#mauraders era

[substellaris]

Gift for a friend <3

[rottenherbs]

The Quiet Wife

ㆍ S.B x Arranged Marriage! Reader ㆍ Angst // SLOW BURN // one sided relationship // happy ending! ㆍAn arranged marriage kept them under the same roof, but years of quiet indifference left them strangers in their own home. When Sirius finally shows a new, unexpected vulnerability, Y/N must decide whether to trust him—or let the distance between them become permanent. ㆍ8.3k ㆍRequest: ashdreams2023 ㆍTaglist: @littlemadamred @raiweasley @iluvhrj @hoeforlifee @a1ienmush @pottermagiczz ㆍA/N: i apologize for how long this took but i absolutely loved this angsty little piece <3 Much love, Saige [masterlist]

The Black family had always been bound by blood, but Sirius Black had long since learned that blood was a chain, not a comfort.

He had escaped its pull once — stormed out of Grimmauld Place at sixteen, slammed the door behind him, and sworn never to return. But the irony of fate, as it often did, found its way back to him years later in the form of a signature on parchment.

An arranged marriage.

A peace offering.

A way, his mother’s letter had said, to “restore the Black family’s dignity.”

He’d laughed when he first read it; a dry, humorless sound that didn’t reach his eyes. He had no reason to humor her, no reason to involve himself with the ghosts of his lineage. But the war was ending, the Order was quieter now, and his defiance had dulled with exhaustion. Somewhere between the funerals and the rebuilding, he had stopped fighting everything on sight.

So when the proposal came, a match arranged years ago by family tradition, meant to bind the Black name to another “respectable” pure-blood house, Sirius didn’t tear it up. He didn’t even scoff.

He simply signed.

And that’s how he met you.

You weren’t cruel. You weren’t vain. You weren’t anything the Blacks had been known for. That, perhaps, was the problem. You were polite, careful, quiet — an echo in a house that had once been full of shouting.

The wedding was small, the kind that left more whispers than memories. Sirius had shown up late, smelling faintly of smoke and expensive cologne. You’d worn a soft gray gown that your mother said was “understated but elegant.”

He hadn’t said you looked beautiful.

He hadn’t said anything at all.

Now, months later, Grimmauld Place was too big for two people who barely spoke.

You slept in the same bed. You ate the same dinners. You smiled at the same guests who came to call — old friends, new acquaintances, members of the Order who congratulated you both with a knowing grin. You called him husband in public, the word tasting foreign every time. He called you wife with that easy charm of his, voice smooth enough to make anyone believe he meant it.

But behind closed doors, it was different.

There were nights he reached for you, only because it was expected — because you were his wife, and he was your husband, and that was what married people did. His hands were always gentle, his kisses practiced. But they were never for you. They were obligations wrapped in warmth. When he turned away afterward, falling asleep without a word, you lay awake staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster.

It wasn’t hatred that lingered between you. It was something worse — indifference.

He treated you kindly, almost too kindly, as though afraid to bruise a fragile thing. He asked about your day, but not because he wanted to know. He complimented your dress at dinner parties, but only when someone else might overhear. He never yelled. He never scowled. He never cared enough to.

And yet, somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to despise him.

Because sometimes, in the smallest, most fleeting moments.. you caught glimpses of the man beneath the distance. The way his voice softened when he spoke of James. The quiet grief in his eyes when he thought no one noticed. The way he always made sure you walked on the inside of the pavement when you went out together, as if protecting you was a reflex he couldn’t suppress.

Those tiny fragments of tenderness were enough to keep hope alive — a cruel, fragile thing that refused to die.

You had been married six months when the silence began to feel heavier than the walls around you. You tried to fill it; with books, with chores, with conversation. You’d talk about the garden you wanted to plant, or the stray cat that came to the window sometimes. Sirius would nod, half-listening, and then disappear into his study.

He was always disappearing.

Sometimes, you’d hear the low murmur of his voice from that room — old friends, most likely. Sometimes Remus, sometimes Order business. You never asked. You weren’t sure if it was your place.

You had stopped expecting warmth. You simply learned to exist in the spaces between his life and yours.

Until one evening, something shifted; not enough to change anything, but enough to make you notice.

It was late, the fire low and the house quiet. Sirius came in from the cold, shaking snow from his hair, his shoulders dusted with frost. You were reading by the hearth, blanket wrapped around your legs, when he paused at the doorway. For a brief moment, he just looked at you — as if seeing you properly for the first time. The flicker of recognition in his gray eyes startled you.

“You’re still up,” he said, voice rough from the cold.

You nodded. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He hesitated, then moved closer to the fire. You watched the light play across his features — the tired eyes, the faint scar along his jaw, the weight he carried like a shadow. He smelled faintly of smoke and winter.

For once, the silence didn’t feel entirely unbearable.

“You should rest,” he murmured after a while. “It’s late.”

“So should you,” you replied quietly.

He almost smiled. Almost.

And then, as quickly as the moment had come, it passed. He turned away, retreating toward the stairs.

“Goodnight, wife,” he said, not looking back.

You closed your book, heart aching at how easily the word wife could sound so empty.

“Goodnight, husband,” you whispered into the quiet.

And though he didn’t hear you, you wished — more than anything — that he had.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You began to take notice of some little things first.

The way Sirius preferred his tea — black, no sugar. The way he leaned back in his chair when he read, one ankle crossed over his knee. The music he sometimes played in the study, low and scratchy, old records of Muggle rock bands he must’ve picked up in his wilder years.

You didn’t know when exactly you started trying to please him.

Maybe it was the silence, heavy and constant, pressing against your ribs. Maybe it was the small ache that came from watching him laugh at something Remus said, a laugh that never seemed to belong to you.

So, you started small.

You brewed his tea the way he liked it — dark, strong. When you brought it to his study, he barely glanced up from his parchment. “Thanks,” he muttered absently, taking the cup without looking at you.

He didn’t notice the way you’d taken the time to warm the mug beforehand.

Next came dinner. You asked Kreacher to prepare things Sirius liked — roast chicken, potatoes, buttery rolls, dishes that made him nostalgic for the meals at the Potters’ home, before everything went wrong.

When you called him to the table, he was late. You waited, watching the food cool until finally his footsteps echoed down the hall.

“This looks good,” he said with a faint smile, taking his seat. You smiled back, foolishly relieved. But halfway through the meal, you realized he wasn’t really tasting it. He was just… eating. Like it was habit, like you could’ve served anything and he wouldn’t have noticed the difference.

Still, you tried again.

You found a record he might like — one of those old Muggle albums with a guitar riff he always hummed under his breath. One evening, while he sat by the fire with a book, you put it on quietly.

His head lifted a little, gray eyes flicking to you, something almost surprised in them.

“This is… good,” he said softly.

You smiled, heart thudding. “I thought you’d like it.”

He nodded, the faintest curve of his mouth there for only a second. And then he went back to reading.

The record spun on, filling the empty house with the sound of something that used to mean freedom. You sat nearby, pretending to read too, though your eyes stayed on him instead. Watching the way his thumb traced the edge of the page, the way his hair fell into his eyes, the way he seemed entirely untouched by the effort you’d made.

You weren’t expecting gratitude. You weren’t even expecting affection. You just wanted something — a flicker of interest, a trace of awareness that you were trying to reach him. But he stayed the same, polite and distant.

It was almost worse than anger.

A few nights later, you wore something new. A soft dress in a color he’d once mentioned liking, a passing remark months ago that had somehow stayed with you. You joined him for dinner again, nerves making your hands shake slightly as you poured the wine.

He didn’t seem to notice.

His eyes skimmed over you with the same detached politeness he offered anyone else. He asked how your day had been. You told him about the book you were reading. He nodded. That was all.

The next morning, you woke before him. He was lying on his side, turned away, hair messy against the pillow. The light from the window traced the line of his back beneath the sheets. You stared for a long moment, wondering what it might be like to reach out — to touch him just because you wanted to, not because it was expected.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you slipped quietly out of bed, dressing in silence, pretending that the ache in your chest wasn’t growing heavier by the day.

