Here's the list of the fics I made for the Harry Potter Universe:
Fully original content will be mentioned; the rest was made mostly with GlimmerFics
MORE THAN THIS (TOM RIDDLE/LORD VOLDEMORT FIC)
Count: 23.9k
Summary: Colette Voclain is a Slytherin in her last year at Hogwarts, during Umbridge's reign. After being summoned home by her parents in the middle of the school term, she's coerced into following the Dark Lord to his current location. There, she'll discover a secret that binds her life to his, and she has no other option but to become his protégé.
Pairings: normal looking!tom (he looks like he's in his 30s) x female original character
Warnings: making out basically, slight indication of sexual acts, sex but it's kind of vague (+18) on the 6th Chapter, I guess the age-gap between them maybe
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER THIRD CHAPTER FOURTH CHAPTER FIFTH CHAPTER SIXTH CHAPTER SEVENTH CHAPTER EIGHTH CHAPTER NINTH CHAPTER TENTH CHAPTER
TRUTH AND FANATICS (TOM RIDDLE FIC)
Count: 11.7k
Summary: Lara Vega wakes up in a world where the Harry Potter universe is real. She seems to be lacking the ability to lie and has not only obtained the ability to perform magic, but also appears to have a photographic memory. Her weird behaviour surprisingly draws in everyone she meets, and Tom Riddle won't be an exception. Even though he surely tries to.
Pairings: hogwarts!tom x female original character
Warnings: i don't think there's any, swear words maybe
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER THIRD CHAPTER
PREVENTION (TOM RIDDLE FIC) [ORIGINAL CONTENT]
Count: 6.1k
Summary: You don't know why, but you keep waking up in strange scenarios where you're someone entirely different, and the Dark Lord ends up killing you. Would you be able to break the cycle?
Pairings: tom x f!reader (surname Gross)
Warnings: dying again and again, but it's nothing graphic
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER
TRUE LOVE (SIRIUS BLACK FIC)
Count: 8.9k
Summary: You are a friendly Slytherin whom Sirius had feelings for. Once dosed by a love potion that only made his feelings stronger and his filter nonexistent, you try to help lovesick Sirius survive the day to the best of your abilities.
Pairings: lovesick puppy!sirius x f!reader (surname Burke)
Warnings: someone being dosed with something without their consent, sirius is very touchy
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER
THE GOOD KIND OF SNAKES (SIRIUS BLACK FIC)
Count: 12.7k
Summary: Cecily Tash has managed to embarrass herself by asking Sirius Black out, only to be almost cruelly turned down because she's a Slytherin. Weeks later, the situation turned 180 degrees after she manhandled his mother when Walburga tried to hit him. Now, Cecily has to deal with the strangeness of having the most sought-after bachelor in Hogwarts trying to get her attention.
Pairings: sirius x original female character
Warnings: none
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER THIRD CHAPTER FOURTH CHAPTER FIFTH CHAPTER
EX-FRIENDS (JAMES POTTER FIC)
Count: 17.0k
Summary: Meggy Spanos is James Potter's oldest friend, someone he used to rely on and look after, at least until he decided his world orbited around Lily Evans. The wedge his love for the redhead creates between the two friends is big enough to have them separate for years. That is, until Meggy learns of their break-up and the Potters' terminal illness. She decides to put her job on the line to be there for her oldest friend once more. Will he finally see her as she always wished?
Pairings: james potter x female original character
Warnings: james being a bad friend in the 1st Chapter, sex so smut (18+) in the 5th Chapter
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER THIRD CHAPTER FOURTH CHAPTER FIFTH CHAPTER
ARRANGED MARRIAGE (REGULUS BLACK FIC)
Count: 12.2k
Summary: You're surprised on a typical November day by the revelation that you are to marry Regulus Black during the Christmas Holidays. Although you hoped to have more time (and more of a choice in the matter) before getting betrothed, you see no issue with tying yourself to Regulus, who has always been gentle and patient with you.
Pairings: sweet!regulus x f!reader (surname Selwyn)
Warnings: arranged marriage (duh), smut in the 4th Chapter (+18)
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER THIRD CHAPTER FOURTH CHAPTER
A WOLF AND A SIREN (REMUS LUPIN FIC)
Count: 10.1k
Summary: After accidentally discovering the Marauders' most well-kept secret, you decide to use your own secret inheritance to help them during the full moons. Slowly, you grow closer to them, in particular to Remus, whom you always found sweet and kind.
Pairings: remus x f!reader (surname Rakes)
Warnings: none
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER THIRD CHAPTER FOURTH CHAPTER FIFTH CHAPTER
TOO OBLIVIOUS TO BET (FRED WEASLEY FIC)
Count: 6.3k
Summary: You may as well be the most oblivious witch to have ever attended Hogwarts, which prompted George Weasley to create a betting pool of when you'll finally realize Fred's very obvious feelings for you.
Pairings: fred weasley x f!reader (surname Darling)
Warnings: annoyingly obtuse character who refuses to see what's in front of their eyes
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER
VEELA AND THEIR DRAGON-MATES (CHARLIE WEASLEY FIC)
Count: 15.5k
Summary: Babette Delacour arrives at The Burrow before her cousin's wedding, expecting to have the worst week of her life, surrounded by dirt and loud redheads. However, when she lays her eyes on Charlie Weasley, her Veela-ness immediately recognises him as her mate. Suddenly, she's forced to let go of her poised and polished self in order to obtain the attention of the one man who seems completely disinterested in her.
Pairings: dragonologist!charlie x female original character
Warnings: none
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER THIRD CHAPTER FOURTH CHAPTER
DISTRACTIONS (BILL WEASLEY FIC)
Count: 9.6k
Summary: You have always been close with Bill Weasley, sharing your love for Ancient Runes. After a freak accident that makes you live inside his ex-girlfriend's head for a day, your very friendly feelings for Bill take an unexpected turn.
Pairings: hogwarts!bill x f!reader (surname Vasile)
Warnings: bill's ex is a very unlikable
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER
ALWAYS FREE FOR YOU (GEORGE WEASLEY FIC)
Count: 6.3k
Summary: You have tried multiple times to match your hopelessly shy friend Aldith with her crush, George Weasley, even though the man seems to have feelings for you. Everything changes after the Battle of Hogwarts, when you have to help him get back up on his feet now that he's without his brother.
Summary: You have tried multiple times to match your hopelessly shy friend Aldith with her crush, George Weasley, even though the man seems to have feelings for you. Everything changes after the Battle of Hogwarts, when you have to help him get back up on his feet now that he's without his brother.
Pairings: george x f!reader
Words: 6.3k
Warnings: it has smut (+18) towards the end
Author's note: While I write the next chapter of Prevention, I still meant to post this one-shot of George that I made with GlimmerFics (based on a dream).
Author's note for all Fics: I love writing (although I never post anything because I lose interest in whatever fic I write soon), but I have 0 time now to do it. So, the other day, I found Glimmer Fics, an AI you can feed your ideas to and play as if you were the main character. I created some scenarios in the Harry Potter universe that the AI created beautifully, and I thought I should share some.
The Yule Ball was less than a month away, and the Gryffindor common room had become a hive of nervous energy. You sat by the fireplace with Aldith Pickering, watching her twist a strand of her mousy brown hair around her finger for the twentieth time that evening.
“Just ask him,” you said, nudging her with your elbow. “He’s right over there.”
George Weasley was lounging on one of the squashy armchairs, laughing at something Fred had just said. Aldith’s eyes darted toward him, then back to her lap, her cheeks flushing a deep pink.
“I can’t,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. “What if he says no? What if he laughs?”
“He won’t laugh,” you assured her, though you knew George’s sense of humour could be unpredictable. “He’s not cruel. And if he says no, you’ll survive. But you’ll never know if you don’t ask.”
Aldith shook her head, her shoulders slumping. “I’ll mess it up. I’ll stutter or say something stupid.”
You sighed, watching her struggle. This had been going on for days. Every time George walked by, Aldith would freeze, her courage evaporating like mist. You loved your best friend, but her shyness was going to cost her the chance to go to the Ball with the boy she’d fancied since third year.
Finally, you stood up. “Right. That’s it. I’m doing it for you.”
Aldith’s eyes widened in panic. “No, don’t! Please, I’ll do it tomorrow, I promise一”
But you were already crossing the room, weaving between clusters of students until you reached the Weasley twins.
“George, can I talk to you for a second?”
George looked up from his conversation with Fred, a mischievous grin already playing on his lips. “For you? Always.”
He unfolded himself from the armchair and followed you a few steps away from the hearth, where the noise of the common room faded to a dull roar. You could feel Aldith’s anxious gaze burning into your back from across the room.
“So,” George said, crossing his arms and leaning against the stone wall. “What’s the emergency? Need a patented Weasley solution to a Yule Ball dilemma?”
“Actually, yes,” you said, taking a steadying breath. “It’s about the Ball. I wanted to ask if you’d一”
“Go with you?” George interrupted, his grin widening. “I thought you’d never ask. Yeah, of course I will.”
Your words died in your throat. He’d jumped to the wrong conclusion entirely. “Wait, no, that’s not一”
“Don’t tell me you’re chickening out already,” he teased, his eyes sparkling. “I accept. It’s a date.”
You blinked, momentarily thrown by his assumption. “No, George, that’s not what I meant. I’m asking for Aldith. She wants to go with you.”
George’s grin didn’t falter, but his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Aldith? Really?”
“Yes, really. She’s been trying to work up the courage to ask you for a week, but she keeps copping out. So I’m asking for her.” You glanced back toward the fireplace, where Aldith was now hiding her face behind a book. “Will you go with her?”
“Sure,” George said easily, shrugging. “Why not? She’s nice. Quiet, but nice.” He leaned a little closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “What about you, then? Are you going?”
“With Alicia,” you said. “She just broke up with her girlfriend and refuses to get a ‘proper date,’ so we’re going together.”
George nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Right, the infamous ‘A’s’ stick together.” That was the nickname your group of Gryffindor girls in your year got since all of your names start with A. He paused, a playful glint returning to his eyes. “Either way, if you ever feel like asking me on a date on your own behalf, just know I’m always free for you, yeah?”
You rolled your eyes, though a small smile tugged at your lips. “George, Aldith has the fattest crush on you. I’m not going to date you.”
“Fair enough,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “But the offer stands. If that ever changes, you know where to find me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said lightly, already turning to go deliver the good news to Aldith.
Two years slipped by with the swiftness of a Snitch in flight. After graduating, you settled into work at your parents’ restaurant, while Aldith 一true to her quiet determination一 landed a job at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.
The shop was a riot of colour and noise when you pushed open the door one crisp autumn afternoon. Aldith stood behind the counter, stacking Pygmy Puffs, her face lighting up when she saw you.
“You’re here!” she said, abandoning the puffballs to hug you. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”
“Never,” you said, grinning. “How’s the joke shop life treating you?”
Before she could answer, a loud bang echoed from the back room, followed by Fred’s laughter. “Just testing the new Extendable Ears!” he called out, poking his head through the doorway. “Anyone fancy a demo?”
“It’s chaos, but I love it,” Aldith said with a shy smile, her cheeks still faintly pink. “Fred and George are… well, they’re exactly as you’d expect. But they’re good to work for. They pay fairly and they don’t mind when I need to take a break to breathe.”
“Breathe?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Do they work you that hard?”
“No, no,” she said quickly, waving a hand. “I just get overwhelmed sometimes. When it’s really busy. But George always notices and sends me back to organise stock until I calm down.”
As if summoned by his name, George emerged from the back room, a box of Canary Creams balanced on one shoulder. “Talking about me, are we?” he said, winking at Aldith, who immediately looked at her shoes. “All good things, I hope.”
“We were just saying how wonderfully mature you’ve become as a business owner,” you said dryly.
George clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch. And here I was about to offer you a free sample of our latest line: Puking Pastilles. Guaranteed to clear any awkward social situation.” He moved then to the other side of the shop to put some Headless Hats in their rightful place.
You nudged Aldith gently with your elbow and leaned in, keeping your voice low. “He still makes you blush, doesn’t he?”
Aldith’s blush deepened from pink to crimson. “Shh!” she hissed, glancing nervously at George, who had diverted from his original job and was now demonstrating a Headless Hat to a pair of wide-eyed eleven-year-olds. “It’s not like that anymore. We’re just… colleagues.”
“Colleagues,” you repeated, your tone dripping with scepticism. “Right. And I’m just a casual acquaintance of the Giant Squid.”
“It’s true!” she insisted, though she couldn’t quite meet your eyes. “We work together. That’s all. He’s my boss. It would be… inappropriate.”
From across the shop, George caught your eye and grinned, as if he knew exactly what you were discussing. He finished his demonstration and sauntered over, the Headless Hat now perched jauntily on his own head 一 though, thankfully, his head remained firmly attached.
“Plotting my downfall, are we?” he asked, leaning against the counter beside Aldith. She stiffened, her fingers tightening around the edge of the register.
“Just catching up,” you said innocently.
George looked between you two as if he could tell there was more to it. “Aldith, you’re due for your break, aren’t you? Go on, take it. I’ll mind the front.”
You followed Aldith through the curtained doorway into the back room, which was just as chaotic as the shop floor but in a more organised way. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with boxes labelled with different pranks. A small, rickety table and two chairs were tucked into a corner, presumably where the staff took their breaks.
Aldith sank into one of the chairs with a sigh, pulling a thermos from her bag. “Tea?” she offered.
“Please.” You took the other chair, watching as she poured two cups. “So. Colleagues.”
She shot you a warning look. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” you said, holding up your hands. “I’m just observing that he notices when you need a break. That’s… attentive.”
“He’s a good boss,” Aldith said firmly, though her fingers trembled slightly as she handed you a cup. “That’s all. How are things at the restaurant? How are your parents?”
You accepted the change of subject gracefully. “They’re good. Business is steady. Mum wants to expand the menu, but Dad’s worried about overwhelming the kitchen. They bicker about it every Sunday.”
Aldith smiled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “Sounds like home.”
You took a sip of the tea 一 it was strong and sweet, just how Aldith always made it. “Have you seen Angelina or Alicia lately? I feel like we’ve all scattered since graduation.”
Aldith’s expression brightened. “Angelina came in last week! She’s playing for the Holyhead Harpies now, did you know? She bought a whole box of Fever Fancies for her teammates 一said they help with pre-match nerves.”
“That sounds like Angie,” you said, smiling.
“Alicia’s working at the Ministry, in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. She owled me last month saying she’s already sick of paperwork, but she loves being around Quidditch all day.” Aldith hesitated, then added softly, “She asked about you. Said you should come to one of their Friday pub nights.”
Before you could respond, the curtain twitched aside, and Fred stuck his head in, a pair of fake glasses with spinning eyeballs perched on his nose. “Break time’s over, ladies! We’ve got customers asking for the famous Aldith’s expert opinion on Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder versus our new Midnight Mist.”
Aldith jumped, nearly spilling her tea. “Right! Sorry, I’m coming.”
Fred winked at you. “Don’t worry, we’ll give her back. Eventually.” He disappeared back into the shop, his laughter trailing behind him.
You set your cup down. “We should fix that. Do you want to have lunch together next week? I could come by during your break.”
Aldith’s face lit up. “Really? That would be lovely. Tuesdays are usually quiet 一George handles the front so I can take a proper hour.”
“Tuesday it is,” you said, standing up. “I’ll bring something from the restaurant. Mum’s been experimenting with a new pastry she swears will ‘change the world.’”
Aldith laughed, a soft, genuine sound. “I can’t wait.”
As you both moved toward the curtain, George appeared in the doorway, blocking your path with an exaggerated bow. “Leaving so soon? And here I was about to demonstrate our latest invention: the Self-Stirring Cauldron. It’s revolutionary. No more sore wrists for Potions masters.”
“Tempting,” you said, sidestepping him. How envious you were that all he seemed to do at work was demonstrate how pranks and other ‘useful’ items function. “But I’ve got to get back to the non-magical world of chopping vegetables.”
George clutched his heart again. “You wound me. Chopping vegetables when you could be witnessing culinary history.” Then, he seemed to remember Aldith was there as well, and he glanced over. “Don’t forget, you’ve got that order of Fanged Frisbees to package before closing.”
“I won’t,” Aldith said, her voice barely above a whisper.
You gave her a quick hug. “I’ll see you Tuesday. And Aldith?” You lowered your voice, leaning in. “He still looks at you when you’re not looking. Just saying.”
Aldith’s blush returned full force, but she didn’t deny it. You waved goodbye to George, who was now attempting to balance a Pygmy Puff on his head, and stepped out into the crisp Diagon Alley afternoon.
The years that followed were not kind. The war swept through the Wizarding world like a wildfire, and when the Battle of Hogwarts finally ended, the cost was counted in broken bodies and silent spaces where laughter used to be.
You sat on the cold stone floor of the Great Hall, Aldith’s hand limp in yours. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful, as if she were only sleeping. Around you, the wounded were being tended to, the dead being mourned. A few feet away, George stood rigid beside Fred’s covered form, the Weasley family gathered around him in a tight, weeping circle.
You held Aldith's hand tighter, your thumb brushing over her cold knuckles. “Goodbye, sweet girl,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I'll miss you every day.”
The words felt inadequate, a tiny pebble dropped into an ocean of loss. Around you, the Great Hall was a tapestry of grief 一 families huddled together, friends clutching each other, healers moving with exhausted determination between the wounded. The air smelled of dust, blood, and the lingering hot metal of spent magic.
You didn't know how long you sat there before a shadow fell across you. Looking up, you saw George standing a few feet away, his face pale and hollow. He wasn't crying anymore; he just looked empty, as if someone had scooped out everything that made him George Weasley and left only a shell.
His eyes moved from Fred's covered form to Aldith, and something in his expression shifted 一 a flicker of recognition, of shared devastation. For a moment, you thought he might speak, but he just turned and walked away, his shoulders slumped.
Aldith’s funeral was a small, quiet affair held in a sunny corner of a Muggle cemetery, chosen by her family. You stood between Angelina and Alicia, the three of you forming a silent, grieving line. The ‘A’s’ were now three.
You didn’t cry. The tears had dried up sometime during the long, grey month that had passed since the battle. Instead, you felt a hollow, aching numbness, as if a part of you had been buried alongside your friend.
After the last mourner had left, you lingered by the fresh grave. “I’ll look after him,” you promised the headstone, your voice barely a whisper. “I won’t let him drown in it.”
The next morning, you Apparated to the Burrow. The garden was unnaturally still. No gnomes were being chased, no chickens clucked. Molly Weasley answered the door, her eyes red-rimmed but her smile warm.
“Oh, dear,” she said, pulling you into a tight hug. “It’s good to see you.”
“Is George here?” you asked.
Molly’s smile faltered. “Upstairs. He hasn’t left his room in days. Won’t eat much. I’ll… I’ll let you go up.”
You climbed the familiar, creaking stairs to the twins’ old room. The door was closed. You knocked softly.
“Go away,” came a muffled, hoarse voice from within.
“It’s me, George,” you said through the wood.
There was a long silence, then the sound of shuffling. The door opened a crack, revealing a sliver of George’s face, pale and shadowed with stubble. He looked at you, his expression unreadable. “What do you want?”
“To see you,” you said simply.
He stared for another moment, then stepped back, opening the door wider. The room was a mess 一 clothes strewn about, empty cups on the nightstand, the curtains drawn tight against the daylight. The second bed, Fred’s bed, was neatly made, as if waiting for him to return.
George sank onto the edge of his own unmade bed, not looking at you. “Seen enough?”
You closed the door softly behind you and leaned against it. “No.”
He let out a short, bitter laugh. “Well, here I am. The surviving twin. The one who’s supposed to carry on the legacy or whatever.” He ran a hand through his hair, which was greasy and unkempt. “Except I don’t know how to do any of it without him. The shop, the jokes… it was always us. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Not George’s.”
“You don’t have to do it alone,” you said quietly.
George’s head snapped up, his eyes finally meeting yours. They were bloodshot and full of a pain so raw it made your breath catch. “Who’s going to help me?” he asked, his voice breaking. “Fred’s gone. Aldith’s gone. Everyone’s just… gone, or they’ve moved on. The shop’s been closed for a month. It’s over.”
“It’s not over,” you said, pushing away from the door and crossing the room to kneel in front of him. You took his hands in yours; they were cold. “Look at me. It’s not over. I’m here.”
He stared down at your joined hands, his shoulders beginning to shake. “I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, the words choked. “I don’t know how to be just me.”
That was when the dam broke. A ragged sob tore from his throat, and he crumpled forward, his forehead coming to rest against your shoulder. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him as he wept 一 great, heaving, ugly cries that shook his entire frame. You didn’t shush him or tell him it would be okay. You just held on, your own tears soaking silently into his shirt.
When the storm finally began to subside, leaving him limp and exhausted against you, you spoke softly into the quiet room. “I’m staying right here, George. I promise. You’re not alone.”
You helped him lie down, pulling the rumpled covers up over his shoulders. He didn't resist, his eyes already closing from sheer exhaustion. You smoothed his hair back from his damp forehead, a gesture that felt both foreign and necessary.
“I'll be downstairs,” you whispered. “Sleep.”
He didn't respond, but his breathing deepened almost immediately, the deep, shuddering breaths of someone who had cried themselves empty.
You crept out of the room, closing the door with a soft click. Downstairs, Molly was waiting in the kitchen, a pot of tea already steeping. She poured you a cup without a word, her hands trembling slightly.
“He's sleeping,” you told her.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice thick. “He won't listen to us. He just… shuts us out.”
You sipped the tea, the warmth doing little to chase the chill from your bones. “He'll listen tomorrow,” you said, more to yourself than to her. “We're going to the shop.”
Molly looked at you, her eyes wide with a mixture of hope and fear. “Do you think that's wise? So soon?”
“It's not about wisdom,” you said. “It's about not letting the darkness win.”
The next morning, you returned to the Burrow before the sun was fully up. You climbed the stairs and, without knocking, pushed open George's door.
He was awake, sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall. He looked cleaner 一someone, probably Molly, had made him wash一 but the emptiness was still there.
“Get up,” you said, your voice firm. “We're going to the shop.”
You didn't wait for a response. Instead, you moved to the pile of clothes on the floor, picking up his worn dragonhide boots and the leather jacket that still smelled faintly of gunpowder and Zonko's. You placed them on the bed beside him.
“Get dressed,” you said, your voice leaving no room for argument.
George stared at the boots as if he'd never seen them before. “Why?” he asked, the word hollow. “What's the point?”
“The point,” you said, turning to face him, “is that the world didn't end. It just feels like it did. And the shop is still there, and people still need to laugh, even if it's just for a second. Especially now.” You took a breath. “And I'm not letting you sit here and disappear. So get dressed, or I'll dress you myself.”
A flicker of something 一annoyance, maybe, or the ghost of his old defiance一 crossed his face. He looked from the boots to you, then slowly, stiffly, bent to pull them on.
It took him ten minutes to get ready, moving like a man underwater. You waited by the door, not helping, not rushing him. When he finally stood, jacket hanging loose on his thinner frame, you simply nodded and led the way downstairs.
Molly was in the kitchen, her hands clasped tightly. She opened her mouth, but you shook your head minutely. George didn't look at her as he followed you out the back door into the garden.
The morning air was cool and clean. You took his arm and turned on the spot.
With a crack, you both disappeared from the Burrow and reappeared in the silent, dusty alley behind Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.
You didn't wait for him to speak. You walked to the front door, unlocked it with the key you'd gotten from Molly, and pushed it open. The familiar scent of sugar, gunpowder, and dust washed over you. Without a word, you grabbed a rag from behind the counter and started dusting the nearest shelf of Pygmy Puff carriers.
The silence was thick, broken only by the soft swish of the cloth. You worked methodically, moving from the carriers to a display of Extendable Ears, wiping away a month's worth of neglect.
After a long minute, you heard the shuffle of boots on the floorboards. George stood just inside the doorway, his eyes scanning the dim, familiar space. He looked like a ghost in his own home.
He walked slowly to the counter, his fingers trailing over the polished wood. He stopped in front of the till, staring at it. Then, with a movement that seemed to take all his strength, he reached out and flipped the little sign hanging on the inside of the door.
The word 'OPEN' faced the empty street.
The first day, no one came in. The second, a few brave souls trickled through, their eyes full of pity. George didn't speak to them, just rang up their purchases with a blank face. But he came back the next day, and the day after that.
Six months later, the bell above the door of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes jingled with a steady, hopeful rhythm. George stood behind the counter, holding a small, shimmering blue box. “It's ready,” he said, his voice still quiet, but steady. “The first new product. Since.”
You looked at the box, then at him. The hollows under his eyes were less pronounced. “Then we're celebrating,” you said, taking the box from him. “My treat. And before you argue, it's not a date.”
He managed a small, real smile. “Wouldn't dream of calling it one.”
You took his arm firmly. The world compressed and spun, then settled into the familiar, warm noise of The Leaky Cauldron’s back room 一 the one that connected to a perfectly ordinary Muggle pub in London. The air smelled of old wood, hops, and frying chips.
George blinked, looking around at the dark wood panels and the football match playing silently on a telly in the corner. “Subtle,” he said, a faint hint of his old dry humour in his tone.
“They do a good steak and ale pie,” you said, steering him toward a booth in the corner. “And no one here will look at you like you’re a tragedy.”
You ordered two pies and a pint each. For a while, you ate in comfortable silence, the clatter of cutlery and the murmur of other conversations filling the space between you. George ate slowly, methodically, but he finished his plate 一 a small victory you noted with quiet satisfaction.
He pushed his empty plate away and took a long drink. “It’s a Daydream Charm,” he said suddenly, not looking at you. “In the box. One hour of a perfectly happy memory. Just… a loop of it. No side effects. No withdrawal.” He finally met your eyes. “I thought… people might need a bit of that. Right now.”
“That’s brilliant, George,” you said, and you meant it. It wasn’t just a clever joke; it was thoughtful, kind 一 a piece of magic meant to heal, not just entertain.
A faint flush crept up his neck. He looked down, tracing a knot in the wooden table with his finger. “Fred would’ve hated it,” he said quietly. “Called it sentimental rubbish. He’d have wanted something that made your ears bleed confetti for a week.”
“Maybe,” you agreed. “But you’re not Fred. And maybe… maybe that’s okay.”
He was silent for a long moment, then let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Maybe it is.”
The rest of the evening passed in a gentle, unpressured way. You talked about nothing important 一 the terrible quality of the pub’s pickled eggs, a funny story about a customer who’d tried to return a used Skiving Snackbox. He didn’t smile often, but when he did, it didn’t look like it hurt him.
When the pub began to empty, you paid the tab despite his weak protest and led him back out into the cool London night. The streets were quiet.
“Right,” you said, turning to him. “Home. Where’s your flat these days?”
You Apparated him to the doorstep of his London flat, a modest building tucked between a bookshop and a florist. The goodnight felt awkward, hovering in the air between you. “See you soon,” you said, and he nodded, giving you that small, real smile again before disappearing inside.
Three months passed. The shop stayed open. George's smiles came a little easier, lasted a little longer.
Tonight, you'd all gone out 一you, George, Angelina, Alicia, Lee, and the rest of the old Gryffindor crowd一 for a loud, laughing dinner that felt almost like the old days. Now, standing outside his flat once more, the night quiet and the streetlamps casting long shadows, the familiarity of the moment struck you.
“Thanks for tonight,” George said, his hands in his pockets. “It was… good.” He paused, then looked at you the same way he always had, his expression serious in the dim light. “You know… I'm still always free for you if you ever feel like asking me on a date.”
You’ve been trying 一and failing一 to stop your heart from racing every time George would look at you as if there was nowhere else he would rather be than with you. You had initially wanted Aldith to end with him, even though he still seemed more energetic when you were around. But after her death, after you’ve grown closer, you've run out of excuses as to why you couldn’t be utterly in love with the man. Especially when you’ve always known he was waiting for you to give him a chance.
You took a couple of steps to leave, then stopped. The pavement felt like it was holding you in place. “Fuck it,” you muttered, the words escaping on a sigh that was half frustration, half surrender.
You turned back. George was still standing there, watching you, a question in his eyes that he wasn't asking. Without another word, you closed the distance between you, grabbed the front of his jacket, and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle or hesitant. It was all the months of grief, of watching him break and putting him back together, of your own silent, stubborn longing, poured into a single, decisive action. His lips were warm and tasted faintly of the firewhiskey from dinner. For a second, he froze in surprise, then his hands came up to cradle your face, and he kissed you back with a desperate, matching intensity.
When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing hard. You didn't let go of his jacket.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he whispered against your lips, the confession hanging in the cool night air between you.
George’s eyes searched yours, the streetlamp light catching the flecks of amber in them. You noticed something in his face softened, the guarded walls finally crumbling completely. He brought a hand up, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as you answered. “Me too.”
Noticing his hesitance on what his next move should be, you spoke. “Show me your apartment,” your voice was low and clear. There was no question in it.
Wordlessly, he fumbled for his keys, unlocked the door, and pulled you inside. The flat was dark and warm. He didn’t turn on the lights. The door clicked shut, sealing you both in the private darkness, and then his mouth was on yours again, hungry and sure.
This kiss was different 一 slower, deeper, an unspoken conversation. His hands slid from your face to your shoulders, down your back, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the steady beat of his heart through both your layers of clothing, a rhythm you’d worried had gone silent forever. You tangled your fingers in his hair, the red strands soft against your skin, and kissed him back with everything you had, pouring months of silent watching, of grief, of hope, into the touch.
When you broke for air, foreheads resting together, his breathing was uneven. “Bedroom’s this way,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your skin. The way he felt, so close to you, left you wishing the sensation would never end.
“Don’t be gentle,” you whispered, the words a raw plea against his mouth.
