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buckystevelove · 21 days ago

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in his arms - harry potter

concussions and interruptions au

summary: harry had been right when he told you not to go back home after graduation. but how could you not when your entire history laid there? wc: 4.2k+ cw: descriptions of violence, reader's abusive parents, hurt/comfort

Harry had been right when he told you not to go back.

But there was a side of you itching to. You couldn’t just ditch your entire life. Besides, where else would you go? It wasn’t an option in your mind to stay with the Potters until you found your own place to stay after graduating.

It was something you and Harry had debated the entire train ride from Hogwarts. His parents were expecting you to join them at Godric’s Hollow. But yours were awaiting you on the platform when you stepped off the train, and you knew then, you had to go home. If it wasn’t for the obligation you felt towards your parents, it was because of the pathetic attachment you had to your bedroom.

Eighteen years did that to a girl.

The Potters watched in horror as you stepped towards your parents, face void of any emotions, bowing your head down to them in submission as a greeting. Lily seriously debated walking up to you right then, but she remembered how her own husband had arrested your father mere months ago, and held herself back to avoid causing a scene. Of course, you had been correct in saying that your father would pay off a judge, his sentencing non-existent, criminal record clean. But you were an adult now; they couldn’t force you into a marriage you didn’t want to partake in.

You barely had the chance to step into your bedroom when you returned to the manor. Your bags had clattered on the floor as you fell forward, harshly pushed through the doorway of your parents’ home.

It was then that you knew you’d made a terrible mistake.

The ache in your knees was bruising, pain clambering up your legs as you spun around on the cool floor, just in time to see the dark material of a belt fly towards you. The leather whipped through the air, and you cried as it snapped against your cheek, the skin immediately reddening at the contact. A growl tore through the otherwise silent mansion as your father leaned down, hands forming fists around the fabric of your uniform, straightening up with so much power that your body was forced off the ground, and you scrambled to put your feet on the ground as he tugged you up.

“You think it’s funny telling your boyfriend’s parents what goes on in the privacy of my house!?” Your heart dropped, mouth going dry. He knew. How long had this anger been brewing within him, knowing you were dating his foe’s son? Knowing that Harry was the very reason you’d rebelled against him and his arrangements to make you a Nott?

He shook you, and your cheeks immediately grew wet from the tears rapidly falling from your eyes. A sob broke through your chest, and your father pushed you away, hands releasing their grip on your shirt so you stumbled onto the ground, hands flying out to catch you before the rest of you crashed into the cold marble floor.

“Answer me! You think it’s funny!?”

“No, I don’t!” You sobbed, not daring you look up at him. In that moment, you wondered where your mother was — if she would ever fulfil her role of protecting you. But she was just sat on the couch, arms folded across her chest as she stared at you. Mrs. Potter wouldn’t let this happen, you thought. And then, Mr. Potter would never do something like this.

But your parents would.

And when the assault was finally over, your father’s knuckles bruised and bleeding, – wand now abandoned on the floor after he got bored of using magic against you – he crouched down next to your trembling form, and muttered “Get yourself cleaned up. We’re having dinner with the Notts tonight.” For the first time since you’d stepped foot into the house, you heard your mother’s voice.

“I don’t want to see a single trace of a bruise on your skin by the time you’re ready.”

Thankful for the dismissal, you pushed yourself off the floor, hiccuping loudly as tears ran down your face, water mixing with blood across the surface of your skin. Your arms ached as you hauled your suitcase up the stairs, muscles too weak to lift it off the ground. You father watched you climb up his flight of stairs, admiring the result of his hard work. When you finally reached your bedroom, you slumped down on the floor, letting your repressed sobs turn into a full breakdown.

Your entire body shook as you forced yourself back up on your feet, dragging the chair from the front of your vanity and securing it underneath the handle of your bedroom door. You tested the handle, ensuring it wouldn’t open if someone tried it. Though the room was silent, it rattled with emotions; raw and vulnerable. You forced yourself to calm down as much as you could, sitting on your pillowy bed as you observed your abandoned room. No one had stepped foot here since you'd gone to Hogwarts.

Your eyes trailed across the comfortable surface of your bed, landing on a small, dusty teddy bear. You laughed breathlessly, reaching out for him. Teddy. He was the only thing to ever give you comfort all these years, and now, he would give you the final push to save yourself.

Gripping him tightly, you ran towards the bedroom door, where your suitcase lay, haphazardly thrown there. Your fingers trembled as they curled around its handle, and you shut your eyes, taking deep breaths in an attempt to stabilise your heart rate.

One more push.

The world around you spun as you pictured the Potter household in your mind, the familiar ‘Happy Place’ doormat saturated with colours in your mind as you disappeared from the room around you. You remembered the three handprints on the house’s front door, a big one on each side of a tiny handprint — Harry’s, when he had been a baby. Mr. Potter's hand was painted in red, Mrs. Potter's in yellow, and Harry's tiny hand was orange. He was a result of blatant love.

And suddenly, you were there. Your legs buckled under your weight, the suitcase barely taking the weight of your fall as you clattered onto the floor. You bit your bottom lip as you cried silently, relief flooding your body.

Standing slowly, you brought your hand up, looking at Teddy, squeezed so tightly in your grip that your knuckles had paled. You shook your head, lifting your suitcase up and taking a few steps away from the front door. It was just enough that you could see past the vast gardens behind the Potter’s house. Sighing, you pushed your suitcase over, and slumped down on it in a seated position.

There was no more energy for sentiments.

Tears continued to stream down your cheeks, your entire brain numb. The pain in your body was a mere ache; ever present, but nothing you hadn’t gotten used to in the past couple of hours. You shook — of course you did. You hugged Teddy close to your chest as you stared into the distance, unaware of the effect the trauma had on your body. Cool afternoon winds broke past you; the skirt you wore didn’t help with protecting you from the harsh environment. At least, harsh for someone in your condition.

You didn’t wonder what you would look like to a passerby. A schoolgirl sat on a suitcase, bruises on her legs and blood staining her creased, white button-up shirt. A schoolgirl who looked as though she had run away from home.

Fuck, Harry was right.

Stupid. You’re so stupid, your inner monologue scolded. All of this could have been avoided if you had just gone with him. Now, you would burden him. You would burden his family. His family who had been nothing but kind to you over the past year. His family, who treated you normally despite seeing past your perfectly curated façade.

You were sobbing again, shoulders shuddering with every unsteady sob that jolted your body forward. God, you were so tired. It hadn’t been enough that you’d been beaten until your body hurt from the inside, out. It hadn’t been enough that you had bled through your own clothes. It hadn’t been enough that you apparated halfway across the country until you deemed yourself safe. No, you just had to spend all your energy crying too.

The first call of your name fell on deaf ears.

The second call was louder, more desperate, and was accompanied by hurried footsteps towards you, a hand reaching out to touch you. You caught the movement from the corner of your eye and immediately flinched away, hands coming up to cover your face as a reflex.

Harry stopped in his ground.

His footsteps had been too loud, his hand too quick to move. He had scared you. He didn’t know what to do, watching you tightly shut your eyes, hiding away from the nightmarish imagery of your father’s memory. The involuntary picture of the way a spell had flown towards you, the bright orange colour leaving your father's wand screaming danger. So Harry mumbled your name quietly, and then again, taking careful steps towards you.

The garbage bag he was in charge of bringing outside was left abandoned on his own doorstep as he crouched next to you, easing your hands away from your face. “Sweetheart? Oh, my love.” All noises from you immediately subsided as you courageously glanced upwards, meeting his eyes through a wall of blurry tears. Harry witnessed the moment you recognised him, eyes widening slightly before your body went limp, eyes rolling back as you slumped forward, into his arms.

His heart rate began accelerating, and Harry swallowed thickly, an overwhelming sense of fear overtaking him.

“Mum!” Harry cried urgently, tears in his own eyes as he prayed that the gap in the front door would be enough to alert her. “Mum!” He repeated, voice breaking as he yelled for his mum. He felt his breathing go unsteady, and he barely heard the front door slam open, making way for not one, but two people to break through.

Lily and James Potter had never heard their son scream this way in their life.

“Oh my god.” Lily gasped in horror at the sight of you, going completely still. Thankfully, James was already easing you out of his son’s arms and cradling you close to his chest as he rushed you into the house, carefully placing you on the living room couch. Lily rushed over to her son, crying to himself as he reached for your fallen Teddy, holding it tight to his chest.

“Sweetheart, come on.” Lily urged, not knowing where to turn her focus. She glanced back at her son one last time before running into the house, telling her husband to take care of Harry as she immediately began checking you for injuries. She started with your worst injury: a long gash that ran from your collarbone down to your bicep. It had completely ruined your shirt, and Lily couldn’t imagine how much emotional pain you had been in not to notice it.

James entered the house carrying your suitcase in one hand, and holding Harry close to him with the other. He was holding back his own tears at the question Harry had asked him just thirty seconds ago, but he needed to stay strong for Harry. He needed to stay strong for you.

Dad, is she going to be okay?

James shuddered as he replayed the fear-induced sentence in his mind. He guided Harry to sit down on an armchair across from you in the living room, but Harry only lasted ten seconds before he was standing up and making his way over to you, sitting on the floor next to the couch so he could caress your hair helplessly, putting Teddy on his lap.

His mum was focused on treating your wounds, however big or small they may be. She lathered a soothing balm onto your bruises, and mumbled healing spells to the cut on your cheekbone until it disappeared. When Lily ran out of things to do next, she cupped your cheek with one hand and rubbed gentle circles on your skin with her thumb.

“You’re safe now,” She whispered, and Harry looked up at his mum, noticing the tears in her eyes. “No one’s going to hurt you. Not while I’m here.” And your boyfriend started sobbing just in time for his dad to return to the living room with a freshly brewed potion in one hand, the other carrying a see-through vial. Lily eased herself off the stool to sit next to her son on the floor, engulfing him in a tight hug.

“She’s going to be okay.” She reassured him, but that’s not why he’s crying this time. He’s just grateful that his favourite people in the world love each other, no matter how much you think you’re a burden to his parents. He’ll fix that. But Harry let himself be held, wiping his tears away as his dad took the spot on the empty stool, shuffling closer to you.

James pinched your chin between his index and thumb, dipping your mouth open. He passed the vial to his wife, who unscrewed it for him before returning it, and he tipped it between your parted lips. He held his breath while you swallowed — an automatic response — and he allowed himself to inhale deeply before repeating the movement with the second vial.

The draught of dreamless sleep eradicated any unpleasant thoughts from your mind.

It had you floating in a state of unconsciousness, limbs so heavy, and yet you felt so light. It allowed your body to rest for as long as it needed, shushing your brain from its irrational insecurities, brought on by conscious thought. The world around you moved at a slower pace than usual, and it seemed you weren't the only one who’s gone numb.

Harry barely moved from his spot next to you, the same rotation of worries consuming his cognition. His parents were worried about you, and by extension their son. The longer it took for you to heal, the more Harry would spiral. But they knew you’d be okay. At least, physically.

They kept Sirius away for as long as possible. Neither he or Remus had known what happened, and for as long as possible, James and Lily wanted to keep it that way. So they made excuses to avoid seeing their best friends. Not to keep you safe, but to keep Sirius safe. The trauma he had endured with his family had been so similar to yours, so soul crushing, that no matter how healed he was, doubts were beginning to form. They wanted to avoid the relapse of flashbacks and ptsd he had survived once before.

But the Potters seemed to forget about the rare case between Sirius and Remus. Both had exceptional senses, thanks to their alternate forms. It had only been two days after you’d shown up to the Potters’s doorstep that Sirius and Remus had passed by – only with the best intentions in mind. The couple never knew Lily and James to need so much privacy, so they were prepared to ignore the Potters’s sudden plea for it.

Once at the front door, Remus caught a whiff of something.

He sniffed loudly, trying to wrap his mind around the familiar scent. Sirius looked at his husband with a frown and instantly took his familiar form of a black shepherd. Sirius’s ears perked up, snout moving quickly as he circled the front door. He was instantly alert, barking once before taking his human shape once more. He didn’t communicate to his husband the aroma he had recognised, immediately pulling out his spare key from his pocket and welcoming himself into the Potter household.

For the first time in days, the house stirred for a reason unrelated to you. James Potter froze in the entryway of his own home, where he was caught with an array of Potions, but he didn't know how to tell his best friend to respectfully get out. Sirius ignored James’s presence, following the smell of blood into the living room, Remus right on his heels.

The world stopped spinning for a second as Sirius took in your unconscious figure, limp on the couch. His vision went blurry, and for the briefest moment, Sirius saw his face on your body before reality snapped back into place. His hands balled into fists at his side, and his voice almost came out betrayed when he asked in a low whisper “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Lily’s head snapped up at the sound of Sirius’s voice, taking in the scene before her. Sirius brushed off the comforting hand that Remus placed on his shoulder, taking long steps towards you. He knelt in front of you on the couch, and a hand came up to wrap around yours. “This shouldn’t have happened.” He said with a sense of finality, and his godson choked on air guiltily. Harry knew it shouldn’t have happened. And yet he hadn't tried hard enough to make you stay.

The bloodied uniform had been exchanged for a fresh pair of clothes, but a bandage peeked out from underneath your jumper, and Sirius couldn't begin to image what your injuries looked like underneath the layers of protection.

“What happened?”

“I went to take out the trash.” Harry began, his voice croaky. It was the first time he had spoken since asking his dad if you were going to be okay. If you were going to live. He whispered words of comfort to you at night, but nothing above a whisper. “And she was just sitting on her suitcase. Crying. And when she saw me, she just passed out.”

He sniffled, all emotions resurfacing as he coughed, trying not to sob.

The four adults in the room exchanged worried glances, but nothing was said for a long time. The same ritual occurred; Lily reapplying balm onto your bruises and changing your bandages, James feeding you the potions he had finished brewing with the finest ingredients, Harry caressing you, cheek pressed against your shoulder, the fine sliver of contact with you keeping him alive.

Remus made himself useful whilst Sirius just stared at the movement around him. He disappeared into the kitchen, only returning to the living room when dinner was finally ready. The entire family was summoned into the dining room, but wasn't the same as usual. Harry stared at his soup, listening to the quiet clinking of metal spoons against the bowls. He couldn't eat. Even if it was just lentil soup, something he could surely stomach.

No one attempted to make conversation.

At some point, James pulled out a small notebook and crossed something out. A book with the potion doses he’d given you — something to keep track of so he wouldn't go insane.

Then, Remus’s head snapped up. Sirius leaped.

The silverware on the table clattered as he sprinted out the dining room, and everyone was suddenly up.

You were awake.

