#james sister reader

[colouredbyd]

'Til All That's Left Is Glorious Bone—

brother!sirius black x fem!sister!reader x brother!regulus black , james potter x reader

synopsis: being a Black means braiding silence into everything soft — childhood, love, even the ache in your bones. Sirius runs from it, Regulus folds beneath it, but you carry it still, tight at the nape of your neck. and when James offers his hands, his heart, you flinch — not because you don’t want it, but because you were never taught how to take what doesn’t hurt.

cw: Chronic illness, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, self-isolation, emotional breakdowns, grief, physical pain, mental deterioration, identity loss, emotional neglect, unrequited love, hospital scenes, overdose, allusions to death, trauma responses, unfiltered intrusive thoughts, self-hatred, references to childhood neglect, emotional repression. read with caution!!!!

w/c: 9.8k

based on: this request!!

a/n: this turned out much longer than i thought. very very very much inspired by the song Wiseman by Frank Ocean

part two part three dalia analyses of this!! masterlist

The hospital wing smells like damp stone and boiled nettle, and you have come to know its scent the way some children know their lullabies.

You’ve spent more of your life in this narrow bed than you have in classrooms, in common rooms, on sunlit grounds. 

Time moves differently here—slower, heavier—as though the hours have forgotten how to pass. The light through the tall window is always cold, a winter that presses its face to the glass but never steps inside. The sheets are tucked too tightly, the kind of tightness that makes it hard to breathe.

You don’t remember when it started, the pain behind your ribs, the illness that stole your breath and strength in careful, measured doses. It didn’t come all at once. It crept in slowly, like ivy through a cracked wall, quiet and persistent. 

You grew with it, around it, until it became part of you—a silent companion curled inside your chest. Some days it flares like a wildfire, other days it lingers like smoke, but it’s always there. You’ve learned to live beneath it. Learned how to stay still so it doesn’t notice you. Learned how to hold your own hand when no one else does.

Other students come and go with the ease of tide pools—quick stays for broken arms, for potions gone wrong, for fevers that leave as fast as they arrive. They arrive with fuss and laughter, and they leave just as quickly. But you? You stay. 

You are a fixture here, like the spare cots and rusting potion trays, like the chipped basin and the curtain hooks. Madam Pomfrey no longer asks what hurts. She knows by now that the answer is everything, and also nothing she can fix. 

Your childhood was a careful thing, sharp at the edges, ruled more by silence than softness. You were born into a house where expectation walked the halls louder than any footsteps. Obedience was mistaken for love, and love was always conditional. 

You were the youngest, but not alone. You came into the world with another heartbeat beside your own, a twin—your mirror, your shadow, your tether. And above you, Sirius. Older, brighter, always just out of reach. 

He was too loud, too fast, too full of fire. He tore through rooms like a comet, leaving heat and chaos in his wake. You admired him the way you might admire the storm outside the window—distant, thrilling, a little bit dangerous.

Your twin was the opposite. He was stillness, softness, observation. He watched the world carefully, his words chosen like rare coins he refused to spend unless he must. He was always listening. Always understanding more than he said. And between the two of them, you—caught in the current, too much and not enough, the daughter who was supposed to shine but learned instead how to fold herself small. 

You were expected to be precise. Polished. Perfect. The daughter of Walburga Black was not allowed to unravel.

Your hair was never your own. Your mother braided it herself, every morning, every ceremony, every photograph. The braid was too tight—always too tight—and it made your scalp sting and your neck ache, but you never flinched. You sat still while her fingers pulled and wove and twisted, like she was binding you into a shape more acceptable. Your fingers trembled in your lap, pressed together like a prayer you knew would not be answered. 

She said the braid meant order. Discipline. Dignity. But it felt like a chain. A silent way of saying: this is what you are meant to be. Tidy. Controlled. Pretty in the right ways. Never wild.

You wore that braid like a chain for years. A beautiful little cage. You wondered if anyone could see past it—if anyone ever looked hard enough to see how much of you was trying not to scream.

Your mother expected perfection. You were her daughter, after all. Hair always braided, posture always straight, lips always closed unless spoken to. She braided it herself most days — too tight, too harsh — and you would sit still while your scalp screamed and your fingers trembled in your lap. At nine years old, silence had already been braided into your spine.

The stool beneath you was stiff and velvet-lined, a throne made for suffering. In the mirror’s reflection, your posture held like porcelain. Every inch of you was composed, but only just — knuckles pale from tension, lips pressed in defiance.

 Behind you, your mother worked her fingers into your scalp with the practiced cruelty of a woman who believed beauty came from pain. Her voice matched the rhythm of her hands, each word tightening the braid, each tug a sermon.

“A daughter of this house doesn’t squirm,” she murmured, her grip unrelenting. “She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t disgrace herself over something as small as a hairstyle.”

The parting comb scraped harshly against your scalp, drawing a wince you were too proud to voice. Still, the sting prickled behind your eyes, a warning. When the sharp tug at your temple became unbearable, a breathy sob slipped out despite all effort to swallow it.

She froze.

Then, softly — far too softly — “What was that?”

Silence trembled between you.

“I said,” her voice clipped now, “what was that sound?”

A hand twisted at the nape of your neck, anchoring you like a hook. The braid tightened, harder now, punishment laced into every motion.

“Noble girls do not weep like peasants,” she snapped. “From now on, your hair stays up or braided. No more running wild. No more playing outside with your brothers. A lady must always be presentable — do you understand me?”

A nod. Barely a motion, but enough to release her grip.

She tied off the braid with a silver ribbon and smoothed a hand down your shoulder. In the mirror, your reflection stared back — hollowed eyes, flushed cheeks, a child sculpted into something smaller than herself. Her voice followed you as you stood.

“You’ll be grateful for this one day.”

Outside the room, Regulus stood waiting. He looked down at your braid and didn’t say a word. His tie was loose, lopsided in that way he never could fix. 

Your fingers moved on instinct, straightening it carefully, eyes never meeting his. He let you. The silence between twins had its own language — and right now, it said enough.

The hallway stretched long and heavy, lined with portraits that watched like judges. You didn’t stop walking. The destination had always been the same.

Sirius’s door creaked as it opened. He was lying on the bed, book propped open across his chest, thumb tapping absently against the page. 

His hair was a little too long, his shirt untucked. Eleven years old and already a constellation too bright for the house that tried to dim him.

He looked up — and the second his gaze met yours, his expression softened.

“Oh, pretty girl,” he breathed, sitting up straight. “Come here.”

You moved without thinking. As soon as the door closed behind you, the first tears broke free. Quiet, controlled — not sobs, not yet. Just the kind of weeping that clung to your throat and curled your shoulders inward.

“She did it again?” His voice was low, careful. “Too tight, yeah?”

A nod. You climbed onto the bed beside him, pressing your face into his sleeve.

“I tried not to cry,” the words came out muffled. “I really tried.”

Sirius tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, then gently reached for the braid.

“‘Course you did. You're the bravest girl I know.”

He began to undo it — not rushed, not rough. His fingers worked slowly, reverently, like unthreading something sacred. With each loosened twist, the tension in your body unwound too, your breath coming easier, softer.

“She says I’m not allowed to run anymore,” you whispered. “Says I have to look like a proper lady.”

“Well,” Sirius said, a hint of a smile in his voice, “I think she’s full of it.”

You let out a tiny, hiccupping laugh.

“There she is.” He brushed his fingers lightly over your scalp. “That’s better.”

The braid came undone, strand by strand, until your hair pooled over your shoulders — a curtain of softness, no longer a cage. Sirius shifted, lying back against the pillows, and opened his arms wide.

“Come here. Sleep it off. We’ll steal some scones from the kitchen tomorrow and pretend we’re pirates.”

You tucked yourself beneath his arm, the scent of parchment and peppermint wrapping around you like a secret. In the soft hush of the room, it was easy to pretend the house didn’t exist beyond these four walls.

By morning, you woke to find him sitting cross-legged on the floor, fingers gently working through your hair again. But this time, the braid was loose. Gentle. It didn’t pull. It didn’t sting.

“There,” he said, tying it off with a ribbon he pulled from his own shirt. “Just so it doesn’t get in your eyes when we go looking for treasure.”

And you smiled, because in that moment, you believed him.

The memory fades like breath on glass, slipping away into the sterile hush of the hospital wing.

You come back slowly. First to the faint scent of antiseptic and lavender balm. Then to the stiffness in your limbs, the press of cotton sheets against your legs, the dim ache nestled just beneath your ribs like something familiar.

“Easy now,” comes a voice, gentle and no-nonsense all at once.

Madam Pomfrey stands over you with her hands already at work, adjusting the blankets, feeling for fever along your temple. Her expression is set in that signature look — concern wrapped in mild exasperation, the kind of care she offers not with softness but with steady hands.

“You’ve been out for nearly a day,” she says, eyes scanning your face as if checking for signs of rebellion. “Stubborn girl. I told you to come in the moment you felt lightheaded.”

You blink at the ceiling. “Didn’t want to miss class.”

She snorts softly. “You think I haven’t heard that one before? You students would rather collapse in the corridors than admit your bodies are mortal.”

Her hands are cool against your wrist as she checks your pulse. You glance down at the thin bandage near your elbow — the usual spot, now tender. You don’t ask how long the spell took to stabilize you this time. You don’t need to.

She sighs and straightens. “Your fever’s broken, but you’ll stay here today. No arguments. I want fluids, rest, and absolutely no dramatic exits.”

You nod. “Thank you.”

Her gaze softens, just a little. “You don’t always have to carry it alone, dear.”

Before you can answer, the curtain snaps open with a flourish — a burst of too much energy, too much brightness.

“There you are!”

James Potter.

“Sweetheart,” James breathes, as if you’ve just risen from the dead. “My poor, wounded love.”

You barely lift your head before groaning. “Merlin’s teeth. I’m hallucinating.”

“Don’t be cruel. I came all this way.”

He plops into the chair beside you without invitation, sprawled in that casual way that only someone like James Potter could manage — legs too long, posture too confident, as if the universe has never once told him no. 

His tie is missing entirely. His sleeves are rolled up in that infuriating way that shows off ink stains and forearms he doesn’t deserve to know are attractive.

You squint at him. “You didn’t come from the warfront, Potter. You came from Transfiguration.”

“And still,” he says dramatically, “the journey was perilous. I had to fight off three Hufflepuffs who claimed they had dibs on the last chocolate pudding. I bled for you.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he counters, placing a hand over his chest like he might actually burst into song. “With a girl who is rude and ungrateful and far too pretty when she’s annoyed.”

“Then un-love me,” you mutter. “For your own good.”

“Can’t. Tragic, really.”

You shoot him a glare. He beams back like you’re the sunrise and he’s been waiting all night to see you again.

“I should hex you.”

“But you won’t.” He winks. “Because deep, deep down, under that armor made of sarcasm and resentment, you adore me.”

“I deeply, deeply don’t.”

“And yet,” he leans in, “you haven’t told me to leave.”

You stare at him. He stares right back.

Finally, you sigh. “Potter?”

“Yes, my heart?”

“If you don’t shut up, I will scream.”

He laughs, bright and boyish and utterly maddening. “Scream all you want, darling. Just don’t stop looking at me like that.”

James doesn’t leave. Of course he doesn’t. He lounges like he was born to irritate you — the embodiment of Gryffindor persistence, or maybe just pure male audacity. 

He props his elbow on the bedside table and peers at you like you're the eighth wonder of the world. Or an exhibit in a very dramatic museum: Girl, Mildly Injured, Attempting Peace.

“You know,” he says, casually adjusting his collar, “if you’d let me walk you to class yesterday, none of this would’ve happened. Fate doesn’t like it when you reject me. Tries to punish you.”

“Fate had nothing to do with it,” you snap. “I tripped over Black’s ego.”

He blinks, then grins. “Which one?”

You throw your head back against the pillow. “Get. Out.”

“But you look so lonely,” he pouts. “All this sterile lighting and medicinal smell — what you need is warmth. Charm. Emotional support.”

“What I need is silence,” you mutter. “Preferably wrapped in an Invisibility Cloak with your name on it.”

James leans closer. “But then you’d miss me.”

You sit up slightly, brows knitting. “Potter. For the last time — I am not in love with you!”

He looks wounded. “Yet.”

You glare. “Never.”

“Harsh,” he breathes, placing a hand over his heart. “Do you say that to all the boys who deliver their soul on a silver platter for your approval, or am I just special?”

“Neither. You’re just insufferable.”

“And you,” he says, looking at you like he’s just uncovered some hidden constellation, “are poetry with teeth.”

You blink. “Are you trying to flirt with me or describe a very weird animal?”

“Both, probably.”

There’s a silence then — or what should be a silence. It’s really more of a stretched pause, heavy with the weight of all the things you haven’t said and refuse to say. You busy yourself with fluffing the pillow behind you, more aggressive than necessary. 

James watches, unbothered, as if every second in your company is a privilege. He does that. Looks at you like you’re more than you know what to do with. Like if he stared hard enough, he could untangle the knots in your spine and the ones you keep hidden in your heart, too.

It pisses you off.

“Why are you like this?” you ask suddenly, exasperated.

James looks genuinely confused. “Like what?”

“Like a golden retriever who’s been hexed into a boy.”

He gasps. “You think I’m loyal and adorable?”

“I think you’re loud and impossible to get rid of.”

“That’s practically a compliment coming from you.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “Did you break into the hospital wing just to bother me?”

“No,” he says, stretching. “I also came for the adrenaline rush. Madam Pomfrey tried to hex me.”

“She should’ve aimed higher.”

“She said the same thing.” He tilts his head, eyes softening a little. “Seriously though. You okay?”

You glance away.

It’s a simple question. An honest one. And it cracks something in you, just for a second — a flash of how tired you really are, how the weight in your chest hasn’t gone away since the moment you woke up here. But you’re not about to tell him that.

“I was fine,” you say flatly, “until you arrived.”

James laughs, not buying a word of it. And you hate him a little, for seeing through your armor so easily. For still showing up anyway.

“Well,” he says, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder, “I’ll go. But only because I know you’ll miss me more that way.”

“In your dreams, Potter.”

“You’re always in mine.”

He tosses you a wink before heading for the door — whistling as he walks, bright and ridiculous and inescapable.

You throw the other pillow at his back.

You miss.And you hate that you're smiling. 

The door clicks shut behind him, and silence rushes in too fast. It settles over you like dust, soft but suffocating. 

You just sit there, perched on the edge of the infirmary cot, hands still curled in the blanket, knuckles pale. For a moment, there’s nothing. Just the quiet hum of the ward and the slow, measured ache blooming low in your back.

Then, you hear it.

James's laughter, bright and stupid and golden, spilling through the corridor like it doesn’t know how to stop. It chases itself down the stone hallway, reckless and echoing, as if it has never once had to apologize for being loud. 

He laughs like he’s never been told not to. Like the world is still something worth laughing in.

And then—his voice.

Sirius.

You’d recognize it anywhere. Cooler than James’s, more precise, threaded through with a sort of effortless arrogance he doesn't have to earn. Sirius doesn’t speak to be heard. He speaks because the world always listens. He laughs like the sun doesn't blind him anymore. Like he’s been here before, and already survived it.

Their voices blur together, warm and sharp and unbearably distant. A private world outside the thin curtain, a place you’re never fully let into, even when you're part of it.

You swallow hard. The taste of metal still lingers.

Madam Pomfrey told you to rest. Strict orders, she said. Full bedrest. You nodded then. Promised. But your body’s never listened to promises, and your mind is already slipping away from the cot, already pressing you forward with a kind of restless urgency.

The ache in your ribs flares when you move, but you ignore it. You swing your legs over the side and reach for your shoes with slow, shaking hands. Each movement tugs at the bruises hidden beneath your skin, the tender places no one else can see. You wince. You keep going.

It isn’t the pain that drives you. It’s something worse. Something quieter. That feeling, deep in your chest, like a hand gripping your lungs too tightly. Like something in you has started to rot from the inside out. You don’t want to hear them laughing. You don’t want to be the one in the bed anymore, weak and broken and watched over like a child.

You want to run until your lungs scream. You want to scream until your throat splits.

Instead, you walk.

The corridor outside is too bright. You blink against it, but don’t slow your pace. Your limbs feel like they’re moving through water, but you don’t stop. The voices are gone now, swallowed by stone and space, but they echo anyway. You hear the ghosts of their laughter in every footstep.

And it stings, because Sirius never laughed like that with you anymore. Not since you learned how to flinch without being touched. Not since the world cracked open and swallowed the parts of you that still believed he would choose you first.

You keep walking. Not because you know where you're going.

Only because you know you can't stay.

You don’t go far. You don’t have the strength.

Instead, you slip into the back corner of the library, the one with the high windows and the dust-lined shelves no one bothers to reach for anymore. It’s always too quiet there, always a little too cold — and that suits you just fine. You drop your bag and sit without grace, shoulders curling inward like you’re trying to take up less space in the world.

Your books are open, but your eyes keep blurring the words. The light from the window stripes your page in gold, but your fingers tremble as you hold the quill. 

There’s a pain blooming slow beneath your ribcage now, deeper than before, as if something inside you is tugging out of place. You press your palm to your side, hoping the pressure will settle it, but all it does is remind you that it’s real.

It gets worse the longer you sit. The burning in your spine, the throb in your joints. Your whole body pulses like a bruise someone won’t stop pressing. You grit your teeth and write anyway, like if you just get through one more page, one more hour, one more breath—you’ll be okay.

But you’re not. Not really. And every breath tastes a little more like defeat.

The days fold over themselves like tired parchment.

You wake. You ache. You drift from bed to class to hospital wing to silence. You ignore James when he finds you in the corridor and calls you sunshine with a grin too wide for the way your heart is breaking. 

You tell him off with a glare you don’t mean. He calls you cruel and laughs anyway. You walk away before he can see the way your hands are shaking.

The world goes on.

And then one afternoon, when the sun slips low and casts everything in amber, you see him.

Regulus.

Your twin. Your mirror, once.

He’s seated beneath the black lake window, where the light is darker and more still. His robes are sharp and his posture straighter than you remember. 

There’s a boy beside him — fair hair, eyes too bright. You’ve seen him before. Barty Crouch Jr. A Slytherin, like Regulus. Arrogant. Sharp-tongued. Always smiling like he knows something you don’t.

They’re laughing. Low and conspiratorial. Something shared between them that you’ll never be invited into.

And Regulus is smiling, real and rare and soft in the way you used to think only you could draw from him. His face is unguarded. His shoulders are relaxed. He looks... content. Not loud like James, not wild like Sirius. But happy. In that quiet, unreachable way.

It guts you.

Because both your brothers have found something. Sirius, with the way he flings himself into everything—light, reckless, loved. And Regulus, with his quiet victories and his perfect tie and his smiles saved for someone else. They’ve carved out slivers of peace in this cold castle, let someone in enough to ease the weight they both carry.

And you—you can’t even let James brush your sleeve without recoiling.

You can’t even let yourself believe someone might stay.

You sit there, tangled in your own silence, staring at a boy who you used to fix his tie after your mother left the room, because he never could quite center it himself.

And now—he doesn’t need you.

Now, he looks like the last untouched part of what your family once was. The only grace left. 

He sits with his back straight, his collar crisp, his shoes polished to a soft gleam that catches even in the low light. His tie is knotted with precision. His hair, always tidy, always parted just right, never unruly the way yours has always been. 

Everything about him is exact — not stiff, but composed. He is elegance without effort, and you don’t know whether to feel proud or bitter, watching him hold himself together like the portrait of what you were both meant to be.

He is the son your mother wanted, the child she could show off. He never had to be told twice to stand straight or speak softer or smile with his mouth closed. Where you burned, he silenced the flame. Where you ran wild with leaves tangled in your curls, he walked beside her, polished and obedient and clean.

If she saw you now — slouched, hair unbound and wild, dirt smudged along your hem — she would scream. 

First, for your hair. Always your hair. too messy, too alive. 

Second, for sitting on the ground like some gutter child, as if you weren’t born from the ancient bloodline she tattooed onto your skin with every rule she taught you to fear.

And third — oh, third, for the thing she wouldn’t name. For the thing she’d feel in her bones before she saw it. Something’s wrong with you. Has always been wrong with you. Even when you’re still, you’re too much.

There’s no winning in a house like that.

But Regulus — Regulus still wins. Somehow. He balances the weight she gave him and never once lets it show on his face. And maybe it should make you feel less alone, seeing him there. Maybe it should comfort you, to know one of you managed to survive the storm with their softness intact.

You blink hard, but the sting in your eyes doesn’t go away.

Because Regulus sits like he belongs.

The light in the library has thinned to bruised blue and rusted gold. Outside, the sun has collapsed behind the tree line, dragging the warmth with it. Shadows stretch long and quiet across the stone, draped between the shelves like forgotten coats.

Your hand closes around the edge of the desk. Wood under skin. You push yourself up, gently, carefully, like you’ve been taught to do. Your body protests with a dull, familiar ache — hips locking, spine stiff. You’ve sat too long. That’s all, you tell yourself. You always do.

But then it comes.

A pull, not sharp — not at first. It begins low, behind the ribs, like a wire drawn tight through your center. It pulses once. And then again. And then all at once.

The pain does not scream. It settles.

It climbs into your body like it has lived there before — like it knows you. It sinks its teeth deep into the marrow, not the muscles, not the skin. The pain lives in your bones. It nestles into the hollow of your hips, winds around your spine, hammers deep into your shins. Not a wound. Not an injury. Something older. Hungrier.

You stagger, palm flying to the wall to catch yourself. Stone greets your skin, cold and indifferent. You can’t tell if your breath is leaving you too fast or not coming at all. It feels like both. Your ribs refuse to expand. Your lungs ache. Your throat is tight, raw, thick with air that won’t go down.

Still, it’s the bones that scream the loudest.

They carry it. Not just the pain, but the weight of it. Like your skeleton has begun to collapse inward — folding under a pressure no one else can see. Your joints feel carved from glass. Every movement, even a tremble, sends flares of heat spiraling down your limbs. You press a hand to your chest, to your side, to your shoulder — seeking the source — but there’s nothing on the surface. Nothing bleeding. Nothing broken.

And still, you are breaking.

Your ears ring. Not a pitch, but a pressure — like the air itself is narrowing. Like the world is folding in. You blink, and the shelves blur, the light bends, the corners of your vision curl inward like paper catching flame. You think, I should sit down.

But it’s already too late.

Your knees buckle. There’s that terrible moment — the heartbeat of weightlessness — before the fall. Before the floor claims you. Your shoulder catches the edge of a shelf. Books crash down around you in protest. You feel the noise in your ribs, but not in your ears. Everything else is too loud — your body, your body, your body.

And then you’re on the floor.

The stone beneath you is merciless. It doesn’t take the pain. It holds it. Reflects it. You press your cheek to it, eyes wide and wet and burning, and feel the tremors racing through your legs. Your hands are claws. Your spine is fire. Your ribs rattle in their cage like something dying to escape.

It’s not just pain. It’s possession.

Your bones do not feel like yours. They are occupied. Inhabited by something brutal and nameless. You are no longer a girl on a floor. You are a vessel for suffering, hollowed and used.

White fogs the edges of your sight.

And then — darkness, cool and absolute.

The only thing you know as it takes you is this: the pain does not leave with you. It goes where you go. It follows you into the dark. It belongs to you.

Like your bones always have.

-

Waking feels like sinking—an uneven descent through layers of fog and silence that settle deep in your bones before the world sharpens into focus.

The scent of disinfectant stings your nostrils like a cold warning. Beneath your fingertips, the hospital sheets whisper against your skin, thin and taut, a reminder that you are here—pinned, fragile, contained. The narrow bed presses into your back, a quiet cage, and pale light spills weakly through the infirmary windows, too muted to warm you. Somewhere far away, a curtain flutters, its soft murmur a ghostly breath you can’t quite reach.

You’re not ready to open your eyes—not yet.

Because the silence is broken by a voice, raw and electric, sparking through the stillness like a flame licking dry wood. 

It’s James.

But this James isn’t the one you know. The James who calls you “sunshine” just to hear you argue back, or the one who struts beside you in the hallways with that infuriating grin, as if the world bends beneath his feet. No. This voice is cracked and frayed, unraveling with worry and something heavier — the weight of helplessness.

“You should’ve sent word sooner,” he says, and every syllable feels like a shard caught in his throat.

“She fainted,” he repeats, as if saying it out loud might make it less real. “In the bloody library. She collapsed. Do you understand what that means?”

The sound of footsteps shuffles nearby, followed by Madam Pomfrey’s steady voice, calm but firm, trying to thread together the broken edges of panic.

“She’s resting now. Safe. That’s what matters.”

James laughs, but it’s not a laugh. It’s a brittle sound, half breath, half crack.

“Safe? You call this safe? She was lying there—cold—and I thought—” His voice breaks, a jagged exhale caught between frustration and fear. 

“She doesn’t say anything, you know. Never says a damn thing. Always brushing me off, like I’m just some idiot who’s in the way. But I see it. I see it. The way she winces when she stands too fast. And none of you—none of you bloody do anything.”

Your chest tightens like a fist around your heart.

You hadn’t expected this.

This raw, aching desperation beneath his words—the way his concern flickers through the cracks of his usual arrogance and shields. The way he’s caught between anger and helplessness, trying so desperately to fix something that isn’t easily fixed.

You lie still, listening to him, feeling the swell of something close to hope and something just as close to despair.

James Potter — sun-drunk boy, full of fire and foolish heart, standing now like a storm about to break. He paces the edge of your infirmary bed as if motion alone might hold back the tide. He looks unmade, undone: his tie hangs crooked, his hair is more chaos than crown, his sleeves rolled unevenly as if he dressed without thought — or too much of it — only the frantic instinct to get to you.

“I should’ve walked her to the library,” he murmurs, and his voice is smaller now, like a flame flickering at the end of its wick. 

Madam Pomfrey, ever the calm in the storm, offers a gentle but resolute reply. “Mr. Potter, she’ll wake soon. She needs rest, not your guilt.”

But guilt has already laid roots in his chest — you can hear it in the way his breath hitches, in the soft exhale that seems to carry the weight of an entire world. His hands press to his face like he’s trying to hold it together, knuckles pale, fingertips trembling slightly at the edges. 

You blink. Just once.

The light slices through the shadows behind your eyes like a blade — too sharp, too clean. But you blink again, slowly, eyelashes sticky with sleep. 

The ceiling swims into shape above you, white stone carved with faint veins and a hairline crack running like a map across its arch. It feels strange, being awake again. Like stepping through a door and finding the air different on the other side.

You shift your head — careful, slow — not because you’re afraid of waking anyone, but because you know the pain is still there, sleeping under your skin like an old god. Waiting. You feel it stretch along your spine, an ache carved into your marrow. Your body is quieter than before, but not calm. Just… biding time.

He doesn’t notice you yet — too consumed by whatever promise he’s making to himself. You catch only pieces of it: something about making sure you eat next time, and sleep, and sit when your knees go soft. His voice is hoarse, edged with something too raw to name.

And though your throat burns and your bones still hum with the echo of collapse, you find yourself watching him.

Because this boy — foolish, golden, infuriating — is breaking himself open at your bedside, and he doesn’t even know you’re watching.

It’s strange.

This boy who never stops grinning. Who fills every hallway like he’s afraid of silence — like stillness might swallow him whole. Who flirts just to irritate you, calls you cruel with a wink when you roll your eyes at his jokes. 

This boy who you’ve shoved away a hundred times with cold stares and tired sarcasm — he’s here.

And he looks like he’s breaking.

Because of you.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat. There’s a weight lodged just beneath your ribs, sharp and unfamiliar, twisting like a question you don’t want to answer. 

You never asked him to care. Never asked anyone to look too closely. In fact, you’ve spent so long building walls from half-smiles and quiet lies, you almost believed no one would ever bother to scale them.

But somehow — somewhere along the way — James Potter learned to read you anyway.

Learned to translate silence into worry. To see the way your shoulders fold inward when you think no one’s watching. The way your laugh fades too fast. The way you don’t flinch from pain because you’ve been carrying it for so long it’s become part of you.

And for the first time — it doesn’t feel annoying.

It feels terrifying.

Because if he sees it, really sees it… the frayed edges, the heaviness in your bones, the way you’ve started to drift so far inward it sometimes feels easier not to come back — what then?

What happens when someone finds the truth you’ve hidden even from yourself?

You wonder how long he’s been carrying this fear. How long he’s noticed the signs you’ve worked so hard to bury.

And quietly — achingly — you wonder how long you’ve been hoping no one ever would.

You’ve pushed him away a hundred times. Maybe more. With cold eyes and sharper words, with silence that says stay away. You made yourself invisible. Not because you wanted to be alone—but because you thought it was easier that way. Easier than asking for help. Easier than letting anyone get close enough to see what’s really breaking inside.

Because the truth is: you don’t want to be here much longer.

Not in some dramatic way, not yet. 

But the thought is always there, quiet and persistent—like a shadow that never leaves your side. You’ve made plans, small and silent. Things you think about when the ache inside your bones is too heavy to carry. The nights when you lie awake and imagine what it would be like if you simply stopped trying. If you slipped away and no one had to watch you fall apart.

You’ve counted the moments it might take, rehearsed the words you’d leave behind—or maybe decided silence would say enough.

You wondered if anyone would notice. If anyone would come looking.

And yet here is James.

Pacing by your bedside like he’s carrying the weight of your pain on his shoulders. His voice trembles with worry you didn’t invite. Worry you thought you’d hidden too well.

But for now, you lie still, tangled in the ache beneath your skin. Wondering if leaving would hurt more than staying. Wondering if anyone really knows the parts of you that are already gone.

Wondering if you can find the strength to let him in—before it’s too late.

You don't mean to make a sound. You don’t even know that you have, until Madam Pomfrey draws a sudden breath, sharp and startled.

“She’s—James—she’s awake.”

There’s a rustle of movement. A chair scraping. A breath hitching.

And then James is at your side like he’d been waiting his whole life to be called to you.

But none of that matters.

Because you are crying.

Not politely. Not the soft, well-behaved kind they show in portraits. No. You're shaking. Wracked. The sob rises from somewhere too deep to name and breaks in your chest like a wave crashing through glass. Your shoulders curl, but your arms don’t lift. You don't even try to wipe your face. There's no use pretending anymore.

The tears fall hot and endless down your cheeks, soaking into your pillow, your collar, the edge of your sheets. It’s not one thing. It’s everything. It’s the ache in your bones. 

The thunder in your chest. The way Regulus smiled at someone else. The way Sirius ran. The way James calls you sunshine like it’s not a lie.

The way you’ve spent your whole life trying to be good and perfect and silent and still ended up wrong.

And the worst part — the cruelest part — is that no one has ever seen you like this. Not really. You were always the composed one. The strong one. The one who shrugged everything off with a tilt of her head and a mouth full of thorns. The one who glared at James when he flirted and scoffed at softness and made everyone believe you didn’t need saving.

But you do. You do.

You just never learned how to ask for it.

And now—now your chest is heaving, and the room is spinning, and you can’t breathe through the noise in your head that says:

What if this never ends? What if I never get better? What if I disappear and no one misses me? What if I’m already gone and they just don’t know it yet?

You hear your name. Once. Twice.

Gentle, then firmer.

James.

You flinch like it’s a wound.

“Hey, hey—” His voice is careful now, as if you’ve become something sacred and fragile. “Hey, look at me. It’s alright. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

But you shake your head violently, because no, you are not safe, not from yourself, not from the sickness that has wrapped its hands around your ribs and pulled and pulled until you forgot what breathing without pain felt like. 

Your throat burns. Your fingers curl helplessly into the blanket. You want to tear your skin off just to escape it. You want to go somewhere so far no one can ask you to come back.

Madam Pomfrey stands frozen in place, her eyes wide, her hand half-lifted. She has known you for years and never—not once—has she seen a crack in your porcelain mask.

And now here you are. Crumbling in front of them both.

“Black—please—” James tries again, voice breaking in the middle. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what to do, I’ll do anything, I swear—”

“I can’t,” you gasp, the words torn from you like confession. “I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to— I don’t—”

You don’t say it. The rest of it. You don’t have to. It’s in your eyes, wide and soaked and terrified. In your hands, trembling like the last leaves of autumn. In the hollow behind your ribs that’s been growing for months.

James sits carefully on the edge of your bed. His eyes are wet. You’ve never seen him cry before.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he whispers. “Not now. Not alone. You don’t have to be strong for anyone anymore.��

You sob harder. Because that’s the thing you never believed. That someone could see your weakness and not run from it. That someone could love you for the parts you try to hide.

James doesn't flinch. He doesn’t joke. He doesn’t call you cruel or cold or impossible to love. He just reaches out with one hand and lays it on yours, feather-light, as if you’re made of smoke.

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right here.”

  -

A week passes.

It drips by slowly, like honey left too long in the cold — thick and sticky, every hour clinging to the next. The pain in your body doesn't ease. It deepens. It threads itself into your bones like ivy curling around old stone, slow but suffocating. 

Some mornings it takes everything just to sit up. Some nights you lie awake listening to your heartbeat stutter behind your ribs, wondering if it will give out before you do.

James has not left you.

Not once, not really. He’s still insufferable — that much hasn’t changed — but it’s quieter now. 

The jokes catch in his throat more often than they land. He hovers too long in doorways. He watches you like he’s memorizing the way you breathe. And his eyes — the ones that used to be full of flirt and fire and mischief — are wide and rimmed in worry.

It makes you furious.

Because you don’t want his pity. You don’t want anyone’s pity. You don’t want to be a burden strapped to someone else’s shoulder. You don’t want to see that shift in his face — the softening, the sadness, the silent fear that you might vanish right in front of him.

It’s worse than pain. It’s exposure.

Still, he meets you after class every day, waiting by the corridor with two cups of tea, like it’s some unspoken ritual. He never says you look tired, but he walks slower. He never asks if you’re in pain, but his hand always twitches like he wants to reach out and steady you.

Except today.

Today, he isn’t there.

And you know why before you even ask.

Because today is Sirius’s birthday.

You try not to be bitter. You try to let it go, to let him have this — his brother, his celebration, his joy. But bitterness has a way of curling around grief like smoke. It stings just the same.

You walk alone to the Great Hall, half-hoping, half-dreading, and then you see them.

All of them.

There at the Gryffindor table, the loudest cluster in the room, bursting with laughter and light like a constellation too bright to look at directly. Sirius sits in the center, crown of charmed glitter and floating stars hovering just above his head. He’s grinning — wide and wild and untouched by the quiet rot eating through your days.

Regulus used to crown him, once.

You remember it like it happened this morning — the three of you, tangled in sun-drenched grass, scraps of daisies in your hair, Sirius demanding to be called “King of the Forest,” Regulus rolling his eyes and obliging anyway, and you balancing a crooked wooden crown on his head like he was the only boy who ever mattered.

You loved him then. You love him now.

But everything has changed.

Now Sirius is surrounded by friends and light and cake that glitters. Regulus is far away, still sharp, still polished, still untouchable. And you — you pass by like a ghost with a too-slow gait and a storm in your chest, unnoticed.

No one looks up.

Not even James.

Not even him.

You keep walking.

And you try not to think about how much it hurts that he isn’t waiting for you today. How much it feels like being forgotten.

How much it feels like disappearing.

You sit in the Great Hall, untouched plate before you, the silver spoon resting against the rim like even it’s too tired to try. There’s food, you think. Warm and plentiful, enough to satisfy kingdoms — but none of it ever looks like it belongs to you.

Your stomach turns at the scent.

You haven't eaten properly in days, if not longer. You don't bother counting anymore. Hunger doesn’t feel like hunger now. It feels like grief in your throat, like something alive trying to claw its way up and out of you. So you just sit there, alone at the far end of the table where no one comes, where there’s room enough for a silence no one wants to join.

You have no friends. Not anymore. Illness has a way of peeling people away from you like fruit from its skin. They stop asking. Stop waiting. Stop noticing. You can’t blame them, really — what’s the use in trying to be close to a body always fraying at the seams?

Across the hall, Sirius is the sun incarnate. He always is on his birthday.

He’s laughing with James now, something too loud and full of warmth. His cheeks are flushed with joy, hair glittering with the shimmer of charmed confetti, mouth parted mid-story as if the world waits to hear him speak. 

The Marauders hang around him like moons caught in his orbit, throwing wrappers and spells and terrible puns into the air like fireworks. It’s messy and golden and warm. And for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

You used to be part of that. Didn’t you?

Used to sit beside him and Regulus in the gardens with hands sticky from treacle tart and lips red from laughter. Used to have a seat at the table. A place. A life.

Now even Regulus is far away — his corner of the Slytherin table colder, quieter. But still not alone. He’s flanked by Barty, Evan, and Pandora. All sharp edges and shining eyes. All seemingly untouched by the rot that follows you. Regulus leans in, listens, offers a rare smirk that you remember from childhood, one he used to save just for you.

He hasn’t looked at you in weeks.

The ache in your chest blooms sudden and vicious. You press your knuckles into your side beneath the table — a small, private act of violence — as if you can convince your body to shut up, to behave, to let you just exist for one more hour. But the pain lurches anyway. Slow at first, then sharper. Stabbing between your ribs like something snapping loose.

You can’t do this.

You stand — too fast, too rough — and the edges of the room ripple like heat rising off pavement. No one notices. No one calls after you. Not even James.

Especially not James.

You walk out of the Hall without tasting a single bite.

And then you’re in the corridor, then on the stairs, and then climbing the towers toward your room. Step by step. Breath by breath. It should be easy — you’ve made this walk a hundred times. But your legs tremble beneath you. The pain isn't where it usually is. It's everywhere now. Your spine, your stomach, the backs of your eyes. Every inch of you buzzes like a broken wire. You clutch the banister like a lifeline, but even that’s not enough.

This is the third time this week.

It’s never been three times.

You should go to Pomfrey. Tell someone. Let someone help.

But your throat stays closed. You keep walking.

Some part of you wonders if this is what dying feels like — this slow crumbling, this breathlessness, this fatigue that eats your name and your shadow and your will to keep standing. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? To stop. Just for a little while. Just until the pain quiets. Just until the storm passes.

Except you know the storm is you.

You reach your dorm and shut the door behind you with the quiet finality of a girl preparing to vanish. The walls are too still. The windows don’t let in enough light. 

What if I just didn’t wake up tomorrow?

You let your bag fall to the floor. It lands with a dull, tired thud.

And then you see it.

Resting on the pillow — a single folded letter. Pale parchment. Tidy handwriting. Sealed not with wax but with duty. You don’t need to open it to know who it’s from. You don’t need to guess the weight of its words.

Still, you pick it up.

Your fingers tremble as you unfold it. Each crease feels like a wound reopening.

Darling, Christmas is nearly upon us. I expect you and Regulus home promptly this year — no delays. You’ve missed enough holidays already. No excuses will be accepted. — Mother

That’s it.

That’s all.

Twelve words from the woman who hasn’t written in months. No inquiry into your health. No mention of your letters, the ones she never answered. No softness. No warmth. Just expectation carved into command, as if your body isn't breaking open like wet paper. As if you’re still someone who can just show up — smiling, polished, whole.

You stare at the page until the words blur. Until they bleed.

And then something inside you slips.

The tears come without warning. No build, no warning breath. Just the kind of sob that erupts straight from the gut — ragged, cracked, feral. You sink to your knees beside the bed, hands still clinging to the letter like it might fight back, like it might tear through your skin and finish what your body started.

The pain blooms fast and ruthless. It surges from your spine to your chest, flooding every inch of you like fire caught beneath your ribs. You curl in on yourself, nails digging into your arms, into your thighs, into the fragile curve of your ribs. You clutch at your bones like you can hold them together — like you can stop them from collapsing.

But nothing stops it.

Nothing stops the sound that tears from your throat. A scream muffled into the sheets. A cry swallowed by solitude.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. All you can feel is this white-hot ache that eats at your joints, your heart, your hope.

You don’t want to go home.

You don’t want to keep going.

You want it to stop. All of it. The pain, the pretending, the loneliness of being expected to survive in a world that only ever sees the surface of you.

You press your forehead to the floor. Cold. Unmoving. Solid.

And you cry — truly cry — not in anger or silence, but in the voice of someone who has held it in too long, who has no more space left inside for grief.

And still, the letter stays crumpled in your fist, a ghost of a girl who once believed her mother might write something kind.

You move like your bones aren’t breaking.

You move like the letter from your mother isn’t still open on the desk, edges trembling in the breeze from the cracked window, her careful handwriting slicing you open with its simplicity. Christmas is coming. You and Regulus are expected home. No excuses.

You move because if you stop, you will shatter. Because the only thing worse than pain is stillness. Stillness makes it real.

So you go to the mirror.

The room is too quiet, too full of the breath you can barely draw. The walls feel too close, like they’re pressing in, trying to crush the last sliver of strength you’ve kept hidden beneath your ribs. Your legs are unsteady beneath you, every step forward a question you don’t want the answer to.

Your reflection barely looks like you anymore.

There is a hollowness in your eyes that no amount of light can touch. Your skin is pale and stretched thin, the corners of your mouth pulled in defeat. Your hair is a wild mess—matted from where you clutched at it in pain, tangled from nights curled on cold floors instead of in beds, from days where brushing it felt like too much of a luxury.

You reach for the comb. It clatters in your hands, and for a moment, you just stare at it.

Then you begin.

Each pull through your hair is a distraction from the agony blooming in your bones—sharp, raw, endless. You comb as if each knot you work through might undo a knot inside your chest. It doesn’t. But still, you comb.

