The day Bill arrived in Egypt for his full assignment, the air hit him like a spell—hot, dry, and humming with ancient magic. It wasn’t the “training week” anymore. This time he was here for good.
Y/N wasn’t.
She’d left two weeks earlier for a long-term project in Spain, and though she’d written him a short note—“You’ll be brilliant out there. Don’t get eaten by anything.”—her absence felt louder than he expected.
Gringotts’ Egyptian field office was carved partially into stone, with cooling charms flickering along the entrance. As Bill stepped inside, the noise of curse-breakers talking, quills scratching, and magical sparks crackling filled the air.
A tall, broad-shouldered older man looked up from a desk piled with scrolls.
“Ah. The British boy.”
His voice was deep, rough, but not unkind.
Bill straightened. “Bill Weasley, sir.”
The man stood, offering a surprisingly warm handshake.
“Head Curse-Breaker Hassan Al-Rashid. Welcome to Cairo.”
Hassan had streaks of silver in his beard, arms covered in faint burn scars, and eyes that looked like they’d witnessed every magical disaster the world could offer—and survived all of them.
Bill already respected him.
“Come,” Hassan said, gesturing for him to follow. “I’ll introduce you to the team. Then we’ll see if Britain sent us someone useful or someone I have to scrape off a tomb wall by Friday.”
“…I’ll do my best not to be scraped, sir.”
Hassan chuckled. “Good attitude.”
The first room they entered was buzzing.
“Everyone,” Hassan announced, “this is Weasley. New transfer from the British division. Good recommendations, good grades, and—” he raised an eyebrow—“an unusual number of stories involving surviving curses he had no business surviving.”
Bill felt his ears burn.
Y/N definitely told them something, he thought.
Three curse-breakers approached:
1. Safiya
A tall witch with warm brown skin, braids tied up in a scarf, and eyes sharp enough to cut through granite.
“Newbie,” she said with a grin. “I hope you’re fast. We lose the slow ones.”
“I’m fast enough, I hope.”
“We’ll see.”
2. Tariq
A shorter wizard with runes tattooed across both forearms—some glowing faintly as he moved.
“You worked with Y/N L/N, right?” Tariq asked. “She trained here years ago. She was terrifying.”
Bill blinked. “…Terrifying?”
“In a good way,” Tariq said. “In a ‘don’t mess with the head girl or she’ll solve a curse faster than you can blink’ kind of way.”
Bill smiled a little. “Yeah. That sounds right.”
3. Amira
A young witch about Bill’s age, with wild curls and a grin too bright to be safe.
“What do you know about cursed flame pits?” she asked eagerly.
“…Uh… what?”
“Perfect.” She clapped him on the back. “You’ll learn fast.”
Bill exchanged a helpless look with Safiya. She only patted his shoulder sympathetically.
Hassan led Bill through rows of supplies—enchanted rope, rune tablets, sealed potions—explaining the rules.
“Rule one,” Hassan said. “In Egypt, curses are older and cleverer than anywhere else. Assume every stone wants to kill you.”
“Every stone, sir?”
“Yes. Especially the ones that smile.”
“…The stones can smile?”
“You’ll know when you see one.”
Bill gulped.
“Rule two: Always have water. Always. Magic drains you twice as fast under cursed heat.”
Bill nodded. “Y/N told me that.”
Hassan paused.
His stern expression softened—just slightly.
“She was one of my best. You worked well with her, yes?”
Bill cleared his throat. “Y-yes, sir. She taught me a lot.”
“And she said good things of you. High praise from someone who rarely compliments anyone.”
Bill’s chest tightened—proud, but missing her more than he wanted to admit.
Hassan clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“You’ll do well here, Weasley. There is skill in you. And heart. We like both.”
They took him out on the first day.
No easing in. No small warm-up curse.
A collapsed burial chamber on the outskirts of Luxor, magic leaking from between the stones like smoke.
The team set up camp; the sand shimmered under the sun.
“Stay close,” Safiya told him.
Amira handed him a water flask. “Drink. Trust me.”
Tariq pointed to a narrow crack in the tomb wall. “See that? Something powerful is trapped in there. And if it gets out, we’ll all regret waking up today.”
Bill swallowed hard. “So… no pressure.”
Hassan stepped beside him, gaze steady.
“Weasley,” he said. “This is your first real Egyptian curse. Do not be afraid.”
Bill inhaled sharply.
Then Hassan added,
“Be cautious. But never afraid.”
Bill nodded.
He stepped forward—heat pounding in his ears, magic buzzing beneath his skin.
And for the first time since arriving, he didn’t feel like a lost newcomer.
He felt… ready.
One Year Later — Egypt
Egypt had a way of aging people.
Not in a bad way—Bill Weasley just seemed… steadier now.
More confident. Sun-touched. Comfortable in the heat, in the danger, in the chaos.
And yet, somehow, he’d also become more laid-back.
Tariq liked to joke that Bill had “adopted the desert pace,” a patient sort of calm mixed with an easy smile and the quiet understanding that everything would get done in its own time—as long as you didn’t die first.
Hassan called it “desert wisdom.”
Bill called it “not stressing unless the tomb is literally collapsing.”
Fair enough.
Even with missions almost weekly, sandstorms, collapsing ruins, and curses with teeth, Bill always found time to write.
And Y/N always replied.
Not instantly—she was constantly traveling now: Spain, Morocco, France, back to Britain, then off again. But every time Bill opened the Gringotts owl postbox and saw an envelope sealed with her handwriting, he felt something warm settle in his chest.
They wrote about curses, discoveries, annoying coworkers, magical theory…
And sometimes things that had nothing to do with work.
Bill wrote about the stray desert cat that kept following him.
Y/N wrote about the old woman in Madrid who insisted on giving her magical pastries because she “looked too serious.”
He wrote about missing British tea.
She wrote about missing Egypt’s night sky.
Both kept it friendly.
Both pretended not to think too hard about the undertones.
But Bill’s letters started lingering a bit—asking about her, not just her job.
And Y/N’s replies became warmer, softer around the edges.
Tariq noticed.
“Who’s Y/N?” he asked one evening around the campfire, eyebrow raised.
“No one,” Bill said too casually.
Safiya snorted. “No one doesn’t make you smile like that, Weasley.”
Bill shoved sand over the fire to hide his face.
“Just a friend.”
“Mm,” Amira hummed. “Sure.”
He didn’t deny it.
But he didn’t correct them either.
She read his letters too often.
Sometimes twice.
Sometimes more.
She’d finish a mission, collapse on her bed in some rented room or Gringotts-arranged lodging, and the first thing she reached for was one of Bill’s envelopes.
His writing was relaxed, easy-going, warm.
He always made her laugh.
Always made her smile.
And that was the problem.
He was younger—five years younger.
Not a child, obviously. Bill was grown, capable, smart, and braver than he gave himself credit for. A full curse-breaker now, with experience that even older workers respected.
But the age gap gnawed at her sometimes.
He was only 20.
She was 25.
The distance made it easier to pretend her feelings didn’t matter. She’d tell herself:
He’s young.
He’s probably just being friendly.
It’s nothing.
It should be nothing.
Then she’d get another letter from him—something about how he’d found a rune formation that reminded him of her handwriting, or how he wished she were there because “you always explain the tricky bits better,” or how the team teased him about smiling at his mail—
And the feelings came back like a tide.
She folded the letters carefully. Kept them. Didn’t talk about them.
Bill didn’t overthink it.
He liked her.
He missed her.
He enjoyed talking to her—writing to her—more than anyone else.
And every time a letter arrived, he felt his day lighten instantly.
But he also wasn’t in any rush.
He wasn’t dramatic.
He didn’t spiral.
He just… liked her.
Fully. Easily. Quietly.
Whenever Hassan caught him rereading a letter, the old man would just shake his head.
“You’re obvious,” he told Bill once. “But not stupid. That helps.”
Bill raised an eyebrow. “Should I be offended?”
“No. Just patient.”
“I can do patient,” Bill said with a lazy shrug.
He could.
He really could.
He wasn’t the type to rush things or panic about feelings.
He’d wait if waiting was what she needed.
The longer they wrote, the more Y/N found herself lingering on his words, wondering how he said them—wondering if his smile curved differently when he wrote her name.
But every time the thought appeared, she’d shut it down.
He’s younger.
He looks up to me.
It’s not right.
And yet…
When missions got rough, when she was exhausted or lonely or frustrated, it was Bill she wanted to write to. Bill’s steadiness. Bill’s calm. Bill’s warmth.
She tried to tell herself it was nostalgia, that he reminded her of home, or past years, or easier times.
But deep down she knew.
She just wasn’t sure she was allowed to let herself feel it.
One night, during a windstorm that rattled the entire Cairo base, Bill sat sorting through scroll fragments when Hassan approached.
“You miss her,” Hassan said plainly.
Bill didn’t jump or deny it. He just paused, leaning back in his chair.
“…Yeah.”
Hassan nodded.
“You should tell her someday.”
Bill huffed a laugh. “Maybe. Someday.”
“She is older,” Hassan said. “Is that the problem?”
Bill shrugged lazily. “Not for me.”
Hassan studied him a long moment.
“You are steady,” he said finally. “Too steady for your age. Older at heart than your years. Sometimes age matters. Sometimes it does not. Only the two involved can decide.”
Bill tapped a quill against his knee, eyes drifting toward the window where the desert winds screamed.
“…Yeah,” he murmured. “I get that.”
ll wasn’t expecting anything unusual that morning.
He was sitting outside the Cairo camp, half-awake, sipping bitter tea and watching the desert sky shift from violet to gold. Amira and Tariq were arguing about whether they’d accidentally triggered a ward rune the night before, and Safiya was cleaning her wand with the kind of intensity that suggested she absolutely blamed them for it.
A normal morning.
Until the Gringotts messenger owl swooped low, dropping a thick envelope onto Bill’s lap.
He frowned.
It wasn’t a letter.
It was a mission file.
He flipped it open—
—and froze.
The name stamped across the top read:
Y/N L/N — International Assignment Specialist
Temporary Transfer to Egypt (3 Weeks)
He blinked.
Then blinked again.
Tariq leaned over. “What’s wrong? Curse eat your application form?”
Bill’s mouth opened, closed, then he handed him the file wordlessly.
Tariq skimmed it, eyes widening.
“Oh. Oh-ho-ho. You’re dead.”
Amira snatched it. “Wait—HER? She’s coming HERE? Now?”
Safiya looked up sharply. “The head girl demon returns.”
“She wasn’t a demon,” Bill muttered.
Safiya raised an eyebrow. “The woman taught you how to survive three different death curses in one week.”
“…Okay, but she was polite about it.”
Amira shook his shoulder. “Bill. She’s coming BACK. To Egypt. To you.”
Bill tried to act relaxed. He really did.
“Guys, it’s not— I mean—we’re friends.”
No one believed him.
Hassan stepped out of his tent just as Bill was stuffing the file under his arm.
“She arrives this afternoon,” Hassan said without looking up. “Everyone behave yourselves.”
Amira sighed dramatically.
“No promises.”
By the time the sun was high, the whole team was gathered at the entrance of the Egyptian field office. Everyone pretended they were there for routine duty.
They were not.
Bill stood off to the side, hands shoved into his pockets, trying to breathe normally and failing with talent.
Then she walked through the doorway.
Same confident stride.
Same calm expression.
Same soft curves of a smile that warmed more than just the room.
Her hair was windswept, as if she’d stepped right off a broomstick. Sand dusted her boots. She looked tired, capable, and completely in her element.
Bill felt something kick in his chest.
She looked at the group, searching, until her eyes landed on him.
And—there it was.
That smile.
Small, but real.
Warming and a little relieved.
“Hey, Weasley,” she said.
Bill swallowed. “Hey. Welcome back.”
She took in his appearance—tanned skin, relaxed posture, confident stance—and her eyebrows lifted just slightly.
“You look…”
Good.
Confident.
Older.
She didn’t finish the sentence, but Bill caught the flicker in her gaze and didn’t dare let himself hope too loudly.
Hassan interrupted the moment.
“Y/N, welcome. I trust your flight was pleasant?”
“As pleasant as being thrown around by magically enhanced air currents can be.”
She stepped forward to greet the team, exchanging names and polite nods…
But her eyes kept darting back to Bill.
And Bill, laid-back as always, only flashed her a small smile each time, the kind that said:
I’m really happy you’re here.
Later, when the camp settled into its evening rhythm, she found him where he always sat—on the sand dune behind the camp, watching the sunset like it was a habit passed down by the desert itself.
“Thought you’d be with the others,” Bill said without turning.
“I could say the same about you.”
She sat beside him. Close. Closer than before.
The silence between them was comfortable—more so than she expected. Egypt smelled like heat and sand and spells crackling in the air. Bill smelled like sun, dust, and something warm she couldn’t quite name.
“So,” she said softly. “I hear you’ve become the desert expert.”
Bill shrugged lazily. “Tryin’. Hassan says I’m less likely to get myself killed these days.”
“That’s… impressive,” she said, smiling wider.
Bill turned to her finally—and she realized how much he’d changed. Stronger jaw, a little more muscle, hair tied back with a leather cord, eyes steady and kind.
Older.
It hit her unexpectedly.
Five years didn’t look like much anymore.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” he said quietly.
She looked down at her hands. “It was last minute. And… I wasn’t sure if—”
If I should.
If you’d want me here.
If it would complicate things.
She cleared her throat. “I wasn’t sure if I’d be useful here anymore.”
Bill snorted lightly. “You’re always useful, Y/N.”
It was said simply, without fanfare, without flirting or pushing.
Just truth.
And something in her chest softened painfully.
The desert wind picked up, warm and prickling.
She glanced at him.
He glanced back.
Something shifted.
And for the first time, she wondered—not if they should—but if she’d been wrong to hold back.
Because he wasn’t a boy.
He wasn’t fragile.
He wasn’t unsure.
Bill Weasley was calm, steady, grown, and looking at her like he’d wait a lifetime without complaint.
Dean x Reader
Summary: You and Dean get hit with a curse, one that really hates distance. And it keeps tightening the longer it lasts. Seems like you’re stuck side-by-side now… good luck with that.
Word Count: 1.6K
Dean knows something’s wrong the second you both stumble out of that warehouse, gravel crunching under his tired feet, sharp beneath the quiet night sky. Silence stretches all around, but it’s heavy, almost suffocating, and there’s a weight on his chest, pressing down with every shallow breath.
He forces in a deeper one, telling himself he’s just tired. He’s not twenty-five anymore after all. Step by step, he keeps up behind you until his fingers brush the cold metal of the Impala.
“Man… that was rough,” he exhales, sliding into the car and letting his shoulder slump against the leather seat. Another breath in, and then a glance your way, and another, just to make sure you’re okay. He has to make sure, and he has to double-check.
He sees your eyes do the same, scanning him quickly, and his chest tightens. Then he realises he can finally take a little more air in, and he nods to himself, swallows down the night, or at least tries to.
“What the hell was that?” you groan, slumping in the seat next to him. “I’m beat.”
“Yeah… you’re telling me,” he murmurs, turning the key in the ignition.
The road to the motel crawls beneath the tires. It shouldn’t feel this long, but every mile drags.
The seats are comfortable, and the night sky presses down in quiet reverence. Normally, you’d drift toward the windows, imagining the lives inside the houses you pass. Not tonight. Tonight, your bones ache and your head feels too heavy to wander. So you just close your eyes and breathe, letting the darkness carry what little energy remains.
When you finally get to the motel and step into the warm shower, something nibbles at the edges of your awareness, prickling under your skin, weightless but warm, sliding inside. You rest your head against the shower door and breathe in, breathe out, letting the water wash over your tired bones, soothing with its steady passage.
It was supposed to be a quick job, in and out, easy for the most part. That’s why you hadn’t even told Sam. The guy deserved one weekend at Eileen’s without the job breathing down his neck.
And you and Dean… well, you were bored out of your minds, and Lebanon, Kansas, doesn’t exactly offer much in the way of fun. That was all the rationale you’d needed.
And now here you are, dragging yourself out of the shower like an eighty-year-old woman with arthritis.
Dean is staring off into space when you return to the room. Sitting on his bed, he frowns at… something. Probably his own thoughts; it wouldn’t be the first time. Then he looks at you, eyebrows scrunched. “You feel… weird at all?”
Oh, here we go. The start of every nightmare.
“Uh, just tired, I guess. Why? Something wrong?”
“Nah,” he waves it off. '‘S probably nothing. Must be gettin’ too old for this crap.”
“Yeah, reading my mind,” you comment as he heads for the bathroom.
The nagging feeling is still there, just a breath away, crawling toward your insides again, but you’re too damn tired to care. Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow, when your brain can handle more than one thought at a time.
So you lie down and close your eyes, letting the warm hum of water from the shower and Dean’s low, lazy humming lull you toward sleep. The sound is steady, grounding, and for a moment, it’s enough to make the creeping weight inside fade to the background.
The edges of the motel room blur soon enough, and you’re pulled into another world. You’re standing in a quiet field at dusk, the air soft, smelling faintly of wet grass and earth. An ache coils in your chest, tight and heavy.
You’re walking towards Dean, and every step takes effort, but with every inch you close the distance, the weight eases, melting under the warmth of his presence.
He stands a few feet away, hands loose at his sides, eyes fixed on you.
You step closer, the grass brushing your ankles, and finally, your hands meet. His fingers curl around yours, firm and warm, and the ache dissolves, replaced by something else: longing, and a hint of fear that this feeling could vanish at any moment.
“So cruel,” he murmurs, “making me wait for so long.”
You lean closer, drawn to him, and he brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingers linger, warm against your skin, and he whispers, “You don’t even know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“How I feel about you.”
Your chest tightens, and you snap awake, gasping slightly, trying to draw in deep, steady breaths to calm yourself. The motel room is dim and quiet. Across the small space, Dean lies in the bed next to yours, chest rising and falling in a slow, familiar rhythm.
