alinefrank - Tumblr blog

alinefrank · 24 days ago

Text

ɪᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴛʏ // ᴊᴀᴍᴇꜱ ᴘᴏᴛᴛᴇʀ

As you can probably tell from stalking my main, I started off as a marauders account and I think it's time to go back to my roots.

Other fics of mine. If you have the time.

James Potter + fem!reader. Cuss words. Not proofread.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

He holds me in his big arms, drunk and I am seeing stars, this is what I think of.

Desc. : A lot can happen in a single night.

────────────────────♫ ·‼️· ♫──────────────────

James is pretty sure he's had enough of Valentine's Day talk for one lifetime. Being unable to go to what was essentially his spot in front of the alcove by the Lake because some other couple was sticking their tongues down each others' throats was diabolically infuriating, and he had to actually hold back a gag as he rolled his eyes and sped back into the castle.

It wasn't even the same month as Valentine's Day, but evidently, everyone was in the mood.

See, since couples were going to be separated for Christmas and New Years the next morning (a whole week, oh, the horror!), the Seventh Years decided to throw a party to commemorate their 'love'. James gave each and every one of them another three weeks, tops.

Tops, because he was pretty sure a girl in his year had chosen between two blokes on the literal flip of a coin.

With his mate Remus being a prefect on duty, Peter being home, and Sirius finally being able to visit his estranged cousin Andromeda since he'd just been newly disowned, and James' parents not being at home for him to go back home to, he was missing both Christmas and one of the best fucking parties thrown by his senior batch.

Just as well, he'd probably gag and throw up whatever Firewhiskey he'd down at the rager anyway.

Roaming through the Hogwarts grounds when it'd just gone midnight was risky, even for him, but he couldn't go to a party while his mate was stuck mentoring some newly-appointed Fifth Year Prefect. It's bad form. So, waiting for Remus to finish up his duties while roaming the corridors, it was.

And then he saw you. The bloody bane of his existence, with your glinting Ravenclaw Prefect badge, and your stupid hair all moonlit, as if you were taunting him. 'Oh, I'm so perfect, with my Slug Club, and my grades and my ability to get every guy so madly fucking in love with me'. Ugh, he could almost hear you. It had probably immensely enthralled you to reject Peter back in third year. God, what a bint.

The thing about James was that, sure, on paper, he was top-choice for Slughorn. Well-connected, son of Fleamont bloody Potter, good at Potions, rich. He should've been a shoo-in to the stupid Club, and he nearly was. But that was on paper. With the unfortunate fact that James' hatred for Severus was a school-wide knowledge, and the Slug Club was the only, only aspect of life where Severus was more influential than him, it would be devastating to Slughorn to have them both in the Club. Slughorn was basically cutting his losses.

So, yeah, he was seeing fucking red. Vivid, vibrant, in-your-face, horned-guy-with-a-pitchfork-red. It made no goddamn sense for you to be doing anything but what you were doing- prefect duties - but James' disdain for you made that somehow be infuriating.

Fuck, was he ready to shoot you.

He really had to get a fucking grip. Perhaps on your throat. Throttle you to death. Ugh. What would that even achieve? Nothing but a murder charge, or if he got away with it, memorials dedicated to you, a constant reminder of your smug little presence, perhaps your ghost floating through Hogwarts, badmouthing him. He didn't need that.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

The first thing he'd ever actually said to you.

"Draught of Wrath.", you replied, sparing him nothing but a momentary glance over your shoulder, before your gaze flew back to the two doves who were currently engrossed in a mini-war, all squawks and feathers. "Go back to bed, Potter, or I'll reduce points."

"That's not in our fucking textbook.", he spat, ignoring your order.

"Special project."

"You just do your own side-quests in Prefect time? And Slughorn lets you?"

"Well, he gave this recipe to me as a challenge, so I'm sure he isn't opposed. And you're the only idiot up tonight, so go back to bed."

"Fucking recipe.", he grumbled, snatching it up from the ledge you'd propped it on and straightening it out to squint at it in the moonlight. "You have no antidote?"

"I've halved the quantities so that the effects wear out far earlier."

"How do you keep them from attacking the rest of us?"

"Muffliato potion. Plus, initially, Obscuro charm before I cast a cloaking charm over this pillar. That's why the doves can't see us."

"You realise this is cruelty, right? Animal cruelty?"

"They're not real doves, I conjured them up, too."

"Yes, but they're really there."

"But they're not actual doves, though."

"You really want to go into Wizarding Ethics? Because—"

"You know what, perhaps you should go work on the general assignment. I'll allow you in the library if you just leave me alone."

He nearly actually throttled you. The audacity!

"Fuck off, alright, with your condescension.", he hissed. "Absolute cunt."

If you were offended, you didn't look it. "Do you always curse?"

"Do I always — yeah, why? Don't fucking tell me you're going to go all holier-than-thou."

"No, I'm just asking."

"Why?"

You shrugged. "If I brew you the antidote, you would be more chill."

"What is this? Is it the, what? Is it the fact that you're a girl that's got you so smug, and so sure that I won't hex you into fucking oblivion? Or is it 'cause you're part of the elite Slug Club or whatever?"

You furrowed your brows at that, gently uncorking the antidote and allowing the fumes to permeate through the little bubble you'd created with the doves. "What? Hey, I'm just saying, you seem to be holding in a lot of pent-up anger, so, I thought I'd help."

"Oh, yeah, you're a fucking angel, aren't you?!", he yelled, and it echoed throughout the desolate corridor some fifteen times, and you glared. "You just bought yourself a month of detention."

He mimicked you in a high pitch voice, rolling his eyes.

"How juvenile."

"How bitchy.", he retorted.

There was a silence as he watched you examine the remnants of your bottles of potion before gently placing them into the loops inside your tiny satchel.

His brows furrowed. "Did you just say there's a Muffliato potion?"

"Yeah, of course. Almost all spells can be replicated as potions."

"Could I get some of that?"

"Why? So the stupid V-Day party can use it and everyone can scream as loud as they want without wakin' any teachers?"

He chose not to answer that. You'd just mock him for missing the biggest party of the bloody year.

"Yeah, charms aren't strong enough. C'mon, it'll help you when you finish your shift and come join us anyway. Me and Moony."

"Remus? He hates the Seventh Years, same as me. Him at their party? It'll be as funny to see as dropping a ballpoint pen in the middle of here and having everyone gawk at it, wondering what the hell it is."

"You have an odd sense of humour."

Unfortunately for him, you were the only Prefect (besides Remus) who knew he was out of bed past lights-out. Which was, uh... sad. To say the least, because he had to now stick by you so that he didn't run into any others. He'd have figured, with pushing you to the party, he could tag along and that would be a valid excuse to give to Remus as well, but you didn't want to go. Ugh.

"Come on, you look miserable, and you look like you'd fit right in with the V-Day party's, like... ambience, or whatever. It's awful. Isn't there another Ravenclaw prefect to handle your work?"

"He's wildly incompetent."

"Wow. Harsh."

"It's true, though."

"Listen, the other prefects would've found any late-night stragglers by now, wouldn't they have? It's not a rule that they can only punish people of their own house, yeah? Probably Moony's found the lot of them. So come to the party. Your misery's actually giving me a migraine."

"Shut up. Shoo. Try not to get caught by someone else.", you shot back, now setting up what Professor Sinistra had taught all of you a couple days ago was a moonlight-collector.

He had forgotten that there even was an assignment.

"How did you get the lens thing? She said it was only available at Hogsmeade!"

"That's not true. The textbook says convex lens, so I borrowed a monocle."

He was about to throw you into the Lake, trust. What a fuckin' swot! The assignment wasn't due for another three weeks! Ugh.

"From where?", he asked, offhandedly, with zero interest in the answer.

You shook your head. "Can't tell you that." Fine by him.

Fuck.", you mumbled, trying to change up the setup for the angle that would result in the perfect proportion of moonbeams to liquefy but no, apparently it would just not work. Packing up, you angrily stuffed everything into your satchel again. Apparently you'd just have to sneak into the Astronomy Tower.

"The party's this way.", he mumbled, scratching at the back of his head to snap himself out of the conversation so that he could go back to watching the moon and waiting for Remus.

"'M not going."

"Why not?"

"I have shite to do!"

"Where are you doing your 'shite you have to do', then?"

"Astronomy Tower, where else?"

Fuck, he was going to regret this. "Can I come with?"

Your eyes were ripped from the night sky in front of you back to him, glistening with amusement. "What? Why?"

He licked his lips. "You're the only prefect that knows I'm out and you don't care enough to give me detention, so I figure I should stick around with you."

Your mouth agape with a barely-suppressed snicker, you began following him after he angrily shouldered past you. Fuck it all to hell.

The winding staircases led the two of you - and your Lumos-emitting wand - up the Astronomy Tower, where some losers were sat, bloody snogging. It's not bloody VALENTINE'S DAY! He wanted to scream.

"Ugh. Never mind.", he grumbled, turning immediately around before the image was etched into his brain, but you put a hand on his chest.

"What are you doing?!", he hissed, watching you gesture at him to stay hidden as you climbed the last couple steps, clearing your throat. The couple scrambled to get up. "Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, yeah? Minus points. Get back in bed, now!"

Oh, yeah, prefect-privileges!

He stayed glued to the wall as the couple raced down the stairs past him, muttering about 'fuckfuckfuck, she saw our faces!'. Ooh, a clandestine affair, it seemed. How he wished he could find out more!

But no. You'd barked at a couple people just so he could get some immunity tonight, even though it was common knowledge he thought you were gum under his shoe, so he should at least respect that.

He's always thought you were annoying, with your attitude that you were better than everyone just 'cause you were a teacher's pet, but honestly, he'd also always thought that was an incredibly brave thing to do, especially seeing as you could get endlessly bullied for it.

Bravery, as a Gryffindor, was something James admired.

Lord knows without your stubbornness, Sirius may have got into much more trouble than just detention. He'd heard of this Muggle thing called a "spliff" from one of the Slytherins once, and had gone absolutely feral, to try it out. Thankfully, you knew enough about Muggle things to put a stop to that.

"You're being oddly nice.", he remarked, maintaining a safe distance in case your plan was to bring him up here, slit his throat, and then throw him off the tower in the name of defamation.

"I just took a couple points off your house."

"So... we're even?", he inquired, with narrowed eyes. No. There had to be a catch.

"Not even close. I told Slughorn not to give you detention.", you informed, offhandedly, as you kneeled down and unfastened the clasp on your satchel, bringing out your moonlight-liquefying equipment.

Oh. Yeah. This morning, he'd taunted Severus and you - Slug Club members, ew - for having finished brewing first. Taunting wouldn't have resulted in much, but he had tripped Snivellus over and caused him to crash into about three other peoples' cauldrons.

Your fault, he'd argue. Usually, it was you and James brewing together, and if you'd been there with him, you wouldn't have finished early and been chatting to Snivellus about fuck-all, basically bragging and rubbing it in James' face.

No, you and James would have tolerated each other for at least one Potions hour, as you always did.

So, it was your fault that James was pissed that you weren't seated next to him and— alright, maybe his argument wasn't the most sound.

"Yeah, I know. He didn't follow up."

He, in fact, didn't know that's why he hadn't followed up. He'd chalked it up to his charm and Slughorn's distate for punishing Purebloods.

"Yeah. I figured you were just curious how Snape and I finished that fast. And I didn't mean to provoke you, or anything."

Ugh. Fuck it all to absolute purgatory. You'd made him sound like a sore loser. Like he gave a toss about yours and Severus' Potions prowess. "Hey."

"What?"

"Sorry. For the 'cunt' thing."

"What cunt thing?"

"When I called you one?"

"Oh. Yeah, no, it's alright."

"I wish I could go to the party.", he groaned, pouting exaggeratedly in hopes of at least getting a chortle out of you. Maybe another 'get back to bed'. But you just nodded.

"Yeah. Looks fun."

He tilted his head. "You and I are going to the party, then."

This was now more self-indulgent than anything. He had to see you drunk. Seriously. It's quite literally on his list of things to see before he graduates. Number four, right before McGonagall high on catnip and right after Snape being tossed into the Great Lake.

"No. You go, I won't tell."

Almost instantaneously, his eyes narrowed. "You won't?"

"No?"

Too fishy for him. "Why not?"

"Figure you should enjoy the party, since you're out already, and you wanted to go home these holidays anyway."

"How do you know that?"

"You were only moping about it in every class the entirety of last week. 'My parents won't be home, so I have to stay at Hogwarts this Christmas, ugh!' Set my bloody teeth on edge."

He really couldn't argue with that.

"Don't you want to come?"

"No, not particularly.", you replied, biting your cheek as your textbook hit the floor with a thud, and you brought your lit-wand over it.

"Well, I need immunity!"

"Too bad, Potter."

There. He was seeing red once again.

He let you underline a line in the textbook, before he began on his bullshit again. "Are there times that there are absolutely no out-of-bed-delinquents, and you lot have the entire castle empty to yourselves?"

You shrugged, biting your lip as you tried your hardest to get the telescope to budge with a squeak. "Yeah, usually it's around the holidays, like right now. I stay back at Hogwarts, usually, so it's often pretty calm at night."

"Mm. I see. Y'know what I'd do, if I were a Prefect with an empty school?", he teased, purposely dragging out his words and pairing them with a cheeky simper.

"Pull pranks even though no one's here, because you and your stupid 'Marauder' gang is absolutely unemployed in every sense of the word?"

"Sod off. That's Snivellus talking. No, I'd just run around, screaming, singing at the top of my lungs."

You snorted, one eye squinting as you looked through the telescope, positioning it just so, using it as your convex lens (kind of genius, actually. He'd have liked to have thought of that). "Yeah, go ahead. I feel like you're forgettin' that it's desolate of students, not teachers."

He grumbled. Right. His fantasies deflated almost instantaneou— hang on! "Didn't you say there was a Muffliato potion?"

Nodding, you continued uncorking your flask to collect the moonbeams, placing it perfectly in front of the telescope. "Yeah, so wh— no. Don't even fucking think abo—"

"I want to run around the castle, have my own party. What's wrong with that?!"

"Muffliato potion overdose? Running around, getting injured? You getting in trouble? Me getting in trouble for providing you with th—"

He scoffed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his own tiny flask. "I've got Firewhiskey."

"Are you intent on giving me reasons to give you more detention?! I thought you wanted immunity!"

James didn't reply, and you pointed at him in a very authority-figure-like-manner. "Get that shite out of my face, and go back to bed."

"C'mon, just mix a tiny bit, and we'll call it even, alright?"

"Even?!", you hissed. "You owe me more, if we're keeping score."

"Well, we're not! I'm just saying, I'll leave you alone! Won't tell anyone you're doing basically everything but Prefect-ing!", he retorted, gesturing wildly at your equipment.

"Are you blackmailing me?!"

His mind fought off the 'Sirius-Black-mailing' joke, while he shrugged, impassively. "Maybe."

"You're a right... prick!"

"Been called worse."

"But never better, right?"

He rolled his eyes, making grab-hands for the tiny bottle of Muffliato potion, that you held out of his reach. "What?"

"I'm not givin' you my whole stash!", you scoffed, snatching his flask from him and gently pouring about a quarter of the potion in, with total concentration. He watched you, the background filled with no sound but the occasional rustle of breeze and the tinkly sounds of liquid transferring.

"There."

"That's it?"

"What'd you expect? A fireworks show?"

"No, I just... never mind. You don't want any? So when you yell at me, I won't be able to hear it?" He proffered the flask.

"If we drink from the same batch, we'll still be able to hear each other. Other people just can't hear us.", you informed, as though he were an absolute dimwit, shoving the potion bottle back in. Was it too late to throw you off the railing? "Now go and yell and do whatever. I need to concentrate. Besides. I'm not gettin' drunk on the job."

"It's already a very dilute amount of whisky. The potion'll just dilute it further. C'mon, take a bit. It'd help you not be caught by Filch or someone here, anyway."

"Why would I be caught? I don't have the indiscretion of a 'Marauder'.", you mocked.

"Say our name like that one more time—"

"And what?"

He scoffed. "Fine, don't come with me. You probably have shite music taste anyway."

"Oh, please. You probably only know Wizard music. Like the Odd Brothers."

"What, like Muggle music is better?!"

"Yes, it is!"

He threw his hands up. "Show me, then."

"What, now?"

"Yeah, now! Show me! You know there was that recent petition by the Muggle-borns to have a record player in the music room so they didn't get homesick, yeah? So go ahead, show me!"

"Fine!", you spat, yanking the flask from his hand and downing half of it in one go. "You'll never bloody insult Queen in front of me."

"I didn't say anything about the Queen! Hey! Hey, don't go making me out to be unpatriotic! Sure, I may be anti-monarchy, bu—"

"Oh, do shut up!"

He clenched his jaw but didn't say anything. Didn't want to push it, you see?

He gulped down the other half of it.

────────────────────♫ ·‼️· ♫──────────────────

"Now, then. Play this insanely amazing Muggle music of yours.", he muttered, arms crossed tightly across his chest as he leaned against the closed door of the music room.

Some people were silly drunks. Some were affectionate.

Evidently the two of you were aggressive-music-fanatic-drunks.

"Wait, 'm looking.", you murmured, your fingers dancing across the tops of the tiny collection of vinyls seated safely in a shelf on the wall. "Ah-ha!"

James rolled his eyes. "Do you have to be such a caricature? A bloody nerd, who says 'ah-ha!'?", he asked, plopping himself down on a piano bench.

"As opposed to the rich pretty boy who's miffed that he can't get into an elite club based on talent and intellectualism because he's used to being given things on a silver platter?"

He couldn't even scoff, you were so on the mark. "Shut up."

"Lovely expansion of vocabulary."

"Alright, you know wh—"

"I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things, we can do the tango, just for two..."

The record spun around almost dizzyingly. God, Muggle stuff would never fail to fascinate him.

"I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings, be a Valentino, just for you..."

"Now's the best bit, now's the best bit, shut up!", you screeched softly, and he nodded, eyes fixed on the floor as he concentrated his ears on the record.

"Ooh, love, ooh, lover boy, whatcha doin' tonight?"

He hated the fact that you were bobbing your head, because in his firsthand, personal experience, that meant you had heaps more dancing you wanted to do. And so, against his better judgement, he stood up.

"Set my alarm, turn on my charm, that's because I'm a good old-fashioned lover boy.", you sang, and he giggled.

Yes. James Potter fucking giggled over a girl he fucking complains about every bloody night.

Kill him now.

"Ooh, she's got moves.", he remarked with a toothy grin, watching you twirl and sway and basically make this whole night so much better in the most magically Muggle way possible.

And then abruptly...

The whisky began hitting both of you.

How did he know that?

Because he seized your wrist and began to twirl you. And then you let him.

Yeah, he was genuinely going to have the absolute fucking mick taken out of him if this got out. Oh, my god, Sirius! Ugh, if he found out... no, even Sirius was alright. Remus would haunt him about this in the afterlife, he just knew it.

"You've got very Muggle moves, mate."

"Yeah? That's a thing, then, is it? Wizard moves vs Muggle moves?", he asked, laughing deeply as your back thudded against his chest after his fourth try at turning you smoothly. "This isn't working."

"Yeah, because you're a sore loser! Please, as if the Odd Brothers could hold a candle to Queen!"

"Ooh, let me feel your heartbeat grow faster, faster."

