Oooh with that new arranged marriage as you just posted, what if someone says something really disparaging to reader about being an outsider in her own kingdom and then in her own marriage, and reader suddenly starts reading james’a interactions with Remus and Sirius differently and she feels really bad, buttt in the meantime the marauders have grown fond of her so they’re not too happy when she starts pulling away?
Thank you for your request dusts <3
cw: muggle au, arranged marriage, hurt with no comfort (yet)
poly!marauders x princess!reader ♡ 1.8k words
James makes you smile. It makes sense that he would—he’s sweet, funny, handsome enough to frighten butterflies into flight in your stomach—but it almost alarms you how true it is. Half the time you’re with him you’re giggling like a schoolgirl at every other word from his mouth. Being asked to leave the castle grounds so that the media can get photos of James showing you about your new kingdom should feel like a chore. Your smile should feel phony, the act of holding your fiancee’s hand forced and awkward, but after an afternoon of touring all of James’ favorite haunts your cheeks ache with genuine happiness.
“Of all the people who should be getting free drinks.” James shakes his head, taking another sip of his apple cider. He hasn’t let go of your hand even though you’re back inside the castle, and despite the forecast you’d noted before leaving this morning you haven’t felt the chill so long as he’s been touching you.
“I know.” You sigh, blowing some steam off your own drink. “I feel kind of bad for taking this.”
“Wha—hey, I wasn’t talking about you. You’re different.”
You grin up at him. (See? It’s impossible to stop.) “How am I different?”
“Well, you’re a girl.”
“Mhm, and?”
“Pretty girls always get free stuff.” You come to a stop in front of James’ room, his shrug casual as your hands swing between you. “They wouldn’t have to know who you were.”
A warmth spreads from your chest, washing over your face and down your arms. You wonder if James can feel it tingling in your fingertips. “I’ll see you later?” you ask softly.
James smiles. “Yeah, I’ve just got a couple of things to handle first. I’ll come find you, yeah? For dinner?”
“Sounds great.” Your answering smile is irrepressible. He gives your hand a squeeze before letting go, slipping into his room.
It’s difficult, not to collapse against the closed door with a sigh like a lovesick girl in a film. You’ve no doubt that to anyone watching you give the general impression anyway, huge smile still stuck to your face and hearts in your eyes.
You hear Sirius’ voice from inside James’ room. You’re sure Remus is in there as well, his presence only less audible than Sirius’. You suspect they’re James’ couple of things to handle. You don’t mind; James likes to have at least some time alone with his friends each day, and you wouldn’t begrudge him it. It’s sweet. Honestly, it only endears you to James more that he has such close friends, friends which go all the way back to childhood and whom he clearly loves fiercely. You’re glad you’re getting to know them as well—not only because Remus and Sirius are nice to be around, but you don’t imagine it can be a bad thing to get along with your partner’s friends. Sirius seemed to have some trouble getting used to you, but you think you might be finally moving past that; if you’re lucky, you could all be quite happy once you and James are married.
You meander the halls a bit on your way back to your room, still buzzing with a restless, giddy energy, a throat-squeezing feeling of possibility. It’s as you pass the open doorway of an office that you hear your name.
“...see how he was holding her hand? It’s cruel.”
You stop on the other side of the door. You don’t grow up in a palace without developing a healthy proclivity for eavesdropping; if people in Gryffindor are talking about you, you want to know what they’re saying.
“They’re engaged.” That’s Lily’s voice, matter-of-fact. “Holding hands is part of the deal.”
“It is when it’s for the cameras.” You recognize Mary’s cadence now, too.
“You know James. He’s touchy with everyone.”
“Exactly, but she doesn’t know that,” Mary argues. She sounds the tiniest bit upset. “James can—I know he’s only being friendly, he doesn’t mean to, but he can flirt without having any idea he’s doing it. She’s going to get the wrong idea.”
Your stomach quiets. You can’t tell if the butterflies you’ve been feeling all afternoon have frozen in place or fallen dead.
“I know.” Lily’s voice is a murmur. “I know, but what do you want him to do? I’m sure he wants to tell her everything, but Remus and Sirius will know better than to trust her yet. She’s only been here a couple of weeks. If they tell her and she calls off the wedding, how would that look for Gryffindor? Or if she tells anyone else?”
Mary sighs.
“He’s the prince,” Lily says gently. “He has to consider the whole kingdom, and we can’t afford for this to get out. Not everyone is ready for…for…”
“For their king to be in a gay polycule?”
You choke on air.
“It’s not like it would be the first time,” Mary offers.
“Allegedly,” Lily says, though there’s a hint of a smile in her tone.
Mary scoffs. “Right, allegedly.”
There’s a long pause. You hear the scrape of wood against the floor and imagine Lily scooting her chair closer to Mary, playing with the ends of the other girl’s hair.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “It does feel…well, it’s not ideal. Maybe I can talk to James about being a little less…James.”
Mary’s voice lowers. “I just feel bad for her. She left her home, her family didn’t even seem to hesitate about sending her away—forever—and now she’s an outsider in her own marriage.”
The barb of their pity stabs through you. Lily murmurs something in response, but you don’t stick around to hear it. You’re done being gossiped about for the day.
You’re moving so quickly, you walk past the hallway to your room twice before finding it. There’s something warm and sour curdling in your gut, and you’re—you don’t know what you are. Hurt, indignant, nauseous. You feel like an idiot.
It all seems so transparent now. Horrifyingly, glaringly obvious. Remus’ hand on James’ knee when his bouncing was shaking the table. The private look on Sirius’ face when James fished a leaf out of his hair. How comfortable they all are with each other, touching and joking and speaking in a language you hoped—foolishly—you might one day crack. But it’s not meant to be shared with you.
You’ve thought, once or twice, that James hasn’t seemed as nervous as you are when you spend time together. Not since that first day. You told yourself it was part of his personality—he’s a confident man, not the sort to trip over his own feet when he likes someone, you shouldn’t read into it—but now, of course, this makes sense. None of this is real to him. The performance is as much for you as it is for the cameras, meant to keep you happy and incurious.
You would never have gone along with it if you’d known. It’s no wonder Sirius hasn’t been friendly to you; you’re encroaching on his relationship. On all of theirs. You’ve flirted with James in front of all of Remus and Sirius, planned dates, talked about your wedding. You wouldn’t have—god, you’re not trying to stand in the way of what they have. Even when you thought they were only friends, their love for each other was so obvious they couldn’t hope to mask it. You would never want to get in the way of that. You don’t want to do this to them.
But just as the acidic tang of guilt rises in your throat, another force shoves against it. You aren’t doing this to them. Every part you’ve played in this has been against your will. If you’d gone into this arrangement with your eyes open, you could have done things completely differently. Only you hadn’t been given that choice.
You don’t think James hates you. Remus might not, either. But whatever progress you’ve made with each of them seems pointless now. The impression you had upon first entering Gryffindor has never felt more true. No one wants you here. They never did.
You’re every bit the girl in a film now, laying on your bed letting tears slip down to wet the pillow. You register the cliche and do nothing about it.
