i’d love to see some mattheo riddle angst where he finds out how much he’s fucked up hufflepuff!user mentally after years of not knowing what they are to each other. i’ve been thinking about this for a while and you’re the first person i’m asking about it.
you never asked
mattheo riddle x hufflepuff!reader
thank you for the request, i hope you enjoy this this is my first time writing angst so it’s not the best
word count: 1.5k
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You can’t remember when it started hurting, which somehow makes it worse than if you could trace it back to a single moment, a single argument, a single thing he said that went too far. Because if there had been a moment, you could have pointed to it. You could have named it, held it up, said this is where it broke. But there wasn’t. There was only the slow, quiet erosion of something that once felt certain, worn down piece by piece until you were no longer sure what you were holding onto — or why you were still holding on at all.
Being with Mattheo had never been easy. You had known that from the beginning, in the way people always lowered their voices when they spoke about him, in the way his name carried something heavier than it should have for someone his age. He was sharp in places that made others cautious, distant in ways that made them give up before even trying, and yet, for reasons you still struggle to fully explain, you hadn’t done either. You had stayed.
Not because he made it easy for you, but because, in the beginning, he hadn’t needed to.
————————————————————————
“Are you coming tonight?”
Your voice sounds steadier than you feel, carefully balanced between casual and cautious, as if the wrong tone might tip something fragile that you’ve been trying to keep upright for far too long. Mattheo doesn’t look up immediately, his attention fixed on the coin rolling idly between his fingers, catching the light with each practiced flick as though it matters more than the answer he’s about to give you.
“Maybe.”
It is such a small word, spoken so easily, and yet it lands with a familiar weight that settles somewhere deep in your chest. There had been a time when maybe didn’t feel like rejection. Back when you still believed that uncertainty meant possibility, not avoidance, when you convinced yourself that whatever this was between you didn’t need to be defined to be real. But reality, you’ve learned, shouldn’t feel like waiting. It shouldn’t feel like constantly adjusting yourself to fit into spaces that were never clearly made for you in the first place.
“You said that yesterday,” you reply, quieter now, though not quite as carefully composed as before. He shrugs, finally glancing at you, his expression unreadable in the way that has always made it impossible to tell whether he doesn’t care or simply doesn’t want you to know that he might.
“Things change.”
You almost laugh at that, though the sound never quite makes it past your throat, because if there’s anything you’ve come to understand, it’s that things do change — just not in the way he means. You changed.
You adapted, softened in places that used to be stronger, learned to hold your tongue when you would have once argued, learned to read the subtle shifts in his mood as if they were warnings you couldn’t afford to ignore. Somewhere along the way, you stopped being someone who challenged him and became someone who carefully avoided pushing him too far, as though the risk of losing him entirely outweighed the cost of slowly losing yourself.
“I think…” you begin, and even to your own ears, your voice sounds thinner than it should, like something worn down with repeated use, “I think I need to understand what this is.”
That, at least, gets his attention. Mattheo’s gaze sharpens slightly, his brow pulling together as he looks at you as though you’ve introduced a problem he hadn’t realized existed.
“What do you mean?”
You hesitate, not because you don’t know the answer, but because you already suspect what his will be.
“This,” you say, gesturing faintly between you, the space that has always felt too undefined, too uncertain. “Us. I don’t know what I am to you anymore.”
The silence that follows stretches longer than it should, long enough for something in your chest to start sinking before he even speaks.
“You’re… you.”
For a moment, you just look at him, waiting for something more — an explanation, a clarification, anything that might make the words mean something beyond the empty placeholder they so clearly are. But nothing comes, and the absence of it tells you everything you need to know. You nod, slow and automatic, as if you’ve been given an answer that makes sense, even though it doesn’t.
“Right,” you murmur, swallowing past the tightness in your throat. “Of course.”
Because that’s what you’ve always done, isn’t it? Taken what little he offers and convinced yourself it was enough. You turn toward the door, not dramatically, not with anger or finality, but with a quiet sort of acceptance that feels far more permanent than any argument ever could have been. And that’s when he notices.
Not the question you asked, not the conversation itself, but you.
There is something different in the way you move, in the way your shoulders curve inward slightly, as though you’ve been carrying something heavy for too long and have only just realized that you’re allowed to put it down. You don’t hesitate, don’t linger, don’t look back in the way you used to when you were still hoping he might stop you.
“Wait.”
The word leaves him sharper than intended, and you pause, though not because you’re uncertain, simply because old habits don’t disappear all at once.
“What’s wrong with you?”
It’s instinctive, the question, edged with irritation instead of concern, because that’s easier, because that’s what he knows. But even as he says it, something about the situation feels… off. You let out a quiet laugh, and it startles him more than anything else could have, because there is no warmth in it, no trace of the person who used to find amusement in his bluntness rather than exhaustion.
“There’s nothing wrong with me, Mattheo.”
You turn back to face him then, and whatever he sees in your expression makes something in his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t quite understand.
“I just finally realized that you don’t care.”
The words settle between you, heavier than they should be, heavier than he expects.
“I never said that,” he replies quickly, the defensiveness in his voice surfacing before he has time to consider why.
“You didn’t have to.”
And that is the problem, isn’t it? Because he didn’t say it, not directly. He never had to. He studies you then, properly this time, and it is unsettling how much he has to look for things that should have been obvious all along. You look… tired. Not in the simple, fleeting way that comes from lack of sleep, but in something deeper, something quieter, like exhaustion that has settled into your bones over time. There is a distance in your expression that he doesn’t remember being there before, a careful detachment that feels entirely unfamiliar.
“Since when do you—” he starts, but the question falls apart before it can fully form, because he doesn’t even know what he’s asking. Since when do you feel like this? Since when did things change? Since when did you change?
“Since always,” you answer softly, as though you’ve heard the question he couldn’t finish. And that, that is what makes it sink in. Not suddenly, not all at once, but enough to leave him unsteady in a way he doesn’t know how to handle. Because when he tries to think back, to pinpoint the moment this might have started, he can’t. All he can see instead are fragments. Every time he said maybe and never followed through. Every time you waited without complaint. Every time you stayed, without him ever once asking what it was costing you to do so.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks, and for the first time, there is something quieter beneath his voice, something uncertain. You look at him for a long moment, and there is no anger in your expression, no frustration, only something far more final. “I did,” you say gently. “Just not in a way you cared enough to notice.”
That lands harder than anything else you’ve said. Because he realizes, with a sharp, uncomfortable clarity, that he can’t remember. Not properly. Not in any way that proves he was paying attention.
“I…” he begins, but the word feels incomplete, useless, because he doesn’t know how to follow it, doesn’t know how to fix something he didn’t even realize he was breaking. You take a small step back, and the distance it creates feels disproportionate, like something far greater than a single movement.
“I think I’m done trying, Mattheo.”
And there is no anger in it. No raised voice, no final argument, just quiet certainty. For the first time since he’s known you, he doesn’t have something to say. No deflection, no sarcasm, no easy way out of the situation he’s found himself in. Only the slow, sickening realization that while he was avoiding defining whatever this was, avoiding responsibility, avoiding anything that required him to look too closely;
synopsis: Regulus Black stood before the world, swearing himself to another. But you knew the truth. Every vow, every polished smile, was a lie threaded with your name. You were the shadow he could not love in daylight, the choice he never dared to make. Now, bound to her by blood and duty, he carries you in silence — and you’re left with the unbearable truth that love was never enough to save him.
cw: heavy angst, slight nsfw, hurt/no comfort
a/n: this was rotting in my drafts, so when I saw your request, I immediately thought of it as a sign to post this one!!
masterlist
The first time you ever noticed Regulus Black, it was winter, and the castle was asleep.
You had crept into the library after curfew, the kind of reckless thing Ravenclaws prided themselves on doing quietly, and found him already there. The fire in the grate had been reduced to embers, and Regulus — the Slytherin golden boy, the Black family’s prized heir — was bent over a thick, leather-bound book, candlelight painting shadows across his sharp features.
He glanced up when you entered, his eyes catching yours with that cool, unreadable expression he was famous for.
“I suppose you’re here for bedtime stories too?” you teased, clutching your own stack of books to your chest.
Something flickered in his gaze — irritation, maybe amusement — but he only said, “Quiet, or you’ll get us both caught.”
You should have left it at that. But nights like those kept happening: the two of you stealing moments in the library, exchanging barbed remarks that slowly softened into reluctant smiles. He was sharper than you’d expected, with humor so dry it could wither a plant, but there were cracks in him too. When he thought you weren’t looking, you caught glimpses of someone tired, restless, weighed down by something he never explained.
By spring, you were sneaking into the Astronomy Tower together, not because you cared about stars but because he hated the Slytherin dorms and you hated being alone. He never talked much about his family, except when he was angry. You’d hear the bitterness in his voice when he spat about Sirius, the chosen rebel, the favored disgrace. You didn’t press. He didn’t offer.
Still, somehow, you learned each other in ways that mattered: the way he took his tea bitter, how he rolled his quill between his fingers when he was restless, the way his lips parted just slightly before he laughed — rare, but you collected every one.
The first kiss wasn’t planned.
It was after Quidditch, of all things. You weren’t even watching the match, but Regulus came off the pitch with hair plastered to his forehead, eyes alight with something wild. He caught you waiting at the edge of the stands, a book in your lap you hadn’t read a word of.
“You came,” he said, like he hadn’t expected it.
“You looked like you might die out there,” you shot back. “Someone had to bear witness.”
And then, inexplicably, he was kissing you. Quick, hard, like it hurt him. You remember the taste of sweat, the cold wind cutting your cheeks, his hand curled desperately at the back of your neck.
It was supposed to be a mistake. It wasn’t.
---
It went on like that for months: quiet touches in shadowed corridors, your hand brushing his under the library tables, kisses stolen between classes. He never said the words out loud — neither of you did — but you felt it in the way he looked at you like you were the only thing anchoring him.
Until one night in the Slytherin common room, you heard her name for the first time.
A group of them were laughing near the fire, pureblood heirs with their perfect posture and cruel mouths. Someone mentioned it casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world:
“Your mother’s secured the match then? With the Rosier girl?”
Regulus stiffened. You saw it, even from across the room. His jaw clenched, his shoulders rigid. He didn’t answer right away — just gave a short, practiced nod. The kind of thing he’d been trained to do all his life.
The world tilted under you.
Later that night, you found him in the Astronomy Tower again. He was staring out at the grounds, hair falling into his eyes, knuckles white where they gripped the stone ledge.
“So it’s true,” you said quietly.
His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t turn around. “It was never not going to be true.”
The words burned, but what burned more was the way he looked at you when he finally turned. Like he hated himself for it.
You hated him, in that moment. You hated his family. You hated the stupid, ancient traditions that had chained him before he’d even had a chance to breathe. But when he stepped closer, when his hand trembled against your cheek, you didn’t push him away.
