering away from yours at the end of every month like he’s afraid of what you might see there.

It’s Sirius, with mud caked on his boots and leaves tangled in his hair, laughter too bright, edges too sharp.

You know them. You know them like you know the lines of your own palms, the shape of your own breath. You know the way James’s voice softens when he’s apologetic, how Sirius’s grin goes crooked when he’s lying, how Remus’s shoulders tense when he’s afraid.

But this is different. This is not a harmless prank or a secret rendezvous. 

This is something that twists in the pit of your stomach, something that grows between them like tangled roots, thick and unyielding.

You feel it most in the silences. Those quiet moments where the world narrows to the space between heartbeats, and the air feels heavy with something unspoken.

You see it in the way they look at each other sometimes, as if speaking without words, as if deciding what not to say.

You wonder if it’s you. If you are the fracture in their perfect, unspoken language. If you are the secret they cannot share. It claws at you, fangs of insecurity sinking deep. 

Because you see it—the way their eyes meet across rooms, quick glances like unspoken conversations, the way they slip away without a word, leaving you in the warmth of the common room fire, staring into the flames as if they might hold the answers.

You’ve tried to ignore it, tried to be patient, but patience is a fraying thread, and you feel it unraveling more and more each day.

You hate it—the way your mind spirals into questions you don’t want to ask. Are they tired of you? Are you a burden? Something to be set aside while they run off to do God-knows-what in the dead of night?

You imagine them whispering secrets you aren’t privy to, huddled together under the weight of something important, something sacred, and your chest aches with the hollowness of being left behind.

Sirius still kisses you like you are his favorite sin, hands tangled in your hair, mouth all heat and promise. James still pulls you onto his lap with that bright grin of his, fingers tracing circles on your hips as if he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. Remus still holds you like you’re fragile, cradles you against him with a gentleness that feels like both love and apology. 

But it’s not enough to quiet the questions. Not enough to drown out the whisper of doubt that lingers in the back of your mind.

You start to second-guess everything. The way Sirius’s gaze sometimes flickers away when you ask him where he’s been. The way James laughs off your questions with a joke or a grin, always deflecting, always distracting. The way Remus looks at you with eyes full of ghosts, haunted and hollow, like he’s holding back an ocean of secrets.

It gnaws at you, eats away at your resolve until you can’t tell if you’re being paranoid or perceptive.

Sometimes, you catch them whispering in low voices, huddled together in the corners of the library or just outside the common room door.

They fall silent the moment you approach, smiles too bright, voices too loud, shifting to jokes and easy laughter as if nothing at all is wrong.

But you see it—the way Sirius’s hand will linger on Remus’s shoulder, the way James’s fingers brush against Sirius’s arm, a silent promise, a wordless reassurance.

You feel like you’re chasing shadows, hands grasping for something that slips through your fingers every time you get close. You want to ask them. You want to demand answers, to force them to share whatever it is they’re keeping from you. 

But you don’t. Because some part of you is afraid of the answer, afraid of what it might mean if you tear down the walls they’ve built and find yourself standing alone on the other side.

So you wait. You wait and you watch, heart heavy with the weight of secrets that are not yours to keep, wondering if there will come a day when they finally decide to let you in—or if the door will remain locked, the key hidden away in whispered conversations and midnight disappearances.

Because secrets are heavy things. And you are tired of carrying theirs.

The day unfurls like fraying ribbon, slipping through your fingers faster than you can hold on. There’s a heaviness to it, a weight pressing against your shoulders as you move through the halls, weaving between groups of students who laugh too loud and talk too fast.

Marlene walks beside you, her voice a gentle hum, but the words blur together, softened by the roar of your thoughts.

You think of them—of Sirius’s sharp grin and James’s steady hands, of Remus’s soft-spoken words and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. You think of the way they’ve always been yours, and you theirs, a tangled mess of limbs and laughter and quiet whispers beneath the covers. You think of the way it feels like coming home, like belonging.

But lately, there’s been something else.

A flicker of something that passes between them, a look, a whisper, moments that pull tight like thread, snapping back before you can catch hold of it.

It’s the late-night disappearances, the hushed conversations that end the moment you step into the room. It’s the way Sirius’s eyes dart away from yours sometimes, how James’s smile falters, how Remus’s hands shake when he thinks you aren’t looking.

You try to brush it off, try to bury it beneath logic and trust and the weight of their love. But it festers in the quiet moments, slipping in through the cracks when you’re alone, curling around your thoughts and whispering things you don’t want to hear. It’s loneliness, sharp and unyielding, and it grips tight, leaving bruises where you can’t see them.

Marlene’s hand finds your arm, squeezing gently. “You alright?” she asks, voice softening at the edges.

You blink, dragging yourself back to the present, to the corridor stretching out before you and the sunlight slanting through the windows. “Yeah,” you lie, the word sticking to your tongue like tar. “Just tired.”

She hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t push. You’re grateful for it. The silence stretches out between you, comfortable and warm, and you let it hold you for a moment, let it cradle you in something soft and unspoken.

But the weight is still there, pressing at the back of your mind, a whisper of something fragile and breaking.

By the time you reach the dormitory, the ache has settled low in your bones, a steady thrum that makes you want to curl into yourself and hide from the world.

Marlene offers you a soft smile and a quick hug before she disappears down the hall, and you watch her go, feeling the space she leaves behind like a phantom limb.

You push open the door, and the warmth of the room spills out to greet you, soft and familiar. The fire crackles low in the hearth, and the soft murmur of conversation drifts through the air. For a moment, you just stand there, watching them.

Sirius is sprawled across the couch, his head in James’s lap, eyes half-lidded as James’s fingers card gently through his hair.

There’s something unguarded in the way he leans into the touch, the tension bleeding out of his frame with each gentle stroke.

James is murmuring something soft, too low for you to hear, and his other hand is resting on Sirius’s shoulder, grounding him.

Remus is curled up in the armchair, a book spread open across his lap, fingers idly tapping against the spine in rhythm with whatever thought is playing behind his eyes.

He looks peaceful, brow unfurrowed, mouth softened at the edges. It’s a rare thing—to see him unburdened, unbothered—and you don’t want to break it.

You linger in the doorway, watching them, and for a moment, it’s enough just to exist there, on the edge of something beautiful.

But then Sirius glances up, his gaze catching on yours, and his eyes brighten.

“There she is,” he drawls, a lazy smile stretching across his lips, though you can see the way his hand trembles where it rests against James’s knee. “Wondered when you’d come back to us.”

You force a smile, stepping into the room, the wooden door groaning behind you. The space is warm with the soft glow of lamplight, and you take in the tangle of limbs, the way Sirius leans so comfortably against James, the way Remus’s long fingers are still pressed into the spine of his book. It looks like belonging, like home.

And yet, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re standing on the edge of it, fingers curled around the windowsill, peering in.

You clear your throat, and three heads turn towards you, Remus’s eyes softening the instant they land on your face.

He’s the first to rise, marking his page with a quick slip of parchment before crossing the room in a few long strides. His hands are warm when they cup your face, eyes searching yours with a tenderness that nearly unravels you.

“What’s wrong, darling?” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheekbone. His gaze is steady, achingly gentle, and it makes something splinter in your chest.

You lean into his touch, your hands wrapping around his wrists. “Just a bad day,” you whisper, voice catching at the edges. “Wanted to be with you. All of you.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or something darker—but it’s gone before you can name it. He nods, presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“We’re right here, my love,” he says softly. “Always.”

You hear movement behind him, and Sirius appears at his side, James right behind him, both of them looking at you with expressions that tighten the knot in your chest.

“Come here,” Sirius says, and you’re pulled into the warmth of their arms, the scent of cedar and smoke and something distinctly theirs flooding your senses. It’s grounding, familiar.

But beneath it, the ache lingers. 

When Remus pulls away, his hand is gentle at your back. “Come on,” he murmurs, voice soft as spring rain. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

His eyes are warm, and the softness there unravels you completely. You nod, and let him lead you towards the bathroom, his touch a tether in the quiet.

The bathroom is softly lit, shadows dancing along the tiled walls as Remus moves about, turning the tap and letting steam fill the space.

He turns back to you, his hands finding yours, guiding you gently to the edge of the tub. “Let me take care of you,” he whispers, voice like something sacred.

Steam curls at the edges of the mirror, blurring the reflection into softened shapes and tender echoes. The bathroom is awash with warmth, the flicker of candlelight catching on water droplets that gather and run down the tiles like tiny rivers.

The tub is filled nearly to the brim, wisps of lavender and cedar curling through the air, softening the edges of everything sharp and jagged.

You stand there, arms wrapped around yourself as Remus’s hands work at the buttons of your shirt, fingers deft and gentle.

He doesn’t rush, doesn’t fumble, just unfastens each button with practiced ease, his gaze steady and patient.

When the last one comes undone, he slides the fabric from your shoulders, and it pools at your feet in a whisper of cotton.

James is already rolling up his sleeves, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s something unyielding in his gaze, an anchor that keeps you grounded even when the world feels like it’s fraying at the edges.

Sirius is beside him, leaning against the sink with his arms crossed, a grin softening into something tender as he watches you, eyes bright with a fondness that makes your heart twist.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, voice soft but unsteady.

Sirius’s grin widen just a bit, a sliver of moonlight breaking through the clouds.

“Can you blame me?” he drawls, pushing off the counter to step closer. His hands find your shoulders, warm and grounding.

“We’ve got the most beautiful girl in the world standing right here. You expect us not to look?”

Heat flushes your cheeks, and you look down, eyes catching on the curve of your bare feet against the tile.

Remus’s hands come to rest on your shoulders, gentle and grounding. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice soft and achingly tender. “Look at me.”

You do, slowly, and his gaze is steady, unyielding. “You know we love you, right?”

It’s a simple question, one you’ve heard before, one you’ve answered a thousand times.

But tonight, the weight of it settles heavy in your chest, and you swallow hard, your throat bobbing with the effort. “I know,” you whisper, though it wavers at the edges.

Sirius’s fingers brush your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I don’t think you do,” he says softly, and his voice is raw, stripped down to something real. “Not really.”

There’s a pause, thick and heavy with unspoken things. James steps forward, his hands settling at your waist.

“Whatever that pretty mind of yours is telling you, it isn’t true, darlin', you know that, right?” he whispers, the words slipping through the quiet like a prayer.

His thumb strokes gentle circles into your hip, grounding and real.

You nod, not trusting your voice, and James’s smile softens at the edges. His hands guide you to the edge of the tub, and Remus’s hands are still at your shoulders, steady and sure.

