ghostedgwen - Tumblr blog

ghostedgwen · 13 days ago

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heyy miko!! how are u? hope you're doing well <3 so, i got this one idea that i think that'd be incredible in your writing!

James x Slytherin!Reader - she hates him, but he’s been obsessed with her since they first met. he makes a deal: if Gryffindor wins the next match against Slytherin, she has to go on a date with him. gryffindor wins (obviously), and he asks her out in the most embarrassing, James Potter way: performing for her on the pitch in front of the whole school. i had Did I Mention scene from descendants in mind lol.

did I mention | j.potter

note : Hello, anon! I've been well, thanks for asking! Thank you so much for trusting me with this request! I really enjoyed this one, I was laughing as I wrote it. Also, I decided to use the lyrics from the actual song instead of cooking up my own cringey verse hope that's ok

warning : embarrassing if you look too deeply into it, enemies to lovers ? maybe, james is a very endearing idiot, house rivalry, banter, Gryffindor reckless behavior x Slytherin "wtf are u doing" dynamic

You lose a bet with James Potter, and he decides to marvel in your defeat with a song performance at the Quidditch Pitch to officially ask you out on a date.

There are a few constants in your life: the Slytherin common room always smells faintly of old parchment and ambition. The Black Lake is most beautiful just before dawn. And James Potter is insufferable.

You’d like to think you’re immune to Gryffindor nonsense. You don’t rise to their provocations, don’t flinch at their theatrics, don’t care for their sweeping speeches about bravery and justice and all that rot. You’re clever enough to win a duel with logic and cool-headed strategy, not brute force or reckless wand waving.

And yet, James bloody Potter never seems to get the hint.

He spots you from across the corridor like a Snitch mid-game - target locked - and you swear his hair ruffles itself in anticipation. One blink and he’s there, sliding up beside you with all the subtlety of a howler.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he says, as if it’s normal. As if he didn’t nearly trip over a third-year trying to reach you.

You don’t stop walking, your voice levelled as you speak without looking at him. “Potter.”

“You dream of me last night?”

“Only if it was a nightmare.”

“Oof. She’s got teeth.”

“She’s got standards.”

It goes like this every day. He flashes a grin like it’s weaponized, and you swat it away like a fly. You’re not sure when it started - second year, maybe, when he tried to show off in Charms and accidentally levitated your entire desk into the ceiling. Or third year, when you finally snapped and hexed his eyebrows clean off after one too many loud declarations of love.

He was smitten ever since. The idiot.

You're not impressed. Gryffindor’s golden boy, adored by half the school, Quidditch captain, grades that aren't as bad as you'd hoped - he's got everything handed to him and still acts like the castle is his personal playground. You're not interested in golden retrievers. You like sharp minds and sharper wit. Potter is all chaos and confidence, never still long enough to think.

Unfortunately, he’s made it his life’s mission to orbit yours.

“You’d look fantastic in red, by the way,” he calls out as you disappear into Potions. “I mean, green’s nice, but red would really bring out the scowl.”

You don’t dignify it with a response.

In Slytherin, you’re a known quantity. Smart, strategic, and poised. You walk the line between aloof and approachable so perfectly it’s practically studied. You’re respected because you’ve never needed to demand it. You don’t court attention, and that’s exactly why people look.

That includes James Potter, unfortunately.

And now, with the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Quidditch match looming, the rivalry has reached a fever pitch. The pitch is practically buzzing with tension. You have nothing to do with it, no position on the team, no behind-the-scenes strategy, but house pride runs in your blood, and the Slytherin common room’s been buzzing for weeks.

You’re outside the Great Hall the morning of the match, a book in hand and a scowl ready for whoever dares interrupt, when the scent of grass and ego drifts toward you.

Potter.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he says, jogging up with his broom over his shoulder, hair a mess that you’re almost convinced he cultivates with spellwork. “Don’t tell me you’re hiding.”

“I don’t need to hide when my house is going to wipe the pitch with yours,” you reply dryly, not looking up. “Shouldn’t you be stretching or something?”

“I stretch before bed. Want to watch sometime?”

“Do you hear yourself?”

“Only the best bits.”

He grins like he’s already won, and you have to force yourself not to sigh. The castle is already buzzing with match-day energy. You’d planned to watch the game in the stands with your Slytherin scarf wrapped around you on top of a green jumper.

But today, something makes you pause.

“Let’s make it interesting,” you say, snapping your book closed.

His eyes spark. “Oh?”

“If Slytherin wins,” you say, voice cool, crisp, practiced, “you stop talking to me. Forever. No winks in the corridor. No howlers disguised as singing Valentines. Nothing.”

He places a hand dramatically over his heart. “You’d really deprive the world of this banter?”

“World? No. Me? Gladly.”

He narrows his eyes, smirks. “Alright then. If Gryffindor wins…”

You cross your arms. “Let me guess. I have to wear a Gryffindor scarf for a week.”

“Tempting,” he says. “But no. If we win - you go on a date with me.”

You blink. “You’re joking.”

“Dead serious.”

You study him for a moment. There’s that sparkle in his eyes that you recognize from every reckless stunt he’s ever pulled - a challenge. He lives for this. And for some twisted reason, you find yourself holding out your hand.

“If we win,” you repeat, “you stop talking to me.”

“If we win,” he counters, taking your hand, “you give me a shot.”

The handshake is electric. The corridor, quiet a moment before, erupts with students who apparently had been listening in from both ends.

“Oh my god,” someone squeals.

“You’re mad,” someone else gasps.

“Finally,” mutters another.

You barely hear them. You’re locked on Potter’s grin, and the smug tilt of his brow. He thinks he’s got this in the bag.