You don’t know what to do. You can’t go home. Riddle is at Peleria’s doorstep. Even if you could get the King and Queen to commit Gryffindor’s armies without going through with the marriage, Lily is right; it would look bad for both of you to call it off now. You have to marry James. It’s all that’s been asked of you. It’s all you can offer your family, your kingdom. You can’t go home.
Gryffindor was supposed to be your new home.
A soft knock on your door summons you from the smog of your self-pity. You sniffle, scrubbing mostly dried tears from under your eyes and checking your reflection in the mirror before saying, “Yes?”
Remus pokes his head in. The sight of him makes your chest hurt—the slight uptilt to his mouth, the kindness of it. You wonder if this whole time, he’s only been kind to you out of sympathy. “Sirius is jealous that you and James got to spend all day in town,” he says. “He wants to go out for dinner. Are you ready?”
“Um.” Your voice comes out rough, and you clear your throat. “I’m a bit tired, actually. You guys go ahead.”
Remus’ almost-smile fades. “If you’re tired, we can eat here.”
“That’s okay.”
“Sirius doesn’t always have to get his way,” he says wryly. “It’ll be good for him.”
“I think I’m just going to…” You give your pillow a lame pat. “...go to bed.”
You don’t look out the window, at the sun hardly beginning to set; neither does Remus. His brows furrow, and you fuss with your comforter so as not to meet his eyes. Too clever, too discerning.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
“Hm?”
“You sound a bit hoarse.”
“Oh.” You press your lips into a smile. “I think it’s just the weather.”
He makes a soft hum. “I’ll have someone bring you a tea. We’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Yeah,” you murmur, lying back down. “Thanks.”
The door clicks shut behind him. A wave of feeling washes over you—silly, feeling abandoned when you’ve asked to be left behind. A couple more tears squeeze from your eyes nonetheless. They trace meandering paths down your face, the wetness cooling in their wake.
You wonder if this is how your life will be. Going out in front of cameras with James, smiling, holding hands, then delivering him to his true partners so you can return to your room. Alone. This arrangement isn’t what you thought it was, but you can play the part. For Gryffindor and for Peleria, for James and Sirius and Remus, you can.
You hope they’re enjoying their night without you.
GIRL I GOT DE BEST IDEA AAAAAAAAAAAAA how would The poly!maurders react to y/n sleeping naked? I sleep naked and that thought just came to me mind
"Darling?" Sirius croons, pressing gently against your shoulder to rouse you from your sleep, "Darling, we're back."
There's no response from you, and Sirius pushes ever-so-slightly harder.
"Christ, Sirius, let's not shove her off the bed!" James gripes, muscling Sirius out of the way to lean down and press his lips to your forehead, "Love, wake up? We brought you dessert."
There's still no response from your unconscious form, and James suspects it's because you're nestled in a cocoon of warmth that's keeping you deeply asleep. He feels his heart crack slightly as he reaches for the edge of the blanket, feeling cruel, but it has to be done.
"Right, let's take this off then, and we can- oh, bloody hell!"
What's revealed beneath the blankets is your naked form, curled up tightly against the cold but now completely exposed to the room. Sirius's brows shoot up, and James drops the covers in order to clamp his hands over his eyes.
"James," Remus hums as you stir from your sleep. He quickly flips the covers over you again, giving you privacy as you wake, "You've seen her naked before."
"But not like this!" James blabbers, letting Sirius bundle him in a reassuring hug, "Darling, if you can hear me, I'm so sorry. I didn't know you'd be naked under there. Didn't mean to flash you to the whole lot of us."
Remus watches as you drag a knuckle through the sleep gathered in the corners of your eyes, rubbing away the drowsiness as a groggy smile grows on your face.
"S'okay, Jamie," You laugh, your voice raspy from disuse, "I slept naked 'cause I knew you'd find me."
The Secret in the Castle Walls 2 - poly maruders royal au
𝓹𝓸𝓵𝔂!𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓾𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝔁 𝓻𝓾𝓷𝓪𝔀𝓪𝔂 𝓹𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓼𝓼!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻
Summary: A runaway princess living as a maid in Gryffindor Castle is determined to stay invisible and forget the crown she left behind. But when she accidentally uncovers the Marauders’ forbidden secret, she’s dragged back into danger—caught between protecting her own identity and saving the three men whose lives could be ruined by what she saw.
Warning: secret identity, class divide, betrayal, forbidden relationships, emotional tension, mild violence, guilt, secrecy, angst, slow burn , mention of blood , toxic brother , reader has canon features (sry guys)
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To the Honored Monarchs and Regents of the Allied Kingdoms,
It is with a heavy heart that I, Prince Alaric of Solis, write to inform you of a grievous matter that has befallen our realm.
On the eve of our late King’s illness worsening, my beloved sister — Her Royal Highness Princess Aurelia of Solis — vanished from her chambers under mysterious circumstances. Despite the tireless efforts of our guards and council, no trace of her has yet been found. The circumstances suggest foul play, and there is grave concern for her safety.
Princess Aurelia is twenty summers of age, of fair complexion and golden hair, bearing upon her left collarbone the mark of Solis — a sun entwined with flame, proof of her royal lineage. She was last seen wearing a nightdress of white silk and a cloak of deep crimson, though her attire may have changed since her disappearance.
I implore all neighboring kingdoms to remain vigilant. Any traveler or servant whose origins are unclear, any woman matching the Princess’s likeness or age, must be brought to attention. Should Her Highness be discovered or any information regarding her whereabouts arise, such intelligence is to be sent directly to the Solis Court.
Let it be known that harboring or concealing a member of Solis royalty — intentionally or otherwise — will be regarded as an act of treason against the Crown of Solis and shall be answered accordingly.
May the gods grant swiftness to our search and justice to those who would harm our house.
By my hand and seal,Prince Alaric of Solis
Acting Regent of the Sunlit Throne
Written at Solis Palace, under the sign of the waning moon.
You had reread the letter again and again until the ink bled at the edges of your sight, until the words rearranged themselves into a thing both familiar and monstrous. Prince Alaric of Solis… Princess Aurelia… vanished… mark of Solis… treason… Each line landed like a flat, cold stone on your ribs. The proclamation’s seal — a stamped sun with flame — stared up at you from the paper with the same indifferent authority that had chased you from your home.
It had been found wedged between a pile of unclaimed shirts on the top shelf of Lord Potter’s wardrobe — a careless place, and therefore perfect. Maris, thin-shouldered and loud, had shrieked and waved it at the laundry table until half the servants clustered around, linen forgotten. Fingers trembled; gossip flew like sparks.
“Did you see it?” Maris hissed, eyes bright as if she’d swallowed a secret jewel. “They say she’s the king’s own daughter. Twenty summers. A mark on her collarbone!”
“Princess?” Hestia’s voice was all breathless delight and fear. “Do you think — do you think she could be here? In the castle? Imagine her asking for work and—” she trailed off, already tasting the story.
Around them, the other maids embroidered the tale with the hungry inventiveness of people who had too many hours and not enough belonging. Someone suggested a ransom, someone else whispered of kidnappers and highwaymen. The words folded and unfolded into versions that were always larger, always more spectacular than the last.
You moved through the room as if through water. Glass clinked somewhere; the scent of lemon oil and damp wool hung in the air. They jabbered at you, nudging, showing the page like a relic. “You should read it, dove,” Maris urged, thrusting the paper at your face. “Isn’t it strange? Found in Lord Potter’s rooms—what a scandal.”
