Regulus Black x Vampire! Reader
In the hushed, secret corners of the Hogwarts library, Regulus Black and a mysterious vampire (Y/N) forge an unlikely bond built on silence and mutual solitude. When Regulus discovers the truth of what she is, he developed an interest of her instead of fear.
Regulus Black x Sick!Reader Regulus Black, a cold and calculating Slytherin prefect, develops an all-consuming obsession with (Y/N) (L/N), a classmate born with a cursed lung that leaves her perpetually breathless, isolated, and slowly dying. After a violent coughing fit in Potions class forces him to carry her to the Hospital Wing, Regulus begins shadowing her every move, learning the rhythms of her failing body and inserting himself into every fragile moment
Regulus Black x Childhood friends! Reader
Regulus Black and Y/N Carrow have been inseparable since childhood, with Y/N jokingly announcing she’ll marry Regulus at every Pureblood gathering. Years later, as courting season begins and both are pressured to find suitable matches, jealousy and long-suppressed feelings finally boil over, leading to a heartfelt confession.
Regulus Black x Soulmate! Reader
On his seventeenth birthday, Regulus Black receives a soulmark with the baffling words: "Oh my God I have nothing appropriate to say." He imagines someone polished and articulate—until he quite literally collides with (Y/N) (L/N), a Hufflepuff whose beauty stuns him and whose nonstop chatter leaves him exasperated.
Regulus Black x Bestfriend! Reader
Regulus Black insists his best friend (Y/N) is the most annoying person alive—but he never stops her from hanging off his arm, stealing his quills, or flirting with him shamelessly. Everyone assumes they're dating; their friends know it's just (Y/N) being (Y/N). That is, until another Slytherin guy hears Regulus's usual tired denial and decides to shoot his shot.
2. Barty Crouch Jr.
Barty Crouch Jr. x Ravenclaw! Reader
Barty Crouch Jr. and Y/N Ollivander have been Hogwarts’ fiercest academic rivals for seven years, each trapped under crushing family expectations. When a violent outburst lands them in a month-long detention together, forced proximity turns bitter insults into grudging understanding.
3. Rosekiller (Evan and Barty)
Rosekiller x Reader
Barty Crouch Jr. has been hopelessly in love with his best friend Evan Rosier since he was twelve. When a new Hufflepuff girl transfers to Hogwarts in fifth year and captures Evan's heart, Barty wants nothing more than to hate her—but she's impossibly kind, effortlessly beautiful, and makes Evan happier than Barty's ever seen him. Now he's in love with both of them and completely convinced he can't have either. One party and far too much firewhiskies later, Barty makes a decision that changes everything.
Rivals! Rosekiller x Reader (18+)
Slytherin prefect Evan Rosier and Ravenclaw prefect Barty Crouch Jr. had always been the two infamous rivals of hogwarts, when a new student transferred from Ilvermorny they’d make it a competition on who gets into her pants first.
Rosekiller x Reader
When everyone in Hogwarts notice Barty Crouch Jr., Evan Rosier, and (Y/N) sharing coffee orders, stolen jackets, and casual temple kisses, they’re convinced it’s a messy love triangle—and launch an elaborate betting pool on who will end up with whom. Unbeknownst to them, the trio is already happily dating each other and finds the whole situation far too amusing to correct.
Rosekiller x Reader (18+)
Your two loving boyfriends sharing you for your birthday 🥳🎊🎂
This one was written when I was drunk sorry ya'll I barely remember writing this tbh
4. Poly Slytherin Skittles
Poly! Slytherin Skittles x Religious! Reader
You were a religious Hufflepuff who saw the good in everyone—even the five Slytherins who made it their mission to corrupt you. They called you an experiment. You were just the girl who fell in love. But Slytherins are proud, prideful assholes who won’t admit the same—even when it's shattering into a thousand pieces.
Poly! Slytherin Skittles x Muggleborn! Reader
Muggle-born reader, tormented relentlessly by Regulus, Barty, Evan, Pandora, and Dorcas—the Slytherin Skittles—makes a desperate wish on an ancient dark arts willow charm that they love her more than anyone. Their hatred morphs into a horrifying, possessive obsession that traps her in a beautiful cage of violent devotion.
Poly! Slytherin Skittles x Hufflepuff! Reader
A hopelessly smitten Hufflepuff, Y/N Selwyn, has admired the Skittles from afar for years. After another dream about them is ruined by snoring roommates, she resolved to stress baking terrible cookies and impulsively dosed them with Amortentia. The five Slytherins had devoured the cookies when Y/N was planning to throw them out and became wildly obsessed with her, leading to a day of chaotic, potion-fueled affection that Y/N guiltily revels in.
Poly! Slytherin Skittles x Perverted! Reader (18+)
Y/N Selwyn has spent years obsessively watching the Slytherin Skittles and filling journals with explicit fantasies about them—until they catch her red-handed. They're willing to overlook her stalking and keep her secrets, but only if she gives them exactly what she's been writing about: her total submission.
Poly! Slytherin Skittles x Cat! Reader
After a successful first transformation into her cat Animagus form, (Y/N) finds herself stuck as a small grey cat and unable to switch back. The skittles had to somehow bring her along as they still need to attend classes and meals throughout the whole day.
Poly! Slytherin Skittles x Gryffindor! Reader (18+)
Hogwarts College AU: (Y/N) Evans is bitter over the fact that James and the marauders had practically "stolen" her sister away, in the midst of anger and jealousy at a Gryffindor party seeing the marauders all over her, she decides to hook up with the one group the marauders hate the most, the Slytherin Skittles.
5. Others
Jegulily x Omega! reader (A/B/O)
In post-first wizarding war Hogwarts, eighth-year student Y/N Malfoy—a fiercely proud and diminutive omega in deep denial—vocally insists she is the alpha of her close-knit pack (James Potter, Lily Evans, and Regulus Black). The pack has always sensed her true designation but humors her fragile ego, until a sudden presentation shatters her carefully constructed identity, leaving her furious and humiliated as she fights to reject her omega nature.
Poly! Wolfstar x Bestfriend! Reader (Part One)
(Y/N) is secretly involved with both Sirius and Remus, unaware that they’re also entangled with each other and with her. As guilt, jealousy, and unspoken feelings mount, the three struggle to maintain their separate deceptions within a close Gryffindor friend group.
Poly! Wolfstar x Bestfriend Reader (Part Two)
During a quiet summer at a countryside cottage, Remus unexpectedly enters a werewolf rut that demands the comfort and closeness of his partners, Sirius and (Y/N), to help him through it.
Golden Era
Draco Malfoy
Draco Malfoy x Reader After discovering his longtime crush, (Y/N) Sinclair, is betrothed to Avery Yaxley, Draco Malfoy weeps to his mother—who seizes the chance to secure both her son's happiness and a lucrative alliance. Under Narcissa's orchestration, (Y/N) is magically waylaid and "rescued" into Malfoy Manor, where a repentant, adoring Draco finally sheds his cruelty and wins her heart. But breaking an engagement and defying family expectations demands a confession (Y/N) never thought she'd make—and a love fierce enough to weather scandal, obsession, and the fury of the jilted Yaxleys.
Draco Malfoy x Reader At a high-society pureblood wedding, a tipsy Y/N Selwyn accidentally spills wine on Draco Malfoy, sparking a tug-of-war that topples the cake and lands them both on the front page of the Daily Prophet. After returning back to hogwarts, the once unspoken truce between them broken as tension and grudges build up.
Soulmate! Draco Malfoy x Mute! Reader
Draco Malfoy’s skin has always been blank — no soulmate mark, just the slow sinking feeling that nobody out there belongs to him. Meanwhile, a mute Hufflepuff girl is actually looking forward to meeting her soulmate, rude first words and all, until she collides with Draco in a corridor and he snaps the exact line written on her shoulder. Now she’s avoiding him like her life depends on it, and he can’t figure out why the quiet girl who never speaks keeps running away.
Alpha! Draco Malfoy x Omega! Reader (A/B/O)
An unexpected imprint leaves Y/N Selwyn bound to Draco Malfoy, an alpha who wants nothing to do with her. Forced together by Hogwarts’ Omega Welfare Act, years of reluctant closeness gradually transform resentment into something neither of them ever expected.
2. Pansy Parkinson
Pansy Parkinson x Gryffindor! Reader
(Y/N) Lovegood, Luna’s older sister and a Gryffindor seer, has spent years secretly protecting her sister from the Slytherin gang’s pranks. When Pansy Parkinson finally meets the fierce, beautiful seer, it’s love at first sight—but (Y/N) wants nothing to do with her sister’s bully. Pansy strikes a bargain: she’ll stop her friends from targeting Luna and become her protector in exchange for a real chance with (Y/N).
Pansy Parkinson x Gryffindor! Reader (18+)
(Y/N) Malfoy, a proud lesbian black sheep of her pureblood family, is blindsided when her parents propose a betrothal to Pansy Parkinson—a closeted Slytherin who furiously denies any attraction to women. After a public dinner disaster, the two pointedly ignore each other until a masked Halloween party, where an intoxicated Pansy, not recognizing (Y/N) behind her lace mask, aggressively making out with her.
Dorcas Meadowes x Reader - Dorcas being a closeted gay and reader being a confident bi who promises to keep her secret when they’re alone
Death Eaters Barty, Evan, Regulus x Reader - The trio who were tasked to get rid of their former classmate reader who they had known to be quiet but had surprised them by fighting back and they grow obsessed with the cat and mouse game
Loser! Severus Snape x Golden girl gryffindor reader (literally ragebaiter vs ragebaited)
Rosekiller x reader - imma just say…barty and (y/n)’s gift for evan’s birthday…
Soulmate Regulus Black x Unserious reader - Regulus is stuck with the dumbest person alive his whole life
It’s 🍀 and yea it is a weird law but also I’m like half-way through your recent Regulus Black fic and TYSM FOR WRITING THIS even if I haven’t finished it (I’ve been busy recently and I don’t wanna read tumblr in public tbh) I LOVE it and ty for writing this again :) but also congrats on getting new anons!
Thankss 😋 im actually sooo happy to get new anons i feel like im interacting with my readers more hahah
Your two loving boyfriends sharing you for your birthday 🥳🎊🎂
Note: Happy Birthday Anon! Hope you enjoyed reading this because one day when I stand before the lord and bro asks me about this fic I will get banished to the deepest depths of hell
Word count: 7k
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, threesome (M/M/F), double penetration, oral sex, cum play, dirty talk, possessive behavior
The thing about loving two people at once, Y/N had learned, was that the love itself was never the hard part. The hard part was the space between—the way three bodies could fit together in a dozen different configurations but never quite all at once, the way jealousy could bloom like a bruise in the softest, most unexpected places, the way a single glance could feel like a betrayal even when no one had done anything wrong.
She had been dating Barty Crouch Jr. and Evan Rosier for eight months, three weeks, and four days. Long enough to know the exact weight of Barty's hand on her lower back when he was feeling possessive, the precise cadence of Evan's laugh when he was genuinely amused versus when he was performing for a room. Long enough to have memorized the shape of both their mouths, the different ways they kissed—Barty like a claim, Evan like a question—and the particular rhythm of their bodies against hers in the dark.
But not long enough, not yet, for the three of them to be fully naked in the same bed at the same time.
It wasn't for lack of wanting. Merlin, she wanted. She wanted with a desperate, aching hunger that kept her up at night, that made her press her thighs together during class when she caught Barty's dark gaze across the Great Hall or felt Evan's fingers brush hers under the table. She wanted the impossible geometry of it—six hands, three mouths, the overwhelming fullness of being the sole focus of two men who loved her with a ferocity that sometimes scared her.
But wanting wasn't enough when jealousy was a living, breathing thing in their relationship. Barty was the worst, always had been. He wore his possessiveness like a second skin, and while he never made her feel guilty for loving Evan, there were moments—a hand that lingered too long, a kiss that went on a beat too far—when his jaw would tighten and his eyes would go flat and cold, and the whole fragile architecture of their throuple would teeter on the edge of collapse.
So they had fallen into a pattern, unspoken but understood: Barty with Evan, Evan with Y/N, Y/N with Barty. Separate rooms, separate nights, a careful rotation that kept the peace but left something hollow at the center of it all. They loved each other in pieces, never the whole, and Y/N had convinced herself that was enough.
Her 20th birthday was approaching, and she had noticed, with a mixture of curiosity and dread, that Barty and Evan had started whispering to each other when they thought she wasn't listening.
"You're being suspicious," she said one evening, catching them huddled over a piece of parchment in the Slytherin common room. Barty's head snapped up, his expression sliding into something too innocent, while Evan simply smiled his slow, devastating smile and folded the parchment with deliberate calm.
"Suspicious?" Evan repeated, standing and crossing to where she sat curled in the armchair by the fire. He bent to press a kiss to her temple, his lips warm against her skin. "We're planning your birthday, love. It's supposed to be a secret."
Barty followed, dropping onto the arm of the chair and draping himself over the back so that his chest pressed against her shoulder, his breath hot against her ear. "You'll like it," he murmured, and there was something in his voice—a dark, honeyed promise—that made her shiver. "Trust us."
She did trust them. That was the terrifying thing. She trusted them with every broken, wanting piece of herself, even when the wanting scared her.
The night before her birthday, she barely slept.
The day itself dawned grey and cold, typical for late October in Scotland, but Y/N found she didn't mind. Her friends had decorated the common room with silver and green streamers that had nothing to do with her birthday and everything to do with Slytherin pride, and there was a pile of gifts on the table by the fire, wrapped in paper that shimmered with enchantments. Barty and Evan were already there when she came down, both of them dressed more carefully than usual—Barty in his best black robes, his dark hair artfully disheveled, Evan in deep green that brought out the gold in his eyes—and they crossed to her in perfect sync, each taking one of her hands.
"Happy birthday, darling," Evan said, and kissed her cheek, soft and lingering.
"Happy birthday, princess," Barty added, and kissed her other cheek, then her mouth, a brief, possessive press that left her breathless.
The rest of the day was a blur of laughter and cake and too-sweet punch. Their friends—the other Slytherins, a few Ravenclaws who had defected from their own house's stuffiness—crowded around, showering her with well-wishes and small, thoughtful gifts. But all she could focus on was the weight of Barty's hand on her thigh under the table, the way Evan's fingers traced absent patterns on the back of her neck, the heat of their bodies bracketing hers wherever she went.
