Harry Potter drabbles

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[harry-potter-drabbles]

Hello, hello - I'm a big fan of bite size stories!

This sideblog was solely created for my Harry Potter drabbles - short stories with no more than 300 words each.

My writing blog @lunariadusk

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[harry-potter-drabbles]

Letter ▪︎ wc: 47 @drarrymicrofic

Harry does not recognize the handwriting at first.

The envelope is cream, expensive, unnecessarily formal. Malfoy.

Inside, only one sentence:

I suppose this is what amends look like.

No apology. No explanation.

Just an invitation to tea.

Harry reads it twice, then a third time.

He goes.

[harry-potter-drabbles]

#19 ▪︎ wc 212 ▪︎ affection @wolfstarmicrofic

Sirius expresses affection like he’s challenging gravity.

It’s never subtle. He drapes himself over Remus in the common room as though boneless, long limbs flung carelessly across his lap. He steals Remus’s scarf in winter and claims it as “shared property.” He ruffles his hair before exams, grinning as Remus swats at him with feigned irritation.

“Get off,” Remus mutters, though he doesn’t actually move.

Sirius only grins wider. “You love it.”

Remus raises a brow. “I tolerate you.”

“Same thing.”

It isn’t.

Affection, for Sirius, is defiance. It is proof that he chooses—chooses friends, chooses loyalty, chooses to stay. Every careless touch is deliberate in its own way. A quiet rebellion against a house that taught him love came with conditions.

Remus understands this. He doesn’t pull away.

After full moons, when the bravado fades and Sirius sits too straight beside the hospital wing bed, affection shifts shape. It becomes a hand hovering near Remus’s shoulder. A blanket tucked higher. A muttered, “You did brilliant, Moony,” like it’s fact.

No teasing then - just certainty.

Remus never says thank you out loud. Sirius would hate that.

Instead, he nudges their shoulders together in the empty corridor later, letting the contact linger a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Sirius bumps back.

It’s enough.

[harry-potter-drabbles]

#18 ▪︎ wc: 210 ▪︎ lovesick @wolfstarmicrofic

Sirius is unbearable when he’s lovesick.

Remus learns this by degree—first the restlessness, then the reckless cheer, then the long silences where Sirius stares at nothing like it’s personally offended him. He paces the dormitory, flops onto beds that aren’t his, sighs like he’s dying of consumption.

“You’re being dramatic,” Remus says mildly, not looking up from his book.

“I’m being real,” Sirius replies, sprawled upside down over James’s mattress. “There’s a difference.”

Remus hums. He’s learned not to argue semantics with him when feelings are involved.

It’s not the crush itself that worries him. Sirius falls hard and fast, always has. It’s the aftermath—the way he pretends not to care when it doesn’t go his way. The way he laughs louder, cuts sharper, acts like nothing can touch him.

Later, when the dormitory empties, Sirius goes quiet. Really quiet. That’s when Remus closes his book.

“She’s not cruel,” Remus says gently. “Just honest.”

Sirius snorts. “You’re always on their side.”

“I’m on yours,” Remus corrects. “That’s why I won’t lie to you.”

Sirius looks at him then, something raw flickering behind the bravado. After a moment, he exhales and slumps sideways, shoulder knocking into Remus’s.

“Stay?” he asks, softer.

Remus doesn’t hesitate. He shifts closer, steady and warm.

[harry-potter-drabbles]

#17 ▪︎ wc: 198 ▪︎ heart @wolfstarmicrofic

Sirius liked to pretend his heart was indestructible.

Unbreakable. Loud. Reckless. The sort of thing that survived anything if it just kept moving fast enough.

Remus knew better.

He saw it in the pauses Sirius never admitted to—the way his grin faltered when James’s name came up too suddenly, the way his fingers curled tight around the edge of a table when tempers flared. Sirius felt everything. He just refused to sit with it.

Once, after a bad night, Remus found him on the astronomy tower, staring at nothing.

“Your heart’s racing,” Remus said gently, because sometimes observation was the only way Sirius let concern through.

Sirius scoffed. “Always does.”

“That’s not a brag,” Remus replied.

Sirius glanced at him then, something raw slipping through the cracks. “If I stop moving,” he said quietly, “I think it might break.”

Remus didn’t argue. He just sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, steady and warm. A presence. An anchor.

“Then don’t stop,” Remus said. “Just… don’t run alone.”

For a long moment, Sirius said nothing. Then he leaned in, just barely, like testing the ground.

“Bloody unfair,” he muttered. “You always know where to stand.”

Remus smiled.

He always had.

[harry-potter-drabbles]

#16 ▪︎ wc: 208 ▪︎ bells @wolfstarmicrofic

The bells rang every hour at Hogwarts, bright and insistent, echoing through stone corridors like a reminder no one had asked for.

