lowlylux

[lowlylux]

if you wiped every ICE agent off the face of the earth, a hundred million people would become safer overnight. if you wiped every furry off the face of the earth, the entire internet would collapse for good in a matter of hours. i know where my allegiances lie.

[lowlylux]

I like how I just go [insert ship name, you’re next] drop angst and then jingle fluff in your face like Markiplier with those keys

[lowlylux]

Listen I’m prewriting some chapters of Through the Valley and all I have to say is

James and Regulus embody that one part in Would You Fall in Love with Me Again from Epic

[lowlylux]

Wish I Were

A part of the Conan Gray HP fest @conangray-hp-fest

Rating: T

Ship: Unrequited Jegulus

Based on: Conan Gray’s Heather

WC: 17.3k

Description

James Potter gave Regulus Black his jumper once…Regulus knew he was gone after that.

Ao3 link

The sky was a bruise above them.

Steel-grey and heavy with winter, it pressed low over the pitch. It was promising snow but offered only the brittle ache of cold. Regulus hovered high above it all, the crowd a muffled roar beneath him. It was as if he were listening to the match through layers of cotton and fog. The wind nipped through the stitches of his gloves, tugging loose strands of his dark hair from where he’d charmed it into place that morning. It had undone him already. Figures.

From here, the pitch looked more like a battlefield than a game. Below him, red and green blurred together in a smear of motion, fists and bats and elbows. Sirius was swinging with reckless delight, laughter whipped from his mouth as he spun. He clipped a Bludger toward Marlene to pass it, and shouted something Regulus couldn’t hear. Not that it mattered…Sirius had stopped saying anything worth listening to long ago.

James Potter—of course—was at the center of it all.

Regulus could spot him from above by the flash of his gold-trimmed goggles and the confidence in the way he moved. It was as if he owned the very air around him. He flew like he was flirting with the wind itself, always pushing it further and faster, as if daring the world to keep up. He passed to some Gryffindor chaser Regulus didn't know the name of. Sharp, sure, a comet in motion. He then veered left, dodging an oncoming Bludger that came within inches of his head. It was graceful and reckless. Infuriating mostly.

Regulus looked away.

The Snitch wasn’t up here. He’d checked. He’d swept the skies twice already, slow, methodical passes like the previous captain had drilled into him back in third year. Nothing. No glint of gold. No shimmer of wings. Just clouds that threatened to open up and swallow the match whole.

He flexed his gloved fingers around the broom handle, adjusting his weight slightly. He forced himself to breathe. Slow. Even.

This was what he was good at. Not the chaos below. Not the shouting. Not the jostling for control. Here, in the heightless silence, he could think.

Below him, Dorcas shouted something and tucked into a steep dive. Her plaited hair was flying behind her like a banner of war. She passed to Avery. Of course. The way they moved together. Like they shared a single thought between them. It was irritatingly efficient. He hated how easy it looked for them. How loud they laughed even with the cold biting at their faces. Hated utterly unbothered James seemed to be about anything, even when the quaffle was out of his grasp.

Dammit, Regulus should not have started thinking about that boy again.

Regulus shifted his gaze again, let it catch—briefly—on Marlene. She was a meteor, all blunt force and glittering fury. Her blonde plait whipped behind her as she knocked a Slytherin chaser off course with a well-timed swing of her bat. She grinned as she did it and looked toward Dorcas. She smirked and nodded despite being on the other team and then took off again. She hadn’t even glanced up at Regulus.

None of them did.

He liked it that way. Needed it that way.

Because when James did look up…when he caught Regulus watching it was awful. Like last match, when he did just for a second. Just long enough for something to flicker between them. It left Regulus spiraling.

Pathetic.

The wind shifted.

It wasn’t much. A stray draft curled under his broom, tugging him sideways. It pulled his focus back. He adjusted his grip, sharpened his eyes, and scanned the far corner of the pitch again. Still nothing. No movement. No shimmer. Just the echo of the crowd and the way his breath fogged inside his scarf.

He didn’t mind. The waiting. The watching. It gave him space to think.

Regulus Black, sixth-year Slytherin seeker. Controlled. Precise. Always at the edge of the storm.

Below, Sirius whooped. A Bludger arced toward one of Regulus’ chasers, and Sirius shouted something that sounded suspiciously like “Suck it, Avery!” Before looping upward, bat raised, laughter barking from his chest. For a moment, their paths crossed in the air. Sirius trailed from left to right and Regulus was stationary above him. Neither of them looked.

Good.

If Sirius saw the way Regulus’ hands trembled around the handle of his broom, he’d never let it go. If he saw the way Regulus sometimes caught himself tracking James’ laugh. The way it lit up his face even in the bitter wind—

No.

Regulus swallowed hard, adjusted his scarf again. Focus. There was no room for that kind of thinking. Not here. Not now. The match was close. He knew it.

They were evenly matched in a way that made people nervous. Gryffindor had raw fire, talent, and chaos. Slytherin had precision, planning, and Regulus.

And he would find the Snitch. That was what mattered. Not Sirius’ swinging bat. Not the way James looked when the wind tugged his curls out of their neat tangle. Not the way Dorcas and Avery moved like they were dancing instead of playing a game that often ended with bruised ribs and bloodied lips.

Not the cold creeping into his sleeves. Not the silence in his chest.

A flash.

He blinked.

There—no, maybe—not gold, but something had moved. He leaned forward, eyes narrowing, heart stuttering once against his ribs.

Yes.

Just by the Ravenclaw stands. A shimmer.

Regulus surged forward, body flat against his broom. The air bit like knives as he dove. The roar of the crowd rose instantly, sensing movement. Across the pitch, James swerved mid-pass, distracted. His eyes locked with Regulus’ for the briefest, breathless instant.

Regulus didn’t look back.

The Snitch was moving fast, twitching just above the boundary line like it knew it had been spotted. His pulse quickened. This was it. This was what he trained for. The weightlessness. The focus. The way the rest of the world blurred into nothing.

It darted left.

He followed, quick and sharp. Eyes fixed. Jaws clenched. Boots tight against his broom.

It dipped low.

He chased.

The cold no longer mattered. The ache in his fingers didn’t matter. Not the sound of Sirius yelling in the background, not the buzz of the crowd, not the way James had looked when he’d caught Regulus’ eye for that single, impossible second.

Just the Snitch.

Just the flight.

Just the brief, blinding clarity of almost.

It darted again. Left. Then sharp down.

Regulus followed.

The Snitch glinted once—just once—like it was laughing at him, and then vanished behind the swirl of a green-robed chaser. He tucked his body tighter, broom angled into a near-vertical dive. The wind howled past his ears. His scarf whipped free from one shoulder. He didn’t care.

Everything else dropped away—the crowd, the game, the ache in his knuckles from gripping the broomstick so fucking hard. The world narrowed to gold and speed and hunger.

And then a second shadow cut across his path.

A blur of red robes. Gryffindor’s Seeker. Eleanor Vane, fourth year, quick as a whip and already trying to cut inside his dive. Force him wide. Smart. She wasn’t fast enough to beat him in the open, but she could box him out if she got close.

Regulus sneered.

He didn’t slow.

The Snitch flicked upward without warning, veering toward the Slytherin goalposts. Vane jerked left to follow. Predictable. Regulus didn’t. He rolled.

In one fluid motion, he flipped his broom upside down. He twisted around the back of a confused chaser and rocketed through the tangle of bodies. Vane hesitated for half a second. It was all he needed.

He broke free of the knot of players and leveled out just below the goal hoops. Close enough to see the Snitch weaving through the wind. The pitch was a blur behind it. The air burned in his lungs, but he was gaining.

Five meters. Four.

The Snitch skimmed the boards near the Slytherin stands. Regulus tracked it perfectly, banking low, boots nearly brushing the grass. The crowd surged to their feet. Screaming. Cheering. He couldn’t hear it. All he could hear was the flutter of golden wings.

Two meters. One.

And then—thwack.

A Bludger. Fast. Wild.

He swerved hard right just in time to avoid it slamming into his ribcage. But the near miss jolted him. His broom tilted violently mid-air. For one breathless moment, he was falling.

He righted himself on instinct, heart in his throat.

Where—?

The Snitch had vanished.

Again.

His vision blurred from the sudden drop in altitude and the near-hit. He cursed under his breath, wheeling around in a tight arc, searching frantically. The Snitch had been there. Close enough he could feel the buzz of magic in his fingertips.

Then—

Laughter.

High. Triumphant.

Not from the stands.

James.

He was circling just overhead, half a grin carved into his face. His cheeks were flushed from windburn and adrenaline. His curls were utterly ruined due to the wind.

Regulus glared.

“Bloody close, that,” James called down. “You alright?”

Regulus didn’t answer. Just turned his broom upward and shot into the sky again. Higher. Further. Away from the noise.

James was always watching.

The cold was louder now.

It scraped across Regulus’ skin like salt on stone. It found its way beneath his gloves, up his sleeves, and down the back of his neck. His scarf had come undone in the dive, flapping uselessly behind him like a tail. The roar of the crowd climbed steadily. Not wild with tension, but rhythmic. Confident.

Another goal.

The announcer’s voice, enchanted to boom over the pitch, cracked through the wind.

“Gryffindor scores again—Potter with the finish! That’s Seventy-ten!”

Regulus clenched his jaw. He didn’t look down. He didn’t need to.

He could feel it.

Momentum had shifted and it wasn’t shifting back.

Gryffindor wasn’t just ahead—they were bleeding Slytherin dry. With each pass, each gleaming shot through the hoops, the red team moved faster. Tighter. Like wolves catching the scent of a kill.

James was at the center of it all, of course.

He weaved between players like they were obstacles in a private game. Laughing, shouting, and barking encouragement as he passed to the other chaser again. They spun on a dime and launched the Quaffle through the left goal ring before Slytherin’s Keeper had even twitched.

The crowd exploded.

Regulus did look down then.

Dorcas hovered just above the goalposts, mouth tight with fury. Her hair was coming loose from its plait, and there was a smear of something on her cheekbone. She whipped around, barked at one of the other chasers. Then she flew straight at James.

For a moment, Regulus thought she might hit him.

James only grinned and swerved, dodging her with infuriating ease. He didn’t retaliate. He didn’t need to. He was winning.

That made it worse.

The kind of worse Regulus could feel in his gut. Cold and bitter.

Another whistle.

“Goal to Gryffindor—Potter again! That’s ninety-ten!”

The air above the pitch wasn’t still anymore. The wind was picking up. Ragged, angry gusts buffeted Regulus sideways even as he tried to stay anchored. His eyes darted, hunting. The Snitch had vanished again, but he knew it was close. It had to be. There was a rhythm to these games and the Snitch never stayed quiet forever.

Below, Dorcas darted toward a loose Quaffle, intercepted it, and bolted for the opposite goal. Regulus tensed—this, at least, was familiar. Dorcas was a storm in motion, furious and fast. If she could score, she’d remind everyone they weren’t done yet.

But Marlene was faster.

The impact echoed.

One second Dorcas was flying. The next she was spiraling sideways, nearly thrown from her broom as Marlene clipped her shoulder mid-tackle. It wasn’t illegal. Not quite. Just brutal in the way Marlene excelled.

Dorcas caught herself—barely—and hissed something venomous as she steadied her broom.

Regulus’ gut twisted. Not because of the hit. Not even because the Quaffle was recovered by Gryffindor seconds later. But because it all felt like this losing…this breaking apart was inevitable.

He’d been in matches like this before. Where nothing turned. Where the Snitch was your last hope, and even that kept taunting you with its absence. He pushed higher. The sky blurred. Wind howled in his ears. He had to see it. He had to find it.

James was shouting again…and laughing…and Regulus didn’t need to hear the words to know it was something ridiculous and charming and impossible not to like. That was the worst thing about him. You wanted to hate him, and then he went and looked like that in the cold. Gold-rimmed and reckless. Glorious.

And kind.

Godric, that was the worst.

Another roar. More points. The crowd chanting.

He hated it. All of it.

Then—

There.

Not light. Not sparkle.

Movement.

Beneath the Gryffindor stands, slicing low along the base of the pitch. The Snitch.

Regulus dove, again.

The world tilted. The wind screamed. His muscles screamed louder.

Behind him, someone shouted. But he didn’t care. His broom groaned under the pressure. The boards of the pitch came rushing up beneath him. He angled his dive, flattened out a foot from impact.

The Snitch was there.

He reached—

And Vane came out of nowhere, crashing into his side.

Not illegal. Barely. But deliberate.

He reeled back, shoulder aching from the impact. His broom wobbled. And just like that, the Snitch flicked away again. Gone.

He was going to kill her.

He could hear the announcer again—

“And Vane with the block—tight flying! Gryffindor’s still in control, folks!”

Control.

No. Not yet.

He wasn’t done.

The sky was darker now.

Not just the clouds, but the cold itself. It had thickened. Settled over the pitch like a breath held too long. No snow yet, but the air was edged with it. Everything stung.

Regulus hovered in the space just below the clouds, the wind slicing past his ears. His gloves were damp with sweat. His arms ached from the dive. His shoulder was still throbbing from when Vane clipped him. But he refused to feel it. There was no time.

Below him, the game had shifted again.

Not dramatically. Not like a story turning on a gasp. But something had tilted.

Slytherin was starting to fight like hell.

Dorcas had wiped the blood off her lip with her sleeve and come back with a vengeance. She’d scored twice in five minutes. Sharp and fast plays that caught even James off-guard. The second one she fired straight through the center hoop, her expression carved from granite. She didn’t even look at the Keeper afterward.

“Slytherin scores! That’s thirty to one-fifty!” the announcer shouted, startled, his voice cracking with the wind.

The crowd made a noise like confusion trying to become hope.

Regulus watched Dorcas fly off again, ignoring the high-five from Avery. He’d finally managed to do something useful and pull a clever block against Marlene. The chasers were starting to connect. Barely. But it was enough.

Ten points later, another cheer broke across the pitch.

“Forty to one-fifty!”

A hum ran through the Slytherin section of the stands.

Not loud. Not certain.

But real.

Regulus exhaled hard, fog clouding in front of his face. His fingers twitched around the broomstick. The gap had been unbearable before. Now it was…tempting.

All it would take was the Snitch.

If he caught it now—if he caught it soon—Slytherin would take the match by ten points.

It would be brutal. Glorious.

But he hadn’t seen the Snitch since the near-miss.

Not even a flicker.

Below, Gryffindor surged again. James in his relentless play style, swerved between Dorcas and Avery like he’d been born in this wind. He dodged a desperate Bludger from Mulciber, grinned over his shoulder, and flipped the Quaffle behind his back into the waiting hands of one of his chasers.

She didn’t miss.

“Another goal for Gryffindor! One-sixty to forty!”

The wind was howling now. Even Regulus’ vision blurred for a moment.

He squinted down.

Sirius was shouting something at Marlene as she dove—he passed her a Bludger with an overhead swing so clean it whistled through the air. She took it, aimed, cracked it so hard toward Avery that it spun his broom sideways. The Quaffle dropped from his arms.

James snagged it from the air before it hit the grass.

Passed.

Scored.

“One-seventy!”

Dorcas cursed loud enough that Regulus did hear it. She wheeled around midair and threw a hand up in disbelief—at Rosier, at the Keeper, at herself. Probably all of them.

She wasn’t used to losing.

Neither was Regulus.

And that, he realized bitterly, was what was beginning to bloom under his ribs. Not panic. Not rage. Something sharper.

The realization that Gryffindor was just good enough to make it look easy.

Even now, even after Slytherin fought back, they were still slipping.

Still falling behind.

One-seventy. One-eighty.

The cheers from the Gryffindor stands were deafening now. The chants had started. James’ name carried on the wind like some smug hymn. Every time Regulus caught sight of him, he looked brighter. His cheeks were pinker, curls windswept, golden goggles glinting like a crown.

Regulus had to catch the Snitch.

Soon.

Not because it would save them.

But because it was the only part of this whole match that he could still control.

He adjusted his grip. Pressed forward. Eyes burning from the cold. Searching.

If it appeared again, he wouldn’t miss.

Not this time.

There.

There.

Just above the pitch, near the far end of the Hufflepuff stands. A glint that flickered like lightning caught in a bottle. The Snitch. Not a trick of the wind. Not another glimmer of blonde hair or golden goggle strap. Real.

Regulus didn’t think.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t look for signals from the captain. Didn’t check the formation below. Didn’t scan for Bludgers.

He dove.

The wind screamed in his ears. Cold air tore through him, and the crowd’s roar pitched higher. Distant and useless.

The only thing that mattered now was that flash of gold.

Behind him, someone cursed—loud and startled. It was Vane. She’d seen it too. But Regulus had a head start and he was faster.

The Snitch darted left. Regulus twisted his broom, cutting the angle with brutal precision. He flew like a knife. Lean, honed, and cold. The air blurred. The stands vanished. His eyes didn’t blink.

Vane drew up beside him in a desperate surge, her broom shuddering under the speed. She leaned toward him, elbow sharp. She tried to cut into his line. Tried to force him wide.

