quietly admiring it for almost a month, and now I'm ready to share it with you
I was inspired by a fanfic I read a few months ago, in which Sirius, who had returned from Azkaban, gets closer to Remus while being locked in Remus's house.
there wasn't a specific scene like this, but I thought I wanted to do this for them. Something bright, tender, and filled with hope. Bitter in the moment, but carrying the light of the future. Art that says "the worst is over" and "the most important thing is that we have each other"
Green Isn’t Always Envy // bully!wolfstar x reader
Summary - A Slytherin girl is pulled into a moment of intimacy with Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, only to be left feeling ignored, used, and hurt when things return to normal. When a prank meant to get her attention goes wrong, the truth finally breaks open, forcing both boys to confront the damage they caused. Through distance, regret, and genuine change, apologies are earned rather than demanded. The story follows healing, accountability, and the slow rebuilding of trust, ending with forgiveness, growth, and a quiet, chosen happiness
Warning - This fic includes emotional hurt, feelings of being used and ignored, and references to past intimacy. It also contains smut and sexual references, alongside regret, confrontation, and a prank that results in injury. Themes of accountability and healing are central. Reader discretion advised.
You sit rigidly in the narrow compartment of the Hogwarts Express, arms crossed over your chest like a shield, your bag gripped tightly in your lap as if it could ward off the world. The train's rhythmic clatter against the tracks is the only sound, a fleeting peace you've carved out after a chaotic day of goodbyes at King's Cross. But that illusion shatters when the door slides open with a sharp rasp, and in stride Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.
Sirius leans against the doorframe first, all lazy confidence, his dark hair tousled just so, that infuriating smirk curling his lips as his grey eyes lock onto you with gleaming amusement. He's dressed in his usual disheveled school robes, tie loose, looking every bit the troublemaker he is. Remus follows a step behind, quieter, his scarred face calm and unreadable, amber eyes observant as they flick over the space—and you. The door clicks shut behind them, sealing the three of you in this confined box hurtling through the darkening countryside.
Your pulse jumps, a familiar spike of resentment flooding your veins. Not them. Not here. You hate Sirius—viscerally, down to your bones. The memories crash in unbidden: first year, that cramped hallway after Potions, Sirius cornering you with his cronies, his foot hooking yours to send you sprawling onto the cold stone floor. Laughter echoing as your face burned, robes tangled, dignity shredded. And Remus—Remus had been right there, leaning against the wall with his book in hand, watching it all unfold without a word, without lifting a finger. Betrayal stings fresh even now, years later, making your jaw clench as you glare at them both.
Sirius pushes off the doorframe, sauntering closer with deliberate slowness, his shoulder brushing yours as he drops into the seat opposite. The contact is electric, unwanted heat sparking where his arm grazes your side, and you jerk away, scowling. 'What, all alone on the train? No friends to keep you company?' he drawls, voice low and teasing, leaning in just enough that you catch the faint scent of broom polish and mischief on him. His eyes rake over you, lingering a beat too long on your crossed arms, your tight grip on the bag.
Remus settles beside him, his movements fluid and unhurried, but as he does, his hand reaches out—subtly, almost gently—adjusting the strap of your bag where it's slipped. His fingers brush your knuckles, warm and steady, and you snatch it back, misreading the touch as condescension, another Marauder jab. 'Don't,' you snap, voice sharp in the small space, your glare shifting from Sirius's grin to Remus's patient gaze. 'I don't need your help. Either of you. Get out.'
But they don't move. Sirius chuckles, low and throaty, stretching his legs out until his knee nudges yours under the table. 'Feisty as ever. You know, that fire of yours... it's almost endearing.' Remus says nothing, just watches, his eyes tracing the flush creeping up your neck, the way your breath hitches despite your hostility. The compartment feels smaller with every passing second, the train's gentle rock amplifying the tension—hatred coiling tight in your chest, frustration bubbling under your skin, and something else, unrecognized, thrumming like a live wire beneath it all. Attraction? No, you shove that thought down hard. It's just the closeness, the way Sirius's presence invades, the quiet intensity in Remus's stare.
You fire back, words laced with venom: 'Endearing? Save it, Black. I remember how 'endearing' you found tripping me in front of the whole corridor. And you—' You jab a finger at Remus, '—standing there like it was nothing. If you're here to humiliate me again, door's that way.' Your voice echoes a little too loud in the confined space, but Sirius only leans closer, undeterred, his smirk widening into something sharper, more daring. Remus's hand twitches on his knee, as if resisting the urge to intervene—or join in.
The train jolts softly over a switch, pressing you all together for a heartbeat, and neither breaks eye contact. Sirius's gaze holds yours, challenging, obsessive in its playfulness, while Remus's lingers with that patient watchfulness, like he's memorizing every flicker of your expression. You push at the air between you, trying to reclaim space, but the boundaries blur—their teasing layering over your resentment, pulling you deeper into the storm.
Then Sirius shifts, the atmosphere thickening as his voice drops lower, laced with a new edge. 'Come on, love, no need to bite my head off. Though...' He winks, his eyes darkening with intent as he lets his gaze drop deliberately to your lips, then lower, tracing the line of your throat. 'If you're into biting, I could think of better places for it. Like, say, right here on the train—make this ride a lot more interesting.' He gestures vaguely between the three of you, his grin turning wicked. 'Remus here's got that quiet strength; bet he'd pin you down without breaking a sweat. Me? I'd make you beg for it first.'
