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certified rizzler©️

[saltystarkey]

𝟷…𝟸…𝟹 ᴏᴋᴀʏ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴇ’ʀᴇ ʀᴏʟʟɪɴɢ! 📹

𝟾 ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴀᴘᴇ ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ 𝟷 ➪ blue, best fogo in lacrosse bro, 2004’s best creation, modelos for the win, somewhere in the midwest, probably in your dads bed

Drew Starkey, Lestat de Lioncourt, Sirius Black and Arthur Morgan slut enthusiast!

—

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╰┈➤ ˎˊ˗ ╭ ⚡︎ ᵇˡᵘᵉ ⁱˢ ˢᵏᵃᵗᵉᵇᵒᵃʳᵈⁱⁿᵍ! ⚡︎ ₒᵤ𝓬ₕ! ᵢ ᵳₑₗₗ! ➪

— just a person who likes to write some gay shit, hopefully it actually sticks this time around i love to disappear lol anyways gonna go day drink because it’s my favorite hobby l8r mfs

[saltystarkey]

Sirius Black ch 3 posted gang i did it yimotherfuckingpee abt to go down a Modelo l8r

[saltystarkey]

VOLUME 003 ✰༄

“And now Mulciber’s face is in pieces.”

After a violent confrontation at the Clocktower left Y/N a pariah, they are forced into an uneasy, high-tension proximity, with Sirius acting as Y/N's unwilling guardian while the bond tests their mutual hatred and volatile connection.

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 atmosphere in the Gryffindor common room was too thick, too warm, and far too loud. It felt like a physical affront. James was mid-sentence, his hands animatedly describing a play for the next match, and Peter was laughing at something that had happened in Transfiguration. To everyone else, it was just another Tuesday night—the gold and scarlet tapestries glowing in the hearth-light, the scent of cedar and old parchment wrapping around them like a blanket.

But for Sirius, it felt like being trapped in a bell jar. He was sitting in his usual armchair, his broad frame slouched so low his head rested against the moth-eaten velvet. He wasn't participating. He was staring at the flickering embers with a hollow, fixed intensity, his jaw tight.

On the small table beside him sat a single, crumpled cigarette—cherry tobacco. He hadn’t lit it. He just kept rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the dry crinkle of the paper.

"Padfoot, you're doing it again," James said, his voice dropping the theatrical edge. He leaned forward, his glasses reflecting the fire. "You've been staring at that log for twenty minutes. You look like you're at a funeral."

Sirius didn't look up. The word *funeral* felt uncomfortably close to the truth.

"Just thinking, Prongs," Sirius rasped. His voice sounded like it had been dragged through gravel.

"About the Slytherin?" Peter asked tentatively.

Sirius’s hand clenched, nearly crushing the cigarette. He thought about the Clocktower.

He thought about the way Y/N’s slim, muscular frame had felt pinned against the stone—not like a partner, but like a cornered thing. He thought about the crack of Y/N’s knuckles against his cheek and the raw, jagged look in Y/N's eyes afterward.

He had gone into that moment driven by a predatory, desperate hunger to have, to touch, to claim. He hadn't meant to cause this much damage. He had just wanted to feel the friction. But as he sat in the warmth of his own House, surrounded by the brothers who loved him, he realized the cost was entirely one-sided.

Y/N didn't have a safety net. Sirius had dragged him out into the light of a rivalry he never asked for, and then he’d left him there, stained in neon ink and targeted by his own Housemates.

"He's an outcast, James," Sirius said suddenly, his voice barely a whisper. "He was already an outcast. And I... I made it worse. I thought I was 'fighting' him. I thought we were equals."

"You guys were fighting," James said, confused. "He gave as good as he got, Sirius. He's one of the best duelists in that year."

"It's not about the spells," Sirius snapped, finally looking up. His gray eyes were dark, shadowed by a guilt he couldn't name. "He’s powerful, yeah. But he’s alone. And every time I touch him, every time I pull him into our mess, I’m just burying him deeper."

He looked back at the cherry cigarette. It was a relic. A tiny, fragile thing he’d stolen from a boy who was currently fighting a war on two fronts because Sirius Black couldn't control his own gravity.

He stood up abruptly, the movement jarring the table. "I’m going to bed."

"It's only eight," Peter noted.

Sirius didn't answer. He climbed the spiral stairs to the dormitory, the sound of his own heavy footsteps echoing in the stone tower. He felt the weight of every choice he'd made since the Sump. He wasn't just losing his grip on the "fun" of the rivalry; he was losing the version of Y/N he actually respected—the one who had been safe in his own silence until Sirius decided to break it.

He lay down on his bed, fully clothed, and closed his eyes. In the dark, he could still taste the copper and the smoke. He realized that the "impasse" wasn't just a choice Y/N had made—it was a consequence Sirius had earned.

While the warmth of the Gryffindor tower felt like a sanctuary, the air in the Slytherin dungeons was cold, damp, and smelled of old moss and repressed resentment.

Y/N sat in the far corner of the common room, the green glow of the fire casting deep, jagged shadows across his face. He was leaning back in a leather armchair that felt more like a throne of glass than a seat. His arms were bare, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing the faint, yellowish bruises from his last "interaction" with Mulciber’s crew.

He wasn't reading. He wasn't studying. He was simply sitting there, his eyes fixed on the entrance of the common room, his jaw set in a line so hard it looked carved from stone.

The atmosphere in the room changed the moment Mulciber and Avery walked in. The low hum of conversation among the younger years died instantly. It wasn't the silence of respect; it was the silence of a shark entering a reef.

"Still here, then?" Mulciber sneered, stopping a few feet from Y/N’s chair. He didn't have his wand out, but his hand was resting on the back of a nearby sofa, his knuckles white. "Thought maybe you’d moved into the Gryffindor tower by now. You certainly seem to spend enough time pinned against their walls."

A few of the sixth-years snickered, the sound echoing hollowly against the stone.

Y/N didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just let his gaze drift slowly up to Mulciber’s face, his expression one of bored, dangerous indifference. "You talk a lot for someone who still hasn't figured out how to cast a Shield Charm properly, Mulciber."

The snickering stopped. Mulciber’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. "You think you’re untouchable because Black has a thing for you? You think that makes you special?"

"I think," Y/N said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal rasp that carried across the room, "that if you say his name one more time, I’m going to show you exactly how 'untouchable' I am. And I won't need a wand to do it."

He shifted slightly, the functional strength in his shoulders tensing. He looked like a coiled spring, ready to snap. Despite the exhaustion deep in his marrow and the hollow ache in his chest from the Clocktower, the "outcast" in him was still very much a fighter.

Mulciber hesitated. He looked at Y/N’s taped knuckles, then at the cold, dead look in his eyes, and decided it wasn't the night for a hospital wing visit. He spat on the floor near Y/N’s boot and stalked off toward the dorms, Avery trailing behind him like a dog.

When they were gone, the common room didn't return to normal. The younger students avoided Y/N’s gaze, drifting away to other corners. He was a pariah. He was the "compromised" Slytherin, the boy who had let a Gryffindor get too close, and in this House, that was a death sentence for your reputation.

Y/N reached into his pocket and pulled out a bent cigarette. He went to light it, but his hand stopped mid-air. The scent of the cherry tobacco hit him, and for a split second, he wasn't in the dungeons. He was back against the granite of the Clocktower, feeling the broad, solid weight of Sirius against him, tasting the salt and the desperation.

He felt a sharp, jagged surge of revulsion—not for Sirius, but for the fact that even now, in the middle of a siege, he still wanted the very person who had put the target on his back.

He crushed the unlit cigarette in his palm, the dry tobacco spilling onto the floor like ash.

"I'm not coming back," he whispered to the empty room, though whether he meant to Sirius or to the person he used to be, he wasn't sure.

He stood up, his slim frame looking jagged and sharp in the firelight, and walked toward the dorms. He moved with a stiff, guarded grace, every muscle ready for an attack that he knew was coming, eventually. He was alone, he was hated, and he was exhausted—but he was still standing.

———————————————————————

The Great Hall was a roar of clashing cutlery and adolescent laughter, a sound that usually felt like home to Sirius. But tonight, it was just grating. He sat at the Gryffindor table, picking at a piece of dry toast, his broad shoulders hunched. The bruise on his jaw had turned an angry, mottled yellow at the edges.

Every time he looked toward the Slytherin table, he felt a sharp, bitter twist in his gut. He was angry—furious that Y/N had hit him, furious that Y/N was right, and even more furious that he couldn't stop looking for that slim, rigid silhouette in the crowd. He didn't want to help Y/N; he wanted to shake him, or maybe just be near him until the world made sense again. But the "impasse" was a cold, jagged thing between them now.

Across the room, Y/N wasn't eating. He was staring at a spot on the stone floor, his hands shoved deep into his robes. The "siege" was visible in the way the students around him left a five-foot gap on either side, as if his isolation were contagious.

"A moment of your time, if you please."

The voice was quiet, but it sliced through the fog in Y/N’s head like a blade. He looked up to see Dumbledore standing near the side chamber of the Great Hall. The Headmaster wasn't looking at him with his usual twinkling curiosity; his gaze was steady, heavy with a weight that felt ancient.

Y/N followed him into the small, circular office off the hall. As soon as the door clicked shut, the silence of the room hit Y/N like a physical blow.

"You look quite weary," Dumbledore began, folding his long, thin hands on the desk. "The conflict between the Houses has reached a fever pitch, it seems. And you, I fear, have become the lightning rod."

Y/N opened his mouth to give a sharp, guarded retort—to say he was fine, to tell the old man to mind his own business—but then it started.

A low hum, like the vibration of a distant hive, began at the base of his skull. Within seconds, it sharpened into a piercing, high-pitched ring that drowned out the sound of the ticking clocks in the room. Dumbledore’s lips were moving. He was saying something about "choices" or "consequences," but Y/N couldn't hear a single word.

The room blurred. All Y/N could see were Dumbledore’s eyes—blue, piercing, and strangely devoid of surprise. Dumbledore wasn't reacting to Y/N’s distress; he was watching it, like an alchemist watching a reaction he’d seen a thousand times before.

Y/N felt a cold sweat break across his lean chest. The ringing was deafening now, a wall of white noise that made his teeth ache. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a great, dark height.

Just say it. Tell him you’re fine.

"I'm okay, Professor," Y/N blurted out, his own voice sounding like it was underwater.

The ringing stopped instantly. The silence that rushed back in was so sudden it made Y/N’s ears pop.

Dumbledore leaned back, his half-moon spectacles catching the candlelight. He didn't push. He didn't offer a lemon drop. He simply watched the way Y/N’s muscles trembled with the effort of standing still.

"I see," Dumbledore said softly. "Very well. If you are certain. But remember—some fires are not meant to be carried alone, no matter how strong the vessel is."

"I've got it handled," Y/N rasped, his voice regaining its jagged edge. He turned and walked out before the Headmaster could say another word.

Dumbledore watched him go. He didn't call him back. He didn't intervene in the "siege" waiting for Y/N in the hallways. He simply picked up a small, silver instrument from his desk that was vibrating in a perfect, silent rhythm—a rhythm that matched the ringing in Y/N's head. He knew exactly what was happening to the boy, and he knew that for the plan to work, the "lightning rod" had to be pushed to the breaking point.

————————————————————————

Y/N stumbled out into the hallway, his vision still swimming. He rounded a corner and nearly walked straight into a broad, solid chest.

Sirius.

Sirius grabbed Y/N’s upper arms to steady him, his grip tight and unyielding. For a second, the bitterness in Sirius’s eyes flickered into genuine alarm as he saw how pale Y/N was.

"What did he say to you?" Sirius demanded, his voice low and harsh.

Y/N yanked his arms back, his eyes flashing with a cold, desperate fire. "Get your hands off me, Black. I don't need a savior, and I definitely don't need you."