A shudder went through him. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and intense in the shadows. “You’re sure?”
In answer, you kissed him again, hard, biting his lower lip just enough to make him gasp. That was all the confirmation he needed.
He didn’t lead you so much as he guided you, his hands firm on your hips, walking you backwards through the dark flat until your knees hit the edge of his bed. There was no more hesitation. Clothes were shed not with ceremony, but with a frantic, mutual urgency 一 buttons popped, fabric tore, and neither of you cared. The cool air of the room hit your skin, followed immediately by the heat of his.
When he laid you down, it was with a possessiveness that stole your breath. His mouth was everywhere 一your neck, your collarbone, the curve of your breast一, his hands mapping your body like he was memorising it. You arched against him, your own hands scrabbling at his back, pulling him closer, needing to erase every inch of space between you.
“George,” you breathed, the name a broken sound.
He stilled for a second, looking down at you, his face a mask of fierce, vulnerable need. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, and then he was moving inside you, and the world narrowed to this: the slide of skin on skin, the ragged harmony of your breathing, the solid weight of him anchoring you to the earth.
It wasn’t gentle, just like you asked. It was a reclaiming. A furious, beautiful collision of two people who had seen too much darkness, reaching for light in the only way they knew how. You clung to each other as the tension coiled and snapped, a wave of sensation so profound it felt less like pleasure and more like being remade.
Afterwards, you lay tangled in the sheets, sweat cooling on your skin, his heart thudding a slow, steady rhythm against your back where he held you. The silence was deep and peaceful. You felt his breathing even out into sleep first, his arms loosening but not letting go.
You closed your eyes, listening to the sound, and let the warmth pull you under.
You woke to the soft grey light of a London morning filtering through the curtains. George was still asleep beside you, one arm thrown heavily across your waist. And he was smiling 一 a small, peaceful, unguarded smile that made your chest ache with a sudden, fierce tenderness.
You couldn't resist. You reached over, your fingers hovering for a second before you gently traced the curve of his smiling lips. They were soft, relaxed in a way you hadn't seen in years.
His smile deepened at the touch, and his eyes fluttered open. For a moment, he looked disoriented, then his gaze focused on you, and the sleepy smile turned into something warmer, more aware. He caught your wrist, his thumb stroking the inside of it.
“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
“Morning, love,” you whispered back.
He pulled you closer, tucking you against his chest with a contented sigh. You lie there for a few peaceful minutes, listening to the city begin to wake up outside. Eventually, your stomach gave a quiet but insistent rumble.
George chuckled, the sound vibrating through you. “Right. Food.” He released you with obvious reluctance. “Kitchen's a disaster, fair warning.”
You slipped out of bed, grabbing his discarded shirt from the floor and pulling it on. It smelled like him 一 gunpowder, cinnamon, and something uniquely George. Padding into the small kitchen, you were met with exactly the chaos he'd promised. Wizarding appliances you didn't recognise hummed and bubbled next to empty takeaway containers. You found a loaf of bread and what looked like a normal toaster, and got to work.
The toaster was unlike any you'd seen. Instead of slots, it had a small, flat platform and a series of glowing runes along the side. You squinted at them, poking one tentatively. The platform glowed red, and the two slices of bread you'd placed there began to… vibrate.
“Oh, come on,” you muttered, jabbing at another rune. The vibration stopped, but now a faint, scorching heat began to radiate from below. You could smell it 一 the bread was cooking, but unevenly. You cursed under your breath, flipping the slices with your fingers just as the heat intensified.
Too late. With a soft pop, the toast ejected itself. One side was perfectly golden. The other was blackened and smoking. You have never hated being a Muggleborn witch more.
“Scratch off the black part, it’s fine,” you grumbled to yourself, scraping at the burnt side with a knife. The char flaked away, leaving a sad, thin, greyish piece of bread behind.
“That’s one way to do it.”
You turned. George was leaning in the kitchen doorway, wearing only a pair of low-slung pyjama bottoms, his hair a glorious mess. He was watching you, that small, real smile playing on his lips again. He looked… happy.
“It’s edible. Mostly,” you said, pushing the sad, half-scraped piece of toast across the counter toward him on a plate.
George took it, his smile widening into a proper grin. He didn’t even look at the toast. His eyes were fixed on you, standing there in his too-big shirt, your hair probably as messy as his. He looked utterly, disarmingly happy to have you in his kitchen, cooking him a terrible breakfast after a night in his arms.
He placed the plate down without a glance. Before you could protest or sit down, he closed the distance in two strides, his hands coming to rest on your hips. He pulled you gently but firmly against him.
“The food’ll get cold,” you pointed out, though you made no move to pull away.
“That’s what magic is for,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours. “I’ll reheat it later.”
Then he kissed you, not with the desperate hunger of the night before, but with a warm, claiming sweetness that made your knees feel weak. He broke the kiss only to lift you, sitting you on the edge of the kitchen table. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist as he leaned in again, his hands sliding up your thighs under the hem of the shirt.
You didn’t protest anymore.
You ran your hands through his hair, the red strands soft and tangled between your fingers, and deepened the kiss. It was a slow, thorough exploration that tasted of sleep and possibility. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you steady against him as the world outside the kitchen window, the cold toast on the counter, everything else faded to a distant hum.
If you had known kissing George Weasley was going to feel this phenomenal, you’d might have set up Aldith with your cousin to have the redhead to yourself.
When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, a faint, contented smile on his face.
“Breakfast?” you suggested, your voice a little unsteady.
“In a minute,” he murmured, but he didn’t move. He just held you there, your legs wrapped around him, his thumbs making slow circles on your skin. The morning light painted the kitchen in soft gold, and for the first time in a very long time, the silence between you felt completely, perfectly peaceful.
Eventually, he sighed and pulled back, pressing one last, soft kiss to your lips before helping you down from the table. He picked up the sad piece of toast, examined it with a critical eye, then took a bite.
“Needs more charcoal,” he said, his mouth full, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
You laughed, the sound bright and easy in the quiet flat. “I’ll remember that for next time.”
You made a fresh batch of toast together, this time with George showing you the correct rune sequence. The bread came out perfectly golden and buttered itself. You ate at the small kitchen table, knees touching underneath, talking about nothing and everything 一 the shop, your parents’ restaurant, whether the Cannons had any hope this season. The conversation was easy, punctuated by comfortable silences and the occasional brush of a hand.
Later, you helped him tidy the flat, a domestic chore that felt strangely significant. As you were leaving, he caught your hand at the door.
“Tuesday?” he asked. “For lunch? I could… meet you.”
You nodded, your throat tight with a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion. If you hadn’t even had a date yet, you would have been tempted to tell him you love him. “Yeah,” you said. “Tuesday.”
You stepped out into the London afternoon, the door closing softly behind you. The city air was cool, but you felt warm from the inside out. The grief was still there, a quiet companion you’d both carry forever. But now, there was this too 一 a new morning, a piece of perfectly made toast, and the promise of a Tuesday lunch. It wasn’t a full healing, but it was a start. And for now, that was more than enough.
Summary: You don't know why, but you keep waking up in strange scenarios where you're someone entirely different, and the Dark Lord ends up killing you. Would you be able to break the cycle?
Pairings: tom x f!reader (surname Gross)
Words: 3.8k
Warnings: dying again and again, but it's nothing graphic
Author's note: You continue going backwards in time, living different realities where you encounter Voldemort. This chapter is longer because I got a bit carried away, opps.
Your knees scraped the floor beneath them as your body dropped forward. Expensive wood 一 that was all your scrambled mind managed to notice. You had a hard time concentrating on anything else since bile threatened to come out of your mouth. You swallowed once, twice, and by the third time, you felt good enough to gaze up to check your new surroundings.
I guess dying four bloody times would have that effect, you thought dryly. Your nose picked up the smell of incense before it registered the richly decorated drawing room you were kneeling in. Sadly, you were once more in the presence of the Dark Lord. However, he looked slightly less monstrous.
"You have been recommended to me, Miss Gross," he said, his voice smoother, less raspy than you remembered. "They say you show promise. A pureblood of respectable lineage, with talents that could be... useful."
You continued analysing this younger version of Voldemort, curious. Your mind was still tangled, making you ignore his words completely 一 much to his disapproval. He must be wondering if I am slow-minded, you thought amusingly. After all, anything that brought discomfort to the Dark Lord surely meant enjoyment for you.
He extended his left arm, the sleeve of his dark robes pushed back to reveal pale skin and the almost stylish serpent-and-skull tattoo. "Tonight, you will take my Mark and join our cause. The wizarding world needs to be purified, reshaped into something greater. Will you serve?"
Finally! You celebrated as your brain managed to push through the fog and give you knowledge about your new situation. You were a promising young witch about to swear loyalty to Lord Voldemort. Electricity coursed through your body at the implication. This version of yourself was filled with nothing but curiosity 一 which answered why your eyes drank every micro-expression in his face.
Trying to fight against the deeply rooted fascination your devoted-to-the-cause new self felt, you focused on remembering the question You-Know-Who had asked. "How could I follow a regime that’s built on hatred?"
You were kind of hoping your words would push him enough to get it over with and kill you already. You had a morbid interest in seeing how far back you could be sent. To your surprise, he smiled. Oh, so he used to like being challenged? you thought. "Hatred?" he repeated, lowering his arm. "Is that what you think this is about?"
He began to pace slowly around the drawing room, his hands clasped behind his back. Your original mind perceived this as a predator circling his prey, but the twistedly-devoted other part ogled his form 一 a god he was, nothing less. "Hatred is a crude emotion, Miss Gross. A weakness. What I offer is not hatred, but vision. A world where magic is respected, where bloodlines are preserved, where our kind no longer hides in fear of Muggles."
He paused; you could imagine he was allowing your slower mind to process his words. "The current order is failing. Dumbledore and his ilk preach tolerance while allowing our traditions to fade. They would have us live as equals with those who burn witches at the stake."
Voldemort’s expression turned almost gentle. His eyes weren't the pure crimson colour you had grown accustomed to 一 they were tinted warm red, impossible to look away from. No wonder so many fell for his speech, you thought. "You misunderstand our purpose. This is not about hatred. It is about preservation. About creating something lasting and pure."
He extended his arm again towards you. A shudder travelled down your body, your fingers tingling to touch him. "Will you help build that future?"
The amount of strength it took you to not give in bordered on painful, your sickly-devoted version craving to prove your undying loyalty. Thankfully, the memory of his pale hand holding the wand that ended your life several times was a good enough motivator.
"It makes no bloody sense being this spiteful towards Muggles and Muggleborns when they're literally only existing."
Voldemort's expression changed 一 not dramatically, but you had an observant eye. The gentle, persuasive mask he'd been wearing slipped, revealing something sharper beneath. Hello again, old friend, you thought wryly.
"You think that is all they do?" his voice remained soft, which you couldn't complain about. His wand appeared in his hand in a very familiar way. Next time, I’ll ask him how he does it so quietly. "They infest our world. They dilute our magic. They threaten everything we are."
The green light bloomed at the tip of his wand, then. You didn't try to dodge it, welcoming the darkness. The pulling sensation returned until you felt a pair of arms steady you. This time, the memories were as clear as your original ones. You were Solomon Nott’s wife, and the Dark Lord expected to get something from you. Something… intimate.
Truthfully, You-Know-Who’s sexual desires were not a topic you had ever wondered about. But still, you figured he would deem every other human being beneath him. He looked like the mere thought of touching someone else repulsed him. However, your soft-and-demure-wife crystalline recollections left no room to believe otherwise 一 the Dark Lord liked to taste his followers' spouses to check the extent of their fidelity.
Solomon, your very dedicated husband, kept his gaze on your flustered face. Could anyone blame you for blushing at learning of Voldemort’s extracurricular activities? The man looked oddly similar to Theodore Nott, a boy you last saw when you graduated from Hogwarts, and he was in his third year. It was as if you were seeing Theo’s thirty-something version.
"He's waiting in the study, love," he said gently, as if trying to stop you from bolting. From his wife’s memories, you gathered that Solomon was a quiet, strictly traditional, and highly intelligent wizard. He has always treated you with something akin to care, making sure you were healthy and content.
Your new version knew him well enough to understand that he had consciously taken longer than his friends to marry. His reasoning was to delay what was going to happen this evening. Your husband had looked deeply disturbed when the summons had arrived, burning the letter almost immediately.
He was a good man to you, you thought while recalling other private moments where Solomon had taken care of your happiness as if it was the second most important thing for him 一 the first being his loyalty to Tom Riddle. Merlin’s beard, have you just called the Dark Lord by his birth name?
"Remember what we discussed. Be respectful. Answer his questions."
You simply nodded. Your mind was still processing the fact that your new self called Lord Voldemort ‘Tom’ in her mind. Solomon led you silently to the doors of the study, a comforting hand resting on your shoulder.
When you entered, you found the place dimly lit, dominated by a large mahogany desk. This wasn't a room you frequented much, reserved for your husband’s affairs. You didn't ponder on the distribution of objects in the study for long. It was an impossible task when right behind the desk, a strikingly handsome man was sitting in a high-backed chair. His dark orbs were shamelessly eating your silhouette like it was his right.
If the fact that he was a mass murderer wasn't engraved on your mind, you would have been tempted to take your knickers off and let him have his way with you. You blamed your dry sexual life before the Battle of Hogwarts for those thoughts.
"Mrs Nott," he said, his voice smooth. You were very thankful for how uncomfortable your new version was. You could only dreadfully imagine how this meeting would go if you were inhabiting the body of the madly-diligent-almost-servant. "Your husband speaks highly of your loyalty. Sit."
"You look different from what I expected," you said, taking the offered seat across from him. Your eyes travelled through his face 一 his sharp features, his perfectly styled dark hair, his long lashes, his thin but soft-looking lips.
A faint smile slowly appeared on his mouth. He must have noticed your lingering glance. "Different how?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest, his smile turning almost seductive. The bastard knew what those pale, veiny arms could do to any witch with eyes.
You considered your words carefully. "Younger," you settled on, which was both true and safe. "Solomon speaks of you with such reverence, I suppose I imagined someone... older."
"Age is irrelevant when it comes to vision," Voldemort replied, his gaze never leaving yours. "What matters is the strength of one's convictions. And the willingness to act upon them." He gestured to a silver tea service on a side table. "Would you care for some? It's infused with a calming draught. I find it helps with... difficult conversations."
You couldn't fathom that the rest of the wives needed a calming draught before bedding him 一 assumptions based on the perception of your other self. They were all incredibly superficial and power-based. And they spoke after as if the act was otherworldly.
"What kind of difficult conversations do you anticipate?" You asked, your gaze shifting from the tea service back to the Dark Lord’s face. You were still essentially yourself, which meant you weren't missing an opportunity to toy with his precious time.
His smile dropped an inch, not expecting your innocently naive answer. Good, you thought, pleased at bothering him. "The usual kind," he said, pouring himself a cup of tea 一 of course, without the calming draught, you noticed. "Conversations about loyalty. About sacrifice. About the future we're building."
He took a slow sip, watching you over the rim of the delicate china cup. "Your husband tells me you've been hesitant about certain aspects of our movement. Particularly regarding the role of women within it."
What an interesting way to approach the topic, you stated in your mind wryly. The contrast in his propriety and his intentions made your mind swirl. "I believe women have more to offer than just producing heirs," you said carefully. Your soft tone carried through as you batted your eyelashes demurely. “Wouldn't you agree?”
"Of course they do," the Dark Lord affirmed, his smile turned a notch seductive. "Intelligence, cunning, magical prowess 一all valuable assets. But biology is biology, Mrs Nott. Pureblood lines must continue. And certain... arrangements ensure that powerful bloodlines are strengthened." He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes intent. "You're a Gross by birth. Your family's magical lineage is impeccable. Combined with the Nott line, and potentially others..."
Oh. Oh. Your wife-friends had not warned you about that aspect. Was he looking to impregnate the spouses of his followers? You have always found him brilliant in a terrifying, monstrous way, but now he just looked like a madman. Your hands moved in their own accord to pour yourself a cup of tea of that calming draught.
"Feeling better?" Voldemort gently asks you, his eyes lingering on your lips as you lick the remaining tea off them 一 a nervous habit you seemed to share with this new version of yourself. He was gaining the upper hand, basking in your tense form. And you refused to let that happen for much longer.
"Forgive if I’m too forward, but I've always wondered what your ultimate goal was. What is it the Dark Lord truly desires?" You have learned before your fifth death that he enjoyed puzzling people. You were certain he was pleased by your feigned curiosity.
He seemed to consider your question, his fingers steepled before him. "I want what every great leader wants," he said after a moment. "A legacy. And a world where our children can grow up proud of their heritage."
If he was trying to make you consider getting a hysterectomy, he was very much succeeding.
"That requires sacrifice, of course. From all of us. But especially from those with the purest blood. Our children will be the foundation of this new world." You-Know-Who continued. A shiver made its way down your spine at his words. ‘Our children’ sounded almost like a threat to you. Though your soft-wife self understood that it was the ultimate showcase of devotion, carrying his heir.
At your lack of response 一you continued quietly sipping your tea, feeling more and more its calming effect一, he decided to ask you something in return. "Now I am curious 一what do you want? Beyond your scepticism about our methods."
That was an easy question. You wanted to stop dying. To go home. To never see his face again, handsome or monstrous. But you couldn't say any of that. "I want a world where my children don't have to live in fear," you said instead, which was true enough. "Where they can be safe."
"Safety requires strength," Voldemort replied. "And strength requires unity. Which brings us back to the matter at hand." He gestured vaguely toward the door, where Solomon presumably waited. "Your husband understands this. He is willing to make the necessary sacrifices for our cause. Are you?"
The only sacrifice you wished to make for his cause was to help him lose that lovely, tall nose of his. Just so he could achieve his final form faster, you thought wryly. "You keep talking about sacrifice," you said, your gaze steady on his striking face, "but you haven't mentioned what you're sacrificing."
There was a slight tightening around his eyes and a barely perceptible stiffening of his shoulders. His polished marks slipped for a moment, revealing something colder beneath. You had to remind yourself to contain the smile that threatened to stretch your lips. The great Lord Voldemort was becoming irritated by a soft-spoken and proper pureblood witch.
"My sacrifices are not for public discussion," he said, his voice no longer a suggestive purr. "They are between me and my conscience." He managed to surprise you when his intense gaze turned pensive and almost pained. "I have given up everything for this cause. Family. Comfort. The ordinary life I might have had. All of it."
That was more revelation than you expected from someone like the Dark Lord. He sounded less like a righteous psychopath and more like a simple wizard. Your concept of him clashed against this information 一 that he could have pictured a normal life instead of this destructive path.
"You remind me of someone. A man who was so afraid of dying he became a monster," you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. You intended to leave it at that, the words hanging heavy in between you two. But when his eyes turned icier 一completely devoid of human emotions一 you were reminded of who this handsome bastard was. "Ended up quite ugly, yes. And dying twice at the hands of a child. Poetic."
The silence that followed was absolute. Voldemort didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't so much as blink. You could imagine the frost inside the study seeped through the door gap and reached Solomon. He would sigh loudly, accepting your loss.
When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet you didn't hear him. Instead, you read his beautiful lips. "What did you say?"
You met his gaze, the effect of the calming draught still coursing strongly through you. What was he going to do? Kill you? You were getting rather good at that by now, you dryly thought. "You heard me, Tom."
Voldemort's wand was in his hand so quickly, you didn't see him draw it. Damn it, you've forgotten to ask about his wand trick. "Who are you?" he demanded, the polished facade completely gone now, replaced by something raw and dangerous. "Who sent you?"
"No one sent me," you said, rolling your eyes in what you suspected was a very unladylike manner. This stupid man thought you were a spy or something similar. "I'm just a woman who's seen the future. And let me tell you, it doesn't end well for you."
His eyes narrowed. Without warning, you felt him invading your mind. The sensation was worse than the pulling one you got every time he ended your life. You could only compare it to being stabbed a million times in your head. Even though you didn't resist his brutal intrusion, he made sure to harm the edges of your mind with every move he made.
You let him see it all, including the memories of your deaths. When he withdrew, his expression was one of cold fury. You could see the decision forming in his eyes 一 the same decision you’d seen several times before. "Avada Kedavra."
As the darkness pulled you under, you wondered if he could be more creative in his forms of murdering. Obviously, the Killing Curse was effective, but tremendously predictable by this point. The pulling sensation arrived seconds later, stronger than the other times. It yanked you so harshly that when you landed in whatever year it was, you clashed loudly against the bookshelf in front of you
Thankfully, even through the familiar fog that accompanied the time-travelling, you were able to recognise your new location. You were in Hogwarts’ library. The place has always pacified your tumultuous mind. And this time, it was no different. It was the smell of parchment, dust, and blood 一your own from your earlier collision一 that brought full clarity.
You were a student in her seventh year with knowledge of Tom’s dark activities. A welcome scenario for you, for sure. “Bloody hell, Gross. What did that bookshelf do to you?” You heard someone mention half-concerned behind you.
You recognised the person instantly: Ursula Lovelace, a Gryffindor girl in your year and your best friend. The two things she loved most were teasing you and using terrible puns. Your diligent-pupil new self relied on the dark-skinned girl for blind support in your many reckless decisions 一 the latest being calling Hogwarts’ beloved Head Boy Tom Riddle a two-faced snake.
Atta girl, you thought proudly of your Gryffindor persona. “Its lack of colour was bothering me,” you replied to your friend's remark. You licked your bloody teeth 一the result of biting your tongue when you stumbled from nineteen-something一 while rubbing your forehead exactly where it had hit the bookshelf. Your feet took you back to the table you were sharing with Ursula.
“Red does suit it better,” Ursula said with a smirk. You looked down at the open book before her as she sat down. Quintessence: A Quest. You flipped its pages until you found what you were looking for. Printed in 1943. That meant that the year you had fallen through this time was most likely 1944. “Bored already?”
Your mind raced with memories as you looked up to meet her curious gaze. Your other self has been preoccupied with fear of Tom’s retaliation. Specifically, before you managed to get proof of what you’ve overheard a very drunk Raphael Avery 一one of his supposed friends一 laugh at during a Yule party.
“Watching Greengrass reject you was almost as entertaining as when Riddle got that Ravenclaw girl stunned to death,” he has said, laughing at Morris Mulciber's failed attempt at getting the Head Girl’s attention. His tone was so casual, so devoid of sympathy for a life lost, that you initially believed you had heard him wrong.
Until you listened to Mulciber’s response. “At least Tom still speaks to me. Not like you with that loose mouth, telling Carrow you had helped him find the Chambers and unleash Slytherin’s beast,” he said with a scowl. It didn’t make any sense to your innocent, young brain how he sounded matter-of-factly mentioning something that should be impossible.
The Chamber of Secrets wasn’t real, they caught Hagrid for what happened in fifth year, your student version had told herself. But as the days passed and you observed the behaviour of Riddle’s group closely, all the pieces fell into place. They were a bunch of pureblood elitists with judgmental views towards anyone outside their tight circle. And Tom was truly bright. If anyone could discover a secret room hidden for centuries meant for the Slytherin heir, it was him.
Resentment, disgust, anger, and hatred pulsed through your veins, each second stronger. Your new self has always had a hard time not letting others know her opinion. Hence, the tense moment you experienced recently with the Head Boy.
Slughorn had found you two about to put your wands out. The professor dragged you to his office to discuss your behaviour after Tom had stated that you were responsible for the disturbance 一 which the older wizard obviously believed without hearing a single word from you. Couldn’t have any other adult found you, it had to be Riddle’s biggest fan?
Once in private, your other self explained everything you had discovered 一 that Tom was responsible for Myrtle Warren’s death, that he was Slytherin’s heir, that he had framed poor Hagrid. The Potion’s master stared at you as if you had grown a second head before lecturing you about making false accusations.
Now, almost a week later, you had been playing the perfect student. You forced yourself to forget all you had learned about the Head Boy. After all, no one would ever believe you without proof. And he was too smart to leave any behind 一 other than his friends’ mouths. You felt how frustrated your Gryffindor-seventh-year version was, someone who had never given up on anything before.
“Yes,” you finally answered Ursula. "Shafiq can find someone else to bother with his extra credit readings."
Your friend’s smirk remained painted on her face, knowing that you would probably feel the pressure to please the Charms professor 一your favourite, mind you一 at bedtime tonight. Chances were that by tomorrow morning, you’d managed to finish the rest of the book.
Her dark eyes followed your movements as you packed your things, waving goodbye before you left the library alone. The moon was on its way to light up the night. Your feet walked without a clear direction, stopping in front of the bathroom where Myrtle had died. The door was still locked, out of bounds for all the students at school.
You looked at it a moment longer before continuing down the corridor. Your mind was enjoying the welcome quietness. No Dark Lord to pester you before cursing you to death, you thought while a relief smile emerged on your face. But your muscles felt stiff, as if something was coming 一 something bad.
You probably should have paid more attention to your body’s warning. Unfortunately, you were too glad about your lone, absentminded stroll to even register the sound of something big slithering towards you.
The last thing you saw before the pulling sensation appeared once more was a pair of yellow eyes staring menacingly at you. The darkness was sudden, almost startling you. You wished for a different way of dying, and the asshole had definitely given you that.
Never would you have expected to be killed by a Basilisk under the command of Voldemort.
Summary: You don't know why, but you keep waking up in strange scenarios where you're someone entirely different, and the Dark Lord ends up killing you. Would you be able to break the cycle?
Pairings: tom x f!reader (surname Gross)
Words: 2.3k
Warnings: dying again and again, but it's nothing graphic
Author's note: First original fic of mine, hehehe. I don't know how long it will be, so we'll simply see. It will be kind of a slow burn, especially since, at the beginning, the asshole does nothing but kill you.
The last thing you remembered before the world seemed to reassemble itself was a flash of green light doubling back towards its caster. The next time you blinked, you were no longer in the chaos of the Battle of Hogwarts, but standing in a dimly lit, ornate chamber you had no recollection of ever seeing before.
The stone walls were lined with shelves containing ancient-looking tomes and peculiar artefacts. A large, intricately carved desk dominated the centre of the room, and behind it sat a figure you recognised instantly 一 those same piercing red eyes and snake-like features were hard to forget.
Lord Voldemort regarded you with a calculating expression. "You seem disoriented," he said, his voice a soft hiss that filled the quiet room. "Perhaps the strain of our recent endeavours has affected you more than anticipated."
Memories that you had never experienced came in a rush, one after the other. You were an advisor to the Dark Lord, apparently. Which didn’t make any sense to you, given how seconds ago you were fighting against his followers with everything you’ve got.
You took a steadying breath, pushing down the confusion. Play along, you told yourself. Figure this out.
"I'm fine, my lord," you replied, keeping your voice even. "Just a momentary lapse."
His thin lips curved into something that might have been a smile. You found the sight extremely disturbing. This was the monster you wished nothing but pain for after he murdered your parents a year ago, once they decided to remain neutral in the war.
"Good. I have been considering our next move against Dumbledore. The old fool grows more troublesome by the day. I believe the time has come for more direct action." He leaned forward, his fingers steepled. "I intend to eliminate him personally. The plan is nearly complete."
What year is it? You thought to yourself in confusion as to how Dumbledore could possibly be alive. You were tempted to pinch yourself to check if you were dreaming, for how mad the situation felt. But You-Know-Who’s crimson eyes stopped you from acting childish.
"My lord, perhaps we should reconsider this approach," you said, choosing your words with care. Inside your mind, fought the resentful and bitter side, the one who has signed up to put a stop to his dark regime, with the collected and loyal advisor this strange version of yourself appeared to be.
The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Reconsider? Explain."
You straightened your posture, meeting his gaze. "Dumbledore is not just a powerful wizard 一he's a symbol. Killing him would make him a martyr, uniting our enemies rather than dividing them. There may be more strategic ways to undermine his influence without making him a legend."
The room seemed to grow colder. Voldemort rose from his chair, his movements fluid and predatory as he circled the desk. "You speak as though you doubt my ability to handle the consequences," he said softly, the threat in his voice unmistakable. "Or perhaps you doubt my judgment altogether."
His gaze remained fixed on you, his expression frozen inhumanely. He used your full name with deliberate precision, managing to intimidate you a little. Or a lot. "You have always been one of my more thoughtful advisors. But sentiment has no place in our cause."
You were quick to answer, your mind still running circles around the oddity of what was happening. "My lord, I only wish to ensure our victory. There could be other ways to achieve the same result with less risk."
A cold smile touched his lips again. You noticed he was getting agitated by your constant questioning. "Risk? There is no risk when one possesses true power. Only opportunity." The Dark Lord’s gaze lingered on you a moment too long. "You seem... different today. More hesitant than usual. Is there something troubling you?"
You could feel the weight of his suspicion, a tangible force in the room. "I'm just considering the magnitude of what's to come," you said, keeping your voice measured. The truth was far more complicated 一 you were considering how you'd somehow travelled back in time, how you were standing before Lord Voldemort himself as his advisor, and how you were about to witness the murder of Albus Dumbledore all over again.
He studied you for a long moment. His expression was closed off, which irritated you since it made reading his body language impossible. Have you said the wrong thing? You wondered, your loyal-advisor new persona panicking at the thought of disappointing your master.
"Magnitude," he repeated softly, the word hanging between you like a spell waiting to be cast. "Yes. Tomorrow night will change everything. The wizarding world will finally understand that the old order is dead."
He turned away, his attention returning to the window. He was clearly dismissing you. Unfortunately for you, your hate-Voldemort’s-gut persona pushed you to question him once more. You weren’t sure what it was you were trying to achieve, maybe you wanted to see how he'd react to your impertinence. “What should we do if Dumbledore has prepared countermeasures?"