You need to. You have to.

Because Sirius is downstairs. Laughing. Shining. Surrounded by love and warmth and them. You should be there. It’s his birthday. You remember the way he used to leap into your bed at sunrise, dragging you and Regulus by the wrists, shouting, “Coronation time!” and demanding to be crowned king of everything. You always made him a crown out of daisies and broken twigs. Regulus would scowl but help you braid it anyway.

He loved those crowns. He kept every one.

You remember how the three of you used to sit on the rooftop ledge, legs dangling, hands sticky with cake, Sirius declaring himself “the prettiest monarch of them all,” and Regulus pretending to hate it, even as he leaned against you, quiet and content.

Now Sirius is laughing without you. And Regulus is nowhere near your side.

You press the comb harder into your scalp. You need to focus.

Because Regulus—he should be here. You need him. Desperately. With a bone-deep ache that feels like hunger. But you haven’t spoken in days. He doesn’t look at you anymore. Not really. And you can’t ask. You don’t know how.

And James—bloody James—you almost wish he was here. As much as he drives you insane, with his constant chatter and shameless flirting, at least it means someone is trying to stay. At least it means you’re not entirely alone. But he isn’t here. He’s down there with Sirius, and you're alone in this echoing silence, braiding your hair like it might save you from yourself.

You divide it into three sections.

One for Sirius. One for Regulus. One for yourself.

You twist the first strand with shaking fingers, tight enough that it pulls your scalp taut. Then the second, even tighter. Your arms ache. Your chest tightens. The pain is good—it makes everything else fade. Not vanish, but blur around the edges.

By the third strand, your eyes are burning again.

You begin to braid.

Over, under, over.

You focus on the motion. The discipline. The illusion of control. Each loop is a scream you don’t let out. Each pull is an ache you refuse to voice. You braid like your life depends on it. Like if it’s tight enough, neat enough, maybe you’ll stop falling apart. Maybe you’ll be someone your mother could stand to look at. Maybe you’ll be strong enough to walk past Sirius without dying inside. Maybe you won’t feel so abandoned by Regulus. Maybe you’ll stop wondering what would happen if you simply stopped waking up.

Over. Under. Pull.

You want someone to notice. Just once. That you're not okay. That you haven’t been for a very long time. But you also want to disappear.

The braid is so tight it lifts the corners of your face, gives the illusion of composure. It hurts to blink. It hurts to breathe.

But at least now, you look fine.

You stare at your reflection. The girl in the mirror doesn’t cry. She doesn’t break. She’s polished, composed, hair perfect, pain tucked behind the curve of her spine. Just like Mother taught her.

But you can still feel it.

Inside.

Worse than ever.

The kind of ache that doesn’t come from sickness. The kind that whispers, What if you just stopped trying?

And for a heartbeat too long, you wonder what it would be like to let go.

But you blink. You blink and you turn and you reach for your school bag like the world hasn’t ended, and you prepare to go sit through another class, braid perfect, bones screaming, heart bleeding.

Because no one can save you if they don’t know you’re drowning.

And no one is looking.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing the braided strands that crown your head—a braid so tight and perfect, the first since you were thirteen. For once, the wildness that usually clings to your hair has been subdued, pulled into neat, unforgiving lines. 

It feels like a fragile kind of victory, as if this braid is a quiet rebellion against the chaos inside you, a way to tame not just your hair but the storm roiling beneath your skin.

Your fingers move almost mechanically as you smooth the fabric of your robe, the weight of it heavy with memories and expectation. Each fold you press flat feels like an attempt to iron out the wrinkles of your fractured soul, to shape yourself into something orderly, something that fits into the world your mother demands. 

The knot of your tie is next—tight and precise, a cold reminder of the control you’re expected to hold, even as everything inside you threatens to unravel.

Turning away from the mirror, you move to your bed, your hands carefully pulling the covers taut. The fabric is smooth under your fingertips, but your heart feels anything but. 

You straighten the pillows, tuck in the sheets, as if by arranging this small corner of your world perfectly, you can bring some order to the chaos swirling inside your mind.

Books come next. You stack them neatly on your desk, aligning every corner and spine as if the act itself could contain the chaos you feel. 

You run your fingers over the worn covers and flip through the pages, lingering on the words one last time. Your homework lies finished—no undone tasks, no loose ends to catch you. Everything is set, ready.

Your hands tremble slightly as you set your quill back in its holder. The quiet click in the stillness of your room feels loud, a reminder of the fragile balance you hold. In this small, solemn ritual, you prepare not just your things, but yourself—gathering the last threads of control, the last remnants of order before you let go.

The silence wraps around you, waiting.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing the braided strands that crown your head—a braid so tight and perfect, the first since you were thirteen. 

For once, the wildness that usually clings to your hair has been subdued, pulled into neat, unforgiving lines. It feels like a fragile kind of victory, as if this braid is a quiet rebellion against the chaos inside you, a way to tame not just your hair but the storm roiling beneath your skin.

The silence wraps around you, waiting.

The halls are half-empty, half-asleep in golden mid-afternoon hush, and your footsteps echo too loudly against the stone, like your bones are protesting with every step.

 The books in your arms weigh more than they should, tugging your spine downward, but you hold them like a shield. Like maybe the act of carrying knowledge — of submitting things, of finishing things — will be enough to make you feel real again.

You don’t notice James at first. Not until he steps out from where he must’ve been waiting by the staircase — leaning against the bannister with the kind of bored posture that usually precedes some ridiculous joke. 

But he doesn't speak right away this time. His eyes move to your braids, then down the neat lines of your uniform, and there’s a strange stillness in him. No grin. Just… surprise.

“Bloody hell,” he says finally, voice light but too soft to be teasing. “You’ve got your hair up.”

You blink at him. Say nothing. Your arms tighten slightly around your books, like you’re bracing yourself.

He lifts a hand, gestures vaguely. “Not that it’s any of my business — I mean, you always look like you just fought off a banshee in a thunderstorm, and now you look like you’ve… fought it and survived.” A smile tries to form, wobbly. “It suits you. You look really cute.”

You stop.

Not just physically, but inside too — something halting in your breath, like a skipped beat. Your gaze meets his, dull and quiet.

“Not today, James.”

Your voice is hoarse. Frayed silk over gravel. There’s no snap to it, no snarl or bite. You just say it like a truth. Like you’re too tired for anything else.

James straightens slowly. He doesn’t speak for a moment, just watches you like he’s trying to read through all the space between your words. Your name sits on his tongue, but he doesn’t use it. Instead, his brows lift — not in arrogance this time, but in something like confusion. Or worry.

“You—” He swallows. “You called me James.”

You shift your books in your arms, not meeting his eyes this time. “I just want to get through the day.”

He takes a step toward you, but something in your posture keeps him from reaching farther. “Hey, I can carry those—”

“I said not today.” you repeat, softer. Final.

And for once, he listens.

There’s a beat. Then he gives a small nod, stuffing his hands in his pockets, trying to play it cool even though you can see the concern crawling up his throat like ivy.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “But if you need anything, I— I’m around.”

You nod once — not in agreement, just acknowledgment. Then turn.

You don’t see how long he watches you walk away.

Your steps are heavier now, the ache blooming behind your knees and up your spine. It shouldn't be this bad — not again, not so soon. You already fell apart days ago. But the fire’s back in your ribs, licking up the side of your lungs, and you press your lips into a thin line, determined not to let it show.

You pass the Great Hall on your way. You don’t look in.

But Sirius sees you.

He’s mid-laugh, one of those rare carefree ones that sounds like summer. Remus has just handed him a small box wrapped in gold, and his crown — handmade from parchment, ink-smudged and jagged — sits slightly askew on his head. He freezes. The smile falters. His brows draw in. Something in his chest clenches.

“Was that—?” he begins, turning toward Remus.

“She didn’t see us,” Remus murmurs, already watching you too.

Your shoulders are too tight. Your spine too stiff. You don’t notice the silence left behind you. You don’t hear how the laughter quiets. You’re already up the next stairwell, already telling yourself you just need the potions. Just need to breathe. Just need to finish submitting your homework. Then maybe—maybe—

You won’t have to feel this anymore.

The infirmary is warm when you step inside, too warm. It clings to your skin like a fever, like the ache in your bones has grown teeth and is sinking in deeper the longer you stand.

You hug your books closer to your chest, as if they might anchor you here, hold you steady, keep you from unraveling.

Madam Pomfrey doesn’t look up. She’s bent over a boy laid out on the nearest cot—mud streaked across his face, quidditch robes still soaked in grass and sweat. 

Normally, she’d have noticed you by now. Normally, she would have called you over, already tsk-ing and summoning your chart. But she’s too absorbed today, too busy, and for the first time in a long time, no one’s watching you.

Your eyes drift to the far side of the room—to her desk. A tray sits just behind it, lined with small glass vials. Labels scrawled in Pomfrey’s sharp handwriting. Pale blue, golden amber, deep crimson—every kind of potion she’s ever poured down your throat. You know their names better than your own.

And there, at the back, barely touched, is the strongest pain reliever in her stores. Veridomirine. 

Dark and glinting in the soft light, like it already knows it’s too much for most. You remember it burning a hole in your stomach the last time she gave it to you. The way your limbs went numb. The way your mind stilled. The silence of it.

Your grip tightens on your books.

The decision happens slowly and all at once. You glance at Madam Pomfrey—her back still turned, wand still stitching, voice low as she murmurs reassurance to the boy on the bed. 

You step forward, quiet, deliberate. Like you’ve done this before. Like your body already knows the path.

The desk is closer than you expect. You set your books down gently, hands shaking just enough to notice, and reach for the bottle. The glass is cool. Heavier than you remember. It fits into your palm like it was made for you.

You don’t hesitate. You don’t think.

You slide it into the fold of your robe, between the fabric and your ribs, right where the pain always begins.

And then you lift your books again, turn on your heel, and walk out as if you’ve only come for a quick word, as if nothing is different. As if your hands aren’t burning from what you’ve just done.

The corridor is quiet outside. Brisk. The chill hits your cheeks and you let it. Let it bite and sharpen and bring you back into your body.

But something is different now.

Because inside your robe, glass clinks softly with every step.

And for the first time, you feel like you’re holding your way out.

All you can hear is your heartbeat, dull and heavy, and the quiet clink of glass from the bottle nestled beneath your sleeve.

You push open the infirmary doors, and the hallway blooms before you, empty at first glance. But he’s there.

Sirius.

Leaning against the stone wall, one foot pressed behind him for balance, arms crossed in a way that looks casual—effortlessly disheveled—but you don’t see the way his jaw keeps tightening, or the way he’s been picking at the edge of his sleeve, over and over again.

He straightens when he hears the door creak open. His head lifts, eyes scanning quickly—and softening, melting, when he sees you. You, with your too-tight braid, your hollow stare, the way you walk like you’re already halfway gone.

He doesn’t recognize you at first.

Not because you’ve changed on the outside—though you have—but because something’s missing. Something small. Something vital.

And Sirius Black has never known how to say delicate things, not with words. Not with you. So he does what he always does—he opens his mouth and hopes something human will fall out.

“Hey—”

But you’re already passing.

You don’t see the way he steps forward, the way his fingers twitch like he might reach for your arm. You don’t hear the “Can we talk?” die in his throat. You don’t even look at him. Not once.

You’re already turning away.

The braid down your back is tight, almost punishing. A line of control in a world unraveling thread by thread. Your robes are neat, too neat. Tie straight. Steps calculated. As if by holding the pieces together on the outside, you might silence the ruin inside. 

As if you can braid back the shadows trying to tear themselves loose.

Sirius opens his mouth. Wants to say your name. Just your name. Softly, like a tether, like a reminder. But the syllables die on his tongue. You’re already walking away, and the space between you feels suddenly endless. Like galaxies expanding between breaths.

And still—he doesn’t call after you.

He watches. That’s all he can do. 

Watches you walk with the quiet defiance of someone who has learned how to disappear in full view. Someone who was born under a cursed name and carved their own silence from it. He knows that silence. 

He’s worn it too. It’s in his name—in Black. Not just a surname but a legacy of storms. A bloodline that confuses cruelty for strength, silence for survival.

He told himself he had outrun it. That the name couldn’t touch him anymore. But now he watches you, and he realizes: Black isn’t just his burden—it’s yours too. You carry the same weight in your eyes. That same quiet grief. That same ache for something better.

You were the one who never bent. Never cried. Even when the pain took your bones, you met the world with cold fire in your gaze. But now he sees something else. Something crumbling. Something gone.

And it hits him like a curse spoken in the dark: he doesn’t know how to reach you. Not really. He was too late to ask the right questions. Too loud to hear the ones you never spoke aloud. Too proud to admit that sometimes, the ones who look strongest are the ones who are breaking quietly, piece by piece.

You vanish down the corridor, and Sirius stands there, the silence echoing louder than any spell. He leans back against the wall again, like if he presses hard enough, it might hold him together.

 His name is Black. And for the first time in a long while, it feels like a mirror—cold, cracked, and full of all the things he was too afraid to see.

You were light once. Maybe not the kind that burned—but the kind that steadied. Quiet, firm, constant. And now, he wonders if you’ve let go of the edge entirely. If you’ve stepped too far into that old name, into the dark.

And Sirius Black—brave, loud, impossible Sirius—does not know how to follow you there.

The bottle is cold in your hand, colder than it should be. 

You don’t know if it’s the glass or your fingers or something deeper, something in the marrow, in the blood. You sit on the edge of your bed like you’re balancing on a cliff, and everything around you holds its breath. 

The walls. The books. The light. Even the ghosts seem to pause, like they know something sacred and shattering is about to unfold.

You set the bottle down on your nightstand, watching the liquid shimmer inside. It’s a strange shade—amber gold, like honey and fire, like something that should soothe, should heal. But you know what it’ll do. 

You’ve read the labels. You’ve stolen the dosage. You’ve done the math. And for once in your life, the numbers give you certainty. This will be enough.

You glance around your room as if memorizing it, not the way it is, but the way it’s always been. The books stacked with uneven spines. The worn corner of your blanket where you’d twist the fabric between your fingers when the pain got too much. The chipped edge of the mirror where you once slammed a brush out of frustration. It’s a museum now. A mausoleum in waiting.

Your hands tremble as you reach for a parchment scrap—just a torn piece, nothing grand. You fold it carefully, slow and deliberate, your fingers aching as they crease the paper into small peaks. It’s clumsy, uneven. A paper crown no bigger than your palm. 

You think of Sirius, of sun-kissed afternoons when he used to run ahead and shout that he was king of the forest, the common room, the world. 

You and Regulus would laugh, always crown him, always believe him. You were never royalty, not really. Just children trying to carve a kingdom out of cracked stone and quiet grief.

You place the tiny crown on the edge of the desk. An offering. A prayer. A goodbye that won’t speak its name.

It’s his birthday.

You whisper it aloud like it means something. Like he’ll hear it. “Happy birthday, Sirius.”

And then, silence again. The kind of silence that screams.

Your fingers reach for the bottle. You uncork it slowly, and the scent rises—bitter, sharp, familiar. You think of your bones. Of how they’ve been singing a song of surrender for weeks. Months. Maybe years. Of how it’s taken everything in you just to exist in this body, in this name, in this world.

You think of Regulus. Of how his back was always straight even when everything else was falling. Of how you used to braid flowers into your hair for him, and he’d pretend not to care, but he’d look at you like you were magic. You think of James and the way his voice is always too loud but his concern is real, is warm, and how he didn’t call you a single name today. You think of how you almost wanted him to follow you.

You think of Sirius.

And it hurts so much you almost change your mind.

But the pain doesn’t leave. It never does. 

It sinks deeper, folds into your joints, nests behind your ribs. It becomes you. You can’t keep holding it. You can’t keep waking up in a body that feels like betrayal, in a mind that won’t stop screaming, in a life that forgot how to soften.

There is a kind of pain that does not bleed. It settles deep — in marrow, in memory. It builds altars in your bones, asking worship of a body already breaking. You've worn this ache longer than you've worn your name, longer than your brothers stayed.

You were born into the house of Black — where silence is survival and suffering is an inheritance. Regulus moved like shadow. Sirius, like fire. But you? You learned to stay. To endure. To carry the weight of a name no one asked if you wanted. And you did it well. Too well. Long enough for the world to mistake your endurance for ease.

Because strength was never the crown you wanted. It was the chain.

You bring it to your lips.

There is no fear, not anymore. Just the hush beneath your ribs loosening for the first time. Not with hope — never with hope — but with rest. The kind no one can take from you. The kind that doesn’t hurt to hold. That doesn’t ask for your smile in exchange for survival.

You close your eyes.

And then — a crack of wood. A bang loud enough to split the night wide open. Like the universe itself couldn’t bear to be quiet a second longer. 

The door crashes against the wall, unhinging the moment from its silence.

Wind howls through the space between now and never. Curtains billow like ghosts startled from sleep. You flinch before you mean to. Before you can stop yourself. The bottle slips from your hands.

It falls. A slow, glassy descent. And when it hits the floor — the shatter is almost gentle. A soft, final sound. Like the last breath of something sacred. Potion and silence spill together, staining the rug in pale, merciful ruin.

And there — Sirius.

Standing in the doorway like someone who’s already read the ending. Like someone who sprinted through every corridor of this house just to be too late. 

His chest is rising like he’s run miles through storm and stone. His eyes — wild, wet, unblinking. The kind of stare that begs the world to lie.

There’s mud on his boots. A tremble in his fists. Panic stretched tight across his shoulders, brittle and loud. And something in his face — something jagged and unspoken — slices right through the stillness.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

The room holds its breath. Around you, time stands uncertain. The glass glitters between you like a warning, like a map of everything broken. The smell of the potion hangs in the air — soft, floral, almost sweet. A lullaby for leaving.

Your hands stay curled in your lap, still shaped around the ghost of what almost was. Still cradling the moment you thought you could disappear, undisturbed.

You were supposed to be gone by now.

Supposed to leave like snowfall, like mist at morning — soft, unseen, unremembered. You had rehearsed the silence. Folded your goodbyes into creases no one would find. You had made peace with the vanishing.

But he’s here. Sirius. And he is looking at you like he knows.

Like he’s known all along.

Not just the pieces you performed — the smirk, the sarcasm, the deflection sharp enough to draw blood. But the marrow of it. The hurting. The leaving. The way you’d been slipping away for years in small, invisible ways.

And you can’t take it back.

Not the uncorked bottle. Not the weight in your chest you were ready to lay down. Not the choice you almost made — not out of weakness, but weariness. The kind no one ever sees until you’ve already left.

And still. Even now.

Something uncoils in your chest. Not like hope but like release. Like exhale. Like gravity loosening its grip. The ache begins to lift, slow and smoke-soft, drifting out of your lungs, out of your spine, out of the quiet place where you’d kept it curled for so long.

And for the first time — the ache goes with you.

‘Til all that’s left is glorious bone.

[unconventional-lawnchair]

Hello! Could you do a Barty Crouch Jr. x Fem! Potter! Reader.

Where they are both in Ravenclaw and get close and end up dating in secret because of the Slytherins and the marauders. But then something happens and they break up but Barty shows up at the readers house years later to warn her about Harry, James, and Lily. They rekindle (smut if you write it. Or leads to that?)

And I was thinking about two different endings.

Ending 1: The reader later finds out she’s pregnant and has to raise their child on her own until the triwizard tournament where their child meets their father?

Ending 2: The reader goes to godric hollow that night to try to help them but ends up dying and Barty finds her and holds her?

Or if you like both you can do two different Barty x reader!

Love your fics by the way and I am Hooked to the series!!

Making Mistakes

Barty Crouch Junior x Potter!RavenClaw!Reader

Summary: (See above) After a horrible break up in 7th year, Barty and you haven't spoken a word to eachother. Then, he comes barrelling back into your life begging for forgiveness, will you trust him?

Wc: 16.8k

CW: Angst Heavy. Hurt/Comfort, Barty and the reader are messssy. Sexual themes and scenes. Mom!Reader, AFAB!Reader, Dad!Barty, Non canon complacent, The first part of the fanfiction is focused on the reader- second is focused on Ophelia(your daughter).

The Potter Manor, once warm and full of life, now felt cold and empty. The high ceilings and ornate decorations that had once felt grand now only magnified the silence. The vibrant reds and golds of your family crest seemed muted, much like the life that had once filled these halls.

Your brother, James, was hiding somewhere even you couldn't name- hardly able to visit outside of special occasions. Your parents had been gone for over a year. The house was far too big, far too quiet, and far too lonely. It wasn’t just the emptiness of the space itself- it was the absence of the people who had made it a home. You’d told yourself that time would help, but the grief lingered, stubborn and heavy, refusing to fade.

Even now, curled up on the couch in the living room- the one you used to complain was too cramped- you felt the space around you stretch endlessly. With a blanket over your knees, the fireplace crackling softly, and a book resting on your lap, it should have felt cozy. Instead, it felt hollow. You ran your fingers absentmindedly over the cover of your book, your other hand drifting to the necklace around your neck, the small charm resting just above your heart- a lone magpie. 

It matched your patronus. Well, it matched what your patronus had become. Once, it had been a darling doe- calm and serene, a reflection of your regal- that's what Sirius had said. Now, it was the magpie: small, fierce, and energetic. It suited you, or at least the version of you that remained. You’d felt yourself change, slowly but surely, in the years you knew a love so dangerous it tore off parts of you that you no longer remmebered.

Your fingers traced the delicate charm as your thoughts wandered to the person who had given it to you. Barty. The weight of his name still felt the same, a complicated tangle of emotions that hadn’t untwisted no matter how much time passed. 

You could still see his face the night you’d told him you couldn’t do it anymore. The way his sharp features had frozen, the defiance and anger creeping in as soon as the words left your mouth. You’d said you couldn’t keep hiding, couldn’t keep pretending that what you had didn’t matter. You’d told him you were tired of the stolen glances, the whispered promises, and the constant fear of being caught. 

But you knew now that what had hurt him most wasn’t the ultimatum- it was the fear. Fear of admitting to the world what you meant to each other. Fear of what he might lose if he dared to love you openly. Fear that his world and yours were too different, too far apart to ever coexist. 

Now, as you sat there in the flickering firelight, your thumb brushed over the charm, the memories tugging at your chest. The book on your lap remained unopened as you stared into the flames, the ache in your heart as familiar as the necklace around your neck.

~~~

The flickering candlelight painted Barty’s sharp features in gold and shadow as he lay beside you, his bare chest rising and falling steadily. The heat of your bodies still lingered in the cool air of the room, your skin damp against the soft sheets tangled around your legs. His fingers toyed with the charm resting against your collarbone, his touch so gentle it made your heart ache.

“Crow, can we talk?” You whispered, your voice soft but firm, breaking the fragile silence that had fallen between you.

Barty’s hand froze, his fingers brushing against the charm one last time before he let it fall against your chest. His jaw tightened, his green eyes refusing to meet yours as he shifted slightly, feigning casualness. “What’s there to talk about, birdie?” He murmured, his voice smooth but unconvincing. Unsatisfied your little exercise didn't make you truly forget what you intended to talk about. “We’re here. Together. Isn’t that enough?”

You sat up slightly, leaning on your elbow as you looked at him. “No,” You said softly, the word carrying more weight than you’d intended. “It’s not.”

He finally glanced at you, his expression guarded. “You’re overthinking again,” He said lightly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. “Can’t we just- can’t we just enjoy this?”

“Enjoy what?” You challenged, your voice trembling slightly. “Hiding? Pretending? Barty, we can’t keep doing this.”

He groaned softly, falling back onto the pillow and running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Why do you have to ruin the moment?” He muttered, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness. “We’re happy, aren’t we? Isn’t that what matters?”

“Are we happy?” You shot back, sitting up fully now, the blanket slipping from your shoulders. “Because I don’t feel happy, Barty. I feel like I’m suffocating.”

He sat up abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he fixed you with a desperate gaze. “Don’t say that,” He snapped, his voice rising slightly. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” You said firmly, though your voice broke slightly. “I love you, Barty, but I can’t keep pretending this is enough. I need more. I need us- the real us.”

“This is the real us,” He argued, his voice frantic now. He reached for you, his hand gripping your arm as if holding onto you could stop you from slipping away. “This is how we work, birdie. This is how we survive. You think the world would let us be together? You think they’d let us have this?”

“I don’t care what the world thinks,” You snapped, your own desperation rising to meet his. “I care about us. But this- this isn’t sustainable. We’re tearing each other apart, Barty.”

“Of course you don’t care,” He spat suddenly, his grip tightening as his green eyes blazed. “You wouldn’t. You’re a Potter. You come from your perfect Potter family with your perfect, golden life. You wouldn’t understand what it’s like to have a family like mine- to be a Crouch.”

His words cut deep, the bitterness in his tone like a slap. But you didn’t flinch. Instead, you stared at him, your voice steady as you said, “Don’t you dare.”

He blinked, startled by the fierceness in your tone. “What?”

“Don’t you dare use my family as an excuse to run from what you deserve,” You said, leaning closer. “Just because my parents loved me, just because James and I grew up with something good, doesn’t mean you don’t deserve that too.”

He scoffed, the sound bitter and sharp. “I don’t deserve that. Not with who I am. Not with my name.”

“Yes, you do,” You said fiercely, your hand finding his cheek, forcing him to look at you. “You deserve love, Barty. Real love. Not this shadow of it we’re living in. But you have to believe that, or none of this will ever work.”

He stared at you, trying to read your expression, his jaw so tight you swore you could hear ticking. His grip on you was bruising, but you ached for it. You ached for his want, his desperate need, because without it- you felt like you were falling apart.

You leaned into him, your once hot skin chilling against the air of the room. On instinct, his hands slipped away from your arm and he wrapped them around your waist. Your hands found his chest and you moved all that bit closer. “Wouldn't that be a dream, Barty?” You whispered, voice strained and tears threatening to spill from your eyes. “If- if our kids,” You choked out and his eyes widened at your admittance of something solid. That was your dream. To be so true, so real, that starting a family was the obvious next step. “Our kids talk about us how I talk about my parents? That our son- our daughter- our little wix. They knew what a love like ours could do.”

Your words hit Barty like a physical blow, and for a moment, he looked utterly stunned. His hands on your waist tightened instinctively, pulling you closer as though the sheer force of your desperation could tether him to the dream you had just dared to voice. 

“Our kids,” He echoed, his voice hoarse and filled with something you couldn’t quite place- something between longing and disbelief. His wide eyes searched yours, as if trying to find the certainty he couldn’t feel within himself. “You really think… that we could have that?”

“I know we could,” You said, your voice trembling but resolute. “But only if you let us. Only if you stop running from it.”

He shook his head, his hands trembling where they gripped you. “You don’t get it, birdie,” He said, his voice breaking. “I’m not… I’m not good like you. Like your parents. I don’t know how to be that kind of person.”

“You think my parents were perfect?” You asked, your voice rising in frustration, shaking. “They weren’t saints, Barty. They argued, they made mistakes- but they never stopped trying. They never stopped fighting for what they believed in, for each other. And you can do that too.”

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound almost choking on its way out. “You don’t know what you’re asking. My family isn’t like yours, okay? My father only believes in appearances, in power. He’d never accept this- he’d never accept us. And if he found out…” He trailed off, his expression darkening as a shudder ran through him.

“I don’t care about your father,” You said fiercely, your hands cupping his face. “I care about you. And you’re not him, Barty. You’re not your father.”

His eyes closed at your words, as though they hurt to hear. “I don’t know how to believe that,” He admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to be what he wants, and even that’s not enough. I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“You don’t have to be,” You said, your thumb brushing softly against his cheek. “You just have to be you. And you have to let yourself believe you deserve more than what he’s made you think you do.”

He opened his eyes then, and for a moment, you saw the cracks in his carefully built walls- the vulnerability he worked so hard to hide. “And what if I can’t?” He whispered. “What if I ruin us?”

“Then we fight through it,” You said, your voice firm even as tears threatened to spill. “We keep trying, just like my parents did. Just like I know we can. You don’t have to be perfect, Barty. You just have to let yourself love me.”

His breath slowed, his hands sliding up your back as he pulled you into a desperate embrace. His head dipped into the crook of your neck, and you felt the wetness of his tears against your skin. “I do love you,” He said, his voice raw. “I love you so much it hurts. It scares the hell out of me, birdie.”

“I know,” You murmured, your hands threading through his hair. “I know, Barty. But love isn’t supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be worth it.”

For a moment, you thought he might let himself believe you. His arms around you felt solid, grounding, as though he was holding on to you for dear life. But then, just as quickly, he pulled back, his eyes filled with an anguish that made your chest ache.

“I don’t know if I can give you what you deserve,” he finally muttered, his voice trembling. “And I can’t bear the thought of failing you.”

“You’re not failing me,” You said, reaching for him, but he was already pulling away, retreating back behind the walls he had built to protect himself.

“I am,” He said, his voice cracking as he shook his head. Pushing you back and getting to his feet. “I already am.”

You watched, your heart shattering as he put on his clothes, back to you. Your eyes trailed the path your nails made against his back, your silent claim on him that he always begged you for. “Barty, Barty, please.” You sobbed out and you saw how stiff he grew. “Barty, my love.”

“I hear you, Birdie.” He whispered and buttoned up his shirt. Walking back to the bed, but staying out of reach from you. “Always such a beautiful song.” He whispered before he leaned in and stole a kiss. “I'm sorry.”

“Barty-” You strained and he kissed you again. Over and over until he managed to push you back against the bed.

“I love you Birdie.”

“Barty-”

“But I'm.. I'm not who you need.”

Your heart broke with every word that fell from his lips, each one chipping away at the fragile hope you'd tried to build between you. 

“Don’t do this,” You whispered, your voice trembling as tears spilled freely down your cheeks. “Don’t say that, Barty. Don’t leave me like this.”

He closed his eyes as if shutting out the sight of you would make this easier, though you both knew it wouldn’t. “I have to,” He murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “If I stay, I’ll ruin you. I can’t do that, Birdie. I can’t be the reason you lose everything.”

“You are everything,” You choked out, grabbing his wrist in desperation as he made to pull away. “Can’t you see that? You’re what I choose, Barty. You’re what I want.”

His breath stopped at your words, and for a fleeting moment, you saw the war raging within him. His body was tense, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might shatter. But then he shook his head, his eyes meeting yours with a tortured finality.

“You deserve more,” His voice breaking as he leaned in to press one last kiss to your forehead. It lingered, soft and agonizingly final. “You deserve a love that doesn’t hurt like this.”

“I don’t care about perfect,” Your hands clutching at his shirt as though you could physically anchor him to you. “I care about you.”

He pried your hands off of him gently but firmly, his touch reverent even as it was devastating. “And I love you,” He said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But love isn’t always enough.”

You shook your head vehemently, trying to reach for him again, but he stepped back, his retreat like a knife slicing through the air between you. “Barty, please,” You begged, your voice breaking entirely now. “Please don’t do this.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his own tears threatening to spill, but then he turned away, his movements slow and deliberate, as if each step was a battle. 

He paused at the door, his hand on the frame, his back still to you. “You’ll always be my song, Birdie,” He said quietly, the nickname a bittersweet ache on his tongue.

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the room that still smelled of him, your heart breaking in the silence he left behind. The only sound was your sobs, muffled by the pillow you clutched to your chest, the magpie charm pressing cold against your skin- a painful reminder of what you’d just lost.

~~~

You gave a low shaken sigh. Trying to still your shattering heart and gather your voice before it all became too much again. 

You looked up at the mantle above the fireplace, unable to stop the smile that curled on your lips. The photos, of your parents on their wedding day, of James’s first birthday, then yours. Then a photo of Lily and James’s wedding, of Harry’s first birthday- just three months ago. 

You stared at the photographs for a long moment, your fingers tightening around the magpie charm at your neck. The smiles in the photos were so vivid, so full of joy, that it felt almost cruel. Your parents, James, Lily, even baby Harry- they were all looping so present in the frozen moments captured by the camera. Yet here you were, alone in the vast emptiness of the manor, the weight of their absence pressing down on you.

The photo of Harry’s first birthday caught your eye. His tiny hand reaching for the cake, James’s laughing face as Lily leaned in to kiss Harry’s cheek. You could almost hear the sound of their laughter echoing in the back of your mind, a memory you clung to desperately. 

Your lips quirked into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “James would tell me to get up and stop being so dramatic,” You muttered to yourself, shaking your head. “He’d probably say something ridiculous like, ‘You’re a Potter, we don’t mope, we plot.’”

The thought of your brother’s mischievous grin brought a pang of longing. You missed him fiercely- his energy, his unrelenting optimism, and even the way he teased you mercilessly. James had always been your anchor, the one person who could pull you out of your darkest moments. But now he was miles away, hiding with Lily and Harry, fighting a war you couldn’t see but could feel in every corner of your being.

Your gaze drifted back to the fire, the flames dancing and crackling softly. The silence in the room felt deafening again, the weight of your solitude settling back over you. You tried to distract yourself by opening the book on your lap, but the words blurred together, meaningless against the storm of thoughts raging in your mind.

You closed the book with a frustrated sigh, setting it aside as you leaned back against the couch. Your fingers traced the magpie charm absently, your thoughts inevitably returning to him.

Barty.

His name echoed in your mind, and with it came a flood of memories- his rare, boyish smiles that he reserved just for you, the way his green eyes softened when he thought you weren’t looking, the way he held you like you were the only thing tethering him to the world. 

You closed your eyes, letting out a shaky breath as the memory of his voice played in your mind:

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, and you quickly wiped it away. Crying wouldn’t bring him back. Crying wouldn’t change the way he’d walked out of your life, no matter how much it hurt. 

But Merlin, did it hurt. 

The knock at the door startled you from your thoughts, the sound sharp and sudden against the heavy silence of the manor. You froze for a moment, your heart leaping to your throat as dread washed over you. The wards. You reminded yourself of the countless layers of protection James and Lily had insisted upon. No one with ill intent could step foot near the manor. Still, it took you a moment to move.

Your fingers tightened around your cardigan as you approached the door, peering cautiously through the window. Relief and confusion mingled as you saw Remus standing there, holding a bundle of flowers and looking chilled down to the bone.

You couldn’t help the way your lips curved into a smile, the first genuine one in what felt like weeks. Remus always had that effect on you, with his quiet strength and steady presence. You opened the door without hesitation, the chill of the winter evening brushing against your skin as you pulled him inside.

“Remus!” You laughed, wrapping your arms around him tightly before he could say a word. The flowers in his hands crinkled against your shoulder, and he let out a low, startled chuckle.

“Hello to you too,” He murmured, his arms coming around you after a brief hesitation. His embrace was warm and grounding, and for a moment, you let yourself rest in the safety of his hold. He cradled you like you were something fragile, something he was afraid might break if he squeezed too tightly.

When you finally pulled back, his sharp eyes roamed your face, scanning for any cracks in the mask you hadn’t realized you’d been wearing. “You didn’t have to bring me flowers,” You hummed softly, trying to inject some lightness into your tone as you gestured to the bouquet.

Remus gave a sheepish smile, shrugging slightly. “I thought it might brighten your evening,” he admitted. “But if I’d known the hug was part of the deal, I might’ve come sooner.”

You let out a laugh and furrowed your brow further, unable to help how the cheeky comment brightened up your night that little bit more. “I see Sirius has gotten into you. Come in, let's go to the kitchen.” 

The kitchen glowed softly, the warm light reflecting off the polished wooden counters and copper fixtures. The steady hum of the kettle was a comforting backdrop to the quiet conversation you and Remus shared. You busied yourself preparing tea, your back to him as he leaned against the table, his long limbs relaxed but his eyes watchful.

“You’ve redecorated,” He remarked, gesturing to the new curtains hanging over the window. “I’m not sure the maroon suits the Potters, though. Sirius would call it RavenClaw overkill.”

You smirked over your shoulder, a hint of genuine amusement breaking through the lingering heaviness in your chest. “Sirius would call anything not leather or black an abomination,” you retorted, setting two mismatched mugs on the counter.

Remus chuckled, a low, pleasant sound that filled the room. “Touché. Though I do think the blue adds some warmth. This place could use it.” He glanced around, his expression softening. “It feels different without… everyone.”

You paused for a moment, letting his words hang in the air. The truth of them settled deep in your chest, an ache that had grown all too familiar. “It’s been a bit lonely,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “I’m not used to all this space- just me.”

He nodded, his gaze heavy with understanding. “I think they’d hate to see you like this. Especially James. He’d insist on dragging you to some ridiculous Quidditch match to cheer you up.”

You smiled faintly at the thought, a flicker of warmth chasing away the cold for just a moment. “He would,” You agreed. “He’d bribe me with chocolate frogs and promise not to embarrass me in front of the team, only to shout louder than anyone else in the stands. Calling us the seeker twins.”

Remus’s lips quirked into a small smile, but there was a flicker of something else in his expression- something that felt out of place. Nostalgia, yes, but also something deeper, something almost... reverent. His fingers drumming against his cup as he sat down at the table.

“You’ve always been good at making people laugh,” He said softly, his tone different now. His gaze lingered on you in a way that made your fingers hesitate as you poured the tea.

“You give me too much credit,” You hummed lightly, though his words sent a faint blush creeping up your neck. “James is the funny one. I’m just the stubborn one.”

He tilted his head, his smile turning crooked- letting his fingers graze your wrist and fixing your cuff as you poured him his tea. “It's a Potter trait. But I think it’s more than that.”

You turned to face him fully. “What are you getting at, Remus?” You narrowed your eyes, your tone teasing but your curiosity piqued.

He took the mug, his fingers brushing yours briefly, and for a moment, he didn’t reply. He just studied you, his hazel eyes unusually intense. “You’ve always had this way of making people feel seen,” He said finally, his voice softer now. “Like they matter. Even when they don’t think they do.”

His words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. “That’s… kind of you to say,” You managed, looking down at your tea as you tried to gather your thoughts. “I don’t think I’ve ever been particularly good at- ”

“You're selling yourself short, Birdie.” He chuckled. The nickname slipped from his lips so naturally, so casually, that it took you a moment to process. When it hit, your breath caught in your throat, and the air between you seemed to still.

You set your mug down slowly, your mind racing even as you fought to keep your expression calm. You turned back to the sink, gripping the edge tightly to ground yourself. “...What did you just call me?”

Remus stiffened, and you felt his gaze burn into your back. “What do you mean?” He mumbled, his voice suddenly cautious.

You turned around, your heart pounding- only one person called you by that name. “Why are you here?” You crossed your arms, your voice steady despite the storm building in your chest. “And don’t tell me it’s for tea.”

His expression faltered for just a second- just long enough for you to see through the carefully constructed façade. “I’m here because I wanted to see you,” His tone was measured. “To make sure you were all right.”

“No,” You scoffed, shaking your head as the pieces clicked together. “No, you know I'm not a fool.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but you didn’t let him. “Why are you here, Barty?” 

His eyes widened, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. The careful demeanor, the warm smiles, the familiar quirks- it all fell away, replaced by a raw, vulnerable intensity that made your breath stop.

“You always were too clever for your own good,” He muttered, leaning back in his chair with a resigned sigh. “Guess there’s no point pretending now.”

Your chest tightened as the truth settled in. You gave a disbelieving scoff before you ran your fingers through your hair. Pacing slightly before you paused, a scary truth settling over you. “How did you do it?”

Barty rolled his neck and leaned further into his seat to face you again. His expression neutral- the natural arrogant energy coming from him felt horribly wrong coming from Remus’s stolen face. “What exactly, birdie?”

“Don't play coy.” You snapped. “How did you get as piece of Remus for the potion you used to lie your way past my wards and into my home, Crouch?”

“... I hate when you call me Crouch.” Barty's response was almost petulant, his lips twisting into a pout as he sat back in the chair, fingers tapping rhythmically against the porcelain mug he had barely touched. He tilted his head to the side, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you, the faintest ghost of a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“You always know how to wound me,” He continued softly, his tone a mockery of vulnerability. “But then again, you've always been too good at that, haven't you?”

Your stomach churned at the way he looked at you, like you were something to be admired and consumed all at once. It was too much, too familiar, and yet so far removed from the boy you once knew. You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, grounding yourself against the onslaught of emotions threatening to overwhelm you.

“Answer the question, Barty,” You said sharply, your voice cutting through the heavy silence of the room. “How did you do it?”

He sighed dramatically, as though the act of explaining himself was some grand inconvenience. “Remus has always been predictable,” He snarked lazily, his gaze never leaving yours. “He's a creature of habit, like clockwork. It wasn’t exactly difficult to collect what I needed.”

Your blood ran cold at the casual way he spoke about violating the trust of someone you cared for. “You stalked him. You used him,” Your voice trembling with anger. “You used him to get to me.”

He smiled then, a slow, deliberate curl of his lips that sent a shiver down your spine. “I did it for you, Birdie,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, honeyed murmur. “For us. You don’t understand how much I’ve missed you, how much I’ve needed you. Every single day without you has been... agony.”

“Agony?” You repeated incredulously, your voice rising as your anger boiled over. “You don’t get to talk to me about agony, Barty. You left. You made that choice, and now you want to waltz back in here, pretending like nothing’s changed?”

“Because nothing has!” He shot back, rising from the chair so suddenly that it scraped against the floor with a harsh screech. He moved toward you, and despite yourself, you took a step back. “You think I stopped loving you? You think I ever stopped thinking about you? Every second, every breath, it’s always been you.”

“Stop,” You said firmly, holding up a hand to keep him at a distance. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to waltz in here, steal someone’s face, and act like you’re some lovesick hero.”