The kiss was bitter this time. Salted with the taste of things you couldn’t change.
---
You told yourself you would stop. That you wouldn’t keep slipping into his arms, wouldn’t let yourself be the shadow love he sought in the dark while another girl’s name was sewn into his future.
But you did. Again, and again, and again.
You met in hidden classrooms, tangled in each other’s robes, breathless against the cold stone floors. You memorized the slope of his shoulders, the sharp inhale he made before he touched you, the desperate way he whispered your name like he wasn’t allowed to.
And every time her name was mentioned in passing — Rosier this, Rosier that — you saw him flinch. Just barely. But enough.
Enough to know he wasn’t indifferent. Enough to know it was killing him too.
One night, after hours spent tangled in sheets, you whispered, “Do you even want her?”
The silence stretched so long you thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, finally, his voice cracked:
“She’s not you.”
Your throat closed around the ache. “But she’ll be your wife.”
Regulus pressed his forehead against yours, eyes shut tight. “And you’ll be the one I think of every day of it.”
It was the most honest, most devastating thing he’d ever said.
---
The weeks bled together, filled with moments that weren’t enough and yet too much. A hand clasped under the table. A kiss stolen in the dark. A laugh shared when no one was watching.
You never asked when the wedding would be. He never offered. Some things were too cruel to speak aloud.
And all the while, the question burned at the back of your throat, waiting for the night you wouldn’t be able to hold it anymore:
When it comes to choosing… will I be the one left behind?
---
The announcement came at breakfast.
The Daily Prophet was spread across the Slytherin table, a headline in bold letters: Rosier and Black Families Announce Engagement.
The photograph beneath showed her — pretty, polished, perfect — her hand looped through Regulus’s arm as he stood stiff beside her. The picture version of him didn’t smile, didn’t move much at all, but the inked headline screamed what it meant. Finality. Binding.
Your spoon clattered against your bowl. No one noticed. Or maybe they did, and they didn’t care. The whispers swirled through the hall like smoke, students craning to get a look. “About time,” someone said. “She’s a good match.”
You fled before the walls crushed you, before you shattered in front of all of them.
---
That night, he found you in the library.
You didn’t look up when he slid into the chair across from you. Your book lay open, unread, the words swimming behind the blur of your eyes.
“You saw it,” he said. Not a question.
You slammed the book shut. “The whole bloody castle saw it.”
His jaw tightened, but he stayed quiet.
“Did you even think to tell me?” you spat. “So, now what? you'll marry her? What about me? about us? ”
He flinched, and you hated that it made you want to reach for him even now.
“I didn’t want you to hear it like that,” he said, voice low. “But my mother—”
“Your mother,” you snapped. “Everything is always your mother. When do you get to decide anything, Regulus?”
The silence was sharp enough to bleed on. He looked at you then, really looked, like he wanted to carve you into memory.
“You think I don’t want you?” His voice cracked, harsh and hoarse. “You think I don’t wake up every day wishing I could just walk away from all of it?”
“Then do it,” you whispered. The words trembled, desperate. “Choose me. Just once, choose me.”
For a heartbeat, you thought he might. His lips parted, his eyes burned, his hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you.
But then his face hardened, shutting down piece by piece, and you felt the moment slip away.
“I can’t,” he said. Barely audible. “If I walk away, I lose everything. My name. My family. My future. And you’d be dragged down with me.”
Tears scalded your eyes. “You’re already dragging me down, Regulus. Don’t you see? I’m drowning in you, and you won’t even reach for me.”
He looked away, his throat working. You thought you heard him whisper, I’m sorry, but it could have been your imagination.
---
The last time you touched him, it was in the hidden classroom near the Charms corridor.
Neither of you spoke as he pulled you into him, mouths colliding like you could undo everything with teeth and hands. His touch was frantic, bruising, desperate. You clutched at him like he was slipping through your fingers — because he was.
Afterward, lying tangled in silence, you pressed your face into his chest and whispered, “I hate you.”
He brushed his lips across your hair, breath shaking. “I know.”
You both knew it was the last time.
---
On the night of his betrothal dinner, you stood at the edge of the Great Hall as the Slytherins toasted to him. His fiancée sat beside him, radiant in emerald silk, her hand resting lightly on his arm. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at you either.
But when the laughter rang out and the goblets clinked, you caught the flicker of his eyes across the room, the smallest, sharpest glance — full of everything he couldn’t say, everything he would never give you.
And then he looked away.
---
The Black family spared no expense.
The wedding was a spectacle, a performance for every pureblood family worth knowing. The Rosier estate was draped in enchanted garlands of silver and green, chandeliers floating above tables carved from obsidian, goblets refilling themselves with wine that tasted like smoke and winter. Guests whispered in corners, sharp laughter blending with the sound of music and clinking glasses.
You shouldn’t have been there. Merlin, you shouldn’t have been there. But Walburga Black believed in appearances, and you, being close with certain respectable classmates, had earned an invitation. You told yourself you’d go to prove you didn’t care. But as you stood at the back of the glittering hall, fingers clenched tight around your goblet, you knew you had come for him.
Regulus.
He stood at the altar, flawless in formal robes, his expression carved from marble. When the doors opened and his bride walked down the aisle — elegant, graceful, everything the Blacks could want — his eyes didn’t waver. He didn’t flinch. He looked every inch the heir they needed him to be.
But you saw it.
The way his hand twitched at his side, almost like it remembered the shape of yours.
---
When the vows were spoken, your throat burned.
“I, Regulus Arcturus Black, take thee…”
His voice was steady. Controlled. Like he was reciting a curse.
Your chest felt like it might split open, right there in front of the entire world. You slipped out before the kiss, before the applause, before you could see the final nail hammered into the coffin of what you once had.
---
He found you hours later.
The party still roared behind him, music echoing down the stone corridors of the Rosier estate, but he had left it — left her — to chase after you. His hair was disheveled, his tie undone, and for once, he looked less like a Black and more like a boy.
“Why are you here?” you demanded, your voice breaking as you turned away.
“Because I had to see you.” His tone was desperate, ragged, nothing like the composed mask he wore in the hall.
“Congratulations,” you spat. “You’ve won. You’re the perfect son now. The dutiful husband. What else do you want from me?”
His hands curled at his sides. “I want—” He stopped, choking on the words. “I want it to have been different.”
That undid you more than anything. “Then why wasn’t it? Why didn’t you fight for me?”
His face crumpled, just for a second, before he smoothed it back into something sharper. “Because I don’t get to fight. Not the way Sirius does. He left and he’s free, and I stayed and—” His voice cracked. “And I can’t leave. I’m not brave enough. I never was.”
You were crying now, hot and silent. He reached out like he wanted to wipe the tears, but his hand hovered in the air, trembling, before dropping back to his side.
“I loved you,” he said finally, softly, like a confession wrung from the marrow of him. “I still do. But my name… my family… I chose them. And I’ll regret it until the day I die.”
The words struck like a curse. You wanted to scream, to hit him, to kiss him, to run. Instead, you whispered, “You don’t get to say that to me now.”
He swallowed hard, eyes glistening in the dim light. “I know.”
For a moment, you just stared at each other, two broken things who had never stood a chance. Then the music swelled from the hall, laughter spilling down the corridor, and he turned away.
He didn’t look back.
---
You left that night with the sound of celebration ringing in your ears and the echo of his words carved into your chest.
where remus snaps at the reader right before the full moon
hurt/comfort | remus is hurting | doting reader
The house feels tight around him tonight. Like the walls are shrinking, like the air itself is pressing down on his chest. You’ve been watching him pace for nearly an hour, up and down, up and down, his shoulders taut as bowstrings. He hasn’t eaten. He hasn’t sat down. His hands twitch at his sides as though there’s something crawling beneath his skin.
You keep telling yourself: It’s just the moon. It’s just the moon. You know this rhythm by heart. He always frays at the edges the night before, words stretched thin, patience gone to splinters.
Still, you can’t help but try. You step into the kitchen, make him tea, something warm, something grounding. When you carry it back to him, he doesn’t notice you at first, he’s too caught up in his storm.
“Remus,” you say softly, offering the cup, “sit down. Just for a minute. Please?”
His head snaps toward you, eyes wild in the low lamplight, pupils blown wide with restless fury. “For Merlin’s sake, do you think tea is going to fix this?”
The words cut sharper than they should. You blink, startled, but hold your ground. “No. I just thought-”
“You just thought,” he spits, snatching the cup from your hand only to slam it onto the table so hard some sloshes over the rim. “You think you can mother me through this? Do you think I don’t know what’s coming? You don’t have to, Merlin, you don’t have to hover like I’m about to shatter!”
Your throat goes dry. You hadn’t expected gratitude, but you hadn’t expected the venom either. “I’m not hovering. I’m worried, Remus. That’s allowed.”
He laughs, bitter and hollow, dragging his hands through his hair like he wants to rip it out. “Worried? You shouldn’t be here at all! You shouldn’t-” His voice cracks, fury bleeding into anguish, but he keeps going, relentless. “Do you understand what it’s like to know that every month, the best thing I could do for you is lock myself away? To know I could hurt you just by existing in the wrong space? And yet here you are, acting like, like I’m some poor broken thing who needs looking after!”
That one lands deep. You flinch, arms folding around yourself before you can stop them. “I never said you were broken.”
“You don’t have to. I see it in your eyes every bloody time you try to fix me.”
The silence that follows is jagged. Your own chest aches, because that isn’t what you meant, not at all, but you don’t know how to make him hear you when the wolf in him is so loud.
Finally, you whisper, voice cracking: “I only wanted to make it easier for you. I didn’t realize caring was such an offense.”
You turn, meaning to give him space before the hurt splinters worse, but before you can take more than a step, his hand closes around your wrist. Not rough, not hurting, but desperate.
“Wait.”
The word is hoarse, ragged, torn from him like it costs everything. You glance back, and the sight nearly undoes you: his chest heaving, his face crumpled, his hand shaking where it holds you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground.
“Don’t go,” he chokes. “I didn’t mean,” He swallows hard, eyes squeezed shut, jaw trembling. “I just hate it. I hate me. And I take it out on you, and I know I shouldn’t, but,”
And then his voice breaks completely. The fight drains out of him all at once, his knees buckling as he sinks down to the edge of the couch, dragging you closer until your legs are between his. He buries his face against your stomach like a man begging forgiveness.
Your anger melts with his collapse. You thread your fingers into his hair, holding him steady, your own tears slipping free. “You don’t get to decide what I see in you, Remus. You don’t get to decide if you’re worth it. That’s mine. And I’m telling you, you’re not broken. You’re hurting. And I’m not leaving.”
He clutches your waist with a ferocity that nearly hurts, muffling a sob into your shirt. For long minutes, you just hold him, rocking slightly, letting him shake and fall apart. His words come muffled, strangled: “I don’t deserve you.”