The Dark Lord turned slowly, his expression shifting from contemplation to something darker. Congratulations to yourself for pissing off the most dangerous wizard alive, you thought.
"Countermeasures?" he repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Do you believe I have overlooked such possibilities?"
You felt the temperature in the room drop several degrees. "No, my lord. I only meant一"
"I know exactly what you meant," he interrupted, taking a step toward you. "You question my planning. You doubt my supremacy. First hesitation, now this." His wand appeared in his hand, though you hadn't seen him reach for it. "I warned you when you first joined me about betrayal, Gross."
You opened your mouth to protest, to explain, but the words died in your throat as he raised his wand. You were going to meet your end at the hand of the man responsible for the extinction of the Gross family. You only wished you could have figured out how you ended up in this alternative reality before your death.
"Avada Kedavra."
The green light filled your vision, beautiful and terrible. Just as darkness engulfed you, you recalled seeing the same light before appearing in this room. You expected nothingness, or maybe seeing your parents smiling at you. Instead, you felt a sudden, violent pulling sensation 一like being yanked through a too-small tube一 and then you were stumbling forward onto damp grass, gasping for air.
The first thing you observed was the graves surrounding you. The second was your clothes, Hogwarts’ uniform. The third and more surprising was a boyish Harry Potter lying beside you, holding a cup that looked suspiciously like the Triwizard Tournament one he won in 1995.
The memories of this different version of yourself rushed quicker than last time, but they were easier to understand. You were the selected Champion for Hogwarts, not Cedric Diggory. Again, it made no bloody sense with your original memories. This time, you would have pinched yourself had you not noticed the outline of a large cauldron, and a hunched figure approaching 一 Peter Pettigrew, his wand pointed directly at you.
"Kill the spare," a high, cold voice commanded from the shadows.
You dove to the side instinctively, your body moving as Pettigrew's wand flashed. The Killing Curse missed you by inches, striking the tombstone behind you with a shower of sparks. The smell of singed dust filled the air as you scrambled behind the cold granite, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"Harry, get down!" you shouted, peering around the edge of the stone. Thankfully, Harry had already taken cover behind another grave marker, his face pale in the moonlight.
Your mind was racing, trying to adapt to your fairly new surroundings and persona. How on Merlin’s name were you present at the rebirth of the Dark Lord? You thought with a mix of dread and confusion. From your hiding spot, you could see Pettigrew advancing, his wand raised. The high, cold voice spoke again from the darkness near the cauldron. "Do not fail me, Wormtail. Kill them both."
Pettigrew's hand trembled, but he took another step forward. "I won't, my lord," he whimpered, though the fear in his voice was palpable.
You had mere seconds to decide your next move. The Triwizard Cup lay on the ground about ten feet away, glinting in the moonlight. Pettigrew was between you and it, and beyond him, you could just make out the infant-like form of Voldemort waiting to be restored.
Your brave-Champion new version didn’t flinch before shoving Harry hard toward the Triwizard Cup, sending him stumbling forward. "Go!" you shouted, spinning around to face Pettigrew just as the green light erupted from his wand.
Time seemed to slow. You raised your own wand, not to cast a spell 一there wasn't time一 but as a futile gesture of defiance. The Killing Curse struck you square in the chest, and for the third time that day, the world dissolved into green light and darkness. The pulling sensation came back stronger than before, yanking you forward once more.
But this time, a pair of chains bitting your wrists stopped you from tumbling down. You felt weak, battered. It took you a second to understand why, when you looked up and registered you were in a dirty, smelly dungeon, a shadow standing close by. Your body ached all over, and your mouth tasted like blood.
It took you over a minute to focus your vision enough to see the silhouette of your captor. Although turned, it was impossible not to guess who the person was. Am I seriously going to have to face this bastard again? you thought, too exhausted in this new reality.
"Tell me where the Potters are hiding," Lord Voldemort said, his voice soft but carrying through the chamber like a knife. "The Order has been broken. Your resistance is pointless."
You blinked, trying to clear your head. The Potters… was he looking for Harry’s parents? you wondered. You didn’t have to guess much; the memories of this version rushing through even quicker. You were a part of the Order of the Phoenix, the resistance against the Dark Lord’s regime. It must have been 1980, at least.
"You'll die when you find them," you said, your voice raspy from whatever torture you’d already endured. The words came out more as a statement of fact than a threat; after all, it was true. Your body’s exhaustion was making you say things as they were, finding no need for embellishment. Not that you’d give him that after killing you twice by now.
Voldemort's expression didn't change, but a cold amusement flickered in his crimson eyes. You wished you weren’t bound so you could slap the entertainment out of him. He took a step closer, his wand tapping lightly against his palm. "Is that a prophecy, Gross? Or merely wishful thinking?"
You met his gaze, refusing to look away. You had no issue with this fearless-and-venomous new version of yourself. She was probably your favourite so far. "It's what happens."
"Interesting." He circled you slowly, the hem of his dark robes brushing against the stone floor. "You seem quite certain of this outcome. Almost as if you have witnessed it yourself."
You let out a scoff. Merlin, how delightful it would have been to be present at his death, you thought. But you were robbed of the sight at the Battle of Hogwarts, and sadly, you weren’t getting out of this cell alive to see him die at the hands of an infant.
"Tell me," the Dark Lord continued, stopping directly in front of you. "If I'm destined to die when I find the Potters, why would you warn me? Unless this is some pathetic attempt at taunting."
Was it a warning? you wondered. You only mentioned it to get the conversation over as quickly as possible. Though it satisfied you that he believed you were playing with him, wasting his precious time. "I'm just stating a fact," you simply answered. "When you find them一"
"When I find them, I will kill them," You-Know-Who interrupted, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And their child. And anyone who stands in my way."
You barely had the strength to be having this pointless conversation, so you didn’t dignify his presumptuous comment with a response. He didn’t want to accept your words? He could very well die tonight for all you cared. You closed your eyes, hoping this was the end of your chat.
But he had other plans. He kicked your chair, startling you enough to curse at him aloud. Voldemort smile at your reaction, finding your defensiveness fun.
"I will play along, Gross. What happens after I die?" he said the word ‘die’ as if the concept was foreign to him.
He has rightfully pissed you off by now, the tiredness you felt forgotten to spite him. "You become less than a ghost, and everybody moved on as if you never existed." Your taunting phrase snapped his controlled amusement. In less than a second, his hand wrapped around your throat tightly. How Muggle of him, you thought.
"You think this little performance will get you anywhere? You believe that by predicting my downfall, you can somehow... what? Frighten me into sparing your life?"
His grip disappeared a second before your vision turned completely black. You watched him as you breathed heavily, the chains around your wrists clinking softly when you tried to touch your surely bruised neck. "If I were trying to frighten you, I’d simply hold a mirror to your face,” you say. "You’re one ugly piece of shit."
You didn’t expect how vain the Dark Lord was, for the next thing you felt was the now familiar darkness enveloping you. You recalled the flash of green light, a particular shade you were beginning to find almost as hideous as Voldemort’s noseless face. You hoped the upcoming scenario you fell through had at least a better setting.
Summary: You have always been close with Bill Weasley, sharing your love for Ancient Runes. After a freak accident that makes you live inside his ex-girlfriend's head for a day, your very friendly feelings for Bill take an unexpected turn.
Pairings: hogwarts!bill x f!reader (surname Vasile)
Words: 3.0k
Warnings: none
Author's note: More distractions coming your way! Reminder that this was mostly created with GlimmerFics AI.
The next afternoon finds you knocking on the door to Bill’s private Head Boy room, a stack of books balanced precariously in your arms. He opens the door, already grinning. “Ready to be academically distracted?”
You step inside, taking in the surprisingly tidy room. The Head Boy's quarters are larger than a standard dormitory, with a proper desk piled with books, a comfortable-looking armchair by the fireplace, and a window overlooking the Quidditch pitch. What surprises you most is the order 一 everything has its place, from the neatly stacked parchment to the quills arranged by size in a holder.
“Expecting a mess?” Bill asks, closing the door behind you.
“A bit,” you admit, setting your books on the edge of his desk. “You're not exactly known for your organisational skills in the library.”
“That's because the library is chaos,” he says, pulling out the chair at his desk for you. “This is my space. I like it organised.”
You sit, opening your Ancient Runes textbook. For the next hour, you work in comfortable silence, broken only by the scratch of quills and the occasional question. Bill's focus is intense when he's studying, his brow furrowed as he traces hieroglyphs with his finger.
Then, without warning, he pushes his chair back and stands. “Break time.”
Before you can protest, he pulls his jumper over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it onto the armchair. He's wearing a simple white t-shirt underneath, but the action is so casual, so deliberate, that you freeze, quill hovering above your parchment.
“Distracted yet?” he asks, leaning against the edge of the desk with that infuriating grin. He’s looking almost edible, you think to yourself.
“A little,” you say, trying to sound annoyed, but the effect is ruined by the way your eyes keep drifting back to him.
Bill's grin widens. “So it’s working?”
You huff noncommittally, turning a page in your textbook with more force than necessary. Sadly, your wandering eyes betray you. “Ancient Runes are far more interesting than your... anatomy.”
“Liar,” he says softly, and when you glance up, his expression has shifted. The playful teasing is still there, but there's something else beneath it 一 something earnest. Truly, it’s unfair how he makes my mind scramble with just one look, you think. “Distracted enough to go on a date with me?”
The question hangs in the air between you. Your heart does a funny little flip. “A date?”
“A proper one,” he clarifies, pushing off the desk to stand properly. “Hogsmeade. This weekend. No textbooks, no translations, just us.”
You swallow, your earlier bravado evaporating. “Yes,” you hear yourself say, the word barely a whisper.
Bill's face lights up, and he reaches for his jumper, pulling it back on. As he does, you add, “That was playing dirty, you know.”
“All's fair,” he replies, his eyes sparkling. “Now, back to studying. We've got a date to prepare for.”
When Saturday arrives, you find yourself strangely calm with the novel situation. “Nervous?” you ask Bill as you walk down the winding path toward Hogsmeade, the crisp March air turning your breath to mist.
Bill glances at you, his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. “Should I be?”
“You're the one who suggested a proper date,” you point out, nudging him with your elbow. “Madam Puddifoot's and everything. That's serious business.”
He laughs, the sound carrying in the quiet morning. “I've faced the twins' pranks breaking my mother’s favourite teacup, Silly. I think I can handle tea and scones.”
The village comes into view, its thatched roofs dusted with early frost. As you approach the main street, you notice other couples heading in the same direction 一 mostly younger students, holding hands and looking pink-cheeked with excitement.
Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop is exactly as you remember from the one time Katherine dragged you there, needing back-up before her first date with Brennan: frilly, pink, and overwhelmingly sweet-smelling. Tiny tables are crammed close together, each adorned with lace doilies and floating cherubs that occasionally drip glitter onto unsuspecting patrons.
Bill holds the door open for you, and you're immediately enveloped in warmth and the scent of baking. “Table for two?” Madam Puddifoot herself asks, beaming at you both.
You lean closer, lowering your voice. “Are the cherubs always this... sparkly?”
Bill follows your gaze upward, where one of the floating figures is shedding a steady stream of gold glitter onto an unsuspecting third-year's scone. “I think it's part of the charm,” he murmurs back, his breath warm against your ear.
Madam Puddifoot seats you at a tiny table in the corner, barely large enough for two teacups. You squeeze into the booth, knees bumping against Bill's under the table. The menu is written in looping cursive on pink parchment, offering things like ’Love Potion #9 Tea’ and ‘Cupid's Arrow Crumpets.’
“What looks good?” Bill asks, his eyes scanning the options with academic seriousness, as if he's deciphering another Ancient Runes text.
“Anything that doesn't come with glitter,” you say, brushing a stray speck from your sleeve.
He orders for both of you 一a sensible Earl Grey and a plate of plain scones一 and when Madam Puddifoot bustles away, he leans forward, elbows on the table. “So,” he says, his voice dropping to that warm, intimate tone that makes your stomach flutter. “No talk of runes or other interesting symbols. Just us. How's that sound?”
“Perfect,” you say, smiling across the tiny table. The word feels inadequate for the warmth spreading through your chest, but Bill's answering smile suggests he understands.
The tea arrives in delicate china cups, and for a while, you simply exist in the comfortable silence that's always characterised your friendship. Only now, there's a new layer to it 一 the awareness of his knee pressed against yours under the table, the way his eyes linger on you when he thinks you're not looking.
“You know,” Bill says eventually, stirring a spoonful of sugar into his tea, “I've been thinking about what you said. About Emily.”
You tense slightly, but he continues before you can speak.
“I realised something,” he says, meeting your gaze. “When you were in the Hospital Wing, and I didn't know if you'd wake up... I wasn't worried about Ancient Runes translations or curse-breaking internships. I was just worried about you. About losing my best friend. Especially without getting to tell you how important you are to me.”
The confession hangs between you, more intimate than any touch. Outside the window, Hogsmeade bustles with weekend activity, but in your little corner of the tea shop, the world has narrowed to just the two of you.
Your hand moves before you can second-guess it, reaching across the tiny table to cover his. His fingers are warm, calloused from when he used to play Quidditch (before he dropped it to become Head Boy) and wandwork, and they curl around yours without hesitation.
Bill's smile softens, his thumb tracing a gentle circle over your knuckles. “You're important to me, too. More than I realised until…” You say, your voice barely above a whisper.
The floating cherub above your table chooses that moment to shed an extra-large cloud of glitter, which rains down on Bill's shoulder like golden snow. He glances up, then back at you, and you both burst into laughter 一 the tension breaking like a spell.
“Right,” he says, brushing glitter from his coat. “I think we've had enough romance for one afternoon. Honeydukes?”
“Honeydukes,” you agree, reluctantly pulling your hand back. “Baako will murder me if I don't bring back sugar quills.”
You don’t stop to think about it before blurting, “Race you to the Chocolate Frogs.” You’re already stepping ahead onto the cobblestone street.
Bill's laughter follows you as you weave through the crowd of Hogsmeade visitors. “Cheating!” he calls, but you hear his footsteps quickening behind you.
You reach Honeydukes first, pushing through the door into the warm, sugar-scented chaos of the shop. Bill arrives a moment later, slightly breathless, his cheeks flushed from the cold and the run.
“Beginner's luck,” he teases, bumping your shoulder as you both catch your breath.
The shop is packed with students, all clamouring for sweets before the return to Hogwarts. You make your way to the Chocolate Frogs display, where the animated cards flutter against their boxes. Bill picks up two, examining them with the same focus he gives to ancient texts.
“Who do you think we'll get?” he asks, holding one up to the light as if he could see through the packaging.
“Merlin, hopefully,” you say, grabbing a handful of sugar quills for Baako. “Or maybe Morgana. I'm still missing her card.”
You go to the counter to buy the Chocolate Frogs and suggest opening them on the walk back. Bill adds a bag of Every Flavour Beans for his brothers and pays for it all, ignoring your protests about splitting the cost.
“Consider it part of the date,” he says, tucking the sweets into his coat pocket.
The walk back to Hogwarts is quieter than the race down, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the path. Once you're clear of the village, you tear open your Chocolate Frog box. The frog gives one half-hearted leap before going still in your palm.
You flip the card. “Dumbledore,” you say, showing him the twinkle-eyed wizard. “Figures.”
“Bridget Wenlock,” Bill announces, holding up his card. “Arithmancy. Appropriate.”
You pocket the cards, the chocolate already melting slightly from your body heat. For a while, you walk in comfortable silence, the only sounds your footsteps on the path and the distant chatter of other returning students. You have a feeling this is the beginning of something much larger than either of you anticipated.
The following week, your private study sessions in Bill's Head Boy room carry a new, electric charge. You're both dancing around something neither of you has named 一 flirting over textbooks, sharing smiles that last a beat too long, but never crossing that final line.
One afternoon, as Bill explains a particularly complex rune sequence, you decide enough is enough. You stand, and before he can ask what you're doing, you pull your jumper over your head, leaving you in just your 一purposely tiny and tight一 school shirt.
Bill's explanation trails off mid-sentence. His quill drops to the parchment, forgotten.
“Distracted enough to kiss me?” you ask, your voice softer than you intended.
Bill doesn't hesitate. “Yes,” he breathes, already leaning across the desk.
His hands come up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones. The kiss is gentle at first 一 a question, a confirmation. Then it deepens, and you feel the warmth of his palms against your skin, the careful way he keeps his touch to your face, not letting his hands wander to your exposed waist as the shirt lifts from the movement.
When you break apart, you're both breathing a little faster. You pull your jumper back on, the wool scratchy against your skin, then lean in again. This time, Bill meets you halfway, his hands sliding from your cheeks to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair.
Before you can deepen the kiss further, his hands move to your now-covered waist. In one smooth motion, he lifts you 一you gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance一 and sets you on his lap in the armchair. The position brings you eye-level with him, your legs straddling his.
“Better?” he murmurs, his hands settling on your hips.
“Much better,” you whisper against his lips, feeling the curve of his smile before he kisses you again.
This kiss is different 一 less tentative, more certain. His hands slide from your hips to your back, pulling you closer until there's no space between you. You can feel the solid warmth of his chest through your jumper, the steady beat of his heart against yours.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathless. Bill rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. “I've wanted to do that for a long time,” he admits, his voice rough.
“How long?” you ask, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
“Since you corrected my translation of the Eye of Horus in sixth year,” he says, opening his eyes. They're bright with amusement and something warmer. “You were so smug about it.”
You laugh, the sound muffled against his shoulder as you bury your face there. “I was right.”
“You were,” he agrees, his hands moving in slow circles on your back. “And you looked so pleased with yourself. I thought, 'I want to kiss that smug look right off her face.'”
You kiss him again, deeper this time, your hands sliding into his hair. His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer until you can feel every breath he takes. The world narrows to the warmth of his mouth, the scent of parchment and cinnamon that clings to him, the solid strength of his body beneath yours.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathing heavily. Bill's eyes are dark, his lips slightly swollen. You rest your forehead against his, trying to calm your wild heart.
The afternoon light has shifted, casting long golden beams across the room. You know you should probably leave before someone comes looking for either of you, but the thought of moving from this spot 一from the warmth of his lap, the solid comfort of his arms一 feels impossible.
The weeks passed in a blur of study sessions, stolen kisses, and the growing certainty that what you and Bill had built was something real. Then, one crisp morning in late May, an owl tapped at the Ravenclaw common room window with a thick envelope bearing the Gringotts seal.
Your hands trembled slightly as you broke the wax. The confirmation letter for the curse-breaker internship in Egypt was even more official than you'd imagined. Without hesitation, you grabbed your things and headed straight for Bill's room.
You haven’t mentioned anything to him before this moment, not wanting to jinx it. You couldn’t wait to see his face when you told him the exciting news.
You burst into Bill's room without knocking, the letter clutched in your hand. “William!” You call him by his full name to grab his attention fully.
He's at his desk, surrounded by scrolls and textbooks, and he jumps at your sudden entrance. “Silly? What's一”
“I got it!” You wave the parchment, your excitement making you bounce on your toes. You’re so enthusiastic that you don’t care to explain properly. “The internship! Gringotts, Egypt, curse-breaking 一it's official!”
Bill's face breaks into a wide grin. He stands, pushing his chair back. “That's brilliant! Let me see.”
You hand him the letter, watching as his eyes scan the formal Gringotts script. His expression shifts from pleased to something more complicated 一 surprise, then realization, then a slow, dawning delight.
“Vasile,” he says, his voice soft. You are instantly focused, not used to him not using your nickname. He looks up from the parchment, his eyes meeting yours. “This is... incredible.”
“I know!” You're feeling electrified. “Can you believe it? All those hours studying runes, all those translations一”
“No, I mean…” He trails off, then walks to his bedside table and opens the drawer. He pulls out an identical envelope, the Gringotts seal unbroken. “I got mine this morning too.”
For a moment, you just stare at the matching parchment in his hand. Then the reality hits you 一 you're both going. Together.
You throw your arms around him in a hug, the letters crinkling between you. Bill's arms come around you immediately, holding you tight, and you can feel the laughter vibrating through his chest.
“We're going to Egypt together,” he says into your hair, his voice full of wonder.
You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still on his shoulders. “This is surreal. All that studying一”
“Paid off,” he finishes, his grin matching yours. “Literally. They're paying us.”
The practical implications start tumbling out of him, his mind already racing ahead. “We should look for a flat in Cairo. Somewhere near the Gringotts branch. And we'll need to brush up on modern Egyptian Arabic, not just the ancient dialects. And the climate一”
“Bill,” you interrupt, laughing. “We haven't even graduated yet. We still need to get the right grades in our N.E.W.T.s.”
“I know, I know.” He shakes his head, but his eyes are bright with excitement. “It's just... this is everything we've been working toward. And we’re doing it together.”
The afternoon sun slants through the window, catching the dust motes dancing in the air. You look at him 一his freckled face, his red hair tied back, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles一 and something warm and certain settles in your chest.
“We should celebrate properly,” you suggest, a seductive smile playing on your lips.
Bill blinks, pulled from his planning. “Celebrate? Right. Of course.” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it slightly mussed. “We could go to Hogsmeade again, or一”
“Or,” you interrupt gently, “we could celebrate right here.”
You reach for the hem of your jumper and your shirt beneath it, pulling them up and over your head in one smooth motion. The cool air of the room raises goosebumps on your arms, but Bill's gaze is warm enough to chase them away.
He goes very still, his eyes tracking the movement. “Silly,” he says, his voice dropping.
“Distracted enough to snog?” you ask, your heart beating a little faster.
Bill's answer is immediate. He closes the distance between you, his hands coming to rest on your waist, his thumbs brushing the bare skin above your trousers. “Yes,” he murmurs, just before his mouth finds yours.
The kiss is a celebration in itself 一 slow and deep, full of the promise of everything to come. When you finally break apart, breathless and smiling, Bill rests his forehead against yours, his hands still warm on your waist.
“Egypt,” he murmurs, as if the word itself is a spell.
“Egypt,” you agree.
And for a long while, there in the quiet of his room with the late autumn light fading outside, you don’t talk about flats or languages or logistics. You just exist in the certainty of it 一 the hieroglyphs you’ll decipher together, the tombs you’ll explore, the future you’ll build, side by side.
Summary: You have always been close with Bill Weasley, sharing your love for Ancient Runes. After a freak accident that makes you live inside his ex-girlfriend's head for a day, your very friendly feelings for Bill take an unexpected turn.
Pairings: hogwarts!bill x f!reader (surname Vasile)
Words: 6.6k
Warnings: bill's ex is a very unlikable
Author's note: This was the sixth and last fic of the survey (personally, my favourite one). I have finally managed to start an original fic of mine for Tom (clearly my weakness), so I'll post the first chapter before the other AI fics that I had planned.
Author's note for all Fics: I love writing (although I never post anything because I lose interest in whatever fic I write soon), but I have 0 time now to do it. So, the other day, I found Glimmer Fics, an AI you can feed your ideas to and play as if you were the main character. I created some scenarios in the Harry Potter universe that the AI created beautifully, and I thought I should share some.
The morning sun filtered through the arched windows of the Ravenclaw common room, casting diamond-shaped patterns across the plush blue carpet. You were curled in your favourite armchair by the fireplace, a thick tome on Advanced Arithmancy balanced on your knees. The gentle hum of conversation from other early risers provided a pleasant background noise as you tried to work through a particularly tricky equation.
Katherine Penrose flopped onto the sofa opposite you, her dark hair spilling over the cushions. “You're studying on a Saturday morning? Honestly, you're going to give the rest of us a complex.”
“Someone has to maintain Ravenclaw's reputation for intellectual curiosity,” you said without looking up, a smile playing on your lips. “Besides, this is more interesting than whatever you and Brennan have planned.”
“Breakfast,” she said simply. “And then maybe a walk by the lake if it doesn't rain. You should come with us.”
You finally glanced up, marking your place in the book with a finger. “Tempting, but I promised Bill I'd help him with that translation for his Ancient Runes project.”
Katherine rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Silly,” she began saying, using the nickname your friend Baako gave you in first year after not remembering your surname properly. “You're going to be the death of me with your dedication. At least come to breakfast first? Bill can wait an hour.”
You closed the arithmancy book with a soft thump. “Fine, but only because I'm starving. Brennan meeting us there?”
“He better be,” Katherine said, standing and smoothing her robes. “Or I'll hex him into next week.”
The Great Hall buzzed with the usual Saturday morning energy. Students from all houses mingled more freely on weekends, and the enchanted ceiling showed a clear blue sky with fluffy white clouds. You slid onto the bench beside Katherine, reaching for the toast as Brennan Doyle and appeared, looking slightly rumpled but cheerful.
“Morning, Silly,” he said, dropping onto the bench opposite you. “Baako said she saw you earlier, buried in books again.”
“Like I told your girlfriend,” you replied, spreading marmalade on your toast and sharing a look with Katherine. “Someone has to keep our house points up. Unlike some people who apparently enjoy sleeping through breakfast.”
Brennan grinned, stealing a piece of bacon from Katherine's plate. “I was up late working on that Charms essay. Professor Flitwick wants three feet on the practical applications of the Levitation Charm in curse-breaking scenarios.”
“Sounds like something Bill would love,” you mused, glancing toward the Gryffindor table where you could see the distinctive red hair of the Weasley clan. Bill was deep in conversation with his brother Charlie, gesturing animatedly about something.
You finished your toast and stood up. “I'm going to go talk to Bill about that translation. Save me a spot in the library if I'm not back in an hour.”
Katherine waved you off with a smile. “Don't let him talk your ear off about interhouse unity again!”
Weaving through the crowded Great Hall, you approached the Gryffindor table. Bill looked up as you approached, his face breaking into a warm smile. “Silly! Perfect timing. I was just telling Charlie about the translation issues I'm having with this text.”
Charlie Weasley, already looking like he'd been up since dawn caring for creatures, gave you a friendly nod. “Morning, Vasile. Bill's trying to convince me there's a connection between dragon scales and curse-breaking wards.”
“There might be!” Bill protested, pushing a plate of scrambled eggs toward you in invitation. “But more importantly, I need your help with this symbol.” He pulled a piece of parchment from his bag, covered in careful drawings of ancient runes.
You slid onto the bench beside him, examining the parchment. “That's usually protective magic, not curse-related.”
“Exactly!” Bill's eyes lit up with excitement. “But in this context, combined with these other symbols…” He launched into an explanation, his hands moving animatedly as he traced connections between the symbols.
You leaned closer to the parchment, your hair falling forward as you studied the intricate symbols. “Bill, look at the orientation,” you said, pointing to a detail he'd missed. “When it's facing left like this in combination with this symbol, it's not just protection 一it's specifically protection from something. Like a warning against a particular type of curse.”
Bill's eyebrows shot up. “You're right! I was reading it as general ward magic, but if it's warning against something specific…” He grabbed a quill from his bag and began scribbling notes in the margin. “This changes everything about how I was interpreting the rest of the text.”
Charlie chuckled, shaking his head. “You two are going to give me a headache before I've even finished my tea.” He stood up, clapping Bill on the shoulder. "I'm off to the grounds. Hagrid said he might have some new creatures to show me. Good luck with your drawings."
As Charlie left, you and Bill fell into a comfortable discussion about the translation, your heads bent close together over the parchment. The morning sunlight streamed through the windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air. For a moment, everything felt perfectly normal 一 just another Saturday at Hogwarts between friends who shared a passion for unravelling magical mysteries.
Suddenly, raised voices echoed from the Entrance Hall, cutting through the Great Hall's chatter. You glanced up to see a small crowd gathering near the doors. Curious, you pushed back from the table. “I'll be right back, Bill. Let me see what's going on.”
“Be careful,” Bill called after you, though he was already absorbed in the runes again.
The Entrance Hall was crowded with students forming a loose circle around two figures. You recognised them immediately: the Slytherin Quidditch captain, and Eckbert Qanat, a Gryffindor prefect. Their faces were flushed with anger, wands half-drawn as they shouted at each other.
“You think you can just take the pitch whenever you want?” snarled the first of the two, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
“We booked it fair and square!” Qanat shot back. “Check the schedule if you don't believe me!”
Standing between them, looking exasperated, was Emily Tyler. As Head Girl, she had her hands raised in a placating gesture. “Both of you, stop this nonsense. There are first-years watching.”
Her voice carried the particular brand of condescension you'd always found irritating 一 as if she were scolding misbehaving children rather than fellow seventh-years. She adjusted her perfect blonde hair, a gesture that seemed more about maintaining her appearance than actually defusing the situation.
“Back off, Tyler,” the Slytherin boy growled, not taking his eyes off Qanat. “This doesn't concern you.”
“It concerns me when you're about to start duelling in the Entrance Hall,” Emily snapped. She raised her wand, not at either boy, but toward the ceiling. “I'm warning you both一”
The spell she fired was meant as a dramatic warning shot, a shower of harmless sparks. But her aim was off, or perhaps Qanat moved at the wrong moment. The jet of light struck a suit of armour standing against the wall 一 right beside where you were standing.
The heavy metal armour wobbled, teetered for a terrible second, then toppled directly toward you. The last thing you saw was the metal helmet rushing toward your face, then darkness swallowed everything.
You wake to the sensation of silk sheets against skin that isn't yours. Sunlight filters through unfamiliar curtains, illuminating a room decorated in tasteful shades of cream and gold. For a disorienting moment, you try to move your arms, but nothing happens. Then you realise 一 you're not in control. You're watching through someone else's eyes as they blink awake.
Emily Tyler stretches languidly in her Head Girl private room, her thoughts drifting lazily through her mind like morning fog. Another day of dealing with idiots, she thinks, the words forming in a voice that's hers but somehow audible to you. At least the weather looks decent.