“But I am lovesick,” He said, his voice trembling as he closed the space between you. “I’m sick, Birdie. Sick. You’re the only thing that makes me feel alive, the only thing that’s ever made sense. Don’t you see? I’m here because I love you.”

“Love?” You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. “You don’t even know what love is, Barty. Love doesn’t manipulate. It doesn’t lie. It doesn’t use people. Get out.”

His expression switched to one of complete shock. As if he didn't expect to actually be sent away. You turned on your heels and walked down the hall, ignoring the stunned boy for a moment before he began to follow after you, taking a heavy breath. “Baby, birdie, don't walk away. Princess.”

Merlin, you hated to hear that coming from Remus’s mouth. It made your skin crawl.

His voice followed you like a shadow, echoing in the high ceilings of the manor. “Birdie, please,” He pleaded, a mixture of whining and anger that grated against your already frayed nerves. You didn’t turn around, your footsteps quick and determined as you ascended the stairs. “Don’t walk away from me!”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Every part of you screamed to keep moving, to put as much distance as possible between you and the man who was once everything to you. Your grip tightened on the banister as you climbed, trying to block out the sound of his voice.

“Stop ignoring me!” He shouted, his tone sharp with frustration. He was right behind you now, his steps uneven and frantic. “Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I want to be like this?”

At that, you stopped abruptly, your heart pounding in your chest as you turned to face him. “Do I think this is easy for you?” You snapped, your voice trembling with barely contained fury. “You’ve made it abundantly clear, Barty, that you’ll do whatever you want- no matter who it hurts.”

He flinched at your words, the rawness of them cutting through his desperation. But instead of backing down, he stepped closer, his expression a twisted mixture of anguish and determination. His face flickered again, the remnants of the Polyjuice Potion struggling to hold as patches of his sandy hair and pale skin replaced Remus’s softer features.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” He said, his voice breaking. “I’m trying to fix this. To fix us.”

“There is no us,” you spat, your hands shaking as you stepped back. “There hasn’t been for a long time. And that was your choice, Barty.”

“No,” he said firmly, his green eyes blazing with an intensity that sent a chill down your spine. “You don’t get to put this all on me. You think I wanted to leave? You think I wanted to-” His voice cracked, and he clenched his fists, his body trembling with barely restrained emotion. “I didn’t have a choice, Birdie. You don’t understand-”

“You’re right,” You interrupted, your voice rising. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand how someone who claimed to love me could leave me to pick up the pieces of a life we built together. I don’t understand how you can come back now, pretending like you didn’t shatter me.”

He took another step forward, his hands outstretched as though reaching for something he couldn’t quite grasp. “Because I had to,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Don’t you see? I had to protect you. From my father, from the world we were in. I-”

“Stop,” you said sharply, holding up a hand to cut him off. “Don’t stand there and pretend you were some kind of martyr. You weren’t protecting me, Barty. You were protecting yourself.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked like he might argue. But then his shoulders slumped, and the fight seemed to drain out of him. “Maybe I was,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I love you. That I’ve always loved you.”

“Love?” You echoed bitterly, shaking your head. “You call this love? Breaking into my home, stealing someone else’s face, manipulating me into letting you in? That’s not love, Barty. That’s obsession.”

At that, something in him seemed to snap. His entire body tensed, and he closed the space between you in two long strides. “Fine,” he hissed, his voice low and trembling with barely contained anger. “Call it what you want. Call me a monster, call me obsessed- but don’t you dare tell me I don’t love you.”

Before you could respond, his knees buckled, and he sank to the stair landing at your feet, his hands clutching at your covered thighs as though it were a lifeline. His chin pressed against your skirt, looking up at you with those eyes a young girl you knew once spent hours of her time lost in. Those brilliant and calculated eyes. Here he was; Bartemius Crouch Junior, with an ego to rival the gods and the mind and skill to back it up- on his knees. Looking up at you like an obedient dog. “How can I not love you?” He whispered. “Birdie. My beautiful song bird. How?”

Your chest heaved as you looked down at him, his once-imposing figure now crumpled before you, hands gripping your skirt like you were the only tether keeping him from falling apart completely. His words, dripping with desperation, clawed at your resolve. 

“Barty,” You whispered, your voice trembling, a mixture of anger and grief thick in your throat. “You need to leave.”

His eyes shot up at your words, his green eyes wide with disbelief. He stared at you as if you’d just struck him, his lips parting slightly, searching for something to say. “No,” he said softly, his voice unsteady but growing firmer. You watched as the full potion effect dropped away. “I can’t leave. Not like this. Not when I know you still love me.”

You flinched, his words cutting deeper with his true voice, but you didn’t waver. “This isn’t about love,” you said firmly, though your voice cracked. “This is about you not knowing when to let go.”

He rose slowly, his movements deliberate, careful, like a predator trying not to spook its prey. He hovered over you now, his height casting a shadow that made the grand staircase feel suddenly small. His hand reached out, trembling as it moved toward your cheek, and you instinctively stepped back, pressing yourself against the banister.

“Don’t,” You warned, your voice sharp.

His hand froze mid-air, his fingers curling slightly before he dropped it to his side. He exhaled shakily, his breath warm as it ghosted over your skin. “Birdie, please,” He murmured, his voice barely audible, his lips forming words you couldn’t make out. His shoulders hunched as if the weight of his own need was too much to bear. “Please don’t send me away.”

You shook your head, tears threatening to spill over as you fought to keep your composure. “You don’t get to do this,” You hissed. “You don’t get to break into my home, throw yourself at my feet, and demand I fix you. You’re not my responsibility, Barty. Not anymore.”

His hands twitched at his sides, his jaw clenching as he fought some inner battle you couldn’t see. Then, in a single motion, his hands reached for you again, his movements quick but not violent, desperate but not forceful. Panic surged through you, and before you could think, your hand flew up, striking his cheek with a sharp slap.

The sound echoed in the hollow silence of the staircase. 

He staggered back slightly, his hand flying to his cheek, but instead of anger, a strange expression crossed his face. His lips curved into a slow, almost delirious smile, his chest rising and falling as if he’d just surfaced from drowning. 

“That,” He murmured, his voice rasping with something unhinged, “felt real.”

Your stomach churned, the unease twisting tighter as he stood straighter, his demeanor shifting. His hand dropped from his cheek, and he let out a low, almost relieved laugh, shaking his head. “That’s the Birdie I know,” he said softly, his tone dangerously gentle. “The one who knew what our passion meant- I miss her. Can I talk to her?”

Your chest heaved with the weight of his words, the deranged calmness in his voice sending your heart into overdrive. His smug, unhinged smile made the bile rise in your throat as your fingers curled into fists at your sides. 

“You miss her?” You snapped, your voice sharp and trembling. “The Birdie you claim to miss is the one you destroyed, Barty! She’s the one you left behind when you decided to join them!”

The smile faltered slightly, and for a fleeting moment, you saw something like regret flicker across his face. But it wasn’t enough. It could never be enough to erase what he had done. 

“You made your choice,” you continued, stepping toward him now, your fury overriding the trembling in your hands. “You chose to follow him. You chose to become a monster, to fight against everything I stand for, everything my family stands for. You don’t get to waltz back into my life and pretend none of it happened.”

“I did it for you,” His voice rising, his green eyes blazing as he stepped closer. “Every single thing I’ve done was for you, Birdie! To protect you, to keep you safe, to make sure you’d never have to know what it’s like to be weak. You think I wanted to join them? You think I wanted to-”

“Don’t you dare,” You cut him off, your voice trembling with rage. “Don’t you dare try to make this about me. You didn’t join them for me, Barty. You joined them because you’re too much of a coward to stand up to your father. You wanted power. You wanted to prove to him that you were more then him. But you didn’t care who you hurt along the way, did you?”

He flinched as though you’d struck him again, his jaw tightening as his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” He hissed through gritted teeth, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t know what it’s like to live with the weight of that name. To have no choice but to-”

“You had a choice!” You screamed, the words tearing from your throat as tears stung your eyes. “You always had a choice, Barty! And you chose them. You chose power. You chose to stand against me, against my family. Against James!”

He froze at that, his eyes wide and his breath hitching as though you’d struck a nerve. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop now, not with everything bubbling to the surface. 

“You think I haven’t thought about you every single day?” You demanded, your voice breaking as tears began to spill freely down your cheeks. “You think I haven’t wondered if there was something I could have done, something I could have said to stop you? To save you?”

“Don’t,” He whispered, his voice trembling now, the bravado in his tone beginning to crack. “Don’t say that.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to say,” You spat, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. “You don’t get to tell me anything anymore. You lost that right the moment you turned your back on me.”

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling unevenly as the weight of your words pressed down on him. And then, suddenly, he moved. 

Before you could react, he closed the distance between you in a single stride, his hands gripping your face with a desperation that took your breath away. His lips crashed into yours with a force that stole the air from your lungs, the kiss searing and frantic, as though it was the only way he could express everything he couldn’t say. 

For a moment, you froze, your mind racing as the heat of his mouth overwhelmed your senses. You wanted to shove him away, to scream at him, to remind him of all the reasons this was wrong. But then something in you broke. 

Your hands flew to his chest, not to push him away, but to pull him closer. The kiss deepened, raw and terrifying, a collision of anger, grief, and longing that neither of you could control. His hands slipped from your face to your waist, his grip bruising as he pulled you against him as if he could fuse you together.

The kiss deepened, and soon words no longer mattered. There were no more accusations, no more pleas, just the raw, unfiltered intensity of everything you’d both been holding back for far too long. It wasn’t tender or sweet- it was desperate, filled with the kind of longing and pain that made it impossible to think about anything else. His hands mapped out every inch of you as though he was trying to memorize you, to hold onto something real in a world that had been slipping away from him for years. 

And you let him. You let yourself forget, if only for a moment, what he’d done, what he’d become, and the mess he’d left in his wake. You let yourself feel, because Merlin knew you couldn’t stand the ache of silence anymore.  

It wasn’t long before the tension gave way to something more, something equally terrifying and exhilarating. Clothes were discarded hastily, his lips tracing paths of fire along your skin, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the silence of the manor wasn’t suffocating. It was electric.

You didn’t speak a word to each other the entire time. The only sounds being your soft gasps and his inaudible murmurs- ones that sounded more like pleas than anything else. You couldn’t give him more then that. Words would have only reminded you of the impossibility of it all, of everything you’d both lost. Words would have shattered the fragile bubble you’d created, where nothing else mattered but the two of you.  

When it was over, you lay side by side in the fading moonlight, your bodies tangled in the sheets as the world slowly came back into focus. His breathing was uneven, his hand still resting on your waist as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go. But you didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You stared at the ceiling instead, your mind a chaotic storm of emotions you weren’t ready to unpack.

~~~

The morning light filtered in through the heavy curtains, painting the room in soft hues of gold and grey. You stirred slightly, the ache in your body a reminder of the night before, but you kept your eyes closed, willing the world- and him- away.  

You heard him moving about, the rustle of fabric as he dressed. For a brief, fleeting moment, you thought he might leave quietly, that he might spare you the agony of facing him after everything that had happened. But then he spoke, his voice low and hesitant, as though testing the waters.  

“I’ll come back later.”  

You scoffed softly, rolling over to face the wall, your back to him. You didn’t say a word. You couldn’t trust yourself to speak without breaking, without letting the storm inside you spill out.  

“Birdie…” His voice was softer now, almost pleading, but you didn’t move. You kept your breathing even, your expression neutral, even as your heart clenched painfully in your chest.  

The air felt heavier as the silence stretched, broken only by the soft creak of the floorboards as Barty lingered by the door. His shadow loomed across the threshold, hesitant, like a ghost caught between staying and vanishing. 

“Birdie.” He whispered, his voice raw and strained, as though dragging each word out of his chest cost him a piece of himself. “One last thing.”

You didn’t respond, your body curled away from him, but he knew you were awake. He always did.

“You have to tell James.” He sighed, the words tumbling out in a quiet rush. “About his Secret Keeper.”

Your breath stopped, but you didn’t move. Every muscle in your body tensed as his words settled over you like frost, cold and unforgiving.

“Barty, what are you talking about?” You finally whispered, your voice hoarse as you turned just enough to glance over your shoulder. He looked so different in the pale morning light, the shadows on his face accentuating the cracks in his armor, the boy you once loved bleeding through the man he had become.

“Just promise me,” He cut you off, his tone suddenly sharper. “You'll.. warn him not to trust them.”

You stared at him, searching his face for answers, but all you found was that same haunted intensity you’d seen last night. He wasn’t lying- at least, not about this. But that didn’t make it any easier to believe. 

“... okay.” You muttered. “I will.”

Barty stared at you like he wanted to say a million different things at once. Instead, he turned, the door closing behind him. You hugged your knees to your chest and willed away as much of reality as possible. Begging for any sense of normalcy to return; even the painful loneliness.

But nothing truly worked.

~~~

As the days went on, the weight of Barty's absence hung over the time that followed like a storm cloud. He hadn’t come back, and you weren’t sure if you were relieved or heartbroken. The last words he’d said lingered with you, haunting your every quiet moment: Tell James. Warn him.

You’d followed through on his warning, albeit reluctantly. It had been difficult to convince James without revealing the entire truth, but the grim look in his eyes had told you he believed you, or at least enough to act. 

Nothing happened at first, but Peter was monitored. It didn't take long for everything to come to light; Peter was working against you. It all worked out. James was ready for him that night, the night he came for Harry, surprising the monster before he could act. Peter tried to run after the news came out, but a furious Sirius tracked him down for a confrontation. One with an explosive end for their former friend, nothing left of the boy but a finger.

It did take a few hours of wrestling with the Aurors, but after being proper witnesses and all of your evidence of treason- Sirius was released. Walking out of the holding cell with a smile that could blunt the sun. Lily and James were safe. Baby Harry, too. Relief and disbelief were all anyone seemed capable of, but you couldn’t bring yourself to celebrate. Not fully. Because in the same breath that the Dark Lord fell, Barty was taken to Azkaban.

You hadn’t dared to ask about the details. Not from James, not from Sirius, not from anyone. Knowing felt like it would only make it worse. But the knowledge of him locked away, cold and alone in a place that stripped people of everything, clawed at your chest in the silence of the manor.

You had lost him all over again, and this time, you knew there was no coming back. 

The days that followed felt like a blur of motion and noise, a sharp contrast to the oppressive stillness that had once consumed you. You refused to let Barty- or the ghost of him that lingered in your mind- define you any longer. He was gone, and you couldn’t afford to let his absence drag you down any further. Not when there was work to be done.

You didn’t go to his hearing. You couldn’t. The idea of sitting in that courtroom, of listening to them talk about him as though he was nothing more than a monster, was too much. It wasn’t that you disagreed. He’d made his choices, and the world would see him for what he’d become. But for you, he was still the boy who had once traced your blemishes like constellations and whispered that you were the only light in his life. 

Even now, looking back, you had always known what that young boy was capable of. The signs were there; and the raking guilt of knowing that you were possibly the only thing keeping him from becoming what he seemed so keen on being, taxed your self worth.

So, you pretended that night didn’t happen. That he didn’t exist. The magpie charm around your neck was tucked away in a drawer, along with the pieces of your heart that still ached for him. You buried it all deep, focusing on what you could control, on what you could fix.

Joining the Order to help clean up the aftermath of the war felt like a natural next step. It was what your parents would have done, what James would have done if he wasn’t busy. Saying he wanted to be a proper father to Harry and a good man to Lily. Lily still stayed close, there wasn't many healers with her talent. But James stepped down. It was what you needed to do. The world hadn’t stopped turning, and there were still Death Eaters to hunt, still innocent people to protect, still so much damage to undo.

The first few missions were grueling, physically and emotionally. You worked long hours, tracking down the last of Voldemort’s loyalists and dismantling the remnants of their operations. It was dangerous, messy work, but you thrived in it. The chaos kept you moving, kept you from lingering too long on the memories that threatened to pull you under.

You found solace in the chaos of the Order. Sirius, always protective, tried to keep a close eye on you, though he seemed to understand your need for space. Remus was steadier, offering quiet support when you needed it most, though you often pushed him away. And James- when he wasn’t with Lily and Harry- was your anchor, his unrelenting optimism a reminder of the person you used to be.

But there were moments, late at night, when the world went quiet, and you couldn’t escape the weight of it all. When you lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, and his voice echoed in your mind. When you caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of your eye that reminded you of him, and your heart clenched painfully before you forced yourself to look away.

And then there were the whispers. The Order didn’t really talk about Barty, he was just another cog in the operation, but you heard the murmurs. About his trial, about Azkaban, about how someone so young and clever could have fallen so far. You kept your head down, pretending not to hear, but the words cut deep.

The recklessness came on slowly at first, creeping into your choices like an insidious shadow. You pushed yourself harder on missions, volunteering for the riskiest tasks, throwing yourself into danger with a desperation that bordered on self-destructive. It was easier to focus on the fight, on the rush of adrenaline and the sharp edge of survival, than to confront the gaping void Barty had left behind.

Sirius and Remus noticed, of course. They weren’t blind to the way you flinched at certain names, or how you worked yourself to exhaustion. Sirius tried to laugh it off at first, making quips about how you were channeling your inner Gryffindor ‘under all that Ravenclaw’. But Remus, ever perceptive, wasn’t fooled. His hazel eyes lingered on you with quiet concern, though he said nothing outright. Not until the mission that changed everything.

It was supposed to be a straightforward raid: infiltrate a suspected Death Eater hideout, gather intel, and get out. But things rarely went as planned. The ambush was swift and brutal, spells ricocheting off walls and sending debris flying. You and Remus were in the thick of it, your wand moving instinctively as you deflected curses and fired back.

Then it happened. A flash of green light, too close, too fast. It was aimed directly at Remus, who had his back turned while shielding a fallen comrade. Without thinking, you moved. You felt the spell hit you like a freight train, knocking the air from your lungs as a searing pain ripped through your side. 

You barely registered Remus’s horrified shout as you crumpled to the ground, your vision blurring. The sounds of the battle faded into a dull roar as your consciousness slipped away, the last thing you saw being his anguished face hovering over you.

~~~

Remus paced the length of the ornate carpet, his fingers raking through his hair repeatedly as though he could scrub away the memory of what had happened. Sirius sat slumped on the sofa, uncharacteristically silent, his dark eyes fixed on the fireplace. The flickering flames did nothing to ease the tension in the room.  

Remus’s chest tightened with guilt, each second that passed driving the weight deeper. He could still see it- the flash of green light, the way you had thrown yourself in front of him without hesitation. The moment felt frozen in time, looping endlessly in his mind.  

“Moony, sit down,” Sirius huffed finally, his voice low and hoarse. It was an order, but not a harsh one.  

“I can’t,” Remus replied, his voice taut as a wire. “She- she could’ve-”  

“But she didn’t,” Sirius interrupted, his tone firm. “She’s alive, and Lily is better then any healer we have.”  

Remus halted mid-step, his jaw clenched tightly. “She shouldn’t have had to save me,” he said, his voice cracking. “She- she’s half alive, Sirius. If anything happens to her-”  

Sirius’s gaze darkened, and he stood, crossing the room in a few long strides. He placed a hand on Remus’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly. “You listen to me,” His eyes were sharp but his voice was steady. “She’s as stubborn as James, maybe more so. There’s no way she’d have stood by and done nothing, and you know it. Blaming yourself won’t change anything.”  

Remus opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of the front door opening cut him off. Both men turned toward the entrance just as James entered, his face pale and tense. Harry toddled in after him, clutching his father’s pant leg with wide, curious eyes.  

“Where is she?” James asked immediately, his voice sharp with worry.  

“She’s upstairs,” Sirius said quickly. “Lils’ with her. She hasn't come back down yet.”  

The tension in the room was suffocating, the silence broken only by the faint crackle of the fire and the occasional creak of floorboards as Remus paced. Sirius watched James carefully, noting how his hands trembled ever so slightly as he held Harry close. It was subtle, but for someone as unshakable as James Potter, it was telling.

“I need to go to her,” James said abruptly, his voice sharp and breaking the heavy stillness. He passed Harry to Sirius, who took the toddler without protest, his dark eyes wary. “She’s my sister. She shouldn’t be alone.”

“You can’t,” Sirius said firmly, standing up to meet James’s gaze. “Lily said we need to give her space. She’s working.”

“I don’t care what Lily said!” James snapped, his voice louder now, desperation seeping into his tone. “That’s my little sister lying upstairs, Sirius. If something happens- if she-” He cut himself off, swallowing hard as he fought to steady his breathing. “I can’t just sit here.”

“You think I want to?” Sirius shot back, his voice rising to match James’s. “You think Remus wants to? Merlin, Prongs, we’re all going mad down here, but Lily knows what she’s doing. She’ll call us if- when- there’s news.”

James ran a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable. He knew if anyone could understand even a fraction of what he was feeling it was Sirius- you had endeared yourself to him in a way not many people could. And those people were in this house. “She doesn’t get to keep me from her,” He muttered, his tone dangerously low now. “Not her. Not anyone.”

“James, listen to me,” Sirius snapped, stepping closer, his hand gripping James’s shoulder tightly. “You storming in there isn’t going to help her. It’s not going to help anyone.”

Before James could respond, the sound of light footsteps descending the stairs cut through the room like a knife. All three men turned toward the staircase as Lily appeared, her face pale and her expression unreadable. The sight of her made James freeze, his words dying in his throat. Sirius’s grip on Harry tightened, and Remus stopped pacing entirely.

Lily’s hands were clasped tightly in front of her, and her eyes darted between the men before finally settling on James. “Can I speak with you alone?” She asked softly, her voice calm but heavy with something that made James’s stomach churn.

“What is it?” He demanded, taking a step toward her. “Lily, just tell me-”

“Please, James,” She interrupted, her voice breaking just slightly as she glanced toward Harry, who was still nestled in Sirius’s arms. “Come with me.”

James hesitated, his body rigid with tension, but the look in Lily’s eyes left no room for argument. He turned back to Sirius and Remus, his jaw clenched tightly. “I’ll be back,” He said, though his voice wavered.

James followed Lily just a few steps into the hallway before she stopped, her back to him as she hesitated. Lily’s words were hushed and inaudible, even to Remus’s keen ears- or maybe, he just wasn't willing to know just yet.

James’s expression shifted from tension to something unreadable, his brows drawing together as he processed Lily’s quiet words. The weight of whatever she had said seemed to hit him all at once, and his jaw went slack, his eyes widening in stunned disbelief.

Sirius and Remus exchanged a quick glance, their concern growing as they watched James stagger back a half step, his hand running through his already disheveled hair. His lips moved as though forming a question, but no sound escaped. Whatever Lily had told him, it had shaken him to his core.

Sirius shifted Harry on his hip, his protective instincts flaring. “What the hell did she just say to him?” He muttered under his breath to Remus, his dark eyes narrowing.

“I don’t know,” Remus replied quietly, his voice tight with unease. James finally looked at Lily, his wide eyes searching hers for confirmation. 

James didn't hesitate after Lily's nod. He took the stairs two at a time, his worry and confusion pressing heavily on his shoulders. His hand gripped the banister tightly as he moved, the wood creaking faintly under his weight. Sirius and Remus exchanged uneasy glances from their spot by the fireplace, the tension thick enough to choke on.  

Lily lingered at the base of the stairs for a moment, watching James's retreating form before turning back to the room. She mustered a soft, reassuring smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.  

“She’s fine,” she said quietly, addressing Sirius and Remus.  

Sirius raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Fine? You call that fine?” He gestured toward the staircase with a sharp nod, where James had disappeared moments before. “Prongs looked like he was about to keel over.”  

“She is,” Lily insisted gently but firmly. “But James.. they just need to talk.”  

Remus frowned, his sharp hazel eyes darting between Lily and the stairs. “If she’s fine, why is he in such a rush? What aren’t you telling us, Lily?”  

Lily hesitated, her smile faltering slightly as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s not my place to say,” she said finally, her voice soft but resolute. “You’ll have to ask her yourselves when she’s ready.”  

Sirius let out a low growl of frustration, running a hand through his hair. “Great. Love a good mystery. Just what we need after all this.”  

Remus, however, wasn’t so easily placated. His gaze lingered on Lily, his instincts screaming that there was more to the story than she was letting on. But he didn’t press her. Not yet.  

Instead, he leaned back against the arm of the couch, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Whatever it is, it’s obviously got James in a state,” he muttered under his breath.  

Lily offered him a small, almost apologetic smile before excusing herself, taking Harry from Sirius, as she headed toward the kitchen, leaving Sirius and Remus to stew in their unease.  

~~~

James reached the door to your room, his breath coming in shallow bursts as he paused to gather himself. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find on the other side. The worry twisting in his chest was relentless, and the weight of Lily’s cryptic words only added to his unease.  

He knocked softly, his knuckles brushing the wood. “It’s me,” He called quietly, his voice trembling slightly. “Can I come in?”  

There was a moment of silence, and then your voice- weak but steady- drifted through the door. “It’s open.”  

James pushed the door open and stepped inside, his eyes immediately searching for you. You were propped up against a pile of pillows on the bed, your complexion pale but no longer deathly. A soft blanket was draped over your lap, and a steaming mug rested on the nightstand beside you.  

Relief flooded through him at the sight of you awake, but it was quickly tempered by the shadow of exhaustion that lingered in your eyes.  

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice breaking the quiet.  

You managed a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Hey, Jamie.”  

He crossed the room in a few strides, pulling the chair closer to your bedside and sinking into it. His hands fidgeted in his lap as he searched for the right words, his gaze flickering between your face and the mug on the nightstand.  

“You scared the hell out of me,” He sighed finally, his voice barely above a whisper.  

You looked down, your fingers picking at the edge of the blanket. “I know. I’m sorry.”  

James shook his head, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Don’t apologize,” He said firmly. “Just… talk to me. Please. What’s going on? Lily said you’re fine, but-”  

“Lily’s right,” You cut in gently, meeting his gaze. You were able to see all the true overbearing nature of James Potter. When you were younger his protective nature used to irritate you- he was always on, all the time, brash and loud- a proper lion. Now? You wanted nothing more than to curl up against him and cry. But that's the last thing you could allow yourself to be- weak. “I’m fine, James. Or at least, I will be.”  

He studied you for a long moment, his hazel eyes filled with a mixture of concern and doubt. “Lily said.. you needed to tell me something.”

James tilted his head slightly, his brows furrowing as he studied your expression. There was something guarded in your eyes, something that made the air between you feel heavier. His concern deepened when you let out a soft, shaky breath and slowly ran your hand over your abdomen.

The motion was small, almost absentminded, but it struck James like a thunderclap. His eyes widened, his lips parting as the realization sank in. For a moment, he was utterly still, his mind racing to catch up with what you’d just silently told him.

“No,” he breathed, the word barely audible as he leaned back in his chair, his face pale with shock. “No.”

You didn’t say anything, didn’t move, didn’t breathe. You simply held his gaze, your fingers resting lightly on your abdomen.

James swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he asked, “Bambi, when?”

The nickname, soft and familiar, broke something inside you. But you held firm, your eyes flickering away from his as you shook your head. “It doesn’t matter,” You whispered, your voice barely above a murmur.

James’s leg began to bounce, his eyes flickering from you to the door a few times before he shot up from his seat and began to pace. “When did you find out?” He demanded sharply, his voice tight with tension.  

“Tonight,” You admitted quietly, your fingers curling around the blanket on your lap.  

James stopped mid-step, spinning on his heel to face you. “Tonight?” He repeated, his voice rising slightly. “And you didn’t think to tell me immediately? Merlin’s sake!”  

You flinched as his voice raised, but you held your ground, meeting his gaze with a calmness you didn’t entirely feel. “I was a little busy almost dying, James,” You hissed, your voice firmer now.  

He opened his mouth to argue but then snapped it shut, his jaw tightening as he resumed pacing. “Fine. Fine,” He muttered, more to himself than to you. “But you’re leaving the Order.”  

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “As if they’d want me back after that stunt,” You shot back. “I’m not exactly in peak condition for fieldwork, am I?”  

James ignored your sarcasm, his hands balling into fists as he continued his relentless pacing. “Good. You shouldn’t be anywhere near this madness,” He said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “Not now.”  

Your heart clenched at his words, the overbearing protectiveness you’d come to associate with him hitting harder than ever. But before you could respond, he stopped abruptly, his hazel eyes narrowing as a new thought seemed to strike him.  

“Who is it?” He demanded, his voice sharp and almost accusatory. “Who?”  

You swallowed hard, the weight of his question settling over you like a lead blanket. “It doesn’t matter,” You pushed, though your voice wavered slightly.  

James’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he began to pace once more. “Doesn’t matter?” He echoed incredulously, his voice rising. “It absolutely matters, Bambi. You can’t just- Merlin, you can’t drop something like this and expect me not to-” He cut himself off with a growl, shaking his head as he muttered under his breath.  

James's pacing came to an abrupt halt, his hazel eyes narrowing as the pieces began to fall into place. He turned to you, his expression shifting from confusion to a dawning realization that made your stomach drop.  

“The wards,” he said slowly, his voice low and dangerous. “The ones Lily and I put up for you- someone would’ve had to get past them. Someone who knew how to.”  

You froze, your heart pounding in your chest as his gaze locked onto yours, sharp and unrelenting.  

“Who was it, Bambi?” he demanded again, his tone deadly serious now. “Who the hell got past the wards?”  

Your throat tightened, and for a moment, you couldn’t find your voice. You looked away, your fingers gripping the blanket tightly as if it could shield you from the weight of his question.  

“Answer me!” James’s voice cracked, a mixture of desperation and anger bleeding into his tone.  

You took a shaky breath, your gaze fixed on the wall as you whispered, “You don’t want to know, James.”  

“That’s not your choice to make,” he shot back, his voice trembling. “Tell me.”  

You finally met his gaze, your eyes brimming with tears as you whispered the name that had haunted you for weeks, for months: “Barty.”  

The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of your admission hanging heavy in the air. James stared at you, his face a mixture of shock, anger, and something deeper- betrayal.  

“Barty Crouch?” He asked slowly, his voice barely above a whisper.  

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak.  

“Barty Crouch Junior?” James pushed and you gave a weak scoff.

“James- yes Junior.” You huffed, your anger boiling over.

James stared at you, his chest rising and falling with the effort of keeping his temper in check. His jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might shatter, but his eyes- those familiar, warm hazel eyes- betrayed the storm inside him. He was angry, yes, but the anger wasn’t directed at you. It wasn’t even directed at Barty. It was directed at himself.

For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the faint beating of rain against the windows. You could see it, the way his hands trembled slightly as he tried to decide what to say. Finally, he spoke, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the silence.

“How long?” He asked, his tone controlled but strained. “How long were you seeing him?”

You swallowed hard, gripping the blanket in your lap. “James-”

“How. Long.” His voice cracked, louder this time, the control slipping for just a moment. He was trying, you knew he was trying, but the weight of everything was too much for even him to hold back.

You took a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It started fifth year.” you admitted quietly. “It ended seventh. And he.. he showed up here. He told me about Peter.”

James’s face twisted, and he turned away, his hands dragging through his already-messy hair. He let out a low, frustrated sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “Fifth year?” he muttered to himself. “Merlin, Bambi, how did I not see it? How did I-” He cut himself off, pacing again.

You bit your lip, tears stinging your eyes. “James, please-”

“I..” He started but stopped- as if your tears alone tore apart at his flimsy heart. Closing his eyes and taking a steady breath. “So he made it past the wards. He came and told you about Peter and what? You-”

“James please just drop it. He's in Azkaban for life! It doesn't matter.”

James froze mid-step, his fists clenching tightly at his sides as his back remained turned to you. His shoulders heaved with the weight of unspoken words, his frustration palpable in the charged silence that filled the room.

"It doesn't matter?" He finally repeated, his voice low and filled with a quiet, simmering rage. "It doesn't matter?"

You flinched at his tone, gripping the blanket tighter as you tried to steady your breathing. "He's gone, James," you said softly, your voice trembling. "There's nothing left to fight over. There's no point in dragging this out."

James spun around to face you, his hazel eyes blazing with a mixture of anger, hurt, and disbelief. "No point?" He hissed, taking a step closer. "You think I’m angry because of him? Merlin, Bambi, I couldn’t give a damn about Barty Crouch. I’m angry because you didn’t tell me. You’ve been carrying this- this secret- alone, and now you’re trying to push me away again."

"I'm not pushing you away," You shot back, your voice rising slightly. "I'm trying to protect you! You have Lily, Harry- your family. You don't need to be dragged into this mess, James. It’s mine to deal with."

His expression softened for a fraction of a second, but the anger quickly returned. "You’re my family," he said fiercely, his voice breaking slightly. "You always have been. And if you think for one second that I’m going to stand here and let you face this alone, then you don’t know me at all."

You stared at him, the raw emotion in his voice cutting through your defenses like a blade. Your chest ached, torn between the desire to let him in and the fear of burdening him further. "James, I-" you began, but your voice faltered as tears welled in your eyes.

He closed the distance between you, dropping into the chair beside your bed. His hand found yours, warm and steady despite the tremor in his grip. "Listen to me," he said softly, his tone losing its edge as his thumb brushed over your knuckles. "I don’t care how messy this is. I don’t care how much it hurts. I just care about you."

The dam inside you broke, and a sob escaped your lips as you clung to his hand like a lifeline. "I don’t know how to fix this," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know how to move forward."

James squeezed your hand tightly, his gaze unwavering. "You don’t have to figure it out alone," he said firmly. "We’ll take it one step at a time, together. You hear me, Bambi? You’re not alone in this."

The weight on your chest eased ever so slightly as his words sank in, the overwhelming love and determination in his voice a balm to your fractured soul. You nodded, unable to speak as the tears streamed down your face, and James pulled you into a tight embrace.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you allowed yourself to lean on him, to let the walls you’d built around yourself crumble. And as James held you, murmuring reassurances that you would face whatever came next together, you felt the smallest flicker of hope begin to bloom in your chest.

After you recovered, you faced the daunting task of telling Sirius and Remus. Their reactions were nothing like you’d expected. After weeks of being stuffed up in that dingy room.

Sirius, ever the one to surprise you, turned softer than you’d ever seen him. It reminded you of the day Lily announced she was pregnant with Harry. He was standing in the kitchen when you told him, fiddling with a mug of tea. The moment the words left your lips, his eyes widened, and he nearly dropped the mug onto the countertop. 

For a moment, you thought he might pass out, but then his face broke into a beaming smile that almost seemed out of place for the weight of what you’d just told him. “You’re joking,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. When you shook your head, tears welling in your eyes, he stepped forward, his hands gripping your shoulders firmly. “Merlin, you’re not joking.”

“I’m sorry,” You began, your voice cracking as the apology spilled from your lips. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, I-”

“Stop,” Sirius interrupted, his tone so warm it took you aback. He let go of your shoulders and instead pulled you into the tightest hug you’d ever received. “Don’t you dare apologize,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ll be a good mum, do you hear me? A bloody brilliant one.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks as you clung to him, his words washing over you like a balm. “But Sirius,” you tried again, your voice muffled against his shoulder. “The father-”

“I don’t care,” he said firmly, pulling back to look at you. His gray eyes were intense, but not with judgment- only love and determination. “I don’t care who he is, or what he’s done. This baby is going to have the best mum in the world. And they’re going to have me too, whether they like it or not.”

You let out a shaky laugh, his unwavering support lifting some of the weight off your chest. He grinned at you then, that mischievous, boyish grin you thought you’d lost after the war. “Merlin, James is going to lose his mind when he meets them,” He said, his voice laced with humor. “But I’m going to be the favorite uncle, just you wait.”

But then there was Remus.

You found Remus later in the sitting room, a book in his lap, though he wasn’t reading it. His eyes were distant, his fingers absently tracing the edges of the pages. He looked up when you entered, and the small smile he gave you faltered slightly when he caught sight of your expression.

“Remus,” you started hesitantly, sitting down on the sofa across from him. You fidgeted with your hands, unsure of how to begin. “There’s… something I need to tell you.”

He didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth quirked upward ever so slightly. His gaze flickered to your stomach for a moment, then back to your face. His expression was calm, almost amused, but there was a glint of something in his hazel eyes- something knowing.

“I-” you faltered, feeling suddenly uneasy under his gaze. “It’s… it’s important.”

He hummed softly, setting the book down on the armrest. “Go on, then,” He said, his tone light but laced with curiosity. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied you.

You took a deep breath, the words caught in your throat. “Remus, I-” You stopped when he lifted a finger to his nose and tapped it lightly, the gesture so quick and casual it took a moment to register.

You frowned, your heart skipping a beat as realization slowly dawned on you. “Remus,” you said again, your voice sharper this time. “You already know.”

His smirk grew slightly, the mischievous tilt of his lips catching you completely off guard. “I might,” he said nonchalantly, leaning back against the couch with an air of smugness. “Though it’s much more fun watching you squirm.”

You stared at him, your mouth opening and closing as you tried to process his words. “How?” You finally managed, your voice a mix of shock and disbelief. “How do you know?”

He shrugged, crossing one ankle over his knee. “It wasn’t hard to figure out,” he said casually, though there was a teasing lilt to his tone. “The scent changed a few days ago.”

“The scent?” You repeated, utterly baffled.

His smirk deepened, and he tapped his nose again, his hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. “Enhanced senses, remember? The subtle shifts, the hormones- it’s all there. Just like Lily. Didn’t think I’d notice?”

You stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. “You could smell that I was-?”

“Pregnant?” He finished for you, his tone softening slightly. Hearing Remus be the first to break- to finally say the word properly- it brought a smile to your face. “Yes.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning softly as the embarrassment washed over you. “Merlin, Remus, you could’ve said something!”

“And miss this moment?” He teased, leaning forward again. “Not a chance.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, narrowing your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“Only because I care,” he quipped, his smirk turning into a warm smile. He reached out, his hand resting gently on yours. “I knew you’d tell me when you were ready.”

His words melted some of the tension in your chest, and you let out a shaky laugh. “Well, I’m telling you now,” you said softly. “I’m… I’m having a baby.”

His smile grew, the teasing glint in his eyes giving way to something softer, something warmer. “I know,” he said simply, his voice steady and reassuring. “And you’re going to be amazing.”

Tears pricked at your eyes as his words settled over you, their sincerity hitting you squarely in the chest. “Thank you, Remus,” you whispered.

~~~

Even after everything, it was as smooth as it could possibly be. James, Lily, and Harry all finally packed up from their safe house and moved back into the Potter Manor. 

Sirius and Remus finally stopped torturing everyone and confessed to their little run around of affections. 

The years passed like a dream, each one carrying its own triumphs and heartaches. The war faded into history, though its scars remained etched into the lives of those who survived it. Life moved on, not always neatly, but with a resilience that surprised you.

Sirius and Remus opened a small library nestled on the corner of Diagon Alley and a quiet cobblestone street. It was cozy, with tall shelves of books that seemed to reach the ceiling, a perpetually warm fireplace, and a small reading nook tucked into the back. The name on the window read Padfoot and Moony’s Rare Reads, though it quickly became known simply as “The Den.”

Remus spent his days writing accurate, unbiased Defense Against the Dark Arts books, ones that became staples in Hogwarts classrooms. His name grew to rival even Gilderoy Lockhart’s (though, unlike Lockhart, Remus didn’t need embellishments to sell books). Sirius, of course, claimed full credit for every ounce of their success, though he spent more time charming patrons and hosting wildly popular storytelling nights than actually working.

Your daughter, Ophelia, was the light of your life. She had her fathers eyes- but carried a quiet intensity in her gaze that reminded you of a young girl you once knew. Sirius adored her, and James, ever the doting uncle, took it upon himself to teach her everything he could about Quidditch, much to Lily’s dismay. Harry, now only 6, had taken on a brotherly role, often sneaking her chocolates or helping her catch frogs in the garden when no one was looking.

But it was Remus who seemed to understand Ophelia in ways even you sometimes struggled to. He noticed the way she retreated into her own thoughts, the questions she asked that were far too insightful for her age. He never pushed her, always waiting patiently for her to come to him with her thoughts, her worries, or her triumphs. It was Remus who first noticed how much she loved books, spending hours reading to her in that steady, soothing voice of his.

One quiet afternoon, while Ophelia played on the rug with a stack of enchanted building blocks, you stood at the counter of the library, watching Remus as he worked on editing a draft of his latest book. The sunlight streamed through the windows, catching the streaks of silver in his hair, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” You said softly, your voice breaking the comfortable silence.

Remus looked up from his notes, his hazel eyes warm and curious. “What’s on your mind?”

You stepped closer, your hands resting lightly on the counter. “I wanted to ask if you’d consider being Ophelia’s godfather.”

His expression froze for a moment, his pen hovering above the page. Then, slowly, a smile broke across his face, wide and genuine in a way that made your chest ache with affection. “Are you serious?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Dead serious,” You teased lightly, though your voice trembled with emotion. “She adores you, Remus. And so do I. There’s no one else I’d trust more.”

He set his pen down and rose from his chair, crossing the short distance between you in a few strides. He hesitated for only a moment before pulling you into a tight, warm hug. “It would be an honor,” He murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

~~~

It was late summer, and the warm golden light streaming through the windows of the Potter Manor made the room feel alive, even as you worked through the seemingly endless task of packing Ophelia’s trunk for another school year at Hogwarts. She sat nearby, perched on the edge of the armchair with her dark hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders, her head bent over her meticulously written list. 