Sirius hated them.

Too orderly. Too final. They told you when to eat, when to sleep, when to go—when to stop.

Remus noticed the way Sirius flinched at the sound long before anyone else did. The way his jaw tightened, the way his foot bounced as if he might bolt the moment the last chime faded.

One snowy evening, the bells tolled curfew while they crossed the courtyard, sound ringing sharp against the cold. Sirius muttered a curse under his breath.

“Almost done,” Remus said gently, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Just a few more steps.”

Sirius scoffed. “You say that like they don’t ring again in an hour.”

Remus smiled. “Then we’ll still be here in an hour.”

The bells faded. Snow drifted down, softening the world. Sirius slowed without realizing it, falling into step beside him.

“You’re strange, Moony,” Sirius said. “Most people hate the bells too.”

Remus shrugged. “I like knowing where I am in time.”

Sirius glanced at him, something unreadable in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Figures you would.”

The bells rang again later that night.

Sirius didn’t flinch.

[harry-potter-drabbles]

#15 / wc: 173 / eggnog @wolfstarmicrofic

Sirius decided the problem with Hogwarts traditions was that no one ever took them seriously enough.

Eggnog, for instance, was meant to be festive. Comforting. Drinkable.

The version currently sloshing in Sirius’s goblet was none of those things.

He took a sip and grimaced. “Moony, I think this is cursed.

Remus peered into his own cup, steam curling upward. “It’s eggnog.”

“Yes,” Sirius said solemnly, “and it tastes like regret.”

James snorted from across the table. Peter choked on his drink. Remus fought a smile.

“Just drink it,” Remus said. “It’s warming.”

Sirius eyed him, then leaned over and clinked their cups together. “If I die, tell the world I was betrayed by dairy.”

He drank, he survived.

Later, wrapped in borrowed scarves and lingering by the fire, Sirius nudged Remus with his knee.

“Worth it, though,” he said.

“For the eggnog?” Remus asked.

“For this,” Sirius replied, gesturing vaguely at the common room, the laughter, the warmth.

Remus lifted his cup again. “To surviving Hogwarts traditions.”

Sirius grinned. “And questionable life choices.”

[harry-potter-drabbles]

#14 - wc: 200 - sparkle @wolfstarmicrofic

Sirius had always sparkled.

Not in the obvious ways—he wasn’t polished or careful or particularly sensible. But he had a way of lighting up rooms, of dragging laughter out of people who hadn’t meant to smile. James called it charm. Remus called it recklessness.

Still, it worked.

Remus noticed it most on the worst days. After transformations, when his body ached and his thoughts turned dark and heavy, Sirius would barge into the dormitory with dirt on his boots and mischief in his eyes, carrying contraband sweets or a half-baked plan.

“Don’t look like that, Moony,” Sirius would say. “You’ll ruin my reputation for keeping good company.”

Somehow Remus would laugh.

Years later, after Azkaban, the sparkle was dimmer. Not gone. Never gone. Just… buried. Sirius smiled less easily, laughed a little too loud, as if daring the world to argue with him.

Remus saw it anyway. In the way Sirius still stood between him and danger. In the way he listened, really listened, when Remus spoke.

“You still shine,” Remus said once, quietly.

Sirius snorted. “Rubbish.”

But his eyes softened, just for a moment.

Remus thought—maybe sparkle wasn’t about brightness at all, it was about refusing to go dark.

[harry-potter-drabbles]

#13 / wc: 194 / smitten @wolfstarmicrofic

Sirius Black would never admit to being smitten.

Not with a person, not with an idea, and certainly not with anything that could be mocked by James Potter for the next decade.

Which was why Remus only noticed it in the small ways.

Like how Sirius lingered a little longer in the library lately, pretending to nap but actually listening to Remus turn pages.

Or how he tossed Remus an apple at breakfast—not because Remus asked for one, but because Sirius decided he looked “peaky.”

Or how he laughed harder at Remus’s dry comments than at James’s dramatic jokes.

One evening, Remus caught him staring.

Not intensely, not romantically—just… warmly.

Unguarded.

“What?” Remus asked, eyebrow raised.

Sirius blinked, startled, and immediately scoffed.

“Nothing. You had a crumb on your face. I was debating whether to rescue you or let you look like a tragic Victorian orphan.”

Remus wiped his cheek. “And?”

“I rescued you,” Sirius said, looking offended that this wasn’t obvious.

Remus shook his head, hiding a smile.

Smitten. Completely. Hopelessly.

Sirius—brilliant, reckless Sirius—didn’t even know it or maybe he did. Maybe that was the part that made Remus’s chest ache the most.

[harry-potter-drabbles]

#12 / wc: 188 / scarf @wolfstarmicrofic

Remus always forgot his scarf.