Sirius’s face hardened, the bruise on his jaw deepening in the torchlight. "Fine. Die on your own then. See if I care."

They stood there for a heartbeat, two people who wanted to scream but only knew how to bite, before Y/N pushed past him into the dark.

————————————————————————

The cold in the dungeons wasn't just weather; it was a physical weight. It seeped through the stones and settled into Y/N’s marrow, turning his blood to slush. He had been moving like a machine for weeks—eat, study, survive, repeat. But machines eventually wear down. The metal fatigues. The gears begin to grind.

He was walking back from a late session in the library, his bag slung over his slim, aching shoulder. His body felt light, almost buoyant, in a way that signaled total exhaustion. The world was beginning to tilt. The torches on the walls seemed to flicker in time with his heartbeat, and that familiar, dreaded hum was beginning to vibrate at the base of his skull.

"Look at him," a voice sneered. "The little lion-tamer looks like he’s about to faint."

Y/N didn't stop. He didn't even look. He knew that voice. Mulciber. He was leaning against a damp stone pillar, Avery and a few other fifth-year snakes flanking him like a pack of jackals. They had been waiting. The "siege" had been quiet for a few days, which only meant the pressure had been building.

"I’m talking to you, blood-traitor," Mulciber spat, stepping into the center of the narrow hallway.

Y/N stopped. He let his bag slide off his shoulder, the heavy thump of textbooks echoing in the hollow silence of the corridor. He didn't pull his wand. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his fingers curling into tight, trembling fists.

"Move, Mulciber," Y/N rasped. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else—someone older, someone who had already given up.

"Make me. Or what? You'll go crying to Black? Tell him your big, bad housemates are being mean?" Mulciber laughed, a jagged, ugly sound. "Is that what you do when you’re pinned against those stones? You whimper for him?"

The ringing in Y/N’s head didn't just start—it exploded. It was a white-hot spike driven through his temples. The hallway blurred into a mess of gray and green. He could see Mulciber’s mouth moving, the sneer twisting his features, but the words were gone. Everything was gone except the noise and the heat.

Mulciber raised his wand, the tip glowing with a sickly violet light. "Let's see how much he likes you when you're—"

Y/N didn't wait for the spell. He didn't think about "proper" dueling or House points. He lunged.

The impact was bone-deep. He tackled Mulciber, the back of the other boy’s head hitting the stone floor with a sickening thwack. They rolled, a mess of tangled robes and flailing limbs, but Y/N was faster. He was fueled by a month of suppressed rage, by the humiliation of the ink trap, by the confusion of Sirius's touch, and by the sheer, crushing weight of being alone.

He got on top, his knees pinning Mulciber’s arms. And then, he started swinging.

CRACK.

The first punch landed square on Mulciber’s nose. The spray of blood hit Y/N’s cheek, hot and metallic. He didn't flinch.

CRACK.

The second hit Mulciber’s jaw. Y/N’s knuckles split, the skin tearing open, but he didn't feel it. He was a passenger in his own body. He was punching the ringing in his ears. He was punching the way Sirius looked at him. He was punching the fact that no matter how hard he fought, he was always the one left in the dirt.

"Stop it!" Avery’s voice was a distant, muffled shriek.

Y/N didn't stop. He was a rhythmic machine of violence. Right, left, right. His muscles were screaming, his lungs burning, but he couldn't pull himself away.

He was drowning in the white noise.

Mulciber’s face was becoming a ruin of red and purple, his hands weakly trying to shield his head, but Y/N just pushed them aside and kept going. He was looking for an end. He was looking for the bottom of the well.

Suddenly, the world wrenched backward.

Huge, powerful hands fisted into the back of Y/N’s sweater, hauling him off Mulciber with such force that his feet left the ground. Y/N snarled, a feral, animalistic sound, and tried to swing at whoever was holding him.

"Y/N! Y/N, look at me! Stop!"

He was spun around, his boots skidding on the blood-slicked stone, and slammed back against a pillar. The air was knocked out of him in a violent puff.

Sirius.

Sirius was there, his broad frame looming over him, his hands gripping Y/N’s shoulders with a strength that felt like iron. Sirius’s hair was a mess, his eyes wide and panicked, his own jaw still bruised from the last time they’d met. His lips were moving—he was shouting, his face inches from Y/N’s—but the ringing was a solid wall.

Y/N stared up at him, his chest heaving so hard it felt like his ribs would snap. He looked at the blood on his own hands—Mulciber’s blood—and then he looked at Sirius.

And that’s when the wall broke.

The adrenaline that had been keeping him upright evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hollow vacuum. His knees buckled, and if Sirius hadn't been holding his shoulders, he would have collapsed.

A single, hot tear spilled over Y/N’s lower lash line. Then another.

He was crying.

He wasn't just crying; he was breaking. The "outcast," the "fighter," the boy who took every hit and smiled through the blood—he was gone. In his place was a seventeen-year-old boy who was utterly, completely terrified.

Sirius’s expression shifted. The anger and the urgency vanished, replaced by a look of such raw, agonizing pity that it made Y/N want to die. Sirius reached out, his thumb twitching as if he wanted to wipe a tear away, his mouth forming a soft, broken word.

No.

Y/N couldn't handle it. He couldn't handle the pity. He couldn't handle being seen like this—weak, shattered, and bleeding—by the person who had started the fire in the first place.

With a desperate, final surge of strength, Y/N wrenched himself out of Sirius’s grip. He shoved Sirius back, his hands leaving bloody prints on the Gryffindor’s chest, and he ran.

He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he had to get away from the light. He had to get away from the eyes.

He scrambled up the stairs, his vision a blurred, watery mess. Every step was a agony. His lungs were seizing, the air coming in short, panicked gasps that sounded like a wounded animal. He passed a group of Ravenclaws who stared at him in horror—a bloody, sobbing mess of a boy sprinting through the halls—but he didn't care.

He found the alcove on the fifth floor. It was behind a moth-eaten tapestry of a forgotten battle. He dived behind it, collapsing onto the freezing stone floor.

He crawled into the furthest, darkest corner, pulling his knees to his chest and tucking his head down. He wrapped his arms around his legs, his shredded knuckles stinging as they pressed against his jeans.

The hyperventilation hit him like a physical blow.

He couldn't get the air in. His chest was a vice. He was gasping, a high-pitched, wheezing sound that echoed off the small stone walls of the alcove. He bit his lip to try and stop the sobbing, but it only made it worse. A low, keening moan escaped his throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated loss.

He felt like his skin was too tight. He felt like the stone was closing in.

"I can't... I can't... I can't..." he whispered, the words lost in the sound of his own crashing pulse.

He was so alone. The realization was a cold blade in his gut. He had pushed everyone away to survive, and now that he was dying—spiritually, mentally—there was no one to catch him. He had no House. He had no friends. He had a boy who was obsessed with him but couldn't understand him, and a world that only wanted to watch him bleed.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his forehead resting on his knees. The ringing in his head was finally fading, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache that felt like it would last forever.

"Please," he gasped into the dark, his voice a broken thread. "Please, just make it stop."

But there was no one there to hear him. There was only the cold stone, the smell of old dust, and the sound of a boy who had finally, truly, lost his way. He sat there in the dark, bloody and broken, waiting for a morning he wasn't sure he wanted to see.

Outside the moth-eaten fabric, the castle breathed. The wind whistled through the high battlements, and the distant clatter of a Filch’s lantern echoed somewhere floors below.

Then came a different sound.

The heavy, rhythmic thud of dragon-hide boots.

Sirius hadn't used the Map—he hadn't needed to. He had followed the smears of copper on the stone walls, the frantic, staggering trail of a boy who was bleeding out in more ways than one. When he reached the fifth floor, the trail ended at a tapestry depicting a nameless, forgotten massacre.

Sirius stopped. His broad shoulders were slumped, his chest still heaving from the sprint. He stared at the fabric, his hands trembling. He had never seen Y/N cry. He had seen him bleed, seen him snarl, seen him stand his ground against an entire House, but the sight of those tears had felt like a physical tearing of Sirius’s own soul.

He reached out a hand, his fingers hovering over the tapestry. He wanted to rip it down, to scoop Y/N up, to demand that he be okay. But he remembered the way Y/N had looked at him—the absolute, crushing revulsion.

So, Sirius didn't go in. Not yet.

He sat down on the floor outside the alcove, his back against the stone wall. He pulled his knees up, resting his arms on them, and stayed. He stayed through the deep, dead hours of the night. He stayed until the cold from the floor seeped into his own bones. He listened to the silence behind the curtain, waiting for a sound that meant Y/N was still alive.

Hours later, the first gray light of a Scottish dawn began to bleed through the high windows of the corridor.

The light in the alcove was gray and sickly, the color of a guttering candle. Sirius sat back on his heels, his frame casting a shadow that swallowed Y/N’s huddled form. He had spent the night listening to Y/N’s jagged breathing, and now, he was staring at the boy’s face.

Y/N’s eyes were open, but they were vacant. Glossed over like marble. He was looking right through Sirius, his body locked in a rigid, leaden freeze. It was a trauma response Sirius had seen before—usually in the mirror after a summer at Grimmauld Place—and it made a cold, sharp anger settle in his gut. Not at Y/N. At the whole damn world.

Sirius didn't whisper sweet nothings. He didn't beg for forgiveness. He looked at Y/N’s blood-caked knuckles and the way his body was shivering despite the paralysis, and he felt a surge of grim, bitter resolve.

"Right. Enough of this," Sirius rasped, his voice cracking from disuse.

He didn't ask permission. He reached down and slid one arm under Y/N’s knees and the other behind his back. When he lifted him, Y/N didn’t move—he stayed in that curled, fetal position, his weight like dead wood in Sirius’s arms. He was slim, but the muscles on his frame made him heavy, a solid reminder of the fighter currently trapped behind his own eyes.

Sirius kicked the tapestry aside and stepped out into the corridor.

The castle was waking up. He didn't care. He walked through the halls with Y/N in his arms, his jaw set, the mottled purple bruise on his face a badge of the mess they’d made. He passed a group of whispering third-years and a stunned-looking Hufflepuff prefect. He didn't look at them. He looked like a man carrying a body off a battlefield.

"Is he dead?" someone whispered.

"Get lost," Sirius snarled, his gray eyes flashing with a warning that sent them scurrying.

He didn't go to the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey would ask too many questions, and word would get back to the Slytherins before the first bell. He went straight to the stone gargoyle.

"Sherbet lemon," Sirius snapped.

The gargoyle leapt aside. Sirius carried Y/N up the moving spiral staircase and kicked the door to the Headmaster’s office open.

Dumbledore was already standing. He wasn't behind his desk; he was by the window, his hands tucked into his sleeves. He didn't look surprised.

"Set him on the sofa, Sirius," Dumbledore said, his voice devoid of its usual whimsy.

Sirius laid Y/N down on the chintz settee. Y/N stayed exactly as he had been—on his side, eyes glossed, staring at the leg of a table. He looked like a statue of a tragedy.

"He's been like this since he stopped hitting Mulciber," Sirius said, stepping back and wiping his bloody hands on his trousers. He was vibrating with a restless, bitter energy. "He won't speak. He won't blink. He’s gone, Professor."

"He is not gone," Dumbledore said softly, walking over to peer down at Y/N. "He is simply... elsewhere. The mind has a way of retreating when the environment becomes uninhabitable."

"And whose fault is that?" Sirius snapped, his voice sharp and self-loathing. "The Slytherins are treating him like a traitor, and we treated him like a target. And now Mulciber’s face is in pieces."

"Indeed," Dumbledore said, his gaze turning grave. "And that is where the true danger lies. I have already received an owl from the Mulciber family. They are not interested in 'schoolboy rivalries,' Sirius. They are calling for an immediate expulsion and a Ministry inquiry into 'unprovoked dark magic'—despite the fact that Y/N used nothing but his hands."