They took pictures. Dozens of them, the magical camera flashing as they posed—Barty kissing her left cheek, Evan kissing her right, the three of them pressed together in a laughing, tangled heap on the sofa. In one photo, Barty lifted her off her feet while Evan stole a kiss from behind, and the image captured the exact moment she threw her head back, laughing, caught between the two of them like a wish come true.
"That one," Evan said, examining the developing photograph with a soft smile. "That's the one we're framing."
Barty pulled her into his lap, his arms banded around her waist, his lips at her ear. "You're beautiful when you laugh," he said, low enough that only she could hear. "I want to make you laugh like that every day."
Her heart stumbled. She turned her head to kiss him, and he kissed her back with a hunger that promised more, his tongue sliding against hers until Evan cleared his throat pointedly and someone in the room wolf-whistled.
"Save it for later, you two," Evan said, but his eyes were dark, his smile knowing.
Later. The word hung in the air, heavy with implication.
The party wound down slowly, guests drifting away in twos and threes until only the three of them remained in the common room, surrounded by the debris of celebration. Barty had given her a silver locket, enchanted to hold a moving photograph of the three of them inside; Evan had given her a first-edition copy of her favorite novel, signed by the author, which must have cost him a small fortune. She had kissed them both, tears pricking at her eyes, overwhelmed by the simple fact of being so thoroughly loved.
"One more gift," Barty said, his voice soft in the quiet. He exchanged a glance with Evan, something passing between them that she couldn't read, and then Evan was taking her hand, pulling her to her feet.
"Come with us," Evan said. "It's back in our room."
Their room. The one they shared, the one she sometimes slept in when the rotation allowed. The walk through the dungeons was silent, charged with an electricity that made her skin prickle. Barty walked behind her, his hand on the small of her back, while Evan led the way, and by the time they reached the heavy oak door, her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
Evan pushed the door open and stepped aside to let her enter.
The room had been transformed. Candles floated near the ceiling, casting a warm, golden glow over the space. Rose petals—red and white, Slytherin colors but also something more—were scattered across the bed, which had been made up with fresh linens. A bottle of champagne sat chilling in a silver bucket on the nightstand, three glasses beside it. The whole room smelled of something sweet and musky, like vanilla and smoke.
"Oh," she breathed, turning in a slow circle. "It's beautiful."
"We wanted it to be special," Evan said, coming to stand behind her, his hands settling on her shoulders. "Your first birthday with us."
Barty moved to the bed, sitting on the edge and looking up at her with those dark, intense eyes. "There's more," he said. "The final gift."
She raised an eyebrow. "More than a locket and a signed first edition and a room full of roses?"
Barty's smile was slow, wicked. "So much more, princess." He held out his hand, and she took it, letting him pull her to stand between his spread knees. His hands went to her hips, his thumbs tracing circles through the fabric of her dress. "We've been talking," he said, his voice dropping to that low, rough register that always made her weak. "About us. About the three of us."
"About what we haven't done yet," Evan added, moving to sit beside Barty, his knee pressing against Barty's. "About what we want to give you."
Her breath caught. She looked from one to the other, her mind racing. "You mean...?"
"We want to share you," Barty said, and the words fell into the quiet like stones into still water. "All three of us. Together. For your birthday."
She stared at them, her heart hammering. This was the thing she had dreamed about, fantasized about, woken up aching for. And now they were offering it to her, their eyes dark with want, their bodies tense with the same nervous anticipation she felt.
"But what about—" she started, the word jealousy dying on her lips.
Evan reached up to cup her face, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. "We've talked about it," he said softly. "Extensively. Barty's not going to lose it. Neither am I. We want this, Y/N. We want to love you together. No more separate rooms, no more taking turns. Just us, all at once."
Barty's grip on her hips tightened, his thumbs stilling. "It's been killing me," he admitted, his voice rough. "Watching him with you, knowing you're with him and I'm not there. Not because I'm jealous—" he paused, swallowed hard. "Okay, maybe a little jealous. But mostly because I want to see it. I want to see the way he makes you feel. I want to be part of it, every single time."
Tears pricked at her eyes again, but these were different—hot and stinging, born of relief and overwhelming love. She had spent months afraid that this would never happen, that their jealousy would always keep them at arm's length, and now here they were, offering her everything she'd ever wanted.
"Yes," she whispered, the word barely audible. "Yes, please. Yes."
Barty's smile was blinding. He surged to his feet, pulling her into a kiss that was all heat and hunger, his tongue plunging into her mouth as his hands fisted in her dress. Evan was there a moment later, pressing against her back, his lips finding the curve of her neck, his breath hot and uneven.
"It's your birthday, love," Evan murmured against her skin. "Let us take care of you."
What followed was a slow, deliberate unraveling. They undressed her with a reverence that made her feel like something sacred—Barty's fingers working the buttons of her dress while Evan slid the straps from her shoulders, their mouths never leaving her skin. She stood shivering between them as the fabric pooled at her feet, left in nothing but her underwear, and then Barty was lifting her, carrying her to the bed, laying her down among the rose petals like an offering.
"Beautiful," Evan breathed, hovering over her, his golden eyes dark with want. "Gods, look at you. Our girl."
Barty was already shedding his robes, his shirt, revealing the lean, pale plane of his chest, the dark ink of a tattoo curling over his ribs. Evan followed suit, his movements slower, more deliberate, and then they were both climbing onto the bed, bracketing her on either side, their bodies warm and solid and real.
Barty kissed her first, deep and demanding, his hand sliding up to cup her breast through the thin lace of her bra. Evan's mouth found her other breast, his tongue wetting the fabric until she gasped, arching into him. Four hands moved over her—over her stomach, her thighs, the curve of her hips—mapping her body like they had all the time in the world.
"We've been planning this for weeks," Barty said against her mouth, his voice ragged. "Every detail. Every dirty, perfect detail."
Evan laughed, low and dark. "You should have heard him, love. 'We'll start with her mouth, then her pussy, then—'"
Barty cut him off with a kiss, and Y/N moaned at the sight of them—the two men she loved kissing over her body, their tongues tangling while their hands continued to explore her. It was the most erotic thing she had ever seen, and she pressed her thighs together, already slick with wanting.
"Patience, princess," Barty purred when he broke away, his lips swollen. "We haven't even started yet."
They removed her bra and panties with agonizing slowness, their fingers skimming over newly exposed skin until she was writhing beneath them, desperate for more. Then Evan settled between her spread thighs, his broad shoulders pushing her legs apart, and looked up at her with a smile that promised sin.
"Barty," Evan said, his voice a command. "Come here. I want to taste her with you."
Barty didn't need to be told twice. He positioned himself on the other side of her, mirroring Evan, and then two mouths descended on her at once—Evan's tongue swiping through her folds while Barty's lips closed around her clit, and the combined sensation was so overwhelming that she cried out, her hips bucking off the mattress.
They worked her over like they were starving, like she was the only thing that could satisfy a hunger they'd been nursing for months. Evan's tongue pushed inside her, curling and thrusting, while Barty sucked and licked at her clit with a filthy, focused intensity. And then, impossibly, she felt their mouths meeting over her—their tongues sliding against each other as they kissed through her wetness, sharing the taste of her, sharing her.
"Fuck," she gasped, fisting her hands in the sheets. "Fuck, that's—oh gods—"
Barty pulled back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. "You like that, princess? Like knowing we're both down here, both eating this pretty little cunt?"
Evan laughed against her, the vibration sending sparks up her spine. "We're not stopping, love. Not until you come on our tongues."
And they didn't. They doubled down, their mouths working in tandem, tongues tangling, teeth grazing, fingers joining the fray—Barty's sliding inside her alongside Evan's tongue, Evan's thumb circling her clit while Barty sucked it back into his mouth. The pleasure built and built, a pressure behind her navel that spread outward, hot and inexorable, until she shattered with a scream that echoed off the stone walls.
Her orgasm ripped through her, pulsing and endless, and they kept licking her through it, drawing out every last tremor until she was limp and trembling, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.
"Beautiful," Evan murmured, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. "So fucking beautiful when you come."
Barty crawled up her body, his face still slick with her arousal, and kissed her hard. She tasted herself on his tongue, and then Evan was there, kissing her too, and she could taste herself on both of them, and it was the most intimate, depraved thing she had ever experienced.
"Ready for more?" Barty asked, his voice rough, his cock hard and heavy against her hip.
She nodded, unable to form words.
Evan positioned himself between her legs, his own erection thick and flushed, the head already beading with pre-come. He looked at Barty over her body, a silent question passing between them, and whatever Barty's answer was—a nod, a smirk—made Evan smile.
"I'm going to fuck you now, love," Evan said, guiding himself to her entrance. "I'm going to fill this pretty pussy up and then Barty's going to lick you clean. You want that?"
"Oh god," she whimpered. "Yes. Yes, please."
He pushed inside her in one slow, devastating thrust, and she gasped at the stretch, at the fullness. Evan was thick, thicker than she remembered, and he took his time, letting her adjust, his hips pressing flush against hers. When he was fully seated, he paused, his forehead dropping to hers.
"You feel so good," he breathed. "So tight, so wet. Fuck, Y/N."
Barty was beside them, his hand wrapped around his own cock, stroking slowly as he watched. "Ride her, Ev. Make her scream."
Evan did. He fucked her with long, deep strokes, each thrust hitting a place inside her that made stars burst behind her eyes. Barty watched, his dark gaze never leaving the place where their bodies joined, his hand moving faster on his cock. Every so often he would lean in to kiss her, to bite at her lip, to whisper filthy things in her ear—"He's so deep inside you, can you feel him? Can you feel how much he wants you?"—and it was all she could do to hold on.
Evan's rhythm grew ragged, his breath coming in harsh pants. "I'm close," he gritted out. "Where do you want it?"
"Inside," she gasped, without hesitation. "Please, inside, I want to feel it."
He groaned, slamming into her one last time, and then he was coming, hot and thick, pulsing deep inside her. She felt every spurt, the warmth spreading through her, and it triggered her own second orgasm—smaller, but no less intense—her walls clenching around him as he collapsed against her.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Evan pulled out, and she felt the slow trickle of his release leaking from her, and before she could even think to be embarrassed, Barty was pushing him aside, settling between her thighs with a feral grin.
"My turn," he said, and then his mouth was on her, and she nearly screamed.
He licked her clean with a thoroughness that bordered on obscene—his tongue plunging inside her to scoop out every drop of Evan's cum, his lips wrapping around her clit to suck the last of it from her swollen flesh. He didn't rush; he savored, his eyes closed, his face a mask of pure, blissful concentration as he ate the mixed evidence of her pleasure and Evan's. When he finally lifted his head, his chin was glistening, and he licked his lips slowly.
"Delicious," he said, and Evan laughed, pulling him up for a kiss that was all tongue and shared taste.
Y/N watched them, her chest heaving, her body still trembling with aftershocks. She had never felt so desired, so completely and utterly claimed. And she knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that this was only the beginning.
"Now it's your turn, princess," Barty said, turning back to her with dark promise in his eyes. "You're going to take both of us. At the same time."
She should have been scared. She should have hesitated. But the thought of being filled by both of them, of being stretched to her absolute limit, made her moan with raw want.
"Yes," she whispered. "Please, Barty. Evan. Both of you."
They positioned themselves carefully, with an ease that suggested they'd thought about this, planned it. Barty lay on his back, his cock standing proud and ready, and pulled her to straddle him. She sank down onto him with a grateful sigh, the stretch different but just as good, and began to move, her hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm.
Behind her, Evan knelt between their legs, a vial of oil in his hand. "Relax, love," he murmured, pouring the oil over his fingers. "I'm going to open you up. Trust me."
She did. She trusted him with everything. His slick fingers found her other entrance, circling and pressing, and she gasped at the unfamiliar sensation. But Evan was patient, working her open one finger at a time, then two, scissoring and stretching until she was panting, pushing back against him.
"Ready?" he asked, his voice tight with restraint.
"Yes," she breathed. "Please, Evan, I need it."
He pressed the head of his cock against her, and she felt the pressure, the burn, the slow, inexorable slide as he pushed inside. Barty went still beneath her, his hands on her hips holding her steady, his breathing ragged.
"Fuck," Barty groaned. "I can feel him through you. Can feel him pressing against me."
She could too—the impossible fullness of both of them inside her, stretching her in ways she'd never imagined. For a long moment, nobody moved; they just breathed together, adjusting to the overwhelming sensation of being so completely joined.
Then Barty thrust up, and Evan thrust in, and the world dissolved into pure, blinding pleasure.
They found a rhythm, a brutal, beautiful syncopation that had her crying out with every stroke. Barty filled her from the front, Evan from behind, and she was caught between them, pinned and overwhelmed and utterly, blissfully possessed. Their hands roamed her body—Barty's on her breasts, pinching and rolling her nipples, Evan's on her hips, gripping hard enough to bruise—and their mouths were everywhere: on her neck, her shoulders, each other's lips over her skin.
"Such a good girl," Barty praised, his voice strained. "Taking both of us so well. Our perfect, dirty little birthday girl."
"So tight," Evan added, his breath hot against her ear. "Feel so good wrapped around my cock, love. Could stay inside you forever."
She was babbling now, incoherent pleas and praises spilling from her lips as the pleasure built and built, higher than before, more intense than anything she'd ever known. The double penetration was too much and not enough, and she could feel every inch of both of them, the thick heat of Barty in her cunt, the hard length of Evan in her ass, the way they rubbed against each other through the thin wall of her body.
"Going to come," she gasped. "Oh gods, I'm going to come—"
"Come for us," Barty commanded, thrusting harder. "Come on both our cocks, princess. Show us how good we make you feel."
She shattered. The orgasm ripped through her like a supernova, white-hot and blinding, her body convulsing between them. She screamed, a raw, animal sound, and they fucked her through it, their thrusts growing faster, harder, until she was sobbing with the intensity of it.
Barty came first, his cock pulsing inside her, his hot seed flooding her already-wet channel. The sensation of him coming triggered something in Evan, who drove into her one final time and spilled himself deep in her ass, his groan muffled against her shoulder.
For a long, suspended moment, they lay tangled together, a heap of sweaty, trembling limbs, all three of them gasping for breath. Y/N felt boneless, weightless, as if she might float away if not for the solid weight of their bodies anchoring her to the earth.
