hiii!! for your 7k can you do first kiss for not a random boy?? thxx
similar reaction - fred weasley
not a random boy au - mina's 7k celebration
summary: when your boyfriend finally kisses you for the first time, you run to tell your godfather, professor lupin, not caring who is in his office to witness the moment.
wc: 1.2k+
Adrenaline pumps through your veins as you run through the hallways towards your Uncle Remus’s office. The grin on your face has been plastered there, cheeks aching with how high the sides of your lips are tugged upwards. You don’t bother knocking on Remus’s door before slamming it open, crying out “He kissed me! He finally kissed…” The only sound in the room as Professor McGonagall turns her torso so she can look at you is the sound of your panting as you try to shut yourself up.
“Her father had a similar reaction when Lily first kissed him, didn’t he?” Remus smiles in amusement, leaning back in his chair as you shut the door to his office, slumping down on the extra chair and sighing dreamily. “He finally kissed me,” You repeat, and Professor McGonagall can't help the smile from climbing on her face as you unashamedly continued “And it was so good. His lips were so soft, Remus, and he-“ You interrupt yourself with a long exhale, staring blankly at the ceiling. Your godfather chuckles, watching as you absentmindedly lick your lips, undoubtedly repeating the kiss in your head.
You and Fred had been hidden away in one of the many secret rooms in the castle, large windows overlooking the hogwarts grounds. His hand had been wrapped around your shoulders as you cuddled on the window nook, his fingers brushing against your arm. The movement wasn’t shy by any means, but it was attentive. New. As though Fred was still testing what you were comfortable with. But you leaned into his chest, and so Fred hugged you closer to him.
It was mostly silent between the two of you.
You’d had six years to speak to each other, being some of each other’s closest friends, but you still hadn’t explored any romantic physical affection. That’s why you both enjoyed the silence, revelling in the soft touches given by the other. A nonverbal means of communication.
But Fred knew that after admitting your feelings to each other after couple of weeks ago, you were seeking something more from him. You weren’t trying to pressuring him into anything, especially after you had made it clear to him that you wouldn’t mind him kissing you.
“I don’t know, ask a girl out? Maybe give her a kiss?” You had suggested back then, almost drunk off the adrenaline coursing through your veins after suffering an quidditch injury to the head. But Fred saw it in the ways your eyes sometimes flickered down to his lips when you spoke, glancing away when you caught yourself looking. He felt it in the way you leaned in close to him when sitting together in the common room, your hand running up his arm just to feel close to him. But Fred didn’t want to mess up a moment that should have been perfect.
“What are you thinking of?”
“Kissing you.” The honest reply had surprised you, and you straightened up, pulling away from Fred’s side just enough to face him, his hand falling from your shoulders. “Are you just joking around?” Fred noted the insecurity beneath the amusement in your voice, shaking his head with a small smile. Fred reached out to cup your cheek, thumb caressing your skin softly. He grew more confident at the flustered look on your face, laughing quietly as you squirmed, unsure of how to proceed.
“I want to kiss you. But I don’t want to overwhelm you with my crazy skills.” The light joke had the tension in the room diluting as you both broke into fits of laughter. Fred shuffled towards you, licking over his lips as the laughter died down. The hand Fred had on your cheek guided your face closer to his until he could hear your breath quickening. Fred broke out into a grin, asking quietly “Can I kiss you?” despite already knowing the answer. You nodded quickly, and Fred felt his chest swell with pride at the prospect of rendering you — the most confident and extroverted person he knew — quiet.
Fred pressed his lips against yours, immediately melting against you the same way you did with him. Your hands settled on his waist, trailing up his chest and landing on his shoulders, squeezing softly before wrapping your arms around him. Fred groaned into the kiss, his free arm snaking around your waist and tugging you closer to him. You moved a hand up to hold Fred’s jaw, moving your lips in synch with him, separating for only a moment before moulding together again. Fred’s hand fled from your waist to the small of your back, running under your shirt, his touch warm on your skin. You softened like butter in Fred’s hold, your lips momentarily parting as you both smiled, giggling quietly before Fred brought his hand to the nape of your neck, pushing your lips back onto his. You gasped loudly, and Fred let go of you, letting you jolt away from him, cheeks burning hot as you cleared your throat, unable to help yourself from smiling.
Fred’s expression matched yours, a wide grin on his face. You sighed, letting yourself fall into him, digging your face into the crook of his neck. “Did you like that?” He asked quietly, and you nodded, bringing your hands up to grip his jumper. “I really liked that. I think I’ll be doing that a lot more.” Fred chuckled, rubbing a hand in circles on your back.
Now, the door to Remus’s office opens, and you straighten up as the boy in question popps his head into the room. At the sight of you, Professor McGonagall and Professor Lupin, Fred freezes, slowly easing himself out of the doorway and back into the hallway. But before he shuts the door completely, he pokes his head back through, quickly mumbling “Tell me what she says!”
Your head snaps back towards your godfather, jaw going slack in betrayal. “You’re-you’ve been a double agent this whole time!?” Remus raises both hands up, shaking his head vigorously. “No! No, I just enjoy hearing his side of the stories too. The pieces always come together quite nicely.”
“And you haven’t told me what he said!?”
“I made a promise!”
“Remus…” Your godfather averts his gaze from you at the accusatory tone in your voice, and you lean forward, gasping quietly as you incriminate “Have you told him anything?”
“No, I-no. I just, guided him a bit. Helped him make sense of some situations…”
“What does that mean!?”
“Don’t worry about it, honey.” Neither you or your godfather move to look at Professor McGonagall, who begins making her way out of the room with a look of poorly hidden amusement on her face.
“Remus, I tell you confidential stuff!? What, next thing I know you’re telling my parents about this!”
“Oh, please. I’d never go that far.”
With her hand on the doorknob, Professor McGonagall halts in her step, turning back to look at the two of you. She bites back a smile, because despite knowing that Remus won't tell your parents of your romantic rendezvous, there's almost no need to. There's parallels in you and your parents' lives that appear, and nobody needs to tell your parents that you've been kissed by your favourite boy, because they'll know. They'll know because once upon a time, it was James sitting in Professor McGonagall's office to tell her about his first date with Lily, then their first kiss.
And eventually, he returned to ask her to officiate their wedding.
Summary: Your boyfriend finally realizes the tumultous repercussions of his naivety.....
A/N: Gods this one... I had initially planned something else, but I just couldn't help myself hee hee. As usual: Liam and Y/N in second year (Liam was very much alive after Resson, death, what death?), he's Squad leader, Y/N's his executive officer.
Part 3 Part 2 Part 1
Y/N's POV
I sit on my bed, curled up snuggly into my pillows, buried nose deep in this novel about a secret scribe and rider relationship for the past hour. Months of pining and 150 pages later, they've finally kissed and professed their undying love for each other, and Malek take my soul, no way in hell I'm getting out of my blankets or lifting my eyes from the pages till I get something more than kisses from these two.
Or atleast, that was my plan, but it seems like Malec personally took my thoughts as a challenge.
A series of sharp knocks resonate throughout my room in frantic succession.
I jolt from my position against my pillows, my head flying to the door in shock.
A second passes, and I blink, dazed after being brought back to reality so suddenly. Taking a shaky breath, I open my mouth to ask who it was, but whoever's on the other side beats me to it.
"Y/N? Are you in there? Sweetheart, please open the door!"
The book slips from my hands, falling onto my lap with a rustle, and a corner of it digs into my leg.
But I barely register the motion, as I sit up straight, all my senses instantly alert.
Within the next second, my blankets are flying to the side and I'm jumping out of bed, making for the door, my heart beating wildly in my chest. All thoughts chased out of my head by an all-encompassing, overwhelming concern for Liam's well-being.
Did something happen? Was he hurt? The alarm in his voice evident even through the muffled walls of my room.
I throw open the door, and my wide eyes meet Liam's equally frantic gaze.
"What is it? Are you-"
My eyes rake down his body quickly, from his torso, down to his feet, scanning for any injuries, tears in his clothes, blood stains, any indications that something wrong has happened to him.
My heart slows down as it becomes obvious he's physically fine, atleast from what I can see. Although his pupils are blown wild, overbearing black almost engulfing the piercing blue, his breathing laboured and heavy, as if he's run all the way here. There's no mistaking the panic on his face.
I frown. "What are you- mmmmhh!"
My words are abruptly cut off, as without warning, Liam steps forward, and pulls me toward him, slamming my body to his chest.
"Love," he gasps into my hair, his strong arms encircling my waist, crushing me to his body. "Y/N, baby, I'm sorry." He presses a firm kiss to the top of my head. 'I love you so much."
For a moment, my mind goes blank. All I'm aware of, is his familiar musky scent filling my nose, overtaking all my senses, my cheek pressed against the solid muscles of his chest from under his flight jacket, his lips in my hair.
But it's his words that bring everything crashing back, the disbelief, the choking despair I had felt all evening yesterday and the subsequent rage that had kept me awake at night.
I pull away from him, the expression on my face hardening once more.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" I spit out, letting loose all spite I can muster at him.
Liam's face falls at my words, a stray blonde slipping into his eyes, but he doesn’t brush it away. His adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows. His nervous tell.
"Can I come in?"
"No."
"Please, Y/N," his expression turns desperate, eyes pleading. "I just- I came to apologize. And I- I can't say what I need to in a hallway."
"Well, you can keep your fucking apology to yourself, Liam, I'm not interested in any of your shit." I say venomously, my hand already moving to the doorknob so I can slam the door in his face.
But Liam hurries forward, placing his body in between.
"Please Y/N. I-" he breaks off. "I messed up, I know, and you-you need to know this." As I take in his words, his expression turns steely, perhaps sensing my impending refusal. He pushes the door, forcing it open against my grip, steps inside, and kicks it shut behind him.
"HEY!-"
"I'm sorry, Y/N" Liam interjects. "I should have believed you from the very beginning-."
An invountary laugh escapes me at his words, the sound bitter and harsh in the air between us.
"Believe me? Why ever would you do that, boyfriend dearest? Who am I, anyway? Certainly not someone who's always laid her heart bare to you, given you nothing but honesty and love, always acknowledged your concerns, instead of simply brushing you aside like a crazy, delusional fool!" My voice rises in volume with each word I speak, some of the churning anger and suppressed emotions finally getting to make their way out of me.
"Y/N-"
"What's making you apologize now, huh? What happened to 'Talk to me when you're in your senses'? In case you're under any false impressions, I'm still not 'in my senses ', as you would say, and certainly don't plan to be!"
A tense silence descends over the room, and Liam closes his eyes, running a hand exhaustedly down his face, before dragging it through his already disheveled hair, making them stick up even more than they had before.
As if he'd been messing with them before this too.....
For the first time since he came to my room, I take him in, examine him closely with neither the earlier frantic haze about him being hurt, nor the anger that had followed.
Liam doesn't mess with his hair unless he is stressed, often done absentmindedly when something has been bothering him, cause otherwise, he wants to 'preserve them in the effortlessly casual way he styled them in the morning'.
I take in the flight jacket he is still wearing, even though we had Flight Field hours ago. And Liam normally doesn't go flying with Deigh on his own until nightfall, after dinner.
I take in how panicked he had looked when I'd opened the door. Troubled, not in the way that the fight had been bothering him the whole day, but as if something bad had just happened, something that had driven him to my door in alarm.... guilt.
A cold sense of foreboding washes over me as Liam's electrifying blue eyes meet mine. Eyes I've spent countless hours simply staring into, admiring, loving, as we lay tangled in each other promising to love the other forever and always.
My stomach clenches at the remorse now swirling in his irises, bleeding into the rest of his face as he stares at me.
"What did you do?" I whisper at him.
He takes a shuddering breath.
"What did you do, Liam?"
"She- Cynthia kissed me. But I pushed her away the moment she did, Y/N, I swear! I told her I was not interested in her romantically, and that I love you, and only you! Please, darling, you know I'd never cheat on you..."
Liam's tone is pure desperation, pleading with me to listen, willing me to undersand.
But none of his words reach me. It's as if an invisible box surrounded me, separated me from him the moment he said....
Oh gods.
A tidal wave of despair begins to rise up my stomach, heavy and violent, strong enough to take me under, make me disappear beneath it.
And for a moment I welcome the idea. Anything, anything would be better than this pain I feel, the betrayal settling deep in my bones, a feeling I never thought I'd experience once I'd found the love of my life.
And I let myself float away. Letting the wave pass over me, sweeping away the million pieces of my heart shattered in my chest, every broken promise, every whispered declaration of love.
Till I feel his hand on my arm. Hear him say my name.
And something in me hardens.
My eyes find his once more. The dolorous blue of his gaze, boring into me, makes something inside me ache. Throb with so much ferocity that it's a miracle I keep standing.
But then it's gone. Leaving behind a hollow ache where had once been overwhelming love for him.
"Get out," I whisper.
"Y/N, please," he chokes out. "I pushed her away as soon as she kissed me. I didn’t hesitate for even a second."
"Get out."
Liam lets loose a shuddering breath, his grip on my arm tightening.
"Please, please Y/N, I'm sorry, you have to believe me. I genuinely didn't realize what Cynthia's intentions were till that moment. As soon as she kissed me, I pushed her away and came straight to you. Please, my love-"
I wrench my arm from his grip. "No. Don't call me that," I say, coldly.
I take a deep breath.
"We're done, Liam."
I watch as Liam takes in a sharp breath, the full implication of my words hitting him. His eyes widen alarmingly, a horror dawning in them.
"No," he chokes out. "No, Y/N, baby, you can't mean that." His voice shakes, barely more than a breath.
"Exactly what I meant, Liam. Whatever we had, it's over. It was over the moment her lips touched yours."
"I PULLED AWAY THE MOMENT THEY DID!" He's yelling now, panicking, both his arms taking hold of me. "I DIDN'T WANT THIS Y/N, I NEVER WANTED CYNTHIA! YOU'RE THE ONLY WOMAN I'VE EVER LOVED, EVER WANTED, SINCE THE MOMENT I FIRST LAID MY EYES ON YOU!"
I simply shake my head. "I can't be with you now, Liam. This was so easily avoidable if you'd just paid a little heed to my words, and not dismmised me as jealous and delusional."
And then he's on his knees before me, hands still clutching my arms tightly, nails digging into my skin.
"Please Y/N, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. You're my whole world, Y/N, I can't-"
"Get up, Liam," I say tiredly. "You brought this upon yourself. I don't care what realization you had when she kissed you, but you're the reason she could get to that position in the first place. You chose to let her in. You're just as responsible for the... kiss, as she is. I don't know what you saw in her, or what she has that I don't--"
"Don't say that sweetheart--"
"--But whatever it was, it made you choose her, trust her over me. And I can't be with someone who holds me in that little regard."
Liam's eyes turn glassy with each word I speak, and something inside me tightens at the sight of tears in his eyes. In the entire year I've known him, amidst all the sorrow and hopelessness of his life, there's only one other time I've seen him cry, and that was on the day of his mother's birthday. I'd held him in my arms the entire night, kissed him, told him how loved he was, and how he'd never be alone till Malek claimed my soul.
I force the memory out of my head, and look away from him, my lips pursed.
"I'm serious Liam," I say. "Get up, and leave my room." I wrench my arms from his, and step back.
A silence descends over the room Liam stays where he is.
A beat passes.
Before he slowly gets to his feet. The room fills with the sound of his heavy breathing.
"Sweetheart, my Y/N-"
"Either you leave or I do."
He takes a step toward me.
"Fine, stay here. I don't give a fuck anymore."
I walk over to where my shoes lie in the corner of the room, quickly slipping them on, and sling my school bag over my shoulder.
"Where are you going?" Liam says hoarsely, his voice barely above a desperate whisper.
"Away from you."
I yank my door open and step out, before swinging it back and letting it slam shut behind me, as I walk off down the hallway.
summary: rivalry was supposed to keep your heart safe — until james potter made a bet to win it
warnings: fluff, kinda enemies to lovers trope, no use of y/n, english isn't my first language
word count: 11.3k
a/n: thank you for the request and for trusting me with your ideas — it means so much! i had the best time writing this. hope you enjoy reading it just as much <з
ᯓ★ now playing…
niall horan – everywhere
THE AIR OUTSIDE THE GREAT HALL IS THICK WITH MID-MORNING CHATTER, the kind of easy, unbothered noise that only follows a public humiliation. Someone else’s, not yours. You're leaned against a cool stretch of stone wall, arms folded, robes impeccable, a Slytherin constellation in the midst of flickering green and silver. You’ve just walked out of Potions with the satisfied swagger of someone who has committed a petty act of academic violence.