Sirius felt a cold drop of sweat slide down his neck. The Ministry. If the Mulcibers got involved, Y/N wouldn't just be expelled; he’d be broken. He’d have no wand, no future, and a target on his back that would never fade.

"It wasn't dark magic," Sirius growled, stepping toward the sofa as if he could shield Y/N with his broad shoulders. "It was a fight. A fair one."

"The Mulcibers do not care for 'fair,'" Dumbledore countered.

On the sofa, Y/N’s hand gave a tiny, microscopic twitch. The ringing in his head was changing pitch, turning from a screech to a dull throb. He could hear them. He could hear Sirius’s voice—bitter, angry, defensive. He could feel the warmth of the office, so different from the damp stone of the alcove.

But the freeze held. He was terrified that if he moved, the world would rush back in, and he would have to face the fact that he had destroyed his life over a hallway taunt.

"I'll tell them it was me," Sirius said suddenly. The room went silent.

Dumbledore looked over his spectacles. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'll say I started it. I'll say I provoked the whole thing," Sirius said, his face hardening into a mask of reckless, Black-family arrogance. "My name carries more weight than his right now. The Mulcibers won't push as hard if they’re coming for a Black. They’ll want a settlement, not a soul."

"And your own family, Sirius?" Dumbledore asked quietly. "Your mother will not be pleased to defend you for a brawl involving a... 'special interest' in a Slytherin."

"Let her be displeased," Sirius spat. He looked down at Y/N’s glassy eyes, a sharp, jagged pain twisting in his chest. "I’m the one who broke the impasse. I’m the one who dragged him into the light. I’m not letting them bury him because I was too selfish to leave him alone."

Y/N’s breath hitched. A single, ragged sound.

His eyes began to focus, the gloss clearing like mist off a lake. He looked up, his gaze landing first on Dumbledore, then drifting to Sirius. He saw the blood on Sirius’s clothes, the yellowing bruise on his jaw, and the defiant, bitter set of his shoulders.

"No," Y/N whispered. It was the first word he’d spoken in hours, and it sounded like it was being pulled out of him with pliers.

Sirius froze. He looked at Y/N, his expression a mess of relief and stubbornness. "Shut up, Y/N. I've got this."

"No," Y/N said again, more clearly this time, his arms shaking as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He looked at Sirius with a raw, weary intensity.

"I don't need your sacrifice, Black. I don't need you to be my hero. You've done enough."

The words were a blow, but Sirius didn't flinch. They stood there—the Marauder and the Outcast—in the quiet of the Headmaster’s office, while the weight of the Ministry and the Mulciber name hovered over them like a guillotine.

Dumbledore didn’t look away. He stood perfectly still, the light from the Pensieve casting flickering silver shadows across his deeply lined face. He let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable—until Sirius’s restless energy and Y/N’s trembling defiance seemed to vibrate against the very walls of the office.

"Admirable, Sirius," Dumbledore said, his voice as smooth as polished bone. "And entirely predictable. You would throw yourself into the path of a speeding carriage to save someone from a puddle. But the Mulcibers are not a carriage; they are a landslide. If you claim responsibility, you don’t just save Y/N—you give your mother the ammunition she needs to bring you back to Grimmauld Place for 'correction.' And Y/N would still be seen as the catalyst. No one wins."

Sirius opened his mouth to argue, his chest heaving, but Dumbledore raised a single finger, silencing him.

"There is a third option," the Headmaster continued, turning his gaze back to Y/N.

"Though I suspect neither of you will find it particularly pleasant."

Y/N sat on the edge of the sofa, his muscles still stiff in a state of high-alert tension. He wiped a smudge of dried blood from his lip, his dark eyes narrowed. "What is it? Just say it."

"The Mulcibers are moving for a Ministry inquiry based on the claim that you, Y/N, are a danger to the student body—a volatile element that cannot be controlled," Dumbledore explained. "However, the Hogwarts Charter contains an ancient, rather dusty clause regarding In Loco Parentis and disciplinary guardianship. If a student is deemed 'at risk,' the Headmaster can appoint a monitor—a peer-mentor who is held legally and magically responsible for that student’s conduct. Every action, every fight, every late-night excursion becomes the responsibility of the monitor."

Sirius’s eyes widened. He saw where this was going.

"If Sirius takes on this role," Dumbledore said, "the Ministry loses its grounds for an external inquiry. The matter remains internal to Hogwarts. Sirius’s 'monitoring' becomes the guarantee that you are under control. The Mulcibers can’t demand expulsion if a member of the 'Ancient and Most Noble House of Black' is effectively acting as your shadow and your leash."

"A leash?" Y/N’s voice was a dangerous, low rasp. He stood up, his legs shaking slightly but his gaze fixed and burning. "You want me to be his pet? To have him follow me around like a jailer? I’d rather take my chances with the Ministry."

"You wouldn't survive the Ministry, and you know it," Sirius snapped, turning to face him. The bitterness was back, sharp and jagged. "They’d snap your wand before you could even give your name. You think you’re so tough, but you’re just one boy against families that have been burying people like you for centuries."

"And you're any different?" Y/N stepped into Sirius’s space, his frame dwarfed by Sirius’s shoulders, but his presence just as heavy. "You just want a front-row seat to watch me fall apart. You want to feel powerful because you’re the only thing standing between me and the gates."

"I want you to stay," Sirius roared, the words echoing off the circular walls. He didn't move. He stood his ground, the yellowing bruise on his jaw a reminder of their last collision. "I don't care if you hate me. I don't care if you never speak to me again. But I’m not watching you get dragged out of this school because of a fight I helped start."

Dumbledore watched them, his expression unreadable. "If you accept, Sirius, your magic will be bound to his. If he fights, you feel the recoil. If he is punished, you share the burden. It is a total loss of privacy for both of you. You will be roommates. You will be shadows."

Y/N felt the high-pitched ringing start to hum at the base of his skull again. Roommates. Shadows. Forced proximity to the one person who made his skin crawl and his heart race in equal measure. He looked at Sirius—the arrogance, the bitterness, and the underlying, desperate loyalty that Sirius refused to name.

"Fine," Y/N whispered, the word tasting like ash. "Do it. Bind us. But don't expect me to be grateful, Black."

Sirius didn't smile. He didn't look relieved. He just nodded once, a sharp, curt movement. "I'm not looking for a thank you. I'm looking for you to not get expelled like a damn fool."

Dumbledore drew his wand, the tip glowing with a faint, amber light. "Then let us begin. The impasse is over. From this moment on, where one goes, the other follows."

As the magic settled over them—a heavy, invisible chain that linked their pulses—Y/N felt a new kind of cold settle in his chest. He wasn't alone anymore, but being tied to Sirius Black felt like its own kind of prison.

The weight of the bond was a physical pressure, a low-frequency hum that vibrated in the marrow of Y/N’s bones. It wasn't that he could hear Sirius’s thoughts—thank Merlin for small mercies—but he could feel the *presence* of him. A heavy, restless heat that sat at the edge of his senses, reminding him every second that he was no longer a ghost in the halls of Hogwarts. He was a tethered shadow.

————————————————————————

In the sterile, white-washed silence of the infirmary, the air was thick with the smell of essence of dittany and medicinal bile. Mulciber lay propped up against a stack of pillows, his face a horrifying landscape of trauma. His jaw was wired shut, held together by silver charms and brute-force healing, but his eyes—dark, wet, and filled with a frantic, animalistic rage—were wide open.

Avery sat in the hard wooden chair beside the bed, his fingers restlessly tapping against the edge of a side table. He didn't look like a student; he looked like a vulture waiting for the scent of rot.

"It’s a farce," Avery hissed, his voice a jagged whisper that carried to the shadows of the next curtain. "A complete and total failure of justice. You’re lying here with a shattered face, and that animal is walking the halls under the 'protection' of a blood-traitor. Dumbledore thinks he’s clever, using the Black name to bury this."

Mulciber made a sound—a choked, gargling noise behind his teeth—and his hand spasmed against the bedsheet.

"I know," Avery said, leaning in closer, his shadow falling over Mulciber’s bandaged forehead. "It’s not over. The Ministry might have backed off because the 'Ancient and Most Noble House of Black' put its neck on the line, but Sirius Black is a ticking time bomb. He has no patience. He has no discipline. Eventually, he’ll realize that Y/N is a liability. And when that tether snaps... we’ll be there to catch the pieces."

Avery looked toward the door, a slow, toxic smirk spreading across his face. "If we can't get him expelled, we'll just make him wish he was dead. Sirius can't watch him every second of every day. And Y/N? He’s already cracked. We just have to find the right place to push."

————————————————————————

The portrait hole swung open with a violent thud, and Sirius stepped into the Gryffindor common room. He looked like he’d been through a war. His robes were wrinkled, his tie was gone, and the mottled, plum-colored bruise on his jaw stood out in stark relief against his pale skin.

The room, usually a riot of noise and laughter, went dead silent. It was the kind of silence that preceded a lightning strike.

James was standing by the hearth, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Remus and Peter were on the sofa, looking up with expressions of pure, unadulterated shock.

"Is it true?" James asked. No jokes. No 'Padfoot.' Just the cold, hard weight of a question.

"If you're asking if I signed the papers, yes," Sirius snapped, walking toward the fire. He didn't look at them. He stood with his shoulders hunched, staring into the flames. "Y/N stays. I’m the monitor. The bond is sealed."

"You’ve tied your magic to a Slytherin who nearly committed murder!" Remus stood up, his voice cracking with a rare, jagged anger. "Sirius, do you even understand what you’ve done? You aren't just his 'friend' or his 'rival' anymore. You are legally responsible for every hex he throws, every fight he picks. If he snaps again—and he will snap, Sirius, look at him—it's your future on the block too."

"I don't need a lecture on the Charter, Moony!" Sirius roared, turning on them, his gray eyes flashing with a desperate, bitter light. "The Ministry was going to take his wand. They were going to throw him to the wolves. Do you know what happens to someone like him in a place like Azkaban? He wouldn't last a week."

"And that’s your problem why?" Peter squeaked from the corner.

Sirius looked at them—at his brothers, the people who were supposed to understand—and felt a sudden, sharp wall of isolation rise up. "Because I’m the one who started it! Because I’m the one who made him a target for his own House because I couldn't keep my hands off him! I broke the 'impasse,' and I’m the only one who can keep him from being buried under it."

"You're obsessed," James said softly, and that was the word that cut the deepest. "This isn't about guilt, Sirius. You're tying yourself to a ghost because you can't stand the idea of him being out of your reach."

Sirius didn't answer. He couldn't. He just turned and walked up the stairs to the dorm, the heavy thud of his boots sounding like a funeral march.

————————————————————————

The halls of Hogwarts felt different now—sharper, more dangerous. Every corner felt like an ambush. Y/N walked with his head down, his body rigid, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He could feel Sirius about ten paces behind him, a constant, looming presence that made the hair on his arms stand up.

They were passing through the crowded corridor near the Charms classroom when it happened. A group of seventh-year Slytherins, loyal to the Mulciber name, were waiting.

Rosier, a hulking boy with a cruel, thin mouth, stepped directly into Y/N’s path. He didn't pull a wand. He didn't have to. He just put his shoulder into Y/N’s chest, a hard, intentional shove that sent Y/N stumbling back into the stone wall.

"Still breathing, I see," Rosier sneered. "I heard you’ve been downgraded to a pet. Does the Gryffindor give you treats when you stay in your cage?"

The white noise in Y/N’s head didn't just return; it exploded. It was a high-pitched, screaming frequency that drowned out the sound of the students around them. Y/N’s vision tunneled until all he could see was Rosier’s smug, punchable face. His arms bunched, his knuckles—still raw and pink—clenching into white-hot stones.

