“You don't get to tell me who I can and can't fancy, alright?”
Locked together in the dark of a supply closet after a Hufflepuff greenhouse party, a heated argument between Sirius and Y/N abruptly shatters as Sirius confesses his feelings
Warnings: Heavy swearing, flirting/sexual tension, heavy bullying, emotional tension, description of injuries. Ps i do NOT support she who shall not be named at all I'm just obsessed with Harry Potter so why not write some gay shit out of spite!
The Great Hall on Halloween was a sensory overload of flickering amber light, floating Jack-o’-lanterns, and the low, echoing hum of hundreds of students gathered beneath the enchanted ceiling. Overhead, the sky mirrored the crisp, star-dusted black of an October night, while thousands of live bats swooped in lazy, erratic circles, occasionally brushing against the rafters. Rubeus Hagrid had outdone himself this year; the massive, glowing orange pumpkins stationed at the corners of the room were large enough to swallow a first-year whole, and the air smelled heavily of roasted chestnuts, spiced cider, and melting tallow.
At the long tables, golden plates groaned under the weight of heavy autumnal feasts—carved joints of meat, roasted root vegetables, and heaps of spiced pastries. Ghostly residents like Nearly Headless Nick glided effortlessly through the thick of the crowd, performing looping formations and startling unsuspecting students by phasing right through the stone pillars with cold, hollow laughter.
Yet, for all the traditional theatricality of Hogwarts on All Hallows' Eve, there was one figure sitting near the end of a table who looked like he had stepped out of an entirely different dimension.
Y/N didn't give a single, solitary damn about wizarding traditions, and it showed in every meticulously curated detail of his appearance. While pure-blood students wore their standard robes with perhaps a slightly looser tie or a polished pin, Y/N had completely subverted the uniform. His black cotton shirt was rolled at the elbows, exposing forearms wrapped in thick leather and studded fire bracelets that clinked softly against one another with every movement. A heavy, spiked choker bit into the pale skin of his throat, matching the jagged edge of his new silver industrial bar glinting through his dark hair. His fingernails were slashed with chipped, matte black polish, and his face—bold, striking, and entirely defiant of wizarding etiquette—was painted with a full, intricate skull design. White greasepaint starkly outlined his cheekbones and jaw, with dark, hollowed-out sockets painted around his eyes and intricate skeletal teeth drawn over his lips.
To the traditional pure-blood families populating the Slytherin and Gryffindor tables alike, the concept of "dressing up" wasn't a festive holiday tradition; it was an aggressive, foreign import—a distinctly Muggle-born affectation that smacked of rebellion and bad taste.
Y/N didn't care. He sat with one long leg hooked over the bench, entirely unbothered by the heavy, disapproving glares sliding his way from the older prefects. Instead of touching the roasted pheasant or the spiced pumpkin tarts piled high on the golden plates before him, he reached casually into the deep pocket of his trousers and pulled out a crinkling, brightly colored plastic wrapper.
It was a packet of foil-wrapped chocolate skulls—pure, unadulterated Muggle-born contraband. He tore the corner off with his teeth, spat the plastic onto the stone floor, and popped one of the cheap, waxy chocolates into his mouth, his dark eyes scanning the hall with a look of bored, predatory indifference.
At the Slytherin table, the festive cheer was practically curdling into sour milk just looking in Y/N’s direction.
A group of older pure-blood sixth and seventh-years—led by a couple of Knox and Parkinson sycophants who fancied themselves arbiters of House purity—had been glaring across the plates of roast beef for the last ten minutes. To them, Y/N’s skull-painted face, chipped black nails, and blatant display of Muggle confectionery weren't just an eccentric style choice; they were a deliberate, spitting insult to wizarding heritage.
A heavy, bulky seventh-year named Montgomery pushed himself up from the bench, his silver-trimmed robes rustling as he shoved his way past the trembling lower-years. Two of his cronies flanked him instantly, their eyes narrowed with ugly, predatory amusement. They didn't bother hiding their intentions as they stalked down the length of the table, their heavy boots clacking loudly against the stone floor.
"Looking a bit pale today, aren't you, mudblood?" Montgomery sneered, leaning over the table, his breath reeking of spiced wine and malicious satisfaction. He reached out with a thick, ring-bearing finger, aiming a crude poke directly at the center of Y/N’s painted forehead, right where the white greasepaint formed the hollow center of the skull. "What is this pathetic rubbish? Did you lose a bet with some filthy ragpicker in Cokeworth, or did you forget what house you’re actually sitting in?"
Y/N didn't flinch. He slowly stopped chewing the foil-wrapped chocolate skull, his dark eyes snapping upward with a look of murderous, ice-cold fury. The skull paint only made his expression look more feral, the painted skeletal teeth stretching into a humorless, tight-lipped grimace.
"Keep your fat, greasy fingers to yourself before I bite them off, Montgomery," Y/N snarled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register that cut right through the festive chatter around them. "Or better yet, why don't you take your little fan club and go choke on a fucking pumpkin?"
Montgomery’s face flushed a deep, mottled purple. "You cheeky little—"
"You think because you've been strutting around looking like a bloody corpse that you own this place?" one of the cronies spat, stepping in closer, his hand dropping warningly toward the pocket where his wand was tucked. "You don't belong here. You and your little Muggle rubbish are an absolute embarrassment to—"
"I don't give a flying fuck what you think I am, you insecure piece of shit," Y/N hissed, shoving his plate aside with enough force to shatter a golden goblet. He started to slide his long legs out from under the bench, his shoulders tensing like a coiled spring, his hand slipping toward his own wand with absolute, murderous intent. "Why don't you pull your wands out right now, right here in front of the whole fucking hall, and see how fast I turn your insides out—"
He never got the chance to finish the threat.
Across the hall, Sirius Black had watched the whole thing start to boil over. Pushing his plate away with a sharp scrape, he had already surged up from the Gryffindor table, closing the distance across the Great Hall with terrifying speed.
Before Y/N could launch himself across the table, a sudden, heavy yank caught him completely by surprise. Sirius hooked his fingers securely and familiarly into the belt loops of Y/N’s dark jeans, and with a sharp, unyielding jerk, hauled Y/N backward off the bench with enough force to send him stumbling into a hard chest.
"What the—get your fucking hands off me, you fucker!" Y/N snapped, instinctively thrashing against the grip, his temper boiling over. "Let me go! I was just about to rip that bastard's throat out, what the fuck are you doing—"
"Shut the fuck up," Sirius muttered low and fast against his ear, his fingers maintaining a vice-grip on the denim as he spun Y/N around and immediately started dragging him backward down the aisle.
"Are you out of your absolute mind?!" Y/N yelled, digging his heels into the flagstones as he tried to yank himself free, his face flushing hot with humiliation and unspent rage. "Let me go back there, Sirius! I swear to God, I'm going to hex Montgomery into next week, let go of my fucking pants—"
"Not a chance," Sirius shot back over his shoulder, his jaw clenched tight as he towed a furiously swearing, kicking Y/N past the gaping stares of the Gryffindor table. "You're not getting yourself expelled over some greasy-haired pure-blood prick on Halloween night, so keep your fucking wand in your pocket and move your feet."
"Fuck you! I didn't need your 'hero' bullshit, I had it completely handled—" Y/N barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls as they finally cleared the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall and plunged into the quiet, dim shadow of the corridor.
Sirius didn't answer. He simply kept his grip tight on the belt loop, dragging Y/N backward away from the sprawling, staring crowds, moving with a purposeful, magnetic gravity that brooked no argument until they slammed into a secluded alcove in the shadows.
The moment they cleared the corner, Sirius backed Y/N up against the cold stone, his hand finally releasing the belt loop only to slide flat against the wall right beside Y/N’s head, trapping him in the narrow space.
Y/N shoved hard against Sirius’s chest, his eyes flashing with a furious, unfiltered blaze of irritation under the white greasepaint.
"Are you fucking mad?" Y/N snarled, his voice echoing sharply off the stone walls. His chest heaved beneath the spiked choker, the black nail polish on his fingers digging angrily into the fabric of Sirius's shirt as he tried to shove him back. "Dragging me out of the damn Great Hall like a misbehaving dog? What is your actual problem, Black? Do you enjoy making a complete spectacle of yourself, or are you just genuinely incapable of functioning for five minutes without sticking your nose where it doesn't belong?"
He didn't stop. The adrenaline of the interruption combined with the simmering rage he’d been carrying all evening spilled over in a hot, jagged stream of complaints.
"Everyone was staring—not that I give a damn what those pure-blood snobs think, but you pulling me across the floor by my fucking trousers like some sort of—of unruly pet? And what, you think because you decided to play hero I was going to thank you? I was eating in peace! I was minding my own business, which is a lot more than I can say for you, hovering over the Gryffindor table like a lovesick vulture—"
Y/N kept talking, his mouth moving in a rapid, heated tirade, his dark eyes glaring daggers up at Sirius. But Sirius wasn't listening.
In fact, he hadn't heard a single word past the first three seconds.
Sirius was completely, irrevocably lost. Up close, under the flickering amber glow of a single wall sconce, the skull paint looked devastating. The stark white lines traced the sharp contours of Y/N's jaw, accentuating the frustrated movement of his lips, and the dark hollows around his eyes made his gaze look feral, hypnotic, and entirely intoxicating. The faint, sweet scent of cheap chocolate lingered on his breath, mixing with the cool, outdoor chill clinging to his shirt. The spiked choker bit gently into the skin of his throat every time he swallowed, and the new silver industrial bar glinted with a cold, rebellious edge whenever he tilted his head.