Then Barty moved, carefully extracting himself, and Evan followed, and she felt the slow, inevitable trickle of their combined releases spilling from her, hot and wet against her thighs.
Evan was the first to speak. "Happy birthday, love."
She laughed, a broken, breathless sound. "Best birthday ever."
Barty flopped onto his back beside her, throwing an arm over his eyes. "I think I died and went to heaven."
Evan propped himself on one elbow, looking down at her with soft eyes. "How do you feel? Sore? Thirsty?"
"Sore," she admitted, wincing slightly. "But the good kind. The very, very good kind."
Barty rolled over to face her, his expression turning serious. "Was it okay? All of it? We didn't hurt you, did we?"
The concern in his voice made her heart ache. She reached out to cup his face, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "It was perfect. You were both perfect. I've never felt so loved."
Evan pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Good. Because we're never going back to the old way. Not after this."
"Never," Barty agreed, his voice fierce. "You're ours now. Both of ours, all the time."
She smiled, tears pricking at her eyes again. "I've always been yours. Both of yours. I just didn't think you'd ever share."
Barty's smile was slow and wicked. "We're learning. Turns out sharing isn't so bad when it means we both get to worship you at the same time."
Evan laughed, pulling her closer, and Barty moved in on her other side, and they curled around her like two halves of a whole, their bodies fitting together as if they'd been made for this exact configuration. The candles had burned low, casting long shadows on the walls, and the rose petals were crushed beneath them, releasing their sweet scent into the air.
"Thank you," she whispered into the dark. "For this. For everything."
"Thank you," Barty said, his voice thick with emotion. "For loving us. Both of us. Even when it's hard."
"It's never hard," she said, and meant it. "Loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done."
Evan pressed his lips to her hair. "We love you too. So fucking much."
They lay there in the quiet, the only sounds their breathing and the distant hoot of an owl outside the window. Y/N felt the pull of sleep, heavy and warm, and she let herself sink into it, safe in the circle of their arms.
Regulus Black insists his best friend (Y/N) is the most annoying person alive—but he never stops her from hanging off his arm, stealing his quills, or flirting with him shamelessly. Everyone assumes they're dating; their friends know it's just (Y/N) being (Y/N). That is, until another Slytherin guy hears Regulus's usual tired denial and decides to shoot his shot.
Note: Been liking this sunshine x grumpy thrope a lot hehe, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything from scratch and not from one of my many drafts and sadly I am writing this shit sober so sorry if it’s not as good xx
Word count: 6k
Warnings: none
The dungeons of Hogwarts were perpetually chilly, a damp cold that seeped into bones and clung to wool robes like a stubborn memory. Regulus Black, however, had long since grown accustomed to it. He preferred it, in a way. The coolness matched the carefully cultivated demeanour he wore like a second skin: composed, reserved, and untouchable. It was a stark contrast to the inferno that was currently, and quite literally, attached to his arm.
“(Y/N), I am trying to read.”
His voice was a low, flat monotone, his eyes never leaving the page of the advanced Transfiguration text in front of him. The words, however, were beginning to swim before his eyes, a consequence of the relentless, bubbly energy radiating from the girl who had commandeered his left arm as a pillow.
(Y/N) (L/N) beamed up at him, her cheek squished against the fine wool of his robes. Her smile was sunshine, a jarring, brilliant thing in the gloomy Slytherin common room. “I know,” she chirped, utterly unrepentant. “But your arm is comfy. And you smell nice. Like old books and expensive cologne. It’s very you.”
Regulus let out a long, suffering sigh, the kind that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. “It is impossible to concentrate with you… adhering to me.”
“Adhering is a strong word,” she mused, not moving an inch. “I prefer ‘co-existing in close proximity.’ It sounds much more poetic, don’t you think, Reg?”
He finally dragged his gaze from the book to look at her. Big, bright eyes stared back, full of an infuriating fondness. Her hair was a mess, as usual, a wild mane that seemed to have a life of its own, defying all attempts at taming. She was the absolute opposite of everything his family stood for: loud where they were quiet, expressive where they were stoic, and openly affectionate where they were coldly formal. He should, by all rights, despise her.
“I think,” he said, his tone dry as dust, “that you are the single most annoying person I have ever had the misfortune of meeting.”
Her smile only widened. “You love it.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” she insisted, nudging his shoulder with her own. “You’d be lost without me. You’d spend all your time in this gloomy corner, brooding handsomely and turning into a bat. I’m the only thing standing between you and a full-blown vampire existence.”
“I would welcome the peace and quiet,” he retorted, though he made no attempt to actually push her away. This was a familiar dance, a scripted performance they had perfected over the years. She would tease, he would grumble, and the world would continue to turn. It was just how they were.
Across the common room, seated in a cluster of plush armchairs by the dying fire, their friends watched the exchange with varying degrees of amusement.
“It’s a wonder he hasn’t hexed her yet,” Barty Crouch Jr. commented, a wide grin splitting his face. He was lounging with the casual arrogance of a panther, his eyes bright with mischief.
Evan Rosier, ever the pragmatist, snorted. “Hex her? He’d sooner hex himself. Look at him. He’s practically preening under all that fake annoyance.”
Dorcas Meadowes looked up from meticulously painting her nails a deep, shimmering green. “I honestly don’t know why he keeps up the pretence. It’s exhausting to watch. Everyone in the castle knows he’s utterly gone for her.”
Pandora Lestrange, who had been quietly weaving a crown out of daisies, tilted her head, her gaze distant and dreamy. “Their auras are intertwined,” she said softly, as if that explained everything. “They’re a lovely shade of… well, it’s not a colour you can see, but it’s very pretty.”
Barty rolled his eyes. “Yes, thank you for that, Pandora. Very helpful. The point is, it’s mad. The way she hangs off him, the way he lets her… they’re basically a married couple already, minus the boring bits.”
It was true. Their dynamic was a source of endless fascination and confusion for the student body of Hogwarts. To the casual observer, Regulus Black and (Y/N) (L/N) were an item. A done deal. A certainty. The evidence was overwhelming. (Y/N) had no concept of personal space, at least not where Regulus was concerned. She would slip her arm through his as they walked to class, steal his quill to doodle on his parchment, run her fingers through his dark curls to “fix them” (which only ever made them messier), and greet him with a hug that would have scandalised his pure-blood ancestors.
And Regulus, for all his grumbling and sighs and claims of annoyance, let her. He never flinched from her touch, never told her to stop, never pulled away. In fact, if one were to look closely, one might see the tension in his shoulders melt away whenever she was near, or the hint of a smile that touched his lips when he thought no one was watching.
But their closest friends knew the truth. They knew that (Y/N) was simply… (Y/N). She was a supernova of friendliness, showering affection on everyone she deemed worthy. She hugged Pandora for no reason, linked arms with Dorcas on the way to Hogsmeade, and even subjected Barty and Evan to the occasional headlock-turned-hug. She was just a touchy, flirty, incredibly friendly person. Her attention was intense, but it was indiscriminate. Regulus was just her favourite target, the one who reacted the most, the one whose calm exterior was the most satisfying to crack.
Regulus knew this. He had told himself this a thousand times. Her affection was not special, not unique. It was a force of nature, like a hurricane or a particularly persistent ray of sunshine. It was just her way. And his… tolerance of it was a matter of long habit. He had simply learned that resisting was futile. It was a matter of self-preservation, not affection. He was certain of it.
This particular evening, however, his carefully constructed walls of denial were about to be tested. The portrait hole swung open, and a group of seventh-year Slytherins sauntered in. Among them was Cassius Avery, a boy with a perpetually smug expression and the kind of self-assured charm that made Regulus’s skin crawl. He was from a good family, wealthy and pure-blooded, but there was a seediness to him that Regulus had never liked.
Avery’s eyes scanned the room, and they landed, as they so often did, on the scene by the window. (Y/N) was now sitting up, leaning into Regulus’s side as she pointed at something in his book, asking a question with intense curiosity. Regulus, despite his previous complaints, was patiently explaining the concept, his voice low and steady.
Avery smirked and elbowed his friend, a hulking boy named Mulciber, nodding in their direction. They shared a knowing look. The assumption was plain on their faces. Boyfriend and girlfriend.
With the swagger of someone who owned the place, Avery walked over, stopping directly in front of their table. Regulus looked up, his expression instantly cooling to a polite, neutral mask.
“Avery,” he said by way of greeting, his tone clipped.
“Black,” Avery replied, his smirk widening. His eyes slid to (Y/N), who offered him a bright, friendly smile. “(Y/N). Always a pleasure.”
“Hi, Cassius!” she said cheerfully. “How was Quidditch practice?”
“Brutal, but we’ll be ready for Gryffindor on Saturday,” he boasted, flexing his shoulders. Then, he turned his attention back to Regulus, his expression turning conspiratorial. “Speaking of which, mind if I borrow your girlfriend for a moment? There’s a party in the Hufflepuff common room after the match next weekend, and I wanted to see if she was going.”
Regulus felt a familiar, weary irritation settle over him. There it was again. The assumption. The question. It had to be the hundredth time this term alone. The hundredth time someone had looked at the two of them and seen a couple. The hundredth time Regulus had to correct the record, a small, sharp pain twisting in his gut each time he did.
He let out a tired sigh, the sound heavy with the weight of repetition. “She’s not my girlfriend, Avery,” he said, his voice flat, refusing to let any emotion bleed through. “We’re not dating.”
(Y/N), for her part, didn’t even blink. She just laughed, a light, tinkling sound. “He’s right. I’m a free agent, much to Regulus’s eternal disappointment.” She winked at him, and he felt his cheeks flush slightly, though he hoped the dim light of the common room hid it. “He just can’t bring himself to admit his undying love for me, so he keeps me in the friend zone. It’s very tragic, really.”
Regulus shot her a withering look. “The only tragedy is your complete lack of respect for personal boundaries.”
“You love it,” she mouthed at him, her eyes twinkling.
Avery watched this exchange, his smirk growing ever more pronounced. He wasn’t looking at Regulus with the usual knowing amusement, though. There was something else in his eyes, a calculating glint that made Regulus’s guard go up. He hadn’t taken the denial with a simple shrug and a walk away. He was lingering.
“Oh,” Avery said, dragging the word out. “Cool.”
Regulus waited for the follow-up, for the inevitable “it’s just you two seem so close” or “could’ve fooled me.” But it didn’t come. Instead, Avery shifted his weight, turning his full attention to (Y/N). The smugness was gone, replaced by a look of affable interest.
“So, you’re a free agent then, (Y/N)?” he asked, his voice dropping to a smoother, more charming register. “That’s good to know.”
(Y/N) tilted her head, her smile still friendly but with a hint of curiosity. “Is it?”
“It is,” Avery confirmed, leaning a casual elbow on the back of a nearby chair. “Because I was thinking… if you’re not attached to this miserable git, then maybe you’d like to go to that Hufflepuff party with me? As my date.”
The air around their little table suddenly felt electric. The words hung in the space between them, sharp and unexpected. Regulus went completely still. He felt a cold, hard knot form in his stomach, tightening with every second that passed. His eyes darted from Avery’s confidently expectant face to (Y/N)’s surprised one. The smile had slipped from her face, replaced by a look of genuine surprise. She blinked, her gaze flickering to Regulus for the briefest of moments before returning to Avery.
Across the room, the casual chatter of their friends ceased. Barty’s grin had been wiped clean off his face, replaced by a look of intense focus. Evan’s eyebrows had shot up. Dorcas’s hand had frozen, her nail polish brush dripping green polish onto the carpet. Even Pandora had stopped weaving her daisies, her head tilted as if listening to a faint, distant melody.
“Wait, what?” Barty muttered under his breath. “Did he just…?”
“Oh, this is brilliant,” Evan whispered back, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Absolutely bloody brilliant.”
Regulus’s mind was racing. This was different. This was not just another person assuming they were a couple. This was someone actively trying to… to what? Date her? Take her out? The very thought sent a surge of something hot and possessive through him, an emotion he refused to name. It was absurd. It was ridiculous. He had no claim on her. He had just declared, quite publicly, that they weren’t dating. He had no right to feel this sudden, overwhelming urge to shove Avery away from her.
But he did.
His jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tightening. He remained perfectly still, his hands resting on the table, but the knuckles had turned white. He was a statue carved from ice, but a tempest was raging inside. He should say something. He should make a joke, or roll his eyes, or do something to break the tense silence. But his voice had apparently abandoned him.
(Y/N) recovered first. A bright, if slightly strained, smile returned to her face. “Wow, Cassius, that’s… direct.”
He shrugged, his charm offensive in full swing. “I’m a direct guy. And I’ve had my eye on you for a while. You’re fun, you’re beautiful, and you don’t seem to take any nonsense from anyone, especially from him.” He nodded towards Regulus. “So, what do you say? Give a bloke a chance?”
Regulus’s gaze was fixed on (Y/N). He was waiting for her to say no, waiting for her to laugh it off, waiting for her to tell Avery that he was being ridiculous. But she hesitated. For a fraction of a second, she hesitated. Her eyes were wide, and she seemed to be genuinely considering the question. The look of surprise was melting into something else, a flicker of polite curiosity.
The knot in Regulus’s stomach twisted harder. The world seemed to narrow to the small space between the three of them. The crackling fire, the distant murmur of the common room, the soft swish of robes—it all faded into a dull roar. All he could see was (Y/N)’s face, her lips parting as she prepared to speak.
“Well,” she began, her voice softer than usual, “I—"
That was all it took. The sound of her voice, that single, wavering syllable, broke the spell that had frozen Regulus in place. The ice shattered, replaced by a rush of pure, unadulterated panic. He couldn’t let this happen. He couldn’t sit there and listen to her agree to go out with Cassius Avery, a boy who was charming on the surface but rotten underneath, a boy who saw her as a prize to be won, not a person to be cherished.
Before he could think, before he could even form a coherent thought, Regulus moved. He reached out, his hand moving with a speed and certainty that surprised even himself. He grasped (Y/N)’s hand, which was resting on the table. His fingers intertwined with hers, a firm, possessive hold.
The effect was instantaneous. (Y/N) stopped mid-sentence, her head whipping around to look at him, her eyes wide with shock. Her mouth opened, then closed again, utterly speechless for perhaps the first time in her life.