She was elegant without trying, a quiet sort of grace that seemed inherent in her very being. Even now, as she frowned slightly at the parchment in her hands, the faintest furrow of her brow betrayed her focus; her fingers fiddling with the magpie necklace you gifted her on her eleventh birthday. You couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at your lips as you watched her. She was so much her own person- intelligent, curious, and brimming with quiet determination- but in her moments of focus, you could see glimpses of her father in her too. It made your chest ache with a love so fierce it almost hurt.

“Mum,” She said finally, her voice gentle but tinged with that signature note of exasperation. She didn’t look up from her list as she spoke. “I told you- I need new potion vials. The ones from last year cracked.”

You folded one of her robes carefully and placed it into the trunk, glancing over at her with a soft chuckle. “And I told you, my love,” You hummed, your voice calm and warm, “that you’ll get them when we go to Diagon Alley. Harry and the Weasleys are meeting us there, remember?”

She let out a dramatic sigh, finally lifting her head to meet your gaze. Her sharp, inquisitive eyes- so much like his and yet so uniquely her own- sparkled with that combination of pride and determination that seemed to define her. “I don’t see why I can’t just go by myself,” She challenged, crossing her arms over her chest in that effortlessly regal way of hers. “I’m not a baby, you know.”

You raised an eyebrow at her, the corners of your mouth lifting into a knowing smile. “You’re thirteen,” You countered gently, pausing in your task to give her your full attention. “And while I have no doubt that you could navigate the alley on your own, I’d prefer to keep you in one piece. Humor your mother, will you?”

Ophelia rolled her eyes dramatically, but the faint smile that tugged at her lips betrayed her. “Fine,” she relented, her tone light but tinged with mock indignation. “But only because you insist.”

You laughed softly, reaching over to brush a stray strand of hair from her face. “Thank you, darling,” you murmured, your voice soft with affection. “I don’t know what I’d do without you to keep me on my toes.”

She tilted her head slightly, her expression softening as she studied you. “Probably live a very peaceful, boring life,” She sighed in faux aspiration, her words playful but her tone warm. “No dramatic letters about professors or requests for obscure potion ingredients.”

“Don’t forget the long rants about Magic Theory,” You added with a smirk, resuming your task as you carefully folded another one of her robes. “I’d be lost without those.”

Ophelia gave a delicate shrug, her lips curving into a smile that was pure mischief. “Well, someone has to keep you informed,” She said lightly, glancing back down at her list. “You’d be dreadfully out of touch without me.”

“Perish the thought,” You mused, your tone laced with mock horror. But as you reached for another item to pack, you couldn’t help the warmth that bloomed in your chest. 

Despite her pride and sharp wit- or perhaps because of it- Ophelia had a heart so full of love and passion that it left you in awe. She was your miracle, your everything, and the reason you had fought so hard to build a life worth living after everything you’d endured. And though she sometimes tested your patience, you wouldn’t trade a single moment with her for the world.

As you worked together in companionable silence, the house around you buzzed faintly with the promise of the day ahead. Soon, the Floo Network would carry her off to join Harry and the Weasleys, and you would meet James and Lily later at the Leaky Cauldron. But for now, in this moment, it was just the two of you, and the quiet love you shared was enough to fill the room with light.

“Ophelia,” You called softly, breaking the silence as you tucked the last item into her trunk. She looked up at you, her expression curious. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

Her sharp features softened instantly, and she set her list aside, crossing the small space between you to wrap her arms around your waist. “Of course I do, Mum,” She murmured, her voice quiet but sure. “And I love you too.”

You held her close, your heart swelling with a love so fierce it threatened to overwhelm you. No matter how many years passed or how independent she became, she would always be your little girl. And in that moment, as the sunlight streamed through the windows and the world felt soft and safe, you were reminded once again of just how lucky you were to have her.

~~~

The cobbled streets of Diagon Alley buzzed with life, the chatter of families mingling with the clink of cauldrons and the rustle of shopping bags. Children darted between storefronts, their excitement infectious, while parents called after them, juggling lists and parcels. But Ophelia paid the lively scene no mind. She moved with purpose, her steps elegant yet determined, weaving through the crowd with a quiet confidence that belied her thirteen years. 

“Honestly, Harry, it’s just a bookstore,” she’d said earlier, rolling her eyes at her cousin’s protests. “I’ll be fine.” Her tone, a perfect blend of exasperation and poise, had left little room for argument. She’d dismissed him with a wave of her hand, her pride unwilling to entertain the notion that she needed an escort for something so trivial.

Now, her prize- a hefty tome on advanced magical theory- was clutched tightly under her arm, its worn leather cover radiating the promise of knowledge. She moved briskly, her dark hair swaying as she navigated the bustling street, her mind already racing ahead to the countless possibilities the book would unlock. The noise of the crowd seemed to fade as she glanced down at the book, her lips curving into a satisfied smile. 

It wasn’t just the content that thrilled her- though the promise of unraveling complex magical concepts certainly did- it was the independence of it all. She’d insisted on going alone, had chosen the book herself, and now, with it safely in hand, she felt a sense of accomplishment she wouldn’t admit to anyone. 

With her head held high and a quiet pride radiating from her, Ophelia turned her steps back toward the group, determined to reunite with Harry and the others before anyone could begin another lecture on responsibility. For now, though, the world felt bright, the possibilities endless, and she relished the brief moment of freedom.

That was when she heard it.

The cheerful hum of Diagon Alley faded into the background as a sharp, panicked cry reached Ophelia's ears. She froze mid-step, her heart skipping a beat as her gaze snapped toward a shadowy alley just ahead. The sound came again, muffled but unmistakably distressed. Her fingers instinctively tightened around the book she carried, and she shifted her weight forward, craning her neck to see.

In the dimness of the alley, two figures stood locked in a tense struggle. The taller one had the smaller pinned against the brick wall, his grip tight around the other’s collar. “You've got nerve, Pettigrew.” The smaller figure’s pale hair fell in messy strands across his face as he squirmed against the hold, his voice trembling. 

“Please,” the blonde figure gasped, desperation lacing every syllable. “I’m sorry! I won’t look for you again. H-he won’t hear of your escape- not from me!”

Ophelia’s breath hitched. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she took in the scene. The smaller figure’s voice cracked with panic, his pale blue eyes wide and darting frantically. The taller figure, shrouded in shadows, stood silent and imposing, his wand raised. A faint, menacing glow illuminated the tip, the threat unmistakable.

She didn’t think. She didn’t pause. Her wand was in her hand in an instant, and she stepped into the mouth of the alley, her voice cutting through the tense air like a blade.

“Oi! Let him go!” She shouted, her tone sharp and commanding. 

Both figures froze, their heads snapping toward her. The taller man’s wand lowered slightly, his body going rigid with hesitation. The smaller figure twisted his neck, his gaze locking onto hers, and for a fleeting moment, Ophelia saw a flash of something in his pale eyes- hope? Relief?

It didn’t last. 

The blonde man’s lips parted, and before she could speak again, his body jerked unnaturally. The sound of cracking bones and tearing sinew filled the air, a grotesque symphony of transformation. Ophelia’s stomach churned as she watched the man’s form contort, shrinking and twisting. Within seconds, he was gone, replaced by a scruffy, dirt-streaked rat.

“What the- ?” The words barely escaped her lips before the rat lunged forward, its sharp teeth sinking into the taller man’s hand. 

The man let out a hiss of pain, his grip faltering just enough to allow the rat to squirm free. In a blur of motion, it darted down the alley, disappearing into the shadows with a faint, scuttling sound. 

Ophelia stood rooted to the spot, her wand trembling slightly in her grasp. Her wide eyes flicked from the spot where the rat had vanished to the man now turning toward her, his movements deliberate, his frustration radiating like heat. 

As he stepped into the dim light filtering from the street, his features came into view. Sharp, angular lines carved a face that was both striking and unsettling. His dark hair fell messily across his brow, and his green eyes burned with a mixture of irritation and something else- something far more dangerous.

Ophelia squared her shoulders, her heart thundering in her chest but her chin lifting in defiance. She clutched her wand tightly, the poised elegance of her posture belying the unease bubbling beneath the surface. Every lesson her mother had taught her about composure echoed in her mind, steeling her nerves.

“Who do you think you are?” she demanded, her voice cold and cutting. “Picking on someone smaller than you in an alley? How pathetic.”

The man’s lips quirked into something that might have been a smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He took a step closer, his tall frame casting an intimidating shadow. “And who,” he said, his voice low and measured, “do you think you are to interrupt something that doesn’t concern you?”

“I’m the girl who’s about to hex you into next week,” she shot back without missing a beat, her wand steady as she pointed it at his chest. “Back off, or you’ll find out just how much trouble a thirteen-year-old can cause.”

The man hesitated, his head tilting slightly as he studied her. His gaze dropped from her face to her neck, and his sharp eyes narrowed, honing in on the small magpie charm resting just above her collarbone. The faint light caught the delicate metal, and for a moment, his composure faltered.

“That,” he murmured, his voice strained, “isn’t yours.”

Ophelia’s brows furrowed, her hand instinctively rising to the charm. Her fingers brushed over the familiar metal as her mind raced. “What’s it to you?” she retorted, her tone sharp, her grip on her wand unwavering. “It was a gift.”

The man’s jaw tightened, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered across his face- recognition, anger, and a hint of something she couldn’t quite place. “Who gave it to you?” he demanded, his voice rougher now, almost desperate.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she straightened her spine, her wand tip glowing faintly as she met his intensity head-on. “That’s none of your business,” she said firmly. 

He took another step forward, his green eyes blazing with an intensity that made her breath hitch. “I’ll ask you again,” he growled, his voice a dangerous whisper. “Who gave you that charm?”

Ophelia didn’t flinch. Instead, she tilted her chin higher, defiance sparking in her gaze. “My mom,” she said clearly, her voice carrying an unmistakable note of pride. Her lips curved into a faint, deliberate smile as she added, “You should know her. I’m a Potter, after all.”

The man froze. His entire body stiffened, his green eyes widening ever so slightly before narrowing again. Something shifted in his expression, a mixture of shock, pain, and anger that he quickly tried to mask. He stared at her as though he were seeing a ghost.

Ophelia arched an eyebrow, her confidence swelling as she saw the cracks in his composure. “Oh,” she said lightly, her tone dripping with mock disappointment, “don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about us. That would be awfully sad- we are war heros.”

The man’s lips pressed into a thin line, his hands twitching at his sides. He took a small step back, his expression unreadable as he muttered, “A Potter.”

“That’s right,” she said evenly, her wand still raised. “And unless you’d like to explain what you’re doing lurking in alleys, I suggest you leave.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he turned sharply on his heel and disappeared into the shadows without another word, leaving Ophelia standing in the mouth of the alley, her chest heaving as she tried to steady her breath.

She glanced down at the charm again, her fingers brushing over its surface. Who was that man? she wondered, a faint chill creeping down her spine. And why did the sight of this charm seem to haunt him so?

~~~

The Leaky Cauldron buzzed with its usual chatter, the comforting scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread drifting through the warm air. You sat at a large table with James, Lily, Sirius, and Remus, laughing at one of Sirius’s over-the-top tales from Hogwarts. The lightness in the room felt like a rare and precious gift, a momentary escape from the shadow of battles fought and sacrifices endured.

The door swung open with a sharp creak, a gust of cool air sweeping in as Harry entered with Ron, Ginny, and Ophelia. Their cheeks were flushed from the bustling streets outside, their movements slightly hurried. Your gaze instinctively fell on Ophelia. 

Something was wrong.

She lingered behind the others, her usual confident stride replaced with hesitant steps. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, as though trying to shield herself from the world. Her sharp features looked drawn, pale, and etched with unease. 

“Oi, there they are!” Sirius called out, raising a hand in greeting. “Took you long enough. Did you stop for ice cream?”

Ron mumbled something about Fred and George dragging them into Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, but his words barely registered. Your focus stayed fixed on Ophelia as she slipped into the seat beside you. She didn’t look up, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her cloak, her head bowed like she was trying to disappear.

“Ophelia, love,” you said gently, leaning closer to her. “Everything alright?”

Her shoulders tensed, and for a moment, she said nothing. She just sat there, her hand brushing against the magpie charm around her neck. It was a small, almost subconscious motion, but it spoke volumes.

“Yeah,” she murmured after a pause, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. “I’m fine.”

You frowned, your worry deepening. She was many things- brilliant, fiery, and determined- but never this quiet. You reached into your bag, pulling out a few Galleons, and slid them toward Harry, Ron, and Ginny. “Why don’t you three grab some ice cream for real this time? My treat.”

The three exchanged uncertain glances, but Ron was the first to shrug and stand. Harry hesitated, his concerned gaze darting toward his cousin, but eventually, he and Ginny followed Ron out of the pub.

The second they were gone, you turned back to Ophelia. “You don’t look fine,” you pressed softly. “What happened?”

Across the table, James and Lily shared a look, their worry mirrored in their expressions. Sirius, his usual joviality replaced with quiet intensity, leaned back in his chair, studying Ophelia closely. Even Remus put down his cup of tea, his sharp gaze focused on her.

Ophelia’s fingers twisted together in her lap, her head ducked low. “It’s nothing,” she muttered, her voice barely audible.

“Ophelia,” you said again, your tone a little firmer this time. “You can tell me. Whatever it is, I’m here.”

For a moment, she stayed quiet, the tension in her shoulders radiating like a pulse. Then, in a gesture so small it almost went unnoticed, she leaned into you. Her head rested against your arm, her nose pressing into the fabric of your sleeve. 

You froze for half a second before wrapping an arm around her, pulling her close. She didn’t cry- Ophelia never cried- but the way she clung to you spoke louder than words.  “Mom.” She muffled against your side. As if recharging her spent bravado and bravery in your arms. “Do we know a Pettigrew?”

[writersblockiskillingme]

Hook with the daughter of Ariel or something like that. With them being in a secret little relationship but he’s always trying to come up to her and flirt with her. Maybe Uliana finds out and freaks out the rest is up to you

Secret | James Hook

Pairing: James Hook x fem!reader (Ariel's!sister!reader)

Summary: Once Uliana figures out your secret, everything comes crushing down.

Warning/s: angst, but with a happy ending, fluff, keeping secrets, fight, short fic, possible grammar and/or spelling mistakes

Author's note: It's here, hope you enjoy!! Also, I made the reader Ariel's sister because in my head, it fits the timeline.

Honestly, nobody had any idea how it happened. You were Ariel's sister. He was a pirate. How in the world did you manage to end up together?!

Well... truth to be told... it happened so suddenly, just like when the storm in the middle of the sea happens. Nobody really expects it, but it arrives it crashes you with its whole might. Leaving you breathless.

It was a normal, sunny day when you met him. You were walking down the corridor, just trying to get to Merlin's class. Clutching your book in your hands, you found yourself outside as you came face to face with Hook. In the middle of the courtyard. All alone. His back was turned to you, and with that finding, you felt the sigh of relief leave your body pass your lips. It doesn't matter, you thought to yourself. So you decided to keep walking. You did not want to be late to class.

But it seems like the luck wasn't on your side that day. He turned around and walked up to you as he yelled out.

"Ahoy there, mermaid!" He smirked as your eyes met. "Skipping class again, I see. What's your excuse this time? Lost your voice singing to the fishes?"

James Hook, now leaning against a stone pillar, hook on his right hand and a mischievous glint in his eyes as his eyes scanned you.

"Hook, I unline you, am actually trying to now get there in time." You rolled your eyes at his teasing but decided that maybe it was time for you to finally tease him back a bit. "But don't worry, I've got a treasure map to Merlin's class. Care to actually join me?"

You saw a little tint of blush forming on his face, but you must have imagined it. And just as you thought that this would be the end of your conversation, he did something that left you stunned.

"Merlin's class? That's the real curse of Neverland. But I'd follow you anywhere, little mermaid." He gave you a wink, smirking.

You found yourself blushing, but no... it... it can't be. Luckily, you quickly regained your composure and continued your, playful, rivalry banter.

"You know, pirate, I've heard rumors about your hook. Is it true you lost it in a duel with a giant squid?" You leaned over closer to him.

"Aye, but it wasn't just any squid—it was the one that stole my heart." He smirked as he leaned down, closer to your face. "But now, here I am, a one-handed pirate with a penchant for trouble and a weakness for mermaid smiles."

You found yourself laughing at his flirting. You couldn't help it, it was just so... so endearing.

"Well, Captain, I've got a secret too." You said, with a little smirk planted on your face. "I've hidden my voice in a shell. Only the right kiss can unlock it. Interested?"

And so you did that for a while until you two were actually late for Merlin's class. You walked in, and Hook did not. But there was no way that you would admit to anyone, even your friends, why you walked into the class flushed, cheeks pink, with a stupid smile on your face.

You do, of course, realize that this was a bit abnormal. He was a pirate and part of Uliana's crew. You were a mermaid princess, daughter of the Triton himself. It was not normal, but as the days passed and what was a true rivalry, banter turned into just pure flirting, you found yourself not really caring.

As weeks passed and the flirting continued, somehow, you found yourself having a pirate boyfriend. After all of that, Hook and you started dating. Somehow.

And it was better than you ever expected it to be. You sometimes felt like, outside of Uliana's crew, you were the only one that he was nice to. It was... perplexing. But you loved it.

However, you both agreed that you should keep your relationship a secret for a while for both of your sakes. You weren't dumb. You both knew how your friends would react if you told them that you were dating. So that's how it all started. Secret stolen glances when nobody was looking, passing notes in class, stolen kisses when you were all alone, and, of course, flirty teasing banter.

That's how you found yourself, pressed against a tree in the school's courtyard, Hook with his hand by your head, his hook under your chin, trapping you.

"You're a siren in a landlocked school." He spoke, looking into your eyes. "Your voice could raise sunken ships, and your smile—well, that's my undoing."

"Tell me, Hook, do you ever dream of flying?" You asked as you started to trace your finger along his hook. "Not in a ship, but with wings made of stardust?"

He looked at you, captivated.

"Every night, my dear. And in my dreams, you're the compass guiding me through constellations." He leaned down towards you, your lips almost meating until something happened. Something that would change this forever.

"Hook!!" The terrifyingly hight and mighty voice rang out along the school courtyard.

You both turned around and froze as you came face to face with Uliana, Hades, Maleficent and a few more people that joined the courtyard when they heard yelling.

"But reality has a way of clipping my wings." Hook sighed as he moved away from you slowly, your heart speading up and breaking at the same time.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Uliana screamed. "What are you doing with a mermaid?!"

That's when you noticed something. Yes, Hook moved away from you, but his hand with his hook that was under your chin was now placed on your waist, still holding you close to him.

"Calm down, Uliana." Hook spoke up, looking at him.

"Calm down?!" Uliana yelled, absolutely fuming. "Are you seriously telling me to calm down right now?!"

"Yes." Hook said, "Yes, I am."

"Don't play games with me, Hook." She threatened before throwing a glance your way, smirking as she plotted against you. "If you don't stop doing whatever you're doing with this one, you will no longer be a part of my crew."

A moment of science was heard around the courtyard, and you know that it was over. He couldn't give up on his crew, and you most certainly did not want him to, so that means that your relationship has reached its inevitable end. Your heart was breaking as you looked on the ground, slowly moving away from Hook.

"You won't do that." He spoke up, his voice strong, ringing out. "We won't end our relationship." He turned to you and brought you closer to him once again, smiling at you before turning to Uliana with a determined look.

"You know that you need me whether you liked it or not. So, no, you won't throw me away from the rest of the crew. And even if you do, it doesn't matter. I still have her, and that is something that nothing will be able to change." He spoke as her face was formed into pure shock.

"So good day." He sarcastically bowed before he ruined around with you and walked away.

"Don't worry, she'll come around." You looked at him. "Maybe..."

"I honestly don't really care." He shrugged, his eyes ringing with truth. "I have you now, little mermaid, that's all I need and so much more, really."

->

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TAGLIST:

@xoxo-h3arts @i-am-fork @a-homosexual-homosapien @snixx2088 @heartsfromcoco @ariaroseloklover @isafran1125 @gayfrog29 @mystic-mae

[starksweasley]

Worth It // James Potter

Summary: Your older brother Remus catches you making out with his best friend

Word Count: 1095

It was late, the Gryffindor common room bathed in the warm glow of flickering firelight. The evening had stretched into a quiet lull, the perfect backdrop for studying. You were tucked into the far corner, books and parchment spread out around you, determined to get through your Potions notes. Across from you, James Potter sat with a Transfiguration text open on his lap, though his eyes hadn’t touched it for the past twenty minutes.

He was staring at you. Again.

“James,” you whispered sharply, glancing up just in time to catch the boyish grin that spread across his face. His hazel eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was a softness to them too, something that made your cheeks flush. “Focus. You’re supposed to be studying.”

“I am focusing,” he countered smoothly, leaning forward to rest his chin in his hand, the picture of mischief. “Just not on Transfiguration.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting the smile threatening to break across your face, and buried your nose back in your notes. Ignoring James was a skill you were still trying to master—and failing miserably at. Two weeks. That’s how long you’d been secretly dating James Potter. And in those two weeks, you’d come to realize two things: first, James was impossible to resist. Second, your brother Remus was terrifyingly protective, and if he caught wind of this, well… you’d rather not find out what would happen.

James’s chair creaked as he leaned back, the sound pulling your attention despite your better judgment. His hair was an unruly mess, as always, and his tie hung loosely around his neck. He’d already shrugged off his robes, leaving him in his shirt and jumper, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms. You swallowed hard and looked back down at your notes, but the words blurred together.

“Moony’s not even here,” James said suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet. He pushed his chair back, sliding it closer to yours with a deliberate scrape. “And Sirius went with him. It’s just us. No one to tattle.”

You glanced around the room. It was nearly empty, a trio of first-years dozing by the fire and two seventh-years huddled in a corner. Still, your heart pounded at the thought of someone catching you. “It’s not about tattling,” you muttered, shoving at his chair with your foot. “It’s about… appearances.”

“Love,” he said softly, leaning closer, his voice dipping in that way that made your knees weak even when you were sitting down. “We’re studying. That’s innocent, isn’t it?”

His proximity sent a shiver down your spine, and you found yourself unable to respond. Before you could gather your thoughts, he reached out and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing against your skin. The corner of his mouth quirked upward at the way you froze, caught between shoving him away and pulling him closer.

“Jamie,” you hissed, though there was no real heat behind it.

“Remus isn’t here,” he repeated, his voice full of teasing promise. “And I miss you.”

The warmth in his voice melted your resolve, and for a moment, the world outside the circle of firelight didn’t matter. You studied his face, the freckles scattered across his nose, the way his lashes framed those golden eyes, the faint smirk playing on his lips. His hand lingered near your cheek, and when he tilted his head slightly, your heart stuttered.

“You’re impossible,” you murmured, shaking your head. But there was a smile in your voice, and you knew he heard it.

“And yet, here I am.” His hand moved to your chin, tilting it gently until your eyes met his. The fire crackled in the background, but all you could hear was the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat.

“James,” you whispered again, but this time, it was softer, your voice betraying the battle you were losing.

The next time he leaned in, you didn’t stop him. Instead, you shoved your books aside with a dramatic sigh and, to his visible surprise, launched yourself onto his lap. James let out a startled laugh, his arms instinctively wrapping around you as your lips found his in a kiss that wiped the smug grin right off his face. The kiss was warm, slow, and entirely consuming. His hands traced gentle patterns on your back, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go.

“You win,” you murmured against his mouth, feeling his chest rumble with laughter as his hands tightened around your waist.

“Oh, I definitely win,” he agreed, his voice low and full of affection.

The moment was perfect. It was warm and quiet and—

The portrait hole slammed open.

“What the bloody—” Sirius Black’s voice rang out, loud and incredulous.

You and James pulled apart so fast you nearly toppled to the floor, but James’s hands steadied you just as Remus' eyes landed on you. His expression twisted from confusion to realization to fury in the span of a heartbeat.

“You…” Remus pointed a finger at James, who immediately shrank back, his cocky demeanor vanishing. “You bloody prat! That’s my sister!”

“Moony, wait—” James began, scrambling out of his chair and nearly tripping over his own feet.

But Remus was already on the move, rounding the sofa with a speed that could only be described as wolfish. James bolted, darting around the furniture, a panicked grin plastered on his face as Sirius leaned against the wall, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

“She started it!” James shouted over his shoulder, making the mistake of glancing back. Remus lunged, but James dove over the back of the couch, narrowly avoiding him.

“You absolute coward!” you called, half-amused, half-mortified as you hurried to gather your scattered books.

“I’ll show you coward!” Remus yelled, vaulting over the armrest in pursuit. James let out a yelp and ducked behind Sirius, who was now doubled over with laughter.

“Remus, mate,” James tried again, his hands up in mock surrender. “I swear, it’s…” He faltered, glancing at you, his eyes full of pleading. “It’s not what it looks like?”

Remus growled, an actual growl, and James bolted for the stairs.

You couldn’t help it. You burst out laughing, sinking into the nearest armchair as Sirius wiped tears from his eyes.

“I’ll give him a five-second head start,” Remus muttered, shooting you a sharp look that only made you laugh harder. “Then we’re having words, both of you.”

“Worth it,” James called faintly from somewhere up the stairs.

And despite everything, you couldn’t help but agree.

[etherealily]

ɪᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴛʏ // ᴊᴀᴍᴇꜱ ᴘᴏᴛᴛᴇʀ

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

Other fics of mine. If you have the time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, was he ready to shoot you.

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

"What the fuck are you doing?"

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

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

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

"Special project."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, but they're really there."

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

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

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

He nearly actually throttled you. The audacity!

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

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

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

"No, I'm just asking."

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

"How juvenile."

"How bitchy.", he retorted.

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

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

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

"Could I get some of that?"

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

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

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

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

"You have an odd sense of humour."

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

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

"He's wildly incompetent."

"Wow. Harsh."

"It's true, though."

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

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

He had forgotten that there even was an assignment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'M not going."

"Why not?"

"I have shite to do!"

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

"Astronomy Tower, where else?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, yeah, prefect-privileges!

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

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

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

Bravery, as a Gryffindor, was something James admired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

"Sorry. For the 'cunt' thing."

"What cunt thing?"

"When I called you one?"

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

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

"Yeah. Looks fun."

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

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

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

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

"No?"

Too fishy for him. "Why not?"

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

"How do you know that?"

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

He really couldn't argue with that.

"Don't you want to come?"

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

"Well, I need immunity!"

"Too bad, Potter."

There. He was seeing red once again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you blackmailing me?!"

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

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

"Been called worse."

"But never better, right?"

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

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

"There."

"That's it?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Say our name like that one more time—"

"And what?"

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

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

"What, like Muggle music is better?!"

"Yes, it is!"

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

"What, now?"

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

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

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

"Oh, do shut up!"

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

He gulped down the other half of it.

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

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

Some people were silly drunks. Some were affectionate.

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

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

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

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

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

"Lovely expansion of vocabulary."

"Alright, you know wh—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kill him now.

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

And then abruptly...

The whisky began hitting both of you.

How did he know that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's not even time-accurate."

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

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

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

"What?!", he spluttered.

"Yeah."

"Why's that?!"

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

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

"Yeah, I suppose."

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

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

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

"Do you have more?"

"No."

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

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

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

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

"Did you hear that?", he hissed.

"Shut up, let me concentrate!"

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

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

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

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

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

And then, it hit him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come out! Come out, I say!"

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

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

"Come out now or face the consequences!"

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

And then, you ran.

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

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

"We are fucking crazy!"

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

"Cheers, Marauder!"

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

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

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

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

It felt wrong to not examine this magnificence up close.

He scrambled up, continuing to hum.

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

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

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

"What?"

"Sirius!"

Stupidly, James actually looked around for him.

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

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

"I study."

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

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

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

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

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

"He's a git. Bad news."

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

James paused. Good question. "Marlene."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck off."

"Ooh, sexy, say it again."

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

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

"Which one's Sirius again?"

"That one. The brightest one."

"That's ironic."

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

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

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

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

"You know I could, right?"

"Yeah."

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

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

He already knew it was the other reason.

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

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

"Well, I have a counter-condition."

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shook on it.

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

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

"Alright?"

"It starts off so depressing."

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

"Show me Regulus' star."

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

"Happy Valentine's Day, Prefect."

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

Harsh, but fair.

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

Yeah, not your finest moments, either of you.

"I think we should stop."

His heart nearly stopped at that. Fuck.

"No."

"Why not?"

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

"Is there a valid reason to continue?"

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

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

"So?"

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

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

"What's what?"

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

"Fuck off, no I'm not!"

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

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

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

Maybe he's been dead all this time.

"Trust a Marauder?"

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

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

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

"Oh, please—"

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

"What's the catch?"

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

"Fine."

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

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

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

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

What's he going to do?

Let you?

[dinosus]

₊˚.༄ Bonds That Run Deep₊˚.༄

[Sully Family x Lost Sibling! Reader (reader is Na'vi)] Synopsis : Years after a devastating loss, the Sully family is reunited with their long-lost eldest sibling, a moment that reignites both joy and heartache. Once thought gone forever, their sibling returns as a formidable warrior—precise with a bow, swift to tame an Ikran, and gifted in strategy—leaving the family in awe of their strength and resilience. The reunion reshapes their bonds: Neteyam finds a steady partner to share his burdens, Lo’ak gains a rival and confidant, Kiri discovers a spiritual kindred, and little Tuk showers her newfound sibling with endless love. For Jake and Neytiri, it’s a bittersweet journey of healing, balancing pride in who their child has become with the weight of time lost. Warnings : very wholesome you will combust

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-Jake and Neytiri had spent years mourning the loss of their firstborn, their hearts heavy with the weight of a child they believed Eywa had taken back. They never spoke about it openly in front of the other kids, not wanting their grief to cast shadows on the present. -When they first hear rumors of a lone Na’vi wandering far from the clan’s territories—someone who doesn’t quite fit in—the hope seems too fragile to entertain. -Neytiri dismisses it at first, her voice hard with pain: “It cannot be. Eywa has already decided their path.” -But Jake, ever to hold onto that speck of hope, feels something stir deep within him, a nagging sense that they need to find you. “What if it is them? Yawne, we have to try."

-When the family finally sees you for the first time, it’s almost surreal. -Your features are unmistakable—your eyes, your build, the small markings that Neytiri remembers tracing when you were just a baby. -Jake freezes in his tracks, his normally steady composure cracking as he whispers, “It’s you... It’s really you.” Neytiri’s reaction is more visceral. She falls to her knees, tears streaming down her face as she reaches out, her voice breaking: “My child... my baby...” -Neteyam is silent at first, the realization hitting him like a storm. He had heard stories of you but never imagined he’d see you. His hands tremble as he approaches, his voice soft but shaking: “Is it true? Are you... my sibling?” -Tuk clings to Kiri, confused but excited. “We have another sibling? Really?!” Lo’ak, ever the joker, tries to lighten the heavy moment: “Guess we’re not the favorites anymore, huh?”

-The initial reunion is a flood of emotions—tears, laughter, disbelief. Neytiri holds you close, her hands shaking as she cups your face, her words a mix of apology and joy: “I thought we lost you. Eywa has brought you back to us.” -Jake struggles to maintain his composure, his voice thick with emotion as he says, “We thought we’d never see you again. Look at you... You’ve grown so much.” While they’re overjoyed to have you back, Jake and Neytiri also carry immense guilt. -Neytiri often stays up at night, staring at you while you sleep, whispering quiet apologies to Eywa for letting you slip away. -Jake tries to make up for lost time by teaching you survival skills, even if you already know them. “I should’ve been there for you. Let me show you, just in case.” His attempts to reconnect often come with a tinge of overprotectiveness, something you can’t help but find endearing. -They both shower you with subtle but heartfelt gestures—Neytiri weaving intricate beads into your braids, Jake carving you a small totem to carry as a symbol of family.

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-Neteyam, being the oldest after you, feels an immediate kinship. He idolizes you in a way that catches you off guard. “You were always the strong one, weren’t you? Mom and Dad used to talk about you like you could do anything.” -From the moment the family reunites, Neteyam is drawn to you. His role as the responsible older brother has always been his identity, but now, seeing you—capable, strong, and wise—he feels a weight lift. -One evening, as the two of you sit on a high branch overlooking the forest, Neteyam glances at you, his voice soft: “I always wondered what it would feel like to have someone like you to look up to. Now I know.”

-Lo’ak’s first instinct is to test you. He’s always been the rebel, and he wants to know if you can keep up. -He constantly challenges you to races, sparring matches, or daring climbs. “Bet you can’t beat me to the top of that tree,” he taunts, already halfway up. But when you outpace him, he groans dramatically. “Okay, okay, maybe you’re a little cool.” Beneath his playful teasing, though, is a deep admiration. -Lo’ak rarely says it out loud, but the way he watches you when you're literally doing anything—speaks volumes. After a particularly close hunt or winning a race, he slings an arm around your shoulders, his grin boyish and proud: “You’re just showing off now, aren’t you?

-Kiri feels an almost spiritual connection with you. She’s drawn to the way you carry yourself, and often spends hours talking with you about Eywa and the balance of the world.

-“Do you feel it too?” she asks one evening, her voice soft as the bioluminescent forest glows around you. When you nod, she smiles, her eyes filled with quiet wonder. “I knew you would. You’re one of us.”

-She loves showing you the hidden wonders of Pandora, her excitement bubbling over as she guides you to a glowing grove or a stream filled with darting, luminous fish. “This is my favorite place,” she confesses, her voice a whisper. “Now it’s ours.”

-You often catch her sketching in the dirt or weaving patterns inspired by your adventures together. When you ask about them, she shrugs, a shy smile on her lips: “Just trying to remember these moments.”

-Tuk is absolutely smitten with you. From the moment she met you, she declared you her new favorite sibling. She’s always by your side, her small hand slipping into yours as you walk through the forest. “Can I come with you?” she asks, her big eyes shining with hope. -You find yourself teaching her little tricks—how to shoot a tiny bow, how to climb trees safely—and her laughter fills the air as she tries to keep up. “Look! I’m like you now!” she cries, beaming with pride. -At night, she curls up beside you, her head resting against your arm. “Don’t ever leave again, okay?” she whispers, her voice tinged with the innocence of a child. -The Sully siblings have always been close, but with you, their dynamic shifts in the best way. -You quickly become the target of their good-natured teasing, but you’re not afraid to dish it back.“I think you’re losing your touch, Neteyam,” you tease after a sparring match, earning an exaggerated groan from him and laughter from Lo’ak. -Lo’ak and Tuk team up to prank you, only to get caught when Kiri casually spills their plan. “You’re terrible at keeping secrets,” Lo’ak mutters, glaring at his sister. -One night, under the stars, the five of you sit together, the forest alive with its soft, glowing hum. Tuk is nestled against your side, Kiri is braiding your hair, and Neteyam and Lo’ak are arguing over who caught the biggest fish that day. -You take it all in—the laughter, the warmth, the love—and feel an overwhelming sense of belonging.“We’re stronger together,” Neteyam says, breaking through the chatter. He looks at each of you, his gaze lingering on you last. “All of us.” -Lo’ak groans dramatically, “Alright, enough of the sappy stuff.” But he doesn’t pull away when you ruffle his hair, nor does he hide the smile tugging at his lips.

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-Jake has always carried the pain of losing you deep within him, a wound he thought would never heal. As much as he’s overjoyed to have you back, there’s a part of him that struggles with the guilt of all the years you spent apart. -He watches you carefully in the first few days after the reunion, his sharp, observant eyes catching every movement, every expression. His voice, usually confident and steady, softens when he speaks to you. “You okay, kid? You settling in alright?” It’s casual, but there’s an unspoken fear behind the words, a need to make sure you’re truly here. -Jake’s pride in your abilities is almost immediate, but it grows tenfold as he watches you adapt to the Na’vi way of life with such ease. -When he sees you take down a target with a single, precise arrow, he lets out a low whistle, a grin spreading across his face. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. You’re a natural, just like your old man.” -Jake has always been fiercely protective of his family, but with you, it’s different. It’s not just about keeping you safe—it’s about making up for lost time. He wants to be there for every moment, to catch up on the years he missed. He’s quick to jump to your defense, even when it’s not necessary. -If anyone in the clan questions your place, Jake steps in before you can even respond, his voice firm but calm: “They’ve earned their place here. You’ve got a problem with that, you talk to me.” -As much as Jake wants to protect you, he quickly realizes you’re more than capable of handling yourself. -This both surprises and humbles him.“You don’t need me hovering,” he admits one day after watching you dispatch a group of enemies with precise, calculated movements. “But you can’t blame a dad for worrying.” His grin is sheepish, but there’s a flicker of pride in his eyes that makes your chest ache. -Jake doesn’t always say the words outright, but his love for you is evident in everything he does. The way he checks your gear before a mission, the way he pats your shoulder after a successful hunt, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention—all of it speaks volumes. -One night, as you sit beside him under the stars, he breaks the silence with a rare, heartfelt confession. “I thought I’d lost you for good. And now, having you here... I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank Eywa enough.” His voice is rough, filled with a mixture of gratitude and regret.

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-Neytiri’s reaction to your return is a whirlwind of love, grief, and relief. She holds you tightly the moment you reunite, her tears mingling with the warmth of your skin. “You are home,” she whispers, her voice breaking as she cups your face, memorizing every feature. -At first, she can’t let you out of her sight. Years of fearing she would never see you again have left her protective, almost overbearing. Her eyes follow you wherever you go, her instincts sharp, ready to shield you from anything. -Neytiri is in awe of the person you’ve become. When she sees your precise aim with a bow or the way you ride your Ikran with effortless grace, her heart swells with pride. -She takes great pride in teaching you the finer details of Na’vi culture, even if you’ve already mastered much of it on your own. “You are part of us, my child. This is your place.” -Neytiri’s protective nature manifests differently than Jake’s. Where Jake might give orders or try to shield you, Neytiri approaches with quiet understanding. -When she sees you tending to a minor injury after a hunt, she rushes over, her hands gentle but firm as she insists on helping. “Let me see. You may be strong, but even warriors need tending.” -Neytiri takes you to her favorite places in the forest, sharing the beauty and serenity of Pandora with you. She points out the hidden treasures of Eywa’s world, her voice reverent as she speaks of the balance in all things. -One evening, she brings you to the Tree of Voices. Together, you connect to the tendrils of the tree, and she whispers, “They have watched over you. Eywa has always known you would come back to us.” -Neytiri enjoys teaching you skills you might have missed during your time away, like the subtle art of weaving or the ceremonial dances of the clan. But she’s also open to learning from you, impressed by the strategies you devise and the clever ways you solve problems. “You have your father’s mind for battle,” she says with a grin one day, “but your heart... that is mine.” -Neytiri makes it clear that she will fight for you, as she always has for her family. When anyone questions your place in the clan, her voice is sharp and unwavering: “They are my child. That is all you need to know.”

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-It doesn’t take long for the Sully family to notice you’re more than just their lost sibling—you’re a force to be reckoned with. -Neytiri is the first to notice your precision with a bow. She observes silently as you nock an arrow, your stance firm and your aim deadly. The arrow sails through the air, splitting the fruit on a distant branch perfectly in two. Neytiri’s lips part in astonishment before a quiet, proud smile spreads across her face. She tilts her head, her voice carrying a rare, gentle tone: “Who taught you this?” -Learning to bond with an Ikran is no easy feat, but you take it as a personal challenge. The family watches anxiously as you ascend the rocky cliffside, Jake muttering under his breath, “They should take it slow. No one gets it on the first try.” -But you surprise them yet again. The bond happens so seamlessly that Jake stares in stunned silence, Neytiri gripping his arm as if to confirm it’s real. -Lo’ak blurts out, “There’s no way! It took me three tries!” Tuk, wide-eyed, tugs on Kiri’s arm. “Did you see that? [Y/N] is amazing!” Kiri smiles, watching them with fondness in her eyes. -When you soar through the skies for the first time, the exhilaration is clear on your face, but the family’s awe is almost comical. Neteyam watches you with unshaken admiration, his voice barely above a whisper: “I don’t think Eywa has ever made someone like them.”

-As the Sullys adjust to your presence, it’s clear you’re not just “the lost sibling” anymore—you’re an integral part of the family. Every member looks to you in their own way, whether it’s for guidance, comfort, or simply a shared laugh. -You’ve become a bridge between the past and the present, a reminder of what the family has endured and how much stronger they’ve become together. -Around the fire one night, Neteyam says it best: “We’ve always been strong, but with you here, we’re unstoppable.” And as you look around at your family—the warmth in their eyes, the love in their smiles—you realize he’s right. -This was your family, your fortress..

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(Edited, yes i did.) sorry if this is too long lol Hope you LOVED it, if not then haha i'll try to be better <3 pls leave a like TvT and go drink waterr >:0

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Ignore these haha <3

[frost-queen]

The unexpected (Reader!Wilson x Gregory House)

Requested by: anon, Forever tag: @missmelodramatic, @floatlosers, @alex--awesome--22 @merlieve, @queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly , @denkisclown, @wildiefleur , @meyocoko , @subjecta13-thefangirl , @m-rae23 , @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr , @melsunshine , @panhoeofmanyfandoms , @venomsvl , @the-uncoordinated-house-cat , @rosecentury , @evilcr0ne , @vviolynn , @niktwazny303 , @avada-kedrava-bitch-187, @erikasurfer , @slythetic , @p0nycurtis , @eliscannotdance, @pollys-doublelife

You tagged along, following your brother through the hospital. Trying to memorize your surroundings and directions whilst listening to his explanations. You clearly couldn’t do the two things at the same time. Already feeling completely lost in the building, you tried to absorb whatever information your brother gave you.