Your hands remembered things your heart tried to forget: the scissors, the falling gold; your fingers stained with dye that had smelled like ink and desperation. You felt the phantom weight of boots as you’d fled the palace. Every scrap of silk you’d buried in a trunk, every midnight plan to slip away again, all of it tightened into a single, immediate fear — that the letter would travel faster than you could unmake yourself.
You mouthed words to yourself that weren’t spoken. Don’t show them. Don’t let them look. Don’t let anyone trace the mark. A thousand small instructions, each a thread pulling at the cloth of your composed face.
Maris leaned closer, breath hot with rumor. “They say the prince is demanding anyone who’s seen a woman of her description be reported to the Solis Court directly. Imagine what they’d do if they discovered she was hiding here…”
Imagined. The word ignited a dozen scenarios: questions from guards at the gate, the red-inked letters of inquiry, a search of the servants’ quarters. You pictured the patrols, the sharp-faced men pushing open trunks, the way your gosling of a lying heart would sound against your ribs if they found the cut hair hidden under your bed.
Someone reached for the letter, and your hand moved without thought — faster than caution — a soft, instinctual motion to cover what needed hiding. You felt the edges of the wax seal graze your thumb; warmth bloomed there as if from a living thing. It steadied you, oddly, to hold it.
“No one else should see this,” you murmured, because it was true in more ways than the maids understood. They stared at you. “Someone should fold it back and put it where it was found. For safety.”
They blinked at your sudden seriousness, then nodded. “Aye, dove, you’re right,” Hestia agreed, handing the folded page to Maris. The paper left your sight like an ember snuffed in cloth.
.. ▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰
It had been a week since that night — the walk-in that none of them wanted to talk about but couldn’t seem to stop thinking about. You hadn’t said a word since, not a sarcastic remark, not even one of your half-smiles that always came at the worst possible times. You moved through the castle as though you were half-ghost, careful and contained, keeping your gaze low and your tone soft. It was so unlike you that even the walls seemed to notice. Silence had never suited you; it wasn’t part of your nature. And yet, there it was — sharp, deliberate, and heavy enough to make all four of them feel it whenever you entered a room.
At first, James had tried to brush it off — said you were probably embarrassed, or maybe just tired. Sirius had joked about it once, then stopped when no one laughed. Remus, ever the reasonable one, had insisted that it was none of their business. But still, something about you had shifted in a way that none of them could ignore. The way you walked — it wasn’t the quick, uncertain shuffle of a servant trying not to be noticed. It was measured, graceful, almost deliberate. Every gesture, every turn of your wrist or tilt of your head seemed… trained. Like you were used to being watched. Like you were used to commanding a room, not slipping through it unseen. Even when you bowed your head or bit back your words, it didn’t feel like submission — it felt like restraint. And that, more than anything, made them stare longer than they should have.
Then came the letter.
The missive from Solis had arrived sealed in gold wax, the symbol of a sun wreathed in flame gleaming faintly beneath the candlelight. It spoke of tragedy, of disappearance, of a missing princess whose absence had thrown an entire kingdom into unease. It was the sort of political drama they usually couldn’t care less about — faraway courts and their endless scandals. But this one... this one felt closer somehow. Maybe it was the desperation in the prince’s words, maybe it was the eerie timing of it all, or maybe it was because when James read it aloud, your name was the first thing that flickered across their minds.
They didn’t say it out loud, of course. Not then. But each of them had seen the way your face drained of color when you overheard the name “Solis” in the corridors. The way your hands had trembled when you’d been caught holding the discarded letter later that evening. The way your posture straightened — shoulders back, chin lifted — as though instinct alone wouldn’t let you look small, even when you tried. You spoke differently too. Not in words, but in manner — the careful enunciation, the quiet authority that laced even the simplest sentences. It wasn’t arrogance; it was breeding. It was the kind of composure that came from years of etiquette lessons and royal dining halls, not from servant quarters.
They began to notice the little things after that. How the other maids unconsciously made room when you walked by. How Sirius once joked that you gave orders better than James did — and no one disagreed. How your presence had a strange gravity to it, something no one could quite explain but none could deny. You carried yourself like someone who had once been obeyed. Like someone who had forgotten how not to be seen as more.
Still, it was ridiculous to even think it. You, a princess? A runaway royal hiding in plain sight? It sounded like something out of a bard’s tale. And yet… the thought lingered. Soft and dangerous, curling at the edges of their curiosity. Because if it wasn’t true, then why did it feel like it was? Why did your silence seem less like fear and more like a secret?
.. ▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰
The silverware gleamed beneath the candlelight, each piece aligned so precisely it looked almost ceremonial. You’d been standing there for over an hour, your hands moving automatically—fork, knife, goblet, repeat—trying to ignore the way your heart wouldn’t quite settle. The ballroom had been transformed for the night: crystal chandeliers hung like frozen constellations, the banners of every visiting kingdom draped from the rafters, and the crest of Gryffindor embroidered in gold along the walls. But it was the one crest that hadn’t been hung yet—the blazing sun of Solis—that made your stomach twist. You had rehearsed this in your mind for days. The plan was simple: help prepare for the banquet, make yourself scarce before the Solis delegation arrived, and disappear to the servant’s wing until the ball was over. You knew the timing by heart. The royal carriage would reach the gates an hour before sunset. The prince and his knights would be received in the courtyard. They’d dine, they’d smile, they’d pretend to be gracious. You would be long gone by then. At least, that’s how it was supposed to go. You adjusted a goblet, forcing your fingers to stop trembling. You couldn’t afford mistakes. Not when your brother would be here—Alaric, the name alone scraping against your thoughts like glass. You could still hear his voice from that letter, smooth and commanding, the same voice that used to whisper orders when you were children and threats when you were older. If he saw you now—here, dressed as a maid, alive when the world thought you gone—it would all come crashing down. Everything you’d built, every small taste of freedom, gone in an instant. You exhaled, pressing a hand against your apron to still the wild beating in your chest. The prince and his so called knights were supposed to be visiting the market square right now, showing face, charming nobles, doing whatever royal men did to distract the world from the cracks in their thrones. There was no reason for them to come here yet. You were safe. You had time. The last knife clinked softly into place. You straightened, brushed the dust from your skirt, and allowed yourself one small breath of relief— —and then froze. A sound drifted through the vast, quiet hall. Low, careless, unhurried. A hum. A faint whistle threading through the still air, casual in a way that made your blood run cold. No one else should’ve been here. Not this early. Not anyone who would hum. Your hands stilled on the tablecloth as you forced yourself to look up. The reflection in the polished silver caught it first—3 dark silhouette standing behind you, half-lit by the flickering chandelier light.
The voice came next, teasing and familiar in a way that made your heart lurch painfully.
“Didn’t think the Princess of Solis would be setting the table herself.”
.. ▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰
You turned — slowly, terrified to confirm what you already knew. And there he was.
Prince James of Gryffindor.
The golden heir himself stood in the doorway, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, flanked by his knights — Sirius Black, leaning against the marble like the world belonged to him, and Remus Lupin, quiet but sharp-eyed, taking in every inch of the scene.