So this is what the Head Girl gets, you think from your trapped position inside Emily's consciousness. The room is larger than your Ravenclaw dormitory, with its own fireplace, a proper desk instead of just a bedside table, and what looks like an actual wardrobe rather than a school trunk. The silk sheets feel ridiculously expensive against skin that isn't yours.
Emily swings her legs out of bed, her thoughts turning to her schedule. Breakfast, then rounds with Bill, she muses, a flicker of irritation crossing her mind. He's been so preoccupied lately. Probably worrying about that Ravenclaw girl who got hurt yesterday.
You feel a jolt at the mention of yourself. I got hurt? you think frantically. What happened? Am I in the Hospital Wing?
But Emily's attention has already moved on. She walks to the mirror, examining her reflection with the critical eye of someone who knows exactly how attractive she is. Need to look perfect today, she thinks, running fingers through her blonde hair. Bill needs to remember what he's missing.
The vanity is covered in more beauty potions than you've ever seen in one place 一 Shimmering Serums, Sleekeazy's Hair Potion, even a small jar of something labelled Youth Dew that costs more than your textbooks for the year. Emily selects a few, applying them with practised efficiency.
At least the commoners will be impressed, she thinks smugly as she begins to dress. They always are.
Emily makes her way to the Great Hall, her heels clicking on the stone floor with a confidence that feels alien through your borrowed senses. She joins her best friend, Hyacinth Auden, another condescending Gryffindor girl.
“Emily, darling, you look stunning,” Auden purrs, sipping her tea with perfect posture. “That new Sleekeazy's formula?”
“Obviously,” Emily says, sliding onto the bench. “The old one made my hair too shiny. It looked common.”
You watch through her eyes as she surveys the Great Hall, her thoughts a running commentary on everyone she sees. There's that Hufflepuff prefect with the terrible posture. And the Gryffindor girl who always wears those hideous hand-me-down robes. Honestly, some people have no self-respect.
“Did you hear about that Ravenclaw who got knocked out yesterday?” Hyacinth asks, leaning forward conspiratorially.
Emily waves a dismissive hand. “That ‘Silly’ girl. Half-blood, I think. She was always hanging around Bill, helping him with his little projects.” There's a possessive edge to her thoughts when Bill's name comes up. He used to be so focused on me. Now he's distracted by ancient texts and that girl's 'brilliant insights.'
You feel a surge of indignation. ‘Little projects’? Bill's curse-breaking research is important!
But Emily's already moved on, complaining about how the house-elves have been under-seasoning the eggs lately. Her friend nods along, adding her own petty grievances about the quality of the pumpkin juice and the thickness of the toast.
It's all an act, you realise as you watch through Emily's eyes. The way she pauses at the entrance to the Great Hall, turning just enough to catch the light on her hair. The carefully measured smile she gives a group of first-years who stare at her with awe. Even the way she walks 一back straight, chin lifted, steps measured一 feels rehearsed, like she's been practising this role since she was old enough to understand that beauty and status could be weapons.
She passes a Hufflepuff boy who drops his books, and her thoughts flash with irritation. Clumsy oaf. But her face shows only polite concern as she helps him gather his things. “Do be more careful,” she says, her voice sweet but with an edge that makes the boy flush.
He'll remember this, she thinks as she continues down the corridor. He'll tell their friends how kind the Head Girl was.
Every interaction is calculated. Every expression is chosen for its effect. You wonder if there's anything real left underneath the performance, or if Emily Tyler disappeared years ago, replaced by this perfectly crafted persona.
She reaches the staircase that leads to the Head Boy's quarters, and her thoughts shift. Time to see if Bill remembers what he's been missing.
Please don't fall for it, Bill, you think desperately as Emily approaches the entrance to the Head Boy's quarters. You're smarter than this. You have to see through her.
She knocks with three precise taps, then adjusts her expression into something warm but slightly aloof 一 the perfect balance of approachable and unattainable. The door opens, and there he is.
Bill looks tired, with dark circles under his eyes that make your heart ache. His red hair is messier than usual, as if he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. “Emily,” he says, his voice flat. “Ready for rounds?”
He looks terrible, Emily thinks with a flicker of annoyance. He should have made more of an effort.
“Billy, you look exhausted,” she says aloud, her voice dripping with concern that feels completely manufactured to you. She used the nickname she gave him when they first started dating. “Are you worrying about that Ravenclaw girl again?”
Bill's expression tightens. “Vasile's in the hospital wing with a concussion, Emily. Of course I'm worried.”
There it is again, Emily thinks. Always worrying about someone else. But she keeps her face sympathetic. “I'm sure she'll be fine. Madam Pomfrey is excellent.”
As they begin their rounds, walking side by side through the corridors, you're forced to watch Emily's internal monologue. Every time Bill mentions checking on a first-year or making sure a corridor is clear, she thinks about how he used to be so focused on her. Every time he looks distracted, she assumes it's about you, and resentment simmers beneath her carefully composed exterior.
As they walk past the trophy room, Emily's gaze lingers on Bill's profile, and a memory surfaces in her mind with startling clarity 一 Bill after Quidditch practice, shirtless and laughing as he towelled off his hair. Water droplets traced paths down his freckled shoulders and chest, catching the late afternoon light. He'd been lean but surprisingly defined, the muscles of his arms and abdomen visible in a way you'd never noticed before.
He was so fit back then, Emily thinks with a proprietary satisfaction. All that Quidditch kept him in shape. Now he's probably hunched over books all day, getting soft.
The memory shifts 一 Bill pulling her into a kiss, his skin still damp and warm from the shower, the scent of grass and broom polish clinging to him. There was genuine affection in that memory, you realise with a pang. Bill had cared about her once.
But Emily's current thoughts ruin the nostalgia. If we get back together, I'll make sure he starts exercising again. Can't have a boyfriend who lets himself go.
You feel sick. She's not remembering Bill with fondness 一 she's assessing him like a piece of property that needs maintenance. The contrast between the warm memory and her cold calculation is jarring.
She doesn't see him as a person, you realise with growing horror. He's an accessory. A trophy. Something to be polished and displayed, then put away when she's bored.
Emily's thoughts confirm it as they continue their rounds. When we get back together, I'll need to make sure he dresses better. Those robes are practically threadbare. And he should cut his hair 一 it's getting shaggy.
Bill pauses outside the library, rubbing his temples. “I need to check on Silly 一Vasile after this,” he says, his voice tight with worry. “Madam Pomfrey said she'd probably be unconscious for at least a day, but一”
“Billy, you're obsessing,” Emily interrupts, placing a hand on his arm. The gesture looks affectionate, but her thoughts are pure calculation. He needs to focus on me, not some half-blood Ravenclaw.
“I'm not,” Bill says, pulling his arm away. Well done, you think. “She's my friend, and she got hurt because of一” He stops himself, but you know what he was going to say. Because of your careless spell.
Emily's smile doesn't reach her eyes. “Accidents happen, Billy. Now, shall we check the third-floor corridor? I heard some first-years were trying to sneak into the restricted section last night.”
While they continue their rounds, Emily’s developing her plan. Maybe I should invite him to Hogsmeade this weekend, she muses. A walk by the lake, some reminiscing about old times... He was always sentimental. A memory surfaces: Bill giving her a charmed locket for her birthday, his ears turning pink as she opened it. He put so much thought into gifts. Unlike that Ministry boy 一 all he cared about was showing off how much money he could spend.
But there's no fondness in the memory, just assessment. Sentimental means easily manipulated.
They reach the entrance to the hospital wing, and Bill stops. “I'm going to check on Vasile,” he says firmly.
Emily's smile tightens. “Of course. I'll see you at the prefects' meeting tonight.” As Bill disappears through the doors, her thoughts turn sharp. Let him play nurse, she thinks, dripping with disdain. He'll come crawling back when he realises how boring it is sitting by a sickbed.
She heads toward the library, presumably to work on her own studies, but her mind is elsewhere 一 calculating, planning, weighing options. You can feel the gears turning, the constant assessment of every person she encounters, every opportunity, every potential advantage.
Emily enters the library with the air of someone who expects to be noticed. Madam Pince looks up from her desk, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as Emily approaches.
“Madam Pince,” Emily says, her voice carrying just enough volume to draw attention from nearby students. “I need the restricted section ledger. Head Girl business.”
The librarian's expression remains impassive. “The ledger is on my desk, Miss Tyler. As it always is.”
Old bat, Emily thinks, though her smile stays perfectly polite. “Of course. Thank you.”
If you didn’t dislike her before, now your feelings have surely cemented. Madam Pince has always been kind and helpful toward you; she didn’t deserve to be disrespected 一even if it’s inside one’s mind一 like that.
She takes the ledger without another word, her thoughts dismissive. She's been here forever, dusting books and shushing students. What a waste of a life.
You watch through Emily's eyes as she flips through the ledger, her attention only half on the task. When a second-year Hufflepuff approaches the desk nervously, holding a damaged book, Emily's thoughts flash with irritation. Can't they see I'm busy?
Madam Pince takes the book with gentle hands, her stern expression softening slightly as she examines the torn pages. “Accidental magic?” she asks the trembling student.
“Y-yes, ma'am. I was nervous about my Charms exam and一”
“It's quite all right,” Madam Pince says, her voice surprisingly kind. “These things happen. I'll have it repaired by tomorrow.”
Emily watches the exchange, her thoughts critical. She's too soft on them. They'll never learn respect if there are no consequences.
Emily spends the next hour in the library, ostensibly reviewing the restricted section ledger, but her attention keeps wandering. She watches students come and go, her thoughts a running commentary on their appearances, their social standing, their usefulness. Each person is reduced to a checklist of attributes, assessed for what they can offer her. There's no curiosity about their lives, no interest in their thoughts or feelings. Just cold calculation.
When a first-year approaches her, stammering about being lost, Emily's smile is perfectly polite. “The Charms classroom is on the third floor, dear.” But her thoughts are sharp. Can't they read a map? Honestly, the standards have slipped.
The girl thanks her profusely, eyes wide with admiration for the beautiful, important Head Girl. Emily basks in the attention, the transaction complete: minimal effort for maximum social capital.
She drinks it in like nectar, you think as Emily leaves the library, the memory of that first-year's awestruck expression still fresh in her mind. The admiration, the deference 一 it's what she lives for. Not because she's earned it through kindness or leadership, but because of the title, the appearance.
Emily's thoughts confirm it as she walks toward the Great Hall for lunch. They see the badge, the perfect hair, the expensive robes. They don't see the work, the calculations, the constant performance. There's a strange mix of contempt and satisfaction in the thought 一 contempt for the students who are so easily impressed, satisfaction that her efforts are paying off.
At lunch, she joins Hyacinth again, but her attention keeps drifting to where Bill sits alone, picking at his food. He should be here with me, she thinks, irritation colouring the thought. Not moping over some concussed Ravenclaw.
Auden notices her gaze. “Still pining for Weasley?”
Emily's smile is tight. “Just concerned. He's not himself lately.”
He's not mine lately, her thoughts correct. That's the problem.
She doesn't love him, you realise with growing clarity. She doesn't even like him as a person. He's a possession she's decided to reclaim because he's currently valuable 一 Head Boy, attractive enough to show off.
Emily picks at her lunch, her eyes tracking Bill as he finally stands and leaves the Great Hall alone. Where is he going? she thinks, the thought sharp with suspicion. Back to the Hospital Wing? To work on those stupid translations?
Her friend leans in. “You know, if he's not interested anymore, there are other options. Jolyon Womack was asking about you.”
Emily considers this, her thoughts turning speculative. Jolyon comes from an old family. Good connections. But he's not Head Boy, and he's not as... malleable as Bill.
Malleable, you think, the word making you feel ill. That's what she wants 一 someone she can shape, control, and display like a trophy on her shelf. Bill's kindness, his earnestness, his willingness to listen 一 all qualities she sees as weaknesses to exploit.
“He's just going through a phase,” Emily says aloud, her voice confident. “He'll come around.”
But beneath the confidence, you sense the first flickers of doubt. What if he doesn't? What if that Ravenclaw has actually gotten under his skin?
The thought carries a new, dangerous edge 一 not jealousy over losing someone she cares about, but anger at having her plans disrupted.
Emily's afternoon unfolds with a relentless efficiency that feels exhausting to witness. After lunch, she attends Advanced Charms with Professor Flitwick, where she answers every question with perfect precision but shows no actual enthusiasm for the magic itself. This will look good on my transcript, she thinks as she demonstrates a particularly complex shielding charm.
Between classes, she stops by the prefects' bathroom 一another Head Girl privilege一 and spends twenty minutes soaking in the perfumed water, her thoughts drifting between Bill and her future. If I get that internship in the Ministry, I’ll probably find a better match than Bill. But he’ll do until then.
Her last class is Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall. Emily transforms her teapot into a tortoise with flawless technique, earning a rare nod of approval. But as other students struggle, her thoughts are dismissive. Some people just don't have the natural talent.
When class ends, she checks her reflection in a window, smoothing her hair. Now to find Bill before the prefects' meeting. Time to remind him what he's missing.
Emily pushes open the Hospital Wing doors, her expression already shifting into one of gentle concern. But when she spots Bill, the performance adjusts instantly.
He's sitting by an occupied bed, his shoulders slumped, head in his hands. The worry radiating from him is palpable even from across the room. Instead of approaching with sympathy, she walks over briskly, businesslike. “Billy,” she calls him, her voice firm but not unkind.
He looks up, his eyes red-rimmed. “Emily. What do you need?”
He's defensive, she thinks, and adjusts again. She pulls up a chair beside him, but doesn't touch him. “I need my Head Boy functional for the prefects' meeting tonight. And you're not functional.”
It's a gamble 一 criticism instead of comfort. But she's reading him correctly: Bill responds better to practical concern than emotional coddling when he's like this.
“She's stable,” Bill says, gesturing toward the bed where you lie unconscious. “Madam Pomfrey says she'll wake up tomorrow. But the concussion…”
“Will heal,” Emily finishes, her voice softening just enough. “Vasile's tough. She'll be fine.” The words are meant to reassure, but her thoughts are calculating. He cares too much. That's the problem.
He looks devastated, you think from your trapped position inside Emily's mind. Bill's usual confident posture is gone, replaced by a slump that makes him look younger, more vulnerable. His eyes keep drifting back to your unconscious form in the hospital bed, and there's a rawness to his expression that you've never seen before.
He's not just worried about a friend, you realise with a jolt. This is... more. The thought sends a strange warmth through you, followed immediately by guilt. You shouldn't be pleased about causing him this much distress.
Emily notices it too. He's too invested, she thinks, the observation sharp and clinical. This isn't normal concern. He's acting like...
She doesn't finish the thought, but you can feel her reassessing. The script she prepared shifts again in her mind. This isn't just about pulling Bill away from a sick friend anymore. This is about competition.
“Billy,” she says, her voice softer now, more intimate. ”You can't help her by exhausting yourself. Come to the prefects' meeting, then get some rest. She'll still be here tomorrow.”
Her hand reaches out, hovering near his shoulder but not quite touching 一 the perfect balance of comfort and respect for his space. Every gesture, every word, is calibrated to contrast with what she perceives as your ‘clinginess’ through his devotion.
He always had a soft spot for strays, Emily thinks, her gaze flickering between Bill and your unconscious form. First, that mangy cat he found in Hogsmeade, then that first-year he tutored all last year. Now her.
The reduction stings. You're not a project to Bill 一 you're his friend, his collaborator. You challenge each other intellectually, you make each other laugh, you trust each other with your real thoughts, not the polished versions you show the world.
But maybe that's the problem, Emily's thoughts continue. He needs someone who elevates him, not someone who needs rescuing. She's already recasting your friendship as dependency, your collaboration as you leaning on his brilliance.
Bill finally looks at her properly. “You're right,” he says, his voice tired. “The prefects' meeting. I should…” He trails off, his eyes drifting back to you.
Not completely convinced, Emily notes. She stands, offering her hand. “Come on. She'll be here when you get back.”
Bill hesitates for another moment, his eyes lingering on your still form. Then, with a sigh that seems to come from his very bones, he takes Emily's offered hand and lets her pull him to his feet.
There, Emily thinks, the satisfaction washing through her like a warm bath. He chose me. He always will.
As they walk toward the hospital wing doors together, her thoughts are triumphant. See? A little firmness, a little practicality, and he remembers what's important. All that moping by her bedside 一 it was just guilt. Once he's back in his routine, back with me, he'll forget all about her.
She glances at Bill's profile, already planning their evening. At the prefects' meeting, I'll make sure we're seated together. Afterwards, maybe a walk by the lake. Remind him of better times.
The prefects' meeting takes place in a small classroom on the second floor that's been designated for their use. Emily guides Bill to two chairs placed slightly apart from the others 一 close enough to appear united, but not so close as to seem clingy.
Perfect, she thinks as they sit. The other prefects filter in: the Concordia Rowle from Slytherin looking bored, Maurice Coghlan from Hufflepuff taking diligent notes, Tulip Karasu from Ravenclaw with her usual efficient air.
After the meeting ends, Emily returns to her Head Girl room with the same measured steps she's maintained all day. The door clicks shut behind her, and for the first time since you've been trapped in her consciousness, you see her truly relax.
Or rather, you see the performance drop.
She kicks off her shoes with uncharacteristic force, letting them land haphazardly near the door. The perfect posture slumps as she sinks into an armchair by the fireplace. What a day, she thinks, the exhaustion finally showing in her mental voice.
But even her relaxation feels calculated. She reaches for a book on her side table 一Advanced Charms Theory一 but only flips through it without reading. Need to stay sharp for tomorrow's exam, she thinks, but the thought lacks conviction.
Instead, her mind drifts back to Bill. He was different tonight. Distant. Not like before. A flicker of genuine uncertainty crosses her thoughts, quickly suppressed. He'll come around. He always does.
She stands, moving to her vanity to begin her elaborate nighttime routine. Bottles and jars are arranged with military precision. Each application is performed with the same careful attention she gives everything 一 a ritual meant to preserve the asset.
Emily slips between the silk sheets, the cool fabric a familiar comfort. She extinguishes the lights with a flick of her wand, plunging the room into darkness broken only by moonlight filtering through the curtains.
Her thoughts drift, becoming less focused as sleep approaches. A memory surfaces 一 Bill laughing at something she said years ago, his freckled face crinkling at the corners of his eyes. There's a flicker of something that might be fondness, but it's quickly buried under practicality. He's a good investment. Stable. Reliable. And he looks at me like I'm the only person in the room.
He'll come back, she assures herself one last time as consciousness begins to slip away. They always do.
The thought fades into darkness, and with it, the last of Emily's waking mind. You feel yourself being pulled away, the connection severing as she falls into proper sleep.
You gasp, your own lungs filling with air that smells of antiseptic and dried herbs. Your head throbs with a dull, persistent ache. Blinking against the bright light of the Hospital Wing, you see familiar stone ceilings and the white curtains surrounding your bed.
You're back in your own body.
The world swims into focus slowly. Your head throbs with a dull, persistent ache, but it's your headache, in your body. Madam Pomfrey bustles over, her stern expression softening when she sees your open eyes.
“Back with us, Miss Vasile?” she asks, checking your pulse with practised efficiency. “You gave us quite a scare. Concussion and magical shock. You'll stay here until I'm satisfied.”
The morning passes in a blur of potions and examinations. Finally, around noon, Madam Pomfrey relents. “You may leave, but no strenuous activity. And come back if the headache worsens.”
You practically bolt from the Hospital Wing, your thoughts a jumble of Emily's memories and one burning purpose: find Bill. You need to warn him. Now.
The library is your first stop 一 if Bill's not in class or at a meeting, he's usually buried in some obscure text. You push through the heavy oak doors, wincing as the movement sends a fresh throb through your temples.
Madam Pince gives you a sharp look from her desk, but doesn't stop you as you weave through the stacks. You check his usual spots: the Arithmancy section, the table by the window with the best light, and even the restricted section entrance where he sometimes consults with older students.
No Bill.
You're about to leave when a familiar voice calls your name. “Silly?”
You turn to see Baako Neil emerging from between two towering shelves, her arms full of books. Her eyes widen. “Merlin, you're up! We were so worried. Are you alright now?”
“I'm fine,” you say, the words coming out more rushed than intended. “Have you seen Bill?”
Baako frowns. “Not since this morning. He looked... concerned. Is everything一”
“Everything's fine,” you cut in, already backing toward the door. “I just need to talk to him. Thanks, Baako!”
You're out in the corridor before she can ask more questions, your heart pounding. Then you remember: Thursday afternoons, Bill usually helps first-years with their Transfiguration homework in an empty classroom near the Charms corridor.
You take off at a brisk walk, ignoring the lingering dizziness.
You approach the classroom door quietly, pressing your ear against the wood first. Muffled voices 一 Bill's patient, explaining tone, and the higher-pitched, uncertain replies of first-years. He's here.
You ease the door open just enough to peek through the crack. Bill's sitting at a table with three tiny Gryffindors, their robes looking comically large on them. He's pointing at something in a Transfiguration textbook, his expression focused but kind. One of the first-years says something, and Bill laughs 一 a real, warm sound that makes something in your chest tighten.
He looks... normal. Like he hasn't spent the last day worrying himself sick. Like Emily hasn't been circling him like a shark.
You watch for another moment, the warning about Emily bubbling up in your throat. But the sight of him like this 一patient, gentle, completely unaware of the viper trying to coil around him一 makes the urgency feel even more desperate.
You lean against the wall outside the classroom, trying to steady your breathing. The headache has receded to a dull throb, but your thoughts race with everything you need to tell him. Just wait, you tell yourself. Don't interrupt. He's helping them.
Through the door, you catch snippets of the lesson. Bill's voice is calm, reassuring. One of the first-years tries the spell, and there's a small pop followed by Bill's encouragement. You close your eyes, remembering Emily's thoughts about Bill's kindness being a weakness. How wrong she is. This willingness to help 一 it's what makes him Bill. Not some flaw to be managed.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity but is probably only twenty minutes, you hear chairs scraping and cheerful thank-yous. The door opens, and the three first-years tumble out, their faces bright with accomplishment. They barely notice you as they chatter excitedly about their success.
Bill follows them out, smiling as he watches them go. Then he turns, and his eyes land on you.
The smile doesn't just widen 一 it transforms. Relief floods his features, and he crosses the distance between you in three quick strides. “Silly,” he breathes, then he hugs you. “You're awake. You're really 一are you alright? Madam Pomfrey said一”
“All’s good,” you say, the words tumbling out. “Bill, listen, I need to tell you something about Emily 一She's horrible. You can't ever get back with her.”
The words burst out of you with more force than you intended. Bill's expression shifts from relief to confusion, then to something like amusement.
“Emily? Silly, what一”
“I mean it,” you press on, your voice dropping to an urgent whisper even though the corridor is empty. “She's calculating and manipulative and she doesn't actually care about you, she just thinks you're a good accessory 一Head Boy, brilliant, nice to look at一”
Bill's eyebrows shoot up. “Nice to look at?” he repeats, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“That's not the point!” You're practically vibrating with frustration. “The point is she's awful and if you date her again, I'll... I'll stop being your friend.”
The threat sounds childish even to your own ears, but Bill's smile softens. He reaches out, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. “Silly,” he says, his voice warm. “I'm not getting back together with Emily. I haven't wanted to since... well, since she dumped me for someone 'more exciting.'”
He says it without bitterness, just stating a fact. “And even if I did,” he adds, his eyes meeting yours, “your friendship means more to me than any relationship with her.”
You let out the breath you’ve been holding onto since you started the conversation, relieved. Then, an intrusive thought passes through you, a kind of curiosity you just have to satiate.
Before you can think better of it 一more like before the part of your brain that remembers social norms can catch up一 your hands dart forward. You grab the hem of Bill's jumper and yank it up, exposing a strip of his stomach and lower chest.
The sight makes you gasp, but not in the way you expected.
He is fit. Not in a sculpted, intentional way, but in a lean, natural way that speaks of Quidditch and climbing castle towers and carrying heavy books. Freckles dust his skin, trailing down from his collarbone. There's a faint scar just below his ribs 一 from a broom accident in fourth year, you remember.
But more than that, he's just... Bill. The same Bill who helps first-years with Transfiguration and gets ink on his nose when he's concentrating.
“What in Merlin's name are you doing?” Bill asks, his voice a mixture of confusion and amusement as he pushes his jumper down. He looks down at your hands still clutching his jumper, then back up at your face.
“You don't even work out,” you blurt out, dropping the fabric as if burned. “How are you... like that?”
He leans against the wall, crossing his own arms in a mirror of your defensive posture. “Genetics, I suppose. And Quidditch while I played. And carrying you up three flights of stairs that time you sprained your ankle in third year.”
“That was one time!”
“And the time you fell asleep in the library and I had to carry you back to Ravenclaw tower.”
“Also one time! It's not fair,” you mutter, crossing your arms as if that will somehow defend you from the evidence of your own impulsive action.
Bill pushes off the wall, taking a step closer. His expression shifts from amused to something more thoughtful. “Why the sudden interest in my physique, Silly? You've never seemed to notice before.”
The question hangs between you, and you realise you don't have a good answer. Or rather, you have an answer, but it involves explaining that you spent a day trapped in Emily Tyler's brain, watching her memories of Bill shirtless after Quidditch practice, and now you can't unsee it.
“It's distracting,” you say before you can stop yourself. You’re quick to change the subject to avoid the awkwardness you feel coming your way. “Ancient Runes. That translation you were working on the other day. Did you finish it?”
Bill blinks, thrown by the sudden shift. For a moment, he just stares at you, his expression caught between amusement and confusion. Then he laughs 一 a soft, warm sound that does nothing to help your current state of distraction.
“Right,” he says slowly, as if humouring you. “I was thinking about that all night, actually. While I was sitting by your hospital bed, wondering if you were going to wake up.”
The reminder of his vigil makes your throat tighten. “Bill一”
“Silly!” a voice calls from down the corridor.
You turn to see Brennan approaching, his expression brightening when she spots you. “There you are! Katherine and I were looking for you. We wanted to make sure you were一” He stops, his eyes darting between you and Bill, taking in the slightly charged atmosphere. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Just studying,” you say quickly, stepping back from Bill. Brennan gives you a knowing look but doesn't press. “I should go,” you add, already moving toward your friend. “We'll talk later, Bill.”
He nods, that amused smile still playing on his lips. “Later.”
A wolf and a siren (Remus Lupin fic): Fifth Chapter
Summary: After accidentally discovering the Marauders' most well-kept secret, you decide to use your own secret inheritance to help them during the full moons. Slowly, you grow closer to them, in particular to Remus, whom you always found sweet and kind.
Pairings: remus x f!reader (surname Rakes)
Words: 1.9k
Warnings: none
Author's note: That's it for this fic. Hope you guys liked it :) Reminder that this was mostly created with GlimmerFics AI.
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER THIRD CHAPTER FOURTH CHAPTER FIFTH CHAPTER
The days that followed were sweet and gentle, filled with quiet moments and growing closeness. But as the next full moon approached, a familiar tension returned to Remus’s shoulders. On the day before the transformation, you found him in the Gryffindor common room, staring blankly at a textbook, his quill unmoving in his hand.
“Remus?” you said softly, sitting beside him.
He blinked, as if coming back from somewhere far away. “Sorry,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes. “Just… distracted.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” you said softly, placing a hand over his still one on the textbook.
He flinched, pulling his hand away as if burned. “Don’t,” he snapped, the word sharp and sudden. He didn’t look at you, his jaw tight. “Just… don’t.”
You withdrew your hand, but didn’t move away. “Alright.”
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. “I have to go,” he muttered, gathering his books with jerky movements. “I’ll see you later.”
You watched him leave, his shoulders hunched, his steps quick and tense. The common room felt suddenly colder in his absence.
You didn’t let it deter you. You found him again after lunch, sitting alone on a bench in the courtyard. He was staring at nothing again, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on his knee.
“Remus,” you said, sitting beside him.
He didn’t respond for a long moment. Then, without looking at you, he said, “I’m not good company today. You should go.”
“I’m fine right here,” you replied, leaning back against the bench.
He let out a short, frustrated breath. “Why are you doing this? I’m being a git. I snapped at you. I’m… I’m horrible right now. Just leave me alone.”
“You’re not horrible, Remus,” you said, your voice steady.
He finally turned to look at you, and his expression was raw 一 frustration, exhaustion, and something like self-loathing twisting his features. “Stop it,” he said, his voice low and tight. “Stop being so bloody understanding. I’m a monster, Rakes. A literal monster. And tomorrow night, I’ll be locked in a shack, howling at the moon while my friends risk their lives to keep me contained. That’s not ‘not horrible.’ That’s a nightmare.”
He stood up, pacing a few steps away before whirling back to face you. “And you just sit there, looking at me with those calm eyes, like none of it matters. Like I’m just… having a bad day. It’s infuriating.”
You stayed seated, watching him. “I know what tomorrow is,” you said quietly. “I know what happens. And I’m still here.”
“Why?” he demanded, his voice rising. “Why would you want to be? I’m moody, I’m dangerous, I’m a burden. I’m poor, I’m scarred, I’ll never have a normal life. What could you possibly see in me that’s worth all this?”
The words hung in the air, sharp and cruel. He didn’t mean them 一you could see the instant regret in his eyes一 but he’d said them anyway, lashing out because he didn’t know how else to push you away.
You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. He stiffened for a second, then melted against you, his face buried in your shoulder. You could feel the tension slowly draining from his body, replaced by a weary exhaustion.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice muffled against your jumper.
“I know,” you murmured, your hand stroking his back in slow, steady circles.
You held him like that for a long time, until the courtyard’s shadows lengthened and the distant chatter of students faded as they headed inside for dinner. Finally, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes red-rimmed but clearer.
“Do you feel better?” you asked softly.