He shoved back.

Not a foul. Barely.

Just enough.

She veered, lost a meter, and hissed a curse.

The Snitch dropped again. This time low. Just above the turf. Regulus followed. He could see its wings now, fluttering fast and frantic. Like it knew.

Ten meters.

Five.

Don’t look away.

He could hear the wind howling through the rings.

Four.

Vane came back into view—on his right. Reaching.

Three.

His fingers burned on the broom handle.

Two.

The Snitch cut right. Regulus didn’t.

He angled into the motion perfectly, trailing it like a shadow. It was close enough to feel its shimmer against his gloves. His heart pounded once—hard—and he lunged.

His hand closed around it.

The impact was soft and electric. Wings fluttering against his palm. Magic crackling like it recognized him.

Cheers exploded.

He didn’t let go of the Snitch. Not yet. Not until he was sure.

Regulus pulled up sharply, rising above the pitch. His fist was still clenched tight around the Snitch. The crowd was a roar of color and movement. Slytherin surged from the stands—green and silver waving. Students screamed his name.

And for one, breathless moment—

He let himself believe it.

He’d done it. He’d won.

He turned, heart in his throat, and looked at the scoreboard.

GRYFFINDOR: 200

SLYTHERIN: 190

His chest went still.

No.

No, that was wrong.

It had been one-eighty to 40. If he’d caught it then—he’d have won it by ten points. He knew that.

But somewhere in that mad chase, while he had been locked into the hunt, Gryffindor had scored again. Twice.

They’d stolen it in the background.

While he was chasing the one thing he could control, they’d slipped past everything else.

Marlene was shouting something across the pitch, her voice caught between triumph and fury. Sirius flung his arms around James. Vane had landed already, kicking the ground. She shook her head. Which Regulus was confused about. What? She was upset she didn’t get the glory of the win? Students were flooding down from the stands.

Regulus floated above it all, Snitch still trembling in his hand. He watched as Gryffindor celebrated.

He had won.

But it wasn’t enough.

The Snitch was still fluttering in his fist when Regulus touched down.

The grass crunched beneath his boots, brittle with frost. The echo of cheers was fading, replaced by the thud of students running toward the stands. The rattle of commentary wound down, the metallic clang of the scoreboard resetting.

He didn’t look up.

He didn’t want to see the numbers again.

He didn’t want to see James.

Instead, he loosened his fingers slowly. The Snitch twitched, wings still fluttering. It looked almost frantic in his palm. Like it didn’t understand.

He let it go.

It zipped off into the cold sky, vanishing into grey.

Then—

“Fucking brilliant,” Mulciber snarled, stomping toward him. “You waited. You waited too long.” His face was red, puffed from cold and fury. “You saw the Snitch at forty. Everyone saw it. Everyone. You waited for what, a perfect dive? You think style fucking matters?!”

Regulus didn’t answer.

He didn’t flinch, either.

Mulciber shoved his shoulder. “You cost us the game.”

“I caught the Snitch.”

“You caught it too late.”

Another shove. Harder.

Regulus staggered a step back, mud scraping his boots. His shoulder was still burning from the earlier collision with Vane. His jaw tensed. His knuckles ached. He could say something. He could hex Mulciber into the next field.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t want to speak.

He was so angry it made him quiet.

Then Dorcas was there—broom in one hand. Her hair was still falling from her plait, cheeks streaked with windburn and blood. She shoved herself between them like a wedge of steel.

“Knock it off,” she snapped at Mulciber.

He opened his mouth.

“Don’t. I swear to Merlin, I’ll break your fucking jaw.”

Mulciber looked at her for a second too long. Something uncertain flashed across his face. Uncertain or afraid. He then turned, spat on the ground, and stalked off toward the locker rooms, muttering under his breath.

Dorcas didn’t look at Regulus.

She didn’t say thank you. Didn’t say sorry. She just stood there, back to him. Like she was holding the world back with her shoulders alone.

He almost said her name.

But then he arrived.

James Potter.

Still in his robes, helmet pushed back off his curls, cheeks flushed and bright from cold and victory. He looked like he’d been sculpted by the wind. He was impossibly alive. His laughter was still clinging to his lips like a taste he hadn’t swallowed yet.

He stopped a few feet away, broom in hand, and looked at Regulus.

And smiled.

Not a grin. Not smug. Just a soft, flickering thing. Respectful. Maybe even kind. Like he’d seen the dive. Like he’d seen how close Regulus had come. Like he knew.

Regulus met his gaze for one long, breathless second.

And looked away.

Not cold. Not bitter. Just…refusing.

He turned his back without a word.

James didn’t follow.

The changing room was cold when he pushed the door open.

No surprise. It always was, somehow. Like the stone held the chill longer than it should, even after the torches were lit and the showers steamed. The air hung heavy with sweat, soap, and something metallic. Victory wasn’t part of the scent today.

Regulus didn’t speak. He didn’t even sigh. Just dropped his gloves onto the bench, peeled off his muddied robes, and stepped into the far shower stall.

The water came on hot. Almost scalding. For a few minutes—longer than necessary—he stood beneath it. His arms were braced against the wall and eyes shut. His hair stuck to his face and plastered to his neck. His chest ached. Not physically. Just…in the way that lingered.

The water made everything feel louder.

He replayed the dive again.

And again.

The way the Snitch had flickered. The way his hand had closed around it. The silence that came after. And then the numbers, stark and unrelenting.

Two hundred to one-ninety.

He should’ve caught it sooner.

He should’ve paid attention.

He shut the water off with more force than necessary and stepped into the cold air, grabbing a towel with numb fingers. His clothes weren’t where he left them.

The green-and-silver uniform was gone. Boots too. Everything but a pair of plain underclothes folded on the bench. Someone had taken the rest. Or dumped it somewhere. Either way, they were gone.

Typical.

He stared at the bundle for a moment. A towel wrapped tight around his waist. Then he sat. Slowly. Carefully. The stone was cold beneath him.

The underthings were thin. Too thin. The fabric hugged in the wrong places, cut too sharp at the hip and too loose in the chest. He hated them. Always had.

He pulled them on anyway.

No point standing here waiting to be mocked twice in one day.

A thread came loose at the waistband. He tugged it, eyes dull. His hair was still dripping onto his shoulders. His skin prickled with the chill, but he didn’t move to dress further. There wasn’t anything else to put on.

Just him.

Alone in a locker room that still smelled like failure.

The towel was left behind on the bench.

Regulus stood in the corridor just outside the changing room, water still damp against the back of his neck despite the drying charm he’d muttered under his breath. It hadn’t quite worked the way it usually did. His fingers were stiff from the cold. His sleeves stuck slightly to his arms. The thin cotton shirt he wore clung in the wrong places, and the trousers weren’t insulated in the slightest.

He hadn’t even realized how cold it was until he stepped into the hall and the wind bit at him through the open archway.

He shivered, sharp and involuntary.

And then…because of course…James was there.

Coming from the other side of the corridor, hair tousled from his own shower. A red-and-gold jumper was pulled halfway over his head as he walked. His face was still flushed with heat from the water and from victory. His mouth tugged into the smallest shadow of a smile before he noticed Regulus.

He stopped walking.

Regulus straightened a fraction too quickly.

James let his arms fall to his sides, expression shifting into something puzzled. Concerned. Irritating.

“Why are you—” He gestured, vaguely, toward Regulus’ clothes. “—just in that?”

Regulus exhaled through his nose, looking past him. More toward nothing. “Forgot my coat.”

“You forgot your—” James blinked. “It’s freezing. You can see your breath.”

Regulus shrugged, sharp and short. “I’ll survive.”

There was a pause. Regulus hoped that would be the end of it. That James would say something smug about the match. That he’d walk on with that maddening bounce in his step and let Regulus disappear down the corridor like a ghost.

But instead, James reached up and pulled his Gryffindor jumper off.

Just like that.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. The jumper hung from his hand. Warm, thick, oversized. The red looked ridiculous next to Regulus’ sleeves. “Take it.”

“No.” Regulus’ voice was flat.

“You’re shivering.”

“I said no.”

James stepped forward, undeterred. “You’ll get sick.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not wearing socks, mate.”

Regulus’ glare flared. “You don’t have to play savior. You won.”

“This isn’t about winning,” James said, quieter now. “It’s cold. You’re cold. You’re my best mate’s brother. Take the jumper.”

Regulus opened his mouth. Shut it. He hated this. The way James looked at him like he wasn’t a threat. Like he was just a person. Like kindness wasn’t a trap.

But James kept standing there, arm extended. His brows were furrowed like this was the most obvious thing in the world. Just put it on, that look said. Like he did this sort of thing all the time. As if handing over pieces of himself was effortless.

Eventually, Regulus snatched it from his hands. “Fine.”

James didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. He just nodded. “See you around.”

And then he walked off all bare-armed and casual. Like he hadn’t just thrown Regulus’ whole sense of control off a cliff. He didn’t look back. Didn’t linger. Didn’t wait to see if Regulus would actually wear it.

Regulus stared after him, jumper bunched in his fists.

The scent of it was warm and lived-in. Wind and soap and something golden he couldn’t name. It was soft. Much softer than anything he owned.

He didn’t put it on right away.

But his fingers curled into it, slowly. Like they didn’t know any better. And in his chest, just beneath the part of him still seething from the loss, something bloomed.

A feeling he really, really didn’t want to name.

——————————————

The dungeon smelled like burned lavender and ash.

Someone had already messed up their calming draught and the whole room reeked of frustration and melted glass. The torches on the walls flickered low, casting strange shadows across the benches. The chill of the stone floor seeped through Regulus’ shoes like it was trying to crawl up his spine.

He stood stiffly at the far bench, robes folded neatly over the stool he refused to sit on. His arms were crossed. The cauldron in front of him bubbled with a lazy, unbothered simmer. The color was off. Only slightly. But it made his eye twitch.

“Don’t touch it,” Snape said without looking up. His voice was dry. “You’ll only make it worse.”

Regulus gritted his teeth. “It’s your mistake.”

Snape turned toward him slowly, the faintest smirk curling his lip. “If you say so.”

They hadn’t spoken the entire first ten minutes of class. That had been the only tolerable part. Slughorn had muttered something about the importance of humility in revisiting old work, then launched them into brewing third-trimester sixth-year potions as a “warm-up” for NEWT prep. Regulus didn’t need a warm-up. He needed out.

He hadn’t asked to be moved up.

He hadn’t asked to be partnered with Severus Bloody Snape.

The bench two stations down was much louder.

Sirius was narrating their brewing process like a commentator at a Quidditch match. “And now the stirring begins! Will Potter crack under pressure? Will the gillyweed explode?”

“Your face is going to explode if you drop that ladle again,” James replied, grinning. “It’s not even the right tool.”

They laughed, loud and easy.

Regulus didn’t look at them.

He didn’t need to look to know James had flour on his cheek for no reason. That Sirius had likely transfigured his ladle into a small but tasteful sword. He didn’t need to look to know James would be smiling, flushed with laughter and leaning too close.

“I’ll handle the last turn,” Snape muttered, reaching for the stirring rod. His sleeve brushed Regulus’ hand and Regulus pulled away instinctively.

“Don’t touch me,” he said sharply.

Snape blinked. “Then don’t hover.”

“You’re crowding the cauldron.”

“I’m correcting your error.”

“I made no error.”

“You added the dried nettles before the flame was steady.”

Regulus rounded on him. “Because you were too busy criticizing everyone else to monitor the heat—”

“Boys,” Slughorn called from across the room, not even looking up from the stack of essays he was half-heartedly marking. “Less talking, more potion-making. The draught is meant to calm others, not test their nerves.”

Snape didn’t respond. Just curled his lip and stirred.

Regulus said nothing. He watched the potion spiral, off-color and spiteful. His hands itched to take the rod. To fix it. To do it right. But if he reached again, Snape would say something. Or worse—he wouldn’t. He’d just sneer and let him fail.

A crash echoed from the Gryffindor station.

“—I told you that wasn’t powdered moonstone—”

“Then why did you label it that way?!”

Slughorn heaved a sigh. “Mr. Potter. Mr. Black. Please don’t turn today’s class into a theatrical production.”

Sirius muttered something about critics never respecting art. James laughed. Regulus bit the inside of his cheek and refused to smile. Snape’s stirring was precise. Aggressive.

Too aggressive.

“You’re going to over-agitate the base,” Regulus muttered, jaw tight.

Snape didn’t look at him. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I doubt that.” Regulus folded his arms. “Judging by the color, you’ve destabilized the sopophorous residue.”

“I stabilized it because your nettles pre-ignited the starch binder—”

Regulus scoffed. “You’re just making things up now.”

“If I were making things up,” Snape said flatly, “you’d already be unconscious from your own incompetence.”

Regulus rolled his eyes and turned, pretending to examine the shelves behind them. “Charming,” he said under his breath, before adding in a tone just loud enough to be heard, “your margins are full of little bats and pentagrams, by the way. In your textbook.”

Snape froze.

The stirring rod stopped mid-circle.

Regulus didn’t turn around.

“I was bored last week. Left early. You forgot it on the desk.”

Silence.

“Didn’t take you for a romantic,” Regulus continued, voice light and sharp. “But I suppose even brooding little potion prodigies need someone to imagine hexing to death with red ink.”

That got him a reaction.

Snape whipped around, pale skin blotched with fury. His eyes, usually so blankly unimpressed, were sharp now. Crueler than usual.

“You had no right.”

“I didn’t touch anything,” Regulus said with a shrug. “But really, if you’re going to spend half the class scribbling spell-theory and…what is it, a dagger with ‘LE’ on the handle?”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, is it Evans? I wasn’t sure. Could’ve been ‘My Lord’ if you were being dramatic. Does Evans know you’re still obsessed with her? Rather hypocritical if you ask me. Aligning yourself with…alleged…Death Eaters but fancying a Muggle-Born.”

Snape moved so quickly that Regulus had to jerk back to avoid being jabbed in the chest with the stirring rod. Potion sloshed out of the cauldron as it rocked violently.

“Shut your mouth,” Snape hissed.

Their bench wobbled. Someone turned around from the Slytherin table, but no one intervened. No one ever did. Snape and Regulus might’ve been dueling ghosts, trapped in a loop too old and too sharp for anyone else to touch.

Slughorn cleared his throat again. “Gentlemen—”

But before the tension could snap further, a small explosion echoed from two benches down.

“It wasn’t me this time!” Sirius shouted, arms in the air, goggles on upside down and face flecked with a spatter of green foam.

James wheezed with laughter, trying to mop the mess with the hem of his sleeve. “I—I swear it wasn’t supposed to melt! Why is it melting?”

“The cauldron’s boiling through the table—”

“Oh, that’s not ideal—”

“Mr. Potter!” Slughorn bellowed, lurching to his feet. “Mr. Black! Ten points from Gryffindor and stop laughing! You’re turning this room into a Quidditch match!”

James raised both hands in surrender, but the grin didn’t leave his face. “Just bringing a little life to the lesson, sir.”

Sirius gave an exaggerated bow. “We’re artists, Professor. Can’t cage genius.”

Laughter rippled across the Gryffindor side of the room.

Regulus, still bristling from Snape’s nearness, took one step away from the cauldron. His face was composed. His pulse was not. Snape was still staring at him like he wanted to hex him through the floor.

“Your potion’s ruined,” Snape said, venomously quiet.

“Pretty sure it was a collective effort considering it was meant to be ours,” Regulus snapped.

“I can fix it. You wouldn’t know where to start.”

Regulus gave him a thin, flat smile. “Then by all means. Show me. Because I must be hopeless despite Slughorn moving me up a year.”

The potion was a disaster.

Pale grey instead of soft blue. Frothing. It smelled like burned sage and boiled vinegar. Not explosive—but barely functional.

So, when Slughorn lumbered over, mustache twitching and his cheeks flushed with frustration, the entire class went quiet. He stared at the cauldron. Then at Regulus. Then at Snape.

Then at the faint scorch mark on the table leg.

“Enough,” he said flatly. “I’m done watching you two spar like alley cats over a single cauldron.”

Regulus opened his mouth.

“Don’t even think about arguing, Mr. Black.”

Snape crossed his arms, mouth curling into a silent sneer. Slughorn turned sharply and waved his wand in an irritated circle. “Mr. Snape, move. Now.”

“Sir—”

“No. You’re with Marlene McKinnon. End of discussion.”

Across the room, Marlene groaned so loud it echoed.

“You’ve got to be joking,” she barked, half-rising from her seat. “Professor, I’m not brewing with that snake-eyed menace—”

“You’ll manage. If anyone can keep him in check, it’s you.”

Marlene gave Snape a look that could have set fire to a basilisk. He gathered his things slowly, deliberately. He dragged his cauldron like it insulted him personally.

Regulus blinked once, already feeling a migraine bloom behind his eyes. Slughorn wasn’t finished.

“Mr. Black,” he said, turning to Sirius now, who was grinning like Christmas had come early, “since you’re clearly unable to restrain your creativity, I’ll be moving you to someone less combustible. Go join Miss Evans, since she is now lacking a partner.”