Your hands trembled before you hid them behind your back. A nervous, unsure chuckle escaped — soft, too small for the grand hall you were standing in. Your head tilted slightly, a futile attempt at composure, the tiniest shake of disbelief slipping through.
“I…” you started, voice catching, “—didn’t realize Gryffindor royalty made a habit of sneaking up on people.”
James’s gaze didn’t waver. “Only when the people shouldn’t be here,” he said lightly, though the edge beneath the words was impossible to miss.
Remus’s voice broke through the tension first, low but sharp. “James.”
But the prince didn’t look away. He stood perfectly still, gaze locked on yours, something unreadable flickering behind the calm. His jaw tightened, ever so slightly, before he spoke again — quieter this time, but the softness in his tone only made the words cut deeper.
“Tell me, princess,” he said, the title barely a whisper, “how long did you plan to keep hiding?”
The world seemed to still around you.
Your breath caught, though you tried to mask it, fingers curling around the edge of the table for balance. The air had gone heavy, like even the walls were waiting for your answer. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears — too loud, too frantic — and you hated that he could probably see the tremor running through your hands.
“I—” You stopped, swallowing hard. The lie was right there, trembling at the back of your throat. All you had to do was say it. One word, one denial, and maybe he’d let it go. Maybe.
But you hesitated.
Just a second too long.
Sirius, who had been lounging lazily against the far wall, straightened. The teasing gleam in his eyes faded, replaced by something almost startled. He took a step closer, his usual grin nowhere to be found. “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. “It is her.”
Remus went still beside him. His eyes flicked from you to James, searching both faces for confirmation neither of you wanted to give. You could see the calculation in his expression — the quiet understanding of what this revelation could mean if word ever got out.
“I don’t know what you think you’ve found,” you said finally, voice breaking the suffocating silence. You forced yourself to stand straighter, lifting your chin even though your pulse was racing. “But you’re mistaken.”
James’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice was quiet, steady. “You really want me to believe that?”
You tried to look away, but his stare anchored you in place — the kind that saw far too much, the kind that made lying feel impossible.
“I have no reason to trust Gryffindor’s judgment,” you said carefully, a sharp edge bleeding into your tone, hoping it would distract from the faint quiver in your voice. Then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out — sharper, pettier, far too human.
“Especially when its prince and knights seem to think sneaking around after dark makes them untouchable.”
The silence that followed was brutal.
Sirius froze, his usual grin faltering for the first time. Remus’s brow arched ever so slightly, his mouth twitching like he was half a second away from a sigh. And James — James’s expression didn’t move, but his eyes did. A flicker of something dark passed through them. Recognition. Memory.
“So you do remember that night,” he said quietly.
You felt your stomach drop. You hadn’t meant to confirm anything. The words had just slipped — anger and fear spilling into one dangerous truth.
You swallowed hard, forcing your voice back to calm. “I remember seeing three men who clearly thought the rules didn’t apply to them.” You tilted your head slightly, feigning nonchalance, though your pulse betrayed you. “Can’t say it left a great impression.”
Sirius let out a low whistle. “And here I thought we were charming.”
Remus’s tone was drier. “You thought wrong.”
But James didn’t join them. He just kept watching you — silent, calculating, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth as if he’d finally pieced together something he hadn’t realized he was missing.
“I see,” he murmured finally. “You remember us. You saw us. And now you’re pretending to be no one.”
Your chest tightened. “I’m not pretending to be anything, your highness. I’m just trying to work.”
“Right,” he said, but the word carried more meaning than it should have. “Working. Hiding. Same thing, isn’t it?”
You glared at him, but it didn’t stop the small, knowing curve of his lips.
For a long moment, none of you spoke. Just the steady, unbearable tension stretching between the four of you — his knights uneasy, you cornered, and James standing there like he’d just uncovered the edge of a secret he wasn’t supposed to touch.
Then, finally, he stepped back. “We’re done here,” he said to his men, though his gaze didn’t leave yours. “For now.”
You exhaled — shaky, quiet, almost relieved. Almost.
But then he spoke again. “Actually…”
You froze.
Sirius looked at him sharply. “James.” Remus sighed under his breath. “Oh no.”
The prince’s eyes were still on you, unreadable — gold and storm all at once. “There’s a ball tonight,” he said slowly, as if testing the sound of his own words. “You’ve heard, haven’t you?”
You blinked, uncertain. “I— yes, of course, my lord. I’m expected to help—”
“That’s not what I meant.”
The interruption was soft but final. He took a step closer — not threatening, but impossibly sure. The light from the tall windows fell across his face, painting his expression in gold and shadow.
“I meant,” James continued, his voice low and deliberate, “that you’ll be there. With me.”
The words hit you like a physical thing.
Sirius choked on a laugh. “You’re joking.” Remus pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ‘of course he’d do this.’ But James didn’t so much as blink.
You stared at him, stunned. “You— you can’t be serious.”
“Completely,” he replied, that infuriating calm never once slipping. “You carry yourself like someone who belongs in that ballroom more than half the nobles attending. So, why not?”
“Because I’m a servant,” you said, forcing the words out even as your voice wavered.
He tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Are you?”
That single question stole the breath from your lungs. It wasn’t taunting — it was quiet, curious, like he was already sure of the answer and just waiting for you to admit it.
Remus stepped forward, voice steady but cautious. “James, this isn’t wise. If anyone sees—”
“They won’t,” James cut in smoothly. “She’ll be masked, like everyone else.”
Sirius gave a disbelieving snort. “Brilliant. Invite the mysterious maid-who’s-definitely-not-a-maid to the most public event of the season. What could go wrong?”
But James only smiled, eyes still locked on you. “Everything,” he said softly. “Which is why I’d very much like to see how she handles it.”
You could feel your pulse hammering in your throat. “Why?” you managed, barely above a whisper. “Why would you do that?”
He didn’t look away. “Because,” he said after a pause, “if you’re truly no one — then there’s nothing to lose.”
could u write an end-of-exam-season celebration type thingy with polym?? take that wherever you want! exams have just finished & i've deleted all my alarms before 10am... love your work! thank you thank you! 💝💝💝🧁🧁🧁
congrats, hunny! I hope that your break is going well and you are getting lots of rest!
520 words
You shut your laptop with audible finality, releasing a loud breath and rubbing your eyes aggressively. Your miniature spectacle was enough to get Sirius to turn around in his barstool and give a questioning look to where you sat at the dining table, though he didn’t have to ask, because James looked up excitedly from the cutting board.
“Was that the last one, angel?" He set down his knife and walked over to you before even waiting for your response.
“Yes. Thank god.” You groaned as you shoved the offending computer away and laid face down onto the table. You heard Sirius snicker as James started rubbing your aching back.
“That was your last assignment?” Sirius asked to clarify. You didn’t verbally respond, only nodding your head. “That’s great, baby! Do you feel better?”
You brought your head back up as Remus came into the room. “I do, I’m just really tired.” You laughed.
“Well you’ll be getting plenty of rest.” Remus said, half order, half reassurance as he started on the chopping James had abandoned.
“You need it, babe.” Sirius was a mix of genuine and teasing. “You’ve been really worn out recently.” When you raised a questioning brow at him he grinned and raised his hands up defensively. “Don't get me wrong, the wearied look is pretty hot on you, but it’s not very maintainable.”