“In you go, darling,” he murmurs, and you let them guide you down into the water, warmth curling around your skin and washing away the chill.

The water laps softly at your shoulders, steam curling around your face. Remus kneels beside the tub, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.

“Lean back,” he says gently, and you do, letting your head rest against the lip of the tub as he scoops water into his hands, drizzling it over your shoulders.

James is at your other side, his hands gentle as he brushes back your hair, fingers carding through the strands with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.

Sirius perches on the edge of the tub, one hand resting lightly on your knee beneath the water. His thumb strokes lazy circles there, his grin soft and unguarded.

They work in tandem, hands moving with practiced ease, soft murmurs passing between them as they pour water over your skin, rub gentle circles into your shoulders, your arms.

It’s reverent, unhurried, like they have all the time in the world just to be here with you.

“You’re safe here,” Remus whispers as his hands brush over your collarbones, his eyes steady and sure. “With us. Always.”

But your breath catches, fingers curling against the edge of the tub. Safe. Always.

The words hang heavy in the air, thick with meaning you want so desperately to believe. “For keeps?” you whisper, and the question is so small, so fragile that it barely breaks the surface of the silence.

Sirius’s hand stills on your knee, and he leans in, eyes dark and unflinching.

“For keeps,” he answers, and the promise hums between you all, ancient and unbreakable.

His thumb resumes its gentle circles, grounding you back into this warmth, this moment.

A grin breaks across his face, wild and free, and James lets out a breath of laughter, his hand squeezing yours beneath the water. “See?” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “We’re not going anywhere.”

You nod, the knot in your chest unraveling just a bit, the warmth of their hands grounding you, tethering you to this moment.

For a while, it’s just that—the gentle lap of water, the steady rhythm of their hands, the murmur of their voices threading through the quiet. They wash away the ache, the doubt, until there’s nothing left but warmth and the soft thrum of belonging.

And for once, you let yourself believe it.

You close your eyes and lean into the warmth, the steady rhythm of their hands soothing the ache in your chest.

But then, James’s hand splashes against the water, breaking the stillness. His eyes flicker with something bright and mischievous.

“Would you look at that?” he grins, flicking a bit of water towards Sirius, who jerks back, sputtering.

“Oh, you absolute menace,” Sirius huffs, eyes narrowing with playful fury.

Before you can blink, he’s scooped a handful of water and splashes it back, catching both you and James in the crossfire.

You squeal, hands coming up to shield your face, but the damage is done—water drips from your lashes, and James is laughing, full-bodied and unrestrained, the sound filling the bathroom with unrestrained joy.

Remus, who had been standing up to grab towels, turns back to see water arcing through the air, James slinging droplets at Sirius, who’s now fully on his knees beside the tub, splashing back with reckless abandon.

His eyes widen, a hand on his hip. “You lot are absolute children, you know that?”

“Only sometimes,” Sirius counters with a grin, flinging another handful in Remus’s direction. “We’ve got to keep it interesting, haven’t we?”

A flicker of laughter escapes you, and Remus’s stern expression softens, though he rolls his eyes. “I’m gone two minutes, and you’ve already started a war.”

James shrugs, unbothered, droplets dripping from his hair. “What can we say? We’re efficient.”

Remus sighs, grabbing a towel and shaking his head, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re all impossible.”

“And you love it,” Sirius quips, leaning back with a splash. Remus just shakes his head, moving to your side with the towel, his eyes softening as he meets yours.

“Come on, darling,” he murmurs, voice warm and steady. “Let’s get you out before these two flood the whole place.”

The night slipped away in a haze of warmth and whispered jokes, Sirius launching playful jabs at James, who retaliated with splashes that left the room echoing with laughter.

By the time Remus pulled you from the water and wrapped you in soft towels, your heart felt lighter, the fog of your earlier doubts dissipating under their hands.

The four of you ended up tangled in blankets, Sirius still chuckling softly at some joke James had made, Remus’s arm curled around your waist, his breath steady and warm against the back of your neck.

You drifted off like that, wrapped in them, feeling—if only for a moment—that maybe everything really was as perfect as it seemed.

But morning brings clarity. You wake to the soft light filtering through the curtains, the space beside you empty but still warm. The muffled sounds of conversation drift from the common room, low and hurried, punctuated with soft laughter.

You follow the noise, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and catch sight of them huddled together—Remus’s face drawn and pale, Sirius leaning in, his hands gesturing wildly, James with a hand on his shoulder, firm and grounding.

They don’t notice you at first, too caught up in their whispered words and secretive glances. You hover in the doorway, something heavy and unyielding curling in your stomach.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen them like this—locked in some private world that you are not a part of. But this time, it’s different. This time, you can’t shake the feeling that whatever it is, it’s breaking them apart.

When James catches your eye, his expression shifts—softens—but there’s something guarded there, too, something that makes your breath catch.

Remus straightens, running a hand through his hair, and Sirius plasters on a grin, too bright to be real.

“Morning, love,” Remus greets you, his voice softer, wearier. “Did you sleep well?”

And just like that, the walls go up again.

Whatever it was, whatever they were discussing, it’s hidden behind their smiles, and you feel it like a bruise.

You smile back, but it feels hollow. “Yeah… I did.”

But doubt settled in your bones, curling thick and unyielding around your heart. Something was wrong. And for the first time, you were sure of it.

You dressed quietly, Marlene’s chatter a distant hum as she twisted her hair into a knot and rambled about Quidditch practice. Your hands worked methodically, tying laces, fastening buttons, but your mind was elsewhere.

Something was off. You could feel it in the pit of your stomach, the gnawing unease that hadn’t left since the whispers and the lingering glances.

You tried to shake it off as you made your way to breakfast, but it lingered, curling around your ribs and pressing tight.

Classes dragged. Potions felt endless, Slughorn’s voice fading into the background as you stared blankly at your bubbling cauldron. Transfiguration was much the same—McGonagall’s sharp eyes missing the way your quill stopped moving halfway through her lecture.

Even Charms, which you usually enjoyed, was nothing more than a blur of flicking wands and murmured incantations.

By midday, you found yourself wandering through the courtyard, the chill biting at your cheeks as you made your way toward the edge of the castle grounds.

That was where you usually found them, tucked away from prying eyes, sprawled out beneath the trees or leaning against the stone walls, thick scarves looped around their necks and laughter dancing in the air.

But when you approached, there was no laughter. Just low voices, hushed and clipped. You stopped short, slipping behind a stone column, heart hammering in your chest.

You knew it was wrong, but curiosity rooted you to the spot.

“…tonight, then?” Sirius’s voice was the first you recognized, low and edged with something you couldn’t place.

“Has to be,” James replied. “Full moon, and if he’s right, Snape’s already sniffing around. Bloody idiot’s got a death wish.”

Remus didn’t speak, but you could hear him—his sigh, heavy and weary, like he’d aged ten years since you’d seen him at breakfast.

You peeked around the edge, just enough to catch sight of him leaning against the stone, arms crossed over his chest, eyes shadowed and distant.

He looked exhausted. Worse than yesterday. Worse than last week.

“Full moon?” you whispered to yourself, brows knitting together.

Why would that matter? And why would Snape be sniffing around? You racked your brain, but nothing came up. Nothing that made sense.

Then, footsteps—too light to be James or Remus, too quick to be Sirius.

You shrank back, just in time to see Severus Snape stride up to them, black robes billowing out behind him. You clamped a hand over your mouth, confusion sparking like wildfire in your chest.

Snape? With them? They hated Snape. Always had. There was the incident with the Potions classroom first year, the hex Sirius threw at him in third, the prank James had pulled just last term.

And yet, here he was, standing just a few feet away, chin lifted defiantly as he glared at Sirius.

“You’d better not be lying, Black,” Snape sneered, voice dripping with disdain.

Sirius just smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Would I lie to you, Snivellus?”

“Just be there. Midnight. Near the shack.”

Snape’s eyes glittered with something sharp and dangerous. “I will.”

You barely heard the rest, heart thundering in your chest.

The shack? Midnight? What the hell was going on? Your mind whirred with questions, none of them landing long enough for you to grab hold. But there was one thing you knew for certain.

You were going to follow them.

Whatever this was—whatever they were hiding—you would find out. You had to.

Night came slow and heavy, the castle settling into stillness as you pulled on your cloak, heart thrumming with anticipation and something else. Fear, maybe. Or desperation.

You slipped through the corridors on silent feet, weaving between shadows until you found yourself near the Entrance Hall, waiting. Watching.

They moved in silence, slipping through the doors one by one. First Remus, his shoulders hunched, eyes downcast.

Then James and Sirius, their footsteps softer than usual, expressions set and grim.

Whatever Sirius had told Snape, James and Remus clearly didn’t know about it—the tension rippled off them, sharp and electric.

You waited until they were halfway across the grounds before following, your breath clouding the air as you hurried to catch up, careful to stay hidden.

You ducked behind a tree, watching as James pulled something from his pocket—a small, rounded object that glowed faintly in the moonlight.

He pressed it against a knot in the tree, and the branches stilled, frozen mid-sway.

You sucked in a breath as they disappeared beneath the roots, vanishing into shadow.

Remus had looked like he was seconds from collapsing, his steps unsteady, shoulders taut with strain. James and Remus didn’t seem to know about whatever Sirius had told Snape—it was clear on their faces, etched in their tension and the way Remus’s hands shook slightly as he vanished into the darkness.

Whatever lay beyond that entrance, you were going to find out. Even if it broke you.

The night stretched out heavy and silent, moonlight bleeding silver across the grounds. It felt colder than usual, the kind of chill that seeped into bones and lingered there, whispering unease with every breath.

You shivered as you waited, huddled in the shadows just beyond the Entrance Hall, heart pounding in your ears. It was a reckless idea—mad, really—to follow them out here.

But you couldn’t ignore the coil of dread tightening in your stomach, the way it had wound itself around your ribs ever since you’d heard them talking near the courtyard.

They moved in silence, slipping through the great doors one by one. First Remus, his shoulders hunched and eyes downcast, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his back.

His footsteps were slow, hesitant, and you could almost hear the strain in his breathing from where you hid.

Something was wrong—you’d known it for weeks—but tonight, it clung to him like a shadow.

You waited until they were halfway across the grounds before you moved, your breath clouding the air as you hurried to catch up, careful to keep your distance.

You waited, breath held tight in your lungs. That’s when you saw him—Snape, creeping through the shadows, eyes alight with that familiar, hateful gleam.