“Professor, absolutely not,” Lily said at once, looking up from her perfectly stirred potion with horror. “You cannot seriously think—”

“He’ll follow instructions or he’ll scrub cauldrons for a month.”

Sirius gave her a sunny smile as he flounced across the room. “Pleasure working with you, Evans.”

Lily glared at him like she was calculating how long a murder charge would delay her career.

“And,” Slughorn said, with the kind of smug finality that meant he thought he was fixing something, “Potter, over there. With Mr. Black.”

Regulus turned so fast he nearly unbalanced his stool. “No.”

Slughorn didn’t even blink. “You two need to learn to work with others. Perhaps a calming draught is exactly what the both of you need.”

James raised his eyebrows. “I mean, I’m excellent company.”

Regulus clenched his jaw. “This is a punishment.”

“It’s an opportunity,” Slughorn said brightly, already walking away. “Now. Brew.”

Regulus stared at the mess of ingredients. At the ruined cauldron. The unbearable silence that followed. James stood beside him now, close enough that Regulus could smell the soap he used after the match. Warm, citrusy, and too familiar. The Gryffindor jumper—Regulus’ jumper now, though he hadn’t dared return it yet—brushed his arm.

James leaned slightly over the bench. “So…where do you keep the powdered bat spleen?”

Regulus didn’t answer.

He was too busy deciding if one more stir would be enough to throw the entire thing onto the floor and blame the fumes.

James cleared his throat. Regulus didn’t look at him. “So…” James said. “You always this quiet when you’re not threatening to hex someone?”

Still nothing.

James leaned one elbow on the bench, not close enough to touch. But just close enough to draw attention to the way his sleeves were pushed up and his hair was still damp, curling a little at the nape. “Because I think this is the first time you haven’t insulted me in the span of five minutes,” he added helpfully.

Regulus let out a long, quiet breath through his nose and didn’t respond. His hands were already moving, flicking his wand in a short and precise arc to reset the flame beneath their shared cauldron. The potion inside was a half-ruined attempt and he clearly had no intention of salvaging what Snape had started.

He was starting over.

James watched as Regulus laid out the ingredients one by one on a clean cloth. It was not like he was unpacking tools, but like he was arranging an altar. Everything perfectly spaced. Nettles trimmed down to equal lengths, sprigs of chamomile hand-crushed with the heel of his palm instead of a blade. It was as not to bruise them.

It wasn’t the way Slughorn taught.

It was better.

“You’ve got a method,” James said, softer now. “It’s kind of terrifying.”

Regulus didn’t reply, but his lips twitched like he might’ve heard him.

He adjusted the flame again, this time flicking his wand in a tighter spiral to make it hover three centimeters below the base of the cauldron. “Too hot and it ruins the qualities of the potion,” he muttered…more to himself than James. “Too low and the potion thickens past even emulsification.”

Then he reached for the pestle.

[lowlylux]

Reveals Day 1!

Hello, everyone! We are so excited for day 1 of reveals! We are so proud of all of the hard work that the Fest participants have put in! We will be revealing new works each day from now until the 29th!

As a reminder, please keep in mind that a lot of Conan's material can be angsty, so please mind all ratings and tags!

Memories by Fictional_simp09 ( @fictionalsimp09 )

After Andromeda finds out about Bellatrix’s arrest, she shows up drunk one night at the Malfoy Manor begging for Narcissa to be back in her life again. But some things are best if they stay in your memories.

Wish I Were... by LowlyLux ( @lowlylux )

James Potter gave Regulus Black his jumper once…Regulus knew he was gone after that.

wish you were sober by saltwatergarden ( @talkingtravesties )

It starts at a party. Just something to cross off Draco's bucket list. Shag the Saviour. Be done with it. Move on. But then it happens again. And again. And somewhere between drunk kisses in dark corners and 2 a.m. knocks on the door, it stops being casual. At least for Draco. Because Harry only shows up when he's sloshed. And Draco keeps letting him in.

Astronomy by gallifreygrindelwald ( @gallifrey-grindelwald )

One shot exploring Harry's attachment to the Half Blood Prince in the sixth book.

Best Friend ~ Marylily by arcturus_kay ( @regulusblackkkk )

A marylily fanart inspired by best friend by Conan Gray!! Mary and Lily are 'best friends' but are they really more than that?

If you'd like to see our whole collection, you can find it here: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Conan_Gray_HP_Fest_2025

Also, see our Wishbone-inspired Flash Fest here: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Wishbone_Flash_Fest

Please make sure to give love to all of the participants so far, these works are amazing!

[lowlylux]

Wait do yall prefer the entire chapter of a fic on here or like a snippet and then a link to the ao3 page

[lowlylux]

I just think about how I am using her characters to tell my trans experience…and that makes me warm and fuzzy inside

Yes sometimes I do get sad for the fact that she actually did create these characters.

And then I laugh thinking how mad she is about how gay we made literally all of them. No one untouched.

[lowlylux]

Watcher of the Skies

Part One | Chapter Four: Broom

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 9.1k

Ship: [Not yet relevant] Jegulily/Wolfstar

Description:

In which everyone's lives are great big tragedies... They just don't know it yet.

Because life cannot be as simple as learning magic and falling in love, no. War will always complicate things. And so will the world that encourages it.

Ao3 link

The morning air is crisp.  All sharp in James’ lungs as he jogs out onto the grounds, his robes flapping behind him.  His broom should be propped against the wall of the broom shed like always.  Row fifteen, slot six—he remembers because he counted twice the day they were issued.  His fingers tingle with excitement.  Flying class is the only thing that’s made the weirdness of being away from home feel okay.

He skids to a stop.  Row fifteen, slot six is empty.

“What—” James mutters, stepping back to check again.  Maybe he counted wrong.  One, two, three…six.  Still empty.  He checks the surrounding slots, just in case someone misplaced it.  There are a few identical brooms, scuffed old school models with peeling labels.  But none of them with the tiny P carved into the handle by James’ wand.  That was the first charm he ever got to work properly.  He was so proud.

And now it’s gone.

James sprints across the grass toward the rest of the students assembling near Madam Hooch.  The rest of the Gryffindor and Slytherin first years are buzzing with excitement.  A few of them are already standing beside their brooms like they’re racing dogs about to take off.  Sirius is spinning his in his hand and talking animatedly to Marlene McKinnon who doesn’t even look like she’s listening.

James shoves past a few people.  “Madam Hooch!”

She turns with her usual stern frown, arms crossed over her whistle.  “Yes, Potter?”

“My broom’s missing,” James says breathlessly.  “Row fifteen, slot six.  It’s not there anymore.  I swear I left it there after last week’s lesson.”

She raises an eyebrow.  “Are you sure you didn’t misplace it?”

“No!  I always put it back in the same spot.  I even marked it…see, I put a P on the handle, right where the grain curves.”

She sighs like she’s heard a hundred excuses.  “Mr. Potter, school equipment is issued with the understanding that students take care of it.  If it’s gone, then I suggest you treat that as a lesson in responsibility.  It’s not the castle’s fault you lost your broom.”

“But I didn’t…” James starts, his voice climbing.  “I didn’t lose it.  Someone must’ve taken it.”

“I suggest you should be more careful where you leave school property in future,” she says firmly, and blows the whistle.  Sharp and loud.  “Everyone to your brooms!”

James stands frozen, heat crawling up his neck.  It’s not fair.  He did take care of it.  He put it back, exactly like he was supposed to.  Why does she think he’d be so stupid?

Sirius glances over from his broom and makes a face.  “What happened?”

“My broom’s gone,” James mutters, fists clenched.  “She thinks I lost it.”

Sirius’ eyebrows shoot up.  “You?  Lose a broom?  Please.  You would’ve slept with the bloody thing next to your bed the first week if you could.”

James huffs, but it doesn’t help.  “I’m going to miss the whole class now.”

Peter pipes up from a few feet away, his broom already at his feet.  “Maybe you can borrow someone’s?”

“Not unless someone wants to stand on the ground and watch,” James snaps, then instantly feels guilty.  “Sorry.”

Remus, who had wandered over quietly, peers at Madam Hooch.  “You could tell McGonagall.”

“What good would that do?”  James grumbles.  “She’d probably just say the same thing.”

Remus shrugs.  “She might not.  You’re good at flying.  Maybe she’d at least listen.”

James isn’t sure.  Everything feels twisted up in his chest.  Anger and embarrassment and a pinch of fear he doesn’t want to admit to.  What if someone took it on purpose?  What if it was one of the Slytherins, just to get under his skin?  He tries not to look at Severus Snape, but catches the boy watching him anyway from the corner of his eye.  That greasy, smug expression that always seems a second away from a sneer.

“Potter,” Madam Hooch calls again.  “If you don’t have a broom, you’ll be observing today.  Take a seat.”

James doesn’t argue.  There’s no point.  He trudges over to the edge of the pitch and sits on the bench like a punished player.  His eyes flick toward the sky as the first years mount up.  A few wobble, some fall, but others—like Sirius—shoot up like they were born to fly.  The sky stretches wide and clear above them.  James has never hated the ground so much in his life.

He grips the edge of the bench hard.

After class, when everyone’s clamoring with post-flight adrenaline and laughter, James is already on his feet.  He heads toward the castle.  Sirius catches up with him halfway.

“Still mad?”

James gives him a sideways look.  “What do you think?”

Sirius shrugs, hands in his pockets.  “Look, if someone did nick it, we’ll find out.  They’re idiots if they think you won’t notice.”

“I did notice,” James says bitterly.  “It didn’t matter.”

They walk in silence for a bit.  The castle doors swing open with a creak and cool air washes over them.  Sirius nudges him.  “You wanna go check the broom shed again later?  Just in case?”

James considers it.  It’s probably useless, but he needs to do something.  “Yeah.  I do.”

“And if someone did take it,” Sirius says, his grin sharpening, “we’re going to make their life a living hell.”

James manages a smile.  Small, but real.  “Deal.”

They don’t talk much on the walk back to the common room.  The corridors are full of students coming in from the grounds, laughter echoing off the stone walls.  But none of it feels like it touches James.  His insides are too knotted up.  Not just with embarrassment.  But with this rattling feeling.  Like he’s been wronged and no one cares.

It sits heavy in his chest.  He keeps replaying Madam Hooch’s voice over and over.  What lesson, exactly?  That he should never trust anyone?  That even if he does everything right, he still ends up looking like the idiot?

By the time he climbs through the portrait hole, the knot has solidified.

The common room is warm and golden, but James barely sees it.  He stomps over to the fireplace and throws himself into one of the armchairs like it insulted his mum.  Sirius flops into the chair across from him, swinging his legs up like nothing happened.  Like James isn’t one deep sigh away from exploding.

Remus follows a moment later and sits cross-legged on the floor with a book in his lap.  Peter hovers behind, glancing between them nervously.  James stares into the flames, jaw tight.

It’s Remus who finally breaks the silence.  “You know,” he says slowly, turning a page without looking up, “I don’t think it’s about the broom.”

James glares at him.  “It is about the broom.”

“Partly,” Remus says.  “But mostly it’s about how she didn’t believe you.”

Sirius looks up from where he’s tossing an Exploding Snap card between his fingers.  “Yeah.  That was rubbish.  She should’ve known you’d never lose something like that.”

James doesn’t say anything.  The fire cracks.

“She talked to me like I was stupid,” he mutters finally.  “Like I’m just another kid who doesn’t care.”

“You’re not,” Peter says quickly.

“I know I’m not!”  James snaps, and Peter flinches.  “I care more about flying than anything.  I’ve read every book on broomstick form and balance and I even practiced levitating fruit before class started just to get the wrist motion down.”

Sirius whistles low.  “Fruit?”

“Oranges,” James grumbles.  “But they bruised easy.”

They all go quiet again.  And then Remus softly says, “you don’t have to prove anything to us.”

“I’m not trying to prove it to you,” James says. His voice is sharper than he means it to be.  “I’m just—” He cuts off, fists tightening.  “I hate feeling like this.”

“Like what?” Peter asks.

James stares into the fire again, shoulders hunched.  “Like I don’t matter.  Like grown-ups will just decide what the truth is and that’s that.”

They all fall quiet.

James knows it’s a stupid thing to get so worked up about.  It’s just a stupid borrowed broom.  But it’s more than that.  It’s how quickly Madam Hooch made up her mind.  It’s the way she didn’t even look in the shed herself.  It’s how no one even asked if maybe something else was going on.  He hates how small it makes him feel.  Like eleven years old is too young to be taken seriously.

Sirius suddenly stands.  “C’mon,” he says.

James blinks up at him.  “What?”

“We’re going to the broom shed.”

“It’s probably locked—”

“Then we’ll find a way to get it open.”  Sirius grins.  “You think I’m letting my best mate sit around moping while someone swans off with his broom?  Not a chance.”

James cannot help himself as he grins.  “Best mate?”

Sirius scoffs, pushing James away.  “Shut up.”

Remus sighs, moving the conversation back to the task at hand.  “You’re going to get detention.”

“Only if we get caught.”

James hesitates.  Every rule-following part of him bristles at the idea.  But the part of him that’s still burning with frustration—the part that needs to know what happened—wins out.

“Alright,” he says, standing.

Peter scurries after them.  “What if we do find it?  What if it’s just…lying there?”

“Then I’ll feel stupid,” James mutters, “but I’d rather feel stupid and right than sit here doing nothing.”

They wait until after dinner, sneaking out under the cover of a fake story about “visiting the library for research.”  No one buys it, but no one stops them either.  Sirius leads the charge with a confidence that borders on absurd, striding across the darkening grounds like he’s on a mission.

The broom shed is cold and still.  Locked, of course.

“Allow me,” Sirius says, pulling out his wand like he’s been waiting his whole life to say it.  “Alohomora!”

Nothing happens.

“…Damn.  Thought that’d work.”

Remus leans down and studies the lock.  “Maybe if we—”

But James isn’t listening.  He’s circled around the side of the shed and—

“There,” he says.  “There’s a window.”  It’s small and grimy and only half-hinged, but Peter helps boost him up and, with a fair bit of wiggling, James manages to squeeze inside.

He drops down, heart pounding.  He is surrounded by broomsticks.  He lights his wand.  “Lumos.”  He walks the row.  One by one.  Slow.  Careful.

Slot six is still empty.

But down at the end—tucked behind an older model.  Half-hidden behind a stack of extra practice hoops.  He sees something.  A familiar handle.  His breath catches.

The grain curves slightly.  The wand mark—a carved “P”—just visible under the dust.  “Got it,” he whispers.

Someone did move it.

James stares at it for a moment.  Then he picks it up and turns back toward the window.  His eyes are narrowed.  Someone’s playing games.  And he’s going to find out who.

James pushes open the shed door from the inside and lets the others in, broom in hand.  They crowd around him, eyes wide.

“You found it?” Sirius asks, leaning in.

James nods tightly.  “Hidden behind the hoops.  Someone shoved it back there.”

Remus frowns.  “You’re sure it wasn’t just misplaced?”

“I put it back in slot six.  Every time.”  James’ grip on the handle tightens.  “Someone didn’t just borrow it…they hid it.  I’m not imagining that.”

They’re all quiet for a beat.  Peter shifts nervously on his feet.

Then Sirius points to the rickety little table at the side of the shed.  “Isn’t that the sign-in sheet?”

Sure enough, there’s a big leather-bound logbook laid open.  It has names and dates scrawled in a rotating cast of handwriting.  The quill in the inkpot is dry and crusted, but the parchment glows a faint magical blue under Remus’ wandlight.

James steps up first and flips backward through the last few pages.

Every flying class is logged.  The date, time, weather conditions, and a column for student names with check-out and check-in times.  Most students follow the rule: take a broom, write your name, put it back after class.  Some entries are smudged, a few names half-legible.

But one pattern jumps out fast.

Sirius leans in, reading over James’ shoulder.  “Look at this—Snape.  Every time.  He’s always the last one to sign his back in.”

James traces the rows with his finger.  “Even when he checks it out early.  Look—this one here.  He took his broom out before class started, but still returned it after everyone else.”

Remus frowns.  “Maybe he just likes to fly longer?”

“Snape?”  Sirius snorts.  “He flies like a bat with vertigo.  You’ve seen him.”

James flips the page.  “Same thing here.  Flying class ends at three.  Most people check in around three-ten.  Snape?  Three-twenty-five.”

Peter swallows.  “Could just be a coincidence.”

James doesn’t answer.  He’s staring at the entry from last week.  The one where his broom went missing.

Everyone else’s names are there.  James: Checked out at two-twelve.  Checked in at three-twenty.

Snape: Checked out at two.  Checked in at three-twenty-six.

Sirius whistles low.  “And that’s the day it disappeared.”

James doesn’t move.  His jaw is tight again, eyes scanning the log.  “He was the last one in the shed.”

“And your broom’s the one that ends up hidden,” Sirius mutters.  “Doesn’t take a genius.”