Remus shoots him a sidelong glance, a faint flush coloring his cheeks, but he doesn't deny it—his eyes meeting yours again, steady and heated now, the calm cracking just enough to reveal the hunger underneath.
Sirius's words hang in the air like smoke, thick and intoxicating, his wicked grin pulling at the edges of your resolve. The compartment sways with the train's motion, the dim lantern light casting shadows that dance across his sharp features and Remus's quieter intensity. You feel the heat rising, a flush you can't quite suppress, as Sirius leans in closer, his knee pressing firmly against yours now, deliberate. 'Imagine it,' he murmurs, voice dropping to a husky whisper, 'us three, tangled up right here. No rules, no interruptions—just raw, unfiltered fun.' Remus shifts beside him, his hand finally settling on the bench near your thigh, fingers inches from your skin, the warmth of him seeping through the fabric of your robes.
You swallow hard, the hostility in your chest warring with the unwelcome spark low in your belly. 'Shut up, Black,' you retort, but your voice lacks its earlier bite, coming out breathier than intended. Sirius chuckles, undeterred, his hand reaching out to trace a lazy path up your arm, fingertips light but insistent, unraveling the tension you've wrapped around yourself like armor. Remus watches, his amber eyes darkening, and then he moves—slow, deliberate—his palm sliding onto your knee, squeezing gently, a silent invitation that sends a jolt straight through you.
The air thickens, charged with the scent of anticipation, and before you can snap another insult, Sirius is closer, his breath warm against your ear. 'Let us show you how good it can be,' he says, and his free hand cups your chin, tilting your face toward him. But as his lips part, aiming for yours, you jerk back, shoving his chest hard. 'No kissing,' you hiss, the words sharp, a boundary carved in stone. 'Not that. Never that.' Surprise flickers in his eyes, but it morphs quickly into something hungrier, appreciative. Remus nods subtly, respecting the line, his hand inching higher on your thigh.
They don't push the kiss, but they don't stop. Sirius's fingers trail down to the hem of your skirt, bunching the fabric slowly, exposing the skin of your legs inch by inch. Remus mirrors him on the other side, his touch steadier, more reverent, parting your thighs with a gentle pressure that you don't fight. The resentment simmers, but so does the thrill—this twisted attraction you've buried under years of hate. It's intoxicating, the way they focus on you, unraveling your defenses with every caress. You lean back against the seat, breath quickening as Sirius hooks his fingers into your panties, sliding them down your legs in one fluid motion. Remus's hand follows, stroking the inside of your thigh, higher, until his fingers brush your folds, slick already from the building heat.
Sirius drops to his knees first, the confined space forcing him close, his shoulders wedging between your legs. He looks up at you, eyes locked on yours, that smirk still in place as he leans in, tongue flicking out to taste you. The first lap is slow, deliberate, circling your clit with a pressure that makes your hips buck involuntarily. 'Fuck, you taste good,' he growls against your skin, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. Remus joins him seamlessly, his mouth on your inner thigh at first, kissing and nipping the sensitive flesh before moving higher. His tongue delves deeper, lapping at your entrance while Sirius sucks on your clit, their mouths working in tandem—wet, insistent, devouring you.
You gasp, fingers tangling in Sirius's hair, pulling him closer even as your mind reels. It's enjoyable, sinfully so, the dual assault of their tongues driving you toward the edge, your pussy clenching around nothing as they eat you out with relentless focus. Remus's scars brush your skin as he presses his face deeper, tongue thrusting inside you, while Sirius's teeth graze your clit just hard enough to sting. Waves of pleasure crash over you, your body arching, but beneath it all, the memories stir—unbidden, sharp as knivesSecond year, the Quidditch pitch after a match. Sirius and James had hexed your broom mid-flight during practice, sending you tumbling into the mud in front of the entire Gryffindor team. Laughter rang out as you struggled up, covered in filth, Sirius calling you 'Mud-Slider' with that mocking grin. Remus had been on the sidelines, arms crossed, chuckling softly before turning away—never stopping it, never defending you.
Third year, the common room late at night. You'd been studying alone when Sirius snuck up, dumping ink over your notes, ruining hours of work. 'Oops,' he'd said, winking as you scrambled to salvage the pages. Remus sat by the fire, pretending to read, but his eyes had met yours briefly—amused, detached—before he looked away, leaving you to clean up the mess alone.
Fourth year, the Great Hall at breakfast. A charm from Sirius made your robes shrink mid-meal, exposing you to snickers from half the school. He high-fived James across the table, reveling in the humiliation. Remus, at the end of the bench, had averted his gaze but not intervened, his silence as cutting as the laughter.
Rage surges through you like fire, hot and consuming, twisting the pleasure into something darker, vengeful. These bastards—they did this to you, over and over, and now they think they can unravel you like this? No. Your hands tighten in Sirius's hair, yanking his head back sharply, his tongue pulling away with a wet pop. 'Enough,' you snarl, shoving him aside. Remus lifts his head, surprise widening his eyes, but you don't give them a chance to react. You surge forward, dominance flipping like a switch, fueled by years of pent-up fury.