He let out a shaky breath, a faint, rueful smile touching his lips. “A little,” he admitted. “Not… not good. But less like I’m going to crawl out of my own skin.” He rested his forehead against yours again, his eyes closing. “Thank you for not leaving.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised.
He hugged you again, this time gentler, his arms wrapping around you with a quiet gratitude. The desperate edge was gone, replaced by a simple, weary need for comfort. You stood together in the gathering twilight, the castle windows beginning to glow with warm light around you.
The day of the full moon passed quietly with your usual routine. A week later, right after dinner, you found yourselves back in Remus’s dormitory, books scattered across his bed as he tried to explain a particularly tricky bit of Arithmancy. You were only half-listening, more focused on the way the lamplight caught the gold in his hair and the earnest furrow of his brow as he spoke.
“一and that’s why the lunar phase modifier is crucial for predictive matrices,” he was saying, gesturing with his quill. He glanced up and caught you staring. “Are you even listening?”
“Sorry, I got distracted,” you said, a small smile playing on your lips. “You look really good when you’re explaining things.”
Remus blinked, the Arithmancy chart forgotten in his hands. A faint blush crept up his neck. “That’s… not helping you learn lunar phase modifiers,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Maybe I need a break from lunar phase modifiers,” you suggested, shifting closer on the bed. “Professor Lupin.”
The title 一spoken softly, almost teasing一 made his breath catch. His eyes darkened slightly, the amber turning warm and intent. “Is that so?” he murmured, setting the parchment aside.
You leaned in and kissed him, slow and sweet. He responded immediately, one hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. The kiss deepened, turning from gentle to something more urgent, his other arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer against him.
Just as his fingers tangled in your hair, the dormitory door flew open with a dramatic bang.
“Moony, have you seen my一Oh Merlin’s beard!”
Sirius Black stood frozen in the doorway, one hand dramatically clapped over his eyes. “I’m blind! Blinded by the sheer… domesticity of it all! My eyes! My poor, innocent eyes!”
You broke the kiss, laughing against Remus’s lips as he buried his burning face in your shoulder with a groan.
“Piss off, Padfoot,” Remus mumbled, his voice muffled.
Sirius peeked through his fingers, grinning wickedly. “Don’t mind me. Just passing through. Carry on with your… studies.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Actually, we could use a study partner. Want to join? We were just getting to the good part,” you told Sirius with a smirk.
Sirius clutched his chest dramatically. “The good part? I shudder to think what you consider the bad part.” He sauntered into the room, dropping onto the end of Remus’s bed and making the mattress bounce. “So, what’s the lesson plan, Professor Lupin? Advanced Snogging? Or are we sticking to boring old numbers?”
Remus, who had been trying to regain some semblance of dignity, shot Sirius a withering look. “Arithmancy, Padfoot. Lunar phase modifiers.”
“Ah, yes, the moon,” Sirius said, his tone suddenly softer, more understanding. He glanced at Remus, then at you, his usual mischief tempered by something genuine. “Right. Well, I’m rubbish at Arithmancy, but I’m excellent at providing moral support. And snacks.” He pulled a crumpled paper bag from his robe pocket and tossed it onto the bed. “Bertie Bott’s. Some of them are actually edible.”
You opened the bag, picking out a purple bean. “What’s this one?”
“No idea,” Sirius said cheerfully. “Live dangerously.”
The next hour passed in a surprisingly productive 一if chaotic一 study session. Sirius did indeed provide moral support, mostly in the form of ridiculous commentary and the occasional well-timed joke that made Remus laugh despite himself. Remus patiently re-explained the lunar matrices, looking intently at you to make sure you didn’t get distracted again.
By the time the tower bell chimed for curfew, your parchment was filled with notes, the bag of beans was half-empty, and Remus looked more relaxed than he had all day.
You leaned in and gave Remus a quick, private kiss goodnight 一 soft and lingering enough to feel like a promise, but brief enough to be decent in front of Sirius, who was now studiously examining the ceiling.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you murmured against his lips.
Remus nodded, his hand squeezing yours once before letting go. “Be careful getting back.”
“I’ll escort her,” Sirius announced, hopping off the bed. “Can’t have our favorite Hufflepuff getting caught by Filch. He’s been extra grumpy since Peeves put dungbombs in his mop closet.”
You gathered your things, said a final goodnight to Remus, and followed Sirius out into the dimly lit Gryffindor tower corridor. The portrait of the Fat Lady swung shut behind you with a soft click.
“He’s doing better,” Sirius said quietly as you walked, his usual boisterous tone subdued. “Since you’ve been around. The full moons… they’re still hell, but the days after aren’t quite as dark.”
You glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity.
Sirius shrugged, a faint smile touching his lips. “Don’t tell him I said that. He’ll get all embarrassed and start lecturing me about emotional vulnerability.”
He walked you all the way to the entrance of the Hufflepuff common room, gave you a mock salute, and disappeared back up the corridor with a swirl of his robes. You tapped the barrel, slipped inside, and were greeted by the familiar, cozy warmth of your house.
The following months settled into a gentle rhythm. The full moon came and went 一 you spent it in the Shrieking Shack again, your voice a calm anchor in the chaos, your presence a quiet comfort Remus clung to both during the transformation and after. The Marauders, once wary of your secret, now treated you as one of their own, with Sirius’s dramatic protectiveness and James’s enthusiastic matchmaking becoming familiar background noise.
There were more picnics by the lake, more study sessions that drifted into laughter, more quiet conversations in shadowy corridors. Remus still carried the weight of his curse, but he carried it a little lighter when you were near. He smiled more freely, laughed more often, and the haunted look in his eyes began to fade, replaced by something warmer and more hopeful.
You kept your own secret, your siren heritage, locked safely away 一 known only to the four boys who had sworn to guard it. In return, you guarded theirs. It was a balance, delicate and precious, built on trust and the quiet understanding that some bonds are forged in moonlight and whispered promises.
As spring deepened into summer, painting the castle in anticipation, you realized something had shifted. What began as a chance encounter in a haunted shack had quietly, steadily, become something real. You weren’t just the girl who knew his secret anymore. You were the one he reached for in the quiet moments, the one whose hand he held under the library table, the one he looked for across the Great Hall.
The story of the half-siren and the werewolf was far from over, but this chapter 一the chapter of discovery, of tentative trust, of first kisses and shared secrets一 had reached its gentle, satisfying close. The future was uncertain, shadowed by the growing darkness of a war beyond the castle walls, but for now, in the warm glow of friendship and something more, it was enough.
A wolf and a siren (Remus Lupin fic): Fourth Chapter
Summary: After accidentally discovering the Marauders' most well-kept secret, you decide to use your own secret inheritance to help them during the full moons. Slowly, you grow closer to them, in particular to Remus, whom you always found sweet and kind.
Pairings: remus x f!reader (surname Rakes)
Words: 1.9k
Warnings: none
Author's note: First date with Remus! Reminder that this was mostly created with GlimmerFics AI.
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER THIRD CHAPTER FOURTH CHAPTER FIFTH CHAPTER
Two weeks passed in a blur of classes, laughter, and quiet moments that felt like stolen treasures. The Marauders’ matchmaking had grown less subtle 一 doors accidentally closing behind you, study sessions that somehow left you and Remus alone. You didn’t mind. You liked the quiet comfort of his company.
Now, in his dormitory bedroom, Remus lay half-asleep with his head in your lap, his hair soft beneath your fingers as you hummed a familiar tune. The afternoon sun slanted through the window, painting his freckles gold.
“We should probably get back to studying,” you murmured, your hand stilling in his hair. “We still have that Charms quiz tomorrow.”
He made a soft, sleepy sound of protest, nuzzling against your thigh. “Just a little longer,” he mumbled, his eyes closed. “Please?”
You smiled and resumed your gentle motions, fingers threading through his soft brown hair. The humming returned, the same Greek lullaby you’d sung in the shack, but softer now 一 a private melody for a peaceful afternoon.
Remus sighed, the tension in his shoulders melting away completely. “That song,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your leg. “It’s the one you sang that night, isn’t it?”
“Mhm,” you confirmed, your thumb tracing the shell of his ear. “My mother used to sing it to me when I couldn’t sleep.”
“It’s beautiful,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “It feels… safe.”
You continued humming, watching the way the sunlight caught the dust motes dancing in the air. The room was quiet except for the sound of your voice and his steady breathing. After a few minutes, his breathing deepened, and you realized he’d drifted fully asleep, his body heavy and relaxed in your lap.
You kept your hand in his hair, your humming fading to silence. Outside, you could hear the distant shouts of students on the Quidditch pitch, the rustle of the wind in the castle’s ivy. But in here, there was only warmth and quiet, and the boy sleeping trustingly against you.
You stayed with Remus until the evening light faded, then carefully slipped out from under him, tucking a blanket around his sleeping form. As you left the Gryffindor tower, you found James waiting in the corridor, a conspiratorial grin on his face.
“Perfect timing,” he said, falling into step beside you. “I’ve got a plan. Picnic by the lake tomorrow 一just you and Remus. All you have to do is ask him.”
You paused in the corridor, turning to face James fully. “Why are you so invested in setting this up?” you asked, your tone more curious than accusatory.
James’s grin softened into something more genuine. He leaned against the stone wall, his hands in his pockets. “Because Remus deserves it,” he said simply. “He spends so much time worrying about everyone else 一about us, about his condition, about not being a burden. He never lets himself just… have something nice. For himself.”
He met your eyes, his expression earnest. “And you’re good for him. You see him. Not just the werewolf, not just the prefect or the bookworm. Him.” James shrugged, a little self-consciously. “So yeah, I’m meddling. Sue me.”
You couldn’t help but smile. “A picnic by the lake, huh?”
“Yep. I’ll handle the food, the blanket, everything. All you have to do is ask him.” James pushed off the wall, his grin returning. “What do you say?”
“Alright, I’ll ask him,” you agreed with a small smile.
James’s face lit up. “Brilliant! Tomorrow after lunch, by the lake near the giant squid’s favorite spot. I’ll make sure everything’s set up.” He clapped you on the shoulder, his enthusiasm infectious. “He’ll say yes. Trust me.”
The next day, you found Remus in the library, bent over a stack of books for his Ancient Runes essay. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching the dust motes dancing around him. You slid into the chair opposite him, and he looked up, his tired eyes brightening.
“Hey,” he said softly, setting his quill down. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah,” you said, your fingers tracing the grain of the wooden table. “I was thinking… it’s such a nice day. Want to have a picnic by the lake later? Just the two of us.”
Remus blinked, his expression shifting from surprise to something more guarded. He glanced down at his books, then back at you. “Rakes, that’s… really kind of you. But you don’t have to do that. I’m not… I’m not exactly picnic material.”
“What does that mean?” you asked gently.
He ran a hand through his hair, a familiar gesture of frustration. “It means I’m a werewolf. I’m… complicated. You should be spending time with someone who isn’t… broken.”
“You’re not broken, Remus,” you said firmly, leaning forward so he couldn’t look away. “You’re kind, and clever, and you care about people even when you’re hurting. That’s not broken. That’s strong.”
He stared at you, his amber eyes wide with something like disbelief. “You don’t understand,” he whispered, his voice tight. “Every full moon, I lose control. I could hurt someone. I have hurt people 一 not recently, but before… It’s not just a condition, Rakes. It’s a curse.”
“I know what it is,” you said softly. “I’ve seen it. I’ve sat with it. And I’m still here.” You reached across the table, your hand hovering over his. “I’m asking you to a picnic, not to marry me. Just one afternoon by the lake. No expectations, no pressure. Just… us.”
Remus looked down at your hand, then slowly, hesitantly, turned his palm up. You let your fingers brush against his, a light, grounding touch. He took a shaky breath. “What if I have a bad day? What if I’m too tired, or too sore, or一”
“Then we’ll sit quietly and watch the squid,” you interrupted gently. “Or we’ll talk about books. Or we’ll just eat in silence. It doesn’t have to be perfect, Remus. It just has to be.”
He was quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing a slow circle on the back of your hand. Finally, he looked up, a faint, reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Alright,” he said softly. “A picnic sounds nice.”
You smiled and squeezed his hand. “Great. Meet me after lunch?”
He nodded, his fingers curling around yours briefly before letting go. “I’ll be there.”
True to his word, Remus found you by the Entrance Hall after the midday meal, looking slightly nervous but determined. James gave you both a thumbs-up from across the room before being dragged away by Sirius, who was loudly complaining about Divination homework.
Together, you walked out into the bright autumn afternoon, the grounds sprawling before you in shades of gold and green. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and the distant lake. James had indeed set everything up: a thick woolen blanket was spread beneath a large oak tree near the water’s edge, a wicker basket waiting beside it.
“He really went all out,” Remus murmured, a faint smile touching his lips as you approached.
“He’s nothing if not thorough,” you agreed, settling onto the blanket.
The picnic was simple but lovely 一 sandwiches, pumpkin pasties, a thermos of tea, and a small container of chocolate-dipped strawberries. For a while, you ate in comfortable silence, watching the giant squid lazily wave a tentacle above the surface. The tension in Remus’s shoulders slowly eased, replaced by a quiet contentment.
“This is nice,” he said after a while, leaning back on his elbows. “Really nice.”
You leaned back, smiling as a memory came to your mind that you just had to share with Remus. “So last week, Capricia decided she was going to teach Thelma how to bake a proper treacle tart. They got into the kitchens, and everything was going fine until Thelma confused the salt with the sugar.”
Remus chuckled, already looking amused. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes. They didn’t realize until they’d already baked it. Ernestine, being the supportive girlfriend, took one bite and immediately turned green, but she tried to power through. She said, ‘It’s… very savory!’ while practically choking.”
Remus laughed properly then, a warm, genuine sound that made your chest feel light. “What did they do with it?”
“They tried to feed it to the giant squid,” you said, grinning. “It took one tentacle-scoop, paused, and then gently placed the whole tart back on the dock. Even the squid has standards.”
Remus shook his head, still smiling. “Your friends are… something else.”
“They’re the best,” you agreed warmly. “Loyal to a fault, even when it means eating salty treacle tart.”
The conversation flowed easily after that. You talked about everything and nothing 一 favorite books, terrible professors, the ridiculousness of Binns’s lectures, the way the castle smelled different in autumn. Remus told you about the time Sirius tried to dye James’s hair green for a Quidditch match and accidentally turned his own eyebrows bright purple instead.
The afternoon sun began to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of peach and lavender. The picnic basket was empty, the thermos drained. Remus looked more relaxed than you’d ever seen him, his eyes soft, his smile easy.
“Thank you for this,” he said quietly, his gaze holding yours. “I… I had a really good time.”
“Should we walk back together?” you asked, beginning to gather the empty containers.
Remus nodded, helping you fold the blanket. “I’d like that.”
The path back to the castle was quiet, the last golden light of sunset fading into twilight. The lanterns along the path flickered to life as you walked, casting warm pools of light on the gravel. Remus walked close beside you, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured as you approached the castle doors. “About this being nice. I don’t… I don’t get many days like this.”
You glanced at him, his profile softened by the lantern light. “We can have more of them,” you said simply. “If you want.”
He didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth lifted in a small, grateful smile.
Inside, the corridors were mostly empty, the echoes of your footsteps mingling with the distant sounds of the castle settling for the evening. He walked you all the way to the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room, the barrel-lined corridor cozy and dim.
“Here you are,” he said softly, turning to face you. You had only one thing on your mind.
You leaned in and kissed him gently, your lips meeting his in the quiet dimness of the corridor. For a moment, he went completely still 一surprised, perhaps一 but then he kissed you back, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek, his touch tender and hesitant.
It was a soft kiss, brief but sweet, filled with all the unspoken things between you: gratitude, understanding, and the quiet hope of something more. When you pulled back, his eyes were wide, his expression soft with wonder.
“Goodnight, Remus,” you whispered, your forehead resting against his for a heartbeat.
“Goodnight,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your cheekbone once more before he let his hand fall.
You turned, tapped the correct barrel, and slipped into the Hufflepuff common room as the entrance swung open. The warm, earthy space greeted you with the scent of baking bread and the low hum of conversation from a few students still curled by the fire. You didn’t look back, but you could feel him standing there in the corridor until the entrance sealed shut behind you.
A wolf and a siren (Remus Lupin fic): Third Chapter
Summary: After accidentally discovering the Marauders' most well-kept secret, you decide to use your own secret inheritance to help them during the full moons. Slowly, you grow closer to them, in particular to Remus, whom you always found sweet and kind.
Pairings: remus x f!reader (surname Rakes)
Words: 2.1k
Warnings: none
Author's note: A little background on your lineage + being already simps for each other. Reminder that this was mostly created with GlimmerFics AI.
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER THIRD CHAPTER FOURTH CHAPTER FIFTH CHAPTER
Over the next few days, you found yourself spending more time with the Marauders 一 studying in the library, laughing in the common room, even joining them for the occasional walk around the grounds. The initial awkwardness faded into easy camaraderie, and Remus’s quiet presence became a familiar comfort.
One afternoon, as you passed one of the empty classrooms that people used to study with their friends out loud, you noticed Remus sitting alone by the fire, his shoulders slumped, his expression distant. The usual spark in his amber eyes was dimmed, replaced by a weary sadness that made your chest tighten.
You leaned against the doorway, a small smile on your lips. “You look like you could use some cake.”
Remus glanced up, his expression softening when he saw you. “Cake?”
“I baked one this morning,” you said, stepping into the classroom. “Chocolate with raspberry filling. It’s in my bag.”
He managed a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You baked me a cake?”
“Well, I baked a cake,” you corrected lightly, sitting beside him. “And then I thought of you. So consider it yours.” You pulled the small, neatly wrapped package from your bag and placed it on the low table between you.
Remus unwrapped it carefully, revealing a rich, dark chocolate cake dusted with powdered sugar. The scent of cocoa and berries filled the air. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “This is really kind.”
“Cake always makes things better,” you said, your voice gentle.
He cut a slice with the knife you’d included, handing you the first piece before taking one for himself. For a few moments, you ate in comfortable silence, the fire crackling beside you.
“It’s just… the full moon’s coming up again soon,” he admitted finally, staring into his plate. “And sometimes the dread builds up days before. Makes everything feel heavier.”
You took a small bite of cake, the sweetness lingering on your tongue. “My mother came to England alone,” you said after a moment, your voice soft. “She’s Greek, but her family… they wanted to marry her off to someone she didn’t love. A wealthy man from another island. So she left. Took a boat with nothing but a small suitcase and the clothes on her back.”
Remus listened, his attention fully on you now, the sadness in his eyes momentarily replaced by curiosity.
“She didn’t speak a word of English when she arrived,” you continued. “Just wandered the streets of London until she found a café where a kind witch worked. That witch introduced her to my father 一a wizard who was traveling through Muggle London. He taught her the language, helped her get settled. They fell in love.” You smiled faintly. “She always says she traded one cage for a whole sky.”
Remus was quiet for a long moment, his gaze thoughtful. “That’s… brave. Leaving everything behind like that.”
“She had to,” you said simply. “Sometimes you have to choose your own freedom, even if it’s terrifying.” You met his eyes. “I think she’d understand what it’s like to carry a secret. To have a part of yourself that feels… other.”
He looked down at his half-eaten slice of cake, his fingers tracing the edge of the plate. “Does she ever regret it? Leaving her family?”
“Sometimes,” you admitted. “But she says she’d make the same choice every time.”
You watched the way the light that’s coming out of the window played across Remus’s thoughtful face. “Do you ever wish you could tell more people? About your condition, I mean.”
He was quiet for so long you wondered if he’d heard you. Then he set his plate aside, his fingers lacing together in his lap. “Sometimes,” he said, his voice barely above the crackle of the flames. “When I see other students planning trips over holidays, or talking about summer adventures… I can’t do any of that. Not without risking someone finding out.” He glanced at you, his amber eyes shadowed. “But then I think about how people would look at me. The fear. The pity. And I remember why secrecy is safer.”
“It must be lonely,” you said softly.
“It is,” he admitted. “But it’s also… protective. The fewer people who know, the fewer people who can be hurt by it. Or who can use it against me.” He gave a small, tired shrug. “My friends 一James, Sirius, Peter一 they’ve risked so much for me. Becoming Animagi, spending every full moon in that shack… I can’t ask for more than that.”
You reached over and gently squeezed his hand. “You’re not asking. We offered.”
His fingers tightened around yours, warm and steady. “I know,” he murmured. “And I’m grateful. More than I can say.”
“We should finish the cake before it gets stale,” you said, nodding toward the remaining slices.
Remus smiled, a real one this time that reached his eyes. “Can’t let good cake go to waste.” He cut two more generous pieces, handing you one before taking his own.
You ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the rich chocolate and tart raspberry filling a perfect balance.
“This is really good,” Remus said after finishing his slice. “You’re a talented baker.”
“It’s a hobby,” you admitted. “My mother taught me. Baking, cooking… it’s calming. Lets me focus on something tangible when my thoughts get too loud.”
He nodded understandingly. “I feel the same way about reading. Getting lost in someone else’s world for a while.”
The afternoon light was fading outside the windows, casting long shadows across the room. You glanced at the clock above the whiteboard 一 it was nearly dinner time.
“I should probably head back,” you said, setting your empty plate aside. “I’ll see you later, Remus.”
He looked up, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face before he nodded. “Of course. Thanks again for the cake, Rakes. And… for talking.”
You stepped out into the corridor, the classroom door swinging shut behind you with a soft click. The stone hallway was cooler, and you pulled your cardigan tighter as you made your way toward the Hufflepuff basement.
The days passed quickly, filled with classes and laughter with the Marauders. When the next full moon approached, Remus grew quieter, the familiar tension returning to his shoulders. On the evening of the transformation, you met the four of them by the Forbidden Forest line, your heart steady despite the nervous flutter in your stomach.
“Ready?” James asked, his usual grin tempered by seriousness.
You nodded, following them towards the secret passage to the Shrieking Shack. The passage was a dark, earthy tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow, the air cool and damp against your skin. Ahead of you, James led the way with his wand lit, casting long shadows on the packed dirt walls. Sirius walked beside Remus, their shoulders almost touching, while Peter brought up the rear, his breathing a little too loud in the confined space.
No one spoke much. The weight of what was coming hung heavy in the air, a silent understanding that needed no words. Remus kept his eyes fixed on the path ahead, his jaw tight, his hands clenched at his sides.
When you finally emerged into the Shrieking Shack, the familiar scent of dust and old wood filled your nostrils. Moonlight filtered through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, painting silver stripes across the floor. Remus immediately moved to the center of the room, his back to all of you, shoulders tense.
“It won’t be long now,” James said quietly, his voice unusually solemn. He glanced at you. “You remember what to do?”
You nodded, your heart beating steadily in your chest. “Keep him calm. Use my voice if I need to.”
Sirius gave you an approving look, though his usual smirk was absent. “Good. We’ll be here too, in our forms. Just in case.”
A low groan escaped Remus, and he doubled over, his hands gripping his knees. The transformation was beginning.
You stepped closer to Remus as his body began to contort, the bones cracking and shifting beneath his skin. His breathing came in ragged gasps, pain etched across his face. “It's alright, Remus,” you murmured, keeping your voice low and steady. “We're here. You're safe.”
His amber eyes met yours for a brief, agonized moment before the transformation took full hold. Fur sprouted across his skin, his limbs elongated, and within seconds, the gentle boy was gone, replaced by the powerful, lean form of the werewolf.
The creature stood panting in the moonlight, its yellow eyes scanning the room with wild intensity. Behind you, James, Sirius, and Peter had already transformed 一 a stag, a large black dog, and a rat taking their positions around the room.
The werewolf's gaze locked onto you, a low growl rumbling in its chest. You didn't flinch. Instead, you took another step forward, your hands held out, palms open. “Easy,” you whispered, your voice weaving through the air like silk. “Easy now.”
The growl softened, but the tension in its muscles remained. You began to hum, a simple, melodic tune your mother had sung to you as a child 一 a Greek lullaby about the moon and the sea. The werewolf's ears twitched, its head tilting slightly.
Slowly, you reached out and placed your hand on its shoulder, the fur coarse but warm beneath your fingers. The creature stilled, its breathing beginning to match the rhythm of your humming.
Your humming shifted into soft, whispered words, the Greek lyrics flowing naturally as you sang. The werewolf's ears twitched again, its intense gaze softening. It lowered its head slightly, nudging your hand with its snout 一 a gesture that was almost gentle. You continued singing, your fingers moving through its fur in slow, soothing strokes.
The creature let out a soft huff of breath, then slowly, deliberately, lay down on the dusty floorboards, its head resting on your legs. Its yellow eyes watched you, but the wildness had receded, replaced by a kind of weary calm.
From the corners of the room, you noticed the stag, the dog, and the rat settling down as well. The dog 一Sirius一 curled up near the wall, his eyes closing. The stag lay near the doorway, head lowered. The rat scurried into a small crevice and stilled.
You kept singing, your voice a steady anchor in the quiet of the shack. Your hand never stilled over the werewolf’s fur, not even as its breathing deepened and its eyelids grew heavy. After a while, it closed its eyes completely, its body relaxing into sleep.
The night stretched on, peaceful and still, the only sounds your soft singing and the distant creak of the old house settling.
You stayed awake, your eyes fixed on the sleeping werewolf beside you. The moonlight shifted slowly across the floor as the hours passed, painting the room in silver and shadow. Occasionally, the creature would twitch in its sleep 一a leg jerking, a low whine escaping its throat一 but each time, you’d hum a few bars of the lullaby, and it would settle again.
The Marauders slept soundly in their animal forms while you kept your gaze on the werewolf’s chest rising and falling, its fur gleaming in the faint light. There was a strange beauty to it 一 the power held in check, the wildness tempered by trust.
As the deepest hours passed, your own eyelids grew heavy, but you kept them open, focusing on the rhythm of its breathing, the warmth beneath your palm. You thought of Remus 一 the boy who carried this burden every month, who smiled through the pain, who thanked you for cake and quiet conversations. The werewolf was a part of him, but not all of him. And tonight, it slept peacefully, because you were here.
Your fingers moved from the werewolf's shoulder to the top of its head, gently stroking the coarse fur between its ears. It let out a soft, contented sigh in its sleep, nuzzling slightly into your touch. The gesture was so reminiscent of Remus 一that quiet seeking of comfort一 that your throat tightened.
You kept your movements slow and steady, your touch light. The werewolf's breathing remained deep and even, its body completely relaxed. Across the room, the stag lifted its head briefly, antlers silhouetted against the moonlight, before settling back down. The black dog shifted in his sleep, one paw twitching as if chasing something in a dream.
The night wore on, the moon beginning its descent toward the horizon. Through the cracks in the boards, you could see the first faint hints of grey lightening the sky 一 dawn was approaching. The werewolf stirred, its eyes fluttering open. They were still yellow, still animal, but there was no panic, no aggression. It simply looked at you, its gaze steady and calm.
Then, slowly, it began to change.
The transformation back was always gentler than the shift into the wolf. Remus’s human form emerged from the receding fur, pale and exhausted but unharmed. He blinked up at you, his amber eyes hazy with fatigue and gratitude. “You stayed,” he whispered, his voice rough.
A wolf and a siren (Remus Lupin fic): Second Chapter
Summary: After accidentally discovering the Marauders' most well-kept secret, you decide to use your own secret inheritance to help them during the full moons. Slowly, you grow closer to them, in particular to Remus, whom you always found sweet and kind.
Pairings: remus x f!reader (surname Rakes)
Words: 2.1k
Warnings: none
Author's note: Fairly cute bunch, these two. Reminder that this was mostly created with GlimmerFics AI.
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER THIRD CHAPTER FOURTH CHAPTER FIFTH CHAPTER
On the slow walk back to the castle after the full moon night, you pondered something again and again. Finally, you got the courage to simply say it. “Remus, I don’t mind helping on the next full moons. If you’ll have me.”
Remus glanced at you, surprise softening his tired features. You were holding his arm to help steady him, and the closeness made the proposition that much more intimate. “You’d… you’d do that?”
“Why not?” you shrugged. “You shouldn’t have to go through it alone. And maybe I can keep you calmer. Like tonight.”
Sirius, walking ahead, looked back over his shoulder. “You’re full of surprises, Rakes.”
As you neared the end of the tunnel, the air grew cooler and the faint scent of damp stone replaced the earthy smell of roots. You glanced at Remus, who was leaning more heavily on your arm now, his steps slow and deliberate.
“I’ll keep your secret,” you said, your voice low but clear in the quiet passage. “All of it. You don’t need to worry about me.”
Remus’s grip on your arm tightened slightly. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice rough with fatigue. “That means… more than you know.”
The tunnel opened into a dusty storeroom behind a tapestry on the first floor of Hogwarts. Dawn light filtered through a high, narrow window, casting pale stripes across the floor. James helped Remus through the opening, then turned to you. “We’ll take him to the Hospital Wing from here. Madam Pomfrey expects him after full moons 一she thinks he has a ‘chronic illness.’ It’s best if you’re not seen with us.”
You nodded, releasing Remus’s arm. “Right. I’ll head back to the common room.”
Remus gave you one last, grateful look before James and Sirius supported him down the corridor toward the Hospital Wing. Peter scurried after them, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder.
You stood there for a moment, alone in the quiet storeroom, the weight of the night’s secrets settling over you like a second skin.
The next afternoon found you in the library, surrounded by towering stacks of N.E.W.T.-level Charms and Transfiguration texts. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, dust motes dancing in the beams. You were deep in a particularly tricky essay on the Theory of Elemental Transfiguration when a shadow fell across your parchment.
You looked up to see Remus Lupin standing there, a worn copy of Advanced Rune Translation tucked under his arm. He looked better than he had that morning 一clean, dressed in his school robes, the scratches on his jaw mostly healed一 but there were still shadows under his eyes.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, his voice quiet.