He moved with purpose, hands shaking with adrenaline as he approached the now-frozen branches of the Willow. He stopped just shy of the entrance, glancing around before taking a tentative step forward.

Before he could slip inside, James appeared, blocking his path, wand raised and voice sharp. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Snape sneered, lifting his chin. “Black told me. Said there was something interesting inside. Something you three have been hiding.”

James’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You’re not going anywhere near there.”

“What, afraid of what I’ll find?” Snape taunted, his voice a venomous whisper.

James stepped closer, the tension snapping taut between them. “I’m warning you, Snivellus. Turn around. Now.”

Snape glared, fists clenching at his sides. “Why? So you can keep covering for your precious friends? Or maybe it’s because you’re afraid of what your little club is really up to.”

James didn’t flinch, his wand steady and gaze unyielding. “Last chance.”

But Snape didn’t back down. He only smirked, the kind of grin that made your skin crawl. “I guess I’ll just have to find out for myself.”

He took another step forward, but James moved quicker, wand tip sparking with light. “Expelliarmus!”

Snape’s wand flew from his hand, clattering against the frozen earth. For a heartbeat, everything went still—no wind, no whispers, just the heavy thud of your heartbeat crashing in your ears.

“That’s enough,” came a voice from behind them.

Sirius stepped into view, arms crossed over his chest, expression caught between amusement and something sharper. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

James didn’t lower his wand. “What the hell were you thinking, Sirius?”

Sirius shrugged, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Just a bit of fun. Snivellus is always poking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Thought I’d give him something to find.”

James’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. “Are you out of your mind? Remus is in there! What if he got in? What if he saw?”

Sirius scoffed, waving a hand. “James, please. He wasn’t actually going to get inside. It’s just a bit of a scare.”

“A scare?” James’s voice rose, disbelief cracking it. “You think this is a fucking joke? He could have died, Sirius. Remus could have killed him—and it would have been your fault!”

Sirius’s smile faltered, but he didn’t back down. “Well, he didn’t. You stopped him.”

James took a step forward, wand still in his hand, knuckles white around it. “You’re not listening. You don’t get to just...just throw people into the line of fire for fun. That’s not a prank, Sirius!”

Sirius’s eyes flashed with something dark, but he swallowed it back. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” James shot back, voice trembling with fury. “Remus doesn’t even know. You did this behind his back! I swear, if he finds out—”

But before he could finish, a sound broke the argument—a low, guttural growl that rumbled from the depths of the shack, primal and raw.

You froze, heart leaping into your throat. It was followed by another, more desperate sound.

“Remus,” you whispered under your breath, fear coiling tight and sharp in your stomach.

You slipped through the tangled roots, heart lurching as you reached the back of the shack.

Its wooden slats were splintered and rotting in places, gaps wide enough for you to catch flashes of movement inside. Shadows flickered across the walls—elongated and monstrous, twisting with the flicker of lamplight.

There was a small hole, nearly hidden behind a stack of fallen branches, just large enough for you to fit through if you were careful.

You hesitated, breath clouding in the frigid air, before steeling yourself and crawling through. Your hands scraped against rough wood, splinters catching on your palms, but you ignored the sting.

The shack groaned under your weight as you landed inside, breath catching in your throat. It was dark, the air thick with the scent of dust and something metallic that made your head swim

Your breath puffed white in the cold air, heart pounding, every instinct in your body suddenly screaming at you to stop—to leave, to turn around, to run. Something was wrong.

Inside, the shack was musty and dark. Dust hung thick in the air, floating in the moonlight that poured in through the cracks in the boarded windows. Broken chairs lay in jagged pieces, shadows clinging to every surface. It was too quiet.

You rose slowly to your feet, brushing dirt from your knees.

Your eyes scanned the room—empty. No sign of Remus. No sign of anyone. Only the stale scent of old wood and something sharper, metallic, and wrong.

Then—from outside—you heard it.

Yelling.

You turned your head toward the front of the shack.

“What the hell did you think you were doing, Sirius?” James’s voice, loud, shaking.

Snape’s voice cut through: “You’re all bloody mad—”

“You brought him here? To this place?!” James roared. “You think this is a game?! You told him how to find Moony?!”

A scuffle. Scraping feet on frozen earth. Something breaking.

Then Sirius, laughing—a harsh, ugly sound. “It was a prank, James! A joke! He wasn’t supposed to actually come!”

“A joke? A bloody joke?! He could have died, Sirius! Or worse—Remus—”

The argument grew louder, more violent, their voices crashing against each other like waves. You blinked, unsettled, heart pounding harder now—not just from what they were saying, but from something else. Something inside.

You turned, the hairs on the back of your neck rising.

Why had James been so desperate to keep Snape away? What was so dangerous, so hidden inside this shack?

You took a slow step back, suddenly aware of how thick the air had become. Your fingers twitched toward your wand, but you didn’t know why.

Then you felt it.

A shift.

A presence behind you.

The breath caught in your throat.

You turned.

And the world split in half.

The wolf stood there, bathed in shadow and moonlight. Towering. Muscled. Massive. Its amber eyes gleamed like twin suns, fixed solely on you. Its breath came heavy, the sound guttural and animal and wrong.

You didn’t understand.

You couldn’t understand.

Then it moved.

Fast. Too fast.

You screamed as its weight slammed into you, hurling you backward. You crashed to the floor, your head cracking against the boards with a sickening thud. Pain exploded across your vision, stars blooming behind your eyes.

You barely had time to breathe before it was on you.

Claws tore through your coat, then your skin. Blood spattered the walls. You screamed again, voice raw and terrified. The wolf’s snarl was deafening, fangs snapping inches from your face. You scrambled, twisted, tried to crawl away, but it was no use. Another rake of claws—your shoulder. Your side.

You sobbed, pain white-hot and everywhere.

From the front of the shack, you heard the door shake violently.

“Moony!” James’s voice, frantic. “Moony! No!!”

“She’s in there!” Sirius screamed. “She’s in with him!”

You kicked, thrashed, felt blood soaking into the wood beneath you.

The shack shook from the weight of them slamming into the door.

“Open it! Open it!” James was screaming.

You tried to call out—but your throat barely worked, raw with terror and smoke and blood.

“Remus, Stop!” Sirius shouted, voice cracking.

“It’s her—it’s her!” James bellowed. “Moony, no, no, no, no, gosh!”

But the wolf didn’t stop.

It kept going.

And you lay there, barely breathing, praying they would break the door down in time.

You stumbled back, heart slamming against your ribs, and the beast—Remus—stalked forward, claws scraping against the wooden floor with each step. His eyes—those eyes you’d known for so long, gentle and warm—were wild now, feral with hunger and rage.

He lunged, the force of it sending a gust of wind spiraling through the room. 

“Remus!” you cried, voice cracking with desperation, but there was nothing human in his gaze—just the moon’s curse and the monster it carved from him.

He turned, shoulders heaving with each breath, and for a moment, you swore you saw something flicker in his eyes. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that primal hunger.

He snarled again, saliva dripping from his fangs, and you scrambled backward, mind racing for an escape.

Your back hit the far wall with a thud, dust and debris scattering from the impact. Remus prowled closer, head low, eyes locked onto yours like prey.

You were shaking, adrenaline burning through your veins as you searched frantically for a way out—any way out. But there was nothing. Just you and him, trapped in the confines of this cursed shack.

The breath rattled from your lungs as he lunged again. 

Agony burst across your stomach as claws tore through you like paper. Your scream shattered the silence.

Blood spilled hot and fast, soaking your clothes, splattering across the floor. Another slash—your thigh, deep and unrelenting. Your vision fractured with pain, body writhing beneath him as you tried to crawl away, but he pinned you easily.

Claws dug into your ribs. Fangs grazed your shoulder. You could hear your own heartbeat, deafening, drowning everything else out. The air stank of blood and sweat and the sharp edge of death. You sobbed, barely able to breathe, choking on the taste of iron and fear.

Then—the shack door burst open with a splintering crack.

Sirius came first, Padfoot in full form, fur bristling, eyes blazing.

He threw himself at the wolf with a savage growl, tackling Moony off you with all his strength.

The force of the impact sent them both crashing into the far wall. You were left gasping, blinking through blood and splinters and shock.

James followed—Prongs—before shifting back mid-step, falling to his knees at your side.

“Hey. Hey, no, no, no,” he breathed, voice shaking, hands hovering over your wounds like he didn’t know where to touch, where to start. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

But you weren’t. You could feel yourself slipping, the cold creeping in.

You turned your head just enough to see the trail of blood stretching behind you, the smear of crimson across the wood. Your hand twitched, fingers stained red.

The last thing you saw was Sirius, still fighting tooth and claw to hold Remus back, and James’s face—ashen, eyes wide with something between guilt and horror.

You were here because they kept secrets. And secrets are heavy things to carry.

-

You woke to pain.

It throbbed in waves, hot and pulsing and sharp, blooming in your abdomen and thigh. Every breath was a struggle, every inch of movement a riot of agony beneath your skin.

The air was cold, sterile, heavy with antiseptic. The ceiling above you was white stone, too clean, too quiet. The scent of blood clung to your skin. You blinked, your vision swimming, your mouth dry and thick with the taste of iron and betrayal.

And then—realization. It hit like another wound. Remus. The wolf. Lycanthropy. That’s what they had been hiding. That’s what James had refused to tell you, what Sirius had laughed off, what Remus had always tucked behind those sad eyes and hollow smiles.

You remembered it now—his eyes, glowing in the dark; the snarl that tore from his throat; the claws, the fangs, the way the pain swallowed you whole.

He had mauled you.

The door creaked open with a quiet groan, and James was there in an instant.

He nearly stumbled into the room, hair wild, eyes wild, like he hadn’t slept. His chest was heaving as he rushed to your side, voice already breaking.

"You’re awake—thank Merlin—" He dropped to his knees beside the bed, reaching for your hand but hesitating at the last second when he saw the bandages wrapped around it. "You—you're okay. You're safe now. We got you out. We—"

But before he could finish, Sirius was in the doorway, shoulders tense, face pale and drawn.

One step in—and James turned on him like a storm breaking.

"No. No, get out."

Sirius flinched. "James—"

"No!" James shoved him, not holding back. "She’s bleeding, Sirius! There was so much blood—I couldn’t—I didn’t know if she was breathing—"

Sirius’s voice cracked. "Jamie, please—she’s my girlfriend too—"

James slammed him back against the wall, rage surging.