“Maybe not,” you whisper, bending to press your lips into his hair. “But I love you. And I’m not going anywhere.”
When he finally looks up, his eyes are red-rimmed, lashes wet. He looks younger like this, vulnerable in a way that makes your heart ache. You cup his jaw, thumb brushing over the stubble there, and he leans into it like he’s starved.
“Stay,” he whispers. “Please. Even if I snap again. Just… don’t let me push you away.”
You kiss him softly, firmly, like a vow. “I won’t.”
And for the first time all evening, his breathing begins to steady. The storm quiets, just enough for him to cling to you through the long, aching night ahead.
pairing: draco malfoy x slytherin!reader word count: 4.3k content warning: so much angst, argument, reader lowk goes a bit crazy on him, lucius being a bitch as always, crying, isolation, Astoria is lowk a bitch here, sorry to my Astoria people. summary: after one particular summer of silence, you return to Hogwarts only to see that Draco has taken a liking to another girl.
a/n: if you know me, you know I love angst so enjoy hehe, also sort of a happy ending yay. also ron is SUCH a sweetheart in this, i love him
The silence was beginning to kill you as you stared out the rainy window of the Slytherin common room, but you didn't know which was worse, the silence of Hogwarts or the invisible string slowly snapping between you and Draco.
School had started back up again and you, alongside the whole student population, had arrived the day before. Luckily, it was still the weekend, which meant classes wouldn't start for another day, leaving you to ponder some more. Your eyes watched as the water trickled down the glass pane, your body overtaken by a heavy weight as you pulled your knees to your chest.
You loved it here, Hogwarts was a home to you and many else, but it wasn't just the school that made it a home, it was the people. People like Draco. He'd brighten your day just by sending a corny note fluttering over your desk, or offering to hold your hand as you stepped over the crumbling stone steps outside the castle while he held your heavy books in his free arm.
You had been close for years, ever since you could babble his name and throw toys at his head. It hadn’t been until fourth year where your feelings for each other began to shift. You didn’t see one another as just ‘friends.’ It turned into something more, something new. A feeling that warmed your cold skin and soothed your aching thoughts. You were beginning to like him, and he shared the same energy.
It started with him surprising you with chocolate frogs or other delicious treats he somehow managed to snatch from the trolley and sneak into his pockets. Then, you two started sneaking out to the astronomy tower, as you always did, but this time you lay next to each other, hands entwined as you stared up at the glistening stars. Draco pointed to the constellation up above, the small triangular hook led by a twisting cluster of stars. “It’s you!” You joked, your left eye shut as you wobbled your pointy finger towards the stars. He laughed, looking over at you with all his pearly whites.
“And over there, is you.” He responded back after a few moments. You had your own constellation in the night sky, and as funny as it was, it was so closely placed near Draco’s.
“I guess we’re written in the stars.” You smiled, hand laying down at your side while the other was placed on your stomach. The soft and crisp fall air nipped at your skin, causing you to shudder under the wrath of the incoming winter. “I guess we are.” Draco turned over, resting his elbow on the Astronomy tower floor and looking over at your eyes. In his, you twinkled. You shined, like a mirrorball in a crowded room, like a diamond glistening in a dark cave. To him, you were the only person in the world. His breath fanned your face, his eyes flickering from your eyes to your mouth, yours doing the same as he leaned in closer.
Softly. Gently. Tenderly, his lips brushed yours. In the dead of night, he kissed you like you were the warm sun and he was the coldest of ice.
You moved against him, the kiss soft but passionate. Your hands reached up to the side of his face, the other entangled in his hair. His fingers found your waist, padding gently against your soft cotton shirt. “Draco.” You murmured.
That was the first time you had ever kissed Draco Malfoy, or more like the first time he ever kissed you. But it wouldn’t be the last.
From that day forward, you two snuck around like misplaced children trying to steal a pastry from the kitchen. You kissed under dim lit corridors and in the small tents after his Quidditch matches. He latched his hand in yours through the hallways, placed enchanted notes in your notebook. Draco showered you in gifts, bathed you in warm kisses and the tightest of hugs.
That was until, the summer came. Fifth year had just finished, and you were soon rising into Sixth alongside Draco. As always, you spent your summer’s together in the sun or parading around the city streets of Paris while your families vacationed nearby.
This summer was silent. No trips, no gifts, no seeing eachother. But most importantly, no sun. It had been cloudy all season, no glimpse of sunshine, just the sharp humidity and thunderstorms pounding outside your bedroom window. You wrote to Draco first on June 7th, 1996.
Dear Draco,
I know classes just finished, but let’s figure out a day to see each other, father says he misses you ( he probably missed you more than me :) i love you.
— y/n ♡
This was only the first of many to come. You waited a week. No response. You figured he was busy wherever he was, like on a family holiday or shopping for the upcoming year, even if summer break had just begun. Two weeks, nothing.
Dear Draco,
hii, just wondering if you received my letter, i know my owl can misplace the letters sometimes. i miss you, let me know how the start of summer has been! tell Mrs. Malfoy I say hello :)
with love, y/n
You sent the second one Saturday, June 22nd, 1996.
July 1st, 1996. You sat on your bed, hopelessly staring off into your window as the bleeding colors pf the sun reflected onto your bedroom walls, you wondered if you were ever going to get a response. This was unlike Draco. Normally, he’d have a letter placed in your delicate hand by the hour, pleading with his owl to speed past the various acres of land to your room.
You waited and waited and waited.
By late July you gave up. Those letters were never coming. Draco practically ghosted you for a reason you were unsure of. Your heart thumped against your chest, begging to explode against your ribcage. You spent your days wandering your family gardens, picking at flowers and tossing the petals into the fountains. At night you stared at the ceiling, watching as the moonshine sat perched on your walls, small shadows dancing across your face. You couldn’t sleep, your body forbid you, and if you did, glistening tears fell from your eyes as you held onto his sweater and clutched it close to your nose, trying your hardest to whiff up the scent you dearly missed.
August had rolled around, your mother and father asked about him. Him. You couldn’t even bear to say his name anymore. To you, he was a ghost, a fragment of your past. Perhaps it was time to grow up, to leave silly childhood relationships in the past and grow past them. You felt the weight slowly lift from your shoulders, the difference was small at first, like something you wouldn’t notice for a few weeks, but surely, it got easier. You no longer paced the gardens, but you hung out with friends. You quietly dismissed their questions about him, saying that he was most likely busy with summer assignments and upcoming tests.
The only way you could breathe was if you lied to yourself.
You felt trapped, like you were trapped in a box with moving walls slowly crushing you to death. You suffered in silence, softly wishing for the summer to end so you could return to Hogwarts.
Luckily, it came in a flash. You sat in the common room and stared out the window for ages. You hadn’t seen Draco yet, and perhaps he was cowering away from you, hiding in a shadowy corner in the common room. You tried to make it seem like you were okay, even if you could crumble if someone lay a cold finger on your scorching skin.
It burned more than you thought it would. August was numb, but now it was September.
You were forced to see him again.
── ⟢
The next morning, you walked into the Great hall with your face painted with numbness. You had no expression, no words, you were unreadable. Whispers filled your ears, cold, incoherent whispers that shouted through the emptiness of your head. It felt like a cold breeze, a breeze you’d only feel during those late winter nights, like the night you shared with Draco in the tower.
How haunting is the past once it sets its sights on you.
As you found your way to your seat, you didn’t dare to look up. If you looked up, you would be faced with the truth, and you didn’t want to know it. “Hey, you okay?” Blaise nudged your shoulder from beside you. You nodded, softly, a nod so subtle he’d have to stare at you to see it. Blaise sent a small smile in return. He knew something was wrong with his best friend, Draco would never forget the love he had for you, especially during the short break.
You quietly picked at a piece of fruit on your plate, bringing the sweetness up to your mouth.
That is when you heard her, the moment you brought the sweetness strawberry up to your mouth. The single moment you tasted solace between your lips, the only peace you’ve had in months.
Her laugh. The laugh you dreaded hearing, the laugh that proved the rumors true. As you slowly looked up, you watched as Astoria Greengrass laughed at something Draco Malfoy had said.
Your stomach twisted, your expression souring like the berry that you popped into your mouth. You could see a small smirk on his face, an uneasy but visible smirk. She placed an arm on his bicep, nearly choking on her own laugh.
Astoria. Sweet, perfect Slytherin princess.
She was everything you wanted to be, and more. Perfect family, high title, rich pure-blood nonsense. Something you wished for since the word “half-blood” slipped off of someone’s tongue and it no longer sounded like a trophy, but an insult.
You were uncomfortable in your own skin, basically begging to shed it as you ripped your gaze away.
Now, everywhere you looked, Astoria and Draco were there. The empty corridors you thought you could claim as your own? Theirs. The oak tree in the hidden courtyard where he used to bring you? Theirs. The small staircase in between Ravenclaw tower and Potions? Theirs.
Everywhere you looked, you couldn’t escape them. Even when Draco laid his eyes on you, you couldn’t escape them. When your heart begged to say something, you were silent. You treated him with the same silence you received, and it killed him.
In truth, Draco’s eyes looked like they were going to overflow with tears whenever he looked at you. You watched as he basically tore his gaze away from you, like he had to fight himself to do it. He looked as if he had to tear himself apart, limb by limb, like he was a fractured mirror or a rotten heart slowly dying.
Both of you drew blood, the only thing about you was that you had no one to talk to, Draco did.
The next few weeks had gone by in a blur, the lingering warmth of September had faded into the cool breeze of October. You accepted the change gracefully, you missed studying out in the outdoor corridors, or down by the black lake on the steps to the dock. You missed the crunch of the fallen leaves beneath your foot, you loved how it made you forget about summer. Even if fall wasn’t much better, especially with the memories of you and Draco flooding your brain, it was better than the beating heat down on your skin as you waited weeks for a single letter.
One cool day, you were on your way to potions. You endlessly traced the hallways, watching others filter through as they made their way to their classes. That’s when she saw you.
Astoria Greengrass with her long brown hair and piercing green eyes, accompanied by her green loose tie and long black robes. She stood there in all her perfect glory, watching as you neared from down the hallway. But that’s when he saw you too. Draco.
His head turned, watching with sad eyes as you looked at him in a brief glance. But that’s also when Astoria saw his gaze and took his jaw in her hand and placed her lips on his like he wasn’t yours to look at. Your heart broke in small fragments, and you quickly turned your head away as Draco’s gaze turned from you to his girlfriend. This was the worst, the worst it could’ve gotten, right?
Wrong.
It was only the beginning, like the day you saw them in your spot, but now every time Astoria landed eyes on you, she purposely made a move at Draco, like she was scared he’d escape her grip and come running back to you. You hoped for it, silently.