And the victim?
James Potter. Golden boy. Quidditch Captain. Gryffindor menace.
He’d confused powdered manticore spine with crushed scarab beetle – a rookie mistake, really, but an explosive one. His cauldron had burped, hissed, then violently frothed over like it was trying to escape the shame, the room quickly filling with the scent of scorched cabbage and what can only be described as broom bristle cremation.
“Don’t say a word,” he’d muttered through gritted teeth as you glided past his desk, his spectacles fogged with steam and regret.
Naturally, you’d offered him a parting gift: “Nice perfume, Potter. Eau de Incompetence.”
Which brings us here. The corridor. The smugness. The slow approach of James sodding Potter, who walks like he owns the floor, the walls, the bloody ceiling. There’s that look in his eye – the glint that usually precedes some half-brained challenge or unholy prank.
Sirius Black trails behind him, grinning like a man who’s just tossed a lit match into a pile of fireworks. Remus and Peter flank the pair at a safe distance, watching like seasoned war generals preparing for the fallout.
You don’t move. You merely tilt your head and ask, perfectly cool, “Got something to say?”
James stops just short of your boots, his gaze sweeping over you – not lecherous, not exactly admiring, but observant. Calculating, like he’s memorising the shape of a puzzle he intends to break.
“Actually,” he says, voice calm, “I do.”
You arch an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Well?”
He smirks, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek like he’s tasting the words before he says them. “I bet I can make you fall for me by the end of term.”
You blink.
And then – oh, then – you laugh.
A sharp, full-bodied sound that slices through the hallway and turns a few third years' heads. It’s not a giggle or even a snort. It’s the kind of laugh that starts in your chest and spills out like you can't quite believe how stupid he is.
“You think I’d fall for you?” you ask, between peals.
“I’m serious.”
“No,” Sirius calls, still grinning. “I’m Sirius.”
James rolls his eyes without looking back. “You said it last week,” he continues, undeterred, eyes locked on yours. “You’re immune to charm. I’m just testing a hypothesis.”
You narrow your gaze. There’s something alive between you now – not quite fire, but close. A chemical reaction in the air, the kind that makes your skin tingle, like you’ve touched something volatile.
“Let me get this straight,” you say slowly. “You think you’re going to win me over like I’m a Quidditch Cup?”
James rocks back on his heels, hands in his pockets, cocky and infuriating. “I think I’ve got better odds.”
“You?”
He leans in, just a fraction. Enough that you smell something clean and citrusy beneath the lingering scent of charred potion. His voice drops, soft but smug. “Terms and conditions apply, of course.”
You narrow your eyes. “God, you’re insufferable.”
James doesn’t flinch. He shrugs, but there’s something dangerous in the movement. Something alive. The way he rocks back on his heels, all lazy confidence and feigned indifference, like a boy who’s never had to doubt that the world would spin just slightly in his direction. His grin curves like a blade.
“Still not a no.”
Your arms tighten across your chest, more armor than comfort now. “And what do I get if I win?”
James brightens, like he’s been waiting for that. “Your pride.”
You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they return. “Not enough.”
He pauses, theatrically thoughtful, tapping a finger against his bottom lip. You hate that it draws your attention to his mouth.
“Alright,” he says at last, a glint of mischief blooming in his eyes. “If you don’t fall for me by the end of term, I’ll walk into the Great Hall in nothing but a pair of socks and confess my undying love for Professor Slughorn. Loudly.”
You squint. “Strip and serenade Slughorn?”
He nods solemnly. “In verse, if you’d prefer.”
You try not to smile. “And if I do fall?”
“You kiss me.”
The words land like a lit match tossed into dry grass.
You scoff, maybe to cover the beat your heart just skipped. “You’re awfully confident.”
He doesn’t look away. “Do I have a reason not to be?”
It’s your turn to pause. Just for a second. And it’s not nerves. You don’t get nervous. Not over boys like him.
You know exactly what kind James Potter is. Loud. Golden. Lion-hearted and tragically proud of it. He’s the kind of boy who sets the world on fire just to warm the people standing close. A walking contradiction of heroics and hubris. You’ve seen him flirt with first years to get them out of trouble, charm professors out of detention, win arguments with nothing but a grin and that infuriating Quidditch-captain glint.
He’s a distraction. A glittering, glorious, useless distraction.
And you? You were raised better than to play a game you don’t intend to win.
Still.
You extend your hand and hold his gaze. “Fine. I accept.”
His palm is warm against yours, calloused from broom handles and reckless living. Your fingers curl before you can stop them.
Sirius gasps like it’s the best twist he’s ever seen. Remus mutters, “Oh no,” and Peter’s already betting on how long it’ll take.
James straightens, surprised. “You do?”
You smile, slow and sweet and deadly. “I’m just curious how badly you’re going to embarrass yourself.”
WEEK ONE: HE STARTS STRONG.
By the beginning of the new school week, you’ve already forgotten about the bet with James Potter or at least convinced yourself that you have. It drifts somewhere far in the back of your mind, buried under the comfort of routine.
Your day begins as always: a quick shower in the steamy hush of the bathroom, the usual walk down stone corridors toward the Great Hall, the rhythmic chatter of your friends filling the space around you with gossip about who snogged who over the weekend, and then a mercifully quiet Transfiguration class without Gryffindor. You slip into your usual seat near the back, your fingers already flipping open the worn spine of your textbook, half-listening to the scrape of chairs and rustle of parchment. You’re determined to catch up on the reading, your eyes scanning the familiar lines until something tucked between pages 114 and 115 stops you cold.
There, nestled between the diagrams of spellwork and theory, are white hyacinths. Enchanted, of course, preserved so perfectly they look like they’ve just been plucked from the first bloom of spring. You can smell them even before you touch them – clean, delicate, a little green, like damp earth and warm sunlight.
You stare for a moment too long. They sit innocently in your book, soft and lovely and unmistakably placed there for you. Your stomach turns – just slightly, just enough – and you inhale once more before snapping the book shut.
“Too obvious,” you mutter, your voice flat, and with the same practiced indifference you use for most things that make your heart lurch, you pluck the flowers free and toss them into the nearest bin. Like it means nothing. Like your pulse didn’t catch. Like it didn’t feel like a dare tucked between the pages. And just like that, you forget it again. Or try to.
But if you’ve forgotten, James Potter clearly hasn’t.
Later that same day, in Charms, he makes his next move.
You’re halfway through copying down the lecture when something starts circling over your head – slow, insistent, impossible to ignore. A swan, made of parchment, flapping its delicate wings as it spirals above you like it belongs there. You blink up at it once before looking across the room – and of course, there he is.
Potter, looking irritatingly pleased with himself, wand still in hand. You shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, and he has the audacity to raise his eyebrows like he’s innocent. Professor Flitwick sighs, exasperated, and with a flick of his wrist, the swan lands. You snatch it out of the air with a huff, and for a moment, you consider crumpling it without looking. But curiosity is a trait you’ve never managed to fully extinguish, especially when it comes to him.
So under your desk, out of sight, you unfold the swan with careful fingers, smoothing out its delicate wings and sharp creases. The handwriting inside is unmistakable: neat, confident, slightly slanted, like someone who never doubts his own thoughts.
I bet you smiled.
You didn’t.
(You did.)
If you thought that was all James Potter was capable of, then you were deeply mistaken.
He’s been showing up at the library all week. Always within five minutes of your arrival, like it’s a coincidence. Like he wasn’t just sitting at the far end of the Gryffindor table seconds before you stood up. As if he hadn’t slipped away from Quidditch practice early or escaped another one of McGonagall’s detentions. He doesn’t say much when he joins you, just falls into step beside you in the corridor, hands shoved into his pockets, letting the silence stretch between your footsteps. There’s no forced charm, no theatrics, just his quiet presence keeping pace with yours, like it's always been this way.
He always reaches for your books without asking. You raise a brow the first time, caught off guard by the ease of it.
“Chivalrous now?” you ask, arching an eyebrow with just enough bite to cover the small, unwelcome flutter in your chest.
He only shrugs, like it’s nothing at all, like this isn’t wildly out of character for him. He takes your bag from your hands in one clean motion, slings it over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing, and keeps walking forward beside you.
“I can’t let you wear yourself out doing advanced Arithmancy,” he says, voice easy, unbothered, like the two of you aren’t supposed to be enemies in some long-forgotten rivalry everyone else has outgrown.
Then there’s the Quidditch match. You’ve always loved Quidditch. Not playing, of course, but watching. There’s something otherworldly about it, something exhilarating in the way players carve through the air like birds born to fly, spinning and diving and scoring in impossible arcs. It’s always felt like a celebration to you. Your father used to take you to matches when you were small, and that sense of magic has never quite left.
But today, the weather is working against it. The sky is a heavy grey, swollen with rain, and the wind cuts straight through your scarf. Still, you sit in the Slytherin stands, your eyes tracking the green and blue blurs as they dart back and forth across the pitch, pretending not to care that your robes are damp and raindrops are crawling slowly, coldly down your spine. You tighten your silver-green scarf around your throat and shiver.
The last thing you expect is to see James Potter here. First of all, it’s the Slytherin grandstand. Second, he’s not even playing. It’s a Slytherin versus Ravenclaw match, and Gryffindor has no stake in the outcome. But somehow, despite all that, he finds you in the crowd. Soaked through, cheeks flushed from the wind, lips pale. And without a word, he presses a mug of tea into your hands – still steaming, warm against your skin.
“I don’t take bribes,” you say, but you wrap your fingers around the cup anyway.
The heat sinks into your hands instantly, comforting in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. You turn your eyes back to the field, willing yourself to focus on the match and not on the curly-haired boy beside you who is looking at you like you're the most interesting part of the day.
James gives a casual flick of his wand, and the rain in your scarf disappears. The fabric dries instantly, soft and warm again against your skin. “Call it community service,” he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
And that’s not even the end of it. James Potter seems determined to sabotage your peace, orchestrating one absurd stunt after another until your attention is practically tethered to him by invisible thread. The most outrageous, by far, is when he praises your handwriting in Herbology. Your handwriting. Of all the tactics to employ.
“Are you trying a new approach?” you mutter, bending with him over a fluttering, fanged geranium that snaps at your gloves.
He twirls his quill between his fingers, casual, maddeningly at ease. “Maybe I’m just trying to be nice.”
You glance at him – measured, unreadable, the way you’ve trained yourself to look at things that shouldn’t matter.
He winks at you. That ridiculous wink. The same one that has likely caused an epidemic of fainting spells up in Gryffindor Tower.
You don’t faint.
(But your quill does stutter slightly in your grip.)
Still, you refuse to let any of it cloud your judgment. You’re determined not to fall first. Not for the ridiculous hairstyle, not for the way he suddenly remembers to hold doors open, or the way he’s begun smiling like he actually means it. It’s infuriating. Unnatural. James Potter, gracious? It reeks of strategy. It reeks of a boy who made a bet.
But you’re a Slytherin. And you didn’t get here by being unprepared.
So you begin to plot.
You start small, but clever. Something simple, something certain to break his polished new mask of gentlemanly charm. Something guaranteed to get a reaction. You curse his chair in the library.
It’s a subtle spell, just enough to ensure that the moment he sits, it will moan – loudly, long, and unmistakably suggestive. A moan echoing with the sultry creak of a bedpost in the back room of Madam Puddifoot’s.
He arrives. Sits. And the chair lets out its moan.
You brace yourself for victory.
But James Potter doesn’t flinch. He simply raises one eyebrow and turns his gaze toward you – steady, direct, amused. You expect him to explode, to launch into the familiar rhythm of your arguments, but instead, he catches your eye with unsettling calm and says smoothly: “I didn’t know you were into theater, darling.”
You frown. Heat floods your face like a storm surging through your bloodstream. If you were a mandrake, you’d be screaming loud enough to knock out the entire floor. You’re boiling, silently combusting, and yet the best retaliation you can muster is a crumpled ball of parchment launched at his smug, insufferable head.
He dodges it with ease. And somehow, in the same motion, he flicks a chocolate frog across the table toward you, grinning like he’s already won.
But you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t keep trying.
After spending the better part of the night concocting 1001 Ways to Piss Off James Potter (a working title for your increasingly elaborate campaign), you woke in the morning with purpose blazing in your chest and pettiness blooming like a fresh hex. At breakfast, you carefully lace his pumpkin juice with a few drops of a mild truth serum – nothing dangerous, just potent enough to loosen his tongue for five minutes. Just long enough, you hope, for him to say something utterly stupid. Something embarrassing. Something that will unravel that smug composure and trigger the signature Potter fury you’ve grown so fond of provoking.
You don’t touch your food. You barely hear your friend beside you, who is chatting animatedly with a mouth full of toast. Your eyes are fixed on the doors of the Great Hall.
And then – finally – he arrives.
Loud as ever, flanked by his usual entourage, gesturing wildly as he tells some story that has Sirius Black howling and Peter Pettigrew clutching his sides. The morning light slices through the windows just in time to catch in the wild curls atop his head, turning his hair to gold. His smile stretches wide, dimples flashing, and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a casual flick of his fingers.
He looks up. Right at you.
Your stomach stutters.
His grin widens, devilish. He winks.And you roll your eyes so hard they nearly fall out of your head.
You hear his laugh echo down the table, and your jaw tightens. He ruffles the hair of a passing first-year, who shrieks in indignant protest. Typical. But you’re not looking at him because of that. You’re watching for the moment – the moment – when he reaches for the pumpkin juice. He always does. First thing, every morning.
There it is.
He takes a sip.
You watch him closely, barely breathing, bracing for the spell to kick in. He pauses. Tilts his head. Then leans across the table toward you like he’s about to reveal some sordid piece of gossip.
“I think,” he says, voice low and maddeningly sincere, “you’re the most annoying and beautiful person I’ve ever met.”
You choke. Loudly. Toast nearly takes you out. Your eyes fly to his face, wide with shock, but James only shrugs, all smug amusement and maddening ease.
“I told you,” he says, lifting his glass in salute, “I’m honest.”
After two failed attempts, you abandon subtlety. You decide it’s time to go for the jugular – destroy what James Potter holds most sacred. And what does he love more than pestering you within an inch of your patience? Quidditch. Obviously. You spend the better part of lunch orchestrating the sabotage, hunched over the Gryffindor equipment trunk with the precision of a criminal mastermind. It costs you an apple, two napkins, and most of your dignity, but you manage to swap the standard practice Quaffles for a set that lets out a piercing shriek with every throw.
You sneak into the stands just in time to watch the chaos unfold. Players drop their brooms in mid-air. One Beater nearly falls off his handle from the shock. The sound is hideous like a mandrake gargling but it’s satisfying. You lean back against the stone, arms folded smugly across your chest, ready for James to finally snap and come storming over with smoke pouring from his ears.
He finds you exactly two minutes after practice starts.
“Smart,” he says, landing beside you like the broom is an extension of his body and not a barely tamed beast. He doesn’t ask if he can sit. Of course not.
You don’t look up. You flip a page in your Divination textbook, feigning intense concentration on a badly drawn palmistry diagram. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right.” His voice is amused. Too amused. “The screaming Quaffle must’ve just been in the mood today.”
You glance at him, ready to spit something scathing. But he’s just sitting there. Flushed from flying, his cheeks bright from the wind, hair a glorious, messy disaster, and smiling – smiling like he’s proud of you.
“You’re lucky I like you,” he says, and it doesn’t even sound flirtatious. It sounds like a fact. As if the sun rises in the east and you drive him insane but he’s decided to adore you anyway.
The air leaves your lungs in a soft gasp, and you gape at him like a stunned fish. You want to retort, to insult, to laugh in his face. But all you manage is a pitiful half-squeak as your brain catches fire.
“What are you doing?” you whisper, horrified.
James stands up and stretches, back arching slightly, as if this is just another Thursday. Then, with infuriating confidence, he leans down and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, fingertips barely grazing your skin. “See you at dinner, darling,” he says with a smirk that deserves to be outlawed.
You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You sit there for three whole minutes, stunned and incandescent, heart pounding like you had been flying laps around the pitch instead of just sitting there. Then you stomp back to your dorm in a fury, vowing to destroy him once and for all.
Which is how you come to cross off the final, most extreme item on your list of highly questionable tactics: false rumors.