The draught of dreamless sleep had been heaven compared to this. All your senses came rushing back to you, and you began to push yourself up, moaning when pain shot up your left arm. You shook, falling onto your back. You groaned, fear shooting up your spine when you realised you were not in your bedroom. A sharp gasp left your lips, but before you could panic, someone was shushing you, bringing a soothing hand to to rest atop your head.

“It’s okay, don’t sit up just yet. We’re here.”

We’re here. You twisted your head to the side and tears filled your eyes when you spotted the approaching crowd. Lily crouched down next to Sirius, and you heard her ask something from a distance, but your eyes were glued to Harry, standing a couple of feet away from you, next to his dad and uncle. It hurt when you shuffle onto your side, but you did so anyway, pushing yourself up on your uninjured arm. Sirius scrambled to help you sit up, letting you lean your weight on him so he could push you into a sitting position.

Your head rang as you straightened up, but the guilt you felt was ten times worse. Your voice came out croaky, raw from all the sobbing you did.

“You were right. I’m sorry.”

Harry pushed past your audience to sit next to you on the couch, and he pulled you into a tight hug that had his parents wincing. But you sniffed loudly, hands curling around his jumper and pulling him impossibly closer to you. The pain in your body come from everywhere, but it disappeared for a moment as your boyfriend held you, mumbling into your hair “Don’t you dare apologise. I love you so much. I’m just happy your safe. Thank you for coming here.”

His expression of gratitude sent a pang to your chest, but you pushed it down so you wouldn't get overwhelmed with more emotions, wiping your tears away to say “Wasn’t the graduation gift I was expecting, to be honest.” The comment didn't diffuse the tension in the way you were hoping. If anything, it only concerns everyone more.

“Oh, don’t do that, honey.” Lily pleaded, placing a hand on your knee. You furrowed your eyebrows, feeling scolded as you pulled away from Harry’s chest, bowing your head down. “I’m sorry.” You repeated, voice weak. Lily lifted herself up to sit on your other side, and she caressed you back with soothing circles. “Don’t apologise.” She told you in a whisper, as though sharing a secret with you. “I don’t want you to be angry with me.” You admitted, and it almost sent the mother to tears. Lily took a sharp breath, free hand gripping yours tightly.

“I could never be angry with you.”

“That’s not true. Everyone can be angry with me.”

“Honey, your parents aren’t here.” Your head snapped up to meet the person to whom the voice belonged to. Sirius was still crouched down in front of you, his hair now gathered to the back of his head in a bun. “You don’t have to keep repeating things they’ve told you. No one’s going to be angry with you for it. Lily and James, and Remus and me. We’re not your parents. You’re safe here. Let go of those beliefs they’ve forced into your head.”

It was as though all you needed was permission from Sirius to let go, even though it didn't necessarily bring a positive reaction out of you. You were sobbing, shoulders slumping forwards with every shake of your chest as you mumbled “Okay.”

“Okay?” He repeated, just making sure though he already sounded relieved.

“Okay.”

The tension in the room subsided a bit, and you couldn't help but feel a weight lifted off your chest.

“I’m going to bring you a plate of food.” Announced James, already disappearing from the room. When he came back, it was with a tray. Not only did it have a bowl of soup, but some soft baguette on the side too. In a small plate laid a peeled tangerine, but you weren't sure you could even eat right now. “Thank you, Mr. Potter.” You said, staring blankly at the food. It was as though all eyes were on you, and when you glanced up again, you found yourself shrinking from the attention you were receiving.

“I don’t think I’m really hungry right now.” James picked up a newspaper, sitting on the couch facing you. “Yeah you are, love, you just don’t know it yet. You’ve been living off potions for two days.”

“We can go eat in the dining room, if you want?” Harry asked quietly, and you knew it was more than an offer to sit at a table; it was a chance to get you away from the watchful eyes of his concerned family. Harry took the tray from you and stood up, waiting for you to follow. You winced when you pushed yourself off the couch, and the four adults grimaced as you straightened up. You walked stiffly across the room, following your boyfriend into the dining room. He set the tray down next to his abandoned bowl of soup, watching as you finally reached for the tangerine, ripping it in half.

You offered Harry the first slice, and he gratefully took it from you as a citrusy scent filled the room. He knocked it against your own tangerine slice, whispering “Cheers.” It encouraged you to eat the slice of fruit, eyes trained on your boyfriend, who smiled encouragingly at you while he chewed.

Then, in an almost peaceful unanimity, you both turned to your food. Harry shuffled his chair closer to yours, and finally — knowing that you were okay — he reached for his lunch. Whilst you blew on your soup to ease the steam away, his had long gone cold. But it tasted better with you safe beside him than it ever would in a world where you weren't home: in his arms.

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buckystevelove · 24 days ago

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A touch gentler than any promise

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buckystevelove · 24 days ago

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royal knight sirius x sheep farmer remus ✨

The story behind this illustration is royal knight Sirius going on patrol and stumbling upon sheep farmer Remus in a neighboring small village. He feels drawn to him as soon as he lays eyes on the scars that adorn his gentle face.

In this universe I imagined, werewolves do exist, as do witches. I wanted to add some fairytale elements and magic into it. So, because of his condition, Remus lives as a secluded life as possible, the only person close to him is Lily, a witch who helps him through the full moons by brewing potions that let Remus keep control of his mind during transformation.

Sirius on the other hand is the King James' personal knight, and thrives in the opulent palace life. He feels endless loyalty to his king and can't leave his duties behind.

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buckystevelove · 1 month ago

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may i request a poly!wolfstar x reader where the reader adopts a cat without telling them? fluff please

thanks for requesting, love! <3

poly!wolfstar x reader who adopts a kitten ✩ 1.5k words

"You can’t be angry with me."

You catch both of your boyfriends just as they’re stepping into the flat. The door stands wide open behind them, letting a gentle breeze curl through the too-small entryway.

Remus’ shoulders rise, almost imperceptibly, as tension begins to gather between his brows. He sets his shopping bag down slowly, eyes scanning your face cautiously.

“Dove,” he starts, voice soft. “Why would we be–”

“I just need you to promise you won’t be miffed before I tell you,” you cut in quickly, holding up your hands.

Behind him, Sirius makes a sound that’s halfway between a click of the tongue and a sigh. He shakes his head in faux disappointment, and a few strands of hair tumble free from the bun he’s scraped it into. It curls around his cheekbones and he doesn’t bother brushing them away.

You glance at him, your usual partner in crime – the one who folds under a pout and melts under a well-timed smile.

But not today.

The second your eyes meet his, he groans and tilts his head back toward the ceiling, as if trying to avoid being lured in by you.

“Oh my god,” he drawls, voice thick with mock exasperation. “What have you done this time?”

“Nothing bad!” you reassure him, maybe a bit too quickly.

Remus exhales through his nose and steps forward, calm and deliberate. “Can we please have this conversation inside?” he murmurs, gently placing a guiding hand on the small of your back as he nudges everyone away from the cold and toward the warmth of the flat.

The three of you drift into the living room. Remus moves with you, all soft hands and gentle touches. Sirius hangs back, arms crossed now, the tilt of his head saying I’m watching you.

You angle your body towards the hallway, intent on slipping off towards the spare room. Maybe it’d be easier to just show them, you think.

But you don’t make it two steps before Sirius catches on.

His hand clamps gently but firmly down on your shoulder. Not rough, not angry, but there’s no mistaking the intention behind it.

You're turned around before you can say a word, and Sirius plants himself right in front of you, eyes narrowed with mock authority and a little too much amusement for your liking.

“Start talking, trouble.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. Sirius’s expectant stare makes the words feel heavier, like they’re all tangled inside your throat. You start, haltingly at first.

“Well, it’s just–um–okay, so, you know how I said I wanted to get a pet? And we’ve been talking about it on and off for ages, but I wasn’t sure if you would be–”

“Dove,” Remus interrupts gently, his hand reaching out to still your restless fingers trying to calm the panic that's spilled into your voice, “just breathe. We’re not angry. We just want to know what's going on.”

You nod quickly, swallowing hard, the words still darting away from you. “It’s not what you think. I mean, it is, but it’s not like I–” You trail off, exhaling nervously.

Sirius sighs, running a hand over his hair. “You’re killing me here, doll. Can you just say whatever it is? Please?”

You feel yourself flush and without another word, you turn on your heel and start walking down the hallway, shoulders slightly hunched.

“Baby, where are you going?” Sirius calls out, voice soft but laced with exasperation.

You don’t answer Sirius and just lift your hand in a vague “wait” motion as you shuffle down the hallway, heart hammering away in your chest.

You hear the soft creak of the sofa as Remus sinks down into it and the familiar thudding of Sirius pacing across the rug. There's some low murmuring that for the most part sounds light and teasing. The sound releases some of the worry gripping your chest.

You disappear into the spare room for a moment. There’s a beat of silence.

Then the softest sound, a muffled mrrp.

And another, louder this time, Mrrrrow!

You return a moment later, carefully cradling a tiny black and white kitten against your chest. The cat is all oversized ears and twitchy little whiskers, with a splotch of ink-dark fur right over one eye and the kind of round, sleepy face that could melt even the coldest heart.

Not that your boyfriends are particularly known for their coldness. Thankfully.

Sirius stops pacing mid-step. His whole body sort of freezes as he takes in the image of you holding this tiny kitten. You watch the way he softens, as his eyes sweep over you.

“What the fuck?” he breathes, eyes wide and unguarded. He’s already walking towards you before he even realises it. “You didn’t say it was cute.”

You press your lips together in a barely restrained smile as the cat blinks up at him, completely unbothered, then noses into your arm like she’s settling in for a nap.

“I did say it wasn’t bad,” you offer meekly, while trying to see around Sirius to gauge Remus’ reaction. His silence is concerning.

Sirius gives a delighted little huff as he gently scratches under the kitten’s chin. “Hello, darling,” he coos, his voice turned embarrassingly soft. “Aren’t you just–bloody hell, look at you. Rem, look at her.”

You glance over at Remus, who is still seated on the couch, his expression unreadable. He’s got that pinched, thoughtful line between his brows that’s usually a telltale sign his thoughts are running at a mile a minute.

“She’s small,” he says at last, which is neither a compliment nor a complaint.

He’s still sitting on the couch, long fingers laced together between his knees, watching everything unfold with an expression that's far too neutral.

“She’s really small,” he says again, when you don't respond.

You raise an eyebrow at him, slowly lowering the kitten to the floor. She gives a soft, confused chirp at the movement, but doesn’t protest much.

“She’s healthy. Just little,” you say, tone gentle, coaxing. “She was the runt. The rescue said nobody else wanted her.”

Remus’s mouth tightens minutely, and you can see the way that gets under his skin. Predictably. Of course it does. He’s always been softest for the ones no one else picks.

You’re already padding across the room toward him, ready to reach for him as if your touch can do all the convincing for you. Sirius just watches on, but it’s obvious he’s already convinced by this new addition by the way he keeps looking down at the cat, eyes full of affection.

“I didn’t do it just to be impulsive,” you say. “I saw her when I was walking by and when I went in she came straight to me and I just–Remus, I couldn’t just leave her. She picked me.”

One of his eyebrows arches with the barest hint of skepticism. “Did she?”

You’re almost in front of him now. Your hand is halfway out, about to reach for his, when there’s a sudden, high-pitched mew at his feet.

Remus blinks down.

The kitten has followed you, trotted right up to where he’s sitting and is now circling his legs with a soft purr and a flick of her tiny tail. She mews again, louder this time, and then rises slightly on her hind legs, placing one little paw on the denim of his knee.

Your breath catches, and you can feel Sirius trying not to laugh behind you.

Remus’s brows draw together, not in frustration but puzzlement. He hesitates for a second, then reaches down – slow and careful – and curls one large hand under the kitten’s belly.

She makes a triumphant little chirp as he lifts her into his lap.

And Remus softens.

His shoulders relax, mouth easing out of its tight line as he carefully adjusts the tiny body, letting her settle against the crease of his arm. She stretches, gives a tiny sigh, and begins to purr loudly.

He looks down at her, then up at you, and something in his face shifts. All of his features become warmer and softer.

“Oh,” he says, barely more than a breath as he looks back down. “You are very sweet.”

Before you can say anything, a rough arm slings around your shoulders, and Sirius is suddenly there, pulling you close against his side.

“You’re such a little shit,” he says cheerfully, voice full of admiration disguised as complaint. And then he presses a big, obnoxious kiss to your cheek, loud and messy.

You laugh, trying and failing to squirm away. “Sirius!”

“Don’t Sirius me. You knew this would happen,” he says, nuzzling your temple with affection. “You walked in here with that face and a sob story about being ‘the runt,’ and you knew he’d fold like a wet paper towel.”

“I didn’t know,” you protest – but you’re smiling, warmth blooming in your chest. “I just had my suspicions.”

masterlist <3

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buckystevelove · 1 month ago

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anyone want my marauders family life hcs?

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buckystevelove · 1 month ago

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Isn’t she lovely…

sum up : nearing Sirius' first birthday with his daughter at his side

tw : fluff, some bad memories, abusive family

ship : poly!marauders x fem!reader

After Hogwarts, the four of you had carved out something soft and sacred: a messy little house on the edge of the London suburbs, its walls stuffed with laughter, socks that never matched, and the constant hum of love.

James, Sirius, Remus—and you.

It didn’t take long for the chaos to settle into rhythm, and even less time before your shared love started to grow roots deeper than any of you expected. Two years into this quiet life, you found yourself pregnant. You’d all agreed early on—there’d be no paternity tests, no need to label who the “real” father was. You were all one heart, beating in different bodies.

And somehow, fate—or magic, maybe—had honored that wish.

Lyra came into the world one cool April morning, red-cheeked and loud-lunged. She quieted the moment she heard Remus’s voice—soft and steady, like the pulse of something ancient and safe. She had his freckled skin, Sirius’s storm-gray eyes and dark curls, James’s easy smile and stubborn cowlick. She was all of them. All of you.

The sleepless nights blurred together in a haze of lullabies, shared feeding shifts, and warm arms wrapped around each other in the quiet dark. Lyra’s tiny presence had filled the house with a kind of peace none of you had known you’d been missing.

But as the days passed, and her seventh month neared, something shifted.

Sirius grew quiet. Not cold, just... dimmer. Less of his usual barked laughter, fewer teasing kisses pressed to your temple in passing. He still held Lyra like she was made of starlight, but sometimes you’d catch him staring—not at her, but through her. Like he was seeing something else. Someone else.

His birthday was coming. And it was always a difficult time.

It hadn’t erased the ache of what came before—the cold, gray walls of the Black family home, where birthdays weren’t celebrated, only tolerated. That haunted look in his eyes always surfaced around this time of year, no matter how much love you poured into him.

And this year, with Lyra smiling up at him like he hung the stars, the weight of it all seemed to be pressing heavier than ever.

You knew what haunted him—what curled beneath his silence like smoke.

Sirius thought he didn’t deserve her.