── ⟢
The day it all came crumbling down was October 25th. The Fall Ball.
You stood in your mirror, watching as your red gown glistened in the dim lighting of your dorm. For the first time in what seemed like months, you smiled. It was a delicate dress you found at Hogsmeade a week prior, with a babydoll neckline and delicate jewels cascading down the crimson fabric. It hugged your hips, then loosed down by your legs. You looked beautiful, like someone worth loving. Someone Draco Malfoy would have to forget. You gazed at your soft curls which fell in wispy strands in front of your face. A messy curled bun sat in the back of your head, the rest of your hair trailing down your back like a waterfall.
Silently, you came out of your dorm and out of the common room. As you walked your way to the Great Hall, your stomach dropped. You hated big crowds. You took a breath and peaked over the wall, watching as your date, Ron Weasley stood at the bottom of the stairs.
He asked you two weeks ago, and you accepted gratefully, after all, you had known him since you were little. It was casual, you were going only as friends.
Shortly, you turned and walked down the stairs. Ron met your gaze and smiled, standing up straighter as he fidgeted with his hands, wondering where to put them. “Wow. You look pretty, for a girl, I mean.” He stuttered. You laughed, Ron was always awkward, it was one thing you loved about him. “I guess you clean up nice as well, Weasley.” You beamed. Others surrounding you whispered. You were smiling, but most importantly, you were laughing, and with a Weasley!
Many would call you a house traitor for wearing red to the ball, especially with Ron, and especially since you were a Slytherin. You didn’t care. It was a piece of fabric and a silly school dance, not your wedding.
Ron offered his hand to you as you walked through the grand doors, you took it, the fabric of his dress robes slightly brushing against your exposed skin. The music flooded your ears, it was soft delicate music, ballroom music that welcomed you with goosebumps. As if Ron could feel your unsettled body language, he quickly bent down to whisper in your ear. “Just breathe. You’ll be alright.” He spoke. You listened. Oftentimes, Ron saw you as a younger sister. You had that sort of energy towards you, something worth protecting. Even if he was only a few months older, you saw him as an older brother.
The both of you walked towards the middle of the floor alongside others with their dates. He placed his hand just behind your arm and on your upper back, while you took his hand in yours and held it to the side. You swayed in the music, dancing as best as you both could, even if he wasn’t the best dancer in the entire school. You accidentally stepped on his foot and sent him a small ‘sorry’ with a bright smile. He didn’t mind.
From across the way, Draco Malfoy clenched his jaw at the sight of you, even with Astoria hanging off his arm in an emerald green dress. He gritted his teeth as he watched you waltz across the floor, and suddenly, you were the only person in the room. Your red dress filtering between the colors of orange and burgundy. He glared as you smiled and laughed at Weasley’s jokes in your ear. What was so funny? Why were you laughing?
“What’s wrong?” Astoria asked from beside him.
“Nothing.” He responded, dead and cold.
She bit her lip and stayed quiet, her attempts weren’t working, you were the mirrorball, the dazzling light in the center of the room, the brightest star in the night sky. She tried her hardest to compete, but something in the back of her mind told her she couldn’t, and she accepted it.
As the dance ended, you walked off to the side, smiling brightly as you went over to grab a drink from the refreshments table. Ron walked to the other side, quickly hurrying to find Harry and Hermione as they sat at an empty table and chattered about.
This was his chance.
After fighting the weeks and weeks of silence, practically shouting at himself to not make contact with you, Draco Malfoy walked over with clenched fists and a softened heart. You whipped your head up at the sudden figure beside you, smile dropping as you’d realized who it was. “Didn’t know you could steep so low.” He muttered. “Excuse me?” You furrowed your eyebrows.
“Weasley? Really?” Draco burned a hole in your face. You wanted to stay silent, you really did, but you couldn’t, not now—not when he was speaking to you like this. “Ron has always been my friend, but you? You were never my friend. You were nothing.” You spat in return, the words coming out harsher than you intended. “Good. Then we understand each other, because you were never anything to me either; just a distraction, something to pass time until I found someone better.” His words cut through you like a knife. Tears prickled at your eyes at your eyes as you glared at him.
At the many times he’d seen you vulnerable, you didn’t dare to let him see you cry now. You took away his privilege of knowing every part of you, you snatched it like a thief.
Suddenly, you couldn’t breathe, you quickly rammed into his shoulder and hurried out of the Great Hall. It seemed to quiet down, like everyone had heard the conversation between you two. Your legs carried you farther than you thought they would. You found yourself down at your favorite spot, the stairs by the dock. Tears spilled from your eyes as you shuddered with the cold.
Above, the moon glistened and listened as you cried softly, sniffling against your arms as you played with some crystals on your dress. You hated the way he made you feel. As minutes passed, you started to be immune to the cold, it welcomed you as you cried. Even nature knew of your heartbreak.
The wind whistled with the ode of late October. You could smell the delicious scent of pastries from the kitchen that wasn’t too far away, and the winter air basking onto your skin. You clasped your arms around your knees and rested your head between. Softly, you began to relax. Ron was probably wondering where you were, and you’d meet up with him later to apologize for the sudden retreat. Gently, you wiped your eyes, not caring if you ruined your makeup or not.
You listened closely as the echo of footsteps hurried down the steps behind you. With a deep and shaky breath, you turned to meet the eyes of the person you dread the most. Draco. Your wet eyelashes bore up at him, watching as his ruined expression looked over you. He looked disheveled, like he had searched the whole castle to find you—and perhaps he did just that. You said nothing, just looked up to him with pure hatred.
“I’m sorry.” He spoke, voice lined with hurt.
Your skin shuddered, and this time it wasn’t because of the cold. “You’re sorry?” You scoffed, looking back towards the dark lake. Draco stood behind you on the landing, not daring to move closer in fear that you’d run again. You stood up and he held his breath, but you turned around, still standing on the step you were sitting on. “Is this a joke?” You laughed and it worried him. You were angry but you laughed.
“No.” He answered, plain and simple.
“I don’t want to see your face. Please, save me the embarrassment and go away.” You hid your face in your hand, heart beating loudly against your chest. “I’m not going anywhere.” He spoke.
“Explain to me. Why, why her?” Your voice broke as you looked up. Draco said nothing, he just looked at you like you were going to break at any second. He cursed himself, cursing the way he was silent for months, the way he spoke to you back in the Great Hall. The second he said it, he regretted it. It was built up anger from not being able to speak to you, to explain to you why he and Astoria were now together. It pained it, it ate at him.
“I was right. You’re a coward, you can’t even tell me why.” You laughed again. “I should’ve known. Everyone warned me about you, all those years ago when we were just little kids. I should’ve known, you were always going to break me, weren’t you?” You asked. You could see the hurt in his eyes becoming for visible. You walked up the steps and closer to him, pointing a finger on his chest. “Because you’re nothing but a weak-link, you take people’s hearts and you break them.” Your nail pressed further into his chest. Draco looked down at you, letting you poke at him. “You’re a coward, and I fell for your trap!” You cried, more tears spilling from your eyes as you started to push at his chest.
Draco let you.
“How could I be so blind.” You cried again, his hands found your wrists as he stopped you from shoving him. “Y/n.” He tried to speak over your sobs but there was no point. “No. No, you had a chance to explain, Draco.” Your hair blew in the fall night as he held your wrists. You quickly ripped them away from his grasp. “And where’d Astoria now? Does she know that you’re down here speaking to me?” A tear fell from your eyes. “It wasn’t my choice!” Draco broke at the sentence, even hearing her name from your mouth was enough to drive him insane. He hated the way her name sounded like a gun in between your lips.
“Whose was it then?”
Draco stared at you again and took a deep breath. “I didn’t have a choice, my-my father,” he paused, looking at you like he didn’t want to tell the truth because then, it would be real. “It was arranged. I had no choice in the matter, please.” He silently begged.
You looked up at him from afar, eyebrows furrowing and your expression like water tipping over a glass. “But you didn’t tell me that.” You whispered, Draco broke then. A tear fell from his eye as he listened to your voice lower. “You didn’t tell me, I had a right to know. You stayed silent for months. I sent you countless letters, and you couldn’t find the time to respond to just one? One that could explain why this had to be done this way?”
“I’m sorry. If I wrote, I’d crawl back to you and disobey my father. I’m sorry. I couldn’t, I really couldn’t.” He muttered.
Before you, Draco Malfoy unfolded, he cried like he lost the most important part of him, and in truth, he did. You were everything and more. Losing you was his greatest failure. “So disobey him. You are not your father.” You spoke.
“This wasn’t fair to me, Draco, and we both know it.”
“I know, please. I’ll do anything. Please, I love you.” He fought, trying his hardest to win you back. But you were not a prize, nor a pawn. “If you loved me, you would’ve told me.” Your voice cracked. “I know.” It sounded like Draco accepted it, but when he walked closer, it looked as if he would crumble by not being close to you. “Please. I can’t go another day without you near me.” He begged.
More tears escaped your eyes as you sat down on the cobblestone fence on the landing. Draco walked in front of you, getting on a knee and watching as your hair fell in front of your face. “Don’t do this, Draco.” You whispered. His heart broke, all he wanted to do was engulf you in a hug and never let you go, but for now, you were broken. “I’ll do anything and everything for you. Let me prove it to you.” He begged.
You thought for a moment, shuddering as his shaking hand met yours and his grey eyes peered up to you. Quickly, you got up and brushed past him, standing at the other side of the stairs that led up to the castle. “Don’t mess it up.” You spoke, giving him the hint that he had yet another chance. Draco got up, staring at you.
He had another chance.
You quietly retreated up the steps, your red dress flowing softly in the wind as you left him there by the lake. In your head, a timer started. Two weeks was all you were giving him. Hopefully, his rotten heart did it right.
yay i finished this part, part 2 is coming soon, i have to write it but i hope you guys enjoyed this :)) shoutout to @kimberlyxmalfoy for telling me to finish this because i actually love it! also not proof read so lmk if there’s any mistakes <333
The Black Lake was his favourite place study. And today, he had been lucky because the lake’s solitude was a rare gift. Hogwarts buzzed with students this time of year, but today, the shore was empty save for Remus and the occasional ripple from a curious merperson. He sat cross-legged on a patch of grass near the water’s edge, his worn copy of Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts propped open on his lap. His quill scratched notes in the margins, his brow furrowed in concentration. James, Sirius, and Peter had been with him earlier, sprawled out under a nearby oak, bickering over Quidditch tactics, making it impossible to focus. Remus had shooed them off, claiming he needed peace to catch up on missed lessons.
The full moon had left him battered, his body still aching from the transformation two nights ago. He couldn’t afford to fall behind, not with N.E.W.T.s looming and professors already raising eyebrows at his absences.
Explaining was out of the question, nobody could know about his... condition. He adjusted his scarf, hiding the fresh scar peeking above his collar, and turned a page.