Sirius stood frozen, his hand still braced against the stone wall, entirely deaf to the angry monologue bouncing off his skull. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing shifting into a slow, heavy rhythm as his eyes tracked the frantic movement of Y/N’s painted lips.
"...and another thing, if you ever touch my clothes like that again—are you even listening to me? Black! Look at me when I'm yelling at you!" Y/N snapped, reaching up to shove a flat palm squarely against Sirius's chest, trying to force him back.
Instead of backing away, Sirius leaned in.
He didn't capture Y/N's lips—they had unspokenly agreed to hold that line for now, a fragile truce after the chaos of the hallway earlier that week. But Sirius was seventeen, running on pure, unfiltered impulse, and the proximity was a physical ache.
Instead of kissing him, Sirius dipped his head down, pressing his lips softly, deliberately against the sensitive curve where Y/N's jaw met the base of his ear.
Y/N’s angry tirade cut off instantly, dying in his throat with a sharp, breathy hitch. His hand froze flat against Sirius’s chest, the angry tension in his muscles instantly dissolving into a sudden, rigid shock.
Sirius lingered there for a fraction of a second, his lips brushing against the cool skin just beneath the new silver industrial piercing, before pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the sensitive column of Y/N's neck. He didn't stay long enough for Y/N to recover his voice or formulate a retort; as his lips grazed upward along the shell of Y/N's ear, he let his teeth lightly, teasingly nip at the lobe in passing—a lightning-fast, reckless provocation.
By the time Y/N’s breath caught and his fingers instinctively curled into the fabric of Sirius’s shirt to push him away, Sirius had already pulled back just an inch, a slow, wicked, entirely unapologetic smirk ghosting across his lips as he looked down at him.
The silence in the dark corridor suddenly felt deafening, heavy with everything they weren't saying out loud.
Y/N’s brows furrowed sharply, the aggressive lines of the white greasepaint pulling together into a hard, irritated V as his brain finally rebooted past the sudden jolt of the contact against his neck.
He didn't blush. Y/N didn't do flushed cheeks or wide-eyed shyness—that wasn't in his wiring. But beneath the dark, spiked collar, right against his ribs, his heart gave a violent, traitorous double-thump, hammering against his chest wall with an infuriating rhythm he couldn't control. He hated that Sirius knew exactly which buttons to push without even using his hands, hated the way a stupid, lightning-fast nip to his earlobe could short-circuit a fully loaded, venomous threat before it even cleared his teeth.
For a second, his mouth parted, hot air rushing past his lips as he stared up at Sirius, whose dark eyes were gleaming with an entirely shameless, dangerous amusement.
Sirius looked devastatingly effortless, leaning into the stone with that relaxed, feline posture that drove everyone at Hogwarts crazy—and drove Y/N absolutely insane. He had ditched his proper school robes somewhere along the way, wearing just a thin black button-up shirt with the top three buttons casually undone, exposing the pale hollow of his throat and the sharp line of his collarbones. A heavy silver chain rested against his skin, catching the dim torchlight every time he breathed, tucked neatly into the waistband of tight black jeans held together by a worn leather belt and finished off with his usual scuffed, heavy-soled boots.
He looked like he belonged on a stage in a damp, smoke-filled underground club in London, not trapped in the damp stone corridors of a magical boarding school, and the sheer audacity of it made Y/N’s teeth grind.
"You are an absolute, insufferable, cocky piece of shit," Y/N hissed, his voice dropping an octave, laced with pure, unadulterated venom as he shoved hard against Sirius’s chest again—harder this time, though Sirius barely budged an inch. "You think you can just wander over, stick your teeth where they aren't invited, and act like you didn't just pull me out of a fight I was about to win? Get the fuck off me, Black."
Sirius didn't back down. If anything, the hostility only fed the fire in his chest. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face, his gaze dropping deliberately to Y/N’s mouth before flicking back up to meet those furious, dark eyes.
"You were about to get yourself slapped with a month of detention and a howling lecture from McGonagall on house unity, darling," Sirius murmured, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrated straight through the space between them. He leaned in just a fraction closer, his shoulder brushing the cold stone wall on the opposite side, caging Y/N in completely. "I saved your gorgeous, skull-painted face. The least you could do is say thank you instead of looking like you want to chew my throat out."
"I'd rather swallow broken glass," Y/N snapped back instantly, his fingers twitching at his sides, aching to reach for his wand just to wipe that smug, gorgeous smirk right off Sirius's face. "I didn't ask for your help, and I sure as hell don't need you playing bodyguard. If Montgomery wanted to push his luck, I was more than happy to show him what happens when a pure-blood idiot pisses off someone who actually knows how to fight dirty. You ruined my fucking night, Sirius."
"Did I?" Sirius teased, his voice dropping even lower, teasing and low-stakes dangerous. One of his hands shifted, his knuckles brushing lightly, almost imperceptibly, against Y/N’s forearm, tracing the edge of a fire bracelet. "Because it looked to me like you were having a miserable time eating your contraband chocolate while a bunch of snobs stared at you like you grew a second head. At least out here, you've got better company."
"You are single-handedly the worst company in this entire castle," Y/N retorted, though the sharp edge of his anger was beginning to fray at the edges, dissolving into that dangerous, high-tension static that always hummed whenever they got too close. His dark eyes darted down to the open buttons of Sirius’s shirt, taking in the glint of the chain against his skin before snapping back up, jaw tight. "Move. Before I lose my temper and actually do something we'll both regret."
"Oh, I'm shaking," Sirius laughed softly, a rich, dark sound that echoed off the damp stones. He didn't move an inch. His eyes roved over Y/N’s face, tracking the white greasepaint, the chipped black nail polish currently digging into the palms of Y/N's hands, the spiked choker rising and falling with every sharp breath. "You don't want me to move, Y/N. You like having me right here."
"I'd like you six feet under, preferably wrapped in—"
The sharp, echoing shout bounced down the cavernous corridor, cutting through the heavy, charged silence like a knife.
"Padfoot, you git, where’d you sprint off to? Remus found where Filch hid the smuggled firewhisky, and if you aren't back in the next two minutes, James is going to drink the whole bottle and barf on the common room rug!"
It was Peter’s voice, followed closely by the faint, distinctive clatter of boots and James’s loud, animated laughter echoing from around the distant corner.
Sirius didn't break eye contact with Y/N immediately. He lingered for one long, agonizing beat, his gaze heavy and deliberate, as if weighing the exact cost of turning around versus staying right where he was, pinning Y/N to the wall. The sound of footsteps grew closer, bouncing off the stone walls, drawing dangerously near to their secluded alcove.
With a slow, reluctant sigh that ghosted warm air across Y/N’s cheek, Sirius finally let his arms drop. He took a single, deliberate step back, breaking the suffocating cage of his body, though his eyes stayed locked on Y/N with an unspoken promise that hung thick in the air between them.
"Duty calls, apparently," Sirius murmured, his lips curving into one last, wicked little smile. He reached out, his thumb casually grazing the very tip of Y/N’s chin—quick, light, and completely unauthorized—before turning on his heel. "Don't go getting yourself into any more trouble without me to watch the show, alright?"
"Go to hell, Black," Y/N spat out automatically, though his voice lacked any real bite as he watched Sirius spin around the corner to meet up with the rest of the Marauders, his dark hair falling across the back of his black button-up shirt.
Y/N stood frozen in the dim shadows of the alcove for a long moment after the sound of their footsteps faded away down the stone hallway. His chest was still rising and falling too fast, his pulse hammering a frantic, stubborn beat against his ribs. He dragged a hand through his dark hair, his fingers catching on the silver industrial bar, cursing under his breath as he tried to flatten out the sudden rush of heat crawling up his neck.
He played it off instantly, dropping his shoulders, rolling his neck, and letting out a loud, theatrical sigh of pure annoyance to the empty corridor. He smoothed down the front of his shirt, adjusted his spiked choker with a sharp yank, and turned back toward the direction of the common room, his face settling back into its usual mask of cold, unbothered hostility.
The Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library at 2:00 AM smelled entirely different than it did during the day. In the sunlight, it was a place of dry parchment, polished mahogany, and the faint, intimidating scent of centuries-old enchantments meant to deter curious teenagers. At night, when the grand hall was pitch-black and the towering, iron-reinforced shelves stretched upward into absolute shadow, it smelled of ozone, cold stone, and sleeping magic that hummed just beneath the threshold of hearing.
It was dead silent. The only sound was the rhythmic, soft scratching of a quill somewhere near the back desks—or so Y/N had thought when he slipped past the velvet ropes twenty minutes ago.
Y/N stepped carefully down the narrow aisle between Row 12 and Row 13, his dark eyes scanning the leather-bound spines gleaming faintly under the thin, flickering beam of his wand. He wasn't here to do any pathetic school assignments; he didn't give a single flying fuck about Defense Against the Dark Arts or Professor McGonagall's precious syllabus. He was tracking down a nasty, vicious little hex out of pure, unadulterated boredom and personal curiosity—the kind of dark, rotting magic that the school administrators kept locked away because they were terrified of what kids like him could do with it.