Pushing Sirius onto his back across the bench, you straddle him roughly, grinding your soaked pussy against the bulge in his trousers. He groans, hands reaching for your hips, but you slap them away. 'My turn,' you say, voice low and venomous. You rip open his fly, freeing his hard cock—thick and throbbing—and without preamble, you sink down onto it, taking him deep in one brutal thrust. He gasps, hips jerking up, but you pin his shoulders down, riding him hard, slamming your hips against his with punishing force. Each bounce is a reckoning, your nails digging into his chest, drawing red lines as you fuck him relentlessly, chasing your own release while making him feel every ounce of your rage.
Remus watches, breath ragged, his own arousal evident as he palms himself through his pants. But you turn on him next, pulling off Sirius mid-thrust with a slick sound, leaving him panting and desperate. 'You too,' you command, grabbing Remus by the collar and yanking him forward. You shove him down beside Sirius, stripping his trousers open to reveal his cock, long and veined, already leaking. Straddling him now, you impale yourself on him just as viciously, riding him with a ferocity that has him moaning, his hands gripping the bench until his knuckles whiten. You grind down, circling your hips to hit that spot inside you, but you control the pace—fast, unforgiving—your pussy clenching around him as revenge pulses through every movement.
You alternate between them, switching back to Sirius, then Remus, fucking them both with harsh, demanding strokes. Sirius bucks up into you, cursing under his breath, while Remus takes it with gritted teeth, his quiet moans turning to pleas. 'Harder,' you demand, scratching down Remus's chest, leaving marks that mirror the scars he hides. Your orgasm builds again, crashing over you as you ride Sirius to the brink, his cock pulsing inside you before he spills hot cum deep in your pussy with a broken groan. You don't stop, pulling off and onto Remus, milking him dry too—his release flooding you as you clench around him, your own climax ripping through you in waves of dark satisfaction.
They collapse, exhausted, chests heaving, bodies slick with sweat and spent. Sirius slumps against the seat, eyes glazed; Remus lies there, breathing shallow, utterly drained. You slide off, the evidence of their releases trickling down your thighs, but you feel no shame—only a cold triumph. Wiping yourself with a quick spell, you dress methodically, straightening your robes, smoothing your hair, composure slipping back on like a mask. The train's whistle shrieks in the distance, the jolt of arrival vibrating through the compartment. Hogwarts looms outside the window, platforms bustling.
Without a word, you grab your bag, slide the door open, and step out into the cool night air—calm, composed, leaving the two Marauders wrecked in your wake.
The chill of the night cuts sharper as you leave the train platform, Hogwarts looming above, grand and dark against the starlit sky. You hug your bag closer, moving quickly past the clusters of chattering students, trying to shove the train compartment out of your mind—but the memories cling stubbornly, like smoke in a locked room. Sirius’s smirk, the dangerous glint in his grey eyes. Remus’s calm, unreadable stare, like he’d been memorizing every flicker of your expression.
The Slytherin dungeons are quiet at this hour, torches flickering along the greenish stone walls, casting long, slanted shadows. You stride down the spiral staircase, keeping your head high, letting your boots echo sharply on the stone. Every step reminds you of the train—the confined space, the tension, the heat you refused to acknowledge—and for a moment, the memory makes your chest tighten.
The common room is darker than usual, green and silver accents shimmering in torchlight, empty except for the quiet hum of a few late-stayers. You slip through the entrance, muttering the password with clipped precision, and the door swings closed behind you with a soft click that somehow feels like protection.
You reach your bed in the corner, dragging your bag with deliberate care. You sit on the edge, letting the tension in your shoulders ease fractionally, and begin unpacking. Books slide into place, robes folded neatly, scarves hung over the chair—everything methodical, precise, almost like a shield. But your mind refuses to cooperate.
Sirius leaning too close, brushing against you with that infuriating grin. Remus’s hand grazing your skin in what had been—somehow—both tender and maddening. You grind your teeth, forcing the memories away, but they play like a loop anyway, impossible to ignore. Every laugh, every tease, every unspoken dare from them hangs in the air, thick and electric.
You finally drop onto your bed, staring at the dark ceiling above. The compartment feels impossibly close, even here in the Slytherin dungeon, miles away from the train. You take a deep breath, smoothing your robes, telling yourself: You’re in control. You walk away. They’re left behind. And yet… you can’t quite shake the thrill that had pulsed through you, sharp and forbidden, like a live wire still humming beneath the surface
You’re walking back from breakfast, the echo of voices and clinking cutlery fading as the corridor stretches cool and narrow ahead of you. Your pace is steady, posture composed, expression carefully neutral. You’re almost past the bend when someone bumps your shoulder. Light. Intentional. Just enough to register.
You stop this time.
Sirius Black is already leaning against the stone wall, blocking part of the passage like he planned it this way. Arms crossed loosely, tie undone, that familiar lazy confidence draped over him like a second skin. His eyes flick over you, sharp and amused, lips twitching as if he’s holding something back.
Remus stands a step behind him, not in your way, not quite out of it either. His posture is relaxed, book tucked under one arm, expression neutral. But his eyes never leave you. They track the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers tighten briefly around your bag strap.
“You’re up early,” Remus says mildly. “Didn’t expect that.”
You angle to step around Sirius, refusing to be boxed in, your shoulder brushing past his arm. For a heartbeat, the space between you tightens. Then Sirius speaks, voice light, almost conversational.
“Careful,” he says easily. “Still walking like that after… last night?”
The words land behind you, deliberate and sharp.