Remus bites his lip.  “We don’t know for sure.”

James turns to him.  “Who else would even care enough to do something like this?”

“Plenty of people don’t like you, James.”

James raises his eyebrows.  “Yeah, but not plenty of people glare at me every time I so much as breathe in class.”

Remus hesitates.

“Snape’s always watching you,” Peter adds quietly.  “It’s weird.  I noticed it last week.”

“Maybe he fancies me,” James says sarcastically.  But he hates how true what Peter said sounds.  He thinks back to earlier.  On the pitch, when everyone was mounting their brooms.  He did catch Snape watching him.  Not sneering.  Just…observing.  Cold.  Calculating.

It wasn’t just dislike.  It was something else.

“He did this to mess with me,” James mutters.  “To make me look stupid in front of Hooch.”

Sirius scoffs.  “And it worked.  She practically called you irresponsible.”

James glances down at his broom, the charm-mark still visible under the dust.  His first wand mark.  His first real thing here that felt his.  And Snape tried to turn it into a joke.

“This isn’t just a prank,” James says softly.  “He wanted to humiliate me.”

Remus is still looking at the ledger, brow furrowed.  “There’s no proof.”

“There’s a pattern,” Sirius says.  “That’s better than proof.”

“That’s…not true at all.”

James looks at all of them, suddenly tired.  “I’m not telling Hooch.  She already made up her mind.  She won’t believe me now.”

Sirius grins.  “Then we catch him ourselves.”

Peter pales.  “You mean…like, spy on him?”

“Sure,” Sirius says easily.  “Or follow him.  Or trap him.  Whatever it takes.”

James doesn’t answer right away.  He’s still holding the broom.  It’s solid in his hands.  Heavier now.  Not because it’s changed, but because it means something more.

Someone tried to take this away from him.

Not just the broom.

The thing that made him feel good at school.  The thing that made Hogwarts feel like a place he belonged.

No.  He’s not letting that go.

“Alright,” James says finally.  “We’re going to watch the shed next time.”

Sirius’ grin turns sharp.  “See?  That’s the spirit.”

James nods once.  “If he tries anything again…anything at all…we’ll be ready.”

————————————

Sirius likes secrets.

He always has.  Maybe because his life is so full of the kind of rules that are really just threats in dress robes.  Don’t speak unless spoken to.  A proper Black does not raise his voice.  Do you want to be a disappointment?  Be the perfect heir?  The perfect brother?  Every failure goes back to Reg after all.  How will Reg find a match if their brother is an embarrassing?

So when James mutters, “we’re doing it after next class.  No questions,” Sirius doesn’t need convincing.  He’s already halfway there.

The four of them creep along the edge of the pitch as the sky goes dusky gold.  Classes ended half an hour ago.  Everyone else is at supper, but Sirius has adrenaline fizzing in his blood and grass stains on his knees.  He grins.

“I still think this is mental,” Peter whispers.  “What if he doesn’t come?”

“Then we go back and nick four chocolate cakes from the kitchens to make up for it,” Sirius says.

Remus gives him a look.  “You’re not even pretending to care about the consequences, are you?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

They duck behind the low wall near the broom shed.  It’s perfect cover.  Just tall enough to keep them hidden.  Just close enough to see the whole front.  The only reason they needed it was that James forgot his cloak.  The logbook is probably still inside, waiting.  The shed door creaks now and then in the wind, but otherwise it’s quiet.

James is lying belly-down in the grass beside him, chin propped on his hands.  His broom is lying in front of him like a dog guarding a bone.

“I still say we should’ve hexed it to scream if anyone but me touches it,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” Sirius says.  “Maybe next time I’ll teach it to bite.”

Peter lets out a small nervous laugh.  Remus just shakes his head again.

They settle into silence, eyes on the shed.  A few students cross the lawn in the distance, heading up from the greenhouses.  But no one comes near.  The light shifts.  The shadows get longer.  Sirius starts drumming his fingers against his wand.

He doesn’t like waiting.

Waiting reminds him of dinner at home.  Quiet as a coffin, hands in his lap, waiting for someone to say something sharp.  He much prefers action.  Running.  Shouting.  Breaking the rules before they settle in.

So he starts watching the others instead.

Peter, twitchy and round-eyed, keeps looking over his shoulder like he expects a professor to leap out from the grass and drag him away.  Remus, quiet and thoughtful, is chewing the end of a quill he must’ve brought for notes.  James is entirely still.

It’s impressive, actually.

Sirius doesn’t say that out loud, though.

Because here’s the thing…James was right.  Someone moved the broom.  And Snape was the last one in the shed.  Sirius doesn’t need proof.  He’s got gut.

And Sirius Black always trusts his gut.

The sound comes soft—gravel under shoes—and James tenses.

Sirius peers over the wall.

Sure enough, walking with that hunched-shoulder slouch like he’s trying to disappear into the earth, there’s Severus Snape.  Alone.  Wand in hand.  Hair looking greasier than ever in the last threads of sunlight.

“What’s he doing?” Peter hisses.

“Coming early,” James says under his breath.  “Flying class isn’t until tomorrow.  What’s he doing here now?”

They all watch in silence as Snape glances around, then steps right up to the shed door.  Unlocks it quietly.  He pulls it open, slips inside, and shuts it behind him.

The wind stirs again.  The door clicks softly shut.

“Now,” James whispers, already halfway up.

“No!”  Remus hisses.  “Wait till he leaves.  Then we can check what he touched.”

But Sirius is already moving.  He doesn’t do waiting.  He cuts low through the grass.  He circles wide so Snape won’t see him through the side window.  James is right behind, the others trailing slower.  Sirius presses his back to the far wall, just beside the shed door.  He grins.

A few heartbeats later, the door opens again.

Snape steps out, looking over his shoulder at something.  Maybe the logbook.  Maybe a broom.  Sirius doesn’t give him time to decide.  He steps out and says, “bit late for broom shopping, isn’t it Snivellus?”

Snape startles, eyes snapping toward him.  Then he scowls.  “What do you want, Black?”

James is there a second later.  “Just wondering why you keep showing up last at the broom shed.  Practicing your dramatic exits?”

Snape sneers.  “It’s none of your business.”

“Actually,” Sirius says, “it’s exactly our business.  Especially when James’ broom ended up shoved in the back corner the same day you ‘just happened’ to be the last one inside.”

Snape’s face doesn’t change.  That’s what bothers Sirius.  No wide-eyed surprise.  No stammering denial.  Just that flat, cold sneer he always wears like armor.

“I didn’t touch your precious broom,” he says to James.

“You were the only one left,” James snaps.  “You had time.  You had opportunity.”

“Maybe you just lost it and needed someone to blame.”

Sirius steps forward, lip curling.  “You’re not even good at lying.”

Snape’s hand tightens around his wand.  “Neither are you.”

The tension snaps taut.

Sirius’ wand is out in a flash, but Remus is faster.  He slips between them before it boils over.  “Stop it.  We’re not dueling over a broom.”

“He hid it,” James says, voice low.  “I know he did.”

“Then prove it,” Snape says, brushing past.  “Otherwise, you’re just another arrogant little brat shouting at shadows.”

Sirius watches him walk away, fists still clenched around his wand.  The wind kicks up behind him, tossing his robes around his ankles like he’s some pathetic villain in a story too full of himself to notice he’s already lost.

“I hate him,” James mutters.  “He did it.  I know he did it.”

“We’ll catch him next time,” Sirius says, jaw tight.  “Next time, we won’t just watch.”

They walk back slowly.  The last of the sun is bleeding out behind the castle, casting everything in long shadows.

James is quiet.

Too quiet.

Sirius keeps glancing at him, waiting for the inevitable explosion.  A bark of frustration.  A dramatic vow of revenge, something.  But James is just walking.  Jaw tight.  Eyes on the ground.  The broom’s clutched in his hand like he’s afraid it might vanish again if he lets it go.

James kicks at a stone near the path.  It skitters off into the grass.  He doesn’t say anything.

And Sirius hates it.  He hates the silence, and he hates that he notices it.  They climb the slope toward the castle in the deepening dusk, the wind pulling at their robes.  Sirius can’t take it anymore.

He nudges James with his elbow.  Lightly.  Casually.  Like he doesn’t care.

“So.  We definitely rattled Snivellus.”  James doesn’t respond.  His shoulders stay hunched.  Like the weight of the broom is heavier than it should be.

Sirius tries again.  “You saw his face, didn’t you?  He was seconds from hexing me.  He looked like he was about to swallow his own tongue.”

James still doesn’t laugh.

Just keeps walking, eyes fixed ahead.

And that’s when Sirius knows it’s not just about Snape anymore.  He sighs, loud and theatrical, and slows down until they’re not marching ahead like soldiers anymore.  “Alright, what is it?”

James doesn’t answer right away.  But then, very quietly, he says, “I hate being made to feel small.”

Sirius blinks.

James keeps his eyes forward.  “That’s what it felt like.  When Madam Hooch didn’t believe me.  When Snape just walked off like it was nothing.  Like I didn’t matter.  Like I’m just…some loudmouth idiot with a fancy last name and no clue.  Even Slughorn does it.  I swear, the only reason why he hasn’t given me detention at this point is because my Dad is one of the richest in the country.”

Sirius swallows. Hard.  Because he knows that feeling.  That ache in the back of your throat when no one listens.  When adults smile tight and say you’re overreacting, and other kids give you that look.  That oh-he-thinks-he’s-special look.

He’s had it his whole life.

And for some reason, knowing that James feels it too.  It makes something twist sideways in his chest.  He clears his throat, trying to sound normal.  “You’re not small.  You’re a bloody menace.”

James finally glances at him.

Sirius shrugs.  “You’re loud, reckless, and have the worst handwriting in the entire dormitory.  But no one could make you small if they tried.”

That earns him a snort.  Not quite a laugh.  But it’s better than silence.

“And anyway,” Sirius adds, “Snape knows you’re better than him.  That’s why he did it.  He couldn’t take it.  So he tried to make you look like a fool.  But you’re not.”

James looks at him again.  It’s different this time.  Not amused.  Just…open.

Sirius doesn’t like it.

He looks away fast, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

There’s a dangerous sort of warmth building in his chest.  He hates it.  It makes him feel unbalanced.  Like the ground’s shifting under his feet and he’s too slow to adjust.

Caring is dangerous.

That’s one of the first things Mother ever taught him.  Don’t get attached.  Don’t feel too much.  Feelings are messy.  Feelings are weakness.  Friends are a liability.

But here’s James.  Loud, brilliant James with a permanent smudge of ink on his nose, standing beside him with a broom clutched in one hand and the kind of honesty Sirius has never been trusted with before.

And Sirius—Merlin help him—likes it.

Worse..he needs it.

It makes something sharp curl in his stomach.

“I’m just saying,” Sirius says quickly, tone back to flippant, “that if we’re starting a war with Snape, I’m all in.  But you’ve got to promise not to get all serious and brooding about it.”

James raises an eyebrow.  “I’m allowed to be upset.”

“Not broody upset,” Sirius says.  “If you start writing tragic poetry about betrayal and broomsticks, I’ll hex your quill hand.”

That earns a real laugh.

Sirius grins, just a bit.  It’s easy…too easy…falling into this rhythm.  This friendship.  Like it was always supposed to happen.  And that’s what scares him.

Because it feels good.  Too good.

He risks another glance at James.  Windswept hair, fire in his eyes again, chin up like he’s already ready for the next fight.  Something inside Sirius clicks into place.

James Potter is his friend.

Not just a roommate.  Not just a prank partner.

An actual friend.

It doesn’t matter that he verbally said it already.  That was a joke.  Something to make James happy.  But this is real.  Horrible even.  And Sirius knows, deep down, that he’d burn half the castle down before he’d let anyone hurt him again.

That’s the part that’s terrifying.

He’s not supposed to care this much.

Not about anyone.

But he does.

And it’s far, far too late to stop now.

They’re halfway across the lawn when the wind shifts again.  This time colder.  Sharper.  Sirius doesn’t notice it at first.  Not until James stops and glances up.

“What’s—?”

A shadow cuts across the sky.

Sirius follows James’ gaze just in time to see a sleek black-banded owl swooping low over the castle, wings gliding like silk through the darkening air.  Its flight is precise, elegant in the way Black family owls are trained to be.  Sirius would recognize that posture anywhere.  Spine-straight and wings stiff with pride.

His stomach twists.

The owl circles once, then dives.  And with perfect aim it drops a letter directly on his head.

“Bloody—” Sirius flinches, swats at the envelope as it bounces off his hair and lands in the grass at his feet.  The owl perches briefly on a branch above, watching him like it’s judging his reaction.  Then takes it off again in absolute silence.

James blinks.  “Friend of yours?”

Sirius doesn’t answer.

He stares at the envelope.  Heavy parchment.  Silver seal.  The wax is stamped with the Black family crest.  Coiled serpent and all.

Peter leans closer, pointing.  “Is that from Reg—”

“Yeah,” Sirius snaps, cutting him off.  He crouches down and grabs the letter before Peter can finish the name.  “It’s from Reggie.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence.

James doesn’t say anything, but Sirius can feel him watching.  He straightens up, brushing dust off his robe.  His expression is carefully blank.

Peter shuffles a step back, clearly unsure if he did something wrong.  Remus isn’t even pretending not to listen, his eyes on Sirius with that irritating calm curiosity of his.

Sirius resists the urge to crumple the envelope.

Instead, he stuffs it into his inner robe pocket.  Deep and out of sight.  James finally speaks.  “You going to open it?”

“Not here,” Sirius mutters.

James doesn’t press, which Sirius appreciates more than he can say.

They walk the rest of the way in silence, but something inside Sirius is buzzing now.  The letter feels hot against his ribs.  Like it’s burning through the fabric.  He knows what it is.  Or at least, what it will be like.

Reggie writes the same way they speak.  Precisely, perfectly, like they’re afraid of someone reading over their shoulder.

Because someone probably is.

Their parents always find a way.

The last letter had been all about expectations.  About how “our family name carries weight, and you’re making it smaller every day.”  About how he was a disgrace.  How Reggie had to answer for Sirius’ behavior daily.  

He didn’t reply.

He’s not sure why Reggie keeps writing.  Maybe to keep the peace.  Maybe because they want to.  Maybe because it’s the only way they can talk at all.

Sirius doesn’t know.

And the not-knowing hurts worse than the words.

They reach the portrait hole and climb inside, but Sirius doesn’t follow the others toward the fireplace.  Instead, he detours up the stairs.  Up to the dorm.  Where  the quiet is heavier and softer.  Like a secret wrapped in blankets.

He pulls the curtains around his bed before he even sits down.  The envelope’s still smooth and sealed when he pulls it from his pocket.

The wax peels easily.  The letter inside is written in Reggie’s clean, narrow hand.  Not too sharp.  Not too loose.  Controlled.  Always so controlled.

Sirius doesn’t read it at first.  Just looks at the first line:

Dear Sirius,

No insults.  No scolding.  No Brother.  Just his name.  He continues to read.

And it’s different this time.  Not cold.  Not a list of instructions from their parents funneled through Reggie’s too-careful mouth.  Not another guilt-laced warning about the future or the House of Black or the choices Sirius keeps making like sins.

It’s quieter.  Tentative.  Like Reggie is speaking without a script for once.

I heard from Mother that you’ve made “quite the spectacle” of yourself already.

I hope that means you’re actually enjoying it up there.

Are you flying yet?  Did they put you on one of those ragged school brooms?  I imagine you hate it.  Not fancy enough for you I suppose.

Sirius huffs a breath. It’s not quite a laugh.

I know you’re probably not going to write back.  But if you do—don’t worry about the owl.  I charmed her to deliver straight to you and me, not home.

Anyway.

Try not to get expelled.

-R.A.B.

Sirius wants…very suddenly and very badly…to write back.  Just a line.  Just something like he is flying.  Or that Reggie would like Gryffindor if they just tried.

But he doesn’t.

He folds the letter up carefully and tucks it into the bottom drawer of his trunk.  Beneath a few old socks and a deck of Exploding Snap cards.

It’s safer there.  Out of sight.  He lies back on the bed and lets the curtains fall shut again.  He’s not sure what bothers him more.  That Reggie still writes, or that part of him still wants to reply.

And maybe, just maybe, that there’s still someone out there who misses him.  Someone who sees him as more than just a disappointment.  Even if they can’t say it out loud yet.

————————————

The Great Hall is warm and golden.  The way it always seems to be in autumn.  All floating candles and roasting spices and that ever-present smell of fresh bread that makes Lily’s mouth water before she’s even sat down.

She wedges herself between Mary Macdonald and Marlene McKinnon at the Gryffindor table, cheeks still pink from the wind outside.  “Did anyone else nearly get blown off the bridge today?”

Mary sighs dramatically.  “The second years kept shouting spells into the wind.  I swear someone tried to Levitate my scarf off my neck.”

“I’m not sure that wasn’t on purpose,” Marlene mutters, eyeing the Ravenclaw table suspiciously.

