For the first time ever, Fred Weasley finds himself jealous over the only person in the world he needn’t worry a bit about.
Pairing: Fred Weasley x f!reader
Word count: 8k
Warnings: SMUT 18+, unprotected sex, oral + fingering (f!receiving, (lots of) dirty talk, name calling, praise/degradation, dom/sub dynamic, some nipple play, touch of a breeding kink, possessiveness/jealousy, some toxic themes, established relationship, swearing, drinking, arguing, angst, fluff, sorry if miss any!
first hp fic in a very long time! what better to post than this mess (jealous, possessive, sexy mess). basically pwp—let me know what you think! (Barely edited at all lmao my apologies)
You sat quietly at George’s desk, eyes focused on a piece of parchment as you both tried to break down the recipe George had scribbled down. There was a hiccup, a hitch in the plan of brewing a batch of Euphoria Elixir for the joke shop, and it was pushing back your plans to place them on the shelves this week. After a few hours of quiet deliberation on his lonesome, George decided to seek your help in hopes of speeding up the process.
So, the two of you put your heads together and re-read the ingredient list a million times, wondering how the hell it turned out murky green instead of sunshine-y yellow. The cauldron sat smoldering across the room, a rain cloud above it as the bubbly mixture spilled over the sides. Upon first glance, you had stated the absolute obvious.
“Isn’t that supposed to be a rainbow?” You raised an eyebrow, looking at your brother-in-law as he collapsed in his chair.
“Yes, you git.” George rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. You shot him a sharp look, warning him to be nice if he wanted your help. You knew George didn’t mean any of the insults—he was simply frustrated and maybe even a little embarrassed that he could not figure it out by himself. “Sorry, Y/N.” He conceded, realizing he came on a bit too strong.
“S’alright.” You assured him, stepping towards the desk where he sat. “Where’s the ingredient list? We’ll start there.” You offered, knowing you would help no matter how poor of a mood he was in. You loved George almost as much as you loved Fred, if you had to compare. Even if it was in a different way, you had a hard time refusing him when he used the same charm tactics as his twin brother.
After spending so many years in a relationship with Fred, it would be obscure for you not to have a bond with the closest person to him. Over the years, he’d surpassed a friend and had grown into your own brother. You were certain that no matter where life took you and Fred, George would always hold a special place in your heart. When the two opened their shop in Diagon Alley, you volunteered most of your free time to help them in any way you could, and whether it was tweaking new products or doing some of the dirty work, you never really minded.
That evening in specific, Fred was off on some ‘official business’, which really just meant meeting with a potential product buyer at The Leaky Cauldron. Last month, George took the burden of doing so, and they decided it was only fair for him to do it this time. Unfortunately for you, as much as you loved supporting them, it did interfere with your evening plans with him. So, sulking and trying your best to swallow it down, you distracted yourself with stocking shelves downstairs to prepare for another busy day ahead.
You were actually near grateful when George emerged from the office, calling out to you in desperation. It gave you a break from the monotonous back and forth, and someone to talk to. If it could not be Fred, you decided George was the next best.
“So, what’d’ya think it could be?” George asked, peeking over the cauldron that was still spitting back at him. He dodged out of the way, trying his best not to get any of the splashback on his new jumper.
“Well, from what you’ve told me, seems like you put all the right stuff in.” You deducted, pursing your lips slightly as you read over the list for what seemed like the millionth time. “Sad as it sounds, I doubt we can save it now, even if we figure out what happened.” You said, recalling your potions knowledge that Snape had relayed over the years.
“Right, but I’d like to know what’s wrong before I try again.” He explained, taking a moment to look over your sad expression. His eyebrows furrowed, his head cocking to the side as he tried to figure out where it was coming from. “What’s got your knickers in a twist?” Your eyes flickered upwards to meet his, your cheeks tinged red from the heat of the room. Your lips dipped into a frown as you shrugged your shoulders, brushing him off so you did not need to explain yourself. “I know you better than that. Come on, now.” He urged, placing his palms flat against the desk as he leaned towards you, a challenging look in his eye.
You narrowed your brows, keeping a stony expression as you met his gaze. “What’s it to you, Weasley?” You shot back, unsure of where your defensive nature was coming from. Perhaps you weren’t willing to discuss your relationship problems with your boyfriend’s twin brother, or maybe it was because you felt foolish for being upset at all.
“Reckon we’re past that, hmm? Your problems are our problems, and all.” He responded, also unsure of why you were being so reserved with your thoughts. Usually, you were an open book, especially with the two of them.
“My problems aren’t your problems, Georgie.” You shook your head, shutting down the ridiculous notion. “Let’s get back to the real problem, yeah?”
“No, I don’t think so.” George disagreed, his concern now over something completely different. “Is it about Fred?” At that, the tips of your ears began to burn and you shifted uncomfortably in your seat. “Ah, I see.” A devious smile crossed his lips.
“It’s not a big deal.” You covered your tracks, tapping the ink-less quill against the worn parchment.
“I have a hard time believing you, considering you just lied to me.”
“Lied is a strong word,” you rolled your eyes, quickly realizing that there would be no escaping the conversation. “I didn’t lie about anything.”
“What’s he done?”
“Nothing!” You exclaimed, a dry laugh leaving your lips. “It’s just… I’m just being dramatic.” And it’s true, you were being dramatic. Well, maybe not fully, but that’s what you were trying to convince yourself of. “I just miss him, I suppose. I know you both have been busy, but I think maybe I underestimated how busy you would actually be.” You continued, knowing it was wrong to confide in his twin brother about your relationship issues. Still, it felt good to get it off your chest, to voice the concern and have someone shoot you down, just so you knew you were being irrational. “This is the third night in a row we’ve canceled our plans. I’ll get over it. It’s no big deal.”
“That’s a big deal.” He hummed, sympathizing with you to make you feel better. “Bloody inconsiderate, if you ask me.” But you weren’t asking him, and somehow his justification of your feelings only made you feel worse. “What? Not allowed to speak my mind?”
“No—“ you let out a defeated sigh, slumping down in your seat. “I know that, but I was hoping you would tell me I’ve gone mad, instead.”
“Blimey, Y/N, you’re allowed to be upset. We're busy, yeah, but you’re still his girlfriend.” George said, jumping slightly when the rain cloud above the cauldron let out a crack of thunder. “If you’d rather, we can forget the elixir and grab dinner instead. I’m not Fred, but I’m pretty damn close.” He gave you a cheeky smile, earning an honest laugh from you.
“S’alright, Georgie. Thank you, though.” You appreciated his kindness, but you were sure it would only make your predicament even worse, considering Fred’s recently acquired short-fuse when it came to you and George spending so much time together. It was odd for him to be so protective, so jealous of the one person in the world he needn’t worry about, but it seemed as though the new trait was permanent. Perhaps it came from the fact he was also missing you due to your busy schedules, and how it sometimes seemed you and George were most often left at the shop alone.
“You know, I have noticed that lately.” George continued, leaning against the desk as he reminisced over the last few weeks. “Always seems to be us stuck here together.”
“Mhm.” You mumbled, slowly realizing that you weren’t as insane as you previously thought if he was noticing all of the same things. “Let’s just figure this out so I can get home.”
So you did. A grueling hour spent recounting George’s every step in brewing the elixir left the two of you puzzled and even more frustrated. By that point in the night, you were hunched over the long list of his steps you had jotted down so you could (hopefully) discover what he missed.
“I dunno, Georgie.” You sighed. “Seems like you did everything—“ you cut yourself off, leaning closer to the page on the desk as you caught something you hadn’t seen before.
“What?” He asked, his head snapping towards you. “What is it?”
“You said when you let it simmer, it was turquoise.” You said, looking up at him.
“Yeah, so?” He replied, confused why it was such a big deal.
“It’s meant to be blue.” You explained, a grin on your face as you relayed the information to him.
“Turquoise… blue… same thing, innit?” He asked, standing and walking over to you.
“Maybe to you.” You giggled, pointing to the piece of paper where he missed the step. “After you add the shrivelfig, you have to stir it until it changes color.” He walked up behind you, placing one hand on your arm as he leaned over your opposite shoulder. He smelled of butterbeer, likely due to the one he’d been nursing the entire time you sat together. You immediately noticed the warmth of his body, how similar it felt to how Fred touched you, but how drastically different it was all the same.
“Blimey, you’re right!” He exclaimed, his voice still soft so he was not yelling in your ear. “What would I do without you?” He gave your arm a gentle squeeze, leaning closer and pressing the side of his face to yours in a makeshift hug. His hand dropped to your back, lingering there as the conversation continued.
“It’s nothing, really.” You smiled, closing your eyes to enjoy the warmth for a moment. “So now you know. You can do it again, but make sure to stir it until it’s blue. By tomorrow, we’ll have it bottled and on the shelves just like we planned.”
“Our number one girl, saving the day yet again.” He sighed in relief. “I better get to it—“
Before his thought could finish, the door to the office swung open, cutting him short. Your eyes turned upwards, landing on a slightly drunken version of the boyfriend who’d abandoned your evening plans. The gloss of his eyes and the goofy smile on his lips led you to believe so, and the redness on the apples of his cheeks only solidified it. Only his cheeky grin didn’t last too long when he processed the scene in front of him, how close the two of you were, how heavy George’s hand seemed on your back and how rosy your own cheeks were.
Quickly, his jaw tightened, his gaze narrowing as he tried to decipher the whole situation. His nostrils flared ever so slightly, and his arms raised to cross over his chest. Immediately, you knew what you’d be in for; a long, tiresome argument that changed absolutely nothing. Instead of fighting the silent accusations, defending yourself for no real reason at all, you watched him with the same intensity while you awaited a snide comment.
“So what’s all this, then?” Fred asked, his face clearly conveying all of his emotions.
“Helping Georgie make the elixir while you were off getting sloshed at The Leaky Cauldron.” You muttered, noticing George straighten himself up in hopes of avoiding any further damage.
“I was not getting sloshed, I was doing business.” He corrected, defensive over the fact. “S’pose you were hoping I’d take a little longer, yeah? Give you some more time to cozy up with my brother?”
“Blimey, Fred. If you took any longer, I’d imagine you’d have to move in with the lad.” George took your side on the matter. “At least she wouldn’t have to worry about you missing dinner again.” At that, Fred’s eyes cut to you, immediately understanding where the underlying tension was coming from.
“Is that right?” Fred’s voice was no louder than a whisper, all of the pieces clicking together in an instant. “I don’t suppose the two of you had dinner? Let him fill in for me while I was gone?”
“No, we did not.” You snipped, standing as you gathered the ingredients for George’s second attempt at the brew.
“Yeah, right. What else did he fill in for, sweetheart? Anything you think I should know?” At that, your eyes widened and your face turned red. Your entire body felt like it was engulfed in flames, appalled that he would even think such a thing.
“Piss off, Fred.” You muttered, stepping out from behind the desk as tears stung your eyes. George shot you a sympathetic look as you pushed past his brother and out into the stairwell. You trodded down to the main level, swiping fallen tears away from your cheeks as you rushed out the front entrance of the building.
The cool air of the night was nice, especially after spending so long cramped up in the tiny office space, but it was not as freeing as you might have hoped once you heard footsteps following behind you. Without acknowledging him, you pulled your keys from your pocket, hoping that maybe he forgot his own set and you wouldn’t have to deal with his drunken arguments tonight if you got inside before him.
Of course, you knew that was childish and cruel, because despite being upset with him, loving him was the only thing you knew how to do. You unlocked the front door, holding it open with your boot-clad foot as he stumbled his way behind you. As soon as he passed through the doorway, you continued on your journey to ignore him and tossed your keys on the counter.
“Hey,” Fred reached out, his warm hand landing on your arm, stopping you from running any further from him.
“What?” You snapped, immediately regretting the harshness of your tone. He recoiled at the sound, shocked that you spoke to him in such a way. Usually the two of you saw eye to eye on everything, and in your long standing relationship arguing had never been your thing. Until you left school, you were certain the two of you had never been angry at each other, ever.
“What the bloody hell was that about? I leave for a few hours, and the two of you get on like that? Does that happen every time I step out?” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes again, wondering why this became such a problem in the few short months you’d been graduated.
“Merlin, Fred. You’re acting like you caught us in a broom closet.” You tried again to make your way to the bedroom, unwilling to argue a point he knew was blasphemous anyhow. “We were working, not fucking.”
“Yeah, but I bet you would’ve let him, right?” He grabbed your hand, spinning you back around to face him. He pulled you into him, his athletic build never leaving him even after he stopped playing quidditch. “Bitching and moaning cause I couldn’t be home to take you to dinner… if you were so upset, why didn’t you come to me, princess? Tell me what was wrong?” You could smell fire whiskey on his breath, feeling his chest heaving with anger against your own. As angry as you were, you couldn’t help but feel a rush of arousal run through you. The slight sneer on his face, the fire in his eyes, and the protective hold he had on you was sending your head spinning with thoughts much less pertinent to the topic at hand.
“Maybe I would have if you spared me the time of day.” You argued, finding yourself short of breath as you realized just how much he towered over you. “But, as it seems, you’ve been too damn busy to spare me a second glance.”
“Christ, when did you get so needy?” His rebuttal came easy, like he’d been waiting to have this fight for weeks. “Weren’t satisfied at home, so you thought my brother could do it for you?”
“Are you daft?” You hissed, feeling his fingers tighten on your hips. You hated that the feeling made you forget about your troubles, urging you to push the argument to the side and settle it in a better, more pleasurable way. “If that’s what I wanted, you think I’d be up here arguing with you?”
“That depends, sweetheart. Were you planning on getting caught?” He raised an eyebrow, the thud of his heart against his chest letting you know just how worked up he was. There was no way he truly believed you would do that to him, especially after all you had been through together. You wondered if maybe the lack of time spent with each other was getting to him, souring his thoughts because he missed you just as much as you missed him. “We may be identical, Princess, but he could never give you what I can.”
You hated to admit it, but for some strange reason, jealousy looked really good on him.
“What, a headache and a poor mood?” You decided to play his game if he wasn’t willing to listen to reason. If he wanted to fight, you could do it too. “I’m sure he could manage. In fact, he could probably do a hell of a lot more.” That seemed to strike a nerve in him, pushing him over the edge in an instant and changing the entire mood hanging heavy in the room. He no longer wanted to talk, but rather prove a point.
He took a step backwards, never easing his hold as he pushed you towards the kitchen table. He didn’t stop until your ass hit the edge, a mischievous look in his eye replacing the earlier annoyance. He had you locked in place, no intent to back down as he stared down at you over the bridge of his nose. Then, a small smirk turned the corner of his lips, leading you to believe he was also thinking of a much more simple way to solve your problems.
“Maybe you just need a reminder of who you belong to, yeah?” He asked, his voice quieter than it was before. You felt your mouth run dry, your eyes never leaving his as a dull ache between your legs began to pester you.
That would make you feel better, but he had pissed you off enough that you wanted to refuse him the satisfaction.
“Maybe we should get Georgie up here. According to you, he’d be the one to set me straight.” There was a slight venom in your tone letting him know you wouldn’t be letting anything go so easily. A low chuckle shook his shoulders, his eyes gleaming with a sinister look you weren’t sure you’d ever seen from him before that night. He shook his head ever so slightly, playing into you as he reached one arm behind you.