You don’t turn around. You don’t slow.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say coolly, tone flat and dismissive. “You weren’t memorable.”
Your footsteps carry you down the corridor, measured and unbothered, leaving Sirius staring after you with a grin that no longer quite fits, and Remus watching in silence, his neutral expression finally fractured by something darker and far more intent.
You don’t avoid them.
Avoiding would mean looking away, taking different corridors, altering your routine. Avoiding would mean they still matter.
Instead, you pretend they don’t exist.
At breakfast, you sit at the Slytherin table as usual, posture elegant, attention fixed on your plate or the parchment in front of you. Sirius’s laughter carries across the Great Hall, loud and familiar, and you don’t so much as glance in its direction. Remus’s presence lingers like a question you refuse to answer. When their eyes inevitably find you, you keep eating, unbothered, as though the space they occupy is empty air.
In the corridors, they pass close enough that their sleeves almost brush yours. Almost. Sirius slows, clearly expecting a reaction. A look. Anything. You keep walking. Not faster. Not slower. Like he was never there to begin with.
In class, Sirius leans back in his chair, chair legs tilting dangerously, glancing your way with that sharp, infuriating interest. You take notes. Remus answers a question, voice calm and measured, and for a moment the room seems to wait for you to react. You don’t. Your quill doesn’t pause. Your expression doesn’t change.
It unsettles them.
Sirius tests it first, of course. A muttered comment when you pass. A joke thrown just loud enough to reach you. He watches closely for the slightest crack in your composure. There isn’t one. You don’t acknowledge the sound of his voice any more than you would the crackle of a torch.
Remus tries differently. He stands a little closer than necessary during group work. Leaves space for you to speak. Waits. You don’t fill it. You step around him without a word, without eye contact, as though he’s a shadow cast by the wall.
The castle keeps moving around you. Classes change. Days pass. And slowly, deliciously, the balance shifts.
They were prepared for anger. For venom. For retaliation.
They weren’t prepared for being erased.
By the end of the week, Sirius’s grin comes slower, sharper, like it’s being forced into place. Remus’s gaze lingers longer than it should, something tight and unreadable settling behind his eyes.
At first, they tell themselves it’s nothing. A phase. Sirius laughs louder than usual, fills every room he’s in with noise and motion, sprawls across benches and corridors like he owns them. He throws comments into the air when you’re nearby, sharp and teasing, carefully aimed. Normally, you would have reacted. You don’t. You walk past him like the sound never reached you.
Remus notices before Sirius admits it. He watches from a distance, from the library, from classroom doorways, from the edges of corridors where he pretends to read but never turns the page. Every time you pass without a glance, something tightens in his expression. You don’t look annoyed. You don’t look upset. You look… unaffected.
Days pass, and it starts to grate.
Sirius tries harder. He bumps into you in the hallway again, this time not even bothering to pretend it’s accidental. You steady yourself and keep walking. No comment. No glare. He mutters something under his breath, watching your back like he’s waiting for the moment you finally snap. You don’t.
The lack of reaction eats at him.
Remus tries a different approach. He says your name once as you pass, quiet and careful, like he’s testing something fragile. You don’t slow. You don’t turn. Your footsteps fade down the corridor, leaving his voice hanging uselessly in the air.
They don’t plan to hurt you.
That’s the lie they tell themselves.
It starts as a prank, whispered about in low voices, stitched together with impatience and frustration. Something clever. Something loud enough to force you to react. Sirius wants spectacle. Remus wants control. Neither of them stops to think about what happens if it goes wrong.
It does.
You’re in the corridor when it happens. A charm misfires. Something explodes against the stone with a sharp crack, light flaring too bright, too sudden. You don’t even have time to process it before the floor tilts and you’re thrown off balance, pain blooming hot and fast as you hit the ground. Voices shout. Footsteps scramble. Someone swears.
Silence follows.
That’s when you see them.
Sirius has gone pale, all humor wiped clean from his face. Remus is already moving toward you, panic sharp in his eyes, reaching out like he can fix this just by touching it.
“Don’t,” you snap, scrambling back, fury burning brighter than the pain.
The corridor is empty now. Too empty. Your voice echoes when you stand, uneven but unbroken, eyes blazing as they flick between them.
“You wanted my attention?” you say, laughing once, sharp and humorless. “Congratulations. You’ve got it.” Sirius opens his mouth. Remus does too. Neither gets a word out.
“You think I didn’t notice?” you continue, voice shaking now, not weak but furious. “The comments. The looks. The way you touch, then walk away like I’m nothing. Like I’m something you can use when you’re bored and ignore when you’re done.”
Remus flinches. Sirius looks like he’s been struck.
“You don’t get to pretend this was an accident,” you say, stepping back, pain pulsing with every movement. “You don’t get to act concerned now. You treated me like a thing. Like a distraction. Like something you could pull apart and put down whenever it suited you.” Your hands curl into fists.
“I’m not your entertainment,” you say quietly. “And I’m not something you get to break just because I stopped looking at you.”
For a moment, neither of them speaks. The corridor feels tight, airless.
Then you turn away.
You don’t wait for apologies. You don’t wait for explanations. You walk, injured and furious and entirely done, leaving them standing there with the wreckage of a prank that finally, irrevocably, went too far. And this time, they don’t follow.