He looked the part, too. No stiff school robes, no uniform bullshit. Y/N was wearing a beat-up, sleeveless black muscle tee that showed off the sharp lines of his collarbones, paired with heavily distressed dark grey jeans held up by a studded belt, his heavy, scuffed black boots, and a sprawl of silver rings, chains, and the spiked choker digging lightly into his throat. He didn't wear school makeup tonight—just raw, unfiltered attitude and the natural, tired dark circles under his eyes from ignoring sleep for the last three days straight. He was an outsider here, a walking middle finger to the pristine, pure-blood etiquette of the castle, treated like a localized plague by half the student body. It was him against the whole damn school, and honestly, he preferred it that way.
A faint scuffle—the unmistakable squeak of a leather-soled boot against dry floorboards followed by a muffled, hissed curse—shattered the quiet three aisles over.
Y/N froze mid-stride, his breath catching in his throat. He doused his wand light with a quick flick of his thumb, plunging himself into ink-black darkness, and crept silently toward the intersecting cross-aisle.
Ten feet away, half-hidden behind an oversized tome that had been carelessly shoved back into the wrong shelf, a familiar shock of dark, messy hair caught the moonlight filtering through the high, arched stained-glass windows.
Sirius Black looked like an absolute disaster—and somehow, infuriatingly, still managed to pull it off. He had ditched his proper robes hours ago; tonight he was wearing a tight, sweat-stained white t-shirt that clung to his chest, a battered crimson-and-black flannel jacket slung over one shoulder, loose black jeans, and his classic, worn-in boots.
He was crouched low behind a cart of fallen manuscripts, clutching a heavily smoking, dented brass canister to his chest like a soldier holding a live grenade.
Y/N stared at him for a full three seconds, sheer disbelief warring with instant, boiling irritation.
"What in the actual, bloody fuck are you doing?" Y/N whispered fiercely, stepping out from the shadows of the shelf and looming over the crouched Marauder, his voice dripping with venom.
Sirius flinched violently, dropping the smoking canister with a sharp, metallic clatter that echoed like a gunshot through the vaulted hall. He whipped his head up, his grey eyes wide and dilated, before a slow, crooked, wildly reckless grin spread across his face.
"Ah," Sirius breathed, leaning back against the base of the heavy oak shelf and crossing his long legs out into the aisle. "If it isn't my favorite midnight distraction. Come to turn me in, darling?"
"I came to look at some real magic in peace, you absolute menace," Y/N hissed, dropping down on one knee so he was eye-level with Sirius, his fingers twitching toward his wand pocket. "Is that a fucking Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder canister? In the middle of the Restricted Section? Are you trying to burn the whole damn library down, or are you just genuinely incapable of pulling a prank that doesn't involve leveling a historical landmark?"
"First of all, it's a modified Peruvian canister," Sirius corrected smoothly, completely unfazed by the hostility radiating off Y/N. He reached up, casually wiping a smear of silver ink from his cheek with the back of his hand, leaving a grey smudge across his knuckles instead. "Second of all, Remus dared me. And third of all, I wasn't trying to burn the library down—I was trying to evacuate the fourth floor because Filch nearly caught us hanging a charmed, singing portrait of McGonagall in the staff room, and I needed a place to ditch the evidence."
"You're a bloody exhausting prick," Y/N muttered, though he didn't pull his wand out. Instead, his dark eyes scanned the smoking canister, which had thankfully petered out into a harmless puff of grey vapor. "Does James know you're hiding out in here like a rat?"
"James is currently passed out on the common room rug eating a stolen bag of sugar quills," Sirius said cheerfully. He tilted his head back against the shelf, looking up at Y/N with that infuriating, heavy-lidded stare that made Y/N’s skin prickle with static. "I preferred better company. Clearly, the universe agreed and sent you right to me."
"The universe sent me to find a book on dark curses, not a stray dog looking for somewhere to hide from a caretaker," Y/N snapped back, but his voice lacked any real bite. He shifted his weight, trying to stand up, but the narrowness of the aisle—barely three feet wide, cramped between towering stacks of ancient, rotting leather—made it impossible to move without crowding into Sirius’s space.
"Well, now you've found me," Sirius murmured, his voice dropping an octave, sliding into that smooth, gravelly hum that always felt like physical touch. He didn't make a move to stand, just watched Y/N with an intense, unblinking focus that made the air between them suddenly feel paper-thin. "Sit down. Unless you're scared of a little dust."
Y/N let out a sharp, cynical scoff, rolling his eyes so hard it hurt. "I'm not scared of a damn thing in this shithole of a castle, Black. Least of all a pampered Gryffindor hiding from school security."
"Prove it," Sirius challenged softly.
Before Y/N could fire off another insult, Sirius shifted his weight—just an inch—and patted the dusty floorboards directly beside him.
Against every survival instinct screaming in the back of his mind, Y/N didn't walk away. With a heavy, deliberate sigh that communicated maximum annoyance, he dropped down onto the floor, pulling his knees up and leaning his back against the opposite shelf, leaving a narrow, charged pocket of empty air between them.
The silence rushed back in, but it wasn't the peaceful quiet of before. It was thick, vibrating with the sort of nervous energy that happens when two people who spend half their time wanting to murder each other are suddenly forced into a space no wider than a coffin.
Up close, without the harsh lighting of the Great Hall or the chaotic noise of the common rooms, Sirius looked different. The playful, untouchable mask of the prankster prince slipped just a fraction, revealing the sharp, exhaustion-lined shadows under his eyes. The silver chain around his neck gleamed against the open skin of his collarbone, and the faint scent of cedarwood, old parchment, and a very distinct trace of burnt gunpowder hung in the air around him.
Y/N turned his head away, staring fixedly at the spine of a massive, iron-clasped volume across the aisle, trying to regulate his breathing. "So. Are you going to sit there looking like a kicked kneazle all night, or are you going to explain why you smell like a bloody gunpowder factory?"
"I told you, McGonagall's staff room," Sirius replied, his voice a low, lazy rumble. He shifted his legs, his boot brushing lightly, almost accidentally, against the toe of Y/N’s heavy leather boot. He didn't pull away. "Though I'd rather talk about what you're doing down here at two in the morning. Pince has got Trip Jinxes rigged between rows fourteen and twenty. If you weren't paying attention, you'd have lost an ear by now."
"I know the fuckin’ wards, Black," Y/N muttered, his eyes darting back to meet Sirius's gaze. "Unlike some people, I actually know how to navigate dark magic without blowing my own eyebrows off."
"Oh, look at you. So dangerous," Sirius teased, a slow, wicked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned his head sideways against the shelf, his dark hair falling in messy waves across his forehead. "Bet you're reading up on something illegal. Too edgy for the standard curriculum?"
"My reading habits are none of your fucking business," Y/N shot back, though his fingers automatically twitched toward his collar, adjusting the spiked choker resting against his throat. "And if you mention my business again, I will personally feed your favorite leather jacket to a Bicorn."
"My jacket is sacred, you heathen," Sirius laughed softly, a rich, dark sound that bounced gently off the leather-bound spines around them.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The ambient magic of the library seemed to hum a little louder, the draft from the high windows stirring the loose ends of Sirius's dark hair. The hostility between them didn't vanish—it never really did—but it softened, shifting into that familiar, intoxicating gravity that pulled them toward each other every time they ended up in the same room.
Sirius shifted again, closing half the distance between them. The space in the aisle was suddenly claustrophobic, every breath they took sharing the same tiny pocket of air.
"You've got ink on your jaw," Sirius murmured, his voice losing its teasing edge, dropping into something quiet and intensely deliberate.
Y/N’s brows twitched. "Where?"
Sirius didn't ask permission. He raised a hand, his long, ink-stained fingers brushing lightly against Y/N’s skin just beneath the corner of his mouth.
Y/N froze. Every muscle in his body went rigidly, painfully still. The touch was so light, so impossibly deliberate, that it felt like an electric shock against his jawline. Sirius’s thumb traced the edge of his jaw, smudging a tiny trace of soot and ink that had been lingering there.
Up close, Sirius’s eyes were entirely locked on Y/N’s lips, his breathing slowing down into a heavy, rhythmic cadence that matched the erratic thumping of Y/N’s own pulse.
"You're a damn nightmare," Y/N whispered, his voice dangerously low, his dark eyes flashing up to meet Sirius’s gaze. He didn't pull away. He didn't bat Sirius's hand down. He just sat there, letting the touch burn against his skin like open fire.
"I know," Sirius answered, his thumb lingering on Y/N’s jaw, sliding upward to trace the sharp line of his cheekbone before his fingers tangled briefly in the dark locks near Y/N’s ear. "And you love every second of it."
"I fucking hate you," Y/N breathed out, though the words lacked any conviction whatsoever, sounding more like a confession than a threat.
"Lie to me again, sweetheart," Sirius murmured, his face drifting closer, the distance between them narrowing until Y/N could feel the heat radiating off Sirius’s skin, smelling the faint trace of sweetness from a licorice wand Sirius must have pocketed earlier.
Y/N’s eyes dropped to Sirius’s mouth for a fraction of a second, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The tension was suffocating, pulling tight like a wire stretched to its absolute limit—the same electric friction that had started in the hallway a couple nights ago, now amplified a hundred times over in the dark, silent heart of the Restricted Section.
Before either of them could cross that final, razor-thin line, a sharp, distant clatter broke the silence—the heavy, echoing slam of a door somewhere on the floor below, followed by Filch’s raspy, furious shouting echoing up the spiral stone staircase.