You saw it in the way his eyes lingered on Lyra, too long and too quiet, as if he were memorizing her innocence before the world could bruise it. She shared his eyes—those stormy grays that once brimmed with defiance, now shadowed with fear. Sometimes he couldn’t even meet her gaze without flinching, as if staring into her was staring back into a version of himself he never wanted to become.

He thought about how he had once been cradled, soft and untouched in his mother’s arms. How her voice had maybe once been gentle, not that he remembered, before it sharpened into commands and curses. How love had curdled into something cold and conditional. What if that was inside him too, buried like a dormant curse?

From his spot on the kitchen table, Sirius watched Lyra squeal with delight as James made silly faces, her tiny fists waving in the air as she bounced on his knee. Her laugh was pure sunlight—unfiltered, unafraid. And Sirius’s chest ached like it might cave in.

You moved without a word, your hand reaching out to gently rest on his knee, grounding him in the present. Warmth. Presence. Love. Across the room, Remus wordlessly slid a steaming cup of tea into Sirius’s hands, his touch lingering just long enough to say I’m here.

Sirius barely spoke these days. Words felt brittle in his mouth, too clumsy to carry what he felt. But you knew. All of you knew.

You couldn’t fix what lived in his memory. You couldn’t rewrite his childhood or reach back through time to hold the boy he used to be. But you could be here. Now. With him. As he learned, slowly and painfully, that he was not his mother. That he was not the poison that raised him.

That he was loved. And safe. And still worthy.

He looked down at the cup in his hands, then at you, and for a moment, the tightness in his jaw eased. The tiniest crack of something—hope, maybe—broke through.

“I don’t know if I’m a good dad,” he murmured at last, voice rough. “I don’t know if she should see me that way.”

You squeezed his knee, then stood and moved beside him, resting your chin on his shoulder as Remus stepped closer too. James, still bouncing Lyra, looked up with that easy smile of his, and said without hesitation, “She already does.”

Lyra squealed again, reaching toward Sirius with grabby hands and a grin that could split the sky.

And when he took her into his arms, trembling just slightly, she rested her forehead to his and sighed, utterly content.

The morning of Sirius’s birthday arrived quietly.

There were no streamers, no pancakes in the shape of his name, no outbursts of celebratory joy. Just the soft clink of cutlery in the kitchen and the distant cry of a waking Lyra from her nursery upstairs.

He left for work early.

No kiss goodbye, just a murmured, “Don’t wait up,” and the familiar scent of leather and cloves lingering in the doorway. You hadn’t expected anything different—Sirius never celebrated his birthday. Not really. Not since he left home. Not since birthdays became a reminder of who hadn’t celebrated them with him.

Still, your chest ached as you watched him leave, shoulders tense beneath his jacket like the weight of the past still hung from them.

Later, after Lyra had been fed and changed, you found yourself in the kitchen with Remus and James, sipping lukewarm coffee while the baby babbled softly in her high chair. The room felt too quiet without Sirius’s usual sarcasm or dramatic storytelling.

You stirred your mug slowly. “We should leave him be today. At least for now.”

James leaned back in his chair, dark circles under his eyes and worry tucked into the corners of his mouth. “Yeah,” he sighed. “He hates being reminded. Always has.”

Remus was silent for a moment, nursing his tea, eyes fixed on the grain of the table. Then, quietly, “But we don’t have to ignore it either.”

You nodded, understanding. Pushing too much would only drive him deeper into himself—but pretending it wasn’t his birthday would hurt in a different way. Sirius didn’t want celebration; he wanted to be seen. Not as a name on a cake or a date on a calendar—but as him. As someone still here. Still worth loving.

“I think,” Remus said gently, “we can make it soft this year. Just... let him come home to something warm.”

James grinned, just a little. “Blankets. Tea. Chocolate cake we can claim is for Lyra.”

“She doesn’t even have teeth,” you reminded him.

“Exactly,” he smirked. “More for us.”

You laughed, quietly, and glanced up at your daughter. Lyra blinked at you with those wide gray eyes—Sirius’s eyes—and clapped her hands against the tray of her chair.

“We’ll be here when he’s ready,” you said softly, almost to yourself.

And you would be. All of you.

Waiting in the warmth of this house, ready to remind him that this home—his home—was nothing like the one he’d left behind.

That night, Sirius came home angry.

You heard the front door shut with too much force, the thud echoing through the house like a warning. His jaw was tight, eyes stormy, and his coat was still halfway on as he stormed through the hallway. You didn’t ask what happened. You didn’t need to.

None of you spoke. The air shifted around him gently, like the three of you had wordlessly agreed: no pressure. No pushing. Just presence.

Remus held Lyra, bouncing her carefully on his hip. James stood in the kitchen, arms crossed but not tense, watching with the same helpless ache you felt in your chest.

And Lyra, sweet and oblivious to the way pain can settle into skin like frost, reached out from Remus’s arms with a delighted squeal. “Aaa!” Still unable to form words.

Her tiny fingers stretched toward Sirius, wriggling in excitement.

But Sirius didn’t stop.

He barely glanced at her, eyes flickering past her like he couldn’t bear to look. Then he disappeared into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

The sound startled her.

Lyra’s bottom lip trembled, her face scrunching as a sob burst from her lungs. Remus immediately shifted her, shushing her with practiced calm, but it couldn’t soothe the hollow twist in your stomach.

You exchanged a look with James. Neither of you said it out loud, but you knew what the other was thinking. This wasn’t just about today. This was a wound years deep, re-opened by love he didn’t feel he deserved.

“I’ll go,” James said quietly, and disappeared down the hallway.

Time passed. Enough for Lyra to calm down, to fall asleep curled against Remus’s chest. Still, no word from either of them. So you went.

The bedroom was dark. The kind of dark that held silence like a weight.

You blinked slowly as your eyes adjusted, and then you saw them—two shapes on the bed. James lay close to Sirius, one hand resting over his chest like a silent tether. Sirius was curled in on himself, barely breathing, and even in the shadows, you could feel the way grief and guilt pulsed off him like heat.

You padded forward carefully, your weight barely shifting the mattress as you slipped into the space between them. Sirius didn’t speak, not at first. But his breath hitched as soon as you touched him—just your hand on his arm.

And then came the words, broken and barely held together.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, over and over, voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry.”

You curled your body around his back, arms wrapping him tightly, your forehead resting between his shoulder blades. James shifted closer too, his hand now pressed to Sirius’s side. You didn’t stop him from apologizing—you just let him say it until he couldn’t anymore.

“I don’t know how to be what she needs,” Sirius choked out finally. “She’s so… good. And I—Merlin, I’m not. I don’t want to hurt her, I don’t want to turn into her. I don’t want her to be scared of me. She shouldn’t even—she shouldn’t ever call me ‘dad’. She deserves better than someone like me.”

He was trembling now, and James pulled him closer, nose pressed to the back of Sirius’s neck.

“She will call you that because you are that,” you whispered. “Not because you’re perfect. Because you’re hers. Because she knows your voice, and your laugh, and how your arms feel safe.”

“And because you love her,” James added, soft and steady. “You love her like it breaks you. That’s what being a dad is, Pads.”

James’s voice was gentle, firm with truth, and Sirius stilled under your touch.

He didn’t reply—not right away—but something shifted in the way he breathed. You stayed there, wrapped around him, holding the cracks together until the worst of it passed.

Eventually, with coaxing and soft kisses and promises that it was okay to come back to the light, you managed to pull him from the quiet dark of the bedroom.

The scent of warm apples and cinnamon wafted from the kitchen.

Remus stood at the counter, spoon-feeding Lyra in her high chair. She was all sunshine again, kicking her feet happily and thumping her tiny hands against the tray. The tears from earlier had long since vanished—her world blissfully reset.

Sirius stopped at the doorway.

His hand gripped the frame, knuckles pale, eyes locked on her. She hadn’t noticed him yet, but you saw the way his chest lifted—slow, shaky—as if he didn’t know how to step back into a room that still wanted him.

Remus turned, smiling softly. “She’s alright. So are we.”

He rose from his seat, brushing past Sirius with a quiet squeeze to the shoulder, and handed him the small bowl of puréed fruit. She finally looked up and her eyes lit up like a thousand stars. She didn't see the broken man he knew he was, she didn't see a disowned heir, a runaway. She saw her father, her safe haven.

Sirius hesitated. His fingers curled slightly, like the weight of the bowl might be too much. But before he could step back, James nudged him forward with a gentle nudge to his back. “Go on. She’s been waiting for you.”

With a tired sigh and a quiet mutter you didn’t catch, Sirius moved toward the chair and slowly sat down in front of Lyra.

He blinked at her, cautiously scooping a small spoonful of the food and guiding it to her mouth. She opened wide, smacking her lips happily, cheeks full and eyes gleaming.

You and the others moved around the kitchen quietly, preparing tea, cleaning up the counter, staying close—but giving them space.

You caught it then: the small smile. The one that crept slowly onto Sirius’s face, cautious but real, as he dabbed her chin with a napkin and cooed softly, “There you go, sweetheart. You’re such a little mess.”

And then—clear as day, piercing the air with joy—came her voice.

“Papa!”

The room froze.

Sirius went absolutely still, the spoon suspended in mid-air. His breath caught audibly in his throat, eyes wide, lips parted in disbelief.

“Papa!” she squealed again, clapping her hands against the tray, food smearing across her fingers and shirt. She bounced, eager for his attention, as if she knew exactly what she was saying.

He didn’t move at first. Just stared, like the word had physically knocked the wind from his lungs.

Then slowly, trembling, he set the bowl down on the table and buried his face in his hands—heels pressed against his eyes, trying to stem the flood. His shoulders shook once. Then again.

A watery laugh escaped his lips.

And then he was standing.

He reached for her, pulled her from the high chair and into his arms with a desperate kind of gentleness, like she might vanish if he wasn’t careful. Lyra tucked herself against him with no hesitation, sticky hands clutching at his shirt.

“Papa,” he whispered, over and over again. As if trying to prove to himself that it was real. That she had chosen that word—him—first.

You saw the way his face crumpled, caught somewhere between awe and disbelief and a kind of joy that left him raw.

He laughed through tears, holding her tight, pressing kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her tiny hands. “That’s me,” he whispered, voice cracked wide open. “That’s me, baby girl. Papa. I’ve got you.”

None of you moved to interrupt. James leaned back against the counter, blinking fast. Remus swallowed hard, his hand brushing lightly against yours.

And you—you felt your heart swell to the brim.

Because that word—simple and small—had been everything Sirius needed.

He cried, and he laughed, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself feel it all. Lyra, content in his arms, curled into him without a care in the world, smearing fruit across his chest.

And Sirius didn’t care. Not about the mess. Not about the shirt. Not about the parts of him he thought were broken.

All that mattered was this.

This moment. This love.

And the little voice that had named him something he never thought he could be.

For a few precious seconds, the house was silent—stunned into stillness by Lyra’s voice.

But then came another sound. A soft, choked sniffle.

You turned your head and saw Remus do the same, both of you setting your sights on James. His eyes were glassy, lips wobbly, and his arms crossed stubbornly like he was trying to contain the absolute flood of emotions threatening to break loose.

“I can’t—” he sniffed again, wiping his face with his sleeve. “This is unfair. Why didn’t I record this? It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen and now I’m going to die.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, and Remus rolled his eyes with a fond smile. “You absolute sap,” he muttered, rubbing James’s back.

Then Lyra, in Sirius’s arms, looked over at the two of them. Her eyes lit up again, and she pointed enthusiastically. “Dada!!”

The second the word left her mouth, everyone froze.

Remus’s jaw dropped. James blinked rapidly, hand to his chest. And Lyra just beamed, so proud of herself. Sirius gasped, his arms tightening slightly around her. “She—she knows, oh my god—”

James dropped to his knees like he’d been shot in the heart, dramatically clutching his chest. “That’s it. I’m done. She’s too smart. Too pure. I’m crying forever now.”

Remus didn’t even try to stop smiling as he leaned in and kissed every inch of her giggling little face. “You clever little thing,” he murmured. “You knew. You knew we’re all yours.”

Her laughter, bright and bell-like, echoed through the kitchen—pure sunshine.

You stepped back slightly, heart so full it hurt, and your elbow bumped into the edge of the old vinyl player on the sideboard.

Click.

Soft static, and then—

Isn’t she lovely…

The opening notes of Stevie Wonder's voice filled the room, perfectly timed. Sirius let out a breathless laugh, already swaying gently with Lyra still in his arms, lifting her just slightly so her feet kicked in the air.

“Alright, alright,” James sniffled, pulling himself dramatically to his feet. “If we’re crying and dancing now, someone has to lead you.” He grabbed your hand and twirled you into a slow, playful spin.

You laughed, clinging to him, as Remus wiped his face and headed back toward the stove. “Someone has to keep dinner from burning,” he teased over his shoulder. “But I’m choosing the next dance.”

The kitchen filled with the smell of spices and the warmth of something that had nothing to do with the oven. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to Lyra’s cheek as Sirius danced with her gently in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder.

Then he leaned over, his lips brushing the skin of your neck, his voice low and full of everything he hadn’t been able to say earlier.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For this. For her. For not giving up on me.”

You turned, one hand still resting on Lyra’s back, and kissed him softly—his cheek first, then his lips. “Thank you, Sirius.”

Because you weren’t just a family.

You were his second chance.

And in the golden warmth of a messy kitchen, with dinner cooking and a baby squealing and laughter rising like a song, Sirius Black was home. And for the first time in a few years, he could enjoy his own birthday, because life was worth waking up to her.

dividers : @enchanthings @omi-resources

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buckystevelove · 2 months ago

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

Secrets Have Teeth

poly!marauders x fem!reader

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

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

w/c: 10k

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

masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But lately, there’s been something else.

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

It’s the late-night disappearances, the hushed conversations that end the moment you step into the room. It’s the way Sirius’s eyes dart away from yours sometimes, how James’s smile falters, how Remus’s hands shake when he thinks you aren’t looking.

You try to brush it off, try to bury it beneath logic and trust and the weight of their love. But it festers in the quiet moments, slipping in through the cracks when you’re alone, curling around your thoughts and whispering things you don’t want to hear. It’s loneliness, sharp and unyielding, and it grips tight, leaving bruises where you can’t see them.

Marlene’s hand finds your arm, squeezing gently. “You alright?” she asks, voice softening at the edges.

You blink, dragging yourself back to the present, to the corridor stretching out before you and the sunlight slanting through the windows. “Yeah,” you lie, the word sticking to your tongue like tar. “Just tired.”

She hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t push. You’re grateful for it. The silence stretches out between you, comfortable and warm, and you let it hold you for a moment, let it cradle you in something soft and unspoken.

But the weight is still there, pressing at the back of your mind, a whisper of something fragile and breaking.