Lily giggles, piling roasted carrots onto her plate. Everything at Hogwarts still feels a bit like a dream.  Like she’ll wake up one day and find herself back in muggle school, bored out of her mind.  Staring at her handwriting book and wondering what Latin was ever good for.

Instead, here she is.  Eleven years old with ink-stained fingers, a wand in her pocket, and magic filling the air like music.

“Oi, Evans,” Sirius Black calls from farther down the table, mouth half-full.  “Trade you this weird green soup for your potatoes.”

“No thanks,” Lily calls back.  “It’s not soup, it’s stewed spinach.  If you don’t like it, don’t take three ladles of it!”

James Potter cackles beside him, nearly spilling his pumpkin juice.

Lily rolls her eyes fondly.  Those two are never quiet during meals.  Or classes.  Or corridor patrols.  Or bedtime.  Honestly, she’s starting to suspect they talk in their sleep.

A few seats down, Remus Lupin is reading with one hand and eating with the other.  He is somehow entirely tuning out Sirius and James.  Peter Pettigrew is trying to copy James’ way of flicking his spoon into the air and catching it.  With terrible results of course.

Lily turns back to Mary and Marlene.  She is about to ask if either of them have started their Herbology essay, when it happens.

The pumpkin.

One of the large decorative ones perched on the edge of the Hufflepuff table.  One of the dozen or so scattered across the Great Hall.  Carved but unlit.  It suddenly rises into the air.

Not levitates.

Rises.

As though it were being lifted by invisible hands.

Lily frowns.

“Did anyone see that?” she asks, looking up as the pumpkin lifts higher.  It bobs slightly.

Marlene looks up too.  “Is that—?”

It hovers, then starts drifting down the table.

A low murmur ripples through the students.  Heads turn.  Some of the older kids glance upward, expecting floating candles or the enchanted ceiling to be doing something new.  But no…this is different.

Then another pumpkin lifts.  From the Ravenclaw table.  Then another.  And another.

Within seconds, five pumpkins are drifting through the air, silently weaving between the floating candles.  They cast long flickering shadows across the faces of students below.  “Okay that’s not normal,” Mary says.

A second-year Hufflepuff squeals and ducks under the table.

One of the Slytherins tries to bat a pumpkin away with his spoon.  It dodges effortlessly.  Like it’s alive.

Then they all start to move.

The pumpkins swoop through the air in lazy circles, picking up speed.  One dives toward the Gryffindor table.  Everyone ducks.  It zips over their heads and straight into a stack of goblets, sending water flying.

A pumpkin smacks into the floating chandelier with a dull thud and bounces off.  It wobbles slightly before righting itself and zooming back toward the ceiling.

The Hall erupts in noise.

Students scream and laugh and duck for cover as the pumpkins race overhead like orange bludgers.  Lily is half-laughing, half-worried.  “Who did this?!”

She’s already looking around, instinctively scanning for troublemakers.  Her eyes land on the obvious suspects.  James and Sirius are practically glowing with pride.  Peter is doubled over in a fit of wheezy laughter.  Remus looks mildly annoyed…but not surprised.

“Oh no,” Lily mutters, standing.

Professor McGonagall is on her feet, eyes scanning the Hall.  She draws her wand and flicks it once.  Three of the pumpkins freeze in midair, like insects in amber.  A second flick, and they drop gently to the floor.

“Enough!” she calls, her voice cutting through the chaos like a whipcrack.

The remaining two pumpkins make one final loop.  Then they fall as if in surrender.  They roll across the floor and bump into the foot of the Slytherin table.

“James Potter,” McGonagall says sharply.

James jumps like he’s been poked.  “Yes, Professor?”

“Did you enchant those pumpkins?”

“I—um—define ‘enchant?’”

“Mr. Potter.”

James shrinks down about two inches.  “…A little?”

Sirius raises a hand cheerfully.  “It was both of us.  He’s just the louder one.”

“Five points from Gryffindor,” McGonagall snaps.  “Each.”

The table groans.

“But Professor, it was harmless—”

“It was chaos.  And next time you want to practice charmwork, do so somewhere outside the dinner hour.”

The boys shut up fast.

Lily sits back down, trying not to smile.  She glances across the table at them.  James and Sirius are grinning like idiots, clearly thrilled with the result.  Despite the deduction.

“You two are unbelievable,” she mutters.

Sirius bows.  “Thank you.”

“I didn’t say it was a compliment.”

But still…as the students settle and the last few floating pumpkins are guided back into place, Lily can’t help the quiet thrill that runs through her.  Not because of the chaos, exactly.  But because this is Hogwarts.

Where pumpkins can fly, and dinner might turn into a spell duel, and boys with too much charm and not enough sense make everything feel a little more alive.

After dinner, the Great Hall still hums with laughter and leftover chatter.  A few of the enchanted pumpkins now sit perched neatly at the ends of the tables.  They are still glowing faintly from McGonagall’s dampening spells.  Like they’re sulking.

Lily lingers near the entrance with Mary and Marlene while the crowd starts thinning out toward the staircases.  A first-year from Hufflepuff walks by still muttering, “it hit me in the ear,” while holding a pumpkin seed like it’s evidence in a crime scene.

“I cannot believe they did that,” Mary says, shaking her head and trying not to grin.

“You can’t?”  Marlene says dryly.  “I gave it five more days before they tried to levitate the students.  I’m actually impressed they went with decor instead.”

Lily bites back a smile.  “They’re going to get detention for sure.”

Mary loops her arm through Lily’s as they start walking toward the staircase.  “They should.  That was complete madness.  But…”

“But it was kind of brilliant?” Lily offers.

Mary sighs.  “Yeah.  That.”

They’re just about to head for the marble stairs when Lily slows.  Something tugs at her.  A flicker of movement near the doors to the Entrance Hall.  A shape slipping quietly along the wall.  Pale skin.  Dark hair.  A familiar figure moving like he doesn’t want to be noticed.

Lily frowns.

“Go on,” she says to the others.  “I’ll meet you in the common room.”

Marlene gives her a quick look, then nods.  “Don’t get hexed.”

Lily rolls her eyes and pivots away from the stairs, heading straight for the stone archway where she last saw him.  Sure enough, she spots him ducking around a corner toward the dungeons.

“Sev!”

Severus freezes.

He turns slowly, his face mostly hidden in shadow.  His robes are slightly too long, sleeves hanging past his wrists.  He looks tired.

“Hi,” Lily says softly, catching up to him.  “You weren’t at dinner.”

He shrugs.  “Didn’t feel like it.”

Lily glances back toward the Great Hall.  “You missed flying pumpkins.”

Severus doesn’t smile.  “I heard.”

She studies him for a beat.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Sev—”

“Why do you care?” he snaps.

Lily draws back slightly.

He sighs, pressing his hand against the wall like he’s trying to steady something inside himself.  “I just mean,” he mutters, quieter now, “you’ve got your new Gryffindor friends.  Black and Potter and their little gang of pyromaniacs.  Why does it matter if I skip dinner?”

Lily’s heart twists.  “You matter, Sev.  And those two…okay, yes, they’re loud and awful sometimes.  But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring about you.”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, his eyes flick to the side.  His voice drops.  “You didn’t see what they did to Avery’s bag yesterday, did you?”

Lily stiffens.  “No…”

“They charmed it to scream every time he touched it.  Scream, Lily.  Like it was in pain.  He had to leave Charms early.”

Lily swallows hard.  “That’s—really not funny.”

“No,” Severus agrees.  “But you still laugh when they mess with everyone else.”

“I—” She falters.  “That’s not fair.  I’m not on their side, Sev.”

“You laughed tonight.”

Lily goes quiet.

She doesn’t want to say it.  But it’s true.  She had laughed.  It had been chaotic and funny and ridiculous and…yeah, maybe a bit scary if you didn’t know who’d done it.  Or why.  Or if you were used to being the target.

“I’m sorry,” she says, meaning it.

Severus looks at her sideways.  He doesn’t speak again, just turns back toward the dungeon corridor.

“You could come up to the library,” Lily says gently.  “We could do homework.  Just the two of us.”

He doesn’t turn around.

“I’ve got to finish something,” he says finally.  “I’ll see you in class.”

“Okay,” Lily says, but he’s already walking away.

She stands there a moment longer.  Her arms are crossed over her chest.  The air down here is cooler.  Heavier.  A little like the dungeons themselves.  Damp and echoing.  Full of things that don’t like the light.

She wonders how far Severus is slipping from her.

And how long it’ll be before she can’t reach him anymore.

By the time Lily catches up to Mary, the corridors have mostly emptied.  Save for the occasional pair of older students walking slowly, wandlight bobbing at their sides like fireflies.

Mary’s waiting just outside the Gryffindor common room portrait.  One foot is propped against the stone wall, humming a Celestina Warbeck song under her breath.  The Fat Lady is already awake and grumpy, tapping her frame with a jeweled fan.

“Took you long enough,” Mary says as Lily approaches.

“Sorry,” Lily mumbles.  “Got…held up.”

Mary doesn’t move right away.  Just squints at her.  “You okay?”

Lily gives her a smile that she thinks looks normal.

Mary lifts an eyebrow.  “That smile looks like someone forced it on you with a poorly-aimed Cheering Charm.”

Lily sighs, the fight in her shoulders bleeding out.  “It’s nothing.”

“Mm.  If I had a Sickle for every time you said that and it turned out to be something, I’d have enough to bribe Slughorn into canceling our next exam.”

They both grin a little at that, but Mary doesn’t drop it.  She nudges Lily’s arm.  “Come on.  Tell me what’s going on.”

Lily glances around, but the corridor’s clear.  The Fat Lady watches them with mild disinterest, tapping her fingers along the frame.

“I ran into Sev.”

Mary’s mouth tightens, but she doesn’t say anything right away.

“He’s…he’s upset,” Lily continues.  “Says he didn’t come to dinner because of the boys.  Something they did to one of his housemates.”

Mary sighs, pushing off the wall and tugging Lily gently by the sleeve toward the portrait.  “Let’s get inside first.”

“Pumpkin Pasties,” Lily says to the Fat Lady, who swings forward with a sniff.

Inside, the common room is buzzing with low chatter.  A fire crackles in the hearth.  It casts amber light on the stone walls and red velvet chairs.  A group of second-years are playing wizard chess in the corner, while a few first-years sprawl on the carpet doing homework.

Sirius and James are nowhere to be seen, though Lily spots Peter curled up in one of the armchairs.  He is snoring faintly with a Sugar Quill stuck to his cheek.

Mary leads Lily to their usual window seat.  The one where they’ve already made a habit of sharing chocolate, secrets, and gripes about History of Magic.  “Okay,” Mary says once they’re sitting.  “You want to talk about it?”

Lily hesitates.

“I just feel like I’m stuck in the middle,” she says finally.  “I like the boys…I do.  They’re ridiculous.  But they’re funny and they make school feel…fun.  But then Sev tells me they’re tormenting other students and it’s like…how do I laugh at them one minute and then defend him the next?”

Mary leans back, letting her head thud softly against the wall.  “That’s the thing, though, isn’t it?  People are rarely just one thing.  James Potter’s a prat…but he’s also the only reason Freya didn’t get flattened by a rogue Bludger last week.  And Snape…he’s your best friend.  But sometimes he makes this face like he’s already planning revenge for a crime no one committed yet.”

Lily snorts despite herself.  “He does do that.”

“Exactly.”  Mary grins.  “Look.  You’re allowed to feel weird about it.  But you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”

There’s a beat of silence.  Then Mary reaches into her robe pocket and pulls out two small chocolate frogs.  “Emergency supplies,” she says with a wink, handing one over.

Lily takes it, smiling more genuinely this time.  “You’re an angel.”

“An angel who saw you come back from the dungeons looking like someone stole your cat and hexed your homework. Chocolate was the only logical response.”

They unwrap the frogs together, each catching them mid-hop before they can leap off the window ledge.  Lily flips the card in hers.  Helga Hufflepuff.  Mary gets Bowman Wright, who she already has twice.

They eat in silence for a moment, the familiar comfort settling in between them like a soft blanket.  Then Mary leans in conspiratorially.  “So.  Want to help me dye all of Sirius Black’s socks pink tomorrow?  Just to…balance the universe a little?”

Lily bursts into laughter.

“Absolutely,” she says.

And just like that, things feel a little lighter again.

They wait until nearly everyone is in bed.

Mary’s curled up at the foot of Lily’s bed with a stolen sock already half-dyed in the open trunk between them.  Her wand pokes out of her messy bun like a flag of mischief.  “Pink or violent pink?”

Lily snorts.  “There’s a violent pink?”

Mary grins.  “Marlene invented it.  A few years ago she was trying to make blush and accidentally turned her cousin’s white dress robes this… revolting magenta color that never washed out.  She calls it ‘Regret Rose.’  Gave me instructions on how to replicate it.”

“I hate how good that is,” Lily says, laughing as she waves her wand carefully over a sock.  The fabric shimmers.  The  settles into the same bright pink as the others.  Sirius Black is going to scream.

And maybe deserve it.

Halfway through dyeing a third sock, Lily’s laughter fades just a bit.  “You think this is awful of me?”

Mary looks up.  “What, pink socks?”

“No.  Him.  Sirius.  He’s probably going to throw a fit.  And then James will back him up.  And then…”

“And then what?” Mary says softly.

Lily shrugs, not meeting her eyes.  “I just…I don’t want to be one of those people who turns everything into a war.”

Mary is quiet for a beat, then says, “you’re not.”

Lily looks up.

“Lils.  If turning Sirius Black’s socks pink is what sends this place into anarchy, then Hogwarts has bigger problems than you.”

Lily laughs again, but it’s gentler this time.

They finish the last sock and tuck everything away.  They tiptoe back into the dormitory hallway.  The fire downstairs is still glowing low, but the common room is empty now.  Just the creaks of the walls and the faint rustling of the wind against the windows.

They sneak into the boys’ side like they’ve done it a hundred times before (Mary has.  Lily’s still new to rule-breaking).

Sirius’ trunk is wide open.  Careless.  Arrogant.  He’s definitely the kind of boy who assumes no one would ever dare touch his things.

So they do.

Socks go back in folded neatly.  Magically dyed.  Tastefully cursed.  Just a whisper of a charm to make the drawer smell like rose petals every time it’s opened.

Mary raises a hand for a high-five.

Lily obliges, still giggling.  She is still feeling lighter.  But there’s a thread of something else winding around her chest.  Because earlier today, Severus had looked at her like he didn’t know her anymore.  And maybe…maybe he didn’t.

They pad back upstairs, careful as ghosts.

Before they part, Mary grabs Lily’s wrist gently.  “For what it’s worth,” she says, “you don’t have to be on anyone’s side.  You get to be on your own.”

Lily nods.

She lies awake longer than she means to, watching shadows from the window stretch across her ceiling.  She doesn’t dream of flying pumpkins or pink socks.

She dreams of hallways and locked doors.  Of whispers behind them.  And the sense that something is changing—just a little—with every choice she makes.

————————————

The library smells like parchment, dust, and something flowery Marlene can’t quite place.  It’s quiet.  But not uncomfortably so.  Just the hush of students turning pages and Madam Pince’s sharp footsteps patrolling the stacks like a ghost with a personal vendetta against whispering.

Marlene’s sitting cross-legged at one of the tables near the back, quill spinning idly between her fingers.  She watches Dorcas Meadowes and pretends to focus.

Dorcas has a textbook open.  Her notes are immaculate, slanted cursive and perfect little diagrams.  She’s circling incantations like they’ve personally offended her.  But Marlene can see the way her eyes keep drifting.  Out the window.  Toward the clock.  Back to the entrance.  Never quite settling.

“You know,” Marlene says, “if you glare at that textbook any harder, it’s going to burst into flames.”

Dorcas doesn’t look up.  “That would be preferable, actually.  Then I’d have an excuse not to finish the reading.”

Marlene grins.  “How rebellious of you.”

Dorcas’s mouth twitches.  The ghost of a smile.  But it doesn’t quite land.

They’ve been doing this thing—studying together and not-quite-talking—for a few weeks now.  Ever since that first awkward conversation in the corridor.

“So,” Marlene says now, stretching her legs out under the table, “what do you think Flitwick would do if I tried to levitate myself instead of a feather?”

Dorcas glances up at that.  “Break into song, probably.  While deducting ten points.”

“Tragic.  I was hoping for extra credit.”

This time, Dorcas actually snorts.  It’s quiet and quick, but it’s there.  Marlene counts it as a win.

“You’re not bad at this, you know,” Dorcas says after a moment, gesturing at Marlene’s notebook.  “Your wandwork.  The way you did that Cushioning Charm last week…most first-years would’ve bruised their tailbones.”

Marlene’s eyebrows lift.  “Was that a compliment?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Marlene grins, pleased anyway.  “You’re not bad yourself.  Though your handwriting makes me feel personally attacked.”

Dorcas flushes lightly, dipping her head.  “My mum used to make me rewrite my homework if it wasn’t ‘presentation-ready.’”