The chapter was dense, but he forced his tired mind to absorb it.
He couldn’t let the others down—or himself.
Remus didn’t notice, but a pair of eyes watched from the shadows of a willow tree some fifty yards away.
Y/N had been observing Remus for days.
She’d noticed his pattern of absences, always conveniently timed around the full moon, though she hadn’t yet pieced it together. His quiet demeanour, the way he deflected questions about his health, the faint limp he tried to hide after returning to class... it fascinated her.
He was a puzzle, and Y/N loved puzzles.
Her obsession had grown steadily, fed by stolen glances in the Great Hall, notes on his library withdrawals (she’d charmed a house-elf to keep tabs), and hours spent analyzing his every gesture. She’d even sketched his hands once, captivated by the way his fingers gripped his quill, the knuckles scarred and slightly crooked. To her, he was a specimen as much as a person, a mystery to dissect.
Today, she saw her chance.
The Marauders were gone, and Remus was alone.
She stepped out from the willow’s shade, her Slytherin robes swishing softly as she moved. She carried a book of her own Counter-Curses and Their Origins one she’d borrowed after confirming it was on Remus’s reading list.
Preparation was everything.
And she was always two steps ahead.
Remus didn’t notice her until she was nearly upon him.
The faint rustle of grass made him glance up, his heart lurching as Y/N, of all people, settled beside him without invitation. She sat close, her knee brushing his as she arranged her robes with elegance. Her perfume invaded his senses, and he stiffened, his quill pausing mid-word.
“Er—hello?” he said, eyes flicking to her face before returning to his book.
Y/N was not someone who just sat with people.
The Minister’s daughter, Slytherin’s golden girl: beautiful, brilliant, and unnervingly intense. Remus had always kept his distance, sensing something off about her, though he couldn’t place it. She smiled, a perfect curve of lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Lupin, isn’t it? You’re studying counter-curses.” Her tone was light, almost musical, but it carried an edge. She tilted her head, glancing at his book. “That’s Gwendolyn Grimsby’s work, isn’t it? Heavy reading.”
Remus blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah, it is. Just… catching up.”
He shifted slightly, trying to create distance without being obvious. His instincts screamed to keep his guard up, but she was already talking...
“Grimsby’s brilliant on defensive theory, but she’s too conservative with application,” Y/N said, opening her own book to a marked page. “Take the Repelling Charm—she underestimates its versatility. Did you know you can layer it with a Stunning Spell to create a feedback loop? Knocks out anything within ten feet, no wand needed after the initial cast.”
Remus raised an eyebrow, reluctantly impressed. “That’s… not in the text.”
He glanced at her book, noting the neat, precise annotations in her elegant script. She’d clearly studied it thoroughly, which was both surprising and unsettling. Most students didn’t dive this deep into N.E.W.T.-level material, not even Slytherins.
“I’ve done some extracurricular reading,” she said smiling. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? I saw you took out Dark Wards and Their Dissolution last week. Ambitious.”
His stomach twisted.
She’d been checking his library records?
“Just broadening my knowledge,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.
He turned back to his book, hoping she’d take the hint, but she leaned closer, her eyes locked on him like a hawk on a mouse.
“You’ve been broadening a lot lately,” she whispered, like she was telling him a secret. “Missed a few classes, too. Transfiguration, wasn’t it? And Potions. Must be hard, keeping up with McGonagall and Slughorn breathing down your neck.”
Remus’s grip on his quill tightened, the feather bending slightly.
“I manage,” he said curtly, his heart rate picking up.
She was fishing, and he didn’t like it.
Nobody outside the Marauders knew about his condition, and he intended to keep it that way.
“Just a cold. Nothing serious.”
Y/N’s eyes gleamed, as if she’d caught a whiff of something intriguing.
“A cold,” she repeated. “You look… tired, Remus. Those shadows under your eyes—they’ve been there for days. And that scar on your neck, it’s new, isn’t it?”
She reached out, her fingers hovering near his collar, and he flinched, jerking back.
“Don’t,” he said sharply. His hand instinctively covered the scar, his pulse racing. “It’s nothing.”
Her hand froze, then retreated, but her smile didn’t falter.
“Touchy,” she murmured, almost to herself. “I’m just curious. You’re always so… reserved,” She tilted her head, studying him like a specimen under a magnifying glass. “You’re not like your friends. Potter and Black, they’re all noise. But you… you’re careful. Controlled. It’s fascinating.”
Remus’s mouth went dry.
Her words were too pointed, her gaze too intense.
He forced himself to focus on his book, pretending to read, but the words blurred.
“I’m just trying to study,” he said, his voice tight. “If you don’t mind—”
“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” she interrupted, her tone bright but laced with something he didn’t like. “In fact, I could help. I’ve got notes on Grimsby’s counter-curse variations—cross-referenced with Agrippa’s theories. You’d find them useful, especially for the N.E.W.T.s.” She paused, her eyes flicking to his hands, noting the way they trembled slightly. “You’re under a lot of pressure, aren’t you? All those absences… people must ask questions. Professors, friends… they notice, don’t they?”
“I said I manage,” he snapped, his patience fraying.
He met her gaze for the first time, and the cold calculation in her eyes sent a shiver down his spine. She wasn’t just making conversation—she was dissecting him, like he was damn frog.
He’d seen that look before, but Y/N’s was different. Hungrier.
🍓Synopsis: You were always there to pick up the broken pieces of his heart... but who would pick up yours?
🍓AN: Loved writing this sm that almost teared up. had to make angelina the bad guy oops. hope yall enjoy!
🍓Pairing: Fred Weasley x Female Reader.
🍓Warnings: Angst and just angst. Profanities. Fred being a lil asshole lowkey.
🍓Word Count: 2k
You didn't know what unhealed part of you kept yearning for the pathetic ounce of Attention Fred gave you whenever he had no one else to turn to.
Angelina—everything to Fred, absolutely nothing to you—took a sick and twisted delight in her on-and-off relationship with your childhood best friend. She was never sincere with her feelings—only using him for entertainment and leaving him hanging when she got bored. Some popular-girl bullshit she followed religiously. Yet Fred never questioned her actions, always following her blindly like a dog. It disgusted you.
Your best friend lay in your bed, his head heavy on your lap as he poured his heart out. One might think Fred was the only one in the room who had his heart broken brutally, but no one knew about the silent breaking of your own heart at this recurring occurrence.
"It's like I exist for her one moment, the other I dont" Fred complained to you.
Hearing his words you held back a bitter laugh, how ironic is this? If only he knew how much you wanted to tell him that you knew exactly how it felt.
Time and time again, Fred would seek you out past curfew, expecting you to mend his broken heart in the quiet night, to listen to his complaints—and time and time again, you let him. You’d let him talk for hours about how perfect she was, how much he wanted her, how much he was willing to do for her. And each time, you’d listen patiently. You’d tell him he was enough; tell him he was everything a girl could want—everything you wanted. But you kept that last part to yourself, because how could you dare tell him when he was too blind to see your love and your longing for him?
It would have been fine if he still treated you like his friend when he was with Angelina—or sort of with her. But there was always this awkward shift, Fred forgetting you existed the moment he and her patched things up. He’d cancel plans at the last minute. At first, he’d actually apologize, feel bad, and promise to make it up to you. That day never came, but somehow, the effort of a verbal promise was enough for you.
Lately, he hadn’t even bothered to tell you when he was canceling. You’d just wait, sitting alone in a pub at Hogsmeade, nursing a single butterbeer, telling the waitress with a smile that your date—your friend—was on his way. And the kind, sweet woman would believe the lies you’d told yourself, pitying you as you finished your drink and offering you a free refill. Pathetic, really. But lately, pathetic had become your second nature.
You sighed, raking your fingers through his hair and lightly massaging his scalp. Fred instantly relaxed, sprawled across your lap. It hurt, knowing just how well you understood him—the exact way to soothe and comfort him.
“Fred, you’re only hurting yourself. She always does this—uses you for a couple of days, then tosses you aside to get a new guy every week.” You tried to be as gentle as you could, but you’d had this exact conversation with him a million times before.
“I know how bad this is, but Y/N, I think I need her. As much as she hurts me, I don’t think I can ever leave her… because she comes back, y’know.” Pathetic—that’s what you would’ve called him, but you weren’t a hypocrite. The times you’d found yourself in this same situation with Fred couldn’t be counted on your fingers.
You knew you needed to put distance between you and him, to maybe move on from him. Everyone but him could see you hurting—hurting because you loved him too much. But you just couldn’t, because just like Fred said about Angelina, he came back as well. Always.
In some sick and twisted way, it reassured you. No matter what, he’d come back to you. Even if it was only when he sought comfort and reassurance
'You're torturing yourself Y/N' George had been nothing but concerned for you throughout this ordeal with his stupid brother.
'I know George' you’d wave him off with a weak smile.
Sometimes you’d imagine what it would be like if there weren’t someone else between the two of you. How amazing it would be to hold his hand in public, to be this close to him whenever you wanted—not only when he sought comfort. To be able to call him your own.
And this wasn’t just you being delusional; it was how Fred behaved when it was just the two of you. He’d lean in a bit too close to whisper jokes in your ear, hold you in ways that screamed unplatonic, and make sure no boy ever stayed near you for too long, claiming, ‘They’re all gits. They don’t deserve you.’
Your heart would swell at his words, but you were too naïve to hear your conscience whispering that if there was anyone unworthy of your love, care, and attention, it was Fred himself.
-
There had been times when you were so sure you had successfully convinced Fred to leave Angelina for good — last night being one of them. You were so certain that you slept with a smile on your face, the same smile that vanished when you saw him, arms tangled with Angelina, two days later.
Your blood boiled seeing how she’d giggle at his jokes like she wasn’t shoving her tongue down a random guy’s throat just yesterday — and even more at the sight of Fred, totally smitten, wanting to impress her all over again. God thought you were his strongest soldier, clearly you were being punished.
Even the most patient saints have their limits and miraculously you had reached your own.
You had started avoiding Fred. Which wasn't difficult given that his world orbited around Angelina whenever they got back together. He had only noticed your absence once he caught Angelina on the lap on a senior in the common room, this time not even trying to be subtle about the cheating.
He’d knock at the girls’ dorm room late at night, hoping you’d open (as he had knocked using the specific known pattern: three fast knocks, two slow ones), only to be turned away by one of your house prefects threatening to deduct house points.
The next morning, you were nowhere to be seen at breakfast, having been extra early and quick, making sure to avoid a certain redhead. He’d pass you notes in class, which you’d leave unread — and thankfully, Professor Snape had deducted Gryffindor points and awarded him detention after catching Fred actively throwing paper chits at you. He’d ask you to hang out after classes, and you’d excuse yourself with some assignment that's supposedly due.