You think he’s going to eat dirt.

The match is chaos. That was the only way you could describe it in all honesty, majority of it was red and green blurs zooming across the pitch.

With the chaos of green and red ensuing under the bright and clear sky, the crowd screams itself hoarse. You’re seated in the Slytherin stands with your arms crossed and your heart in your throat. You’re not invested in the tactics, but house pride simmers hot in your chest.

James Potter is impossible to ignore. He flies like he was born in the air, reckless and brilliant and infuriatingly good.

Slytherin’s Seeker almost catches the Snitch - twice. But Gryffindor’s Keeper pulls off a save that should’ve been impossible, and suddenly, they’re up by ten, then thirty.

Your hands are clenched. You don’t care, not really, and yet -

Potter executes a loop-the-loop feint so absurd it draws gasps from the stands, drawing Slytherin’s Beaters out of position, and Gryffindor’s Seeker snatches the Snitch right from under their nose.

Final score: Gryffindor wins by sixty.

The stadium erupts.

You sit back, winded, heart thudding.

He won.

Shit.

The Quidditch match ended in an explosion of red and gold. Gryffindor had won.

Naturally, the entire school was buzzing.

It had been a close game - fierce, fast, and even brutal. Even you had felt a tiny sliver of adrenaline watching it, arms crossed and brows lifted from your usual corner of the Slytherin stands. But now, with the game over, you had one very specific goal in mind: disappear before James Potter finds you.

Because a deal was a deal.

And Potter would never let you forget a deal.

You slipped away before the final whistle stopped echoing, weaving through crowds of shouting Gryffindors and grumbling Slytherins, down the back steps of the stands, heart thudding like you’d just run laps around the pitch. If you were lucky, he’d be too busy being celebrated to come looking for you. If you were lucky, he’d gloat about the match and forget the bet.

If you were really lucky, he’d get struck by a stray Bludger still on the loose.

You didn’t get far.

Halfway across the pitch, the grass beneath your boots still dewy and soft, you heard it.

A sudden, magically-enhanced echo of a microphone crackling to life.

You stopped walking.

Oh no.

“Oh, ladies and gentlemen,” James Potter’s voice rang out, smug and all too familiar, “I hope you haven’t left just yet.”

A groan escaped you. You turned slowly, already seeing the crowd of students stalling at the gates, everyone turning back toward the pitch.

There he was. Front and centre on the grass, under the setting sun, in his wrinkled Gryffindor jersey, broom tossed aside. He held a charmed microphone in one hand and wore that smile - the one that always preceded something catastrophic.

How he even got a microphone is beyond you - and why you knew what it is was besides the point.

Sirius stood behind him, looking like a backup for some performance being cooked up. You started walking faster.

James cleared his throat. “Now, I know we’re all reeling from that win - thank you, thank you - but before you head off to celebrate, I have one teeny, tiny thing to take care of.”

You were nearly at the exit.

“Oi! _____!”

The crowd parted like the sea, and suddenly every head was turning your way. Every face. Every expression lit with delighted horror and secondhand embarrassment. You stopped dead on your tracks, like a snake caught in headlights.

James grinned wider. “This one’s for you.”

And then - music.

Fucking music was the last thing you expected to cue in the moment he flashed a grin so wide it could’ve ripped his cheeks.

You didn’t know who had enchanted what, or where the band had come from, but suddenly James Potter was launching into a full, ridiculous, very real musical number.

“♪ I met this girl who rocked my world ♪”

You blinked.

“♪ Like it's never been rocked ♪”

He spun. He spun. Sirius groaned and joined in on backup vocals.

“♪ And now I'm living just for her ♪”

Someone behind you gasped. A fourth-year clutched her heart. The Hufflepuff girls were screaming.

You pressed your fingers against your mouth, determined not to laugh. Not to give him the satisfaction - despite yourself, you were struggling not to contort your face to laugh.

“♪ And I won't ever stop ♪”

(“I beg Merlin every day that you will,” you muttered under your breath.)

“♪ I never thought that it could happen to a guy like me. ♪”

He was closing in now, slowly making his way towards you as he sang those embarrassing lyrics. How Potter keeps his pride intact after this is beyond you, how you keep yours is also beyond you.

“♪ But now look at what you've done ♪”

You scoffed in offence at that, his lyrics implied you did something to him which you did not. You were not at fault for whatever is going on with him, you shot him a look through the field while he remains undeterred.

“♪ You got me, down on my knee ♪”

He winked at you through the chaos. You tried - Merlin, you tried - not to break. But your mouth twitched. Just barely. Your lips parted.

James saw it.

He let out a delighted yell and dropped to his knees on the pitch. The music slowed to a dramatic ballad tempo.

He extended a hand to you.

“_____,” he said, theatrically breathless. “So. What do you say? A deal’s a deal.”

Your cheeks burned from the sheer shame and your ears rang from the silence of everyone's anticipation, the crowd watched in a collection of bathed breaths.

The entire school was watching. You could say no. You could hex him. You wanted to hex him. You should hex him.

Instead, you stepped forward slowly, arms crossed, letting him sweat a little more.

“I didn’t realize you had a death wish,” you said dryly. “This is next-level idiocy, even for you.”

He grinned up at you. “I thought it was quite inspired.”

“You got down on your knees.”

“Uh huh.”

You sighed. And finally - finally - let a small laugh escape. You couldn’t keep it in any more, the whole thing was absurd, like some fever dream (or rather, a nightmare) you could only cook up during quiet nights.

His eyes lit up like the sun coming through stained-glass.

The crowd roared.