Marlene tilts her head.  “That sounds awful.”

Dorcas shrugs.  “She likes things neat.”

There’s a pause.  The kind that feels like it could lead somewhere.  If either of them were brave enough to press.  Instead, Marlene asks, “is your mum a witch, then?”

“Yeah.  Dad too.”  Dorcas says it carefully.  Not like it’s a secret, but like she’s watching to see what Marlene does with it.  “Not as prestigious as the sacred twenty-eight, but pureblood and pretentious just the same.”

Marlene nods slowly.  “Mine’s a witch.  Dad left when I was a baby.  All my brothers have already graduated so I think Mum was ready to be rid of me when the letter came.”

Dorcas looks at her like she’s seeing her differently.  Not startled, just…curious.  It’s the closest they’ve come to talking about anything real since their first conversation.

Before either of them can say more, someone slams a book shut a few tables over.  Madam Pince whirls around with a glare that could silence a howler.  The girls duck their heads quickly, pretending to be absorbed in their notes.

Marlene leans in and whispers, “you think she ever sleeps, or do you reckon she just hangs from the ceiling like a bat?”

Dorcas stifles a laugh.  “She’d hear you.  She always hears you.”

“That’s why you’re the brains of this operation.”

Dorcas looks up again.  And this time, she really smiles.

Marlene feels a strange flutter in her chest.  Like maybe she’s found something here.  Something quiet and slow-growing.  Like a candle left burning long after everyone else has gone to bed.

Maybe they’re not quite friends yet.

But maybe they’re getting close.

They’re still smiling when the interruption comes.

It starts with footsteps.  Not the sharp click of Madam Pince or the uneven shuffle of tired first-years.  But a confident stride.  Deliberate.  Marlene doesn’t even look up until Dorcas’s expression flickers.  The light in her eyes is dimming.  Her shoulders tighten like a string pulled taut.

Marlene follows her gaze.

A tall boy in green and silver robes slows as he passes their table.  His face is pinched, sharp like a knife that hasn’t been used yet.  He gives Marlene a brief once-over.  Dismissive.  Then he turns to Dorcas with something like annoyance.

“Meadowes,” he says coolly.  “Didn’t realize you’d transferred houses.”

Dorcas doesn’t respond.  Doesn’t flinch, either.  Just meets his eyes with a flat, unimpressed stare.

The boy clicks his tongue.  “No?  Just tutoring your charity case?”

Marlene blinks once.  Twice.  “Sorry, who are you again?”

He doesn’t take the bait.  He just sneers faintly and keeps walking, muttering something under his breath about, “half-bloods getting too comfortable.”

Dorcas exhales slowly.  Her quill is clenched between her fingers.  Her knuckles are pale.

“I’m going to murder him,” Marlene says.  “With a dictionary.  Or a bookshelf.  Whichever’s heavier.”

Dorcas shakes her head, but she’s not smiling anymore.  “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because he wants that.  He wants people to react.  That’s how he wins.”

Marlene doesn’t answer right away.  She just watches Dorcas.  How she immediately retreats into herself.  Her shoulders are curling forward.  Her eyes are back on the parchment like nothing happened.

Like she’s used to this.

And Marlene hates that.

“I’m not going to let him talk to you like that,” she says.  “You don’t deserve it.”

Dorcas glances at her.  And then, softer than before, she says, “I know.  But thank you.”

There’s silence for a bit.  Not awkward.  Just heavier now.  Marlene wants to find something clever to say.  Something to yank the tension out of the room and throw it under the table where it can’t breathe.

Instead, she gently flicks her quill at Dorcas’s parchment.  It leaves a blotch of ink on one of the perfect lines.

Dorcas stares at it.  Then at her.

Marlene raises a brow.  “Oops?”

Dorcas laughs.  Short, startled, and real.

It feels like the table tilts toward normal again.  They go back to studying, but their shoulders sit closer now.  The silence is companionable.  Safe.

And when Marlene catches Dorcas glancing at her again.  Just briefly, with the ghost of something she hasn’t figured out yet…she doesn’t say anything.

She just smiles.

03 << >> 05

Masterlist

[lowlylux]

Watcher of the Skies

Part One | Chapter Three: Cloak

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 7.8k

Ship: [Not yet relevant] Jegulily/Wolfstar

Description:

In which everyone's lives are great big tragedies... They just don't know it yet.

Because life cannot be as simple as learning magic and falling in love, no. War will always complicate things. And so will the world that encourages it.

Ao3 link

Remus sinks into the squishiest armchair he can find.  He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek.  Every inch of him aches.  From the brittle tug in his joints to the hot pulse behind his eyes.  But he keeps his face neutral.  Just a tired kid.  Not too tired.  Just enough to explain why he’s quiet.

The fire crackles low in the Gryffindor common room.  It’s nearly empty this early, just a few second-years huddled over Gobstones.  The rest of his roommates are scattered nearby, legs stretched out on the rug.  James is lying on his stomach, doodling broomsticks on a bit of parchment.  Sirius lounges upside-down on the couch, hair brushing the floor.  Peter’s curled into a ball beside him, absently picking at the seam of his sleeve.

“I’m telling you,” James says, voice low and excited.  “Something was out there last night.”

Remus forces himself to glance up, careful not to move too fast.  His shoulder screams in protest.

Sirius flips upright.  “I heard it too. Sounded like…howling?”

“Exactly!”  James nods eagerly.  “And growling.  It was right by the greenhouses I think.  If we hadn’t had to be back in our dorms…”

Peter frowns.  “I dunno.  Doesn’t that sound dangerous?”

Remus’s stomach turns.  He curls his fingers into the armrest, nails biting into the fabric.

“That’s why we should check it out,” James argues, eyes gleaming.  “What if it’s some secret magical creature the professors don’t want us knowing about?  Or some…some monster, locked up like a mystery!  We could be the ones who figure it out.”

Remus forces himself not to flinch at the word monster.  Forces himself to act like such a comment doesn't affect him.

“Or we could get eaten,” Peter mumbles.

Sirius grins.  Like he thinks that possibility only makes it more fun.

Remus swallows thickly.  He wants to disappear.  He wants to tell them to stop looking.  To leave it alone.  To forget the sounds they heard in the night.  To stop chasing ghosts with claws and snarls and bones that snap in the dark.

But he can’t.

So he just smiles faintly and says, “maybe it was just the wind.”

They all look at him.

James raises an eyebrow.  “Sounded like a howl, mate.”

Sirius adds, “wind doesn’t sound like that.”

Peter pulls his knees closer to his chest.  Remus shrugs, ignoring the sharp flare in his back.  “Then maybe it was a dog.  Or a fox.  Something normal.”

James grins.  “Only one way to find out.”

Peter groans.

Remus just stares at the fire, trying to breathe through the pain and the slow, creeping fear.

They’re going to find out.

Eventually.

And he doesn’t know what he’ll do when they do.

“I still think it was just a dog,” Remus says.  It’s more firm this time.  “Loads of them live near villages like Hogsmeade.  Could’ve wandered onto the grounds.”

James snorts.  “Not unless the dog was part troll.  That howl rattled the window.”

Sirius leans forward, elbows on his knees.  “You looked like you were going to wet yourself, Pete.”

Peter’s ears turn pink.  “I wasn’t!  I just…I thought we weren’t supposed to be out after hours.  That’s all.”

“Oh, now you care about rules?”  James laughs, tossing a pillow at him.  “Since when?”

Peter dodges it and glares.  “I care when it comes to being mauled by a giant dog or worse.”

Remus lets the banter wash over him.  It’s easy to let them talk.  To sit still and silent while his bones throb and his ribs feel too tight in his skin.  They think they heard something.  They don’t know what.  And if he says too much…if he pushes too hard, they’ll notice.

“We should ask around,” Sirius says, stretching like a cat.  “See if anyone else heard it.”

“No one else was up,” Peter mutters.  “Just us.”

“Exactly,” Sirius says, grinning.  “Means we’re the ones who get to figure it out first.”

James points at him.  “I vote we investigate.  Midnight tonight.”

Remus’s breath catches.

“Don’t be stupid,” Peter says.  “What if we get caught?”

“What if we find something brilliant?”  James shoots back, eyes gleaming under his messy fringe.  “Something no one’s seen in a hundred years?”

“Like what?”  Peter folds his arms.  “A cursed werewolf ghost?”

Remus stiffens, heart hammering too fast.  He can’t help it.  His eyes flick up, meeting Peter’s for just a second.  It’s a joke.  Peter doesn’t know.  None of them do.

Sirius laughs.  “That’d be something, wouldn’t it?”

James leans back on his hands, his voice low and dreamy with imagination.  “What if it’s guarding something?  Like a tunnel.  Or treasure.”

“I vote not treasure,” Peter says.  “More like death.”

“Death and treasure?”  Sirius offers.

“Both,” James agrees.  “We’ll take our chances.”

Remus forces a laugh, thin and strained.  “You lot are mental.”

James grins at him.  All bright and reckless.  “You’ll come too, won’t you?”

Remus hesitates.  The fire crackles.  He doesn’t want to.  Every part of his body is screaming for bed and silence and a hot water bottle.  But he has to say yes.  Because if he says no, they’ll start to wonder why.

And if they wonder too long, they’ll find out everything.

“Yeah,” Remus says quietly.  “Sure.  I’ll come.”

“Excellent!”  James whoops.

Peter groans again and flops onto the rug like he’s already regretting every decision he’s ever made.  Sirius leans back, hands laced behind his head, smug and satisfied.  “We’re going to be legends.”

Remus closes his eyes for just a second.

He hopes they never find the truth.

Because if they do…he’ll lose all of this.

————————————

Peter stands by the dormitory door, fidgeting with the cuff of his pajama sleeve.  His heart’s beating faster than he wants it to and it only gets worse when James pulls something silvery and folded from under his mattress.

“What’s that?” Peter asks, squinting.

James grins like he’s just won the Quidditch Cup.  “This, gentlemen, is our ticket to not getting caught.”

Sirius slides off his bed with interest.  “What, a blanket?”

“Not just any blanket,” James says, eyes gleaming.. He gives the fabric a flick.  It vanishes in the air like mist.

Peter’s mouth falls open.

Remus, perched carefully on the edge of his bed, looks up sharply.  Even he seems surprised.  “Is that—?”

“An invisibility cloak,” James says, clearly pleased with himself.  “Dad gave it to me.  Said it’s been in the family for ages.”  He tosses the now-invisible cloak toward Peter.  He yelps and barely catches it.  His hands sink into the empty air like it’s silk and shadow.

“No way,” Sirius breathes.  “That’s brilliant.”

“It feels like nothing,” Peter mutters, staring at his vanishing fingers.

“Exactly!”. James says, pacing excitedly now.  “No one will see us.  Not Filch.  Not Peeves.  Not even the Bloody Baron. We’ll be ghosts.”

Peter swallows hard.  “Are we sure this is a good idea?”

“Nope,” Sirius says, grinning wide.  “That’s what makes it fun.”

Remus doesn’t say anything.

He’s still sitting on his bed, pale and stiff.  His arms are crossed tight.  Peter notices the way he moves.  Slow, like he’s hiding something.  Like he’s hurting.

Peter frowns.  “You alright?”

Remus blinks like he forgot Peter was there.  “Yeah.  Just tired.”

“You can stay,” Peter offers quickly.  “We’ll tell you if we see anything.”

But Remus shakes his head.  “No.  I’m coming.”

James tosses the cloak over his shoulders, and his head vanishes.  “Everyone under!”

Peter hesitates only a second before ducking beneath the shimmer.  He presses close beside James and Sirius as they try to squeeze tight to fit.  Remus is last, and Peter can feel the stiffness in him even in the dark.

“Alright,” James whispers, voice low with excitement.  “Let’s go see what’s howling in the night.”

Peter bites the inside of his cheek and follows.

He really hopes this cloak is as good as James says it is.

Because if something was out there last night…

He’s not sure he wants to find out what it was.

The castle is different at night.

Colder.  Bigger.

Every creak of the floorboards sounds like it echoes down the entire corridor.  Peter keeps expecting to see glowing eyes around every corner.  James, of course, leads the way like he owns the place.  One hand is gripping his wand (not lit, luckily), the other keeping the cloak wrapped around them all.  Sirius walks just behind him, whispering bad jokes in Peter’s ear.  Remus brings up the rear.  Quiet, too quiet.

They make it down the main staircase and through the Entrance Hall without running into Filch or Mrs. Norris.  Peter’s heart only starts to settle once they slip through the front doors and into the night air.

It’s cold.  Colder than he expected.  The grass is slick with dew, and their slippers soak through immediately.

“Right,” James whispers.  “Greenhouses are that way.”

They start walking, careful and slow under the cloak.  They avoid moonlight where they can.

Peter keeps glancing around, half-hoping they don’t actually find anything.  He doesn’t want to admit it, but every shadow looks like a monster.  Every sound makes his chest squeeze.

“What are we looking for exactly?” he asks.  His voice is barely above a breath.

“Scratches.  Claw marks.  Something weird,” James says.

Sirius snorts.  “Like a werewolf?”

Peter elbow-jabs him.  “Don’t joke.”

But Sirius just grins.  “Alright, alright.  Something mysterious, then.”

They reach the greenhouses.  Nothing.  No scratch marks.  No pawprints.  No scorch marks, even though Sirius insists there was definitely a growl that sounded like fire.

They check behind the toolshed.  Still nothing.

Peter starts shivering.  “Can we go back soon?”

James ignores him, creeping toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest.  The trees sway gently, like they’re whispering to one another.

Remus tenses beside Peter.

Peter notices.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he whispers again.

Remus nods once, quick and tight.

James scans the shadows, sighs.  He then slumps a little.  “Maybe it’s gone.”

Sirius squints into the trees.  “Maybe it was just some forest creature.  You know…Acromantulas, or a Thestral out for a stroll.”

Peter groans.  “You’re not helping.”

James sighs again.  “Well, this is boring.  Maybe it was nothing.”

Peter lets out a long, relieved breath.

“Not a waste, though,” Sirius says.  “Now we know where not to look.”

James grins.  “We’ll try the other end of the grounds tomorrow night.”

Peter chokes.  “Wait, what?”

But they’re already turning back toward the castle.  The four of them are bundled under the cloak again, feet slipping in wet grass.

Peter casts one last look at the trees.

They’re still.

But he swears—for half a second—he hears something moving out there.

A crunch.  A breath.

He grabs Remus’s sleeve without thinking.

Remus flinches.

Peter lets go quickly.  “Sorry,” he mumbles.

Remus just nods.  Doesn’t say a word.

The walk back is slower.

The excitement is fading.  It is replaced with cold feet, damp hems, and the creeping realization that they don’t quite remember which side door they used to get out.  “I thought it was by the broom shed,” James says, frowning at a vine-covered wall.

“That was before we passed the gargoyle with the broken nose,” Peter mutters, crossing his arms for warmth.

“We didn’t pass a gargoyle,” Sirius says.

Peter points.  “There!  That’s the broken nose one!”

“…Oh,” Sirius says.

They stand awkwardly under the invisibility cloak, pressed against stone while the wind whistles through the courtyard.

James peers around.  “No one panic.  We’re not lost.”

“We’re not found, either,” Peter mumbles.

Remus is quiet again, arms crossed tight over his chest, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to fold in on himself.  He hasn’t spoken since they left the edge of the forest.

“I vote we go that way,” Sirius says suddenly, pointing toward a mossy stretch of wall.  “Looks familiar.”

“You always say that,” Peter grumbles, but follows anyway.  They shuffle along the wall, hugging the shadows.  But Sirius suddenly stops.

“What?” James whispers.

“There’s something here.”

Sirius kneels, brushing dirt away from a low row of bricks.  “Look…this one’s weird.”

Peter leans in.  One of the bricks is different.  Darker.  Smoother.  Like it was replaced more recently than the rest.  The moss doesn’t even touch it.

Sirius grins.  “I bet it does something.”

“Or it alerts Filch,” Peter hisses.

“Only one way to find out.”

Before anyone can stop him, Sirius presses the brick.

There’s a faint click.  Then a deep rumble as part of the wall shifts.  Stone grinding against stone.  A narrow passage appears, barely tall enough for James to walk through without ducking.  It’s pitch black inside.

Peter stares.

“Bloody hell,” James breathes.

Remus finally speaks, voice rough.  “We shouldn’t go in.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow.  “What, now you want to follow the rules?”

Remus doesn’t answer.

Peter gulps.  “What if it collapses?”

“It’s a castle,” James says.  “Magic castles don’t collapse.”

“That’s not—” Peter starts, but Sirius is already stepping inside.

James follows without hesitation.

Peter stands frozen for a moment, glancing at Remus.  He’s watching the passage with unreadable eyes.  “You coming?” Peter asks.

Remus hesitates.

Then, with a sigh, he nods and ducks in after them.  Peter swears under his breath and scrambles after them all.  The tunnel is damp and narrow.  It is lined with uneven brick and lit only by the faint glow of James’s wand.  Which is luckily finally  lit now that they’re out of sight.

