#rip james and lily

[my-castles-crumbling]

I wish all Marauders fans a happy Halloween. We’ll get through it together ❤️

[loonyloopylupin96]

On a scale of Fred's family watching him die with his last laugh being etched across his face, to Remus' life shattering on 31st Oct 1981 how miserable is this feed/timeline going to be this week?

Or do we adopt a happy halloween approach and just laugh at quirrel instead?

[skeletons-inboth-our-closets]

"baby, it's halloween, there's a last time to everything"

"the end is near"

phoebe, I know what you are

[soupinaboot]

RIP the marauders, didn't get to listen to 'Under Pressure' together.

[ravenelyx]

Happy Halloween, today is a reminder to never become a marauders fan if you want to stay sane

[rotthepoet]

Wasn’t gonna smoke tonight but i miss the Potters like a BITCH

[kane5-5]

Sirius looked so sexy in his mug shot right after the whole Peter thing, some blood and dirt on his face, the aurors were like ‘damn, is he serving cunt or second degree murder?’

[sweetprettygeek]

Whumptober 2023: Prompt 4

No. 4: “I see the danger, It’s written there in your eyes.”

Cattle Prod | Shock | “You in there?”

Fandom: Harry Potter

Whumpee: Sirius Black

He watches as the taillights shrink into pinpricks and are finally swallowed up by the thick night clouds. It’s then, when the darkness and silence close in on all sides, that the tension building inside him pops—like a balloon filled to bursting.

The strength in his legs gives out and he wobbles backward. His foot catches on a large piece of debris and he falls. His muscles and reflexes fail to either catch him or brace for impact. He hits the ground like an overripe tomato.

The air is snatched out of his lungs. His body doesn’t fight or struggle against the loss of oxygen. He lies sprawled on the ground, peacefully drowning. His vision gets sort of watery and distorted, rendering everything as wavering shadowy masses. His neck goes limp, dropping his head back with a snap he vaguely hears but doesn’t feel. His eyes loll around in his skull and drift upward. The sky is as dark and murky as everything else. All except the lurid green streak that seems to be engulfing the night itself.

The dark mark.

He doesn’t need to see it clearly to know what it is or what it means.

His shoulders twist to the side and he vomits. The lack of breath catches up to him and all of a sudden he’s gasping for air and spewing at the same time. His lungs are burning and his throat is burning and he’s choking on the disgusting mush that just keeps coming and coming, up from a well of horror somewhere deep inside him.

Acting on impulse, he balls his hand into a fist and hits himself in the abdomen. A cough—surprise, pain—disrupts the choking, heaving cycle his airway is doing. He coughs several more times, clearing out the mess. At last, when only saliva is dripping from his mouth, he manages to gulp in some desperate breaths.

The blurriness around his vision sharpens. He can see the grass, the dirt, the broken walkway. He can smell the acrid stench of his stomach’s upheaved contents. He rolls to the other side, trying to escape the odor, not keen on being sick all over again.

His hand is wet. Rotating his wrist, he sees a long bloody gash in his palm. He must have cut it open when he fell. He flexes his hand and watches as blood streams out of the wound and down his wrist. He feels neither pain nor disgust. Actually, he feels so removed from the action that it might as well be someone else’s hand, someone else’s blood. It’s the tangy copper triggering his raw sense of smell which causes him to stop.

He rises from the ground, as though pulled by marionette strings. He teeters for a moment on unsteady feet, trying to find his balance. He pivots slowly, mindful of the rubble all around him.

The scene behind him is awash in ghostly green. He barely recognizes Potter Cottage, and that’s not all to do with half the roof being blasted off. Life itself has gone from the little house, sucked out by something even darker than a dementor.

He drifts like mist up the ruined walk. The door hangs crooked, hinges broken by magic. It creaks under his hand, issuing a warning he does not heed.

The floor of the front room is showered with glass. It’s been blasted out of every window, light fixture, and picture frame. The fireplace is cold, full of logs barely charred. The cat that always comes up to greet him is nowhere to be seen. There are no smells from the kitchen except cold, damp air. Everything is still and silent. Even the grandfather clock has stopped.

James is lying on the sofa. It’s comical, for him to be resting so peacefully amidst such destruction. As Sirius moves towards him, he hears a sickening crunch under his foot.

Lifting his shoe, he finds a pair of glasses—frames mangled, lenses shattered. They must have been lost either when James fell or when he was moved to the sofa. Sirius bends to pick them up, but he knows it won’t do any good. James would be better off with an entirely new pair.

Sirius weaves his way over to the sofa. He looks down at the form lying there. It’s definitely James: dark messy hair, long thin nose, proud chin. Sirius leans down and places the broken glasses on top of an unmoving chest.

James Potter has been his best friend since he was twelve years old. He knows James better than his flesh-and-blood brother. James Potter loves scotch eggs and Quidditch, runs his fingers through his hair when he gets riled up, writes terrible poetry, transforms into a stag, and has loved Lily Evans since the moment he saw her. He could pick James’s voice from a crowd of thousands and smell him from a mile away during a full moon. He would know James Potter anywhere.

The longer he looks at the body on the sofa, the more wrong it looks. It’s like a grotesque mannequin put together by a creature who had never seen a human being face-to-face. All the parts are there, but everything is slightly off. James had never been so quiet, so still, so small, or so pale.