He was a second away from launching himself, from feeling the crunch of bone under his fists again, when a hand fisted into the collar of his robes and a broad, solid chest slammed into his back.

Sirius hauled him away from the wall with a violence that was startling. He spun Y/N around, pinning him against the opposite pillar, his body acting as a physical shield.

"Don't you dare," Sirius hissed.

"Get off me!" Y/N rasped, his voice a broken, feral sound. "He touched me. I'll take his eyes out, Sirius, let me go—"

"Look at me!" Sirius shouted, grabbing Y/N by the jaw with a bruising grip, forcing their eyes to meet. Sirius’s face was a mask of harsh, bitter urgency. "It's not just your neck anymore. You hit him, and the bond recoils. You get expelled, and my magic is stripped. You want to ruin your life? Fine. But you don't get to take me with you because you can't handle a taunt from a bottom-feeder like Rosier."

Y/N froze. The reality of the magic—the iron weight around his heart—finally sank in. He looked at Sirius’s eyes, saw the genuine, jagged fear behind the bitterness, and the fight drained out of him, leaving him hollow and shaking.

Rosier and the others walked away, their laughter echoing like glass breaking in the hallway.

—————————————-———————————

Late that night, the library was a cavern of shadows and the smell of ancient dust. Y/N was tucked into a corner, his lean frame hunched over a book he wasn't reading. His hands were still trembling, a rhythmic, microscopic shake he couldn't stop.

Sirius appeared out of the dark, sliding into the chair across from him. He didn't look soft. He didn't look like he wanted to help. He looked exhausted and angry, his shoulders slumped.

"You're a mess," Sirius said, his voice flat and confrontational.

Y/N didn't look up. "Leave me alone, Black. You did your job today. You kept the 'pet' in line."

"I’m talking about the fifth floor," Sirius said, and the air in the room seemed to vanish.

"The alcove. The tapestry."

Y/N’s heart hammered against his ribs. He felt the cold sweat return to his palms. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar," Sirius snapped, leaning across the table. "I was there. I heard you. I saw the way you couldn't breathe, the way you were... falling apart. The crying. All of it."

Y/N finally looked up, his dark eyes filled with a raw, jagged hatred. "So what? You going to tell them? Going to tell the Marauders that the 'dangerous' Slytherin is just a pathetic wreck who can't handle a fight? Is that the new prank, Sirius? Is that how you finish me off?"

Sirius stared at him for a long beat, his expression unreadable. Then, he let out a short, bitter huff of a laugh.

"I'm not telling anyone," Sirius said, his voice dropping to a low, rough rasp. "I’m a lot of things, Y/N—I'm a prick, I'm arrogant, and I'm a Black. But I’m not a rat. What happened in that alcove stays there. I’m not giving Mulciber or James or anyone else the satisfaction of knowing they actually got to you."

Y/N blinked, his mouth falling open slightly. The ringing in his ears faded into a dull throb. "Why?"

"Because you're enough of a disaster as it is," Sirius said, standing up, his chair scraping the floor with a harsh sound. "And because I don't need people knowing the guy I’m bound to is a crier. It’s bad for the brand."

Sirius turned to walk away, but stopped, looking back over his shoulder at Y/N’s rigid body. "But don't think this makes us friends. You stay in line. You keep your fists in your pockets. I'm not saving you again."

He disappeared into the shadows, leaving Y/N alone in the dark. For the first time in months, the weight of being alone felt a little less like a death sentence, even if the person standing guard was the very person he hated most.

The "impasse" hadn't been cleared, but for the first time, there was a secret shared across the wall. And in the cold silence of the library, that was the only thing keeping the dark at bay.

broooo fam don’t be mad ik I’ve been gone for like over a month but fr life was doing me sooo trash bro like life was a semi that ran me over life fucked me so bad no lube no nothing i fr didn’t think i was gonna make it out gang frfr but i’m doing much better now still struggling a bit but much much better fr but yooo y/n fucked mulciber up soooo bad got him looking like Nate Jacob’s fr oh and i really recommend listening to ‘May These Noises Startle You In Your Sleep’ it was linked to my last post and ‘Hell Above’ back to back in that specific order by Pierce The Veil the describe Y/N’s mental state and the chapter soooo well and plsss let me know if you all liked this chapter or not or if you have anything you wanna see next time but yeah byeee later mofos I’m outs this mf xb

[saltystarkey]

would like to note that after going over the next part for Sirius Black x Male reader I have changed a lot of things. I would say this song and photo is what you should be looking forward to in the next part. ok later mofos hopefully i will have it out within the next few hours if I don’t get lazy :b

[saltystarkey]

lol don’t be mad chat but I’m alive gang yall would de not believe me if I told u what the last month has been like j bro literally j be happy I’m here cause god damn cut the cameras but on another note gotta hella angst coming soon and some happy stuff too dw

[saltystarkey]

How would you summarize the next pt..? (Keywords, songs, images, etc.)

j responded to this but forgot to do it here myb :’((

Here ya go https://www.tumblr.com/saltystarkey/814390494918557696/the-army-the-navy-vienna-in-memoriam-looks

Post by @saltystarkey · 1 audio track

💬 0  🔁 0  ❤️ 0 · The Army, The Navy - Vienna (In Memoriam) “looks like that cat did a number on you” “vienna, oh” “he took a brick off th

[saltystarkey]

“looks like the cat did a number on you”

“vienna, oh”

“he took a brick off the side of the stoop”

“poor, vienna”

“it’ll be over soon”

“your mama’s waiting for ya”

“but you’re not coming home”

[saltystarkey]

sorry gang I disappeared I’m really sick rn fam but dw soon you will have pt 3 of Sirius I pinky promise j dealing w a lot rn chat

[saltystarkey]

Your sirius fic genuinely convinced me to finally start writing the my own Sirius x m!reader fic I had in my head for awhile!! Thank you twin 🥹❤️‍🩹

Please share it with me id love to read it!!

[saltystarkey]

just reread pt2 of the Sirius story, the writing is SO peak, let us know if you have more songs that inspired your stories for next time (praying it's gonna be some genre of emo again🙏)

brochacho so sorry it took me a minute to respond got a bad case of strep and a nasty sinus infection basically fighting for my life out here lmfao but i would say ‘conspiracy’ by Paramore it’s pretty self explanatory when listening to it i will say it’s from readers perspective

[saltystarkey]

fam which should I write next?

Severus 6th yr pt 5

Sirius 6th yr pt 3

Voting ended onApr 8

[saltystarkey]

I feel SO SMART right now chat 🥹 Lowkey going to like the story even more, ALSO i was just listening to a bunch of emoviolence AND i thought about something, Sirius is SO sleep patterns when you think about it

broooo like sleep patterns band or sleep patterns by merchant ships likeeeee or are we talking bout smth else put me onnnnn chat

[saltystarkey]

okay so, I went and relistened to embers by dead butterflies to try to understand and get the vibe of the most recent post a little more and I gotta ask (yes I'm the same anon who asked about the mention of shoulder scars), do the scars that were briefly mentionned technically work with the lyrics of the song..? Perchance especially the part about the girl and the flower thorns..

brochacho not you connecting dots before i reveal them but yes you are correct i try to leave little subtle hints in the songs i pick so props to you for figuring it also im so happy you like it enough to go back and listen to the song i know most peeps don’t

[saltystarkey]

Blessed us omce again with the Sirius fic 🥹🥹 the way you write the reader is so perfect because I SWEAR you see soooooo rarely a main charcater who's genuinly angsty and emotional ALSO, I was just wondering, when he was out in the courtyard (i think..) anyways when he was wearing the black tank AND the fact he had 'white jagged lines' on his shoulder whichI assume to be scars but are those from his past like the ones on his ribs/back or is it something. Just wanna say I really realy really loved the new part and I honestly wasn't expecting it to be out so early so THANK YOUUUU you really ate this was amazing twin 🥹🥹 and knowing that you listened to emoviolence music while writing it is just perfect also erm I lowkirkenuinly happen to be a huge fan of that type of music so thats amazing to know 🥹🥹 (sorry if this was a long ass message/ask)

noooo this is a great message to hear and I’m so happy you enjoyed it that much fam i was actually so nervous that you guys would hate it because of all the good feedback i got from the last one i was like gyat how am i supposed to live up to these expectations chat cut the cameras so this makes me super happy bro and yes the scars are from something else not the same as the other ones amongst his body from his past also I’m so happy you like the way i write the reader i was scared I made him too uh “woe is me” & dude i loveeeee this genre of music I’ve been listening to it since sheeeesh maybe 2015 so awhile and it’s really cool to know that you and possibly other readers like this music too >:))

[saltystarkey]

fam pt2 of the Sirius 6th year is out & I’m soooo exhausted and drained abt to go night night gang see ya’ll on the flip side

[saltystarkey]

VOLUME 002 ✰༄

"You're a mess, Black. I’m just a Tuesday night."

A series of brutal brawls and a humilating Marauder prank force the boys into a cold withdrawal. Their social distance finally shatters when physical addiction proves stronger than their House rivalry.

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 sky over the Quidditch pitch was the color of a fresh bruise—purples and deep, cold greys that promised rain.

Y/N wasn't just flying; he was punishing the air. Every bank and dive was executed with a violent twitch of his broom handle. His right hand, still stiff and throbbing from the "wall incident" a week prior, was white-knuckled and trembling. He’d wrapped it in fresh linen, but the cloth was already damp with sweat and a faint, seeping pink.

Sirius was on the ground, leaning against the wooden supports of the stands. He was supposed to be discussing tactics with James, but his eyes were locked on the Slytherin chaser. He saw the way Y/N’s jaw was set, the way he flinched every time he had to pull up hard.

"He’s going to get himself killed," James muttered, watching Y/N dive at a dangerous angle.

"He's showboating," Sirius snapped, though his knuckles were white where he gripped his broom. He could see the grey bandages on Y/N’s right hand, fluttering like a flag of surrender in the wind.. Y/N had the Quaffle tucked under his left arm, his right hand steering. Mulciber, seeing an opening to "accidentally" end Y/N’s season, didn't go for the ball. He went for the man.

He veered his heavy Cleansweep directly into Y/N’s path, forcing him toward Avery, who was coming in from the opposite side. It was a pincer movement. Y/N tried to roll, but as he shifted his weight, his injured hand seized. A sharp, electric bolt of agony shot up his arm, causing his grip to falter for a micro-second.

CRUNCH.

The sound was sickening. It wasn't the clean snap of dry wood; it was the wet, heavy sound of a mallet hitting raw meat. Y/N’s right hand was pinned flat between the iron-shod tail of Mulciber’s broom and the solid oak of his own.

For a heartbeat, the world went silent.

Then came the white-out.

The pain wasn't a sting; it was an explosion. It felt like someone had poured molten lead into his veins and then slammed a car door on his wrist over and over again. The force of the impact sent Y/N spiraling. He didn't scream—he couldn't. The air had been punched out of his lungs, leaving him clawing at the sky with his good hand as he plummeted toward the turf.

He hit the grass hard, sliding fifteen feet before coming to a halt.

"Y/N!" Sirius was over the barrier before he even realized he was moving.

Y/N was on his knees, his forehead pressed into the dirt. He was vibrating. Not shaking—vibrating with the sheer force of the trauma. His right arm was pulled tight against his chest, his left hand gripping his bicep so hard his knuckles were white.

"Get away," Y/N wheezed into the grass. The pain was so sharp it was nauseating; every heartbeat sent a fresh wave of heat through his shattered hand, making his vision swim with black spots. It felt like his hand was being held in a fire while someone hammered nails into his marrow.

"Don't be a fucking martyr, you can't even breathe!" Sirius reached out, his hand hovering near Y/N’s shoulder.