One day, he came to sit with you in the library while you were studying, but thankfully one of your Ravenclaw friends told him off for talking during your shared study session, forcing him to stay quiet and eventually leave, asking you to meet him afterwards. You didn’t acknowledge him, so of course you weren’t obliged to meet him. You were skillfully using his own actions against him. He hadn't even gone after Angelina this time, surprising his own twin. He just wanted to find you.
This went on for almost two weeks and Fred's patience had thinned out.
You were sneaking back into your room one night when Fred caught your wrist.
"Where are you off to?" he said, startling you.
You hadn’t expected him to catch you like this.
"Sleep." you replied curtly, but that didn’t budge him.
You raised a brow at him, silently telling him to let go.
"Why are you being like this?" Accusation dripped from his tone. It pissed you off, and somehow the confrontation made you a little scared.
You yanked your arm out of his grip. "I don’t know what you’re talking about." You turned to get inside your room, but just as you were about to close the door in his face, he was quick enough to push his way in. The door shut behind him.
"What the fuck, Fred?" you asked, annoyed.
"I can ask you the fucking same," he replied, his gaze intimidating you. This was the first time his height advantage made you feel small—and in a guilty way. But you hadn’t done anything wrong, so why should you feel that way? You’d been nothing but a great friend to him, always putting his needs before your own.
You straightened your posture, not sure if it was to convince him you weren’t guilty or to convince yourself.
"Whatever you’re on about, I don’t have time for it, so just head to bed, yeah?", you tried getting rid of him.
"It’s nine o’clock on a fucking Friday evening, Y/N. I know you have nowhere else to be right now."
His jabs ticked you off. You could picture yourself planting a firm slap across his face, but you restrained yourself. Calm down, Y/N.
"Why? Don’t you have anywhere else to be? Suddenly you’re acting like you know me so well," you shot back, your sarcasm sharp.
"I’m trying to understand why you’re avoiding me!" His voice rose—and so did yours.
"BECAUSE I CAN’T FUCKING DO THIS ANYMORE!"
Your outburst made Fred flinch, but you couldn’t stop yourself from finally letting out what you’d been holding in for ages.
"I’m sick and tired of you treating me like this, and I’m even more furious at myself for letting you continue to do so!"
Fred didn’t need any context for your words—he knew exactly what you were referring to. He was well aware of how he’d been treating you, but selfishly, he never expected you to speak out against it. You had suffered willingly, with a smile on your face, and he had gotten used to that.
"I’m my own person, but you’ve reduced me to your go-to therapist! It’s the same crap over and over—go get a diary, you fucker!" you yelled, throwing your hands up, waving them in frustration. Tears welled in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall.
Fred winced at the rawness in your voice, guilt engulfing him.
"You only come to me when she denies you. You treat me like the second option." You could feel a knot in your throat as you poked your finger at his chest accusingly, like thorns pricking at your throat with each confrontation.
You had promised yourself to be brave—to have an I don’t care attitude—but this was Fred. You’d never been successful at hiding anything from him.
"I can’t pretend I’m alright when you go on and on about how much you love her, when I was here first. When I loved you first." Before you knew it, tears were already rolling down your cheeks, blurring your vision.
Fred had been listening to everything you said, feeling guiltier with each word.
He stepped closer. “You… you love me?” he asked, eyes searching yours, wanting you to confirm what he had just heard.
You shook your head, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “I loved you,” you corrected, taking a step back.
Fred instantly reached out to you, his hands almost cupping your face. He so badly wanted to wipe your tears away—the ones he had caused.
“Y/N, look, I’m so sor—”
“Don’t. Please don’t.” You didn’t want him to apologize. You didn’t want to cave in, not when you’d been hurt so badly.
The rejection hit Fred like a bludger. His hands froze mid-motion. He wanted to reach out, to hug you, to say he was sorry a thousand times, but you wouldn’t let him near you. Your outburst was valid, yet Fred hesitated to move—guilt rooting his feet to the ground.
“Just leave,” you pleaded, refusing to meet his gaze as you turned your face away.
It felt like someone had ripped Fred’s heart into a million tiny pieces. He wanted to stay, but he couldn’t. Silently, he turned around, giving you one last lingering look before walking out—perhaps from your life as well.
hi guys. my entire time of being on this app all i’ve seen is people complain that “all anyone writes is smut,” same plot, different foreplay, blah blah blah. but the thing is y’all don’t actually read angst or fluff.
I went through the tags. people are posting fluff. people are posting angst. either the tags are full of unrelated junk or those posts sit for days with 2 notes. maybe 160 if they are lucky. i’ve literally seen week old posts with three notes. y’all rotate between the same six writers and then complain everything feels the same. but when someone tries something different, nobody reads it, nobody reblogs, nobody interacts.
i know everyone says “notes don’t matter, write for yourself,” but if we are being honest, they do. interaction matters. it keeps people want to keep going.
this is coming from someone who does get a good amount of notes on their stuff, and i’m beyond grateful for every single one. i do my absolute best to keep my shit original and creative for the most part and i’ve said it before but if something gets three notes, i’m still thankful someone liked it. but when a post gets 20+ replies telling me they loved it? of course i fucking eat that shit up. hell it basically lights a fire under me and i will burn myself out writing 4+ pieces in a day when i usually take a week to two just to drop one chapter. that is what interaction does. it fuels people to keep creating new shit.
if we’re being real, y’all are not in as high of a demand for angst or fluff as you claim. most requests are for smut. if you want angst or fluff, ask for it, boost it, reblog it. even write it yourselves!! this space is supposed to be fun and full of creative minds but people keep falling into the trend of just doing whatever is popular at the moment and then if it doesn’t compare well to another persons fic + the interactions they got, it’s not enough.
Warnings: Use of (Y/N), reader is called love and dove, death, betrayal, canon typical violence, hurt/no comfort, angsty angsty angst (evil laugh)
Summary: You discover that you have been betrayed by the one you love most, not realizing another betrayal was set to happen, by the one you least suspected
Word Count: 2.1k
RING RING
RING RING
The shrill of your landline jolted you awake. Disoriented, you blindly reached for the phone, knocking over your book on the bedside table in the proces.
“Shit,” you muttered before grabbing the reciever.
“Hello?” you answered the phone, voice groggy and rough. You hadn’t been able to chug your morning water, causing your voice to be a little coarse.
“(Y/N)…” it's Lily, her voice shaky and you feel your heart drop. somethings wrong, very wrong.
“Lils? Hey, hey, what’s happened? What’s wrong?”
You could hear light sobs on the other line as she tried to speak, and then muttering, before you could ask again, you heard James’s voice through the line.
“(Y/N), love… it’s Marlene… It’s her whole family… their gone, she’s gone…”
No
No
Please not Marlene.
Not one of your closest friends since 3rd year. You confidant, the one you could call at anytime of the day and shed sit on the phone for hours as you talked about the most mundane shit. The girl who could shoot vodka like it was water, but gagged if she smelled a hint to tequila.
The girl who comforted you when you revelaed that Regulus had taken the dark mark, effectively breaking your trust completely.
Your voice trembled as you spoke, “What? Who was it? How? Was it… he who must not be named?”
James sighed on the other line, you could imagine him removing his glasses and rubbing his tired eyes, “We don’t know much right now… Dumbledore’s called a meeting… we should know more than but…”
“What James, but what?” you asked in a rush.
He paused before answering, “Nothing, we’ll see you at the meeting in a couple hours, try and get some sleep if you can love.”
With that the call ended, and as you laid there in bed, the realization set in that sweet, sarcastic, loving Marlene was gone, and you sobbed until your throat became hoarse and raw.
The kitchen at the Longbottom estate was quiet, still, the loss of the McKinnon’s took its toll on everyone. They were a pillar in the order.
Sirius face was stoic, void of emotion, Remus’s eyes were bloodshot and swollen from how much he was rubbing them.
James stood beside Sirus, Lily sat to his left heavily pregnant. Peter stood in the corner, hunched over as he sniffled, wiping the one or two tears that still fell. He was so distraught, he was closets to Marlene after you.
You stood next to Remus, matching Sirius with a vacant expression, having already cried all the tears to you to the point of dehydration.
Once everyone had arrived, Dumbledore called for the meeting to begin with the news that his spy on the inside has given him the names of the death eaters responsible for the murder of Marlene and her family.
“As you all know, we have called this meeting because we recieved the grace news about the McKinnon's. I know many of you were her friends, and I want to express my deepest condolences to you all" Dumbledore said, his voice calm, trying to be comforting.
Dumblore clasped his hands together, walking up and down the room as he continued, "My spy on the inside was able to get to me shortly after we received word of the heartbreaking news of Ms. McKinnon and her family’s demise. We know now that the death eaters broke into their estate in the wee hours of the night. They used the killing curse on Mr. and Mrs. McKinnon, not before using the… Cruciatus curse on Ms. McKinnon.”
Gasps of outrage and shock exploded through the room. To know they killed her was its own blow, but to know that they tortured her in front of her parents before they died was another type of cruelty.
You knew the death eaters could be capable of this, but to know it happened so close to home made it all the more real. The pain of the cruciatus curse left most begging for death.
“Do we know the death eaters responsible?” Frank asked, causing the room to grow quiet, eager to hear the answer.
Dumbledore had a grave expression on his face as his eyes bounced between you and Siruis, knowing this next revelation would take its toll on you both immensely.
“If our intelligence is to believed, then it appears it was Bellatrix Lestrange, Barty Crouch Jr., and… Regulus Black.”
Before he was able to finish, Sirius pushed off the wall he was leaning against in anger, pushing past James as he walked out the door in fury. He was pissed, angry, and rageful.
You stood shocked. You couldn’t believe that was the name that left Dumbledore’s mouth. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Regulus had been part of the death eaters for a while now, but he knew Marlene, he knew how much she meant to you, how close you were.
You always tried to save him from himself, making excuses that he was only like this because of how he was raised. Because of that retched house he lived in.
The Regulus you knew was sweet and quiet. The type of person that left you white roses in your dorm just because. He'd sit with you in the library for hours as you studied and he read. He never complianed, was happy to stay in the library all day it it meant he got to sit by you.
The boy who walked you to classes, wrote you poems, vowed he’d marry you even if his mother had a stroke at the thought of a half-blood tainting the Noble House of Black.
After graduation, he started pulling away, only meeting you in secret at the shrieking shack. With the war looming over, it was best to keep this love of yours under wraps. You were content with that, until he took the mark.
When you found out, you were heartbroken, you didn't want to believe it. It hadn't been the same since then. Neither of you would voice it, you knew this war would change things, but you didn't expect it to change you like this.
You stopped meeting each other as frequently. You know you should've cut it off immediately, but you knew if you did, Regulus would be completely alone.
