whimsymoonpages

[whimsymoonpages]

Can i request Sirius x fem reader smut?? She’s a marauder, like the only girl in the group, and then they start hooking up in secret and it’s messy and angsty and so hot!!! Like they’re crazy about eachother but have to keep it secret for the good of the group and so they keep it secret even for themselves

sirius black x fem!reader smut: can't stop, won't stop

cw: fingering, p in v, slight breeding kink if you squint, risk of being caught, secret relationship

it always starts the same way: the laugh, the look, the heat. the way he leans in when it’s just the two of you, cigarette between his fingers, eyes glittering like sin.

you know it’s wrong. you all swore—marauders above all. no feelings. no falling. no fucking this up.

but god, sirius black makes it so easy to forget.

you’re the only girl in the group, and for years, you’ve held your own. roughhousing with james, debating with remus, sneaking out with sirius. being one of the boys. being their girl.

something shifted after hogwarts. maybe it was the way sirius started looking at you like he’d die if he didn’t touch you. maybe it was the way you started looking back.

you’re not even sure who broke first. maybe it was that night at the lake house, when you were both a little drunk and a little lonely and he whispered, “tell me to stop,” even as his hands were already pushing up your shirt. you didn’t stop him then. you haven’t since.

now, it’s routine. secret. sacred. always messy.

like tonight.

you’re still wearing your denim shorts and oversized quidditch tee when he corners you in the upstairs bathroom of the cabin, locking the door behind him. his hair is a little damp from the lake, lips parted, breathing fast.

“we said we weren’t gonna do this again,” you whisper, back already pressing into the cool tile. "sirius."

“we always say that, dolly,” he murmurs, stepping in close, hands on your hips. “and i always end up with my mouth on your cunt anyway, so what’s the point?”

your gasp is involuntary, arousal flooding between your thighs like a spell broken too fast. he’s not even touching you properly yet, and you’re already aching for him.

“sirius—”

his lips crash into yours, hands yanking you up to sit on the counter like you weigh nothing. your legs fall open for him automatically, and he crowds between them like he owns the space. owns you.

the kiss is teeth and tongue and filth, his body hot and hard against yours. one hand tangles in your hair, the other dips under your waistband, fingers skimming the soaked cotton of your knickers.

“fuck,” he growls into your mouth, “you’re already dripping. all f'me, right, dolly?”

“i hate you.” you whisper, clutching his shirt like it’ll anchor you.

he laughs, dark and low. “liar. you love when i ruin you.”

his fingers slip past the soaked barrier, two sliding into your cunt without warning. your head tips back with a moan so loud he has to kiss you again just to quiet it.

“shhh,” he breathes, “jamesie’ll hear.”

that should stop you, but it doesn’t.

you grind against his hand like you’re starving for it, his name falling from your lips like prayer. he’s so good at this—at you—knows just how to curl his fingers, just how to angle his palm so it hits that perfect spot.

"so good, siri," you mewl, eyes staring up at him. he smirks and pulls you in for a deep kiss, not slowing his pace. you moan against his lips, feeling the coil tighten in your stomach. "please, sirius."

you come with a choked cry, thighs trembling around him, cunt pulsing on his fingers like it missed him, like it always does.

he watches you fall apart like it’s his fucking religion, then licks his fingers clean with a moan so filthy it has your toes curling in your boots.

“get on your knees,” you pant, breathless. "need your mouth."

his eyes go wide—greedy—and he drops instantly, hands pushing your shorts and underwear all the way off before diving in, mouth hot and hungry on your swollen cunt.

you clutch the edge of the sink, gasping, hips grinding against his face as he devours you like he’s never tasted anything better. his tongue flicks, swirls, fucks into you with such wicked precision it’s almost unbearable.

you’re close again in minutes, but before you can come, he pulls back, breathless, face glistening with you.

“need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “need to fuck you raw, sweetheart. please.”

you nod, dizzy. you’re not thinking anymore. not with your head, anyway. he lifts you again, spins you around to face the mirror, bends you over the sink. you stare at your own reflection as he lines up behind you, spitting in his hand and stroking his cock once—twice—before he slides into you all at once.

you moan loudly and bite your own fist. he’s too big, too deep, too everything.

“that’s it,” he groans, gripping your hips like he’s scared you’ll vanish. “take me. fuck, you feel like heaven.”

he sets a brutal pace, hips slamming into yours with every filthy thrust. the sound of skin slapping skin echoes off the tile, obscene and delicious. he watches you in the mirror, eyes locked on yours as you unravel for him again.

“you look so pretty like this,” he pants. “so fucking good getting stuffed with my cock. look at you, dolly. look at how ruined you are.”

you do. you see your swollen lips, your red cheeks, your fucked-out eyes. and you see him—sweat-slick, wild-eyed, obsessed.

he reaches around, thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight circles that send you spiraling.

you come with a sob, shaking around him, your slick soaking his cock. he groans your name like a curse and thrusts once, twice more before spilling inside you with a feral growl.

"such a good girl, dolly. takin' all my cum. so good f'me."

you stay like that, panting, trembling, pressed together.

he kisses the back of your neck like it means something. like you mean something. and maybe you do.

maybe that’s the real secret.

you turn around, still dazed. “we have to stop.”

he nods. “we won’t.”

“what if they find out?”

he smirks, brushing a lock of hair from your face. “then we’ll just have to fuck quieter.”

just like that, he kisses you again. and just like that, you let him.

hiii love! i hope this is what you were wanting. i haven't written smut for just one person before hehe. requests are still open!

[whimsymoonpages]

ink and bone chapter 11: maeve

cw: deception, lying, awkwarrdddd

kingsley left with a promise and a warning. he said he’d keep digging. he said he’d look for constellation-linked soul magic in the ministry’s buried records, but not to get your hopes up. most of that work had been sealed, or scrubbed. sometimes literally.

“watch who you trust,” he said at the door. “this sort of thing doesn’t work unless it starts close.”

and then he was gone. the flat held its breath for a long minute after the door shut, like it knew the weight of what had been said, and wasn’t ready to move on from it.

but the boys stayed.

you didn’t ask them to. none of them offered reasons. james hung back near the hearth. sirius wandered to the kitchenette and started poking around for something stronger than tea. remus stayed on the couch, elbows on knees, fingers laced like he was thinking too hard.

you stared at the floorboards and tried not to fall through them.

"what did he mean," you said finally, "about it starting close?"

james was the first to speak. "he meant people you already know. people who’d already be around you."

you shook your head. "no. that’s not possible. i don’t—i mean, everyone i here is—"

"who, y/n?" remus asked gently. your heart squeezed. when had he decided to start calling you that? you should care less about it. 

"maeve. callum. everyone bloody here," you looked up. "they were best friends with my parents. they’ve looked after me since i was a kid. after the war, after the funeral, after every time i thought i was going to break—they were the ones who kept me together. they’re not death eaters. and neither is anyone else in kenmare."

"no one’s saying they are," remus said slowly. "but we have to consider the possibility."

"they’re family, remus."

"so was peter." james muttered from across the room.

you looked between them. "seriously, guys?"

"look," remus said, voice still careful and hands outstretched, "you don’t have to believe anything yet. we just want to be cautious. if this thing with your mark makes you vulnerable, then the people around you matter more than ever."

"and if they’re involved, if they’re reporting back to someone—" james starts, his eyes squinted.

"they’re not," you snapped, standing too fast. the flat hissed at your sudden movement, the candle flames guttering. "they wouldn’t."

"i know you want to believe that," james said, running a hand over his face. "but we’re talking about soul magic. dark rituals. death eaters. we have to think in worst-case terms."

"ugh," sirius said, dragging a hand through his hair. "this would be so much fucking easier if reggie were here. he knew everyone on that side. half of them looked up to him. my perfect boy!" his voice was shrill as he impersonated his mother.

you let out a breath. "maeve and callum couldn't have known regulus."

"wait—" james’s head snapped up. "why not?"

you blinked. "what?"

"why wouldn't they have known him?"

"because he was your brother," you said to sirius. "because he was a slytherin? because he died during the war and they were working with the order? not to mention they're old enough to be my parents."

"they were close with your parents," james said, now pacing. "your parents who knew everyone on the island, who would do anything for anybody here. maybe they were using them."

you frowned. "what are you getting at?"

james turned, eyes bright with an idea. "what if we test them?"

remus raised an eyebrow. "how?"

"a little casual conversation. y/n and sirius go to the shop—"

"what, like a date?" you blurted, and then flushed. you couldn't imagine sitting in the shop on a fake date with sirius black.

sirius, predictably, grinned. "hell yes." it seems he can imagine being on a fake date with you. lovely.

"the usual time," james continued, ignoring both of you. "you sit, you chat, you talk about family, old hogwarts stories, whatever. and then you bring up regulus. see how they react."

"if they act like they don’t know him—" remus started.

"they’re clean," james finished. "but if they slip—"

he doesn't finish that sentence. he didn’t have to.

the plan went into motion faster than you'd expected. the next afternoon, you dressed like it was nothing. like it was just another lazy tea with sirius in the warm corner booth of the shop you used to think was your safe place. your heart didn’t believe it. neither did your soulmark, which buzzed constantly beneath your skin, restless, agitated. it felt nice to be sitting this close to one of your soulmates. after all, kingsley did say you had to strengthen the bond. perhaps the fake date is the perfect way to test the waters.

sirius played it cool. black jumper, silver rings, hair pushed back like he’d actually tried. he winked when he caught you looking and said, “don’t make me fall in love with you, yl/n.”

you snorted. “yeah, right."

you were halfway through a second cup of tea when maeve and callum entered, arms full of bakery bags and newsprint. normal. kind. smiling. your stomach twisted.

“oh, love, there you are,” maeve said, pushing her big glasses off of her face and onto the top of her head. “mind if we join you?”

“we’re just finishing up,” you said quickly, trying not to sound off. “but sit, sit.”

callum nodded at sirius. “good to see you again, lad.”

“you too,” sirius said, with that easy sort of charm that always got him in trouble.

they squeeze in comfortably next to you. maeve passed over a pastry bag. “those honey buns you like.”

you smiled tightly. “thanks, dear.”

“so,” maeve said after a moment. “what’s the occasion?”

“just catching up,” sirius said, arm slung casually over the booth behind you. “remus said i was brooding too much. apparently that’s not sexy.”

“i said it was dangerous,” you corrected, lips twitching. "which is sexy."

well hell, y/n, play it up!

maeve laughed. “well, you two are sweet. how long?”

you both froze for half a second too long. sirius recovered first. “not long. we’ve known each other for ages though. hogwarts--the good ole days.”

“oh yes,” maeve said, eyes warm. “your mother always did push for connections there, didn’t she?”

you smiled, more brittle now. “not just her. i think it was easy to become friends with people at hogwarts, anyways. especially being a prefect and doing slugclub. that's how i met sirius' brother, regulus."

sirius made a low, interested noise. "rest in peace to my nerd brother, regulus. professor slughorn is probably crying somewhere at the waste of talent. boohoo."

maeve’s hands paused on the paper bag. “oh,” she said lightly. “that sweet boy.”

everything went quiet. callum looked up.

you didn’t breathe.

she kept going. “he used to sneak lemon drops from the tray when he thought no one was looking. told me once he hated all the wine talk, said it gave him a headache.”

you stared at her. she didn’t flinch, as if she didn't know she wasn't supposed to reveal any information.

"he did that all the time, those ruddy lemon drops," sirius laughed softly, as though actually remembering. “funny. i don’t remember you being at any of our parties.”

“well,” maeve said, dabbing her lips with a napkin, “we all cross paths eventually.”

you made it through the rest of the conversation somehow. you smiled. you thanked her for the honey bun. you didn’t even run when she kissed your temple and said, “we’ll see you at supper tomorrow, darling.”

but the moment they were out the door, sirius turned to you.

“did you catch that?”

you nodded slowly, throat tight. “she knew him. she knew regulus.”

“which means—”

“she lied.”

your chest ached.

you pressed your hand flat over your soulmark, which was burning now, angry and alive.

“maeve is a death eater.”

previous next

taglist: @daydreamandforget, @lovelyteenagebeard, @cinnimona, @hxgemxscles

[whimsymoonpages]

Hi love!! Could i request Fem reader x Evan x barty smut?? like they are a group of friends, i’m thinking she’s Evans gryffindor girlfriend. She hangs out with them, and then on of the skittles gets a drug that makes them horny, they all start to leave, Evan and her start making out and when barty gets up to leave they just tell him to stay. Please please pleaseeee

poly!rosekiller smut: the wrong drug

cw: mmf, p in v, oral (male and female receiving), mentions of drug use and after affects, praise praise praise!

you weren’t supposed to stay this late.

it had been a lazy afternoon with the skittles, half the group sprawled on conjured cushions in the back of the old quidditch stands, passing bottles, laughing too loud. someone had smuggled in firewhisky, someone else had gotten their hands on a flower that barty claimed was “maybe like a stimulant? maybe like a mood enhancer? we’ll find out.”

you should’ve known. anything barty gets from the strange men in diagon alley was not to be trusted.

because two hours later, the sun dipping low, the group had thinned—people slipping off with flushed cheeks and muttered excuses. regulus had stalked off to his head boy room with a pillow over his crotch, and pandora had left ages ago in search of xeno. you, of course, thought they were being dramatic; though it didn’t take a genius to clock that the potion barty brought wasn’t just a mild stimulant. it was a full-body furnace. and now it was just the three of you left: you, your boyfriend evan, and barty crouch jr., sitting too still, too quiet, like he was trying not to combust.

evan’s eyes had been on you all night, blue and dark with something hungry. he looked too good in the fading light—his dark golden skin glowing, white-blonde hair a little messy from when you’d tugged it earlier, teasing. his fingers were twitching against your thigh, like he was barely holding himself back.