Y/N lurched upward, his face a mask of sweat and agony. "I said stay back, Black!" He choked out a jagged, wet breath, his eyes wild and blown wide with shock. He looked like a cornered animal—one that would bite even if its leg was in a trap.

Without another word, Y/N scrambled to his feet. He stumbled, his knees nearly giving out as the blood rushed to his head, but he caught himself. He didn't look at the Slytherins laughing in the air. He didn't look at Sirius. He just turned and bolted toward the shadows of the Forbidden Forest, his arm cradled like a dying bird.

————————————————————————

Sirius followed the trail of crushed ferns and the occasional drop of dark blood. He found Y/N half-collapsed against a mossy log near the edge of the Forest, deep enough that the castle was just a distant glow.

Y/N was bent double, his left hand frantically trying to unwrap the shredded, bloody linen from his right hand. He was swearing—low, rhythmic, filthy curses that were interrupted by sharp, involuntary gasps of air.

"Leave. Me. Alone," Y/N snarled as Sirius stepped into the clearing. He tried to push himself up, but as he put weight on his left hand, his right arm jarred. He let out a strangled, high-pitched sound of pure misery and slumped back against the log, his head hitting the wood with a dull thud.

"You're going to pass out in the dirt and the centaurs are going to trip over your corpse," Sirius snapped, his own adrenaline making him aggressive. He knelt a few feet away, refusing to get closer yet. "You’re acting like a goddamn child. Your hand is a pulp, Y/N. Look at it!"

"I am looking at it!" Y/N yelled, his voice cracking with a sob he desperately tried to turn into a growl. "I don't need a lecture from a pampered Gryffindor prince who’s never had to fix his own skin!"

"I’ve fixed plenty of my own skin, you arrogant prick!" Sirius shouted back, his gray eyes flashing. "But I’m not stupid enough to let a hand rot off out of spite!"

"Fuck you!"

"Fuck you too! Now get up!" Sirius lunged forward, grabbing Y/N’s left arm.

Y/N swung a clumsy, left-handed punch that Sirius easily caught, but the movement sent a fresh jolt of agony through Y/N’s shattered right side. He let out a broken, whistling breath and his eyes rolled back for a second. He didn't fall into Sirius, but he went limp, his forehead dropping toward his knees.

"Hagrid," Y/N rasped, his voice barely a whisper now, stripped of all the venom. "Take me... to the hut. Only Hagrid."

Sirius felt a prickle of something heavy in his chest. "Fine. But if you try to bite me, I’m hexing you into the lake."

Sirius hauled him up. It was a clumsy, violent process. Y/N kept trying to shove Sirius away with his shoulder, his teeth gritted so hard Sirius could hear them grinding. Every time they hit an uneven patch of roots, Y/N would let out a sharp, hissed "Don't touch me," followed by a groan of pain that he couldn't hide.

They stumbled through the dark, a mess of tangled limbs and mutual loathing. Sirius had his arm hooked firmly around Y/N’s waist, practically carrying half his weight, while Y/N kept his mangled hand tucked into his chest, his face buried in the collar of his jacket to hide the fact that he was crying from the sheer, unadulterated pain.

"Almost there, you idiot," Sirius muttered, his own breath coming short.

"Shut up," Y/N breathed, his voice trembling.

“Just shut the fuck up Black.”

They reached the flickering light of Hagrid’s windows, two broken boys covered in dirt and blood, still refusing to give an inch of ground.

————————————————————————

Hagrid didn’t give Y/N a choice. Despite the boy's weak protests and venomous cursing, the half-giant hoisted him up and marched him straight to the Hospital Wing, with Sirius trailing behind in a stunned, uncharacteristic silence.

Madam Pomfrey worked with a focused, brisk efficiency. The magic was shimmering and cold—a series of Episkey and Brackium Emendo charms that forced the shattered bones to knit back together with a series of sickening, wet clicks. Y/N sat on the edge of the cot, his face a ghostly white, his good hand clutching the edge of the mattress so hard the metal frame groaned.

By the time the swelling had receded into a dull, throbbing ache, the heavy doors swung open. Albus Dumbledore stepped in, his purple robes sweeping the floor, his half-moon spectacles glinting in the dim candlelight.

"A most unfortunate series of events, Mr. L/N," Dumbledore said softly, his eyes scanning the boy’s exhausted frame. "Professor McGonagall informs me of a collision on the pitch. And yet, Madam Pomfrey tells me your hand suffered from a separate, prior trauma. A... stone wall, perhaps?"

Sirius leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed, watching Y/N’s jaw lock. Tell him, Sirius thought. Tell him Mulciber is a psychopath.

Y/N didn't even look up. He stared at his newly healed hand, the skin still pink and raw. "It was my fault, Headmaster. I lost my temper in the dungeons. Hit the wall. And the Quidditch incident... I was clumsy. Slipped on my own broom."

Dumbledore stepped closer, his presence heavy and perceptive. "Clumsy? A student with your flight records? And the wall... surely there was a provocation."

"I’m just a violent person, sir," Y/N bit out, his voice a jagged rasp. He finally looked up, his dark eyes flat and defiant. "Ask anyone. I’m a menace. I did it to myself."

Dumbledore watched him for a long, silent moment—the kind of silence that feels like an interrogation. "Very well. If that is the story you wish to maintain. I suggest you spend the night here."

"I'm fine," Y/N snapped, swinging his legs off the bed the second Dumbledore turned to speak with Pomfrey. "I'm going back to the dorms."

Sirius waited. He waited until Dumbledore’s footsteps faded and Hagrid had been sent back to his hut. He waited until Y/N was shoving his feet into his scuffed black boots, his movements jerky and pained.

Just as Y/N reached the heavy oak doors of the infirmary, Sirius stepped out from the shadows, blocking his path.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Sirius’s voice was low, vibrating with a white-hot anger.

"Move, Black," Y/N growled, trying to push past him.

Sirius didn't move. He shoved Y/N back—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to send him stumbling against the doorframe. "He was right there! Dumbledore was giving you the opening on a silver platter! You could have ended it. You could have had Mulciber expelled, or at least suspended, and you just... lied for them?"

"I didn't lie for them!" Y/N yelled, stepping back into Sirius’s space, his chest heaving. "I don't give a shit about Mulciber!"

"Then why?" Sirius stepped closer, his height intimidating, his gray eyes flashing with a manic sort of frustration. "Why take the fall? Why let them think you’re just some unhinged freak who hits walls for fun? I saw what they did to you, Y/N! I saw you hanging from those damn rafters!"

The mention of the dungeons snapped the last thread of Y/N’s control. He lunged forward, grabbing the front of Sirius’s expensive Gryffindor robes, bunching the fabric in his shaking, healed hand. He slammed Sirius back against the door with a force that made the wood groan.

"Yeah, and you just watched!" Y/N screamed into his face, his voice cracking with a week’s worth of suppressed rage.

"You stood there and you watched them do it, encouraged them and then you just fucking left me there! You’re no better than they are, Black! Don't you dare act like you give a shit now just because it makes you feel like a good person!"

Sirius went cold. The air left his lungs as if Y/N had punched him. He looked into Y/N’s eyes and saw the raw, jagged truth of it—the betrayal of a boy who had been left to hang while a "hero" stood in the shadows and did nothing.

"I..." Sirius started, but the words died. He had no defense.

"In my world, you don't run to the teachers!" Y/N hissed, his face inches from Sirius’s. The smell of medicinal herbs and raw anger rolled off him. "In my world, if you can't handle your own blood, you're dead. I don't need a savior, and I especially don't need a spoiled, 'noble' Black trying to play hero for me because he’s bored of his own perfect life!"

"Perfect?" Sirius laughed, a harsh, braying sound, trying to regain his footing through the guilt. He grabbed Y/N’s wrists, his grip bruising. "You think I’m doing this because I’m bored? I’m doing this because I’m sick of watching you destroy yourself!"

"Better dead than a snitch!" Y/N roared. He shoved Sirius away with a violent burst of strength, his eyes shimmering with a dangerous, unstable heat.

Y/N pointed a trembling finger at Sirius’s chest. "Stay away from me, Black. I mean it. If you mention that hallway again, or my hand, or anything you think you 'saw'... I will make sure you don't walk back to your fucking tower."

"You're a coward, L/N!" Sirius shouted as Y/N turned his back and started down the corridor. "You’re a goddamn coward for not fighting back for real!"

"Fuck you, Black!" Y/N’s middle finger went up over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner, his heavy boots echoing like gunfire against the stone.

Sirius stood alone in the dark hallway, his heart hammering against his ribs, his blood singing with a rage he couldn't name.

"Fine!" he screamed at the empty air. "Rot then, you ungrateful prick! See if I care!"

He kicked a stone decorative urn, sending it clattering across the floor, but the hollow sound it made felt exactly like the pit in his stomach.

————————————————————————

The courtyard behind the Clocktower was a jagged landscape of gray stone and long, skeletal shadows. It was past curfew, the kind of hour where the castle felt less like a school and more like a tomb. The air was biting, a sharp Highland chill that settled into the marrow, but Y/N didn't seem to feel it.

He was leaning against a crumbling stone archway, the fabric of his black muscle tank clinging to his frame. The sleeveless shirt exposed the map of his history—pale, thin lines across his shoulders and the dark, fading yellow of a bruise near his bicep from the Quidditch collision. His right hand, the one the world had seen shattered only days ago, was wrapped in a messy, stained bit of black tape he’d salvaged from the locker rooms.

He looked like a ghost haunting his own life.

Then he felt it. The weight in the pocket of his leather jacket, which was draped over a nearby bench. He reached in, his fingers closing around a cold, glass jar he hadn't put there.

He pulled it out. It was a heavy apothecary jar filled with a shimmering, pearl-colored salve—Murtlap essence distilled with powdered opal. It was expensive. It was the kind of thing only a Pureblood with an open vault and a guilty conscience could procure.

Y/N’s jaw tightened until the bone looked ready to snap. He didn't have to look for the culprit. The scent of expensive tobacco and a hint of ozone always preceded him.

"I don't remember asking for a nurse, Black," Y/N rasped, his voice a low, dangerous vibration in the quiet courtyard.

Sirius stepped out from the shadow of the Great Oak. He looked just as frayed as Y/N—his tie was hanging loose, his hair was windswept, and his gray eyes were bright with a manic, restless energy. He’d been trailing Y/N for an hour, waiting for the right moment to be "decent."

"It’s for the scarring," Sirius said, his voice deceptively casual. He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to look bored, but his shoulders were tight. "Pomfrey’s stock is rubbish. That stuff will actually knit the nerves back. You’re twitching when you hold a quill, Y/N. I’ve seen it."

"You've seen it?" Y/N let out a sharp, jagged laugh. He pushed off the archway, his boots heavy on the frost-covered stone. "You spend a lot of time watching me, don't you? Watching me hang, watching me drink, watching me fail. Is this your new hobby? The 'Save a Slytherin' project?"

"It's a jar of cream, you dramatic prick. Just take it."

"I don't want your pity!" Y/N roared. He didn't just drop the jar. He wound back and hurled it.

The glass whistled through the air, aimed straight for Sirius’s face. Sirius jerked his head to the side just in time; the jar shattered against the stone pillar behind him, spraying pearl-colored goop and shimmering glass shards like a miniature explosion.

"You think this fixes it?" Y/N was moving now, closing the distance between them with a predator’s stride. "You think buying me off makes us even? You think because you 'helped’ me, I’m going to forget you flicked my ear while I was hanging by my fucking ankle?"

Sirius’s face went white, then a hot, angry red. The guilt he’d been carrying like a stone suddenly turned into a weapon. "I don’t know why, but I’m trying to help you! You’re falling apart, and you’re too goddamn proud to realize everyone can see the cracks!"