You shake your head at yourself, as if chastising the dream for affecting you so deeply. Slowly, you turn your back to him, curling slightly under the covers. You try to push the dream from your mind and sink back toward sleep, but his words keep returning, echoing through your mind, impossible to ignore.
Your breathing steadies, if only a little, and eventually, the darkness of sleep draws you back in, this time into a dream without him.
—
The morning drifts by soft and easy as you and Dean head back to the bunker, music blasting, wind lifting your hair out the open window. Dean drives like he always does, one hand on the wheel, steady, familiar.
A full night of sleep has worked wonders, and you already feel clearer, lighter.
When you glance over, he’s tapping the rhythm out on the wheel, mouthing the lyrics, and something in your chest unclenches. You’re both safe, and you’re going home.
“You know, been thinkin’,” he says eventually, lowering the radio a notch. “Could do a little reunion tonight. Invite some folks over - Eileen, Charlie. Would be nice.”
“I’d love that, but… can we do it tomorrow?”
“Why?” His head snaps toward you, not sharply, just enough to show he’s alert. Worried. “Something wrong?”
“No, no,” you say quickly. “I just… have plans tonight.”
Another glance from him, this one slower. A crease forms between his brows. “Plans?”
“Yeah. The guy from the case in Lebanon last week.” You try for casual, shrugging. “He asked me out. Figured it wouldn’t hurt.”
Dean’s mouth tightens, just barely. “Didn’t know you were lookin’ to date. Far as I remember, you said you—what was it—‘can’t see yourself in a relationship.’”
“I did say that,” you admit. “I don’t know. Something about it felt… Right enough to try, I guess.”
“Yeah,” he says, one syllable, quiet. “Right.”
He nods, like he’s agreeing with himself, not you. His jaw flexes once. Then he turns the radio back up, not loudly, just enough to fill the space that used to feel easy.
He doesn’t drum anymore, doesn’t hum, doesn’t even glance your way.
He just grips the wheel a little tighter and stares at the long road ahead.
—
Sam’s already back at the bunker when you and Dean come down the stairs. He’s texting, smiling at his phone – no mystery there. “Hey, guys,” he calls, hearing your steps. “Where were you?”
“Just a hunt,” Dean says. He doesn’t offer anything else, doesn’t even slow down. He barely drops the duffel on the table before walking straight out of the room. His footsteps echo as he moves away. Maybe they’re not even that loud, maybe you’re just too tuned into him.
The second he crosses the threshold, though, something slams into you.
Your stomach twists violently, nausea climbing your throat. Cold sweat beads on your skin. You grip the table with both hands to keep yourself upright as your vision blurs around the edges.
Sam says your name sharply and is at your side in a heartbeat. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“I… dunno,” you manage, breath hitching. “Don’t feel so good.”
He steadies you with a hand around your shoulders. “Sit down, c’mon.” He guides you into a chair, and you’re barely seated before he runs out of the room, toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab you some wa—”
He doesn’t finish.
“Dean!” Sam shouts suddenly, and he’s running again… not toward the kitchen at all. “Dean, what’s wrong?!”
Fear surges so hard through you that you force yourself up, legs trembling. You manage only a step or two before another wave of nausea knocks the breath out of you. The room tilts, and you cling to the table, trying again, needing to move, needing to see.
Then Sam drags Dean into view.
He’s pale, ashen, and barely standing on his own. His knees buckle once before Sam hauls him upright again.
“C’mon,” Sam says urgently, arm locked around his brother’s waist. “C’mon, Dean, it's gonna be okay.”
The moment Sam drags him fully into the room—
Everything stops.
Your nausea.
The shaking.
The fog eating at the edges of your vision.
Gone.
You straighten instantly, breath clearing, as if someone just flipped a switch.
Dean blinks hard, like he feels the sudden shift too, and stands a little straighter, letting go of Sam’s arm. His breathing evens out, colour returning to his face.
“The hell?” he mutters, looking down at himself.
Sam looks between you and Dean, eyes wide, concern tightening his jaw. “Okay,” he says carefully. “What is going on with you two?”
Though your vision has cleared and your legs are steady again, the moment holds you fast. It lies heavy in your stomach, thick with a fear you can’t name. Because when your eyes find Dean, breathing but shaken, you know this isn’t over. Whatever has marked you has marked him too, and it’s only just begun.
---
Part 2
---
Dean Tags: @hobby27 @foxyjwls007 @hotgirlsshareaccounts @katiejade @missyoudean
Nobody wants to be all alone on Christmas. When your Christmas plans fall through, you lie to the people you love the most, even if it means spending the holidays by yourself.
Warnings: BestFriend!Reader, Fred is in a relationship but no infidelity or cheating. Sorry to anyone named Jennifer? Love confessions and reveals. Just a short cosy Christmas romance.
pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader
warning: No Y/N, Hufflepuff!reader, talks of minor character death, best friends to lovers, Kira messes with HP canon
wordcount: 3.2K (kid you not this is one word from being 3.3k)
author's notes: Sooo the story was originally an OC story, but people don't really like those, so I alter it to be x reader. Anyways, this is my first story ever, so I hope everyone likes it.
next part.
The Greengrass family has been a respected family among the Wizarding community. They are part of the sacred 28, which are wizarding families that were true pure-blood or families that had no known muggle or muggle-born ancestry. Naturally, every family has at least a couple of skeletons in their closets.
August 6th, 1993
It was dark and chilly. You were standing in a rundown home, the Shrieking Shack possibly, muffled voices could be heard up the stairs. “NO! I trusted you!” a voice yelled. It was familiar, you knew that voice. The scene changed, you were outside now, right outside the Whomping Willow. The tree was notorious for not being a people person. Behind you stood the trio with Professor Snape and in front of you, a werewolf. It had its arm raised, claws glistening in the moon light. It slashed down at you.
You jolt up in bed with a gasp. There was a sharp pain coming from the left side of your face, right over your eye. Quickly, you went over to your vanity and looked in the mirror. Nothing, there was nothing there, it was just a phantom pain. Not the first time it happened and it probably won’t be the last.
These visions didn’t start until you began Hogwarts. Your first one foreseeing a hex gone wrong on the Hogwarts Express. It was how you met the Weasley twins. It was them who tried to hex their older brother Percy, but being only second years, they got the spell wrong. It backfires causing them to blast right into you.
They came at random, whether in your sleep or simply by touching something or someone. Your mother was the same you learned. As a way to help, Dumbledore had Professor Trelaweny give you private lessons.
A knock on your bedroom door, pulled you out of thought. Your cousin, Astoria called out your name. “You were supposed to be downstairs five minutes ago, gran is going to be mad.” she said. Astoria continues to knock and call your name.
“Alright, Story, I heard you the first time.” you called back, turning towards the door.
“If you’re not down there in three minutes-”
“Yeah yeah don’t get your knickers in a twist.” You hear her walk down the hallway. Turning back to the mirror, you look at yourself. Shoved into the corner of the mirror was a Daily Prophet page that George had sent you. It was of him and his family in Egypt. Mr. Weasley had won a contest and used the money to take him and his family to visit the oldest Weasley boy, Bill. Letting out a breath, you get up and start freshening up for breakfast.
Downstairs, most of your family awaits at the table. You walk around the table to your grandfather, who was reading the Daily Prophet. “Morning, grandfather.” you kissed his cheek before walking back around to sit in your spot at the table.
“Oh morning, dear.” Archille greeted you as your grandmother, Amelia, came into the dining room.
“Oh good, you’re up on time.” she said to you as she sat down at the head of the table. You and Astoira shared a look. “Archille, can you put that blasted thing down. I don’t want to see that rubbish.”
Archille put down the copy of the Daily Prophet and began to eat. “Where’s daddy?” Astoria asked.
“There’s a problem at the Ministry; your father had to go in early.” Amelia said. Your uncle Apollo worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
“When isn’t there a problem at the Ministry?” you mumbled. Ameila glared at you. If stares could kill, you would’ve been dead years ago.
“Does the problem have anything to do with this Sirius Black person?” your cousin, Daphne inquired. You looked up from your plate.
“Whose Sirius Black?” Astoria asked.
Archille looked at his wife. “Um…he’s no one that you should concern yourself with, girls.” he said.
“Well he’s obviously someone important and dangerous if there’s a whole search warrant on him.” you pointed out.
“Yes, I mean how does one even escape Akazaban? It’s in the middle of the sea.” added Daphne.
“Girls!” Amelia said, sternly. Looks were thrown around the table, no one spoke. Amelia then let out a sigh. “Sirius Black is a murder. He’s the reason why Di-” she catches herself, “he's the reason why our dark lord is dead.”
“But I thought-” you started, but she cutted you off.
“Enough, I don’t want another word about this. Eat your breakfast, all of you.”
You could tell when your gran wasn’t telling you something, but you also knew better than to push.
August 27th, 1993
The vision from a couple of weeks ago still plagues your mind. You try to make sense of it. The voice in the Shrieking Shack belongs to none other than Hermione, you were sure of it. You’ve heard her yell at Harry and Ron enough times to know, but why would any of you be there? Who did Hermione trust? You wanted answers, but Professor Trelaweny taught you to never seek out answers. Instead let them come to you.
Walking downstairs, your cousins are already at the table. As you sat down, you noticed that your grandfather was missing. He was one to never miss a family meal.
“Morning.” Apollo said as he came into the dining room.
“Window.” was all you said back to him.
Apollo looked confused, “Window?” Just then light tapping could be heard at the window. Apollo opens it and Atlas, the family owl, flies in and lands on top of your grandfather’s chair. “How did you…”
You gave your uncle a smirk as Daphne reached for the owl. “Are those our letters?!” Astoria jumped up from her seat excitedly. Daphne takes the mail from Atlas and hands you your letter. The owl chirps and flies onto the table and starts picking at the bowl of nuts.
Your grandmother walks in and seats herself at her usual spot. “Somebody get that bloody bird off the table. You all know better.” she scolds.
“Sorry gran.” Daphne says. She then picks Atlas up and takes him to his pen. You read over your supply list for the year.
“Well, I see all your letters arrive. We can take a trip to Diagon Alley today.” Ameila said.
Curious, you took a glance at Daphne’s classes for the year. “Arithmancy? Are you mad?” You took her letter out of her hand.
“Hey!” Daphne tried snatching it back, but you blocked her by turning your body away.
“Girls do not start.” Amelia warned. The both of you completely ignored her.
“And Ancient Runes?” You laughed as you read over her supply list. Daphne said your name.
“Give it back, I'm serious.”
“Oh you’re Sirius? Well I’ll just have to inform the Ministry. Did you hear that Uncle?”
Your uncle was not amused. He said your name with tiredness, “Give Daphne her letter back.” Your smile faded as you turned back around. Daphne snatched her letter out of your hand. Astoria was laughing, but she quickly stopped when your gran threw a look.
After breakfast, your uncle leaves for the Ministry and you go to find your grandfather. You finally find him in the back gardens near the oak tree. “I’ve been looking for you for twenty minutes.”
Archille’s turn around at the sound of your voice, “Well your intuition must be failing if it took you twenty minutes.” You smiled a knowing smile and sat next to him. You saw that he was tending to his Nifflers.
“We got our letters this morning. Astoria is excited to start her first year.” You said to him.
“Ah yes and I heard that you started some commotion with Daphne.”
“I was only teasing her.”
Archille laughed, “you’re just like your mother in so many ways.” The two of you sat in silence for a moment. “Your mother always loved these little creatures.” he stated, “In fact, I think they were the only creatures she liked. Claimed it was because they were as mischief as her. Your gran nearly lost her head when she ‘accidentally’ let one loose in the manor.” The image of your gran chasing a Niffler around the manor flowed through your head making you laugh a bit. “It’s hard knowing that Black is out there.
“What do you mean?” You asked. Archille sighed.
“Black is responsible for not only the death of his friends and those twelve muggles, but also for your mother’s…I’m sorry for never telling you anything. Don’t tell your gran I’ve said anything.”
You were only two when your mother died. You never knew how, just that she was gone. Never knew anything about your father either. Every time you asked, you were always brushed off or the subject would get changed.
At Diagon Alley, Astoria jumps excitedly as she has never been before. Your gran looks at you and Daphne, "Here, you girls go get what you need.” She hands you both a few Galleons, “I’ll be in Madam Malkin’s with Astoria and– Astoria, dear please stay by me. I trust that you two will behave yourselves.” That last part was mostly directed towards you. You watch as she leaves with Astoria. Soon after, Daphne had found Pansy Parkinson, a girl in her year, and made off with her.
You made your way to Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, where you found who you were expecting right outside.
“Hello Harry, knew you would be here.” you said to the boy. The green-eyed boy looked up and smiled instantly when he saw that it was you. He said your name as he went to hug you. “So tell me what you’ve done this time?”
“What makes you think that I’ve done something?” He asked.
“Because when haven’t you done something?” You stated.
“I…I may have accidentally inflated my aunt.” Harry mumbled out, but you still heard him as though he said it normally.
“How ever did you manage to do that?” you laughed out.
“She was talking bad about my parents and I just couldn’t listen to it anymore, but it’s weird, when I got here the Minister was waiting for me. Like he knew or something.” he said.
“Well you don’t have the best track record, Harry.”
“When I left though and waited…I saw something or at least I think I saw something.” Harry told you, “It was a dog, a big black dog.”
You raised an eyebrow at him, “A dog?”
“Yes and I’ve been here for weeks and I feel like I’m being watched.”
You put the back of your hand on his forehead.
“What are you-” he smacked your hand away.
“Congraulations Harry, I think you’ve finally gone mad.”
Harry accompanies you while you shop for your schoolbooks. Then you escort him back to his room after you finish. “And you have everything you need, correct?” you asked him.
“For the third time. Yes.” He was annoyed on the outside, but secretly he loved when you pestered him.
“And you’re going to be alright until the Wealsey’s come back in a few days, yes? Because if you really think someone is watching you-”
“I’ll be fine. If anything happens before then, I’ll send Hedwig.” he assured.
“Alright, alright I’ll leave you alone.” You kissed his cheek as a goodbye then met back up with your family in front of Gringotts.
September 1st, 1993
When you awoke this morning, you didn’t expect to go into fight or flight mode. A hooded figure hovered above you. You let out a scream and it was only when you woke up for real that you knew it was a dream. Breathing in and out heavily, you felt nothing but coldness and dread. As you gather your thoughts, a knock comes upon your door, it was your uncle. He voices out your name with concern.
“You alright. I heard screaming.” he said from behind the door.
“Yeah…yeah, I’m fine.” you said back.
“Okay, well remember the train leaves exactly at eleven.” Apollo walks away and you shake off the feeling of dread as you go to get ready.
When the Greengrass’ arrive at King's Cross Station, Astoria was talking a mile a minute about how she couldn’t wait to be sorted into Slytherin like her sister and cousin. You and Daphne shared a look that went unnoticed by everyone.
As you said your goodbyes, you spotted the small group of redheads out of the corner of your eye. You turned to find George already looking at you. The smile that came to your face couldn't be contained. Your gran said your name pulling your attention back. She had that slight look of disagreement on her face.
You hopped onto the Hogwarts Express quickly, ready to finally be free of your gran rules. Daphne took Astoria with her and at some point, before arriving at Hogwarts, you’ll have to remember to explain the situation and lie you have found yourself in for the past three years now. You were a Hufflepuff, the only one in a long line of Slytherins. You were scared of what would happen if your gran found out, so you lied and said you were sorted into Slytherin. Daphne threaten to tell, but you somehow manage to persuade her into not too.
That was a problem for later though, right now, you just wanted your best friends, and you found them along with Lee Jordan. George got to you first, practically jumping out of the seat when he saw you at the compartment door.
“Hi, Georgie.” You beamed as he hugged him. He quickly returned the hug, savoring the short moment with you. George took your bag and placed it above the seats as you went and greeted Fred and Lee. “So boys, how was Egypt? I’m surprised neither of you look as red as your hair.”
“Oh har har. Can’t say that I didn’t miss your bad jokes.” Fred said.
“And I can’t say that I didn’t miss your face.” You quipped.
The twins told you all about their trips. How they tried to push Percy into a tomb, but got scolded by their mother. How Ginny wasn’t allowed to go in the pyramids because she was too young. Lee also told you all about his summer.
“Well, I’m glad you boys had fun.” you told them
“So…” Fred said your nickname, “what about you, any new vision?” Your smile fades from your face. “I’m taking that as a yes. Come on, you know you can tell us anything.” You look at Fred and Lee across from you before turning your attention to George beside you. You sighed as you got up and closed the compartment door. You tell them about the Shrieking Shack and the werewolf. Skipping over what happened this morning.
“Why would a werewolf be anywhere on school grounds? Isn’t there like protecting charms or something?” asked Lee.
“I don’t know, but I’m positive the voice that I heard in the Shack was Hermione’s.” You stated.
“But why would Hermione be in the Shrieking Shack of all places?” George questioned.
“I have no idea what kind of trouble those three are going to get into this year, but I just have this sense that it all has to do with-” You paused what you were saying when the train suddenly came to a screeching halt.
“We can’t be at Hogwarts already.” Lee stated. The lights on the train started to flicker out. You felt George grab ahold of your hand and you squeezed it as comfort. Fred popped his head out of the compartment. Two figures came up to him, it was Ginny and Neville. Fred pulled them inside and started comforting his sister. It made you think of Astoria, hoping she was somewhere Daphne.
Lee was looking out the window. “Do you think it’s Black?” The compartment got cold, so cold that the window and water on the little tray table started to freeze up.
“How could it possibly be Sirius Black?” Fred asked. There was something in the back of your mind telling you to find Harry. So, you got up to move, but George, who still was holding your hand, tugged you lightly.
“Where are you going?” George stood up with you.
“Just a hunch.” you simply said, walking out of the compartment with George in tow. You found the trio towards the end of the car, with them sat a person soundly asleep. You were surprised that they still even were. “Harry?! Are you all okay?”