You looked down at him, this golden-retriever idiot of a boy, who had just serenaded you in front of hundreds of people like it was the most natural thing in the world. And you took his hand.

“Fine,” you said, letting him pull you gently toward him. “One date.”

He beamed like he’d just caught the Snitch.

“One date,” you repeated. “And if you ever sing in public again, I will hex you.”

“No promises.”

Sirius whooped, you could already hear the teasing from your house mates over the whole affair. You had lost a bet and got a very public performance at that. The entire pitch was screaming like they’d just witnessed a marriage proposal.

James bowed with an absurd flourish and kissed your hand like some chivalrous knight. You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother stopping him, you knew how to admit defeat. Albeit how embarrassing this one was.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“Never,” he said with a grin. “But just in case - next song’s already written.”

You didn’t punch him. But it was a very near thing.

end. masterlist

#marauders fanfic #harry potter marauders #marauders fic #marauders era #james potter marauders #james potter x reader #james potter fanfic

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ghostedgwen · 13 days ago

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My wife and I were watching Daisy Jones & The Six

Her : Why do artists always have addictions?

Me : Well, I guess you can’t make good art if you’re not dying

#we were baffled by the amount of smoking #alcohol and drugs in the show #like omg??#we just shrugged it off as tortured artists #in the 70s lmaoo #miko rambles #miko's blue

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ghostedgwen · 13 days ago

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"the stars don’t feel the same without you” with regulus black?

Hello, anon! Thank you for joining the Tour with us, we love seeing you here!

꒰💜꒱ ; And they said, "Speak now" ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ The Marauders just threw a party at their common room, wonder what chaos could ensue. (mandatory to send a prompt with this! Keep in mind this is the default album if you don't send one!)

Here’s Regulus for Speak Now :

The green flames danced in the hearth, casting rippling shadows on the stone walls of the Slytherin common room. The lake filtered moonlight through its depths, and the low ceiling echoed with laughter and music - raucous, indulgent, a little desperate. Seventh years clinked stolen bottles of firewhisky together, chanting about freedom and war and how they’d never look back.

You leaned against the far wall, half-tucked behind a velvet-curtained alcove, sipping watered-down champagne from a transfigured goblet. It was warm and flat, not unlike the smile you’d forced when you walked in.

You hadn’t planned to come. But the thought of ending your time at Hogwarts in silence, letting this last chapter close without ever speaking to him again, had felt worse than any awkward run-in.

You saw him before he saw you.

Regulus Black. Still maddeningly composed in a sea of drunken chaos, a half-empty glass of something amber clutched in his ringed hand, the collar of his dress shirt undone just enough to make your throat tighten. His tie had been discarded entirely, unthinkable for the boy you’d grown up beside.

But then, everything had changed in fifth year.

You had changed. And he had stayed the same.

Or maybe he hadn’t.

“Thought you’d be holed up in the library,” a voice said from your left. Barty, smiling too easily, suddenly spoke up beside you - you hadn't realized he was there. “What are you doing here with the rest of us disillusioned youth?”

You glanced at him. “I ran out of ink and self-righteousness.”

He snorted and wandered off, leaving behind a haze of cheap cologne and politics you’d long grown tired of.

Across the room, Regulus laughed at something Evan whispered in his ear. He tilted his head back, throat exposed, lips parted. The sight punched something loose in your ribs.

You used to make him laugh like that.

Two years ago, you’d lie on the Astronomy Tower with him, shoulder to shoulder on nights you both pretended were for stargazing, not for the safety of touch. He’d name every constellation for you in Latin, then in French. You’d whisper stories in return - Muggle myths, fairy tales, truth hidden in metaphor. And in those late hours, when the world fell quiet, he’d forget to be careful. He’d look at you like you were something celestial.

Until he chose not to any more.

You pushed off the wall before your thoughts got sentimental enough to drown you. The music swelled as you moved through the room, skirting the edges like a ghost in green velvet. Your fingers brushed the spines of books in the built-in shelves, then curled around the edge of the old piano near the fireplace.

And then - “Didn’t think you’d come.”

The voice slid down your spine like ice-cold water dripping down. You didn’t have to turn to know it was him.

Still, you did.

Regulus stood inches behind you, closer than polite, close enough that the heat of his body cut through the space between. His grey eyes were softer than you remembered. Or maybe it was the flickering light, playing tricks on you. Maybe you wanted to be fooled.

“Didn’t think you’d notice,” you replied.

“I always notice.”

Silence bloomed like fog. You swallowed, now what?

He shifted beside you, resting a hand on the piano lid. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“You’ve been easy to avoid.”

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but also not not a smile?

“I don’t blame you,” he said, so quietly you almost missed it. “I know what you think of me now.”

You turned to face him fully. “I think a lot of things.”

“Say them.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because for tonight - ” You paused. Your throat felt thick. “For tonight, I’d like to lie to myself.”

His gaze flickered across your face, pausing on your mouth, then your eyes. You didn’t let yourself flinch.

Regulus tilted his head, studying you like he used to. “What are we pretending?”

You almost laughed. “That we’re still friends. That you still sneak out to meet me after curfew. That we still lie under the stars and talk about anything except the world swallowing us whole.”

His expression didn’t change, but his eyes shimmered with something terrible and beautiful. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s pretend.”

You moved to the window seat in the far corner, half-shielded by heavy green curtains. It was quieter here. Quieter, and familiar. He followed without needing to be asked.

You sat first. He followed. Just like before, before the ink smeared the pale skin of his arm.

Outside, the lake pressed its face to the glass, dark and dreaming. Small fish darted through the shadows. You let your head fall back against the wood panelling, legs curled beneath you. Regulus mirrored you, sitting cross-legged, careful not to touch.

