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colouredbyd · 1 month ago

Text

Off-Script

chapter 1: scene 11, take 1

celebrity!sirius black x celebrity!reader

synopsis: in which one audition changes everything, and you find yourself growing up in the spotlight—alongside sirius black, a boy with a voice like smoke and a name the world won’t forget. the fame is loud, the rumors louder, and somewhere between the endless cameras and the harsh media, the lines begin to blur: between who you are and who you’re expected to be.

and, along the way, everything goes off-script.

warnings: anxiety, nervousness, cringe movie scripts (i tried my best), panic attacks, overthinking, and emotional vulnerability. disclaimer: this chapter features minors as characters since it’s intended as a flashback to how they first met; in later chapters, the characters will be older and adults.

wc: 4.8k next chapter

“Hi, I’m James Potter.”

Your head snaps up, eyes meeting a pair of round glasses and a grin so effortless it almost annoys you.

He’s tall, charming in that boyish way that makes you think he’s never had to try too hard at anything. And he’s holding out a hand like the two of you haven’t been sitting in the same holding room for the past hour, like you didn’t just watch him high-five every casting assistant and crack a joke with the lighting guy and befriend the green-screen lady.

You blink, gather your breath, and take his hand. “I’m Y/N—”

You hesitate for half a second, but it’s more instinct than insecurity.

“You look nervous,” he says, dropping into the seat beside you without waiting for an invitation.

He doesn’t say it unkindly—it’s more of an observation, like he’s stating the weather or that you’ve got a pen tucked behind your ear.

“I’m fine,” you say, but your thumb is still pressed against the margin of the script, smoothing over the same corner you’ve been folding and unfolding since you walked in.

“It’s the lines, isn’t it?” James leans over, peeking at your script.

“Everyone always gets stuck on that one monologue. It’s a beast. I couldn’t get through it without sounding like I was about to cry. Still can’t, but maybe that’s the point.”

You glance at him, surprised. “You struggled with it?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he says easily. “I’ve been in this industry since I was in diapers and I still choke on the heavy stuff. My parents keep trying to convince me it’s all about breathing and honesty. But I think sometimes it’s just about surviving the scene.”

You try not to look visibly shocked. Of course you know who he is. Everyone does. Euphemia and Fleamont Potter—famous for their string of Emmy-winning series and flawless box office runs—are the brains behind this very show. Stranger Things. The dark, nostalgic, terrifyingly brilliant project that people have already started calling “genre-defining.” The Potters are its creators, directors, and executive producers. And James? He’s practically royalty.

You wonder, briefly, if he knows how impossible it is for someone like you to be here.

Because you didn’t grow up on studio lots. You didn’t take acting classes at age three or have your face printed on casting calls by age six. You came from a town where dreams like this stayed dreams. No famous family. No connections. Just a voice in your head telling you to try.

Now you’re here. Sixteen years old, freshly cast as one of the leads in the most anticipated show of the year, with a role that’s raw and strange and full of psychic powers and bleeding noses. You’re not even sure how you got it.

They haven’t officially announced the cast yet. There’s still one final audition round left, but the assistant told you it’s more of a chemistry read—just to see how you and the others move together. Still, the thought of it makes your heart pound.

This isn’t just a dream come true. It’s a dream with teeth.

James nudges your elbow lightly. “You’re gonna be brilliant, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“The scene. The whole thing. I can tell.” His smile softens, less flashy now, more real. “You’ve got this look in your eyes. Like you’ve already lived it.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just nod, and for the first time since you arrived, the room feels a little less sharp. The walls stop closing in.

James grew up with cameras in his face and scripts in his hands. This is his normal.

But he doesn’t make you feel small. He doesn’t throw it around like it means more than your quiet, trembling hands or your desperate need to belong.

“Are you nervous?” you ask, half-joking.

He grins. “Always. That’s how I know it matters.”

You smile back, the knot in your stomach loosening just a little.

“You want to run lines?” he offers, already pulling out his own copy of the scene, edges covered in messy ink.

You nod.

And for the first time since you got the call, the weight lifts. A little.

You’re still the only one who didn’t come from a famous family. Still the only one whose name means nothing in a casting room.

But James Potter is sitting beside you, reading your name like it belongs here. And maybe that’s a start.

You and James run lines for what feels like both forever and no time at all.

He reads with an ease that doesn’t feel showy. There’s no smugness, no performance for the sake of impressing you—he just lives in the scene.

He trips over words sometimes, laughs at strange directions, makes faces when something doesn’t make sense. It makes you feel lighter, like maybe this isn’t so impossible after all. Like maybe you don’t have to be perfect to be good.

At some point, your shoulders stop tensing at every noise. The studio hallway grows louder as more crew members shuffle past—assistants with clipboards, stylists with tangled garment bags, someone dragging what looks like a lighting rig across the floor—but their movement blurs into the background. You’ve got a rhythm now. A steady back and forth between pages, voices, breath.

Then a voice cuts through the hallway: “Remus Lupin? Scene ten, take nine—you’re up.”

James looks up and grins. “You’ll like Remus. He’s good. Kind of freakishly good, actually.”

But you don’t really hear James. Because after Remus, it’ll be you.

You try not to stiffen, but your fingers tighten around the script in your lap. You glance toward the casting room door—the one they’ll call you through next—and suddenly it’s harder to breathe.

James must notice, because he bumps your shoulder lightly. “Hey. You’re fine. You’ve got, like, twenty minutes.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “I think I’ll step out for a bit. Get some air.”

“Good idea,” he says easily, already gathering the pages between his fingers. “Don’t go far, and don’t psych yourself out.”

You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

The hallway is more crowded than when you first arrived, a blur of unfamiliar faces and tangled equipment. You walk briskly, turning toward the exit sign at the far end—except when you get there, it leads to another corridor, not outside.

The studio’s layout is a maze of white-painted walls, steel beams, and swinging doors with production labels. Voices bounce from room to room. The air is warm with stage lights and static.

You try another hallway. No exit. Just more people—tech crew, assistants, actors already in costume. Someone offers you a bottled water. Another brushes past you with a headset and a frown.

Still no fresh air.

You keep moving, further from the noise, until you find a stairwell tucked between two heavy doors. You climb, following the scent of dust and metal, up past the wardrobe floor, past the locked rehearsal studios, up to a plain gray door that hums faintly with the wind behind it.

It opens to the rooftop.

It’s quieter here—distant sirens, a low hum from the city beyond the studio walls. The sky is overcast but soft, the kind of light that makes everything look washed in nostalgia. You step forward slowly, as if not to disturb it.

From up here, the lot looks small. Even the casting room—the one that holds your future inside its four thin walls—seems like it couldn't possibly contain something as heavy as your dream. You sit down against the ledge, script still in hand, the pages fluttering slightly in the breeze.

You close your eyes for a moment, just to remember how it feels to breathe when no one is watching.

But when you open them again, you realize you aren’t alone.

There’s a figure already at the far end of the rooftop, perched at the edge, his back to you. His legs dangle over open air, casually swinging like the hundred-foot drop beneath him means nothing.

You blink, startled. He hadn’t made a sound—not even the creak of movement on the metal ledge.

Your breath catches. “Hey—careful, you’ll fall off.”

The boy doesn’t move. For a second, you think maybe he didn’t hear you.

But then he sighs—loud and pointed—and turns his head slightly, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his face.

His eyes are red. Not tired, not irritated—red. The kind that only happens when someone’s been crying for a long time and didn’t have time to fix it before being seen.

“I’m fine,” he says flatly. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just… blunt.

You take a step closer, slowly, like you’re trying not to spook a wounded animal. “You’re not really supposed to be sitting like that.”