Their compartment started to frost up when a hooded figure, the same hooded figure from your vision this morning, stood at the compartment door. The same feeling, cold and dread, filled the compartment as the figure slid the door open. Hermione and Ron moved towards the window as much as they could. Hermione’s new cat started to hiss at it and Ron’s rat squeaked in fear.
You stumble back as you feel yourself go a little dizzy. Luckily, George was there, putting his on your upper arms and his chest to your back to keep you from falling. A voice a little to the left of you could be heard casting a spell. The whole compartment lit up and then the figure was driven away. Harry fainted and the person who casted the spell stepped forward, out of the compartment to make sure the hooded figure was truly gone.
“Harry.” Hermione knelt in front of Harry’s fainted form, shaking him a bit to try and get him to come too.
“Are you alright?” You heard George ask you. You squeeze your eyes as the last of the dizziness fades away.
“Yeah…yeah, I’m alright.” you assured him.
“What the bloody hell just happened?” Ron asked.
“Is everyone alright?” the mysterious man stepped back into the compartment. He looked down at Harry and Hermione. “Don’t worry, he’ll come too in a moment.” He looked around to check if everyone else was okay. The man’s facial features softened upon looking at you. Something that you caught. Though looking at him, there was something oddly familiar.
Harry started to come too. You move to sit beside him as Hermione slowly helps him sit up. George went to the other side of Harry and sat down. Hermione was kneeling down at his feet looking Harry over. The shaggy brown-haired man sat across from Harry and pulled out some chocolate from his sweater pocket. “Here, eat this, it'll help. It’s alright, it’s chocolate.”
Harry took it and looked towards the door in confusion. “What-what was that thing?”
“It was a dementor, one of the guards of Azkaban. It’s gone now. It was searching the train for Sirius Black. Now seeing as you are alright, I’m going to have a little word with the driver.” The man said then walked out of the compartment. Hermione moved to take his spot.
Harry bit into the chocolate, “What happened to me?”
“Well, the two of you short of went rigid,” Ron gestured to both you and Harry, “I thought maybe you were having a fit or something.”
Harry looked at you, “You…passed out too?”
“No…I just got sort of dizzy for a bit. It seems you got the worst of it, Haz.” You said as you moved your hand to his arm to comfort him.
“I felt all kinds of weird. Like I would never be cheerful again.” Ron added.
Harry frowned, “But someone was screaming…a woman.” Everyone in the compartment gave a confused look.
“No one was screaming, Harry.” Hermione assured him. You threw a worried glance towards George. It was going to be another interesting year.
ㆍ S.B x Arranged Marriage! Reader
ㆍ Angst // SLOW BURN // one sided relationship // happy ending!
ㆍAn arranged marriage kept them under the same roof, but years of quiet indifference left them strangers in their own home. When Sirius finally shows a new, unexpected vulnerability, Y/N must decide whether to trust him—or let the distance between them become permanent.
ㆍ8.3k
ㆍRequest: ashdreams2023
ㆍTaglist: @littlemadamred @raiweasley @iluvhrj @hoeforlifee @a1ienmush @pottermagiczz
ㆍA/N: i apologize for how long this took but i absolutely loved this angsty little piece <3
Much love, Saige
[masterlist]
The Black family had always been bound by blood, but Sirius Black had long since learned that blood was a chain, not a comfort.
He had escaped its pull once — stormed out of Grimmauld Place at sixteen, slammed the door behind him, and sworn never to return. But the irony of fate, as it often did, found its way back to him years later in the form of a signature on parchment.
An arranged marriage.
A peace offering.
A way, his mother’s letter had said, to “restore the Black family’s dignity.”
He’d laughed when he first read it; a dry, humorless sound that didn’t reach his eyes. He had no reason to humor her, no reason to involve himself with the ghosts of his lineage. But the war was ending, the Order was quieter now, and his defiance had dulled with exhaustion. Somewhere between the funerals and the rebuilding, he had stopped fighting everything on sight.
So when the proposal came, a match arranged years ago by family tradition, meant to bind the Black name to another “respectable” pure-blood house, Sirius didn’t tear it up. He didn’t even scoff.
He simply signed.
And that’s how he met you.
You weren’t cruel. You weren’t vain. You weren’t anything the Blacks had been known for. That, perhaps, was the problem. You were polite, careful, quiet — an echo in a house that had once been full of shouting.
The wedding was small, the kind that left more whispers than memories. Sirius had shown up late, smelling faintly of smoke and expensive cologne. You’d worn a soft gray gown that your mother said was “understated but elegant.”
He hadn’t said you looked beautiful.
He hadn’t said anything at all.
Now, months later, Grimmauld Place was too big for two people who barely spoke.
You slept in the same bed. You ate the same dinners. You smiled at the same guests who came to call — old friends, new acquaintances, members of the Order who congratulated you both with a knowing grin. You called him husband in public, the word tasting foreign every time. He called you wife with that easy charm of his, voice smooth enough to make anyone believe he meant it.
But behind closed doors, it was different.
There were nights he reached for you, only because it was expected — because you were his wife, and he was your husband, and that was what married people did. His hands were always gentle, his kisses practiced. But they were never for you. They were obligations wrapped in warmth. When he turned away afterward, falling asleep without a word, you lay awake staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster.
It wasn’t hatred that lingered between you. It was something worse — indifference.
He treated you kindly, almost too kindly, as though afraid to bruise a fragile thing. He asked about your day, but not because he wanted to know. He complimented your dress at dinner parties, but only when someone else might overhear. He never yelled. He never scowled. He never cared enough to.
And yet, somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to despise him.
Because sometimes, in the smallest, most fleeting moments.. you caught glimpses of the man beneath the distance. The way his voice softened when he spoke of James. The quiet grief in his eyes when he thought no one noticed. The way he always made sure you walked on the inside of the pavement when you went out together, as if protecting you was a reflex he couldn’t suppress.
Those tiny fragments of tenderness were enough to keep hope alive — a cruel, fragile thing that refused to die.
You had been married six months when the silence began to feel heavier than the walls around you. You tried to fill it; with books, with chores, with conversation. You’d talk about the garden you wanted to plant, or the stray cat that came to the window sometimes. Sirius would nod, half-listening, and then disappear into his study.
He was always disappearing.
Sometimes, you’d hear the low murmur of his voice from that room — old friends, most likely. Sometimes Remus, sometimes Order business. You never asked. You weren’t sure if it was your place.
You had stopped expecting warmth. You simply learned to exist in the spaces between his life and yours.
Until one evening, something shifted; not enough to change anything, but enough to make you notice.
It was late, the fire low and the house quiet. Sirius came in from the cold, shaking snow from his hair, his shoulders dusted with frost. You were reading by the hearth, blanket wrapped around your legs, when he paused at the doorway. For a brief moment, he just looked at you — as if seeing you properly for the first time. The flicker of recognition in his gray eyes startled you.
“You’re still up,” he said, voice rough from the cold.
You nodded. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He hesitated, then moved closer to the fire. You watched the light play across his features — the tired eyes, the faint scar along his jaw, the weight he carried like a shadow. He smelled faintly of smoke and winter.
For once, the silence didn’t feel entirely unbearable.
“You should rest,” he murmured after a while. “It’s late.”
“So should you,” you replied quietly.
He almost smiled. Almost.
And then, as quickly as the moment had come, it passed. He turned away, retreating toward the stairs.
“Goodnight, wife,” he said, not looking back.
You closed your book, heart aching at how easily the word wife could sound so empty.
“Goodnight, husband,” you whispered into the quiet.
And though he didn’t hear you, you wished — more than anything — that he had.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
You began to take notice of some little things first.
The way Sirius preferred his tea — black, no sugar. The way he leaned back in his chair when he read, one ankle crossed over his knee. The music he sometimes played in the study, low and scratchy, old records of Muggle rock bands he must’ve picked up in his wilder years.
You didn’t know when exactly you started trying to please him.
Maybe it was the silence, heavy and constant, pressing against your ribs. Maybe it was the small ache that came from watching him laugh at something Remus said, a laugh that never seemed to belong to you.
So, you started small.
You brewed his tea the way he liked it — dark, strong. When you brought it to his study, he barely glanced up from his parchment. “Thanks,” he muttered absently, taking the cup without looking at you.
He didn’t notice the way you’d taken the time to warm the mug beforehand.
Next came dinner. You asked Kreacher to prepare things Sirius liked — roast chicken, potatoes, buttery rolls, dishes that made him nostalgic for the meals at the Potters’ home, before everything went wrong.
When you called him to the table, he was late. You waited, watching the food cool until finally his footsteps echoed down the hall.
“This looks good,” he said with a faint smile, taking his seat. You smiled back, foolishly relieved. But halfway through the meal, you realized he wasn’t really tasting it. He was just… eating. Like it was habit, like you could’ve served anything and he wouldn’t have noticed the difference.
Still, you tried again.
You found a record he might like — one of those old Muggle albums with a guitar riff he always hummed under his breath. One evening, while he sat by the fire with a book, you put it on quietly.
His head lifted a little, gray eyes flicking to you, something almost surprised in them.
“This is… good,” he said softly.
You smiled, heart thudding. “I thought you’d like it.”
He nodded, the faintest curve of his mouth there for only a second. And then he went back to reading.
The record spun on, filling the empty house with the sound of something that used to mean freedom. You sat nearby, pretending to read too, though your eyes stayed on him instead. Watching the way his thumb traced the edge of the page, the way his hair fell into his eyes, the way he seemed entirely untouched by the effort you’d made.
You weren’t expecting gratitude. You weren’t even expecting affection. You just wanted something — a flicker of interest, a trace of awareness that you were trying to reach him. But he stayed the same, polite and distant.
It was almost worse than anger.
A few nights later, you wore something new. A soft dress in a color he’d once mentioned liking, a passing remark months ago that had somehow stayed with you. You joined him for dinner again, nerves making your hands shake slightly as you poured the wine.
He didn’t seem to notice.
His eyes skimmed over you with the same detached politeness he offered anyone else. He asked how your day had been. You told him about the book you were reading. He nodded. That was all.
The next morning, you woke before him. He was lying on his side, turned away, hair messy against the pillow. The light from the window traced the line of his back beneath the sheets. You stared for a long moment, wondering what it might be like to reach out — to touch him just because you wanted to, not because it was expected.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you slipped quietly out of bed, dressing in silence, pretending that the ache in your chest wasn’t growing heavier by the day.
Later that week, you overheard him talking to Remus in the study. You hadn’t meant to listen, you were passing by, tray in hand, but his voice caught your attention.
“She’s been… different lately,” Sirius said, tone uncertain. “Doing things I like. Playing old records. Cooking things I used to eat with James.”
Remus’s voice was low, thoughtful. “She’s trying, Sirius.”
“I don’t know why,” Sirius admitted after a pause. “We both know what this is. I didn’t ask for—” He stopped, exhaling. “She deserves someone who looks at her properly. I can’t force that.”
Your heart sank before he even finished. You moved away before you could hear Remus’s reply, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes.
That night, you said nothing at dinner. Neither did he.
When he reached across the table to refill your glass, his hand brushed yours by accident. He looked up, startled — and for a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in his expression, something softer than pity, something almost human.
But then it was gone. He drew back, clearing his throat. “You’re quiet tonight,” he said.
“I’m just tired,” you answered, forcing a small smile.
He nodded, as if that explained everything.
Later, when you lay beside him in the dark, listening to the faint sound of his breathing, you wondered if he’d ever notice you for more than the space you occupied — if there was ever going to be a day when being his wife didn’t feel like pretending to be someone else’s ghost.
And though you didn’t mean to, you whispered it into the night anyway.
“I wish you’d see me.”
He didn’t stir.
But in his sleep, Sirius shifted just slightly closer, his hand brushing yours beneath the sheets — unaware, unintentional, but enough to make your eyes sting all over again.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
For the first time in months, Sirius noticed you. Maybe it was because of the humility Remus gave him in conversation that night, or the small whispers of prayer from you that slipped into his mind as he slept beside you.
But he didn't see you properly, not the way a man notices a woman he’s in love with — but in fleeting, unguarded moments that slipped past his defenses before he could reason them away.
It started in the mornings.
He’d come downstairs to find you already awake, hair pinned back neatly, sunlight falling across your face as you poured tea. You’d glance up when you heard him, offering that same quiet smile — the one he’d always taken for politeness. But lately, he realized, it wasn’t polite at all. It was gentle. Earnest. Real.
He didn’t know when he’d stopped believing sincerity could exist in his world.
“Good morning,” you said one day, voice soft.
“Morning,” he replied automatically, rubbing the back of his neck. He hesitated before taking his cup. “You’re up early.”
“I wanted to watch the sunrise,” you said. “It’s clear today.”
He nodded, pretending he didn’t notice how peaceful you looked in that light, like you belonged to something he could never quite touch. He turned away before it could mean anything.
But it did.
He caught himself watching you sometimes. At dinner. In the garden. When you passed him a dish and your fingers brushed. There was no reason for it — no desire, no spark he could name. Just a strange, quiet awareness that had begun to unsettle him.
He’d been trying not to think about what Remus had said the other day.
“She’s trying, Sirius.”
He hadn’t meant to sound cold, but he knew he had. He hadn’t wanted a wife. He hadn’t wanted this. But now that he had it — now that you were here, so careful, so patient — something in him began to shift.
It made him uncomfortable.
Guilt had a way of doing that.
He started noticing details he’d missed before.
How you always tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were nervous. How you hummed softly while reading. How you looked up when he entered a room, like you were waiting for something — even if you didn’t expect it to come.
You never asked for more. Never demanded affection. You simply existed quietly beside him, filling the house with the sound of someone who was trying not to disturb.
He caught himself wondering what it would take to make you smile, really smile. Not the one you gave for the sake of peace, but something that reached your eyes. And then he’d curse himself for caring, because he wasn’t supposed to.
Not like that.
One evening, he came home earlier than usual. You were sitting on the floor by the fireplace, legs folded beneath you, an open book in your lap. You looked up, startled, when you saw him.
“Oh,” you said, standing too quickly. “You’re home early.”
He gave a small shrug, shedding his coat. “Thought I’d give Kreacher the night off from cursing me.”
You smiled faintly. “He does seem to enjoy that.”
For the first time, Sirius chuckled — a real, genuine sound. You blinked, as though you hadn’t heard it before. Maybe you hadn’t.
He moved closer, leaning against the mantel. “What are you reading?”
You showed him the cover. “Something Muggle. A novel about second chances.”
He tilted his head. “Do they get one?”
“I’m not sure yet.” You looked down, tracing the page. “But I hope they do.”
Something about that, the quiet longing in your tone, stuck with him. He nodded slowly, eyes lingering on you longer than they should have.
You turned back to your book, pretending not to notice.
The next day, he found himself in Diagon Alley without a plan. He’d meant to pick up parchment and ink. Somehow, he ended up in a small shop that sold both Muggle and wizarding books. He wasn’t sure why he was there, but when he saw a display of novels near the window, his hand moved before his mind caught up.
He bought one. A simple paperback — something about a woman who wanted to be seen.
That night, he left it on the armchair beside your favorite reading spot. He didn’t say a word. You didn’t mention it either, but the next morning, he noticed the book was gone — and a small vase of fresh flowers sat on his desk in return.
Neither of you acknowledged the exchange. You didn’t need to. It was the first unspoken language you’d shared since your wedding day.
After that, things changed in subtle ways.
Sirius lingered at breakfast a little longer. You waited up for him a little later. Conversations stretched a bit past formality. Once, his hand brushed yours as he handed you a cup, and instead of pulling away, he let the contact linger — a second too long, not enough to be called affection, but enough to make you look up.
He didn’t say anything. Neither did you.
That night, he couldn’t sleep.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to your breathing beside him. He thought about your whisper from nights before — the one he’d half-heard in the dark, soft and almost broken.
I wish you’d see me.
He hadn’t meant to hear it. He’d been half-asleep, mind adrift. But he’d heard it, and it stayed with him.
He turned slightly, looking at you in the faint moonlight. Your back was to him, shoulders rising and falling in steady rhythm. You looked peaceful. He wondered if you ever dreamt of something better. Someone better.
He reached out, hesitated, then gently brushed a loose strand of hair from your face.
You stirred slightly but didn’t wake.
“Maybe I do see you,” he whispered.
It wasn’t quite true yet, but it was closer than yesterday.
He lay back, eyes open in the dark, wondering what it meant that he finally cared.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The first thing you noticed was how quiet you’d become.
Not the ordinary kind of quiet that had defined your marriage since the beginning — the polite, companionable silence of two people pretending they were fine. No, this was different. This was the sort of quiet that pressed down like a fog, heavy and endless, swallowing the edges of every word you tried to say.
It wasn’t that you’d stopped trying overnight. It was more like the effort had finally worn you thin.
There had been hope, once. Little, foolish hope — fragile as spun glass. You’d let it grow in secret, fed by small gestures and half-seconds of warmth. The book he left for you, the soft look in his eyes that night by the fire, the way he said good morning with something almost tender behind it. You had clung to those moments like a lifeline.
But days turned into weeks, and the small warmth faded back into routine. He was kind, yes. Always kind. He would hold the door for you, ask after your day, pour you wine at dinner. But kindness wasn’t closeness. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t seeing you.
And maybe, you thought one evening as you brushed your hair in the mirror, maybe it never would be.
You stared at your reflection — the strands falling neatly around your shoulders, the gown you’d chosen carefully because you knew he liked the color blue. You looked… fine. Ordinary. Unremarkable. You wondered if that was what he saw when he looked at you — something decent, polite, unmemorable.
The sound of the front door opening echoed faintly through the hall. Sirius was home.
You straightened instinctively, brushing invisible wrinkles from your dress. It was pathetic, this reflex, the way your body still wanted to impress him, even when your heart knew better.
He came in, shaking off his coat, smelling faintly of the outside — cold air, tobacco, a trace of something smoky. His hair was mussed, his expression tired.
“You’re home late,” you said softly.