“Do you remember that night in third-year?” he asked. “The Astronomy Tower. You snuck up with a stolen bottle of pumpkin fizz and told me the stars were probably just holes poked in a giant curtain.”

You smiled, slow and aching. “And you called me a Muggle-brained heretic.”

“And you told me I’d probably end up a bureaucrat for the Ministry and die of boredom.”

You tilted your head toward him. “Still might.”

His lips quirked. “So might you.”

“Not if I leave the country.”

That made him still. “Are you?”

You looked at him. Really looked. The way his hands had clenched in his lap. The way his breath caught just slightly.

“I don’t know yet.”

“You should,” he said quietly. “You should go.”

You wanted to ask if he would come with you. But you already knew the answer. The lie you were telling yourselves wasn’t strong enough to hold that kind of hope.

Instead, you leaned your head against the window and said, “The stars don’t feel the same without you.”

Regulus turned toward you, slowly. He didn’t speak right away.

When he did, his voice cracked around the edges. “I never stopped looking for them. For you.”

You reached between you. Not quite touching. Just... there. His hand hovered over yours. Close enough to feel, too far to mean anything.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For how it ended. For not fighting harder.”

You closed your eyes. “I don’t know if it would’ve made a difference.”

“I don’t either.”

You sat in silence, it was the kind that presses into your lungs, not your ears. And then, softly - “Can I hold your hand?” he asked.

You hesitated, weighing your options carefully. Then: “Just for tonight.”

He laced his fingers with yours.It felt the same. Almost familiar if you were being honest. Like a childhood promise made and broken and made again.

Outside, the lake stirred. A pale ripple of moonlight shimmered through. You didn’t say anything else.

You didn’t need to.

The world would come back tomorrow. The sides would be drawn. But for now - for just this one night - you were two people beneath the stars.

And it was enough, or it could be.

This request was made in participation of my 1k followers celebration! If you're interested in joining The Tour, kindly send your request my way <3

#marauders #marauders era #marauders x reader #regulus x reader #regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus fic #ghostgwen 1k #miko’s eras tour

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ghostedgwen · 13 days ago

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I swear Miko you could write a whole book snd I’d read it in a day bcs ur writing is just so beautiful and I’m hooked

(+ the way u’re able to crank out multiple long fics everyday, gosh how do u even do it??)

Hi Grabiella, bb! I am so flattered that you would say that! Thank you so muchhh. Also, I wish that was truly the case (pumping out fics every day), unfortunately each fic takes me days to finish. The process is stretched out longer than you can imagine, I don't actually finish these fics in one sitting :(( I used to spend a whole day just writing a single 6k words fic but it's honestly a little easier now with more experience. I think just letting yourself sit down and wrtie it all out as much as possible helps, but when the drive dies down, then take a much-needed rest and come back when you can.

Take ample rests in between writing and stay hydrated!! Goodluck on those writing endeavours <33

#also remember to write for yourself first and foremost #focusing on the numbers too much won't do you any good #i tell myself more than you tbh #enjoy the process<33 #miko asks #for the mooties 🌸

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ghostedgwen · 13 days ago

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In order to liven up this blog again and get back to writing the characters on here, I will be hosting a little comeback celebration (especially given my recent hiatus) from June 12 to June 19, 2025.

Please refer to my requesting guidelines to see which characters I write for. So, pick a flower and hop right into my inbox 😊.

[🌹] rose — send me a character + au and I will write a 500-1k fic for it

[🌸] sakura — send me a character + trope and I will write a 500-1k fic for it

[🌺] hibiscus — send me this & I’ll shuffle my playlist & write a blurb with the first line of the song that pops up

[🪷] lily — send me a made-up title and I’ll write a small blurb based on it

[🌻] sunflower — send me 3-4 words and I’ll write a blurb with those words included

tagging some moots (both from main & this blog): @jackys-stuff-blog @theoreticslut @madelineorionswan @ghostedgwen @lovings4turn @softtdaisy @ddejavvu

#welcome backkk #goodluck with this event #miko reblogs #for the mooties 🌸

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ghostedgwen · 13 days ago

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GOOD MORNING! I feel good today and I am hoping to spend all day writing and manifesting more marauders band au requests

I also did my makeup for funsies even tho it’s barely 7:30 just to start the day on a good note :))) hope yall have a good one!

#let today be good #for us all #plsplsplspls #miko rambles

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ghostedgwen · 13 days ago

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pls don't disappear ur too iconic ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Hello, anon! Thank you so much for thinking so! I'll try not to disappear on you guys dw, I still got some fics to write with my fav dead gay wizards <3

#ure right tho #i'm too iconic #thanku po #miko asks

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ghostedgwen · 14 days ago

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marauders band au, hear me out: established relationship with Remus - he writes her a song they were first dating (band is not that known yet) then fast forward to years later (band is now famous), he uses same song when proposing to reader

fade to nothing | r.lupin

note : FINALLY! omg Gabi ilysm I wanna keep writing for band au marauders after indulging in this one holyyy, thank you thank you for this amazing request! I had the best time writing 4.8k words of this absolutely amazing plot

warnings : some angst and falling out, breakups, situationships almost, fame and all the angst that comes with it, angst with comfort, hurting and healing, a happy ending

You were there from the beginning and Remus happened to lose sight of you and everything that mattered when fame came and the songs played louder, but surely if the love is strong you can fix what isn't entirely broken?

You find him backstage after the set, crouched on a flight case, tuning the same string on his guitar for the third time. The venue's still buzzing behind the curtain - voices raised, laughter echoing, cheap beer sloshing in plastic cups - but Remus looks like he’s somewhere else entirely.