You should’ve listened to Sirius. He always weary of Regulus. He didn’t believe his brother had an ounce of sincerity left in him since he got the mark. He thought you were foolish for sticking by him, and you were starting to realize just how blind you were to how Regulus had changed.
You followed Sirius out, no one else had come. They knew that you both needed to have this conversation in private.
You and Sirius walked through the garden surrounding the Longbottom house. Neither of you spoke a word, either too scared or too angry at the truth.
Then Sirius stopped, hands flexing in and out trying to get hold of his anger.
You reached out to touch his arm in comfort, “Siri-”
He pulled his arm, “Don’t – just –” he sighed looking at the ground as angry tears threatened to fall.
Silence fell upon you again for a moment before Sirius started
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean - I know, I know you believed in him. Even when I told you he was just going to hurt you, to break you. And you were so optimistic,” he huffed a laugh.
“I’m not going to say I told you so. It’s not fair. I know you’re hurting as much as it is. Marlene was a friend to us all. Especially you.”
He walked up to you, before embracing you in his arms, squeezing tight as you hugged him back, burying your face in his neck.
You stood there enveloped in each other before you pulled away, holding his hands as you spoke.
"Thank you, but you were right. I was too trusting, too naive..."you trail off as you face the grown. Rolling your shoulders back, you lift your head before continuing.
“Let’s head back inside before everyone starts getting worried that we aren’t screaming at each other.”
Sirius gave you a tight smile, appreciative of you trying to make him feel better in light of the situation, leading the way back to the Longbottom’s.
When you left the Longbottom’s, instead of apparating home, you went to the shrieking shack, needing answers.
Once you and Sirius had returned to the meeting, Dumbledore made the announcement of a prophecy being told, and that the Potters and Longbottom’s both had targets on their backs. They would need to go into hiding soon.
When you arrived at the shack, he was already there, waiting.
His back was to you, dressed in black from head to toe as he stared out at the snow falling outside.
It was almost peaceful, if not for the hostilities about to erupt.
You were the first to speak, voice slightly cracking as you tried to sound strong.
“Marlenes been murdered.”
He didn’t flinch at the coldness of your voice; didn’t seem surprised you hadn’t embraced him with your usual warm smile and soft eyes. Like he knew this was going to happen.
“I heard.”
You scoffed at his bluntness.
“You heard? That’s all you have to say, you heard?”
“What else would you rather me say?”
“Oh I don’t know maybe ‘I’m sorry I know she was your best friend’ or ‘I’m shocked, how are you taking it?’, but you’re not really shocked are you, Black?”
Regulus looked at you with one eyebrow raised, you never called him that, he was Reggie, or my love and you were his dove. Nonetheless, he never lost his composure, remaining completely neutral. Like this was just another boring Tuesday night.
You stood in front of him, angry at how nonchalant he was before asking, “How could you? How could you stand over the girl who was my friend, my sister, and to use the Cruciatus! Death would've been kinder.”
The fragile sound of your voice almost made him falter, almost.
“I had a mission. The Dark Lord requested information. She wouldn't comply.”
You exploded at how nonchalant he was, “Oh that’s your excuse? You had a ‘mission’ to complete? For information? You had to do it, had to do it!” you paced back and forth, before turning and point your finger at his chest, jabbing him with each word.
“You had a choice! I offered you a way out, but no, Regulus Black can’t accept help from anyone. He’d rather become a murder than accept a helping hand in fear he’d be perceived with pity!”
His jaw clenched, you knew him like the back of your hand, but he refused to let go.
He swallowed his words of passion before regaining composure, “I see.” he flexes his hands to releases some tension.
“I think its best we leave this as it is, in the past.” he walks towards the exit, stopping when your voice cuts through.
“How can you hurt me so easily… Did you ever even truly love me?”
His feet stay rooted in the floor before he turns to the side, giving you a piercing look, like how dare you have the audacity to ask that.
But he says nothing, turning around and then you hear the crack signaling he was gone.
You collapsed on the floor and sobbed.
You thought you had already drained all the tears from your body, but this proved to be something else. Something immense, internal, that needed to be grieved.
Once you composed yourself, you apparated home, ready to forget about the day and wallow in your sadness, when suddenly there’s a knock at your door.
You’d be surprised, but happy to see Peter standing before you, saying he needed to talk, that you’d be the only one to understand.
And you’d let him in with a soft smile and sad eyes, saying you’d prepare him some tea.
Only once the door shut, no one would hear you scream as he cast Cruciatus curse. As you begged him to stop, asking why, how could he do this. He was your friend. Someone you thought you could trust.
He'd whimper, chanting that he was sorry, but he needed to prove his loyalty once again, the Dark Lord insisted.
Again?
As you start to come to the realization that Peter had a hand in Marlenes death, he raises his wand, and speaks as a green light flash from his wand.
Avada Kedavra
No one would find your body until 2 days later, when you didn’t show for Marlene's services.
Now it was Remus’ turn to be stoic, while Sirius sobbed, shattered. Lily and James were shocked, in disbelief at losing another friend so soon. Peter collapsed when they told him.
Your services happened soon after, filled with members of the Order. A certain Black was obviously missing. Everyone was wondering the same thing, did he have something to do with this. If not, why not show up at the funeral of the one he loved?
What they didn’t know was that Regulus did come, only after everyone had left. He laid a single white rose across your tombstone, enchanted to never decay, just as his love for you would never.
He screamed, it was guttural, almost animalistic, shredding every piece of his pureblood composure.
He vowed to do right by you. He may have failed you in life, but he wouldn’t fail you in death.
Not long after your murder, Regulus would make the discovery of the horcruxes.
He’d go into the dark cave surrounded by the dark sea with Kreacher by his side. He drank the poisonous drink that made him feel the most immeasurable pain that made him scream and cry, something he never did, even when his mother used the Cruciatus on him.
Even when the long, wet, emaciated limbs of the Inferi grabbed for him after he threw the locket to Kreacher, he knew he was too weak to fight back. He needed to do this for you, to show you his love was true, to the very end.
And as he sank into the bottom of the abyss, air slowly, painfully leaving his lungs as his body jerked violently, the last thing on his mind, was you.
A/N: Someone take Taylor Swift and Regulus Black tik tok edits away from me
Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated! Love ya!
Please do not copy or repost. Love and thank you all!
Sirius Black x fwb!reader who wants more [966 words]
CW: fem!reader, reader tries to call it off with Sirius when she realizes she wants more, some slight angst for a minute, inspired by this great fic that came across my feed based off of a scene from Gilmore Girls
“Okay, one more time?” Sirius asks again, the heels of his palms pressing into his eyes that you’re sure have him seeing a kaleidoscope of colours.
You think you might’ve been tempted to laugh, were it not for the lump in your throat; were it not for the words he’s asking you to repeat again that took you nearly three weeks to build the courage up to say at all to begin with.
“I…I need this to stop.” You manage, mouth dry as you stare at the heather grey t-shirt he’s wearing instead of his face.
“This,” he starts, hands falling to his hips as he tries and fails to make eye contact with you, “being…”
“You and me.”
“Right,” he agrees slowly, “you and me being…”
You let out a breath and look to your left, chewing on your lip as you try to find a delicate way of saying “the sex, Sirius.”
“But why?” He finally manages, letting his weight fall back into the back of the sofa in a half-seated, half-standing position. You really picked a horrid place to have this conversation; you asked to come over, and Sirius - none the wiser - was likely excited for a romp, but then you were taking your shoes off to be polite but not allowing him to take your jacket, slapping him with the “I can’t do this anymore” before you were even five whole steps into his flat.
“It’s…I don’t know, Sirius. It’s not enough for me.”
“I’m not enough for you.” He parrots in monotone; not a question.
“No, Sirius, that’s not what I’m saying.” You moan. “But, just, this arrangement - it isn’t enough for me anymore. I want more.”
“You want more. More, what?”
“Sirius, come on.” You groan, finally looking at him in exhaustion and hoping he can hear the desperation in your tone. “Are you really going to make me say it out loud?”
“I just don’t understand what’s changed!” He pleads, standing again and holding his hands out helplessly.
“I have!” You shout back, immediately feeling guilty because this wasn’t meant to be a fight, and this was probably exactly why he insisted on this kind of arrangement with you.
“I have,” you try again, softer this time, “I just…I want more. I want a boyfriend. And I can’t have that if…”
“If you’re sleeping with me.” He surmises, earning him a nod as you go back to studying the soft grey of his shirt. “But…we agreed, yeah? We agreed that that’s all we’d be.”
“I know.” You admit. “I know, and I’m sorry, I just…” Your shoulders raise helplessly, causing him to sigh.
“Was it…something I did?” He asks carefully, joining you in looking to the left of the room instead of at each other.
“No, Sirius. And I don’t hold anything against you.” You insist delicately. “I’m not asking you for anything you’re not able to give me, either. That’s why I’m-”
“-leaving.” He finishes for you. The word apparently sour in his mouth, the aftertaste leaving his lips puckered somewhere between disgust and hurt.
“This was just temporary, yeah?” You try, nudging your socked toe against a scuff in the hardwood floor beneath you. “This was never meant to be forever; not exclusive, no commitment.”
He turns to look at you at that, face pained as if you hadn’t just repeated his own rules verbatim.
“Those were your rules.” You remind him gently.
“But you want more.” He offers, again, not a question.
“I’m sorry, Sirius.” Is all you can think to say.
You try not to shrink under his gaze, your own eyes flitting between his - that look suspiciously red rimmed - and his t-shirt; apparently the thin fabric covering his heart safer territory than his eyes as they search your face for, what, you aren’t sure.
“Alright.” He says simply, apparently having come to some decision.
“Alright?” You ask carefully, watching him as he stands and shakes out his hands, rolling his shoulders as if stepping away from a fist fight.
“Alright,” he repeats, “you want a boyfriend? I’ll be your boyfriend.”
“Wha- wait, Sirius-”
“What? That’s what you said, right? You want more?” He’s gaining on you as he asks, and this time you do shrink under his gaze; feeling about two feet tall as he makes it to you, his chest centimetres from your own. “I’ll give you more, then.”
“You- no, I…that’s-”
“You want a boyfriend, I’ll be your boyfriend.” He says again, softer as he slips his fingers into the belt loops of your jeans; not touching you, exactly, but enough to make him feel like an anchor for your fluttering heart.
“I don’t want you to be something you don’t want to be. I don’t want to force you.”
“You’re not forcing me.” He says, grey eyes mapping out points of your face. “I said this wouldn’t be exclusive but…it sort of already was for me. Might as well just call it what it is, then.”
You shake your head, not in disagreement, but in disbelief. “You said you don’t do relationships.”
His eyes narrow slightly as if wanting to wince, but they stay open in favour of watching the way you pull your bottom lip between your teeth.
“No, I don’t.” He admits, and the little flicker of hope in your chest is almost snuffed at his admission. “But I’ve never really wanted to do a relationship before. But I want you.”