Later that week, you overheard him talking to Remus in the study. You hadn’t meant to listen, you were passing by, tray in hand, but his voice caught your attention.

“She’s been… different lately,” Sirius said, tone uncertain. “Doing things I like. Playing old records. Cooking things I used to eat with James.”

Remus’s voice was low, thoughtful. “She’s trying, Sirius.”

“I don’t know why,” Sirius admitted after a pause. “We both know what this is. I didn’t ask for—” He stopped, exhaling. “She deserves someone who looks at her properly. I can’t force that.”

Your heart sank before he even finished. You moved away before you could hear Remus’s reply, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes.

That night, you said nothing at dinner. Neither did he.

When he reached across the table to refill your glass, his hand brushed yours by accident. He looked up, startled — and for a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in his expression, something softer than pity, something almost human.

But then it was gone. He drew back, clearing his throat. “You’re quiet tonight,” he said.

“I’m just tired,” you answered, forcing a small smile.

He nodded, as if that explained everything.

Later, when you lay beside him in the dark, listening to the faint sound of his breathing, you wondered if he’d ever notice you for more than the space you occupied — if there was ever going to be a day when being his wife didn’t feel like pretending to be someone else’s ghost.

And though you didn’t mean to, you whispered it into the night anyway.

“I wish you’d see me.”

He didn’t stir.

But in his sleep, Sirius shifted just slightly closer, his hand brushing yours beneath the sheets — unaware, unintentional, but enough to make your eyes sting all over again.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

For the first time in months, Sirius noticed you. Maybe it was because of the humility Remus gave him in conversation that night, or the small whispers of prayer from you that slipped into his mind as he slept beside you.

But he didn't see you properly, not the way a man notices a woman he’s in love with — but in fleeting, unguarded moments that slipped past his defenses before he could reason them away.

It started in the mornings.

He’d come downstairs to find you already awake, hair pinned back neatly, sunlight falling across your face as you poured tea. You’d glance up when you heard him, offering that same quiet smile — the one he’d always taken for politeness. But lately, he realized, it wasn’t polite at all. It was gentle. Earnest. Real.

He didn’t know when he’d stopped believing sincerity could exist in his world.

“Good morning,” you said one day, voice soft.

“Morning,” he replied automatically, rubbing the back of his neck. He hesitated before taking his cup. “You’re up early.”

“I wanted to watch the sunrise,” you said. “It’s clear today.”

He nodded, pretending he didn’t notice how peaceful you looked in that light, like you belonged to something he could never quite touch. He turned away before it could mean anything.

But it did.

He caught himself watching you sometimes. At dinner. In the garden. When you passed him a dish and your fingers brushed. There was no reason for it — no desire, no spark he could name. Just a strange, quiet awareness that had begun to unsettle him.

He’d been trying not to think about what Remus had said the other day.

“She’s trying, Sirius.”

He hadn’t meant to sound cold, but he knew he had. He hadn’t wanted a wife. He hadn’t wanted this. But now that he had it — now that you were here, so careful, so patient — something in him began to shift.

It made him uncomfortable.

Guilt had a way of doing that.

He started noticing details he’d missed before.

How you always tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were nervous. How you hummed softly while reading. How you looked up when he entered a room, like you were waiting for something — even if you didn’t expect it to come.

You never asked for more. Never demanded affection. You simply existed quietly beside him, filling the house with the sound of someone who was trying not to disturb.

He caught himself wondering what it would take to make you smile, really smile. Not the one you gave for the sake of peace, but something that reached your eyes. And then he’d curse himself for caring, because he wasn’t supposed to.

Not like that.

One evening, he came home earlier than usual. You were sitting on the floor by the fireplace, legs folded beneath you, an open book in your lap. You looked up, startled, when you saw him.

“Oh,” you said, standing too quickly. “You’re home early.”

He gave a small shrug, shedding his coat. “Thought I’d give Kreacher the night off from cursing me.”

You smiled faintly. “He does seem to enjoy that.”

For the first time, Sirius chuckled — a real, genuine sound. You blinked, as though you hadn’t heard it before. Maybe you hadn’t.

He moved closer, leaning against the mantel. “What are you reading?”

You showed him the cover. “Something Muggle. A novel about second chances.”

He tilted his head. “Do they get one?”

“I’m not sure yet.” You looked down, tracing the page. “But I hope they do.”

Something about that, the quiet longing in your tone, stuck with him. He nodded slowly, eyes lingering on you longer than they should have.

You turned back to your book, pretending not to notice.

The next day, he found himself in Diagon Alley without a plan. He’d meant to pick up parchment and ink. Somehow, he ended up in a small shop that sold both Muggle and wizarding books. He wasn’t sure why he was there, but when he saw a display of novels near the window, his hand moved before his mind caught up.

He bought one. A simple paperback — something about a woman who wanted to be seen.

That night, he left it on the armchair beside your favorite reading spot. He didn’t say a word. You didn’t mention it either, but the next morning, he noticed the book was gone — and a small vase of fresh flowers sat on his desk in return.

Neither of you acknowledged the exchange. You didn’t need to. It was the first unspoken language you’d shared since your wedding day.

After that, things changed in subtle ways.

Sirius lingered at breakfast a little longer. You waited up for him a little later. Conversations stretched a bit past formality. Once, his hand brushed yours as he handed you a cup, and instead of pulling away, he let the contact linger — a second too long, not enough to be called affection, but enough to make you look up.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to your breathing beside him. He thought about your whisper from nights before — the one he’d half-heard in the dark, soft and almost broken.

I wish you’d see me.

He hadn’t meant to hear it. He’d been half-asleep, mind adrift. But he’d heard it, and it stayed with him.

He turned slightly, looking at you in the faint moonlight. Your back was to him, shoulders rising and falling in steady rhythm. You looked peaceful. He wondered if you ever dreamt of something better. Someone better.

He reached out, hesitated, then gently brushed a loose strand of hair from your face.

You stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

“Maybe I do see you,” he whispered.

It wasn’t quite true yet, but it was closer than yesterday.

He lay back, eyes open in the dark, wondering what it meant that he finally cared.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The first thing you noticed was how quiet you’d become.

Not the ordinary kind of quiet that had defined your marriage since the beginning — the polite, companionable silence of two people pretending they were fine. No, this was different. This was the sort of quiet that pressed down like a fog, heavy and endless, swallowing the edges of every word you tried to say.

It wasn’t that you’d stopped trying overnight. It was more like the effort had finally worn you thin.

There had been hope, once. Little, foolish hope — fragile as spun glass. You’d let it grow in secret, fed by small gestures and half-seconds of warmth. The book he left for you, the soft look in his eyes that night by the fire, the way he said good morning with something almost tender behind it. You had clung to those moments like a lifeline.

But days turned into weeks, and the small warmth faded back into routine. He was kind, yes. Always kind. He would hold the door for you, ask after your day, pour you wine at dinner. But kindness wasn’t closeness. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t seeing you.

And maybe, you thought one evening as you brushed your hair in the mirror, maybe it never would be.

You stared at your reflection — the strands falling neatly around your shoulders, the gown you’d chosen carefully because you knew he liked the color blue. You looked… fine. Ordinary. Unremarkable. You wondered if that was what he saw when he looked at you — something decent, polite, unmemorable.

The sound of the front door opening echoed faintly through the hall. Sirius was home.

You straightened instinctively, brushing invisible wrinkles from your dress. It was pathetic, this reflex, the way your body still wanted to impress him, even when your heart knew better.

He came in, shaking off his coat, smelling faintly of the outside — cold air, tobacco, a trace of something smoky. His hair was mussed, his expression tired.

“You’re home late,” you said softly.

“Order meeting,” he replied, voice distracted. He glanced at you briefly, then away again. “You didn’t have to wait up.”

“I wasn’t,” you lied.

He nodded absently, already halfway to the stairs. “Long day. I’ll see you in the morning.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught. You just nodded, watching him disappear up the steps. The ache that followed was familiar -- dull, patient, merciless.

That night, when you joined him in bed, he was already asleep. Or pretending to be. You lay on your side, facing away from him, and realized you hadn’t really been touched, truly touched, in weeks. Not since that last night he’d reached for you out of obligation. Not since you’d stopped pretending it meant something.