Because if there’s one thing James Potter hates – truly loathes – it’s being talked about. Especially when the stories aren’t true. So you do what any girl on the edge would do: you casually, loudly, very deliberately spread the rumor that James Potter is secretly in love with Professor Vector.
The next day, while rifling through your bag in the middle of Arithmancy, you find a note tucked between your spare quill and a piece of licorice wand.
Nice try.
P.S. You’re prettier when you’re jealous.
You let out a sound that is not a scream but something close – a strangled groan that sends your friend staring. You spend the next hour buried face-down in your pillow, kicking the mattress and muffling curses until your voice gives out. And then you read it again. And again.
You consider setting it on fire next to the fireplace in the Slytherin common room.
You don’t.
You fold it. Smooth the edges. Slip it into your potions textbook and pretend not to smile for the rest of the week.
WEEK TWO: THE BEST DEFENSE IS OFFENSE.
By the second week, you switch tactics. If James won’t fall for your traps, maybe he’ll fall for your victories.
You don’t wait for him this time. You act first.
You sit down opposite Sirius Black like it’s your personal writing desk. Your green-lined swamp robe gleams defiantly amid a sea of crimson. Slytherins never sit at any table but their own. And yet – here you are, surrounded by stunned Gryffindors. A couple of them pause mid-bite. A group of Hufflepuffs whispers behind their hands. Ravenclaws crane their necks. First-years scatter like startled owls as you cross your legs and rest your chin on your hand, as if this was always the plan.
“Well, aren’t you a vision this morning, Black”
Sirius looks up with a mouthful of toast and stares at you like you’ve grown antlers. Suspicious. Intrigued. You flash one of your better smiles – the kind that’s charmed professors out of giving you detention, and helped you avoid several homework assignments in Charms.
He chews. Swallows. Snorts. “What do you want?”
You lean in slightly, voice smooth as treacle. “Attention.”
That makes him bark out a laugh, loud and sudden enough to make a third-year flinch. You raise an eyebrow, unamused. He wasn’t supposed to enjoy this. Sirius downs his orange juice in one go, then starts twirling his fork like a wand, all smirking and dangerous.
“Careful, baby,” he says, glancing at you from under his lashes. “You’re playing with fire.”
Across the table, James Potter chokes on his pumpkin juice so violently you think he might combust.
You don’t even look at him at first. Instead, you lean closer to Sirius, fingers brushing against his chest as you reach up to adjust his red-and-gold tie – smoothing it like you belong there. The moment your hand moves, you feel it. James’s gaze: sharp, molten, unblinking. You meet it deliberately, holding eye contact as your fingers trail back down.
Your body’s blazing, but your face is sugar-sweet. “Is there a problem, Potter?”
He wipes his mouth with a napkin, the motion aggressive, then drops it into his plate like he wishes it were a hex. His eyes narrow like he’s trying to solve a riddle. Or start a fight.
“I just think you have terrible taste.”
Sirius arches a smug brow, enjoying this more than he should. “Careful, mate. You’re making it sound like I’m not your best friend.”
James doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay locked on you. A silent warning. A dare.
You smile and turn to Sirius. “See you later.”
You rise, your skirt swaying just enough to make someone’s breath catch – possibly James’s – and stroll toward the exit without a glance back. Until, of course, you do. You turn just before the doors, catch James’s eye again, and blow a kiss like a threat dressed in lace.
Sirius’s laughter rings out behind you, uncontained.
James Potter watches your back all the way out of the hall.
Later, at dinner, you finally get your revenge.
You bide your time, patient as a Slytherin should be, watching as James Potter animatedly tells Remus and Peter about some ludicrous Quidditch stunt he wants to try at the upcoming match. He’s all flailing limbs and boyish enthusiasm, gesturing wildly with his fork like he’s dueling the mashed potatoes into submission. The poor things cling for dear life, wobbling on the edge with every sweep of his hand.
That’s when you strike.
Leaning back, you slip your wand beneath the tablecloth. A muttered spell, barely more than breath. A flick. A whisper. And then… you wait.
By the time he finishes recounting his story, something about a reverse Sloth Grip Roll and a spiral dive, his hair has turned the color of pond scum. Not even a flattering green. We’re talking true swamp algae. Something that might crawl out of the Black Lake and ask for citizenship.
He’s none the wiser.
Until, of course, you can’t help yourself. You smile. Broad and sharp and unmistakably evil.
Sirius catches the expression first. Then he turns, sees James, and promptly snorts pumpkin juice straight up his nose.
“Oh, Prongs,” Sirius wheezes, practically falling onto Remus. “You look like the love child of a mandrake and a traffic light.”
James blinks. Frowns. Turns to the nearest reflective surface. Unfortunately for him, a silver serving tray that offers no mercy. The sound that escapes him is somewhere between a groan and a growl. A strangled, vaguely inhuman noise of pure betrayal. At the other end of the table, you raise your goblet of pumpkin juice in a slow, mocking toast.
He sees you.
You laugh.
And for just a moment, right before Sirius starts howling again and James runs a hand through his mossy curls in horror, you swear he almost smiles too.
You don’t stop there.
The little reactions you get from James – flushed cheeks, clenched jaw, the way his eyes narrow like he’s trying not to smile – become your new favorite currency. So the next day, you up the stakes.
You steal his favorite quill.
It’s a nice one, made of dark wood with quick-drying ink. He always uses it for Transfiguration essays. He leaves it unattended for precisely two minutes in the library, distracted while chatting with Remus.
He spends the whole day asking around, retracing his steps, even checking under sofas in the Gryffindor common room. But strangely, he never once accuses you. He doesn’t even act suspicious. In fact, James walks beside you to the library that evening like nothing’s happened – quieter than usual, though. His head hangs low, and he kicks a small stone along the path, not really looking at anything. You don’t speak. You just smile to yourself, triumphant.
You take your usual spot in the far corner of the library, now almost a private corner of the world, just for the two of you. But he doesn’t joke this time. Doesn’t lean in to bother you. Doesn’t even touch his parchment. He answers your questions with dry, hollow monosyllables and stares at the table like it's trying to tell him something he can't quite understand.
Something inside your chest twists painfully, but you push the feeling down like you’ve been taught to.
On the walk back, he's still quiet.
He walks you all the way to the Slytherin entrance like always, but before you disappear inside, he stops you. He hands you a little bag of peppermints – your favorite, the ones you can only get from Honeydukes, in the fancy blue-and-silver wrapper.
“We went to Hogsmeade yesterday,” he says, voice softer than usual. “Sirius and Peter were trying every sample like lunatics. I saw these and thought of you.”
He gives you a small smile. Then he turns and walks away, like he hasn’t just spun your whole internal compass off its axis.
You hate the way your heart stutters. You hate that your fingers curl a little tighter around the bag. But most of all, you hate the way that, when you get back to your dorm, you don’t toss the candy aside.
You place it carefully on your desk.
You unfold a fresh roll of parchment.
You pull out his quill – the one you stole – and write the first line of his unfinished essay in slow, neat script: “The Nature of Change: Mastery Not Through Force, But Will” by James F. Potter
The next morning, just after breakfast, you slip into Transfiguration before anyone else. You place the quill back on his desk. Set your finished essay beside it, tied with a green ribbon. A note rests on top:
The effort is 5 out of 10.
Try harder, lover boy.
You don’t stay to see his reaction.
You’re halfway down the corridor when you hear him shout your name – half accusation, half promise. Your mouth curls before you can stop it.
That night, you return to your dorm and find something on your pillow. A lone chocolate frog.
Your dormmates giggle behind their curtains, whispering in that high, conspiratorial way that means they’ve been watching. You approach slowly, like it might vanish if you move too quickly. It’s an ordinary box – except someone’s scribbled over the tagline in black ink. Where it once said “Collect them all!”, it now reads:
Just try to resist me, darling
The Terms and Conditions remain in force.
Next to it, there’s a folded note. You sit down on your bed and open it.
“True transfiguration is not a matter of power, but of surrender – of allowing something to become what it was never meant to be, and loving it anyway.”
It’s a quote. From your essay. The one you wrote for him.
You stare at the words until they blur. You don’t know whether to roll your eyes or fall a little harder.
In the end, you crumple the parchment and toss it into the deepest corner of your drawer. Then you open the frog box and bite its head off in one go. It tastes suspiciously of cinnamon and honey.
Your favorite.
Damn him.
WEEK THREE: HE SWITCHES STRATEGY.
He stops playing for the crowd.
No more enchanted parchment fluttering overhead with rhymes he knows you'll hate. He no longer bellows compliments in the corridors, doesn’t make grand gestures designed to echo through the common rooms like some headline you didn’t ask for.
Instead, it’s quieter now. Softer.
You’re skipping dinner after hours buried in the library, the kind of night where ink stains your wrists and a headache blooms like a slow, spreading curse behind your eyes. You're too tired to remember what hunger feels like. Your fingers ache, cramped from too many pages of notes.
When you finally shuffle into the common room, bag slipping from your shoulder, you find him there – James Potter. Curled up on the battered sofa, legs tucked beneath him, half-asleep with a History of Hogwarts book pressed to his chest. The armchair beside him bears his invisibility cloak, the silver fabric draped like a secret. On the low table: a plate. Toasted bread, slices of apple, cheese, and a scattered handful of chocolate-covered raisins – Sirius’s stash, no doubt, and you’re sure James didn’t ask permission.
When he hears you, his eyes open, still heavy with sleep, and he presses a finger to his lips. Then he nods to the plate, like an offering.
You cross the room slowly, still watching him as you sink onto the couch. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. But you eat – every last bite, and he stays until you’re done.
When the plate is empty, he rises, stretches with a quiet groan, and winks at you. He mouths a single phrase – you’re welcome – before sweeping the cloak over his shoulders. In a blink, he vanishes.
You can still feel his warmth lingering, stitched into the air around you, until the common room passage creaks open. A draft rolls through, damp and cold, straight from the dungeons.
That’s when you know: James is gone. And this time, he took the warmth with him.
The next day, when you’re trying to study – really trying, even though every word looks like the same broken scribble – he finds you. The library is half-empty, soft with the hush of late afternoon, when even the light seems drowsy. You don’t notice him at first, not until a warm mug is set down in front of you, right at the corner of your parchment. Milk tea. No sugar. Exactly the way you take it.
You blink up at him, caught off guard, mouth parting with a question you don’t quite form in time.
James doesn’t say anything. He just drags out the chair opposite yours and sinks into it, flipping open a spellbook like he belongs there. His hair is all wind-tangled from practice, sticking up in every direction, and there’s a flush still blooming high on his cheeks and throat – that pink that comes from cold air and running fast and not caring about the burn in your lungs. His Gryffindor jumper is rumpled, collar askew, a glimpse of bare collarbone where the knit slouches. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t make a scene.
He just turns a page and says softly, like it costs him nothing, like it’s just a thing he knows: "Your hands shake when you've had too much caffeine."
You stare at him then. Not the way you’re supposed to, not with irritation or exhaustion, but with this awful, unwanted warmth spreading in your ribs, slow and heavy and honey-thick. You don’t like that he noticed. That he watches closely enough to know something like that. You don’t like that he cares. You especially don’t like the part of you that… likes it. That wants to ask how long he’s been noticing.
So you don’t say anything. You drink the tea in silence, and it tastes exactly right, which somehow makes it worse.
The next day, your Charms essay comes back with a fat, unforgiving red P slashed across the top. The sight of it is a blow – sharp and sour, humiliation tightening in your throat. You’d tried. You really tried, and for what? You stare at the parchment so long that your eyes blur, but you don’t blink, don’t move, just sit there letting the shame settle, heavy and certain.
Across from you, James is still doodling, his quill skating lazily along the margin of his notes, sketching what looks like a dragon mid-flight. For a moment you think maybe he hasn’t noticed, that you’ve folded yourself into smallness well enough, but then his hand slides across the table. A folded piece of parchment, pushed to the edge of your book.
You hesitate before opening it, already braced for whatever nonsense he’s decided to throw at you. But when you smooth it open, you can’t stop the smile. It betrays you, blooming soft on your lips before you can strangle it. You press your fingers to your mouth, hiding it poorly.
Why did the Hippogriff refuse to duel the Blast-Ended Skrewt?
Because he didn’t want to stoop to its level.
It’s ridiculous. Childish, even. And yet. You’re not laughing.
(You’re laughing. Quiet, breathless. Like the sound snuck out before you could catch it.)
When you break your chocolate chip cookie in half at the end of class and wordlessly leave one piece on his side of the desk, you don’t wait to see his reaction. You disappear into the tangle of students before he can say anything back – before you can regret it.
Still, nothing has changed, not really. He remains an unbearable presence. Still bumps into you in the halls with the casual arrogance of someone convinced the earth itself is tilted in his favour. Still calls you darling in that ridiculous drawl, turning the word into something between a provocation and a promise. Still looks at you like he knows something you don’t.
But it doesn’t feel like a joke anymore.
It feels like something steadier.
Something gentler, humming underneath everything, like the low, distant pulse of the sea. It doesn’t crash, doesn’t demand. It’s just there, insistent as gravity. Simple, the way a lighthouse is simple: a fixed point you can’t help but see, even through the thickest fog.
And that, you think, is the most dangerous part of all because you can’t remember when you stopped thinking about the bet every time he smiled.
But you did.
And now it feels like something is beginning.
Something without rules.
Something without conditions.
Something without reservations.
WEEK SIX: YOU FORGET WHO'S WINNING.
The Astronomy Tower is quieter than usual.
No fifth-years sneaking kisses behind the columns. No prefects whispering warnings about curfews, no sharp footsteps echoing up the stairs. Just the two of you and the night, soft and silver-streaked, spreading across the stone floor like spilled ink.
You’re both hiding. Not just from your housemates or your homework, but from something murkier. From what’s happening between you, pressing in like a secret neither of you knows how to say aloud.
There’s a bottle of firewhisky between you, pinched from beneath Sirius’s bed. James had caught you in the hallway after lights out, his grin lazy, his offer simple: “Come have a drink with me”. Now the bottle sits half-finished, warm in the way alcohol gets when too many stories are shared and not enough confessions.
His shoulder touches yours – confidently, thoughtlessly. Like his weight belongs to you. Like it’s always belonged to you.
Overhead, the stars are smeared, blurred like fingerprints dragged across glass. You should be paying attention to them. Measuring the sky, plotting coordinates, marking distances like they matter. Like the universe isn’t already expanding too fast for you to catch up.
Instead, your gaze stays fixed on the wood between your knees, the old grain split and scarred. You trace circles there, over and over, your fingertip moving without meaning.
Your voice comes out low, quiet enough that it might have been mistaken for a thought left unsaid: "Why did you make the bet in the first place?"
You don’t look up when you ask. You keep your eyes on your hand, the dumb curl of your fist like it might shield you from whatever answer is coming.
He doesn’t reply immediately. The silence isn’t awkward. It settles between you both, heavier than the whisky, stretching out like the Tower itself is holding its breath, waiting to hear how this will land. A cold wind ghosts between you, but you’re not cold. Not really. James is too close and the warmth coming off him feels like enough to thaw the whole castle if it wanted.
When his voice finally comes, it’s softer than you’ve ever heard it – a confession whispered to the sky, or maybe to the Moon, like he’s ashamed to give it to you directly.
"Because you looked at me like I wasn’t worth your time."
You blink. The words land sharper than you expect, and it takes a beat before you can even lift your head. When you finally turn to him, he’s not grinning, not smirking, not baiting you into a fight.
He’s just watching the sky. Like he’s trying to memorize it. Like it might save him.
"Does that bother you?" you ask, and your voice is rougher than before. Not sharp, just uncertain.
His jaw clenches. You see it first, that flicker of frustration, before he exhales and lets it go.
"More than it should have," he admits. His gaze doesn’t waver from the stars. "And maybe... I wanted you to take another look."
And Merlin. That’s when it hits you – low in your stomach, blooming up through your chest with a kind of aching clarity. You’re sitting here, heart pounding harder than you’d like, the stars dragging their slow arc overhead, his body warm against yours, steady, unthinking.
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because somewhere between the taunts and the bets, the shoulder nudges and the tea left waiting, the whispered jokes and stupid, scribbled notes – somewhere between all of it you looked again.
And you didn’t stop.
WEEK TEN: YOU CATCH YOURSELF.
You can see him on the other side of the courtyard.