The night air bit gently at your skin as you wandered deeper into the gardens, cold seeping through your clothes and settling low in your chest. Your thoughts were heavy, trudging in circles you couldn’t seem to escape. You told yourself you were done. Done being angry, done being hurt, done letting them occupy space in your head. And yet, here they were again, uninvited, lingering in every quiet corner of your mind.
You didn’t hear him approach. You only felt it. Warmth, sudden and enveloping, sliding around you from behind like a shield against the cold. Arms settled carefully around your stomach, not tight, not demanding, just there. Solid. Real. His forehead rested in the hollow between your neck and collarbone, breath warm against your skin, steady and familiar in a way that made your chest ache before you could stop it.
For a moment, you didn’t move. The contrast was overwhelming. The cold you’d been carrying all evening met the heat of him, and your body reacted before your heart could argue. Your shoulders loosened. Your breath hitched, then evened out. Whatever anger you’d been clutching slipped slightly, just enough to hurt in a new way.
He didn’t speak at first. He just held you, like he knew words would shatter something fragile between you. His hand rested over your stomach, grounding, while the rest of him seemed to curve protectively around you, as if he could shield you from everything, even the damage he’d helped cause.
Then you noticed movement in front of you.
You lifted your eyes and saw him there, kneeling on the stone path, the grass damp beneath his knees. Sirius. His hands were pressed together, fingers trembling, head bowed in a way you’d never seen before. The boy who laughed loudest, who never seemed to take anything seriously, looked small now. Stripped bare of bravado. Waiting.
Before you could process that sight, something warm landed on your collarbone.
You frowned slightly, confused, and tilted your head just enough to see him. The one holding you. His face was turned down, glasses fogged, lashes dark with tears slipping free despite his effort to stop them. Remus Lupin crying was something you’d never imagined you’d witness. He was always so composed, so careful, so emotionally aware. Seeing him like this sent a sharp jolt of concern through you, cutting straight through your anger.
You turned slowly in his arms, the movement cautious, as if you were afraid he might disappear if you moved too fast. Your chest brushed against his, and instinctively his hands slid to your waist and hip, steadying you, anchoring you there. He didn’t pull you closer. He didn’t let go either. He just held you like you mattered too much to risk losing again.
You lifted a hand to his face, fingers gentle as you wiped away the tears he hadn’t meant for you to see. His breath stuttered at the touch, and he leaned into your palm before he could stop himself, eyes closing like the relief hurt.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking around the words. Not rushed. Not defensive. Just honest. He spoke of the prank, of his silence, of every moment he should have stepped in and didn’t. Each apology felt like a confession carved straight from his chest.
Sirius finally lifted his head then, eyes red, jaw tight as he forced himself to meet your gaze. His voice shook as he joined in, words tumbling out raw and unpolished. He told you they never meant to hurt you. That they were stupid. That they’d crossed lines they hadn’t even realized they were standing on. That losing your trust terrified him more than any punishment ever could.
Between them, surrounded by apologies and warmth and regret, you stood suspended in a moment that felt painfully fragile. The anger didn’t vanish. The hurt didn’t disappear. But for the first time since it all went wrong, you felt seen. Not used. Not discarded.
You don’t say it out loud, but you feel it settle somewhere deep and quiet inside you.
With Remus, forgiveness arrives almost without permission. Not all at once, not neatly tied with a bow, but enough to soften the sharpest edges. Maybe it’s the way his apologies don’t try to defend themselves. Maybe it’s the tears you wiped away, the way his hands steadied instead of claimed, the way he finally spoke about the times he stayed silent when he should have protected you. You can tell he’s already been punishing himself long before this moment. And somehow, that honesty makes room for grace.
So yes. Remus is forgiven. Not forgotten. Not erased. But forgiven in the way you forgive someone who genuinely understands what they did wrong and will never do it again.
Sirius is different.
When you look at him, kneeling there, hands clasped like a penitent in some ancient painting, your chest doesn’t soften. It tightens. Because Sirius has always known how to say the right things. He knows how to look sorry. He knows how to sound sincere. And that scares you more than cruelty ever could.
With him, the hurt runs louder.
You remember how easily he laughed afterward. How quickly things went back to normal for him while you were left wondering what you’d been to them. A thrill. A secret. Something temporary. And even now, part of you fears that forgiving Sirius would mean teaching him that charm can fix anything. That remorse is enough. That you’ll always be there when he decides to kneel.
You don’t want to be that person.
So you don’t pull away from Remus, but you don’t reach for Sirius either. Your gaze lingers on him for a second longer than necessary, searching his face for something that isn’t performance. Something that isn’t desperation to be forgiven. Something steady.
And maybe it’s there. Maybe it isn’t. You’re not ready to decide.
Forgiveness, you realize, isn’t owed on a schedule.
Remus has begun to earn his place back into your life through accountability and patience. Sirius, if he wants the same, will have to sit with the discomfort of not knowing. Of not being chosen immediately. Of understanding that some wounds don’t close just because the person who caused them finally understands they exist.
Time keeps unfolding gently, like it’s giving all of you a second draft instead of an eraser.
It happens slowly. So slowly you almost don’t notice it at first. Sirius doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push, doesn’t try to charm his way back into your good graces. He proves himself in the smallest ways. Walking on the other side of the corridor so you don’t feel cornered. Backing you up without making it a spectacle. Letting you decide when, and if, you speak to him. Every day he chooses restraint, and every day that choice matters more than any apology ever could.