“everyone’s gone,” you murmured, breath catching as his hand slid higher, fingertips brushing under your skirt. “should we go too?”

evan smirked. “we should.”

he didn’t move.

you leaned in to kiss him, soft at first, but it lit like a match. he groaned, fingers digging into your waist as he kissed you harder, his mouth hot and demanding, tongue sweeping in like he needed to taste everything. you moaned into it, hips shifting closer, thighs spreading on instinct.

barty made a sound—half cough, half scoff—as he stood abruptly, brushing grass off his pants. “i’ll give you two a minute.”

“don’t,” evan said, not looking up, still kissing you. “stay.”

barty froze. “what?”

you pulled back slightly, lips swollen, eyes heavy-lidded. “stay,” you echoed, voice soft but sure. “if you want.”

barty blinked, then slowly sat down again, green eyes locked on where evan’s hand was now sliding between your legs. his voice was hoarse. “this a regular thing you offer your friends? weirdos.”

evan chuckled against your throat, biting gently. “only the ones we trust. the ones we want."

you spread your thighs wider, letting evan press his fingers against the soaked fabric of your knickers. “it’s the potion,” you breathed. “makes everything feel hotter. might as well give in, b.”

barty’s eyes darkened. “yeah,” he muttered. “might as well...”

“you gonna just sit there and watch?” evan asked, voice lazy but firm. “or are you gonna help?”

barty didn’t answer with words. he crossed the space between you in seconds, mouth slanting over yours with a kind of restraint that made your whole body ache. where evan was all heat and hunger, barty kissed like he wanted to learn every inch of you through touch—soft, slow, fucking devastating. your hips jerked as evan finally pushed your panties aside, two fingers sliding through your wetness.

“fuck, she’s soaked,” evan muttered, watching barty kiss you. “you like being shared, baby?”

you nodded, dizzy. “love being wanted.”

“that you do,” evan said, voice tight with affection, before lowering his head and licking a slow stripe up your inner thigh. he sucked a bruise just beside your panties, then pulled them down and tossed them aside. "we want you so bad. isn't that right, junior?"

barty sat back on his heels, watching as evan spread your legs and buried his face between them. your gasp was sharp, back arching as his tongue flicked over your clit, rough and practiced. you fisted your hand in his hair, hips bucking helplessly.

“he always this good with his mouth?” barty murmured, running a hand through his brown and green hair.

“usually better.” you managed, before he caught your chin and kissed you again—this time rougher, more possessive. you whimpered into it as evan licked deeper, tongue pressing inside your cunt, groaning like you were his last fucking meal.

barty tugged your shirt up and off, exposing your bare chest to the warm air. his hands were gentler than you expected, thumbs brushing your nipples until they peaked under his touch. “so pretty like this,” he whispered. “fuck.”

evan pulled off just long enough to murmur, “get her ready. i want her full.”

you whined, legs trembling. “please, ev. need you—both of you.”

barty looked at you, flushed and wild, then pulled his wand and conjured lube with a flick. his fingers were long, careful as he slipped one into your soaked cunt beside evan’s tongue, then two, scissoring you open while evan sucked your clit mercilessly.

you were shaking when they finally stopped, skin flushed, pussy aching.

“on your knees, doll.” evan said, voice rough. you obeyed, breathless, the ground cool beneath you as barty pulled his cock free—thick, flushed, already leaking. he stroked himself slowly, watching your mouth open for him, eyes blown wide with lust.

evan slid behind you, his cock hard and slick as he pressed into your cunt, inch by inch, until you were full to the hilt. “fuck, you’re tight,” he grunted, hands gripping your hips. “you were made for my cock, hmm?”

you moaned, then gagged softly as barty slid into your mouth, hips shallow as he fucked your throat slow, eyes fixed on yours. you were wrecked—full at both ends, caught between them, every nerve ending on fire.

evan fucked into you with brutal, perfect rhythm, slapping into your soaked cunt, muttering filth under his breath. “that’s it, baby, take me—take both of us—so fucking good, so fuckable like this.”

barty’s hand cradled your jaw as he fucked your mouth. “such a good girl,” he said softly, like praise. “so eager for it.”

you were shaking, sobbing around his cock, your orgasm building like a storm. evan felt it—his pace quickened, slamming into you harder, groaning. “come on, love, come on my cock—wanna feel you squeeze me.”

you shattered, coming with a cry, body locking down tight around evan’s cock as your throat fluttered around barty. evan spilled inside you with a growl, hips jerking, fingers digging bruises into your waist.

barty pulled out just before he came, stroking himself over your tongue, groaning as he painted your lips and chin with hot ropes of cum.

you collapsed between them, panting, ruined, every inch of you tingling from the aftershocks.

evan pressed kisses to your spine, sweet and dizzy. “you alright, sweetheart?”

you nodded, dazed. “better than.”

barty squeezes your chin and rubs your cheek with his thumb. "i ought to buy some more of that, aye?"

[whimsymoonpages]

poly!marauders oneshots: the sex potion pt. 2

part 1

cw: bi!mmmf, kissing, dp, oral (female and male receiving), anal, masturbation (james gets himself off for a sec)

remus steps in slow, lazy and in control like always, but there’s a sharp gleam in his amber eyes as he takes the scene in; james flushed and panting, cock slick from your mouth, sirius buried deep in your cunt, holding you so tight he might bruise, and you trembling between them, wrecked and needy and glowing with sweat.

“look at you,” remus murmurs, voice gone gravel-deep as he steps behind you. “fuck, you’re beautiful like this, dovey. ruined already?”

you shake your head, gasping, “not enough, rem.”

“she’s greedy,” sirius pants, thrusting up into you hard enough to make the chair scrape across the tile. “fucking perfect, yeah? always wants more.”

“she deserves more,” remus says simply, dropping to his knees behind you. "always does."

his hands, which are much cooler than james’s feverish ones, but rougher than sirius’s long fingers, settle on your hips, and then his tongue slides lower, past where you’re stretched wide on sirius’s cock, licking at the messy place where you’re joined.

you mewl at the feeling. remus licks you open like he’s starving, tongue lapping up every bit of slick, spit, and cum dripping from your cunt, flicking over your rim with filthy precision. his thumbs pull you open wider so he can lick deeper, tongue pushing against your tight hole, wet and hot and unrelenting.

“fuck—fuck, remus,” you sob, body shaking between all three of them. "yes, yes, yes!"

sirius groans, head falling back, eyes fluttering shut as he feels remus’s tongue press against his cock through your walls. “he’s licking my cock through her, jamie, merlin—”

“yeah?” remus rasps, voice muffled in your cunt. he brings himself up to kiss siri on the lips. hard. “taste yourself, pads. taste her. bet you like that, huh? tell me."

“yes,” sirius moans, rocking up harder, fucking you deep while remus keeps you spread open and gasping. "please!"

remus goes back down to attach his mouth onto your aching clit. your eyes roll to the back of your head at the feeling.

james strokes himself as he watches, his hand slick and slow, eyes glassy. “you look so fucking good like this, dove. used like you need to be. our sweet thing. love you so much, dove.”

“want you, jamie” you whimper, looking up at him through tear-slick lashes. “want to taste you again.”

“c'mere.” he groans, and you lean up just enough to take him back into your mouth, sucking him deep until your lips brush the base, throat working around him. he curses, low and vicious, hand fisting your hair to guide the rhythm. “fuck, just like that, y/n. your mouth’s fucking heaven.”

remus pulls back for breath, dragging a finger through your slick hole and circling your rim slowly. “gonna stretch you out here, sweetheart. fill every part of you. you want that?”

you sob around james’s cock, nodding wildly.

sirius huffs out a laugh, voice tight with effort. “she’s cockdrunk already, moony."

remus slicks his fingers with his spit and your mess, then presses one inside your ass slow, inch by inch. you moan around james, back arching, the stretch intense but perfect.

“so tight back here,” remus murmurs, voice all praise. “gonna take me so well, won’t you? gonna be my best girl?”

you nod again, babbling nonsense, too full and too desperate to form words. james slips from your mouth, hand pumping himself as he watches remus work another finger into you, scissoring them slowly.

“fuck, moony, she’s shaking,” sirius breathes, his thrusts slowing so you don’t tip too far. “she’s gonna come.”

“not yet,” remus says sharply. “not until she’s full of all three of us.”

“yes,” james moans. “yes, fuck, that’s it. want her stuffed full, moony. fuck her while pads fills her cunt—want to watch your cock fuck up into her while she sucks me off again.”

your pussy tightens at his words, back bowing as remus presses a third finger in, stretching you wide. the burn makes you tremble, but you don’t want him to stop. you want all of them.

“you ready for me, love?” remus whispers, kissing the base of your spine. “gonna take me now?”

you pull off of james' cock. “yes! yes, please, remmy, want it so bad.”

sirius lifts you up, keeping his cock buried inside you, and remus helps guide you onto all fours across the kitchen table. you’re a beautiful wreck: sweaty, dripping, flushed all over, body slick with spit and precum.

remus positions himself behind you, cock thick and flushed, pushing slowly into your ass until he’s buried to the hilt.

you moan.

james grabs your face, kisses you hard. “breathe, dove. you’ve got us. you’re perfect.”

sandwiched between sirius and remus, both of them buried deep in your cunt and ass, you can barely think. you’re full—so fucking full—and they don’t even move yet, just let you shake and flutter around them, letting you adjust.

“so good for us, dove.” remus murmurs, kissing your spine.

“so fucking perfect.” sirius echoes, brushing your hair back as he rolls his hips shallowly.

then they start to move—slow at first, careful and coordinated. sirius fucks into you deep while remus pulls out halfway and thrusts back in. every movement drags against sensitive walls, lighting your whole body on fire.

james kisses down your throat, your chest, biting your nipples as he watches them ruin you.

“god, look at you,” he pants into your chest. “never seen anything so fucking hot.”

you’re babbling, begging for more, for anything—legs trembling, mind blank.

sirius speeds up first, rough now, fucking you so hard the table shakes beneath you. remus matches him, fucking your ass just as deep, balls slapping against your thighs.

“gonna fill her,” remus growls. “gonna stuff her full—gonna come inside her—”

“me too,” sirius gasps. “fuck, dove, gonna come—gonna fill your sweet little cunt up—”

you come first, loud and broken and blinding, clenching around them both so hard they shout your name.

sirius follows, groaning as he spills inside you, hips grinding deep, trying to stay buried while he pulses hot. remus isn’t far behind, snarling as he fills your ass with thick warmth, fingers digging bruises into your hips.

they keep you held close as you collapse between them, gasping and soaked and full of them.

james strokes your hair, eyes soft even as his cock twitches against your cheek.

“open up for me, love,” he whispers. “let me finish on your face.”

you blink up at him, lips parting, tongue out—and he comes with a shout, thick ropes spilling across your tongue and cheeks as he strokes himself through it.

“fuck,” he breathes, watching you swallow. “fuck, you’re unreal.”

you sag into sirius’s chest, utterly ruined, cockdrunk and fucked full of them. he pulls you in for a delectable kiss, tasting james' cum on your tongue.

“so,” sirius pants, stroking your side, “anyone still want dinner?”

remus laughs softly behind you, still buried deep. “think we’ve eaten enough for now.”

tags for this oneshot: @daydreamandforget, @elle-jay-2

[whimsymoonpages]

ink and bone chapter 10: cassiopeia

cw: language, mentions of scar, mentions of past, soulmate bond is acknowledged and seen!

the flat was humming with nerves.

you hadn't meant to care this much about dust, or pillow symmetry, or the teacups that didn't match. but now that they were actually coming—three men who made your bones fizz with something ancient and aching, and an auror with more war medals than you had spoons—you couldn't seem to stop tidying.

fortunately, the flat helped.

a match struck itself and candles lit without your touch, their flames steady even against the breeze from the open window. one of them you'd never lit before, a stubby beeswax thing tucked behind a stack of cookbooks, and yet there it was, flickering proudly. the scent of burnt sugar filled the room, sweet and singed. your mark buzzed faintly beneath your shirt like it was listening.

"stop it," you muttered, pressing a palm to your arm. "you don't know anything."

the mark didn't answer, but the kettle screamed.

you poured the water, whispering little warming charms to keep the cups hot. cloaks dripped by the door; yours, and one left behind by remus, wool still damp from last night's storm. the ward-light shimmered on the glass, bouncing off your bookshelf like nervous magic.

you sat down. stood up. sat again. rehearsed the same few lines, over and over:

"thank you for coming, kingsley. i think the shop is trying to help us. i think someone is watching us. i think i'm the reason the boys are in danger."

too much. try again.

"do you know what code urchin means?"

"have you ever seen soulmarks burn like this before? does yours?"