Your heart raced as you awaited a response, wondering if maybe you pushed him too far and crossed a boundary you could not double back on. You didn’t have to wonder long, because without a second thought, he cleared all of the items littering the table with one swift move of his arm. Papers scattered everywhere, floating through the air and landing all over the floor. Broken products and half finished merchandise for the shop tumbled off the edge, falling less than gracefully onto the tile below. Without ever breaking eye contact, he raised an eyebrow, daring you to say it again.
“You think he can fuck you better than I can?” He asked, giving you the opportunity to change your mind.
“Right now? Yeah.” You spat, wondering if he’d ever drop the act and get on with his day. “Seems like all you want to do is get on my nerves.”
“Yeah?” He challenged, his face so close to yours you could feel his breath on your skin. The tip of his nose grazed your own, his normally warm and comforting irises engulfed by his lust-blown pupils. Or perhaps it was anger that gave him the new look—you weren’t quite sure. “You’d rather go home with him at night? Wake up next to him every morning? Is that really what you want, princess?” He taunted, knowing very well that your heart was his, even if he found himself caught up in a few moments of doubt.
Still neglecting to give him any gratification, you nodded your head despite the sickening feeling that washed over you at the thought. As if he called your bluff before you ever said it aloud, he laughed at the certainty in your action, which only seemed to anger you further.
“If that’s the case, seems like I’ve got my work cut out for me tonight.” He responded, brushing the comment off as if it were nothing. If there was one thing Fred couldn’t ever turn down, it was a challenge, and since coming upstairs with you, it was only further proven to him that’s all this was. “Maybe I’ve gotten too comfortable, sweetheart. After so long, you think you’d know that you’re mine, huh?” Before he continued his tyrant, he used his hands on your hips to lift you onto the table with ease. The ache between your legs had grown stronger, more intense and impossible to ignore. You could feel the wetness soaking through your panties, and the thought of his strong arms lifting you so carelessly only made you spiral further. “Maybe I expect too much of you.” He theorized, recognizing the gleam in your eyes because he’d seen it a thousand times before.
He let his hands trail under the hem of your jumper, settling on the button of your jeans as he undid it with ease. You never let your eyes trail from his face, realizing that no matter how upset you were, it could never take away from how much you loved him. He was beautiful, his fiery red hair and the freckles splattered across his cheeks and nose creating a perfect picture. The softness of his complexion and the gentleness hidden deep in his expression assured you that whatever the two of you were doing was nothing more than an act. He knew you were his just as well as you did, but he knew the only way to settle the (admittedly, misguided) fear was to hear you say it aloud.
You helped him pull the fabric from your legs, wrapping your arms around his neck as you lifted your hips from the table. He discarded the clothing on the floor, paying no mind to it as he returned his hands to your bare legs. His eyes searched your face, carefully looking for any sign of discomfort. Instead, he was met with a pleading expression that only seemed to fuel his too large ego even further.
“No matter,” he disregarded his earlier rant, his eyes growing heavy as his hand fell between your legs. His fingertips grazed the thin fabric separating him from your core, a shiver running down his spine as he noticed the arousal that had soaked straight through. “I don’t mind having to show you. Least I’ll get to have my fun too, yeah?” He applied slight pressure to your aching clit, watching to see your reaction. Your eyebrows knitted together, your lips parting slightly as your hips moved forward into his hand, your body betraying your mind and begging him for something more.
At that, a grin encased his face, happy to see that he hadn’t lost his touch, even if your lives were vastly different and ever-changing by the day. He knew exactly how to make you feel good, and he took pride in it.
“See, Princess? She’ll always tell me the truth.” He taunted, his voice quiet as his eyes trailed down to his hand. You swallowed hard, knowing he had you in a stalemate. “Tell me again, who do you think knows how to make you feel good? Who does it best?” He was on a power trip, unwilling to slow down until he heard you admit it. Still, you stood your ground, pressing your lips tightly together so not a single sound could pass through. His grin faded, slowly sinking into a scowl as your disobedience remained clear.
He removed his finger from you, tracing the hem of your panties as he hooked his finger through the side of the fabric resting on your hip. He awaited an answer, giving you the opportunity to change your mind. When you kept your stoicism, he gave one, hard tug on the lacy fabric until it snapped in two. He used his other hand to do it to the opposite side, giving himself easy access to you without hearing a complaint on your end.
“So you don’t care who’s between your legs?” He continued, unrelenting as you stared him down. “Doesn’t matter who, as long as there’s a cock in you? As long as someone’s taking care of your pretty pussy?” Your cheeks flushed, your chest burning as the filthy words washed over you. “Doesn’t matter, sweetheart. When I’m done with you, I’ll be the only person you can think of. Surely then you won’t be able to forget who you belong to.”
His hand connected with your bare cunt, his fingers trailing through your arousal and settling over your clit as he began to trace slow circles into the sensitive area. Your legs trembled at the contact, finally feeling some relief from the nagging sensation that had been taking over.
“Fuck. Fred.” You whispered, giving yourself away immediately. He let out a low hum, pleased with the sound and knowing he was the reason for it. He had you where he wanted you, and now he just had to keep up the pace. You could feel his hardening length against your leg, distracting you completely from the pent up anger and frustration.
“That’s it.” He encouraged, his middle finger sinking inside of you as he let his thumb take over on your clit. “That’s my girl.” He made sure to accentuate the claim, never once letting you forget it. “All you needed was a little help remembering.” Slowly, he pumped his finger into you, keeping time with his thumb as he began to work you towards a climax. “You want to say it for me? Tell me what I already know?” Instead of responding, you let out a whine, your hips bucking forward into his hand. Although it wasn’t what he was looking for, it was just enough for him to keep going.
He curled his fingers as he pumped them into you, begging for a reaction as your hand wrapped around his bicep for support. You felt the tense of his muscles as he worked at you, only pushing you closer to insanity. You were his, undoubtedly and wholeheartedly, and you would be crazy to ever want anyone else.
“Stubborn little thing tonight.” He remarked, his eyes focused on the point in which his hand met with you, never breaking his stare as he watched his fingers disappear into you. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Need more, Freddie.” You replied, your eyes squeezed shut as you felt the pleasure pulsing under your skin. It had been a long time since you felt him this way, and your impatience was quite clear.
“My little whore needs more?” He teased, applying a little more pressure with his thumb. A gasp fell from your lips, sending your upper half leaning forward until your forehead rested against his. “Asking a lot from someone you aren’t being very good for.” He chastised you for your behavior despite being the one that caused the problem in the first place.
“M’sorry, my love. S-so sorry.” You rushed out, his fingers brushing against the sweet spot inside you only he knew how to find.
“That’s not what I want to hear sweetheart, and you know it.” His tone was firm, unrelenting as he continued his torment. You let out a groan of frustration, wishing he’d quicken the pace and give you what you wanted, even though you refused to give in to him.
He leaned forward, closing the gap between your mouths as he grew tired of waiting for the words he wanted to hear. He tasted like the whiskey that had been fuelling his poor mood, sweet and bitter all at once as his tongue grazed your bottom lip. You hated how easy it was for him to turn you into a mess, hated how easy it was for him to make you forget you were angry at all. You pulled him closer to you, holding his arm tightly so he would not pull away. You were stubborn, but despite that, you were showing him everything he wanted to see through your actions alone.
You broke from the kiss as a particularly intense wave of euphoria pulled your stomach. Your forehead continued to rest on his, holding you upright as he continued to give you just enough to keep you satisfied.
“Say it, princess.” His voice was low, raspy and laced with desire as he watched you turn into a mess below him. “Tell me you’re all mine. Tell me I’m the only one who can make you feel like this.” Instead, you connected your mouths again, letting a desperate moan out at the same time. He drank in the sound, his cock throbbing as his hips jutted forward into nothing. He was almost more desperate than you were, which only allowed for you to take him less seriously.
“G-gonna have to try harder than that.” You found a peculiar pleasure in leaving him on edge, giving him a taste of his own medicine as he continued to torture both of you at once. “Show me why I should say it, Freddie. Seems like you’re all t-talk.” You stuttered, tripping over your words as you tried to keep your composure.
He withdrew his hand from you, making you cry out in frustration from the loss of pleasure. Your eyes met his, desperation written all over your face as you protested his actions. Silently, he sunk to his knees between your legs, pulling you to the edge of the table by your hips. He didn’t spare a single glance at your face before his tongue connected with your core, the warm wetness of his tongue even more pleasurable than the rough pad of his thumb.
You laid back on the table, your hands sinking downwards and tangling in the soft locks of hair. Although you were denying him of the statement he wanted to hear, you could not deny that your last argument was wholly untrue. Fred was determined to prove a point, and he was doing it well.
You weren’t far off from an orgasm, his tongue making quick work at pushing you to the edge. The sounds falling from your lips were telling of your current state, and as delirium began to set in, your defenses began to break down.
He suctioned his lips around your clit, adding his fingers to the mix and returning to his earlier pace to torture you further. Every nerve in your body was ablaze with desire, need seeping from every pore as you realized just how badly you needed the release. Sick of the game, you finally broke in fear he would leave you hanging yet again.
“Oh, god.” You gasped, your legs resting over his shoulders in attempt to stop the constant trembling of the lips. “I’m yours, Fred, fuck!” You exclaimed, a sheen layer of sweat forming over your forehead as the knot in your belly began to tighten. “Only you can make me feel this good. Nobody else.” You whined, your fingers tightening on the locks of hair as you began to tug at the strands. You could feel him smiling against you, happy to finally hear you admit the truth.
Pleased with your confessions, he curled his fingers against your g-spot one last time, generously giving you the very thing you’d been pleading for. In a mess, your entire body tensed as the pleasure took hold. The orgasm washed over you, leaving your heart racing against your chest and your head swirling with filthy thoughts for the boy between your legs. A hum of approval let you know he was more than happy with your performance, and he kept his pace until he felt you relax against the table below you.
Once he knew he’d gotten the most out of you, he rose to his feet, towering over you as you laid below him. In the dim moonlight, you could see your orgasm glistening on his chin, only furthering his cockiness as he ran his tongue over his bottom lip so he did not waste a drop of it.
“Always taste so sweet, princess.” He whispered, using one hand to free himself from his pants and his boxers. “And it’s all for me.” He continued, slipping his shirt from his head. He used it to wipe his face clean before tossing it on the floor to join the growing pile of clothes. With shaky hands, you lifted your upper half from the table and pulled your own jumper over your head. “Isn’t that right?” He stepped toward, settling between your legs as his hands ghosted over your bare thighs.
You let out a whimper, his grip landing on your already sore hips as his eyes raked over your entire frame. Your gaze flickered to his cock, hard and aching for relief as he continued to tease you. His fingers tickled your stomach as he trailed his touch upwards, his palm landing flat against your breast as he gave it a gentle squeeze. He let the pad of his thumb brush over your hardened nipple, sending another wave of pleasure through you.
“Answer me, sweetheart.” He wasn’t playing anymore; he wanted to hear the words, and he was done with your obstinacy. He pinched your nipple between his thumb and forefinger,
“Yes,” you huffed, already forgetting the pleasure from your first climax as a whole new wave of need began to take over. “I’m yours, Fred. All yours.” You reiterated your earlier statement, now willing to do whatever he wanted of you to prove the point.
“Tell me how bad you want it.” He shot you a twisted little smile, almost as if he was getting off just from the thought of you begging for him.
“I need it, baby. Need to feel you, please.” You whined, reaching for his arms and pulling him closer. “Want you so bad, Fred. Been waiting all night for it.” You felt the tip of his cock connect with your cunt, his expression faltering as soon as he felt the wetness.
“God, you make it so hard to be upset with you.” He hissed the words through his teeth, using his hand to guide himself through your folds as he sucked in a sharp breath. He settled himself just over your already sensitive clit, pushing his hips forward ever so slightly to apply pressure to the spot. “Sound so pretty when you’re begging to be fucked.”
Slowly, he let his tip run back through your arousal, settling the head just at your entrance. He pushed himself forward, but just barely. You whimpered as you braced yourself for the feeling, only to be let down when he stopped himself from going any further.
“Fred,” you warned, catching his eye so he could see your desperate face. You hoped that if he did, he would stop being such a tease. “Please fuck me.”
“What was that?” He smirked, turning his head slightly so his ear was closer to you. “Didn’t quite catch it.”
“Fred, stop—“ you cut yourself off, letting out a huff of annoyance. You knew chastising him for his actions would only make him less likely to give in, even if it was incredibly hard to hold it back. “I need you to fuck me.” You repeated, clearer and louder in hopes of swaying his decision. “Can’t wait any longer, baby. Please.”
At that, he pushed forward the rest of the way, sending your entire body raising with goosebumps. The stretch as he filled you was exactly what you craved, and as he reached the hilt, his tip brushed against your g-spot so delicately that it almost made you come undone right then and there. Your eyelids grew heavy with satisfaction, focusing on how full you felt with him inside of you, knowing that he for certain would always be the one for you.
“That good enough for you, Princess? This is what you wanted?” He asked, letting himself rest inside you for a moment. He felt your walls flutter around him, pulling him even further and making it harder for him to resist you.
“Mhm,” you hummed, giving him a tired nod of agreement. You could feel him throbbing inside of, desperate for a release just like you had been moments before, but he was still trying to prove his point.
“Nobody else gets to have you like this, sweetheart. You’re mine.” He whispered, now sober from the alcohol but intoxicated by an even stronger, deadlier force; you. “He couldn’t fuck you like this, and you know it.” As he spoke, he withdrew his hips and slammed them forward into you again. The action stole the breath from your lungs, twisting your stomach with pleasure as your nails scratched over his skin.
He began at a pace, slower than normal but the force behind his movements making your head spin. You moaned quietly, lost within the feeling of being so close to him. He never failed to take your breath away, never failed to amaze you with his every move. You were so in love with him it sometimes felt like there was no room within your heart for anyone or anything else.
“Tell me, Y/N.” He ordered, his stare never wavering as he fucked into you. As much as he wanted to succumb to the sensation of you wrapped around him, he found it hard to push the thoughts of your earlier arguments out of his head. “You think he’d fuck you like this? You think he could make you feel this good?”
“No, Freddie.” You gasped, feeling the strength of his thrusts increase, sending the legs of the table wobbling. His fingers tightened on your hips, likely leaving behind angry red marks that would fade into reminders of him for days to come.
“That’s it, Princess.” He panted, his chest heaving as he tried to resist the pull of pleasure. “Don’t you think, not even for a second, that anyone can give you half of what I can.” You both knew this to be fact; nobody in the entire world could ever compare to him. “And why do you think that is?”
“‘C-cause I’m yours,” you managed to stutter out the response, watching him as the statement washed over. He brought his hand to your thigh, your legs wrapped tightly around you as he pulled you back on him with every thrust. His head fell back on his shoulders, the dim light of the room casting a beautiful hue over his already breathtaking features.
“That’s right,” he grunted, slamming his hips forward again. There was a thin layer of sweat sheen on his chest, the toned muscles of his abdomen flexing every time he moved. The exposed columns of his neck made your mouth water, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed back his own groans of pleasure. “Was that why you were mouthing off? You just needed someone to take care of you? Just needed me to fuck you?”
“God, yes.” You moaned, feeling the pressure in your belly begin to reach a peak.
“You gonna cum for me, sweetheart? All over my cock?” He smiled, looking down at you so he could appreciate the view. “Come on now, making a fucking mess of it.”