The music room rang with the sounds of your laughs, breaths intertwined, feet shuffling, squeals and scratches of the vinyl, and of course, his jumbled-up attempts at singing along to a song he had never heard before. Why? Because he's James Potter.

"Ooh!", cooed James, attempting (and failing horrendously) at mimicking the effortless 'oohs' of the song, making you giggle, now.

"That's pathetic, if you don't know the song, don't sing!"

He feigned offence, gaping with a hand on his chest, while the other underarm-twirled you a couple more times. "And what's he talkin' about, 'long, hot, summer nights'? It's winter!"

"Well, yeah, but the song was recorded ages ago."

"It's not even time-accurate."

"Wizard songs change according to the situation you're in, yeah, for sure, but not Muggle songs."

"Wait...", he began, tilting his head as he rested his arms on the small of your back. "They just stay the same?"

"Well, yeah. Our pictures don't move, either."

"What?!", he spluttered.

"Yeah."

"Why's that?!"

"Our pictures, our songs... we want to capture that perfect moment forever. In a picture. In a song, or a poem, or even a painting. But it has to be that moment."

"So, 'long, hot, summer night' was when... this... good old-fashioned lover boy met you? I mean, y'know, the listeners of the song."

"Yeah, I suppose."

"And... is there really a 'good old-fashioned school for loverboys?'", he whispered, conspiratorially, because if there was, he'd assume it'd be top-secret.

You mumbled back, "I can't say."

Pulling back to glare at your face, he raised a brow, and then, the both of you burst into fits of laughter. "God, I need more Firewhiskey."

"Do you have more?"

"No."

"Well, y'know where we could get some, though?", you asked, and something in his gut told him that was rhetorical.

────────────────────♫ ·‼️· ♫──────────────────

This was barmy. Psychotic. Absolutely demented, deranged, insane, nutty and any other synonyms that eluded his mind!

How had waiting around for Remus to finish prefect-duties so that they could maybe get into the biggest party of the year turn into him helping his Potions-partner sneak into Professor Slughorn's private quarters to nick some sherry? He could replay the night over and over, and he'd still probably never understand.

"Did you hear that?", he hissed.

"Shut up, let me concentrate!"

Precariously lifting the smallest but heaviest bottle from off the tray and trying not to make so much as a clink, you grimaced as you made each excruciatingly slow move, and that nearly sent him doubling over with laughter.

And he really should've watched his step, because down fell a cane, onto the ground with a thwack.

"Fuck!", you yelled, your eyes wide as you looked at him— he had to steady you, lest the glass fall and shatter.

You seemed to have forgotten that you were on Muffliato-potion, and your yells wouldn't be heard.

Even though you were the best at Potions, you panicked.

And then, it hit him.

You weren't a caricature, you really had never done this before, the sneaking about, the mischief.

"C'mere.", he hissed, and you complied, because what the fuck else could you do? At least he could attempt to charm his way out, like he always did, and lower the sentence to detention, rather than expulsion. God. This is what you'd come to. Relying on James Potter's bullshit skills to save your academic future.

Surprisingly, his hand crammed into his pocket, and you half expected him to pull out one of those dungbombs he and his stupid gang of 'Marauders' liked to throw around, but instead, he pulled out a tiny bundle of cloth.

Well, seemingly tiny. Until he removed the bow and unravelled it. And unravelled it. And unravelled, and unravelled, and unravelled. And then, there, brimming over his hands was a shimmery velvet cloak.

"What, are you going to throw this at his face and make a break for it?!"

"Get under it!", he instructed, dragging you to another side of the room and under the cloak just as the lights came on.

An INVISIBILITY CLOAK?! This absolute— oh, everything made sense now! Oh!

"Come out! Come out, I say!"

Slughorn's half-asleep voice was nearly as annoying as his normal voice. James had learnt to control his breathing under the cloak, but he knew that you hadn't, obviously, so his palm was clamped over your mouth. And though he remembered the Muffliato-potion, it was clear you still didn't, by the way you were biting your tongue as if your breaths would give him away. Fine by him. He didn't need you talking.

And, in all honesty, he was terrified your guilt would overtake you and you'd run out from under the cloak, fall at Slughorn's feet and confess, begging to stay in the Slug Club.

"Come out now or face the consequences!"

James jerked his head towards the door, beginning to take slow sidesteps that you fell in tune with. Before you knew it, you were out the door, which slammed and caused Slughorn to mutter : "Oh, bloody drafts!"

And then, you ran.

Where, why, how, you don't know, all that you two knew was that it was fast. Sprinting through the chilly winter night, past paintings that were ready to curse your whole bloodline for the disturbance of air, but couldn't see you or hear you, past Filch's cat who could also feel you two but not see you or hear your footsteps? Heaven on earth.

Somehow, you two managed to have the drunken stamina to make it back to the Astronomy Tower, chuckling and gasping and holding up the bottle of sherry in the glinting moonlight like a championship trophy.

"We are fucking crazy!"

"Absolute loons!", he agreed, nodding as he took the bottle from you, taking desperate swigs. "Salud, Prefect!"

"Cheers, Marauder!"

He collapsed onto the floor of the Astronomy Tower, hands over his stomach as he gazed up at the moon, seeming right at his nose thanks to the Firewhiskey and the sherry.

Unconsciously, he began humming that stupidly phenomenal Muggle song you'd introduced him to.

"I told you. Muggle songs are just... better.", you called, from somewhere across the floor.

"Shut up.", he grumbled, grunting as he shuffled up onto his elbows to get a better look at you, leaning your elbows behind you on the railing, wind in your hair, the sparkling night sky as your backdrop.

It felt wrong to not examine this magnificence up close.

He scrambled up, continuing to hum.

"'S growin' on you, I can tell.", you grinned, with a playfully snail-paced punch to his cheek as you turned around to watch the stars.

He groaned, catching your hand mid-air and turning it over in his palm. "Are you never lettin' me live this down?", he questioned, wrapping his arm across the expanse of your collarbone and gently wrenching you closer to him, chin now settling nicely on your shoulder.

"Nope. I think the whole school should know how utterly enthralled you are by Freddie Mercury— hey, that's your mate!"

"What?"

"Sirius!"

Stupidly, James actually looked around for him.

Reaching up, you tugged a little on the arm around your neck, scratching at his elbow and pointing at the vast expanse of inky black nothingness and everythingness that never failed to awe him. "That's Sirius!"

"Oh, the star? How do you know?"

"I study."

"Why do you say that like I don't?"

"Because I've seen you in class. You're never focusing, either. Always zoned out. Maybe if Sirius was there, you'd at least do something.", you answered, gesturing at the star to illustrate your point.

"Well, with a know-it-all, swotty, infuriating little loser like you as a Potions partner, I really can't do much, can I?"

"Yeah, I thought of that, too, so I figured I'd partner up with Severus, who doesn't need help. That somehow made it worse, this morning. You got detention."

Because you were talking to him, you oblivious, gorgeous girl.

"He's a git. Bad news."

"Who do you like besides your 'Marauder' mates?"

James paused. Good question. "Marlene."

"She's your cousin. You sort of have to."

"I tolerate Regulus?" He didn't like this conversation. He was a social butterfly who was quite often asked how many girls wanted him, or how many people wanted him at their parties, but never how many people out of his devoted fanclub he actually liked.

He could practically see his metaphorical circle actually shrink in his mind's eye and he didn't like it.

You pointed at the Sirius star again. "That is your favourite person in the world, and Regulus is his brother, so yeah, I'd wager you'd tolerate him. But I mean 'like'."

Okay, he needed to shut you up, but he was all out of sherry.

"And what about you? We both know the only reason you're not at that party is 'cause you've no friends right now, they're all at home on holiday. And you're alone. You'd know absolutely no one."

You scoffed. "Did I remind you to fuck off today?"

"No, maybe you should do it, I was sort of starting to miss it."

"Fuck off."

"Ooh, sexy, say it again."

You gagged. "Bleh. Get off me." He laughed as he pulled you closer against his chest, muscles basically covering your mouth now, humming again. "I can't bloody get it out of my head."

"Does that to ya, yeah.", you replied, muffled.

"Which one's Sirius again?"

"That one. The brightest one."

"That's ironic."

"Oh, you beat me to it, I was about to say that."

He laughed, swaying you slightly against the railings. "So. Noticed you've not mentioned my Cloak.", he began, cocking his head so he could get a view of your face.

"What's to mention? It just explains how you lot rarely get caught."

"And? You're not going to try confiscating it?"

"You know I could, right?"

"Yeah."

"You know why I'm not, right?"

"Please say 'cause you're in love with me."

He already knew it was the other reason.

You smirked at him, and he'd swear he's never seen anything more lovely and more sinister in his entire life. "You're evil."

"Whenever I want. Noon or midnight. Rain, hail or shine, legal or illegal reasons. Access. I don't care if you're writing bloody mock-NEWTS. I call, you come with the Cloak."

"Well, I have a counter-condition."

"You're blackmailing my blackmail? With what?"

"Well, we've got your classic theft.", he said, thumbing back at the empty bottle of sherry lying by the satchel you'd abandoned a couple hours ago. "And that can be proven by Veritaserum, and it will be used, because this is theft from a Professor." He counted on another finger before continuing. "And then, y'know, not Prefect-ing. Knowing about a party but just not reporting it."

"What about you? Owning an Invisibility Cloak? Having whisky on school grounds and supplying a minor with it and convincing her to steal more?"

Uh-oh. Impasse. "Alright, so we've both got shite on each other. Are we even?"

"Cloak whenever I want. I'll send a note, and you need to give it to me."

"Immunity whenever I want. I use you as an alibi and you need to cover for me."

You shook on it.

"Teach me another Muggle song.", he murmured against your temple. Alright, the drunk excuse was hanging by a thread. There was no reason, sober or otherwise, for him to be this close to you, this intimate, this... boyfriend-y.

"Mm... there's this one I really like. It's called All Shook Up."

"Alright?"

"It starts off so depressing."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. The first, first line is just... 'Well, bless my soul, what's wrong with me?' !"

He doubled over in laughter then. Not particularly because this random Muggle singer's lyricism was bonkers, but because it was you. You were laughing. So, he was, too.

And you two giggled and giggled because the sherry hit perfectly into your brains.

"Show me Regulus' star."

It was funny, you spent the next five minutes showing him Regulus, Sirius (he'd forgotten), Bellatrix, Alphard, and whatever other Black family members he could remember, and when he ran out of those, his fingers dug gently into the flesh of your arm that was extended right in front of his face, as you were pointing. He used that grip to haul you right where he wanted you. Against his chest. Against his lips.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Prefect."

"It's the 23rd of December, you absolute tosser!", you exclaimed, shoving him back by the chest.

Harsh, but fair.

Clandestine affairs had always enthralled you, but it was really not a good look for you, of all people, to be having one with a pureblood Gryffindor, known for his impressive detention record and asshole-streak, and it definitely would not do his amazing reputation any favours by him being this addicted to snogging you, a goody-two-shoes, stickler-for-the-rules-except-when-with-him, pretentious bookworm that everyone in Gryffindor house knew (thought) he hated.

Yeah, not your finest moments, either of you.

"I think we should stop."

His heart nearly stopped at that. Fuck.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Why? There's no valid reason to."

"Is there a valid reason to continue?"

He rolled his eyes. "I know you overwork yourself, but I do hope you're familiar with the concept of having a good time. You are, aren't you?"

Yanking you right back, he cupped your face in his hands. "Fine, then, look down at my wristwatch. It's nearly Christmas Eve."

"So?"

"Come on. You're supposed to be the swot here. Us gettin' along is a Christmas miracle, isn't it? Just like your eyes in the starlight.", he grinned, dimples popping up as though to second his statement and help convince you to snog the life out of him.

You rolled your eyes, and he cocked his head, resting his elbows on the railing and his chin in his palm, almost patronisingly. "What's that?"

"What's what?"

"That. Almost looks like... no can't be! Is that... are the corners of your lips... are you... smiling?"

"Fuck off, no I'm not!"

He tapped on your nose, before pinching it to move your head from side to side. "You can steal pretty beautifully, darling, but you can't lie to save your life." You slapped him away, and he used the opportunity to grip your hands and drape them over his shoulders. "Trust me."

How had he gone six years hating you, three years jealous of you (Slug Club, ugh), and seventeen bloody years without kissing you?

He's not sure that's a survivable feat.

Maybe he's been dead all this time.

"Trust a Marauder?"

"Trust me. It's like your mate Freddie Mercury says, 'everything's alright, just hold on tight'.",he replied, mimicking the same slow-motion-punch you'd landed on his cheek earlier.

"Don't bring Mercury into this. That's not fair."

He shrugged, sighing magnanimously. "I'm a good, old-fashioned loverboy."

"Oh, please—"

"Come on, kiss me again, I'll prove it." He looked down at his watch once more. "You kiss me until midnight, and then, on Christmas Eve, if you still have reasons to hate me, then this stays within tonight. Doesn't spill over to tomorrow. Sound fair?"

"What's the catch?"

"If you feel differently, you have to tell me. Alright? No hidin' it to save your pride. Yeah?"

"Fine."

It took you a long while to agree, but he wasn't impatient, because he knew he'd win this. He'd seen it in your eyes, your smile, your skin, glowing.

Yeah, glowing was common when you find something you didn't expect. Treasure. An old journal. This.

He's sure you will lie, for a couple more days, act like he doesn't exist, especially during that annoying span of time between Christmas and New Year's, because it always makes everyone supremely miffed for no apparent reason. He knows you're going to lie and say it was the Firewhiskey-slash-sherry, and ruin the best thing ever, that both of you have accidentally stumbled upon.

But honestly, come on. It's James Potter.

What's he going to do?

Let you?

342 notes · View notes

alinefrank · 24 days ago

Text

ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ // ꜰʀɪᴇᴅʀɪᴄʜ ʜᴀʀᴅɪɴɢ

Friedrich Harding + fem!reader. Based on this ask <3

My other fics, if you have the time.

Note : Haven't done physics since high school, don't be smart alecks in the comments. Also, I somehow wrote pure love? No angst? Ew.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : You're a modern marvel, and he's a futuristic businessman looking to invest.

◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦

"Women are not common in this line of work."

His tongue's close to the mouth of his cigar, and he wonders for a moment if that may accidentally send off the wrong message. Entice you, perhaps. Seduce you. Inadvertently offend you.

"But not unwelcome?" A tilt to your lips. A sip of your wine, and his eyes reluctantly follow the drops down your throat as you gulp.

"Not at all." He's not sure how to do business with a woman, truly. He's trying to be respectful, but he's lost. Did that smirk mean you wanted his business or wanted him? Or both? Or neither?

"You are... a feminist, then, I take it?"

"A feminist? What a novel word. Is it French?"

"It is, indeed. Fourier penned it down first. Means someone who believed women and men can belong in the same opportunities, if I am not mistaken."

"But they do not."

"Come again?"

"You would not be able to imagine a man in the art of child-rearing and a woman sweating in a factory, now could you? Well, unless there is something gone terribly wrong in their lives. A loss of their spouses, perhaps, leading to him to raise or her to provide."

"And this is your segue into saying something has gone terribly wrong with the deal?"

He smirks. Beautiful. "Precisely. Your father and my father had been in business decades ago, and had a fixed deal. Which was expertly designed to benefit both sides back then, but times have changed, wouldn't you agree?"

"The deal is outdated?"

"Very much so. Aged like... milk, perhaps, though I suspect our fathers hoped for wine.", he replies, licking his lips before he leans back to rest his arm on the back of the exquisitely crafted chair you have allowed him to seat himself in.

"I can give you this...", you say, punctuated with a tap of your finger on the topmost layer of the collection of photos (expensive to procure, he notes. You must have fit into your inheritance of the business perfectly) "And throw in its newer model, as well, and lower it to the same price as the original, but that's all I can do."

"But it appears the original has increased in price.", he observes, one knee over the other.

"I assure you, Herr Harding, no price increase is without reason. Tough times, wouldn't you agree?"

His tongue rolls around to the back of his molars, before he shakes his head. "What else can you offer me?"

You lean forward. "This, this, and perhaps an anchor or two."

"For?"

"Twenty-five."

He snorts. "And if I walk out right now?"

"I will close the door behind you. I do not wish to let in a draft."

Audacious.

"You need to help me out here, I'm afraid.", he smiles, courteous and professional. It doesn't matter how breathtaking you were, this was a business meeting.

"Trust me, Herr Harding, this is me helping you out."

"There has to be something you can do. I cannot, in good conscience, you see, unjustly increase my procurement costs while our profits stay stagnant."

You point. "Ah. Stagnant, but never bad."

"No one would say no to more money, would they, madam?"

You laugh at that, though hushed and polite. "Alright. Three of the new models, then. Three anchors. No originals."

"The new models at the price of the originals?"

"Yes."

He stands, his hand out. "You have a deal, madam."

"Thank you, sir."

Your handshake's firm, he notes. You've either been rigorously trained, or you're made for this.

"I do, however, have a condition, Herr Harding, one that I know my father set, but not rigidly enough, not even nearly, and all our customers skirt around it."

He nods, his brows furrowing for a moment, before he sighs. "The weaponry."

"The weaponry.", you affirm. "Herr Harding, we provide solely for cruise ships and merchant ships, not military ships, not ones which create havoc in the oceans."

"You refer to the HMS Medusa.", he mutters, attempting to fix his hat on just perfect so that you are not privy to the bulging vein on his forehead. He recalled the horror stories his father told him about sea-wars, and conversely, the horror stories he'd been told of his business partner who refused to take part in naval ship-building.

"It is said to be huge, stacked with carronades, and it is already the talk of the town, despite having just been ordered this year.", you explain, your hand gesturing to the door of the study so that you may walk him out.

The clicking of heels overlap, just as your voices do.

"But madam, military ships are the new—"

"I am aware, but it was my late father's wish—"

"I understand that, however, you must think of how it looks for me to refuse my customers - the Navy, essentially - simply because you do not wish your accessories part of a military effort.", he reasons, his fingers skirting around the rim of his hat.

"These are my conditions, Herr Harding. I will have my people draw out the deal, and if you are not interested, simply do not sign. I bid you a good evening."

His first time dealing with a woman was proving to be the last time he'd ever want to.

Friedrich had grown up watching his Papa at the factory, his little feet straining to keep up with Herr Harding's purposeful strides as he moved with his hands behind his back, his workers earning warnings, instructions, and approval alike from their boss.

Now, he is the Herr Harding, and he, too, strode with his hands pinned behind him, moustache twitching every time that he sees something he approves of. "Good job, Johann.", he mutters offhandedly, before his eyes fixate on something approaching him.

The annoying "businesswoman" who could not even lower her price for one of her oldest, most trustworthy business partners. You.

Yet, he remains civil, cordial, even, as he walks to you. Although, it's hard to remain himself when the sunset on the horizon strategically behind you blazes the edge of your hair just so. It's as though your hair's dripping Sun.

"You might have written, I could have sent a rider to bring you on horseback."

"Ah, that's no trouble. I quite like walking by the port. The sea breeze calms me."

"So, this is a random visit, then?"

Your brows furrow. "No, it is mentioned in the drawn-up agreement that you signed. We come and ensure our materials are not being used on a war ship, or anything to do with the military."

He fights a scoff and suppresses an eye roll. "Right. I must've missed that. It is the first time this has ever happened. Do you mean to say, all these decades, you have had spies?"

You chuckle at that, shaking your head. "No, no, this is a new condition that we added. We— Herr Harding."

You've noticed, it seems.

"Those are cannons."