“Order meeting,” he replied, voice distracted. He glanced at you briefly, then away again. “You didn’t have to wait up.”
“I wasn’t,” you lied.
He nodded absently, already halfway to the stairs. “Long day. I’ll see you in the morning.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught. You just nodded, watching him disappear up the steps. The ache that followed was familiar -- dull, patient, merciless.
That night, when you joined him in bed, he was already asleep. Or pretending to be. You lay on your side, facing away from him, and realized you hadn’t really been touched, truly touched, in weeks. Not since that last night he’d reached for you out of obligation. Not since you’d stopped pretending it meant something.
Something inside you broke quietly, the way glass breaks under water — soundless, invisible, absolute.
The next morning, you didn’t make his tea.
You didn’t wait for him at breakfast or join him in the study. You spent the day in the garden instead, sleeves rolled up, hands in the dirt. The cold bit at your fingers, but the ache was grounding — honest in a way nothing else in that house was.
When Sirius passed by the window that afternoon, he paused. You were kneeling by the rosebushes, brushing soil from your palms, the faintest trace of color in your cheeks. He hadn’t seen you like that before — not the quiet, graceful figure who filled his house like furniture, but someone alive. Someone else.
He almost stepped outside. Almost. But the uncertainty stopped him, as it always did. He told himself you wanted space. He told himself you looked content. He told himself a dozen things to make the hesitation easier.
You didn’t see him watching. You didn’t care if he did.
By evening, you were exhausted — not from work, but from feeling. You had spent so long trying to be good, to be patient, to deserve his attention. And for what? The house still echoed the same way it always had.
When you came in for dinner, Sirius was at the table, a glass of wine in hand. He looked up, startled — maybe because you hadn’t joined him in the morning, maybe because you hadn’t waited.
“You were gone all day,” he said.
You nodded, sitting down without meeting his gaze. “I needed air.”
“Something wrong?”
You gave a faint laugh, bitter and soft. “You’d notice?”
The question hung in the air. He frowned slightly, not defensive, just lost. “Of course I would.”
You looked at him then, really looked, and realized how tired he seemed. The faint lines around his eyes, the weight in his shoulders. You used to think that if he looked at you like that, you’d feel closer to him. But all it did now was make you feel smaller.
“I don’t think you would,” you said finally. “Not really.”
He opened his mouth, but no words came.
You stood before he could find them, gathering your plate. “I’m going to bed.”
“You haven’t eaten,” he said quietly.
“I’m not hungry.”
Your footsteps echoed on the stairs, steady, final.
In your room, you undressed in silence. The mirror reflected someone you didn’t recognize anymore — someone who’d tried so hard to become what he might want that she’d forgotten who she was before.
You thought of the girl you’d been before the marriage, the one who still believed in love, in choices, in warmth that came freely instead of being earned. You wondered if she’d hate you now.
Sirius didn’t come up right away. He sat alone at the table long after the candles burned down, your words replaying in his mind. You’d notice?
It wasn’t an accusation — it was too soft for that. It was worse. It was the sound of someone who had given up.
When he finally came to bed, you were already asleep, or at least pretending to be. He hesitated at the doorway, looking at you the way one looks at something fragile, afraid to touch it.
He wanted to say something. Anything. But he didn’t know where to start. So instead, he sat at the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands.
You opened your eyes then, just barely — enough to see the shape of him in the dark, hunched and lost.
He didn’t see you looking.
And for the first time, you didn’t feel the urge to comfort him. You just closed your eyes again, letting the distance settle like dust between you.
Maybe it was too late.
Maybe he’d finally started to notice, but you’d already run out of hope to give.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Sirius woke to an empty bed.
The sheets beside him were still faintly warm, the faint indentation of your body visible against the linen, but you were gone. The house was quiet in that thick, unsettling way that meant something had shifted. It wasn’t the usual morning silence — the calm, habitual hush that came before the day began. No. This was absence.
He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The space between you felt wider now, heavy with things unsaid.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed you pulling away. He had, in the way one notices a draft under a door, or a missing sound they’d long since tuned out. It had started small: the empty teacup that used to wait for him on the desk, the soft hums that no longer filled the corridor, the way your chair at dinner was often left empty, replaced by a polite note on parchment: Ate earlier. Don’t wait up.
He told himself it was nothing.
That you needed space.
That it was better this way.
But now, standing alone in the kitchen, with no trace of your quiet domestic presence, Sirius felt something sharp twist in his chest — not guilt exactly, not yet, but something close to it.
You had always been there, he realized.
In the rhythm of the house, the steadiness of each day. In the way the curtains were drawn back each morning to let in light. In the quiet meals that appeared when he forgot to eat. In the peace that existed despite him — despite his ghosts, despite the coldness he’d let settle between you.
You hadn’t asked for much. You’d never demanded affection or comfort or truth. You’d just stayed. That was what made it worse.
He remembered your voice at dinner, low and tired.
“You’d notice?”
He had no answer for it then. He still didn’t.
Because the truth was simple: he hadn’t.
He’d built walls long before your marriage, and he’d let you live behind them like a polite stranger, all under the pretense of sparing you — as if indifference was a kindness.
But when had it turned into cruelty? When had he become his own family’s ghost story, a man who could not love the person he’d vowed to protect?
By midday, Sirius found himself pacing the halls. He told himself he was looking for a book, but his eyes kept catching on traces of you instead.
A ribbon left on the windowsill.
A half-read novel by the chair.
A faint scent of lavender that lingered on the air.
He followed it into the garden.
You were there, kneeling among the rosebushes again, wearing that worn cardigan he always thought was too big for you. Your hair was loose today, a few strands caught by the wind. You looked… peaceful, he thought. And that was what scared him most.
“Didn’t think you liked the cold,” he said quietly.
You turned your head slightly, but not enough to meet his eyes. “It’s better than sitting inside.”
He hesitated at the doorway, hands deep in his pockets. “You should’ve woken me.”
“I didn’t see the point.”
The words were soft, but they hit harder than anything she could have shouted.
He wanted to say something, anything, but his throat tightened. So instead, he watched as you stood, brushing dirt from your palms. There was no anger in you, no spark left to fight with. Just quiet exhaustion.
“Y/N,” he started, but you were already walking past him toward the house.
“I’ll have dinner ready later,” you said.
And then, after a pause: “You don’t have to join me if you’re busy.”
He turned to watch you go, a strange panic settling in his chest.
For months he’d thought this distance was safety — that as long as you were polite and calm, things were fine. But now he realized how silence could rot a home faster than any fight ever could.
That evening, he didn’t go out. He sat by the fire instead, alone, his mind restless. The house felt too large without you moving through it. Too hollow.
He thought about the little things you’d done — all the things he’d dismissed without a second glance. The dinners that had been for him. The music that had been his. The small, thoughtful gestures that had gone unnoticed because he’d decided they didn’t matter.
How many had there been?
How many times had he looked at you and chosen not to see?
He thought of you sitting across from him at dinner, wearing that blue dress — the one that had made him pause for a heartbeat before looking away. You’d looked beautiful that night. He hadn’t said a word.
A low ache formed in his chest. Regret, sharp and unfamiliar.
When the clock struck ten, he went upstairs. The door to your room, your room now, he realized, was closed. A line had been drawn, silently but surely.
He knocked once.
“Y/N?”
Silence.
He almost turned away, but then your voice came, quiet and careful: “Yes?”
“I… wanted to say goodnight.”
There was a pause, long enough for him to feel foolish. Then: “Goodnight, Sirius.”
No bitterness. No warmth. Just polite distance, the same tone he’d used with you for months.
He closed his eyes, hand still resting against the door.
He had no one to blame but himself.
Later, lying awake in the dark, he couldn’t shake the thought that this was how people left you. Not in anger or grief — but by degrees. Slowly, quietly, until one day you looked up and realized they weren’t waiting for you anymore.
And maybe that was what scared him most of all.
Because for the first time since your wedding day, Sirius realized he didn’t want you to leave.
Not the version of you who sat across from him like a stranger, but the one who had tried — the one who’d smiled at him in the sunlight and hoped he’d look back.
He’d missed her.
He’d missed you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The air in Grimmauld Place had grown thick with silence. Not the cold, angry kind that follows a fight, but the kind that grows quietly, like dust settling on things left untouched.
You had stopped trying to fill the void between you and Sirius. The effort had become too exhausting, and each attempt had been met with the same soft, polite indifference that had slowly chipped away at your hope.
He’d always been civil, even kind at times. That was the worst part. Sirius wasn’t cruel. He just wasn’t there.
He sat across from you at dinner most nights, eating quietly, sometimes talking about work or things that didn’t matter. And you’d nod, smile faintly, sip your wine, and tell yourself you were fine with that. Because if you didn’t, you might shatter.
Lately, though, you’d begun to fade in your own home. You dressed simply, you spoke less. The fire in you, that quiet but persistent desire to be seen had dimmed.
You woke one morning before him, lying in bed staring at the ceiling. His arm was draped across your waist, heavy and absent, like muscle memory rather than affection. He looked peaceful, and you almost envied that.
You slipped out from beneath his arm carefully, dressing in silence. You didn’t bother with your hair the way you used to, nor with the perfume he once called “nice.”
You made breakfast. For both of you, as always. But you didn’t wait for him to join. You ate quietly by the window while the sky outside stayed pale and sleepy.
When he finally came down, shirt half-buttoned, hair a mess, you barely looked up.
“Morning,” he said, voice still low from sleep.
“Morning,” you murmured, setting your cup down.
He hesitated. Normally, you’d have smiled — asked about his plans, tried to make conversation. Instead, you stood, placed your cup in the sink, and said, “I’ll be out for a while.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “Out? Where?”
“Just… out.”
And then you left.
That became the new rhythm. You spent your days wandering the nearby streets, visiting small cafés, sitting in bookshops until the afternoon light began to fade. You didn’t buy anything. You just… existed somewhere other than that cold, echoing house.
When you returned, he was often gone, sometimes at headquarters, sometimes out with James or Remus. When he was home, the two of you exchanged words out of habit more than desire.
He noticed the shift, but he didn’t know what to do with it.
He’d catch you humming softly while cleaning the sitting room, only to stop when he entered. You no longer asked him if he wanted tea, or if he’d eaten. You didn’t press your hand against his arm in passing. You didn’t fill the silence with pleasantries.
You’d gone quiet.
And somehow, that silence was louder than anything he’d ever heard.
One evening, he found you in the study, seated by the fire. You didn’t look up as he entered. Your book was open, but your eyes weren’t moving across the page.
He lingered by the door, watching you for a long moment. The firelight made your features soft, tired, distant. You looked… older. Not in years, but in weariness.
“You’ve been out a lot lately,” he said finally.
“I have.”
“Everything alright?”
You nodded once. “Yes.”
He waited for more, but nothing came.
“Y/N,” he said, softer this time. “Did I do something?”
You blinked, finally looking at him. “Do something?”
He shifted, uneasy under your calm tone. “You’re… different.”
You closed your book gently, setting it aside. “I’ve stopped trying, Sirius.”
His brow creased. “Trying what?”
“To be someone you might notice.”
He froze, lips parting, but you went on before he could speak.
“I’ve spent months trying to make this… marriage something more than a name on paper. I tried to make you comfortable, to be kind, to be what I thought you wanted. But it’s exhausting trying to be chosen by someone who never wanted you to begin with.”
He exhaled slowly, guilt flickering across his face, but you weren’t finished.
“I don’t blame you,” you continued, voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady. “You didn’t ask for this either. I know that. But I can’t keep pretending that this life doesn’t ache. I can’t keep setting a place for you in my heart when you’ve never once stepped inside it.”
Sirius’s throat worked around words he couldn’t form.
You stood, smoothing the front of your skirt. “You don’t need to say anything. I’m not angry. I’m just… tired.”
And with that, you left him in the flickering firelight, the faint scent of your lavender soap fading in the air.
That night, he couldn’t sleep.
He lay awake staring at the ceiling, the same way you had that morning. The bed felt too large, too quiet. For the first time, he realized he hadn’t actually seen you in weeks. Not really.
He thought of the mornings you used to hum while setting out breakfast, the gentle curve of your smile when he came home late. He thought of your perfume, the way it lingered on his robes even when he didn’t notice.
He’d taken it all for granted.
Now, all that warmth had gone—and the house felt like what it truly was: cold stone and obligation.
And Sirius Black, who had once sworn he would never be like the rest of his family, realized with a sick twist in his chest that he had become exactly like them.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Sirius returned home one late afternoon, the sound of the front door closing softly behind him. He didn’t slam it, didn’t curse under his breath about the endless creak of the hinges like he usually did.
There was something quieter about him. Something careful.
You noticed it first in the way his boots didn’t drag against the floors; how his voice, when he greeted you, didn’t echo through the hall like an afterthought.
“Evening,” he said from the doorway of the drawing room.
You looked up from the book in your lap, blinking at him. “Evening.”
He hesitated before stepping in. You could tell immediately that something was different—he didn’t move with the same restless energy, that constant need to fill the silence. Instead, he seemed almost… hesitant.
He looked at you as though seeing you properly for the first time in a long while.
“I saw you walking back from the market earlier,” he said after a pause. “Did you... buy flowers?”
Your brow furrowed slightly. “Yes. Just a few.”
“I haven’t seen flowers in the house for months,” he murmured, glancing toward the vase on the mantle. The lilacs were small, delicate, the faintest trace of life against the gloom of Grimmauld Place.
You didn’t answer.
Sirius shifted, running a hand through his hair. “They look nice,” he said softly.
You nodded. “Thank you.”
The silence stretched thin between you, full of unspoken things.
Over the next few days, you noticed little things, small shifts that didn’t make sense.
The breakfast dishes were washed before you came downstairs one morning. He started leaving earlier, but returned at more reasonable hours. He no longer reeked of smoke and firewhisky. He lingered near the kitchen sometimes, asking if you needed help.
It wasn’t much. But it was something.
And you didn’t know what to do with that.
You had built your own armor, piece by piece. Indifference had become your refuge. Now, suddenly, he was showing cracks in his own, and you couldn’t decide whether to look through them or turn away.
One afternoon, you were in the library, dusting shelves half-heartedly when he appeared in the doorway again.
He stood there a moment, arms crossed loosely, watching you. “You still clean in here?”
“Someone has to,” you replied, voice even.
He smiled faintly. “Suppose that’s true.”
You turned back to the shelves. His footsteps approached slowly until he stood beside you, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne — something he hadn’t worn in so long.
“You know,” he said quietly, “this house never feels alive unless you’re in it.”
You froze, your hand pausing mid-wipe.
It was the sort of thing he might’ve said once, offhandedly charming— but this time, it sounded earnest.
You didn’t look at him. “You don’t have to say things like that, Sirius.”
“I’m not saying it because I have to.”
You swallowed. “Then why now?”
He hesitated, and for a moment you thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, softly:
“Because I’ve been a fool. And I don’t think I realized how much until you stopped looking at me.”
Your breath caught. Slowly, you turned to face him. His expression was unreadable — no smirk, no easy charm. Just quiet sincerity that unnerved you more than anything.
“I didn’t think you wanted me to look at you,” you said carefully.
“I didn’t know what I wanted,” he admitted, voice low. “But I do know that this house feels colder without you in it. That’s not nothing.”
You stared at him, unsure what to believe. His words sounded genuine, but you’d built too much of yourself around disappointment to trust the warmth too quickly.
So you said nothing.
After a long moment, he nodded once, as if accepting that. “Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll give you space.”
And then he left — quietly, like a ghost who knew better than to haunt too loudly.
That night, you lay in bed on your side, staring at the wall. Sirius came in late but sober, moving carefully so as not to disturb you.
You pretended to be asleep.
You felt the mattress dip as he settled beside you. Then, for the first time in months, his hand hovered uncertainly over your back. It didn’t touch — but it stayed there, as though he wanted to bridge the distance but didn’t yet feel entitled to.
And strangely, you found yourself listening to his breathing.
You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. But somewhere deep inside, something fragile stirred, a flicker of something that was not yet forgiveness, but not entirely indifference either.
In the morning, he was gone again, but the lilacs had been replaced with new ones.
And on the kitchen counter sat a folded note in Sirius’s handwriting:
“I know I can’t undo the years I wasted. But I’m here now. For whatever that’s worth.”
You stared at it for a long time, unsure whether to smile or cry.
Because after all this time, you weren’t sure if it was worth anything at all — or if it might finally be the start of something real.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The house had been quieter lately, but not empty, more like the air had shifted into something waiting.
You could feel it every time Sirius walked into a room — the tentative calm that followed him, like he was trying not to disturb something fragile.
It was strange to witness. For years, you’d grown used to the thunder of his presence: the loud laughter that filled corridors, the careless charm, the weight of his footsteps echoing off stone floors. Now, that recklessness had been replaced by patience.
You didn’t know what to do with patience.
You decided to test it. Not cruelly, not to punish him — but to see if the new calm he wore so carefully was real, or just another mood that would pass like all the others.
It began with breakfast.
You rose early, as always, and made tea. You didn’t expect him to join you — he rarely did — but halfway through your toast, you heard him coming down the stairs.
He looked surprised to see you still at the table. You normally finished before he ever appeared.
“Morning,” he said gently.
“Morning.”
He hesitated, then gestured toward the seat across from you. “Mind if I…?”
You nodded once. “Go ahead.”
He poured himself tea, quiet and careful, and when he reached for the sugar, you noticed something: he’d started taking three spoonful's.
You blinked. “You like it sweet now?”
He glanced up, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Trying to be less predictable.”
You huffed a soft, unexpected laugh — small, but real. And he looked almost startled by it.
The silence that followed wasn’t sharp this time. It was calm, like two people finally learning how to breathe in the same space.
You began noticing him more after that, not as the man you’d built from memory, but as someone different.
He’d fix little things around the house: oil a hinge, mend a loose latch, clean the old family frames that had gathered dust. You’d walk into a room to find him standing quietly, sleeves rolled up, hair falling over his face, muttering at stubborn screws or paint chips.