He walked towards the elevators, holding a open folder in his hand. Still chatting as he pressed the button. The doors opened as Wilson walked in. Looking up from his folder, seeing you were lingering at the elevator. – “Aren’t you getting on?” – he asked with a quirked up brow.

“Oh.” – you softly said, not at all paying attention to it. You had been looking around for any significant points to memorize later. The doors already started to close. He moved his hand forwards to prevent them from closing. The doors swished open once more as you hopped in.

Giving your brother a nervous smile, watching the doors close afterwards. If he hadn’t been interrupted, he continued to pick up where he left off. Informing you about the new team you would be enlisted in. Batting your gaze up, you tried to mesmerize the names of your team mates. The lift stopped as you paid attention to what floor you were on now. Doors swishing open as some people were already waiting for the elevator.

You hopped out after your brother. Trying to keep up with his pace. Wilson closed the folder, holding it back to you. You quickly accepted it, slightly panicking as you felt like unable to remember what he had been blabbing about in the past hour. He turned, pausing in front of a glass door. Taking the handle with a deep sigh. Wilson blocked your view as you waited for him to enter.

 “Wilson!” – A mature man’s voice called out. – “Come to see how I am close to win my record of throwing seven peanuts at once in my mouth?”- the man continued. – “No.” – Wilson sighed out. You had entered the office, stepping away from behind your brother. Coming eye to eye with a man sitting behind his desk.

Or rather laying comfortably. Feet up on the desk. A bag of peanuts in his hand. – “Is it bring your hooker to work? You should’ve told me, I would’ve brought mine.” – the man said teasingly. Wilson sighed once more, rubbing his fingers up his forehead. – “House, this is my younger sister Y/n.” – he made clear. Your eyes widened briefly at the realization that this was Dr. House.

The Dr. House your brother had been nagging and warning your ears off for hours now. Dr. House simply hummed intrigued. – “Alright is it bring your sister to work day then?” – he replied unbothered. You looked over at your brother as he held his hand low, letting you know he was dealing with it.

Wilson sighed for the third time. – “I’ve told you before House. Y/n is joining your team as of today.” – your brother explained. House made a sound that he was wrong. – “House.” – Wilson begged not in the mood for his difficulties. – “The notice has been collecting dust on your desk for weeks now.” – Wilson pointed out.

Gesturing at the folder that laid underneath his feet. House lowered his feet from the table to look at the blue folder on his desk. He casually opened it. He then closed it, throwing it at the bin. – “House!” – Wilson called out. You placed your hand on your brother’s arm to calm him down. Wilson exhaled deep.

“Y/n will be on your team and that is final.” – he made clear. Wilson turned to you, mumbling out an apology in name of House. – It’s alright James.” – you whispered back. With a last comforting touch on your shoulder, he left to go back to his own department. – “So Wilson nr. 2.” – House let out setting his hands on the desk. – “Pretty faces don’t last long here.”

“I assure you doctor that I am more than just a ‘pretty’ face.” – you responded. Dr. House curled up a smirk. – “Meetings over there.” – he pointed at the room next door, visible through the glass windows. You nodded respectfully, taking your leave. House leaned back in his chair funnily. He had heard Wilson speak of a sister a few times, but he never paid much attention to it.

Never actually met her, assuming she was some female copy of Wilson. You took a seat close to the whiteboard. Unsure if they were assigned seats. What seemed like waiting for eternity, was about a few moments as three young doctors walked in. The first one that entered, slowed, frowning at your presence. – “Uhm…” – he looked around to see if he was in the right place. The girl behind him, pushed him inside.

A third one entering. You got up to greet them. Holding your hand out to them as House walked in. – “Minions, Wilson nr. 2.” – he flapped out before you could utter a word. It made you smile sheepishly at the blonde man to whom you were holding your hand out. – “Dr. Y/n Wilson.” – you corrected House. – “Dr. Chase.” – he introduced himself, shaking your hand. You shook the other two their hands as well.

“Wilson as in Wilson, Wilson?” – Chase questioned. – “How many Wilson’s do you know?” – Foreman responded with a deep sigh. – “He’s my brother.” – you informed them. House cleared his throat loud to interrupt what was forming. His three pupils sat down as you followed. Cameron opened a casefile, introducing the patient as House stopped her. – “Let Dr. Wilson present the case.” – House wanted, the hint of mockery clear in his tone.

“House, she just got here.” – Dr. Chase countered. House tapped his cane impatiently. – “It’s alright. Dr. Cameron if you please.” – you asked gesturing at the case file. She closed it, sliding it over the table to you. You opened the file, quickly scanning out words as your mind was already working. – “Female, age 45. Symptoms of dry mouth, irritation to the mouth and over excessive use of toothpaste.” – you read out loud.

“And?” – House bothered you further, testing you. Wanting to know if you were wasting his time. Cause if he had actually paid attention to it, he would’ve done anything in his power to prevent you from joining. The last thing he needed was some naïve, pretty girl joining his team. Thinking playing doctor was cute.

“Excessive use of toothpaste?” – Dr. Chase repeated with a confused and disgusted furrow. – “Maybe it’s a mouth fungus?” – Dr. Cameron pitched in. – “Uh-uh!” – House warned her to keep her mouth shut. – “I’m asking Wilson’s sister.” – he made eye contact with you, letting the tip of his cane bounce up and down on the ground. 

You tried not to give him a snarky glance as you didn’t like how high on his tower he sat. How full of himself he was and clearly making fun of you. You quickly looked into the file, before closing it. – “We should take swaps of the interior of the mouth, saliva and tongue and test it for fungus, bacteria and nutrition deficiencies.” – you said, getting up.

“Already giving up?” – House teased. – “No.” – you looked sturdy back at him. – “I’m going to see my patient.” – you made clear to him. You left the room as the three others followed. Standing in the hallway, you needed a moment to see where you needed to head. Luckily Dr. Chase came to your aid. – “The rooms are over there.” – he whispered to you. You nodded, making your way over.

House left the room as well, curious to see what you’d do. You cleaned your hands before entering the patients room. – “Good morning Mrs. Johnson.” – you spoke. – “My name is Dr. Y/n Wilson. I am here to understand your symptoms more.” – you continued. The woman nodded, letting her gaze go towards the four people standing more to the background. – “These are my colleagues and supervisor Dr. House. They are here to observe me as I’ve been stationed here recently. You mustn’t pay much attention to it.” – you reassured her.

The woman nodded once more. – “Now Mrs. Johnson could you explain more how you started noticing the discomfort.” – you asked, taking a stool to come and sit with her. You listened patiently to her story, seeking for details in it. Completely forgetting about the others. – “She’s good.” – Dr. Chase whispered to Foreman as you had a good approach with the patient. You asked if you could take a swap as she let you.

You thanked her, returning to your colleagues. – “Test this for burning mouth syndrome.” – you told them, pushing the sample to Dr. Cameron. House chuckled loudly. – “Is that so?” – he wasn’t even trying to hide his mockery. You took the test from Dr. Cameron once more, shoving it in his hands. – “You test it then if you are so eager to prove me wrong.”

“Let me know when you get the results.” – you told Dr. Cameron, taking your leave. You needed out as you couldn’t stand the mockery. The belittling you as if you were just a pretty face with no brains. Dr. Chase and Dr. Foreman had to withheld a chuckle at Dr. House. House pushed the sample in Dr. Cameron’s hands once more. – “Let me know the results.” – he said bothered at her.

Limping out of the room. Not returning to the meeting room, you went up to visit your brother. You found him in his desk. – “Y/n?” – he said surprised, getting up. – “Tell me House didn’t pushed you out?”- he wanted to know. You shook your head as he sighed relieved. You let yourself drop into the sofa in his office.

“Did he gave you a hard time?” – James asked. You shrugged your shoulders. – “I’m not letting him belittle me.” – you answered. – “That’s my sister.” – James cheered briefly making you furrow your brows. – “Is that why you put me on his team? Because you knew I could handle him?” - James gave you a shy glance back, revealing the truth. It made you roll your eyes.

After a while the results were in. Dr. Cameron having paged Dr. House. He entered the lab with a big smile. – “And?” – he wanted to know. Dr. Cameron turned towards him. – “You are not going to like it… Dr. Wilson was right…”- she let out. House’s smile immediately dropped. – “Let me see!” – he insisted on.

Dr. Cameron made room so he could see the results. His face showed frustration that you were right. So not a naïve pretty face after all. He shoved the papers against Dr. Cameron’s chest, walking out. Dr. Cameron paged you that the results were in. You met up with her in the hallway. She handed you the file with the lab results in it.

“You were right Dr. Wilson. It’s burning mouth syndrome.” – Dr. Cameron informed you. – “House?” – you asked intrigued. – “Ready to eat his own shoe.” – she replied back. – “Good.” – you answered with a smile. Cameron followed you back into the patients room where you explained the results to her in a calming and understandable way.

The two of you returned to the meeting room. You noticed House sitting in his office thoughtfully. Legs up to his desk, cane on his lap as he rubbed his lips thoughtfully. You excused yourself from Dr. Cameron, entering his office. He looked up to you walking in. – “Come to gloat?” – he let out grumpily. – “No.” – you responded tugging your hands in the doctors coat’s pockets.

“I know you needed to test me.” – you told him. – “I would’ve done the same if I were you.” – you finished. House scoffed soft. – “I am looking forward to work with you more Dr. House.” – you slightly bowed your head in respect. Already turning on your heel to leave his office. – “You did well.” – you heard him say.

Making you turn back with a smirk. – “Is that a compliment Dr. House?” – you teased him. – “Savour it for you only get one.” – he teased back. – “I’ll hold you onto it.” – you winked back at him before leaving his office. House watched you meet up with your brother in the hallway, going downstairs together.

For nearly two months now had you been active in House’s team. Showing him time and time again that you were more than just a pretty face or just Wilson’s sister. Something becoming more clear and clear to House.

Lately he caught himself stare frequently in your direction. Almost waking up daily with eagerness to get to work. Normally he would dread it. The knowledge you had surprised him each day. More and more he started to trust you and rely on you. He found himself making up excuses to stay longer by your side.

Completely deranged he was. Unable to think straight or keep you out of his head. Even at night you started haunting his dreams. Not sure if he wanted you cast out of his dreams. Whatever it was, it stuck around.

House was walking the hallway. In search for you. He knew you were with a patient, yet it didn’t stop him from looking for you. He had seen something in the person’s behaviour file and just wanted to check up on you. You were with a patient letting him know what you were about to do before handling it. The patient seemed calm as you looked over your shoulder to the nurse with you in the room.

She nodded back as you knew she had a keen eye on him. Having read the behaviour aspects in his file as well. Short temper and not afraid of physical harm. – “Sir, I am going to take a sample.” – you reminded him once more before lowering your hand on him. Your hand was near his arm as it happened all so quickly. Before you knew it, he had a hold of your wrist.

The sensors bleeping loud as his heart rate was spiking up. Gasping loud, you tried freeing your wrist as he kept a firm grip around it. The nurse moved over to you but before she could reach you, intercepted another person the incident. House barged into the room, hurrying his way over to you.

Taking his cane to give the man a respectful slap on his wrist to release his grip. The man’s jaw was clenched with fury as he worked himself up. House took you by your wrist, pulling you free. Holding you by your arms, he pulled you back, further away from the bed. The machinery bleeping loud as his heart rate kept spiking up. The man swaying his arms around.

“Call help!” – House shouted at the nurse. The nurse nodded, spurting out. House turned you towards him, tilting your chin up to him. – “Are you alright Y/n?” – he asked. You nodded half in shock. Holding your wrist with your hand. Seeing how red it was from the tight grip.

The nurse returned with a few others. Grabbing the man as House walked over to him. Taking an injection from one of the nurses. They restrained him as House stuck the injection in him to calm him down. It took effect within moments. He watched the monitor as his heart rate started to settle down. – “Keep an eye on him.” – he ordered, returning to you.

He led you out of the room. – “Are you sure you are alright Y/n?” – he asked. – “I’ll be okay.” – you breathed out, still trembling a bit. House guided you towards one of the examination rooms; closing the door behind him. He gestured for you to sit. – “House… I’m fine…” – you let him know. House started searching the cabinets, returning to you.

You had hopped onto the table as he sat down on a rolling stool. He gestured for you to give your wrist to him. – “House I swear I’m fine.” – you told him. House wouldn’t listen to it, taking your hand carefully. He started applying a soothing crème on your wrist to ease the burning feeling from the friction. You swallowed your pride in, winching a bit at the pain.

House then started wrapping a bandage around your wrist to maintain the crème on your skin. – “Thank you.” – you said shyly. – “You… you didn’t have to do that.” – you continued. – “I did.” – House replied. He threw the rest of the bandage roll onto the small desk. He lowered his hand on yours, turning his gaze to you.

“I shouldn’t have made you go in there alone.” – he spoke. – “I wasn’t alone.” – you answered with half a smile. House giving you a soft glare for missing the point. – “Do you think I interfere like that for any Wilson?” – he went on. You smiled mischievous back at him. – “Aww I’m sure James would appreciate it.” – you told him.

House sighed deep. – “I was talking about you.” – he let out. You leaned in, resting a hand against his cheek. – “I know.” – you whispered to him. House’s gaze met up with yours, holding you there. He leaned in closer as you did the same. Lips touching to no surprise.

You took a hold of his neck as you kissed him deeper. House returning the kiss with eagerness. – “I like you Y/n.” – House said to you having released his lips from you. – “I know Gregory.”- you whispered back before kissing him once more.

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[once-upon-an-imagine]

What Was I Made For? - James Potter

A/N: well, it looks like this keeps on working so... I hope you guys like it!

Anonymous asked: Request for hufflepuff black!reader x James with the prompt "Forget it. Just like you forget everything else." Where reader has never had a fun birthday celebration and usually ignores her birthday but James promises to do something fun for her and gets her hopes up but then stands her up accidentally (with happy ending please). Thanks so much &lt;;33

Warnings: this is super angsty! (and super long) but it has a happy ending; mentions of abuse and overall a not happy family life, reader feels weird for not really knowing how to express her feelings; let me know if I missed anything

Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter :) gif isn’t mine :D  

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What Was I Made For?

Think I forgot how to be happy Something I'm not, but something I can be Something I wait for, something I'm made for

12:08 a.m. Your birthday was over. And he didn’t come. Of course, he wouldn’t come. You kept looking at your watch feeling a tiny bit of hope that he would come running any second, apologizing for being late. But, deep down, you knew it wasn’t going to happen. You sighed, running a hand through your hair, and decided to finally leave. You were angry. But not at him. At yourself. You should have known better. You never should have trusted a word he said. Because he treated you as if you were the center of his universe. And you were stupid enough to believe him. Because that’s what James Potter did. He made you feel as if you were the only thing that mattered to him. Damn him and his stupid beautiful smile. The one that got you into this mess…

“You actually want me to believe that you need my help in Potions?” you insisted as he raised his hands in surrender while you pointed your wand at him. “Why are you asking me?”

“B-because you’re top of our class-”

“That’s not true. Severus Snape is” you insisted.

“First of all, I would never ask Snivelly for help” he rolled his eyes. “And secondly, I doubt that’s true since you are a year younger than us and are already taking Advance Potions-”

“So ask Lilly Evans then-?”

“Evans hates me-”

“So do I!”

“Wait, y-you do?” he asked, confused, stepping away from your wand. He sounded genuinely hurt.

“I…” you weren’t able to continue. You never really hated James Potter. You hated him because you were supposed to, weren’t you? “D-don’t you?”

“I don’t hate you” he informed you. “Why would I?”

“Because Sirius does! And you’re his best friend” you told him. James noticed the hurt in your voice and in your look. He knew you missed Sirius.

“Your brother doesn’t hate you” he insisted and you scoffed, looking away and lowering your wand. “He doesn’t!”

“Look, Potter, you don’t have to lie, okay?” you glared at him a little. “Isn’t your father a famous potioneer? Shouldn’t you be good at Potions?”

“Yeah, he is… you gotta love the irony, love” he smirked.

“Don’t call me that!” you glared at him. “What if Sirius finds out?”

“He won’t” he assured you. “And I honestly don’t think he would mind if he does” he tried.

“What’s in it for me?”

“Isn’t the loveliness of my company enough, love?” he asked but he saw you raising your wand at him and he put up his hands in surrender. “Fine… what do you want?”

You thought about it for a moment. Nobody had ever asked you what you wanted. Not really. You were always just told what to do. And then, you thought of the one thing you had always wanted but could never do.

“Um… if I tell you… do you promise not to tell anyone? Or um… laugh at me?” you said, feeling your cheeks burn as you looked down. James had to admit, he had never seen you like this. You always looked so confident, like everyone else in the Black family.

“I promise” he said, making you sigh.

“W-would you teach me um… how to uh- f-fly?” you asked in a small voice, James wasn’t sure if he heard you correctly.

“Um… didn’t you learn how to fly in your first year?” he asked, confused.

“Look, it’s a long story. Are you in or not?” you asked, going back to your usual self and James let out a small chuckle.

“Fine. It’s a deal. You teach me Potions, I teach you to fly” he said, putting his hand so you would shake it. Which you did, pulling him closer.

“And Sirius is not to find about this, is that clear?”

“Perfect.”

And that’s what it was. Perfect. For the following months, you and James spent a lot of time together. In the beginning, you found him incredibly obnoxious since he kept trying to become your friend. Which he quickly managed. You let your guard down and found yourself actually liking his company. And then, it grew into more. You never thought it could happen, but it did. He had somehow become your favorite person. Granted, not many people talked to you so, it wasn’t hard. But if there was a word you would use to describe James Potter was, enchanting. And you quickly fell for him. And you hated it. Because now, here you were. Tired, hungry, alone, and upset. You made your way to the Kitchens, hoping that you could at least get some leftovers from the Elves.

“Miss Black” one of them greeted you happily. “We thought you weren’t going to make it” he said, making you frown in confusion.

“M-make it? What do you mean, Blim?” you asked, confused as two other elves carried a basket your way.

“Mr. Potter asked us to save this for him but he never came” he explained, confused. “Said it was really important for Miss Black’s birthday” he instructed as they handed you the basket. You felt yourself smiling a little but quickly wiped it away. He never came.

“Thank you so much, Blim” you told him.

“You’re welcome. Happy birthday, Miss Black” he said, as they waved you goodbye. You thanked them happily, after all, they were the only ones that had wished you a happy birthday, and then you made your way to your dorm.

“Hi, Ophelia” you greeted your beautiful black cat.

At least she showed up for your birthday. You changed into your pajamas, played some of your favorite music on your record player, and sat on the small seat you had created against your window to go through the picnic basket only to find your favorite food. He’d remember. Everything was perfect, even the cake. Except, he hadn’t been there. He promised he would and you believed him. You knew Gryffindor played today. You knew they won. But he promised. And you believed him.

But again, it was your fault, really. You should have never let him in. You should have never told him what your favorite food was. Or why you didn’t know how to fly. Or that nobody in your house wanted to share a dorm with you anymore. You shouldn’t even have told him that today was your birthday. Well, yesterday. Because you now understood what he felt for you. It was pity. It wasn’t love.

“Alright, are you ready?” he asked, holding up the broom.

“Actually… I’m having second thoughts about this. I don’t want to do it” you said, nervously.

“Come on, love. I promise you’re gonna love it” he insisted.

You had grown accustomed to him calling you love by now. No matter how much you begged him, he wouldn’t stop. And no matter how much you tried to deny it, you were starting to like it.

“B-but what if I fall?” you asked, making him smile at you adorably and grabbing your hand.

“I promise I would never let that happen” he said sincerely. “But… we don’t have to do this today if you don’t want to” he assured you.

“No, it’s okay” you said, unconvincingly. “I just… need a minute” you told him, sitting down on the grass of the Quidditch pitch.

“Look, I know you’ve told me not to ask why you didn’t learn to fly sooner so…” he said, sitting down next to you. “May I ask why you want to learn now? Why is it so important to you?”

“I don’t know” you said, quietly as you started playing with the grass next to you. “My mother has told me not to my whole life” you informed him. “She always said it wasn’t for ladies” you said, bitterly. “On my first year, she sent an owl saying that she may not be able to control which house her disappointing daughter was sorted into but I was not to ride a broom, and well… you know nobody wants to go against Walburga Black” you said with a sad chuckle. “I always wanted to learn because Siri and Reggie- um… Sirius and Regulus both know how to and they love it” you continued. “I guess I wanted to have something in common with them” you smiled sadly. “Are you… are you crying?”

“I’m sorry” he said, wiping away the few tears on his cheeks. “That was just… um, w-well, every story Padfoot tells me from your home it’s just…”

“Sad, I know” you said as James composed himself. “You can say it” you told him.

“Is it… as bad for you as it is for Sirius?” he asked, worriedly.

“A little” you admitted. “At least Sirius has you, Remus, and Peter” you smiled a little.

“You have me too” he said, placing your hand on top of yours and making you look up at him. “You know that, right?” he asked, feeling his heart beating faster when your smile got bigger.

“You’re sweet, James” you said, surprising him a little. “What?”

“I think that’s the first time you call me by my first name” he smiled.

“Oh, s-sorry, um-”

“No, no” he chuckled. “I liked it” he assured you. “I um… I like you” he said, feeling his cheeks blushing.

“Y-you do?” you asked, breaking James' heart at how genuine your question sounded. As if you were actually confused as to why someone would like you.

“Of course, I do” he said, cupping your cheek gently.

“A-are you about to kiss me?” you whispered.

“Is that okay?” he asked sweetly and you nodded smiling before James gently pressed his lips against yours.

You had no idea what you were feeling. Your entire body felt as if fireworks were exploding everywhere. Never, in a million years would you have thought that kissing James Potter would feel so perfect, but now that you knew, you never wanted to stop.

“Alright. I think I’m ready” you said once you pulled apart. James smile at you and got up, offering you his hand to help you. “Y-you promise I won’t fall, right?”

“Promise, love” he said, pulling you closer and kissing your hand.

Lies. From that moment. You never should have fallen for him. How could you have been so stupid? James may have been right, every story from your childhood was extremely unhappy, but you had never felt so empty inside. Having a best friend who then turned into something more and you were sure that you felt was something that you had never felt before, and now it was gone.

You hoped listening to sad songs would help you cry but your eyes seemed dry. You felt the pain in your heart, which was weird. You never felt that before. But you thought you might as well cry. James said it might help whenever you felt upset. But it ended up being him who cried. And not you. So, you were about to just go to bed, when you heard someone knocking loudly on your door. At 1:47 in the morning. You sighed, rolling your eyes, and quickly ran over to open the door, revealing nobody on the other side.

“James, what the bloody hell are you doing? You’re going to wake up my entire house!” you said, pulling him inside and closing the door as he removed the cloak around him.

“I’m sorry, love! I am so sorry I’m late! I swear I lost track of time!” he slurred out.

He was drunk. Really drunk. He was still in his Quidditch robes, drunk out of his mind.

“Potter, you’re-”

“No, no, no! Please don’t call me Potter” he said, walking closer to you and grabbing your hands. “You only call me that when you’re mad” he pouted. “I know I screwed up but I promise I will make it up to you, love!”

“James, you’re drunk-”

“I know! There was a party because we won and I swear I was just going to be there for a few minutes b-because I’m the captain a-and I just lost track of time and-”

“You should leave” you said, quietly, avoiding his eyes. You knew you would cave if you looked into his beautiful doe-eyed face. And you had made up your mind.

“No, no, sweetheart, please I want to make it up to you. Please give me a chance!”

“You are drunk right now-”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry” he insisted. “I can- I just need to-”

“James, please. I’m tired and you’re drunk. Just go to bed” you said, firmly. “We can talk tomorrow if you want to” you told him.

“I don’t want you to be alone” he said, his eyes tearing up. “It’s your birthday!”

“It’s no longer my birthday so… you can go” you said, getting upset.

“I don’t want to leave you” he said, getting closer to you and cupping your cheek softly, making you look at him. “Please, love. I am so sorry” he said. “Please talk to me, just tell me how I can make this right. You can yell at me! You can throw things, I deserve it-”

“James, I don’t want to yell at you” you said, sighing tiredly. “I just want to go to sleep” you told him.

“I don’t want to leave you, love” he said, with a few tears escaping his eyes and bringing you closer. He was about to kiss you and you smelled the Firewhisky in his breath so you pulled away and he kissed your forehead instead.

“Fine” you sighed. “Y-you can stay but I’m tired, I just want to go to sleep” you gave in.

“Okay” James said, feeling his eyes welling up. He couldn’t believe he had failed you. Just like everyone else in your life. He fucked up. He slowly walked over to your bed and sat down. “Is… this okay?” he asked nervously.

“Sure” you said, sounding exhausted.

You threw yourself on your bed, turning your back to him and James quickly climbed next to you. You instantly felt his arm wrap around your waist, pulling you to him. You sighed deeply, preparing yourself for what was to come. You were going to miss him. You knew that much. You hated how used you had become to him. How regular it just seemed for him to show up and spend the night with you. So, you took it in. His scent, his touch, everything about him because you knew it would be gone by tomorrow.

“I’m really sorry, love” you heard him say before he kissed the back of your head.

“Just… go to sleep, James” you whispered back and it wasn’t long before you heard his snores.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The next morning, James woke up to an empty bed, and the realization of the night before quickly came flooding back into his mind. He quickly sat up and saw you on your desk, writing on some parchment.

“Um- w-what time is it?” were the first words that came out of his mouth and he cursed himself. He was beyond stupid.

“It’s still early” you replied as you continued doing whatever it was you were doing. “If you hurry, you can still go to breakfast before your friends wonder where you are” you said, quietly.

“N-no. I don’t want to go to breakfast” he said, walking over to you. “I want to apologize and talk to you” he said, looking down at the parchment you were working on. “W-what’s that?”

You finished writing and stood up, handing the piece of parchment to him with a serious expression on your face.

“A list of people who are not Severus Snape that can tutor you in potions” you simply said, trying to make your way to your window seat.

“W-what?” he panicked.

“I have your things here” you said, handing him a box with his things. “Oh” you said, realizing you were wearing his sweater so you quickly took it off and placed it on top of his things. “Sorry” you said, and you felt like you were freezing.

“Wait, you’re- you’re breaking up with me?” James asked, placing everything aside and walking closer to you. “Please, just… hold on a second. I promise I can explain-”

“James” you said, taking a step back. It unnerved James how calmly you were talking to him. Like you did in the beginning. Like your walls were up again and he meant nothing more than a stranger to you. “I just don’t think that this is working” you said, silently.

“Please, don’t do this, love! I swear I want to make it up to you” he said as a few tears started falling down his cheeks.

“Why are you crying?”

“Because I love you!” he shouted a bit louder than he intended to. “I know I fucked up and I am so sorry! But please, love, just give me another chance, I swear I didn’t mean to miss it-”

“That doesn’t matter, James-”

“Yes, it does! I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be, I understand that! But this is a fight, I- I can make it up to you and w-we can go back to the way it was-”

“Why would we do that?” you asked, confused.

“Because that’s what couples do!” he insisted.

“We’re not a couple, James” you said, sounding broken.

“Yes, we are!”

“No, we’re not. You never asked me to be your girlfriend. We’ve never gone out on a date. You barely talk to me outside these walls-”

“You said you didn’t want Sirius to know about us! I told you I didn’t care!”

“That doesn’t make a difference, James!”

“Yes, it does! Because I love you!”

“No, you don't!”

“Yes, I do! I love you so much and I know you love me too!”

“Okay, now you’re just being ridiculous, Potter” you said, with a sarcastic chuckle as you tried to walk into your bathroom but James blocked your way.

“No, I’m not!” he said, softly as you tried to look away. He gently cupped your cheek with his big, strong hand and slowly lifted your face so you could see him. Not even a sign of tears while his eyes were flooded. “Tell me you don’t” he said, quietly.

“E-excuse me?” you asked, confused.

“Tell me you don’t love me” he said. “I know you’ve never said that you love me but whenever I tell you that I do, you smile and you kiss me! You’ve never said that you don’t! So, tell me you don’t love me” he insisted.

“James!”

“No! If you want to break up with me, at least talk to me first! You at least have to tell me how you feel about me!” he argued.

“You wanna know how I feel about you?” you snapped pushing yourself away from him.

“Yes!”

“You really want to know how you make me feel?” you said, getting upset.

“Yes!”

“I have no idea how you make me feel, James!” you snapped, breaking James’ heart. “Y-you make me feel happy and angry, and scared, and sad, and crazy, and warm, and vulnerable, and like I can break at any moment, but I somehow know that I won’t because you won’t let that happen but then I feel so lost if you’re not there! And I feel weak and confused, and-” enchanted. “And, alive and like I can float, and sure but unsure at the same time, and like I can be myself and I want to try to be a better person but it wouldn’t matter because you still look at me with that stupid grin! And- and-” you said, trying to take deep breaths. “I don’t know! It’s just a lot all at once and I don’t know how to handle it and I don’t like it!” you said, trying to catch your breath. “I don’t like it, James!”

“Okay, okay!” James said, quickly walking over to you and placing his hands on each side of your face. “Breathe, love, please” he said quietly, as you slowly tried to catch your breath and stop shaking. James was now fully weeping but a small smile formed on his face. “Sweetheart” he said, quietly. “That’s love” he told you.

“W-what?”

“What you’re feeling” he explained. “That’s love” he insisted.

“How do you know that?” you asked, confused.

“Because that’s exactly how I feel about you” he said as you managed to even your breathing again.

“I don’t like feeling scared” you whispered.

“I know, love” he smiled. “I know, and I’m scared too-”

“Then why would you still want to be with me?”

“Because I love you” he repeated. “And… you’ve made me the happiest I’ve been and I know that I fucked up yesterday, I do, but I promise I will make it up to you and, if you let me, I will spend the rest of my life making you as happy as you make me, love” he said in a serious tone.

You took a deep breath. You wanted to. You really did. You wanted to know what was on the other side and if you could live a ‘happily ever after’ that you read in so many stories when you were a kid. But this was real life. And you couldn’t break James Potter like you broke everything else you touched.

“No, James” you said, pushing away from him.

“B-but-” he tried but you walked away, going to your bathroom.

“Please, James. Just… forget it. Like you forget everything else" you said sadly before you walked inside, locking the door and your heart broke when you still heard him cry.

James turned to look at the box you left with all of his things. He couldn’t bring himself to take it. He needed to make things right. He walked out of your dorm and your house and made his way over to the Gryffindor Tower, not even caring about breakfast. He plopped himself on the furthest sofa, and after a while, he heard giggling and a group of girls walking over to him.

“Hey, Potter” Marlene asked. It wasn’t usual to see him without his three friends and his energy was entirely different today. “You okay?”

“Um… can I ask you, girls, something?” he said as Marlene, Dorcas, Lily, and Alice sat around him. “I would ask my friends but… in this particular subject they all are just… useless” he chuckled sadly.

“Is it about a girl?” Alice asked.

“Well… yeah” he admitted.

“Oh, Merlin it is! Who is it?” Dorcas asked, excitedly.

“I can’t… say it out loud, Sirius can’t know!”

“He’s your best friend, why can’t he know?”

“Because it’s his sister” Lily smirked.

“What?” the other three reacted shocked.

“How did you know?” James asked, confused.

“I’ve seen you in Potions” she shrugged. “You two are cute together” she smiled. “So, what happened?”

“Well, we had been seeing each other for a while now and yesterday was her birthday and I promised her that we would do something and I had this whole picnic planned in the Astronomy tower but… I lost track of time and-”

“No!” Alice said, her smile dropping.

“You didn’t!” Dorcas frowned.

“You forgot?” Marlene asked, slapping his arm.

“I didn’t mean to! We were playing with our secondary team because we had so many hurt players, I didn’t think we would win! And then we did and I started drinking and I just lost track of time!”

“You are unbelievable potter!” Marlene glared at him.

“I want to make things right! I love her and I’m pretty sure she loves me to-”

“Pretty sure?” Alice asked with an arched eyebrow.

“W-well, she hasn’t said it, exactly, but I know she feels it” he insisted. “Look, this is the first time I’ve felt like this in my life and I know that I fucked up but… I also know she’s scared and it just… I want to make things right” he insisted.

The four girls shared looks amongst themselves before they went back to James and Lily nodded.

“Alright, we’ll help you” she agreed.

“Really?”

“Yes, but only because she has looked happier lately, and you seem to actually be sorry. But if you fuck this up again, Potter-” Dorcas threatened.

“I know, I swear, I won’t!” he told them.

“Alright, then” Alice smirked.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“What are you doing here?”

“For fuck’s sake!” you jumped, falling down the stairs you were on and landing on the floor. “Sirius!” you said, getting up. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” you glared at your older brother.

“I asked first” he shrugged.

“None of your business” you said, rolling your eyes. “You?”

“Same” he said.

“Fine. This has been lovely, then” you said, trying to walk out of the class but Sirius stopped you.

“Okay, no! Wait!” he said, grabbing your arm and turning you around. “I was… looking for you” he admitted.

“If you’re planning on stealing my Potions essay, I haven’t finished it yet-”

“No, that’s not it” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I… wanted to… um… talk to you” he said, awkwardly.

“Why?” you asked, genuinely confused.

“Well, there are… a few things I wanted to tell you” he admitted. “If um… you’d like to come with me to the… Lake or something” he said.

“Well, since you asked so normally” you said, still confused. But this was the first time that Sirius talked to you in so long, you really didn’t want to take it for granted, so you followed him. Once you reached to the Great Lake he sat down near a tree and pointed his side so you would join him. “So… did you bring me here to kill me or-”

“Shut up” he said with a faint chuckle. He then looked inside his bag and got out a small present. “Here” he said, handing it to you. “Um… happy birthday” he said quietly. You raised your eyebrow at him before grabbing the gift.

“Is this thing going to catch fire or something?”

“No!” he argued. But he couldn’t really blame you for thinking that. “No, I promise, I just… I know I’m a day late-”

“You’re about six years late but, alright” you said a bit harshly.

“I guess I deserve that” he muttered as you opened your present and you saw all of your favorite candy from Honeydukes. “I… wanted to say that… I’m sorry” he said.

“Um… why?”

“What do you mean why? For shutting you and Regulus out when I got sorted into Gryffindor and then… still not reaching out to you when you were sorted in Hufflepuff-”

“No, I know but… I mean… why now? Do you need something? Are you dying? Am I dying?”

“Stop it, bug!” he said, rolling his eyes and then looking at you when he realized what he had just called you. You felt your heart stopping for a moment.

“You… you haven’t called me that in a very long time” you said, feeling warmth in your heart. Once you thought was absolutely gone.

“I know… I’m sorry, if you’re not okay with it-”

“It’s okay” you quickly said. “I… kind of missed it” you admitted, looking away.

“You used to hate it” he chuckled.

“Yeah, I know but… once it was gone…” you sighed.

“We’re both really bad at this, aren’t we?” he laughed a little and, to his surprise, you did too.

“We definitely are the worst at feelings” you admitted. “Why are you apologizing to me now?” you asked curiously.

“A couple of reasons” he said. “I miss you” he admitted and you glared at him a little. “I really do!” he insisted. “Look, I get that we are awful at feelings and all that but… I’ve kind of been working on it and… I just… I want a relationship with my little sister” he said genuinely.

“Those are big words, Sirius” you chuckled. “What do you even know about relationships?”

“Well… I’m… currently in one” he said, looking away.

“You are?” you asked, a bit shocked and he nodded. “Wow, who’s the unlucky girl?”

Sirius let out a scoff, glaring at you. “Actually… it’s not a girl” he corrected.

“Is it Lupin?” you asked as Sirius widened his eyes in surprise.

“How did you know?”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious, you sink a deeper level of idiot whenever you’re around him” you informed him.

“That’s not true!”

“Yes, it is. Last week you knocked down your cauldron and three others when he laughed” you pointed out.

“That was… an accident” he tried to defend himself.

“Sure, it was” you said sarcastically.

“So… what do you think?” he asked, nervously.

“Why would you care what I think?”

“Well, you’re my sister, and… you’re also… the first person I’ve told” he admitted.

“Really?”

“Y-yeah” he said with a nervous smile.

“Well, if I’m being completely honest… I think Remus can do a lot better than you” you said with a smirk, making Sirius push you a little and glare at you.

“That’s not funny” he argued.

“I wasn’t joking” you said. “Is he… the one that’s making you get in touch with your feelings?”

“Kinda” he admitted. “You know, he and James grew up in a functional home, and… they know how to feel like a normal person” he informed you. “So… a few months ago, I was where you are right now” he added.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, nervously.

“I’m talking about you and Prongs and how you are afraid of being in a relationship with him” he said, casually.

“W-what? D-did James say-?”

“He didn’t say anything, but he’s a terrible liar” he shrugged. “I’ve known for a while and… to be honest, I have never seen him as happy as he is with you” he told you. “And… I have never seen him as miserable as today” he added. “So, I knew you were probably feeling worse, but… had no idea how to express it” he told you.

“How would you even know that?”

“Because you’re just like me” he told you. “A few months ago, Remus and I had our first fight. He told me that he loved me and… I kind of ran away” he said. “We didn’t speak for about three days. I was in such a bad mood, even I didn’t want to deal with myself” he explained. “Look, I know that we are wired differently than everyone else because mum and dad didn’t exactly teach us how to… feel or… love” he continued. “So, when someone does, it feels-”

“Fucking weird” you added.

“Yeah” he agreed. “But… that doesn’t mean that we can’t, you know that, right? And it doesn’t mean we don’t deserve it, bug” he told you. “I know I screwed up on my part and I am really sorry for pushing you away-”

“Why did you do it?” you asked all of the sudden. “I get that you were angry when you came back home from your first year but… Regulus and I never thought any different from you and you… shut us down” you said, sadly. “And then… the next year, when I was sorted into Hufflepuff, I thought maybe-”

“I know! I should have talked to you, I know, I was an idiot!” he said, genuinely. “Remus has made me talk about it a lot lately and… I want to make things right” he sighed. “You don’t have to forgive me if you don’t want to and I don’t expect you to do it right away if you do, I just… had to start somewhere” he smiled, hopeful.

“By giving me candy and saying happy birthday a day later?” you smirked a little. “It’s a good start, I guess” you nodded, grabbing a Sugar Quill and giving him one.

“Well, I also… wanted to help you fix things with Prongs” he suggested.

“Because you love James so much now that you are an expert on feelings and don’t want to see him sad?”

“Well… sort of, but… I love you too, bug” he said, making you almost choke on your sweet. You were pretty sure he had never said that before. “I know, we don’t really say that to each other or anyone else. Remus was the first person I ever said it to. It feels good, you should try it” he continued. “I know you love James-”

“How could you possibly know that? Even I don’t know that!”

“I think that you do and that’s why you’re so scared” he told you. “And I know I’m probably the last person that should be telling you this but… there’s nothing wrong with that” he assured you.

“It’s just…” you sighed. “W-what if he realizes how broken I am and he doesn’t want to be anymore?” you asked, sadly, breaking Sirius’ heart a little. “Or if I end up breaking him?”

“Bug, you’re not that broken-”

“Really? Do you want to know what I was doing in Potions class? I was looking for something that would make me cry” you explained.

“Really?”

“Yes, James cries all the time, did you know that?”

“Yeah, he cried when Moony and I told him we were dating” Sirius laughed.

“I feel empty without him, Sirius, and yet… not a single tear!”

“Well, that doesn’t mean you’re broken” Sirius insisted. “We never cry” he continued. “Blacks don’t cry” you both said at the same time, letting out a small laugh. “We’ll get there, bug” he said, pulling you to him and kissing the side of your head.

“We?” you asked, a little confused.

“Oh yeah, now that you have accepted me back into your life I’m not leaving-”

“Can I reconsider this-?”

“Nope, it’s too late! We’re going to be best friends, bug!”

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You had surprisingly spent the rest of the day with Sirius, and Remus had joined at some point. They took you to Hogsmeade as Remus insisted on at least taking you out for your birthday. You liked Remus, and you could see that he definitely brought out the best in your brother. They seemed very in love. And at some point, it dawned on you. You were in love with James. He had been right. What you felt for him, was love. You were still terrified but you had made up your mind to talk to him the next day. Remus and Sirius even said the four of you could go to Hogsmeade together. This was definitely the craziest thing you had ever gone through in your life. But you were done feeling sorry for your self and you were done being afraid. You definitely did not want to spend the rest of your life like your parents. Feeling nothing and being unhappy. So, you would talk to James and try to be happy for once. However, when you opened your dorm’s door, you saw that he had already gone ahead of you.

Your mouth dropped when you saw the scene in front of you. Your dorm was decorated with beautiful fairy lights above, like floating stars, and candles and flowers everywhere. James was in the corner, finishing putting some flowers next to your bed.

“James?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, love- I uh-” he stuttered, walking closer to you. “Um, I know you told me to f-forget about it but…” he sighed, offering you the last flower in his hand. “I don’t want to” he chuckled. “I don’t want to forget about it and… I don’t want to forget about you” he explained. “Love, I know that I majorly fucked up” he continued. “And you have every right to hate me and never forgive me if you want to but… I wanted to give you the birthday that I had planned for you first. The birthday that you deserved before I royally fucked it up” he said, grabbing the picnic basket on your window seat.

“Did you ask the elves to do the whole meal again?”

“N-no” he assured you. “Um… I did it myself” he said, making your heart flutter a little. “Granted, I… uh, I don’t think it’s going to be as good” he chuckled. “So, we don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to” he assured you before he placed the basket back down. “I um… I also didn’t get to give you your present” he said, grabbing a bag on your nightstand.