It's foolishly windy outside. His tie is fluttering like a banner, his hair is disheveled, his cheeks are pink from the cold. A stray cat is sitting on his arm like a royal, purring, and he is humming to her. Obviously, Sir Mittens. He smiles like he has nothing to prove.
And your heart – usually a well-defended fortress of your gut, covered with sarcasm – turns over. Violently.
You tell yourself it's indigestion.
(That's not true.)
You're lying.
You start to notice things – terrible, intimate things that you shouldn't know about. For example, when he reads, his glasses always slide down the bridge of his nose, and instead of adjusting them with his hand, he just squints like a determined mole. Or the way he bites the inside of his cheek when he's trying not to laugh, especially when McGonagall is reprimanding Sirius and he's so close to snapping. Or how he always, always, without delay gives Peter the last chocolate frog from the package, even though you've seen him look at it as if it holds the secret of eternal life.
You tell yourself that it's just an observation. Tactics. Preparing for a counterattack.
(It's not like that.)
Worse, you start looking for him. In the corridors. At breakfast. During the lectures, which you should pay attention to. Your eyes scan the room as if searching for coordinates, as if your system won't calibrate properly until you know where he is.
Sometimes it's not there.
And that's when it really hits you.
You miss him.
Not in a vague, tolerant way. And in particular, why, damn it, it's calmer this way. It's like some part of your day is behind you. It's like your mood is waiting for something – or someone – to come before it can settle down.
You're not sure when it started. You don't know how to stop it. But you're losing. And the worst part, the thing that keeps you awake longer than you can imagine, is that it doesn't feel like a game anymore.
It feels like surrender.
And it terrifies you.
LAST WEEK OF TERM: ARE YOU WINNING (OR NOT?).
It’s the final night of the semester, and it feels like the castle is holding its breath. Like even the walls know something is about to end, or maybe about to break.
Outside, snow lashes the tall windows, battering the glass as though winter itself is trying to claw its way in. Inside, the Gryffindor common room glows gold and red, pulsing with the low, heavy thump of music – a heartbeat loud enough to rattle the floorboards. Laughter ricochets off the stone, a little too bright, a little too sharp, like everyone is desperate to be louder than the endings creeping up behind them. Enchanted lanterns bob lazily through the air, and someone’s charmed sparkles burst overhead, dissolving into smoke that shimmers for a second longer than it should.
You came because you wanted to win.
You dressed like a warning.
Dark green velvet, a slash of silver at your throat, eyeliner winged sharp enough to cut. Your smile is a blade, your voice all silk and teeth. You let two Ravenclaw boys orbit you, laughing too loud at one of Sirius’s wilder jokes, drinking when Remus pressed a glass into your hand. You played the part perfectly – untouchable, careless, victorious before the final move was made.
And all the while, you could feel James Potter watching you.
Across the room, beneath the lazy whirl of the disco ball, his gaze didn’t waver. But something was wrong with it. Wrong with him. The usual light in his eyes, that bright, golden flicker of something like mischief, was gone. Instead, he watched you like you were already gone. Like you were slipping, sliding, vanishing – a shape he couldn’t keep hold of. And behind it, buried deep, was something worse. An abyss. A sadness that looked like it had nowhere left to go.
You felt it. Of course you felt it. But you told yourself not to care.
A few hours more – that’s all that remained. A few hours and you could win. Win the stupid, pointless bet. Prove him wrong. Prove yourself right. A couple more steps and you’d walk away clean, the whole stupid game nothing more than a story you’d tell, some day when it didn’t ache anymore.
So you kept going.
You laughed. You danced. You swallowed the firewhisky your friend handed you without so much as a flinch, the burn of it scorching down your throat, pooling heavy in your stomach. You let the music drown out the rawness in your chest. You let some stranger put his cold, unremarkable hands on your waist, let him spin you beneath the glimmer of enchanted lights.
One last night, you told yourself.
One more move.
Win the game.
Walk away untouched.
That was the plan.
So why, then… why did it feel like you were losing?
But it didn’t work.
No matter where you stood, no matter whose hands curled around your waist, no matter how loud you laughed – your gaze always, always found its way back to him. Like a tether you couldn’t cut. Across the room, half-shrouded in the lazy dark of the corner, James was leaning against the wall with the Marauders clustered nearby, though they seemed far from his mind. He barely spoke. The glass in his hand twirled in slow, thoughtful circles, the amber liquid catching flashes of light like it held answers at the bottom.
This wasn’t the James Potter you’d come to know – not the boy who lived with noise in his lungs, the gravitational pull in every room, the storm and the sun and every chaotic thing in between. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t calling attention to himself, wasn’t filling the spaces with his unbearable, inevitable charm. He was still. Quiet. Eyes dark, far away from wherever the party was trying to drag him.
You watched him longer than you meant to. Let your eyes linger for three, four, maybe five seconds too long. Then you swallowed it down and threw your head back, another laugh tumbling out, empty as the glass in your hand.
You kept up the act. Of course you did. You flirted with some boy a year below you – you couldn’t even remember his name, just that he looked at you like a prize. Your dress clung close, soft velvet like a whispered secret, and his hands traveled your hips in time with the music. It didn’t feel like anything. Just motion. Just the weight of someone else’s palms and the prickling trail of goosebumps that felt more like a warning than a thrill. But you didn’t stop him.
And then James found you.
You didn’t see him coming. Just felt it, like a shift in the room’s gravity, the air tightening around you. Your would-be date was already gone, wandered off in search of someone easier, someone less preoccupied. And there James was, pushing his way through the crowd like he’d just decided he’d had enough.
He was flushed, the kind of flush that wasn’t just from drink but from frustration, heat blooming in his cheeks, his neck. His hair was a disaster – worse than usual, a wild tangle like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His shirt hung open at the collar, rumpled and loose, like he’d either tried to fix it and failed or never bothered to try.
And he had two cups in his hands. One of them – your favorite.
He held it out to you, saying nothing. Just standing there, eyes heavy, shoulders slack, offering you the drink like some kind of peace treaty.
You took it. You shouldn’t have, but you did. The glass was cool against your fingers, and you raised it to your lips, taking a small, wary sip.
Your face twisted immediately. Too sweet. Sickly. Off-balance. You turned away from him to hide the frown, to gather yourself before your mouth could betray you.
"It’s too sweet," you muttered, pretending to examine the crowd instead of him, pretending you weren’t unraveling.
He just shrugged. "You like sweets, darling"
You rolled your eyes, sharp and fast. "You don’t know what I like."
And you meant it to sting, you always did, but the blow landed somewhere else entirely. Because when you finally looked back at him, when you risked the glance – he wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t cocky. His eyes, usually burning gold, looked dull, greyed out like something had drained the color from him. He stared at you like you’d taken something from him without realizing, like he was trying to recognize you through a fog he didn’t want to admit was there. Like you were already halfway gone, and he didn’t know how to call you back.
The silence stretched between you, taut and aching. He didn’t argue. He didn’t tease. He just stood there, watching, motionless ike if he moved, you’d shatter.
And it made you nervous. All of it.
His quiet. His stillness.
It wasn’t like him. James Potter was meant to be reckless and noisy, a boy so loud they could write headlines about him and still not capture the whole of it. But here he was, hollowed out in front of you, like some part of him had given up already.
The lump in your throat was sudden, sharp, impossible to swallow. Without thinking, you muttered some excuse, something flimsy and forgettable, and you fled – drink in hand, pulse tight and fast like it wanted to escape your body altogether.
The taste of the too-sweet drink lingered on your tongue. And so did the way he’d looked at you like you’d already left. And for the first time that night, it didn’t feel like you were winning at all.
You slip into a group of fellow students – familiar faces, easy voices talking nonsense you don’t care about. Some joke about McGonagall’s lectures, another about next term, another about how many drinks it takes to make Slughorn sing. You nod when it seems appropriate, toss in a smirk, sip the too-sweet drink James gave you just to have something to do with your hands. You don’t hear a word.
Because anything – anything – is better than standing there in front of James Potter, staring at the hollowness in his face. You’d rather pretend. You’d rather hide here, surrounded by noise, than look at the boy who always seemed too full of life to ever go quiet.
It’s almost midnight when you leave. The party is still pulsing behind you, but you slide through the corridors like smoke, like shadow, the castle dimming, softening, as if the walls themselves are growing tired. Drunken students have already collapsed into beds, some half-draped on couches, others giggling in corners. The portraits are murmuring to one another in voices too low for you to catch, and up above, through frostbitten windows, the stars shiver faintly over the Astronomy Tower, sharp and cold as needles.
You don’t know why you’re heading for the library.
You just are.
Your heels tap sharp echoes into the empty hallways, each step a hollow sound that bounces back at you, too loud, like the castle is laughing under its breath. The air gets colder, the stone narrowing around you, like the walls themselves are squeezing you forward faster and faster.
The library is dark. Colder still.
You pass shelf after shelf, the spines of old books watching in judgment. Dust heavy in the air. But you’re headed for the nook. Your place. The little corner tucked behind two tall stacks, where the light from the high window always falls in soft stripes.
The place where James used to find you.
Where he’d sit – sometimes reading, sometimes watching, sometimes talking nonsense about his friends, about Quidditch, about things you’d pretend not to care about but always, always remembered. Where you didn’t have to fight him off with sharp words and sharper looks – you could just sit there, beside him, and forget there was supposed to be a game between you.
You settle into the chair, the dark pressing in around you. The great clock in the tower looms visible through the tall window, its face bathed in moonlight, each tick dragging you forward. You light the stubby candles you find in the little cupboard, their flames small and shaky, like they know they don’t belong here at this hour.
Thirty minutes left.
Thirty minutes until the end of the day. The end of the term.
Thirty minutes until the bet is over. Until you win.
You exhale, slow. Watch the clock hand crawl forward.
But you can’t see the time for long. All you see is him. James – standing across the room, his eyes drained of light, watching you like you were the one who’d hollowed him out. His eyes follow you still, burned into the back of your eyelids, dull and disappointed, like you’d proved something to him that he wished you hadn’t.
Twenty-nine minutes.
You close your eyes.
Maybe it’s true what they say about Slytherins – that your heart is just a myth. Something you learned to live without.
James Potter finds you ten minutes before midnight.
You don’t even have to open your eyes to know it’s him because the air changes when he walks in, like the room exhales with him. The weight of it shifts – warmer, quieter, as if his presence tucks itself around you like a blanket. Gentle, encompassing. It’s him. Of course it’s him.
You’re curled in your usual armchair, legs folded beneath you, a book sitting untouched in your lap. The candles have long burned down to nothing, puddles of wax cooling in place. The only light now is the moon, spilling silver and pale across the frost-lined windows. You can see your breath when you exhale. Cold, sharp. You pluck the pencil from behind your ear and start rolling it between your fingers like it’s a wand or a weapon. Something to keep your hands busy. Something to pretend you’re still armed.
You feel his gaze before you see it – heavy and patient. He’s standing between the shelves, just watching.
"You’re late," you murmur, eyes still on the book you’re not reading. You say it like you’ve done this before like this is just another evening in the library, just another study session.
"I didn’t know it was planned," he answers, and his voice is soft. Not smug. Not teasing. Just James.
You glance up then, and there he is. Hair a mess from the party, tie loose around his neck, collar rumpled and dotted with faint sparkles that caught in the fabric somehow, as if the party still clings to him. His eyes are steady now, quiet. No wildness, no desperation – just something like peace. Like he’s glad he found you here.
"You look like you’ve been hexed," you say, because it’s easier than telling him what you really think.
He smiles faintly. "You look like heartbreak."
It lodges in you, sharp and sudden. You forget to breathe for a second. The pencil goes still between your fingers. Slowly, deliberately, you close the book on your lap – not that you’d read a single word anyway.
James steps closer, then drops into the chair across from you. He leans forward like he’s going to say something clever, some easy line, but the words don’t come. Instead, he just sits there, elbows on his knees, gaze flicking between you and the candle stump in the middle of the table. The clock ticks on. Five minutes to midnight.
Silence spreads between you – delicate and trembling, like the thread of a spell stretched too thin. It hums around your ears, sharp at the edges, and you can’t stand it anymore.
"Why did you actually do that?" you ask. Your voice is quieter now, thin with something you don’t want to name. "The bet."
He exhales, and it sounds like surrender. His shoulders curve in, and his eyes drop to the candle between you like if he looks hard enough, the wax and flame might hold the truth for him.
"I already told you, darling," he says, the nickname soft and worn-down, missing its usual mischief. "Because I didn’t know how else to make you look at me."
You blink, barely breathing, watching him like if you look away, he might vanish. Your hand grips the pencil tighter beneath the table, as if holding on to anything could stop the shaking just under your skin.
"I thought it was funny," he says, and there’s a crack in his voice he doesn’t bother to hide. "I thought you’d laugh. Roll your eyes. Maybe hex me. I thought it’d be another story to tell – Potter, the idiot who bet he could make the sharpest girl in school fall for him."
He pauses, swallows, his gaze flickering.
"And then you started resisting," he admits, like it still astonishes him. "You didn’t just brush it off. You fought back. And I thought- maybe… maybe that meant I had a chance."
The pencil might as well be a knife between your hands now. You keep your grip on it so you don’t say something dangerous.
Because he’s sitting there, his eyes glassy with everything he’s still trying not to confess. And you’re sitting here, four minutes to midnight, your victory perched on the edge of the hour – so close you could taste it, if not for the too-sweet drink still coating your tongue, and the sour ache curdling at the back of your throat.
You stand.
Slowly, deliberately, like there’s a storm gathering in your limbs. The chair creaks faintly as you shift, but you don’t notice. You’re watching him, and James is already on his feet too, like his body refuses to let you rise without him. Instinct. Gravity. A need to match you move for move.
You cross the space between you – not too close, not yet – your expression unreadable, a mask of something dangerous or nothing at all. The candle between you spits and gutters, casting the sharp corners of your face in flickering shadow. The jut of your cheekbones, the curve of your mouth, the glint of your eyes that he still, still looks for.
"And that’s it?" you ask, voice too bright, too sharp-edged to be real. A theater smile curling at your lips. "The final act of your little charade? The last card in the deck?"
He flinches, barely, but his voice stays soft. "Do you think ’bout me like that, darling?"
It startles you. The tenderness in it. The quiet.
You dig your nails into your palms. Hard enough that it should sting, but it doesn’t. You grit your teeth, forcing your jaw to stay steady. You want to hate yourself for him – for caring, for being here, for not walking away when you still could.
"We’ve been competing since first year, Potter," you snap, trying to make your voice as sharp as your memory. "You charmed my feathers off my quills. I hexed your broom so it hiccupped mid-air. You brewed me a potion that made cat ears grow out of my head."
His mouth quirks, just barely, and it lights something in your stomach that you don’t want to name.
"I hid your Marauder’s Map in the castle for a week, pretending I didn’t know where it was," you press on, voice rising, cutting. "We were at war, James. And now- … now you’re holding doors for me. Remembering how I take my tea. Bringing me food when I’ve forgotten to eat, making those- those stupid paper swans with their stupid sweet notes-"
"I meant every one of them," he murmurs.
"You flirted with half the castle!" you spit, like you’re trying to make it hurt.
His eyes don’t waver. He steps forward, slow, careful, like he’s afraid too sudden a move will send you fleeing.
"It never mattered," he says, and his voice is a whisper you feel in your bones. "No one but you ever did."
You shake your head. Hard. You raise a hand, palm up, as if to block the words physically.
You can’t let him do this. You can’t let yourself-
There’s a lump in your throat, rising and rising, so you force an exhale, try to gather up all that old hatred, the easy irritation that always fit so comfortably between your ribs. You close your eyes and reach for it – the biting annoyance, the sharp retorts, the rejection, the pride.
But it’s gone.
All you find is warmth.
Gentle, steady, inevitable.
There’s no hatred. No real irritation. Maybe there never was. Maybe it was all a mask to hide the first time he ever smiled at you and you couldn’t stand the way it cracked something open.
All that’s left now is the unbearable, inexhaustible warmth that spreads through your chest every time you think about James Potter. And there’s nothing – nothing – you can do to stop it.
Your world falls apart quietly. Not like glass shattering, but like silk tearing – soft, devastating, irreversible. The walls you built crumble without a sound. And in the space where they stood, something new is rising, rebuilt from warmth and ache and inevitability.
You open your eyes.
