#griffindor

[petalsandplots]

In His Hands

- Summary: A quiet evening with Fred Weasley takes a turn when the simple act of him spinning his wand leaves you utterly captivated. His strong, veined hands stir thoughts you can’t hide, and Fred, ever observant, catches on immediately. What begins as teasing quickly deepens into a moment of intimacy, reminding you just how much passion and tenderness those hands truly hold for you.

- Word count: 270

- Pairing: Reader X Fred Weasley

The evening was quiet in the flat above Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. You were curled up on the sofa, watching Fred fiddle absentmindedly with his wand. He twirled it between his fingers, letting it spin effortlessly, the polished wood gliding over his knuckles as though the movement was second nature.

But your eyes weren’t on the wand. They were on his hands.

Long, strong fingers, slightly rough from days in the shop. Veins tracing up his forearms, catching the firelight. You felt warmth pool low in your belly as your mind wandered, imagining what else those hands could do if they were touching you instead.

Fred caught your stare, smirking as though he’d read your every thought. He slowed the motion, letting the wand spin languidly before setting it down. Then, with deliberate ease, he leaned forward, resting one hand on the arm of the couch beside your head.

“Mesmerized, are we?” he murmured, voice low, teasing but edged with heat.

You swallowed, cheeks warming, but didn’t look away. “Maybe.”

His grin deepened, though his eyes darkened in that way they did only for you. He brought his free hand up and brushed his knuckles gently along your jaw, slow and purposeful, letting you feel the strength you’d been imagining.

“These hands,” he said softly, almost a whisper, “are yours. For everything. Always.”

And before you could reply, Fred tilted your chin up and kissed you deep, lingering, and full of the promise that he knew exactly what you’d been thinking. His hands, once spinning a wand, now held you with a gentleness that only amplified the heat building between you.

[naw-sya]

They're just teenage dirtbags, baby. Listen to Iron Maiden, baby, with them, ooh 🎶🎵🎶

[cosyravenclaw]

Nine and Three-Quarters

Words: ?

Pairings: Poly!marauders x Fem!reader (Slytherin!reader)

Summary: The train to Hogwarts is meant to be a simple journey. With the Marauders, it’s never that simple.

Warnings: Sexual tension & teasing, Public setting risk (train compartment), Voyeurism / being watched, Oral sex (m!receiving), Penetrative sex f!receiving), Mild possessiveness, Poly relationship

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆

You’ve been standing in the middle of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters for what feels like an eternity. Or maybe only five minutes. Hard to say — waiting always makes time feel slower, and waiting for them is even worse.

Your trunk sits neatly at your side, your wand tucked in your sleeve, your expression schooled into the same calm, vaguely irritated look you’ve worn since you were old enough to hide how you actually feel.

Somewhere above the whistle and clatter of trunks, the shouts of parents, and the high-pitched shrieks of excited first-years, you’re searching for a certain trio. Predictably, they are nowhere in sight.

Of course they’re late.

It’s been the story of your summer, you’d been practically glued to them for weeks. Not that you had planned it that way. In fact, you’d been rather determined not to spend your break attached to three chaotic Gryffindors who had made a sport of pulling you out of your carefully constructed solitude. But they’d managed to wedge themselves into your summer days anyway, finding every excuse to keep you out of your house, away from your father’s sharp words and suffocating rules.

You’d hated it at first. Or at least… told yourself you did. But by the third week, you’d caught yourself smiling more than frowning when they showed up at your door. That was irritating in its own way.

Still, you’d never admit it out loud.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes darting between the bustling crowds. You’re half-convinced they’ve forgotten you entirely, probably still messing around somewhere.

A pair of hands slides around your waist from behind.

You know exactly whose they are before you even see him. Silver rings, cool against the fabric of your shirt, fingers that never seem to stop moving, always touching, fidgeting, teasing.

Sirius Black.

You don’t need to turn, but you do anyway, pivoting sharply in his arms. His grey eyes are warm in a way they never are with anyone else, and there’s that smile, the one you still can’t quite believe is aimed at you.

“Miss me, princess?” Sirius drawls, leaning in as though he’s about to kiss you right here in the middle of the platform. And he does, a quick peck, surprisingly nothing scandalous.

Before you can answer, two more familiar figures appear over his shoulder. Remus gives you a small, knowing smile. It’s subtle, but enough to soften the hard line of your mouth. And James is beaming at you like you’re the only person worth looking at in the crowd.

Remus beats James to it, leaning down and brushing his lips against yours in a quick, affectionate kiss. It’s enough to make you blink in surprise, though you try not to show it. James makes a disgruntled sound, stepping forward and promptly shoving Remus aside so he can capture your mouth in his own kiss — longer, messier, and very James.

You can feel your face heating already. You glance around sharply, scanning for curious eyes. PDA has never been your thing. In Slytherin, it’s practically a cardinal sin to look that publicly soft for someone, especially Gryffindors. But your boyfriends… well, they thrive on it. Physical touch is how they speak love into the world. You’ve learned that the only way to keep up is to let them.

You mutter something under your breath that makes Sirius laugh as he finally lets you go, only to snatch up the handle of your trunk before you can.

“Come on, love,” James says brightly, already moving toward the train. “We’ve got to stake our claim on a compartment before the eager first-years hog the best ones.”

You allow yourself to be herded along, Sirius on one side, James on the other, Remus trailing just behind. Their presence is loud and warm and annoyingly comforting all at once.

It takes a few minutes to weave through the crowd, but eventually, you find an empty compartment toward the back of the train. James swings your trunk inside before collapsing onto one bench with Remus.

Sirius, however, doesn’t sit across from you.

He sits behind you.

Before you can process what he’s doing, his hands are back at your waist, pulling you down into his lap with zero regard for your startled yelp.

“Sirius—” you hiss, half-turning to glare at him.

“Relax, princess,” he murmurs into your ear, his voice dropping into that low, coaxing register that’s ridiculously effective on you. “Just relax.”

The train jolts to life, beginning its slow crawl out of the station. You try to wriggle off him, but he simply loops an arm around your waist and tucks his chin onto your shoulder, keeping you firmly in place.

Across from you, James and Remus are grinning like they’ve been waiting for this exact scene to play out. James leans back, stretching his legs until his knees brush yours.

Sirius shifts slightly beneath you, and you can feel the faint hum of his breathing against your back. It’s distracting in a way that makes you want to roll your eyes and… maybe not move at all.

James launches into an animated discussion about Quidditch, something about Chasers and how the upcoming season is going to be “the one.” His voice is a constant, pleasant hum, filling the space while you let yourself relax incrementally in Sirius’s hold.

You keep your hands in your lap, spine straight despite the temptation to lean back into him completely.

It’s not that you don’t like it. Merlin help you, you do it’s just… letting them see that might make you combust on the spot.

“See?” Sirius murmurs, just for you, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Not so bad.”

You don’t answer. Which, unfortunately, only makes his smirk deepen against your skin.

James catches the exchange instantly. “Careful, Pads, you’re gonna make her blush.”

“She’s already blushing,” Remus observes mildly, though his amber eyes are watching you far too closely for comfort.

“I am not,” you say sharply.

Which, of course, only makes all three of them laugh.

You settle into the rhythm of it eventually. Sirius’s arms wrapped snugly around you, James talking enough for all four of you, Remus chiming in with wry comments that make Sirius snort softly behind you.

Outside the window, the countryside rolls by in a blur of green and gold. Inside, the compartment is warm and noisy, smelling faintly of leather, chocolate, and that indescribable scent that is simply them.

You tell yourself you’re only sitting here because moving would cause more of a scene.

But when Sirius rests his chin on your shoulder again and squeezes your waist, you don’t move away.

Not even a little.

The train rocks gently beneath you, the steady rumble of the wheels a background to the low murmur of James’s voice as he continues some elaborate breakdown of Gryffindor’s Chaser rotation. You half-listen, but it’s difficult to focus when Sirius is warm against your back, his fingers idly tracing shapes against your waist through your shirt.

You tell yourself you’re used to it by now. The way they all touch you like it’s second nature, like you belong to them in some undeniable way. But Sirius has never been good at keeping his hands still.

His fingertips wander. First over the curve of your hip, then down to the top of your thigh, the pads of his fingers pressing just enough to remind you he’s there.

It’s subtle at first. You can pretend it’s innocent. But you know Sirius Black well enough to know that nothing he does is.

You shift slightly, hoping he’ll take the hint. He doesn’t. Instead, his hand slides lower, his palm settling warm and heavy over your knee.

Across from you, Remus’s eyes flick down for the briefest second before meeting yours again. There’s a faint curl to his lips, not quite a smile, more like he knows something you don’t want to admit.

James notices too, though in typical James Potter fashion, he makes no attempt at subtlety. He breaks off mid-sentence to grin at you.

“Don’t be shy, darling,” he says, his voice thick with amusement. “Go on put on a show for me and Rem.”

Your head snaps toward him so fast you almost knock into Sirius’s chin.

“James!”

The heat in your face is immediate and impossible to hide. You reach down instinctively, catching Sirius’s wrist before he can move any higher. Your grip is firm, and you tell yourself it’s final.

But Sirius only stills for a moment, his breath warm against the back of your neck. Then he murmurs, “Up to you, princess.”

The train jolts slightly, and in that tiny moment of distraction, you loosen your hold.

He takes full advantage.

Sirius’s ring-clad hand drifts up the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate, until his knuckles brush the hem of your skirt. You swear you can feel the cool metal of his rings through the fabric.

Your breath catches, and you hear James chuckle low in his chest.

“That’s it,” Sirius says softly, his lips brushing your ear now, every syllable sending a shiver down your spine. “Just relax.”

The word sounds the same as it did earlier, but now it means something entirely different.

Sirius shifts you slightly in his lap, his hands guiding without force but with such confidence you don’t think to stop him until your knees are nudging apart.

“Merlin,” James breathes, leaning forward like he wants a better view.

Remus hasn’t moved, but his gaze is fixed on you, heavy enough to make your pulse trip.

You can’t look at any of them. Your focus narrows to Sirius’s hands as he bunches your skirt higher, inch by inch, until the air of the compartment is cool against the tops of your thighs.

He rests his palms briefly against your skin, the contrast between the warmth of his touch and the coolness of his rings making you shiver again. Then his fingers trail higher, brushing against the thin fabric of your underwear.

You make a small sound before you can stop yourself, not quite a gasp, not quite a sigh and Sirius’s answering smile is pressed into your shoulder.

“Pretty, so fucking pretty” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else, though you hear James hum in agreement.

One of Sirius’s hands moves, his thumb tracing the edge of the fabric before sliding it aside just enough. His other arm wraps around your waist, holding you steady as his fingers find the heat between your thighs.

The first touch is slow, almost lazy, a gentle stroke that makes you grip his forearm without meaning to.

“Look at her,” James says, his voice low now, meant for the four of you alone. “Merlin, Rem, she’s-“

“Quiet,” Remus interrupts, though there’s no real reprimand in his tone.

Sirius presses a kiss to the side of your neck as his fingers explore with maddening patience, tracing patterns that make your legs tense against his.

You can feel every shift of his rings against your skin, cool metal contrasting with the heat building in you. When he finally presses one finger inside, it’s slow and goes all the way to the base where the family heirloom rests against you.

Your breath leaves you in a shaky exhale.

“That’s it,” Sirius whispers again, his voice like smoke curling around your ear. “Good girl.”

Sirius doesn’t rush you, he never does when he’s in this mood.

His finger curls just slightly, the movement unhurried but devastating in its precision. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, determined not to make another sound, but the train’s steady rocking does nothing to help you hold still.

James leans forward, elbows on his knees, watching openly. He doesn’t bother hiding the way his eyes track Sirius’s every movement under your skirt. “You’re holding back, darling,” he says, almost mockingly. “Why?”