“Of course, sit down,” you said, gesturing to the empty chair across from you.
Remus settled into the seat with a soft sigh, placing his book on the table. He ran a hand through his sandy hair, which was still slightly damp from what you guessed was a recent shower. For a moment, neither of you spoke 一 the only sounds were the distant rustle of pages from other students and the gentle scratch of quills.
“I wanted to thank you properly,” he said finally, his voice low enough not to carry. “For last night. And for not running away.”
You set your own quill down. “You don’t need to thank me.”
“I do,” he insisted, his amber eyes meeting yours. “Most people would’ve panicked. Or worse.” He paused, glancing at your open textbook. “Studying for Charms?”
“And Transfiguration,” you said, tapping the stack of parchment. “N.E.W.T.s are coming up faster than I’d like.”
Remus nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. “I know the feeling. McGonagall’s set us three feet on cross-species transfiguration variations.” He opened his own book, but didn’t seem to be reading it. Instead, he watched you for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “You’re taking this all remarkably well. The secret, I mean.”
You shrugged, picking up your quill again. “I have my own secrets. It’s only fair.”
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice further. “About that… Sirius can be a bit… intense. But he means well. We all do.”
You glanced at the Transfiguration textbook he’d set aside. “I could help with your essay, if you like. Cross-species variations can be tricky.”
Remus looked surprised, then grateful. “That’d be brilliant, actually. I’m stuck on the section about avian-to-mammalian transitional forms. The theory’s clear enough, but the practical applications…” He trailed off, rubbing his temple.
You pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward you. “The key is in the feather-to-fur ratio during the transformation. McGonagall likes when you reference Emeric Switch’s Principles of Transfiguration, page two-twenty.”
“You’ve read Switch?” Remus asked, his tired eyes lighting up with interest.
“Cover to cover,” you admitted with a small smile. “I like the mathematical approach. It’s cleaner than most of the philosophical waffle.”
For the next hour, you worked side by side, trading notes and debating finer points of magical theory. Remus was sharp 一sharper than he let on in class一 and his insights were thoughtful, if occasionally interrupted by yawns he tried to stifle.
As the afternoon light began to slant golden through the windows, you noticed him blinking slowly, his quill drifting to a stop mid-sentence. The shadows under his eyes seemed deeper than before.
“You look exhausted,” you said gently, setting your own quill down. “Maybe we should call it a day.”
Remus shook his head, but the motion seemed to cost him energy. “I’ve got to finish this. McGonagall一”
“McGonagall would want you to rest,” you finished for him. “Come on. I’ll walk you back to your common room.”
You packed up your things, carefully rolling your parchment and tucking your books into your bag. Remus watched you for a moment before slowly doing the same, his movements deliberate but weary.
“Ready?” you asked, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
He nodded, pushing himself to his feet. “Lead the way.”
The library was quieter now, with only a few dedicated seventh-years still hunched over their studies. Madam Pince gave you a sharp look as you passed her desk, but said nothing. Outside, the corridor was bathed in the soft, golden light of late afternoon.
You walked side by side in comfortable silence, the sound of your footsteps echoing on the stone floors. As you approached the moving staircases, Remus paused, leaning briefly against the wall.
“Sorry,” he murmured, closing his eyes for a second. “Just need a moment.”
You waited, watching him. The fatigue was etched into every line of his face, deeper than ordinary tiredness. “Do you want to sit down?” you asked gently.
He shook his head. “No, I’m alright. Let’s keep going.”
The walk to the Gryffindor common room felt longer than usual. Remus moved slowly, and you matched his pace, occasionally glancing at him to make sure he was steady. When you finally reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, she looked down at you with raised eyebrows.
“Password?” she asked, her voice singsong.
“Fortuna Major,” Remus said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The portrait swung open, revealing the cozy, firelit common room beyond. A few students were scattered around 一 some playing chess by the fire, others chatting on the sofas. Remus stepped inside, then turned to look at you.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For everything.”
You followed him inside without asking if you could or should, the warmth of the common room wrapping around you like a blanket. Remus led you to a pair of worn armchairs near the fireplace, where the flames crackled softly, casting dancing shadows across the worn rug.
He sank into one of the chairs with a quiet sigh, leaning his head back against the cushion. For a moment, he just stared into the fire, the orange light flickering in his tired eyes.
“It’s harder after a full moon,” he said after a while, his voice barely above the sound of the flames. “The fatigue. It lingers for days.”
You settled into the chair beside him, close enough that your knees almost touched. “How do you manage it? The transformations, the recovery… all of it.”
Remus gave a small, weary shrug. “You just do. I rely on my friends. And on hoping no one else finds out.”
The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Remus’s eyelids were growing heavy, his breathing deepening. Without thinking, you reached over and gently placed your hands on his temples, your fingers beginning to massage slow, soothing circles.
He stiffened for a second, startled, but then relaxed into your touch, a soft sigh escaping him. “You don’t have to…”
“I know,” you murmured, your fingers working through his sandy hair. “Just rest.”
Within minutes, his head grew heavier against your hands, then slumped gently onto your shoulder. His breathing evened out into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep.
You stayed there for a while, letting Remus sleep peacefully against your shoulder. When the fire began to die down to embers, you carefully shifted, easing him down to lie on the sofa. You found a spare blanket draped over a nearby chair and tucked it around him, smoothing his hair from his forehead once more before quietly slipping out of the common room.
The next morning, you arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast, the scent of bacon and toast filling the air. Before you could join your usual Hufflepuff friends, James Potter waved you over from the Gryffindor table, a grin on his face. Beside him, Remus gave you a small, hopeful smile.
You crossed the hall and slid onto the bench beside Remus, who shifted to make room for you. “Morning,” you said, reaching for a piece of toast.
“Morning, Rakes,” James said cheerfully, passing you the butter dish. “We were just discussing the upcoming Quidditch match against Slytherin. Think Hufflepuff stands a chance?”
Sirius, sitting across from you, smirked. “Ingram Abbott’s a decent Seeker, but he’s no match for Regulus. That little snake’s too quick.”
Peter nodded eagerly, his mouth full of scrambled eggs. “And their Chasers are brutal this year.”
You buttered your toast, glancing at Remus, who was quietly stirring his tea. “Hufflepuff’s got heart,” you said mildly. “That counts for something.”
“Heart doesn’t catch the Snitch,” Sirius countered, but there was no real malice in his tone.
As breakfast continued, the conversation flowed easily around you. James asked about your Charms essay, Sirius made a sarcastic comment about Professor Binns’s droning lectures, and even Peter chimed in with a nervous joke about the upcoming exams. They included you as if you’d always been there 一 teasing, debating, sharing the morning gossip. It felt surprisingly natural, though you couldn’t help noticing the occasional glance exchanged between James and Sirius, or the way Peter kept looking from you to Remus and back again.
When the bell rang for first period, you all stood together. “Transfiguration with McGonagall,” James announced, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Walk with us?”
You fell into step beside Remus as the group moved out of the Great Hall. In the corridor, James suddenly clapped Sirius on the back. “Padfoot, I just remembered 一we need to ask McGonagall about that extra credit project. Come on.”
Sirius caught on immediately. “Right! Pete, you’re coming too.”
They hurried ahead, leaving you and Remus walking side by side through the bustling crowd of students. You couldn’t help but smile at their obvious, clumsy attempt at matchmaking.
Remus glanced at you, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “They’re not subtle, are they?”
“Are you embarrassed by their matchmaking?” you asked, glancing at Remus as you navigated the stream of students heading to class.
He let out a soft, self-conscious laugh, adjusting the strap of his bag. “A bit. They mean well, but they’re about as subtle as a Bludger to the head.” He paused, his amber eyes meeting yours. “Does it bother you?”
“Not really,” you said honestly. “It’s kind of funny, actually. Watching them try so hard.”
Remus’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Good. I was worried you’d feel… pressured.”
You shook your head, a smile playing on your lips. “No pressure. Just friends walking to class.”
The corridor began to thin as students filtered into their respective classrooms. Up ahead, you could see the door to Professor McGonagall’s Transfiguration classroom, where James, Sirius, and Peter were already waiting, pretending to examine a suit of armor while clearly watching the two of you approach.
“They’re still staring,” Remus murmured, his voice low.
“Let them,” you said, your tone light. “Maybe if we ignore them, they’ll get bored and move on.”
But as you reached the classroom door, James gave you an exaggerated wink before slipping inside. Sirius followed, shaking his head with a grin.
A wolf and a siren (Remus Lupin fic): First Chapter
Summary: After accidentally discovering the Marauders' most well-kept secret, you decide to use your own secret inheritance to help them during the full moons. Slowly, you grow closer to them, in particular to Remus, whom you always found sweet and kind.
Pairings: remus x f!reader (surname Rakes)
Words: 2.1k
Warnings: none
Author's note: This was the fifth fic of the survey. As I have stated previously, I'll be posting all the fics I created with the AI forever ago and then start slowly with my own writing. Apart from this one and the sixth fic of the survey, I have prepared another 6, and that'll be it.
Author's note for all Fics: I love writing (although I never post anything because I lose interest in whatever fic I write soon), but I have 0 time now to do it. So, the other day, I found Glimmer Fics, an AI you can feed your ideas to and play as if you were the main character. I created some scenarios in the Harry Potter universe that the AI created beautifully, and I thought I should share some.
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER THIRD CHAPTER FOURTH CHAPTER FIFTH CHAPTER
The Shrieking Shack’s floorboards creaked under your feet as you stepped inside, the air thick with dust and the faint, lingering scent of damp wood. You’d been here just days ago on a dare with Capricia and the others, but something about the place had stuck with you 一 the odd emptiness of it, the way the interior felt too simple, too bare for a house supposedly haunted by violent spirits.
Tonight, under the full moon’s silver glow filtering through broken slats in the roof, the silence felt heavier. You moved quietly, wand tip lit with a soft Lumos, casting long shadows across the barren room. Your curiosity had drawn you back after curfew, alone, hoping to spot some clue you’d missed.
A low, guttural growl echoed from the far corner.
Your breath hitched. Slowly, you turned your wand toward the sound.
There, in the dim light, stood a massive, shaggy-furred creature with amber eyes that glowed with feral intensity 一 a werewolf. And flanking it, three animals: a large black dog, a shaggy stag, and a small, twitchy rat. They were positioned around it almost protectively, but as your light fell on them, the werewolf’s head snapped toward you.
Panic shot through your veins. You stumbled back, and the werewolf bolted past you, crashing through the flimsy door and out into the night. The animals 一dog, stag, rat一 rushed after it without a second’s hesitation.
Your heart hammered against your ribs. What have I done?
Without thinking, you scrambled out after them, following the distant sounds of snapping branches and heavy paws thudding across the grounds. The chill night air bit at your skin as you ran, your mind a whirl of confusion and dread.
You pushed your legs harder, breath coming in sharp gasps as you chased the shadowy shapes ahead. The grounds were a blur of dark grass and looming trees, the distant silhouette of the Forbidden Forest a jagged line against the starry sky. The animals were herding the werewolf, trying to steer it back toward the Shack 一 you could see the dog nipping at its heels, the stag blocking a path to the left.
Guilt twisted in your gut. You’d disturbed them, unleashed something dangerous without meaning to. As the werewolf veered toward the edge of the forest, a reckless impulse seized you. You skidded to a halt, raised your voice, and shouted, “Stop!”
The command wasn’t loud, but it carried a strange, resonant weight 一 the inherited power of your siren blood, subtle but undeniable.
The werewolf froze mid-stride, its massive head turning slowly to look at you. The three animals halted too, staring between you and the frozen beast with clear confusion. The black dog tilted its head, ears pricked.
Feeling a surge of nervous confidence, you pointed back toward the Shrieking Shack. “Go back inside. Now.”
The werewolf turned obediently and began padding back the way it had come, movements now calm and deliberate. The animals exchanged what looked like bewildered glances before falling into step behind it, keeping close.
You followed, heart still racing, and re-entered the Shack. Inside, the werewolf sat down on the dusty floor, watching you with those eerie amber eyes. You approached slowly, then reached out and placed a hand on its shaggy head. “Good boy,” you murmured, scratching behind its ears. It leaned into your touch, a low rumble vibrating in its chest.
The werewolf’s fur was coarse but warm under your palm. It had settled, breathing steadily, as you kept petting it 一 a strange, quiet moment in the dusty shack. The three animals watched from a few feet away, still tense but no longer trying to intervene. The black dog took a cautious step closer, sniffing the air in your direction.
You glanced at them, then back at the werewolf. “You’re not so scary when you’re calm, are you?” you murmured, more to yourself than anyone.
The stag huffed softly, as if in agreement 一 or maybe disbelief. The rat scurried up onto the dog’s back, tiny eyes fixed on you.
You looked from the werewolf to the three animals still watching you. “What are you three doing here?” you asked, voice low but clear in the quiet shack.
The black dog’s ears twitched. It glanced at the stag, then back at you, as if considering how to answer. After a moment, it shifted 一fur receding, limbs lengthening一 until Sirius Black was crouching where the dog had been, still in his school trousers and a rumpled shirt. He ran a hand through his dark hair, eyes wide with disbelief.
“We could ask you the same thing, Rakes,” he said, his usual confident tone edged with bewilderment. “How in Merlin’s name did you do that?”
Behind him, the stag transformed into James Potter, pushing his glasses up his nose as he stared at the now-docile werewolf. Peter Pettigrew, small and nervous, remained in rat form, peeking out from behind James’s leg.
You didn’t answer Sirius. Instead, you turned your attention back to the werewolf, gently running your hands over its fur, checking for injuries. There were a few shallow scratches along its flank, probably from crashing through the shack’s door or the underbrush outside. Your fingers came away smudged with dried blood.
“He’s hurt,” you murmured, more to yourself than to the boys. You pulled a handkerchief from your pocket 一always carrying one, a habit from helping in the greenhouses一 and dabbed carefully at the wounds. The werewolf remained still, its breathing even.
James stepped closer, his expression shifting from shock to concern. “He always gets a bit banged up on full moons,” he said quietly. “We try to keep him contained, but… tonight was different.”
Sirius was still staring at you. “You just… commanded him. Like he was a trained crup. How?”
You kept your focus on the werewolf, avoiding his eyes. “Does it matter right now? He’s calm. That’s what’s important.” Your voice remained low. “Is this… someone I know?”
Sirius and James exchanged a loaded glance. James sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Yeah,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically solemn. “It’s Remus.”
Your breath caught. Remus Lupin. The quiet, bookish prefect with the warm smile and tired eyes. The one who’d always been kind to you in the library, who’d lent you his notes for Charms last year. The boy who’d had a very obvious mild crush on you before… before whatever this was.
You looked at the werewolf 一at Remus一 with new understanding. The scars you’d sometimes glimpsed on his hands, the absences every month, the exhaustion. It all clicked into place with a heavy, aching clarity.
“Oh,” you whispered, your hand still resting on his shoulder. “Remus.”
The werewolf 一Remus一 tilted his head, amber eyes meeting yours. There was a flicker of recognition in them, a hint of the boy beneath the beast.
Sirius crouched down beside you, his usual bravado softened by the gravity of the moment. “We’ve been helping him since second year. Becoming animagi so he wouldn’t be alone. Tonight… we didn’t expect company.”
You looked from Remus’s wolf-form to Sirius, meeting his wary gaze. “Your secret’s safe with me,” you said quietly, the words firm and deliberate.
Sirius studied you for a long moment, his grey eyes searching yours. Then he nodded, a slow, relieved exhale escaping him. “Thanks, Rakes.”
James let out a breath he seemed to have been holding. “We’ve never had someone else find out,” he admitted, sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor. “Not like this.”
Peter transformed back into himself, wringing his hands. “D’you think… d’you think he’ll remember any of this tomorrow?”
You glanced at Remus, who had laid his head on his paws, eyes half-closed. The moon was still high, silver light slicing through the broken roof. “I don’t know,” you said honestly. “But he’s calm now. That’s something.”
Sirius leaned against the wall, watching you with a curious tilt to his head. “You’re taking this surprisingly well. Most people would’ve screamed and run for Dumbledore.”
You shrugged, your hand still resting on Remus’s fur. “I’ve seen stranger things.”
You glanced at the three boys 一Sirius, James, and Peter一 then back at the massive, quiet wolf beside you. “How did you become animagi?” you asked, curiosity outweighing caution. “That’s… incredibly advanced magic. And illegal without registration.”
Sirius grinned, some of his usual swagger returning. “Took us three years,” he said, leaning forward. “Started in second year, right after we figured out what was happening to Moony. We nicked books from the Restricted Section, practiced in secret. Nearly blew ourselves up a few times.”
James nodded, pushing his glasses up. “Peter’s transformation was the trickiest 一kept getting stuck with a rat’s tail and human ears for weeks.”
You smiled at the thought. Peter flushed, but he managed a small smile. “Was worth it, though. So Remus wouldn’t have to be alone.”
You felt a pang of admiration for their loyalty. “That’s… really brave,” you said softly. “And incredibly stupid.”
Sirius laughed, a short, genuine sound. “That’s us. Brave and stupid.”
Remus let out a low huff, as if in agreement. His eyes were closed now, his breathing deep and even. The moon was beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, the silver light in the shack softening to a pale grey.
You glanced toward the broken slats in the roof. The sky outside was shifting from deep indigo to a soft, predawn grey, the stars fading one by one. “Dawn’s near,” you said quietly.
Sirius followed your gaze, his expression sobering. “Yeah. He’ll change back soon.”
James moved to Remus’s side, placing a hand on the wolf’s shoulder. “It’s always rough right before the transformation reverses. He gets disoriented.”
As if on cue, Remus began to stir. A low whine escaped him, and his body trembled 一 a shudder that ran from his snout to the tip of his tail. The coarse fur seemed to ripple, then slowly recede. Bones cracked and reshaped with soft, sickening pops. You looked away, giving him privacy, though you kept a hand resting lightly on his back until the tremors subsided.
When you looked back, Remus Lupin lay curled on the dusty floorboards, pale and shivering in his torn clothes. He was human again, eyes closed, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Scratches and bruises marked his skin, and there was a fresh cut along his jaw.
Peter hurried over with a blanket from a hidden stash in the corner, draping it over Remus. James conjured a cup of water, holding it carefully to Remus’s lips.
Sirius watched you, his gaze thoughtful. “You stayed,” he said, not quite a question.
You helped Remus sit up, draping the blanket more securely around his shoulders. His eyes fluttered open 一confused, hazy一 and he blinked at you. “Rakes?” he rasped.
“Here,” you said softly, pulling a spare robe from James’s extended hand and helping Remus into it. He fumbled with the sleeves, his movements weak.
Sirius crossed his arms, his earlier gratitude shifting into something sharper. “Alright, Rakes. You’ve seen everything. Now we want answers. How did you calm him like that?”
You stared at him, baffled by the sudden demand. To calm your nerves, you took a slow breath. Your gaze moved from Sirius to James, then to Remus, who was watching you with tired but attentive eyes. “I’ll tell you,” you said, your voice steady. “But you have to swear to keep it secret. All of you. On your magic, or your loyalty, or whatever you hold dear.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, but he gave a curt nod. “Sworn.”
“Sworn,” James echoed, more solemnly.
Peter squeaked, “Sworn!”
Remus simply nodded, his expression earnest.
“My mother is a siren,” you said, the words feeling strange and heavy in the quiet shack. “Not a myth. A real one. I’m half-siren. That’s why I can… influence creatures. Command them, to a degree. It’s not magic, not exactly. It’s inherited.”
Sirius’s eyes widened. “Blimey. A siren? Like, the singing, luring-sailors-to-their-death kind?”
“The same,” you confirmed. “But they don’t do that anymore. We just… have a way with animals. And magical beasts, apparently.” You glanced at Remus. “It’s why I could calm you. I didn’t mean to intrude. I just… had a feeling about this place.”
Remus offered a faint, grateful smile. “Intruding might’ve been the best thing that’s happened on a full moon in years,” he said quietly. “I’ve never been that calm before. Not since… well, ever.”
James rubbed the back of his neck. “So you’re half-magical creature. And we’re illegal animagi hiding a werewolf. We’re quite the bunch, aren’t we?”
The good kind of snakes (Sirius Black fic): Fifth Chapter
Summary: Cecily Tash has managed to embarrass herself by asking Sirius Black out, only to be almost cruelly turned down because she's a Slytherin. Weeks later, the situation turned 180 degrees after she manhandled his mother when Walburga tried to hit him. Now, Cecily has to deal with the strangeness of having the most sought-after bachelor in Hogwarts trying to get her attention.
Pairings: sirius x original female character
Words: 2.9k
Warnings: kissing?
Author's note: The end of another story :') Reminder that this was mostly created with GlimmerFics AI.
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER THIRD CHAPTER FOURTH CHAPTER FIFTH CHAPTER
The following week passed in a strange, new rhythm. Sirius didn't bombard Cecily Tash with gifts or dramatic declarations. Instead, he found her. He'd fall into step with her between classes, stealing a segment of her walk to the greenhouses. He'd save her a seat in the back of the library during a shared free period, wordlessly pushing a book on advanced Charms theory toward her when she sat down. It was quiet, persistent, and surprisingly respectful.
The change was noticed, of course. In the Slytherin common room one evening, Fabian leaned against the mantelpiece, watching Cecily review her notes.
“He's being... almost tolerable,” Fabian observed, his tone carefully neutral.
“He's trying,” Cecily said without looking up from her parchment, where she was diagramming the properties of moonstone for Potions.
Fabian made a noncommittal sound. “Trying what, exactly? To prove he's not the arrogant berk he's been for six years?”
“To be different,” she said simply, finally setting her quill down and meeting his gaze. “And he is. He's not throwing hexes in the corridors or staging elaborate pranks on Slytherins. He's just... there.”
“Like a very large, very handsome shadow,” Fabian drawled, but there was no real malice in it. He pushed off the mantel and came to sit in the armchair opposite her. “Emmeline is convinced he's going to propose any day now. She's already planning your wedding colors.”
Cecily allowed herself a small smile. “Tell her to hold off. Black and silver are terribly overdone.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the portrait hole swinging open. Sirius himself stepped through, looking slightly out of place in the green-tinged light of the Slytherin common room. He spotted them immediately and made his way over, ignoring the stares from a group of fourth-years playing Exploding Snap by the fire.
“Tash,” he said, nodding to Fabian. “Avery.”
Fabian raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Sirius turned his attention fully to Cecily. “I was in the library. Pince said you'd just left. I, uh…” He held out a small, folded square of parchment. “Found this. Thought you might need it for your Arithmancy essay. It's a chart on lunar phases and their magical coefficients from 1500-1600. Binns mentioned it yesterday, but he never said where to find it.”
Cecily took the parchment. It was indeed a meticulously copied chart, in handwriting that was surprisingly neat. It was useful, thoughtful, and completely devoid of romantic grandstanding. It was, in its own way, the most sincere thing he'd ever given her.
Cecily glanced at Fabian, then back to Sirius. “You're in the snake pit, Black. Brave.”
Sirius shrugged, a faint smirk touching his lips. “I've faced worse. My mother, for one.” He didn't look around at the common room, but his posture was alert, aware of every pair of eyes on him. “Besides, I had a legitimate academic reason. Pince practically escorted me to the door.”
Fabian finally spoke, his voice smooth. “How civic-minded of you. And here I thought you just enjoyed trespassing.”
“Multitasking,” Sirius said, his eyes still on Cecily. “So. Useful?”
She unfolded the chart. The lunar phases were plotted with precise, inked lines, and the accompanying coefficients were noted in a clear, scholarly hand. It was, undeniably, exactly what she needed. “Very,” she said, and meant it. She looked up at him. “Thank you.”
Something in his expression relaxed, a subtle victory. “Good.” He shifted his weight, as if unsure what to do now that his mission was accomplished. The social script for this situation 一a Gryffindor in the Slytherin common room after curfew一 didn't exist.
Fabian watched the exchange with an indecipherable expression, then stood. “Well, I have a prefect's round. Don't let the portraits catch you skulking, Black. They gossip.” He gave Cecily a brief, meaningful look before heading for the portrait hole.
Once he was gone, the space felt different. Sirius let out a breath he seemed to have been holding. “He doesn't like me.”
“He doesn't trust you," Cecily corrected, refolding the chart. “There's a difference.”
“And you?” Sirius asked, taking a half-step closer. The firelight caught the grey of his eyes. “Do you trust me yet?”
Cecily reached out and briefly touched his arm, just above the wrist. The contact was light, but it stilled him completely. “You're here, aren't you?” she said.
Sirius looked down at her hand on his sleeve, then back up at her face. The smirk was gone, replaced by something raw and open. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low. “I am.”
For a moment, they just stood there in the flickering greenish light, the murmur of the common room around them fading to a distant hum. The touch was a simple thing, but in the charged space of the Slytherin common room, with its history of house rivalry and his own notorious past, it felt like a declaration.
He covered her hand with his own, his fingers warm. “It's not just about being here,” he said quietly. “It's about wanting to be. With you.”
From across the room, a loud, deliberate cough broke the spell. Clementine Greengrass was watching them from a sofa, her expression a mix of amusement and warning.
Sirius dropped his hand, stepping back with a rueful twist of his mouth. “Right. Snake pit. I should…” He gestured vaguely toward the exit. But he didn't move immediately, waiting for her dismissal, or perhaps her permission to stay just a moment longer.
Cecily walked with him to the portrait hole. The stone wall swung open at their approach, revealing the dimly lit corridor beyond. “I'll see you tomorrow,” she said.
Sirius paused on the threshold, the boundary between her world and his. He gave her one last, long look, as if memorizing the scene 一 her standing in the emerald light, the chart still in her hand. “Tomorrow,” he echoed, a promise in the word.
Then he was gone, the portrait of the sleeping wizard swinging shut behind him with a soft thud.
Cecily turned back to the common room. The attention she'd felt earlier had mostly dissipated, though Clementine was still watching her with a speculative gleam in her eye. Cecily ignored it, returning to her armchair by the fire. She smoothed the lunar chart on her knee, her fingers tracing the neat lines of ink. It was a good chart. Thoughtful.
The next day, he found her after Charms, just as he'd said he would. They fell into an easy rhythm over the following week. Sirius would appear during her free periods, sometimes with a book he thought she'd like, sometimes just to walk with her to her next class. He was persistent but never pushy, his earlier grand gestures replaced by this quiet, consistent presence.
The novelty of Sirius Black courting a Slytherin began to wear off for the general student body, replaced by other gossip. But within their own circles, the shift was permanent. The Marauders treated her as a fixture now, James greeting her with a loud “Tash!” in the corridors. In the Slytherin common room, her friends had stopped making pointed comments, though Fabian's watchful silence remained.
One afternoon, Cecily was in the library finishing a Transfiguration essay when Sirius slid into the seat beside her. He didn't say anything, just pulled out his own parchment and began to write. They worked in companionable silence for nearly an hour, the only sounds the scratch of quills and the distant whisper of Madam Pince patrolling the stacks.
Finally, Sirius set his quill down and stretched, his chair creaking. “Quidditch pitch,” he said, apropos of nothing. “Tonight. After dinner. Just to walk. No Marauders, no Slytherins. What do you think?”
“Why the pitch?” Cecily asked, curious.
Sirius leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face. “It's quiet. Open. No portraits to eavesdrop, no house banners hanging over our heads.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the library's high windows, where grey afternoon light filtered through. “And... I like it there. At night, when it's empty. You can see all the stars. Reminds me why I left.”
The last part was said quietly, almost to himself. It was another piece of the puzzle he was slowly offering her 一 not just his rebellious present, but the reasons behind it.
He turned back to her, his expression earnest. “We don't have to fly or anything. Just walk. Talk. Without an audience for once.”
It was a vulnerable invitation, stripped of his usual bravado. The Quidditch pitch was neutral ground, belonging to no single house, yet deeply tied to the school's competitive heart. Meeting there after dark was a risk, but it was a risk he was asking her to share, not one he was taking for her.
“Alright,” Cecily said, closing her Transfiguration textbook. “After dinner.”
Sirius's face lit up with a smile that was pure, unguarded relief. “Good,” he said, the single word carrying more weight than a dozen grand declarations. He gathered his things, his movements suddenly brisk. “I'll meet you at the base of the stands. The Gryffindor side. Less... obvious.”
They parted ways at the library doors, Sirius heading toward the tower, Cecily toward the dungeons. Dinner in the Great Hall that evening felt charged with a new kind of anticipation. She ate with Emmeline and Portia, listening to their chatter about N.E.W.T. revisions and the latest Witch Weekly article on Celestina Warbeck, all while acutely aware of the time ticking by.
At the Gryffindor table, Sirius was uncharacteristically quiet, picking at his shepherd's pie. James kept shooting him curious looks, but for once, Sirius didn't seem inclined to share.
When the meal ended, Cecily made her excuses and slipped out of the Hall. The late February air was biting as she crossed the grounds, her breath forming pale clouds. The Quidditch pitch loomed ahead, its three towering hoops silhouetted against a deep indigo sky just beginning to show the first stars.
Sirius was already there, leaning against one of the wooden support beams at the base of the stands. He straightened as she approached, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket.
“You came,” he said, as if he'd half-expected her not to.
“You asked,” she replied, stopping a few feet away.
The pitch was utterly still. The grass was damp with evening dew, and the only sound was the distant hoot of an owl from the Forbidden Forest. It was a vast, open space, but with just the two of them there, it felt strangely intimate.
Cecily reached out and took his hand. His fingers were cold, but they curled around hers immediately, warm and sure. “You complained on our first date that I was too touchy with Fabian,” she said, a small smile playing on her lips. “Thought you'd feel better if I became touchy with you.”
Sirius let out a soft, startled laugh, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “You remembered that?”