“You-” you felt something weird happening. “You got me a present?”

“Of course, I got you a present, love” James smiled sweetly. “Would you like to open it? Or we can eat first if you’d like. Or you can eat. And I can leave if you prefer-”

Before he could go on, you quickly grabbed the bag from him. James smiled to himself at how excited you looked, opening your gift. And then, you pulled it out. A book. And a stuffed rabbit. An exact rabbit like the one in the book. Wearing a small knitted cardigan with Gryffindor colors. Just like the one James had given you.

“What-?” you tried to catch your breath. “H-how did you-?”

“The sweater comes off” he smiled. “I asked my mum to make it, I thought it would look cute because you like mine so much” he explained.

“N-no, how um- how did you know-?”

“You told me, remember?” he frowned, confused. “How when you were a kid, and your mum took you and your brothers to Diagon Alley and you ran off and got lost and ended up in a muggle library” he continued. “And you read that book and you always wanted a rabbit like that one-”

“Y-you remember that?” you asked, in complete disbelief.

You told him that story so long ago. You remember it perfectly. It was the first night he stayed in your dorm and you ended up talking all night. You had no idea he would remember it. It felt like forever ago.

“Of course, love” he said as if it was obvious.

Before either one of you could say anything else, you threw your arms around James’ shoulders and you planted a big kiss on his lips. James widened his eyes in surprise a little before he closed them and wrapped one of his arms around your waist and he placed his other hand on your cheek.

“This is…” you sighed when you pulled apart and you looked down at your rabbit. “This is the nicest thing anybody’s ever done for me” you chuckled.

"Um... I also wanted to ask if... you would like to be my girlfriend?" he said, nervously.

"I would really like that" you nodded.

“Wait, are you… are you crying?” James asked, brushing a few tears with his thumb.

“A-am I?” you asked as a smile appeared on your face. You brought your hand up to your face and you saw that it was, in fact, covered in tears. “I’m crying!” you chuckled as you noticed James’ eyes welling up as they usually did. “James, I’m crying!”

“I can see that, love” he smiled brightly at you. “I’m really sorry I forgot your birthday” he said, pulling you closer.

“It’s okay” you assured him. “You cooked for me” you said with a small laugh.

“I also apologize for that. I have no idea what I was doing” he warned you.

“It can’t be that bad” you assured him. “Would you like to join me?”

“R-really?”

You nodded, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards your window. You sat down as James pulled out the food, smiling when he saw you playing with your rabbit’s ear and going through the pages of your book. He had never seen you smile like this. And he promised to himself that he would do anything he can to keep that smile placed there.

“James?”

“Yes, love?”

“Um… please don’t cry when I say this but… uh, you were right… earlier today” you said, nervously before you cleared your throat and you looked at him. “I love you” you admitted, feeling an enormous weight off your shoulders. And of course, James’ tears quickly ran down his cheeks.

“Y-you do?” he asked with a sweet smile and you nodded.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to say it” you said, nervously. “I just… well, y-you know Sirius and I don’t really- um… I was just… scared because we were sort of instructed to… not really feel anything and I just… didn’t want to screw things up with you because you are very in touch with your emotions and I’m a bit broken that way-”

“You’re not broken, love” he insisted, holding your hand in his. “I wish you could see yourself as I see you. Because you’re perfect” he said, making you smile a little. “And I love you so much” he said, pulling you for another kiss and he felt your smile against his lips. “Say it again” he asked when you pulled away.

“James-”

“Please” he pouted, making you laugh and roll your eyes a little.

“I love you” you said, making him throw his arms around you and pulled you to him, peppering your face with kisses as he heard you laugh, which was his favorite music.

“I love you too!”

The End

[Bonus Scene The Next Day at The Three Broomsticks...]

"Sirius... are you crying?" Remus asked his boyfriend.

"It's just so beautiful" he said, wiping his tears as you rested your head against James' shoulder. "How Prongs set everything up for her birthday after he forgot and he got her that cute rabbit" he said, while Remus chuckled and hugged him and he looked at James.

"You kind of opened the gate for Blacks to cry, you know that right?"

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A/N: I really love how this turned out so I hope you liked it too! xD let me know what you think! Remus is coming next and then Sirius!

[queen-of-reptiles]

𝙱𝙴𝚂𝚃 𝙵𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙽𝙳𝚂

𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙴

description: In which Georgia Stanway and Leah Williamson’s younger sister are just best friends… right?

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georgia stanway x female reader

part one here

part two here

part three of the 'best friends' series

disclaimer: I am in now way saying Georgia is bi-sexual or lesbian, this is all fiction

warnings: mention and description of a panic attack, lots of crying, fluff!

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y/n could not breathe. She couldn't see, she couldn't feel, she couldn't hear anything as she stumbled into the room. The girl moved to the curtains pulling them shut so darkness reigned, then she stumbled into the bathroom.

Her chest was moving up and down rapidly, trying to pull air into her lungs and failing with the wheezes they were letting out. The girl gripped the sink, trying to calm her sobs.

y/n couldn't see anything but Leah's shocked face, her hurt eyes that y/n hadn't told her. y/n and Leah had once made a promise that they would tell each other everything. This was the first time either had broken that.

Everything was so tangled in her brain as the girl coughed out, a shaky hand wiping her tears across her cheek as she stumbled against the shower wall, sinking into the corner to press herself into the corner.

The girl brought her knees up against her chest, her shaking arms wrapping around them as her head fell against her knees, eyes shutting as she continued to try and suck in deep breaths.

It felt as if she was on a round-a-bout, being spin as she closed her eyes, her stomach tensing from how sick the dizzy feeling was making her feel.

All y/n could hear was her own heartbeat, how quick it was racing in her ears as she tried to count down from 50, trying to think of anything but what had just happened.

It wasn't working, nothing was working and her hands were shaking, oh God her hands were shaking so fucking much. Leah was going to hate her, Georgia definitely hated her.

y/n was going to have to fake her death and run away, dye her hair and get a spray tan, get a job on a beach bar and hope everyone would forget who she was.

The thought of such a dramatic thing is what managed to ground her, the humour in her sudden thought sucked her from her panic attack and suddenly a ghost of a smile bit at her lips.

y/n's hand pushed on the ground, her head spinning as she slowly sucked in a very deep breath, her lungs almost burning in pain as she did so.

Her head was still spinning, as if she was stuck on a round-a-bout and couldn't get off. It was like when she was ten, and Leah had told her to not go on the spinning teacups again at the fair because she would throw up.

y/n ignored her big sister as usual and went back on them with her father, Leah and their mother watching in disapproval as she got off and promptly began to cry because she felt sick.

Leah. The thought of the blonde did further help to calm y/n. The blonde Leah, the feisty captain, her Leah, her big sister who loved her so much. Who would be so angry now she had done this.

y/n's breath sped up again, the thought of that sending her spiralling once more and she tried desperately to grasp back onto reality, in her haze failing to notice the door slamming open, her sister searching for her with wide and panicked eyes.

"y/n?" Leah's voice was quiet as she tried to talk to her younger sister. y/n however just covered her face with her hands, folding herself into her knees as if doing so would protect her from the truth.

"I'm sorry. So sorry." y/n mutters quietly. "So so so so sorry." y/n continues, hiccups interrupting her speech as she continues to sob, her eyes red and skin puffy.

"y/n." Leah says a little stronger now, the woman slowly kneeling next to her sister, almost waiting for her to scarper.

"Leah." y/n says softly, almost as if she had suddenly remembered who her sister was. The younger girl wipes her eyes, looking up at Leah while biting her cheek.

"Hey kiddo." Leah says softly, her hand slowly rubbing circles around y/n's back knowing it calmed the girl. y/n reaches out for her sister, who sees what she is doing.

Leah's hand grabs her sister's hand and places it on her chest, allowing y/n to feel the difference in their heartbeats, y/n could feel the blood pumping rapidly through her ears.

"In with me pumpkin." Leah says softly, breathing in deeply and nodding when her sister does the same. "Now hold for me." She continues before letting the breath out. "And out." She tells her sister.

y/n can already feel the way her blood has slowed its sprint, her heart now slowing it's beat to a much slower rhythm and y/n focussed on that, focused on Leah and her own ever slowing heart.

Leah stayed by her side the entire time and continued rubbing her back until y/n sucked in a breath which was filled with strength and Leah knew her sister had calmed.

"You wanna try and stand?" Leah asks y/n who nods. "Okay, come on." Leah says, taking her sister's hands and helping her to her feet, which y/n does so steadily, albeit on shaky legs.

"Oh Lee." y/n sighs as she looks at herself in the mirror, her red eyes, puffy face, irritated cheeks from the way she had been folded in on herself.

"You've gotten into a right old mess, haven't ya?" Leah asks her sister, moving to sit on the bathroom sink. "Haven't seen you like that in a while." Leah adds to her sister who runs a hand over her face.

"I promised to tell you everything." y/n shrugs. "And I didn't." She adds and Leah chuckles.

"Oh kiddo, I'm not mad about that eh." Leah promises her sister, bringing the girl into a tight hug.

"You're not?" y/n asks, her voice quiet and small as Leah squeezes her again.

"Course I'm not my girl." Leah promises her sister. "But I'm worried about you, and I'm worried about G." Leah admits to her sister who groans.

"I know, it is so bad, but recently it has become so toxic Lee, and I don't know why." y/n tells her sister. "I don't know what I did wrong." She adds and Leah sends her a look.

"You got into bed with your best friend, that is what was wrong." Leah tells her sister who groans.

"Best friend." She scoffs and Leah furrows her brows.

"Huh?" She asks her sister confused, but y/n had already started to spill her honest feelings of everything happening.

"I know, okay, I know that was wrong, but it was working Lee. We were doing okay. And then suddenly it fractured, it broke and we were shattered." y/n rants to her sister, pulling from the blonde.

"When did this happen?" Leah asks y/n.

"It got bad a few weeks ago, but I've been feeling so much worse about the situation for months." y/n tells her sister and Leah lets out a noise of understanding.

A few weeks ago Georgia had started acting weird, and Leah was pretty damn sure a few weeks ago was when the ship edits of y/n and Sydney came out.

"Why were you feeling bad?" Leah then asks her sister, as if realising what the girl had said. Leah's eyes flicker behind her sister, who was turned to Leah.

"Because I've been in love with Georgia for years." y/n admits softly, looking at her feet in what seemed like shame. "And it's killing me." She finishes.

"I'm in love with you too." Georgia's voice echoes and y/n snaps around, mouth dropping in shock at the girl who was stood in the bathroom door.

"Do you want me to stay, do you want me to go?" Leah asks her sister quietly and the girl turns to her sister, smiling softly.

"I'll be okay." y/n promises her sister, Leah sighs before pressing a kiss to her sister's temple and walking toward the door. Leah's hand lands on Georgia's shoulder and squeezes.

At that action Georgia's worry calms, because that was Leah telling her that they were okay, and that maybe Leah understood somewhat, that Georgia hadn't meant to cause this.

"I'm in love with you too." Georgia repeats softly once the door had shut, proving they were alone. "And I've been such a dick because I'm jealous. Jealous of you and Sydney." She continues.

"G, why?" y/n asks.

"Because they were all shipping ya! And I hated it, because I want them shipping you with me." Georgia rants, she throws her arms up as she groans, going to say something else.

y/n however doesn't need her too and beelines to Georgia, cupping her jaw and instead sealing their lips together in a sudden but heated kiss.

Tongues clash as Georgia's hands wrap around y/n, the two putting all the lost feelings they had into a kiss which would forever remain imprinted into their brains, even years from now.

Then it slowed, their kiss became soft and lips slowly pulled from one another as their foreheads rested against each other, breathing in one another's beings.

"What now?" y/n asks Georgia and the girl breathes out a chuckle.

"We are going to go home after this, and I am gonna take you on a date, a proper date where I hold your hand and kiss you." Georgia tells her.

"Yeah, I like the sound of that." y/n smiles and the two connect their lips once more.

"Oh, and I am so sorry for back there-" Georgia doesn't get to finish her sentence because her lips are covered by y/n's own.

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y/n just posted

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y/n my friends are cooler than urs xx

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The room was quiet as y/n looked up at the dark ceiling, her brain trying to comprehend all that had happened that day. She couldn't quite comprehend it.

She was love, she was so loved and she always had been. And she was also an idiot, and had she slowed down and stopped to think about it, maybe she and Georgia could have saved so much time.

Georgia loved her. She actually loved her. What were they supposed to do now? y/n wasn't sure.

"Are you awake?" Georgia asks aloud, her whisper cutting through the dark and quiet room.

"No, I'm sleep talking back to you." y/n tells Georgia who snorts in response.

"Can I be with you?" Georgia asks quietly and y/n grins at her hand.

"Please." y/n tells Georgia and soon enough the two are tangled together, y/n running her hand through Georgia's hand soothingly.

"We really did it all so wrong didn't we?" Georgia asks, a smile on her voice.

"Oh completely." y/n agrees to Georgia who chuckles. "But we got there." She adds, pressing a kiss to Georgia's head and the girl kisses her neck in return.

"I love ya." Georgia tells y/n and the girl smiles.

"I love you too." y/n promises her. "Best friend." She adds and Georgia's laugh echoes the room.

Oh yeah, y/n really loved her. And you know what? Georgia loved her just as much.

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[httpvomitello]

Hey! Would you be willing to write a Draco Malfoy x potter reader where their parents are still alive (no voldy au?) and her parents find out that they are dating? Like Harry, James, and Lilly's reactions and maybe remus and sirius's as well? If not that's okay! Hope you have a great day/night!

OMG YEEEES! I was so happy to write this, you have no idea. My dear Potters, along with Sirius and my husband Remus deserve a beautiful happy ending (to be alive). I hope you like it ~ ♡

Love and War *⁠.⁠✧

Summary: Being Harry Potter’s sister meant that your life was anything but simple. Still, you had managed to keep one secret safe—your relationship with Draco Malfoy. That is, until your parents found. Bringing home your Malfoy boyfriend was bound to be… interesting.

draco malfoy x f!reader

WARNINGS: Marauders AU, no war, everyone is alive and happy (except James for knowing that his little girl is dating a Malfoy).

It wasn’t like you had been planning to tell them.

Not yet, at least.

Maybe after you and Draco had been dating a bit longer. Maybe after you had figured out how to not break into a cold sweat at the idea of your father hexing your boyfriend into the next century. Maybe after you had prepared Draco for exactly how dramatic your family could be.

But the universe clearly had other plans.

Because James Potter had the worst timing in the world.

And now you were standing in the middle of the sitting room, Draco Malfoy beside you, while your father looked at him like he was trying to figure out which hex would do the most damage.

“Excuse me?” James said, staring at you like he had misheard.

You took a deep breath, gripping Draco’s hand a little tighter. “I said… Draco and I are dating.”

The silence was suffocating.

Your mother was the first to react, her eyebrows shooting up as she exchanged a glance with James. “Oh.”

“Oh?” James repeated, his voice going slightly high-pitched. He turned back to you, his eyes wide with disbelief. “You—you’re dating him?”

Draco cleared his throat. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Potter.”

James blinked. Then blinked again. “You hexed my son in third year.”

Draco grimaced. “In my defense, he was being very annoying.”

You elbowed him in the ribs. Not the time, Draco.

James made an indignant noise. “That’s your defense? That’s your defense? Oh, this is fantastic. Just brilliant.” He turned to Sirius, who was sitting on the couch with an expression of pure amusement. “Padfoot, are you hearing this?”

“Oh, loud and clear, Prongs.” Sirius smirked, his gray eyes twinkling. “Honestly, I’m just impressed. Our little girl bagged a Malfoy? Bold move.”

You groaned. “Please don’t say bagged.”

James ignored you, still looking very much like he was going to have an aneurysm. “Lily. Lils. Say something.”

Your mother, who had been silently watching this entire trainwreck unfold, sighed. “I think we should all sit down and talk about this rationally—”

James threw his hands in the air. “Rationally? I am being rational! I am so rational right now!”

Sirius snorted. “Sure, mate.”

“Remus, back me up here!”

The werewolf, who had been calmly sipping his tea throughout this entire ordeal, finally sighed and set his cup down. “Well, James, as much as I understand your… concerns…” He cast a glance at Draco. “I do think Y/N is capable of making her own choices.”

James gaped at him. “You’re okay with this? You’re okay with Lucius Malfoy’s son dating my daughter?”

“I wouldn’t say okay, necessarily,” Remus mused. “But I also don’t think hexing him is the answer.”

James grumbled something under his breath, but he didn’t argue.

Your mother turned to Draco, her expression much softer than your father’s. “Draco, dear, I hope you understand why this is… a bit of a shock.”

Draco, who had remained remarkably composed throughout this entire ordeal, nodded. “I do, Mrs. Potter.” He glanced at James before adding, “And I promise, I care about Y/N. A lot.”

You squeezed his hand, silently thanking him for holding his ground.

James ran a hand through his already messy hair, letting out a long sigh. “You owe me for this, kid,” he muttered, glaring at you.

You grinned. “Love you, Dad.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He groaned. “Merlin help us all.”

If there was one person you had not wanted to find out about your relationship with Draco just yet, it was Harry.

Because unlike your father, who at least had some level of restraint, your brother had a very bad habit of acting first and thinking later.

Which is why, when Harry walked into the sitting room and saw Draco standing there—hand in yours—his reaction was, well… predictable.

He stopped dead in his tracks. His green eyes darted between you and Draco, his brows furrowing. “What’s going on?”

James let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, nothing much, son. Just found out your dear sister is dating Malfoy.”

Harry’s face went blank.

Then he laughed.

Like, actually laughed.

A short, disbelieving chuckle, like he thought this was some kind of joke.

Then he saw your expression.

And the color drained from his face.

“You’re serious?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

Harry turned to Draco, his whole body going tense. “Are you serious?”

Draco exhaled, looking like he was bracing himself for impact. “Yes, Potter. I’m serious.”

The silence was deafening.

Then, in the blink of an eye, Harry was moving.

Draco barely had time to react before your brother was shoving him backward, his hands gripping the front of Draco’s robes.

“Harry!” you gasped, grabbing his arm, but he wasn’t listening.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Harry snapped, his face inches from Draco’s. “Did you forget that you made my life a living hell for years? That you—”

“That was years ago,” you interrupted, yanking at his arm. “People change, Harry!”

Harry scoffed, still glaring at Draco. “Do they?”

Draco—who, to his credit, hadn’t fought back—held his gaze. “Yes.”

Harry let out a sharp breath, his grip tightening for a second before he finally shoved Draco away.

“Why him?” he demanded, turning to you now, his voice laced with disbelief. “Out of everyone, why did it have to be him?”

“Because I love him, Harry!”

The words came out before you could stop them.

And just like that, the whole room went silent.

Harry stared at you, his chest rising and falling quickly.

James ran a hand down his face. “Oh, bloody hell.”

Sirius whistled under his breath. “Well, that’s one way to break the news.”

You ignored them, your eyes locked onto your brother’s. “I love him,” you repeated, your voice quieter but just as firm.

Harry exhaled, his shoulders sagging. He looked at you, then at Draco, then back at you.

And for the first time since walking in, he actually looked at Draco.

Not as an enemy. Not as some childhood rival.

But as a person.

A person who, for some reason, you had chosen.

“…Does he make you happy?” Harry finally asked, his voice gruff.

Your expression softened. “Yeah. He does.”

Harry’s jaw tensed, and for a moment, you thought he was going to start yelling again.

But then he just sighed, running a hand through his messy hair.

“I still think you’re an arsehole,” he muttered, glaring at Draco.

Draco smirked slightly. “Likewise, Potter.”

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Lily, who had been watching all of this unfold, clapped her hands together. “Well. That could’ve gone worse.”

James groaned. “This is a nightmare.”

Remus patted his shoulder. “It could be worse. She could’ve brought home a Death Eater.”

James shot him a glare. “Not funny, Moony.”

Sirius grinned. “Oh, come on, Prongs. Look on the bright side—at least she didn’t end up with a Slytherin worse than Malfoy.”

James narrowed his eyes. “And what, exactly, would be worse than Malfoy?”

Sirius shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe someone who actually likes Snape?”

James shuddered. “Ugh. Fair point.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to Harry. “So… we’re good?”

Harry exhaled. “I’m still mad. And I still think you could’ve done way better.”

Draco huffed. “Charming.”

“But,” Harry continued, ignoring him, “if he really makes you happy…” He sighed. “Then I guess I’ll just have to deal with it.”

Your face softened. “Thanks, Harry.”

He grumbled something under his breath before pulling you into a quick hug. “Just… don’t expect me to start inviting him to family Quidditch games anytime soon.”

Draco smirked. “I’d wipe the floor with you, Potter.”

Harry shot him a glare. “Oh, you’re on.”

[colouredbyd]

—So You'll Bury Your Own

brother!sirius black x fem!sister!reader x brother!regulus black, james potter x reader

synopsis: being a Black means learning to ache in silence, to carry what burns without letting it show. but healing, you find, is quieter still — braided through soft hands, old names, and voices that stay. and some burdens, it turns out, are lighter when carried together.

cw: Chronic illness, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, emotional breakdowns, grief, physical pain, mental deterioration, identity loss, emotional neglect,hospital scenes, overdose, allusions to death, trauma responses, self-hatred, references to childhood neglect, emotional repression, siblings reconnecting. happy ending!!!

w/c: 9k

based on: this request!!

a/n: i absolutely love this <3 it healed a lot in me </3 also who knew that wiseman would inspire this fic

part one part three dalia analyses of this!! masterlist

You just stare at him.

Like the world has turned inside out and dropped you in the heart of something you can’t name.

Sirius.

Your brother.

Not in memory or in ghost-form or in a stitched-up version from your loneliest dreams — but real, here, breathing raggedly in the doorway like he’s just clawed his way through hell and found you at the center of it.

His eyes are so red they look bruised, lashes wet and clumped like he’s been crying for hours and still hasn’t stopped. His chest rises and falls with frantic rhythm, the kind that doesn't belong to a boy but to someone broken wide open.

His face—he’s all wrong and all familiar. Pale where pride once sat. Crushed in the mouth. Swollen beneath the eyes. And still your brother. Still him.

You can’t move.

There is blood in your limbs but it no longer listens to you. Because you had made peace with leaving — with slipping out of this world like ink in water, quiet and unnoticed. You weren’t supposed to have to see the aftermath.

You weren’t supposed to look into the eyes of someone who would’ve stormed the afterlife itself to find you. You weren’t supposed to see what your absence would’ve done.

And then he moves.

It’s not a walk. It’s not even a stumble. It’s a collapse forward, all motion and desperation, arms reaching before words can form. He crashes into you like the air gave out between you both — a falling star, a scream unspoken, a thousand things too late.

His body slams into yours and you don’t even brace. There’s no time. The weight of him sends you both backward, tangled, breathless, hitting the floor in a clumsy, too-human heap.

“S—Sirius—” you try, but his arms are already around you, fists clenched in the fabric of your sleeves like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

He breaks.

Right there, right on your shoulder — his face buries into the curve of your neck like he’s never needed anything more, and the sound that tears from him is not a sob but a shattering. A noise pulled from the bottom of something that’s been hollowed out for far too long.

He cries with no elegance. No walls. No words. Just shaking and gasping and trembling and shaking again, the way grief does when it finally finds room to land.

“Don’t,” he whispers, cracked and hoarse and still so loud in your ear. “Don’t do that to me. Don’t leave. Don’t ever—”

You don’t answer. You don’t know how to.

You lie there beneath him, cold and burning all at once, and let him shake against your chest like a boy who never learned how to lose. His hands are curled into your shirt, and he’s trembling so badly it rattles your ribs, and you’re still stiff, still hollow, still bleeding nothing where everything should be.

And yet something—just a thread, just a ghost—shifts inside you. Not forgiveness. Not hope. Just the smallest, aching realization that someone came back for you. Not the version you wore in front of others. Not the one who smiled through it. But you. This broken, fading, raw thing. You.

“I didn’t know,” Sirius chokes, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hands cup your face, shaking. “I didn’t see it—I didn’t see you. And I’m your brother, and I—I should’ve known.”

You blink, slowly. He’s crying again. He hasn’t stopped. His face is wet and shining and messy and full of something awful and pure, and you hate him for making you feel something like warmth in a moment meant for ruin.

“I wanted to go quietly,” you whisper. “Without… hurting anyone.”

“Well,” he breathes, voice a rasp, forehead pressing against yours, “you failed miserably.”

And you laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because it hurts so much that your body can’t tell the difference anymore.

His hands are on your face before you even register the movement — warm, trembling, cradling you like you’re something breakable he’s just now learning how to hold. His thumbs brush over your cheekbones, as if trying to memorize the bones beneath your skin, as if looking at you isn’t enough — he has to feel you, anchor you, prove to himself that you’re still here.

He tilts your face gently to the side, and his eyes are scanning you in that frantic, desperate way people do when they’re checking for injuries.

You can see it behind the wet lashes, behind the tears still falling without his permission — fear. Bone-deep, soul-hollowing fear. Like he’s still waiting to wake up and find you gone.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, though your voice cracks at the edges, and your hands find his wrists, fingers curling tight. “I’m here.”

But then your gaze drops.

Blood.

It’s on your sleeve. On the floor. And smeared, thin and sharp, across the creases of his palm where glass must have shattered during the fall. His hands — the same ones that shook when he held your face, the same ones that once reached for yours across a thousand childhood halls — are streaked crimson.

From hugging you. From clutching too tightly. From crashing to the floor through spilled potion and broken glass and years of silence.

Your breath hitches. “Sirius—your hands—”

He looks down as if only now remembering. As if he felt nothing, so loud was the panic. Then he just shakes his head, jaw tightening.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, voice thick. “Doesn’t—nothing matters, not like that. You—” His voice breaks. “Why would you do that?”

He says it like he already knows. Like he doesn’t want to understand but can’t stop asking. His hands are bleeding and he still brings them back to your face, gently now, softly, like he’s afraid to hurt you more.

“Why would you do that, huh? Why wouldn’t you tell me? Why wouldn’t you let me in—?”

You try to speak, but he’s still unraveling.

“I should’ve been there. I should’ve—I should’ve written, or called, or showed up. I should���ve—fuck, I should’ve never left you like that. I thought—” He lets out a laugh that isn’t a laugh at all.

“I thought you hated me. You stopped talking and I—Merlin, I thought you were siding with them. With Mum. With everything. I thought you’d already made your choice.”

You blink slowly. Your throat feels like it’s wrapped in wool and fire.

“I was always punished for speaking,” you say, quiet. “Every time I raised my voice, she crushed it. So I stopped. I thought you knew that.”

Sirius flinches like you’ve hit him.

You don’t stop. The words are small and soft but each one scrapes from the hollow of your chest like glass. “I never stood against you. I never could. You’re my brother, Sirius.”

His eyes close. Something in his face folds. You watch the weight drop onto him like a cathedral crumbling — years of guilt, years of leaving, years of assuming you were just another echo of their mother’s hate.

And it’s not anger in his face. Not shame, even. It’s heartbreak. The kind that comes from realizing all the stories you told yourself to survive were lies — and someone else paid the price.

“I thought you hated me,” Sirius says again, but quieter now. “I thought you meant it when you stopped looking at me.”

“I never meant it,” you whisper, voice breaking like tide on rock. “I didn’t know how to mean anything anymore. She—she made me small. I was just trying to survive without disappearing.”

He laughs again, and it cracks down the middle. “Funny. I thought I had to disappear to survive.”

Your fingers twitch against his wrists. He still hasn’t let go of your face.

“I left because I thought staying would kill me,” he says. “I ran and ran and kept running and you—I told myself you didn’t need me. That if you did, you would’ve said something. Looked at me. Anything.”

“I was always being watched,” you murmur. “Every word cost something. And I—I thought you chose to stop seeing me.”

“I never stopped seeing you,” Sirius snaps, but not out of anger. Out of grief.

“I saw everything. I saw you shrinking. I saw Mum turn your light off room by room and I—fuck, I didn’t know how to stop it. I didn’t know how to stay and fight and still be whole.”

Your voice is a rasp now. “So you left us behind?”

“I left them. I thought you—” He swallows. “I thought you hated me for leaving Regulus behind. For not taking you with me.”

“I didn’t hate you,” you say. “I missed you.”

He blinks hard. The tears are falling again. “I missed you too.”

You look at his face, streaked in red and salt. His hands still tremble against your jaw. And something like grief twists inside you.

“I used to sit in that hospital bed and wait for you to look at me,” you say slowly. “You’d be right there for him, for Remus. Right there. And you’d never turn your head. Never once.”

Sirius opens his mouth, then closes it. Guilt flashes, molten and ugly, through every line of him.

“I thought if I looked at you,” he says at last, “I’d have to admit what I did. What I didn’t do. And I couldn’t. I was a coward.”

“I was your sister,” you say, and your voice is trembling now too. “And you didn’t see me.”

“I see you now,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll never stop being sorry.”

You nod, slowly, something cold sinking back into your spine. Something you can’t name. You press your lips together, watch his face — his bloodied palms, his storm of regret, his cracked voice.

“You’re my brother,” you say, like a truth, like a wound. Then, softer: “But your eyes were cold.”

He flinches like you’d whispered a curse, like your words shattered something brittle he’d been pretending was still whole.

His hands fall from your face not in anger, not in defense, but with the trembling reverence of someone letting go of a relic they finally understand they never deserved to hold.

For a moment — no, for longer than that — the silence between you crackles with everything that was never said. It hangs there, aching, bruised, begging not to be buried again.

And then, so soft it sounds like it’s breaking as it leaves him, he murmurs, “I know.”

His eyes drop. Because he can’t bear to meet yours — can’t bear for you to see that some part of him is still winter, still cold, still tangled in the darkness he chose over you. Because if he looks long enough, he knows you’ll find it.

The frost in him that never thawed.

You let him lead you through the quiet halls, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of everything you almost gave away. The weight of his arms was both a cradle and a cage — holding you upright, steadying your faltering steps, but also reminding you of every absence, every silence stretched too long between you.

You didn’t want to be seen here like this, didn’t want anyone to know the shape your desperation had taken. The last thing you wanted was whispers or pity trailing after you like ghosts.

So when he murmured low, voice rough with everything unsaid, “I won’t tell Madam Pomfrey, not a word,” you felt a fragile shard of relief crack open inside you. You nodded, almost too tired to speak, trusting him with the only secret you’d dared carry alone.

The infirmary smelled of antiseptic and old magic, the steady ticking of the clocks a quiet reminder that time was passing — though you wished it would stop.

Madam Pomfrey was busy with another patient, a boy from the Quidditch team, his arm wrapped tightly, grimacing in pain. She glanced at you with a practiced eye, reading the silent plea in your posture, but didn’t press.

Instead, she reached for her supplies and glanced at Sirius with a knowing look — one that said she’d seen this before, and she was ready.

Sirius sat beside you, his fingers curling protectively around yours as the bandages wrapped tightly around his palms. You noticed then the thin lines of blood tracing down his wrists from the broken glass he hadn’t bothered to mention.

You wanted to reach out, to ease it somehow, but your fingers felt too heavy, too fragile. You only watched as the tension in his jaw softened, the brief flicker of pain he tried to swallow.

When Madam Pomfrey turned her attention to you, checking your pulse and watching your breathing with that sharp, clinical care, you closed your eyes and let her work, feeling the cold press of her hands and the warmth of the potion she dabbed gently on your skin.

It soothed and stung all at once — like the pain inside you, raw and real and aching in every breath.

Sirius didn’t say much; his quiet presence was steady, but you could feel the storm behind his eyes, the fight he was waging not to unravel in front of you.

And then, just as quietly as he’d come, Sirius slipped away. His steps were soft, careful, as if leaving you was its own kind of punishment. You heard the faint creak of the infirmary door closing behind him and the hollow echo of footsteps fading down the corridor.

You were left with the sterile quiet, the ache in your chest, and the fragile promise that some secrets could stay locked between two broken souls — even if only for a little while.

You don’t ask where he went. You don’t let yourself wonder, because wondering leads to hope and hope is still too sharp. Instead, you sit in the hush he left behind, your hands folded in your lap like you’re still praying to be seen.

Madam Pomfrey moves quietly around you, fingers gentle on your wrist, eyes soft but heavy with knowledge she never speaks aloud.

“Not all wounds bleed, dear,” she says at last, voice low as if confiding something sacred. “Some sit in the marrow. Some take root in the bone.”

You nod, barely. It aches to move. It aches not to.

She touches your shoulder, not to fix but to reassure. “Warmth helps. Rest. Tea with thyme and a bit of honey. And something that sings. Even quiet pain needs a lullaby.”

You don’t have the heart to tell her your voice went quiet the day your brother stopped looking at you like you were still made of light and not just what remained of it.

The silence hangs fragile between you, stitched with the clink of glass and the soft rustle of linen — until it’s broken.

Screaming. Outside. Sharp and sudden like lightning cracking bone.

“Stop!” It’s Sirius. Loud, desperate. His voice shatters the calm like a stone through stained glass.

Madam Pomfrey snaps her head toward the door, already moving. “Stay here,” she instructs, tight and brisk, years of practiced authority kicking in.

“I swear, these boys will be the death of me.”

You don’t stay. Of course you don’t.

Because you already know.

You swing your legs over the cot slowly, every limb trembling with fatigue, but your heart beats fast and wild. The shouting grows louder. The door flies open before you can reach it.

And then —

He’s there. Regulus.

Not the polished version the world sees, not the cool shadow of a perfect Black heir. But a boy unraveling, wild-eyed and furious, his robes twisted, hair falling into his face, hands shaking with rage. “Where is she?” he’s demanding, voice fraying at the edges.

“Regulus—” Sirius tries, but Regulus ignores him.

He storms through the infirmary like a storm, tearing open curtain after curtain, ignoring the protests of beds still occupied. “Where is she? Where is she—”

You don’t move. You can’t.

The curtain pulls back with the soft, traitorous hiss of fabric betraying silence — and the world goes still.

You don’t lift your head. You don’t need to. The air has shifted — the way it does before a storm, or after a prayer that’s gone unanswered. You feel him before you see him. Regulus.

He doesn’t say your name.

He doesn’t have to.

His presence hangs in the room like breath held too long — like grief trapped behind ribcages and white-knuckled resolve.

You can feel the way he’s looking at you — not straight at your face, not at your hands or the thin sheet drawn over your knees, but lower. There, at your back.

At the braid.

The one you wore like a memory. Like a keepsake. The one only two people in the world ever loved. Sirius had tugged it. Regulus had braided it.

And now his eyes are stuck to it like it’s something sacred. Something ruined.

You look up — and your lungs forget what to do.

He stands at the foot of your bed like a ghost unsure of its haunting. Pale, gaunt in the way that says he hasn’t slept properly in months. His eyes — they look like frost bitten into storm clouds. Wet, wide, unblinking.

His hands hang by his sides. Trembling. Shaking like he’s holding back an entire tide of something unspeakable.

Behind him, Sirius stumbles in, breathless, voice sharp and breaking in one syllable: “What the fuck, Regulus?”

Madam Pomfrey snaps to attention. “I will not have a shouting match in my infirmary—”

But Regulus doesn’t even flinch.

And Madam knows. You see it on her face — in the way her mouth thins, the way her eyes flicker to you, then to him, then soften. She nods once, tight-lipped, and vanishes behind the heavy oak door, leaving only the three of you in the thick, trembling stillness of what’s left unsaid.

Regulus hasn’t moved.

You’re sitting upright now, your hands shaking in your lap, your shoulders curved inward like you could make yourself smaller, less breakable, less seen.

Still, his gaze doesn’t leave the braid.

The silence is unbearable.

“Reg—” your voice barely carries. It’s scraped raw, soft as snowfall. “Reg, please…”

He blinks — once — and you see the glisten in his lashes.

“Say something,” you beg, your voice catching, shoulders trembling now too. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that.”

But he does.

Like the braid is a funeral ribbon. Like you’ve carved something cruel into his chest just by standing there. Like he’s looking at the girl he grew up with — the one who used to hide poetry under her pillow and sneak cold apples from the kitchens — and seeing a stranger in her place.

You curl in on yourself. Press the heel of your palm into your eye to keep it from spilling again. But it’s no use. A sob leaves you — not loud, but enough to shatter something between you both.

Still, Regulus says nothing. He just stares. Hands trembling. Heart, you think, doing the same.

And it hurts.

Like watching a star collapse in real time.

Like remembering, all at once, every word you never said to him. Every letter you never sent. Every ache that grew between you in the years of silence and split loyalties and all the things you weren’t allowed to feel.

You want him to yell. To say you betrayed him. To say you ruined everything. Anything.

But he’s silent.

And it is the loudest thing you have ever heard.

Regulus steps forward, his movement hesitant yet inevitable, like the slow breaking of ice under a restless sky. His hands tremble ever so slightly, fingers curling and uncurling as if trying to grasp the edges of a fragile truth too sharp to hold.

His eyes, those dark pools of silent storms, lock onto yours with an intensity that both roots you to the spot and threatens to tear you apart.

Then, with a voice low and steady, carrying the weight of all the things left unsaid, he asks: “Is it true? Did you really try to kill yourself?”

The words hang heavy in the air, unsparing and raw, stripped of any softness or mercy. There is no sugar-coating here, no gentle circumspection — only the brutal, shattering truth laid bare like bones picked clean.

And as the question falls from his lips, you feel the coldness of it seep into your skin, like frost creeping into bare flesh. You realize in that moment that this is real — it’s not just a secret you’ve carried alone in silence, not just a shadow lingering at the edges of your days. It’s a living thing now, given breath and shape by his voice.

Even Sirius flinches at the sound, his shoulders stiffening as if struck by a sudden gust of pain he had tried to ignore. You stay still, breath caught in a fragile pause between surrender and denial, because hearing it named aloud—so plainly, so fearlessly—removes the last veil of distance and forces you to confront the ache in its full, terrible clarity.

Sirius steps in front of you before you can say anything — before you can find the voice buried beneath the wreckage of what Regulus’s question unearthed.

There’s a rage about him, but not the cruel kind — it’s blistering and desperate, the fury of someone watching something they love be handled too roughly.

He shoves Regulus back with a hand to his chest, not hard, but enough to draw a line between grief and guilt.

“That’s not how you ask,” Sirius hisses, voice shaking. “She’s still bleeding inside. You don’t get to storm in here and demand—”

“Don’t tell me what I get to do!” Regulus snaps back, eyes flaring, voice rising like a tide he can’t hold back.

“You don’t get to disappear for months and suddenly pretend like you’re the only one who cares!”

“I never pretended,” Sirius growls, taking a step closer. “You think I didn’t care? I found her. I was the one who—” His voice breaks, sharp and ugly.

“You weren’t there, Reg.”

“You left us!” Regulus’s voice is full now, a hurricane of sorrow and betrayal. “You left me. You left her. Don’t stand there and talk about who was there when you made it so we had to survive without you.”

Sirius recoils as if struck, and something bitter twists his mouth. “You think I wanted to leave?” His voice drops, not quieter, but heavier.

“You think I could stay when everything was falling apart and I couldn’t tell who was lying and who wasn’t and she stopped writing back and you—”

“I never stopped writing!” you finally choke, but neither of them hears you.

“You shut down!” Sirius shouts at Regulus. “You looked at me like I was the enemy!”

“You were the enemy!” Regulus yells, chest heaving. “You ran off to play rebel with your new family and left us behind to clean up the mess. You didn’t even say goodbye.”

Sirius takes another step forward, his face crumpling, years of anger and guilt and heartache tightening into something sharp.

“Because I didn’t know if I’d survive it. I didn’t know if I could say goodbye to you both and live with it.” His voice is raw now, splintering around the edges.

“I didn’t know who you were anymore. She stopped answering. You stopped talking. And I—I thought I’d lost you both.”

“And now she’s—” Regulus can’t finish it. He gestures helplessly toward you, voice cracking. “You almost lost her forever, Sirius.”

“I know!” Sirius roars, turning on him so suddenly you flinch. “You think I don’t know? I found the bottle. I found her barely breathing. I thought—” His hands shake as he rakes them through his hair.

“I thought I was too late. I thought she was gone. And I would’ve deserved it. Because I—I wasn’t there when she needed me.”

Silence swells between them for a breath, just long enough for the weight of it all to settle in the bones of the room.

And then Sirius turns to you, voice breaking as he points — not at your pain, not at your wounds, but at your heart. “She’s my sister,” he says, low but blazing. “She’s not blood. She’s more than that. She’s mine. And I let her down.”

Regulus stares at him, stunned.

And then his voice comes quiet. Shaken. Hurt in the most childlike way.

“And I’m your brother too.”

The words land like a blow, not loud, not sharp — just unbearably true.

A single tear carves a path down Regulus’s cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away. Doesn’t move at all. Just stands there, blinking, like Sirius has punched the breath from his lungs.

His chest rises unevenly, and he stares at the floor like it might hold some answer to everything they've both broken.

The silence has weight — not the soft kind, but the kind that drips like melted wax onto already raw skin. No one speaks. You can feel it tremble in the air between them, like a wire pulled too tight.

Regulus moves.

He yanks his tie loose with shaking hands — not neatly, but frantically, like it’s choking him. The fabric hits the floor with a soft, pitiful flutter, and he’s already reaching up to press trembling fingers into his eyes, but it’s too late. The tears come anyway, and this time, he doesn’t stop them.

“I’m your brother too, Sirius!” he finally bursts out, voice raw, like it’s been clawing its way up his throat for years.