Something inside you broke quietly, the way glass breaks under water — soundless, invisible, absolute.

The next morning, you didn’t make his tea.

You didn’t wait for him at breakfast or join him in the study. You spent the day in the garden instead, sleeves rolled up, hands in the dirt. The cold bit at your fingers, but the ache was grounding — honest in a way nothing else in that house was.

When Sirius passed by the window that afternoon, he paused. You were kneeling by the rosebushes, brushing soil from your palms, the faintest trace of color in your cheeks. He hadn’t seen you like that before — not the quiet, graceful figure who filled his house like furniture, but someone alive. Someone else.

He almost stepped outside. Almost. But the uncertainty stopped him, as it always did. He told himself you wanted space. He told himself you looked content. He told himself a dozen things to make the hesitation easier.

You didn’t see him watching. You didn’t care if he did.

By evening, you were exhausted — not from work, but from feeling. You had spent so long trying to be good, to be patient, to deserve his attention. And for what? The house still echoed the same way it always had.

When you came in for dinner, Sirius was at the table, a glass of wine in hand. He looked up, startled — maybe because you hadn’t joined him in the morning, maybe because you hadn’t waited.

“You were gone all day,” he said.

You nodded, sitting down without meeting his gaze. “I needed air.”

“Something wrong?”

You gave a faint laugh, bitter and soft. “You’d notice?”

The question hung in the air. He frowned slightly, not defensive, just lost. “Of course I would.”

You looked at him then, really looked, and realized how tired he seemed. The faint lines around his eyes, the weight in his shoulders. You used to think that if he looked at you like that, you’d feel closer to him. But all it did now was make you feel smaller.

“I don’t think you would,” you said finally. “Not really.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came.

You stood before he could find them, gathering your plate. “I’m going to bed.”

“You haven’t eaten,” he said quietly.

“I’m not hungry.”

Your footsteps echoed on the stairs, steady, final.

In your room, you undressed in silence. The mirror reflected someone you didn’t recognize anymore — someone who’d tried so hard to become what he might want that she’d forgotten who she was before.

You thought of the girl you’d been before the marriage, the one who still believed in love, in choices, in warmth that came freely instead of being earned. You wondered if she’d hate you now.

Sirius didn’t come up right away. He sat alone at the table long after the candles burned down, your words replaying in his mind. You’d notice?

It wasn’t an accusation — it was too soft for that. It was worse. It was the sound of someone who had given up.

When he finally came to bed, you were already asleep, or at least pretending to be. He hesitated at the doorway, looking at you the way one looks at something fragile, afraid to touch it.

He wanted to say something. Anything. But he didn’t know where to start. So instead, he sat at the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands.

You opened your eyes then, just barely — enough to see the shape of him in the dark, hunched and lost.

He didn’t see you looking.

And for the first time, you didn’t feel the urge to comfort him. You just closed your eyes again, letting the distance settle like dust between you.

Maybe it was too late.

Maybe he’d finally started to notice, but you’d already run out of hope to give.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Sirius woke to an empty bed.

The sheets beside him were still faintly warm, the faint indentation of your body visible against the linen, but you were gone. The house was quiet in that thick, unsettling way that meant something had shifted. It wasn’t the usual morning silence — the calm, habitual hush that came before the day began. No. This was absence.

He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The space between you felt wider now, heavy with things unsaid.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed you pulling away. He had, in the way one notices a draft under a door, or a missing sound they’d long since tuned out. It had started small: the empty teacup that used to wait for him on the desk, the soft hums that no longer filled the corridor, the way your chair at dinner was often left empty, replaced by a polite note on parchment: Ate earlier. Don’t wait up.

He told himself it was nothing.

That you needed space.

That it was better this way.

But now, standing alone in the kitchen, with no trace of your quiet domestic presence, Sirius felt something sharp twist in his chest — not guilt exactly, not yet, but something close to it.

You had always been there, he realized.

In the rhythm of the house, the steadiness of each day. In the way the curtains were drawn back each morning to let in light. In the quiet meals that appeared when he forgot to eat. In the peace that existed despite him — despite his ghosts, despite the coldness he’d let settle between you.

You hadn’t asked for much. You’d never demanded affection or comfort or truth. You’d just stayed. That was what made it worse.

He remembered your voice at dinner, low and tired.

“You’d notice?”

He had no answer for it then. He still didn’t.

Because the truth was simple: he hadn’t.

He’d built walls long before your marriage, and he’d let you live behind them like a polite stranger, all under the pretense of sparing you — as if indifference was a kindness.

But when had it turned into cruelty? When had he become his own family’s ghost story, a man who could not love the person he’d vowed to protect?

By midday, Sirius found himself pacing the halls. He told himself he was looking for a book, but his eyes kept catching on traces of you instead.

A ribbon left on the windowsill.

A half-read novel by the chair.

A faint scent of lavender that lingered on the air.

He followed it into the garden.

You were there, kneeling among the rosebushes again, wearing that worn cardigan he always thought was too big for you. Your hair was loose today, a few strands caught by the wind. You looked… peaceful, he thought. And that was what scared him most.

“Didn’t think you liked the cold,” he said quietly.

You turned your head slightly, but not enough to meet his eyes. “It’s better than sitting inside.”

He hesitated at the doorway, hands deep in his pockets. “You should’ve woken me.”

“I didn’t see the point.”

The words were soft, but they hit harder than anything she could have shouted.

He wanted to say something, anything, but his throat tightened. So instead, he watched as you stood, brushing dirt from your palms. There was no anger in you, no spark left to fight with. Just quiet exhaustion.

“Y/N,” he started, but you were already walking past him toward the house.

“I’ll have dinner ready later,” you said.

And then, after a pause: “You don’t have to join me if you’re busy.”

He turned to watch you go, a strange panic settling in his chest.

For months he’d thought this distance was safety — that as long as you were polite and calm, things were fine. But now he realized how silence could rot a home faster than any fight ever could.

That evening, he didn’t go out. He sat by the fire instead, alone, his mind restless. The house felt too large without you moving through it. Too hollow.

He thought about the little things you’d done — all the things he’d dismissed without a second glance. The dinners that had been for him. The music that had been his. The small, thoughtful gestures that had gone unnoticed because he’d decided they didn’t matter.

How many had there been?

How many times had he looked at you and chosen not to see?

He thought of you sitting across from him at dinner, wearing that blue dress — the one that had made him pause for a heartbeat before looking away. You’d looked beautiful that night. He hadn’t said a word.

A low ache formed in his chest. Regret, sharp and unfamiliar.

When the clock struck ten, he went upstairs. The door to your room, your room now, he realized, was closed. A line had been drawn, silently but surely.

He knocked once.

“Y/N?”

Silence.

He almost turned away, but then your voice came, quiet and careful: “Yes?”

“I… wanted to say goodnight.”

There was a pause, long enough for him to feel foolish. Then: “Goodnight, Sirius.”

No bitterness. No warmth. Just polite distance, the same tone he’d used with you for months.

He closed his eyes, hand still resting against the door.

He had no one to blame but himself.

Later, lying awake in the dark, he couldn’t shake the thought that this was how people left you. Not in anger or grief — but by degrees. Slowly, quietly, until one day you looked up and realized they weren’t waiting for you anymore.

And maybe that was what scared him most of all.

Because for the first time since your wedding day, Sirius realized he didn’t want you to leave.

Not the version of you who sat across from him like a stranger, but the one who had tried — the one who’d smiled at him in the sunlight and hoped he’d look back.

He’d missed her.

He’d missed you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The air in Grimmauld Place had grown thick with silence. Not the cold, angry kind that follows a fight, but the kind that grows quietly, like dust settling on things left untouched.

You had stopped trying to fill the void between you and Sirius. The effort had become too exhausting, and each attempt had been met with the same soft, polite indifference that had slowly chipped away at your hope.

He’d always been civil, even kind at times. That was the worst part. Sirius wasn’t cruel. He just wasn’t there.