"Don’t fucking 'Jamie' me right now, Sirius! Remus is out there asking where she is, completely clueless about what happened—what the fuck are you gonna tell him? Huh? You gonna say you brought Snape In as a prank, and instead our girlfriend snuck into the shack and got ripped apart?"

"Is that what you’re gonna say?”

Sirius flinched like the words had struck him in the face. His eyes were glassy now, guilt etched so deeply into the hollows of his cheeks it looked like it might never leave.

His lips parted as if to defend himself but there was nothing firm behind the breath he drew in. Nothing solid enough to hold against James’s rage.

“I didn’t know she followed—” he tried, voice trailing off into silence like it couldn’t bear the weight of the truth.

“But you knew what that shack was,” James snapped, louder now, voice raw and fraying. “You knew what Moony was. You knew what would happen.”

They were so close now they could’ve been mirrors of fury and betrayal. Chest to chest, heart to heart, breathing like it hurt.

The kind of closeness that had once meant brotherhood, now sparking with something jagged and breaking.

“You think saying she’s my girlfriend too makes it better?” James’s hands were shaking and his mouth twisted like he was choking on grief. “You endangered all of us—Snape, her, Moony—because you wanted to mess around like it was a fucking joke.”

Sirius tried to speak again, but his voice came out cracked and too soft to stand on. “I didn’t mean—”

“You never mean to,” James said, and this time it wasn’t a shout. It was something worse.

His voice dropped into that space where hurt lived, where betrayal was a living thing in the room.

“That’s the problem. You never think past the spark of it. It’s always a fire to you, isn’t it? A dare, a thrill. And now she—”

You were sitting up now, breath catching like it didn’t know how to move through your chest anymore.

Their voices filled the room like smoke, thick and impossible to swallow, and still they didn’t see you. Still they didn’t stop.

The anger curled in you like a second pulse, slow and volcanic, fed by the sound of your name twisted in their mouths like an afterthought.

You looked down at your body, at the map of pain they’d drawn across your skin, at the bandages tight around your arms and side and thigh.

You reached for one with trembling fingers and peeled it back slowly, too slowly, like your body was a secret you weren’t supposed to see.

The wound beneath was deep and still red-raw, an angry thing that refused to scab. You stared at it, not blinking. As if staring long enough would make it make sense.

As if blood had a language you could finally understand.

What stared back at you were jagged, red scars, the kind that didn’t heal clean. Bite marks turned purple at the edges, cruel crescents sinking into your skin like the moon had tried to eat you alive.

Deep gashes crossed your side in a brutal lattice, torn flesh barely held together by uneven stitching and the trembling hands of someone too late. A shudder rolled through you, slow and relentless, like something crawling beneath your skin.

You would carry these forever.

Your hand rose to your neck, fingers ghosting over the place where you remembered teeth grazing bone, where the pain had cracked you open from the inside.

You didn’t need a mirror to see it. It was carved into memory. A sob caught in your throat, not loud, but sharp enough to hurt.

"Get out," you said, your voice low and cracked like dry earth before the storm.

They didn’t hear you. They were still yelling, still wrapped in their own pain, their own shame, drowning in the echo of their guilt while you sat there bleeding.

"I said get out!" your voice shattered through the room like glass, and the noise stopped instantly.

The silence rang.

They turned to you slowly, like they’d just remembered you were there, like it hadn’t occurred to them that the thing they were fighting about had ears and a spine and a soul.

James took a hesitant step forward, his eyes soft with apology, but you met him with something he hadn’t seen in you before. Not fear. Not even heartbreak. Just fury, quiet and precise, the kind of anger born from betrayal that simmers instead of explodes.

"You kept this from me," you said, each word dragged from somewhere deep, somewhere scorched.

"All of you. You let me walk in there blind. You let me bleed for a secret that was never mine to carry."

James opened his mouth but no words followed. Nothing could. His guilt hollowed him, but you didn’t care. Not anymore.

Sirius looked wrecked, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you, but your eyes stopped him cold.

You didn’t want to see his sorrow. You didn’t want to be comforted by the hands that led you to the edge and watched you fall.

"I almost died because of your secrets," you whispered, and though your voice trembled, it rang with steel. "Because none of you trusted me enough to tell the truth. You called it love, and then you let me be devoured by it."

They were silent. Boys made of noise, finally quiet. And somehow that silence was louder than their shouting ever was.

You looked at the door, then back to them, the air around you sharp as broken promises.

"Out," you said again, quieter now, but it cut deeper for it.

Neither of them argued. They didn’t beg or explain or try to fix what had already bled too long. They just turned, slowly, and walked away.

The door shut behind them with a hollow click.

And the silence that followed was unbearable.

Not because it was empty.

But because it sounded exactly like the moment you realized you were alone.

It echoed louder than the shouting, louder than the pain, louder than the memories still clawing at the edges of your mind. The silence didn’t offer peace—it rang like a scream swallowed too late, like the lingering howl of something wild and ruined.

You sat there in it, trembling, your hands shaking in your lap, the gauze dark with the slow seep of blood.

You stared down at them, fingers twitching like they didn’t belong to you, like maybe none of this belonged to you, not the pain, not the scarred skin, not even the breath you were struggling to draw in.

Each inhale scraped your throat like broken glass, each exhale trembled beneath the weight of everything they never told you.

The tears came suddenly—choking, ungraceful things, messy and aching. They clawed up from somewhere you hadn’t known existed, from the place where trust once lived.

They spilled past your defenses, soaked your cheeks, made your chest rise and fall in ugly, shuddering sobs.

You pressed a trembling hand to your mouth to trap the sound, to make yourself small, but the grief pushed through your fingers anyway, raw and human and desperate.

You didn’t want to be here. Not in this bed, not in this room, not in the body that remembered every second too well.

You didn’t want to be near that shack, or that truth, or those boys whose love had been too conditional, too secret, too much like a trap. Not when it all still clung to your skin like smoke, like something scorched into you that wouldn’t come off, no matter how hard you tried to forget.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed. Pain flared like fire beneath your skin, sharp and blinding, but you gritted your teeth and bit down on the sound.

You forced yourself upright, spine shaking, the world tilting like it didn’t know where to place you anymore. You reached for the nightstand, knuckles white around the edge, and steadied yourself against the weight of gravity and grief alike.

Madam Pomfrey would return soon. She would ask questions��about the bite marks on your shoulder, the blood staining your sheets, the torn muscle stitched back into place like fabric.

Dumbledore would be informed. Whispers would curl through the corridors. Rumors would spread, sprouting like weeds in spring. You could already hear them.

You didn’t want to lie. You weren’t sure you even could. But the truth? The truth was worse.

The truth was a monster’s name whispered behind closed doors.

The truth was betrayal in the shape of friendship.

The truth was pain that had no neat answer, no punishment that could make it make sense.

You took a step. Then another. Every motion dragged behind the last like you were underwater, like your body was remembering how to exist and failing.

It hurt in places you hadn’t thought could ache—bone-deep, nerve-deep, the kind of hurt that didn’t just throb but screamed.

You passed the mirror near the infirmary door and caught sight of yourself.

You stopped.

Your reflection stared back like something unrecognizable. There was dried blood in your hair, matted at the roots like rust. Bruises bloomed along your collarbone and down your arms like ink spilled under the skin.

The bandage over your ribs had darkened, blood soaking through in slow, patient circles. Your lips were cracked. Your eyes—God, your eyes.

You looked like a ghost still wandering the world, too stubborn or too broken to realize it had died.

You turned away before you could recognize yourself, before your reflection could speak back all the truths you weren’t ready to hear.

You didn’t know where you were going.

You just knew you couldn’t stay.

The hall was dim and quiet, cloaked in the kind of stillness that only came long after midnight had folded over the world. The torches burned low, their flames flickering soft shadows across stone, and even the portraits lining the walls seemed to sleep, their painted eyes closed or turned away.

Your footsteps echoed in the emptiness—slow, uneven things that barely registered, like the castle itself was trying not to notice you. Each step jarred your side, sharp pain flashing behind your eyes, blooming like lightning beneath your skin.

One hand clutched your ribs, your breath catching each time your heel met stone.

Maybe you should’ve stayed in bed. Maybe you should’ve screamed louder when it happened. Maybe you shouldn’t have followed the sound at all.

You could trace every mistake in your mind, each one lit like a torch in the dark, but none of it mattered now. Not really. Not when the damage was already done. Not when the blood had already soaked the floor, your skin, your memory.

You were already bleeding.

You made it to the end of the corridor before the tears found you again, rising from the pit of your stomach like a storm breaking loose. You crumpled without grace, back to the wall, forehead pressed hard to the cool stone as if it might hold you together.

You didn’t bother to stifle the sob that slipped from your mouth, cracked and breathless. Let the castle hear it. Let the ghosts carry it through the walls, let them whisper your name into every corner of this place. Let every brick and beam know exactly what had happened. Let the truth echo where their silence had lived.

You were in this mess because people you loved had looked you in the eye and decided you didn’t deserve the truth.

And through the sobs, through the broken air and the trembling of your limbs, that thought was the one that stayed.

This didn’t have to happen.

You could’ve stayed safe. You could’ve stayed whole. But they let you walk in blind. They let you bleed for something that was never yours to carry.

Pain flared again, a cruel spike up your side, white-hot and dragging like a knife pulled slow—but it was nothing compared to what twisted beneath your ribs.

You pressed your palm to your stomach, to the bandages under your robes, and for a moment you hoped the sharpness would ground you, keep you tethered.

Instead, it felt like drowning, like trying to breathe through water, through memory, through the echo of a scream that wouldn’t stop playing behind your eyes.

You thought of the Shack. Of the way the air smelled inside, coppery and wrong. You thought of the creak of old wood under your feet. Of the sound his bones made when they broke—sharp, wet, unforgettable. Of the stillness just before the scream shattered the world.

And you broke.

The sob that tore from your throat wasn’t soft. It was jagged, ugly, ripped straight from the center of you. Another followed, then another, and then you were falling—knees folding, back sliding down the stone, until you were curled on the cold floor, cheek pressed to it, chest heaving with each desperate breath.

Your body shook with the force of it, and still the sound came, raw and real and unrelenting.

It was too much. Too much to carry. Too much to name. Too much to bury beneath bandages and silence.

You didn’t even realize you were whispering his name until it left your lips.

"Remus…"

Just a breath. A ghost of a sound. But it shattered something in you. Cracked the dam wide open.

Because he didn’t know. He didn’t know what he had done.

And somehow—God, somehow—that made it worse.