One night, weeks later, you finally sit beside him. Not dramatically. Not as some grand forgiveness scene. Just two people sharing the same bench in the common room, knees almost touching. He doesn’t look at you right away. When he does, there’s no bravado in his eyes. Just relief. Just hope. You don’t say the words either, but he understands. Forgiveness doesn’t always need to be spoken to be real.
Remus stays steady through it all. He never assumes. Never claims. He smiles more easily now, lighter somehow, like the weight of silence has finally been lifted. When he reaches for your hand one evening, he pauses first, letting you decide. You lace your fingers with his, and it feels warm, safe, chosen.
The three of you find a new balance. Not what it was before. Better. Healthier. Built on honesty instead of impulse. Laughter returns, quieter but truer. The hurt doesn’t vanish, but it no longer rules the room. It becomes something that taught all of you how to care properly.
By the end of the year, you stand in the gardens again. The same place where everything once cracked open. This time, the night feels kind. Sirius is beside you, not kneeling, not pleading, just standing as an equal. Remus is there too, solid and calm, his presence a quiet promise.
You realize then that the happy ending was never about choosing between them.
You walk back to the castle together, not because you’re bound to them, but because you want to be.
It was about choosing yourself first.
And finding that, when you did, the people who truly cared learned how to meet you there.
I love Remus meeting Sirius for the first time when he was small, and being frozen by all the pure energy that boy was emanating.
Remus, who was always ignored, mocked, even fleed by kids of his age, was speechless when Sirius asked him for the first time what he was doing when he was hiding a book because he didn’t like to read with others around because of his dyslexia.
The worst part about living with chronic pain, Remus thought as he tried not to scream at a piece of lint on the carpet, wasn’t the pain.
It was the being perceived.
And right now, he was being perceived by a very beautiful, very loud, very not supposed to be here Sirius Black.
“You didn’t answer your texts,” Sirius said, standing in the doorway like a rockstar who’d stumbled into the wrong green room but stayed because there was free champagne. His motorcycle helmet hung from one tattooed hand, black curls wild and a bit sweaty.
“That tends to happen when I throw my phone under the couch out of spite,” Remus said, not looking up from where he was half-folded on the floor, an arm brace beside him and a heating pad nowhere near the socket.
Sirius blinked. “Do I want to know?”
Remus squinted up at him. “My shoulder tried to secede from the union. I decided to pretend the couch was Switzerland.”
Sirius grinned. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’m disabled, actually,” Remus snapped, immediately regretting it. But Sirius just raised an eyebrow, unbothered.
“I know,” Sirius said softly. “You also didn’t answer my texts for four days. So I assumed either death, abduction, or, more realistically, a spiral of Netflix and apathy.”
Remus grimaced. “It was a mild spiral.”
“You watched five seasons of Hell’s Kitchen, Remus.”
“…I stand by that.”
Sirius crossed the room, tossing his helmet onto Remus’ ancient armchair. “Get up. We’re making pasta.”
“I can’t get up, hence…” Remus gestured vaguely at the brace, the heating pad, the general aura of despair.
Sirius knelt beside him without a word, scooping up the brace with practiced hands. “Do you want help?”
Remus hesitated. The line between “want” and “need” had always been blurry. But Sirius never made him feel like a burden—just a very sarcastic houseplant with medical accessories.
“Yes,” he muttered.
Sirius nodded and helped him up with the kind of gentle ease that made Remus feel seen, not exposed. “I brought garlic bread,” he said as they shuffled toward the kitchen. “And James.”
Remus froze. “What?”
“James is in the car. He insisted. He has theories.”
“About my pain?”
“About why you ghosted me for four days,” Sirius said cheerfully. “One involves aliens.”
Remus sighed. “James Potter is a human migraine.”
“And yet, you adore him,” Sirius said, smirking as he slid the brace into place with a practiced twist.
Remus didn’t say it out loud, but Sirius wasn’t wrong.
The kitchen was small, dimly lit, and currently filled with the scent of garlic, basil, and tomato.
James had let himself in and was setting up a Bluetooth speaker like he lived there. Which, to be fair, he nearly had during uni. Peter was texting in the corner with a cat on his lap—Remus’ cat, who betrayed him instantly and fully the moment food arrived.
“I’ve solved your mystery,” James announced, holding up his phone. “Remus hasn’t been abducted. He’s just deeply, tragically in love with you, Padfoot.”
Peter didn’t look up. “We knew that in 2018, mate.”
“Shut up,” Remus groaned, already regretting not faking a coma.
Sirius beamed. “I knew I felt eyes on my ass.”
Remus gave him a look. “That was the cat.”
“You named the cat Virginia Woolf. You don’t get to talk.”
Virginia purred smugly.
They cooked like idiots. Burnt one batch of garlic bread, turned the pasta water into a volcano, and used enough parmesan to offend an entire Italian village. But Sirius was relaxed, sleeves rolled up, tattoos peeking from under flour-dusted skin, talking to Remus like they hadn’t been orbiting each other for years.
Like he knew.
And maybe he did.
Remus leaned against the counter, shoulder aching but tolerable now. “You didn’t have to come over.”
Sirius didn’t glance up. “You didn’t have to answer the phone either, but here we are.”
“I mean it. You don’t have to—”
“Moony.” Sirius looked up. “Stop. I wanted to. And I’ll keep showing up, even when you don’t ask.”