Regulus didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. He kept his eyes fixed on Cassius Avery, his expression a chilling mask of cold, aristocratic hauteur.
“I believe you misunderstood me, Avery,” Regulus said, his voice dangerously quiet. It was the voice he used with people he considered beneath him, a voice of pure, icy command. “I said we’re not dating. I didn’t say she was available.”
The change in the atmosphere was palpable. Avery’s confident smirk faltered. He looked down at their intertwined hands, then back up at Regulus’s face. The confusion was clear. “But… you just said…”
“I said she wasn’t my girlfriend,” Regulus interrupted smoothly. “The situation is… more complicated than that. But the bottom line remains the same.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “She is not for you. She is not for anyone else. Is that clear?”
Avery stared at him, his jaw working. He looked from Regulus to (Y/N), who was still staring at Regulus with a look of complete and utter bewilderment. For a long, tense moment, no one spoke. The other seventh-years had gone quiet, their attention now firmly fixed on the unfolding drama.
Finally, Avery let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, though his eyes were cold and hard. “Alright, Black. No need to get your wand in a knot. Was just asking.” He gave (Y/N) a curt nod. “(Y/N).”
And with that, he turned and walked away, rejoining a smirking Mulciber and a few others who were murmuring amongst themselves. Regulus could feel their gazes on him, could feel the weight of the entire common room’s attention. He had just made a scene. A big one.
But the only gaze he cared about was the one burning into the side of his face.
He finally turned to look at (Y/N). His hand was still holding hers, and the warmth of her skin against his was suddenly all he could feel. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, panicked rhythm. The cold, controlled mask he had worn for Avery was gone, replaced by a look of dawning horror at what he had just done.
(Y/N) was looking at him as if she’d never seen him before. Her usual playful sparkle was gone, replaced by a deep, searching intensity. Her lips were slightly parted, her cheeks flushed. She looked… stunned.
“Regulus,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He finally seemed to realise what he was doing. He was holding her hand. In public. After practically declaring to the entire Slytherin house that she was off-limits. The full implications of his actions crashed over him like a tidal wave of ice-cold water.
He dropped her hand as if it had burned him. He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor with a harsh sound.
“I have to go,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. He didn’t dare meet her eyes. He could feel the heat rising in his own cheeks, a flush of profound embarrassment. “I need to… Quidditch… strategy. Yes.”
It was a pathetic excuse, and he knew it. But he couldn’t stay there another second. He couldn’t face the questions in her eyes, the questions he didn’t know how to answer. He had acted on pure instinct, a primal need to keep her away from someone else, a truth about his own feelings that he had been desperately trying to ignore.
He turned and practically fled from the common room, his black robes billowing behind him. He could feel the stares of his friends, of the other Slytherins, of everyone, boring into his back. But none of them mattered. All he could think about was the look on (Y/N)’s face, and the terrifying realisation that he had just given himself away.
He had just shown her, shown everyone, the one thing he had been so careful to keep hidden. The one thing he had refused to even admit to himself.
He liked her. Not in the way she liked everyone. He liked her. He was completely, hopelessly, and utterly in love with his best friend.
And now, she knew.
The walk to the Quidditch pitch was a blur. The cold night air did little to cool the fire that seemed to be consuming him from the inside. He sat in the empty stands, the vast, silent stadium stretching out before him, a monument to his own foolishness. The stars, normally a cold and distant comfort, seemed to be mocking him.
He replayed the scene in his head over and over again. Her surprised face. His own possessive words. The feeling of her hand in his. He had ruined everything. The easy camaraderie, the playful bickering, the comfortable friendship—it was all over now. He had broken the unspoken rules. He had admitted, in the most dramatic way possible, that she was more to him than just an annoying friend.
What would she think of him now? Would she be disgusted? Confused? Would she pull away? The thought of her no longer leaning on his arm, no longer teasing him, no longer filling his quiet life with her relentless sunshine was a prospect so bleak it made his chest ache.
He had been stupid. He should have just let her answer Avery. He should have laughed it off, made a joke. He should have done anything but grab her hand and declare her off-limits like some lovesick fool.
He was so lost in his own misery that he didn’t hear the soft footsteps approaching, didn’t notice the figure until she was settling onto the bench beside him, a familiar, comforting warmth.
He tensed, his whole body going rigid. He knew it was her. He could smell her perfume, a light, floral scent that had always inexplicably calmed him. Now, it only made his heart beat faster with anxiety.
“Regulus,” (Y/N) said softly. Her voice was gentle, not angry, not mocking. Just… gentle.
He didn’t turn to look at her. He kept his gaze fixed on the empty Quidditch pitch below. “Go away, (Y/N).” His voice was rough, tired. “Please.”
She didn’t move. “No.”
They sat in silence for a long moment. The only sound was the whisper of the wind and the distant hooting of an owl. The tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife.
“You left your book in the common room,” she said finally, her tone light, as if she were commenting on the weather. “I picked it up for you.” She held out the heavy Transfiguration text.
He glanced at it, then quickly away. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She placed it on the bench between them. Another silence stretched.
He could feel her eyes on him, patient and unwavering. He knew she was waiting for him to explain, to say something, anything. But the words were lodged in his throat, a tangled mess of fear and longing.
“So,” she began, her voice taking on a slightly teasing edge, “that was quite a performance back there.”
He flinched. “It wasn’t a performance.”
“Oh? Then what was it?” she asked, her head tilted, her tone curious but not unkind.
He finally turned to look at her. Her face was open, expectant, her bright eyes reflecting the starlight. She wasn’t upset. She was confused, yes, but there was also a flicker of something else in her gaze, something that looked dangerously like hope.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. How could he explain? How could he put into words the chaotic mess of emotions that had driven him to act so rashly? How could he tell her that the thought of her with someone else made him feel like he was drowning?
“I… I don’t know,” he admitted, the confession torn from him. It was the most honest thing he had said all night. “I just… I couldn’t let him… I couldn’t…” He struggled, his usual eloquence failing him completely.
“Couldn’t let him what?” she prompted gently. “Ask me out?”
He looked away, his jaw tightening. “Yes.”
“Why not?” Her voice was soft, but persistent.
“Because…” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “Because he’s an idiot, (Y/N). He’s arrogant and shallow and he doesn’t know the first thing about you. He just sees a pretty face and a fun personality. He doesn’t know that you’re terrified of spiders, or that you hum off-key when you’re studying, or that you have a secret stash of chocolate frogs under your bed for when you’re sad. He doesn’t know… he doesn’t know you.”
He was rambling, the words spilling out in a rush. He risked a glance at her. She was staring at him, her expression soft and unreadable.
“And you do?” she asked quietly. “Know me?”
He let out a breath, the fight draining out of him. “Yes,” he said simply. “I do.”
There it was. The admission hung in the air between them, fragile and terrifying.
She was silent for a long time, and he felt his heart sink lower with each passing second. He had said too much. He had revealed too much.
Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “So it wasn’t just… to protect me from a bad date?”
He shook his head, his gaze returning to the pitch. “No. It was selfish. It was completely and utterly selfish.”
He waited for her to get up and leave, to end this excruciating conversation. He waited for her laughter, for a joke to break the tension, for things to go back to the way they were, even though he knew that was impossible now.
But she didn’t leave. She didn’t laugh.
Instead, she shifted closer to him. He felt the warmth of her body as she leaned into his side, her shoulder pressing against his. He went absolutely still, his breath catching in his throat.
“Regulus Black,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “You are the most brilliant, infuriating, and utterly oblivious person I have ever met.”
He turned his head to look at her, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”
A small, warm smile touched her lips. It wasn’t her usual blinding grin. It was softer, more private. It was a smile just for him.
“Did you ever stop to think,” she said, her eyes searching his, “that maybe I don’t act like that with everyone?”
He blinked. “What do you mean? You hug Pandora all the time. You hang off Barty and Evan. You’re… friendly with everyone.”
“I am,” she agreed. “But not like I am with you.”
His mind was reeling. He couldn’t process what she was saying. It was too much, too fast, a complete reversal of everything he thought he knew.
“With them, it’s just… fun,” she continued, her voice gentle. “But with you… with you, it’s different. It’s always been different.”
He shook his head slowly, still not believing it. “But you always call me annoying. You’re always teasing me.”
A real laugh escaped her then, light and musical. “Of course I do. You’re incredibly easy to tease. But that’s not the same as being annoyed. I tease you because I like seeing you react. I like seeing the real you, the one you hide from everyone else.”
She paused, biting her lower lip for a moment, a rare display of nervousness. “All those times I found excuses to touch you, to be near you… they weren’t accidents, Reg. They were never accidents.”
His heart was pounding so hard he was sure she could hear it. He stared at her, his mind a blank canvas onto which this new, world-altering information was being painted. All the little moments, the lingering touches, the private smiles—he had always dismissed them as just (Y/N) being (Y/N). But she was telling him it was more. It had always been more.
“You mean…” he started, his voice a hoarse whisper. “You mean you… feel the same way?”
Her smile widened, that familiar, sunshine-bright smile that he had always secretly loved. “I’ve been waiting for you to figure it out for about two years now, you absolute git.”
He couldn’t help it. A sound escaped him, a mix between a laugh and a sob of pure, unadulterated relief. The cold knot in his stomach, the one that had been there for so long he’d forgotten what it felt like to be without it, unraveled completely, replaced by a warmth that spread through his entire body.
He reached out, his movements slow and hesitant, as if she might vanish if he moved too quickly. He gently cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. Her skin was soft and warm. She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment.
“Two years?” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
She opened her eyes, and they were shining. “Because you’re so stubborn. You kept insisting you hated me. I thought maybe you really did.”
He shook his head, a small, disbelieving smile finally breaking through the storm clouds on his face. “I could never hate you. Merlin knows I tried. But I couldn’t. You’re… everything, (Y/N).”
Her breath hitched, and a single tear slipped down her cheek, catching the starlight. He brushed it away with his thumb.
“I thought I was being so obvious,” she whispered. “I thought everyone knew.”
He let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Everyone except me, apparently.”
He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. They were so close, their breaths mingling in the cold night air. He could feel the warmth radiating from her, could smell her perfume, could see every tiny freckle on her nose.
“So,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “What now?”
She laughed, her breath warm against his lips. “Now, you kiss me, you idiot. And then you take me to that Hufflepuff party next weekend.”
He smiled, a real, genuine smile that lit up his entire face. “As my date?”
“As your girlfriend,” she corrected, her eyes sparkling with mischief and love.
“My girlfriend,” he repeated, the word feeling perfectly right on his tongue. It wasn’t a denial. It was a declaration. A truth.
And then he closed the distance between them, pressing his lips gently to hers. The kiss was soft and tentative at first, a question being asked. Her answer was to melt into him, her hands coming up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, and all the years of unspoken feelings, of playful bickering and lingering glances, poured into that single, perfect moment. It tasted of starlight and relief and the sweet, sweet beginning of something real.
When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathing heavily. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were bright. He rested his forehead against hers again, a quiet, contented sigh escaping him.
“So,” she said, her voice a little shaky, but her smile firmly in place. “Do you still find me annoying?”
He pretended to think about it for a moment. “Exceedingly.”
Her smile widened. “Good.”
He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close against his side, and she nestled into him, her head finding its familiar resting place on his shoulder. The spot had never felt so right.
“You know,” she murmured after a while, “I think I might have to thank Cassius Avery tomorrow.”
Regulus scowled, though there was no heat in it. “You will do no such thing.”
She giggled, the sound vibrating against his chest. “Oh, come on. If he hadn’t been such a presumptuous ass, you might have kept up the ‘she’s so annoying’ act for another two years.”
Regulus was quiet for a moment, considering her words. She wasn’t wrong. He had been so entrenched in his denial, so certain that her feelings were nothing but friendship, that he might never have found the courage to act. The thought was terrifying.
He tightened his hold on her. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “For being so blind.”
She lifted her head to look at him, her expression soft. “It’s okay. I always knew you were a bit thick about these things. It’s part of your charm.”
He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “My charm. Right.”
“Yes, your charm,” she insisted, poking him in the chest. “It’s a very specific, brooding, bookish charm. Very few people can pull it off. Lovesick werewolves, perhaps.”
He laughed, a genuine, easy sound that felt foreign and wonderful. He loved this. He loved her. He loved the way she made him feel, the way she challenged him, the way she filled his quiet, orderly world with chaos and light.
“Let’s go back,” he said, finally rising to his feet and offering her his hand.
She took it without hesitation, and this time, he didn’t let go. He held it firmly, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of her hand.
“Back to the common room?” she asked, falling into step beside him.
“Yes,” he said. “I believe we have an audience to shock.”
A slow grin spread across her face. “Oh, they’re going to lose their minds. Barty owes Evan ten Galleons.”
Regulus’s eyes narrowed playfully. “They were betting on us?”
“(Y/N) and Regulus, the star-crossed lovers,” she said dramatically. “It’s been the longest-running show in Slytherin house. I think even some of the ghosts have placed wagers.”
He shook his head, but he was smiling. When they reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, he paused, turning to face her. He leaned in and gave her a quick, gentle kiss, just because he could.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice warm.
She beamed at him, her hand squeezing his. “With you? Always.”
He whispered the password, and the stone wall slid open. They walked into the common room, hand in hand. The reaction was immediate and, as (Y/N) had predicted, dramatic.
The low hum of conversation died as heads turned. Barty, who had been mid-sip of a butterbeer, choked, spraying the amber liquid across the table. Evan’s jaw dropped. Dorcas let out a low whistle. Pandora simply smiled dreamily and said, “Their auras are finally matching. I told you so.”
But Regulus and (Y/N) paid them no mind. They walked over to their usual spot by the window, still hand in hand. Regulus sat down, and (Y/N) curled up beside him, her head finding its place on his shoulder, his arm wrapping around her as if it had always been there.
And maybe, in a way, it had.
She looked up at him, her eyes full of a love so bright it was almost blinding. “See?” she whispered. “I told you you loved it.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, a soft smile on his lips. He didn’t deny it. He didn’t grumble. He didn’t sigh. He just held her closer and let the warmth of her presence chase away the last of the dungeon’s chill.