"am i going to get someone killed?"

a knock interrupted your spiral. three short raps, then one louder.

you opened the door.

sirius was first, hood up, hair wild anyway, grinning like he'd just been let into the most exclusive party in britain. remus stood beside him, wrapped in a charcoal cloak that looked charmed against rain and hexes. james was behind them, broad-shouldered and tense, eyes flicking up the stairwell like he expected to be followed.

and then there was kingsley. well...sort of.

the man standing beside james was tall. like, tall. broad-shouldered, rich brown skin, and short, dark hair that didn't move even as the breeze from the hallway snuck in behind them. he wore navy robes with a ministry sigil you didn't recognize, and he was handsome in a way that was almost suspicious like he'd been designed to be forgettable.

you blinked. "i'm sorry. are you—"

"shacklebolt." he said in a much deeper voice than you remembered. when you last saw kingsley back at hogwarts, he was still growing into his height, though he already one of the tallest in the year. his hair was longer then, worn in tidy braids pulled back from his face, and he had a laugh that boomed through the great hall during meals. he walked like someone who'd grown too fast to keep up with his own limbs, but he carried his wand with the kind of ease that made even professors wary. most memorably, he had a thin, curved scar cutting through his left eyebrow, earned during a dueling club mishap that was, according to rumor, more than half intentional. his voice was warm, clever, and often a little smug.

seeing him now with short cropped hair, a forgettable face thanks to polyjuice, and a voice two octaves too deep was disorienting. the real kingsley wasn't forgettable. he'd never been.

when you last saw kingsley—back at hogwarts—he was still growing into his height, though already one of the tallest in the year. his hair was longer then, worn in tidy braids pulled back from his face, and he had a laugh that boomed through the great hall during meals. he walked like someone who'd grown too fast to keep up with his own limbs, but he carried his wand with the kind of ease that made even upper-years wary. most memorably, he had a thin, curved scar cutting through his left eyebrow, earned during a dueling club mishap that was, according to rumor, more than half intentional. his voice was warm, clever, and often a little smug

"it's uncanny," you said. "except you don't look like kingsley."

"that's the idea," kingsley said dryly. "someone tried to tail me through county clare. figured i'd best come as someone less...important."

you stepped aside to let them in. "does the real you still have the eyebrow scar?"

kingsley grinned. "of course i do."

sirius was looking around the flat with undisguised interest. he took it all in: the candles, the warm glow, the bookshelf that had reshuffled itself again overnight. he padded into the center of the room, touching a book spine here, dragging a finger along a dusty side table there. his shoulders relaxed as the record player clicked on.

"your place is nice," he said, toeing off his boots. the flat hummed a soft, pleased sort of sound. then a record player, one you hadn't wound in months, clicked to life in the corner, and a low, slow jazz tune began to play. "oh my god," sirius muttered. "this ruddy building is too smart for its own good."

"tea?" you offered with a grimace, already reaching for the tray.

remus accepted first, murmuring thanks as he settled carefully into the armchair nearest the hearth, his hands cupped around the warmth of the mug. james nodded, still tense, and took his cup with a distracted kind of gratitude. he stood instead of sitting, eyes still scanning the room. his fingers flexed around the handle like he was steadying himself.

kingsley scanned the windows before settling onto the couch, one hand resting on his knee, the other reaching slowly for the coffee table and then froze when he saw what was there.

"are those—"

"your files," you said sheepishly. "well...and mine."

james raised an eyebrow and looked at you incredulously. "you've got our files?"

"just the ones the town archive had! and the sealed one from the war. which i probably maybe wasn'tsupposedtotake."

"bloody hell," sirius said, delighted. "you're worse than moony." he flopped down beside kingsley and leaned over to get a better look.

kingsley pulled the closest one toward him. james'. "this one's from dumbledore."

you nodded. "remus said you might know what code urchin meant. it's all over mine."

kingsley looked up, serious now. "i've only seen it once before."

remus leaned forward, tea forgotten on the floor beside him. "it wasn't in any of the order records. i would have known otherwise."

"it wouldn't be. it was highly classified. used only a handful of times, and always sealed by dumbledore himself. urchin meant the subject was at risk. magically sensitive, vulnerable to certain kinds of manipulation."

"manipulation how?" james asked, still standing near the window, arms folded.

kingsley hesitated. "soul magic. bloodwork."

the flat was suddenly very quiet.

"during the war," kingsley continued, "the ministry intercepted a few dark rituals—early prototypes, nothing complete. but they were designed to use soulbonds. to puppet people through them. like the imperius curse, but ten times worse. if you control one person, you control everyone linked to them."

"so this code," remus said slowly, "marked her as...what?"

"a potential target. someone whose soulmark was either manipulable or...expansive."

"expansive as in multiple links?" james asked, eyes full of something you couldn't quite read.

kingsley nodded, lips pursed. "we didn't understand it fully, we still don't. but dumbledore flagged her for protection. and he sealed the record. him and a few others involved in the old order."

maeve, you think, angry that you hadn't put it together before. "and me?" you whisper. "i'm... what? the source?"

"the entry point."

no one spoke.

your fingers trembled on the edge of your cup. your mark pulsed, like it knew it had just been named.

"we've heard whispers," kingsley said, gentler now. "dark marks on fish, blood circles washing up on the shore. something's building, and they want the kind of magic that gets right to the heart."

no one moved. remus reached over without thinking and touched your shoulder. solid. warm. his thumb brushed along your collarbone like a reassurance.

sirius watched you too closely, fingers tapping his knee in a slow, restless rhythm.

james moves suddenly, and crosses to the window nearest to the door. he doesn't look back at any of you. "dumbledore sent us here," he says, voice flat and angry.

sirius frowns. "yeah. so what?"

"no, sirius. not so what," james says, whipping around. his eyes are wide and his nostrils flared. "he didn't just send us here for the disturbance, or for the deaths, or for the fucking death eaters. he sent us for her. he knew."

"so now i'm the reason you're in danger," you said. flat.

remus's hand didn't move.

and then comes the second thought. the sharp one, the stupid one, the one you can't stop:

they're in danger because of me.

you don't know when you started trembling. you want to leave. not the room—kenmare. ireland. the planet, maybe. you want to vanish, to run so far that no one can use you to hurt anyone else ever again. you don't even know them. not really. not in the ways that matter.

so why does the thought of them in pain make your lungs seize? why does remus's hand on your arm steady your heart?

why does james—at the window, tense, silent—look like he's already made some impossible decision?

"i should leave," you said, quieter now. "i should go somewhere they won't find me. that they won't find you."

sirius turned to you. "you hardly know us."

"i know enough."

but the flat disagreed. there was a low creak. a shifting in the walls. and then—thump—a book dropped from the shelf. slid itself across the floor. flipped itself open to the page it wanted.

cassiopeia: the constellations of love and war.

kingsley narrowed his eyes. "is that...?"

"it's happened before," you said, barely breathing, mind still racing. "the shop gave it to me a few days ago."

james picked it up. the diagram inside glowed faintly gold.

he read aloud, "cassiopeia was cursed for her pride, bound to the stars. but those same stars became a map for the ones who followed. love that endures through punishment, bonds that burn, but lead you home."

kingsley leaned forward. "that's it," he said. "that's the key."

"mate," sirius said. "what key?"

kingsley scanned the page again. "they're not just trying to use the bond. they're trying to overwrite it. bend it into something they can control. but if it's mapped—if it's part of a constellation—"

"they can't change the shape of the stars." remus said, standing suddenly.

kingsley nodded. "they can try to blot them out. but the stronger the bond, the harder it'll be to corrupt."

james looked up. "so what do we do?"

kingsley didn't answer right away. his eyes flicked from the book, to you, to the mark just barely glowing at your chest.

"you start by not running." he said, looking right at you.

and the flat, again, hummed its approval.

previous next

taglist: @daydreamandforget, @lovelyteenagebeard, @cinnimona, @hxgemxscles

[whimsymoonpages]

poly!marauders oneshot: the sex potion

in which regulus sends in a batch of potions to help remus during the full moon, and one of them is a little bit...off.

cw: bisexual mfm, remus walks in, oral (m and f receiving), p in v, needy james!

you’re trying to make dinner. emphasis on trying, because every time you turn back to the stove, one of your husbands pulls you back into whatever game they’re playing instead. by game, you mean: teeth sinking into skin, fingers tracing every bare inch, mouths devouring you with reckless need. chopping vegetables? forget it.

james is the absolute worst.

he’s leaned against the counter like it’s a goddamn runway, shirt hanging open enough to show the swell of his bare chest, the hot muscles flexing as he grins that maddening grin. his hazel eyes are glued to you, drinking in every movement as you stir the sauce with far too much distraction.

“you look so fucking good like that,” he says, voice low and rough, like he’s already tasting you. “real domestic. fuckin' sexy.”

you roll your eyes but the heat pooling low in your belly betrays you. “you’re doing nothing to help. if i burn this, you’re eating every crispy, bitter bite.”

“deal,” james shrugs, his voice thick with want. “as long as you feed me all sweet with a spoon.”

“you’re insufferable,” you mutter, but his hands don’t wait for permission. they slide up your waist, pressing your body back into his like you’re made to fit exactly here. "james--"

“love you soft like this,” he murmurs, his lips trailing hot kisses along your jaw, biting gently. “warm and yours. all mine.”

you almost melt when sirius strolls in, barefoot, cock straining against his pants, wild grin plastered across his face. “should i come back later? or is this a dinner-slash-orgy situation?”

“sirius.” you warn, breath hitching as james' fingers find your nipples. he rolls them between his rough fingers.

“darling,” he purrs, picking up a carrot and nibbling it like a devil caught red-handed, “you say that like i haven’t walked in on worse.”

james’s grip moves down and tightens at your waist, his breath hot against your ear. “stay with me. sauce can wait.”

you scowl, but don’t move because merlin, when james is this greedy, resistance is pointless.

sirius leans in, his hand sliding low along your back, fingers ghosting beneath your shirt to tease the soft skin above your jeans. “what’s got you all riled up, huh? james going all needy on you?”

you glance at him, smirking. “must be the potion.”

both freeze.

“potion?” sirius asks slowly, eyes narrowing.

“the one reg sent. said it was for moony, but i think the labels got mixed up—he left a note about it maybe being...experimental.”

sirius groans. “you let prongs near the potions, dove? again?”

“he drank it like it was pumpkin juice,” you say, deadpan. “no stopping him.”

james lifts his head from your shoulder, eyes glassy. “it tasted nice.”

“brilliant,” sirius mutters. “what’s it supposed to do?”

you shrug. “reg said enhanced magical sensitivity. but who knows what that really means.”

james gasps.

“enhanced magical sensitivity,” he repeats, voice thick. “is that why everything feels...fucking electric?”

sirius eyes him, suspicious. “what do you mean, electric?”

james swallows hard. “you’re just...hotter, pads. like every touch’s fire.”

you and sirius blink.

“he’s serious.” you say.

“no, i’m sirius!” sirius teases.

james groans, hips pressing harder into you. “not now, babe.”

you can feel the hard swell of his cock grinding against your ass, and fuck, that twist low in your belly tightens.

“well, shit,” sirius says, staring at the outline in james’s trousers. “horny potion it is, then.”

“might be worse.” you murmur, fingers twitching as james’s hands explore under your shirt, fingers tracing every curve like they’re memorizing you.

“you’re so soft, so warm,” james breathes, reverent. “feels like you’re glowing. i just want to bury myself inside you.”

his voice is rough, hungry, desperate.

sirius whistles low. “never letting him near potions again.”

“speak for yourself,” you gasp, breath hitching as james’s palm cups your breast, thumb brushing your swollen nipple until it pebbles under his touch. “best mistake he’s ever made.”

you turn your head just enough to catch james’s mouth on yours. his kiss is brutal; tongue thrusting deep, teeth grazing, like he’s starving. his hands grip your hips tight, pulling you flush against him, fingers digging into your skin.

sirius groans, sliding in close behind you both, his cock hard and hot pressing into james' back. his hands slip under your shirt, too, his fingertips teasing your ribs, nails grazing the soft swell of your waist. he cups your jaw, tilting your face toward him for a searing kiss that leaves you breathless.

james whimpers as he touches your body, feeling sirius' thick cock against him. you look up into his wide eyes.

“kitchen’s not safe.” you breathe out, voice thick with want.

“neither are we.” sirius murmurs, teeth sinking into your neck, leaving a trail of heat and fire.

you tug him closer, craving the sharp pleasure.

“enough teasing,” james pants, voice husky. “bend over the counter. now.”

“you're never this bossy, jamie,” sirius smirks, but he obeys, sliding your shirt up, exposing your bare back, slipping your jeans down just enough to reveal your lacy panties, soaked already. "i love it."

james drops to his knees behind you, hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wide open.

“fuck, look at you dripping,” he groans, mouth hungrily descending between your legs. his tongue flicks over your slick folds, licking slow and deep, worshipping every inch like it’s a precious secret.

sirius cups your jaw, pulling your face to him, kissing you as james devours your pretty pussy. “so fucking pretty,” he breathes. “gonna let us ruin you here?”

you nod, voice trembling, “please. need it. need you both.”

james growls, rutting against your thigh. “gonna fuck you full.”

sirius strokes your hair, whispering, “how do you want it, love?”

“you first, siri,” you say, heat burning through you. “want to ride you.”

he curses low, pulls his wand, vanishing your clothes, and with a flick, summons the lube. no time for the bedroom. he pulls you onto the kitchen chair, cock already hard and slick.

he slides inside you slow, hands gripping your hips tight, both of you moaning at the perfect fit. “fuck, so tight,” sirius pants, hips rocking.

you grind down on him, savoring the delicious stretch.

james stands, cock leaking pre, flushed and eager. “wanna feel your mouth,” he whispers. "please, love."

you open up for him, and he slides in easy, hand cupping the back of your head, guiding you deep. you’re full—mouth, cunt, and now throat—with two hard cocks, and it’s everything.

james’s strokes are steady, lips devouring you while sirius fucks your cunt with relentless need.

remus finds you ten minutes later. he pauses at the door, watching the mess of bodies, breathless and slick with sweat.

“did the potion do this?” he asks, calm but amused.

james groans, “moony, please—come join us—”

you pull off james’s cock for a breath, gasping, “help—he’s insatiable.”

remus laughs, locking the door behind him.

“well,” he says, eyes dark, “dinner’s officially canceled.” part 2

[whimsymoonpages]

poly!marauders blurb: never give james the scissors

in which james gives siri a trim...just a trim

james can’t stop grinning. not when he picks up the clippers, looking way too confident for someone who’s never cut hair before. sirius sits on the wooden stool in the middle of the room, an old paint-stained sheet thrown over his shoulders like a cape, and remus leans against the window frame, arms crossed, already looking like he’s calculating escape routes.

you sit cross-legged on the floor with a mug of tea, waiting for the disaster to unfold.