That you had been ripped apart by someone who would never remember. That the hands that once traced poems into your skin had unknowingly rewritten you in blood.

That the boy who looked at you like you were the first star he’d ever seen was the same one who had carved your name into the floorboards with claw and fang.

You curled in tighter, arms wrapped around your ribs, trying—failing—to hold yourself together. But everything inside you was unraveling. Your breath hitched, broken. Your fingers trembled like your bones were afraid. You could still feel it—all of it.

The weight of him, wild and terrible. The heat of breath on your neck. The moment skin gave way.

You remembered his smile. The one he saved just for you. You remembered how his voice softened when he said your name, like he couldn’t believe it belonged to him for even a second.

You remembered how he once said, “You shouldn’t love me.” And now you knew why.

Because teeth remember hunger. Because wolves don’t ask permission. Because even the gentlest boy can disappear beneath the moonlight.

But oh, God, you hated that he didn't know. That he would wake up in the morning with his soul intact while you were left stitching yours together in the dark.

You pressed your hand to the wound at your side, felt the throb of it echo through your whole body. You wanted to forget. You wanted to go back. You wanted him to be anything but the thing that had hurt you.

You didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

The boy and the beast. The hands that once brushed your cheek like a promise, and the claws that had torn through your skin like paper. The mouth that had whispered your name like it meant something—and the one that had bitten down to the bone. It was all the same now.

One shape, one shadow, stitched into the fabric of your memory with blood and betrayal. You couldn’t separate him from it. You weren’t sure you wanted to.

You pressed your forehead to the cold stone wall, the chill biting into your skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire still burning inside you. Your tears came hot and fast, streaking your cheeks, scalding your lips.

You tried to swallow them back, to bury the noise, but your body wouldn’t obey. You wanted to scream. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to tear yourself apart just to match the way he’d already broken you open.

But all you could do was sit there. And feel it.

You hated him. You loved him. You hated that you loved him. You hated that the boy who had once kissed your temple like it was sacred was the same one who’d left you bleeding in the dirt.

Maybe if they'd told me, you thought bitterly, each word laced with salt and fury, I wouldn’t have followed that sound.

Maybe if they’d trusted me with the truth, I would’ve run the other way.

Maybe if I’d known what he was, I wouldn’t be standing here trying to forgive something that nearly killed me.

But they hadn’t.

So now you knew.

Remus was a wolf.

James and Sirius were liars.

And you were just the wreckage left behind.

The pain grounded you for a moment. Not enough. You remembered James shouting. Sirius pleading. Both of them drowning in their own guilt and still too proud to hand you a life raft. They hadn’t told you because they were afraid. Not for you—but for him.

You meant less than the secret.

You were an acceptable loss.

You forced yourself to stand, legs trembling, hands white-knuckled against the stone. You thought your knees might give out, but you didn’t care.

You had to see him. You had to know. If he still had your voice in his bones. If anything in him recognized the destruction he’d left behind.

You limped through the hallway like a shadow. The castle around you was too quiet, too still, as if it knew something had gone terribly wrong and was trying not to breathe.

Your side ached with every step. The bandages beneath your robes were warm and wet, and you didn’t want to know if it was fresh blood or just the old wounds leaking again. It didn’t matter. You felt hollow. Not empty—stripped.

You walked past the portraits, but none stirred. Even the ghosts seemed to shrink from you. Maybe they recognized you now. Not as a student. But as someone touched by death.

And then—shouting.

Ragged, desperate. Voices you knew.

Your heart twisted violently, nausea rising. You quickened your pace despite the pain, your breath hitching with every step. The ache in your chest sharpened as you turned a corner and—

Remus was screaming.

James had both arms locked tight around him, teeth grit as he struggled to keep Remus from hurling himself down the corridor.

Every inch of Remus's body fought against him, wild and unhinged, as if the rage had torn through muscle and bone and made something feral of him all over again.

"You brought Snape?!" he shouted, voice cracking with disbelief. "Are you fucking serious, Sirius?! You brought him—there—knowing what I am?!"

Sirius didn’t move. He stood like a statue, hands shoved into the pockets of his robes, jaw clenched, eyes hard.

"I didn’t think he’d actually go in," he said flatly. "I thought he’d get scared. Turn back."

"You thought—?" Remus’s breath hitched, then came out in something like a growl. "You don’t get to think, Sirius. You don’t get to gamble with that."

He thrashed in James’s arms again.

"And where the fuck is she?! Why is no one telling me where Y/N is?!"

James held tighter.

"Moony, don’t—"

"Don’t what?" Remus twisted around to face him. "Don’t ask why no one will look me in the fucking eye?! Don’t ask where the girl I—" His voice caught, strangled in his throat. "Where is she?"

And then he saw you.

The world stopped moving.

You stood at the far end of the hall, pressed against the stone wall like it might hold you up if your legs gave out. Your shirt was torn at the shoulder. The bandages had come loose. Blood had soaked through. A thin line of bruising curled along your cheekbone. The mark on your collarbone—his mark—was dark and angry and violet.

Remus's gaze dropped to your arms, your limp, slow steps. Then back to James.

"I did that," he whispered. The words seemed to strike him in the throat. "Didn’t I?"

James looked at the floor. That was answer enough.

Remus folded to his knees like his body had finally realized the weight of the truth. His hands hit the ground. He stared down at the stone like it might split open beneath him.

"Tell me I didn’t," he murmured. "Tell me I didn’t do that. Please, James. Tell me I didn’t do this."

No one spoke.

"Tell me I didn’t hurt her," he begged, louder now. "Tell me I didn’t—"

"You don’t remember," you said.

Your voice didn’t echo. It didn’t need to.

Three heads snapped toward you. But you only looked at him.

Remus's breath caught. He looked like he’d been stabbed.

"I—I don’t remember what happens," he stammered. "I never do. I wake up, and I’m—covered in blood, and I never know if it’s mine or someone else’s and—"

He clawed at his own sleeves, nails digging through fabric, through skin, desperate to feel pain that might match what was screaming inside his chest.

James tried to steady him, arms still locked tight around his shoulders, but Remus tore away with a howl that didn’t sound human.

“I tore her apart,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “I—I felt it—I smelled blood—I wanted it—Merlin, I wanted it—” He curled forward like the words had gutted him, fingers clutching at his head.

“I should be locked up. I should be dead.”

“No,” James said firmly, stepping forward, but Remus flinched and scrambled back like he’d touched fire.

“Don’t—don’t touch me—I’m not—I’m not safe—” He looked at you again, and this time, he really saw you.

Your limp. Your wince. Your bruises and the slow, shaking breath you took just to stay standing. His entire body stilled. Then: he crawled backwards, hands raised, like distance might erase the horror.

“I hurt you.”

Your name was a sob in his throat.

“I hurt you—I knew I would—I told them to keep me away—I told them—fuck—”

“Remus,” you whispered.

He looked away.

“Remus,” you said again, louder this time, voice cracked but sure.

“I’m a monster,” he choked out, voice barely more than a strangled whisper. “Don’t come near me. Please—I’ll hurt you again. I will.”

You took a step forward anyway, ignoring the scream of pain in your leg and the sharp crack of your ribs.

Every breath was a jagged knife, but something inside you refused to stay still.

“I said don’t!” he roared suddenly, flinching hard enough to slam his back against the cold stone wall. His hands flew up to cover his face, as if he couldn’t bear to see the damage—your pain, his pain, everything shattered between you.

“Please. I’ll ruin you. I ruin everything. Don’t—please—”

But you couldn’t stop. You wouldn’t stop.

Each step was a struggle, your body trembling with exhaustion and fear. Five staggering steps. Then you dropped to your knees in front of him, breathless and broken, the room tilting around you.

And then, without thinking, you wrapped your arms around him.

Every muscle tensed, every breath caught in his chest. For a long, endless moment, he didn’t move at all.

You were warm. Solid. Real. Against the ruins of his skin, against the guilt that was tearing him apart from the inside—you were alive.

And you were holding him.

He tried to pull away, voice frantic and raw. “No—no, don’t—I don’t deserve this—I hurt you—”

“I know,” you whispered softly, your voice a fragile thread in the silence, sinking into his hair, his chest, every ragged breath he took. “I know.”

He started to cry again—violently, uncontrollably. The kind of sobs that wrench a person apart from the inside out. His body shook like he was trying to shake free from some invisible weight dragging him under. His breaths came in ragged, broken gasps, each one tearing at his chest with fresh agony.

You could feel the rawness in him, the shattered pieces trembling just beneath the surface. And still, you held on tighter, as if your arms could somehow keep him from falling all the way apart.

“You’re not a monster,” you whispered, your voice low and steady, a lifeline thrown across the storm.

You said it again, over and over, even when his head shook so hard it seemed like it might come off his shoulders.

Even when he whispered, so broken it barely sounded like words, yes I am.

Even when his fingers clawed at the floor, desperate and frantic, as if tearing at the ground could tear him out of his own skin.

“You’re not a monster. You’re not a monster. You’re not.”

Your words became a chant, a prayer. You said them so many times you thought your throat might break.

But still, you kept saying them. Because if you didn’t, who else would? If you didn’t believe it for him, then how could he ever believe it for himself?

Then, slowly, painfully, he collapsed into you. It was as if he’d been falling forever, and for the first time he found something to catch him—a place to land, even if it was fragile and trembling beneath the weight of his grief. His body sagged against yours, heavy and defeated.

You cradled his head in your shaking hands, fingers threading through his hair as though anchoring him to the world. You held him through the sobs, through the storm, through the unbearable silence between each tear.

“I forgive you.”

And again.

“I forgive you.”

Your voice cracked, raw with all the tears you hadn’t even realized were falling down your cheeks. Your throat burned like fire from saying it so many times. Your bandages pressed painfully against his skin, a sharp reminder that your body, too, was broken. But still, you said it—because someone had to say it.

Because sometimes forgiveness is the hardest thing to give and the most necessary thing to hear.

“I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you.”

Remus broke completely. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close as if you were the only solid thing left in the world.

His face buried deep in your shoulder, muffling the desperate whispers of I’m sorry that spilled from his lips like a litany, like a prayer, like a curse he couldn’t undo. The weight of those words hung heavy between you, suffocating and real.

Maybe some wounds could never fully heal. Maybe some mistakes could never be undone. But you held him anyway, steady and sure, even when your own body trembled with pain.

Because sometimes, love is the only thing strong enough to hold two broken people together when everything else falls apart.

He didn’t look up. His head hung low, shoulders trembling with a quiet, desperate shudder. His breaths came in ragged gasps, shallow and uneven, like the air itself was betraying him.