Hello! I have another request 👀 what do you think of slytherin skittles x reader who’s really good with the magical beasts (pretty much like newt lol.. which I mainly got from your pfp)
Keep up the amazing work tho!! :3
most of my early fics do i kinda hint on that if you squint but yeah this is one of my fave concepts ever bc i love fantastic beasts i might actually do one soon
Hii, I was wondering if you do emoji anons? If so can I be: 🚦 Thank you !!
Also I wanted to request a skittles x reader fic where reader doesn’t really like the death eaters and what they stand for, and obviously most of the skittles are death eaters but she loves them a lot and she like starts going crazy because she’s scared they’ll die during the war and they have to comfort her or something? Sorry if this is confusing, I’m really bad with explaining 😅
hii 🚦 anon ofc u can. i have smth similar on my drafts but its rather dark romance where the reader is actually kinda forced to be w them out of fear but yea it has alot of sensitive topic so idk if i wanna post em haha
It’s 🍀 and TYYY but also I was lowkey pissed earlier because of the fact I can’t go by my preferred name in school because of the fact there’s a LAW making sure people can’t be called by a name or nickname that isn’t apart of their first/middle name so that lowkey pissed me off (I don’t blame the teacher it’s not her fault she could quite literally lose her job over that and it’s the fuckass law makers fault) but I had an alternative name that I was able to be called because of the fact of this other preferred name derives from my middle name so yay
(Y/N) Malfoy, a proud lesbian black sheep of her pureblood family, is blindsided when her parents propose a betrothal to Pansy Parkinson—a closeted Slytherin who furiously denies any attraction to women. After a public dinner disaster, the two pointedly ignore each other until a masked Halloween party, where an intoxicated Pansy, not recognizing (Y/N) behind her lace mask, aggressively making out with her.
Requested by: @bridgedawg
Word count: 7k
Warnings: explicit sexual content (cunnilingus), alcohol consumption and intoxication, internalized homophobia, dubious consent, strong language.
The Gryffindor common room was a cacophony of scarlet and gold, crackling fire, and the relentless hum of teenage chaos, but (Y/N) Malfoy had long since learned to find the eye of any storm. She was draped across one of the squashy armchairs by the hearth, legs hooked over one armrest, head lolling against the other, a butterbeer dangling from her fingers. A fifth-year girl with Prefect badge and a furious blush was perched on the arm of the chair, giggling at something (Y/N) had murmured. From across the room, her best friend, a wiry Weasley cousin twice removed, rolled her eyes and mouthed “Again?” (Y/N) only winked.
Being a Malfoy in Gryffindor was, she had decided years ago, the universe’s most exquisite practical joke. The Sorting Hat had barely grazed her platinum hair before bellowing “GRYFFINDOR!” and the Great Hall had sucked in a collective breath. At the Slytherin table, Draco had turned the colour of spoiled milk, and her parents’ subsequent Howler had nearly shattered the windows of her new dormitory. The Malfoy bloodline, unsullied by any house but Slytherin for centuries, had finally produced its lion—and a lioness at that, with a taste for witches, not wizards, and a complete disregard for pureblood propriety. It was as if the family had conjured its own personal Black-sheep, except this sheep roared and had impeccable eyeliner.
Not that (Y/N) wasted time mourning her family’s approval. She was too busy enjoying Hogwarts exactly as she pleased: duelling anyone who sneered at her blood status, charming half the girls in her year, and studiously ignoring her older brother’s existence. Draco, for his part, returned the favour with compound interest. They had exactly two things in common—a surname and an appreciation for the female form—and neither was enough to bridge the chasm of contempt. “At least we agree Astoria Greengrass is a looker,” (Y/N) had once drawled at a family dinner, earning a hex under the table and a month of frosty silence from her brother. Worth it.
But this story isn’t about Draco, or Astoria, or the thousand little rebellions (Y/N) staged daily. It’s about Pansy Parkinson, and a Halloween party, and the precise moment that hatred curdled into something far more dangerous.
Pansy Parkinson was, in (Y/N)’s admittedly vast experience, a walking contradiction wrapped in expensive robes. She was sharp-tongued, impeccably pureblood, and clung to the old ways like a limpet to a rock. She was also, (Y/N) had observed with the detached appreciation of a connoisseur, deeply, catastrophically attracted to women. Not that Pansy would ever admit it. The first time (Y/N) had stumbled upon her at a Slytherin party, Pansy had had a Ravenclaw girl pinned against a tapestry, one hand fisted in dark hair, the other splayed possessively on a hip, kissing her with a ferocity that left little to the imagination. When they’d broken apart, Pansy had spotted (Y/N) watching, smirked, and said, loud enough to carry, “What? It’s just a bit of fun. Doesn’t mean anything. I’m not like you, Malfoy.”
(Y/N) had laughed, bright and unbothered, and toasted her with her cup. “Sure, Parkinson. Very straight of you. The hand up her blouse really sold it.”
Pansy had flushed to the roots of her dark hair, spat something unflattering about blood-traitors and dykes, and stormed off, dragging the confused Ravenclaw behind her. The girl had stumbled, whimpered something about maybe wanting to go back to her common room, and Pansy had dropped her hand as if burned. (Y/N) had filed the whole scene away under Reasons Pansy Parkinson is a Closet Case, and got on with her night.
That was Pansy: a hurricane of denial, sharp edges, and stolen kisses she’d never speak of again. She’d had a raging crush on Draco for years, something (Y/N) found both hilarious and vaguely nauseating, but that had fizzled the moment Draco’s gaze had snagged on Astoria Greengrass. Pansy had raged for a week, then shrugged it off with “Greengrass is practically a Veela, it’s not as if I wanted the ferret anyway.” (Y/N) privately thought Pansy would have made an excellent sister-in-law—if only because their family dinners would have been spectacularly venomous—but that door had closed.
What (Y/N) hadn’t anticipated was her parents’ talent for reopening doors, then shoving her bodily through them.
It happened during the Easter holidays of her sixth year. The Malfoys and the Parkinsons had a longstanding tradition of insufferably formal dinners, all silver cutlery and veiled insults, and (Y/N) had been forced into attendance by a letter that carried the weight of a summons. She’d sat through the roast pheasant, exchanging glares with Pansy across the table, when Lucius Malfoy had cleared his throat and said, with the air of a man unveiling a magnificent plan, “It is a shame Pansy will not be joining our family through Draco. However, there is, of course, another Malfoy.”
The silence that followed was so dense you could have spread it on toast. Narcissa’s smile had gone tight and hopeful. Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson had exchanged a look of dawning delight. Pansy had frozen, a forkful of parsnip halfway to her mouth. (Y/N) had simply raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious where this was going.
“A union between Pansy and (Y/N),” Lucius continued, as if he were discussing stock options, “would solidify our families’ alliance. It is unconventional, certainly, but given (Y/N)’s… proclivities, and Pansy’s impeccable breeding, it seems a rather elegant solution. Pansy could provide the stability and decorum that (Y/N) so sorely lacks, and perhaps guide her back towards proper pureblood ideals.”
(Y/N) choked on her wine. Guide her? She was half tempted to flip the table, but before she could, Mrs. Parkinson clapped her hands together with a simper that could curdle milk. “That sounds wonderful, doesn’t it, Pansy? I’ve overheard that you are quite chummy with girls as well, and (Y/N) here is a cute one indeed!”
Pansy’s face went from pale to crimson in under a second. She slammed her fork down, the clatter ringing through the dining room. “I am not— That’s not— I don’t— chummy with girls? Mother, I don’t know what you think you’ve heard, but I am not a lesbian!”
(Y/N) snorted. It wasn’t delicate, it wasn’t polite, and it definitely wasn’t the reaction her mother was hoping for. “Right,” she said, drawing the word out. “Because snogging girls at parties is just a hobby. Like stamp collecting, but with more tongue.”
Pansy’s chair screeched back. Her eyes were blazing, and for a moment (Y/N) thought she might lunge across the table. Instead, she spat, “You’re insufferable,” and stormed from the room, the heavy oak door slamming behind her.
A beat of awkward silence. Lucius’s jaw tightened. Narcissa’s eyes flickered with something that might have been disappointment—or exasperation. (Y/N) pushed back her chair, tossed her napkin onto her plate, and said, “Well, this has been delightful. I’ll just go make sure she doesn’t hex the peacocks.” She sauntered out, ignoring her father’s sharp call of her name.
The Malfoy Manor gardens were bathed in twilight, all manicured hedges and whispering fountains. Pansy was standing by the marble bench near the rose arbour, back rigid, arms wrapped around herself. The air was cool, fragrant, and charged with the aftermath of the dinner’s bomb.
(Y/N) approached slowly, the gravel crunching under her dragonhide boots. “Hey,” she said, voice softer than usual. “You alright?”
Pansy didn’t turn. Her shoulders were a tense line.
“Parkinson.” (Y/N) stepped closer, reached out, and touched her elbow. “I’m not going to bite. Well, not unless you ask nicely.”
The reaction was instantaneous. Pansy whirled, jerking her arm away as if burned, and her face was a mask of fury and something rawer underneath. “LEAVE ME ALONE, MALFOY!” she shouted, voice cracking. “What don’t you understand? I don’t like girls! I don’t like YOU!”
The words hit like a slap, and (Y/N) felt her own temper flare, hot and instinctive. She’d come out here to check on the daft bint, and this was the thanks she got? Fine. Bloody fine. She raised her hands in mock surrender, face hardening. “Geez, I get it, alright? Loud and bloody clear. I’ll leave you alone.”
She turned on her heel and walked back to the manor, not once looking back. Behind her, the sound of ragged breathing faded into the rustle of leaves.
Back at Hogwarts, the cold war began in earnest. (Y/N) Malfoy was exceptionally good at erasing people from her awareness; it was a survival skill honed in a house full of Slytherins who thought her existence was a personal insult. She threw herself into Quidditch practice, since she was a chaser with a vicious left-handed shot, into whispered flirtations in shadowy alcoves, into laughing louder and living brighter. Pansy Parkinson, one year above and still the reigning princess of Slytherin’s mean-girl court, became a non-entity. If they passed in the corridors, (Y/N)’s gaze slid over her like oil on water. In the Great Hall, she angled herself away. If Pansy’s name came up—and it did, always accompanied by some story of her cutting remarks or her latest target—(Y/N) shrugged and changed the subject.
Pansy, for her part, was doing exactly the same. It was easier than expected; without shared classes and with a year’s difference, their paths rarely crossed. She buried herself in N.E.W.T. preparations, in meticulously maintaining her social standing, and in the occasional, secretive encounter at parties that she would scrub from her memory by morning. She told herself the relief she felt was simply because (Y/N) Malfoy was an embarrassment, a blot on the pureblood tapestry, and not because the memory of those grey eyes going hard and cold in the garden made something twist painfully in her chest. Absolutely not.
October arrived with a snap of frost and a riot of pumpkins. The seventh-years had been planning the Halloween masked party for weeks, commandeering a disused dungeon chamber and charming it into a lurid wonderland of floating candles, enchanted cobwebs, and a punchbowl that shimmered with an iridescent, slightly suspect fume. The theme was simple: masks, and the anonymity they granted. Costumes were encouraged, but the mask was mandatory.
(Y/N) approached the party with her usual blend of reckless enthusiasm and aesthetic precision. She wore a gown of deep emerald silk that clung to her curves and left her shoulders bare, a deliberate nod to her Slytherin heritage that she found perversely amusing. Her hair, usually a tousled platinum wave, was swept into an elaborate twist threaded with tiny silver serpents that occasionally flicked their bejewelled tongues. Her makeup was dramatic: kohl rimming her eyes into smudged, feline points, lids shimmering with crushed amethyst, lips painted a dark, sinful berry. The mask was a delicate thing of black lace and silver filigree, covering her nose and mouth, leaving only the upper half of her face—and those striking grey eyes—visible. She was, she knew, virtually unrecognisable unless you were truly looking. Which was exactly the point.
The party was already a riot of noise and movement when she arrived, the air thick with laughter, shrieking, and the experimental Halloween punch that the seventh-years had spiked with something that made the drinker’s head feel pleasantly detached from their body. (Y/N) snagged a cup, drained half of it in one go, and melted into the crowd.
Pansy, by contrast, had made minimal effort. A chic black dress, a half-mask of stiff silver brocade that covered the top of her face from brow to cheekbone, and a general air of being too cool to care. She’d only come because attendance was expected, and because Daphne Greengrass had threatened to hex her eyebrows off if she skulked in the common room all night. Now, three cups of the glowing punch in, Pansy was feeling… floaty. The usual sharp edges of her thoughts had softened, the perpetual tension in her shoulders unspooling. The music was a thumping, primal beat, and she swayed slightly, scanning the crowd with unfocused interest.
And then she saw her.
A figure in emerald silk, all silver hair and devastating eyes, leaning against a pillar with the casual grace of a predator at rest. The mask obscured her lower face, but the visible features were utterly captivating—the arch of a brow, the dark smoulder of her gaze, the way she held her cup as if the whole affair bored her. Pansy’s breath caught. Something hot and insistent curled low in her belly. She’d never seen this girl before, she was sure of it. She’d remember. Merlin, she’d remember.
Without fully deciding to, Pansy was moving, cutting through the throng until she was standing right in the woman’s space, close enough to smell the perfume—something warm and spicy, with an undertone of something sharp, like lightning.
“You look like you’re waiting for someone interesting,” Pansy said, her voice coming out lower than usual, roughened by the punch and the heady anonymity of the mask. “Haven’t found them yet, have you?”
The grey eyes widened a fraction, then crinkled with what might have been amusement. The woman’s reply was muffled by the mask, the words distorted, but the cadence was teasing. “Maybe I was waiting for you. Bit tardy, but I suppose you’re worth the delay.”
Pansy smirked, emboldened by the fizzing warmth in her veins. She stepped closer, and the crowd seemed to part around them, a bubble of charged silence in the chaos. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’d remember.”
“Would you?” The voice was slightly altered by the mask, a huskier timbre that Pansy couldn’t quite place. It tickled the back of her mind, but the thought dissolved before it could form. “Maybe you just weren’t paying attention.”
“I’m paying attention now.” Pansy reached out and traced a finger along the edge of the lace mask, the touch feather-light. “You know, it’s only fair to show your face. Masks are for cowards.”
“And here you are, wearing one yourself.” The woman tilted her head, eyes glittering. “Pot, kettle.”