“i watched a muggle tutorial last night,” james says, flicking the clippers on. “how hard can it be?”

“last time you said that, i ended up with a bald patch shaped like a lightning bolt,” sirius says, voice deadpan but eyes wary. "i don't even know how you did that."

“hair grows back!” james replies, like it’s the simplest fact in the world.

remus snorts. “i think that’s the problem, love.”

james scowls. "my father invented sleekeazy! i am the most trusted in this house with hair."

he huffs and starts snipping around sirius’s head, a few tufts floating down like confetti. sirius tries not to wince but can’t help flinching when james gets too close to his neck.

“uh,” james says, pausing with a grimace. “maybe a bit shorter than intended here.”

sirius catches his reflection in the mirror propped against the wall and freezes.

there’s a short spot that looks suspiciously deliberate and a tuft at the back sticking out like a seaweed frond.

“i look like i survived a shipwreck,” sirius says slowly. "you gave me a half mullet, james!"

“siri, it's pirate chic,” you say, smirking. "you look kinda hot."

james shrugs and goes for scissors again, but they quite literally fall apart in his hands.

“okay, that’s not great.”

you wave your wand. “let me try.”

a quick smoothing charm and sirius’s hair shimmers—then glows bright neon green.

remus laughs so hard he has to sit down.

“well, you’ll never get lost on the coast.”

sirius pulls the nearest hat over his glowing hair and mutters, “i’m going to kill you all.”

you sip your tea, smiling.

[whimsymoonpages]

ink and bone chapter 9: what kind of love

cw: mentions of war and death, cursing, dumbledore did what he thought was best (which is hard for everyone as always), denial is a river in EGYPT, truth is revealed!

the fire crackles low in the hearth. remus has added a few sprigs of juniper to the flames—it smells sharp and green and slightly sweet, like something halfway between a forest and a forgotten cupboard. you sit cross-legged on the worn rug, your back warm from the heat, your hands cupped around a chipped mug of tea you haven't touched.

james leans back against the kitchen counter, arms folded. he's got a constellation of freckles on one forearm, a dark bruise blooming near his elbow. sirius is perched on the back of the armchair, boots still on, hair tied back haphazardly. remus has lowered himself onto the floor beside you, his shoulder nearly touching yours. he hasn't looked away from the fire.

none of them have spoken in a while. then, james clears his throat.

"we left hogwarts straight into war," james begins, voice steady but low. his fingers twitch on the table's edge. "we were seventeen. we thought we were invincible. all of us—me, sirius, remus. lily. marlene. dorcas. frank and alice. kingsley. even molly and arthur—we all thought we could fix the world."

"dumbledore said we were brave. courageous, as gryffindors ought to be." sirius spits angrily. he rolls his eyes and crosses his tattooed arms. "it was a nice way for him to tell us we are disposable." 

his gaze drops to the cup in front of him. he hasn't touched it. the steam has already faded. 

"we all joined quickly. that is, everyone who hadn't already been lost." james murmurs.

you remember them, flashes of youth and power, walking the halls at hogwarts like they owned the place. lily in her red jumper, always laughing too loudly. james following two steps behind, starry-eyed. sirius with his collar popped and mischief tucked behind every smirk. remus always quieter, but always there. the marauders.

"we lost dorcas first," sirius says quietly. he's pacing now, can't sit still. his boots make soft, agitated sounds against the floorboards, and his fingers keep brushing the small silver ring on his thumb. "marlene went not long after. lily—"

he stops.

"lily was mine," james says, too quickly, his voice pained as ever. "she died right before the final battle. not in it. before. it wasn't clean. nothing about this ever is."

you nod, barely.

remus still hasn't said a word. he's sitting curled up on the armchair by the fire, an unread book in his lap. the corners of the pages are worn, like maybe he's been pretending to read it all day.

"regulus too," sirius adds, throat thickening. "my brother. he—he tried to turn back. did turn back. he tried so hard to help us, but didn't make it out."

you glance at sirius, at the shadow clinging to the edge of his mouth. he still holds himself like a prince, all lean lines and defiance, but his eyes are raw, and his jaw is covered with stubble.

remus finally speaks. "my parents died too. my mum—muggle medicine calls it cancer. it was slow. ugly. i was already neck-deep in the order by then. had to take a mission the day she died. my father..."

he doesn't finish. he doesn't have to. he doesn't look up. just picks at a loose thread on the sleeve of his jumper. you catch a glimpse of the mark on his wrist—it's faint, pulsing with soft starlight. he tugs his sleeve back down and catches your eyes.

"and lily," james says, seemingly stuck. "merlin, lily."

you press your mug tighter against your chest. you remember her smile. you remember how bright she was in the great hall, how james used to look at her like she held the fucking moon.

"she made everything better," he says, voice cracking. "we thought we could win. that we'd all live."

nobody speaks.

"marlene and dorcas died together," sirius says after a long while, his lips downturned. "frank was tortured. doesn't remember a damn thing now. alice is...holding on. barely, but enough for him."

"and peter," remus says quietly, and the air seems to still around him. "our best mate."

"he turned." james says, short and cold.

"he tried to rat us out to voldemort," sirius adds, jaw tight. "but remus caught it. figured out his messages didn't line up. there were codes we used back then, only he knew something was wrong."

remus shakes his head. "it was too late, but it helped. peter led them into a trap—one he didn't know was a trap. voldemort fell that night."

"after the war ended, dumbledore gave us clearance to arrest the rest of them," sirius says. "the death eaters who ran. you don't know what that's like—walking into a house, and it's someone you used to sit next to in transfiguration. someone you beat at chess. someone you kissed at seventeen."

his voice cracks. remus reaches out and presses a hand to sirius's arm, grounding him.

"i had to arrest my cousins," sirius finishes, nearly whispering. "bella, of course, didn't look scared."

there's a silence so still it rings in your ears.

and then james says, very quietly: "and then dumbledore split us up."

your head snaps up. remus is still leaning against the counter, but now his expression is hard. like stone. like someone who's already survived the fire, and now has to walk through ash.

"he said it was for our safety," james says.

"bullshit," remus snaps, throwing his hands up in the air. "we were all we had left."

they must've told this story so many times it lives in their bones.

"you're not serious," sirius had said, voice flat.

dumbledore looked tired. older than he seemed to look at school, like he'd spent the last decade trying to hold a leaky dam with his bare hands.

"i am," he said flatly. "you will all be relocated. separate locations. new names, if necessary."

"you can't—" james stepped forward, not believing this was happening. "professor, we've already lost—"

"everyone," remus said. low. barely above a whisper. his hands were clenched at his sides. his mouth trembling like he was trying to hold back everything. "i lost my mother to cancer," he said. "i lost my father to a bomb. i lost my friends. i've lost job offers and flats and any chance at a normal fucking life because of what i am—"

"remus," dumbledore tried to reason. "we can help you."

"—and now you're telling me i can't even keep them?" his voice broke. tears welled in his eyes and flowed without permission. "my best friends?"

no one said anything. the silence rang out louder than shouting.

"i'm not a risk," remus said, quieter now. "i'm all that's left."

dumbledore's voice, when it came, was firm. "this isn't a punishment. it's protection."

but the damage had already been done.

remus still hasn't moved. he's struggling to come back to the present.

"but then," james says, exhaling, "we got the letter."

"from dumbledore," sirius confirms. "a month ago. said there were whispers. movement. signs that the death eaters weren't finished."

"he told us to come here," james says. "to kenmare. to stop whatever's starting."

your hand tightens around your teacup. it's cooled too, but you don't dare look away.

when you speak, it's only: "i worked with frank, y'know," they all look at you. slowly, carefully. "i was a healer-in-training at st. mungo's. we were...understaffed, extremely desperate. they put us on the long-term floor with barely any training."

you wet your lips. "frank couldn't remember most of his life. he could hardly remember the fact that we knew each other. our parents were friends. poor bloke couldn't dress himself some days. but he always said alice's name. always whispered about the war. and at night—he'd scream. beg them to stop."

you meet their eyes, and they notice now that you were teary, too. everyone was affected by the war.

"i remember all of you from school, too," you say quietly. "i remember the pranks and the duels and the ridiculous matching scarves. but i also remember how you fought...how you never stopped fighting."

and then you whisper, voice wet, "i never thought it would be any of you."

the room stills. you tug at your neckline, just slightly, just enough for them to see the faint shimmer along your collarbone. the stars there are glowing softly now, responding to your words, your recognition.

sirius inhales sharply. remus closes his eyes. james... stares. like he's seeing you for the first time. just like he had stared the last time.

"you have the mark." sirius says, voice hoarse.

you nod.

"and it matches ours?"

you hesitate. "i don't know. maybe. i think so."

he pulls down his own shirt, and you see it glowing around his patchwork tattoos. remus pulls up his sleeve, and you see it there on his arm. james lets out a breath none of you knew he was holding. there it is: the truth.

you take a breath and cover yourself back up. "i found a file. a war file. it was about me."

"what? a war file? you were a healer—" james starts, confusion written on his face.

"exactly," you say. "i wasn't supposed to be involved. but this file... it said: "recommended initiation into active duty due to instability of mark. believed to be marked. multiple soul links? unconfirmed. useful.""

"multiple soul links?" sirius echoes, eyebrows raised. "well, i guess we know what that means."

he snorts at his own joke.

"and what the hell is instability of mark supposed to be?" remus murmurs, brows furrowed.

you shake your head. "i don't know. and there was another line. sealed under code urchin."

remus straightens slightly at that. "code urchin?"

"you've heard of it?" you sit up, eager to listen.

"maybe," james says. "but not enough. we need someone who'd know for sure."

sirius lifts a brow. "you're thinking what i'm thinking?"

"kingsley," they all say at once.

you blink. "you can just...call him?"

james grins. "he owes us more than a few favors."

"plus, doll, we only shared a dorm with him for seven years." sirius teases as he reaches for the little mirror on the mantelpiece, brushing ash off its rim. remus is already scribbling something on a bit of spare parchment.

you stay frozen, watching them move as one; older now, frayed at the edges, but still something solid between them. and, begrudgingly, you're part of this now. you don't know how it happened, but you can feel the thread tightening. the stars burning. you've acknowledged it now. they are your soulmates.

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taglist: @daydreamandforget, @lovelyteenagebeard, @cinnimona, @hxgemxscles

[whimsymoonpages]

ink and bone chapter 8: code urchin

cw: mentions of war and death, cursing, deception

you don't leave the shop the next morning. you simply cannot bring yourself to. not for the wind, not for the mail, not even when the kettle refuses to warm properly, sputtering its steam in confused puffs. everything feels a little...off. the walls have rearranged themselves by half an inch, the ceiling charms are watching too closely, and the floorboards creak in new places.

you keep your tea pressed to your chest. it's rosemary again, bitter this time. burnt sugar clings to the corners of the shop like a memory.

your war file is still in the back room.

you hadn't meant to take it home after your last visit to the archives—just forgot it in your bag, tucked between the warded pocket and the pouch of emergency sickles. you wanted to leave it in the shop, see if it would help you at all. you thought about returning it back to the archives, but you didn't. not yet. now, it sits on your worktable, its spine cracked and its corner stained from where the kettle leaked the other night.

you open it slowly.

the pages haven't changed. of course not.

names, dates, mission logs. a few redacted entries. a note in someone's careful script: multiple soul link anomalies recorded — further confirmation pending. another that simply reads, sealed under code urchin, see maeve flannery for access.

you stare at that name for a long time.

maeve's handwriting is familiar. it's neat but lazy at the ends, always a little rushed when she's excited. she's the one who helped you file your protection paperwork after the war, helped you to cast spells all over kenmare. she's the one who taught you the spell to ward books against mildew and cursed ink. she's the one who smuggled in that charmed chocolate cake for your twentieth birthday when you said you didn't want to celebrate.

and godric knows she's never been wrong about leads before.

so when you owl her—just a quick note, nothing too pointed—and she shows up twenty minutes later with her curls tucked under a green beret and her eyes too sharp, too still, something tugs at your ribs.

"got your message," she says, breezing in like usual, her greying hair shining under the light. "thought you might want a second pair of eyes."

you gesture toward the file on the counter. "code urchin. mean anything to you?"

maeve frowns. then, too quickly, "just a temporary lock designation. old stuff. nothing worth chasing."

you blink. "what?"

"just—it's bureaucratic junk," she says. shrugs. "not worth your time, love. anyway, if you're really looking for answers, you'd be better off checking the kenmare census rolls. war-era disappearances, family lines, that sort of thing."

you narrow your eyes. "you said those records were useless."

"did i?" she says lightly. "maybe i was wrong."

she never says that. you don't call her on it, not yet. but something inside you prickles, unsettled.

she leaves not long after. doesn't linger. doesn't ask about your tea blend or comment on the shop's new books. you notice she doesn't touch anything. not even the doorknob when she leaves—just gestures, flicks her wand, and goes.

you sit very still for a long time, but you know you need to do something. you're too deep in it now. too many things point back to them, to the strange timing of their arrival, to the way your mark only started burning after they showed up in your shop with tired smiles and mismatched stories.

so you pull on your coat, cast a warmth charm over your body, and walk straight to the seaside.

the cliffs are wet with salt, the grass slick. clouds hang low enough to press on your head. you don't knock when you reach the cottage door—you just walk straight in, because you know they don't lock it when they're expecting someone. and they are. you can feel it, like static in the air.

the fire's on. someone's put on a pot of stew. there's a pair of socks drying over the hearth, and the smell of old parchment and honeysuckle soap clings to the wood-paneled walls.

james looks up from the kitchen first. he goes very still.