He doesn’t look up when you call his name, so you try again, a little softer this time. "Remus."

His head lifts, slow, like he’s wading through a fog, and when he sees you, the line of his shoulders eases just slightly. "Hey."

You sit beside him. The flight case creaks under your weight, and he shifts his guitar to make room. The body of it knocks gently against your knee. You let the silence settle between you. It’s familiar by now - actually comfortable, in that uncertain, almost-there kind of way.

The set had gone well, you thought. Not perfect - James missed a cue in the second verse of their opening number, and Sirius got too excited with his distortion pedal halfway through the closer. But the crowd had been decent, the applause warm, and no one had stormed off stage or broken anything vital. By the Marauders’ standards, that was a win.

You glance over at him. His hands are still on the strings, but he's not really playing. Just touching, like he needs something steady to keep from drifting.

"You alright?" you ask.

He shrugs. "Yeah. Just tired."

It's not a lie, not exactly. But it's not the whole truth either. You know him well enough by now to hear the things he doesn't say. The tension in his jaw. The way his foot taps against the floor, subtle and uneven.

You nudge his arm gently. "You were good tonight. The new bridge on ‘Smoke Signals’ worked. People liked it."

He exhales a soft laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "You think?"

"I know."

Another beat of quiet. Then, with a sort of resigned breath, he sets the guitar aside and runs a hand through his hair. "I, uh... I have something. If you want to hear it."

Your eyebrows lift. "Something?"

He nods toward his worn-out rucksack, half-zipped and slouched against the wall. "It’s not finished. Just a rough demo. I haven’t even played it for the others yet."

You wait, unsure.

Remus has always been the most reserved of the four. James is bold and loud, Sirius even louder, and Peter - well, Peter tries. But Remus hangs back, watching, writing, always half somewhere else. His songs come out of nowhere sometimes, all tension and feeling and quiet devastation.

And he never shares them unless they matter. So when he pulls a battered cassette recorder from the bag, your heart skips.

He presses play before you can say anything. Just static, then the soft scrape of fingers on strings.

It starts tentative. A delicate picking pattern that feels like it could fall apart any second. His voice enters like he’s afraid to hear it back - low, fragile, like something said in the dark.

You walked in like a whisper / I wasn’t ready to be seen / In a room full of noise and flash and smoke / You looked right through the screen.

You blink.

The song is quiet and quite simple. But it holds a weight you feel inyour chest.

I’ve been running half a lifetime / Hiding all the parts I hate / You didn’t ask for pieces / But you stayed, anyway.

He doesn’t look at you while it plays. He stares at the floor, hands in his lap, thumb twitching.

The song winds through verses that feel like journal entries, private and unpolished. There’s a moment in the middle where the guitar falters, like he nearly lost the thread. But then he finds it again, voice steadier.

So if I fall apart tomorrow / And I can't find my way through / Just know there was one clear moment / When everything felt true.

And then the refrain, soft like a promise:

I think I found something real / In the middle of the noise / In the quiet after the soundcheck / In the tremble of your voice.

When it ends, the silence feels heavier than the music.

You don’t say anything at first, and neither does he.

It’s like something raw hangs in the air, and touching it might make it vanish. You could almost feel your heart melt out of your chest and spill to the floor.

He clears his throat. "It’s not done. Still needs work."

You shake your head. "Remus."

He glances at you, eyes guarded.

"That was..."

But you don’t have the word. Stunning? Moving?

He waits. "You wrote that? For me?"

His mouth quirks, nervous. "Yeah. I mean. I didn’t know if I should. Or if it was weird. But I couldn’t stop thinking about... that night after Camden. When we walked back to the station. And you said you didn’t know what we were, but you didn’t want to stop finding out."

You remember it was raining. You shared an umbrella, not hands. You both pretended it wasn’t a moment. You look at him now, the real him, sitting there with his heart practically in your hands. And it hits you how rare this is. How brave.

"It’s beautiful," you say. "And it’s not weird. It’s... it means a lot."

He heaves a sigh, it was long and relieved.

"I’m not great at saying things straight," he murmurs. "But I meant all of it. I think you know that."

You do. Which is probably what makes this so much more magical, because you understood him so well like he was made for you to decipher, a poem just for you to get.

You reach over, lacing your fingers with his. His palm is calloused from strings and stress. He grips you gently.

"So what are we, then?" you ask.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at your joined hands like they might vanish if he breathes too hard. Then: "We’re figuring it out. Together."

It’s not a love song, not really quite there yet, but it’s something real. And in the backstage quiet, long after the music fades, it feels like a beginning.

The nights blur together. A haze of rehearsals, takeout containers littering the floor, cheap beer, and the low hum of amps that never fully shut off. Sometimes you're there with them in the thick of it - perched on the arm of a threadbare sofa while Sirius knocks over mic stands and James tunes his guitar by ear, stubborn and sharp. Other times you're in the background, notebook in hand, watching Remus quietly untangle melodies the way other people breathe.

Your role in The Marauders was more behind the scenes than on-stage with them. You helped get their name around, found gigs for them and even helped get them together at times. You were almost the anchor that held the band together, without them even declaring it, they knew. So did you.

Your relationship with him unfolds not in declarations, but in passing touches, exchanged glances, the brush of his shoulder against yours when he walks past in a narrow hallway. It isn't defined, not in the way others might need it to be. But you know the shape of it, and so does he.

Sometimes you sleep tangled in his sheets, half-covered in lyrics scribbled on the backs of setlists. Sometimes you fall asleep to the scratch of his pen, the low murmur of him humming a chorus to himself. There are no promises made, just moments. But they were more than enough.