"That will be covered. They will be tucked in safely to the—"

"Herr Harding, it was my father's wish not to inadvertently induce violence, because his father, my grandfather, said to him—"

"Military ships are the new necessity.", he grits out, patient and firm.

"My father believed—"

"Your father believed that he could bring popularity to such an imbecilic concept as "cruise ships", madam! They have never, and will never exist ; there is no one with such an interest in the sea besides pirates and dolphins, and your father, god rest him!"

Your scoff (and what would have been a very biting retort, he's sure) is cut off when the foghorn sounds. It seems to give you enough of a jolt not to say something you do not mean, although Friedrich knows that what he's just said had crossed a line.

"You are a liar, then, Herr Harding."

His arms open, almost like a hug, although you know it is not. "I am a businessman, madam."

"A liar. We should not like to do business with you again."

"You cannot afford to lose us as customers!", he calls to your retreating figure. "You know this!"

"My father used to tell your father everything, but those times have changed! You and I are not best mates, Herr Harding! I have gained a lot more customers than you know of!"

That gives him pause.

Truth of the matter was that he could not afford to lose your business.

He sighs. God. Doing business with a woman? Hell. No wonder "feminism" was such a novel phrase. Hopefully it stays in France.

His hat presses against his chest as your maid opens the door.

"Is the Madam in?"

He's not sure what they call you, but he's sure they won't take it kindly if he used their Lady's first name so casually.

"Sir, it has nearly gone midnight."

"It is alright, Frieda.", a voice is heard, and his brows bunch together, paired with a squint of his eyes, and he can almost make you out in the bluey dark of the night, your beauty highlighted by the vague orange tint of the maid's candlelight. What a challenge you were proving to be. "Let him in."

His gaze is fixed on the floor when you excuse yourself to tighten your robe's knot, and then, he dutifully follows you into your study, which is surprisingly already sparkling with gentle glows of burning candles throughout, a gold sheet over the dull browns he'd been privy to not a month before.

"This is wildly improper, Herr Harding."

"Yes, yes. I am aware. I simply wished to convey my apology. I... spoke out of line, and I hurt you. I, of all people, know how tender the name of a father is in a child's head, how precious, and it was a line I did not wish to cross."

"Is that it?"

He huffs. He could leave while he's in the safe zone, having apologised for both the rudeness and the late-night visit. But when has Friedrich ever been able to resist a tiny peek past someone's walls, especially someone as exquisite as you, in your nightrobe, repeatedly running your hands through your hair to ensure the results of sleep (or tossing and turning) left it?

"No. If you have time, I'd like to go over the next order."

You raise a brow for a moment, before you scoff. "Unbelievable."

He, for one, did not expect this. "Come again?"

"Midnight, on a Sunday, and you expect—"

"I'm sorry, I'm confused, how does the day matter?"

"No one reads the contracts!", you whine, shouldering past him and causing him to lurch forward to hold onto the table for balance. You return rather huffily, dropping a tiny stack of papers identical to the one delivered to his house nearly a month ago for him to sign, onto the table with a flutter. "We've adopted Industrial Britain's idea of a "week-end", though they have only Saturday afternoons off. We have a five day workweek. It's novel, but I've found it highly increases my employees' spirits, and they work better."

His finger slides across the page as he reads, his lips mouthing the words before his striking blue eyes move up to yours, brimming with incredulity. "You're telling me that two days of the week, neither you, nor your employees work? And you've somehow managed to gain customers in this... this... chaotic new system of yours?", he splutters, his hands running through his hair.

"It intrigues people that my company's services are not available every day of the week, it makes it seem scarce and exclusive and—"

"Mad! I'm in business with a madwoman, a child, as well, as I've found out from due research on my part."

"I am twenty, I am no child!", you retort, stacking up the papers with aggressive taps onto the table, before you move past him to place them back.

"Two decades you've lived on this planet, then, and more than half that time, you were a child, a non-conscious entity that merely did as told!", he spits, his arms folded so as to not clench and reveal just how vexed he was.

"And, what, you've got a couple decades on me, have you?", you scoff, mirroring his stance. "You're twenty-five, Friedrich, you are considered young in this world, as well!"

The use of his first name is what sets him off. How dense of him to expect the same courtesy of professionalism from a twenty-year-old, a girl at that, that he so kindly provided? It's almost like your very presence disturbs the air around him, tugs at the very ends of his self-restraint, offends his sense of propriety.

His hand is on you in an instant, the soft curve of the side of his palm aligning with your jawline, his index and thumb digging into your cheeks on either side, so hard he could feel your pulse. "Yes. That's half a decade wiser, little girl.", he hisses, ignoring the rage in your eyes in favour of glancing down at your lips.

It's almost as if you're aware of every silly, sinful, wrong thought that's just permeated through his brain that instant, because you slap him away, the impact echoing through the room.

He knows what's coming. It's what any self-respecting woman would do. But before you shriek 'get out', he's going to attempt to salvage this wreckage of a business relationship.

"If you are so against ships on the offensive side, enlighten me with your plans for how ships — even merchant ones — may be able to defend themselves from being seized by pirates or enemies of the Crown.", he challenges, breathily, because he's just come this close to heaven, and hadn't even made his presence known at the gates.

Your demeanour shifts, a split second frown on your brows. "Come again?"

"You have any ideas for a ship that runs solely on defence? Because I'll tell you something, if you manage, that, you'll be a pioneer."

You suck on your teeth, eyes dancing around the room. "Do I have your word to maintain secrecy?"

"Of course."

"Herr Harding.", you warn.

"Yes, you have my word."

"Welcome, Herr Harding, to the future."

It's good there's a lack of light in this room, because it'd have been over for his dignity had you seen his jaw slacken.

"Now, believe it or not, growing up, I was quite the patriot. Quite the skeptic, too, although those often go hand-in-hand.", you begin, gesturing for him to duck as he nearly collides with a hanging model of a ship.

"And I, too, asked my grandfather and father how they hoped to engage solely in non-violence. I thought, should our enemy attack, we must be properly armed to strike back."

He follows you through the expanse of what most houseowners would use as a wine cellar, traipsing past tiny models of ships with labels he can't read, because you refuse to linger long enough with the lamp.

"Then, I realised, a good offence is worth nothing if your ship has already acquired a heavy amount of damage."

"So... you have come up with a preventative measure? Some form of device that can detect offensive intention?"

The glint in your eyes travels to your mouth as you grin. "Not quite, Herr Harding."

He loves this, he decides. There's something about the excited, almost manic way you move around, floaty, dreamlike, angelic, as you speak about what he assumes is the only thing that brings you joy and solace alike, since your father's passing.

"What if you could detect the approach of another ship, as well as its speed and direction?"

Friedrich tilts his head. "Surely you don't mean to suggest—"

"This contraption, Herr Harding, can do two calculations at once. First, the speed of the waves in general will move this knob any which way.", you demonstrate, tapping your nails on the glass. "However, this knob is for any irregularity, any... ripples, I would say, that disturb this regular pattern. Ripples big enough not to be a whale or dolphin, that is."

Remarkable. He must remember not to gasp. "Seems there are plenty variables."

You seem genuinely pleased by that. "A man of science. Good. Yes, this is a prototype. I'm working on it. However, this...", you declare, moving around the unnaturally long table to another model. "A propeller that minimises cavitation—"

"Propellers? For big ships?"

"Why not? David Bushnell did it in 1776. Why can we not?", you ask, a glimmer of mischief in your tone. "Now, these minimise cavitation, which will minimise noise. And less noise means..."

"They won't see us coming."

"That's on the offense-side, Herr Harding. I mean to say that we can creep past them, most likely. I also have a method of creating safe fog that envelops around the ship but not the crew."

He's in absolute awe.

He settles in the study armchair upstairs with a huff after you two climb the arduous stairs, without invitation, though he has a nagging feeling that the two of you had gone far past that.

"You do not mean to tell me you come up with these alone?", he muses, the question a scream in the tranquil of your study at one in the morning.

"You do not mean to tell me you run your business alone?", you retort.

"You are fascinating.", he murmurs, and you pretend you didn't hear it.

"Am I allowed to include these in my ships? Or will it take a while to perfect?"

"It will take a while."

He nods. "Fair enough. I feel honoured to have seen these."

You seem quite pleased at that, a form of childlike validation, it seems.

He points at you with a single ringed finger, with playfully narrowed eyes to boot. "You tell me the moment it's ready, alright? The propeller and the... the fog... contraption. Yes?"

You nod, and he stands, his fingers drumming at his waist. "Anything else?"

You shake your head. "I will give you the regular order by...", you mumble, flicking through pages and pages of a rough yet new book, presumably a ledger. "The fourth?"

The corners of his lips curl down in acknowledgement. "Alright."

He reaches over to the table behind you, nearly desperate for a taste of heaven once more. But he is nothing if not a gentleman, so he clutches onto the hat he'd been pretending to reach for. "I shall take my leave. Thank you for bearing with me tonight."

Doing business with a woman was tiresome, but a business with an inventor? Fantastic, magic, even.

Friedrich isn't sure when his nails had become this blunt. Surely he had a lot more left to chew? He flexes his hands before him. No, he has not got anything left but skin to chew. It's tempting, but he wouldn't want blood to stain his legal documents as he signs them.

Perhaps one day, there will be an invention where a message once sent can receive a reply immediately, without the sender having to anxiously await it. Hell, perhaps you'll invent it.

For now, however, he has to wait the stipulated three days. You live too far, he thinks. Unnecessary.

Today, ideally, is when the return letter should have arrived.

Nine words is all he'd written.

Nine words and that had taken, possibly seventy-two hours to reach you, and another seventy-two for a letter back to reach him.

He wishes it would reach, but he sits, wringing his hands together, a bit too close to his candle.

He contemplates attempting the trick many a friend of his has shown him, swiping a finger through the flame, but recalls that this is possibly the hand he will have to use to place a ring on your finger.

If you accept.

The fog of the early morning, and the fog from trying out your fog-contraption amalgamate into what can only be known as the eeriest blanket Friedrich has ever found himself cloaked in.

But he finds himself cloaked in anticipation a moment later, because something nearly angelic, a silhouette of sorts that seems equal parts ominous and ethereal. He knows it's you.

As you get closer, however, his mind begins to play tricks on him. You're either holding the letter he sent you, or some sort of cleaver meant to mutilate him, and in this fog, he's sure he'd be left unprotected. He's rooted to the spot.

"'I have a proposal. A real one this time.'? What is that supposed to mean?"

It is the former. The letter.

He cocks his head, a fond smile playing on his lips. The daftest, most dexterous girl he's ever loved. "You do not understand? I thought I was the epitome of clarity."

"No, by all means, be vaguer.", you hiss, waving the letter around in front of his face. "Perhaps I'll understand in about a century."

Shaking his head, Friedrich moves closer. "Did you see what came with it?"

"Yes.", you mutter, handing him the necklace. He folds your fingers around it, gently pushing it back to you.

"The ring in it, acting like a pendant? It is for you. Clear now?"

You remind him of a statue, the way you're looking at him, the only indication that you are alive being the way your eyes dart between his.

"Clear now?", he repeats, fingers reaching for your earring. "Lovely is the woman that wears diamonds."

No one has ever said that in his life. He's sure you're smart enough to figure that out, but you say nothing.

"These are pearls.", you scoff, grateful for one bit of banter, one subject change, at the very least.

He nods, biting his lip. "True. But this is not.", he murmurs, tapping on the ring resting on your palm, along with the chain around it.

"I—"

"I do not wish to be unprofessional, and I definitely do not wish to embarrass you, in any way, shape or form, because I have given you more than a tiny peek— no, an endless view behind my walls, and as a businessman... well, you know more than most how that is a suicide in the business world. I— I am afraid I am rambling, and taking up far too much of your time."

Shaking your head offhandedly, you rub the delicate chain between your fingers, your mind clearly elsewhere.

"You do not have to give me an answer that you do not want to give. You do not, in fact, have to give me an answer at all. But you did come onto this pier, to my port, because you wanted... at the very least, to know more."

You don't respond, so he pushes. "Am I right in assuming that?"

"I don't know why I came."

"I don't know why I wrote. We are in the same b— well, ship."

That earns a pity-laugh out of you.

Sighing, Friedrich is forced to shake his head for the thousandth time in your presence, and he's prepared to do it for the rest of his life, if you'll have him. "Here."

"What?"

"May I?", he asks, his palms hovering over your shoulder until you nod with permission. He places them on your shoulders, gently steering you to face the ship. "That's your fog-contraption."

He sees you smiling.

"The propellers are, of course, not visible, but I can show you the plans later."

You're still smiling.

"Look at the ship. Our ship. Your ship."

You do, and he swears he just saw a spark fly in your eyes. God.

"And now, look at me. The only question you need to answer is whether you can look at both the ship and me the same way."

Your lips part, and he's not sure if you're simply amused that he's compared himself to a ship, to your life's work, or if you're about to say something.

It seems to be neither.

You just keep looking at him, and it's throwing him off, frankly.

"What is it?" Perhaps you cannot see him in this fog.

"I'm not—"

Not in love with you.

Not interested.

Not an idiot.

Not ever going to reciprocate.

"Not what?"

"Not sure that's fixed right.", you say, and he looks over his shoulder. The fucking contraption. Teach him to love an inventor. "It's getting caught in the— hold on."

You make for the ship, but he grabs your arm, close enough that it seems like you're in the glistening study again, illuminated solely by candlelight and love. However, his fingers do not jab into your cheeks this time, no, this time, they flow against your features, jaw clenching, throat bobbing as the words he wishes to say are somehow adhered right there.

"I will not hold on.", he says, sternly. "Either kiss me, or give me an explanation, but I will not be made to wait."

He's sure he's inches away from throwing himself into the murky waters beside him.

"My affections may be seen as offensive, or seen as repulsive, or even, unfortunately, disrespectful, but I find comfort in the fact that they are at least seen.", he murmurs, his forehead against yours, tiny little kisses blooming on each of your knuckles.

He's really, desperately hoping your little fog machine works, because the last thing he needs are his employees seeing a younger woman reject him, especially with the bluntness you seem to possess and wield.

"Are they seen? Tell me they are seen. They are seen, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"Are they reciprocated?"

"I'm not sure."

A tilt of his lips. "But there is a chance."

Nodding, you shrug. "Yes."

"You're a scientific mind. Tell me the chances. Not in percentages, I can never comprehend them."

A small laugh escapes you. He wants it to ring through his ears until he's driven further into insanity. "A good one."

"Air-travel-being-invented-by-tomorrow-good, or I-can-kiss-you-now-good?"

It's cheeky, he knows, and he knows you're amused, if your scoff is any indication. "Well, you know, I think it may take a few decades, but air travel may be—"

"Teach me percentages so I can tell you which feature of yours occupies which percentage of my heart.", he murmurs, shaking his head with a breathless "Shh-shh-shh." at your imminent snarky retort.

Friedrich will let you talk later. For now, as his lips move with yours and the fog acts like the veil you will wear when he weds you, he'll do the talking.

119 notes · View notes

alinefrank · 27 days ago

Text

this bucky with this steve

9K notes · View notes

alinefrank · 29 days ago

Text

can't help myself

Sirius Black x reader who aren't great communicators ✩ 6k words

summary: you and Sirius sleep together for the fun of it. no strings. you decide to call it off when it all becomes too much and the cons outweigh the pros. and maybe you have some feelings.

cw: allusions to sex, friends with benefits with feelings, miscommunication, angst with a happy ending, accidental wingman james

“Hello?” you call, letting yourself into the Potter’s house, frowning a little when it seems oddly quiet. James had insisted the first warm day of the year called for a proper get-together—and really, who could say no to seeing all your friends in one place?

You’d pulled on your sweetest summer clothes, ready to soak up the sun and laugh until your stomach hurt.

James’ head pops around a doorway, curls a messy halo around his face, and he grins the moment he sees you—that big, eye-crinkling kind of smile that makes it impossible not to smile back.

“There you are,” he says. “You look very nice.” He nods toward the back door. “Everyone’s in the garden. Want a drink?”

“I’m alright for now, thanks,” you say, walking toward him.

You give him a quick hug—though, he turns it into a full-body squeeze—before he leads you outside.

The garden’s full of chatter and laughter, warm in every way. You give out quick hugs, a few hellos, before settling into a fold-out chair next to Lily.

“God, you look like you're ready to pop,” you say, leaning in to give her forearm a friendly squeeze.

You haven’t seen her and James as much lately, with the baby on the way and everything. It makes these little moments feel even more special. They’re glowing, both of them, like love has settled around them in something soft and golden. It twists at something in your chest—not jealousy, exactly, just a strange ache. Being loved like that, freely and without question, is… unfamiliar.

“I feel like it too,” Lily says with a groan, glaring half-heartedly at her belly. “Still a few months left.”

She lets her head loll back against the sun-warmed chair, eyes fluttering shut as she exhales dramatically. “Swear to God, if one more person tells me I’m glowing, I might hex them.”

You snort, reaching for the lemonade on the little table between you. “You are glowing, though. Like. In a glowy, magic-sunbeam sort of way. Sorry to say, it’s very annoying for the rest of us.”

Lily cracks one eye open, smirking. “You’re just mad I outshine you.”

“Always have,” you agree easily, bumping your knee against hers. The two of you smile at each other for a beat, and it’s one of those soft, warm silences that doesn’t feel like anything needs to be said.

James appears again, this time with two sweating glasses of something stronger in hand. He passes one to Remus and drops into the grass next to Lily with a content sigh, resting his chin on her knee like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

They start whispering lowly to each other, and even though you know them both incredibly well, you still feel like you're intruding. So instead you turn to eye up the buffet spread, covered in cling film, spying what you might like to eat.

Just as you ready yourself to move, a ring clad hand holding a plate moves into your field of view and suddenly it's being placed in your lap. You look up squinting against the sun, ready to say thank you, but Sirius shifts to solve your squinting problem and the words dry up in your mouth.

“Eat that, please.”

“I was just about to get up for some.” you say, dumbfounded.

“Almost like I can read your mind, babe.” He replies, winking at you. “Eat.”

He flops down next to James and they start talking about something you don't care to listen to. When your eyes meet Lily’s, she gives you a knowing look that you choose to ignore, staring down at the food on the plate instead.

You and Sirius have, for lack of better words, been fucking for a while. It started after a drunken night out and it continued from there. It's fun. Casual. But the more you’ve thought that recently, the more it feels like you're trying to convince yourself. The lines are starting to blur and it doesn’t really feel like two friends shagging for fun anymore. Or it doesn’t to you. You can never tell what's going on in Sirius’ head.

You’re jolted from your thoughts by Sirius gently shaking your knee, his hand warm where it rests. You blink, realizing James and Lily have disappeared. Embarrassment flushes hot in your chest—you hadn’t even noticed.

“You okay?” he asks, eyebrows pulling together with quiet concern.

“Yeah. Yes.” You nod quickly, offering your best smile.

He studies you for a moment, like he’s not entirely convinced, but then relaxes with a little huff of relief.

“You’re coming home with me, yeah?”

You hesitate—just for a second—but you nod again. Of course you do. You can’t help yourself.

When you arrive at Sirius’ flat, it's a well rehearsed routine. He offers you a drink or something to eat, because he’s sweet, and when you decline a switch is flipped. Rather quickly, your mouths are moulded together in bruising kisses, tripping over yourselves as you make your way to his bed. Or his couch. Or twice, his kitchen.

Tonight it's his bed.