Not because he didn’t own one—he had several, all patched and faded—but because mornings were chaos, and his mind was always somewhere between lesson plans and moon charts.

Sirius noticed long before Remus did.

One bitter December morning, he tossed something woolen and dark across the Gryffindor table. It landed in Remus’s porridge with a wet plop.

Remus blinked. “Was that necessary?”

“If I hand it to you nicely, you won’t wear it,” Sirius said, utterly unapologetic. “This way you have no choice.”

Remus fished it out, shaking off bits of oatmeal.

“It’s yours.”

Sirius shrugged. “I run hot. You don’t.”

There was no teasing in his voice—not really. Just a straightforward practicality that felt almost intimate.

Later, walking across the snowy courtyard, Remus pulled the scarf tighter around his neck. It was warm, smelled faintly of cedar and smoke… and Sirius.

Sirius nudged him with an elbow. “See? Told you. Looks better on you anyway.”

Remus didn’t look at him, but he smiled—small, hidden, impossible to suppress.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Sirius grinned like he’d been waiting all morning to hear it.

[harry-potter-drabbles]

#008 - Kingsley Shacklebolt

“Do you remember?”

The question comes from a boy who survived too much, too young. Harry stands beside him on the rooftop of the rebuilt Ministry, wind tugging at his hair, the city below glowing in the soft burn of evening lights.

Kingsley doesn’t answer immediately. He lets the silence settle, the way he always does. The boy has earned patience.

Harry’s voice is quieter when he continues. “The night Dumbledore died. You grabbed me before I fell. I never thanked you.”

Kingsley breathes in slowly. The memory is sharp as broken glass—the green fire burning the sky, the rush of bodies on the Astronomy Tower, the way Harry’s knees buckled beneath grief that seemed too large for his frame.

“I remember,” Kingsley finally says, his voice steady. Deeper than the wind. “I remember thinking you were far too small to carry what was coming. And I remember being wrong.”

Harry swallows, his expression pinched with something like guilt. “I still feel like that kid sometimes.”

Kingsley turns to him fully, the amber glow catching the gold in his dark eyes. “You’re allowed to,” he says. “Strength isn’t forgetting who you were. It’s surviving it.”

Harry huffs a laugh—thin, tired. “Hermione says you talk like that on purpose.”

“On occasion.”

Another pause. The city murmurs below them.

Kingsley looks out over the horizon, remembering far too many funerals, far too many names carved into stone. “Do you remember,” he asks quietly, “how many people believed in you? Even when you didn’t?”

Harry’s breath stutters.

Kingsley rests a hand on the boy’s shoulder—solid, grounding.

“Then let that be enough for tonight.”

[harry-potter-drabbles]

#011/wc: 191/taunt @wolfstarmicrofic

Sirius Black could taunt a brick wall into fighting him. Remus had told him so once. Sirius took it as a compliment.

During dueling practice in sixth year, Sirius circled Avery with a grin sharp enough to cut stone. wand loose in his hand, posture relaxed, every inch of him radiating trouble.

“Come on then,” Sirius called. “I’ve seen snails move faster and with better hair.”

Avery’s face flushed purple. Spells crackled off the walls. Students scattered. Remus pinched the bridge of his nose, already exhausted.

“Sirius,” he warned from the sidelines. “Try not to provoke him.”

“I’m not provoking,” Sirius said cheerfully, dodging a curse by inches. “I’m encouraging.”

“Taunting,” Remus corrected.

“Same thing!” Sirius barked back, sending a jinx that knocked Avery flat.

When the smoke cleared and Avery limped away muttering threats, Remus approached, arms crossed, expression equal parts annoyed and amused.

“You know,” Remus said, “one day someone won’t rise to your bait.”

Sirius winked. “Oh, they will. People love trying to prove me wrong.”

Remus shook his head, failing to hide a smile.

“Incorrigible.”

“Handsome,” Sirius countered. “You meant handsome.”

Remus sighed.

But he didn’t deny it.

[harry-potter-drabbles]

#010/wc: 172/ Expelliarmus @wolfstarmicrofic

Sirius always teased him for it.

“A disarming charm, Moony? Really? Why not throw a pillow at them while you’re at it?”

Remus just smiled, patient as ever. “It’s not about power. It’s about stopping the fight.”

Sirius scoffed. “Stopping the fight is boring.”

Years later, Remus stood on a battlefield lit by green flashes, wand trembling in his hand. A Death Eater lunged at him, curse already forming—and Remus reacted without thinking.

“Expelliarmus!”

The wand flew. The masked figure fell. The duel ended before it truly began.

Sirius appeared at his side, breathless, grinning like mad. “You and that bloody spell…”

“It works,” Remus said softly.