“Because she’s shy,” Sirius answers for you, though the smirk in his voice makes it clear he doesn’t think that’s a problem.

Remus’s gaze is the heaviest of all. He’s sprawled casually in his seat, long legs stretched out, but his eyes are sharp and dark, following every twitch of your expression. “She’s also stubborn,” he murmurs. “Won’t give us the satisfaction unless we work for it.”

The words send a fresh rush of heat through you. You want to tell him he’s wrong, except you’re not sure he is.

Sirius shifts his hand, adding a second finger with the same infuriating slowness. The stretch pulls a startled sound from you, quiet but unmistakable. James grins like he’s just won a bet.

“That’s better,” Sirius says, his lips ghosting over the side of your neck. His free hand drags up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your shirt. “Let them hear you, princess.”

Your head tips back against his shoulder despite yourself. The silver ring on his middle finger catches the light as he moves inside you, the cool metal a sharp contrast to the heat gathering low in your stomach.

James’s voice cuts in again, softer now. “You’ve got no idea how good you look right now.”

You do your best not to picture it. Their eyes on you, Sirius’s hand between your thighs, your skirt bunched indecently high. But the image plants itself in your mind anyway, making your pulse race.

The compartment feels warmer, the rhythmic sound of the train and the low, steady tone of Sirius’s voice in your ear blurring everything else.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Sirius urges, curling his fingers again. “Let go for me.”

You manage a shaky, “Sirius—” before James cuts in, amused.

“Say please.”

Your face burns hotter than ever. You shake your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction, but Sirius’s pace picks up just enough to make your breath hitch.

Remus shifts forward finally, his voice low and calm. “It’s only us here. No one’s going to see, no one’s going to judge.” A pause. “Except maybe James.”

“Oi!” James starts, but his protest is drowned out by the sound you make when Sirius presses his thumb against you in perfect counterpoint to his fingers.

Your resolve wavers. Your thighs tense, your nails dig into Sirius’s arm, and you’re seconds away from the edge when—

Your body goes tight all at once. Thighs clamping around Sirius’s hand as the train sways beneath you. The pressure that’s been coiling in your stomach finally snaps, and you tip over into it with a sharp gasp you can’t bite back.

Sirius’s arm tightens around your waist, holding you in place as you tremble against him. His lips curve into a slow, satisfied grin against the side of your neck.

When the last shiver runs through you, your head falls back onto his shoulder, the world outside your little compartment feeling hazy and far away.

“You made a mess on my fingers, princess,” Sirius murmurs, his voice low and teasing, like he’s sharing a private joke.

The words barely have time to register before there’s a knock at the compartment door. The sound jolts you, your whole body tensing but Sirius doesn’t let you move.

Instead, his arm bands tighter around your middle, keeping you flush against his chest. His other hand — the one still between your thighs — slides back into place, two fingers pushing into you with the same unhurried precision as before.

The overstimulation hits hard enough to make your breath catch.

“Siri—” you whisper, trying to push at his wrist. “I just came.”

“I know,” he says, the words dark with amusement. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t pull back if anything, he curls his fingers deeper, pressing into the spot that makes you squirm. His other hand comes up, palm covering your mouth before you can protest again.

The knock comes once more, followed by the rattle of the door sliding open just enough to admit a tall, broad frame.

Remus.

He steps inside smoothly, positioning himself between the narrow opening and the rest of the compartment so no one outside can see in. His expression is infuriatingly neutral as he greets the trolley witch.

“Afternoon. We’ll have… let’s see.” He takes his time, eyes flicking over the neatly stacked sweets and pasties. “Couple of Pumpkin Pasties, some Chocolate Frogs…”

Behind him, Sirius’s fingers keep moving, deliberate and relentless. Every motion makes the silver rings scrape faintly against your skin, sending sparks through your already sensitive nerves.

James, sprawled comfortably across from you, doesn’t bother hiding his view. He tips his head just enough to meet your eyes, his grin all sharp edges and mischief.

“Better stay quiet, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You make a sound into Sirius’s palm half-whimper, half-protest and James’s grin only widens.

Remus is still chatting idly with the trolley witch, asking about cauldron cakes and liquorice wands as though he’s not shielding the sight of Sirius’s hand moving steadily under your skirt.

Sirius bends his head so his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Come on princess, you can do it.”

And with the rocking of the train and the warm press of his chest at your back, you believe him.

Sirius doesn’t slow.

His fingers keep that maddening rhythm, the drag of his rings against your skin sending sharp little shocks through every nerve ending. You can feel every motion, every curl, every subtle press into the spot that makes your legs jerk.

Your breath is hot and shallow against the palm he still has over your mouth. He’s holding you firm against his chest, as if the rocking of the train might send you tumbling if he let go, though you know he wouldn’t let that happen.

The sound of Remus’s voice carries over the soft clink of the trolley witch’s jars. “…and three Cauldron Cakes,” he’s saying, tone unhurried, polite. His body is still angled to block the door’s view, casual and protective all at once.

James hasn’t looked away from you once. His eyes track the slight rise and fall of your chest, the twitch of your thighs as Sirius works you higher. When your gaze flicks to his, there’s no mistaking the heat there.

Sirius leans in close enough that his lips brush your ear. “That’s it, princess. Let me have it again.”

You shake your head once, more reflex than refusal, but it’s already too late. The pressure’s coiling again in your stomach, each drag of his fingers tightening it further. He feels it in the way your body grips him, the way your nails dig into his arm.

“Don’t fight it,” he murmurs, his voice low and coaxing. “I’ve got you.”

The second wave hits harder than the first. Your back arches against him, a muffled cry breaking into his palm as heat floods through you. Every muscle in your body seems to tighten at once before shuddering loose again, leaving you trembling in his arms.

He slows only when you’ve gone soft against him, your head falling back to his shoulder. His fingers slip free, leaving your skin slick and sensitive.

By then, Remus is sliding the door shut behind the departing trolley witch. He deposits the neatly wrapped snacks onto the small side table beside the bench, his movements as unhurried as if nothing’s happened.

You’re still catching your breath when James speaks again, softer now, but no less intent. “Come here, sweetheart.”

You know what he wants before he even moves. The zipper of his trousers sounds loud in the warm, enclosed compartment, and when you meet his eyes, the fondness there is tangled with something darker.

You push yourself upright, legs shaky beneath you as you slide off Sirius’s lap. His hands linger at your hips for a moment, but he doesn’t stop you, just leans back, smirking faintly as if curious to see what you’ll do.

The carpeted floor is warm beneath your knees as you settle in front of James. His thighs spread slightly, giving you space. You glance up through your lashes, just long enough to catch the flicker of surprise in his eyes before you lean forward.

You’re going to make him squirm the way they made you.

James is already leaning back against the seat, one arm braced along the top edge, the other resting casually on his thigh as if he’s not entirely sure whether you’ll follow through.

You’ve got no intention of giving him the satisfaction of doubt.

Your fingers curl lightly around the waistband of his trousers, brushing against the open zipper. His breathing hitches, a subtle shift, but you hear it.

“Look at you,” James murmurs, voice low enough that it blends with the rhythmic clatter of the train over the tracks. “All pretty on your knees.”

Behind you, Sirius makes a quiet, approving sound, one hand resting on the back of your head for the briefest moment before falling away, letting you move how you want.

Remus, watches without comment, though his amber eyes are locked on you with a heat that makes your pulse skip.

You take your time. Your fingers brush deliberately over James’s stomach as you free him from the confines of his trousers, drawing out the motion until his jaw tightens.

“Merlin,” he mutters under his breath when you wrap your hand around him.

The train rocks slightly, and you steady yourself with your free hand on his thigh. You let your gaze meet his deliberately now, letting him see the curve of your mouth as you lean in.

James’s fingers twitch where they’re resting on the bench beside him, but he doesn’t grab at you. He’s waiting, though you can tell it’s costing him.

You start slow, the same way Sirius had started with you, your tongue tracing along the underside before you take him into your mouth. His breath leaves him in a quiet rush, his head tipping back against the seat.

Sirius chuckles low behind you, clearly enjoying the reversal of roles. “And to think she used to suck at this, at the start of the summer. Told you she learns quick.”

You don’t break your rhythm, though the smugness in Sirius’s voice makes you want to roll your eyes. James’s hand finally finds the back of your head, fingers tangling gently in your hair, not pushing, just holding.

Remus chuckles, his voice calm but edged with something else. “I think she’s out for pay back, James.”

“Not complaining,” James manages, though his voice is already rougher than before.

You hollow your cheeks, increasing the pace just enough to make his thigh tense under your hand. His breathing quickens, and the steady clatter of the train seems louder in the background, matching the rhythm you’ve set.

When you glance up again, James is looking down at you with that same fondness from before, only now threaded with raw want.

James’s thighs tense beneath your hands, every muscle straining as you keep your rhythm. He’s breathing harder now, the warmth of his voice curling down toward you in ragged praise.

“Sweetheart… Merlin, you’re—” He cuts himself off with a groan, his head tipping back against the seat.

You’re focused on him, on the way his jaw tightens, the flicker of his lashes. So focused, you almost don’t notice the shift behind you.

Remus moves like he always does: quietly, with intent. The faint sound of his footsteps on the carpet draws closer, and then his hand is on the small of your back. His touch is firm but not rushed, guiding you subtly until your knees spread just a fraction wider on the floor.

It’s not until his other hand brushes your hip that you glance back, but by then he’s already coaxing you into position, helping you balance on all fours while you’re still angled toward James.

The shift makes James’s gaze darken. His hand lingers in your hair, not pulling, just holding you there, watching as Remus settles in behind you.

There’s the low, deliberate sound of a zipper — and you feel the warmth of Remus’s presence crowding close. He’s slow about it, unhurried as he frees himself, his hands steady as they curve over your hips. Hand shoving your skirt further up your body, until you’re completely on display for him. Using that same hand he tugs your underwear down.

“Keep going,” Remus says, his voice deep but quiet enough to feel like it’s meant for you alone.

You do. Though your breathing falters as the blunt heat of him presses between your thighs. The first push forward is smooth, deliberate, stealing what air you had left.

James’s fingers flex in your hair, his other hand curling lightly under your chin so you’re forced to look up at him. His gaze flicks briefly over your shoulder to Remus before returning to your face.

“Good girl,” James murmurs, his voice almost gentle now despite the heat in his eyes.

From somewhere off to the side, there’s the sound of another zipper and a familiar low chuckle. Sirius has leaned back against the opposite bench, one leg stretched out, his gaze locked entirely on you. His hand moves leisurely over himself, no shame in the way he watches.

The compartment sways with the train’s motion, the three of them close enough to make the space feel smaller, hotter, every sense tangled between them.

Remus’s pace is steady at first, his hands anchoring you. James strokes his thumb over your lower lip, watching your mouth as you try to hold your rhythm on him even as Remus works deeper behind you.

Sirius tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Merlin, this is perfect,” he says, his voice rough with pleasure.

James’s grip in your hair tightens just enough to hold you steady as you work over him. His breathing is ragged now, each exhale catching slightly as your tongue traces along him in rhythm with Remus’s steady thrusts behind you.

The motion from both ends forces a helpless little sound from your throat, and James’s jaw flexes like he’s holding something back. His other hand cradles your chin, thumb brushing your lower lip each time you pull back just far enough to breathe.

“Merlin, sweetheart,” he rasps, his voice a low growl. “Gonna-”

He doesn’t get to finish the warning. His hips tense, and with a soft, broken groan, he spills hot and heavy down your throat. You take it without breaking eye contact, swallowing around him until his grip loosens and his head tips back against the seat.