“I think I’m going to sleep until two tomorrow.” You leaned against James’ hip and closed your eyes, letting out a satisfied hum when he started to pet your head.
“Two isn’t even that late.” Sirius said, smiling with playful defensiveness. “I do that all the time.”
Remus rolled his eyes, ignoring his boyfriend's comment. “Considering how little sleep you’ve been getting as of late, it really isn’t.”
“I don’t have training tomorrow, maybe we could all have a lie in?” James suggested.
“Fuck yes! Everyone is always out of bed by the time I wake up.” Sirius pouted, giving his (very practiced) puppy dog eyes to the room. “I’ve been lacking a cuddle buddy.”
“Hey!” James said, offendedly. “We cuddled yesterday for like, hours.” Sirius waved him off.
“Details, details. My point still stands.” He looked over at Remus. “What do you say, moons?”
“I could go for a lie in.” He said, placing a clinking lid onto the pot to let his dinner simmer before walking over to you and placing a kiss on your cheek. “Proud of you, dovey. You’ve been working really hard.”
“Thank you.” You said bashfully. You weren’t the most comfortable being praised for your accomplishments. (Even though that happens nearly daily when you’re around the boys). “How long until dinner, Remmy?”
“It shouldn’t be much longer.” He said, going to rummage through the pantry. You looked at him questioningly until he pulled out a small bundle of paper wrappers. James gasped in surprise.
“Are you–?” He said in shock.
“Yes, Jamie.” Remus said flatly, crouching down to your level. “Have some chocolate, lovely.” You looked at it in feigned bewilderment. Everyone liked to pretend that Remus was to his chocolate like a dragon to its gold, ferociously possessive, even though he doled it out like smiley-face stickers when any of you held slight discomfort or microscopic achievements.
"Don't go giving away your treasure, I haven't gotten my grade back yet." You joked, but took a few squares anyway.
"This is just based on completion," He said, faux stern. "Imagine what you'll get from your predicted success."
Can I just say how grateful I am that you write for the autistic community? Thank you sm, I can hardly find any fics in the fandoms I’m in that include us!!! <3
If your requests are open, could you maybe write Remus x Autistic!Reader who has super good pattern recognition, and the boys are convinced she can tell the future because she keeps predicting things that will happen, so Remus helps her explain to the boys what autism is?
If not, no worries—thank you anyway!!! <3
ahh i’m so glad that i can give us a little bit of recognition!!
“be straight with me,” sirius says and you frown. “are you a time traveler?”
remus chuckles when you look at him with confusion written all over your face.
“a time traveler? i don’t think they’re real sirius.”
james shakes his head and adds to sirius’ claim, “you’re always able to predict stuff that’ll happen. like last week, when we went to the cinema and you figured out the ending before any of us.”
you scratch at your arm as you nod. “yeah but that was just because of what the characters were doing jamie.”
“but you were completely correct, like everything you said happened.”
remus rubs at your back as you sigh. “want me to tell them, dove?” you nod with a frown.
“have you idiots ever heard of pattern recognition?” remus takes his time to explain with you supplementing information where needed and by the end sirius and james were understanding of everything.
“but can we still cal you our time traveler?” james asks and you laugh.
Our poor sweetheart of a reporter is just being used as Sirius’ punching bag left right and center! If you like this idea I would love to see a continuation of the angst from part 4 of the rockstar series, where reader kinda just accepts that Sirius hates her, and thinks the other boys just see her as a burden they have to deal with cause of the situation. So she just fully detaches, goes completely professional and doesn’t bother with the extra effort to be friends with them cause she’s not about to chase after them like that if they’ve made their feelings clear. I think the boys would realize in the absence that they miss her and maybe James and Remus would knock some sense into Sirius about how he’s been treating her. Also no pressure at all, absolutely love the series!!!
Babe the way I've hoardeddd this request! Thanks for the idea, hope you're okay with it being put to use much later than you originally thought <3
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
part 12 | masterlist
rockstar!marauders x journalist!reader ♡ 1.3k words
You don’t leave your room until after dark, when the bus loads to bring The Marauders crew to their second show of the weekend. There’s no point in it; you won’t have a good opportunity to interview the boys until after the show anyway, and you’re too tired to be around people anytime your tape recorder isn’t running. For the feature that comes out of this to be good requires some intimacy, but you can set the limit.
You do feel like you’ve achieved the exclusivity you were after. You’ve learned a lot. Not just the big stuff—not just Remus’ spells of poor health and James’ encounter with the unofficial queen of music recording—but details fans wouldn’t know just from seeing the band onstage. That Sirius is funnier than he seems. Not just the loud, showy kind, but funny in how he’ll let the others rag on him, how he’ll put on airs and allow himself to appear distinctly uncool to make his friends laugh. That Remus is not only moody and mysterious, but bashful at times. Often, he rolls his eyes to cover his blush. That James is…well, James is exactly as he appears. That’s the surprise of him. He’s really not too good to be true.
These things are already enough. They’ll be of interest to fans, invite them in, make them feel privy to something that lingers beneath the music. You don’t need the other gossip-column stuff. But what you don’t have enough of yet is what you really came along for: quotes about The Marauders’ upcoming album.
You’ve been too pliable. You let yourself get too excited about being behind the curtain. Somehow, while you weren’t looking, the curtain tangled you all up until you nearly forgot which side you were on before. The camaraderie between the boys is so easy, it’ll sweep you up, make you think you’ve known them all along, too. That’s part of the magic of The Marauders, perhaps. It worked like a charm on you.
Not anymore, you tell yourself sternly on your way down to the bus. You’re here to do a job. You’re here for yourself. There’s a wall between you and the band by the very nature of your role here, and your role is to make that wall appear transparent, not evaporate it. You won’t let yourself get so close again.
Closeness has only given you less to write about.
You return Lily’s polite nod as you step onboard the bus. Sirius is giving you some kind of look, but you pretend not to notice it poking at your periphery. You ignore too James’ patting of the extra space on his bench, passing the boys by to sit instead in an empty seat a few rows behind them. Close enough to overhear; not close enough to engage. As you should have been this whole while.
“Have a lie in this morning?” Remus asks you anyway.
“Yeah,” you reply.
James turns fully around to speak to you, folding his arms atop of his seat. “I hope you’ve rested up,” he says. “Tomorrow, we’re going to Cadbury World.”
“Oh.” It takes a second, but you find the right smile. Pleasant and distantly apologetic. “You all have fun, but I think I’m going to stay back. I have to edit this article for Tuesday.”
James looks put out. You pull out your notepad before you can linger on it.
“What’s the article about?” asks Remus. It may only be your own new wariness, but you think you detect a hint of vigilance in his tone.
You glance at Sirius on instinct to see if he’s eyeing you with the same distrust. His dark-rimmed stare is heavy, but it’s not…it’s not what you expect. There’s no accusation there. Sirius seems watchful, but not like he’s anticipating something in particular. Like he’s waiting to see what you do next.