This thing is not James. It may resemble him, may be something that he once owned like the glasses or a place he once inhabited like this cottage, but the essence that had been James Potter is gone. All traces of mischief, bravery, and the exhaustion of these last months have been obliterated, leaving a vacant expression on a waxy face that grows stranger to Sirius by the second. He turns his head and stumbles away, not wanting to look any longer at the empty shell.

His head is spinning again. The walls of the cottage are getting narrower. The empty silence fills with the sounds of ragged breathing that must belong to him; there is no one else. He catches sight of the staircase as he wades backward over the sea of glass. Up those stairs, he knows, there is another body like the one on the sofa. Another husk of a person. A not-Lily. He can’t bear to see it. He’s too much of a coward.

He staggers back the way he came, desperate to escape the mausoleum. It takes so long to reach the door, like he’s caught in a dense bog. His limbs are heavy. There is a thick film over his vision. His body feels pulled down and anchored, but his mind is untethered and so far away. He has to rely on touch and instinct since his thoughts can’t keep up. His hand finally brushes the wood of the busted door and he latches onto it with an iron grip, following its tilted swing back into the cool, open air. He whirls around on one heel, away from the hollowed-out house, and drops to his knees on the ground. He holds his head in his hands and tries to catch a breath.

What is he supposed to do?

His mind is blank. His emotions have shut down. His body is barely responsive, only loosely connected to the rest of him. Maybe he is dying and just doesn’t know it. He wishes he was dead. It should have been him who died anyway. He was supposed to be the Secret Keeper. They were supposed to come after him.

Peter.

A faint spark flickers in his brain. Peter was the Secret Keeper. Only Peter could tell someone where the Potters were hidden. Voldemort had found the Potters. Ergo…

Peter had given the Secret to Voldemort.

No one had known of their switch. Not even Dumbledore. Even if Peter had been captured in the last few hours, no one would have thought to ask him where the Potters were. And Secret Keepers were immune to Legilimency.

A Secret could only be given willingly.

Peter had given the Secret to Voldemort. Peter had sold them out. Peter was the traitor.

Sirius laughs. He throws back his head and barks with laughter. He clutches his sides when his ribs begin to ache. It’s simply too funny.

He had accused Remus of being the traitor. Not because he really believed it, but because he had been so hurt and angry when Remus had cast suspicion on him. Now that he looks back at it, all his so-called “evidence” of Remus’s defection had been whispered about by Peter. The motive is obvious in hindsight.

He cackles as he uses one hand to push himself to his feet. He laughs as he stumbles across the lawn, tripping and tearing his trousers on broken brick. It’s hilarious. He backed out of being Secret Keeper because he hadn’t trusted himself. In his heart, he believed himself braver than the threat of death or torture. But his heart had led him astray once before. What if something went wrong with the spell? What if all the books were wrong, and a Secret really could be compelled? What if his will wasn’t strong enough? What if he turned out to be a Black, in the end? Better to get himself killed and take the truth about the real Secret Keeper to his grave.

Except the real Secret Keeper had been a rat, in every sense of the word. The aptness of Peter’s Animagus form births a fresh wave of snorts and chortles.

Peter was the Secret Keeper. Peter betrayed them. Peter should be dead.

Sirius swerves down the lane like a man who’d had too much firewhisky, running into hedges and bins and laughing his head off all the way. He had failed! He had failed in every single conceivable way. He let a traitor into the Order. He accused Remus of being a Death Eater spy. He let Harry be taken away by Muggles. He let James and Lily be killed. None of this would have happened if he had stuck to the plan. He doesn’t deserve to live, not while James and Lily are lying dead back in that smoldering ruin.

He should be dead and Peter should be dead, so he will kill Peter and then himself—a very simple arrangement. If only he had thought of it sooner. He could have saved them all a lot of trouble.

[jameskinniesrise]

lily evans who loves to bake. lily evans who loves cherries. lily evans who has freckles. lily evans who's favourite colour is sage green. lily evans who loves herbology. lily evans who think divination is stupid. lily evans who wears red lipstick. lily evans with red nails. lily evans who is plus size. lily evans who loves daisies. lily evans who presses flowers. lily evans who loves to read. lily evans who loves mary macdonald.

for @marylily-my-beloved

[starrysillhoutte]

rip literally everyone in the marauders era, you would’ve eaten up brat summer

[2ndfamily]

sleepoverrr

[tothestarsinvelaris]

Started reading All the Young Dudes and um so like, I already know what happens in canon, and I know this follows canon and I know I'm not ready for it bc Remus is on the train for his first year and he's meeting everyone for the first time and I'm smiling like an idiot

This is going to hurt isn't it?

[dancetheblues333]

jily x how to lose a guy in 10 days (aka the most jily romcom to ever romcom change my mind)

inspired by @meriyart

[notcryingtoday]

The Marauders wished they were Blue and her raven boys

[siriusblackdevotee]

Two people that lived most of their life without James and Lily vs two people James and Lily loved the most.

Oh wait, they're the same person

L tbh.

[loonyloopylupin96]

On this day, around this time, 43 years ago Remus Lupin woke up to find his world a very different one to that which he fell asleep knowing.