He sat across from you at dinner most nights, eating quietly, sometimes talking about work or things that didn’t matter. And you’d nod, smile faintly, sip your wine, and tell yourself you were fine with that. Because if you didn’t, you might shatter.

Lately, though, you’d begun to fade in your own home. You dressed simply, you spoke less. The fire in you, that quiet but persistent desire to be seen had dimmed.

You woke one morning before him, lying in bed staring at the ceiling. His arm was draped across your waist, heavy and absent, like muscle memory rather than affection. He looked peaceful, and you almost envied that.

You slipped out from beneath his arm carefully, dressing in silence. You didn’t bother with your hair the way you used to, nor with the perfume he once called “nice.”

You made breakfast. For both of you, as always. But you didn’t wait for him to join. You ate quietly by the window while the sky outside stayed pale and sleepy.

When he finally came down, shirt half-buttoned, hair a mess, you barely looked up.

“Morning,” he said, voice still low from sleep.

“Morning,” you murmured, setting your cup down.

He hesitated. Normally, you’d have smiled — asked about his plans, tried to make conversation. Instead, you stood, placed your cup in the sink, and said, “I’ll be out for a while.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Out? Where?”

“Just… out.”

And then you left.

That became the new rhythm. You spent your days wandering the nearby streets, visiting small cafés, sitting in bookshops until the afternoon light began to fade. You didn’t buy anything. You just… existed somewhere other than that cold, echoing house.

When you returned, he was often gone, sometimes at headquarters, sometimes out with James or Remus. When he was home, the two of you exchanged words out of habit more than desire.

He noticed the shift, but he didn’t know what to do with it.

He’d catch you humming softly while cleaning the sitting room, only to stop when he entered. You no longer asked him if he wanted tea, or if he’d eaten. You didn’t press your hand against his arm in passing. You didn’t fill the silence with pleasantries.

You’d gone quiet.

And somehow, that silence was louder than anything he’d ever heard.

One evening, he found you in the study, seated by the fire. You didn’t look up as he entered. Your book was open, but your eyes weren’t moving across the page.

He lingered by the door, watching you for a long moment. The firelight made your features soft, tired, distant. You looked… older. Not in years, but in weariness.

“You’ve been out a lot lately,” he said finally.

“I have.”

“Everything alright?”

You nodded once. “Yes.”

He waited for more, but nothing came.

“Y/N,” he said, softer this time. “Did I do something?”

You blinked, finally looking at him. “Do something?”

He shifted, uneasy under your calm tone. “You’re… different.”

You closed your book gently, setting it aside. “I’ve stopped trying, Sirius.”

His brow creased. “Trying what?”

“To be someone you might notice.”

He froze, lips parting, but you went on before he could speak.

“I’ve spent months trying to make this… marriage something more than a name on paper. I tried to make you comfortable, to be kind, to be what I thought you wanted. But it’s exhausting trying to be chosen by someone who never wanted you to begin with.”

He exhaled slowly, guilt flickering across his face, but you weren’t finished.

“I don’t blame you,” you continued, voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady. “You didn’t ask for this either. I know that. But I can’t keep pretending that this life doesn’t ache. I can’t keep setting a place for you in my heart when you’ve never once stepped inside it.”

Sirius’s throat worked around words he couldn’t form.

You stood, smoothing the front of your skirt. “You don’t need to say anything. I’m not angry. I’m just… tired.”

And with that, you left him in the flickering firelight, the faint scent of your lavender soap fading in the air.

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

He lay awake staring at the ceiling, the same way you had that morning. The bed felt too large, too quiet. For the first time, he realized he hadn’t actually seen you in weeks. Not really.

He thought of the mornings you used to hum while setting out breakfast, the gentle curve of your smile when he came home late. He thought of your perfume, the way it lingered on his robes even when he didn’t notice.

He’d taken it all for granted.

Now, all that warmth had gone—and the house felt like what it truly was: cold stone and obligation.

And Sirius Black, who had once sworn he would never be like the rest of his family, realized with a sick twist in his chest that he had become exactly like them.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Sirius returned home one late afternoon, the sound of the front door closing softly behind him. He didn’t slam it, didn’t curse under his breath about the endless creak of the hinges like he usually did.

There was something quieter about him. Something careful.

You noticed it first in the way his boots didn’t drag against the floors; how his voice, when he greeted you, didn’t echo through the hall like an afterthought.

“Evening,” he said from the doorway of the drawing room.

You looked up from the book in your lap, blinking at him. “Evening.”

He hesitated before stepping in. You could tell immediately that something was different—he didn’t move with the same restless energy, that constant need to fill the silence. Instead, he seemed almost… hesitant.

He looked at you as though seeing you properly for the first time in a long while.

“I saw you walking back from the market earlier,” he said after a pause. “Did you... buy flowers?”

Your brow furrowed slightly. “Yes. Just a few.”

“I haven’t seen flowers in the house for months,” he murmured, glancing toward the vase on the mantle. The lilacs were small, delicate, the faintest trace of life against the gloom of Grimmauld Place.

You didn’t answer.

Sirius shifted, running a hand through his hair. “They look nice,” he said softly.

You nodded. “Thank you.”

The silence stretched thin between you, full of unspoken things.

Over the next few days, you noticed little things, small shifts that didn’t make sense.

The breakfast dishes were washed before you came downstairs one morning. He started leaving earlier, but returned at more reasonable hours. He no longer reeked of smoke and firewhisky. He lingered near the kitchen sometimes, asking if you needed help.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

And you didn’t know what to do with that.

You had built your own armor, piece by piece. Indifference had become your refuge. Now, suddenly, he was showing cracks in his own, and you couldn’t decide whether to look through them or turn away.

One afternoon, you were in the library, dusting shelves half-heartedly when he appeared in the doorway again.

He stood there a moment, arms crossed loosely, watching you. “You still clean in here?”

“Someone has to,” you replied, voice even.

He smiled faintly. “Suppose that’s true.”

You turned back to the shelves. His footsteps approached slowly until he stood beside you, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne — something he hadn’t worn in so long.

“You know,” he said quietly, “this house never feels alive unless you’re in it.”

You froze, your hand pausing mid-wipe.

It was the sort of thing he might’ve said once, offhandedly charming— but this time, it sounded earnest.

You didn’t look at him. “You don’t have to say things like that, Sirius.”

“I’m not saying it because I have to.”

You swallowed. “Then why now?”

He hesitated, and for a moment you thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, softly:

“Because I’ve been a fool. And I don’t think I realized how much until you stopped looking at me.”

Your breath caught. Slowly, you turned to face him. His expression was unreadable — no smirk, no easy charm. Just quiet sincerity that unnerved you more than anything.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to look at you,” you said carefully.

“I didn’t know what I wanted,” he admitted, voice low. “But I do know that this house feels colder without you in it. That’s not nothing.”

You stared at him, unsure what to believe. His words sounded genuine, but you’d built too much of yourself around disappointment to trust the warmth too quickly.

So you said nothing.

After a long moment, he nodded once, as if accepting that. “Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll give you space.”

And then he left — quietly, like a ghost who knew better than to haunt too loudly.

That night, you lay in bed on your side, staring at the wall. Sirius came in late but sober, moving carefully so as not to disturb you.

You pretended to be asleep.

You felt the mattress dip as he settled beside you. Then, for the first time in months, his hand hovered uncertainly over your back. It didn’t touch — but it stayed there, as though he wanted to bridge the distance but didn’t yet feel entitled to.

And strangely, you found yourself listening to his breathing.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. But somewhere deep inside, something fragile stirred, a flicker of something that was not yet forgiveness, but not entirely indifference either.

In the morning, he was gone again, but the lilacs had been replaced with new ones.

And on the kitchen counter sat a folded note in Sirius’s handwriting:

“I know I can’t undo the years I wasted. But I’m here now. For whatever that’s worth.”

You stared at it for a long time, unsure whether to smile or cry.

Because after all this time, you weren’t sure if it was worth anything at all — or if it might finally be the start of something real.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The house had been quieter lately, but not empty, more like the air had shifted into something waiting.

You could feel it every time Sirius walked into a room — the tentative calm that followed him, like he was trying not to disturb something fragile.