You wonder if he thinks you’re angry with him. You’re not. You don’t blame him for thinking you’d sell James out for a story; Sirius is used to dealing with real journalists. He’s learnt to be calculating, to put himself as a shield between people like you and anything—or anyone—he wants to protect. To anticipate the worst you could do so he knows when to be ready. If you were half the journalist Spellbound thinks you are, you would have done it.
You just aren’t sure if you are that journalist. You aren’t sure if you want to be.
“It’s something I was working on before I got here,” you say to mollify Remus.
“Are you feeling alright?” asks Sirius.
You feel your brows draw in tight, forgetting for a moment to control your expression. “I feel fine, why?”
He shrugs. “You seem rather tired all of a sudden.”
You put your pleasant smile back on. Sirius frowns. “I guess all this staying up from dusk to dawn is finally getting to me.”
“Ah, yeah.” James sets his chin on his forearms, his eyes big with sympathy. “I crashed earlier in the tour, too. I think it’s a sort of hurdle you have to get over. Sorry.”
“We can tuck you in with Remus tonight,” says Sirius lightly. A pink blush blooms over Remus’ cheeks. “He’s got all sorts of methods for getting a good sleep. We’ll have you fully nocturnal in no time, babe.”
You direct your stare toward your notepad, trying to focus enough to make sense of the first sentence of the article you’re meant to be editing. “I’m not sure that will work out very well for when I eventually have to be awake during the day again.”
“Why would you ever do that?” Sirius jokes.
You’re tempted to look up and raise an eyebrow at him; you don’t. “Once I have what I need for the feature, I’m guessing Spellbound will want me working normal business hours.”
There’s a pause.
“Well,” says Sirius, “I don’t know why you’d ever work for them, in that case. They sound unhinged.”
You try not to feel anything about the obviousness of James’ upset when he asks, “Are you nearly done with the feature already?”
It’s almost laughable. As if they’ve given you near enough information to write the feature; you hardly have enough for a few paragraphs. But, it is like James to be optimistic. “Not quite.”
Sirius tsks. “Guess we’re not going to be rid of you very soon, then.”
You keep your expression neutral as you look up at him. “I’ll do my best to work efficiently.”
Dark brows descend over stormcloud eyes. “Sure you’re not feeling ill?”
“I’m fine.”
“You should come to Cadbury World with us,” says James, looking worried now, too. “You seem like you could maybe use a break.”
The useless mush of your heart softens instinctively at the earnestness in his voice. “Thanks,” you say, “but I think I ought to stay on task. We all want me to finish up and get out of your hair, right?”
Remus makes a soft sound. “No one’s said that.”
“Maybe we can do an interview after the show?” you go on. “If you’re ready, I can ask some more questions about the album. I know it’s not completely done yet, but the point of me being here is to get accounts of the process.”
“I thought we agreed you’d be taking us to dinner first,” Sirius hums, in that teasing way of his.
You don’t rise to the bait. “If you’d like to have the interview at a restaurant, that can be arranged.” You have no clue how you’ll finance it, but that can be a problem for later (and possibly for Spellbound).
It’s not just Sirius who frowns at you now; all three of the boys look at you like you’ve boarded the bus with serpents for hair.
“O…kay,” says Sirius. “We’ll see.”
“Sure,” you reply. The familiar, hard edge of determination slots into place in your middle; a welcome feeling. “We can see.”
I saw that you’re taking requests for the boulevard is not that bad, and I thought what if the tables were turned and reader got injured? I wonder how they’d react! Maybe reader gets lost in the crowd and thinks they’re gonna leave her, but they actually notice her disappearance and look for her. They’d get worried when they find her injured and realise they actually care about her.
Thank you so much! I’m in loveeee with this story🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼
Thank you for reading and requesting gorgeous! I hope you're doing well too
cw: crowd crush, rioting, police
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
part 13 | masterlist
rockstar!marauders x journalist!reader ♡ 2k words
You're not interviewing the boys until after the show, and you reason there's no point in hanging around their dressing room if you're not getting quotes. So, you go to the crowd.
It's a half-baked plan. You can't ask fans to speculate about an album they don't know about yet, so you figure you'll ask some questions about what The Marauders mean to them or how it feels to be here or whatever. It'll come to you. Or it won't, which would also be fine, because you probably won't get anything you can use in the feature anyway. You just need a distraction.
It does feel good to be down in the action, though. You've loved being backstage at so many shows—watching the band prepare, seeing all that goes into it, it hasn't lost its sparkle for you yet—but this is where your heart is.
It's where you started. With your shoes sticking to grimy floor, neck craning to witness the live performance of a song you've heard a thousand times on the record player in your own home. Hearing and seeing the same emotions you've felt intimately grip musicians while they play. Experiencing it, along with everyone else there, all of you losing yourselves to the sort of raw feeling only music has ever given you.
You're back in it now.
The Marauders go on, and you tell yourself you've spent enough time dissecting them. You let go. There are certain things you still can't help but notice—the fondness behind Remus' exasperation when Sirius bumps their hips together playfully, how James grins sheepishly at someone backstage when he's handed yet another drumstick—but for the most part, you just experience the music.
It goes by faster than usual. The songs are mostly the same ones you've heard at every show thus far, though the sparkle of those hasn't worn off for you either. All too soon, the boys are ending on Sweet and Easy, the crowd screaming for more even after they've repeated the riff at the end twice.
You're left buzzing, that raw feeling coursing through you, feeling the best you have in days. You figure you have some time before Lily rounds everyone up to go back to wherever you're staying tonight—you think it's still Birmingham one more day, if James' Cadbury World plans are any indication, but Lily said something about switching hotels—so you go outside to smoke with a gangle of fans.
In addition to a bummed cigarette, you get some half decent material from them. The feature isn't likely to include fan quotes, but if the band flakes on you and you need to fluff it up, these will be useable. You manage to sneak in a few questions about the direction The Marauders might go in without letting anything slip about new music, and the fans don't suspect you of knowing anything worth letting slip anyway. They just want to talk about a band they adore, and you're more than pleased to let them.
Even later, you won't know exactly how it began. The street in front of the venue has been crowded since you stepped outside, but suddenly it's crammed with bodies. You drop your cigarette on instinct when somebody pushes past you. Not two seconds later, someone going the other direction stamps it out. Voices rise, a familiar, foreboding thrum charing the air: anger.
You squash down your panic, looking for an exit route. These things happen. Riots are common at rock concerts. Back when you were going to these gigs in a more regular fashion, you would have remembered to find your way out quickly afterwards, before any could break out. You don't know who's fighting who at this one, or what side you might be presumed to be on. You should go before you find out.
The crowd is near impossible to move through. You find the venue doors locked, and your chest tightens. Any other time you'd just go, but you need to get inside to meet up with Mary, Lily, and the boys. You try to make your way around the building—weathering a few stepped-on toes, a wayward elbow, and a powerful shove.
The last one nearly sends you to the pavement. Another stranger grips you around the elbow to haul you back up, you gasping out a thanks while your ankle twinges and the man who shoved you doesn't so much as look back.
You find the side entrance you'd come in with the band, knocking on the door and trying to muster whatever professionalism you'd lost in the cigarette-smoggy mayhem a few feet behind you.
A security guard pokes his head out.
"Hi," you say. "Are The Marauders still inside?"
He huffs a laugh, already going to close the door again. "Nope."