Sirius elbowed him. “You’re going to get yourself killed trying not to kill anyone.”

Remus didn’t reply. His eyes were on the fallen wand, glinting on the grass.

“That’s the point,” he murmured. “I don’t want to become what we’re fighting.”

Sirius went quiet. Then, almost grudgingly:

“You’re a better man than any of us, Moony.”

Remus shook his head. “No. Just a stubborn one.”

[harry-potter-drabbles]

#009/wc: 195/ prisoner @wolfstarmicrofic

He never stopped being one.

People liked to pretend otherwise—Order meetings, shared meals, the way Molly pushed extra potatoes onto his plate as if nourishment could free him. But Sirius felt the walls of Grimmauld Place more keenly than any cell in Azkaban.

At least Azkaban had honesty.

These walls just smiled while swallowing him whole.

He paced the drawing room for the hundredth time that night, boots thudding against threadbare rugs, breath tight in his chest. The house reeked of his mother’s voice, even in death. Disappointment. Disgrace. Prisoner of your own making.

Remus found him at the window—hands gripping the sill, knuckles white.

“You’re not locked in,” Remus said quietly.

Sirius laughed, harsh and humorless. “Azkaban had bars. This place has memories. Tell me which is worse.”

Remus didn’t answer. He just stepped closer, close enough that Sirius felt something anchor in the storm inside him.

“You’re not alone,” Remus murmured.

Sirius closed his eyes. For a moment, a single moment, the house seemed to loosen its grip.

Maybe he was still a prisoner.

But at least someone kept coming back for him.

“Stay a while, Moony,” he whispered.

And Remus did.

[harry-potter-drabbles]

#008/wc: 98/rats

Sirius hated rats long before Azkaban.

Before betrayal, before blood, before the name Peter became a curse.

But after?

Rats meant footsteps in the dark that weren’t his. Meant a scurrying memory of a boy who smiled like a friend and lied like a coward. Meant the sound Sirius replayed every night in his cell—the scuttle before the explosion, the twitch before the scream.

Back in Grimmauld Place, one skittered across the floor. Sirius froze, breath a blade in his throat.

“Not him,” he muttered. “Not anymore.”

But he still crushed it under his boot.

Just in case.

[harry-potter-drabbles]

#007/wc: 196 /godfather @wolfstarmicrofic

Remus had never thought of himself as fatherly.

Too transient, too cautious, too aware of all the ways he could hurt the people he loved. But when Harry was born, something quiet settled in him—something warm and terrifying.

James had laughed when he told him. “Moony, you already act like his godfather. Might as well make it official someday.”

Remus said nothing, because Sirius burst in a second later, scooping Harry up and announcing that he would obviously be the godfather. Loud, dramatic, undeniably perfect for the role.

Remus stepped back, half-hidden in the doorway. Watching. Always watching.

And when the world fell apart—James and Lily dead, Sirius imprisoned, Harry left with strangers—Remus was the only one without a place in the picture. Not a guardian. Not a godfather. Just a man who loved a child from afar.

Until Sirius returned. Ragged. Shaking. Free.

“You should have been his godfather too,” Sirius said one night, voice cracking in a way Remus wasn’t meant to hear. “You were part of us.”

Remus couldn’t speak. The words lodged somewhere between grief and gratitude.

He wasn’t Harry’s godfather by title.

But he had been from the beginning by heart.

[harry-potter-drabbles]

#007 - Fenrir Greyback

He used to have a name that meant something. A surname that carried weight, a father who spoke it with pride. That was before the bite, before the moon decided what he would become.

Now, he wears monster like armor.

The first time someone called him an abomination, he laughed so hard his ribs ached. The word had been spit at him by a trembling Ministry officer who still smelled of cologne and fear. Fenrir could’ve torn him apart, but instead he leaned close and whispered, “You’re not wrong.”

Because he is. He knows it.

There’s no redemption in what he’s done—children turned before their time, families shattered, the copper tang of blood clinging to his beard. He tells himself it’s revenge, that the curse should spread until no one can pretend it doesn’t exist. But the truth is darker.

He enjoys it.

The hunger, the chase, the power. The way his victims’ terror mirrors the fear he once saw in his own reflection.

When he’s alone—rarely—he wonders if the wolf feels the same. If it, too, despises the man wearing its skin.

The moon rises. The bones break. The voice in his head grows louder, a familiar lover’s whisper.

Abomination.

He doesn’t fight it anymore. The word has become sacred—an acknowledgment, a hymn. It belongs to him now.

By dawn, the ground will be slick with what’s left of another life. And Fenrir Greyback will stand over it, chest heaving, bloodied and triumphant, looking every bit the creature they named him.

Because he’s learned something the rest of them haven’t:

Monsters don’t need forgiveness.