Despite the exhaustion rolling over you, you get up to pilfer one of Sirius’ band T-shirts before crawling back up the bed toward him. It always shocks you how comfortable he is in his nakedness. He lies there like he owns the world, stretched out and unbothered, utterly bare. There's nothing coy about him. He’s the very picture of ease, of indulgence.

He should be that comfortable, you think. He looks like a man sent by the gods to cause your damnation. His tattoos stand stark against his pale skin, and his sharp features are magnetic. He’s beautiful.

When you make your way back to him, he pulls you quickly into his side, intent on closeness. You’re grateful for the small barrier of fabric between you then. It makes it feel less real. He starts talking—properly, about little things that have happened since the last time you saw him. You listen, your head tucked under his chin, fingers idly tracing the lines of the tattoo curling over his ribs. His voice is low and warm, somewhere between storytelling and confession, and you let it wash over you.

It’s a strange thing, how this always happens—how easy it is to fall into this rhythm with him. Just bodies. Just convenience. Just friends.

“I missed this,” he says eventually, like it’s nothing. Like the words don’t lodge somewhere deep in your chest.

You shift, propping your chin on his chest so you can look at him properly. “You missed getting laid? I saw you a week ago,” you tease, your tone playful.

But Sirius just looks at you, his expression unreadable for a moment too long. Then he huffs a laugh, brushing a thumb over your shoulder where the shirt has fallen slightly. “That too.”

You laugh, the sound low and comfortable, and brush your hand through his messy hair. "You know, you're impossible," you say, rolling your eyes before resting your head back against his chest. You can hear his heart beating beneath the skin, steady and calm.

He shrugs, his hand drifting down your side, tracing the curve of your waist with lazy circles. “Like you can talk,” he murmurs softly.

You lift your head to retaliate, but his gaze catches you off guard, and the need for space becomes overwhelming.

You pull away from him, sitting up and swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. “I should go,” you murmur, voice softer now. Your fingers curl around the hem of the shirt, readying yourself to change back into your clothes. Something about leaving feels necessary.

Sirius watches you, his eyes tracing your movements with an unreadable expression. You grab your shoes, your phone, your scattered things, but before you can make it to the door, he speaks again, his voice quieter this time.

“Stay.”

It’s a simple request, a command almost. You hesitate, your hand still on the doorknob, and glance back over your shoulder.

“Why?” you ask, not unkindly. He’s done this a lot recently—asked you to stay when he shouldn’t. Usually, you’d stay without a second thought. It doesn’t help the scrambled thoughts flying through your mind, so you need to know why.

His gaze is intense, his lips parted slightly as if he’s choosing his next words carefully. “I don’t want you to leave,” he admits, the vulnerability creeping into his voice in a way you’re not used to hearing. It catches you off guard.

You could leave. You should leave. But you also know, without a doubt, you want to stay.

The way he said it lingers in your mind, replaying over and over, keeping you awake long into the night. You find yourself staring at Sirius’ sleeping face, running the pros and cons of this arrangement through your head. Quickly, the myriad of negatives outweigh the few positives.

The biggest one is that, despite the closeness of it all, you feel lonelier for it. A deep, gnawing sadness tightens around your chest every time you think about it. There’s doubt too. You wonder if there’s something wrong with you—something wrong for him to want you this way and no other. To know you, and to think that a good fuck is all he’s ever wanted. To know that you’re feelings won't be reciprocated.

The morning light creeps in through the blinds, pale and soft, casting a hazy glow over the room. It’s quiet, except for the faint sound of Sirius’ breathing beside you. You try to focus on the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair falls messily across his forehead, but all you can think about is the conversation you know you need to have.

You try to ease out of his arms without waking him, but his hold tightens around you, instinctual, almost possessive. For a moment, you just lie there, tangled in the sheets with him, eyes closed, wondering what it would feel like to simply stay. To keep pretending this is all fine—that you can keep moving like this: no strings, no complications. But the gnawing feeling in your chest is louder than the silence in the room. It’s impossible to ignore anymore.

Finally, you gently disentangle yourself from him, sliding out of bed and standing still for a moment at the edge, watching him sleep. He looks so peaceful. So at ease. It’s a stark contrast to the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

You move quietly to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face, taking deep breaths, trying to pull yourself together. When you return, Sirius is awake, blinking sleepily, his messy hair even more disheveled than before. He reaches for you without saying anything, just a simple gesture—a pull toward him.

You hesitate, then sit down at the edge of the bed, wringing your hands together, unsure of where to start. Sirius notices the change in your demeanor immediately, his brow furrowing in concern as he sits up beside you, the sheets falling around his waist.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice rough from sleep. “What’s up? You okay?”

You want to say something flippant, something easy to brush it off, but it’s not that simple. You can't make this easy for either of you anymore. You exhale slowly, gathering the courage to speak.

“I think we need to talk,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. You don’t meet his eyes, staring instead at the floor, suddenly acutely aware of the space between the two of you. It’s too much now. You know what you need to say.

Sirius sits up straighter, his hand instinctively reaching for yours, but you pull back slightly—not enough to be distant, but just enough to let him know this is serious. "What about?" His voice is tinged with uncertainty now, the light teasing that usually lingers in his words gone.

You swallow hard, trying to steady your heartbeat, but it feels like it’s skipping in your chest, pulsing painfully with every word you know you have to say. “I think we need to stop... sleeping together,” you say finally, the words hanging heavy in the air. "I don’t think we should do this anymore, Sirius."

His expression falters, confusion flashing across his face like a wave. He blinks at you, his lips parting as if he’s not sure he heard you right. "Wait, what? Stop? Why?" His voice sounds a little too light, like he’s hoping you’re joking.

Your heart races, and you pull your legs up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your knees for comfort. "I just... I don’t think it’s working for me anymore. This—us. Sleeping together, I mean." You shift uncomfortably, trying to find the right words, but they feel inadequate, incomplete.

He leans back against the headboard, running a hand through his dark hair in frustration. His voice drops to a quieter, more serious tone. “I thought we were having fun.”

Your chest tightens at that. Fun. It’s all he ever thought it was, wasn’t it? To him, it was just easy, simple. The word "fun" sits there like a wall between you both.

“We were," you say, your voice softer now. "We are. But I think... I just don’t think I can do it anymore.”

Sirius stays silent for a moment, his eyes watching you with a mixture of confusion and something deeper—something you can’t quite place. The playful charm is gone, and you feel the weight of your words settle between you like a thick fog.

You turn to face him, trying to meet his eyes, but it’s harder than you expected.

Guilt creeping up your spine. "I just can't keep doing this." you repeat.

Sirius doesn’t respond immediately, but the silence between you thickens. His brow furrows deeper, eyes scanning you as if he's trying to decipher a puzzle he doesn’t quite understand. It makes the pit in your stomach grow. You thought you had been clear enough, but the confusion in his gaze says otherwise.

Finally, he speaks, his tone low and edged with frustration. “You’re not making any sense,” he says, his voice rougher than before, as though it’s hard for him to wrap his head around the fact that you’re pulling away.

You want to explain, want to make him understand, but it’s like the words are stuck in your throat. You feel like you’re standing on the edge of something, unsure if jumping is the right move, but knowing you can’t stay on the edge forever.

“I just… I can’t keep doing this, Sirius,” you say again, but your voice wavers, and you curse yourself for it. “I can’t keep pretending this is just fun. Because it’s not. I can’t… feel like this, every time, and still act like nothing’s changed.”

He looks at you for a long moment, his face a mixture of confusion and something else—something raw, like he's hurt. The weight of it presses on you, and you wish you could take the words back, or at least make him see how much this hurts you too.

“This is what you want?” he asks softly, leaning forward slightly, still trying to figure it all out.

You nod, though it feels wrong, like your heart’s trying to convince you otherwise. “I think so,” you whisper.

He leans back, running his fingers through his hair again, his lips pressed tight. You can see the frustration building, feel the distance stretching between you, even though you’re sitting right next to each other. His eyes flicker to yours, searching. “I don’t get it. We’ve always been… like this. What’s changed?”

You shake your head, unsure yourself. "Maybe it was always too much. Maybe I thought I could handle it, but I can’t. It’s just—" you falter, trying to put it all together. “I’m not sure what I want, but I know I can’t keep doing this with you. Not like this.”

For a moment, the silence feels endless. He watches you, his face unreadable, his hand still resting on the sheets. Finally, he speaks again, softer this time. "Are we… Are we still friends, then?" The question feels tentative, like he's afraid of the answer, as if that one word—friends—might fall out of his reach.

You take a deep breath, the weight of his words sinking in. You’re not sure how to answer. Your own heart is unsettled, but you know deep down, this isn’t something you want to lose.

"Of course, we are." You manage to force the words out, even as they feel fragile

You’ve started to think that you and Sirius don’t know how to be friends without all the extras anymore. Maybe you never were just friends to begin with. You can’t remember. That much is painfully clear in the three weeks you’ve spent avoiding him.

And you've gotten good at it—dodging group plans, slipping away without drawing too much attention. Until Remus catches on in less than five minutes when you meet up for coffee.

“Are you coming to Lily and James’ this weekend?” he asks, casually sipping his drink.

Another get-together in their garden to celebrate their anniversary. You want to be there—you love your friends, and you love seeing them so happy together—but the thought of facing Sirius for the first time since you called things off feels like swallowing glass.

“I can’t. My cat’s at the vet, y’know how nervous she gets.”

“You used that excuse for the pub quiz on Wednesday,” he replies, blunt as ever. You feel your face flush, caught.

“Yeah, well… she’s very poorly.”

“No, she’s not. You’d be a wreck if she were.”

“How would you know, Lupin?” you shoot back, defensive. He gives you a knowing look, his eyes narrowing slightly, and you deflate under his gaze.

“Fine. She’s not.”

For a brief moment, Remus looks victorious before his expression softens into something more serious.

“Has someone upset you?” he asks, his tone quiet and gentle.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you reply quickly, nodding a little too hard. “I’ll be there.” He doesn’t believe you—he’s too good at reading people for that—but he lets it slide, for now.

That’s how you end up wedged between Remus and Lily on a sofa that’s far too small, trying your best to ignore the weight of Sirius’ gaze from across the room. It’s strange—you're trying so hard not to look at him, but every time you do, your eyes lock. Sirius gives you a shy smile, and you can’t help but return it, even though it stings more than it should.

The party hums along as it always does, the sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and soft music in the background. You find yourself slipping into the familiar rhythm of the evening: catching up with friends, teasing James about his terrible taste in music, and joining in on the lighthearted bickering about the best way to cook some dish. For a moment, you almost forget about the ache that has been gnawing at you these past few weeks.

The evening passes quickly, the hours slipping by in a haze of friendly conversation and the occasional awkward silence when your eyes meet Sirius’s across the room. But as the night deepens, you realize you’re starting to feel more comfortable—like maybe you can be around him without everything falling apart. Or at least, you tell yourself you’re starting to.

Lily is standing now, announcing she’s about to make another round of drinks. "Anyone need a refill?" she asks. You wave her off, content with the drink in your hand. You’re already nursing it as much as you can, using it as an excuse to avoid conversation and, more importantly, Sirius.

You take a deep breath, pushing yourself off the sofa, silently grateful for the chance to escape the moment. "I’ll be right back," you murmur, heading toward the bathroom. The warmth of the room suddenly feels too much, and you need a space where you can breathe.

Before you can make it far, James appears in front of you, dragging you by the arm to the nearest unoccupied room.

“Do I need to go get your wife, prongs?” you joke as he shuts the door behind you.

“What's going on with you and Sirius?” The tact that Remus had skirting around the issue is nowhere to be seen in James Potter. To be fair to him, he looks distraught and you can't tell why.

“Nothing, why?” Your brows furrowed in confusion.

“Come off it, L/N, did you fall out? Have you stopped shagging?”

“You knew?” you mutter, your confusion only growing. As far as you’re aware neither of you had told anyone you were fucking. But it was never a rule, so you suppose Sirius telling James is probably quite likely.

“Everyone knows, you’re both bloody obvious. All smiley goo-goo eyes when the other isn't looking.” you can imagine yourself like that, sure, but Sirius? Never. Not over you anyway.

“Then, yes, we’ve stopped sleeping together.”

James lights up then, triumphant.

“I knew something was wrong with him, he’s been moping around for weeks. Weeks!” James rambles on, his words so fast you struggle to take them in. “I knew it had something to do with you too since he’d stopped mooning over you. I thought you might’ve just rejected him and it was taking a while to get over all the pining, this makes more sense.”

You’re stunned to silence at that. What does he mean ‘all the pining’? It’s more the other way around surely. When you look back at James’ face he’s got a hand covering his mouth, and regret covering his face. He’s told you something he wasn't supposed to.

"James," you begin, your voice quieter than you'd intended, "What exactly are you talking about?"

James winces, looking incredibly sheepish, as if he realizes the weight of what he’s just let slip. He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze.

"Well… I didn’t mean to—shit. You didn’t know, did you?" he mutters, sounding almost guilty

You stare at him, trying to piece everything together. “Why didn’t he tell me?” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and your chest tightens uncomfortably.

“I don’t know, but he’s miserable, Y/N,” James says, his voice softer now, like he's trying to be delicate. “He tried to play it off, but I’ve never seen him this down. It’s not just because of the… whatever you want to call it between the two of you. It’s because he really liked you. And I think he thought it was more than just a casual thing.”

The words hang in the air like a cold draft. You swallow thickly, feeling suddenly dizzy. He can't be right. That's exactly why you had ended it, too scared of feeling something more than casual for him. Too scared knowing that he doesn’t want more, not with you. Or at least he didn't.

James freezes, the words hanging in the air for a long moment. His eyes widen slightly, and his mouth opens and closes like he's trying to figure out the best way to proceed. You can see the wheels turning in his mind, weighing his next words carefully.

“Maybe you should speak to Sirius, yeah?” He says softly, pulling you into a steady hug, hand sweeping across your back.

You nod, pulling away trying for a smile, landing on a grimace.

“I need to think for a bit, I’m gonna go home.”

You don’t remember getting home, not really. The rush of thoughts, the confusion, the words James said—they're all spinning in your head in a dizzying circle. You pace your room, your fingers tapping against your phone like you're trying to ward off the silence, but it only amplifies the questions in your mind.

The uncertainty, the back-and-forth, had always been there, but you’d convinced yourself that it was just... something casual. Nothing more. But what if you were wrong? What if everything you thought you knew about Sirius, about what you two had, was actually completely backwards?

You pick up your phone, stare at it for a moment, before unlocking the screen. Taking a breath, fingers hovering over his contact name. It’s late, but what else do you have to lose at this point?

You press the call button before you can talk yourself out of it, your heart hammering in your chest as the phone rings. You count the seconds, but when he picks up, it feels like the world tilts.

“Y/N?” Sirius’s voice is low, groggy, and it makes you pause for a second. “It’s late. What’s up?”

You hesitate, unsure of what exactly you're asking for, but all you know is that you need something. You need to see him.

“Can I come over?” you ask, the words falling out almost too quickly. “Please.”

There’s a long pause, and you hear a faint rustling on the other end of the line. “Uh… I don’t know,” he murmurs, clearly still trying to piece things together, just like you. “It’s late, Y/N. I don’t know what’s going on. What do you want?”

You swallow thickly, the uncertainty creeping back in. But you push it aside, determined. “I need to talk to you.”

He’s quiet for a moment longer. “Alright,” he finally says, voice softer now.

You don’t reply, just hang up and grab your coat, your mind racing faster than your feet as you rush to the door.

When you arrive at his flat, you don’t bother knocking—you simply open the door, your pulse pounding in your ears. He’s standing there, pacing, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. His hair’s messy, his shirt slightly wrinkled, but it's like seeing him in this state makes him look more human, more real.

He glances up when you step inside, his expression unreadable. His lips press together in a tight line, his eyes flicking to the floor for a moment before landing back on you.

“What are you doing here?” His voice cracks slightly. “I thought you didn’t want me—this.”

The question is simple, but it feels like he’s asking something deeper.

You take a step toward him, your throat dry, but your voice is steady. “I never said I didn’t want you, Sirius,” you reply, your words firm but quiet, like you’re testing them as much as you’re saying them.

His eyes widen, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features, and he opens his mouth to say something but pauses. The air between you crackles, charged with everything that hasn’t been said.

You swallow, your gaze flickering down to your hands before looking him in the eye again. “James said something this afternoon. And I need to know if it’s true.”

Sirius freezes, a hesitant breath escaping his lips as he shifts on his feet, his brow furrowed. “What did he say?” His voice is almost cautious, like he's afraid of what you might say next.

You take another step closer, your heart beating louder in your chest. “He said… he said you liked me. More than just… whatever it was between us.”

The silence that follows is thick, heavy. You can see the muscles in his jaw tighten, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to process your words. His fingers twitch slightly, but he doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t move at all, except for the way his chest rises and falls with each breath.

“I don’t…” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to find the right words, but everything feels tangled. “Y/N, I—"

"You don’t have to say anything," you interrupt, your voice quieter this time, softer, even though your insides are a storm of confusion and uncertainty. "I just need to know. I need to know if it’s true."

Sirius looks at you for what feels like an eternity. His eyes are wide, and the way he shifts on his feet makes it clear he’s struggling to find the right words. You can see the conflict in him, the way his mind races through possibilities, each one more tangled than the last. And you can feel the same confusion mirrored in your own chest.

"I—" he starts, his voice rough, but he stops himself. The weight of the question seems to sit heavily between you, like a physical thing pressing on both of you.

“I’m not sure how to explain it," he says finally, the frustration evident in the motion. "It’s not like I set out to fall for you. I didn’t even want to, if I’m being honest.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a second, you don’t know how to react. You want to respond, but it feels like everything inside you is twisting.

Sirius continues, his voice softer now, as if he’s carefully choosing his words. "But I did.”

The honesty in his voice is raw, unexpected. It’s not what you thought you’d hear. And, for the first time in weeks, you feel the tight knot in your chest loosen just a little. Maybe you were wrong.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he admits, eyes flicking to the floor, then back up to meet yours. “I didn’t want to ruin everything we had… I thought if I said something, it’d mess it up. So I kept quiet.”

“You thought I didn’t want you?” The question feels almost ridiculous as it leaves your lips, but the confusion is still fresh. “I—I was scared too, Sirius. Scared of wanting more, scared of what it meant. I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I pushed it away. But… I thought it was just me.”

Sirius looks at you, something raw in his eyes, like he's waiting for permission. You see the hesitation in him, but you also see something else. Something familiar, something that makes you take the final step forward, closing the distance between you. Your hand finds his, and for the first time in weeks, it feels right.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice hoarse now, his thumb brushing against your hand. “That I made you think all I wanted from you was a fuck. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just… I didn’t know how to make it work.”

You shake your head, feeling the weight of it all finally begin to lift. “We’re both a bit of a mess, aren’t we?” you say, trying to lighten the moment, but your voice trembles just a little.

Sirius chuckles softly, the sound bringing some relief. “Yeah. Definitely.”

You both fall into a silence that isn’t uncomfortable, not really—it’s just… full. Full of everything unsaid, everything finally surfacing, finding its place between the two of you. His thumb keeps brushing over the back of your hand, soft, hesitant, like he still can’t quite believe you’re here. Like he’s afraid if he stops, you’ll vanish.

Your heart thuds loud in your chest, but something inside you is steadier now, like the ground beneath your feet isn’t shifting quite so much. You glance up at him—he’s watching you, eyes dark and unsure, but softer than you’ve seen them in a while.