Your gaze drifts, dazed, to the clock face high in the dark window. The moonlight pooling silver across its hands. It’s done. It’s passed. And the words leave your mouth before you can stop them, low and clear and final: "It’s after midnight."
James blinks, his brow creasing gently. "Yeah?"
You step closer. Slow and sure, until the space between you hums tight with electricity. Your breath fogs the lenses of his glasses, blurring you both together. And in that hush, that sliver of a heartbeat where he’s still waiting, you whisper, "Which means, technically... the bet is over."
He swallows, throat bobbing visibly. His voice is smaller than it should be. “So what?”
You tilt your head, eyes heavy-lidded, voice velvet-wrapped and dangerous – a blade slipped between ribs. "Looks like you've lost."
And before he can say a single word, before he can even draw another breath… You kiss him.
You kiss him like it’s a battle you’re finally, finally surrendering to. Ferocious, definite, like you’re claiming the ruins of everything you tried to hold onto. His mouth is warm, stunned at first but then he’s moving, kissing you back with a desperation that feels less like victory, and more like relief. Like he doesn’t give a damn who wins, as long as it’s you. As long as it’s this.
You pull away just an inch, barely a breath between your lips and his. Your eyelashes brush the edge of his cheekbone, and when you tilt your head up, his eyes are already waiting – wide, burning, reverent.
And then, so soft, so delicate he almost doesn’t catch it, you whisper, "I think I love you."
James doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
Because his hands are already in your hair, his mouth on yours again, kissing you like he’s heard it, like he’s known, like he’s been waiting for exactly this all along. Like the only thing he’d ever wanted was for you to say it out loud.
And now that you have,
he’ll never let you forget it
A FEW WEEKS LATER:
The fire in the Gryffindor common room is burning low, all red coals and sleepy embers, the flames licking at the stone like they’ve grown tired. Shadows stretch across the walls, long and swaying, and the only sound outside is the hush of snow as it kisses the stained glass, soft and weightless. Inside, everything is warm – thick socks, threadbare rugs, laughter drifting faintly from the dormitories upstairs. The castle is folding itself into curfew, but no one’s come to usher you out yet.
You should be in your own common room. You’re not.
You’re here, pressed against James Potter like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like you belong here, tangled with him, folded into his warmth, your head tucked beneath his chin. And maybe you do. Maybe you always have.
His jumper smells like parchment, mint, and boy – that specific, careless scent of someone who lives out of a satchel and a Quidditch locker and never remembers to cap his ink. His fingers are moving slowly through your hair, not with purpose, but with a lazy kind of affection, like he’s got nowhere to be but here. Like he can’t imagine a better place to be.
"You know," he murmurs, his voice a low echo against your temple, "I really thought I’d have to confess to Slughorn."
You laugh – soft, stifled, your breath catching where it brushes his collarbone. "I almost let you."
James leans his head back, grinning up at the ceiling like it’s shared in on the joke.
"It would’ve gone down in history."
"You still can," you tease, your fingers idly tracing the seam of his shirt, a gentle map of something familiar. "Gryffindor student arrested for indecent behavior in a public place and unforgivable taste in bets."
"Hey," he protests, mock-wounded, "you’re injuring my pride."
You tip your head back to look at him and of course he’s already watching you. He always is. It’s in his gaze, the way he looks at you like you’re something improbable he’s still not entirely convinced isn’t a dream. Like if he blinks, you’ll vanish.
"I kissed you, didn’t I?" you murmur.
"You did," he says, and his smile is soft, reverent. Not smug. Not victorious. Just… grateful.
You hesitate, fingers pausing in his hair. Your voice drops, lower, more fragile than you meant it to be.
"It wasn’t a fair bet."
His brows lift slightly, curiosity crinkling at the edges. "No? Why not?"
You shift, turning to face him more fully. The firelight paints him gold and shadow, haloed and human all at once. And something fierce presses tight behind your ribs – the terrible, beautiful ache of loving someone in the quiet, when there’s no one left to witness it but the dark.
"Because," you say, your voice slow, your hand slipping into his hair like you’ve done it a thousand times in another life, "I think I liked you from the very beginning."
You feel him freeze – just a breath, a second, the air hitching between you. And then his smile spreads, wide and unstoppable. Not prideful. Not like he’s won. Just… joy. Pure and warm and so achingly James.
"Yeah?" he asks, and his voice is just the faintest bit hoarse.
"Yes."
He kisses you then. Softly. Carefully. Like he’s still learning the shape of the word yours on his tongue.
There’s no argument this time.
No clever retort, no battle to win.
No conditions.
Just the terms of a heart freely given – and returned in full.
thankx for reading <з
if you enjoyed it, i’d love to hear your thoughts – comments, likes, and reblogs mean the world and help more people find my work. <з your support keeps me writing!
Summary - Sharp-tongued, steady-handed, and raised beside the Shelbys like blood, Dr. Emily Hughes weaves through their war for Birmingham with a surgeon’s precision—offering comfort, challenge, and quiet resistance, especially to the man who’s forgetting how to be anything but a weapon.
Word Count - 6,096
Warnings - less than canon-typical violence
A/N - Hey it's July I've been moving all around the fucking country what a nightmare.
Thanks for the support <3 Would love to know what you think!
Chapter 8
“They can stay. It’s fine.” Emily said, cutting across the argument between a still terrified Finn and Polly, the former not wanting to be any farther from her than necessary – still frightened and clingier than he was normally.
It took a few seconds to realise the other person she was referring to was him. It hadn’t occurred to him to leave when Polly closed the meeting room doors.
“Sit down.” Pol ordered.
She sighed, taking the bottle of gin from Emily, who looked ready to keep helping out. He placed his hand on her unaffected shoulder and gently steered her into a chair. Finn immediately climbed into her lap. Smart lad, that would keep her sitting.
“I’ll just cut it open.” Polly muttered to herself, grabbing a pair of scissors. “It’s headed for the bin anyway.”
Emily quietly wiped away the remaining tracts of tears on his little face, offering a small smile to the boy.
“Thank you for sitting with me, Finny.”
His response was to lean forward and wrap his arms around her. She slid his cap off and kissed the top of his head.
I’ve had worse. And there was the worse. Polly’s scissors cutting the rear of the blouse open, exposing the scars that marred her back. The cigarette burns around her right shoulder, the strip of burned flesh from a hurled kettle. Clusters of small scars telling the sad story of a childhood. And the worst of them all – the handful of straight, rope-like scars going from just below her neck to just above the small of her back.
“Mum help! Aunt Polly!” She was slipping from his grip, head lolling. It was hard to get a good hold on her with all the blood. God, there was so much blood and he didn’t know what to–
He squeezed his eyes shut against the memory, taking a shaky breath and following it with a drag of his cigarette.
From the corner of her eye, she was watching him.
“Not pretty, is it?” She joked, offering a small smile. Lowering her head so her cheek rested on Finn’s hair, she sighed. “I don’t like looking at it either.”
“You’re beautiful.” He shot back automatically, furious at her words and refusing to let them stand for more than a second. “Always.”
Polly shook her head. “Idiots.” She muttered, which Tommy didn’t understand and didn’t care to. Polly thought they were all stupid most of the time.
Instead he poured them both a glass of gin out of the bottle Pol would be about to use on her back. With thanks, Em took a sip and closed her eyes.
“This is going to hurt.” Was all the warning they got before Pol had ripped the jagged piece of metal from her back.
Emily cried out, before swallowing a louder scream by sheer force of will. Her jaw was tensed so tightly he thought she might crack a tooth. Without thinking, he reached out and took her hand.
“Fuck you, Polly.” She seethed, gasping when her words were followed with a healthy dose of gin being poured over top. He let her squeeze his hand until her hands turned white along with his. He could bear the discomfort without question for her.
Finn kissed her cheek, bringing a sweet smile to her face despite the pain.
“Love you, Emmy.”
And she beamed. She always beamed when one of them said they loved her. Like they warmed her heart and soul just by saying aloud the words she should have already known were true.
“…this is your family, not mine. I don’t have one.” Maybe that was why. Maybe she held onto scraps of any affection with both hands because she was so scared it would disappear at any point. It wasn’t like his own actions had shown her any differently recently.
His stomach knotted at that thought.
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
Her hand twitched in his when the needle went in, but she gently kissed Finn’s forehead anyway.
“This is much more convenient than coming to yours.” Emily joked, putting her hands gently on Ada’s huge stomach. Seeing her and Freddie at the kitchen table for breakfast had been a surprise, but not an unwelcomed one. Considering the agony she was in this morning, she hadn’t been looking forward to a long walk to their place. “Give me a moment.”
But her hands were taken off the young woman’s body, forcing her to look into the Shelby girl’s face.
“Are you okay? Pol told me what happened; I’ve been sick with worry.” Ada breathed, sounding more a woman than the girl Emily knew her to be.
“We both have.” Freddie’s voice was gruff, but honest. He was staring at her shoulder as if he could see the wound through her blouse. His fists clenched and unclenched, like they always had when he was stressed as a boy.
“I’m fine. Don’t be ridiculous.” She squeezed the hands holding her own. Ignoring the twinge, the throbbing. “Now let me look at you.”
She smiled, hands sliding into places on the left and right hypochondrium and pressing in. Then down the flanks and finally onto the umbilicus. A small kick met her fingers in the centre and she laughed. “Quite a leg on that one.”
She felt the lie and frowned to herself slightly.
“You’re going to pop any day now, Ada. Be aware of that, eh? Make sure someone comes and finds me if I’m not there when your water goes.”
They weren’t paying enough attention to her words.
“Look at me.” Her face turned serious, and she made sure both of them met her eyes when she spoke. “This baby is in breech. It will be a difficult birth. You need a doctor there, do you understand me?”
“Course, Em.” Ada nodded to Freddie’s words, both of them sobering quickly.
“Good.”
She sat back into her chair and smiled up at Pol when she came in with a teapot. The news of a new boy to the family spread rather quickly, joy suffusing the home again. Though the teasing that erupted when the soon-to-be parents let it slip that they were going to name him after Karl Marx was nothing short of legendary.
It warmed her to see Tommy and Freddie laughing together again. She’d needed this as much as they had.
“Dr. Hughes!”
What?
“Inspector Campbell,” the annoyance was clear in her voice. “I’m with a patient.”
He didn’t seem to care, ripping the curtain open, alarming herself and the man she was assessing. She pulled the blanket over the stub of his leg, eyes apologetic.
“I’m sorry, Mr. White. We don’t normally have policemen barging on patients.” She felt truly bad for him. How low did you have to be to attack people at their most vulnerable?
“I think we’re overdue for another conversation, Dr. Hughes. I’m sure the good Mr. White won’t mind, will you sir?”
The man shook his head violently, and she didn’t blame him. This copper could be quite frightening when he wanted to be. What the fuck could he possibly be here for? The guns were going to be gone in two days, but there was no way he knew that.
Walking out of the room and handing her clipboard to the nurse, Rose, she asked that Mr. White be assessed and offered some comfort while he waited for another doctor. She doubted this would be a short conversation.
“I have an office, inspector. If you’ll come this way.”
Small Heath hospital wasn’t a small place, but it wasn’t the size of the ones she’d worked at in Galway or London. Still, big enough that every physician had their own room.
Opening the door, she bade him enter and closed it behind. A pile of paperwork waited on her desk, as well as a few of her things placed around the room. It was an impersonal place by design, the last thing she needed was someone going through it to find out more about her.
“Now, inspector, tell me: what do you require from me this time?” There would be no interruptions here, she knew. That frightened her but the risk an eavesdropper posed was so much greater in her mind. “Has something gone awry in your hunt for… what was it again that you had asked me about… was it guns?”
He tried to play it calm and collected, smirking at her, but she could see a strain around his eyes, a discomfort in his countenance. His smile was forced, his worry was not.
“You have a fine memory, doctor.” He took a seat at the table.
She raised her eyebrows, taking her own seat across the desk from him. It was comforting to have a distance and a physical barrier between them.
He continued without need of her input.
“The Shelby girl just got married to a communist. The other one’s about to marry a whore.” He laughed uneasily. “Not the most dignified company for a lady like yourself to keep.”
“Think what you wish about my friends, but know that they have never accosted me in the street or at my place of work.”
The smile he had been putting up did finally fall and that made her own grow.
“I cannot imagine what you hope to get out of this meeting, inspector.”
He leaned forward in his chair, cold gaze boring into her, but she refused to look away, she would not be the one to break here.
“I’m looking to make a deal.” Her eyebrows raised automatically. “Thomas won’t meet with me, and Mr. Churchill is getting quite impatient. You should know, if I’m fired, and it was the fault of you and your people…” He chuckled, “I would do things that would shame the devil.”
She swallowed, leaning back in her own chair. “I cannot stress enough that I, nor my friends, have any knowledge about your prize. You would have much greater luck attempting to get blood from a stone, inspector.”
He chuckled, looking down at his hands and back up at her. “I think it’s time we cut the crap, Dr. Hughes. You and I both know that you know about those guns.” She didn’t say anything, and he apparently wasn’t expecting her to. “The sooner you admit it, the sooner we are finished with this ridiculous farce and I can be on my way.”
“No one would appreciate that more than I.” She shot back, tone annoyed and sharp.
“I believe I’m starting to understand better the way things are run among your little hooligans in this hellhole.” It was like she hadn’t said a word. “I thought Arthur was in charge, but I was wrong. Then I thought it was Tommy and you were just his little whore.” He looked up at her, as if waiting for a reaction, one she refused to give him.
“Now I understand it’s more than that. You’re his right hand.”
Most people outside of the family didn’t realise that, and that was by design. Half of her was impressed that he did, and the other uneasy for the same reason.
“I find men don’t react well when you cut off their right hands.”
She blinked a few times, distantly wondering what weapons she had in reach, “Are you threatening me, inspector?”
He chuckled again, standing up from his chair. It took all her effort not to tense as he took a step towards her desk.
“I don’t threaten, Dr. Hughes.” He left a business card on the table. “I recommend Thomas gets in contact with me soon, before I get fired. Or you’ll see that my fury is a thing to behold. I would start with you, but I surely would not end there. Those scum associates of yours, even the sister with her baby, wouldn’t be spared. The only one to be spared would be the youngest one, Finn. He would however be lifted as a juvenile and dumped into that part of the adult prison where men have most appetite for boys like him.”
Her heart was pounding. For the first time since he came to town, she was afraid. Horribly afraid. And overwhelmingly furious. Her hand itched for a gun, but instead she sat placidly, meeting his gaze with unwavering intensity.
“Know that I would save them for my last day, but I could start so much earlier with you, Dr. Hughes. Cutting off a right hand ends a fight much quicker.”
She stayed sitting there for a good half an hour after the inspector had left.
He wouldn’t take it well. For all that Tommy was a shrewd businessman, a powerful gangster, someone confident and in control (usually), he didn’t take threats against his family well. Knowing that Campbell was threatening to kill her soon and the rest of his family when he left town… she worried he wouldn’t think clearly.
He’d meet with the inspector. But if she could be at that meeting…
“What is it?”
She nearly startled when Tommy took the seat across from her at the table. Blinking uncomprehendingly at him until he kept talking.
“You hardly ate anything at dinner, been in your head since you got home. What’s happened?”
She sighed. “You aren’t going to like it.”
He sort of figured whatever it was wouldn’t be good even before Emily warned him. He assumed it would probably annoy him or at worst inconvenience him. By the end of her recounting, he was fucking furious. Pacing up and down the dining room, agitated, burning through his cigarette aggressively.
“Tommy?” Her voice was soft, entreating, concerned. So gentle with him, as she always was. That inspector threatened to kill her, and she was more worried about what was going on in his head. He wanted to rip his head off, wanted to find that inspector and choke him until he was begging for air.
Emily was still just watching him pace, patient and attentive.
“I don’t think he can actually do any of that once he gets fired. I mean the idea of anything happening to your family scares the hell out of me, but I thought about it. You’ll be in too good of a position with money from the races and the rest you’ll get from Patrick. Could buy off every bleeding copper from here to London if you wanted.”
His heart clenched, willing her to stay silent; she was trying to fix it but for once she was also making it worse.
“I think it’ll be fine if you just wait it out–”
“It won’t be fucking fine!” He shouted back, stunning her into silence.
She was just blinking at him, speechless from his outburst. A kick of guilt his him – yelling at her always made him feel like shit, but this time he couldn’t control it. He took a few deep breaths, trying to keep his temper aimed in the right direction.