It was strange to witness. For years, you’d grown used to the thunder of his presence: the loud laughter that filled corridors, the careless charm, the weight of his footsteps echoing off stone floors. Now, that recklessness had been replaced by patience.

You didn’t know what to do with patience.

You decided to test it. Not cruelly, not to punish him — but to see if the new calm he wore so carefully was real, or just another mood that would pass like all the others.

It began with breakfast.

You rose early, as always, and made tea. You didn’t expect him to join you — he rarely did — but halfway through your toast, you heard him coming down the stairs.

He looked surprised to see you still at the table. You normally finished before he ever appeared.

“Morning,” he said gently.

“Morning.”

He hesitated, then gestured toward the seat across from you. “Mind if I…?”

You nodded once. “Go ahead.”

He poured himself tea, quiet and careful, and when he reached for the sugar, you noticed something: he’d started taking three spoonful's.

You blinked. “You like it sweet now?”

He glanced up, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Trying to be less predictable.”

You huffed a soft, unexpected laugh — small, but real. And he looked almost startled by it.

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp this time. It was calm, like two people finally learning how to breathe in the same space.

You began noticing him more after that, not as the man you’d built from memory, but as someone different.

He’d fix little things around the house: oil a hinge, mend a loose latch, clean the old family frames that had gathered dust. You’d walk into a room to find him standing quietly, sleeves rolled up, hair falling over his face, muttering at stubborn screws or paint chips.

You didn’t speak much, but you lingered.

One evening, you caught him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, trying to cook. The air smelled faintly of garlic and smoke. He looked up when you entered, eyes widening slightly.

“I’m aware this looks like a crime scene,” he said, motioning to the pan.

You leaned against the counter. “That’s one word for it.”

“Remus swore I could make pasta,” he muttered, poking it with the spoon like it had personally offended him.

“Remus has too much faith.”

Sirius laughed, properly laughed, and it startled you. It wasn’t loud or wild like before; it was softer, almost shy. He rubbed the back of his neck. “You could always show me how it’s actually done.”

You tilted your head. “You’d let me?”

“I’d beg you, if that’s what it takes.”

So you did. You took the spoon from his hand, brushing fingers by accident, and tried not to think about how that tiny contact made something flicker in your chest.

The nights that followed were calmer. You still slept with space between you, but it didn’t feel like a void anymore.

Sometimes, you’d find him reading in bed when you came in. He’d glance up, offer a quiet “goodnight,” and you’d answer without the cold edge that used to linger on your tongue.

There were no grand gestures, no sudden declarations. Just small moments that began to stitch themselves into the rhythm of your days.

One afternoon, you found yourself walking with him into the garden. The sun had made a rare appearance through the London haze, and Sirius looked almost younger in the light.

He paused beside the lilacs you’d planted, crouching slightly to touch a leaf.

“They’re surviving,” he said, almost to himself.

“They’re resilient,” you murmured. “I think they learned to adapt to this place.”

He glanced at you then, eyes soft. “You’re talking about the flowers, or yourself?”

You felt your throat tighten, but you didn’t look away. “Both, maybe.”

His smile faltered into something sad and fond. “You shouldn’t have had to adapt to me.”

You didn’t answer right away. The breeze rustled the lilacs. “People do what they must.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood beside you in the sunlight until the moment felt whole again.

That night, you stood at the vanity brushing your hair. Sirius sat on the edge of the bed behind you, quiet, hands clasped between his knees.

You met his gaze in the mirror for a second — long enough to see hesitation in his eyes.

He rose slowly, stepping behind you. His reflection hovered close, uncertain.

“May I?” he asked, nodding toward the brush in your hand.

Your heart stuttered. You hesitated, then passed it to him.

He began to brush through your hair carefully, gently, as if afraid you might break if he pressed too hard. His touch was slow, deliberate, reverent in a way that made your chest ache.

It wasn’t intimate in the usual sense. It was quiet, almost sacred.

When he was done, he set the brush down and said softly, “You deserve more than what I’ve given you.”

You swallowed hard, unsure what to say. “Maybe,” you murmured. “But I’m still here, aren’t I?”

His breath caught. You stood, brushing past him gently, and slipped into bed.

For the first time in years, when he followed, you didn’t turn away.

You weren’t ready to believe in him fully. Not yet. But you no longer flinched from the hope that maybe, just maybe, he was trying.

And for now, that was enough.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It had been weeks since Sirius’s quiet transformation began, and though the walls of Grimmauld Place still loomed heavy with its shadows, something in the air had shifted entirely.

You felt it every time he was near, that almost-electric awareness, the ache of something unspoken sitting just beneath the surface. You’d begun to move around each other like magnets, careful not to touch, careful not to draw too close, because you both knew what might happen if you did.

But tonight, the restraint frayed.

The storm outside had rolled in quietly, the kind that hummed low through the walls, making the lamps flicker and the air hum. You were in the study, pretending to read, the sound of rain tapping against the window.

Sirius stood by the fireplace, half in shadow, his shirt sleeves rolled, the amber glow cutting along his jaw. You could feel his eyes on you — not the absent kind of looking he used to do, but something heavy and searching.

You turned a page you didn’t read. “You’re staring.”

He didn’t deny it. “You’ve changed.”

“So have you.”

He smiled faintly, but it wasn’t playful. “Not enough, maybe.”

You looked up then, meeting his gaze. There it was — the weight of years spent circling one another, all the longing and exhaustion and quiet affection tangled into something that finally demanded to be seen.

“Why now?” you asked softly. “Why only start trying when I finally stopped?”

Sirius took a slow step closer, then another, his voice low. “Because I was afraid of wanting something I didn’t think I could have.”

“And what is it you want now?”

He was close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating off him, the scent of rain and smoke in his clothes. He looked down at you, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You,” he said. “But not the way I was supposed to. The way I do now.”

Something inside you cracked — a quiet, fragile thing that had been holding everything in place for years. You rose slowly from your chair, and suddenly, the space between you was gone.

He reached out first, fingers brushing against your jaw as if asking permission. When you didn’t pull away, he cupped your face fully, thumb tracing the edge of your cheek.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” you whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like you mean it.”

“I do,” he said, and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle at first, it was desperate, all the years of silence and unspoken words breaking open in one sharp exhale.

His hands tangled in your hair, your fingers caught against his collar, and you kissed him back like you’d been waiting a lifetime to remember how. Lips parted, tongues grazing each others teeth in rushed decisions, hands gripping each other as if never needing anything more in the world.

The storm outside cracked loud against the windows, but neither of you moved from each other.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless.

“I don’t deserve this,” he murmured.

“Then earn it,” you said, voice trembling but sure.

Something in him broke at that , you felt it in the way he kissed you again, slower this time, as though memorizing the taste of forgiveness. His hands slid around your waist, drawing you closer until you could feel the steady, heavy beat of his heart against yours.

You didn’t think. You didn’t need to. You just let yourself fall into the warmth you’d both been starving for.

The book slipped forgotten to the floor. The fire cracked and flared. His lips found yours again and again, hungry, reverent, lingering — each kiss more certain than the last, each breath a confession he couldn’t speak aloud.

When you finally broke apart, neither of you spoke for a long moment. His thumb traced your bottom lip, still swollen from the kiss, and he smiled faintly.

“I think,” he said softly, “this is the first time this house has ever felt alive.”

You pressed your forehead against his chest, closing your eyes as his arms came around you.

For the first time, there was no distance left to bridge.

And in that quiet, storm-lit room, the two of you finally let the walls crumble — not in anger or obligation, but in something that felt dangerously close to love.

[groovypalacehorselover]

Regulus: You know, I've been thinking. You should kiss my brother.

Severus: I always knew that potion fumes were strong but I didn't think that they were strong enough to cause brain damage.

Regulus: No, no, hear me out. He's going to think that you like him and be so disgusted that he would avoid you until you die.

Severus: Huh. Insult aside, I never thought about it in that way.

Later that week:-

Regulus: Hey Sev--

Severus: My bag is full of chocolates and bad poetry and this is all your fault

[crouros]

One night in the Slytherin dormitories, before Rosekiller was official.