Pansy laughed, a low, throaty sound she barely recognised. “I’m not the one hiding behind a full face-shield. What’s under there? Hideous scar? Secret identity? Or are you just shy?”
“Definitely not shy,” the woman purred, and Pansy felt the vibration of it down to her toes. “But I like the mystery. Don’t you?”
Pansy’s lips parted. The room felt too hot, the music a distant throb. She leaned in, her mouth hovering near the woman’s ear, feeling the soft brush of silver hair against her cheek. “I want to see you,” she murmured, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “Somewhere less crowded.”
The grey eyes darkened. For a heartbeat, the woman seemed to hesitate, something flickering in their depths—uncertainty, maybe, or a warning. Then she nodded, a single, slow dip of her chin.
Pansy’s hand found hers, fingers lacing together, and she pulled her through the crowd, away from the flashing lights and the press of bodies, towards the darker, quieter corridors of the dungeons. The air grew cooler, the noise fading to a distant hum. They rounded a corner, slipped through an archway half-hidden by a tapestry, and found themselves in a small, shadowed alcove lit only by the faint glow of a single torch guttering in its bracket. The stones were cold, but the space felt intimate, sealed off from the world.
Almost before they’d stopped moving, Pansy had the woman pressed against the wall, one hand braced beside her head, the other coming up to the lacy mask. “Let’s get rid of this,” she breathed, and tugged it down.
(Y/N) Malfoy’s face was revealed, the berry-stained lips, the sharp cheekbones, the defiant tilt of her chin. Her expression was caught somewhere between a smirk and something achingly vulnerable. Pansy’s brain, fogged by punch and desire, registered only beautiful, beautiful, familiar? but the thought was a moth battering against a window, easily ignored. Because the lips were right there, and Pansy had been hungry for something she couldn’t name for months, years, her whole life maybe, and this woman was offering it without words.
She kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle. It was an invasion, a claiming, tongue sliding past parted lips, tasting the lingering sweetness of the punch and something sharper underneath, something that made Pansy’s head spin. (Y/N) made a small, startled sound against her mouth, her hands coming up to grip Pansy’s shoulders—whether to push her away or pull her closer, Pansy didn’t care. She deepened the kiss, teeth grazing a lower lip, swallowing the gasp that followed.
“Wait—” (Y/N) tried, voice a strained whisper, but Pansy was already kissing down her jaw, her throat, her teeth scraping over the pulse point that beat wildly against her tongue. The sound that escaped (Y/N) was a strangled moan, and her fingers curled into the fabric of Pansy’s dress, knuckles white.
“You taste incredible,” Pansy muttered against her skin, the words slurred with want. She sucked hard at the juncture of neck and shoulder, and (Y/N) whimpered, arching into the touch. The world had narrowed to this: the heat of the body beneath her, the frantic pulse, the way every nerve in her own body was singing. She didn’t know this girl’s name, didn’t know anything except that she needed to devour her.
“Pansy, stop, please, I can’t— you don’t know—” (Y/N)’s voice cracked, but Pansy silenced her with another bruising kiss, hands sliding down to grip her hips, hitching the emerald silk up to bunch around her thighs.
“Shh,” Pansy breathed against her mouth, “don’t think. Just let me.” Her fingers found the bare skin above the stockings, and she groaned, sinking to her knees without a second thought. The stone floor was cold and hard against her shins, but she barely noticed. Her focus was on the sliver of lace peeking out from beneath the rucked skirt, the scent of arousal that hit her like a bludger to the chest.
(Y/N) was shaking. Her head thumped back against the stone, her hands hovering uselessly in the air, torn between pushing Pansy away and grabbing handfuls of her dark hair. “You’re going to regret this,” she choked out. “Pansy, you’re going to hate me—”
But Pansy wasn’t listening. She nudged the black lace knickers aside with her nose, breathing in deep, and the moan that rumbled from her was almost animal. Her tongue darted out, tracing a slow, wet line over the fabric, and (Y/N)’s protest dissolved into a keening cry.
“Please,” (Y/N) gasped, but whether she was begging her to stop or keep going, neither of them knew. Pansy took it as encouragement. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of the knickers and dragged them down, past the trembling thighs, letting them pool around one ankle. The sight of her—flushed, glistening, utterly exposed—made Pansy’s mouth water. She leaned in, tongue flat and broad, and licked the length of her, savouring the musky, sweet taste.
Above her, (Y/N) made a sound like a wounded animal. Her hands finally found purchase in Pansy’s hair, gripping tight enough to sting. Pansy hummed in approval, the vibration drawing another broken sob. She sealed her lips around the swollen nub and sucked, gently at first, then with increasing pressure, flicking her tongue in a rhythm that had (Y/N)’s hips bucking against her face.
“Oh gods, Pansy, oh— I can’t, you can’t just—” (Y/N) was babbling, words tangling together, but Pansy was beyond hearing them. She was lost in the act, in the slick heat and the desperate little noises, in the way the thighs on either side of her head were trembling. She pulled back just long enough to drag a finger through the wetness, then slid it inside, slow and deliberate.
(Y/N) clamped down around her, a strangled curse tearing from her throat. Pansy added a second finger, curling them in a come-hither motion she’d only ever read about, never dared to try, and the reaction was electric. (Y/N) jerked, a guttural moan ripping from her chest, and Pansy felt a fierce, possessive thrill. She was doing this. She was making this beautiful, maddening creature fall apart, and she wanted more, wanted to wring every last drop of pleasure from her.
She set a merciless pace, fingers pumping in and out, thumb circling the clit as her tongue followed the salt-slick edge of her hipbone. The sounds were obscene—wet, rhythmic, punctuated by (Y/N)’s increasingly frantic gasps. Pansy could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in the muscles under her hands, the way (Y/N) was starting to shake, the way her head thrashed side to side.
“P-panny…” The word was barely a whisper, a shattered fragment of sound that slipped out between heaving breaths.
Pansy didn’t process it. She was too far gone, chasing the crescendo with single-minded intensity. She sucked hard on the clit, fingers crooking deep, and (Y/N) shattered. A scream—muffled, bitten back—echoed off the dungeon walls as she convulsed around Pansy’s fingers, wave after wave of pleasure crashing through her. Pansy worked her through it, gentling her touch, lapping at the slick mess until the shuddering subsided and (Y/N) slumped, boneless, against the stone.
Slowly, reverently, Pansy withdrew her fingers and licked them clean, eyes hooded. She pressed one last, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of a trembling thigh, then rose, steadying herself with a hand on the wall. (Y/N) was still dazed, grey eyes glassy, lips swollen and parted.
Pansy leaned in, her mouth brushing the shell of her ear, and whispered, “You taste fucking amazing.” Then she was gone, footsteps fading into the darkness of the dungeons, leaving (Y/N) alone, half-undressed, legs barely holding her weight, and stone-cold sober.
The walk back to Gryffindor Tower was a blur of ducking into alcoves and trying to recall how to breathe. (Y/N) didn’t sleep that night. She lay in her four-poster, staring at the canopy, replaying every second—the aggression, the hunger, the way Pansy’s mouth had felt on her, and the shattering final words that had been her name, abbreviated and broken, a nickname no one used but family, and Pansy had not known. She couldn’t have. And now (Y/N) had to figure out how to live with the knowledge that Pansy Parkinson, who professed to hate her, had gone down on her with a fervour that bordered on worship, and had no idea.
The days that followed were a special kind of torture. (Y/N) tried, she really tried, to go back to ignoring Pansy’s existence. But her eyes, traitorous things, kept drifting. In the Great Hall, she’d find herself watching the Slytherin table, tracking the dark head as Pansy laughed at something Daphne said, or sneered at a younger student, or—once—caught (Y/N)’s gaze and frowned in confusion. At that, (Y/N) had snapped her eyes away so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.
It happened again in the library, and again in the courtyard. Every time, Pansy’s irritation visibly grew. (Y/N) could practically see the steam building. And because the universe had a perverse sense of humour, Pansy finally cornered her a week later in a deserted corridor on the third floor, near the statue of Gregory the Smarmy.
She was yanked into an alcove by the collar of her robes before she could react, and found herself nose-to-nose with a very angry Pansy Parkinson. The half-mask was long gone, replaced by the sharp, unsoftened lines of her face, and her eyes were practically incandescent with fury.
“What,” Pansy hissed, slamming (Y/N) against the wall with surprising strength, “is your deal, Malfoy? You’ve been staring at me for a week like I’ve grown a second head. It’s pathetic. It’s creepy. And I want it to stop. Now.”
(Y/N)’s heart was hammering against her ribs. This close, she could smell Pansy’s perfume—jasmine and something darker—and it sent a jolt of pure, undiluted panic straight to her gut. She tried to summon her usual carefree smirk, but it came out wobbly. “Staring? Me? I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Parkinson. Maybe you’re projecting. You always did want my attention.”
Pansy’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Don’t you dare try to turn this around. You’ve been acting weird. Ever since the holiday. You can’t even look at me without going all pink. It’s disgusting. Did your parents put you up to this? Trying to woo me with lovesick glances? Because it’s not working. It’s just making me want to hex your face off.”
“I’m not trying to woo you!” (Y/N) shot back, heat rising to her cheeks despite herself. “And I’m not pink! It’s— it’s the lighting.”
“It’s noon.” Pansy’s voice dripped with contempt. “There’s a bloody window right there. You’re flushed like a first-year caught with her hand in the biscuit tin. What is going on? Are you dying? Please tell me you’re dying.”
“I’m not dying!” (Y/N) shoved at Pansy’s shoulders, breaking the pinning hold, but Pansy didn’t step back. They were still far too close, the air between them crackling. (Y/N) took a ragged breath. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? For the staring, and for… for the whole betrothal dinner fiasco. It was mortifying for everyone. I’ll talk to my parents. I’ll make them drop it. It was probably just a random dinner talk, Panny, you know how they get.”
The name slipped out before she could stop it. A natural, unthinking shortening, the kind that came from years of hearing Draco say it in disparaging tones, and her parents use it in stiff formality. But the moment it left her lips, Pansy froze.
The anger drained from her face, replaced by something blank and terrifying. Her dark eyes went wide, then narrowed, a predator reassessing its prey. “Did you just call me Panny?”
(Y/N)’s blood ran cold. The dungeon, the whispered word, the realisation crashing down like a collapsing ceiling. She watched it happen in Pansy’s expression—the shock, the dawning horror, the way her skin went ashen and then flushed a deep, violent red.
“Is that why you’ve been acting all weird around me, Malfoy?” Pansy’s voice was dangerously quiet now, a razor wrapped in silk. “The Halloween party. The girl in the emerald dress. The mask that covered her mouth. The silver hair. The voice I couldn’t quite place.” She took a step forward, and (Y/N) instinctively shrank back against the cold stone. “It was you.”
It wasn’t a question. (Y/N) swallowed hard and nodded, unable to find her voice.
Pansy stared at her for a long, agonising moment. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant chatter of students in the courtyard below and the frantic thumping of (Y/N)’s heart. She looked furious, yes, but underneath it was something raw and terrified, a wild animal caught in a trap.
“Are you mad?” (Y/N) whispered, and hated how small she sounded.
Pansy didn’t answer. The stillness was unbearable, and (Y/N), whose survival instinct had apparently taken an extended holiday, started to ramble. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t plan it, I swear. You came up to me, and I didn’t know how to— I tried to stop you, I did, but you were so— and I couldn’t— Look, I won’t tell anyone. I’ll take it to my grave. We’ll pretend it never happened. You can go back to hating me, and I’ll go back to— to whatever it is I do, and we never have to speak of it again. I’ll walk away, right now, and you’ll never have to hear from me—”
The rest of the sentence was swallowed by a pair of lips on hers.
Pansy had surged forward, hands fisting in the front of (Y/N)’s robes, pulling her into a kiss that was nothing like the one in the dungeons. That had been fury and hunger and the anonymity of alcohol. This was fury, too, but layered with something desperate and shaking, something that felt terrifyingly like hope. Her mouth was fierce but clumsy, teeth clashing, and (Y/N) made a muffled noise of surprise before her body caught up to her brain and she kissed back, hands coming up to cup Pansy’s jaw.
It could have lasted seconds or hours. When Pansy pulled back, her breathing was ragged, her eyes suspiciously bright. She kept her grip on (Y/N)’s robes as if letting go would cause her to float away.
“You talk too much, (Y/N),” she said, voice hoarse. “Merlin, I hate you. I hate that it was you. I hate that I can’t stop thinking about it. About your stupid face and your stupid mouth and the way you said my name like it was a prayer.” She squeezed her eyes shut, a tremor running through her. “I’m not gay.”
(Y/N) couldn’t help it; a shaky laugh bubbled up from her chest. “Okay, Pansy. You’re not gay. You just have a very enthusiastic hobby of eating out women you claim to despise. Very heterosexual of you.”
Pansy’s eyes snapped open, and she looked like she wanted to hex her, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
The words hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation. Pansy stared at her for a beat, then two, and then she was kissing her again, slower this time, learning the shape of her mouth, and (Y/N) felt the last of the tension drain from her shoulders. This was insane. This was a disaster waiting to happen. Pansy was a closet case with the emotional range of a teaspoon and a tendency to be a world-class bitch, and (Y/N) was a reckless, prideful mess who thrived on chaos.
But as Pansy nipped at her lower lip and muttered “I still hate you, just so we’re clear,” against her skin, (Y/N) thought it might just be the most perfectly imperfect thing she’d ever stumbled into.
“Hate you too, Panny,” she murmured, and this time the nickname was deliberate, a secret they now shared. Pansy shuddered, but she didn’t pull away.
Pansy “I’m not gay” Parkinson. (Y/N) reflected hazily as Pansy’s hands slid from her robes to her waist, had never been her favourite. Too much drama, too many misunderstandings. But standing in a dusty Hogwarts corridor with Pansy Parkinson’s mouth on her neck, redefining every line they’d ever drawn between them, she decided that maybe—just maybe—she was willing to give it a try.
After all, the best love stories always began with a little bit of hate and a whole lot of unexpected, mind-blowing oral.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, (Y/N) was already planning how to tell Draco that his former admirer now apparently wanted to shag his sister. The look on his face would be worth any hex.
“Stop smiling,” Pansy muttered against her collarbone. “It’s distracting.”
“Can’t help it. I’m just picturing Draco’s reaction.”