"I know you're down there, you miserable little poltergeist-lovers! I'll have you suspended by your thumbs!"
Sirius didn't flinch away, but a sharp, amused smirk cut through the intensity of his expression. He let his thumb brush one last time across Y/N’s lower lip—a slow, agonizingly deliberate caress—before slowly dropping his hand.
"Looks like our chaperone has arrived," Sirius whispered, his voice a gravelly purr right against Y/N’s ear.
"Get the fuck out of here before I hex you into a toad," Y/N muttered, though his voice was entirely breathless, his fingers gripping the edge of the wooden floorboards to anchor himself as Sirius finally shifted back.
Sirius scrambled to his feet with feline grace, grabbing his discarded, dented canister from the floor. He backed down the aisle toward the shadows, pausing at the corner to flash one last, blinding, utterly unapologetic grin over his shoulder.
"Same time tomorrow, darling?" Sirius called out softly, before melting into the darkness just as Filch’s heavy footsteps rounded the lower shelves.
Y/N sat alone in the dark aisle for a long time, his hand rising slowly to touch the spot on his jaw where Sirius’s thumb had been, his heart refusing to quiet down long after the footsteps had faded away into the stone.
The damp stone walls of the Slytherin dungeons echoed with a dull, heavy thud as Regulus Black kicked the heavy wooden frame of Y/N’s door open.
Inside, the room was a sanctuary of bad lighting and loud, aggressive noise. A battered muggle radio—magically modified to pick up an underground Liverpool station through a maze of static and spatial charms—was blasting a distorted, aggressive post-punk bassline that rattled the loose mortar in the walls. Y/N was sitting on the edge of his unmade iron-frame bed, wearing a faded black oversized hoodie, dark grey jeans shredded at the knees, his heavy-soled black boots, and a sprawl of silver rings and chains glinting under the dim amber lamp. He had a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a small notebook half-full of jagged, angry lyric drafts clutched in one hand.
He didn't even look up when the door slammed against the stone.
"Get the fuck out of my room, Regulus," Y/N muttered, his pencil scratching aggressively across the paper. "Unless you brought something to eat or a reason for me not to hex your eyebrows off, close the door on your way out."
Regulus didn't move an inch. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, his dark hair falling straight and neat across his forehead in sharp contrast to Y/N’s chaotic mess. He looked unimpressed, exhausted, and entirely determined.
"Get your boots on," Regulus said flatly, his voice cutting cleanly through the tinny guitar feedback coming from the radio.
Y/N finally stopped writing, his dark eyes snapping up, flashing with immediate, defensive venom. "Are you out of your absolute, out-of-your-mind fucking skull? It's past midnight on a Thursday. I'm not going anywhere. Fuck off."
"You are coming," Regulus countered, his tone dropping into that cold, aristocratic stubbornness that usually made people want to throw things at him. "A couple of seventh-year Hufflepuffs took over one of the disused greenhouses down by the herbology sheds and turned it into an open house. Everyone and their grandmother is there. Which means half the Slytherin common room is empty, and I am not spending my night listening to Mulciber and Avery brag about their latest pure-blood superiority circle-jerk."
"Then go down there by yourself and let me rot in peace," Y/N snarled, sliding the notebook onto his nightstand and running a hand aggressively through his dark hair, the silver industrial bar glinting in his ear. "I don't do parties. Especially not Hufflepuff-sponsored Kumbaya-circle bullshit where a bunch of overgrown badgers try to hand me homemade mead and ask me how I'm 'adjusting.' I'd rather swallow a box of hornets."
"You do need to get out, Y/N, because you've been locked in this damp cell for three days straight chain-smoking contraband and writing depressing poetry like a dramatic Victorian orphan," Regulus fired back without missing a beat, stepping fully into the room. He reached down, grabbed the collar of Y/N's hoodie, and yanked him upright with a surprising amount of leverage. "And you're coming whether you like it or not. Simple as that."
Y/N shoved Regulus's hands off his chest, his jaw tightening into a hard, furious line. "Don't ever fucking touch my clothes, Reg. I swear to god—"
"I will lock you out of the Slytherin dorms," Regulus interrupted smoothly, raising an eyebrow as he crossed his arms again. "I'll rewrite the blood-ward permissions myself. You won't even be able to get past the iron snake without a custom invitation, and you'll be sleeping on a stone bench in the corridor until Friday afternoon. Your choice. Come down to the greenhouse, drink some rotgut, and pretend you're a functioning member of this godforsaken school for an hour."
Y/N stared at him, his chest heaving, his dark eyes practically shooting daggers. For a terrifying second, he looked like he was genuinely considering whether he could hex Regulus into a pile of ash and get away with it. But Regulus just stared back, completely unfazed, his expression an impenetrable mask of pure, unyielding stubbornness.
With a low, explosive growl, Y/N snatched his cigarette from behind his ear, jammed it between his teeth, and grabbed his heavy black leather jacket from the back of the chair.
"You are an absolute, insufferable parasite, you know that?" Y/N hissed, shoving past Regulus toward the door. He paused right in the threshold, glaring over his shoulder. "And you owe me a fresh pack of imported muggle smokes for this. Real ones, not that weak herbal crap the house-elves sell under the table. Touché, you little prick. Let's get this over with."
The greenhouse party was an absolute, chaotic fever dream.
By the time Y/N and Regulus ducked under the heavy canvas flap sealing off Greenhouse Three, the place was throbbing with heat, humidity, and the deafening bass of a magically amplified wireless set playing a heavy, thumping rock track. The towering glass ceiling was fogged over with condensation, casting a weird, tropical-green glow over the dozens of students crammed between rows of overgrown Devil's Snare and glowing night-blooming flowers.
It was absolute neutral territory—Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, Gryffindors, and a scattered handful of bored Slytherins were milling about, shouting over the music, spilling drinks, and making out in the dark corners behind the potted mandrakes.
"See?" Regulus shouted over the din, grabbing Y/N’s arm and dragging him toward a makeshift bar set up on a potting bench. "Not a total disaster. Here."
Regulus reached across the table and shoved a heavy, condensation-covered clay mug into Y/N’s hand. Y/N eyed the murky liquid suspiciously, taking a cautious sniff. It smelled heavily of fermented plums, sharp spices, and a burning, throat-scorching kick that told him instantly it wasn't butterbeer.
"What the hell is this?" Y/N yelled back, coughing slightly as the fumes hit the back of his throat.
"Gillywater-infused firewhisky mixed with some fermented elderberry wine the seventh-year Puffs brewed behind the sheds," Regulus yelled over the music with a faint smirk. "They call it bog-water. Drink up."
Y/N took a deep, defiant swig, instantly wincing as the fiery, sweet-and-sour concoction burned all the way down his chest, settling into his stomach with a heavy, warming thud. He let out a harsh breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and muttered, "Fucking brutal," before taking another, larger swallow.
Within twenty minutes, the bog-water was doing its job. Y/N wasn't falling down drunk—he held his liquor with the stubborn pride of someone who had spent too many nights sneaking cheap booze out behind abandoned London warehouses—but a pleasant, buzzing numbness had settled over his nerves. The sharp, abrasive edge of the crowded room softened into a blurred haze of colored lights and laughing faces.
Unfortunately, being buzzed didn't make him hate being there any less.
He was standing against the damp, mossy stone wall near the back of the greenhouse, nursing his mug and trying very hard to look unapproachable, when a fifth-year Hufflepuff girl with flushed cheeks, a messy braid, and a dangerously cheerful grin materialized in front of him.
"Hey," she chirped loudly, leaning in uncomfortably close, her hand resting a little too familiarly against the sleeve of Y/N’s black hoodie. "You're Y/N, right? Regulus's friend? How come you're standing over here looking like someone just pissed in your cauldron? Come dance, it's brilliant."
Y/N stiffened, his shoulders pulling up toward his ears as he forced a tight, rigid smile that looked more like a snarl. "I'm good, thanks. Go find someone else."
"Oh, come on!" she laughed, stepping closer, her fingers sliding down his arm to catch his wrist. "Live a little! One dance won't kill you—"
"I said no," Y/N snapped, his voice dropping an octave into a low, warning rumble. He pulled his arm back sharply, stepping away from her touch. "And if you don't back the fuck up, I'm going to find something much worse than a dance to shove down your throat."
The girl blinked, startled by the sudden, venomous hostility, and hastily backed away into the crowd, muttering something about a lunatic.
Y/N let out a harsh, irritated breath, shaking his head as he took another heavy gulp of the bog-water, glaring darkly at the floorboards.
Across the greenhouse, standing near the entrance by a thick wooden support beam, Sirius Black had watched the entire interaction go down.
His grey eyes were practically lasered onto Y/N, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched violently in his cheek. He was wearing a tight, fitted black t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, a faded red bandana tied loosely around his wrist, loose jeans, and scuffed boots. He had a red plastic cup crushed halfway to pulp in his fist.
"Mate," Remus muttered, nudging Sirius in the ribs with his elbow as he took a slow sip of his own drink. "If you don't go over there right now, you're going to put a hole straight through that cup with your bare hand. You're glaring at him like he insulted your mother."
"I'm not glaring," Sirius bit out, his eyes refusing to leave Y/N’s figure, watching as Y/N aggressively wiped his mouth and muttered something to himself.