Your fingers found his face, trembling as you gently cupped his cheeks, warm beneath your cold touch.

For a moment, he froze—still as if your presence was something fragile, something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“Look at me,” you whispered, voice soft but firm.

You pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling, heart pounding loud enough you were sure he could hear it. “Remus. Please. Look at me.”

Slowly—agonizingly slow—his eyes lifted, meeting yours.

What you saw there nearly shattered you.

It wasn’t guilt. Not even horror. It was grief. Endless, bone-deep, all-consuming grief.

Like he had already buried you somewhere inside his mind and didn’t know how to find his way back to the living world. Like a weight pressed so hard on his chest he couldn’t breathe without breaking.

You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing a tear away as it slipped silently down his face.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, voice trembling but steady.

His breath hitched, caught somewhere between hope and despair.

“It’s not,” he croaked, voice raw and broken.

“But I’m here.”

You let the silence stretch between you, letting your touch be the anchor in the storm of his pain. Letting the quiet speak the words you both couldn’t say aloud.

Then, with a gentle nudge, you reached up and helped him to his feet. 

He didn’t speak. Didn’t question. Just followed as you led him down the corridor, your fingers laced with his, your steps slow and uneven.

He swayed as he stood, unsteady, eyes still glassy with unshed tears. He didn’t let go of your hand.

You didn’t let go of him either.

Your fingers laced through his, and you took a small step forward. He followed. Another step. Another.

You guided him through the corridor like that, hand in hand, limping slightly with each movement but refusing to stop. His steps were heavy, dragging, as if every footfall carried the weight of what he’d done. But he followed you.

When you reached the bathroom, you nudged the door open with your shoulder and led him inside.

The light was dim. Everything smelled like old tile and lavender soap. The only sound was the drip of a tap and the hush of your breaths. You turned the knobs with aching fingers, letting warm water spill into the tub, steam curling into the air like a kind of gentleness neither of you had known in days.

He stood by the door, unmoving.

You stepped toward him again, slower this time, and reached for the hem of his shirt.

He flinched.

“I can go,” you said, voice low, careful.

He looked at you—just looked—and then, finally, shook his head

You peeled the tattered shirt off his frame, revealing bruises and scratches and old scars that mapped out years of hurt across his skin. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look away. You undid the buttons of his trousers, helped him step out of them, folding them into a soft pile on the counter.

He didn’t speak. He only watched you with wide, haunted eyes, as if each tender movement was something he couldn’t understand.

Like he didn’t know what to do with this softness.

You reached for his hand again.

“Come on,” you said quietly. “It’s warm.”

He let you guide him into the tub. The water rose around him, lapping gently at his arms and shoulders. He shivered—not from cold, but from everything.

You knelt beside the tub, dipping a cloth into the water, wringing it out. Then, slowly, you brought it to his skin.

You washed him the way you’d cradle something delicate.

You ran the cloth down his arm. Across his shoulder. Behind his ear. Over his chest, where his heart beat wild and trembling under your hand.

You bathed him in silence, each movement slow and deliberate, as if you could wash away the weight of everything between you. Your hands trembled slightly as you carefully wiped the dried blood from his fingers, tracing the lines of his knuckles where the skin was torn and raw.

You cleaned the sweat that clung to his brow, cool and sticky beneath your touch. Then you pressed your palm gently over his heart, feeling the faint, uneven thud beneath your palm—a stubborn, fragile reminder that it was still beating, still alive.

He didn’t meet your eyes. Didn’t say a word. Just sat there, water swirling around him, eyes distant and unfocused, lost somewhere far away, in a place you couldn’t reach—yet.

But you promised yourself, silently, fiercely, that you would reach him. No matter how long it took. No matter how many walls he built around himself.

He was still there when you finally broke the silence. Your voice was soft, almost fragile, like a whisper carrying through the fog.

“I wish someone had told me,” you said quietly, not daring to meet his gaze. “I wish you had told me.”

Remus tensed beneath the water, muscles knotting, and you felt it through your fingertips. You wrung the cloth between your fingers, heart pounding with every second of silence that stretched between you.

“I don’t care how painful it would’ve been,” you added, voice steadier now, more certain. “I deserved to know.”

He exhaled slowly, as if the words themselves carved into him. “I didn’t want you to see me that way.”

Your tone sharpened, the raw hurt breaking through your calm. “You didn’t get to decide that for me. You don’t get to protect me by lying. Not when it nearly killed me.”

The weight of those words fell heavy into the space between you. For a moment, the only sound was the faint drip of water from the cloth.

Then his eyes lifted slowly, meeting yours for the first time in what felt like forever—fragile, vulnerable, full of everything he’d been too scared to say.

“I didn’t think you'd ever look at me the same,” he whispered, voice cracking under the weight of his fear. “If you knew.”

A bitter laugh escaped your throat, sharp and sudden, breaking the tension.

“You think I don’t see you now? You think I’m not looking at you, right now, with every part of me?”

He swallowed hard, eyes flickering with something almost like hope.

“I see you, Remus. All of you. I see the way you flinch from love like it’s a blade. I see the grief carved into your silence. I see the boy who would rather bury himself than risk hurting someone else.”

Your gaze dropped to your hands—wounded, trembling, wrapped in ragged bandages—and the pain in your voice was honest, unfiltered. “But I also see the boy who never trusted me enough to tell me the truth. And that… that hurts more than any scar.”

He looked broken, hollowed out in a way that left your chest aching, but he didn’t turn away. Didn’t close his eyes. Instead, his voice came, raw and low.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. “I should’ve told you. I should’ve trusted you.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of your words settling between you like a fragile promise. “Yes. You should’ve.”

The steam from the warm water curled around your faces, softening the harsh edges of everything unsaid, blurring the sharp lines of pain into something almost gentle.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just breathing in the shared silence. Then he leaned forward, his forehead resting lightly against yours, a quiet gesture that spoke of tentative hope and fragile trust.

“I want to try,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “If you’ll let me.”

Your own voice trembled as it broke free. “Start by telling me everything.”

He nodded again, slower this time, like anchoring himself to the present. And with that, something shifted—an opening, a fragile thread weaving back between you.

And this time, he did.

It came slowly at first, like drawing words from the marrow of his bones—halting, rough, like he’d forgotten how to shape language without flinching.

He told you what he could remember from that night—shards of memory coated in blood and fear, barely coherent. He told you what it felt like to lose himself, to slip out of time, to wake up in a skin that didn’t feel like his own.

The nightmares that curled around his ribcage. The silence that tasted like penance. The months—years—spent learning how to live without letting anyone close enough to see the damage. How he'd convinced himself that silence was kindness, that distance was protection, that truth was a luxury people like him couldn’t afford.

And still, you listened.

You didn’t interrupt. You didn’t turn away. You let his voice break against you like waves on a cliffside, let him collapse into pauses and shake through the parts he couldn’t finish. You held the silence between his sentences like it was something sacred. Even when it hurt.

Even when it cracked open something raw and old inside your chest. Because somewhere inside you, you knew—this wasn’t just a story he was telling. It was a confession. A quiet unraveling.

Not everything was said. Not everything could be. There were still silences he couldn’t break open and wounds you weren’t sure how to touch. But it was a beginning. A single stone placed in what might one day be a bridge.

And still, there was so much more.

The things Sirius had done—reckless, cruel, even if born of desperation—hung in the air like smoke that would not clear. You had not spoken to him since it all unraveled. You were not sure what you would say.

You didn’t know if Remus would ever find it in himself to forgive Sirius, or to trust him again. Some things fracture differently. Some betrayals do not bleed clean.

And James, with his steady eyes and soft-spoken guilt, had kept his own silences. Even he, who had always tried to protect you, had made choices that left you cut open.

All three of them had lied in different ways. Lied in the name of protection. Lied out of fear. Lied out of love. And those lies still lingered in the spaces behind your teeth. You hadn’t even begun to decide what to do with that.

You knew, deep down, that some scars would not close. That no amount of tenderness could undo certain kinds of damage. That some trust, once fractured, might never return in the shape it once held.

You had changed. They had, too. And now you would have to figure out if those new shapes could still fit beside one another without splintering again.

You would have to grieve what you’d lost—who you’d been before all this. You would have to learn how to trust again, not just them, but yourself. Your instincts. Your worth. You’d have to forgive the parts of you that stayed too quiet, too long. You would carry this with you, no matter how far you ran—these bruised memories, these broken truths—but you didn’t have to carry them alone anymore.

Healing would not be a soft road.

There would be nights you’d wake trembling. Days the anger would rise without warning. There would be guilt, and fear, and moments when you weren’t sure if you could keep choosing to stay.

But there would also be mornings, slow and gold. There would be laughter again, strange at first, then easier. There would be cups of tea gone cold on the windowsill. A hand held out when you least expected it. A voice calling you back when you wandered too far.

But you also knew this. You were no longer alone in it.

You helped Remus out of the tub when the water turned cold. He was quiet, pliant, letting you wrap the towel around his shaking shoulders. His head tilted toward yours as you led him through the dim apartment, your steps slow but steady, his breath catching in the hush between rooms.

You found him a fresh shirt, helped him into bed without asking, and tucked the blanket over his trembling limbs. He lay still as stone, but his fingers found yours. And held.

You sat beside him, watching the moonlight shift across the floorboards, and for a while, neither of you spoke.

When Remus finally turned to face you, his expression was soft with exhaustion, but something in his eyes had steadied.

He took your hand again, thumb grazing the inside of your wrist like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of you.

“Do you think,” he asked, his voice just above a whisper, “there’s a chance for us? After everything?”

The question lingered between you. Not desperate. Not demanding. Just honest.

You took a breath and met his gaze. “Yes,” you said. “I do.”

His hand tightened gently in yours. He closed his eyes for a moment, like he was letting that answer settle inside his chest.

Then he looked at you again, quieter this time.

“For keeps?”

You blinked, heart rising painfully. You didn’t hesitate.