The Marauders are starting to pick up steam.

Small shows turn into bigger ones. The crowds are still half friends and drunk uni students, but there’s talk now. About their sound, about the way James can work a room. About Sirius, magnetic and manic on lead guitar, playing like his life depends on it. Peter holds it together more than he doesn’t. And Remus - Remus writes like he's bleeding onto paper.

You catch Remus late one night, alone in the tiny kitchen of the shared flat the band uses as a crash pad. He’s nursing a cup of tea that’s gone cold, staring at the yellowing wallpaper like it just told him a secret only he can unfold.

You lean on the doorway. "You okay?"

He startles. Then gives a tired smile. "Didn’t hear you."

You cross the room, brush your fingers over the back of his neck. He leans into the touch without thinking. "You're in your head again," you murmur.

He shrugs. "Just thinking."

"About?"

He hesitates. Then, "About what happens if this actually works. If we make it."

You frown. "Isn't that the goal?"

He nods, but there's something unreadable in his eyes. "Yeah. But you don’t get to stay invisible when it happens. People look closer at everything."

You know what he means. About the scars that don’t fade, the nights he still wakes up clawing at himself. About the part of him he’s always tried to keep hidden beneath dry wit and harmonies.

You slide into the chair next to him. "You’ve never been invisible. Not to me."

He looks down, smile faint. "I know."

You rest your head on his shoulder. "Then what are you scared of?"

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, quietly: "That I’m not built for this. That if they see too much, they’ll leave."

You sit with that for a while, letting the softness of the silence wrap around you two. Then, just as softly, "They won't. Not if they have any sense."

He huffs a laugh. "You always think the best of me."

"I know the best of you."

He kisses your temple and whispers a thank you he probably doesn’t think you hear. But you do, you just smile through it as you knew he never needed to thank you.

A week later, you catch him slipping the demo cassette you remember into his pocket before rehearsal.

You arch a brow. "Finally going to share it?"

He looks caught. Then shrugs. "Maybe."

You grin. "Do it. You know it’s good."

He gives you a look like you’ve just dared him to jump into fire. Still, that night at the studio (more like the Potters’ spare room they never use), when the rest of the band is messing around with ideas for their next set, Remus clears his throat.

"Got something new. If you want to hear it."

Sirius pauses mid-riff, James turns down his amp, and eter puts down his half-eaten sandwich. Remus slides the tape into the player. Hits play and your song - his song, your song - fills the room.

No one speaks until it's over.

James is the first to break the silence. "Shit. That’s... damn."

"That chorus," Peter breathes. "It got me, mate."

Sirius whistles low. "Didn’t know you had that in you."

Remus looks stunned. Maybe a little terrified, but he nods. You catch his eye, and then you smile. It felt good to be someone’s muse, to have art made just for you that you knew would mean so much to you than anyone else could possibly understand.

Later, when you’re walking home under the quiet sky, his fingers brush yours.

"Thanks," he says.

"For what?"

"Pushing me."

You squeeze his hand. "Any time."

It starts small, that song. Tucked into the middle of a chaotic setlist. But people start to notice, and even ask about it. The quiet one, they say. The unusually quiet and comforting love song that was a nice surprise to end their sets on.

Remus hears that and flushes pink. You hear it and just smile, it was always your job to talk to people while the band either prepared to start or to leave. Remus always claimed you had a way with people and perhaps he was right.

You often find yourself chatting with the audience as they enjoy the show the band put on. They’d ask you about the band, about the members and you’d entertain them all. You even got the boys gigs as you made your rounds through the night.

James swears you are the best addition to the band, without actually being in it. He would go as far as to sar you are also a Marauder, as much as they are and you’d laugh, heart swelling with joy.

You were the one who sent the emails, made the calls, chased the bookings. You built their early buzz from scratch - wrote press blurbs at midnight, talked your way into indie zines, begged that one radio host to give them a spin. You did it because you believed in them. Because you believed in him.

And it worked.

One day, the email came. A scout from a mid-size label. He’d caught a set at one of the East End dives and saw something. A few meetings later, they had a deal.

Everything shifted after that.

More shows. Bigger venues. Studio time, and even interviews. The rush of something real, finally. You should’ve been thrilled. Part of you was. But the rest - the rest started to feel like a background player in a story you used to help write.

The label brought in producers. Real ones, with real opinions.

They listened to the demo, the song. Your song.

Then they tore it apart. “We need more drive.” / “Strip it down, rebuild it with a cleaner hook.” / “This bridge isn’t radio-friendly.”

Remus was quiet during the meetings. Didn’t fight them, not really. You tried. Brought up the emotion. The intimacy, claiming it was the point and tried to plead your case that the audiences back in their smaller gigs loved it.

One of the execs waved you off. “It’s got potential. But the personal angle - it doesn’t scale.”

You could see it on Remus’ face. The way his shoulders hunched in. The way he stopped meeting your eyes, and then the new version hit the speakers. Louder and way shinier. But hollow.

You didn’t say anything. Not then.

Tour started two weeks later.

You were there at first. Helping with the logistics. Keeping things steady. But there were new people now - tour managers, stylists, publicists. The chaos turned professional. Your place among the crew grew uncertain. No one asked you to leave but no one asked you to stay, either.

Remus was always moving. Always being pulled to the next thing. Photoshoots, interviews, soundchecks.

He kissed you when he could. Touched your hand when he passed. But the quiet space you’d shared - those slow nights and whispered mornings - vanished under flashing lights and back-to-back obligations.

The night of the London gig, it all boiled over.