"For real, Pads," James chimed in, walking up behind them with a ridiculous flower crown some Hufflepuff girl had shoved onto his messy black hair. He gave an exaggerated shudder, making a gagging motion. "You've been staring at him for twenty solid minutes without blinking. It's getting genuinely creepy, and if you don't go make a fool of yourself so we can all move on with our night, I'm going to throw up my bog-water right here on your boots."
"Shut up, James," Sirius snapped, though his gaze flicked away for a microsecond before snapping right back to Y/N, who had just accepted a fresh, dark amber refill of wine from a passing tray. "He looks miserable."
"He always looks miserable," Peter pointed out helpfully around a mouthful of stolen sugar-quill drops. "That's kind of his whole brand."
"Yeah, but he looks hot when he's miserable," Sirius muttered under his breath, completely forgetting to filter his thoughts.
Remus let out a loud, dry cough, rolling his eyes toward the glass ceiling. "Right. Go. Before you start howling at the moon in the middle of a Hufflepuff greenhouse."
Before Sirius could talk himself out of it, the chaotic energy of the party shifted. Someone near the center of the room—probably Mulciber, trying to stir up trouble—shouted out over the music, "Alright, clear some space! Truth or Dare, circle up, right fucking now!"
A collective groan mixed with eager cheers echoed through the greenhouse. A massive circle of drunk, rowdy teenagers spilled across the potting tables and stone paths, trapping everyone in their immediate vicinity. Before Y/N could slip out through the exit flap, a heavy hand grabbed the back of his hoodie, and a loud-mouthed seventh-year Slytherin shoved him unceremoniously into the circle right next to the potting station.
"Oh, look who we have here!" a loud voice crowed from across the circle. It was one of the older Gryffindors, grinning maliciously. "Y/N! Perfect. Let's make this interesting."
Y/N let out a blistering string of muggle profanities, trying to stand up and shove his way out of the circle, but three different people blocked his path. "Touch me again and I'll break your fucking fingers," Y/N snarled, his dark eyes flashing with warning.
"Sit down, dark and moody, it's just a game," a Ravenclaw girl laughed, spinning a heavy, charmed wooden bottle right in the center of the dirt-floored circle.
The bottle spun wildly, blurring into a wooden streak before slowing down, wobbling, and finally pointing a splintered tip directly at Sirius Black on one side of the circle—and spinning backward just an inch to land dead-center on Y/N’s heavy boots.
A chorus of whistles, catcalls, and obnoxious cheering erupted from the surrounding crowd.
"Ooh! Sirius and Y/N!" someone yelled from the back. "Match made in hell!"
Sirius’s head snapped up, a slow, dangerous, utterly electric grin spreading across his face as his grey eyes locked straight onto Y/N’s furious, trapped expression.
"Truth or dare, Black?" Y/N spat out first, his voice dripping with venom as he glared across the circle, ignoring the fact that he hadn't even been asked yet. He wanted to get this over with and punch someone.
"Dare," Sirius replied smoothly, his voice a low, gravelly hum that cut right through the noise of the room. He didn't break eye contact for a single second.
"I dare you to shut the fuck up and choke on a glass shard," Y/N fired back instantly.
"Ooh, hostile!" James laughed loudly, raising his hands. "Doesn't count, that's not a valid dare, you have to give him something he can actually do, mate."
Before Y/N could retort, the loud-mouthed seventh-year Slytherin who had shoved him earlier grinned a nasty, scheming grin. "Alright, my turn. I dare both of you—Sirius and Y/N—to get into the old potting supply closet behind the back bench, lock the door from the inside, and stay in there for ten solid minutes without killing each other. If you come out early, you have to drink a full pint of neat firewhisky straight from the bottle."
The crowd erupted into deafening cheers and applause.
"No," Y/N snapped, standing up abruptly, his hands balling into tight fists at his sides, the silver rings digging into his palms. "Absolutely not. I am not playing your childish, pure-blood bullshit games. Let me the fuck out of here."
"Rules are rules, Y/N," Sirius said, his voice dropping an octave as he pushed himself up from the floor with lazy, effortless grace. He dusted off his jeans, his dark eyes gleaming with a mixture of wicked amusement and intense, unbridled focus. "Unless you're scared of a little cramped space?"
Y/N’s head whipped around, his dark eyes narrowing into lethal slits. "Scared of you? In your wildest, most pathetic dreams, Black."
"Then prove it," Sirius murmured, closing the distance between them with a few long, predatory strides.
Before Y/N could launch another string of profanities, Sirius reached out, caught him firmly by the elbow, and practically hauled him backward toward the dark, recessed corner of the greenhouse where the heavy oak door of the old supply closet stood half-hidden behind a sprawling curtain of weeping ivy.
"Get your hands off me, you arrogant prick!" Y/N hissed, struggling against Sirius’s grip, but the alcohol buzzing in his veins made his coordination just a fraction slower than usual.
Sirius didn't let go. He shoved Y/N backward through the narrow doorway into the pitch-black, cramped interior of the supply closet, stepping in right behind him and slamming the heavy wooden door shut with a resounding thud.
The lock clicked firmly into place from the inside, cutting off the deafening roar of the party, the flashing lights, and the stupid cheers of the crowd in a single, breath-stealing instant.
They were plunged into absolute, suffocating darkness.
The heavy oak door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the thumping bass, the roaring laughter, and the flashing green light of the greenhouse party in a single, suffocating heartbeat.
The supply closet was pitch-black, cramped, and smelled intensely of damp potting soil, dried lavender, and old burlap sacks. The space was so narrow that Y/N could feel the heat radiating off Sirius’s chest the second the lock clicked into place.
Before the echoes of the crowd could even fade, Sirius’s voice cut through the dark, sharp and frustrated.
"Why are you being such a bloody dickhead to me?" Sirius demanded, his hands bracing against the wooden wall on either side of Y/N’s head, boxing him in.
Y/N let out a harsh, defensive scoff, his shoulder blades pressed firmly against the back wall. "I'm always a fucking dickhead to you, Black. What else is new?"
"No, you're not," Sirius shot back, his grey eyes flashing in the gloom, dilated and burning with a reckless, liquid sort of honesty that came straight from the firewhisky he’d been nursing. "You at least used to tolerate my bullshit. Why are you acting like being locked in this room with me is going to kill you? Why are you constantly mugging me off?"
"I'm not—" Y/N started, but his voice hitched. His face was flushed hot—partly from the fiery bog-water burning in his stomach, and partly from the sheer, suffocating proximity of a body he spent half his time trying not to think about.
"I thought we were getting on," Sirius pressed, leaning in closer, his voice dropping into a rough, accusing register. "After the library, after everything—"
"It's not as simple as that, alright?" Y/N snapped, his hands curling into tight fists at his sides, the silver rings biting into his palms.
"Isn't it?" Sirius challenged, his tone sharp and desperate. "We're either friends or we're not. It's not that complicated."
"Maybe I don't fucking want to be your friend!" Y/N fired back, the words tearing out of his throat before he could stop them, raw and unfiltered.
Sirius froze for a split second, the anger in his posture shifting into something jagged and raw. "Why the hell not?"
"Because you don't even like me!" Y/N laughed bitterly, shaking his head in the dark. "You're Sirius bloody Black. You hang out with James fucking Potter and the rest of the golden-boy brigade. You go after people like... like Eloise Mallow or some bubbly, perfect little Hufflepuff princess who actually fits into this godforsaken school. You don't need a cynical, miserable outcast who everyone in this castle treats like a plague."
Sirius stared at him through the dark, his chest heaving. A heavy, agonizing silence stretched between them for three long seconds before Sirius let out a harsh, disbelieving breath.
"I do like you, you absolute idiot," Sirius muttered, the words slipping out like a confession he hadn't meant to say, heavy with the unvarnished truth of someone who was just drunk enough to stop lying to himself.
Y/N blinked, his breath catching in his throat as he stared up at him. "Well, you shouldn't," Y/N muttered defensively, looking away, his voice suddenly dropping down to a bitter whisper. "You should be liking someone... normal. Someone who doesn't bite your head off every time you look at them."
"You don't get to tell me who I can and can't fancy, alright?" Sirius snarled softly, his voice trembling with a sudden, fierce intensity. He shifted closer, crowding Y/N into the wall until there was literally zero space left between them. "That's mine. That belongs to me. No one else—not James, not some random house-puff, not even you. Me."
Y/N’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, his dark eyes snapping back up to meet Sirius’s gaze in the dark. "So why do you like me?"
"Because I fucking do! That's it!" Sirius shot back, his patience snapping.
"But why?" Y/N demanded, his voice cracking with frustration. "What is wrong with you?"
"Just 'cause!" Sirius groaned, running a hand frantically through his messy dark hair. "Now will you stop being a bloody dickhead?"
"Stop calling me a dickhead!" Y/N hissed back, shoving a hand against Sirius's chest. "You're the absolute biggest fucking dickhead in this entire—"
He didn't get to finish the sentence.
Sirius caught Y/N’s wrist mid-shove, pinning his arm against the wooden wall with a heavy, unyielding grip. With his other hand, Sirius grabbed a fistful of the black fabric of Y/N’s hoodie, hauling him upward and crashing him hard against the back partition.
There was no hesitation left. The alcohol in Sirius's veins had burned away every last excuse, leaving only raw, pulsing need. He closed the two-inch height difference instantly, slamming his mouth down onto Y/N’s.