By the time you reach the dormitory, the ache has settled low in your bones, a steady thrum that makes you want to curl into yourself and hide from the world.

Marlene offers you a soft smile and a quick hug before she disappears down the hall, and you watch her go, feeling the space she leaves behind like a phantom limb.

You push open the door, and the warmth of the room spills out to greet you, soft and familiar. The fire crackles low in the hearth, and the soft murmur of conversation drifts through the air. For a moment, you just stand there, watching them.

Sirius is sprawled across the couch, his head in James’s lap, eyes half-lidded as James’s fingers card gently through his hair.

There’s something unguarded in the way he leans into the touch, the tension bleeding out of his frame with each gentle stroke.

James is murmuring something soft, too low for you to hear, and his other hand is resting on Sirius’s shoulder, grounding him.

Remus is curled up in the armchair, a book spread open across his lap, fingers idly tapping against the spine in rhythm with whatever thought is playing behind his eyes.

He looks peaceful, brow unfurrowed, mouth softened at the edges. It’s a rare thing—to see him unburdened, unbothered—and you don’t want to break it.

You linger in the doorway, watching them, and for a moment, it’s enough just to exist there, on the edge of something beautiful.

But then Sirius glances up, his gaze catching on yours, and his eyes brighten.

“There she is,” he drawls, a lazy smile stretching across his lips, though you can see the way his hand trembles where it rests against James’s knee. “Wondered when you’d come back to us.”

You force a smile, stepping into the room, the wooden door groaning behind you. The space is warm with the soft glow of lamplight, and you take in the tangle of limbs, the way Sirius leans so comfortably against James, the way Remus’s long fingers are still pressed into the spine of his book. It looks like belonging, like home.

And yet, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re standing on the edge of it, fingers curled around the windowsill, peering in.

You clear your throat, and three heads turn towards you, Remus’s eyes softening the instant they land on your face.

He’s the first to rise, marking his page with a quick slip of parchment before crossing the room in a few long strides. His hands are warm when they cup your face, eyes searching yours with a tenderness that nearly unravels you.

“What’s wrong, darling?” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheekbone. His gaze is steady, achingly gentle, and it makes something splinter in your chest.

You lean into his touch, your hands wrapping around his wrists. “Just a bad day,” you whisper, voice catching at the edges. “Wanted to be with you. All of you.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or something darker—but it’s gone before you can name it. He nods, presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“We’re right here, my love,” he says softly. “Always.”

You hear movement behind him, and Sirius appears at his side, James right behind him, both of them looking at you with expressions that tighten the knot in your chest.

“Come here,” Sirius says, and you’re pulled into the warmth of their arms, the scent of cedar and smoke and something distinctly theirs flooding your senses. It’s grounding, familiar.

But beneath it, the ache lingers.

When Remus pulls away, his hand is gentle at your back. “Come on,” he murmurs, voice soft as spring rain. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

His eyes are warm, and the softness there unravels you completely. You nod, and let him lead you towards the bathroom, his touch a tether in the quiet.

The bathroom is softly lit, shadows dancing along the tiled walls as Remus moves about, turning the tap and letting steam fill the space.

He turns back to you, his hands finding yours, guiding you gently to the edge of the tub. “Let me take care of you,” he whispers, voice like something sacred.

Steam curls at the edges of the mirror, blurring the reflection into softened shapes and tender echoes. The bathroom is awash with warmth, the flicker of candlelight catching on water droplets that gather and run down the tiles like tiny rivers.

The tub is filled nearly to the brim, wisps of lavender and cedar curling through the air, softening the edges of everything sharp and jagged.

You stand there, arms wrapped around yourself as Remus’s hands work at the buttons of your shirt, fingers deft and gentle.

He doesn’t rush, doesn’t fumble, just unfastens each button with practiced ease, his gaze steady and patient.

When the last one comes undone, he slides the fabric from your shoulders, and it pools at your feet in a whisper of cotton.

James is already rolling up his sleeves, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s something unyielding in his gaze, an anchor that keeps you grounded even when the world feels like it’s fraying at the edges.

Sirius is beside him, leaning against the sink with his arms crossed, a grin softening into something tender as he watches you, eyes bright with a fondness that makes your heart twist.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, voice soft but unsteady.

Sirius’s grin widen just a bit, a sliver of moonlight breaking through the clouds.

“Can you blame me?” he drawls, pushing off the counter to step closer. His hands find your shoulders, warm and grounding.

“We’ve got the most beautiful girl in the world standing right here. You expect us not to look?”

Heat flushes your cheeks, and you look down, eyes catching on the curve of your bare feet against the tile.

Remus’s hands come to rest on your shoulders, gentle and grounding. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice soft and achingly tender. “Look at me.”

You do, slowly, and his gaze is steady, unyielding. “You know we love you, right?”

It’s a simple question, one you’ve heard before, one you’ve answered a thousand times.

But tonight, the weight of it settles heavy in your chest, and you swallow hard, your throat bobbing with the effort. “I know,” you whisper, though it wavers at the edges.

Sirius’s fingers brush your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I don’t think you do,” he says softly, and his voice is raw, stripped down to something real. “Not really.”

There’s a pause, thick and heavy with unspoken things. James steps forward, his hands settling at your waist.

“Whatever that pretty mind of yours is telling you, it isn’t true, darlin', you know that, right?” he whispers, the words slipping through the quiet like a prayer.

His thumb strokes gentle circles into your hip, grounding and real.

You nod, not trusting your voice, and James’s smile softens at the edges. His hands guide you to the edge of the tub, and Remus’s hands are still at your shoulders, steady and sure.

“In you go, darling,” he murmurs, and you let them guide you down into the water, warmth curling around your skin and washing away the chill.

The water laps softly at your shoulders, steam curling around your face. Remus kneels beside the tub, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.

“Lean back,” he says gently, and you do, letting your head rest against the lip of the tub as he scoops water into his hands, drizzling it over your shoulders.

James is at your other side, his hands gentle as he brushes back your hair, fingers carding through the strands with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.

Sirius perches on the edge of the tub, one hand resting lightly on your knee beneath the water. His thumb strokes lazy circles there, his grin soft and unguarded.

They work in tandem, hands moving with practiced ease, soft murmurs passing between them as they pour water over your skin, rub gentle circles into your shoulders, your arms.

It’s reverent, unhurried, like they have all the time in the world just to be here with you.

“You’re safe here,” Remus whispers as his hands brush over your collarbones, his eyes steady and sure. “With us. Always.”

But your breath catches, fingers curling against the edge of the tub. Safe. Always.

The words hang heavy in the air, thick with meaning you want so desperately to believe. “For keeps?” you whisper, and the question is so small, so fragile that it barely breaks the surface of the silence.

Sirius’s hand stills on your knee, and he leans in, eyes dark and unflinching.

“For keeps,” he answers, and the promise hums between you all, ancient and unbreakable.

His thumb resumes its gentle circles, grounding you back into this warmth, this moment.

A grin breaks across his face, wild and free, and James lets out a breath of laughter, his hand squeezing yours beneath the water. “See?” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “We’re not going anywhere.”

You nod, the knot in your chest unraveling just a bit, the warmth of their hands grounding you, tethering you to this moment.

For a while, it’s just that—the gentle lap of water, the steady rhythm of their hands, the murmur of their voices threading through the quiet. They wash away the ache, the doubt, until there’s nothing left but warmth and the soft thrum of belonging.

And for once, you let yourself believe it.

You close your eyes and lean into the warmth, the steady rhythm of their hands soothing the ache in your chest.

But then, James’s hand splashes against the water, breaking the stillness. His eyes flicker with something bright and mischievous.

“Would you look at that?” he grins, flicking a bit of water towards Sirius, who jerks back, sputtering.

“Oh, you absolute menace,” Sirius huffs, eyes narrowing with playful fury.

Before you can blink, he’s scooped a handful of water and splashes it back, catching both you and James in the crossfire.

You squeal, hands coming up to shield your face, but the damage is done—water drips from your lashes, and James is laughing, full-bodied and unrestrained, the sound filling the bathroom with unrestrained joy.

Remus, who had been standing up to grab towels, turns back to see water arcing through the air, James slinging droplets at Sirius, who’s now fully on his knees beside the tub, splashing back with reckless abandon.

His eyes widen, a hand on his hip. “You lot are absolute children, you know that?”

“Only sometimes,” Sirius counters with a grin, flinging another handful in Remus’s direction. “We’ve got to keep it interesting, haven’t we?”

A flicker of laughter escapes you, and Remus’s stern expression softens, though he rolls his eyes. “I’m gone two minutes, and you’ve already started a war.”

James shrugs, unbothered, droplets dripping from his hair. “What can we say? We’re efficient.”

Remus sighs, grabbing a towel and shaking his head, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re all impossible.”

“And you love it,” Sirius quips, leaning back with a splash. Remus just shakes his head, moving to your side with the towel, his eyes softening as he meets yours.

“Come on, darling,” he murmurs, voice warm and steady. “Let’s get you out before these two flood the whole place.”

The night slipped away in a haze of warmth and whispered jokes, Sirius launching playful jabs at James, who retaliated with splashes that left the room echoing with laughter.

By the time Remus pulled you from the water and wrapped you in soft towels, your heart felt lighter, the fog of your earlier doubts dissipating under their hands.

The four of you ended up tangled in blankets, Sirius still chuckling softly at some joke James had made, Remus’s arm curled around your waist, his breath steady and warm against the back of your neck.

You drifted off like that, wrapped in them, feeling—if only for a moment—that maybe everything really was as perfect as it seemed.

But morning brings clarity. You wake to the soft light filtering through the curtains, the space beside you empty but still warm. The muffled sounds of conversation drift from the common room, low and hurried, punctuated with soft laughter.

You follow the noise, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and catch sight of them huddled together—Remus’s face drawn and pale, Sirius leaning in, his hands gesturing wildly, James with a hand on his shoulder, firm and grounding.

They don’t notice you at first, too caught up in their whispered words and secretive glances. You hover in the doorway, something heavy and unyielding curling in your stomach.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen them like this—locked in some private world that you are not a part of. But this time, it’s different. This time, you can’t shake the feeling that whatever it is, it’s breaking them apart.

When James catches your eye, his expression shifts—softens—but there’s something guarded there, too, something that makes your breath catch.

Remus straightens, running a hand through his hair, and Sirius plasters on a grin, too bright to be real.

“Morning, love,” Remus greets you, his voice softer, wearier. “Did you sleep well?”

And just like that, the walls go up again.

Whatever it was, whatever they were discussing, it’s hidden behind their smiles, and you feel it like a bruise.

You smile back, but it feels hollow. “Yeah… I did.”

But doubt settled in your bones, curling thick and unyielding around your heart. Something was wrong. And for the first time, you were sure of it.

You dressed quietly, Marlene’s chatter a distant hum as she twisted her hair into a knot and rambled about Quidditch practice. Your hands worked methodically, tying laces, fastening buttons, but your mind was elsewhere.

Something was off. You could feel it in the pit of your stomach, the gnawing unease that hadn’t left since the whispers and the lingering glances.

You tried to shake it off as you made your way to breakfast, but it lingered, curling around your ribs and pressing tight.

Classes dragged. Potions felt endless, Slughorn’s voice fading into the background as you stared blankly at your bubbling cauldron. Transfiguration was much the same—McGonagall’s sharp eyes missing the way your quill stopped moving halfway through her lecture.

Even Charms, which you usually enjoyed, was nothing more than a blur of flicking wands and murmured incantations.

By midday, you found yourself wandering through the courtyard, the chill biting at your cheeks as you made your way toward the edge of the castle grounds.

That was where you usually found them, tucked away from prying eyes, sprawled out beneath the trees or leaning against the stone walls, thick scarves looped around their necks and laughter dancing in the air.

But when you approached, there was no laughter. Just low voices, hushed and clipped. You stopped short, slipping behind a stone column, heart hammering in your chest.

You knew it was wrong, but curiosity rooted you to the spot.

“…tonight, then?” Sirius’s voice was the first you recognized, low and edged with something you couldn’t place.

“Has to be,” James replied. “Full moon, and if he’s right, Snape’s already sniffing around. Bloody idiot’s got a death wish.”

Remus didn’t speak, but you could hear him—his sigh, heavy and weary, like he’d aged ten years since you’d seen him at breakfast.

You peeked around the edge, just enough to catch sight of him leaning against the stone, arms crossed over his chest, eyes shadowed and distant.

He looked exhausted. Worse than yesterday. Worse than last week.

“Full moon?” you whispered to yourself, brows knitting together.

Why would that matter? And why would Snape be sniffing around? You racked your brain, but nothing came up. Nothing that made sense.

Then, footsteps—too light to be James or Remus, too quick to be Sirius.

You shrank back, just in time to see Severus Snape stride up to them, black robes billowing out behind him. You clamped a hand over your mouth, confusion sparking like wildfire in your chest.

Snape? With them? They hated Snape. Always had. There was the incident with the Potions classroom first year, the hex Sirius threw at him in third, the prank James had pulled just last term.

And yet, here he was, standing just a few feet away, chin lifted defiantly as he glared at Sirius.

“You’d better not be lying, Black,” Snape sneered, voice dripping with disdain.

Sirius just smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Would I lie to you, Snivellus?”

“Just be there. Midnight. Near the shack.”

Snape’s eyes glittered with something sharp and dangerous. “I will.”

You barely heard the rest, heart thundering in your chest.

The shack? Midnight? What the hell was going on? Your mind whirred with questions, none of them landing long enough for you to grab hold. But there was one thing you knew for certain.

You were going to follow them.

Whatever this was—whatever they were hiding—you would find out. You had to.

Night came slow and heavy, the castle settling into stillness as you pulled on your cloak, heart thrumming with anticipation and something else. Fear, maybe. Or desperation.

You slipped through the corridors on silent feet, weaving between shadows until you found yourself near the Entrance Hall, waiting. Watching.

They moved in silence, slipping through the doors one by one. First Remus, his shoulders hunched, eyes downcast.

Then James and Sirius, their footsteps softer than usual, expressions set and grim.

Whatever Sirius had told Snape, James and Remus clearly didn’t know about it—the tension rippled off them, sharp and electric.

You waited until they were halfway across the grounds before following, your breath clouding the air as you hurried to catch up, careful to stay hidden.

You ducked behind a tree, watching as James pulled something from his pocket—a small, rounded object that glowed faintly in the moonlight.

He pressed it against a knot in the tree, and the branches stilled, frozen mid-sway.

You sucked in a breath as they disappeared beneath the roots, vanishing into shadow.

Remus had looked like he was seconds from collapsing, his steps unsteady, shoulders taut with strain. James and Remus didn’t seem to know about whatever Sirius had told Snape—it was clear on their faces, etched in their tension and the way Remus’s hands shook slightly as he vanished into the darkness.