Behind you, Remus’s hands tighten on your hips. He’s been keeping the same deliberate pace, but James’s release seems to push him closer. Each slow drive into you is deeper now, the sound of him meeting you growing wetter, rougher.

Sirius’s breathing has quickened too, his hand working faster over himself as he watches you between James’s sated sprawl and the steady roll of Remus’s hips. His gaze is hungry, tracking every movement, every shift of your body.

Remus leans forward slightly, his chest brushing your back, his mouth close to your ear. “You feel incredible,” he murmurs, his voice low enough to make you shiver.

The rhythm behind you stutters, once, twice before he buries himself deep and stills, groaning low into your shoulder as release floods through him.

The sound seems to push Sirius over the edge as well. His breath hitches sharply, and you catch the faint, slick sound of his hand working faster before he spills into his palm, his head tipping back with a satisfied curse.

For a moment, the compartment is nothing but the steady clatter of the train and the mingled sounds of all four of you catching your breath.

The air in the compartment is warm and heavy, the scent of sweat and something unmistakably intimate lingering between the four of you. Outside, the countryside blurs past in shades of gold and green, the train’s steady rumble almost soothing now that the frantic pace has ebbed.

You’re still catching your breath when Remus eases back, careful hands on your hips as he slips free. The loss makes you shiver, your body still sensitive from everything, but the gentle way his thumbs rub along your sides grounds you instantly.

Sirius is already reaching for his wand, flicking it lazily to vanish the mess from his hand and the front of his trousers. He’s still grinning, but it’s softer now, more private.

“Come here, princess,” he murmurs, patting the space on his lap.

Your legs are shaky as you straighten up, but Sirius’s arms are ready for you the second you settle over him, pulling you in close. One hand slides into your hair, the other resting low on your back, holding you snug against his chest.

James, still sprawled against the bench opposite, tucks himself away and uses the hem of his shirt to wipe the faint sheen from his skin before reaching for one of the Pumpkin Pasties Remus bought. He takes a bite, chewing lazily as his eyes find you again.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice softer now, stripped of its earlier teasing.

You nod, though you’re not entirely sure the heat in your cheeks is gone. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Sirius repeats under his breath, amused. His thumb strokes along your spine, and when you shift to glance up at him, there’s that warm, unguarded look you’re still not used to.

Remus opens a bottle of pumpkin juice and sliding it toward you. “Drink,” he says simply.

You take it, the cool sweetness cutting through the dryness in your mouth. Sirius holds you steady as you sip, his fingers drawing idle patterns into your back like he can’t bear not to touch you.

“See?” he says softly, brushing his fingers over your hair. “I told you the train ride wouldn’t be boring.”

James laughs. “Pretty sure that’s the understatement of the year.”

Outside, the countryside has shifted from endless green to the rocky, winding tracks leading toward Hogsmeade Station. The light is a little dimmer now, the late afternoon sun casting everything in warm gold.

“Ten minutes,” James says after glancing out the window. “Better get ourselves looking respectable, or McGonagall’ll give us that look.”

Sirius smirks, but he does reach for his shirt to straighten the collar. He even takes a moment to smooth down the hem of your skirt, his fingers brushing lightly over your knee as if to say mine.

By the time the train begins to slow, the heat in the compartment has faded to something more comfortable, replaced by the faint anticipation of arrival.

Sirius presses one last kiss into your hair before setting you back on your feet. James stretches, rolling his shoulders as he grabs his bag, and Remus gives you a small, unreadable smile as he slides the door open.

Hogsmeade Station comes into view in a rush of cool air and steam. The platform is crowded with voices and movement, but you hardly notice — Sirius’s hand finds yours, James falls into step on your other side, and Remus trails close behind.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆

[ellaarchived-mp4]

Harry Potter x byler 🪄💛💙

[elixam971]

Did someone say devotion, loyalty, and love? I heard it somewhere 👀. Yesterday I wanted to finish it, but the flu didn't help. Today, luckily, I felt inspired by yesterday's reading. Well, I'm off, bye~

[saltystarkey]

VOLUME 001 ✰༄

"I'll fucking kill you, Avery! I'll gut you!"

A rough-edged Slytherin and Sirius Black spend their sixth year trading insults and blows in a series of heated confrontations.

Warnings: Heavy swearing, tension, bullying, fighting. 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 Slytherin common room was an aquarium for the elite, and Y/N was the invasive species.

It was six in the morning, the lake water pressing against the thick glass windows, casting everything in a sickly, undulating shade of emerald. Y/N sat in a high-backed velvet chair that felt like a throne of thorns. He was currently occupied with a piece of wire and his own reflection in a darkened silver tray, trying to force a new piercing into his upper cartilage without waking the rest of the dorm.

He gritted his teeth, a hiss of "Fuck," escaping through his molars as the metal pierced the skin. He didn't use a numbing charm. He liked the sting; it reminded him he was awake.

Y/N caught his reflection. He looked like hell, and he liked it that way. His hair was a chaotic nest of dark strands that refused to lay flat, and the smudge of black kohl around his eyes from the night before had bled into a bruised, smoky shadow that made him look twice as dangerous as he actually was. He was wearing a threadbare black t-shirt—definitely muggle—and a pair of heavy, steel-toed boots that had seen more fights than the average Auror.

"You're going to get an infection doing that," a voice drawled from the shadows of the stairs.

Y/N didn't flinch. He wiped a stray bead of blood from his earlobe with his thumb and looked up. Regulus Black stood there, looking like he’d been pressed and pleated by a team of house-elves.

"Piss off, Regulus," Y/N said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sounded like it hadn't seen water in a week. He stood up, the floorboards groaning under his boots. "Go polish your prefect badge or whatever it is you do to feel important."

"I'm just saying," Regulus leaned against the cold stone wall, his eyes tracking the silver rings that littered Y/N’s fingers. "The House is already down sixty points because you decided to 'rearrange' Avery’s face in the Great Hall. Slughorn is looking for a reason to throw you to the Giant Squid."

"Avery called my mother a mud-blood whore. I think 'rearranging' was a polite way of handling it," Y/N snapped. He grabbed his leather jacket from the floor, slinging it over one shoulder. "Tell Slughorn if he wants my head, he can come fetch it from the Forest. I've got work to do for Hagrid."

"You're a Slytherin, Y/N. Start acting like you care about the name."

Y/N paused at the stone archway, looking back at the younger Black brother with a cold, dead-eyed smirk. "I’m an unwanted Slytherin, Reg. There’s a difference. You play your part, and I’ll play mine.”

————————————————-——————————

The walk to the Great Hall was a gauntlet of whispers. Y/N didn't walk; he stalked. He was a jagged silhouette of black denim and leather against the pristine robes of the other students. He could feel the eyes of the younger years on him—fear, mostly—and the glares of the Pureblood elite who hated that someone with "filthy" half-blood habits wore their serpent crest.

He didn't head for the Slytherin table. Instead, he grabbed a green apple from a platter and leaned against one of the massive stone pillars near the entrance, his arms crossed over his chest.

He felt the shift in the room before he saw him.

The Marauders entered like they owned the damn oxygen. James Potter was laughing, messy hair and glasses catching the morning light, but it was the boy trailing slightly behind him that made Y/N’s grip tighten on his apple.

Sirius Black was the epitome of everything Y/N hated and couldn't stop looking at. He was effortless. His robes were expensive but worn with a calculated sloppiness that screamed rebellion. He was beautiful in a way that felt like an insult.

Sirius was mid-sentence when his gray eyes snapped to the pillar. He stopped dead.

The Hall didn't erupt in shouting. It was worse. It was a heavy, suffocating silence as the two of them locked eyes. Sirius’s expression shifted from arrogant amusement to something sharper—something predatory. He didn't say a word to his friends; he just stared at Y/N, his tongue poking against the inside of his cheek.

"Look at this," Sirius said, his voice low but carrying in the quiet hall. He stepped closer, leaving his friends behind. "The Dungeon Rat has come up for air. You look like shit, Y/N."

"And you look like you spent three hours in front of a mirror trying to make your hair look like you didn't," Y/N replied, his tone flat and biting. He took a slow, loud bite of the apple, never breaking eye contact. "Move along, Black. You're blocking my view of people I actually tolerate."

Sirius stepped into his personal space, the scent of expensive sandalwood and broomstick wax hitting Y/N like a physical blow. Sirius was taller by an inch, and he used it, looming over Y/N with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes.

"I heard you lost your house another forty points last night," Sirius murmured, loud enough for only the two of them to hear. "You’re making quite a name for yourself. Even my dear brother seems worried you’re going to get yourself killed before the winter frost."

"Concerned, Black? That's almost sweet," Y/N sneered, the smudged eyeliner making his gaze look even more intense. He leaned in, his nose inches from Sirius’s. "But I don't need a Gryffindor princess looking out for me. Go find a cat to save or something."

Sirius’s eyes darkened, a flash of genuine temper flickering in the gray. He reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from Y/N’s head. "You're a mess. A walking, talking disaster."

Y/N swiped Sirius’s hand away with a violent motion, the silver rings on his fingers catching the light. "Touch me again and you’ll be eating through a straw for a month. I’m not joking, Sirius."

"Neither am I," Sirius whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly register.

They stood there for a heartbeat too long—two storms colliding in the doorway of the Great Hall—until James Potter cleared his throat loudly.

"Come on, Padfoot. Don't waste your breath on the help."

Sirius lingered for a second, his eyes dropping to Y/N’s mouth before snapping back up. With a mocking wink that made Y/N’s blood boil, he turned and strutted toward the Gryffindor table.

—————————-—————————————————

The afternoon was spent in the cool, damp air of the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid was the only person who didn't look at Y/N like he was a ticking time bomb.

"You've got a way with the misunderstood ones, Y/N," Hagrid grunted, watching as Y/N sat on a rotted log, letting a group of Bowtruckles crawl over his scarred knuckles.

"Most kids'd be screamin' their heads off. You just... sit there."

"They don't judge, Hagrid," Y/N said, his voice softer than it had been all day. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of wood, letting the creatures gnaw on it. "They just want to survive. I can respect that."

"Dumbledore asked about ya today," Hagrid said, leaning on his massive crossbow. "Said he likes the 'kick' you give. Says Hogwarts needs a bit of grit to keep the foundations from crackin'."

"Dumbledore’s an old man with too many riddles," Y/N muttered, though a small part of him felt a flicker of something that wasn't anger. "He keeps giving me detention like it's a reward."

"Maybe he knows you've got nowhere else to go," Hagrid said gently.

Y/N didn't answer. He just looked deeper into the dark trees, his jaw tight. He had a family—a cold, crumbling house in the suburbs of London and a father who only spoke to him with his fists—but Hagrid was right. He didn't have a home.

——————————————————————————

Night had fallen, and the castle was a labyrinth of shadows and cold stone. Y/N was making his way back from the Forest, his boots caked in mud, his leather jacket damp from the mist.

He was ducking into a blind corridor near the kitchens—a shortcut he knew the prefects ignored—when he felt the air change.

He pulled a crumpled muggle cigarette from his pocket, the tobacco dry and smelling of home. He didn't have a lighter; he liked the challenge of the spark. He rubbed his thumb and middle finger together, focusing his frustration into a single point.

Snap. A spark. Nothing.

Snap. "Need a hand with that, sweetheart? Or is your magic as broken as your attitude?" a voice drawled. It was melodic, posh, and sounded like it was used to being obeyed.

Y/N didn't look up. He knew the boots. Dragonhide, expensive, polished. Sirius Black. "You’re going to get a broken nose if you don't keep walking, Black."

"Charming as always," Sirius stepped into the light, his tie loosened, his gray eyes tracking the fresh, purple blooming bruise along Y/N's jawline.