"you," you say, and it's not angry, not yet, just sharp. "you're not just here for the weather and charm theory, are you?"

sirius rounds the corner. his smile is gone before it even fully forms.

remus doesn't say a word.

you step forward, wind-wet and furious and scared all at once.

"why the hell are you three really in kenmare?"

previous next

taglist: @daydreamandforget, @lovelyteenagebeard, @cinnimona, @hxgemxscles (hi guys! i haven't been online much the last couple of days. i apologize! i hope these next two chapters make up for it, lovelies!)

[whimsymoonpages]

poly!marauders blurb: the family portrait

in which harry's primary school teacher requests he make a family tree, and there are just too many of you

“we’re doing a family tree,” harry announces at breakfast, toast crumbs on his chin and parchment flapping in his hands. “but it’s not just a tree. we have to draw everyone. miss arnold said so.”

remus blinks sleepily over his teacup. “draw, as in…artistically?”

“yes!” harry says, already elbow-deep in the crayon box.

sirius, who’s halfway through a sausage, grins wide. “are you going to include my tattoos?”

“obviously,” harry replies, like that’s the dumbest question in the world. "silly pads."

“will i get my own square?” barty asks from across the table, pouring milk for his tea like he lives here—which he sort of does.

“you’re an uncle,” harry shrugs, putting on a careless grin. “so yeah. you probably do get a square.”

he begins with you—mummy—drawn in the center with a big sun around you. he draws your hair long and pretty (“like the kelpie at the sanctuary but nicer,” harry explains). he gave you sparkly green and a wand that shoots out little gold stars.

james is next: dad, with messy brown hair that sticks straight up (“no, even more.” harry keeps muttering, tongue sticking out as he scribbles), a wide smile, and quidditch robes, because “he’s always coming from practice, even when he’s not. isn't that weird?”

tad, for remus, gets warm brown eyes and little crayon lines on his cheeks to mark the scars. he’s got a jumper with elbow patches and a stack of books beside him. “because he reads so much.”

pads, of course, is shirtless with all his tattoos: harry adds stars and moons and a little paw print. his hair is long and shaggy. “i made his eyes gray, like storm clouds.” he says proudly. sirius clutches his heart.

regulus and sirius share a branch—uncle reggie has the same curls as his brother, just tidier. harry draws him with fancy robes and a scowl. “he’s always pretending he’s not nice,” he says, “but he is."

uncle rosie (evan) has pale white hair—"almost bald," harry says—with dark tan skin and big sunglasses, “even though it’s night.” harry draws a flower on his shirt.

uncle junior (barty) has scribbly two-toned hair: brown and green. harry says it’s because his magic is “all over the place and sometimes makes his hair go weird.” he draws a tiny kneazle next to him with enormous eyes.

pandora, aunt pands, has hair like floating dandelions, white and soft and scribbled in spirals. xenophilius, uncle xeno, wears a bow tie and no shoes. and cousin loona is drawn holding hands with harry, both of them with matching lion hats.

"she'll cheer me on one day when i'm a chaser like dad!"

"damn right, son!"

you gape at the both of them. "i was a chaser, too, haz!"

remus smirks at you from his spot. "yeah, love, but you were on the wrong team."

you scoff.

he even draws narcissa—cousin cissi—in a long elegant gown with a glass of wine, looking mildly alarmed. draco is beside her, in a small dragon costume.

“you do know draco’s not actually a dragon?” remus asks, smiling.

“but he wants to be,” harry says, with great authority. “he said so last week!"

and then harry sits back, staring at the page with furrowed brows.

“what’s wrong, sweetheart?” you ask, leaning over him.

“there’s no more room,” he sighs as he whines. “i didn’t even get to draw the weasley's or the painting of grandma walburga."

you stroke his hair gently. “maybe you need a family wall instead.”

he lights up. “can i draw it on the actual wall?”

“no." remus says immediately.

“maybe.” sirius says at the same time.

you just laugh and kiss the top of harry's head.

i miss my old fic so bad. i just have so many ideas for these characters with their little baby harry!

[whimsymoonpages]

Can I request something cute and silly about harry and remus hearing lavender and parvati or some other students talking about how hot/pretty reader is?😭 and like how lucky siri, james, and remus are?

love your work!!🫶

poly!marauders oneshot: professor lupin's wife is a smokeshow?

in which lavender and parvati have a minor crisis over how pretty professor lupin’s wife is, aka harry potter's mum.

pt. 2 to this oneshot.

the lesson ends, but the gossip does not.

you’ve just breezed out of the defense classroom, smelling like crushed herbs and enchanted ink, your wand tucked into the hair that wraps over your shoulder. echo the niffler gives the students a polite little salute from your arm as you leave.

the door swings shut.

lavender brown stares at it like you’re the afterimage of a patronus.

“i’m sorry,” she says, stunned. “did anyone else know professor lupin’s wife was like that?”

parvati gasps, gripping lavender's arm. “the boots.”

“her laugh.”

“she said she once sedated a chimera with homemade soup.”

“she winked at me,” lavender whispers, eyes wide. “i’m going to be weird about it forever.”

hermione sighs without looking up. “she winks at everyone. it’s part of her charm.”

parvati fans herself with her spellbook. “of course someone that attractive end up married to three men. like, how is that even allowed? she’s—she’s literally ethereal.”

“and remus lupin is a dilf,” lavender adds, swooning. “like—confirmed.”

unfortunately for everyone, the door was still ajar. and unfortunately for harry, he and remus were still just outside it.

harry freezes, his green eyes wide. “oh no.”

remus winces. “oh no.”

“they’re talking about mum.”

“they’re talking about me.”

harry looks visibly ill.

“they called you a dilf,” he hisses, rubbing his hand across his forehead. "that's bloody weird!"

remus pinches the bridge of his nose. “i heard.”

“they called mum ethereal.”

“she is ethereal,” remus mutters. "am i a dilf, haz?"

“i am begging you to stop talking, tad.”

from inside: “and did you see sirius?? he was leaning on the desk like he was in a romance novel.” “he called her darling. in front of the class. i was ready to offer him my entire vault.”

harry slaps a hand over his mouth. “i’m going to pass out. i’m going to pass out and die.”

remus looks like he wants to vanish into the floor. “i teach them about banshee hexes. i was not prepared for this!"

harry turns, half-deranged. “you married her! you and dad and pads—all of you—how did this happen?!”

remus shrugs helplessly. “your mother thought we were charming.”

harry drops to sit on the floor. “i need to obliviate myself.”

just then, the door creaks open—and out strolls echo the niffler, wearing a tiny pink bow on one ear and carrying a confiscated lip gloss in her paws.

she chirrups at remus.

remus sighs. “great. she’s being flirted with too.”

“that’s it,” harry mutters. “i’m putting in a transfer. to durmstrang.”

i hope this was what you were wanting! thank you so much for being my first ever request. i appreciate you so much, anon!

also, remus is welsh so of course harry is going to call him tad! makes me so happy to think about hehe.

[whimsymoonpages]

ink and bone chapter 7: branded

cw: mentions of war and death, cursing, dead fish, mentions of magical attack, angst, internal conflict, reader feels like she is losing it

you're sitting on the floor of the stockroom when it clicks. the file is spread across your knees, parchment warped from water damage and time, the edges still soft with ash. you've read through it three times already—slow and deliberate—tracing the same half-legible reports, the same redactions, the same corner curled in from fire.

but this time, you see it.

beneath a smear of ink and what looks like a failed concealment charm, tucked low on the second page, a scrawled line reveals itself like a bruise surfacing:

"re: y/ln, y/n — recommended initiation into active duty due to instability of mark."

you stare until the ink seems to curl inward.

your name. your file. the one half-erased and hidden in the back of the war archives. you shut your eyes and press the heels of your hands into your brow.

you weren't supposed to have a file. you weren't a fighter. not on paper. you were a healer, once upon a time. at least you had tried to be. a courier sometimes. you were once a girl with too much heart and not enough training, and you hadn't even come of age for the soulmate mark before the war ended.

so what is this? you exhale—slow, trembling—and speak into the air like you're asking an old friend, not a room full of dust and ghosts.

"you knew."

the shop doesn't answer in words. but the lights overhead dim—then brighten—and there's a soft shuffle from the front. a thump. deliberate.

you get to your feet slowly, the file still clutched in your hands like a weapon or a warning. you follow the sound, heart thudding too loud.

three books have fallen from the upper shelves.

"the body as beacon: magical resonance and soulmarks"

"when stars go dark: suppressed magical lineage"

"protection magics in inherited spaces"

you sink to your knees in front of them. the shop isn't just protecting you. it's guiding you. it's been guiding you all along.

across town, remus sits on a bench in a garden that shouldn't still bloom, yet it does. it's tucked behind a little house that hasn't changed since the war, filled with rosemary and climbing thistle and that soft, strange hush that always seems to follow albus dumbledore.

remus clasps his hands in front of him, wrists resting on his knees, elbows sharp through the wool of his cardigan. he hasn't touched the tea set between them.

"it was a binding sigil," he says, finally. "old blood magic. someone keyed it to her."

dumbledore nods, slow and serene, as if he'd been waiting for the words. his eyes—too old, too knowing—never quite settle. "yes," he murmurs. "so i've heard."

remus frowns. "from who?"

"one hears things, remus." dumbledore leans back against the moss-covered bench, folding his hands atop a cane he doesn't appear to need. a chessboard floats between them, pieces gently circling. neither of them is playing.

remus ignores it. "she's drained...shaken. she's trying to pretend she's not terrified. someone tried to siphon her mark, professor."

"a dangerous effort," dumbledore says lightly. "and not without precedent."

remus leans forward, growing impatient. "this isn't residual war magic. it's deliberate. it is targeted."

"i don't disagree."

"but you're not surprised."

"no," dumbledore says, meeting his gaze fully now. the garden falls quiet around them, like the air itself is listening. "kenmare is a place where many threads cross. ancient ley lines. sealed blood wards. soul-linked magic has always had a particular...resonance there."

remus straightens. "so we're not the only ones drawn to it."

dumbledore doesn't answer directly. he looks toward the edge of the garden, past the brambles and flowering sage. "there are those who study patterns, and those who shape them. you and your friends may find you're doing both."

"you're being deliberately cryptic."

"and you, dear boy, are not asking the right questions."

remus stands, frustrated. his fists curl at his sides. "i'm asking who's behind this. i know you know, otherwise you wouldn't have brought us here."

"perhaps," dumbledore says, still seated, "the better question is what has awakened."

remus stills.

"...she's one of us, isn't she?" he says, softly now. not quite a question, more of a statement. "she's ours."

dumbledore's expression doesn't change. "soulmarks do not emerge in isolation. when they begin to flare, they often act as beacons. for many things. not all of them kind."

remus steps back. "i'll protect her."

"i hope you will," dumbledore says, picking up a knight and moving it without looking. "but even the best intentions can't always unmake old magic."

you're trying to breathe normally, but your limbs feel too thin and your lungs too tight. the shop hums low, the kettle boils without being asked, and the overhead lights shift from warm gold to soft violet—an old signal for calming.

you barely notice when the bell rings.

but when you look up and see who it is, your breath releases.

"you look like you've seen a ghost, plum!" callum says, stepping in and brushing sea mist off his shoulders. he smells like salt and soot and freshly unrolled owl parchment.

"maybe i have," you mutter, stepping aside to let him in. "tea?"

he nods. "the usual."

you let the shop fix the cups—lemon balm and ginger—and hand his to him with a trembling hand. he doesn't ask. just waits. solid. quiet. callum o'donoghue has lived in kenmare longer than you have, longer than almost anyone. he runs the post owl shelter just up the hill, where the treetops part enough for birds to land, and the windows are always cracked to let the wind through. he's in his mid-forties, maybe older, but he wears it gently. he's weather-worn and sea-soft, like someone carved from driftwood and dried herbs.

you met him as a child. you'd been out on your own, and you had come to the shelter with a torn-up delivery owl and too many questions about coastal leyline shifts. he offered you tea and a battered map and didn't laugh when you asked about magical wind currents. he never has.

callum isn't flashy. doesn't carry a wand that you've ever seen, though you're sure he has one. he's one of those quietly magical people, the kind whose spells are built into how they move, how they speak, how they coax firewood into catching with just a glance. people in kenmare trust him because he listens, because he doesn't pry, because if you hand him something fragile, he holds it like it matters.

he's the kind of man who knows everyone's birthday and no one's secrets. not unless they offer them.

"something's wrong," you say finally. he nods like he already knew. he always understands. "it's the mark," you whisper. "and...other things. i think the shop is talking to me. guiding me. and someone burned a sigil into the wall. a binding rune. remus lupin said it was blood magic. and now my magic feels like—"

you pause, search for the word. "—like it's not mine anymore. like it's leaking. or being pulled."

callum sets down his tea. leans forward. "you think someone's trying to use you."

you blink. "you believe me?"

"course i do," he says, voice warm but heavy. "this town eats people who ignore its magic. and you're not the first to feel yourself unravel."

he doesn't say who was.

you swallow. the warmth of his reassurance pools in your throat, too heavy to hold. "thank you."

he nods. you walk him out kindly.

as the door swings shut behind him, the bell chimes again. james.

his curls are damp and wind-tossed, cheeks pink from the cold. he looks half-wrecked and twice sorry, like he's come to say something he won't be brave enough to say aloud.

"hi," he says, quiet.