Whatever lay beyond that entrance, you were going to find out. Even if it broke you.

The night stretched out heavy and silent, moonlight bleeding silver across the grounds. It felt colder than usual, the kind of chill that seeped into bones and lingered there, whispering unease with every breath.

You shivered as you waited, huddled in the shadows just beyond the Entrance Hall, heart pounding in your ears. It was a reckless idea—mad, really—to follow them out here.

But you couldn’t ignore the coil of dread tightening in your stomach, the way it had wound itself around your ribs ever since you’d heard them talking near the courtyard.

They moved in silence, slipping through the great doors one by one. First Remus, his shoulders hunched and eyes downcast, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his back.

His footsteps were slow, hesitant, and you could almost hear the strain in his breathing from where you hid.

Something was wrong—you’d known it for weeks—but tonight, it clung to him like a shadow.

You waited until they were halfway across the grounds before you moved, your breath clouding the air as you hurried to catch up, careful to keep your distance.

You waited, breath held tight in your lungs. That’s when you saw him—Snape, creeping through the shadows, eyes alight with that familiar, hateful gleam.

He moved with purpose, hands shaking with adrenaline as he approached the now-frozen branches of the Willow. He stopped just shy of the entrance, glancing around before taking a tentative step forward.

Before he could slip inside, James appeared, blocking his path, wand raised and voice sharp. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Snape sneered, lifting his chin. “Black told me. Said there was something interesting inside. Something you three have been hiding.”

James’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You’re not going anywhere near there.”

“What, afraid of what I’ll find?” Snape taunted, his voice a venomous whisper.

James stepped closer, the tension snapping taut between them. “I’m warning you, Snivellus. Turn around. Now.”

Snape glared, fists clenching at his sides. “Why? So you can keep covering for your precious friends? Or maybe it’s because you’re afraid of what your little club is really up to.”

James didn’t flinch, his wand steady and gaze unyielding. “Last chance.”

But Snape didn’t back down. He only smirked, the kind of grin that made your skin crawl. “I guess I’ll just have to find out for myself.”

He took another step forward, but James moved quicker, wand tip sparking with light. “Expelliarmus!”

Snape’s wand flew from his hand, clattering against the frozen earth. For a heartbeat, everything went still—no wind, no whispers, just the heavy thud of your heartbeat crashing in your ears.

“That’s enough,” came a voice from behind them.

Sirius stepped into view, arms crossed over his chest, expression caught between amusement and something sharper. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

James didn’t lower his wand. “What the hell were you thinking, Sirius?”

Sirius shrugged, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Just a bit of fun. Snivellus is always poking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Thought I’d give him something to find.”

James’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. “Are you out of your mind? Remus is in there! What if he got in? What if he saw?”

Sirius scoffed, waving a hand. “James, please. He wasn’t actually going to get inside. It’s just a bit of a scare.”

“A scare?” James’s voice rose, disbelief cracking it. “You think this is a fucking joke? He could have died, Sirius. Remus could have killed him—and it would have been your fault!”

Sirius’s smile faltered, but he didn’t back down. “Well, he didn’t. You stopped him.”

James took a step forward, wand still in his hand, knuckles white around it. “You’re not listening. You don’t get to just...just throw people into the line of fire for fun. That’s not a prank, Sirius!”

Sirius’s eyes flashed with something dark, but he swallowed it back. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” James shot back, voice trembling with fury. “Remus doesn’t even know. You did this behind his back! I swear, if he finds out—”

But before he could finish, a sound broke the argument—a low, guttural growl that rumbled from the depths of the shack, primal and raw.

You froze, heart leaping into your throat. It was followed by another, more desperate sound.

“Remus,” you whispered under your breath, fear coiling tight and sharp in your stomach.

You slipped through the tangled roots, heart lurching as you reached the back of the shack.

Its wooden slats were splintered and rotting in places, gaps wide enough for you to catch flashes of movement inside. Shadows flickered across the walls—elongated and monstrous, twisting with the flicker of lamplight.

There was a small hole, nearly hidden behind a stack of fallen branches, just large enough for you to fit through if you were careful.

You hesitated, breath clouding in the frigid air, before steeling yourself and crawling through. Your hands scraped against rough wood, splinters catching on your palms, but you ignored the sting.

The shack groaned under your weight as you landed inside, breath catching in your throat. It was dark, the air thick with the scent of dust and something metallic that made your head swim

Your breath puffed white in the cold air, heart pounding, every instinct in your body suddenly screaming at you to stop—to leave, to turn around, to run. Something was wrong.

Inside, the shack was musty and dark. Dust hung thick in the air, floating in the moonlight that poured in through the cracks in the boarded windows. Broken chairs lay in jagged pieces, shadows clinging to every surface. It was too quiet.

You rose slowly to your feet, brushing dirt from your knees.

Your eyes scanned the room—empty. No sign of Remus. No sign of anyone. Only the stale scent of old wood and something sharper, metallic, and wrong.

Then—from outside—you heard it.

Yelling.

You turned your head toward the front of the shack.

“What the hell did you think you were doing, Sirius?” James’s voice, loud, shaking.

Snape’s voice cut through: “You’re all bloody mad—”

“You brought him here? To this place?!” James roared. “You think this is a game?! You told him how to find Moony?!”

A scuffle. Scraping feet on frozen earth. Something breaking.

Then Sirius, laughing—a harsh, ugly sound. “It was a prank, James! A joke! He wasn’t supposed to actually come!”

“A joke? A bloody joke?! He could have died, Sirius! Or worse—Remus—”

The argument grew louder, more violent, their voices crashing against each other like waves. You blinked, unsettled, heart pounding harder now—not just from what they were saying, but from something else. Something inside.

You turned, the hairs on the back of your neck rising.

Why had James been so desperate to keep Snape away? What was so dangerous, so hidden inside this shack?

You took a slow step back, suddenly aware of how thick the air had become. Your fingers twitched toward your wand, but you didn’t know why.

Then you felt it.

A shift.

A presence behind you.

The breath caught in your throat.

You turned.

And the world split in half.

The wolf stood there, bathed in shadow and moonlight. Towering. Muscled. Massive. Its amber eyes gleamed like twin suns, fixed solely on you. Its breath came heavy, the sound guttural and animal and wrong.

You didn’t understand.

You couldn’t understand.

Then it moved.

Fast. Too fast.

You screamed as its weight slammed into you, hurling you backward. You crashed to the floor, your head cracking against the boards with a sickening thud. Pain exploded across your vision, stars blooming behind your eyes.

You barely had time to breathe before it was on you.

Claws tore through your coat, then your skin. Blood spattered the walls. You screamed again, voice raw and terrified. The wolf’s snarl was deafening, fangs snapping inches from your face. You scrambled, twisted, tried to crawl away, but it was no use. Another rake of claws—your shoulder. Your side.

You sobbed, pain white-hot and everywhere.

From the front of the shack, you heard the door shake violently.

“Moony!” James’s voice, frantic. “Moony! No!!”

“She’s in there!” Sirius screamed. “She’s in with him!”

You kicked, thrashed, felt blood soaking into the wood beneath you.

The shack shook from the weight of them slamming into the door.

“Open it! Open it!” James was screaming.

You tried to call out—but your throat barely worked, raw with terror and smoke and blood.

“Remus, Stop!” Sirius shouted, voice cracking.

“It’s her—it’s her!” James bellowed. “Moony, no, no, no, no, gosh!”

But the wolf didn’t stop.

It kept going.

And you lay there, barely breathing, praying they would break the door down in time.

You stumbled back, heart slamming against your ribs, and the beast—Remus—stalked forward, claws scraping against the wooden floor with each step. His eyes—those eyes you’d known for so long, gentle and warm—were wild now, feral with hunger and rage.

He lunged, the force of it sending a gust of wind spiraling through the room.

“Remus!” you cried, voice cracking with desperation, but there was nothing human in his gaze—just the moon’s curse and the monster it carved from him.

He turned, shoulders heaving with each breath, and for a moment, you swore you saw something flicker in his eyes. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that primal hunger.

He snarled again, saliva dripping from his fangs, and you scrambled backward, mind racing for an escape.

Your back hit the far wall with a thud, dust and debris scattering from the impact. Remus prowled closer, head low, eyes locked onto yours like prey.

You were shaking, adrenaline burning through your veins as you searched frantically for a way out—any way out. But there was nothing. Just you and him, trapped in the confines of this cursed shack.

The breath rattled from your lungs as he lunged again.

Agony burst across your stomach as claws tore through you like paper. Your scream shattered the silence.

Blood spilled hot and fast, soaking your clothes, splattering across the floor. Another slash—your thigh, deep and unrelenting. Your vision fractured with pain, body writhing beneath him as you tried to crawl away, but he pinned you easily.

Claws dug into your ribs. Fangs grazed your shoulder. You could hear your own heartbeat, deafening, drowning everything else out. The air stank of blood and sweat and the sharp edge of death. You sobbed, barely able to breathe, choking on the taste of iron and fear.

Then—the shack door burst open with a splintering crack.

Sirius came first, Padfoot in full form, fur bristling, eyes blazing.

He threw himself at the wolf with a savage growl, tackling Moony off you with all his strength.

The force of the impact sent them both crashing into the far wall. You were left gasping, blinking through blood and splinters and shock.

James followed—Prongs—before shifting back mid-step, falling to his knees at your side.

“Hey. Hey, no, no, no,” he breathed, voice shaking, hands hovering over your wounds like he didn’t know where to touch, where to start. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

But you weren’t. You could feel yourself slipping, the cold creeping in.

You turned your head just enough to see the trail of blood stretching behind you, the smear of crimson across the wood. Your hand twitched, fingers stained red.

The last thing you saw was Sirius, still fighting tooth and claw to hold Remus back, and James’s face—ashen, eyes wide with something between guilt and horror.

You were here because they kept secrets. And secrets are heavy things to carry.

You woke to pain.

It throbbed in waves, hot and pulsing and sharp, blooming in your abdomen and thigh. Every breath was a struggle, every inch of movement a riot of agony beneath your skin.

The air was cold, sterile, heavy with antiseptic. The ceiling above you was white stone, too clean, too quiet. The scent of blood clung to your skin. You blinked, your vision swimming, your mouth dry and thick with the taste of iron and betrayal.

And then—realization. It hit like another wound. Remus. The wolf. Lycanthropy. That’s what they had been hiding. That’s what James had refused to tell you, what Sirius had laughed off, what Remus had always tucked behind those sad eyes and hollow smiles.

You remembered it now—his eyes, glowing in the dark; the snarl that tore from his throat; the claws, the fangs, the way the pain swallowed you whole.

He had mauled you.

The door creaked open with a quiet groan, and James was there in an instant.

He nearly stumbled into the room, hair wild, eyes wild, like he hadn’t slept. His chest was heaving as he rushed to your side, voice already breaking.

"You’re awake—thank Merlin—" He dropped to his knees beside the bed, reaching for your hand but hesitating at the last second when he saw the bandages wrapped around it. "You—you're okay. You're safe now. We got you out. We—"

But before he could finish, Sirius was in the doorway, shoulders tense, face pale and drawn.

One step in—and James turned on him like a storm breaking.

"No. No, get out."

Sirius flinched. "James—"

"No!" James shoved him, not holding back. "She’s bleeding, Sirius! There was so much blood—I couldn’t—I didn’t know if she was breathing—"

Sirius’s voice cracked. "Jamie, please—she’s my girlfriend too—"

James slammed him back against the wall, rage surging.

"Don’t fucking 'Jamie' me right now, Sirius! Remus is out there asking where she is, completely clueless about what happened—what the fuck are you gonna tell him? Huh? You gonna say you brought Snape In as a prank, and instead our girlfriend snuck into the shack and got ripped apart?"

"Is that what you’re gonna say?”

Sirius flinched like the words had struck him in the face. His eyes were glassy now, guilt etched so deeply into the hollows of his cheeks it looked like it might never leave.

His lips parted as if to defend himself but there was nothing firm behind the breath he drew in. Nothing solid enough to hold against James’s rage.

“I didn’t know she followed—” he tried, voice trailing off into silence like it couldn’t bear the weight of the truth.

“But you knew what that shack was,” James snapped, louder now, voice raw and fraying. “You knew what Moony was. You knew what would happen.”

They were so close now they could’ve been mirrors of fury and betrayal. Chest to chest, heart to heart, breathing like it hurt.

The kind of closeness that had once meant brotherhood, now sparking with something jagged and breaking.

“You think saying she’s my girlfriend too makes it better?” James’s hands were shaking and his mouth twisted like he was choking on grief. “You endangered all of us—Snape, her, Moony—because you wanted to mess around like it was a fucking joke.”

Sirius tried to speak again, but his voice came out cracked and too soft to stand on. “I didn’t mean—”

“You never mean to,” James said, and this time it wasn’t a shout. It was something worse.

His voice dropped into that space where hurt lived, where betrayal was a living thing in the room.

“That’s the problem. You never think past the spark of it. It’s always a fire to you, isn’t it? A dare, a thrill. And now she—”

You were sitting up now, breath catching like it didn’t know how to move through your chest anymore.

Their voices filled the room like smoke, thick and impossible to swallow, and still they didn’t see you. Still they didn’t stop.

The anger curled in you like a second pulse, slow and volcanic, fed by the sound of your name twisted in their mouths like an afterthought.

You looked down at your body, at the map of pain they’d drawn across your skin, at the bandages tight around your arms and side and thigh.

You reached for one with trembling fingers and peeled it back slowly, too slowly, like your body was a secret you weren’t supposed to see.

The wound beneath was deep and still red-raw, an angry thing that refused to scab. You stared at it, not blinking. As if staring long enough would make it make sense.

As if blood had a language you could finally understand.

What stared back at you were jagged, red scars, the kind that didn’t heal clean. Bite marks turned purple at the edges, cruel crescents sinking into your skin like the moon had tried to eat you alive.

Deep gashes crossed your side in a brutal lattice, torn flesh barely held together by uneven stitching and the trembling hands of someone too late. A shudder rolled through you, slow and relentless, like something crawling beneath your skin.

You would carry these forever.

Your hand rose to your neck, fingers ghosting over the place where you remembered teeth grazing bone, where the pain had cracked you open from the inside.

You didn’t need a mirror to see it. It was carved into memory. A sob caught in your throat, not loud, but sharp enough to hurt.

"Get out," you said, your voice low and cracked like dry earth before the storm.

They didn’t hear you. They were still yelling, still wrapped in their own pain, their own shame, drowning in the echo of their guilt while you sat there bleeding.

"I said get out!" your voice shattered through the room like glass, and the noise stopped instantly.

The silence rang.

They turned to you slowly, like they’d just remembered you were there, like it hadn’t occurred to them that the thing they were fighting about had ears and a spine and a soul.