"Who’d you fight this time? Mulciber? Or did you finally try to take on a Whomping Willow?"

"None of your business." Y/N finally got a spark, the cherry of the cigarette glowing. He took a drag and exhaled the smoke directly into Sirius’s face. "Don't you have a fan club to go lead? Or a Marauder to annoy?"

Sirius didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing Y/N's dark, non-regulation sweater. The air between them instantly turned heavy, charged with that low-frequency hum of two people who either wanted to kill each other or tear each other's clothes off. Probably both.

"I heard Slughorn is down fifty points because you threw a cauldron at a seventh year's head," Sirius smirked, his hand reaching out—not to touch, but to tap the silver rings in Y/N’s ear. "Your housemates are calling for your head. You’re the most hated man in the dungeons."

Y/N’s hand shot up, grabbing Sirius by the collar of his white shirt and slamming him back against the opposite wall. The sound of stone meeting bone was dull and wet.

"I don't belong in the dungeons," Y/N hissed, his foul mouth inches from Sirius’s ear. "And I don't belong to a 'house.' Go play hero somewhere else before I decide I like the sound of your head hitting the floor better than your voice."

Sirius grabbed Y/N’s jaw, his thumb pressing hard against the bruise there. It wasn't a caress; it was a claim. "Stop talking. You talk too much for someone who claims they don't care."

Y/N didn't hesitate. He grabbed Sirius’s collar and slammed him back against the stone wall. The crack of Sirius’s head hitting the masonry was sickeningly satisfying.

"I told you," Y/N growled, his face inches from Sirius’s, his foul mouth practically brushing Sirius’s lips. "Don't. Fucking. Touch. Me."

Sirius didn't pull away. He let out a jagged, breathless laugh, his hands coming up to grip Y/N’s wrists, his fingers digging into the leather of his jacket. "Or what? You'll hit me? Go ahead, Y/N. Hit me. Do something honest for once in your life."

The air between them was electric, thick with the scent of rain, smoke, and pure, unadulterated tension. Y/N’s heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He wanted to break Sirius’s nose; he wanted to tear the buttons off his shirt. He didn't know which impulse was stronger.

"You're a goddamn nightmare," Y/N whispered, his grip on Sirius’s shirt tightening until his knuckles went white.

"And you're pathetic," Sirius countered, his voice a low, rough rasp.

He lunged forward then, not to kiss him, but to headbutt him—a sharp, painful collision of foreheads that sent stars dancing in Y/N’s vision.

"Shit!" Y/N yelled, stumbling back, blood already starting to bead from a small cut on his brow.

Sirius was grinning, his own forehead red and bruised, looking like a madman. "There he is. There’s that ‘anger’ everyone talks about."

"You're fucking insane," Y/N breathed, wiping the blood with the back of his hand, a dark, dangerous grin finally mirroring Sirius’s.

"Takes one to know one, Snake."

The corridor was silent, save for the ragged, synchronized breathing of two boys who didn't know how to stop.

The headbutt had left Y/N’s vision swimming in a sea of red and gold sparks. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth, sharp and familiar. He didn’t back down; he never did. He lunged forward, his heavy black boots skidding on the stone, and tackled Sirius around the waist.

They hit the floor hard. The sound was wet and heavy—the sound of two bodies colliding without the grace of magic. This wasn't a duel. There were no wands, no elegant flick of the wrist. This was a street fight in the hallowed halls of Hogwarts.

Y/N scrambled on top, his silver rings catching the dim torchlight as he pinned Sirius’s shoulders to the cold floor. "You want 'honest'?" Y/N hissed, a drop of blood from his forehead landing squarely on Sirius’s cheek. "You want to see what happens when I stop holding back? You’re just a bored little rich boy looking for a thrill. I’m just trying to survive the day without killing someone like you."

Sirius didn't look bothered by the weight or the threat. He looked exhilarated. His hair was fanned out against the stone, his gray eyes blown wide with adrenaline. He reached up, his fingers digging into the muscle of Y/N’s forearms, dragging him down closer.

"Then kill me, Y/N," Sirius whispered, his voice a jagged edge of a rasp. "Do it. Show me you’ve got the balls to actually finish something."

Y/N’s hand moved—not to punch, but to grip Sirius’s throat, his thumb pressing into the dip beneath his jaw. The friction was unbearable. The space between them was gone. It was a moment of pure, violent clarity where the line between a killing blow and a kiss didn't just blur; it vanished.

"ENOUGH."

The voice didn't roar, but it resonated through the very stones of the castle.

A sudden, invisible force slammed into Y/N’s chest, lifting him off Sirius and throwing him backward. He hit the wall with a grunt, his black boots sliding as he struggled to find his footing.

Albus Dumbledore stood at the end of the corridor. He didn't look angry—which was worse. He looked disappointed, his half-moon spectacles glinting in the dark. Beside him, Professor McGonagall looked as though she’d just sucked on a particularly sour lemon.

"Mr. Black, Mr. L/N," Dumbledore said softly. "I believe the hour is far too late for such... vigorous extracurriculars."

Sirius scrambled to his feet, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand. He looked like a guilty schoolboy for a split second before the arrogance settled back into his shoulders like a well-worn cloak. "He started it, Professor. I was just—"

"I don't care who started it," McGonagall snapped, her eyes darting between Y/N’s smudged eyeliner and Sirius’s torn collar. "Look at the state of you both. You look like muggle brawlers."

"Mr. L/N," Dumbledore said, his gaze fixed on Y/N, who was leaning against the wall, trying to stop the world from spinning. "Given your... precarious history this term, I'm afraid the blame for this escalation must fall on your shoulders. Fifty points from Slytherin. And a week of detention."

Y/N let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the sound echoing off the ceiling. "Of course. The Black heir was just an innocent bystander, right? Always is."

Sirius didn't defend him. He didn't even look at him. He just smirked at the wall, the satisfaction of Y/N getting the brunt of the punishment clear on his face. "Unlucky, Y/L/N. Better luck next time."

"Get out of my sight, Black," Y/N growled.

—————————————-—————————————

The next morning in the Slytherin common room was worse than a funeral. The emerald light felt colder, and the air was thick with the kind of silence that usually preceded a curse to the back.

Y/N sat at a small table, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head. He was wearing his usual dark jumper, his boots kicked out in front of him. He was nursing a fresh, purple bruise on his cheekbone and a cut over his eye that kept stinging.

"Fifty points," a cold voice echoed.

Y/N didn't look up. Mulciber and Avery were standing over him, their expensive robes pristine, their faces twisted in disgust.

"You’re a parasite, Y/N," Mulciber hissed, leaning in close. "You don't belong in this house. You're a half-blood mistake that the Hat threw in here because it felt sorry for you.

“And now we’re dead last for the Cup because you can't keep your filthy hands off the Gryffindors."

"If you're so worried about the points, Mulciber, why don't you go earn some?" Y/N replied, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. He finally looked up, his smudged eyeliner making his gaze look skeletal. "Or are you too busy kissing Malfoy’s ass to do anything useful?”

Avery reached out to grab Y/N’s collar, but Y/N was faster. He stood up, his chair screeching back, and stepped into Avery’s space. He was a head shorter, but he looked like he was made of barbed wire and gunpowder.

"Touch me," Y/N challenged, his foul mouth twitching into a sneer. "Give me an excuse to show you what I did to Black's face last night. I'm already in detention. What's one more?"

The two purebloods hesitated. They were bullies, but they weren't fighters—not like Y/N. They backed off, but the look in Mulciber’s eyes said this wasn't over.

"You're a dead man walking, L/N," Mulciber muttered as they walked away. "Enjoy the dungeons while you can. Nobody’s watching your back here."

Y/N sat back down, his hands shaking slightly from the adrenaline. He felt a presence beside him. Regulus Black sat down, leaning his head back against the stone.

"My brother is a prick," Regulus said simply, not looking at him.

"No shit," Y/N muttered.

"He’s also obsessed," Regulus added, glancing at the bruise on Y/N’s face. "He’s been talking about that fight all morning. He thinks he won."

"He didn't win shit. He just got lucky Dumbledore showed up before I broke his jaw."

————————————————————-——————

Y/N entered the Great Hall for lunch like he was walking onto a battlefield. He kept his head down, his boots heavy on the stone. He didn't sit at the Slytherin table; he headed for the far end of the hall to grab a piece of bread and leave.

But Sirius was waiting.

As Y/N passed the Gryffindor table, Sirius stuck his foot out. It was a childish move, but effective. Y/N stumbled, nearly hitting the floor, before catching himself on the edge of the table.

The Gryffindors erupted in laughter. James Potter was howling, and even some of the Hufflepuffs were snickering.

Y/N straightened up, his face burning with a heat that wasn't just embarrassment—it was pure, unadulterated rage. He looked at Sirius, who was leaning back on his bench, looking smugger than a cat in a creamery.

"Watch your step, Snake," Sirius drawled, his gray eyes dancing with malice. "Wouldn't want you to trip and lose another fifty points. Or is your head still spinning from last night?"

Y/N didn't say a word. He walked over to the pitcher of iced pumpkin juice on the Gryffindor table, picked it up, and dumped the entire thing over Sirius’s head.

The Hall went dead silent.

The juice soaked through Sirius’s perfectly styled hair, dripping down his face and onto his white shirt. He looked shocked, his mouth hanging open as the orange liquid ruined his "Prince of Gryffindor" image.

"You... you little shit," Sirius breathed, standing up, his chair clattering to the floor.

"You look better in orange, Black," Y/N said, his voice cold and steady. "Matches your ego."

Sirius lunged across the table, grabbing Y/N by the front of his jumper. "You want to go again? Right here? In front of everyone?"

"Do it," Y/N challenged, his hand coming up to grip Sirius’s wrist, his silver rings digging into the skin. "Give them a show. I don't give a fuck about the points, and I don't give a fuck about you."

They were inches apart, the smell of pumpkin juice and raw temper thick between them. Sirius looked like he was about to swing, his eyes darting to Y/N's mouth and then back to his eyes, his breathing heavy.

"Mr. Black! Mr. L/N!" McGonagall’s voice shrieked from the high table. "Separated! NOW!"

Sirius let go, but not before leaning in and whispering into Y/N’s ear, his voice a jagged promise. "This isn't over. Not by a long shot."

"I'm counting on it," Y/N spat back.

——————————————————————————

The Forbidden Forest didn’t care about House points. It didn’t care about the smudged kohl beneath Y/N’s eyes or the fact that his pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against his throat every time he saw a flash of Gryffindor red. The Forest only cared about blood and breath.

Y/N sat on the damp earth, his heavy black boots caked in mud that would surely earn him another lecture from Filch. He was currently holding a young, trembling Mooncalf. The creature was spindly and awkward, its enormous eyes reflecting the silver crescent of the moon hanging above the canopy. It had a jagged tear in its hind leg—likely a run-in with a stray blast from a confused fourth-year’s wand near the treeline.

"Steady," Y/N murmured, his voice losing the jagged, foul-mouthed edge it held in the castle. "I’m not going to hurt you, you little shit. Just stay still."

He didn't use a wand. He’d learned a long time ago that magical creatures reacted better to the hands than the wood. He applied a thick, pungent paste of dittany and crushed silverweed—something he’d swiped from Slughorn’s stores weeks ago—and wrapped the wound in a strip of cloth torn from his own shirt.

"He's lookin' better already," Hagrid’s voice boomed from the shadows, though the giant moved with surprising softness as he approached. He handed Y/N a tin mug of something that smelled like fermented tea and old socks. "You've got the touch, Y/N. Most kids come out here lookin' for adventure. You come out here lookin' for a place to hide."