“I was your brother before any of this — before you ran off and left us! Left me!”

His chest is heaving now, sobs breaking free without rhythm, and you’ve never seen him like this. Never seen his composure shatter so utterly.

“I was twelve!” he chokes, stepping back from Sirius like being near him burns. “I was twelve and you were everything. You were brave and stupid and loud and you laughed in the face of everything I was too scared to even whisper about. I wanted to be like you. I worshipped you.”

He laughs then — hollow, broken — and runs a hand through his hair, tugging too hard. “And then you left. You left. Didn’t even look back. Do you know what it did to her? To me?”

Sirius tries to speak, but Regulus cuts him off, eyes wild now, shining with the kind of grief that never found a place to settle.

“She stopped coming to me after you left,” Regulus says, softer now but still shaking.

“At first, I thought she was angry. But then I realized — she thought I’d leave too. She looked at me like she was waiting for it. Like I’d vanish just like you.”

Your breath catches, and Sirius goes still.

“And it killed me,” Regulus whispers. “Because I would’ve never left her. I never planned to. But she didn’t believe me — not really — not after you. And I hated you for that. I hated you because the moment you left, I started losing her too.”

His voice wavers again, breaks apart into something smaller.

“You weren’t just her big brother, Sirius. You were mine too.”

His hands are shaking at his sides, open like he doesn’t know what to hold onto. You think if he grips one more thing too tight, he’ll bleed. Maybe he already is — not from the cuts on his palms, but the ones he's carried since that day Sirius walked out the door and didn’t look back.

There’s a long, aching pause. Neither of them knows what to do with the grief in the room, so large it might swallow all three of you.

Your sobs are choking out of you in stuttering, fractured waves. “I—I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t trying to… I just didn’t know how to—how to stay,” you gasp, every word struggling past the agony clawing up your throat.

“I thought I was doing you a favour—both of you—I thought you’d be better off without—”

“Don’t,” Sirius breathes, pulling you tighter against his chest, his voice trembling. “Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that again.”

“I didn’t know how to ask for help,” you cry, fingers curling into Sirius’s robes, your whole body shaking from the force of grief finally spoken aloud. “I thought if I stayed quiet… if I just stayed small… maybe I wouldn’t ruin anything else.”

“You were never ruining anything,” Sirius whispers fiercely, like it physically hurts him to hear your words. “You’re not a burden, you’re not a mistake, you never were—”

“I’m sorry,” you sob again, looking past his shoulder at Regulus. “Reg… I’m sorry I stopped coming to you. I didn’t know how to face you after Sirius left—”

And that name, that ache, it cracks something in Regulus.

“You stopped coming to me because of him,” Regulus says quietly, like a wound being reopened. “Because you thought I’d leave you too.”

You nod, shame making your spine curl. “Everyone always leaves. I didn’t want to find out if you would.”

Regulus’s mouth trembles. “And you thought dying would hurt less than asking me to stay?”

You can’t answer, not really. So instead, you reach for him again. And this time, when his fingers catch yours, it’s with no hesitation.

He sinks to his knees beside Sirius, and for a second, the three of you are just breathing. No yelling. No silence. Just breathing.

“I hated you for it, Sirius,” Regulus says, the words escaping like they've been burning holes in his throat for years. His tie dangles from his fingers, forgotten, his shirt rumpled from the fall, his eyes rimmed red and shining with unshed fury.

“I hated you so much I could barely breathe some days. You were my brother. You were mine before anything—before Gryffindor, before your damn rebellion, before you decided we weren’t enough.”

He’s trembling now, voice cracking around the edges, the sheen in his eyes spilling over in quiet, furious tears.

“You were my brother, and you left. You left me in that house—left me with Mother and her silence and Father and his rules, and her. You left me to rot in a mausoleum while you carved out your freedom and never once looked back.”

Sirius says nothing. Not yet. His jaw tightens, but he’s still holding you, knuckles bone-white, like if he lets go now, you’ll disappear for real.

Regulus steps closer, shoulders heaving. “She stopped coming to me after you left. Did you know that? She used to come to my room at night and braid my hair with shaking hands. She used to hum under her breath when the walls got too loud. She used to talk about you like you hung the stars. And then one day she just stopped.”

Your breath stutters. You remember those nights. You remember stopping, too.

“I’d wait for her,” Regulus continues, voice barely holding. “I’d wait with the door cracked open just enough. I’d leave out her favourite books. I even carved her a charm to put on her braid—she never came for it. I thought maybe she was angry at me, too. But no, it was worse. She was afraid I’d vanish the same way you did. So she pulled away before I had the chance to prove her right.”

Sirius’s voice finally scrapes out. “I thought she hated me. I thought she stopped writing because she picked your side—because she believed everything they said about me.”

“She stopped writing,” Regulus hisses, “because every time she opened her mouth, someone hurt her for it. Because silence was safer. Because she learned that words were dangerous the night you left and didn’t say goodbye.”

You flinch.

“I kept hating you,” Regulus breathes.

“Because hating you was the only way I knew how to stay angry enough to survive. But you were the first thing I ever loved. And when you disappeared, something broke in me so violently I don’t think it ever healed. You were supposed to be the one thing I could count on.”

He swallows hard. Drops his tie to the floor like it weighs too much to carry.

“You broke her. And when she stopped needing me, it broke me, too.”

The words hang there like smoke. Sirius stares at the ground, breathing hard through his nose, mouth pinched like he’s keeping something back. Your body aches from sobbing, but something still lingers on your tongue.

The silence that follows is not empty—it is thick with the ache of unspoken years, of letters unsent and hands unheld, of nights curled around longing with no one to listen.

It’s the kind of silence that trembles, like the earth before the rain. You can barely hear the ticking of the infirmary clock beneath the weight of it.

Regulus stands frozen, tear-streaked and shivering in the dim light, and Sirius is still kneeling at your side, his arm locked protectively around you as if anchoring you to this moment. His chest rises and falls with breaths he doesn’t know how to take.

And then, without warning, Sirius rises.

Not with fury or resistance—but with something quieter, something breaking.

He crosses the small space between them in three slow steps and stops just short of touching. Regulus doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t breathe. His eyes are glassy and far away, like he’s still half-waiting for Sirius to turn around again and leave.

But Sirius doesn’t leave.

He steps in and wraps his arms around his little brother, the motion a little clumsy from all the years they went without it. His chin presses to the curve of Regulus’s shoulder. His fingers tremble where they cling to the back of his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius whispers. “I’m so—Reg, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know how much I left behind.”

At first Regulus stands stiff, every muscle locked tight like he might shatter from the touch. And then—

He sinks into it.

It’s not graceful. It’s not easy. It’s like grief wrestles with his spine before it lets him bend. But he does.

He leans into his brother’s chest and fists both hands into Sirius’s robes and lets out a sob that sounds like it’s been trapped in his ribs since he was twelve years old.

You watch them with eyes swollen and raw, your own heart a wounded bird beating against its cage. And before you know what you’re doing, you’re moving too—rising to your knees, crawling toward them like the gravity between the three of you has finally won.

Your arms wind around both their waists. One arm around Sirius, one around Regulus. A knot in the center. A lifeline in the dark.

None of you speak.

There are no names, no rebukes, no conditions.

Regulus's breath hitches against your shoulder, his fingers curling gently into your braid, like he's afraid it might vanish if he lets go. Sirius presses his forehead to yours, eyes clenched shut like he's praying through skin.

And you—weary, weeping, but breathing—you press your face into the space between them and let yourself be held.

No one wins this grief. No one walks away clean.

Because the Black name had always been a curse stitched into your skin—an inheritance of fire and frost. It did not cradle its children; it claimed them. Moulded them into altars of silence and expectation. And each of you—Sirius, Regulus, and you—had carried that name like a wound in a different place.

For Sirius, it had burned in his throat. It turned into rebellion, into shouting matches that ended in slammed doors and broken photo frames, in the kind of departure that tasted like ash and gasoline. He had to run because if he didn’t, it would consume him.

And so he ran, not knowing that the fire followed. That the emptiness he left behind in that cold manor turned into something sharp and echoing in the hearts of those who stayed.

For Regulus, it had lived in his bones. It didn’t scream. It whispered. Dutiful son. Perfect heir. He learned early how to fold pain into silence, how to smile with his teeth clenched. He bore it all—every twisted tradition, every expectation, every tightening collar—as if it were his penance.

Because someone had to stay. Because someone had to be the mirror their mother could still admire. But in the quiet, in the dark, it splintered him. You saw it. You saw how it hollowed him out, day after day. But he never asked for help. Because what right did the golden son have to ache?

And you. You were the secret between them. The one who did not shout, and did not stay, but simply endured. You curled your pain into the softest parts of yourself and made it quiet. Made it poetic.

The ache lived in your music, in your gaze, in the way you held them both from a distance even when they stood beside you. You became a ghost before you even had the chance to disappear.

The Black name haunted all three of you—but in different languages. In different ghosts. And maybe that was the cruelest part: the way it kept you from seeing each other’s pain. Because you were so busy hiding yours.

Because if you looked too closely, if you let them look too closely, they would see it. The ruin. The breaking. The unbearable weight of being born into a war you never asked for, under a name you didn’t choose, with a future you were too kind to believe in.

But now, here you are. All three of you.

No longer hiding. No longer running.

You’re a knot of limbs and sobs, of shivering hands and raw apologies.

Regulus clutches Sirius like he used to when they were children, when the thunder was loud and the manor darker than death. Sirius strokes the back of Regulus’s head like he’s trying to remember how to be someone’s brother again.

And you—you are cradled between them, your hand buried in Sirius’s collar, the other tangled in Regulus’s robes, anchoring both of them as much as they are anchoring you.

No one speaks for a long time.

Because words, for once, are not big enough.

Because grief has hollowed each of you into temples, and maybe—just maybe—this is where the gods of your childhood finally fall.

You pulled back slowly, like peeling yourself out of a dream that you weren’t ready to leave, your arms slipping away from their warmth, your body still trembling with the echoes of everything that had been said—everything that hadn’t.

The air between you had changed. It was quieter, softer, like the hush that falls after a storm, when the sky is still bruised and wet but the thunder has finally tired itself out.

You sat back on the narrow infirmary bed, your breath uneven, lashes damp, and stared down at your fingers twisting in your lap. The silence returned—not sharp this time, not cold, just cautious. And then, you said it. Quietly. Like it was just another thing to survive.

“Mother wrote me.”

They both froze. Regulus’s jaw tensed, Sirius’s shoulders stiffened behind you. You didn’t look up.

“She wants us to meet for Christmas.”

A long pause. Then, a tired exhale. Regulus ran a hand over his face like he could wipe the family out of him. Sirius just sighed—one of those long, too-heavy exhales that sounded like defeat wrapped in dry laughter.

“Course she does,” he muttered. “’Tis the season.”

And then, Sirius said, “C’mere.”

You blinked, confused, still folded in on yourself.

“What?”

“C’mere,” he said again, voice softer now, coaxing.

You turned, hesitant. Sirius was already shifting back on the bed, scooting until his back hit the wall and his knees spread apart just enough to make space for you between them.

It was a tight squeeze—three nearly grown bodies on a cot meant for a single patient—but somehow, you all managed.

“Closer,” Sirius said.

You let out a faint, bewildered breath but inched toward him anyway, letting him guide you. You ended up with your back resting against his chest, his arms gently encircling your waist, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your shoulder blades.

It was strange—comforting, anchoring—like being wrapped in the kind of warmth you had long given up believing you’d ever feel again. His chin settled lightly atop your head.

Regulus sat in front of you on the edge of the bed, your knees brushing his. He reached out without hesitation, took both your hands in his.

His fingers were cold at first—always a bit colder than yours—but the longer he held them, the more the warmth seeped through. His thumbs traced slow circles into your palms, grounding you like a spell.

He looked at you. Really looked.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. His voice didn’t tremble this time. It cracked, low and quiet and sincere.

“You’re my twin. I shared a womb with you. I share a name with you. Yeah?”

You blinked, and the tears started again, slowly.

“I’d share this pain too. All of it. If I could carry it, I would. If I could cut it out of you, stitch it into myself, I wouldn’t even hesitate.”

You didn’t know how to speak. It was like something was pressing into your ribs from the inside.

“And even if I can’t take it away—the heaviness in your bones, the ache that never seems to leave—I’ll be here. I promise. So please…” his voice faltered now, eyes wide and raw and flickering with something close to desperation,

“Don’t leave me. Not you.”

And behind you, Sirius was moving. Slowly, carefully. His hands, rough from years of fighting, from running, from surviving, were suddenly so gentle it nearly broke you.

You felt them reach for your braid—loosened and half-undone from the night before, frayed at the edges but still clinging together in the way you had always worn it. The way you had been taught to wear it. One braid. One girl. One legacy.

Sirius touched it like it was something sacred. Not a symbol of tradition, but of the little girl he left behind.

He began to undo it—strand by strand, knot by knot. His fingers trembled sometimes, and you weren’t sure if it was from guilt or grief or some ancient combination of the two.

The braid began to fall apart, softly, like snow thawing under sun. And with every loosened piece, you felt something in you unclench. Something that had been tight for years.

You cried.

But not with sobs. Not this time.

You cried in silence, the kind that shudders through your body like a song without lyrics. And you didn’t even know if it was because of Regulus’s words or Sirius’s hands.

Or maybe it was both. Maybe it was that they were both still here. Still trying. Still holding what pieces of you hadn’t crumbled away.

Your braid came undone completely, hair falling over your shoulders like the end of a chapter you’d been too afraid to close.

Sirius pressed his forehead to the back of your head, and whispered, “There you are.”

Regulus was still holding your hands, his eyes on your face like he was reading scripture.

The silence between them grew tender, no longer sharp or fragile, but thick with the kind of quiet that comes after all the shouting is done — when the hurt still lingers but the love is louder.

Sirius’s hand brushed a loose strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it back gently, reverently, like he was afraid to let it drift too far from him.

Then, his voice—low, half a murmur, half a tease—broke the hush.

“As much as I think you’re the prettiest girl to ever walk the bloody halls of this castle,” he said, fingers still combing lightly through the freed strands, “you’re much prettier with your hair out.”

You blinked up at him, tears still dewing the corners of your lashes, breath catching softly.

“I mean it,” Sirius continued, resting his chin atop your head again. “Don’t like seeing your hair all braided up. Not after what it came to mean. I’ll always undo it for you if you want. Every time. You can let it be free. You can let yourself be free.”

His voice was steady, but there was something quietly broken in it—like he knew how deeply the braid had rooted itself in you, like a chain dressed in silk.

You leaned into him just slightly, comforted by the closeness, and from across you, Regulus tilted his head, watching the two of you with something unreadable in his eyes.

Then he said, “Didn’t know you were capable of being soft, Sirius.”

There was a beat of stillness—then Sirius scoffed, a quiet huff of laughter breaking through the grief. “Hey, she’s my little sister. Of course I’ll be soft with her. I’m not a complete arse.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You laughed. Not a big one, not a loud one. But it slipped out of you all the same—shy, fragile, like something trying to live again.

Sirius smiled against your hair. “You’re not exactly the poster boy for softness either, Reggie.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but there was no venom in it. He looked at you again, watching as your hair fell like a shadowy veil around your shoulders, framing your face the way moonlight sometimes wraps around ruins.

Regulus was just opening his mouth to make what you knew would be a smug, likely sarcastic jab—something about Sirius finally learning tenderness in his old age—when the door to the infirmary creaked open with the subtle force of a hurricane.

Madam Pomfrey entered, arms crossed and expression half stern, half deeply fond. “As much as I find all three of you Blacks absolutely adorable,” she said, voice sharp but eyes twinkling,

“I’ve got a bleeding student here who needs tending to, and not a circus on my floor.”

Sirius snorted and slowly slid off the bed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Yes, Madam.”

Regulus followed, brushing the wrinkles from his robes as he stood, offering you a glance to make sure you were still steady. You nodded at him—quietly, gratefully—and the two of them stepped aside, giving Madam Pomfrey space to begin bustling about her potions and gauze.

You watched them for a moment, Sirius leaning against a cabinet with the ease of someone who had made chaos his home, and Regulus, stiff at first but slowly softening, arms loosely crossed, shadows beneath his eyes fading just a little as he watched his brother from across the room.

Then—something bloomed in your chest.

Without a word, you reached out, grabbed Regulus’s hand, and pulled him toward the door.

“What—?” he started, confused but not resisting, his fingers lacing with yours on instinct. “Where are we—?”

“Shh,” you said through a smile, tugging him through the corridor. “Just come with me.”

He followed. He always did.

You found an empty classroom bathed in slanting golden light, one of those quiet, forgotten rooms that still smelled like ink and chalk and childhood.

You rummaged for parchment—crumpled, half-used—and sat down cross-legged on the floor, folding and creasing with all the reverence of a sacred rite.

Regulus crouched beside you, watching you fold the paper with wide eyes, something flickering in them—recognition, maybe. Hope.

“Is that…?” he began.

You didn’t answer—just smiled, and when you were done, you stood, clutching the fragile little crown in both hands like it was made of gold. Then you stepped out of the room and started back toward the infirmary.

Regulus didn’t say a word, but he followed close behind. And just before you entered the room, you heard him whisper under his breath, voice barely audible, like something stitched from memory:

“Long may he sulk, long may he scream, but today he’s our king, crowned with dream.”

You almost burst out laughing.

Sirius looked up from where he’d been talking softly to Madam Pomfrey, clearly startled by your sudden return—and even more so by the smile on your face.

“Oi—what’s going on?”

You grinned as you approached, heart blooming with something fragile and bright. And with a kind of ceremonial grace that belonged in a castle rather than a school infirmary, you lifted the crinkled paper crown and gently placed it on his head.

He blinked at you.

And then you said, “Happy birthday, Siri.”

For a moment, the world didn’t breathe.

Sirius looked between you and Regulus, the memory dawning slow but sure, the kind that blooms in the bones before the mind catches up.

You’d done this every year as children—the crown, the phrase, the quiet sweetness buried in a house that knew so little of it. It was tradition, rebellion, and love all wrapped in paper creases.

He laughed. Softly, shakily. “You remembered?”

“Of course we did,” Regulus muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “You never shut up about your birthday.”

Sirius turned toward him, eyes damp and mouth tugging into a crooked smile. “You used to say it was a national holiday.”

“It was a national tragedy,” Regulus corrected dryly.

But there was no edge to his voice.

You watched the two of them smile—awkwardly, almost shyly—and you couldn’t help the way your own heart ached with it. Like something was being stitched back together with trembling hands. Not perfect. But mending.

And in the soft golden light of the infirmary, Sirius Black wore his paper crown like a boy who had lost too much but finally found his way home.

Regulus cleared his throat, the faintest quiver still lingering in his voice as he straightened, a tentative smile breaking through the storm of emotions clouding his face. 

“You’ve still got another year to annoy me—don’t waste it.” he said, voice steady but warm, the words carrying more weight than a simple greeting—an unspoken promise folded into each syllable. 

 “Happy birthday, Siri,”

-

The days had slipped by like snowflakes melting on warm skin, soft and silent, until Christmas had quietly wrapped the world in its chilly embrace.

Over a month had passed since that fragile moment in the infirmary, since crowns and whispered apologies had begun to stitch together the frayed edges of what remained of them.

Now, you sat on the edge of your bed, the weight of leather and cloth gathered around you as you packed your bags, each fold and tuck a quiet act of farewell — not just to this house, but to the lingering ghosts that had lived here with you.

Regulus’s calm presence was steady nearby, Sirius’s laughter still echoing faintly in the halls, both shadows woven into your thoughts as you prepared to leave, to find a different kind of family with the Potters.

The room was quiet in that in-between way — not sad, not soft, just filled with waiting. You stood by the mirror, fingers combing uncertainly through your hair, still not quite used to the way it fell freely now, unbound and loose around your shoulders like a secret you hadn’t told anyone yet.

Then came the knock, sharp and unapologetic, followed by the door creaking open before you could answer.

“There she is,” came the familiar voice, warm and arrogant and so full of light it almost hurt to look directly at it. “My absolutely favorite Black.”

You didn’t turn, just rolled your eyes at your reflection — though you didn’t hide the faint tug of your lips.

James Potter leaned against the doorframe, a walking sunbeam in boots far too muddy for the castle floors, his hair as unkempt as his sense of timing.

“You know, I’ve been emotionally devastated all week. Not one rude comment. Not even a single ‘Potter, get out.’ It’s been tragic, truly.”

You hummed softly. Your fingers trailed through your hair again, then dropped to the edge of the mirror. You looked... softer now. Or maybe just quieter.

James tilted his head, and for the first time in a while, that ever-glowing grin faltered. “Hey... you alright?” he asked, pushing off the door.

“You’ve gone suspiciously quiet on me, and I’m not used to being ignored this elegantly.”

You finally turned to him, something shy in the movement, something almost scared. Your eyes met his, steady but hesitant, like you were holding a secret between your teeth.

“Hey, James?” you said, voice smaller than usual, not sharp-edged or full of fire, just a bare whisper of a question.

He blinked, shoulders straightening instantly. “Yeah?”

You shifted, hands wringing in front of you, then took a breath like you were diving underwater. “Do you still... want to go on that date?”

It took him a second. A full second of stunned silence. Then:

“Wait. Wait—are you—are you saying yes?”

You nodded once, unsure, your cheeks burning.

James's entire face lit up like a starburst, bright enough to outshine the gloom in the corners of the room. “You’re saying yes?” he repeated, his voice climbing in disbelief, in utter delight.

“Are you messing with me? Because if this is some elaborate Black twin prank, I swear I’m not above falling for it, but I’ll go down dramatically.”

“I’m not messing with you,” you said, softer.

He stared at you, eyes wide, heart probably thudding too loud in his chest. “You’re actually agreeing to a date with me.”

You gave him a tiny, tired smile, the kind that meant I’m trying, I’m healing, I’m still here.

And James Potter — hopelessly besotted James Potter — just raised both hands in triumph, beaming like a boy who just got the girl of his dreams. “Merlin, it’s a Christmas miracle.”

You laugh — really laugh — and it startles you. The sound rises out of your chest too fast and too free, like it’s been hiding somewhere behind your ribs all this time, waiting for permission.

It echoes in the room like light catching on water, and for a moment, you forget you were ever someone who cried quietly in an infirmary bed with your braid too tight and your voice locked behind your teeth.

James is just standing there, watching you like you’re something he almost lost and just remembered in time.

That grin he always wears — cocky and bright — softens. His eyes crease, not with mischief but with awe. He reaches forward without speaking, without rushing, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

His fingers are warm, callused from Quidditch and writing too fast. His touch is so gentle it makes your throat ache.

Then, without asking for more, he leans in and kisses your cheek.

It’s soft. Not flirty, not teasing, just… soft. Real. Like he’s placing something in your hands that he wants you to keep.

“I like seeing you like this,” he says, and his voice is quiet, like he’s afraid to shatter the fragile thing blooming between you. “Not just laughing. Letting yourself laugh.”

You don’t answer. Not because you don’t want to, but because something in your chest is blooming too fast, too wide. Instead, you just hand him your bag.

He grins again, like he’s won something, and slings it over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing. “Come on, Black. Holiday awaits. And I plan to win Best Company, Hands Down.”

He holds the door open for you with an exaggerated bow. “After you, m’lady.”

You roll your eyes, but smile. You step into the corridor with him, your shoulder brushing his — and then you see them.

Sirius and Regulus. At the end of the hall. Arguing.

It’s not the argument that stops you. It’s how they look.

Sirius, of course, is chaos incarnate — shirt untucked, sleeves rolled, hair like a stormcloud. Hands moving wildly, voice sharp and amused all at once.

But Regulus.

Regulus looks like something cracked open.

His hair is a mess. Not windswept, not styled, just… undone. Soft curls tumble over his forehead like they’ve finally forgotten who they were supposed to impress. His shoes are scuffed. His collar is open. There’s no tie strangling his throat. His robes are wrinkled, like he didn’t bother smoothing them, like he didn’t think he needed to.

He doesn’t look like the perfect Black heir anymore. He doesn’t look like he’s trying to.

He looks like a boy who finally gave himself permission to breathe.

They’re arguing over something stupid — wrapping paper, probably, or the wrong gift for Euphemia — but it’s the kind of argument you only have with people you’re allowed to love. You watch them, your hand still in James’s, and something in you loosens further.

You hadn’t realized how tightly you were still holding it.

James gives your fingers a squeeze. Doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

You glance up at him. He’s still looking at you like you’re some new season he’s waited years to feel again.

They’re laughing.

It startles you, how soft it is. How human. It doesn’t echo like a curse. It doesn’t shiver like a cracked bone. It simply exists — this light, fragile thing — between the two boys you once thought you’d never see whole again.

Sirius is half-doubled over, clutching his side like he might fall from how hard he’s laughing. Regulus is shaking his head, cheeks flushed, that rare, real smile tugging his mouth wide open like a secret he forgot he still had. The moment stretches golden and unreal. For once, they look like boys.

Just boys — whole, breathing, and free.

You stand a few paces back, James at your side, his hand warm in yours. His thumb traces soft circles over your skin like he's writing a lullaby without words. You don’t speak. You just watch.

And as you watch, you feel it stir in your chest — not pain, not fear, but grace.

The quiet, trembling kind. The kind you thought had died the day you pressed a chair beneath the doorknob and tied your braid so tight it ached. The kind that says: You made it. Somehow, gods, you made it.

The three of you — Sirius, Regulus, and you — you carry the name Black like a birthright and a burial shroud. Like a blade tucked under the tongue.

You’ve all learned how to wear it in different ways: Sirius ripped it off like shackles, Regulus wore it like a crown turned collar, and you — you simply bore it in silence, braid by braid, day by day, trying not to crack.

Some days, you still feel it in your bones — that ache, deep and dull, flaring like a ghost during the cold. You know it will come back. Soon, probably. In quiet moments when the room goes still and the world presses in. It will whisper that old hymn of despair.

But now, you know something else too: that it will pass. That not all pain means ending.

You’re glad you wore the braid that day. Glad for the heaviness of it. Glad it was that braid, tight and tired, that gave you away, because Sirius noticed.

Because Sirius knew. Because your brother — dramatic, angry, wild Sirius — looked at a single twist of hair and saw the truth. That you were vanishing.

And he came. He ran to you.

You glance at James, who is still watching you with that half-smile, like he knows exactly where your mind has wandered.

His fingers tighten around yours as if to say: I’ve got you. I’ll keep holding on.

In front of you, the two boys who share your blood — your name, your ruin, your love — are laughing. And suddenly, you want to laugh too. You want to live.

You lean gently into James’s shoulder, and the three of them blur before you: your brother who left and returned softer, your brother who stayed and came undone, and the boy who never stopped waiting at your door.

It’s strange how grief makes architects of all of us. How you learned to build your life on ash and memory. How you learned to survive the kind of love that comes with a coffin.

You don’t know what comes next. Only that your breath still fogs the glass. That your feet, somehow, still move.

So you do.

You walk — not away, not forward, but through. Through ash and memory, through the long echo of a house that taught you silence before speech, duty before desire.

A house where your name was an heirloom of ruin. Where hands pulled your hair into braids too tight, too perfect — a crown of obedience woven strand by strand.

But not now.

Now your hair spills loose down your back — untamed, unburdened, soft as defiance.

You carry the name Black not as a chain, but as a hymn — a quiet song for all the broken things that chose to live.

You carry Sirius’s laughter like a lantern in your ribs. Regulus’s sorrow like a psalm in your throat. You carry what’s left of your childhood in the curve of your spine.

You carry yourself.

You carry the body that was taught silence. The body that ached in invisible ways. The body that stayed — even when the wind begged it to leave, even when the mirror didn’t look back.

You carry the illness no one could see, the exhaustion that braided itself into your bones.

You carry the love you couldn’t let in — James’s hands, James’s gaze, James’s waiting — all the gentleness you almost believed you didn't deserve.

And still, you walk.

You do not braid your hair.

You do not say goodbye.

But when the frost climbs the glass again — when the old house calls to you in the voice of your mother, your fear, your past — you will not answer.

You will not kneel.

You will not weep.

You will not look back.

You will gather your ghosts by name — every echo, every ache, every version of yourself that once begged to be small. And you will lay them down, one by one, with the care no one gave you.

And so —

you’ll bury your own.

I don’t usually write these; But this is for anyone still wearing their braids — the ones woven by expectation, by blood, by a family that taught you to stay small, quiet, grateful. If you know what it is to carry a name like a burden, to sit before a mirror with aching hands, trying to undo what the world once made of you — this is for you. For the ones who learned survival through stillness. Through obedience. Through being what was asked. I still wear mine too, Some days more tightly than others. But there is freedom in the unbraiding. In letting your hair fall wild. In choosing your own shape. Your own silence. Your own story. May your hands one day learn to unweave without trembling. May your softness survive. You are not alone. And you are allowed to be free. —with love, dalia

[unconventional-lawnchair]

okay, because you broke my heart with everything is blue, I want a barty x potter!reader where it's the mauraders seeing how barty and the reader love/take care of each other. I need to be healed, I might die

They'll Be Alright

Barty Crouch Jr. x Potter!Fem!Reader

AN: I've taken out all the stops to mend your heart

WC: ~5k

Summary: James Potter learns to like tolerate his sisters taste in men.

Warnings: Grumpy James, Snogging, cursing, tooth rotting fluff, self indulgent, this is literally the cheesiest things I could come up with

“I can't do this much longer, I'm going mad.” James hissed as he sat on the grass, watching from across the courtyard as you stood outside the Quidditch pitch with a bit of a pacing form. You were sitting with your big brother and his friends just moments ago, but RavenClaw was out for practice and you just couldn't wait for your precious boy to leave the stands.

“I think it's cute.” Lily sang sweetly. “She's as obsessed with him as he is with her. Only a Potter could match a Crouch’s insanity.”

James groaned, dragging his hands down his face dramatically as Sirius burst out laughing, collapsing onto the grass beside him. “It’s not cute, Lily,” James hissed, throwing a wild gesture toward you. “It’s deranged. She’s my little sister, for Merlin’s sake! And she’s practically glued to the sidelines for him. Him! Of all people.”

“She’s not glued, mate. Look- she’s pacing,” Sirius pointed out helpfully, grinning as he threw a snitch up into the air and caught it lazily. “And, to be fair, Barty’s just as bad. Didn’t he travel all the way from Hogwarts to the Potter Manor once just to say, what was it? Right!” He sat up sharply and threw in some jazz hands. “Hi, to her over winter break?”

James groaned louder, flopping onto his back in the grass. “Don’t remind me. He’s the one who’s mad, and now she’s gone mad too. My family’s turning into a bloody soap opera.”

“It’s not madness,” Lily argued, her voice soft with a knowing smile as she plucked a daisy from the grass. “It’s love, James. Messy, consuming love. And if you can’t see it, then you’ve forgotten what it was like when you were chasing after me.”

“Oh, don’t start,” James grumbled, sitting up to glare at her, though his face was tinged with a hint of pink. “That’s completely different.”

“Is it?” Lily asked, raising a brow as she tucked the daisy behind her ear. “Because I distinctly remember you doing some insane things for me- like charming the entire Gryffindor common room to play my favorite song every time I walked in.”

Sirius let out a loud bark of laughter, nearly choking on his snitch when he forgot to catch it. “Oh, that was brilliant! What was it again? Some Muggle tune about sunshine?”

“‘Here Comes the Sun,’” Lily said smugly, her smile widening as James grumbled under his breath. “And I’ll remind you, Potter, that it worked.”

“That’s different!” James protested again, jabbing a finger in your direction. “I wasn’t a bloody Crouch!”

Remus, who had been quietly reading nearby, finally looked up from his book with a raised brow. “And what, exactly, is wrong with being a Crouch?” He asked calmly, though his tone carried a faint edge of amusement.

James floundered for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “You know what I mean! He’s- he’s- he’s bloody Barty! He’s reckless, obsessive, and- and-”

“And utterly devoted to her,” Lily interrupted firmly, her eyes softening as she looked toward you across the courtyard. “He’d send us back to the stone age if she complained it was too busy, James. And she’d do the same for him. That’s not something you get to stand in the way of.”

James sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat as he ran a hand through his messy hair. “I just want her to be happy.” He muttered. “And safe.”

“She is happy,” Lily said gently, resting a hand on his arm. “And as for safe- well, that’s why she’s got you, isn’t it? To make sure nothing gets in the way of her happiness. I'm also quite sure if anyone is to defend her like you have all these years.. it would be him.”

James let out a long, slow breath, watching as you finally stopped pacing, your face lighting up as Barty appeared at the top of the Quidditch stands. Even from across the courtyard, the way your shoulders relaxed and your smile softened was undeniable.

“She looks so bloody happy,” James mumbled, almost to himself.

“She is,” Lily said softly. “Just like you were when you finally got me.”

James turned to her, his face scrunching up as though he’d tasted something sour. “Don’t make me feel good about this, Evans.”

Lily just laughed, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Sorry, love. It’s my job.”

Remus chuckled. “Just watch mate.”

~~~

“My dazzling girl!” Barty called down from the steps as he hurried down. You couldn't help but feel a humiliating bubbling of excitement in your chest. Normally, you wouldn't be so shameless and public with your affections, but since dating the brazen Bartemius, you had forgotten what it meant to hold private affections.

“My brilliant boy.” You cooed back and he hurried across the yard to meet you. “How was it?”

“Dreadful. Humiliating. Humbling.” He rambled and stepped closer to you, taking your hand and kissing it, before slowly leading the kiss up your arm to your neck. You laughed and attempted to free yourself, only for him to wrap his arm around your waist and pull you in, flush against him. “You simply must make me feel better.”

“It was only practice!” You laughed and cupped his cheeks in your hands, stilling his unconventional attack before it could reach your face. He gave you that signature woman eating smile with dimples that pressed so far into his cheeks you could about die. “It couldn't have been that bad.”

“It was, you see.” He started and gave you a playfully firm dip before he spun you around to scoop you back up to a proper stand. “There was this dazzling girl-”

“You've used dazzling for today, Barty.” You teased and he gave you a wolfish grin.

“This beautiful, magnificent, breathtaking, awe inspiring-”

“Barty!” You laughed and he leaned in with a flurry of kisses to your cheek, effectively freeing himself from your hands.

“Irresistible, bewitching, stunning-”

“Barty-”

“Absolutely exquisite witch who promised to watch my every game, and yet, not this one.” He moped and you shook your head.

“That was practice, my love.” You muttered and he gasped.

“And thus it does not deserve your full undivided attention?”

You couldn’t hold back the giggle that escaped your lips, your hands playfully swatting at his chest as you shook your head. “You’re insufferable, Bartemius Crouch.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” Barty countered, his grin widening into something wickedly charming as he tugged you closer. “Which makes you either as mad as me or utterly bewitched. Shall we flip a coin to decide?”

“Bewitched, obviously,” You teased, raising an eyebrow as you leaned in closer. “But don’t let it go to your head, Mr. Crouch.”

“Too late.” He replied with a laugh, his lips brushing your temple before trailing down to your cheek. “My head’s been full of you for years, my star. You’ve left no room for anything else. I think it's only fair I consume your every thought from now on.”

“Sweet words don’t excuse your theatrics.” You teased, your hands gently slipping to his shoulders as you pretended to push him away, though neither of you truly let go. “You’re going to give James a heart attack if you keep this up.”

Barty’s grin turned mischievous, and he tilted his head to glance toward the courtyard where your brother and his friends were undoubtedly watching. “Good,” He said with mock seriousness, his tone laced with humor. “If I can survive Quidditch practice, he can survive the sight of me adoring his sister.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to keep the smile off your face as you sighed dramatically. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re perfect,” He murmured, his hands sliding down to rest on your waist. “So I think that makes us even.”

“Even?” You repeated with a laugh, shaking your head as you leaned your forehead against his. “I think it makes you a menace.”

“I’ll take it,” Barty replied, his voice softer now, his green eyes locked onto yours with a sincerity that made your heart skip. “As long as it means I get to keep you.”

For a moment, the playful banter between you faded, replaced by the weight of his words and the warmth of his presence. You knew the world saw Barty as reckless, obsessive, even dangerous. But in moments like this, when he looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him, it was hard not to feel the same pull that had always drawn you to him.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You said softly, your hands brushing down his arms before entwining your fingers with his. “Just… promise me you’ll try not to antagonize James too much. He’s already halfway to pulling his hair out.”

Barty smirked, his dimple deepening in that way that always made your heart flutter. “No promises,” He teased, though the glint in his eye told you he’d try- for you, if nothing else.

“Bartemius Crouch,” You huffed, feigning sternness as you tugged his hand. “I mean it.”

“And I mean it when I say you’re irresistible,” He countered, spinning you again for good measure before pulling you back into his arms. “Now, my alluring, charming, pretty girl- are you ready to make James’s day a little more unbearable?”

You let out a laugh, the sound bright and lighthearted, as he laced your fingers together and led you back toward the courtyard. You could already see the exasperation on James’s face from across the field, but Merlin did you hear it. Him and Lily.

“I wasn't THAT bad!”

“Oh yes you were!”

~~~

It was a quiet afternoon in the Gryffindor common room when James finally let out a dramatic groan, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t take it anymore!” He exclaimed, startling Lily, who had been peacefully reading beside him.

“What now?” She asked, though the amused quirk of her lips showed she already knew the answer.

“It’s them,” James hissed, pointing toward the window where you and Barty were clearly visible in the courtyard below. You were both sitting on the edge of the fountain, laughing at something Barty had said as he carefully wrapped a scarf around your neck, adjusting it as though it were a delicate treasure. “They’re insufferable.”

“They’re adorable,” Lily corrected, leaning over to peek out the window. She sighed softly, her expression turning fond as she watched Barty tuck your hair behind your ear and press a quick kiss to your temple. “Look at him. He absolutely dotes on her.”

“Exactly!” James groaned again. “Dotes! It’s unnatural. He’s supposed to be a Crouch-brooding and conniving, not… not whatever that is.”

“Love,” Remus supplied calmly, not even looking up from his book.

“Obsessive devotion,” Sirius added with a smirk, throwing a piece of popcorn into his mouth as he sprawled on the armchair.

“Same thing,” Lily said with a shrug. “And besides, James, weren’t you the same way with me? You practically worshipped the ground I walked on.”

“Still do,” Sirius muttered, earning a glare from James and a stifled laugh from Lily.

“That’s different,” James argued, his voice petulant. “I wasn’t… that. Look at him! He’s practically wrapped around her finger.”

“And she’s wrapped around his,” Lily pointed out, motioning toward the window again. Sure enough, Barty had pulled you to your feet and was holding your hand as he led you toward the castle steps, pausing every few moments to make you laugh with his animated gestures.

“He carries her books half the time,” Sirius added. “And she carries his cloak when he forgets it.”

“She fixes his collar when it's crooked,” Remus chimed in. “And he charms her quills when they snap.”

James groaned louder, dragging his hands down his face. “You’re not helping.”

“Prongs,” Sirius said with a chuckle, sitting up and clapping him on the shoulder. “You’ve got to admit, they’re good together. Annoyingly good, yes, but still.”

“Annoying is an understatement,” James grumbled, but his protests faltered as the portrait hole swung open and you entered the room, Barty trailing behind you with an armful of books and an easy grin on his face.

You turned to him with an exasperated laugh. “You didn’t have to carry all of them, you know. I can manage.”

“Nonsense,” Barty replied smoothly, setting the books down on a nearby table before tugging at his crooked collar. “If I can’t carry a few books for my treasure, what kind of wizard am I?”

“A dramatic one,” You teased, stepping closer to him to fix his collar with practiced ease. “There. All better.”

“And this is why I adore you,” He said, grinning as he caught your hand and brought it to his lips for a quick kiss.

James let out a strangled noise from the couch, causing you to turn with a startled look. “Everything alright, Jamie?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Perfectly fine,” he said through gritted teeth, glaring at Barty, who had the audacity to wink at him.

Lily leaned over to whisper in James’s ear, her voice low but teasing. “Admit it, James. You’re just mad he treats her as well as you treat me.”