“For keeps.”

a/n: this is so over the place, i am so sorry anon </3

[songofpolaris]

❥ masterlist / navigation ❥

-> pairing; james potter x reader

-> wc; 1.5k

-> warnings; death, descriptions of grief

-> a/n; I wrote this with Timeless by Taylor Swift playing in the background. It's not some immaculate piece of literature, but I'm kind of attached to it now even if I'm not as proud of it as some other works of mine. It's warm and painful at the same time, so try it and I hope you enjoy. Lots of love

Timeless | James Potter

As you’re looking through the freshly developed pictures in the dark room, tears fill your eyes. You’re staring at James Potter, your James, just woken up, wearing crooked glasses and a very fresh bed head. His hand is grabbing towards the camera while a beaming smile peeks behind it. It was the first time you saw him with bad hair. And the guy didn’t even actually look bad, his embarrassment just motivated you to tease him because of it. In reality, he still looked amazing. He would never have believed you if you told him though. The man could not be confident if his hair wasn’t ready to be pictured and put onto a prestigious magazine cover. You grabbed your camera as fast as you could and captured the moment.

You eye the vintage camera lying next to the door on an old wooden table. The camera itself is dusty from being hidden away in the corner of your dresser all these years. You put it there because you couldn’t bear the pain of being remembered. The camera that captured some of the most wonderful memories you hold, which are now some of the most painful ones.

The next picture is of the two of you sitting on the edge of the porch from your first official house. You’re wearing old dungarees and have paint streaks on your cheek and all over your clothes. James is staring at you while clearly wetting his finger to try to get some paint off of your face. Sirius is standing behind you, making an ugly face while staring at the happy couple. You have a big smile on you and dangle a small key in front of you. You remember Lily yelling “Say “We just moved in!” for the picture!” from behind the camera and Remus commenting that there would be no way the picture would turn out good if you all actually said that. James naturally wasn’t paying attention and you laughed because of the nasty sounds Sirius was making, pretending the lovey dovey Potter scene was sickening.

These pictures all are some form of key moments in your relationship. In your loving relationship with James, as well as the beautiful friendships within this group of people. You and Lily were always the ones with a camera in their bags, ready to capture whatever you felt was worth capturing. At the time, the guys made a point of it to avoid the camera, just because there were already a million pictures of them and they did not see the need for any more. Any moment either you or Lily moved to grab your camera, at least one of them would sigh and mumble something like “This is some kind of weird obsession” or “Are you planning on selling pictures of me since I’m that stunning?” The last remark being made by James who could actually imagine this being a real scenario. They would go to the greatest lengths to avoid the subtle lenses of your camera. Once it even led to Sirius falling off of his broom during a friendly game of quidditch because he tried to dive away from you and your camera.

Now, they would understand why you both tried to capture as many wonderful moments as you could. Because you and Lily were more aware than anyone that you would not all make it out alive. Sadly enough you were proven right.

As you flip through a stack of newly developed pictures, from the finally freed camera, you see one that you do not remember being made. It is you and Lily sitting next to James and Sirius. Remus must have made this picture. You are all sitting on the same side of the table, squished together onto a corner couch for the photo, and you are pointing at your hand, which is aimed toward the camera. Lily has a tear on her cheek and is smiling brightly, while Sirius is faking a shocked look. His mouth exaggeratingly wide open with his hands in front of it and big surprised eyes. On your hand a small shimmer comes off of a candy wrapper, wrapped around your ring finger. James kisses you on the cheek. It’s the night of your proposal. With all the joy of the night, you must have forgotten that Remus actually forced you all to make this picture. Remus, of all people, who hated photographing and being photographed.

“This is a moment that actually needs capturing” He had proudly said.

No one could have told you all that this would be one of the last times that you would be together while only laughing and having the times of your lives. After this, Voldemort would start winning. He would make you, Lily and Remus afraid of walking around in Diagon Alley, thinking that anyone passing by could want you to be gone. Could judge you for being born the way you were. And you see the difference gradually in the pictures.

One of the last ones in the stack is a photo of only you and James. Lily had made the picture, you clearly remember this.

You and James are looking each other in the eyes, your hands are holding his soft cheeks. One of his hands is gripping onto your wrist, the other the back of your neck. You can see the swollen red eyes and tear stains on your clothes. Your white dress has soft droplets on it and James’ hair's a mess. He didn’t even care what it looked like in the picture. You had just gotten back from the courthouse where they hadn’t allowed you two to be married. James told you on the ride back that you will find a way, which is what Lily captured. She captured the promise that James immediately fulfilled, while you were both scared out of your minds and sobbing over the time you found yourself living in.

So, when the five of you came back to the house, the first and only house you ever bought, James read you his vows and you read yours to him. They were beautiful, honest, and true. Nothing was ever more truthful than the words you shared with each other in that moment.

And that’s when the last picture was taken. Euphemia and Fleamont had come over for the ceremony and said that this was a moment you would want to remember your whole lives.

“Even if it feels like a beautiful tragedy now, someday it will simply be beautiful to you, my love. And for that moment, you want to be able to look back at it and remember the love and life you had and started together.” Euphemia had said, and nothing she said was ever incorrect.

You and James insisted on having the picture be of all five of you. So with the two of you in the middle, Sirius and Remus next to James and you next to Lily, Fleamont made the last picture of all of you together in a room. You called it ‘the family picture'.

Soon after, the war officially started. You all fought for the Order until the bitter end, which sadly meant the end of your family. James found his place with the stars first, it was a quick and painless death, alone on a mission. Remus and Sirius walked into the end hand in hand, ready to commit to another life together. Lily and you thankfully found your way back to each other after the chaos and destruction left behind by the war, having fundamentally changed in this traumatic time only made your friendship stronger. But you both never were able to look forward. You hid cameras in wardrobes but stalled out the already printed pictures on the mantle, halls and rooms. You lived looking at all the memories pretending they were someone else’s. A life you could not remember living. A life where you would end up with just the two of you. You both talked about them like they were here, never in the past tense. You could not cope with the loss of a family that was as dear to you and Lily as this chosen one.

Now that she died and you were the last one left, you were ready. You developed the last pictures, pictures of you all in your beginning to late twenties, mourning the people you once were. Loving their smiles, their gestures, their beings. You mourned the love of your life with all the love you had left. And not just James. You visited all of their graves weekly, laying down flowers and other things they loved. On Remus’ grave, there’s a stack of books now. Lily now has the old camera and flowers, Sirius a packet of cigarettes and records he listened so frequently to that they didn’t work anymore. And James got you. You sat there every other day, talking to him and telling about whatever happened or was on your mind. Until you joined the rest of your family.

All that’s left now of this life you lived is a cardboard box filled with pictures of the life you’ve made.

[anonyymouslyyours]

Hii! I love ur writing so much, I had a h/c fic idea for James but I can't write to save my life so I figured I'd request lmao. Feel free to ignore if it's not something ur interested in writing ofc.

I was thinking smtn where James asks out reader and they think it's a joke so they like walk away or tell him to fuck off or smtn and James is just so confused so the next day asks r wtf that was about and she's like "if ur gonna be a dick you shouldn't expect other ppl to just take it" or something and he's still confused and asks her what was happening so she explains what she thinks is going on and he like comforts her and tells her that he fr likes her

getting around to answering some requests... i took a short break but im thinking about writing a bit again. this is just cute fluff. little rusty tho. 💞

james potter is an absolute idiot.. truly. and yet, somehow, you've still had a crush on him for 3 years. it's truly a marvel. james and his friends, fondly referred to as the 'marauders', often play practical jokes. of course, when out of the blue on a random tuesday james sheepishly approaches you asking if you want to go to hogsmeade together, you think it's some sort of joke. a cruel trick of the universe, to tug on your poor pining heart. so you scowl at him, and turn straight on your heel and march off.

james and you have been friends for years, longer then you've ever liked him, so the only logical answer is that its all a joke. a cruel joke. and one, though you'd never say to anybody else, hurts. a lot. so, like the very mature person you are, you decide to ignore his existence for the rest of the day, and the following morning. when james gets remus, your loyal potions buddy, to past notes to you in class, you throw them straight in the bin; ignoring remus's skeptical stare, with an eye-roll and shrug. and just as you think you've evaded him the whole day, he corners you as you leave history of magic.

"whats wrong with you? you've been ignoring me all day? did i fuck up that bad?" he says, hot on your heels behind you as you storm through the hallway away.

"you know james, if your gonna be such a fucking dick about peoples feelings, you shouldn't just expect them to take it. and if you do, consider yourself no longer my friend. don't talk to me, stop passing notes, stop staring at me, and stop corning me on my way out of class!" you snap, turning to stare at him with your arms folded.

and james, well, james just pouts. a confused look spreads across his brow.

"i- i thought you liked me? and i really like you- and i don't understand, i truly wasn't trying to play with your feelings or- or anything like that!" he replies, sounding adorably confused and sincere, and you falter.

"you asked me out as a joke james! how is that anything but playing with my-"

"sorry what? no! i was very serious. i like you. a lot. have for a while and it's taking me so, so long to work up the courage. i've taken too long and now i've blown it." james cuts in, stepping forward into your space, except you don't back away.

"you.. weren't joking?"

"of course not!" he says, placing a hand on your shoulder. he looks rather upset actually, a frown on his face.

you blink at him, stepping closer.

"you actually meant it? you, er, like me?"

"head over heels." he confirms, with a smile spreading across his face

"well then, ill see on saturday night." you say, a small smile in return before turning rather quickly away to rush off to your dorm, a light blush coating your cheeks.

james twirls on the spot, throwing his fist in the air in a quiet "yes!" before dashing after you.

"wait! where do you wanna go because i was thinking something special? my treat- god let me treat you right!"

[enviedear]

save the date ⟶ james potter

DESCRIPTION ⌙ after an innocent suggestion that james potter is horrible at relationships, he feels inclined to prove you wrong. PAIRING ⌙ james x fem!reader CW ⌙ mention of food, eating food, petnames WORD COUNT ⌙ 2.3k

❛ ֪ ׂ shenanigans? is that what you call your love life? ֪ ׂ ❜

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for the second time this month, you’re spending your friday evening trying to drone out an argument. hilariously large and bulky headphones sit upon your ears— and yet you can still make out the aggravatingly grating noise.

if you’d known being james’ roommate would have entailed you hearing multiple fights from different girlfriends, you may not have signed the lease.

may not have— because a rent controlled apartment in the city is far too good to pass by.

truthfully, you felt a little bit bad for james. he was so good at picking gorgeous, captivating women. you could never fault his taste, no, you faulted his ability to be a boyfriend.

take this instance, a disagreement that started over dinner plans, only to devolve into a full blown argument. over what currently? you’re not exactly sure. but by the way the woman was yelling at him, you were sure he had said something stupid.

seconds later you can hear her huff, slam his door, walk down the stairs, and leave the apartment.

slowly, you remove your headphones, the noise of your music now being the only thing you can hear. you wait, looking expectantly at your door.

almost on some cue, james opens your door with a counterfeit smile on his face, “any plans tonight?”

you roll your eyes at him, “let me guess? non refundable dinner reservation and two tickets to the movies.”

he walks into your room, plopping down on your bean bag chair, “act nice or i’ll take sirius instead.”

you ignore him, “be honest, what did you do this time?”