The two stared at each other for a few minutes, her eyes wide, him panting. Both their gazes shot to the doorway when Pol and Arthur appeared, probably attracted by Tommy’s yelling.
“What’s happened?” Arthur poured himself a glass of whiskey while Pol opened with the questions.
“That fucking inspector.” Tommy seethed and Arthur’s face darkened, eyes flitting between his brother and Emily.
“What’s he done now?”
“He showed up at my work – forced a meeting.” She said, sounding much more put together than Tommy did in this moment. “Threatened you all if Tommy didn’t meet with him.”
Pol raised her eyebrows and looked over at Tommy. Even she knew there was more to the story than Emily was telling her. Someone threatening them was just a fucking Monday.
“He threatened to kill Emily if I didn’t meet with him. Threatened to end the rest of us on his way out of Birmingham.” Tommy shot back; his voice still filled with rage that he was struggling to contain. “Said cutting off a right hand ends a fight much quicker.”
He could see her wince, regretting giving him quotes from the meeting, using Campbell’s metaphors, because it just made it worse. There were a few seconds of silence, Polly pulling out a cigarette of her own, Arthur slamming back his drink, and Emily standing to get another glass out of the cabinet.
There was no question who Tommy’s right hand was.
“I don’t think it’s something to worry about.” Emily finally offered, still the calmest in any room. “Once everything is finished,” and here she was purposely vague, knowing that it wasn’t yet time to share their plans to betray Kimber, “you’ll have enough money to be untouchable. Whether that inspector has a vendetta when he’s fired or not isn’t going to make a difference.”
Tommy ground his teeth, taking a near violent pull from his cigarette. She was still dancing around the main fucking issue… Or maybe to her it wasn’t the main issue. That thought felt like cold water had been poured down his back and he stopped his movements.
“I’ll meet with him.” He wasn’t yelling anymore, but his voice was low and still angry.
Emily sighed, “It’s not worth the fucking risk, Tommy. You can’t kill him. What the fuck could–”
She only stopped talking because he grabbed her arm, careful to keep his grip firm but not to hurt her.
“It’s worth the risk.”
Willing her not to argue with him, willing her to understand that the risk to everyone else wasn’t real, but the risk to her was. He couldn’t do this without her, couldn’t imagine who he’d be, what would be left of him, if anything ever happened to her. If meeting with the fucking copper would make her even a little safer then it was worth the bleeding risk.
Her shoulders dropped with a sigh, meeting his eyes, and slowly she nodded her head. He’d won. Thank fuck.
“Okay, but I’m coming with you.”
“Emily!” Lizzie’s voice was shocked, evidently not expecting to find the good doctor on the other side of her door. “What are you– I mean, come in.”
Walking into her flat, Emily looked around placidly. It was decently neat. Her bed was made; the bed she took her clients in. The bed she took Tom– no. That wasn’t what she was here for. Apparently, she’d caught Lizzie in the middle of unloading her groceries.
“I think you know why I’m here, Lizzie.”
The woman in question paused with the door halfway closed before she regained herself and shut it.
“Would you like tea? I just bought some new types that I’m excited to try.”
Emily just stared at her for a few moments, watching as her gaze shifted down and she began to pick at her clothes. Nervous and uncomfortable. She knew exactly what Emily was doing here.
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.”
Her voice was still soft and demure with that lilt of self-deprecation that didn’t work on her. She’d ended pregnancies for this woman; it wasn’t easy to lie to her after that. It wasn’t easy to lie to her normally.
“I just want to talk.” She said simply, “I told John I had some question so here I am.”
“You’re not against us?”
Emily didn’t respond immediately, pulling out a chair and taking a seat. Letting Lizzie stew, she pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Between the copper and this, the week was really trying to turn around on her. If she hadn’t gotten that new miracle medicine from Dr. Haddington, she’d be in a much less kind headspace.
“John is allowed to make his own decisions, as are you: you’re both adults.” She paused to take a deep drag of her cigarette, watching Lizzie continue to get more and more uncomfortable with the prolonged silences. “But I’m sure you know how important John is to me.”
The woman nodded quickly, “Of course. You’re his sister. He’s… he’s said– he’s told me how you take care of him, of all his family.”
She couldn’t help the warmth that bloomed, spreading from head to toe, letting her feel so profoundly loved. If she wasn’t in her business mindset, she would be smiling like an idiot. John was always such a sweet boy.
That’s why she had to do this.
“You’re right – I am close with the whole family. I’m also a doctor. Tell me Lizzie: have you told John that in addition to marrying him, you’ve been servicing Tommy? Or how about the list of other men you’re still currently fucking?”
She watched the other woman pale, eyes going wide. Was she fucking stupid? How did she not see this conversation coming? Did she think Emily would let anyone join this family?
“You haven’t told him about any of that, Lizzie. Why not?”
“I don’t want to lose him! He’s a good man, Emily. Please.” Her voice broke, hands wringing in her skirts. “I love him, please.”
Emily didn’t reply for a long time, trying to stop her own anger from exploding on this woman. She didn’t care that she was a sex worker, didn’t care that she made her money this way. What she cared about was the fucking lies.
“You want me to let you marry him under false pretext. Is that what you’re saying? Is that love to you, Lizzie? Lies and infidelity?”
Tears were dripping down Lizzie’s cheeks. Still looking down to the ground, even trembling now, but she remained silent.
“I asked you a fucking question, Lizzie.”
“I–” She swallowed heavily, sniffling. “I don’t want to lose him. He’s so good to me, Emily. I’ll change; I want to be better for him. The past is the past – I haven’t– Tommy hasn’t come to me in months.”
Emily resisted the urge to grind her teeth. Yeah, she had been pretty sure that Tommy hadn’t been going since she’d been back. That didn’t make her less mad that he had to begin with– no, she needed to keep her head.
But God what the fuck did Lizzie have that she didn’t?
“I will not stop him from marrying you.” When Lizzie looked up at that, almost relieved, Emily held her hand up to stall her premature joy. “But he will have all the information first.”
She stood up, extinguishing her cigarette in Lizzie’s ashtray.
“You have until the evening to tell him everything. If you have not, and I will check, then I will fill in the gaps with much more detail than I’m sure you want. Remember, I have treated you and most of your client base.”
She didn’t wait for the reply, didn’t pause to see the effects that her words had, just walked past the woman and left. She may have heard the beginning of a sob when the door closed behind her, but that wasn’t her concern.
The Lickey Tea Rooms. She’d never been here before and it felt a bit ridiculous being here now – especially to meet a bloody copper. The ornate murals on the walls and the maids walking around she was sure were made to make her feel out of place. Sadly, she’d been feeling out of place so often recently it barely registered now.
He was standing when they entered, Tommy on her left; she thought it would be amusing if she actually entered on his right side. A private little joke for herself.
“I chose this place because it is outside of both our jurisdictions.”
He seemed uncomfortable; the copper felt out of place. Not in this tearoom, but in this meeting. Or maybe he was playing it up. He was hard to read when it wasn’t just anger and disgust in his eyes.
“Would you like tea?” He was looking between them, acknowledging her. Taking her seriously as Tommy’s partner. She could at least respect that if nothing else. At least she didn’t have to hide her role in this meeting.
Pulling out her chair and seating her before taking his own, Tommy was in fine form. His gaze was cold and hard, unreadable to anyone else in the world.
Not her though. She could see that he was fucking furious.
“You asked for a meeting, and here we are.” He finally spoke, voice as chilly as the wind in winter. “I am a businessman, inspector. I want my business to be successful. I can’t do that if my people are harassed.”
She watched the man’s eyes flick to her then back to Tommy.
“And I want my city to run peacefully.”
“Which would be good for business.” She added, matching Tommy’s tone. “Seems we may be on the same side.”
The inspector huffed half a laugh, “How exactly can we be on the same side if you refuse to meet?”
“You expect us to meet with you when you attack my family in the street.”
Tommy’s accusation actually seemed to amuse the inspector, the stressed corners of his eyes smoothing slightly. He was proud. That was… disturbing. She did terrible things, as did Tommy and the rest of the family, but they did not relish those things. Sure, a good fight was appreciated, but murder? Abuse? Necessary but not pride-inducing.
“I do what is necessary to meet my ends, Mr. Shelby. I’m sure you understand that.”
“As do we.” She butted in, knowing that Tommy would respond much less appropriately than she did. “But any aggression has come solely from your side, and I wonder to what end.”
“I’m not looking to start a war, Dr. Hughes, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“As the only person at this table who didn’t serve their country, what would you know of war?” His eyes darkened, embarrassment blooming into anger instead. She looked around the room lazily, noticing Tommy’s approval, before turning back to him. “What are we meant to think? You keep making threats and assumptions about us. About what we know and how we know it. You’re negotiating from a weak position, inspector.”
“I didn’t realise we were negotiating, Dr. Hughes.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. Still defensive. Still angry. Good.
Her and Tommy looked at each other, him offering just the smallest of nods. She could proceed now. Whose idea this tactic had been at this point, she wasn’t sure. The two of them were too in sync sometimes to tell.
“We don’t have your prize, inspector.” She watched as his jaw clenched, ready to argue, before she continued. “But we know who does.”
They were playing with fire now. A lot hedged on the idea that the rest of the family, that Curly and Charlie, that everyone who knew kept their bleeding mouths shut. If he had any proof that they actually had those guns, if he had been tipped off, then it was over.
He didn’t argue, but she could feel the weight of his gaze, piercing her. Keeping up her disinterested tone, she continued.
“Thing is, we don’t like people making moves in our territory without permission. Especially when the result of their sloppiness gets pinned on us. We are a lot of things, but sloppy isn’t one of them.”
She knew if he could, Tommy would roll his eyes. It was sloppy. They were never supposed to get these guns.
“They grabbed the wrong crate?” She could hear the exhaustion in her own voice. The men were probably drunk, or high, or both. How do you mix up petrol-engine motorbikes with guns? God she’d been back for only a few hours and there were already fires to put out.
Tommy nodded, lighting a cigarette. He leaned his head back against the wall behind her bed, first puff of smoke headed towards the ceiling of her bedroom.
The moon was full, and Birmingham was quiet – not usual but then again it was three in the morning. Even the liveliest shitholes had to have some quiet hours.
“Tell me the contents again.”
His voice was soft, more a confession than anything else, “Twenty-five Lewis machine guns with ten thousand rounds of ammunition. Fifty semi-automatic rifles, two hundred pistols with shells. All bound for Libya.”
“Fucking hell.” She breathed, closing her eyes for a second.
That was no small order. Between the unrest in Ireland and the sheer volume of guns… things were going to get interesting really quickly.
“Who knows?”
“Curly, Charlie, Polly. You.”
“Pol and Charlie want you to dump them.” It wasn’t a question, but Tommy nodded anyway.
His distant gaze only focused when she made her way to the bed, sitting and sliding up until she was sat next to him, pressed shoulder to knee. On the next pull of his cigarette, she took it from his mouth and took a drag for herself.
“Well. That’s one option.” She hummed, handing back the fag. “Definitely the safest one.”
He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, and she met his gaze easily.
“It is.”
Slowly she offered a small smile, “It’s not the only one.”
He grinned back at her, tension in his shoulders somehow lessening. Handing back the cigarette, he nodded, “No, love, it isn’t.”
She leaned forward over the table. This invited the inspector to move in closer, which he did on instinct.
“We’ll give you the information on your thief. We’ll even tell you where the guns are headed. If our conditions are met.”
“What conditions are those?”
“We intend to do business with Billy Kimber.” She leaned back when Tommy started, “He runs most of the legal track-side betting outside of London. He has policemen on his payroll. We want you to put in a word with the Chief Inspector at Gloucestershire that his men should leave us alone when we make our move.”
“Oh, and stop lifting runners, stop looking into Shelby operations.” She crossed her legs, offering the inspector her flattest expression. “It’s a nuisance that could be done without.”
It was always interesting to see the reactions of people who got the opportunity to see different parts of her personality, different acts she put on. Campbell had only seen the posh doctor act. It was obvious that the cutthroat racketeer threw him off just a little.
“We’re fair people. It’s a fair offer.” Tommy mused. Under the table, she placed her hand on his. “Do we have a deal?”
The inspector was looking between them, silent, for so long that Tommy sighed.
“I need an answer. Right now.”
Slowly, the inspector nodded. “Very well.”
And somehow, they’d come out of this alright. Or so she hoped. Only time would tell.
“John?”
She closed her book and sat a little straighter, confused that the person coming to her at night for once wasn’t Tommy. She certainly hadn’t been expecting it to be him knocking.
“I– she–”
He swallowed heavily, swaying slightly. Eyes unfocused. Drunk. Immediately Emily knew what had happened. She grit her teeth against the instinctive pang of guilt, instead opening her arms for him like she used to when he was a little boy.
As if it had been the thing he was waiting for it, he practically fell into her embrace. The air was thick with the smell of cigarettes and whiskey. How drunk was he?
She kissed his temple and pulled them into the bed, so she was sitting with her back against the wall. His face was pressed into her neck, while her arms held him tightly.
Every one of the Shelbys found comfort in a different type of embrace: Arthur liked to be enveloped, full bear hugs and heavy weights on his chest, something to keep him grounded; Tommy preferred to be the weight, hands in his hair and soft movement, a gentle embrace he could hide himself in; Finn liked to be tucked under an arm, pressed to a side, like he was a part of some secret club; Ada liked to be the one doing the holding, clutching tightly while the hands that held her back were gentle and easy to shrug off if she needed, letting her feel more in control; and John was all about the tight embrace, being held with all possible strength, as if he was afraid of being forgotten.
It had been a long time since he’d come to her like this, but she hadn’t forgotten. Her arms were tight around him as he talked about Lizzie, as he vented, as he told her that he just needed someone. Coming back from the War to a dead wife had been a nightmare; one she could not imagine, nor did she want to.
“I’m here, Johnny.” She kissed his temple again. “Your kids are lucky to have you, love. And you will find a wife, you will. And she will love you as much as you deserve, the way you deserve.”
She and Tommy had been talking and… well she only hoped they didn’t ruin John’s trust with their little plan.
He fell asleep in her arms that night, worn by the emotional exhaustion and the heavy drinking. She kept him locked in an embrace the whole time. When he woke in her bed the next morning, she could see how embarrassed he was now that the drink had worn off. Still, he let her kiss his temple.
“Love you, Emmy.” The words were grumbled and said with a red face, but she beamed at him, nonetheless.
“I love you too, Johnny.”
The next night the guns were gone. She breathed a sigh of relief as she watched the contents of the casket get hauled into two crates in the back of Patrick’s vehicle. The moonlight felt too much like a spotlight and the sooner this got done, the better.
The Liden fellow had shown up again to help the boys move the gear. Tommy hadn’t wanted her here tonight, but she had to make sure this was done, see it with her own eyes.
“Well, Emily, I have to say: I never expected our association to be profitable in this way.”
Patrick hadn’t helped carry a single thing. Of course he hadn’t. She hadn’t either but that’s because she’d been glared away by Arthur.
“Have you got a buyer lined up?” She countered, unwilling to engage with the familiarity in his words.
“A few.” He chuckled, “but I fail to see how that’s your concern. Unless you want to leave this place? A smart, cutthroat businesswoman like yourself? I could use you in my organisation. I’ll also pay you at least triple what they do.”
Her eyebrows raised without conscious thought. He wasn’t even subtle about the offer, speaking in full hearing of the four others present. It earned him three furious glares, but she raised her hand to stall their responses.
“I have no intention of going anywhere.” She watched the tension in Tommy’s shoulders lessen at her words. As if she would ever leave. “As it is, I’m not a businesswoman; I’m a doctor.” She took a long drag of her cigarette, watching the smoke rise into the bright moonlight. “What you can do is hand over what we’re owed.”
He shrugged, tilting his head towards Mr. Liden, “You can’t blame a man for trying, can you, dear Emily?”
His man reached into the front of the car and produced a small burlap sack, handing it directly to Tommy. The middle Shelby brother peering in and likely doing a quick once over to make sure the amount at least looked right. The counting would happen later.
“If that’s all, Mr. O’Hare, we’ll be ending our business now.”
Tommy’s voice was cold, and he did not reach out to shake the man’s hand. Fair, but someone here had to have manners, so she did. Patrick returned the gesture.
“If you change your mind, you know how to contact me.”
She raised one eyebrow.