They played the reworked version. The crowd loved it. Cheered like mad. You stood in the wings, watching Remus smile, watching him hold the mic like he was born for it. And all you could think about was the first time he played it for you, nervous and raw and perfect.

Backstage was a blur of congratulations. Champagne flowed in celebration. Flashes from press cameras. Laughter was overlapping as the cheers and applause echoed in the background.

You waited until the others filtered out before catching him in the hallway, breathless and golden with adrenaline. “You didn’t even look at me during the set,” you said.

He blinked. “What?”

“The song. It used to be ours.”

His smile faded. “Don’t do this now.”

“Why not? Because we’re backstage at a real venue, and you’ve got an image to keep?”

“That’s not fair.”

“No? Because I fought for you. For all of this. I believed in that song when no one else did.”

He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “And now it’s out there. Isn’t that what matters?”

You stared at him. “You didn’t write it to be out there. You wrote it for me.”

It was deafening silence after that. You could feel the cracks appear in the glass then, how the quiet settled between you to make you realize of the distance that had been there. He didn’t deny it, but he didn’t step closer either.

You nodded. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You walked away before he could answer, and for the first time since this all began, he didn’t follow.

Tour season continued with a vengeance. Venues booked back-to-back. Interviews, press junkets, photo ops. The Marauders were no longer the scrappy underdogs playing pub basements. They were headliners, and it was loud, so loud it drowned out everything else.

You made your choice before the second leg kicked off. You weren’t going to follow this time. Not because you didn’t care. But because somewhere along the line, you’d forgotten how to care for yourself.

You took the foundation you’d built - the networking, the hustle, the branding knowledge - and pivoted. Found work consulting for other rising acts. Wrote press copy, coached new managers, ran social strategy. You had your own projects now. Your own calendar. Your own name in someone else’s liner notes.

But some nights, you still kept tabs. You’d see grainy photos in tabloids. Headlines swirling with speculation.

Remus Lupin spotted leaving afterparty with model—sources say they’re close.

Band tension? Lupin’s emotional ballad scrapped from upcoming single release.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you knew him better than some column in a glossy rag. Still, it stung. He never reached out. Neither did you, and the rift between is ever growing.

You got the call on a Thursday, you had been buried deep in some paperwork for another small band you’d found playing at the pub where you used to watch the boys play. You answered without thinking much of it.

Sirius, voice clipped and shaken. "It’s Remus. He collapsed after soundcheck in Amsterdam. Exhaustion, they think. Maybe an infection. He’s asking for you."

You were on a plane within hours.

The hotel suite was quiet when you arrived. Dim. Sirius nodded at you in the hallway, eyes rimmed red. James gave you a tight hug. Peter, leaning in a chair near the wall,greeted you with a small smile, but murmured a low, “He’s down the hall.”

You found him in bed. Pale and almost flushed from the fever. The IV line taped to the inside of his elbow looked wrong. Out of place. You stood in the doorway for a long time before he opened his eyes.

"You came," he said, voice dry and cracking.

You sat beside him. “Of course I did.”

He stared at you, too tired to pretend. “I fucked everything up.”

You brushed sweaty hair off his forehead. “You ran too fast, too hard. Doesn’t mean it’s over.”

He closed his eyes. “It felt easier when you were around.”

That confession broke something between you, like a glass wall that you’d both build around each other. Too stubborn to bring it down and yet you can see each other through so clearly. Your hand stilled at his words.

“I needed space, Remus.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I just didn’t know how to keep going without making it worse.”

You watched him breathe. His breaths came in slowly and they were shallow.

“I read the articles,” you said finally.

He opened his eyes again. “They weren’t true.”

You nodded. “I figured.”

“I missed you,” he said. “Not just at gigs. All the time. In the quiet moments when I had no idea what the hell I was doing.”

“You didn’t call.”

“I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

The space between you was heavy. But not empty. He shifted, wincing as he reached for his bag beside the bed. From the front pocket, he pulled out an old, battered cassette. The label was peeling. Your handwriting still faintly visible.

“I kept it,” he said. “Even when they made me change it. I couldn’t throw this one away.”

He reached across to the small player on the side table, you watched him through his struggle knowing he wouldn’t want help. You swallowed thickly as he pressed play.

That same raw demo from all those nights ago filled the room. Slightly warped now with age. But still clear. Still beautiful.

Still yours.

You listened in silence, your eyes were glossy but tears didn’t actually form. When it ended, he looked at you.

“I never stopped meaning it,” he said.

You reached for his hand.

“I know.”

It didn’t fix everything. But it softened the break.

Sometimes, that’s the first step back.

Post-tour life moved slower. The kind of quiet that felt almost foreign.

Remus came back to London two weeks after they all finished the last two remaining cities from the tour. You opted out of accompanying him, you still had work back home. You met him at the airport, holding a homemade sign that said Marauder Down: Emergency Recovery in Progress. He laughed, tired and soft, and leaned into you like he remembered how to breathe.

You weren’t together again. Not officially but you were… something. Enough to share Sunday mornings and late-night tea. Enough to talk without something heavy hanging in the air for the first time in months.

You sat on the floor of your flat one evening, records scattered around you both.

“I don’t know if I want all of it,” he said, finger fidgeting the sleeve of a Bowie LP. “The touring. The cameras. The curated answers.”

“You don’t have to take it all,” you said. “Just take the parts you want.”

He looked at you then, eyes clearer than you’d seen in ages. “And what if the part I want the most is sitting right in front of me?”

You didn’t answer. You just reached for his hand.

He started spending more time in the small spare room of your flat, hunched over a borrowed acoustic guitar. Said he was just noodling. Said it wasn’t important, but you heard the chords through the wall. The same gentle cadence. The same fragile beginnings.