"...hi."

you bend to pick up something from the floor—a teacup that tumbled from the shelf—and your collar slips.

james freezes. your mark glows faintly beneath your collarbone, soft and moonlight-silver. not pulsing, just present.

james stares. he stares hard.

he knows it. he knows it better than anything. he's traced it on his own skin, in the dark, through every stage of his grief. he thought it would never mean anything. not after lily.

and now here it is. on you. when you straighten, his expression is so unreadable it hurts to look at. you almost ask. but then he turns away.

"have you heard?" you say instead, quietly.

his voice is raw. "about the fish?"

you nod.

he sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. "we got word from...neighbors. said something's surfacing off the coast. dead fish. branded."

"is it the mark?" you whisper.

"yeah." his voice is flat, as though trying not to convey worry. "it's not just residue. someone's practicing using old magic. shaping it."

you nod once. "you think it's connected to what happened to me."

his silence is answer enough.

you both move to the bench by the window, and slowly, piece by piece, you tell him everything about how you feel: the file, the shop, the sigil, the conversation callum.

he listens without interruption. his hands stay folded tight between his knees. when you finish, there's a long silence.

then: "i think you're in danger."

"thanks," you say dryly, smiling through your pain. "i hadn't noticed."

he huffs a laugh, but it's hollow. "we'll figure it out," he says. "whatever's happening. you're not alone."

you nod. and maybe, for the first time, you almost believe him.

"i don't know why you're here," you say, not in a mean tone, just sharp. "it feels strange. the three most popular boys from our year moved to my little town, and now strange things are happening. curious."

"yeah," james grimaces with a small smile on his lips. "strange shit seems to follow us wherever we go."

you almost crack a full smile, but then the bell chimes again.

you both look up. no one enters, which isn't unusual.  instead, there's a soft thud against the door. like something being placed, or dropped.

you move toward it together, hearts in your throats. there, just outside, on the cobbled doorstep lies a fish. silver and limp. slick with brine. unmoving.

branded into its side, raised and black and unmistakable—the dark mark.

you close the door with shaking hands.

this time, the shop does not rearrange itself. this time, it waits.

previous next

taglist: @daydreamandforget, @lovelyteenagebeard, @cinnimona, @hxgemxscles

[whimsymoonpages]

ink and bone chapter 6: let the truth stay covered

cw: mentions of war and death, cursing, mentions of magical attack, angst, internal conflict, sentient house

no one's said anything in ages.

the wind blows heavy outside. it seeps in through the cracks in the cottage, rattles the glass in the old windows, presses cold fingers under the door. the fire's trying to hold its ground—it crackles low in the grate, throwing pockets of warmth across the living room floor—but the cottage is drafty and half-resentful of modern comforts. the boys are layered in jumpers and socks and too many questions.

remus sits hunched in the corner armchair, fingers wrapped tight around a chipped mug. it's long since gone cold, but he hasn't noticed. his eyes are on the hearth, the firelight catching gold along his cheekbones. sirius leans against the far wall, the heel of his boot braced against a peeling strip of wallpaper, arms crossed, jaw tight. james is pacing. not quite in a line, more of a slow orbit, like he might walk right out of his skin if he doesn't keep moving.

"that wasn't just a warning," remus says finally, low and certain. "the rune wasn't there to scare her. it was trying to bind her magic."

james stops. mid-step, in the middle of the rug. his sock catches on the frayed edge and nearly trips him. "but why? and why her?"

"dunno yet," sirius mutters. he pushes off the wall and starts pacing the other direction, mirror to james. "it wasn't random."

"no," remus agrees, nodding slowly. his hands are tight around the mug again. "someone keyed it to her specifically, and not just to her magic. to her body. that's old work."

james swears, rubbing the heel of his palm over one eye. he looks wrung out, curls wild and damp from the rain earlier. "death eater?"

"maybe." remus breathes out through his nose, long and controlled. "maybe not official, but someone trained in the way they were. someone who knows how to twist a binding so it looks like protection until it's already sunk in."

"which means someone else in kenmare knows who she is," sirius mutters. his boots creak against the old floorboards. "or what she is. whatever the hell she is. and they're trying to use it."

"not just use," remus says. his voice drops again. "channel. the pull on that sigil wasn't random. it was leeching on her, feeding on her."

"on her?" james asks, eyebrows pinched together.

"on her, yes." remus finally brings the mug to his lips. sips. grimaces. "blegh. stone cold."

james drops into the armchair opposite him, limbs folding in like a star collapsing. he presses his fingers to his mouth, staring down into nothing. "so it's not just some leftover war curse. it's targeted."

"yeah," sirius says, voice clipped. he's stopped moving, hands on his hips now. "and that means someone out there is watching. waiting."

"and we walked right into it," james mutters, like it's a confession. "brilliant."

remus watches him for a moment. then, gently, "you said your mark burned."

james nods, jaw clenched. "yeah. when she looked at me."

remus's gaze shifts. "and yours, sirius?"

"when she handed me the mug." sirius doesn't even try to joke this time. "felt like someone pressed a branding iron to my heart."

they both look at remus.

he hesitates. then rolls up the left sleeve of his jumper. slow. deliberate. his mark glows faintly in the firelight. not bright, not urgent. just present. breathing. a low pulse against pale skin.

"i felt it," he says softly. "before the rune even appeared. like a thread pulling tight."

james stares. his mouth opens and closes again. "...you think it warned you."

"i think it brought us there."

sirius exhales, slumping down onto the rug in front of the fire. he leans back on his hands, head tipped toward the ceiling like he's hoping it'll cave in and solve everything. "so this is real. this is happening. we're not just imagining it."

"no," remus says. "we're not."

silence again.

just the fire popping. the wind pressing harder. the sea drumming the cliffs outside.

finally, james leans back in the armchair, legs sprawled out, hands covering his face. "then we have to assume she's in danger. that someone's trying to use her mark for something."

"or her magic," remus says, eyes dark. "or both."

"which begs the question," sirius mutters. "what the hell for?"

remus sets the mug down on the hearth, carefully. like he's putting something to rest. "there's precedent," he says. "soul-linked magic has been exploited before. it's potent, especially when unbound."

james goes pale. "you think they're trying to turn her into a conduit."

"or a weapon," remus murmurs. "depending on the intent."

"fuck," sirius breathes, raking both hands through his hair. he looks wrecked. "fuck. we should've—"

remus's mouth tightens. "we should've seen it sooner. at least me, fuck, it was my job!"

james presses his fingers into his eyes. "we should've told her."

"told her what?" sirius snaps. "hey, sorry you're glowing and nearly passed out, turns out we might all be cosmically linked and also someone's trying to siphon your magic via blood-rune graffiti?"

james groans. "not like that, pads."

"then how?"

"i don't know," james says, almost yelling. "i just—i don't like that she's facing it alone."

the words echo.

remus is quiet for a long time. then, finally, he says, low and firm, "she's not. not anymore."

james goes quiet. slouches further in his chair. his voice comes out barely above a whisper: "are... are we going to talk about this? remus...yours and mine..."

he doesn't finish, but all three of them know. they look connected. he gestures to his mark. to remus's. to sirius on the floor.

sirius lifts one hand, rests it on james's knee. "later, prongs."

james doesn't pull away.

the fire crackles low. none of them move for a long, long time.

you sit behind the counter of the shop with your knees pulled up, one hand braced over the mark beneath your collar, the other fisted into the fabric of your jumper. the sigil on the wall is gone, but you can still feel where it was, like a phantom burn. it was as if someone wrote a secret across your skin and then set fire to the page.

it's the shop that moves first. a soft shuffle from the shelves, like someone adjusting a heavy stack. a whisper of parchment. a thud, gentle but insistent, from the display table nearest the window.

you glance up. push yourself upright, slow and unsteady.

the books have changed.

again.

in the front: "sigils of influence: protection, coercion, control" and "love and other thresholds: the theory of soul-linked magic."

you stare at the titles. not blinking. not breathing.

the last book cracks itself open, and your mark flares. you shove it closed with shaking fingers and carry it to the stockroom like it might explode. you don't throw it out—of course you don't, it's still a book—but you shove it behind a box of old corked potion vials and mutter a charm to keep the cover from opening on its own again.

when you return to the front, the fire has lit itself. the kettle's warming. something soft and piano-based plays from the ceiling charms, like the shop is trying to coax you down from a ledge.

"too late," you whisper. you don't sleep. again. not until near dawn, when the wind slows down again and the mark cools just enough to stop feeling like a warning. you fall asleep on the settee upstairs with your hand still pressed to your heart, your dreams full of tangled threads and star-maps that burn out before you can trace them.

morning smells like stormwater and burnt sugar.

the shop's opened itself without your help—chalkboard floated out, lights dimmed just enough to be welcoming. you let it. you move on autopilot. you steep a calming blend for yourself, rosemary and valerian root, and burn the edge of your tongue on the first sip.

the shelves hum faintly. nothing moves.

until midmorning.

the bell chimes once. and then again.

remus.

you don't look up right away.

you hear his footsteps pause on the entry mat, just long enough to make you think he might turn back around. but then he exhales—soft, almost guilty—and steps forward.

he doesn't come to the counter. doesn't ask for tea. instead, he stops at the same spot the sigil had burned into the wall. you've covered it. you don't know why. instinct, maybe. it's hidden now under a floating shelf of used paperbacks, charmed to look casual.

"is it still there?" he asks quietly.

you shake your head. "no."

"but you still feel it," he says.

you nod.

remus glances around the shop. the warmth, the order. the tea steaming behind the counter. the flickering chandelier above. his expression softens. "it protects you," he murmurs. "the shop."

"she tries."

he nods once, then steps toward the counter. you don't flinch when he gets close, but you don't move either. his eyes flick down to your collarbone, like he can see what's still burning there.

he doesn't ask. he just says, "it's her mark too, you know."

you blink, a panic rising up at your throat. does he know? "what?"

he clears his throat. "the sigil. it wasn't just old bloodwork. it was a sign. it's been used before. by dark magic groups, sometimes, when they're trying to force a resonance—pull power from linked marks. even without permission."

your stomach turns.

remus watches you. not like he's trying to explain something complicated, but like he already knows you've been putting the pieces together. he doesn't smile, but his voice gentles. "someone's targeting you. and they're using your mark to do it."

you want to say something scathing. something clever. something to end the conversation.

but all you say is, "why?"

remus breathes in through his nose. "because unclaimed soulmarks create an unstable magical field. vulnerable, if left open. powerful, if—"

he doesn't finish.

your voice comes out quieter than you meant: "if what?"

"if connected," he says, finally. "if found. among...other things."

the silence hangs there. long. awful. bright. you break it first. "i've got loads to get done today, so..."

he doesn't argue, he just nods. "we'll find out who's doing this." he says, and you hate how gentle his voice sounds. like a promise. like something your heart wants to believe.

he leaves. and yet, the shop does not settle. instead, a single book falls from the top shelf behind you. you turn, slowly.

the title gleams in old gold foil.

"cassiopeia: the constellations of love and war"

you don't pick it up. you just stand there, trembling slightly, your fingers curled tight into your palms, the mark under your collar warm and furious.

you are not ready for this, but something is coming, and it already knows your name.

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taglist: @daydreamandforget, @lovelyteenagebeard, @cinnimona, @hxgemxscles

[whimsymoonpages]

ink and bone chapter 5: an attack

cw: mentions of war and death, cursing, dead fish, magical attack, angst, internal conflict

you shelve books in silence. not because the shop is quiet, it rarely is, not truly, but because something has shifted in the way the shelves hum. you've learned to listen to them. to the soft creak of boards as they adjust themselves. to the way the spines angle when they want to be seen. today, the books are restless.

you reshelve the same title three times. the shop keeps moving it back.

"heroes of the war: unmasked."

you let it stay in the window on the fourth try.

kenmare is a town of half-whispers and weather. you've lived here long enough to know how to coax answers from the wind—not direct ones, but hints. glimmers. direction. the locals are much the same. at lunch, you wander down to the crooked spoon for stew and quiet speculation. the owner, maeve donnelly, has been running the place since before the first war. she sees everything. she says very little.

but she gives you a slow look when you mention three new arrivals. she taps the bar top twice, pours you tea instead of stew. then: "you might want to look in the registry."

"thought it was sealed," you murmur, bringing the sour tea to your lips. you gulp it down and force a smile at her, nodding as if to tell her it was good.

"only if you use the front door."

that night, with the rain pacing the windows, you slip into the back room of the town archives. it smells like damp ink and time. a charmed lantern swings low above your head as you thumb through a stack of war files, fingers stained with old binding wax.

they're not supposed to be accessible, but you've always had a way with doors.... okay fine, you know how to say alohomora. 

"black, sirius orion." "lupin, remus john." "potter, james fleamont."

you read them all slowly, like they'll vanish if you blink too hard.

some of it, you already knew. the rest—missions, wounds, exile, grief—settles like stones in your chest. no wonder they move the way they do, like they're used to walls falling down. like they expect not to be believed.

you linger over one entry. it's been redacted, partially burned. the name is no longer intact, and the rest is smoke-stained and fragile. a note scrawled in the margin reads: "believed to be marked.  multiple soul links? unconfirmed. useful."

you stare at it long enough that your mark begins to tingle. not burn. not ache. just...flicker. like it's listening. you shove the files into your coat and leave before the lantern goes out.

meanwhile—across town, in the crooked, sea-worn cottage—remus can't sleep.

his mark has been glowing again, steady and low. not like a warning, not yet, but it knows something he doesn't. he rolls his sleeves down to hide it. sirius is snoring softly from the attic (haunted, definitely). james is pacing the living room in socks and muttering into a teacup like he's trying to make it talk back.

"what are you doing?" remus asks eventually, leaning against the wall, rubbing his arms.

"wondering," james says, his eyes looking mad. "if i've made a complete arse of myself."

"about?"

"the chai. the—everything. her."

remus doesn't reply. he doesn't need to. james drops into a chair. his expression is twisted in something between guilt and fear and something deeper. something hungry.