“Fuck,” you whimpered, his words hitting you hard and causing the tightening knot in your belly to tense even further.
“That’s my pretty girl. Just like that.” He continued to encourage you, studying your expression as pleasure began to twist it.
It didn’t take much more for you to descend into another orgasm, your entire body quivering as you cried out for him, singing his name like a hymn and he was the god in which you prayed to. Your throat was raw, raspy from the constant string of moans passing your lips. You were tired, almost too fucked out to continue on, but he was having none of it. He didn’t slow his pace as you came down from the high, instead speeding up and ensuring that he pulled your entire body down on him as he fucked into you.
“Freddie, please.” You breathed, feeling the threat of overstimulation begin to creep in. He would have had sympathy had he known you couldn’t take it, but he was confident in your ability to keep up with him.
“What’s wrong, Princess? Wanted it so bad and now you can’t handle it?” He asked, his eyes glazed over with lust as he felt himself approaching his own orgasm. You frowned at his words, now on a quest to prove your own point as you tried to ignore the stinging beginning to set in.
“I can t-take it.” You huffed, a shiver running down your spine as he reached upwards and palmed your breast. He gave the supple flesh a gentle squeeze, his eyes closing in bliss as he let himself slip out of the persona he had created.
“Being so good for me—just a bit longer now.” He whispered, his voice far away as his eyes settled over your face once more. “Bloody hell, Y/N.” he groaned, his forehead creasing as his eyebrows furrowed together. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
He slipped his hand between your legs, his thumb landing atop your clit. He traced slow circles, knowing you were a bit further behind him and unwilling to climax without giving you at least one more. He could see how tired you were, but it did not deter him from his commitment to pleasing you.
“I love you, Fred.” You whispered, softened entirely by the sweet look in his eyes. All of his previous anger fled, leaving him just as the boy you’d fallen so hopelessly for.
“I love you, sweetheart.” He hummed, his hips stuttering and his stature faltering. “Give me one more, yeah? I know you can do it.” And he was right, your entire body was ablaze with another orgasm much more powerful than the last two.
“Together?” You gasped, reaching up and settling your palm on his cheek.
“Yeah? You want to cum with me?” He encouraged your train of thought. “Want me to fill that pretty cunt? Really show you who you belong to?”
“Fuck yes, please.” You cried, your fingertips tangling in the locks of hair hanging over his ears. Your walls clenched around him, drawing him in and effortlessly finishing what you had started.
You felt his hips stall, a low growl leaving his lips as he pulled you down on him one last time. He managed to whisper your name as he spilled his release into you, the feeling of him filling you completely sending you spiraling on your own accord. You let out a defeated sigh, the tail end of it turning into a whine as your body went rigid. Your nails scratched at the skin of his arm, your hand on him the only thing keeping you tied to earth instead of floating up and through the clouds.
The both of you rode the high together, euphoria infiltrating every nerve in both of your bodies as he leaned down towards you. Ever so gently, he laid his head on your chest, which was still heaving as you tried to catch up from the lack of oxygen. He placed a plethora of small kisses against the warm skin, his eyes fluttering closed as he appreciated the comfort that came with your company.
Silence hung heavy between you for a few moments, neither of you sure where to go from there. You were still strung out on bliss, barely remembering what got the two of you in the position until he spoke again.
“M’sorry, sweetheart.” His voice barely broke through the room, so timid and shy that you almost missed it completely. “I know you’d never do that. Just got in my head, I s’pose.”
“I… I get it.” You sighed, twisting a lock of his hair. “If I walked in on that, after us being so.. you know. I’d likely feel it too.” You confessed. “I was upset that we had to cancel dinner. I am upset, but not at you.” You tried your best to explain yourself despite exhaustion eating away at your mind. “I’m just upset because I miss you. You’re so busy now, and I’m happy for you, really, but I miss you too.”
“You think I was bloody happy about it?” Fred chuckled, the tip of his fingers tracing shapes into your skin. “I’d much rather be here, with you.” At that, you relaxed completely, understanding that you had gotten too far into your own head. “It’s my favorite place to be. Always has been.”
“Mine too, Fred.” You hummed, smiling softly at the thought.
“I reckon I was a bit jealous, ‘specially at the thought of you and George spending so much time with each other. Would rather it be me, you know, sitting at the shop and laughing with you all night… taking you out for dinner… loving you.” Another gentle kiss was placed to your chest, just before he looked up to meet your eyes. The soft, warm, familiar sight made you feel at ease. He was back to being your Fred, the one you missed all along.
“Darling, you have nothing to be jealous about.” You promised, smiling as he placed a quick peck on your lips. “Though, if it means we get to have brilliant sex like that, by all means do what you have to do.” You explained. “Bloody brilliant, at that.” Without any further words, the two of you descended into a fit of laughter and the clouds that previously hung above your head seemingly cleared in an instant, easily proving to him there was really never a need to worry at all.
the 5 times you did (not) love each other and the 1 time you did.
summary. as the title suggests. this one was a request! i hope you enjoyed my version of this anon.
pairing/s. poly!marauders + lily / reader.
wc. 4.1k
tags. hurt/comfort, angst, peter pettigrew mention, not proofread, like seriously, fluff, happy ending.
cws: brief mention of violence and blood.
note: i am alive?? crazy. i began this fic, whilst sick, around august, nursing the worst headache ever. i wrote the middle of this fic, sick. and i think it's only fitting that i finished this fic. sick... honestly, i did not proofread any of this, i just know i lowkey love it. after the first one-thousand words, i just spiral and become delirious, so i don't even know what happened here. my first request finished! yippee! and thank you all for 2k :< i love you all so much.
i.
SIRIUS BLACK did not love you—not even close, not even a little bit. Not even at all.
After Peter Pettigrew’s slight against his family, Sirius would never hold warmth or pity for the skittish mouse ever again. He was played for a fool. And, he did not know which betrayal had hurt more. Peter’s—or yours. (Had you known all along of your adoptive brother’s plans? Did you not think for one second that Sirius would, without a sliver of hesitation, put himself in the way of a killing curse to keep you safe? He’d have died before ever letting the fire in your eyes wither to ashes. Clearly, you did not share the same sentiment.)
He wanted nothing to do with you. Ever. And if the rat-bastard dared to show his face, not even Death would know where to put Peter’s body to rest. Sirius would keep him alive until he begged for death—until the idea of living frightened him more than dying. And for you—beholder of his heart, captor of his soul, and co-possessor of his mind—he could only hope that you stayed far away. You had wrecked him—all of them.
He wanted—
He did not know what he wanted.
For when it came to you, Sirius Black was reduced to a man wandering the deserts—mistaking clouds for water, and the sands for grass blades. You had ravaged every fiber of his being; consumed his every thought and word. The most ironic part of all was that if you had been the one standing there—Sirius would have let you Avada him. Dumbledore could scold him in the afterlife—Sirius could care less. He’d have snapped his wand in half and asked someone else to fight you because Sirius had vowed from the moment he met you that he would never harm a hair on your head. He would never be the reason that tears stained your pretty cheeks.
Well, apparently, trust and promises were not worth a damn thing nowadays.
No, he did not love you—even as you stood on the steps of Grimmauld, your hair ruined by the downpour of rain. Your lips bruised and bitten from a nervous habit Sirius had yet to break out of you.
“I didn’t know, Sirius,” you whispered—your voice the only sound falling on his ears amidst all the thunder and lightning. He only saw you. “Y-You have to believe me. If I knew—Gods, I would have told Dumbledore in a heartbeat. Fuck. I thought you knew me better than that.”
He thought so, too.
“Did you know?” Sirius began, taking a step forward and into the storm, a demeaning sneer on his lips. “That when Voldemort stood in our home, your portrait was right behind him? That was all I could look at. If I had died—you would have been the last thing I saw.”
You had not replied.
Sirius grit his teeth. “Go,” he said, voice hoarse.
“Go!” he yelled, grateful for the rain as it masked his own tears as you flinched from the sound of his voice. Not the thunderclap, the lightning strike—but it was him who scared you.
(But you had done so first.)
When you apparated away, Sirius crumbled to the ground and pounded his fists against the asphalts where you were moments ago, screaming and cursing until he saw blood flowing with the rainwater.
It was laughable, really. The way he did not love you.
It was not love that drove him to madness, pummeling Gideon Prewett into a bloody pulp for mentioning your name during a meeting with the Order. He had presumed you to be a Death Eater alongside your brother—Sirius instantly saw nothing but red. (He condemned Bellatrix, his own cousin, for becoming a madwoman. Yet, here he was, unraveled by the very thought of you. The very whisper of your name.)
But whatever it was that had turned him into a fool and a hypocrite all at once, it was not love.
ii.
JAMES POTTER had no love for you—make no mistake about that. He loved love, and he did so fiercely and truthfully. But you and Peter had broken his trust—defiled his loyalty from the moment your brother had brought Voldemort to his doorstep. (Did you know that as he begged and screamed for Lily to hide with their son, Harry—he thought of you? For a fleeting moment, he saw your face, marked by fear and tear-rimmed eyes. And James knew straight away that he would spit on Tom Riddle’s bare feet if only to keep his family safe. If only to see you once more. Alive and well. But, you must not have thought the same—if you had conspired with Peter to sell him and Lily out to the Devil reborn.)
The thought of you breathing was enough to keep James alive.
But, that was not love. It was a mockery of it.
No, he did not feel so much as a twinge of emotion for you. Not even as Mad-Eye Moody brought your limp body back to Grimmauld. It was not love that threatened the magic in his being—that simmered in his blood until the painted walls saw an indent of his fist. (“Poor thing,” McGonagall cooed as she pressed her palm over your forehead. Despite some of the members’ growing distrust for you, you still took an Unforgivable in their stead. “We can only wait. . . Four Cruciatus curses. . .”)
What more did James need to want to rip Peter apart limb by limb?
It was not love that rooted his feet by your side. Sitting hunched on a chair too small for his height, bags beneath his eyes, and the pale of his lips becoming noticeable to everyone who spoke to him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to you lovelessly—hands desperately clutching your own. Sirius stood across the room, arms crossed over his chest, dagger-like eyes waiting for so much as a twitch of your finger. “I’m sorry.”
It was a plea this time.
He only hoped you did not ask him to love you. For James could give you the world, hand-pick the stars, and burrow his body deep beneath the ground if you had asked for it—but he could not love you.
Everyone had told him not to hope that you would wake up. That your pretty eyes would not flutter open, and you would no longer look at him as you had before. But James was stubborn. He was selfish as he was stubborn. He did not love you—but he needed to hear the sound of your voice. And James would take it any way that he could. The soft cadence of a whisper, or a rough utterance of a single word. Molly Weasley told him to accept reality for what it was. (“You need sleep, dear,” the matriarch fussed. “There’s nothing we can do. Look at the Longbottoms. . . We can do no more for this one as we had done for them.”)
In the still of the night, he left his reveries on the cold of your skin. “Wake up,” he demanded.
“Wake up or else you’re the traitor everyone thinks you are,” James hissed.
But his words held no heat—and his heart held no love for you.
Make no mistake about that.
Then, when you finally woke up, disoriented and throat parched—a hazy recollection of the weeks before—James made sure that no more than four people could enter the room. He did not care if a hurricane, or if Voldemort himself—James had faced him once already, after all—threatened to break the door down. You were theirs to protect.
(But not to love.)
“We need to begin the questioning, James, you know that,” said Kingsley Shacklebolt, almost exasperatedly; weary lines written across his face. James would not allow even a toe beyond the doorway. An interrogation meant you had something to do with the attempted murder of James and his family. Whether or not you were innocent, James did not care—he just wanted you safe.
(And a small part of him already knew that you were not your brother’s keeper. Just as they had absolved Sirius of his family’s sins. It would be unfair to not show you the same grace. But before his mind knew that, James’s heart and soul had known the truth all along.)
He found Sirius gently tending to your every need, and already James knew that was Padfoot’s way of begging for forgiveness. The ebony-haired man hung onto your every word. He winced when you flinched, and pressed his apologies to your forehead, rasping for a kindness he did not deserve. Not after what he did. How he turned you away and cursed your name. How they betrayed you.
James did not love you.
But what else could he call the manacles that bound his hands and forced him to his knees when it came to you?
Not. Love.
iii.
REMUS LUPIN could not bring himself to love you. But, he could not love Sirius, Lily, and James either. He was undeserving of such a privilege. But he was not allowed to love you; Remus could only hope that you saw even a shred of worth in him—to wrest each word from his lips and every breath from his lungs. But, he did not love you. No.
Because loving you meant he was to tell you of your brother’s crimes. And Remus could not hurt you like that.
“P-Peter?” you had asked, wearing the eyes of a fretful sibling. Remus lifted his hand to tuck a strand of hair gone astray behind your ear. Bellatrix had done a number on you—just as she had done to Alice and Frank. Remus was fairly certain that Sirius was off on a hunt for his cousin, his mind toyed with by the barbarity of war. What they could not do for the Longbottoms, they’d wring themselves dry to do for you. After the Lestranges’ attack, you suffered damage to your throat and memories. Remus could not bear to see you in such pain.
He could not give you love, but Remus would offer up to you his every limb, and the weary skin upon his bones.
“They. . .” Remus grimaced. How could he act as the bearer of bad news? He’d rather dive headfirst into shark-infested waters. Be anywhere else but here. In fact, Remus would rather snatch you away from the funereal walls, and hold you in his arms in the quietude of dawn, than be the one to bring anguish to your eyes. “They’re looking for him at the moment, love.”
One question lingered in your eyes: Why?
Luckily, Sirius was always the better one at sharpening a blunt knife. “He was a traitor,” he spat like acid. “A traitor to the Order. A traitor to us. He’s no friend of ours. Not anymore.”
But Sirius knew—better than anyone else—how difficult it can be to truly hate little brothers, especially once they’ve gone.
“No. . .” You trembled, almost retching as you sobbed into your palms.
Remus held you then, the front of his shirt soaked in your tears, eyes firmly shut as you trembled and heaved in his arms. The sound of your guttural screams bounced off the four walls, and Remus had to bury his nose in your hair. You were alive. Safe. Breathing. But you felt cold as ice; an empty husk stripped bare for grief to take over. And Remus could do nothing but hold you. (He just hoped that wherever Peter Pettigrew was, Remus would not be the first one to find him. Otherwise, they would not be able to recover even a fingernail from his remains.)
“Hush, love,” Remus whispered into your ear as you cried yourself sick. Mourning the loss of your brother, reeling from the betrayal of a bond that was supposed to be stronger than blood. Remus would make him pay, he vowed as much to you. No, Remus and the wolf in him did not know how to love. But he knew how to hurt. And, that, he’d gladly do for you. His body was for you to use as a shield, his soul for you to strip bare, and his heart for you to thieve and never return.
“Don’t cry,” said James, a shadow cast over his frames. “Not for Peter. Never. Fucking bastard will get what’s coming to him.” He laid on the vacant space of the bed, gently untangling your hands that were pressed over your heart. “I’ll make sure of it.”
They all would.
But not because they loved you.
It was not out of love, Remus had to remind himself in the coming days, when he stayed diligently by your side as you recovered. Daily sessions with the best healer St. Mungo’s could offer—as if James would allow anything else. There were days your eyes would glaze over, your words rough and sluggish, and Remus would try his damndest to make you smile.