“I won’t. But as a parting gift, Patrick, I’ll let you know that there’s an Irish copper who seems to be on the trail of these guns. Getting quite close too. Best of luck with that nonsense.”
He nodded, appearing flippant, but she knew he took her words seriously. The boys made quick work of resettling the dirt over the now-empty coffin in the plot as she watched the two Londoners disappear from the field.
Tommy tossed her the bag and she looked inside. Fuck, that was a lot of money. Enough to protect them, enough to make a huge fucking difference. Maybe this would actually work out.
---
A/N2: So this is really really long but I've written the Grace-bit which is next chapter pinky promise
Just needed to throw out there that it’s been 3 years since Bullet Train and yet Tangerine is still STUCK in my mind with the most unholy thoughts. Can’t stop thinking about how GOOD it would feel to make out with him with that fuckass mustache of his. Delicate balance between the coarseness of it and then the softness of his tongue PLSSS
Yes, bestie. Mr. Ivy had a mustache before he grew a full beard and that was niceee!
I know it would feel so amazing to straddle Tan’s lap and have him hold you while you made out. Just imagine his hands running up and down your sides too, groaning and arching into you. 😮💨
cw: mild headache, hangover symptoms (magical potions, no alcohol), sleepy grogginess, light teasing, romantic tension, mild language, cozy domestic vibes, poly relationship dynamics, soft intimate moments, first kiss
you wake up with a pounding headache and the distant sound of someone groaning like they're dying. it's the kind of headache that wraps around your temples and squeezes like someone's trying to pop your skull like a watermelon. your mouth is dry, your hair is a mess, and your stomach is already protesting in slow, queasy waves.
sunlight is streaming into the room in painful slants. you groan, burrowing deeper into the soft comforter, only to find another body draped heavily over you.
james. he is collapsed dramatically on top of you. you both are on the floor in the hallway outside siri's room, his arms and legs splayed like he's just been vanquished.
his curls are wild, half-smushed against the pillow, his face buried in your shoulder as he lets out soft, sleepy puffs against your skin. his arm is slung lazily over your stomach, his legs tangled with yours, as if he's decided you are his personal body pillow.
"oh no," you groan, voice scratchy. "jamie, you need to get up. i think my soul's left my body."
"i can't move, y/n. this is the end," james groans back, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. "i'm not gonna make it. this is how i die. tell my mum i love her."
"babies," sirius' voice croaks from somewhere nearby. you avert your eyes to see him sprawled at the edge of the bed in his room, his shirt halfway off, hair a knotted disaster. he looks barely conscious, but there's a smug tilt to his mouth. "absolutely useless. both of you."
"babies don't feel like this. babies don't have headaches in their souls."
you groan, dragging yourself up to a sitting position. "remus? you alive?"
remus appears in his doorway with a soft smirk. he's standing with two steaming mugs, looking infuriatingly fresh for someone who had been just as deep in the chaos last night.
"i brought you this," he says softly, kneeling by your side and pressing the vial into your hand. "hangover potion from regulus. drink. slowly."
"you're an angel, remmy. thanks." you say as you let him tip the vial into your mouth. his hand rests on the back of your head, the cool edge of the glass brushing your bottom lip. his fingers are warm, steady, a perfect anchor. you grip his wrist in your hand to help guide the liquid into your mouth, but you hold on longer than you need to, savoring the way his skin feels against yours. the gentle weight of his palm, the steady warmth of his skin. it sends a flicker of comfort through you, enough to ease the tight ache behind your eyes.
"you're welcome, sweetheart."
"he's no angel, wheeze. he's a traitor," james whines. "why isn't he as miserable as we are?"
remus raises an eyebrow. "because i have something called self-control. you should try it sometime."
sirius lifts the pillow just enough to glare. "you didn't even play potion roulette. coward."
"yeah, well, at least i didn't make a fool of myself last night," remus says, smirking as he hands james his potion. his palm brushes james' jaw as he helps him drink, the motion soft and familiar. you shouldn't care, but somehow, watching him put his hands on james in that way makes your chest squeeze a little. his touch is always so careful, so sure. and yet, it still makes you blush even harder.
sirius sits up, suspicious. "what are you talking about?"
remus hums, stretching lazily. "oh, you don't remember?"
james perks up despite his headache. "what did he do?"
"please, don't embarrass me this early." sirius warns, smothering his head into his pillow again.
"he chugged a random potion without spinning the wheel," remus says, his smile spreading. "and then he started levitating. but not like...floating serenely how y/n was. he was bouncing around like a drunk balloon, knocking over drinks and people and yelling exploding cauldrons lyrics. he propositioned evan in the suit of armor twice."
"what, did you forget he was in there, siri?" you laugh and immediately wince at how horrible it makes your head feel.
"he must've," remmy continues. "he called him his 'shiny new husband'."
sirius' eyes grow wide. "oh no. that's my brother's boyfriend!" he grabs at his hair with his hands.
"you spent the rest of the night drifting around like an overgrown party decoration. marlene tied a ribbon to your ankle so we wouldn't lose you."
james is wheezing now, his curls tickling your neck. "like a little parade float."
remus shrugs, like it was a simple story he just retold. "you were legendary."
before sirius can offer a defense, a silvery snake slithers through the crack under the door and spirals up your arm. oh gods.
the chill of its magic kisses your skin as barty's voice crackles through the patronus: "who the fuck took my dad's portrait? give it back if it was you, black!"
sirius stares at it, then at his hands. "fuck. i did drink too much."
you giggle into your cup. "you want to tell him you didn't?"
"nah, let him sweat." even in this state, sirius wants to mess with people. classic!
remus rubs his eyes, still smiling. "why don't we all just go back to sleep for a while? we can nap this off, let the potion do its magic on you two." he nudges you and james with his foot.
oh yeahhhh. you were still on the floor!
"nooo," james moans, clinging to you like a stubborn child. "i'm too comfy here, with her."
"we can all nap together in my bed," remus suggests, casual but his eyes warm. "it's the biggest."
you flush immediately. your heart stammers, your thoughts racing ahead without your permission. the idea of being tucked into bed with all of them...sirius' warmth, james' heartbeat against your ribs, remus' steady breathing so close after so long. it sends a flutter straight through you. you try to play it off, but your skin feels way too hot now. "oh, erm--"
sirius hops up like it's no big deal. eager bastard. "c'mon, big babies, to the nap zone."
james grabs your hand dramatically, not giving you time to overthink. "brilliant idea. c'mon, wheeze. we're moving."
somehow, you all shuffle into remus' room, a cozy, sun-drenched space with a massive bed piled high with soft blankets and overstuffed pillows. the sheets smell faintly of cedarwood and parchment, just like him. the mattress dips under your weight as you settle in.you settle into the middle, curling into remus' chest, his warmth grounding you. james presses his face into your chest, sighing contentedly, and sirius spoons james from behind, his arm draped lazily across the boy's waist.
"this is the life," sirius mumbles.
you feel warm. you feel safe. this is the kind of quiet you could fall into forever. the room hums with the softness of their presence, the quiet shuffle of blankets, the occasional sniffle from sirius, the comforting weight of james pressed into you like he's afraid you might disappear if he lets go.
remus' voice is barely a whisper against your hair. "wheeze."
"yeah, rem?" you whisper back, craning your neck to look up at him. it's easy to take him in this close. his gorgeous hazel eyes, his sandy brown hair that falls perfectly onto his forehead, the scar on the bridge of his nose that just suits his face so well. you notice the way his gaze lingers on your lips, the faint flush creeping up his neck. his thumb draws slow, absentminded circles on your arm, and you swear your heart is going to beat right out of your chest.
his breath hitches. "dove...can i kiss you?"
his words thrum through you, pulling your heart up into your throat. you tilt your head back slightly, your nose brushing against his jaw, and meet his eyes once more.
"yes," you whisper, the word trembling on your lips.
the world narrows to the gentle press of his lips against yours, the sweet hum of being entirely wanted. his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair like he can't bear to let you go just yet.
you melt into him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, warmth blooming in your chest, in your cheeks, in your stomach. it's sweet and dizzying and so achingly careful, and it leaves you wanting more even as it ends.
when you part, your breath mingles in the small space between you, his forehead resting gently against yours.
"thank you," he murmurs, the corners of his mouth tipping up.
"you're welcome."
your nose brushes his and he gives you the smallest, most precious smile. "sleep well, love."
james snores softly.
sirius mumbles something about porridge in his sleep.
you drift off, full and content.
you don't know how long you all sleep, but when you wake, the sun is beginning to set. golden light slips through the cracked windows. the sea breeze teases the edges of the curtains. the room smells like salt air and comfort.
quietly, you slip out of the bed, grabbing one of remmy's thick jumper to fight the chill as you wander outside. the fabric is oversized and cozy, still carrying the faintest trace of his scent. the sky above you is painted in soft blues and fading oranges, the ocean waves slow and steady in the distance. the firepit in your small backyard is cold, so you carefully light it with a flick of your wand, watching the flames dance to life.
the salt air fills your lungs, easing the last traces of your headache. you close your eyes, breathing in the moment, the quiet crackle of the fire and the rhythmic crash of the waves settling something deep inside you.
you can't help but think about your kiss. it was more than you could have ever imagined. it was soft, it was slow, it was just enough to make you want even more. you could kiss him for ages, you decide.
behind you, you hear soft, shuffling steps and a grumbling james.
"the bed got cold without you."
he scoops you up effortlessly, making you squeak in surprise as he plops down into your chair, pulling you onto his lap. his big arms circle you tightly, like he's worried you might leave again.
"you're sweet." you mumble, settling against him. he feels so strong against your back, so warm.
james presses a kiss to your shoulder, arms wrapping tighter around you. "this is better," he murmurs, resting his chin on your shoulder. "you smell good."
"do i?"
"yeah." he presses his nose into your hair. "is this the shampoo you started hiding from me?"
"maybe."
"rude."
he kisses your temple, sighing happily. "mine."
you chuckle, though you can feel how much his words make your heart swell.
you sink into his hold, your fingers playing with the ends of his curls. he rubs his nose on your cheek, the tips of his fingers tracing lazy patterns across your thigh. for a long while, you both sit there, quiet and still, watching the sky shift as the sun slowly sinks into the sea. you rest your head against his, feeling entirely, blissfully adored.
"we should wake the others soon," you murmur after a while. "especially sirius. he probably needs to eat."
james hums, clearly not ready to move yet, but he eventually flicks his wand to extinguish the fire.
you wander back inside through the sliding doors, immediately softening at the sight before you.
remus and sirius are still tangled up in the bed, holding each other so sweetly in their sleep. remus has an arm tucked protectively around sirius' waist, and sirius is half-buried in remus' chest, his breathing slow and even.
"we can't wake them up," james whispers, his eyes filling with love more than you had ever thought imaginable,
"no."
"they look precious."
"they do."
"let's let them sleep. remmy needs all the rest he can get. full moon's close."
james nods, pressing a kiss to your temple.
so you quietly order takeaway. you already know their orders. of course you do. james' overstuffed sandwich, sirius' loaded chips, remus' preferred pasta.
while waiting, you pull on a cozy pair of socks and settle onto the couch with james. he tangles your legs together, resting his head against your shoulder while the soft, distant sound of the ocean hums in the background.
the food arrives not long after, and the smell is enough to stir sirius awake. he groans, hair a mess, squinting at the bags of food. "is that—"
"it's exactly what you like," you say, setting the bag in front of him.
"you're perfect."
"i know."
sirius shuffles to sit next to james, already grabbing a handful of chips. "bless you, wheeze. you're a treasure."
"a treasure, huh? thought i was just perfect."
"yeah. you'd be perfecter if you had woken me for the fire."
"you looked too cute. couldn't do it."
while the boys start arguing over who gets which sauce, you slip away to your room, summoning a patronus to respond to barty. you figure he's probably stressed enough today.
"barty," you sing into the air. "i'm pretty sure sirius didn't steal your dad's portrait—though i kinda wish he did. i would love to have that bastard's face on my wall. let me know if it turns up!"
as you're gone, remus, still a little groggy, hums, "i kissed wheeze."
james' head snaps up. "you WHAT?"
sirius drops his fork. "WE haven't even kissed her."
"i haven't kissed her! well, i kissed her cheek! and her head. and her shoulders."
"you both cheated!"
"it wasn't a competition."
"well, it is now!"
previous next
taglist: @daydreamandforget
(eeeek! they finally got some smooching going on!!! i know you all have been waiting for this one lol. it isn’t a slow burn for no reason! lots more kisses where that comes from now :D)
summary: jon snow has arrived + a stark reunion at last
——————————————————————————-
The wind gusted over the Winterfell walls, bringing the scent of snow and pine. The courtyard bustled with life, stable boys running to and fro, hounds barking in welcome, guards hailing the approaching party. You stood on the balcony above the gates, one hand resting on your belly, the other gently steadying Seraphina at your side as she peered down with curious eyes.
A distant horn sounded.
And then, the gates creaked open.
Jon Snow rode through them.
He was not the same man who had left the North years ago. The boy had long since been carved into the man who now rode beneath the direwolf banners, Ghost pacing silently at his heel. He dismounted, his dark gaze sweeping the courtyard, and his breath caught, because Robb was already striding forward, his cloak trailing behind him like a wolf’s tail.
There was no hesitation.
No pause.
The two men embraced like brothers who had fought, bled, and grieved under the same sun. Robb’s voice broke faintly as he said Jon’s name, and Jon, with a quiet laugh full of emotion, thumped him on the back.
“You’ve more grey in your beard,” Robb muttered.
“You’ve more mouths to feed,” Jon replied, smirking.
And then came Arya. She didn’t walk, she ran, colliding into him so fiercely that Jon nearly stumbled. Her arms wrapped around him tightly, her face buried in his shoulder.
“You’re late,” she muttered.
“You’re taller,” he murmured back, pressing his cheek to her hair.
Sansa followed more softly, regal and calm, her hands trembling as she reached for him. He took them gently, then pulled her into a quiet embrace.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” she whispered.
“I never stopped hoping.”
Bran approached, no longer the same boy but something else entirely, eyes distant, yet gentle. He placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder.
“You were always meant to return,” Bran said.
Rickon, bigger and wilder than before, grinned as he threw himself into his half-brother’s arms. “You’re still my favourite,” he declared boldly.
Jon barked a laugh. “You’ve grown into a direwolf.”
“Almost,” Rickon replied, puffing up.
From the stair, you descended with the children. Cregan nestled in your arms, his little fists curled against your shoulder. Catelyn slept, peaceful and warm in your other.
Jon turned toward you, and for a moment, he just stared.
“These are…?” he asked, voice soft.
“Our youngest,” Robb said, coming to your side and brushing a hand across your back. “Cregan and Catelyn.”
Jon stepped forward slowly. His eyes rested on the boy first, Cregan, dark-haired and stone-faced already, his features strikingly Stark. Then his gaze shifted to the baby girl in your arms.
And something in his expression cracked.
“She looks like me,” he whispered, stunned. “Gods, she looks like—”
You nodded, your smile soft, your own eyes damp. “Cregan too, in ways. But he carries Robb’s strength. She has your face and my smile. And she broods already.”
Jon blinked rapidly, his throat working. “Your father would’ve wept to see this.” and he pressed his lips together, then reached forward and ever so gently touched the baby’s hand. Her fingers closed around his instinctively.
“I’ll visit often,” he said, glancing between the two of you. “They should know all their family.”
“They will,” you promised.
Later that night, the great hall was filled with warmth and candlelight. The Stark children reunited in full—a miracle of fate and fire and blood. There were stories passed between gulps of wine, embraces that stretched long and wordless, and laughter that came at last like rain on thirsty soil. You watched it unfold with your children resting around you, and a quiet joy settled in your heart.
By the time the keep dimmed and the fires were banked, the corridors quiet save for the distant howling of a wind through the trees, you and Robb retired to your chambers. You undressed slowly, your limbs aching from the long day, and slipped into the warmth of your furs just as Robb sat beside you, already loosening his belt.
He was quiet.
Thoughtful.
And when he finally climbed beneath the covers, he reached for you, pulling your back to his chest, his arms winding protectively around your middle.
You turned toward him, resting your forehead against his.
“They look like him,” you whispered. “Did you see?”
“I did.”
“And like your father.”
He brushed his thumb across your jaw. “We’ve kept their legacy alive. Not just in name, but in blood.”
“I’m exhausted,” you said with a breathless chuckle.
“You’ve earned your rest.”