You didn’t speak much, but you lingered.
One evening, you caught him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, trying to cook. The air smelled faintly of garlic and smoke. He looked up when you entered, eyes widening slightly.
“I’m aware this looks like a crime scene,” he said, motioning to the pan.
You leaned against the counter. “That’s one word for it.”
“Remus swore I could make pasta,” he muttered, poking it with the spoon like it had personally offended him.
“Remus has too much faith.”
Sirius laughed, properly laughed, and it startled you. It wasn’t loud or wild like before; it was softer, almost shy. He rubbed the back of his neck. “You could always show me how it’s actually done.”
You tilted your head. “You’d let me?”
“I’d beg you, if that’s what it takes.”
So you did. You took the spoon from his hand, brushing fingers by accident, and tried not to think about how that tiny contact made something flicker in your chest.
The nights that followed were calmer. You still slept with space between you, but it didn’t feel like a void anymore.
Sometimes, you’d find him reading in bed when you came in. He’d glance up, offer a quiet “goodnight,” and you’d answer without the cold edge that used to linger on your tongue.
There were no grand gestures, no sudden declarations. Just small moments that began to stitch themselves into the rhythm of your days.
One afternoon, you found yourself walking with him into the garden. The sun had made a rare appearance through the London haze, and Sirius looked almost younger in the light.
He paused beside the lilacs you’d planted, crouching slightly to touch a leaf.
“They’re surviving,” he said, almost to himself.
“They’re resilient,” you murmured. “I think they learned to adapt to this place.”
He glanced at you then, eyes soft. “You’re talking about the flowers, or yourself?”
You felt your throat tighten, but you didn’t look away. “Both, maybe.”
His smile faltered into something sad and fond. “You shouldn’t have had to adapt to me.”
You didn’t answer right away. The breeze rustled the lilacs. “People do what they must.”
He looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood beside you in the sunlight until the moment felt whole again.
That night, you stood at the vanity brushing your hair. Sirius sat on the edge of the bed behind you, quiet, hands clasped between his knees.
You met his gaze in the mirror for a second — long enough to see hesitation in his eyes.
He rose slowly, stepping behind you. His reflection hovered close, uncertain.
“May I?” he asked, nodding toward the brush in your hand.
Your heart stuttered. You hesitated, then passed it to him.
He began to brush through your hair carefully, gently, as if afraid you might break if he pressed too hard. His touch was slow, deliberate, reverent in a way that made your chest ache.
It wasn’t intimate in the usual sense. It was quiet, almost sacred.
When he was done, he set the brush down and said softly, “You deserve more than what I’ve given you.”
You swallowed hard, unsure what to say. “Maybe,” you murmured. “But I’m still here, aren’t I?”
His breath caught. You stood, brushing past him gently, and slipped into bed.
For the first time in years, when he followed, you didn’t turn away.
You weren’t ready to believe in him fully. Not yet. But you no longer flinched from the hope that maybe, just maybe, he was trying.
And for now, that was enough.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It had been weeks since Sirius’s quiet transformation began, and though the walls of Grimmauld Place still loomed heavy with its shadows, something in the air had shifted entirely.
You felt it every time he was near, that almost-electric awareness, the ache of something unspoken sitting just beneath the surface. You’d begun to move around each other like magnets, careful not to touch, careful not to draw too close, because you both knew what might happen if you did.
But tonight, the restraint frayed.
The storm outside had rolled in quietly, the kind that hummed low through the walls, making the lamps flicker and the air hum. You were in the study, pretending to read, the sound of rain tapping against the window.
Sirius stood by the fireplace, half in shadow, his shirt sleeves rolled, the amber glow cutting along his jaw. You could feel his eyes on you — not the absent kind of looking he used to do, but something heavy and searching.
You turned a page you didn’t read. “You’re staring.”
He didn’t deny it. “You’ve changed.”
“So have you.”
He smiled faintly, but it wasn’t playful. “Not enough, maybe.”
You looked up then, meeting his gaze. There it was — the weight of years spent circling one another, all the longing and exhaustion and quiet affection tangled into something that finally demanded to be seen.
“Why now?” you asked softly. “Why only start trying when I finally stopped?”
Sirius took a slow step closer, then another, his voice low. “Because I was afraid of wanting something I didn’t think I could have.”
“And what is it you want now?”
He was close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating off him, the scent of rain and smoke in his clothes. He looked down at you, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You,” he said. “But not the way I was supposed to. The way I do now.”
Something inside you cracked — a quiet, fragile thing that had been holding everything in place for years. You rose slowly from your chair, and suddenly, the space between you was gone.
He reached out first, fingers brushing against your jaw as if asking permission. When you didn’t pull away, he cupped your face fully, thumb tracing the edge of your cheek.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” you whispered.
“Like what?”
“Like you mean it.”
“I do,” he said, and then he kissed you.
It wasn’t gentle at first, it was desperate, all the years of silence and unspoken words breaking open in one sharp exhale.
His hands tangled in your hair, your fingers caught against his collar, and you kissed him back like you’d been waiting a lifetime to remember how. Lips parted, tongues grazing each others teeth in rushed decisions, hands gripping each other as if never needing anything more in the world.
The storm outside cracked loud against the windows, but neither of you moved from each other.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless.
“I don’t deserve this,” he murmured.
“Then earn it,” you said, voice trembling but sure.
Something in him broke at that , you felt it in the way he kissed you again, slower this time, as though memorizing the taste of forgiveness. His hands slid around your waist, drawing you closer until you could feel the steady, heavy beat of his heart against yours.
You didn’t think. You didn’t need to. You just let yourself fall into the warmth you’d both been starving for.
The book slipped forgotten to the floor. The fire cracked and flared. His lips found yours again and again, hungry, reverent, lingering — each kiss more certain than the last, each breath a confession he couldn’t speak aloud.
When you finally broke apart, neither of you spoke for a long moment. His thumb traced your bottom lip, still swollen from the kiss, and he smiled faintly.
“I think,” he said softly, “this is the first time this house has ever felt alive.”
You pressed your forehead against his chest, closing your eyes as his arms came around you.
For the first time, there was no distance left to bridge.
And in that quiet, storm-lit room, the two of you finally let the walls crumble — not in anger or obligation, but in something that felt dangerously close to love.
Summary: You have always heard about the brave and strong firefighters around your town, but never gave it the relevance it truly deserved. That is, until you find yourself caught in a horrible car accident, one that makes you see your life flashing before your eyes. Now you feel the overwhelming need to thank the fire department that rescued you. How can you show them? By gifting them a year of your finest desserts. Little did you know, this was the key to Captain Dean Winchester’s heart.
Who thought that the accident would begin the most wonderful love story between the fireman with the sweetest tooth and the best baker in town?
Content Warning: English is not my first language. This will be a mini-series AU with fluff, angst, and eventually smut.
If you are interested and reading this, please let me know. I Will be adding chapters as soon as I can.
CONTENTS — coarse language; pining; fluff; some angst; billy faces the consequences from part 2.
SUMMARY — Billy has told himself numerous times that whatever it is you two share, it wasn’t worth messing up his status quo. But suddenly, the stakes are higher than they’ve ever been… and the price of your life is one he’s definitely not willing to pay.
WORD COUNT — 3.2k
NOTES — so remember when i said this would be a three-parter?? i lied lmao. but i am going to leave this little tale aside for now while i work on blossom & bloom. i will come back to this eventually though… because these two need to bone. like, yesterday. so yeah, these two will get a better conclusion than this—although this was very fun to write 🤭
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« PART 1 || PART 2
Spring is barely here, but it’s unseasonably warm today in New York. The sun is high in the sky, warm enough for you to walk back home from the subway station with your jacket hanging from your arm, the ice in your soda already melted.
You frown at it before setting it down on your kitchen counter, half-drunk and watered down, and then you flop onto the couch with a loud sigh. You set down the baseball bat Karen had let you borrow, but you’d forgotten to give back to her before heading home. No matter. You’d see her tomorrow.
Your duffle bag drops to the floor, your jacket sliding down your arm and into your lap. Your eyes flutter closed, your head spinning a little with the sudden change in elevation, and you grin up at the ceiling fan as it turns lazily above you.
This time yesterday, you were stuck in the office, forced into back-to-back editorial meetings for your latest exposé. You’d spent the day trying not to think about how many hours it’d been since Billy left for his business trip in Jersey—fifty-two, but that’s not the point.
Today is Sunday though, your usual day off. With the fantastic weather, you and the rest of the Bulletin staff played a friendly game of baseball against the New Yorker before sharing cheap beer and greasy hot dogs at a local pub. The good-natured rivalry had continued even at the pub, long after the game was over—the Bulletin won, of course, six-to-four—trash talking between teams growing more obnoxious and belligerent with each new round.
You let your smile widen, before stretching out your limbs as you roll off the couch and land back on your feet. The game had been a welcome and fun distraction. Billy is coming back today, and even though the thought made you a little giddy, you hadn’t wanted to sit around waiting for him like a lovesick teenager. If he ever got so much as an inkling, he’d never let you hear the end of it.
You wonder what he’d say about the handsome editor from the New Yorker who sat a little too close to you at the pub, his smile a bit too lopsided, his body turned too much towards you to just be friendly. Your smile falters a little. Thinking about the rather ambiguous relationship you share with Billy always makes you a little… well, maybe not sad, exactly. But it still doesn’t quite inspire happiness, either.
You push him from your thoughts, heading into your bedroom to start unpacking your bag. The first thing you pull out is a baseball glove, the leather still somewhat stiff and pristine, almost brand new. When Mitchell and Karen first invited you to these games, the only glove you had was the one from second grade.
You happened to let it slip to Billy that you had to get a new one, but you had no idea where to start. That team you joined in your youth had been forced on you by your parents, and your team had sucked. You still knew nothing about baseball. The next day, this glove had arrived in a small package to the Bulletin. It contained a small note with no signature, but you knew who it was from regardless.
Knock ‘em dead, sweetheart.
Unfair, really. The way he won’t acknowledge this thing between you, but does shit like this that makes it hard for you not to think about him every waking moment of your day.
You shake your head, tossing the glove back into your closet, grabbing an old tee and a pair of loose shorts to change into after a shower. Then a muffled sound outside gets your attention. You tilt your head, listening, pausing as you hold your breath. It almost sounds like footsteps, like someone coming up the stairs, and your lips curl into a mischievous smile.
So, that’s how it’s going to be, huh? You shake your head, arranging your change of clean clothes on your bed, completely unbothered as you call out, “This is getting old, you know!”
Nothing but silence greets you.
You mutter under your breath, annoyed, because you know it’s probably Billy trying to scare you again. You did think it was suspicious how much he emphasized that he’d be back on Monday morning, and it was just the kind of shit he’d pull to surprise you by coming home a day early, hoping to make you jump.
“Not gonna fall for it, you jerk,” you call out again, grabbing your phone, scoffing and rolling your eyes when everything falls silent again.
You activate the screen on your phone, cursing when you realize just how long it’s been since you checked it—not since before the game this morning. You aren’t expecting any messages, to be honest, since you were with everyone from work already, so you’re surprised when you see just how many notifications you have.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you mumble, but there’s one notification that catches your eye, one from hours ago. It’s from the security app that Billy downloaded for you, the one to go with the new alarm system he’d installed when you signed on as a client.
YOUR DEVICE HAS BEEN DISABLED.
You frown, quickly scanning through the rest of your alerts. This has to be another joke. Billy’s handiwork. Who else would mess with you like this? And as far as you know, he’s the only other person with access to your system. He’d never give that away without at least telling you first.
Something dawns, and despite the warm weather, your skin goes cold and clammy. There are so many messages from Billy, dozens of them—
Hey, why was your alarm disabled?
I didn’t teach you how on purpose. You shouldn’t mess with it.
Call me when you get this.
Where are you? Weems says you’re not home.
Karen’s not answering her phone either. No one is. What are you doing?
Call me. Now, please.
Answer your goddamn phone, woman. Where the fuck are you?
And then there’s a voicemail—
“Listen, if this is your way of gettin’ me back for the stunt I pulled a few days ago, it isn’t funny, okay? I’m not playin’, sweetheart. You need to call me. I’m—shit, the conference.” There’s a brief pause. “Fuck it, I’m heading back now. If you didn’t disable the system, then you need to stay away from the apartment. Just until I figure this out. Do you hear me? Do not go home.”
You stare at your phone, wanting to tell yourself Billy is just messing with you. He has to be, but would he really go this far? He sounded panicked over the phone, the tension in his voice too genuine for you to just shrug it off. More footsteps sound outside, and you nearly jump out of your skin.
You stare out into the hallway, once again hit with that sickening realization. If this really isn’t Billy’s doing…
Then there’s only one way out.
Billy wants to break something.
He swerves off the freeway, taking the nearest exit that will take him back into New York, with his cell in one hand and his foot pressing firmly on the gas. He ignores the angry honking he gets from the other drivers on the road, doesn’t have time to tell them to shut the fuck up because this is literally about life or death.
Your life or death. You’ve been quiet for too long now, uncharacteristically. His messages and calls have gone unanswered all day. A single alert on his phone tore him from his business meeting, your security system had been disabled earlier that morning.
He hadn’t even taught you how, taking the user manual with him and warning you not to touch it or change any of the settings. You’d rolled your eyes, but promised you wouldn’t.
Things he hadn’t felt even back when he was serving in the Marines—dread, panic, and cold, hard fear—rushed him all at once when message after message was left unread, not one of them ever opened.
“It wasn’t us, boss,” his associates at Anvil assured him they had nothing to do with it. He called everyone—all your coworkers at the Bulletin, and also received no answer; your neighbour, who he’d tasked with reporting back to him should anything suspicious happen, but was told she hadn’t seen you all day.
He wants to fucking scream.
Billy has always been calm and level-headed, rational and controlled, even the first time he saw you after the attempted kidnapping weeks ago. Karen had brought you to him, looking both worried and exasperated because you’d fought her every step of the way, insisting that you had it handled. Except you’d looked more of a mess than he’d ever seen, the bruise on your face still fresh, the cuts and scrapes on your palms still raw.
He’d been pissed then, of course. Something clawed at his chest, threatened to close up his throat, at the way you looked casually back at him like nothing happened. That nonchalance was almost as bad as the injuries themselves, because he knew it was fake. Your fingers were trembling as you squeezed the strap of your handbag, your lower lip quivering slightly as you took a deep shuddering breath.
But he’d powered through, kept his own features schooled into something neutral and maybe even cold, because Billy Russo does not care about anyone but himself.
He and his rise in the world were all that mattered. Caring made him vulnerable, and he does not do vulnerable—not since Arthur Walsh broke his arm, and he vowed he’d never leave himself in a position so unguarded again.
Just look at what happened to Frank. Shit. For the first time, Billy feels the tendrils of guilt tightening around his lungs. Frank had loved Maria and those kids more than life itself, their deaths had turned him into someone Billy doesn’t recognize.
Billy knows himself well. He is not a good man by any stretch. God, the things he’s done. Even worse, in some senses, are the things he’s let slide. How much worse would he become if he didn’t get to you in time?
It shouldn’t matter. People die around him all the damn time; he’s personally responsible for most of it, and in many cases he even enjoys it a little. Maybe even a lot. So who cares if he finds you in your apartment too late, with your skin—instead of being stained purple and black this time—covered in splashes of crimson?
His own blood goes cold at the thought.
He hates this. He feels out of control, like he might die if he doesn’t lay eyes on you this very minute. He hates you for making him care, because this isn’t how things were supposed to be, but it’s a goddamn lie.
She’s fine. She has to be. She’s probably just pissed at me for something dumb that I said. She’s punishing me for scaring the daylights out of her the other day.
She’s fine.
She’s fine.
She is fine.
That’s much more manageable than what he really thinks. You’ve ignored him before, after the first time he’d almost kissed you and then turned around and slept with another woman, the first time you realized he wasn’t going to do anything about whatever it was that simmered between you.
Billy thought it was funny then, even kinda cute. You tried not to pout as you teasingly called him a shameless womanizer, tried not to bristle when he stood a little too close, tried not to look at him the way you always looked at him—like you were silently asking for more.
He never gave in, despite the temptation, despite the way you tried to present yourself, you aren’t the kind of woman who liked the kind of hooking up he did. He told himself it’d get too messy, and that was the last thing he wanted. He wanted no strings attached, the I’ll-call-you-when-I-feel-like-it (or-maybe-not-at-all) level of commitment, and he wasn’t interested in having a girlfriend.
But he’d make you into girlfriend material, and that’s the only goddamn truth in this mess he’s gotten himself into. Even if you told him you wanted sex and nothing else, how long would it be before he caved into the feeling of how perfectly you fit into his arms? Before he’d start with the post-coital cuddling, the overnight stays with his fingers intertwined with yours, or the soft kisses to the curve of your shoulder as you slumbered?
Your silence is not as funny now and much less cute. Billy is getting reckless, so focused on making it back to you that he’s running red lights, coming dangerously close to crashing more than once. The sound of sirens soon follows behind him—good, he thinks, but he doesn’t slow down or pull over, because this isn’t a goddamn game. Not like it has been before.
You’re in real danger this time, and he’s got way too much skin in it to walk away unscathed.
Your apartment building finally comes into view, but despite the chaos trailing behind him, everything feels too still. Billy puts his car into park, quickly yanks off his seat belt and pushes the door open, not bothering to close it as he steps out onto the pavement. The police cars are still a few seconds away, so he draws the wrist blade hidden in his left sleeve and approaches your door.
His stomach drops to find it slightly ajar, the handle busted. He pushes the door open further, slowly, with the tip of his shoe. Everything is dark as he calls your name, his voice more raw and ragged than it’s ever been. There’s no answer. Not a single sound.
Panic surges again as he checks the kitchen first. It’s trashed, pieces of shattered glass crunching under his feet. Something’s spilled all over the floor, and without looking down he takes a deep whiff through his nose. It smells sweet and his shoulders sag slightly. It’s not blood.