“I remember everything, Black. It's a curse.”
“Not a curse,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to their joined hands before lifting back to her face. “Not to me.” He didn't let go. Instead, he began walking, pulling her gently along the perimeter of the pitch. The grass whispered under their feet.
They walked in silence for a while, hands linked, the vast emptiness of the stadium wrapping around them. The tension that had been present in the common room, in the library, even at the Three Broomsticks, seemed to dissolve here under the open sky.
“James thinks I've gone mad,” Sirius said eventually, his voice quiet in the stillness. “Remus thinks it's poetic. Peter's just confused.”
“And what do you think?” she asked.
He stopped walking and turned to face her. In the starlight, his grey eyes looked almost silver. “I think,” he said slowly, “that for the first time in my life, I don't care what anyone thinks. I just know I want to be right here.”
He was close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath in the cold air. The moment stretched, fragile and significant. Cecily leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn't a tentative first kiss. It was sure and deliberate, her free hand coming up to rest against the side of his face. Sirius went still for a heartbeat, then his arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer as he kissed her back with a hunger that matched her own.
The cold night air vanished, replaced by the warmth of his mouth, the solid feel of his chest against hers, the faint scent of leather and something uniquely him. His fingers tangled in her hair, gentle but possessive. When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing a little faster, their foreheads resting together.
“Okay,” Sirius whispered, his voice rough. “That was... definitely better.”
Cecily smiled against his lips. “I thought you might think so.”
He kissed her again, softer this time, a slow exploration that made her stomach flutter. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark and serious. “Cecily,” he said, her name sounding like a vow on his tongue.
He didn't need to say anything else. The way he looked at her said everything 一 the months of watching from afar, the weeks of trying to be someone worthy of her attention, the sheer, terrifying hope that this was real.
From somewhere in the distance, a familiar, grating meow cut through the quiet. Mrs. Norris. A moment later, they could see the bobbing light of a lantern approaching from the castle.
Cecily grabbed his arm and pulled him into the deep shadows beneath the wooden stands. The space was cramped and smelled of damp earth and old wood. They pressed against the rough support beams, listening as the meowing grew louder and the lantern light swept across the grass where they'd just been standing.
Filch's wheezing grumble reached them. “Nothing, my sweet. Probably just some students out past curfew again.” Mrs. Norris gave a dissatisfied yowl. The lantern beam swung closer, illuminating the edge of their hiding spot.
Sirius's arm tightened around Cecily's waist, holding her still. His breath was warm against her temple. They stayed frozen as the caretaker shuffled past, muttering about dungbombs and detentions. The light receded, moving toward the far end of the pitch.
Only when the sounds had faded completely did Sirius let out a slow breath. “Close,” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear.
In the near-total darkness, every sense felt heightened. The solid warmth of him against her side, the rapid beat of his heart she could feel through his jacket, the shared, silent triumph of not getting caught.
He turned his head, his nose nudging hers. “You're good at this,” he murmured, a smile in his voice.
Cecily turned her face toward his in the dark. “You're not so bad at this either.”
She felt rather than saw his smile. “Years of practice,” he whispered, his voice low and intimate in the confined space. “Though usually I'm the one being chased, not hiding.”
They stayed like that for another minute, listening to the distant sounds of the castle settling in for the night. The adrenaline from the near-capture was fading, replaced by a different kind of awareness 一 the warmth of his body against hers, the way his thumb was tracing slow circles on her hip.
“Filch is probably doing his rounds of the greenhouses by now,” Sirius said finally, his breath stirring her hair. “We could make a run for it. Or…” He paused. “We could stay here a bit longer.”
The implication hung between them, unspoken but clear. Going back meant returning to their separate houses, to the watchful eyes and expectations. Staying here, in this hidden pocket of darkness, meant more of this 一 just them.
Cecily kissed him again instead of answering.
This time, he seemed prepared. His hands came up to cradle her face, his fingers threading through her hair as he deepened the kiss. The world narrowed to the taste of him, the feel of his mouth moving against hers, the solid press of his body in the cool, earthy darkness. It was hungry and tender all at once, a silent conversation that said more than words ever could.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing heavily, foreheads resting together once more.
“That's a pretty clear answer.” Sirius whispered, his voice rough with emotion.
She could feel his smile against her lips. They stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped in each other and the quiet of the night. The distant sounds of the castle felt like they belonged to another world entirely.
Eventually, he sighed, a contented sound. “We should probably go back before they send a search party. Or worse, before James decides to come looking for me with his Invisibility Cloak.”
He took her hand again, his grip firm and sure. “Come on. I'll walk you to the dungeons. Properly this time, not just to the portrait hole.”
They emerged from beneath the stands into the crisp night air. The stars were fully out now, a brilliant tapestry overhead. Sirius kept her hand in his as they walked back toward the castle, their footsteps silent on the dew-soaked grass. The journey back felt different from the one out 一 lighter, easier, as if some unspoken weight had been lifted.
At the entrance to the dungeons, he stopped. “Tomorrow?” he asked, echoing how they departed weeks ago, though it wasn't really a question.
“Tomorrow,” she confirmed.
He leaned in and kissed her once more, a soft, lingering press of his lips to hers. “Goodnight, Sissi.”
“Goodnight, Sirius.”
She watched him go, a tall, confident silhouette moving through the torchlit corridors until he turned a corner and disappeared. Only then did she whisper the password to the sleeping wizard and slip back into the green-lit common room.
The good kind of snakes (Sirius Black fic): Fourth Chapter
Summary: Cecily Tash has managed to embarrass herself by asking Sirius Black out, only to be almost cruelly turned down because she's a Slytherin. Weeks later, the situation turned 180 degrees after she manhandled his mother when Walburga tried to hit him. Now, Cecily has to deal with the strangeness of having the most sought-after bachelor in Hogwarts trying to get her attention.
Pairings: sirius x original female character
Words: 3.2k
Warnings: none
Author's note: Longer chapter because my babies are finally going on a date! Reminder that this was mostly created with GlimmerFics AI.
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER THIRD CHAPTER FOURTH CHAPTER FIFTH CHAPTER
Saturday arrived with a crisp, clear autumn chill. At three o'clock precisely, Cecily Tash found Sirius waiting at the castle gates, leaning against the stone archway. He wasn't surrounded by his usual crowd of Marauders; he was alone. He'd made an effort 一 his leather jacket was clean, his dark hair was less artfully tousled and more deliberately styled, and he held himself with a nervous energy that was entirely new.
“Cecily,” he said, pushing off the wall as she approached. “You're on time.”
Cecily looked him over appraisingly, her eyes taking in the cleaned jacket and the less chaotic hair. “You cleaned up.”
A faint, self-conscious smile touched his lips. “Tried to,” he admitted, falling into step beside her as they started down the winding path toward Hogsmeade. “Didn't want to look like I'd just crawled out of the Whomping Willow.”
The walk was initially quiet, the only sounds their footsteps on the gravel path and the distant calls of birds. The tension from the castle gates began to ease into something more companionable, though the air still hummed with unspoken curiosity.
“So,” Sirius said after a few minutes, glancing at her. “Hogsmeade. Anywhere you particularly want to go? Or shall we just... wander?”
The question was open-ended, giving her control. It was another departure from the Sirius she knew 一 the one who usually charged ahead with his own plans.
“Surprise me,” Cecily said, curious to see what he'd choose.
Sirius's eyebrows lifted, a flicker of his old confidence returning. “Alright,” he said, a slow grin spreading. “But no complaining if you hate it.”
He led her not to the bustling main street first, but down a narrower lane that curved behind the shops. The sounds of the village faded, replaced by the rustle of dry leaves underfoot. They stopped at a small, unassuming wooden building with a sign that read Puddifoot's Postscripts & Peculiarities. It was a stationery shop, but one that clearly catered to a magical clientele. Through the window, Cecily could see quills that dipped themselves into inkwells and parchment that subtly changed patterns.
“Puddifoot managed to have cultured relatives not interested in sparkles?” she said sarcastically, glancing at him.
“Apparently,” he smiled at her comment. “Old Puddifoot collects weird writing stuff from all over. Come on.”
He held the door open for her. Inside, the shop was a cozy chaos of shelves stacked with parchment rolls, jars of shimmering inks, and cages of colorful, preening birds whose feathers were used for quills. An elderly witch with spectacles perched on the end of her nose looked up from behind a counter.
“Mr. Black,” she said, her voice like rustling paper. “Back for more of that Icelandic volcanic ash ink? I told you, it's temperamental.”
“Of course, Agnes,” Sirius said, his tone surprisingly respectful.
Agnes's sharp eyes landed on Cecily, taking in her Slytherin robes. Her expression didn't change, but she gave a small, approving nod before returning to her ledger to prepare the mentioned ink.
Sirius led Cecily to a display of what looked like ordinary, grey river stones. “Watch,” he said. He picked one up and breathed on it. The stone warmed in his hand, and delicate, silvery lines began to spread across its surface like frost, forming intricate, ever-changing patterns. “Memory stones. They don't store memories, they just... react to warmth and intention. The patterns are unique every time. My brother sent me one, two years ago.”
He said it casually, but the mention of Regulus was deliberate, a small offering of personal history. He placed the stone back on the velvet cushion, the patterns fading as it cooled.
Cecily looked from the fading stone to Sirius. “I never pegged Regulus to be the sentimental type.”
Sirius's expression became carefully neutral, but he didn't look away. “It was just after I'd left. Didn't say much in the note, just that he'd found it in Father's study and thought I might like it.” He gave a small, humorless shrug. “Probably the last civil thing that passed between us before he decided I was a blood traitor and a disgrace.”
He said it matter-of-factly, but the undercurrent was there 一 a complicated mix of loss, resentment, and a lingering thread of something softer. He was trusting her with a piece of his fractured family history, something far more intimate than a charmed rose.
Cecily watched the careful neutrality settle over his features. “Regulus doesn't think that of you,” she said, her voice low but firm in the quiet shop. “He's smart, and anyone with eyes can tell he loves you still.”
Sirius went very still. The casual mask he'd been wearing since mentioning his brother slipped, revealing raw, startled vulnerability beneath. He stared at her, his grey eyes searching hers as if trying to decipher a complex spell.
“How would you know that?” he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I pay attention,” Cecily replied simply. “I've seen him watch you in the Great Hall. It's not hatred. It's... conflict. And regret.” She paused, considering her next words. “He's a Slytherin, a Black. In my house, love often looks like silence.”
Sirius let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair, undoing some of his careful styling. He looked away, his gaze drifting to the memory stone, now cold and grey. “Silence,” he repeated, the word tasting bitter. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
For a long moment, he said nothing else, lost in his own thoughts. Then he shook his head slightly, as if clearing it, and turned back to her. The vulnerability was still there, but now it was accompanied by a new, profound respect. “You don't miss much, do you, Tash?”
Agnes coughed politely from behind the counter. “The ash ink has settled, Mr. Black. If you're still interested, it should behave now.”
Sirius seemed to shake off the moment. “Right. Thanks, Agnes.” He glanced back at Cecily. “Want to see something that can literally burn a hole through your parchment if you look at it wrong?”
He led her to a corner of the shop where a single, thick glass vial sat on a lead-lined stand. The ink inside was a deep, ominous black that seemed to swallow the light, with faint, fiery red veins pulsing slowly within it, like cooled lava.
“From Hekla,” Agnes said, appearing beside them without a sound. “It's not just for show. The ash is magically reactive. Write with it, and the words retain a trace of the volcano's temperament. They can feel warm to the touch days later. Or, if the writer was particularly angry or passionate, they can actually singe the page.”
Sirius picked up a scrap of practice parchment and a simple quill. “Watch.” He dipped the nib carefully into the vial Agnes had uncorked. The ink clung to it, shimmering. He wrote a single word: Incendio. The letters glowed a dull red for a second before settling into a fierce, permanent black. He held the parchment out to Cecily. “Touch it.”
She did. The word was distinctly warm, like a stone left in the sun. A faint, smoky scent of copper and earth rose from the page.
“Impressive,” she admitted. “And dangerous.”
“That's the best part,” Sirius said, his grin returning, though it was softer now. “So, Tash. Fancy a vial? Could make your Potions notes more exciting.”
“Why not?” Cecily said, reaching for her coin purse.
Sirius looked genuinely surprised, then pleased. Agnes, however, held up a warning hand. “A small vial only, Miss. And you must keep it in the lead-lined pouch I provide. It's not a toy.”
“Understood,” Cecily said, counting out the required Sickles.
Agnes produced a tiny, thick-walled glass vial, filled it precisely from the larger container, and stoppered it with a cork sealed with wax. She then placed it in a soft, grey pouch that felt unnaturally heavy. “There. Don't say I didn't warn you.”
Cecily slipped the pouch into her robe pocket, feeling its subtle warmth against her side. As they left the quiet shop and stepped back into the crisp afternoon air of the lane, Sirius fell into step beside her.
“So,” he said, his hands in his jacket pockets. “You're officially the owner of a substance that could, theoretically, set your homework on fire. I feel like I've corrupted you.”
The main street of Hogsmeade was bustling now, filled with students enjoying their weekend. The Three Broomsticks was particularly crowded, its windows fogged with warmth and laughter.
“I was already corrupted,” Cecily said, a faint, dry smile touching her lips. “Shall we get a drink?”
Sirius's grin was immediate and brilliant. “Thought you'd never ask.” He gestured toward the Three Broomsticks. “Prepare for stares. And possibly an interrogation from my fan club.”
The pub was indeed packed, the air thick with the smell of butterbeer, firewhisky, and woodsmoke. A roar of conversation and laughter hit them as they entered. As Sirius had predicted, dozens of heads turned. The sight of Sirius Black with Cecily Tash 一and not just with her, but holding the door for her, his posture attentive一 sent a ripple of shock and gossip through the room. Cecily spotted Marlene McKinnon at a table with Dorcas and Lily Evans; Marlene's jaw was practically on the floor. James Potter, sitting with Remus and Peter near the fireplace, gave Sirius an exaggerated thumbs-up that Sirius pointedly ignored.
Sirius navigated them to a miraculously free small table in a corner, away from the worst of the gawking. “Butterbeer?” he asked, already flagging down Madam Rosmerta.
“Please.”
He returned with two foaming tankards, sliding into the seat opposite her. The noise provided a cocoon of relative privacy. He took a long drink, then set his tankard down, his expression turning thoughtful as he looked at her.
“A stationery shop and a pub,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “Not exactly the grand, romantic tour I'm sure Fabian would have planned.”
The mention of Fabian was deliberate, a light probe wrapped in casual observation. His gaze was steady, waiting to see how she'd react to the comparison 一 and to the subtle claim he was staking.
“Fabian knows better than to plan my tours,” Cecily replied, taking a measured sip of her butterbeer. The foam left a faint, sweet mustache on her upper lip, which she wiped away with the back of her hand, a gesture so unselfconscious it made Sirius's smile widen.
“Good,” he said, the word carrying more weight than its simplicity suggested. He relaxed back in his chair, the tension from his probe easing. “What's the verdict so far? On the tour, I mean. Not on me. I'm saving that interrogation for later.”
Before she could answer, a shadow fell across their table. They both looked up to see Fabian Avery himself standing there, flanked by Emmeline Vance. Fabian's expression was a masterpiece of Slytherin composure 一 mildly amused, slightly curious, and utterly unreadable. Emmeline looked like she was trying very hard not to squeal.
“Black,” Fabian said, his tone neutral. “Sissi. Fancy seeing you here.” His gaze flicked between them, lingering on the intimate corner table. “We were just heading out. Don't let us interrupt.”
Sirius's posture had stiffened almost imperceptibly. He didn't stand, but he gave a curt nod. “Avery. Vance.”
Emmeline shot Cecily a wide-eyed, meaningful look that clearly said we need to talk later, before Fabian gently steered her away toward the door. The brief encounter was over in seconds, but the air at their table had shifted.
Sirius watched them leave, his jaw tight. When he turned back to Cecily, his grey eyes were guarded. “See? Even the idea of him planning your tours gets under my skin.” He said it like a confession, and a challenge.
Cecily leaned forward, lowering her voice so only he could hear over the pub's din. “Fabian is my friend. That's all.”
Sirius held her gaze for a long moment, the conflict clear in his eyes. He wanted to believe her, but the possessiveness 一new and unfamiliar to him一 was a stubborn beast. Finally, he let out a slow breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “I know,” he admitted, the words sounding dragged out of him. “It's just... you're close. Physically. You touch his arm when you laugh. You stand shoulder-to-shoulder like you're sharing secrets. I've never seen you do that with anyone else.”
He was watching her with a startling intensity, laying his insecurity bare without any of his usual bravado as armor. It was a raw honesty that felt more significant than any grand romantic gesture.
Before she could formulate a response, a booming voice cut through the noise. There really was no privacy in this pub. “Black! There you are!”
James Potter had abandoned his table and was weaving through the crowd toward them, Remus and Peter trailing behind with apologetic looks. James clapped a heavy hand on Sirius's shoulder, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he took in the scene. “We've been waiting for you to finish your... stationery shopping,” he said, the words dripping with implication. “Are you going to introduce us properly to your date, or are you planning to keep her all to yourself?”
Sirius shot James a look that was half-annoyance, half-resignation. The moment of private confession was shattered, replaced by the overwhelming, boisterous presence of the Marauders.
Cecily addressed James directly. “Potter. I see your manners haven't improved.”
James's grin only widened, utterly unrepentant. “Tash! And here I was, thinking you'd softened up since you started saving first-years and fixing Pete's potions.” He pulled over a chair from a neighboring table without asking and plopped down, forcing Sirius to scoot over. Remus gave Cecily a small, apologetic smile as he and Peter took the remaining seats, effectively boxing them in.
“James,” Sirius said, his voice a low warning.
“What? We're just being sociable!” James protested, flagging down Rosmerta for another round. “It's not every day our Padfoot goes on a proper date. We have to vet his choices. Standard procedure.”
Remus sighed. “Ignore him, Cecily. He's been insufferable all week.”
Peter nodded eagerly, his eyes darting between Cecily and Sirius with nervous fascination. “It's true. He made a chart.”
Sirius buried his face in his hands with a groan. “Merlin, kill me now.”
James leaned toward Cecily, his expression turning theatrically serious. “So, Tash. Important question. Quidditch: do you actually watch it, or do you just go to socialize and criticize everyone's flying form?”
The question was a test, wrapped in James's particular brand of chaotic goodwill. All three Marauders 一even Sirius, peeking through his fingers一 waited for her answer. The dynamic was clear: this was her initiation into their orbit, whether she wanted it or not.
“I watch it,” Cecily said, taking another sip of butterbeer. “And I do criticize the form. Yours is particularly flamboyant, Potter.”
A beat of stunned silence was followed by James's explosive laugh. He slapped the table, making the tankards jump. “Ha! You hear that, lads? She's got my number!” He looked at Sirius with newfound respect. “Alright, she passes.”
Remus smiled, a real one this time. “She's not wrong, James. You do show off.”
“Of course I show off! I'm the Captain!” James declared, puffing out his chest. “It's called leadership! Inspiration!”
“It's called giving the Slytherin Beaters a clear target,” Peter mumbled into his drink, then flinched as if expecting a hex.
Sirius, who had been watching the exchange with a mix of dread and fascination, finally spoke. “See? I told you she was observant.” He said it to James, but his eyes were on Cecily, warm with pride.
The dynamic shifted. The interrogation was over; Cecily had been accepted, or at least tolerated, by the inner circle. James launched into a detailed analysis of the upcoming Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match, demanding Cecily's opinion on Avery's Beater strategy. The conversation flowed into general Quidditch talk, then to O.W.L. results, then to the latest ridiculous decree from Filch about polishing doorknobs.
An hour slipped by. The butterbeers were replaced with a round of firewhisky (which Cecily declined). The pub grew warmer, noisier. At one point, Sirius's knee brushed against hers under the small table. He didn't pull away, and neither did she.
Eventually, Remus checked his watch. “We should head back if we want to catch dinner in the Great Hall.”
James groaned. “Fine, fine. Come on, lovebirds. You can gaze into each other's eyes on the walk back.”
The group spilled out into the cool twilight. The walk back to Hogwarts was markedly different from the tense, quiet journey down. James and Peter walked ahead, arguing about Chudley Cannons' latest loss. Remus walked beside them, occasionally offering a dry comment. Sirius fell into step with Cecily, his hands in his pockets.
“That wasn't so bad, was it?” he asked, glancing at her.
Cecily stayed silent for a moment, the sounds of their friends' bickering and the crunch of gravel underfoot filling the space between them. Then she said, “I had fun today.”
Sirius looked at her, the fading twilight softening his sharp features. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice quiet. “Even with the interrogation squad crashing it?”
“Even so,” she confirmed. “The ink was a good choice. And the company wasn't terrible.”
He huffed a soft laugh. “High praise.” He walked beside her for a few more paces, the castle gates coming into view ahead, lit by floating lanterns. “For what it's worth... thank you for saying yes.”
They reached the point where the path forked 一 one way toward the main entrance, the other curving around toward the greenhouses and the lake. James, Remus, and Peter had already veered toward the doors, James shouting a backward, “Don't do anything I wouldn't do!”
Sirius ignored him, stopping and turning to face her fully. The playful energy from the pub was gone, replaced by a more serious, searching look. “So,” he said. “What now?”
The question was open-ended, hanging in the cool evening air. It wasn't just about walking her to the Slytherin dungeons or making plans for next weekend. It was about whatever this was between them 一 the tentative bridge they'd built over house divisions, past reputations, and his own chaotic history.
“We see each other again,” Cecily said. “If you want to.”
Sirius's expression softened, the last traces of uncertainty melting away. “I want to,” he said, the words simple and sure. He didn't reach for her hand or try to kiss her. He just stood there, looking at her as if she were the answer to a question he'd been asking for years. “Next Hogsmeade weekend?”
“That's three weeks away.”
“And? We go to the same school. I'll find you.” He said it like it was the easiest thing in the world, and for him, with his talent for causing scenes and his disregard for rules, it probably was.
They began walking again, this time toward the castle's main doors. The silence between them was comfortable, filled with the unspoken agreement they'd just made. As they approached the Entrance Hall, the sounds of the castle on a Saturday evening enveloped them 一 echoing footsteps, distant laughter, the portraits gossiping.
At the top of the staircase that led down to the dungeons, Cecily stopped. “This is me.”
Sirius nodded, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Right.” He hesitated, then gave her a small, genuine smile. “Goodnight, Tash.”
“Goodnight, Black.”
She turned and started down the stone steps. She'd only gone a few when his voice floated after her, quiet but clear.
“Hey, Cecily?”
She paused and looked back up. He was still standing at the top, silhouetted against the torchlight from the hall.
“Just... thanks, again. For today. For all of it.”
The good kind of snakes (Sirius Black fic): Third Chapter
Summary: Cecily Tash has managed to embarrass herself by asking Sirius Black out, only to be almost cruelly turned down because she's a Slytherin. Weeks later, the situation turned 180 degrees after she manhandled his mother when Walburga tried to hit him. Now, Cecily has to deal with the strangeness of having the most sought-after bachelor in Hogwarts trying to get her attention.
Pairings: sirius x original female character
Words: 2.3k
Warnings: none
Author's note: No more beating around the bushes for them. Reminder that this was mostly created with GlimmerFics AI.
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER THIRD CHAPTER FOURTH CHAPTER FIFTH CHAPTER
During a free period in the library two days later, the speculation found its way to Cecily Tash directly. Emmeline slid into the chair beside her, a knowing smile on her face. “So,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Black's apparently sworn off dating. Indefinitely. People are saying it's because of you.”
Cecily didn't look up from her Ancient Runes text. “People say a lot of things.”
“They're saying he's besotted,” Emmeline pressed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “That he watches you like a lovesick crup puppy. Fabian says he nearly hexed a third-year for accidentally bumping into you yesterday.”
“That's an exaggeration,” Cecily said, though she remembered the incident 一 Sirius had indeed taken a sharp step forward, his wand half-drawn, before she'd calmly assured the apologizing student it was fine.
“It's hilarious,” Emmeline declared. “The great Sirius Black, brought to his knees by a Slytherin who won't even look at him twice. I almost feel sorry for him.”
Cecily finally glanced up, her expression unreadable. “Don't. He'll get over it.”
But as the week wore on, it became increasingly clear that Sirius had no intention of ‘getting over it.’ His attempts to get her attention grew less subtle. He started leaving small, ridiculous gifts on her usual window seat in the common room 一 a chocolate frog (which Fabian ate), a charmed quill that wrote in sparkling silver ink (which Portia confiscated), and once, a single, perfect blood-red rose that made Clementine Greengrass sigh dramatically.
Cecily decided enough was enough. She found her opportunity the next afternoon, when she spotted Sirius leaning against a suit of armor near the Charms corridor, clearly lying in wait. He straightened up as she approached, a hopeful smile already forming.
“Black,” she said, stopping directly in front of him. Her voice was cool and even. “We need to talk about your recent... deliveries.”
Sirius's smile faltered slightly. “The gifts? Did you like the rose? I charmed it myself to stay fresh for a month.”
“I didn't receive it,” she informed him flatly. “Clementine has it in a vase by her bed. She finds it tragically romantic. The chocolate frog was eaten by Fabian, and the quill was confiscated by Portia, who believes sparkling ink is gauche.” She folded her arms. “This needs to stop.”
His expression shifted from hopeful to confused. “Stop? Why? I'm just... trying to be nice.”
“You're being obvious,” Cecily corrected. “And you're creating a spectacle. Turning down half the female population of Hogwarts and leaving trinkets around like a Kneazle bringing dead birds to the doorstep is not 'being nice.' It's disruptive.”
Sirius blinked, looking genuinely taken aback, as if the concept of his attentions being unwanted had never occurred to him. “I thought... after everything... I just wanted to show you I was serious.”
The unintended pun hung in the air between them. Cecily's lips twitched, but she didn't smile. “You've shown me. Now show me you can listen. No more gifts. No more lurking. If you have something to say, say it to my face like a normal person. Understood?”
He stared at her for a long moment, his grey eyes searching hers. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Understood.”
Cecily observed his reaction more closely. The usual layers of bravado and mockery were absent. There was no defensive smirk, no flippant retort. He simply nodded, his expression unguarded and sincere in a way she’d never seen from him. The faint flush hadn’t entirely left his neck. He looked… chastened. And determined.
“Understood,” he repeated, quieter this time.
She gave him one last, assessing look, then turned to continue down the corridor. She didn’t look back, but she could feel his gaze on her until she rounded the corner.
True to his word, the gifts stopped. The lurid rose vanished from Clementine’s bedside, and no more charmed novelties appeared on her window seat. But Sirius’s presence did not diminish. If anything, it became more focused. He no longer lurked; he simply… appeared. In the library, he would take a seat at a nearby table with his own books, studying in silence. In the corridors, he would fall into step beside her for a few yards, offering a casual, non-intrusive comment about the weather or a particularly brutal Transfiguration essay before peeling away.
It was unnervingly normal. And it was driving Fabian to distraction.
“He’s like a shadow,” Fabian complained one evening in the common room, glaring toward the entrance as if Sirius might materialize through the stone. “A tall, brooding, annoyingly handsome shadow. It’s pathetic.”
“He’s being polite,” Cecily said, not looking up from her Potions notes.
“He’s being persistent,” Fabian corrected. “And he doesn’t like how close we are. Did you see the look he gave me when I fixed your collar before the Prefects’ meeting? I thought he was going to curse me into next week.”
Cecily finally glanced up. “My collar was crooked.”
“I know! But he doesn’t know that! He just sees a bloke touching you.” Fabian shook his head, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Merlin, this is brilliant. The great Sirius Black is jealous. Of me.”
The idea took root. Fabian was rarely wrong about reading people's motivations, especially when they involved territorial posturing. The next day, during the bustling lunch hour in the Great Hall, Cecily put the theory to the test.
She and Fabian were leaving the Slytherin table when she deliberately stumbled on the hem of her robes. Fabian, ever attentive, caught her elbow to steady her.
“Clumsy,” he chided, but his hand lingered, his thumb brushing the inside of her arm in a familiar, friendly gesture.
“Distracted,” she corrected, and instead of pulling away, she leaned into his side slightly, laughing at something he said. It was a performance, but a convincing one 一 they were close friends, and their physical ease was genuine. She kept her gaze subtly scanning the room.
She found him almost immediately. Sirius was sitting with the Marauders, but he wasn't eating. He was watching them, a piece of toast forgotten in his hand. His expression was unreadable from this distance, but his posture was rigid. James Potter, following his line of sight, said something that made Sirius jerk his head away, a scowl darkening his features.
Later, in the courtyard, the test yielded more direct results. Cecily was explaining a complex Arithmancy equation to Fabian, using his outstretched hand to trace the numerical sequence in the air. Sirius approached, ostensibly to return a book he'd borrowed from Emmeline.
His eyes flicked to where Cecily's finger was drawing invisible figures on Fabian's palm. His jaw tightened. “Tash,” he said, his voice a bit tighter than usual. “Avery.” The greeting was curt.
“Black,” Fabian replied, his tone deliberately light. “Can we help you?”
Sirius's gaze lingered on their hands for a second too long before he looked back at Cecily. “No. Just returning a book.” He held it out. When Cecily took it, their fingers brushed. He pulled his hand back as if scalded, muttered a quick ‘Cheers,’ and strode away, his shoulders set in a tense line.
Fabian waited until he was out of earshot before letting out a low whistle. “Told you,” he said, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “He's absolutely green. I'm surprised there's no smoke coming out of his ears.”
The confirmation of Sirius's jealousy presented itself not as a problem, but as a potential lever. Cecily wasn't interested in playing games for the sake of drama, but she recognized a strategic advantage when she saw one. Sirius Black, for all his rebellious swagger, was emotionally transparent where she was concerned. That was a point of control.