"Don't you talk to me about cracks," Y/N hissed, stopping inches from Sirius’s chest. The height difference was negligible, but the intensity coming off Y/N was a physical heat. "You’re a fraud. You play rebel in the tower, but you’ve got a gold-plated safety net. I have nothing. And I’d rather rot with nothing than take a single hand-out from a coward like you."

"Call me a coward one more time," Sirius breathed, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Coward," Y/N spat. "Rich, bored, pathetic—"

Sirius didn't wait for the third insult. He lunged.

It wasn't a duel. It was a car crash.

Sirius slammed his shoulder into Y/N’s chest, the force of the impact sending both of them crashing into the dirt and frost of the courtyard. They rolled, a chaotic mess of flailing limbs and muffled grunts.

Y/N snarled, throwing a short, brutal punch that caught Sirius in the cheekbone. Sirius’s head snapped back, the metallic taste of blood immediate and sharp in his mouth. He didn't back off; he snarled back, grabbing Y/N by the front of his black muscle tank and slamming him into the base of the stone bench.

"You want to do this?" Sirius barked, his knee pinning Y/N’s hip down. "Fine! Let’s do this!"

Y/N bucked his hips, using that raw core strength Sirius had seen in the hallway. He flipped the position, pinning Sirius’s wrists to the frozen ground. Y/N’s face was a mask of pure, unadulterated rage, his dark hair falling into his eyes.

"You don't get to feel good about yourself!" Y/N yelled, punctuating the sentence with a headbutt that sent stars exploding across Sirius’s vision.

Sirius groaned, the pain white-hot, but he used the moment to throw a blind hook that connected with Y/N’s ribs—right where the scars were. Y/N let out a choked wheeze, his grip loosening for a split second. It was all Sirius needed.

They scrambled to their feet, breathing in ragged, cloud-like bursts in the cold air. For a moment, they just circled each other like wolves. Sirius’s lip was split, a dark trickle of red staining his chin. Y/N’s right eye was already beginning to puff shut, and the tape on his hand was starting to unravel, soaked in fresh blood.

Y/N lunged again, a series of rapid-fire strikes. He fought dirty—elbows, knees, the heels of his palms. He wasn't trying to win a point; he was trying to exorcise a demon. He caught Sirius in the solar plexus, then grazed his jaw with a heavy right cross.

Sirius took the hits, absorbing the pain as if it were a penance. But the Black blood in his veins was too hot for pure martyrdom. He caught Y/N’s arm, spun him around, and drove him back-first into a stone pillar.

THUD.

The sound of Y/N’s spine hitting the granite echoed in the empty space. He gasped, his knees buckling, but he caught Sirius by the throat as he went down, dragging the Gryffindor with him.

They hit the ground again, but the energy was changing. The explosive rage was being replaced by a heavy, soul-crushing exhaustion. They were both leaking blood onto the stones—dark splotches that looked black in the moonlight. Sirius’s shirt was torn, and Y/N’s black tank was shredded at the shoulder.

Y/N threw one last, weak punch that landed harmlessly against Sirius’s shoulder. Sirius responded by grabbing Y/N’s wrists and just... holding them. Not pinning them, but anchoring them.

They lay there in the dirt, chests heaving, the only sound the frantic, syncopated rhythm of their breathing.

The silence lasted for minutes. The frost began to settle on their skin, but neither moved. They were too beaten, too hollowed out to continue.

Y/N was the first to move. He groaned, a low sound of misery, and rolled onto his side. He pushed himself up with a wince, his muscles screaming in protest. He crawled back toward the bench where his jacket lay, leaving a trail of scuffed dirt behind him.

Sirius stayed on his back for a moment, staring up at the moon. His face was a map of disaster. His cheek was swollen, his lip was a mess, and his knuckles were raw. He felt... lighter. As if the violence had bled out the worst of the poison.

He sat up slowly, watching Y/N.

Y/N had reached his jacket. With trembling, bloody fingers, he fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He stuck one between his lips—it was bent and stained with red—and flicked his lighter. The flame was a small, orange heartbeat in the dark.

He took a long, shaky drag, the smoke curling around his bruised face. He looked at Sirius—really looked at him—without the wall of hatred for the first time.

Sirius stood up, his legs shaking. He walked over, his boots crunching on the glass shards of the shattered salve. He didn't say anything. He didn't apologize.

He stopped a foot away from Y/N.

Y/N looked at him, the cigarette dangling from his split lip. He didn't growl. He didn't move. He just took another drag, held the smoke in his lungs for a second, and then leaned forward.

It wasn't a kiss. It was an exchange.

Y/N cupped the back of Sirius’s neck with his taped hand, pulling him in close until their foreheads almost touched. Y/N didn't exhale. He held the smoke, his eyes locked on Sirius’s gray ones.

Sirius understood. He leaned in, his lips parting just enough.

Y/N exhaled slowly, a thick, ghost-white cloud of smoke passing directly from his lungs into Sirius’s.

Sirius inhaled it, the acrid, cherry-flavored tobacco stinging his throat and filling his chest. It was warm—the only warm thing in the courtyard. For that one breath, they were sharing the same air, the same poison, the same exhaustion.

Sirius leaned back, coughing once, the smoke trailing from his mouth like a departing spirit. He looked at Y/N, whose hand was still lingering on his neck, his thumb brushing against the skin behind Sirius’s ear.

"We're a mess," Sirius whispered, his voice wrecked.

Y/N took the cigarette out of his mouth and flicked the ash into the snow. A small, tired smirk touched his lips—the first real one Sirius had ever seen.

"You're a mess, Black," Y/N rasped, his eyes dropping to Sirius’s split lip. "I’m just a Tuesday night."

Y/N pulled his hand away, the cold immediately rushing back into the space between them. He stood up, swaying, and grabbed his jacket.

"Don't buy me anything else," Y/N said over his shoulder as he started the long walk back toward the dungeons. "I don't like being in debt."

Sirius watched him go, the taste of Y/N’s smoke still lingering on his tongue. He looked at the shattered glass on the floor, the expensive pearl salve melting into the frost, and realized he didn't care about the money.

He just wanted to know if he’d be seeing him again on Wednesday.

————————————————————————

The Gryffindor common room was a riot of red, gold, and the smell of toasted marshmallows. James had managed to "liberate" a crate of Butterbeer from the kitchens, and the seventh-years were celebrating a Quidditch victory they hadn't even played yet.

Sirius was right in the middle of it. He was standing on a low table, a bottle of Butterbeer in one hand, regaling a group of fifth-years with a heavily exaggerated story about Filch’s cat.

"And I’m telling you," Sirius barked, his grin wide and blindingly bright, "Mrs. Norris didn't just hiss. She did a full backflip. I think she’s actually a Malcontent in a fur coat."

The room erupted in laughter. Sirius laughed with them—loud, booming, and perfectly timed. To anyone watching, he was the same old Padfoot. The Golden Boy. The rebel prince.

But James was watching from the sofa, his brow furrowed. He leaned toward Remus. "He’s been on that table for twenty minutes. He’s told four jokes, and none of them were actually funny. Why is he vibrating?"

Remus didn't look up from his book, but his fingers tightened on the spine. "He’s performing, James. When Sirius is this loud, it’s usually because he’s trying to drown something out."

Sirius hopped off the table, his heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs. Every time his skin brushed against a classmate's arm or a hand clapped his shoulder, he felt a jolt of revulsion. It wasn't the hand. It wasn't the slim, corded muscle of a boy who smelled like cherry smoke and fought like a cornered wolf.

He felt like a fraud. He felt like his skin was a size too small. He was addicted to the impact—the memory of Y/N’s headbutt, the weight of Y/N’s hands on him, the way they had shared that single, ghost-white breath of smoke. The "kind, jokeful" act was a mask that was starting to crack.

"I’m going for a walk," Sirius announced, throwing an arm around Peter’s shoulders and giving him a rough, playful shake. "Need to see if the Giant Squid is up for a game of tag. Pete, you’re in charge of the snacks!"

"Sirius, it’s nearly curfew—" James started, but Sirius was already out the portrait hole, his smile vanishing the second the stone closed behind him.

————————————————————————

The Slytherin side of the castle was quiet, but it wasn't peaceful. It was the silence of a glass bottle about to shatter.

Y/N was sitting in a secluded alcove near the Potions classroom, far away from the green glow of the common room. He wasn't alone. Severus Snape was sitting opposite him, meticulously shredding dried lacewing flies into a silver bowl.

They weren't friends. They were more like two survivors of the same shipwreck who had agreed not to drown each other.

"You're twitching," Snape said, his voice a low, clinical drone. He didn't look up. "Your hand is hovering over your pocket. You've been reaching for one of those nasty muggle cigarettes every thirty seconds for the last hour."

"It's a habit, Sev. Don't be a freak," Y/N rasped, his voice sounding wrecked. He adjusted his black T-shirt, the fabric irritating the dark bruises on his ribs—bruises he could still feel the phantom heat of Sirius’s palms on from the courtyard.

"It’s a tremor," Snape corrected, finally looking up. His dark eyes were cold, assessing. "And your lip is swollen. Again. Mulciber is telling anyone who will listen that you’ve become a punching bag for the Gryffindors. He thinks you’re losing your edge. He thinks you’re... compromised."

Y/N let out a sharp, jagged laugh. He leaned forward, his lean, muscular shoulders tensing. "Mulciber thinks a lot of things. Most of them involve his own reflection. I’m fine."

"You’re not," Snape said, his voice dropping an octave. "You smell like that expensive cologne the Potter boy’s friend wears. The one who thinks he’s a rebel because he wears a leather jacket. If the House catches the scent of a Blood Traitor on you, Y/N, they won't just hang you by your ankle. They’ll bury you."

Y/N’s jaw tightened until the bone clicked. "I don't smell like anyone but myself. Now, are we going to finish the draught or are you going to keep playing detective?"

Snape stared at him for a long beat, then went back to his flies. "Do what you want. But remember: some fires don't just burn you. They turn everything around you to ash."

————————————————————————

Sirius was pacing. He was supposed to be "Marauding," but he felt like he was hunting. He was addicted to the friction of Y/N, the way their bodies seemed to naturally collide in the dark. He turned a corner and nearly slammed into a tall, thin figure.

It was Remus.

"Following me now, Moony?" Sirius joked, his voice reaching for that casual, arrogant pitch. "I didn't know you cared."

Remus didn't smile. He stepped into Sirius’s path, forcing him to stop. "I don't need to follow you. You're leaving a trail of nervous energy a mile wide. Sirius, stop it."

"Stop what?"

"The act. The jokes. The lying. You’re going to get yourself killed, or worse, you’re going to get him killed. Do you have any idea what they do to 'traitors' in that House?"

Sirius’s bravado cracked. He leaned against the wall, his head thumping against the stone. "I know. I know better than you do, Remus. My mother wrote the book on it. But I can't stay away. I try to be 'Sirius'—the fun one, the brave one—but then I see him in the Hall, or I smell that fucking tobacco, and I lose it. I just want to hit him. Or hold him down. I don't even know anymore."

"Then finish it," Remus said, his voice firm. "Either walk away and never look at him again, or tell James. Stop living in the cracks."

"I can't tell James," Sirius whispered, his voice breaking. "He’s the sun. If I tell him I’m obsessed with a Slytherin who hates my guts, he’ll look at me like I’m a monster. And I can't lose him, Moony. I can't lose the only family I chose."

Before Remus could answer, a shadow moved at the end of the hall.

Y/N stepped out from behind a suit of armor. He looked at Remus, then at Sirius. The denial was thick in the air—a heavy, suffocating wall of we aren't doing this.

"Lupin," Y/N acknowledged, his voice flat.