But there’s still no sign of you. The sick feeling in his stomach twists tighter as he steps around the counter and into your living room, which is also in a similar state of disarray with clear signs of struggle. Your books are scattered off the shelves, your favourite vase in sharp, jagged pieces on the floor, and your phone lying among the clutter, its screen dark and cracked.
But he’s also met with an unexpected sight. It’s more than he knows what to do with, the tension in his body replaced with slight confusion.
There are two unconscious men on the floor.
Before he has time to make sense of it, to search the rest of the apartment to see if you’re here, you come barrelling out of the bedroom, screaming like a banshee. The first thought that crosses Billy’s mind is, what the actual fuck?
But then he gets it. He sees the baseball bat you’re wielding in your hands, raised high above your head, the familiar fire in your eyes, and he gets it. You think Billy’s one of them, another intruder, and you’re ready to go down swinging. Attagirl.
You look half-crazed and breathless, but at least you’re alive. He waits just long enough for you to catch his eye, withdrawing his blade with a soft click, and before you get too far with your flailing attack, Billy reaches up to wrench the bat out of your hands. He lets it fall to the floor, clattering noisily onto the hardwood, before he grabs your wrist and hauls you forward to crush you against him.
“It’s me,” he breathes, too relieved, the sensation warm and welcome in his veins, to notice the sting in his arms where you beat on them. “It’s okay, it’s just me.”
“Billy!” You gasp into his chest, not giving him even a moment to relish in the relief before you’re yelling at him. “Goddammit, Billy! Fucking idiot, you scared the shit out of me!”
It’s not as sharp as the bat would’ve been, at least, he thinks as you finally slump against him. Your hands fist into the lapels of his coat, and he can’t tell if you’re shaking or if he is. He just holds on tighter, as though afraid you’ll disappear. He’s not letting you go now.
“If that isn’t the pot callin’ the kettle black,” is what he says. It’s much more than that, more than he’s willing to put into words even now. Instead, he releases you just enough to look you over like he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing. You start talking fast, explaining the sequence of events, and he doesn’t miss that for a minute you almost dismissed the threat because you thought it was him.
Shit. There’s that guilt again. He watches your mouth and misses the rest of what you’re saying. Then the guilt bubbles into something else, and he laughs.
You glare at him and demand, “What the hell is so funny?”
You sound like you’re pissed, like he wasn’t the one who was pissed first, like he wasn’t the one scared fucking shitless this whole time. Like he hadn’t been worried out of his mind, like he hadn’t stormed out of his hotel and left those important business contacts behind. Like he hadn’t almost wrecked his car, wrecked himself, trying to get back to you.
You’ve got some nerve, he thinks, but Billy’s got more. He’s got more of everything now, even if he won’t yet say how goddamn happy he is that you are okay, how crazy it made him to think that you weren’t, still too breathless for that.
Instead, he pulls you close again, like this is normal. Your arms wrap around his waist, like there aren’t two unconscious bodies at your feet even as the police come storming in. They go from defensive, their weapons drawn, to being slightly confused, until you announce that the men had broken in and you’d disarmed them with—where was it? Oh, the bat, still on the floor.
“Didn’t know you had that in you,” he murmurs as the cops check on the intruders. You tuck your head under his chin. “Where did you even get that?”
“Karen,” you tell him simply, even though there’s a bit more to the story. You squeeze him quickly before tilting your head up at him, giving him a look that would melt most men. His arm tightens around your shoulders. “And my backup plan was a little busy.”
“Where was this fire last time?” Billy snorts, twisting away from you when your fingers pinch his waist. He softens when he feels your body tremble against him, stops touching you only long enough to remove his coat and drape it over you. “Would’ve been here sooner.”
It’s as close to an I’m sorry he’ll ever say.
“I’ll kick your ass later,” you mutter, voice muffled into his chest, and that’s as much of an I forgive you he’ll ever hear. Even so, he can’t stop smiling.
“That’s my girl,” he says it quietly, not letting go even as the police try to pull you away to take your statement. You might have heard him though, because you remain tucked against his side as you talk to them. It’s only when the cop says you should probably get checked out by the EMTs outside that he reluctantly releases you from his hold.
But for the first time today, Billy’s not worried.
Summary: Finan is a slave, forced to row ceaselessly. Betrayed by those he trusted. He believes this will be the end of his life, salt water caking him and an shackle on his ankle. Yet Fate has other plans. When he arrives in Islond for the winter, he meets her. A kindred spirit. Soon they both realize how they need the other. Can they save one another? Or will the wind and whips tear them apart?
Warnings: There are mentions of beatings, starvation, inhumane conditions, rape, slavery. Some graphic violence. If you can watch TLK, you’ll be fine.
James Potter X reader. Slow burn. Warning for domestic abuse and neglect (Black family) (no Lily slander) Around 3.3k words?
A Spotify playlist of some ambient music!
Autumn in the Scottish Highlands was, in itself a reason to attend Hogwarts. Blue September skies, speckled with wispy clouds. The falling bronze leaves and the red hued sunsets.
This was no less than a second home to most students. A safe haven if you will. It was good to be going home.
She had grown up with Sirius and Regulus so her regular residence wasn't much of a home. Her parents Ignatius and Lucretia (Black) Prewett had left her to Orion and Walburga often so they could travel around France. Noone actually knew where they would be or for how long they would travel. Only that they were always gone for indefinite amounts of time. They never sent letters, maybe an odd postcard or two. Y/N kept them hidden in a drawer in her room. (Call her sentimental if you will.) The terrible house of Black had adored her until she was sorted into Gryffindor along with Sirius. After that, they were both called blood traitors and treated as such. However, being someone else’s child, they treated her with less disdain than Sirius. That being said, they weren't the kindest of people, if at all.
Y/N would bring Sirius half her food when he would get sent to his room early without dinner. (which was quite often.) Sneaking things in her long sleeves and pockets whenever she could. Strangely, Kreacher had caught her once, but he said absolutely nothing and pretended that he saw nothing. (She would not forget this kindness.)
Things only escalated when they reached their, now, fifth year. Y/N always took her yellings, occasional threats, and hexes in silence whereas Sirius would fight back. In a way, she admired him for his bravery, knowing that he possessed the strength that she lacked. Whereas, his administration for her resided in her refusal to back down, cry or beg. They had a mutual respect for one another. On another hand, she was somewhat envious of Regulus, he was apparently the perfect child who was, (seemingly) loved.
That was until she started to notice the bags under his eyes at the beginning of this year. She hadn’t really had the chance to talk to him, between Walburga’s looming presence and by the younger boy’s being sorted into Slytherin. However, she had the feeling he wasn’t exactly taking up his family ideals to heart.
Ever since fifth year began, Y/N and Sirius would never again call 12 Grimmauld Place home.
~
Y/N kicked her feet rhythmically, leaning her head on Lily Evans' shoulder. Their Hogwarts express compartment was filled with chatter, a welcome distraction from her thoughts. Somehow, over the past four years, she had been adopted into the gryffindor group of girls in her dormitory. Lily, Alice, Marlene, and Dorcas. They had patiently and painstakingly, coaxed the girl out of her shell. Y/N was truly grateful for their friendship. In the beginning she couldn't help feeling that their kindness was based on pity. That had made it hard for her to trust them. This meant that before fifth year, she had never really interacted with them outside of the Gryffindor house dorms.
Marlene and Dorcras were pelting question after question at Alice, wanting to know the details of her crush on Frank Longbottom. Ever the curious couple, Y/N felt slightly glad that she wasn’t on the receiving end of their questions.
‘You’ll be “Alice Longbottom” one day.’ Y/N grinned teasingly at the girl with the pixie cut.
Alice laughed before shrugging good naturedly, 'We’ll see. Frank is awfully shy. I might have to be the one initiating everything.’
Marlene cut in with her arm around Dorcas, ever a picturesque couple. ‘And Lily’s last name will be “Potter!”’
Y/N stifled a giggle at the comment.
Lily gagged before letting out a sigh, ‘It’s not that Potter isn’t just a complete tool. I’m also just not into men.’
Y/N shrugged. ‘Yeah, you keep making eyes at Emmeline Vance during charms. It’s actually kind of sickening how adorable your pining face is.’
Lily flicked Y/N’s nose. ‘When are you going to start hanging out with us outside the dorms? All you do is go to the library or hide in the kitchens and bake while chatting with the elves.’
Dorcas pouted, adding, ‘You don't even sit with us during class!’
Y/N winced while casting her eyes down. Another thing, she really didn’t like drawing attention to herself or loud noises. Loud noises or attention usually lead to shouting and maybe a raised hand back at Grimmauld Place. They usually caused an unpleasant reaction out of the girl.
‘I can’t do crowds, I really am sorry. It’s not that I don't want to, you’re all lovely but-’
‘That's alright, you take your time love. You'll come talk to the rest of us when you're ready.’ Alice gently reassured her, patting the girl beside her on the arm.
Y/N smiled gratefully. The girls weren’t at all pushy about getting Y/N to hang out with them. However, they did always ask. They wanted her to feel and be included. None of them ever took a rejection personally. It was what made Y/N lower her walls all the more.
Lily ruffled Y/N’s hair affectionately. The rest of the girls continued their chat whilst the introverted girl stared out the window, still leaning on Lily’s shoulder, taking in the view and enjoying the company. The dark pine trees that littered the lands surrounding all the lochs that glittered in the rare sunlight. She let out a soft sigh, allowing herself to relax, just for that moment.
~
The hustle and bustle of the students, all ecstatic to see each other again made Y/N giddy. She had, however, skipped the feast, opting to go say hello to all the elves who had finished preparing the feast. She particularly enjoyed Wigby’s desserts. (He was admittedly her favourite house elf.) He made the best sweets which led to Y/N learning all her baking skills from the friendly house elf.
The halls were electric with energy, almost tangible. This year Y/N and her friends were to be taking their O.W.L exams. To be honest, she was completely ready, having already studied up to the N.E.W.T level of all her subjects. Studying and reading at Hogwarts was her escape, truly. She padded into the first class, Potions. She slipped into the seat next to Lily, quickly giving the red haired girl a gentle squeeze on her hand and flashing a smile at the rest of the girls who greeted her enthusiastically. They had convinced her to sit with them during classes this year instead of her usual spot at the back away from prying eyes.
As they continued their conversation, Y/N unpacked her quill, and parchment while waiting for the lesson to start. As she doodled a small picture of a cauldron, a cocky voice crooned out. ‘Ah, my sweet girl, how I’ve missed- Who are you and why are you in my seat?’, James Potter. Lily’s self proclaimed “sweetheart” word vomited at the poor girl.
Y/N gripped the desk tightly, her knuckles turning white. Confrontation, how lovely. As much of an amusing topic of complaint he was that she had heard from conversation with the girls. He was completely unfamiliar to her. She found a spot on the table and stared at it with the utmost concentration, unable to bring her eyes to meet the owner of the voice. Lily also ignored the voice. Instead opting to cover Y/N’s hand with her own, continuing her conversation with Marlene, and Dorcas about the importance of studying for their O.W.L’s
‘Ah, you’ll survive the lesson James, come on,’ a voice drawled, waving James away. A voice which Y/N immediately recognised as belonging to Sirius.
Y/N looked up and turned around, wanting to meet Sirius’s eyes to mouth a, “Thank you” but her eyes met hazel ones instead.
‘Oh.’ James mumbled with wide eyes. He was standing right behind her, not having moved back to his actual “spot”.
Y/N’s eyes darted away immediately before finding Sirius’s. His eyebrows were raised with mirth and he smiled, shrugging his shoulders. She flashed him a small smile before turning around, basically ignoring James Potter. This was new. People didn't usually ignore him. They would at least retort with something witty, but to be completely silent?
‘Mr Potter, I trust you will be able to find your seat?’ Professor Slughorn called out, striding into the classroom, his large belly preceding him through the door. He was Y/N's favourite professor. He was kind to Lily and Y/N. (Probably due to their prowess in potions but nonetheless!)
‘Yes sir.’ James sat down without protest, his gaze lingering on her before his thoughts were interrupted by Professor Slughorn. He hadn’t noticed her before. How had he not noticed someone for four years?
‘Today, we will be assigning our first assignment of the year. An essay on polyjuice potion. Four weeks sounds like ample time does it not?’
As the professor announced their first assignment. James couldn't help but notice how Y/N avoided looking in any direction that wasn't the front or her notes. He leaned in close to Sirius, whispering just loud enough for him to hear amongst the groans of the class,
‘What's her deal?’ He asked, glancing at Y/N again.
Y/N dutifully jotted down the specifics of the assignment, (unbeknownst to her) under James’s gaze, allowing Lily to periodically glance at her notes. She whispered something into Lily’s ear to which the redhead smiled at her and nodded.
‘What are they whispering about?’ James nudged Sirius again.
‘Y/N probably asked if Lily wanted to pair up.’ Remus interrupted. ‘She is rather shy.’
‘You know her?’ James gaped at the sandy haired boy.
‘James, Y/N has been in our classes since first year. She just doesn’t really talk.’
‘Besides, you’re too busy pining over your “Lilypad” to really notice any other women.’ Sirius mused with his arms crossed, feeling slightly protective of his little cousin.
‘And how do you know her?’ James retorted. Ignoring Sirius's quip, however true it could have been.
‘She’s my cousin.’
‘Huh.’ Remus blinked.
‘You didn't know that?’ James glanced at Remus ‘I thought you knew her?’
‘No, I just know she’s practically topping almost every class, she doesn’t really speak to-’
‘Now boys, would you like to share your conversation with the rest of Gryffindor and Slytherin?’ Slughorn called out to the boys, his large walrus moustache twitched above his lip, the man seemingly amused by their chattering.
‘No sir.’ Remus replied evenly.
‘Well then! I shall announce the pairings for the assignment!’ He smiled merrily, ignoring the cries of protest from the rest of the class.
Y/N’s face paled and she whipped her head to look at Lily. Usually they were paired off in their seats, not randomly. Y/N had truly enjoyed his classes up till now but this? Suddenly Slughorn was rapidly losing his status as favourite professor.
Lily looked at her worriedly, “Lets just hear who you have to pair with. If it's someone obnoxious, we’ll go speak to the professor or I’ll swap with you.”
Y/N’s heart swelled with emotion at her friend's empathy.
‘I couldn’t ask that of you Lily.’ Y/N whispered, misty-eyed. Kindness was a luxury that Y/N had so often been not able to afford for so long. Seeing it up close and displayed just for her, she couldn't help but be slightly overwhelmed.
‘It’s okay, I’m the one who offered.’ Lily patted her arm, reassuring the fidgety girl.
‘If I could marry you Lily Evans, I would do it in a heartbeat.’ Y/N tugged at Lily’s sleeve, looking down bashfully.
‘Now if only you were into women.’ Lily grinned, squishing Y/N’s cheeks with her hands gently. ‘What a treat you would be.’
‘Lily!’ The shy girl pouted, batting away the other girl's hands playfully.
‘Ms Mckinnon, and Ms Meadowes,’ To which the couple let out a happy cheer.
‘James Potter, and Lily Evans,’ Lily slumped over immediately, letting her head rest onto the desk with a quite audible Thwump! To which Y/N giggled, at her sudden change in demeanour.
James was completely caught off guard when Professor Slughorn announced his partner for the assignment. He had been so preoccupied with the revelation of Y/N being related to Sirius and trying to figure her out that he hadn’t even been paying attention to the teacher. He couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle at Lily’s exaggerated head bang onto the desk after hearing her own partner. Before he could think of a witty comeback, he heard the next pairing.
‘Sirius Black, and Y/N Prewett.’ Y/N perked up, looking at Lily with bright eyes, shaking her head with a smile. This was one of the people she would be able to work with!
‘Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew.’ The two boys subtly high fived. Strangely enough, James wasn’t making a huge fuss over being paired with Lily. Strange enough for even Y/N to take notice, though she refrained from commenting.
Remus took a side glance at James, he wasn't sure if he would regret asking his friend his question.
‘You're not ecstatic over being paired with Lily?’ Remus questioned.
‘I am, I just...’ James shook his head. At this point, he knew Lily wasn't into him. In fact, he wasn't even sure she liked men. He wasn't the only boy in Hogwarts to have ever asked her out. At this point, it was just a long bit and a way to keep other girls from approaching him.
Sirius smirked knowingly. He may have been a lazy student but he sure as hell wasn't stupid. He could tell that after third years incessant rejections, James had no desire to date LIly ever since.
‘Since you all feel the need to cheer at each pairing. I shall leave the list on the board and you can all cheer at the same time. Take this time to move into your pair and discuss your assignment. That'll be all for this lesson. Welcome back students.’ Slughorn's eyes glimmered with amusement, revealing the quip towards the class to be good natured. The professor sat back down at his seat as the class began to disperse once again into chatter and movement. He generously answered stray questions from the students who wandered to his desk in need of assistance.
Y/N stood up and walked over to Sirius’s desk and nudged his foot with her own. Grabbing his attention soundlessly.
Sirius gave her a genuine smile and shoved James with his shoulder.
‘Go over to your “Lily flower”. I’ve got to discuss the assignment with my partner.’
James blinked owlishly at Y/N, still taking in her very existence.
‘Sorry?’ Y/N whispered, looking at him hesitantly.
‘Quite alright,’ James nodded, standing up to walk towards Lily without his signature smirk.
Y/N sat down with Sirius and smiled shyly before asking, ‘Is Potter alright? I thought he would be thrilled to be up partnered with Lily?’
Sirius blinked, ‘You keep up with this stuff?’
Y/N tilted her head from side to side, ‘Not particularly, more like I listen to Lily complain in the dorms. It’s hard to miss. She says he's quite…’
‘Stubborn?’
‘We’ll go with that.’ She quickly agreed, not wanting to rat out her friend.
‘Hey so this means you finally have to talk to me outside of our house.’ Sirius teased.