James took a hesitant step forward, his eyes soft with apology, but you met him with something he hadn’t seen in you before. Not fear. Not even heartbreak. Just fury, quiet and precise, the kind of anger born from betrayal that simmers instead of explodes.

"You kept this from me," you said, each word dragged from somewhere deep, somewhere scorched.

"All of you. You let me walk in there blind. You let me bleed for a secret that was never mine to carry."

James opened his mouth but no words followed. Nothing could. His guilt hollowed him, but you didn’t care. Not anymore.

Sirius looked wrecked, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you, but your eyes stopped him cold.

You didn’t want to see his sorrow. You didn’t want to be comforted by the hands that led you to the edge and watched you fall.

"I almost died because of your secrets," you whispered, and though your voice trembled, it rang with steel. "Because none of you trusted me enough to tell the truth. You called it love, and then you let me be devoured by it."

They were silent. Boys made of noise, finally quiet. And somehow that silence was louder than their shouting ever was.

You looked at the door, then back to them, the air around you sharp as broken promises.

"Out," you said again, quieter now, but it cut deeper for it.

Neither of them argued. They didn’t beg or explain or try to fix what had already bled too long. They just turned, slowly, and walked away.

The door shut behind them with a hollow click.

And the silence that followed was unbearable.

Not because it was empty.

But because it sounded exactly like the moment you realized you were alone.

It echoed louder than the shouting, louder than the pain, louder than the memories still clawing at the edges of your mind. The silence didn’t offer peace—it rang like a scream swallowed too late, like the lingering howl of something wild and ruined.

You sat there in it, trembling, your hands shaking in your lap, the gauze dark with the slow seep of blood.

You stared down at them, fingers twitching like they didn’t belong to you, like maybe none of this belonged to you, not the pain, not the scarred skin, not even the breath you were struggling to draw in.

Each inhale scraped your throat like broken glass, each exhale trembled beneath the weight of everything they never told you.

The tears came suddenly—choking, ungraceful things, messy and aching. They clawed up from somewhere you hadn’t known existed, from the place where trust once lived.

They spilled past your defenses, soaked your cheeks, made your chest rise and fall in ugly, shuddering sobs.

You pressed a trembling hand to your mouth to trap the sound, to make yourself small, but the grief pushed through your fingers anyway, raw and human and desperate.

You didn’t want to be here. Not in this bed, not in this room, not in the body that remembered every second too well.

You didn’t want to be near that shack, or that truth, or those boys whose love had been too conditional, too secret, too much like a trap. Not when it all still clung to your skin like smoke, like something scorched into you that wouldn’t come off, no matter how hard you tried to forget.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed. Pain flared like fire beneath your skin, sharp and blinding, but you gritted your teeth and bit down on the sound.

You forced yourself upright, spine shaking, the world tilting like it didn’t know where to place you anymore. You reached for the nightstand, knuckles white around the edge, and steadied yourself against the weight of gravity and grief alike.

Madam Pomfrey would return soon. She would ask questions—about the bite marks on your shoulder, the blood staining your sheets, the torn muscle stitched back into place like fabric.

Dumbledore would be informed. Whispers would curl through the corridors. Rumors would spread, sprouting like weeds in spring. You could already hear them.

You didn’t want to lie. You weren’t sure you even could. But the truth? The truth was worse.

The truth was a monster’s name whispered behind closed doors.

The truth was betrayal in the shape of friendship.

The truth was pain that had no neat answer, no punishment that could make it make sense.

You took a step. Then another. Every motion dragged behind the last like you were underwater, like your body was remembering how to exist and failing.

It hurt in places you hadn’t thought could ache—bone-deep, nerve-deep, the kind of hurt that didn’t just throb but screamed.

You passed the mirror near the infirmary door and caught sight of yourself.

You stopped.

Your reflection stared back like something unrecognizable. There was dried blood in your hair, matted at the roots like rust. Bruises bloomed along your collarbone and down your arms like ink spilled under the skin.

The bandage over your ribs had darkened, blood soaking through in slow, patient circles. Your lips were cracked. Your eyes—God, your eyes.

You looked like a ghost still wandering the world, too stubborn or too broken to realize it had died.

You turned away before you could recognize yourself, before your reflection could speak back all the truths you weren’t ready to hear.

You didn’t know where you were going.

You just knew you couldn’t stay.

The hall was dim and quiet, cloaked in the kind of stillness that only came long after midnight had folded over the world. The torches burned low, their flames flickering soft shadows across stone, and even the portraits lining the walls seemed to sleep, their painted eyes closed or turned away.

Your footsteps echoed in the emptiness—slow, uneven things that barely registered, like the castle itself was trying not to notice you. Each step jarred your side, sharp pain flashing behind your eyes, blooming like lightning beneath your skin.

One hand clutched your ribs, your breath catching each time your heel met stone.

Maybe you should’ve stayed in bed. Maybe you should’ve screamed louder when it happened. Maybe you shouldn’t have followed the sound at all.

You could trace every mistake in your mind, each one lit like a torch in the dark, but none of it mattered now. Not really. Not when the damage was already done. Not when the blood had already soaked the floor, your skin, your memory.

You were already bleeding.

You made it to the end of the corridor before the tears found you again, rising from the pit of your stomach like a storm breaking loose. You crumpled without grace, back to the wall, forehead pressed hard to the cool stone as if it might hold you together.

You didn’t bother to stifle the sob that slipped from your mouth, cracked and breathless. Let the castle hear it. Let the ghosts carry it through the walls, let them whisper your name into every corner of this place. Let every brick and beam know exactly what had happened. Let the truth echo where their silence had lived.

You were in this mess because people you loved had looked you in the eye and decided you didn’t deserve the truth.

And through the sobs, through the broken air and the trembling of your limbs, that thought was the one that stayed.

This didn’t have to happen.

You could’ve stayed safe. You could’ve stayed whole. But they let you walk in blind. They let you bleed for something that was never yours to carry.

Pain flared again, a cruel spike up your side, white-hot and dragging like a knife pulled slow—but it was nothing compared to what twisted beneath your ribs.

You pressed your palm to your stomach, to the bandages under your robes, and for a moment you hoped the sharpness would ground you, keep you tethered.

Instead, it felt like drowning, like trying to breathe through water, through memory, through the echo of a scream that wouldn’t stop playing behind your eyes.

You thought of the Shack. Of the way the air smelled inside, coppery and wrong. You thought of the creak of old wood under your feet. Of the sound his bones made when they broke—sharp, wet, unforgettable. Of the stillness just before the scream shattered the world.

And you broke.

The sob that tore from your throat wasn’t soft. It was jagged, ugly, ripped straight from the center of you. Another followed, then another, and then you were falling—knees folding, back sliding down the stone, until you were curled on the cold floor, cheek pressed to it, chest heaving with each desperate breath.

Your body shook with the force of it, and still the sound came, raw and real and unrelenting.

It was too much. Too much to carry. Too much to name. Too much to bury beneath bandages and silence.

You didn’t even realize you were whispering his name until it left your lips.

"Remus…"

Just a breath. A ghost of a sound. But it shattered something in you. Cracked the dam wide open.

Because he didn’t know. He didn’t know what he had done.

And somehow—God, somehow—that made it worse.

That you had been ripped apart by someone who would never remember. That the hands that once traced poems into your skin had unknowingly rewritten you in blood.

That the boy who looked at you like you were the first star he’d ever seen was the same one who had carved your name into the floorboards with claw and fang.

You curled in tighter, arms wrapped around your ribs, trying—failing—to hold yourself together. But everything inside you was unraveling. Your breath hitched, broken. Your fingers trembled like your bones were afraid. You could still feel it—all of it.

The weight of him, wild and terrible. The heat of breath on your neck. The moment skin gave way.

You remembered his smile. The one he saved just for you. You remembered how his voice softened when he said your name, like he couldn’t believe it belonged to him for even a second.

You remembered how he once said, “You shouldn’t love me.” And now you knew why.

Because teeth remember hunger. Because wolves don’t ask permission. Because even the gentlest boy can disappear beneath the moonlight.

But oh, God, you hated that he didn't know. That he would wake up in the morning with his soul intact while you were left stitching yours together in the dark.

You pressed your hand to the wound at your side, felt the throb of it echo through your whole body. You wanted to forget. You wanted to go back. You wanted him to be anything but the thing that had hurt you.

You didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

The boy and the beast. The hands that once brushed your cheek like a promise, and the claws that had torn through your skin like paper. The mouth that had whispered your name like it meant something—and the one that had bitten down to the bone. It was all the same now.

One shape, one shadow, stitched into the fabric of your memory with blood and betrayal. You couldn’t separate him from it. You weren’t sure you wanted to.

You pressed your forehead to the cold stone wall, the chill biting into your skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire still burning inside you. Your tears came hot and fast, streaking your cheeks, scalding your lips.

You tried to swallow them back, to bury the noise, but your body wouldn’t obey. You wanted to scream. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to tear yourself apart just to match the way he’d already broken you open.

But all you could do was sit there. And feel it.

You hated him. You loved him. You hated that you loved him. You hated that the boy who had once kissed your temple like it was sacred was the same one who’d left you bleeding in the dirt.

Maybe if they'd told me, you thought bitterly, each word laced with salt and fury, I wouldn’t have followed that sound.

Maybe if they’d trusted me with the truth, I would’ve run the other way.

Maybe if I’d known what he was, I wouldn’t be standing here trying to forgive something that nearly killed me.

But they hadn’t.

So now you knew.

Remus was a wolf.

James and Sirius were liars.

And you were just the wreckage left behind.

The pain grounded you for a moment. Not enough. You remembered James shouting. Sirius pleading. Both of them drowning in their own guilt and still too proud to hand you a life raft. They hadn’t told you because they were afraid. Not for you—but for him.

You meant less than the secret.

You were an acceptable loss.

You forced yourself to stand, legs trembling, hands white-knuckled against the stone. You thought your knees might give out, but you didn’t care.

You had to see him. You had to know. If he still had your voice in his bones. If anything in him recognized the destruction he’d left behind.

You limped through the hallway like a shadow. The castle around you was too quiet, too still, as if it knew something had gone terribly wrong and was trying not to breathe.

Your side ached with every step. The bandages beneath your robes were warm and wet, and you didn’t want to know if it was fresh blood or just the old wounds leaking again. It didn’t matter. You felt hollow. Not empty—stripped.

You walked past the portraits, but none stirred. Even the ghosts seemed to shrink from you. Maybe they recognized you now. Not as a student. But as someone touched by death.

And then—shouting.

Ragged, desperate. Voices you knew.

Your heart twisted violently, nausea rising. You quickened your pace despite the pain, your breath hitching with every step. The ache in your chest sharpened as you turned a corner and—

Remus was screaming.

James had both arms locked tight around him, teeth grit as he struggled to keep Remus from hurling himself down the corridor.

Every inch of Remus's body fought against him, wild and unhinged, as if the rage had torn through muscle and bone and made something feral of him all over again.

"You brought Snape?!" he shouted, voice cracking with disbelief. "Are you fucking serious, Sirius?! You brought him—there—knowing what I am?!"

Sirius didn’t move. He stood like a statue, hands shoved into the pockets of his robes, jaw clenched, eyes hard.

"I didn’t think he’d actually go in," he said flatly. "I thought he’d get scared. Turn back."

"You thought—?" Remus’s breath hitched, then came out in something like a growl. "You don’t get to think, Sirius. You don’t get to gamble with that."

He thrashed in James’s arms again.

"And where the fuck is she?! Why is no one telling me where Y/N is?!"

James held tighter.

"Moony, don’t—"

"Don’t what?" Remus twisted around to face him. "Don’t ask why no one will look me in the fucking eye?! Don’t ask where the girl I—" His voice caught, strangled in his throat. "Where is she?"

And then he saw you.

The world stopped moving.

You stood at the far end of the hall, pressed against the stone wall like it might hold you up if your legs gave out. Your shirt was torn at the shoulder. The bandages had come loose. Blood had soaked through. A thin line of bruising curled along your cheekbone. The mark on your collarbone—his mark—was dark and angry and violet.

Remus's gaze dropped to your arms, your limp, slow steps. Then back to James.

"I did that," he whispered. The words seemed to strike him in the throat. "Didn’t I?"

James looked at the floor. That was answer enough.

Remus folded to his knees like his body had finally realized the weight of the truth. His hands hit the ground. He stared down at the stone like it might split open beneath him.

"Tell me I didn’t," he murmured. "Tell me I didn’t do that. Please, James. Tell me I didn’t do this."

No one spoke.

"Tell me I didn’t hurt her," he begged, louder now. "Tell me I didn’t—"

"You don’t remember," you said.

Your voice didn’t echo. It didn’t need to.

Three heads snapped toward you. But you only looked at him.

Remus's breath caught. He looked like he’d been stabbed.

"I—I don’t remember what happens," he stammered. "I never do. I wake up, and I’m—covered in blood, and I never know if it’s mine or someone else’s and—"

He clawed at his own sleeves, nails digging through fabric, through skin, desperate to feel pain that might match what was screaming inside his chest.

James tried to steady him, arms still locked tight around his shoulders, but Remus tore away with a howl that didn’t sound human.

“I tore her apart,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “I—I felt it—I smelled blood—I wanted it—Merlin, I wanted it—” He curled forward like the words had gutted him, fingers clutching at his head.

“I should be locked up. I should be dead.”

“No,” James said firmly, stepping forward, but Remus flinched and scrambled back like he’d touched fire.

“Don’t—don’t touch me—I’m not—I’m not safe—” He looked at you again, and this time, he really saw you.

Your limp. Your wince. Your bruises and the slow, shaking breath you took just to stay standing. His entire body stilled. Then: he crawled backwards, hands raised, like distance might erase the horror.

“I hurt you.”

Your name was a sob in his throat.

“I hurt you—I knew I would—I told them to keep me away—I told them—fuck—”

“Remus,” you whispered.

He looked away.

“Remus,” you said again, louder this time, voice cracked but sure.

“I’m a monster,” he choked out, voice barely more than a strangled whisper. “Don’t come near me. Please—I’ll hurt you again. I will.”

You took a step forward anyway, ignoring the scream of pain in your leg and the sharp crack of your ribs.

Every breath was a jagged knife, but something inside you refused to stay still.

“I said don’t!” he roared suddenly, flinching hard enough to slam his back against the cold stone wall. His hands flew up to cover his face, as if he couldn’t bear to see the damage—your pain, his pain, everything shattered between you.

“Please. I’ll ruin you. I ruin everything. Don’t—please—”

But you couldn’t stop. You wouldn’t stop.

Each step was a struggle, your body trembling with exhaustion and fear. Five staggering steps. Then you dropped to your knees in front of him, breathless and broken, the room tilting around you.