“Then don’t look,” he mutters, eyes flicking back toward the skyline. His voice isn’t sharp, but it cuts anyway.

He’s dressed like someone who was supposed to be somewhere important earlier—pressed shirt, blazer half-slipped off one shoulder, tie loose and crooked. But his hair’s a little messy, and there’s a scuff on one of his shoes, and he looks like he got into a fight with the day and lost.

“I just—” You hesitate, but the words come anyway. “I didn’t think anyone would be up here.”

“Clearly.”

You bristle, despite yourself. There’s a part of you that wants to walk away. Let him stew in his rooftop silence and whatever disaster he’s currently avoiding. But there’s something in his posture—how rigid his shoulders are, how he won’t look at you—that stops you.

So instead of stepping back, you step forward. Right up to the ledge.

And then you climb onto it.

His head snaps toward you. “What are you doing?”

You settle beside him with more stubbornness than grace, gripping the edge for balance as your legs dangle beside his. “If you get to sit here, so do I.”

He frowns, the sharp line of his jaw tightening, a muscle twitching as if caught between restraint and something more volatile. “You could fall.”

“So could you,” you answer without hesitation, your voice calm but firm.

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” you tilt your head, meeting his eyes. “How?”

He opens his mouth like he has the answer ready—like he always does—but nothing comes. His jaw locks again, and for a moment, silence stretches between you, taut as wire.

“Because—” he starts, and then falters. The words catch in his throat. And when he speaks again, it’s thinner, almost like fear is threading through it. “Because I’ve been up here before. I know where the edge is.”

You glance out at the city skyline, the wind brushing against your cheek like a warning, and then back at him. “Then show me.”

He looks at you for a long second, a storm flickering in his gaze. Like he’s weighing the urge to lash out, to say something cold or careless to make you leave.

But something in your expression stops him. Because you’re not backing down. And maybe that’s what makes him pause. Maybe that’s when he sees it—the same quiet storm behind your eyes that mirrors his own. That same mix of anger and aching, of being brave when all you want to do is run.

His shoulders drop slightly, the tension bleeding out in a slow, reluctant breath. When he speaks again, it’s not angry anymore.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“You shouldn’t be up here alone,” you say, your voice soft but unwavering.

He huffs, a half-laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. Still, he doesn’t look away. “You’re impossible,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

“And you’re not?” you counter, the corners of your mouth tugging upward just a little.

His eyes flick to you again, sharper this time. Curious. Like he’s trying to make sense of you, to figure out why you keep showing up in all the places he thought he’d locked away for himself.

“What are you even doing up here?” he finally asks, voice low, frayed at the edges.

You shrug, trying to keep your tone casual even though your hands are starting to feel numb from the wind. “Auditions. I needed air.”

That gets his attention. He turns to you more fully, brows pulling together. “Wait—you’re here for Stranger Things?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

His stare sharpens. “Who are you cast as?”

You hesitate, just for a breath. “The girl. With the powers.”

His mouth drops open slightly. “Fuck.”

You blink. “What?”

He lets out a humorless laugh and rubs a hand over his face. “Just… of course. Of course it’s you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why? What’s that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just tips his head back toward the sky like it might answer for him. Then, with a sigh, he mutters, “I’m her love interest, Mike.”

There’s a beat of silence. A breeze cuts through, and suddenly you’re hyper-aware of how close you’re sitting, how this rooftop feels like a stage you didn’t mean to step onto.

“Wait,” you say, squinting at him. “So… who are you?”

He pauses for just a second too long. “Sirius. Sirius Black.”

You blink again, harder this time.

“You’re—Sirius Black?”

He grimaces. “Unfortunately.”

And that’s when it hits you. The name. The face. The headlines.

The Sirius Black. Probably the most well-known teen actor of his generation. Star of a dozen indie films, two major franchises, and one Oscar-buzz drama that made everyone collectively lose their minds when he was fourteen.

His mother, Walburga Black, hosts one of the most watched reality TV empires in the country, her name basically synonymous with Hollywood gossip.

His father, Orion Black, was once a golden boy actor in the 80s, now the executive force behind Black Pictures—one of the biggest production companies in the industry. The entire family reads like a film credits list. His uncles are actors. His aunts are Oscar-nominated. His godfather is the face of an entire perfume brand.

And you… you had to pick this rooftop.

“Oh,” you say faintly, the word barely brushing past your lips. “That makes sense.”

He snorts, bitter and tired. “Does it?”

You look at him again—really look. There’s a glassiness to his eyes, a kind of weight that doesn’t come from call sheets or cameras but from something older, quieter, and heavier. And for a moment, you’re not sure if he’s laughing at you or at himself.

“I mean,” you murmur, gaze steady, “it explains the dramatics.”

That earns the faintest twitch of a smile—subtle, almost like it slips through before he can stop it. “You’ve got guts,” he says, the words curling just slightly at the edges, “I’ll give you that.”

You don’t know who laughs first.

Maybe it’s him—Sirius Black, perched on the edge of a rooftop like it’s just another stage, muttering something dry that slices through the silence and all your tension with it.

Or maybe it’s you—because everything suddenly feels absurd. The audition, the pressure, the hours spent holding your breath, the way the city breathes beneath your feet.

You glance at him. He’s not smiling wide, not beaming, but there’s something there now—something pulled from beneath the stormcloud eyes and sharp cheekbones. A warmth that could almost be mistaken for light.

And then it hits you.

Your entire body jolts with the realization.

“Shit,” you breathe, the word tumbling out before you can stop it.

He glances over, one eyebrow lifting. “What now?”

“My audition,” you murmur, eyes already darting to the crumpled script poking out of your dress pocket. “Your name’s on my pages.”

He stares at you. “What?”

“You’re in the scene I’m auditioning with.” You fumble for the paper, smoothing it open between your hands. “It’s the one with the girl and the boy in the woods—the flashlight, the whole speech about being scared and doing it anyway.”

He leans slightly to peek at the page, and then groans. “Oh, that one.”

You nod. “That’s you.”

He shrugs, utterly unfazed. “Great. You’ve got it covered.”

“No, I don’t. I need to run it, with you.”

“I don’t rehearse,” he says simply, like it’s a personal philosophy.

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t rehearse,” he repeats, dragging a hand through his hair. “Never really needed to. I show up, hit the mark, say the lines. People seem to like it.”

You just stare at him.

“Sirius fucking Black,” you mutter under your breath, turning toward him with a look that could split the moon in half. “You are going to rehearse with me.”

He looks almost amused. “Am I?”

You’re already climbing off the ledge, your white dress catching in the wind as you move fast, fueled by panic and adrenaline and something that feels dangerously close to raw determination.

“Whoa, whoa—hey!”

Before you can plant your feet back on the gravel safely, a hand grabs your wrist—tight, steady, pulling you back just enough.

“Fuck, be careful, angel,” he mutters, the words rushed and low like they’ve leapt out of him uninvited.

You pause.

Not because of the nickname (though it sparks something strange in your chest), but because he said it like he meant it. Like for half a second, the idea of you falling scared him more than anything else in this moment.

He’s still holding your wrist when you look at him.

“I’m fine,” you say, softer now. “I’ve got it.”

He lets go, slowly.

And then you square your shoulders, adjust the pages in your hand, and lift your chin. “We’re doing this scene.”

“I just said—”

“You are going to rehearse with me!” you repeat, voice sharper now.

“Because I am going to get this fuckass role. I don’t care how many Emmys your uncle has, or how many magazine covers your face is on. I didn’t crawl my way into this building to have some nepotism prince brush me off like I’m decoration!”

His eyes go wide, a flicker of something wild and admiring sparking in them.

And then he bursts out laughing.

Full, deep laughter. The kind that echoes off the rooftop walls and makes your blood boil.