Y/N grinned at him and retorted, ‘I’m not sharing my food with you here at home Sirius, we get plenty to eat here.’
They shared a smile. Knowing they had each other's backs even without constant catch ups was a good feeling. The unspoken bond they shared wasn’t obvious to outsiders, but Sirius and Y/N knew, and that was enough.
‘So, the assignment. We’re describing how to brew the potion, all the ingredients and for extra credit, we can list out the dangers of the potion such as the errors.’
Sirius sighed, ‘I’m not really good with the-’
‘You’re good at finding information, I’ll handle the writing, you just tell me the information and I’ll make it sound good!’ Y/N nodded excitedly.
‘What do you mean?’ Sirius stared blankly at the girl, completely unconvinced.
‘You always know where, how and who to prank! It's the same thing!’
‘It’s completely different.’ Sirius deadpanned.
‘Where did you learn the hair changing spell?’ Y/N crossed her arms.
‘In a transfiguration textbook. I was putting the books back in the library after Remus and oh-’ Sirius nodded slowly as he came to realise what the girl meant by being “good”.
‘See?’ Y/N smiled at him brilliantly, seeming proud of his (apparent) talent.
‘Y’know, this is nice, why don’t we do this more often.’
‘I don’t do-’
‘Crowds, yeah I know, and at the house, we’re too emotionally exhausted to talk.’
They both let out a heavy sigh before chuckling at their shared experience. Comfortable silences were rare, but with each other, the cousins were able to revel in each other's company. A truly unique connection formed by trauma. 'At least something good came out of it?' They had mused.
As the rest of the class chattered away, discussing the project or just gossiping, Y/N and Sirius decided to meet up after dinner that night and every wednesday. The pair knew they had Defence Against the Dark Arts next. Sirius offered to walk with her to class, to which she accepted gratefully, mentioning Lily and Alice would probably also be with her.
As the class began to filter out, Lily and Alice had walked over to Y/N to wait for her.
‘You’ve got DADA next, with us right?’ Alice beamed.
Y/N nodded, somewhat feeling excited to have people to walk to class with. Being with three people wouldn't be a crowd!
‘There's a new teacher this year!’ Lily supplied this new information.
‘Again?’ Y/N wrinkled her nose. It was rather strange actually, ever since professor Merrythought had retired, it seemed as if every Defence teacher had resigned after a year.
A rather strange situation, but, none of her concern.
‘Who is it?’ She asked as a passing question, not overly invested in the answer.
‘Some guy named Knittingley.’ Remus piped up from behind them, startling Y/N into almost dropping her books.
‘Sorry love,’ he grinned sheepishly, ‘you alright?’
‘Ah, you down right scared the poor thing, Remus. Now she won't ever talk to us again.’ Sirius whined before breaking into a cheeky smirk, waggling his eyebrows up and down.
Y/N considered throwing something at her relative but then decided it would be too much work and that her books weren’t made for throwing.
‘What’s the hold up?’ James questioned from the doorway, calling out to the group, ‘lets go, Peter’s already gone ahead.’
Suddenly it wasn’t only three people anymore.
Somehow, Y/N had been looped into walking to class with five other people. Technically five was a group, not really a crowd, right? Sirius had swung his arm over Y/N, as if preventing her from running away.
Lily and Alice were in the front, enthusiastically discussing the topics of the next class. They were fervently hoping that their first class wasn’t going to be a revision on Boggarts, as they knew it would be in the curriculum.
Meanwhile, in the back, James was asking Remus about something about mandrake leaves and cycles of the moon.
In the midst of her conversation with Sirius, their formation, Y/N noticed. It seemed like almost a barrier against other students? Y/N internally shook her head. Most likely a coincidence, right? Why would it be intentional?
Sirius was babbling on, about the effects of conditioner on hair and how he found it amusing that James would use one that had a charm to make his hair extra bouncy. Y/N had stiffened a chuckle at this while James whined as he heard this and protested that he needed the extra shine and bounce.
‘It makes me look nice!’
To which Y/N nodded along, looking at Sirius, not noticing that James had beamed when she seemingly agreed. Remus looked on with a rather pleased smile, his nose scrunching. He had always wanted to befriend the shy girl. Now that she had somehow mustered up the courage (been practically physically restrained) to keep up with their group. He, along with the rest of the group, was excited to witness this side of the girl they had never seen before.
Unbeknownst to Y/N, her fifth year would be the true beginning of her life at Hogwarts.
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AND THATS CHAPTER 1 DONE! Lucky for you guys (all like 7 of you) I have the ENTIRE story planned out! All there is, is for me to flesh it out! Please like or comment if you'd like another part! (if not I'll still probably post it, I'm too excited about this!) This isn't inline with my Pethryn story line and I have taken some liberties! I'm sorry again if you don't particularly like this! We will be delving into Remus being a werewolf, the Marauders map and fleshing out Regulus and Snape's characters! (possibly Peter as well. I kinda hate that guy 🤬) ALSO YES THE TITLE IS LOOSELY INSPIRED BY THE HUNGER GAMES!
edit-
Okay, I changed my mind, I want this to be a long form fic- THIS IS NOW JUST THE TEASER
(Starts with..) Draco Malfoy x Reader, (Ends with..) George Weasley x Reader.
Angst to start with, Fluff. Set six years after the Battle of Hogwarts.
3158 Words
Summary: All you wanted was a child. The inability to have one tore your marriage apart. Thinking everything was your fault, you prepared to be alone. Until someone found you and told you that you were indeed not 'broken'.
Warnings: Infertility, divorce, arguments, mentions of mental health conditions, Pregnancy.
Y/C/N – Your Cousin's Name
(A/N: This is quite sad to start with but in the end everything works out for the reader. I can't say the same for the other characters but in life not everyone can be happy.
I had this idea as I was walking around after this happened to someone I know. They have given me permission to mention this. Sorry that there are so many time skips in this.
This is my own work. If any of this affects you feel free to leave me a message I don't judge.)
Tears streamed down my face as I stared at another negative pregnancy test. This is the latest of the many tests I had taken in the last few months. Me and my Husband Draco had been wanting children for as long as we had been married and for most of our engagement. With the pressure my mother-in-law had been putting on us to have children and my desperation to give my husband what he desires, my mental health had been getting worse. Every negative test is another step closer to a break down. I am starting to think that there is something wrong with me. Questions of whys surround my head. Why me? Why won't this happen for us? Why is there so much pressure?
Eventually I made my way out of the bathroom. Draco was on the bed looking at me hopefully. I just shook my head and looked down. I heard Draco sigh. The first few negative tests he would hug me and tell me we could try as many times as needed. That soon enough we would have a child. But as time went on, Draco got less and less affectionate. He would spend long hours away from the house during the day and then in the evening we would only be intimate when trying to conceive.
I was still head over heels for Draco. But I wasn't stupid. I could tell he didn't feel the same. Not anymore. I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want to face the fact that he was falling out of love with me. The woman who couldn't give him children.
Draco patted my shoulder as he walked past me, the negative pregnancy test in my hands. Before he walked out the room he turned and looked at me. There was nothing behind his eyes. He wasn't cold or void of emotion but there was nothing there aimed at me.
"I erm, I'm going out for a little while. Don't wait up." He spoke. I just nodded and let him go. Again, holding my tongue. Things weren't perfect between us but at least I had him. Right? Soon I drifted off to sleep not knowing where my husband was.
When I woke up he wasn't in bed. I walked downstairs to find him asleep on the couch. Why didn't he come to bed? I walked out of the front room into the kitchen. I started making breakfast for the both of us. Halfway through cooking I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around to see my husband behind me.
"Morning." I softly spoke.
"Yeah morning." He grunted back.
"Why did you sleep on the couch?" I asked him.
"Didn't wanna wake you." I could tell I wasn't going to get a straight answer out of him. We sat at the dining table for breakfast and Draco couldn't even look at me. As we continued to eat in a painful silence, I decided I had to speak up about what had been worrying me.
"Draco, are we okay?" I asked him.
"What do you mean."
"I mean you can't even look at me anymore. What happened to us?"
"Nothing." He said still not looking at me.
"Okay now tell me there is nothing wrong while looking at me. We aren't talking anymore."
"We are talking now."
I sighed and got up from the table. "I wish you would just tell me what's bothering you. We are meant to be married but it feels like you are a stranger now."
He didn't answer me.
"Is it because we are struggling to conceive?" I asked quietly. He didn't answer again but I could tell that's what it was. "I want kids as much as you Draco you can't shut me out this is happening to both of us."
"I know it is, but I can't help but resent you for it."
I let out an empty laugh. "I'm sorry okay. I can't help this." Tears filling my eyes.
"I know and that's why I can't look at you because I know it isn't your fault."
I started to sob. I wanted him to hold me like he used to. Whenever I was upset he would hug me until I calmed down. He didn't hug me though. He didn't make a move towards me.
"Do you still love me?" I asked him.
"Yes but.."
"But you are not in love with me."
He nodded. I took a deep breath.
"I suppose there is nothing I can do to change that?"
"No."
I nodded at him. "I want to fight for us you know. But I can't fight someone who has already surrendered."
I walked out of the room and upstairs to our bedroom. I waved my wand and all my stuff packed itself. I turned around and saw Draco standing in the doorway.
"I'll always care for you Y/N. Nothing will change that and if you ever need anything then please don't be a stranger." I nodded at him and walked over. I gave him one last kiss and a hug before I apparated to my parents' house.
My parents weren't home, so I went upstairs to my old bedroom and cried. My marriage was over only four years in. Me and Draco had been together since our fifth year at Hogwarts. After eight years together it was all over. I cried myself to sleep, thinking about everything.
**Two Years Later**
My parent had been a big help after the divorce. Draco kept true to his word, and we still kept in contact every so often. It wasn't a messy split and even though I still loved him, I realised that I too wasn't in love with him anymore and our divorce was for the best.
I was walking around Diagon Alley running a few errands for my mother after I finished my shift at the ministry when I saw Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. I immediately recognised it as Ron Weasley's older brother's shop.
I was never close to Ron in school. I stayed away from him because of the drama Draco caused. However, I had heard about what happened to his brother Fred. I felt bad for the Weasley's. I didn't lose anyone too close to me during the war so I couldn't imagine how hard that was for them.
I had to get a gift for my cousin's birthday. He is in his fifth year at Hogwarts, and I knew he enjoyed the odd prank or two. I went in the shop and immediately my senses were overwhelmed at all the colours and general aura of the shop. It was fairly busy in there with a few customers. I looked to my right as saw Ron stacking a shelf.
I went over to Ron to say hello. After the war I tried to make peace with everyone. No more arguing and fighting. I walked up to him, and he saw me as he turned around.
"Well, well, Y/N Malfoy to what do I owe the pleasure." He smiled.
"Oh, its Y/N Y/L/N again now." I said quietly.
"I'm sorry I thought you two were solid."
"Yeah so did I. Anyway, it's my cousin's birthday coming up and Y/C/N raved about how much he likes pranks, so I thought where better to get him a gift." I grinned towards the end of my sentence. Ron then went in detail about different pranks they sold and what they did. Eventually, I got him a Skiving Snack Box. I don't think my Aunt will appreciate it much but what are big cousins for if not to help get out of school.
I thanked Ron for his help and went over to the counter to pay for the items. Standing behind it was George Weasley. I hadn't seen him since the final Battle. I wasn't going to lie, he looked good. Very tired still but good. He smiled at me as I walked up to the counter.
"Well hello Mrs Malfoy!" He smiled.
"Actually, its Ms Y/L/N again. He frowned slightly at my sentence.
"So, you're divorced too?" he asked. I nodded sadly. I felt bad but I asked my next question anyway.
"I didn't know you were married; do I know her?" I then quickly added, "I'm sorry that's a personal question I didn't mean to pry."
He laughed. "Actually, it was Angelina Johnson. We bonded after..." he paused "Anyway we have two kids, Fred II and Roxanne. I see them every weekend when I'm not working" he said as he rang my items through the till. "Do you have kids?" I shook my head.
"That is actually the reason for my divorce." I told him "Me and Draco kept trying but nothing happened for us." I looked down at my feet. "I wanted kids more than anything, but Draco resented me because I couldn't give him children." I looked back up and smiled at him. He didn't look at me sympathetically like I expected.
"I'm really sorry about that." He smiled. "Look I know this might be out of the blue, but would you like to go get a coffee with me?" he asked looking shy. In all the years I had known of him I had never seen George Weasley shy.
"Yeah I'd like that a lot." I grinned at him.
"My lunch break is in five minutes but as I am the boss I can take it early" he winked at me. That simple action sent butterflies to my stomach. He came from around the counter and just quickly told Ron where we were going.
We talked for an hour about life in general. He told me about his kids, and I smiled at the thought. I could tell that he was a great father to them, and it hurt me to know that I may never have a connection with children like that. Soon enough it was coming to the end of his lunch break, and we started walking back to the shop.
"So, I really enjoyed this. I was wondering if you would like to go on a date with me?" He asked more confident than earlier.
"Sure, I would really like that." I agreed. I gave him my address and we organised a date. I was really looking forward to it. I hadn't been on a date since my divorce.
**3 Years Later**
George was a true gentleman on our first date which lead to another and another. We were now sitting at a table in a fancy restaurant for our third anniversary. George had asked me to be his girlfriend as he walked me home from our first date.
He was holding my hand as our food was served and we were talking the whole night. I was so in love with this man and even though I never thought I would love anyone other than Draco. I felt a stronger connection to George.
Soon enough dessert was served and before we started I looked at him and saw him looking nervous all of a sudden.
"Georgie? What's wrong?" I asked him starting to get a little worried.
"Hm nothing. I um.. I have something to ask you." He stuttered. I nodded for him to continue. He took a deep breath before he started talking again.
"After I got divorced I thought I would never love anyone else again and I am sure you felt the same. But when you walked into my shop three years ago I felt a connection. It has only gotten stronger since and it didn't take me long to realise I was in love with you." He paused as he got down on one knee and opened a ring box. "Y/F/N Y/M/N Y/L/N, will you do the honour of being my wife?" He asked. I felt myself crying as I nodded my head dramatically.
"Yes" was all I said. I could hear cheers coming from around the restaurant. Before he was able to put the ring on my finger I tackled him I a hug. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with this man.
**Six Months Later**
When me and George told our families, we had them gather at the Burrow. Our families got along really well, and wedding planning was done immediately. I had Roxanne, Ginny, Hermione and Fleur as bridesmaids and then my cousin and Fred II were ring bearers. Because I had been married before, I wore a dress with a pink tint to it. It fitted me perfectly. The flowers were blue and pink roses, and the venue was at my parents house.
Originally, Molly, as she insisted I call her as I was soon to be Mrs Weasley too, wanted us to go with the Weasley tradition of getting married at the Burrow. However, as George and Angelina got married there we both agreed that it would feel a bit weird. But close family and friends were going to go to the Burrow after the wedding reception and before me and George leave for our Honeymoon.
I had all my bridesmaids helping me get ready with Roxanne telling me I looked like a princess. It took a while for Fred II and Roxanne to warm up to me but me and George explained that I am not there to replace their Mum, but I love their Dad very much and that I was more of a friend to them.
Soon enough it was time to walk down the aisle and I couldn't be happier. Everything in my life was perfect. I was marrying the man I loved and for some reason this seemed more special than my first wedding. There wasn't a dry eye in the garden as me and George exchanged our vows.
"Y/N, I have known you since your first year at Hogwarts and never did I expect to be standing here with you now. I am so in love with you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. The way you are with my children gives me butterflies. I promise that I will love you forever and care for you as long as you will let me." He slid the ring on my finger.
"George, I am also surprised that we are standing here but in no way is it a bad thing. You have made me the happiest I have been in a long time. You brought me out of a depression which had consumed me for years and now there isn't a day where I don't want to see you smile as yours is the reason for mine. I love you George." I slipped the ring onto his finger.
The rest of the ceremony flew by and soon we were sharing our first of many kisses as husband and wife. The wedding reception was successful, and so was mine and George's first dance. Soon the guests all went home except my parents, aunt and uncle and cousin and George's family. We all apparated back to the Burrow where we spent the rest of the evening talking with friends and family.
When me and George eventually went to leave for our honeymoon I had Fred and Roxanne run up to us to say goodbye. I felt four little arms wrap around me. "Thank you for being our second Mum." Fred told me and I felt like I could cry. I knelt down to their height and gave them both a big hug.
Me and George had an amazing honeymoon which was obviously spent traditionally. When we got home I had some news for George. I had an appointment at St Mungo's after I was getting headaches and sickness in the morning. I had never been tested to see if I could conceive or not and neither had Draco. So, when I got symptoms of pregnancy I wanted to check it out. St Mungo's had told me that I was indeed pregnant. In fact, I was three months along so once I told George, we could tell our families.
Telling George was brilliant he immediately dropped to his knees and spoke to my belly. We then told Fred and Roxanne who were over the moon to be an older brother and sister. Our parents were ecstatic too and especially my mum who knew all about the troubles I had conceiving with Draco and how much I wanted to have kids of my own. Everything was amazing.
**Nine Months Later** (Sorry for all the time skips)
I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl three months ago. Me and George decided on the name Hannah Grace Weasley. She was our little miracle and even if I never had another child, with my daughter and stepchildren I felt like our family was complete.
I was standing in the shop with Hannah in my arms. I decided to see George at work to get out of the house whilst I was still on maternity leave. I was wandering around the shop just calmly watching everyone as they browsed and bought items. I heard the door of the shop open again and I saw someone I didn't expect to see there. Draco. He smiled at me as he saw me. I turned quickly so he didn't see Hannah and asked Ron to watch her whilst I spoke to him. Ron of course agreed as he love his little niece to pieces.
I turned back to Draco and walked over to him. "Hello Draco." I spoke with a small smile on my face.
"Y/N. How are you?"
"I'm good thank you. How about you?"
"I'm doing okay. I saw you through the window and thought I would come and speak to you. Are you free now?"
I nodded my head. I glanced back over to Ron who was slowly rocking Hannah. We walked to just outside the shop.