It was the least he could do.
For failing to protect you.
But that was not love.
(It was hope. Wretched, disastrous hope as he fell to his knees, and your name in between his teeth.)
iv.
LILY EVANS was a fighter in all the ways that mattered.
And from the very first moment she held Harry in her arms, eyes raking over his wrinkly, bloodied skin; all ten fingers and toes, her soft cries over his loud screaming—Lily knew she would trade her life for his in a heartbeat. Little, lovely eyes that would soon see the world in his own time. Lily adored him. Cherished every tear, snore, and giggle. She knew then, that a mother’s love was entirely different from any emotion she’d ever felt before.
This was proven the first time Harry had gotten seriously ill. A few weeks after the attempted murder on the Potters, Harry was ceaselessly crying—screaming, even, every night—red-faced as he fussed every breakfast and dinner. Lily found herself at wit’s end. Her protectiveness had gone up a hundred measures; wouldn’t let anyone besides family or Madam Pomfrey see Harry. Yet, even with all the draughts and silly-flavoured syrups, Harry wasn’t getting better.
“Lily dear, you cannot actually be thinking about this,” worried Molly Weasley as Lily stood in front of your door, holed away in the room where you had been recovering for the last few days. It would be the first time she saw you since the incident. More than anything she was afraid. Frightened that you would look at her differently. Whether or not that fear stemmed from love, Lily was not concerned. “We can call for another Healer from Mungo’s to have a look at Harry. . . Who knows what might. . .”
Lily held Harry closer to her, lips firmly pressed, attempting to ignore the way his temperature was unnaturally high. “Might what, Mrs. Weasley?” She knew Molly was only talking out of concern, from a mother’s perspective at least. But she knew you better than anyone else. You would never hurt her, or Harry, that much she was certain of. And if you were the traitor everyone else was afraid of accusing you of, a sentence delivered by association to Peter—then let the guillotine fall, Lily would carry your crimes for you.
She remembered ever-so clearly in her sixth-year, you with dreams glistening in your eyes. (“I’m going to be a Healer, Lils! Minnie said I’d be a great one. . . I want to protect those I love. . . I know I can do it. . . Oh, I can’t wait to tell Peter that I’ve gotten recommendations already to work at Mungo’s after graduation.”)
And Lily recalled at that moment, she had felt a different kind of emotion that she had never experienced before. It was not love, of course. Tuney said she was too young and too stupid to know what real love was. But, at sixteen, what else could describe the way her heart fluttered and the way her lips threatened to break out into a smile whenever you lit up talking about your future? (It was just a crush, young Lily told herself.)
Only to be crushed and cast aside in the face of the war, where fighters took their place at the forefront of the lines, mothers and children hid; healers stretching themselves thin to be here, there, everywhere; where traitors walked in plain sight.
“There is no one else I trust more with my life,” replied Lily.
And that was that.
Lily skirted around Molly and opened the door to your room, where Sirius, James, and Remus all stood at attention at the sight of her and Harry. She ignored them, and headed straight to your side.
“Hello, love,” she greeted with all the gentleness she was made of, a smile creeping up to her eyes as Lily watched you turn your head at the sound of her voice. Truth be told, she did not know what her end-goal was in coming here. But being by your side had always made life a little more bearable, like all the illnesses in the world could not bring her down. And so, her magic had instinctively summoned her person to you. She, at least, was relieved to see colour returning to your cheeks, though the red in your eyes had dulled the hues she adored so much.
“Is that. . .?” you croaked.
Lily nodded. “Harry, meet—”
One of the loves of my life, the most loyal and pure witch anyone ever has the privilege of meeting, someone I want to stay in my life forever.
Lily’s smile wilted. “A friend.”
Later, she would place Harry in your arms—her little hope embraced by her dream—and Lily would wonder if it was by pure magic that Harry calmed in your presence.
For if love could hurt and destroy, could it mend and heal the broken as well?
But what a shame, for not one in that room carried an ounce of love for you.
(She would die for Harry, yes—but she would live for you.)
v.
YOU did not love them, either.
The very idea, thought—insinuation—was absurd. (Why, they deserved much better than you, after all.) With hands that failed to protect them, were you even allowed to hold them anymore? Did your heart have the right to breathe for them? You had failed as a sister and a friend—how much more would you have failed as their lover? Well, you’d never know.
Because you did not love them.
Merely wished them happiness and for the world to extend them kindness. For the sun to look brightly down on them, and for time to heal their scars and wounds. For if they were in pain, the earth would stop spinning. But such a request was not borne from love.
Surely not.
Because, then, that would have meant that it was love that teared you apart when Sirius cursed your name, when James turned you away, when Remus could not look you in the eyes, or when Lily—for all your history together—called you a friend.
The whole of you was made by the parts of them. Each memory welded into the crevices of your soul. From the moment you had all found each other in the same train compartment, same common room—there was a shift in the fates that bound all five of you together. (The ties were red, but the thread was not of love.) You did not believe in Professor Trelawney’s talks of providence and destiny.
Because if you did, then why was the universe so cruel?
Falling—not in love—for four people who could very much do without you in their lives. Lacking severely as a sister to the point you had not noticed your brother fading and fading away into the shadows.
Was love that unkind? That merciless?
Then, you did not want to love at all.
Oh, but magic or not, every creature on this earth selfish.
You were no different.
You wanted.
Oh, how you yearned.
“I LOVE YOU.”
You barely had enough time to react before Sirius pressed his lips to the side of your head, arm covertly sneaking around your waist. The sound of the train whistling as parents yelled their goodbyes filled the station. You stood in the midst of the crowd, eyes never leaving one window in particular as you waved at Harry, now eleven-years-old and now off to Hogwarts.
“Quite a random thing to say, husband,” you murmured, leaning into his warmth. “What for?”
“Just because,” he replied in turn with a fiendish grin. “Well, perhaps for choosing us, for choosing me despite all my fuck-ups. For existing. For being the beautiful, wonderful, kind, precious you. I could keep on going, my darling. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”
You wrinkled your nose, eyes rolling from fondness. “I love you too, quite unfortunately.”
He only laughed and pulled you closer to him. “Let’s go home.”
–
“I love you.”
In the house built by new memories, warded by stronger protection charms, and filled with warmth and love—James said this to you each morning before he left for the Ministry, promoted after the war as Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Not one foot out of the door until he had showered you in kisses and the symphonies of his heart. James had always been loud, even in his time at Hogwarts. The war had not taken this part of him, and you figured James was too loud to let it be taken from him. He was unapologetically and unabashedly him.
And you had loved him fiercely for that.
“I’ll be home early tonight,” he said, a quiet intimacy washing over the both of you. The early birds of the cottage. “Wait for me?”
“Of course,” you answered without an ounce of hesitation, delicately chasing after his lips. “I love you. Be safe.”
-
“I love you.”
“Are you saying that to me or are you reading from the book?” you teased from where you laid on Remus’s chest, hours after James left for work, the afternoon bringing you two together in the living room. Lily was in the gardens, and Sirius was in the shed working on his motorbike. It was perfect. You felt the rise and fall of Remus’s chest beneath you, his heartbeat close to your ear. He was perfect. It was a miracle you had not fallen asleep to the tender lull of his voice.
“Both,” he responded, hand coming up to trace the bare of your skin—a miracle you did not crumble or burn instantly from his touch.
You hummed. “Then, I love you, too.” Then, you grinned, lifting your head to stare up at him. “You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.”
And, oh, how photographs could not capture the beauty in Remus’s smile as his eyes regarded you with such fire.
“My heart, my light, my desire,” Remus began, one finger ever-so softly tracing the curve of your cheek. “In vain I have struggled, it will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
–
“I love you.”
Said Lily as she lied in your shared bed, red-nosed and her cheeks pale, sluggish. The Christmas holiday was generous enough to gift her with an unfortunate cold that had been going around the wizarding world. “But, please, go,” she commanded weakly, gesturing for you to join Harry who was stood by the door. “It’s a lovely day outside for making snowmen with carrots as noses and snow angels. Not for taking care of poor old me.”
You rolled your eyes as you sat by her side, swiftly pressing a kiss to her forehead. “And I love you, which is why I would rather much be here, taking care of the prettiest snow angel to ever exist,” you countered, bringing a spoonful of broth to her lips. “Besides, Harry here has something to tell you. He’s made friends at school. One of them is Molly’s little one.”
“Oh, you did?” Lily cooed, before sniffling weakly. “That’s lovely, darling. Tell me all about them.”
“That’s not all, Lily mine,” you began mischievously as Harry’s eyes narrowed at you through his glasses. “This friendship apparently formed after fighting a troll.”
“You what?” Lily croaked, emerald eyes shimmering with concern and near-dread.
“Did you really, Harry?” James popped his head in the doorway, clapping his son on the shoulder before ushering him inside the room. A spitting image side-by-side as they took the empty space by the foot of the bed. “Good boy. Father approves.”
“Of course you would,” Lily shot at him weakly, melting when Sirius then entered the room and greeted her with a kiss to her cheek. “And where are you all coming from?”
“Outside,” announced Remus, tugging his tie from his neck. “Sirius and I took a quick trip to Diagon Alley to get some things that’ll make you feel better, Lily love.”
And as the snow fell outside, lazy winds against the window, your little family gathered in one room, there was one thing you knew for certain.
You loved them.
And they loved you.
a/n: i wrote all 4k words while sick. crazy. but anyway, i wanted to believe in love again so here i am. thank you all so much for being patient with me. i promise to do even better in the next fics!
Synopsis: after your run-in with Molly earlier in the afternoon, things come to a head when the very man you'd hoped to never see again shows up at your front door, breathless and demanding answers.
And thus, your once so peaceful life comes to a sharp and grinding halt, rather likely for good.
When you looked back on it, your final happy evening with Fred was absolutely chock full of the kind of irony that could make a grown man weep.
It was something you'd scarcely considered prior to the birth of your children, the stinging pain of it all dulled by the persistent dread brought on by the promise of an unsupported birth and the overhanging threat of your ex finding out about the secrets you were keeping from him.
But, of course, that dread hadn't lasted forever, and mere weeks after the birth of your son and daughter you had found yourself suddenly consumed by the near hilarity of the tragedy that had befallen your love life, and the ever present sense of irony that hovered over it like a cloud.
After all, it had been on your last joyful evening with your former boyfriend that the then seemingly far off topic of pregnancy had come up, the weight of it manageable for what you had not then known would be the final time.
It had been a warm spring night, and although the weather had been pleasant enough as of late and the promise of your worst school year yet coming to a close never ceased to bring a sigh of relief to your lips, you couldn't help but feel completely miserable.
For weeks at that point, you had been dealing with utterly debilitating nausea (and the less than welcome side effects associated with it) all throughout your days, and though your love always did his best to support you, you could sense his hesitance and worry over your health as the date planned for he and his brother's conjoined escape drew nearer.
Thus, when you'd found yourself in the gryffindor common room pulled tight against his chest, you'd simply melted into him like a scoop of ice cream dropped upon sticky asphalt.
It always made you feel at least a little better, you'd found, to have him near, and you could tell that he was put at ease whenever he felt your familiar weight against him, a subtle reminder that you were alright even in spite of the illness that plagued you.
He would never admit it, and for you, he didn't have to, but Fred Weasley was a worrier, and a skilled one at that.
So, in order to stave off that worry in favor of spending his second to final evening with you at Hogwarts in better spirits than he otherwise might, he'd begun rattling off utterly ridiculous theories regarding the cause of your long term illness, the likes of which ranged from not having received enough kisses as of late, to bearing witness to Draco Malfoy's face each day.
Though, it was your darling's final theory that had truly managed to capture your attention.
"Ugh, don't even joke about that, Fred. It isn't nearly as funny as you think it is."
You'd huffed out with a light groan of semi-exaggerated despair, unable to stop yourself from rolling your eyes as your then boyfriend had laughed in response, tossing a lithe arm, strengthened in part by his history with quidditch, no doubt, across your shoulders.
"Who’s joking?"
He'd inquired with a feigned sincerity, his hand raising up to splay across his chest as if appalled.
"This is a matter of utmost seriousness, I'm afraid."
At that, you'd scoffed.
Fred Weasley, engage with a matter of "utmost seriousness"? Unlikely.
"It’d most certainly better not be. I am far from ready to have your child, Weasley."
Your boyfriend had hummed in response, the look of gleeful mischief in his eyes hard to miss.
You braced yourself for whatever ridiculous thing he was about to say.
"Really?"
He'd questioned as if truly baffled by your (sensible) admission.
"Well, you certainly could have fooled me the way that you- ack!"
Suddenly realizing exactly where he was going with that statement, you’d all but lunged to cover up his mouth before he could finish, not too keen on the idea of random passerbys hearing of your (admittedly rather active) sex life.
Still, Fred had dodged your "attack" quite easily, grinning wide as you'd fixed him with your most intimidating glare,
"I'm being serious, you git. You'd have to be mad to find something so disastrous amusing enough to joke about."
To that, Fred had simply shrugged, pulling you ever closer with the arm he'd kept wrapped around your now slightly tensed shoulders.
"I think we may just have different interpretations of what is disastrous, my dear."
He had teased, breaths tickling the baby hairs that grew atop your head,
"I have it all planned out, you know."
You'd hummed at that, eyes twinkling with curiosity as you turned your head to better see the man sitting beside you.
"Oh?" You'd asked, "Do tell."
Fred had chuckled, leaning his cheek against the top of your head as he spoke.
"First, we get the bloody hell out of here."
He'd teased, knowing full well just how much closer his impending absence was in comparison to your own.
"And then, as we'll doubtless be wealthy and well adjusted men by the time you graduate in a few weeks time, you'll move in with George and I, doing whatever job you please until I either convince you to work at our wildly successful shop, or you really do fall pregnant. Whichever comes first."
You'd burst out laughing and smacked your boyfriend's shoulder at that comment, noting with joy the way that he shook with his own laughter against you.
"A child before marriage, Mr. Weasley?" You'd teased once your amusement had been quelled enough to allow for speech, "I fear your mother would just about flay you for such a thing.”
The ginger had hummed in subtle confirmation at that, shrugging slightly as he replied,
"Perhaps, but I reckon she'd be utterly besotted with you for it, so you've not much to lose there besides your future husband."
"Future husband and the father of my child in this hypothetical scenario, I'll remind you." You'd teased, "I'd be rather cross with you if you fell to your mother and left me to raise Fred Jr. all by my lonesome."
Your love had grinned wide at that, raising a brow as he considered your words further,
"You think you'd give me a son first then?" He'd asked teasingly, "Because I have a feeling our first will be a girl."
You'd outright laughed again at that admission, baffled and highly amused by your boyfriend's utter certainty in regards to your future.
"Ah, my apologies. Fredette then."
The man sitting beside you scowled as if you'd said the most absurd thing he'd heard in weeks.
"I think not. Frederica perhaps."
To that, you'd groaned, shaking your head back and forth in utter exasperation.
"Absolutely not. If you'd have our daughter named after you then I'm afraid you'll have to be a bit more creative than that."
"Oh, not to worry, love."
Fred had quipped back immediately,
"As I said before, I've got it all planned out."
You opened your mouth to question the man further, but already knowing what you were going to ask, your love had spoken up before you could,
"Winnie for a girl, and Augustine for a boy."