Barty, half-asleep, fingers tangled in Evan’s hair: I love you.

Evan: …What?

Regulus, behind his bed curtains: Don’t you dare pretend you didn’t hear that.

🖤

[nerdscout]

• He knew the geometry of your presence. He just didn't dare cross the line.

the gryffindor common room at midnight held a quiet sanctuary known to only the truly sleepless. you and harry were often the only ones here at this time, every night like clockwork you sat together alone. it was what Harry looked forward to every night. you too, of course. although neither of you would ever admit that out loud to each other. why would you? it was nothing.

sitting by the fireplace, sharing a heavy quilt, your shoulders pressed together in a framilar, comforting weight. harry didn't bother to go back to reading the book in his lap, as soon as you sat down it wasn't important to him anymore. instead, he was busy cataloging the precise, intricate geometry of your presence.

he was all over you. not with grand gestures of course, but with the million small, necessary ways he inhabited your life. he was the one who always knew where your lost glasses were, he was the echo in your most spontaneous laughter, he was the constant low hum beneath your silence. his existence was woven so tightly into yours that he coudnt tell where his comfort ended and his yearning began.

harry watched the firelight dance across the elegant curve of your throat as you yawned, a quiet, almost ethereal sight for him. it was a melancholic joy to know that no one else saw these specific moments of pure vulnerability, this unguarded side of you , but him.

if I moved three inches. he thought, the idea a painful spike in his chest, I could kiss the top of her head. but he dared not. your friendship was a priceless, fragile thing, and he was to terrified of shattering the bubble of your proximity. he loved the way your hand on his forearm felt when you shifted, the warmth of your knee against his own, the certainty that if he fell asleep, he would wake up to find you still right there. the constant company was his reward and his punishment.

you shifted then, turning your head towards him, your breath ghosting against his ear. "what are you thinking about, Harry?"

"just how much better this common room fire is than anything professor binns can conjure." harry murmured, his gaze falling to your mouth, lingering just a breath to long before pulling away.

you smiled a tiny, tired curve of the lips, and leaned your head lightly against his shoulder. the pressure was feather light. yet it held the entire weight of his unspoken words. harry allowed himself the smallest, most secret indulgence. lifting his arm to subtly drape the quilt higher around you, enclosing you both in the warm, quiet space where your lives overlapped, and where his heart could break in total, blissful silence.

| i tried to be more descriptive with my writing. i also was listening to i was all over her on repeat while writing this so my true yearning form could come out

[moonyswarmsweaters]

Because almost everybody is doing this:

if this gets 100 notes, I’ll finally clean my room

if this gets 200 notes, I'll go on a long walk

if this gets 300 notes, I’ll post a picture of something artsy I made and proud of

if this gets 400 notes, I'll make marauders fanart ( I have been scared to do this to not dishonor them with my sucky skills)

if this gets 500 notes, I’ll post a link to one of my marauders era inspired playlists

if this gets 1000 notes, ill try to make sure I drink enough water (for at least a week, let’s not aim too high)

if this gets 5000 notes, within a month, ill try coming out to my best friend

edit: I did it! She just pretty much said “that explains a lot” and asked some questions. Overall great. Fuck you and thank you all for making me do this to

[3vanrosierishighonlife]

Sirius Black with his perfectly clear porcelain skin, long black lashes, straight nose, red lips, and luscious curly black locks x Remus Lupin who's too tall and too lanky, with all sorts of scar - scratches, burns, acne, with a crooked nose, jagged teeth, shaggy untamed hair and Sirius WORSHIPS this man who is ugly in every facet of society but to Sirius is the most gorgeous person in the world because Remus has this loud wolfish laugh, the biggest full-toothed smile, the warmest hugs, and the sweetest kisses

[cosyravenclaw]

Lessons in Letting Go

Words: 9.5k ish

Summary: You’re a shy, careful Hufflepuff with little experience and even fewer confidantes. When the Marauders invite you to work on their assignment, you don’t realize you’re signing up for lessons far beyond charms.

Tags: MaraudersEra, BlackReader, Hufflepuff!reader, Innocent!reader, Virgin!reader, First time, Corruption kink, Marauders x reader, Polyamory, poly!marauders, Fluff and smut, Touch exploration, Overstimulation, Shy!reader

You’d been watching them from the far side of the pitch for the better part of half an hour, the autumn wind tugging at your Hufflepuff scarf while you waited. Quidditch practice for Gryffindor always seemed to go on forever, though maybe it only felt that way because you were standing there, gripping your books like a shield, rehearsing what you were going to say.

The Marauders — James Potter, Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin — were not the sort of boys you usually sought out. In fact, up until this week, your interactions with them had been limited to polite nods in the corridor and the occasional “sorry” when you passed them in the library. You preferred your small circle of friends, your neat stack of notes, and the quiet hum of the Hufflepuff common room over their noisy, chaotic orbit.

But now you were stuck in it.

Professor Flitwick, in what you could only assume was a moment of cruel whimsy, had paired the four of you for the midterm Charms project due in just a few days. And so far, the Marauders had contributed precisely nothing except a string of excuses and an invitation to “not stress, love, there’s loads of time.”

There was not, in fact, loads of time.

So here you were, waiting until they finished flying around like madmen so you could corner them.

James spotted you first as he swooped down, broom in hand, his hair plastered to his forehead. “Oi, Hufflepuff!” he called, grinning like he’d just scored the winning goal. “What brings you all the way out here?”

You straightened your spine. “We need to work on the Charms assignment. It’s due in two days.”

Sirius, landing just behind him, ran a hand through his long, damp hair. He had at least three silver rings glinting on his fingers and that lopsided smile that was somehow both charming and dangerous. “She’s so organised it’s terrifying,” he said to Remus, who was strolling over, broom slung over one shoulder.

Remus’s mouth quirked. “Terrifying? Or admirable?”

“Both,” Sirius said, tossing you a wink.

You felt your cheeks warm but refused to be distracted. “Can we please meet tonight? After dinner? We can work in the library—”

“No, no, no,” James interrupted, shaking his head. “The library’s a death trap. We’ll just end up getting kicked out for laughing too loud.”

You clutched your books tighter. “Fine. Where, then?”

“Our dorm,” Remus said easily. “After dinner. We’ll be perfect little model students, promise.”

Something told you that “perfect” wasn’t exactly the right word for them, but at least you had an agreement.

You’re almost hesitant to knock on their dorm door later, your palm hovering just short of the wood. The seventh-year Gryffindor boys’ room is off-limits to most people, you’ve never had reason to be here, and the knowledge that you’re about to step into their space makes your pulse race.

The door swings open before you can even knock. Sirius leans in the doorway, hair loose around his shoulders, smelling faintly of smoke and whatever cologne he wears that’s sharp and warm at the same time.

“Come in, Hufflepuff,” he says with a crooked grin.

Inside, it’s exactly the kind of mess you expected: broomsticks propped in corners, stray socks on the floor, posters of Quidditch teams and scantily-clad witches stuck to the walls. James is sprawled on his bed, tossing a Snitch lazily between his hands, while Remus sits cross-legged at the foot of his own bed, a book balanced on his knee.

You set your bag down at the small desk shoved between two beds and start unpacking your notes. “Right, so—if we split up the charm components, we can—”

You get maybe three sentences into your plan before Sirius derails the entire conversation.

“Did I tell you about that girl from Ravenclaw?” he asks, leaning back in his chair, voice low and teasing. “Absolute stunner. Kept me up all night last weekend.”

Your fingers tighten around your quill, eyes glued to your parchment. “That’s… nice,” you murmur, trying not to picture anything.

“She had this way of—” Sirius starts, but James cuts him off with a laugh.

“Oi, don’t corrupt our poor Hufflepuff. You’ve never slept with a bloke before, have you?”

You freeze. The question hangs heavy in the air, your quill stalling mid-stroke. “I—We should really focus on—”

Remus’s head snaps up, his eyebrows lifting. “Wait. You haven’t?”

Heat prickles at the back of your neck. “That’s not—It’s none of—”

“Hard to believe,” Sirius drawls, reaching forward to catch a curl of your hair between his fingers. He twists it slowly, watching the dark coil spring back. “Someone as pretty as you… untouched?”