You shove your foot in the way. Force down a wince—you must have tweaked your ankle when you almost fell. "I'm from Spellbound Magazine." You show him your press pass. "I'm with the band."
The security guard looks right past the piece of plastic, unimpressed. "The band's gone. You can catch them at another show, but not here."
A bolt of panic goes through you. You do your best to smother it. Security does this sort of thing all the time. He thinks you're someone who's not supposed to be here, so he's lying to get you to go away. You just have to prove yourself.
The guard looks down at your shoe, still wedged in the door, then at you, and you know you have a short window.
"If you find Mary—or anyone who works with the band, they'll tell you I'm with them. I came in this door a few hours ago, I just stepped outside."
"You can find see band somewhere else," the security guard says. He gives the toe of your shoe a kick—not even a hard one, but your ankle smarts and it does the trick. "Night."
The metal door shuts with a clang.
Deja-vu.
You don't have much time to think of another plan before commotion from the street catches your attention. The shouts are getting louder and angrier, and you know what that means even before the first shrill whistle pierces the air. The police have arrived.
You step closer to the alley wall, hoping to escape notice and hunker down here until someone you know eventually comes out, but it's not long before people are flooding the alley. There are so many of them you don't think they can all have been at the show. One of the fans you interviewed earlier grabs for you.
"Come on!"
"Oh, no, I—" You mean to let them pass, but the police are advancing behind, arresting those at the back of the crowd. You don't know if the same press pass the venue security disregarded a minute ago is going to make much difference to them. "Shit."
You let yourself be tugged down the alley, then propelled by the general mass of people when the one who tugged you loses their grip. You know for sure you messed up your ankle now. It throbs with every step, and it doesn't help matters that you often don't know where the next step will land, finding yourself moving left or right by the will of the crowd. Every time you try to break away, it seems like the police are right there, and so you keep moving.
Eventually, you aren't being chased anymore. Those around you disperse, going home or to whatever bars are still open. You go in the opposite direction of all of them.
It takes you longer than it should to retrace your steps back to the venue. When you knock on the metal side door, there's no answer. Not that you really thought there would be. There isn't a single light on inside or out.
It occurs to you far too late that you should have just found the bus. If you'd gone there earlier, rather than wasting your time arguing pointlessly with security…it's what a smarter journalist would have done. But the bus will be gone now. The Marauders have long since left you behind.
You're too hopeless to laugh, though you recognize the humor in it. After all your worrying about them sneaking off on you, you'd been the one to disappear. You practically gave them no choice.
You sit down on the foul-smelling concrete and try to steady yourself enough to think of what to do next. You can find them again. You might have some explaining to do, and possibly they'll be upset with you for leaving without saying anything, but if you show up at whatever venue The Marauders are playing tomorrow and catch the attention of someone you know you're sure they'll let you explain yourself. That doesn't give you anywhere to stay tonight, obviously. You'll be okay, though; sitting in this alley until morning doesn't sound particularly enjoyable to you, but you can do it. You're as safe here as anywhere, and it'll only be a few hours until the sun rises. You just have to stay awake.
The echo of a passing voice makes its way down to you, and you burrow closer to the wall to escape its notice.
"Hey? Hey!"
Your track record for successfully melting into the shadows of this alley is not a stellar one.
"Y/n!"
You look up in surprise. In the mouth of the alley, a familiar shape is jogging toward you, followed by others.
"Have you been here this whole time?" James sounds more out of breath than a short jog would do. "Where were you hiding?"
You stare up at him, sure you've fallen asleep and are dreaming. "I…"
James drops to a crouch beside you, concern written all over him even in the dark. Sirius and Mary are behind him a moment later, then Lily and Remus. They surround you, seeming perplexed when you don't stand.
"Are you alright?" asks Remus.
You burst into tears.
It's terribly embarassing, and very unprofessional, but you find that once you start crying you can't stop. You don't mean to shock them. James gets past his alarm the fastest, putting an arm around you, and Lily murmurs something that sounds like a placation.
"I'm sorry," you blubber. "I was—I tried to come back, but they wouldn't let me in, and then the cops were here—"
"We heard," says Sirius, his voice nearly as gentle as you've ever heard it. It reminds you of how he spoke to Remus after Remus got shocked by the mic stand, "about the riot. Figured you might've gotten caught up in it. Are you hurt?"
You manage to tell them about your ankle. Remus prods at it a minute—apparently, he's had enough minor injuries to be a de facto expert—and determines it likely sprained. Mary runs to get you a jacket from the bus, apparently still parked nearby after they stayed to look for you. Lily promises to make sure you always have the relevant addresses in case you get separated again, or maybe Mary can get you a press pass that looks more official somehow—but, she says, it'd probably be best if you stay nearby when you can help it in the future.
Through all of this, you're crying. You're waved off each time you try to apologize for the dramatics. James has resigned himself to sitting on the foul-smelling cement beside you so he can rub your shoulder, and Remus keeps a hand clasped loosely around your ankle while Sirius watches you with dark, serious eyes.
"You got it?" he asks when Mary comes back with your coat and you stand wobbily.
"Yeah." Your voice is a wreck. You put your coat on, and James lifts your arm, encouraging you to put it around his shoulders and let him take some weight off your ankle. You wipe your face. "Sorry for—"
"That's enough," says Remus, managing to sound more kind than stern.
You murmur anyway, "Thanks for waiting for me."
James scoffs. "You think we'd go on to the hotel without our own live-in paparazzi?" He plants a kiss on your head as you start toward the bus. "No way."
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
part 15 | masterlist
rockstar!marauders x journalist!reader ♡ 1.8k words
Remus spends the day with you. He's tired (and, you suspect, in at least some pain, though he doesn't say) after staying out so late the night before, and there's too much walking to be done at Cadbury World. James talks about abandoning the whole idea, but Remus and Sirius won't hear of it. After breakfast, Sirius shepherds Remus into your room with strict instructions for Remus to look after your ankle and you to look after him.
You pass hours lying about and coming up with idle things to amuse yourselves. Remus teaches you a few chords on his bass. You point out noteworthy characters passing by on the sidewalk below your window. You nap. Around lunchtime, Lily comes by with sandwiches and joins you for an intense round of seeing who can complete a sudoku puzzle the fastest.
You don't talk about what you said to each other the night before, though it lingers with you. The idea that, for all your suspicion of being sweet-talked by the band, every attempt you make to get friendlier with them ultimately advances your purpose of getting them to open up so you can write an entertaining story, regardless of your intent in the moment. How when you told Sirius that your job was at stake and he told you that his friend was, you hesitated a moment at which was more sacred.
Remus asked so simply. Are you only being nice to us so that we'll give you quotes for your feature?
Like he already knew your answer. Like he had faith in you, and was only asking you to have it in him. You wish you could feel as sure as he seems.
The sun is still out, and so you're surprised when James and Sirius come into your room, James in a branded jumper and bearing chocolate bars for each of you.
"How was it?" you ask.
"Brilliant!" says James, at the same time as Sirius groans, "Awful."
"It was like being in Willy Wonka." James props his chin on a fist as both boys flop down on the bed by yours and Remus' feet.