You'd all but gawked at that, shocked by the sincerity of the man's tone as you pulled away to see him already smiling down at you.
"Why Winnie?"
You'd asked gently, watching as the gryffindor sitting beside you shrugged his shoulders,
"It's a rather cute name, isn't it? I think it would fit an adorable little ginger girl splendidly. I can already hear you calling it out across our home, chasing her down to rub sunscreen on those doubtlessly freckled cheeks of hers as she fights tooth and nail for her right to roast in the afternoon sun."
Laughing, you nodded semi-exasperatedly at the rather vivid scene presented to you,
"If she's yours I'm sure I'll be doing that and many similar tasks quite often."
You'd paused for a moment to think further before speaking up again,
"And Augustine?"
Fred smiled softly,
"I've always rather liked the name, but have never heard it used much." He began before continuing almost hesitantly, "And it certainly helps that I fell for you in the month of August, as well."
Your eyes had widened slightly at that, brow raising alongside them as you'd urged Fred to elaborate.
"August?" You'd asked, "We didn't even have school in August, Freddie."
The man sitting beside you nodded in confirmation to your words.
"I know. It was summer, I was free of schoolwork and able to terrorize Ronald, Percy, and little Ginny as much as I well pleased, but even so, the only thing I could think about was you. Can you imagine, fourteen year old me desperate to get back to Hogwarts all because I wanted to see a girl? It was not an easy realization to come to terms with, I'm afraid."
You'd scoffed at that, hand reaching over to squeeze his own where it draped across your shoulder in spite of your seemingly nonplussed reaction as you considered the proposed names further.
"Winnie and Augustine." You had murmured aloud, tasting the two names together on your tongue for the very first time. "I quite like those."
And just as he'd begun to fiddle with the promise ring adorning the hand that rested gently atop his own, your love hummed softly in confirmation.
"I knew you would."
And then, smiling as you'd closed your eyes contentedly and leaned against him, you couldn't help but let out a pleased sigh.
In spite of all the stress you'd endured as of late with Umbridge's rule, your sudden and unexplained bouts of illness, and Fred and George's impending absence, the future, it seemed, was bright.
Until, that is, the very next day, when you'd learned alone in the girls bathroom that some aspects of it would be coming far sooner than you ever could have planned for or even imagined.
That night, just over twenty-four hours after your hopeful conversation, you had broken things off with Fred Weasley, and you hadn't seen him since.
That is, of course, until today.
Because even in spite of your insistence that she not tell him anything earlier that afternoon when she'd caught you on your way out of that accursed doctor's office, it seemed that Molly Weasley had paid your pleas little mind, for it was only a few hours after you'd arrived home that Fred had turned up at your front door.
And truthfully, you knew that it was partially your own fault that he had found you with such ease.
After all, you still lived in that same flat your aunt had rented out to you during your summers away from Hogwarts, the one she used to supplement her income as she persisted with her freelance photography abroad.
Your mother, her sister, hadn't spoken to her (at least to your knowledge), since she'd refused to kick you out of it after your graduation, but the woman in question had never seemed to mind.
In truth, you hadn't yet found it within yourself to miss your children's maternal grandmother much either.
But still, even in spite of your aunt's kindness, you couldn't help but wish you'd had the forethought to move elsewhere as you stared helplessly at the man standing on the other side of your door.
He looked positively frazzled, and utterly determined.
"Fred I-"
"Tell me that she's mistaken."
The young wizard half demanded, half plead, his hand coming to rest upon the inner lip of the door as if afraid you might close it on him at any moment.
You would be lying if you said you hadn’t considered it.
You swallowed thickly at his words, opening your mouth in search of a reply only to have him cut you off once more before you could even begin.
"Or better yet, tell me that she's lying and that this is all some utterly ridiculous ploy to get me to see you again after all these years. Tell me anything Y/n, just not that she's right."
Unsure of what to say, you cast your gaze downward toward the floor and away from Fred's prying eyes, and immediately he drew in a sharp breath and cursed above you, bringing his unoccupied hand to rub across his face.
The silence that descended upon the two of you afterward was thick and cloying, the absence of all sound so harsh that it nearly made you shudder, an urge you only held back because you refused to come across as weak to the man standing before you.
Which, as things went, happened to be rather difficult considering how absolutely terrified you felt.
"Truly?"
He breathed out after several long seconds of nothing,
"All this time, and you were just never going to tell me?"
Slowly, and with a shameful certainty, you nodded at that, hands clasping in front of you as your fingers worried away at the spot on your finger where your promise ring had one sat.
Old habits died hard, you supposed.
"Fred, I..."
You trailed off for a few moments, desperately seeking out the right words, only to give up with a sigh when you realized they would likely never come.
There were no "right words" for you to say in this situation. There was only the truth, as ugly as it may have been.
"I didn't know what else to do."
At that, a short burst of harsh and humorless laughter that was jarringly similar to that which he'd let out on your final night together in the astronomy tower pushed passed your ex's lips, and despite your best efforts, you couldn't help but flinch back from it, a movement which he either didn't notice, or chose to ignore entirely.
"You didn't know what else to do besides dump me with no real explanation and hide my own children from me for nearly three years of their lives?"
He scoffed, looking down at you as if in utter disbelief,
"Does that seem like the most rational decision to you, Y/n?"
In response to his mocking tone and blatant disregard for your reasoning, you looked up to meet your former lover's eyes once more, glaring daggers into them as a hand came to rest upon your hip.
"Was it a rational decision for you to set off fireworks in a school, Fred? Or for you to drop out mere months before graduation?"
You snapped, taking a step closer to the man as you pointed an accusatory finger to his chest, the space between you decreased enough now that you could smell the familiar cologne he'd always worn, the very same one you'd described while smelling amortentia all those years ago in Snape's classroom.
Fred glared right back at you after a moment of what appeared to be surprise at your sudden displeasure, but before he could even think to open his mouth again, you continued.
"How about when you decided to fight in a war that from what I heard, very nearly killed you, huh? And let's not forget to mention this very moment here, where you've turned up to my aunt’s flat in search of your ex girlfriend while looking half a mad man instead of thinking to send an owl first to at least make sure that I even still live here. How rational does that seem, Fred?!"
Your voice was raised now, having been increasing in volume since you'd begun the second half of your rant, and while he had never been one for shouting, it seemed that Fred Weasley was far too concerned with not being outdone to care today.
"You're saying I should have sent an Owl?!" He asked incredulously, the laughter that left him just as barren of humor as the bout before it.
"Oh that's rich coming from you, love, because you could stand to learn a thing or two about sending important owls, it would seem!"
You scoffed, arms crossing atop your chest as you opened your mouth to reply once more, a no doubt biting remark already primed and ready to go at your lips.
As unfair as it was, after all, there was some long buried part of you that felt angry at the man standing before you.
Because even if it was entirely your own choice, you had endured nearly nine long months of pregnancy completely alone, before laboring just under two weeks early all by yourself, which of course had preceded you then raising both of your children all by your lonesome, exhausted and afraid of whatever it was that would come next, because as you'd soon discovered alongside the existence of your children, there was always something else looming on the horizon.
And it just wasn't fair.
It wasn't fair how desperately you yearned for the touch of a man now supposedly unknown to you as you laid in bed each night,
It wasn't fair how curiously your little ones asked about other children's fathers,
It wasn't fair how obviously and agonizingly they took after their dad,
It wasn't fair how you saw him briefly each time you looked into their beautiful little eyes or brushed your fingers through their soft ginger hair,
None of it was fair, not in the slightest.
But just as you were about to open your mouth and express these long buried and ignored feelings of yours, a small and painfully poorly timed voice called out from behind you.
And when you shifted your gaze to see your ex's face more clearly, all you saw expressed upon it was a deep and sorrowful dread as he stared just past you at the once empty door frame, which you hoped against all hope and sense was still bereft of life.
Of course though, you could already tell from Fred's face alone that this was not the case.
"Mummy?"
The young voice that you immediately identified as that of your son questioned curiously from behind you, and finally you swallowed your hopes and fears and turned around to face the music for what felt like the one millionth time in that day alone.
And of course, standing there, backlit by the slightly yellow glow of the bulbs from the kitchen that sat just inside, was your boy, your darling Augustine, looking the very picture of the man that stood just a few feet away from him.
His hair was an absolute mess from his clearly restless sleep, and he was rubbing at his eyes in a manner that made it nearly impossible to make out their color, but even so that inarguable likeness was there.
He looked every bit the quintessential Weasley child, and it made your heart flutter in your chest when you noticed the way that your former love seemed to take this in, as if it were a knife to the gut.
Clearing your throat to rid it of the sudden thickness that you found there, you were quick to reply.
"Yes, love?"
You murmured softly, reaching out gently to help guide the young boy to you when he began to fumble all but blindly in your direction, eyes still blurred by sleep.
"Can sissy and me sleep with you? We've had another bad dream."
At that, you frowned immediately, maternal instincts quick to take over in spite of your stressful situation.
For nearly a year now your twins had suffered from nightmares, often on the same nights, though thankfully from what they had shared with you, they at least seemed to be about differing things.
That said, it did cause you rather significant grief as a parent to see your children suffering so with something you could not even hope to control or change.
It made you feel weak, helpless, and above all else, afraid of your own potential errors or failures in raising your little one's to have something like this plague them for so very long.
Several nights a week you would awaken to the sounds of pattering feet on hardwood, petrified voices crying out your name from down the hall, or little fingers poking at your body to rouse you as one or both of your children sought out the comforts of their mother.
Most often during times like this though, you'd found that it was Winnie who came to get you, her brother (younger by a whopping nine minutes and twenty-three seconds), typically favoring bundling up beneath his covers until you went off to gather him up in your arms and carry him to your bedroom before cocooning him alongside his sister within the blanket that smelled soothingly of you and the detergent you used on it once weekly.
So, naturally, it worried you to note that it was August who sought you out on this particular evening.
Sympathetically, you cooed to the boy standing before you, reaching down to pick him up with ease before setting him familiarly upon your hip with a skill that was rather jarring to the nearly forgotten man standing with his back to the wall just opposite you and your son.
"Of course you can sleep with me, darling."
You assured him gently, rubbing his back with your still free hand as you allowed your voice to take on that soft and soothing tone that all mothers seemed to master at one point or another,
"Does sissy need me to go and get her tonight?"
Your son had just begun quietly shaking his head when the sound of small feet on tiled floors caught your attention, and you immediately turned to better see the source of it as your daughter came into view.
There, backlit in the very same way that her brother had been, stood your ever so brave and dreadfully witty Winnifred, whose hair was still up in messy pigtails from earlier that day due to her refusal to allow you to take them out at bedtime.
You often claimed that she didn't get such stubbornness from you whilst you were teasing her, but you knew deep down that such a statement was far from true.
She was, after all, just as much your daughter as she was Fred's, and it seemed that the apple did not fall far from the tree in that particular regard.
"There's my sweet girl,"
You began, squatting down to offer your unoccupied arm to her,
"Would you like a cuddle as well, then?"
And immediately, the elder of your two children all but launched herself into your arms, muttering softly of her nightmare and the fading details she recalled of it as she buried her face into your neck, relaxing herself with any and all familiaritites you carried about your person.
You shushed her gently, swaying your body back and forth with a practiced rhythm until all of the sudden, Fred's voice snapped you straight out of your reverie.
"They truly are real then."
He said softly, as if in utter disbelief of the sight unfolding before him.
Unsure of what to say, you simply nodded, avoiding his gaze to the very best of your ability as you prayed he didn't notice the quiver in your bottom lip upon hearing the hurt and confusion in his voice.
"I-"
Seeming to choke a bit on his words, Fred faltered for a moment, floundering in place until finally, he simply shook his head and sighed.
"I should go."
Your eyes widened at that, and your head quickly snapped up as the man standing before you pulled a small pen and notepad set from his back pocket, the front of it clearly stained with ink and worn from use.
No doubt for his ideas, then, you realized idly before putting a stop to any familiarity you felt for the individual standing before you.
He was a different man now, a totally new person.
You had no right thinking of him as if you still knew who he was today.
Scribbling out a few lines of text in writing that you knew all too well, the ginger sighed before tearing the piece of paper he had been using out and handing it to you.
"That there is the address to mine and George's shop and our apartment just above it. If you don't find me there, I'm likely at Mum's or somewhere just down the road. Have someone let me know if you ever stop by while I'm not in."
Shocked, you nodded absently before finally finding it within yourself to speak up once more.
"So I'm guessing you'll be wanting me to come to you about all of this sooner rather than later?"
Shrugging in a manner that you would almost describe as hopeless, Fred looked to you briefly before quickly glancing away, as if pained by the mere sight of you alone.
"I would have wanted you to come to me about our children years ago, but better late than never I suppose."
Opening your mouth as if to argue with his statement, you found that nothing worth saying would come.
Once again, it seemed he was rather justified in how he felt.
Once again, it seemed you were the bad guy for doing what you had felt was right all those years ago.
What a mess.
Seeing your apparent speechlessness, Fred simply nodded in farewell before apparating out of your apartment complex without another word, leaving you to wonder how today could have begun so typically and ended in such a life altering manner.
summary ☞ Their love shouldn't have been blossomed, and she is only now realising her mistakes. Does a flower stay dead forever, or can it blossom again?
word count ☞ 3.3k+
warnings ☞ hurt/comfort, angst in the first part and fluff in the last bit, reader is a slytherin and theo nott's twin sister, bitterness towards cho chang (for the sake of the fic), harry—cho dialogues taken from the film
mene's notes ☞ previously posted on @/selenewowww. if you guys'd want it, I'm up to writing an angsty ending for this one! lmk in the comments and pls leave a reblog!
dividers by ☞ @cursed-carmine, @cafekitsune
It was peculiar, to say the least.
A Gryffindor with a Slytherin. A Potter with a Nott. Such an unexpected pair, they were. Who would have thought? Well, the answer is no one. The truth is, this curious pairing was kept a secret from everyone, no exceptions.
Harry James Potter. In a relationship with a Slytherin. A pureblood girl. Theodore Nott's twin sister, more precisely. Not a clever move on his part, but we're acquainted with Harry. We know he's not the brightest crayon in the pack.
If Theodore were to ever find out about them, well, let's say Harry wouldn't live enough to tell the tale.
Despite coming from a family packed with Death Eaters, our she–Nott didn't follow in her father and brother's steps. She was raised to believe– no, put faith into– the notion that pureblood families held more credibility, power, importance than mixed families or muggle borns. She had to swear to never willingly come into contact with mudbloods of any type. She was told that mudbloods were like rats, and as any young girl would, she was disgusted by rats. Therefore, for most of her life, she was repulsed by the sight of such peasants.
That, as we all can assume, changed the day she realised her feelings for the Potter boy went beyond the same repulsion she used to feel towards everyone who didn't wear a green tie. As cliché as it may sound, it all happened on that fateful day they had to sit together through a detention. They were both caught in the crossfire between Malfoy and Weasley’s bickering during Transfiguration class, and even though they were not responsible for any of it, they were the ones to have been given two hours long detention.
Since then, they've been dating, trying to keep their relationship private, trying to keep it far from being the talk of the week. They had to kiss in between classes, hidden in empty classrooms or broom cupboards. Had to refrain from every public interaction unless it was hostile. Neither she nor Harry were ecstatic of pretending to despise or going as far as ignoring each other in public. However, both had reputations to uphold. If only a clue of their relationship were to be spread, hell would break out.