"it burns when she looks at me," he says, and it's not loud, but it lands like thunder in the small room. "not just glows. not hums. burns."

sirius appears in the stairwell, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "you're talking about the mark," he says, like he already knows. "bloody hell. i thought that was just me."

"you?" james looks up, startled at his best friend's deep voice.

sirius nods, padding barefoot into the room. "when she handed me that cinnamon tea. it felt like my skin was on fire."

"so," remus says slowly, "it's not just one of us."

they all go quiet. the mark on remus's arm pulses, steady and sharp, like it's making a decision before he does.

sirius sinks onto the hearth rug, head tipped back. "what if it's her?"

he doesn't have to elaborate. they know what he means. what if she is their soulmate? how is that even possible?

"it can't be," james says too quickly. "that'd be—i mean, we've known her. kind of."

"barely," remus says, shaking his head. "we were kids."

"we're still kids," sirius mutters. "just with worse hair."

remus breathes in, holds it, and lets it out. "we need wait," he says. "we can't push. not until we know for sure."

"and how do we know for sure?" james asks. he goes to pull down his shirt to reveal the mark, but sirius stops him.

"wait!" he shouts, holding his hands out in front of him. "not...don't show it. not right now. please."

he stalks back up the stairs to the attic, leaving james and remus to sit in silence. it would be too easy, wouldn't it? for them to be soulmates. for them to have the shared mark. after all these years, all the failed relationships, lily's passing, the war dispersing them all. "what a joke the universe is," sirius thinks as he tucks into bed. "it better not be them."

a disturbance comes just before closing. you're rearranging the front shelf, fingers curled around a dusty spine, when a pulse rattles the wards like a cough. the chandelier flickers, the sugar jar trembles, and outside, the wind drops off to nothing.

in the silence, the sigil appears, burned like a scorch mark into the wall between the bookshelf and the café counter. it's small and circular, an old rune curling in tight. you feel it before you see it. your knees buckle slightly. your ears ring. the mark on your collar sears.

you grip the shelf, eyes wide, and then: the bell over the door chimes once.

remus. he's halfway across the shop before he even knows why.

"what is that?" he says, voice too sharp. "why do you have that up on the wall?"

you try to answer, but your mouth is dry. you point. your hands are shaking. he steps between you and the sigil like it might lash out. his wand is already out, his face gone pale.

"that's a binding rune," he says, almost to himself. "old bloodwork."

you blink hard, trying to ground yourself. "why is it in my shop?"

he doesn't answer. just mutters a diagnostic charm, and then another, and then he flinches. "you didn't put this there." he says it more so to inform himself. 

"yeah, obviously." you cough and your body feels like it can't hold itself up.

"someone keyed this to you," he says, voice low. he holds his arms out for you to hold onto, ignoring how incredible the touch makes him feel. "to your magic. it's pulling."

"pulling what?"

"i don't know." 

he does. he just doesn't want to say it out loud.

your mark is still burning. you try not to let him see. sirius and james barrel in ten seconds later.

"what the hell's going on—" sirius stops dead. "oh. fuck."

james takes one look at the sigil and immediately moves to your side. "are you okay?" he asks, breathless.

you nod. barely. "it just—it hurts."

remus turns sharply at that. "your magic?" you nod again. "or your mark?"

and you freeze.

silence falls like a dropped plate.

james inhales like he's about to speak and then doesn't. sirius mutters something into his sleeve. the shop hums, unsettled.

you step back. slowly. carefully.

"thank you for coming, for whatever reason," you say, voice flat. "but i need you to leave."

"wait—" james starts.

"please."

they don't argue. they go. but before remus follows, he turns and looks at you...like he knows something he shouldn't. like you know something you don't want to admit.

"whatever this is," he says quietly, "it's only just starting. be safe."

and then he's gone.

the sigil is still there an hour later, as is the burning sensation in your skin. in the window, the shop rearranges the display.

"healing spells for shared pain."

"soulmarks and other magical mysteries."

"stars that bind: constellations of fate."

you don't touch them.

you just sit on the floor behind the counter, your knees drawn to your chest, and press your palm over the mark glowing hot beneath your collar. the wind picks up again. the chandelier flickers on. the shop settles around you like a blanket.

but you do not sleep that night. not when the stars keep pulsing like a heartbeat against your skin. not when that sigil was meant to attack you.

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taglist: @daydreamandforget, @lovelyteenagebeard, @cinnimona, @hxgemxscles

[whimsymoonpages]

poly!marauders oneshot: defense against the dark arts (and also my husbands and wife)

in which headmistress mcgonagall initiates a bring your partner to work day, and remus and harry prepare for utter embarrassment.

it starts, as many great hogwarts memories do, with a piece of parchment stuck to the notice board and an overly enthusiastic heading:

BRING YOUR PARTNER TO WORK WEEK! a staff bonding initiative, approved by headmistress mcgonagall (begrudgingly).

remus doesn’t say anything when he sees it, just looks at it with that slow, quiet sort of contemplation he reserves for things like tea steeping, curse-breaking, or deciding whether to allow james and sirius into a structured setting with children.

he brings the form home.

“absolutely i'll come,” james says excitedly, grabbing a quill. “i’ll talk about tracking dark wizards, keeping your wand ready, the ethics of defensive hexing—”

“can i bring my cursed tea cozy collection?” sirius asks, twirling his wand in his hand.

“you don’t have a collection,” remus says. "right?"

“i absolutely do.”

you look up from your field notes. “can i bring hedwig?”

“hedwig’s is our son's owl.”

“so?”

“...fine.”

the class in question: third year gryffindor and slytherin.

seating chart: chaos.

in the front row, hermione has three quills, two ink pots, and a backup scroll already prepped. next to her, harry is slouched in the universal teen pose of deeply trying not to look horrified, while ron watches the door like he’s expecting fireworks. he always was a fan of how you lot functioned.

seamus and dean are placing bets on how many detentions the visit will result in.

parvati and lavender are whispering predictions. “i bet professor lupin’s wife is gorgeous,” lavender says dreamily. “i heard she wrestles manticores.”

“and has hair like a veela." parvati sighs, twirling her hair between her fingers.

draco is trying to act bored, though he does love to see his cousin, sirius. pansy is not trying. “what if they all kiss in front of us,” she stage-whispers, scandalized. "that would be insane!"

blaise just shrugs. “wouldn’t be the weirdest thing we’ve seen in this class. and isn't that like, your dream?"

pansy scowls.

the door creaks open.

remus walks in with a mild smile and a stack of enchanted chalk. “good afternoon, everyone. today, we’re continuing our unit on real-world applications of defense magic.”

he gestures to the door. “and i’ve brought in some special guests to assist.”

enter: james potter, in full auror robes, wand tucked behind his ear like a quill. he waves like they’re all cousins at a family reunion.

“alright kids,” he grins. “let’s talk dueling dark wizards and looking bloody amazing while doing it.”

harry groans. “dad.”

“that’s auror potter in this classroom, son.” james says, straightening his shoulders.

behind him, sirius follows. his hair is tied back, black coat trailing behind him, and he is carrying a suspiciously wriggling, rune-covered satchel.

“hello, future curse-breakers and magical object hoarders,” he beams. “today i brought cursed items. none of them are actively dangerous. probably.”

“oh my god,” hermione mutters. "we're doomed."

finally, you step inside, wearing dragon-hide boots, half your hair pinned back with a star-shaped clasp, and a niffler riding shotgun in your enchanted knapsack.

“sorry i’m late,” you say. “there was a crup situation. and a kelpie migration. and also, hedwig stole my breakfast scone.”

“this is my wife,” remus says, and three girls in the front row immediately swoon. "a magizoologist."

the lesson begins.

james starts off with a flashy disarming spell. “quick, efficient, clean. you don’t always need a duel. sometimes you just need to end one.”

hermione scribbles furiously.

ron nudges harry, blue eyes wide. “mate, your dad’s cool.”

“i know.”

sirius dumps the contents of his bag onto the desk. “item number one: cursed inkwell. made a scribe in the 1400s write bad poetry until his fingers fell off. what would you do with this first?"

dean raises a hand. “we touch it?”

“absolutely not," sirius' jaw drops. he is absolutely appalled at this suggestion. "that is actually the last thing you want to do with this."

you step in, gently pulling the niffler out of your bag before it can make a break for sirius’s silver buttons.

“this is echo,” you say. “she has a thing for shiny objects and cursed jewelry. she's actually helped us find smuggled items before. gotten loads of bad guys arrested.”

draco leans forward, white hair slicked back. “you use animals to find curses?”

you smile sweetly. “i use friends to find them.” echo chitters happily, then launches herself onto sirius’s shoulder.

midway through the lesson, remus calls for volunteers.

“harry, theo, front and center,” he says.

harry groans. “you’re going to make us duel in front of them?”

“don’t worry,” james says. “i’ll only judge a little.”

"never fear, potter," theo begins, brushing his brown hair from his face. "i'm not in the mood to try."

they spar. harry wins, barely. theo bows dramatically.

sirius claps like it’s the theatre. “brilliant. now, who wants to see the cursed harmonica that makes banshee sounds when played near mistletoe?”

at the end of class, remus thanks them all for coming.

“remember,” he says to the students, “dark creatures, curses, and combat may sound thrilling, but the real magic is preparation. and knowing who you can trust beside you.”

his eyes flick to you, then to james and sirius.

harry watches, something warm settling in his chest.

ron leans over. “your family is awesome, mate.”

“yeah,” harry says, smiling. “they are.”

as the bell rings, students flood out chattering—dean and seamus still arguing about who would win in a duel, parvati practically glowing, pansy scribbling “lupin has three spouses?? how to aquire.” in her notes.

remus turns to the three of you, fond and resigned. “thank you for being mostly appropriate.”

sirius is feeding the cursed harmonica to the niffler.

james is showing neville how to tie a dueling sash.

you’re wrapping an arm around remus’s waist and asking if you can take the leftover cursed quills to test on your office gnomes.

“absolutely never again.” remus mutters, rubbing his face with his hands.

“same time next year?” you grin.

[whimsymoonpages]

ink and bone chapter 4: heroes

cw: mentions of war and death, cursing, dead fish, magical attack

morning comes in with wind.

it howls through the cracks in the seaside cottage, rattling the shutters and whispering through the chimney like it's trying to get in. the cottage is narrow and crooked, three stories if you count the attic (which sirius insists is haunted). it smells like salt and old wood, fireplace ash and something faintly floral—maybe from a previous tenant, maybe just the sea. the floors creak, the pipes groan, and every doorknob sticks. the wallpaper peels in places, curling at the corners like it's trying to escape. someone—probably remus—has tried to clean, but the cottage resists any attempt to modernize. it's alive with enchantments older than any of them, humming low and stubborn beneath the floorboards.

remus is the first one up, wrapped in a threadbare cardigan, already halfway through a pot of coffee that tastes like salt and old bricks. he's got a book open on the windowsill and a quill tucked behind his ear. he's been reading the same paragraph for ten minutes.

"she's going to hex you," he says without looking up.

sirius, sprawled upside-down across the settee, flicks his wand to summon a scone from the kitchen.

"who? the delightfully cursed barista?"

"james. she's going to hex james."

james, currently staring at his reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror, mutters, "i deserve it."

his hair is somehow worse today. he charms it into some semblance of order and tries not to think about the stars on his chest. the mark had been glowing again last night, faint and restless. he hadn't told the others.

remus had noticed. but he hadn't said anything either.

back at your place, you wake to the sound of the window rattling.

your flat is small, barely more than a loft above the shop, but it's cozy in the way old magic can be when it's given time to settle. the walls are honey-colored with age, lined with floating shelves cluttered with mismatched teacups, potion ingredients, and secondhand books. there's a kettle that whistles like a bird when it's ready, and a fireplace that sparks blue when the wind howls too loud.

your patchwork rug softens the creaky floorboards, and your bed is a little too close to the bookshelf, which means you knock things over almost nightly. the air smells like lemon balm and lavender, the windowsill is crowded with tiny potted herbs, and there's always music playing somewhere; the previous owners had charms embedded into the beams that hum lullabies or old radio tunes depending on the weather.

the kettle hums itself awake before your feet hit the floor. your bed still smells like rosemary and ink.

the mark has been warm all night. not burning, not pulsing, just...there. aware. like it knows something you don't. you ignore it, the stupid thing.

the rain's let up, but the wind hasn't. you pull your hair back and pull on a jumper that still smells faintly of cinnamon and chalk dust. downstairs, the café is already brewing—orange peel and chicory and a dash of warming tonic. you unlock the door early.

the boys return exactly when you expect them to: too early to be casual, too late to be deliberate.

sirius goes first this time, sauntering in like he owns the place.

"morning, mean barista," he says, elbowing the bell chime on his way in. "heard you've got a chili blend with my name on it."

you raise an eyebrow. "you survived the last one, then."

"barely. it's why i'm back. do your worst."

james follows, doing his best not to make eye contact. he's holding a book.

"borrowed this by accident," he mumbles, setting the practical uses of powdered nettle root on the counter. "'m sorry..."

"you mean you stole it," you say, though you're teasing. he seems to catch on, and his hunched shoulders straighten slightly. "that's okay."