James’s face turned scarlet, and Sirius howled with laughter, nearly toppling out of his chair. “Got you there, mate!”

~~~

The clatter of hurried footsteps echoed down the stone corridor as you stopped in your tracks, turning just in time to see Barty sprinting toward you with an energy that bordered on reckless. His tie was slightly askew, his school robes flaring behind him as he called out, his voice full of dramatic flair, “Treasure! You simply must hear this- you’ll have no choice but to reward me with a kiss once you hear of my heroics.”

You furrowed your brow but couldn’t suppress the amused smile tugging at your lips. He always had a way of making everything sound like the most exciting tale in the world. As he skidded to a halt in front of you, panting slightly but grinning ear to ear, you took a moment to properly look at him.

For once, Barty had made an effort with his appearance. His robes, usually a little wrinkled or hanging off his shoulders in that endearingly careless way, were perfectly straightened. His tie was knotted neatly (if a little loose), and his hair was slicked back in a way that made your stomach twist, the gleaming coil of one rebellious strand falling charmingly over his forehead. He was maddening, and he knew it.

“Oh?” You replied, your voice playful as you arched a brow.

Barty straightened, smoothing the lapels of his robe with an exaggerated air of importance. “Correct me if I’m wrong- I hardly ever am- but you look like you might just kiss me unprompted.”

Your cheeks flamed at his words, the boldness of his statement making your heart skip. “Crouch!” You hissed, swatting lightly at his chest in mock indignation.

He caught your hand easily, holding it against his chest with a dramatic sigh. “See? Even your instincts betray you. Your heart is telling you to reward me already.”

“And what exactly did you do to earn this so-called reward?” You asked, your tone laced with amusement.

He tilted his head, his dimpled grin widening as he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. “I managed to survive an entire Transfiguration class without turning our professor’s patience into dust. Surely that deserves a small token of appreciation.”

You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head at his antics. “That’s your big heroic tale? Restraint in a single class?”

“Not just any class,” He countered, pulling you closer with the hand still held captive against his chest. “A full fifty minutes of maintaining decorum. You, of all people, should know what a trial that is for me.”

“Decorum, huh?” You teased, your lips twitching as you fixed his slightly frazzled lapel. “Then why are you so out of breath, running down the halls like a maniac?”

“Because the faster I reached you, the sooner I’d get my reward.” He grinned, tilting his head closer to yours. “Now, treasure, let’s not delay-”

“Barty!” You cut him off with a laugh, stepping back to put some space between you. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are, utterly smitten,” He said cheekily, but there was a softness in his eyes that made your chest ache. He reached out, brushing an errant strand of hair from your face, and you felt your heart skip again.

Before you could respond, a voice broke through the moment, sharp and incredulous. “You two are going to make me lose my mind.”

You both turned to see James standing a few feet away, arms crossed and a look of pure exasperation on his face. Sirius was behind him, grinning like a Cheshire cat, and Remus stood a little further back, his book tucked under one arm, an amused glint in his eye.

“Honestly, mate,” James continued, throwing his hands up. “Must you be this dramatic? She’s my sister, not the bloody queen.”

“And yet,” Barty said smoothly, not missing a beat as he turned to James with a smirk, “she deserves nothing less than a royal treatment.”

James groaned, dragging his hands down his face as Sirius burst out laughing, clapping him on the back. “He’s got a point, Prongs.”

You shook your head, trying to suppress your own laughter, but Barty caught your chin with gentle fingers, turning your gaze back to him. “Pay no mind to the peanut gallery,” He said softly, his tone dropping to something more intimate. “I’m only interested in you, treasure.”

Your heart swelled, and for a moment, you forgot all about James’s groaning, Sirius’s laughter, and the knowing look Remus was undoubtedly giving. All you could see was Barty- your boy, maddeningly confident yet infinitely tender, his green eyes locked onto yours as if you were the only person in the world.

And as maddening as it was, he certainly did deserve that kiss.

~~~

The firelight flickered warmly in the Potter living room as the group gathered for the holidays. Snow had blanketed the grounds outside, creating a cozy atmosphere inside the bustling house. You were curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your lap, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in your hands. James sat nearby, watching with a sharp eye as Barty leaned down to adjust the blanket around your legs, making sure you were tucked in properly.

The sight grated on James- he was used to being the one to look after you, his little sister, not this Crouch boy who had somehow wormed his way into your life. But then Barty turned, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside you, and James found himself watching the interaction more closely than he’d care to admit.

“You didn’t have to go out into the cold to fetch the marshmallows, you know,” You said softly, your voice filled with affection as you sipped your drink.

“Of course I did,” Barty replied, grinning up at you. “Your hot chocolate isn’t complete without them. It’s a crime to deprive you of anything less than perfection.”

James rolled his eyes, but Lily elbowed him gently, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Watch,” She whispered.

As if on cue, you reached for the plate of marshmallows to pop one into your drink, but Barty’s hand shot out to stop you. “Ah, ah, allow me,” He said with a dramatic flair, picking out the largest marshmallow with precision. He placed it delicately into your mug before handing it back with a flourish. “Perfectly placed, as all marshmallows should be.”

You laughed, a bright sound that made James pause. He couldn’t deny that it was genuine, the kind of laugh he hadn’t heard from you in a long time. And the way Barty looked at you in response- like your happiness was the only thing that mattered- made James’s chest tighten in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

As the night went on, James watched the two of you more closely. It wasn’t just the over-the-top gestures or the playful banter; it was the way Barty noticed the smallest things about you. How he shifted your mug away when he noticed you leaning too far forward, how he reached for the book you’d left on the side table before you even asked for it, how he listened intently to every word you said, his focus unwavering.

Merlin even their parents loved him.

Later, when the others had dispersed to different parts of the house, James found himself in the kitchen with Barty. The younger boy was rinsing out a mug, his usual bravado toned down in the quiet moment.

“You really care about her, don’t you?” James asked suddenly, his voice steady but curious.

Barty looked up, surprised by the question. But then his expression softened, and he nodded. “More than anything,” He said simply, his tone devoid of his usual dramatics. “She’s everything to me, Potter.”

James leaned against the counter, his arms crossed as he studied Barty carefully. “You know, if you hurt her, I’ll-”

“Spend every waking moment trying to kill me?” Barty interrupted with a small, knowing smile. “I know. But you won’t have to. Because I’d rather tear myself apart than see her hurt.”

James blinked, caught off guard by the raw sincerity in Barty’s voice. For the first time, he saw past the theatrics and charm, and what he found there surprised him. There was a genuine devotion, a steadfastness that even James couldn’t deny.

“You’re good to her,” James said finally, his voice quieter. “Better than I thought you’d be.”

Barty smirked, but there was no arrogance in it this time- only a quiet confidence. “She deserves nothing less.”

James nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. For the first time, he found himself believing that maybe- just maybe- Barty Crouch wasn’t the worst person his sister could have chosen. In fact, as he watched Barty quietly return the mug to the cupboard, James couldn’t help but think that she might have chosen someone who truly knew how to love her the way she deserved.

~~~

The tension between you and Barty had been simmering all day, ever since that small disagreement in the courtyard earlier. It wasn’t anything monumental- just one of his reckless decisions clashing with your cautious nature- but it had left you feeling irritated and, perhaps, a little hurt.

Now, as you sat at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, picking at your dinner, the weight of the silence between you lingered in the back of your mind. Barty hadn’t come to sit with you, choosing instead to stay at the Ravenclaw table. Every so often, you caught him sneaking a glance your way, but neither of you made a move to close the distance.

“You’re brooding,” Lily said gently, nudging your arm with her elbow.

“I’m not brooding,” You replied, though your tone lacked conviction.

“She’s brooding,” Sirius confirmed from across the table, earning a glare from you. “You’ve got that ‘he’s an idiot, but I still love him’ look all over your face. I'm very familiar."

You rolled your eyes, but before you could retort, Remus leaned in, his voice calm and measured. “You know, he’s been sulking at the Ravenclaw table since lunch. Practically hasn’t touched his food.”

“I don’t care,” You muttered, stabbing at your mashed potatoes.

“Sure, you don’t,” James said, his tone laced with sarcasm as he leaned back in his seat. “That’s why you’ve been glancing at him every five minutes.”

“I have not,” You snapped, though your cheeks flushed in betrayal.

James smirked, folding his arms across his chest. “Look, I’ll admit it- he’s an absolute pain sometimes. But he’s your pain, and frankly, I’ve put a lot of effort into liking this one. Don’t break his heart.”

The entire table froze. Lily’s fork clattered against her plate, and Sirius let out a loud, exaggerated gasp, slapping a hand over his mouth like he’d just heard the most scandalous news of the year.

“Did… did you just admit you like him?” Remus asked, his tone full of disbelief.

James shifted uncomfortably under the weight of everyone’s stares. “I didn’t say I like him,” He grumbled, though the tips of his ears burned red. “I just said I’ve put in the time.”

“That’s the same thing, mate,” Sirius said with a grin. “And we’re never letting you live this down.”

Lily laughed, nudging James playfully. “I think it’s sweet. It only took him months of watching them make heart eyes at each other to admit it.”

“Shut it, Evans,” James muttered, though his scowl softened as his gaze flicked to you. “Seriously, though. He’s mad about you. Don’t let this stupid fight ruin something good.”

You blinked at your brother, caught somewhere between gratitude and shock. “You really think that?”

James sighed, his expression softening. “Yeah. I do. Just… go talk to him, alright? Put me out of my misery.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you as you stood, smoothing out your robes. “Fine. But if he’s still being a prat, I’m blaming you.”

“Fair,” James said, though he shot you a rare, encouraging smile.

As you crossed the Great Hall, you could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on you, the murmurs from the Gryffindor table blending with the soft hum of conversation around the room. When you reached the Ravenclaw table, Barty looked up, his green eyes widening in surprise as you stopped beside him.

“Treasure,” He started, his voice tentative, but you held up a hand to stop him.

“We need to talk,” You said firmly, though the corner of your lips twitched upward.

Barty stood immediately, his end of the bench scraping against the stone floor. “Anything. Anywhere.”

You nodded toward the doors, and he followed without hesitation, leaving behind his untouched dinner and a flurry of whispers in his wake.

Back at the Gryffindor table, James let out a heavy sigh of relief, leaning back in his chair. “Finally.”

“I can’t believe it,” Sirius said, shaking his head in mock astonishment. “Prongs has feelings. Actual, human feelings.”

“Don’t push it, Padfoot,” James muttered, though the faint smile on his face betrayed him.

Lily rested her chin on her hand, watching as you and Barty disappeared through the doors. “I think it’s sweet. He finally gets it.”

“Better late than never,” Remus added with a small smile. “Though I’m sure he’ll deny it by morning.”

Sirius, smirked devilishly and Lily’s smile twitched just a bit.

“It's almost like we didn't catch them snogging a few days ago.” He sang and James's face turned pale and his eyes widened.

James shot up from his seat so quickly that his table toppled backward, the loud clatter echoing through the Great Hall. “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”

Sirius threw his head back in laughter, nearly choking on his pumpkin juice, while Lily covered her mouth with her hand, clearly enjoying the chaos.

“I said,” Sirius repeated slowly, his grin widening, “it’s almost like we didn’t catch them snogging a few days ago. Almost.”

“You- you WHAT?” James sputtered, looking between Sirius and Lily with a mixture of horror and betrayal. “And you didn’t tell me? Evans! You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am on your side,” Lily said, struggling to keep her composure as she shrugged innocently. “I just didn’t think it was a big deal. They’re dating, James. What did you expect?”

“What did I- what did I- NOT THAT!” James shouted, flailing his arms toward the doors where you and Barty had disappeared. “I didn’t expect him to be sticking his tongue down her throat in public!”

“It wasn’t public,” Sirius said with a mockingly thoughtful expression. “It was a little alcove near the library, actually. Quite private. You’d be proud of them, Prongs- very stealthy, very romantic. A solid 9 out of 10.”

James groaned, dragging his hands down his face dramatically as Remus finally chimed in, his tone calm but amused. “James, they’re in a relationship. This isn’t exactly shocking.”

“It is to me!” James snapped, glaring at Remus as if he’d just committed treason. “And you lot just sat on this information like it was nothing?”

“Mate, you’ve been watching them practically live in each other’s pockets for months now,” Sirius said, still grinning. “I figured you’d have put it together by now.”

Lily patted James’s arm consolingly, though her eyes still sparkled with mischief. “I think you’re just mad because you’re starting to like Barty, and this makes it harder for you to yell at him.”

James opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat. He closed his mouth, glaring at the table as his face turned an impressive shade of red.

“Admit it, Prongs,” Sirius said, leaning forward with a gleeful grin. “You like him. He’s grown on you.”

“I don’t like him,” James muttered, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. “I tolerate him. For her.”

“You tolerate him enough to tell her not to break his heart,” Remus pointed out, his lips twitching.

James groaned again, collapsing back into his seat with the air of a man defeated. “Fine. I don’t hate him. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Sirius said with a wink. “Though I’d be happier if you didn’t look like you were about to throw a fit every time you saw them hold hands.”

Lily leaned in closer, her voice soft but teasing. “He loves her, James. And she loves him. That’s not something you need to fight.”

James sighed heavily, running a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah, well… if he hurts her, it’s still open season.”

“Fair enough,” Sirius said with a laugh. “But you’ll have to get in line behind her. She’s got a mean right hook.”

The table erupted into laughter, and even James couldn’t help but crack a small smile. Somewhere beyond the Great Hall doors, you and Barty were likely making amends, and for the first time, James felt a reluctant sort of peace about it.

He still didn’t like Barty- he probably never would- but he could admit, quietly and only to himself, that the boy made you happy. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

[moonsprcngs]

remus lupin knows when to keep his mouth shut, and as do you. until it comes to each other.

warnings: swearing, violence, bullying directed at both remus and reader & slut shaming directed at the reader, snape suspects rem's problem.

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remus lupin x fem!reader <3 & sirius black x sister!reader, platonic james potter x reader

remus lupin knew when to keep his mouth shut. he knew when not to react and how to stay under the radar, but that didn't stop you from not keeping your mouth shut for him.

you knew it was going to be a rough day when your defence against the dark arts professor unexpectedly changed the lesson plan from banshees to lycanthropes.

remus, if he had known prior, would've faked an illness and skipped out, too uncomfortable with the wandering eyes and the permanent fear that someone would find him out.

instead, he sat beside you at your shared desk, having been there for too long now to get up and leave and ultimately cause a scene. more eyes on him was the last thing he needed.

you had kept his hand in yours, feeling it squeeze and tense and shake throughout the entirety of the class, and you were sure all the skin of his bottom lip was bitten clean off from his nerves.

everything was okay for the majority of it. the professor was surprisingly respectful in his delivery and you, james and sirius spent the whole time calling out immediate answers to his questions. the three of you, for obvious reasons, knew everything like the backs of your hands and tried your hardest to avoid any snarky comments from other students for the sake of poor moony, who remained dead silent.

everything was okay until the group of slytherins opened their mouths.

you'd left the classroom with the three boys, grip still tight on remus' hand as he let out a relieved breath, glad to be out of there. you didn't, however, make it that far down the corridor before you heard snape's voice.

"those freaks need to be studied in mental hospitals. that professor had no idea what he was talking about, still calling them humans. they're monsters, that's what they are-"

remus tensed beside you at his words and sighed as he felt the inevitable coming on. the four of you stopped in your tracks, and in no less than a few seconds you'd whipped around and had your wand pointed directly at snape.

"i think it's you that has no idea what you're talking about, right severus?" you challenged.

james stood protectively beside you, ready to jump in if you needed him and sirius stood just behind, arms folded and a proud smirk on his face.

"i think the lady asked you a question, snivellus," james piped up, sporting a similar smirk to your brother as he raised his hands in mock defence. "i'd answer her if i were you."

malfoy snickered behind snape, not knowing the true intent behind his words as the latter stared back at you, head tilted with a gross sort of grin as he looked between you and remus. "did my words hit a little close to home, black?"

remus just sighed again, head bowed in slight humiliation as the rest of you tensed up.

"fuck you, snape, i swear to merlin-" you seethed, grip on your wand incredibly tight as you started towards him before you felt a gentle hand on your forearm pulling you back.

"it's not worth it," remus spoke softly into your ear, his voice conveying more hurt than he would've liked.

you didn't lower your wand, still breathing heavily as you remained in place. snape was still grinning at you and it took everything in you not to hex him into oblivion.

james moved to stand in front of you to get your attention and also put some distance between you and snape. "we'll get him later, yeah? i swear."

"trust us, we have a plan," sirius clamped a hand down on your shoulder, his signature smirk returning as the three of them pulled you away.

true to their word, the marauders had pulled of a series of pranks on snape that left him too terrified and humiliated to even leave his dorm, the last two turning his hair semi-permanently pink and breaking him out head to toe in bubbling warts.

remus had seemingly gotten over what was said by the end of week (after two or three vulnerable moments in the safety of your arms), and snape hadn't left the slytherin common room in days.

it was the following saturday afternoon, and the five of you were scattered about by the fountain in the courtyard. you, remus and peter were studying for the upcoming charms exam whilst james and sirius... pretended to.

remus was just about to test you on your recently read chapter when a shout from across the courtyard rudely interrupted.

"oi, gryffindors!"

"here we go," james spoke proudly, smirking to himself as he pushed himself up off the ground. "and what is it you want on this fine afternoon, mulciber?"

the slytherin boy in question stalked over to your group, malfoy and avery in tow. "did a fine number on our snape there, didn't you?" he spat in james' face, sizing him up.

the rest of you stood up at that, sirius particularly fast as he threw an arm around james and flashed mulciber an innocent grin before scrunching up his face in disgust. "oh mate, you might wanna get your mouth cleaned out before getting too close to my james here."

you snorted out a laugh at your brother and mulciber sneered, shoving him away by the shoulders. "you keep quiet, black. you think you have any right talking to me?"

"snape got what he deserved," you spoke up, narrowing your eyes at the group of boys as you got between him and sirius. "you should teach your friend to keep his big nose out of where it doesn't belong."

avery barked out a laugh, your attention turning to him as he joined mulciber's side. "you're funny, little black. all bark and no bite, aren't you?"

peter stood back, eyes wide in fear. remus, remaining his usually calm self, tensed up and took a step closer to you when avery jabbed his finger into your chest, only for it to be slapped away by sirius with an angry "don't fucking touch her".

"alright, avery. that's enough," remus spoke up, his voice firm as he rested his hand on your lower back.

avery did nothing but laugh again, not taking his eyes off of you. "you're nothing but the gryffindors' little slut, aren't you?"

sirius suddenly shoved him back with an angry force just as remus stepped in front of you, his voice scarily calm as he spoke. "the fuck did you just say?"

"you heard me," avery shrugged, clearly unfazed by sirius' actions as his smirk grew even more. "i bet she gets passed around you all like the little whore she is. is she good?"

you stumbled back into peter in shock, his words ringing through your ears as the blonde boy wrapped an arm around you protectively.

"if you know what's good for you, avery, you'll shut your fucking mouth," remus seethed, his eyes never leaving avery's face as he slowly moved closer towards him.

the boy didn't answer him and instead turned his attention back to sirius as he lowered his voice, sneering at him evilly. "i bet you join in on the action too, don't you? some sick fantasy you blood traitors like to indulge in, huh? regulus is the only worthy one out of you three, you ever invite him to join?"

sirius exploded in a fit of rage and james grabbed him as he lunged towards the slytherin, holding him back before he'd kill the guy. "who the fuck do you think you are, avery?! i swear, you're so fucking dead!"

"you'll be done with her soon enough," malfoy joined, shrugging his shoulders casually as he sneered at remus, stalking towards him. "maybe then you'll let us have a go, yeah? she was meant to be one of us, after all. she may be a blood traitor but she's hot as-"

a sickening crunch interrupted him as remus sent his fist reeling directly at his nose, nothing but pure rage seeping through his veins as he sent punch after punch to avery's face.

"remus!"

james and sirius watched in shock for a moment (both quite frankly more than happy to let remus beat him to a pulp, and in fact cheered him on for the first two or three hits) before your pleading voice snapped them out of it. they each grabbed one of remus' arms and narrowly avoided getting an elbow to the face as they dragged him off of the half-unconscious boy.

"you even look at her again and i swear to godric you'll be spending the rest of your lives in the hospital wing."

the two other boys scrambled to grab avery and ran off towards the castle, terrified of remus' sudden outburst.

"alright, show's over you fuckers!" sirius called out to the relatively big crowd that had formed around you all, who reluctantly dispersed out in different directions. "give us some bloody space!"

"well that felt good," remus chuckled quietly as he shook his hand a few times.

you just stared at him with wide eyes and your mouth dropped open slightly. "you.. you just-"

"fuckin' hell, moony that was bloody brilliant!" james broke out into a cheer, him and sirius praising him and re-enacting just how brilliant it was as remus laughed quietly again before turning to you.

he gently took you from peter's grip and raised his eyebrows as he looked down at you, going back to his usual gentleness as he scanned your features worriedly. "are you alright, darling?"

you didn't quite know what to say, looking up at him slightly starstruck as you just nodded your head and stumbled over your words. "yeah, i- yeah."

he gave you a gentle smile and cupped your face with his non-bloody hand before leaning down for a kiss, conveying all his usual love and softness into it as if he didn't just completely wreck avery's face.

the sounds of gagging filled your ears and you broke away from remus with a soft laugh at james and sirius' antics.

"don't forget that's my sister, moony! merlin, what that fucker said about us is going to haunt me forever."

[delicatebarness]

cry baby | prologue

Summary: Meet The Avengers, the infamous friendship group. Known for causing trouble all around town, and being feared by all. Expect the youngest member of the group, she was different and she was protected.

Warning: Smoking. Alcohol. Crying.

Word Count: 1179

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A/N: The final results of the poll were 68.4% in favor of posting this now so here you go. I really hope I did this idea justice and you enjoy it! Please let me know what you think <3

Tags: buckys0whore |

The bar hummed with music, laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional roar of a motorcycle outside. In the corner booth, among the haze of cigarette smoke and the dim glow of neon lights, sat a group of friends, claimed as The Avengers. 

Bucky Barnes leaned back in the booth, his eyes constantly scanning the room with a gaze as piercing as the edge of his knife. His presence commanded respect anywhere he went, without raising his voice. He was an enigma wrapped in leather.

A smirk played at the corner of his lips as he observed the scene at the bar. Your presence was a stark contrast to the rough ambiance of the bar. Dressed in a delicate flowing dress, out of place amidst the leather and tattoos, you were the embodiment of vulnerability in a world that praised itself on toughness. Your gaze darted nervously around the room as you waited for your drink. 

Bucky’s grip tightened around the beer bottle he had been nursing as he watched the bartender lean close to you. His jaw clenched with a quiet intensity, some instinct urged him to intervene, to protect you from whatever the guy was trying to do. But, before he could make a move he noticed Steve, your older brother and his best friend, standing closer to you. It was obvious from Steve’s expression and assertive stance that he was telling the bartender to step back.

Turning back his attention to the booth, he caught Natasha’s knowing smirk and Sam’s amused glance. They also had been watching the scene at the bar and offered small nods of approval toward Steve as you both made your way to the booth with the drinks. You were a tight-knit group, and there was an unspoken understanding that you would always protect one another. Mostly, it was you that they were protecting.

Your emotions began to bubble to the surface, tears threatened to spill over. The reasons for them, you were unsure of. Was it the presence of the new bartender? Perhaps Steve’s protective demeanor had caused them. Or maybe it was simply the atmosphere of smoke and dust. Regardless, as you settled back into the booth, the sight of Bucky’s eye-rolling toward you only worsened the urge to cry.

“Spill the beans, crybaby,” Bucky’s voice cut through the chatter of your friends around you. “What’s the verdict today? Tears of joy or sadness?” his tone dripping with sarcasm as he leaned forward.

Your cheeks flushed, and you tilted your head up hoping gravity will stop the tears from spilling. “I, I don’t know,” you mumbled softly, your voice barely audible over the noise of the bar.

As the night wore on, the bar grew increasingly rowdy and you found yourself retreating into the safety of your thoughts. No matter how hard you tried to hide your teary eyes, you couldn’t escape Bucky’s watchful gaze. 

~

As closing time drew near, there was a subtle shift that settled over the group, a silent acknowledgment that their night was coming to an end. With reluctant sighs, you began to gather your belongings. The rest of your friends picked up their packets of cigarettes and leather jackets, as you picked up your sketchbook and pencil. Preparing to leave the warmth of the bar for the cold embrace of the night, you begin to make your way to the exit. 

Bucky remained rooted in his spot in the booth, his gaze fixed on some unseen point around the bar. “Hey, Buck, you coming?” Steve called out, his voice tinged with concern as he glanced back at his friend. 

You could almost see the cogs working in his mind as he hesitated, clenching his jaw. “I think I’ll stay a bit longer,” he finally replied, his voice low. 

Wanda arched an eyebrow, confusion took over her features as Natasha spoke for you all, “Everything okay, Barnes?” she asked, her tone laced with curiosity. 

He offered you all a tight-lipped smile, a silent reassurance that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah I’m fine,” he beamed at you all with an uncharacteristic glee. His gaze flickered over to you for a brief moment before returning to your friends. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow,” 

With reluctant nods and murmured goodbyes, you and the rest of The Avengers made your way out of the bar, leaving Bucky alone. As the door swung shut behind you, Bucky let out a heavy sigh before making his way over to the bar.

~

With a heavy sigh, Bucky climbed the stairs to your apartment door, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallways. An hour must have passed since you would have gotten home. As he reached the familiar door, he hesitated for a moment, his already grazed knuckles hovering over the wood before finally summoning the courage to knock. 

The door swung open, revealing your concerned expression as you took in the sight of him standing on her doorstep, a black eye already began to form. 

“Bucky? What happened?” you exclaimed, your voice filled the air with concern as you ushered him inside.

He offered you a weary smile, his gaze met yours with a mixture of gratitude and exhaustion. “You should have seen the other guy,” he replied, his smile turning into a playful smirk. 

You arched an eyebrow skeptically, as you gestured for him to take a seat at the kitchen table. “Let’s just get you patched up,” you sent him a reassuring smile as you moved around your kitchen to fetch the first aid kit. 

As you began cleaning and dressing his wounds, he couldn’t help but marvel at the tenderness of your touch. Your hands moved with practiced precision while you stood in between his tights. Despite his attempts to downplay his injuries, he winced slightly as the antiseptic stung, his jaw clenching. 

A wave of emotion washed over you, and tears began to well up in your eyes, a silent testament to the guilt you carried from causing him more pain and discomfort. 

Bucky’s heart clenched at the sight of your tears, forgetting about his own pain momentarily as he reached out to gently cup your cheeks, wiping away the evidence of her distress. A gesture as gentle as it was instinctual. “Hey, what’s wrong?”  he asked softly, his hand never leaving your cheek.

You swallowed hard, your gaze flickering away from his as you struggled to find the words you wanted to say, “I, I don’t like when you’re hurt,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. 

A pang of guilt twisted in his chest as he realized the hurt he was causing. Without hesitation, he pulled you into a gentle embrace, his arms wrapping around your waist. “I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice filled with regret as he felt your tears dampen his skin. “I’m sorry,” 

In the warmth of his embrace, you found comfort, and the weight of your worries subsided by the rhythm of his heartbeat. You nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, calming your emotions with every passing second.

---

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

[moonyswolfie]

Study Session

A/N: So I just finished a torturously long exam session and this fic is a result of all the stress and mental breakdowns I've accumulated like Pokemons during this time. I actually wrote this piece between two of my biggest and most difficult exams, hence the N.E.W.T.s coming in to play. I hope you enjoy and if you relate, I'm so sorry! Remember that you are strong and no amount of academic stress can bring you down!

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Potter!reader

Masterlist

The table you were sat at in the Library was so crowded with textbooks and parchments that you could not see the wood any longer. Notes and cheat sheets, explanatory scrolls of parchments, quills and bottles of ink covered the entire surface. Hell, Lily even brought a dictionary. Merlin knew what use would a muggle dictionary have when it came to magical terms, but you learned a long time ago to never question her genius.

It was N.E.W.T.s season and to say that all 5 of you were stressed would be an understatement. James thought that once you passed your O.W.L.s, the N.E.W.T.s would not be as scary as everyone made them out to be. It was an exam session, a very long and tiresome and perhaps crucial exam session, but it wasn't Voldemort, right?

Wrong. The stress was growing by the hour and despite having two more weeks at your disposal to revise and memorise all you needed to, it didn't feel like enough.

But then again, was it ever enough? 

You've been preparing for the N.E.W.T.s since the beginning of the school year, forcing yourself to attend every class and take a ginormous amount of notes that you knew would probably end up useless or lost somewhere at the bottom of your book bag. Still, you couldn't bring yourself to pause. Failure was not an option.

So far you tackled Charms, Transfiguration and Defence Against the Dark Arts, all of them easy and rather entertaining subjects, if you were to say so yourself. Right now however, you were stuck on the same Potions chapter for the past four hours and were just about ready to scream, cry, Avada Kedavra yourself or better yet, all of the above.

"Hey, Sirius?" 

He hums and looks up, noticing your twitching eye and the exasperation rolling off you in waves. 

"Y/N, are you okay?" 

The concern was palpable and it caught the attention of your boyfriend in an instant, yet Remus knew better than to pester you with questions right now. He was adamant about rest and health being your first priority, but considering his own overcrowded study schedule, he would be a hypocrite to point it out at the moment. He did, however, push a goblet of water in your direction, which you eagerly accepted and gulped down in seconds. You weren't exactly allowed food or beverages in the Library, but what Pince didn't know would not hurt her.

You thanked Remus and handed the goblet back, before turning to Sirius and taking a deep breath to regain your composure. 

"I have been rereading this chapter for the majority of our time here and I still don't understand the origins or the side effects of Amortentia when used for a longer period of time. No one really bothered to detail on them in any of our textbooks and I am not sure anyone ever subjected themselves to testing it out and then writing a memoir about it. However, Slughorn oh so graciously announced us that it might be included in the advanced exam topics. Do you happen to have anything on this? I know he mentioned some in class, but I didn't catch all of them."

"I think I do..."

He shuffles some parchments and knocks down some books, thus earning himself a stern look from Madame Pince, but ultimately finds the notes and hands them over.

"There you go, love."

You smile and thank him, humming while you scan the information. For such a chaotic human being, he had the neatest handwriting you've ever seen.

It doesn't take long for you to find the part about side effects, however there was nothing you didn't already write down yourself. Thankfully though, Sirius was the type of person to absently write down everything he heard so you found other helpful pieces of information. This was why you asked him for the notes in the first place, instead of Remus or James. Remus, much like yourself, only wrote the parts he was less certain of, whereas James didn't write anything at all. And Lily, Merlin bless her, she was a growing disaster when it came to writing information down. There was, contrary to her claims, no method to her madness.

You rolled up the parchment once you were done writing, yet kept it close, just in case you needed it again later. Sirius was studying for Transfiguration, so he wouldn't miss the notes anytime soon. Lily turned to you, ready to ask a question regarding a Charms lesson she was too sick to attend, but stopped and frowned, browsing the page spread out on the table in front of you.

"Y/N, why are your notes bilingual?" 

You turned and followed her gaze to the margins, specifically to the terminology you borrowed from Sirius...

You unscrolled his notes again and placed them next to yours, looking from one to the other with a bemused smile. Next to the name of the potion, you drew a little arrow and wrote amour et obsession, which would have been inconspicuous, had you not added une potion délicate and l'amour impossible devient possible.

There were a few more next to the ingredients list and some corrections made regarding the mode of preparation. As you scanned the two sets of notes, you noticed that his were entirely in French, while you half translated, half copied your added bits.

You didn't know what was funnier, that you mindlessly wrote the information in Frenchglish, or that you didn't notice it was in another language to begin with. 

English was your mother tongue, yet like every other pureblooded offspring, you were forced to attend a variety of language lessons to determine which ones you would be more skilled in. Romantic languages proved to be your forte, so you stuck with French, Italian and Latin. It wasn't easy in the beginning, seeing as they are all mere variations of the latter, therefore making them ridiculously easy to mix up and combine in the oddest of sentences, but you persevered and were now fluent in all four. 

Regardless, slip ups like the one you were tiredly staring at now were not unheard of. You were certain it was a testament to how tired you truly were. Perhaps Remus was right, you should rest more.

But then again, this was not a simple exam session. It was the one that would determine your entire future. You could sleep when you're dead.

"You write your notes in French?"

Sirius' head shot up immediatey, confusion written all over his face.

"Yes?"

By now everyone's attention was on your exchange, which deepened his frown. James looked like he missed everything until that very moment, Remus was watching his best friend with a raised brow and Lily was silently shaking her head, smiling. She didn't know how she ended up with the lot of you, but she knew she loved you dearly.

"French is my first language" Sirius added, as if that was all the explanation you needed.

Sadly, it did nothing to clear up the confusion. When neither of you said anything, he added "doesn't everyone take notes in their first language?"

Despite Remus being the only other person in your group who wasn't a native English speaker, therefore making him the best candidate to answer his friend, you all shook your heads, your faces betraying different levels of amusement and fondness. It was a rather endearing situation.

"I don't take notes in Welsh, if that's what you're asking. I don't think I can even translate half the things correctly. Besides, the spells are in Latin, so imagine how that would look on a piece of parchment."

You chuckled at the mental image of magical notes looking more like pages taken from that muggle author's book, Tolkien. Lily followed and you both received a glare and a pointed "shhh" from Madame Pince. Honestly, it was a wonder she wasn't kicking you out at this point.

"Wait a second" James turned towards his best friend "ALL of your notes are in French?"

Sirius nods. Poor baby looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

"But don't you..." you frown, unsure how to formulate your question "I see you writing constantly. If the Professor speaks, you write. How..." you groan, burying your face in your hands and shaking your head "my brain hurts. You look as if you write down everything that is said in class, so I assumed that you do?”

You peek an eye up only to be met with Sirius chuckling silently.

“I do write mostly everything that is said in class, but first I summarize it and I guess it’s easier to summarize it in French. I find it easier if I reformulate the information because it shows I understood the concept, but to avoid learning something mechanically and forgetting it when I flip the page, I use my own words. The only issue is that sometimes I forget the word I need in English or there isn’t even a word in English for said thing to begin with. Thus French. And no one really asked me for my notes before you so I didn’t see any reason to put any effort in translating them. And you didn’t seem to have a problem with it anyway.” he adds with an amused smirk, remembering Lily’s previous comment about your notes

You mask your chuckle with a cough and glance at your notes again.

“That is actually a great idea, Pads, I might have to start doing it myself.”

“NO!”

The lot of you was startled by James’ whisper-shout. You gave him a bewildered look, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Are you alright, big brother?”

“Don’t you dare. I know you and your disturbingly brilliant mind. If you start implementing this method, you’re going to write your notes in Latin” he squints, an accusatory look in his eyes “and where am I going to get my last minute notes from then?”

That was it, you couldn’t hold it in any longer if you tried. You burst out laughing, prompting an exaggerated “SHHH” to be directed your way.

“This is your last warning, if you cannot keep quiet, I suggest you move your little study session to your Common Room.”

Madame Pince was stern, yet you couldn’t fault her this time. You were loud and you certainly disturbed a few of your peers seated at nearby tables.

“Sorry” you whisper with a sheepish look.

You returned your attention to the table just in time to catch Lily placing a sweet kiss on James’ cheek, mumbling “don’t worry, my love, I won’t leave you noteless” which seemed to lift his spirits immediately. As grossed out as you were by their affection sometimes (what are sisters for after all?), you couldn’t help but smile at the scene. You were really happy he found his better half, even if it happened to be one of your best friends.

But after all, you did return the favour, did you not?

Remus’ hand found yours under the table and he squeezed it affectionately. You squeezed right back and smiled up at him, mouthing “I love you” and delighting in the beautiful smile that took over his face for the rest of the day.

[corrodedcoffins-blog]

Getting Together

main masterlist

regulus black x potter!reader universe

word count: 1.4 k

note: been sitting on this for a while lol

takes place during the marauders 6th year and Reg's 5th

Sat criss-cross on the bathroom counter, Y/n held her hair out of her face in a make/shift ponytail while she finished her eyeliner, Sirius was sat on the toilet lid while he waited for his turn with the girl’s eyeliner.

The gang™ was getting ready for a Hufflepuff party, they may be kind and hard-working students but damn that house could party. 

“I probably won’t stay long, I've got a tummy ache.” “Well, I’m sure Remus would be willing to come back here with you.” – “What about Remus?” James said, walking into their shared bathroom to brush his teeth before the party (planning to kiss Lily, though he will most likely fail once again)

“Nothing.” Y/n said casually before going back to her eyeliner, hitting her brother’s hand out of the way of opening their mirror cabinet. 

James asks, with his mouth full of toothpaste and his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, “Are we balding?” 

“‘We’?” She looked at him through the mirror and planned to tell him how thick-headed he sounded, but got distracted by her small bald spot. “Wait- do you’ve the same?” “Yeah,-” “I think it’s just our hairlines.” “You think?” 

Sirius may have a brother but, much to his own dismay, never had that sibling dynamic with Regulus, they loved each other but due to their upbringing they showed their love quietly. So he always found James and Y/n’s back and forth moments as foreign as the rest of the boys did since neither Peter or Remus had siblings.

-

The group of five entered the Hufflepuff common room, James immediately went to the drinks, dragging Remus with him, while Sirius dragged Peter and the girl with him to the dance floor. The two others eventually brought the rest their own cups, Y/n danced but it felt like whenever she looked up she noticed her newest roommate.

This past summer break Sirius and Regulus run away and have since been living at the Potter’s, which both twins were relieved about, they knew about the Blacks. 

Regulus was nursing his drink while leaning against the fireplace, his long fingers wrapped around the cup, mumbling some sarcastic comment to Barty, until they linked eyes through the room full of wasted students. Though it felt like it broke as fast as it formed when Sirius tapped her on the shoulder and informed her of the girl Peter was about to ask to dance, pushing him aside she began to fix Peter’s hair by brushing pieces out of his face and flattening his shirt.

“Go get ‘er, Pete!” “Okay.” She laughed at his awkwardness. Peter could always make her laugh, though that could be said about all the boys, Peter had the type of humour that even he himself didn’t know when he was being funny and the biggest laughs came when he wasn’t trying.

Overall the party went well, Sirius didn’t leave too long after that interaction, Remus going with him for whatever fake reason he gave this time, Pete ending up leaving with that girl, and James after not winning over Evans yet again, went back to the dorm no doubt unknowingly interrupting a moment between Sirius and Remus. 

But Y/n couldn’t bring herself to go back to the dorm just yet, she liked the fresh air and the time away from the boys. It was when she went farther down a trail for a smoke that she saw the black-headed boy she’s grown to know well after the summer.

“Hey, Reg.” “Hello.”

Regulus was just getting comfortable around her when school came around again, one of the many reasons it took so long to be comfortable around the older girl was since he could remember he had liked her. The summer after Sitius’ first year he showed Reg some pictures of his new friends, and the second he saw Y/n he was gone.

The girl walked closer to the bench Regulus was sitting on and sat herself next to him, neither’s eyes leaving their view of the black lake for more than a couple seconds.

“My brother and your friends just abandoned you?” “Sirius went back to the dorm, had a stomach bug and Renus went with him an-” “Those two finally?” “How’d you know about that?” “Sirius is my brother and I know him rather well.” “I guess you do… Want-?” She gestured for him to grab her cigarette, he shook his head ‘no’ which was an uncommon answer around here, but it sorta made sense that Regulus wouldn’t, she supposes he’s proper that way. 

“So what about your friends?” “Pandora doesn’t really do parties, and I’m sure Barty and Evan are off somewhere.” “Well I’m glad we both got abandoned.” She looked up to face the crescent moon, not thinking too hard about how Regulus would interpret her words. She liked when he did. All summer she had made comments like that one, she enjoyed the blush that would rise to the tips of his ears.

“Why’s that?” “I like being with you.” The boy’s head shoots up from it staring at the grass beneath their feet to look at her beside him. 

“Y-you do?” “Yeah!...” Her pause made Regulus assure that he read that ‘being with you’ thing wrong, because of course she wouldn’t date him; she’s a year older, the most gorgeous girl he’s ever seen, as well as the nicest. But in actuality, Y/n has been trying to hint that she likes Regulus since the beginning of the summer. Yet the boy was most oblivious to people truly caring about him, he didn’t believe it possible; that only made her want to show him even more.

“Reg, I really like being with you..” She said, expectantly, enunciating every word to get it through his self-loathing skull. It was when she raised her eyebrows at him that it hit him, he was not imagining it. Not at all. 

“Really? Me?” “Yes.” “Oh… I did not expect that.” Whether it was meant to be said out loud or not, it made Y/n laugh so Regulus was thankful he did, he liked her laugh. Still unmoving, Y/n makes the first move yet again.

She grabbed the end of his Slytherin tie, twirling it between her finger tips before grabbing it in a fist to pull the younger boy in. Her lips covered his own, gently they moved together, her hand went to his and placed them on her waist and then hers went to the side of his neck, all while holding her cigarette in the other. The taste of said cigarette lingered in her mouth adding to the addicting taste of her and her almost gone strawberry lip gloss.

Finally pulling back, both slightly out of breath, they took a moment to gather themselves. The Potter girl took a final drag before putting it out with her heel.

“I gotta get going, Reg.” “Oh-” “If you're free after classes tomorrow I’d love to meet back here.. We could talk, or just be with each other.” “Yeah. I would really like that.” “Good. Okay, I’ve really got to go though, James gets worried when any of us stay out too late.” 

She waited a second before turning on her heels to begin her walk, though the sound of footsteps stopped her in her tracks and Regulus came up next to her, “As you mentioned it’s late, it would be the gentlemanly thing to do to walk you to your common room.” “Well gee, what a gentleman I’ve got on my hands.”

Their conversation flowed as they walked the long walk to Gryffindor Tower. And though they got plenty of time together Y/n couldn't help the slight disappointment when they arrived at the portrait hole.

“This is my stop.” “Yes.” “I don’t feel very gentlemanly now that you have to walk all the way to the dungeons now, why don’t I walk you?” “Then I would walk you back here and we would be in a terrible loop.” “The loops not so terrible if I’m spending the whole time with you.” 

If another student were to hear their conversation, see the love stricken grin on the girl's face, and the red face of Regulus they would most likely throw up from the sheer cheesy-ness. And to make matters for the state of the blush on his face worse, Y/n placed a soft peck on Regulus’ lips one last time.

“Now get outta her, I’m not allowed to let other houses hear the password, especially not snakes like yourself.” That sentence from just about any other Gryffindor would have offended him, but everything Y/n said felt like it came from a good place.

“Okay. Goodnight.” “Night, Reg.” She laughed out, due to his seriousness. She then held on to her word and didn’t say the password until he was out of ear shot, watching him as he left.