You take a breath, then another. And then—quietly, almost like you’re afraid of scaring the moment away—you say it.

“Sirius?”

He hums in response, eyes locked on yours. There’s something nervous in the way he looks at you now. Like he knows something’s coming, but doesn’t dare hope for it.

You press your lips together, cheeks warming as your voice dips into something almost shy. “Do you… do you want to be my boyfriend?”

The words hang there between you, fragile and small.

Sirius blinks. Then blinks again. You watch as something shifts in his face—like whatever wall he’s been holding up finally cracks, just a little.

“Are you serious?” he asks, lips twitching like he’s trying to stop himself from smiling too fast, too much.

You nod, heart hammering in your chest. “I mean… yeah. If you want to be.”

And then—finally—he grins.

It’s a real grin, wide and crooked and full of disbelief, like he can’t quite wrap his head around what you’ve just said but doesn’t want to waste another second trying to overthink it.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, pulling you in before you can even blink. His arms wrap around you like they’ve been waiting to do that forever, holding you close. “Yes. Yes, I want to be. I thought you’d never ask.”

You laugh, a bit breathless, as you bury your face in his shoulder. “I almost didn’t.”

“Yeah, well, lucky for me you’re braver than you look,” he teases, but his voice is thick with relief, with something tender. “God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

Your hands are on his chest now, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your palms as he holds you there, forehead to forehead, like neither of you knows how to pull away. His grin is lopsided, all teeth and scruffy warmth, and you’re laughing, really laughing, the kind that bubbles up from your chest like champagne, unstoppable and a little giddy.

Sirius pulls back just a little to look at you properly, but he doesn’t let go. His hands stay right where they are—one at your waist, the other brushing along the curve of your jaw like he’s trying to memorize it. “God, you’re really here,” he murmurs, and there’s so much wonder in his voice it makes your breath catch.

“You’re really mine,” he adds, quieter.

That makes your cheeks burn in the best way, and you duck your head a little, suddenly shy under the weight of his gaze. “I’ve kind of always been yours,” you mumble.

That gets a full-blown, slightly shocked laugh out of him—deep and real—and before you can say another word, he tilts your face up and kisses you.

It’s warm and a little clumsy at first—like he can’t quite believe it’s happening, like he doesn’t know where to start—but then you’re kissing him back, and it clicks into place.

And when you both pull back, a little breathless and a lot smiley, his thumb still brushing lazy circles on your hip, you don’t let go of each other.

“You taste like toothpaste,” you whisper, nose wrinkling in amusement.

“Wow. Rude,” he says, grinning as he bumps his nose against yours. “I brush twice a day like a responsible adult.”

You giggle, the sound escaping before you can stop it, and he just stares at you for a second like he’s completely and totally ruined. “God, I’m so screwed, I always was,” he says with another laugh, and then he’s kissing you again—this time slower, gentler, like he’s savouring it.

And you let yourself melt into it, into him, your fingers curling into his shirt like maybe if you hold on tight enough, this will never end.

There’s laughter between kisses—stupid, breathless laughter when your noses bump or when Sirius makes a ridiculous sound at the back of his throat just to make you snort.

“You’re insufferable,” you murmur against his lips.

“You’re obsessed with me,” he counters, barely pulling away.

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “Maybe a little.”

“Good,” he says, pressing another kiss to your cheek, then your nose, then your lips again, like he can’t help himself. “Because I’m definitely obsessed with you.”

You kiss him again, just to shut him up. And he laughs into your mouth.

masterlist <3

1K notes · View notes

alinefrank · 30 days ago

Text

a/n: y'all really liked my short 'n sweet bots heheee enjoy!

˚ ༘♡ ⋆ James Potter

juno in which he's really good with kids

slim pickins in which he knows his grammar and how to please a person

˚ ༘♡ ⋆ Remus Lupin

please please please in which he's a rockstar who just got his pictures leaked

getting ready for Queen concert in which you two need to hurry the hell up! come on!

˚ ༘♡ ⋆ Sirius Black

drunk rambles in which Sirius is being Sirius

coincidence in which he's exasperatingly charming

my masterlist of bots (with the ones that are gone included)

my asks are open for repost requests!

27 notes · View notes

alinefrank · 30 days ago

Note

🚬

Heyy! Can I have a James Potter x reader "Because less than twenty feet away was Y/n. My Y/n. She's laughing. What was she laughing about? How could she sit there and laugh and look so beautiful?"

Either Bali or Morocco with a bit of Santorini pls? U can choose<3 Tysm

Bad Habit

navigation | main masterlist | rules

join my 500 celebration!

James Potter x photojournalist!reader

synopsis: She was just supposed to take the football games— not fall in love with a jock during a drunk game of 7 Minutes of Heaven. Now he’s questioning everything, including why he ever thought playing matchmaker with Sirius was a good idea.

wordcount: 3, 029

note: Prompt: "Because less than twenty feet away was Y/n. My Y/n. She's laughing. What was she laughing about? How could she sit there and laugh and look so beautiful?" + Morocco: the almost-kiss. fluff again! thanks for the request, i appreciated it (though, i must admit, i found it hard to think of a particular scene that would go well with the prompt) this is modern football player!james REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

It started like a lot of college friendship does— accidentally, inconveniently, and with far too much sweat involved.

You were one of the photojournalists of your university's student publication, and he was the James Potter— star athlete, Gryffindor's varsity football captain, and walking ray of sunshine. You were usually behind the lens, trying to capture the perfect shot of their games— the intensity, the movement, the dedication of every player in the field. But no matter how hard you tried, your shots always seemed to be hijacked by him, James, with his boyish grin, striking some ridiculous pose mid-game like he was in a photoshoot for Vogue.

At first, you didn't get it. Why the hell was he flirting with your camera?

And it's actually when Lily Evans, one of the newswriters, had come to join you at the Gryffindor's game— that you realized that he was just using you to get close to her.

Naturally, you gave him the cold shoulder. Sure, you and Lily were friends, but not to the extent that you knew everything about her. Hell, you didn't even know that he was her crush for years. So, it'd be creepy if you gave him any details about her life. And besides, you don't have time to play messenger for another desperate jock crushing on your friend.

But James, being James, took it as a challenge. Every game? Wink. Smile. Kissy face. Every water break? 'Hey, camera girl, getting my good side?' You tried ignoring him. Really did. But then he started bringing you snacks to your post-game editing sessions. He started sitting beside you on every bus ride. He always caught you in one of the cafes you frequented and treated you to an iced Spanish latte because he said, 'Photographers are always fueled by caffeine.'

The worst part? It worked.

Little by little, the annoyingly loud and arrogant jock turned out to be just... loud. And goofy. And surprisingly genuine. You caught glimpses of his big heart: the way he comforted his teammates after a lost game, the way he checked in on everyone after practice, and how he always made sure his friends were happy. You saw past the bravado and found something lovable in James Potter. And it sucked.

Because, of course, he was still madly in love with Lily. Even if he'd toned down the dramatic serenades and public declarations, he still got that look in his eyes when she walked by. So you buried your feelings, deep, deep down where they couldn't hurt you— or worse, embarrass you.

To make things worse, James got it in his head that you were into Sirius Black. You don't know how it started, maybe you and Sirius bantered a little too naturally after a bus ride home, or maybe James just wanted to believe it so badly. Whatever the reason, he took it as gospel.

"Oh, come on, Y/n. You and Sirius? Absolute perfection." He said with a stupid grin.

You rolled your eyes. "We don't have anything in common, James."

"Oh, you do! You both like... leather and sarcasm."

"Leather?" You repeated.

"Don't question the method, just trust the Cupid."

Sirius, of course, found it hilarious. The guy knew about your feelings accidentally when he found you staring too deeply while watching James and Lily interact. And when you told him about James's assumption, he grinned, shrugged, and just said, 'Well, I am devastatingly handsome,' and he also planned to just play it along just to shut James up.

Which brings us tonight.

Frank's house was packed— an absolute zoo of sweaty students celebrating Gryffindor's third win in a row. Tables were full of beer pong, someone was passed out on the stairs, and the air was thick with cigarettes and weed (thanks to Remus's magic stash). And James— James was distracted.

His friends were talking in the living room. Peter was gesturing animatedly at the couch, but James kept drifting his attention to the nearby kitchen, where you and Sirius were situated.

You were standing by the stereo with Sirius, laughing at something he'd said, one of his rings glinting under the lights as he casually draped an arm around your shoulders. You laughed again, head tilting back, and James choked on his beer.

"What are you looking at?" Remus asked, sipping from a red cup beside him.

"Nothing."

"You look constipated."

"I am not." James glared at him. "Do you reckon they're already together and they're not telling me?" He asked, eyes trained on you and Sirius again.

"Ah, I see." Remus hummed. "Wouldn't be surprised if they already are."

"She's laughing at his jokes."

"So?"

"I tell funny jokes, too."

"Mhm. Do you also tell them with your hands on her hips?"

James flushed. "We're friends."

"So are you and Wormy. But you don't let him cuddle you at parties."

Peter suddenly appeared beside the two of them with snacks. "Would if you asked."

James groaned.

A soft creeakk echoed through the room, despite the music blaring. And everyone turned to look at the random, ancient-looking broom closet emerging from seemingly nowhere.

Frank stood beside it proudly, eyes wide with mischief. "This is the momentum killer of the night!"

Marlene, already tipsy with a red solo cup in hand, a backwards hat on, and a pair of sunglasses, let out a cheer. "Seven Minutes in Heaven!" She screamed.

A chorus of gasps and drunken giggles escaped across the room.

"We spin the bottle, whoever lands it on goes in the closet for seven minutes! You can talk, kiss, declare your love, or hell— even shag, we don't care! We won't judge— well, maybe a little. Just be entertaining!"

Everyone clapped like seals, even Remus, who had already fallen sideways onto a bean bag.

Now, a giant circle was formed, where everyone wanted to participate. You and Sirius were curled up on one of the couches, situated directly across from James. You had been sipping someone's leftover whiskey cola— definitely not yours, but you had lost yours an hour ago. No one was sober. Not even Remus, who had been munching a suspicious brownie earlier.

You were already tipsy, cheeks warm, head dizzy, when the first spin landed on Remus and Mary. Everyone howled.

The two shuffled awkwardly into the tiny broom closet. Seven minutes later, they emerged looking disheveled— Mary's necklace was backwards, and Remus's neatly ironed clothes were wrinkled.

Second spin: Peter and Marlene.

You don't know what happened in there, but there was yelling, loud banging, and when they came out, Peter had no socks on, and Marlene was holding one of Peter's shoes like a weapon. No one asked what happened.

Third spin.

The bottle slowed.

It ticked past Frank.

Past Dorcas.

Past Sirius.

And then it stopped. Right between you and James.

"OOOHH!" Sirius hollered. "This is gonna be so good!"

James blinked. You blinked. The room? Roared.

"Go on, camera girl!" One of James's teammates clapped.

"Use protection!" Remus yelled before falling asleep on Sirius's shoulder.

Marlene shoved both of you inside the broom closet. "Try not to destroy the shelf in there. Or do. Your seven minutes start now." She winked before slamming the door shut.

You two were way too close. James took up more than half the tiny closet— he was tall, broad, and definitely not designed for this cramped space.

Both of you sat down after a few minutes, your knees touching, breath mingling in the closed air. The small bulb did its job on lighting up the space, though still dim, you could still make up the shape of his jaw, the wild hairs curling around his ears, and—

"You're staring," James said with a smirk.

"Really?" You tried playing it cool. "Surprised you could see me with those things." You shot back, pointing at James's foggy eyeglasses.

James chuckled, removing them and shoving them into his pockets. "Fair point. What are we even supposed to do here?"

"Try not to suffocate?" You smiled. "And not sit on each other's laps accidentally?"

"Too late for that," He mumbled, shifting slightly as his knees brushed against yours. "Okay, how about a game? Try to get each other more?"

"Classic stalling tactic." You teased, but smiled anyway. "Alright. What's your favorite color?"

"Red and gold."

"Called it. You're waaayy predictable, Potter."

James snickered. "Your turn. How about... what was your worst experience as a photojournalist?"

You groaned. "Took the best shots in my whole life. Chef's kiss. Only to realize later that my SD card was corrupted."

James winced. "Ouch. That's brutal."

"Tell me about it." You shrugged. "Okay— your favorite coach among everyone that has handled your team?"

He hummed, placing a hand on his chin. "That's a tough one. But... probably Coach Jason."

"Oh, really? The guy who made you run 30 laps at 6 AM?"

"He's tough, yeah. But I can tell he was genuine among everyone else. Made us better."

You nodded, impressed. "Alright, fair."

"How about... who's your favorite football player?"

"Number 3. Sirius Orion Black."

James let out a loud gasp, clutching his chest dramatically as if in mock betrayal. "Y/n! I was hurt! I was your first friend. I was the award-winning captain! I always bring you coffee and snacks when you're hungry!"

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth. "Okay, okay, relax! Fine, I was kidding. Of course, you're my number one favorite!"

"Promise?"

You nodded, sincere. "Yes, James. I promise."

A beat of silence.

James cleared his throat, "Okay... here's one: did you ever have a crush on any of the football players?"

You froze.

Your brain screamed at you to lie. Say no. Say someone else.

But maybe it was the alcohol consuming your veins. Or maybe it was this tight, hot space. Or maybe it was the way he was looking at you. Those damn hazel eyes.

So, you nodded. "Yeah... #7. James Fleamont Potter."

Silence.

Dead, awful silence.

James stared at you like you just smacked him with a ball. "You what—? Since... when?"

You tried to keep your voice light. "A couple of months ago. But it's fine. It's just a silly, happy crush."

James blinked. "Happy—?"

"You know, soft, small, not too serious." You replied quickly, trying to lie your way out of this awkward situation. "It's whatever. It's done." It isn't.

"Done?"

You nodded, smiling bitterly. "Yeah, I just saw how you were so deeply enamored by Lily, so I kind of... stopped. But, I really liked you before."

Done.

Liked.

Stopped.

The words rattled in James's brain like an echo.

He sat there, stunned, lips parted to say something, but didn't know how.

You snapped your fingers in front of his face. "Hello? Earth to Potter?"

Still nothing.

You shifted, trying to get comfortable. Your foot had gone numb from the cramped position. But as you adjusted, James also moved— just a fraction, really— and suddenly, you lost balance.

With a yelp, you tumbled forward. Right onto James.

Both of you froze.

Your faces were inches apart. Lips practically brushing. You could smell the faint beer on it, and see his stupidly handsome face up close.

He gulped.

His hands instinctively landed on your waist, holding you firmly. His eyes darted to your lips.

"Uh," You smiled awkwardly. "Hi?"

Then—

SLAM.

The closet door swung open.

"Time's up, lovers— WOAH!" Marlene shrieked.

Everyone turned to see... you... practically on top of James, his hands on your waist, faces a few centimeters apart from each other.

Someone wolf-whistled.

Remus clapped.

Peter yelled, “Knew it!"

You scrambled off James, flustered beyond reason, brushing your hair back as if it would erase the last seven minutes. James looked equally stunned, blinking like he’d forgotten how to function.

Sirius was grinning ear to ear. “So... was it hot in there, or was it just you two?”

You glared at him.

James looked at you.

You looked at James.

And for the first time since the night began, neither of you was pretending anymore.

"Did they kiss?"

"Was that a... straddle?"

"Why did Captain Potter look like he got hit by a football?"

You sighed, trying to ignore the whispers going around. But none of that mattered, though, because as soon as you sat beside Sirius, he nudged you while wiggling his eyebrows.

"Sooo... what happened in there, closet goblin?"

You sighed dramatically and leaned into him, head resting on his shoulder. "I confessed."

Sirius choked on his drink. "You what?!"

"But not like a cute confession," You stared at him, eyes widening. "Like... I-don't-know-why-I-said-that-I-blamed-the-alcohol-and-my-soul type of confession. I said I liked him. Past tense. And then I panicked and told him it was just a silly crush."

Sirius blinked. "Oh."

You nodded slowly. "...Yeah."

Then he blinked again. "...Oh?"

"Please say something coherent."

He grinned, "So you're telling me that you," He pointed at you. "Y/n Y/l/n, keeper of secrets, and hater of feelings, went inside a tiny closet, then came out confessing a crush... and then lied about moving on? A bit bold move, actually. Though I might say that was great."

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. "My heart is still pounding like I ran a bloody marathon. I literally fell on top of him. Our lips almost touched. And I'm pretty sure I saw God for 0.3 seconds when he looked at me like that."

"Like what?"

You looked at him and imitated James's face— doe eyes and a out, to which Sirius snorted.

"Oh, yeah, that's the Potter's dumbstruck in love face, alright."

You smacked his arm, and both of you started laughing.

Meanwhile, across the room, James Potter, star athlete, certified himbo, and former emotionally stable individual, was leaning against the wall while clutching a red solo cup filled with cold water.

Remus, red-faced from him and Mary's 7 Minutes of Heaven and from drunkenness, stood beside him. "You looked like you just walked out of a Greek tragedy."

James gulped his water. "She confessed."

Remus looked at him, dumbfounded. It's as if the alcohol went out of his body completely.

"...Like confessed confessed?"

James nodded dumbly, eyes still glued on you and Sirius laughing together.

Reemus peered in your direction. "And? What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong is— I'm confused!" James whispered-yelled, gesturing to himself and sloshing water on his shirt. "I thought I liked Lily!"

"Thought?" Remus raised an eyebrow.

James ignored him. "And now— now, she was laughing with Sirius like they're starring at a romcom, and I feel like someone should just punch me back to reality."

"I'll volunteer, but go on." Remus patted his shoulder.

"She said she liked me. Liked, Moony! Past bloody tense. And I'm just— why didn't she say anything earlier? I would've done something!"

"Would you?"

James stopped. He paused, pondering everything.

"...Yeah." He admitted sincerely. "Yeah, I would've. Because how couldn't you fall for her? During those times, we were just playing hide and seek in our own little world and calling it friendship. But it was her. It was always her. And now I feel like a bloody idiot because I told Pads to flirt with her just so I wouldn't fall harder!"

Remus gaped at him. "You told Padfoot to— oh, my, Merlin, you created your own love triangle. You're dumb as hell."

"I know!" James whispered-yelled again. "And now I am so, so mad!"

Remus's brow shot up. "And why is that?"

"Because less than ten feet away is Y/n. My Y/n. She's laughing. What was she laughing about? How could she sit there and laugh and look so beautiful?"

Remus's lips parted. "That was oddly poetic."

"I've evolved."

Remus sighed. "Now, listen. If you're just confused, then let it go. But if you actually want something, then ask her to start over. Do it properly. No closets. No Sirius interference. Just you and her."

James nodded, taking everything that Remus had said.

And then, without hesitation, he downed the rest of his water like vodka and muttered "showtime" under his breath before making a beeline to where you were.

"Can I steal you for a sec?"

You looked up, blinking rapidly. "What?"

"You know, just the two of us. T-to talk..." James scratched the back of his neck.

Sirius wiggled his eyebrows. "Oops. Say less." He gave James a playful salute before standing up from the couch.

You stared at James, absolutely embarrassed. "Is this about what I've said in the closet? Because I swear I was drunk and probably malfunctioning like my SD card—"

He shook his head, then offered you his hand again, like earlier. "Let's start over."

"What?"