Y/N took a swig of the tea, grimacing. "Hard to hide when everyone in that castle is breathing down your neck, Hagrid. Between the Slytherins wanting my head and Black acting like he’s the king of the world, I’m about five minutes away from moving into the cave with the spiders."

"Sirius is a loud one," Hagrid chuckled, settling onto a massive stump. "But he’s got a heavy heart, that lad. Same as you, I reckon. Both of you kickin' at the world 'cause you’re afraid it’s gonna kick you first."

"Don't compare me to him," Y/N snapped, the heat returning to his eyes. "He’s got friends. He’s got Potter and Lupin and the whole world telling him he’s a hero. I’ve got a common room full of people who’d poison my breakfast if they thought they could get away with it."

Y/N stood up, brushing the dirt from his dark trousers. He checked his reflection in a pool of rainwater—his hair was a mess, his brow was still bruised, and he looked every bit the unwanted pariah he was. "I have to get back.

Filch has me scrubbing trophies tonight because Dumbledore thinks manual labor builds character."

"Stay safe, lad," Hagrid called out. "And keep your chin up. A kick is only good if you’re aimin' it at the right target."

——————-—————————————-——————

The walk back to the castle was a transition from peace to a slow-boil tension. As the stone floors replaced the soft moss, Y/N felt his shoulders hunch, his jaw tightening into that familiar, defensive mask.

He was cutting through the lower dungeons, a shortcut that bypassed the main staircase, when the air shifted. It was too quiet. The torches in this wing were flickering low, casting long, skeletal shadows against the damp walls.

"Back from the dirt, are we?"

Y/N stopped. His boots gave a single, final clack against the stone.

Mulciber was leaning against a suit of armor ten paces ahead. Beside him stood Avery and two other seventh-year Slytherins whose names Y/N couldn't be bothered to remember. They weren't wearing their robes; they were in their silk shirts and tailored trousers, looking like the pampered purebloods they were.

"Move, Mulciber," Y/N said, his voice dropping to that dangerous, gravelly register. "I’m not in the mood for your 'noble' bullshit today."

"You've cost us a hundred points in two days, L/N," Avery said, stepping forward. He was twirling his wand between his fingers—a nervous, arrogant habit. "The House has decided you need a reminder of where you stand. You're not one of us. You're a stain."

"Then wash me out," Y/N challenged, his hand diving into his pocket for his own wand, but he was too slow.

" Expelliarmus! " Mulciber barked.

Y/N’s wand flew from his grip, clattering across the floor and sliding into the shadows. He didn't panic. He just lowered his center of gravity, his fists curling, the silver rings on his knuckles glinting. "Cowards. Can't even do it with your hands?"

"Why would we touch you?" Mulciber sneered.

" Levicorpus! "

Y/N felt the invisible hook snag his ankle. He was jerked off the floor, dangling upside down in the air. The blood rushed to his head, his dark jumper falling over his face, exposing the jagged scars along his ribs from a childhood he spent trying to forget.

"Let me down!" Y/N roared, swinging his arms, trying to grab onto anything.

The Slytherins laughed—a cold, hollow sound that echoed in the corridor.

"Maybe we should leave you here for the night," Avery suggested, poking Y/N in the chest with his wand. "Let the 'Prince of Gryffindor' see what happens to his favorite punching bag."

"I'll fucking kill you, Avery! I'll gut you!" Y/N thrashed, his foul mouth unleashing a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush.

From the shadows at the far end of the hall, a figure stepped out.

Sirius Black.

He was leaning against a pillar, his arms crossed over his chest. He wasn't rushing to help. He wasn't pulling out his wand. He was just... watching. He had a look of bored detachment on his face, though his eyes were narrowed, tracking every movement Y/N made.

"Look at this," Sirius drawled, his voice echoing. "The big, bad Snake, caught in a trap. I thought you were supposed to be 'rough,' L/N. You look like a bat at a circus."

"Black!" Mulciber turned, his eyes narrowing. "This is Slytherin business. Piss off back to your tower."

"Oh, I’m leaving," Sirius said, pushing off the pillar. He walked closer, his eyes locked on Y/N’s face—red, angry, and helpless. Sirius reached out and flicked Y/N’s dangling ear piercing, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "I just wanted to see if the 'kick' Dumbledore likes so much worked upside down. Turns out, it doesn't."

"Go to hell, Sirius!" Y/N spat, a drop of sweat landing on Sirius’s shoe.

Sirius looked down at his boot, then back at Y/N. His expression shifted—just for a second—into something sharp and unreadable. He didn't help. He didn't curse Mulciber. He just turned on his heel and started walking away.

"Have fun, boys," Sirius called back over his shoulder. "Try not to break him too much. I still want my turn."

Y/N felt a coldness in his chest that had nothing to do with the drafty corridor. As the Slytherins turned back to him, their wands raised for the next curse, Y/N stopped thrashing. He just stared at the spot where Sirius had been, his teeth gritted so hard he thought they might shatter.

He didn't want a hero. He didn't want a savior. But the fact that Sirius had watched him be humiliated and walked away... that was a different kind of pain. A different kind of fuel.

The blood rushing to Y/N’s head was a thrumming roar, a rhythmic thump-thump-thump that drowned out the mocking laughter of the purebloods. He was dangling like a piece of meat, but he wasn’t dead yet. All he could think about was Sirius disappearing around the corner, the bastard’s casual stride a final insult to the situation.

"He’s right," Mulciber laughed, stepping closer until he was within arm's reach of Y/N’s hanging torso. "You’re not a fighter. You’re just a freak with a loud mouth. Maybe if we cut those pretty little rings out of your ears, you’ll start listening to your betters."

Mulciber reached out, his hand closing around the silver rings in Y/N’s earlobe, intending to yank.

That was his first mistake. He’d forgotten that Y/N didn't need a wand to be dangerous.

Y/N didn't swing his arms; he crunched his entire body upward, a feat of raw core strength fueled by pure, unadulterated spite. He grabbed Mulciber’s throat with one hand and the front of his expensive silk shirt with the other.

"My turn, you posh prick," Y/N hissed.

With a violent heave, Y/N used Mulciber’s own weight as a counter-lever. The Levicorpus spell was designed to hold a body in place, but it wasn't designed to withstand two bodies colliding in mid-air. The spell snapped with the sound of a dry branch breaking.

Y/N plummeted, landing on his feet with a heavy thud of his black boots, but he didn't stop. He used the momentum to drive his shoulder into Mulciber’s chest, pinning him against the same suit of armor Sirius had just been leaning on.

CRACK.

Y/N’s fist collided with Mulciber’s jaw—a short, brutal hook that sent a spray of red across the silver plating of the armor. Y/N didn’t wait for him to fall. He grabbed Mulciber by the hair and slammed his face into the visor of the helmet.

"Who’s the freak now?" Y/N roared.

Avery lunged forward, his wand raised, but Y/N was a whirlwind of jagged edges. He ducked a stray Stupefy and stepped inside Avery’s reach, delivering a punishing blow to the taller boy’s solar plexus. As Avery doubled over, gasping for air, Y/N connected a heavy boot with the boy’s shin, the steel toe meeting bone with a sickening crunch.

The other two Slytherins hesitated, their wands trembling. They weren't used to this. They were used to elegant duels and pointed insults—not a boy with smudged eyeliner and blood on his knuckles who fought like a cornered wolf.

"Anyone else?" Y/N spat, wiping a smear of Mulciber’s blood from his cheek. "Or are you all going to run back to your daddies and cry about the mean half-blood?"

They didn't answer. They scrambled to pick up Mulciber, who was groaning on the floor, his jaw already swelling to the size of a grapefruit. They retreated into the darkness of the dungeons, leaving Y/N alone in the flickering torchlight.

Around the stone corner, hidden in the deep recess of a statue of a weeping gargoyle, Sirius Black was pressed against the wall.

He wasn't walking away. He hadn't left.

His heart was hammering against his ribs in a way that had nothing to do with the fight he’d just witnessed. He’d heard it all—the snap of the spell, the wet thud of fists, the raw, guttural growl of Y/N’s voice. He’d intended to keep walking, to let the Slytherins "teach a lesson" to the boy who had dumped juice on his head, but his feet wouldn't move.

Sirius closed his eyes, his breathing shallow. He could still see the image of Y/N hanging upside down—the way his jumper had slipped to reveal the pale, scarred skin of his ribs. Those weren't Quidditch injuries. Those were the kind of marks Sirius saw in his own mirror after a summer at Grimmauld Place.

He felt a sick twist of something in his gut. It wasn't guilt—he told himself it wasn't guilt—but it was a recognition. A dark, tethering bond.

He heard the heavy, rhythmic click-clack of Y/N’s boots approaching.

Sirius didn't want to be caught watching. He didn't want Y/N to know he’d stayed. He waited until the footsteps were close, then slipped into the shadows of a secret passageway behind the tapestry, disappearing just as Y/N rounded the corner.

Sirius pressed his back against the rough stone of the hidden passage, the heavy velvet of the tapestry settling back into place with a dull thud. He held his breath, listening to the rhythmic click-clack of Y/N’s boots as they passed his hiding spot.

He expected the footsteps to continue toward the Trophy Room. He expected the silence of the dungeons to return.

Instead, the footsteps stopped.

There was a heartbeat of absolute, suffocating stillness. Then, a sound erupted that made Sirius jump so hard he nearly cracked his skull against the low ceiling of the passageway.

CRACK.

It wasn't a spell. It was the sound of a physical impact so violent it felt like the foundations of the castle had shifted. A deep, tectonic shudder vibrated through the stone, traveling up through the soles of Sirius’s boots and rattling his very teeth.

Sirius’s hand flew to his wand, his mind racing. Did a wall collapse? Did Mulciber come back with a blasting curse?

He couldn't help himself. He pushed the edge of the tapestry aside just an inch, peering through the gap.

Y/N was standing three feet away, his back to Sirius. His right fist was buried inches deep into the solid granite wall of the corridor. A spiderweb of cracks radiated out from his knuckles, and the stone was scorched black at the center, as if the punch had been delivered with the heat of a furnace. The torches in the hallway had been blown out by the sheer force of the magical backlash, leaving only the dim, grey moonlight to illuminate the scene.

Y/N didn't move. He didn't hiss in pain. He just leaned his forehead against the cold stone, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding back a roar.

Sirius watched, paralyzed, as Y/N finally pulled his hand back. Even in the shadows, the damage was sickening. The skin was shredded, blood coating the silver rings on his fingers and dripping onto the floor in heavy, dark spots. His hand was mangled—knuckles clearly shattered, fingers hanging at angles that made Sirius’s own stomach turn.

But Y/N didn't even look at it. He didn't reach for a bandage or mutter a healing charm. He just wiped the blood onto the thigh of his dark trousers, leaving a jagged, red smear against the fabric.

"Fuck," Y/N whispered, his voice a broken, hollow rasp that sounded nothing like the boy who had been shouting insults an hour ago.

He turned and began to walk away, his boots resuming that steady, terrifyingly calm rhythm.

Sirius let the tapestry fall back into place, his heart thumping a frantic, uneven beat against his ribs. He stayed in the dark for a long time, the image of that scorched, shattered stone burned into his mind. He’d seen plenty of magic, but he’d never seen anything like that—raw, accidental power fueled by a rage so deep it made his own rebellion look like child's play.

He looked down at his own hands, clean and unscarred.

"You're going to kill yourself, you idiot," Sirius breathed into the dark.

He didn't know if he was angry or terrified. But as he navigated the secret tunnels back to Gryffindor Tower, the vibration of that punch still seemed to echo in his bones. He realized then that Y/N wasn't just a "Slytherin Rat" he could poke and prod for a reaction. He was a landslide waiting to happen—and Sirius was standing right in the path of the debris.