The kiss wasn't sweet, and it certainly wasn't gentle. It was sloppy, desperate, and reeked of cheap firewhisky and sweet elderberry wine. Y/N let out a sharp, startled gasp against Sirius's lips, and Sirius took immediate advantage of it, shoving his tongue past Y/N's teeth with a low, rough growl in the back of his throat.
Y/N's hands flew up instinctively, his fingers tangling wildly into the collar of Sirius's t-shirt and the soft hair at the nape of his neck, dragging him down harder, deeper into the kiss. Their teeth clicked together awkwardly in the dark—a sharp, bruising impact that tasted faintly of iron and spit. Saliva smeared hot and slick against their lips as Sirius kissed him like he was starving and Y/N was the only thing in the castle keeping him alive.
It was messy, hot, teenage want distilled down to pure, unadulterated friction. Y/N’s chest heaved, every breath they shared tasting of each other, hot and frantic in the enclosed dark of the closet. Sirius backed him further against the rough wooden slats, his body pressing flush against Y/N’s frame, heavy and demanding, mapping the height difference with a crushing, possessive weight that left Y/N completely breathless.
Y/N let out a ragged, low whine deep in his throat, his boots shifting on the dirt-dusted floorboards as he arched up into the kiss, completely forgetting every angry word, every defensive wall, and every reason he was supposed to hate the Gryffindor bastard kissing him senseless in a supply closet.
Sirius didn't want to stop at just his mouth. His hand slipped from the back of Y/N’s neck, sliding downward along the sharp, rigid line of his jaw before plunging under the rough, fabric of Y/N’s black hoodie and muscle tee. His warm, calloused fingers mapped the pale, sensitive skin of Y/N’s ribs, sliding up his waist to firmly grip his side.
Y/N let out a ragged, hitching gasp against Sirius's lips as fingernails scraped lightly over his skin—a jolt of electricity that went straight down his spine. It was a kind of raw, physical attention he wasn't used to, a sudden, heavy rush of heat that made his head spin faster than the bog-water ever could.
Emboldened, Sirius broke the lip-lock just enough to trail his mouth downward, hot and wet, planting a heavy, hungry kiss against the vulnerable crook of Y/N's neck, right over the pulsing thrum of his carotid artery. He sucked a deliberate, bruising mark into the skin just above the collar of Y/N's shirt, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot before nipping lightly.
A sharp, breathless curse slipped past Y/N's teeth—a low, ragged "Fuck..." that was half-gasp, half-groan. His fingers tangled frantically in Sirius's dark hair, his knuckles white, gripping hard enough to yank strands as his knees buckled slightly against the overwhelming, dizzying pressure of it all.
Sirius pressed closer, his body heavy and completely flush against Y/N's, pinning him entirely to the wooden partition with a hot, demanding friction that left zero space between them as he connected their lips again.
Y/N’s chest heaved like he’d just sprinted up seven flights of moving stairs. Panic and sheer, overwhelming want tangled in his throat, making his lungs burn. With a sharp shove against Sirius’s broad shoulders, Y/N wrenched himself backward, gasping for air as he pressed a hand to his own flushed throat.
"Are you trying to kill me?" Y/N panted, his voice raw, his dark eyes wide and glittering in the dark. "I can't fucking breathe when you kiss me like that, you absolute maniac."
Sirius stumbled back half a step, letting out a low, gravelly chuckle. The dark shadows of the closet couldn't hide the absolute, wicked satisfaction plastered across his face. He wiped a smear of lip-balm and saliva from his mouth with the back of his thumb, looking entirely unrepentant.
"Sorry," Sirius murmured, though the husky, lazy tilt of his voice made it blatantly obvious he wasn't sorry in the slightest. A slow, lopsided smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Did I knock the wind out of you, darling?"
"Shut the fuck up," Y/N hissed, though his voice lacked any real bite. He leaned his head back against the wood, trying to regulate his erratic pulse and flatten his ruined hair, his face burning hot.
Sirius stepped right back into his space, crowding him against the wall again, his eyes dark and burning with quiet triumph. He reached out, his knuckles brushing lightly, almost tenderly, against Y/N’s bruised neck right where he’d just bitten him.
"So," Sirius murmured, his voice dropping into a low, steady hum that vibrated right through the quiet space between them. "Are you gonna stop being a dickhead now? Can you at least admit that we have something?"
Y/N went rigid. The air in the closet grew thick again, heavy with the weight of the question. He stared fixedly at the dark outline of Sirius’s chest, his jaw clenching as his internal defenses scrambled to put the armor back on. He didn't want to admit it. Admitting it meant giving this arrogant, insufferable Gryffindor a piece of him he could never take back. It meant everything would change, that the safe, angry isolation he’d built around himself like a fortress was suddenly crumbling away into dust.
Sirius didn't push him. He just stood there, his hand resting warm and steady against Y/N’s side, waiting in the dark.
For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound was the muffled, thumping bass of the party bleeding through the thick wood of the door.
Slowly, reluctantly, Y/N let out a long, shuddering breath. He dropped his chin, his dark eyes flicking up to meet Sirius’s gaze one last time before he gave a single, sharp, definitive nod.
A brilliant, blinding grin broke across Sirius’s face—not the mocking, sarcastic smirk he wore for the rest of the school, but something soft, genuine, and entirely wrecked.
Before Y/N could blink, Sirius closed the remaining inch between them, capturing his mouth in a fast, triumphant kiss, his laugh vibrating right against Y/N’s lips.
"I knew you fancied me," Sirius let out against his mouth, a quiet, smug victory that Y/N didn't even bother to deny.
The Great Hall was loud, bright, and smelled overwhelmingly of toasted bread, spilled pumpkin juice, and the suffocating collective breath of several hundred teenagers who hadn't learned the value of personal space. Floating candles flickered lazily against the enchanted ceiling, casting a warm morning glow over the long house tables, but the ambient noise faded to a muffled background hum the second Y/N pushed open the heavy oak doors and dragged his boots across the stone floor.
He looked like a walking hangover. He was wearing a worn, fitted black long-sleeve t-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, dark, distressed jeans held up by a simple black leather belt, his scuffed black boots, and a tangled web of silver chains and rings that clinked softly with every step. He didn't bother sitting at the Slytherin table; he just stood there for a second, rolling his neck, his dark eyes half-lidded and radiating a hostile energy that usually kept people at a safe distance.
Except, today, people weren't just staring at his general aura of menace.
As Y/N slouched toward the middle of the Slytherin table and dropped heavily onto the bench, a few whispers rippled through the nearby benches. A couple of students turned their heads, their eyes dropping immediately to the side of Y/N’s neck.
Right there, stark and unmistakable against the pale skin just above the collar of his shirt, was a deep, violently purple-black bruise—a messy, unapologetic hickey shaped like Sirius Black’s mouth from the dark of a supply closet the night before.
Regulus, sitting quietly near the table with a cup of black coffee, casually glanced up as Y/N dropped onto the bench. Regulus’s eyes drifted to the mark on Y/N’s neck, lingered for exactly one beat, and then a very faint, dry smirk touched the corner of his lips.
"Rough night, I take it?" Regulus murmured softly enough that only Y/N could hear, leaning slightly over his coffee cup. "And to think I had to physically drag your miserable, stubborn arse down to that Hufflepuff greenhouse just so you could sneak off into a supply closet. You owe me a major favor for that matchmaking, mate."
Y/N’s jaw tightened into a hard, furious line. He glared daggers at Regulus, his voice dropping into a harsh, venomous hiss. "Don't. Don't even start, Reg. I don't want to hear your absolute bullshit today."
A few seats down, Severus looked up from his parchment of potions notes, a cold, sharp smirk breaking across his sallow face. Snape let out a dry, sarcastic snicker, his dark eyes glinting with amusement.
Y/N shot him a mock-serious glare, nudging Snape hard in the ribs with his elbow. "Shut the fuck up, Sev, or I'll tell everyone about your embarrassing obsession with Lily's old hair ribbons. Keep laughing and I'll rearrange your crooked nose for you."
Snape just rolled his eyes, a genuine, rare ghost of a grin flashing across his face before he caught himself and muttered, "Ppfft. Sod off, Y/N," turning back to his tea without a shred of real offense. They were best friends, thick as thieves through every miserable day in this castle; the teasing was just second nature.
Across the hall, sitting comfortably at the Gryffindor table among the rest of the Marauders, Sirius Black looked like a cat that had not only swallowed the canary but had taken the whole damn cage. He was leaning back against the bench, one arm slung carelessly over James’s shoulders, grinning a wide, feral, blindingly smug grin that made it entirely obvious to anyone with eyes who had put that mark there.
"Mate, you're going to break your face if you keep smiling like an idiot," James muttered around a mouthful of bacon, following Sirius’s line of sight across the hall. James squinted over at Y/N, then back at Sirius, and let out an exaggerated groan. "Oh, gross. You two actually survived ten minutes in a closet without killing each other? Disgusting."
"Shut the hell up, James," Sirius laughed, his voice a low, vibrating purr, his grey eyes locked entirely on Y/N across the room. He didn't even try to hide it.
Naturally, a few of the more obnoxious, traditionalist pure-bloods near the Slytherin end—guys like Evan Rosier and Wilkes, sitting a few benches down—noticed the staring. They started muttering low, venomous comments down the table, casting sideways, sneering glances at Y/N, making snide remarks about mudbloods and lower-tier trash slumming it with pure-blood heirs.