“You want me?”
He must notice the tentative, hopeful smile on your lips, because a matching one grows on his own before his eyes flicker up to yours. “I want you.”
“But…I want a boyfriend?”
His smile softens but doesn’t shrink as he lowers his forehead to yours. “Then I guess I have myself a girlfriend, don’t I?”
SYNOPSIS. Sirius Black refuses to fall in love with anyone, but, sometimes, he imagines what it'd be like to let himself fall in love with you. Now, he needs to make a choice.
CONTENT. Angst; Remus is just a little in love with you and he's done with Sirius' bullshit.
NOTE. Loosely based on the song Talk by Hozier. This is literally just Sirius ruminating his fwb relationship with you and getting called names by Remus. It was supposed to be longer, but I didn't like where it was going lol. I figured there was no reason to let it just rot in my drafts, so enjoy this short little drabble instead.
The party in the Gryffindor commons was an absolute rager — the Marauders last ‘hoorah’ before their NEWTs and subsequent graduation from Hogwarts, before they would be devoting their lives to fighting in the war.
Sirius Black was sitting on one of the plush sofas that had been pushed up against a far wall to make room for the celebrations, nursing a quarter-pint of firewhisky as he watched you flit about the room. He hadn’t lost sight of you all night — he reckoned it would be impossible to when that little black skirt hugged the curve of your hips so magnificently, the red of your Gryffindor tee (cropped to the heavens) striking under the worn leather jacket that you had draped over your shoulders.
His leather jacket.
You looked fantastic in his clothes, the thought had crossed Sirius’ mind more times that night than he could count. Of course, you’d look better with no clothes at all. Preferably alone with him. Preferably under him. Lips kiss-bitten, hair splayed out on his pillow, manicured nails digging into the taught skin of his back as he worshiped you.
It was that thought — the thought of you naked, under him, crying out his name like he belonged to you, like you belonged to him — that Sirius lost himself in, the crooning vocals of some guy in some band he hadn't heard of (but you clearly had) fading into the background.
Sometimes, more and more often, he wished that it could be more than just a thought.
Sirius had dreams of you being his, of being able to call someone like you — beautiful, kind, intelligent — his. But, it was just a dream, because the last thing Sirius Black was going to do was allow himself the bliss of falling in love with you when he was certain he was walking the path of a martyr. In just a few short years — maybe less — he could almost guarantee he’d be trading his life to keep his friends, his family, safe and happy and alive.
Better to save you the inevitable heartbreak.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t still want you, nor did it mean he was going to stop indulging himself in the tender, amorous fantasies of you. Sirius wanted more than he’d allow reality to offer him, but he’d take what he could get.
“You’re pathetic.”
The couch cushion next to him dipped under the weight of someone sitting on it, pulling Sirius from his pitiful train of thought. He turned his head to see Remus Lupin, sandy brown hair mused, lipstick stains adorning the collar of his white tee, cigarette dangling from between his lips. Remus looked thoroughly debauched and Sirius wasn’t sure if he should be proud of his fellow marauders endeavors or miffed that he was bold enough to vocalize what Sirius already knew to be true.
Leave it to the werewolf to point out the obvious.
“And you’re a whore.” Sirius reached over to pluck the cigarette from Remus’s lips, bringing it up to his own before dragging the smoke into his lungs. Remus’ lips pulled into a frown, though he said nothing. “But I wasn’t going to say anything, because it would have been rude. Sometimes inside thoughts are better off left as inside thoughts.”
Remus simply shrugged, pulling another cigarette out of his pocket, looking towards Sirius. The black haired boy rolled his eyes, lighting his friend's cigarette with a snap of his fingers.
The two marauders sat in friendly silence for only a moment, smoking, drinking, and watching their classmates as they danced and sang and made the most of their time together, before Remus sighed.
“Seven years.”
Sirius hummed in response.
“I’ve known you for seven years,” Remus elaborated, “and I’d like to believe that I’ve come to understand you quite well in that time. Or, well enough at least. For example, I understand that — for whatever reason — you feel the need to punish yourself. I also understand that you feel the need to hurt the people that are unfortunate enough to get too close to you.” He pulled a drag off his cigarette, letting the nicotine settle in his lungs before blowing it out. “But you’re a right foul git for treating Y/N the way you are. She’s a saint for having put up with your shit as long as she has.”
A spark of shame, presenting itself as anger, lit inside of Sirius. He could feel it burning in his chest, his grip tightening around the firewhisky he was still holding. “What the hell are you trying to say, Lupin?”
“I’m tired of cleaning up after you,” Remus admitted. “She’s in love with you, Sirius — you’d have to be blind not to see it… or maybe you’re purposefully ignoring it. But you keep playing with her feelings. It’s cruel. You have to make a choice — either you want her or you don’t.”
“What’s it matter to you?” Sirius’ asked, his words biting. “Are you in love with her or something, Moony?”
Remus pursed his lips, letting a beat of silence pass between them.
“Make a choice, Sirius,” the younger boy stated once again, “or someone else is going to make it for you.”
Sirius had nothing to say in response, so he stayed quiet. At Sirius’ confounded, bitter silence, Remus shook his head and stood, claiming he was going to go dance with Mary before walking off.
Sirius knew you harbored feelings for him, it’s the reason he felt like a truly awful person when waking up in his bed alone, knowing you had been there only a short time before.
He stubbed out his cigarette before looking up, his gaze immediately finding your form. You were dancing with James and Lily to Elton John or, more accurately, you and James were dancing around (read: on) Lily as she bobbed her head to the beat. When your eye caught Sirius’, you sent him a wide smile, brilliant and beautiful. He smiled back, but it didn’t meet his eyes.
Sirius didn’t want to feel like an awful person — he’d had enough of that feeling growing up at 12 Grimmauld Place. He didn’t want to hurt you either; he’d never forgive himself for being the cause of your pain. Perhaps Remus was right, as usual.
You deserve nothing less than someone good and kind; someone who would allow themselves to fall in love with you.
Sirius needed to make a choice before the choice no longer belonged to him.
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The library was about to close and you stared at the book you needed, one shelf too high for you to reach. You sucked in a sharp inhale while peeking about your surroundings to see if Madam Pince was anywhere near, to your dismay your eyes settled on Theodore Nott.
Upon making eye contact with Theodore, you set your aversions to him aside and grit your teeth as you ask, “Could you just get that book for me?”
Nott struts over with a cocky grin, tipping the spine of the book tauntingly, “What class is it for?”
“Light-reading,” You mutter, holding out your hand expectantly. “Why?”
“Just asking,” He shrugs as he flips through the pages of the book. “Trying to see if you’re getting ahead.”
“Piss off,” you try and reach for your book, but Theodore whips his hand above his head making it an impossible reach.
“How’d you do on Slughorns mock OWLs?” He asks smugly, keeping your book out of reach.
“Why would I tell you?”
“I got 100.”
“Extra points cause you’re a suck up?” You ask, eyeing your book and trying to figure out how to make a quick escape.
He leans down to your level, lips nearly brushing,“Extra points because I’m smarter.”
You smile as you reply, “I got a 102,” before grasping the lapel of Theodore’s uniform, yanking him to your height, snatching your book, and abandoning him in the library aisle.
It’s always been like this, you didn’t know when it started but the two of you always seemed to be competing in everything, all the time.
Sitting in DADA you sneakily read pages of the book in the back of class, and suddenly thought back on your and Theo’s late-night library interaction. Slughorn always spent the first 10 minutes of his lecture rambling, so you knew you weren’t missing any important details. Half heartedly you listened to his instruction, but you were much more in tune with your book.
“Class, this assignment will be done in partners, and these partner will be assingned.” When Professor Slughorn mentioned that, your head shot up and you waited for your name to be called.“…Nott and Y/L/N.”
You groan, not even bothering to give Nott a glance. At the end of class, you notice a slip of paper by your book bag. Upon open, it read: Let’s meet in the library at 7:30 to work on the assignment.
The meeting couldn’t come any faster, and suddenly you and Theodore were sitting across from each other in a back corner of the library. Nott was looking through a catalogue of Christmas presents as you filled out the practice question packet.
“Do you think Flint would like this?” He asks you, pushing the catalogue toward you, and for a split second his fingers brush yours.
“Will you stop, I’m trying to focus,” you mutter irritated, flinging your hands away. You couldn’t even remember the last time you spoke to Marcus Flint.
As you crossed out answers in the multiple section, you found yourself stuck on question 7. You could feel Nott’s eyes studying you, and you cringed when you heard his voice, “Mark my words, it’s D.”
You let out a quiet sigh before checking his answer with the review key—D.
“Was I right?” He asks testily, the Christmas catalogue pushed aside, and he searches for eye contact.
You say nothing, pretending not to hear him, and move onto the next section. All of the sudden, he’s snatched the papers from your hand and checks his answer himself.
“I was,” he states with a smug smile, the same one he gave you when gloating about his mock OWL results. “The question wasn’t even difficult.”
Sick of his antics, you push yourself away from the table, and snap, “Since you’re so confident, why don’t you just finish up the rest?”
You shove the papers in his face before stalking away. You didn’t understand why you were so frustrated, but you couldn’t stand another minute with him. Everything boast and brag twisted the knife in your side.
As the soles of your shoes clicked against the marble hallway floors, you heard another pair clicking quickly toward you. Glancing behind your shoulder, no surprises, it’s Theo.
“Y/L/N!” He shouts after you. With that, you quicken your pace but he manages to reach for your wrist before you get a chance to make an escape.
Force to meet his eye, you say bitterly,“It doesn’t seem like you need my help,” before abruptly tossing his hand off of your wrist.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” he confesses. “I didn’t mean to be an asshole.”
You ignore his apology and turn to walk away.
Theo runs ahead to face you, “We have to finish this together anyway, let me talk, please.”
“What does it matter to you?”
“Because I care.”
Does he take you for a joke? Never once has Theo shown an interest of “caring” about you. All the times he’s gloated, cast you aside, or snickered at you when passing by him and friends reels in your mind. You want to push him back in retribution of whatever simmering anger burns in your chest; however, the longer he burns his gaze into yours, the more you realize the beauty of his feature and the natural fall of his airy hair.
“Y/N, you have it in your mind that I’m determined to have it out for you. I don’t,” his eyes are riddled with sincerity, and you can’t help but believe him, though your gut begs you to not.
Bitting the inner of your cheek you mumble, “Right, that’s a load of shit.”
“I care. I care a lot,” he tilts your chin up, and he says almost in a whisper, “Let me show you.”
Suddenly, Theo dips in and his hand gently wraps to cup the dip of your cheek, pressing his warm lips against yours. Caught by surprise, you stiffen, but as his warmth wraps around your body, the walls you’d built up crumble down, and you can’t help but give in.