——————-—————————————-——————

Two hours later, Y/N stood in the Trophy Room. His knuckles were swollen and wrapped in messy, blood-stained athletic tape he’d found in his trunk. He looked like he’d been through a war, and he felt like it, too.

Professor Slughorn sat at a small desk near the door, humming a jaunty tune as he graded essays, his round belly straining against his waistcoat.

"No magic, boys," Slughorn chirped, not looking up. "Manual labor is a wonderful way to reflect on the importance of House harmony. Mr. L/N, you take the south wall—the Quidditch plaques. Mr. Black, the north wall—the Awards for Merit."

Y/N didn't answer. He just grabbed a tin of polish and a rag, his boots clicking a heavy, isolated rhythm as he walked to his corner. His knuckles were throbbing under the athletic tape, and his head felt like it had been put through a wringer.

Sirius was already at his station, his back to Y/N. He was working with a calculated, lazy grace, his movements mocking the very idea of punishment.

The silence lasted for twenty minutes, broken only by the scritch-scratch of rags against metal. It was a pressurized silence, the kind that preceded a boiler explosion.

"You missed a spot," Sirius said suddenly. His voice was low, smooth, and cut through the quiet like a blade.

Y/N didn't stop scrubbing. "Shut your mouth, Black."

"I’m just saying," Sirius turned around, leaning his hip against a glass case. He looked entirely too comfortable. "The '1954 Seeker of the Year' looks a bit dull. Much like your footwork in the dungeons earlier."

Y/N’s hand tightened around the rag. He turned slowly, his smudged eyeliner making his eyes look like two dark pits in his pale face. "You’ve got a lot of nerve talking about my footwork when you spent the whole fight hiding behind a pillar like a coward."

"I wasn't hiding," Sirius countered, his eyes flashing. He stepped out into the center of the room, away from his wall. "I was observing. Watching you roll around on the floor with Mulciber like a common dog."

"Better a dog than a spectator," Y/N hissed. He dropped his rag and stepped toward Sirius, the steel toes of his boots loud on the marble. "You watched them hang me up. You enjoyed it. You probably hoped they’d finish the job so you wouldn't have to look at me anymore."

"Is that what you think?" Sirius challenged, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly register. He closed the gap between them until they were standing in the middle of the room, two jagged silhouettes under the moonlight filtering through the high windows. "You think I want you gone?"

"I think you don't know what you want," Y/N snapped. He was inches from Sirius now, the scent of smoke and rain from the Forest still clinging to his jumper. "You spend all day poking at me, trying to get a rise out of me, and then the second things get real, you walk away."

"Maybe I just wanted to see if you could handle yourself," Sirius whispered, his gaze dropping to the tape on Y/N’s knuckles. "And you did. You fought like a maniac. It was... impressive."

The word hung in the air, heavy and wrong.

Y/N felt a surge of something—not heat, but a cold, sharp anger. "I'm not your entertainment, Black. I'm not a show for you to watch from the sidelines. You want to see what I can do? Don't wait for a crowd next time."

"Boys!" Slughorn’s voice barked from the desk. "Less talking, more polishing! Or I shall be forced to extend this session into the weekend!"

Y/N didn't move. He kept his eyes locked on Sirius’s, his jaw set. He saw the way Sirius’s throat jumped as he swallowed, the way his gray eyes darted to the cut on Y/N’s brow.

There was a pull there—a violent, magnetic tension that made Y/N want to either punch him or grab him by the collar and never let go.

"Fine," Sirius muttered, breaking the gaze first and turning back to his wall. "Enjoy your plaques, Snake."

Y/N went back to his side, but he couldn't focus. He could feel Sirius’s presence behind him like a physical weight. He reached for a heavy silver shield, but his bruised hand slipped, and the metal clattered loudly against the floor.

"Mr. L/N!" Slughorn sighed, exasperated. "Do be careful!"

Y/n picked it up with a huff.

After some time, "Ten more minutes, boys," Slughorn announced, checking his pocket watch.

The clock in the hallway began to chime midnight.

"That's enough for tonight," Slughorn said, standing up and stretching. "Back to your dormitories. Directly! If I catch either of you in the kitchens, it's another fifty points."

They walked out of the room together, but once they reached the first junction, Sirius stopped. He didn't say goodnight. He didn't make a joke. He just stood there in the shadows of the corridor, his hands in his pockets.

"Y/N," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Y/N paused, his hand on the strap of his bag. "What?"

Sirius looked like he wanted to say a thousand things—or maybe just one. But he just shook his head, a ghost of a smirk returning to his face. "Your eyeliner is smudged. You look like a raccoon."

"Fuck you, Black," Y/N snapped, turning on his heel and heading for the dungeons.

—————————-—————————————————

Sirius Black was not a quiet person by nature, but tonight he was a goddamn riot.

He was sprawled in his favorite armchair by the Gryffindor fire, one leg hooked over the armrest, his dragonhide boot twitching rhythmically. In his hand, he was tossing a heavy brass snitch—not catching it, just letting it slam into his palm with a rhythmic thud, thud, thud that was starting to grate on everyone’s nerves.

"He’s a fucking menace," Sirius snapped, the words jumping out of him like they’d been under pressure.

James, who was halfway through a Transfiguration essay, looked up and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "We’re still on this, Padfoot? It’s been four days. The juice is gone. Your hair is fine. Mostly."

"It’s not the juice, Prongs," Sirius growled, sitting up abruptly. The snitch hissed as it fluttered in his grip. "It’s the attitude. The way he walks around like he’s the only person in this castle who’s ever had a hard day. Have you seen those boots? He looks like he’s ready to kick a hole through the castle walls just for the fun of it."

"He is a bit intense," Peter piped up from the rug, where he was sorting through a pile of Bertie Bott’s beans. He shivered slightly. "I passed him in the corridor near the library yesterday. He didn't even say anything, just looked at me with that smudged-out stare, and I felt like I was about to be cursed into next week. He’s terrifying."

"He’s not terrifying, Pete, he’s a disaster," Sirius corrected, though his voice was a little too loud. "He’s a walking, talking violation of the school dress code. Smudged eyeliner, rings on every finger—I bet half of them are cursed—and a mouth that would make a gargoyle blush. He called Slughorn an 'old windbag' right to his face in detention."

Remus, who had been quietly reading a book on the sofa, didn't even look up. "And yet, you’ve spent the last forty-five minutes describing him in excruciating detail, Sirius. I know more about Y/N’s jewelry collection than I do about the Goblin Rebellions at this point."

Sirius felt a prickle of heat crawl up his neck. "I’m an observer of my enemies, Moony. It’s tactical."

"Right. Tactical," Remus murmured, finally turning a page. "Tactical interest in his 'jagged, gravelly voice' and how he 'looks like he hasn't slept in a week.' Very strategic."

Sirius opened his mouth to deliver a biting retort, but he was interrupted by the portrait hole swinging open. Lily Evans walked in, looking frustrated, holding a stack of parchment.

"You lot won't believe this," she said, dropping the parchment onto the table.

"If it’s about the Dungbombs in the trophy room, we have alibis," James said instantly, flashing a grin.

"It’s not," Lily sighed, rubbing her temples. "It’s the House Cup. Slytherin just jumped forty points."

The room went quiet. Sirius felt a weird jolt in his chest. "How? Mulciber hasn't done a lick of work all year."

"It wasn't Mulciber," Lily said, looking genuinely confused. "Apparently, Professor Sprout found Y/N in the greenhouses at three in the morning. He’d stayed up all night stabilizing a batch of Venomous Tentacula that had caught some kind of blight. She said she’s never seen a student handle them with such... 'care.' She gave him forty points on the spot."

James let out a low whistle. "The Dungeon Rat is a gardener? That’s a new one."

Sirius didn't laugh. He felt a strange, cold sinking feeling. He pictured Y/N—the same boy who had slammed him against a stone wall and threatened to break his jaw—quietly tending to poisonous plants in the dead of night. It didn't fit the image Sirius wanted to have of him. It made him feel like he was missing a piece of a puzzle he hadn't even realized he was solving.

"Probably just did it to get out of more detentions," Sirius spat, though the venom felt forced even to his own ears. "He’s probably trying to suck up to Dumbledore now that his own house wants his head on a spike."

"Actually," Lily added, "Sprout said he tried to refuse the points. Told her to 'shove them' because he didn't want the Slytherins thinking he cared about the Cup. She gave them to him anyway."

Remus looked over at Sirius, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "Sounds like your 'menace' is a bit of a hero in disguise, Padfoot."

"He’s not a hero," Sirius snapped, standing up so fast the snitch flew out of his hand and zipped toward the ceiling. "He’s a prick. A foul-mouthed, boot-wearing, half-blood prick who thinks he’s too good for the rest of us."

"Where are you going?" James asked as Sirius headed for the portrait hole.

"Out," Sirius grunted. "I need some air. This room smells like lavender and optimism. It’s making me sick."

———————-—————————————-—————

Sirius didn't go for "air." He went to the one place he knew he’d find trouble.

He moved through the castle with the silence of a Marauder, his mind replaying the image of Y/N in the dungeons—upside down, thrashed, but still snarling like a wolf. He remembered the scars on Y/N’s ribs. He remembered the way Y/N’s breath had felt against his skin in the trophy room.

He found himself near the Great Hall, leaning into a dark alcove as the Slytherins began to filter out from dinner. He saw them before they saw him.

Mulciber was at the front, his jaw still looking slightly lopsided and bruised. He was surrounded by his usual goons, but they were all looking over their shoulders.

And then came Y/N.

He was walking ten paces behind the rest of them, completely alone. He looked like a shadow carved out of the hallway. He was wearing his black boots—the heavy ones with the scuffed toes—and his leather jacket was zipped up to his chin. He had his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his head down, looking like he wanted to fight the very air he was breathing.

As he passed Mulciber, the bigger boy muttered something under his breath—something that sounded like "Half-blood filth."

Y/N didn't even stop. He didn't pull his wand. He just stepped sideways, shoulder-checking Mulciber so hard the boy stumbled into a stone pillar.

"Say it louder next time, Mulciber," Y/N’s voice rasped through the corridor, cold as ice. "I like to hear the sound of a coward’s voice before I shut it off."

Mulciber looked like he wanted to retaliate, but his eyes darted to the bruises on his own face, and he thought better of it. He and his cronies hurried away, leaving Y/N standing alone in the center of the hall.

Sirius watched from the shadows, his pulse accelerating. He saw Y/N lean his head back against the cold stone wall and close his eyes for a single, fleeting second. He looked exhausted. He looked like he was carrying the weight of the entire castle on those narrow, leather-clad shoulders.

Sirius reached for his wand, his fingers twitching. He wanted to jump out. He wanted to mock him about the forty points. He wanted to see that spark of rage in Y/N’s eyes again because it was the only thing that felt honest in this whole damn school.

But he stayed still.

He watched Y/N pull a cigarette from his pocket, look at it, and then crumble it in his fist with a curse. Y/N turned and headed outside toward the Forbidden Forest, his boots clicking a slow, lonely rhythm against the floor.

"You're going to get caught, Snake," Sirius whispered to the empty air, his voice a mix of a threat and a promise.

He waited until Y/N was gone before stepping out of the shadows. He looked at the spot where Y/N had been standing, his mind a mess of contradictions. He hated him. He really did.

But as Sirius headed back to Gryffindor Tower, he realized he wasn't thinking about James, or Remus, or the prank they were planning for Friday.

He was thinking about the way Y/N’s rings had caught the light. He was thinking about the forty points.