“Stop laughing!” you snap.

He just keeps laughing, wheezing now, hands on his knees. “You—you just said fuckass role.”

“I’m serious!”

“No, I’m Sirius.”

You groan, glaring.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “Okay, okay. You’re terrifying.”

“Good.”

He straightens up, brushing off the edge of his jeans. “Fine. Let’s rehearse. But only because you threatened me.”

You cross your arms. “I did no such thing.”

“You dragged me off a ledge like some kind of homicidal fairy.”

You shrug. “Desperate times.”

He looks at you for a long moment. The wind plays with the edge of your dress, your hair, the papers clutched in your hand. And you swear he softens—just slightly. The edge in him easing, curiosity replacing arrogance.

“All right.” He tugs a folded script from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and waves it in the air. “Let’s see if you’re any good, then.”

Your eyes narrow. “I’m excellent.”

“We’ll see.”

You step back, flipping to the right scene, clearing your throat. The wind tugs at the corners of your script and your dress, but your hands are steady now. He leans against the ledge, eyes half-lidded and unreadable, and waits for you to begin.

The rooftop isn’t a stage. The city doesn’t quiet for your lines. No one’s watching.

But you speak like someone’s listening.

And when you finish the scene—when the last word hangs between you, raw and electric—Sirius doesn’t say anything for a long time.

He just looks at you.

Like he sees something he didn’t expect.

Like maybe, you belong here after all.

Sirius taps the edge of your script with a knuckle. “Alright, angel. Scene 10. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You raise a brow. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he says, dropping into an easy stance like he’s done this a thousand times before.

His posture shifts, the smirk tucks itself away, and suddenly he’s someone else entirely—Mike, the boy trying to hold a flashlight steady while the world around him falls apart.

You take one breath, then another, then step into the moment.

Scene 10. Forest. Mike and Eleven, side by side in the dark.

The lines you’ve memorized a dozen times spill out, but this time they don’t feel rehearsed. Sirius listens like he’s never heard them before, and when he speaks, it’s with a weight that grounds the scene.

The words aren’t magic—but they do something close. The space between you vibrates with the rhythm of shared silence, tension, emotion. It’s short, but by the time you reach the last line—“It’s not about what we lost. It’s about what we’ve still got.”—the quiet that follows feels earned.

Sirius exhales and gives you a crooked smile. “You’ve got timing.”

You shrug, but your heart beats louder than before.

Without a word, he grabs the scripts from your hands and plops down cross-legged on the rooftop floor. “Let me see.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you always this—”

“Collaborative,” he cuts in, uncapping a marker from his jacket pocket. “Now sit. We’ve got work to do.”

His annotations are a mess of arrows and looping words. He circles beats, draws dashes for pauses, and jots little notes like don’t rush this or breathe here. His handwriting is barely legible, but the edits are precise, focused.

“Pause here. This line’s too heavy to throw away,” he murmurs. “And this? Keep your voice low. Not scared—just… holding back.”

You watch him, amused. “You always direct your scene partners?”

“Only when they can actually act,” he says, glancing up.

You snort. “Is that a compliment?”

“Don’t push it.”

The corner of your mouth quirks, and he flips to the next page.

Scene 11.

He hums. “Ah. That one.”

You know immediately. The basement scene. The one where Mike—Sirius’s character—fake proposes to Eleven, your role, just to get her to talk again. You’ve read it so many times that the dialogue is practically carved into your bones.

He reads over the first few lines and chuckles. “This is so dumb.”

“It’s not dumb,” you argue lightly. “It’s sweet. In a stupid, manipulative way.”

Sirius makes a face. “Exactly.”

Still, he stands, brushing dust off his jeans. “Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.”

You both take position, scripts half-forgotten at your feet.

He steps into the part quickly, voice shifting into something earnest and awkward—Mike trying to coax Eleven out of silence with a ring made from a candy wrapper and desperation.

“Okay,” he says, kneeling dramatically. “Since you clearly won’t talk to me like a normal person… I guess there’s only one thing left to do. I hereby propose. Like—on one knee and everything.”

You fold your arms. Stay silent.

“Wow. Rejected without mercy,” he mutters, then softens. “You haven’t talked to me in. Do you hate me?”

You look down, breathe. “No.”

“You’re mad?”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“Because I’m scared.”

The words slip out soft, but true. And Sirius looks at you differently this time—more like Mike, less like the boy who called you angel and handed you his marker.

A silence follows that isn’t awkward, only real.

Then Sirius lets out a low whistle. “Damn. You’ve got this.”

You let yourself smile. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Please,” he grins. “I’m Sirius Black.”

You roll your eyes, but something in your chest loosens. For the first time, the role doesn’t feel like something you're chasing. It feels like something already yours.

Sirius plucks your script off the ground again, flipping back to Scene 11 like he isn’t still grinning from your fake rejection five minutes ago.

“Well, angel,” he says, stretching out on the rooftop like it’s his living room, “if you’re gonna turn me down, at least let me immortalize it.”

He grabs his marker—still uncapped, still bleeding slightly at the edges—and scribbles something in the margin next to your line: SAY IT LIKE YOU’RE LYING TO YOURSELF.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, leaning over his shoulder.

He shrugs. “Exactly what it sounds like. Don’t act like you’re scared of him—act like you’re scared of what he means.”

You blink at him. “Since when are you an actor and a psychologist?”

He grins, toothy and easy. “Since five minutes ago. I’m multitalented.”

You’re still laughing when the rooftop door slams open behind you.

A crew member stands in the doorway, breathless and wide-eyed. “There you are—we’ve been looking for you for ten minutes! Are you out of your minds? You’re both up next!”

Your stomach drops.

Sirius just stretches, calmly dusting off his jeans. “We got a little carried away. It’s fine.”

“It is not fine!” the woman shouts, already dialing someone on her headset. “Come on, let’s go!”

You scramble to your feet, panic rising like a tide you can’t swim against. Ten minutes. That’s forever in this world—enough time for a casting director to change their mind, to offer your role to someone shinier, someone with the right last name.

You clutch your script to your chest as you follow Sirius down the narrow stairwell, and your thoughts spiral with every step—they’re going to hate me, I ruined it, I lost it, I lost it—

“Hey.” Sirius’s voice cuts through the static, and then—his hand on your wrist.

He stops midway down the stairs, turning you to face him. “Hey. Look at me.”

You do. His eyes are steadier than you’ve seen them all day, quiet in a way that feels almost reverent.

“You’re fine. You haven’t lost anything. Just breathe, alright?”

You shake your head, heart pounding too loud in your ears. “They’re going to be mad. They’re going to say I’m unprofessional—”

“Shh.” He shifts his grip, then with his free hand, pulls the marker from his pocket again.

And slowly, gently, he starts drawing stars along the inside of your wrist—five-pointed, slightly smudged, looping together like constellations only he can see.

It takes you a second to notice that your breathing’s slowed.

The panic eases.

You glance down at the ink-dusted trail of stars blooming across your skin. “How did you… know to do that?”

Sirius freezes for a beat too long.

Then he looks away, tucking the marker back into his pocket. “My brother. Sometimes he… gets like that.”

You want to ask more, but something in his expression tells you not to. His shoulders stiffen, the familiar armor sliding back into place. The charm, the cool detachment—it’s all back by the time you reach the studio door.

But the stars stay on your wrist.

The second the studio doors swing open, chaos swallows you whole.

It’s brighter than you expect—overhead lights casting a sterile glow across the soundstage, voices overlapping as crew members rush to and from set, someone shouting about blocking, someone else dragging a lighting rig across the floor. You blink against it all, suddenly unsure where to look, where to stand, how to exist.

And then—

“There you are!” James.