And then, without thinking, you wrapped your arms around him.

Every muscle tensed, every breath caught in his chest. For a long, endless moment, he didn’t move at all.

You were warm. Solid. Real. Against the ruins of his skin, against the guilt that was tearing him apart from the inside—you were alive.

And you were holding him.

He tried to pull away, voice frantic and raw. “No—no, don’t—I don’t deserve this—I hurt you—”

“I know,” you whispered softly, your voice a fragile thread in the silence, sinking into his hair, his chest, every ragged breath he took. “I know.”

He started to cry again—violently, uncontrollably. The kind of sobs that wrench a person apart from the inside out. His body shook like he was trying to shake free from some invisible weight dragging him under. His breaths came in ragged, broken gasps, each one tearing at his chest with fresh agony.

You could feel the rawness in him, the shattered pieces trembling just beneath the surface. And still, you held on tighter, as if your arms could somehow keep him from falling all the way apart.

“You’re not a monster,” you whispered, your voice low and steady, a lifeline thrown across the storm.

You said it again, over and over, even when his head shook so hard it seemed like it might come off his shoulders.

Even when he whispered, so broken it barely sounded like words, yes I am.

Even when his fingers clawed at the floor, desperate and frantic, as if tearing at the ground could tear him out of his own skin.

“You’re not a monster. You’re not a monster. You’re not.”

Your words became a chant, a prayer. You said them so many times you thought your throat might break.

But still, you kept saying them. Because if you didn’t, who else would? If you didn’t believe it for him, then how could he ever believe it for himself?

Then, slowly, painfully, he collapsed into you. It was as if he’d been falling forever, and for the first time he found something to catch him—a place to land, even if it was fragile and trembling beneath the weight of his grief. His body sagged against yours, heavy and defeated.

You cradled his head in your shaking hands, fingers threading through his hair as though anchoring him to the world. You held him through the sobs, through the storm, through the unbearable silence between each tear.

“I forgive you.”

And again.

“I forgive you.”

Your voice cracked, raw with all the tears you hadn’t even realized were falling down your cheeks. Your throat burned like fire from saying it so many times. Your bandages pressed painfully against his skin, a sharp reminder that your body, too, was broken. But still, you said it—because someone had to say it.

Because sometimes forgiveness is the hardest thing to give and the most necessary thing to hear.

“I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you.”

Remus broke completely. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close as if you were the only solid thing left in the world.

His face buried deep in your shoulder, muffling the desperate whispers of I’m sorry that spilled from his lips like a litany, like a prayer, like a curse he couldn’t undo. The weight of those words hung heavy between you, suffocating and real.

Maybe some wounds could never fully heal. Maybe some mistakes could never be undone. But you held him anyway, steady and sure, even when your own body trembled with pain.

Because sometimes, love is the only thing strong enough to hold two broken people together when everything else falls apart.

He didn’t look up. His head hung low, shoulders trembling with a quiet, desperate shudder. His breaths came in ragged gasps, shallow and uneven, like the air itself was betraying him.

Your fingers found his face, trembling as you gently cupped his cheeks, warm beneath your cold touch.

For a moment, he froze—still as if your presence was something fragile, something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“Look at me,” you whispered, voice soft but firm.

You pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling, heart pounding loud enough you were sure he could hear it. “Remus. Please. Look at me.”

Slowly—agonizingly slow—his eyes lifted, meeting yours.

What you saw there nearly shattered you.

It wasn’t guilt. Not even horror. It was grief. Endless, bone-deep, all-consuming grief.

Like he had already buried you somewhere inside his mind and didn’t know how to find his way back to the living world. Like a weight pressed so hard on his chest he couldn’t breathe without breaking.

You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing a tear away as it slipped silently down his face.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, voice trembling but steady.

His breath hitched, caught somewhere between hope and despair.

“It’s not,” he croaked, voice raw and broken.

“But I’m here.”

You let the silence stretch between you, letting your touch be the anchor in the storm of his pain. Letting the quiet speak the words you both couldn’t say aloud.

Then, with a gentle nudge, you reached up and helped him to his feet.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t question. Just followed as you led him down the corridor, your fingers laced with his, your steps slow and uneven.

He swayed as he stood, unsteady, eyes still glassy with unshed tears. He didn’t let go of your hand.

You didn’t let go of him either.

Your fingers laced through his, and you took a small step forward. He followed. Another step. Another.

You guided him through the corridor like that, hand in hand, limping slightly with each movement but refusing to stop. His steps were heavy, dragging, as if every footfall carried the weight of what he’d done. But he followed you.

When you reached the bathroom, you nudged the door open with your shoulder and led him inside.

The light was dim. Everything smelled like old tile and lavender soap. The only sound was the drip of a tap and the hush of your breaths. You turned the knobs with aching fingers, letting warm water spill into the tub, steam curling into the air like a kind of gentleness neither of you had known in days.

He stood by the door, unmoving.

You stepped toward him again, slower this time, and reached for the hem of his shirt.

He flinched.

“I can go,” you said, voice low, careful.

He looked at you—just looked—and then, finally, shook his head

You peeled the tattered shirt off his frame, revealing bruises and scratches and old scars that mapped out years of hurt across his skin. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look away. You undid the buttons of his trousers, helped him step out of them, folding them into a soft pile on the counter.

He didn’t speak. He only watched you with wide, haunted eyes, as if each tender movement was something he couldn’t understand.

Like he didn’t know what to do with this softness.

You reached for his hand again.

“Come on,” you said quietly. “It’s warm.”

He let you guide him into the tub. The water rose around him, lapping gently at his arms and shoulders. He shivered—not from cold, but from everything.

You knelt beside the tub, dipping a cloth into the water, wringing it out. Then, slowly, you brought it to his skin.

You washed him the way you’d cradle something delicate.

You ran the cloth down his arm. Across his shoulder. Behind his ear. Over his chest, where his heart beat wild and trembling under your hand.

You bathed him in silence, each movement slow and deliberate, as if you could wash away the weight of everything between you. Your hands trembled slightly as you carefully wiped the dried blood from his fingers, tracing the lines of his knuckles where the skin was torn and raw.

You cleaned the sweat that clung to his brow, cool and sticky beneath your touch. Then you pressed your palm gently over his heart, feeling the faint, uneven thud beneath your palm—a stubborn, fragile reminder that it was still beating, still alive.

He didn’t meet your eyes. Didn’t say a word. Just sat there, water swirling around him, eyes distant and unfocused, lost somewhere far away, in a place you couldn’t reach—yet.

But you promised yourself, silently, fiercely, that you would reach him. No matter how long it took. No matter how many walls he built around himself.

He was still there when you finally broke the silence. Your voice was soft, almost fragile, like a whisper carrying through the fog.

“I wish someone had told me,” you said quietly, not daring to meet his gaze. “I wish you had told me.”

Remus tensed beneath the water, muscles knotting, and you felt it through your fingertips. You wrung the cloth between your fingers, heart pounding with every second of silence that stretched between you.

“I don’t care how painful it would’ve been,” you added, voice steadier now, more certain. “I deserved to know.”

He exhaled slowly, as if the words themselves carved into him. “I didn’t want you to see me that way.”

Your tone sharpened, the raw hurt breaking through your calm. “You didn’t get to decide that for me. You don’t get to protect me by lying. Not when it nearly killed me.”

The weight of those words fell heavy into the space between you. For a moment, the only sound was the faint drip of water from the cloth.

Then his eyes lifted slowly, meeting yours for the first time in what felt like forever—fragile, vulnerable, full of everything he’d been too scared to say.

“I didn’t think you'd ever look at me the same,” he whispered, voice cracking under the weight of his fear. “If you knew.”

A bitter laugh escaped your throat, sharp and sudden, breaking the tension.

“You think I don’t see you now? You think I’m not looking at you, right now, with every part of me?”

He swallowed hard, eyes flickering with something almost like hope.

“I see you, Remus. All of you. I see the way you flinch from love like it’s a blade. I see the grief carved into your silence. I see the boy who would rather bury himself than risk hurting someone else.”

Your gaze dropped to your hands—wounded, trembling, wrapped in ragged bandages—and the pain in your voice was honest, unfiltered. “But I also see the boy who never trusted me enough to tell me the truth. And that… that hurts more than any scar.”

He looked broken, hollowed out in a way that left your chest aching, but he didn’t turn away. Didn’t close his eyes. Instead, his voice came, raw and low.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. “I should’ve told you. I should’ve trusted you.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of your words settling between you like a fragile promise. “Yes. You should’ve.”

The steam from the warm water curled around your faces, softening the harsh edges of everything unsaid, blurring the sharp lines of pain into something almost gentle.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just breathing in the shared silence. Then he leaned forward, his forehead resting lightly against yours, a quiet gesture that spoke of tentative hope and fragile trust.

“I want to try,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “If you’ll let me.”

Your own voice trembled as it broke free. “Start by telling me everything.”

He nodded again, slower this time, like anchoring himself to the present. And with that, something shifted—an opening, a fragile thread weaving back between you.

And this time, he did.

It came slowly at first, like drawing words from the marrow of his bones—halting, rough, like he’d forgotten how to shape language without flinching.

He told you what he could remember from that night—shards of memory coated in blood and fear, barely coherent. He told you what it felt like to lose himself, to slip out of time, to wake up in a skin that didn’t feel like his own.

The nightmares that curled around his ribcage. The silence that tasted like penance. The months—years—spent learning how to live without letting anyone close enough to see the damage. How he'd convinced himself that silence was kindness, that distance was protection, that truth was a luxury people like him couldn’t afford.

And still, you listened.

You didn’t interrupt. You didn’t turn away. You let his voice break against you like waves on a cliffside, let him collapse into pauses and shake through the parts he couldn’t finish. You held the silence between his sentences like it was something sacred. Even when it hurt.

Even when it cracked open something raw and old inside your chest. Because somewhere inside you, you knew—this wasn’t just a story he was telling. It was a confession. A quiet unraveling.

Not everything was said. Not everything could be. There were still silences he couldn’t break open and wounds you weren’t sure how to touch. But it was a beginning. A single stone placed in what might one day be a bridge.

And still, there was so much more.

The things Sirius had done—reckless, cruel, even if born of desperation—hung in the air like smoke that would not clear. You had not spoken to him since it all unraveled. You were not sure what you would say.

You didn’t know if Remus would ever find it in himself to forgive Sirius, or to trust him again. Some things fracture differently. Some betrayals do not bleed clean.

And James, with his steady eyes and soft-spoken guilt, had kept his own silences. Even he, who had always tried to protect you, had made choices that left you cut open.

All three of them had lied in different ways. Lied in the name of protection. Lied out of fear. Lied out of love. And those lies still lingered in the spaces behind your teeth. You hadn’t even begun to decide what to do with that.

You knew, deep down, that some scars would not close. That no amount of tenderness could undo certain kinds of damage. That some trust, once fractured, might never return in the shape it once held.

You had changed. They had, too. And now you would have to figure out if those new shapes could still fit beside one another without splintering again.

You would have to grieve what you’d lost—who you’d been before all this. You would have to learn how to trust again, not just them, but yourself. Your instincts. Your worth. You’d have to forgive the parts of you that stayed too quiet, too long. You would carry this with you, no matter how far you ran—these bruised memories, these broken truths—but you didn’t have to carry them alone anymore.

Healing would not be a soft road.

There would be nights you’d wake trembling. Days the anger would rise without warning. There would be guilt, and fear, and moments when you weren’t sure if you could keep choosing to stay.

But there would also be mornings, slow and gold. There would be laughter again, strange at first, then easier. There would be cups of tea gone cold on the windowsill. A hand held out when you least expected it. A voice calling you back when you wandered too far.

But you also knew this. You were no longer alone in it.

You helped Remus out of the tub when the water turned cold. He was quiet, pliant, letting you wrap the towel around his shaking shoulders. His head tilted toward yours as you led him through the dim apartment, your steps slow but steady, his breath catching in the hush between rooms.

You found him a fresh shirt, helped him into bed without asking, and tucked the blanket over his trembling limbs. He lay still as stone, but his fingers found yours. And held.

You sat beside him, watching the moonlight shift across the floorboards, and for a while, neither of you spoke.

When Remus finally turned to face you, his expression was soft with exhaustion, but something in his eyes had steadied.

He took your hand again, thumb grazing the inside of your wrist like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of you.

“Do you think,” he asked, his voice just above a whisper, “there’s a chance for us? After everything?”

The question lingered between you. Not desperate. Not demanding. Just honest.

You took a breath and met his gaze. “Yes,” you said. “I do.”

His hand tightened gently in yours. He closed his eyes for a moment, like he was letting that answer settle inside his chest.

Then he looked at you again, quieter this time.

“For keeps?”

You blinked, heart rising painfully. You didn’t hesitate.

“For keeps.”

a/n: this is so over the place, i am so sorry anon </3

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buckystevelove · 2 months ago

Text

Are you mine?

Warnings- Angst, Steve and Bucky are idiots.

Being in love with Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes felt like living in a dream.

A dream so perfect, so utterly untouchable, that even the ghosts of the past couldn’t tarnish it. The three of you had fought wars together, bled together, and survived against impossible odds. You trusted them with your life and, more importantly, with your heart.

Steve, ever the protector, held your hand through the nightmares, his voice a quiet promise in the dark. Bucky, all sharp wit and unspoken devotion, pressed kisses into your hair when he thought you weren’t paying attention. They made you feel safe, like nothing in the world could shake the foundation of what you had.

You belonged to them, and they belonged to you.

The compound had always been your sanctuary, a place where the weight of being an assassin and an Avenger didn’t feel so heavy.

Missions were brutal, but coming home to them made it worth it. Your mornings were tangled limbs and soft murmurs, their warmth pulling you from restless sleep. Your nights were laughter and whispered confessions, hands intertwined beneath the sheets.

Everything was fine, until she arrived.

A trainee named Cassidy.

Sent to the compound for a few days of “intense training” with the Avengers. Young, eager at least, that’s what Fury had said. But from the moment she walked through the doors, it was clear training was the last thing on her mind.

You caught the way her eyes lingered on Steve's broad shoulders, the way she smiled just a little too sweetly when Bucky grunted in response to something she said. You noticed the way she conveniently positioned herself between them whenever she could, the way her touch lingered just a second too long.

It was nothing. Just admiration, maybe even hero worship. You told yourself that, again and again. Steve and Bucky were yours. They loved you.

And yet… doubt had a way of creeping in, even where trust once lived.

For the first time in a long time, you felt something unfamiliar in your own home.

Unease.

You weren’t the jealous type, you had no reason to be, not when Steve and Bucky had given you every reassurance, every reason to trust them. And you did trust them. You trusted them blindly.

But can you trust the world?