"Let's start over," He repeated, kneeling in front of you so you two were at eye level. "Hi, I'm James Fleamont Potter. I'm an Aries, I like football, and I'm currently suffering from an existential crisis brought by a pretty photojournalist who just confessed that she used to like me. And I was wondering if she'd give me a shot to get to know her without pretending I'm into someone else."

You blinked. "You're not into Lily?"

"I thought I was. Turns out, I was just scared. Because you? You terrify the living shit out of me. And not in a bad way. You terrify me in a way that makes me want to be better, funnier, maybe even take those stupid foggy eyeglasses and stare at you properly. So. Start over?"

You smiled. "Alright. I'm Y/n. I like breaking the rules of every party game. I almost once committed arson trying to get a good shot. And I'm trying not to kiss the boy kneeling in front of me."

James's ears went beet red. "Then don't try."

You both stared at each other—heart pounding, breath uneven—and as your faces leaned in just an inch closer—

Marlene’s voice boomed across the room.

“IF YOU’RE GONNA KISS, DO IT IN THE CLOSET LIKE EVERYONE ELSE!!”

Everyone cackled.

James flipped her off, and you just giggled, cheeks burning, heart fluttering.

And then, finally, he kissed you. Right there on the couch.

And you were 100% sure it was better than any seven minutes in any stupid cabinet.

©kjhbsies

#art

385 notes · View notes

alinefrank · 1 month ago

Text

TWO OF A KIND

a parent trap inspired au

Summary: Who would have thought that sending your son to a summer camp would lead to an unexpected reunion with someone you had sworn you don’t want to see anymore?

Pairings: James Potter x reader

chapters:

chapter i

chapter ii

chapter iii

chapter iv

chapter v

chapter vi

chapter vii

chapter viii

chapter ix

chapter x

chapter xi

chapter xii

chapter xiii

in case u want to be tagged

2K notes · View notes

alinefrank · 1 month ago

Text

obviously blind

pairing: james potter x bsf!fem!reader

summary: for years, james potter thought he was chasing love. sirius black knew better — he’d been holding it all along.

warnings: fluff fluff fluff, friends to lovers, idiots in love, james calls reader love, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language

word count: 11.3k

a/n: it was probably the longest idea to write and edit. i rewrote every moment a bunch of times trying to bring it all to perfection. therefore, this time I hope more than ever that you will like it and you will support me with a like, comment or reblog. have a nice time reading this work! love u <3

ᯓ★ now playing…

slaves – footprints

You left your mark on me like footprints in the snow

Would you promise me you'll never let me go

November 15, 1971 My dear best friend, Hogwarts is brilliant! You should see the castle; it’s massive, with these moving staircases that sometimes take you to places you didn’t even mean to go! I tried to get to Charms class last week and ended up in the Trophy Room instead. Sirius says it’s part of the fun, and I’m starting to agree. Speaking of fun, I made a new friend! His name’s Sirius Black, and he’s a bit of a troublemaker like me. Don’t tell Mum, but we might’ve let some Filibuster’s Fireworks off in the Great Hall during lunch. The teachers were furious, but the look on their faces was worth it. How’s Beauxbatons? Is it true your castle is magical in a totally different way? Sirius said something about unicorns roaming the grounds. Is that real? Write me everything—I want to know what it’s like over there. Hope you’re having as much fun as I am. Forever yours, Jamie

SIRIUS BLACK WAS UTTERLY SPENT. Not the charming, rakish kind of spent he might brag about after a late night of mischief, but truly, completely, soul-drainingly done. The journey to the Potter family cottage, which should have been a brisk jaunt, had turned into a Herculean trial. Blame the snowstorm that had swept through magical London like some vengeful Norse curse, burying everything in its path under heaps of frosty misery.

It started with a delayed train — no, not delayed, imprisoned. Sirius and James were already aboard when the announcement came, trapping them in a stuffy carriage surrounded by loudly complaining wizards and at least one crying baby. And because the universe clearly found Sirius’ misery entertaining, the train came to a jolting halt halfway to their destination, snow packing the tracks so thickly that it took hours of magical clearing before they moved again.

When they finally arrived at the station, they discovered that Mr. Potter, their much-needed savior with a warm car and a better attitude than either of them, had been delayed at work. Thus, Sirius and James were left to trudge through the snow-laden countryside, dragging their trunks behind them, with James’ endless chatter about Lily Evans ringing in Sirius’ ears like a persistent curse.

“Her smile, Padfoot,” James had sighed dreamily at least seventeen times, his glasses fogging up as if even thinking about Lily caused them to malfunction. “And the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating—”

By the sixteenth sigh, Sirius had been sorely tempted to shove a fistful of snow into James’ face. By the seventeenth, he was mentally composing a list of Unforgivable Curses and ranking them by efficiency. Yet, even as he grumbled under his breath, Sirius couldn’t bring himself to abandon the trek. The Potters were the closest thing he had to a family, and spending Christmas anywhere else — no matter how dire the journey — was unthinkable.

When they finally reached the Potter home, Sirius didn’t so much step inside as collapse into it. He shoved the front door open with the dramatic flair of a man escaping death itself and sprawled across the polished wooden floor like a martyr for his own cause. His trunk fell beside him with a satisfying thud.

“Home at last,” he groaned, voice muffled against the rug. “Tell me, Prongs, do they serve last rites before cinnamon rolls, or do we skip straight to the feast?”

The cottage, of course, was as warm and welcoming as Sirius remembered. Strings of fairy lights twinkled across the beams, casting a cozy glow of red, gold, and green. A holly wreath hung crookedly on the wall — lil’James’ handiwork, no doubt — and the scent of pine mingled with the tantalizing aroma of cinnamon, butter, and something sweet. Sirius’ stomach growled audibly.

“Oi, shut it, you ungrateful mutt,” James shot back with a grin, though Sirius could see his friend’s eyes darting toward the kitchen. “You’re embarrassing us in front of the wreath.”

James hadn’t even set his trunk down before a figure appeared in the doorway.

At first, Sirius barely registered her presence. He was too busy muttering about the injustice of underage magic restrictions. But then — oh, then — she stepped fully into view.

A girl.

Not just any girl, but you.

You moved with a kind of quiet confidence that Sirius instantly clocked, your steps unhurried, your presence undeniable. The golden glow of the fairy lights danced across your hair, giving it a shimmer that seemed almost unreal. You were wrapped in a deep blue jumper — Sirius realized this after a moment’s brain lag — and your cheeks were rosy, likely from the heat of the kitchen.

You carried a tray of steaming cinnamon rolls, the scent of melted sugar and spice trailing after you like some kind of domestic enchantment. Sirius’ mouth went dry, and for the first time in years, he was at a loss for words.

“Well,” he managed after a beat, hauling himself upright and trying for a semblance of decorum. “Now I see why you were so keen to come home, Prongs. You’ve got cinnamon-roll-bearing angels dropping out of the sky.”

You laughed, soft and melodic, the sound so unguarded it seemed to wrap the room in warmth. Sirius couldn’t help but notice the way your lips curled into a smile that was equal parts inviting and mysterious.

“Hello to you too, Sirius,” you said, your voice carrying a familiarity that made his ears perk up.

Sirius blinked. Wait. Of course. This wasn’t some celestial being summoned to his rescue; this was James’ childhood best friend. The one James had vaguely mentioned — just a handful of times over the years, always in passing and with a strange softness that Sirius hadn’t thought to question before.

And yet, here you were. In the flesh. Standing in the middle of the Potters’ living room with a tray of baked goods and a smile that Sirius suspected had the power to stop traffic.

“Well, well, Jamie-boy,” Sirius drawled, nudging James with his elbow and watching his friend with amused curiosity. “You never told me the famous cinnamon-roll angel was also — what’s the word? Ah, yes — real.”

You raised an eyebrow at Sirius’ antics, though your smile didn’t falter. Instead, you glanced toward James, who looked like he’d been hit with a Confundus Charm.

Sirius smirked. “James, mate, you alright? You’ve gone all... slack-jawed.”

But James wasn’t paying him any attention. His hazel eyes were locked on you, wide and brimming with something Sirius couldn’t quite place. He watched as James' gaze traced over the streak of flour smudged on your cheek, the stray strands of hair escaping from your ponytail, and the red apron dusted with flour and cinnamon.

Sirius almost snorted aloud. This was the James Potter who couldn’t shut up about Lily Evans — the boy who spent half his waking hours plotting ways to win her over. And yet, here he was, staring at you like you’d just descended from the heavens.

“Jamie,” you said softly, setting the tray down on the nearby table.

It was just one word, but the way you said it — warm, tender, and utterly unguarded — sent a jolt through Sirius.

Before he could process what was happening, James crossed the room in a few long strides and swept you into his arms. You squealed in surprise, and the sound was pure delight, echoing off the walls.

Sirius blinked, startled. The way James held you — hands firm on your waist, his head dipping into the crook of your neck — wasn’t friendly, not by a long shot. Sirius had known James since he was eleven years old, had seen him charm and flirt with half of Hogwarts, but he had never seen this.

“Missed me, Jamie?” you teased, your fingers slipping into his unruly hair with the kind of ease that spoke of years of familiarity.

“Always,” James murmured, so quietly Sirius barely caught it.

“Bloody hell,” Sirius muttered under his breath.

He glanced around the room, half-expecting someone to explain this baffling scene, but it was just him, James, and you, wrapped up in some intimate little bubble that made Sirius feel like an intruder.

James murmured something into your shoulder — too soft for Sirius to catch — and you laughed, your voice light and unrestrained. The sound pulled James’ head up, and Sirius couldn’t miss the way his eyes traced your face with a kind of devotion Sirius had only read about in sappy romance novels.

It was then that the memories began to click into place. The scattered mentions over the years, the odd tone James always took when he talked about you. “She’s not like anyone else, Padfoot. She just gets it.” Or that one summer when James had come back to Hogwarts looking utterly miserable and wouldn’t explain why. Sirius had teased him about it for weeks, thinking it was Lily-related. But now, seeing the way James looked at you...

“Wait a minute,” Sirius blurted, his grin widening as realization dawned. “You’re the one. The one he’s always sneaking off to write letters to, the one he’s all secretive about.”

James shot him a glare, his cheeks burning bright red.

“Padfoot—”

“—the one who sent him that hideous scarf last Christmas!” Sirius continued, thoroughly enjoying himself now. “I knew there had to be someone. Prongs doesn’t just get that moony-eyed look over just anyone.”

You laughed again, covering your face with your hands, while James muttered something about strangling Sirius later.

Before Sirius could needle him further, the kitchen door creaked open, and Euphemia Potter swept into the room. She was radiant as always, her cheeks rosy from the cold, her dark hair streaked with silver. Her eyes lit up the moment she saw James.

“There’s my boy!” she exclaimed, pulling him into a tight hug before he could even attempt to protest.

“Hi, Mum,” James mumbled, his voice muffled against her shoulder.

Euphemia pulled back, cupping his face in her hands as though memorizing every detail. “It’s been too long, Jamie. Too long. You’re far too skinny — have you been eating properly at school? And what have you done with your hair?”

James groaned, though his smile was fond.

Then her eyes fell on Sirius, and the warmth in her expression grew tenfold.

“Sirius, my dear,” she said, moving toward him with open arms. “I’m so glad you’re home, too.”

Sirius froze for a moment, caught off guard. He wasn’t used to this — the genuine affection, the way Euphemia made him feel like he belonged.

When her arms wrapped around him, the embrace firm and filled with love, Sirius felt an odd lump form in his throat. He couldn’t help but think of his own mother’s cold, perfunctory hugs, her disdainful gaze, and the way her affection always felt like a transaction.

“You’ve grown even handsomer,” Euphemia said, pulling back to study him. “Fleamont’s going to be jealous.”

Sirius managed a crooked grin, the lump in his throat still stubbornly there. “That’s the goal, Mrs. Potter. Keep him on his toes.”

Euphemia laughed, her eyes twinkling, before cupping his cheek briefly. “You’re family now, Sirius. Never forget that.”

Satisfied, Euphemia turned her attention to you. Her face softened even more, and she reached out to squeeze your hands. “Oh, there you are, dear. I was wondering where my helper had gone. The mince pies won’t bake themselves, you know”

You shot James a quick, playful glance before following Euphemia toward the door. “I’ll be back in a bit,” you said, your smile lingering.

As Mrs. Potter ushered you toward the door to finish the pies, Sirius remained rooted to the spot. The warmth from her hug lingered, and for a fleeting moment, he thought of how lucky James was to have parents like that — and how lucky he was to have stumbled into their lives.

James watched you leave, his gaze following you until you were out of sight. Sirius couldn’t help but laugh.

“Mate,” he said, clapping James on the shoulder. “You’re a goner.”

James huffed, shoving him away, but the goofy grin on his face was impossible to hide.

And Sirius? Sirius couldn’t wait to see how this played out.

July 2, 1973 My Love, Summer’s only just started, and I can’t wait to see you. Mum’s already planning another one of her “legendary” tea parties, which means she’ll fuss over you endlessly. You’ll smile politely and charm her like always, and she’ll end up spoiling you with biscuits to take back to Beauxbatons. I’ve got so much to tell you. Sirius and I found this secret passageway that leads straight to Hogsmeade. We’ve been practicing spells to make it even harder for Filch to find us. Remus is shaking his head, but I think he secretly loves our schemes. Oh, and Lily—she’s still brilliant. She’s got the most incredible laugh. But you, my love, I bet your laugh would still outshine hers any day.

Do you still walk in those Beauxbatons gardens at sunset? I can imagine you there, glowing in the soft light. It suits you. Write me back quickly, won’t you? The days are always better when I hear from you. Forever yours, Jamie

SIRIUS BLACK HAD ALWAYS KNOWN JAMES POTTER WAS A TACTILE PERSON. James spoke fluently in the language of touch — claps on the back that lingered just a second too long, overly enthusiastic shoulder bumps that almost knocked you off your feet, and the occasional arm slung around your shoulders like he was staking a claim. But this? This was something else entirely.

It wasn’t just the way James touched you. It was the way he seemed to orbit you, like some lovesick moon drawn to its planet. Wherever you were, James was never far behind — hovering, grinning, completely and utterly besotted without even realizing it. And for someone so allegedly brilliant, he was astoundingly stupid about it.

Sirius noticed it within minutes of their arrival at the Potter cottage for the holidays. As the snow settled outside, so did James — right beside you, always beside you. If you were arranging the flowers Euphemia had insisted on, James was there offering suggestions like he’d suddenly become an expert on floral arrangements. If you were curled up in the drawing room with a book, James was sprawled across the nearest sofa, pretending to read but actually just watching you out of the corner of his eye like some hopeless romantic idiot in a badly written Muggle novel.

Sirius had been rolling his eyes so much, they were practically stuck in the back of his head.

THE SECOND MORNING WAS WHEN THINGS REALLY CLICKED. Sirius had woken up earlier than usual — a rare and uncomfortable event for him. He had no plans to do anything productive, of course, but the faint sound of footsteps in the hallway intrigued him. Padding out of his room, he peeked around the corner just in time to see James sneaking toward the kitchen.

Naturally, Sirius followed. He found James standing at the counter, sleeves rolled up like some kind of domestic god, arranging breakfast with the precision of someone preparing an offering to Merlin himself. There was a plate of toast with cream cheese and thinly sliced avocado, a bowl of berries that looked like they’d been picked by woodland elves, and a steaming cup of coffee. The smell alone was enough to make Sirius reconsider his usual disdain for mornings.

“Fancy,” Sirius said, leaning lazily against the doorframe, voice still scratchy from sleep.

James jumped slightly but recovered quickly, flashing Sirius a sheepish grin. “Morning, Pads. Coffee’s on the counter.”

Sirius eyed the tray suspiciously. “Is this for you, or is it for your favorite person in the world aka me?”

James’s ears turned pink. “It’s for her,” he admitted, almost bashfully, like he hadn’t just spent ten minutes crafting the most meticulous breakfast Sirius had ever seen.

“Of course it is,” Sirius muttered with a smirk, grabbing a mug for himself. “You realize this is bordering on embarrassing, yeah?”

James shot him a look, but before he could respond, you appeared in the doorway, still looking half-asleep. Your hair was mussed, and the oversized jumper you’d borrowed from James was slipping off one shoulder, but you somehow managed to look effortlessly radiant. Sirius rolled his eyes again.

“Morning, love,” James said, his voice soft and warm in a way Sirius had never heard before.

“Morning, Jamie,” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep as you shuffled into the kitchen.

James practically tripped over himself to hand you the coffee. Sirius watched, amused, as James’s fingers brushed yours in the exchange, his entire face lighting up like someone had cast Lumos Maxima directly on it.

You took a long sip of the coffee, humming in contentment. “Perfect, as always,” you murmured, looking up at James with a sleepy smile that could have melted a Dementor.

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

Sirius nearly choked on his coffee. He wasn’t sure what was more painful — the nauseating sweetness of the moment or the fact that neither of you seemed to realize how completely ridiculous you were.

“Right, well, I’ll just... leave you two to it,” Sirius said, waving his mug in mock surrender as he backed out of the room. “Try not to get married while I’m gone.”

“Shut up, Sirius,” James called after him, but the way his voice wavered slightly betrayed his embarrassment.

By the time Sirius reached the living room, Euphemia and Fleamont were already seated by the fireplace, exchanging knowing glances like they’d seen this coming a mile away.

“Is he making her breakfast again?” Euphemia asked with a smile that was far too pleased for Sirius’s liking.

“Every detail,” Sirius confirmed, sinking into an armchair. “I’m starting to think he’s auditioning for Witch Weekly’s ‘Most Devoted Boyfriend’ feature.”

“Don’t tease him too much,” Euphemia said with a chuckle. “He’s just like his father was with me.”

“Merlin, it’s contagious,” Sirius groaned, dramatically throwing an arm over his face. “If I start acting like that, someone put me out of my misery.”

But even as he joked, Sirius couldn’t help but smile. Because for all his teasing, it was obvious to anyone with eyes that James was hopelessly gone for you. And judging by the way you looked at him, Sirius had a feeling the feeling was mutual — even if neither of you was bright enough to figure it out.

AND THEN THERE WERE THE SMALL, INTIMATE TOUCHES SIRIUS COULDN’T IGNORE, no matter how much he wanted to. James’s hand resting on the small of your back as he guided you through a doorway, like you might somehow lose your way without him. The way his fingers traced lazy patterns on your knee under the dinner table, as though the contact grounded him. Or how he’d tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering just long enough to make Sirius roll his eyes and fight back a gag.

It was maddening to watch, really. Not because Sirius minded the affection — no, James deserved a bit of softness in his life, and you were undeniably good for him. It was maddening because you were both so oblivious. James was a goner, sure, but you weren’t far behind. Every time you leaned into his touch, smiled up at him like he hung the stars, or called him Jamie in that soft, teasing tone, it was like watching two wizards tiptoe around a cauldron, waiting for it to explode.

One evening, as the three of you lounged in the living room, the dynamic was on full display. The Potters had insisted on a family movie night — Euphemia’s idea, of course, because family time was important. Sirius couldn’t say no to the fire roaring in the hearth, the massive bowl of popcorn, and the ridiculous Muggle Christmas film flickering on the screen. But as the minutes passed, he started to regret not escaping upstairs.

James had situated himself squarely in the middle of the sofa, with you tucked neatly under his arm. His hand played absently with the ends of your hair, fingers twisting the strands like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. You had your legs curled beneath you, leaning into him with the kind of comfort Sirius had only ever seen in old couples who had been together for decades. James pressed a kiss to your temple, murmuring something Sirius couldn’t quite catch.