Y/N heard every single word. The hangover headache throbbing behind his temples instantly flared into blinding, white-hot rage. But he didn't pull out his wand. Wands were for cowards who wanted to cast from a distance. Y/N was a brawler.
—————————-—————————-——————
That afternoon, the tension finally boiled over in a drafty, narrow stone corridor connecting the dungeons to the third-floor viaduct.
It was between classes, the hallway choked with students rushing to and fro, when Evan Rosier and Wilkes—two of the nastiest, most aggressively entitled pure-blood supremacists in the seventh-year Slytherin block—stepped directly into Y/N's path, blocking the corridor with their arms crossed over their black-and-silver trimmed robes.
"Lost your little Gryffindor dog today, mudblood?" Rosier sneered, flashing a nasty, yellow-toothed grin as he leaned in close. "Or did he get tired of dragging around a stray that doesn't even know how to hold a proper wand?"
Y/N didn't waste breath on a witty comeback. He didn't even blink.
With a sudden, violent explosion of movement, Y/N dropped his canvas bag straight onto the stone floor with a heavy thud, closed the distance in half a second, and threw a devastating, bone-rattling right hook straight into Rosier's jaw.
The sound of cartilage shattering echoed sharply off the damp stone walls. Rosier staggered backward with a shriek of pain, clutching his bleeding, crooked nose. But Y/N had miscalculated; before he could pivot to deal with Wilkes, Wilkes swung a heavy, vicious left hook that caught Y/N squarely across the cheekbone.
The impact sent a sharp, blinding shockwave of pain through Y/N’s skull. He stumbled sideways, his shoulder slamming hard against the cold stone wall, a metallic taste of iron filling his mouth as a split lip began to bleed down his chin.
"You little piece of shit!" Wilkes snarled, lunging forward to take advantage of the opening.
Before Wilkes could throw another punch, Y/N shook off the daze, ducked under an incoming blow, and slammed his shoulder straight into Wilkes's chest, driving him backward. It was a chaotic, brutal two-on-one street fight—fists flying, breath coming ragged, clothes tearing as Y/N swung wildly, catching Rosier with a jab to the ribs before taking another heavy, bruising blow to his shoulder that sent him crashing back into the flagstones.
Halfway across the castle, walking down a sunlit corridor toward the library with James and Remus, Sirius suddenly scowled, stopping dead in his tracks.
The emotional invasion was instantaneous and irritating as hell. A heavy, suffocating wave of white-hot anger, jagged aggression, and dark, smoldering hatred rolled right over his own calm mood, sharp enough to make his teeth ache. It didn't feel like his own thoughts—it was an alien, violent surge bleeding straight through the tether, hijacking his headspace and completely ruining his morning.
Sirius hissed through his teeth, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples as the unprovoked fury started completely overshadowing his own thoughts.
"Pads? What's wrong? You look like you swallowed a wasp," James asked, stopping abruptly and turning around, watching Sirius roll his shoulders with a dark, irritated scowl.
"I don't fucking know," Sirius muttered, his voice sharp and annoyed, glaring down the corridor as if the air itself had personally offended him. "Some miserable bastard is throwing a massive, pissed-off tantrum somewhere in this castle, and it's leaking right through. I can't even think straight."
Remus raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "Let me guess—you're feeling furious, bitter, and ready to rip someone's throat out?"
"Yeah, exactly," Sirius snapped, turning sharply on his heel. He didn't know what was happening or who Y/N was tangled up with, but the overwhelming, buzzing irritation was driving him nuts. It was entirely intrusive, and it was bothering the hell out of him. "I'm going to go find him and shut him up. This is fuckin’ ridiculous."
"Wait!” James called out, but Sirius was already marching off, his boots hitting the flagstones with aggressive, purposeful strides as he followed the burning, magnetic pull straight toward the lower levels.
He didn't need a map or a warning; he just walked fast, completely annoyed that his own peace had been hijacked by Y/N’s sheer bloody-minded stubbornness. The closer he got, the heavier the static pressed against his ribs until the irritation flared hot and sharp in his own chest.
By the time Sirius rounded the corner into the narrow stone hallway near the dungeons, the fight was barely winding down, but the scene was a mess. Rosier was leaning against the wall, clutching his bleeding, broken nose with a look of pure shock, while Wilkes was staggering back, nursing a bruised eye. Y/N was standing in the center of the floor, his chest heaving violently, his knuckles split and dripping blood, a dark purple bruise already forming across his left cheekbone, and a thin line of red blood smeared across his lower lip from a split lip.
"Are you fucking mental?!" Sirius barked, marching straight down the corridor and shoving past Wilkes, his face twisted in annoyance as he planted himself right in front of Y/N.
"Get your fucking hands off me!" Y/N roared, spinning around with a wild, unhinged look in his dark eyes, his bruised knuckles instinctively cocked back to throw a blind punch at whoever had just grabbed him.
Sirius caught Y/N’s wrist mid-swing with a tight, iron grip, blocking the punch effortlessly. But the sudden, aggressive hostility snapped something tight in Sirius's own chest. The sheer annoyance of having his mood hijacked across the castle morphed instantly into matching, blinding fury.
"Are you out of your goddamn mind?!" Sirius yelled right back into his face, stepping forward and shoving Y/N hard back against the cold stone wall with enough force to rattle his teeth.
"Don't you fucking touch me!" Y/N snarled, his eyes flashing with venomous adrenaline. He slammed his palms flat against Sirius’s chest, trying to shove him away. "I didn't ask for you to come sniffing around like a lost puppy! If those pure-blood cunts want to run their mouths, I'll beat them into a bloody pulp, and you can't do a damn thing to stop me!"
"I didn't come sniffing, you stubborn, suicidal prick!" Sirius shouted, his voice cracking with a mix of raw anger and the sheer irritation of the tether. He was sick of the shouting, sick of the constant walls, and sick of the fact that Y/N's unmanaged rage kept leaking straight into his own nervous system.
With a fierce, possessive grunt, Sirius lunged forward, slamming both hands flat against the stone wall on either side of Y/N’s head—and then, moving with lightning speed, he dropped one hand down to wrap it firmly, warningly around Y/N’s throat.
It wasn't a choke, but it was close enough to make every breath hitch—a heavy, immovable grip that pressed right against the pulse point of Y/N's neck, right over the dark hickey he’d left the night before.
"Chill the fuck out," Sirius growled, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous, vibrating register, his face inches from Y/N's. "Just breathe. Stop trying to get yourself killed for five bloody seconds."
Y/N’s chest heaved violently against Sirius’s frame. He stared up at Sirius, his chest rising and falling, his knuckles bleeding, his breath coming in hot, ragged gasps. For a second, he looked like he wanted to tear Sirius's throat out with his bare teeth.
"Go fuck yourself, Black," Y/N hissed, his voice trembling slightly, though the murderous, wild edge in his dark eyes slowly, agonizingly began to recede.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Sirius muttered, his hand relaxing its grip slightly on Y/N’s throat, sliding up to cup his bruised jaw instead, his thumb brushing tenderly over the split lip and the growing bruise on his cheekbone. "You're a menace. You're a fucking unhinged disaster."
"Takes one to know one," Y/N spat back, but his shoulders finally dropped an inch, his weight slumping back against the stone as the adrenaline slowly burned out of his bloodstream, leaving a heavy, exhausted ache in its wake.
For a long moment, they just stood there in the quiet, deserted corridor, breathing the same air, chests rising and falling in sync. Rosier and Wilkes, realizing they were outmatched and thoroughly humiliated, muttered curses under their breath and scrambled away down the hall, leaving the two of them entirely alone.
Sirius let out a long, shuddering breath, shaking his head. He pulled his hand back, sliding it into his pocket, and fished out a slightly crushed pack of cigarettes he’d pocketed earlier that week.
"You got a light, or are we just going to stand here bleeding on each other?" Sirius muttered, pulling a cigarette out with his teeth.
Y/N glared at him, wiping a smear of blood off his knuckles onto his jeans, before reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a worn metal lighter, flipped the cap open with a sharp clack, and flicked the wheel. A small, steady flame danced in the dim corridor.
Sirius leaned in close, catching the flame with the tip of his cigarette, taking a slow drag before exhaling a thin stream of grey smoke into the cool dungeon air. Y/N lit one for himself, snapping the lighter shut and sliding down the stone wall until he was sitting flat on the flagstones, pulling his knees up to his chest.
Sirius watched him for a second, a soft, unreadable look crossing his face, before sliding down right beside him. Their shoulders pressed together, sharing the narrow, cold space against the wall.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, passing the cigarette back and forth, letting the nicotine settle the screaming static in their heads.
Finally, Y/N let out a quiet, cynical huff of air through his nose. He reached into the deep pocket of his hoodie, his fingers rummaging around for a second before pulling out a small, battered, black plastic cassette player with a tangle of wired earphones attached to it. It looked completely alien in a castle where people listened to lutes, bagpipes, and magical wireless bands like the Weird Sisters—a pure Muggle piece of plastic, metal, and magnetic tape smuggled across the border with a handful of batteries.
Sirius glanced sideways at it, his grey eyes narrowing with utter confusion. "What in Merlin's name is that? Is that some sort of enchanted Dictaphone?"