And he was thinking about the fact that tomorrow, they had Potions together. And Slughorn always paired the "troublemakers" in the back.

fam i absolutely love the sev x m reader i have going on but i promised a sirius x male reader awhile ago so it’s been sitting in my drafts unfinished now it’s finally finished and i hope you guys like it so far i might do a part two or something cause i kinda left off on a cliffhanger i knew i was gonna make this one a lil more angsty enemies to loversesque so hopefully thats how it came across lmk if you guys fw it or not ok later mofos

[dedeinthewild]

crutches - george weasley x reader friends to lovers

Sixth Year had welcomed them with open arms — with breakfasts in the Great Hall now turned into a refuge for stressed-out students, and hours lost in the library over pumpkin juice and ink-smudged notes.

Autumn had swept in with it the rising expectations of the professors, all preparing their students for the NEWTs they’d sharpen the following year. And so everyone had started wandering the corridors smelling faintly of scorched lavender from Potions class, reading letters from home while poking at dinner.

But there was something different in the air that year. Maybe it was the feeling of nearing the end of their Hogwarts days, or maybe the taste of freedoms they’d longed for ever since the Sorting Hat had first been lowered onto their heads.

That day, students were standing before Professor Snape, listening as he explained the use of new ingredients they'd cultivated during Herbology. He handed each of them a new textbook to keep. His black hair framed an expression even more sour than usual — the one he wore whenever Gryffindors were paired with Slytherins for the practical part of the lesson.

His eyes, predictably, drifted to the back of the classroom, to the same sight he’d been met with for years. George Weasley was standing there, spinning a quill between his fingers, while his loyal partner in green had her head gently resting against his arm — her usual place.

As if — be it summer or winter, whether they'd just witnessed a girl being petrified or the latest prank from that ever-famous Gryffindor trio — they always ended up there. On the shiniest tile of the Potions classroom floor, her voice low and steady as she explained the diagrams Snape had handed out at the start of class.

George always kept an eye on Snape. She, meanwhile, was already memorizing the measurements of each ingredient, with that soft smile she wore whenever something truly captured her interest.

She loved Potions. Or maybe — she loved every class, really.

They’d made it through the winter wrapped in their robes, and now the dungeons were warming with spring's return — that heady, reckless warmth that made you want to spill out onto the grounds, maybe even wander past Hagrid’s hut just because.

But Snape’s dramatics anchored them all to the floor. And he kept watching the way George and the Slytherin girl worked together — now seated, elbows brushing.

She was peeling a root. George was copying her notes, gripping his quill between thumb and forefinger, the other hand flat on the parchment to keep it still. When they moved to the brewing, George rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, stirring with a focus he had never once shown in Snape’s classroom. She had once again leaned lightly against his arm, reading instructions with a lock of hair slipping past her nose.

“Miss ____,” Snape drawled, voice dry as bone. “I presume Mr. Weasley is now your official emotional support twin?”

She didn’t look up, simply poured a vial of extract into the potion.

“Must I remind you that your role in this classroom is not decorative?”

“No, sir.”

Her voice was calm, respectful, measured. When she stood upright again, shoulders square, nobody noticed the way George took half a step closer — just enough to read over her shoulder again.

Around them, caldrons hissed and spit. One group’s potion billowed black smoke; another had achieved a murky green sludge. But beneath Snape’s ever-watchful eye, the pair — the pair he least tolerated — had brewed something perfectly clear, subtle, and steady.

They had met in third year, back when they'd started chatting in the hallway outside Transfiguration. Sometimes they’d trade chocolate frogs, sometimes just keep each other company between lessons — him with his half-muttered jokes, her with that crystalline laugh that rang through even the quietest corners of the castle.

By fourth year, they were hiding behind stone arches after mischief with Fred, then reappearing like nothing happened — her returning to being the straight-A student no one really knew, because there was always someone louder, someone flashier. But with George, she never had to be the best. She didn’t even have to prove she could be.

He handed her ink before she could ask. Waited for her by the common room door when he knew her day had been long, just to walk her down to the wooden bridge and sit there in silence until dinner.

“If your proximity to Mr. Weasley is required for his comprehension,” Snape said now, placing a hand on her shoulder as she adjusted the flame beneath the caldron, “I suggest you consider tutoring him outside of scheduled class hours.”

“I’m not tutoring him,” she replied, unshaken. She’d grown used to Snape’s tone — the way he never quite accepted that George was improving in his classroom. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Snape squinted at George through the veil of his black hair, as if he’d just caught him stealing dittany from his personal stores.

George, for his part, was silently slicing the last root, movements precise, mouth set in quiet focus.

Their sides touched — her stirring, him cutting — a small, easy closeness that spoke more than words ever could.

“Remarkable,” Snape murmured. “He’s learned something. And yet your elbow appears permanently fused to his arm.”

George didn’t even look up. His knife slid cleanly through the root.

Snape leaned in slightly, head between theirs.

“You may not be speaking,” he said coolly, “but some distractions, Mr. Weasley, are visible rather than audible. You take up more space than your marks suggest you deserve.”

The class reeked of burnt lavender, and yet the air was warmer than usual. The lesson ended — at last — and Snape made his final lap around the classroom.

He declared another group’s cloudy, oversteeped potion the best of the lot. Not theirs — even though he knew it was superior, flawless in technique and result.

He gave ten house points to a pair of Slytherins whose work didn’t hold a candle to theirs.

That evening, on the bench in the quiet courtyard, they laughed over it all — at Snape’s face, at his comments, at how he just couldn’t stand the fact that they worked better together than any student pairing he’d ever tried to engineer.

“And you, if you plan to succeed in this subject—” she imitated, dramatically, “—I suggest you learn how to stand without a crutch.”

The sun hung lazily above them, catching on the edges of the grass that George was fiddling with in one hand.

He lay almost fully stretched out on the lawn, nose scrunched, smiling lazily as he pretended to reread her notes.

She sat upright beside him, head tucked against the curve of his shoulder and chest — because that was always where she ended up.

And he never moved.

“You reckon,” she added, “Snape keeps a personal diary of all the ways he wants to sabotage our friendship?”

“With headings and bullet points.”

She picked a few little flowers from the grass, pressing them between the pages of her book, while George had abandoned the notebook beside them and closed his eyes.

“Daily entries,” she insisted.

“‘April tenth: Miss _____ smiled at Weasley again. Points deducted on principle.’”

And the Slytherin burst into that crystalline laughter—the one that had brightened George’s days ever since he handed her one of his creepy crawlies during Divination class a few years back. He looked at her, hands folded behind his head, lips parted in amusement.

“He probably cries into his robes.”

“We’re his worst nightmare,” she said, turning to rest her chin on the boy’s chest, her face tilted slightly, lit by the lazy sun that had begun to signal the arrival of evening—when fireflies flickered and seventh years dashed off toward Hogsmeade.

“And each other’s favorite person,” replied the redhead, reaching out to affectionately tap her nose, with no awkward pause, knowing how easy it was for them to spend time like this—without the heavy questions that might make things complicated.

“D’you think McGonagall finds us annoying, too?”

“She gives us house points when she thinks no one’s watching.”

George grabbed the notebook again, mumbling something about her handwriting being illegible, which earned him another smile from her and a delightfully witty comeback.

Still full of pumpkin juice and the delicious treats that always appeared on the Great Hall tables in the morning, they’d headed to Transfiguration class, where tall windows cast soft morning light across their faces. George had arrived first, walking casually, a bluish glint masking his freckles as he slid into their usual seat—always at the back, far right, behind Fred and Lee, who were certainly going to be late.

As usual, he laid down his parchment and quill on the desk, fiddling with the cap of the ink bottle while Professor McGonagall prepared the lesson behind her desk. She arrived a bit later, delayed by a Hufflepuff girl who’d asked her for help with a Herbology assignment that would otherwise have interfered with Quidditch. The light catching her face came in gold tones from the lower part of the windows, and she lingered at the doorway to grab a few more parchments before sitting beside the redhead. The usual scent of burnt lavender from the dungeons had been replaced by the warm aroma of wood and ink in the Gryffindor head’s classroom—but what hadn’t changed was how close the two of them always sat.

“Excellent, Miss ______” said the professor, her voice kind.

The Slytherin had just transfigured a matchstick into a silver pin under George’s attentive gaze, as he observed closely, memorizing everything she did even though she never had to turn to see him do it. When she noticed McGonagall standing in front of her, she paused for a second, moving slightly away from George, but the professor raised her hand slightly, as if to say not to worry, her glasses low on her nose.

“Mr. Weasley,” she added, “you seem to be concentrating harder in my class than you ever have before.”

“Suppose I’ve upgraded my seat, Professor.”

McGonagall had grown used to scanning her classroom, catching boys testing their wands and girls adjusting their hair when students from other houses entered. Most always sat in the same spots, forming patterns they assumed she didn’t notice—but her gaze often landed on that last row in the back-right corner.

Y/L/N and Weasley. They didn’t talk loudly or whisper like the others; they gave each other their full attention, absorbing one another. Perhaps McGonagall had been the first to notice how they always gravitated toward the same anchor point, their little corner.

And when the girl rested her head on the arm of the boy—so much taller and broader than her—it was never out of exhaustion or flirtation like others who slouched or bumped shoulders teasingly. She simply leaned on his shoulder, and neither of them ever seemed to mind. George never got distracted, even though he had never once paid attention with Fred. He didn’t look down at her or get lost in her—he just made sure she was comfortable, jotting down a few notes here and there. They had never been distracting—and never would be. But they were always noticeable.

“Five points to Gryffindor and Slytherin,” she said, “for correct technique… and improved discipline.”

George smiled as he watched her walk away. And let himself toss out a small joke that made the girl next to him laugh.

“Do you think she’s going soft in her old age?”

She handed him another parchment, amused. Every point their houses earned came directly out of Snape’s tally, who seemed increasingly unable to stomach watching one of his best Slytherin students bond so effortlessly with a Gryffindor—worse, a Weasley. He’d say she was competent, while George was just an accessory—and that his classroom was no stage for duets. All while George’s pinky wrapped gently around hers. And in all those times she handed him her quill, knowing exactly what he needed—or when he saved her from disaster, knowing she was brilliant but also hilariously clumsy—

George was improving, in all those evenings around the Gryffindor table, which had half-adopted her, one arm draped around her shoulders and his eyes on the napkin she used to explain things during the most random moments. And everyone saw the house points rising, despite Snape’s best efforts. And McGonagall was secretly pleased, her rare smile quietly revealing it.

By summer, they found themselves once again in the dungeons of the castle, the scent of potions embedded in their memories, cauldrons bubbling, students anxious over the final Potions class before their seventh year. In the very back—where the shadows couldn’t reach—two figures stood behind their workstation, shoulders nearly touching as if silently reminding each other that they worked better together than alone. Their table was perfectly organized, ingredients balanced with care, and a shared checklist sat between them—half in her writing, half in his unexpectedly neat script.

The potion they had to brew was the hardest of sixth year—so complex that a single extra stir could curdle the entire mixture.

Most students had already given up. A Ravenclaw girl declared her defeat after spilling a foul-smelling mess on the stone floor, while a few Gryffindors muttered frantically about smoke and whether they’d added the right amount of feathers. Through the chaos, Snape’s voice cut like a crow through storm clouds over the Black Lake.

Meanwhile, she and George didn’t need to speak.

He lit the fire; she checked the temperature with the back of her hand, consulting the list while the Gryffindor ground moonstone in the mortar. And the most remarkable part? They hadn’t rehearsed this potion. Not once.

His movements blended with hers like they’d done it a thousand times before. Three clockwise stirs, she added an ingredient, one counterclockwise stir, five seconds of stillness—then repeat. The potion began to glow with a pearly shimmer and its unmistakable scent filled the air. She glanced up at George, breaking free from their shared rhythm, just as his lips curled into a small smile.