He jogs over, looking mildly out of breath, strands of his messy hair falling over his glasses. Relief flashes across his face when he sees you, and then it shifts—warms—when his eyes land just beyond your shoulder.

“Sirius,” James breathes.

And Sirius lights up.

Like a switch flipped. The edges of him soften, melt. That cool indifference disappears entirely as he grins, almost boyishly, and throws his arms around James in a way that’s too fast to think about and too real to be scripted.

“God, I haven’t seen you in forever,” Sirius mutters into James’s shoulder, and you swear—for half a second—he sounds like a different person.

“Thought you were ditching the project,” James teases, clapping him on the back.

“Almost did.”

James pulls away, looking over at you. “You met Y/N, yeah? She’s playing the girl with powers. She’s incredible.”

You smile, shy under the weight of his praise. But before you can say anything—

“Hello, darling.”

A voice, smooth and warm and unmistakably in charge, cuts through the air. A woman strides over, sharp black heels clicking on the floor. Her hair is pinned up perfectly, lips a red that looks expensive, and the way everyone parts around her—it tells you everything you need to know.

Euphemia Potter. The director.

She reaches for your hand like you’ve already earned the role and says your name like she’s been waiting to meet you for months.

“I’ve heard about you,” she says, voice honeyed. “And I just want you to know—don’t worry about a thing. You’re here because you belong here. Okay?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. But something in your chest eases.

“And this,” she says, glancing over her shoulder, “is my husband, Fleamont. Producer. He’ll pretend he’s not a softie, but he cried over Scene 9.”

He gives you a polite smile and a knowing wink.

Before you can process any more, a crew member in a headset appears beside you, clipboard in one hand, clapperboard in the other.

He looks between you and Sirius, then lifts the board slowly.

“Alright,” he calls out, voice carrying across the set, grounding the room in sudden stillness.

A spotlight clicks on overhead.

The crew goes quiet. Everyone freezes.

You take your mark. Sirius takes his.

And the board rises.

“Scene 11, take 1.” Snap.

The clap cuts through the silence, sharp and final.

And in that breathless second after the sound dies—everything begins.

Sirius turns to face you in the darkened basement set, his expression already shifting. The cameras roll, the lights hum, and the line between fiction and reality dissolves like sugar in water.

And just like that, the scene begins.

a/n: idk why i cringed so much writing this (i promise pt 2 is much better) anyways, thoughts?

oh and, before anyone comments it; no reader won't be bald like eleven, she has hair.

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colouredbyd · 1 month ago

Text

Off-Script

chapter 2: birds of a feather

celebrity!sirius black x celebrity!reader

synopsis: after getting accepted into your dream role, you spend long, laughter-filled months filming with your closest friends and bonding with a certain Black. between studio nights and quiet friendships, something rare begins to bloom. and by the time the season wraps, you realize this might be the beginning of everything.

warnings: mild language, emotional vulnerability, discussion of fame and pressure, themes of found family, lots of fluff and crack.

wc: 6.9k previous chapter

Day Four of filming.

The city is already humming by the time you lace up your shoes and tug your hoodie over your head, a pale strip of early morning sunlight sliding across the floor as you grab your backpack.

The edges of your script peek out, worn soft from too much handling. You check your reflection in the mirror by the door—hair passable, eyes not too tired, nerves mostly tucked beneath your ribs—and then you're out.

The studio is alive, chaotic in a way that’s starting to feel familiar. Crew members push lighting rigs past you with murmured apologies, someone shouts over a walkie about set delays, and the smell of hairspray fills the air.

A sound tech you’ve seen a few times nods as you pass, lifting his coffee cup in greeting like this has been your routine forever. You smile back, trying to ignore the butterflies that still flutter every time you cross onto set.

It’s been a week since they handed you the role. Since you heard the words congratulations, you’re cast! and something inside you cracked wide open—relief, disbelief, joy so sharp it almost hurt.

And now, somehow, you’re here.

The days have blurred together since then—early mornings, late nights, wardrobe tests, lighting adjustments, take after take until the scenes feel stitched into your skin.

But even in the exhaustion, you feel it: that quiet, steady hum that tells you you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Sirius has been different, too.

Not as cold, not as bristling with armor as he was that first day on the rooftop. Maybe it was just a bad day, or maybe you're learning how to read him better now.

He’s still sharp-edged sometimes, still carries himself like he’s above the noise, but there’s a glint of something gentler behind it now—his jokes slip a lot, his presence quieter in between the chaos.

Sometimes you catch him watching the monitors beside the director, head tilted, mouthing the lines as if he’s not just playing the story, but listening to it.

The rest of the main cast, you’ve been slowly stitching your way into.

Remus was hesitant at first—soft-spoken, polite, always watching the room before stepping into it—but he’s warmed up since. He smiles more now, laughs a little easier, especially when Peter’s around.

Peter, who is pure momentum, never quite still, bouncing from one story to another like a walking reel of bloopers. He knows everyone’s coffee order already.

James, you knew from the start—the first hello. He’s the kind of person who makes space wherever he goes, who makes it impossible to feel out of place. He and Sirius move like gravity around each other, always orbiting, always in step.

You’ve heard they’ve been acting together since they could walk, that their families go back generations in this industry.

They all grew up in this world. You didn’t.

But somehow, you're not on the outside of it.

You head to the main studio center with a notebook pressed against your chest, expecting silence. Maybe the dull buzz of overhead lights or the distant crackle of walkie-talkies.

What you don’t expect is music.

Not the soft kind that hums from the crew’s playlist. Not rehearsed or polished. But live—electric, beating, loud.

You pause in the doorway, blinking against the harsh light pouring in from the studio grid above, and the sound wraps around you.

They’ve taken over the far corner of the studio—cables trailing like veins across the floor, a mic stand leaning at an odd angle, someone’s half-drunk coffee perched on an amplifier.

And yet, somehow, they look like they belong here more than anything else.

Sirius is playing a tune on his guitar.

One foot taps in time against the concrete while his hair falls into his eyes.

James is behind him, half-hidden by a drum kit you’re sure wasn’t here last morning, his knuckles blurring across the skins with practiced ease.

Remus is seated at a borrowed keyboard, body loose, eyes soft, playing like he’s half-asleep and half-somewhere else entirely.

Peter’s crouched low with a bass that looks far too big for him, fingers confident on the strings.

They’re not acting.

They’re not trying.

They’re just playing—as if the instruments had grown out of the floor and the music was already in the walls waiting to be let out.

You barely breathe.

Even the crew has stopped. A camera operator leans against the frame of the lighting booth. A sound assistant, still wearing headphones, stands motionless, wire looped in his fingers.

And then Sirius sings the first line.

Her name is Noelle I have a dream about her She rings my bell I got gym class in half an hour

It hits you like a memory you’ve never had—familiar, a little bit sad, completely alive. His voice has edges like gravel under bare feet, but it moves. You feel it stir something deep and wordless in your chest.

Your eyes trace them like you’re afraid to blink.

Sirius isn’t even trying to be cool—he just is. His fingers curl around the mic like it was made for him. He sings to the empty air, to no one and everyone.

And somewhere mid-verse, he lifts his head and sees you.

His eyes catch yours.

'Cause I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby Yeah, I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby Listen to Iron Maiden, baby, with me, ooh

There’s the flicker of recognition, but he doesn’t stop. Just the faintest twitch of a smile that lives in the corner of his mouth, then vanishes. He keeps singing like the song is all that exists.

You can’t remember the last time you felt this kind of awe. The kind that makes your hands go still and your thoughts blur.

You hadn’t realized how beautiful they all looked together. Not in the way that meant perfect cheekbones or curated clothes—but like they were made for this.

You wonder, absently, how they even found a guitar, a drum kit, a mic that works. Who let them plug into the studio’s sound system? Why no one stopped them.