“Where do you think it goes?” Peter whispers.

“No idea,” Sirius says gleefully.  “But I bet it’s got secrets.”

James laughs quietly.  “Better than some imaginary beast, yeah?”

Peter still isn’t sure.  But now, at least, they have something real.  And that, somehow, feels worse.

The tunnel slopes downward.

At first, Peter thinks it might just be a cellar path.  Something boring and short.  But the further they go, the colder the air gets.  The bricks start to sweat, and their footsteps echo strangely.  Like the walls are too close and too far away at the same time.

“I don’t like this,” Peter mutters.

“You never like anything fun,” Sirius whispers back, but his voice doesn’t carry the same confidence as before.

James holds the wand aloft.  “It’s brilliant.  A proper hidden tunnel.  Bet the professors don’t even know it’s here.”

Remus says nothing.

He walks in silence, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe.  His face is pale in the dim light.  Peter keeps watching him out of the corner of his eye.  

The tunnel twists sharply, then opens into a wider space.  The floor flattens, and the walls change from brick to rough-hewn stone.

“Looks older here,” James says.

“Way older,” Sirius agrees, running a hand along the wall.  “Could be medieval.”

Peter’s foot splashes into a shallow puddle.  “Ugh.”

James stops, shining his wand in a circle.  “Look at this.”

They all crowd around.  At the far end of the chamber is an arched stone doorway.  It is sealed off with thick, crumbling mortar.  Something’s carved above it, but Peter doesn’t recognize the script.

“Runes?” Sirius guesses.

“Maybe,” James says, stepping closer.  “They’re almost worn away.”

Peter peers over their shoulders.  “You think it’s a hidden room?”

“Could be.” James knocks on the sealed doorway with his knuckles.  “Solid.  But look…there’s a gap near the bottom.  Like it was opened once.”

Peter leans down.  There is a crack.  It’s thin, just enough to see a sliver of black behind it.

James crouches beside him.  “Maybe we could pry it open.”

“No,” Remus says sharply.

They all turn.

Remus stands just outside the reach of the light.  His face is tense, eyes fixed on the sealed door.

Peter swallows.  “You okay?”

Remus nods once, but he doesn’t look it.

Sirius straightens.  “We can come back.  Bring something to open it properly.  If it’s sealed, there’s probably a reason.”

James looks torn between curiosity and common sense, which is about the closest he ever gets to caution.  Peter clears his throat.  “We should probably head back before someone notices we’re gone.”

“Right,” James sighs.  “Fine.  But we’re marking this spot.”

He pulls a broken bit of chalk from his pocket.  Why does he has chalk?  Peter doesn’t ask.  He scribbles a quick X on the stone wall.

They start retracing their steps, the tunnel just as quiet and cold on the way back.  Peter keeps glancing behind them, just in case the wall decides to close again.

It doesn’t.

But something about that sealed door stays with him.  Even after they’re out under the stars again, creeping up the castle steps with wet socks and secret smiles.  

Because now they have something.  Not a howl or a rumor or a half-heard growl in the dark.  Now they have a secret passageway.  One that’s ancient and sealed.  Right under the school.

And Peter isn’t sure that’s any safer at all.

————————————

Charms is boring today.

Professor Flitwick is droning on about wand movement precision.  Something about how a “flick” is not the same as a “swish,” and how one misplaced curve could make your feather burst into flames instead of levitate.  James tries to pay attention…he really does.  But there’s a perfectly good ink stain on his sleeve that’s way more interesting right now.  Looks kind of like a hippogriff if he squints.

He’s just starting to drift off when Sirius leans over and jabs him in the ribs with a quill.

James nearly jumps out of his chair.  “Oi!”

Sirius grins, eyes sparkling.  “Got a bright idea.”

James raises a brow.  “Is it better than last week’s ‘flood-the-bathroom-to-see-how-fast-it-drains’ plan?”

“Much.”

“I’m listening.”

Sirius leans in, whispering dramatically, “we charm all the prefect robes…pink.”

James stares at him.  Then bursts out laughing before he can stop it.  Flitwick pauses mid-sentence and glances their way with narrowed eyes.  “Sorry, sir,” James says quickly, face still half-buried in his elbow.  He turns back to Sirius, whispering, “pink?”

“Bright pink,” Sirius confirms.  “Like bubblegum.  Or—Pepto-whatever-the-Muggles-call-it.”

Peter leans in from the next seat.  “Why?”

Sirius shrugs.  “Would be funny.”

James is grinning too hard to disagree.  “You mean all the fifth, sixth, and seventh years who act frumpy walking around like badly-dressed flamingos?”

Sirius’s eyes shine.  “Exactly.”

Peter lets out a quiet giggle, covering his mouth.

Remus, who’s been steadily writing notes the entire time without looking up.  He says flatly, “I’m not getting involved.”

James nudges him.  “Oh, come on, Remus.  It’s harmless.”

“It’s disrespectful,” Remus mutters, still not looking at them.  “Prefects have enough responsibility without us making them look like…pink marshmallows.”

Sirius smirks.  “That’s the point, though.  It’s a statement.  A rebellion against arbitrary authority.”

Peter blinks.  “I thought it was just funny?”

Sirius waves a hand.  “Both.”

Remus finally looks up, fixing Sirius with a look that’s more tired than angry.  “You’ll get detention.”

“We’ll all get detention,” James adds helpfully, which somehow makes it even more tempting.

“Only if we get caught,” Sirius says, looking far too smug.

“You always get caught,” Remus snaps.

James throws an arm around Remus’s shoulders.  “That’s the spirit, Remus.”

Remus just sighs and shrugs him off, going back to his notes.

Sirius nudges James again, already scheming.  “Tonight?”

James grins.  “Tonight.”

And just like that, Charms becomes a lot more interesting.

Sirius leans back in his chair, a devilish grin plastered across his face.  “You know when the prefects have their meeting in the Great Hall?  That’s our chance.”

James’s eyes light up.  “Brilliant.  They’ll all be gathered in one place.  We can slip in, charm their robes pink, and be out before anyone notices.”

Peter, sitting beside them, is practically vibrating with excitement.  “We could totally pull that off!  Imagine the looks on their faces when they come out.”  Remus shoots a warning glance, but Peter ignores it.  “This is going to be legendary.”

James nods.  “We’ll need a distraction though.  Something big enough to pull their attention away.”

Sirius taps his chin thoughtfully.  “Maybe Peeves.  He owes us after last time.”

Peter’s grin widens.  “I’ll go talk to him.”

Remus shakes his head, muttering, “this is a terrible idea.”

James just laughs.  “That’s what makes it perfect.”

The bell rings, and Flitwick calls the class to attention.  But none of them can focus.  The plan is already taking shape, and James can’t wait for tonight.  They spill out of Charms class and into the corridor.  The four of them move together like parts of the same creature.  Peter’s practically bouncing.

“This is going to be so good,” he says for the third time in five minutes.  “Pink!  Can we make it sparkle too?  Like, glittery pink?”

James chuckles.  “That’s either genius or evil.  I’m not sure which.”

“Why not both?”  Sirius offers, hands tucked into his pockets, casual as anything.  “Might as well commit.”

Remus walks a few paces behind, clutching his book to his chest like it’s a shield.  He hasn’t said much since they left class, and James can tell he’s annoyed.  But that’s fine.  Remus will come around.  He always seems to.

“Okay,” James says, lowering his voice as they round the corner.  “Logistics.  The prefect meeting’s right after dinner, yeah?”

Peter nods eagerly.  “They use the side chamber off the Hall.  I heard one of the Ravenclaws say it’s so boring she almost fell asleep.”

“Perfect,” Sirius says.  “They’ll be in there for at least an hour.  Which gives us plenty of time to work.”

“And if we get Peeves to cause a mess upstairs,” Peter adds,  “Filch will be too busy to catch us.”

James turns to Sirius.  “You think Peeves’ll help?”

“He might,” Sirius says.  “Especially if we promise him something stupid.  Like soap.”

Peter blinks.  “Soap?”

“He eats it,” Sirius says with a shrug.  “Or throws it.  Or uses it to write rude things on windows.  I don’t know.  The point is, he’s weird, but he likes me.”

James elbows him.  “You’re weird and you tolerate him.  Match made in heaven.”

Sirius smirks, then spins around and starts walking backward.  He faces the rest of them.  “Alright, here’s the plan.  James and I sneak into the hallway outside the meeting.   Peter distracts Peeves and gets him to start breaking things just loud enough for someone to hear upstairs.  Remus…”

He trails off, finally looking at Remus.

Remus raises an eyebrow.  “Is staying out of it.”

Sirius mock-salutes.  “Remus is on lookout, then.”

“I said—”

“Too late,” James grins.  “You’ve been assigned.”

Remus groans and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “absolute idiots.”

They head up toward the common room, the corridor echoing with their footsteps and hushed voices.  Peter keeps chattering about variations of pink.  Blush, rose, and magenta.  Sirius actually seems to be considering them.

By the time they reach the Fat Lady, James is grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.  It’s stupid.  It’s completely immature.  It’s going to get them in trouble.

But it’s the best he’s felt in weeks.

Once they’re inside the common room, he flops onto the couch and stretches out.  Sirius claims the armrest beside him, one leg swinging idly over the side.  Peter perches on the edge of the armchair.  Remus sits near the fire, already pulling out homework with a martyred sigh.

James watches them all, warmth pooling in his chest.

He doesn’t say anything for a minute.  Just soaks it in.  The quiet chatter.  The golden firelight.  The ridiculousness of planning to charm clothes for a laugh.

Then, without really thinking, he says, “I’m really glad we’re friends.”

It comes out soft.  Not loud and flashy like most of the things he says.  Just honest.  Sirius freezes for half a second.

It’s subtle.  No one else would notice it.  But James does.  The way Sirius’s leg stops swinging.  The way he blink.  Slow and careful before responding.

“I mean,” Sirius says, his voice too light, “we’re only friends ‘cause we got shoved in the same dorm, yeah?”

Peter blinks.  “What?”

James turns his head to look at him properly.

Sirius shrugs, still not meeting his eyes.  “Proximity, Potter.  Nothing magic about it.  Put four boys in one room, something’s bound to happen.”

James sits up a little.  “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I didn’t have to like you,” James says, and he’s only half-joking now.  “You were awful that first day.  Like a huge git.”

“I was charming,” Sirius insists, with a crooked grin.  “You just didn’t understand me yet.”

“You hexed my chocolate frog.”

“You provoked me.”

James shakes his head, but there’s less amusement in it now.  “Still.  We didn’t have to be friends.  I’m glad we are. That’s all I was saying.”

Sirius goes quiet again.  And for a moment, the fire crackles too loudly in the silence.

Peter glances between them, awkwardly.  “I think we’d still be friends even if we weren’t in the same dorm.”

Remus doesn’t look up, but his quill stills.

Sirius leans his head back against the couch cushion and closes his eyes.  “Maybe,” he says, in a tone that means probably not.

James doesn’t push.

He wants to.  Wants to ask why Sirius always does this.  Turns things into jokes.  Brushes things off.  Says something sharp right when it starts to matter.

But James doesn’t say anything.  Just sits back again, arms folded.  He lets the moment fall away like smoke.

They sit in silence for a while.

Remus eventually picks up his quill again.  Peter starts humming something under his breath.  Sirius stretches like a cat and says something about dinner.

James doesn’t answer right away.  But in the back of his mind, something’s shifted.  Maybe Sirius thinks they’re only friends because they’re in the same room.

But James knows better.

And one day, Sirius will too.

————————————

It’s too easy.

The halls after dinner are mostly quiet.  Just a few stragglers heading to the library or trying to sneak biscuits back to their dorms.  Sirius walks like he belongs here.  Because he does, even when he absolutely doesn’t.

James walks beside him under the invisibility cloak.  Their steps are perfectly in sync, like always.  Peter trails behind, pressed close.  He is grinning widely like he can barely hold the laughter in.

Remus isn’t with them.  He’d muttered something about not wanting detention and peeled off back toward Gryffindor Tower.  But Sirius knows he’s hovering somewhere nearby.  Watching.  He said he didn’t want to be involved, but he didn’t exactly stop them either.

Typical Remus it seems.

James whispers, “alright, nearly there.”

Sirius nods, heart thudding in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the thrill of being just this close to pulling something off.  They reach the carved wooden doors that lead to the small side chamber off the Great Hall.  The one the prefects use for meetings.  Light spills out from underneath the door, and Sirius can hear voices.  The Head Boy is talking.  Something dull about patrol rotations.  There’s a rustle of parchment and scrape of chairs.  Boring, boring, boring.

Perfect.

Sirius exchanges a glance with James under the cloak.  No words needed.

Now.

James crouches low and pulls a small pouch from his pocket.  They spent half an hour in the common room earlier enchanting it.  Every thread charged with color-change charms.  Sirius had added a twist of his own: not just pink, but shifting pink.  Neon.  Glittery.  The kind of shade that practically screams for attention.

James cracks the door open just a hair.  Just enough.

Sirius pulls out his wand, takes a steadying breath.  He flicks his wrist once.  The pouch floats in on a gentle breeze of magic and lands squarely in the middle of the room.  Nobody inside notices.

“Wait for it…” James breathes.

There’s a pause.

Then—POOF.

The room erupts in a flash of shimmering light.  Not loud.  Not explosive.  Just bright.  Blindingly, garishly, spectacularly pink.

Sirius bites his knuckles to keep from laughing as a chorus of voices rise in confusion.

“What the—?”

“My robes—”

“Why is everything sparkling?!”

“Is this glitter?!”

Sirius loses it.  He slumps against the wall, shoulders shaking.  He is barely muffling his cackles as Peter clamps both hands over his mouth and doubles over in silent laughter.

James grins, eyes alight.  “Perfect.”

They retreat fast, slipping down the corridor before anyone thinks to check the door.  James tugs the cloak tighter around them, steering them through a shortcut toward the back staircases.  Sirius’s lungs burn with held-in laughter.  “Did you see her face?  That Ravenclaw girl looked like she’d been dipped in a sugar quill!”

Peter finally lets out a wheeze.  “We’re so getting caught.”

James snorts.  “Only if someone rats.”

“Remus’ll rat,” Peter says, but not seriously.

Sirius slows a little.  “Nah.  Lupin wouldn’t.  He acts like he hates this stuff, but he’s not gonna turn us in.”

James glances over.  “You sure?”

Sirius shrugs.  “He likes to scowl and pretend we’re immature.  Which we are.  But he never actually stopped us.”

Peter nods.  “That’s true.”

They reach the top of a spiraling staircase and James pulls the cloak off.  No one’s around now.  Just dim torches and the occasional floating portrait.  Sirius runs a hand through his hair.  Still grinning.  Still warm from the adrenaline.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but this is the kind of night that makes him feel right.  Not the sitting-stiff-in-class stuff.  Not the Black family formalities he’s still unlearning.  This.  Sneaking through stone corridors.  Doing something ridiculous.  Hearing James laugh so loud it echoes.

He’d forgotten what it was like to feel light.

James nudges him with an elbow.  “You know this means war, right?  Prefects don’t just let that sort of thing slide.”

Sirius smirks.  “I hope they don’t.”

They keep walking, pace slowing now that the job is done.  Peter’s still giddy.  James is already planning what to do if someone tries to pin it on them.

Sirius tunes it out after a minute.

His mind drifts.

James said something weird earlier.  Back in the common room.  About being glad they were friends.  It’s been echoing around in Sirius’s skull since.

He didn’t mean to brush it off like that.  But what was he supposed to say?  I’m glad too?  You’re the best thing to happen to me since I left home?  That sort of thing doesn’t come out of his mouth.  Not when everything about closeness makes his spine lock up.  Not when there’s a voice in the back of his mind that still sounds like his mother sneering.  Not when he remembers his sibling is still stuck there, without Sirius there to protect them.

Reg was already teetering on the edge of believing their parents, what will they become when Sirius is unable to push back?

But James is easy with his affection.  Loud.  Honest.  It’s terrifying sometimes.  Sirius shoves his hands in his pockets and glances over at him now.  James is talking to Peter, animated.  He’s grinning and absolutely glowing with the success of their prank.  He looks like someone who trusts people on purpose.

And Sirius wishes he could be the same.  Say that he trusts them.  That they’re friends.  But he doesn’t.  Instead, he says, “if anyone asks, we were in the library.”

Peter makes a face.  “We never go to the library.”

“Exactly.  Who’d suspect it?”

James laughs.  “Genius.”

They reach the corridor just outside the Gryffindor common room when they hear the portrait door creak open ahead.  Remus steps out.  His arms are crossed.  His expression is unimpressed.  “That was stupid.”

James throws both hands in the air.  “In our defense…it worked.”

Remus exhales through his nose.  “There’s glitter on the third floor.”

Sirius beams.  “Branded.  Now everyone knows who did it.”

Remus groans and pinches the bridge of his nose.  “You’re unbelievable.”

But there’s a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and Sirius sees it.