Remus swallowed.
There it was again.
Being perceived.
But this time, it wasn’t unbearable.
It was Sirius, seeing him with all his broken pieces, and not flinching.
That night, after everyone left and the dishes were mostly done and Remus was curled up on the couch with Virginia on his chest, Sirius hovered by the door.
“Not in a weird way,” Sirius said quickly. “Just… hang out. Watch something awful. Make sure you don’t throw your phone into another abyss.”
Remus considered it.
Then patted the couch beside him.
Sirius grinned and dropped his bag, slipping off his boots. He settled beside Remus carefully, their shoulders brushing.
Virginia stretched dramatically between them.
“I’m not good at this,” Remus murmured after a while.
“At what?”
“Letting people in. Asking for help.”
Sirius didn’t look away from the screen. “Good thing I already broke in.”
Remus laughed, quietly.
They sat there for a long time, the flicker of some terrible sitcom lighting their faces, silence easy between them.
And for once, being seen didn’t feel like a burden.
Sirius had never been good at sitting still. He liked movement—liked the hum of an engine under him, the buzz of a crowd, the rhythm of his own restlessness.
But right now, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Remus on a secondhand couch that smelled like lavender he didn’t want to move at all.
Remus’ hair was mussed. Virginia was purring on his chest like a tiny engine. And something in the air felt raw and good and a little dangerous.
Because Sirius had seen Remus Lupin vulnerable before—post-surgery, post-breakup, post-epic-migraine-that-laid-him-out-for-three-days.
But this was different.
This was soft.
Unarmored.
And Sirius was not okay about it.
He watched as Remus drifted—eyelids half-shut, pain visible only in the way his hand twitched occasionally near his brace. He always tried so damn hard not to let people see. Like it was a moral failing, being in pain. Being tired.
Sirius wanted to punch every person that had ever made him feel that way.
Remus’ mouth quirked. “She did try to smother you earlier. Consider it a warning.”
“I’d die a noble death,” Sirius replied solemnly, scratching behind Virginia’s ear. “Tell my story.”
“Here lies Sirius Black. Mauled by an overeducated feline while pining pathetically for a sarcastic literature professor with chronic joint issues.”
“Catchy.”
Remus blinked slowly, his smile turning softer. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I want to stay,” Sirius said immediately.
He could tell Remus was gearing up to argue, so he cut him off with the quiet truth.
“I like being around you, Moony. Even when you’re cranky and sore and smell faintly of eucalyptus oil. You’re still you. That’s the bit I like.”
Remus looked at him, then. Really looked.
Not a glance.
A seeing.
And Sirius let him. Let himself be perceived too, for once—tired, anxious, hungry for something he hadn’t named out loud yet.
Remus’ voice, when it came, was quiet. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make me feel like I’m not broken.”
Sirius’ throat closed.
He leaned forward, carefully, slowly—just enough for their foreheads to touch, not quite a kiss, not quite platonic either.
“You’re not broken, Remus,” he whispered. “You’re just real.”
Remus closed his eyes. And for a moment, everything felt very still.
Later, they ended up horizontal. Not in the fun, R-rated way Sirius would usually be hoping for—but wrapped under a threadbare blanket, Virginia curled at their feet, some absolute garbage show droning in the background.
Sirius couldn’t sleep.
His mind kept running.
Not about the usual—his job, his family, the existential dread of aging—but about how peaceful Remus looked when the pain eased. About the fact that he had shown up, and Remus had let him in.
And Sirius wanted that. Wanted in. For real.
Not just the “occasional pasta and banter” level. The hard stuff too.
The days when Remus couldn’t get out of bed. The weeks when the pain flared and he shut everyone out. The dark spirals he never quite admitted to.
Sirius wanted in on all of it.
Which was terrifying.
Because Sirius didn’t do long-term. He was chaos, and people liked him in small doses. Fun, funny, charming Sirius. Not the version that stayed up at 3 a.m. reading disability blogs so he’d stop asking stupid questions. Not the version that wondered if he could find a heating pad that didn’t suck.
But Remus made him want to be better.
Not different.
Just better.
“Hey,” he whispered in the dark. “You awake?”
Remus shifted slightly. “Mmhmm.”
“I like you,” Sirius blurted. “Like… a lot.”
Remus huffed a quiet laugh. “Is this your idea of a seduction? Because it’s very NPR at midnight.”
Sirius chuckled. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are. That’s why it’s terrifying.”
Sirius turned to face him. “What if we tried it?”
“Tried what?”
“This. You. Me. Us.”
Remus was quiet for a long beat.
Then: “You sure? I’m… a lot.”
“So am I.”
“Yeah, but you come with leather jackets and Instagram thirst traps. I come with joint instability and a pharmacy in my kitchen.”
Sirius leaned in, eyes soft. “Then we’ll make room for both.”
Remus looked at him like no one ever had—like he wanted to believe it, like he almost did.
“Okay,” he whispered.
And Sirius smiled.
Because for the first time in a long time, the world wasn’t ending.
It was just beginning.
There were good days.
Days where Remus made it through an entire morning lecture without having to pop a shoulder back into place like a goddamn haunted action figure. Days when his joints played nice, his head stayed clear, and he didn’t have to put on the smiling “No really, I’m fine” mask he usually wore around students.
Today was not one of those days.