She began to apply it with subtle precision. In the days that followed, she didn't avoid Fabian's casual touches, but she didn't seek them out either. Instead, she became more deliberately neutral in her interactions with Sirius himself. When he approached her in the library, she would acknowledge him with a polite nod but immediately return to her work, offering no opening for conversation. If he tried to walk with her between classes, she would maintain a brisk pace and keep her replies brief and factual.
The effect was more potent than any flirtation. Her cool, unaffected demeanor seemed to frustrate and fascinate him in equal measure. He became more determined to earn a genuine reaction, but the tools of his usual arsenal 一charm, wit, grand gestures一 were useless against her wall of polite indifference.
The breaking point came on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Cecily was in a secluded alcove on the third floor, reviewing Defense Against the Dark Arts notes, when she heard familiar voices approaching. It was Sirius and James.
“...just ask her, Padfoot,” James was saying, his voice echoing slightly in the stone corridor. “Properly. Stop all this... moping.”
“I'm not moping,” Sirius retorted, but he sounded defensive. “She's just... impossible to read. One minute she's throwing my mother around Hogsmeade, the next she's acting like I'm a mildly inconvenient piece of furniture.”
“You're scared she'll say no,” James stated, not unkindly.
There was a long pause. “What if she does?” Sirius's voice was quieter now, stripped of its usual bravado. “What if she looks at me and just says 'no' because I'm... me? Because of my family? Because I'm a Gryffindor and she's a Slytherin and her best friend is the great Fabian Avery?”
Cecily cleared her throat, the sound echoing sharply in the stone corridor.
The conversation on the other side of the archway cut off instantly. There was a beat of stunned silence, then the hurried shuffle of footsteps. James Potter appeared first, his glasses slightly askew, looking like he’d been caught plotting a prank. Sirius followed a second later, his face pale, then flushing a deep, mortified red as his eyes locked on hers.
“Tash,” James said, his voice artificially bright. “Didn’t see you there! We were just, uh…”
“Leaving,” Sirius finished, his voice strained. He couldn’t seem to meet her eyes. “We were just leaving.”
He looked utterly exposed, the vulnerable confession she’d overheard written plainly in the tension of his shoulders and the way his hands were clenched at his sides. He clearly had no idea how much she’d heard, but he knew she’d heard something.
James, ever the loyal friend, clapped Sirius on the shoulder. “Right. Quidditch pitch. Rain’s letting up. Come on, Padfoot.” He practically dragged Sirius away, who went without resistance, casting one last, agonized glance over his shoulder at Cecily before they disappeared around the corner.
The alcove was silent again, save for the distant patter of rain against the windows. Cecily looked down at her Defense notes, but the words blurred. The power she now held was absolute, and unexpectedly heavy. He wasn’t just infatuated. He was genuinely afraid of her rejection.
Sirius didn't approach her the next day. Or the day after. The tension built like a gathering storm. She caught him watching her across the Great Hall, his expression unreadable, but the tentative hope she'd seen in the sitting room was gone, replaced by a grim determination.
The ask came on Wednesday, in the most mundane of places: the corridor outside the Potions dungeon, just after the bell had rung and students were flooding into the hallway. He didn't try to get her alone. He simply stepped into her path as she exited, forcing the stream of Slytherins to part around them like water around a stone.
“Tash,” he said, his voice steady but quieter than his usual booming confidence. He was looking directly at her, his grey eyes serious. No smirk, no flourish. “Would you go to Hogsmeade with me? This weekend.”
It was utterly simple. No grand speech, no charm, no gifts. Just the question, laid bare. The chatter in the corridor seemed to dim as nearby students 一Slytherins and Gryffindors alike一 slowed to listen, their curiosity palpable.
Cecily met his gaze, her own expression giving nothing away. The moment stretched, thick with anticipation.
“Yes.”
The single syllable hung in the air, clear and definitive. The collective breath the corridor seemed to be holding released in a wave of murmurs and exchanged glances. Sirius blinked, as if he'd braced for a different answer and needed a moment to process the one he'd received. Then, slowly, a genuine, unguarded smile spread across his face, transforming his features completely. It wasn't his usual arrogant grin; it was softer, brighter, full of a relief so profound it was almost disarming.
“Good,” he said, his voice a bit rough. “Saturday. Three o'clock? At the gates?”
Cecily nodded once. “Three o'clock.”
He stood there for another second, looking at her as if she'd just handed him a priceless treasure, before seeming to remember they were in a crowded hallway. He cleared his throat, the smile still playing on his lips. “Right. I'll... see you then.” He turned and walked away, his stride lighter than it had been in weeks.
The news spread through the castle with the speed of a well-cast Sonorus charm. By dinner, it was the only topic of conversation. Sirius Black had asked out Cecily Tash, and she'd said yes. The Slytherin table was a mix of reactions: Portia looked scandalized, Clementine sighed dreamily, Harmon Mulciber glowered into his stew, and Fabian shook his head with a wry, resigned smile.
Emmeline slid onto the bench beside Cecily, her eyes wide. “You actually said yes,” she said, her voice hushed with awe. “To Sirius Black. After all that... puppy-eyed nonsense.”
“He asked directly,” Cecily replied, spearing a roast potato with her fork. “It was a simple question. I gave a simple answer.”
“But it's a date,” Emmeline pressed. “In Hogsmeade. With him. What are you going to do?”
Cecily finally looked at her friend, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips. “I'm going to see what happens.”
The good kind of snakes (Sirius Black fic): Second Chapter
Summary: Cecily Tash has managed to embarrass herself by asking Sirius Black out, only to be almost cruelly turned down because she's a Slytherin. Weeks later, the situation turned 180 degrees after she manhandled his mother when Walburga tried to hit him. Now, Cecily has to deal with the strangeness of having the most sought-after bachelor in Hogwarts trying to get her attention.
Pairings: sirius x original female character
Words: 2.2k
Warnings: none
Author's note: Sirius is about to be completely smitten by Cecily, just saying. Reminder that this was mostly created with GlimmerFics AI.
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER THIRD CHAPTER FOURTH CHAPTER FIFTH CHAPTER
The following week, Cecily Tash kept her promise to herself. On her way to the library, she spotted Harmon Mulciber's tall, broad-shouldered form looming over a small, terrified-looking Hufflepuff first-year near the trophy room. The boy's books were scattered across the floor, and Mulciber was sneering down at him, his voice a low, menacing rumble about ‘proper wizarding stock.’
Cecily didn't hesitate. She strode forward, her heels clicking sharply on the stone floor. “Harmon,” she said, her voice cool and clear. “Is there a problem here?”
By the time she reached Mulciber’s side, she had come up with a strategic way to approach the situation. She knew Harmon's weaknesses, and his long-standing, poorly-concealed infatuation with Portia Parkinson was one of them.
“I came to tell you,” she said, her voice pitched to sound like a helpful aside, “that Parkinson seemed particularly lost with the Potions essay in the library just now. She looked like she needed a knight in shining armor.”
Mulciber's attention snapped from the cowering Hufflepuff to Cecily. His sneer faltered, replaced by a flicker of interest. “Portia? She was struggling?”
“Desperately,” Cecily confirmed, her expression one of mild concern. “Something about the properties of moonstone. I'd help her myself, but you know how she gets about accepting help from other girls. Thinks it's a slight on her intelligence. A gentleman's guidance with a gift for Potions, however…” She let the implication hang in the air, adding a subtle compliment to his ego to help the request land.
Mulciber straightened up, his terrorizing posture forgotten. The Hufflepuff first-year took the opportunity to scramble for his books, casting a grateful, wide-eyed glance at Cecily before darting away down the corridor.
“Moonstone, you say?” Mulciber mused, already mentally rearranging his afternoon. “Slughorn did go on about the stabilizing agents…” He gave Cecily a curt nod. “Right. I'll see to it.”
He strode off toward the library without a backward glance, his mission of intimidation completely abandoned for a chance to play the hero for Portia. Cecily watched him go, a faint, satisfied curve to her lips. Problem solved, without a raised voice or a threat. Sometimes, knowing your friends' obsessions was the most powerful magic of all.
Cecily followed after the Hufflepuff boy at a more measured pace to check on him. She found him a short distance down the corridor, leaning against a stone pillar and taking shaky breaths, his books clutched tightly to his chest.
“Are you alright?” she asked, her voice softer than it had been with Mulciber.
The boy jumped, then looked up at her with wide, fearful eyes that slowly cleared as he recognized her. “Y-yes. Thank you, miss. He... he just came out of nowhere.”
“He has a habit of that,” Cecily said. “What's your name?”
“Lance, miss. Lance Fawcett.”
“Well, Lance Fawcett,” she said, “if he bothers you again, find a prefect. Or find me. I'm Cecily Tash, seventh-year Slytherin. He listens to me, sometimes.” It was a generous interpretation of Mulciber's compliance, but the boy didn't need to know the specifics.
Lance nodded, some color returning to his cheeks. “Thank you, Miss Tash.”
“Just Cecily is fine. Now, get to your next class. And try to avoid this corridor during free periods.”
She watched him scurry off, his step much lighter. A small, necessary intervention. As she turned to head toward the library, the distant, acrid smell of something burning and the sound of frantic, high-pitched swearing drifted from the direction of the dungeons. Potions. And it sounded like someone was having a significantly worse afternoon than Lance Fawcett.
Cecily sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. “What now?” she muttered under her breath, turning on her heel and heading toward the source of the commotion. The acrid smell grew stronger as she descended the stone steps into the dungeons.
The door to the Potions classroom was ajar. Inside, a thin plume of purple smoke was curling toward the ceiling from a cauldron at a workstation near the back. Peter Pettigrew stood beside it, frantically waving his wand in a futile attempt to clear the air, his round face pale with panic. The potion within was a lumpy, congealed mess that bubbled ominously.
“Oh, no, no, no,” Peter was whimpering, his voice tight with despair. “Slughorn's going to kill me. It was supposed to be a simple Strengthening Solution!”
He hadn't noticed her yet. The rest of the classroom was empty; he must have stayed behind to finish or correct his work. The ingredients scattered across his table were a testament to his struggle—some were measured correctly, others looked haphazardly chopped.
“Step aside, Pettigrew. Let me see the damage,” Cecily said, her voice cutting through his panicked muttering.
Peter jumped, nearly dropping his wand. He turned to her, his eyes wide with a mixture of shame and desperate hope. “Tash! I—I didn't see you there.”
“I noticed.” She moved past him to the workstation, ignoring the lingering purple haze. She peered into the cauldron, her nose wrinkling at the smell of burnt lacewing flies and overcooked ginger root. The mixture had separated into a thick, tar-like sludge at the bottom and a watery, acidic-looking liquid on top. “You added the powdered bicorn horn before the stewed mandrake, didn't you?”
Peter's shoulders slumped. “I... I think so? I got confused. The instructions…”
“The instructions are clear if you read them in order,” Cecily said, but there was no real malice in her tone. It was a simple statement of fact. She set her bag down and began examining the leftover ingredients. “You have enough for a half-batch if we salvage what's left of your ginger root and start over. The bicorn horn is a lost cause 一it's completely denatured.”
“You'd... you'd help me?” Peter asked, his voice small.
“I'm not going to let you explain to Slughorn why his classroom smells like a troll's laundry basket,” she said, already reaching for a clean cauldron from the supply cupboard. “Now, hand me the knife. And this time, watch the order.”
Cecily's efficient guidance salvaged Peter's potion into a passable, if not perfect, Strengthening Solution. He thanked her profusely, his earlier panic replaced by gushing gratitude, before scurrying off to deliver it to Slughorn's office.
The incident, like the one with Mulciber, seemed minor to her 一 simply dealing with the daily incompetence that littered the castle. She didn't realize that word of both interventions had begun to weave a new narrative around her name, one that was about to reach a particularly interested pair of ears.
A few days later, in the sunny greenhouse during a shared Herbology class with the Gryffindors, Cecily was examining the Venomous Tentacula shoots with Emmeline when Portia Parkinson's voice cut through the humid air.
“Honestly, Sissi, you're far too patient,” Portia said, not bothering to lower her voice. “Remember when Araminta tried to hex you in the common room in fourth year? You didn't even draw your wand. You just grabbed her by the robes and threw her into the prefects' table. She stopped picking on the Muggleborns after that, didn't she?”
Cecily shrugged, not looking up from the Tentacula shoot she was carefully pruning. “She was being tedious,” she said, her voice flat. “And she was about to hex a first-year who'd spilled ink on her robes. It was faster to remove the problem than to argue.”
Portia laughed, a bright, tinkling sound. “Tedious! You broke two of her ribs!”
“I did not. The table broke her ribs. There's a difference.”
The conversation was loud enough to carry across the greenhouse, over the gentle misting charms and the rustle of leaves. From a workstation a few feet away, where he was supposedly repotting a Fanged Geranium, Sirius Black had gone completely still. His hands, covered in soil, hovered over the plant pot. He was staring at the back of Cecily's head, his grey eyes wide with a kind of rapt, disbelieving attention.
Remus Lupin, working beside him, nudged him with an elbow. “Sirius? The Geranium is looking... neglected.”
Sirius didn't seem to hear him. He was listening to Portia continue her embellished retelling 一“And then Sissi just dusted off her hands and went back to her Charms essay like nothing happened!”一 with an expression Remus had never seen on his friend's face before. It wasn't amusement, or even shock. It was something closer to awe.
When the bell rang, Sirius practically launched himself from his stool, abandoning his tools. He didn't head for the door with James or Peter. Instead, he fell into step beside Cecily as she and Emmeline exited the greenhouse into the cool afternoon air.
“Can I help you with something, Black?” Cecily asked, not slowing her pace as they walked up the sloping path toward the castle. She didn't look at him, her gaze fixed ahead.
Sirius kept pace easily, his long legs matching her stride. “Just walking to dinner,” he said, but his tone was uncharacteristically lacking in its usual lazy confidence. He was quiet for a few steps, the only sound the crunch of gravel under their shoes and Emmeline's amused silence beside them. “I heard what Parkinson said. In there.”
“Did you?” Cecily replied, her voice neutral. “The greenhouses do carry sound surprisingly well.”
“You fought my cousin,” he said, and it wasn't a question. “Physically. And you won.”
Cecily finally glanced at him, her eyes assessing. “It was a scuffle in the common room three years ago. Hardly a duel.”
“But you didn't use magic.” He sounded fascinated, as if she'd performed some obscure and impressive bit of arithmancy. “You just... threw her.”
“She left me no alternative. She was about to hex a child over an ink stain.” Cecily shrugged one shoulder. “It was the fastest way to make her stop.”
Sirius shook his head, a slow, incredulous smile spreading across his face. It wasn't his usual smirk; it was warmer, more genuine. “Merlin. No wonder she stopped terrorizing the first-years after that. I always wondered what finally shut her up.”
Sirius ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that was becoming familiar in its agitation. “You saw something wrong, and you stepped in. You didn't just curse her from across the room and walk away. You got in her space and ended it.” He paused, then added, almost to himself, “You do that a lot, don't you? I heard about Mulciber and the Fawcett kid. And Peter's potion last week.”
Emmeline, walking silently on Cecily's other side, made a small, amused sound but wisely said nothing.
They had reached the stone steps leading up to the castle's massive oak doors. The sounds and smells of the Great Hall preparing for dinner wafted out 一 roast meats, baking bread, and the cheerful cacophony of hundreds of students.
The conversation with Sirius on the way to dinner became a turning point. Over the next week, Cecily noticed a distinct change in his behavior. He seemed to find excuses to be near her 一 lingering outside the Potions dungeon when her class let out, coincidentally studying at the same library table, his gaze following her across the Great Hall with an intensity that was both flattering and faintly unnerving.
The transformation was most evident one Thursday afternoon in the Entrance Hall. A pretty Hufflepuff sixth-year, a girl Cecily recognized as one of Sirius's more recent fleeting interests, approached him with a bright smile and an invitation to Hogsmeade that weekend.
Sirius, who was ostensibly waiting for James, glanced past the Hufflepuff girl. His eyes found Cecily, who was descending the marble staircase with Fabian. He offered the Hufflepuff a polite, regretful smile that lacked its usual flirtatious edge.
“Sorry, can't,” he said, his voice carrying clearly in the stone space. “I'm... busy.”
The Hufflepuff girl's smile faltered in confusion. Sirius Black turning down a date? And without even offering an alternative? She mumbled something and hurried away, casting a bewildered look over her shoulder.
Sirius's gaze didn't follow her. It remained fixed on Cecily, a hopeful, almost tentative expression on his face, as if waiting for her reaction.
Cecily met his gaze, one eyebrow arching slowly upward. She said nothing, but her expression was eloquent enough: a silent, pointed question.
Sirius held her look for a moment, then seemed to realize he was staring. He cleared his throat and glanced away, a faint, uncharacteristic flush creeping up his neck. He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the wall, trying to reclaim some of his usual nonchalance, but the effect was strained.
Fabian, walking beside Cecily, let out a low, incredulous chuckle. “Well,” he murmured, leaning closer to her ear as they passed through the massive doors into the Great Hall. “That was new.”
“Was it?” Cecily replied, her voice quiet. She took her usual seat at the Slytherin table, her back to the room, but she could feel the weight of Sirius's attention from the Gryffindor table like a physical touch.
The incident didn't go unnoticed. By the next morning, the gossip had shifted from Cecily's confrontation with Walburga weeks ago to Sirius Black's sudden, inexplicable change of heart. In the remaining days of the week, he not only successfully turned down the Hufflepuff girl, but a Ravenclaw Chaser and a Gryffindor fourth-year who'd always blushed in his presence. The Great Hall buzzed with speculation.
The good kind of snakes (Sirius Black fic): First Chapter
Summary: Cecily Tash has managed to embarrass herself by asking Sirius Black out, only to be almost cruelly turned down because she's a Slytherin. Weeks later, the situation turned 180 degrees after she manhandled his mother when Walburga tried to hit him. Now, Cecily has to deal with the strangeness of having the most sought-after bachelor in Hogwarts trying to get her attention.
Pairings: sirius x original female character
Words: 2.1k
Warnings: the crowd (a.k.a me) wanted Cecily to beat up Walburga, but she's classier
Author's note: This was the fourth fic with more votes on the survey. As I have more time to write, I'll post all the fics I have already created with the AI, and then I'll move on to fully original work.
Author's note for all Fics: I love writing (although I never post anything because I lose interest in whatever fic I write soon), but I have 0 time now to do it. So, the other day, I found Glimmer Fics, an AI you can feed your ideas to and play as if you were the main character. I created some scenarios in the Harry Potter universe that the AI created beautifully, and I thought I should share some.
FIRST CHAPTER SECOND CHAPTER THIRD CHAPTER FOURTH CHAPTER FIFTH CHAPTER
The memory of asking Sirius Black out still stung, even now, months later. Cecily Tash had cornered him outside the Great Hall after dinner, her heart pounding against her ribs like a frantic bird. He'd been leaning against the wall, laughing with James Potter about some Quidditch play, that effortless confidence radiating from him like heat.
“Black,” she'd said, her voice steady despite the nerves. “Hogsmeade. This weekend.”
He'd turned, those grey eyes sweeping over Cecily with a lazy, amused curiosity. Then the recognition 一Slytherin, friend of Snape一 and the amusement had sharpened into something colder. “Sorry,” he'd drawled, not sounding sorry at all. “I don't date snakes. Bad for my reputation.”
The dismissal had been casual, brutal in its simplicity. She'd just nodded, her pride the only thing keeping her chin up as she walked away, the sound of his laughter with James following her down the corridor.
And then Cecily had seen him, just last week, in Madam Puddifoot's with a Hufflepuff witch, his arm slung over the back of her chair, making her blush with some whispered comment. The sight had twisted something inside her, a hot, ugly knot of jealousy she refused to acknowledge.
The memory of Sirius’s rejection still lingered, a dull ache beneath Cecily’s pride. She’d known it was a long shot, asking out a Gryffindor, a Black, and one who seemed to make a sport of dating every witch except those in green and silver. But seeing him in Hogsmeade last week, cozy in that ridiculous tea shop with some giggling Hufflepuff, had stirred something sharper than disappointment 一 it was irritation, mostly at herself for caring.
She shook her head, the motion sending a strand of hair across her vision. This was beneath her. Cecily Tash didn’t pine over arrogant boys, even ones with laugh lines around storm-grey eyes and a rebellious streak that was, admittedly, compelling.
The common room was quiet, the greenish light from the lake casting shifting patterns on the stone floor. That was until the heavy entrance door opened, and through came her two best friends, Fabian Avery and Emmeline Vance.
“Where've you been, Sissi?” Fabian asked, using the childhood nickname only her closest friends dared.
She shook her head, the motion sending a ripple through her hair. “Nothing important. What are you two plotting?” They sank into the plush armchairs opposite her while Cecily tucked her legs beneath her.
Emmeline Vance, ever-perfect with her dark braids and prefect's badge, gave a knowing smile. “Fabian was just trying to convince me that we should 'borrow' the answer key for Gamp's next Defense quiz.”
“Not borrow,” Fabian corrected, his handsome face lit with mischief. “Strategically acquire for peer-review purposes. It's practically a public service.”
“You're a terrible influence,” Cecily said, though a faint smile touched her lips. Fabian was her oldest friend in Slytherin, their families having moved in the same social circles for years. He was ambitious, clever, and had no qualms about bending rules 一 traits she appreciated, even if she didn't always share his methods.
“Speaking of influences,” Emmeline said, her tone shifting slightly. “I heard Mulciber gave that second-year Ravenclaw a hard time again today near the greenhouses. Something about her blood status.”
Cecily's smile faded. She and Harmon Mulciber were friendly, but his escalating cruelty toward Muggle-borns was a point of quiet contention between them. She'd made her disapproval clear before, though it never seemed to stick.
Cecily sighed, the sound heavy with familiar frustration. “I'll talk to him. Again.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Merlin, he's like a troll with a grudge. Can't just leave people alone.”
Fabian chuckled, though it lacked real humor. “Good luck. He thinks he's upholding some sacred pureblood duty. You know how he gets.”
“I do,” Cecily said flatly. She did know. Mulciber's beliefs were a core part of him, as ingrained as his skill in Potions. Arguing with him was like arguing with a brick wall 一 exhausting and ultimately pointless. But letting him terrorize younger students was also unacceptable. Her own sense of order, of what was right, demanded she at least try.
Emmeline gave her a sympathetic look. “Want me to come? As a prefect, I could threaten detention.”
“Thanks, Em, but I think it'll just make him dig his heels in more if it's official.” Cecily stood, smoothing her robes. “I'll find him tomorrow. For now, I'm going to bed before I lose the will to live.”
She bid her friends goodnight and headed for the girls' dormitory staircase. The following Saturday brought the second Hogsmeade weekend of the term. Cecily was browsing the new arrivals at Scrivenshaft's when raised voices from the street outside cut through the quiet shop. One voice was shrill, aristocratic, and furious.
“...think you can shame this family and face no consequences?”
Peering through the window, Cecily saw a tall, severe-looking witch in black robes 一Walburga Black, unmistakable even at a distance一 standing toe-to-toe with Sirius, her finger jabbing toward his chest. A small crowd was beginning to gather, watching the spectacle with morbid curiosity.
Cecily set down the quill she'd been examining and moved toward the door of Scrivenshaft's. Curiosity, and a prickling sense of unease, propelled her out into the crisp Hogsmeade air.
The scene on the street was even more intense up close. Walburga Black stood like a pillar of wrath, her face a mask of aristocratic fury. Sirius faced her, his posture rigid, but Cecily could see the tension in his jaw, the white-knuckled grip on the bag he carried.
“You are a stain,” Walburga hissed, her voice carrying clearly in the sudden quiet of the gathered onlookers. “A rebellious, ungrateful stain that I should have scrubbed away years ago.”
Sirius remained almost paralyzed, but his expression was pure defiance. Walburga took a sharp step forward, her hand rising as if to grab his arm or perhaps strike him 一 the intent was clear in her furious eyes.
Cecily's own temper, always quick to ignite in the face of a tyrant, flared. Without conscious thought, she started forward, pushing past a gawking third-year.
She didn't bother with words. As Walburga's hand shot out toward Sirius, Cecily moved with a fluid, decisive grace born of years of navigating Slytherin politics and the occasional physical altercation. She stepped in close, one of her hands darting towards Walburga’s elaborately styled hair while the other went for the pocket of her black robes.
Cecily’s fingers closed around the smooth, polished wood of Walburga's wand. In one swift motion, she pulled it free and used the firm grip on the older witch's hair to yank her backward away from Sirius.
Walburga shrieked, more in outrage than pain, stumbling as she was forcibly separated from her target. The crowd gasped. Sirius stared, his defiant mask slipping into pure shock.
Cecily held the wand aloft, her dark green eyes cold and steady on Walburga's livid face. “You're causing a scene, Mrs. Black,” she said, her voice calm but carrying. “And you're upsetting the shoppers. Leave. Now. Or I'll snap this in half and you can explain to your little pureblood club how you let a schoolgirl disarm you in the middle of Hogsmeade.”
Cecily didn't blink. She kept her grip on Walburga's hair and her eyes locked on the older witch's furious face, the stolen wand held like a trophy 一or a threat一 between them. The crowd had fallen utterly silent.
Walburga's chest heaved with indignant rage. “You vile little一”
“Ah-ah,” Cecily mockingly said, her voice mocking as she released the older witch’s hair and grabbed both ends of her wand to simulate the motion needed to snap it. “I don't make idle threats.”
For a long, tense moment, it seemed Walburga might actually try to lunge at her, wandless or not. Then, with a visible effort, the fury in her eyes banked into something colder and more calculating. The public humiliation was one thing; the loss of her wand was another. “You will regret this,” she spat, each word dripping with venom.
“I doubt it, Mrs. Black,” Cecily said evenly. Only when Walburga stalked away down the street without a backward glance did Cecily finally lower the wand. She watched until the witch turned a corner and disappeared from sight, ensuring the retreat was real.
The spell of silence broke. Whispers erupted from the gathered students. Cecily ignored them, turning her attention to Sirius.
He was still staring at her, his earlier defiance completely gone, replaced by an expression of stunned disbelief. There was no trace of his usual arrogant smirk. He looked, for the first time since she'd known him, utterly speechless.
Cecily extended her hand, Walburga's wand balanced across her palm. “Here. I suppose you should decide what to do with it. She'll be back for it eventually.”
Sirius looked from the wand to her face, his grey eyes wide. He took it slowly, his fingers brushing against hers. The contact was brief, but it seemed to jolt him out of his stupor. “You... you just…” He shook his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him. It wasn't his usual cocky bark, but something softer, more genuine. “You grabbed my mother by the hair and stole her wand.”
“She was being rude,” Cecily said simply, as if that explained everything. She brushed a stray strand of her own hair back from her face, her expression returning to its usual composed neutrality. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the practical awareness that they were still standing in the middle of a public street with an audience.
“Are you hurt?” Cecily asked, her eyes scanning him with clinical efficiency, checking for any sign of injury from the confrontation. She wasn’t sure she had arrived in time before Walburga turned physical.
Sirius blinked, as if the question was utterly foreign. “What? No. She didn't... she never actually touches me. Just the usual verbal flaying.” He ran a hand through his already-messy black hair, the gesture uncharacteristically agitated. “Merlin, you're asking if I'm hurt. After you just... you know.” He gestured vaguely with the wand still clutched in his hand.
“I'm fine,” Cecily said, dismissing the implied concern with a slight wave. “She was all bluster once she was disarmed. People like her usually are.”
She glanced around; the crowd had mostly dispersed, though a few students still lingered, casting curious glances their way. The spectacle was over. “Well, if you're unharmed, I should get back to my shopping. I was in the middle of selecting a quill.”
She took a step to move past him, back toward Scrivenshaft's. “Try to stay out of trouble,” Cecily advised, her tone dry as she turned to leave.
“Wait.”
Sirius's voice stopped her. She glanced back, one eyebrow arched.
He seemed to struggle for words for a moment, shifting his weight. The arrogant, untouchable Sirius Black was gone, replaced by someone who looked almost... uncertain. “I... thanks,” he finally managed. “For that. You didn't have to.”
“No, I didn't,” she agreed. There was no false modesty in her statement; it was a simple fact. “But she was making a nuisance of herself.”
A faint, real smile finally broke through his stunned expression. “A nuisance. Right.” He looked down at the wand in his hand again, then tucked it into his own jacket pocket.
Considering the conversation over, Cecily turned away with a final, dismissive nod. She didn't wait to see his reaction, slipping back into the quiet interior of Scrivenshaft's as if the entire explosive incident had been nothing more than a minor interruption.
The rest of her Hogsmeade visit passed without further drama. She purchased a new eagle-feather quill and a bottle of emerald-green ink, then browsed Honeydukes with Emmeline, who had thankfully missed the spectacle. By the time they returned to the castle that evening, the story had already begun to circulate.
“You did what?” Fabian demanded, cornering her in the common room after dinner, his eyes alight with gleeful disbelief.
“I removed a public pest,” Cecily replied, settling into her armchair with a book. “It's not that interesting.”
“Not that interesting? Sissi, you physically assaulted Walburga Black! In front of half the school!”
Cecily didn’t even look up from her page. “If you say so.”
Fabian snorted. “Merlin, the look on Sirius’ face must have been priceless.” He shook his head, grinning. “You've officially become the most fascinating person in this castle.”
Cecily merely turned a page, her expression unreadable. But later, in the quiet of her four-poster bed, she allowed herself to recall the stunned, almost vulnerable look in Sirius's grey eyes. It was a far cry from the arrogant smirk he'd worn when he'd rejected her. The memory was... satisfying.