"It's not Merlin's, it's mine," Y/N muttered, his voice hoarse. He untangled the thin white wires with a practiced flick of his fingers. "It's a walkman. A cassette player."
"A what player?" Sirius repeated, tilting his head, watching the tiny plastic device like it might bite him. "What does it do? Where are the instruments?"
"Music, Black. Real music. Not whatever wimpy, bagpipe-and-lute garbage floating around the Great Hall or the Weird Sisters nonsense," Y/N said, though his tone was surprisingly devoid of its usual venom, softening into something almost reluctant. "It plays recorded tape. Real instruments, real people."
He popped the back of the plastic case open, checked the tape already slotted inside—a well-worn mixtape scrawled in black marker with the word OASIS—and snapped it shut. Without looking at Sirius, Y/N pulled one of the tiny foam-padded earphone buds off and held it out.
"Here," Y/N muttered, his cheeks flushing a faint, almost imperceptible shade of pink that had nothing to do with the fight. "Put this in your ear. Stop looking at me like I'm handing you a live bomb. And don't lose your mind when you hear it, because you won't understand half of it anyway."
Sirius blinked, staring at the little white bud like it was an ancient relic. Carefully, warily, he took it from Y/N’s hand and pushed it into his left ear, while Y/N jammed the other one into his own.
Y/N reached down, his thumb pressing the small plastic PLAY button down with a satisfying mechanical click.
A sharp hiss of magnetic tape filled both of their ears for a fraction of a second, followed immediately by the bright, ringing, acoustic strum of an open guitar chord. Then, a voice cut through the tiny speaker—raw, lazy, arrogant, and dripping with a thick, unmistakable Northern English accent.
“Slip inside the eye of your mind, don't you know you might find...”
Sirius flinched slightly at the suddenness of the sound directly inside his skull, his eyes widening in pure shock. There were no magical instruments floating in the air, no enchanted wireless sets picking up spatial signals—just this strange, direct, pulsing rhythm that felt like it was echoing right off his own heartbeat.
"What is this?" Sirius whispered, his voice barely audible over the tinny, electric strum of the guitars building up in his ear. "Where is the sound coming from? Is there no charm on it?”
"It's on a tape, you fuckwad," Y/N said, a faint, rare smirk ghosting over his split lip as he stared down at his scuffed boots, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. "It's Oasis. Band from Manchester. Well, Liverpool originally, sort of. Real music. Guitars, drums, people shouting about wanting to live forever because they're sick of the grey shithole they grew up in."
Sirius listened, completely transfixed, as the chorus swelled, the singer's voice soaring with a desperate, beautiful defiance.
“And after all, you're my wonderwall...”
The music hummed softly in the small space between them, a strange, perfect bridge connecting two completely different worlds—the magical, isolated halls of Hogwarts and the concrete, working-class grit of England.
Sirius turned his head, looking down at Y/N’s bruised knuckles, the dark hickey still visible on his neck, and the stubborn, beautiful angle of his jaw. Slowly, a soft, genuine, unmocking smile crept across Sirius’s face. He didn't say anything about the lyrics, and he didn't make a joke. He just shifted closer, letting his shoulder press firmly against Y/N’s, and listened to the tape roll.
The last dying notes of the previous track faded into a soft, hissing static against the tiny foam-padded earphone bud. Sirius shifted slightly, his shoulder pressing heavily against Y/N’s in the dim, cold quiet of the dungeon corridor. He held the small, battered pack of Marlboros in his hand, turning it over with a look of mild, curious fascination.
"Marlboros," Sirius murmured, his voice a low hum in the empty hallway. He thumbed the edge of the cardboard box. "Weird stuff. Wizards smoke all sorts of strange herbal rubbish that tastes like burning grass and old socks, but this... this actually smells like it's got some weight to it."
"It'll kill you faster, if that's what you're looking for," Y/N muttered, though his voice lacked any real bite. He was leaning back against the cold stone, his chest finally rising and falling in a steady, unhurried rhythm as the adrenaline of the fight completely bled out of his system, leaving behind a heavy, magnetic haze.
Sirius let out a low, rough laugh, flicking open the metal lighter Y/N had tossed him. A bright, steady flame danced in the dark. He lit a fresh cigarette, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs with the practiced ease of someone who spent half his life finding ways to break the rules.
While the cigarette burned down just a fraction, Sirius reached over, his fingers brushing against Y/N's knuckles as he tapped the side of the Walkman. "Let's see what else is on this tape of yours," he murmured, his gaze flicking up to meet Y/N's dark, half-lidded eyes. With a quick, practiced click, he flipped the cassette over, rewound it a touch, and hit PLAY.
A slow, washing wave of psychedelic guitar feedback drifted through the small white wires, swelling softly into the twin earphones. The sprawling, languid intro of Champagne Supernova began to bleed into the quiet space between them, setting a hazy, druggy, angsty rhythm that felt tailor-made for the heavy, electric tension hanging in the air.
As the lines began to drift through the tinny speakers—“Where were you while we were gettin' high? / Slowly walkin' down the hall / Faster than a cannonball”—Sirius held Y/N's gaze.
He knew how this went. If he waited for Y/N to bridge the gap, they'd sit here until curfew passed in stubborn, miserable silence, too proud to make the first move. But Sirius didn't care about pride right now. He cared about the way Y/N's pulse was hammering right under the skin of his throat, and the way those dark eyes were looking at him like he was the only real thing in this entire stone-walled castle.
Sirius took one final, long drag from the Marlboro, letting the hot smoke pool in his mouth.
Without breaking eye contact, Sirius closed the distance between them. He didn't give Y/N a second to throw up a wall or crack a sarcastic remark. He invaded Y/N's personal space entirely, shifting forward until his knees bracketed Y/N's thighs on the floor, and leaned right in.
With a soft, deliberate exhale, Sirius blew the thick, grey stream of smoke straight across Y/N's lips—a classic, intimate shotgun exhale that caught Y/N off guard, forcing him to breathe it in as their mouths parted.
Before the smoke could even clear the air between them, Sirius followed through with complete, unhesitating ownership. He flicked the cigarette butt behind his back without a glance and shoved both hands flat against the cold wall on either side of Y/N’s head.
Y/N let out a sharp, breathless gasp as he was pinned firmly between Sirius and the stone—the classic, unavoidable trap. But the surprise vanished the second Sirius crashed his mouth down onto his.
It wasn't a sweet, gentle kiss. It was hot, desperate, and dripping with all the messy, hormonal angst of two teenagers who were completely overwhelmed by everything happening in their lives. Sirius took absolute, dominant charge, his tongue pushing past Y/N's lips with a hungry, invasive slide that tasted faintly of tobacco and raw heat.
Y/N’s hands shot up instantly, his fingers hooking hard into the fabric of Sirius's sleeves, gripping his forearms and biceps so tightly his knuckles turned white. He let out a low, ragged groan into Sirius's mouth, abandoning every single defense he had left.
Sirius groaned in response, shifting his hands down from the wall. One slid firmly around Y/N's waist, hauling him flush against his frame, while the other crept up to cup the back of Y/N's neck, his fingers burying deep into the dark hair at the nape, anchoring him in place and refusing to let him look away.
The kiss deepened into something sloppy and frantic. Saliva smeared slickly against their lips, every shift of their mouths accompanied by wet, sliding friction and heavy, ragged pants that echoed softly down the empty corridor. Sirius nipped roughly at Y/N's bottom lip, drawing a soft hiss of pain and pleasure from Y/N's throat before swallowing it back down with another bruising, tongue-heavy kiss.
They were both a mess—bruised knuckles, split lips, hearts hammering like trapped birds against their ribs—losing themselves entirely in the friction of it.
“Where were you while we were gettin' high?” hummed softly in their ears through the single shared earphone, the sprawling guitar chords washing over them like a tidal wave as Sirius kissed him harder, tilting Y/N's head back against the stone wall until Y/N felt completely weightless, suspended entirely by the heavy grip around his waist and the heat of Sirius's mouth.
When Sirius finally pulled back just an inch, they were both panting heavily, chests heaving against each other, their foreheads resting together. A thin, silvery string of spit caught between their lips before breaking in the cool dungeon air.
Y/N’s eyes were blown wide and dark, his lips swollen, red, and glistening, a faint flush burning high across his cheekbones beneath the dirt and bruises. He looked wrecked in the best possible way.
Sirius looked down at him, his own chest rising and falling sharply, a wicked, breathtakingly fond smirk touching the corners of his mouth. He reached out with a trembling thumb, gently wiping a smudge of sweat and dirt from Y/N's cheek, his touch surprisingly tender after such a rough, demanding collision.
"You're a real fuckin’ problem, you know that?" Sirius whispered, his voice rough and low, his thumb brushing over the split corner of Y/N's lip.
Y/N let out a shaky, breathless huff of air, his fingers still tightly fisted in the fabric of Sirius's shirt. "Fuck off, Black," he murmured, though he didn't pull away, leaning right back into Sirius's hand as the tape continued to roll in the dark.
gang i totally snatched dialogue straight from my mad fat diary for that closet scene i rewatched it yesterday so it’s been in my mind but chat they admitted they like each other bro and now Sirius isn’t gonna be able to take his hands off of y/n lowk i love them so much and i hope you do too i tried to give you lot a chapter with like no angst but ofc i had to add a fight like what kind of person would i be if i didn’t make y/n fight??? anyways hope u enjoy, it was sound writing this srs alr later