It was unbearable.

“Oi, lovebirds,” Sirius interrupted, launching a piece of popcorn at James. It hit him square in the forehead, a small but satisfying victory. “Some of us are trying to watch the movie without choking on all this sap.”

You burst into laughter, sitting up just enough to toss a handful of popcorn back at him. “You’re just jealous, Black.”

“Jealous? Me?” Sirius placed a hand over his chest, mock-offended. “Of what, exactly? Watching James Potter transform into a human puddle before my very eyes? No thanks. I’ll pass.”

James didn’t even flinch. He just grinned, looking every bit the lovesick fool he was. “You’ll get it one day, Pads,” he said with infuriating calm.

Sirius snorted, grabbing a handful of popcorn and tossing it into his mouth. “Right. Because what I’m really missing in my life is the chance to turn into that.” He gestured at the two of you with a dramatic wave of his hand.

But despite his teasing, Sirius couldn’t ignore the warmth spreading in his chest as he watched the scene unfold. James, the arrogant, Quidditch-obsessed, devil-may-care prankster he’d known all his life, was utterly, completely, hopelessly in love. And the worst — or perhaps best — part? He didn’t even seem to realize it.

BY THE END OF THESE COUPLE OF DAYS VACK AT THE POTTER COTTAGE, SIRIUS KNEW. James Potter wasn’t in love with Lily Evans — not really, not anymore and maybe not ever. He was in love with you. It wasn’t in the dramatic declarations Sirius had once teased James about making to Lily. No, this was quieter, deeper. It was in the way James’s gaze softened whenever you spoke, like he couldn’t believe you were real. In the way his hand always seemed to find yours, even when there was no need for it. And in the way his entire being lit up when you smiled at him.

And you? You weren’t much better. You laughed at his terrible jokes, poked fun at him with an ease Sirius envied, and looked at James like he was the center of the universe. It was so obvious it made Sirius want to scream.

“This isn’t normal, you know,” Sirius said later that night, cornering James in the kitchen as he made tea.

“What’s not normal?” James asked, far too casually for Sirius’s liking.

“You and her. You’re not just friends. Stop pretending you are.”

James frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. “We are just friends. She’s my best mate, Pads. You know that.”

Sirius laughed, loud and sharp, shaking his head. “Oh, Prongsie. You’re an idiot.”

“Am not,” James shot back, but there was a flicker of doubt in his voice.

Sirius leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. “If you’re just friends, then I’m a unicorn. Face it, Potter — you’re in love.”

James opened his mouth, probably to argue, but then you walked into the room, yawning and looking for all the world like you belonged there. James’s expression softened immediately, his gaze lingering on you like you were the only thing that mattered.

Sirius didn’t say another word. He didn’t need to.

Because James Potter was already lost, and for once, Sirius didn’t mind watching his best mate fall.

March 30, 1975

My Love, It’s been ages since your last letter, and I miss you like mad. Exams are coming up, and I’m hopeless at concentrating without your words to keep me sane. The Marauders are in full swing, though—our latest adventure involved sneaking a swamp into one of the corridors. Filch is still grumbling about it. I told you before how Lily has the most beautiful laugh, right? Well, I think she might finally be warming up to me. I’m playing it cool, but honestly, every time she looks at me, I feel like a kid with a new broomstick. And yet... you’re still the one I write to when I want to share everything. Funny, isn’t it? How’s the ballet going? I remember you mentioned your school recital. I wish I could see you dance. You’d be like a dream on stage, graceful and bright. Maybe one day. Forever yours, Jamie

SIRIUS BLACK WASN’T ONE TO BELIEVE IN LOVE — not the kind spun into poetry or whispered in secret corners of libraries. Sweet words, fleeting touches, long glances… all of it sounded like an elaborate prank. A fantasy created by people who hadn’t tasted the bitterness of the world.

How could anyone believe in love when raised in a house where affection was a weapon and the family motto might as well have been stab first, smile later? The Black family had given Sirius many things: wealth, privilege, and a last name dripping in infamy. But love? That was a foreign concept, spoken in a dialect he’d never been taught.

And yet, Sirius Black — child of darkness and rebellion — had found light. That light had a name: James Potter. From the moment James had barreled into Sirius’s life, grinning like the sun itself, everything had shifted. James had yanked him out of the shadows and dragged him into a world Sirius didn’t know existed — a world filled with warmth, laughter, and actual hugs.

It wasn’t just James, though. It was the whole bloody Potter family. Euphemia and Fleamont were like characters out of a Muggle holiday film. Euphemia, with her soft, unrelenting affection, had made it her personal mission to drown Sirius in love and sweaters. Fleamont’s laughter could fill a room, a deep, belly-shaking sound that warmed Sirius from the inside out. Together, they moved through the world as though their love was an unshakable force, a steady undercurrent in every shared look and word.

“Darling,” Fleamont would call from across the kitchen, leaning over the counter with a newspaper in hand.

“Yes, Fleamont?” Euphemia would reply, her smile soft and teasing as she stirred whatever heavenly dish she was making.

Never by name. Always darling.

Still, if love like that was rare, James bloody Potter seemed hell-bent on stumbling into it without even realizing.

James and you had been dancing around each other for years, so oblivious it was borderline painful. Sirius sometimes wondered if you two were practicing for a comedy sketch, the way you acted like best mates while exuding the kind of tension that could make a Dementor blush. If Sirius had a Galleon for every time James looked at you like you were the only person in the room, he could have bought his own Quidditch team by now. And he's only been watching you for a couple of days.

IT WAS THE FOURT DAY OF HIS CHRISTMAS STAY AT THE POTTER HOME, and the dynamic was impossible to ignore. You and James were practically inseparable, moving through the house like two planets caught in the same orbit. You helped Euphemia with the decorations while James carried boxes of ornaments up from the cellar, always hovering nearby like he was afraid you might vanish if he looked away.

“You know,” Sirius said, leaning casually against the doorway, “most people don’t need to supervise someone hanging tinsel.”

James didn’t even glance back. “She’s not most people, Pads.”

Sirius groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “For Merlin’s sake, just marry her already.”

James froze, an ornament dangling from his hand. “What are you on about? We’re just friends.”

“Sure, and I’m a Muggle,” Sirius shot back, rolling his eyes.

You, blissfully unaware of the conversation, turned from where you were perched on a stepstool. “What are you two arguing about now?”

“Nothing,” James said quickly, his cheeks tinged pink. “Sirius is just being Sirius.”

“That’s never good,” you teased, smirking at Sirius.

“Oi! I’ll have you know I’m delightful company.” Sirius crossed his arms, feigning offense. “But if you’re not careful, pretty, you’ll end up trapped in Potter’s web of undying devotion.”

You raised an eyebrow, stepping down from the stool. “Potter’s web of what now?”

James shot Sirius a warning glare, but Sirius just grinned. “Oh, nothing. Just that James here is—”

“Hungry!” James interrupted, loudly and awkwardly. “Right, Pads? Didn’t you say you were starving?”

Sirius barked a laugh, shaking his head as James practically shoved him out of the room. “Subtle as ever, Prongs.”

From Sirius’s vantage point, it was painfully obvious. James was hopelessly, stupidly in love with you. And you? You weren’t much better. The way you smiled at him, teased him, trusted him without question — it was all the evidence Sirius needed. And yet, you were both blissfully, idiotically unaware.

One evening, as Sirius sprawled on the sofa in the Potters’ living room, he couldn’t help but notice the way you and James interacted. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, rifling through a box of Christmas decorations Euphemia had set out.

“Jamie, hand me the gold bauble,” you said, tossing him a quick glance over your shoulder.

James, who had been half-heartedly untangling a string of lights, immediately perked up. “Which one?”

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. “The one in your hand, genius.”

James laughed, tossing it gently toward you. It missed entirely, landing with a soft thud on the carpet.

“Good aim, Prongs,” Sirius drawled from his spot on the couch. “Truly inspiring.”

“Shut it, Padfoot,” James shot back, but his grin never faltered. He turned to you, sheepish. “Sorry, love.”

Love. Sirius didn’t miss the way the word slipped out so naturally, like James had been saying it his whole life. And he definitely didn’t miss the way your cheeks flushed as you ducked your head, pretending to focus on the decorations.

LATER THAT EVENING, SIRIUS FOUND HIMSELF LAYING ON THE SOFA IN THE LIVING ROOM AGAIN (it probably was his favorite place in the house by now), a book abandoned on his chest as he watched Euphemia and Fleamont dancing in the kitchen once, a slow, swaying movement that didn’t match the upbeat Muggle music crackling from the wireless. Euphemia had rested her head on Fleamont’s chest, his arms wrapped around her like it was the only place in the world she belonged. It wasn’t dramatic or flashy — just simple and unshakable. And it made Sirius ache in ways he didn’t understand.

And a moment later they were in the same kitchen, preparing tea and laughing softly as they worked.

“Darling, pass me the sugar, would you?” Fleamont said, his voice warm and affectionate.

Euphemia handed him the sugar bowl without looking up, her smile soft. “Here you go, darlin'.”

It was the kind of exchange that Sirius might have mocked once. But now, as he watched the way Fleamont leaned in to kiss Euphemia’s cheek, or how she swatted him away with a laugh when he tried to sneak a biscuit, he felt something unfamiliar tugging at his chest.

“They’re sickeningly sweet, aren’t they?”

Sirius turned to see you standing in the doorway, a mug of hot chocolate in your hands.

“They are,” he admitted, sitting up and motioning for you to join him. “But it’s sort of... nice. In a vomit-inducing way.”

You laughed, settling beside him. “I think it’s lovely. They’re so in tune with each other, you know? Like they’ve been dancing to the same song for decades.”

Sirius tilted his head, watching you as you spoke. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you want that? The whole ‘dancing to the same song’ thing?”

You hesitated, your fingers tracing the rim of your mug. “I don’t know. I suppose it would be nice, but... I’m not sure it’s in the cards for me.”

Sirius frowned. “Why not?”

You shrugged, a wistful smile tugging at your lips. “Because my dance partner’s too busy tripping over his own feet to notice I’m right here.”

Sirius stared at you, his mind racing. Did you mean James? Surely you meant James. But before he could say anything, James walked in, ruffling his hair like he always did.

“Alright, what are you two plotting?”

“World domination,” Sirius replied without missing a beat. “Want in?”

James grinned, flopping onto the sofa and immediately throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Always.”

Sirius watched as you leaned into James, your head resting against his shoulder. James turned to look at you, his expression soft and unguarded.

And that’s when Sirius knew — again, because he seemed to be realizing this every ten minutes — just how much trouble you two were in.

DAYS LATER, SIRIUS WAS STANDING BY THE WINDOW OF THE POTTER COTTAGE, a steaming mug of hot chocolate warming his hands. The world outside was a vision of winter — snow blanketed the ground in pristine white, the trees bowed under its weight, and the air held a sharp, crystalline stillness. Inside, the house was alive with warmth: the crackle of the fire, the gentle hum of Euphemia’s humming, and Fleamont’s cheerful banter as he set up a chessboard by the hearth.

But Sirius wasn’t watching any of that. His attention was fixed on the two figures trudging down the snow-covered path just beyond the window.

You and James walked side by side, your mittened hands brushing against each other with the kind of unconscious familiarity that spoke volumes. The path ahead glittered in the weak afternoon sun, the frost catching the light like scattered diamonds. Clouds of breath curled into the frosty air as you laughed at something James said, the sound clear and bright, even from a distance.

Sirius couldn’t hear the words, but he didn’t need to. He saw everything in the way James turned his head toward you, his face lit with the sort of joy that was impossible to fake.

Then it happened — your foot slipped on a patch of hidden ice. Sirius’s grip on his mug tightened for half a heartbeat, but James was already there. His hand shot out, steadying you before you could fall, as if the world might crumble if he didn’t catch you in time.

“Careful there, love,” James said, his voice carrying easily through the crisp winter air.

You laughed, brushing snow from your coat as your cheeks turned pink — not just from the cold, Sirius was sure. “You’d think I’d have learned how to walk by now.”

James grinned, tugging you a little closer to his side. “Good thing you’ve got me.”

“Good thing indeed,” you replied, your eyes crinkling at the corners, your voice soft and full of affection.

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, James reached out to brush a stray snowflake from your hair. His fingers lingered for just a moment, his expression open and unguarded, filled with something so pure that Sirius had to look away for a second.

It wasn’t the first time Sirius had seen that look on James’s face. It was the same quiet, awestruck gaze he’d noticed a thousand times when James thought no one was watching. But seeing it now, against the backdrop of snow and laughter, it struck Sirius like a Bludger to the chest.

That’s how Fleamont looked at Euphemia, Sirius realized. He’d seen it that very morning, when Euphemia had walked into the kitchen with a sleepy smile and Fleamont had paused mid-sentence, his face lighting up as if she were the sunrise itself.

Sirius took a long sip of his hot chocolate, the sweetness of it sharp against the lump forming in his throat. He muttered to himself, a small smile tugging at his lips, “Never by name. Always love.”

“What are you smiling about, Sirius?” Euphemia’s voice broke the quiet, warm and curious. She stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

He turned, raising his mug in a mock toast. “Oh, nothing, Mrs. P. Just watching James make a right fool of himself in the snow. Again.”

Euphemia chuckled, stepping closer to peer out the window. Her gaze softened as she spotted you and James, now engaged in some sort of playful shoving match, James clearly letting you win.

“Hopeless,” Sirius added, shaking his head.

“Like father, like son,” Euphemia said with a knowing smile.

Sirius huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”

They stood in companionable silence for a moment, watching the scene outside. Sirius’s gaze lingered on James’s hand as it rested on your shoulder, the ease of the gesture speaking louder than words.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Sirius allowed himself to believe. Not just in the love he saw in James’s face or the easy affection between Fleamont and Euphemia. But in the idea that maybe—just maybe—love wasn’t the cruel, twisted thing his family had tried to make him believe.

Maybe love, real love, was something entirely different.

November 27, 1976

My Jamie, Winter has settled over Beauxbatons, and the mountains are kissed with snow. I wish you could see how the frost sparkles on the trees. I think of you often, imagining the mischief you’re up to at Hogwarts. I heard you’re Quidditch Captain now — congratulations! I can already picture you soaring through the air, the wind in your hair and that unstoppable grin. You were born to lead, Jamie, and I’m so proud of you. Your mum wrote me again last week. She’s sent another scarf, this one in Gryffindor colors. She says it’ll keep me close to you. It does, in a way — I wrap it around myself when I miss you most. Do you think of me as much as I think of you? You’re my constant, my warmth on the coldest days. Soon it’ll be Christmas, and we’ll have the stars and endless nights to talk about everything. Until then, stay safe, my Jamie. Forever yours, Love

THE CHRISTMAS CHAOS AT THE POTTER HOUSE STARTED BEFORE SIRIUS EVEN HAD A CHANCE TO GRUMBLE ABOUT THE HOUR. The sun wasn’t up yet, but Fleamont Potter most certainly was, barreling into James’s room with the energy of a man half his age. Before Sirius could properly complain — or hide under the covers — he and James were unceremoniously hauled to the garage. Their mission? Assembling the absurdly large Christmas table that Euphemia insisted on every year.

Sirius swore under his breath, wrestling with the oversized wooden monstrosity. “You know,” he grumbled, glaring at James, “if your parents had just gone for a nice, normal-sized table, we wouldn’t be out here freezing our—”

“Language, Sirius!” Fleamont interrupted cheerfully, though there was a definite glint of amusement in his eyes.

Sirius rolled his eyes but complied, though only because Euphemia’s kitchen smelled like heaven, and he was determined to earn his way to a plate of whatever was roasting in the oven.

Inside, the house was a picture of festive perfection: holly strung along the bannisters, twinkling fairy lights glowing softly in the corners, and a wireless by the fireplace playing carols just loud enough to make Sirius hum along when no one was listening. Euphemia’s soft laughter echoed from the kitchen, mingling with yours as the two of you prepared a feast fit for kings — or in this case, a house full of Marauders.

And James? Well, James wasn’t himself.

Sirius noticed it almost immediately. His best mate was usually a hurricane of enthusiasm during the holidays, cracking jokes, sneaking sweets from the kitchen, and generally making a nuisance of himself. But today, James kept glancing toward the kitchen like a puppy waiting for its owner to come home.

The idiot was besotted.

Every time your laughter drifted into the room, James’s head whipped around like he was under some sort of spell. If you so much as said his name, he’d stop mid-sentence, his eyes lighting up like the Christmas tree in the corner. Sirius would’ve teased him mercilessly if it weren’t so... obvious. Painfully, ridiculously obvious.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, WHEN JAMES AND FLEAMONT HAD VANISHED TO THE GARAGE — probably to charm something they had no business charming — Sirius found himself tasked with tidying up James’s room. He grumbled the whole time, of course. Cleaning wasn’t his style, and James’s room was a disaster zone: Quidditch magazines spilling off the desk, parchment crumpled in corners, and socks scattered in ways that defied the laws of physics.

“Honestly, Prongs,” Sirius muttered, holding up a suspiciously stiff sock with the tips of his fingers. “How are you supposed to woo Evans — or anyone, for that matter — when your room smells like the wrong end of a hippogriff?”

As he moved to clear a particularly cluttered shelf, a box caught his eye. It was tucked in the far corner, partially hidden behind an old textbook. Sirius raised an eyebrow. Anything stashed away like that was bound to be interesting. With a mischievous grin, he reached for it, only for the entire thing to tumble off the shelf, spilling its contents across the floor.

“Bloody hell,” he swore, crouching to pick up the mess. His hand froze mid-reach when he realized what had fallen out: letters. Dozens of them, bundled in ribbons of various colors.

Sirius sat back on his heels, eyeing the pile. His curiosity, as always, got the better of him. With a glance at the door to ensure James wasn’t about to barge in, he grabbed the nearest stack and plopped himself onto the bed, cross-legged and grinning like a kid about to open a box of Zonko’s best tricks.

The first letter he unfolded smelled faintly of vanilla. Your scent, Sirius realized, and his grin faltered for just a moment.

October 7, 1971 Beauxbatons is so different from Hogwarts. The professors here are so strict, James, sometimes it feels like I’m being watched all the time! I miss the feeling of freedom you must have at Hogwarts, even if you’re always getting into trouble with Sirius. Do you ever just wish you could escape the rules and run wild?

Sirius chuckled softly, his eyes scanning the elegant handwriting. “Trouble? Me? Never,” he muttered, his tone dripping with mock innocence.

But as he reread the letter, a strange tightness settled in his chest. The way you wrote about Hogwarts — it wasn’t just about the school. It was about James. Even miles away, you saw him as something larger than life, as the embodiment of freedom and adventure.

And James? The idiot probably thought you were just being polite.

February 21, 1971 Sirius sounds like a bit of a handful, but I bet he’s hilarious. I think I’d like him, even if he does cause chaos. You all sound like you’re constantly up to something, but I imagine you get into trouble a lot, don’t you? Anyway, I’d love to hear more about his pranks— I’m sure you and him must make a great team!

Sirius barked a laugh. “A handful? Pretty, you have no idea.”

Still, the words struck a chord. He could see it so clearly now: the way you’d woven yourself into James’s world with every playful question and teasing remark. You weren’t just curious about his adventures; you wanted to be a part of them, to understand the boy behind the Quidditch bravado and the wild schemes.