As the twin sister of Theodore– or, as his friends called him, Theo– she was quite the popular girl. She was just as cunning, clever and inventive as her twin. They were truly identical, both characteristically and aesthetically wise.
That meant that not only her presence never went unnoticed, but she also was quite feared.
Harry, though, seemed to have thrown out of the window all his inhibitions and went and dated her. And as improbable as it may seem, their love burned everyday more brightly, like a fire kept alive in a cave hidden by trees and waterfalls.
In spite of everything, many rumours circled around Hogwarts’ corridors about a possible love story between our Chosen One and a Sixth Year Ravenclaw girl, Cho Chang. What they were based on, she was unaware of, but they always managed to make her blood boil. Made her ever–present frown even deeper.
And when she came to know that that Chinese girl was a member of ‘Dumbledore’s Army’, she almost broke Blaise’s quill in half while studying together, to which she received a done expression from the boy.
Her mood was instantly lifted when the little shocked– and some fearful– faces of the other members of the DA had come into her view on the first meeting. She had stridden into the room with the assurance of someone who had already won the battle. She couldn't deny the sense of power it gave her.
Days passed, and the secret DADA lessons held in the Room of Requirement by her boyfriend went on smoothly. Hexes were thrown, incantations mastered, and duels won. Nott was a Charms and Defence prodigy, her spells always on point, executed with that quiet confidence, every move calculated and sure beforehand.
And yet, the Patronus Charm was her Achilles' heel. She could not conjure a Patronus for the love of Salazar. Perhaps it was the lack of happy memories to grab onto, or the way the resident Bella Swan was hanging on Harry's every word, that prevented her from conjuring the spell.
She could feel a mix of jealousy, anger, and hatred crawling inside her, plus an emotion she had never felt– and never thought she would feel.
… Was that insecurity? Self–doubt?
She tried to shrug it off, panic starting to rouse in her chest violently. What was that feeling? Why was she experiencing it? By no means, she felt threatened by Cho Chang.
By the end of the meeting, various iridescent animals danced across the ceiling; horses, dogs, otters, butterflies, cats, lions and her all–time favourite. A stag. Harry's stag. He had confided in her, confessing that his father's Patronus was also a stag, and that it matched his mum’s doe, sealing their love as eternal, made to be, a match made in heaven.
However, a swan dangerously danced around his stag, playfully swaying her lily–white wings. The stag did not try to stop it, rather it played around with the graceful swan, both running around the chamber's high ceiling like they were two lovers chasing each other.
That sight only ignited even more the spark that her insecurity was.
Students of all houses and ages trailed out, chatting away and still thriving on their success. Everyone but her, Chang and Harry left the enchanted room. They hadn't noticed her presence still inside, and therefore carried on with their conversation by the mirror, where pictures of the previous Order and loved deceased students were hanging.
“It’s just that learning all this makes me wonder whether he'd known it”, had said Cho while staring at Cedric Diggory’s picture wistfully.
“Cedric did know this stuff. He was really good– It's just that Voldemort was better”, replied Harry, looking at her.
Chang’s face lit up slightly, her eyes locked onto him, a small smile making its way on her face. “You're a really good teacher, Harry. I've never been able to stunt or conjure a corporeal Patronus before”
A smile mirrored hers on his face, following her eyes above them, where a mistletoe appeared magically above them. A sudden sense of dread invaded her, taking her mind and heart hostage. She was holding her breath, refusing to when another girl was evidently about to kiss her boyfriend.
Cho’s eyes immediately fled to his lips, her intentions clearly written all over her face. Though, Harry made no move to let her down.
“Misteltoe”, she had breathed out softly, while Harry slowly leaned in.
The moment their lips touched, her mind clouded by a violent wave of insecurity, her heart seemed to stop beating inside her chest, that suddenly felt much heavier than it should have felt. Everything felt heavier. It was all too much. Her senses were overstimulated by the deafening silence of the Room of Requirement. Her ears were ringing loudly, her mouth felt dry, her breath hitched in her throat with no traces of voice left. She tried to gulp down the sandy texture that developed in her mouth, but was unfortunately unsuccessful.
She wanted to leave. Wanted to flee from the heart–shattering scene playing in front of her. Wanted to shout, yell, scream, cry out– anything as long as she could have control on her body. But she remained petrified on the spot. Suddenly drained of every ounce of energy present in her. Now, the silent fire that burned within her, that was like a trademark of the Nott's family, stopped existing altogether.
Tears were flowing on her cheeks without her noticing. She only realised she was crying when the salty taste of them reached her lips, replacing the otherwise general dullness that reigned over her whole body.
Meanwhile, right before her eyes, Harry and Cho had broken the kiss, and were now staring at each other, searching for Merlin–knows–what in each other's eyes. Their trance was broken off when a strangled sob could be heard from the other side of the room, both turning their heads to the sound.
All colours drained from his face when he recognised his girlfriend standing frozen before them, tears streaming silently but continuously like a small stream in the heart of the forest. A hand was covering her mouth, as if to muffle the distressed sounds leaving her lips. He could notice every detail about her troubled appearance. Every reminder that her pain was caused by him, made his heart hurt at every breath he took.
He took a few hesitant steps towards her, green eyes locked on her figure, trying to find the right words.
“L–love–”, he started talking, but was interrupted by another strangled sob. Another dagger in his heart.
“Don't”, she stopped him immediately, unable to hear his voice. “It's not difficult to figure out, no? We're done”. Her pitch was soft, but there was no mistaking the bitterness and emotion behind those words.
She spared Cho a last glance, picking up her rather shocked expression. Or was it humiliation? Shame? Mortification? Whatever it was, certainly ignited another flame inside her, one that burned wildly, uncontrollably. It was a cruel flame, who gleamed a scorching hot warmth only with a heartless satisfaction. Seeing Cho in that state, warmed her, almost put a smirk on her face.
Although her desire to humiliate her more, she knew her already weak heart couldn't stomach being in the same room as him. His presence physically hurt her, revolted her. Therefore, she picked up the pieces of her shattered heart and turned her back to them, chin held high like she was taught to, promptly ignoring the desperate calls from Harry.
Once the Room of Requirement’s door closed and disappeared behind her, she immediately took the quickest route to the dungeons, seeking comfort from the only person that understood her throughout. Needing to be held in the arms of her other half.
She held her composure well, walking with a clear destination in mind. But when she finally got to the cold dungeons, she broke out in a run, desperate to get to the place she called home. She burst into the common room, alerting her fellow snakes of her sudden arrival. They didn't question her tear stained face and puffy eyes, opting to give her the space she much needed. However, they had their wands at the ready to hex whoever had put one of their own in such a state.
She didn't waste any second and ran to her brother's dorm, uncaring of knocking or anything else that was considered good manners. Theo looked up from his pile of homework, already cursing Draco or Blaise to have some delicacy, muttering something about them being like a bunch of elephants in a glass shop. But when he got a glimpse of his sister, on the verge of breaking down, he stopped into his tracks, standing up with a speed record, face softening in the way he only reserved for his twin sister.
She broke down in front of him, letting the tears fall freely from her eyes, her emotions exploding through, making it impossible for her to do anything but feel. She launched herself into his lean arms, and he caught her, resting his head on hers while his hands drew stars in her back, tightening his hold on her every time a sob escaped her.
Since their childhood, they were each other's shoulder to cry on, having no one to come to. After their mother's death, their bond deepened significantly. Grief had that power over people.
Only after a few minutes, after her sobs had subsided, did he pull back slightly to stare into the eyes that looked so much like his. He waited until her mind cleared from what was troubling her, his hands coming up to softly hold her face, grounding her.
“Theo…”, she managed to whisper, still significantly shaken up. His lips quirked up slightly, oozing nothing but empathy and kindness.
“Yeah?”, he replied, matching her tone, his voice soft like honey, trying not to upset her further. “D’you wanna tell me what happened?”
She nodded immediately, eyes mirroring what she was feeling inside. Sorrow, heartache, betrayal, pain, regret. They were only a small portion of the feelings battling in her chest. And he could feel each one as his own. He could feel the physical pain she was in, the exhaustion she felt. “H-Harry… He… Fuck, Theo. He kissed another girl. In front of me”, she sputtered out, voice still slightly shaken.
Theodore’s eyebrows drew together gently, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly, softly encouraging her to continue. “… Harry who?”
She gulped, her head hanging low, hair falling with her movements to partially cover her face, as if hiding her guilt from her brother's attentive eyes. “ Potter”, she murmured under her breath, the words barely audible but heavy with guilt and shame.
“Come again?”, his tone dropped an octave lower, the tension in the dorm thick with his repressed fury.
Her head lifted up, revealing two mahogany orbs burning with tears, which obscured her vision. “Please Theo, don't make me say it again”, she murmured, teeth gently biting into her lower lip, trying to steady the new wave of emotions who was threatening to wash over her.
At her words, Theodore closed his eyes momentarily, needing to clear his mind of angry thoughts before answering. He inhaled deeply, exhaling right after with a calmer expression.
“So those rumours were true, after all…”, he muttered under his breath. When he opened his eyes again, he immediately locked them with hers.
“I won't ask you what you were doing with Potter in the first place, and why you didn't tell me, yeah?”, he asked lowly, to which he got a hint of a nod in answer.
He then took another resigned breath, and opened his arms for her again, as a silent invitation to let him hold her close. When she threw herself onto his body, he gently led her to sit on his bed, getting comfortable on the emerald green duvets.
They stayed in that position for long, their breaths having synchronised, both having fallen asleep in each other's warm embrace.
During the following weeks, Theodore– and all their friends– tried to entertain her, tried to make her forget him. Study dates in the library, late–night chats in the common room, strolls by the Black Lake early in the morning. Everything with the same purpose; erasing Harry Potter from her mind.
However, it was impossible. How can one forget so easily a love that burned brightly? How can one let go of such a strong and sincere emotion?
Despite Draco's or Pansy’s efforts, it was all of no use. Harry James Potter owned her heart. She was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him. Of that, she was absolutely positive.
He had tried to corner her many times in the span of those weeks, but one of her friends had always made it impossible for him to talk to her. Trying to get her alone was not easy, but he was not going to give up. He needed to explain himself, needed to get her to listen to him, even if it meant she'd not come back to him.
‘Perseverance is a virtue’, said someone wise. How right they were. On a fateful day, he finally spotted her standing alone by a window, intent to watch raindrops race each other on the glass outside. He took some hesitant steps towards her, as if approaching an easily–scared bunny.
Still immersed in thousands of thoughts racing in her mind at once, she didn't notice him taking a seat in front of her on the windowsill. A cleaning throat broke through her train of thoughts like a knife, cutting a path where before there was none. Her head snapped to his, eyes widening, taken aback from seeing from so close in a long time. She opened her mouth to say something, but he immediately blocked her from going further.
“You've gotta listen to me, please”, he spoke softly, his brows drawn together in a sympathetic concern, his emerald green eyes letting her know how desperate he was for her.
Having come to a conclusion, she nodded her head resigned, her arms crossing tightly over her chest, a shield against the world.
“Love, you've got to trust me. I, in any way, have ever been interested in Cho Chang. I'm– Ugh, I thought–”, he groaned in his hands.
“Rumours about us being together were starting to arise, and… I know you wanted to keep us a secret, we decided so. I'm an idiot, a moron. I thought that, by kissing her, those rumours would have died on the spot”, he continued sincerely, his genuineness easily read all over his face.
“I should have discussed with you first, I've realised my mistake. If I knew you were witnessing the whole thing… Fuck, I'm a twit”, he admitted, running a hand through his messy black locks.
“You forgot git”, she suddenly piped up, gaze hesitantly locking with him.
A small smile is off relief made its way onto his face, gaze warming. “Yeah, a git. An imbecile too, huh?”, he joked lightly.
His silence hung in the air like a suspended breath. It was the space between heartbeats, where time stood still and the universe held its breath. Their stares remained interlocked, neither of them making a move to look away. Sincerity dancing into those green eyes.
With a soft exhale, the female Nott twin broke the ice, fingers fidgeting nervously. “Will we… Have another chance? At our relationship? I can't pretend you don't hold my heart prisoner, Harry”, she admitted, her usual confidence little by little returning.
He breathed in a good lungful, his mind clearing as he breathed out, a satisfied smile wreathing his lips. He reached out and grabbed her hand, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand absentmindedly.
“I know, I'm sorry... I really thought I was doing us a favour. I'll make it up to you”, he said confidently, his green eyes lightning up again with a joyful glint.
During the following DA lesson, Harry had decided to go over the Expecto Patronum charm since not everyone had gotten the hang of it in the previous meeting.
He was walking around, from student to student, correcting their grips, pronunciations, forms, showing his Patronus as an example to follow. As soon as he got over to her, he saw just how much she was struggling, how frustrated she was for that. She had that weird belief that she had to exceed in everything.
“Need help?”, he asked softly from behind her, his hand ghosting over her waist. She let out a huff, grip tightening on her black wand. He immediately covered her hand with his, fixing her grip while simultaneously trying to calm her down.
“What do you find difficult?”, he asked again, whispering in her ear as he was practically pressed up against her back.
“I'm having a hard time finding a happy memory”, she admitted through gritted teeth, frown deepening.
“You could have said that earlier”, a small mischievous smile made its way onto his face, his eyes shining with a playful glint. He released her hand, and brought his hand up to her jaw, making her face him. He grinned one last time before leaning in, eyes fluttering shut, his glasses falling slightly down his nose.
He gave her lips a small peck, just enough to put a smile on her face. When he leaned back, he smiled, proud of his actions. “You got one, now”.
She rolled her eyes and tried again to conjure a Patronus. This time, a silvery smoke appeared from the tip of her wand, rapidly expanding and forming a clear image of a black panther. Her eyes widened upon the sight. She was taken aback. His smile reached his eyes, widening with hers. He rested his chin on her shoulder, coming up to wrap his arms around her middle.
“You did it, love”, he whispered lovingly.
“Only thanks to you”, she replied just as lovestruck.
cw ⟢ swearing, very toxic household, angsty, reader has a bad homelife, descriptions of panic attacks, hurt/comfort
summary: in your mind, home was home no matter what, and as much as leaving crossed you mind, it was never a real option, never something you could commit to. you'd learnt to be brave in a different way, through sacrifice and endurance. and it wasn't until one slip-up, one glimpse through a crack that sirius found out about your well kept secret.
a/n:...i just twisted the knife in myself WHY?? this is prolly my most angsty fic yet, cried three times. not proofread x
Everyone found their way. Moved on, living their lives comfortably—peacefully.
Everyone except you.
It’s like you missed the train. Standing on the platform in a terminated station—frozen, trapped—living the same days on loop over and over.
You had small moments of peace; fleeting, few and far between—but it was something. something to take you out of the relentless dark cloud that loomed over your home.
If you could even call it that.
It even burned you to admit how it truly made you feel—imprisoned, burdened. Part of you wished you could feel different about it, and some days you did.
And though they were rare, they were truly amazing, each room overflowing with joy and light—as if there had never been a second of despair between the walls.
Sometimes, it was hard to explain what made it so suffocating.
It wasn’t the shouting—not always. It wasn’t even the silence that came after, stretched so thin it felt like it might snap and slice your skin open. It was the way it changed—constantly, rapidly—until you couldn’t tell what was real anymore.