Trust didn’t stop the ache in your chest when you saw Cassidy wedged between them on the couch, laughing at something Bucky said. It didn’t stop the sting when Steve placed a comforting hand on her back, so absentmindedly, so effortlessly, like it was second nature.

Like it was something he used to do for you.

You stood frozen in the doorway, fingers tightening around the edge of your jacket. That was your spot. That had always been your spot. Between them. Their arms around you. Their warmth surrounding you.

Now?

Now Cassidy sat there, twirling a lock of her hair, giggling, her body angled towards them like she belonged. And Steve and Bucky?

They didn’t even notice you standing there.

“You’re imagining things, Y/n.” Natasha leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping her coffee as she watched you pick at your food. She didn’t say it dismissively, but there was caution in her voice. Careful, Y/n. Don’t spiral.

“I’m not...” Your voice was hollow. You pushed your plate away and exhaled shakily. “She’s always there, Nat. Always with them. Always touching them...” You swallowed hard, shame burning in your throat. “I feel like… like I don’t exist anymore.”

Natasha sighed, setting her cup down. “Come on. You know Steve and Bucky. They’d never…”

“I know they wouldn’t.” Your fingers curled into fists. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

Natasha studied you, eyes softer now. “Talk to them, then.”

You nodded. You would. Of course, you would.

But deep down, you were terrified they wouldn’t see it, because they never seemed to see you anymore, ever since Cassidy came.

At first, it was small things.

A conversation cut short because Cassidy had a question. A training session where she suddenly needed Bucky to correct her stance, his hands on her wrists, her waist. A mission debrief where she sat beside Steve, too close, her voice too soft.

Then the canceled plans started.

“I’m sorry, Doll, but we promised we’d show Cassidy the training simulations today.”

“I’ll make it up to you, sweetheart. I swear.”

“We’ll take you out tomorrow, okay?”

Tomorrow never came.

And suddenly, your nights felt emptier. You’d wake up reaching for them, only to find cold sheets where they should have been. You weren’t sure what hurt more.

The loneliness or the fact that they didn’t even realize you were lonely.

They were still yours, weren’t they?

Then why did it feel like you were losing them?

It had been days, days since you had a proper conversation with either of them. Days since they held you like they used to. The only time you got them was at night, in bed.

And yet, there she was again, always there, standing too close to Steve as he poured coffee in the kitchen. Bucky leaned against the counter, smirking at something she said, arms crossed over his chest.

“God, Steve, I still don’t know how you carry that shield around all day.” Cassidy reached out, brushing her fingers over his bicep. “Guess it helps that you’re, like, all muscle.”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “Occupational hazard, I guess.”

“What about you, Bucky?” She turned to him, eyes bright. “I mean, that metal arm has to be heavy, right? Can I?”

“Nah, sweetheart, it’s lighter than it looks.” Bucky smirked, flexing his vibranium fingers.

Sweetheart.

Your stomach dropped, that was your name. He called you that. Not her.

Your blood ran cold as Cassidy laughed, playfully nudging Bucky’s arm. Steve smiled, amused. Not once did they notice you standing there. Not once did they feel the air shift, the way your entire world was starting to crumble.

That night, you laid in bed alone. Again.

Because, Steve and Bucky had been in the common room with Cassidy, and you couldn’t take it anymore. So you had left.

You curled into yourself, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the sob from escaping.

They were just being nice. Right?

They didn’t see what you saw. Didn’t feel what you felt. Didn’t see how much it was killing you. Right?

And you were too afraid to ask the question burning inside you, “What if they don’t miss me like I miss them?”

You didn’t know how long you had been sitting all alone in the common room.

The compound was quiet, save for the faint hum of the ventilation system. You sat curled up on the couch in the dark, staring at nothing, arms wrapped around yourself as if that could hold you together. The weight in your chest felt heavier than usual, pressing down, suffocating.

You had spent the entire day alone. Again.

They hadn’t noticed. Again.

The cushion beside you dipped, and you didn’t need to look to know who it was. Natasha.

“You’re doing that thing again…” she murmured.

You blinked. “What thing?”

“Shutting down.”

You inhaled sharply, dropping your gaze to your lap.

Natasha sighed, shifting to face you. “Sweets, talk to me.”

Natasha always called you that name, and her reason was you were the only sweet person in her life.

You shook your head. “There’s nothing to say.”

“Bullshit.” She reached out, squeezing your knee. “I see you, you know. The way you’re fading. The way you barely eat. The way you don’t sleep until you’re too exhausted to fight it anymore.”

You swallowed hard, fingers gripping the fabric of your pants.

“They love you, Sweets.” Natasha’s voice was gentle but firm. “This… whatever this is, it’s temporary. They’ll see what’s happening.”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “No, they won’t…” Your throat burned as you whispered, “They don’t see me anymore, Nat.”

Silence.

Natasha shifted closer, resting her forearm on the back of the couch. “We survived worse, you and me. Remember?”

You knew where she was leading the conversation, but you didn’t care.

“I wish I could remember.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Natasha frowned. “Remember what?”

You exhaled shakily, gaze unfocused. “How they trained us. How they made us feel nothing.”

Natasha tensed. “Don’t do that,” she warned. “Don’t go there.”

You lifted your head to meet her eyes. “Why not? It would be easier.” Your voice cracked. “I wouldn’t have to feel like this. Wouldn’t have to wake up reaching for them only to remember I don’t exist to them anymore.”

Natasha’s grip tightened on your knee. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Your smile was hollow. “They canceled our date today, Nat. Again. I was supposed to spend the evening with them. Instead, I spent it watching Cassidy laugh at Bucky’s jokes and touch Steve’s arm and…” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice barely above a whisper. “And they let her.”

Natasha’s expression darkened, but she said nothing.

You turned your gaze back to the floor. “I just… I don’t want to feel this anymore.”

She was quiet for a long time before she whispered, “You’re not in the Red Room anymore, Sweets. You have them. You have me.”

You nodded. But the ache in your chest remained, because deep down, you weren’t sure if you still had them at all.

The bed felt massive. You lay curled up on one side, facing away from the door, the covers pulled tightly around you. The scent of Steve and Bucky still lingered on the sheets, but it brought no comfort.

Then the mattress dipped.

First on one side, then the other. Warm bodies slid in beside you, their familiar presence surrounding you.

“Doll?” Steve’s voice was soft, hesitant.

Bucky shifted behind you, his arm resting loosely around your waist. “We’re sorry about earlier, sweetheart.”

Your throat burned.

“We’ll make it up to you,” Steve added quickly. “We’ve got a whole day planned for you tomorrow. Just the three of us. No interruptions, promise.”

Tomorrow.

You closed your eyes.

They had said that last time.

And the time before that.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, willing yourself to stay silent.

Bucky pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Come on, talk to us, Doll. We know you’re mad.”

Mad.

Was that what they thought this was? Your lips parted, but no words came out. Because what was the point? Tomorrow would come, and it would be the same.

Cassidy would be there.

Steve and Bucky wouldn’t notice.

And you? You would be alone again. A tear slipped down your cheek, but you kept your eyes closed. If you stayed quiet, maybe they wouldn’t hear how badly you were breaking.

Morning passed in a blur.

You moved through training sessions on autopilot, barely speaking, barely feeling. Natasha watched you carefully, her sharp gaze catching every falter, every moment you hesitated before leaving the gym. You knew she wanted to say something, but you weren’t sure if you had it in you to listen.

So you just kept going.

Kept pretending.

Kept waiting for Steve and Bucky to remember.

And then they did. Or so you thought.

“Doll, come on! Movie night’s all set up!”

Bucky’s voice rang through the hall as you made your way toward the common room, a flicker of hope stirring in your chest.

They remembered. They finally remembered.

For the first time in days, your heart didn’t feel so heavy. You ran your fingers through your hair, exhaling softly as you reached the doorway, ready to sink into the warmth of your boys.

And then you saw her.

Cassidy.

Sitting between them.

Again.

Your body locked up, breath catching in your throat. She was curled up comfortably, her legs tucked beneath her as she laughed at something Bucky whispered in her ear. Steve sat relaxed beside her, arm draped over the back of the couch, so damn close, so damn easy, like she belonged there.

Like she belonged with them.

You forced yourself to speak, though your voice barely carried. “What is she doing here?”

Steve turned, smiling at you. That easy, oblivious smile that used to make your heart race.

Now?

It made you feel sick.

“She didn’t know it was just meant to be us,” he said lightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “And we didn’t wanna be rude, so…”

You didn’t hear the rest, your ears were ringing.

They didn’t want to be rude to her. You stared at them. At her. And then you swallowed down every emotion clawing its way up your throat. “Enjoy the movie.”

That was all you said before turning on your heel and walking away.

They didn’t call after you.

Didn’t chase you.

Didn’t even notice the way your hands were trembling as you pushed open the door.

The tears came before you even reached the elevator, but you didn’t stop walking, didn’t wipe them away, didn’t care if anyone saw.

Not that they would. No one ever did.

You should have gone to your room. You should have buried yourself under the covers and let the ache consume you in silence.

But the walls were closing in too fast.

So instead, you climbed, up the emergency stairwell, up to the roof, where the air was sharp and cold, where the wind bit at your damp cheeks, where no one could see you break.

Your hands gripped the ledge as you sucked in deep, desperate breaths.

They had remembered and it still hadn’t mattered.

A hollow laugh escaped your lips, bitter and broken. You should have known, you should have known it would end up like this.

You closed your eyes, head tilting back as the city lights blurred beneath the weight of your tears.

You had never felt more alone.

By the time you came down from the roof, your tears had dried, but the weight in your chest remained, suffocating and unrelenting.

You stepped into the hallway, head down, steps quick, just wanting to reach your room, just wanting to breathe without feeling like you were drowning.

But the moment you turned the corner, you froze.

Steve.

Bucky.

And her.

They were standing there, talking, laughing.

Cassidy’s hand was on Bucky’s arm, her body tilted toward him in that way she always did, like she was drawn to him. Steve stood beside them, relaxed, like the world wasn’t crumbling around you.

Like they hadn’t just broken your heart a little more.

Their laughter died down when they saw you.

You knew they noticed your red, swollen eyes. Knew they saw the way your shoulders tensed, the way your fists clenched at your sides.

But they didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask if you were okay.

Didn’t ask where the hell you had gone.

No, Steve just frowned slightly, like he was trying to piece something together. Like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

You didn’t give him the chance, you walked past them without a word, without a glance.

Without acknowledging them at all.

And still, still they didn’t stop you.

The compound doors slammed shut behind you as you ran, your feet pounded against the pavement, muscles burning, lungs heaving, but you didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down, didn’t care where you were going, as long as it was away.

Away from the suffocating silence, away from them, away from her.

You pushed yourself harder, faster, as if you could outrun the pain clawing at your chest, the unbearable ache of being unseen by the two people who were supposed to know you best.

They had always seen you, hadn’t they? Then why did it feel like you were fading? Why did it feel like you were already gone?

You were so lost in your own head, so consumed by the roaring in your ears, that you didn’t hear the footsteps behind you until a firm hand grabbed your arm, yanking you to a stop.

“Enough.”

Natasha.

You blinked at her, breathing hard, vision blurring. But she didn’t let go. Didn’t loosen her grip. She just stared at you, her green eyes filled with something sharp, something dangerous.

Something like determination.

“I let this go on for too long,” she muttered. “That’s on me.”

You swallowed hard, chest still rising and falling in ragged breaths. “Nat…”

“No.” Her voice was steel. “You’re not doing this. You’re not running until your body gives out just because they’re too damn blind to see what’s happening.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t know what to do...”

She sighed, her hand loosening slightly but not letting go. “Then let me do something.”

Your breath hitched, but you believed in her.

Natasha had always been your anchor, your constant. You had survived hell together. She knew you better than anyone, sometimes even better than Steve and Bucky.

So when she said those words, when she looked at you like that, like she was done watching you suffer, something inside you cracked.

You swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper, “Okay.”

You hadn’t spoken much since that night, since the roof. Since Natasha found you and promised to do something.

You weren’t sure what you had expected, but you hadn’t expected him.

You sat on the rooftop again, legs pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around your knees. The city stretched out before you, endless and glowing, but all you saw was the emptiness.

The way you had been fading, the way they had let you, the way it still hurt.

You exhaled shakily, trying to push it all down, trying to keep yourself from breaking again.

“Bub.”

Your breath caught, your heart stopped, that voice.

Rough. Low. Familiar.

A voice that belonged to only one person.

You turned slowly, the cold air biting at your tear-streaked face and there he was.

Logan.

Your brother.

Standing there, broad and tense, his sharp eyes scanning you with a fury you hadn’t seen in a long time, his jaw clenched.

SNIKT.

The sound of his claws unsheathing was sharp, deadly, cutting through the silence like a blade to the heart.

His eyes darkened, fists trembling, rage radiating from his very being.

“Who?”

It was just one word, just one syllable, but it carried the weight of a storm. You swallowed hard, dropping your gaze.

Logan stepped closer, his boots heavy against the rooftop, his presence overwhelming.

“Who did this to you, Bub?” His voice was lower now, dangerous. “Tell me. I’ll gut ‘em.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Logan...”

“Look at me.”

You did and the moment his eyes met yours, whatever restraint he had left snapped.

“Those sons of bitches!” he snarled, pacing now, breathing ragged. His claws flexed, his shoulders heaved, pure, unfiltered rage pouring from him. “You’re telling me those two idiots, our idiots did this? Made you feel like this?”

You couldn’t answer.

Didn’t have to, because your silence was enough.

Logan let out a rough, guttural growl, his fists clenching so tightly that his knuckles went white despite the metal already tearing through his skin.

“I’ll kill ‘em.”

“No, you won’t.” Natasha’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unwavering.

You turned just in time to see her step onto the rooftop, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“Why the hell not?” Logan snapped. “They hurt her.”

“I know,” Natasha said evenly. “That’s why she’s leaving.”

Your breath hitched, “What?”

Natasha walked toward you, gaze softening as she reached out and brushed her knuckles against your cheek. “Pack a bag, Sweets. You’re going with Logan.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Logan’s brows furrowed. “Wait, you’re actually letting me take her?”

“She needs to get away from here,” Natasha murmured, eyes never leaving yours. “From them.”

You stared at her, then at Logan, your throat tightening so painfully you thought it might close entirely.

“Tasha…”

“No arguments,” she said softly but firmly. “You’re not okay. And I won’t stand here and watch you disappear.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek.

You felt Logan’s heavy hand settle on your shoulder, grounding you, steadying you.

“C’mon, Bub,” he murmured, voice softer now, almost pleading. “Let’s go.”

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to leave.

But because leaving meant giving up. Leaving meant accepting that they had chosen her, that they had chosen everyone but you.

But maybe... maybe they had already made that choice a long time ago.

You inhaled sharply and nodded.

And this time, you didn’t look back.

Part 2

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