Then came the letters about Lily.

March 25, 1973 James, you always talk about Lily, and I think it’s sweet that you have such admiration for her. I bet she doesn’t even know how much you like her. She sounds like she’d be really hard to win over, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Just don’t forget to have fun along the way, yeah?

Sirius groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Merlin’s saggy pants, Prongs, how thick can you be?”

He could almost picture you writing those words, the careful balance between encouragement and self-sacrifice. Even as you pushed James toward Lily, your letters were saturated with love — pure, unguarded, and heartbreakingly unspoken.

It was infuriating. How could two people so obviously meant for each other be so oblivious?

By the time Sirius reached the later letters, the humor had drained from his face.

December 5, 1974 Your mum sent me another gift! She’s so sweet, and I can’t believe how kind she is to me. It always makes me feel so loved. You know, when I’m away from you, it’s like I’m missing something... like the best part of my day. I never want to take our friendship for granted.

The parchment crinkled slightly as Sirius’s grip tightened. That wasn’t just gratitude — it was devotion, raw and aching. The kind of love that didn’t need fireworks or grand declarations because it was already woven into every moment, every memory.

And James? Sirius shook his head, a pang of frustration mixing with pity. James had spent years chasing the idea of love, blind to the fact that he already had it.

The final letter undid him.

December 12, 1975 I was thinking about you today, and how you’ve always been there for me — whether it was listening to me complain about the Beauxbatons professors or laughing with me when I’m in a bad mood. You’re always there, and I think that’s why I trust you more than anyone else. You’ll never know how much that means to me, Jamie.

Sirius closed his eyes, letting the words sink in. You didn’t just see James; you knew him. The real James — the boy who laughed too loudly, who lived for Quidditch, who couldn’t resist a good prank. You loved James, not the idealized version he tried to be for Lily or anyone else.

Sirius exhaled sharply, folding the letter with a reverence he didn’t usually bother with. His heart ached — not for himself, but for you, for James, for the years you’d both spent dancing around the truth.

“Merlin, you’re both idiots,” he muttered, though his voice was softer now.

Sirius ran a hand through his dark hair, ruffling it further into disarray, his mind replaying what he’d just uncovered. The letters — those bloody letters — had been the key. Now everything fell into place: James’s barely-there smiles over the past few days, the way his gaze lingered when you entered the room, the softness in his laugh when you said something clever. James Potter, his brash, unrelenting, wildfire of a best friend, was utterly transformed around you.

Balanced. Grounded. Sincere.

It was unbearably obvious now, as if someone had pulled back the curtain.

And yet, the idiot still had Lily Evans’s picture on his bedside table in his dorm.

Sirius’s gaze fell on the stack of letters once more, neatly tied with a ribbons that seemed far too delicate for James’s usual chaos. He could have left it alone, let James figure things out in his own thick-headed way — but that wasn’t Sirius Black’s style. If there was one thing he’d learned from years of pranks, broken curfews, and bending the rules until they snapped, it was this: sometimes people needed a push, even if it stung a little.

Sirius exhaled and leaned back against the headboard, the letters still in hand. "You're a fucking idiot," he muttered under his breath.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. Oh, the look on James’s face when he confronted him — it would be priceless. Sirius wasn’t one for sentiment, but for you? For James? Maybe, just maybe, he’d make an exception.

The door creaked open, and James stumbled into the room, his steps heavy with exhaustion. Sirius watched as his best friend all but collapsed into the armchair by the bookcase, running a hand through his already-messy hair. He looked like he’d been wrestling dragons all day — or, more likely, his dad’s endless list of chores.

But there was something else, too. A tension in his jaw, a restless energy that practically vibrated off him. Sirius could see it plain as day: James hadn’t seen her all day, and it was driving him mad. She was so close — just a staircase or two away — and yet untouchable.

Sirius cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “So, Prongs, is this why you’ve been obsessing over the owl schedule for years? Didn’t peg you as the secret pen-pal type.”

James’s head snapped up, his hazel eyes narrowing in confusion. They darted to the bed, where the stack of letters lay exposed, and then to the shelf where the box had clearly been moved. He froze for a second before letting out a long, resigned sigh.

“Pads,” James said, his voice low and uneven, heavy with an edge Sirius rarely heard. “It’s not cool to read someone else’s letters.”

The room seemed to still, the words settling into the air like dust, soft but laden with weight. James’s eyes — those unmistakable hazel orbs that always held a spark of mischief — were guarded now, a flicker of something raw and unspoken behind them.

Sirius leaned forward, a grin stretching across his face like the blade of a knife, sharp and unapologetic. “Not cool,” he echoed, his voice laced with mockery, “is keeping this from me for six bloody years. Care to explain, or should I guess?”

James flinched, the tension in his shoulders visible even through the soft knit of his jumper. He moved toward the bed with the slow, deliberate steps of someone walking a tightrope, balancing the fragile threads of anger and restraint. The dim light of the room cast long shadows over his frame, making him seem taller, older — more vulnerable.

He reached for one of the letters, his hand hesitating for the briefest moment before his fingers curled around the parchment. His thumb brushed over the faded ink, tracing the loops of her handwriting like a blind man reading Braille. The edges of the letter were frayed, softened by years of touch, and as he lifted it to his face, Sirius caught the faintest smile tugging at James’s lips.

It was a small, private thing, that smile. Reverent. It wasn’t the boyish grin Sirius knew so well, the one James wielded like a weapon to charm or disarm. No, this was different — softer, as though the mere act of holding the letter in his hand brought James closer to something sacred.

Sirius felt his chest tighten. He’d seen James in every possible state — triumphant on the Quidditch pitch, livid after a prank gone wrong, devastated when the world seemed too heavy — but this? This was new. This was James Potter unguarded.

“She’s different, isn’t she?” Sirius said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle.

James didn’t look up. He sat on the edge of the bed, sorting the letters with a precision that bordered on ritual. Each movement was deliberate, his fingers careful not to smudge the ink or crease the paper. Sirius had never seen him handle anything with such care — not his broomstick, not his glasses, not even the Marauder’s Map.

“It’s not what you think,” James murmured, but the words lacked conviction, as though he knew they’d crumble under scrutiny.

Sirius scoffed, leaning back in his chair with an exasperated snort. “Not what I think? Mate, I think you’re in love with her and too much of an idiot to admit it. Am I wrong?”

James froze mid-motion, the ribbon he was tying slipping from his fingers. For a moment, he didn’t speak, didn’t move — just stared at the letters as if they might answer for him.

“She’s…” He trailed off, his voice barely audible. “She’s different, Pads. She’s… everything.”

There it was. The confession, raw and trembling in the space between them. Sirius leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his expression unusually serious.

“Yeah,” Sirius said softly. “She is. And that’s exactly why you’re a bloody idiot for pretending she’s not.”

James let out a bitter laugh, the sound low and fractured. He raked a hand through his already-messy hair, his movements frenetic, as though he were trying to shake off the weight of the moment.

“You don’t get it,” he said, his voice cracking under the strain. “It’s not that simple.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Sirius shot back, his tone sharp but not cruel. “I’ve watched you for years, Prongs. You talk about Evans like she’s some kind of bloody trophy, but her? You look at her like she’s the air you breathe. Like without her, you’d suffocate. And you’re sitting here telling me it’s complicated?”

James’s laugh turned hollow, empty. “Lily’s… safe. She’s who I’m supposed to want. She’s not my bloody childhood best friend.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Sirius said nothing. Then, he barked out a laugh, loud and biting.

“Safe?” he repeated, incredulous. “Since when have you ever played it safe, James Potter? Love’s not supposed to be safe. It’s messy, terrifying, and completely bloody worth it. Or are you seriously telling me you’d rather be ‘safe’ than happy?”

James looked up at him then, and Sirius’s breath caught. His best friend’s hazel eyes, usually so full of fire and mischief, were red-rimmed and glistening with unshed tears.

“Do you think…” James’s voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “Do you think she feels the same?”

Sirius’s grin returned, slow and wolfish. “Mate, judging by these letters? She’s just as much of an idiot in love as you are.”

For a moment, James didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. And then, like a dam breaking, he laughed — a shaky, unsteady sound that grew louder, freer, until it filled the room.

“What do I do?” James asked, his voice raw and trembling with vulnerability.

Sirius stood, crossing the room to clap a hand on James’s shoulder. “You start by telling her everything. No more hiding. No more pretending. You owe her — and yourself — more than that.”

James nodded slowly, the faintest glimmer of determination flickering in his eyes. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Sirius said, smirking. “I’m always right.”

As James reached for the letters, carefully tucking them back into their box, Sirius watched him with a rare sense of pride. This wasn’t just James Potter, the fearless Quidditch captain, the prankster extraordinaire. This was James Potter, a boy on the cusp of something extraordinary.

And for once, Sirius Black wasn’t just causing chaos — he was helping someone find their way through it.

THE SNOW OUTSIDE FELL IN HEAVY, DELIBERATE FLAKES, BLANKETING THE WORLD IN A SOFT, UNBROKEN QUIET. Sirius stood on the second-floor landing of the Potter home, a mug of hot coffee cradled in his hands. The rich aroma mingled with the faint scent of pine and cinnamon wafting from the decorated tree below. The whole house seemed to hum with a kind of warmth that Sirius rarely allowed himself to imagine, let alone experience.

From his vantage point, he had a perfect view of the living room below. The fire in the hearth crackled gently, casting golden shadows across the walls. Mr. Potter sat on the sofa with an arm draped around Mrs. Potter, the two of them cocooned under a soft plaid blanket. A book rested on Fleamont’s lap as he read aloud, his voice low and steady. Euphemia’s head rested against his shoulder, her eyes half-closed in serene contentment. Every so often, she’d smile at something he read or reach up to adjust her husband’s glasses, her touch so light and familiar it made Sirius’s chest ache with longing — not jealousy, but something softer. A wistfulness for this kind of unshakable bond.

But his gaze didn’t linger on the Potters for long. It drifted to the corner of the room, where the Christmas tree’s twinkling lights bathed two figures in a kaleidoscope of warm colors. You and James sat on the floor amidst the chaos of torn wrapping paper and open boxes. The morning’s gifts had already been exchanged, but it seemed James had saved something special for last.

Even from here, Sirius could see the faint nervousness in his best friend’s posture. James wasn’t one to fidget, yet his hands moved restlessly, smoothing invisible creases on his trousers, brushing imaginary dust from the tree skirt. His eyes, though, were unwavering as they watched you. You were cross-legged on the fluffy white rug, your hair falling in soft waves over your shoulder as you picked idly at a ribbon. Sirius noticed how your gaze lingered on James, curious and full of quiet affection.

James leaned closer, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable lilt of mischief. “One of the owls was late,” he said, holding up a slightly weathered envelope. The parchment looked a little worse for wear, its edges crumpled as if it had been handled too often. “It dropped this off this morning… asked me to give it to the most beautiful girl in the world.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you reached for the envelope. “Still using that line, are you, Potter?”

“Can you blame me? It’s worked wonders so far.” His grin was cocky, but Sirius saw the faintest flicker of uncertainty in his eyes as he handed it over.

You rolled your eyes, but the way you bit your lip betrayed your own anticipation. Turning the envelope over in your hands, you ran your fingers along the black-inked scrawl of your name before carefully breaking the seal. Sirius leaned forward slightly, his coffee forgotten as he watched the scene unfold.

The moment the letter emerged, the air seemed to shift. Your eyes darted across the page, your expression softening with each word. Sirius could see the precise moment the meaning settled in — the way your lips parted in surprise, the way your shoulders tensed, then relaxed, as if letting the weight of something long unspoken sink in. James’s hand rested on your knee, his thumb moving in small, nervous circles.

“Love?” James’s voice was barely above a whisper, his usual bravado stripped away. He was watching you as though the world rested on your reaction, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around yours. “You’re awfully quiet. Should I be worried? Say something. Anything.”

You didn’t answer immediately. Your eyes stayed fixed on the page, even as a tear slipped down your cheek, catching the light like a tiny diamond. James froze, his face paling slightly.

“Hey, hey, no…” His voice cracked. “Don’t cry. If it’s rubbish, just say so and we can forget it. Burn it, even.” He laughed nervously, though it sounded forced. “I’ll… I’ll pretend it never happened.”

That’s when you looked up, meeting his gaze with eyes so full of emotion it made Sirius’s breath hitch even from across the room. You didn’t say anything. Instead, you reached out, cupping James’s face in your hands. He stilled under your touch, his wide-eyed surprise melting into something softer as you leaned in and pressed your lips to his.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss Sirius might have teased him about — not fiery or impulsive. It was quiet, deliberate, and full of a tenderness that made Sirius feel like an intruder, even though he couldn’t look away. James’s hands found your waist, pulling you closer as though you might slip away if he let go.

Sirius smiled to himself, feeling a rare swell of pride. James had always been the heart of their little group, the one who wore his feelings openly. And now, here he was, finding a kind of love that Sirius knew would anchor him forever.

A sharp click shattered the moment, and both of you turned your heads to find Sirius standing at the bottom of the stairs, a wide grin plastered across his face as he waved a freshly developed photo in the air.

“Perfect!” he announced, shaking the picture. “This one’s going in the family album. And when my godchildren ask how their parents got together, I’ll tell them Uncle Sirius orchestrated the whole thing.”

You laughed, leaning your forehead against James’s shoulder, while James groaned, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “You’re a menace, Pads,” he said, though his voice held no bite.

“A charming menace,” Sirius replied, retreating toward the couch where the elder Potters were watching the scene unfold with amused smiles.

“Everything alright, dear?” Euphemia asked, her eyes twinkling with affection as she glanced between you and James.

James nodded, his hand still firmly clasping yours. “Yeah, Mum. Everything’s perfect.”

Mrs. Potter’s smile widened, and she reached over to pat your hand. “Welcome to the family, my dear. Though, truth be told, you’ve always been part of it.”

“Thank you,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion.

THE REST OF THE DAY PASSED IN A GOLDEN HAZE OF LAUGHTER AND WARMTH. Euphemia roped you into helping her in the kitchen, insisting you learn the secret to her mulled wine. Sirius watched from the doorway, sipping his coffee and grinning as you tried to follow her directions, only for James to sneak in and steal a taste from the pot, earning himself a playful swat on the arm.

By evening, the fire burned low, and the snow outside had blanketed the world in an even deeper hush. Sirius sat in his favorite armchair, a blanket draped over his legs as he watched the scene before him. You and James were curled up together on the rug, a cozy tangle of limbs as you whispered to each other, your laughter soft and unguarded. The Potters sat nearby, sharing quiet conversation, their hands intertwined.

For a moment, Sirius closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the room and the sounds of contentment wash over him. He thought of his own childhood Christmases — cold, sterile affairs devoid of joy. And then he thought of this… the home James had built, not just for himself but for everyone he cared about. It was the kind of love Sirius had always believed was out of reach. Until now.

“Merry Christmas, Prongs,” he murmured, raising his empty mug in a toast to his best friend.

James glanced up, catching his eye. “Merry Christmas, Pads,” he replied, his grin soft but unmistakably James.

James had turned to you, his hand cradling your cheek as he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. You smiled up at him, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his arm.

"Merry Christmas, love," James murmured, his voice low and filled with a tenderness that made Sirius’s chest tighten.

"Merry Christmas, Jamie," you replied, resting your forehead against his.

Sirius chuckled, settling back into his chair, the warmth of the moment settling deep in his bones. The world outside might be cold and uncertain, but here, in this house, surrounded by love and laughter, everything felt exactly as it should be.

He thought about how James Potter had once given him the home and warmth he never had. And now, it seemed, Sirius Black had helped his best friend find his way home, too.

FROM THE ARCHIVE OF SIRIUS BLACK:

To my future, undoubtedly brilliant, devilishly handsome, and wildly talented nephews,

Listen up, you little rascals. You don’t know me yet, but let me make one thing very clear: I’m the reason you even exist. That’s right, your ridiculously perfect Uncle Sirius is the mastermind behind it all. Without my charm, wit, and expert meddling, your parents might still be doing the whole "will-they-won't-they" nonsense.

So, when you’re out there ruling the world, remember to thank yours truly. The coolest, suavest, and most humble uncle you'll ever have — Sirius Black. You're welcome.

December 25, 1976 My Love, It’s Christmas, and the house is quiet now, the soft hum of the tree lights the only sound. I’ve been sitting here for hours, staring at this parchment, trying to find words big enough for what I feel, but they don’t exist. Still, I need to try. Love, I see it now—what I’ve been too blind to see all along. I’ve always thought of myself as brave, fearless even. But when it came to you, I was a coward. I didn’t want to risk losing you. You, who have been the brightest part of my life since the moment we met. You, who’ve filled every corner of my world with warmth and light, even when we were miles apart. Every summer, when you stepped into my life again, it was like the sun breaking through a storm. You’d sit by the lake with that book you never quite finished because I was always distracting you. You’d laugh at my terrible jokes, your nose crinkling just so. And you’d hum when you thought no one was listening, always off-key but somehow more perfect than any melody I’ve ever heard. I thought I was looking for the kind of love my parents have — their unshakable bond, the way they look at each other like the world begins and ends with them. And all this time, it was right here, under my nose. You were under my nose. I think I was afraid, love. Afraid that if I let myself feel what’s always been there, I’d ruin us. That I’d lose the only person who’s ever truly known me, the only one who can look past the pranks, the bravado, and see me—the real me. But Sirius, being Sirius, knocked some sense into me. He said I’ve been acting like a fool, and for once, he’s right. Rereading our letters with him was like seeing my life laid out before me, and every line, every word pointed to you. Even when you were far away, you were my everything. The letters you sent were more than ink on parchment; they were lifelines. When Hogwarts felt too big, too chaotic, you were the quiet in the storm. When I felt lost, you reminded me who I am. Do you know how many times I reread your words, just to feel close to you? I kept your letters in my trunk, hidden from the others like a secret treasure. Because that’s what you’ve always been — my treasure. How could I have been so blind? How could I have wasted so much time thinking it was Lily I wanted when it’s always been you? I’ve spent so long chasing a dream when the real thing was right in front of me. I see it now, clearer than I’ve ever seen anything. You are my stars, my moon, my sun. You’re the laugh that makes everything brighter, the voice that feels like home.

I love you. I love the way your handwriting gets messier when you’re excited. I love the way you argue with me over the silliest things just to see me smile. I love the way you hum when you’re nervous and how you always know exactly what to say to pull me out of my worst days. I love you. I don’t know if you feel the same way, but I hope with everything in me that you do. And if you don’t, I’ll understand. Because having you in my life, even just as my friend, has been the greatest gift I could ever ask for. But if there’s even the smallest chance you might love me too, then I promise to spend the rest of my life proving I deserve you. Merry Christmas, my love. You’ve been my greatest gift every day since I met you. Forever yours, Jamie

thankx for reading <3

god, this is my biggest work and I was so afraid to publish it, cause it seems to me that no one reads such long fics (I myself adore long fics).

and if you've finished reading this, thank u and I love you so much! I hope you enjoyed every part of it and I will be very glad if you leave a comment, because it seems to me that I have left all of myself in this work!

you can always share your opinion in comments or my inbox. btw my requests are open so… make a wish :3

p.s. if you liked this work i’d really appreciate if you go and read more of my works in my masterlist and give it your opinion. i’m very proud of my latest work ‘muse’ and hope you’ll like it just as much as ‘obviously blind’

– your santi 🪐

masterlist

4K notes · View notes