"L/N," Remus replied, his eyes moving between the two of them. He saw the way Sirius’s hands were shaking. He saw the way Y/N was standing—shoulders hunched, head down, but his eyes locked on Sirius with a focused, hungry intensity. They were like two magnets with reversed poles, fighting the urge to snap together.

"I’ll leave you to your... 'business,'" Remus said, shooting Sirius a warning look before disappearing around the corner.

The silence that followed was a physical blow.

"What do you want, Black?" Y/N asked, his voice a low hiss. "I thought we agreed. No more courtyards. No more sharing air."

"I didn't agree to anything," Sirius said, stepping forward. The "jokeful Marauder" was gone, replaced by the jagged, desperate boy from the courtyard. "I’ve been trying to be normal for three days. It’s not working. I can still feel your hand on my neck."

Y/N let out a short, bitter laugh. He walked up to Sirius, stopping inches from his chest. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. The smoke curled between them, a familiar, addictive wall.

"It's not working because you're a fraud," Y/N whispered, leaning in until his lips were a hair's breadth from Sirius’s ear, but he didn't touch him. "You’re playing house in your tower, while I’m fending off Snape’s questions and Mulciber’s threats. You have everything to lose, and I have nothing. Stop coming for me, Sirius. Before I take everything you have left."

Sirius grabbed Y/N’s wrist, his grip hard, his thumb pressing into the lean, corded muscle. He wasn't kissing him, but he was holding him like he never wanted to let go. "You won't. Because you’re just as addicted to the fight as I am."

Y/N stared at him, the smoke trailing from his mouth. He looked like he wanted to punch Sirius, and he looked like he wanted to drag him into the shadows.

"Go back to your friends, Black," Y/N said, wrenching his arm away, though he lingered for a second too long. "Before the sun goes down and you forget who you’re supposed to be."

He turned and walked away, leaving Sirius alone in the dark corridor, the scent of cherry smoke the only thing left of the boy he was supposed to hate.

————————————————————————-

The Gryffindor seventh-year dormitory was a mess of half-packed trunks, discarded robes, and the sharp, metallic tang of ink. James Potter was standing over his bed, which had been transformed into a tactical war room. A massive parchment map of the Great Hall was pinned to the duvet with four daggers, and James was pointing at the Slytherin table with a predatory grin.

"The ink is the key," James whispered, his glasses sliding down his nose. "Not just any ink. Dr. Filibuster’s Permanent Neon. It doesn't just stain the skin; it reacts to magic. The more they try to Scourify it, the brighter it glows. Mulciber will be walking around looking like a Lumos charm for a week."

Sirius was leaning against the bedpost, a bottle of Butterbeer dangling from his fingertips. He was laughing—loud, easy, and perfectly timed. "And the trigger?"

"The soup tureen," Peter squeaked, rubbing his hands together. "One drop of the catalyst and—boom. Ink everywhere."

"Brilliant," Sirius barked, clapping James on the back. His hand was steady, his grin was wide, but inside, his chest felt like it was full of jagged glass. He was performing. He was a Marauder, the loyal brother, the one who lived for the chaos. But every time he looked at the map, his eyes drifted to the very end of the Slytherin table.

He wasn't worried about Y/N being "hurt"—he knew Y/N was tougher than anyone in this room. He was just... itchy. He was addicted to the friction, to the way Y/N looked when he was angry, and he hated that James’s prank was going to turn that sharp, dangerous boy into a punchline.

"You okay, Padfoot?" James asked, his eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. "You've been staring at that spot for a while."

"Just picturing the look on Slughorn's face," Sirius lied smoothly, taking a long swig of his drink. "It’s going to be legendary, Prongs."

————————————————————————

The Dungeons were silent, save for the rhythmic hiss of a nearby steam pipe. Y/N was sitting on a stone ledge, his legs dangling, watching Regulus Black attempt a complex Transfiguration on a silver coin.

Y/N looked slim and dangerously composed in his muscle tank, his corded arm muscles tensing as he flicked a lighter open and shut. Click. Click. Click. He wasn't feeling "withdrawal." He was a boy who had been raised in the dark; he was used to the cold. Sirius Black was just a temporary heat he’d encountered, nothing more.

"You're distracted," Regulus said, his voice a cool, elegant drawl. He didn't look up from his coin. "Your pulse is visible in your neck. Are you expecting someone?"

"I'm expecting the lunch bell, Reg. Don't be a poet," Y/N rasped.

A shadow fell across the floor. Severus Snape stepped out from the darkness of the corridor, his robes billowing like ink in water. He looked at Regulus, then fixed his gaze on Y/N.

"Potter and his curs are moving," Snape said, his voice a low, clinical drone. "They’ve been in the owlery twice today. There’s talk of an 'ink-cloud' hex. They’re targeting the House table at dinner."

Y/N didn't flinch. He didn't look worried. He just leaned his head back against the stone wall, his dark eyes meeting Snape’s. "So? We’ve dealt with ink before, Severus. Or are you afraid it’ll ruin your complexion?"

Snape’s lip curled. "I’m telling you because you’ve been... 'vulnerable' lately. If you get hit, and you react like a victim, the House will see it as a weakness. Mulciber is looking for a reason to replace you at the end of the table."

"Let him try," Y/N said, standing up. He was a powerful wizard, and everyone in the Dungeons knew it. He didn't need a wand to be a threat; his muscular frame and the sheer, jagged energy he projected were enough to make a Hufflepuff turn tail and run in the halls. "I don't need a warning from you, Sev. I know exactly what Sirius Black is capable of."

————————————————————————

Dinner was a roar of conversation. Sirius sat with the Marauders, his heart thumping against his ribs. He was laughing at a joke Peter had made, but his eyes were locked on the soup tureen at the Slytherin table.

James signaled.

BOOM.

It wasn't a loud explosion, but the impact was massive. A geyser of neon-pink, permanent ink erupted from the center of the Slytherin table, coating everything in a three-foot radius. The Hall erupted in deafening laughter. Mulciber was drenched, his face a glowing mask of fury. Avery was slipping on the ink-slicked floor.

But the cloud had overshot.

Y/N had been standing up to leave just as the trigger hit. The blast caught him square in the chest, the force of the magical impact slamming him backward. Because of his injured ribs from the courtyard fight, he couldn't brace himself. He hit the stone floor hard, a sharp, audible crack echoing in the sudden silence of the Slytherin end.

Sirius stood up on the bench, his "fun" mask frozen on his face. He watched as Y/N struggled to breathe, the neon ink staining his black tank and the pale skin of his arms. Y/N didn't cry out. He didn't look for help. He just slowly, painfully pushed himself up, his slim muscles shaking with the effort.

He looked across the Hall. His eyes found Sirius’s. There was no hatred in them—just a cold, hollow recognition.

Y/N turned and walked out of the Hall, leaving a trail of glowing pink footprints behind him.

——————-——————————————————

Sirius caught him ten minutes later. He had ditched the Marauders, claiming he had "forgotten his bag," and tracked the neon trail to a dark corridor near the kitchens.

Y/N was leaning against the wall, trying to scrub the ink from his face with a handful of dry napkins. It wasn't working. His ribs were clearly killing him; every breath was a jagged, shallow hitch.

"Y/N," Sirius breathed, reaching out to grab Y/N’s arm—addicted to the contact, to the corded muscle under his fingers.

Y/N swatted his hand away as if he were a fly. He looked at Sirius, his face a glowing, neon mess, but his eyes were like ice.

"What are you on about, Black?" Y/N hissed, his voice a broken rasp.

"I didn't think it would hit you," Sirius started, his "jokeful" voice completely gone. "James didn't mean for it to overshoot—"

"Save it," Y/N cut him off, a dry, bitter laugh breaking through. "You're a Marauder, Sirius. You're the prince of the tower. This is what you do, isn't it? You watch, you joke, and you walk away while the freaks bleed."

"It's not like that," Sirius stepped closer, his broad frame casting a shadow over Y/N. "I wanted to warn you—"

"Should I have expected anything less?" Y/N whispered, stepping into Sirius’s space, the neon ink smearing onto Sirius’s pristine Gryffindor robes. "You're a Black. You're a Marauder. Go back to your friends, Sirius. Before you get any ink on your precious reputation."

Y/N turned and walked into the darkness, leaving Sirius alone in the corridor, the smell of neon chemicals and cherry smoke the only thing left of the boy he couldn't stop thinking about.

———————-—————————————————-

The Slytherin showers were a brutalist expanse of cold stone and hissing pipes. Y/N stood under the spray, the water as hot as he could stand it, watching the neon-pink ink swirl down the drain like radioactive blood. He didn't use a standard cleaning charm. He’d spent an hour in the library days ago researching the specific counter-alchemical properties of Dr. Filibuster’s products. He had the antidote—a thick, caustic-smelling paste he’d brewed in secret—and he was slowly, methodically scrubbing it into his skin.

As the ink faded, the rest of him emerged.

He looked at himself in the steamed-over mirror of the communal washroom. Without the black muscle tank, he was a map of a life spent on the defensive. His slim, muscular torso was a patchwork of history.

There were the old, jagged white lines along his ribs—remnants of a childhood in a house that didn't value silence. There were the faded Quidditch scars, and the fresh, dark plum-colored contusions from the courtyard fight with Sirius.

His right side was a mess. The impact with the Great Hall floor had re-aggravated his ribs; they were a deep, angry yellow-green now, every breath a sharp reminder of James Potter’s "brilliant" plan. He looked wrecked, but his eyes were stone-cold. He dressed slowly, pulling on a fresh white shirt and attempted his tie before throwing it to the side, his movements stiff and practiced. He was a powerful wizard, and he was tired of being treated like a prop.

————————————————————————-

Defense Against the Dark Arts was a shared class—Gryffindors and Slytherins packed into a room that always smelled of ozone and old parchment.

Y/N walked in late, his face clean of the neon stain, his expression a mask of bored indifference. He took his usual seat at the back. Mulciber and Avery were already there, their faces still glowing a faint, humiliating pink despite their best efforts to scrub it off. They looked ridiculous, and they knew it.

"L/N," Mulciber hissed as soon as the professor turned to the chalkboard. "You’re clean. Give us the antidote."

"No," Y/N said, not even looking up from his parchment.

"Don't be a prick," Avery snarled, leaning over the desk. "We know you brewed something. Give it here, or we’ll make sure the next week of your life is spent in the Hospital Wing."

"I don't help people who hang me from rafters, Avery," Y/N rasped, his voice low and dangerous. "Figure it out yourselves. Or keep glowing. It suits your personality."

Across the room, the Marauders were watching. James and Peter were snickering at Mulciber’s pink ears, but Sirius wasn't laughing. He was watching Y/N’s hands. He saw the way Y/N was favoring his right side, the way his lean shoulders were braced as if expecting a blow.

"Maybe we went a bit far with the permanent stuff," Peter whispered, his voice uncharacteristically small. James didn't answer; he was looking at the bruises on Y/N’s neck that were visible above his collar—bruises Sirius knew he had put there.

—————-———————————————————-

The professor called for a practical demonstration of the Impedimenta jinx.

Mulciber didn't wait for his turn. As the class moved to clear the desks, he spun around, his wand aimed directly at Y/N’s chest.

" Mucus ad Nauseam! " Mulciber roared.

It wasn't a joke hex. It was a vicious, painful curse that targeted the respiratory system. Y/N went down instantly, his knees hitting the stone floor with a sickening thud.

Because his ribs were already compromised, the curse was twice as agonizing. He doubled over, gasping for air, his face turning a terrifying shade of gray as he clutched his side.

"Give us the antidote, you half-blood freak!" Avery joined in, casting a stinging hex that caught Y/N across the cheek, drawing blood.

The entire class froze. The laughter died in a heartbeat.

Sirius felt his world narrow down to the sight of Y/N on the floor, struggling to breathe while his own Housemates treated him like a training dummy. It wasn't "House business" anymore. It was an execution.