Today was the kind of day where just breathing felt like a chore. Where the soft ache in his back had graduated into a sharp throb that made putting on socks feel like an Olympic event. Where his knee had decided to dislocate while he was brushing his teeth, and he ended up sitting on the bathroom floor with a mouth full of toothpaste and a deep, dull resentment of gravity.
He hadn’t texted Sirius.
Not yet.
Not because he didn’t want to—but because he did.
Because Sirius had that look when Remus was hurting. The one that said he wanted to fix everything and couldn’t. And Remus hated being the problem someone couldn’t solve.
So he stayed on the couch, curled up like a comma, watching reruns of Taskmaster with the volume low and Virginia sleeping traitorously on his bad hip.
The front door clicked.
He’d forgotten Sirius had a key.
“Moons?” came the soft voice, a little muffled, like Sirius had a grocery bag in his mouth.
Remus didn’t answer.
Sirius appeared in the doorway, wearing joggers, an oversized hoodie, and the worried expression that came standard whenever Remus was quiet for too long.
“I brought oranges. And those crisps you like that taste like regret and vinegar.”
Remus made a noise that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a sigh.
Sirius set the bag down and crossed the room without ceremony. “Where are we at, pain-wise?”
“Seven,” Remus said. “Maybe an eight if I sneeze.”
“Mobility?”
“On strike.”
Sirius nodded. “Right then. Cuddle triage.”
Remus blinked. “What?”
“Tri-age, Remus. Three stages of care.” Sirius held up a finger. “Stage one: reposition the invalid.”
“I will smother you with this cat.”
Sirius ignored him, sliding onto the couch and gently shifting Remus’ legs across his lap. His hands moved with practiced care, adjusting the throw pillow, rubbing a thumb behind Remus’ knee.
“Stage two,” Sirius said, “is soup. Which I did not bring, because you hate canned soup, and I cannot cook soup. I did, however, bring crisps and those stupid gummy peaches that rot your teeth.”
“And stage three…” Sirius leaned down, kissed the top of Remus’ head, just above his temple. “...is the most important. Which is reminding you that you don’t have to hide on days like this.”
“I wasn’t hiding,” Remus lied, immediately and unconvincingly.
“Right. You were doing highly visible floor yoga with a dislocated knee and depression snacks.”
Remus chuckled, quietly. His body still hurt, but it was different with Sirius here. The pain didn’t shrink, but it didn’t swallow him whole either.
“Do you regret this?” he asked suddenly, the words escaping before he could filter them. “Being with me. Like this.”
Sirius didn’t answer right away.
He just took Remus’ hand, running his thumb over the knuckles—gentle, reverent.
“I chose this,” Sirius said finally, voice soft but steady. “Every part of it. I want the good days and the crap ones and the days when you can’t move, and the days you make fun of my Spotify playlists.”
“They’re criminal, Sirius. You have Limp Bizkit and Phoebe Bridgers on the same playlist.”
“Eclectic taste, baby.”
Remus smiled. Tired. Honest.
“Do you remember,” Sirius continued, “that day in March when you couldn’t leave bed, and you let me sit with you for like, six hours while we watched Great British Bake Off and bullied Paul Hollywood?”
“Yes.”
“That was one of the best days I’ve ever had.”
Remus blinked at him.
“I’m not with you despite the hard days,” Sirius said, leaning down again. “I’m with you through them. On purpose.”
There it was again.
Being seen.
Being chosen.
And this time, Remus let himself believe it.
That night, Sirius cooked pasta while Remus supervised from the couch like a very opinionated monarch. They ate curled up under a shared blanket, Virginia curled between them, the room filled with the smell of garlic and the quiet sounds of two people who had finally, finally stopped running.
wolfstar drabble | they raised harry btw | eleven y/o harry | wc 315 | rating g
Harry clung to Remus’s coat like it was armor. The noise of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters pressed in around them, steam curling through the air, owls shrieking from their cages. The scarlet train gleamed.
“I don’t want to go,” Harry muttered, voice muffled against the fabric.
Sirius crouched down, grin crooked but soft. “You have to, pup. They won’t let me keep you home forever. Believe me, I tried.”
Harry didn’t laugh. His hands fisted tighter. “What if they don’t like me?”
Remus smoothed Harry’s fringe, his touch steady. “Then they’re fools. And you’ll find better people.”
Sirius leaned closer. “And if anyone gives you trouble, write to us. I’ll hex their father.”
“Padfoot,” Remus said mildly.
“What? I said father, not them.”
Harry’s mouth twitched, but his eyes were glassy. “What if I miss you?”
“You will,” Remus said, voice quiet. “That’s all right.”
Sirius ruffled his hair. “We’ll miss you more. We’ll count the days till you come home for Christmas. Moony will make that awful treacle tart you like.”
Remus smiled. “And Sirius will pretend he helped.”
“I do help,” Sirius protested. “I taste-test.”
The train whistle blew. The sound made Harry flinch. Remus knelt and fixed his collar, then pressed a kiss to his temple. “Go on, love.”
Sirius swallowed hard. “Make us proud, kid.”
Harry hesitated, then threw his arms around both of them. “You already are,” he said.
Remus blinked fast. Sirius sniffed and muttered something about dust in the air.
When Harry finally climbed aboard, he leaned out the window, waving until the train curved out of sight.
Remus stood still long after the steam cleared.
Sirius’s voice was rough when he said, “He’s got James’s bravery.”