"only temporarily."

remus walks in last, nodding at you like he's here for something entirely unrelated. "do you carry burn salves? my tea kettle bit me."

you don't smile. not exactly. but the corner of your mouth twitches.

they order again—sirius gets the cinnamon-chili with extra kick, james sheepishly requests a fennel blend for focus, and remus accepts whatever calming tincture you recommend. you give him lavender-ash with a drop of mugwort.

behind the counter, you move like clockwork, but your mind keeps circling around them. they don't look like tourists. or mercenaries. or civilians. and they're definitely not just passing through.

you remember them from school. all three. troublemakers with too many secrets and not enough fear. james and remus had been prefects with you for two terms. sirius once turned the entire east wing corridor into a river during exams, and he laughed at you when you came around the corner soaking wet.

despite this, they were war heroes. anybody with eyes to read would know; their faces had been plastered all over the newspapers as the ones who "stopped the second wizarding war," along with a lot of other students from your year at hogwarts, and your headmaster, professor dumbledore. heroes, you think, or children manipulated into giving their lives?

they shouldn't be here. not unless something's happening.

midday brings the storm back.

it rolls in off the sea, all sharp wind and rising magic. something crackles through the square; an enchantment gone haywire. wards start sputtering. sigils start flaring against brick. the fountain in the center of town starts spewing saltwater and fish. dead fish.

you're in the doorway before it gets worse, and so are they.

someone's triggered an old security charm—buried deep, pre-war, tied to the ley lines that run under kenmare. no one's touched it in years, not until now.

a child is crying near the fountain. her feet are stuck in place, frozen by tangled magic. the fish keep coming.

james moves first. his wand is out in a second, gentle charm on his lips, trying to dispel the hold around the girl's boots. remus goes to the runes carved into the stone, muttering under his breath, tracing the lines. sirius dives directly into the fountain.

"what the hell—"

"it's pulling from a hidden cistern," sirius shouts to the others, already elbow-deep in freezing water as dead fish flop around his body. "if we block the intake, it might stop. remus! lend me your cloak!"

"absolutely not!" remus screams back, shaking his head like a child.

"it's for the greater good!"

you should help. you do help—already halfway through a countercharm that untangles the girl's feet and settles the air. the runes pulse once, then dim.

the fountain sputters.

sirius reemerges, soaked and triumphant, holding a hexed coin that must've triggered the whole mess.

remus looks like he aged five years. james is laughing, exhausted and damp.

and you—you are watching.

not just what they did, but how they did it. like a team. they've done it before. they're used to stepping into chaos and pulling people out. that's not civilian behavior. maybe their hero past helped them, but you think it is something more. 

later, after the square's been cleaned and the child's been collected by a grateful grandmother, they wander back into your shop.

remus smells like sea salt. james's jumper is backward. sirius has a fish scale in his hair.

you have a pot of clove-citrus tea waiting.

"you knew what that spell was." you say, not asking. you turn around with the pot and raise an eyebrow at them.

"lucky guess." james tries.

"no, it wasn't."

sirius shrugs, shaking water off his cuffs. "you'd be surprised what sticks when you've seen enough things go sideways."

you stare at him. then at remus.

"you used a binding break. one from the war. it's not taught anymore."

remus meets your gaze and doesn't blink. "maybe it should be."

the shop is quiet again. outside, the storm is pulling back, but inside, something else is building. they're not what they pretend to be. they aren't mere visitors traveling through town.

and your soulmate mark is glowing beneath your collar like a flare.

that night, you shelve books by instinct, hands moving without thinking.

in the window: how to rebuild what's broken. next to it: spells for finding what's lost.

you don't notice until you're done. fuck, you think when you see it. 

"once you start to man the shop," the previous owner had said to you years ago. "it becomes family. you think you know the shop, but hah--my darling, the shop knows you."

you stare at the window display, heart echoing too fast. you're not ready for this. you've lost too much. you don't believe in fate. but you believe in the way james's voice cracked when he calmed the child. in the way remus traced the runes like an old habit. in the way sirius dove in without asking.

and you believe in the stars burning against your skin.

something is coming, but maybe they're already here.

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taglist: @daydreamandforget, @lovelyteenagebeard, @cinnimona, @hxgemxscles

[whimsymoonpages]

ink and bone chapter 3: that blasted chime

cw: cursing

they apparate just outside the town limits, their boots hitting wet grass with a squelch and the crack of displaced air echoing off the hills.

fog wraps around them like a cloak, thick and cold and humming faintly with old magic. the sky is a dull, bruised grey, the kind that promises rain before the hour's out. their breath curls in front of them, visible in the chill. sirius shoves his hands into his coat pockets and scowls.

"this place looks like it's been hexed into retirement." he mutters.

"charming." james deadpans, adjusting the strap on his duffel.

kenmare stretches ahead in a shambled sprawl of half-collapsed cottages and crooked shop signs. some buildings are shuttered, others held together by sheer magical stubbornness. it doesn't look like a war zone, exactly. more like a place where people gave up trying to fix what was broken.

"there's barely anyone here," remus murmurs, peering through the mist. "dumbledore wasn't exaggerating."

"no," james says. "he rarely does."

they walk through the main square in silence. old posters flap against lampposts. an enchanted broom floats aimlessly down an alley. there's magic here—ancient and frayed at the edges—but it's quiet, buried under soot and rain.

the cottage sits on the edge of town, near the cliffs. dumbledore's note had promised it was warded, but nothing about it feels especially safe. it's tall and narrow, with sea-weathered shutters and a front door that creaks before they even touch it. as soon as they step inside, a portrait of an elderly wizard sneezes and startles himself awake.

"you again." it mutters at sirius.

"never been here before." sirius replies confused.

"you have the vibe." the portrait says, and goes back to snoring.

the fireplace hisses to life on its own. the kettle begins to boil without instruction, and one of the upstairs floorboards moans like it's got a ghost with a limp. the whole place is alive in that old magical way—half helpful, half haunted.

"no hot water," remus says, reading a hand-written placard in the loo. "charming."

"d'you think dumbledore hates us?" james asks.

"without a doubt." sirius says with tight lips.

remus sighs. "it's temporary. just until the mission's underway."

james rubs the back of his neck. "he did say there was a tea shop nearby. supposedly has the best tincture brews this side of the channel."

"if this fog lets us find it." remus mutters.

"lead on, then," sirius says, gesturing with his hands. "might as well see what cursed little corners we've landed in."

they set off down the lane toward town, vanishing slowly into the mist.

the rain starts just after dawn. it comes in steady and patient, like it always does in kenmare, threading through the cracks in the cobbled streets and soaking the edges of doorframes. you're already up, already half-soaked from carrying in a stubborn crate of new stock—squalling deliveries of secondhand spellbooks, a chipped tea set, one leather-bound bestiary that keeps growling whenever you walk past it.

your hands are stained with ink and thyme tincture, your sleeves rolled up past the elbows. the shop smells like lemon peel and cinnamon bark, and the first batch of morning chai is steeping on the back counter, letting off little clouds of steam that curl like lazy ghosts. you lean against the counter for a moment, palms pressed to the warm wood, and breathe.

last night you dreamed of stars. not constellations you recognized, but bright, swirling points of light stitched together like threads. when you woke, your soulmate mark was pulsing faintly, warm beneath the collar of your jumper.

it still is.

you don't notice the door chime right away. it's charmed to be subtle. just a faint ding like a distant bell.

and then it chimes again. twice.

james is the first one through the door. he shoulders it open with a muttered curse, shaking water out of his hair and stomping the worst of the mud off his boots.

"this place better be worth the walk." sirius grumbles behind him, ducking under the doorway. he looks criminally good in a rain-soaked jacket, and he knows it. the kind of person who always seems like he's just stepped out of a story someone else made up.

remus enters last, quietly, pausing just inside the threshold like he's expecting to be hexed. he blinks water off his lashes and exhales, long and low. his eyes sweep the room, assessing. cataloging. his expression doesn't change, but you can feel the way he takes everything in.

"told you we should've apparated closer." james says, pushing his wet curls off of his head with his wand before realizing he could use it to dry himself.

"no one told me this was uphill both ways." sirius mutters, already wiping his boots magically clean.

"you're the one who insisted on taking the scenic route."

"it was foggy! it all looked scenic."

"it's ireland," remus says mildly, "the whole bloody country is scenic."

james makes a face. "i still can't feel my legs."

you hear them before you see them. a trio of loud voices, the scrape of boots on wood, someone laughing in that easy, startled way that sounds like they haven't done it in a while.

you duck behind the curtain that separates the café from the stockroom, brushing flour off your palms. you've just finished prepping the oat scones, and your hair smells like cardamom. you push it back from your face and step into the room.

they're standing near the tea case. all three of them.

james, now definitely taller than you remember, is squinting at the chalkboard menu like it's written in runes. remus is already halfway through reading the tincture pairings aloud. sirius is leaning against the counter like it owes him money.

and then james says it: "what did that old man down the road say again? the owner's a bit mean, isn't she? possibly cursed. or just ugly. something like that."

and then he says: "but apparently she makes a pepperup chai that'll knock your socks off. worth it, yeah?"

to your credit, you don't hex him. you just clear your throat.

and they act like you've hexed him.

"welcome to ugly and cursed," you say, deadpan, placing your hands on your hips. "would you like your mean with milk or sugar?"

james blanches. remus blinks. sirius grins like christmas came early.

"oh, you're the owner," james says, horrified. "merlin, i didn't mean—"

"uh huh." you cross your arms. your mark hums under your skin.

"to be clear," james tries again, already floundering, "i didn't say you were ugly, just that—someone might have said—okay, no, that sounds worse."

"much worse." remus mutters, his face in a twisted grimace, as though he was the one who had insulted you.

"i think it's romantic!" sirius says, still beaming.

"getting publicly insulted?"

"no," sirius says, eyes on you now. "being told you make knockout chai before anyone even knows your name."

he winks. of course he does.

you take their order without further commentary.

james gets the pepperup chai, looking appropriately shamed. remus requests something calming, and you give him a rosemary earl grey with a drop of dreamleaf.

sirius doesn't even look at the menu. "surprise me." he says, grinning.

you give him the cinnamon-chili blend. it bites back.

the drinks charm themselves warm as you brew, spinning in the air and slotting into cups with satisfying little clinks. the mugs steam gently on the countertop, each with a rune drawn in froth—something small for protection, something warm.

it's quiet again, for a moment. the jukebox in the corner starts playing something old and slow. sirius hums along.

your mark glows faintly beneath your collar. the boys don't seem to notice. not yet, but it's begun.

they stay longer than they mean to.

at one of the corner tables, away from the regulars and with their backs to the wall, the boys sit with their heads bowed close together.

at one of the corner tables, away from the regulars and with their backs to the wall, the boys huddle low, voices barely above whispers.

"so, what's the plan exactly?" james asks, swirling the last of his chai.

"we're here to monitor," remus says, eyes sharp. "keep an eye on anyone who looks like trouble. infiltrate where we can."

"which means we have to blend in," sirius adds, smirking a little. "not always our strong suit."

james snorts. "yeah, tell that to my 'scenic route' expedition this morning."

"this place is different," remus says quietly. "too quiet, too still. feels like something's waiting under the surface."

"like old ghosts," sirius says. "and not just the kind in haunted houses."

james nods, glancing toward you as you laugh softly at a customer's joke. "don't be obvious," remus murmurs, not looking up from his tea.

"i'm never obvious," james says, glancing directly at you. "she just...looks different from school. way different."

"she's been listening," sirius says under his breath. "this whole time, she's been listening."

"to be fair," remus adds, "we've been listening too."

they fall quiet for a moment, all three of them watching as you move from table to table. you refill an old woman's tea without asking, laugh at a joke a child whispers, tap a silver spoon twice against a mug to signal someone's potion dose is ready. you move like someone who belongs, like who knows every person who walks through the door and the stories behind the dust in the corners.

"she's... grounded," james says eventually. "and observant. did you notice the wards on the windows?"

"no one casts them like that unless they know how to keep secrets." remus replies, sipping his drink.

"do you think she knows something?"

"i think," sirius says slowly, "she knows everyone here. and if something's brewing beneath the surface in kenmare, she'll be one of the first to feel it."

"so what?" james says. "we charm her into telling us?"

"we don't charm her, potter." remus says flatly.

"no charming involved," sirius says, though he does not sound particularly convincing. "maybe."

remus raises a brow. "we observe. we blend in. we listen."

"until what?"

"until she gives us a reason not to."

across the room, you lean over the counter to grab a new tin of tea leaves. the mark beneath your collar pulses again. and this time, remus glances over and frowns, like he's seen something shift in the air but can't name it yet.

remus finds a book on the windowsill that makes him pause. he opens it slowly, like he's afraid it might bite, and reads the first page with a slight furrow in his brow. when you pass by to wipe down a table, he glances up.

"you shelve things by mood, not genre."

you blink. "i do."

"this is in 'sharp ache,'" he says, holding up the book to you. you glance up at the title: tess of the d'urbervilles.

"i would say that is accurate."

he nods once and goes back to reading.

james lingers at the counter. after the worst of the awkwardness passes, he tries to redeem himself by asking about the tinctures.

"what's in the pepperup?" he asks, watching you prepare another order. "besides fire seeds."

"nothing dangerous," you say, though your eyes glint. "english thyme, mandrake root, powdered salamander blood. and a touch of black pepper."

"right," he says, nodding solemnly. "so definitely dangerous."

he smiles like someone who wants to be liked. you don't give him the satisfaction.

sirius lounges like he owns the place. he has a book in one hand and a half-empty mug in the other, and keeps muttering snide commentary under his breath. every so often, he glances at you, then quickly looks away.

once, you catch him tracing something on his wrist. a nervous habit, maybe. or something else.

your mark pulses again, warmer now. it almost itches. you ignore it.

when they leave, it's with the awkwardness of people who think they should say goodbye but aren't sure how.

"we'll be seeing you." james says, sounding slightly hopeful.

"that sounds like a threat," you reply in a sing-song voice. "goodbye, boys."

sirius snorts. remus offers you a half-smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

when the door shuts behind them, you exhale slowly. beneath your jumper, the stars on your skin flare bright.

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