"Enough!" Professor Moody barked, stepping in and disarming Mulciber with a flick of his wand. "Mulciber, Avery—detention for a month! Get out!"

The Slytherins slunk away, muttering threats, but the damage was done. Y/N stayed on the floor for a long moment, his muscular frame shaking with the effort of not screaming. He pushed himself up slowly, refusing the professor’s hand, refusing everyone’s eyes.

He looked at the Gryffindor table. He looked at James, who was actually looking down at his desk, and then his eyes found Sirius.

Sirius was paralyzed. He wanted to move, to shout, to burn the whole room down, but he was trapped in his own "Marauder" skin. He realized then that his jokes hadn't just hit Y/N—they had painted a target on his back.

By humiliating the Slytherins, the Marauders had forced the snakes to find a scapegoat. And Y/N was the easiest mark they had.

Y/N wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, his eyes cold and hollow. He didn't say a word as he gathered his things and walked out of the room, his gait limp and pained.

"Padfoot..." Remus started, reaching out to touch Sirius’s arm.

Sirius wrenched himself away. He didn't look at his friends. He didn't look at anyone. He just stared at the empty seat at the back of the room, the scent of cherry smoke and neon ink still hanging in the air like a ghost.

———————-—————————————————

The D.A.D.A. classroom cleared out like a room filled with smoke, students whispering and casting side-glances at the empty chair where Y/N had been doubled over. James, Remus, and Peter stayed back, the celebratory air of the morning completely evaporated.

"Padfoot, wait—" James started, reaching for Sirius’s shoulder.

Sirius didn't wait. He didn't even look at them. His vision was a narrow, red-tinted tunnel. He saw Mulciber and Avery swaggering down the stone corridor, laughing under their breath as they wiped the last traces of neon pink from their collars.

"Mulciber!" Sirius’s voice cracked like a whip.

The two Slytherins stopped and turned, their expressions shifting from amusement to a guarded, jagged arrogance. They were still stained, still humiliated, and they were looking for a place to put that rage.

"What do you want, Black?" Mulciber spat, his hand hovering over his wand. "Come to finish the job? Or are you just here to gloat about your little ink trick?"

"You're pathetic," Sirius hissed, stepping into Mulciber’s space. His broad shoulders were bunched, his teeth bared in a snarl that was pure, ancestral Black fury.

"Attacking him while he’s down? Using a sickness curse on someone who can barely breathe? You’re a coward. You’re a stain on this school."

Mulciber didn't flinch. In fact, a slow, ugly smirk spread across his face. He stepped closer, his chest nearly touching Sirius’s.

"Funny, coming from you," Mulciber whispered, his voice dripping with venom.

"You’re the one who set the trap, Sirius. You’re the one who encouraged the 'Master Prank.' We just took the opening you gave us."

"It was a joke," Sirius growled, his voice wavering. "It wasn't meant to—"

"A joke?" Avery chimed in, leaning against a stone pillar. "Is that what you call it when you slam him into stone walls? We’ve seen the bruises, Black. We’ve seen the way he walks after a 'run-in' with you. You fight him, you hunt him, and you hurt him more than we ever could. You’ve been breaking him for months. We just decided to enjoy the pieces."

Mulciber leaned in, his eyes narrowed. "Don't play the hero now. You’re just like us, Sirius. You just have a better tailor and a louder laugh. You hate him just as much as we do—maybe more, because you can't stop thinking about him. So don't you dare judge us for finishing what you started."

They pushed past him, their shoulders clipping Sirius’s as they disappeared into the darkness of the dungeons.

Sirius stood frozen in the middle of the hallway. The words felt like physical blows. You're just like us. You fight him more than we ever could. He looked at his hands—the knuckles that were still healing from the courtyard, the palms that had felt the heat of Y/N’s skin. He realized with a sickening jolt that they were right. Every 'interaction' he’d had with Y/N was rooted in violence or a desperate, selfish addiction. He wasn't the savior. He was the catalyst.

——————-——————————————————

Sirius didn't go to the Great Hall for lunch. He didn't go back to the common room. He moved through the castle like a ghost, his mind a chaotic loop of Y/N’s face on the classroom floor.

He found Y/N where he always found him: the quietest, coldest corner of the grounds. Y/N was leaning against the stone base of the Clocktower, his head tipped back against the granite. His white shirt was untucked, the top three buttons undone as he struggled for deep breaths. The blood from the stinging hex had dried in a dark streak down his cheek.

He looked slim, battered, and utterly exhausted, his corded muscles trembling with the effort of staying upright.

"Go away," Y/N rasped without opening his eyes. He didn't need to see him; he knew the scent of Sirius’s leather jacket and the heavy, restless weight of his presence.

"They said I'm no better than them," Sirius said, his voice hollow. He didn't move closer. He stayed five feet away, anchored by his own guilt. "Mulciber. He said I'm the one who started it. That I'm the one who’s been breaking you."

Y/N opened his eyes. They were bloodshot and dark with pain, but they were as sharp as ever. He let out a short, jagged laugh that turned into a wince.

"He's right," Y/N whispered, clutching his side. "You're all the same, Sirius. You just dress it up in 'House Pride' and 'Marauder Spirit.' But at the end of the day, I’m still the one on the floor. Whether it’s your ink or their curses, the result is the same."

"I didn't mean—"

"It doesn't matter what you meant!" Y/N roared, his voice cracking. He pushed off the wall, swaying dangerously. "It matters what happened! You’re addicted to the friction, Sirius. You’re addicted to the way I fight back. But I’m tired. I’m tired of being the thing you use to feel 'rebellious.'"

Y/N reached into his pocket with a shaky hand and pulled out a bent cigarette. He tried to light it, but his fingers were trembling too hard to spark the lighter. He let out a frustrated, broken sound and hurled the lighter into the grass.

Sirius moved then. He didn't think about "right" or "wrong." He stepped forward, picked up the lighter, and struck it. He held the flame out, his hand steadying Y/N’s as the cigarette caught.

For a heartbeat, they were back in the courtyard—sharing a flame in the dark. But the air was different now. The "denial" was gone, replaced by a raw, bleeding honesty.

"I don't want to be like them," Sirius whispered, his thumb brushing against Y/N’s cold fingers.

"Then stop," Y/N said, exhaling a cloud of smoke that tasted of ash and regret. "Stop looking for me. Stop fighting me. Stop pretending we’re the same."

The cigarette was a pinpoint of orange fire between them, the only thing keeping the encroaching shadows of the Clocktower at bay. Sirius felt the heat radiating off Y/N—not the healthy heat of a boy after a game, but the feverish, jagged warmth of a body pushed to its absolute limit.

Sirius didn’t step back. He didn’t apologize.

The guilt from Mulciber’s words—the realization that he was just a mirror image of the monsters in the dungeons—curdled into a desperate, selfish need. If he was already a monster, he might as well act like one. He was addicted to the friction, the way Y/N’s slim, corded muscles felt under his hands, and the way they seemed to naturally collide like two storm fronts.

Without a word, Sirius closed the distance.

He didn't ask. He didn't lean in. He lunged.

He grabbed the front of Y/N’s damp, blood-stained white shirt, his knuckles brushing against the lean, bruised skin of Y/N’s chest, and slammed his mouth against the other boy’s.

It was a forceful, ugly collision. There was no romance in it, no "softness" to heal the day’s wounds. It was pure, unadulterated want—a needy, desperate attempt to reclaim the air they had shared in the courtyard. Sirius tasted the bitter cherry tobacco, the metallic tang of the blood from Y/N’s cheek, and the raw, salt-tinged sweat of exhaustion.

He pushed Y/N back against the rough granite of the tower, his broad shoulders pinning the slighter boy into the stone. His hands traveled up, one fisting in Y/N’s dark hair, the other cupping his jaw with a bruising grip. He kissed him like he was trying to steal the very breath Mulciber had nearly taken earlier—deep, frantic, and entirely devoid of anything but a crushing, physical hunger.

For a heartbeat, the world tilted.

Y/N’s hands, which had been hanging limp at his sides, flew up. His fingers dug into the leather of Sirius’s jacket, his nails dragging against the fabric. He kissed back—a sharp, jagged response that felt like a snarl. He leaned into the pressure, his muscular frame arching against Sirius’s, his tongue meeting Sirius’s with a feral, matching desperation.

For that one second, the pain in his ribs and the humiliation in the classroom disappeared, replaced by the electric, terrifying heat of the only person who actually saw him.

Then, the reality of the impact hit.

Y/N’s eyes snapped open, dark and blown wide with a sudden, sharp clarity. He felt the weight of Sirius—the "Prince of Gryffindor," the boy who had set the ink trap—and the revulsion hit him like a physical blow.

Y/N tore his mouth away, a strangled, wet sound escaping his throat. He didn't just pull back; he exploded.

He slammed his palms into Sirius’s chest, the force of it catching Sirius off guard and sending him stumbling back two steps. Before Sirius could even blink, Y/N’s right hand—the one wrapped in the memory of the courtyard tape—swung in a brutal, short arc.

CRACK.

The sound of Y/N’s knuckles connecting with Sirius’s cheekbone echoed off the stone walls. It wasn't a "slap." It was a fighter’s punch, fueled by every ounce of his lean, functional strength.

Sirius’s head snapped to the side, his vision exploding into white stars. He staggered, the copper taste of blood immediate in his mouth as his own teeth cut into his inner cheek. He put a hand to his face, his fingers coming away red, staring at Y/N in a daze.

Y/N stood there, his chest heaving, his face a mask of cold, vibrating fury. A single tear of frustration or pain—he didn't know which—tracked through the dried blood on his cheek.

"No," Y/N hissed, the word coming out as a broken, jagged rasp. "No. We can’t. I can't do this, Sirius."

"Y/N—"

"Stop!" Y/N roared, clutching his side as the movement flared his ribs. He pointed a shaking finger at Sirius, his eyes wild and hollow. "Look at us. Look at where we are. You’re the hero, and I’m the victim. You’re the fucking joke, and I’m the goddamn punchline. We’re at an impasse, Black. There is no 'us' that doesn't end with me in the dirt and you walking away with a laugh."

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at Sirius as if he were a stranger—or worse, a ghost he was finally exorcising.

"Don't touch me again," Y/N whispered, the coldness returning to his voice, sharper than any hex. "Go back to your friends. Go back to being the boy everyone loves. I’m done being the thing you use to feel human."

Y/N turned on his heel, his gait stiff and pained, and walked toward the shadows of the castle. He didn't look back.

Sirius stood alone by the Clocktower, the side of his face throbbing with a dull, rhythmic agony, the taste of cherry smoke and blood still burning on his tongue. He realized then that the "impasse" wasn't just a wall between their Houses. It was the fact that even when they touched, they were only hurting each other.

fam ik this shit took actually sooooo long i kept procrastinating but also getting really frustrated when writing this AND the Severus one i kept going back and fourth between the two in literal anger cause i was stuck so I’m real sorry if you guys don’t end up liking this one as much or it’s not what you expected :((( as always feedback is appreciated so i know what to do next

[saltystarkey]

If you could sum up pt2 of the Sirius fic what would it be? (like. in a few words or images)

STAGNATION

A state of being stuck in still, foul water where nothing grows or moves.

2. HOLLOW

Characterized by an empty space within; lacking real value, sincerity, or soul.

3.FORSAKEN

Abandoned or deserted; left entirely alone by those who were supposed to stay.

4.EROSION

The gradual destruction or diminution of something.

5.RUPTURE

A sudden, jagged break in a connection, a tissue, or a relationship.

6.TRAUMA

A deeply distressing or disturbing experience that leaves a lasting psychic or physical scar.

this was a really great ask, i even included a song or two i feel fits :)