You didn’t push.

Meanwhile, James invited you to dinner - just you. Which was odd enough to be suspicious. You and James were close as much as you were close with the other boys from the band but you were never out alone with just one of them.

Other than your thing with Remus, you were pretty much a whole group.

“They’re planning something,” he said between mouthfuls of curry. “The next album. It's going to be different.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

“Less polish, more truth. Remus is writing again.”

You tried not to let your heart leap.

“But he’s hiding something,” James added. “He’s cagey. Won’t show anyone the arrangement he’s working on. Not even Sirius. That’s when I know it’s serious.”

You smiled, just a little. “I might have an idea.”

The invitation to the televised performance came two months later. BBC special. A full set, plus an interview. Their first major appearance post-tour. By now they have about two to three songs in the top 10 charting and blasting on radio stations.

Remus was quiet the whole afternoon before. Not anxious, just… internal. Backstage was a blur. Techs running lines, makeup touch-ups, nerves buzzing like power lines.

Then it was lights, camera, cue. The band opened strong. A new track. A crowd-pleaser. Sirius was electric, James radiating joy. Peter was somewhat cool and poised. Remus… centered. Like he’d found something he thought was lost.

Then came the last song. He stepped up to the mic alone, guitar slung across his chest.

“This next one’s an old one,” he said, voice steady. “Most of you haven’t heard it like this. Not the way it was meant to be.”

The lights dimmed. Just a single spotlight on him, it felt like the world had slowed down as you heard those first few strum on the delicate guitar strings.

He played the original. Your song. Unchanged, untouched, like that first night he ever let you hear it. When it was quieter, when you were both unsure and the world wasn’t yet looking.

You felt yourself choke up, hearing that song again like it was a promise being remembered. You couldn’t help the tears from flowing out of you. When the final chord faded, he let the silence sit.

“I wrote this before any of this,” he said, gesturing around the stage. “Back when we were barely getting gigs and figuring out who we were.”

You could almost throw up from the anticipation.

“And I never would’ve kept going if it weren’t for one person. Someone who believed in me when I didn’t. When I couldn’t. Everything I’ve become, everything this band has achieved - it started with her.”

The camera cut to you in the front row. You felt your heart stutter. Remus stepped forward.

“I used to think love had to be earned. That I had to prove I was worth the risk. But she never asked me to be anything other than myself. She just stayed. And helped me find the way back.”

He reached into his pocket, time that was slowing completely stopped. A ring, you could see the stone on it glisten from where the spotlight shining on Remus hit it.

“Come up here,” he said.

Your legs moved before your mind caught up. The stage felt impossibly bright. The crowd quieted. You could hear your pulse as some of the stage crew guided you up, their smiles so wide at you.

When you reached him, he took your hand.

“I don’t need the spotlight. I just need you. Always have.”

You blinked back the blur in your vision. “I’m not asking for perfect. Just for forever. Will you?”

You didn’t even let him finish. You kissed him first. The crowd erupted. It was almost uncharacteristic for someone as reserved as Remus to propose so publicly, but you could see the reason behind it.

He had spent some time too deep in his own head to truly appreciate you, what you meant to him and you both wasted time pretending like you mattered less to one another. With this big, grand declaration of his love, he will silence everything else.

All the doubt, all the whispers. He will close all the distance that had been in between.

Later, offstage, as the noise of the moment faded and the two of you curled into each other in the green room, he whispered: “I kept the song for you.”

You kissed his jaw. “I know.”

It was a beginning. A beautiful one, despite everything it took to get there. He had grown into this person that was no longer the Remus you first knew but you have changed as well, you both have.

Now the rest of your lives will be spent getting to know the new versions of yourselves.

The venue buzzed with the final echoes of the crowd, lights slowly dimming as roadies hustled to pack up gear. You stood just behind the curtain, swaying slightly as the adrenaline of the set faded. Remus walked offstage, guitar still slung over his shoulder, shirt damp with sweat and a wild, boyish grin tugging at his mouth. His eyes found you immediately.

“There’s my girls,” he said, kissing your temple first, then brushing his lips over your daughter’s forehead. “How are my girls?”

He looks at your daughter, all curls and oversized headphones, sat on your hip - wide-eyed and sleepy. “Tired,” you answered with a soft laugh, shifting your daughter to your other hip. “But we loved the show.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, me more than her.”

Behind him, Sirius bounded over and swooped your daughter into his arms dramatically, practically stealing her from you. “There’s my favourite groupie!” he declared, spinning her gently while she squealed.

James wasn’t far behind, ruffling her hair and pulling a face that made her giggle again. “You know, I think we’re the reason she has such great taste in music,” he said to you with mock seriousness.

“You’re the reason she knows how to headbang,” you quipped back, rolling your eyes fondly.

Peter approached a moment later, slightly out of breath from the encore. “Hey,” he greeted you warmly. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“I always do.”

He smiled. “Wish you could keep touring with us.”

“I’d love to,” you said honestly, “but I’m not hauling a three-year-old from city to city every other week.”

Remus laughed and nodded, wrapping an arm around your waist. “She’s got a point. I miss having you out here every night, but this one needs a consistent bedtime.”

“She’s got better tour stamina than you did at twenty,” Peter joked, nudging Remus.

Remus mock-glared. “Yeah, well, she doesn’t drink whiskey like water.”

Your daughter yawned against Remus’ shoulder now, tiny arms curling around his neck. The chaos of the crew and lights blurred around the six of you, like white noise under a melody that only the band - your makeshift family - could hear.

end. masterlist

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