It was cruel, in a way. The house knew how to pretend. How to charm you into staying, to blur the sharp edges with just enough warmth to convince you it wasn’t always bad. That maybe you were the one making it worse, and the one keeping it together, all at the same time.
There were moments where everything felt fine. Better than fine, even. There’d be laughter echoing off the kitchen tiles, the faint smell of something sweet baking in the oven, sunlight pooling across the floor like warmth had always lived there. Someone would tousle your hair, call you darling, say how proud they were of you for something small and stupid—doing the washing up, remembering to take the bins out—just being around even.
In those moments, the house felt almost normal.
But peace never stayed long. It never stayed.
A single misplaced word could ruin everything. A look. A sigh. A silence that lingered just a second too long.
Suddenly, the temperature would shift. Like someone had sucked all the oxygen out of the room. The same mouths that had just praised you would twist into sneers. The eyes that once sparkled with love would turn sharp, empty, or worse—disappointed.
And it was always your fault. Somehow. Some way.
You should’ve said something. Or not said it. You should’ve known. Should’ve tried harder. Should’ve been better.
And once the mood turned, it didn't end in hours—it lingered for days. Weeks. Sometimes it felt like the bad would never end, caught in an endless storm that just kept circling, even when the sky looked clear.
Before going home, you learned to prepare. It became a ritual.
Standing outside the door, hand frozen over the knob. Breath caught in your throat. Shoulders tense, jaw clenched. You’d stare at the grain in the wood or rusted metal of the bell, counting backwards from ten like it would change anything, like it would miraculously make it more bareable.
The russian roulette of what version you were going to get.
Maybe it would be the loving one. The one who called you precious and kissed your forehead and begged you to believe they were trying. The one who cried in your arms after yelling too much, whispering “I don’t mean to hurt you, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I’m just...tired.”
Or maybe it would be the other one. The version that needed someone to blame—someone to tear down so they didn’t have to feel so small. And you were always within reach.
It was like being whiplashed by affection.
One moment, you were too much. The next, you were everything.
And you knew, in your heart, that they loved you.
But they also burned. And when the fire started, you were always the one left singed.
They hated themselves for it—told you that often. Said you were the only one who understood, the only one who stayed. And you held them. Every time. Because that was the part that hurt the most: you wanted to help them. Even as they broke you. Even when your chest felt hollow and your hands shook.
You learned to read the room like a map of landmines. Learned which words to avoid, which tones to use, when to keep your head down and when to nod, to agree, to thank them for their cruelty as if it were a gift. Because sometimes it came with a kiss on the head or a rare, fragile I love you.
You couldn’t leave.
Not because you weren’t desperate to.
But because the entire house felt built on your presence. Like the walls would collapse without you, someone needed to carry it all—and you did. Every single day. Without asking for help. Without complaining.
Because how could you justify saving yourself when they were still drowning?
Passing moments of peace kept you head somewhat above water, it was easier to pretend when you were with them—your friends—dulling the neverending whoosing ring of your heartbeat in your ears and the weighty pressure of your own thoughts.
Just slightly.
You’d laugh along, smile widely when expected. Hug back and sway along with each easy, warm embrace.
And sometimes, in those short-lived, temporary moments of solace—you’d indulge yourself, allow yourself to believe it.
When James would throw you over his shoulder with loud barking laughter, when you and Lily would spend hours lounging on the sofa, nonsense conversation filling the room, or when Remus would drap his arm over your shoulders—you could feel weightless. Safe.
But those moments always ended.
And when they did, you’d find yourself drifting. Zoning out in the middle of a conversation. Watching James and Remus banter across the room, listening to Regulus hum absently to himself while reading, or Sirius—loud, beautiful Sirius—throwing his head back in a laugh so real it cracked something open in your ribs.
And the ache would start.
That slow, creeping anxiety that curled its way up your spine like frost. A sadness so soft and sharp you couldn’t explain it. The kind that whispered: This will end. This peace isn’t yours to keep.
You almost envied them—quietly, desperately.
Not just because they were happy—they’re happiness was your only escape, only taste of normality in your wharped, upturned daily combat. But because they’d all chosen to be. Sirius and Regulus had walked out of the same kind of fire you were stuck in, years and years before the idea even crossed your mind, and they didn’t look back
They had each other.
Sometimes, you wanted to Sirius. Tell any of them. But the words never came, getting caught on the lump that forms in your throat at the mere thought at opening up. And you trusted them—with your life—but they’d already escaped. They’d clawed their way into the light. You couldn’t drag them back into the dark for your sake-you couldn’t taint what they’d built with your shadows. So you kept it to yourself.
You bore it in silence. Let it hollow you out.
The first time Sirius really noticed, it wasn’t because of something you said.
It was more because you weren’t saying anything.
Sirius noticed it the first time when you were sitting at the edge of the couch, surrounded by warmth and noise and comfort, yet entirely apart from it. Your shoulders were stiff, posture too still to be at ease, your eyes fixed on nothing in particular—swimming with a dejected sort of melancholy that seemed to drag your whole presence down like an anchor.
All sprawled across the living room with mugs in hand, a record spinning lazily in the background. Conversation hummed around you, warm and full, but you barely blinked. You sat curled in on herself, tucked into the far corner of the couch like you were trying to disappear into it. Eyes dull, distant. Fingers pressed so tightly into the palm of your hand that Sirius could see the tremor across your knuckles, and the skin by your thumb was raw, scratched and pinched like a nervous tic left to fester. It was a small glimpse—accidental, unmasked—of something Sirius couldn’t name but knew wasn’t right.
It was like looking at someone underwater.
He watched you from the seat opposite, brow slightly furrowed, worry pressing lines into his face. And then Lily came around, all bright eyes and warmth, with a cup of tea held out toward you and a gentle hand on your shoulder. You blinked, startled, your body jerking almost imperceptibly before you looked up at her, and in the span of a heartbeat, the wall slammed back up.
You smiled—too quick, too practiced—and took the tea with a murmured thanks. Sirius could see the way you tried to shake it off, tucking your hands beneath the throw pillow in your lap, casting your gaze downward with a practiced tilt of your lips. But he saw it, always saw you.
He didn’t miss the performance.
The second time, it was during a seemingly harmless spat between James and Marlene. Something inconsequential—voices raised, tones sharp and clipped but still laced with the air of playfulness. No one else batted an eye.
Except you.
You’d gone still again, your fingers twitching faintly like you were reaching for something—some invisible thread to tug the tension down. Your eyes darted back and forth between them, wide and alert, chest rising too quickly for what the situation called for. And then, without a word, you slipped away into the kitchen.
Sirius waited a beat, ignoring the puzzled look on Remus’ face, trailing after your absences, heart tightening.
You were hunched over the sink when he found you, your hands gripping the ceramic edge so tightly your knuckles were white. Forcing the lump in your throat down with a laboured swallow—ears filled with a dreadful high pitched ringing that made your head spin.
Trying desperately to at least be discrete—avoid detection, because now really wasn’t the time for this. You were trying to breathe—he could tell—but it was shallow, uneven, a tremor threading through every exhale. Your shoulders trembled, your head bowed, and he could hear the faintest sound of numbers being whispered under your breath.
“Y/N,” he called softly.
You didn’t react.
He stepped closer, cautious, watching you closely. He could hear the shuddering breaths now, the way your voice cracked on the number seven, like your lungs were collapsing inward. “Y/N,” he tried again, a little louder.
Still nothing.
Coming around your side, ducking his head down to catch a glimpse of your face, eyes screwed shut tightly, brows pinched high on your forehead. He reached out, hand tentative as it landed on your shoulder. You jumped—nearly recoiled, entire frame jerking as you tried to flinch away from his touch. Sirius immediately withdrew, holding his hands up between you like a surrender.
“It’s just me,” he said, gently. His voice was quiet but firm, grounding. “Just me.”
Your eyes were wide, glassy, rimmed red. Panic painted across your face in strokes Sirius had never seen on you before, and it made something in him crack.
He slowly took your hands, still trembling at your sides, coaxing them away from the tight curl of your fists. “Look at me,” he murmured. “Just me, alright?”
He guided your hand to his chest, letting you feel the steady beat of his heart. “Breathe with me, yeah?”
It took a moment—didn’t speak, didn’t nod, but your breathing started to shift—still shallow, but not so frantic, breathing just barely evening out, He walked you backwards gently, step by step, until the kitchen door opened behind you, the air brushing cool against your skin, subdueing the flush that burned under your skin ever so slightly.
“Come on. Let’s get some fresh air,” he suggested softly, guiding you to the bench in the garden.
You still hadn’t said a word—curled up, knees to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself. Fingers picked absently at the skin of your thumb, scratching with a quiet urgency that made Sirius reach out again, covering your hand with his.
And though your face was no longer twisted and scrunched in panic, its replacing expression had Sirius feeling no more comforted; the vacany in your eyes, the way you were scrunched into the corner, taking up as little space as physically possible. Scooting closer to you cautiously, his warmth washing over you in slow swathe, silence stretching between you.
“Are you okay?” his voice was quiet, careful.
It was too fast—too easy, the wa you nodded, not able to look at him. Gaze focused on an unimportant slab of concrete.
“You know you can talk to me, right?” he said, his thumb brushing slow circles over the back of your hand.
Another nod, a shorter silence gracing you.
Before you stood up abruptly, muttering something about needing to go, moving faster than Sirius could process. Words only computing when he heard your short excuse and rushed goodbyes to the others.
He followed you in, quiet in his pursuit, waiting until the living room door closed before he rush his endless flow of questions—why you were leaving, if you were alright. You waved them off, pulling your shoes on with hurried hands, pulling on your coat—swift to escape.
“Just need to go,” you said.
And Sirius stopped you at the door, stepping out onto the road with you, voices and laughter from inside barely audible through the cracked front door, now a distant hum.
“Are we not going to talk about what just happened?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” completely dismissive, voice pinched.
Sirius scoffed, disbelief cracking through his voice, frustration creeping in. “There’s plenty to talk about. And don’t lie to me—I know when you’re lying.”
“I’m fine,” you insisted, voice sharper now, almost defensive. “Go back inside.” inching further down the path, putting a small distance between you.
“I’m just worried, alright? I’ve never seen you like that, you were shaking—.”
You huffed, turning your back to him, cutting him off. “—Sirius, I’m fine. Just drop it.”
Trailing away from him, walking down the driveway to the main road in hurried steps, and he was moving after you before he realised, instinctively reaching out, stopping you with with the soft pull of his hand around your wrist, his desperation seeping out, words adopting a pleading tone.
“At least let me drop you home—”
“No.”
The response was immediate, not even a second after his voice had uttered the words, home. So sharp, too much like a command, tone foreign to both your ears, voice cracked at the edges, panicked—raw.
He stopped, hands slipping from where they’d held you, palms raised. Your was breathing fast again, shoulders twitching with effort to stay composed, whole body ridged as though you were bracing yourself.
“Y/N…” he said your name like it hurt. And it did. Seeing you like this, curled in on yourself—it hurt in a way he hadn’t expected. And he stepped tentatively towards you, his approach so painfully careful—as if he was closing in on an injured animal, like he was fearful of scaring you away. You still wouldn’t look at him, but he could see it—that same dread swimming in your eyes and it made his stomach lurch.
“I’m sorry. I just want to make sure you’re okay. That you get home safe.”
With a shake of your head, you voice was quiet, hollow—“Don’t be sorry. I’m fine—I promise. Goodnight, Siri,”
And then you was walking away before he could stop you, the night swallowing your figure whole, shadow stretching before it vanished under the dull streetlights. His throat was painfully dry, the way you said his name, it lacked all aspects of you. Void of all warmth and wary, your empty words—promise—sounding too much like a lie for his liking.
Sirius stood there for a long time, the front door cracked open behind him—frozen on the pavement. A quiet ache twisted in his gut, cold and heavy as he pushed down the urge to chase after you. Brows furrowing further—tightly on his forehead as a small reality dawned on him.
He wouldn’t even know where to start.
He’d never been to your house, in all the years of knowing you, loving you, being your friend, he’d not once even seen the road you lived on, what your area looked like, what you went home to.
Stepping back inside the house where everything buzzed and thrived in his absence, settling solemnly into his seat—leg bouncing while he droned out the chatter around him—endlessly racking through his brain, almost spiralling.
Sighing as he tried to pinpoint just one time you’d spoken about your family, your home, something soild—real. But he couldn’t, not one detail. Not one word—throat tightening under the weight of his discovery, under the shame he felt.
It could be nothing, could be something—could be what he hoped and prayed it wasn’t. And now, he couldn’t stop replaying every second of what just happened, feeling sick to his stomach almost, scolding himself over and over. For not asking. For not realising. For not knowing for sure that you were okay.
The walk home was long, so long your feet burned in your shoes, hands tucked firmly into you coat pocket, fiddling with a loose string—the night’s biting wind had your ears burning. But you needed it—the time, the solitude. Watching the half-moon with a lonely eye, your only company until you reached your driveway.
Hesitating before you twisted the key, counting down slowly, fingers trembling and palms sweaty. Its been bad recently, the worst its been in a while; lasting especially long. And it had you on edge all the time, hands twitching around the door handle—and it was eerily silent.
You swallowed thickly, slipping off your shoes as silently as physically possible—treading up the stairs, recoiling under each whine and creak of the steps.
It felt like a short forever before you reached the top of the stairs and pausing, chest tight, fingers still wrapped in that string from your coat pocket. You didn't let go. You couldn't. That fraying thread was the only thing tethering you in the moment—something to anchor you before you crossed the threshold into your room.
The door clicked shut behind you with the softest sound, but it still made you wince. You stood in place for a second, maybe two—waiting. Listening. Hoping you hadn’t drawn attention, it was better this way—waiting for the storm to pass silently, with as little interaction as possible.
Looking down at your hands—red and raw from where you’d scratched them earlier, the skin near your thumb scabbed over. You picked at it without thinking. It was a habit you hadn’t even realised had gotten worse until Sirius noticed. You didn’t want him to notice. You didn’t want anyone to see the parts of you that were unravelling.
You curled up under the thin blanket on your bed, still in your clothes, pulling your knees to your chest. The silence wasn’t comforting anymore. It was just waiting for the next blow, the next explosion over the miniscule. And you lay awake like that for hours, flinching at every floorboard creak downstairs, eyes wide open in the dark, unable to find peace even in sleep—your pulse disruptive and invasive in your ears.
It was cruel, the way you felt trapped in your own space, in your own skin, folding in on yourself.
The look on Siriur’s face flashing behind your eyes—pleading, concerned. But you couldn’t drag him into this. He had escaped his own hell. He didn’t deserve to be tethered to someone else’s.
You turned over, burying your face in your pillow, holding your breath until your ribs ached. Truly forsaken—not even granted the small mercy of peace when with your friends—tainted with subsequent aftermath, the risidual burn from the scorching fire of your house.
Dinner was meant to be a break.
A breath of fresh air after two long, suffocating weeks. You had told yourself that over and over again while getting ready—while dabbing concealer beneath eyes sunken from too many nights spent awake. You’d smiled at your reflection in the mirror like you were rehearsing for a play. Even your voice, when it left your mouth, felt unfamiliar. Bright. Effervescent. Someone else's.
But the truth was your bones ached with exhaustion.
Two weeks passed. You hadn’t slept properly in days.