Sirius shudders. "Creepy film. Why does chocolate require so many mascots? Between the show last night and walking around all of today, my legs are pulverized."
"Is that why you're back early?" asks Remus.
"Partly." James smiles, reaching up to ruffle Remus' hair. "We also missed you. Massage?" he offers Sirius.
Sirius looks momentarily like he could cry for gratitude, but he neatens his expression into one of cool imperiousness soon enough. "Seems like the least you could do."
James scoots closer gamely. He pushes his thumbs into Sirius' calves, and Sirius sighs, dropping his head to his folded arms.
You try not to stare, but even just the awareness of it, James' strong hands kneading confidently at the flesh, is enough to make heat rush from your face down to your chest. It only gets worse as James makes his way up the backs of Sirius' legs.
You search for something to distract yourself. You've been trying to find a hook that could function as a through-line for your feature; maybe this could be it. The Marauders as not only one of the most popular bands in Britain, but the most closely-knit group of boys you've ever witnessed. Supportive, as devoted to each other as they are to their music, and unafraid of showing it.
"So." Sirius turns his head to peer at you, cheek resting on his forearm. You tuck the idea away for later. "Do you think you'll ever walk again?"
You smile, praying it's not obvious how they've flustered you. "That's the hope. You?"
"Likely not." He heaves a great sigh. "My career is finished. Struck down in my prime."
"We'll be alright without you," James says lightly. Sirius kicks one of his feet, and James retaliates by pressing knuckles into his thigh. Sirius stills with a hiss.
"What about you?" he asks, poking Remus' foot. "How are you feeling? Think you'll ever be able to get up onstage again?"
Remus, already a few bites into his chocolate bar, gives Sirius a dry look. "Oh, because that's all I matter to you, is that it?"
"Obviously. If I'm out of the band, James will need you. Otherwise, the whole show will just be him throwing drumsticks off into the crowd. No one will come to see it."
"They'd still come," James defends himself.
A thought strikes you. You take your tape recorder from the nightstand, setting it to record and putting it where the boys can see it. Remus eyes it, but no one objects.
"Uh oh," James jokes. "She's gearing up."
"I was just wondering," you say, "what do you think you'd be doing if you weren't in the band?"
As always when your tape recorder comes out, Sirius takes the lead. He sits up on his elbows, his grin sharpening as if by instrinct or habit.
"Well, if my family had their way I'd have ended up in banking," he says, "but I think I could've been an actor. This face was just made for the public eye, don't you think?"
"So you think you'd have still ended up in entertainment?"
"Don't I entertain you, gorgeous?" Sirius winks.
"If there weren't films or microphones," teases James, "he'd have found a circus to ringlead."
It's funny, because even sitting here with Sirius now—in normal clothes, bare of the dark slashes of eyeliner he wears onstage, with the sun shining on him and warming the impenetrable black of his hair to dark brown—you can't picture him doing anything else. He's right; whether by nature or by practice, Sirius has mastered stardom. He doesn't have to wait for a spotlight to find him. He emits his own.
"Remus," James goes on, "wanted to be a teacher, though."
You turn to the bassist, feeling your brows lift. "Did you really?"
Remus appears almost shy. "I did, yeah."
"He was always very swotty." Sirius grins, fond around the eyes. "He used to finish his homework and then stick around to help us with ours. Lily, too."
Remus rolls his eyes. "You never needed much help."
"No," James agrees. "It was really more the three of them helping me. I'm useless at maths."
"What did you want to do?" you ask him.
James shrugs. "I don't know. When I was little I wanted to be a firefighter. I thought about being a veterinarian for a while, but then I heard there's some maths involved in that sometimes too…" Sirius reaches back to pat him consolingly. "Maybe a footballer? I guess it's a good thing I'm already doing this, or else I might not be able to decide."
You hum, nodding. "I could see that for you."
"That I would never have decided?"
"Yeah."
James pauses Sirius' massage, his eyes squinting behind his glasses. "That feels like it might be an insult."
You copy Sirius and reach over to give him a consoling pat. "You'll live."
"She means you could've done anything you wanted to," Remus translates helpfully. "You're good at lots of things, Jamie."
"You could've been a masseuse, too," adds Sirius, who appears to have nearly liquefied into the mattress.
"Oh." James puffs up. "Well, thanks. What would you have done?" he asks you.
You blink. "Other than journalism?"
"Yeah."
The answer, honestly, is nothing. You're not like James. You didn't have a myriad of other ideas and viable options. This is the whole plan for you. The only plan.
You're saved from answering when the room's phone rings.
You all startle. You hesitate a moment before remembering that this is your room, and you reach over to the nightstand to answer it.
"Hello?"
"L/n?" Your posture straightens unconsciously at the sound of your editor's voice.
"Yes, hi," you say quickly, then cringe at your lack of professionalism. Sometimes it feels like you get greener by the day. "How can I help you?"
He begins speaking in his usual brusque, clipped way. It still intimidates you, even if you're slowly getting used to it. The boys must catch onto the nature of the call; Sirius sits up, looking unsure, and James whispers to you that they can leave. You wave them off, frowning as you listen to the voice on the other line.
"Yes," you say. "Yeah, I can do that."
You hold the phone to your ear with your shoulder and reach for your pen and notepad.
"Where is it? Okay, thanks….and pre or post-show? Got it. No, that's perfect. I, um…" You hesitate, a bit embarassed to be having this conversation in front of others. "Thank you for the opportunity. I'll—"
You cut yourself off when your editor begins speaking again.
"I understand. It will be, thank you. Alright, goodb—"
You're cut off again by the click of the receiver.
Sirius' brow wrinkles. "That guy wasn't letting you get much out, was he?"
"What's going on?" James asks.
You take a breath. "They want me to interview another band."
His eyes widen. "You're done with us?"
"No. It's…Reckoning is having a show here tonight. They've scheduled me for a pre-show interview because I'm nearby."
"They're asking you to cheat on us?" Sirius gasps in mock outrage.
"You all cheated on me first," you remind him, "when you got interviewed by another reporter."
You don't recall what else came out of that day until the levity has already sapped from Sirius' expression, leaving a dark pinch in its place.
"We should go with you," he says.
"Don't be stupid." You shake your head, looking away. "I do this stuff all the time."
Sirius seems as if he might argue with you, but Remus speaks before he can. "It's good that they're asking you to do more work for them, isn't it?"
"Yeah," you hedge. "Just…my editor sort of implied it's because the feature is taking me too long. I think they're starting to get antsy."
Remus eyes you worriedly.
You try to sound assured. "But it'll be fine. Since I'm here, I can write this other article in the meantime to keep them happy."
Sirius sighs, rolling over and casting his head back dramatically. "So long as we're still your favorites."
"I don't think I'm supposed to pick favorites," you tell him, a smile creeping onto your face.
"What we're supposed to do and what we do are two different things, doll. Anyway, I think you already said we're your favorite band." He casts a look at Remus. "Didn't she?"
"I remember that," Remus agrees.
"Think you called us amazing once too," muses James. He bumps your good ankle with his elbow playfully. "Don't forget that when you're writing your feature, alright?"
"You're the feature," you remind them. "This is just an article."
Remus hums, and you bark out a laugh when he says in an impression of Sirius' imperiousness, "Too right."