They head inside, still riding the high.  Remus trails after them with that tired, resigned look he wears every time he pretends he’s not one of them.

And for once, Sirius thinks maybe it’s okay to stay close.

Just a little.

————————————

Marlene likes Defense.

It’s one of the only classes where she doesn’t feel like she has to hold her wand like a violin bow or pronounce things like she’s coughing up Latin.  It’s practical.  Physical.  Something she can feel in her hands.

She doesn’t like that it’s with the Slytherins.

She walks into the classroom just behind Lily Evans.  The girl is already frowning at the seat arrangement like she can will the snakes into disappearing.  The desks are paired, of course.  Because why wouldn’t they be.  Half of them are already occupied by the Slytherins, lounging like they own the place.

Typical.

Marlene scans the room and sees Rookwood sitting toward the middle.  Next to the window, Mulciber and Avery are already muttering about something and laughing like they’ve just bullied someone.

Charming.

Marlene sits near the back, dropping her bag on the floor with a thud.  She claims the edge seat.  Always the edge.  If she needs to bolt out of a room full of snakes, she wants a clear path.  It’s like living with her brothers.  Always have an escape route in case they decide to be daft.

Sirius Black and James Potter tumble in after.  They are talking too loudly about something involving sparkles.  Lily whips around, glaring.  “Did you two do something to the prefect robes?!”

James makes an innocent face.  Sirius grins like he invented mischief.  Neither denies it.

Marlene doesn’t smile, but she almost does.

A moment later, the professor walks in.  Professor Vaswick is tall and spindly.  Like he’s been stretched too long and hung out to dry.  He drops a heavy book on the desk with a thunk, and the chatter dies down.

“Wands away,” he says, voice thin and sharp.  “We’re starting with theory.”

Marlene sighs quietly.  There goes her chance at setting something on fire.  Vaswick flicks his wand at the board.  Where the words Counter-Curses and Shield Charms scrawl themselves in neat handwriting.

“Today’s lesson will cover basic counters to minor hexes, and the proper form for a Protego shield.  We will not be practicing the spells until tomorrow.  Today is for understanding why they work.”

A collective groan rises, mostly from Gryffindors.

Mulciber raises his hand and doesn’t wait to be called on.  “Sir, if we’re not using the spells, what’s the point of being in Defense class?”

Vaswick levels him with a look.  “If you don’t understand the theory, you’ll cast blindly.  And blind spells get people killed.”

That shuts him up.

Marlene lets her eyes drift sideways.  Across the aisle, Rookwood is already writing neat notes.  He doesn’t look bored, or smug.  Just focused.  That unsettles her more than it should.

She opens her notebook and writes down the heading.

Avery turns in his seat and murmurs something to Wilkes, something low and pointed.  Marlene hears her own name, along with “half-blood,” and her jaw tightens.

She doesn’t flinch.  She never flinches.  Across the room, Sirius shifts slightly in his seat.  Like he heard it too.  But he doesn’t say anything.

Marlene doesn’t expect him to.

“Miss McKinnon,” Vaswick says suddenly.

She snaps her eyes forward.  “Yes, sir?”

“What’s the key difference between a blocking spell and a counter-curse?”

She sits up straighter.  “A blocking spell prevents a spell from hitting its target.  Sort of like a magical shield.  A counter-curse undoes the effects after a curse has already landed.”

Vaswick nods.  “Good.  Application?”

“Blocking spells are fast and defensive.  Counter-curses are more specific.  You need to know what curse was cast to reverse it properly.”

“Excellent.  Five points to Gryffindor.”

Avery snorts. “Teacher’s pet.”

Marlene doesn’t turn.  Doesn’t need to.  She lets her wand slip out of her sleeve and rolls it between her fingers under the desk.  Just once.  Just enough to let him know she heard.

Beside her, Lily mutters, “ignore him.”

“I am.”

“You’re gripping your wand like you want to hex his eyebrows off.”

“I do.”

Lily nudges her lightly with an elbow.  “Later.”

Marlene exhales slowly and sets the wand down beside her parchment.  Across the room, Rookwood glances up for just a second.  His eyes flick from her to Avery, then back to his notes.  He doesn’t say anything.

She focuses on the board instead, copying down the listed variations of Protego.  She’ll have them memorized by tonight.  She’s not here to lose points.  She’s here to learn how to win.

Professor Vaswick paces slowly between the rows of desks, hands clasped behind his back like he’s stalking prey.  The chalk on the board continues to scratch out terms on its own.  Protego Totalum, Protego Horribilis, Finite Incantatem.

His eyes sweep the room.  “Miss Evans.”  Lily sits up straighter beside Marlene.  Her quill stops mid-sentence, but she looks completely unbothered.  Vaswick halts just behind her.  “Tell me, what is the magical principle that makes shield charms effective against jinxes but often ineffective against certain types of hexes?”

Lily doesn’t miss a beat.  “Intent.  Shield charms—particularly Protego—work best against spells cast with sudden, surface-level intent, like jinxes.  But hexes, especially more complex ones, usually carry layered magical signatures.  That makes them more resistant to basic blocking.”

Vaswick tilts his head.  “And the remedy?”

“If the hex is mid-cast, a more advanced shield.  Like Protego Maxima might work.  Otherwise, you need to identify the spell and cast a targeted counter-curse.”

There’s a pause, and then—

“Very well put.  Ten points to Gryffindor.  And I suggest you all write that down.  Most of you will need it.”

Lily gives a quick, polite nod.  Then goes back to her notes without so much as a blink.  She doesn’t beam or gloat.  She just knows things and it radiates off her like heat from a well-controlled spell.

Marlene watches her for a second, then bends her head again.  She jots down Lily’s answer in the margin of her parchment.

Lily murmurs to her, “you explained the difference really clearly earlier.  He probably wouldn’t have even asked me if you hadn’t nailed it.”

Marlene snorts softly.  “I think he just likes seeing us scramble.”

“I think he just likes you.”

Marlene lifts a brow.  “Because I didn’t curse Avery when he called me a half-blood?”

“Because you could’ve, and didn’t.”

Marlene doesn’t answer.  She draws a line under her notes instead.  She taps her wand once against her page to highlight the keywords in gold.  She then sits back.

The room is quieter now.  Most of the Slytherins look either sullen or asleep. A Slytherin girl in the front row is writing so quickly that her parchment keeps buckling under the ink.  And James Potter, who is two rows up, is balancing his wand on the top of his ear and whispering something to Sirius.  And that boy is clearly trying not to laugh.

Peter is watching them both like they hung the moon.

Marlene eyes them.  They’re loud and ridiculous and kind of reckless .  But they aren’t mean.  Not like the others.  That’s worth something.

She’s still deciding how much.

Vaswick clears his throat.  “Now.  Open your textbooks to page seventy-three and follow along as I review the theoretical framework behind magical repulsion fields.”

A chorus of sighs rises, but no one dares complain out loud.

Marlene flips her book open and braces herself for a long, dry lecture.  She knows all of this already.  She read ahead weeks ago.  But she copies it all down anyway.  Because being prepared isn’t about need.  It’s about being better than anyone expects her to be.

At the desk in front of her, Sirius yawns loudly and immediately gets elbowed by Potter.  Vaswick doesn’t even look up.  “Five points from Gryffindor, Mr. Black.  You can nap in your dorm, not my classroom.”

Sirius slouches lower.  James stifles a grin.

Marlene rolls her eyes.

Defense might be her favorite class.  But today, it feels like it’s crawling.

Marlene taps her quill once against the parchment, just to keep her fingers moving.  Vaswick is deep in the weeds of magical rebound theory now.  He is talking about how improperly cast shield spells can sometimes redirect curses instead of absorbing them.

She already knows this.  She read it twice over the summer.  Once in the textbook and once in a supplementary guide her mum sent her with.

Her eyes drift.

Not far—just across the room.

There’s a girl sitting near the far wall, maybe two rows up from the back.  She is alone at her desk.  Marlene can’t remember ever seeing her before.  Not properly.  She’s got a dark halo of hair braided back in coils.  Her uniform sleeves are rolled to her elbows like she doesn’t care about dress code.  There’s a smear of ink along her left hand, and her eyes—

Her eyes are already on Marlene.

Marlene blinks.

The girl doesn’t look away.

Instead, she lifts her hand—slowly—and gives a little wave.  Nothing dramatic.  Just a flick of her fingers.  Casual.  Like they’ve known each other for years.

Marlene stares at her for a second too long before remembering herself and looking back at her notes.  Her stomach does something weird and fluttery, and it’s not from Vaswick’s dull lecture.

She doesn’t know her name.

She should—they’ve been at school a few weeks now.  But Marlene’s been paying more attention to her studies than to unfamiliar faces.  She makes a mental note to ask Lily later.

Without meaning to, she glances back again.

The girl’s still looking.  This time she’s not smiling.  Just…watching.  Not in a creepy way.  More like she’s curious.  Or amused.  Or both.

Marlene presses her lips together and turns back to the board.  She is trying to shake the heat that’s started rising in her face.

“Miss McKinnon,” Vaswick says, sharp as ever. “What’s the drawback of attempting a Protego charm when under the effect of a Silencio hex?”

Marlene answers on instinct, voice steady.  “Without vocalization, the spell will collapse.  That is unless you’re skilled enough to cast it nonverbally.  First-years aren’t.”

“Correct.  Five points.”

She nods, not trusting herself to say more.  She doesn’t look across the room again.  Not until the bell rings.

The second the bell rings, the classroom erupts in the usual shuffle of parchment and chairs scraping the floor.  James says something about “glorious mischief,” Sirius cackles, and Peter trips over his bag.  Lily mutters under her breath about all of them being insufferable, and Remus already has his nose back in a book before he even stands.

But Marlene doesn’t head for the door.

Not right away.

She watches as that girl.  The girl rolls up her sleeves again and tucks her ink-stained hand into her satchel.  She moves like she’s used to not being noticed.  Like she expects to get out of the room without anyone saying anything at all.

So Marlene does the stupid thing.

She bolts after her.

“Hey!”

The girl slows and turns, clearly surprised.  Her expression doesn’t change much, but Marlene can tell she wasn’t expecting to be spoken to.  At all.  Marlene stops right in front of her, a little out of breath.  “Hi.  I…er.  I saw you wave.  Earlier.”

The girl tilts her head.  Her lips are quirking up just slightly.  “I did.”

“Right.” Marlene’s heart is thudding.  Why is her heart thudding?  “So I thought I’d say hi back.  In person.”

A pause.

Then, quietly, the girl says, “hi.”

Marlene exhales.  “I’m Marlene.”

The girl nods, slow.  “Dorcas.”

“Dorcas,” Marlene echoes.  “That’s a good name.”

Dorcas raises one brow.  “I didn’t pick it.”

Marlene lets out a surprised laugh.  “Fair enough.”

They stand there a second.  They are caught in the between-class current as students stream past them on both sides, chattering, pushing, shoving bags over shoulders.  Most don’t even glance their way.  A few look once and then quickly away.

Marlene takes a small step back.  She gestures behind her, toward the direction Lily and the others went.  “You probably need to meet up with your friends.”

Dorcas shifts her weight.  Her satchel bumps against her leg.  “Not really.”

“Oh.”

Marlene blinks.

Dorcas shrugs, eyes fixed somewhere over Marlene’s shoulder.  “It’s easier not to try sometimes.”

The words hang in the air like something breakable.

Marlene studies her more carefully now.  The rolled sleeves.  The quiet.  The steady way she holds herself.  Like she’s trying not to invite anything in.

Marlene knows that posture.  She’s worn that posture.  “You can try with me,” she says before she really thinks it through.

Dorcas finally looks her in the eyes.

Marlene shrugs.  “I mean, I don’t bite.  Unless it’s full moon, in which case…you know, maybe keep your distance.”

Dorcas’s mouth twitches.  Just the slightest smile.

“You’re funny,” she says softly.

“You’re strange,” Marlene says, grinning.

Dorcas nods.  “Fair enough.”  They stand there for a beat longer.  Then they begin to walk, shoulder to shoulder.  But in no real rush to anywhere.

Marlene doesn’t ask what House she’s in.

She already knows.

But she also doesn’t care.

The corridor smells faintly of wet stone and floor polish.  Marlene never notices these things when she’s with the others.  When there’s too much noise and too many footsteps and not enough space to think.  But now, walking next to Dorcas, she hears everything.  Their shoes scuffing the floor.  The far-off hum of Peeves shouting about cauldrons.  The slight jangle of the clasp on Dorcas’s satchel.

Neither of them says much at first.

It’s not uncomfortable, though.  Not quite.

“So,” Marlene ventures, after a long silence.  “You like Defense?”

Dorcas shrugs, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.  “It’s useful.”

“Do you like anything?”

A pause.  Then, dryly, “that’s a loaded question.”

Marlene laughs under her breath.  “Alright, fair.  How about…least-hated subject, then?”

Dorcas considers it.  “Astronomy.”

Marlene tilts her head.  “Really?  Bit romantic for someone who answers every question like it’s a trap.”

Another twitch of a smile.  “I like the quiet.  And the distance.  You look up and everything’s huge, but none of it expects anything from you.”

Marlene hums.  “You’re a bit of a poet, you know.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

That earns a real laugh.  Not loud.  But warm.

They round the corner near the main staircase.  Gryffindors peel off toward the tower.  Hufflepuffs disappear down toward the kitchens.  A few Slytherins glance at Dorcas as she walks by.  Not all of them sneer, but none of them greet her either.

Marlene notices.  She wonders if Dorcas notices her noticing.  She doesn’t ask.  Instead, she says, “do you always sit by yourself in class?”

Dorcas’s voice is even.  “It’s easier.”

“Than what?”

Dorcas doesn’t answer right away.  Then, quietly, she says, “than having someone pretend they don’t know you once they remember what House you’re in.”

Marlene’s throat tightens.

She wants to say that’s stupid, or unfair, or wrong.  But the truth is she’s seen it.  The way House divides linger in little ways, even when no one’s actively trying to be cruel.  She knows Lily gets it too, being Muggle-born.  Knows even Remus carries something unspoken under his skin.  Though she’s unsure what exactly ails him.

Dorcas just…wears it differently.

Marlene stops walking.  They’ve reached a landing.  The corridor branches off.  One way toward the library, the other toward the courtyard.  Dorcas pauses beside her, looking almost surprised they’ve made it this far without the conversation ending.

“I don’t care,” Marlene says suddenly.

Dorcas blinks.

“I mean…what House you’re in.  I don’t care.  And I’m not pretending anything.  You’re interesting.  So if you want to walk with me again sometime, you should.”

There’s a flicker of something in Dorcas’s eyes.  Doubt, maybe.  Or hope.  She shifts her weight, like she might take a step back.  Or forward.  Or disappear entirely.

But she just says, “okay.”

And for a second, they just stand there.  Two first-years, unsure what to do next with something fragile and new.

Then Dorcas nods once.  “See you around, Marlene.”

“Yeah,” Marlene says, watching her go.  “See you.”

02 << >> 04

Masterlist

[lowlylux]

Me realizing I never posted chapter 3 of watcher of the skies on here 🧍

[lowlylux]

“Allow me,” Sirius says, pulling out his wand like he’s been waiting his whole life to say it. “Alohomora!”

Nothing happens.

“…Damn. Thought that’d work.”

-Watcher of the Skies, chapter four

[lowlylux]

If I just mass-reblogged your posts I'm sorry I'm just on an autistic regulus hyperfix and insane and need to consume any and all media of him

[lowlylux]

Sirius: Who do we know who has handcuffs?

Regulus: Well, James and I—

James: [elbows him]

Regulus: —wouldn't know.

[lowlylux]

i’ve got 99 problems and regulus black discovering his idol was purely evil and deciding to sacrifice his own life to stop him by drugging himself with a painful hallucination inducing potion and then being dragged underwater by dark corpses till he couldn’t breathe anymore is all of them

[lowlylux]

Heheheeheheeheheheehe

Calling All Wishbone Fans!

The Mods are THRILLED to announce that to tide you all over until Fest reveals start on the 22nd, we will be hosting a Flash Fest!

What is a Flash Fest, you ask?

Well, it's all the fun of a fest in a short time, with less rules!

OUR Flash Fest is Wishbone-themed, since so many of the songs on this album were absolute BANGERS!

The only thing you need to do to participate in the fest is upload a work inspired by one of the Wishbone songs to our Flash Fest Collection on ao3! It will be revealed right away, and there is no need to get it approved!

You also are allowed to participate even if you didn't participate in the original Fest! This is separate from our main Fest, and is OPTIONAL for original participants.

AND your work can also be from any fandom!

We hope to see some exciting works! As always, please let us know if you have any questions, and our main fest reveal schedule will be posted on Sunday!

[lowlylux]

I have realized that my years of reading manga has ruined my ability to read most comics 🧍I have to reread every single one because I read it the wrong way

[lowlylux]

“What’s your favorite type of scene to write?”

Quidditch. Quidditch rules. It can add drama. Suspense. QUIDDITCH REIGNS SUPREME