Maybe it was the walking-on-eggshells routine, the volatile rhythms of home. Maybe it was the internal noise that never seemed to stop—gnawing at the walls of your brain, keeping your body tired and your mind too wired to rest. You weren’t really sure anymore.
Your appetite had long since vanished. Food sat like lead in your stomach now—you hadn’t eaten all day, but the idea of it made your stomach lurch. The energy it took to just sit there—smiling, nodding, pretending—was all-consuming. The world felt too loud. Every clink of a glass. Every laugh. Every shifting of silverware scraped against the edges of your nerves.
Sitting at the restaurant table, smile wide, voice artifically light. You even laughed once or twice, chiming into the conversations with a manufactured sort of brightness. But it never reached your eyes.
But your posture was a little too perfect. Your hands too still in your lap—firmly pressed to your thighs so you wouldn’t give yourself away. Because the minute you let them move, they’d be scratching. Picking. Clawing. The skin at the base of your thumb already bore the quiet story of weeks spent fending off invisible monsters.
Sirius was watching you—he hadn’t looked away once in the past twenty minutes.
You could feel his eyes, a constant presence weighing on your shoulders. It was suffocating. He saw everything—every fake smile, every too-long blink, every glance downward as you recalibrated your mask.
And he wasn’t the only one watching anymore.
Regulus had clocked it too. His eyes didn’t leave you for long. The weight of their observation heavy on your shoulders—brothers with matching glares of concern—watching you across the table. Quiet. Calculating. Waiting.
It made your chest constrict.
So you excused yourself. Bathroom. You even smiled when you said it, tossing out a breathy little laugh to sell the illusion, leaving your phone on the table without thinking.
First mistake.
The bathroom was cool, mercifully quiet. You weren’t even gone for five minutes—fingers gripping the edge of the sink, letting your head fall forward. Gone just long enough to take just one breath. One single breath that didn’t feel like you were underwater.
When you returned to the table, something in the air had shifted.
Sirius had your phone. He wasn’t looking at it—not really. But he was holding it like it had burned him. The screen still lit up with missed calls. Texts. All from the same contact. Dozens of them. You felt the blood drain from your face.
Sirius didn’t look at you. Not directly. But you felt the flicker of his gaze as your expression fell—just a millimeter, just enough to crack the mask you’d so carefully painted on.
You forced another smile. Another hollow laugh. “I’ll just—step outside for a second,” you said, tone light, like your hands weren’t trembling at your sides.
He watched you slip out the back exit of the restaurant, disappearing into the alley. And the moment the door clicked shut behind you, you thumbed through your notifications and hit the call button.
It didn’t even ring once.
The voice on the other end was sharp. Cold. Punishment. Words hurled at you with precision and force, too fast for you to defend yourself. You tried anyway—murmuring apologies, soft placating words. Recoiling instinctively, holding the phone a few centimeters away from your ear as the berating began.
It wasn’t a conversation. It never was. Just a torrent of demands, accusations, complaints. Ech time you tried to get a word in, it only escalated the volume. Pacing the small space, like that might somehow drain the pressure building in your chest. Head bowed in shame—lump settling familiarly in your throat—one arm wrapped tightly around your torso, the other fiddling compulsively with the raw patch of skin by your thumb, picking until it bled.
Sirius cracked the back door open quietly. He’d lasted three minutes before excusing himself under the pretence of a smoke.
You didn’t even see him.
Didn’t hear him call your name quietly as he stepped into the alley.
But he heard everything.
The voice on the other end of the phone was loud even from a distance. Not the words, just the tone—loud and sharp enough that it cut through the quiet evening air. He watched the way you winced, head ducking as though the volume alone could bruise you—the way you flinched—physically leaned away from the device pressed to your ear. How your body shrank into itself as though trying to disappear. His stomach turned.
When you finally saw him, you froze.
He looked furious—hurt. And you backed up, instinctively shielding him from the sound, from your shame, from the bile being spilled into your ear, from the chaos bleeding through the tiny speaker.
The call ended after another five minutes, your voice small and desperate: “Yes, I understand. I’ll be home soon. I’m sorry—I’ll fix it.”
Silence followed. The kind that rang louder than shouting.
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
A few long moments passed before your lips parted to say something, anything, but he cut you off, sharper than he meant to be; “Don’t—lie to me.”
It made the air in your throat catch, a grimancing frown pulled at the corners of your mouth as your eyes slipped shut, forcing a breath through your nose. His tone stung, the simmering anger in his voice almost too much—take a second to push down the urge to breakdown right then and there. Already on edge.
Sirius’s face immediately softened. He took a deep breath, correcting his tone before he spoke again, “I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry. Please…just talk to me.” Lips curving into a frown when he stepped closer to you, and in return you back away slightly.
Your voice came out flat, strained, as you shook your head. “Can we not do this right now?”
And he runs a hand roughly through his hair, feet twitching in the ground, desperate to reduce the distance between you, he tried to keep the soft tone of his voice, regulate his emotions not just for your sake, exhaling hard. “If not now, then when? You’ve been holding this in for God knows how long. It’s not fair—just let me help you.”
“I don’t want your help,” you said quickly, too quickly. “I can handle it.”
His eyes widened. “Handle it?” he repeated, voice laced with disbelief. “You’re not handling anything—this isn’t handling it. This is barely surviving.”
“I don’t need you to rescue me, Sirius,” tone rising. “Not everyone gets to run away,” you snapped, the words out before you could stop them.
Your voice cracked, sharp and cutting, and his mouth fell open, recoiling like you’d hit him.
“Do you even hear yourself?” he asked bitterly, stepping closer. “You think this is normal? That panic attack you had at James and Lily’s?” He didn’t even notice the climbing volume of his voice, the abrasive tone his words took as he stepped further into your space—stopping just out of arms reach.
“That twenty-minute verbal assault on the phone?! That’s not normal?! That’s not love!”
His words ricochetted off the brick walls that surrounded you, loud and booming. It had you staggering a step back until your back hit the cold wall, like you were trying to disappear into it. Breathing turned jagged—short breaths that never made it out again. Eyes screwed tightly shut.
Hands came up instinctively in surrender, shoulders tensing, chest heaving.
Sirius’ heart cracked, all air punching out of his lungs—eyes glossy as he watched you shake.
You flinched away from him.
Sirius reeled, instantly stepping back. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry,” he breathed, hands held out in front of him like he was warding off a wild animal. “I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
But you couldn’t hear him. Not properly. The ringing in your ears was deafening, pressing your trembling hand to your mouth, trying to breathe, but your chest was tightening like a vice—vision blurring. The only sound filling the backroads were his slow, cautious footsteps closer, eacch pitched shallow fight for breath accompanying.
And your hand came out infront of you, as if to keep him away, trembling and outstretched like a shield between you and him—an unspoken plea for space.
But your breathing was no longer steady. It had unraveled completely, fractured into desperate, choking gasps, each one more strained than the last. Your chest rose and fell in stutters, panic carving hollows into your ribs, lungs too tight to hold even the shallowest breath.
Sirius froze, his heart in his throat at the sight of you unraveling in front of him. But then—slowly, carefully—he edged forward, hands open, voice impossibly gentle as he murmured your name over and over again like a prayer. Like the sound of it alone might bring you back to yourself.
“Hey, hey—breathe with me,” he whispered, voice steady even as panic swelled in his chest. “Just breathe. In. And out. Come on, love, with me.”
And something about his tone—low and sure, threaded with a kind of fragile desperation—broke through the haze. Hands latched onto him like you were drowning. He cradled your head to his chest, murmuring affirmations, stroking your hair. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re alright. Just breathe.”
You did your best to listen. To match the rhythm of his breathing, to follow the rise and fall of his chest, to drown out the echo of everything else.
And eventually, your gasps turned into shaky, stuttered breaths. Still uneven. Still fragile. But breaths, nonetheless.
Sirius held you for a moment longer, just breathing with you, hands never leaving your skin—afraid that if he let go, you might disappear altogether.
“Do you want to go back inside?” he whispered, voice barely audible.
You shook your head. “I have to go.”
His brows drew together. “You’re not serious—you're not going back there.”
“They need me,” you said quietly, still not looking at him.
“Y/N, they’re hurting you.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just stepped away—untangling yourself from his arms, slipping from his grasp with quiet finality.
And all he could do was watch—stood there, helpless, in that dark alley as you walked away.
The ghost of you still in his arms, the ghost of you pressed into his chest lingered, carved into his memory like a wound. His lungs ached. His eyes burned. His heart—he wasn’t sure he still had one. It had followed you down the street, scattered in broken pieces behind you.
The back door swung shut behind him. Inside, laughter echoed. Warmth spilled from the lights and the soft hum of conversation. But Sirius felt none of it. Just the sting of cold night air and the bitter ache of the knowledge that you were suffering.
The following days were unbearable for Sirius. He tried to keep himself distracted—he really did—but every time he sat down, his eyes would flick to his phone. And when there wasn’t a notification lighting up the screen, he’d pick it up anyway, tapping to refresh the messages you hadn’t answered.
He called you more than he’d admit—morning, midday, evening. Sometimes just to leave voicemails: “Hey, just checking in… again. Let me know you're okay, alright? Please.”
But you rarely answered. When you did, it was always the same. Vague assurances, soft and distant: I'm fine. Don’t worry.
But Sirius did worry. Constantly. He couldn't help it.
He found himself wandering the halls of Grimmauld Place like a ghost, distracted and irritable. The silence echoed louder than anything else, and it left him pacing the creaking floorboards of Grimmauld Place, heart thudding with unease. He hovered by the fireplace more than once, fingers twitching with the urge to call Kreacher to search for you—just to know you were somewhere, breathing, safe. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to breach your trust, even if it cost him his peace of mind.
Then came the silence.
By the third day, his calls stopped going through altogether. Messages went unread.
Not even a "seen." Just nothing.
Not even the hollow comfort of your voice. And that silence drove him mad. Rain lashed against the windows that evening, dark clouds crawling across the sky like bruises spreading. A storm had rolled in and so had the panic in his chest. Something was wrong. He knew it. Felt it deep in his bones.
You were just making dinner when it happened.
Standing quietly at the stove, stirring, trying to stay invisible. But they came in, heavy-footed and already brimming with rage. The moment the door swung shut behind them, it all snapped. And you barely had time to brace yourself before their voice exploded through the kitchen.
“Useless. Just fucking useless. Can’t even stand the sight of you anymore—GET OUT. OUT!”
You didn’t move right away. You stood still, spoon hanging limply from your hand, staring at the bubbling pot like it might anchor you in place. But then you set it down gently. Shoes. Jacket. Phone. That’s all you took.
And then you walked. No direction. Just away.
The sky wept with you as you wandered aimlessly, soaked to the bone, your skin ice-cold and trembling. Hours seemed to pass—or maybe it was minutes. The line blurred in your exhaustion. Your eyes were bloodshot, swollen, throat raw from holding in sobs that still found their way out. And then, as if your legs had decided for you, you found yourself standing at the foot of Grimmauld Place. It loomed tall and dark, but it wasn’t scary.
It was familiar.
Safe.
Your hands were trembling so violently it was hard to hold the phone, your fingers fumbling until Sirius’ name was highlighted in green. The rain relentless, soaking through every layer of clothing, your skin burned from the cold.
Staring up at the steps for a long moment before lifting your phone with shaking hands, battery hanging on its last breath.
The call connected on the first ring. “Y/N?” His voice cracked with urgency. “Y/N?! Where are you—?”
But you couldn’t speak.
The only thing he heard was the storm. The rain pouring and your soft, broken sobs tangled in its rhythm. He was already moving, phone clutched tight to his ear.
Sirius didn’t hesitate. He was out the door in seconds, shoelaces untied, jacket forgotten, his voice cracked, “I’m coming, I’m coming—just hang on, alright?” as he threw open the door, leaving it wide open as he raced outside into the storm.
But there you were. Just at the bottom of the steps, a ghost in the rain. He froze for a moment, heart seized in his chest at the sight of you—drenched, shaking, hollow-eyed and utterly broken. He didn’t hesitate after that.
Rushing down, wrapping his arms around you, whispering your name like it was the only thing he knew how to say. You didn’t resist. You didn’t speak. You just leaned into him, letting your head fall to his shoulder as he half-dragged, half-carried you inside.
The warmth of the house hit you like a wave, but it didn’t reach you. Sirius took your coat off with trembling hands, calling Kreacher in a voice tight with urgency. The elf vanished to prepare a bath as Sirius led you to his room, cradling your shivering body with care.
You stood motionless, silent tears accompanying the drips from your clothing on the rug—barely there. He fetched a towel, wrapped you in it, pulling you gently into his arms again as you finally hiccuped out, “Didn’t know where else to go.”
He cradled your head gently, resting his chin there, whispering.
“It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re with me now. You’re home, yeah? You’re home.”
You didn’t nod, just let him hold you, your body trembling in his embrace. When the bath was ready, he guided you there slowly, his hand on your back like a tether, steady and warm. You let him undress you like a doll, mechanical and unresponsive, let him wash your hair with careful fingers, his touch delicate, reverent—like if he was too rough, you might shatter completely.
Afterwards, he dressed you in his clothes, gently guiding your arms through sleeves, pulling the jumper down over your head. You sat where he put you, legs curled under you on the sofa, barely blinking.
He brought food—warm, nourishing—but the moment the smell hit you, your stomach turned. Your hand shot up to your mouth, eyes watering with a lurch of nausea. Sirius reacted instantly, waving the food away, concern etched deep in the lines of his face.
He brought you back to his bed, wrapping you up in the thick duvet, curling himself around you like a barrier against the world.
You barely registered when the door knocked gently and Regulus stepped inside, a mug of tea in hand. He said nothing, just handed it over with a soft look, his concern etched in the way he lingered before retreating.
Sirius coaxed you to sit up, holding the cup near your lips, voice tender. “Just try, yeah? Please.” Palm warm against your spine, making small soothing circles of encouragement, eyes pleading before he continue
“You haven’t eaten or drank anything since you got here. Just a sip. For me.”
A long pause. And then, finally, you nodded. The smallest motion. He let out a quiet sigh of relief and helped you sip slowly, one hand around yours to keep the mug steady.
When you finished, he set the cup aside and pulled you back into his chest, wrapping the duvet around the two of you like a cocoon. You were shivering again, even under the warmth, so he rubbed soft circles into your back.
“You’re so brave, you know that?” lips brushing your temple as he spoke softly. “You’ve been so strong for so long. But it’s okay now. You don’t have to go back. Not ever. You’re staying here. With me.”
Your breath hitched, and for a moment, he thought you’d slipped into sleep—until the first shake.
That was when you broke—really broke. Not violently. Not loudly. Just a soft, unraveling cry that soaked into his shirt, your fingers weakly clutching the fabric, your breath hitching in little sobs you couldn’t control. He held you through it all, his own eyes stinging.
“So tired, Sirius.”
His throat closed. A sharp, painful tug in his chest.
“I know, love.” he murmured, kissing your temple with trembling lips. “It’s okay. I’ve got you now. Just close your eyes. You’re safe here. You can rest.”
The rain still whispered outside, but within Grimmauld Place, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself fall into sleep.
And Sirius stayed awake long after you’d gone quiet, holding you like you were the only thing tethering him to this earth—because maybe you were.
He pressed one last kiss to your temple, letting his eyes slip shut.