But then again, who would want to?

Her boyfriend's a dick And he brings a gun to school And he'd simply kick My ass if he knew the truth

They’re a perfect kind of mess; Unplanned and undone.

James shouts the next beat from the drums, eyes closed, a grin spread wide across his face. Peter strums with his whole body. Remus nods slightly in time, a quiet flame in the background.

And Sirius owns the room without even trying.

He lives on my block And he drives an IROC But he doesn't know who I am And he doesn't give a damn about me

You stop at the edge of their setup.

Because for the first time since you started this job—since the whirlwind audition and the whirlwind role—you feel like you’re watching something real. Not a scene, not a script. For once, Sirius does not look like he is acting.

'Cause I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby Yeah, I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby Listen to Iron Maiden, baby, with me, ooh

The last note lingers, a fragile thread hanging in the air before it dissolves into the quiet hum of the studio.

Then, suddenly, applause blooms—warm, spontaneous, and bright—from every corner: crew members pausing their work, eyes shining with unexpected delight, and you, caught in the moment, clapping harder than anyone.

Your heart swells, a tender pulse beneath your ribs, and you cheer, the sound spilling out like sunlight.

James is still laughing as he tosses his drumsticks into the air, catching one, missing the other. It clatters to the ground and he shrugs, unbothered, a flush of joy across his cheeks.

Peter and Remus exchange a look, half-proud, half-breathless—Peter with his bass slung low and Remus with his fingers still hovering above the keys, like he doesn’t quite want the moment to end.

And Sirius turns toward you with that look again. The one that’s not really a smile but somehow feels warmer than any sunbeam. His eyes sparkle in the low lights they’ve strung across the ceiling.

He’s panting slightly from the last chorus, flushed with the kind of freedom you can’t fake.

His shirt’s wrinkled, there’s a streak of something—eyeliner, probably—across his eyes, and yet he’s never looked more breathtaking.

Remus steps forward first, his shy smile catching your attention. “You guys should totally be singers too,” you say softly, almost like a wish cast into the room. His eyes brighten, a flicker of surprise and hope.

Sirius, standing just a bit behind, shifts uneasily, a brief grimace shadowing his face. “Not possible,” he mutters, voice low.

Curious, you glance between them. James catches your gaze and leans in, voice warm but matter-of-fact. “Sirius’s parents aren’t exactly fans of the singing career. They want him acting, all the way.”

You look at Sirius, searching his eyes, and gently say, “Well, I think you could do both.”

His expression softens, a fragile hope blooming. “You think so?”

And just like that, the air shifts. Words flow—soft encouragement, laughter, quiet confessions.

The weight of expectation loosens as he lets himself imagine a path where he doesn’t have to choose. The boys nod in agreement, smiles weaving between them, a silent pact forming.

The applause dies down, but the warmth of the moment lingers like a gentle glow. You step away from the cluster of cast and crew, feeling the aftershocks of their music still humming in your chest.

“You believed I could get this role,” you say. “Well, I believe you could be a singer—if that’s what you really want.”

He raises a brow, a sly grin curling his lips. “Is that so? Because I don’t need to rehearse singing, and honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever need to.” His tone is cocky, but there’s a spark in his eyes.

You grin back, refusing to let him off that easily. “Maybe. But even stars have to shine a little brighter sometimes.”

He laughs, the arrogance fading for a moment into something warmer. “Alright, maybe you’re right. But only because you’re stubborn.”

James calls out from a few steps away, “Stubbornness is a good look on both of you.”

Remus chuckles softly, shaking his head.

Sirius nudges you playfully. “You’re not so bad yourself, you know.”

You bump shoulders, and just like that, the tension melts away into easy camaraderie. The four of you fall into step, voices rising with laughter and teasing, the weight of the day lifting.

“Guess we make quite the crew,” James jokes, drumming an imaginary beat on his knees.

“More like a band,” Sirius shoots back with a grin, flicking an imaginary guitar pick.

You laugh along, feeling something light and true. The confidence in your chest grows—not just for the role or the audition, but for this unexpected connection, this moment of being seen clearly.

You walk beside them, the easy cadence of their voices weaving through the air like a familiar melody.

You watch all four of them soaked in sweat, laughing like kids, glowing with the raw joy of doing something that makes their hearts beat louder.

And you think:

This is what it looks like when people are exactly where they’re meant to be.

They were always brilliant on set—Sirius with his sharp one-liners and smirking charm, James with his improv flourishes, Remus anchoring scenes with a gaze alone, Peter surprising everyone with a perfectly timed joke—but this is different. On stage, they don’t perform. They become.

And for Sirius—especially Sirius—it’s like something clicks into place. You realize that as much as he’s a born actor, this is something deeper.

Sirius suddenly catches up and throws an arm around your shoulders, sweat-damp and smiling, and you don’t even care about the smudge he leaves on your sleeve.

“One day, I’m gonna be a great rockstar, would you like that?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

You nod, blinking up at him. “I think you’re already one, though don't let it get too much to you”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, “Well,” he says with a wink, “can’t let Hollywood keep all our talent.”

And you laugh again, because of course he’d say that.

But deep inside, you know: this is a moment you'll come back to. When you're older, when you’ve seen more, lost more, become more.

You'll remember the warmth of this night, the sting of joy so sharp it almost hurt, the sound of Sirius singing like he meant it.

And maybe, just maybe, that song wasn’t just the end of rehearsal.

Maybe it was the beginning of everything for him.

Later that day, after filming a few scenes on your own, you open your dressing room door expecting the usual quiet. But instead, you’re met with—

Screaming.

“NOW!”

A blur of motion. A battle cry. And then—cake.

Well, almost.

You yelp, ducking just in time as a glob of frosting smacks the doorframe behind you with a soft splat. The plate nearly follows, but Sirius brakes mid-lunge, arms outstretched like some sugar-fueled supervillain.

“What the hell!” you cry, scrambling behind the chair as James laughs so hard he nearly drops the second plate he’s holding.

“Damn it, she dodged!” Sirius groans, still mid-pounce, eyes gleaming with chaotic pride. “You said she’d be slow today!”

“I thought she was still half-asleep!” James wheezes.

You peek out from behind the chair, breathless, blinking at them like they’ve lost their minds. Which, clearly, they have.

Sirius has whipped cream on his cheek. James is in a cape. There is a third plate of cake perched precariously in Peter’s hands, and Remus—calm, reasonable Remus—is standing to the side, holding napkins like he’s bracing for a crime scene.

“What is wrong with you?” you shout, half-laughing, half-terrified. “You were going to smear cake on my face?”

James holds up his hands, as if innocent. “In our defense, it was meant to be festive.”

“Festive?”

“Surprise!” Peter grins sheepishly.

Remus offers a slow shrug. “I tried to talk them out of it.”

You stare at the mess they’ve made—the frosting trail on the floor, the glint in Sirius’s eye, James still poised like he’s about to throw the next dessert like a grenade—and you fold your arms across your chest.

“I hate cake,” you say firmly. “It’s disgusting.”

“You what?” Sirius says.

You shrug. “Too spongy and too sweet, it also tastes like wet flour with a ton of sugar.”

James blinks at you like you’ve just spoken Parseltongue. “Who even hates cake?”

“I do,” you say, unapologetic. “Always have.”

Peter clutches his heart. “You wound me.”

Remus sighs. “I mean, to be fair, she’s not wrong. Some cakes are bad.”

Sirius steps forward slowly, wiping the frosting from his jaw with one hand, the other dramatically placed over his heart. His voice is low and mock-serious. “That’s a crime, angel.”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t.”

He grins. “Too late.”