The classroom had quieted. Even Snape’s sighs were audible now. Everyone else had given up. Lee had been the last, his hand trembling when he saw the professor approach.

When Snape finally stood in front of their desk—the one he loathed most—they didn’t even look up. Their potion spoke for itself, releasing soft, perfect-colored puffs just as the textbook described, no trace of cloudiness.

For once, there was no mistake. Nothing to criticize.

“I assume,” Snape said at last, his voice like steel cooled in oil, “that Miss ______ brewed this alone. Mr. Weasley’s hands appear clean, for once.”

They didn’t answer. George picked up the final vial and poured it into the potion without a trace of tension, while she checked the temperature with unmatched precision. And that’s when Snape saw it. The perfect timing. The shared glances. The subtle nods, exchanged like silent cues.

“Is there a reason,” he continued, quieter now, “that the two of you insist on treating this classroom as if it were… a coordinated ballet?”

At that, they finally looked up. Matching, quietly confident smiles on their young faces.

The potion was complete. There was nothing left to say.

As Snape walked away, she rested her head on George’s arm, and he drew a line through the last step of the recipe. Once again, they had worked beautifully—in silence.

That evening, they returned to their usual spot on the grass, backs against the bench. Fred had joined them, watching as she scribbled something into a notebook and handed it to George.

“What in Merlin’s name was that today?”

They laughed, and George crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for her to lean against him. And she did—this time looking up at the boy’s smile. At the soft freckles on his nose. The ones she’d come to love all summer long at the Burrow.

“I think he didn’t know what to do with us,” she said. “No insults left. No points to take.”

funfact: the first complete fanfic I've written on wattpad was about George, and writing this imagine was like reconnecting with middle school me

[4m0r1m]

Let It Burn

SUMMARY: They were supposed to hate each other. An arranged marriage was the Black family's final game — but neither Sirius nor she were willing players. Until one night beneath the stars, he saw her smile. And everything began to fall apart.

WORD COUNT: 2,776 words

PAIRING: sirius black x slytherin!reader

WARNINGS: fluff, a little angst

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual Friday night energy — students chattering over the remnants of pudding, House banners rippling slightly in the enchanted ceiling's breeze. Sirius Black lounged lazily at the Gryffindor table, laughing too loudly at something James had muttered about McGonagall’s new hat.

But his laughter died on his lips when his eyes, almost against his will, slid towards the Slytherin table.

There she was.

The so-called Princess of Slytherin.

Poised. Perfect. Wrapped in a halo of cold detachment and veiled sneers. Her hair was sleek and immaculate, her posture impeccable, her smile — if she ever deigned to offer one — sharp enough to cut glass. Sirius swore she could curdle milk with a single look.

And he was supposed to marry her.

Betrothed. Promised. Packaged neatly by two families so desperate for control they thought binding him to her would somehow tame him. As if he would ever be tamed.

She caught him looking and arched one elegant eyebrow. A silent, disdainful challenge.

Sirius scowled and jerked his gaze away.

“I’m not bloody doing it,” he muttered under his breath, stabbing his treacle tart viciously.

James, Remus and Peter exchanged looks.

“You don’t really have a choice, mate,” said James with a grimace. “Not unless you fancy disownment.”

Sirius snorted. “Wouldn’t be the first time a Black got struck off the bloody tapestry.”

Remus gave him a sidelong glance. “Still. Must be a special kind of hell, being chained to that one.”

Sirius didn't answer. He didn’t need to.

Everyone knew her reputation.

Cold. Ruthless. Uncaring.

And Sirius hated her for it.

It was a week later, late afternoon, when Sirius stumbled across something that would change everything.

He'd taken a detour through the courtyard, avoiding a furious Slughorn who was still smarting from the "accidental" potion explosion Sirius and James had orchestrated earlier.

There, by the old fountain, he froze.

The Slytherin Princess was kneeling — actually kneeling — in front of a tiny, sniffling first-year Hufflepuff. The boy clutched a battered satchel and had a skinned knee visible through torn trousers.

Sirius stood behind a stone pillar, unseen, mouth slightly open.

She was talking to the boy in a low, soothing voice, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket to dab at the wound. She conjured a little salve with a flick of her wand, smiling — smiling — as the boy giggled at the cool sensation.

Not a sneer. Not a smirk. A real, genuine, luminous smile that softened every sharp angle of her haughty face.

Sirius felt like he’d been punched in the chest.

Who the hell was that?

He backed away before she could spot him, heart pounding for reasons he didn’t want to examine too closely.

That night, unable to sleep, Sirius roamed the castle.

The corridors were silvered with moonlight, empty and echoing. His footsteps were quiet against the stone as he made his way towards the Astronomy Tower — a favourite haunt when he needed to be alone.

He rounded the last staircase and stopped dead.

She was there.

Leaning against the battlements, her cloak pulled tight against the chill, staring out over the sleeping grounds.

For a long moment, he considered turning back.

But something — curiosity, defiance, stubbornness — made him cross the threshold.

She turned slightly at the sound of his approach, pale face unreadable.

“Don’t tell me,” she drawled, voice cutting through the silence. “Caught out past curfew. Again.”

He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Could say the same for you, Princess.”

She laughed — low and surprisingly soft — and turned back to the view.

Sirius hesitated, then moved to lean on the wall a few feet away from her.

The silence stretched, but for once it wasn’t sharp or hostile. It was... companionable. Almost.

After a minute, she spoke again.

“You're lucky, you know,” she said quietly, not looking at him. “To have friends who love you. Who’d do anything for you.”

Sirius frowned. “Is that what this is? A compliment? I should frame it.”

She smiled faintly, still staring at the stars.

“You laugh, but it's true,” she said. “I watch you lot sometimes. Potter, Lupin, Pettigrew... you’d burn down the world for each other.”

There was something hollow in her voice, something brittle beneath the casual words.

Sirius found himself watching her, really watching her.

“What about you?” he asked, voice rough. “Surely you’ve got your little Slytherin court.”

She snorted. “They don’t love me. They follow me. Big difference.”

There was a bleakness in her tone that hit Sirius harder than he cared to admit.

He shifted, uneasy. “You make it bloody hard for people to like you, you know.”

She laughed again, but it wasn’t cruel this time. Just tired.

“Better to be feared than pitied, Black.”

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Sirius stared up at the endless, glittering sprawl of the sky, the cold biting through his robes.

“I saw you, earlier,” he said eventually.

She glanced at him, wary. “Saw me what?”

“With the Hufflepuff kid.”

Her cheeks coloured slightly, the first sign of true vulnerability he’d ever seen in her.

“He fell,” she muttered defensively. “It’s not like I could leave him there.”

Sirius smiled crookedly. “Didn’t know you knew how to smile without plotting someone’s murder.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

But the edges of her mouth twitched.

Sirius found himself grinning.

There was a crack in her armour. A glimpse of something real.

And damn it all, he wanted to see more.

The Astronomy Tower became their secret.

Neither of them ever spoke about it during the day. In public, she was still the icy Slytherin Princess and he the reckless Gryffindor rebel. They bickered in corridors, exchanged cold glares across classrooms, and maintained the careful façade expected of them.

But at night, under the silent witness of a thousand stars, they were different.

Real.

Vulnerable.

It terrified Sirius how quickly he started looking forward to those stolen conversations.

It terrified him even more how she smiled when she saw him approach, something shy and genuine flickering across her usual perfect mask.

It was the end of term when everything shattered.

Sirius returned to Grimmauld Place for the summer, and it was like stepping into a grave.

The house reeked of dust, old magic, and simmering hatred. His mother's shrill voice rang through the halls, punctuated by sharp reprimands and endless lectures about loyalty, blood, and duty.

And marriage.

Always marriage.

He could still hear her voice echoing down the corridors: You will marry her, Sirius Orion Black. You will restore this family's honour.

He wondered if she would still say it if she knew about the nights he'd spent talking to his so-called bride-to-be under the stars, trading secrets and stolen laughter.

Maybe.

Maybe she would simply chain them together all the faster.

The breaking point came one evening when Sirius found a set of marriage contracts laid out neatly on the dining room table, alongside his wand and a black quill.

Signed and sealed.

As if he were some prize animal being led to slaughter.

He exploded.

There were shouting, slammed doors, a flash of crimson light as he hexed a portrait in a fit of rage. His mother's howls followed him up the stairs and down the hall, curses in ancient tongues battering at his back.

That night, while the house slept under a heavy, oppressive silence, Sirius packed a bag.

A few sets of robes. His broomstick. His father's old dagger, tucked into his belt.

He didn’t leave a note.

Didn’t look back.

The moment he crossed the threshold of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, he felt something invisible snap inside him — like cutting the last fraying thread tying him to a life he no longer wanted.

By dawn, he was pounding on the door of the Potters’ cottage, soaked from rain and shivering.

James's mother opened the door, took one look at him, and pulled him into a hug so warm and fierce it nearly broke him.

"You’re safe now, love," she whispered. "You're safe."

Sirius sagged into her embrace, rainwater dripping onto the doormat, feeling like, for the first time in his life, maybe he actually was.

When he returned to Hogwarts in September, something was different.

He was lighter. Freer.

But the world hadn’t changed around him — not really.

She was still the Princess of Slytherin.

And he was still the boy she was meant to marry.

But now, when their eyes met across the Great Hall, there was something crackling in the air between them. Something dangerous and electric.

That night, he found her at the Astronomy Tower, waiting.

As if she knew he'd come.

The air was crisp, the first hints of autumn nipping at the castle walls. She stood by the parapet, arms folded, face upturned to the sky.

Sirius approached quietly, heart hammering.

"You ran," she said without turning, as if she could read it in his bones.

He gave a short laugh. "Couldn’t bloody stay."

She finally looked at him then.

Really looked.

There was no contempt in her gaze. No condescension. Only something deep and quiet and unbearably sad.

"I envy you," she whispered. "I don’t have the courage."

Sirius leaned against the wall beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.

"You don’t need courage," he said roughly. "You just need someone to stand with you."

She smiled — that soft, secret smile he was coming to crave — and shook her head.

"No one stands with me, Black."

Sirius hesitated, then reached out, covering her hand with his.

"You’re wrong," he said fiercely. "You’ve got me."

She stared at him, wide-eyed, as if she didn’t know how to believe it.

Sirius squeezed her hand gently, feeling her tremble under his touch.

"I know what you really are," he said. "Not what they say. Not the bloody masks you wear."

A long silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken things.

Finally, she pulled her hand away — not harshly, but slowly, like it hurt to do it.

"This can’t happen," she whispered. "You know it can’t."

"Why not?"

"Because," she said, voice cracking, "loving you would destroy me."

Sirius stared at her, stunned.

It was the first time either of them had admitted it aloud — that whatever was between them had already taken root, dangerous and wild and inevitable.

He stepped closer, until there was barely an inch of space between them.

"Maybe," he murmured, "it'll save you instead."

And then, without thinking, without planning, without caring about anything except the way she was looking at him — like he was something precious — Sirius kissed her.

It wasn’t a soft kiss.

It was messy and desperate and aching.

She kissed him back like she was drowning and he was the only thing keeping her afloat.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, she rested her forehead against his chest, trembling.

"We're going to burn the world down," she said against his robes.

Sirius smiled, threading his fingers through her hair.

"Good," he said. "Let it burn."

They kept it secret after that.

Hidden smiles in the corridors. Brushed fingertips under the tables. Midnight meetings in forgotten classrooms and dusty broom cupboards.

To everyone else, they still hated each other.

But beneath the surface, a war was raging — against expectations, against families, against fate itself.

And they were winning, one stolen moment at a time.

A/N: Lovies I don't know how I survived without writing a HP fanfic but here it is for all you lovies that love Sirius Black as much as I do💗💗💗