Pansy pulled back, her expression a perfect blend of mortification and reluctant amusement. “You are the absolute worst, do you know that?”
“I’ve been told.” (Y/N) grinned, crooked and bright. “But you like me anyway.”
Pansy’s glare was formidable, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that her hands were still resting on (Y/N)’s hips and her lipstick was thoroughly smeared. “I loathe you.”
“Sure, sure.” (Y/N) leaned in, brushing their noses together. “Want to loathe me a bit more somewhere with fewer drafts? The Room of Requirement is lovely this time of year.”
Pansy made a strangled sound, equal parts exasperated and undeniably intrigued. For a long moment, she just looked at (Y/N), something complicated and fragile shifting in her gaze. Then she squared her shoulders, the familiar sharp-edged mask sliding back into place, but with a new, almost imperceptible crack.
“Fine. But if anyone sees us, I will tell them you Imperiused me.”
“Deal.” (Y/N) grabbed her hand, tangling their fingers together, and pulled her down the corridor towards the promise of a hidden door and a very long night of mutual, hate-fueled loathing. Pansy’s grip tightened, and she didn’t let go.
It’s 🍀 and lowkey I just saw this girl talking about the Marauders fandom and how it’s kinda like Christianity and the explanation she gave was like holy shit why is she lowkey right about this (I’ll put the link but also it shouldn’t have my user attached to it) and it’s lowkey funny too
Could you please write arranged marriage regulus x reader who had a crush on him at Hogwarts , he rejected her cruelly in 5th year and now she hates him . Can you show them working through it .
THISSS was the other ask that i mixed up with the pansy one 😭 ong don’t let me drink while writing, this fucking video popped up on my fyp after i finished too : https://vt.tiktok.com/ZS47ACy2m/
I have another fic request for you!!! Could you do a pansy parkinson x rebel Gryffindor? Wlw of course. She’s a malfoy but like Sirius black because she hates all the pureblood nonsense and all of Draco’s friends along with it. She’s a little bit of a womanizer and a proud lesbian. Pansy hates her and Narcissa and Lucius begged pansy to date her. Because if Pansy dated her then maybe Bridgette would return back to her pureblood roots. Bridgette softened with Pansy and was in love. Then she found out why their relationship was even a thing.
oh my god im ngl i was a bit tipsy and i mixed up this ask with another one and it was of a user asking for arranged marriage with regulus 😭 i finished writing the entire thing already, you’ll see what i meant in the next hours and if you see me posting it after i proof read i hope ur not too disappointed abt the plot cuz lowkey i liked how it turned out and can’t wait to drink wine while proof reading it :(
On his seventeenth birthday, Regulus Black receives a soulmark with the baffling words: "Oh my God I have nothing appropriate to say." He imagines someone polished and articulate—until he quite literally collides with (Y/N) (L/N), a Hufflepuff whose beauty stuns him and whose nonstop chatter leaves him exasperated.
Word Count: 7k
Warnings: none
Here is the rewritten story with all instances of the character name placeholder changed to (Y/N) (L/N) (with the brackets as you requested). I’ve kept the rest of the text identical.
The first thing Regulus Black felt on the morning of his seventeenth birthday was a sharp, tingling burn on the inside of his left wrist. He sat up in his four-poster bed, the green silk sheets pooling at his waist, and pushed back the sleeve of his nightshirt with the careful precision of someone who had been waiting for this moment for years, though he would never admit it aloud.
Words were blooming across his skin in elegant, curling script, dark as ink and faintly shimmering. The soulmark. His soulmate’s first words to him, etched permanently into his flesh by magic far older than any pureblood lineage. He had seen his parents’ marks—his mother’s on her collarbone, his father’s on his ribs—and had been told since childhood that the bond was sacred, unbreakable, and utterly humiliating if one ended up with someone unworthy.
Regulus had spent the last year secretly cataloguing every person he met, measuring their first sentences against the blank canvas of his wrist. He had hoped for something dignified. A witty remark. A declaration of shared intellect. Something befitting the heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
The words finished forming, and he read them.
Oh my God I have nothing appropriate to say.
Regulus stared.
He blinked, once, slowly.
Then he pulled his sleeve down, smoothed the fabric, and walked to breakfast with the same cold, composed expression he wore every day. Inside, however, a tiny, carefully suppressed part of him was buzzing. His soulmate was out there. Somewhere. Someone who, apparently, panicked at the sight of him. That could mean anything. Perhaps they would be endearingly shy. Perhaps they would be overwhelmed by his presence—he had been told his gaze could be unnerving. Perhaps it was a sign of deep, profound attraction rendering them speechless.
He could work with that.
Three months passed, and Regulus Black did not meet his soulmate.
He attended classes. He patrolled corridors as a prefect. He endured family dinners where his parents dropped heavy, pointed remarks about suitable matches, all while the Dark Mark on his left forearm—new, still prickling with unease—lay hidden beneath his robes. And all the while, the words on his other wrist remained unanswered. He had taken to glancing at them before sleep, tracing the loops of the letters with a fingertip, wondering.
By late October, his anticipation had curdled into a tense, irritable sort of restlessness. He had stopped scanning crowds. The soulmate magic would happen when it happened, he told himself. It wasn’t as if he cared. It was simply a matter of curiosity.
Then, on a rain-lashed Thursday afternoon, he collided with (Y/N) (L/N) in the second-floor corridor outside the library.
Regulus had been walking fast, head bent, thinking about the increasingly impossible demands of his Transfiguration essay and the much darker task he was expected to complete for the Dark Lord before Christmas. He rounded the corner near the stairwell and crashed directly into a small, hurrying figure, sending an armful of books flying in every direction. Parchment scattered like startled doves. A pot of ink shattered spectacularly against the flagstones.
Regulus stumbled back, caught his balance, and bit out the first words that rose to his lips, crisp and sharp with annoyance: “Do you ever watch where you’re going?”
The girl—for it was a girl, bent over now and scrambling to gather her belongings—froze. Her head snapped up.
Regulus forgot how to breathe.
She was, without any possible exaggeration, the most beautiful person he had ever seen. Hair that caught the grey light from the high windows and spun it into something golden-soft, eyes wide and luminous and fixed on him with an expression of dawning, startled wonder. Her lips parted. The ruined books lay forgotten at her feet. She straightened slowly, clutching a soggy bit of parchment to her chest, and for one perfect, suspended moment, Regulus thought: Yes. Yes, this is acceptable. This is beyond acceptable. The universe has done well.
Then she opened her mouth.
“Oh my God,” she said, in a breathless rush, “I have nothing appropriate to say.”
The words landed in the air between them like a dropped egg.
Regulus’s brain, which had been busy composing a suitably smooth first address—something about fate, perhaps, or the inevitability of their meeting—stuttered to a halt. He knew those words. He had read them a hundred times, traced them in the dark, imagined them spoken a thousand ways. And now here they were, tumbling out of the mouth of a girl who had just informed him, with apparent sincerity, that she had nothing appropriate to say.
She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes going impossibly wider. “Oh no. Oh no, that was it, wasn’t it? That was the thing. The thing I say.” She lowered her hand, revealing a grin that was equal parts horror and delight. “You’re my soulmate! You said the thing too! ‘Do you ever watch where you’re going’—that’s on my ankle, I’ve been wondering for ages, it seemed so cross, I thought maybe I was going to be soulmates with a very irritable hippogriff, but you’re not a hippogriff, you’re a person, and you’re—” She paused, tilted her head, and squinted at him. “You’re Regulus Black.”
“Yes,” Regulus said, because his ability to form full sentences appeared to have deserted him.
“I’m (Y/N) (L/N). Hufflepuff.” She beamed. “This is brilliant. I’ve been waiting all summer, you know. I had a whole speech prepared for when I met you, something really profound and moving, but then you were just standing there looking all—” she waved a hand vaguely at his face, “—and my brain went completely empty. Like a flobberworm. A very pretty flobberworm. Not that you’re a flobberworm. You’re more like a—a really elegant, sort of intimidating thestral.”
Regulus felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. She was still talking. She had compared him to a thestral. She was a Hufflepuff. His soulmate was a Hufflepuff airhead who had just called him a pretty flobberworm.
“You’re staring,” (Y/N) observed. “Is that a good stare or a bad stare? Because if it’s a bad stare, I can try saying something else, but the mark only counts the first thing, so I think we’re stuck with it. Oh! Unless you want me to say something else? I could say something else. I could say, ‘Hello, Regulus, I am deeply honoured to be your soulmate and I promise to be a credit to your noble house,’ but that feels a bit formal, doesn’t it? Also I’m not entirely sure what your house is noble for, exactly. No offence.”
Regulus opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“You,” he said, very precisely, “are going to be the death of me.”
(Y/N)’s face broke into a sun-bright smile. “That’s so romantic!”
It was not. It was not romantic. It was a statement of grim foreboding, and Regulus suspected, even then, that it would prove prophetic.
He walked away.
It was the only sensible response. He walked away, his robes snapping behind him, leaving (Y/N) (L/N) standing in a puddle of spilled ink with a stack of ruined books and a smile that seemed to have taken up permanent residence on her face. He did not look back. He did not acknowledge the curious stares of the students who had witnessed the collision. He simply retreated to the Slytherin common room, sat in his usual chair by the fire, and stared at the dancing flames while his mind replayed the last five minutes on a merciless loop.
A Hufflepuff.
An airhead.
A girl who had, within thirty seconds of meeting him, compared him to a flobberworm and a thestral and then informed him that his death would be romantic.
His soulmate.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small, mortified voice whispered that she had also been breathtakingly lovely and that her smile had done something deeply inconvenient to his chest. He crushed that voice with the efficiency of long practice.
He was Regulus Black. He did not get flustered. He did not fall for ridiculous girls who couldn’t string two coherent thoughts together. He had standards. He had dignity. He had a Dark Mark on his arm and a family that would dissect this situation with the cold precision of a potions master dissecting a flobberworm—and he had just compared her to a flobberworm again, Merlin’s sake, she was infecting his vocabulary.
He would ignore her. The soulmate bond, while magically significant, did not obligate him to anything. He could simply… not engage.
This plan lasted approximately fourteen hours.
The next morning, Regulus walked into the Great Hall for breakfast and found (Y/N) (L/N) sitting at the Slytherin table.
She had wedged herself between a very confused seventh-year boy and a glowering Pansy Parkinson, and she was chattering away as if she had been there her whole life. When she spotted Regulus, her face lit up like a lumos charm, and she waved enthusiastically, nearly knocking over a goblet of pumpkin juice.
“Regulus! Good morning! I saved you a seat!” She patted the sliver of bench next to her, which did not exist. “Well, I tried to save you a seat, but then I got here and there wasn’t one, so I made friends with your friends. This is Bartholomew—”
“Bartholomew is not my friend,” Regulus said coldly, sliding into his usual place at the far end of the table, as far from her as possible.
(Y/N) was undeterred. She simply gathered up her plate and her goblet and her very fluffy cat—where had the cat come from?—and migrated down the table to plop herself directly across from him. “Bartholomew said I could sit with you. He was very nice about it. A bit confused, I think, but nice. Do you want some toast? I’ve got extra toast. I always take extra toast in case I meet someone who’s hungry. Or a niffler. You’d be surprised how often nifflers turn up when you’ve got toast.”
Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why,” he said, very calmly, “are you here?”
“Because you’re my soulmate,” (Y/N) said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “And soulmates are supposed to spend time together. Everyone knows that. My mum says when she met my dad, she followed him around for three days straight before he finally gave in and asked her to Hogsmeade. She said perseverance is the key to a successful soul-bond. Also pastries, but I think the pastries came later.”
“I am not going to give in,” Regulus informed her.
“That’s what my dad said.” She bit into a piece of toast, utterly unconcerned. “They were married twenty-three years. He still pretends he’s grumpy about it.”
Regulus opened his mouth to deliver a cutting retort, something about the impossibility of their situation and the vast chasm of intellect between them, but what came out was: “Is that a cat? At the breakfast table?”
The cat, a disreputable ginger creature with one crumpled ear, meowed at him.
“This is Marmalade,” (Y/N) said proudly. “He’s not technically allowed in the Great Hall, but he gets lonely, so I sneak him in under my robes. He’s very flat when he wants to be.”
As if to demonstrate, Marmalade flattened himself against the table, becoming a vaguely cat-shaped puddle of fur.
Regulus stared at the cat. The cat stared back. Something in its yellow gaze seemed to say, You are doomed, my friend.
He was.
Over the following weeks, (Y/N) (L/N) inserted herself into Regulus Black’s life with the gentle, unstoppable persistence of water wearing away stone. She appeared in the library while he was studying, sliding into the chair across from him with a stack of books she had no intention of reading. She waved at him in corridors, regardless of who was watching. She sent him little notes via the Hogwarts owl system—notes that contained such profound observations as “I saw a cloud that looked like your left eyebrow today” and “Do you think mermaids get seasick?”
He did not respond to the notes. He did, however, keep them, tucked into the back of his Potions textbook, for reasons he refused to examine.
She was, without question, the most baffling person he had ever met. She once spent twenty minutes explaining her theory that thestrals were just horses that had mastered the Disillusionment Charm and were really very shy about it. She mistook a suit of armour for a new transfer student and tried to help it find the Charms classroom. She brought a jar of live doxies to Herbology because she’d heard they were good for cross-pollination—they were not, and Professor Sprout had to evacuate Greenhouse Three.
And yet.
And yet, Regulus found himself looking for her in the Great Hall. Noting the empty space where her bright, chattering presence should have been during the one week she was in the hospital wing with a mild case of spattergroit. Feeling a strange, hollow ache in his chest when he walked past the library and didn’t see her bent over a book, hair falling across her face.
He hated it.
He hated that she made him feel anything at all, let alone this creeping, inconvenient warmth that had begun to seep through the carefully constructed walls around his heart.
The first crack in those walls came on a grey November afternoon, during a combined Potions lesson with the Gryffindors.
Regulus was partnered with (Y/N)—not by choice, but because Professor Slughorn had beamed at them and said, “Soulmates! How delightful! I’m sure you’ll brew something marvellous together!” and Regulus had been too well-bred to argue.