Your cheeks burn hotter. “Can we please just work—”

But James is leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes bright with curiosity. “You must get urges, though. Everyone does. How d’you deal with them?”

You shake your head quickly, desperate to divert the conversation. “James—”

Sirius smirks. “She’s got toys, obviously. Plays with herself when no one’s around. Virgins always do.”

Your mouth goes dry. You give a small, frantic shake of your head.

The room stills. Sirius’s smirk falters just slightly. “Wait. You’re telling me you’ve never—”

James’s eyebrows shoot up. “Not even once?”

You shake your head again, looking anywhere but their faces.

For a second, there’s only silence, and then Remus lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. “Merlin’s beard.”

Sirius leans back, grin returning in full force. “That’s… unexpectedly hot.”

“Very,” James agrees, his gaze sweeping over you in a way that makes you want to squirm. “You’ve never even been curious?”

You swallow hard. “I mean… maybe. I’ve heard the girls in my dorm talking about it.”

Sirius tilts his head. “So you’ve just… never tried. Never touched yourself.”

You shake your head again, embarrassed beyond belief.

James whistles softly. “That’s criminal. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Good thing we’re practically professionals,” Sirius says lightly, though there’s a dangerous edge to the glint in his eyes.

You blink at him. “What?”

Remus’s voice is smooth, almost coaxing. “We could show you. If you wanted.”

Your stomach flips violently. “No, I—we have to finish this assignment—”

“We will,” Remus says, leaning forward slightly. “Later. Right now… maybe you should let go a little. Let us show you how to feel good.”

You open your mouth to refuse again, but the curiosity you’ve been denying for years is whispering at the back of your mind. You’ve imagined what it might be like hands on you, mouths on you but never let yourself linger on the thoughts for long.

James must see something in your face, because his grin turns slow and knowing. “C’mon, sweetheart. You’ve trusted us with a school project. You can trust us with this.”

The heat in the room feels suffocating.

Sirius’s fingers are brushing the hem of your skirt now, not lifting, just tracing the edge. “All you have to do is say yes.”

You hesitate, then nod — once, barely.

“Atta girl,” Sirius murmurs.

The moment his hand pushes your skirt up, instinct flares and you draw in a sharp breath. “Wait, I—”

Remus is already moving, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s surprisingly gentle, stealing the rest of your protest. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheek as if to anchor you.

Sirius’s palm presses between your thighs, warm even through your panties, an experimental rub that makes your stomach clench.

Somewhere to your right, you hear James shift, the quiet click of buttons as your shirt begins to come undone under his sure fingers.

Remus doesn’t pull away.

If anything, his mouth presses more firmly to yours, the kiss deepening by slow, careful increments. It’s not rushed, not hungry in the way you’d imagined boys might kiss there’s patience in him, a measured control that makes it all the more dizzying. His lips part, coaxing rather than demanding, his hand still cupping your jaw like you’re something fragile he doesn’t want to break.

You’d expected kissing to feel… different. Wet, maybe awkward. Instead, there’s a warmth curling in your chest, in your stomach, a steady hum that’s making your knees feel strange even though you’re still sitting.

Somewhere in the background of that warmth, you register James’s fingers working their way down the front of your shirt. The soft click of each button coming undone is louder than it should be in the quiet of the room. The cool air nips at your newly exposed skin, but the heat in your cheeks more than makes up for it.

“Easy, love,” James murmurs, his voice low and smooth near your ear. “Just want to see you.”

Your breath catches. You want to close the shirt again, to keep it together — but Remus’s mouth is moving against yours with such careful insistence that you can’t bring yourself to stop him.

Meanwhile, Sirius hasn’t moved his hand from between your thighs. His touch is steady, palm warm through the thin cotton of your underwear, his thumb stroking idle, lazy patterns that make you tense without meaning to. It’s not invasive, not yet, but there’s something unbearably intimate about how unhurried he is.

“Relax for me,” he says softly, and the roughness in his voice makes your skin prickle. “Just let it happen.”

You try, but the awareness of his hand is like a pulse of its own, a steady reminder of what’s about to happen or what could happen.

James has reached the last button now, the shirt parting fully under his hands. You feel his gaze sweep over you, lingering where your bra covers the curve of your breasts. His fingertips trace along the fabric there, almost reverent, before sliding back to your shoulders to ease the shirt down your arms.

“Merlin,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you.

Remus finally pulls back from your mouth, though he stays close enough that his breath mingles with yours. His eyes flick briefly to Sirius’s hand, then back to your face. “Still okay?”

You nod, though it’s a little shaky. “Y-Yeah.”

That earns you a small, approving smile.

Sirius chooses that moment to hook one finger under the waistband of your panties. You flinch at the movement not from discomfort, but from the sudden intimacy of it. His eyes are on yours as he slides the fabric to the side, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to. You don’t.

The cool air hits your bare skin, and you can’t stop the small shiver that runs through you. Sirius notices, of course he notices and his grin takes on something sharper.

“Pretty little thing,” he says, almost under his breath, before returning his attention to the task at hand.

He doesn’t plunge in with fingers, doesn’t rush. Instead, his thumb resumes its slow circles, only now there’s no fabric between you. The difference is startling. The touch is softer and sharper at once, every movement sending little sparks dancing low in your stomach.

You let out a sound you didn’t mean to, a tiny, breathy gasp that you try to swallow down. Sirius’s grin widens.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Don’t hold back.”

Remus’s mouth finds yours again, and it’s almost overwhelming now, the way they’re both on you at once one coaxing your lips open, the other coaxing something deeper from you entirely. James is still close, his fingers brushing along your arm, your side, tracing the edge of your bra as if committing every line of you to memory.

Sirius’s pace is maddening. He keeps his movements small and deliberate, circling slowly around that sensitive spot until your legs tense without your permission. Every time you start to tip forward into something sharper, he eases back, dragging it out until your breathing turns uneven.

You didn’t know it could feel like this, warm and fluttery and tight all at once, the tension coiling low in your belly with each slow press of his thumb.

“Breathe,” Remus murmurs against your lips, and you realize you’ve been holding your breath without meaning to. You exhale shakily, and Sirius takes advantage of the moment to press just a fraction harder.

The sound that escapes you is embarrassingly needy.

“Good girl,” Sirius says, and for some reason the words send the tension in your stomach snapping. It washes over you in a hot rush, your thighs trembling as you try to stifle the sound rising in your throat.

Sirius doesn’t stop. If anything, his movements smooth out, guiding you through the strange, rippling aftershocks until you slump slightly against Remus’s steady frame.

“First one?” James’s voice is warm with amusement.

You manage a breathless nod.

Sirius chuckles low. “Let’s see if we can make it two.”

Before you can protest, his thumb is moving again not as slow as before now, but still deliberate, still maddening in its precision. You’re already sensitive, the skin there tingling from the last wave, and the new stimulation makes you jerk involuntarily.

“It’s okay,” Remus murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Let it happen again.”

You’re not sure you can or maybe you’re too sure you can, too quickly. The second crest builds faster, Sirius’s focus unrelenting, his free hand bracing lightly against your thigh to keep you from squirming away.

It’s almost too much, but the way they’re all watching you, James’s eyes fixed on your face, Remus’s gaze soft but unyielding, Sirius’s smirk growing with every sound you make keeps you rooted in place.

When it hits, it’s sharper this time, a flash of heat and release that makes you cling to Remus without thinking. Sirius slows only when your thighs press together in reflex, easing you back down until your breathing steadies.

You sag against Remus, your head spinning, and somewhere above you, Sirius gives a satisfied little hum.

“Two,” he says simply, like he’s keeping score.

You don’t have the energy to glare at him not when your body still feels warm and liquid, the air thick with the mix of your breaths and theirs.

You’re still melting against Remus, your chest rising and falling unevenly, when James shifts beside you, sliding closer with a soft, teasing smile.

“Alright,” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “I want to see how many fingers you can take.”

Your breath hitches at his words, a flush creeping up your neck and spreading through your chest.

“W-What?” you manage, voice barely above a whisper.