You scream as he lunges, wrapping his arms around your waist in a firm hold as you wriggle violently, laughing and trying to escape.

“Sirius!”

“You brought this on yourself!” he cackles, spinning you as you shriek and laugh, tickling your ribs mercilessly. “Slander against cake will not be tolerated!”

“Get off me!—”

“Repent, heathen!” James bellows, tossing a napkin into the air like confetti.

“Join the sponge side!” Peter cries.

It’s chaos—pure, ridiculous, frosting-flavored chaos. But it’s the best kind, the kind that leaves your lungs aching with laughter, your cheeks sore from smiling, and your heart just a little lighter than before.

You’re still laughing, cheeks warm from the chaos, when a knock raps against the doorframe.

Euphemia Potter stands there, composed and luminous even under the studio fluorescents, a few pages of the script tucked neatly into her elbow.

Beside her, Fleamont leans in just behind her shoulder, brows raised, already mid-conversation through an earpiece before pulling it out politely.

“Darling,” Euphemia says, voice honey-smooth. “Can I borrow you for a moment?”

You glance back at the boys. Sirius and James are completely careless to the presence of both their producer and director at the door. Though it seemed as even Fleamont and Euphemia were quite used to such scene.

You stifle a smile. “Please do.”

Euphemia returns the smile, her hand a light touch on your back as she guides you down the hallway.

Fleamont falls into step beside you. They walk at a gentle pace, no rush, but there's something deliberate in Euphemia's posture—like she’s leading you toward something important without saying so outright.

“I hope those lunatics didn’t traumatize you too badly.”

You laugh under your breath. “I’ve been hazed worse.”

“Good,” Fleamont adds cheerfully. “Means you’re one of us now.”

Euphemia opens the small lounge door, and the scent of leather and freshly brewed coffee meets you like an old book.

She perches gracefully on the arm of a vintage chair while Fleamont sinks into it with a groan. You sit across from them, tucking your hands into your lap.

“There’s something we wanted to talk to you about,” Euphemia begins, folding her legs at the ankle. “Not scary, I promise. Just… something important.”

“About El?” you ask.

“Exactly.” She offers you a small, proud smile.

Euphemia walks with easy grace, while Fleamont, ever the chatty one, falls in beside you. “You’re doing wonderfully, truly. We’re all very impressed,” he says, eyes twinkling with enthusiasm.

“I don’t know if you realize, but this role demands something special. Not just skill, but subtlety.”

You smile, feeling your cheeks warm. “Thank you. I’m still learning. It’s... a lot.”

Euphemia chuckles softly. “That’s to be expected. This industry isn’t easy, but you’re handling it with grace.” She pauses, then leans in a little. “Tell me, what do you think about your character so far? What does she mean to you?”

You consider her question, feeling the weight of it settle over your skin. “She’s quiet... observant. There’s something in her silence that feels loud, almost like a storm waiting to break.”

Fleamont nods appreciatively. “Exactly. And that’s why your performance can’t be flashy or overdone. It has to simmer underneath.”

Euphemia’s voice drops to a softer timbre, almost conspiratorial. “Your character carries the show on her shoulders, but she’s not a burdened heroine. She’s fragile, yes, but fiercely strong in ways that don’t scream for attention.”

You breathe that in, letting it anchor inside. “Sometimes I worry I’ll make her too still—like nothing’s happening.”

“That’s the trick,” Euphemia says with a knowing smile. “Stillness doesn’t mean emptiness. It means presence. Emotion lived quietly, like a secret flame. The audience feels it, even when she says nothing.”

You nod slowly. “So, I need to let her live inside me, not perform her.”

“Precisely.” Fleamont grins, shaking his head like a proud father. “You’ve got the right idea. And it’s why we chose you—you have that rare quality.”

“That’s very kind of you to say,” you reply, cheeks still warm.

Euphemia’s expression softens. “Remember, this role isn’t just about lines or movements. It’s about truth. The truth of someone who’s scared, who’s hopeful, who’s trying to find freedom.”

You look down at your hands, feeling an unfamiliar quiet confidence bloom. “I want to do her justice.”

“And you will,” Euphemia says firmly. “We’re here to guide you, but this is your story to tell.”

Fleamont leans closer, lowering his voice. “And never underestimate the power of subtlety. A look, a breath, a pause can say more than a shout.”

You smile, the nerves fading beneath their faith. “I’ll remember that.”

You shift your weight gently, the corners of your mouth lifting in a soft, grateful smile. “Thank you both so much for taking the time to speak with me.”

Euphemia waves her hand lightly, as if brushing away the idea that this moment had been any trouble at all.

“Oh, darling, it’s our pleasure. We’re lucky to have you. I just hope we haven’t kept you too long.”

You shake your head quickly, politely. “Not at all. I’ve really enjoyed this”

Fleamont chuckles, warm and easy. “Still, we don’t want to keep you from the rest of your day. It is your birthday after all. You should be celebrating, not listening to two old film nerds go on about character arcs.”

“Don’t say that,” you reply sincerely, your gaze flicking between them. “You have no idea how much I appreciate your insight. And the way you both care—it shows. It makes everything feel… special. I’ll remember this, truly.”

Euphemia’s expression softens, a maternal pride in her eyes. “You’re a rare one. Graceful, grounded. You’ve already brought so much to the role, and we’re barely past the first week.”

“And more to come,” Fleamont adds, nudging his wife gently with a fond smile. “Now go on—before James accidentally sets something on fire in your absence.”

You laugh under your breath, shaking your head. “That sounds… likely.”

“Have a beautiful rest of your day,” Fleamont echoes. “You deserve it.”

“Thank you both,” you say again, voice soft but full. “Really. I’ll see you on set.”

They nod, watching you go, and you turn the corner with warmth blooming behind your ribs.

The days passed the way summer light does when it slips between blinds—soft and slow and then, all at once, gone.

Weeks folded into each other. Then months. And somewhere in that dizzying blur of costume fittings and rewrites and late-night takes that ran until the sunrise bled through the studio windows, Season One was finished.

Then, almost without pause, so was Season Two.

It should’ve felt like a mountain climbed, a marathon ended. But instead, it felt more like waking up in a place that had slowly, quietly turned into home.

At first, your dressing room had just been a space to change clothes and read lines in the mirror. But after a month or two, beds had been wheeled in, fairy lights strung haphazardly along the walls.

Sirius brought a record player. James left socks everywhere. Peter smuggled in late-night snacks and hid them under your vanity.

Remus somehow acquired a teapot set and brewed chamomile during your worst filming days. It wasn’t elegant, but it was soft. Lived in and familiar.

You’d started sleeping there more often than not—sometimes by necessity, sometimes just because the silence of your apartment felt too large and too far removed from the laughter that echoed down studio hallways like music.

And in the chaos of shooting—where the lights never seemed to dim and your makeup was always half-smeared by the time you got to lunch—something unexpected had formed.

A family.

Sirius, sharp-edged and golden, had slipped into your orbit like he was always meant to be there. The kind of closeness that didn’t need permission.

He’d lie on the couch in your room with his boots still on, flipping through your script and pointing out your lines like he knew them better than his own.

Some nights he wouldn’t say anything, just sit with you in the glow of your lamp, and that quiet, that trust—it said enough.

James was all brightness and movement, the sun in a human body. He had a way of making everything feel like a celebration, even call times at 4 a.m. You could always count on him to pull you into a hallway dance or toss you a snack mid-scene with uncanny aim.

Remus, thoughtful and gentle, became your anchor. He’d bring you coffee the way you liked it, write notes in your script margins that made you laugh, and somehow always knew when you needed space.

And Peter with his endless commentary and hands always busy—kept the whole group buzzing, always the first to suggest a game night or a prank, always the last to fall asleep.

You’d built something real with them.