“And you owe me at least a decade’s worth of peace, my lord.”
Robb grinned against your neck, teeth grazing the skin. “I’ll give you twenty.”
You kissed him softly, and then again, deeper, with the kind of slowness that only came after years of love, pain, and promise. There were bite marks and tender laughter. The kind of kisses that lingered even when your lips parted.
And then, tangled in warmth, you whispered together about everything and nothing—until the only sound left in the room was the steady rhythm of his heart, and your quiet, contented sighs beneath the northern stars.
The Art of Hating You: Part Two - Sirius Black x Reader
AN - hello part two is finally here. sorry for the wait - i posted this the other day and then swiftly deleted it and rewrote it lol. thank u for reading <3 (3.2k words)
Part One
The Art of Hating You - Masterlist
Y/N couldn’t stop thinking about Sirius. It was driving her insane. The altercation that they had last night lingered in her thoughts. She had always assumed that Sirius simply chose to be reckless. A thorn in his family’s side just for the hell of it. She wasn't so sure anymore.
She saw the way his mother’s sharp gaze cut through him like glass, how his father barely acknowledged his presence unless it was to scold him. And Regulus? She hadn’t even realised he lived in the house until she met him at dinner one night, stiff-backed and silent, sparing Sirius nothing more than a fleeting disapproving glance.
Dinner that evening started as most things did in this house - with Walburga Black’s disapproval. With a sharp thwack, she slammed a newspaper onto the table, sending the fine china and silverware rattling.
“Sirius,” she began, her voice cold, “do you ever think about the family name before embarrassing yourself?”
Absentmindedly swirling the mind in his glass, he didn’t even look up, “Not if I can help it.”
His mother’s nostrils flared. She read aloud, “’Black heir or black sheep? Sirius Black spotted at underground party with questionable company’” Her bony fingers stabbed at the page.
Y/N couldn’t help herself and craned her neck to get a better look at the article. Sure enough, there he was – a rather impressive photograph of him lounging on a velvet sofa in a dimly lit bar, a cigarette hanging from his lips and a whisky glass dangling from his fingers. He looked infuriatingly unbothered and several equally unbothered looking women surrounded him.
Y/N breathed out a quiet laugh, “Could you at least pretend to be miserable about our engagement.”
“I was,” Sirius said smoothly, “That’s why I went out.”
Across the table, Orion Black, who had remained silent up until now, set his own glass down with a heavy thud.
“Do you enjoy humiliating this family?” he asked, his voice deceivingly calm.
Sirius took a moment to respond, stretching his arm along the back of his chair completely unfazed. He drained the rest of his wine, reached for the bottle and poured himself another glass without breaking eye contact.
“Immensely.” he replied.
Regulus sighed sharply through his nose, shaking his head barely enough to be noticed. Walburga closed her eyes for a second, like she was asking an unseen force for some patience.
Dinner ended in tense silence, the clatter of silverware the only sound filling the room. Y/N pushed her food around her plate uncomfortably as Walburga muttered something about disgrace and wasted potential under her breath. Opposite her, Sirius remained infuriatingly composed, lazily twirling his wine glass between his fingers.
After what felt like an eternity, Orion stood up, signalling the end of the meal. Everyone filtered out of the room silently apart from Sirius who stayed seated. He was glaring at the seat his mother was sat in, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“Surely you’re not abandoning me just yet?” he called as Y/N made to leave the room, “No post-dinner debrief? There’s still wine left.”
She lingered by the doorway, casting a glance over her shoulder. Against her better judgement, she sighed and turned back, crossing the room and wordlessly sliding back into her seat. She pushed her empty glass toward him.
Sirius’s lips twitched as he reached for the bottle, pouring generously, “I think my mother’s warming up to you.”
“Oh, yes, I can tell.” Y/N replied dryly, “The way she scowled at me all evening really radiated maternal affection.”
Sirius huffed out a low laugh, “That was nothing. You should see her when she’s really angry.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Smart choice. She has a real talent for ruining evenings.”
Y/N took a sip, the warmth of the wine settling in her chest, “I don't know, this one was quite eventful. She insulted you. You antagonised her. Your father looked like he’d rather shit in his own hands and clap than acknowledge your existence. And Regulus has perfected his silent disappointment act. A true Black family dinner.”
Sirius snorted, “You catch on quick.”
“Do you not get tired of pissing them off?” Y/N asked, glancing towards the abandoned newspaper still laying on the table.
“I enjoy reminding them that they don’t own me.”
“I just find it interesting that you play into their game just as much as they do. You act like they don’t matter, but everything you do is a reaction to them.”
For the first time, his smirk faltered. He blinked at her, amusement flickering into something more guarded. She wasn’t sure why she said it or why she was pushing. Maybe it was the wine or the lingering frustration at their situation, or maybe it was because she was starting to see the cracks in his carefully constructed facade.
“And what about you?” Sirius leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
“What about me?”
“You sit through these dinners, endure their judgement, play the part of my loving fiancée,” he cocked his head at her, “Tell me, Y/N, who are you trying to please?”
Her grip tightened around her glass, the stem pressing into her fingers. His gaze was heavy and tore through her in a way that made it impossible to hide behind a clever remark.
“I don’t know.” she said finally, her voice coming out quieter than expected, “I’m hardly playing the part of your loving fiancée. We both know that I can’t stand you.”
Sirius hummed, studying her as if he was trying to pick her apart. He was good at that. Shifting so quickly from being arrogant and teasing to aiming a sharp jab at her weakest points.
“You’re different from what I expected.” He said after a while.
“And what did you expect?”
“Someone like them,” he gestured to the door, “another pawn. Someone desperate for their approval. Someone who wouldn’t challenge me.”
“Disappointed then?”
“Surprised.”
She wasn’t sure what to make of that, so she looked away, tracing the rim of her glass with her fingertip. “This whole thing is ridiculous.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“They actually think forcing us together will change anything.”
“They’re delusional.” Sirius shook his head.
“The conversation the other day...The one your parents had-”
“The one you were eavesdropping on?” He interrupted, “I don’t know what that was about. I’m just as in the dark as you are.”
Sirius stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back with a scrape, “Come on.”
Y/N frowned, “Where are you going?”
“I need a cigarette. And you need fresh air before you start spiralling.”
“I’m not spiralling.” she muttered, following him nonetheless.
The night air was crisp and cool, tinged with the scent of rain. Outside, the Black manor and all it’s suffocating expectations felt far away. Sirius strolled down one of the pebbled paths, Y/N followed behind him. He pulled a pretty cigarette case from his pocket. The glow of the flame cast sharp shadows across his features as he lit it. The smoke curled ie curled into the night as he exhaled.
“If you’re lucky, maybe my mother will disown me before the wedding.”
Y/N huffed out a quiet laugh, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth, “And what? You’ll be free?”
Sirius didn’t answer immediately. He averted his gaze up to the night sky. It was clear out - it always seemed to be here. The acres of land around the property meant that there wasn’t as much light pollution as in the city Sirius frequented on his rebellious nights out.
“Something like that.”
It was early afternoon when Remus showed up. Unannounced, unbothered and about halfway through a cigarette. He leaned against the bonnet of his car, wearing the same beat-up jacket that he had worn since university. As soon as she spotted him through the grand front windows, Y/N darted out to greet him before one of the maids could ask if he had an appointment.
“You look like hell.” he said, by way of greeting, pulling her into a hug.
“Nice to see you too.”
Remus held her in his embrace a moment longer than necessary, his eyes flicked up to the house behind her, “So, how’s aristocratic captivity treating you?”
She sighed and pulled away, “Like a nightmare that I can’t wake up from.”
“And the groom-to-be?”
She looked over her shoulder at the manor, as if Sirius might appear in one of the windows, “Complicated.”
“That bad, eh?”
“He’s infuriating and smug and impossible to read, but he’s also-” she broke off, biting her lip, “not who I thought he’d be.”
“God help you,” Remus muttered, “You’re starting to like him.”
Y/N scoffed, “Far from it. I’m starting to understand him, and I think that might be worse actually.”
Remus dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his heel, “Am I getting a proper tour of the prison then?”
They eventually settled in the library, one of the only rooms that didn’t feel as cold as the rest. Significantly less portraits of long deceased family members adorned the room; the walls lined with books instead. There was a large fireplace at the end of the room, it blazed as if someone had just been in here.
“Where is he?” Remus asked, settling into a velvet armchair in front of the fireplace.
“Brooding somewhere, probably,” she sat across from him, curling her legs beneath her, “Or winding his brother up.”
“So, nothing’s changed then.” Remus laughed.
Y/N was about to speak again when there was a patter of dress shoes in the hall, and then a voice that didn’t belong to the manor at all. She shot Remus a look and he just shrugged his shoulders.
“Black?” The voice called out. A second later, a mop of curls appeared around the doorframe, “Your front door is ridiculous, and your groundskeeper just threatened to shoot me.”
He strolled in like he owned the place and when his eyes landed on Y/N and Remus his expression brightened.
“Remus bloody Lupin! I thought you’d either died or moved back to Wales.”
“Still disappointingly alive,” Remus stood up to greet the other man, “However you literally saw me in the pub a few months ago.”
James waved him off and rolled his eyes, turning to Y/N. “Friend of Remus. Friend of Sirius. Frequent witness to disasters. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He shook her hand.
“Half of those things are lies.” said Remus, slouching back in his chair.
“Which half?” James frowned and Remus waggled his eyebrows at him, “Which half, Lupin!?”
“I’m Y/N,” she interjected, “Professional hostage.”
James let out a laugh, “Brilliant. You’ve got a sense of humour. You’ll survive.”
He was taller than Sirius by a few inches, stockier too. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows – smartly dressed but in a way that looked like it came naturally to him, as if he hadn’t put in any effort at all.
“So, what are you doing here?” Remus asked as James perched on the arm of his chair.
“He called me last night. Said, and I quote, ‘Come over before I set fire to something I actually like.’ Which from Sirius, is basically like receiving a love letter.” James folded his arms across his chest, “Where is the prat anyway? Phoned me up in a huff and told me to come over and now is nowhere to be seen.”
“He called after it all kicked off at dinner I assume?” Y/N questioned.
“Yeah, he mentioned about that,” James pushed his glasses up on his nose, “So, how bad is it?”
“The engagement?”
“No, Y/N, his deranged mother’s wine selection at dinner. Yes. The engagement.”
She let out an almost laugh, “Somewhere between tragic and mildly entertaining. I haven’t actually come to terms with the fact that this is my life yet.”
“Tragic and mildly entertaining. That sounds like Sirius.” James teased.
“He’d kill you if he heard you say that.” Remus chuckled, nudging the other boy in the ribs, “Actually, Y/N was just telling me that she’s starting to see through him.”
James cocked his head and smirked, “To the tortured soul beneath?”
“To the wreckage underneath the performance.” Y/N corrected.
“Hah! No wonder he likes you.”
She froze, “He doesn’t-”
James raised both of his hands in mock surrender, “I didn’t say he admits it!”
There was a short silence before James grew a bit more serious, his voice quieter, “Listen, I know this whole situation is – well it’s fucked up. But Sirius... he’s been different the last few weeks. He’s been phoning me at odd hours and, he hasn’t said anything but I feel like he’s planning something.”
“Planning what?” Y/N picked nervously at a loose thread on the arm of her chair.
Before James could answer, the door creaked open again. Sirius stood in the doorway, a lit cigarette in one hand.
“Well,” he said dryly, “If I’d have known it was a bloody reunion, I’d have got the cook to bake a cake.”
Sirius stepped further into the room, flicking ash into a crystal tray on the sideboard. When he got to James, the stoney expression cracked and a genuine grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“You took your time.” he pulled him into a hug.
“You called me at two in the morning with vague threats of setting the place on fire. I thought I’d give it until the morning so you could cool off. Didn’t want to accidentally become an accomplice to arson.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Sirius smiled and settled into an armchair. He flicked his cigarette into the fireplace and looked at Remus, “Moony, still dressing like a haunted literature professor I see.”
Remus winked at him, “Consistency is key.”
“You alright?” James shifted uncomfortably on the arm of the chair and eyed Sirius carefully.
Sirius waved off the question and reached for another cigarette, “Better now you’re here, Prongsy.”
James didn’t look entirely convinced but he let it go. Y/N sat still, becoming increasingly aware of how out of place she felt in amongst the trio of old friends. She hadn’t realised how close they all were. Remus had mentioned Sirius and James before, of course, but she never imagined how deep their friendship ran.
“So?” Remus prompted, “Are you going to tell us what’s going on, or are we supposed to guess?”
“Guessing would be more fun. I can act it out like charades if you like?” Sirius smirked, leaning forward. Y/N reached over and smacked him on the arm.
“Ouch!” Sirius clutched his arm dramatically, “Violence? In front of guests?”
“Talk. Now.”
“Fine, fine.” he sat up straighter, his smirk slipping just slightly, “If you’re all that desperate to know... they’re pushing for a wedding date.”
Y/N could tell he was looking at her as he said it, but she kept her eyes trained on the fireplace. The fire curled around the logs in the hearth, the embers glowing for a moment before turning to ash. She could tell Sirius was bracing himself for her reaction. She didn’t give him one.
“Already?” James frowned, “You said you had time.”
“Apparently not. Mother’s worried about appearances. Father wants to tie it up before I embarrass them further.”
“I suppose it’s not ideal when you have a disobedient heir and a noncompliant bride.” Remus added dryly.
“Charming, cheers, Rem.” Y/N shot him a look and Sirius flipped him off without even looking. Remus only laughed.
“They’ve moved it. 6 weeks, give or take.” Sirius dropped his voice a little. He nudged Y/N’s foot with his, trying to get her attention. His shoes were scuffed, the black leather on the toe of them worn smooth. Y/N imagined his mother’s disapproval as he carried on speaking.
“I didn’t know anything about it, obviously.” Sirius continued, “Reg overheard them talking in the parlour the other day. The silly little git accidentally let it slip to me this morning.” he chucked but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“This is all your fault.” Y/N spoke suddenly, standing up so quickly and with such force that it caused her armchair to screech on the wooden floor. James and Remus winced. “If you hadn’t have pulled that stunt the other day, getting your name in the papers again, we could’ve had more time. You’re so unbelievably selfish.”
The words hit like a slap and Sirius blinked. He stood up too, although a lot more calmly than the girl in front of him.
“You think I did that on purpose?” his calm cracked, “That I planned for them to move the date just to spite you? Believe me, darling, I’m in no great rush to marry you either.”
“You knew it would piss them off. You always know and you do it anyway.” She seethed, “You know exactly how to provoke them and you do it time and time again – because you like it. Because for once it makes you feel like you have some sort of control over them.”
James let out a low whistle, both his and Remus’s heads turning from side to side between the pair like they were watching a tennis match.
“Oh, brilliant,” Sirius spat, “I forgot you’re the world’s leading expert on me after, what, three weeks of tolerating each other? You’ve barely seen me apart from the times my family force us to be together. Yet, you think you’ve got me all figured out?”
“I’ve seen enough. I’ve spent every waking minute since I’ve been here trying to figure out a way to get us out of this mess.” She raked a hand through her hair, pushing it out of her face, “I’ve watched you and all your little performances. Behind all of the bravado and smoke you’re just as afraid as I am.”
“Don’t fucking psychoanalyse me like you’re any better. You walk around the place playing the victim, like this whole thing is happening to you. Your family is just as much to blame as mine is.”
“Don’t.” She warned.
“Hit a nerve, did I?” Sirius said, quieter now, but no less cutting, “Breaking news - I don’t want to marry you either! Stop acting like you’re the only one with something to lose.”
“Well, thank God.” she said coldly, “Because I’ve spent the last few weeks perfecting the art of hating you and I couldn’t imagine anything worse than actually having to go through with this marriage.”
She turned on her heel and stormed out, slamming the heavy library door with a sound that echoed through the hall.
The quiet that followed was thick. Sirius stood still, jaw clenched, hand gripping the arm of the chair as if he was trying to steady himself. Remus and James eyed each other, stunned into silence as the pair argued.
James cleared his throat softly, “So... should we start drafting the table plan for the wedding or...”
Remus shot his friend a warning look before focusing back on Sirius, “Tell us what you’re planning.”
Sirius didn’t answer straight away. His body jerked as if he was going to head towards the door but his feet stayed rooted to the spot.
“Everything.” he muttered, “I’ll burn the whole fucking estate down before I marry her.”
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