Sirius’s grin turns wicked, but there’s something gentle in the way Remus squeezes your hand, steadying you.

“It’s okay,” Remus says softly. “We’ll go slow. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Sirius leans in, brushing a loose curl behind your ear. “We just want to make you feel good. Promise you’ll tell us if it’s too much.”

The nervous flutter in your stomach twists tighter, but their calm words, the way they’re watching you with nothing but care and patience, help quiet the rising panic.

James shifts again, carefully moving so that he’s directly beside you, his fingers warm as he gently parts your thighs.

“Just breathe,” he whispers, thumb brushing the delicate skin of your inner thigh. “We’ll take this as slow as you need.”

Your heart pounds as his hand moves lower, the heat radiating from his fingers making you tremble.

Then, with the softest touch, James presses the pad of one finger to your entrance.

You’re tight, impossibly tight and the sensation is unfamiliar, sharp and strange, but not unpleasant.

“It’s alright,” James murmurs, barely moving, letting you adjust to the pressure.

You bite your lip, blinking up at him, unsure but willing to try.

Slowly, carefully, he slides that one finger inside, inch by inch.

A sharp gasp escapes you, a mixture of surprise and intensity, and your hand shoots out to grip Remus’s shirt for support.

“You’re doing so well,” James encourages, fingers gentle but confident.

Sirius leans forward, fingers deftly undoing the clasp of your bra. The cool air hitting your exposed skin makes your nipples harden, and your body tenses, caught between nervousness and something deeper, something raw and alive.

He trails his fingers lightly over your breasts, careful not to rush, teasing your skin before slipping a single finger inside the cup, circling the tender skin beneath.

The contrast between James’s slow intrusion and Sirius’s teasing touch is electric, your body reacting in ways you didn’t expect.

James gently moves his finger, the motion slow and deliberate. You wince slightly, tightness wrapping around him like a velvet glove but the ache in your lower belly is growing warmer, softer.

“Feels good?” Remus’s voice is a soothing balm next to your ear.

You nod, breath trembling. “Y-Yeah…”

James, encouraged, tries to ease in a second finger.

It’s harder this time. Your muscles instinctively clench around him, tight and protective.

“Okay, okay,” James murmurs, pausing to let you adjust. His thumb strokes slow, comforting circles on the outside of you.

You close your eyes, steadying yourself with shaky breaths.

The pressure grows, stretching, unfamiliar but not painful, and the heat blooming inside you pulses deeper.

Sirius shifts, lips trailing down your neck, warm and teasing, distracting you from the tightness with whispered promises and soft nips.

You gasp softly as James gently presses the second finger further in, but it’s clear you can’t take more than that right now.

“It’s alright,” Sirius says, voice low and reverent.

Your body is a coil of tension and warmth, every nerve alive with the subtle, exquisite teasing James and Sirius are giving you.

James keeps his fingers moving inside you with a slow, patient rhythm, the barest glide in, then a small circle, barely touching the most sensitive spot. His thumb rubs gentle, feather-light patterns against your skin outside, keeping you balanced between ache and delight.

You’re so wet, it’s like a warm flood pooling beneath you, the slick heat making every touch feel electric.

Sirius, never far from you, lets his fingers wander freely now, tracing lazy paths over your bare breasts. His touch is slow and deliberate, teasing your nipples until they tighten and peak beneath his fingers.

His breath is hot against your collarbone, and every time his hand squeezes gently, you bite your lip to stop a soft moan from escaping.

Sirius’s voice drops to a low murmur, teasing. “That’s three, love. You’re amazing.”

You blink, startled at how fast your body is reacting — how quickly you’re coming apart beneath their touch.

James slips his fingers a little deeper, careful to keep the pace patient but insistent. Every slow stroke feels like a secret promise, like you’re unraveling just enough for them, and it’s overwhelming in the best possible way.

Your breaths come faster now, shallow and shaky, chest rising and falling under Sirius’s hands.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his fingers tightening just slightly on your breast, then releasing with teasing softness.

James’s thumb strokes faster for a moment, light flicks over your swollen clit, and the coil inside you snaps.

Your muscles clench tightly around his fingers, and a moan escapes you — soft, broken, utterly real.

Sirius chuckles low, lips brushing your ear. “That’s four.”

You want to protest that you can’t take much more, but the way their touch feels so deliberate, so slow and full of care it makes you want to keep going, to see how far you can fall into this sensation.

James pulls back just enough to give you a moment, then pushes in again, a little deeper this time, fingers curling in a way that has your back arching off the bed.

Sirius’s hand slides down to cup your hip, steadying you, while the other keeps playing with your breast, rolling your nipple between thumb and finger with teasing patience.

The heat in your chest builds, the ache in your belly growing sharper, a delicious tension that makes your legs tremble.

“Let go,” Remus’s voice whispers from behind you , steady and grounding.

You do.

Your body trembles violently as your fifth orgasm crashes over you, breath hitching in ragged gasps. The world narrows to the warmth flooding through you, the gentle touch of their hands, the sound of your own voice breaking the silence.

Sirius grins wider, brushing his lips softly over your temple. “Five.”

You cling to Remus’s shirt, your skin tingling, still sensitive and raw from the waves rolling through you.

James doesn’t stop.

His fingers move again, slow and sure, coaxing you back from the edge teasing, holding, building until your breath comes in shallow pants and your legs quiver uncontrollably beneath them.

“You’re incredible,” James murmurs, voice rough with admiration.

Sirius’s hands keep roaming your body, one hand sliding up your side to cup your breast, thumb circling the hardened peak with teasing patience, the other trailing soft kisses along your jaw and neck.

“Six,” Sirius says, his voice a soft purr.

Your chest tightens again, the last sparks of sensation igniting in a firestorm that leaves you trembling and breathless in their arms.

They’re not just touching you, they’re learning you, memorizing every sigh, every twitch, every flinch of pleasure and hesitation.

And you’re letting them, even as your cheeks burn with embarrassment and your heart pounds fiercely in your chest.

Because with them, everything feels different.

Safe. Sacred.

James’s fingers don’t stop. They keep moving, teasing, coaxing, and you feel yourself spiralling, dizzy with pleasure and overwhelm. Your breaths grow shallow, your body trembling in ways that feel both exquisite and impossible to control.

But suddenly, it becomes too much.

Your chest tightens, and a sudden rush of panic flashes through your mind. You try to pull away, to free yourself from their hold, but their hands are gentle yet firm, keeping you cradled and safe.

“I—I need—” Your voice falters.

Remus, sensing your distress instantly, leans in without hesitation, lips capturing yours in a soft, grounding kiss. The kiss is slow and steady, calming like a balm, pulling you back from the edge of overwhelm.

Sirius’s hand stays warm and steady on your breast, fingers moving with tender care, easing the tension rather than adding to it.

You try to focus on the steady pressure of their touches, the softness of Remus’s lips against yours, the way Sirius’s thumb circles your nipple with infinite patience.

But the waves crashing inside you don’t stop.

Your vision blurs, the room spinning gently, and your body, overloaded and trembling, finally gives out.

Darkness claims you.

When you wake up, it’s to the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, casting a pale glow across the room.

You blink slowly, your head heavy but strangely peaceful.

You’re in Sirius’s bed, the sheets tangled around you, the faint scent of him still lingering in the air.

Panic flares briefly in your chest, memories from the night before rushing back in a chaotic flood.

You sit up carefully, feeling the cool breeze against your flushed skin, and notice something resting on the bedside table: a parchment neatly folded.

Heart pounding, you reach for it, unfolding the note written in James’s familiar handwriting.

“Hey! we had to head out early for Quidditch practice. We finished the assignment, so don’t worry about a thing. We’ll catch up later. — J, S & R.”

You bite your lip, cheeks burning as you glance down at the parchment lying next to it — the completed charms assignment, all neatly written and corrected with their notes and doodles in the margins.

A mix of embarrassment and warmth floods through you.

Last night feels like a secret world you stepped into, one you weren’t quite sure you were ready for, yet don’t regret in the slightest.

You take a deep breath, smoothing your skirt and pulling your shirt back over your shoulders, before disappearing through the door.

*

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