And just when the set had started to feel like its own world entirely, someone new walked in.

Her name was Lily.

She was introduced on a Tuesday morning, clutching a binder and wearing an oversized hoodie that nearly swallowed her. Her red hair was tied back in a braid, no makeup, no fanfare.

She didn’t walk in like she was trying to impress anyone—she walked in like she belonged.

She was cast as Max—your character’s best friend, starting in the Season Two finale and continuing into the next.

On-screen, your dynamic was instant and electric. But what was more surprising was how quickly it mirrored reality.

You hit it off with Lily like you’d known her in another life.

There was something grounding about her.

She listened. She looked you in the eye. She asked real questions, didn’t flinch at honesty. You learned quickly that her mother was a high-profile lawyer—brilliant and sharp-tongued and constantly in the press.

But Lily hadn’t been handed anything. She’d fought for every callback, scraped together every opportunity. No godparents with names on film studios. No grandfather who had three Oscars in a glass case. Just grit and talent and a heart big enough to hold it all.

It felt… rare. To have someone beside you on set who wasn’t raised inside the velvet ropes, who understood the pressure but didn’t treat the fame like gospel.

With her, there was no competition, no façade. Just warmth, laughter, and kindness.

You’d find yourself sitting on the floor of her dressing room (which was quickly turning into a twin of yours, with mismatched pillows and snack wrappers and open books everywhere), talking until one of the boys came knocking to drag you both to rehearsal.

You’d swap stories, trade insecurities, show each other old audition tapes that made you both cringe.

And maybe it was coincidence, maybe it was fate—but the more your characters became best friends on screen, the more it felt true off it.

Lily made the long days feel shorter. She made the press junkets feel lighter.

She reminded you, in the quiet moments between filming, that you were allowed to breathe. That you didn’t always have to be polished and perfect and ready for the next big thing.

The studio had changed again.

It was no longer just home because of the boys, or the memories written into the walls, or the dressing rooms that turned into bedrooms.

Now, it felt like home because you had found people who saw you fully.

And somehow, even with the looming end of the season, even with the final scenes wrapped and the schedule winding down, there was comfort in the rhythm of it all.

The familiar thrum of life behind the cameras, the soft echo of crew members calling cues, the faint scent of makeup and paint and half-sipped coffee cups left behind on set—it all wrapped around you like a second skin.

You weren’t ready to let go of it just yet.

The hallway hums with life as you make your way back to your dressing room. Somewhere in the distance, someone calls for lights to be reset on Studio B, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee trails from a side table near the editing suite.

You have your lines half-muttered under your breath, already gearing yourself for another stretch of pickups and retakes. The final week of Season Two. It doesn’t feel real.

Not that long ago, the idea of filming two seasons felt unreachable—distant, like a dream wrapped in fog. But here you are, badge clipped to your jacket, script pages dog-eared and worn, heart fuller than it’s been in years.

And then, there’s today.

Your birthday.

You hadn’t planned on telling anyone—hadn’t even circled it on your own calendar.

Birthdays never meant much to you. You didn’t grow up with balloons or breakfast in bed or themed parties with castmates and crew singing off-key.

And with call sheets and rehearsal blocks and cameras in every corner, it didn’t feel like the kind of thing you should bring up.

Still, there’s a quiet weight to the day. A sense of pause, like the world knows even if no one else does.

As you round the corner toward your dressing room, a noise catches you.

Low, muffled voices. And not just one or two—five. And not just random voices either.

You know those voices.

James’s exaggerated whisper, loud enough to echo down a hallway. Sirius’s hushed laugh. Remus trying to shush them all, his tone already fraying with exasperation.

Peter somewhere in the back, probably dropping something. And Lily—sharp, amused, the only one who sounds remotely competent at stealth.

You pause outside your door, curious. You weren’t expecting anyone this early.

Then someone says, “Okay, careful! You're gonna drop it—”

You open the door.

And freeze.

You turn around slowly, eyes narrowing—just in time to catch five very guilty-looking faces crammed in the narrow space between your mirror and the closet.

Remus is up front, concentrating with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for defusing bombs. He’s holding a wildly unstable stack of pancakes on a chipped ceramic plate.

They're… not quite right. They lean at a dangerous angle, syrup is pooling at the edges, and an alarming number of birthday candles have been jabbed into the top like a bonfire gone rogue.

Behind him, James is trying to block the ceiling vent with his hands to keep the flames from flickering too wildly.

Sirius is clapping—way off beat—and singing something that might have once resembled "Happy Birthday,” except his pitch is wobbling all over the place and the timing is a disaster. (ironic for someone who wants to be a rockstar)

To the right, Peter is blowing proudly into a bright neon trumpet-like thing that emits the haunting sound of a goose being strangled underwater.

And Lily—standing just behind Sirius—is holding a lighter in one hand and a half-melted candle in the other, looking like she deeply regrets every life choice that brought her here.

You stare at them, dumbfounded.

“What—”

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUUUUUUUUUU!” Sirius bellows, dragging the note like he’s on stage at the Opera House.

He elbows James, who stumbles over the next line and mutters, “Wait, what verse are we on again?”

Peter honks another ear-splitting note. It sounds like a cursed clown horn.

Remus, panicking, tries to steady the plate. “Please blow the candles out before this becomes a very real fire hazard.”

You burst into laughter.

Not the polite kind. The real kind—deep and breathless and spilling from your lungs. You clutch your stomach, shake your head in disbelief.

“What is this?” you manage to gasp.

“Your very official, definitely professional, wildly gourmet birthday cake!” Sirius announces with a dramatic flourish.

“Made entirely of pancakes,” Lily adds dryly, tucking the lighter into her pocket like she wants to pretend she was never here.

“And who made this?” you ask, narrowing your eyes. “Because these pancakes are not… cooked.”

They all exchange looks.

Peter scratches the back of his neck. Sirius lifts a brow and shrugs. James looks at the ceiling. Lily just groans softly.

Then, in perfect, unrepentant harmony:

“Boxed pancake mix.”

Your mouth falls open. “Boxed mix?!”

“It said ‘just add water,’” James offers defensively.

“Which we did!” Peter nods.

“Too much water,” Remus mutters, side-eying the sagging bottom layer.

“We eyeballed it!” Sirius says, with the confidence of someone who’s never used a measuring cup in his life.

“I was only responsible for candles,” Lily says quickly. “I want no part in the pancake crimes.”

You’re laughing again, because of course this is what they’ve done. In a world of glittering premieres and scripted lines, this — this messy, chaotic love — is what feels real.

You step forward, placing a hand gently on Remus’s elbow. “Well… I love it.”

You look back at the chaos—at the leaning tower of pancake inferno, the ridiculous candles, the knives, the laughter—and feel your chest swell with something warm. Something unnameable.

Sirius leans in, eyes bright. “Make a wish, angel.”

James echoes him, grinning. “Yeah, go on. One good wish.”

You glance around at them—at all of them—and the candlelight flickers across their faces, casting shadows and softness in equal measure.

You close your eyes.

I wish I get to keep this—this exact feeling—forever.

And with one long breath, you blow out the candles.

They cheer like you’ve scored the final goal in a championship game.

Peter dives toward the mini-fridge and opens the drawer, emerging victorious with five mismatched, brightly-colored plastic knives. He holds them high like weapons of destiny.

“Cutlery for our birthday girl!”

“For my angel!” Sirius cries, grabbing one and pointing it toward the heavens.

“For… whatever this is!” Lily laughs, taking one and nearly slicing into the air.

Remus carefully hands you the first slice, and you take it with reverence, like it’s sacred.

You bite.

And immediately regret it.

It's… awful. The outside is sort of burned, the middle is weirdly gooey, the syrup is far too sweet, and the strawberry jam tastes like it expired in the 80s.