"Look Y/N, I have been wanting to speak to you for some time, but I didn't know where you lived as your Mum wouldn't tell me."
I slowly nodded as he spoke.
"Look I know we have been separated for seven years but do you ever think we called it off too soon?" he questioned.
"Um about that Draco..." I started. Ron then walked out of the shop.
"Y/N I think your daughter is hungry." I nodded at him and took Hannah.
"Daughter?" Draco chocked. I nodded at him.
"I married George nine months ago and we had Hannah." I told him. He just looked stunned. As if he heard his name, George then emerged from the shop and wrapped his arm around me.
"Hello Malfoy." George spoke. Draco looked up in acknowledgement but looked down at Hannah again.
"Congratulations to you both."
"Bye Draco." I said softly and went back into the shop. Before I went in I heard George speak.
Summary: 25th December 2013. Dean isn’t looking for love. In fact, he’s doing his best to steer as clear from it as possible. And then he meets her. The girl that shows up at his brother’s party only to turn his entire world upside down and makes him believe in the magic of Christmas again. So, he falls for her, falls so quickly that no one in the room even hears the sound. And that is the beginning of their story.
Author: deanssweetheart23
Characters: Dean Winchester x reader, Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy (mentioned), Autumn Brae Winchester (OFC), Benny Laffite, Lisa Braeden (mentioned)
Word count: 8129 (it’s a monster fic, I know, but it’s worth it)
Warnings: Fluff. Angst. Some language. Implied smut. Death of parents, references to loss, grief and infedility (not Dean associated). Domestic Dean Bean (yes, totally a warning)
Author’s Notes: This is my submission for @d-s-winchester‘s 12 Days of Christmas Challenge. Ashley, thank you so, so much for letting me participate and being so kind and understanding when I asked for an extension. I hope this was worth the wait.
Also, special thank you to my amazing friend slash sunflower @trexrambling because she beta’d this entire thing and helped me figure out how to make this story better and more beautiful. This would have never been posted without her.
My prompt for this was Baby, It’s Cold Outside by Michael Bublé and Idina Menzel (I love it btw) and it’s been used both as an inspiration and a key for the plot of this fic.
Thank you all so much for sticking with me and Merry Christmas! <3
Wednesday, 25 December, 2013
Arkansas Street, Lawrence
Dean knows she’s trouble the first time he sees her.
He’s leaning against one of the bookshelves in his brother’s living room, tiny snowflakes still sprinkled across his hair, and even though there are so many things he could have noticed, the fresh evergreen branches and the printed patterned ribbons and a Christmas tree with plaid garments, she’s the first thing that catches his attention.
He finds her dancing on top of a sofa, one of her hands reaching up towards the ceiling while the other holds a mustache stick close to her upper lip, and God, she’s singing, she’s actually singing Michael Bublé’s part in Baby, It’s Cold Outside while his little niece is sitting on the floor, just a couple of feet away, giggling and clapping her hands giddily.
And though there are reindeer antlers on her head and her tiny feet are engulfed in a ridiculous pair of red and green fuzzy socks and she probably looks like a mess in that oversized Christmas sweater of hers, Dean’s sure he’s never seen anything more radiant in his life.
It’s there, in the way she moves and laughs and sings so completely out of tune, in the way her eyes shine, alive with a warmth Dean has never seen in a stranger’s eyes before, in the way she just lives in the moment, and everything else around her ceases to exist.
Summary: Y/n is having a hard time coming to terms with her feelings for the guy she’s supposed to feel nothing more than a friendship with, so instead of confronting those feelings she runs away, which proves to be a mistake for her and him.
Warning: angst, heartbreak, fluff, sad angry Dean because he’s a warning in itself
An: this is my first Dean Winchester fic so i hope it lives up to your expectations. Also this is gonna be a two part series because i got carried away with setting up the plot for this. If you like this flick and the way i write i am taking requests for Sam, dean and cas so feel free to make some. Anywho love ya and i hope you enjoy.
Dean Winchester is the epitome of a girls dream guy. He’s smart, tall, and strong. Not to mention those pretty green eyes that scream ‘walking sex god’ or that cheeky ass smirk he wears when he knows he’s got a girl in his clutch. But thats not what made you fall for him, not the only reason at least. Dean Winchester has been your best friend since you both could walk. Being left to take care of Sammy while your mom and john were out hunting all through your childhood up really sealed your fate, you saw all of his most vulnerable moments and you knew those moments he needed you to break down those walls so he wouldn’t self destruct. But also you saw how much he loved, and how he fought for the people he loved, but he wouldn’t let anyone give that back to him. And thats why you loved him. Because you knew that just like him you’d do anything for him at any moments notice. You’d kill, you’d torture , you’d die If he needed.
So as you sat at a bar sipping on your martini watching dean flirt with the pretty curly headed bartender with a short skirt, your heart felt heavy within your chest and your stomach completely empty despite the large bowl of fries you were sharing with Sam. The feelings that surged through your body weren’t anger, or hatred. It was sadness and longing, knowing that even though you loved everything about that man, even though you knew him better than anyone else. Better than himself. He’d wouldn’t see you how you saw him, and no matter how much you hated it, you couldn’t hate him. Not one bit.
“Y’know if you sulk any harder people are gonna mistake you for a grounded teenager” an amused voice spoke from beside you. Your gaze broke from dean and turned to his brother, “shut up Sam” you said nudging his shoulder softly. A smile crossed the younger winchesters face, “he’s just looking for a distraction” he muttered to you, diverting his gaze over to his brother letting a frown overtake his features. Sam knew how utterly in love you and his brother were with each other, i mean anyone could see it. Except for some reason you two.
“Yeah well sleeping with a random person isn’t exactly what id call ‘a distraction’” you said bitterly, immediately feeling bad even though dean was nowhere around to hear. Sam shook his head at just how blind you were, “ i just don’t understand why he wont open up to us.” You said trying to keep your voice steady, stirring your drink around with your straw “He knows that we know how much loosing john is affecting him. Hell he’s not the only one fucking dealing. We all lost” she said trying not to let the tears forming in her eyes fall. Sam sighed “thats just how he is. It’s how he’s always been. The strong one” he said looking at his friend solemnly.
“Well it’s bullshit and he knows it” you said slamming your hands down on the table as you stood up. “Im going back to the motel” you muttered grabbing you coat from the back of your chair and trying to keep your tears at bay. Sam grabbed your wrist stopping you. “You want me to walk you?” He offered softly. “No it’s fine, i’m fine. I just need some time alone if thats okay” you said. Sam nodded letting go of your wrist, you gave him a hug and a kiss on the forehead, a habit you’d formed when he was only two years old. And with that you exited the bar, not sparing a look in deans direction. You couldn’t stomach it. What you missed was the longing and worried look dean sent you as he weakly excused himself, and made his way over to Sam and began his interrogation.
While you walked your brain was racked with all of these intense emotions. But the most prominent thought was how much it was killing you. Given you’d known that Dean wasn’t the relationship type, i mean the ratio of his hookups to relationships says enough in itself. But you’d grown up together, you knew how much dean craved to be held and loved by a woman, and you were hoping by chance he’d let it be you. But as the months turned into years and years turned into a decade, you were tired. Tired of loving someone who only thought of you as a friend. Tired of loving someone who would shamelessly flirt with other women in front of you, no matter how deeply in love you showed him you were.
By time you reached the motel you’d had your mind made up, you’d apologize to the boys later but you had to go. And you knew that if you told them in person Sam’s puppy dog eyes that always worked and deans broken expression would’ve coaxed you back in. So there you are packing your bags (not that you had much to pack) and hopping into a car you’d managed to break into and Hotwire and began your way to Bobby’s.
When you arrived at Bobby’s he was shocked to see you but ultimately let you in. “Y’look like shit” he greeted looking you up in down taking in your puffy eyes. You laughed “good to see you too”. Bobby looked behind you, curiosity etched into his face “where are the other two idjits?” He asked. Your once happy expression dropped, replaced by a guilty look and you avoided his eyes as best you could. Bobby took a step forward, now concerned “peanut where are the boys” he asked a little more demanding this time. Tears pooled your eyes for what felt like the 100th time that day. “I- i left them in Wyoming” your voice broke as tears began to cascade down your face. “I didn’t tell them, they would’ve convinced me not to go” you explained. Bobby stared at the girl not sure what to do about the girl he saw as a daughter crying so freely in front of him. “Why’d ya leave? Somethin’ happen?” He asked leading you to the couch and taking a seat himself.
You shook your head “no… no nothing happened. I just couldn’t watch it anymore.” You muttered playing with your fingers in your lap trying to put your feelings into words. Bobby watched intently, and he swore he could almost see the cloud of thoughts above your head. It took about five seconds for it to click. Dean. “S’this ‘bout dean?” He leaned forward. You hesitated, finally looking up to meet them and eyes before you nodded. “It was okay before, i mean I’ve had feelings for him since we were 14 so i learned to tune it out mostly. But as we get older its just go hard, i mean I’m 26 now and I’ve seen him during relationships and hookups and its not effected me until now.” You explained, Bobby didn’t say anything, knowing that if he said the wrong thing you’d probably run up to your designated room and act like the conversation never happened.
“i think because i realized just how far id go for him, and with the way things are heating up that flame seems to grow more and more every hunt. But he doesn’t see it, he doesn’t see the raw and utter devotion i hold for him. He doesn’t see how i run off every guy because i know they wont be like him. He doesn’t see how much it hurts me to see him happy with someone else, even if it’s just for a night. And it hurts Bobby, it hurts like hell to love someone who only sees you as his best friend that much” you finished. By that point the tears were streaming down your face and he could hear the heartbreak in your voice. Bobby stood up trying to keep his own tears at bay as he watched the young girl break down in front of him, he grabbed you by your wrist pulling you into a bone crushing hug as you sobbed into his shirt. The two of you stood like that until your sobs subsided, leaving you with sniffles every few seconds.
Bobby pulled away and grabbed your face “you are a smart, strong, beautiful young lady. And after all you’ve been through you deserve all the love in the world, and if dean can’t see that then he’s more of an idjit than i thought” he joked. A small laugh passed your lips and suddenly the need for sleep hit you like a ton of bricks. Bobby seemed to take notice because he sent you on your way upstairs to your room and you made no effort to fight sleep any longer.
just downstairs Bobby pulled out his phone that saw tht he had 14 missed callers from Sam and 27 from dean. He calculated how angry you’d be at him for making the decision he was about to but he’d deal with your anger over heartbreak any day. So he pressed the call back button and listened to the dial tone until deans voice replaced the noise
“Is she with you” he asked urgently, Bobby noted the sound of deans engine in the background as well as Sam asking if it was Bobby that called.
“Yeah she’s here, and you’d better have a damn good excuse for her showing up the way she did” Bobby said in an authoritative tone.
“I’m not 100% sure but i have a theory” dean replied with a distracted tone. “I don’t care what you do or don’t have. You get here and you fix it you understand boy?” “Yes sir” dean answered. Bobby then hung up, dean knew he was in deep shit if he couldn’t make things right with you
Synopsis: When James and Lily died, and your brother was sent to Azkaban, Remus was the only person you have left. Until he left too. What happens when he returns after the events of Sirius's escape, only to find out you have a son? A son that's his.
WC: 1.4k
Warnings: lots of italics, probably grammatical mistakes, might be ooc idk, child (?), fem reader, italics are flashbacks ( idk), love (ew), Sirius is back, [ look at series masterlist for all content warnings]
A/n: This is more of the backstory and how they came to be, along with lots of awkwardness from both ends, I promise there's more remus in the next chapter <3 oh and reunion with Sirius and thanks to @lixzey for making me wanna push the awkwardness~
:) If you enjoyed this please reblog and comment :)
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You and Remus were in love, you had been in love for 6 years.
Everyone knew you'd be endgame, and your brother hated it, to an extent.
Sirius loved that his little sister was happy, that she had joy in her life after the roughness of their family life. But he was scared, scared because he knew how much Remus would push people away, push himself away.
He didn’t want you hurt. But you were.
~
You found out in October, two weeks before Halloween.
You had been talking with Lily through letters back and forth, discussing your recent morning nausea and sickness.
She had asked when was the last time you and Remus had slept together, strange you considered that question, you replied a week ago at most.
Her letter came back with the words "you might be pregnant, dear...why don't you take this potion i sent along?"
And along with it there was a potion in a small vial with a piece of parchment guiding you through the process.
All you had to do was drink half of the potion and wait for the other half to shift hues.
And sure enough, the once rust coloured potion soon turned blue, signalling your current state.
You were carrying Remus's child, a child you hadn't talked about, a child you were sure you weren't ready for.
~
It was now hallows eve, the day you thought you had worked up the courage to tell Remus.
Children around town had just finished trick or treating and your husband was bringing back the basket with remaining candy.
He came into the bedroom with you and went straight to the shower, promising to return in a bit.
Your eyes heavy with sleep, you sit down on the edge of the bed, waiting for Remus to come out of the bathroom.
He sees them on your trousers before in your eyes, your tears. His brows furrowed in concern and pity as he looked at your face, eyes dull with sorrow and fear, so uncharacteristic of your usual glimmer and joy.
"What's the matter, dove?" He asks, voice slightly hoarse from the drowsiness in the back of his mind.
You don't answer, only look at him like you're out of words. You're thinking, thinking what a little Remus would look like, how they’d have the same nose, probably his same freckles dusting their face, and the same sandy locks of hair with deep roots.
You wonder if he'd want this, a kid, if this could be the one thing Remus would give up the world for.
"Come here, darling" he says and takes your body into his, nuzzling your face in the warmth of his polyester sweater. He understands, he always does.
That's how you sleep that night, unaware of the chaos that was soon to follow.
~
Remus rushed out of bed the moment the potter's deer patronus knocked on the window.
The white buck stopped at the foot of his bed and let out a call of help, soon disintegrating to mist after.
That night Remus lost three friends, you lost a brother to azkaban and you lost Remus.
He left the morning after. With your heart shattered to pieces, you let him go.
Your mind screamed at you to tell him. Tell him and maybe he'd stay. Tell him and maybe he'd reconsider. But your heart, ever the kind one, ever the selfless one, let him go. In hopes that one day you'd see him again.
Remus was half expecting you to slam the door in his face. To make a face of absolute disgust and just lock him out. But of course the other half of him was longing to hold you, see you after so long. So it came as a welcome surprise when you widened the door and let him inside.
"Uhm...come in, please, we were expecting you" You said, trying not to let your voice waver.
Remus felt so awkward. His hands were clammy, his posture was stiff and his jaw was clenched. He felt like he couldn't move, no more than if he had been hit with the petrificus curse.
You weren't in a much better predicament yourself. You could feel your eyes pricking with tears at the mere sight of him. The same man who left you. The man you let go. The man you still loved.
As he made his way inside the house you let your eyes roam across his figure. His hands were littered in large scars, far bigger than those you'd seen before. His face was shrunken, eyes hollower than you remembered. His smile lines were far more prominent now and his sandy brown hair had a few streaks of grey littered throughout.
"Where is the rest of the order? Where's sirius?" Why did you leave? Why are you back? How are you? You had so many questions but the rest were best kept to yourself.
"They're on the way, I was just...early" I wanted to see you.
Remus hated himself for leaving you. He wanted to tell you that. He regretted each night, even more so on full moons. After leaving the realisation of what he had done dawned on him, it was already too late.
Alas, by the time he had worked up the courage to talk, You were already making your way across the hall to embrace your brother who had just arrived.
When did he get there? How consumed in his thoughts was Remus?
You greeted Sirius with a hug and a look-over of his whole figure. His posture was shrunken, eyes even hollower than Remus's and instead of his signature smirk, only a ghost of a smile was left on his face.
A feeling of guilt consumed you. Your brother was back after azkaban. Innocent. And your mind was all consumed by Remus.
You ushered the rest of the order inside and told Regulus to pack up his things and clear out the living room. The confused and curious glances you got from everyone did little to ease your nerves.
Sirius pulled you aside. You prepared yourself for the conversation you knew was to follow.
“Who’s that?”
It was a valid question, Sirius was well aware that Remus had left that night. After their teary reunion, the werewolf had gotten an earful from the oldest Black. He was shocked and thought that you had found someone new, unlike Remus, Sirius was quick to notice the similarities between the small boy and you. He deduced that he was your son.
“Uhm- He’s my son.”
You were staring at your feet, and your hands were fidgety.
There was a long pause. The silence was so loud you could hear the clock ticking.
“I…I have a nephew?” His words came out uncertain. Cautious and slow.
With a hum you replied “His name is Regulus. Regulus Jace.” You left out the last name. Legally he was a lupin. And so were you. But it wasn’t that hard to conceal that at hogwarts.
At the mention of his little brother, Sirius seemed to grimace. But he put a smile on.
“You named him after Reggie?-” He asked. And continued as you opened your mouth to answer.
“Who’s..who’s the father?” He didn’t want to assume the worst. He was happy, truely he was. After that “bastard” (as he put it) left you it was only fair. No matter how much he ached to see the two of you together again.
“It is Remus.” You replied, vulnerability lacing your voice.
His face seemed to light up, eyes widening, both in shock and delight. Before he would alert the whole house, however, you let him know one more thing.
“He doesn’t know. Neither of them do. I haven’t told them.”
Your chest felt heavy, and your throat seemed to close up. It was hard for you to talk about. Despite being married you and Remus had never talked about kids, let alone with your friends. The feelings of contempt and guilt surrounded you.
Next thing you know, Sirius is pulling you in for a hug, securely wrapping his arms around you and trying to soothe your worries. His right hand wraps around your back as his left brushes against your hair in a calming manner.
It all comes crashing down. The weight of the lies, the guilt, the fear, the hatred. You cannot hold back the tears that rush down your face. A sob rakes though your body. You feel so much, everything, all at once, joy, relief, contempt, familiarity of an embrace.
But most of all...love. Love you haven’t felt in fourteen years.
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