“absolutely nothing.” he grumbles, shaking his head.

you didn’t believe him for a second. you’ve known james for four years now and you’ve lived with him for two. you knew in your soul that he, despite trying, always managed to do something.

he had a strange ineptitude for romance. it was as though he couldn't make it a week before his stupidity turned from endearing to unbearable.

he sighs, "she kept asking me if i had anything planned for our date— and i didn't want to ruin the surprise, so i just kept saying no. 'no, honey, i figure we'd wing it.' fuck— i didn't think it would blow up like that."

you gape at him, "but you did tell her, right?"

he shrugs, "by the time i thought to she was already leaving."

this was james, unable to keep a relationship purely because of his own doing.

"you're going to end up alone." you chuckle, fiddling with your phone to turn off your music.

james is silent, so you go on, "i'm saying this from a place of love, but you're horrible at relationships. almost criminally bad at them." your finger points at him, mocking.

he glares at you, tousled curls falling into his eyes, "i am not."

you grin, "yes— you are."

he ignores you, plopping down onto your bean bag, "and still i get more dates than you," he pauses, muttering out, "brat."

"you do not!" you don't mean to, but your voice comes out childishly.

james finally rids himself of his frown, smirking, "fuck's sake, calm down." it takes everything in you to not pelt him with whatever's near you. he has such a chuck-worthy grin.

it was often that the two of you would have these petty disagreements. mostly due to the close proximity of sharing the same space, but sometimes, you honestly didn't understand why both of you were so worked up.

you get off of your bed and squat down to his level, "i'm so close to throwing you out."

he smiles, and lazily pulls you down with him, "i didn't mean it, don't be mad."

you narrow your eyes, despite the grin on your face, "you're temperamental, potter."

he chuckles, eyes now closed, "and you're wrong."

you hum, arm touching his, "about what?"

he looks at you, "'bout me. that i'm bad at relationships."

you almost laugh at him, because if there was one thing you knew as fact— it was that james had a ninety-nine percent fail rate.

so you're easily coy when you speak, "oh, then please, prove me wrong."

your tone is playful, but james' eyes make you pause. he looks eerily\ honestly, determined.

"with pleasure." he says simply.

you don't say anything after. not for a few moments. you try instead to ignore the strange tightness in your chest at his words. wordlessly, you rise from beside him and open up your closet door.

"what time is this reservation?" you ask, subtitling watching his face brighten.

james smiles, "you'll come?"

you shrug, "i'll never turn down money spent well."

he laughs, "and you think my funds are best spent on you?"

there's a mischievous glint in your voice, "aren't i always the best cause."

he feigns annoyance at you, but goes to leave your room so that you can change. as you watch him go, and note the way his dress shirt hugs the curves of his toned back. often, you’d catch yourself admiring him. it was silly, but despite your usual chagrin of him and his antics, you found him so beautiful.

you’re barely concentating on the clothes he's wearing now, thinking instead to the half-awake version of him from last night, wearing only his plaid boxers and leaning against the fridge, a glass of water in his hand, eyes half-lidded.

and then, the james you so often see after a shower. his face flushed, hair tousled, and towel always riding just low enough.

of course, you noticed him and you tried not to lie to yourself about it. you found him attractive, sure, but that was all. you knew there was nothing else there, and you’d be an idiot if you let your mind even think there was.

putting your fascination with him to the side, you scour your closet for something presentable. reaching the back of your closet before finding anything, a flowy little number you had apparently hidden from yourself for god knows how long. you inspect it, and slip it on once you decide that the small wrinkles at the bottom of the skirt are inconsequential.

you do your makeup in the bathroom, james butting in often to try and hurry you along, "how many coats of mascara more? can we please leave?"

you shush him each time until you're finally ready, "there— see? that didn't take so long did it?"

he rolls his eyes, "felt like bloody years."

you chuckle, opening the door for him, "i don't even think i reached an hour, you brat."

he jingles his keys in your face, his assortment of keychains slapping against each other, "play nice."

it's safe to say you do not 'play nice' for the entire duration of the car ride. you take immediate ownership of the radio instead, queuing all your favorite songs. james protests for five or so minutes before shaking his head with you and singing along.

the restaurant he's chosen is a suedo-modern fusion steakhouse— horribly expensive— and you can't help but feel a little out of place as you step inside. james, however, seems right at home. he greets the hostess by name and leads you to a private booth in the back.

as you sit down, you eye him, "what?" he asks, sipping his water.

"how often do you come here. i mean, they seem to know you." you're smirking, finding it quite funny.

james shrunches his face, "no, actually, my parents have insisted on eating here for my past six birthdays."

you hum, "i forget mommy and daddy are wealthy, you should really advertise it more. as an incentive." you're kidding of course, james reeked of rich kid. in the nicest way.

he gestures at you with his butterknife, "you think i haven't pulled that? c'mon honey i'm not completely daft."

you chuckle, taking a sip of your own water. watching as james continues, dwelling into a story about work. you've already heard it but you'd feel wretched to tell him. so, you listen, watching his brown eyes and strong use of his hands with each adjective used.

you've almost blocked everything but him from your sense when the waiter returns, placing down an appetizer you're sure the two of you didn't order.

you look to james, who's in the middle of placing his order. he sends you a wink.

you fumble through your own order, cursing yourself for not looking at the menu more thoroughly.

"do you even know what that is?" james asks when the waiter walks away.

you roll your eyes, "yes james, i'm well aware of the french word for fish."

he shrugs, "can't hurt to make sure." there's a pause, "d'ya like the wontons?"

your face morphs into a smile, "you ordered this?"

"yeah when i made the reservation, don't feel too special." he's got a shit-eating grin on his face, freckles more prominent in the overhead light.

you tease, "i'll remember this next time you're in need of my assistance."

he leans back, feigning innocence, "hey, i'm just trying to create a memorable dining experience."

the conversation continues to flow, easy and familiar. it doesn't surprise you, how comfortable you are with james, even when he's being his usual cheeky self. the food arrives, and you both enjoy the meal, trading bites and sharing stories. it's one of those moments when you forget about the world outside and just relish in the company of a friend.

as dessert arrives, james leans in a bit closer, his tone shifting to something more serious. "you know, i appreciate you putting up with my shenanigans. not just tonight, but all the time."

you raise an eyebrow, a playful grin on your face, "shenanigans? is that what you call your love life?"

he chuckles, but his gaze is sincere, "yeah, that and everything else. you've been there for me, and i don't say it enough, but i'm really grateful."

you feel a warmth in your chest at his words, and for a moment, the playful banter fades away. "you're not so bad yourself, potter."

he smiles, a genuine one this time, "i'd hope so."

an hour passes by, and you're both lost in conversation when you realize the restaurant is beginning to close up. with a sigh, you both gather your things and leave. the night air is cool as you step outside, and you find yourselves walking down the quiet streets back to his car.

as you stroll, james looks over at you, his expression soft, "you know, i might not be great at relationships, but i've always liked what we have. you're more than just a roommate to me, you're like my confidant, my partner-in-crime, and my closest friend."

you feel a flush of emotion at his words, a mix of happiness and something you can't quite put your finger on. "you too, potter. just don't let it get to your head."

he grins, slipping his hands into his pockets, "wouldn't dream of it."

the two of you continue your leisurely walk, the city lights casting a warm glow around you. it's a somewhat quiet night, but the silence is comfortable, the kind that comes from years of shared experiences and unspoken understanding.

as you approach the car, james stops and turns to you, his gaze searching yours, "you know, i might be awful at relationships, but there's one thing i'm certain of."

you raise an eyebrow, curious, "and what's that?"

he opens his car door, soft smirk on his face, "i'm pretty sure i've already found the best thing in my life."

your heart skips a beat, but your eyes roll, "smooth, potter. really laying it on thick."

he chuckles, a hint of nervousness in his eyes, "i mean it, though." he proceedes to give a light shrug before getting into the car.

you chuckle and follow him, "you're insufferable."

he smiles, turning to head to you, "you can say whatever you want, but you know deep down you love me."

you slide into the passenger seat and playfully roll your eyes, "maybe i just have a high tolerance for insufferable people."

james starts the car, and as he pulls away from the curb, he glances at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "ah, so you're admitting it now, are you?"

you laugh, shaking your head, "i said high tolerance, not undying affection."

he grins, focusing on the road, "well, that's progress, i suppose."

the drive back to your apartment is filled with lighthearted banter and comfortable silences. when you finally arrive, you both step out of the car and make your way to the entrance.

as you approach your apartment door, james turns to you, a playful grin on his face, "you know, i have another surprise for you."

you raise an eyebrow, curious, "oh really? and what might that be?"

he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box, presenting it to you with a flourish, "ta-da! a box of chocolate-covered strawberries, your favorite."

you take the box with a surprised smile, "well, well, james potter, you're really pulling out all the stops tonight."

he chuckles, "just trying to prove that i'm not a lost cause in all things romantic."

you open the box and take a strawberry, popping it into your mouth with a satisfied hum, "i have to admit, this is a step in the right direction."

james grins, looking almost proud of himself, "i'll take what i can get."

you both head inside, and as you settle back into your apartment, you can't help but reflect on the evening. despite his usual antics and relationship mishaps, there's a side of james that you've come to appreciate more and more—a side that values your friendship and makes an effort to show it.

as the night winds down and you both prepare for bed, you find yourself sitting on your respective beds, sharing a comfortable silence. you glance over at james, who's focused on scrolling through his phone, and you can't help but feel a sense of contentment.

"hey, potter," you speak up, breaking the silence.

he looks up, raising an eyebrow, "yes, my dear roommate?"

you smirk, "you know, you might be onto something with this whole 'proving me wrong' thing."

he grins, setting his phone aside, "oh, am i winning you over, then?"

you shake your head, a teasing glint in your eyes, "let's not get ahead of ourselves. but maybe, just maybe, you're not as hopeless as i thought."

james leans back, looking satisfied, "i'll take that as a victory."

you both exchange smiles, and in that moment, you're reminded of why you agreed to be james potter's roommate in the first place. despite his esoteric personality, he's genuine and loyal, and always there to bring a smile to your face—even if it's through exasperation.

with a smirk you get up, making your way upstairs before calling out, "I'm free this sunday, might as well give you a second date."