But you chew anyway, smiling brightly — because you’d rather die than ruin their joy.

“Mmmm,” you hum. “So good.”

Peter’s face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning. “See?! I told you it worked!”

James claps him on the back. “We’re gonna open a restaurant.”

Sirius chuckles, “Call it The Burnt Batter.”

Lily shakes her hand at them, “How about Health Code Violation?”

But Remus watches you carefully. He sees the wince you try to hide, and quietly, without a word, he reaches into his pocket and hands you a tissue.

You take it with grace.

And when no one’s looking, you discreetly spit the bite into it, tucking it under your leg with a smile.

He winks. “I knew it.”

And somehow, surrounded by plastic cutlery and friends who never learned to cook, you feel full. Not from food — but from something better.

Because this isn’t just a birthday. It’s a memory and a forever kind of moment.

One you’ll carry with you long after the set lights dim, after the show wraps, after the scripts are folded away.

You’ll remember the way Lily laughed until she cried. How Peter’s trumpet haunted the halls for days. How James tried to knight you with a spatula. How Sirius wiped syrup on Remus’s shirt. How Remus slapped Sirius for it.

And most of all — how loved you felt.

Not as a character on a screen. Not as a rising name in a crowded industry.

But as you.

And it’s more than enough.

It happens exactly a week after your birthday.

One moment, you're still laughing over half-burnt pancakes and off-tune birthday songs; the next, you're staring at the “Final Scene of Season Two” call sheet taped to your door.

The corridors echo quieter that morning. The makeup trailer hums softer. Even the light through the windows seems slower, like time itself is reluctant to move.

Your dressing room—your room, now—feels heavier now. It’s less of a space and more of a heart you’ve been living inside.

You start gathering your things in silence. Folded scripts stacked beside worn sneakers. A chipped mug Sirius got you from set that says World’s Okayest Actor. A bracelet Lily made from old hair ties. Crumpled polaroids of memories.

You run your fingers along the edge of the mirror one last time, remembering the first time you sat in front of it and didn’t recognize yourself as Eleven.

You do now.

Packing it all hurts more than you expected. But you keep telling yourself: You’ll be back. You’ll be Eleven again. You’ll sit in this room again.

And yet—your chest still tightens with every item that disappears into your bag. Not because you’re leaving the show. But because you’re leaving them.

You’re going to miss this. All of it. But mostly, you’re going to miss them.

You’re going to miss Lily’s kindness. Her fire. The way she says your name when you’re too in your head. The way she races you down hallways, giggling like the world is made of joy.

You’re going to miss choosing fake band names together in the middle of the night. You're going to miss late dress rehearsals and shared eye rolls when Sirius and James try on ridiculous sunglasses and call it “costume inspiration.”

You’re going to miss Remus’s steadiness. His calm in the storm. His gentle voice when he reminds you to drink water or offers you a book like it might save your soul. The way he knows—without needing to ask—when something’s too much. How he passes you tissues in crowded rooms without a word.

You’re going to miss Peter’s chaos. His weird snacks. His awful jokes. The way he cheers a little too loud and claps a little too hard when one of you nails a scene. You’re going to miss how deeply he cares beneath it all.

You’re going to miss James’s joy. His magnetic energy. His laughter, which fills rooms before he even opens his mouth. The way he sings off-key just to make people smile.

You’re going to miss him leaping onto couches, shouting about fictional Grammys for their fictional band, and dragging everyone into impromptu jam sessions.

You’re going to miss the music. The way they’d play acoustic covers in the backlot while you and Lily swayed barefoot in the studio floor. The way they made you believe they could be rockstars. Still could, you think.

You’re going to miss the studio at night. The laughter behind closed doors. The whispering over pizza slices and half-finished scene notes. The warmth.

But most of all—you're going to miss Sirius.

Sirius, who always finds you when you're spiraling. Who walks onto rooftops barefoot just to breathe. Sirius, who calls you angel like it’s a language only the two of you understand. Sirius, who buys you cherry-flavored ice popsicles every time you mess up a scene, and tells you they’re magic.

Sirius, who draws constellations on your wrist when your hands won’t stop shaking. Sirius, who memorized your favorite tea. Sirius, who knows you better than you know yourself some days.

Sirius, who is your best friend—and more than that, somehow, though you’re both too young or too scared to say it out loud.

Sirius, who is your bright star.

A week has slipped quietly by since the last scene was filmed, since the final “cut” echoed through the studio and the frantic energy of production began to fade.

The sets stand silent now, the echoes of your laughter and footsteps lingering like soft ghosts in the empty halls.

Tonight, you find yourself alone in your dressing room, the space that once felt like a small kingdom of comfort and belonging now stripped bare as you fold the last few pieces of your life away.

The pictures, the notes, the little trinkets that made this room your own — all carefully packed, tucked away, waiting for another day, another time.

You will miss it all.

The weight of that truth settles over you like a soft, melancholy song.

The promise you all made earlier that day—words exchanged with warmth and conviction—echoes back to you now, reverberating in your heart as you fold a sleeve and tuck a scarf into your bag.

“We’ll stay in touch.”

“Always.”

“Like birds of a feather.”

Sirius’s words rise quietly in your memory, a simple phrase carrying the weight of years to come, binding you in a fragile, invisible thread that you cannot yet see but will one day follow.

James had immediately snorted. “Pads, it’s feathers of a bird. That’s not even the saying.”

Remus laughed too, shaking his head. “Yeah, it doesn’t make any sense. Birds of a feather? What does that even mean?”

But Sirius only grinned, unbothered and unyielding. “It’s birds of a feather. I insist.”

And somehow, that made it stick even more.

Birds of a feather.

The phrase lingers, almost like a spell, weaving itself through your thoughts until it can no longer be contained.

Unbeknownst to you—and to everyone around you—those words will become the heartbeat of something far greater than this moment.

As you sit down in your dressing room, your fingers curl around your pen, the ink feeling suddenly alive beneath your touch.

You don’t quite know what you’re doing, only that the quiet inside demands expression.

And so, you begin to write.

The first line is hesitant, a whisper on the page. Then another, growing steadier, more certain.

Memories spill onto the paper—late nights laughing until your sides hurt, the way James’s laughter could fill a room and lift the heaviest spirits, Remus’s quiet care that made the world seem less daunting, Peter’s awkward charm, Lily’s gentle strength, and above all, Sirius—the friend who traced stars on your wrist in moments of panic, who stood by you when the world felt uncertain and cold.

The song forms slowly, like a delicate thread weaving through the fabric of your heart.

You don’t speak it aloud. You don’t share it with anyone just yet. But within these words, within this melody still unborn, lies a promise.

A promise that this is only the beginning.

Birds of a feather, we’ll stick together.

That simple refrain, a vow of loyalty and love, becomes the seed of a journey that will carry you beyond these walls, beyond the camera’s lens, beyond the fragile moment of goodbye.

And while none of you realize it now, this song—your very first—will one day be the start of something much, much bigger.

It will mark the birth of your voice in a world waiting to listen.

A world ready for the story only you can tell.

For now, you let the words fill the room, softly, quietly, as the night wraps around you like a comforting cloak.

In the stillness, you find hope—hope that no matter where life leads, the bonds forged here will never truly fade.

That no matter how far you fly, you will always be part of this flock.

And as the last candle flickers low outside your window, you close your notebook gently, the weight of possibility humming beneath your skin.

Tomorrow is unknown.

But tonight, for one last night, you are home.

a/n: i knowww this was suchh a yap chapter but i really wanted to get the childhood scenes out of the way , so the next chapter will be them grown up <333 also , how do you guys like this so far? i appreciate any and all opinions !!

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