The assignment was a complex Dreamless Sleep Potion. Regulus had brewed it successfully before, alone, in under an hour. With (Y/N) as his partner, they were forty-five minutes in and had achieved a cauldron full of something that was currently fizzing ominously and had turned a shade of purple not found in nature.
“I think,” (Y/N) said, peering into the cauldron, “that we might have added the moonstone a bit too early.”
“You added the moonstone while I was measuring the valerian,” Regulus said through gritted teeth. “I told you to wait.”
“You did, but then I thought, ‘Oh, it’s probably fine, potion ingredients are very forgiving,’ and I was wrong, they’re really not forgiving at all, are they? They’re quite grudge-holding, actually.” She prodded the fizzing liquid with the end of her stirring rod. The potion burped, emitting a small cloud of sparkly smoke that smelled strongly of burnt sugar and regret. “Oh dear. That’s not supposed to happen.”
“It is decidedly not supposed to happen,” Regulus agreed.
Before he could stop her, (Y/N) reached for a vial of powdered ashwinder egg—an ingredient so volatile that the textbook specifically warned against adding it to an unstable brew—and tipped the entire contents into the cauldron.
The potion erupted.
Regulus’s reflexes, honed by years of Quidditch and the constant vigilance required to survive a pureblood household, kicked in before his brain caught up. He grabbed (Y/N) by the waist, yanked her away from the cauldron, and spun them both behind the heavy oak worktable just as a fountain of violently purple foam shot into the air. The foam splattered across the table, the floor, and—judging by the startled shriek—the back of a nearby Ravenclaw.
(Y/N) was pressed against his chest, her hands gripping the front of his robes, her face tilted up to his. She was covered in a fine dusting of purple sparkles. There was a smudge of foam on her cheek. She was grinning.
“You saved me,” she breathed.
“I prevented you from being dissolved by a catastrophically misbrewed potion,” Regulus corrected, his voice slightly hoarse. His heart was pounding. He told himself it was adrenaline. “That is not the same as saving you.”
“It felt very heroic. Very soulmate-ish.” Her eyes were bright, warm, utterly unguarded. “You’ve got a bit of—” she reached up and brushed a sparkle from his cheek, her fingers lingering for a moment too long.
Regulus let go of her as if burned. He stepped back, straightened his robes, and fixed her with his coldest stare. “You are a menace,” he informed her. “A walking, talking, potion-related catastrophe.”
“Thank you!” (Y/N) beamed as if he had just paid her the highest compliment. “You say the sweetest things.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“It was for me.” She scooped up Marmalade—who had, inexplicably, appeared from somewhere and was now lapping at a puddle of purple foam—and tucked him into her bag. “I’d better take this to Professor Slughorn and explain. Don’t worry, I’ll say it was my fault. You were very valiant.”
She bounced off, leaving Regulus standing amid the wreckage of their workstation, sparkles settling in his hair, his carefully cultivated composure in tatters.
That night, he wrote the incident in his journal—purely for record-keeping purposes—and did not smile while doing so.
The second crack happened three days later, in the courtyard.
Regulus was walking to his Arithmancy lesson when he heard laughter—sharp, cruel laughter, the kind he recognized from Slytherin common room parties where the wine flowed too freely and the jokes turned mean. He rounded the corner and stopped dead.
(Y/N) was standing near the fountain, her books clutched to her chest, her face pale. Three Slytherin boys—Mulciber, Avery, and a seventh-year whose name Regulus didn’t bother to remember—had her backed against the stone edge. Mulciber was sneering, his wand dangling loosely in his hand.
“—and she actually thought the Giant Squid was a transfer student from Durmstrang,” Mulciber was saying, his voice thick with mockery. “Honestly, it’s embarrassing. The Blacks must be mortified. Imagine being soul-bound to the biggest idiot in Hogwarts.”
Avery snickered. “I heard she tried to knit a scarf for the Whomping Willow.”
“I was just being friendly,” (Y/N) said, her voice smaller than Regulus had ever heard it. “It looked cold.”
“It’s a tree, you moron,” Mulciber said. “Trees don’t get cold. They’re trees.”
Regulus didn’t remember drawing his wand. He didn’t remember crossing the courtyard. One moment he was standing at the archway, the next he was between (Y/N) and the three boys, his wand pressed to Mulciber’s throat, his voice a blade of ice.
“Say one more word to her,” Regulus said, very softly, “and I will hex you so thoroughly that St. Mungo’s will name a ward after you.”
Mulciber’s eyes went wide. “Black—we were just having a laugh—”
“You were being cruel to my soulmate.” The words came out before Regulus could stop them, possessive and fierce and terrifyingly true. “You will not do so again. Do you understand?”
The courtyard had gone very, very quiet. Students were staring. Avery had gone the colour of old parchment. Mulciber swallowed, the motion pressing his throat more firmly against Regulus’s wand tip, and nodded once, jerkily.
Regulus stepped back. “Leave.”
They left, practically tripping over each other in their haste. Regulus sheathed his wand, his hands trembling slightly—with rage, he told himself, only rage—and turned to face (Y/N).
She was staring at him with an expression he couldn’t quite name. Her eyes were wet, but she was smiling, a small, wobbly thing that made his chest ache.
“You called me your soulmate,” she said. “Out loud. In front of people.”
“I was making a point.”
“You hexed Mulciber for me.”
“I did not hex him. I threatened to hex him. There is a significant difference.” He paused. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”
She shook her head, a single tear spilling down her cheek. “No. They were just mean. People are mean sometimes. It’s fine.”
“It is not fine.” Regulus’s voice was rougher than he intended. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a handkerchief—embroidered with the Black family crest, because some habits were impossible to break—and pressed it into her hands. “You are not an idiot. You are… unconventional. There is a difference.”
(Y/N) sniffled, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief. “You really think so?”
“I would not have said it if I did not.”
She looked at him then, really looked, and something in her gaze softened. “You’re not as cold as you pretend to be, Regulus Black.”
He had no response to that. He stood there, stiff and uncomfortable, while she dried her tears with his handkerchief and Marmalade wound around her ankles, purring loudly. The courtyard was still staring. His reputation as an untouchable, emotionless heir had just taken a very public blow.
He found he didn’t care.
The third crack was not a crack at all. It was a full, catastrophic collapse.
It happened in the Astronomy Tower, in the small, sleepless hours of a December night.
Regulus had been dreaming again—the same dream that plagued him every few nights, of darkness and cold and a mark that burned like ice on his arm, of a voice that whispered terrible things in his ear. He had woken gasping, his sheets tangled around his legs, and had fled to the one place in the castle that always brought him a measure of peace.
The Astronomy Tower was empty—or so he thought, until he stepped onto the open parapet and found (Y/N) already there, wrapped in a patched quilt, Marmalade curled in her lap.
“You couldn’t sleep either?” she asked, without turning around.
Regulus hesitated. Every instinct told him to leave, to retreat behind his walls and deal with his demons alone, as he always had. But his feet carried him forward, and he leaned against the stone railing beside her, looking out at the star-scattered sky.
“Bad dream,” he said, because it was the truth, and he was too tired to lie.
“Me too.” She stroked Marmalade’s ears. “I dreamed I was trying to teach a herd of hippogriffs to tap-dance. It was very stressful. They have no rhythm whatsoever.”
Despite everything—the nightmare, the weight on his chest, the looming terror of the choices he had made and could not unmake—Regulus laughed. A real laugh, rusty and surprised, dragged out of him by the sheer absurdity of the image.
(Y/N) turned to look at him, her expression bright with delight. “You laughed! I made you laugh!”
“You are utterly ridiculous,” Regulus said, but there was no bite to it. There was, in fact, something that sounded perilously close to fondness.
“I know.” She bumped her shoulder against his. “That’s why you like me.”
He should have denied it. He should have pulled away, rebuilt his walls, reminded her—and himself—of all the reasons this could never work. The Dark Mark hidden beneath his sleeve. The family that would never accept her. The war creeping closer with every passing day.
Instead, he said, “I do. Like you. Against all logic and reason.”
The words hung in the cold night air, fragile as frost.
(Y/N) went very still. “You do?”
“I have tried very hard not to,” Regulus said, his voice low and strained. “You are a disaster. You have no sense of self-preservation. You befriend dangerous creatures and startle easily and say the most incomprehensible things I have ever heard. You once tried to send a howler to a suit of armour because you thought it was lonely. You are, without doubt, the most infuriating person I have ever met.”
“This is a very strange declaration of affection,” (Y/N) whispered, but her eyes were shining.
“And yet,” Regulus continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, “I cannot stop thinking about you. I look for you in every room. I keep your ridiculous notes in my textbook. I threatened my own housemates because they made you cry.” He turned to face her fully, his heart pounding so hard he was certain she could hear it. “I do not understand it. I do not understand you. But I have stopped trying to fight it.”
There was a long, suspended moment. Then (Y/N) set Marmalade gently on the stones—the cat gave an indignant meow—and stepped closer, so close that Regulus could feel the warmth radiating from her patchwork quilt.
“You know what I think?” she said, her voice soft.
“I am almost afraid to ask.”
“I think you’ve spent your whole life being told what you’re supposed to be. A perfect son. A proper pureblood. Someone cold and controlled and untouchable.” She reached up and touched his cheek, her fingers feather-light against his skin. “But that’s not who you are. Not really. You’re the boy who saved me from a potion explosion. The boy who threatened Mulciber with a hex because he was mean. The boy who gave me his handkerchief and didn’t even ask for it back.”
“I did want that handkerchief back,” Regulus muttered, but his voice cracked on the last word.
(Y/N) smiled, that sun-bright, impossible smile. “You can have it back. But only if you admit that you want to kiss me right now.”
Regulus’s breath caught. His hands, moving of their own accord, settled on her waist, drawing her closer. The quilt bunched between them. Marmalade, somewhere below, made a sound that might have been encouragement.
“I want to kiss you,” Regulus said, and it felt like surrender and victory all at once. “I have wanted to kiss you since the moment you called me a pretty flobberworm.”
“I called you a very pretty flobberworm,” (Y/N) corrected, her eyes dancing. “It’s an important distinction.”
He kissed her.
It was soft, at first—tentative, almost questioning, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was real. Then her arms wound around his neck, and her lips parted beneath his, and something inside him that had been frozen for years cracked open and flooded with warmth. She tasted like peppermint and starlight and all the ridiculous joy he had never let himself want.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, (Y/N) pressed her forehead to his and whispered, “I knew you’d give in eventually.”
“You are insufferable,” Regulus informed her, but he was smiling, a real smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look years younger.
“And you’re my soulmate.” She kissed the tip of his nose. “The universe picked me for you. The universe thinks you need someone insufferable.”
“The universe,” Regulus said, pulling her closer, “has a truly terrible sense of humour.”
But he was laughing again, quiet and warm, and when Marmalade climbed up his robes and settled on his shoulder like a very flat, ginger parrot, he didn’t even complain.
Three weeks later, they went to Hogsmeade together.
It was the last weekend before the Christmas holidays, and the village was dusted with snow, the rooftops glittering under a pale winter sun. Regulus had never been one for Hogsmeade weekends—too much noise, too many people—but walking through the cobbled streets with (Y/N)’s hand tucked into the crook of his arm, he found he didn’t mind.
She was wearing a scarf that she had knitted herself—it was lumpy and uneven and at least four feet too long, trailing behind her like a banner—and she was talking, as she always did, a bright stream of commentary on everything they passed.
“—and I think Honeydukes should make a flavour called ‘Regret,’ for when you eat too many sweets and feel bad about it afterwards, but also it would taste really good, like toffee and poor decisions—”
“That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard,” Regulus said.
“You love it.”
He did. Merlin help him, he did.
They stopped at the Three Broomsticks for butterbeer, and (Y/N) insisted on ordering two extra mugs because “Marmalade might be thirsty, and also the barmaid looked like she needed a drink.” The barmaid, a tired-looking witch with ink stains on her apron, gave them a third mug for free and told (Y/N) she was “a rare sweetheart.”
Regulus watched his soulmate charm the entire pub without even trying, and something fierce and tender swelled in his chest.
When they walked back to the castle as dusk fell, the sky streaked with pink and gold, (Y/N) tugged him to a stop near the gates and turned to face him, her breath misting in the cold air.
“I have something for you,” she said, and dug into her bag, rummaging past what sounded like at least three different kinds of animal treats and possibly a live creature. She emerged with a small, neatly wrapped package. “It’s a Christmas present. Early. Because I’m impatient.”
Regulus unwrapped it carefully, the Black in him instinctively preserving the paper. Inside was a handkerchief—his handkerchief, the one he had given her in the courtyard, except now it had been embroidered with tiny, slightly crooked stars along the border. In one corner, in silver thread, were two sets of initials: R.A.B. and (Y/N) (L/N).
“I know it’s not much,” (Y/N) said, suddenly uncharacteristically shy. “But I wanted you to have it. So you’d remember. That you’re not just… that.” She gestured vaguely at his left arm, the arm where the Dark Mark lay hidden. “You’re also this. You’re starlight and handkerchiefs and someone who laughs at terrible hippogriff tap-dancing dreams.”
Regulus looked at the handkerchief. Looked at her. She was biting her lip, her eyes wide and anxious, and she was still wearing that ridiculous scarf, and Marmalade had poked his head out of her bag and was regarding him with that same knowing, yellow gaze.
“I am going to marry you,” Regulus said.
(Y/N) blinked. “What?”
“Not today,” he clarified, because even in the grip of overwhelming emotion he was still, at his core, a pragmatist. “There are logistics. My family will be insufferable, and I have… obligations… that will need to be untangled.” The Dark Lord, the Mark, the war—all of it loomed at the edges of his mind, but for the first time, he felt like there might be a way through. A way out. “But I am going to marry you. Eventually. If you’ll have me.”
(Y/N) stared at him for a long, breathless moment.
Then she launched herself into his arms, nearly sending them both tumbling into a snowdrift, and kissed him soundly.
“Yes,” she said against his lips, laughing and crying at the same time. “Yes, you ridiculous, wonderful, thestral-like man. Yes.”
Marmalade meowed, long-suffering and resigned.
And Regulus Black, heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, bearer of a Dark Mark he was beginning to think he might one day defy, stood in the snow outside Hogwarts with his soulmate in his arms and thought that perhaps, just perhaps, the universe’s sense of humour wasn’t so terrible after all.
She had been right, that first day. She had had nothing appropriate to say.
